//------------------------------// // VII: The Veil of Ignorance // Story: Streets of Sin // by Jarvy Jared //------------------------------// Grifford rubbed his temples with his hooves, eyes closed. He released a pent up sigh. In front of him was a folder of papers, all scribbled on with data and information. Lowering a hoof, he reached out, grabbing a small glass filled with a bronze liquid. He downed the liquid, letting out a low groan. “Why do you drink that stuff if you hate it?” Swol asked. Grifford looked at him. “It’s called keeping up appearances. And it really isn’t all that bad. It has a… distinguished taste.” Swol remained unconvinced to the drink’s value. “If you say so.” Finch flipped open the packet, reading through the files carefully. He grunted as he saw how much he needed to pay. “Ah, well. Considering how many resources I used in trying to find Prose, I suppose this makes sense.” He snorted. “Though I feel I might be cheated.” “You are,” Swol said. “I checked the figures. They added an extra five percent to their dues.” “Of course they would.” Grifford sighed again. “There are days when I wish the Family wasn’t so convoluted.” Swol didn’t say anything to that. Grifford’s mind returned to the conference from a few days earlier. He and several other Family leaders had gathered around in a fancy restaurant to discuss matters concerning the organization. Financial interest and the spread of power and control were among the foremost topics, the latter two becoming quickly heated. Finch liked having Manehattan under his control, but doubted that the Family could establish power beyond the city’s borders. One stallion had offered the idea of taking over the surrounding cities and towns; an idea that was quickly shot down by Grifford, as well as several other members. Where that idea came from, Grifford didn’t know; and he was certain he wouldn’t want to hear it again. Finch was a helper of the people, not a conqueror, despite what those ponies thought. Flipping over another sheet, he found a note that was talking about his latest activities. He frowned as he read. “A waste of resources… complete foolishness… not worth our while?” He sighed. “When will these ponies learn that all life is worth our while?” “They don’t think like that,” Swol answered. “I don’t think they ever have.” “Oh? And you know more about the Family than I?” Finch asked, jaw clenched. “I don’t mean that,” Swol said quickly. “They’re from a different time, right? I mean, you’re younger than them; they were around when—” He looked away, “—your father, Atticus, was still the Boss.” Grifford stiffened. “Mm, perhaps…” Seeing his leader stiffen, Swol walked over, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “Look. These ponies, they’re different. They don’t see the way you do.” “I know, Swol, I know.” Finch sighed. “I guess… I just want to convince them to cooperate. But they’re too damn stubborn to see that what I have been doing has really benefited the Family!” He suddenly stood, pushing away from the table. “It’s always been like that. No matter how much power I accumulate, to them I’ll always be a fledgling youngster, too inexperienced to help the real world.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right.” “Grifford.” It may not have been the first time that Swol referred to him as such, but behind the word was the voice of a pony he could count on. “Don’t let yourself believe that. You’ve done great things in Manehattan, remember?” Grifford didn’t say anything to that. He stared at the papers for a moment longer, before turning for his coat and hat. “I’m in the mood for something short to eat. What would you recommend?” “The hayburgers downtown are good, I hear,” Swol answered, used to his leader’s tendency to avoid questions. The stallion nodded, and they left the room in a hurry, leaving the glass of liquor on the table, still fizzing gently. Baltimare was not as amazing as Manehattan, if Grifford was to be honest with himself. It had a much shorter skyline, and electricity as a commodity was not used as much as it was in the city westward. However, as it was further south than his home, it was much warmer, and he soon found that wearing his trenchcoat was unnecessary. He saw that most ponies here were more conservative than the ponies back home, relatively speaking. Rather than steel skyscrapers and concrete houses, the buildings here were brick and mortar based. The train station ran through the center of the city, whistling loudly as trains came and went. The residents were nice, if a tad quiet; only a few bothered to greet him. Most just stayed out of his way, out of politeness and recognition. On the eastern side of Baltimare was the fancy restaurant that he had joined the other members for talking. At the moment, though, it was the last place he wanted to be. The stress of work created an air of slight unease around that establishment; he wanted relations to it no longer. With Swol following closely behind, he made his way downtown. The salty scent of Horseshoe Bay wafted through the air, rejuvenating him. He had forgotten he liked the sea, despite it being rare for him to see it. He supposed it was something carried over from his childhood, when his father would sometimes take him to the edge of Manehattan and show him the seemingly endless ocean beyond. There had been a beauty in that ocean view, and he wanted to savor it to the best of his ability. Which was why once he had become mayor, pollution reduction became a huge priority. It was not a popular decision in the Family, though. They thought it childish; he thought it necessary. Several townsfolk greeted him and Swol, and they offered smiles and salutations back. Manners with citizens is always important, Grifford reflected, thinking back on how some of his fellow leaders were less than adequate in their etiquette. Another issue we should resolve.  “Ponies here are quite friendly,” said Swol after waving to a mare. “They ought to be,” said Grifford. “Baltimare is known for its hospitality after all.” Around the corner was a small food place. A few ponies were already seated, their muzzles filled with delicious delicacies. A waitress noticed the two of them, and welcomed them, leading them to an open table. She handed them a pair of menus, asked them what to drink (“Water,” Grifford answered, while Swol asked for a glass of orange juice), then left to let them decide what to eat. Grifford tried to start a conversation about the weather, noting that “it’s far more clearer here than in Manehattan.” Swol pointed out it was because that there were no skyscrapers to block the ocean wind. He noted that it might also have to do with the weather being regulated by Baltimare’s own Climate Management. Grifford, though, noticed that Swol seemed to be someplace else. The waitress came back with their drinks, then asked for what they wanted. Grifford ordered a hayburger; Swol took a moment longer, before asking for a simple salad. The way he didn’t look at the waitress set off warning alarms in Grifford’s head. The waitress left, leaving him frowning. He leaned forward and whispered, “Swol, is something wrong?” Swol suddenly looked at him, eyes wide and surprised, like he had forgotten that he was there. He shook his head. “N-nothing, Boss.” “You stuttered and called me by my title.” Grifford narrowed his eyes. “Now I know something’s gotten to you.” He leaned back, staring expectantly at the stallion. Swol hesitated, before dropping his head. “Sorry. I just keep thinking about the last meeting.” Grifford’s jaw tightened. “What of it?” The meeting held nasty memories for him, and though he wanted to not ever think of it, he had to get to the bottom of what was concerning Swol. “The way they talked, the way they looked at you, the way they kept their distance from you.” Swol looked at his leader. “There was something definitely wrong in that meeting. Something those so-called ‘leaders’ were hiding.” “You noticed all that?” Swol winced. “Well… I haven’t forgotten how to read a pony closely.” Grifford, moved on to another question. “So-called ‘leaders?’ What do you mean by that?” Swol shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, they aren’t leaders. They’re just a bunch of old, greedy aristocrats, who have no respect for the common pony.” “That’s how the Family works—” “Well, it shouldn’t!” he said fiercely, trying to keep his voice level. He took a deep breath. “Grifford, you’re more of a leader than any of them ever will be. Heck, you reinvented the old ways and established something much better in Manehattan!” He huffed, agitated. “Those old farts don’t know when to change when they need it!” He sounds kind of like me, Finch thought. Back when I was trying to convince Prose to stay. His frown remained, hiding his thoughts. Swol leaned forward. “Look. They’re planning something. Something that they want to remain hidden from you. And I don’t like that.” “Concerned for me?” Finch was genuinely surprised. “I haven’t made a lot of friends in the Family, at least, not as much as one might expect. Really, you are the only friend I have!” He looked away. “I don’t want you getting hurt. You’ve been hurt enough. You’re like a brother to me; the older brother I never had.” He sighed. “Grifford, you took me in when my life was in shambles. From you I learned bravery, toughness, and a whole lot more. I learned more from you than I did with Prose’s last days.” He looked back at him. “If you get hurt, I’ll only blame myself.” Grifford blinked. “Swol…” He had not before considered that Swol would be like a little brother to him. Only now did he realize just how close they were; like siblings, even. “Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe it’s all these rumors of other powers at work. Maybe it’s Prose’s return, and me seeing just how much he meant to you as your friend.” Swol leaned back, looking away. “I just… I’ve seen enough in these three years as a member of the Family to know when things could go wrong.” Grifford said nothing for a few moments, staring down at the tabletop. The waitress soon came by, and filled their plates up with their meals, and placed down their drinks. He did not dig in at first. His thoughts turned to his Mark: a circle outline with a nine-pronged star in the middle. His father had told him it meant order within a habitat. But which one: the Family’s, or his “family?” His friendships? He looked up, at Swol, his friend, the last friend, perhaps—and he managed a smile. “Trust me, Swol, if anything bad were to happen, I would have guessed it beforehand.” Swol looked at him, still unsure. “Besides, what’s the worse they could do? Kill me?” He laughed, trying to keep the mood light. “They could try! But then they’d have to contend with an entire city loyal to their Mayor.” He smiled at his friend. “And, of course, they’d have to deal with the loyalest of friends—you.” Swol stared at him, before returning his own smile. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.” Grifford held up his glass of water. “To friends?” Swol picked up his juice. “To friends. Eternally.” They clinked glasses, then proceeded to dine ravenously. They did not notice the set of eyes staring at them through binoculars from across the street, nor the eyes suddenly vanish into the crowd. “Were you spotted?” The courier shook his head. “I don’t think so. They were too busy talking.” “Talking? What about?” He turned his head to another hidden voice, squinting as all he could see was a dim silhouette. “Could you turn on the lights? I can’t see you.” “It’s better this way. Now, tell us,” said the first voice, “what were they talking about.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to say. I can’t read lips. But judging on how they were pretty quiet, but lively, they were talking about something important.” “How important?” another voice implored. “Very important, I guess. I don’t know. Can I have my payment now?” The voices ignored him, and began conversing among themselves. He frowned. “Hello? Are you even listening?” “One moment,” a female voice ordered, and he could see the vague outline of a hoof held up. He nearly snorted in distaste, but stopped from doing so. Something about her tone suggested that she had no time for his impatience, ironic though it was. So he waited, letting them whisper and talk, their voices low, yet not hiding their excitement and fierceness. They turned back to him—he thought they did, as he couldn’t see their faces—and he waited for his payment. There was the sound of bags rustling, and a small bag filled with bits was thrown out. He reached for it, counting the bits, a scowl forming. “Ten bits? That’s it? I could get more watering my grandmother’s garden!” “We are not your elder’s home of plantlife,” a voice said tersely. “Take your payment.” “This is absurd! I spent a half hour tracking those guys! I should get more!” “Take your payment or we take your life,” the voice ordered, cold and distant. He gulped, before nodding slowly, and placed the bits into his bag. “I trust that you will not tell anypony about what you have done?” “Not a soul.” “Good. You may leave.” The door behind him hissed open, letting in a faint light—not enough for him to see his bosses. He turned, trotting towards the exit. He looked over his shoulder, uncertain and scared, as the door closed shut. There was a low hum as he accelerated upwards towards the surface. The voices convened around the table, still hidden. “What do you think?” the female asked. The first voice answered, “I think we might have a problem on our hooves.” “What should we do?” asked another voice. “Calm down, sir,” answered another, “Grifford Finch won’t be a problem. Isn’t that right, Leader?” Leader, the first voice, seemed to nod, and gave a grunt of affirmation. “No, he will not. We will make sure he isn’t.” “How, though?” asked another. “We can’t kill him, or we’d have the entirety of Manehattan on our tails!” “Then we won’t kill him,” said the female. “Simple as that.” “She’s right. We can’t risk having his death jeopardize our mission. But there is one thing we can do.” There was a faint hum, revealing a light from atop his head—a unicorn. He floated over a scroll, keeping it aloft, as he held up a quill. “Therefore I will get in touch with our associate.” “Him? Are you sure that’s a good idea? Haven’t you heard of his reputation?” “I have, and rest assured his reputation is exactly why we need him.” He began to scribble madly, but finished quickly; the message was only a short paragraph long. His horn flashed, and the letter vanished. “What did you say?” asked the female. “How to destabilize Grifford Finch.” A moment later, the room flashed, and another scroll landed in front of them. He picked it up, and read it aloud: “I’ll contact my contracts. You will have leverage. Who?” He smirked, teeth flashing in the darkness, before sending a quick response. Another flash, and another scroll arrived. “Understood.” “We are done here,” he said. “We shall reconvene at the usual time and place. Is that good with everyone? Good; and remember— “For The Business.” “For the Business!” Six different hooves slammed down on the table, before all vanished into the shadows, unknown, faceless, and even more dangerous than before. Grifford had no chance of stopping them.