From Gander to Gendarme

Chapters

Prologue: A Night on the Town
Chapter One: Law and Order
Chapter Two: Surprise Party
Chapter Three: Party Surprise
Chapter Four: Hangovers
Chapter Five: Hanging Out

Prologue: A Night on the Town

Fear is a fascinating emotion. It serves as a harsh reminder of the limits of intelligent species, something of a sobering reality check. No matter how far one’s society has progressed, no matter the dizzying heights of knowledge acquired, the most civilized and rational thinkers can still be brought low by the most basic and ancient of emotions. For all of the vaunted greatness of scholarly growth, fear proves time and again that the mind is ever subservient to the body.

It is a feeling as old as life itself, born of instinct and honed through countless years of evolutionary advancement. Its design is simple, yet effective in its mission: the survival of the self. Some perceived threat rears its ugly head, and fear quite naturally takes control. Breathing accelerates as the lungs work with ever increasing speed, heart pounding in one’s chest to keep pace. Muscles quiver in preparation for sudden bursts of speed, while perception slows to a bare crawl. The frivolities of higher thought flee, and only the drive to survive remains.

Where exactly voiding one’s bowels comes into the picture isn’t quite clear, but perhaps even that has some unknown benefit. Perhaps it was speed, the pony named Mulligan thought as he fled in absolute terror. He certainly did feel lighter on his hooves now.

Mulligan did not consider himself a coward. There were few things a stallion like himself needed to be wary of, after all. He was tall and heavily built, with dense muscles packed beneath a caramel brown coat and a salt-and-pepper colored mane kept crudely hacked short so as not to interfere in a tussle. A permanent scowl was affixed to a snout that had seen any trace of beauty long beaten out of it, and the stubble of a beard that refused to shave clean only enhanced his naturally intimidating glower. The rest of his body told a sad tale of lifelong combat, covered in a crisscrossing pattern of thin scars from old injuries barely healed and otherwise ignored. His cutie mark was a wooden slugger and it suited him well, though in all of his years Mulligan had never actually played baseball. Even the horn on his head was filed to a dagger point, in case a legitimate conflict of interest ever required him to butt heads with another pony in a friendly effort to change their mind on the subject.

He was a force to be reckoned with, a bruiser with both talent and experience. He was an enforcer who’d not only experienced the worst the city had to offer, but survived it and dished out a little of his own in return. He knew these streets like the back of his hoof, and walked them like he owned them.

A shrill scream broke the silence of the night air, and despite ponies often forgoing clothing entirely Mulligan felt the need for brown pants. He was missing that confidence right about now, and his current pace could be considered more of a sprint than a walk. He dashed through cobblestone alleys wedged tightly between the tall brick projects, scurrying past corners like a rat in a maze. Behind him, he could make out the edge of the docks he’d fled from, unmarked shipping crates stacked haphazardly like forgotten children’s toys. To his sides, nothing but low-income housing, tasteful graffiti of the Princess’ royal flanks, and darkened windows with heavy iron bars announcing the neighborhood’s less than law-abiding nature like a neon sign. Ahead, nothing but fog from sewer vents along his path, and the occasional flickering orange light from an ill-maintained street lamp. Above, a shadow flashed against the light of the full moon, a ghost in the night’s sky. A whimper building up in his throat, Mulligan picked up the pace.

Baltimare was his home. He’d grown up in these ghettos. He’d learned to brawl in that run-down pub. He’d mugged his first tourist beneath that viaduct. He’d watched ponies in the wrong place at the wrong time disappear behind those unmarked doors, never to be heard from again. He’d made a living in its back alleys and darkened corners, serving as muscle for the city’s seedy underbelly. Mulligan had thought he’d seen every horror this corrupt city could throw at him.

He was wrong.

Tonight was not supposed to go down this way. It was intended to be a simple pick-up and delivery, a parcel exchanging hooves with no questions or curious glances. He was good at that kind of thing. Mulligan wasn’t a particularly smart pony, but he knew when to keep his head down and his mouth shut, and that was enough in a city like this. At least, on any other night. Tonight was all wrong. He and his contact were supposed to have finished their transaction by now, with Mulligan heading home to sip on a cold cider while his nameless accomplice went back to whatever illicit dealings his kind did. Instead, he was being hunted like an animal through the narrows of skid row, while his associate...

Mulligan shuddered in horror as he stopped for a second to catch his breath, leaning heavily against a spindly stop sign and shaking his head to escape the memories. That sight would haunt his nightmares for years to come. That was, of course, assuming he could survive the night. All he had to do, he knew, was to get back to his boss’s turf. He’d be safe there. An entire crew of the roughest, toughest ponies this side of the Mississipponi, backed by a stallion so cold he was rumored to be part wendigo. Nopony messed with boss Dobber, and nopony messed with the Skinflints. Not the poor shmucks living in skid row, not the other gangs carving this town up block by block, not even the city cops trying in vain to keep the law alive in Baltimare. Nopony.

The faint rustle of feathers from below caught his attention, and his heaving for air like a trout out of water turned into a startled gasp that froze in his throat. An all-encompassing dread filled the unicorn as his ears tilted ever so slightly to face behind him, catching a low, beastial hiss that promised every dark and terrifying imagined horror that plagued foals in their beds at night. Slowly, quaking in his steel shoes with knees like gelatin, Mulligan turned to face his pursuer.

Nopony messed with the Skinflints.

This monster was no pony.

***

“It was awfully kind of you to treat me to coffee, darling.” Soubrette Sprite levitated her steaming cup up in an emerald aura of magic. It was a beautiful green color, just as the rest of her was. A pristine, shimmering coat the color of a grassy knoll, and a mane done up in a fabulous bun that evoked the image of the leafy canopy of the Everfree. Even her eyes burned green as she sipped daintily before continuing, “Really, now, there are no hard feelings.”

Across from her sat a pale blue unicorn, who stared into her own cup with an expression somewhat like shame. As if that traitorous skank Stellar Starlet could feel emotions. She had been cursed with a dark violet mop on her head, curling most wretchedly and thankfully obscuring her homely face. It reminded Sprite of a squid and it clashed horribly with her coat, which was dull and lifeless. Honestly, Sprite couldn’t tell if her fellow unicorn even bathed. Other than packing on a few too many pounds, everything about her was average and boring, from her single star cutie mark to her slate grey eyes, and it all combined together to practically make her invisible. Even her voice was barely present, rising in little more than a mournful whisper. “I’m really, really sorry. Maybe I can talk to the director and get him to change his mind?”

“Nonsense,” Sprite waved off the idea with a hoof that had seen more spas than steps. She shouldn’t have been surprised with the brainlessness of her idea. The poor mare looked like she’d never seen the inside of a gymnasium, much less a school. “Haymes Camareon has a reputation for three things; sold-out shows, insane demands, and never admitting he was wrong. No matter how clear it is to everypony.”

“I just, um, I really don’t think I should replace you as the lead singer,” Sprite fought off the overwhelming urge to scream out ‘well, duh!’ to everypony in the dingy little cafe the two unicorns were in. The seats sagged, the table was wobbly, the music flowing out of a little gramophone in the corner was grating, the bar looked as if it had never felt the touch of a clean rag, and even the coffee was... well, the coffee was fine, but the rest of the cafe was disgustingly plebian. If the mare across from her weren’t so simple, Sprite would suspect this outing to be a veiled insult.

“And I really don’t want to ruin our friendship,” Starlet continued. Now Sprite was holding back the urge to laugh. Sure, they had gotten along well, thrown together as coworkers and bonding over something as simple as sharing the same initials, but friends? As if a famous and well-to-do talent as her could ever be friends with a stagehoof, whose only purpose in the long year that Sprite had worked with her was to make sure the limelight she was made for, it was her cutie mark after all, shone perfectly on the green unicorn songstress. Especially not a backstabbing, job-stealing, pudgy hag who had somehow managed to fool the director into summarily dismissing his greatest leading mare in exchange for an unknown. A heavy-weight talent traded for a plain heavy weight. If the camera adds ten pounds, she would have to lose thirty to even hope to match Sprite.

Yet, somehow, she had somehow tricked them all. And now they were here, in this cafe. Sprite had to keep to a tight-lipped smile, which sadly kept from showing off her pearly whites but did manage to hide how she was grinding her teeth together. Could she not be free of this agony? Obviously, this conversation was no doubt about to descend into Starlet’s inevitable gloating. If only something miraculous happened to spare her the torture of Starlet’s pitiful voice.

“...and he only heard me sing once when I was fixing the props, so maybe he didn’t really hea-” With an explosion of glass and a shriek from both mares, a miraculous body went miraculously flying past their window-side table, its flight originating from somewhere outside and ending promptly at the unyielding surface of the bar. Sprite stared in shock at the stallion who now lay crumpled on the floor, whining and whimpering like a foal. She turned back to Starlet, hoping perhaps that maybe the glass had cut her portly face, only for her shock to magnify a hundred-fold.

She’d never seen it arrive, though she had turned away for only a second. She’d never heard it enter, though shards of glass littered the table upon which it stood. She’d never imagined anything could move so quietly or so fast, even as the injured unicorn stallion gave an inarticulate scream of terror before tossing every sharp object in his immediate vicinity towards the intruder with a burst of telekinesis. Without leaving the table, it dodged and deflected its way through the flying cutlery with a flurry of feathers before catching the final projectile between its claws and returning it to its sender.

“Oh, f-f-f-f-FORK!” The downed stallion wailed, a fork embedded up to the hilt in the cafe bar just a hair above his head. With a mad scramble of hooves, he tore his way into the kitchen, barreling his way past servers, waitresses, cooks, and anything else in his path in blind terror.

Soubrette Sprite felt that same terror building inside her own chest, though she had no such avenue of escape. The monster glared at her with eyes of fire and wings of shadow. It spoke with a voice like the rumble of an earthquake, an inevitable and painful herald of death to all those downrange.

“Mademoiselle,” it said, inclining its head towards her.

“Oh sweet Celestia, please don’t eat me!” Sprite wailed, covering her head with her legs and cowering in fear. “I’ve got too much to live for! I’m too pretty to die! I’m too talented! There, the purple mare’s the one you want! She’s no good for anything! And she’s fat, she would taste better! I don’t want to die, puh-uh-uh-leeeease....”

The demon from the abyss only raised a clawed hand as if to tear her asunder, only to bring it to its head and rub at bridge of its bill.

“Dingue...” it sighed before trotting off after its prey, leaving the patrons of the no longer quiet little cafe to gape in bafflement, all sharing a look of extremely concerned confusion. All but one that is, a light violet unicorn that regarded Sprite with an icy and unamused expression. Sprite retook her seat, clearing her throat and rubbing at her head sheepishly.

“Ahaha, um... ahem. So. Friends?”

***

“We got trouble!” Mulligan slammed the heavy door behind him, twisting three deadbolts into place with his magic, and then dragging over a nearby shelf for good measure to lean against it. He set his own weight against the shelf, trying in vain to catch his breath.

The location he had fortified himself in was a small backroom of the cafe, a perfect location for the Skinflints to work while hiding behind a legitimate business. The elderly barkeep knew better than to ask questions or poke his snout in where it didn’t belong, as that was a quick way of ending up with his establishment in flames and his livelihood in ruins. The room itself was used for all manner of unseemly conduct, from fencing merchandise to teaching upstarts a lesson. Tonight, it was a crooked card game, with a good half-dozen of the gang’s wheelers-and-dealers sitting comfortably around a weathered oak table playing five-card stud. A dim light filtered through clouds of smoke above their mugs of hard cider, various piles of chips, and red-backed cards with two threes and a Luna face up in the center. None of the ponies had even bothered to look up.

“Shaddup, Mully, I gots bits ridin’ on dis hoof, see?” A chalky pegasus with a heavy accent grumbled through the cigar in his mouth. He flicked several chips forward with the leading feathers of his right wing.

The earth pony across from him wore a cheshire cat grin, adding with a cackle, “Yeah, soon to be my bits. Just sit there and kiss your owies, Mully, and we’ll go take care of whoever roughed you up after the next round. Or the round after that, if my hoof’s good.”

“You guys don’t get it! A monster took out our contact, and now it’s after me!”

That comment actually did draw attention, though it was the wrong kind. A unicorn stallion the color of dried blood stood up slowly from the table, stroking at the goatee on his face. He stared Mulligan down with an expression resembling boredom to those who didn’t know him or what he was capable of. He spoke with an air of authority, his words clipped and cultured. “Mulligan, are you telling me your business was not completed?”

“W-well, uh, I wouldn’t s-say, um, that is, Leicester, sir, I couldn’t r-really...”

“Quiet. And this individual-”

“It’s a monster!” Mulligan cut in before the dark crimson stallion silenced him with a look.

“Interrupt me again and lose your tongue. This is not the quaint, boogey-mare fearing backwoods in which you sprung from your inbred progenitors. This is Baltimare, you unlearned little infant. We are the monsters here.” Those dead eyes remained on the cringing caramel stallion. After he was deemed suitably cowed, Leicester continued. “You are stating that you have failed in your objective, that our business associate has been compromised by an unknown agent, and that you have led said agent directly to our base of operations, correct?”

“I, u-u-uh, I... no?” Leicester sighed, tossing his cards upon the table with a flick of levitation. A full house, Bluebloods over Lunas, utterly wasted.

“Our game is adjourned, gentlestallions. A hovel though it is, this location’s secrecy and that of our business must be maintained. It is clear that our friends in law enforcement have resorted to some new scare tactic in order to flush us from hiding, and this blundering fool fell for it head over hoof." Matching glares from everypony in the room left the caramel unicorn withering under their collective gaze. "We must discover and eliminate this mystery threat before it discloses our whereabouts to the authorities. ” He strode over to Mulligan, and added with a mirthless smile. “And I will be discussing your performance to boss Dobber.”

“No, sir! Please! You can’t do that to me!” Mulligan begged on his knees to the callous red stallion.

“And what’s to stop me, Mulligan?” Leicaster snorted.

The answer to his rhetorical question came in the form of a shelf, specifically the one that had been used to bar the door, crushing him underneath and quite effectively stopping him from doing much of anything. The door, for that matter, decided to join the shelf in collapsing overtop the two unicorns standing in its shadow. The iron door had been knocked clear from its hinges, and now lay over the unconscious forms of gang overseer and underling. The monster Mulligan had tried in vain to warn his companions of strode into the room, standing over the door and its victims.

And it was a monster by every definition of the word. The hind end of it may have had the look of a pony, albeit massive and overly muscled, but it was there the similarities ended and the freakish mutations began. It stood easily twice as high as the average equine, perhaps a head or two taller than any of the stallions in the room. Its face was black as night, with colorless, soulless eyes that swept across the gang members and saw nothing of significance. A beak took the place of a muzzle, one eternally curled into a sneer that showed an even row of teeth gritted in barely contained rage. The black feathers of its head gave way to the mottled colors of earth on its barrel-wide chest, leading down to dark scales along its legs that would look more at home on a dragon, finally ending with alien-looking feet of four clawed toes. Dark wings jutted out from its sides, dwarfing most ponies in size and blocking out the light from the open doorway behind it. It seemed to radiate an oppressive aura of violence, one that might be expected from a feral beast with a taste for pony flesh. When it spoke, it was more an imitation of speech than actual talking, a growling hiss twisted into cruel words.

“Attention, ponies,” it commanded. “Submit or fall.”

Five stallions shared glances. Each was a brute in his own right, they outnumbered the intruder, and they stood upon Skinflint turf. They were the power here, not this freak of nature. They had their gang’s reputation to maintain, not to mention that of their boss. The sheer thought of what Dobber would do to them if they gave up was incentive enough.

“Monster or not, nopony messes with the Skinflints and lives to talk about it. Get ‘em!” One shouted, and the others joined in with battle cries of their own. With crude knives, worn bats, and steel chains, they charged towards the monster in a stampede.

Gander smiled.

Author's Note

Here we go, the start of my second story. I'm going to be striking while the iron is hot and pumping out as much material as I can. Unlike my first story, that was submitted whole and ready for reading, this will be my experiment in posting a story as it progresses. I worry this means it will have less polish to it, since I won't be viewing the entire product before tossing it into the world, but I suppose this also gives the viewers a chance to offer suggestions and watch them implemented.

I have a very vague outline of where I want this story to head, but mainly just a few points and I'll be filling out the lines in between as I go. The prologue is a bit of a teaser, but I'll aim for chapters around five thousand words in length.

Thank you for reading,

-Hack

Chapter One: Law and Order

Chairs were uncomfortable.

Gander shifted in his seat once more, little more than a plain wooden bench placed along the hallway wall. It was carved from a single block of solid oak, with a high back and thin little armrests that jutted out from the sides, built for function over form and simplicity over stature. While lacking in any sort of padding to protect a delicate posterior from the hardwood, it wasn’t the absence of cushioning that was the source of his discomfort; he’d been raised in rocky roosts, after all. It had more to do with the size and the shape of the seat, and how it was clearly made for smaller hind ends than his own. Equine though his rump may be, he was just slightly too large and too long to truly fit in any manner resembling a seated position.

However, Gander had been ordered to sit and so sit he did, or at least tried to do. As much of his pony form rested on the chair as was physically possible, though his dark hooves still touched the dull green tiles decorating the floor. The rest of him, the aquiline front half of his body that brought to mind a waterfowl, stood at attention jutting out in the middle of the hallway. All in all, he looked as if he was trying to fit in a foal’s chair while attempting to maintain a look of professionalism.

It wasn’t working.

Though he was blocking much of the hallway, it wasn’t likely to cause a problem with any passersby. There was but a single door at the end of this hall, grey like the rest of the walls but with a misted window to hide its contents. The letters ‘CPT GUMSHOE’ were etched prominently on its face, and whatever lay beyond was further blocked from view by shutters of drawn blinds, a sign of one who greatly respected her own privacy. If any of the other officers within the little police station had business with their chief, they would be seated alongside him waiting.

The captain liked to keep ponies waiting for her. Gander assumed it was an intimidation strategy, which given his strict griffon heritage actually improved his view of his commanding officer. He respected ponies with a backbone, and the captain certainly had one of those. Still, the intimidation factor was less than successful on Gander, which meant the wait merely gave him time to think.

It had been three months since he arrived in Equestria, the first time in his sixteen years of life that he’d ventured away from his homeland. Not that this trip was his own decision; he’d been virtually exiled by his kin, forced on a quest he wasn’t entirely sure he was capable of completing. As a rite of passage, his griffon father had determined that the young hybrid must leave the land he’d never quite fit in with, and depart to Equestria to seek out the approval of his pony mother. The very same pony that had died giving birth to him, to be precise.

Gander still was unsure whether this was a cruel barb or an earnest attempt to teach him of his heritage. He was certainly against the idea at the time, as these soft and colorful ponies were the near mirror opposite of the harsh and merciless griffon lifestyle to which he was accustom. Even a comparatively weak hybrid such as himself, always a step behind the rest of his warrior kin, was more than a match for just about any pony in a fight. His childhood had been one constant brawl, pitting himself against youths his age in combat. Battle was what he was raised to do.

Griffons fought for food, or at times fought their food, while ponies on the other claw... Ponies fought with food. Food fights. If he'd not seen with his own eyes ponies engaged in battle with pies as ammunition, Gander would never have believed it. It was unreal.

As physically capable as they could be, and Gander had seen some awe-inspiring acts of strength in his limited time in Equestria, ponies simply were not... predators. They were not accustomed to killing, they were not hardened to death. Even the most vindictive among them, and some ponies were perfectly capable of betrayal, were still not as cutthroat or as brutal as the hatchlings Gander once competed against for breakfast.

Not that his hybrid stomach could handle the bloody slabs of meat the others fought over, but it was more the principal of the battle. Griffons fought. They valued strength and they lauded victory, and these achievements could only be made through ritualistic contests. It was the griffon way, and ponies could not have been any different if they tried.

Which, Gander was starting to learn, wasn’t so bad. Weak though many of them may be, they were not entirely undeserving of respect. It was a radically new worldview for him, and he had this visit to thank for it. He’d found Equestria to be a fascinating place, so much so that he’d decided to stay and live in the port city in which he’d first arrived. Meeting ponies, learning about them and their lives, gaining friends; undeniably, it was changing him.

Though, Gander thought as he sat waiting in that little hallway, perhaps it was not changing him fast enough for some.

The door to the chief’s office opened at last. A pale gold, middle-aged earth pony mare stood within, with a look on her face like she’d bought the bar a drink and, not only had they not thanked her, she’d had to clean up the mess after. Profoundly unhappy with life, Gander would have described it. It matched her personality well, and he had to wonder just how much of that could be attributed to the stress of the job. Perhaps the state of her mane could be blamed on her position, as well. It was prematurely graying, a shade reminiscent of gunmetal, and styled in a way that could only be seen as frazzled. It was heavily braided, with many loose strands breaking free and curling in the humidity. The legend around the office said a new hair went rogue for every disaster she’d had to corral. Judging by the deteriorating state of her hairdo, Gander was the cause of no small amount of those headaches.

The chief waved him in with a hoof and he followed her into her office with a minimal amount of limping. She appraised his stride with raised eyebrow. “I thought I told you to get those injuries looked at, Officer le Gannet.”

“I did this, capitaine.” Gander said as he took a seat. The scales along his left arm sported a new angry red cut down its length, while his ribs were bruised so heavily that he avoided taking any deep breaths. He was missing more than a few feathers, and he sported a collection of various scrapes and scratches that were unavoidable in any good fight. Nothing was bleeding, so he waved away her concern. “The doctors, they say no wounds are deep. I will attend these later.”

Captain Gumshoe only sighed as she moved behind a desk heavily laden with paper strewn about in no particular order. She sat upon a worn office chair of her own, one that creaked as she leaned back with a silver tin between her hooves. She popped a wad of something in her mouth, returned the tin to her desk, and began to chew with a content expression, no doubt having looked forward to that little stress reliever for the entire day. Gander dutifully waited for the chief to get her fix without interrupting. At last, she stared him down, speaking through her chew.

“Another griffon thing, huh? Well, you’d better not end up laid out with an infection just because you’ve got more pride than brains.” She tapped a hoof to her desk in emphasis. “You won’t accept a partner, you never wait for backup, and now you’re refusing to get patched up.”

Gander opened his mouth to justify himself, but she waved it off. “Speaking of backup, last night’s display was the worst case of insanity I’ve seen in twenty years on the force. You charged into a suspected syndicate stronghold.” She chewed furiously, blowing a light pink bubble as a sign of her displeasure. As it popped, she continued. “Alone! You could’ve been killed, and you came darn close to it. What were you even thinking, rookie?”

The griffon rolled his wings back in a shrug. “I was thinking if you chase your prey, it will go to ground. You find its den, you find more prey.” Unsure if the average pony would understand a hunting metaphor, he struggled once more to explain himself. “There were two with the look of lawbreakers. I interrupted this and I thought, where there are two, perhaps there are more. I was right, yes?”

Gumshoe’s bright magenta eyes were locked on a piece of parchment she was holding, and she’d donned a set of thick-rimmed reading glasses as she browsed the page. “Property damage to an establishment. Complaints of terrorizing civilians, some needing therapy. Seven ponies in holding. Among them, five concussions, eight... eight broken legs, three dislocated wings, more busted ribs than I can throw a shoe at, two fractured jaws, a... did you really shatter his horn?!”

“Those grow back, yes?”

The captain returned the page to a similar stack on her desk, rubbing at her temples with her hooves. She blew another bubble, as if exhaling all of her worries away. “You’re a loose cannon, le Gannet.”

“I get a cannon?” An eyelid twitch from his commanding officer told him that perhaps there was a translation error. Or perhaps she was merely imagining the sort of lists that would be added to her desk from a griffon with firepower. Her chewing became just a little more vigorous.

“I... wasn’t even going to dignify that with a response, but then I remembered who I was talking to.” The yellow mare who was anything but mellow shook her head. “No, officer, no you do not. You’re dangerous enough as it is. Do you even know what you’ve done?”

Gander’s eyes narrowed. Even the hint of a suggestion that he was unaware of his duties ruffled his feathers. Upholding the law in Equestria was very similar to following a code of honor in the griffon kingdoms. It suited his sensibilities well, and his skillset seemed to fit the rigors of the position. He took great pride in learning and keeping to the regulations, and for any to assume otherwise was an insult of the highest order.

“Would mon capitaine like to hear of the transgressions by order committed or by length of suggested sentence?” He ran his claws through his feathers to smooth them down, favoring his injured arm. “I subdued and put under arrest breakers of the law. Is this not my duty?”

“Stand down, kid. Not quite what I meant, though some could argue excessive use of force.” Gander had yet to find another phrase in equestrian he disagreed with quite as much as that. No amount of force was too much if it got the job done. The chief pulled another page from the disaster area that was her desk. Finding the one she needed must have been her special talent, even if her cutie mark was a trail of hoofprints. She passed the parchment over to Gander. “Better way of putting it, do you know who exactly it is that’s in my holding pen right now?”

“...Red Leicester, alias of the ‘Big Cheese’.” Gander read from the paper before looking up to his captain in incredulity. “Really?”

“Oh, hush. You don’t hear me complaining that le Gannet’s a weird name. Keep reading.”

The griffon grunted but complied, reading slowly but surely. Equestrian may not have been his native language, but he'd had enough of it beaten into him to get by. As with many griffon expressions, the meaning was literal. “Red and orange coloring. Mark is of a coin. Possible talent in business negotiation. Studied abroad, graduated from Oxenford. Affiliations with the street gang known as ‘Skinflints’.” He did recall one of the pegasi saying something of the sort before being bludgeoned to unconsciousness.

“The Skinflints have been a thorn in our flank for years.” The captain blew another bubble, unable to quite break her chewing habit. “They’re not one of the oldest syndicates in Baltimare, but they’re definitely one of the largest, and recently they’ve been expanding even further. Industrial, commercial, shipping. You name it, they’ve got their hooves in it.”

“Hmm,” Gander murmured thoughtfully. He skimmed down to the bottom of the page. “Suspected in cases of assault, foalnapping, larceny. Currently thought to control criminal activity in as many as twelve of the city’s southwestern districts, up to the inner harbor.”

“Point is," the captain interrupted, "Leicester is one of the head honchos of the Skinflints, maybe even in their boss’s private circle.” Gumshoe saw the griffon’s question coming and shook her head mournfully. “No, we don’t know anything on the boss, except the name ‘Dobber’. And even then, we don’t know if it’s a nickname or an alias or what. The stallion’s a ghost.”

“So... you are saying, maybe this pony in our claws can speak of higher prey?”

“I’m saying,” she paused and spat her wad of gum into a trash can with impressive accuracy, “what we’ve got here is a dangerous pony with dangerous information and dangerous connections. Leicester is too highly placed in their gang for the Skinflints to let this one go. The department is expecting heavy reprisals from this. Increased gang activity, maybe even assaults on officers.”

“You would rather this one walks free?”

The captain scoffed. She might not be quite as unyielding as a griffon, but she still had her morals. “Hay, no. I just need to make sure you’re prepared for what’s coming. That no-good crook is right where he ought to be; behind bars. Which is where we need him to be if we’re going to get information out of him about his boss and what they’re up to.”

Something in the way she spoke piqued Gander’s interest. “What they are up to, you say. Also, that this gang is growing, and this Cheese pony is too important for a little deal." He considered for a moment before adding, "and only seven ponies you mentioned from my arrest, when I remember clearly dragging eight into the station. There is something new here, yes? Something you have yet to be saying.”

“Good eye for details,” Gumshoe said, suitably impressed. She opened a desk drawer and withdrew a small vial, rolling it across the table to Gander’s waiting claws. He peered into the glass vial, which appeared to contain many small chips of what looked to him to be ice, light blue and crystalline in form. The captain explained as she reached for more gum, “The eighth victim of your little mess wasn’t a pony. It was a donkey that we have no records on, and no previous ties to the Skinflints.

“We pulled that off him.” She nodded at the vial. “We figure it to be some kind of new drug, but our chemists can’t make heads or tails of it. Some sort of weird wild magic that interferes with the electro-whatsit devices they use. If the donkey knows anything about it, he isn’t saying. The only words he knows right now are about my mother.”

Gander wasn’t entirely unaware of stimulants, though they were rarely a problem in his experience. Griffons were too proud to want to alter their consciousness, and most ponies’ lives were so bright and happy that few of them had the urge. He turned the vial in his claws, inspecting the unusual substance. “You think perhaps these Skinflints were to use their grown power to spread this?”

“If that’s their plan, then I’m worried this stuff is too dangerous to ignore." The captain eyed the vial warily, as if it were a snake poised to strike. "The Skinflints aren’t in this for fun. Whatever this is, it’s going to make them bits by the barrel.”

“Our choices then are to challenge the strength of this gang...” Gander began.

“Which we don’t have the ponypower or the resources to do,” Gumshoe added in before the griffon continued.

“...or we hunt the source of this drug, and break it there so it can not become a threat.”

“Which we have no information about, and can‘t even make a guess at this time,” the captain clarified. “Donkeys are notoriously tight-lipped. If this one has mob connections, we aren’t going to get much of anything out of him.”

Gander scratched at the white feathers of his chin. There was no delicate way to put this, and he was not delicate by nature, so he merely spoke his mind. “And you have spoken only of this to me because these Skinflints have, as you say, hooves in everything, yes?”

The chief of police regarded him quietly. “There might well be a leak in the department,” she finally admitted. “The corruption in this city is too high to not consider it." She gazed past his shoulder to the blinds blocking the rest of her coworkers from sight. "I want to say I'd trust any of these ponies with my life, but it isn't just my life on the line if this is as big as I'm thinking it is.

"Right now, you’re new in town. I know you’ve got no previous connections, and you’ve got a strong recommendation. I know if I bring this to you, it will stay with you.” She shuffled the few Skinflint papers into some semblance of order, tossing them and the bottle into an unassuming saddlebag she'd taken from the depths of her desk. “And the way I hear you tell it, you’re something of a hunter. Well, here’s your target, le Gannet."

She passed the saddlebag over the desk, meeting Gander's eyes in the process. "You've given me nothing but trouble, but you're a good cop. Now get out there, bag this prey of yours, and try not to get yourself killed in the process.”

Gander hefted the saddlebag into place, snapping a salute as he was dismissed. “Mon capitaine.”

“Yeah, whatever. Get the hay out of my office.” She sighed as the door closed behind the limping griffon, leaving her alone with her paperwork. So many reports. So many forms to fill out and requisitions to make. So many authorities to notify. First things first, she reached for her tin of chewing gum, feeling a decade closer to retirement than she had this morning.

“I’m getting too old for this.”

***

Gander walked through the bustling station, oncoming ponies giving way to his greater bulk as he strode past rows of stall-sized cubicles separated by shoulder-high walls. Most were packed to claustrophobia-forming levels and contained typewriters and cabinets full of case files, pictures of families and word-of-the-day calendars, maps of the city with a veritable explosion of tiny pins marking locations and dry-erase boards with nonsensical theories scribbled in bright colors.

His was spartan at best and contained a small but affordably priced mattress, several high-energy granola bars with raisins, and a length of bandages that seemed to get shorter every week. The griffon found, of all of the office supplies available to him, these were the things he used most often when not in the field. He curled up on the mattress like a cat, making swift use of the long strips of sterile linen to cover his newest marks of honor. They would leave fine scars.

Caring for his injuries took little concentration on his part. Wounds were an everyday occurrence in the life of a griffon, and he’d long grown so accustomed to it that the movements were practically mechanical. It freed up his mind to concentrate on his task. An unknown drug with unknown properties from unknown suppliers, soon to hit the open market and suspected to cause quite a stir. He’d taken down one deal, more than likely a simple test of the product, but Gander doubted he had even slowed the process considerably. His time was limited, and of this he was certain.

But to do what? The captain would extract what information she could from their prisoners, of that he had no doubt, but she expected to gain little that could be of use to his hunt. This meant he was effectively flying blind in a race he could not afford to lose. Perhaps there was some higher purpose to the stronghold or the scene of the deal, Gander mused as he covered a nasty scrape. Some detail or evidence he’d not yet seen. He reached for the notes in his pack, only to pause mid-movement as he felt eyes upon him.

“Hey, hey! Look who survived,” a chestnut unicorn stallion leaned over the wall from the cubicle across from Gander’s own. He cleared the wall easily due to his height, which he used to stretch his way into Gander’s cubicle with far more familiarity than the griffon was comfortable with. He was an older pony with an easy smile, a bald pate, and a four-o’clock shadow, which was odd given that there were still hours before noon.

“Detective Cob, good morning.” He’d been warned to exercise caution. Without knowing who to trust, the office was not the place to be perusing sensitive documents. Gander returned to his self treatment, leaving the saddlebags alone for the moment. The cut along his leg had almost been seen to. It was a quality wrap, which was to be expected given his experience in patching himself back together again, after all. He paused to tear the roll of bandages free with his beak before turning back to his fellow officer. “I lived, yes. Criminals or no, they fought well.”

“I was talking about your meeting with Captain Gummy, but congrats on making it through that, too. She must’ve wanted to tear you a new one after that little stunt you pulled.” Cob laughed heartily before letting out an impressed whistle. “Still, what was it, half a dozen to one? A dozen? The rumors are getting crazier by the telling out here!”

A second unicorn head peered over the wall, though with nowhere near Cob’s level of height, this time from Gander’s left. This stallion was pure white, but the bright contrast of his alternating blue-and-red striped mane more than made up for the dullness of his coat. His youthful face was twisted into an expression that was easily the most dour that Gander had ever seen from a pony.

“Yes,” the pale one said with the flat tone the griffon was finally beginning to associate with sarcasm. “Let’s build this up as much as we can so a whole host of recruits go in trying to play hero. That’s a fantastic idea.”

Cob snorted at the other stallion in Gander’s defense. “Quiet, Rook. The adults are talking, and Gander here just bloodied a whole gang’s nose. He deserves a little recognition, wouldn’t you say?”

The white unicorn gave Gander a long stare with little to no pleasantness in it. Finally, he sighed and disappeared behind the wall, only muttering, “Fisher, my name’s Fisher,” as he returned to work.

“Don’t mind the rookie, Gander,” Cob chuckled dismissively. “He’s just antsy at getting shown up.”

“It is no matter,” Gander returned the roll to his medical kit and pushed it into a corner. “The cadet has a point in the danger of this work. All hunting carries risk, the greatest prizes most of all.”

“Yeah, well, I meant what I said,” the old cop said earnestly. “The rest of us are heading out later on to celebrate finally putting the Big Cheese into the fridge. You know the Watering Hole, right? Stop by and the drinks are on us.”

This pony was too clingy as it was. Gander did not want to see what would happen after he’d been into the wine, salt, cider, or whatever else his poison was. Not to mention the griffon was still new to this ’friendship’ concept, so anything more than polite greetings at the office was pushing it. “Many thanks, Detective Cob, but I am weary from the fight and must rest. Perhaps another time?”

“Ha!” At least nothing seemed to bring his mood down. “Whatever you say, slugger. Just keep us in mind, will you?”

Getting to his feet, Gander began to pad away. “I will do this. A good day to you, Detective.”

A brisk trot saw him out of the station and out into the harsh light of mid-morning. He hadn’t been making up excuses when it came to feeling tired. Stalking criminals took much of his nights, and his mornings were often just as busy fighting paperwork and procedures. Not to mention the wrath of one extremely tightly-wound captain. He held back a yawn, it wouldn’t do to threaten any pedestrians nearby with a show of teeth, and took wing towards his home. A nap before his hunt began would be best. It had been a long day already for Officer Gander.

It was about to get even longer.

Author's Note

In which plot is introduced.

Chapter Two: Surprise Party

For most of Gander’s life, ‘home’ was the cold, windy halls of the Bastion. It was an ancient, angular, crudely carved castle atop an island that could be somewhat simply described as a giant rock tossed into the ocean. Sheer cliffs marked its every edge, leading to a long drop into an unforgiving frozen sea. The structure itself was designed as a defensive fortification, entirely lacking in any sort of comfort. Furniture was a luxury that made one soft, an unneeded excess, and was by-and-large absent. The solid stone floors would sap the heat from one’s body, just as the frigid winds flowing through the parapets would send frosty daggers through one’s skin. It was designed to toughen up the weak, until those that lived within its walls were as unyielding as the fortification itself.

Gander sighed wistfully at the memories. His current two-room apartment made his old home look like a five-star hotel.

How these happy candy-colored ponies had been able to create something so insidious, so... evil an invention as low-income housing, Gander just could not understand. It somehow managed to be swelteringly hot in the day, muggy from lack of air even with the grimy windows cracked open and a positively archaic ceiling fan spinning so slowly that it didn’t so much as stir the dust, and yet at the same time the temperatures dropped to bone-chillingly cold at night, as if the walls were mere paper and the weather teams had scheduled an impromptu blizzard outside his third floor. He’d tried the quaint radiator heater, a model he was sure could match the sun princess in years, but every moment it remained on it would steam and hiss in such a manner he half expected it to explode. The lights, such as they were, sparked erratically with a sickly puke-orange glow, and Gander avoided using them to keep from setting the cramped little matchbox aflame. He’d originally thought the apartment came with a carpet, only to learn it was really a pervasive mold that he swore increased in size every time he turned his back to it. The possibly semi-sentient lichen was all that kept him from sleeping on the ground instead of his bed, which was several sizes too small and left his legs and wings sprawled out over the sides. The springs of his mattress jammed into his spine like blades, or perhaps like monkeys wielding blades since they screeched like a horde of tiny animals being trampled underfoot every time he so much as shifted his weight.

But it was cheap, so all of the problems that plagued this dwelling that was a single step away from being condemned were of little consequence. It was also available and would take griffon, or hybrid griffon, residents. The owner didn’t care or ask questions so long as the rent was on time, and Gander appreciated that. He’d often wished for a cloudhouse, but there were zoning regulations to be considered, and the constant issue of pollution clogging up the architecture, not to mention the lack of security when any old pegasus could just fly through the walls. Or, if enterprising enough, one could drag the entire dwelling away. An entire house nicked. The thought made Gander snort in amusement.

With a heavy backstroke that was just a tad graceless due to his exhaustion, Gander landed outside the ugly apartment building’s front steps. Bags of garbage were piled haphazardly along the dirty edge of the building leading to the alleys. Apparently, the dumpster was just too much of a hike for one of his delightful neighbors. His keen hunter’s senses caught a whiff of what lived, or at least had lived at one point, in the dark corners of the alley and he found himself agreeing with the mysterious litterer’s decision. Sometimes, he wished he’d had a nose to wrinkle in disgust. The beak simply did not have the dexterity.

He made his way inside, past walls of peeling brown wallpaper and thick doors marking other residences, with more than a few locks on each sealing them closed. There was an elevator in the building, or at least an elevator shaft since he’d never seen evidence of the carriage’s existence, but he trudged past its sliding door and slanted out-of-order sign. The stairs were narrow and claustrophobic, creaking with every step. They made his wings twitch, and he considered once more removing the iron bars outside his window for quicker exits before discarding the idea. Not that he had much in the way of possessions to be stolen, but he preferred his neck in tact and without extra breathing holes. He wasn’t sure a pony was capable of such an act, but he couldn’t say for sure that they wouldn’t. Desperation makes for desperate acts, and in a city this size there were more than a few ponies down on their luck.

Sighing wearily, he reached the door to his humble abode, fumbled with the key before unlocking it, and pushed open the door.

“SurprACK!”

Instinct kicked in before his mind caught up. Thoughts slow from fatigue were no match for the instant muscle memory of years of training. The first moment, Gander was opening the door. The second, he had his claws around an intruder’s neck. It took all of the third moment and most of the fourth for realization to kick in, and for Gander to become aware of the sight in front of him.

Held between his curled front toes, a bright yellow neck. Attached to the neck, an equally bright yellow pony head with an even brighter, if somewhat sheepish, smile. Flaming orange mane and brilliant blue eyes that were slightly bugged out from oxygen deprivation. Slender wings and a petite frame that squirmed to escape. His brain did the math, somewhat slowly, and he released his death grip on the mare’s throat. She wheezed slightly as she stepped out of the doorway, giggling as she got her breath back.

“Okay, so... um, I dunno how griffons hug, but just for your information, that ain’t how we ponies do it,” she said matter-of-factly as she hovered over to the dinky coffee table in the middle of the living room with rapid, hummingbirdesque beats of her wings.

“Ducky...” Gander’s mind had yet to fully comprehend what was going on. “What are you doing in my home?”

She looked at him in surprise before gesturing grandly at a banner that hung from the ceiling fan. The fan blades were twirling slow enough that he could make out the word ‘SURPRISE!’ in bold and rainbow-colored font. “Surprise party. You know, for your housewarmin’. It’s supposed to be like a welcomin’ sort of thing for gettin’ some new digs.” She looked around at the rundown state of the room, hardly improved by the rest of the ‘party’ which consisted of take-out pizza on the coffee table and streamers hanging from the ceiling or tossed on the floor. The mold already seemed to be eating the few it could reach. “It’s... um. It’s nice. I like the, uh... place. Yeah, nice place. So... welcome?”

“Ponies give parties even for the house,” he snorted. “Interesting to learn of surprise parties, but not the question I ask.” Gander regarded his first, and pretty much only, friend with absolute bewilderment. “How did you get inside? The door was locked.”

“Oh. Oh! That. Yeah. I had to set up the stuff so I, uh, kinda just opened it. Who wants pizza?” She held out a greasy, melty slice of cheese on a crust as a way to change the subject. The tomato sauce gave it a bloody appearance that appealed to Gander‘s upbringing. It was almost enough to make him forget the absurdity of her last statement. Wisely, he chose to drop the subject rather than strain himself thinking about it.

“I think no. I... do not wish for a party, Ducky.” He scowled as he appraised the celebratory banner as it made another slow rotation. There was work to be done, after all. The saddlebags resting against his flanks felt heavier by the moment, though he could not be sure if it was a growing sense of responsibility to the case or if it was just his weariness. Ducky’s signature smile wavered, a twinge so slight he might have imagined it.

“Oh.” Her hooves fell and the rejected slice of pizza was banished back to its box. Her ears drooped as she stared down at the cracked linoleum floor and chuckled sheepishly. “Right, right. I guess I got a little carried away. Sorry. I’ll just, um, how about I just head out then. ”

Head hanging low and fiery tail dragging listlessly, she made her way to the door as if she was being led to the gallows. Gander could swear he saw an unshed tear forming in one ocean-blue eye. He ground his teeth together and let out a heavy sigh, quite certain that if ponies ever managed to weaponize that expression they would no longer have a need for a standing army; all in their path would surrender at first sight, and world domination would be theirs.

“Wait,” he relented, and the gloom hanging over the mare seemed to melt away as if it had never been. If Ducky was even capable of lies, he would have assumed it had all been an act. “Your party is fine, Ducky. You do not need to go. I mean to say I am tired from work, is all.”

Gander made his way over to a threadbare couch with only one remaining cushion. He never sat on the cushion anyway, since the lower seat helped with his greater height. The pegasus gleefully took the adjacent cushioned seat, murmuring sympathetically.

“Aww, that’s all right. We all have some tough days,” she said as she offered Gander a friendly hug, her short legs barely able to fit around his chest. Her head drew back in surprise as her hoof came back with a fork in it, the tines covered in traces of congealed griffon blood. “Um, does that maybe have somethin’ to do with why you got silverware jammed in your shoulderblades?”

Gander shrugged. “It was a very interesting night. Thank you for catching that, I thought it was only an itch.” He took the fork from her and jabbed a slice of pizza, oblivious to her sticking her tongue out in revulsion. The pizza wasn’t half bad, and the calories would surely come in handy.

“Okay, that was gross, but you’re welcome, I guess.” She bit her lower lip in concern, focusing for the first time on the bandages that did not appear to be a fashion statement after all. “But you’re seriously okay, right? Cause you look a little beat up to me.”

“It is fine,” Gander waved off her worries between bites. No wonder the greatest griffon chefs would make their way to Equestria to prove their mastery of the craft. The ponies were a tough act to follow when it came to food. “There were many criminals. Now there are lesser criminals.”

“Fewer criminals,” she corrected somewhat automatically. Gander’s equestrian tended to lapse when he wasn’t concentrating, which was apparently hard to do when he was tilting his head back to scarf back a slice without so much as chewing. “You keep this up, there aren’t gonna be any left. Criminals, I mean, not pizza. Though that’s going quick, too. Anyhow, you just got the job, right? Can’t you kind of, I dunno, ease into it? Maybe without gettin’ hurt too bad?”

Gander shook his head as a sneer formed on his beak, though it was aimed at the idea and not the mare offering it. “I must earn my place. It is an honor, this position given to me, and I feel I have yet to earn it.”

He gave her a pointed glance and she waved her hooves in front of her face defensively. “Whoa, hey now, don’t go blamin’ that on me.

“I know you’re all about the griffony honor and whatsits. Yeah, I got family in the Wonderbolts, but they gave you that recommendation on their lonesome. I had nothin’ to do with it.” He didn’t seem convinced, so she put on her best stern glare. “And don’t you go tellin’ me you didn’t earn that. The ‘bolts were comin’ to chase that Ursa out of town and you beat them to it. How’s that not earnin’ your way?”

“Simple,” Gander snorted. His bones still hurt at the memory of facing that skyscraper of a monster. “I did not beat the creature. It is luck only that I still breathe.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Ducky’s eyes rolled in her head at a pace the rotating ceiling fan could never hope to match. “Beat it, scared it off, same difference. They saw it light out with its tail between its legs. Well, if it had a tail. The metaphorical... whatever. You know what I mean.

“The point is,” she said as she bumped her head against his shoulder in a show of support, “you totally earned your spot. And it sounds like you went and proved that again, right? Those aren’t kitty scratches you got there.”

“True,” he admitted with reluctance. “The catch this night was worthy prey. The other officers celebrate even now for these criminals to be off of the street.”

Ducky did a double-take. “What, like a party? And you’re missin’ it?”

“Perhaps,” Gander shrugged. Even this ‘housewarming’ was more than enough. If one mare’s craziness could test his patience, then a crowd would be a nightmare. “I do not know much of parties. They say they go for celebrations at a hole for water.”

“Hmm,” the mare tapped at her chin in contemplation. She seemed to take this far too seriously. “Alright, that narrows it down to a couple of good pubs. Now listen real careful cause there’s a big difference here. Did they say the Waterin’ Hole, or did they say the Holy Water?”

“The first, maybe. What does it matter?” Gander stretched his wings to work out the kinks.

“Eh, either pub’s fine.” Ducky shrugged in indifference. “Drinks aren’t bad whichever place you choose, it’s just the, um, what do they call it... the ambiance or whatever.” She made a waving motion that Gander couldn’t quite decipher. “Like, the feel of the place, you know? One’s real casual and the other’s all stiff. At the first you find punks and the second you find monks.”

The griffon’s eyes widened as a thought came to him, and the audible crack from the joints in his wings may as well have been the sound effect of a lightbulb appearing over his head. An informal setting for ponies of all walks of life, or even nonponies, to gather. The loosening effect of inebriation on closely kept secrets. The spread of underground information and the sealing of shady deals. The testing ground for a new and unfamiliar substance. His mission now was so simple.

In order to fight crime, Gander would have to go clubbing.

“Hey, you okay in there?” Ducky floated in front of his vision, hovering a few feet from the ground. “Did the pizza get to you?” She leaned back with caution. “You aren’t, uh, lactose intolerant, are you? Cause I would be totally fine with havin’ the party later, if that’s what’s up.”

“No, I tolerate ponies and their lack of toes. It is a different thing.” Ducky’s expression twisted up in confusion for a second, but she didn’t get a chance to voice it before Gander continued. “I am thinking maybe it would be good to go to this pub. For to celebrate with the officers. And for the making of friends.”

“Oh! Yeah, that sounds... um, that sounds good.” She nodded enthusiastically, though her voice wasn’t in it. She landed on the ground once more, pawing at a wayward streamer without meeting his gaze. “Way better than this dinky little thing, hehe. Ehe. Ahem. But, yeah, that’s a big step, Gander. Makin’ friends on your own and all. I’m... proud of you. Yeah.”

If Gander had jammed his new fork back into his skin, it would be less painful than this. His mind was used to forming a thousand different strategies for avoiding injury in battle, and now it worked furiously to find a way of escaping this situation without succumbing the horror of the mare’s hurt expression.

“But I am not knowing the way to this Watered Hole. You maybe will come with me, yes?” There was that smile again, her pearly teeth finding a way to take up half of her face. She dove at him for a hug, which he endured without complaint.

“Of course! Ooh, I can meet your coworkers and talk about all the awesome stuff you guys do! And most of the weather team is probably off by now, I bet they’d love to meet you! I can get Drizzle and Cobolt and Peeps and Sleetfo-no, wait, she’s on vacation, but I can get the rest of the whole gang! I’ve been tellin’ them all kinds of crazy stories and they’re like “Whaaaat? No way!” and I keep saying “Ya huh, that totally happened!” and they’re all-”

“Ducky!” Gander finally interrupted the continuous stream of chatter spewing forth. Sometimes, this mare did not seem to need to breathe like normal beings. “This is all good, but there is not much time for preparing. You do not wish to miss the celebratings, yes?”

“You’re right!” She gasped, her eyes wide with panic. “I gotta get ready! Okay, you stay here and I’ll be back in like a couple hours. Bye!”

She disappeared so quickly that Gander had to blink away an afterimage, the door slamming behind her. With a heavy sigh, he undid the saddlebags as the door busted open once more with a crash.

“Sorryforgotpizzahungryokaybyeforrealsthistime!”

The door slammed close once more, and this time his little apartment was absent the pony and the remnants of the pizza. Gander laid his saddlebags onto the now-empty table with a weary sigh, emptying papers into neat little stacks. He had to be ready. He had to know just who and what he would be looking for, exactly what hints and clues to seek out in the vibrant nightlife of Baltimare, and the answers to those questions were hidden somewhere in these pages.

Sleep called to him, but there was no time for resting. Not when the call of the hunt was so much greater. It was a different kind of hunt than he was used to, but it was still a hunt and there was still prey just waiting to be caught. Gander’s eyes narrowed at the profiles and case notes before him, staring at them as a hawk might watch a mouse in the field. No, he thought, there would be no rest.

Tonight, he would hunt.

***

“Gander, can you do me a favor?” Ducky asked of the griffon at her side.

The sun had begun its descent in the sky, marking an early start to the evening. The two friends, along with many more of Baltimare’s residents now freed from their daytime jobs, had taken to the streets of the city, walking along one of its cleaner sidewalks towards the downtown commercial districts. Already, the traffic to get to the bustling nightclubs and shopping centers was increasing, and ponies of all colors and types crowded together in a living stream of Equestrian pedestrians. However, it was a river with a conspicuous boulder in its center, around which the water flowed without touching. Gander’s unhappy scowl was especially prominent at the moment, his mood dark and his body tense to the point of snapping, and wary passersby kept more than a few feet of distance between themselves and the intimidating griffon. He looked at her with bloodshot eyes, doing his best to ignore the stares and whispers as he waited for her to continue.

“I guess gettin’ prettied up for the night probably isn’t the griffoniest thing ever, so I can understand you not cleanin’ up much,” she said in an agreeable tone. Contrasting to Gander’s rough looks, she looked fresh from a recent shower, and her normally incorrigible mane was pulled back in a loose braid that left a single strand of her tiger-orange locks free. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, but she had sprung for some rose-shaped earrings that matched the scarlet cocktail dress she was wearing; a pretty little number cut to calf-length in the black, form-fitting and simple other than a sheer fabric exposing the shoulders. It wasn’t particularly loud or fanciful, crafted for general use than as any sort of formal wear, but it did have an elegance about it that fit her very well. In pony terms, she looked striking. Gander, meanwhile, might well have been a step away from physically striking. “But could you try to look... um, I dunno, less... scary?”

“I am not understanding.” Gander looked himself up and down. “I am not bleeding for once, and I brought not even one weapon. What more can I do?”

“You could try smilin’, maybe,” Ducky suggested with a hint of pleading in her voice. Gander complied, baring his teeth through the curves of his beak. A passing mare promptly shrieked and fainted dead away in the middle of the street, a crowd of worried onlookers gathering around her. Before they started searching for the reason of her sudden collapse, Ducky wrapped a wing around her friend and steered them quickly away at a near trot without looking back. “Okay, um, forget that idea. Also, let’s just agree to never do that again.”

“What is wrong with how I look?” Gander asked curiously, stealing glances over his shoulder at the oddities of pony-kind. He would never understand their love of dramatic fainting, which they seemed to do often in his presence. He couldn’t help his expression or demeanor. In his mind, he was on the job right now, and that lent a seriousness to his every motion that was far from open or relaxed.

“It’s just, my friends are gonna be there, and I really want them to like you,” she somewhat worriedly confessed, “and right now you look like somepony went and insulted your honor or somethin’.

“Which, by the way,” she added as an afterthought, “if somepony does do that tonight, you are not allowed to beat them up. Maybe not everypony’s gonna like you right off the bat, but this is a pub, not an arena.”

“I thought parties were for fun,” Gander muttered. “Where is the fun in that?”

“No fighting!” She said firmly, her words brooking no argument. “We’re tryin’ to make friends here, and that ain’t the way to do it. You gotta admit, bud, you do not give the best first impressions.”

“Fine, I will do this.” Gander grumbled, but knew better than to go against her lest he face the wrath of the puppy-dog eyes again. He was rewarded with a cheery smile.

“Great! This is gonna be awesome, I just know it.” That unflappable optimism was going to get her into trouble some day, Gander thought. “Look we’re almost there!“

The mare waved at a collection of ponies up ahead, standing in front of a nondescript building with a horde of neon-lights in the mud-colored windows. The pub was nestled between a carriage station and an eggshell white, two-story hotel, with pot-hole infested alleys separating it from the other buildings. Already, Gander’s keen ears could hear the carrying drone of overly loud music and chatter coming from within. The griffon took a long, calming breath and held it for a moment. Ostensibly, he would be ferreting out clues to track down a criminal organization, but on the surface of that he also had to ingrain himself into pony society and, somehow, make new friends.

As Ducky flew on ahead, Gander briefly wondered why dealing with criminals sounded so much easier.

***

Author's Note

I don't exactly have a schedule for releasing chapters, but I think I'll try for one per weekend at least. I get most of my writing done then, anyhow.

Chapter Three: Party Surprise

“Well, shave my hide and call me a dragon, look who the Diamond Dogs drug in!” Gander’s entrance had not gone unnoticed. A corner booth had already been commandeered by officers of the watch, a half dozen muscular mares and stallions in various levels of inebriation. The elder officer from this morning was already waving him over, a frothing mug of cider held in his magical grasp. Spiced apple cider, if Gander’s nose was to be believed. He made his way over, past crowded round tables, taking care not to bump any other patrons. In his wake, Ducky and her friends followed, chatting amicably amongst themselves. The sight of his entourage had the stallion cackling with delight. “And lookit that, he’s already popular with the mares!”

“Officer Cob, good evenings to you,” Gander nodded in respect before gesturing to the mares behind him. “My good friend Ducky-”

“That’s me, hi!” She was quick to butt in with an eager wave.

“-changed my mind of attending the celebrations, and brought also friends of her own. Would it be acceptable if we are to join you?”

With a completely straight face, Cob turned to his coworkers. “Fellas... plus Cherries and Shoes, I didn’t forgetcha,” the female officers grinned in response, “would y’all mind if these lovely ladies were to join us?”

“Hay, no!” They cheered in unison, with accompanying stomps on the table that left mugs shaking and splashes of drinks escaping. In their defense, the table looked as if it had seen worse and survived. His question answered, Cob turned back to the newcomers.

“Well, there ya have it. Get in here, or pull up a chair. Don’t be strangers, now!” After an overly personal amount of shoving and moving about, the entire party piled around the corner table. Gander, mindful of his larger size, chose to borrow a stool from nearby. It also gave him a modicum of personal space, which he was silently grateful for. Cob relinquished his edge seat and stood up as the others went through eager introductions, already chatting away as if they’d known each other for years. “Y’all get comfortable, I’ll be right back. With this kinda classy company, even an old stogie like me’s gotta look his best!”

On the periphery of the group, and not moving to include himself in the conversations, Gander took a moment to catalogue the group and match names to faces. The policeponies in their uniforms, he was already familiar with; the cheerful old chestnut-colored unicorn Cob, the hard-working dark-red earth pony mare Cherry Topper, the white unicorn stallion Fisher with his disapproving glare, the ruddy-brown earth pony stallion Brass Buttons, the lilac-colored pegasus mare Shoofly, and the charcoal-grey pegasus stallion Smokey. The weathermare pegasi, other than Ducky, were new to him; deep-blue Cobolt looking tough as nails in a tight and dangerously low-cut black dress, minty Drizzle with her uncontrollably frizzled hair wearing nothing but her own fur and outrageous golden-hoop earrings, and an unassumingly shy pink mare named Pitter Patter in a spotless white sundress. She'd probably earned her nickname of Peeps by the squeaking noise she made every time she was startled.

An interesting crowd, Gander thought to himself as he mentally marked down unique traits and quirks so as to make a profile for each one. Sure, it was a technique more in line with understanding a criminal’s mind, but Gander saw no reason why it wouldn’t assist him here. But making friends was not his primary objective this night. He turned his attention to the pub as a whole, eagle eyes searching every nook and cranny.

It was not a terribly large or fancy establishment, choosing instead to build up a clientele based on its cozy and quiet attributes. The lights were dim, but not overly so, casting a warm light that still managed to obscure features from a distance. There was a bit of smoke clinging to the low ceiling, but not enough that it bothered his breathing. Circular tables were scattered about the rectangular floor, with a pool table and an old jukebox in the far north-east and -west corners, respectively. The south-east hid the restrooms, where old Cob had ostensibly escaped to so as to straighten out the wrinkles in his weathered uniform, and the south-west contained the largest corner table where his group had laid claim. In the far back, a long bar rested between the pool table and the jukebox, manned by an aging unicorn stallion pouring drinks for the line of ponies surrounding him. The barkeep had the look of experience, and judging from the noise coming from his patrons nearby he more than likely had an ear to any number of interesting rumors.

“Excusing me, please. I will go to get a drink, yes?” Gander moved toward the bar, pausing only as he heard Ducky’s voice over his shoulder.

“Jolly Rancher vodka for me!”

***

“Somepony’s got good tastes,” one of the police mares spoke up with approval. It was the one with the coat that was the color of... what was it, mulberry? Sangria? Merlot? Ducky wasn’t sure, but she knew there was a fancy name for it. She had a lighter red, Ducky gave up on trying to remember the fancy names, mane that was cropped short and spiked upwards with a styling gel. She projected an aura of confidence, which she’d probably had cause for seeing as how she’d worked her way into a normally male-dominated profession. It wasn’t that mares had no place in the force, but the greater size and strength of a stallion did come in handy.

“Thanks! That brand is my favorite,” Ducky said conversationally.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about the drink,” Cherries laughed, a predatory grin on her face. “I was just thinking how you got the big, bad griffo-pony powerhouse wrapped around your hoof. Fetching drinks, even?”

“Wait, you think me and Gander...? Noooo, nonono, no.” She shook her head so rapidly that it took her vision a second to clear. Just to be sure her point came across, she added for good measure, “...no. We’re just friends. Really.”

Across from her, Cobolt snorted on the mug of cider she’d stolen from the absent Cob. She coughed a few times and cleared her throat. “You’re kidding, right, Ducky? You haven’t shut up about him for, like, weeks.” She wiped foam from her snout, a smile forming that looked suspiciously similar to the one on Cherries. Two sharks that smelled blood in the water. “Not that you ever shut up, hun, but usually you switch topics every so often.”

“W-well, he’s interesting, is all!” She sputtered in her defense. “I mean, come on, how many ponies have griffony friends?”

“I’m siding with Cherries on this one,” the storm-cloud colored stallion chimed in. He stroked his goatee with the tip of a wing, looking thoughtful. “I’ve known the guy a month, and the closest I’ve seen him come to being friendly was him glowering at me by the water cooler. Not even sure he knows who I am.”

“Yeah, no way he’d come out here on his own,” one of the other officers said, gathering together in support. “I heard him turn down Ol’ Cob this morning. Yet a word from you and here he is.” He crossed a dirty-orange colored hoof over his heart in mourning for his fallen comrade. “Poor guy’s whipped.”

“Um... I think it’s sweet...” came the quiet voice of Peeps, curling her long, silky, sky-blue hair around an idle hoof in a nervous gesture.

“And just look at you! Showing off them fine curves with your slinkiest dress.” If Drizzle had fingers, she’d be snapping them right now. “You go, girlfriend!”

Now even her own friends were turning against her. The assault was unanimous. She was rapidly losing the ability to form words, and her endless stammers were not helping her case.

“Beauty tames the beast, right?” Cherries was putting the final nails in the coffin now, and Ducky was trying to keep her blush from matching the policemare’s coat. “I’m not sure whether I should be frightened or impressed.”

“Or disgusted.” Well, that put a damper on her embarrassment. The fiery red from her cheeks didn’t so much as fade as it turned into a burning flame in her chest. She stared down the cotton-colored stallion who’d spoke.

“...you wanna run that one by me again?” She asked, her voice low. The young stallion looked up from his drink, surprised at the anger in her tone.

“Well, I know they’re just joking, but... You know. He’s not a pony,” he thoughtlessly blurted out, before being startled to silence by the slam of a hoof against the table that sent several mugs flying.

“He’s more of one than you are, bub. Pony or not, he’s a good guy,” she growled, leaning forward over the table. “And I may just be his friend, but as his friend I will shove those shoes of yours so far down your throat you’ll be crapping steel for a week if you got a problem with that.”

The stallion didn’t have an answer for that, staring at her like a deer frozen in the headlights. Someone did have an answer, however, and it was a long and impressed whistle that finally broke the silence.

“Yep, I’m going with frightened. Definitely frightened,” Cherries said before busting out in laughter.

“So that’s what he sees in you. Damn, girl, you scary." Drizzle couldn't have looked prouder.

Smokey agreed, finishing off his cider for a little liquid courage before he turned to the withering white stallion. “Rook, I do believe you just got told. Best sit down and keep quiet, before the little lady puts a hurt on you.”

“Don’t mind Rook,” the police pegasus mare said soothingly, a peacekeeper to the end. “He means well, but he’s a bit of a jerk when it comes to the non-pony types.”

“It’s the old blood in him!” Cob said as he reclaimed his seat, looking as dapper as possible. He'd even shined the badge on his chest. “He’s the third descendent of a something-something fancy royal-shmoyal unicorn line. Means he grew up rich and snobby.” The elder stallion patted his rookie on the back, who had his head lowered in shame, unable to even speak up in his own defense. “Don’t you worry none, the colt’ll grow out of it. So, what’d I miss? And where’s my hooch?”

“Just some friendly teasing,” Cherries grinned at Ducky, who snorted but rolled her eyes. “Although, I for one would love to hear your secret. How do you get him to say more than two words, anyhow?”

“Kinda a long story,” Ducky tried to weasel her way out of it, but the crowd was already stomping their hooves on the table and shouting encouragement. There was no way she was going to escape without telling the story, and she sighed in mock resignation. “Alright, alright, fine. You see, it all started when...”

***

Gander bit back a snarl of frustration. In the time he’d been grilling the barkeep, the only thing he’d learned was that the stallion’s name was Moonshine. He’d tried every inconspicuous way possible to discover if the stallion had heard of any unusual happenings within the city, or if any talkative patrons might have mentioned an interesting deal going down, or even where one might hire a donkey delivery service.

Nothing. All he’d gotten was talk of the weather or the passing of the seasons. Whether the sports team had a chance in the next game. Useless, inane chatter. It reminded him that he owed Ducky a drink, and he stalked back to the corner table with the shot of vodka in his claws.

Ducky, for her part, seemed to have forgotten the drink. A server had already been by to refill the pitcher of cider, and it seems she and the others had helped themselves, for two more pitchers had joined that one and there wasn’t a drop of cider to be seen among them. She stood now on her back hooves in the center of the table, gesturing emphatically with her forehooves and wings, to the uproarious laughter of the police and weather teams.

“...and that’s how I got my nickname!” She said with a flourish of a bow, cheers and applause equally mixed.

“Ahaha, you’re too much!” Smokey spoke through the pained breaths that he could manage in between gut-wrenching guffaws. “B-but, how?! How did you even get the tub up there?”

“Yeeeeah, that was our fault,” Cobolt grinned in pride, elbowing Drizzle who shared a sinister smile. “We kind of owed her a favor for the time with the lockers and the badger. I thought I’d never get the smell out of my mane, so I ended up going bald for weeks!”

“Okay, we are so using that on Gummy,” Cherries cackled maniacally, rubbing her hooves together like a supervillain. “I don’t even care if she kills me, I’ll die a happy mare.”

“No, no, I need to know!” Shoes pointed an unsteady wing towards the golden mare, who still stood atop the table as if she was wondering how she got there. “Where in Tartarush... rush... Tarantar... where the heck do you get forty gallons of chocolate?! I need to know! For... for science!”

“Y’see, the thing ‘bout chocolate is... Gander!” Ducky shouted as she noticed his arrival, her voice high with the exuberance that only the truly smashed can exhibit. She stumbled over mugs and pitchers, and Gander had to race the last few steps to catch her before she hurtled off the table. He set her more-or-less upright in the booth before perching upon his stool, considering whether or not she needed the extra alcohol.

“Ducky. You look to be enjoying yourself much,” Gander noted, and she giggled in reply.

“Your friends are nice. Everypony’s nice.” She leaned over, almost falling out of her chair again to pat him on his head. “You’re nice, too.”

“How kind of you to say so,” he grunted, but she only blew a raspberry.

“Even if you are a total grouchy-grouch.”

“That is maybe less kind of you to say so,” Gander stared at the drink. It was looking more friendly by the second.

“I bet... I bet, I bet that’s, um, that’d be your griffon name, is Grouchy, if you were a griffon.” She blinked, her eyes crossing in confusion. “Oh, wait, no, you already is a griffon... Oh! Then I can call you Grouchy-grouch!”

“I would rather you did not.”

“Awww...” Ducky prodded at him with her head. “Why are you grouching, Grouchy-grouch? Tell your good friend Ducky all about it, and I’ma totally make it all better! Cause I’m, um, the goodest of friends. Bestest. Bester. I’m great!”

He considered that suggestion carefully. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ducky, but his mission wasn’t for idle conversation. He decided at last on a half-truth, one that could not hurt. “I think maybe the bartender will not speak plainly to me. I asked of him where to best hire non-ponies for... moving things. But he tells me nothing.”

“Hey!” She wavered in her seat and poked his chest with an indignant hoof. “You gotta problem with ponies? Cause I know ponies! Some’a my bestestest friends are ponies!”

“Not at all, Ducky.” Gander tried to calm her down, amazed at how poorly she handled her liquors. “It is only that I am a... what is the words, equal opportunity employer? I wish for non-ponies, like donkeys, to have work as well.”

That statement worked better than he’d imagined. It actually brought a tear to her eye, lips quivering in choked sobs. “Th-that is so beautiful.” She tried to lean forwards to hug him, but ended up falling on the floor with a grunt. That didn’t stop the love, apparently. Her voice rose up from beneath the table in a mournful howl. “You’re sooooo shh... shweeeeet... An-an ponies don’t even know how sweet you are... It’s so sad!”

There was muffled weeping from the floor. Gander took this opportunity to snap his head back and down the vodka, deciding that he needed it far more than the mare. The action brought a wave of shouting from the table.

“Shots!” Cob declared, and the call was reinforced by police- and weatherponies alike. They drummed on the table as a server somewhat telepathically drifted over with a tray stacked high with tiny glasses filled to the brim with something that burned Gander’s sensitive nose even at this distance.

The old coot cackled as he raised the first glass. “To our griffon comrade, and his mean right-hook! May it bloody the snout of injustice again tomorrow!”

“To Gander!” The ponies of the table raised their own cups and voices, and Gander felt obliged to join in.

He would regret that decision.

***

Sometimes, being a griffon wasn’t easy. For example, the concept of challenges. For a griffon, a challenge was something that could not be ignored. It was to be accepted with all of one’s might, no matter what the challenge might be. Even something as unusual as, say, outdrinking the entire police force of Baltimare’s district seven.

With a care that took all of his considerable concentration, Gander lowered the crystal shotglass face-down onto a mound of its brethren. They made a small castle now, of fortified walls and towering spires, one that he was certain could hold its own against even the assault of a rampaging dragon. Gander imagined little bug-sized griffons living and working within the courtyard, manning the toothpick catapults and launching olives of justice at their foes.

A hissed intake of breath from one suffering the burn of whiskey drew his attention away from the walls of Grifftopia. Griffopolis. Griffington. Eh, he’d think of a better name later. The clink of a shotglass against the table was more important now.

“Thash... ten...” Cobolt mumbled with slurred words from the other side of the table. It was much emptier now; Peeps and Drizzle had abandoned them, claiming work tomorrow. Shoofly was even worse at handling her liquor than the mysteriously absent Ducky, and kind-hearted Brass had offered to walk the inebriated mare home for safety. Cob backed out of the game itself, citing a lifetime of similar nights had left him with a liver of an eighty-year old. That left Cherries, Smokey, and Cobolt in this challenge, and the ponies had decided for their own safety to team up against him.

It wasn’t a matter of racial prejudice or spite, but of common sense. Gander outweighed them each by a hefty margin, and within the first several rounds he was proving that he’d at least inherited the legendary griffon tolerance for alcohol. He took to whiskey like a goose to water, and an iron self-control was keeping the lack of sobriety from any outward appearance other than staring with far too much intensity at his growing mountain of glasses. He kept his head very still, focusing on the table that was shifting in place like the deck of a ship. It took him several moments to locate his next shot, and several more to have it in a firm enough grasp that he felt safe to lift it. Down it went to join its friends, and castle Griffolot’s ramparts grew.

“Okay, okay, dun worry, I got this,” Cherries said with a winning smile and reached for her next glass. “My tu-urghlrgghblrgh!”

The scarlet mare was noisily sick in a nearby trashcan that Cob helpfully provided, bless that old codger. Needless to say, she was out of the match, though she’d offered a decent resistance. Cobolt mourned the loss of her sister-in-arms, for the two shared almost every trait but coloring. Smokey mourned the fact that now it was his turn.

“Luna’s cratered moons, but you’re a monster, Gander,” he groaned and lifted his glass. It hit the table a moment later and he gave a slight wheeze. “Eleven. Sisters above have mercy on me.”

The search for his next shot began, and the griffon, for his name no longer had meaning to him, relied more on his sense of touch than his unreliable eyes. The traitorous orbs kept spinning, and if he kept them open for too long then staying upright would no longer be an option. It was fairly safe to say he was a bit above the legal limit for flying home this night, and probably would remain so for several nights after. The familiar burn down his throat signified that Griffkeep’s princess would now have a suitable tower to be locked away in, rising into the sky like the mountainous talons of mother earth. He did not call out his number, partly because he’d lost track and partly because numbers were hard.

“Ugh... ohk-okay. Cobolt, it’s your...” Smokey turned to his right only to find his teammate had passed out sitting upright in her chair, snoring softly with a tendril of flammable drool making its way down her cheek. Cob cackled from his corner seat.

“Looks like yer on your own there, laddie. The pride of ponykind depends on you and you alone. Don’t let us down!” He said encouragingly. Cherries offered her support by puking again. At least her mane was short enough that nopony had to hold it back.

Smokey looked at the ominous glass in front of him with a feeling of dread and revulsion building in his gut. He looked at his rival, the inequine automaton building a fortress out of his trophies. “C-can... can we call it a draw?”

“Convince a griffon to withdraw? Ducky told better whoppers than that! Ehehee!” Cob snickered at his pain, only to be interrupted by the return of the very mare in question.

“Whoa, thazza lotta shots!” She stumbled over, still very much tipsy and leaning against the table in such a way that Gander feared for the structural integrity of the Griffland fortress. No, it had weathered so many sieges before this. It had survived famine and war, political uprisings and plagues. Tectonic shifting would not be the end of his proud people! With a burning seriousness, he held a single claw out and ever-so-carefully steadied the wobbling tallest reaches of the citadel. Ducky continued on, oblivious of the near-disaster she’d almost caused. “But, no, there’s totally a way for griffony folk to draw. He told me all about it!”

Ducky looked at her friend, waiting for a back-up statement that never came. She shrugged it off, since he was clearly busy. “Yeah, it’s, like, a safety thing. If’n two griffons are fightin’ and neither of ‘em can win, to keep them from goin’ at it for years, they can claim... uh, whatsits... an eagle force? No, a force eagle!”

That sound actually did drag the wasted griffon from his stupor. “Être de force égale?”

“That’s the one! Whaddya think, mister boozy bird?”

Gander considered this as best his impaired reasoning could manage. On the one hand, he wasn’t entirely sure what was being asked of him, as the colorful amorphous blobs around him had long since stopped making any sort of sense. The little squeals they made reminded him of bunnies, and he’d never known a bunny worth listening to. On the other hand, some deep sense of self-preservation was begging him to accept whatever the sunny one wanted. It was safer, his instincts told him. To refuse was to accept a fate worse than death. He was still on the fence about the entire matter, until the residents of Griffornia put the matter to a vote and overruled his decision through the democratic process.

“D’accord,” Gander said agreeably as he blinked out of sequence. Smokey looked increasingly ill, shaking old Cob in a panic, his voice rising into a shrieking sob.

“What’s he saying? What does that even mean?! Tell me! For the love of the sun, teh-he-hellll meeeee!”

“Quitcher braying, ya mule!” Cob pushed the insensate officer back into his chair. “Ducky, what nonsense is yer coltfriend spouting now?”

“He’s sayin’ it’s, like, midnight or somethin’ and it’s time to go home. And also he’s happy to pay my tab,” she nodded matter-of-factly. “Griffony-talk is a beautiful language, ain’t it?”

“Works for me,” cackled Cob, who wrangled his surviving officers and the remaining weathermare together in a conga-line of failed sobriety. “You don’t look too out of it, missy. How’s about I take these three, and you can handle the big guy?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I had to carry the big lug,” she strained to drag Gander out of the booth and away from the table, who was loudly protesting the exodus away from his hard-earned empire. Finally, she had a decent position beneath his wing to prop the wildly unsteady griffon up. “Which, ack he’s heavier than before... which way to the door?”

“Other side of the bar, thataway,” Cob waved in the general direction of the back exit. He seemed to be having some trouble keeping Cobolt awake and Smokey from professing his love for a barmaid. “Eh, we’re gonna be a minute. Y’all go on ahead. Was nice meetin’ ya, Ducky.”

“Same to you!” Ducky and her griffon friend, though he was less friend and more dead weight at the moment, trudged towards the door with the conviction of a pair of climbers ascending the summit of Mount Everfrest. “See now, Gander, I think you made some friends. That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

***

Pixie Stix growled in frustration. The alabaster pegasus ran a hoof through her rainbow-striped hair before returning to her restless pacing. She had a dancer’s body, or so admiring colts had told her, and it was quite possible her boundless energy that kept her from ever managing to sit still had much to do with her lean figure. The thing she hated most in this world was waiting, and she’d been forced to wait in this ratty little alley for hours.

“Would you cut that out, Stix?” Her companion, an aging stallion leaning against the dumpster, grumbled from the shadows. “You’re putting me on edge.”

“I’m bored, Stones.” It was not his true name, for Pop Rocks tried to maintain a respectable image in his daily life and his nighttime ventures would surely jeopardize that, but it suited him well. He was built like a boulder, an earth pony’s physique ramped up to frightening levels. He must have been twice her size, and all of it bulging muscles. How he expected to fool anypony in to thinking he was anything less than a bruiser was a mystery, even if his shape and coloring reminded Stix somewhat of a giant strawberry with legs. She couldn’t care less if anypony knew what her real job was. In fact, she reveled in their fear. “And when I’m bored, things get broken. Aren’t they supposed to be ou-”

The slate-grey door of the crumbling brick building swung open with a loud creak, effectively silencing her complaint. Two figures stumbled out of it, and the heavy door slammed shut behind them with an ominous locking click.

“Well, speak of the Nightmare, and it shall appear.” The smaller of the two newcomers turned her head towards the sound of Stones’ voice. She was a little waif of a pony, bright and doughy and terribly out-of-place in a grungy back-alley such as this. The only thing about her that matched the setting was the flash of concern on her face, though she hid it quickly behind a polite smile. A typical pony in every way, and not the reason that the duo had been camped in this filth all night. No, that honor belonged to the brute leaning against her.

And he was a brute, Stix noted with a twisted sort of glee that gave her a mirrored smile of her own. Just as she’d heard, here he was; a mutant monster, part pony and part something else, but all freak. He was larger than even Stones could claim to be, and she’d heard tales of his speed in a fight from the few survivors of previous raids. Only, he wasn’t so fast or strong now, was he? Not when he could barely stand, when it took a weakling mare to even keep him upright. Stix’s smile became something frightening, something sinister, and she approached the two with malice in every step.

“U-um, hi there. Can... can we help you?” A flick of her ears betrayed the mare’s emotions. She wanted to flee, but there’s no way that could happen. Not with the sloshed griffon hanging over her withers. Even the doorway to the relative safety of the bar was blocked; the door only opened outward.

“Stand aside, girl,” Stones gave her an ultimatum as he towered above her. The softy. It wasn’t a chance Stix would’ve offered. The mare surprised her by showing no small amount of courage as she stood her ground.

“I’d, um, rather not. I think... c-could you maybe let us pass?” It was cute. Foolish, but cute. Stix quickly grew bored of it.

“Not happening. Outta the way, twerp!” She sped towards the pair in a flash, an aerial kick knocking the little mare away with a cry of pain. The yellow mare collided with the stone wall and crumpled to the ground. His support having vanished, the hybrid dropped to his knees. Now he faced both ponies at almost eye-level, confused and crossed eyes met with a savage grin and a dour frown.

“Hardly necessary, but what’s done is done.” Stones sighed. He was such a buzzkill, but he was a professional and as reliable a bruiser as Stix had ever known. He also managed the less fun parts of their job, such as the mumbo-jumbo of why they were hired, which he now proceeded to spout as if he was a judge, when Stix knew they were far closer to executioners. “Officer... You are new to this town, so let tonight serve as an official notice. May the pain remind you every minute of every day of this one lesson.”

Stones kept talking, which in Stix’s mind was an even worse form of punishment than what was to come. “The Skinflints own this town, and you are starting to become an annoyance. Boss Dobber sends his regards.”

There it was, the magic words she’d been waiting all night to hear. With that, Stones turned and bucked the kneeling griffon in the chest, his shod hooves impacting feathers and the flesh beneath with a resounding crack. The griffon’s mass kept him in place, though he reeled from the strike. Stix joined in with rapid punches to the griffon’s ribs, a satisfyingly meaty smack from each hit causing her to laugh out loud. She cracked his beak together with an uppercut to the chin, and he tumbled backwards into a collapsed pile of fur and feathers on the floor.

“How much fun do we get to have with him?” She asked gleefully. Stones shrugged.

“Dobber wants this one in crutches, so go all out.”

“Yes!” Stones’ calm announcement was like her birthday and Hearthswarming presents all in one. She did a little dance in place, hooves tapping against the trash-littered cement. “This is awesome! Hey, look, he’s getting up.”

The griffon rose slowly, a look of fierce determination on his face. The hitponies advanced, with the heavier Stones taking the lead. That bold stare made him cautious; few could take a point-blank buck and still have the tenacity to stand. The griffon’s expression told him of an inner persistence, a strength of will. It told him the griffon had guts.

Guts which the griffon proceeded to puke all over him. Stones never had a chance, a stream of projectile vomit splashing the surprised stallion right in the face. He screamed as a mix of pure ethanol and stomach acid seared his eyes, and fell to the ground wiping furiously at his face. Stix snarled in response to her teammate’s collapse and charged forward with a flex from her powerful wings.

“Why, you little!” She swung with all of her might at the griffon’s head. Her hoof slammed into his face, but he twisted with the motion, his entire body pivoting like a ballerina. An elbow caught her between the ribs, and she lost control of her flight, momentum sending her crashing into the dumpster with a yelp. She was back on her hooves in an instant, turning to face her opponent.

He stood squarely in the center of the alley, not even looking at her at all. He took a few unsteady steps, looking about in confusion and speaking incomprehensibly before vomiting into the street once more. It was like he wasn’t aware he was fighting at all, Stix realized, and that drove her into a rage more than the bruising of her ribs. With a growl, she flew back into the fray, throwing punches and kicks with all the considerable speed her body could muster.

It was all for naught. For every blow she felt sink home, another dozen were deflected or sidestepped. The griffon was as unsteady as a blade of grass in the breeze, but his insobriety hardly hurt his defense at all. If anything, it made him more unpredictable and lighter on his feet, displaying a boneless grace that prevented all but the most glancing strikes. She hit him again and again and again and again, and still the bastard would not go down. It frustrated her to a mindless rage, an uncaring and unthinking frenzy, and that loss of control cost her dearly. So focused she was on breaking this exasperating griffon, Stix neglected to keep an eye on her surroundings.

A torpedo of feathers and righteous fury struck her firmly in the spine, introducing her to the dumpster once more. This time, Stix met with the unyielding metal face-first, feeling her snout crumple with a sickening crunch, and the cold ground rose up to meet her. Her last blurred view was a quartet of golden hooves standing over her prone form. The mare. The weakling she’d thought out for the count. The shock of the backstab lasted only a moment as the darkness of unconsciousness overtook her.

And then there were two left standing in that dark alley in the dead of night.

***

“That’s right!” Ducky panted through the rush of adrenaline, blinking away blood that ran down from a cut on her scalp. “That’s what you get, you... you... y-you bully!”

The mystery mare did not deign to answer, or even move again. Ducky’s stomach roiled with more than just the cider she’d downed earlier that evening. Despite the unwarranted attack, she still made a silent prayer that her assailant wasn’t seriously hurt. Speaking of hurt, she gasped and flew over to Gander’s side.

“Hey, bud,” she said quietly as she tried to steady the griffon’s uncontrolled swaying. “You alright?”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she cringed. That was possibly the stupidest question she could’ve asked. One eye was already blackened and swelling, his beak was cracked, and the rest of him looked just as frightful. Feathers and fur were matted in blood, and ugly bruises were visible even beneath the white down of his chest. His wheezing breaths had a watery gurgle to them, and he let out a hacking cough that brought red-tinged saliva to his bill. He was very definitely not all right, but at least her concerned words had caught his attention.

Gander looked down at the trembling pony in surprise. It took him a moment to recognize her through the combined blinding forces of a beauty of a shiner and enough liquor to sink a ship, but eventually comprehension dawned in his rattled skull.

“Oh, Ducky!” Gander said sorrowfully. Was it the booze or the head trauma that made him sound so depressed? “I am not trés bon friend.”

She lowered her head to hide her blush, pawing at the ground with a hoof. It was only now occurring to her the magnitude of what she’d done, leaping into battle to save her friend. Of course he would feel guilty for putting her in harm’s way. “Oh, no! I, um, I didn’t think... I mean, it wasn’t your fault, you know?”

Gander shook his head in defeat, his wings drooping as he gathered Ducky into a bone-cracking hug. He gestured to the writhing stallion jabbing his hooves in his eyes like he was promising away his soul, and to the prone mare who’d left an imprint of her no-longer-pretty face on the trash bin.

“I have broken promise to not fight,” Gander confessed, “and ruined surprise party.”

“Well, yeah, I- wait, what?”

***

Author's Note

This used to be combined with chapter two. I split them up for easier readability. There's a bit of drunken kung fu in there, but this isn't much of a first real fight scene. Not to worry, there's plenty more dust-ups in the coming chapters.

Chapter Four: Hangovers

Something was wrong.

No, his enfeebled mind struggled to form the thought. Not just something. Many things were wrong. Wrong was bad. This simple concept was like a beacon of light to his as-of-yet unconscious thoughts. With wrongness came danger, and with danger came the necessity of awareness. His instincts rallied together, clamoring for attention and change. They forced him from the blackness that enveloped him, pushed him out of the void and into the light of day.

Gander's eyes fluttered open and then immediately clenched shut from the blinding aura that seared the vision straight out of his skull. The light of day sucked, he informed his instincts as he attempted to retreat back into the soothing embrace of unconsciousness. They refused to give in, denying him a peaceful rest no matter how he longed for it. There was something wrong, his instincts told him once more. Face it, they said. Hiding was for the weak.

That was the affront that dragged him back to the waking world. To be called weak was an insult that could not be ignored, even coming from his own innermost thoughts. Gathering his resolve, Gander willed himself free of the haze of slumber, forcing his eyes open against the loathed light once more.

The first thing he noticed was that his instincts, as cruel as they could be, had a point. His blurred vision slowly resolved itself into the image of an unfamiliar ceiling of bleached white tiles and a host of professionally set electric bulbs that put out an even light. As his mind dragged itself from its dormancy, details began to flood in about the nature of his alien surroundings. The bedding beneath him was nearly cloudlike, his body sinking into its soft and fluffy material - dreadfully uncomfortable for one more accustomed to sleeping on solid surfaces. Heavy blankets were piled overtop his prone form, which lay sprawled out on his back. The air reeked with a cloying pall of solvents and cleaners, overpowering his nostrils with their unnatural odor. It all blended together, the strangeness surrounding him, and only fed his unyielding sense of unease.

Somewhat oddly, the least unusual feeling in Gander's opinion was the staggering amounts of pain that gripped much of his body, blossoming forth from his guts and trailing down his bones like some sort of torturous vines beneath his skin. Pain was familiar to him, almost comforting in a way. It was something he knew quite well, and he went through the mental motions of blocking off the worst of the sensation until it was slightly less unbearable. Even so, he still could not quite manage to keep himself from hissing sharply as he shifted slightly in his bed.

"Huh, look who's awake."

Ah, that was the feeling of wrongness his instincts warned him of. This was not his bed at all. The voice that spoke was familiar, a male's voice with a hint of southern twang, but he could not quite place it. Nor could he summon up the energy to turn his head even slightly to see where it was coming from.

"Whur..." Gander attempted to speak, but his mouth felt as if it was full of cotton. He swallowed and tried again. "Where?"

"Saint Hagnes Hospital," the voice helpfully informed him as Gander continued to struggle against a grogginess that was entirely foreign to him. Despite his best efforts, his muscles and mind would not listen. Possibly noticing his restless shifting, the voice solved that mystery as well. "Don't bother getting worked up, now. The doc wasn't sure how much anesthetic to give a hippogriff, so he just kinda kept sticking you 'til you stopped squirming."

"Why?" Gander croaked. The voice gave a wry chuckle in response.

"It's not easy working on somepony your size that don't feel inclined to sit still. It took most of us to drag you here in the first place."

"Not why for the drugs." Whatever he'd been given, it was far too much and still not enough. The pain was constant, the room was still spinning, and he felt like vomiting from either the motion or the lingering effects of the medication. On the plus side, his focus was slowly returning. What was not returning was his memory. The last he could recall before a blurred kaleidoscope of nonsensical images was staring the others down at a table, and fragments of memories of a glass castle. Gander wondered to himself if he'd somehow made it to the Crystal Empire last night before ending up in a hospital. "Why for being here?"

"Huh. Guess that shouldn't surprise me, you were more soaked than a salmon upstream."

"There was water?" Well, that raised even more questions, as Gander knew himself to be a strong swimmer. Also, the Crystal Empire had no rivers nearby that he knew of.

"What? No. I'm saying you were deep in the cups. Two sheets to the wind. Blitzed like the hoofball quarterback." Each euphemism that flew over his head only complicated Gander's mental image of the last night's events, which now included organized sports on the deck of a pirate ship, before the voice finally offered an explanation that made sense. "Drunk. You were absolutely drunk when those gang enforcers jumped you."

That spurred a few memories from the murk of the night's events. He recalled a door with ponies on the other side. Another of Ducky's housewarming parties. They were dancin- no, they were trying to hit him. It was much like a griffon celebration, with traditional ritual duels, but that made him pause. Now that he thought about it, ponies probably don't even have celebration duels.

"That... was not a party."

"Well, that's one way of putting it. And here I was about to call it an ol' fashioned ass whuppin'." If the voice was aware or concerned about the racist undertones of that phrase, he didn't show it. "If it weren't for the little lady saving your hide, the rest of us might have found a corpse for the morgue instead of a patient for the hospital."

The mental exercise of recalling past events had strengthened his mind enough to work through the persistent medication, allowing Gander to turn his head slightly towards the voice. He caught glimpses of a small room, hardly larger than the bed he found himself in, with a table nearby covered in equipment he could not identify. Small window above with blinds drawn closed casted a pattern of shadows on the polished floor. Next to the table sat a single chair, which was currently occupied by a dark grey pegasus with a rolled-up newspaper beneath a wing.

"Sergeant Smokey," Gander couldn't quite manage a salute yet, but he gave his most respectful nod. "I am surprised of your concern, to wait for my recovery. I did not think us so close."

That won a raised eyebrow and a friendly grin from the sergeant, who gave a quiet snort. "Don't feel too grateful. The captain has us taking watches, in case the Skinflints try again while you're out of it. I had a similar impression to yours. I figured you didn't even know my name."

Gander closed his eyes, as it seemed to help him gather his thoughts. Thinking remained incredibly hard at the moment. "Legal name Shash'łit, alias of Smoking Bear, birth name is not known," he recited thickly, as his tongue was defying his orders to work properly. "Pegasus stallion, thirty-five years of age. Mark is of fire. No living relatives. Arrest record of three counts vigilantism in border territories. Five year sentence, released on good behavior to program for reha-"

"Read my file, huh?" The friendly grin was gone by the time Gander opened his eyes once more. The stallion's expression was somewhat colder, and he eyed the griffon with a narrow gaze.

"Records are public, and I read of coworkers to know of them." Gander was confused by the change, although even without the fog stubbornly clinging in his mind he was never the best at reading social cues. He was excellent at picking up hostility, though. "A griffon would know of who they hunt with. This is problème?"

"Some ponies like to leave the past buried," Smokey said quietly. Whatever had happened those decades ago still remained a sour spot for him. "It's not all that friendly to go digging into what don't concern you. Next time, just ask."

"Interesting to learn this." Gander would have scratched at his chin in thought, but he had only recently regained the ability to twitch his toes. He settled on blinking in what he imagined to be a contemplative way. "Friends do not do background checks without permission."

Smokey kept a level stare on him for a long time before sighing. "For everypony's sake, I'm just gonna try not to take that personal. The little lady was right, you are kinda hopeless when it comes to friends."

"You speak of Ducky, yes? What did you mean," Gander asked curiously, "when you said she saved my hide?" He honestly couldn't imagine the cheerful mare in combat, though her tenacity had surprised him before. "I remember little of this fight. What happened?"

"Shucks, I'm not too clear on it. I was drunk as a skunk my own self." Smokey shrugged. "Serves me right for agreeing to that fool contest. Anyhow, the two of you left early. When the rest of us stumbled out a few minutes later, you were looking like you met the wrong end of a stampede, and the little lady was standing over two downed mobsters with the fiery wrath of the sun in her eyes."

There was a healthy measure of respect in those words. And a small amount of fear. Gander was inclined to agree with the sentiment; Ducky could be downright scary. Perhaps this was a similarity to bond over, he thought. A shared viewpoint was one way of making friends, or so Ducky had told him. She'd also told him to compliment others, even if he thought they were weak or pitiful. Considering she was apparently able to overwhelm criminals, Gander felt it wise to follow her advice. "You handle your liquor well, Sergeant."

"Eh? How do you mean? I reckon that contest wasn't even close."

"Perhaps, but you have recovered quickly, yes?" Gander gestured towards the window with his head, with rays of sunlight streaming through the blinds. "The morning is still young."

The pegasus didn't even have to answer. He merely tossed the newspaper under his wing onto Gander's chest. Keeping himself from wincing at the impact, which stung a lot more than the griffon remembered paper capable of, Gander glanced at the front page.

"I... have been asleep for six days." He noted, taking the news in good stride. "Interesting."

"Yeah, there was a lot of anesthetic. We couldn't get you into a bed," Smokey admitted. "You kept saying you'd walk it off."

"That sounds reasonable. Griffons are strong. Few injuries are serious," Gander said with pride. He was answered with a flat look.

"You had a collapsed lung, a ruptured kidney, and a detached retina," Smokey shuddered at the thought. "You don't walk those off."

"I have a spare of each."

"Huh. So I guess it wasn't the booze that made you stubborn as a mule and twice as stupid." Again with the racism. Smokey snorted as he got to his hooves. "Anyhow, you just sit tight. Read the paper, maybe. The captain wanted to talk to you when you woke up."

"Should I be worried?"

"After the mess she's been cleaning up?" The stallion paused at the door to consider the question. "Personally, I'd rather face the hitponies."

***

Five years. There was a time when that number had not seemed so long. When she was younger, five years went by in the blink of an eye. She'd had moxie back then. She'd had that undefinable, energetic get-up-and-go that had pushed her through the ranks with an overwhelming ambition matched only by her recklessness. She'd lived on the razor's edge, and she loved every minute of it. There was a time she'd toppled criminal empires. There was a time that cutthroats trembled at her name.

Gumshoe held back a weary sigh as she caught a glance of her reflection in a nearby window. There was a time she didn't count every passing second until retirement. It was almost funny; she'd spent years walking the beat with the threat of a knife in her back, and now it was sitting behind a desk that was killing her. She didn't see the horror of one case and one crime at a time- no, she saw everything. Every last wretched act that the worst of her species was capable of crossed her desk. Ponies were still inherently good, she believed. She had to. It was the only thing keeping her steady. The vast majority of ponies were good, but there were always a few that went wrong. A few that were driven too far or somehow devoid of the caring soul that Equestrians were known for. A few was still too many.

Her reflection stared back in the form of a weary mare bereft of joy. Dark circles under tired magenta eyes. A dull champagne-colored coat and an aging body rapidly deteriorating from stress. Wrinkles and crow's feet, love handles that had much more to do with seething hatred, and a formerly tightly pleated manestyle that now resembled a rat's nest. She attempted in vain to bring some order to the braids of her silvering -most definitely not gray- mane. The many hairs that had sprung loose now hung limply, as if they too had seen too much.

Abandoning the attempt to salvage her appearance, she continued on down the wide hospital hallway, her hooves clacking smartly against a floor so clean she could probably eat off it. All hospitals tended to look the same to her, and Gumshoe had seen the interiors of more than a few. They always seemed to have the same shining floors, the same bland walls, the same overly bright lights and the same sort of mares in reception who were infallibly polite in conversation but devoid of true emotion. They'd seen so many patients that they just couldn't care anymore. It was a survival trait; eventually would come the day when the sight of blood and carnage simply did not horrify any longer. In a way, they were just as much a reflection of her as what she'd seen in the window.

Dying in a bust gone bad seemed a far kinder fate to Gumshoe than that. Empathy was what defined a pony. She shuddered and prayed once more that retirement came before she too became deadened to the filth of the underworld. The only solution she'd found to not caring at all was caring too much. She hardened her expression into an angry scowl as she not-so-gently knocked the door open of the private patient room. She strode in and shut the door behind her, not quite slamming it but certainly not being gentle. Inside was another reason for her anger. Her newest officer, and by all rights a decent enough fellow, bedridden by a cowardly-

"Officer le Gannet," Gumshoe said, her wrath momentarily forgotten in surprise. "Why are you not bedridden?"

The griffon hybrid was out of his bed, midway through a set of push-ups on the floor. He looked, well, like he shouldn't have been moving, much less exercising. Strips of white gauze bandages covered much of his brown-and-white torso, working their way up his neck to his face. A butterfly bandage held a pad on his bill, and a patch obscured his left eye. Gander's newest injuries, combined with those he'd been collecting from before, gave him a mummified appearance that did not engender faith in his physical health. He looked up at her from the floor with his remaining good eye.

"I am rid of the bed, capitaine," he said, as if stating the obvious. "Too much resting makes one weak."

"No, I meant... forget it, just take a seat." There were times she wondered if the griffon was attempting to rile her up, but Gumshoe wasn't in the mood to fall for it today. "You'd better have gotten clearance from the doctors to be moving already."

"I spoke with the doctors, yes," Gander grunted as he returned to perching on the edge of the far too comfortable bed. He'd been laid up for nearly a week; he could feel his muscles atrophying. He was hardly a match for any of his own kind on a good day. He hated to think of how he would fair in a traditional duel in his current state. He shook off his concerns for now, as his superior officer came first. "I am to wear the eyepatch for some days and not do strenuous activities that strain the ribs and bring pain for some weeks."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Exercising counts as strenuous, officer."

"For ponies, maybe," he snorted.

"No." Gumshoe was adamant, and her expression practically dared the griffon to disagree with her. "You follow the doctors' orders to the letter, or so help me I'll stick you on medical leave for a month and chain you to that bed."

If only Ducky were here, she could have had a field day with that image. As it was, the accidental innuendo flew straight over Gander's head. He only fought to keep his displeasure from showing and answered with a simple, "Understood."

"And I'm assigning you a partner."

That was over the line. Gander's scowl broke free. "I am not needing a partner, capitaine. A pony will only slow me down."

"Tough cookies, officer." She struck down his objections without remorse. "I've got two new additions to my lock-up, and that tells me you need back-up. You got off lucky, and those injuries aren't exactly convincing me otherwise."

"A mistake, capitaine. It will not happen again." Gander hissed, a lust for vengeance in his voice. "Had I not been impaired-"

"Do tell," came a new voice from a young stallion standing at the door. Cadet Fisher, the white unicorn otherwise known as Rook, opened the door with a blue aura of magic. His multicolored mane was slicked back, and he wore a newly-pressed uniform. Fisher walked in without an invitation, his magic silently closing the door in his wake.

"Cadet," Gander said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at the entrance. "What brings you here?"

"That would be your new partner," Gumshoe added wryly, taking a quiet enjoyment from the griffon's conflicted expression. "I was planning to assign one, and he was the first to volunteer."

“I had thought my mission to be kept dark.” The griffon still didn't know who of his coworkers could truly be trusted. Not that he exactly trusted any of them in any situation, but of the varying levels of mistrust, the cadet was hardly in the shallow end of the pool.

“Well,” Gumshoe shrugged, “it was the lesser of two evils. Fisher is the newest of our recruits, his scores from the academy are impeccable, and he comes with recommendations nearly as high as yours. I‘m trusting the both of you with this assignment.” Gander looked as if he was going to protest again, so she cut him off. “You don’t have to like it, but you do have to accept it. You need someone to watch your back, and my decision has been made.”

“As... you command, capitaine.” Gander relented, to Gumshoe’s sardonic delight.

“That griffon stubbornness of yours can be a royal pain in the dock, but I wish half of my little ponies could manage to follow orders so well.” She turned and headed to the door, which the unicorn opened for her. She called behind her without turning back, “I’ve left the cadet with the particulars of the case you’ve missed during your nap. Get acquainted.”

With that, the mare left the new partners alone in the hospital room. Both watched the other warily. Gander was the first to speak up. "Volunteering to be my partner. Your concern for my wellbeing is admirable, Cadet."

"I have concerns, Officer, but not for your good health." If Gander's tone was tinged with suspicion, then Fisher's was openly hostile. "As I said before, do tell. What would you have done if you were sober that night?"

"The criminals fought without honor," the griffon spat. His wings flexed irritably at the thought. "I would have broken their every bone so they could never have the privilege of fighting again.”

“That’s interesting,” Fisher said flatly, “because the last pony to run afoul of Stix and Stones had the same thing happen to him. That stallion will never walk again.”

“You mean to imply something, Cadet?” Gander’s feathers, what few of them that had yet to be bandaged, ruffled in agitation.

“I’m saying you’re a menace, griffon,” the unicorn answered with a sneer of his own. “No better than the thugs the force deals with every day. You pretend to be something more, but the truth is you’re nothing but a savage. You want nothing more than to hurt somepony, and you’ll take your chance the second we turn our backs.”

“And you would stop me, little pony?” Gander’s eyes narrowed to a deadly stare, one that he usually reserved for prey before the chase. He seemed to grow larger on his perch, looming over the smaller stallion and casting a shadow upon the ground.

“Yes,” Fisher was unmoved, filled with a fiery conviction. “I’ll be waiting for you to show your true colors, and when that day comes I will be there to stop you.”

Gander held his gaze for an agonizingly long moment, his single black eye locked onto Fisher’s cerulean blues.

“Good,“ he spoke at long last, turning away abruptly. He leaned back on his bed and opened up the newspaper with a loud rustle. The venom of his stance had disappeared instantly, as if it had never been. He couldn’t have looked more comfortable.

Fisher blinked in confusion. “Good?”

“Indeed,” Gander said, perusing the article of the day; a grand opening of a new skyplex. Such fascinating technological advancements the ponies were making with airships these days. He answered without bothering to pause in his reading. “I would expect nothing less.”

“Wait,” the unicorn said as he tried to collect his thoughts. “You want me to be against you?” His eyes narrowed. “This is some kind of griffon trick, isn’t it? To get me to let down my guard.”

“You are against griffons and know nothing of our kind?” Gander scoffed as he turned away from the paper to watch his new partner. Smokey, as pleasant as he was, obviously had a weak opinion of donkeys. This spoiled rich brat had something against griffons. In Gander's opinion, there were plenty of reasons to hate individuals as it was. Species didn't need to factor into it. “Fine, then. I will teach you. Griffon-kind is always against each other. Always do we fight our kin to grow stronger. Your wish to fight me? It only makes me sick for home.”

“I’m being serious, here,” Fisher snarled, but Gander grinned right back with teeth not entirely meant for herbivores.

“As am I.” The smile was gone, but the threat remained. “Let us say you are right, and I am savage and thirsty for blood. If you are right, and I am to abandon my duties to harm a pony not deserving... well, I wish you luck in trying to stop me.”

Gander turned back to the newspaper, adding in one final parting shot. “You will need it.”

Chapter Five: Hanging Out

Gander had never been the strongest flier. His wings were long and large, more capable at low-energy gliding than performing rapid wingbeats. He’d built endurance aplenty, and could stay aloft for days on end without rest, but races or acrobatics were simply beyond his grasp. With a proper wind to do the heavy lifting for him, Gander could manage acceptable speeds and decent maneuverability, but the winds of Equestria were orderly and manufactured; a far cry from the tumultuous gusts he was used to. Under his own power, he was as graceless as a fish out of water, and any pegasus was more than a match for him in the skies.

And yet, there was still something incredibly freeing about being airborne. All of the troubles plaguing his mind, all of the little worries that nagged incessantly, were unable to reach him in the sky’s embrace. They were below him, these earthbound cares. From the air, they looked as tiny and as insignificant as the anthive of ponies scurrying about. Gander was not the type to allow himself many pleasures, as befitting any properly reserved griffon, but flight was one of the few things that lifted even his dour spirits.

Which made the tight bands around his wings just one more form of torture he was forced to endure.

Gander sighed heavily. Captain Gumshoe had made it very clear that the words of the medical professionals were not to be ignored, and he was honorbound to obey. No matter that his wings were relatively undamaged, with little bruising and only a few clumps of secondary feathers missing. Regardless that it would probably be less effort for him to glide on the warm thermals rising from the asphalt streets than it would be to walk them. Completely ignoring that he and his kind shrugged off similar injuries without complaint. No, the overly concerned doctor had ordered Gander grounded, and so grounded he would remain.

He’d been released from the hospital and cleared for light duties with plenty of bed rest. The thought of the inactivity he would be subjected to only furthered Gander’s misery. His idea of fieldwork consisted of stalking the streets at night like a predator in a jungle of concrete, flushing out crime as it occurred and running it down like a true hunter. With that course obviously out of the question, it left only the desk-side of his position to consider. Paperwork was the part of law enforcement that interested him the least, but plenty of it would be waiting for him during his recovery. He could not hunt in his condition, and it looked like true progress on the case was out of his reach.

As it was, little enough had been accomplished during his extended nap. The lesser Skinflints in custody knew nothing of interest, and those that did were remaining tight-lipped. Nothing the officers had tried could manage to break the defense of Leicaster or the still unidentified mule, and the recent addition of the hitponies looked to be another dead end. The mare was nothing more than a blunt object. Already, she’d been isolated in solitary for breaking the jaw of a fellow inmate over a tray of creamed corn. It was obvious she knew nothing. The stallion might have potential, but they would have to wear him down first. Perhaps Gander could convince his superior officer that interrogation was a light duty.

Other than the prisoners, the only new developments in the case were rumors. Precincts were reporting a quiet but noticeable shift in the type of miscreants their officers faced down on the streets. Before, a policepony might have to run down a purse-snatcher, or break up the scheme of a small band of swindlers. More often than not, crime was an act of spontaneous chaos, caused by ponies in a bad way without the thought or care to understand the error of their actions. These were not the type of ponies to think about consequences. The same lack of order that drove them to break the law also kept them from banding together in greater numbers. While one charismatic ne’er-do-well might gather a few lackeys, rarely did it escalate beyond that point. It was a mixed blessing; whereas the common rulebreaker was easily apprehended, the more devious minds were much more difficult to root out. The gangs of Baltimare were few, but they had considerable power due to the influence and innovation of their leaders.

Regardless, crime did not come naturally to ponies, and organized crime even less so. It made the implications of this newest trend just that much more worrying. The vast majority of suspects being drawn in recently, down to even the petty thieves, were noted as wearing identifying markers. A certain color or style of clothing, garish jewelry of their chosen ‘family’, or even some who had gone so far as to brand their gang symbols into their flesh as a symbol of life-long loyalty; it seemed that delinquents of society were choosing sides. No, more than that, they were being drafted. The competing factions of the Baltimare underworld were consolidating their power for something, and Gander knew beyond a doubt that the results would not be pretty.

It was one more reason why his current inability to do much of anything at all galled him. There was a storm brewing and he could not fly up to meet it, figuratively and literally. Even now, he could only limp home to his crummy apartment and wait for news. For a hunter such as himself, it was both aggravating and shameful. It seemed that both feelings were only magnified by his company on the long and unhappy walk back home. Fisher had shadowed him the entire time, staring all the while as if he might assault and devour a passing pony in the street. It was a typical pony saying that griffons were always in a foul mood, some sort of play on words that Gander didn’t quite understand, but today had simply been one long string of irritations and whatever patience he’d possessed had long since worn through. It was a thirty-minute walk, and they’d done nothing but hurl veiled threats at each other. The constant bile coming from the unicorn was enough to starve a changling to death, and Gander could not bring himself to appreciate the challenge as he might on a normal day. It only set his teeth on edge and further darken the scowl on his face.

By the time Gander had managed to make it inside his apartment building, free from the hateful eye of his suspicious coworker, he was fuming. He made his way up the stairwell, each step bringing with it a lancing pain that reminded him of his failures and limitations. He’d been beaten, which was aggravating, by ponies, which was a whole new level of aggravating. Even more demeaning to his griffon honor was that they’d hospitalized him after. Bandaged and cared for him like a newborn hatchling. The final insult; because Gander was incapable of performing his duties, he’d been assigned a guardian. As if he couldn’t defend himself. A deep-seated angry built up in his chest, setting his blood to boiling. Unable to suppress it, Gander let out a furious shout as he reached the top of the stairs, venting his rage with a roar that shook the cheap floorboards beneath the carpeted hall.

“Gaaah!” An equally loud voice replied, only with surprise rather than anger.

Gander’s one good eye had been clenched shut in his wordless expression of anger. At the unexpected response, he opened it to stare down the hall in bewilderment. Outside his door sat a paper bag with all manner of colorful decorations sticking out from its top. Several silver balloons were floating above it, tied to one of the handles. A vibrant orange tail stuck out from behind the bag, and Gander blinked slowly.

“Ducky?” he asked, and the mare’s head peaked out from her impromptu hiding place.

“Oh. Ohh! Heya, Gander!” Ducky breathed a sigh of relief before chuckling sheepishly. “Ahaha, you scared me, there. Nice eyepatch, by the way. Looks real sporty.”

“Is that-” Gander paused as his gaze shifted from the brilliant yellow pegasus to the equally brilliant yellow feathers sticking out of the keyhole to his apartment. “Are you breaking into my home?”

“Uh...” She fumbled for a moment, clearing her voice as her former sigh of relief climbed back down her throat. “Well, you see, ahem, about that... I can totally see how somepony might get that impression, but, um... no? I was just, uh, waitin’ here. You know. Just... uh... just hangin’ out.”

She tried to lean as nonchalantly as possible against the doorway to prove her point, as innocent a smile as she could manage plastered onto her face. The door swung open with a creak of rusty hinges and she fell in with an audible “Oof!” as she hit the floor, halfway inside the apartment with her back hooves jutting out.

“I’m okay!” She called from her new vantage point, her voice bright and cheerful. “But, just for the record, it was like that before I got he-” Her voice froze before taking on a frightful tone, accompanied by scuffling noises as she wrestled with something out of sight. “...Aah! Jumpin’ jackalopes, Gander, I think your floor just tried to bite me!”

One breath. Two breaths. Clear the mind. Gander exhaled slowly as he found his peaceful center before picking up the mare’s forgotten bag and following her desperate scramble inside at a much more sedated pace. He closed the door behind him as she flew to the relative safety of the worn-out couch, perching above it and giving the mold on the floor suspicious glares. Gander made his way over to the coffee table, trying very hard not to question anything, as well as resisting the urge to slap a webbed foot to his face. His beak was still recovering from its last break, after all.

“Ooh, careful with that! It’s-” Ducky started to say as Gander dropped the bag onto the coffee table. As it hit the scoured wood, something inside exploded with a wail of noisemakers and kazoos. Confetti burst out in a mushroom cloud that left a fallout of floating streamers in its wake. Ducky shook the colorful remnants out of her hair, finishing lamely,“-volatile.”

“Ducky,” Gander said as he rubbed at his temples, willing his sanity to remain, “why now are you here?”

“Well, uh, I heard from Smokey that you were awake and gonna be out soon, so,” she shrugged, confetti falling from her shoulders like snow, “I wanted to throw you a ‘Get Well Soon!’ party. You know, since you got hurt, and all.”

Something inside him snapped. Not a physical snap, the boney kind he was used to dealing with, but a mental shattering that left him seeing red as if a blood vessel in his eye had burst. Even here, he had to deal with pony pity. Even in his own home with the closest thing he had to a friend, he could not escape the derision of failure. Gander should have been used to it, as often as he saw it from his griffon kin. He should have, but it still made him quake with a vengeful fury. It was an unspecific anger directed at the ponies who had bested him, those that mocked him, the world as a whole, and himself most of all. It was his own weakness, after all, that allowed this sorry state of events. His claws dug furrows into the cheap wood beneath him as anger swelled within his chest, inwardly cursing his very name and his pathetic-

-mental tirade that was suddenly interrupted as that same anger-swelled chest was hit by an impact like a crossbow bolt. He rocked backwards from the collision but managed to keep from falling over, although his line of thought was broken by the twinge of pain from ribs that were also recently broken. He craned his head downward at the mare currently burying her head in his feathers, with her forelimbs locked around his neck. Knowing what he did of his pony friend, Gander deduced she was not likely trying to tackle or strangle him. Probably.

“Ducky,” he ventured cautiously. “What is it that you are doing?”

“’pology hug,” she mumbled, her response muffled by his feathers. “You looked mad, so I’m sorry. For whatever.”

Gander considered this, finally coming to something of a surprised realization. The anger he’d been building up had lost its steam. It was not gone completely, but his emotions were more of a grudging simmer than an uncontrollably boiling rage. The troubles of the day, the worries and doubts of his mind, and especially the perceived insults he’d endured all seemed petty, or at least manageable. This was fortunate news, as he highly doubted a bloodrage would be useful in his current situation. The furious frenzy of the griffonkind was highly respected, with many tales told of the fantastical deeds of warriors gone berserk, but it was also well-understood as being as much a weakness as a strength. Losing one’s head in a fight had two meanings, but they often happened in conjunction.

“How does that work?” Gander asked in confusion. “Pony magic?”

“You’re darn right!” Ducky pulled back but didn’t quite let go. “Ducky brand apology hugs fix all ills!”

“Does that include broken ribs?”

“Oh, shoot!” Gander had spoke in amusement, but Ducky still let go as if she’d been burned. “Sorry! Sorry about that. Totally forgot.”

“It is fine, Ducky.” Now that she was closer without being directly under his beak, Gander could see the angry red welt on her forehead, not quite hidden by her bangs. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her hair was combed forward instead of the windswept look she preferred, most likely to conceal the bump. “But it looks as if I am not the only one to carry injuries from the battle, yes?”

“Oh. Um... yeah. I, uh, I guess.” Ducky looked... well, not quite embarrassed, but maybe upset at the question. Perhaps ponies did not take pride in their battle scars. Obviously, if something was upsetting, it was worth discussing. It was the griffon way to face conflict head-on.

“I do not remember much of the night,” Gander prompted. “You could tell the tale, maybe?”

“Not much to tell, really.” Ducky tried to brush it off, but the griffon’s stare eventually got her talking. “Well, I mean, we left the pub and two ponies jumped us. Knocked me down, knocked you around some. You took out one, and I, u-um,” she flinched, more than likely recalling some injury suffered in the fight, “I... took out the other.”

Gander almost smiled, his spirits lifted even as his friend’s mysteriously crumbled. “This is fantastic news. I had been shamed to be defeated by ponies, but the shame is much lessened to defeat one even when encumbered by the drinking.”

Ducky offered a hesitant smile. “Yeah. That’s, um, that’s great. I guess.”

“I do not remember of my victory, though. Tragic.” Gander scratched beneath his beak in contemplation. “How did I triumph? A display of brute strength?”

“Oh, uh,” the mare paused as she glanced from side to side, rubbing at the back of her neck, “I’m kinda... hazy on that. Yeah. Hazy. But that sounds about right. Yeah, fancy griffon warrior stuff. Super cool fightin’ move. I’d call it, um, th-the... Breath of the Dragon?”

“Ah, innovation in battle?” Gander puffed up his chest, looking mighty pleased with himself. “An achievement worthy of pride. It is a shame I do not remember the technique. Perhaps I should try to recreate it.”

“Nonono!” Ducky stammered before hastily correcting herself. “I mean, it looked waaay too dangerous. Forbidden master death kinda stuff. You’re better off not rememberin’, just trust me on that.”

“Fair enough,” Gander grunted. “Although one thing I would very much like to remember is how you defeated your opponent.” His voice was light-hearted, even if his dour expression didn’t quite match it. “It is not my meaning to offend, but the image of you in combat is most amusing.”

“I think I’d be more offended if you thought otherwise,” Ducky sighed, her shoulders slouching as she sat down. The vitality seemed to drain from her before his very eyes, but she continued to speak before Gander could ask about her melancholy. “So, what happened was, when I got back up there was the mare just... just wailin’ on you. Punchin’ a-and kickin’, and I just...” Her voice began to break as she trailed off. Gander was baffled at the change in tone. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. “I just got sooo mad, you know? I mean, h-how could somepony go and do that to you?” She was in tears now, though she wasn’t fully crying. “How could they do that, Gander? Wh-what gave them the right?!”

“Ducky,” he spoke in what he hoped was his most soothing tone of voice. This was not the funny image he’d imagined. There was nothing funny about his friend crying at all. “It is fine, yes? They did not injure much. I am okay.”

“Well, I’m not!” She turned away from him, rubbing at her cheeks and fighting back sobs. “I was so mad, Gander. I’ve never... I mean, I,” she stammered, her shoulders shaking, “I just... I just wanted to hurt her. I wanted to hurt her so badly,” she confessed, as if the thought alone was damning. “So, I jumped her. W-with everythin’ I had, I tackled her. Right into the trash. I hurt her... just like I wanted.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, one filled with regret and sorrow. “I am a terrible pony.”

She wept in utter silence for a very long moment. Gander was frozen in place. Even justified guilt was a concept that he was only vaguely aware of, but Ducky felt sorry for defending herself because it meant harming another being. Or, perhaps, because it meant wanting to harm another being. Even the concept of violence was too much for her. This was something entirely beyond his comprehension. Hesitation was not the griffon way, however. Action was.

Ducky was too deep into her own misery to notice at first when the scaly avian arms surrounded her, dragging her into a feathery embrace. Gander held her close as she sobbed, wings wrapped protectively around his friend. He patted her on the head, too, which he thought was a nice touch. It took a few minutes before she stopped trembling and he felt it was safe to speak.

“Ducky brand apologizing hug,” he crooned comfortingly. “It is to make all hurts better.”

“What do you got to be sorry for?” She sniffled. Gander could feel mucus on his down feathers. Delightful.

“I apologize,” he began in the tone of voice one might expect from a schoolteacher, “for two reasons. The first is I have no problems with the hurting of those who deserve it, and therefore we should leave said hurtings to me. Next time, I will defeat them all before you have cause for anger.”

“Can... can we try not to promise to beat up other ponies?” Ducky pleaded mournfully.

“Defeat has many meanings,” he replied cryptically. “Defeat can be with words, too.” He neglected to mention how unlikely that scenario was. “But reason the second is I think maybe you have learned too well of some of my griffon ways. Anger is not uncommon for the warrior, and must always be tempered.”

“So you’re sayin’ you’re a bad influence.” That actually managed to get something like a chuckle out of her. Good, that was much more her style than tears.

Gander snorted. “Different, not bad. To hurt others or to want to do this does not make one bad. Fire does this, and fire is not bad. You should know this, yes?”

“I know an old horror movie that would disagree with ya. Frankenstallion says ‘Fire bad!’ all the time.” She must have been feeling better. Ducky cracking jokes, even ones that Gander didn’t understand, -no, especially ones that Gander didn’t understand- meant she was almost back to normal.

“Your franking stallion can disagree and he can be wrong,” Gander said, releasing his hold on the pony. “Besides, the influence is not all bad. Look, you are a influence on me, and is it bad?” He gestured to himself, trying not to look at the mess she’d made of his feathers. He’d clean it later. “I have learned of apologies and of hugs. The apology hug is a very good thing to learn, I think.”

That shaky little smile grew, brightening with every moment. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said firmly. “If it can be used to take down a criminal in one strike, it is as powerful even as the Dragon’s Breath.”

“I, uh... wait, what?” Her muzzle twisted in confusion. “I didn’t apology hug that gang pony! Don’t go makin’ that into a fightin’ move!”

“I do not see what is wrong. She was angry at me, you tackled her, and then she was no longer angry.” Gander nodded matter-of-factly. “I, too, have felt the power of the Apology Hug.” The way he said it now, in a sort of reverent manner, was now worthy of capitalization as a concept all its own. “None can hope to stand against it.”

“I, y-you, are you makin’ fun of me?!”

Gander snorted as he patted the mare on the head. “And I learned also of jokes. You are proud, yes?”

“More like peeved,” she said, though her tone clearly said pouting instead. “You better watch yourself, now that I’m all violent and hurty or I might mess you up. You know, that idea of yours isn’t half wrong, about you being a bad influence.” She jabbed a hoof in the air, like she was socking an incredibly annoying ghost. “Early that night, before all the drinkin’ started, I kinda threatened that little posh bratty unicorn for bein’ a jerk. Uh, what was his name, Rook or somethin’.”

Gander laughed. It was more of a honk of surprised mirth that escaped before he could control it, but it was as close to laughter as he really ever came. “That is... fascinating news. You will be very much pleased to learn then that the detective Fisher has volunteered to be my partner.”

“Wait, what?!” Ducky’s eyes bulged out slightly in shock before she calmed down to a general state of concern. “But that pony hates you, Gander.”

“I have noticed this,” Gander admitted. He had ears, after all. Well, holes in the sides of his head. They still counted as ears.

“Nonono,” Ducky shook her head. “I don’t think you understand my worryin’, here. I’m not sure if you remember that night right, but he left, like, right away.”

“I do remember the recruit escaping the celebrations very much early.”

“Yeah, and those gang ponies that were outside?” Ducky’s expression was serious. “They were waitin’ for us. Not even us, but you specifically.” She gestured at his chest with a wing. “They knew you were in there, Gander. They were waitin’ for ya. And somebody had to have told ‘em you were there. See what I’m gettin’ at?”

Gander scratched at the bottom of his beak. “You think that the recruit’s hatred of my kind is cause for him to, how do you say, have me sold to the criminals?”

“Sell you out, ya mean, but yeah.”

“It is a possibility,” he admitted. “And perhaps worrying, if now he will be working also on this case with me. All that I will find, he will know.”

“Does,” she began, hesitating for only a second, “does it have anythin’ to do with you trying to figure out about the donkeys?” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “You told me that night, something about wanting to hire donkeys.”

“Perhaps,” Gander said with some reluctance, at odds with whether or not to speak freely.

“Oh, come on,” Ducky threw up her hooves in frustration. “Just tell me already. I ain’t gonna blab, and I wanna help somehow. If workin’ with that Rook guy will screw you over, maybe havin’ me on the side can keep him a bit in the dark.”

“I do not think it wise, Ducky,” he said at length. “The criminals already target me for what I have done against them.”

“Yeah, well, I’m already gettin’ hurt ‘cause of it, anyhow,” Ducky started before flinching at her choice of words. “Sorry, didn’t mean to blame you or nothin’. I’m just tryin’ to say I ain’t scared. Well, I am scared, but I still wanna help anyway. I mean, I’m helpin’ already.”

Gander stared down at this frustratingly confusing little mare in suspicion. “What do you mean, when you say that you help already?”

“Well, remember when you told me about that barkeep?” Ducky’s face broke into a classic smile, broad and pearly-white. “Yeah, turns out he don’t mind talkin’ to a pretty face.”

***