“Well, shave my hide and call me a dragon, look who the Diamond Dogs drug in!” Gander’s entrance had not gone unnoticed. A corner booth had already been commandeered by officers of the watch, a half dozen muscular mares and stallions in various levels of inebriation. The elder officer from this morning was already waving him over, a frothing mug of cider held in his magical grasp. Spiced apple cider, if Gander’s nose was to be believed. He made his way over, past crowded round tables, taking care not to bump any other patrons. In his wake, Ducky and her friends followed, chatting amicably amongst themselves. The sight of his entourage had the stallion cackling with delight. “And lookit that, he’s already popular with the mares!”
“Officer Cob, good evenings to you,” Gander nodded in respect before gesturing to the mares behind him. “My good friend Ducky-”
“That’s me, hi!” She was quick to butt in with an eager wave.
“-changed my mind of attending the celebrations, and brought also friends of her own. Would it be acceptable if we are to join you?”
With a completely straight face, Cob turned to his coworkers. “Fellas... plus Cherries and Shoes, I didn’t forgetcha,” the female officers grinned in response, “would y’all mind if these lovely ladies were to join us?”
“Hay, no!” They cheered in unison, with accompanying stomps on the table that left mugs shaking and splashes of drinks escaping. In their defense, the table looked as if it had seen worse and survived. His question answered, Cob turned back to the newcomers.
“Well, there ya have it. Get in here, or pull up a chair. Don’t be strangers, now!” After an overly personal amount of shoving and moving about, the entire party piled around the corner table. Gander, mindful of his larger size, chose to borrow a stool from nearby. It also gave him a modicum of personal space, which he was silently grateful for. Cob relinquished his edge seat and stood up as the others went through eager introductions, already chatting away as if they’d known each other for years. “Y’all get comfortable, I’ll be right back. With this kinda classy company, even an old stogie like me’s gotta look his best!”
On the periphery of the group, and not moving to include himself in the conversations, Gander took a moment to catalogue the group and match names to faces. The policeponies in their uniforms, he was already familiar with; the cheerful old chestnut-colored unicorn Cob, the hard-working dark-red earth pony mare Cherry Topper, the white unicorn stallion Fisher with his disapproving glare, the ruddy-brown earth pony stallion Brass Buttons, the lilac-colored pegasus mare Shoofly, and the charcoal-grey pegasus stallion Smokey. The weathermare pegasi, other than Ducky, were new to him; deep-blue Cobolt looking tough as nails in a tight and dangerously low-cut black dress, minty Drizzle with her uncontrollably frizzled hair wearing nothing but her own fur and outrageous golden-hoop earrings, and an unassumingly shy pink mare named Pitter Patter in a spotless white sundress. She'd probably earned her nickname of Peeps by the squeaking noise she made every time she was startled.
An interesting crowd, Gander thought to himself as he mentally marked down unique traits and quirks so as to make a profile for each one. Sure, it was a technique more in line with understanding a criminal’s mind, but Gander saw no reason why it wouldn’t assist him here. But making friends was not his primary objective this night. He turned his attention to the pub as a whole, eagle eyes searching every nook and cranny.
It was not a terribly large or fancy establishment, choosing instead to build up a clientele based on its cozy and quiet attributes. The lights were dim, but not overly so, casting a warm light that still managed to obscure features from a distance. There was a bit of smoke clinging to the low ceiling, but not enough that it bothered his breathing. Circular tables were scattered about the rectangular floor, with a pool table and an old jukebox in the far north-east and -west corners, respectively. The south-east hid the restrooms, where old Cob had ostensibly escaped to so as to straighten out the wrinkles in his weathered uniform, and the south-west contained the largest corner table where his group had laid claim. In the far back, a long bar rested between the pool table and the jukebox, manned by an aging unicorn stallion pouring drinks for the line of ponies surrounding him. The barkeep had the look of experience, and judging from the noise coming from his patrons nearby he more than likely had an ear to any number of interesting rumors.
“Excusing me, please. I will go to get a drink, yes?” Gander moved toward the bar, pausing only as he heard Ducky’s voice over his shoulder.
“Jolly Rancher vodka for me!”
***
“Somepony’s got good tastes,” one of the police mares spoke up with approval. It was the one with the coat that was the color of... what was it, mulberry? Sangria? Merlot? Ducky wasn’t sure, but she knew there was a fancy name for it. She had a lighter red, Ducky gave up on trying to remember the fancy names, mane that was cropped short and spiked upwards with a styling gel. She projected an aura of confidence, which she’d probably had cause for seeing as how she’d worked her way into a normally male-dominated profession. It wasn’t that mares had no place in the force, but the greater size and strength of a stallion did come in handy.
“Thanks! That brand is my favorite,” Ducky said conversationally.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about the drink,” Cherries laughed, a predatory grin on her face. “I was just thinking how you got the big, bad griffo-pony powerhouse wrapped around your hoof. Fetching drinks, even?”
“Wait, you think me and Gander...? Noooo, nonono, no.” She shook her head so rapidly that it took her vision a second to clear. Just to be sure her point came across, she added for good measure, “...no. We’re just friends. Really.”
Across from her, Cobolt snorted on the mug of cider she’d stolen from the absent Cob. She coughed a few times and cleared her throat. “You’re kidding, right, Ducky? You haven’t shut up about him for, like, weeks.” She wiped foam from her snout, a smile forming that looked suspiciously similar to the one on Cherries. Two sharks that smelled blood in the water. “Not that you ever shut up, hun, but usually you switch topics every so often.”
“W-well, he’s interesting, is all!” She sputtered in her defense. “I mean, come on, how many ponies have griffony friends?”
“I’m siding with Cherries on this one,” the storm-cloud colored stallion chimed in. He stroked his goatee with the tip of a wing, looking thoughtful. “I’ve known the guy a month, and the closest I’ve seen him come to being friendly was him glowering at me by the water cooler. Not even sure he knows who I am.”
“Yeah, no way he’d come out here on his own,” one of the other officers said, gathering together in support. “I heard him turn down Ol’ Cob this morning. Yet a word from you and here he is.” He crossed a dirty-orange colored hoof over his heart in mourning for his fallen comrade. “Poor guy’s whipped.”
“Um... I think it’s sweet...” came the quiet voice of Peeps, curling her long, silky, sky-blue hair around an idle hoof in a nervous gesture.
“And just look at you! Showing off them fine curves with your slinkiest dress.” If Drizzle had fingers, she’d be snapping them right now. “You go, girlfriend!”
Now even her own friends were turning against her. The assault was unanimous. She was rapidly losing the ability to form words, and her endless stammers were not helping her case.
“Beauty tames the beast, right?” Cherries was putting the final nails in the coffin now, and Ducky was trying to keep her blush from matching the policemare’s coat. “I’m not sure whether I should be frightened or impressed.”
“Or disgusted.” Well, that put a damper on her embarrassment. The fiery red from her cheeks didn’t so much as fade as it turned into a burning flame in her chest. She stared down the cotton-colored stallion who’d spoke.
“...you wanna run that one by me again?” She asked, her voice low. The young stallion looked up from his drink, surprised at the anger in her tone.
“Well, I know they’re just joking, but... You know. He’s not a pony,” he thoughtlessly blurted out, before being startled to silence by the slam of a hoof against the table that sent several mugs flying.
“He’s more of one than you are, bub. Pony or not, he’s a good guy,” she growled, leaning forward over the table. “And I may just be his friend, but as his friend I will shove those shoes of yours so far down your throat you’ll be crapping steel for a week if you got a problem with that.”
The stallion didn’t have an answer for that, staring at her like a deer frozen in the headlights. Someone did have an answer, however, and it was a long and impressed whistle that finally broke the silence.
“Yep, I’m going with frightened. Definitely frightened,” Cherries said before busting out in laughter.
“So that’s what he sees in you. Damn, girl, you scary." Drizzle couldn't have looked prouder.
Smokey agreed, finishing off his cider for a little liquid courage before he turned to the withering white stallion. “Rook, I do believe you just got told. Best sit down and keep quiet, before the little lady puts a hurt on you.”
“Don’t mind Rook,” the police pegasus mare said soothingly, a peacekeeper to the end. “He means well, but he’s a bit of a jerk when it comes to the non-pony types.”
“It’s the old blood in him!” Cob said as he reclaimed his seat, looking as dapper as possible. He'd even shined the badge on his chest. “He’s the third descendent of a something-something fancy royal-shmoyal unicorn line. Means he grew up rich and snobby.” The elder stallion patted his rookie on the back, who had his head lowered in shame, unable to even speak up in his own defense. “Don’t you worry none, the colt’ll grow out of it. So, what’d I miss? And where’s my hooch?”
“Just some friendly teasing,” Cherries grinned at Ducky, who snorted but rolled her eyes. “Although, I for one would love to hear your secret. How do you get him to say more than two words, anyhow?”
“Kinda a long story,” Ducky tried to weasel her way out of it, but the crowd was already stomping their hooves on the table and shouting encouragement. There was no way she was going to escape without telling the story, and she sighed in mock resignation. “Alright, alright, fine. You see, it all started when...”
***
Gander bit back a snarl of frustration. In the time he’d been grilling the barkeep, the only thing he’d learned was that the stallion’s name was Moonshine. He’d tried every inconspicuous way possible to discover if the stallion had heard of any unusual happenings within the city, or if any talkative patrons might have mentioned an interesting deal going down, or even where one might hire a donkey delivery service.
Nothing. All he’d gotten was talk of the weather or the passing of the seasons. Whether the sports team had a chance in the next game. Useless, inane chatter. It reminded him that he owed Ducky a drink, and he stalked back to the corner table with the shot of vodka in his claws.
Ducky, for her part, seemed to have forgotten the drink. A server had already been by to refill the pitcher of cider, and it seems she and the others had helped themselves, for two more pitchers had joined that one and there wasn’t a drop of cider to be seen among them. She stood now on her back hooves in the center of the table, gesturing emphatically with her forehooves and wings, to the uproarious laughter of the police and weather teams.
“...and that’s how I got my nickname!” She said with a flourish of a bow, cheers and applause equally mixed.
“Ahaha, you’re too much!” Smokey spoke through the pained breaths that he could manage in between gut-wrenching guffaws. “B-but, how?! How did you even get the tub up there?”
“Yeeeeah, that was our fault,” Cobolt grinned in pride, elbowing Drizzle who shared a sinister smile. “We kind of owed her a favor for the time with the lockers and the badger. I thought I’d never get the smell out of my mane, so I ended up going bald for weeks!”
“Okay, we are so using that on Gummy,” Cherries cackled maniacally, rubbing her hooves together like a supervillain. “I don’t even care if she kills me, I’ll die a happy mare.”
“No, no, I need to know!” Shoes pointed an unsteady wing towards the golden mare, who still stood atop the table as if she was wondering how she got there. “Where in Tartarush... rush... Tarantar... where the heck do you get forty gallons of chocolate?! I need to know! For... for science!”
“Y’see, the thing ‘bout chocolate is... Gander!” Ducky shouted as she noticed his arrival, her voice high with the exuberance that only the truly smashed can exhibit. She stumbled over mugs and pitchers, and Gander had to race the last few steps to catch her before she hurtled off the table. He set her more-or-less upright in the booth before perching upon his stool, considering whether or not she needed the extra alcohol.
“Ducky. You look to be enjoying yourself much,” Gander noted, and she giggled in reply.
“Your friends are nice. Everypony’s nice.” She leaned over, almost falling out of her chair again to pat him on his head. “You’re nice, too.”
“How kind of you to say so,” he grunted, but she only blew a raspberry.
“Even if you are a total grouchy-grouch.”
“That is maybe less kind of you to say so,” Gander stared at the drink. It was looking more friendly by the second.
“I bet... I bet, I bet that’s, um, that’d be your griffon name, is Grouchy, if you were a griffon.” She blinked, her eyes crossing in confusion. “Oh, wait, no, you already is a griffon... Oh! Then I can call you Grouchy-grouch!”
“I would rather you did not.”
“Awww...” Ducky prodded at him with her head. “Why are you grouching, Grouchy-grouch? Tell your good friend Ducky all about it, and I’ma totally make it all better! Cause I’m, um, the goodest of friends. Bestest. Bester. I’m great!”
He considered that suggestion carefully. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ducky, but his mission wasn’t for idle conversation. He decided at last on a half-truth, one that could not hurt. “I think maybe the bartender will not speak plainly to me. I asked of him where to best hire non-ponies for... moving things. But he tells me nothing.”
“Hey!” She wavered in her seat and poked his chest with an indignant hoof. “You gotta problem with ponies? Cause I know ponies! Some’a my bestestest friends are ponies!”
“Not at all, Ducky.” Gander tried to calm her down, amazed at how poorly she handled her liquors. “It is only that I am a... what is the words, equal opportunity employer? I wish for non-ponies, like donkeys, to have work as well.”
That statement worked better than he’d imagined. It actually brought a tear to her eye, lips quivering in choked sobs. “Th-that is so beautiful.” She tried to lean forwards to hug him, but ended up falling on the floor with a grunt. That didn’t stop the love, apparently. Her voice rose up from beneath the table in a mournful howl. “You’re sooooo shh... shweeeeet... An-an ponies don’t even know how sweet you are... It’s so sad!”
There was muffled weeping from the floor. Gander took this opportunity to snap his head back and down the vodka, deciding that he needed it far more than the mare. The action brought a wave of shouting from the table.
“Shots!” Cob declared, and the call was reinforced by police- and weatherponies alike. They drummed on the table as a server somewhat telepathically drifted over with a tray stacked high with tiny glasses filled to the brim with something that burned Gander’s sensitive nose even at this distance.
The old coot cackled as he raised the first glass. “To our griffon comrade, and his mean right-hook! May it bloody the snout of injustice again tomorrow!”
“To Gander!” The ponies of the table raised their own cups and voices, and Gander felt obliged to join in.
He would regret that decision.
***
Sometimes, being a griffon wasn’t easy. For example, the concept of challenges. For a griffon, a challenge was something that could not be ignored. It was to be accepted with all of one’s might, no matter what the challenge might be. Even something as unusual as, say, outdrinking the entire police force of Baltimare’s district seven.
With a care that took all of his considerable concentration, Gander lowered the crystal shotglass face-down onto a mound of its brethren. They made a small castle now, of fortified walls and towering spires, one that he was certain could hold its own against even the assault of a rampaging dragon. Gander imagined little bug-sized griffons living and working within the courtyard, manning the toothpick catapults and launching olives of justice at their foes.
A hissed intake of breath from one suffering the burn of whiskey drew his attention away from the walls of Grifftopia. Griffopolis. Griffington. Eh, he’d think of a better name later. The clink of a shotglass against the table was more important now.
“Thash... ten...” Cobolt mumbled with slurred words from the other side of the table. It was much emptier now; Peeps and Drizzle had abandoned them, claiming work tomorrow. Shoofly was even worse at handling her liquor than the mysteriously absent Ducky, and kind-hearted Brass had offered to walk the inebriated mare home for safety. Cob backed out of the game itself, citing a lifetime of similar nights had left him with a liver of an eighty-year old. That left Cherries, Smokey, and Cobolt in this challenge, and the ponies had decided for their own safety to team up against him.
It wasn’t a matter of racial prejudice or spite, but of common sense. Gander outweighed them each by a hefty margin, and within the first several rounds he was proving that he’d at least inherited the legendary griffon tolerance for alcohol. He took to whiskey like a goose to water, and an iron self-control was keeping the lack of sobriety from any outward appearance other than staring with far too much intensity at his growing mountain of glasses. He kept his head very still, focusing on the table that was shifting in place like the deck of a ship. It took him several moments to locate his next shot, and several more to have it in a firm enough grasp that he felt safe to lift it. Down it went to join its friends, and castle Griffolot’s ramparts grew.
“Okay, okay, dun worry, I got this,” Cherries said with a winning smile and reached for her next glass. “My tu-urghlrgghblrgh!”
The scarlet mare was noisily sick in a nearby trashcan that Cob helpfully provided, bless that old codger. Needless to say, she was out of the match, though she’d offered a decent resistance. Cobolt mourned the loss of her sister-in-arms, for the two shared almost every trait but coloring. Smokey mourned the fact that now it was his turn.
“Luna’s cratered moons, but you’re a monster, Gander,” he groaned and lifted his glass. It hit the table a moment later and he gave a slight wheeze. “Eleven. Sisters above have mercy on me.”
The search for his next shot began, and the griffon, for his name no longer had meaning to him, relied more on his sense of touch than his unreliable eyes. The traitorous orbs kept spinning, and if he kept them open for too long then staying upright would no longer be an option. It was fairly safe to say he was a bit above the legal limit for flying home this night, and probably would remain so for several nights after. The familiar burn down his throat signified that Griffkeep’s princess would now have a suitable tower to be locked away in, rising into the sky like the mountainous talons of mother earth. He did not call out his number, partly because he’d lost track and partly because numbers were hard.
“Ugh... ohk-okay. Cobolt, it’s your...” Smokey turned to his right only to find his teammate had passed out sitting upright in her chair, snoring softly with a tendril of flammable drool making its way down her cheek. Cob cackled from his corner seat.
“Looks like yer on your own there, laddie. The pride of ponykind depends on you and you alone. Don’t let us down!” He said encouragingly. Cherries offered her support by puking again. At least her mane was short enough that nopony had to hold it back.
Smokey looked at the ominous glass in front of him with a feeling of dread and revulsion building in his gut. He looked at his rival, the inequine automaton building a fortress out of his trophies. “C-can... can we call it a draw?”
“Convince a griffon to withdraw? Ducky told better whoppers than that! Ehehee!” Cob snickered at his pain, only to be interrupted by the return of the very mare in question.
“Whoa, thazza lotta shots!” She stumbled over, still very much tipsy and leaning against the table in such a way that Gander feared for the structural integrity of the Griffland fortress. No, it had weathered so many sieges before this. It had survived famine and war, political uprisings and plagues. Tectonic shifting would not be the end of his proud people! With a burning seriousness, he held a single claw out and ever-so-carefully steadied the wobbling tallest reaches of the citadel. Ducky continued on, oblivious of the near-disaster she’d almost caused. “But, no, there’s totally a way for griffony folk to draw. He told me all about it!”
Ducky looked at her friend, waiting for a back-up statement that never came. She shrugged it off, since he was clearly busy. “Yeah, it’s, like, a safety thing. If’n two griffons are fightin’ and neither of ‘em can win, to keep them from goin’ at it for years, they can claim... uh, whatsits... an eagle force? No, a force eagle!”
That sound actually did drag the wasted griffon from his stupor. “Être de force égale?”
“That’s the one! Whaddya think, mister boozy bird?”
Gander considered this as best his impaired reasoning could manage. On the one hand, he wasn’t entirely sure what was being asked of him, as the colorful amorphous blobs around him had long since stopped making any sort of sense. The little squeals they made reminded him of bunnies, and he’d never known a bunny worth listening to. On the other hand, some deep sense of self-preservation was begging him to accept whatever the sunny one wanted. It was safer, his instincts told him. To refuse was to accept a fate worse than death. He was still on the fence about the entire matter, until the residents of Griffornia put the matter to a vote and overruled his decision through the democratic process.
“D’accord,” Gander said agreeably as he blinked out of sequence. Smokey looked increasingly ill, shaking old Cob in a panic, his voice rising into a shrieking sob.
“What’s he saying? What does that even mean?! Tell me! For the love of the sun, teh-he-hellll meeeee!”
“Quitcher braying, ya mule!” Cob pushed the insensate officer back into his chair. “Ducky, what nonsense is yer coltfriend spouting now?”
“He’s sayin’ it’s, like, midnight or somethin’ and it’s time to go home. And also he’s happy to pay my tab,” she nodded matter-of-factly. “Griffony-talk is a beautiful language, ain’t it?”
“Works for me,” cackled Cob, who wrangled his surviving officers and the remaining weathermare together in a conga-line of failed sobriety. “You don’t look too out of it, missy. How’s about I take these three, and you can handle the big guy?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I had to carry the big lug,” she strained to drag Gander out of the booth and away from the table, who was loudly protesting the exodus away from his hard-earned empire. Finally, she had a decent position beneath his wing to prop the wildly unsteady griffon up. “Which, ack he’s heavier than before... which way to the door?”
“Other side of the bar, thataway,” Cob waved in the general direction of the back exit. He seemed to be having some trouble keeping Cobolt awake and Smokey from professing his love for a barmaid. “Eh, we’re gonna be a minute. Y’all go on ahead. Was nice meetin’ ya, Ducky.”
“Same to you!” Ducky and her griffon friend, though he was less friend and more dead weight at the moment, trudged towards the door with the conviction of a pair of climbers ascending the summit of Mount Everfrest. “See now, Gander, I think you made some friends. That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
***
Pixie Stix growled in frustration. The alabaster pegasus ran a hoof through her rainbow-striped hair before returning to her restless pacing. She had a dancer’s body, or so admiring colts had told her, and it was quite possible her boundless energy that kept her from ever managing to sit still had much to do with her lean figure. The thing she hated most in this world was waiting, and she’d been forced to wait in this ratty little alley for hours.
“Would you cut that out, Stix?” Her companion, an aging stallion leaning against the dumpster, grumbled from the shadows. “You’re putting me on edge.”
“I’m bored, Stones.” It was not his true name, for Pop Rocks tried to maintain a respectable image in his daily life and his nighttime ventures would surely jeopardize that, but it suited him well. He was built like a boulder, an earth pony’s physique ramped up to frightening levels. He must have been twice her size, and all of it bulging muscles. How he expected to fool anypony in to thinking he was anything less than a bruiser was a mystery, even if his shape and coloring reminded Stix somewhat of a giant strawberry with legs. She couldn’t care less if anypony knew what her real job was. In fact, she reveled in their fear. “And when I’m bored, things get broken. Aren’t they supposed to be ou-”
The slate-grey door of the crumbling brick building swung open with a loud creak, effectively silencing her complaint. Two figures stumbled out of it, and the heavy door slammed shut behind them with an ominous locking click.
“Well, speak of the Nightmare, and it shall appear.” The smaller of the two newcomers turned her head towards the sound of Stones’ voice. She was a little waif of a pony, bright and doughy and terribly out-of-place in a grungy back-alley such as this. The only thing about her that matched the setting was the flash of concern on her face, though she hid it quickly behind a polite smile. A typical pony in every way, and not the reason that the duo had been camped in this filth all night. No, that honor belonged to the brute leaning against her.
And he was a brute, Stix noted with a twisted sort of glee that gave her a mirrored smile of her own. Just as she’d heard, here he was; a mutant monster, part pony and part something else, but all freak. He was larger than even Stones could claim to be, and she’d heard tales of his speed in a fight from the few survivors of previous raids. Only, he wasn’t so fast or strong now, was he? Not when he could barely stand, when it took a weakling mare to even keep him upright. Stix’s smile became something frightening, something sinister, and she approached the two with malice in every step.
“U-um, hi there. Can... can we help you?” A flick of her ears betrayed the mare’s emotions. She wanted to flee, but there’s no way that could happen. Not with the sloshed griffon hanging over her withers. Even the doorway to the relative safety of the bar was blocked; the door only opened outward.
“Stand aside, girl,” Stones gave her an ultimatum as he towered above her. The softy. It wasn’t a chance Stix would’ve offered. The mare surprised her by showing no small amount of courage as she stood her ground.
“I’d, um, rather not. I think... c-could you maybe let us pass?” It was cute. Foolish, but cute. Stix quickly grew bored of it.
“Not happening. Outta the way, twerp!” She sped towards the pair in a flash, an aerial kick knocking the little mare away with a cry of pain. The yellow mare collided with the stone wall and crumpled to the ground. His support having vanished, the hybrid dropped to his knees. Now he faced both ponies at almost eye-level, confused and crossed eyes met with a savage grin and a dour frown.
“Hardly necessary, but what’s done is done.” Stones sighed. He was such a buzzkill, but he was a professional and as reliable a bruiser as Stix had ever known. He also managed the less fun parts of their job, such as the mumbo-jumbo of why they were hired, which he now proceeded to spout as if he was a judge, when Stix knew they were far closer to executioners. “Officer... You are new to this town, so let tonight serve as an official notice. May the pain remind you every minute of every day of this one lesson.”
Stones kept talking, which in Stix’s mind was an even worse form of punishment than what was to come. “The Skinflints own this town, and you are starting to become an annoyance. Boss Dobber sends his regards.”
There it was, the magic words she’d been waiting all night to hear. With that, Stones turned and bucked the kneeling griffon in the chest, his shod hooves impacting feathers and the flesh beneath with a resounding crack. The griffon’s mass kept him in place, though he reeled from the strike. Stix joined in with rapid punches to the griffon’s ribs, a satisfyingly meaty smack from each hit causing her to laugh out loud. She cracked his beak together with an uppercut to the chin, and he tumbled backwards into a collapsed pile of fur and feathers on the floor.
“How much fun do we get to have with him?” She asked gleefully. Stones shrugged.
“Dobber wants this one in crutches, so go all out.”
“Yes!” Stones’ calm announcement was like her birthday and Hearthswarming presents all in one. She did a little dance in place, hooves tapping against the trash-littered cement. “This is awesome! Hey, look, he’s getting up.”
The griffon rose slowly, a look of fierce determination on his face. The hitponies advanced, with the heavier Stones taking the lead. That bold stare made him cautious; few could take a point-blank buck and still have the tenacity to stand. The griffon’s expression told him of an inner persistence, a strength of will. It told him the griffon had guts.
Guts which the griffon proceeded to puke all over him. Stones never had a chance, a stream of projectile vomit splashing the surprised stallion right in the face. He screamed as a mix of pure ethanol and stomach acid seared his eyes, and fell to the ground wiping furiously at his face. Stix snarled in response to her teammate’s collapse and charged forward with a flex from her powerful wings.
“Why, you little!” She swung with all of her might at the griffon’s head. Her hoof slammed into his face, but he twisted with the motion, his entire body pivoting like a ballerina. An elbow caught her between the ribs, and she lost control of her flight, momentum sending her crashing into the dumpster with a yelp. She was back on her hooves in an instant, turning to face her opponent.
He stood squarely in the center of the alley, not even looking at her at all. He took a few unsteady steps, looking about in confusion and speaking incomprehensibly before vomiting into the street once more. It was like he wasn’t aware he was fighting at all, Stix realized, and that drove her into a rage more than the bruising of her ribs. With a growl, she flew back into the fray, throwing punches and kicks with all the considerable speed her body could muster.
It was all for naught. For every blow she felt sink home, another dozen were deflected or sidestepped. The griffon was as unsteady as a blade of grass in the breeze, but his insobriety hardly hurt his defense at all. If anything, it made him more unpredictable and lighter on his feet, displaying a boneless grace that prevented all but the most glancing strikes. She hit him again and again and again and again, and still the bastard would not go down. It frustrated her to a mindless rage, an uncaring and unthinking frenzy, and that loss of control cost her dearly. So focused she was on breaking this exasperating griffon, Stix neglected to keep an eye on her surroundings.
A torpedo of feathers and righteous fury struck her firmly in the spine, introducing her to the dumpster once more. This time, Stix met with the unyielding metal face-first, feeling her snout crumple with a sickening crunch, and the cold ground rose up to meet her. Her last blurred view was a quartet of golden hooves standing over her prone form. The mare. The weakling she’d thought out for the count. The shock of the backstab lasted only a moment as the darkness of unconsciousness overtook her.
And then there were two left standing in that dark alley in the dead of night.
***
“That’s right!” Ducky panted through the rush of adrenaline, blinking away blood that ran down from a cut on her scalp. “That’s what you get, you... you... y-you bully!”
The mystery mare did not deign to answer, or even move again. Ducky’s stomach roiled with more than just the cider she’d downed earlier that evening. Despite the unwarranted attack, she still made a silent prayer that her assailant wasn’t seriously hurt. Speaking of hurt, she gasped and flew over to Gander’s side.
“Hey, bud,” she said quietly as she tried to steady the griffon’s uncontrolled swaying. “You alright?”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she cringed. That was possibly the stupidest question she could’ve asked. One eye was already blackened and swelling, his beak was cracked, and the rest of him looked just as frightful. Feathers and fur were matted in blood, and ugly bruises were visible even beneath the white down of his chest. His wheezing breaths had a watery gurgle to them, and he let out a hacking cough that brought red-tinged saliva to his bill. He was very definitely not all right, but at least her concerned words had caught his attention.
Gander looked down at the trembling pony in surprise. It took him a moment to recognize her through the combined blinding forces of a beauty of a shiner and enough liquor to sink a ship, but eventually comprehension dawned in his rattled skull.
“Oh, Ducky!” Gander said sorrowfully. Was it the booze or the head trauma that made him sound so depressed? “I am not trés bon friend.”
She lowered her head to hide her blush, pawing at the ground with a hoof. It was only now occurring to her the magnitude of what she’d done, leaping into battle to save her friend. Of course he would feel guilty for putting her in harm’s way. “Oh, no! I, um, I didn’t think... I mean, it wasn’t your fault, you know?”
Gander shook his head in defeat, his wings drooping as he gathered Ducky into a bone-cracking hug. He gestured to the writhing stallion jabbing his hooves in his eyes like he was promising away his soul, and to the prone mare who’d left an imprint of her no-longer-pretty face on the trash bin.
“I have broken promise to not fight,” Gander confessed, “and ruined surprise party.”
“Well, yeah, I- wait, what?”
***