To Cure Deception

by LegionPothIX

Act 3 | Written in Black and White

Author's Note:

What is control?

The approach to Zecora’s treant was a quiet one. There was nothing left to be said between the two changelings. Lucas stopped short of the home of the rhythmic zebra, and turned to the mare that was accompanying him.

“Zecora…” he started but paused to consider how to proceed. “She said that we had met her before. The first time we met her...” He stopped again in frustration at the realization that the word “first” may mean something different to Habré than it did to him. He shrugged it off and restarted, “She said that we insulted her while asking for her help.”

Habré’s ears looked as though they were about to burst into flame. While the incident flashed in her mind, it brought with it the familiar rage that he had grown accustomed to seeing in her. “Cunty bitch. What about it?” she barked as to keep her outburst to a minimum.

Lucas replied in a more sensible tone, “I am going to try to relive that memory, and need to you take the form you were wearing then, if it is different from the one you’re wearing now.”

Habré grew indignant as if he had just asked her to pose provocatively before replying, “We showed her our partials... but I suppose you don’t have one anymore.”

It would seem that, in a sense, he had in fact asked her to do just that; knowing as he did just how personal a partial transformation was. “Please, Habré,” he said, “I need a reference to the memory so I can draw it out.”

Habré Kadabré was reluctant but eventually conceded and produced a conjuration assisted transformation. In a brilliant flash a whole new pony stood before him. She was taller than he expected, taller than even him now, but not so tall as the queen. It was domineering.

Her monochrome palette spoke well to the black and white nature through which she saw the world. Her silver hair faded from dark at the roots to light at the tips. It fell only to her right side; the left being completely shaved. It was long and pulled up in three intertwined loops, the end of two of which were clipped in place at the base of her skull, while the third was left to dangle naturally. The changeling holes in her mane and tail served well to show how layered her look was which, in turn, spoke to her inner complexity.

A gold chain descended down from a clamp piercing in a natural changeling hole in her ear, across her cheek, up her muzzle, and between her eyes before connecting to another clamp in the middle of her horn. And, while not chains, similarly styled gold jewelry adorned the holes in her hind-legs and fore-hooves. The base of her horn was enshrouded in a white silk sleeve with gold embroidery on either end.

She even possessed, on her bottom, a cutiemark of a four-piece broken-heart. A heart that was enveloped in the fangs of her vampiric nature, which also served to round out the sides. Though it was far from subtle, such a trait was something that no pony could ever accuse her of possessing. Her skin was a stark white offset by the black stripes of a feral zebra. It was with no coincidence that Zecora found fault with Habré Kadabré, who immediately spoke up.

“Please don’t call me that.”

Confused, as he had not yet said anything, Lucas was about to ask when she answered: “I know how you see me, and my cover identity is not who I am. This is the form of Alalia Witchwild.”

Lucas took some joy in knowing that she was still her clever old self, taking the name of a speech impediment to describe her take on her element.

“Thank you, Alalia.”

***

The approach to Zecora’s isolated hut was filled with questions. How. Why. What if. All of them being voiced by Dissolution to Deception. Deception found herself explaining several times, in different ways, that the perception of choice was more important than the actual existence of choice. That, she hoped, the way to get Zecora to overcome the history between the Changelings and the Zebra was to give her the opportunity not to, and rely on the misguided tendency to take the high road.

It was in protest that Dissolution asked her last question: “But how do you know?”

Deception could only parrot what her previous mentor instilled in her. “Because it is impossible to find an impossibility in a world of magic, and if it turns out to be just highly improbable…” she shrugged, “Then I too will go to my grave trying to beat the odds.”

Deception could see that it troubled Dissolution to see her new mentor, and student, going down a path that nearly killed the Dissonant of Magic only weeks earlier, and certainly killed her predecessor. Though the path was Deception’s to walk– she wouldn't be walking it alone. Everything had been accounted for, and now was the time to put all those plans into motion. Only one piece remained, which was what led them so deep into the Everfree Forest.

The pair of mares stood outside the door, to take a quiet moment to steel themselves for what was to come, before Deception knocked. It was only a brief moment of waiting before Zecora opened the door, answering: “Oh? Travelers of the Forest Everfree, what brings you to my humble tree?”

Deception took off her hairband and bowed slightly. “My companion and I have come in search of a cure for a mysterious ailment, that originated in a far away land.” Now free, her hair rustled like needles flowing through a colander, as the carefully prepared half-truth flowed from her mouth. She rose from her bow and asked, “Might we come in?”

While motioning them inside Zecora jokingly added: “I do not see a reason why not, so long as you haven’t got the trots. Though strange travelers are those, who wear no robes or mysterious clothes.”

The mare with the wheat-gold mane smiled nervously while responding, “Yes, allow me to introduce myself, my name is Latere Vesco...” With a lingering pause she hesitantly transformed. “No more deceptions,” she corrected with a note of remorse for starting out an introduction with habitual false pretenses.

Her dust brown coat grew polluted with the hard dirty tint of her alternate identity. The roots of her hair grew a deep grass hew, and a single tuft of cloud white popped out. Holes riddled her legs, mane, and tale. Her hair grew coarse and unmanageable.

She opened her eyes to reveal hazel irises locked in fleischer rings. A symbolic representation of the heavy thoughts that deposited themselves in her mind, and danced behind her eyelids at night. After she matched the gaze of the horrified zebra, she turned to Dissolution and nodded, indicating that it was safe for her to do the same.

The monochrome visage of Alalia Witchwild more than mortified Zecora who protested, “Monster without face, who have wiped out my race, have the gall in my sacred place, to show my people’s stolen face!?”

Alalia’s rich black stripes lost some of their luster as she looked down to the ground in shame, until Latere spoke up in her defense. “We are what we are and, until now, we've never been given a choice in the matter.” Her irises took on to the Zebra as her lids narrowed at the slight. “We came to beg for your help not insult you. This form is a very special thing for a changeling,” Latere added as she indicated the partial transformations. “The eclectic set of physical traits we display, are what a changeling feels most accurately represents who they are as an individual,” she paused for the message to sink in before nailing it home, “We are not just our Canterlot Black combat fatigues. We are not monsters.”

As offended as Zecora seemed, it was apparent that she understood that she just insulted the core essence of an individual that identified with her people and their struggles.

Alalia defensively explained, “Mysterious and curious, reaching for magical knowledge you damn well know that you fucking shouldn't. Now that, I get. I really fucking do.”

After several long seconds of soaking in the moment, Zecora raised the next natural question, “So what do you want of me, that you would address me so auspiciously?”

The question was a difficult one to answer, but Latere had been thinking about it for a long time. “I want the choice. The one that we were never given,” she stated bluntly, “I want to become solid.”

It was a reference to the ephemeral nature of Madness, something she feared deeply, as she could easily be described as half way there. The fear was so ever present that it defined itself in her Partial, as was the transgendered state that the two shared. Though, as expected, Zecora was unaware of the subtext of the statement.

To say Zecora was testy would be an understatement. “I know of no potion that I could brew, that would soothe my troubles of the likes of you.”

These sentiments were not unforeseen, and Latere tried to play off of them by putting the mares on the same side. “We’re here asking for your help as fellow survivors,” she pleaded, “I believe that I can reconfigure my mind, but it has to be totally wiped before anything new can really take hold.”

Zecora’s frown made it clear that she should also offer some incentives.

“I’m not here to hide from my mistakes, or lie to myself about who I am. I’m here to do something about it,” Latere continued her explanation with fervor, and while paying no mind to her naked state, “All I have ever known is a highly honed ability to exercise subversive forms of control through social engineering.” She lifted her hindquarters slightly at the statement to indicate her own cutiemark. “Even now I’m engaging in a form of hedonistic calculus, to force the integration of my differentiated self. Even this conversation is just another variable. The outcome of the choice I am presenting to you... another factor.”

She sighed as Zecora rose her eyebrow at the deception of admitting she was trying to manipulate her.

“I’m tired of thinking that way,” she stated dejectedly, as though exhaustion were the only feeling, other than fear, that she could genuinely feel. “Of thought without feeling, and plans without passion.”

It was not difficult to see the distrust in the eyes of the legitimate zebra in the room, as she voiced her concern. “And what if I do participate, and this plan of yours does not take? Or worse even still, your mind should completely unreel?”

Latere was hardened to the question though Alalia still looked uncomfortable. It was something else that she had considered often, and could only find one answer to. “If…” Latere began in a slow and calculated tone, “If I am beyond salvation, and give you no indication that I am interested… no sign.” She paused to survey the scene as though it were her last moment in Equestria. “Then you must kill me, and… if you feel vindicated by taking out one of them… so be it.”

As Zecora pondered the statement, she let out a low hum while Latere went on: “Deceiver's Dust may be easiest,” she paused for a moment to think what else might help, “I will even have Alalia make some for you to catch me in what ever form I may take.” Judging from the materials present in Zecora’s residence, and the quality of alchemist those materials implied her to be, each present knew that would be unnecessary but the Latere still felt the gesture was worth making.

The concessions on protection were more than enough to get Zecora to sign off on the idea just long enough to ask: “Many things you ask to see, but what exactly would my part be?”

Latere sighed in relief as she looked to Alalia to explain the findings from her experiments.

“We've run some fucking crazy experiments, relating to the magical nature of our totally fucked up bodies.” Alalia started, though seeing the implication that the profanity was hurting her credibility, she began to curb it. “I think it’d be possible to change the nature of the magical energy that flows through us. That is, if we don’t mess with the levels of energy we run on.” She cringed seemingly at the memory of trying to channel more energy than her own body was capable of holding, or possibly the converse of withering due to not having enough energy to survive.

Zecora nodded adding: “Into a cocoon a caterpillar goes, but out again a butterfly grows. Though the being does change, the cocoon’s volume remains the same.” Her statement signified that she understood the basic concept.

It was a difficult thing to ask but Alalia persevered: “Will you help us?”

“No.” The unexpected word came, not from Zecora, but from Latere. “Don’t decide now. Whatever you decide, I won’t be around to know it,” Latere said as she got up and moved to the door, while motioning to Alalia to join her. “Just keep it in mind ‘till you meet him.”

As the mare spoke of her alternate self one question was left for Zecora, “A stallion: is this correct? Just whom am I to expect?”

Stopping for an introspective smile, Latere turned to Zecora and transformed into Lucas Greymane, with an auditory note of the name. Alalia followed suit returning to her guise of Habré Kadabré, and with that they took their leave.

***

A note of concern could be heard in the clearing as Alalia asked: “Dude, are you fuckin’ okay?”

Confirming with a nod; Lucas turned his attention back to Zecora’s tree. A thin line of smoke trailed out one of the hollow branches. When they circled around to the front door they could see Zecora enjoying a glass of tea. As they passed her window, she leaned over and poured two additional glasses. They arrived at the front of the home to find the door was open, which invited in the cool evening air, to help balance the heat of the fire inside.

Upon entering the humble hut, Zecora noted over her tea: “There is much pain in our history, but only one partial do I see. Does that mean your identity, is fully a stallion of the Everfree?”

Across from the small table that held the kettle and glasses, one for each respective guest, sat chairs in which they could rest. In the center sat a strangely shaped flask containing a mysterious emerald-green liquid; the shade of which matched Lucas’s glamorous glimmers.

His voice quivered as he looked to the zebra in gold chains and piercings, then to the one wearing only tribal rings, “Is…” he briefly hesitated, “that what I think its?”

A sly grin was occluded by a glass of tea that rose to Zecora’s mouth, as an eyebrow raised in an equal measure. She gave him a look over the rim as to imply only if he was who she thought he was. After a long and enjoyable sip, she confirmed his suspicions. “Yesterday, I agreed a potion was to be made, though I admit the context was quite vague.” She set the glass down and joked: “Lucky for you, and Applebloom too, as I did not wish to explain how changeling roots grew.”

An audible gulp from Lucas which was met by a hearty laugh from Alalia. “You stupid mother fucker! She was actually going to do it!”

A chuckle rose from Zecora who added: “Yes, that was true, but such a fate was never meant for you.” She set her glass on the table and picked up the potion. As she played with it, she eyed Lucas curiously asking, “There is something I do not understand. What happens after this potion changes hands?”

The question bothered him primarily because he didn't have an answer. Lucas scratched his head. “I don’t really know what comes next.”

Reaching out with the potion in hoof Zecora pulled it back at the last moment while adding a coy look to the recipe, “Perhaps you will start living your life, in the company of a foul-mouthed wife?”

Both Alalia and Lucas were caught by surprise at the indictment. The monochrome mare began to show signs of living color, in terms of a full-body blush, as Lucas shook his head.

“No,” he said plainly and simply. As oddly close as they were, he couldn't see any world in which that could happen, and he regrettably cited their history: “I saved her life, and now she’s saved mine. I think we’re even now.”

Of all the conflicted emotions that Lucas suspected Alalia to be feeling, he was glad to hear her sigh in relief at the notion being dismissed. He recognized that they had different goals and ambitions. He also knew that they had nothing left of their elements to teach each other, and that she would be reassigned to somepony new; just as he was at the end of his partnership with Madness.

There was a slight look of disappointment as Zecora reached out to Lucas with potion. Perhaps she thought that because he wanted the life of a normal pony, that all the changelings now shared their values, though of course that was not necessarily the case.

With that, Lucas cleared his mind, and had only one question left. “Is this permanent?”

The potioneer pulled back slightly with a wry look as if he knew better than to ask that. “For a creature born of change, there is no question that is more strange.” They both shared a smile as Zecora once again reached out with the potion.

However, before it could come into his possession, a silver aura enshrouded it. An aura that carried into the open fore-hooves of Alalia Witchwild, whose defiant glare and still glowing horn threatened the uneasy peace brokered by months of manipulation.

"I can't let you have this," the feral zebra claimed as the charge in her horn grew even brighter. "She was quite adamant." With that one changeling burst out of the home, and the other quickly on her hooves, both pursuant to the truth.