Changing Ways

by Comma Typer

Fly by Necessity

Hoofsteps rushing and echoing in the dark with splatters of dirt; some faint lights from above illuminating the humid tunnel of rock and stone, mingled their rays with the whir of machines in the cramped underground.

He turned a left, entered a narrower tunnel.

Leaped on to the chair and sat himself there, panting for air.

Inside that pitch-black room.

“You have arrived within the expected time,” said another pony.

Beep.

The lights turned on, revealing a murky enclosed space made up of dirt and excavated cavities. The walls were of hard stone; lights hung from the ceiling, connected by flimsy wires. At the center was a little table with a few unopened letters resting there.

Sandbar took a good look of that pony standing by the wall—lanky, taller than him, tail cut short, pretty drab over all.

“I was standing here to relieve myself of the tedium of sitting down,” Mudbriar said in a bored, monotonous voice. “You have kept me waiting for the right amount of time—neither too early to disrupt my experience of standing up, but neither too late to risk our headquarters which is within relatively close proximity.”

Sandbar groaned, leaning his head back in frustration. “Can you speak in plain Ponish?”

Mudbriar shook his head, taking a seat at the other side of the table. “Forgive me for, ironically, speaking in plain Ponish, but, as the wise saying goes, ‘Miscommunication kills’. This is only your third time here in McIntosh Hills, implying—although true according to our experiences with each other—that you’ve only met me two times before; however, I will not apologize for not only speaking with precision but also for demanding that we communicate in clear, unambiguous statements for the good of ponykind.”

Sandbar rolled his eyes and took out a letter. “Anyway, let’s, uh, get that out of the way and talk about what we have in mind. This one’s straight from Coloratura.”

Mudbriar took the letter and read it, his eyes darting left to right.

“It’s about establishing a secret...thing. It’s half-newspaper, half-report. We want to distribute it to those behind changeling lines, and, as far as I know, you’re the only one with a working inker. After that, we can establish some kind of, uh, system or line of supply—I think—where we can send weapons and resources to ponies hiding there. That way, we can knock them out from the inside.”

Mudbriar closed the scroll, tied it up with a ribbon, and looked at Sandbar.

And kept looking at Sandbar.

Still looking at him.

Mudbriar blinked.

Still looking.

Sandbar avoided his look, baring his teeth open in anxiety. “What’s the hold-up? Unless...this is a test, right?”

“It is an ambitious idea,” Mudbriar said, not minding Sandbar’s questions to continue with his monotonous voice. “It is, in my opinion, admirable in its concept and would surely be upheld by many well-meaning members of our group and other such groups throughout Equestria.”

Sandbar frowned. “But, there’s a catch, right?”

Mudbriar nodded. “How would you know, with absolute certainty, if the ponies you will meet up with are not changelings themselves? Even if you do manage to distinguish true ponies from their changeling counterparts and even if you were able to stave off enemy forces in your first try, how would you maintain this half-newspaper, half-report project since, by being at least partially a newspaper, there would have to be a new issue on a regular basis? Would it be daily, weekly, monthly, or only when truly necessary? The ideal answer ought to be ‘daily’ in order to keep our imprisoned members informed of the situation and, by so doing, allow them to make the best choices possible under the circumstances, but how would you conduct monthly, let alone daily, routes into hostile territory undetected? I am, of course, assuming that you are sensible enough to arm yourself with the proper equipment in order to survive such journeys, but, as I have said before, this is an ambitious project—“

“I think I get the gist of what you’re trying to say,” Sandbar broke in, holding up a hoof. He took the scroll and put it back in his mane, tucking it away there. “You think it’s risky and dangerous. I understand that, but she’s proposing another way to go about it.”

Mudbriar raised a brow, interested. “Why haven’t you said so earlier? I would not have wasted so much of my breath and so much of your time with my thoughts on a matter that turned out to contain incomplete information.”

Sandbar gulped. “Well, it’s because you’re the...you know, boss around here and—“

“Technically, I’m the overseer and I am not ‘around here’, for that would mean me somehow being present around this room which would require me to perform the impossible feat of being in multiple places at once—“

“OK, I think I get the gist of that one, too.”

Sandbar stood up, pushing his chair back.

He glanced back at the tunnel, hearing the whirs and seeing the lights flicker for a bit—the ground rumbling somewhat. “It’s been, uh, nice knowing you, but I’m, uh, running out of time and I have to get to A-Appleloosa right away for errands and...other mail….”

Mudbriar kept looking at him, still seated on his chair.

Sandbar let out a nervous laugh. “Uh...could you stop doing that? You’re freaking me out.”

“Technically, to ‘freak you out’ would be to move you into a condition of extreme disorder or, otherwise, distress—so, to ‘freak you out’ would mean me annoying you in a way that would—“

But Sandbar was already galloping out.

---

McIntosh Hills was a sight to behold. The first thing to take in was its snow-capped peaks—way up there, high above and wallowing in the harsh chilly climate, showing themselves as intimidating challenges for ponies who would want to live there since zero houses had been built on those peaks yet. Going down from their tops, the mountains’ rugged slants had no room for much life other than the odd grass patch and the occasional bear; in their isolation, they made for breathtaking scenery out of the sheer size of these landforms, out of how massive they were. Finally, at the foot of a valley, was a little building.

A train station occupied some space there, bustling with life. A makeshift train, complete with one engine and three carriages, was made meager and small, but it could hold dozens of pony passengers—there it stayed on the railroad, idle. On top of the engine, sitting near the chimney sat workers wearing empty jars on their vests and their hats, eyeing the chimney and then the line of ponies silent and waiting on the boarding platform.

The line had seven guards looking after them, each one tending to their job. A pony who wanted to board a train here had to go through seven steps: He would have to give up whatever bags and luggage he was carrying to the first guard, relinquish any clothes for inspection by the second guard, go through light verification by having a spell cast on him by the third guard, have that particular green salve put on his face and the rest of his body by the fourth guard—if he was wearing such already, it would be rubbed off to give way to a new coat of salve—next, he would be interviewed for half a minute by the fifth to check if his story held up to pressure, shown instructions on a piece of paper by the sixth for a safe and orderly train ride, and finally escorted to his designated seat by the seventh to safeguard against any trickery inside the vehicle. Even then, such a pony would not be at complete peace—guards were arranged throughout the carriages from one end to the other, furnished with lances, arrows, and mean faces.

Sandbar, standing in line before the first guard, took a look around while wiping his face, throwing away a towel into a bucket of sweaty towels by the side.

He saw a couple of ponies back inside the station building itself, watched them dine over canned soup and beans plus a few days-old apples on the side. There was no drink but water as they breakfasted in that dark, shaded station where quick remarks exchanged themselves. Orders were barked; an entitled pony would argue, then be thrown out of the establishment, told to get in line and get out.

On the dry desert ground, he saw several ponies sewing various clothestogether beside unicorns reading a few books and casting disguise spells at each other, shifting into this or that pony form—a short mare got informal applause for making her friend look like a changeling, complete with functional wings.

“We’re gonna have to protect you now!” somepony said to her. “Once word gets around, you’ll be on their list. Could you start teaching some of the younger ones first thing in the morning?”

The mare shrugged her shoulders, sweltering under the burning sun. “I’m not really sure if I could pull it off, Needle Leaf, but I’ll try.”

Her friend, still looking at her changeling hooves, turned to the accomplished unicorn. “Uh, could you change me back now? I don’t want the visitors to kill me on accident.”

Some laughed at that, but they were quickly silenced by a guard’s swift glare.

Sandbar noticed the pony ahead of him moving. He gulped and moved on to the first guard.

He looked over Sandbar who exhibited the letter from his mane. Pointing to the next guard, eyes still on that traveler: “Got nothing else? Go on.”

Sandbar trotted onward, seeing the line move slowly.

After about two minutes, he got to the second guard who could be distinguished from the others by the shirt he was wearing under his armor.

“No clothes for you?” he blathered. “Go on.”

Sandbar stepped forward and resumed waiting.

Another two minutes passed and he reached the third guard who was a unicorn. The guard charged up his horn, letting it glow blue, and shot a magical beam at Sandbar, making him glow blue as well.

The glow subsided and the guard smiled. “You’re real. Go on.”

Another two minutes went by and he reached the fourth guard who did not question why Sandbar had no salve on his face, grabbed a hoofful from a pot full of that substance, and carefully dabbed it on him—above and below his eyes, on the tip of his snout and on his cheeks, on his hooves and the rest of his legs.

Sandbar glowed again, this time glowing white.

The guard peered at him. He observed the patterns he had painted on this pony. Then, content with the glow dying down, he smiled like his predecessor and said, “Go on.”

Instead of two minutes, only a minute went by and Sandbar approached the fifth guard. Unlike the previous two, he had a face of contempt—sharp eyebrows, sharp mouth, sharp snout, sharp jaw, and sharp stare.

“What’s your name?” the guard inquired in baritone.

“Sandbar.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ponyville.”

“Your background?”

“Grew up there most of my life until three weeks and two days ago.”

“Explain your cutie mark.”

“The three turtles show my love for the open water—it’s good that Ponyville had a lake when I was a foal and, sometimes, a pony would give me turtles to play with.”

“What’s not your name?”

“Three Turtles.”

“Melody?”

“Indigo.”

“You will be from…?”

“Appleloosa.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sandbar.”

“Go on.”

Half a minute later, he met the sixth guard. This officer pointed at the diagram on the paper displaying the train's seats. “See, mister, you’ll have to stay here—“ indicating a windowside seat near the end of the first carriage “—and don’t get up until we say so. Have you developed motion sickness since last time?”

Sandbar shook his head.

“Go with Wheel Tapper over there—“ pointing at his successor in the squad of seven.

Sandbar nodded and went to the seventh and final guard on the line.

---

The landscape proved disappointing. While one could open the windows and feel the cool air rushing past his mane, that was the most exciting part of the landscape. When the air is the most exciting part of one’s surroundings in a trip, then that meant everything else was boring to the average pony—not to say that deserts and other arid locations do not have their own attractions not found anywhere else in the world, but when one stares outside for a good five minutes and sees nothing but that brown ground and some cacti, the typical passenger would most likely turn his attention to other things.

Which might be why Sandbar could be called an atypical passenger because, despite looking out the window and seeing relatively the same things roll in and roll out, he did not take his eyes away from them.

The sky was blue, dotted with a few clouds, but, otherwise, it was very clear.

A nudge on his shoulder.

Sandbar swung his head round, holding out a hoof in greeting. “Good morning—agh! When did you get here?!”

The blue griffon shook Sandbar’s hoof with his claw, seeing past the pony’s astonished expression. “Name’s Gallus. Pretty sure you haven’t seen a real live griffon, have ya’?”

Sandbar shuddered. “Uh, n-no…?”

Gallus combed his tall head feathers with his other claw. “I came here all the way from Griffonstone. Managed to escape with some others before they took over. Lost them on the way, and now...I'm here.”

Sandbar coughed. “Yeah.” Studied him, noticing the green on his otherwise blue cheeks and amber chest. “Guess Zecora’s works on non-ponies, too.”

“Hey, we’re in this together, whether you like it or not, four legs!” Gallus shouted, pointing at him.

“But, don’t you have four legs as well?” Sandbar asked, looking at the griffon's aforementioned four legs.

“They’re not, they just act like legs. These are my claws—“ held up his claws “—and these are my two paws—“ and kicked the air with his two paws on his hindlegs. “See the difference?”

Sandbar flicked his mane and returned to the window.

Gallus sighed, bending closer to him and breathing on his neck. “OK, maybe that’s not my best first impression, but just because the Equestria you love is the major fighter here doesn’t mean you get to give us the short end of the stick!”

Sandbar sighed back. Without looking: “Yeah, be glad I’m not tempted to eat you.”

The griffon balled his claw into a fist. “Are you insulting my diet?!”

Then, a tap on his shoulder.

Gallus turned round to see a guard standing in the aisle.

“This isn’t the best time to do that,” the guard said, stoic face on him. “You two be nice to each other...unless you want to be jailed in Appleloosa for disturbing the peace.”

Gallus groaned. “He started it!”

Sandbar sighed once more and kept looking out the window, seeing the landscape again to drink it in.

“This isn’t funny at all,” the guard went on. “It's not a matter of pride and self-esteem, especially for you, Mr. Griffon.”

“I have a name, you know!” Gallus roared, opening his wings and approaching the guard.

The guard opened his yellow wings in return, bracing himself by angling his legs and moving a hoof towards his holstered lance. “Calm down, sir. I don’t want to resort to force, but you’re making this hard for me.”

Gallus crossed his claws. “Fine. I’ll behave and follow the rules, but if I snap, it’s not my fault!”

The guard sighed and trotted back to his post.

Gallus closed his wings and sat back down on his seat. “Thanks a lot, stranger. You’re the first pony I’ve really talked to for a month now, and you manage to get the both of us into trouble.”

“The both of us?” Sandbar repeated in surprise, turning away from the window. “Sorry, but you’re the one who’s in trouble. We could’ve resolved our differences peacefully if you just asked nicely.”

“Well, sorry for acting rude and selfish,” Gallus said, slightly mocking Sandbar’s accent, “but I’ve been living on the edge ever since the changelings ransacked my home, so I hope you don’t mind when I ask for some respect.”

Sandbar fumbled around in his mane, took out a letter. He scanned it, and put it back inside his mane.

“And what are you? The delivery guy? You think you can just forget I exist ‘cause you have mail?”

A growl came out of Sandbar's mouth. “Will you stop it, Gallus? I’m in the middle of an important trip.”

“Then, why didn’t you say so?”

The stallion resorted to the window and kept his face planted there for the remainder of the ride, hiding that uptight look on his face.

---

A couple of short cliffs hung over the settlement of Appleloosa, rising upright and ready as formidable natural barriers sheltering that rustic community from one side. Flourishing on them were a few fields of apple trees in spite of the scorching hot climate—the sun’s stuffy fever bombarding those robust plants; the dry and shallow soil either with sparse grass or without, exposing the dusty regolith underneath; the lack of water made evident by the troupe of ponies digging more wells with their shovels, toiling in the heat.

This frontier town lived up to its nature in more ways than one. First, it sported the appearance of a regular frontier town—the shortage of buildings present, the budding infrastructure used even with its dry and dirty roads, the absence of offices and the abundance of agricultural work to do, the produce in the market mostly being fresh produce from the farms. However, it did live on another kind of frontier even up to this very day since, a short distance past the local train station, some ponies were cutting off the tracks by dragging out pieces of railroad and then burning them in a bonfire. A pony, chipping in with additional help, hammered a sign to the ground which proclaimed in painted letters: “NO PONY’S LAND! DO NOT CROSS!”

The main street was as short as five dainty houses and it housed most of the main establishments, packed with ponies packing and unpacking boxes and crates, consulting with one another over maps and plans and blueprints, and circulating the daily rations of food to all who drew near. The tallest structure in town, Appleloosa’s town hall, had a clock tower which now said eleven-twenty in the morning. Three or four dozen steps away was the hat shop, distinguished by a wooden cutout of a hat; inside, however, were more than hats, for the owner had filled the shelves with survival gear: a spear, a bow and a stocked quiver, some cans of food, a big water jug, and a little container of that green salve. Finally, at the end of the street, was the train station itself, a bit bigger than the one at McIntosh Hills.

Sandbar followed the sheriff who proudly wore a silver star on his denim vest, the both of them passing by groups of ponies pulling wagons of apples. They suffered the hot weather, sweat going down their foreheads.

“I sure do appreciate what yer’ aimin’ for,” the sheriff said, conveying his country cadence, “but this is beyon’ what we cou’d do right now. All of our paper’s almost gone, an’ we can’t ask for ink from anyone because it’s gettin’ rarer and harder to get.”

Sandbar tried to put on an acceptable smile. “At least it was worth a shot.”

The sheriff stopped, standing right before front door of town hall. “Now, hold up a second. Don’t be feelin’ so bad. You’re a good an' honest pony, Sandbar, and I know you wanna help out whatever way you can.”

Sandbar nodded. “What else could I do if I can’t help out with Coloratura’s project?”

“Well, I got a suspicious arrival from the North-'ast. Went ahead the rest o’ his bunch, and now he wants to stay here for quite a while.”

“He’s inside, right?”

The sheriff looked at the closed door over there. “Behind bars until we get to the bottom of it.”

Sandbar looked surprised. “Who is it?”

“Some pegasus named Swift River, if I remem'er rightly.”