As a unicorn waitress telekinetically poured champagne for the table, Naught took one last mental inventory of his weaponry.

Collapsible repeating crossbow with a spare twelve-bolt magazine. Check.

Telescopic spear. Check.

Retractable claws housed in each of his sabatons, four in all. Check, check, check, and check.

"Naughty. I thought we agreed no sabatons at the table."

"Right. Sorry, babe."

He slipped off the ones covering his front hooves and placed them under his chair. Okay, scratch those last two checks.

He finished taking inventory. Last but not least was the most important weapon in his portable armory: the Radiant Palm. A gift from his favorite griffon alchemist (and by "gift" he of course meant stolen contraband), the unassuming iron band sat gingerly in the breast pocket of his officer's coat.

The coat was completely unornamented, although not because he had failed to earn any medals during his career as a Royal Guard. On the contrary: he had hoarded enough decorations wrought from precious stones to make a dragon blush. However, he had no idea where any of them were now. Probably making the rounds on some black market in Yakyakistan.

From his sleeve he removed a nickel-plated pocket watch. Compared to the medals he had pawned, it was markedly plain-looking. Inscribed on its rounded edge was the phrase Etta noxiis en perpe thuum - "And the night will last forever." The greatest lie ever told.

He flipped open the watch. It was a quarter after eleven.

"Something wrong, Naughty? You look distracted."

Octavia Philharmonica sat with both elbows on the table, her cheek balanced languidly on the frog of an upturned hoof. She hadn't worn anything cute for their date. She was dressed like any number of Manehattanites on their way home from work: a black overcoat that enveloped her statuesque frame, an aggressively masculine white button-up, that pink tie she wore everywhere, and a black fedora with a band the same color as the tie.

Actually, she wasn't wearing the fedora. It was sitting at the edge of the table. After all, proper ladies didn't wear hats indoors (although they apparently sat with their elbows on the table and didn't bother removing their coats before dinner).

"It's nothing," said Naught. "I just can't decide what to order. So many choices."

"And not a bite of real food in sight," said Octavia.

"You can't mean that," said Naught. "What do you have against the Tasty Treat? Or, as the locals call it, the Loveable Double-T."

"First of all: that horrendous nickname," said Octavia. "And secondly: do you not find this establishment a tad" - she surveyed the area with a look of mild disgust - "pedestrian?"

"I like this place. The ponies who eat here don't use the word pedestrian the way you just did."

"You mean the correct way."

"Also, the cooks add this newfangled thing called flavor to their dishes. The hotel brochure made it sound really exciting."

Octavia's chuckle was almost begrudging. "Someday that dry wit of yours is going to get you into trouble."

"Well, before it does, I think I'd like to try the," Naught squinted intently at his menu, "Chicken Tikka Masala."

Octavia scrunched her nose in disgust, an expression so aggressively upper-class it appeared hostile to a humble work horse like Naught. "You promised to stop eating meat in front of me," she said.

"I was probably lying when I made that promise."

"Is that why you wanted to come here? Because it is the only establishment on Restaurant Row that serves... meat." She could barely utter the word without gagging.

(Fun fact: thanks to a recent surge in popularity, the Tasty Treat had garnered a surprisingly large and loyal griffon customer base. Thus the meat.)

"No," said Naught. "I wanted to come here because it's the only place on Restaurant Row that serves seasoned meat. Or seasoned anything for that matter."

The waitress returned to take their orders. Naught regarded her with a friendly smile.

"Hi there. I think I'd like to try the -"

"If you order that repulsive dreck, you are going to bed alone tonight."

"- the repulsive dreck, please."

The waitress flashed an awkward smile. It was the look of a mare who had been getting caught in the middle of lover's spats her entire life.

"Excuse me," she said.

"I'll have the Chicken Tikka Masala," Naught clarified.

The awkward smile loosened, brightened. "How exotic! I've heard rumors that you batponies are carnivores, but I never let myself believe them. It just seems so... revolting. No offense," she added quickly.

"None taken. And we're actually omnivores, not bloodthirsty meat-eating savages," said Naught.

The waitress looked suddenly frazzled. "I-I never said -"

"That detail aside though," Naught interrupted, "the rumors are indeed true. We eat all kinds of meat." He glanced down at the waitress's shapely legs and smiled, revealing twin rows of moon-colored fangs.

The waitress recoiled but still smiled back, at once frightened and intrigued. Such was his usual effect on mares.

"Also, please don't call me batpony," he said. "Just Bat will do fine. Or Naught. Or Naughty. All the pretty mares call me Naughty."

The waitress blushed. "Wuh-Whatever you want, um, Naughty." Then her gaze shifted from the Bat's smile to his date's scowl, and the color drained from her face.

"A-And you, ma'am," she carried on bravely. "What can I get for you?"

Octavia folded her menu and set it down on the table. She did her best to look like the opposite of a mare on the verge of throttling her server.

"Is there a vegetarian option for the chicken whatever-it-is?" she said.

"Of course," said the waitress. "Made from the finest tofu in Canterlot."

"Excellent. Both my date and I will have that."

"Oh," said the waitress, confused. "But I thought he wanted..." Her gaze drifted back to Naught. He was still smiling.

"You'd better listen to the mare," Naught told the waitress. "See that face she's making? That's her I'm-planning-fourteen-different-methods-to-murder-you face."

Octavia turned her glare on Naught.

"I think she's up to method number eight. That's an ugly one. I'd scurry along if I were you."

Flustered, the waitress snatched up the menus in her telekinetic grip and all but fled back to the kitchen.

"Awwww. You're so cute when you're terrifying the help," Naught told his date.

"I swear, I have no idea I put up with you sometimes," said Octavia. "Flirting with a stranger on our anniversary. Are you out of your mind? If you were anypony else, I would be wringing your scrawny neck right now."

Naught withdrew his pocket watch and looked at it once more. Half an hour till midnight. The beginnings of a frown darkened his face.

"Worry not, babe," he said. "You'll get your chance soon enough."

He apologized for hitting on the waitress with characteristic cavalierness, and Octavia forgave him with an ease that suggested his flirtiness had never truly bothered her. Such was the nature of their relationship. They were close enough to reach out and touch one another, yet too far away for such contact to harm them.

Octavia liked it that way. She was a workaholic with a demanding career, and had no time for the drudgery that was falling in love.

Their arrangement also suited Naught well enough. Unlike the Solar Guards, who spent most of their careers stationed in Equestria, the Bats primarily operated in foreign territories. Sometimes they were an occupying force, sometimes they aided Equestria's allies in conflicts overseas, sometimes they acted as spies posing as ambassadors. The lifestyle was less-than ideal for maintaining a long-term relationship. Or a long-term anything, for that matter.

As they waited for their food to arrive, the couple slipped into a breezy conversation, the kind that meandered aimlessly - and gleefully - between a wide range of topics. Everything was covered: the latest must-read crime novels, current world events, whatever shenanigans Celestia and her extended family were getting up to this week. Chatting with Octavia had always been easy for Naught. They had little in common in the way of interests or hobbies, which, as it turned out, created the foundation for a surprisingly fulfilling relationship. They were constantly teaching each other new things.

Naught had just begun telling her about his latest trip to Griffonstone when the waitress returned with their food. Octavia listened closely as she ate and drank - and drank and drank. By the time he reached the part about the alchemist and the stolen weapon, she was good and tipsy.

"I got you a pretty cool anniversary gift," he was saying. "Can you believe it? We somehow managed to survive a whole year without murdering each other."

"Oh, Naughty!" Octavia's voice cracked with emotion (and several glasses of champagne). "I told you I didn't want any presents!"

"I know," said Naught, reaching into his breast pocket. "But I figured one little gift couldn't hurt."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Octavia said hurriedly. "Okay, you got me! I figured the exact same thing!"

She sprang out of her seat, wobbling a bit as she did so, then dragged her cello case from under the table. Her antics drew stares from the other diners.

"Take it easy, babe," said Naught. "You're getting worked up."

"But this is worth getting worked up over!" she blurted. "Naughty, I wrote you a song!"

His heart skipped a beat. "Wuh-What?" He almost rolled a tear, though he couldn't tell if it was from joy or mortification.

And then she was up on the table, her forehoof banging against the cello's wooden frame.

"He-Hey, everypony! Listen up! I wrote my boyfriend a song! H-He's the cutest, funniest, most amazing stallion in the whole world, and I love him and stuff, and he's sitting right there - in case you were wondering what all that incredibleness looks like."

Yep. Definitely mortification.

"Okay, babe," said Naught. "That's all very sweet. You can get off the table now."

Only he knew she couldn't, not with her system all a-buzz with alcohol. Octavia Philharmonica might have had a drinking problem. A tiny one. And the other diners weren't helping. They began stomping the floor in hushed applause, apparently touched by her sentiment.

"Awwwww. Thanks you guys." The more she spoke while under the influence, the more her through-the-nose Canterlot accent waned. Gradually, it was morphing into something less sophisticated, more vulgar and uncouth. Pedestrian, she might have put it herself.

"I know I'm a tad buzzed right now, but bare with me," she went on. "This song I'm about to play is a hit in the making. It's a single from my latest album, Forever Midnight, which debuts on May 17 and is currently available for pre-order at your local record store. That's Forever Midnight, and if you order today -"

"Babe," Naught interrupted. "Seriously?"

"Sorry," she said. "Anyway, I want everypony to gather round and listen closely. This song is called 'The Greatest Lie Ever Told,' and it goes a little something like this..."

Embarrassment melted into bliss as Octavia began her serenade. Even while drunk off her ass she was a brilliant musician. The song was more lullaby than radio-friendly single, and Naught soon found himself on the cusp of slumber.

And then it hit him. That title - "The Greatest Lie Ever Told." He should have been paying closer attention. Should have known better than to let his guard down.

He reached for the pocket watch, flipped it open, checked the time.

Midnight.

Octavia twisted the rubber grip at the end of her bow, and a serrated blade sprang from the edge opposite the string.

"Happy anniversary, love."

Naught was reaching for her gift, the Radiant Palm, when the bladed bow came arcing toward the crown of his skull. He bounded to safety at the last possible second. The bow cleaved his chair in two, a jagged cut, its edge doing as much smashing as slicing.

It took the other diners a moment to absorbed what had just happened. Once they had, a cacophony of panicked shouts and stampeding hooves flooded the room. Most fled the building outright, but a few moved to the walls and the entrances and stayed put, too curious for their own good.

Naught had seen it all before, everything from the panic to the rubbernecking. A decade of Guard experience urged him to reach for the collapsible crossbow hidden in his coat. The situation called for range-fighting. When your skeleton was weightless enough to take flight, closing on an adult earth mare was a good way to introduce your muzzle to the back of your skull.

But the Guard had trained him to do more than just fight; protecting civilians was also high on his list of priorities. And in the confined space of the restaurant, missed shots might translate into wounded bystanders. It wasn't worth the risk. He would have to find another way.

Still perched on the table, Octavia bent her stifles and lowered her hips into a deep squat. Her back legs tensed in preparation to pounce. Bands of muscle no thicker than violin strings rippled along her hindquarters - bold enough to stand out beneath her grey coat, and yet modest in a way that accented, rather than overwhelmed, her natural feminine curves.

Naught let himself gawk for all of three seconds - impressed, aroused, distracted - and then closed the distance between them with a single wingbeat. Before she could pounce, he skidded to a stop and reared and slipped the Radiant Palm over his right fetlock. Then his stance splayed and his shoulders turned and his hips swiveled and the heel of his trail hoof spun outward. He catapulted an uppercut at the table's edge.

The Radiant Palm activated in mid-punch. A halo of luminous runes sprang from the band and morphed into the hard-light equivalent of a griffon’s fist. Knuckles wrought from pure magic slammed into the underside of the table, flipping it end-over-end like a tossed coin.

Octavia somersaulted through the air. She hit the floor rolling, then quickly regained her hooves and even managed to catch her hat as it drifted downward: a single haphazard yet unbroken motion. Order wrenched from chaos. If her music was classical then her powers of locomotion were swing, were jazz, were old-school hip-hop. A jam session. A freestyle played by ear.

She put on her hat with all the drama and menace of a comic book villain donning her mask. The brim sat low on her brow, veiling much of her face in shadow. She began to charge at Naught, the bow clenched between her teeth, but stopped when she noticed his new hand.

She spat out the bow and caught it in the hollow of her knee, gripping it the way Guards were taught to grip their spears.

"Naughty." The accent waned even more, becoming an echo of its former self. "You've really outdone yourself this time. It's bleedin' perfect."

Naught flexed his new hand, opening and closing the hard-light talons. "I knew you'd love it."

The glowing hand vanished into his coat and then reappeared holding something that looked like a golden fountain pen. A flick of his new wrist, and the telescopic spear extended to its full length.

"Right then," said Octavia, rearing. "We gonna 'ave ourselves a proper sword fight, are we?"

"Neither of us is holding a sword," said Naught.

"Aye. It's an expression, love."

"On what continent?"

Octavia let out a whooping laugh. By now her original accent had completely vanished, replaced by the course patios of something that might have been striped Trottingham or Neighlic or some sloppy mash-up of the two.

Standing as erect as any quadruped could, Octavia lifted one of her back hooves and tapped her horseshoe with the bladed bow, like a minotaurian batter who had just stepped up to the plate. Steel clanged against steel. She did the same with her second back hoof, her second shoe, then splayed her stance and squatted and raised her weapon, brandishing it as if waiting for Naught to pitch a baseball.

"Whenever you're ready, Naughty."

Naught was ready alright. He had spent the better part of a year preparing for precisely this moment. Their first anniversary.

With his new hand he withdrew the pocket watch one last time. Five minutes after midnight. The police would be here in another five, maybe less.

Perfect. He had fewer than five minutes to murder the love of his life.