//------------------------------// // 2.6 - Study Break // Story: Ponies, Portals, and Physics: A Practical Study on Unscheduled Interplanetary Excursion // by superpurple //------------------------------// “The Bent Bit,” I read off the dinged-up sign hanging over the pub’s battered-looking doorway. “Yup. Don’t let the exterior fool you, it's a lot nicer on the inside,” Cinnamon said as she led the way in. Compared to the exterior, the interior looked actually habitable. It wasn’t all that different from some of the places in the G.U. area that Jack had dragged me to on occasion. Pretty typical pub stuff, there was the bar itself, a dining area with tables and booths, and—new to any venue I’d been—an area that I was pretty sure was a dance floor, currently empty. Some chill music was playing from seemingly everywhere though I couldn’t see any speakers. Magic, I guess. Overall, if I ignored the fact that a good chunk of the occupants was still staring at me, I’d say the place almost felt comfortable. Cozy even. Though as we made our way in, I began to notice a pattern with those occupants. And the staff. It wasn’t a subtle pattern; the features were obvious. The curvier muzzles. The prominent eyelashes. Less bulk. And of course other obvious external indicators. “They’re all women,” I said quietly so only Cinnamon could hear. “Yes, they are,” she replied. “Is that a typical quality for this place?” “It’s one of its many appeals, yes.” “…And you thought it’d be funny to bring me here,” I said, a small scowl forming on my face. “Maybe a little bit,” she said with a smirk. “But don’t worry. Yeah, it's mostly just mares who come here, but stallions aren’t unwelcome.” She sidled up next to me and waggled her eyebrows. “Especially the cute ones.” I did my best to look unphased by that. ‘Y’know I’m not a stallion, right?” She huffed. “You know what I mean. I just don't know what a guy griffon is called.” “That makes two of us.” Though I did know a little on that subject that might be relevant but I refused to share with Cinnamon the fact that the name for a male bird is generally ‘cock’. She didn’t need any more ammunition. “Is it too late to refuse?” “C’mon. It’s not bad. Plus, since you’re broke, I’m buying. You get free food! Nopony can argue with free food.” “Free food is the best food,” I agreed. Cinnamon led the way to the booths. Thankfully she picked one of the more secluded ones instead of a table right in the middle of the place. I didn’t want to stand out any more than I already did. The high backs on the booths was also a blessing for a creature of my size. I undid my hand wraps and did my best to get comfortable while we waited for the waiter. It wasn’t long before a bright orange mare with a curly mane came to our table with a couple of menus floating in her magic. Cinnamon grinned as the mare approached. “Hey cutie, I haven’t seen you around here before. You new here?” “Nope!” the waitress bubbled. “Perhaps just never noticed me?” “No way I’d miss a flank like that,” Cinnamon said, making a point to lean out of her seat and eye her rear end. The other mare took it in stride. She tapped her hoof to her lips. “Hmmm, maybe it's just been so long that you forgot?” “Forget a butt like that? Never. That would be a crime.” There was a short pause before both the mares broke out into giggles and hugs while I looked on in confusion. Fuckin’ ponies, man. “Cin!” the waitress exclaimed. “Good to see you too, Citrus,” Cinnamon patted her on the back. The waitress—Citrus, apparently—pulled back from the hug, still grinning wide. “It's been ages, where’ve you been?” “I left Canterlot for a bit to do some stuff. But I’m back now.” “That’s good, right?” “Yep. Back to stay, hopefully. Say, speaking of which, do you know if Rosie is looking to take on any more ponies? I’m uh, looking for work.” “You need work?” Citrus asked, sounding surprised. Cinnamon snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yeah yeah. Huge shocker. I know. But really, any openings here?” “Well, you’d have to talk to Rosie about that. She might be willing to take on another waiter. Or a dishwasher, if you’re really serious.” “You’d be surprised. Thanks, I’ll think about it. Later though.” Cinnamon pointed to the still-floating menus. Citrus set them down in front of us. “Of course. So can I get you something to start you off while you look over the menus or do you already know what you want?” “You already know what I want. But I’m pretty sure Birdy needs a bit to look it over,” Cinnamon said with a smirk while I poured over the menu in confusion. There was no sign of cheeseburgers, chicken, pizza, or any other of my usual fast-food preferences. “Just start us off with the veggie tray for now.” Citrus noted it down. “Alrighty, and anything to drink? Same as usual, Cin?” “Sure, why not. Just one though.” “And you?” “I—er. Uh,” I stuttered. Fuckin’ putting me on the spot with fuckin’ alien menus. Fuckit. “Just water’s good,” I said. “Ookay, I’ll be right back with those,” she said cheerily and trotted off. Barely a minute later she dropped off two glasses. Cinnamon’s smelled distinctly fruity and alcoholic. I idly went to sip from my own glass and made a glorious discovery. There was a straw in the glass! A straw I could actually fucking use with a beak! No awkward shenanigans required! Just popped the end of the straw into the corner of my beak and boom! I was drinking like a normal fucking person! I’d have to see about getting more of these to keep with me. Elated at having one of my many griffon-based peeves quashed, I went back scanning the menu while sipping proudly. “Question,” I said while I reviewed the vegetarian listings for the eighteenth time. “What the fuck are griffons even supposed to eat? You got any idea?” “Uh no. Not really, actually,” Cinnamon replied. “The few griffon’s I’ve met just ate whatever pony food was around. But they also made it a point of complaining about it.” “Can’t imagine why… Half eagle, half lion—or whatever brand of big cat I am—I’m pretty sure I should be having a bit more protein than this.” “Hmmm. But you don’t really look like an eagle. Maybe you’re one of those birds that eat fruits and nuts,” Cinnamon said with a smirk. I lowered the menu and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll admit I’m no expert on birdology, but I’m pretty sure the pointy beak and huge fuckoff talons”—I raised my hand—”aren’t for intimidating fruit. Besides, my guts are a hundred percent cat.” Cinnamon nodded. “True. true. Maybe you’re just an upscaled housecat, and we should be finding you a nice squirrel or mouse.” “Yeah, or maybe I eat pony? Ever think of that?” I said and took another sip. “Eating ponies? Mreeoow.” She pawed at the air and grinned. “Take a mare to dinner before you do that.” It took a second for my brain to process that, and when I did, I choked on my water, nearly knocking over the glass. I pounded on my chest and while I gasped for air. At the same time, there was a burst of laughter from a returning Citrus. She stumbled, dropping the veggie tray she was carrying, but managed to catch it and its contents in her magic. Cinnamon, for her part, was trying to act casual while sipping at her own drink but was completely undermining her efforts with her gratuitous use of tongue on the straw. Citrus set the tray on the table, took out her notepad, and turned to me. “Okay then, do you know what you want?” “Not really. I don’t know.” I tossed the menu down. “What has the most grease and the fewest plants?” Citrus picked up the menu and took a moment to skim through it. “Probably the grilled cheese?” “Does it have any flowers on it?” “Uh no, it's just a grilled cheese.” “Perfect. I’ll take three.” “Sure thing.” She scribbled on her pad and took the menus in her magic. “Shouldn’t be too long,” she said and left. Sure enough, there was hardly any wait before our food came. Cinnamon and I chatted about stuff while we ate. She told me more about the pub, the local area, and other topics of general non-importance. Inevitably though, the conversation moved onto what our—or more accurately, my—next move was in figuring out how to get me home. “Obviously I can just keep asking around, but after today I have even less faith in that yielding results anytime soon. Though I don’t know what else to do.” “Don’t worry. I’ll help you no matter how long it takes,” Cinnamon assured with a smile. I sighed and slumped back in my seat. “And then there's that. I can’t just keep bumming off you like this. You’re just pouring time and money into me and I'm doing fuckall in return.” I held up a hand to forestall her inevitable dismissal. “And I know you’re going to smile and say it's fine, that you want to help, and I really appreciate it, but it’s not cool of me to just keep taking like this.” I sighed and flopped face-down onto the table. “Maybe someone will buy a textbook on alien technology for a few hundred bucks. Or maybe I should take a look at some of these job apps myself. We’ve got no fucking clue how long it’ll take to figure this out… If I ever do…” Cinnamon placed her hoof on my hand. “Hey, no. None of that. You’ll figure it out soon. Don’t worry.” I didn’t raise my head, but rolled it to the side and stared at the hoof for a while. “I hope you’re right. I really do. But you can’t know that.” Evidently, that wasn’t the right response, because Cinnamon got out of her seat and came around to my side of the table. She wrapped her arms as far around my torso as she could, nuzzled into my side and said nothing. It helped a little. I sat up and gently patted her on the head. “Thanks.” Cinnamon let go but remained leaning against my side. “Alright. New rule. No more talk about any of that for the rest of the night. At least until tomorrow we’re going to pretend that what we told my aunt is true. You’re just a regular griffon and your biggest problem is that you have to stay here in Canterlot for a bit longer than you’d like.” I snorted. “That might not be as easy as you think, considering that I’m not even from the same planet. I still don’t know shit about griffons. Except that they’re not common because I haven’t seen a single other one and ponies keep giving me weird looks for being one. What even is the deal between you ponies and griffons anyways? It's not predatorial, is it?” “No, it's not. Honestly most of those weird looks you’re getting from Canterlot ponies are because you look like a dirty hobo and have nothing to do with you being a griffon.” I looked down at my bedsheet-kilt-thing. It was collecting a fair bit of dirt. “Okay, yeah, That’s fair. But back to the point, if I’m going to be pretending to be a griffon, it’d help if I knew more than precisely fuckall about griffons, ponies, or, well, fuckin anything here, really.” “Well, I can’t tell you a whole lot about griffons, as I’ve only met a couple myself. And they didn’t really talk all that much. Which I guess is a perfect starting point. Griffons just mostly keep to themselves in the Griffon Kingdom across the sea, and what few that do come over to Equestria all seem to be kinda dickish about it…” Over the course of dinner, I got the Ponies 101 introductory course from Cinnamon. Now, Cinnamon was not a teacher, and even though the discussion ran much longer than dinner lasted, there’s only so much you can cover in a couple hours. So the material was mostly steered by the pile of questions that’d been bugging me since arriving here plus whatever else Cinnamon thought to mention at the moment. Things like how the nation was ruled by a pair of super-powerful magical horse princesses, or what the deal was with the markings on the asses of every pony1. ---------- 1Apparently the butt markings are not just the latest trend in horse fashion, but are actually something called “cutie marks” and are a very important part of horse culture. Every pony gets one (literally by magic) when they come of age and learn what their “special talent” is. Because apparently everyone had a specific thing they were naturally awesome at. Though when I asked Cinnamon what her mark2 meant, she just said she had “a talent for spicing things up” while grinning playfully and I couldn't tell if she was being serious. 2A scattering of darker brown spots that I’d originally assumed were natural coat markings, but upon further review I guess kinda looks like sprinkled cinnamon powder. ---------- When the lecture concluded, I’d collected a nice pile of notes that would surely entertain the sociologists back home for quite a while, but more importantly I felt like I knew enough about life in Equestria and the Griffon Kingdom that if I was left alone without Cinnamon, I might be able to maintain my cover identity of someone new to the country, but at least from the same planet. At least if I didn’t meet any other griffons. The talk had pushed late into the evening though, and now it was time to head back to the apartment. Cinnamon went to the counter to pay, and I made a quick trip to the little boy’s room. Little colt’s room? Or would it be the little little colt’s room to account for the horses already being smaller than— —I went to take a piss before we left. When I came back, I didn’t find Cinnamon at the table or at the counter where I’d last seen her. I took a moment to look around and saw her over at the bar talking to a stallion. He was a well-groomed unicorn stallion with a white coat and jet-black mane. I’d seen him enter the pub earlier and he’d gone straight to the bar, a fact I’d only taken note of because he was the only other guy here. I was totally unsurprised Cinnamon had noticed his entrance as well and jumped on the chance to do her thing the moment we'd finished talking. I rolled my eyes and made my way over to them. As I got closer I was able to pick up what was being said and how it was being said. And unless Cinnamon's flirtation tactics involved raised voices and aggressive tones, it was plain I'd been incorrect in my previous assumption of Cinnamon's intentions. Not wanting to intrude on the heated argument that clearly didn't involve myself, I hung back just out of sight from the bar, though still within earshot. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was impossible to not overhear some of the discussion. “—and don’t follow me again,” Cinnamon said. The stallion scoffed. When he spoke, his speech was eloquent and deliberate, although slightly slurred. “It can hardly be considered following if you’re never here. I’ve been visiting this establishment for some time now.” “Well I’m here now. Which makes it following. So get lost. Don’t make me involve the guard. Wouldn’t want daddy to find out about that, would you?” The stallion frowned. “Am I not allowed to have a drink?” He gestured wide with the pint glass held in his magic. “Enjoy the view?” “You’ve been here for an hour and you didn’t even try talking to anypony else. You’re obviously not here for the other ponies. So congrats, you found me. So what. Do. You. Want?” Cinnamon growled. “Why Cinnamon, is it not obvious? I just want to talk to you. You leave for months and no pony knows where you went.” “Almost like I didn’t want certain ponies following me after that shitshow,” Cinnamon said levelly. “I was worried about you,” he said, putting a hoof to his chest and sounding hurt, or at least like someone trying to sound hurt. “Oh, I’m sure you were. You weren’t the least bit worried when I left.” “About that…” he rubbed the back of his neck with a hoof. “I am sorry for how I treated you… then. Your being away has given me a new perspective on our relationship.” “Has it now,” Cinnamon said, her voice dripping with skepticism. “Indeed it has. It's why I wanted to talk to you. After I… brushed you aside, as it were. I thought I didn’t need you. That the… others would be enough. But I was mistaken. It wasn’t the same without you. I didn’t realize how much excitement you brought into my life.” “‘Excitement,’” Cinnamon repeated dryly. She sighed and shook her head. “For a moment there I thought you might’ve actually changed. But no, you’re exactly the same. You only ever cared about what you could do, not who you were doing it with. I was just the only one who could keep up. “But that's not me anymore,” she continued. “The time away from the city did wonders to clear my head. Let me get my priorities straight. So no, I don't think I'll be spending any more time with you. Good luck with whatever the hay it is you do these days. Don't come looking for me.” Cinnamon hopped down from the barstool, “Ah, there he is. Just in time. Hey, Birdy!” I perked up. The gaggle of mares I’d been using to block line-of-sight between me and the bar was getting up from their table. Cinnamon had noticed and was waving her hoof over her head at me. I did my best to look like I’d just come back and casually walked over to the bar area. “You were in there a while, did you fall in?” Cinnamon asked with a smirk. “Oh hah hah,” I fake laughed. “No. I don’t even think I could if I tried. The challenge was figuring out how to keep these from getting in the way.” I shook the tips of my wings that were sticking out behind me, well past my rump. “So we ready to go?” “Yup, just gotta grab my bags from the booth,” she said. “You’re not going to introduce me to your friend,” the stallion interjected. Cinnamon rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “This is Garrett. He’s a friend from out of town.” “Ay,” I said with a minimal upward nod in the stallion’s direction. “Hmm.” The stallion—to be hereby referred to as ‘Sir Douchington’—took this time to plainly look me up and down, not even trying to mask his judgmental expression as he did so. His brow furrowed. “Is that a… bedsheet you’re wearing?” “Ayuh. Most of one at least,” I replied flatly. “Euhgh,” was the sound he made in response as he shrunk back and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Cool. Glad we could have this talk. Really useful. Now we can go,” Cinnamon said and walked off. “C’mon, Birdy.” “Gladly,” I replied and followed after. Behind us came the heavy and uncoordinated clop of hooves as Sir Douche trotted after Cinnamon, giving me a wide berth and another repulsed look in the process. “Cinnamon, dear. You’re really going to just leave things like this?” “That’s pretty much what I said, isn’t it?” she said without looking back. “But remember all the fun we had together.” Cinnamon stopped and turned around. “Oh, I do. Or rather, no, I don’t remember all of it. And neither do you. And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? But you never cared about that. Still don’t, it seems,” she said, pointing with her nose to the many empty glasses at the bar. Doucheface persisted. “Cinnamon please. See reason. You’re not going to leave me for this turkey, are you? Just look at him!” he exclaimed. “You deserve so much better!” My eyebrow raised. I wasn’t quite sure how offended by that I was supposed to be, considering how off it was. I was considering saying something to that effect when Cinnamon marched back up to him, getting right up into his face, making him shrink back. “Let me make a few things perfectly clear. One”—she jabbed him in the chest with a hoof—“I already left you. Months ago. Get over it. Two”—she jabbed again—“Screw you. I’ll do what I want, with who I want. You don’t get a say. And three!”—this time hard enough that he nearly lost his balance—“You are about the last pony I’d rate as ‘better,’” she finished with a snarl. The unicorn regained his composure and dusted his chest off. “I—buh—wuh. I will not stand for being disrespected in such a manner. I am—” Cinnamon cut him off with a wave of her hoof. “Ah ah ah. Nopony gives a flying feather what you are. You can take your entitlements and shove them up your pampered tail hole. Now if you’ll please excuse us, we were just lea—” SLAP! The sound of Douche’s hoof slapping across Cinnamon’s cheek rang out across the pub. The general murmur around us ground to a halt as the other patrons all stopped to look on in surprise. Douche stood there, hoof still raised by Cinnamon’s head, with a satisfied look on his face. Worry washed over me and I rushed to Cinnamon’s side. She held up a hoof to stop me. “’m fine,” she said cooly, working her jaw up and down and rubbing her cheek. She shot Doucheface a single icy glare and continued walking away. “Mmm. You’d do well to remember your place,” Sir Douchington said with his nose upturned pompously. My worry was immediately replaced with rage, and I was about to do something impulsive and probably a little violent when Cinnamon beat me to it. In a flash, she galloped the short distance back, landed on her front hooves in front of him, pivoted one-eighty and bucked him square in the chest with both rear hooves. Sir Douche was sent flying backward in an arc that ended with him slamming into the side of the bar with a massive crash, knocking over stools and a few drinks and ending with him laying on a heap on the floor with broken glass and spilled alcohol falling on top of him. Cinnamon stood there glaring, head hanging low and huffing like an angry, miniaturized bull. It seemed like the whole pub was completely silent but for Douchington’s pained moaning and Cinnamon’s heavy panting. Somebody coughed. I stood there speechless like the rest, eyes going back and forth between my petite pony companion and the significantly-larger stallion sprawled a dozen feet away. I was immediately reminded why you’re never supposed to walk behind a horse. Even a tiny one. Cinnamon took a few deep breaths and seemingly calmed herself. She shook her head and turned to the older unicorn mare behind the counter, “Sorry about the mess, Rosie. I’ll pay for that.” Rosie, for her part, was sedately wiping a glass with a rag, seemingly unphased by the whole scene. “Don’t you worry none about that. It was just a matter of time ‘fore he got what was coming to him, and truth be told I was thinking of doing something similar myself after the way he was talking,” she said, moving the rag to the spills on the bartop. The clatter of Doucheface flailing about in the wreckage intensified. He sat up and groaned loudly. A few sparks shot weakly from his horn and his eyes went wide. When he spoke, he was slurring his words even more than before. “What in Celestia’s name—” He shook his head and growled in Cinnamon’s direction. “Damned mud pony cunt. Look what you did to my horn!” he shouted indignantly. “It’s just a bump,” Rosie said. “You’re fine. Get over it—” “—And yourself—” Cinnamon interjected. Rosie continued, “—and get out. I put up with you before, but if you’re going to be attacking my patrons, I don’t wanna see your sorry mug ‘round here again. So git.” Cinnamon turned away from the scene and walked towards the booth with our things. “Let’s go,” she muttered quietly as she brushed passed me. “Right…” I said and turned to slowly follow, but my focus lingered on Doucheface. He’d gotten back up onto all fours but was clearly stumbling and leaning against the bar for support. He was also practically fuming now, the white fur on his face looking pink. He looked like he was going to pop an artery with how tense he was. His head hung low and his eyes were darting around like a rabid animal, jumping erratically between points in the crowd of staring ponies before focusing on a point on the ground. And then—quicker than I would’ve expected in his drunken and dazed state—he dropped his head low, grabbed something off the floor in his jaws, and charged towards Cinnamon while she walked away. It took longer than I’d’ve liked for my brain to process what I was seeing: the bumbling miniature horse was running at Cinnamon’s back with a large shard of broken glass hanging from the side of his mouth in what had to be one of the most ineffective-looking knife lunges in history. The sheer absurdity of it gave me pause. Still, an angry meatsack with a blade charging towards someone who wasn’t expecting it was an issue. Now, I was not well-versed in the field of hand-to-hand (hoof-to-claw?) combat—or any kind of self-defense for that matter—but this was little more than an applied physics problem. Given: Relatively stationary meatsack A (Cinnamon) undesirably in the path of knife-wielding meatsack B (Lord McDouche). Solution: Alter the position of the closer meatsack (A) by applying momentum through collision from meatsack C (myself). That is to say, when Douchehead came running, I lunged towards Cinnamon and rammed my shoulder into her side like a football player in order to shove her out of the way. There were two points of note with this action, however. The first was that my math was a bit off, as math tends to be, and the collision was far more elastic than anticipated, leading to a much higher degree of momentum transfer from C to A. The second point was that my reflexive movement didn’t factor in all the recent alterations and additions to the outline of my body. The result: Cinnamon went flying totally clear (sorry!) with a confused squeak while my own momentum dropped significantly, meaning I wasn’t as far out of the way as I’d’ve liked to be when meatsack B arrived, improvised knife and all. The shard of glass cut into my jacket and across the bound wing that I’d forgotten existed. There was a sharp pain in my left wing before I tumbled to the floor after Cinnamon while Douchenugget McChucklefuck continued past in his charge. I took a moment while on the floor to inspect the damage. It did not look pretty. The glass had managed to cut a jagged gash through the fabric, feathers, and into the tissue below, just past the ‘wrist’ joint of my wing. Blood was already pooling around the wound and staining the feathers as red as the wool above. It was almost underwhelming in how much it hurt, given how it looked. Granted, it hurt like a bitch, but somehow not nearly as much as other recent injuries I’d had, such as those involving tails in doors. Maybe my brain still wasn’t quite sure how to deal with those nerves. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline. And I was still processing what the shit had just happened. I looked incredulously at Douchenugget as I got back up on all fours. “Did—did you really just try to stab someone for turning you down? What in the everloving name of fuck is wrong with you?” He’d recovered from his charge and was now facing Cinnamon and I again, bloody blade still held tight in his teeth. “‘uzz off, ‘urkey. Dis doesn’ involve you,” he mumbled around the improvised weapon. I glanced at the gash on my side that was currently oozing significant quantities of blood, then back at him. “I think it just fucking might!” I yelled back. I yanked my jacket’s zipper up hard, pulling the jacket uncomfortably tight around my chest and applying pressure to the injured wing. I had no idea how bad the cut really was, but I was pretty sure applying pressure was a good idea. “You’re jus’ a plaything ‘o her. She doesn’ care about you! She’ll use you un’il she’s had her fun and then run off!” Doucheson growled, circling around me. I sidestepped to keep him in front of me. “Buddy, you’ve got some serious issues. Not the least of which is having no goddamn clue what the fuck you’re talking about. And that’s coming from me. So back off!” “You don’ ge’ ‘o ‘ell me wha’ ‘o do!” he yelled, not backing off in the slightest. By now Cinnamon had recovered from being bounced out of the way and was back on her hooves, though a little wobbly. “W-what was—” then she saw me and rushed to my side. “You’re hurt!” “Lil’ bit,” I grunted, my attention locked on the enraged unicorn in front of me. Cinnamon followed my gaze across to the stallion and pleaded. “Don't be stupid. Stop this. The guard will be here anytime.” The stallion just growled and kept trying to get around me to Cinnamon. I could now see that not all the blood on the shard of glass was my own; there was a deep cut on his left cheek that was bleeding steadily, though he seemed oblivious to it. “Don’t think twitchy here is interested in not being a dumbass,” I muttered to Cinnamon, pushing her back with one arm. “Stay behind me.” I widened my stance, making myself as big an obstacle as possible, and making sure that obstacle stayed between Cinnamon and the Determinedly Deranged Douche. I shot a quick look around. The few other ponies nearby had cleared back. Which was good, I guess. That left just me and Douche here to square off. Just a couple of dumbasses fighting in a bar for no fucking reason. Isn’t there supposed to be a bouncer or someone to stop shit like this? Fucking hell… This really wasn’t the kind of situation I wanted to be in. All the information I knew about what to do in a knife fight focused on how to not be involved in a knife fight. Things like running the fuck away from whoever was doing the stabbing. But that wasn’t really an option. Dude did not seem like he was going to let off anytime soon, and I didn’t want to find out who out of the three of us was the faster runner. So I did what seemed the most reasonable at the time. It was probably also one of the stupider things I could’ve done. I pounced. I sprung up and forward, balling my hand into a fist and bringing it down in an arc across the top of his muzzle in an attempt to disarm the drunken nutcase with a knife before he had time to react or do something really stupid like hurt someone else. Miraculously, it actually fucking worked. DoucheMcFuck seemed caught off-guard and the blow knocked the shard of glass from his mouth and sent him staggering back. The glass shattered on the ground and I quickly swiped the bits away. Disarmed but not deterred, Douchebag lowered his head. “Stupid pigeon,” he spat bloodily before charging at me like a one-horned bull. I braced myself with my claws and took the charge, being careful to direct his horn upward and away from myself. It wasn’t particularly sharp, but it didn’t need to be if enough force was applied. From what I could tell, Douchebag was only a little above average in size for a pony stallion, and so still a whole head shorter than myself, which for quadruped proportions equated to a much larger difference in mass than it did for bipeds—about a factor of two or so by my estimate. That extra mass helped a lot because it was about the only thing I had going for me in this fight. I had a general lack of experience, both with fighting in general and with the whole “being a quadruped” thing. There was also the part with how my opponent was clearly trying to do me real bodily harm while I wasn’t about to rely on a bird of prey or big cat’s tried-and-true fighting style of “just tear holes in the fucker till they stop squirming.” That meant I was stuck on the defensive, focusing on blocking and dodging strikes as he reared up and swung his hooves at me. I was mostly successful. I did take a hoof or two to the ribs—and let me tell you, hooves hurt a lot, even through all the padding I had—but for the most part I was able to avoid getting hurt even more while I tried to find a way to restrain him. After he missed with a particularly zealous attempt to crush my head with both front hooves in a huge downward blow, I had an opening. While his head was still hanging low from the swing, I lunged up over him and wrapped my arm around his neck in a sort of front headlock. With our upper bodies locked together I could finally really put my mass to use. I pushed against him. He pushed back against me, but I dug my claws into the wooden floor for added traction. I felt his hooves start to slip behind him. I kept pushing, building some speed and eventually he slipped and fell, flipping onto his back. Before he could recover, I got on top of him, putting my knee on his foreleg and the rest of my weight across his chest. I grabbed his horn and used it to hold his head down on the floor. I really didn’t want to get impaled by that thing, or blindsided if whatever was keeping him from using his magic stopped. He tried bucking and heaving beneath me, trying to throw me off, but I clung on tight. He kicked futilely at my gut with his hind legs but couldn’t do so with any real power from his current position, so it was little more than an annoyance. “Stop fighting you goddamn psycho,” I shouted down to him. “I’m not trying to hurt you!” The response he gave was another angry snarl, so I used the grip I had on his horn to slam his head against the floor once, twice, and then leaned in close to his face while he was dazed. I dropped my voice to barely above a whisper and spoke right into his ear. “But between you and me, this would be so much easier if I just did. Griffons clearly aren’t built to be pacifists. I could end this so easily if I just used the tools I was given.” His eyes went wide and he thrashed some more beneath me. “Heh, I’m still not even one-hundred percent sure anything here is even real. Could all just be my fever dream. Would it even matter if I were to, say, tear your throat out with my bare hands?” I clenched the claws on my free hand and dragged them across the floor right in front of his face, leaving a trio of gouges in the wood that quickly filled with the blood trickling down my sleeve. “I’ve never done that before, but hey, try everything once, amiright?” I hissed with a grin and then pulled my head back. A wave of dizziness hit me when I did. Oh, right. Blood getting all the way from my side down to my hand probably wasn’t a good sign. I was definitely feeling a little lightheaded, and maybe a tad bit giddy. Doucheface took that moment of wobbliness to thrash violently again, this time succeeding at breaking out of my loosened grip on his horn. He bit down on my scaly forearm and squirmed out from under me. He got up and stood opposite me in a half-assed fighting stance. “Y-you’re insane!” “Hmm, maybe. Probably. You wanna stick around and find out?” “I’m not running from you, p-pigeon!” I internally facepalmed. Fucking hell. What was it going to take to get this fuck to back off? Just moments ago, he looked like he was about to piss himself and flee if I hadn’t been holding him down at the time. But now he was back to being a determinedly dangerous dumbass. I needed to bring the scared animal back at the wheel. My arms and legs were starting to get a bit of a wobble. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up. So I tried something stupid again. Or maybe not stupid. I didn’t fucking know anymore. We needed the horse’s lizard brain to call the shots? Let’s try a little applied zoology. Prey, meet predator. Steadily as I could, I reared back, spread my arms wide and took a deep breath. Then I unleashed it in a cumulation of all the awkward animalistic sounds I’d been suppressing the last two days. What came out was a single, drawn-out, piercing avian shriek that echoed off the walls and made even my own ears hurt. Douchebag’s ears flattened back at the sound, his pupils went huge, and he froze in place. I worried for a moment that I’d gotten the opposite response I’d been aiming for before he finally turned tail and galloped out the front door. I remained standing resolutely for a whole five seconds before the shaking in my knees proved too much and I collapsed to the floor like a sack of potatoes. “Owww,” I groaned from where I lay with my beak mashed into the floorboards. The lightheadedness had gotten significantly worse. Some part of my brain informed me that was not great. Cinnamon rushed to my side. “Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes full of worry. “Uh, yup. Well, maybe not. Iunno.” “Why did you go and do that?” “Hmm? Oh. He was gonna… you… knife… make ‘im leave…” I was panting and sweating now, but also felt a chill at the same time. That was kinda annoying. “Oh Garrett…” Cinnamon pressed her hooves into my bleeding wing. I winced and watched the blood pooling rapidly around her hooves. “Oh wow. That’s uhh… a lot of blood.” And the blood pooled on the floor under me. “Like a lot. Damn. That’s gonna make a mess. Sorrrry about that. Miss.” I shakily got up onto my feet. “We’ll uh… Whew… We’ll just leave before somethin’ else—” I took a step but failed, slipping and falling onto my stomach in the pool of blood. “...Or not.” Dang. Good thing my jacket’s already red. That’d be a pain in the ass to get out otherwise. “Just hang in there, Garrett. Stay with me.” Someone was calling for help. They sounded worried. What was there to be worried about? The problem had just run out the door. We did it. Yay… The last thing I saw before I passed out was several sets of hooves shod in golden armor, accompanied by this weird feeling that perhaps, just maybe, I’d fucked up.