During the tour, Snapshot was surprised and slightly overwhelmed by the positivity he felt radiating from the ponies around him. Having observed the city before his, ‘arrival,’ he had assumed that there would be more apathy among the population for others outside of their social groups. At the same time, his brain had been working overtime to catalogue every last bit of information he could take in. Streets, names, faces, landmarks from above and below, addresses, all the things he deemed even moderately important were on the table for immediate memorization. Eventually, his taxed brain began to overload and he called for a break.

	“Sheesh, this is weird,” he said as he laid across a bench, one wing draped over its back and the other curled against the ground beneath the seat. “Everypony just kind of knows you? And you know them? By [i]name[/i]?” His confusion was one part an act and another part genuine curiosity. Every changeling had a name of its own, but in the hive, it was very uncommon to be referred to by said name. Entire generations would often grow up knowing each other by appearances and nothing else, because complex vocal communications were not a necessity. The low capacity for names Snapshot had because of this, he feared, may be an unavoidable flaw in his disguise.