Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

My eyes flutter open, and I wake with a gasp. Where am I? I lash out with my hooves, but virid, viscid slime binds me. Sweat trickles down my fur. Caliginous catacombs unspool before me, each cavernous, cadaverous entrance gaping like waiting maws. Spasms seize my sinews as I thrash and writhe, beseeching the shadows to save me.

A pony stalks out of the darkness. Her flaxen mane glints like sunlight on grass, luscious with luster. Her fur’s tangerine-tough, yet groomed and glistening. The usurper I saw on that travesty of a Chef Championship had no such grandeur. Her stride’s a prancing skitter, each mantis leg arched and thrust out. When I saw her last, she galloped like a drunken wastrel. Her gaze is as languid as a serpent’s.

She was as garishly idiotic as a hound before.

The charlatan crawls forward, faltering and fain floundering, prowling like a spider. Her mane slithers over her snout like rotting petals. My pulse thunders despite my will. She’s savoring it, I realize, waiting for me to weaken.

Fear, after all, is only another kind of art.

A performance to die for.

“Who are you?” I whisper. Her hooves strike the floor like obsidian mallets. She tilts her head, neck bones cracking, and smiles.

“Oh, me?” she hums, her voice ringing out like crystal. “I am Chrysalis, queen of the Eternal Hive.” She leans forward, her skin darkening to midnight. Her body warps and twists, corroded holes flaying her flesh. Wings burst from her back, ragged and slick with viscera. Chitin armor ripples over her belly, grasping it like teal claws. Her mane lengthens to gossamer-greased strands, slithering like silk. Her pupils shrivel to slits.

“But you may call me your savior.”

One flick of her clawed hooves, and my mire-forged prison surrenders. I stagger upright, a squelch like an eye popping greeting me, as I stumble from my puddle. She watches me with what may well be amusement.

“How did you find me?” My voice’s a dry rasp, crumbling like ill-made fondant.

“We have our ways,” is her answer.

Fondant, fondant. The last moment I remember is my icing machine detonating, throttled with frosting. The shrieking clang of metal as it splits. Ponies’ jeering laughter, their cheers fading as the glaze began to suffocate. My eyes brimming with white as its caramel carapace claimed me. I shudder in spite of myself.

The thought of sugar chills my entrails. How can I cook again, when none of my crafts remain? When my stature’s slashed by scandal, when my medals are naught? Fondant, slithering over my skin, sepulchral.

She’s going to order me to cook for her, isn’t she? What would I know of her kind’s cuisine?

Tears stain my snout, salt taints my mouth. “Tell me of your orders, your majesty.”

Even my words sound hollow.

The monarch of the hive smiles, jaws cracking apart like poisoned blooms. Her chelicerae-cradled teeth glint like slivers of silver.

“You loathe the Mane Six, do you not?”

Chapter Text

I trudge forward, my legs aching with every step. The hive's walls pulse as if drawing breath, whispers like centipedes crawling over my flesh. Darkness clouds the air like smoke.

My stalwart guide shepherds me on like I’m a mere mongrel. Craters cleft the chamber I woke in, but the burrow before me is as smooth as a serpent’s throat. Brackish air dusts my lungs as I inhale. Glowworms glimmer like wall-hung lanterns as I trot into my cocoon.

My guide’s gone in a flurry of ragged wings.

Only a few sparks of beetle-brilliant light illuminate my boudoir. I pace forward, their feeble luster dappling my coat. My pallet is a pupa’s paradise, a soft sheathing swathe of sap and virid honeycomb. Silken webs bulge with trinkets, urns of honey and salve clinking in bundles above my bed. I paw at the nearest one, and loaves of some strange bread tumble into my mouth. They’re gooey yet sweet, ripe and rich with chartreuse-crumbling jam. It dissolves like honey on my tongue.

Then I realize the depths of my hunger.

How many years have I languished, lachrymose with loathing, ravished by rage, entombed by glaze? How many moons have I missed as my pastel prison gripped me? Did anyone grieve? Did they weep?

Perhaps they forgot. The world moves on, and ponies forget.

But this doesn’t quell the tears hazing my eyes. This revelation doesn’t soothe the raw ache seizing my sinews, the fatigue stalking me like a panther.

Finishing the bread is task enough. The glowworms dim like fading stars, and I plod to my pallet. Slumber eludes me as the hours wear on, but my vengeance is solace enough.

My dreams are fleeting, foggy recollections, clouded by condiments and lying memory. A spider crouching in a bee’s nest, mandibles bared, tarsi raking the ground. A caliginous, cuirass-clad challenger, pitch-dark horn blazing under her helm. Strewing seedy sprinkles on lemon cupcakes, then guiding them into the oven firsthoof. Setting a cherry-bedecked cake down, glacéd and glazed. My worthless brother Cheese, frolicking at some bacchanalia or other. A violet unicorn, racing across heaving plains.

I wake, and icing doesn’t smother me. The Hive exhales moisture, but my dusk-damp dwelling is gloriously chilled. My pupa-pallet rustles in time to my breaths, crackling like dry leaves, soft as lamb’s-ear moss.

A gentle hum ripples through the walls, hushed and placid. And yet. I should be doing something. Plotting retribution, demanding recompense, snatching victory.

I crawl off my pallet and skulk outside. No hive-dwellers soar past, no foes lie in wait. The catacombs I stalk through are void of fellow captives, murk-mired in tenebrosity. Luminescent strands of slime glisten and flare, but they’re few and far between.

Then I smell it. A tauntingly, tantalizingly, achingly familiar aroma, ripe and redolent with spice. A delicacy I can’t help but crave, decked with sugar like crystals. Ice cream.

I gallop to the kitchen, and discover the source of my prey.

A lime-light pony guides dripping swirls of sweetness onto rock-slab platters. Verdant honeycomb shelves glisten above them, cradling caskets of ambrosial mead and candied grubs. Phosphorent glowworms shimmer in crannies and crevices, bathing the floors in chartreuse light. Precariously placed teacups wobble upon spires and spirals of rock.

They set their bounty down on a slab of rock, humming a cheery little murder ballad, and only then do they notice me.

“Hweh?” they sputter at first. “Oh, sorry. I mean, hi. Hello, greetings, what’s-your-name-again? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” They run a hoof through their ragged violet mane, blinking.

Well, I suppose they can be forgiven. It’s not like anyone would forget my face.

“I am Marine Sandwich, prandial performer, and my pronouns are she/her.”

“Cool. Do you want to help me with the ice cream?”

I smile. It’s an easy enough task, and tutoring this novice will be a welcome distraction. “I shall.” My skittish companion nods, then canters over to the wax-cradled shelves.

“Thanks,” they hum, already scrabbling for utensils. “Spoon, spoon, tuning fork, ceremonial blood knife, spoon.. where’s the scoop already—oh, it’s here!”

They brandish their prize like a trophy of war. The ceremonial blood knife falls onto the floor, missing them by an inch. The glowworms flicker as if in disapproval.

I get to work, ladling thawing dollops of cream into miniature cocoons. Not a drop mars the stone-cleft floor; no gesture of mine is wasted. They’re.. somewhat less graceful, yet diligent.

And yet I can’t help but wonder. Their cheer’s as frayed as Summer Van Der Hoof’s price tags, and their glasses are laced and defaced with cracks. A half-healed scar like a budding tree’s etched into their throat. They apologize and deflect and ramble. About nothing.

Their past is as murky as mine is.

Why would they reside here, in the heart of the hive? How could they remain gracious, even faced with the threat of Chrysalis? Why do they lack a cutie mark?

I slop the last sweet slosh of ice cream into the final cocoon, and exhale. The virid pony huffs a sigh, glasses fogging. The glowworms glimmer still, nestled in the walls.

“How did you end up in the Hive?” I ask at last. My query is unwieldy, but their smile’s too sharp to be anything but innocent. Their chocolate-dark eyes gleam with a fell light.

“Well,” they hum, serene as a crouching mantis, “it’s kind of a long story.”

“I have time.” Time enough to seek vengeance upon the miserable ‘Mane Six’.

“It’s kind of a disturbing story.” The pony bundles up the cocoons, gentle as a summer shower, and I nod. I’ve survived frigid fondant and changeling abductions, wrath-wreathed patrons and snobby, shoddy critics. A mere.. stallion? mare’s?.. tale cannot affright me now.

Chapter Text

“So there I was,” the pony hisses, hooves slamming down onto the floor, “and there she was. That monstrous monarch of the hive circled me like I was a pastry and she was a pigeon. Her eyes glittered like foxfire. Fungi, I tell you!” Their glasses shimmer like poisoned diamonds. “She loomed over me, jeering and sneering, and threatened. Taunted. And vowed, that very moment, to devour me alive. Whole. Un-mauled, masticated, or anything of the kind. I was as trapped as a hare in the snare. Celestia and her ilk had fled to recover. Canterlot was as empty as a starved snake’s skin. I had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.”

My heart stutters in my chest, my pulse’s pace spiking. My pelt prickles, but no gales lash the kitchen’s catacombs. The glowworms wink out, silent as death.

“And then,” the pony whispers, “then.. I bargained. Blathered and pleaded and wept. I did everything and anything I could to get out. And I did!”

But why would you want to return here? I strive not to cry out. Why would you ally with a monarch as malicious as her?

My companion’s smile seems less benign, down in such dungeons as these. The ice cream thaws, abandoned and off-temperature. Chills crawl over my trembling flesh.

“So, yeah.” They wring their hooves together, chasing off cramps. “I only discovered the intricacies of changeling biology later. Those fey-flies are..” Their glance strays to the floor, abrupt and almost ashamed. As if they’re shackled by secrets they don’t wish to reveal. I can sympathize. “Interesting.” Their tone turns wistful, and any tension burdening them dissolves. “That was how my first meeting with Chrysalis went.”

But they say it as one might say,  ‘and then we went stargazing together’.

A question slips from me, unbidden. “You never thought to flee when the changelings revealed themselves?” My companion seems somewhat cowardly, despite their flair for the dramatic.

“I thought they were pretty.” They shrug, short-shorn mane bouncing. “Also, I can’t run that fast.”

I mentally revise my opinion of them from ‘blatantly insane’ to ‘horror fan’. Of course they wouldn’t go seeking out wasps like…

Why had Chrysalis allowed them to stay in her hive again?

Oh dear. I resist the impulse to facehoof.

The pony chatters on, rambling about some fungi or other, but my thoughts drift to other places. Someday, I vow to myself, I’m going to find that orange pony once again.

And my revenge will be more than sweet.

Chapter Text

Changelings cluster into the kitchen, sable carapaces glistening like ink. Their caliginous chelicerae crack open like bloodied flowers as they scent the air, scarlet tongues flickering. Their wings flutter, gossamer-green, and they swarm.

They appraise the goods we’ve crafted, crystal-cerulean eyes shimmering. One dusk-dark nymph skitters forward. A beetle-gaited bumbler flits and hums. A dew-winged chalcid suckles a scabrous slab of flesh, mandibles slicked with viscera. Twin grubs squall over a cocoon, icing spattering their chitin like clay. Another nymph prowls forward, a larval quartet trailing after them. One guard, brawny and bonny, downs an entire cask of honeyed mead and asks for a second. Her partner, a colopteran drone, bites at some mint chocolate chip instead.

Leeches and laborers withdraw and return; the changelings’ clamor fades to a hush. The floor’s humid beneath my hooves, stone subsiding to something softer. I kneel on the ground, and breath-warm air stirs my fur. My eyes flutter closed, and I drift into slumber.

Then the kitchen falls silent, hushed as charnel-chambers. Sweat prickles my pelt like my flesh itself is weeping. My ears flick down, and I don’t dare to glance up. My hooves clench as I stutter into a bow. Bile roils in my throat, but no sound escapes me.

The changeling before me is no prowling pismire or lissome lacewing. Flesh-ragged hooves unfurl like bladed petals. A corpse-blue mane slithers over shoulders knurled as bark. Spider-sable jaws crack open, revealing a maw bristling with fangs. Wings withered as rotting silk whip the air. My pulse throbs in time to her pace.

Queen Chrysalis, sovereign scourge of the hive, monarch of misery, menace, and malady, approaches. Changelings flee from her path like stray flies, ragged wings trembling. Blue eyes sheathe as they duck down, flinching from a punishment that never comes. Grubs vanish into holes like gaping maws, shedding setae like brushes. Workers, drones, nurses and nestlings all scamper and scarper, coiled, cowering in corners. Glowworms fade like extinguished stars, and darkness blurs the hive like smoke.

Cocoons crafted for cuisine wither as diners drop them, ice cream thawing to a forlorn flush. The drone and her guard huddle together, a weary ball of cracked chitin. A blind seamstress quails, feathery antennae flickering. A honey-spattered nurse clutches larvae slight as reeds to their chest, wings arching over their grubs. A worker lounging in their wheelchair drags verself up to a crouch. A plump nymph shudders, beetle-brown carapace quivering. A drone stocky as a scarab clings to the wall, scrambling for the least obvious exit.

But my virid companion does not pause. The clatter of their hooves against the floor clangs against my ears. Their ears flick downwards, but they still raise their gaze.

“I hope I haven’t disturbed your slumber,” they said simply. “Do you want this”—they scrabble for something in the shelves—“..taco I found?”

Chrysalis’s scorpion-pupiled eyes narrow, and all breath abandons me.

“Why, pray tell, have you disgraced my sight with that caseous abomination?”

“We ran out of chocolate,” the pony says. “And nectar. Circa three days ago when you ravaged the stockpile. And I don’t think the traders are going to tolerate my presence again, not since—”

“I was inspecting the rations, nothing more. Cease.”

“Are you going to partake of the taco, or..?” They rustle around in the honeycomb caches once more. A shiver roils over them like a foul wind. Veins pulse in their brown eyes. “Okay. I don’t even want to know what I just saw in there. Nope.”

“That is most definitely not a real femur!” the brawny guard shouts. Her partner, the rubenesque drone, facehoofs. Nausea seethes inside me like a bilious tide.

The queen hisses, a seething snarl sharp as the crackles of a funeral pyre. She prowls forth, her horn flaring with verdant light. Cracks shudder through her caliginous carapace; her skin ripples and heaves. Her jaws tear open, revealing mandibles like glistening needles. Viscera pools in the shadows of her holes. Sinews roil and writhe beneath her flesh. A low growl gusts from her throat.

The brawny guard flinches, virid-tinged chitin rattling, and stammers excuses. The drone whimpers, a whinnying sob. The worker huddles in their chariot, phtalo-green wings trembling. My lungs shrivel like dying pupae. I clench and unclench my hooves, striving to release the tension pulsing inside me.

“Very well, then,” Chrysalis whispers, each word striking as a lash.  Glaucous magic wreathes her hide like wretched armor. Her maquillage-dusted eyes shimmer, hazed with rage. “If no one wishes to provide for me, then I shall seek it out myself.”

My equine companion quails, ears flicking downwards. Their violet mane sags; the scar lacing their throat pales. They wince, already awaiting the first blow.

But the queen’s grip is strangely gentle, her grasp as tender as a mother cat’s. Her hooves latch onto their fur, but she doesn’t flay their flesh. Their eyes widen, with the look of a drowning stallion who’s just gotten zir first gasp of air. The queen beckons, and they nod, just once.

Chrysalis leans forward, mandibles glimmering, and laps up love like sunlight. Her magic ripples over them, arching like an aegis, as a soft smile crooks their snout. The honey-drenched nurse sets down their charges, sweat slicking their shell. The drone gasps and seizes her partner’s hoof in her own. The blind seamstress chirps, chittering like a cricket, and my fevered pulse slows.

Then the queen draws back, and the pony’s stream of affection fades from my sight. They crash to the ground, disheveled but not disgraced. Chrysalis licks her lips, rosy light sparking over her carapace, then huffs a sigh so soft it’s almost a purr.

“Yes, Your Malignancy?” A pine-dark drone shakes himself, virid frill snapping open like a fan. 

“Drag them to the healing cave,” the queen orders. “If they wish to meet with me again, show them to my chambers.” She pauses, snout wrinkling in thought, and flings a glance at the fallen form on the floor. “You may send the taco as well.”

I return to scooping out the ice cream. It seems to be a less hazardous task.

Chapter Text

“How did you get in here?” Chrysalis roars, horn blazing with fury. Her guards quail, shells glimmering with sweat.

“I asked politely,” the peach-pink filly says, sweet as strawberry syrup. Her blue curls bounce as she nods. “Then I told them I’d strangle them with their own entrails. Easy!”

“Very well,” the queen hisses. Green light drips from the seams of her carapace. “Why have you deigned to visit my Hive?”

“A little bird told me of your prisoner.” The filly’s gaze strays to me, and chills prickle my flesh. What information could this child possibly possess? “I thought it would be fun to meet you. Did you really mean to cook those ponies alive?”

I shudder in spite of myself. “I sought to avenge my dignity, not to murder.” Her eyes glint like pale rubies. Veins lace her sclarae like scarlet serpents. I have nothing more to say to her, except.. “Do you know where that orange pony is?” The words spill past my lips, unbidden. “That tangerine-pelted scoundrel who stole my name and sullied my reputation? Sugar-white freckles, around this tall, with an aura of lingering idiocy?”

The filly’s smile widens. “Yep! She’s in Ponyville, same as always.”

My hope crumbles like ill-made cookies. I’m a felon—if I pursue her once more, will I be imprisoned? Immortalized and fossilized, entombed in stone? Chided and condescended to by my former companions?

What if no one remembers me at all?

The queen licks her lips, chitin cracking and bulging. “Excellent. How do you plan to lure her out?” Her mottled carapace glistens, slick with dew or sweat.

The filly hops into the air, hummingbird-pale wings fluttering. “The Chef Championship’s starting in three days. All we need is one anonymous invitation, and she’s a goner!” She applauds feverishly. “You could sauté her entrails, even!”

My destiny awaits. I need no further urging.

One guard, spindly as a mantis, flicks up a hoof. “Permission to speak, ma’am?”

A smile etches itself into the queen’s snout. “Very well, maggot.”

The Southern-accented changeling glances at the floor. “Okay, so why exactly is everyone so obsessed with cannibalism?”

Chapter Text

Three days. My reckoning, my renaissance and rebirth, or my nadir, my nemesis, my nightmare. 

The filly, aka Cozy Glow, pleaded her case and now resides in the Hive. The queen, meanwhile, has retreated to her boudoir to plot.

I, of course, suffer alone. If I strike once again, will it jeopardize the changelings’ safety? The guards seem unusually lacking, and the workers forage far from here. Has a truce been negotiated? Can a truce be negotiated?

And, as time marches onwards, I turn to cooking once again.

I pore over pastel pastries and pack meat into the corners. Then I immortalize my sunset-shaded foe in fondue. Crystallized sugar flecks for her freckles, guacamole smears for her vapid, virid eyes. Twin kiwi hat-husks shade her head. Fluffy drips of buttercream, warm as melted candle wax, make up her mane. I thrust sickeningly sweet slashes of apple into her flanks. I smear her worthless pelt with clags of chocolate. But one more flourish eludes me.

The ceremonial blood knife glints, resplendent with rubies, dark as rust. It’s as curved as the arc of her smile, as keen as the humiliation I had to endure. The glowworms flicker, and a gleam slides along its sanguine sharpness.

I’ve dreamed of her demise many times. In my ice-laden prison, it kept me sane.

Its luster seems to beckon, bewitching as a promise. My hooves tremble, slick with blood that shouldn’t exist. Glowworms, hide your fires…let them not see my dark and deep desires.

My sculpture glistens, luscious and light. My pulse flares like a serpent’s hood. Bile pools behind my eyes. The blade shimmers, winking and mocking.

A smoky, metallic smell pours off its burnished surface, sharp as some forgotten memory. I know that stench well.

No one can prove your innocence.

Tension thrums inside me, shrill as an eagle’s cry.

I step forward, and I grip the blade.

Chapter Text

Spotlights sear and spear my eyes, smearing my vision with withering brilliance. My breath comes in hollow, shallow rasps. The ham-hooved announcer bellows and blusters, whetting the crowd’s appetite with tales of the past. Horse D’Oeuvres, Pastry Flanagan, Canapé and zir twin Canopy—I’ve heard of them all. Practical Prandial, Sweetmeat Jelly, (Sweetheart to her fans), and even old Gluey Sprinkles. But even this lengthy litany fails to assuage my fears.

My heart throbs in the birch copse of my ribs. Sweat pools in the cracks between my hooves, dulls my mane and flanks. Has everyone forgotten me? Or am I but a phantom, immortalized in my infamy? Oh, which would be worse?

Summer Van Der Hoof minces her way to the spotlight; Blade Sparxx gallops up to the stage. The judges—a griffin, buffalo and scarlet mare—stir and stare, already seeking out my foes. Electricians scurry to and fro, and the crowd begins to murmur with impatience. A low, humming hiss tears from a thousand throats like a swarm of flies, brittle and biting. The stench of sugar smears my pelt, my scarlet-secret hood.

Sugar— Celestia’s mane, it’s everywhere. Clustered on cupcakes like winking beads of salt, glinting and mocking like diamonds and dew, spilled like milky tears upon the floor. Ghostly fondant nips at my flesh. Sugar, sugar, sugar. I can’t get it out. Damn spot, damn shame. I can’t rid myself of its rot. Mounds like minerals, crystal and cynical. Watching like myriad eyes!

My heart stutters; my hooves tremble. My lungs shrivel like globes of papier-mâché. It’s everywhere. It’s here and nowhere. Fondant masks my sight. Fondant pours through my fur. I have to get out.

But the lights! Their bitter brilliance bashes me like blades, like luminous teeth, like a hangmare’s eyes! Under such scintillation there can be no redemption. And sugar, sugar-

A tangerine-colored hoof grips my fur. I whirl away and scream, teeth bared, ears tucked, striking at shadows. A pure, animalistic squeal.

It’s her. The mare. The architect of my annihilation, the harbinger-herald of my humiliation! The thief in the night, my fetch, my Southern impostor!

Oh, I should’ve cooked her when I had the chance.

Tension shudders through my fur like lightning. She skitters back, butter-bright braid whipping, huffing a husky warcry.

“What the hay‽” Her apricot hooves pound the ground. “What in tarnation didya just try and do to me?” Her herdsmare hat flutters to the ground like a stale pie.

“You took everything from me!” I roar. “You spoilt my confectionary and shoved me out of the spotlight! Everyone mistook you for me, and you told nopony of their mistake!” Salt-sweet tears smear my sight. I wrench in another shallow, sobbing breath. “You left me to rot in my cocoon. You forgot about me and ruined my legacy!”

My ochre-tanned charlatan snorts like a bull on apple liquor. “I stole what now? Seems like you’re the one who sullied your reputation.”

Veins throb in my eyes. I lunge forward, sinews coiling like serpents, and drive my teeth into her heaving sides. She whirls around, bucking and kicking, but I will not be defeated again. Blood taints my mouth as her flesh parts, bitter and metallic. “The buck are you doing, missy? What’re you, some kind of fruit bat?”

I dig my hooves into her ribs and spit gore. “Why didn’t you explain, huh? Surely someone would’ve noticed!”

“They didn't look twice at me!” She kicks me off, and I slam into the backstage wall. The crowd roars, chanting the contestants’ names. “You know they were busy, pal! I- I had that cloak of yours on! Half my face was in shadow!”

“Oh, and I suppose you came in gray like me.” I charge, but she’s ready with a trip. The wood-paneled floor shudders as I crash. “How convenient of you..” Her cutie mark glistens, deliciously red. “..Applesnack?”

“Change that to a J, and you’ve got it just fine!” Sweat beads in her flaxen mane. “Loony.”

“It’s Marine Sandwich, darling!” I hiss back, blood flecking my saliva. “As you should know already.”

“Weeelll, pardon me! I don’t get in the habit of dealin’ with freaks!” She grins, revealing crooked teeth. “Except for Twilight. Haha.”

I have no idea who she is, so she obviously doesn’t matter. Whatever.

But I am not losing to this terracotta-toned rancher. “I’m an artist, dear fool. Eccentricity is my middle name.”

“And here I was thinking it was Fruitcake!” I heave myself to my hooves, tail flicking dangerously. She may get to insult my character, but one does not simply slander my cooking. “Leave the rassling to the big mares, sugarcube—”

I whirl around, tempest-swift, and kick her in the face. She rears back, flailing wildly, and crashes to the ground. A wheezing gasp spills from her bloodied lips.

She struggles to stand, but the floor’s as slick as a dragon’s tongue. Half-formed words gurgle in her pulsing throat. Profanities, presumably.

I could kill her right now.

I could make it slow, simmering and suffocating like a caramelizing treat. Or delectably swift, precise as the pierce of a prong. I could throttle her, decapitate her. Garnish her corpse with glaze and preserve her, forever. Imprison her in icing and let her suffer. I’ve dreamed of victory for moons. Why make it easy, when she never gave me the chance?

I could drown her in broth or split open her stomach, drizzle her in sizzling sauces or just broil her in an oven. I could even gift her to Chrysalis, and persuade some simple drone to replace her. She could languish, lachrymose, lonesome and loveless, down in the dungeons. Or down someone’s empty esophagus—

You wouldn’t get to watch her die.

Well, anyway. I could make her weep for relief. I could grasp sweet victory by the mane! I could succeed, and finally stroll back into the spotlight.

And never think of her again.

What if no one remembers you, though? That little filly, Cozy, didn’t.

She’s merely a child. She wouldn’t remember your gothic glamour, your sparkling stage pizzaz. All you need to do is stab the mare, shove her corpse somewhere forgettable, and win.

A velvety whisper pricks my ears. I whip around, serpent-swift, and freeze.

The curtains. The godawful curtains.

They’ve opened.

Chapter Text

“—fillies and gentlecolts, let’s welcome our contestaaaants!” the announcer brays. Not one pony speaks; their gaze is enough. He blinks, teal eyes shimmering, and turns to me. “Oh, hay… And what’s your name, dear mare?”

“Marine Sandwich.” My voice is a liquid rasp, gritted and clotted as if by cream. Myriad bloodshot eyes regard me, veins glistening like scarlet serpents. “Prandial performer and alimentary artist. And I have come to regain my reputation.”

Applejack writhes in the corner like a dying fish. Silence descends like a sepulchral shroud. My words do not echo but fade.

“Of course.” The announcer licks his lips like a guilty whelp. “You were in the Championship three years ago, yes?”

I would’ve been, you imbecilic toad. “Yes, nearly.” I contort my snout in a grin.. “If not for her over there.” I flick a sweat-slicked hoof at my foe, sinews shaking beneath my flesh. There are so many people. And their silence is deafening.

“Right, right!” His voice is as hollow as a copper bell. “I- I remember now. How unfortunate. I presume that our guards made a mistake?”

My smile widens to a skull’s rictus. “They defenestrated me from their doors and abused my trust. They bludgeoned my bones to powder with their hooves. Even after I revealed my true countenance. Even after I proved it was no disguise. I returned, and they flayed me with their fetlocks.”

The announcer’s blisteringly blithe facade crumbles. “They did what?” A low hum rumbles through the crowd, sharp as a swarm. Manifold as a hive.

My orange foe gurgles and struggles, moaning some accusation I cannot name.

“I said, they physically abused me.” My teeth gleam like broken daggers. “But then again, I’m just a loony artist. Why should anyone care?”

A pony golden as dawn straggles forward, cyanthic mane disheveled and torn. “I saw you before the Chef Championship. You looked sane as sunshine then.”

A maroon stallion nods in agreement. “Yeah, bro. Hiding your truth isn’t rad at all.”

“I didn’t know you before you retaliated,” a light brownish-red filly says, “but I’m sorry either way. Artists are supposed to support each other and all.”

An unexpected glow warms my withered little heart. I never thought I’d see the day that Summer Van Der Hoof would vouch for me. Nor Blade Sparxx, nor Cookie Crumble. No, that doesn’t sound right. Molasses Mushroom— oh, Toffee Truffle! That was it.

Tears blur my eyes, and I blink them away. The announcer stutters, stumbles, and trails off. A flicker of motion snares my gaze, and only then I startle.

Applejack heaves herself to her hooves, tangerine-tawny fur bristling. Her ears flatten, then lift. She huffs a sigh, then trudges over to me. Each step resonates like a drumbeat.

“I beg your pardon,” she says at last. “I never knew you went through all them things, and I’m sorry. You’re still an apple-picking stalker, but I should’ve had more empathy. And told everyone else.”

“Then who wins the contest?” Summer asks, wrinkling her delicate nose. “I’m all for forgiveness and redemption, but who receives the money?”

The prize. Right. I completely forgot all about that. Fifty thousand bits isn’t anything to sneeze at, but what would I even do with the money? I don’t even know if I’m still legally a felon!

The announcer gulps, throat bobbing like a frog’s. “Hmm-mm. This situation is s-somewhat unusual. Miss Applejack was here to.. what?”

“Deliver the latest round of pies, o’ course.”

He nods to the judges; a buffalo, a griffin, and a scarlet mare. They inspect their notes, chattering and scribbling.

“I came here to greet the winners,” Toffee says, “since I won last time. Although I did whip up a few things, just in case.”

Van Der Hoof and Blade glance at each other, then quietly shake their heads. Anticipation coils, low and hot, in my gut.

“Then..” The announcer strives for a smile. “Toffee wins again! How.. exciting! And extremely coincidental. I’m not paid enough for this shtick…”

“That’s okay,” I whisper back. “I never was either.”

He chuckles wearily, then trots off to fetch the medal. The contestants huddle together, but Applejack remains by my side.

It occurs to me that I’ve never once really tasted her cuisine. “What do you plan to do with the pies?”

“Sell them,” she says. “What else?”

I think of my virid companion, isolated in the Hive. I remember Cozy Glow, so eager, so tender, so young and lost.

I cough. “Actually..” I’m not quite sure where to begin. “Could you bring them to Chrysalis’s lair?”

Her eyes bulge alarmingly. “What? That—that murderer?”

I pocket the ceremonial blood knife and take that as a yes.

Chapter Text

“Golly, this is good,” Cozy Glow mumbles, and I have to agree. Each caramel-strangled slice practically hemorrhages sweetness. She shoves her snout into another piece, battering it apart as it bleeds syrup, and grasps at it with her hooves. “Do you like it?”

“Me?”  A warm glow suffuses me like starlight. I set my dagger down gently, relishing its comforting gleam. She nods, freckles bright as fireflies against her fur, and flashes me an encouraging smile. Perhaps this is about the Hive. Perhaps I am not alone after all.. “Yes. It’s sweet without being saccharine, and refreshingly moist.”

“I’m just relieved you like it,” Applejack chuckles. “What’s this meat called again?”

My virid companion takes a long sip of nectar. “Oh, that meat.” A twitching, nervous smile cracks open their face. “It’s.. extremely organic. Nutrient-y. You know how it is.”

“Am I supposed to be reassured by that?” Her snout crinkles in confusion.

The changeling guard flings a glance at her partner, a beetle-stout drone, and looks away again. The buzzing whine of a million wings flickering against each other crackles throughout the kitchen. The glowworms glisten an uneasy, queasy shade.

Everyone rapidly changes the subject.

We’re about halfway through dinner when everything goes awry.

“Okay, Granny!” Cozy Glow replies. My ears prick up, and several changelings attempt to dive under the table. One brave drone even metamorphoses into a rock. The glowworms shiver, flicker, and fade. Silence descends upon our little kitchen.

“I.. suppose that is an acceptable title,” the queen mutters. She nudges her virid companion, and before they can splutter and apologize, she says, “What epithet would you bequeath upon my consort, then?”

“Hmmm.” Cozy’s snout scrunches up in thought. “Daddy Longlegs?”

They adjust their foggy glasses, holding back a smile. “Thanks?”

“What kind of family are y’all planning on being anyway?” Applejack snort-laughs, setting down her mug of fermented honey. “A messed-up one, like them Gothic horror novels Fluttershy’s always reading?”

The queen’s mandibles grind together like stone grating on stone. “I am not adopting this wretched grub.” She lowers her gaze, and her expression softens. “I’m stealing her.”

“Yeah!” my virid companion cheers. “I mean, what? Is that legal? I don’t think it’s legal. Oh, cowpats.”

I consider the situation. Cozy Glow is a motherless filly with a penchant for problems and a gimlet eye for viscera. The right thing to do would be to hand her over to the proper authorities. To send her off to a good home. Someplace with character, and heart, and—

“Look, Chryssie!” Cozy squeals, driving her knife into a strawberry cake. “I made it rain blood!”

“See if you can get the guts next!” the changeling guard hollers. Her partner, a drone who apparently goes by Colop, rolls her eyes and grins.

The queen smiles, baring fangs like crescent blades. “It looks excellent, dear maggot. Shall we vivisect it next?”

“Now this is science,” my virid companion declares. “Why not pick at the…erm…creamy bile next?”

I decide to let sleeping dogs lie.