Equestria; pride, jealousy, and anguish have become the mainstream in our society. This is our sickness to overcome. We have created this illness within our world through our desires to be better than our rivals and to avenge against those that have done us wrong. We have let those with the most influential voices speak for us and tell us we are the ones doing the right thing. In short, we have become machines.

Entry 023 - Griffi Vanilli (Part One)

Five Years Ago…

“This is ours,” announced Gypsy Breeze, “our settlement. It’s not much but it’s safe and whole and ours. We call it Helping Hooves because everyone here came to us when they were most in need. We take all sorts, no matter whether they’ve got stripes, wings, or if they fool with fillies and buck with bucks. You’re safe here. We promise.”

I’d spent my first week at Helping Hooves settlement lying around in various levels of pain and discomfort in the infirmary tent, so I was grateful when I finally did have the strength and wellness to move. On my first hobble out, the mare who had been nursing me back to full health took me to the highest point so that I could see the full site. She talked to me the whole way, showed patience and understanding, and not once got annoyed when I had to stop and rest on my crutches. Finally, not far from the tallest point reachable over the community we sought a rock to sit down on and my guide lit up a cigarette, offering me a light of my own. I politely refused; after near death, I didn’t want to flip the bird to any of the folks who’d worked tirelessly to keep me on this side of the veil.

Helping Hooves wasn’t much to look at. A bunch of tents and shelters put together around a nearly unscathed greenhouse with the bountiful scraps the Wasteland had left to offer. The residents called themselves Hoofians and it was a union of ponies as unprejudiced as Gypsy first alluded to me. From the hillside, we could see pony scavengers sharing supplies with zebras, pegasi flapping around ensuring the skylight was fixed and not about to break or fall on the growing crops and unicorns keeping the fertile earth pregnant with fresh fruit and vegetables.

I scanned the horizons. The only reason this location hadn’t gotten us busted so far was that it sat within a valley where the hillsides kept up a wall against the elements and most of the opportunists. Travelers only set upon it accidentally as they believed the area to be quiet and unoccupied for the most part. For a warm meal and a bed for the night, they were asked to keep other ponies thinking that way too. There were pop up villages not far away who also agreed to keep Helping Hooves a secret in return for food shares, but they were few and far between. This was the last stop for a while.

The water for the village came from a nearby river; the same river I’d been dragged from. As I gazed at it, I recalled what I’d been told about that night when I’d been lucky to be found at all, nevermind alive. I was weak, I’d lost a lot of blood, both of my wings had been broken deliberately and I’d been shot in the back. Thankfully, the wound wasn’t through my spine, it was within a few inches where a less lucky blow would have crippled me.

A vocal harmony started back in town, the local singing group practicing an early number from before the war. Colonists stopped to listen, applaud and join in. An elderly pair of ponies even broke into a dance with each other, while a buffalo who’d been concealed in a shack set up like a shed stepped out from it. He wiped his hooves with the long poncho he always wore, eyeing the display. Songs seemed to bring the camp closer together. It was sweet and friendly, and utterly ridiculous.

“Nobody’s safe,” I eventually croaked, causing my new friend to stir.

“Sweet Celestia’s glittering girl-parts, she speaks at last. Doc Babe said you hadn’t lost your vocal cords, just misplaced your voice. Where’d you find it?” My healer asked with a smile, sucking her smoking stick again. I couldn’t return the pleasure, no matter how thankful I felt I had to be for everything she’d done for me. I could only give her the jaded advice I’d learned from my utterly bucked-up collection of past mistakes.

“This steid isn’t safe or as hidden as ye think, lass. It’s not smart to sing out loud like that nor is it a good thing to trust everyone who comes through telling you that they seek sanctuary.” I finished speaking. Gypsy Breeze remained silent. She kept her eyes on me, her face matching someone who had realized that they’d found somebody who could finally understand them and their worries. As I was not blasted for being a pessimist I added more.

“One day, somepony will notice you've got what they want, and they willnae worry about the morality of coming, killing you all and taking it. They’ll come at any time of day, they won’t announce their arrival and they won’t worry about whether or not you think you can stop them. They’ll destroy all of this, and they’ll take what they want, and they’ll nay care what they do to you to get it.”

“You sound like you know a lot about that,” she suggested rhetorically. That glint in her eye only grew. She looked back across the town and let her mouth savor the musty outdoor oxygen before she continued her smoke. Blowing a ring, she patted the safe end on her lower lip. “You don’t have to stay. If you don’t, all I ask is you keep our secret safe and don’t buck us over after all we’ve done for you. Except…” She collected a new drag, held it and released a plume before gazing slyly at me. “I think you’d be more useful if you stayed, griffon girl. You could teach us how to make our place safer. We need a head of security to knock our noodles together. What do you say?” She popped the cig between her lips and stretched out a hoof to be shaken, her scarlet loops encouraging my gold coins to meet them. They did, and they locked in for a long bout of understanding between us.

“I need a drink. A hard one,” I stipulated to a laugh as Gypsy finished partaking in her habit.

“Only if it seals the deal,” she advised and I took her hoof with a firm nod. Getting back up and helping me onto the legs that worked, she added: “I’ll need a name to go with the drink.”

“Crow,” I told her, “Crow MacRural.”

“Gypsy Jennifer Breeze, but stick with Gypsy and you can’t go wrong,” she chuckled, starting back towards town. “So tell me one thing. Crow, You ended up on our river bed with two broken wings, broken ribs, a bullet through the leg and a gash on the cheek among many other bruises and scratches. Who the buck did you piss off?”

I paused and stared ahead, remembering but not wanting to answer. My heart clenched in my chest and the space behind my eyes burned up. Gypsy halted in her tracks as she gave me a while to consider what to say. Seeing that I wasn’t going to inform her there and then, she took the few short steps back towards me and showed me her gritty, determined expression.

“You don’t have to tell the full story but if my settlement is in trouble, I need to know.”

“They wouldnae come looking,” her expression suggested she didn’t quite believe that but I nodded honestly, gazing at her, “they think we’re dead.”

“‘We’re’?” she repeated curiously.

“Aye lass. And before I start thinking about settling down with ye, I need to go looking for somepony,” I responded, wincing at the ache running through my hind leg, “and any help finding him would be most appreciated.”

Stable T-Thirty, Seventh Day of the Seven-Day-Rule…

Throbbing waves of pain encouraged me to keep my eyes closed for as long as I could. With no real reason that I could remember to wake myself, I listened to the clock tick and tried to understand why my tongue tasted so bad. I’d had hangovers and all the joys that came with them but never awoke with the taste akin to sour milk before. A warm buffer was pressed against my front, making my fur and feathers feel like they’d been put under a glowing lamp. There was a telltale stickiness between my thighs, and despite my stomach churning from the alcohol I’d drank before my temporary coma, it had a pleasant hum of carnal felicity as well. I believed that meant I’d scratched the itch once more with my little horse and my only regret was that I couldn’t remember it.

“Hey,” I whispered, grinning like an idiot, “Moley? Did we beat last night’s record? Was it fifteen orga-” I moved in the unfamiliar bed, feeling sheets I did not remember from Mole’s hidey-space in the store and indeed wasn’t my rough blanket from the storehouse hotel. That was encouragement enough for me to open my eyes and find a bedroom I did not recognize, and a mare that I unfortunately did. It was not my Molasses.

At first, I panicked believing that the changelings had kidnapped me as a meal to their vampiric love lust but I quickly realized this wasn't the case. The real memories trickled back to me; the card game, the contract, the bets, oh sweet merciful Luna, the bets…

“Mmmm, morning Crow…” Poxy mumbled tenderly, tucking herself back against my stomach as the small spoon. Her eyes slipped halfway before they brought the shutters down again, an angry wince spreading across her snout, particularly showing some of her gold teeth when her mouth curled in a snarl.

“Ow,” she grunted, “I wasn't as ready to do that as I thought I was.” She rolled her body around in place so that her face could push into the feathers of my chest, hiding from the light. I caught the faint whiff of stale arousal, alcohol, and cigarettes. When she breathed, I could smell myself on that curling air.

I closed my eyes as a greater discomfort concerned me. Barely days into our relationship, I’d already betrayed Mole’s trust and innocence. I’d gone back to who I was deep inside thanks to the aid of alcohol and gambling. I knew I had to get information out of Poxy, but I’d taken the easy route without question. My feathers drooped and I felt desperately sick, but I had to stick this out now. I had to get the answers Gypsy and her shapeshifting cohorts needed.

Flexing my toes stressfully, I pushed my mental regrets to the back of my mind so that I could do what was necessary of me. I was less than shit right now but my mission was for the good of everypony in the Stable in the end, including Mole. She’d understand, right?

I wrapped my front leg around Poxy and pulled her in, eliciting a sigh from the colorless maned mare.

“How was it for you?” Her murmur was content and wholly contrasted my disgust.

“Ohh,” I stalled, “if it had been any better, I don’t think I could have lived with myself.” I made her chuckle, as she stretched and liberated a moan from her lips. The rest of her body proved still eager to bump and grind with mine.

“You sure know how to keep a filly waiting,” she gasped. A headache wasn’t the only thing making me close my eyes now, as the feeling of a slug on my thigh rolled back and forth. I tried thinking of Mole, remembering the small things with the dopey ears and the loveable little smile, but every time she came to mind she was in tears and genuinely disgusted at my drunken actions. I tried imagining Gypsy, but the last memory I had of her was her wrathful fury, despite parting ways with a band-aid over our troubles. Bringing Elmwood to mind brought me no joy either. His smirking face did not make the slimy feelings disappear in my head nor my fur.

“Part of the fun is in the chase, hen,” I mumbled with difficulty as I lay there like her toy, letting her rub and squeeze her limbs around me, her lips taking a feather and holding it. Seeking to make the experience at least seem real for the mare I was trying to entice information out of, I stroked her partially shaved bed-mane and slipped my eyes open once more to look around the room. Finally finding something to do, I focused on trying to work out where we were.

The ceiling was metallic and a caged light sat in the central panel but that was the only indicator here that this was still in the Stable. The rest of the room was decorated to look like a clean chalet, with pinewood slates on the walls and posters of female singers from the Stable across the ages. A curtained window allowed light in from the rest of the Stable to my left, a pair of doors led to a mystery on my right. A framed note hung on the wall that faced the foot of the bed, but it was too far and my eyes burned too much for it to be read. Turning, I found that on the dresser beside me was another frame holding a photograph. It had captured a full family; mom, dad, a filly and a colt with a grey and white coat, with a black mane. I smiled at the picture as I tried to remember who, out of all my friends past and present, looked like that. Memories steamed back into my head on the Flying Trotsman and I sat up in horrid alarm.

“OH SHIT!” I twisted my body to look at Poxy, who was looking deeply disgruntled since I’d just ruined her early morning indulging of my warm body. She was not my concern now, however, preferably the waking skinny pony next to her who matched the photo but had since grown up into a long stallion.

“He-I mean… Did he…?” I spluttered incredulously as I watched Whiskey Jack sit up, yawn and stretch out his forelegs as though trying to reach the light, several feet too short. Poxy chuckled and reached out to hug his flank close, eagerly pressing her cheek onto his glass of bourbon cutie mark.

“I’m a lucky mare, wouldn’t you agree? How many stallions have we ever known willing to share all their winnings with their filly-friends?” She smiled toothily as I took in all the possible scenarios and situations that suggestion produced, and shuddered heavily. I looked back at him as he rubbed his mane and gave me an embarrassed smile, clearing his throat slowly.

“Err, morning… I don’t usually operate without a cup of joe first thing. Can I get you, ladies, anything?”

“Coffee sounds perfect, thank you, hun,” following my silent staring, she added, “make that two and close the door on the way through as I think Crow needs a moment in private. She thinks about things.” Whiskey didn’t understand the jab at me, and that was just as well as he left the room. I hissed fury through my beak and clenched my talons.

“Did he-?”

“Did he buck you?” Poxy anticipated my question, “buck no. You think I think so little of you that I’d leave you so vulnerable?” Considering it I shook my head slowly and let myself sag, feeling as though I had to reach out and clasped the mare against me. It still felt like a violation of my rights that I’d been allowed to be put in this position, however for a moment I was thankful Poxy had been looking out for me.

“You would’ve been in real trouble without me there, let me tell ya. You were about to offer him everything on a plate. You practically turned heterosexual after the last drink and put together a compelling argument as to why I should let you have your wicked way with him. Never seen it that bad with you before.” She looked worried for me, and I felt sick to the stomach from more than just the liquids I’d consumed that night. With my lungs, my heart and my head working over time, I asked one more question about the circumstances I found myself in.

“Did I do anything?”

“With him? No. The little pervert was more than content to watch you with me.” Although she tried to nuzzle the fears out of me, that taste was still on my tongue and my limbs still felt matted with something different to all the other times that I’d woken up with sharing a sleeping arrangement. Regardless of the warm duvet, and warmer body, I was cold as ice.

“Is that the absolute truth?”

“Crow, it’s the answer you’re going to get,” she responded shortly, “you’re going to have to decide whether it’s one you’ll accept or not.” Softening again after nearly biting my head off, she slipped back down and stroked my chest feathers, humming a small tune a few moments later. I let her, my body numb and my throat dry. I could hear the stallion in the next room and knew he would be back along soon so, despite my revolting plight, I had to make use of this unhinged opportunity.

“When do we take this wee place, Poxy? Come on, I know you have a wee plan bubbling in that pretty head of yours,” I purred, leaning forward to rub my beak on her neck. The act elicited a sigh, but one more disappointed than I was expecting.

“You know, after four years I believed you might have learned how to be subtle when you’re pretending to like me,” she grunted indifferently. I flinched at the words, unable to deny that she was right about them. She sat up on the bed and turned her back to me.

Humiliatingly groaning, I set myself up as well and reached out for her.

“Hey now, I like ye plenty, I’m just curious what the move is since we’ve been here a week and all I’ve seen is petty larceny and a bunch of idiots willing to blow themselves up-“

“That was not my fault!” She snapped instantly, although she managed to drop her voice as she glanced to the closed door. “Brittle Sticks was eager to join the cause. They were only supposed to check the wares and report back, I wasn’t to know Brittle had such a bad grudge against Deadwood.” Defensively, she shot me a pointed look and moved around again. “You’ve had a week since then and this is the first time you’ve brought this up with me, so tell me what the sudden interest is, Crow.”

Guilt tied my guts into bows and then lit them all on fire. A wicked game was being played on me between Gypsy and Poxy, with poor little Mole in the dead center. The right move was not to join in on their version of piggy in the middle, but I was too proud not to. I still believed this had a possible winner and I was planning to be that victor.

“Your mistake killed someone from Whiskey’s family-“

“His sister. It wasn’t my mistake-“ she started.

“It was your mistake-“ I countered.

“It wasn’t her mistake.” Whiskey had re-entered the room, no doubt on account of me raising my voice. Fearing I had outed our true nature, I attempted to save his perceptions of us.

“Of course not! What I meant was that it was her mistake that she never got a chance to introduce us before she was taken from ye, aye? Whiskey, I’m sorry again for your-“

“It wasn’t Poxy nor any Raider’s fault that Tango died,” Jack cut me off with a stunning blow, “the real culprit is Procrustean. He sent her in there first not knowing the real dangers. He always looked down on her as expendable, he put her down in training and some of the stories that she came back with about his regimes? He’s the real monster in this place.” I sat, flabbergasted by the piece of knowledge that now sat in front of me, offering me caffeine. Poxy had been honest with Whiskey Jack about our identities. When I had to see how she felt about me knowing this, I only saw indifference on her expression. The room still held the frosty atmosphere from the previous argument.

Whiskey sat the coffee and cups down on the table and wordlessly walked around the bed, collecting the photo of his family to gaze upon it. His hoof trailed over the filly in the picture, his ear flicking occasionally. He did not speak even when Poxy reached out to him to stroke his shoulders or when I apologized adequately for my outburst, upon realizing how insensitive it had been. He only stared into the photograph and I think he tried to transport himself back to that better time.

“You wanted to know when we take this place, Crow?” Poxy eventually asked, chipping through the silence, “it starts when we kill the bastard head of security around here. We can only do that when we’re a party bigger than the hoof-full of Raiders we are now. The museum taught us that much at least.”

“And how do we go about planning for that, hen?” I asked cautiously. Poxy held Whiskey in her vision as the stallion set down the photo once more and ensured it was at the right angle on her bedside cabinet. When Jack's eyes found mine, I understood why the head of the Raiders so easily swayed his mind. He didn’t have the look of a Stable-dweller, it just wasn’t part of his soul. Instead, someone far more dangerous and reckless resided there who was willing to break harmony for their means. It made my feathers prickle.

“We start recruiting. There’s plenty more who know this place is a joke, they need nudging in the right direction.”

“‘We’?” I asked him, but he was already on the move again.

“I’ll get started on breakfast. Thanks again for last night, Prize Bird,” he stepped through the door and shut it once more, leaving me to gather the scattered information I’d been told. Poxy glanced at me sternly.

“I’m not going to stop you from feeding back to your friends, Crow, but they’re hiding something from both of us as well. Yeah, I’m a sick, twisted witch but I still don’t want to see you get hurt, girl.” She ran her hoof along my cheek and I found myself involuntarily leaning into it. She lifted herself, kissed my beak once and waited a moment. When nothing else happened, she snorted lightly as she slipped out of bed and into the second room where I heard running water to help me guess what door number two held behind it.

I lifted my PipBuck, expecting at least one message from Mole, only to feel even more guilt, dismay and angst as there was not one. Instead, I had a red banner flashing urgently and warning me that the clock was ticking on my ascension song.

“Oh dear,” giggled Bucky as his head peeped up on my screen, “your buckable griffon buns are in trouble now!”

I had to sing today or I was doomed.

Five Years Ago…

The Mechanic stepped back from his creation.

Ottawa was a well-respected buffalo in the Helping Hooves community, even though he kept himself to himself. He was a big guy and yet somehow he found a big enough poncho to cover his legs. He was here long before me, and everypony called him ‘Mechanic’ after his abilities to pick up items that should be long past dead and breathe new life into them. When he heard of my plight with my healing wings he suggested he might have a way to help. Two weeks later, he called me solely to his shop to see what he’d built.

A pair of metal wings hung from the ceiling of his garage, buffed and shiny. They’d been measured to fit me and were meant to act as braces to strengthen and improve my flight after so long grounded. He stood beside the stretched metal additions for my limbs and looked to me, waiting for my criticism. They weren’t what immediately caught my eye, however.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the glint of something curved, red and shiny hiding at the back of his workspace. He didn’t need to look to know what I was pointing at.

“Not griffon’s,” was his reply.

“But what is it, laddie?” I cooed hopefully, crouching as though I could creep past the wall of bison. I couldn’t tell you back then, nor could I tell you now, what that little flash of magenta did to attract me so much, but I was hooked on finding out even to the detriment of my potential to fly again.

“The Red Racer,” he eventually told me after an impromptu staring contest. He pushed his hoof on my forehead before I could try to sneak around him again, “and it still not yours.”

“But what is it?” I enquired again. He huffed and turned my head away from the heart of my magpie desires, focusing me on my wing-supports.

“If griffon can get herself in the air and hovering for more than ten seconds, I’ll show griffon the Red Racer,” he offered as a trade. I examined the metallic additions for my busted limbs and stretched out my appendage tentatively, squinting at the dull ache that throbbed from it. He gave me a whistle-stop tour of the devices he’d created for me, from the way the trusses were designed to bend in the right places to match my wing movements to the augmented magical crystal implanted in them. They’d give me enough strength in my span without taking the entire task of learning to fly again away from me.

“Sir, you got yoursen a deal,” I grinned, spitting into my talon and holding it out to shake. He looked at the gesture in discomfort and sighed, shaking my right claw quickly before wiping his hoof on his green and tan poncho.

“I do not like spit swears,” he mithered and reached up to help get my new calipers down, ready to be tried on for the first time.

Stable T-Thirty, Seventh Day of the Seven-Day-Rule…

Whiskey made us a spot of breakfast before he let us leave his home in the second tier of the Beret Sector. He didn’t bring up the Raiders or the revenge plan against Crusty again, but he did share with us more memories of his sister. I sat crunching through my toast, eggs (aye; the place had chickens) and heck, I don’t know what the paté was but it was all delicious, as I listened.

The stallion painted an image of a good-natured mare who joined the guard as a way to deal with her wanderlust and trapped energy. There she found she wasn’t the fastest, most active or most enduring member of the team, she came last in all her tests and only caught Procrustean’s attention through her poor performance. He hounded her, he pushed her to be better with threats that she would not like the outcome if she didn’t.

When the lass came home with news that she’d finally made the security team, she wasn’t full of joy and pride as she should have been. She seemed as though she’d lost a part of her that she had held onto for as long as she could. It was as though the role had robbed her of her treasured possessions, and she was never the same again.

“I know he did something to her,” Whiskey concluded, “but I never asked her what. I hate myself for that even more now that we’ll never know.” He dropped his empty cup on the table so hard that it caused a crack in the porcelain and he excused himself to replace it.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” I said, losing count of how many times I’d told him that now, “we’ve all lost someone we loved. You’re nay alone in that hurt.”

“Damn bucking straight,” sniffed Poxy, staring absently at her empty plate and reminding me of something important I’d yet to ask her.

“Why’d you never bring up your daughter with me before, Pox? You had every wee chance to talk to me about her,” I asked, hoping the comfort in my voice was as genuine as it felt. I expected more of a reaction but looking back it was clear she knew the question was coming after that first day in the Hopscotchs.

“Would remembering them change their fate? When we remember Whiskey’s sister or the ponies of Helping Hooves, Crow, we know we can do something to avenge them. Remembering my bro and my Fragile Heart will do nothing to bring back that hellhound so that I can make it suffer.” I pushed my plate away, my crusts remaining on the blue ceramic. My elbows rested on the tabletop and I gazed thoughtfully at her.

“Remembering our lost mukkers and folks isn’t always about vengeance, hen, sometimes we just do it so that we dunnae lose them forever.”

“This,” she groaned, “is the other reason why I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want your sympathy.” When she caught my frown, she elaborated. “I know you, Crow. Sometimes better than you know yourself. Do you think you’re the big bad ‘Bitch Griffon’ from Trotland? Well, let me tell you something. You have a bigger heart than the rest of the Raiders combined, and then some.”

I thought she was entirely wrong but I kept that to myself. I was cold and callous before I’d gotten here. It was how I brushed off all of the terrible things I’d done, all the lives I had to take and sometimes the ones that I did not deserve to take. She had me completely confused with another griffon so far as I could see. Considering her words I tried a different tactic.

“Is that why you’ve not been involving me in the plans you and Whiskey have been cooking up?” I wondered, “you think I’ve gone too soft?”

“I don’t know you from Luna, but I’ve been seeing you skipping around our Stable with the resident sickly-sweet foal-brained filly Molasses and put two-and-two together,” Whiskey offered, making me blush and turn away with a huff. “Can you say she’s not turned you soft to us?” I caught Poxy’s hint of admonition and focused on a blank space of table instead, talking to it since it would not judge me.

“Aye, I’ve been getting off with that wee mare. Ye wanna know why? I’ll tell ye; because when you play joyful wee families with the happiest little bitch in this bucked-up wonderland, no pony suspects you’re planning to take the place by storm one day.” I lifted my head with my brow furrowed and gave them both a determined look. “What have I got to do to be a trusted member of these plans?” Poxy laughed gently and shook her head, smirking at me as she thought about her answer. Just as she was opening her mouth to reply, however, Whiskey grabbed my foreleg and pulled it over the table to look at my PipBuck.

“You haven’t sung yet?” he demanded of me as he saw the countdown on the screen, watching me give a meaningless shrug. He grunted furiously with a roll of his eyes and he let me have my claws back. “You gotta take her to the Music Halls now, babe. She’s not performed her ascension song.”

“What?”

“Och, I was going to today-hey!” I flailed as Poxy snatched me out of my chair by my tail, dragging me through the kitchen that incidentally matched the decor of Whiskey’s bedroom, and towards the door.

“You have to get it done, you don’t want the Minstrels to come for you,” he called after us, “I’ll see you gals later.” Yanking my tail out of Poxy’s teeth, I grimaced as I rubbed the marks in the fur and grumbled ruefully.

“Fine, aye, let’s get it out of the way…”

The task was not as easy as it sounded. As we walked through the gigantic themed-playground of a Stable, I had the growing thundercloud of impending destruction hovering over my head. Experience told me not to open my beak to sing and yet on this occasion, I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. The troubles only grew as we were regularly accosted by ponies who hadn’t forgotten that I was the Guardian Griffon, the big bloody heroine of the Stable. Every signature, every photograph, every gift reminded me that I would lose this respect the moment the first screeched note left my throat. Once we got past the crowds in the Stable center, it became a little easier to traverse the upper lanes towards the Songbird Sector. Once the public had thinned out, Poxy gave a thoughtful hum.

“What have you got to do to earn my trust and be a part of our plans?” She repeated my question and pondered out loud. The bouncing tail should have been an indicator to me that she was enjoying having me in her company, but the moment she suddenly found an opportunity to tackle me into an unoccupied alleyway still came as a shock. I wasn’t able to stop the lips wrapping around me beak, forcing my head so hard into the wall that it hurt. It was long, passionate from her side and tasted of cigarettes. For me, it was another addition to the violations I was being subjected to today for the sake of reconnaissance. It didn’t hold any power over me the way Gypsy or Mole had and I was thankful when it was finally over.

“When you no longer have to ask if you’ve earned my trust, Crow,” she purred to me, lips hovering at the point of my bill. Her smile suggested she expected more from me but I could only blink dumbly at her with my back up against the wall like she was a hellhound wanting to eat my face straight off.

“We’re not far from the music halls now, you sure you want to come with me?” My voice asked, oddly feeling like it didn’t belong to me. Poxy fluttered her eyelashes, then dropped back with the romance leaking out of her so that she became the bland grey pony once more. She needed somepony to fill the void her brother left and I wasn’t it. I am not so sure Whiskey was either.

“It’s not like I have somewhere better to be,” she grouched and helped me back out of the alleyway. To the surprise of both of us, this was when a nervy little stallion burst into our lives. By the way he yelped, I think we startled him as well.

“Ahh, th-the Guardian Griffon, I presume?” The short berry-red stallion with a belly as yellow as his mane stuttered, having to crane his head right back to gaze up at me. The eyebrow sarcastically rose with no effort on my part.

“Nay, sorry, that’s the other griffon that hangs out around here, I’m the Charismatic Catbird.” Poxy laughed so hard that she had to sit to stop herself stumbling about. Our stuttering interruption took the tease on the chin.

“Ah-haha, very f-funny, haha, ha. I was sent to find you by Mr. Shot.” Now he had our attention, both mine and my infatuated tag-along. I studied the neat, if unsteady stallion again and leaned forward, cocking my head slowly.

“Mr. Hot Shot?”

“The very same!” He pipped, “I’m to show you to his studios here in the Songbird Sector. I’m Mr. Punch.” This time it was my turn to snigger.

“Mr. Punch? Who’d ye have to upset to get a name like that?” It was amusing to both of us that the shaking pony had such a violent name, but he went on to explain that his full name was Mr. Fruit Punch, and he was Mr. Shot’s associate.

“Associate?” mused Poxy.

“Pet, I think that means, Lass. Or slave.”

“Ahh,” she nodded solemnly, unable to hide the grin. The face of utter dismay told us this poor guy had not had to deal with ladies as sarcastic as us. After all of our difficulties this morning, having a little fun with this silly little minion was more than healing for the pair of us.

“Friend!” Protested Fruit, “an-and business partner!”

“Of course,” I chortled, “I’m sure Hot Shot shares everything.” I ruffled his mane demeaningly, “I’d love to pop in and see your wee ‘friend,’ but I need to go sing my song or I’m in a fat lot of trouble, laddie.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he insisted, “Mr. Shot knows you have not sung your song yet and he wants to ensure you do so... ahem, ‘comfortably’,” he rubbed his throat and waggled his eyebrows so that I knew exactly what he meant by that.

“You’re here to make sure I go to see him?” I smirked at the idea of being intimidated by this squirt.

“Oh no, the choice is yours, Miss. griffon, but Mr. Shot’s Studios is only a minute away...”

I pondered the idea. I wanted to be able to raise my voice without being reminded of the horrors doing so had once brought about. However, as enticing as the idea of being able to sing like my ribbon-wearing friend was to me, I couldn’t forget the matter that this stallion might be a changeling in disguise. For reassurance, I only had one source with me to fall back on and so I looked to her. Poxy brought her eyes, the shade of unripened fruits, up to me.

“Crow, you still got time and this Shot guy? He’s a big deal around here. I’d say go for it, he’s not gonna feed a chick like you to the Minstrels.” I nodded to her, agreeing with the sentiment. Out of all of us, I was the most memorable. That was why I got the best treatment from Midnight, the Overseer, even why Gizmo singled me out to help him solve Garden Path’s mystery. It was not that I was intelligent or essential, just that I was different. It was the same reason why Procrustean couldn’t kill me the way he’d killed the Snips. With the sobering weight of understanding on my shoulders, I turned back to Punch.

“Come along then, laddie, show us the way.”

Five Years Ago…

Continuously, over and over, I fell.

In my last drop, I thought I’d pushed myself and pulled my limbs up out of the way so that I could focus on my wings. My beak hit the ground last, and dust puffed from the dusty dirt around me.

“Again,” grunted Ottawa, carrying his personally carved staff as he chewed an apple in front of me knowing just how long I’d been trying to fly that day and just how hungry I was. We’d been doing this repeatedly for days, weeks, I had been losing count for how long accurately.

“I cannae,” I whimpered pitifully, “I’m tired, I’m hungry, I need one day where I can just breathe and rest, please!”

“Not until griffon hovers properly. Stop complaining. Do it properly without talking.” He clattered the staff on the floor with every word in the last sentence, accenting the importance of his words.

“How can you talk?” I finally snapped, “you can nay fly! You have no idea how hard it is to re-learn how to use something that was taken from you!” His gaze on me was casual, not angry nor disappointed. There was something more understanding in his eyes instead as he took a long breath and reached to pull back his poncho from his rear half. He rolled it up slowly to the top of his thigh and turned to show me a shining metal limb. His full hind leg was bionic. It seemed as though it had built and repurposed from a Steel Ranger suit, and fitted to his back half with bolts and leather straps.

I stared at it.

“I hide it so it does not scare away the foals,” he informed me, sitting and giving it a tap with one of his organic hooves. It whirred and clicked when he moved it and I could see through several grills that encased inside were several gears all working in tandem. The metal was well looked after, renewed from the state that it would have been when it belonged to a full set of power armor and almost certainly polished daily.

“Heh, it’s not the foals I think ye need to worry about. As a wee chick myself, I’d have thought a metal leg would be pretty cool to see,” I moved over for a closer examination while taking a seat beside him. “How’d you lose it?”

“Not important, griffon. What important is that griffon know Ottawa has been in griffon’s place. If Ottawa did not fight to regain his leg, Ottawa would have given up everything. Griffon must not give up.” His eyes pierced into mine with sincerity as he covered the artificial limb and stood himself back up. “Now, try again.”

“Tell me the story and I’ll try again,” I bargained. He snorted gruffly but I could tell from the way his mouth pushed to the corner of his snout that he’d been expecting this from me. He shook his head.

“Griffon have two choices, fly high or tell Ottawa how wings got broke, those are only choices for griffon. No freebies.” The wind caught and tugged on his weathered poncho, tugging it aside to tease the metal ankle for me one more time. The warm curling air stroked and teased at the long feathers in my wings, reminding me that the metal braces were numbing the physical pain I could be experiencing from trying to relearn my congenital ability. The real ache was coming from the memory of my last battle and the foe who brought me down to terra firma. It wasn’t fear cutting into my abilities, it was grief.

So fresh was that mental wound that I couldn’t admit it to him then, but I realized that if I never admitted it, he would always want to know just as I wanted to pester him about the missing leg. He may not leave me alone unless I removed the thing then prompted him to question it. The revelation resolved me to get back up into the starting position once more and stretch my wings.

“Push off of the ground with your hind legs, to fly you must first be in the air…”

“Shut up…”

“Ottawa say nothing,” the old buffalo advised me honestly. Unfortunately, it was not him I was hearing at that time. I could see the mirage of my younger snow-white bird walking around me, giving me the same tips she’d given me when I was smaller and more hopeful. My eyes burned more from the wind and the emotion getting to them.

“After that, all you need is one good flap. When it doesn’t feel like falling anymore, you’ll know you’re doing it right…”

“I said, shut the buck up you stupid BITCH!” I kicked myself up into the air, thrust out my wings and beat them with all the strength left in the long limbs. Despite all the hatred I now stored for the pale griffon who I had once adored, her advice was truthful. I felt the gust pick up under my auxiliary feathers and let it lift me, giving the illusion of hovering. I was just like a kite and had to hold that updraft precisely so that I did not fall to the ground and have to start again.

I kept my wings moving, focused ahead and began counting to ten…

Stable T-Thirty, Seventh Day of the Seven-Day-Rule…

Hot Shot’s studios were no less glamorous than I’d been expecting from such an affluent and arrogant arse. For a start, this wasn’t a studio so much as it was a mansion, with a tall ceiling painted to show an essential meeting between the Princesses and a group of strange mythical-looking ponies. The walls, pillars, and staircases were whiter than bone with the latter almost certainly made of marble. The carmine carpets that greeted our feet and hooves was real and in no way matched the putrid squelching and molding remains we were accustomed to finding in old ruined buildings. Two short golden dragon statues welcomed us at the bottom of the stairway, frozen in snarls with their heads and backs craned up awkwardly. They were preparing to breathe flames that would never leave their throats.

There were many ways we could have taken in this hallway with doorways to other rooms or passages hidden behind red and gold curtains with sunshine yellow cords both downstairs and upstairs. Poxy and I could quite easily have gotten ourselves lost in this area alone if it wasn’t for Punch hustling us inside and up the ivory wave to the top level.

“Just up here, Mr. Shot is judging at the Falling Shadow Concert Hall at the moment,” the scrawny thing updated us. I stopped on the stairs with a squawk of irritation.

“He’s not in? Are you tryin’ to mess us about?” I skree’d, spinning him around to face me. He yelped in surprise and backed up the stairs away from Poxy and me as he spluttered.

“N-Not at all! He asked me to make you comfortable whilst you wait for him. H-He said h-his home is yours, your every need we will provide until he gets here,” he tripped on the last step and sat back as I became beak-to-snout with him. Poxy tapped me to back off as I glared.

“Every comfort?” She enquired further.

“I-I do not believe you’ll be disappointed,” he added, somewhat hopefully. Poxy looked to me for my decision this time, and I gave a slow nod.

“Lead the way, Fan-Dan,” my tease meant that I believed him to be a bit of a fanny, but it went straight over his head as he hurriedly nodded and scampered ahead, pulling a pair of curtains apart then waving at us. I let Poxy follow me and she didn’t complain about the view.

I had assumed that he was taking us to a waiting room or a lounge of other hopeful contestants, and it turned out that I was partially right. There were ponies of both genders and several ages waiting on plush couches and seats, heads turning to look at us with anticipation that dwindled when they realized we were in the same boat. Some even sat around a table playing a variation of the games I had been losing at the previous night to a tuneful radio broadcast. The walls were covered with photos and paintings portraying Hot Shot and some of his precious commodity of valued performers, whilst any furniture not dressed in decadent fabrics was spoiled with valuable metals and jewels. All I had forgotten was the part where there was a fully stocked bar, a table laden several levels high with food and a set of beds, one of which was almost certainly moving. This was not a reception, it was a brothel.

“Take a seat,” smiled Mr. Punch, more at ease now he saw our awe, “if you need anything at all, Mrs. Whip-Poor-Will will provide." He gestured to a mare, but I didn’t look her way at first as an opening door near the writhing bedsheets opened.

“Gypsy!” I cried out, starting forward at the shock of seeing my friend in Hot Shot’s den of iniquity after she had already shown her allegiances to Dreamer in Kiva’s Moon Palace hall. The inconsistencies kept coming, as this deep violet mare dressed in a long pink dress had her bumblebee mane short and bobbed with one big red ribbon around it, tied in a bow before her horn. The last tip-off was the eyes, that shimmered a dirty sea green when they turned towards me.

“For buck sake, Punch, I’ve told you to keep the fanatics away from my private space,” she hissed furiously at the flinching stallion nearing my side, “no autographs without Mr. Shot by my- Oh.” She focused on me again with a gaze that told me she was seeing me properly this time. She lost the snooty tone of somepony who believed that everypony else should be seen and not heard and instead adopted interest. “You’re the Guardian Griffon. Hot Shot has spoken of you. ‘A griffon in our Stable, how quaint,’ I thought. Of course, you’ve heard of me.” She gave me a horrible impression of what she thought smiling looked like.

“Miss. Griffon, this is Mel-” Punch began, only to have his head verbally bitten off by the opulent mare.

“She knows who I am, you do not need to introduce me, you foal!” Luckily, her outburst allowed me to join the dots and see the full picture in front of me.

“Oh, aye! Mellow Melody! You’re famous, I hear,” I rose my talons to be shaken but the gesture seemed alien to her as she looked at the claws as though they were crawling with spiders. “I have a wee friend who’s the near spittin’ image of you, ya see. I thought you were her.” That nipped her intrigue and gave her a reason to ignore my offer to greet one another formally.

“A mare that looks like me?” She searched my eyes as I nodded and described Gypsy to her.

“Her eyes ain’t green and her mane’s got more length to it, but otherwise you’re almost her twin!” I considered for a millisecond that this mare might be a changeling stealing my friend’s identity but I was able to brush the thought away quickly. Mole had established she had known and been a fan of Mellow Melody for some time, long before we got into this stable. Thinking of Mole I also added, “my friend’s a wee fan of yours, I think she’d appreciate anything you might be willing to sign.”

She still seemed unnerved that I’d advised to her there was somepony with a similar appearance.

“Um, yes. Of course. Mr. Punch, be a darling and collect a photo for me to sign. No charge for the Guardian Griffon. Am I signing this to the same friend, Gypsy you said?”

“Oh, no, no. This one’s a wee mare called Molasses Candy…” I watched her scrawl a quick message on a glossy photo, smiling thoughtfully. I could understand her awkwardness when she was a mare who partially relied on her good looks and as a doppelganger of Gypsy Breeze with access to more cosmetics, she was hot to trot. If she’d have turned to me then and asked me to make her feel like a real mare, I might have considered it. The only thing holding me back was the surreal feeling that there was still something ungenuine about this interaction. I didn’t know what, but I could not shake it.

“There we are, I hope she likes it. Mr. Punch, arrange my entourage. I am expected at a gathering in less than an hour and I have not seen my make-up artist yet,” the already pretty mare groused, still ignoring my held out foot as she waved to Poxy and I, “I must dash, but I am sure I will see you around. I’ll speak to Hot Shot about arranging an evening supper for the elite members. It was a pleasure to meet you!” She did not wait to hear our goodbyes as she turned and cantered past us. Punch nodded and as turned to follow her he tried to say one last thing for our benefit-

“ENTOURAGE, NOW! For BUCK sake, Punch!” screamed Mellow, revealing her true colors one last time before they left through the closing curtain. I kept her flanks in my sights until she disappeared and hated the awkward wingboner I wore for doing so. I couldn’t help myself, it was as though somepony had taken my Gypsy Breeze and ran a full diagnostic on her, making many improvements and subtracting the personality. Poxy snorted with a smirk.

“Entitled lil’ bitch, ain’t she,” she gave me a nudge as I waved the photo to dry the ink and tucked it safely away in my saddle bags. “I like her!”

“Of course, you would, lassie,” I sneered, “bitches are right up your alley.”

“Mmmm, yes they are,” grinned Poxy, bumping me again. Before I could attempt to carefully move the conversation on without upsetting the mare I was trying to cross-examine, a distraction presented itself all on its own.

“Anything from the trolley, dears?” A mare greeted us with a such a sickly-sweet voice that it physically hurt to listen to her. She was a fat mare dressed in a pink apron over her Stable suit and a coat of bubble-gum cyan, with an ugly green mane that was whipped up to look like puke flavored ice-cream. I realized this was the Mrs. Whip-Poor-Will that Mr. Punch had told us would serve our every need. How right he was.

Her dumbwaiter encouraged us to bear the nag’s company as it was set up like a candy-shop trolley but was piled high with narcotics. Some of the adult candy I recognized but some were entirely alien to me. The pale addict to my side instantly jumped at this opportunity, becoming a hungry and salivating mutt for the goods on offer.

“Since you’re offering, I’ll take several packets of Mint-als and a shot of Dash. What’s that in bits?” She pulled her saddle bag around, dipping into it. I heard her hoof hit cloth and knew she was going to play the ‘be a friend’ game that would inevitably have me paying for her purchase. For once, luck favored me.

“Everything here is on the house for guests of Mr. Shot,” she replied giddily, passing Poxy her order. The dull colored mare’s jaw dropped open and she collected some of everything, grinning like a foal on Hearth’s Warming morning. Mrs. Whips waited for me to decide what I wanted, but I was not as eager to junk up as my collaborator. I took a box of Mint-als, thanked her, and made my way to the free bar while putting my choice away in my saddle bag.

I poured myself a scotch and looked at the reflection of the room in the glass thoughtfully. I could see a pair of exhausted heads appearing from one of the beds where they had just been consummating... whatever it was they were. There was a stallion slumped over his guitar in a chair, drooling in a near comatose state and a mare dancing awfully to a fast-paced tune from the radio. If it wasn’t for the cleanliness and the wealth in the room, I’d have assumed this was another junkie’s hidey-hole. I gulped my drink and took the bottle, moving towards the food.

“Oi,” called Poxy, already shooting up from the inhaler and settling back on the chez lounge, “eatin’s cheatin’!” From the widening of her pupils and the long sigh on her lips I could tell she’d hit the Dash first. I rolled my eyes and filled a plate anyway because I didn’t know when I would next get to eat.

“Mr. Cherry,” squealed Mrs. Whip-Poor-Will, shaming the fella who’d been treating his guitar as a teddy bear and was now using the floor as a sick bucket. The name instantly got my attention. Was this Black Cherry, the stallion Midnight Dreamer was referring to?

He flopped back into his seat and fought to keep his guitar as the mare wrestled it away from him. “For the last time, if you continue to be so greedy and complacent, Mr. Shot will only have one option for you and that will be to have you removed permanently from his employment.”

“I’m -ugh- I’m up,” he pushed her hooves away and slid himself idly along the chair, trying to find the floor with a blindly searching hind-hoof. “I’m ready to perform, show me the way…” The dark russet stallion with the heavy shadow on his muzzle and the black and garnet mane managed to find the floor with his eyes closed. He also found his vomit and the rest of his attempts to move resulted in him slipping and sliding until he was back in his comfy seat and returning to his torpid state. Mrs. Whip-Poor-Will gave a long-suffering tut as though she had no part to play in this tragedy, cleaned him up as best she could before hurrying away with a woeful carping to find a mop. I stole the opportunity when he was unguarded to sit next to him.

“Black Cherry?” I enquired quietly with my beak pointed down into my plate to give the illusion to onlookers that I was feeding my face. He stank of cocktails and the contents of his gut.

“Who wants to know?” He grumped, “I said, show me the way to my stage. I’m down to perform and I ain’t too messed up to do a good number…” He turned his head and his rancid breath made me heave slightly.

“I’m not making you perform,” I mumbled, grimacing, “just wanted to have a wee chat with ye-”

“I’m not in the mood for chatting right now, lady,” he grunted, finally opening two bleary piss and blood eyes to stare at me. Or rather in my direction, as his pupils were shrunk to pinpoints and his semblance suggested he clearly was sightless for the time being at least. His limbs barely had any meat on the bones and his mane was disheveled. He’d been on the somber stuff by the looks of it.

“Black,” I tried again, “Midnight wanted me to have a wee word with you-”

“Midnight!” Unwittingly, I had triggered something in the junkie that I was unaware of and the reaction to the name was not a positive one. “BUCK OFF! Get the BUCK away from me!” He shoved me away, sending my plate smashing to the floor and spreading my food everywhere. I didn’t get chance to calm him or retaliate as a stallion much more significant and far more muscled seemed to appear out of nowhere to restrain him. Mrs. Whip-Poor-Will hurried across to us faster than her jiggling form should have allowed, her tiny eyes darting suspiciously at me.

“And just what is going on here now,” she asked me accusingly, “what was said?”

“Och, I-I was just-” I stammered.

“Just Crow,” the interruption, both welcome and disconcerting at the same time, came from the owner of the lavish hostel. Hot Shot sauntered into the room and owned it, his groupies all turning to look at him. He had brought Punch back with him, ensure the rogue stallion trotted behind him like the lowly servant he was. There was the handle of a square case between the colleague’s teeth. I was about to inquire about it when there was a cough and a splutter as Cherry released the remainder of his guts up behind the sofa when he was being led away. Mrs. Whip-Poor-Will was mortified and quickly spun to grovel to Hot Shot.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Shot. We’re cleaning him up but-”

“Not a problem, Magnolia,” Shot murmured reassuringly, resting a hoof on her shoulder, “we’ll ensure Mr. Cherry gets all the care he needs when I return.” He gave her a nod, darting the stallion a cursory glance and finally came to me.

“I’m glad to see you chose to come to us, Lady Griffon. We are just about ready for you now so if you’ll just come with us.”

“Wait for me,” gasped Poxy, leaping out of her chair and zipping over to my side. “My client goes nowhere without me from now on.” Her grin was manic and her itchy feet proved that the Dash was burning in her furnace, yet her actions and speech told me she’d added Mint-als to her diet.

“And you-?“

“Epoxy Heart,” Poxy beat Hot Shot’s question with the answer, “Crow needs me and that means you need me.” She grabbed his suit and tugged him down to whisper in his ear. The bouncer who was sorting out Black Cherry started forward only to have Shot wave him back. He listened to my representative. After she released him, he watched her and reevaluated her worth. I looked between them but could only guess what the mare had whispered to him.

“Very well,” Hot finally agreed, “but you both need to come now. We have a slot for you to perform, Just Crow. Follow us.” He turned, shooting Cherry one last disgruntled examination as he strode forward through the doorway. With Punch behind us, Poxy and I followed the exalted judge down the chalk uncolored stairway and then around to find a new doorway beneath them. As he opened it, this appeared to lead to a secret passageway that was not dark or dingy as one might expect, instead, it was paved with dark maroon wood and was well lit and clean.

“This Stable,” I muttered under my breath, “whoever built it sure loved their surprises.”

“What might that mean?” enquired Hot Shot, although he did not stop strolling.

“Och, nothing at all,” I advised, not willing to sell out the changelings at that time no matter what my feelings against the swarm were.

“This path will lead us straight to my concert hall,” he explained, “it will only take us a few minutes.”

“B-But ye havenay fixed my voice, Mr. Shot!” I protested, looking over his shoulder. He chuckled and looked back, winking.

“All in good time, Lady griffon,” he advised me coyly, “all in good time.”

Author's Notes:

Want to discuss the story? Follow me to the Scoundrel’s Settlement on Discord...

Song for this chapter; Annie Lennox - Little Bird

credit to Brainiac for the art
This is the last chapter brought together due to rewrites, thus meaning some of the timings I suggested a while ago have now moved on. My plan to have something impactful happen in chapter 20 might be moved to a different chapter. I have a plan, and I hope I haven't cooked all the eggs in my basket already...

Thank you to Blazie, for editing this in his free time. Aannnnd not forgetting Doomande, thanks for picking the nits <3.

If this is when you stop reading, goodbye and safe travels.

If you're still strapped in for the ride, see you in the next chapter.

All good things,
Duskhoof