I’m still aloft, and high up at that. I figure I’m a solid 300 meters up, well above the city. I never get tired of the view: Phillydelphia all lit up in the darkest hours of night is a sight to be seen from such an altitude. I take a deep breath as I make another gentle wing stroke, looking out at the sights. The city center’s lit like a birthday candle, the bright light from the skyscrapers illuminating the gently tossing Delawhorl River, and the sky is a deep violet. I take a quick glance up; the countless stars look to be a twinkling, almost transparent background to the yellow tint belonging to the city center’s light pollution. If I were to dive any further down they'd cease to exist altogether. For a second I’m tempted to rocket further into the sky to see the stars clearly, but even at this altitude I can already feel the chill of the thinning air through my feathers in addition to the speed-whipped wind as I shoot towards my destination.
I’m heading southwest, just out of the city center—the area generally avoided by the well-to-do, or, in layman’s terms: the ghetto. It’s where I live, and where I make a living. The city lights slowly dim, turning back into residential and darkened commercial buildings, closed up for the night. I begin a fast descent down to about fifty meters, now clearly able to pick out individual buildings. I pass Waverneigh Plaza, banking hard to the left down the adjacent street. It’s only about a quarter mile’s flight until I reach my destination, and at the cruising speed I’m traveling, that distance only takes another thirty seconds.
The Manticore’s Claw is in sight. It’s a hole of a bar, my home away from home. I glance at the familiar façade as I descend further to earth and slow my speed. By some coincidence, every vowel on the faded brick structure’s neon sign is either dead or dying, and the dagger-like claw that slashes through the malfunctioning logo is flickering wildly. I come to a halt in midair in a gap between the gray tree husks that line the sidewalks, the downdraft off my wide wingspan causing the branches, frostbitten and dormant from seasons past, to shake and groan. I let myself fall to the wet pavement of the sidewalk, tinted a faded orange from the painfully bright streetlamps. Rainwater makes a staccato rhythm as it flows freely out of the broken gutter pipe beside me and the air is thick and moist from the rain earlier in the day; it’s a typical humid Phillydelphia summer’s night. The tepid water splashing off the pavement, sullied from the rusty gutter and the dirty sidewalk is oddly refreshing as it slides effortlessly off my feathers and fur. It reminds me of the puddles I used to play in back home as a fledgling. It’s a happy memory; I let out a soft chuckle and a smile as I close the remaining distance to the bar on foot.
Now past the white noise of the splashing rainwater, the noises of the city at night come to bear. Hooves clop in the distance across the cracked pavement. Laughter rings out from a pool hall across the street, thick smoke wafting from the wide open door. What sounds suspiciously like a scream echoes from the alley, reverberated from several streets down. Dogs bark violently a few blocks away.
The street I walk is nearly devoid of activity besides myself. A policepony, clad in neon yellow for nighttime visibility, stands as a nervous sentry on the corner, eyes darting for anything suspicious, or perhaps for oncoming attack. I used to feel a twinge of fear at the sight of them, but it didn’t take long for that to fade. After all, they knew all too well they didn’t run the streets in this area. I glance down at my gear. All dark leather and canvas pouches, bristling with gear. I’m carrying a backpack that’s far too heavy looking for normal use. There’s no way anypony who sees me doesn’t immediately realize I’m up to no good. To be fair, compared to the pair of thuggish ponies huddled in serious conversation in the dark alley ahead, my garb and activity looked downright tame. I watch as a small package and a bag of bits exchange hooves, the neon policepony oblivious to the obvious drug deal that had just taken place. I let out a chuckle. The police avoid this area like the plague, and the once in a blue moon they show themselves they make sure to keep themselves as far out of trouble as possible, always mirroring the scared looking cop’s actions further down the street: huddle under an awning, jaw clenched, do their best to run out the clock and then immediately run back to headquarters downtown.
The policepony’s eyes drift over the breadth of the street, both parties involved in the drug deal walking away unnoticed. I watch his eyes travel past me, and quickly do a double take. He looks me up and down, eyes flitting over every inch. I stop in my tracks, returning the terrified colt’s glance with a devilish leer. He winces visibly, his gaze quickly returning to the sidewalk in front of him. That’s right, I think to myself. You didn’t see anything. Go back to your so-called patrol. As expected, he does. I watch as he trots further up the street, looking nervously over his shoulder. I walk on, up to the entrance of the Manticore’s Claw.
I’m immediately walloped by the heat pouring out of the bar. The air conditioning still hasn’t been fixed. Nonetheless, the bar’s practically full, sweat dripping from its occupants just like the water that leaked from the ceiling. The patrons all look like they’re having a good time, everypony crowded around the bar, watching and loudly commenting on the rerun of tonight’s hoofball game on the blaring plasma screen TV mounted on the back wall. The Clydes had apparently won handily, lending to the room’s high morale. I spot the bar’s owner quickly. He’s an older unicorn, bulky and visibly muscular wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a sizeable beard. On most nights, Mr. Tavern Barrel looks like a particularly gruff character out of an old action movie, but tonight he’s showing the other side I know so well, his soft, teddy ursa-like personality shining through. He’s got a hoof slung around Mojito Mint, the cute new bartender, who notices me before him and gives me an exasperated smile. I’m sure to return it. Barrel quickly notices Mojito’s change of attention, and flicks his head, salt-and-pepper beard following closely behind. His goofy grin breaks into a full-blown welcoming smile as he spots me.
“Nadia! How’s my favorite griffon girl tonight?” He shouts over the noise of the TV. Half of the patrons sitting at the bar turn and give me at least some form of greeting. As they do so, I pick out several of the patrons now laying out the welcome mat who I distinctly remember having never seen before. I let out a chuckle. It’s more out of drunken respect for the formidable-looking Mr. Barrel than actual recognition of me.
“She’s doing just fine,” I reply. I give my backpack a light pat with my wing. He smiles wide.
“Looks heavy. You oughta let me take that for you,” He jokes. He knows I wouldn’t give it up with my dying breath.
“You know better than that, Tavern. At least not until I get my cut,” I reply with an exaggerated scowl. We both know that I'm only half joking.
He eyes the rest of the bar suspiciously, dropping his hoof from Mojito, who shakes her head with a laugh and moves back to the bar in search of thirsty customers. He motions with his head to the back room. I know the drill. Without a second thought, I hop the bar and head to the office behind the bar. Tavern shuts the door behind me. Despite the fact that exactly 80 percent of the bar’s patrons were themselves embroiled in at least some form of illegal activity, and the other 20 percent didn’t care, Barrel remains terminally paranoid about our side business.
Barrel’s office is nicely appointed; the dark wood paneling, hung art, noir film posters and selection of rich leather chairs doesn’t fit in with the rest of the bar. As far as I know, he’s funded its entire renovation with funds from our jobs. A fan blows wildly in the corner to blow the hot air out of the room.
“There was a cop out there earlier, did he see you?” He asks in a concerned tone as he circles around to his desk. He props his front hooves up on it, looking like a criminal mastermind. I pause to consider that for a second, I suppose technically he is.
“Yeah, of course he saw me. He was barely older than a filly, and his eyes were darting over everything that moved. There’s not a wendigo’s chance in hell he’s gonna report anything, anyway, all he wanted to do was get home," I reply in a distinctly bored tone. Barrel's too careful for his own good.
Barrel sucks in his breath. “I know…but risks are risks, and we all know how much I don’t like taking any when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“Well then, if you ever decide you want to tag along with me on a job, I think you’d come to hate me pretty fast.” I quickly retort.
He chuckles, rolling his eyes emphatically. “Nadia, I don’t even wanna know. But back to the cop—next time, you’ve gotta do something so as to not be seen coming into the place.”
I sigh. The cop didn’t care—he was practically wetting himself. “Whaddaya want me to do? Kill him next time?”
Barrel laughs. “that’s a little extreme. Maybe just come in the back door?”
I shrug. “It’s an option.” I obviously still plan to come in the front door. To get to the back door, I’d have to go down the alley and hop a chain-link fence. It simply isn't worth it.
Barrel eyes my bag with a raised eyebrow, opting to change the subject. “So, the job went well, huh?”
With that, I twist my torso around as I rear onto my paws, unhooking the backpack from my vest. I set it on Barrel’s solid wood desk, where it lands with a heavy thump. I look up at him, watching for his reaction.
“Damn, girl, what’ve you got in there? Bricks?”
I let out a sly grin. He’s staring at me in anticipation. “Try 360,000 bits,” I deadpan.
It takes him a second to register the number I had just disclosed, and once he’s done processing, he flops into his office chair, which sends him rolling back a few hooves. His eyebrows are raised, and his mouth hangs open slightly.
“Holy shit,” is all he can manage. I let out a laugh in quick reply. “That’s the biggest job we’ve ever done.”
“By a longshot,” I add.
He throws his head back into the chair cushion. “That’s 36,000 bits apiece,” He exhales.
“Damn straight!” I reply with a grin. Barrel gets a 10 percent cut of the loot as well, as per our contract. I look up at him. He’s smiling, clearly trying to figure out what to do with his funds. “I sure hope some of that’s going towards fixing the A/C,” I suggest.
He sighs and nods. “It is pretty hot in here, isn’t it?” He asks. He’s visibly sweating, and 'pretty hot' is an understatement. Although noticeably cooler than the rest of the bar thanks to the fan, even his office is well above 80 degrees.
“I don’t know how your customers can stand it,” I reply frankly.
“Yeah, yeah. It's a problem. I’ll call ‘em up in the morning,” he grumbles jokingly. He glances up at the clock above the door. “We’ll divvy this in the morning. I’m gonna hit the sack; it’s way past my bedtime. You’d better too, hell, it’s only 3:00 in the morning.” He gets up from his chair. He stops right in front of me, shaking his head with a smile on his face. “You did great tonight, girl. Any more jobs like this, and we can get our asses out of the ghetto and move on to the bigtime.”
“Thanks, Barrel,” I reply with a grin. “I can’t wait.” My tiredness catches up to me as well. I can feel my eyelids growing heavier by the minute, and I can’t stifle a yawn.
“Goodnight, Nadia,” He says with a sincere smile as he trots to the door. It’s not a common thing for me to initiate what anypony would call “affection”, but I feel compelled to give the big teddy ursa of a pony a hug, which I do, halting him in place by throwing my wings around him and squeezing as he walks by. He smiles, hugging back. “You know,” he says quietly and altogether unexpectedly, “you’re like the daughter I never had.”
I’m faintly astonished, but I do my best not to show it. For a second or two, I literally feel a few warm fuzzies, and I can only reply awkwardly with faint laugh. I think for a second to come up with a proper response. “Love you too, Barrel. See ya in the morning.” I let go of him, and we both exit the room. I head up the stairs behind the bar to the apartments above, and, after locking the door behind him, my backpack safely inside, Barrel goes back to the bar to help Mojito and the others clear the place out for the night.
I smile as I paw my way up the stairs. The exchange only a second before was almost too sweet for me to handle, I realize. Am I starting to go soft? I ask myself. Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing frilly dresses and be signing up for dance lessons . I chuckle as I turn on the landing up to the third floor. I’m not going soft, I’m just part of the family. It feels good. I haven’t been part of anything I’d call a “family” in almost a decade. I sigh, thinking back to my parents. I wonder how they’re doing? I have to stop myself mentally. It’s emotionally too much for me at 3:00 AM. Or possibly ever. In any case, I need sleep.
I let my apartment door swing wide, surveying the scene. My apartment is, as usual, a mess, although to what extent is hidden mostly by the fact that nary a light is on in the whole place. Needless to say, I’m too tired to turn one on, and instead I opt to wiggle out of my entry vest and utility belt and haphazardly throw them onto the couch in the living room. I’d deal with them in the morning. The fur that was under my vest feels matted; I arch my back to get it to fluff up again and let my front claws slide forward into a stretch. I pop my neck, feeling the fatigue of many late nights like this one. My eyes are now far heavier than they were in Barrel’s office. There’s not a chance in hell I’ll be waking up any time prior to noon. I make my way to the bed and throw myself into it. The last thing I remember is my head hitting the pillow.
***
The moon is high in the night sky as the little fledgling slowly paces down the side of the dilapidated street. She has no idea where she is, no idea what time it is, and no idea where she’ll be sleeping tonight. Even her steps seem unsure of themselves. She looks off to her side. A row of dumpsters. Several overflow with garbage. She’d heard of homeless ponies sleeping in them, but they look disgusting. That option is clearly not a good one. A little further up the street on the other side is a motel. A pack of ponies sit around outside. She recognizes the type from school. They were the type she’d tried so hard to avoid. Seedy. Defensive; looking for a fight. They’re all part of a gang. They eye her greedily, like she’s a walking freakshow with their sunken eyes. They have every right to. After all, what’s stranger than a kid griffon walking alone at night in this part of town? The little griffon gulps. That option’s out too.
The noises aren’t what she’s used to. The heavy noise of wagons isn’t heard anywhere, and the pleasant clopping of hooves down the streets is noticeably absent. In fact, the streets are nearly deserted. Those familiar noises are replaced by the sounds of shouting from further up the street and muffled, almost sinister sounding laughter echoing off some buildings behind her. Wind whistles through the alley, and big dogs bark angrily in the distance.
She walks wearily along. She’s come a long way. Where the building used to be beside her is now an empty lot, and the rubble from its demolition still covers the place’s foundation. It looks like it used to be row houses judging by the different colored bricks. If the building was still standing, and if her midnight walk would have happened a week prior, it’s exactly the type of place she’d case. She stops herself. It’s too late. Just like that, all the emotions she’d tried to bury by running away come rushing forth, right there on the sidewalk. She sinks to her knees. Her face goes hot, and the tears follow quickly thereafter. She sobs, her whole body racked with sorrow. Why did I run away? She thinks as the all-encompassing heat in her head subsides enough to let her think. She already knows the answer, but as she lies on the damp concrete it seems so stupid. It was all because of that one thought she’d had just seconds prior as she glanced at the rubble of the torn-down brownstone. She’d been caught. Her parents had found out about her “late night strolls”; they’d found her stash of goods ready for fencing. They’d confronted her, but why? She wasn’t out stabbing anypony; she was just a thief. She hadn’t done anything like her friends had. What’s more, she had even left them! She knew they had turned into trouble. It had been painful, but she had let them slip away. But now even her parents didn’t understand; they didn’t want her. They had shouted and screamed. There was no one left for her. She’d lost any trace of honor she’d ever had with her parents; they couldn’t love her after something like this. So she ran.
Now here she is. Laying on the sidewalk in what had to be the bad part of Phillydelphia in the middle of the night. She briefly considers going home. It would be easy, she’d only have to fly her way up to where she could see above the streets; finding her way back couldn’t be that difficult, despite the distance she’d already traveled. No. That would be even worse. She had chosen her path the minute she’d climbed out the window. Going back on it would be the coward’s way. She’s not a coward. Tears still streaming down her face, she picks herself up. Laying on the sidewalk isn’t going to get her anywhere except for into trouble. She stands shakily. Her mind is made up, but her legs aren’t quite agreeing with her yet. She takes a stuttering breath, punctuated by a nervous gulp. Her first few steps are stumbling, but she evens herself out quickly. She walks on.
It’s not long before she stops again. Not due to another breakdown; no, it’s her self-taught observance that causes her to halt. Judging by the looks of it, it’s a bar. It’s a strange name; it’s called the Manticore’s Claw. But it’s nearly perfect. It’s got three stories. Her entrance would be simple, the windows on the top floor look like they’re about ready to pop out of their frames, and from there, she could see what the place had to offer, be it either a place to hole up for the night or something to sell so she could eat tomorrow. She pauses to consider what she’d just determined without having ever had the conscious thought to do so. Isn’t this what got me into this in the first place? She thinks. It obviously is. But what else is she to do? She’s got nowhere to go, and she can feel herself growing more tired by the minute. She smiles. Maybe it’s spite, maybe it’s desperation, and it could be her intuition, but she knows what she has to do. Thievery may have caused the trouble she’s in, but it just might get her out of it tonight.