//------------------------------//
// On the Job 
// Story: Honor Among Thieves 
// by Floo_Ter_Shai 
//------------------------------//

	The moonlight, practically full tonight and laced only with the shade of a few spotty clouds, reflects a pale blue—what some (I swear to the Goddesses I’m not one of them) would even call a periwinkle—off my beak as I attempt to hoist myself onto the iron-grate platform. My damn wings are too big for me to use them here—I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place, otherwise, my ascent would be cake. It would be a matter of liftoff, hover, flappity-flap, and land. Maybe five seconds of air time. I consider it for a moment, but I quickly determine I’d likely scrape off half my primaries on the red brick wall to my right, and my whole wing would be caught in the rusty iron railing on my left. Of course, I shouldn’t expect much different—this fire escape was built for the poor hoof-havers without the luxury of flight. I grimace. Its narrow breadth sure isn’t making my job any easier. 

I end up having to grab the railing with my claws and scrabble onto the grating with my hind paws. Not exactly graceful, and not exactly quiet either, the sound of my butt colliding with the dilapidated grating still reverberating around the alleyway, but I don’t particularly care; considering what hour of the night it is, there isn’t a soul within half a mile awake enough to hear. I shake my head as I look back at the treacherous path I had been forced to scale. Whichever pony had determined that stealing all of the fire escape’s iron ladders I had to give credit to—the idea of selling them for scrap was an example of entrepreneurship at its finest—but I’ll be damned if I don’t pause for a moment to consider finding that pony and ripping his throat out with my talons for making my life hell, if even for the few minutes I had climbed the rickety structure. 

Not a soul awake… I think to myself. I turn to my left, glancing out at the apartment building across the alley. A single light flickers in a window, fourth floor. I catch a strangely shaped shadow of—

Oh. I snap my attention back to the task at hand. Not a soul awake except those two. I grin lecherously as I unzip a small pouch on my vest. They won’t be noticing much of anything. 

I prod around inside the pouch for a moment. What I call my “entry vest” is a custom crafted article of clothing, a fine, dark leather creation with a trio of straps that keep it high and tight on my body, sturdy and somewhat protective against at least cuts and scrapes, slim but still loaded with pockets and pouches spacious enough to fit all the gear I can’t fit on my belt. It also has built-in webbing to attach it to my backpack, which, as you’d expect, is slung over my shoulders. At the moment, the backpack’s empty, but then again, it won’t be shortly. 

I withdraw a tightly coiled pack from the pouch, which I carefully unroll on the grating. I glance over at the door, a hefty-looking metal thing, focusing my attention on the lock. It is, like on virtually every other residential building door in the whole city, a cheap, store bought key lock, insecure and unfit for anything more than guarding a janitorial closet. It’ll take me about two minutes to pick. 

I check my surroundings once more before I insert my pick into the lock and set to work. As expected, it doesn’t take long, my final rake of the pick, turn of the torsion wrench and the light click of the door unlocking possibly even hitting somewhere shy of the two minute mark. I cautiously put my hand to the doorknob, expecting it to swing wide with only a light touch. Of course, it doesn’t. Instead, it hits some firm-sounding object almost immediately, sending a hollow thud throughout the entire apartment. I cringe momentarily, recoiling, expecting to hear the sound of hooves clopping through the room at any moment. After a minute’s wait, I still hear nothing, a break in my apparently waning luck.

“Sweet Luna,” I mutter under my breath, turning away from the door resting against whatever foreign object lay behind it. I look up at the moon with a grimace. Is anything going to go smoothly tonight? 

I shake my head. This delay was totally unexpected. I cursed the pony whose home this was for not following the fire code, if only for my sake. Blocking a fire escape? It’s a miracle for the sod living here that his landlord hadn’t come down on him for that one. I pause to consider that a moment. Being up to code wouldn’t have meant anything, anyway, considering the lack of ladders on the fire escape itself. 

I gently ease the door up to whatever piece of furniture blocks the door, letting it hit with only the faintest impact. After a moment to prepare, I press myself against the door, feeling the obstruction on the other side slowly give way as I increase my effort. I struggle for a moment, the gap widening, before calling it quits. Now the gap’s just big enough for me to shimmy inside. I grin, balancing on my paws as I give my biceps a wet peck. Damn, girl, I think as I admire my muscles.

I’m in. I let myself gently fall to all fours as I survey the place. It’s a fairly nice apartment inside, unlike some of the places I’d been sent to on the job, the place equipped with (thankfully) non-squeaking wood floors and fancy-looking furniture, including the heavy china cabinet I’d just moved. I thank my lucky stars I hadn’t tipped it over while moving it out of the way. I was apparently in the kitchen/dining area, a small table littered with old newspapers on my right, set into a small bay window. Quaint. I pause to look at a headline that catches my eye: PHILLYDELPHIA ROBBERIES ON THE RISE, it reads. Damn straight, I think as I try not to chuckle at the coincidence. 

Now that I take notice, the apartment is dead quiet. Not a rustle of blankets nor a snore from a bedroom, or even the noise of a quiet TV or radio can be heard. The only sound I can make out is the rhythmic tick-tock of an antique-looking clock hanging in the kitchen. I glance up at it, reading 1:48. I figure the place’s owner is buying another round just in time for last call down in one of Phillydelphia’s many bars. I smile yet again. Apparently something was going to go smoothly tonight after all; I had all the time in the world to do my deed and get out. 

I prowl into the living room, grinning as I step onto the thick, shaggy rug in the middle. It’s luxuriously soft under foot. Unfortunately, I don’t have the wingpower to heft the thing out of the apartment, otherwise I would. I do, however, vow to take a look at a new rug down at the market with all the money I net from this job. Where’s the target, again? I ask myself. My contact down at the Manticore’s Claw had mentioned a safe. Where? I pause, ruffling the soft carpet with my claws as I try my hardest not to purr. The bedroom, in the closet, that’s where. Of course. I’ve seen safes mounted in floors and under rugs, behind paintings, behind false walls—the classic closet-kept safe is practically a rarity considering the number of jobs I’ve done.  I head that direction, traversing quietly down the hall.

Hanging on either side of me are pictures of the apartment’s owner, some photos of the bulky-looking earth pony in the Navy, another few showing him on vacation (one with what looks like a group of friends aboard a yacht, massive swordfish held in front of them) and another of the guy and what are apparently his parents. Judging from those pictures, he seems like a nice enough pony. But, according to my contact, he hadn’t paid up on his considerable illegal gambling debt. Whatever the amount is, I don’t know, but it’s enough to merit my services. After all, if you don’t pay, trouble’s coming your way, I think to myself. It sounds like something Iron Will would say in one of his entirely-too-popular motivational speeches. I make a mental note to figure out a way to submit that to him. Maybe I could be compensated. 

The bedroom’s just as well-appointed as the rest of the apartment. Four-post bed, expensive looking sheets, thick carpet, dark wood chest of drawers and a matching mirror, a number of pricy-looking paintings adorning the walls. Whoever this pony is, he’s done quite well for himself. I let out a low whistle of approval. I’ve seen a lot of bedrooms in my line of work (don’t take that the wrong way), but this is how I’d like mine to be done. I briefly consider grabbing my camera from its pouch on my belt so I can have a few shots for reference. I decide not to—the risk is too great. After all, I only keep the camera on me in case I find some serious blackmail material, and that’s only kept until I know I don’t have to worry about any investigations launched to find me, or if whatever it is happens to amuse me that much, like the picture of a closet full of expensive, frilly women’s wear I’d found in the home of a venerable (single and male , might I add) military general. That picture hung on my special commemorative corkboard in my apartment’s safe room office.

I shake my head to refocus. There was nothing worthy of the commemorative corkboard here.  The only closet in the room is on the opposite end from the bed, no lock on the door, as expected. These quick jobs I’d had a string of lately are almost too easy. I swing myself onto two legs, twisting the doorknob to reveal—a clothes closet. Imagine that. I rifle through the contents of the tiny room, shifting hangars of slightly-out-of-fashion coats, a few belts, and other miscellanea, past his dry cleaned and plastic-wrapped naval dress uniform, and there it is, mounted into the wall, low, purposefully difficult to spot. The safe. Ding-ding-ding, we have a winner, I congratulate myself. Even more—it’s not a code lock or a padlock—lock and key. I’m good to go with the lockpicks. 

My pack of picks comes back out, and I set to work. My senses, particularly that of hearing, practically go into overdrive as I work on the lock—not for the sake of better picking the lock—I’m perfectly capable of hearing minute sounds in such a quiet environment; but for the insurance that my environment will remain quiet, as in, I don’t want to be caught with my pants down. I had heard the stories down at the Manticore’s Claw about some of those folk who got caught. Considering the marks hired thieves like myself go for, it’s not a stretch to imagine that, for a significant amount of them, the first reaction isn’t to call the cops. I aim to avoid anything that entails at all costs. As a result, I hear everything. The faint thunk of the A/C unit in the next apartment over kicking itself on. The clock in the kitchen, still ticking away with its perfect rhythm. The little things. 

Five minutes pass all too quickly. This lock is considerably more difficult than the one on the door into the place, and it’s particularly the bitch due to the pitch black closet, and the fact that the majority of the safe itself is obscured by clothes. I literally have my face and most of my body tucked inside the row of clothes, my face nestled against what I believe to be a rather nice cardigan. I pause briefly, considering pulling out and turning on a light. I weigh the decision, a grimace painting my face. I don’t like the option of turning on the light—assuming at least one nosy neighbor (this I have found to be a constant in the business of burglary—there is always at least one), it would be my luck that they were up in search of a midnight snack and see one small light coming from my mark’s apartment and attempt to find out what it belonged to, or, worse yet, my mark could come home and find me practically trying on his cardigan. At the same time, the option does sound more attractive than having to screw my eyes tight just to make out if I was even in the general vicinity of the safe.

I settle on remaining in darkness. My luck has already shown its alliance tonight, and it isn’t with me. Another minute passes as I torque on the lock while raking with the pick, and I finally hit pay dirt. To my heightened senses, the lock’s click is more on the same decibel level as a clock tower bell tolling. Regardless, it’s a beautiful sound. I hadn’t been informed what the safe contained, as per my request ( after all, that brief moment of unveiling the loot is what keeps my job consistantly interesting—that and being shot at by police, but never mind the last point) and a genuine smile comes to my beak as I swing the small door wide open. 

It’s coins, and lots of them, neatly packaged into coin wrappers and stacked three high, five wide, and at least four deep on each of the safe’s three shelves. Better yet is that they’re not any of the smaller silver or bronze ones, they’re gold, all of them—100 bit coins. They’re beautiful. I make a quick estimate at 20 coins per coin wrapper, at three high, five wide and four deep on three individual shelves—that’s an astounding 360,000 bits. I gulp instinctually. It is, by a country mile, the largest sum of cash I’ve ever laid eyes on. I have not the faintest inkling of a clue how this pony was able to stash this much money away and somehow manage not pay off a gambling debt. 

I exhale out of pure exhilaration. If I could pull anywhere near this kind of money on every job, I would have easily been able to retire at least six months ago and buy that beachfront house in Las Pegasus I’ve always dreamed of.
I can’t help it. I let out a quiet giggle, a faint, schoolbird-sounding squack of delight. I twist my torso around, unhooking my backpack from the webbing on my vest before setting it next to the safe and unclasping the top flap. I’m already anticipating my promised 10 percent cut, my grin widening by the second. 36,000 bits! I laugh to myself. I begin to imagine the things I can do with the princely sum of cash. 

The coin wrappers are fairly heavy, about a quarter pound each as I load them into the backpack, hand over fist to speed up the process. After all, there are a hundred and eighty of them. A solid three minutes of work at a furious pace passes before they’re all loaded, the backpack now considerably heftier than I’m used to. Hell, the last month of jobs have netted me around 500 bits apiece, and considering the last three were little more than document grabs (small-time corporate espionage) this kind of weight was fairly extreme. The backpack back in place after wrestling it into position, I withdraw the note I’m to leave in the money’s place. I had read it earlier, before ascending the fire escape outside. It was surprisingly eloquent and fairly stylish in its execution. It read:

Dear Mr. Boulder,

You may notice that your safe has been fully alleviated of its contents. Allow us to make it clear that this is a result of your apparent inability to pay off the outstanding debt you owe us. You were forewarned that an inability to pay come due time would result in alternate methods of receiving payment—this being your first offense, we’ve decided to take it easy on you. Another mistake will cost you even more dearly, and any attempt to seek help from the law will be met with your untimely death. 

You can consider your debt paid. We’d suggest you not cross us again. 

There was no addressee anywhere on the note. The writers had clearly been aiming for anonymity, I’m assuming in case of interception. I place the note into the safe, door left wide open. Stealing a pony’s life savings sure was a cruel way to send a message. For a brief instant, I feel a twinge of guilt, but it doesn’t last long. After all, I’m just the messenger. I have no doubt that if I had refused the job, another professional thief would have been hired in my place. 

I crack my knuckles, slipping myself out of the row of clothes in preparation to leave the apartment behind and head back to the Manticore’s Claw. Luck had gone my way after all—the mission was a clear success. My pack of lockpicks goes back in its pouch, and as I turn to waltz out of the bedroom, the unthinkable happens. 

The deadbolt belonging to the front door snaps open, the handle turns noisily. I immediately swing back into the closet. Shit. My heart rate spikes; I can feel it thudding somewhere in my throat, and my hind claws slide out of their sheaths, ready in case things get violent. I hear two voices. One’s big, a booming tone. Sounds like somepony who’d go by the name of Mr. Boulder. The other is definitely female, and very giggly. Apparently Mr. Boulder’s done well for himself at the bar tonight. I let out a faint sigh of relief—he’ll be at least momentarily distracted by his beau. Crouching, I make my way into the bedroom, and peer around the corner. They’re obviously still standing in the entry, which is, unfortunately, in direct view of the fire escape. There’s no way out yet. A light flips on in the kitchen, then the living room. The two are conversing, and slurring noticeably, the mare still giggling like mad. I hear the wet smack of a kiss; I cringe and tune them out slightly. Several seconds pass—from what I can hear (not that I want to) they’re still going at it. Get on with it, I whisper under my breath—I want out of here. As if on cue, there’s a loud flump as the pair collapse to the couch. There’s my out. I peer around the corner once more, catching a glimpse of them. It’s still largely dark in the living room where they are—considering my ability to remain quiet, there’s a decent chance I won’t be spotted. I make my way forward, carefully testing every step on the wood floor for squeaky boards. So far, so good. I crouch behind a fancy looking lounge chair on the opposite side of the living room from the two lovers, still unseen. They’re obviously preoccupied. It’s a short shot to the fire escape, which is still open, that fact somehow not noticed by Mr. Boulder, but the way there’s fairly well lit. If they don’t notice me now, I’m home free. 

I go for it, taking a set of long strides to the door. I hear a muffled mmph from the couch as I throw myself through the narrow gap. I stand outside for a brief moment, wondering if I was spotted. In any respect, I’m safe. With that, however, the slightly insane side of me takes over, deciding I have to check. I pop my head back into the apartment. Nope, they’re still going to town. I grin for a second before letting out a cliché catcall. Their make-out session decidedly ruined, they look over at the source of the noise, still lying on the couch, one atop the other. They spot me instantly, looks of utter confusion on both their faces. 

“My apologies for ruining your night, Mr. Boulder, but you might want to go check on your safe,” I announce. He cocks his head, look of confusion turning to one of horror I turn to the mare. She’s a unicorn, big blue eyes, and a short-cut mane. At least a seven. “And you,” I add only semi-jokingly, “you can ruffle my feathers anytime,” I finish with a smile. I duck back out of the apartment, holding back laughter at her expression, which had been the very definition of dismay.

At that, I throw myself off the metal grating, my wings spreading instinctually. A cold burst of nerves mixed with the chilled air hits me as I enter the almost second-long free fall as my wings struggle to catch lift to keep the added weight of my loaded backpack aloft. They succeed, though, and I immediately bank hard to the right, heading further down the alley so I can gain altitude unspotted and in the shadows. I flap furiously, gaining speed like a feathery rocket as I shoot past the few lit windows on either side of me. I tilt my wings back in a glide lasting only a moment, feeling the concrete below fall away. I turn my head back to the fire escape platform, seeing the darkened shape of Mr. Boulder standing on it. Even despite the howl of the wind in my ears, I could hear him screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs. I let out a laugh, the noise immediately taken by the wind. Home free. 

I circle back, now above the apartments and still gaining altitude. I’m sure to keep myself at what I hope is a correct angle to so as not be spotted by Mr. Boulder as I head back to meet up with my contact at the Manticore’s Claw.