They're EVERYWHERE!

1988, 9999: 1

"Wha-?" the nonsense stops 1988 like a brick to the face.

"Did you mean 'anatomically impossible'?" Hacksmith's brain hiccups as well.

"Yeah, that!" 9999 nods.

"...I'll show you anatomically impossible... I'm a changeling... I eat anatomically impossible for breakfast..." 1988 resumes grumbling.

He stops only when 9999 carefully flies over onto his back and hugs him.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on me and making me able to think properly, 1988," it says.

"...rassassafrasssss... too many sssssss... just 156's orders..." mumbles the confused infiltrator, "...gonna choke you both later..."

"Didn't think you'd take it that bad, chalk it up to cultural differences," Hacksmith shakes his head, "Anyway, it would be a good idea to get it together and stop threatening us with pain since this is our first contact with your species. We're almost at the camp."

Chill runs down 1988's spine when he realizes all this messing around completely distracted him from hearing the noise of bustling ponies coming from ahead.

Damn it, a mistake like this would have gotten me killed under any other circumstances. If not by ponies then later by any higher rank I'd be reporting to.

As soon as they clear the final line of trees blocking the view, 1988 starts examining the 'camp' in detail.

The central building - prefab, likely assembled on the spot from parts brought in during the initial phase of camp building. Hacksmith is leading us there, so it's going to be the foreman's office. The best source of information.

Lodgings surrounding its back in a C shape - old shipping containers filled with bunk beds and small furniture with "Central Stalliongrad Logging" painted on them. Same ones they use in Manehattan docks for cargo, just with added holes for air flow. Potential source of love-infused personal belongings. The entire camp seems to be set up for long-term living, months to a year, I'd guess, so there's no way some of the ponies didn't take important mementos with them.

Common eating area in front of the office - a long table with a tarp above it to protect anyone having a meal there from rain or snow. Probably useful for overhearing rumors but it's unlikely to gain any relevant information. The ponies haven't killed us on the spot so they don't know about the invasion, which also means their contact with the outside world is limited at best.

Cleared-out area around - useful for anything that comes up. Some supply crates lying around, can't see what's in them from here. Two foals currently setting the common table, two stallions hauling dry wood towards a big fire pit filled with ash. Fresh ash, so a campfire must be a daily occasion.

A large deforested area north of the camp - logs are lying everywhere, so that must be storage for processed lumber and an access route for carts.

Ponies are now staring and pointing. Resist the urge to shapeshift and run. Don't attract any unnecessary attention, the basics of infiltration.

Resiiiist...

RESIST THE URGE TO PUNCH 9999 WAVING AT THEM IN THE FACE!

I swear that if that drone gets me killed I'm haunting it. I didn't survive a giant explosion turning my love reserves into acid while being launched like a rock with my wings nearly burned off for freaking hours to die here.

On the other hole, it's not as if it's their fault that they can't understand the danger they're in. They only know what those in charge let them.