2. Interview With the Artist
Before beginning the interview, Bluebird couldn’t help but take a moment to soak in all the details of the room—Blanche's bedroom, that is. The cadet knew how to read a living space for its owner’s quirks and personality through years of experience; this room required no such expertise to get the message:
Beware. Artist at work.
Parchments poured out of half-open drawers, smattered the surface of multiple desks, and threatened to tumble like an avalanche from nearby bookshelves. Designer quills of a common specification were always in hoof’s reach, often commingling with more diverse drawing implements in graphite, charcoal, and conté. The wallpaper was, for the most part, literal paper—the artist's works in progress that simply had nowhere else to go. Little by little, Bluebird’s eyes adjusted to the sheer informational overload, and he began to make out the ley line-like borders of the individual workspaces that existed throughout.
It wasn't just messiness, Bluebird thought. He knew messy folks. He was messy folk. No, this was an intuitive and personal means of organization. It was productivity that didn’t dress itself up. It was utilitarian art.
That said… the doe's room looked like it was in the process of exploding. But that was just his opinion.
Bluebird felt it rude to gawk as he did, but Blanche paid him no mind. She had let him in with only a few words of formal pleasantry before sitting down at a desk and resuming her levitation-assisted writing. Curious, Bluebird walked up behind Blanche and (would she mind?) looked down over her shoulder at her work. A closer inspection revealed that this parchment, like all the rest, overflowed with a combination of cursive prose and artful drawings.
“It’s a shame I never learned to read cursive, ahah,” Bluebird ticked, “but those are some real nice drawings, if I do say so myself!”
Blanche muttered a thank-you while continuing to write. Eventually, she reached what she saw fit as a decent stopping point, released her quill, and turned around. “I’m an author by trade, you understand, though I also do my own illustrations.”
“Wow, an author and an artist, at your age? How many books have you written?”
“Published, about seven. Written, well, many more.”
“That’s incredible. I wish I’d had that kind of motivation in high school.”
“Everyone does. Motivation is fleeting. Work ethic is what’s required,” she said matter-of-factly. “Speaking of work, neither of us are here to chitchat. To cut to the chase: There are some things I have to say that I believe are germane to the case, but which I have been loath to mention to anybody thus far.”
“Oh?” Bluebird flipped open his notepad. “Mention away! And believe me, me and my partner treat anonymous tips with the strictest confidentiality.”
“Thank you. But it’s not an anonymous tip, in the sense that I am casting shade on any of my friends here. Indeed, it’s something I’ve withheld because it suggests some involvement on my part in this incident, when—just to underline it—that’s simply not the case.”
“I see. Don’t worry, I can have an open mind about whatever it is you need to disclose.”
She indicated a nearby stack of parchments with a hoof. “You see, Officer, I am no stranger to changelings, as of my latest work in progress; I have been working for the past couple of months on a novel which features one of these creatures as the main protagonist. Nothing more, nothing less.”
On top of the stack Bluebird spotted what looked to be a cover page of a budding manuscript, bearing a title in elegantly inked calligraphy: Changeling Ringing. In the vicinity, he found a number of technical drawings depicting insectoid anatomy—limbs, eyes, horns, antennae, and (so it seemed most important to Bluebird) wings.
He was just about to ask the question when Blanche answered it for him: “It is only due to my extensive research on the species for the purposes of my upcoming book that I was able to recognize the changeling wing fragment as such.”
The cadet bit on the end of his pen. He teetered on whether to seek clarification on a certain point. “So, you’re sure that’s the extent of the coincidence?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay. Is there any real reason, then, why you’ve withheld this from the others? You know, from your friends?”
The question came off differently than Bluebird would’ve liked it to.
Blanche narrowed her eyes. “I’ve already told you the ‘real’ reason, Officer.”
“I know, don’t worry, I was listening! You said you’re afraid that it’d suggest some untrue things about your involvement. Or, well, lack of it. But I don’t see this info as being damning rather than just… pertinent, you know? What are you afraid your friends would really think?”
“Friends are capable of misunderstanding just as badly, if not worse than strangers. In my omission of these things, I’m simply sparing them the chance to err. It’s easier for everyone this way,” she explained. “Besides, Officer, I came to you voluntarily with this information, didn’t I? You and the detective are the only ones who need to know.”
She spoke with a frankness that would indicate these were just logical facts in her mind. As could be expected, the author was very confident in her verbal delivery. She was just like her brother in that way. And yet, she was just like her brother in another way, too: Bluebird noticed in her body language—the shifts of posture, the distraction of her gaze, the parting of her mane with her magic—the tell-tale signs of anxiety.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried,” Bluebird admitted. “You know your friends better than I do.”
“It’s fine.”
But Blanche was right, ultimately. She had offered this info freely to him, at least. For this reason, Bluebird chalked up the anxiety to some social insecurity rather than anything suspicious. For now, he felt there was no need to press further on this pain point.
Still, he wanted to corroborate some things. “So, about Changeling Ringing. You mentioned some extensive research, yeah? Is that a common process for you, before beginning a novel?”
“Every time, Officer. An author must have a thoroughly factual understanding of their subject matter. Read a hundredfold more than you write, and write a hundredfold more than you publish.”
“And what is this subject matter, exactly? I mean, what is the book about?”
Blanche launched into a faux-dramatic telling, sounding like a dust jacket blurb. “It’s about a changeling who, from its very hatching, realizes the difference between itself and its brethren. Who, from its very hatching, is designated a career as a ‘love farmer’—essentially a warden for the Hive’s prisoners—and is disgusted at the duties expected of it.
“It is high time for a change in Equestria, it decides: a change to the age-old animosity between changeling and pony kind.
“After voluntarily exiling itself from the Hive, it wanders boldly from one pony city to the next, undisguised, causing panic and being arrested at each point, but then hunger striking until public opinion sees it released. And oh, it even falls in love along the way. How touching!
“Eventually, it sparks a political and civil rights revolution, which nearly leads to the signing of a momentous peace treaty between Celestia and Chrysalis—were it not for the tragic kidnapping of our changeling at spearpoint by a band of violent reactionaries. Our hero is never seen or heard from again, but its memory in history is everlasting.”
“Sounds like a thoughtful read!” Bluebird gushed. “I’ll have to check it out once it’s published! You’ve quite the progressive take on the equinity of changelings, huh?”
“Oh god no.” She rolled her eyes; her enthusiastic pretenses had vaporized in an instant. “Disgusting and deceptive creatures, any way you look at them. That ‘love farmer’ thing isn’t an occupation I made up, for the record. No, Changeling Ringing is a potboiler, through and through. A warmed-over soup of clashing clichés. Florid and mushy and feel-good—that’s just what readers expect these days, you see.”
“Huh. That’s a bit of a shame. Are you already treating your job as a writer so… dispassionately?”
“Don’t get the wrong impression of me, Officer,” she said with a sly smile. “While I always need to prioritize my marketability, I still have my fun. For example, Changeling Ringing is actually one of my more intensive experiments in parody.”
“So you mean like, sarcasm? Anyone who reads it, and is maybe a little smarter than me, would know you’re poking fun at the whole idea?”
“Well, surely not everyone, or even most of everyone. In fact, I would be surprised if a single newspaper columnist picks up on the satire. But, I am confident that anyone with a rudimentary literary awareness would understand.” Breathlessly polemical, she continued, “If not during the 300 pages of meandering self-indulgence from the narrator, of juvenile character personalities that are inconsistent from one chapter to the next, of serially unfinished and/or contradictory plotlines, then surely by the reverse deus ex machina that is our protagonist’s sudden and senseless death.”
Bluebird could only take Blanche at her word that the book’s contents were as she described. There was no denying, at the least, that she was very passionate about it.
“So, again, it’s a rule of hoof for me not to leak details of my upcoming books, even to my friends. Even more so if they would—not unreasonably—view this whole incident as something more than the mere coincidence it is.”
Coincidences. Bluebird recalled a favorite saying of his mentor, that coincidences were always the best or the worst places to focus when solving a crime. He could only wonder, which one was this? At any rate, this recollection reminded Bluebird that this really wasn’t like most “crimes” the duo had been summoned to solve in the past:
“So,” Bluebird started anew, “am I correct that you finding this wing fragment is the only thing we have to go on? Not to say it’s not sufficient evidence that there’s a changeling here. I agree that it is, and that you were right to call the authorities. But, there hasn’t been any expressly harmful crime committed, has there?”
Blanche peered down at her interviewer over her glasses, apparently second-guessing his faculties. “Are you already forgetting the most likely means the changeling has taken to infiltrate our group?”
“Well no, I’ll admit it’s most likely that one of your friends has been… I guess it’s too grisly for me to speculate, ahah. But Pesco is always reminding me to analyze the unlikelier possibilities at hoof, as well. What if, say, a changeling is around, but he’s just skulking as some inanimate object, maybe hiding out from the blizzard? Or what if he’s, I guess, always been one of your friends, and you just never knew?”
“I doubt that’s what it is doing here.” The author shook her head. Incredulous but reconciling, she added, “Such scenarios aren’t be inconceivable, I’ll grant, but they really demand a suspension of disbelief, in my researched opinion.”
“Well, my parents always told me I had an overactive imagination!”
“In the first place, changelings have difficulty maintaining a transformation into creatures particularly large or small, and especially do they have their limits in maintaining an inorganic form. I wouldn’t expect one to last thirty minutes as an armchair before exhausting their magic reserves, let alone as a less conspicuous inanimate object.
“In the second place, sleeper cells are just not the changeling MO. Why develop a reputable identity over the course of years or decades, after all, when you can just as easily steal one on short notice? Besides, Chrysalis likes to keep her best agents on a short leash.”
“Hm, it makes sense. I was just hoping to figure out what might be the impostor’s motive here, their personality. Understand what kind of changeling we’re dealing with.”
“I see. I believe I can help with that. Do you have the evidence with you, Officer?” Blanche turned to levitate an object into Bluebird’s hoof. It appeared to be a quality pocket lens. “I invite you to take a closer look at the wing fragment, and tell me what you see.”
He found some empty space on a desk (easier said than done) and carefully shook the fragment out of the bag before placing it under the lens. Looking more closely like this, he could easily identify the texture and branching venation characteristic of an insect wing. There really was no question that this was something biological, beyond the level of forgery. And if Blanche’s illustrations could be trusted… this was well and truly evidence of a changeling.
There was only one detail he noticed that was not present in any of the drawings he’d seen.
“What are these big purple lines, there on the, uh…”
“The subcostal tracheæ,” Blanche specified. “That is exactly what I wanted to bring to your attention. I fear we are not dealing with any ordinary changeling: Those striations are indicative of a hive member who is sufficiently in the queen’s favor to feast on the finest, most concentrated extract of her royal jelly. A single consumption leaves indelible marks on their morphology, and I would venture that this individual has partaken of this delicacy more than once.”
Bluebird felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “So, a mark of changeling nobility, kinda?”
“Not exactly.” Blanche adopted an even more serious tone as she explained, “Their society is classless at birth—honor can only be earned. There are no nobles, there are only elites. To date, Equestria has only discovered such markings on a handful of the most adept, accomplished, and loyal changeling spies.”
Bluebird shifted in place uncomfortably, and picked his pen back up as he thought to commit these new details to his notes.
“Invariably, these discoveries have only ever been made post-mortem, you see. So Officer, I trust that you will handle this seriously, but it bears repeating: Such a high-level agent will not be keen on being captured alive.”
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Oh! Is this a daily, or do you simply have a buffer/motivation right now?
at any rate this is excellent
11229678
Yep, it should be daily. Still second-drafting the last few chapters, but it is well and truly complete.
I'm still hoping that one of her friends always her friend...and a changeling.
11229697
oh my gosh, you mean i will be able to overthink every detail in the story to try to guess ahead and then get my answers the very next day?
(well, maybe not the very next day, but still)
11229821
I feel like it's a bit early to tell. We do have one account of how changelings are, or can be like, in this world, and it's not pretty.
Assuming Blanche is being honest about what she says she knows, then if the changeling hasn't replaced anyone they're possibly some kind of runaway or exile from their hive. Alternatively, she's only wrong about the short-term replacement part, and someone is this group is currently one cog in a large scale, years-in-the-making conspiracy that would gain "the changelings" a significant amount of power and resources in the long term.
I also wonder why the rest of the group trusts her ability to conclude there is a changeling among them simply on her recognizing such a small wing fragment. But if she's the changeling, it wouldn't make much sense that she would basically give herself away like that, right? Unless there was some other piece of evidence someone else has that forced her to fabricate evidence of her own to clear herself by being the one to call for help? Not sure.
And why isn't the changeling running away? Perhaps they don't know that Blanche has extra information on their identity, or perhaps they still need to complete their assignment... or perhaps they simply have nowhere to run away to. At this point they might try and pin the blame on someone else, or fake the daring escape of some theoretical changeling houseplant that would break the window and disappear into the night.... but wouldn't they have done that already? You know, before the detective had a chance to arrive?
+ assuming the friendship was honest... based on blanche's tidbits there... it might not make it past the eventual reveal unfortunately. i don't think it's entirely impossible, given that... the idea is actively being entertained, by blanche (as a joke) but also by the assistant (as a what-if 'social-rights' type situation, ecept geniunely). it might be something of a political issue in-uuniverse? am i making sense by formulating it this way
argh we have zero information yet and it's driving me in circles, and i get the feeling i'll just be running myself in even larger, more numerous circles tomorrow
11229861
Yep, you have my fullest blessing and encouragement. Nothing I'll enjoy more than reading theories about what's to come. You'll certainly have bragging rights if any are correct! (Partial credit is accepted.)
11229861
I'm an optimist and like happy endings. Also the show has clearly shown Changelings are capable of love and being able to be independent.
Okay, Blanche has become much more sus
As another famous detective once said: once you've eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
Well, that goes without saying, but it'd be just as much for its own defense than anything else--I can only imagine what could happen to it should the anti-changeling inclined were to lay hoof or claw upon it, and it'd know of that potential reality all too well.
11229861
Well, there is a blizzard ongoing at the moment, and while obviously that didn't stop traveling entirely if our two detectives could brave it long enough just to get here, it may be hoping to hold out until better weather conditions first--perhaps it's next destination is not very nearby.
Assuming it even IS still here and hasn't already left--which I find unlikely, given the nature of the story, but I point it out to show that all the theories or possible explanations could still be on the table at this point in the game.
11229928
You'd think that, but I'm finding Blanche too obvious, and in my experience, when it comes to mystery stories like this, it's usually not the obvious one.
11230199
I was. I'm optimistically hoping for a similar motivation and ending.
If we're already theorizing in the comments, here's mine since I can't read a mystery and not be on guard for an outrageous and intensely cynical twist.
My guess is the changeling is Blanche's parchment supplier and was never in the building, and her papers were disturbed by someone else who just wanted a peek at her story. They're all about to self destruct in a conflagration of paranoia over nothing.
Ooo! Ooo! I know! They can all give a blood sample and then stick a hot wire into it!
And then when the changeling reveals itself, BLAST IT WITH A FLAMETHROWER!
I was wondering if we had a Thorax situation here, but those elite markers... I can't see anyone getting that high with Chrysalis, then getting exiled for anything other than a grab for power... which would make him unlikely to bother with friendship.