Ms. Glimmer and the Do-Nothing Prince

by scifipony

35 — Fractious Frigate Part IV: Brig

Certain of my location and direction in the ship, I passed by the commander's quarters and heard them arguing about what to do, but didn't strain my ears. I looked up at the sign to confirm my recollection of the map.

A scorch mark! Black. One would have thought it would be painted over since the Stoop's last battle. I shrugged and turned right.

The ship designer should have settled for an inclined ladder because the stairs that led down four decks into the hull required me to back down them. No portals. Only rows of sealed stateroom hatches. Wood, not metal for weight considerations. Being a ship, everything smelled washed (swabbed?) bearing a faint scent of pine solution or teak oil. The lights left everything shadowy. The bow narrowed to lines of lockers. At the end, lay a single doorway. I hoofed open BRIG 1D Bow. I stepped over the threshold and entered silently.

If anything, the limpet lanterns seemed dimmer. I stepped by a desk, likely placed to make an obstacle between the lockups and the exit. The V of the bow partitioned the caged section into two separate holding areas. The iron bars looked formidable, but a crinkle in one proved it was thin lightweight pipe. Each had a pallet and mattress, a chamber pot mariners inscrutably called a head, and a wash basin and bucket instead of a sink and spigot.

No ponies.

I blinked; the only reason the griffon rooster on the port side was wearing a sailor uniform, opened widely on his chest to display a thatch of scruffy grey fur met by feathers, was that he was a midshippony, or rather a midshipgrif.

Thank you, Berrytwist! My heart beat faster.

Griffons weren't uncommon in Equestria, but rare. I'd never been introduced to the hen that tried to kill Carne Asada and almost succeeded with me. I knew that they were civilized and evolved from predators. I recognized a feather dander scent I did not know I knew—but when you survive an encounter like that, there's plenty indelibly burnt into your brain that wouldn't show up until triggered. The griffon had triggered the adrenaline in my veins. It did not trigger my PTSD. I supposed it was because that I was a bodyguard at the time of the attack, doing my job. I saved Carne Asada. I teleported the griffon master away. I had been in control.

I'd not been in control during the Hooflyn Gang War. Such details made a difference.

The fellow appeared asleep. His broad wishbone chest raised and lowered rhythmically. Regardless, I had drops of Pastel's blood dotted my fur. He was a predator. If I smelled myself, so did he. I did not trust him as a predicate to our future encounter.

Reclining, I deduced he massed at least 50% more than I did, even considering his light bone structure, which resembled that of a pegasus. It made him longer and taller than a comparable earth pony. His black-tipped lion tail and yellow talons projected over the edge of the pallet. His lion body was a deep shade of grey up, to his ruff. He'd lost most of the black feathers on his face leaving blemished and craggy pink skin, framing a crooked bent beak that made me think he'd been in plenty of fights. He reclined on his left. He'd lost plenty of feathers up top, confirming he was far into middle age. That he wanted to hide his baldness was confirmed by his sailor hat. It had slipped partially off as he slept.

I judged the muscle in his mammalian half; bulges confirmed his strength. His bird-like forelegs looked too thin, but I knew better than to judge them weaker than a pony's—which neglected talons that looked over a hoof length long.

Having met a mob lieutenant's pet cat, Whiskers—who after purring for minutes decided inscrutably that I was the enemy and clawed me—I expected commensurately stronger, longer claws lay retracted in paws twice as wide as any of my hooves.

I noted those paws were pressed against the mattress, as well as the angle of the relaxed talons, and how he'd shifted his weight incidentally to increase the application of force were he to move. As a prizefighter, I'd learned to read opponents, especially ones I wasn't sure were stunned or KO'd. I brought my muzzle close to the bars, within a measured distance.

I said, "I heard you got busted down to midshippony. From what rank—?"

Bang! Clank! The tubing bars made an eh-eh-eeeeh groan as he pressed at them while his mattress, thrown back when he launched himself, went thud against the wall. It went thud again when it hit the pallet and slid toward the floor with a fabric hiss. The water in the bucket splashed against the wall and dripped to the floor. The basin vibrated in place.

His beak and face stuck out three hoof lengths between the bars, and push as he might, it wasn't getting any closer to my muzzle. His ravaged beak—despite chips, gouges, and crinkles—could snip off a pony hoof. A dark eye glared at me on the right. His left eye, covered by a black eye patch, seemed no more friendly.

Other than the sound of the bars straining under metal fatigue and the sound of the mattress made when launched, he'd made no sound. I felt his hot breath muss the fur on my face. I smelled last night's dinner. Fish juice, unless wiped off, turned quickly.

I decided against kissing him.

I shoved my right hoof left on his upper beak, twisting the hooked part over until it hooked the metal bar. It felt like the shell on a boiled lobster, only tougher. I lit my horn with Push, but because of his precarious perch after trying to startle me, he had no leverage so I decided not to cast, only to prep.

Eyes locking on his single one in the dimness, I said, "I love sardines. Fresh ones."

He realized his mistake and hyperventilated. One bar then another clanked as he grasped them with his talons. At least he was smart enough not to try to slash me, which would have failed because I'd calculated those targets in my queued spells. Levitating him back would have wrenched his neck. Well, more than it was getting wrenched now, especially since I brought up my left hoof, planting my rear hooves for stability, as I twisted and torqued his head further.

He demonstrated discipline. Enough to think that an unprovoked attack on a fellow airpony or officer would get him court-martialed. (Was I getting a handle on this jargon, or what?)

I continued. "I haven't found a good place for fried kippers and onions since I left Baltimare. You?"

When his eye widened in fear, which worried me that he might struggle irrationally, I shook my head.

He relaxed.

I let go.

Sitting, then scooting over because he sat in the puddle from the bucket, he rubbed his neck, eyeing me warily. A deep, crackly voice as wrecked as his beak, stated, "You're no officer."

I looked at myself, ending by scratching behind my ear. The torn one. "Maybe? Maybe not?" I grinned.

"What do you want?"

"First, your former rank."

"Previously, ensign."

I narrowed my eyes at his tone. I whirled a hoof. "All the way back."

He sighed, "Captain."

"Of a ship?"

"Squadron commander is also a captain, similar pay, similar authority over the squadron; we're like marines except we fly. Aren't you an officer? Why'd you bother to wake me? The ensign regaled you with my horse apples attitude toward authority, blah, blah, blah."

"She implied you were key to making this vessel operational. Is that the right word? Operational?"

He gave an exasperated sound between a caw and cough, like a pony might blow air through their lips. "This scow? Seriously?" He face-taloned, but peeked at me through the digits to see if I were serious.

I nodded.

"Look, ma'am, or Ms., or whomever you are. I want my shore leave. I need strong cidering before I slash somepony up. There's nothing I can do here. Nopony is seriously going to fight using this wreck, and I don't buy your flapping horse apples for a minute. Um, ma'am."

I scoffed at him. "She said you could fight." I made a raspberry. "I see a broken old bird with the aspirations of a drunkard. Even I could hoof you over your rooster— or rather lion—parts on a plate. This is a waste—"

He stood quickly. Stiffly. I guess that was attention. "I can fight."

"Maybe I'll oblige you one day."

He scoffed.

I chuckled. "What were you busted for, sailor?"

"Which time? Breaking naval property. Breaking fellow airponies. Disobeying stupid orders because they won't assign me to where I am better than anypony or grif?"

"Impressive list. Are you full of yourself, or are you the real deal?"

"I can fight."

"What did you do, other than drill squadrons in training? Did you fight? Wait, did you fight when the prince of storms attacked Mount Aris four years ago?"

"Yes. For what it was worth, that was battle cruiser against battle cruiser, and we lost as many as they did, which was all they had. My squadron only got to watch. After that, Equestria hasn't needed squadrons much."

"You got that eye patch—?"

"Somewhere else."

"Where?"

His eye narrowed. "If I told you I'd have to kill you."

I smirked. "I have clearance for such information."

He wiped the top of his beak, his nostrils, and sniffed. "I'm the toughest flyer in the navy. I test top secret and experimental aviator equipment. The X7 pegasus catapults they want to install on the carriers apparently needed further iteration. With only one eye, I'm good as ever; the brass doesn't see it that way."

He lifted the patch, revealing a gouge from the bottom to the top of his eye socket. The eye in between looked pale blue and like a deflated hoof ball. I caught myself before pulling back.

"Impressive," I said.

He let the elastic snap back.

"I need your service now, despite what Berrytwist says about you, the bad parts that is. She says there's plenty good."

"You'd be a foal to trust me. Like I said, I'm due shore leave."

I levitated over the key and unlocked the door, then threw it to jangle on the desk before back hoofing the door open. It clanged despite creaking. I said, "I need a ship to protect Canterlot with. What I've got is the Eagle's Stoop. You're going to make that happen."

He scoffed. Nevertheless, his talons click-clicked on the deck behind me as I exited the brig. I lit my horn, purposely, casting a first level Illuminate spell that only lit my horn, as an excuse to keep Shield prepped without making it obvious. Not trusting a griffon. Sorry, so kick me, I'm prejudiced.

I asked as he followed me down the corridor to the stairs, "So, is Brother Grif actually your name? Don't know enough about griffons to catch the cultural significance of brother."

"There are two griffons aboard named 'Gruff.' It helps me figure out if you're screaming at me or the other grif."

"Oh, really?" It occurred to me Berrytwist might have said Brother Gruff, though he was old enough to be my grandfather. I kept my mouth shut, suddenly rather embarrassed.