Author's Note

Separated the wall-of-text first chapter into two separate ones for proper word ingestion.

Threats

“So... now we can have a little chat, yes?” her voice crooned with a mild amount of well-warranted suspicion.

“Shh.” Against his better judgment, Fusillade glanced both ways up and down the crowded arcades, then bobbed his head in a direction. “We've gotta get somewhere we can lie low.”

“And you have a place in mind?”

That caused him to draw up short as he began to amble away. No, he didn't, he hadn't even been in this Celestia-forsaken city nearly long enough to anonymously build up a hide of any sort. He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, I suppose we could just do the in-plain-sight sort of walk-and-talk...”

Her melodious voice chuckled, a sound almost like a purr derived from the feline aspects of her physiology. “I have a better idea, horsie. How would you like to come over to my place, hmm?” Perhaps Fusillade really was that terrible at misinterpreting body language and emotion of a griffin, but she seemed to have some deeper, darker implication hidden within the words.

“Uhh...” he trailed off uncertainly. He looked around once more, noting that their street was relatively empty, and hesitantly continued. “I'm not sure if... I mean, this is a professional thing that I'm putting together...”

His eyes flickered, and a dull throb erupted in his cheek. As his vision cleared, he could feel a small amount of blood welling up from what he now determined to be a triplet of scratches on his face, based on the faint crimson sheen on the griffin's talons. He fought down the raging urge to retaliate in like kind or greater. Cross-bred, uncivilized, barbarous beast-

“You won't scar, unicorn, and more's the pity,” she spat. “I am not like my countryfolk, bowing down to equines and debasing myself in a misguided attempt to profit, or even make a simple living.” Shaking the blood off her talons, she scraped it in the dirt to remove the last vestiges clinging to the claw, examining it carefully to ensure she had gotten it all off. “You intrigue me, horse, but only in – as you, yourself, put it – a professional way. Please do not presume that you are such an impressive example of your species that I would stoop that low.”

Wincing as he rubbed his mouth, working his jaw to ensure it still worked, Fusillade took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out in an effort to calm himself. “Very good, Beaky.” She visibly shivered with anger at the derogatory term, eyes narrowing, but turnabout was only fair play what with how often her own invective targeted him. “Let's go have a little chat.”

As Fusillade walked alongside the abnormally-proud griffin, he found himself deep in thought over what could possibly emerge from this unlikely alliance... and wondering what could possibly make this woman such a critically-important target for the authorities. Would she pan out to be friend or foe? He, in all honesty with himself, simply could not decide which prediction was accurate.

Most post-war towns and cities, had developed something of segregated district where most of the displaced griffins, looking for a fresh start, had moved, hoping to capture whatever magic had been the source of the Equestrian peoples' victory. Manehattan being no exception, it had a quarter officially referred to as Little Griffinstone, and colloquially -- or disdainfully -- as 'Beakton'. Griffins weren't quite required to live in such ghettos, but there remained a strong social stigma behind attempting to associate with the ponies, on both species' sides. The streets were invariably worse-off, the buildings ramshackle and dilapidated, and the handful of residents visible to Fusillade were clearly apathetic to all goings-on outside of their own bubbles of surviving day-to-day.

So caught up in their own troubles, he was actually surprised to note that none of them even seemed to notice that a pony, and a unicorn at that, had entered their midst. Fusillade wasn't quite sure what he was expecting, but the sheer degree of apathy actually tugged at his heart in the slightest of fashions. These were the dregs of a once-proud people, many of them hapless victims of circumstance, and (he admitted to himself reluctantly) something like only 1 in 20 of them had likely ever borne arms in the conflicts. The rest had suffered interminably with their country as it collapsed to the ground, their hope for a prosperous future as thoroughly extinguished as the remnants of the Griffin Army.

The griffin led Fusillade to what appeared to be a hostel, its blocky, nondescript mass rising about 10 stories off the ground. It was a common-enough resting place for those cursed with such poverty that their low-paying jobs kept them from affording a personal residence. She looked at him, then beckoned with a talon before disappearing through the front door. Carefully watching the streets and satisfied that no one was paying particular care, if any care at all, he ducked inside as well. He caught the sight of her ivory tail whipping around a corner and hurried to catch up. The lobby, if such a term could be applied, was completely deserted. He reached the edge of the wall just in time to see her vanish up a staircase. Growling in annoyance, he cantered after her, following her onto the third floor of the building. The chase continued until she opened the door to one of the rooms, meeting his eye one more time, before passing through the threshold. Practically snarling, he galloped through the corridor and charged through the door.

His neck was quickly and violently constricted by a powerful grip, and he felt a cutting edge meet his throat. He froze, scarcely breathing, and his eyes flickered over to see the griffin calmly examining him even as she held his life in her talons.

“I can tell we're going to be best of friends,” he managed to hiss angrily. She merely shrugged.

“I am still not convinced you aren't EUP, or something worse,” she said with only the mildest of apologetic tone in her voice. “Many of my instincts say to kill you now, while some say to interrogate you first for information.”

“Why would you wait until I'm here to kill me? Surely you have some curiosity as to what I'm here for, yes?”

She blinked a few times, expression unchanging. “Yes, I will admit that I am the slightest bit curious as to what might be requested by a unicorn with a warrior's eyes and mannerisms. That curiosity,” she went on drily, “is about the only thing that stays my hand.”

“Reach into my saddlebag, then,” he breathed out. “I would magic it out to show you, but... right saddlebag, big pocket. There's a rolled-up scroll. Can't miss it.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but thankfully her desire to know more overwhelmed her caution. Carefully, with her eyes fixed on him still, she reached over towards his flank and dug into the bags, searching for a scroll by feel. Finding it, she brought it back, then fumbled the seal open with one hand as she maintained her chokehold. Eyes flickering toward it and back to him every few words, she read it. He already knew it by heart.

WANTED: Dead

The Unicorn known as Fusillade, alias Fuse, is wanted DEAD for his crimes against the Equestrian Government in the Griffin-Equestrian War, namely treason, sedition, and desertion. Physical description is as follows:

Burnt-orange solid coat. Eyes best described as forest-green. 'Flankbrand'/'Cutie Mark' is an indigo starburst with 7 points. Special Talent is the manifestation of energy bolts that explode with deadly force, colored the same shade as his Flankbrand.

Unicorn Fusillade is a veteran of a special task force of the Earth Pony-Unicorn-Pegasus Guard, and is considered highly-dangerous in all forms of magical combat, as well as a number of hoof-to-hoof combat arts. Any attempts to engage in combat with him should be undertaken only by skilled fighters and/or members of the EUP Guard and/or other trained military forces.

The griffin was laudably calm in how she handled whatever shock she might have felt for meeting one of Equestria's biggest fugitives. Her eyes widened slightly, and her grip seemed to get slightly tighter. She turned her attention completely to finishing reading the document, eyes racing over the page, and predictably Fusillade felt his bags shift as she leaned over to confirm his Mark was there, as promised by the sheet.

A few seconds passed, and finally her grip relaxed. She stepped back from him, lowering the knife her other hand had been grasping. “I apologize, of course, for my actions. Surely you understand, especially when I see how much of a target you, yourself, are, the paranoia and cauti- what are you-”

His horn flashed blue with magic, and she had but a moment to attempt to bring her knife up and stab him. The abortive attempt to protect herself was fruitless, as he quickly pinned her to the wall of the shabby room, energy beginning to crackle at the tip of his horn as he prepared to incinerate her if her next words weren't what he wanted to hear.

“Suspicion is to be commended, aye,” he said angrily, “and I will point out that keeping a blade to my throat was probably the smartest thing you did all day. So, are you a bounty hunter? Some sort of Equestria-hired spy? Perhaps even just a random refugee who saw her chance to make some money?”

The feathers on her head bristled as she struggled against his immobilization. “Is this how you view the world?” she asked bitterly. “Is it an 'everyone is against you' scenario?”

“Certainly seems that way sometimes, yeah.”

She did the one thing he never expected, then; she slumped, eyes falling to the ground, and stopped struggling. She whispered something unintelligible.

“What was that?” he asked, and not even mockingly. She had actually been inaudible. “I didn't quite-”

“'I know that feeling', is what I said,” the griffin muttered, her keen blue eyes coming up to meet his green ones. “It seems you are not one to be acquainted with empathy, yes? But if such an emotion is open to you, know that I share your feelings with the world.”

Intrigued, he allowed both the levitation and missile spells fizzle out, and the griffin slid back-down to the floor. She folded her talons in front of her. Unprompted, she began to speak.

“You may call me Marie. More than that, I can not and will not tell you at this time. Know this, Master Unicorn, I have no love for either your EUP Guard or the Griffin Army. Even in my own homeland, I am a... I suppose you might call me a 'marked woman?'” She smiled at that, a bitter sort of remorse creeping into the expression. “While they wouldn't dare to put my name or description on a poster as with you, those who know about me in either land also will stop at almost nothing to capture me.”

“And what exactly did you do to draw this sort of attention?” Fusillade asked her curiously. She fixed him with a flat stare.

“As I said, I will not – can not – trust you with any more than that at this time. Will you tell me your secrets, the reason why you're being hunted by your own people and how it's all a misunderstanding?” She didn't even wait for him to do more than open his mouth before answering the question for him. “No, of course you won't. I wouldn't expect it of you. Perhaps, one day, we will be able to share this sort of information with one another, but until then... acquaintances we shall be.”

He nodded, as there really was nothing to say. An awkward beat passed as their unspoken agreement not to discuss their mutual attempts to murder the other came to pass. Finally, she cleared her throat and wandered towards the meager stove. Fusillade merely continued to word his request nee proposal as she bustled about, rummaging through the cabinets and doing something with the stove. Glancing around, he saw a miserable-looking couch that had seen better days sitting along the wall, with a heavily-scuffed wooden table resting in front of it. As he went to collapse into the threadbare furniture, he was interrupted by her sudden question.

“Ehm... would you like tea, by chance?” He looked up, and she had an eyebrow raised in question. Sure enough, a kettle rested on the stovetop, heating up. After a moment of silence, she shrugged awkwardly and turned back to her business.

“Sure,” he said finally. “Sorry, I just... it seems kind of arbitrary that something as high-brow as tea would be enjoyed by a fugitive.”

She laughed huskily. “My, but I am wishing that I could tell you why... it is sufficient to say that I was once very accustomed to tea, no matter how... high-brow it was.” He looked up once more to see her twinkling eyes regarding his with a smirk on her face, and he grinned in spite of himself.

“Fine, you win. Tea, it is.” Nodding graciously at his assent, the griffin – no, Marie – dug out another mug and placed it next to her own. After another minute or so, the kettle began whistling, and she quickly poured the brew into the containers. Grasping both in one hand, she carefully walked over to the low table in front of the couch and placed the mugs down gingerly.

“I am afraid it is not quite what you might call a good brew,” she said carefully, “but it is slightly better than plain water, in my opinion.”

He lifted the teacup to his mouth with magic and sipped a bit of it. While it was not a rancid brew, its flavor was unlike anything he had ever tasted. “What is this?” he asked curiously, inspecting the dark liquid.

“It is actually brewed from griffinscruff, a plant that grows in the area around the Southern Eyries of the Griffin Kingdom.” Her voice contained an equal share of humility and pride. “It may not be quite the same as what you drink on a regular basis, but I believe it is serviceable, Master... Fusillade.”

“Fuse,” he said unthinkingly.

“Come again?” He looked and saw that she had adopted an expression of moderate confusion.

“You...” Griffin. Member of the Enemy. Woman who almost killed me and who I, yes, almost killed myself... No. She is not a friend. But she is NOT my enemy. THEY are. “You can call me Fuse. You know, the alias on my Wanted poster?”

She smiled at that, and it struck him that while she obviously distrusted him as much as he did her, he could see the same sort of awkward companionship clicking together in her head. “Then, Fuse, I strongly insist that you call me Marie.”

The die had been cast.