> Honor Among Thieves
>  by Floo_Ter_Shai
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> On the Job
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The moonlight, practically full tonight and laced only with the shade of a few spotty clouds, reflects a pale blue—what some (I swear to the Goddesses I’m not one of them) would even call a periwinkle—off my beak as I attempt to hoist myself onto the iron-grate platform. My damn wings are too big for me to use them here—I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place, otherwise, my ascent would be cake. It would be a matter of liftoff, hover, flappity-flap, and land. Maybe five seconds of air time. I consider it for a moment, but I quickly determine I’d likely scrape off half my primaries on the red brick wall to my right, and my whole wing would be caught in the rusty iron railing on my left. Of course, I shouldn’t expect much different—this fire escape was built for the poor hoof-havers without the luxury of flight. I grimace. Its narrow breadth sure isn’t making my job any easier. 

I end up having to grab the railing with my claws and scrabble onto the grating with my hind paws. Not exactly graceful, and not exactly quiet either, the sound of my butt colliding with the dilapidated grating still reverberating around the alleyway, but I don’t particularly care; considering what hour of the night it is, there isn’t a soul within half a mile awake enough to hear. I shake my head as I look back at the treacherous path I had been forced to scale. Whichever pony had determined that stealing all of the fire escape’s iron ladders I had to give credit to—the idea of selling them for scrap was an example of entrepreneurship at its finest—but I’ll be damned if I don’t pause for a moment to consider finding that pony and ripping his throat out with my talons for making my life hell, if even for the few minutes I had climbed the rickety structure. 

Not a soul awake… I think to myself. I turn to my left, glancing out at the apartment building across the alley. A single light flickers in a window, fourth floor. I catch a strangely shaped shadow of—

Oh. I snap my attention back to the task at hand. Not a soul awake except those two. I grin lecherously as I unzip a small pouch on my vest. They won’t be noticing much of anything. 

I prod around inside the pouch for a moment. What I call my “entry vest” is a custom crafted article of clothing, a fine, dark leather creation with a trio of straps that keep it high and tight on my body, sturdy and somewhat protective against at least cuts and scrapes, slim but still loaded with pockets and pouches spacious enough to fit all the gear I can’t fit on my belt. It also has built-in webbing to attach it to my backpack, which, as you’d expect, is slung over my shoulders. At the moment, the backpack’s empty, but then again, it won’t be shortly. 

I withdraw a tightly coiled pack from the pouch, which I carefully unroll on the grating. I glance over at the door, a hefty-looking metal thing, focusing my attention on the lock. It is, like on virtually every other residential building door in the whole city, a cheap, store bought key lock, insecure and unfit for anything more than guarding a janitorial closet. It’ll take me about two minutes to pick. 

I check my surroundings once more before I insert my pick into the lock and set to work. As expected, it doesn’t take long, my final rake of the pick, turn of the torsion wrench and the light click of the door unlocking possibly even hitting somewhere shy of the two minute mark. I cautiously put my hand to the doorknob, expecting it to swing wide with only a light touch. Of course, it doesn’t. Instead, it hits some firm-sounding object almost immediately, sending a hollow thud throughout the entire apartment. I cringe momentarily, recoiling, expecting to hear the sound of hooves clopping through the room at any moment. After a minute’s wait, I still hear nothing, a break in my apparently waning luck.

“Sweet Luna,” I mutter under my breath, turning away from the door resting against whatever foreign object lay behind it. I look up at the moon with a grimace. Is anything going to go smoothly tonight? 

I shake my head. This delay was totally unexpected. I cursed the pony whose home this was for not following the fire code, if only for my sake. Blocking a fire escape? It’s a miracle for the sod living here that his landlord hadn’t come down on him for that one. I pause to consider that a moment. Being up to code wouldn’t have meant anything, anyway, considering the lack of ladders on the fire escape itself. 

I gently ease the door up to whatever piece of furniture blocks the door, letting it hit with only the faintest impact. After a moment to prepare, I press myself against the door, feeling the obstruction on the other side slowly give way as I increase my effort. I struggle for a moment, the gap widening, before calling it quits. Now the gap’s just big enough for me to shimmy inside. I grin, balancing on my paws as I give my biceps a wet peck. Damn, girl, I think as I admire my muscles.

I’m in. I let myself gently fall to all fours as I survey the place. It’s a fairly nice apartment inside, unlike some of the places I’d been sent to on the job, the place equipped with (thankfully) non-squeaking wood floors and fancy-looking furniture, including the heavy china cabinet I’d just moved. I thank my lucky stars I hadn’t tipped it over while moving it out of the way. I was apparently in the kitchen/dining area, a small table littered with old newspapers on my right, set into a small bay window. Quaint. I pause to look at a headline that catches my eye: PHILLYDELPHIA ROBBERIES ON THE RISE, it reads. Damn straight, I think as I try not to chuckle at the coincidence. 

Now that I take notice, the apartment is dead quiet. Not a rustle of blankets nor a snore from a bedroom, or even the noise of a quiet TV or radio can be heard. The only sound I can make out is the rhythmic tick-tock of an antique-looking clock hanging in the kitchen. I glance up at it, reading 1:48. I figure the place’s owner is buying another round just in time for last call down in one of Phillydelphia’s many bars. I smile yet again. Apparently something was going to go smoothly tonight after all; I had all the time in the world to do my deed and get out. 

I prowl into the living room, grinning as I step onto the thick, shaggy rug in the middle. It’s luxuriously soft under foot. Unfortunately, I don’t have the wingpower to heft the thing out of the apartment, otherwise I would. I do, however, vow to take a look at a new rug down at the market with all the money I net from this job. Where’s the target, again? I ask myself. My contact down at the Manticore’s Claw had mentioned a safe. Where? I pause, ruffling the soft carpet with my claws as I try my hardest not to purr. The bedroom, in the closet, that’s where. Of course. I’ve seen safes mounted in floors and under rugs, behind paintings, behind false walls—the classic closet-kept safe is practically a rarity considering the number of jobs I’ve done.  I head that direction, traversing quietly down the hall.

Hanging on either side of me are pictures of the apartment’s owner, some photos of the bulky-looking earth pony in the Navy, another few showing him on vacation (one with what looks like a group of friends aboard a yacht, massive swordfish held in front of them) and another of the guy and what are apparently his parents. Judging from those pictures, he seems like a nice enough pony. But, according to my contact, he hadn’t paid up on his considerable illegal gambling debt. Whatever the amount is, I don’t know, but it’s enough to merit my services. After all, if you don’t pay, trouble’s coming your way, I think to myself. It sounds like something Iron Will would say in one of his entirely-too-popular motivational speeches. I make a mental note to figure out a way to submit that to him. Maybe I could be compensated. 

The bedroom’s just as well-appointed as the rest of the apartment. Four-post bed, expensive looking sheets, thick carpet, dark wood chest of drawers and a matching mirror, a number of pricy-looking paintings adorning the walls. Whoever this pony is, he’s done quite well for himself. I let out a low whistle of approval. I’ve seen a lot of bedrooms in my line of work (don’t take that the wrong way), but this is how I’d like mine to be done. I briefly consider grabbing my camera from its pouch on my belt so I can have a few shots for reference. I decide not to—the risk is too great. After all, I only keep the camera on me in case I find some serious blackmail material, and that’s only kept until I know I don’t have to worry about any investigations launched to find me, or if whatever it is happens to amuse me that much, like the picture of a closet full of expensive, frilly women’s wear I’d found in the home of a venerable (single and male , might I add) military general. That picture hung on my special commemorative corkboard in my apartment’s safe room office.

I shake my head to refocus. There was nothing worthy of the commemorative corkboard here.  The only closet in the room is on the opposite end from the bed, no lock on the door, as expected. These quick jobs I’d had a string of lately are almost too easy. I swing myself onto two legs, twisting the doorknob to reveal—a clothes closet. Imagine that. I rifle through the contents of the tiny room, shifting hangars of slightly-out-of-fashion coats, a few belts, and other miscellanea, past his dry cleaned and plastic-wrapped naval dress uniform, and there it is, mounted into the wall, low, purposefully difficult to spot. The safe. Ding-ding-ding, we have a winner, I congratulate myself. Even more—it’s not a code lock or a padlock—lock and key. I’m good to go with the lockpicks. 

My pack of picks comes back out, and I set to work. My senses, particularly that of hearing, practically go into overdrive as I work on the lock—not for the sake of better picking the lock—I’m perfectly capable of hearing minute sounds in such a quiet environment; but for the insurance that my environment will remain quiet, as in, I don’t want to be caught with my pants down. I had heard the stories down at the Manticore’s Claw about some of those folk who got caught. Considering the marks hired thieves like myself go for, it’s not a stretch to imagine that, for a significant amount of them, the first reaction isn’t to call the cops. I aim to avoid anything that entails at all costs. As a result, I hear everything. The faint thunk of the A/C unit in the next apartment over kicking itself on. The clock in the kitchen, still ticking away with its perfect rhythm. The little things. 

Five minutes pass all too quickly. This lock is considerably more difficult than the one on the door into the place, and it’s particularly the bitch due to the pitch black closet, and the fact that the majority of the safe itself is obscured by clothes. I literally have my face and most of my body tucked inside the row of clothes, my face nestled against what I believe to be a rather nice cardigan. I pause briefly, considering pulling out and turning on a light. I weigh the decision, a grimace painting my face. I don’t like the option of turning on the light—assuming at least one nosy neighbor (this I have found to be a constant in the business of burglary—there is always at least one), it would be my luck that they were up in search of a midnight snack and see one small light coming from my mark’s apartment and attempt to find out what it belonged to, or, worse yet, my mark could come home and find me practically trying on his cardigan. At the same time, the option does sound more attractive than having to screw my eyes tight just to make out if I was even in the general vicinity of the safe.

I settle on remaining in darkness. My luck has already shown its alliance tonight, and it isn’t with me. Another minute passes as I torque on the lock while raking with the pick, and I finally hit pay dirt. To my heightened senses, the lock’s click is more on the same decibel level as a clock tower bell tolling. Regardless, it’s a beautiful sound. I hadn’t been informed what the safe contained, as per my request ( after all, that brief moment of unveiling the loot is what keeps my job consistantly interesting—that and being shot at by police, but never mind the last point) and a genuine smile comes to my beak as I swing the small door wide open. 

It’s coins, and lots of them, neatly packaged into coin wrappers and stacked three high, five wide, and at least four deep on each of the safe’s three shelves. Better yet is that they’re not any of the smaller silver or bronze ones, they’re gold, all of them—100 bit coins. They’re beautiful. I make a quick estimate at 20 coins per coin wrapper, at three high, five wide and four deep on three individual shelves—that’s an astounding 360,000 bits. I gulp instinctually. It is, by a country mile, the largest sum of cash I’ve ever laid eyes on. I have not the faintest inkling of a clue how this pony was able to stash this much money away and somehow manage not pay off a gambling debt. 

I exhale out of pure exhilaration. If I could pull anywhere near this kind of money on every job, I would have easily been able to retire at least six months ago and buy that beachfront house in Las Pegasus I’ve always dreamed of.
I can’t help it. I let out a quiet giggle, a faint, schoolbird-sounding squack of delight. I twist my torso around, unhooking my backpack from the webbing on my vest before setting it next to the safe and unclasping the top flap. I’m already anticipating my promised 10 percent cut, my grin widening by the second. 36,000 bits! I laugh to myself. I begin to imagine the things I can do with the princely sum of cash. 

The coin wrappers are fairly heavy, about a quarter pound each as I load them into the backpack, hand over fist to speed up the process. After all, there are a hundred and eighty of them. A solid three minutes of work at a furious pace passes before they’re all loaded, the backpack now considerably heftier than I’m used to. Hell, the last month of jobs have netted me around 500 bits apiece, and considering the last three were little more than document grabs (small-time corporate espionage) this kind of weight was fairly extreme. The backpack back in place after wrestling it into position, I withdraw the note I’m to leave in the money’s place. I had read it earlier, before ascending the fire escape outside. It was surprisingly eloquent and fairly stylish in its execution. It read:

Dear Mr. Boulder,

You may notice that your safe has been fully alleviated of its contents. Allow us to make it clear that this is a result of your apparent inability to pay off the outstanding debt you owe us. You were forewarned that an inability to pay come due time would result in alternate methods of receiving payment—this being your first offense, we’ve decided to take it easy on you. Another mistake will cost you even more dearly, and any attempt to seek help from the law will be met with your untimely death. 

You can consider your debt paid. We’d suggest you not cross us again. 

There was no addressee anywhere on the note. The writers had clearly been aiming for anonymity, I’m assuming in case of interception. I place the note into the safe, door left wide open. Stealing a pony’s life savings sure was a cruel way to send a message. For a brief instant, I feel a twinge of guilt, but it doesn’t last long. After all, I’m just the messenger. I have no doubt that if I had refused the job, another professional thief would have been hired in my place. 

I crack my knuckles, slipping myself out of the row of clothes in preparation to leave the apartment behind and head back to the Manticore’s Claw. Luck had gone my way after all—the mission was a clear success. My pack of lockpicks goes back in its pouch, and as I turn to waltz out of the bedroom, the unthinkable happens. 

The deadbolt belonging to the front door snaps open, the handle turns noisily. I immediately swing back into the closet. Shit. My heart rate spikes; I can feel it thudding somewhere in my throat, and my hind claws slide out of their sheaths, ready in case things get violent. I hear two voices. One’s big, a booming tone. Sounds like somepony who’d go by the name of Mr. Boulder. The other is definitely female, and very giggly. Apparently Mr. Boulder’s done well for himself at the bar tonight. I let out a faint sigh of relief—he’ll be at least momentarily distracted by his beau. Crouching, I make my way into the bedroom, and peer around the corner. They’re obviously still standing in the entry, which is, unfortunately, in direct view of the fire escape. There’s no way out yet. A light flips on in the kitchen, then the living room. The two are conversing, and slurring noticeably, the mare still giggling like mad. I hear the wet smack of a kiss; I cringe and tune them out slightly. Several seconds pass—from what I can hear (not that I want to) they’re still going at it. Get on with it, I whisper under my breath—I want out of here. As if on cue, there’s a loud flump as the pair collapse to the couch. There’s my out. I peer around the corner once more, catching a glimpse of them. It’s still largely dark in the living room where they are—considering my ability to remain quiet, there’s a decent chance I won’t be spotted. I make my way forward, carefully testing every step on the wood floor for squeaky boards. So far, so good. I crouch behind a fancy looking lounge chair on the opposite side of the living room from the two lovers, still unseen. They’re obviously preoccupied. It’s a short shot to the fire escape, which is still open, that fact somehow not noticed by Mr. Boulder, but the way there’s fairly well lit. If they don’t notice me now, I’m home free. 

I go for it, taking a set of long strides to the door. I hear a muffled mmph from the couch as I throw myself through the narrow gap. I stand outside for a brief moment, wondering if I was spotted. In any respect, I’m safe. With that, however, the slightly insane side of me takes over, deciding I have to check. I pop my head back into the apartment. Nope, they’re still going to town. I grin for a second before letting out a cliché catcall. Their make-out session decidedly ruined, they look over at the source of the noise, still lying on the couch, one atop the other. They spot me instantly, looks of utter confusion on both their faces. 

“My apologies for ruining your night, Mr. Boulder, but you might want to go check on your safe,” I announce. He cocks his head, look of confusion turning to one of horror I turn to the mare. She’s a unicorn, big blue eyes, and a short-cut mane. At least a seven. “And you,” I add only semi-jokingly, “you can ruffle my feathers anytime,” I finish with a smile. I duck back out of the apartment, holding back laughter at her expression, which had been the very definition of dismay.

At that, I throw myself off the metal grating, my wings spreading instinctually. A cold burst of nerves mixed with the chilled air hits me as I enter the almost second-long free fall as my wings struggle to catch lift to keep the added weight of my loaded backpack aloft. They succeed, though, and I immediately bank hard to the right, heading further down the alley so I can gain altitude unspotted and in the shadows. I flap furiously, gaining speed like a feathery rocket as I shoot past the few lit windows on either side of me. I tilt my wings back in a glide lasting only a moment, feeling the concrete below fall away. I turn my head back to the fire escape platform, seeing the darkened shape of Mr. Boulder standing on it. Even despite the howl of the wind in my ears, I could hear him screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs. I let out a laugh, the noise immediately taken by the wind. Home free. 

I circle back, now above the apartments and still gaining altitude. I’m sure to keep myself at what I hope is a correct angle to so as not be spotted by Mr. Boulder as I head back to meet up with my contact at the Manticore’s Claw. 

> The Manticore's Claw
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	I’m still aloft, and high up at that. I figure I’m a solid 300 meters up, well above the city. I never get tired of the view: Phillydelphia all lit up in the darkest hours of night is a sight to be seen from such an altitude. I take a deep breath as I make another gentle wing stroke, looking out at the sights. The city center’s lit like a birthday candle, the bright light from the skyscrapers illuminating the gently tossing Delawhorl River, and the sky is a deep violet. I take a quick glance up; the countless stars look to be a twinkling, almost transparent background to the yellow tint belonging to the city center’s light pollution. If I were to dive any further down they'd cease to exist altogether. For a second I’m tempted to rocket further into the sky to see the stars clearly, but even at this altitude I can already feel the chill of the thinning air through my feathers in addition to the speed-whipped wind as I shoot towards my destination.

I’m heading southwest, just out of the city center—the area generally avoided by the well-to-do, or, in layman’s terms: the ghetto. It’s where I live, and where I make a living. The city lights slowly dim, turning back into residential and darkened commercial buildings, closed up for the night. I begin a fast descent down to about fifty meters, now clearly able to pick out individual buildings. I pass Waverneigh Plaza, banking hard to the left down the adjacent street. It’s only about a quarter mile’s flight until I reach my destination, and at the cruising speed I’m traveling, that distance only takes another thirty seconds.

The Manticore’s Claw is in sight. It’s a hole of a bar, my home away from home. I glance at the familiar façade as I descend further to earth and slow my speed. By some coincidence, every vowel on the faded brick structure’s neon sign is either dead or dying, and the dagger-like claw that slashes through the malfunctioning logo is flickering wildly. I come to a halt in midair in a gap between the gray tree husks that line the sidewalks, the downdraft off my wide wingspan causing the branches, frostbitten and dormant from seasons past, to shake and groan. I let myself fall to the wet pavement of the sidewalk, tinted a faded orange from the painfully bright streetlamps. Rainwater makes a staccato rhythm as it flows freely out of the broken gutter pipe beside me and the air is thick and moist from the rain earlier in the day; it’s a typical humid Phillydelphia summer’s night. The tepid water splashing off the pavement, sullied from the rusty gutter and the dirty sidewalk is oddly refreshing as it slides effortlessly off my feathers and fur. It reminds me of the puddles I used to play in back home as a fledgling. It’s a happy memory; I let out a soft chuckle and a smile as I close the remaining distance to the bar on foot.

Now past the white noise of the splashing rainwater, the noises of the city at night come to bear. Hooves clop in the distance across the cracked pavement. Laughter rings out from a pool hall across the street, thick smoke wafting from the wide open door. What sounds suspiciously like a scream echoes from the alley, reverberated from several streets down. Dogs bark violently a few blocks away.

The street I walk is nearly devoid of activity besides myself. A policepony, clad in neon yellow for nighttime visibility, stands as a nervous sentry on the corner, eyes darting for anything suspicious, or perhaps for oncoming attack. I used to feel a twinge of fear at the sight of them, but it didn’t take long for that to fade. After all, they knew all too well they didn’t run the streets in this area. I glance down at my gear. All dark leather and canvas pouches, bristling with gear. I’m carrying a backpack that’s far too heavy looking for normal use. There’s no way anypony who sees me doesn’t immediately realize I’m up to no good. To be fair, compared to the pair of thuggish ponies huddled in serious conversation in the dark alley ahead, my garb and activity looked downright tame. I watch as a small package and a bag of bits exchange hooves, the neon policepony oblivious to the obvious drug deal that had just taken place. I let out a chuckle. The police avoid this area like the plague, and the once in a blue moon they show themselves they make sure to keep themselves as far out of trouble as possible, always mirroring the scared looking cop’s actions further down the street: huddle under an awning, jaw clenched, do their best to run out the clock and then immediately run back to headquarters downtown.

The policepony’s eyes drift over the breadth of the street, both parties involved in the drug deal walking away unnoticed. I watch his eyes travel past me, and quickly do a double take. He looks me up and down, eyes flitting over every inch. I stop in my tracks, returning the terrified colt’s glance with a devilish leer. He winces visibly, his gaze quickly returning to the sidewalk in front of him. That’s right, I think to myself. You didn’t see anything. Go back to your so-called patrol. As expected, he does. I watch as he trots further up the street, looking nervously over his shoulder. I walk on, up to the entrance of the Manticore’s Claw.

I’m immediately walloped by the heat pouring out of the bar. The air conditioning still hasn’t been fixed. Nonetheless, the bar’s practically full, sweat dripping from its occupants just like the water that leaked from the ceiling. The patrons all look like they’re having a good time, everypony crowded around the bar, watching and loudly commenting on the rerun of tonight’s hoofball game on the blaring plasma screen TV mounted on the back wall. The Clydes had apparently won handily, lending to the room’s high morale. I spot the bar’s owner quickly. He’s an older unicorn, bulky and visibly muscular wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a sizeable beard. On most nights, Mr. Tavern Barrel looks like a particularly gruff character out of an old action movie, but tonight he’s showing the other side I know so well, his soft, teddy ursa-like personality shining through. He’s got a hoof slung around Mojito Mint, the cute new bartender, who notices me before him and gives me an exasperated smile. I’m sure to return it. Barrel quickly notices Mojito’s change of attention, and flicks his head, salt-and-pepper beard following closely behind. His goofy grin breaks into a full-blown welcoming smile as he spots me.

“Nadia! How’s my favorite griffon girl tonight?” He shouts over the noise of the TV. Half of the patrons sitting at the bar turn and give me at least some form of greeting. As they do so, I pick out several of the patrons now laying out the welcome mat who I distinctly remember having never seen before. I let out a chuckle. It’s more out of drunken respect for the formidable-looking Mr. Barrel than actual recognition of me.

“She’s doing just fine,” I reply. I give my backpack a light pat with my wing. He smiles wide.

“Looks heavy. You oughta let me take that for you,” He jokes. He knows I wouldn’t give it up with my dying breath.

“You know better than that, Tavern. At least not until I get my cut,” I reply with an exaggerated scowl. We both know that I'm only half joking.

He eyes the rest of the bar suspiciously, dropping his hoof from Mojito, who shakes her head with a laugh and moves back to the bar in search of thirsty customers. He motions with his head to the back room. I know the drill. Without a second thought, I hop the bar and head to the office behind the bar. Tavern shuts the door behind me. Despite the fact that exactly 80 percent of the bar’s patrons were themselves embroiled in at least some form of illegal activity, and the other 20 percent didn’t care, Barrel remains terminally paranoid about our side business.

Barrel’s office is nicely appointed; the dark wood paneling, hung art, noir film posters and selection of rich leather chairs doesn’t fit in with the rest of the bar. As far as I know, he’s funded its entire renovation with funds from our jobs. A fan blows wildly in the corner to blow the hot air out of the room.

“There was a cop out there earlier, did he see you?” He asks in a concerned tone as he circles around to his desk. He props his front hooves up on it, looking like a criminal mastermind. I pause to consider that for a second, I suppose technically he is.

“Yeah, of course he saw me. He was barely older than a filly, and his eyes were darting over everything that moved. There’s not a wendigo’s chance in hell he’s gonna report anything, anyway, all he wanted to do was get home," I reply in a distinctly bored tone. Barrel's too careful for his own good. 

Barrel sucks in his breath. “I know…but risks are risks, and we all know how much I don’t like taking any when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“Well then, if you ever decide you want to tag along with me on a job, I think you’d come to hate me pretty fast.” I quickly retort.

He chuckles, rolling his eyes emphatically. “Nadia, I don’t even wanna know. But back to the cop—next time, you’ve gotta do something so as to not be seen coming into the place.”

I sigh. The cop didn’t care—he was practically wetting himself. “Whaddaya want me to do? Kill him next time?”

Barrel laughs. “that’s a little extreme. Maybe just come in the back door?”

I shrug. “It’s an option.” I obviously still plan to come in the front door. To get to the back door, I’d have to go down the alley and hop a chain-link fence. It simply isn't worth it.

Barrel eyes my bag with a raised eyebrow, opting to change the subject. “So, the job went well, huh?”

With that, I twist my torso around as I rear onto my paws, unhooking the backpack from my vest. I set it on Barrel’s solid wood desk, where it lands with a heavy thump. I look up at him, watching for his reaction.

“Damn, girl, what’ve you got in there? Bricks?”

I let out a sly grin. He’s staring at me in anticipation. “Try 360,000 bits,” I deadpan.

It takes him a second to register the number I had just disclosed, and once he’s done processing, he flops into his office chair, which sends him rolling back a few hooves. His eyebrows are raised, and his mouth hangs open slightly.
“Holy shit,” is all he can manage. I let out a laugh in quick reply. “That’s the biggest job we’ve ever done.”

“By a longshot,” I add.

He throws his head back into the chair cushion. “That’s 36,000 bits apiece,” He exhales.

“Damn straight!” I reply with a grin. Barrel gets a 10 percent cut of the loot as well, as per our contract. I look up at him. He’s smiling, clearly trying to figure out what to do with his funds. “I sure hope some of that’s going towards fixing the A/C,” I suggest. 

He sighs and nods. “It is pretty hot in here, isn’t it?” He asks. He’s visibly sweating, and 'pretty hot' is an understatement. Although noticeably cooler than the rest of the bar thanks to the fan, even his office is well above 80 degrees.

“I don’t know how your customers can stand it,” I reply frankly.

“Yeah, yeah. It's a problem. I’ll call ‘em up in the morning,” he grumbles jokingly.  He glances up at the clock above the door. “We’ll divvy this in the morning. I’m gonna hit the sack; it’s way past my bedtime. You’d better too, hell, it’s only 3:00 in the morning.” He gets up from his chair. He stops right in front of me, shaking his head with a smile on his face. “You did great tonight, girl. Any more jobs like this, and we can get our asses out of the ghetto and move on to the bigtime.”

“Thanks, Barrel,” I reply with a grin. “I can’t wait.” My tiredness catches up to me as well. I can feel my eyelids growing heavier by the minute, and I can’t stifle a yawn.

“Goodnight, Nadia,” He says with a sincere smile as he trots to the door. It’s not a common thing for me to initiate what anypony would call “affection”, but I feel compelled to give the big teddy ursa of a pony a hug, which I do, halting him in place by throwing my wings around him and squeezing as he walks by. He smiles, hugging back. “You know,” he says quietly and altogether unexpectedly, “you’re like the daughter I never had.”

I’m faintly astonished, but I do my best not to show it. For a second or two, I literally feel a few warm fuzzies, and I can only reply awkwardly with faint laugh. I think for a second to come up with a proper response. “Love you too, Barrel. See ya in the morning.” I let go of him, and we both exit the room. I head up the stairs behind the bar to the apartments above, and, after locking the door behind him, my backpack safely inside, Barrel goes back to the bar to help Mojito and the others clear the place out for the night.

I smile as I paw my way up the stairs. The exchange only a second before was almost too sweet for me to handle, I realize. Am I starting to go soft? I ask myself. Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing frilly dresses and be signing up for dance lessons . I chuckle as I turn on the landing up to the third floor. I’m not going soft, I’m just part of the family. It feels good. I haven’t been part of anything I’d call a “family” in almost a decade. I sigh, thinking back to my parents. I wonder how they’re doing? I have to stop myself mentally. It’s emotionally too much for me at 3:00 AM. Or possibly ever. In any case, I need sleep.

I let my apartment door swing wide, surveying the scene. My apartment is, as usual, a mess, although to what extent is hidden mostly by the fact that nary a light is on in the whole place. Needless to say, I’m too tired to turn one on, and instead I opt to wiggle out of my entry vest and utility belt and haphazardly throw them onto the couch in the living room. I’d deal with them in the morning. The fur that was under my vest feels matted; I arch my back to get it to fluff up again and let my front claws slide forward into a stretch. I pop my neck, feeling the fatigue of many late nights like this one. My eyes are now far heavier than they were in Barrel’s office. There’s not a chance in hell I’ll be waking up any time prior to noon. I make my way to the bed and throw myself into it. The last thing I remember is my head hitting the pillow.


***


The moon is high in the night sky as the little fledgling slowly paces down the side of the dilapidated street. She has no idea where she is, no idea what time it is, and no idea where she’ll be sleeping tonight. Even her steps seem unsure of themselves. She looks off to her side. A row of dumpsters. Several overflow with garbage. She’d heard of homeless ponies sleeping in them, but they look disgusting. That option is clearly not a good one. A little further up the street on the other side is a motel. A pack of ponies sit around outside. She recognizes the type from school. They were the type she’d tried so hard to avoid. Seedy. Defensive; looking for a fight. They’re all part of a gang. They eye her greedily, like she’s a walking freakshow with their sunken eyes. They have every right to. After all, what’s stranger than a kid griffon walking alone at night in this part of town? The little griffon gulps. That option’s out too. 

The noises aren’t what she’s used to. The heavy noise of wagons isn’t heard anywhere, and the pleasant clopping of hooves down the streets is noticeably absent. In fact, the streets are nearly deserted. Those familiar noises are replaced by the sounds of shouting from further up the street and muffled, almost sinister sounding laughter echoing off some buildings behind her. Wind whistles through the alley, and big dogs bark angrily in the distance.

She walks wearily along. She’s come a long way. Where the building used to be beside her is now an empty lot, and the rubble from its demolition still covers the place’s foundation. It looks like it used to be row houses judging by the different colored bricks. If the building was still standing, and if her midnight walk would have happened a week prior, it’s exactly the type of place she’d case. She stops herself. It’s too late. Just like that, all the emotions she’d tried to bury by running away come rushing forth, right there on the sidewalk. She sinks to her knees. Her face goes hot, and the tears follow quickly thereafter. She sobs, her whole body racked with sorrow. Why did I run away? She thinks as the all-encompassing heat in her head subsides enough to let her think. She already knows the answer, but as she lies on the damp concrete it seems so stupid. It was all because of that one thought she’d had just seconds prior as she glanced at the rubble of the torn-down brownstone. She’d been caught. Her parents had found out about her “late night strolls”; they’d found her stash of goods ready for fencing. They’d confronted her, but why? She wasn’t out stabbing anypony; she was just a thief. She hadn’t done anything like her friends had. What’s more, she had even left them! She knew they had turned into trouble. It had been painful, but she had let them slip away. But now even her parents didn’t understand; they didn’t want her. They had shouted and screamed. There was no one left for her. She’d lost any trace of honor she’d ever had with her parents; they couldn’t love her after something like this. So she ran. 

Now here she is. Laying on the sidewalk in what had to be the bad part of Phillydelphia in the middle of the night. She briefly considers going home. It would be easy, she’d only have to fly her way up to where she could see above the streets; finding her way back couldn’t be that difficult, despite the distance she’d already traveled. No. That would be even worse. She had chosen her path the minute she’d climbed out the window. Going back on it would be the coward’s way. She’s not a coward. Tears still streaming down her face, she picks herself up. Laying on the sidewalk isn’t going to get her anywhere except for into trouble. She stands shakily. Her mind is made up, but her legs aren’t quite agreeing with her yet. She takes a stuttering breath, punctuated by a nervous gulp. Her first few steps are stumbling, but she evens herself out quickly. She walks on.

It’s not long before she stops again. Not due to another breakdown; no, it’s her self-taught observance that causes her to halt. Judging by the looks of it, it’s a bar. It’s a strange name; it’s called the Manticore’s Claw. But it’s nearly perfect. It’s got three stories. Her entrance would be simple, the windows on the top floor look like they’re about ready to pop out of their frames, and from there, she could see what the place had to offer, be it either a place to hole up for the night or something to sell so she could eat tomorrow. She pauses to consider what she’d just determined without having ever had the conscious thought to do so. Isn’t this what got me into this in the first place? She thinks. It obviously is. But what else is she to do? She’s got nowhere to go, and she can feel herself growing more tired by the minute. She smiles. Maybe it’s spite, maybe it’s desperation, and it could be her intuition, but she knows what she has to do. Thievery may have caused the trouble she’s in, but it just might get her out of it tonight.  

> 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. 

> The Meeting
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

		It doesn’t take long for the little griffon to make her way up the building. After all, she’s got wings, and she does indeed know how to use them. She clings to the windowsill, which is literally rotting away in clumps as she clutches it in her talons to get some semblance of a grip. As she’d so accurately predicted, the window does in fact pop out of its soggy housing. She’s careful to place it inside against the wall, into a room she can only describe as “dark.” She lets her eyes adjust for a moment or two, and she can make out what her surroundings look like. She’s in a spare room of sorts, she can see a collection of dusty-looking barstools and what looks like an upright piano covered by a cobwebbed blanket standing in the corner. The majority of the room is empty, and on the counter and around the kitchen lays a collection of toolboxes and a few cans of dried-drip-covered green paint. She vaults inside, landing noiselessly on the wood floor, and before moving on she halts for a moment, listening. There’s a persistent white noise coming from somewhere downstairs. It takes her only a second to realize what it is and she can’t help but feel a little dumb for not recognizing it at first. It’s the noise of the bar downstairs. She smiles. It’s a perfect mask for any noise she could make in the spare room. It may not be the most comfortable, but it’s a great place to hole up for the night. 

She’s quickly able to scrounge up the blanket that once covered the piano (which she’s sure to carefully shake out and examine for spiders) and even a few pillows from the musty couch she hadn’t noticed behind an antique dresser. It’s not long before she has a fully formed nest to bed up in. But she doesn’t stop there. Her curiosity gets the better of her. She’d had the intention of possibly staying at the bar for the night, and with that mission accomplished, she had to address her second goal; surely the place has something she can take with her. It’s that side of her she’s so familiar with that’s telling her she has to see, and she eagerly obeys. It’s that side of her that’s not content with just a place to sleep, the crazy side that had drawn her into this mess in the first place. But, with her resolve strengthened and her nerves alight with the adrenaline from the excitement of her first break-in since she’d run away, she ignores all the warnings the other side of her brain’s throwing out to keep her safe. She couldn’t say no if she tried.

She pads her way to the door of the spare room, and carefully lets it creak open into the dimly lit stairwell. The coast’s clear. The din of the bar downstairs grows exponentially louder, and the laughter and shouting she’s hearing sounds merry and almost inviting, but she knows she’d stand out like a sore claw in the bar. The stairs are creaky, but it doesn’t matter, nopony can hear her. She reaches the second landing and, as usual, checks the door to what she assumes is another spare room. It’s unlocked. She knows that stealing from the bar itself is impossible without being spotted, so this is her only chance.

As she stands in the open doorway, it becomes immediately clear that she’s not in another spare room. It’s a full sized apartment, and quite a nice one at that. She pauses before continuing further inside. It all seems strange, this quality of apartment in such a miserable part of town. But nonetheless, here it stands. She takes a look around. She’s in a small entry foyer, the entire doorway lined with potted plants. Right off the foyer is a well-appointed kitchen and a living room full of antique-looking furniture. The chances of there being anything useful in the kitchen are slim, so she surveys the living room briefly for valuables, and she spots her mark immediately. There’s a coin holder on the coffee table. She’s on it in a second, and it’s definitely not empty. She can’t count the number of each domination in the dim light filtering into the unlit room, but it’s quite a number of coins, and they’re not small ones. She empties them from the bag and places it back on the coffee table. Considering the fact that she’s staying the night, something suspicious like an obviously missing money holder wouldn’t do favors in keeping her presence unknown. She briefly considers searching on in the apartment, but she decides she’d better not. She’s stretching her luck as it is. And as much as she hates to admit it to herself, she almost feels bad taking the coins she clutches in her claw now. With every other theft she’s done, it’s been a situation where she knows the owner won’t miss it desperately. But she considers the area whoever the place belongs to lives in and can’t help but think the money’s of some importance to the owner. Nonetheless, she needs to eat tomorrow. Sobbing about whether the pony needs it can come later, if at all. But a further search of the apartment is out.

The little griffon turns to leave, right back up the stairs, but she freezes. There’s hoofsteps coming up from the bar. Her heart jumps into her throat. For an instant, she wonders if they’re heading for this apartment or the empty one upstairs, but she realizes the chances of the latter are nil. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for cover, for anything as the clopping hooves continue their steady beat up the old wooden steps. She glances over at the window. If she tucked her shoulder and dove for it, she could bust through it without much trouble. Just as she prepares herself to sprint, exhaling in a fruitless attempt to gain some clarity in her brain which, screaming, tells her she’s done, she’s had, the beat reverberating from the stairwell comes to an abrupt halt. 

“Huh?” comes a booming voice from the doorway. She whips her head to face its owner. It’s a silhouette, a bulky black shadow whose head is tilted and staring at the open door in confusion. “’Coulda sworn I shut this.” The griffon freezes up. The window’s still an option, and the only one that’s any good. But where will she go from here? She’s got nothing. Without a second thought, she dives. Not for the window, but behind the couch. She slams bodily onto the hard wood floor with a resounding thump; the impact’s extremely audible. Exactly what she hadn’t wanted. There’s a pause. Nothing moves. “Whoever’s in here, give it up and I won’t kill ya,” The voice growls. 

If she thought her heart was in her throat moments before, she had been wrong. She can hear it beating like a drumroll, she swears it’s thudding off the wood floor. The light flips on. Her eyes white out for a second in a blast of pain as they overload from the sudden brightness, and she lets out a whimper as she clenches them tightly shut. She can hear the pony’s head whip towards her. Hooves move in her direction. In a flash of light, she’s flying, her eyes pop open and she watches as the apartment falls away around her and, not a second later, she slams into the wall, an intense pain erupting from every nerve along her spine and head. The impact is so strong she can feel the wall give way slightly, making a dent in her shape. Her vision fades slightly, she can feel her consciousness leaving her as the pain in her back doesn’t stop. She hears the metallic tinkles as her claw falls open, the coins she’d been holding falling to the floor. She exhales, having no recollection of having been holding her breath, another wave of pain shooting through her as she does so.

“Oh, shit,” the voice gasps. “Oh, Celestia, you’re just a…a fledgling,” it says. The voice is tinny, like it’s coming through a broken speaker. Nonetheless, through her fading vision, she can see the pony. The bulky silhouette belongs to a unicorn, and she can see his salt-and-pepper beard and dark brown coat. His bright green eyes are wide in shock. “Oh, Celestia,” he repeats, looking at her with a clenched jaw. “I’m so sorry,” he says, genuine anguish growing in his furrowed brow and frightened eyes.

“I—uh—” She mumbles through the agony, which, oddly, is beginning to numb. Her nearly incoherent voice is amplified a hundred times and it reverberates around her skull. Her vision dims even further, and the white noise that’s been building in her ears takes over. 

The unicorn’s eyes, now welling with tears as he shakes his head, willing her to come back, become pinpricks in her vision. Everything goes dark. 


***

The warehouse where we’re meeting our client is, as promised, fully abandoned, and boarded up tight. The hot summer sun’s finally starting its descent, and, if my educated guess is actually accurate, it’s about 4. We’re right on time. 
A warm, erratic breeze shuffles the assortment of litter and garbage that decorates the cracked and stained concrete slab this block of medium-sized warehouses sits on, making yet another flyer for a fortunately long-passed semi-legal rave think my face is a good place to come to rest. I peel it off and glance uncertainly over at Barrel, who’s scanning the building for an entrance. The place is abandoned for a reason. Weeds and grass poke out of rusted holes in the corrugated steel façade, and what were once brightly lit neon letters are now hanging by time-loosened screws and nails. Every window’s fully spider-webbed, be it either literal spider webs or broken glass. I can smell the Delawhorl River in the distance.

“You sure this is the right one?” I ask, glancing around at the nearly identical warehouses to my left and right. 

“That spells Bit & Bridle Manufacturing, doesn’t it?” he asks, gesturing at the broken and dangling letters on the warehouse in front of us. He glances over his shoulder at the briefcase he’s got slung there. It’s the fifth time he’s checked, and yes, it’s still there. 

“Try ‘it & Bidle Manfcting’,” I attempt to enunciate with a laugh. 

He chuckles. “Close enough.” He takes another look at the warehouse before glancing back to me with a grin. “You’re the girl with the rap sheet, you figure out a way in.”

“Simple enough,” I shrug. A few seconds later, my entry tool’s withdrawn from its bag and I’m prying a sheet of water-warped plywood off of a large side window. It’s a great entry point: not immediately obvious to observers or police (of which neither are—nor will—be present) and it won’t give away that we’ve even arrived to our client once he shows. I let the pressed board fall to the concrete, and it lands with a huge puff of dust. “We’re in,” I say with a grin, simultaneously clearing off the broken glass from one of the windowpanes with a clean sweep of the entry tool. 

“Ladies first,” Barrel jokingly calls, peering into the near-blackness of the warehouse’s interior. I give him a sidelong glance, and he grins in reply. I consider giving him a middle claw, but instead I draw the flashlight from my bag and make my entrance. It’s not easy, but I manage to slip between where the broken windowpane I’d cleared away once stood and the window frame.  It’s probably a five-by-five hoof gap, so it’s not too much of a problem. Barrel peers at me through the window, and I hold up a wing, telling him to stay put. Fortunately, he gets it, and halts his attempt to climb through, which, judging by the looks of it was doomed to failure anyway. The interior is quiet, save for the familiar faint rustling of various rodents and the occasional creak from the old structure. 

“Place is empty,” I say. My voice has a faint echo. 

“It’s been a few years since I’ve done this,” Barrel warns as he begins his second attempt, which is preempted by him tossing the dented metal briefcase through the window. Rather than trying to fit between the gap, he simply slams himself into the wooden frame and knocks it out of place. He busts through with all the grace of a wounded ursa. 

“Subtle,” I comment. 

“Thanks,” he grumbles as he straddles the window. He throws himself over and stumbles to catch his balance, but thankfully does. I flick on the flashlight. As advertised, it lights up practically the whole warehouse and allows us to get our bearings. The warehouse was obviously cleared out in a hurry, and it’s also clearly been abandoned for a number of years. Stacks of water-damaged, dusty and bowing boxes line the walls, and a number of crates collect dust in a far corner. Piles of dirty and probably flea-infested clothing and blankets make some sort of makeshift bed, indicating that Barrel and I aren’t the only occupants this decrepit structure has seen since its desertion. The center of the warehouse is devoid of anything but random garbage, illuminated in flecks by the dull light that’s filtering in through the utterly grime-caked windows in the structure’s vaulted ceiling. I’m particularly intrigued by the tarps that have been laid out in an empty corner of the warehouse, and I let my flashlight’s beam linger there long enough to make out the fact that one isn’t a different color; rather, it’s deeply stained. 

“Neither of us want to know what went down there,” Barrel intones, trotting up to stand beside me while levitating his briefcase back to his side. I cringe slightly at the thought of what must have happened there and quickly move on with my flashlight’s beam. “Someplace for you to hide, Nadia,” Barrel suggests. “We don’t have time to examine all the beer bottles and cigarette butts.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” I reply. I whip the light around to face behind me, and my hiding place is practically staring right at me: scaffolding, partially torn down and stored along the back wall, about three meters high and easily capable of giving me a decent view of the action. 

Barrel spots it as potential cover at the same time I do. “There, will that work for ya?” he asks. 

“I think so,” I respond with a definite tone of uncertainty. The metal piping and plywood construction does look fairly rickety. 

“Well, it’s the best you’re going to get. To be honest, I’m still not quite sure why you wanted to tag along so bad in the first place,” He grumbles. 

“I’m not complaining,” I lightly reply. There’s no doubt in my mind I’ll be able to stay aloft and hidden, it’s just not my first choice over a nice, fully assembled structure. “And I told you—I wanna see who we’re dealing with here. You know as well as I do that anonymity in this business just doesn’t happen.” I continue, gesturing around the warehouse. “I mean, we’re used to meeting our client in an empty diner or a back alley, not an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district.” I shake my head. “And how many times have we dealt with a client who operates through letters?” I ask with some incredulity. 

Barrel nods begrudgingly. “I guess you have a point. I could have just as easily filled you in once I got back, but no,” he chides. 

“Ah, stuff it,” I laugh. “Just let me get up there, and I promise I’ll leave you alone.” With that, I unfurl my wings and give a solid flap to get myself airborne. I watch Barrel recoil as several years’ worth of accumulated dust blows up into his face from the initial backblast of my wings. I hover about four meters in the air, enough to get a good view of the dried condensation stains on the corrugated ceiling, and I hit the trigger on my flashlight to once again illuminate the scaffolding, which I quickly flap my way over to, descending to the upper level and landing on it as gently as I can. Even despite my attempt at the opposite, the rickety structure wobbles precariously, but thankfully it holds. 

“Thanks for that,” Barrel chokes with a grimace, dusting himself off and brushing his coat free of cigarette butts. “So, is that gonna hold?” 

“Yeah, it’ll work,” I reply, checking my view. It’s good, but thanks to the overhead windows, it would be near impossible for me to remain unseen in the beam of dull light that filters in if I stay on the top. “Just let me drop down a level, and I’ll be good to go,” I add. I sit on the edge of the fortunately reinforced plywood, kicking my hindlegs over, sure to grab the edge with my claws and dig in as I vault myself off, swinging easily down to the next level, where I land lightly, my tail instinctively steadying me as the whole assembly lurches once more.

“Nice,” Barrel compliments dully. “Anyway, you’d better get out of sight pretty fast; our contact should arrive any minute.” With that, he withdraws into the shadows. I hear him plop down on one of the crates below. I set the flashlight down next to me, and hunker into a prone position. Thankfully, the third level of the scaffolding has a vertical plywood board attached as some sort of bracing system, and it’s pointing so that I can mostly obscure myself behind it. It couldn’t get any better as far as cover goes.

A solid ten minutes pass without a peep from anything other than Barrel and the clan of rats that call the warehouse home. Barrel’s been half-whistling the theme to an action movie for the greater part of the wait, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s on his eighteenth round of the chorus when the sudden sound of a nail pulling away from its home echoes from somewhere near the entrance. The nail lands on the concrete outside with a muted tinkle. It’s followed by several more, and finally by the loud thud of the plywood sheet itself. Whoever it is, they’re persistent, and not exactly aiming for stealth. The perpetrator has fully uncovered the steel door, and its rusty hinges squeal in protest as it swings wide. I can’t make out much, but it’s a unicorn, and judging by the strong jawline it’s a stallion, slimly built but I can tell he's no weakling. I see his silhouette tuck away a similar entry tool to the one I’ve got, enveloped in a deep scarlet magical glow. In the dull light from his magic, I can make out his coat color; it’s a muted tawny brown. He trots forward with light hooves into the dull light in the center of the warehouse. Its then that I notice he’s wearing a shape-concealing coat with visible bulges from gear stowed beneath it and an empty saddlebag. He glances around, crimson eyes flashing past my position without so much as a second look.

Barrel decides to make himself known. He clears his throat loudly below me. In one smooth motion that takes less than a second, our contact throws himself onto his hind hooves, simultaneously drawing the pistol holstered under his coat. It’s aimed at Barrel, and the contact’s expression never changes from his cool stare during the entire action. 

“Mr. Tavern Barrel?” He asks in a gravelly drawl. 

“Yeah,” Barrel replies as he steps out into the light, briefcase levitated beside him. “Let’s leave the heavy artillery out of this, shall we?” 

The contact snorts, and immediately holsters his weapon, falling back down onto all four hooves. “My apologies,” He begins. “I wasn’t expecting you—” he consults his watch with a raised eyebrow. “Twenty minutes early. But what matters is we’re both here, right?” Barrel nods nonchalantly. “I take it you’ve already separated the cuts for yourself and your…thief?” he asks.

Barrel nods with a faint smile. “I prefer business associate, but, yes, I have separated them out. Otherwise we’d be here all night.” 

The contact chuckles. “Business associate. I like it.” He looks expectantly at the briefcase, which Barrel sets down in front of him. He slips it into his saddlebag. “Good doing business with you,” He says, turning to leave. “I think we’ll be seeing each other again in a few days if your uh—business associate— can pull off the new job they’ve scheduled.”

“Wait, they?” Barrel repeats. 

“Yeah, they. What, you think I run this show?” The contact chuckles, stopping mid step before turning back around to face Barrel. “No…the bosses are much more secretive than that, in case you couldn’t tell,” he drawls. 

“Well, ok, then, who are the bosses?” Barrel asks. “All this anonymity is ridiculous.” 

“I just told you they’re secretive. The anonymity is something you’re going to have to get used to if you plan on working for us,” he replies with a smirk. He obviously doesn’t plan on actually answering the question. 

“Give me a break,” Barrel mumbles. “Fine then, I’ll settle. Who are you? I don’t like the prospects of working for anypony if I can’t even know their name.” 

“Sorry. Give it some time; you’ll come to know our inner workings and who we are after we come to trust you. It was the same when I started with them.” The contact denies with a faint look of smug satisfaction.

“Sweet Celestia,” Barrel intones, shaking his head. “I can say one thing in your defense: the pay is good. If it wasn’t, there’s no way I’d put up with this. But I suppose if your bosses can keep up this level of compensation you can expect more of our business, but on one condition: you’ve got to let me in on something eventually, or we’re out.” 

The contact chuckles. “The pay is decent. It’s why I’m working for them, in fact. As for ‘letting you in’, I guess I’ll make you feel a little better. You’ve got exactly one question. Ask away, and don’t bother asking anything you already have.” 

“Huh, I feel better already,” Barrel sarcastically exhales, pausing to think for a moment. He finally comes up with a question. “You’re obviously pretty well established in whatever sort of business this is. What is it that you do, exactly? Are you the official errand pony or something?” 

The contact smiles. It’s a devilish grin, and it looks to carry more than what his words present. “You’d do well not to bite the hoof that feeds. I’m no errand pony,” He growls. “By the way, that was two questions, I guess you’re lucky. You want to know what I do?” He stops, waiting for Barrel to look him right in the eye. “I finish things.” He turns on his hoof and trots away, his hoofsteps echoing around the warehouse. 

> Discoveries
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The little griffon hears somepony snoring. It’s one of those snores that define exactly why everypony hates the sound of snoring; it sounds just like a badly malfunctioning freight train, and it’s brought her out of her slumber quite effectively. Her eyes pop open, and a wave of pain hits her as she attempts to jolt upright. She whimpers, falling back to the bed she’d been sleeping on. It’s not her bed. She doesn’t have a bed, at least not anymore. Her face contorts into an expression of utter confusion as she lies back on the soft pillow. She wants to leap up and start flying but she knows she can’t, she can’t even look around; she knows the shooting pain in her back will return if she so much as tries again.

Whoever’s snoring lets out another percussive burst of noise. She’s got to know who it belongs to. Braving the pain that comes as she slowly twists her head towards the sound, she sees the big unicorn who’d almost killed her last night slumped in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, his neck awkwardly bent over the back. She inhales sharply in a combination of confusion and terror, the quick motion causing the pain to stab again, like a hundred tiny needles jamming into her back. She cries out, clenching her eyes shut, once again falling back to the bed in agony. Her jaw tightens as she waits for the pain to subside. The snoring comes to a grinding halt as the stallion the noise belongs to slowly wakes. The pony lets out a sleepy groan, and she hears him pop his neck noisily. 

“Celestia help me,” he mutters as he rests his head in his forehooves for several seconds, shaking it gently. 

The little griffon twists her neck again, just enough to get a glimpse of what he’s doing. She’s startled to see that he’s staring at her with a look of concern. There’s a tense pause as she stares back, slowly regaining her resolve. “Who are you?” She asks feebly, her voice filled with all the venom she can muster.

The stallion winces at her tone, and stares at his hooves as he responds. “I…I’m Tavern Barrel—I...uh—oh, Celestia, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you last night,” he stumbles. “I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone, and I…I hate to admit it but uh…I was a little drunk—I promise I didn’t mean to—”

The little griffon cuts him off with a loud sigh and a lifted claw. She’s by no means blameless, and of that fact she’s very aware. She barely shakes her head. “I’m the one who’s not supposed to be here,” she exhales. She’s heard enough, he’s obviously not intending to finish her off. 

“I don’t care,” he sighs. “I should have been more careful.” He looks her up and down. “Are you alright?”

She nods almost imperceptibly. “My back and neck hurt, but I’ll live,” she responds, sure not to look Mr. Barrel in the face.  After a moment, she realizes she’s actually unsure if anything’s really hurt, but she doesn’t want to sound like a weakling. 

“Thank the princesses,” He says. His expression brightens visibly. “Now, what exactly were you doing in my place?” he asks with a small, knowing smile.  

The little griffon, whose attention had drifted to her surroundings—she must be in Mr. Barrel’s bedroom—snaps back to him. He has to know what she was doing by now, and she knows she doesn’t really want to answer in the miniscule chance he doesn’t. After all, to do so would be admitting defeat, and beyond that, she doesn’t want to disclose the situation she’s in, which, at this point she can’t help but admit is quite desperate. She clenches her eyes shut for a moment. Now it’s her turn to be remorseful. “I…I was breaking in.”

Mr. Barrel nods knowingly. “And why were you doing that?”

“Because—” she begins. She considers briefly. She could say it’s because she’s got nowhere else to go, she could say it’s because she’s lost and poor and homeless—but she doesn’t. She knows why she broke in. “Because it’s what I do.”


***


Another morning dawns in Phillydelphia, and I’m not all too pleased about it. Firstly, it’s actually morning, which is problem enough, and secondly, I’d built up far too large a collection of shot glasses at my barstool last night after our return from the warehouse. We’d started discussing the oddities of our latest client, and that moved into a conversation on the incredible pay, which from there quickly devolved into a celebration of our combined 72,000 bit take. 

From that conversation, two things are clear: there’s no way in hell I’m going to pass up the opportunity of the client’s second job, and my head is throbbing. I struggle to lift myself out of bed, resolve strengthened at the fact that at least I don’t feel sick. 

Unfortunately, I have things to do today, namely, I have to go scout that griffon-owned store for our high-roller client. Despite my condition, I’m almost looking forward to the job, after all, smashing things is always fun. I drag my way over to the door, prying it open and blearily tossing myself down the stairs. Barrel’s whistling in his office, and I let myself in. 

“Hey, girl,” He greets me, looking chipper as ever. I know for a fact he’d matched me shot for shot, but nonetheless, here he is, looking like he’d spent last night drinking nothing stronger than tea. 

“Hey,” I manage to mumble. 

“You don’t look so good,” He observes. “Have a few too many last night?” 

“Barrel, you were right there with me, what do you think?” I growl.  

Barrel laughs. “I think you had a few too many,” he states smugly. I let out a massive sigh in response. “Anyway, you’re still good to go take a look at that place over on—” he pauses to remember for a moment. “What did the letter say…29th and Saddle?”

“Yeah, that’s the place. And yeah, I’ll make it out there,” I reply. By some miracle, the pounding in my head is actually subsiding somewhat. 

“Well, you’d better get a move on,” Barrel says. “I’ve got to head on down to the market, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah. Goin’ out to spend all that hard-earned coin of yours, I understand,” I deadpan. 

Barrel laughs, letting his head loll back on his leather office chair. “Can you blame me? You gotta admit, for all the shit we have to put up with working with this client, they pay like crazy. What do you think, Nadia, how would this room look with some dark wood paneling?” 

I sigh. “I don't know, probably like it came from some old movie. You know, Barrel, I get the feeling you may be obsessed.” The posters on the wall and the various memorabilia from several films may have also already given that away. “Well, I’m outta here.” 

“Get on it,” he grins. “You know, maybe instead of doing more stuff to this place I’ll head on downtown and start looking at high-class real estate, what with all the money we’re making.”

“Now that’s money better spent, Barrel,” I reply as I paw my way back out the door. I hear him chuckle to himself as I launch myself over the bar.

As I head for the front door, I spot Mojito, who’s still cleaning tables from last night’s service. I give her a nod, which she returns in kind and with a smile. “Hey, Nadia,” she calls in her singsong, yet slightly breathy voice, which somehow manages to be both adorable and somewhat sultry all at once. “So, I’ve been thinking…” she lets her voice trail off. 

Uh-oh, I think to myself. I’ve been caught off-guard; Mojito had been cordial, if a little quiet, to me since she’d started work at the Manticore’s Claw, sticking mostly to the standard-issue good morning and good evening routine. In fact, this is the most she’s ever said directly to me, so I’ve got no idea what to expect. 

“I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly it is you do around here since I’ve been here. Most nights you’re gone almost all night, and all you and Barrel do is talk about money,” she observes.

I think I may be catching a whiff of where this is going, and I’m none too pleased by the smell. I suck in a breath to set her right. 

“You’re a thief,” she states.

Oh. She got it right. Well, then. I exhale. I’m unsure how exactly she arrived at the right answer, but nonetheless, I’m impressed and slightly shocked by the faint smile that’s playing across her expression. “Err—yeah,” I respond awkwardly, still unsure of what exactly she’s getting at. 

“I’ve never met a thief before,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “You know, I’d love to tag along with you sometime,” she says. “I mean, I see you go out in all that fancy gear and I can’t help but think about how exciting it must be, I hear all the numbers and the places and the tactics you and Barrel talk about, and it’s just fascinating,” She continues, a glimmer present in her eye that I hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing before. 

I chuckle faintly. I hadn’t expected this—not in the least—but as you can imagine, I definitely don’t mind. “Well, I’m sure we could work something out,” I reply. “So long as you can keep up and keep quiet, I wouldn’t mind a little company.” 

She smiles, her icy eyes twinkling. “I’d like that,” she says. 

Damn, she’s cute. I shake my head imperceptibly. Unfortunately, I’ve got places to be. “Well, I’ll let you know when the next job’s up,” I say with a grin as I head for the door. She gives me a smile as I step outside. 

The door swings closed behind me, and the noise of the city takes over. It’s all kinds of bright outside, which isn’t doing my poor, bloodshot eyes any favors, but if nothing else, it’ll help me get a better view of the place on 29th and Saddle. After pausing to crack my neck, I launch myself into the air. A few solid flaps gets me enough altitude to clear the surrounding buildings, and I’m heading off towards downtown. 

It’s amazing what a little wind-whipped breeze and speed does for a hangover. After only a few seconds, I’m grinning ear-to-ear as I fly along. I’ve got the air all to myself—usually there’s a few pegasi airborne by this hour, but I can’t complain, as their absence makes any sort of suspicious activity I’ve got to do that much less visible.  As I fly along, I shake my head at the conversation between Mojito and I.  I definitely hadn’t taken her for the adventurous type, but I can’t say I mind, and my mind’s already going through how I’ll handle having a friend along for a job. I hadn’t let her in on this one for a number of reasons—the stakes are too high and, beyond that, this job has a decent chance of getting a little on the violent side.  

The intersection 29th Street and Saddle Avenue comes into view too quickly; I’d been enjoying my flight, and in direct opposition to the trip here, something seems off, and although I can’t quite put a claw on it, the fact that something is somehow wrong is immediately obvious. Maybe it’s the absence of any traffic on the streets below, or perhaps it’s the feeling of discomfort I always get when I know I’m in an area well-patrolled by the metro police, but whatever it is, it’s unpleasant. With a sigh of knowing that any fun I was going to have on this stake-out had fallen down the drain, I do a few backflaps, coming close to a hover, scanning the area for a good vantage point. There’s a radio tower on top of a building down the street a ways, it will definitely work to give me a good view of the area. 

I float down to the gravel rooftop of the building with the tower. Judging by the number of receiver dishes and antennas that line the top of the building, I’m going to assume the place belongs to some sort of radio station. Ignoring all the “NO TRESPASSING” signs and the chained-off entry to the tallest radio tower, I begin my ascent. The view from the rooftop itself already affords a view of the intersection of 29th and Saddle, but in order to get a better look, I flap my way vertically, up the side of the tower, lighting on a service platform, landing with a metallic clang. Anypony who decides to come out on the roof probably won’t bother to look up and check the service platform, I figure, so I’m as safe as could be.  The wind’s a fair bit stronger up here than on street level, so I’m sure to brace myself against the steel structure as I get my bearings.

The intersection looks like it would usually be a busy one, but the lack of hoof traffic I’d noticed earlier makes the whole area look abandoned. The bizarre feeling of unease kicks into overdrive as I spot my mark. Of the four buildings that make up the intersection of the two streets, one advertises “Avian International Imports.” It sounds about right, and, to my confusion, altogether too familiar. I stare at the building’s white-brick and green paint façade with as I try to remember where I’ve heard the name. 

Maybe I’m freaking out because I’m dealing with griffons, I think to myself. It’s a good point; I’d never had a job where the targets were of my own race. I’d always been able to separate myself from my marks, perhaps having to deal with my own kind is setting off some sort of subconscious empathy. I have to stop myself from continuing this line of thought, however; sympathizing with someone whose livelihood I plan to destroy doesn’t sound all that conductive to business. They did, after all, default on what the client said was a “sizeable loan”, I rationalize. 

And what’s more, the store itself looks just as deserted as the streets. Ordinarily by now I’d have at least been able to pick up a moving shadow or some sort of movement from inside. Thankfully, after only a minute of waiting, a pony trots around the corner and across the street, looking like he’s heading into the griffons’ shop. He pauses for a moment before heading inside, and I’m able to catch the merry jingle of the doorbell as he swings the door wide. I watch as he moves around the store, browsing aimlessly and my raptor vision snaps to focus on the griffon that comes to his aid. I can’t make out much from this distance, but a griffon it is, and that’s all that counts. It’s not long before the pony makes his way out of the store, saddlebags empty, the griffon still in tow. She follows him partway out the door, waving a slightly disappointed looking goodbye. 

I focus even harder on the griffon as she stands in the doorway, watching as her only shopper trots away. At once, My heart flies into my throat while my stomach turns a flip—I know the griffon. 

Oh Celestia.

The feelings and memories I’d worked so hard to suppress come flying back, and hit me harder than a ton of bricks. I clench my eyes shut; I’m desperately hoping I wake up soon. The griffon in the doorway—it’s my mother. 

 I can’t— I shake my head. No. I can’t do this. 


***


The little griffon cheerfully paws down the stairs.

Despite everything telling her otherwise, the day had been good. Nopony had bothered her at school and she’d got an A on the math test that had been daunting her for weeks. Better yet, she was already done with her homework and to top it all off, Friday was just around the corner. She’s already anticipating her “walk” tomorrow night—she’d already scouted a few choice places to rob over the past few days on her way home from school. 

All that comes to a screeching halt as she sees both her mother and father sitting at the table. Her mother’s giving her a look of pure betrayal, and her father’s staring at the collection of stereos she’d stolen last week and the sizeable sack of bits she’d been paid by her fence only a few days ago, both of which sit on the table. 

“Your mother found this under your bed today while she was cleaning,” The griffon’s father begins, looking up at her with a face devoid of emotion. His blank expression terrifies her more than if he was furious; she’s never seen this before. “I think we’d both like to know what’s going on here, Nadia.” 

Her mind goes blank. There’s nothing she can do—the evidence is laid out in front of her. “I…I, uh—”

“You don’t have to explain what this is,” Her mother interrupts. She gestures at the stolen goods and the money. “This speaks for itself. What we want to know is why.”

“Why—why I…” she exhales. “Why I steal?” 

Her father sighs. “Yeah, Nadia. Why you steal. Why after everything we’ve done—well, everything we’ve tried to do to keep you out of trouble, that you think is a good idea.” 

She knows exactly why she does it. It’s a need; it’s that side of her brain that begs for action, the kind that all the pathetic extracurricular activities at school can’t supply. But, beyond that—she knows she’s in trouble, and not just with her parents. She’d become popular, nigh-on notorious within her school for her ability to take without being seen, and that has caused the little griffon a host of problems. Most prominent, however: “I steal…so I can stay safe.” 

Both of her parents look at her confusedly. “What?” Her father asks emphatically.

“Yeah.” She looks away. “The ponies I used to call my friends. They’ve, well…they expect me to steal for them now. I’ve been trying to quit working for them for a month.”

“Your friends expect this of you?! What kind of friends are they?” Her father asks. 

“They’re not—not anymore,” she exhales. “I’ve been trying to get them to leave me alone. I know they’re dangerous—they do stuff I want nothing to do with. Two of the colts I used to be friends with brag about the ponies they’ve killed. A mare I know is now in with one of the most notorious drug dealers in Phillydelphia.”

“Celestia, help me,” Her mother gasps. “Why haven’t you told us this before?” 

The little griffon shakes her head. “Because I knew it would lead to this,” she says. “And I know that if I quit working for them, they’d hurt me. I told them I want to quit before, and all they do is threaten me. It’s been five weeks since I’ve worked for them. I…don’t feel safe anymore,” she admits. It’s all true. She’s taken to staring over her shoulder as she traverses the halls in school.

Her father lets out a small harrumph of disapproval. “If all you do is steal for your friends, and you’ve since quit working for them, then what’s all this?” 	

The fly had just landed in the ointment. Any hope the little griffon had of being able to play off her afterschool activities as due to blackmail were now out the window. She rolls her head back where she stands, letting it hit against the stairwell wall, taking in and letting out a deep breath. 

“Well?” Her father quizzes. 

“I…I can’t help it.”

“Can’t help what? You can’t help but steal?” 

“Yeah,” she admits. She can feel the storm rising. “It’s like this…this need to steal. It’s not like I’m a kleptomaniac or anything, I just can’t help it.”

“Nadia,” Her father sighs. “Why? Do you know what this means? What this says about you? If this were just some issue with some thugs at school—I think your mother and I could understand. But this…this is something else entirely.” 

“Your father’s right, Nadia,” Her mother agrees. 

Oh no, the little griffon thinks. It’s coming. What she’s dreaded the most.

“This…this is a matter of honor now. This isn’t blackmail, or anything else. No...it’s personal failure, Nadia. You knowingly continued to do this—you’re knowingly hurting others! Taking from them.”

She knows all this already. She’s thought this very conversation over in her head over the course of countless nights. She knows it’s a matter of honor, and she knows she’s “failed”. But she knows she can’t help her impulses. A burning anger begins to boil deep within her; there’s nothing she can do. After taking a deep breath, she lets the burning within to simmer as she braces for the second wave. 

“Nadia, your mother and I didn’t uproot and move all the way from Griffonia for this, and you know as well as we do that why we left was also a matter of honor. I failed. I let our shop fail—we lost our honor. We couldn’t stay in our homeland because of me, Nadia! I can’t let this happen to you, to my own daughter. I can’t have you make the same mistakes I did.”

She can hold it no longer. The slow burn erupts immediately into a fireball of rage, and it’s directed squarely at her parents. “What?! You want me to leave? Is that what you’re saying? Like you left our home? My home?  And all for what? Honor?! I’m so sick of this ancient Griffonian bullshit! I’m going to do what I want—I don’t care what some ancient code says!” The little griffon’s screams, feeling the anger tearing at her throat as she does. “You don’t think I know that what I do is against your code? It’s either this or worse. I need something,” she shouts. 

“Nadia, calm down—” her mother begins. 

“You want me to calm down? You just heard my own father tell me I’ve lost my honor! You know what that means as well as I do! My own father is telling me I’m a failure.” She snorts. Her rage is causing her to shake. “You know what? I learned from you two what being a failure is, and I know what to do. I’m leaving." She gives her parents one last look, chest heaving, eyes filled with hatred. The little griffon makes her way to the door, her parents stunned silent, and walks out. She’s certain she’s never coming back. 

> Homecoming
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	I snap out of the daze I’d fallen into on the way back to the Manticore’s Claw, taking a deep breath as I let myself fall to the sidewalk, paws catching the pavement at a run towards the front door, which I throw myself through. I’d startled Mojito, who’d quickly positioned herself defensively behind the table she’d been cleaning. 

“Where’s Barrel?” I ask breathlessly, walking towards the bar without stopping to talk.

She pauses for a second to figure out what she’s being asked. “He just got back from the market—what’s going on?” 

“I don’t have time to explain right now, Mojito, I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, uh—”

I breeze past her, vaulting over the bar and into Barrel’s office, where he’s arranging poster tubes along the back wall. He turns to me immediately with a look of confusion as I let the door swing wide and stride through.

“Barrel, I can’t do it.” 

“You can’t do what?” He asks in reply, bracing his front hooves on his desk. 

I let out an exasperated breath. “The job, Barrel. The job with our new client.”  

“Wait, what? Why not?” He asks. His look is one of disappointment, now mixed with his earlier confusion. 

“Barrel, it’s my parents. The targets are my parents.” 

There’s a pause that I swear lasts about two minutes. 

“Oh, Celestia.” 

I can’t think of anything to reply with. There’s nothing to be said but the same sentiment. I stare at him, waiting for an answer I’m fairly sure he doesn’t have—I know I’m empty. Barrel flops into his chair, which rolls back a few hooves, before letting his head fall. 

“So, what now?” He asks in a mumble, head still hanging. 

I consider my options for a moment. Going through with the job is obviously out. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’ll do anything to harm my kin, regardless of whatever rung on the social ladder they have me pegged at. But, beyond that—inaction is the same as harm, however indirect. “I’ve got to help them,” I reply. 

Barrel sits back up, giving me a long, searching stare.  “Nadia…” he exhales.

“What?” 

“You can’t help them.”

My eyes refocus on Barrel and my expression draws into a scowl. “And why’s that?” I growl. 

He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “Nadia, think about the client we’re dealing with here. If this were some small-time half-wit like what we’re used to, I’d tell you to waltz in the front door and give your folks a big ol’ beaky kiss and help ‘em however you see fit, but look—this is the same client who knew we finished a job before we contacted them to tell them that we had finished the damn job! These ponies aren’t bush-league. They’re connected, and I’d give them about a ninety five percent chance of having surveillance on just about everypony, and in this case, every griffon, who’s ever crossed them. Based on what they’ve said in their letters, whoever they are, they’re not the sort to hold off on violence. Nadia, it’s simple. We leave your parents alone, we walk away from the client and don’t do the job—your claws are clean.” He pauses, shaking his head. “Sure, it’ll destroy whatever chance we’ve got of getting out of this dump, but we’ll survive, I mean, I’ve been here for so long I don’t know if I’d be able to leave even if we could…” he lets his voice trail off. 

He’s right on every point but one. “Barrel, that’s just the thing. My claws wouldn’t be clean.” 

“Why not?” He asks emphatically. 

It’s my turn to shake my head. “I can’t sit by and watch my parents get robbed.” Oh, the irony. 

Barrel lets out a prolonged sigh that sounds more like a death rattle. The expression on his face doesn’t look much better. “Shit,” he mutters. “You’re one stubborn bird, you know that? Well, I can’t stop you. I just want you know that this is a can of worms unlike any other you’ve ever opened before.” 

I’m unsure of exactly what he means. My stare—which I know is probably piercing right through him—can’t help but give that away. “What are you saying, Barrel?” I eye him suspiciously. “And why do I get the feeling you really don’t want to help with this?” 

“Come on, girl, you know better than that. Of course I’ll help you.” He cracks a wry smile. “You’re the closest thing to family I’ve got,” he says. His expression sobers. “As for what I mean, I mean this will be difficult. I’ll help you as much as I can, how I can, but you’ve gotta be absolutely on point for all of this, ok? I know you’re good, but this has to be a cut above every job you’ve ever done. And…” he pauses, glancing up at me. “At the end, it comes to a decision. You should know that your folks can’t stay here. Not in Phillydelphia, probably not in the whole eastern half of Equestria. The decision is: are you going to stay with me, or will you go with them and start all over?”

It’s the mother of all loaded questions, and although its intent isn’t lost on me, I don’t take any offense. I’d ask the same in his situation. I chuckle faintly—do I stay or do I go? Well, it doesn’t take me long to decide. “I’m staying with you, Barrel, you should know that by now,” I smile. “Whatever it is in my blood that makes me want to do what I do, it’s in yours too. Besides, I’m the closest you’ve got to family, right?” 

“Yeah, Nadia.” He shakes his head. “Thanks. Well, alright then. We need to get to work, and the first thing you need to do is let your parents know you’re helping them. Looks like another break-in for you, girl. You up for it?” 

“You’d better believe it.” 

*** 


The flight back to my parent’s store is done based on pure muscle memory, I don’t know if I’d be able to navigate the route by any other way, as the nighttime lights bathe the area in a disorienting glow. 

The process of getting ready before I’d taken flight tonight had also been run on nothing but pure autopilot—typically I take a second to check each piece of gear as I prepare and stow it, but tonight had been different. Understandably, I’m feeling a little preoccupied thanks to the fairly unique circumstances I’m up against tonight, although I’m quite certain I’d packed everything I’ll need. 

As I come in on final approach, my raptor vision is working overtime, searching for any signs of surveillance by our client once I fly over the intersection that’s home to the storefront. Suspicious looking pegasi on rooftops, surveillance cameras pointed in the wrong direction, anything. None of those are present, but in my business, paranoia pays. There’s no way I’m going in the front door. Rather than landing on the same roof I had before, the rooftop that’s home to the radio station, I fly past my parent’s shop, landing on the tiled roof of a fairly swanky-looking apartment building that stands behind it. Another rooftop scan reveals still nothing in the way of noticeable surveillance—if there is anypony watching the store, they’re either slacking or professional, I can’t tell which.

I peer off the edge of the apartment building down to the alley below, wide enough for a wagon loaded with goods to be drawn into and unloaded at the shipping door of my parent’s import shop. Without a second thought, I drop down into it, slowing myself only slightly by unfurling my wings as I fall. A few mares, clearly liquored-up club rats, trot past at the alley’s mouth only about ten meters away, utterly oblivious to my presence. I wait until their giggling fades before I unroll my lockpick set from my entry vest and set to work, pausing to adjust my backpack so it’s not flopping around my shoulder as I work. Much like just about every other lock I’ve had to pick in the last three months, it’s dead simple and takes me relatively no time at all to get through. Within a minute, I’ve got my claw on the knob—but I freeze. 

I take a deep breath— jittery nerves during a mission are one thing, but this is different. I hadn’t seen, much less talked to, and much much less helped my parents in well over nine years. In fact, I’d done everything I could to block them out of my mind altogether after my departure—understandably, my heart is both residing in my throat and fluttering all at once. A faint tingle courses down my arm as I twist the doorknob, and even more so at the fact that it gives immediately, as if inviting me in. The crackle of a metro policepony’s walkie-talkie from the street behind me makes me immediately drop the indecision and take its invitation.

I’m in the store’s stockroom, which I’m somewhat saddened to see is practically devoid of goods. Beyond some old, fairly cheap looking classic-style Griffonian stoneware stacked in a corner and a few crates of what’s labeled (and what I can faintly smell) “assorted smoked meats”, there isn’t much of interest. It’s somewhat telling of the condition of the store—what’s here certainly isn’t enough to turn much of a profit. I’m willing to assume the “sizeable loan” my parents have accrued means the store’s been going under for quite some time. I let out a sigh. Yet another example of history repeating itself—what’s happening here is almost exactly the same situation that drove my family out of Griffonia in the first place.

Continuing forward out of the stockroom reveals a slightly more pleasant picture despite the darkness it’s bathed in: the storefront itself looks to be in good condition, brightly colored and somewhat well-stocked. I smile at the antique cash register, its brass casing reflects the light from the streetlights outside as it sits on the polished wood counter—it’s one of the only things my father had brought when we’d immigrated. I take note of a number of plaques hanging on the wall behind the counter—“Phillydelphia’s Best Specialty Store”, “Phillydelphia Herald’s Top 50”, among others. Despite the awards, I can’t help but feel that the pleasant vibe the store gives off is nothing more than a façade with the knowledge of how the place is really performing. 

I spot the stairwell behind the counter, hidden behind a display shelf for various Griffonian knickknacks—a small assortment of stoneware, ceramic cups and the like. I’m assuming my parent’s apartment is above the store, like most others here in the city. I carefully flap my way over the counter, landing gently on the tile floor with a faint click from my talons, and make my way up the stairs, which are unforgivingly creaky. However, what noise I make is likely deadened by the closed door at the top of the stairs, and the conversating voices that lay behind it. 

The voices definitely belong to my parents. I recognize my father’s deep, booming timbre and my mom’s slight accent right away. I press my ear to the door, their muffled tones quickly becoming clear enough that I can make out the conversation without much trouble. 

“—don’t know how we’re going to do it,” My mother sighs. 

“Me neither, Svenja. Dear goddesses, why is this happening again? We both know how hard we’ve tried and how far we’ve come, only for more of the same.” My father laments. 

“I think moving here was the mistake, Peter. The loan—we both know it’s what’s causing all of this. Those thugs, and the so-called “collection agents”—how much longer can we take it? How much longer will they let us go between payments?” 

There’s a pause. “Not long. The pony that came by today—it’s the same one that’s been by the last few times—he said they wanted the next payment by tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” My mom utters. There’s a sound of weight shifting in a chair. One of the two of them has slumped over.

Even with no knowledge of the specifics of their businesses’ finances, I know it’s unlikely they’ll have the funds. Considering my mother’s concerned reaction, I’d be willing to bet on it, and I don’t bet often. 
“How much do they expect?” she continues. 

“Thirty percent more than normal,” My father replies. 

“We’ll never be able to do it,” she states morosely.

I’d be in the money if there had been any on my bet. The cogs turning in my brain also determine my client’s plan of action as their conversation comes to a prolonged, tense pause. I’ve been given two days—one of which is quickly drawing to a close—to complete the mission, and the client knows that I always operate at night. Clearly, the goal is for him (or, more likely, a lackey of his—or hers, or theirs) to visit in order to receive the payment (they?) know won’t come, and then have me trash the store in retribution. 

In any respect, I’d heard about enough. I slowly remove my ear from the door, feeling the butterflies in my stomach—they’re alive and quite well, it seems. I raise my claw, shaking ever so slightly to the doorknob and turn, hearing the dying conversation on the other side of the door come to an abrupt halt. I stand in the doorway, feeling my stomach churn as the door swings open. Although I know it lasts only seconds, the utter silence that permeates the room feels like at least an hour. My parents are seated in the small breakfast nook at the old dinner table I remember from so many years ago, it’s old, abused wooden surface now covered in important-looking financial paperwork. They stare at me, eyes wide.

Both of my parents have aged visibly; my father the most noticeably. His deep tawny feathers have grayed, and he’s developed a sizeable number of new wrinkles. My mother, who had already looked as though she was on the verge of tears when I entered, begins sobbing violently. She’s aged as well, but much more gracefully, her white feathers and light coat looking only faintly silver.

“N…Nadia?” My father stumbles after looking me up and down, his deep voice faltering.

The butterflies are still there; I can feel them trying to violently escape. Staring right back at my father, feeling frightened, scared and confused tears welling in my eyes, I answer. “Yeah.” It’s the only response that comes into my head.

He’s visibly struggling for what to say next. “How—How’d you get in?” He asks confusedly. 

I smile weakly in response. “You out of anyone should know,” I say, feeling an ounce of bravado return.

He looks away for a moment, his wings ruffling slightly. “Ah,” he says. My mother looks up, sniffling slightly. She glances at him, and back to me. My father looks back to me as well, wearing a small smile. “Well, welcome home, Nadia.”

There’s most definitely not a lack of moisture in my eyes for a moment as I relish what he’s just said. It almost makes me want to reconsider my promise to Barrel, but I stop myself despite the subconscious smile I’m wearing. I take a deep breath. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” I say, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “I thought I’d lost my honor.” I have to make sure this is real. 

My father winces visibly, turning away. My mother looks up at me. “Nadia, we made a mistake that night. I know the both of us have regretted what we said to you since the minute you walked out the door.”

Father turns back around, tears in his eyes. “It’s not about honor. Your mother is right—I’ve torn myself to pieces over ever thinking it was. It’s about family, and while your choices may not be…may not be what we’d ever consider to be right…the fact is, you’re our daughter and there’s nothing that can ever make that stop.” He looks at me intently, tears welling in his eyes. “I think I speak for both of us when I ask you for forgiveness. If—if you want, you’re more than welcome to come back to us. We love you, Nadia, and we’ve missed you.” 

Those tears that had accumulated in my eyes couldn’t hold back any longer, and I smile as they stream down my face, doing my best to choke down that lump so I can reply during the pause that ensues, both of my parents looking at me lovingly for the first time in a very long time, which is giving me the unfamiliar feeling of “warm fuzzies” unlike ever before. It’s odd: any trace of worry at their predicament or even why I’d arrived in the first place is completely absent. It’s almost as if I’m the only thing that matters, and their attention is on the verge of becoming an overload for me. “I—of—of course I forgive you,” I croak. “and uh, I love you too.” I stop for a second. They want me to stay—it’s quite obvious. But I have work to do. “But I can’t stay here with you, at least not like…permanently.” 

Despite their smiles and the visible happiness that their prodigal daughter has returned, I can see the disappointment at the fact that I won’t be sticking around. “Why can’t you stay?” My mother asks. 

I roll my neck on my shoulders, feeling it pop noisily. “I’m here to help you escape.”

“Escape what?” father replies. 

“Your debt.” I grimace faintly at their surprised and confused reactions. “Let me explain. You know the reason why I, uh, left in the first place? Well, I do that for a living now. I’m a professional thief. How I got in? I let myself in through the…locked back door. The only reason why I’m here, why I know about your problem, is thanks to my new client, who just turns out to be the loan shark that gave you that loan they want repayment on. They hired me to trash your store since you can’t repay it when they want you to.” 

“Trash our store?” mother asks in shock. “Oh, Nadia…this is how you earn a living?”

I exhale and ignore the second part of her question. “Obviously, I’m not here to trash your store. I'm here to help. I’m gonna get you out of here.” 

“Hold on, Nadia. Where will we go?” My father asks.

“Anywhere. Just out of Phillydelphia. Whoever these ponies are—”

“The Faceless, that’s what they call themselves. Or at least what we were told,” My father interjects. 

The Faceless. The name is certainly appropriate and altogether disconcerting. I pause to shake it off and recollect my thoughts. “You have to leave Phillydelphia, that’s all that matters right now. We’ll get train tickets in the morning.” 

My mother lets out a deep sigh. “Nadia…I don’t know if we can go through leaving our home again, much less losing you again so quickly.”

I wince. They’ve been through all this before. “I know, mom. But…it’s gotta be done. But like I was saying, these ponies don’t play around. If you can’t pay back the loan on their terms, they’ll kill you. Wrecking your store is only the beginning—it’s just a message.” 

There’s a pause. My father leans back in his chair, eyes shut and wings limp, while my mother does the opposite, she begins to look angry. I can’t help but smile even in light of the circumstances; neither of them have changed at all— my mother, despite her downright motherly outward demeanor, houses one of the hardest heads I’ve ever encountered (a trait which I can say that I’ve inherited). My father’s reaction is also typical of the logical, calm, if slightly docile manner he possesses. I could count the number of times I've seen him react in anger on one hand

“She’s right, Svenja. I think that cutting our losses would be the wisest move to make here. We’re strong, dear, we’ll survive this again,” My father says, looking morosely at his wife. 

My mother snorts. “I’m tired of just surviving. I’m tired of moving.” 

“But Svenja, you heard your daughter. You and I both know this business will never make enough money to pay back that loan…that means they’ll try to kill us. Just surviving is a hell of a lot better than not,” My father replies, causing my mother to visibly relent, looking defeated. He turns back to me. “Nadia, I’m so glad to see you, but this is so…sudden and unexpected.” 

“I know, dad,” I say. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.” 

“Just seeing you at all is enough, dear. And what you’re doing for us, even after—” He lets his voice trail off, his eyes filling with tears once again.

“Sweetheart, stay with us tonight,” my mother says in a cross between pleading and demanding, the way only a mother can. I open my mouth to protest. I’m slightly worried about the safety in staying—my paranoia of surveillance is getting the better of me, but my mother frowns. “Nadia, please.”

“Alright. And we’re leaving in the morning, right?” I ask to ensure her agreement with my father. 

“Yes, dear. It goes against everything I’ve ever known, but we’ll leave. Your father is right, just surviving is better than the alternative.” She bobs her head ambivalently, giving me a slightly strained smile. “Anyway, dear, I’ll go set up the futon in the living room.” I glance around the room for a clock, settling on the old analog clock built into the antique oven. It’s somewhere around 11:45, likely well past my aging parent’s bedtime. 

“I think we’ve had just about enough excitement for one night,” my dad agrees, confirming my theory. It’s definitely bedtime, but needless to say I’m not at all tired. Nonetheless, I’ll humor them. 

Not even fifteen minutes later, my parents are wishing me goodnight repeatedly and retreating to their bedroom, as I sit on the multiple layers of comforters, throws and blankets my mother had assembled for me. It’s not long before I’m alone with my thoughts and the faint noise of the city outside. I smile to myself. Today has unquestionably been one among the top ten in the category of “odd.” The sheer coincidence of having our secretive client—The Faceless, as my father had called them, finding both me and my parents is extreme, to say the least. But, more importantly, my parents hadn’t had any trouble at all accepting me back, practically with open arms. I exhale deeply, a little moisture finding its way into my eyes. It feels good—not the tears, but the fact that the nine year period I’d gone without my parents was finally at an end. I feel whole again; I’ve regained something I wasn’t even aware I’ve been missing. The sheer animosity I’d felt towards them had been for naught, and my attempts to forget them entirely are leading me towards a sense of shame, which I’m fairly quick to crush. I’m not about to let the mistakes I’d made get in the way of how I’m feeling tonight. 

I prop my arms behind me as I lay back on the futon, I do my best to make sense of how tomorrow’s going to play out. I’m almost considering actually going through with wrecking the store. With my parents hopefully on their way to a new home, the state of the store is basically irrelevant. Perhaps it’s out of a need to absolve my parents or maybe it’s just my insatiable curiosity, but I’ve got to investigate this group called The Faceless further, and the only way that can happen is if I continue to work for them. Beyond that, the paycheck at the end of the job definitely doesn’t hurt. I can’t help but smile and close my eyes as I relax, feeling a few warm-fuzzies run through me. Everything’s falling into place. 

***


The sound of hooves clopping outside awakes me from the first dreamless sleep I’ve had in months. I keep my eyes shut; I’m not looking forward to the pain that will inevitably come from the blindingly bright morning sun I’m certain is streaming in through the window behind the futon. Eyes still shut, I frown; I’m somewhat amazed I’d fallen asleep in the first place. I’d only shut my eyes for a second.  I let one eye open just a crack—there is no light. And the hooves keep moving, coming down the street at a rapid pace. Right when their noise and speed reach a crescendo, they quickly slow, and come to a halt. My eyes open wide and I glance around aimlessly in the pitch black room, momentarily unsure of where I am in it, if only for a brief moment before I spot the faintly backlit clock I’d checked earlier on the stove, the time on which now reads somewhere around 3:00. No more noise can be heard from outside. Probably just a random passer-by, I rationalize. I’ll bet it’s some poor insomniac out trying to tire himself out.  Nonetheless, I sit up in bed. The sudden stop in the hoofsteps is odd;  I listen fruitlessly for whoever it is to start walking away. Instead, contrary to all logic, there’s a loud rapping at the door downstairs. I bolt upright, throwing myself out of the bed. My parent’s door creaks open. 

It’s my mom. She’s staring at me with a worried expression, half in and half out of the bedroom. “Nadia, who is it?” she asks. 

I shake my head, stepping over to the window and opening a crack in the shutter in a failed attempt to see who’s outside. “No idea, mom.” I let the shutter flick shut as I remove my claw and look back at my mother. “Stay there. I’ll go check it out.” 

After making only a few steps towards the stairs, whoever it is knocks again, staccato bursts, a forceful hoof on hard wood. I freeze, and shortly after that, the knocking stops again. Our visitor doesn’t bother to knock again. The sound of shattering glass resonates from downstairs. 

> Property Damage
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	I gingerly crack the door to my parent’s upstairs apartment, it’s thankfully well-oiled hinges don’t make a sound, allowing for me to remain silent and listen for any hints as to what in the hell is going on downstairs. Beyond the eerie crackle of broken glass nary a sound is to be heard, and it stays that way. 

“What’s going on?” I hear my father whisper loudly to my mother behind me.

“I don’t know!” she breathes in response. 

As if on cue, the ominous sound of hoof on broken glass resonates in percussive bursts up the stairwell from below, slow and deliberate. There’s a faint chuckle, and whoever it is below begins to whistle—I’m taken aback at the outlandishly jolly tune. After only a few seconds of that, the whistling stops, replaced again by silence. Then the intruder speaks in a familiar gravelly drawl. “You damn griffons may be able to see a rat from half a mile away, but you can’t hear worth that rat’s ass.” There’s another pause as I come to a startling realization; the familiar voice is a dead ringer of the pony Barrel dealt with the in the abandoned warehouse last night. “Still nothing,” he comments with another chuckle. “It’s almost like you’re avoiding me,” he laughs. “Peter? Svenja?” He calls my parent’s names in a near-shout. “Oh, you can come down with them, Nadia.” 

I freeze, almost literally—an icy tingle runs down my spine, and I can feel its chill spreading through my veins. How could he have known I was here? 

“It’s him,” my mother hisses.  “That’s the pony who wants our money.” 

“No, really. Please, all three of you, make your way down here. Believe me when I say you don’t want me to come up to find you,” the pony growls. He’s sounding impatient. “Don’t make me start counting,” he calls. I can practically feel the malice coming from the evil grin he’s wearing from all the way upstairs.

My father had eased up behind my mother and I, still standing by the barely opened door. “We had better go down there,” he says. My mom looks at him like he had just grown an extra wing. “Whatever’s going on, I bet we’d be better off if we don’t piss him off,” he finishes, returning her look in kind.

I know what’s going on— the pony had been watching me from the moment I’d landed. I don’t know how, but he had seen me. My observation during the sweep for surveillance had been true—and for the worse—the pony watching had been professional. Whatever he has planned, I can’t picture it being good. We can’t go downstairs; we have to escape. 

“Five…four…” the errand pony begins his count.

“Dad, we can’t go downstairs. We have to go, now.” 

“…Three…”

“Nadia, he’ll kill us if we don’t go down there.” 

“He’ll kill us if we do!”

“Listen to her, Peter! She’s right!” 

“…Two…” 

“Go open a window, mom, we’ll fly out the back!” 

“You two need to calm down—surely we can talk our way out of this.”

“…One.” 

Not a millisecond after the pony utters what should have been the second-to-last digit in his slow countdown, the door is enveloped in a crimson glow and is immediately ripped open before our eyes, slamming against the wall behind it with enough force to shake practically the whole building. The three of us stand like tombstones in the doorway staring at the pony positioned on the other side, his face twisted into a malevolent smirk as his horn’s glow fades, his cloak rippling in the draft created by the window he’d broken downstairs.

“Oops. It looks like I cheated,” he laughs. “Now, let’s see…I do believe we have a little business to discuss?”

We’re all still frozen; nary a feather moves on any of us. I know I’m still stuck in indecision—my fight or flight instinct coupled with a sudden burst of frightened adrenaline is halting and completely clouding over any rational thought that would have otherwise entered my mind, and judging by the looks of it, both of my parents are stuck in the same mental vapor lock. 

The pony standing in the doorway snorts loudly after the pause, glancing at the three of us with a bemused look. “Before we begin,” he breathes loudly, walking through the doorway and past us uninvited, a cold wind blowing in after him from downstairs. The pony trots casually over to the table, and pulls out a chair. “Why don’t you three come have a seat?” He asks with a frighteningly calm smile. After several more instants of pure motionlessness from the three of us, he drops his smile as quickly as he had put it on. “I didn’t mean next week,” He growls menacingly. 

My father takes the first step forward, cautiously walking over, eyeing the stallion warily as he takes a seat. Mother follows suit, but with double the caution and half the speed, and a look of pure poison directed at the pony who’s eyeing her back with a subtle look of derision. As for me—I’m not sure why, but I still haven’t moved. I can’t consciously follow the thug’s command—I’m still clinging to hope of escape, even though the practical side of me is screaming for me to comply.

The pony’s smile returns as he turns his gaze to me. “Nadia, Nadia.” He shakes his head with a chuckle. “How should I have known you’d be the problem? Of course, I’ve known you’d be the problem from the beginning. You—you’re not like your parents. They may have gotten themselves involved with the wrong sort—” He lets out a full laugh, looking at me like he expects me to reciprocate. I make sure he doesn’t get that pleasure. “—but you…you’re trouble. I can see it in your eyes, girl. Why don’t you come sit down so we can discuss what’s going to happen like rational adults?”

I can’t move. I’m frozen—to take the seat is to give in, to give up. I can’t. 

Calmly, and in a smooth motion, he draws his pistol, just like he had back in the warehouse at Barrel, only this time the muzzle’s aimed squarely at my head. As I stare down the gaping metallic maw of the gun I feel my heart fly into my throat. Long ago, I’d briefly pondered what it would feel like if I were ever about to die—I’d always had the notion that I’d have that worn-out “life flashing before my eyes” cliché play itself out, but instead, all I feel is hatred for the twisted sonofabitch on the other side of the gun.   “Don’t be stubborn, girl. Take a seat or your parents can clean you up off the floor.” 

I hear my mother gasp and my father growl faintly, and look up to see them both drilling holes in the back of the pony’s head, and at that moment I’m certain that, between the three of us, there’s not a single creature alive that we hate more than the intruder, the assassin, that’s sitting at the breakfast table. There’s a split second (that I’m immediately ashamed of) in which I consider diving for the window and escaping into the night, never to return. It’s not but a second later I realize how cowardly that would be. Instead, I deflate entirely. I fight the thought of ripping the pony’s throat out as I slowly walk towards the table and, slowly, glaring all the while, take a seat. 

The pony smiles, letting the muzzle of the pistol drift away from my face, and he sets it down on the table. “Good. Now, down to business.”

“Why are you here?” My mother bursts in a near shout, barely containing her anger.

“Ah ah, calm down, Svenja. It’s only business, after all. I’m here because I aim collect. You owe us your payment.”

“But you were here earlier today! You said you wanted the money tomorrow!” She yells, face contorting, fists clenched as she eyes the pony with fire in her eyes. Father watches her fearfully. He’s well aware, as am I, that she’s liable to explode.

“Really, dear, do you think there was any chance at all for you to collect that many bits over the course of twelve hours? Don’t fool yourself—your debt has become a serious thorn in our collective side,” He intones. 

I watch mom’s eyes dilate in fury. “You set us up?! First you harassed us. Then you broke into our shop. Then you threaten us and point a gun at my daughter even though you already know we can’t pay? You bastard.”

“You might want to watch your words, dear,” the errand pony warns, putting a hoof back on his pistol as he glares at her. “The last pony who called me a bastard was in pain for a very long time.” 

My father speaks up in a successful attempt to make the intruder turn his gaze away from mom. “Surely, sir, your organization can’t be hurting for money like this. Please, give us more time. We’ll repay the loan in time,” he pleads. 

“You’re absolutely right, Peter. We’re not hurting for money. At its core, all this really isn’t about money; it’s about a lack of respect. The fact that you think we’ll just extend your loan, that we’ll just roll over and let you pay what you want when you want—that’s the real problem here. You see, we’ve been through all this before. You two have been asking for extensions and delays on payments since you got this loan. Do you have any idea what that sort of thing does to an organization like ours? It makes us look weak! Like we’re the sort of business that can be taken advantage of! The thing is—we won’t be taken advantage of. To be perfectly honest, that’s why I’m here. I’m not here for the money, I’m here to collect. Does it all make sense now?” His voice had been rising in volume throughout his monologue. He’s now looking furious, and nearly shouting. His drawling voice and booming timbre is terrifying in itself, not to mention his hoof, which is resting far too close for comfort to his pistol.  

He turns his fury to me. “And you.” He shakes his head, exhaling deeply, his eyes locked on me in a glare befitting only a true psychopath. “Nadia. You’re your own problem…both for me and for yourself. If you hadn’t walked in that door tonight in whatever feeble attempt you were aiming for to save your parents, you could have come out of this considerably richer and with the respect and continued business from the most lucrative contractor in Equestria. You see, the bosses want you. They think you’re perfect. You’ve managed to make quite business out of yourself, and the bosses—they want to buy you out! Oh, but if they knew. If there’s one thing they hate, it’s when somepony working for them breaks a contract, and like I said, the instant you put your paw in the door to this place tonight, you did just that. But you know what? That makes me happy. Do you know why that makes me happy? Because you were competition, and I don’t like competition. Oh, but when I saw your name on the Boulder contract and saw your parents here on the list of deadbeats—it all fell together. No self-respecting griffon would dare risk losing the respect of their parents! It was too good. And you fell for it!” He leans back in his chair, his anger having rapidly and psychotically returned to a satisfied grin. “Perhaps I’m coming across too much like a stereotypical villain. Listen to this monologue I’ve started; you all must be thinking I just walked off the movie set. Let me summarize all of this: It’s only business. And we all know that in business, when you can kill three birds with one stone, you don’t turn a blind eye and let the opportunity pass.” 

His words aren’t lost on any of us. I try my best to let out a deep sigh, but it’s wracked with my shaky breath. My nerves are starting to go haywire with fury. There’s no way this will end well tonight. “Then so that’s what you’re here for tonight. You’re here to kill us,” My mother says. There’s a sob from my father. I feel the rage that I’d been trying my best to suppress come boiling forth, quickly and visibly. My heart’s pumping, and I watch as the pony replies, a smug look of satisfaction on his face, but I can’t hear him. The sound of my blood rushing through my head is the only noise my brain is able to comprehend.

I can’t control it any longer. I lunge forward, watching practically as though it’s someone else acting, as my claw flies across the table, straight for the pony’s throat, all talons bared and bright against the darkness of the room. The pony hears the roar I release that I don’t even register as coming from me and ducks instinctively, my five claws finding purchase along his jawline and cheek rather than his jugular. At almost the same time as his recoiling motion, he throws himself to his hooves, sending the table and my parents spilling over onto the floor, and the pistol clattering to the floor as well. Before I can strike again, he sends a powerful forward kick in my direction, landing squarely in my chest and expelling every ounce of air from my lungs in an explosion of pain that causes my vision to darken momentarily. I gasp for air, losing my balance and falling to the floor as well. My parents struggle to stand and retaliate as the pony, gritting his teeth and bleeding heavily from his face, trots towards his pistol and picks it up in a glow of his magic, rearing onto his hind hooves to wield it. 

I’m like a fish out of water, face mashed onto the floor as I struggle to gain my footing and even the faintest trace of air in my lungs. My ribs are on fire; with every gasping breath I take, I feel stabbing pain shoot throughout my chest. My vision is dim and blurred from impact, but it’s slowly regaining focus as I slowly swing my head about in search for the assassin in the room. The first fully focused image I see is the all-too-familiar view down the barrel of the stallion’s pistol. I look up at the pony; his face is ashen and locked in a pained and furious grimace, and I note with the faintest sense of satisfaction that the side of his face is torn open and dripping blood onto the floor beside me as he leans down to speak.

“I was going to make it quick for you,” He breathes in a jagged whisper. He withdraws and, seemingly in slow motion, pulls the trigger. My vision is immediately overloaded by the muzzle blast from the pistol and the shot is loud enough to render me entirely deaf, so much so that it takes a second for the searing pain of the bullet that’s just been launched through me to even register. When the pain hits, though, it’s as if every cell in my body is screaming, but it quickly localizes to my left half, a knife point twisting wildly in my shoulder.
As my vision returns, I look down to see the steadily growing pool of blood and, shaking, return to look at the assassin. My sight is dimming from pure pain, but I watch as the stallion turns around, still looking down at me from his hind hooves. “Now watch,” I see him mouth. He fires two more shots, and as my vision fades even further, I’m left with the knowledge of who his targets were. 

The pain has numbed, what feels like an eternity later, and my vision still barely remains. I cling to my consciousness, as my delusionally dazed brain tells me there’s still hope for escape. The stallion trots slowly back to the center of the room after searching the apartment, a trash can full of newspaper and other loose-leaf stuffed inside in his magical grasp. He  lets the trashcan full of kindling go and withdraws the pistol once more, dropping the magazine from the gun and emptying it of remaining bullets, dropping them into one of the pockets on his cloak. Slide locked open, he levitates the pistol to my side and lets it drop just out of reach. The noise it makes on impact with the old wood floor echoes dully through my blurred steam of conscious. 

“Tsk, tsk.” I can barely hear him as he leans in to look at me closely once more. I can barely acknowledge that he’s standing on my wings. “What a shame. Whatever would cause a nice griffon to kill her estranged parents like this?” 

I can’t keep my head upright any longer; I’m utterly drained of even the faintest mote of energy. My vision blurs into a fuzzy haze and I hear the dull thud of my head hitting the floor long before I feel it. My head lolls to one side, giving me a hazy view of the apartment, now bathed in the orange hue of flames. I watch the silhouette of the pony slowly walk across my vision and down the stairs without a look back. 


***


For whatever reason, my hearing is the first to return: first a faint hiss, then an atonal, intense buzz. After that, there’s a deafening pop, and the bizarre artifacts of my returning consciousness are replaced by the deafening roar of flames. Shortly after, I realize I can’t breathe; I’m choking on a thick layer of smoke. My eyesight’s the next to return, and if it weren’t for the blurry memory of the horrors that had taken place what feels like ages ago, I’d swear I’m in hell. The apartment’s an inferno; everything in sight is either in flames or already smoldering, save for the small corner of the room I’m in. The smoke is enough to conceal anything beyond a yard in front of my face, and with every hot, cinder-filled breath I take, the pain from the bullet wound in my shoulder redoubles. 

I’m wracked with another wave of coughing; should I be lucky enough to survive, it will be a miracle if my lungs won’t be permanently blackened. As the force of my lungs starving for clean air doubles me over, I realize the size of the congealing pool of blood I’m lying in. Shit. Shitshitshit. I desperately need a deep breath to calm myself but the smoke would only reduce my already limited ability to breathe. I can’t afford to panic, I think, trying to drown the noise of the fire only a few hooves away. I try to hold my breath, and scoot my way forward. I can barely make out the stairs down into the store from here.  I can make it out. Ignoring the pain is the hardest part, that and staying below the smoke, but I’m able to make it about a yard before I blindly run into the kitchen island shoulder first, causing me to cry out in pain and fall to the floor. 

As I lay on the floor, gnashing my teeth and wheezing as my shoulder courses with pure pain, I spot more blood. Am I still bleeding? It’s too much to be mine. Oh Celestia. Whatever air left in my lungs is spent in choking back the deep sob that rises in my throat.  I force myself to look away, my eyes watering not just from the heat, to see a metallic glimmer on the floor near where I had been lying. It’s the pistol the stallion had left. 

Somewhere deep in my brain, something clicks.  It’s no longer a matter of if I can make it out of this mess alive, it becomes a fact that I must. The pony that did this will pay dearly for what he’s done. I force myself back the opposite way, and grab the warm metal of the pistol’s frame and tuck it into the bag I’ve just remembered is still strapped to my entry vest. 

There’s a crack as the char-weakened frame of the building shifts, causing the far wall to buckle several inches, the windows along it exploding from the new weight. Instinctually I hunker down to avoid the shower of glass and the burst of roiling flames that jet from the rafters. 

“Shit!” I hear shouted from downstairs. I turn my head as quickly as I can towards the stairwell, utterly perplexed. 

“Hello?” I call weakly, stifling a cough. I’m utterly perplexed, and attempt to climb to my feet. I hear sirens in the distance. 

“Nadia?” the voice calls from downstairs. I recognize it instantly. 

“Barrel?” I successfully gain my footing, and I crawl my way through the smoke to the doorway. The sirens are growing louder. Undoubtedly, they belong to the firefighters, surely somepony’s alerted them to the blaze that surrounds me. 

“Nadia! We gotta get you out of there! Can you move?” 

I cough loudly. “Yeah, I’m trying.” There’s another loud crack behind me, and just as I turn my head, one of the beams in the attic fails, falling through the ceiling and slamming to the floor, only inches from my rump. I jump forward and away out of instinct at the sudden movement just as the charred beam falls into my vision, ignoring the pain in my shoulder as I leap, and I ignore it further as I land hard, sliding forward into the stairwell and rolling torturously down about half of the stairs as the heavy plank slams into the floor, almost exactly where I had been standing. Barrel’s standing at the foot of the stairwell, staring at me like I’m a ghost. 

“Are you okay?” he asks nervously. 

I pant for several seconds before replying. The air is still hazy with smoke, but far less inundated than it had been in the apartment above. The sirens are growing close; I can see the flashing lights of their fire carts reflecting off the white faces of the buildings far up the street. “No,” I reply flatly. “What are you doing here, Barrel?”

“I put two and two together,” he says morosely, eyes watering from the smoke. “Shots fired on the police scanner at your exact address. I told you this wouldn’t end well.” He looks me up and down, focusing on my shoulder. “You’ve been shot,” he says. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

I grimace. The pain in my shoulder’s dulled to a numbing, pulsating heat. I heard the concern in Barrel’s voice, but my mind’s a million miles away from the state of my shoulder. To be honest, I’m not sure where it is. It feels like I can’t think; every thought that comes through is hollow and stripped to the bone, and all emotions are utterly void but a few, and none of them are good. I slowly stand, making my way out of the encroaching smoke and into the store. The air’s clear outside of the stairwell thanks to the hole in the plate glass window, blowing cool night air into the flame-heated room. I’m not sure what to think of the sirens as they draw closer; perhaps the firemen will take me to the hospital, but the time before their arrival is drawing short. “I know I need to go to the hospital.” I pause for a moment, watching the lights grow closer, and address the previous part of his statement. "Now’s not the time for ‘I told you so,’ Barrel.”

Barrel follows me as I step outside, through the hole in the window. The night has become damp and chilly, and Barrel is looking more worried than ever, possibly more so than a moment ago when I had fallen down the stairs as he continues to stare at me like I’m some sort of exhibit. “Nadia, here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to the hospital, and then we’ll…” his voice fades as the fire carts round the corner, loaded with ponies in heavy gear hanging off the sides. “…we’ll figure out our next steps.” 

The fire carts skid up to the building, ponies disembarking in all directions. Floodlights mounted in the cart beds flare to life and immediately swing—not to face the burning building—but Barrel and I. The light is blinding, and I feel my eyes strain and contract so to filter the intense beams, but to no avail. 

“THIS IS THE PHILLYDELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RESIST.” 
> Tonight There's Gonna Be a Jailbreak
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“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. 

> 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.