Honor Among Thieves

by Floo_Ter_Shai

The Proverbial Popsicle Stand

The deep orange sunrise casts a welcoming glow on the façade of the run-down bar in the middle of the ghetto that I call home. I’m unsure whether my sleep schedule even exists any more, and I think I’ve lost track of the last time I’d been able to get more than two hours of rest in a single stretch. I sigh quietly and grant myself a small smile. With both Barrel and Mojito trotting alongside me, I get the feeling that’s about to change.

Celestia knows I’m in serious need of some time to recharge—both physically and mentally. The scary part is, though—I’m not quite sure how I feel about the latter. I haven’t given much thought to what happened in that upstairs room only a little more than a full 24 hours ago, and I’m terrified of what might happen when I do. I’m not sure what to feel, and both sides of the spectrum are equally disconcerting—considering I’d survived without my parents in my life for five years with no problem, what happens if I feel nothing now that they’re gone? Considering that they’d been so willing to have me back after I’d walked out of their lives, what happens if I feel too much? I stop myself. There’s a time coming soon for this, and whatever happens, I don’t want it to happen in front of Barrel and Mojito. For now, the objective is one foot in front of the other. One thing’s sure, though—I can feel the sleep deprivation catching up to me; there’s too many incoming questions and not nearly enough outgoing answers, and everything that is coming out is hazier than a bad connection on a broken TV.

Barrel’s the first through the door, and he doesn’t bother with the lock, he simply leans into the old wood and it the door opens without complaint. The three of us trot inside, the old dusty bar just as we left it. The loose chain on Mojito’s wing arrester clanks dully on the worn wooden floor; she throws herself into a booth chair over by the window and exhales, going limp with exhaustion.
“So, are you just going to keep that thing, or what?” Barrel asks Mojito with a faint laugh.

She sits up, hoisting the chain with her hoof. “You mean this thing?” She smiles. “Yeah, I’ll keep it, but I don’t plan on keeping it on,” she laughs. “Let me tell you, this thing starts to chafe after a while.” I take a glance at the hardware around her wings—it’s a solid ring of well-worn steel, leather straps buckled in place to ensure tightness. To top it all off, its shut tight with a heavy-duty lock at the joint. It looks like an old torture device, and to be honest, it’s not far off from it. I’d hate to have to wear the thing for anything longer than a few minutes—just the thought of not being able to use my wings is traumatic enough for me. I ponder for a minute how we’ll get it off short of breaking out a hacksaw.

“Well, Nadia, you’re the professional locksmith around here,” Barrel says with the faintest grin. I snap to attention, and Mojito looks over at me from the table, eyebrow raised.

Oh. Well, considering my rapidly growing crush on the pony, working with my head buried in her midriff won’t be awkward at all. With a sigh, I withdraw the roll of lock picks from my entry vest, which I’ve yet to shed, and sheepishly look over at Mojito, who stands in her seat and climbs onto the table before flopping back over onto the table with a sigh of resignation.

“So, now that I’ve got you as a captive audience,” Barrel begins, trotting over to sit in our booth. “I was told by a little birdie that you’re a little more capable than you’ve let on, there Mojito.”

My tension wrench slips out of position on the lock as Mojito lets out a laugh and glances up at Barrel and I with a grin. “The goal here’s to be still, Mojito,” I say. I’m almost hoping it happens again. She certainly doesn’t seem to mind. I set back to work.

“Yeah, well, I was hired to be a bartender, wasn’t I?” She replies to Barrel. “I never said what other experience I have.”

“Well, that proves my point,” he says, nodding his head excitedly. “I take it you’ve done a little work on the other side of the law, and by now you’re probably well aware what Nadia and I do for a living.”

“I know it’s not running a bar,” she laughs, glancing back up at me before tapping me on the wrist with her hoof, throwing off my pick position. It’s my turn to let out a sigh. “Believe it or not, I asked her what the deal was around here just the other day and she let me in on what’s going on. Nadia’s a professional thief and you’re her bookie.” It’s rapidly turning into a sighing match between the two of us—it’s now her turn. “You know, I actually left the Flotilla to get away from this sort of thing.” I look up at her, putting my tools to rest for a moment.

“You’re from the Flotilla?” Barrel and I ask almost simultaneously.

“Well, that would explain the previous experience, then,” Barrel says.

“You could say that.”

“Well, then. Would you be interested—” Barrel begins.

“I’m in,” Mojito interrupts. “Say no more. Now, I’m not the type to call the fact that the first job I get on the straight-and-narrow just happens to belong to a business that’s a front for a pair of thieves a sign, but at this point it looks just about like a less-than-legal employment situation is all but unavoidable.” She pauses. “My roots are my roots, and I guess I’ll stick with them.”

“Well, damn, that was easy,” Barrel comments. “I mean, we’re all okay with this, right? No concerns with a new business partner, right Nadia?”

I honestly don’t know why Barrel felt he had to hash out a business deal while I do delicate work on a live patient. I stop my work yet again, vowing not to look up until the lock’s open. I smile, answering earnestly. “No problem whatsoever. I mean, you could have won awards for that acting last night,” I say, the last part directed to the pegasus herself. Mojito grins, twisting herself my way to reply, shifting just so that yet again my pick comes out of position yet again, not two seconds after I had put it back in place. I grab either side of her belly, twisting her upright with a jolt given only in half-jest.

Mojito laughs. “Okay, now that tickles.” With that, I actually tickle her, causing her to shriek with laughter—I’m sure to give myself a small mental high-five.

“You gonna hold still now?” I ask, brandishing my claws menacingly, wearing a huge grin.

“Yeah, my apologies,” she says, still laughing faintly. I shake my head and put the lock pick back into the keyhole and reset the tension wrench.

Barrel stands, walking slowly towards his office. “Well, I’m going to go type up a contract for you real quick—tell Nadia to actually get to work and quit flirting, will you Mojito?”

I imagine my face is probably bright red under my feathers, and I can see that Mojito’s isn’t far off from that hue itself. Coincidentally, I find the catch point for the lock just as Barrel reaches his office. It won’t be long now before she’s free.

“So I guess you get to tag along on a few more jobs with me, huh?” I say. That makes her sound like a sidekick. I doubt she’d like that. “I mean, you’re okay not to go out on your own, right?”

Mojito chuckles. “I wouldn’t know the first thing to do if I had to go out on my own, so, believe me, I’d be glad to tag along. Let’s just try to avoid police stations from now on, okay?”

It’s my turn to laugh. “That’s not a problem. I’d be just fine if I never saw another police station as long as I live.” There’s a definite sense of relief. I was almost expecting her to want to strike out on her own—the fact that she’s self-aware enough to realize she’s not ready for her own work is promising. Beyond that, I’ve got multiple reasons for keeping her with me.

The lock clicks, I’d raked the pins just right, and the wing arrester cracks open onto the table with a metallic clang. “That’ll be 50 bits,” I say.

Mojito’s wings flop open dejectedly. “There goes all my tip money,” she says. I offer her a claw, and she nods, so I lift her upright onto the table. She’s quick to flap herself down and sit back down in the booth. “Now, I think I’m gonna sleep for about 24 hours.”

“Same here,” I say. With that, she keels back over in the booth, and I cross the dining hall and leap the bar towards the stairs. I watch Barrel as he flops into his fancy office chair, smiling broadly and shuffling into a comfortable position in it. I have to imagine he’s glad he’s not back in the interrogation room.

After braving the stairs with my jelly-like legs, I throw myself through the door to my “apartment”, which looks exactly like it did: like a bomb went off somewhere in its midst. My last conscious thought is finding the bed, and in that I’m successful.

***

He’s crying—the worst kind of tears, too. Hot, angry tears directed squarely at himself. She’s not far from the same state, herself, and, observing the two of them anxiously, the little griffon sits in her little chair, entirely unsure of what’s going on. She’s never seen her father cry before—she’s unsure of whether to join in with them or not.

“We have to leave,” her father says, holding his head in his claws. “I’ve failed you,” he says, eying his wife and daughter. “I let the shop fail, I let it all happen. My honor here’s ruined—we have to go.”

“Peter, you couldn’t have known this would happen,” his wife says to her in reply, doing anything to make him feel better, but the fact remains. Honor has been lost.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he says. “We have to leave.”

The little griffon’s confusion isn’t anywhere near being resolved. “Where are we going, daddy?”

Her father and mother look at each other nervously. They’ve got a real decision to make, real fast.

“Somewhere things are different,” her mother begins. She sighs. “Somewhere we can start over.”

“Somewhere the Gods-damned oligarchy won’t destroy us with taxes,” her father mutters under his breath.

“We’re going to Equestria,” her mother says, a pained smile on her face.

Uh oh. The little griffon’s heard of Equestria before. It’s a strange land ruled by ponies, the strange creatures she’s seen a few of around the family shop. The few she’s seen are wingless, clawless, and pawless—how they survive is beyond her. They seem nice, but they’re far too different for her to make any sense of. She’s heard this Equestria is mostly flat, and there’s even places where the snow doesn’t fall. What’s more, she’s heard there are places where trees grow in droves, trees like the one in the center of town, but bigger. The little griffon’s eyebrows draw into an expression of worry. She’s comfortable high in the mountains where she can fly for miles. She sniffles. She just reached the mountain across the valley last week—a whole new place to explore. She’s quick to realize she won’t be back.

She doesn’t want to leave.

“Nadia, look,” her father says as he sees her expression. He smiles through the tears, struggling to keep it together for her. “Leaving Griffonia may not be what you want right now, but I promise you it’s for the best. It’s a whole new place to explore for you, and it’s a place where your mother and I can start over. It’s a place where we won’t have to worry about our honor here—a whole new opportunity. But that’s not what matters right now, okay? What matters is that your mother and I will always be here for you. You may not understand it right now, but we’re doing this for you, so you can have a better life.”

With shared looks of internal pain, the little griffon’s father and mother rise from the table, and begin packing their things.

***

I let out a deep sigh, coming out of my dream. I quickly realize I’m crying. Shit. I look over at the clock, I’ve slept easily six hours, and despite the fact that the amount is by no means a full night’s sleep, I feel better than I have in quite some time. I blink the tears out of my eyes, oddly thankful that my brain decided to give me a dream in which my parents weren’t angry or absent. I grimace inwardly, brows furrowing as I clench my eyes shut for a moment. It’s not difficult for me to see that I’m still struggling with the fact that they’re gone, and at the thought I feel a painful heat light somewhere deep in my chest. Rather than let the feeling spread any further, I stop myself and stand, peering around the apartment for something to take my mind off of the void I’m beginning to feel. The wind streams in from an open window, causing what looks like a fresh newspaper to flutter in the breeze. I smile weakly; Barrel must have been up here while I was sleeping.

I pad my way over to the table, cracking a broad grin at the headline “JAILBIRD: Daring Break-in at Local Lockup” and I’m utterly unsurprised to see a grainy image taken from a CCTV camera of me sprinting down a hallway. I know exactly where and when that shot was taken. I pick up the paper, intending to give the article a quick once-over, but a letter sealed neatly in an envelope falls out of one of the paper’s folds. I’m quick to retrieve it and cut the top with a claw, and my heart jumps into my throat as I immediately recognize who it’s from.

Dear Nadia,

I see you’re still alive. Hold very still; I’ll fix that shortly.

The table erupts, splinters flying in all directions. On instinct, I drop, letting myself go limp. I watch as holes tear themselves into the wall behind where I had just been standing. Hot lead ricochets around the room, blowing some ceramic bowls on the counter into sharp shards and dust. The noise of bullets ripping through the apartment is all I hear besides the noise of the city outside—there’s no deafening gunfire to be heard.

Barrel throws the door open, eyes perplexed. “What in the hell—”

“BARREL, GET DOWN!” I shout. He’s quick to react, and ducks back down in the stairwell, just as a few rounds pound uselessly into the doorway.

I bear-crawl forward, aiming to leap out the window after my would-be assassin. The barrage of lead stops momentarily, my assailant is either reloading or making a very poor choice as to whether I’m still alive. It’s a matter of a few seconds and almost a meter before I reach the window, and I cautiously poke my head up from the bottom, hoping to catch a glimpse of the assassin or, failing that, a hint as to the vector of the gunfire—however, it’s plain to see where and who the gunfire is coming from. Standing on his hind hooves on the roof of the building across the street, plain as day, is the pony who not 24 hours before had killed my parents in cold blood, set fire to their store, shot me and framed me for their murders. The Errand Pony, trench coat open and flapping in the breeze as his telekinetic magic levitates another magazine to fit into the silenced, scoped assault rifle he wields, gives a wicked grin as he notices me.

Something snaps; it feels like my whole body is on fire—the heat engulfs me in less than a second. My vision goes red immediately, and all conscious thought is lost at the sight of the pony. Through the red mist, I make a mad dash for the window, feeling the blood pounding in my head. Without warning, there’s a strange blue flash that erupts somewhere in my peripheral vision and rockets out the window, scorching a hole in the façade of the building my target is standing atop, then another, and another, both of which soar past the assassin with inches to spare. The grin he wears quickly turns into a look of surprise, and he ducks down, narrowly missing the next volley of blue fire. I hoist myself into the open window frame, ready to leap towards my retreating target. I’m running on pure adrenaline and hatred—I can’t hear anything but my own ears ringing and blood coursing and my vision is withdrawing into a pinpoint, locked on the rooftop opposite, scanning for any part of my target exposed from cover without purchase. I feel myself screaming—I’m unsure what—but I’m sure it’s not pleasant and directed solely at the Errand Pony.

I feel impact; sudden and jarring from behind, and rather than pushing me forwards my new attacker pulls me back inside, tossing me to the floor of the apartment like a toy. I thrash wildly, the red haze not relenting and my hearing withdrawing further to a whistle, but my assailant doesn’t give, in fact I almost feel like I’m being smothered. I’m sure to launch a quick series of punches at whatever’s got me. There’s a vocalization, a quick shout. Then another, clearer, then finally my hearing shoots painfully back into normalcy.

“Nadia!” It’s Barrel.

“WHAT?” I scream. My throat’s on fire. The red mist slowly becomes opaque in my vision.

“Nadia, calm down,” Barrel orders.

I realize Barrel’s thrown himself on top of me. “GET OFF OF ME, YOU—”

“Nadia, stop. Stop moving for two seconds.” His voice is calm, but he’s out of breath. It takes all my willpower, but I obey, and with that, I realize I’m panting too. I look over at him, eyes painfully wide. He’s draped himself across my stomach, using his weight to keep me down. In addition to that, his horn’s working overtime, holding all four of my limbs as still as he can with his telekinesis.

“Barrel, get off me,” I say, voice scratchy and raw.

“You gonna punch me again if I do?” I notice there’s a sizeable cut on his brow and a darkening bruise in his eye socket—my claw’s pulsating painfully; the correlation isn’t difficult to figure.

I let out a deep sigh, easily ten seconds long and let my head fall back to the wooden floor with a thud. “No.”

“Good.” He releases my limbs first, then, hobbles to his hooves and, careful to avoid the window, steps away.

I follow suit and stand as well, turning my head back towards the rooftop across the street in time to see the rooftop access door slam shut. “Fuck,” I mutter in resignation, halfway due to the Errand Pony’s escape and halfway in recognition of what I’ve done to Barrel. “I coulda had him,” I say.

“No you couldn’t have. Think about it for a second: unarmed griffon against a well-armed, well trained unicorn assassin. Pick your battles,” Barrel quickly replies, a definite edge to his voice that I’m not familiar with. If he was aiming to get his point across as effectively as possible, he’s succeeded.

He’s right. My shoulders slump and I let out another sigh as I feel hot tears rising in an acrid mixture of shame, anger and pain. Barrel doesn’t need a response, it’s painfully obvious I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I’m weak; shaking slightly and I’m sure Barrel can see it.

“I’ll be damned if you can’t throw a punch though,” he grins weakly.

I timidly give back Barrel the weakest grin possible through the tears. “Sorry,” I say.

“S’okay,” he mutters back in response. He opens the freezer, searching momentarily before slapping a frozen bag of peas over his eye before trotting back over, observing the rooftop opposite adamantly with his one uncovered eye for almost a full minute in silence. I can’t help but sob quietly to myself in the meantime.

“Look…” he begins, turning to face me. “I think I understand what you’re going through. But all the same, you’ve got to think, Nadia.” I nod sheepishly in response, a little surprised at his gentle tone. “I mean, damn it, you were about to fly right at a loaded gun.” He looks at me curiously. “I’ve never seen you get like that before,” he notes, voice concerned—it’s not helping me feel any better, it’s just making me feel like I’m insane. “Don’t get me wrong here, but we’re gonna have to work on that,” he concludes, trotting over to the destroyed table and sitting in one of the chairs, dropping the bag of peas on its surface, colliding with a puff of porcelain dust. He absentmindedly pats down the splinters around a bullet hole as he thinks.

I’m almost beginning to feel a little anger towards him—that bastard killed my parents, I respond to him internally. I think I have a valid excuse to be a little upset. “Yeah, but—”

“I already know. You’ve got every reason to be mad, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. But, uh…I can’t…you can’t…afford you flying into a blackout rage at the sight of that freak. You know what I mean?”

I nod mildly, still casting a sidelong glance out the window at the rooftop opposite. That crazy side of me is halfway hoping he comes back for another run. Barrel couldn’t stop you, it says. I squash it, feeling a cold tingle in my stomach.

“You know, if my…if I were in a similar situation,” he begins, clumsily tiptoeing around the problem, “I’d be furious too…” he lets his voice trail off, ending with a sigh. He’s not getting anywhere and he knows it. Instead of trying to continue, he stands up, trots over, and wraps his hooves around me in a big hug that almost knocks me over. “Nadia, I’m sorry,” he says into my shoulder. “This isn’t how things are supposed to be.”

I let my body relax, not realizing I’d been coiled like a spring, and I’m surprised to feel a steady flow of tears already rolling down my cheeks. But it feels right. I need this. Barrel doesn’t break loose—we stand there for nearly a minute before I finally let him go.

I sigh, and slump down against the wall. “Thanks, Barrel,” I say, fighting to smile through a face full of tears. “This turned into a big sappy mess, didn’t it?” I say, wiping my eyes in an attempt to regain my composure.

“Nadia, it’s fine,” he says, flopping down nearby. “You don’t have to play the tough girl all the time,” he says with a short-lived grin. There’s a pause, during which I can tell he’s trying to think of something to say. His tone changes, and he finally settles on what to ask. “So, you really loved them, huh?” he asks quietly. He cringes—I don’t think that came out the way he wanted it to, but I don’t mind.

“I thought I didn’t,” I reply. I roll my neck on my shoulders. There’s more to be said here, something I don’t know if I understand. “You know, I’d just about written them off. I thought they’d forgotten all about me. Like they’d moved on.” I exhale deeply. “But then I showed up, after five years of nothing, no contact, hardly even a thought of them, and what do they do, Barrel? They welcome me right back, like nothing had changed. Hell, they even told me they had made the mistake the night I ran away. Barrel—they found out I’d been becoming a little thief for years behind their backs and then they tell me they made the mistake by being mad at me. Why?”

“That’s what family does,” he responds quickly. He shrugs before continuing. “Family doesn’t hold a grudge.”

There’s no contesting that, and I suppress a fresh round of tears at the thought. There’s a long pause once again, and I spend the time observing Barrel, who’s still sitting on the floor opposite me. He’s slowly panning his head around the room, observing the damage and shaking his head. I’m sure he’s practically in shock himself that his so-called “secret lair” has been rendered unsafe. It’s not difficult to see that gears are turning somewhere in that cranium, but that’s not what I’m focusing on; I’m focusing on his slow change from gruff, goofy business partner—the pony who’d taken me in so many years ago—to the pony who sits across from me now, a caring, kind (still goofy) father figure. I’d only really begun to notice the change just before all this mess began—the night he told me I’m like the daughter he never had. Before that, he was always just my partner in crime. I shake my head. That was only 48 hours ago. Celestia help me. It feels like it’s been months. There’s another thought that pops into my head, joined with thrill from somewhere inside when I realize I can treat him like a second chance at a good father—after all, he’s trying his best to be one.

All the same, though—for all the sentimental feelings I’ve got towards the pony, there’s a certain emptiness in me, one that was oh-so-briefly refilled by the presence of my parents. The few hours I’d spent with them in peace had been almost perfect despite the problems they faced. I’d felt whole again, if only for a while—now it’s gone again. I’m suddenly stricken; there’s an ominous question that rears its ugly head: did I do this to them?

No. I’m unsure of myself. There’s a pang of fear, but I’m quick to reassure myself. HE did this. I made a mistake, yes. No doubt. I fell into his trap. I was only doing what I thought was right, I was only trying to help. I wanted to regain my honor—my honor. I freeze, thoughts going cold as well. My honor. My parents may be gone, but I’m still here. There’s still honor to be regained here—my honor. I can’t let this stand.

“Barrel, I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.”

Barrel snaps to attention, my voice, somehow strong and unwavering apparently unexpected. “Nadia—” He begins nervously. He’s probably expecting to have to hold me down again.

“No, listen. I’m not mad. I’m telling you—I’m telling you right now, straight-faced and clear-minded that I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.”

Barrel exhales, sizing me up and down. I look him square in the eye. “Okay.” He stops himself, briefly reconsidering what he’s about to say, but plows ahead regardless. “I…can’t say I blame you.” He nods. He’s still looking around the room, but he stops, expression suddenly very serious. “First thing’s first though, and I really hate to be the voice of reason here, but…remember what I said about picking your battles? Yeah, somehow I get the feeling that staying here, you know, in the place where the pony who wants to kill you—and apparently can target you at will—isn’t the smartest move to make right now. As your business partner, as your bookie, or—I don’t know, your surrogate father, whatever it is you want to call me now, we need to regroup. I mean, think about it: considering what he’s just done, it’s a safe bet to say this Errand Pony has made it very clear he won’t rest until one of the two of you are dead. Let’s make sure it’s him that’s doing the dying and not you or me or Mojito or any other pony who could get caught in the crossfire, you got me?”

“You’re saying we should give up?” That’s not under consideration.

“No,” Barrel quickly responds. “This is just, well, look. When you kick a hornet’s nest, you don’t stand around and watch the show, do you? Don’t get me wrong here. Believe me when I say I’ll never be the one to pull the “revenge isn’t worth it, we should forgive and forget and bury some hatchets while we’re at it” card, because I don’t even have that one in my deck. But let’s let things smooth over for a while—let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

“Popsicle stand, Barrel?” I ask, eyes narrowing. I don’t disagree with him—his argument is logically sound and I can’t help but agree, despite the fact that I’m practically envisioning the Errand Pony’s head on a pike, but Barrel’s expressions are…painful. However, he’s starting to sound like the old Barrel I know and love.

“You know what I mean,” he groans. “Besides, revenge is best served cold and all that,” he adds, eyeing me expectantly.

“Yeah, yeah.” I say, somewhat dejected. Yet again, he’s right. The Errand Pony will be expecting immediate retaliation, striking now would be a serious mistake. “But where will we go?”

“I don’t know,” he replies. “Somewhere with a market for professional thievery; maybe Las Pegasus, maybe Canterlot, maybe Manehattan."

Mojito cautiously pokes her head in the doorway. Convenient timing for Barrel, who is obviously struggling to come up with a real answer. “What in Celestia’s name was that? It sounded like someone let loose a rabid woodpecker in here!”

“Not far off, Mojito.” I reply. “You know the pony that started all this mess in the first place? He came back to try and finish the job.”

“Oh…well, damn.” She quips. “Glad I decided not to come up and see what it was. Next thing I knew, I heard someone screaming bloody murder—at that point I decided to hang out under the bar for a while.” She looks at me nervously. “Was…was that you screaming, Nadia?”

I grimace. “I guess so,” I reply weakly. I turn to Barrel. “What exactly was I saying again, Barrel?”

“Something about gouging out his eyeballs,” he states earnestly.

“Ah,” I reply. Somehow I had figured it wouldn’t be ‘I love you.’

There’s a pause. I feel my cheeks starting to cool slightly from Barrel’s last comment. I’m beginning to feel like an idiot for my blackout rage, however vindicated, but I note with some confusion that Barrel’s eying Mojito shiftily rather than looking cautiously at me.

“So, not to change the subject or anything,” Barrel begins, “but we’re all business partners now, right?” he’s looking at Mojito.

Uh oh. I think I know where this is going.

“I mean, I don’t wanna say it, but uh…we’re all in this together?”

I shake my head very visibly. I’m not saying we’re not “all in this together”, rather, I’m telling Barrel to stop while he’s ahead with his clichés. I am, however, glad the topic has moved away from me for a change—I may be able to put up with a few more poorly used movie quotes at this rate.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m part of the team now, right?” Mojito answers.

“Right. So, then, I guess you’d understand what I just told Nadia—that we need to lay low for a little while, regroup, do a little business in a new town. It would have to be somewhere the police couldn’t bother us, somewhere under the radar. You know…somewhere somepony has some decent connections.”

He’s got all this figured out already.

“Barrel—”

“I mean, we can’t stay here, we’ve got a crazed, gun-wielding psychopath breaking down our front door, and the only connections either of us two have are right here in Phillydelphia, or, Celestia forbid, Cobden, and She knows herself nopony here’s planning on crossing the Delawhorl for that.”

I’m a little confused by Barrel’s logic. Cobden, the city across the river, may be what Phillydelphia already chewed up and spat back out but it’s certainly less dangerous than where he’s thinking.

“Barrel, listen—”

“And, I mean, who knows if he wouldn’t just follow us right over there, too, you know? Cobden isn’t much of a stretch for somepony on the warpath.”

“Barrel, I left the Flotilla specifically to get rid of those connections. The last thing I want to do is go right back to them. It’s barely been three months now and all they’d probably do is laugh in my face and tell me to lick their horseshoes. I mean, I understand the fact that we need to leave, but what’s wrong with, say, Las Pegasus or even Trotonto?” Mojito’s looking exasperated. I imagine if I’d just left a criminal organization, I’d probably not want to cross paths with them again.

“You see, that’s the point—you have connections, however rocky the relationship may be. I promise we’ll smooth-talk our way in, I mean, come on: would it be easier for us to go have a chat with your old boss, fill him in with what’s going on and why you’re doing both parties a favor by introducing us, or break into an entirely foreign market and start completely over from scratch?” Barrel’s grin is impossibly huge; he’s well aware he’s got her by the tail. At this point it’s almost like watching a slightly mismatched tennis volley—Mojito’s struggling to keep the ball out of her court.

“Nope, no. Listen. I left the Flotilla so I could get clean. Leave the whole criminal underworld behind, turn a new leaf, all that. I’ve already broken that little promise I made to myself by joining your little criminal troupe. I’ve gone out of my way enough for a while, okay? Let’s just figure something else out.” She exhales, looking at me for support. I’ve honestly got none to give—I have no idea what her past holds so I’ve got nothing to go on, and besides, the Flotilla would be a damn-near-perfect place to hide.

“Mojito, you broke into a prison last night. All bets on whatever “new leaf” it is you’ve turned are dead and gone. At this point, you might as well accept that you’re back in the system, at least here in Philly. I mean, unless you plan on running away to some other run-down bar in another town…but wait, I thought we were all in this together?” Barrel’s playing her like a kazoo, and that tennis match? It’s 40-0 in Barrel’s favor.

There’s a pause as Mojito realizes she’s out of ammunition. “Damn it, Barrel,” she grumbles. “You win.” She kicks some broken porcelain across the floor dejectedly and trots for the doorway. I’m sure to note that the flatline expression she gives me in combination with her deep sigh of resignation is unbelievably cute. “I’ve got some calls I’ve got to make,” she mutters.

Author's Note:

I really hope this chapter doesn't feel "rushed" or too tightly packed with events and subjects. I had to fit a lot of content into not much space, so I guess this is what happens...after all, we don't really need three chapters detailing the events of this one, do we? That would just be padding at that point...so, no.

Additionally, I sure would like to get out of the schedule of posting new chapters every other month. That's pretty slow work, if you ask me...maybe I need to hire some ghost writers or something.

Anyway, enjoy!