“Nadia, how in the hell are we supposed to do this?” Mojito asks nervously. I peel my eyes away from the viewfinder on my camera to see her looking back at me for reassurance, the pair of binoculars I’d given her propped on the roof’s ledge. “I mean, the plan will work, right?”
“So long as there’s not any little surprises waiting for us in there, yeah, the plan oughta work.” I look back into the viewfinder for a second, the pony I’d scoped out still in position. I shoot my gaze back to her, eyes struggling to refocus momentarily. “As for your first question, well…if you don’t feel like you’re up to it,” I chuckle faintly. “that’s a problem.”
She chuckles back nervously, giving me a nervous grin. I feel her pain—the nerves before the first few jobs I’d pulled were nigh-on unbearable. She sighs shakily; she’s trembling slightly. It’s a mixture of fear and excitement I know all too well. There’s a certain giddiness about doing something you know good and well will equate to decades in prison—not so much from the act itself or the danger, but the fact that you know good and well that it is indeed possible. And that giddiness, despite everything else, has me feeling almost normal again, if only for a while. I give her a reassuring smile back in earnest. If I have her figured out right, she’s not going to back down.
“I-I’m up to it,” she stutters, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She stares back down her binoculars embarrassedly.
“That’s what I want to hear,” I say reassuringly, ignoring her nerves—I know that in her situation I’d want all the assurance I could get. The funny thing is, though: regardless the bravado I feel like I’m displaying to her, having Mojito along is somewhat frightening in its own right. I’ve never had anypony I’d consider a protégé, or, Sisters forbid, a sidekick. I’m going based purely on what I think will help her along, with a small smattering of what I think sounds good.
“Truth is, I need you to be up to it,” I add. That part isn’t bravado. Self-reliance may be a virtue, but Celestia herself knows there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’d be able to make this breakout work alone.
“I mean, excuse my nerves,” she shakes her head, laughing to herself softly. “It’s just that I’ve never been part of a jailbreak before.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
There’s a lull in the conversation, during which we both return to our optics. I hadn’t been expecting anything more than a skeleton crew this late at night, and I’m relieved to see that a skeleton crew is exactly what we’re dealing with. The vast majority of Phillydelphia’s finest are asleep in their beds, and apparently the city jail’s staff is no exception.
“How many guards have you got?” Mojito asks. I smile faintly. Considering the facts, I’m being led to believe Mojito has more experience in my area of business than she’s letting on. Despite her excusable nerves, she’d been knowledgeable and helpful throughout the rushed and difficult planning and reconnaissance phases, and besides those excusable nerves, she’s made nary a peep during the hour and a half we’d been camped on this rooftop. On top of all that, she hadn’t raised a single eyebrow at her role in the mission, however unsavory. She knows what she’s doing.
“I’ve got six visible,” I reply, glancing over at her. “You know, Mojito, you haven’t told me much about your history. In fact, you haven’t told me anything at all,” I add.
Mojito gives me a broad grin. I can’t help but return it, if only a little. “No I haven’t. I never said I was clean. Not to change the subject or anything, but if we’ve got six guards visible that means there’s at least double that on duty.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself. I take one last look at the facility through my viewfinder; a final check. The prison is almost pitch black, the light disparity between the darkness of the prison and the bright amber lights of the industrial facilities on either side of the gigantic, block-encompassing compound makes it somewhat difficult to spot guards as they move. However, I’ve done enough reconnaissance to know that the four towers that mark the corners of the six-meter tall wall are empty; the only guard with any vantage point to speak of is the pony sitting in a lawn chair on the roof, apparently on his smoke break. Nopony else on guard had apparently noticed his absence, as he’s on at least his sixth cigarette since he’d come out onto the roof. The orange glow of one of the earlier ones had been what had alerted me to his presence in the first place. Unfortunately for him, his peaceful night up on the roof is about experience an abrupt interruption.
“You ready?” I ask, slowly rising to my feet.
Mojito’s quick to follow suit, grabbing the binoculars with her teeth and slinging them my way. “Ready as I’m gonna be,” she replies cautiously, breathing noisily and limbering herself up for what she’s about to do.
“It’ll be easy,” I say, catching and packing the binoculars into my backpack. “All you’ve got to do is make a scene. And remember, I’ve got your back.” I grit my teeth momentarily. Mojito’s part in the plan leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth—I can’t help but feel slightly treacherous. She hadn’t complained, however, when I got into what it entailed for her, and I’m quick to rationalize my dissatisfaction with it as a whole by telling myself that desperate times call for desperate measures. Considering the plan was created from beginning to end in approximately six hours simultaneously makes me feel like it’s well constructed considering the time constraint and terrifies me at the same time. I shake my head. There’s no time for second guessing now.
“I got this,” Mojito says to herself. She’s still shivering slightly, but I have reason to believe she’ll pull through.
“Yes you do,” I reply, looking at her to get her attention. She looks up at me and smiles nervously, nodding in acknowledgement. “Remember, go on my signal.”
“Roger that.” She nods again curtly.
I peer over the edge of the rooftop. It’s a solid twenty meter drop. I’ll have a lot of fall time to pick up momentum. “See you on the other side, Mojito.”
I jump.
One, two, three, I count as the wind roars around me and my stomach drops out of instinct—my wings are solidly clenched shut. At the last instant, I release my wings from my side and pull them open, angling downward out of my freefall to gain more speed and stay well out of the line of sight of anypony inside the walls of the prison. I’m across the street in a matter of a second, and I swoop upward with a vigorous flap to clear the razor-wire topped outer wall and then the flat roofline of the prison itself with only inches to spare, slaloming around the rooftop A/C units and water tanks which stand between the still-oblivious guard pony and I. I accelerate, wings beating furiously to cross the now open expanse between the two of us, stretching my arms wide into a headfirst tackle. I figure I’m going about twenty miles an hour when the guard spots me, and his eyes widen in pure shock. I don’t even attempt to slow myself before plowing into him; he’s about halfway out of his chair when I tuck my head and let my shoulder take the impact. It’s like a hammer hitting a bowl of pudding—there’s simply no resistance as I follow through, bringing his limp form to the gravel rooftop without problem. He’s out like a light from the impact, and it’s a two-meter long slide as the two of us lose momentum and grind to a halt on the rough gravel roof.
I stand, brushing bits of gravel out of my coat and cracking my neck, groaning slightly at the road rash I’d received from the slide, before dragging the unconscious guard into a darkened corner. I withdraw my ridiculously bright LED flashlight from my backpack and step back out into the open rooftop, flicking the flashlight on and off in a quick duo of bursts in Mojito’s direction—that’s the all-clear. She sends a pair of bursts back from the flashlight we’d found earlier in the Manticore’s Claw, she’s ready too. She hops off the roof, and I watch her touch down on the sidewalk below without issue, and trot towards the compound’s main entrance.
Phase 1 is now officially complete, and I breathe a short sigh of relief. It’s a small victory, considering the amount of work left, but it’s a victory nonetheless. Out of paranoia I check the towers once more, peering intently into each of the four for any signs of movement—but like before, there is none. Time for phase 2: I spot Mojito still trotting down the sidewalk, so there’s still time for me to flap my way over to the rooftop above the entrance to insure the coast’s clear there as well.
The entry to the prison is imposing; it looks like it would ordinarily be very well guarded—I’m unable to count the number of layers of chain-link fence, but I can guarantee the figure’s somewhere north of ten, each with its own razor-wire topping. Despite all the metalwork, there’s not a single guard to be seen. I’m able to spot a few security cameras, though, but they won’t offer much advantage; all Mojito’s got to do is get into the lobby. She’s still got a slight distance to cover, but it doesn’t take her a minute to cross the street and make her way over to the entrance. I whistle down to her, and she’s quick to flick her head up to look my way. I give her a thumb’s up, she’s clear to enter. She waves, and starts forward through the maze of fence—that means I have to hurry. I throw myself into the air, flying towards the rooftop access near where I’d tackled the lone rooftop sentry. As I touch down at the door, I’m able to confirm he’s still out cold—the fact that he’s snoring give me the idea that there’s a good chance he won’ be up until the sun is.
I pry open a pocket on my entry vest, withdrawing the old familiar roll of lock picks. I’ve got to work fast, and it’s not more than thirty seconds before the door swings wide and my roll’s back in my vest, save for my tension wrench. I get the feeling I’ll be needing it shortly. The stairwell’s dimly lit; there’s a single bulb mounted to the wall at the foot of the stairs, and sure enough, there’s a vent for the facility’s A/C system right next to it. I hover at eye level to the vent, setting to work on removing the cover. That tension wrench does indeed come in handy—it’s an acceptable substitute for a screwdriver, and the four screws tinkle to the floor one by one.
At this point, there’s two ways this can go: it can either be easy or nigh-on impossible levels of difficult. Judging by the size of the vent in question, I’m actually leaning towards easy—it’s a fair bit larger than I’d been expecting. I set a claw down on the inside of the metal duct, pressing slightly, expecting the thin metal to warp, then rebound with a loud clang—but there’s no give. It’s solid as a rock. I grin. Easy it is. I certainly can’t complain. I hadn’t taken into account the age of the facility—the ductwork must have been installed back before ponies realized that they could skimp on quality when dealing with government work. I hoist myself inside, nonplussed at the fact that the grating for the vent’s lying on the floor suspiciously, since the chances of anypony coming up here is incredibly slim. As I walk forward, I barely even have to crouch to walk comfortably inside the ductwork. I continue forward for three or four meters and I’m met with a straight drop off, but rather than carefully cross it, I opt to head down it.
Using the pads on my paws for tension on either side of the duct, I’m able to work my way down the shaft, and quietly to boot. This is going better than I had expected. Just as I reach the bottom, the heater kicks on, a rush of hot wind coursing through the ductwork behind me and a loud buzz making the metal resonate slightly. Well, that’s dandy. I’ll be the first to acknowledge that Phillydelphia nights are cold, but not enough to merit a heater. I grimace, looking up at the fan at the top of the duct I’d just descended, but I shrug it off, accepting that a little sweat won’t kill me. Now on the first floor, I head in the opposite direction from the way I had started off in up above—towards the lobby, where Mojito should be arriving shortly. Phase 2, for me, at least, is to provide cover for the majority of Mojito’s role in the prison break. I’m to provide overwatch while she is hopefully able to suitably distract a majority of the guards on duty.
It’s not long before I’m in position, judging by the fake trees and collection of dilapidated chairs I see below through the grating. I’m willing to assume they don’t have either of those set up willy-nilly throughout the rest of the facility, so this must be the lobby. Not long after I take up my position, I hear a door creak open somewhere outside my narrow field of vision. Mojito’s right on time. I hear her hoofsteps slowly move further into the lobby—beyond the noise of her walking, the lobby’s still dead silent. Shit. I may have spoken too soon when I said this was going exactly to plan. If nopony’s around for Mojito to distract, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of the mission and dealing with guards as they come. Needless to say it wouldn’t be pretty, much less subtle.
Mojito cautiously trots into my field of view. I tap lightly on the metal ductwork with my claw to get her attention, and it doesn’t take more than a pair of the metallic ticks before she glances briefly up at the grating before returning to pacing around the lobby. I assuming she’s spotted some security cameras and she’s wisely trying to keep from giving away my position by not staring up at the ceiling for too long. “Hey, Nadia,” she says calmly from halfway around the room.
“Lobby’s empty, isn’t it?” I ask dully.
“Yeah,” she says, voice now coming from the other side of the room. “I was all ready to go, too.”
“Well, you know what to do,” I say, hoping she does actually know what to do.
She chuckles gently, and plants herself dead center in lobby, and clears her throat. I immediately develop a wide grin. She does know what to do.
“HEY!” She screams. “ARALL YOU PIGSH ASHLEEP?” She’s even adding in a drunken slur. Beautiful. Almost immediately, I hear the sound of hooves sprinting towards the lobby echoing through the ductwork. “HELLO? I’VE—I’VE BEEN A BAAAD PONY, AN’ I WANNA BE LOCKED UP!” I hear the door on the opposite side of the lobby, deeper into the prison, open quickly, the sound of at least a half dozen policeponies clambering through.
“Ma’am, we’re gonna need for you calm down,” one of them orders nervously from somewhere near the end of the lobby.
“I’M NOT CALMIN’ DOWN FOR ANYPONY, I’M HERE ‘CAUSE I WANNA TURN MYSELF IN!” She shouts. I’m having trouble stifling laughter, but I know she’s putting everything on the line and she trusts I’ll be ready to act if this situation escalates.
“Miss—”
“I’M NOT YOUR MISS, MISTER.”
“Ma’am,” one of the policeponies enunciates clearly, “you can’t just turn yourself in because you had a few too many.”
“I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT!” She projects, rearing up on her back hooves, and leaning into a seemingly drunken upright run. She’s apparently aimed herself squarely at one of the policeponies; I hear her run headlong into one of them in a rough tackle. There’s the sound of a scuffle, the ponies shouting commands to each other and Mojito indiscriminately. Mojito’s growling loudly, sounding every bit like a pony locked into a drunken rage. It’s not long, however, before the lot of them are able to subdue her. According to what one of them was coaching from the sidelines, they’ve got her in some sort choke hold.
“You wanted to be booked, well congratulations, you’re booked now,” one of police says authoritatively. Mojito lets out a muffled groan, seemingly under a pile of officers, and I scoff quietly to myself. Not for long. The sound of cuffs being slapped on jangles loudly from below and only a few seconds later I hear a few of the ponies dragging her off to “processing,” which I’ll be the first to admit sounds terrifying. There’s another brief pang of guilt for doing this to her, but it’s quick to fade, especially with the conversation I pick up after she’s carted further into the building.
“Hey, where’s Shackles and uh—what’s his name—the new guy?” One of the two remaining ponies in the lobby asks the other. “I never knew Shackles to be one to turn down excitement like this,” he adds with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I can honestly say this is the first time that’s happened. We keep this shit up and maybe you won’t have such a hard time staying awake on your rounds?” They both laugh. “Oh, and last I heard, Shackles’ over in the interrogation room with that unicorn we booked last night as an accomplice to that murder-arson case with the griffons. I think the new guy’s with him, Shackles said he’d show him the ropes.”
“Oh, ok. I guess I was just making sure that that crazy bitch hadn’t murdered them on their rounds or something,” the other jokes. They laugh again, and their conversation is cut short by more screaming coming from inside. It’s Mojito again. I swear I’ll have to give her a promotion. The two policeponies run in, and I follow, padding quietly against the hot artificial wind blowing through the ductwork.
Phase 2’s gone almost without a hitch. If this keeps up, all three of us will be out of here in less than fifteen minutes. It’s not long before I pass what must be the “processing” area—Mojito, now strapped into a sturdy-looking metal chair, which I note with a grimace looks like a cross between a hospital stretcher and an electric chair, is being read her rights by a surly looking officer, and she’s looking back at her cross eyed. As I pass, the pony finishes, motioning for a few others to “take her to cell 34”. Thank you very much, I reply mentally.
I spend about another 5 minutes locating the interrogation room. Thankfully, it’s on the first floor, so I don’t have to go climbing, but I’ll admit it’s been an adventure finding the room itself. It’s tucked in the far back corner of the facility, and I’ve had to pass over about a dozen holding cells—many of which had been occupied by sleeping miscreants— just to get here. But now I’ve got a great view yet again from the ductwork of the small observation room, lined with computer monitors, all displaying different angles of the brightly lit interrogation room itself. Doubtless there’s a dozen cameras set up in the small room, but somehow I get the feeling they’re all linked to the observation room. After all, I imagine it’s not conducive to business for many ponies to see what goes on in here should the “conversations” get a little heated. As promised, there’s one pony in the observation room, and considering his cutie mark looks like a four-leaf clover, I’m willing to bet his name’s not Shackles.
My heart skips a beat as I see the pony on the other side of the one-way glass. I exhale, surprised to feel a few tears well up in my eyes. Barrel’s sitting, chained to the table in the interrogation room, having what looks like an entertaining staring match with Shackles, whose cutie mark is as advertised. The interrogator is himself seemingly a large block of muscle wearing a sizeable coat of fat. I almost have to wonder if his method of interrogation is exactly what I’m seeing on the other side of the glass: staring at his prey until it breaks out of sheer intimidation. It won’t be long now, I think to myself, wishing I could tell that to the burly unicorn in person. I blink the tears out of my eyes. I shake my head. This is no time to get emotional. I turn my gaze away from the glass and look back to the “new guy”, who’s manning the monitors—which is to say, he’s in the process of dozing off. According to the clock on the wall, it’s about 3:30 AM, so I can’t say I blame him. It’s not exactly hard to see that I have the drop on him—and I mean that very literally. Time’s running, and Mojito can’t distract the guards for eternity, so I have to act now.
The metal grating covering the vent into the observation room is screwed in from the bottom side, which means this is going to have to be fast and loud. I position myself over the grating, foot planted firmly in its center. I can feel it giving already. I take a deep breath to ready myself, and I give the grating a solid kick. It fails immediately with a reverberating, metallic clang and I fall through the hole it leaves purposefully, not bothering to stretch my wings for the two-meter drop. I keep my foot outstretched, and it connects with the new guy’s cranium with all the precision of a hoofball punt, sending him from a tired stupor directly into a concussive stupor. I glance up into the interrogation room, both Barrel and Shackles peering blindly into the one-way glass. Shackles stands, his thick neck on a pivot as his head’s locked on the door, waiting for any movement. I throw myself over to the wall beside the doorway, ready to intercept him as he trots forward slowly.
He opens the door cautiously, and I grab him by the broad shoulders as he does, slamming him headfirst into the glass door, which cracks on impact. It’s not very effective, and he’s quick to recoil with a wildly-fired hoof swung like a haymaker in my direction, which connects with my neck, choking me and forcing me off of him. I stumble backwards into the row of monitors and the new guy’s unconscious body, which falls from his chair. I wait for the explosion of pain to subside somewhat before I let out a groan and a few pained coughs as Shackles stumbles around the room holding his head in his hooves, which has begun to bleed heavily. The glass door had been more effective than I’d thought, and the hulking pony growls in pain as I gasp for air.
The pause in combat doesn’t last long. Shackles spots me, ducks his head and charges, ignoring the now-destroyed computer equipment that litters the floor. He’s moving fast, and the room is small, so there’s nowhere for me to duck. I opt to jump him as he charges, giving a solid flap to clear his attack. He hadn’t suspected it, and his shoulder collides with the wall, the force enough to leave a sizeable hole and cause a framed poster on interrogation techniques to clatter to the floor. Suddenly, there’s a magical glow that lights up half the room—Shit, he’s a unicorn. I hadn’t expected it—he’s got to be the most massive unicorn in Phillydelphia. His eyes sparkling with malice, he levitates a plethora of objects in the room—pens, a pair of computer monitors, a pencil sharpener, and what looks like a potted plant, and launches the phalanx of office supplies at me with a bright magical flash. I’m able to avoid direct impact by ducking, and as I rise I note with terror that a few of the pens are now stuck into the wall.
“Why’d you have to go and bring the plants into this?” I ask between breaths as I pull myself to my feet.
Shackles wipes his forehead, coming away with a hoof covered in blood. “Fuck you,” he spits, voice deep and rusty. “You’re that bitch who burned down her parent’s shop, aren’t you? You’re here for your friend, how cute,” he jeers. “I hope you know you’re in deep shit, little birdy. You can’t just kill your parents and get away with it.”
“I didn’t kill them,” I say in a growl. I walk towards the center of the room, vision reddening at the thought. As I grow closer to him, he lowers his stance defensively, coiling to strike again with his massive weight.
“We don’t take kindly to parricide here,” he says. “We can make sure you stay locked away for a very long time,” he adds with a smile. “And we can tack on trespassing and destruction of police property, not to mention assault on a police officer.”
“Might as well add about a hundred counts of burglary and another few assault charges while you’re at it, Mr. Officer,” I intone. “At this point, I couldn’t care any less if I tried. Just give me a reason, ponyboy, we’ll add a few more.”
He snorts loudly. “Try me.”
From the other room, Barrel tugs on his cuffs, which clank loudly on the steel table. It distracts both of us, but he gets the advantage, and rushes me once more, attempting yet another tackle. He’s able to connect this time, his shoulder ramming directly into my chest, sending me toppling over and removing any trace of air from my lungs on impact. I gasp as he raises his hoof, standing over me with a sickening leer on his face, ready to put me out. He’s relishing this, I can see it in his eyes, and if I wasn’t in a rage before, I certainly am now, nearly blinded by the red haze tinting my vision. On instinct, I throw my hind paws into his substantial stomach, claws fully extended. He jolts, releasing a pained scream. The two inch-long daggers are sharp enough to sink in to the hilt, well past his layer of fat. He throws himself off me, collapsing in pain. I drag myself upright, feeling a trace of oxygen fill my lungs. The tables have turned, and the once sizeable opponent is writhing on the floor, six holes in a neat row on his stomach leaking blood.
He looks up at me, spitting red. “You intending to make this a murder charge?” he gargles with a twisted grin.
It’s my turn to stand over him. “If you don’t give me your keys,” I growl painfully in reply. My throat is throbbing from the shot Shackles had gotten in at the start of the melee, and my lungs are on fire as they struggle to fill themselves. The unicorn doesn’t bother with a reply—he’s fallen unconscious. All the better. I quickly retrieve the keys from his utility belt, sure to avoid the nasty-looking wounds I’d left on his torso.
I feel my supply of adrenaline waning, and the blood pounding in my ears is subsiding as well as I throw myself out of the observation room and into the interrogation room itself. Barrel gives me a wide smile from his seat which I weakly return. “Could you have taken any longer?” he asks sarcastically.
“Probably not,” I say with a faint grin. I clutch my throat, my airway’s not constricted but there’s still a good bit of pain.
“Sounds like you had a pretty good tussle in there,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply weakly. My whole frame is still shaky as I come down off my adrenaline high—I don’t exactly want to relive the fight so soon. “So, I take it you want me to break you out?” I ask sarcastically, glancing up to watch Barrel laugh quietly before nodding vigorously in reply.
About three failed attempts later, I find the correct key, and Barrel’s cuffs click open, jangling loudly against the metal table they’re chained to. “Nadia, you know I owe you big for this,” He says as he rubs his front hooves together, now free of their constraints.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say, guiding Barrel towards the observation room. As he follows, I add softly, “It’s what family would do.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I look back to see that his eyes are certainly a little more than misty. I look back forward—it’s time for Phase 4: get Mojito.
The halls are still quiet—either Mojito is still being processed or all the guards are trying to figure out how she got in in the first place. I can hear the faint din of the inmates milling about in their cells down on the main cell block, which is now our new target. Doubtless Mojito is either already in her room in the steel bar hotel or about to be—and considering the destruction I’d wrought and the fact a high profile prisoner is now walking free around the facility, it’s safe to say the proverbial clock is ticking. That means that trudging through the ductwork is out. The operating word for Phase 4 is speed. And beyond that, Barrel’s hooves in that ductwork would be louder than an explosion in a hammer factory, I reason as I step out of the observation room.
I move to the opposite side of the hall, peering around the bend—the hallway is narrow, and I pick out a solitary security camera, panning slowly across a wide sightline. Where there’s one camera, there’s bound to be more, but if my internal sense of direction is right, the cell block is in that direction. “You know, I think there’s an emergency exit over that way,” Barrel notes quietly, pointing with his hoof in the opposite direction from where I’m observing. “Unless you plan on saying hello to all the inmates,” he adds, even quieter than before and with his trademark grin.
“Not just yet,” I reply, watching the camera pivot. It moves at a nearly glacial pace, and I notice there’s about a five second gap where it’s aimed at nothing but the opposite wall.
“You know that saying hello was a joke, right?” Barrel asks, glancing at me and then in the direction of the exit as he trots slowly out of the observation room and joins me along the wall.
“We have to get Mojito,” I say tersely. I halfway expect to see a guard pop around the corner—time’s running out, and fast. The camera begins panning back across the hall.
Barrel turns to look at me squarely, then shakes his head vigorously. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah,” I reply, eyes still on the camera.
“Mojito…as in the bartender. The one that works for me. The quiet little pegasus.”
“Yeah, that one,” I say, turning away from the hallway to look at Barrel, who is utterly perplexed.
“This definitely isn’t the time for this, Barrel, but I’m almost beginning to wonder if you hired her because you plan to cut her in on the business. She’s….she’s got some experience,” I say, expecting to see his face light up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Barrel says. Contrary to my expectations, his look of perplexity isn’t fading, and with that, I’m being led to believe he has no idea as to her skillset outside of waiting tables and tending the bar. Somehow I get the feeling a come-to-Celestia meeting with the both of them is on short order.
“No really, I’m not. I’ll fill you in later,” I tersely reply. “For now, we’ll keep it simple and say she’s in a cell and we’re gonna get her out. Now, I need you to follow me exactly, there’s a gap in the security camera’s coverage.” He looks back at me, ready for me to make a move. The camera’s still making its sweep, but it’ll be staring at the wall in less than twenty seconds. “You’d better be close enough to bite my tail,” I say.
The countdown for the camera to make itself temporarily useless draws down to zero, and I slink out from the cover of the wall adjacent to the hallway, Barrel tight on my tail as ordered. I stick myself to the opposite wall, crawling along it as the camera pans across an empty expanse of drywall. I’m careful to duck below the view of the long window of an office marked “EVIDENCE”, and I’m glad to see that Barrel follows suit. Just as the camera regains vision, it sees nothing but an empty hall, and the two of us exhale in unison, safely outside of its field of view. Unfortunately, however, there’s another camera, corner mounted in the next bend in the hall, just outside of the room marked “HOLDING 3”. This one, unlike the last, isn’t on a swivel, and it’s well-aimed to cover the whole expanse of the hallway. I let out a sigh. Any chances of stealth are now for naught, and the success of getting by the last one is now useless as well. Save for a miracle, there’s no way to get by this one or alter its field of view without being spotted, and from there, there’s no telling how soon the alarm will go off.
“Well, Barrel, it’s time to pick up the pace,” I say with a grimace. I look down the hall—the doorway at the end is marked “CELL BLOCK”, so it’s not like there’s many more miles to cover. “You ready start running?”
“I don’t think I’ve run since high school,” Barrel says with a faint laugh.
“Well, it’s time to get you re-acquainted.” I dart out from cover once more, this time opting to simply sprint down the hall, Barrel galloping in hot pursuit. I can feel the camera’s hot stare as I pass it, gritting my teeth as I run. Just as I reach the end of the hall, I lift off so to free my hands so I can burst through the door. As soon as I do, the cell block erupts into a clamor—despite the lack of klaxons, the alarm’s now well raised due to the din of the inmates. The dimly lit room echoes wildly with the sound of its captives, the ancient painted bricks and mortar and aging steel doing nothing to keep the room from reverberating. The moonlight streaming in through the dirty glass skylights is augmented by only a handful of 30-watt bulbs, and it makes the faces of the ponies behind bars look even more menacing.
“Mojito?!” I yell over the sound of at least fifty inmates rattling their bars and making as much raucous noise as they can.
“I’d like one too,” one of the prisoners laughs. A whole group of them begin resounding vicious laughter, some shouting back with “me too,” before I hear Mojito’s voice.
“Up here!” She shouts. She’s on the upper level of the cell block, the open-air room a solid 9 meters high. I lift off, flapping vertically up to her cell. I hoist myself over the railing to the catwalk outside the row of cells, and touch down in view of Mojito, who’s clamped into a “wing arrester” in addition to standard cuffs—there’s a thick metal band clamping her wings tightly to her side. I suppose she’s caused enough trouble as it is, any more and they likely would have strapped her to a wheelchair. She looks at me with a sheepish laugh. “They got me locked up tight,” she notes.
“Give me just a few seconds, and we’ll change that,” I reply.
I walk over to her cell, ignoring the sleazy looking pony in the next cell over, who eyes me lecherously before asking “You here for me, baby?” I withdraw the bright yellow entry tool from my backpack, its heavy weight on my back this whole mission finally coming to some use as I draw it back and deliver a sharp strike, dead center on the lock. I feel the lock shift in its socket, the sudden impact of hardened steel on iron enough to reverberate all the way down my arm. I give it another strike, the lock flying out of its housing and into the cell. The steel bars creak open, and Mojito shakes her head, likely to stop the ringing of her ears from the tinny, reverberating noise of the lock’s violent demise.
“There’s more where that came from,” I say, giving her a look of warning as I step into the cell and towards the wall where she’s chained. It’s not difficult to break her cuffs; the pair of us stumble over to her bunk, a thin mattress dumped on a concrete slab, and I place the thin chain on the corner of the slab and give it a whack with the entry tool. After that, It only takes another pair of heavy strikes to completely remove the bolt from the old bricks that holds her wing arrester in place, the likely lead-based paint flaking on impact and flying everywhere. The heavy old bolt drops to the concrete with a resounding clang, and, with that, Mojito’s free.
“Ladies, can we hurry this up? We don’t exactly have time for formalities,” Barrel says from down below.
“Barrel, you’re going to have to come up to us,” I reply. “How well can you levitate?”
“Pretty well,” he replies. Mojito and I step out onto the catwalk to see him down below, looking intently at the far doorway. “I’ve got flashlights coming from down the hall,” he says, voice strained.
“Well, we’ll need that telekinesis later. Hang on,” I say, vaulting over the catwalk’s railing down to him. I grab him, pulling him upwards by his armpits with all my might, hovering right back up to the catwalk with him in tow. He looks up at me, expression somewhat perturbed as I let him dangle inches off the metal grating. Eerie, rapidly shifting swaths of light beam through the narrow windows in the doorway down below, and I’m frozen, considering the options. The guards are close, and the only real exit—that is, fully outside the prison walls—is on the first floor, through the main entrance and right through the gauntlet of rapidly approaching guards. Clearly that won’t work. We’ll exfiltrate right back through the rooftop access. The fact that we’re already on the second floor already doesn’t hurt.
“Nadia, mind putting me down?” Barrel says, a faint smirk on his face and a slight edge on his voice. I shake my head to snap myself back into the action and oblige. Mojito lets out a snort of muffled laughter as Barrel’s hooves clank to the rusty steel grating.
Thanks to our invasion, the prisoners have whipped themselves into a frenzy. Quite frankly, it’s a struggle to hear myself think over the noise, but I imagine the brewing riot is enough to cover our escape. It’s not difficult to catch the attention of the other two and point them towards the door, and they’re quick to follow me as I make a dash towards it. We break out of the cell block just as the bright beams from flashlights flood into room, waving about wildly as booming voices yell at the prisoners to pipe down. The guards’ authoritative shouting comes to an abrupt halt as they hear the doors above them slam shut, our exit almost complete. Now in what looks like the administrative area of the facility, we head for the rooftop access, only a short run through the darkened hallways. I note with a laugh between breaths that I’d been in the ductwork above only a few minutes prior. It’s not long before we reach the stairwell to the roof at hit the steps at a dead sprint, the chain on Mojito’s wing arrester jangling over each one. Just as we burst out into the night air, the klaxons begin their wail—right on time. I’m unsure of what the guards found first—the carnage I’d left in the interrogation room or Mojito’s empty cell, but it doesn’t much matter at this point, the only thing that matters now is that we vacate the premises, and quickly.
“Barrel, grab Mojito,” I order tersely as we reach the edge of the rooftop. He does, his magical glow wrapping around her. She tenses up immediately, suppressing a scream as she takes flight without warning. Without breaking stride, I hoist Barrel again, unceremoniously locking my arms under his and using my back legs to give a powerful kick into the air. Lopsided, dipping wildly under the heavy weight of the bulky unicorn and illuminated by his bright telekinetic magic enveloping his wide-eyed pegasus cargo, we cross over the tall prison walls and escape into the night.