Yet Another Horrible Decision - Chapter 13

                                Yet Another Horrible Decision

                                         Chapter 13

 

 

 

 

>A light breeze blows in through the open window of your luxurious room, bringing a slight smell of summer rain and ozone. You adjust your tie once more and brush off your shoulderboards. Standing stock straight, you check your appearance in the mirror one last time.

>Hot damn but you’re one good looking cat. You’re about to mentally compliment yourself some more, but a glance at your watch cuts that idea right out.

>Spitfire is a rather punctual gal, and it certainly wouldn’t do to keep her waiting. You certainly can’t deny that you’re looking forward to a tour of this fantastical city, either.

>Making sure you have everything with you, which ultimately amounts to a bag of bits and a pocketknife, you wheel out the room-service tray on which your breakfast was delivered and set it by your door.

>The lounge on your floor is pretty well empty now; most of the rest of the team are still sleeping or relaxing in their own rooms, save for a wet-maned Fleetfoot reading a newspaper in one of the comfortable cloud-chairs at the head of a small table.

>“Oh, hey! Good morning, Anon,” she greets you with a bright and chirpy tone, setting the paper down on the table.

“Morning Fleetfoot. You wouldn’t happen to know where Spitfire is, would you?”

>Spitfire not being ready is more than a little surprising. She would clamp your balls in a vice if you had the temerity to be late... Then again, she does seem to have a considerably different attitude when off duty. Fleetfoot nods at your query, her pure white mane lazily trailing behind, and gives you a cryptic grin.

>“She’ll be out in a minute, don’t you worry about that. Misty and Breezie had an idea, and...” Fleetfoot trails off, green eyes flicking from you to the paper and back. “Oh yeah! Check it out, you made the front page,” she says, placing a forehoof on the newspaper and pushing it over to you.

>You take a seat on the plush and comfortable cloud-couch and lean over the table, getting a good look at the morning edition of ‘The Cloudsdale Chronicle.’ Fleetfoot is right; a fantastic picture of the show’s climax takes up a good portion of space. It shows your Stuka, with your face wrenched in focus just barely visible, dropping Spitfire into the whirling tornado perhaps one half-second before her Sonic Fireburst.

>“There’s another couple pictures on page A7, where the article is continued. Almost everypony got some good action shots, and there’s actually a black and white version of the group photo we took on the comic page. Y’know, for the fillies and colts to color in or whatever,” Fleetfoot informs you, her emerald eyes glimmering with a mysterious glint. Her expression changes slightly and her eyes dim, she turns them away from you and rubs the arm of the cloud-chair anxiously. “I, um... I’d suggest not reading ‘Cliff’s Edge’ on the editorial page. It’s kind of... just, just don’t read it, okay?” Fleetfoot turns her gaze back to you, visually pleading with you to do as she asks.

“Well now I have to know... What page?”

>Fleetfoot narrows her eyes at your question as you flip through the pages. “Fine, don’t take my advice. I’m just trying to make sure you have a good day, is all.” You pass page A7, pausing to get a good look at the pictures, when a door unlatches and cracks open.

>“Fleet! Come back for a sec, we need you,” the unmistakably bouncy voice of Misty Fly calls from beyond the slightly-opened door, causing Fleetfoot to rise from her chair. “Be right there!”

>She shakes her head, small water droplets speckling the paper in your hands, and faces you once more. Her emerald eyes are filled with concern and she slightly cocks her head to the left. “For what it’s worth, Anon, I... the rest of the team and I, we all really appreciate you. You’re a great guy and one hell of a flier. Do yourself a favor and don’t read that article. At least not now,” she says almost apologetically.

>She takes to the air and flits across the lounge to the door, pushing it open just enough to squeeze her lithe frame through. The door shuts behind her, damn near catching the end of her tail. Whatever it is they’re doing in there, they clearly don’t want you to know.

>Well, this was certainly unexpected. Never once since you’ve met her did you expect to have to wait on Spitfire. Oh well, you’ve got a paper to read. As much as part of you wants to check out exactly what it was that made Fleetfoot act so strangely, you ultimately decide to take her advice and avoid that segment for the time being. Instead, you flip back to the front page.

 

 

 

 

>About halfway through the main story detailing the events of yesterday’s show, you’re struck with an odd thought. For whatever reason, despite being here for several months, you’re struck by the words ‘Morning Edition’ emblazoned across the top of every page.

>There’s no twenty-four hour news cycle, no instant communication across the far corners of the world, not even much in the way of efficient and fast travel. Even electricity seems to be spotty in most areas. In a way, you’ve been lucky to have lived in one of the most important cities in the land, and are now visiting another of them.

>A door squeaks open and a garble of voices, all feminine, reaches your ears. Soft hoofsteps sound closer with each passing second and you look up from the paper. The sight in front of you is nothing short of amazing.

>“Heya slick! Sorry if I kept you waiting long...” Spitfire is clad in an incredibly striking black Romanesque dress, made of a fine and airy material that’s ever so slightly translucent, much like exquisite silk. Gilded meanders adorn the hem and waistline; the ‘skirt’ portion is dotted with small signs of addition and has a slit running along her thigh, affording you short glimpses of her cutie mark. A thin white sash hugs her midsection somewhat snugly, and a number of bronze clasps adorn the sleeves, terminating at the forward base of her wing with a larger clasp embossed with a lightning bolt.

“Whoa, Spitfire! That’s... that’s one hell of a getup you’ve got there. Lookin’ good!”

>She smiles confidently, her eyes seeming to glimmer along with the gilt designs.

>“Thanks! You really make that uniform shine, Ace.” A few girlish giggles emanate from the room beyond. Turning your head, you see the somewhat odd sight of Fleetfoot, Misty, and Breezie’s heads looking out at you. When they notice your gaze, they quickly disappear and shut the door.

>“Let’s get moving. Cloudsdale is a big place and there’s a ton of great stuff to see,” Spitfire says. You set down the paper and stand, stretching as an excuse to ogle your superior yet further. Her mane is, rather incredibly, brushed down. It’s actually a really good look for her, and the tasteful blue and white headband only adds to the effect.

>“Done staring, flyboy?” Your breath hitches with a half-laugh and you nod. Spitfire starts walking to the elevator doors, and you quickly catch up. You can feel several eyeballs on your back, and when you reach the interior of the elevator and turn around you see the other mares walking into the lounge.

“See you later, ladies!”

>“Bye girls, thanks for all the help,” Spitfire calls while you press the button for the entry level. The lot of them all wave and say their goodbyes. After a second passes, the doors close with a click and the ringing of a bell, and you lean against the back wall as the floor begins to sink. “Heh, those girls,” Spitfire mutters.

“What, they put you up to that?”

>Spitfire looks up at you, a thin grin on her features. “I guess so, in a way. I figured if I was going to give you a tour of Cloudsdale, I’d give you the whole treatment, you know? I was talking about it with them and Misty pops in saying she has this great dress, that it’d be perfect and so on...”

“It is pretty striking. Your mane, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it like that before; you should do it more often. Looks good.”

>She grins yet wider and her eyes narrow a bit. “Whatcha saying, Anon? You don’t like my regular ‘do?”

>Every word a trapdoor. Whether Earth or Equestria, girls will be girls.

“No, not at all! I’m just saying... just saying I like what you did with it.”

>Spitfire laughs softly, shaking her head. “I’m just bustin’ your balls, slick.” The bell rings and the doors open, revealing the large and well-lit lobby. Walking out of the elevator to the entrance, you can’t help but notice the stares you’re getting from a number of the other patrons and staff.

>It’s not far to the doors, and you push forward to hold it open for Spitfire. She passes through and thanks you, trotting ahead to a trio of idling airships. You follow as she lets loose a shrill whistle, catching the attention of the nearest pilot.

>“C’mon, Anon!” She takes to the air and settles into the gondola, near the rear. The clouds underfoot sink with every step, still a strange feeling, until you step inside the wooden structure. “To the weather factory, pilot!”

 

 

 

 

>Finding a seat across from Spitfire, ringed across the gondola’s sides, you sit and set your elbows on your knees. It’s a little small, but what isn’t here?

“The weather factory, huh? Sounds like as good a place to start as any.”

>She smiles and nods, jostling her headband ever so slightly. “That’s what I thought. Besides, it’s clear on the other side of Cloudsdale from here. I figured we’d start there and work our way back.”

“So what’s our itinerary, most well-dressed of pegasi?”

>Her wings fluff up a bit and her grin widens. “We’ll start with a tour of the weather factory. I figure that’ll be pretty interesting to you, considering what it’s like where you come from.”

“You’re right about that one, cap. What’s next?”

>Her grin fades somewhat and she takes on the impression of deep thought. “I... honestly, I don’t remember the exact layout. Not as it would be now, anyway. I moved to Canterlot a few years back, which is long enough for more than a few streets to change significantly. Really, outside of the city center and the more ancient of buildings, this town can change quite a bit.”

>The airship begins to gain some altitude and you feel a soft breeze blowing through your hair. Spitfire’s mane whips to her left along with the airflow, turning her into a fiery angel standing still while the world turns around her. “Umm, I guess we’d probably get lunch somewhere after the weather factory tour. It’s mid-morning now, should be around noon by the time we’re done and in the business district,” she says, trailing off as if she’s speaking to herself.

>Her gaze, unfocused and distant, snaps back to you. “I doubt that’s changed much, if at all. At least not the older shops. That’ll put us near the city center, and that’s where the highlight of the day is! At least, what I’m most looking forward to.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that, then?”

>Spitfire’s eyes begin to glow a bit brighter and she smiles widely. “It’s a... surprise. Really, it’s my favorite thing here in the city, and I,” she drifts off. “I really want you to see it.” The conversation lulls, somewhat awkwardly, until you think of a question.

“So what’s the deal with these airships? I saw a few last night as well, didn’t think to ask then.”

>“Hmm? Oh, the hotel we’re staying at? It’s mostly used by traveling merchants and businessponies who aren’t pegasi. Goes without saying that they all get some variant of the spell we used on you, but they still can’t actually fly, ya know? So these airships are used to get them to the points of the city that are at greater or lesser elevation than the rest. There’s still pegasi who use them, just not as regularly. Sometimes your wings need a rest, yeah?”

>You nod your head in understanding and sit up a bit straighter. Spitfire gets up from her seat and trots directly to you, standing on her hindlegs and placing her forelegs on the edge of the gondola. “Check it out, Anon!”

>You turn around and look out at the vista beyond. It’s a different, and much closer view of the exterior of the colosseum you performed in just yesterday. “I know we were just there, but I can’t help but be amazed every time I look at it. So fascinating to know how ancient that thing is.”

“How old is it? I’m not exactly up to date on the finer details of Equestrian history.”

>“How old? Around two and a half millennia, I think? It dates from our Imperial era. Cloudsdale is one of the oldest cities, if not THE oldest, in all of Equestria.” Looking out over the city, you recognize a few more monumental structures of the same architectural style.

“What’s that big building in the... city center, I guess? The one with the dome. It’s huge!”

>“Oh, that? That’s the Pantheon. It also serves as the official residence of Cloudsdale’s High Commissioner. Used to be the Imperial palace, before the Acts of Union.” Her mane, long and soft, tickles your cheek as it’s blown about by the airflow. Looking at her peripherally, you’re really happy to have come up with this idea. After all, what better way to spend a day than checking out this fantastical and ancient city, so unlike any of those back home? And with a mare as cute as Spitfire by your side, at that?

 

 

 

 

>The air down in the lower levels of the hive grows thick, warm, and humid. A greenish-yellow bioluminescence provides ample illumination, and combined with her excellent low-light vision and intuitive understanding of every curve and contour of her hive, Chrysalis has no trouble scurrying to the broodmother’s den.

>Once inside the main den, she slows down and steadies her labored breath. Those many languid weeks of pregnancy have taken their toll on her fitness, she thinks to herself. It would be best if she took up her exercise regimen again, perhaps even sparring with the soldier caste and their attendant Praetorians.

>She walks at an unhurried pace now, guiding her way past the many broodmothers in various stages of expectancy. Her hive is growing magnificently, the very thought filling her with pride... and anxiety. All these new mouths must be fed and already her subjects’ bellies growl. The open mouth of the spawning pool in which the hybrid eggs had been lain yawns in front of her; a few drones skitter around the chamber filled with refracted light, each of them assisting the broodmothers with the laying of the eggs and bringing forth a few unconscious captives on which the broodmothers will feed.

>Five of the broodmothers have already completed their tiresome and painful task; they now lie protectively around the eggs, whether individual or clustered, as if they were their very own. As Chrysalis surveys the room, her eyes flicker with surprise at the presence of a low-caste Praetorian next to the lone broodmother who hasn’t yet lain all of her eggs.

>“Just take it easy, Dorcas... Breathe and focus,” he whispers, just barely loud enough to be audible.

>Chrysalis glides silently towards the pair, looking around at the other broodmothers who each levitate their clutches and arrange themselves around the edge of the spawning pool. As she approaches, she notices two eggs neatly pushed off to the side as well as a few droplets of blood and fluids; the young Praetorian glances up at his Queen and does a double-take.

>“Y-your highness!”

>“Stand, Praetorian. Let me see your marks,” Chrysalis demands cooly, her voice authoritative and firm. The changeling rises from the floor and turns his head, revealing a series of white dots. “You are... Severian, correct?”

>The changeling turns his head back to face Chrysalis, nodding as he does so. Chrysalis smiles thinly, bittersweet memories rushing to the fore. “I remember your elevation well, young Praetor. Now then, what seems to be the problem here?” Chrysalis turns to face the perspiring broodmother, whose eyes are clenched tightly shut.

>“She managed the first two alright, your highness, but she’s been struggling with this one for awhile. You... can you help her? Please, my queen, she’s in pain!”

>The evident love Praetor Severian is showing tugs at Chrysalis’s heartstrings. She can’t lose another of her subjects, no. She won’t. “Hurry to my chambers, Severian. There should be a small box filled with grey pebbles of uniform size and shape. Retrieve them and meet me in there,” Chrysalis says, flicking her head to the side and indicating a small cavern bored into the wall.

>Severian nuzzles his head against Dorcas’s own before taking off out of the broodchambers, running as quickly as his legs will allow him. Chrysalis looks down at the young broodmother, her features softening and filled with concern. “Come now, fair Dorcas. Take a break and let Mother Chrysalis help you.”

>The changeling girl opens her eyes and locks them onto Chrysalis’s own, solid blue orbs wavering and leaking tears of pain. She nods and gets up, taking one last look at the two eggs she’s leaving behind. “Worry not about them, dear. You!” Chrysalis shouts at one of the others, “Place these eggs in the spawning pool, next to but separate from your own. Watch them for us, will you?”

>The broodmother’s horn glows and the eggs are levitated over to her. They are slowly placed into the pool close to her own trio. Chrysalis nods at Dorcas and walks with her, step by step, slowly towards the small cavern.

 

 

 

 

 

 

>The airship slows to a halt just before a massive facility that’s easily thrice the size of the huge colosseum. The pilot turns around and regards the two of you, seemingly for the first time. “You two want me to hang around? I’ll stick here at half-rate,” he says while eyeing you.

“Nah, we’ll be fine. Going to make our way back on foot, right?”

>“That’s right. How much do we owe you?” Spitfire asks as she walks toward the front of the gondola. “Ehh… four bits each, for the two of you. Eight total.” You walk to the front as well, digging into your pockets.

“I got this. Here you go, guy. Keep the change.”

>Pulling out a silver lunarion, equal to ten of the copper bits, you place it into the pilot’s waiting hooves, a somewhat bemused expression on his face. “Keep the… what? Sir, that’s very kind of you, but I can’t.”

“Why not? It’s a tip.”

>“A… what?”

“A tip. Y’know, a monetary gift of sorts, a gratuity for good service. Tell you what, if that’s not something you can accept, consider it an advance for some young filly or colt who needs a lift.”

>He looks at you measuredly, clearly wondering whether or not to accept. “Alright, sir. If you insist. Allow me to lower the steps.” He strides beyond the two of you, Spitfire shooting you a quizzical look, and lowers the ‘steps’, really more of a ladder-board onto the cloud below.

>Spitfire takes to her wings and floats gently down, her fine dress billowing around her, giving her the appearance of a golden-wreathed shadow descending to the ground… or cloud, rather. A graceful flick of her head delicately rearranges her hair into a fine muss, somehow ending as if it her carefully prepared that way.

>She nods at you, and the two of you begin walking along the cloud-path. “That was a nice thing you did there, Anon. Is that something you came up with, or is that an Earth thing?” she asks, glancing up at you with a glint in her eye.

“Kind of an Earth thing. I guess it’s more particular to where I come from. Sometimes it’s expected, but more generally it’s a nice gesture.”

>“Yeah, it is. Anyway, we’re almost there…”

 

 

 

 

>The complex looming in front of you is absolutely massive. Several ‘smaller’ buildings, each of them large enough to form a factory themselves, are connected by cloudstone walkways and what appear to be tunnels burrowed through the ground-cloud itself. Massive pipes crisscross over and around the massive edifice, along with a veritable spider web of electrical cabling.

>The whole place is probably equivalent in size to a large university campus, seemingly taking up this whole quarter of the city. You feel a hoof tap your shoulder and slightly turn your head, taking in Spitfire’s face. “Heh, pretty impressive, huh? This is the main weather creation and processing facility for the entire western region of Equestria. It’s also one of the single most advanced collections of technology in the entire Diarchy!”

>Too awestruck to respond, you follow a pair of particularly large and incredibly long pipes. They extend a fairly long distance from the center of the main building and terminate in a smaller though similar complex on a far cloud. It seems to be surrounded by a town of its own, built in an identical style and with smaller versions of the arena and racetrack.

“Hey Spitfire? What’s up with that smaller outpost cloud over there? I thought I saw it before, but I’m only really noticing it now.”

>She flies closer to you, the disturbed air from her flapping wings rustling the back of your dress blues, her cheek only a few inches from your own. She catches your eye a bit and points with a forehoof to the cloudpost you were referring to. “That is our mid-Equestrian anchor point. And those,” she says as she draws her forehoof over to the twin pipes, “are delivering enough precipitation base, rainbow salts, and condensed cloudfluff to cover the late summer through early winter weather needs of this regional sector until Central passes back through.”

>Her other forehoof gently pulls back on your shoulder, angling you a little closer to her. The forehoof she’s pointing with draws your gaze to a point just a little beyond the large pipes. With a bit of squinting you can just make out two trios of thick black cabling swaying in the wind.

>“And those are carrying enough electricity to ensure that that little chunk of Cloudsdale has enough power to serve both the needs of the pegasi who live there as well as the weather needs of the entire mid-Equestrian region for the next three months.”

“Wait a tick, Spitfire, I think I’m missing something here. I don’t really get the whole ‘anchor points’ thing, and I’m pretty sure a lot of what you just told me rests on knowing what that’s all about.”

>She pulls off and flies in front of you, her ears are perked and she sports a thin smile. “Heh, sometimes I forget just how little you know about Equestria. Alright, I’ll give you the short version. Cloudsdale is a mobile city, the majority of it anyway. It follows the seasons, stopping at one of three anchor points to deliver needed supplies for weather control twice a year.”

“Uh huh. Keep going, this is fascinating.”

>Spitfire’s grin widens at your enthusiasm, and she continues, “Right now, the city center is moving northwards to supply and oversee the introduction of autumnal and winter weather in the north. As soon as winter proper begins the city will swoop southwards until it hits the South Equestrian anchor point. Cloudsdale moves in a semicircular arc centered on Canterlot, which is always attended to by the city center, since it’s *behind* the anchor points. I know that was a long ‘short version’, but I did my best,” she finishes with a wink.

“Y’know, even having been here as long as I have, I still find no shortage of things that utterly fascinate me. It’s just so… different here.”

>“It’s great that you want to learn more about it, though! If you’ve had your fill of the outside, we should get going,” Spitfire says while she turns around. You walk up to her and the two of you head forth into the double doors marked ‘Public Entrance’, eager to see just *how* weather is made.

 

 

 

 

>The interior of the central factory building yawns out in front of you, large machines and groups of white-suited pegasi speckling the ground floor. Just inside the entrance you came from is a smallish office-like area, with one large desk behind which sits a young, attractive, and bespectacled pegasus with a blonde mane. She looks up as you and Spitfire approach, and her eyes widen behind her glasses.

>“Oh! Um, hello! And welcome to Weather Central! You must be Lieutenant Anonymous, and… ohmigosh! Captain Spitfire! Um… uh, you two are here for a tour, I take it,” the bewildered receptionist states, attempting to regain her composure.

“That’s the idea. We’ve got the day off and Captain Spitfire offered to show me the city.”

>“Oh, that’s nice. Anyway, I’m sorry to inform the two of you that you’ll have to wait a while. Tours are only offered in groups now, after a certain incident. If you’d like to wa—”

>“Little Spitfire!” A shout from above cuts the receptionist off, and down floats an older stallion in the same uniform as most of the workers, save for a white helmet with a single blue stripe and a snowflake and raindrop painted on.

>“Uncle Whiteflakes!” Spitfire exclaims. The two of them rear on their hindhooves and embrace each other.

>Separating, the grey-furred stallion turns his eyes to you and takes a few steps forward. “And you are clearly Lieutenant Anonymous. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance sir,” the stallion says, his Skandineighvian accent somewhat noticeable. He raises a forehoof and you give him a bump.

“The same applies to me, Mr. Whiteflakes. What is it you do here, exactly?”

>Spitfire angles herself to better withhold the pair of you, her amber eyes drifting to your own for a moment before flicking back to her uncle. “I was going to tell him you were a snowflake assembly supervisor, but your helmet’s different. You got promoted?” she asks, cocking her head.

>“That’s right! As of three months ago, I’m officially a general precipitation overseer. I’m responsible for making sure the production of snowflakes and rain-base goes smoothly. In addition to that, I supervise the transfer and delivery of finished weather product to the eastern regions every morning.”

>“That’s great, Whiteflakes! Say, Anon and I were hoping to get a tour of the complex, and we’ve got a lot planned for the day. You wouldn’t mind showing us around, I hope,” Spitfire inquires with an almost pleading tone.

>“Well, I… ah Tartarus. I can’t exactly say no to my favorite niece, can I? Hey Blossombell?” Whiteflakes asks, turning to face the secretary. “Do me a favor and let Greyclouds know I’m taking a break for a bit, would you?” The secretary nods and jots down a note on a small piece of paper before turning back to her other work.

>“That settles it. Follow me, I’ll explain everything as we go. And don’t be afraid to ask questions, Lieutenant.” Whiteflakes’s deep voice and accent remind you a little of your first boss, and his warm attitude does much to color your impression of him.

>“Don’t worry, he won’t. Anon here is one of the most inquisitive Wonderbolts I’ve ever met,” Spitfire says proudly, her gaze flicking to you with a wink and a smile. “Fantastic. Come up on the catwalks with me, you two. Gives you a much better view of the place.” Whiteflakes takes the lead up the steps just past the reception area, with Spitfire in the middle and you taking up the rear.

 

 

 

 

>The almost visibly humid depths of the hive are pierced with a loud, shrill keening. The broodmothers surrounding the spawning pool smartly ignore the sounds to the best of their ability, talking amongst themselves as if nothing was happening in the small chamber nearby.

>Inside, Chrysalis finishes chewing the small and hard pill, spitting the rapidly gelling liquid into the pained young Dorcas’s mouth. “Let it sit under your tongue, dear; it should work faster that way. Praetor Severian,” she commands softly, careful not to frighten either of her two subjects, “step to the bottom of the bed and tell me what you can see.”

>“Um… from what I can tell, the egg is a good bit larger than the others. They just kind of slunk out, quick and clean like. She… she’s bleeding! Please, Queen Mother, can’t you do anything more?”

>“I can, yes. We can. I’ll most certainly need your help, youngling. And let me warn you, what we are about to do will be most unpalatable and dangerous for her. I—” Another piercing screech erupts from Dorcas’s mouth as the egg crawls a bit more forward, thin rivulets of green blood course a bit more strongly from around it.

>A blade of dark obsidian, wreathed in green, is passed over and set at the edge of the bed nearest Severian. His aqua eyes glance down to it, flick over to Chrysalis, then back to the blade, watching as its’ aura fades. “Y-you can’t… you can’t mean… I don’t know if—”

>Chrysalis rises up to her full height, towering over the young Praetor and peers down at him. “If you don’t want your Dorcas to die, then you must do as I tell you,” she growls, using all of her vocal cords to achieve the awe-striking reverb of her Voice of the Legion.

>She settles back down and reverts to her normal voice, her tone softening as she glances back and forth between the two. “I don’t want to lose her any more than you, Severian. Please, help me help her. I can’t do it alone.” Severian lowers his eyes to the ground for a moment. A second passes before the blade is surrounded by a deep blue and rises into the air.

>He steps around the bed, coming next to Dorcas’s head. “I promise I’ll be swift and gentle. I love you, Dorcas. You’re going to be okay,” he whispers softly into her ear before nuzzling her and kissing the tip of her nose. Dorcas murmurs a response too low to be heard, but her eyes show reciprocation and hope through the pain clouding them. Severian steps back to the foot of the bed and looks to Chrysalis.

>The Hive Queen steps closer to the bed near the foot, finding a good position to observe and assist. “Alright, on my command you’re to make an incision here,” she states, pointing with a forehoof at a point a little to the left of Dorcas’ clitoris, where the skin is tightly stretched and thin. “You’ll want to make it a quick cut unless you wish to cause her more pain than necessary. A few horntips should suffice. At that point, I’ll press onto her abdomen while she pushes. I’ve informed her of the procedure while you were away, so she’ll do the best she can. Are you ready?”

>Severian’s eyes take a hard edge and he gives a curt nod. The blade drops and flips, positioned precisely where Chrysalis indicated. Without turning her head, she addresses the young broodmother, “Start pushing as soon as I say, Dorcas. Remember to focus on your breaths and send your mind as far from the pain as you can. The worst of it should only last a moment.”

>Time seems to stop for all three involved, a pregnant silence filling the room. “Dorcas, begin! Severian! Count to three… one, two…”

 

 

>The tour is going quite well, you’re learning some fascinating information, and having a pretty good time with Spitfire.

>Sunlight pours in through the windows of the connecting hallway between buildings.

>The main building had a few interesting things, mostly in the way of machinery delivering finished weather packages for delivery. The concentrated cloudstuff was particularly fascinating.

>The way it would be dropped into a peculiar machine that reconstituted it and shot it out several hundred meters was incredible.

>Whiteflakes proved himself to be a rather chatty and friendly fellow and Spitfire seems as interested in the tour as you are. “...Of course we’re a governmental, tax-supported organization, though there have been a few experiments with privatization in some of the other cloud-cities in the east…”

>While listening, an amber glint catches your eye. You turn your head and catch Spitfire looking at you, wearing a serene smile. You grin back at her for a moment before a door clicks open and cold, damp air wafts over you.

>“And this here is the Precipitation Center. Every raindrop, every snowflake, every sliver of sleet and stone of hail in West Equestria is made here in this very facility. These are my stomping grounds; spent the last twenty years of my life in here,” Whiteflakes states proudly, holding his head high and puffing out his chest.

>You and Spitfire walk past Whiteflakes to the catwalk railing, Spits placing her forehooves on and you leaning your arms on it, peering out into the massive facility.

>It’s very reminiscent of an old-school factory, droves of smock-clad pegasi workers at various stations operating heavy machinery. The warehouse is divided into unequal halves, with the second and larger portion walled off behind frost covered glass.

>“Right now, we’re in the Rain section. It doesn’t require climate control throughout the year and is generally considered a subsection within the Precipitation Division. Would you two like a closer look?” Whiteflakes asks from behind you.

>You and Spitfire turn around and nod simultaneously, following Whiteflakes as he leads the way to a set of stairs halfway to the glass divider. He leads you to a station where a large pipe runs under a conveyer belt upon which sit several crystals. From the pipe extend several hoses, each operated by a pegasus worker.

>In perfect synchronized motions, each worker sprays a short burst of water at the crystal, which appears to suck in the water and condense it into a small, solid pebble. Following the conveyer, you watch as the pebbles pass under a large air dryer before being shunted off into several collection bins. A sound catches your attention.

>“Hey Anon!” Spitfire shouts. You turn to look at her only to be blasted in the face with a spray of cold water.

“Wha-whatthefuck!?”

>Spitfire bursts into laughter as you lean forward and wipe the water from your face. Your vision is still a little blurry as you flick most of the water off your face, careful to not get your dress blues too wet. Certainly more careful than Spitfire was.

“The hell was that for?”

>Spitfire is just barely managing to stay on four legs, giggling like a schoolfilly. “Y-you should’ve seen *snrk* your face,” she manages to choke out before being overcome with laughter again. You’ve definitely never seen your hard-edged captain like this before… she’s so girly it’s almost unsettling.

“Ha ha, you just wait for your turn, Spitfire. You. Just. Wait.”

>“Ooo-hoo-hoo, is that a threat, big guy?” she asks, staring you down with a wry grin and trying her hardest not to laugh.

>Whiteflakes loudly clears his throat and gains both your attention, staring the both of you down like mischievous children. Spitfire looks away with a slight blush and you can’t help but feel a little foolish yourself, even though you did nothing wrong.

>“Anyway… as you can see here, this is where water is condensed into cloudseed for distribution to our other weather centers as well as transformation of regular cumuli into Cumulonimbus. If you’ll just follow me…”

>Spitfire walks up beside you and slows her pace a little bit before taking to the air and whispering in your ear, “Gotcha good, didn’t I?”

>She clops you on the shoulder and gives you a smile before dropping back to the ground and hurrying a bit to catch back up to Whiteflakes.

>“And that’s probably as much as I can show you about the rain center. Let’s move on to the snow labs. That’s always been my area,” the older stallion says with a bit of exuberance. He clearly relishes the opportunity to show off his expertise and authority to such distinguished personages as yourselves.

>Not bothering to return to the catwalk, the three of you make your way to a well-insulated doorway leading into the snow labs. “Now please, you two, everything in here is very fragile and delicate. Please, please don’t touch anything.”

>With his statement complete, the doors are swung open via hoof-pad and a gust of freezing air slams into you. Even Spitfire seems taken aback by the abrupt temperature drop and you both hurry inside. The workers in here all wear thick white coats and other cold-weather gear, including somewhat peculiar wing covers.

>That’s when you see it. A great bin full of snow. You try your hardest not to betray your thoughts when Whiteflakes catches your glance. “Ah, I see you’re looking at the ‘imperfects pile’ there.  Every snowflake that doesn’t pass inspection gets dumped in that pile, which is usually spread over the uninhabited areas of Equestria—or, alternatively, taken to be made into snowcones!”

>You’re not really listening at this point. Cold, wet revenge is all you can think about. Whiteflakes and Spitfire move on a little, observing a few of the workers at the small-flake extruder. Attempting to be as stealthy as possible, you swoop over and grab as much snow as you can in one hand out of the discard pile.

>Just as you’re returning to the two, Spitfire turns and spots you, one eyebrow cocked as she tries to discern your intent. You innocently examine the extruded snow, looking intently at a few flakes under a fixed magnifying glass as the inspectors all do. The snow in your far hand is getting pretty cold and starting to melt.

>Deciding that it’s now or never, you’re pleased to see Spitfire make a half-turn and take her eyes off of you. Stepping right next to her, you place your hand just above the base of her neck, right where the chiton ends.

>You release your frigid payload, all of which slides perfectly down her back and under her dress. Her nerves register the sensation almost visibly as she goes stock still for a solitary, frozen moment.

>Her eyes dilate and her wings shoot out, her tail goes rigid and straight, and her mane sticks up on end in an almost cartoonish fashion. “Ka-kakaka-COOOLD!” she shrieks as she takes to the air, wiggling like a fish on speed, desperately seeking to remove the offensively cold and wet snow.

>All of the workers in the room look up and stare at the furiously twisting airborne Wonderbolt, flecks of snow and droplets of water flying off her golden form. A flurry of snow rises up from the force of her flapping, disrupting most of the work in the room. You can’t help but laugh at the sight, and old Uncle Whiteflakes places a forehoof on his face, mortified at the spectacle.

>Spitfire comes back to the floor without a hint of grace and whips her head toward you. “Oh-ho-ho, you! You are SO on KP duty when we get back!”

“Wh-*snrk*what do you mean, Cap? I,” you attempt to say between peals of laughter, “I thought we were off duty?”

>She gets an evil grin and steps closer to you, shooting daggers at you from her eyes. “We’ve been on an official inspection here, LT. You’ve been escorting me while I look around.”

>That wipes the smile off your face.

“B-bu-bu—”

>A wide grin crosses her own features and she giggles softly. “Gotcha again, Anon! C’mon, though, enough with the shenanigans. We’ve embarrassed my poor uncle enough,” she says with mirth, her eyes taking on the youthful glow they’ve possessed… all day, really.

>“That’s right, you two. Now that you’ve proven yourselves elite members of the Wonderfoals, I think it’s time to take you children away from my department and let my workers get back to, y’know, doing their jobs?”

>Spitfire apologizes and shoots you a glare that quickly melts into a half-smile before jauntily trotting behind her uncle as he leads the two of you up and out of the labs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

>This last building on the tour houses the electricity generators and the rainbow pools. Whiteflakes has been an excellent tour guide and a pretty good sport given how you and Spitfire have been acting.

>The electricity generators are fantastic shows to watch, somewhat resembling Tesla coils but also quite different. They’re set lower into the cloud and have a glass cover and rubberized railings for supervisors and tourists to observe from.

>But right now you’re focussed on the rainbow pools. Through some presumably magical process ordinary water is tinted… and, from what Whiteflakes tells you, flavored, into a chromatic splendor that’s then stored and saved for dispersal after a rainstorm.

>“Go on, Anon, give it a taste. Tell us what you think!” Spitfire urges, smiling widely and exchanging a glance with her uncle. You dip your hand in one of the pools and cup it, pulling out a fluid not unlike antifreeze in terms of consistency and color.

“It’s… safe to drink, right? I mean, the only stuff like this back home will kill ya.”

>Spitfire snickers and shakes her head. “Watch and learn, you big pansy.” She dips her head and takes a drink of the rainbow liquid; coming back up she gulps and smiles at you with multicolored teeth. “See? It’s good!”

>Eyeing the water with a bit of suspicion, you ultimately bring it to your mouth and take a drink. A panoply of flavors dazzle your tongue for a moment, ultimately settling into…

>Holy shit that’s HOT! You pant and beg for some water with your tongue lolling out of your mouth, Spitfire laughing and even Whiteflakes having a snicker at your expense. One of the workers, a blue stallion with a rainbow mane and tail, gives you a hose similar to those back at the rain condensers.

>A blue stallion with a rainbow mane and tail? You drink enough to lessen the burn a little before returning the hose with a nod.

“Excuse me sir, but I have to ask… do you happen to be related to a pony named Rainbow Dash?”

>The stallion’s eyes brighten and a warm smile crosses his face. “Sure am! She’s my daughter. Why do you ask? Do you know her?”

>Sticking out your hand and receiving a hoof-bump, you notice Spitfire coming up next to you.

“I do, actually. She was one of the first ponies I met when I arrived. I thought you looked like… anyway, I just wanted to tell you that you have a great daughter who’s proven to be a good friend, Mister...?”

>“Blitz, just call me Blitz. Yeah, she’s a great girl, isn’t she?”

>“She’s saved my life before, you know? Not only that, but with her skills… she’s an absolute shoo-in for the Wonderbolts,” Spitfire says with more than a bit of glee.

>“Yeah, she told me about that. Oh wow, to think that two of the Wonderbolts came to visit while I was on shift! H-hey, d’ya think I could get an autograph from you guys? F-for Rainbow, you understand!”

>He pulls out a folded poster of this year’s show schedule and hands it to you. Taking a pen from your front pocket, you crouch down and mark your signature on the floor. Spitfire looks around for something to use as ink for a moment before dipping a hoof into the rainbow pool, shaking it off, and stamping her hoofprint on the paper.

>“Oh great! She’s gonna love this! Thanks a lot, you two, and it was great to meet y—”

>He’s cut off by a shrill whistle coming over the speaker system. The majority of the workers start walking toward one of the exits and Blitz turns his head over his shoulder.

>“That’s the lunch bell! I’m gonna go get some grub, guys. We get forty-five minutes and Windy’s is a five minute flight away. I’ll be sure to catch your show tomorrow!” Blitz shouts over his shoulder as he takes off.

>Whiteflakes has a little of the bell imprinted in him as well, as he unbuttons his jacket and turns to you. “I hope you two enjoyed the tour! I’d stick around, but like Blitz said, there’s forty-five minutes and I plan on enjoying every one of them. Come with me and we’ll get you kids out of here.”

>You and Spitfire follow Whiteflakes out of the main exit. She gives him a hug and you give him a hoofbump before he takes to the air and flies off.

>“I’m getting kinda hungry myself. What do you say, Anon? Wanna get something to eat?”

“Yeah, definitely. Got any suggestions?”

>Spitfire nods her head, her fiery mane trailing behind. “Oh do I! I know just the place!”

>With that she takes to the air and flies a bit ahead of you, turning around and waiting for you to catch up. The two of you go forth, side by side, into the crowded central district of Cloudsdale.

 

 

 

 

 

 

>The screams echoing throughout the underhive have since passed into murmurs. Droplets of ichor and birthstuff drip and leak into the grated floors, destined to be reunited with the spawning pool outside.

>Soft breathing issues from the wounded broodmare as the medication begins its work. “Excellent work, Praetor Severian!” Chrysalis commends the young changeling, busy putting in the last stitches after the operation was complete.

>The minute he’s done with his work, he quickly trots to the head of the bed and nuzzles the dazed broodmother, whispering quietly in her ear. The extracted egg, easily half again as large as most of the others, is wreathed in a green glow as Chrysalis brings it closer to examine it.

>“Excellent size… you have an exquisite mate there, Severian. She is yours now,” Chrysalis says, turning her muzzle to face the astounded Praetor.

>“W-what? What do you mean, only second-class Praetorians and abov—”

>Setting the egg on the table, Chrysalis pads softly next to Severian. “You’ve proven yourself talented enough to join the Healer caste. If you can perform such delicate and dangerous work on the one you love the most, then you can surely apply your skills to the rest of your brood-brethren who might need such help.”

>Her horn glows bright viridian and shoots out a very small, thin beam toward the collection of spots on Severian’s neck. He winces and a wisp of smoke curls up to the ceiling. “Congratulations, young Severian. Soon a number of your caste-mates will be here to take dear Dorcas up to the medical clusters. You are to join them and they will show you to your new, private quarters. You’ll find there are many privileges with your new rank. Do not abuse them.”

>“Of course not, my queen! A-and… thank you,” Severian states as he bows his head and takes the half-prostration expected of his rank. “What about her eggs? Who will watch over them?”

>“I will watch over them, for they are just as much my own,” Chrysalis murmurs as she slips past the Praetorian to the sleeping Dorcas, nuzzling her softly and licking her forehead.

>Chrysalis picks up the egg and returns to the spawning pool as the tramping of several hooves echoes from the chamber beyond. Finding the broodmother she had tasked with watching over the others, she takes position with the rest and settles in, setting the egg in the pool with the others and smiling proudly at the results of her pregnancy.

>It’s just a matter of hours now, she thinks to herself. She closes her eyes slowly and ruminates on the strength of her hive; even with her disastrous mistake, they’re still strong and soon, very soon… they will thrive.