Scratch’s Sparkle Scramble

Yet more pony fanfiction from the mind of Silvertie

Keen Eyes for Errors: Microshazm, Aegis Exemplar

01 - Gryphon’ Basterds

The white unicorn stood in the middle of the lush office, and did her best not to betray any emotion. Unfortunately, she was terrible at it, and her wild, two-tone vividly-blue tail flicked back and forth anxiously as sweat trickled down from an equally wild mane that seemed to be perpetually on “bed head” mode. Why was it that the difference between a messy mane and a professionally-styled one had to be fifty bits?

She looked around the room as subtly as was possible for her - at least in this, she had an advantage thanks to the purple shades she wore almost perpetually. Aside from her, a couple of (rather large and surly-looking) enforcers, and the pony behind the desk, they were alone.

Perfect for conducting the kind of business they were doing.

“You, uh,” the unicorn coughed. “You wanted to see me, boss?”

“Vinyl Scratch. Yes, I did,” the pony behind the desk agreed, hidden in the shadows cast by inconvenient lighting in the room. “Sit, please.”

One of the enforcers pushed a simple chair with wheels into the middle of the floor behind Vinyl, and she took it. The “please” was a little misleading - some ponies took it as an invitation. Not a lot of them lived long enough to survive to put the hard-learned lesson to use. Vinyl only did because at the time, she represented... a significant “investment”, in the loosest possible sense of the word.

“So,” the boss said. “Here we are, Miss Scratch. Barely a year ago, you ate into us for two million bits’ worth of sparkle, and between... generous donations from yourself and some pro bono work on our behalf, I think we’re about ready to cross off your debt to us.”

Vinyl blinked. “Really? I thought I was, like, gonna be here longer than that.”

“You’re welcome to stay on, of course,” the Boss chuckled. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, hm? One more job for us, and I think we’ll call it even. The hitsquad will pack their guns away, and there’ll not be any more swords... or stage lights... hanging over your head at concerts anymore.”

“Uh, thanks?” Vinyl blinked. She hadn’t considered that they’d been thinking about doing her in with a stage light... all those times she’d thought about how she was safer on stage than on the street.... “What’s the job? Another delivery?”

“In a sense,” the boss said. “All our usual brokers are currently... occupied. So we’re co-opting you to help close a deal we have going with one of our suppliers. He’s got a shipment of sparkle for us, we’ve got three million bits to give him for it. You’re going to go in, give him his money, and make sure we get our hundred kilos of uncut sparkle, got it? If you can get it cheaper, it’ll only reflect better on you, and there might be a cut in it for you.”

Vinyl wasn’t really listening - she’d stopped at around “hundred kilos of uncut sparkle”. The words bounced around Vinyl’s head. One hundred kilos of uncut sparkle. That’d be enough to make hers a happy world for... sweet Celestia. A very long time. A deliciously dangerous length of time. Nopony knew if it was even possible to OD on sparkle, it was that damn expensive. You might as well be snorting gold filings, it’d be cheaper. Sparkle definitely gave a better buzz, though. Oh yeah.

Now she was salivating, damnit. She shook her head to get rid of that insane idea of seeing if it was actually possible to OD on sparkle. That was exactly what had gotten her so far behind the financial eight-ball and necessitated this unsavory pseudo-day-job. Not to mention crossing the boss and stealing a hundred kilos of sparkle would be an excellent way to get herself gunned down in the middle of the street, before she could even sample her ill-gotten gains.

“Is there a problem, Miss Scratch?” the boss asked, noting the shake of her head.

“No, I got it,” she said. “Just... got something in my head, is all. It’s gone.”

“Good.” There was a creak of chair as the boss adjusted his position. “One hundred kilos. Pure. I know you’ve got a good eye for sparkle, I trust you to make sure our dealer isn’t cheating us. The last few shipments we’ve gotten from him have been... lackluster.”

“What if he is?” Vinyl asked.

“Then no deal,” the boss said. “Tell him to go buck himself, and walk out of there. With the money. LeGrande can have our money when he’s not trying to buck us, and by extension, our customers, over.”

“Got it,” Vinyl nodded.

“Tonight, warehouse six on the south-side,” The boss tapped his hoof on the desk. “Midnight, sharp. Be discreet.”

“Gotcha,” Vinyl nodded again, before a name registered. “Wait, LeGrande?”

“That’s his name,” the boss said, coldly. “Problem?”

“Uh, maybe,” Vinyl coughed. “I, uh, didn’t know he was in this line of work... is it likely he’ll be armed?”

“LeGrande?” the boss paused. “No. But his flunkies almost certainly will, and they’re gryphons - in a sense, they’re always armed.”

“Can I,” Vinyl rubbed the back of her head. “Like, can I get outside help on this? LeGrande... well, last time we met, I don’t think we parted on good terms. Like, he wouldn’t do it in public, but in the middle of a sparkle deal? He might just decide to gut me right then and there.”

“Vinyl... I don’t care how you do it,” the boss said. “You can get your grandmother in on this if you have to. Just make sure that I get one hundred kilos of uncut sparkle on my desk by the end of the week or my three million back if the deal does go sour, and that nopony links to us, you got it? They report to you, you report to me. You know what happens to rats.”

“Gotcha,” Vinyl nodded. “By the end of the week, then.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Vinyl. Autumn, Jack, show her out?”

======

The sun was high in the sky, and the sun shone down on the mountainside city of Canterlot. The cultured city, home to the Princesses’ seat of government, Canterlot Castle, boasted a uniformly clean and glamorous image with pristine white buildings, exquisitely detailed cobblestone roads, and quaint cafes filled with ponies who had nothing better to do than sit about and drink coffee on a sunny day.

It was in one of these cafes that two old friends socialized over coffee, discussing the latest developments, such as there could be, in the lives of two classical musicians.

“And get this,” a teal unicorn gushed, “They caught him! In the toilets, snogging his viola!”

The two mares burst into laughter, and the unicorn’s companion, a grey earth pony with a carefully-managed mane, delicately wiped a tear from her eye.

“I swear, Lyra,” she said in a clipped, refined tone. “You have really fallen in with a weird orchestra. So much more interesting than mine.” Octavia stifled another round of laughter, staring at her reflection in the coffee. “I knew the snogging was coming, but... ugh, did I not say this would happen?”

Lyra grinned as she took a sip of her mocha. “You did, you did. I was sure to tell them that. “Octavia called it, guys, she called it,” I said.”

Octavia nodded. “Good, good. Did I tell you what Woodwind managed to do with his oboe the other day?”

Lyra shook her head, eager to hear it, but what Woodwind did with his oboe was something she’d never find out, as the door to the cafe was thrown open with a jangle of the little bell above the doorway, a white unicorn stood, breathing hard as her goggled visage roved over the cafe, reflecting the world in purple. Barely a two-count and already she was out of place and turning heads. Unsubtle, as usual.

“Is that...?” Lyra asked, as the unicorn spotted them.

“Is it... Vinyl?” Octavia hazarded, a small part of her mind locking down tight as memories tried to resurface unbidden.

“Guys!” Vinyl called out, waving a hoof before running straight for them, squeezing between chairs and dodging around waiters as she went. There were more than a few spilled cups and curses of frustration to mark the rather uncouth unicorn’s rough passage.

“Uh, hello, Vinyl,” Octavia said, wrinkling her nose as Vinyl got closer and the odor of sweat reached her nostrils. “Long... time no see.”

“Heh, yeah,” Vinyl chuckled, rubbing the back of her head and mane with a hoof as she caught her breath. “When was the last time we saw each other?”

“That would be... the music academy,” Lyra guessed.

“After that incident with you and that stallion,” Octavia added, having lost the battle to suppress the memory. “And my bed. I distinctly remember saying I never wanted to see you again. No amount of dry-cleaning ever got those stains out, you know. They had to be burned.”

“Did I mention you look great, Octy?” Vinyl said, changing tack and leaning over next to the cellist, poking her in the side. “You’re quite literally half the pudgy pony I used to know. What was it? Atkins?”

“What do you want, Vinyl?” Lyra asked, breaking in before Octavia had a chance to blow her lid, an event that seemed incredibly likely at present, if Octavia’s jaw was any indication.

“Want?” Vinyl lied, adopting a dismissive air. “That implies I was like, looking for you, or something. You know, that would involve, like, chasing you up at your orchestras and usual haunts, seeing if anypony knew where you were, and that’s way too hard - so not me. Can’t a mare walk into a cafe and spot two old friends and have a chat? Catch up on old times?”

The pair of flat looks directed back at her indicated where her lie was hitting on the “bullshit-o-meter” - somewhere in the red zone. She coughed awkwardly, and kicked the carpet gently.

“Right,” Vinyl pressed on, abandoning the pathetic lie. “See, I need help. Like, I know you two are trustworthy and stuff, right? I need somepony I can trust.”

“... you mean, a favor,” Lyra said, flatly. “I just think you might be looking in the wrong place. Don’t you have anypony else you could ask? Ponies you’ve seen in the last five years?”

“Well, not really,” Vinyl said, face contorting as she tried to work out a way to explain herself. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, got loads of friends, but... well, they’d probably get me in trouble, is what I’m saying, here.” Vinyl looked around at the cafe, where the other patrons quickly abandoned their curiosity and scrutinized their coffees. “Is there somewhere private we could talk about this? It’s kind of sensitive.”

======

Against Octavia’s better judgement, the trio found themselves standing in the entryway to her own pristine apartment in Canterlot Heights. A simple open-plan domicile, the doorway led through a kitchen area and into the apartment proper, where a faux-leather lounge suite sat on top of a thick shag-pile carpet, with a music box in one corner of the room and Octavia’s prized cello sitting on it’s stand in the other corner, all of it lit by the sunlight shining through a wide window that had a spectacular view of Canterlot.

“Hey, nice digs, Octy,” Vinyl said, smiling in admiration as she walked through the walk-in kitchen and began to slowly spin in the middle of the lounge area. “Very swanky. I should get a place up here.”

“No!” Octavia blurted out, before catching herself. “I mean, no, Vinyl - you wouldn’t like it up here, I’m sure. You’re still into that dubclop rubbish, aren’t you?”

“It’s dubtrot,” Vinyl corrected. “And it’s not “rubbish”. I could say worse about your snooty classical.”

“Whatever,” Octavia dismissed. “You’re just saying that because you failed strings. Point is, the neighbors aren’t so... tolerant of loud music. I’ve had to soundproof my walls so they can’t hear me practicing. I shudder to think how quickly they’d try and throw you out after a night of your dubtrot.”

“Oh, okay,” Vinyl shrugged, flopping onto a couch. “Buck that, then. Stuck up prudes.”

“Yeah,” Lyra said absentmindedly, as she picked up an ornament and turned it over in her magic, looking at it. “This block was always way too uptight for me. Seems to suit Octy just fine, though, music aside.”

Octavia rolled her eyes as she stood at the edge of the lounge area. “Look, what I was getting at was that the walls are soundproofed. Not a lot of sound gets out, so whatever it is you’ve got to say, Vinyl, you can say it. Nopony but us’ll hear it.”

“What is the problem?” Lyra asked, still examining the statuette. “I must confess, I’m quite curious. Money troubles? Did you get into financial hot water with the wrong crowd... again?”

“Yeah,” Vinyl admitted, before shaking her head. “And no. No, it’s not a money problem. That’s sorted. Sorta. This is, well...” Vinyl coughed, and pushed her purple shades up her forehead, looking at Octavia and Vinyl with red-irised eyes. “What do you guys know about the sparkle trade in Canterlot?”

“Sparkle?” Octavia’s snout crinkled in disgust. “It’s abhorrent, that’s what it is. Absolutely disgusting. I’m somewhat mortified that such a dirty business even exists in this city.”

“It’s also big money,” Lyra pointed out. “And I get the feeling that Vinyl’s money problems are strongly linked to it.”

Vinyl frowned. “Look, I’ll tell you straight up - I’m making a sparkle deal, three mil for a hundred kilos of pure. I do that, I’m in the clear financially.”

“Where did you get a hundred kilos of sparkle?!” Lyra exclaimed, putting the statuette back with a burst of magic and spinning around to face the DJ.

“I didn’t!” Vinyl protested. “I’m the one with the three million bits making the purchase!”

“Three million bits?” Octavia queried. “Then why in the name of Celestia do you have money problems?”

“I don’t actually own the bits, I- augh!” Vinyl got up and stamped a hoof. “Look, this isn’t going anywhere. I have the money. I need that sparkle. But I can’t go make the deal myself.”

“Why not?” Lyra asked.

“Because the guy I’m supposed to be dealing with hates my guts,” Vinyl explained. “Gustav LeGrande. And he doesn’t know I’m the other end of the deal... yet. I’m worried that if I walk in there and try to deal with him, he’ll-”

“I get it,” Octavia held up a hoof. “And frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. You always did have a way of upsetting the wrong ponies. So you want us to go and make the deal in your stead?”

“Well, sorta,” Vinyl nodded to Lyra. “I was just gonna ask her. It has to be a unicorn, and since I know neither of you are users or even want to deal in sparkle, I reckon I can trust Lyra to make the deal and not try to leave me in the lurch by stealing the sparkle.”

“What’s our cut?” Lyra asked.

“Lyra!” Octavia exclaimed, and Lyra held up a hoof in defense.

“Hey, sparkle dealing’s the sort of thing that gets a pony put away for two decades,” she argued. “I wanna make sure the risk is worth it, you dig?”

“Well, uh,” Vinyl shrugged. “There... isn’t really a cut. But I’ll find a way to make it up to you, yeah? Once there isn’t a three million bit deal riding on the line.”

“So you want Lyra to put her neck on the line and risk a twenty year jail sentence, if not outright physical bodily harm,” Octavia summarized, “and you want her to do it for free?”

“Well... yeah,” Vinyl admitted. “I figured she’d at least be willing to negotiate with me, or something. Talk out a price or something, you know?”

“You are unbelievable,” Octavia spat, sitting down. “There is no way she’d-”

“I’ll do it,” Lyra said. “But that thing you do for me in the future better be good, Vinyl.”

“Excellent!” Vinyl whooped.

“Oh for the love of Celestia,” Octavia groaned. “Lyra, you’re an idiot.”

“Aw, come on, Tavi,” Lyra greased. “Vinyl’s a friend. Sure, she’s stepped on a lot of hooves in the past, and had rather messy sex with her at-the-time-special-somepony on your bed... hay, I think she’s actually done that to all our beds back at the academy...” Lyra’s face fell, and she grimaced as she shook her head and kept going, “But she’s always been there for us, always willing to help us bullshit our way past a lecturer, or into the practice rooms after hours.”

Octavia blinked, and looked down at her own hooves.

“I mean,” Lyra went on, “What about that time we all went out on a bender, and showed up to recital the next morning hungover as Tartarus? I think only somepony as popular as Vinyl could have bluffed us past the lecturer’s curiosity and passed off our sunglasses as a new fashion.”

“Alright, alright,” Octavia held up a hoof in surrender. “Fine, I get it. I’ll go, too.”

“You don’t need to go,” Lyra countered. “I’m already going. Vinyl only needs one of us.”

“Yes,” Octavia admitted. “But you have a tendency to forget details, and if sparkle dealing’s anything like how I think it is, missing a detail could be a deal-breaker.”

Vinyl shrugged. “Got a point. I’ll be there to verify the sparkle’s quality, but I’ll be wearing a mask and won’t say a word, in case LeGrande recognizes my voice.”

“Mask?” Lyra asked.

“Well, yeah,” Vinyl shrugged. “You want sparkle dealers to know your face? I mean, I am kind of a face in the nightclub scene, and all; dunno about you guys in the orchestra circuit.”

“Good point,” Lyra nodded. “I’ve got some rubber animal masks, if anypony wants to borrow one.”

“They’ll do,” Vinyl agreed. “I was gonna suggest balaclavas, but I like the animal masks idea way better.”

“...why do you have rubber animal masks?” Octavia asked.

“Oh, we did a whole concert while wearing them,” Lyra elaborated. “Didn’t I get around to telling you?”

“No.”

“Oh, well,” Lyra chuckled. “See, we thought it’d be a great idea to-”

Octavia held her hoof to Lyra’s mouth for a few seconds, and let it drop. When she did, Lyra had stopped talking.

“Let’s focus, shall we?” Octavia asked. “We have masks. What else do we need?”

“Not a lot, actually,” Vinyl admitted. “Just be at warehouse three by half-eleven, so we can go over the plans and stuff. Dress for the occasion, cover your flank.”

“Why?” Lyra asked.

“I like having my talent on my flank as much as the next pony,” Vinyl indicated her own flank, where a double quaver sat, “But these things are a bit of a dead giveaway if anypony spots you.”

“Ah.” Lyra nodded, eyes flicking briefly to her own golden harp. “I’ll be there, I’ll find something to wear.”

“Ugh,” Octavia groaned, subconsciously covering her treble clef mark with her tail. “I don’t have anything really suited for... sparkle dealing.”

“You’ll work something out, I’m sure.”

======

Vinyl checked her watch again by the light of the magic from her horn with the absence of a lantern in the shadowed warehouse, and Lyra sighed.

“Come on, Vinyl. It’s been thirty seconds since you last checked that watch,” the unicorn said, sitting on a crate and looking perhaps inappropriately flamboyant in a red-floral print shirt and cargo shorts. “Give it a rest.”

The pair were waiting in warehouse three - apparently being used to store pocket watches, of all things. The warehouse was dark, because while Canterlot was the kind of town that didn’t really feel it needed to lock doors, the fact remained that they still weren’t supposed to be there, and that three million bits tended to raise questions of an uncomfortable nature in the world of law enforcement, such as “where did you get that” and “what were you going to buy with it”.

“She’s late,” protested Vinyl, dressed far more appropriately in a nondescript brown jacket and jeans. “What happened to “attention to detail”?”

“We’re early,” pointed out Lyra. “Look, I betcha the moment that watch hits half-eleven, on the dot, she’ll walk through that door.”

Vinyl grunted in disbelief, and looked back at her watch. “Thirty seconds.”

Outside the warehouse, there was a clatter of hooves, and the slam of a carriage door. Vinyl and Lyra held their breath as there were murmured words, and the clink of coin getting exchanged. Vinyl checked her watch one last time as the second hand crossed the twelve, and-

“Hello?” Octavia asked, “Lyra? Vinyl?”

“Octy?” Vinyl asked, lighting up her horn with a glow of magic. “Is that- whoa.”

The new illumination to the room caused the earth pony standing inside the warehouse doorway to be revealed properly; it was Octavia, alright, but-

“What’s with the opera dress?” Lyra asked, aghast. “That is... wow. And I thought I was inappropriately dressed.”

“Pardon me for not having only the finest garments,” Octavia snorted. “It covers my flank, what more do you want?”

“Well, something less remarkable might help,” Lyra muttered. “Did you really have to wear the heels as well?”

“Look who’s talking, Lyra - you can see that floral print from Manehattan.”

“Anyway,”  Vinyl intervened, “You’re here, we can begin.”

The trio moved over to a smaller crate, which had been press-ganged into service as a makeshift table, with a large bag resting next to it, and a larger duffel bag resting on it. Vinyl reached into the larger bag, and pulled out a tiny clear bag with small, crystalline powder in it.

“This,” she declared, “is sparkle. The mid-quality stuff, about fifty percent pure. One snort of this and you still probably won’t come down for a couple of days.”

“Not much of it,” Lyra muttered, squinting at the baggie.

“The idea is to cut it down or dilute it so you get more out of it. It cost me a hundred bits,” Vinyl pointed out. “Imagine how much a hundred kilos of pure is worth.”

“Hnngh.” Lyra grunted as she thought of the number. “Alright. So you’re holding something worth more than gold right now.”

“Yup,” Vinyl nodded. “And here’s how you know it’s the good stuff.”

With a pulse of magic, Vinyl fired a beam of light from her horn at the bag; the light passed through the bag easily enough, but as it did, the crystals began to glow, sparkling and glittering in the wake of the light.

“Wow,” Octavia admitted. “That is really pretty.”

“The better the sparkle,” Vinyl said, proudly flaunting her knowledge, “the better the... sparkle.” Vinyl blinked. “Damn, that is catchy.”

“So, what do you need us for?” Lyra asked. “Or rather, both of us?”

“Well, I need you to cast the light spell,” Vinyl explained. “I can’t cast it, I’m supposed to look like the hired help, a thug. You cast it, I evaluate it.”

“What about me?” Octavia asked.

“Well,” Lyra looked Octavia up and down. “You look like you know your stuff. You pretend to be the one evaluating it, and just pay attention to clues from Vinyl.”

“That’ll work,” Vinyl shrugged. “Besides, with the three of us, carrying a hundred kilos of sparkle should be way easier.”

“What else is in that bag?” Octavia pointed to the duffel bag.

“Not a lot,” Vinyl said. “Just the money - cash, unmarked bits. And some contingency plans... just in case. All we need are the masks, and we’re set.”

“Oh,” Lyra held up a hoof, holding up the other bag. “I got the masks!”

Lyra upended the bag, and with a thlap, a wide selection of rubber animal masks flopped out.

“Take your pick!” she invited, quickly snagging a rooster head for her own

Octavia’s hoof hovered over the mess of rubber and synthetic (hopefully) hair, before picking out a large, brown mask - an owl. She turned it over, and nodded. “This will do, I hope.”

“Radical,” Vinyl muttered. “You actually look the part of an inspector, you know, ‘cos owls have eyes for secrets and stuff. Now... what to pick... ah, yes. The pig!”

The trio tugged their masks on, and adjusted them so they could see. By the time they were done...

“Ah ha ha!” Vinyl laughed. “Oh, pony. We look hilarious!”

The average observer would have trouble not agreeing with such a judgement - three mares dressed rather oddly for the most part, with chimaera-esque heads. An owl, a rooster, and a pig. In fact, between the masks and the clothes, there was precious little to identify the ponies definitively.

They were ready.

======

Warehouse six. Unlike warehouse three, it looked like this one was mostly in disuse, with nothing in the building save for a few mildewed crates, a pile of metal girders, and more concrete blocks than anypony probably knew what to do with.

There was a flapping of wings in the air; it heralded the arrival of no less than five cloaked gryphons of assorted tan and tawny coloring, save for the leader, who had plumage that was grey like stone. Gustav LeGrande. He passed through the open double-doors on the far side, and hovered in the air, letting his eyes adjust to the light from the lantern inside, his subordinates following suit.

By day, he was LeGrande: the world-famous pastry chef - his quiches were exquisite, his danishes were to die for, and his eclairs were exceptional, achieving fame from the Gryphon Kingdoms to Stalliongrad and everywhere in between and beyond.

By night, he was LeGrande: mover and shaker in the sparkle underworld, producing the purest sparkle for miles around. It was said that just a few flakes of his weakest-grade sparkle in, say, a tub of icing was what gave him that competitive edge over other pastry chefs, making his eclairs so good that they not only made any day a little more bearable, but you just had to have just one more.

Well, any baker worth their salt used sparkle to spice up their dishes. Perhaps not on day-to-day fare like he did, but for contests, when the oven mitts came off... anything went, although it was a tricky line to tread if one of the judges suddenly passed out in ecstasy.

He touched down, claws on cold concrete as he surveyed the three ponies waiting for him. Each of them was, strangely enough, wearing a rubber animal mask and dressed up to conceal their cutie marks - while unusually executed, it wasn’t exactly uncommon in the sparkle trade, and broadly speaking, he didn’t care. What he did care about was... there. On the back of the pig was a large duffel bag, and it jingled as the pig shifted under it’s weight. It sounded like three million bits.

“Mister LeGrande,” the floral-print rooster said, speaking with a mare’s voice. “Good evening.”

“And the same to you, ma cherie,” Gustav bowed. “I confess, you have me at a loss - you seem to know my name, but I do not know yours.”

“Well, it’s not part of the deal,” the rooster countered. “What is part of the deal is three million cold, hard bits. What’ve you got?”

“We have your sparkle,” LeGrande smiled. “Boys?”

Two of the gryphons stepped forward, and wordlessly dumped their backpacks on the ground. The other two kept beady eyes on the ponies, ready to pounce.

“One hundred metric kilograms,” LeGrande elaborated, fishing something out of one of the backpacks. “Individually wrapped in kilogram cellophane bags for easy transport, preparation and quality assurance.”

There was a flick of claw, and the rooster caught the bag in a golden glow of magic, looking at it before firing a beam of magic light at it. Like a lightshow, the bag lit up, lights glittering all throughout it as the sparkle reacted. The opera-dressed owl stared at the bag for a moment, as did the pig and the rooster, before nodding.

“It is what we agreed on,” the owl said, in a clipped, formal voice.

The rooster looked like they were going to say something, before pausing, and pointing a wary hoof at LeGrande. “Let’s see another pack, huh?” The rooster rolled the hoof about in the air. “One from the middle of the bag, if you would. Or the bottom, even better.”

LeGrande frowned. “What’s this? Don’t you trust me?”

“Personally?” The rooster shrugged. “Yes. But my boss does not, and so, I’m going to need to check that other packet, or we walk, right here and now.”

LeGrande snorted, and dug a little deeper for his next pick, and with a great deal less enthusiasm, dug out the packet and tossed that. The rooster caught it once more, and hit it with another beam of light.

The effects were almost exactly the same as before, and LeGrande held up his claws in confusion.

“See? LeGrande keeps his word, he is the most trustworthy in his clan!”

“Says a lot about your clan,” the owl muttered. “You’re trying to cheat us, LeGrande.”

“Whatever do you mean?” the gryphon asked, his friendly demeanor slipping just a little. There was a pause as the owl just stared at the bag, before turning to face LeGrande.

“This is barely sixty-grade,” the owl spat, throwing the cake on the ground.

“The deal was for a hundred kilos of pure-grade sparkle,” the rooster argued. “No less.”

“I think you’ve been misinformed about the deal,” LeGrande said coldly. “Give me my money, and you’ll get your precious sparkle.”

The rooster stared at him for a moment, as if weighing up his words, then spoke.

“If you don’t have our pure-grade sparkle, then we walk. No deal,” the rooster said, bluntly.

LeGrande gestured with a claw, and there was a ratcheting sound from behind him. With four synchronous flicks of cloaks, the gryphons revealed their weapons of choice, rearing up onto their hind paws to hold the weapons properly.

The Gryphon Kingdoms were a strange and unusual place; compared to Equestria, they were a great deal more aggressive, their opposable claws giving them access to a whole branch of technology otherwise neglected by Equestria; and unlike the Diamond Dog clans elsewhere, they actually had the intellect to make their armament dreams a reality, and none of the Draconic Empires’ experience with what the machines of war could bring to a land.

Machined steel formed a barrel as long as a leg, with a small tag on one end. At the other, a carefully-manufactured firing mechanism was nestled and framed within a polished walnut stock and body, gripping of the weapon facilitated by two handles divided by a large disc-like protuberance; all of it controlled by a single metal tab easily reached by an index claw.

Quite possibly the Gryphon Kingdoms’ deadliest production weapon to-date, the .45 ACP Talon submachine gun, a gun dubbed the “trench sweeper” in some circles. Or as it was better known, “the Chickago typewriter”.

“Oh, feathers,” Owl breathed.

======

“Oh, feathers,” Octavia breathed.

“Calm down, calm down,” Vinyl whispered, struggling to stick to her own advice. “I’m sure they won’t actually shoot at us - it’s just a scare tactic or something. When they give us an opening, we run like buck, got it?”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” whispered Lyra, taking a step back involuntarily.

“The money, if you will,” LeGrande beckoned with a claw. “Make it snappy, and you might live to tell your boss about it.”

“What do we do?” Lyra hissed.

“I can’t just give him the money!” Vinyl hissed back. “If LeGrande doesn’t kill me, my boss will.”

“Vinyl,” Octavia chimed in, “if you don’t hand that money over, we all die. You never mentioned that we might get shot up in a gangland shooting in this job!”

“I’m sorry not everypony likes to play by our plans, Octavia,” Vinyl retorted. “Look, just... get ready to run to cover or something.”

Vinyl’s horn glowed, and the duffel bag lifted itself off her back and placed itself on the ground, unzipping.

“There’s a good piggy,” LeGrande smiled. “Back away from the money, and we won’t have a medley of bacon and chicken on the menu with a side of owl, got it?”

There was a snick of metal snapping, and three cylindrical shapes flew out of the bag, ticking rapidly as they flew ever closer to the gryphons, bouncing on the stone floor of the warehouse and rolling past them.

Just because ponies didn’t have opposable digits didn’t mean they couldn’t dabble and mix the fields of alchemy and clockwork to make grenades.

The gryphons took wing as one, and with a resounding boom and blossom of flames, the air was split, and the ground shook. There were screeches of pain from the gryphons, and smoke began to fill the air.

Octavia screamed, and was tugged to the left as Lyra dragged her with telekinesis, throwing the cellist behind a handy pile of girders before diving behind them herself. A wave of smoke pushed by the gust of wind from the explosion washed over the top of their cover, and with a loud whang, a gryphon followed not long after, head lolling as the corpse draped itself over their cover. Octavia looked at the body in horror, as Lyra tugged the gun out of the gryphon’s claws, and looked at it.

“Over there!” LeGrande coughed, “Shoot them!”

The sounds of gunfire barked through the air as the remaining still-alive gryphons obeyed the order, firing at Lyra and Octavia. The explosions had disorientated them, though, and it showed with most of the bullets flying clean past the pile of girders, punctuated by the odd zing of bullets hitting the solid steel girders.

“Score,” Lyra muttered, bouncing her new find in her hooves. “A gun. Now, if only I had some way of pulling the trigger, I could shoot back... perhaps a short, fleshy tentacle? Octy, do you any idea how I can grow a tentacle in like, thirty seconds?”

“Lyra!” Octavia exclaimed, astounded. “You’re a unicorn! Magic!”

Lyra blinked behind her mask, and stared at the gun. “Oh, right.”

The gunfire cut off as the gryphons depleted their drums of ammunition, and as one, stopped firing to reload. Lyra took the opportunity to float the purloined Talon over their cover, and point the business end at where the gunfire had come from.

Lyra didn’t waste time with a snappy one-liner (although it was clear she wanted to) and settled for just pulling the trigger with a telekinetic tendril, opening up with fully automatic fire. The gun bucked and kicked in her magical grip, the barrel jumping about wildly, giving her an aim that was arguably worse than that of the trained gryphons.

It had the desired effect, though, and after a few strangled yelps of surprise, the gryphons dived for cover all over. Across the warehouse, Vinyl poked her head up, and saw that they were all busy hiding behind concrete pillars - too busy to shoot back, for now. She fished another grenade out of her jacket, and primed it with a snap of the pin.

“Leg it!” Vinyl yelled, throwing the grenade and running. Octavia followed next, breaking cover and running as quickly as she could in her high-heels. Lyra wasn’t far behind, walking a lot slower as she concentrated her focus on keeping the gun steady and firing.

The grenade went off once more, this time exploding and sending billowing black smoke through the area, the gryphons coughing as they tried to disperse the smoke with flapping wings. Lyra kept firing, in the hopes that she’d hit something, and...

With a loud, ratcheting snick, the gun ran dry, and Lyra gulped as she dropped the smoking weapon. The gryphons poked their heads out, and through the clearing smoke, saw nothing but her backside as she ran for the doors, galloping hard to catch up with Vinyl and Octavia.

Bullets zinged past her, sparks showering off the concrete and metal doors of the warehouse as she threw herself out the doorway and to the right, where Octavia and Vinyl were pressed up against the wall, flinching away from the newly forming bullet holes.

“Time to go!” Lyra urged.

“This way!” Vinyl called out, running for warehouse three. Lyra and Octavia followed suit, heads low as there were shouts from behind them, and bullets began to scorch the air around them. Vinyl pulled another pin, and a cylinder bounced behind them, exploding in a cloud of smoke that caused the next shots to go violently wide as Vinyl jinked to the left and pulled the other two down between two rows of crates.

“Where are we going?!” Lyra asked, pulling Octavia along close behind her.

“Sorry, had to lose ‘em,” Vinyl apologized. “I’ve left a car down here, to help us move the stuff. Or I did, anyway.” Vinyl managed to shrug while running. “It’ll make a good getaway vehicle.”

The trio cleared the corner, and entered a wide alleyway behind the warehouses; lined with crates and lit by moonlight, there was a small four-wheeled buggy parked there. A small, two-door carriage, it had room for four, a closed canopy, and a tidy little thaumic engine in the front to pull it along.

“In, in!” Vinyl urged, pulling the driver’s side open with magic and jumping into the seat, starting the engine with a pulse of magic. Lyra pulled open the other door, and levered the seat forward to allow access to the back seat. She waited a moment, and turned around.

“Octavia?” Lyra asked, looking at the owl-masked cellist, concerned. “Are you okay?”

Octavia just responded by limping forward and collapsing against the side of the carriage. Lyra caught her, and pulled the owl mask off Octavia’s head, revealing a sweat-slicked face and a noticeably pale pallor.

“My leg...”

Lyra looked down, and saw Octavia’s rear leg - specifically, how a bullet had punched clean through her left thigh, causing a rivulet of red to soak Octavia’s leg. And she’d been running on it this whole time. No wonder she was sweating - Octavia might not be the toughest pony around, but the girl had a will of forged steel when it came to sticking things out.

“Vinyl, Tavi’s been shot!”

Next Chapter: Scare Tactics Estimated time remaining: 18 Minutes