"Dear Princess Celestia, as your (former) most faithful student, I feel I have to warn you that this is probably a trap. Chrysalis cannot possibly be serious about this. Why would anyone, much less her, want to shoot a documentary on us?"
"Dear Princess Celestia, as your (former) most faithful student, I feel I have to warn you that this is probably a trap. Chrysalis cannot possibly be serious about this. Why would anyone, much less her, want to shoot a documentary on us?"
Chrysalis, queen of all the changeling hives and infinitely cunning architect of their plans to conquer Equestria, has a problem: She knows diddly-squat about ponies. But Chrysalis is cleverer than most—or all—changelings, and she's already devised a brilliant solution to this trifling issue: Make a movie about them.
“What is a pony?” Chrysalis mused, from atop her ugly dirt-throne. “What is a pony, really?”
“If I may speak, your Highness...” A nameless drone from the dozens that served her personally stepped forth. “From the explosion we caused at Trottingham, we can guess—”
“That you are wrong!” Chrysalis finished. She sighed. A drone stepped up to rub her brow for her. “Obviously. You were not supposed to answer. The question was rhetorical.”
“Of course, your Highness.” The drone bowed and scampered away into the darkness. Hopefully to get working on that drink she wanted. Where was that, anyway? She’d sent out the pheromones to indicate minor discomfort five minutes ago.
Which made her drink at least six minutes too late.
“Refreshments for your Highness,” said another drone, arriving with a glowing green sac of liquid nourishment, which it presented to her with a flourishing bow. “Have you any other needs, wants, or fleeting desires?”
“None at present,” said Chrysalis, giving her loyal servant a light pat on the head. The hivemind was lagging a bit on the uptake today, but the presentation remained impeccable. Points for that, always. She punctured the sac with a fang and drained it slowly, savoring the love suffusing the goo. It tasted of honeymoon and passionfruit. “Excellent,” she declared, smacking her lips. “From the Manehattan stock, yes?”
The drone paused.
“This question is not rhetorical.”
“From the Manehattan stock, yes, your Highness.”
“Ah, Manehattan.” Chrysalis reclined in her dirt-throne, careful not to put too much weight on the parts that had started crumbling. “A good raid.” Mostly by dumb luck, but she wasn’t going to shave any chitin on that. Three ponies captured, the city in disarray, only six workers with bubblegum stuck to them. A good raid was a successful raid, and a successful raid was one on which there had been any particular success as opposed to horrifying, catastrophic failure.
Which did make the lack of successful raids as of late a little disconcerting...
She sighed and sipped her nutrient slime. At least the drinks were still good.
“Hail to the mighty Chrysalis,” she declared lazily. “Queen of the numberless swarms of the changeling hive and absolute ruler of all she surveys.”
Which wasn’t much in the pitch-black of the hive’s sprawling tunnels, as it turned out. The pulsing blue luminescence of her minions helped a bit... but only a bit, as it merely brought the darkness up from unholy to visibly dim. And turquoise-shaded.
Or was it more of a seafoam? Surely not teal...?
Oh, how she longed for the olden days, when she’d lived above ground. Before she'd needed bioluminescence to survey her sprawling territory, and her changelings had the freedom to roam wherever she wished. Of course, it had also been the desolate and loveless corpse of a kingdom she’d just finished pillaging, but she couldn’t help missing the leg room. She stretched out reflexively and hit a rock.
Ow.
There were some methods of expanding her now-meager domains—with neutral hues, she had to add—but those had all proven failures. Expanding the tunnels took time and distracted the drones from her casual whims. Claiming the surface was still a maybe, at best. The Badlands sun did have that unfortunate habit of boiling things alive. Not to mention Chrysalis’ faint-but-sneaking suspicion that Celestia—curse her forever—used it to spy on her.
The best way of all was to just up and take it from someone else. And that was her current plan, but Equestria was proving unusually resistant to being stolen. Not even because of Celestia and her sun—curse her again, so on and so forth—but also that infernal Cadance, Shining Armor... and Twilight Sparkle. Who had foiled her twice now. Two times. A number more than zero, and therefore unacceptable.
“What is a pony?” she wondered aloud, tossing away the soggy remains of her drink. What strange power protected them from all the incursions, invasions, and attempted political decapitations? Not biology, clearly. It was a predator-prey relationship. Changelings encased ponies in sacs of love-retentive slime for later consumption, and ponies had not thus far seen fit to do the same.
Thus far.
“Do ponies even make slime?” she asked a nearby drone.
He shrugged.
“Well, there you go,” said Chrysalis. “We don’t actually know.” She stood up from her dirt-throne and paced about. “We don’t know if ponies can do something as basic as making slime.” She allowed a drone to slap her forehead for her. “That’s wonderful.”
Another drone nodded and grinned. “Wonderful indeed, your Highness!”
Chrysalis decided to let that one go. There were far more important matters to address now than the hivemind’s tenuous grasp on contextual conversation. There was simply no hope on that one. Surely even the poor inferior ponyfolk knew sarcasm better than the average changeling.
“...Wait.” Chrysalis stopped. “Is that how they keep finding us?” She bit her lip. Could it be? Was it really that simple? Surely the problem wasn’t so trivial as not understanding the prey. A failure to blend in with the populace. She hadn’t needed to learn anything about their crude, disgusting ways while masquerading as Princess Cadance, but everyone had bought her disguise and mind control spells so easily that she’d just assumed...
“Quick!” She turned to a drone. “What do ponies eat?”
The drone stiffened. “I, uh, ah... Love?”
“No, we eat love,” said another drone. “They eat... bunnies, I think. I know they like bunnies.”
“They eat plants,” insisted a third. “You know, grass, trees, and houses. I’ve seen it. ”
“Now that’s definitely not right,” said the first. “Plants can't love.”
“Well, I know it's not bunnies. Have you seen what's in those things?”
“Hold on a minute,” said the second. “What if they feed the plants to the bunnies, and the bunnies have love for the plants, which they then eat?”
“Does that work?”
“I think it would.”
“You’re a genius!”
“You’re an idiot!” Chrysalis roared. Idiots, the lot of them, and only partly because they all thought with the same brain. Which was an idiot. Overworked and understaffed. It didn’t have to be that way, of course. She remembered fondly the lovelier days, when she'd had smarter minions, better contributors to the hivemind. Drones who could bring the drinks on schedule...
But those days were long gone. A fading shadow of the distant past, just like her dreams of prompt service. She’d grown to accept it, if not like it. Leaner times simply meant leaner servants—except in the head, where they grew thicker.
“It is clear to me,” said Chrysalis, pacing down the ranks, “that we do not understand the first thing about ponies. Their food, their culture, their sarcasm... None of it. And this makes us easy to detect!” Self-evident. Even Twilight Sparkle, stupid and dumb as she was, had seen past her act as Cadance. There was simply no hope for the rest of the hive—stupid, if not also dumb.
“We must know more,” she declared. “We must observe them as they are. As they live in the wild.”
“But how, your Highness?” chorused the drones. “How can we study them if we are so easy to spot?”
“Hm...” Chrysalis sat back on her dirt-throne. “A dilemma, to be sure.” She scratched her chin, keenly aware of her drones' expectant gaze. She needed to think of something, for their sake, if not her own. Clearly they weren't about to do it for themselves.
A moment more of silent thought. “Well, how would they learn about us?” she asked, rhetorically. She looked upward toward the sky and saw darkness. Because she was underground. But she also saw the smallest hatchling of an idea. “Of course, the sun,” she murmured. “Celestia—curse her once more for good measure—openly spies on us. Why can't we do the same?”
A glint sparked in her eye as the full plan coalesced in her mind. Yes, that would work!
Or—or no, no, it wouldn't.
No, there it was again! “Aha!” Chrysalis laughed. A genius plan! Sure to work! Worthy of conception by the Queen herself!
...Worthy of a shot, at any rate. She shrugged. What else was there to lose?
“Summon the workers,” she ordered, to the cheers of the hive. “We're off to Equestria.”
“And remember!” said Chrysalis, landing neatly on the meadow-grass. “You are not to feed on any of the ponies while you are in Equestria.”
“We remember, your Highness,” said a drone, crashing with somewhat less neatness. “And if we are very, very hungry, we...?”
“Do it when she isn’t looking,” said Chrysalis. “As I told you when we left.”
She allowed herself to enjoy the sundry pleasures of the overworld while she waited for the rest of her minions to catch up. The cool breeze against her face felt almost lovely, as did the sunlight. Not so much the sunlight, actually—she rather preferred cool and damp—but it wasn’t cooking her in her shell.
So that was nice.
“And the ponies get this always, every day,” she mused. “You know, that actually makes me angry.”
The drone straightened. “Would you like me to feel angry in your stead, Highness?”
“No, no, I think I can manage by myself.” She patted him on the head. “But the offer is appreciated.”
The rest of the band arrived shortly thereafter and worked itself into formation. A half-dozen each of workers and drones, plus the camera. It was an unusually large cadre of changelings to make it past the Equestrian border, but these were special diplomatic circumstances. Rumblings of war had made it easy enough to secure those, as ponies understood the concept of casualties and changelings merely understood casual threats.
“Is the camera on?” she asked, polishing a rough spot on her shell. “I want everything on film. Everything.” She stopped and thought a moment about what she’d just said. “Save for anything that embarrasses me personally.”
The camera nodded. “Active, your Highness.” A light film of green fell over his eyes and he stood rigid, unblinking. “Recording at your command.”
“Excellent,” said Chrysalis. She coughed to clear the slime from her throat. “Begin as we walk.”
It was a truly historic time for changelings and ponies both. The first triumphant steps into Ponyville were caught forever on camera—as were the horrified faces of nearby ponies. That was good—perfect, even. It was a strong opening. Attention-grabbing. Generations of changelings would remember it for weeks.
“The squalid and ugly hive of the average pony,” she told the camera, to a soundtrack of shrieks, gasps, and general cries of terror. She knocked a fleeing pony aside before it could get into the shot. “Look well upon it, minions, for though they may seem alien and strange, I shall teach you of their ways, their culture, their...” she turned her voice down low, just in case, “vulnerabilities.”
“Their what now?” said a familiar voice. A screechy voice. A grating voice. Or—perhaps the biggest insult of all—Twilight Sparkle’s voice.
Chrysalis turned, putting on her biggest and least obviously fake smile. “Their vulnerabilities, Sparkle,” she said. “Obviously. Our documentary must be comprehensive in detail to be effective, and to leave out your kind’s weaknesses would be a criminal omission of important knowledge.”
“‘Important knowledge’ my left—” Twilight Sparkle paused. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Then, sadly, she opened it again. “All right, while I will admit that knowledge is, in fact, important, I absolutely don’t trust you.” She poked Chrysalis right in the thorax—for which she would later pay. “Remember that I’m here to keep an eye on you. No funny business.”
“Agreed,” said Chrysalis, brushing the hoof off. She turned to the drones. “Agreed, yes?”
“Agreed.” The drones nodded. “We shall not be funny at all.”
“Well, there you go,” said Chrysalis, wearing her most obviously smug grin. “We most certainly will not be funny while we’re here.” She waved over the rest of Ponyville, which was still panicking over something as small as a dozen-odd changelings and their magnificent queen. “Though, I admit, I find your fellow ponies hilarious.”
Twilight shot her an altogether venomous glare, but turned to deal with the mob first. “All right, everypony,” she shouted. “Calm down!”
Which did absolutely nothing. One pony tried to hide behind a pole. Another ran into said pole.
“Okay, that’s fine. We can do it that way if you want.” Twilight took a deep breath, horn aglow, and shouted again with the voice of a thousand Twilight Sparkles. “CALM DOWN!”
And they calmed down.
“Come on, everypony,” said Twilight in the newly-formed silence. “I told you all they’d be here this morning. Remember? The changelings are coming to learn more about our culture and foster better relations? Princess Celestia is aware of it, and...” she coughed, “allowing it.” She looked around to see naught but confused faces. “Come on, at least one of you has to remember this.”
Blank stares. Unanimously.
“Did any of you even listen?”
“I have precisely the same problem, you know,” said Chrysalis, leaning in. The average pony, it seemed, wasn’t substantially more intelligent than a brick. Or a drone. Useful information, that. “Just the other day, I ordered the hive to move my throne, and they—”
“And that’s enough out of you,” said Twilight, pushing Chrysalis away. She walked over to the changelings and inspected the ranks. “Where’s your camera?” she asked. “How are you supposed to film your ‘documentary’ if you don’t even have a camera?”
Chrysalis sighed. “Camera.”
The camera stepped forward and gave a salute. “Recording for duty, your Highness!”
Twilight frowned. “That is not a camera.”
Chrysalis frowned back. And harder. “I fail to see how that is not a camera.”
Twilight’s horn lit again, and summoned from thin air a crude-looking box mounted on three spindly legs. “This,” she said, floating it over to Chrysalis, “is a camera. It records things for later review.”
“Which my drone does precisely,” said Chrysalis. “He remembers in exacting detail all that he sees and hears, and will eventually produce a number of pheromone sacs to recreate those experiences. For later review.”
A few ponies in the crowd gagged. Twilight appeared deliciously pale.
“As has become quite apparent,” Chrysalis told the camera, “ponies are at least as ignorant of us as we are of them.” She pointed to the ‘camera’ Twilight had summoned. “And far behind us in breeding viable cameras.”
“Okay, okay.” Twilight shuddered. “So it’s a camera. I mean, I think it’s a camera. It might fit the classical definition of a camera. Probably a camera. Can we please get a move on, then?”
“With pleasure, Supervisor,” said Chrysalis. “We are in your capable hooves.” She turned to her changeling squad.
A drone opened his mouth.
“We are not literally within her hooves.”
The drone closed his mouth.
Twilight placed a hoof to her chest and took a deep breath. “If you’ll just follow me now,” she said, her voice remarkably even. “I’ll introduce you to Ponyville.”
The streets of Ponyville were quaint and quiet, particularly now that everypony knew changelings were supposed to be wandering it. They eyed her and her workers with curious stares, and her workers eyed the ponies with predatory glares. There were minglings here and there as inattentive ponies bumped accidentally into changelings and changelings purposefully bumped into ponies. Standard displays of dominance. It kept the riffraff in check, at least.
Chrysalis, for her part, merely looked down upon the ponies with lazy disdain. Time enough for her to mock and insult their squalor later. Someday, she’d conquer this wretched little place, and then she could laugh at the burning embers of Ponyville—which she would do heartily—but, for now, everything was going according to plan.
“Unlike our tentative models for changeling hives,” Twilight rambled as they walked, “ponies live in discrete houses.” She waved at a pony selling flowers and other forms of garbage nearby. “We all have individual schedules to follow and important jobs to do. Some of us grow food, some of us make art, and so on. It all comes down to what that pony’s interests are and what their special talent is.”
“Ponies live in woefully inefficient and separate dwellings,” Chrysalis translated for the camera. “They spend their days muddling about in chaos as they try they to figure out their tasks without central direction.”
Although—and she would never admit this out loud—Ponyville didn’t seem to be all that much less efficient than her own hive. The ponies went about their tasks with just nearly as much hustle and bustle as she’d grown used to in the tunnels. If not a little more. Certainly there were fewer head-on collisions, and most ponies seemed to know what they were doing with themselves. She’d have to study the recordings later to see how they’d managed that. Perhaps the hive could do with a few more schedules and junk stands...
“We’re actually a fairly small village, in all honesty,” Twilight continued. “There are cities like Manehattan further north that—”
“Ponyville is an utterly insignificant hive and unworthy of particular notice,” said Chrysalis. “There are rich population centers further north that... Ah...” She motioned Twilight to continue.
“I’m going to ignore your commentary here,” said Twilight, between deep breaths, “because, petty as you are, I think there might actually be an opportunity for us to learn from each other here. You’re learning now about us, and I’m learning a little about you.” She scratched her chin thoughtfully. “We’ve never actually had a changeling’s perspective on anything before.”
“There now! You see, Sparkle?” said Chrysalis, laughing. “This is a mutually beneficial arrangement. For both of us! I believe you owe us now an apology for your prior suspicions.”
“Don’t push it,” said Twilight. “I’m still not completely convinced that this isn’t a trap somehow.”
“A trap...” Chrysalis stopped. “Oh, a trap!” She slapped her forehead, absent a drone to do it for her. “That’s actually a good idea. It should have been a trap.”
Twilight’s eyes grew dangerously narrow.
“Oh, don’t you start,” said Chrysalis. “It would have been an excellent trap.”
“Moving on.” Twilight coughed. “Do you have any particular questions you’d like to ask? Anything that isn’t suspicious, maybe?”
“Questions, questions, questions...” Chrysalis called up five of her workers. “What were they, again? I know we had at least five.”
“I believe the first, your Highness,” a worker hissed, “was if ponies do indeed make slime.”
Twilight made no slime, but did make a face. “We absolutely do not produce slime.”
“Not usually,” said a passing-by pony. “But what about when we’re sick? I mean, I had the feather flu last week, and every time I blew my nose, there was just this massive flood of—”
“Okay, no, none of us will ever need to hear that,” said Twilight, pushing her away. “We absolutely, positively—one-hundred percent of the time—do not make slime.”
“Well, there you go,” said Chrysalis. “I’d always wondered.” She wasn’t entirely sure as to whether she believed Twilight on this one, but clearly this wasn’t a good subject to press on. She turned to another worker. “Next?”
“‘What do ponies eat?’ your Highness.”
“Oh, well, that’s easy!” said another mare. “We eat plants. You know, grass, trees, and houses. That sort of thing.”
“No, okay, that’s not correct, but thank you for trying,” said Twilight, smiling graciously as she shooed the pony off. “Actually, while ponies do eat plants—we’re herbivorous, actually—we don’t actually eat trees. Or the houses. Most of which aren’t plants.” She sighed. “I don’t even know where she got that idea. Honestly, some ponies...”
“Some ponies indeed,” Chrysalis muttered, glaring at the drones. “We understand now what ponies eat, I hope? And that it is neither love, bunnies, nor houses?”
“Y-yes, your Highness,” the drones stammered, shrinking backward. “We know now of our ignorance. No punishment is too great for our failure, so please do not spend too long thinking on one.”
Chrysalis sighed. “I do feel your pain, Sparkle.” Idiocy affected all things, it seemed. Not merely drones, workers, and most creatures that weren’t her, but ponies as well. Twilight Sparkle, limited and ugly as she was, seemed to be amongst the few who could recognize ignorance when she heard it. Which made her an ally, of sorts, in the war on poor conversation.
And a mortal enemy in every other regard, obviously. But still.
She wrapped a hoof around Twilight’s vulnerable and fleshy neck. “Why, if you should ever feel the desire to swap anecdotes about servile incompetence, I’d be more than happy to oblige.” She looked over to the drones, still cowering from her. “No, really. The stories I could tell you about the batch I birthed just last week. Why, the writhing alone...”
“I, uh, appreciate the gesture,” said Twilight, edging her neck away from the well-sharpened hoof. “I think that might actually be kind of you—really, I do—but... Well...”
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Increasingly awkward silence.
“...No?”
“Oh,” said Chrysalis. “I, uh... All right, then.” She coughed. “Ah, so, do ponies eat anything beyond tasteless plant matter?”
“As a matter of fact, we do!” said Twilight, looking fairly relieved. “We mostly eat plants, but ponies do enjoy dessert in moderation. Cakes, pies, fritters, strudels, puddings—”
“Houses?” a drone interrupted.
Superbly awkward silence.
“Camera,” said Chrysalis slowly. “Avert your eyes. I intend to slap this drone.”
“No slapping!” said Twilight, stepping between the two of them. She looked warily toward the drone. “Not that houses are a food either. I don’t understand why you’d even begin to think that.”
“It’s because they don’t think,” Chrysalis huffed. “That’s precisely the problem.”
“Well...” said Twilight, tapping her hoof on the ground. “Well, if changelings don’t actually understand what desserts are—or what food is in general—maybe the fix to that is to show them?” She grinned a big stupid grin. “Wait, that’s perfect! And low-risk!” Twilight took a few steps along the path and beckoned Chrysalis to follow. “Come on! I think you’ll like Sugarcube Corner.”
“Oh, well, if you insist,” said Chrysalis, coming along with her camera in tow. And, in a considerably lower voice, she added: “For your sake, I’d better.”
Sugarcube Corner, it seemed, made chemical weapons disguised as foodstuffs. The air just outside was thick with unpleasant fumes, and everything about it smelled faintly of poison. She’d managed to stifle her gagging, and had found some small relief by closing off her nasal cavity, but still her eyes watered from the baking vapors.
Didn’t ponies know that sugar was bad for them?
“O-oh!” said a portly blue cake pony, turning a few shades whiter as they stepped through the door. “My goodness! Princess Twilight! And, uh—guests! How are... you?”
“Dying, actually,” said Chrysalis, wiping the fluids from her eyes. “What toxins do you brew here?”
“She means we’re fine,” said Twilight, giving Chrysalis a look. She gave the cake pony a much nicer look. “We have some representatives from the changeling hive here on a cultural exchange,” she explained. “If it’s not too much trouble, could we tour the kitchen?”
“Oh, o-of course!” said the cake pony, bowing. “Anything for a princess!” She wiped a few beads of sweat from her brow. “Why don’t I just... go and evacuate—clean up—the kitchen so it can be spotless for you?”
And with that, she bustled off to do whatever it was she’d been mumbling about. Which left Twilight, Chrysalis, and a gang of changelings to trade glances.
“So...” said Chrysalis, sparking conversation to burn time. “Princess Twilight? I do believe that’s new.”
“Yes, it’s, uh, something that happened,” said Twilight. She shifted on her hooves. “You didn’t notice? I mean, the wings...?” She stretched her wings out. “...No?”
“Hardly glossy enough to indicate royalty,” said Chrysalis, fluttering her own sparkling wings. “You ought to have them polished more often. Don’t you have that dragon servant...?”
“His name is Spike,” Twilight huffed. “And he’s not my servant.”
Clang.
“Well, whoever’s servant he is,” said Chrysalis, “it’s important to indicate your status appropriately. Just my advice, from one royal to another.” She gave Twilight a knowing wink. “You know, slime does wonders for adding luster to—”
“That’s not going to happen.”
Clang.
“I’m only saying, if you rub on a little slime, it’d be easier to see that you’re—”
Clang.
“No,” said Twilight firmly. “And can you please get your changelings to behave?”
Chrysalis looked over toward the corner, to where a trio of workers were knocking around a tall metal pole. “Oh, all right.” She waved them away from the pole, and walked over to study it for herself. It did seem familiar, somehow. She recalled a pole very much like it in Cadance’s room, once upon a time, but had never quite bothered to fiddle with it. “What is this, by the way?”
“It’s called a lamp,” said Twilight. “It makes light.”
Chrysalis snickered, wings fluttering as she looked over the lamp. “Camera,” she ordered, urging the camera forward. “Watch closely. She says this makes light.”
The camera laughed too. As if you could make light without the proper organs bred in. This ‘lamp’ of Twilight’s hardly seemed to have the right sacs for bioluminescence. She felt around under the membrane at the top of the pole and found a loose tendon or somesuch, which she pulled because she could.
And the lamp made light.
“It really does!” said Chrysalis, looking to Twilight. She looked back at the lamp, eyes widening in amazement. “And it’s not blue?”
“I... don’t see why it would be?”
Chrysalis gasped. “We need these.” She pushed the camera’s face into the lamp. “Study it. We’ll breed more for the hive.”
“That’s not really how it works,” said Twilight, pushing the workers back again. Everyone was crowding a view of the light. “It’s a machine. You can’t breed one. You have to build it.”
“Ah...” said Chrysalis, staring wistfully at the lamp and its glorious light. “I suppose the only alternative, then, is to steal them from you.” She motioned the drones to uproot the pole.
“Or,” said Twilight, using her magic to push the drones back, “or instead of being pointlessly evil, we could instead come up with a trade agreement.”
“Yes, a raid,” said Chrysalis. “That’s what I just implied.”
Twilight took another deep breath. “A trade agreement,” she said. “Where both sides agree to give something the other wants. You want lamps, and we want—just supposing—some of the ponies you’ve stolen from us back.” She flashed a nonthreatening smile. “It would be an excellent first step for repairing diplomatic relations, assuming...”
“That we don’t simply betray you,” finished Chrysalis.
“Well. Yes. We would prefer that you don’t.”
Chrysalis needed a moment to think about that one. On the one hoof, it would be so much easier to simply take all the lamps she’d ever want. On the other hoof, the hive was stretched thin enough capturing ponies. There were, perhaps, insufficient resources to consider stealing every lamp in Equestria. And she’d need roughly that many, if not a few more, to keep the hive lit...
“I suppose we could be symbiotic about this,” she conceded. “A few of our less productive captives for your best and brightest lamps. Yes, that might work.”
It would absolutely work. For all of five minutes. The hive kept very few nonessential prisoners. Mostly just a couple of sour vintages from Trottingham. She could release those, she supposed, if only to free up space. And then she could cheat on the rest with a clear conscience. It didn’t take that much work to disguise a worker as a newly-released captive.
Not that Twilight needed to know that part of it.
“Really?” said Twilight, eyes widening. “I, uh—wow, I didn’t think you’d actually... I mean, we could discuss the terms later, if you want. I’m just a little shocked. This might be the first pony-changeling agreement ever. In history.” Her mouth fell open. “We’d be making history!”
“I... suppose so.” Chrysalis nodded slowly. Come to think of it, perhaps it was. Even if she only released a few tasteless castoffs—the dregs of the hive’s stores—that’d still, on some strange level, be giving Equestria something it actually wanted. That.... had never actually happened before. “A momentous time indeed, it seems. And as such, I have, ah, every intent of honoring the terms of—”
At which point the blue cake pony burst through the doors. Chrysalis considered that an excellent save. She’d already started running out of convincing ways to tell egregious lies.
“The k-kitchen is ready!” she announced. She bowed once more. “I hope you didn’t mind the wait too much, your Highness.”
“No, not at all,” said Twilight. The first red hints of a blush blossomed on her cheeks. “And, uh, you don’t need to call me that if you don’t want to, remember? I keep telling everypony, I’m only Princess Twilight when I’m doing royal duties.”
“Oh!” said the cake pony, blushing also. She stepped off to the side. “W-well, okay, if you insist. I’ll... I’ll just get going, then.” She glanced at the changelings. “Far away. Call me if you need anything, Twilight.”
“Of course,” said Twilight, ushering Chrysalis and the changelings into the kitchen. “Don’t worry about us, Mrs. Cake. We’ll be in and out before you know it.”
The kitchen, such as it was, stank. If the air outside was unpleasant, the air at the source was a dozen times moreso. One changeling screamed. Another had the good sense to pass out in silence. The rest adapted in their myriad ways. A thick shell of the Cakes’ baking flour seemed to work best. The drones coated up in it. Anything to keep the smell out.
“Smells delicious!” said Twilight, taking big whiffs of the toxic air. She looked along the counters, inspecting various trays of baked cakes and whatnot. She pointed to one in particular and squealed. “Apple fritters, too! My favorite!”
“Avoid bakeries if at all possible,” Chrysalis whispered to the camera. “Avoid them forever.”
“I’m sure the Cakes wouldn’t mind... Do you want to try one?” said Twilight, holding up a fritter. Her smile froze slightly around the edges. “You know, since you threw Applejack’s fritters away at the wedding?”
“Really?” said Chrysalis, giving the fritter a tentative sniff. It burned. “I don’t recall.” She took the fritter, though, and slipped it to a drone to throw away. “I’m sure they were probably delicious and not awful.”
“You got that right,” said Twilight, eating her own apple fritter in one giant bite. A dopey grin grew on her face as she chewed. “Mmm. And made with Sweet Apple Apples. Just the best, aren’t they?”
Chrysalis nodded politely. “Ponies will ask that you eat their dessert foods as well,” she explained to the camera. “Avoid ingesting whichever poison they give you. Feed instead off the love they bear for their silly desserts. It will be far more nourishing and less likely to kill you.”
Twilight choked on her fritter. She pounded her chest with a hoof and summoned a glass of water to wash it all down. “Wow, I’m suddenly not hungry anymore.” She shot Chrysalis a glare. “No idea why.”
“Perhaps,” offered a flour-dusted drone, “it is because our Queen has suggested that we would feed off the love you bore for that fritter, and you were uncomfortable with this.”
“Yes,” said Twilight, turning stiffly toward the drone. “I’m... well aware of that.”
“Then why—”
“It’s called sarcasm,” said Twilight and Chrysalis, both at once. Both in tones practiced a thousand times. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Their souls attuned in harmony. They nodded silently at each other.
Twilight continued on. “Sarcasm is the practice of presenting a statement in tones or contexts which imply the opposite of their direct meaning. It’s a way of saying one thing, but actually meaning another.” She sighed. “And half of Ponyville has no idea how to use it.”
Chrysalis could not help but shed a tear at that. And not merely because the fumes stung her eyes. “Finally!” she whispered. “Another who understands.” She nudged the camera. “You caught that, yes? The entire explanation? The hive will hear that in the recording, won’t they?”
“You will have to speak louder, your Highness,” said the camera drone. “For my earholes are clogged.” He shook his head, sending clouds flour dust into the air. “Is there something you wish for me to record?”
“No,” she groaned. Well, for a brief moment, she could have dreamed. “No, it’s all right. It’s fine. Perfectly fine.”
“I am glad, then, that your Highness is pleased.”
Another tear shed.
“I know,” said Twilight, giving Chrysalis a soft pat on the thorax. “I know.”
Chrysalis wiped the tear away. At least Twilight knew. She was not alone. She merely had to remember that. “Thank you,” she said. And for the first time in her short-yet-hateful history with Twilight Sparkle, she actually meant it. Not that she’d ever had reason to thank Twilight before, but in this one, singular, entirely isolated incident... She meant it.
“Was that true, by the way?”
“What?”
“That baked goods are actually poisonous to changelings? You weren’t just saying that because you’re petty and spiteful?”
“Well, perhaps not... poisonous, per se,” said Chrysalis carefully. Priority was still very much on learning the ponies’ vulnerabilities over revealing her own. Because she was petty and spiteful, obviously. “I will admit that they are fairly irritating to us. In ways that have been thought to be potentially fatal, yes.”
Twilight nodded. “This entire time I’d thought you were just being rude. I mean, the gagging looked a little exaggerated, but I hadn’t even realized... I’d just thought you were being incredibly rude. Again.” She coughed and stared sheepishly down at her hooves. “I think what I’m trying to say is that maybe there really is a lot we don’t know about each other. And maybe if we knew a bit more, we wouldn’t be at each other’s throats so often.” She stuck a hoof out. “I’m sorry.”
Chrysalis took the hoof before her primary thought node could catch up. She shook it numbly, still processing everything that had just been said to her.
Was that an apology? From Twilight Sparkle?
No. Impossible.
But then—well, she had just thanked Twilight Sparkle not a few moments ago. Thanked the irritating thorn in her side who had thwarted her at every opportunity. A mortal enemy, to whom she had sworn she would never thank... nor apologize.
Possible...?
“So,” said Twilight, smiling at her. “Is there anyplace else you’d like to see while you’re here in Ponyville?”
“I have no preferences,” said Chrysalis, returning the faintest hint of a not-sneer. “Wherever you should choose to guide us, we shall be more than happy to follow.”
They toured a great many venues after Sugarcube Corner. Town Square, the Ponyville Park, an altogether unsightly library tree... Chrysalis had never quite realized how diverse pony hives were. So many frivolous, stupid, and frivolously stupid buildings. Which were still somehow better than her own hive. Tunnels, tunnels, and more tunnels. That was what she had, and that was terrible. Insufferable, even. No matter how many ugly and clashing colors the ponies put on their stores for selling things like quills and—and sofas, of all things—it would always surpass changeling engineering.
“Interesting,” said Chrysalis, observing a tall stone clock tower. “You know, perhaps we ought to build one of these for the hive. To change things up a bit.”
The camera coughed. “Underground, your Highness?”
“Yes, underground. Don’t interrupt.” All right, it was silly, but she wasn’t about to be told that by a drone. “If you question me any further, you’ll dig the space out for it yourself.”
“You don’t have to treat them like dirt,” said Twilight, moving them along. “I mean, I don’t think you have to treat them like dirt. Do you really have to—” she paused to wave at a nearby pony-friend, “—talk to them like dirt?”
“No, of course not,” said Chrysalis. “Dirt stays put and does what it is told.” A drone waved into the camera. She pushed it away before it could ruin the shot. “If I do not deal strictly with the drones, they get unruly.”
“Well...” said Twilight, looking entirely unconvinced. “I guess I have no choice but to take your word for it...”
They sat down together on one of Ponyville’s many gaudy benches, watching the many gaudy ponies go by. The clouds drifted lazily along overhead. Fuzzy white stains on a majestic blue sky. Chrysalis had never realized how much she loved blue. Not the sickly dim blue of bioluminescence, but the rich, lively hues of the open air. Azure, cerulean, cobalt... She missed those blues dearly.
They would have to be hers again, someday.
“Howdy, Twilight!” An unimportant orange hick-pony waved as she walked by. Applejewel, or whatever her name was. “Good luck with the varmints!”
“Hey, Applejack!” Twilight waved back. “Thanks!” She turned back to Chrysalis. “I’m just saying. We—ponies, I mean—we try to treat each other with respect, and I think it works pretty well.”
“Mmm.” Chrysalis had no inclination to argue. There was nothing to argue about. You simply couldn’t treat the drones with respect. That was just asking for chaos. They’d go all about demanding names of their own, and wanting to do things that didn’t serve her comfort. There was no way it could ever work.
So how did ponies manage?
She looked about the busy streets of Ponyville—not a queen here, but merely another face in the crowd. Princess Twilight treated them with respect, and allowed them to do whatever it was that they wanted. Why, then, did they seem so orderly? How did they move with such energy? She’d never gotten that sort of energy from a drone without a swift kick to the rear, and there seemed to be no swift kicking here at all.
“What is a pony?” she murmured.
“Hm?” Twilight looked up at her. “What was that? Another question?”
“No, no, it’s nothing.” said Chrysalis with a wave. “The question was merely rhetorical.”
“Oh! All right, then.” Twilight nodded knowingly. She went back to her humming, waving at her friends when she saw them.
“What is a pony, really?” She wondered if there were an answer to that, and if she would ever find it. Did the camera know? Was there something he’d seen, something he’d heard, that could answer the eternal question? She’d have to check when they returned to the hive. Hopefully there was a secret in there that explained those strange creatures called ponies. How they acted, how they lived, and how they could be conquered. One way or another, she’d learn...
“Your Highness,” said a worker, interrupting her thoughts. “The drones grow hungry.”
“The drones are always hungry.” She waved the worker away. “I am trying to think now. Bother me no further with their petty concerns.”
“Of course, your Highness.” The worker bowed. “I shall relay your commands.”
“Good.” She looked back up at that brilliant blue sky, trying to recall what she’d been thinking. She’d been getting closer, she thought. If only she could remember. “Ah... I almost had it.”
“I hate when that happens too,” said Twilight beside her. “When someone interrupts you while you’re thinking and you lose your train of thought... Usually when I forget Spike’s dinner.” Her cheeks flushed and she looked off to the side. “I guess we’re a bit more alike than we’d realized.”
Chrysalis looked at Twilight. She didn’t stare, or even glare. She looked. She did not see a nemesis, or a mortal enemy, or even an unpleasant inconvenience. There, sitting beside her now, was a pony. “Yes,” said Chrysalis slowly. “I suppose we are.”
No, Twilight didn’t make slime or molt her shell every few months, but she could think logically. Use sarcasm. Avoid answering rhetorical questions. Drones didn’t know how to do that. Not even workers could. Only she, as queen of her hive.
And, in that single moment, Chrysalis realized what a pony was.
“Queen of their own little hive,” she whispered to herself. A laugh bubbled up from her humor gland. A great, rolling, rueful laugh. “I should have guessed.”
Twilight cocked her head. “Guessed what?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Chrysalis, hiccuping out the remnants of her laugh. “But I think you are correct, Sparkle. We are more alike than we could have known.”
“All right,” said Twilight, laughing a bit herself. “If you say so.”
A silence set in between them once more, but there was something less awkward about it this time. Something a little more wholesome. A silence born from that rare, perfect moments when two mortal enemies didn’t want to kill each other, and the idea that maybe—just maybe—there’d come a day when they wouldn’t have to.
This beautiful, golden silence lasted a full minute before something ruined it.
“The changelings are attacking!” a pony shrieked. “Everyone run for your lives!”
“Of course,” Chrysalis groaned. “Always when it’s least convenient.”
The drones, in their hunger and their poor listening skills, had taken to the skies. Globules of love-retentive slime rained down upon Ponyville, slathering the streets in goop and the ponies in things that wouldn’t wash out for a days. It was a quick and simple way to grab a meal. It was also a quick and simple way to incite mass panic.
“Well,” said Chrysalis, spying the camera amongst the flying drones. “At least we’ll have an action shot.”
Twilight wheeled around and stared at her, mouth agape, eyes wide with fear. “Did you do this?”
“I assure you, Sparkle, that—”
“Did you do this?”
“No,” said Chrysalis, firmly. She looked straight into Twilight’s eyes as she spoke, choosing each of her words with the utmost of care. “I promise you, Twilight, that I did not. It was not my intention for this to happen. I take full responsibility for my drones’ actions here and any damage they cause. I am sorry.”
A pause.
“I...” Twilight nodded, hesitantly at first, then again with confidence. “Strange as this sounds, I actually believe you.” She looked up at the changelings attacking from the sky and down to the ponies stampeding in the streets. “I think I can smooth this one over,” she said, looking back at Chrysalis, “but this is a violation of your conditions for being here. Whatever happens, you’ll have to leave.”
Chrysalis sighed. “I understand completely.” She sighed again, long and low. “It really is a pity,” she told Twilight. “You are not as dull or annoying as I’d thought. I did enjoy speaking with you, and wish I could have done so longer.”
“Same here,” said Twilight with a wink. “You’re not as heartless or horrible as I’d thought either.” She stuck a hoof out. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”
“I suppose it is,” said Chrysalis. She took the hoof and gave it a firm shake.
“And, if you can,” said Twilight, giving her a warm smile. “I’d really like a copy of that documentary. For archival purposes, of course.”
“Of course,” said Chrysalis, returning the smile. She fluttered her wings, rising slowly up into the air. “I will be sure to send you one of the sacs. After all,” she said giving Twilight a wink of her own, “It could not have been made without you.”
They waved each other goodbye.
It was probably the last time they’d ever do that.
Chrysalis flew up over the drones and released the proper pheromones for gaining their absolute, undivided attention. She deserved that as a matter of course, but it helped here to add a little incentive. “Come along,” she told them, once all eyes were on her. “We’re done here. Let’s go home.”
“And so ends our brief journey into Equestrian territory,” said Chrysalis, touching down at the sandy edge of the Badlands. Beyond which she’d probably get a terrible sunburn, and Celestia’s prying eyes would again focus upon her. She grinned wildly at the camera. “I do believe our efforts today were an unqualified success.”
“They were indeed, your Highness,” said the camera. The other drones landed in formation behind him. “Generations of changelings shall benefit from the insight we have gleaned.”
“It will be an excellent movie, your Highness!”
“It’s gonna be awesome, probably!”
“Yes, yes,” said Chrysalis, waving them off. “The documentary was good too. But I meant the other scheme.”
Obviously.
She did a quick roll call on her changelings, just to confirm that everything had really gone that perfectly. Seven drones, the camera, and zero workers precisely. She clapped her hooves together and laughed. Perfect. Six elite workers disguised in Ponyville, and poor Twilight Sparkle hadn’t noticed a thing. If only she’d bothered to pay attention to the changelings themselves, instead of their distractingly charismatic queen. And perhaps, eventually, she would have noticed anyway—had the drones not provided a convenient excuse to bolt for it.
“Excellent work on the distraction, by the way,” she informed them, giving them all a round of well-deserved patsies. One, two, three, four, five, six, and—wait, no. Seven? She stopped. There’d only been six going in, hadn’t there?
She shrugged. Well, who could be bothered to keep track of the drones? Not her, that was for certain. She gave the seventh a pat too. “I’m moderately less disappointed in all of you.”
Chrysalis turned back to the camera and laughed her most evil laugh. “We are much alike, Twilight Sparkle,” she said, “but in the end, I think I was just a bit more cunning. Don’t you? It was so easy to deceive you.”
She grinned to herself, imagining the look on Twilight Sparkle’s face when she realized. She’d see it eventually, once she got her own copy of the documentary. Which she was still going to get—Chrysalis had every intent of keeping that promise.
She wasn’t a monster.
“What is a pony?” she asked. There were many answers to that question, only a few of which she’d learned today. She had so much to think on now, but all that came secondary to gloating. “Evidently a fool!” She laughed again. “I can’t believe she fell for those lies! ‘Friends’ indeed!”
She turned away from the camera and her triumphant grin faltered just the smallest bit. Yes, much to think on. Twilight had said things with a little wisdom to them. Only a little. Things that no drone had ever told her. Mostly because they weren’t smart enough. Twilight, though—she understood. In that single, stupid, lowly pony, she’d seen faintest glimmer of an equal. A confidante.
A friend, even.
Queens of their own little hives.
She’d never seen that glimmer in a changeling, and the realization of that made her feel... There was a word for it. It was on the tips of her tongue...
Lonely?
Surely not.
She took one last glance at the vast blue sky above her. There was a world here that stretched far beyond the walls of drone-dug tunnels and earthy ceilings. A world where she could truly be queen of all she surveyed. Ponies lived in that world, and she didn’t. That had to change, no matter what Twilight Sparkle had said. No matter what a pony was.
She was a changeling.
Chrysalis turned back toward the camera, wearing her biggest grin. “Infiltration successful,” she laughed. “And Equestria will soon fall in turn.” She gave the camera a tender pat, thinking anxiously of the bright future that lay before her. “You may stop recording now,” she told him. “This is the end.”
* * *
“And here’s your drink,” said Spike, handing Twilight her hayshake. “Sorry for the wait. There was a line.”
“Nonsense, Spike.” She took a quick sip and smiled. “Much appreciated.”
“So,” he asked, sipping on his own ruby smoothie. “You sure this’ll work?” He had the faintest sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t work at all, but, hey—if Twilight thought it was a good idea...
It was probably still bad.
“It’ll be fine,” she told him, horn aglow. A magical monitor spread out before, displaying a bunch of gaggle of ugly changelings, and Queen Ugly Herself, in perfect detail. “Everything Dash sees and hears while she’s in disguise. Real time. Now that’s a camera, Chrysalis.”
Spike raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t think there’s anything wrong with doing this?”
“Well...” Twilight bit her lip. “I, uh...” She shrugged. “All right, I do feel a little bad. I mean, I know she’s still evil and everything...”
“But...”
“But I guess I saw something in her,” said Twilight, studying Chrysalis’ toothy grin in the monitor. “Something that could maybe, possibly, just barely constitute a friend. And it’s usually not polite to spy on friends.” She coughed. “It’s only fair, though.”
Spike shrugged too. Semantically true. Which still made it true, sorta. Twilight had only sent one spy out to keep an eye on Chrysalis. The Ugly Bugling had left no less than six sneaking about Ponyville. Not that changelings were that tough to spot; they’d already found five of them gnawing on assorted trees and houses.
“Well,” Spike began.
He paused as a rhythmic thumping sound bled through the walls of their tree-house.
That was probably the one they’d missed.
“Fair’s fair,” he finished. “I’m just saying, though. I think you two might have more in common than you want to admit.”
“I told her that too,” said Twilight, smiling as she reclined in her chair. “I’d like to think she listened.”
“Mmhm.”
“Trust me, Spike, I’m confident that there’s more to her than—wait, shhh.” Twilight tightened her grip on the edges of her seat. “Let’s see what she’s saying.”
The camera focused in on Chrysalis, gloating now about how easily she’d fooled that idiot Twilight Sparkle. Laughing over poor, stupid, all-too-trusting Twilight Sparkle, and how simple it had been to deceive her. How easily she’d bought all those obvious lies.
How foolish she’d been, for thinking she’d actually made a friend.
Ouch.
Spike looked at Twilight. Twilight looked back at Spike. She took a long, solemn drink of her hayshake and set it down on Spike’s head.
“Well, I guess that’s the end of that, then,” Twilight sighed. She leaned in to get a better view of the screen. “To be continued.”
