I snap out of the daze I’d fallen into on the way back to the Manticore’s Claw, taking a deep breath as I let myself fall to the sidewalk, paws catching the pavement at a run towards the front door, which I throw myself through. I’d startled Mojito, who’d quickly positioned herself defensively behind the table she’d been cleaning.
“Where’s Barrel?” I ask breathlessly, walking towards the bar without stopping to talk.
She pauses for a second to figure out what she’s being asked. “He just got back from the market—what’s going on?”
“I don’t have time to explain right now, Mojito, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, uh—”
I breeze past her, vaulting over the bar and into Barrel’s office, where he’s arranging poster tubes along the back wall. He turns to me immediately with a look of confusion as I let the door swing wide and stride through.
“Barrel, I can’t do it.”
“You can’t do what?” He asks in reply, bracing his front hooves on his desk.
I let out an exasperated breath. “The job, Barrel. The job with our new client.”
“Wait, what? Why not?” He asks. His look is one of disappointment, now mixed with his earlier confusion.
“Barrel, it’s my parents. The targets are my parents.”
There’s a pause that I swear lasts about two minutes.
“Oh, Celestia.”
I can’t think of anything to reply with. There’s nothing to be said but the same sentiment. I stare at him, waiting for an answer I’m fairly sure he doesn’t have—I know I’m empty. Barrel flops into his chair, which rolls back a few hooves, before letting his head fall.
“So, what now?” He asks in a mumble, head still hanging.
I consider my options for a moment. Going through with the job is obviously out. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’ll do anything to harm my kin, regardless of whatever rung on the social ladder they have me pegged at. But, beyond that—inaction is the same as harm, however indirect. “I’ve got to help them,” I reply.
Barrel sits back up, giving me a long, searching stare. “Nadia…” he exhales.
“What?”
“You can’t help them.”
My eyes refocus on Barrel and my expression draws into a scowl. “And why’s that?” I growl.
He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “Nadia, think about the client we’re dealing with here. If this were some small-time half-wit like what we’re used to, I’d tell you to waltz in the front door and give your folks a big ol’ beaky kiss and help ‘em however you see fit, but look—this is the same client who knew we finished a job before we contacted them to tell them that we had finished the damn job! These ponies aren’t bush-league. They’re connected, and I’d give them about a ninety five percent chance of having surveillance on just about everypony, and in this case, every griffon, who’s ever crossed them. Based on what they’ve said in their letters, whoever they are, they’re not the sort to hold off on violence. Nadia, it’s simple. We leave your parents alone, we walk away from the client and don’t do the job—your claws are clean.” He pauses, shaking his head. “Sure, it’ll destroy whatever chance we’ve got of getting out of this dump, but we’ll survive, I mean, I’ve been here for so long I don’t know if I’d be able to leave even if we could…” he lets his voice trail off.
He’s right on every point but one. “Barrel, that’s just the thing. My claws wouldn’t be clean.”
“Why not?” He asks emphatically.
It’s my turn to shake my head. “I can’t sit by and watch my parents get robbed.” Oh, the irony.
Barrel lets out a prolonged sigh that sounds more like a death rattle. The expression on his face doesn’t look much better. “Shit,” he mutters. “You’re one stubborn bird, you know that? Well, I can’t stop you. I just want you know that this is a can of worms unlike any other you’ve ever opened before.”
I’m unsure of exactly what he means. My stare—which I know is probably piercing right through him—can’t help but give that away. “What are you saying, Barrel?” I eye him suspiciously. “And why do I get the feeling you really don’t want to help with this?”
“Come on, girl, you know better than that. Of course I’ll help you.” He cracks a wry smile. “You’re the closest thing to family I’ve got,” he says. His expression sobers. “As for what I mean, I mean this will be difficult. I’ll help you as much as I can, how I can, but you’ve gotta be absolutely on point for all of this, ok? I know you’re good, but this has to be a cut above every job you’ve ever done. And…” he pauses, glancing up at me. “At the end, it comes to a decision. You should know that your folks can’t stay here. Not in Phillydelphia, probably not in the whole eastern half of Equestria. The decision is: are you going to stay with me, or will you go with them and start all over?”
It’s the mother of all loaded questions, and although its intent isn’t lost on me, I don’t take any offense. I’d ask the same in his situation. I chuckle faintly—do I stay or do I go? Well, it doesn’t take me long to decide. “I’m staying with you, Barrel, you should know that by now,” I smile. “Whatever it is in my blood that makes me want to do what I do, it’s in yours too. Besides, I’m the closest you’ve got to family, right?”
“Yeah, Nadia.” He shakes his head. “Thanks. Well, alright then. We need to get to work, and the first thing you need to do is let your parents know you’re helping them. Looks like another break-in for you, girl. You up for it?”
“You’d better believe it.”
***
The flight back to my parent’s store is done based on pure muscle memory, I don’t know if I’d be able to navigate the route by any other way, as the nighttime lights bathe the area in a disorienting glow.
The process of getting ready before I’d taken flight tonight had also been run on nothing but pure autopilot—typically I take a second to check each piece of gear as I prepare and stow it, but tonight had been different. Understandably, I’m feeling a little preoccupied thanks to the fairly unique circumstances I’m up against tonight, although I’m quite certain I’d packed everything I’ll need.
As I come in on final approach, my raptor vision is working overtime, searching for any signs of surveillance by our client once I fly over the intersection that’s home to the storefront. Suspicious looking pegasi on rooftops, surveillance cameras pointed in the wrong direction, anything. None of those are present, but in my business, paranoia pays. There’s no way I’m going in the front door. Rather than landing on the same roof I had before, the rooftop that’s home to the radio station, I fly past my parent’s shop, landing on the tiled roof of a fairly swanky-looking apartment building that stands behind it. Another rooftop scan reveals still nothing in the way of noticeable surveillance—if there is anypony watching the store, they’re either slacking or professional, I can’t tell which.
I peer off the edge of the apartment building down to the alley below, wide enough for a wagon loaded with goods to be drawn into and unloaded at the shipping door of my parent’s import shop. Without a second thought, I drop down into it, slowing myself only slightly by unfurling my wings as I fall. A few mares, clearly liquored-up club rats, trot past at the alley’s mouth only about ten meters away, utterly oblivious to my presence. I wait until their giggling fades before I unroll my lockpick set from my entry vest and set to work, pausing to adjust my backpack so it’s not flopping around my shoulder as I work. Much like just about every other lock I’ve had to pick in the last three months, it’s dead simple and takes me relatively no time at all to get through. Within a minute, I’ve got my claw on the knob—but I freeze.
I take a deep breath— jittery nerves during a mission are one thing, but this is different. I hadn’t seen, much less talked to, and much much less helped my parents in well over nine years. In fact, I’d done everything I could to block them out of my mind altogether after my departure—understandably, my heart is both residing in my throat and fluttering all at once. A faint tingle courses down my arm as I twist the doorknob, and even more so at the fact that it gives immediately, as if inviting me in. The crackle of a metro policepony’s walkie-talkie from the street behind me makes me immediately drop the indecision and take its invitation.
I’m in the store’s stockroom, which I’m somewhat saddened to see is practically devoid of goods. Beyond some old, fairly cheap looking classic-style Griffonian stoneware stacked in a corner and a few crates of what’s labeled (and what I can faintly smell) “assorted smoked meats”, there isn’t much of interest. It’s somewhat telling of the condition of the store—what’s here certainly isn’t enough to turn much of a profit. I’m willing to assume the “sizeable loan” my parents have accrued means the store’s been going under for quite some time. I let out a sigh. Yet another example of history repeating itself—what’s happening here is almost exactly the same situation that drove my family out of Griffonia in the first place.
Continuing forward out of the stockroom reveals a slightly more pleasant picture despite the darkness it’s bathed in: the storefront itself looks to be in good condition, brightly colored and somewhat well-stocked. I smile at the antique cash register, its brass casing reflects the light from the streetlights outside as it sits on the polished wood counter—it’s one of the only things my father had brought when we’d immigrated. I take note of a number of plaques hanging on the wall behind the counter—“Phillydelphia’s Best Specialty Store”, “Phillydelphia Herald’s Top 50”, among others. Despite the awards, I can’t help but feel that the pleasant vibe the store gives off is nothing more than a façade with the knowledge of how the place is really performing.
I spot the stairwell behind the counter, hidden behind a display shelf for various Griffonian knickknacks—a small assortment of stoneware, ceramic cups and the like. I’m assuming my parent’s apartment is above the store, like most others here in the city. I carefully flap my way over the counter, landing gently on the tile floor with a faint click from my talons, and make my way up the stairs, which are unforgivingly creaky. However, what noise I make is likely deadened by the closed door at the top of the stairs, and the conversating voices that lay behind it.
The voices definitely belong to my parents. I recognize my father’s deep, booming timbre and my mom’s slight accent right away. I press my ear to the door, their muffled tones quickly becoming clear enough that I can make out the conversation without much trouble.
“—don’t know how we’re going to do it,” My mother sighs.
“Me neither, Svenja. Dear goddesses, why is this happening again? We both know how hard we’ve tried and how far we’ve come, only for more of the same.” My father laments.
“I think moving here was the mistake, Peter. The loan—we both know it’s what’s causing all of this. Those thugs, and the so-called “collection agents”—how much longer can we take it? How much longer will they let us go between payments?”
There’s a pause. “Not long. The pony that came by today—it’s the same one that’s been by the last few times—he said they wanted the next payment by tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” My mom utters. There’s a sound of weight shifting in a chair. One of the two of them has slumped over.
Even with no knowledge of the specifics of their businesses’ finances, I know it’s unlikely they’ll have the funds. Considering my mother’s concerned reaction, I’d be willing to bet on it, and I don’t bet often.
“How much do they expect?” she continues.
“Thirty percent more than normal,” My father replies.
“We’ll never be able to do it,” she states morosely.
I’d be in the money if there had been any on my bet. The cogs turning in my brain also determine my client’s plan of action as their conversation comes to a prolonged, tense pause. I’ve been given two days—one of which is quickly drawing to a close—to complete the mission, and the client knows that I always operate at night. Clearly, the goal is for him (or, more likely, a lackey of his—or hers, or theirs) to visit in order to receive the payment (they?) know won’t come, and then have me trash the store in retribution.
In any respect, I’d heard about enough. I slowly remove my ear from the door, feeling the butterflies in my stomach—they’re alive and quite well, it seems. I raise my claw, shaking ever so slightly to the doorknob and turn, hearing the dying conversation on the other side of the door come to an abrupt halt. I stand in the doorway, feeling my stomach churn as the door swings open. Although I know it lasts only seconds, the utter silence that permeates the room feels like at least an hour. My parents are seated in the small breakfast nook at the old dinner table I remember from so many years ago, it’s old, abused wooden surface now covered in important-looking financial paperwork. They stare at me, eyes wide.
Both of my parents have aged visibly; my father the most noticeably. His deep tawny feathers have grayed, and he’s developed a sizeable number of new wrinkles. My mother, who had already looked as though she was on the verge of tears when I entered, begins sobbing violently. She’s aged as well, but much more gracefully, her white feathers and light coat looking only faintly silver.
“N…Nadia?” My father stumbles after looking me up and down, his deep voice faltering.
The butterflies are still there; I can feel them trying to violently escape. Staring right back at my father, feeling frightened, scared and confused tears welling in my eyes, I answer. “Yeah.” It’s the only response that comes into my head.
He’s visibly struggling for what to say next. “How—How’d you get in?” He asks confusedly.
I smile weakly in response. “You out of anyone should know,” I say, feeling an ounce of bravado return.
He looks away for a moment, his wings ruffling slightly. “Ah,” he says. My mother looks up, sniffling slightly. She glances at him, and back to me. My father looks back to me as well, wearing a small smile. “Well, welcome home, Nadia.”
There’s most definitely not a lack of moisture in my eyes for a moment as I relish what he’s just said. It almost makes me want to reconsider my promise to Barrel, but I stop myself despite the subconscious smile I’m wearing. I take a deep breath. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” I say, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “I thought I’d lost my honor.” I have to make sure this is real.
My father winces visibly, turning away. My mother looks up at me. “Nadia, we made a mistake that night. I know the both of us have regretted what we said to you since the minute you walked out the door.”
Father turns back around, tears in his eyes. “It’s not about honor. Your mother is right—I’ve torn myself to pieces over ever thinking it was. It’s about family, and while your choices may not be…may not be what we’d ever consider to be right…the fact is, you’re our daughter and there’s nothing that can ever make that stop.” He looks at me intently, tears welling in his eyes. “I think I speak for both of us when I ask you for forgiveness. If—if you want, you’re more than welcome to come back to us. We love you, Nadia, and we’ve missed you.”
Those tears that had accumulated in my eyes couldn’t hold back any longer, and I smile as they stream down my face, doing my best to choke down that lump so I can reply during the pause that ensues, both of my parents looking at me lovingly for the first time in a very long time, which is giving me the unfamiliar feeling of “warm fuzzies” unlike ever before. It’s odd: any trace of worry at their predicament or even why I’d arrived in the first place is completely absent. It’s almost as if I’m the only thing that matters, and their attention is on the verge of becoming an overload for me. “I—of—of course I forgive you,” I croak. “and uh, I love you too.” I stop for a second. They want me to stay—it’s quite obvious. But I have work to do. “But I can’t stay here with you, at least not like…permanently.”
Despite their smiles and the visible happiness that their prodigal daughter has returned, I can see the disappointment at the fact that I won’t be sticking around. “Why can’t you stay?” My mother asks.
I roll my neck on my shoulders, feeling it pop noisily. “I’m here to help you escape.”
“Escape what?” father replies.
“Your debt.” I grimace faintly at their surprised and confused reactions. “Let me explain. You know the reason why I, uh, left in the first place? Well, I do that for a living now. I’m a professional thief. How I got in? I let myself in through the…locked back door. The only reason why I’m here, why I know about your problem, is thanks to my new client, who just turns out to be the loan shark that gave you that loan they want repayment on. They hired me to trash your store since you can’t repay it when they want you to.”
“Trash our store?” mother asks in shock. “Oh, Nadia…this is how you earn a living?”
I exhale and ignore the second part of her question. “Obviously, I’m not here to trash your store. I'm here to help. I’m gonna get you out of here.”
“Hold on, Nadia. Where will we go?” My father asks.
“Anywhere. Just out of Phillydelphia. Whoever these ponies are—”
“The Faceless, that’s what they call themselves. Or at least what we were told,” My father interjects.
The Faceless. The name is certainly appropriate and altogether disconcerting. I pause to shake it off and recollect my thoughts. “You have to leave Phillydelphia, that’s all that matters right now. We’ll get train tickets in the morning.”
My mother lets out a deep sigh. “Nadia…I don’t know if we can go through leaving our home again, much less losing you again so quickly.”
I wince. They’ve been through all this before. “I know, mom. But…it’s gotta be done. But like I was saying, these ponies don’t play around. If you can’t pay back the loan on their terms, they’ll kill you. Wrecking your store is only the beginning—it’s just a message.”
There’s a pause. My father leans back in his chair, eyes shut and wings limp, while my mother does the opposite, she begins to look angry. I can’t help but smile even in light of the circumstances; neither of them have changed at all— my mother, despite her downright motherly outward demeanor, houses one of the hardest heads I’ve ever encountered (a trait which I can say that I’ve inherited). My father’s reaction is also typical of the logical, calm, if slightly docile manner he possesses. I could count the number of times I've seen him react in anger on one hand
“She’s right, Svenja. I think that cutting our losses would be the wisest move to make here. We’re strong, dear, we’ll survive this again,” My father says, looking morosely at his wife.
My mother snorts. “I’m tired of just surviving. I’m tired of moving.”
“But Svenja, you heard your daughter. You and I both know this business will never make enough money to pay back that loan…that means they’ll try to kill us. Just surviving is a hell of a lot better than not,” My father replies, causing my mother to visibly relent, looking defeated. He turns back to me. “Nadia, I’m so glad to see you, but this is so…sudden and unexpected.”
“I know, dad,” I say. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”
“Just seeing you at all is enough, dear. And what you’re doing for us, even after—” He lets his voice trail off, his eyes filling with tears once again.
“Sweetheart, stay with us tonight,” my mother says in a cross between pleading and demanding, the way only a mother can. I open my mouth to protest. I’m slightly worried about the safety in staying—my paranoia of surveillance is getting the better of me, but my mother frowns. “Nadia, please.”
“Alright. And we’re leaving in the morning, right?” I ask to ensure her agreement with my father.
“Yes, dear. It goes against everything I’ve ever known, but we’ll leave. Your father is right, just surviving is better than the alternative.” She bobs her head ambivalently, giving me a slightly strained smile. “Anyway, dear, I’ll go set up the futon in the living room.” I glance around the room for a clock, settling on the old analog clock built into the antique oven. It’s somewhere around 11:45, likely well past my aging parent’s bedtime.
“I think we’ve had just about enough excitement for one night,” my dad agrees, confirming my theory. It’s definitely bedtime, but needless to say I’m not at all tired. Nonetheless, I’ll humor them.
Not even fifteen minutes later, my parents are wishing me goodnight repeatedly and retreating to their bedroom, as I sit on the multiple layers of comforters, throws and blankets my mother had assembled for me. It’s not long before I’m alone with my thoughts and the faint noise of the city outside. I smile to myself. Today has unquestionably been one among the top ten in the category of “odd.” The sheer coincidence of having our secretive client—The Faceless, as my father had called them, finding both me and my parents is extreme, to say the least. But, more importantly, my parents hadn’t had any trouble at all accepting me back, practically with open arms. I exhale deeply, a little moisture finding its way into my eyes. It feels good—not the tears, but the fact that the nine year period I’d gone without my parents was finally at an end. I feel whole again; I’ve regained something I wasn’t even aware I’ve been missing. The sheer animosity I’d felt towards them had been for naught, and my attempts to forget them entirely are leading me towards a sense of shame, which I’m fairly quick to crush. I’m not about to let the mistakes I’d made get in the way of how I’m feeling tonight.
I prop my arms behind me as I lay back on the futon, I do my best to make sense of how tomorrow’s going to play out. I’m almost considering actually going through with wrecking the store. With my parents hopefully on their way to a new home, the state of the store is basically irrelevant. Perhaps it’s out of a need to absolve my parents or maybe it’s just my insatiable curiosity, but I’ve got to investigate this group called The Faceless further, and the only way that can happen is if I continue to work for them. Beyond that, the paycheck at the end of the job definitely doesn’t hurt. I can’t help but smile and close my eyes as I relax, feeling a few warm-fuzzies run through me. Everything’s falling into place.
***
The sound of hooves clopping outside awakes me from the first dreamless sleep I’ve had in months. I keep my eyes shut; I’m not looking forward to the pain that will inevitably come from the blindingly bright morning sun I’m certain is streaming in through the window behind the futon. Eyes still shut, I frown; I’m somewhat amazed I’d fallen asleep in the first place. I’d only shut my eyes for a second. I let one eye open just a crack—there is no light. And the hooves keep moving, coming down the street at a rapid pace. Right when their noise and speed reach a crescendo, they quickly slow, and come to a halt. My eyes open wide and I glance around aimlessly in the pitch black room, momentarily unsure of where I am in it, if only for a brief moment before I spot the faintly backlit clock I’d checked earlier on the stove, the time on which now reads somewhere around 3:00. No more noise can be heard from outside. Probably just a random passer-by, I rationalize. I’ll bet it’s some poor insomniac out trying to tire himself out. Nonetheless, I sit up in bed. The sudden stop in the hoofsteps is odd; I listen fruitlessly for whoever it is to start walking away. Instead, contrary to all logic, there’s a loud rapping at the door downstairs. I bolt upright, throwing myself out of the bed. My parent’s door creaks open.
It’s my mom. She’s staring at me with a worried expression, half in and half out of the bedroom. “Nadia, who is it?” she asks.
I shake my head, stepping over to the window and opening a crack in the shutter in a failed attempt to see who’s outside. “No idea, mom.” I let the shutter flick shut as I remove my claw and look back at my mother. “Stay there. I’ll go check it out.”
After making only a few steps towards the stairs, whoever it is knocks again, staccato bursts, a forceful hoof on hard wood. I freeze, and shortly after that, the knocking stops again. Our visitor doesn’t bother to knock again. The sound of shattering glass resonates from downstairs.