Honor Among Thieves

by Floo_Ter_Shai

Bringing Home the Bacon

Something smells funny, is my first conscious thought of the new day. As far as first thoughts go, that one's a tad on the unusual side, even for me. After a moment, I begin to hear a faint hissing, and it sounds suspiciously like TV static. For a brief instant I begin to worry that my TV is on the verge of combustion, but then the scent hits me again—whatever it is, it definitely doesn't smell like electricity. No, it smells much better than baking computer chips. In my semi-conscious and particularly hazy state of mind, it takes me a second to figure it out what exactly it is, but finally my brain turns over. Mystery solved—it’s meat, and what I had mistaken for static is the sound of it cooking. In an instant, my eyes pop open, the sunlight streaming into them burning, if only momentarily, and my mouth begins to water. Who in the hell's cooking meat? I wonder. I pause for a moment—it doesn’t matter, the fact is that it’s meat, and it’s cooking. It could be rancid dog for all I care. But I can tell it’s not. It smells amazing.

There's a chuckle as I sit up in bed that is distinctly not mine. "It's like a damn alarm clock, I swear," comes the gruff voice. It's Barrel. Mystery number two for the morning solved, and for whatever reason, he's the one doing the cooking.

"What the hell, Barrel?" I ask blearily from my bed as my eyes adjust to the light. The question is double-sided: firstly, I'm trying to figure out why he's in my apartment, and secondly why in the wide, wide world of Equestria a member of a distinctly vegetarian species is cooking meat.

"Oh, I just felt like treating my favorite associate with some breakfast," he replies innocently as he prods the sizzling stuff in the pan with my spatula he's manipulating with his magic. "And besides, since you hauled in such a catch last night, the least I could do is give you some compensation. I know you griffons like meat, that big griffon down at that butcher shop..." He cringes for a moment. "Told me this was the best cut of bacon he had."

I pop out of bed, feeling my tired joints popping faintly as I maneuver over to Barrel through the mess that is my apartment. He wasn’t kidding. "Holy shit, you got me bacon," I manage to squeak as I step over to watch him “cook”. He's poking at the beautifully crackling pork disdainfully, and wincing each and every time he does. Despite his feeble attempts at cooking it, the bacon looks great. "Barrel, do you have even the faintest idea what you're doing?"

He turns to me and gives me a sheepish grin. "Nope!" He replies as he sets about prodding it some more. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

I let out a laugh, and he gives me a feigned chuckle. Why he had decided to actually cook it himself in the first place is beyond me, and whatever his motivation is, I’m not completely certain I want to know. "Let a carnivore handle the dirty work, will ya?" I order as I push him out of the way. I grab the spatula and get to work.

"Thank Celestia," he mutters as he trots over to my cluttered table and takes a seat. "It feels like I'm frying my uncle."

It's the first time I'd had any kind of meat in months. Thankfully, griffons are omnivores, but the strictly vegetarian diet has officially become bland. Not that it didn't start out that way, of course. In any respect, and with all unintentionally semi-cannibalistic subtext aside, Barrel's gesture doesn't go unnoticed; it's the best gift I can remember receiving in quite a while. "Thanks, Barrel, this is real sweet of you."

"It's not a problem, Nadia.” He replies quickly. He reconsiders for a second. “Maybe a little bit of a problem. Don’t expect to see me doing that again anytime soon.” He shakes his head. “By the way, I hope you know I don't mind you cooking this stuff up here so long as the smell doesn't reach down into the bar, I mean, after all, I don't want to be turning away customers," he adds. The addendum has been a point of contention for me for quite some time; after all, many ponies are incredibly sensitive to meat eating, and I hadn’t exactly built up the courage to mention such a potentially sore subject. The truth is, what meat I could get since I’d lived here had been in small quantities, and mostly raw. While not a major breakthrough in griffon-pony world relations, I do decide to add the butcher shop as a destination in my mental to-do list.

"You know, maybe if the aroma—" I stress the last word in vain hope of him accepting my diet even a little more—"does get out into the bar, I'd imagine you'd start seeing more griffon business. Might not be a bad thing," I joke. There’s about a 90% chance business wouldn’t pick up a single iota. The griffon population in Phillydelphia’s fairly scarce, my type favoring the airborne cities like Cloudsdale or, if they lived on the rougher side, the Flotilla.

“Yeah, I can picture that working wonders around here,” Barrel retorts.

“Hey, Barrel, you want some eggs?” I ask. I’d finished the bacon; it was still sizzling on the plate I’d thrown it on. The mass of meat had to weigh at least two pounds. If I rationed it right, it would last me about a week. I smile in anticipation; with this addition, it's going to be a good week.

Barrel glances around my apartment’s walls for a clock, finally settling his eyes on the art-deco piece hanging on the wall behind my couch. “Let’s see—I had breakfast…” he lets his voice fade as he considers the time. “Four hours ago.”

I crack the fridge, withdrawing my carton of eggs. I push the door shut with a wing, glancing at the clock as well. It’s 12:30. My prediction of sleeping until noon was absolutely correct. “I guess that makes this brunch, doesn’t it?” I reply.

“Sure does,” He quips. He picks up the newspaper. If it’s the one I remember sitting on the table, it’s a solid month old, but nonetheless, he flips through it idly.

I offer him some eggs one more time, and of course he refuses yet again. Oh well, it’s more for me. A few minutes later, I join him at the table, steaming plate of eggs and bacon at the ready.

“Hate to break it to you, but your newspaper’s a little out of date,” he notes as he folds it back and tosses it to the table.

“Believe me, I’m aware,” I reply. “That one’s from like, March, right?” I ask through a mouthful of bacon. He avoids looking at me directly.

“Yeah. Only a month out of date.” He chuckles. “On a related note, did you see last night’s paper by any chance?”

I smile, thinking back to last night. I actually had. “That one had the headline about robberies in the city picking up, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Barrel nods. “I think this story’s more about you. You’re a one-griffon crime wave,” he laughs. I give him a self-satisfied smile and continue my brunch. A few minutes pass, and I watch Barrel perk back up from absentmindedly doodling with a pen he’d levitated on my newspaper. “I split both of our cuts out of the take from last night. I forgot to bring it up here, but it’s waiting for you in my office.” I hadn’t forgotten about it, that's for sure. That thought clearly reminds him of another. “Oh!”

“What?” I ask, pausing only to swallow.

“You got plans tonight?” He asks with a grin.

I roll my eyes. “What do you think?” I ask sarcastically. I hadn’t had any plans any night. My plans consisted of going down to the bar and watching the drunken ponies attempt to play pool, just like most workless nights. In my defense, it was endlessly entertaining to watch, and as the night wore on and the patrons grew steadily more tipsy it grew even more entertaining.

“Well, good. ‘Cause you’ve got some work to do, and guess who it is?”

“Surprise me,” I reply flatly. We take contracts from anypony and everypony who can give us something to work with and can pony up the cash to make it happen. How would he expect me to know?

“Those same guys from last night. Apparently they really like our—really, your—style, and they’ve given us another contract,” He states with a hint of intrigue in his tone.

“Damn, that was fast. How’d you know it’s them? These are the guys that are really anonymous, right?” I ask, trying my hardest to avoid said intrigue. Celestia knows I’m already interested; Barrel’s cheesy chiding isn’t doing anypony any favors.

“Celestia knows that’s true. Damn ponies are puckered tighter than a pegasus’s—” I glance up from my food with a rueful grin. He notices immediately and thankfully cuts himself off before he can finish. “Anyway, yes. They’re all kinds of secretive. Whoever writes the letters they send out has a pretty distinctive font, and the paper they use is real fancy. Beyond that, it’s not like many of our clients give letters when they want something done, so that narrowed it down to like, what, five clients?”

“Good point,” I respond. Most clients waltz in through the front door and ask Barrel specifically. Only a few of our particularly high-end jobs have been anonymous like these. “So, what’s the job?”

“Well, get this. It involves some griffons.” He picks up an unfamiliar, folded slip of paper I’d barely paid attention to while I had eaten and tosses it to me with his telekinesis. It was the letter; for a while, I’d mistaken it for a particularly classy advertisement that had fallen out of the newspaper. “This oughta fill you in.”

As advertised, the letter's on a very fancy paper; thick, and noticeably identical to the note I’d left in Boulder’s house last night.

To our newest associates:

Your efforts on your last job have been duly noted; your first contract has been fulfilled in every aspect but in that of our share of our mutual “friend’s” unfortunate losses last night. You’ve proven yourselves capable of working to our standards and will certainly enjoy our future business. As for the completion of our current contract, a meeting will take place at 5:00 today in the abandoned Bit & Bridle Manufacturing Warehouse on South Capitol Boulevard. Come with what you know is ours; we trust our continued business and your personal well-being is more important to you than unfair gains resulting from any form of trickery.

Should you wish to continue business with us, we have another contract available. Your new target is a pair of griffons who have defaulted on a loan of a sizeable amount. Our attempts to reconcile their debt have been met with failure, and thus your intervention is necessary. We want you to take anything of value from the address listed, and, if possible, cause significant damage to their personal property. As with any job like this, we aim to send a message, and, knowing this party to be incapable of repaying their loan, we feel that indirect punishment such as this will prove itself effective in giving them cause to consider paying their dues. Like your last job, you’ll have three days, starting today, to reconnoiter and complete the contract, after which we will consider our current and future business and any association, friendly or otherwise, terminated. As direct compensation for your work is not expected from this job, a 20,000 bit bounty is yours upon successful completion of the job.

If you wish to continue business with us, your new target can be found at the corner of 29th and Saddle. Good luck.

That's "all she wrote." “And still not a single name or signature on the whole thing,” I comment. I had expected at least something after finishing such a difficult job.

“Figures. Somehow I feel like it’s going to be miracle if we even see anypony at this meeting. Frankly, I’m amazed it’s not just a dead drop. I suppose they want to make sure we’re not cheating them, but I don’t know how they’re going to do that without sending somepony,” Barrel replies.

“There’s got to be somepony there, then. Well, count me in. I wanna know who I’m working for,” I state in my most matter-of-fact way. I get the feeling this is one of those times where Barrel wants to “go it alone”, be it for my safety or otherwise. In any respect, I’m going.

“Nadia—you know as well as I do that this sort of thing is one-on-one,” He quickly responds, exactly as expected. Well, he’s not getting his way today, safety or otherwise be damned.

I give him a single glance, and I’m loaded for bear. It’s the sort of look anypony can see and instantly know I have no plans of budging.

“I—it’s just not the way that works,” Barrel stutters.

“Barrel, you know I’m going no matter what you say, you might as well give it up.” I respond authoritatively.
He lets out a deep sigh. “Fine. I’ll have you know there’s a lot of people in the position of whoever this is that will run at the first sight of anypony else.”

“Well then, I’ll hide.” It’s simple enough. Beyond that, and I’m not entirely sure why, but I’m intrigued by our mystery contact. Usually, contacts are “out of sight, out of mind” for me. Maybe it’s the pay; maybe it’s the fact that utter anonymity in my line of work is virtually impossible, but whatever it is, I’ve got to see who I’m working with.

“Not your worst idea,” Barrel replies. “We’ll have to get there early to scout it out.”

I glance over at the clock. It’s now 1:00. “South Capitol Boulevard, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah. It’s only about two miles from here. I’ve been by the place, it’s been boarded up for practically a decade,” he comments, pushing his chair out from under him. “Well, we can figure whoever it is will be scouting the place at least half an hour in advance. That means we need to get there an hour earlier than him. In case you hadn’t already figured, that gives us three hours to get ready. I’m going to go get started on that.”

“You need three hours to get ready? What, are you going to go brush up on your bad-guy technique in front of the mirror?” I laugh.

Barrel looks at me with a look of feigned disdain. “possibly,” he mumbles. He heads for the door. “If I were you, I’d be prepared for anything. Ponies like this can be tricky,” he warns as he leans on the frame. He gives me a smile, and twists it jokingly into an evil grin, his best thug impression. “You’ve gawt three ahrs,” he growls in, for whatever reason, an effected Manehattan accent. It comes across as a bad attempt at a movie audition, but clearly he thinks it’s impressive. With that, he slinks off of the door frame and down the stairs, laughing to himself. Celestia help him.

I blink several times in an attempt to clear my mind of whatever it was that Barrel thought he was doing. At least I had a good breakfast, but now I stand and stretch my wings. Apparently now I’ve got some time to kill, and I know exactly what I need: A hot shower. I imagine I look like a train wreck; last night had been difficult from start to finish. But it paid off, I think to myself. Undoubtedly it had. A little dirt in the fur was worth 36,000 bits.

Compared to how I had envisioned, I look a fair bit better than I had thought, in fact I’m pleasantly surprised as I step in front of the standing mirror by my bed. I smooth the dark feathers on my head, the one perennially unruly feather front and center springing upward like always the instant my hand leaves my head and the cowlick-like group of feathers at the back are sticking straight up as usual. Nothing to report there. I smooth the feathers along my jawline, the nearly-black feathers that make up the lower half of the symmetrical patches (I prefer to call it built-in war paint) surrounding my eyes ruffled from sleeping on them. My eyes are—well, my eyes: big and blue. The pupils are drawn into small circles thanks to the bright light streaming in through the grimy window, and probably exaggerated by my completely ruined sleep schedule. The mottled taupe and white feathers that make up the rest of them are looking a fair bit darker than usual; I can chalk that up to the tight, rusty and dusty ascent to Boulder’s apartment last night. My fur’s even looking dirty: what’s ordinarily a deep charcoal with only faintly lighter spots is absolutely coated in a fine layer of dust. I’ll probably need to go as far as washing my sheets. I shake myself, watching a puff of dust erupt from my whole torso. Yup. Shower time.

***

Contrary to popular belief, griffons aren’t afraid of water. Just because I share a sizeable portion of my DNA with the big cats doesn’t mean I think like one. In fact, I’d go so far as to say the avian side of me actively seeks out water, well—like a bird to a bath. I can’t help it. Suffice it to say that the shower was refreshing. I actually feel awake now, and I hadn’t even had any caffeine so far this morning, and considering that fact, how I feel could practically be called a miracle.

An hour’s passed. I never said I’d taken a short shower. That leaves me with a solid two to kill, and it doesn’t take me more than fifteen minutes to gather up all the gear I’ll be taking with me to the meeting. It’s nothing too special, just my standard working outfit: entry vest loaded with lockpicks, my multi-tool, camera and an assortment of other items (I don’t imagine the doors are open wide and inviting at an abandoned and boarded up-warehouse) and my backpack, loaded with rope. The only difference for tonight is a trio of items I haven’t had the pleasure of using yet on any of my expeditions, which, only minutes prior, had been lodged in the back of my closet, still in their packaging. It was like Hearth’s Warming all over again, in fact, that had been around when I’d bought them. I had them laid out on my coffee table, and I’m sprawled on the adjacent couch carefully analyzing each of them to get acquainted.

The first is a high-powered spotlight, all aluminum construction, capable of an incredible 900 lumens from a multitude of LED bulbs. I’m not entirely certain why I’d bought it. But, I rationalize as I casually pull the trigger and see the even the fully day-lit room get even brighter, should anything go wrong, I can make whoever’s stupid enough to walk into this thing’s beam blinder than a bat. The typical temptation to see exactly how bright the flashlight is doesn’t apply here. The combination of my night eyes and that light wouldn’t end well for me.

The second is what I’d ordinarily call a lazy pony’s lockpick. It’s an entry tool, a four-hoof long combination of a crowbar, a hammer, a nail puller, hatchet and pick, powder coated in an almost fluorescent safety yellow. I’d purchased it specifically thinking of an event like today, as a sort of back up should lockpicks fail to do the job. It’s fairly hefty, and rightfully so, it’s steel. If nothing else, it’s a fantastic bludgeon. Barrel did say to prepare for anything.

The third is the only one that I see as a truly serious item. The others are useful, yes, but this one’s different. It’s a knife, and not for chopping vegetables. It’s a 7-inch, fixed tanto blade. It’s weighty, fully black with a nylon handle and complete with a knuckle-like steel punch on the bottom. Ready for combat. Despite how intrinsically awesome it is, I can’t help but recognize the serious consequences behind what it can do. Of course, it’s only for use as a backup. It’s my insurance—should my talons and claws fail to do the job. And even those are a backup themselves. So the knife is a backup to a backup. In all the places I’ve robbed (I lost count long ago) my survival has never come to combat. That’s not to say I haven’t had close calls, but in 95 percent of cases, flight mixed with a few evasive maneuvers has even got me away from pursuing police. Despite all that, I know I’m not unprepared to use it. Even I’ll acknowledge the stereotype that griffons are born fighters. My track record of clean thievery may be untarnished, but I’m no stranger to fighting. I’ve got scars from my school days that are more than just mental. In any respect, the knife’s already lashed to my entry vest, and when I put it on it’ll be by my side for easy access.

I lay back on the couch. My utterly bucked sleep schedule’s already catching up with me. I’m quick to rationalize my tiredness—a two hour nap’s a decent way to kill two otherwise worthless hours and it’s certainly better than going into what might be a danger zone unprepared and un-alert. It doesn’t take long before I’m out.

Comments

[deathnote9847]

Pretty good.

[Non-Fiction]

This stuff is great why so little views? I wish i could write that well...

[Floo_Ter_Shai]

3418048 Thanks, I really appreciate the feedback!