//------------------------------// // From Fire To Frying Pan // Story: The Iridescent Iron Rat // by horizon //------------------------------// "A dozen roses, please," the dragon rumbled, and I couldn't resist one last con before the big job. "Certainly, sir!" I said brightly. "That'll be twenty-one fifty." One purple foreleg, as big around as a tree trunk and considerably more muscular, rummaged in his neckpouch amid the comfortable jingle of coinage. Two claws extracted a five-thousand bit coin like a grain of sand in a pair of tweezers. I leaned forward out of my stall, wings out for balance, and clenched my teeth around the small golden disc. There is an intricate art to tongue-sleight, so subtle that most ponies think it's impossible. It requires the proper environment — such as a cluttered flower stall with the customer counter on one side, the cashbox on the other, and a profusion of items hung from the center brace to obscure their view for a split-second. It requires extensive personal modification — a frog-tongue thaumic trait for a little extra grabbing power, and a squirrel-cheek trait for the palate pouch that keeps the second coin from coming out covered in spit. And it requires intense practice — both in talking naturally with coins in your mouth, and in performing the motions fluidly enough not to be noticed. As my head swung behind the center display, I opened my mouth, shooting my tongue forward and back; the five-kay vanished in between my tongue and lower jaw. Then I flicked my tongue up and forward, catching the very tip of the pouched two-kay and shooting it out like a spitwad from a straw, re-clenching my teeth with microsecond timing to catch the very back end of the coin with a soft tick. When my head swung back into view a fraction of a second later, everything looked identical, except that the coin in my teeth was fractionally lighter and embossed with the Two Sisters rather than the First Friends. Continuing the fluid motion, I dropped the coin next to my cashbox with an audible rattle of metal on wood, then did a practiced double-take as my hoof paused on the cashbox's closed lid. "I'm sorry, sir," I said, turning an intently remorseful stare up … and up … and up into the dragon's emerald eyes. "But money's tight these days, and I can't cut any deals … do you have the other one-fifty?" The swap, of course, had barely earned me lunch money — an insignificant fraction of the mill I'd paid for the Cloudsdale Square vendor's license. I wasn't there to earn money, though. I was there to keep my skills sharp and my wits sharper. It was that sort of dedication — honing my craft to the point where I could dare to think about cheating a dragon to his face — that kept Jimmy the Grey working cons year after year. The dragon's eyes shot open. He leaned in, squinting at the two-kay bit on the counter, then hefted his neckpouch in one claw, frowning. My heart danced a cha-cha, but I kept my muzzle carefully earnest. Then he reached back in, rummaging around slightly longer, and extracted a rectangular strip of colored paper with the precision of a surgeon, threading his claws through my displays to drop it near the coin. The bill fluttered down to rest alongside my cashbox. My own eyes went wide. "A kaymill? I couldn't possibly make change for this, the entire stall's not worth that much —" "Keep the change. My flowers, please." The alarms in my head were screaming. "Sir," I said carefully, "if you'll forgive a moment of stereotyping, dragons aren't in the business of charity, and this is an uncomfortably large investment in a simple flower-seller." "It's not an investment," he said, "it's a gratuity, for services rendered." He made a sweeping gesture around Cloudsdale Square, at the towering cloudcrete-and-lightglass skyscrapers, at the whizzing airbuses in their flightpaths, at the giant thaumic focusing ring around the perimeter of the city. "If I might stereotype in return, this is an age of tamed miracles, and ponykind has been tamed along with it. The last time anypony robbed me was a generation ago, and the last time anypony got away with it was Inseam herself. It was worth the kaymill just to see you try." A predatory smile crept onto his muzzle, and he stood to all fours, flaring his wings. "The money should just about cover your hospital stay." Part of my brain was screeching in protest — He's bluffing! I did everything right! — but I forced myself to ignore it and focus; the difference between a bluff and an error was academic when they both ended in a blast of fire to the face. I'd miscalculated his reaction, and now the top priority was a flame-free exit. Out the back of the stall, then into the lobby of Cloud Savings, then … no, dead end, and a quick disguise change in the bank would be useless unless I could also foil a dragon's sense of smell. Through his legs and into the crowd? Audacious, but unless he thought fast enough to sit on me, he wouldn't be able to attack without collateral damage. First, I'd need a moment of distraction. "Sir, if you'll think calmly for a moment, I believe there may have been some mistake here," I stalled. He chuckled deep in his throat. "Oh, I'm quite certain there was a mistake. I had one hundred and thirty-seven coins in my pouch when I reached in, weighing 4,247 grams, and my treasure sense is now telling me 4,216. Now, I'm humble enough to admit that I'm still young yet; if I pulled out a two-kay, I might have lost three grams to an accounting error. However … considering that every single one of those coins was a five-kay, it's clear the mistake here wasn't mine." Oops. I'd walked right into that, hadn't I? It galled me that I hadn't considered he'd take such an improbable precaution, but that was what happened with spur-of-the-moment thinking: your assumptions did you in. On the bright side, I'd never had to flee from a dragon before, so this would be the finest sort of on-the-job training. "Be that as it may," he continued, "before you try dashing between my legs and losing yourself in the crowd — which would get as far as several tons of scaly hindquarters — I'm going to make you an offer." There went Plan A, which meant that keeping him talking was good. "Go ahead." "A dragon of my considerable assets could always use someone of your intelligence and chutzpah. A pony who can think outside the box, and pull off the impossible. It is a desk job, but if you do it right, I'll make it worth your while. That bill on the counter? It could be pocket change. Imagine what you could do with the resources to back up your wit." I had no doubt that the offer was sincere, and even less doubt that I would loathe every minute of being legitimately employed. "That's tempting, sir —" "Spike." "That's tempting, Spike, and I'd love to hear more, but first, mind if I go deposit this bill in the bank behind me? I've accumulated a few overdrafts this would clear up." Plan B was worth a second shot, never mind the armed guards and the lack of alternate exits. Even if I ended up right back here, waiting in line would buy me more thinking time. Spike sighed. "Well, it was worth a shot. I'd rather skip all the tedious bluffing and mind games while you flail for a new plan, so here's my final offer: Pocket your kaymill and give me my flowers, and I'll give you a twelve-second head start." Twelve? Even nine would comfortably put me on the far side of the square and around the corner toward my emergency exit. I almost bargained him down to eight to recover some of my bruised ego, but pride had already gotten me into enough trouble today. "Deal," I said, cramming the kaymill into my saddlebags and hoofing over the most extravagant-looking bouquet in my stock. It wasn't like I was losing anything from the gesture — I'd stolen them that morning from a Harmonicorp delivery truck. "Thank you," Spike said, and by the time he added "One" I was already off like a shot, vaulting out of the stall and galloping through the park in the center of the square. The afternoon crowds were getting thick, so I took a leaping shortcut over the fountain, bouncing off Commander Hurricane's cloudcrete tail and startling a group of well-dressed unicorn tourists. I resisted the urge to spread my wings — flying would make Spike's line of sight easier, and deny me some of my best tools in a pinch — and landed on the broad lawn past the statue, dodging around picnickers and through a game of disc-toss. At the count of six I was on cloudcrete again, and at eight I was leaning into a sharp turn, upper wing spread to tighten it. Nine saw me galloping past the scattered ground delivery traffic of Sunburst Street — aircarts weren't cost-effective for bulk freight — and I was skidding around the second corner into the alleyway on the count of twelve. A moment later, there was a flash of purple light from back on Sunburst Street, and the distinctive bang of teleportation. A big one. "Ready or not," Spike called out from just thirty meters away, amid the screams of terrified delivery ponies and a sudden and general stampede, "here I come!" Oh, come on! What sort of crazy reptile, with built-in dragonfire delivery, learned a teleportation spell — and what kind of crazy unicorn would get close enough to him to teach it? I set my jaw as I galloped toward the end of the blind alley, suddenly grateful I had shut up about those last four seconds. I clearly was going to need my A game to get out of this mess. Fortunately, I'd planned this part far in advance. As I reached the brick facade at the rear of the alleyway, I locked my front hooves and threw my body into a spin, hiking my hips and lashing my hinds out at one particular brick whose red was brighter than the others. I was no earth pony, but the momentum of my charge combined with the buck to send my hooves straight through the brick and into my small cache behind. I winced as the dual shocks hit my ankles and flared out into pain — good thing I didn't have more galloping to do — and hauled my hooves back out, one of them dragging a tangle of shiny blue fabric. I lost another precious second kicking my leg free of it, then clenched my jaw around the corner of the blanket and yanked. It billowed out above me, and while gravity was settling it down over my body, I already had both wings spread out in front of my muzzle. I plucked a flashbang feather from one and a thaum-surge from the other, both of which immediately primed into their detonation glows. Behind me, there was an ear-splitting crash, and then an empty delivery cart tumbled like a desert-weed past the alleyway entrance. "Coming through!" Spike bellowed amid further screams. The last few ponies within sight galloped away as his claws thundered down the street toward the corner. I snapped my wings back against my sides just in time for the blanket to settle in atop my body, and jerked my head sideways to fling the feathers into the air behind me. Then I reared up — hind ankles painfully protesting — and landed a short, sharp stomp on one corner of the Cloud Maintenance groundplate with the faulty lock. It bounced off its frame, leaping a few centimeters behind my rising hooves, and I wedged a hooftip underneath it and heaved. The door swung open on the hinges I'd recently oiled, revealing a square tunnel descending under the surface of the city, the rungs of a ladder quickly vanishing into the shadows. I flung myself straight down the shaft, limbs and head tucked in, rolling to plummet back-first into the darkness. Mere meters above me, there was a brilliant, searing light as the flashbang went off, and every hair in my body stood on end as the thaum detonation sent shockwaves through the aether. The last thing I heard as the door slammed closed was a mighty screech — apparently Spike had rounded the corner just in time to get an eyeful. Then my falling body hit the floor. And kept going.