1. Summons
I looked back over my shoulder at the progress my partner and I had made on our ascent up the mountain pass. Our visibility through the blizzard had worsened, and at this point it could be said for certain—we had taken our last glimpse of the small winter resort from which we’d set out, and we were now truly alone in the Crystal Mountains.
Isolated as we were, it was hard to believe that we had been called upon by the Royal Guard simply for having been in the right place at the right time.
I felt the tap of a wing on my shoulder. My pegasus colleague was inviting me to look forward, as his eyes were focused on what still lay ahead. Indeed, our journey was harsh, but short lived. Through the billowing squalls, we could see it if we squinted—the so-called Villa Vivant.
The villa’s silhouette sharpened into focus against the cliff face. Its vast, oaken construction stood in proud defiance of the massif’s hazards. Altogether, the property aligned with the description given to us by our superior: that of a vacation home belonging to an exorbitantly wealthy reindeer family hailing from the pinnacle of Canterlot high society.
My colleague, with his youthful enthusiasm, would have no doubt liked to fly up to the mansion without a moment’s waste. Being respectful, however, he accommodated my plodding earth pony hooves, and kept to my pace. We trudged as a pair up a winding stone path all the way to the front door. Upon reaching the iron knocker, I saw fit to do the honors: Clunk, clunk, clunk.
An idle moment passed us by on the portico as we awaited an answer. With some patience, we received one: The grand mahogany double doors sparkled with telekinetic magic, and then yielded. An adolescent reindeer stag peered out at me and my partner.
“Marvelous,” he decreed. A satisfied smirk climbed his cheek. “Am I correct to assume you are the detectives we were told to expect?”
I remained quiet while I fished in my coat pocket for the proper identification, my hooves still numb from the cold. My partner took the opportunity to respond. “Well, ahah, technically, I’m just a cadet. The name’s Bluebird.”
The deer’s smile seemed to sag somewhat, and he looked at me expectantly. Finally, I found the means to identify myself as I flashed him my badge. “Detective Pesco Margherita. At your service.”
“Ah yes, you’ll do wonderfully,” he said, his spirits returning. “The name’s Bon Vivant. Enchanté de faire vos connaissances. Well do come in, do come in you two! Wouldn’t want you catching your death out there!”
Bluebird thanked him on both our accounts as we proceeded inside. Bon Vivant closed the door with the magic from his antlers, exhorted us to hang up our winter layers and to wipe down our hooves, and then wasted no time guiding us down a hallway that led deeper inside.
Once my eyes had adjusted from the blinding white of the outside, I took account of our surroundings. Our passage was lined with an accented rug, and illuminated by candles fixed to the walls at regular intervals. A foundation of black marble met with tasteful wooden paneling halfway up the wall. Long-dead ancestors stared down their muzzles at us from within their gilded frames. And yet, the true centerpiece of this scene was our cervine host himself, dressed to the nines in a smoking jacket of flamboyant design. Custom-fitted, to be sure, it accentuated the thin, graceful proportions that were common to his kind.
“Nice place you have here,” Bluebird said, admiring a nearby oil painting.
“Why thank you,” Bon glowed.
“And even nicer get-up!” Bluebird continued. “We woulda put on something a little more spiffy and professional ourselves, but we were summoned on pretty short notice.”
He shook his wings of the last remnants of snow from our journey. He also took a moment to tighten his necktie, which was his sole accessory aside from his police-issue saddlebags.
Bon, unamused, brushed from his suit some of Bluebird’s errant debris. “‘Spiffy,’ you say. To what end? Rather to the contrary, I think I quite enjoy the detective’s vintage, ‘hardboiled’ look. There’s no need to change with the trends, I say. You still make it look good!”
It appeared he was referring to my trench coat. I nodded and accepted the compliment, despite Bon’s mischaracterization—I wasn’t that old. As a fashion statement, trench coats had died out in my parents’ generation; I simply took to them for their pocket space and all-around utility, professional stereotypes be damned.
“As I understand it,” I said, eager to get down to business already, “this is your and your sister’s place, yes? Or rather, your parents have entrusted it to you two and your friends over the winter break?”
“That’s correct. This has been our preferred lodging each and every holiday from our studies at Canterlot Country Day—that is to say, our boarding school back home.”
“I’ve heard of that place!” Bluebird remarked. “I had this foalhood friend, growing up in the Canterlot suburbs way back when. He was a unicorn, and a real genius kid, wouldn’t you know. Always reading ahead in class, making up his own spells and all. He studied hard for a placement exam to try to get in at CCD, and… ahah, would you believe it? He still didn’t make the cut! Talk about your prestigious high schools, huh?”
“Truly! Only the cream of the crop.”
I could recognize Bluebird was quickly ingratiating himself with the prideful young buck. Such was my partner’s preferred means of getting information out of witnesses and suspects alike. Myself, I favored more direct approaches. “You mentioned your friends, Bon. If our information is accurate, there are six of you here, yes?”
“Correct.”
“And no one but you six have been around the past couple of weeks? No other friends, no other relatives, no servants, nobody?”
“Indeed. And here I was, afraid we would have to waste time establishing all matters of banal preliminaries! You already seem well acquainted with the situation at hoof, Detective.”
Given the situation at hoof, I thought, you seem awfully amused.
“Really, the Royal Investigator didn’t tell us much more than that, over the phone,” my cadet clarified. “Y’know, that, and what you all found that has us coming here in the first place… coming here despite our vacation leave, ahah.”
In the face of Bon’s inquisitive glare, I explained, “The Royal Guard says they may be a week out from arriving. Inclement weather, remote location, you understand. They heard we were off duty at the winter resort just nearby, and considered it wise to send us as an advance party.”
“I see,” Bon said. “I should hope you two are receiving generous hazard pay, under the circumstances.”
“Well actually, funny thing about that—”
Bluebird reflexively cut himself short as we rounded the corner. We had reached our destination. Inside a spacious foyer—with a ceiling raised twice as high as the hallway, and with decor just as opulent—a group of five diverse youth including our host was gathered:
There was the lean, athletic earth pony in a plain white button-up. Yellow coat, and cutie mark a crossed pair of skis. He gave a hearty smile as he saluted us. But, this was a front: Eyes like mine didn’t miss the vigor with which he clutched the arms of his loveseat.
There was the pair of griffons perched on a divan. The female of the two was dressed in foreign regalia, and she whispered comforts and consolations into the ear of her pale-faced male counterpart, who wore a simple blazer. Despite his anxiety, this latter managed to give us a polite, if half-hearted wave of his wing as we arrived.
There was the bespectacled doe in the argyle sweater. She bore a family resemblance to our guide, but was much more modestly dressed. She currently occupied herself with a sheaf of parchments and a levitating quill by her side, not paying us any mind as she busily attended to her work.
And finally there was our guide himself, who—to the request of nobody—seated himself at a nearby baby grand piano, produced a glow from his antlers onto the keys, and began haunting the room with a dramatic overture.
There were these five kids present, and only these five. We were told there would be six. I made a mental note to bring this up later.
“Wait, weren’t we told there would be six?” my partner thought out loud. “Is somebody missing?”
Bon, engrossed in his performance, had clearly given up his place in the conversation. After a moment, the earth pony spoke up:
“Yeah, uh, Zorn’s been sick with the flu. He’s resting in his room right now. I could go fetch him, if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary. We can interview him when needed,” I responded. But better sooner than later.
“Sounds good. Just so you know, I’m Grid Iron.”
“Nice to meet you!” my partner said. “I’m Bluebird, and I’m the apprentice of the inimitable Detective Pesco here.” He highlighted my presence with an outstretched wing.
The other three—the two griffons, as well as the other reindeer—followed Grid’s lead:
“My name is Gloria. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“… I’m Girard. Pleased to meet you.”
“Blanche Draft. Fraternal twin sister of”—she gestured to her brother—“… our self-appointed entertainer for the night, apparently.” It was at this point she released her telekinesis from her quill, and for the first time looked up at me and my partner. She adjusted her glasses as she continued, “Detective, I imagine you would like to hear my account of things first.”
Haughty, but pragmatic. I like her better. “Yes, if I recall, your name did come up. The one who first called the authorities.” I leaned in for effect. “My superiors tell me that you’ve discovered a fragment of a changeling wing in this very house. Is that true, Ms. Draft?”
“Entirely true.”
The changeling may still be here. “And you all have taken the time to check that there are no obvious signs of break-in or break-out? All your doors locked, all your windows intact?”
“They were the first things we thought to check, yes.”
“Yeah, and I’ve personally searched this place top to bottom twice now!” Grid Iron added.
It may be listening to us right now.
“And this property, teleproofed, I take it?” I asked. “No one is able to pop in or out on a whim?”
“Routinely, twice a year,” Blanche replied.
From his piano stool, Bon added, “Can’t have burglars making off with the family jewels in the night, now can we?”
If it is listening…
I declared, “Then this is a very serious situation indeed. You were right to call as soon as you did.” And then, in the gravest voice I could muster: “Now, it is only a matter of time until the changeling in our midst is exposed—if not by us, then by the Royal Guard regiment on their way as we speak.”
With the scene set, I scanned the room’s reaction to my affected gravitas. Grid Iron gripped his seat a little tighter; Girard swallowed and blinked; Bon’s tempo of play faltered for just a moment before recovering.
“If I interpret your suspicions correctly,” Gloria spoke up politely, “you are implying that one of us has been replaced by a changeling.”
One replaced, or several. Or otherwise hiding out on the premises, despite the earth pony’s efforts. “That is a distinct possibility I have in mind. But let’s not jump to conclusions. Ms. Draft, we would like to verify the credibility of this claim with our own eyes, if you have preserved the specimen.”
“Naturally.”
Blanche levitated a plastic bag at her hooves onto the table in front of her. I walked over to properly examine it.
“From seven to nine o’clock this morning,” she said, “I was occupied with my daybreak writing session. I stepped out to prepare my breakfast and enjoy a brief respite, returning to my room at half past ten. I noticed immediately that my workspace had been disturbed, and it was on this piece of parchment that I discovered the wing fragment.”
Inside the bag was the piece of parchment Blanche mentioned. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve said this was all that the bag contained. After some effort, however, I located the fragment in question: a miniscule, fragile-looking black scrap—no larger than a piece of confetti—which rested atop the parchment. To my eyes, it was of an entirely nondescript shape and texture. Blanche knew to recognize this as a scrap of a changeling wing?
Bluebird eagerly flipped to an empty page of his notepad. “Very prudent of you to include the details, Blanche! If only all witnesses could be so precise. Lemme just jot all that down, and then me and Pesco can begin asking all of you in turn some more specific questions about—”
Bon slammed down on a dissonant chord, an impromptu ending to his overture. “Désolé, monsieur merlebleu. I am afraid I will have to be so rude as to interrupt, just for a moment.”
He stood up from the piano stool and positioned himself to address the room. Girard’s feathers and fur bristled from the loud interruption, while Grid gave Bon a stern look.
“You have an issue with us asking questions, Bon?” I tested.
“Not at all. At least, not per se. No, it is only the means of asking questions that I seek to critique…”
Blanche rolled her eyes at her twin brother’s oration, muttering something about her reasons for calling the actual authorities when she did.
“… For you see, when my sister first brought the wing fragment to our attention, immediately I realized that these were extraordinary circumstances. Not only has a changeling likely compromised one of us and assumed their identity, but he has done so in such a skillful manner that none among this victim’s closest friends have suspected a thing up until now. At the very least, he’s been with us for the two weeks’ duration that we’ve been isolated at the villa. It is clear to me we are dealing with a formidably clever impostor.”
I was not sure whether Bon was ignorant or just uncaring of the effect he was having on his friends, as well as his own image. Curiously, I noticed a faint tremor in his hoof as he paused to clear his throat.
“And thus,” he continued, “my first suggestion: We do not discuss indiscreetly the details of each other’s alibis and observations. Such knowledge will only serve to benefit the changeling in crafting his own alibis, in inferring the backstory of the victim he has replaced, and—if he is so devious—in sowing doubt amongst ourselves.”
He had turned around mid-oration, but now gave a self-conscious look back at his audience, and at Grid in particular. His finer body language seemed at odds with his words and bombastic gestures, as though he were indulging them despite better judgment.
“That’s a frightening thought,” Girard brooded meekly amidst the pause.
“You got that right!” Bluebird agreed. “Ahah, kinda afraid when you say this is only the first of your suggestions, Bon…”
“Oh, only one more, simply. And you needn’t be fearful of it. For it has to do with a stratagem I’ve devised that, properly enacted, cannot fail to out the changeling among us.”
Bon now held all his peers in silent suspense. He prolonged the pause in explanation with a leisurely stride back from the piano to the center of the group.
He then continued, “Changelings feed on love, yes? If Equestrian biologists are not mistaken, it is love which catalyzes their synthesis of magic—Zorn told me that. And magic is their life force which enables, among other things, their ability to maintain a transformation.” In theatrical fashion, Bon adopted a harsh glare before the delivery. “And thus, my second suggestion: We take turns locking up suspects in the wine cellar! Down there, they shall be thoroughly separated from the rest of us. No candlelight, no visits, not an ounce of love. A scene of starvation, for a changeling. If one of us, once subjected to this confinement, exhibits an unusual reaction, perhaps even an outright de-transformation, then—”
“Knock it off, Bon! We’re not gonna do anything like that!”
Grid Iron’s quaking outburst had an immediate effect on the room, not least of all on Bon, who gave a startled yelp and closed up his posture. Bon now stared at Grid as though he were a pair of oncoming headlights.
“Locking each other up in the wine cellar? What’s gotten into you? That’s a form of torture for anybody, changeling or not! You’ll have to tie me up and throw me down there first, because I refuse to take part in something like that.”
“B-but, Grid,” Bon stammered, “surely you recognize that one or more of our friends this very instant is likely hurt, or worse yet—”
“We’ll figure this out some other way.”
Everyone in the room was looking at me and Bluebird, expecting us to play the mediators. But such roles weren’t my strong suit, and Bluebird repeatedly stumbled over his words in trying to validate the concerns of both parties:
“Well, let’s settle down a little, we—uh, I at least see Bon’s point, like we said, this is a serious situation. And, um, but—Grid Iron, was it?—he’s right that torture is a little excessive, even if maybe—”
Finally, Blanche cut through with clarity. “Grid is right. Your ‘stratagem,’ Bon, is not only cruel and unusual, but frankly, stupid.” She raised a hoof. “Do you know how long a changeling can go without love, for example? One can go without food for weeks. And if not an outright de-transformation, what exactly constitutes an ‘unusual reaction’?”
Gloria joined in the chastising. “Would you be the first volunteer to your plan, Bon?”
“I had in mind to draw straws, b-but I suppose I wouldn’t object if—”
“Did you even think of Zorn and his flu?” Grid pressed. “Do you want him to come down with pneumonia? Or what about Girard and his nerves, his claustrophobia?”
With that, the last amount of fight seemed to leave the young deer. “No, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking it through. I’m sorry, Grid.”
The earth pony in particular has a special effect on this one.
Bluebird finally found his words. “All right, everyone, I can tell this is a stressful time for us all. Rest assured, we won’t be taking anyone prisoner. That said, I happen to agree with Bon’s first suggestion; it’s only correct police procedure to interview each of you privately. If nothing else, you’ll feel more comfortable telling us anything—anything at all—about any discrepancies you may have noticed recently, without it sounding like an accusation.”
I nodded in approval of my cadet’s handling of the situation. The resulting silence in the room indicated that they, too, assented to this plan.
After a moment, Blanche promptly stood up, levitating her papers along with her. “Very well. I will be attending to my writing in my room, if I’m needed.”
Scarcely waiting for permission, she departed up a nearby flight of spiral stairs and disappeared into an upstairs corridor. Bon similarly withdrew from the scene, but not before stealing a diffident glance at Grid. Next, Gloria alighted from her perch on the divan and looked back at Girard, who followed her cue in leaving the room.
All that remained was the evidence bag Blanche had left on the table, and a very out-of-place looking Grid Iron. His temper now cooled, he appeared uncertain whether to stay or to go. “I, uh, don’t really like to blow up like that,” he murmured. “I guess it’s like you said, it’s stressful and all… Sorry.”
“It’s all right, Grid, no apology needed,” Bluebird assured him. Myself, I was happy that he had thwarted Bon’s hijacking of the investigation. “I don’t know what all that was about, exactly, but… he kinda was making things more stressful than they needed to be, ahah.”
Grid rubbed the back of his neck, still unsure what to say. I probed, “Do you know what that was about? Does Bon usually take center stage like that?”
“Well, yes and no,” Grid answered with sincerity. “I can say this because he’s a good friend: He can come off as kind of a showboat, a bit full of himself. He calls it his ‘caricature,’ and we can both laugh at it. In the end it comes with his territory, I think, his upbringing, y’know?”
“What sort of upbringing?”
“As a wunderkind, I guess. He can be a bit childlike, but he’s a genius at whatever he sets his mind to, honestly, and always has been. You heard his piano playing, didn’t you?”
Given the circumstances, I’d only thought of it as a noisy annoyance. “Yes, it was very impressive.”
“Even everyone back at CCD is jealous of him. I guess with constant expectations like that, from himself, his parents, and everyone around him, he needs a sort of… persona, they call it? A mask to hide under, when stressed.”
A psychological defense mechanism, in other words. One saw plenty in our line of work.
“I can tell you care deeply about your friends, Grid,” Bluebird said, cupping a hoof on his shoulder. I had a lot to learn when it came to rapidly establishing rapport; in Bluebird, I wasn’t always sure whether it came from a place of genuineness, or merely skill.
It had its effect on the earth pony. “Thanks, I… that’s why, this whole situation, y’know… it kinda has me all messed up… I don’t even want to think about…” He looked down and grimaced.
“I can imagine,” Bluebird consoled. “Now I mean it: I think you’re very attuned to your friends’ personalities. So I feel confident asking, is there anybody among your friends who has been acting out-of-character recently?”
An impostor could only play their part so well.
His head still hung low, Grid answered, “No. None of them are different to me in the slightest.” He looked up. His neck and brow were visibly tense. “Whenever you find this changeling, before you haul it off, do you think I could… have a word with it?”
The fire in the earth pony’s eyes made apparent the euphemism. A euphemism for what, exactly, was best left unspoken.
“We’ll see there’s justice done,” my partner promised, prudently vague.
We let Grid know that if and when we needed a more extensive interview from him, we would find him. Grid agreed to the plan, informed us that in the short term he would be in either the kitchen or the gym, and then politely left us.
I turned to my partner. “So, what are your thoughts on this case, Bluebird?”
Bluebird stood pondering, his hoof to his chin. “Well, what we know of changelings is that they tend to act alone, and on direct orders from the queen. So, if there really is a changeling here, I would have to assume it’s for the connections that one of these rich kids have—or maybe their parents? Who knows. The whole situation seems a tad bit far-fetched to me. In particular, I don’t get how Blanche saw a changeling wing in that little scrap of nothing she showed us.”
He had good instincts. “I agree with your appraisal.”
“So, guessing we should interview her first, then? The witness is a logical place to start, after all.”
“Indeed it is, and you should. However, I myself am going to seek out this Zorn character first.”
“Ah. You worried about him, being on his own?”
“Not exactly. Just call it an intuitive curiosity in who he is, and what he has to say.”
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welp, i guess im hooked
Well, the prime suspect is Blanche, since she could recognize what a piece of changeling wing looks like. Grid, Gloria and Girard are sus because of their reactions to the things that Pesco and Bluebird were saying. Without any sort of input from Zorn, I'm gonna say Bon is the changeling, simply for the fact that he's the only one acting cool as a cucumber, which is something an infiltrator would likely do in an attempt to cast suspicion off themselves.
I don't recall if I've ever seen the whodunnit trope done with buggos before, but it feels fresh for me and so I'm very invested! Very awesome cover, to boot. Definitely following.
Twilight showed us that if you blast a CHERNGELERNG, ERMAHGERD in the face with magic, they lose their disguise!
So SHOOT EM ALL AND LET CELESTIA SORT EM OUT!!
This looks quite interesting!
Should be "in or out"
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Thanks for the catch!
11228625
There was one where one of the Mane 6 was, and always had been, a changeling and Twilight has to figure out which of the Mane 6 is a Changeling. Weirdly ive lost it but the cover art featured a shadow behind a show curtain.
Well...it is a changeling. They sort of excel at that, y'know?
Getting a kind of Clue vibe to this--it was Colonel Mustard! In the library! With the lead pipe!
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11228625
I assume that Teraucne was referring to Who We Are.
- MLP: FiM
- Slice of Life
A chilling letter from Celestia throws the girls' world upsidedownAnyway, I'm interested to see how this story plays out.
I rarely, if ever, read hard-boil mysteries on Fimfic, partly because I've already had some outside of fan fiction, but this... well, just the first chapter, and you've already nailed a great inner voice for the detective. Someone else already pointed out the nice twist of having a changeling in a whodunit/detective/mystery scenario, but I'd just like to point out that you've already set in a good mood for the mystery itself, whether it would have that twist or not.
Also, I'm not putting dibs on either deer and on Zorn being the changeling, because that's a lot of suspicion on them already for the first chapter. My best bet would be the griffons since they simply stayed in the background while the others present at least aired their piece to the investigators. Anyway, my principle is that, for now, the character with the least obvious suspicion would be my best bet as the changeling.
Initial suspicions? I'm gonna go out on a limb, and say something crazy, but... I think the newbie detective is the changeling. I'm probably wrong, but hey, that's the beauty of detective stories.
I'd like to take a shot in the dark guess at who the changeling is. My money's on Girard. He seems to have a doting girlfriend (I assume. It'll be awkward if Gloria's his sister or something) who would keep a changeling fat and happy. Girard's seemingly well known anxieties would also provide a changeling cover for slip-ups or to stay quiet. The main flaw, which our detective teases, is that the changeling may have an end goal that makes Girard a bad disguise.
Gloria's my number 2 pick. Doting on Girard could serve to deflect from herself, and the changeling still gets fed in the process. Grid's giving me red herring vibes, and I share his objection to Bon's plan. Blanche seems clear for now, as I can't (yet?) see what she'd gain from telling anyone about the wing bit if she were the changeling. Otherwise, I don't have a read on the others.
With that said, I look forward to seeing this mystery develop.
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Glad to hear you're getting into the mystery. There's nothing I enjoyed more during the original run of this story than reading the evolving theories and speculations of readers from chapter to chapter. Keep it up!