"Things have changed, haven't they?"
Bottgilia looked up from the bottled meads behind the bar and studied Gallus. The blue griffon was still wearing his stevedore overalls, the heavy fabric stained with oil and dust. His cap sat on the bar, next to his whiskey sour, which was strangely untouched.
"What makes you say that, amico?" Bottgilia asked, leaning against the bar.
Gallus flicked a talon at the glass, blinking at the yellow liquid as it shuddered within its container. "Mavri's dead," he said quietly, still staring at his drink.
Bottgilia glanced over at the empty stool next to Gallus with a frown, eroded and worn down over the years like its cousins. For just a moment, he could almost picture the dark griffon sitting there, spiced mead in one claw, another patting the pocket on his old fishing vest where the Crystal Crown cigars sat.
"Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, he is."
Gallus sighed and glanced down at his foreleg. Bottgilia tried to avert his eyes, but his pupils still drifted automatically to the red marks that lined the inside of the younger griffon's arm.
"And Whitestone's dead, too," Gallus said, in a tone that made it clear that he was still struggling to come to terms with the sudden absence.
Again, Bottgilia tried to keep his eyes forward. Again, his eyes moved of their own accord to the photograph of the Gold Griffon's Head hanging up on the wall next to the bottle rack. For a moment, he could see right through the framed picture at the bullet hole that remained in the woodwork (one of these days, he was really going to have to fix that).
"Things are completely different," Gallus continued to muse. "A couple moons ago, every griffon knew that if you just kept your head down and your beak shut and didn't talk to cops, you'd be fine. Now...now we've got PIs and cops coming up to griffons and actually talking to each other. Helping each other." He took a long drink. "It's like the world's flipped on its head."
"I get what you mean," Bottgilia nodded. "Things are very different now." He cast his gaze across his bar, at the few patrons scattered across the tables. Usually, the patrons would be bent low over their drinks and plates, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Now, the griffons, thestrals, hippogriffs, and zebras who made up the Dockside's population were, even if they weren't quite up to sitting together, were sending friendly comments to one another in a warm, slow-flowing stream of background noise. It was a sound that Bottgilia only vaguely recalled.
"Do you remember a time when Whitestone wasn't here?" Gallus asked.
Bottgilia had to remember that Gallus had only lived in Ponyville for a little over a year: the city had a way of aging its citizens quickly. "Yes," he nodded, placing the next few bottles up onto the rack. "I've been here twelve years, amico; Whitestone only showed up around '43."
"Only seven years?" Gallus asked, his eyebrows rising in astonishment.
"Yup," Bottgilia nodded. "But it can feel like forever." He finished placing the mead onto the rack and turned to face the younger griffon, who was once more contemplating the whiskey sour.
"I do remember what it was like before her," he said softly. "And honestly, we griffons kept to ourselves back then, too. The truth is, it wasn't just fear that made us quiet and obedient; it was pride. We decided we didn't need help from the city, we were above it. Whitestone knew that about us griffons, knew she could count on it to keep us in line. And we paid for it in blood."
Gallus looked up at him from beneath his furrowed brows.
"The world is changing, Gallus," Bottgilia mused. "And nogriff will admit it, but it's scary for us. Seven years is a long time to get set in your ways. But you..." He smiled and patted the griffon's shoulder. "You're young. You're smart. This is a new chance for you, lad."
Gallus snorted. "All of the hopes and dreams of griffonkind are riding on my shoulders?" he asked dryly. "No pressure or anything."
Bottgilia's smile faded and he sighed. "Mavri wanted better for you," he said. "So do I."
"I'm a GED holder working 45 hours a week on the docks just to scrape by," Gallus grumbled. "What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know," Bottgilia admitted. "But I do know that nothing will change for you if you don't try."
Gallus just blinked at his drink, then downed the rest of it in one go. "Thanks for the drink," he grunted, slapping a few bits down onto the bar and getting up. Bottgilia watched the younger griffon go, bent heavy beneath the weight of life.
Out on the street, Gallus looked up and down as he walked down the sidewalk, watching the griffons passing by. Nogriff was paying too much attention to him, nogriff looked like they were hanging around waiting for trouble...but there was something unusual.
It took him a minute to put his talon on it. The few griffons walking and flying by were smiling. Some were even looking up at the sky, cast in beautiful golden hues from the setting sun.
And even more bizarrely, there was a police officer, a dark green griffon, trotting down the sidewalk, and the other griffons weren't avoiding him like he was a bearer of the plague! A hen with her young chick even nodded at him as they passed! The officer—"Pond," his nametag read—nodded at Gallus as they passed each other on opposite sides. Gallus briefly nodded back and kept moving.
It was then that he spotted something that was familiar. And familiarly detestable.
The dark red griffon with the matted, greasy plumage and the ratty coat was leaning against the side of the shop, tossing a denarius to himself. He looked up at Gallus as he walked past and smirked. "You know you want some," he crooned, opening up his coat to reveal the inner pockets lined with little white sticks that smelled of flowers.
Red poppydust. Half of Gallus' coworkers were users; you could tell who they were with their red eyes and frequent sniffling as they struggled through the withdrawals. It sapped the strength, enslaved the mind, and ate away at your wallet. But they were gentle chains, rattling with a siren's call of relief.
A call that Gallus had heard before.
Gallus paused for a moment, listening to the faint song brought to him on sweet miasma, then walked on. The dealer snorted and muttered an insult at his back.
Gallus should've walked on. He should've just gone back to his apartment and climbed into bed to await the next day.
What he did was turn around and head back. The officer was still strolling down the sidewalk. "Hey, officer," Gallus called, catching up to him.
Officer Pond turned around; from up close, Gallus saw that the officer couldn't have been more than a year older than himself, still fresh-faced with a hint of eagerness in his eyes. "Yes?" he asked.
Gallus paused for a moment, then gathered up his courage in a breath and let it out slowly. "There's, uh...there's a guy dealing drugs down there," he said, pointing.
The officer's eyebrows raised, then narrowed. "Where?" he asked.
"It's a red griffon in a jacket," Gallus said, leading the officer down the street.
They rounded the corner and saw the dealer still manning his post. The yellow eyes widened in shock when he saw the officer.
"Sir, could I speak to you for a moment?" Officer Pond asked.
"Pig!" the dealer snarled, one claw whipping for a pocket in his jacket as fast as a snake.
Gallus froze as the .38 revolver emerged from the pocket, the black eye rising to face him.
Officer Pond was faster. With one motion, he shoved Gallus out of the way, sending the griffon sprawling across the ground, and dove for the gun. The weapon barked once, the bullet flying harmlessly into the brick wall before it was tugged from the dealer's grip.
Snarling, the dealer headbutted Officer Pond in the jaw, knocking his hat off. The two griffons tumbled against one another in the alley dust before the red griffon managed to get on top. His fists began to hammer down on the officer, who covered his face with his forelegs, squirming and struggling to escape.
Before he had time to think, before he even knew what he was doing, Gallus pounced and wrapped his foreleg around the dealer's neck, pulling him back and driving a knee into his spine. The dealer spluttered in rage, claws flailing at Gallus' face, scrabbling at whatever flesh he could reach. A talon dug into Gallus' cheek just under his eye and he reeled away.
Officer Pond's fist crashed into the dealer's jaw with a crash of bone. The red griffon grunted once and sprawled across the ground, his jacket spilling open and revealing his illicit cargo as if to betray him.
Panting, the two strange allies stared down at the unconscious dealer. "Thanks," Officer Pond said, retrieving his cap. "What's our name, buddy?"
"Gallus," Gallus nodded. "You okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah," Gallus said, touching his face where the dealer's claws had scratched at him. His gaze fell upon the golden badge pinned to Pond's chest as he cuffed the unconscious griffon. The seal of Ponyville and its motto, "Domus Pro Omnibum."
"A home for all."
Gallus looked down the road, to where his apartment waited ten blocks away. Where his hard bed and a fitful night's sleep before the morning shift waited. Then he looked back at Pond.
"Hey," he found the words slithering out of his mouth. "What's the recruitment for cops like?"