On the Run

by angrytigerp

Rating: teen
Tags: Alternate Universe, Other, Original Character, Adventure, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 5590

The Griffin-Pony War has just ended. In the post-war climate, two people from each side -- each fugitives in their own way -- have to band together to resolve their problems.

When you are a war criminal, what do you do? Well, first, you spend your life on the run. Secondly, you make alliances, partnerships, and yes, even friendships with anyone and everyone who can help you.

What happens, though, if your partner not only has their own skeletons in the closet, but is a member of the peoples who you just stopped fighting mere years ago?

This story was crafted in a world where there has just been a Griffin-Pony war. Tensions are high, hatred and distrust is mutual, and yes, some bigotry still pervades the world.

Tagged AU because I haven't the foggiest whether Griffins have been expounded upon in media I haven't seen yet, and it deals in the vague pre-FIM era.

Rated T for references to war, violence, and general bad stuff. Nothing, like, super-edgy or over-the-top, though.

Published 2016-01-02 22:50:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-01-04 05:25:43 UTC

Introductions

Author's Note

I'm afraid that, right off the bat, I will have to mention that this is a rather thickly-built story -- more of a plotted-out narrative than a spastic jumble of discordant scenes and setpieces. Got a bible (metaphorical, of course) built for it and everything. Consequently, chapters will be long and updates relatively infrequent.

I suppose, based on my abortive previous attempts, that I should be glad that you took the time to even begin reading this, and I wish I could with all honesty say that I will definitely take this to its conclusion... but more likely, I will lose interest partway through and be unable to finish what I started.

Again.

Thanks for the interest, though, and if you enjoy what you see so far, a thumbs-up would be appreciated, to let me know that I'm on the right track.

Introductions

“Welcome ta the Saltlick.” The Earth Pony who said it was a massive specimen of his sub-race, bulging with obvious musculature. The red 'X' encased by a circle on his flank confirmed that this was, as suspected, the bouncer.

Fusillade found himself marveling for the umpteenth time in his life at the odd blatancy with which Equestrians were branded with their life's calling – their so-called 'special talent.' His own burnt-orange flank was adorned by a fairly simple 7-pointed indigo starburst, and he was just as glad that his own Flankbrand – whoops, Cutie Mark in the new politically correct atmosphere (and a dreadfully pleasant turn of phrase, that) – was suitably vague, and hidden under saddlebags besides. No need to advertise beyond what was absolutely necessary. If anyone outside of his very small inner circle ever found out the 'how' or 'why' of his Mark's history, well, suffice to say that there were plenty of ponies branded with hoofcuffs or badges.

His muted-green eyes met the bouncer's dull gray ones with a bored expression. He had been often told that his gaze, no matter the emotion behind it, had an unsettling quality about it: a sense of danger, if you will. “Is there a cover charge?” Fusillade asked, his tone as monotonously threatening as his stare.

The bouncer met his gaze, one edge of his mouth curling up into a slight smirk at the apparent thought of some uppity unicorn 'acting tough'. He glanced at Fusillade's flank, probably to see if he was a florist or something, and smiled more broadly when he saw that the Flankmark was concealed. The guard probably thought that it was some menial calling being hidden; Fusillade hadn't the heart to tell him that he probably could have made the stallion's day end very badly with relative ease.. “Sure as sunrise ain't, buddy,” the tough finally responded flatly. “Ya new 'round these parts?”

“You might say that.”

“Well, I don't know if anybody told ya,” the bouncer went on, pausing to spit in what was clearly a practiced routine intended to menace but seeming more as if he were doing a part in a theater production, “but this ain't the sort of place that nice fellers like yerself tend ta go, if ya catch my drift?”

Fusillade merely allowed his neutral expression to quirk into the tiniest of grins. “It may just be that I'm looking for 'fellers' that ain't nice... if you catch mine.”

The bouncer laughed heartily in response, and stepped out of the doorway. “Well, go on in, pretty boy,” he said enthusiastically, waving the unicorn in with gusto. “Just know that I ain't draggin' your sorry flank out of this hole if yer' lookin' to start trouble, and probably'll be watchin' to see what happens, besides. Ya clean up your own messes in the Saltlick.”

Fusillade merely nodded. “I'll keep that in mind.” Abandoning his previous pretense of emotion, he reassumed his deadpan expression and stepped through the doorway, pointedly ignoring the bouncer's head shaking at what the earth pony obviously thought was a bad case of mistaken directions. If things really did go south, Fusillade had enough tricks in his saddle to keep from being a victim.

Manehattan's Saltlick Bar was a dive of the truest sort, a seedy place with bad lighting, lots of seats facing the main doors, and a counter stocked with every spirit a pony could ever need to quickly lose his memory of everything that happened in a 24-hour period. Fusillade was unsurprised, and indeed even expecting, the quick and judgmental glance up at the sound of a new arrival on the part of the myriad occupants of the bar. A goodly number were obviously factory workers off of their shifts and drinking to dull the monotony, with a smattering of the typical nothing-better-to-do nightly drinkers that tended to supplant such locales. More interesting, however, and of infinite more importance to Fusillade, there was a number of people – and not just ponies – that were more kin to the unicorn in spirit. These pegasi, unicorns, earth ponies, and yes, a griffin and pair of Saddle Arabians all met his eyes briefly before turning back to their respective pursuits, primarily drinking. Fusillade played with the idea of talking to the Arabians, but settled instead on the griffin, by far the most intriguing patron present in the bar for so many reasons.

Fusillade sauntered up to the griffin's table, noting it fixing one of its eagle eyes on him and focusing in a disconcerting way – uncannily like a bird of prey sizing up its next grab. He had never been good at determining griffin gender, and so said nothing, merely slid into the seat diagonally across the four-top table the griffin was already occupying. He fought the urge to meet and match the thing's death glare at his unspoken self-invitation, merely waving down the nearest attendant, a decidedly earnest-looking (for this place, anyway) young unicorn stallion.

“Refill on, uh, their drink, and an Appleloosa cider for me, if you would,” he said to the waiter, who nodded and walked off. Fusillade still took great care to avoid meeting the griffin's gaze.

“Ah, what a gentleman.” The velvety voice, combined with the choice of words, both made this sound very much like a her. “I do not suppose you are here to 'off' me, as they say, then? Or is this to be my final drink?” The griffin made an exaggerated sigh, her chest rising and falling as she breathed. She raised the glass to her beak, taking a large pull from it before wincing melodramatically. “How unfortunate. I was hoping to pass with something more than this... this swill in my belly.”

Fusillade now met the griffin's gaze, and sized her up passively. She was a lithe, lean example of her species: clearly a flier by the well-developed muscle mass under her ash-gray chest feathers, while her ivory-toned furred portion elicited images of a white tiger, exotic and deadly. He couldn't help but assess her physically, even as he looked at her cerulean eyes and saw the same sense of undirected determination he felt and was looking for in others. On top of that, despite her apparent resignation at whatever fate she thought was imminent, he could tell that she was tensed, ready to participate in a desperate fight for her life. He felt relief that he might have finally found the kind of person he was looking for.

“Well, if you're in some sort of trouble, I'm afraid that I don't know anything about that, for better or for worse.” Fusillade shrugged. “I was just looking for... like-minded individuals.”

“Oh?” Her tone of piqued curiosity was amplified by her leaning forward on her front 'elbows', her two claws coming up to form a pedestal for her beaked head. “I am not sure if any person has told you, horsie, but your kind does not really interface with my kind. Not anymore, anyways, and our interactions before were... troublesome, in their own way.” The griffin's accent and diction was distinctive from most ponies', and spoke of an upbringing far from the frontlines of the lukewarm conflict that had ended none-too-recently. It carried a bit of a lilt to it, sounding very nearly as if she was cooing the words to a wayward child. The pronunciation was also off, to Fusillade's hearing, but such was to be expected. She was more than understandable, and clearly spoke Equestrian at an almost colloquial level. It still made his skin crawl in spite of himself – some prejudices were just too hard to break. “So, for what reason is it that you wish to speak to me?”

“Well, I'm not looking to negotiate with your King for his fortune, if that's what you're getting at,” he responded back after a brief pause. “If that were the case, I'd probably be asking someone other than a refugee, and a penniless one at that unless I miss the mark.”

The edge of her lips past her razor-sharp beak curled upward. “A most astute observation,” she said, the slightest bit of amusement allowed to edge past her otherwise indifferent tone. “But then, you seem as if you are the sort of stallion who knows his way about the world, so to speak.”

Now it was Fusillade's turn to sit back in the chair, deep in thought. Either she was just digging at random, or she could read him as readily as he could her. Of course, judging himself as well-traveled was not exactly an objective observation anyway, but he liked to think that he had a good grasp on the world at large, from the bustling city life to the scorched badlands of the abandoned battlefields of the great Griffin War- time to stop that train of thought, he thought, fighting the urge to grimace. That wound was still only partially healed, and prone to open at the slightest provocation these days. Even looking at this complete stranger, he couldn't help but feel the thoughts of days long past bubbling up like a toxic miasma, back when he was a good little soldier who did exactly as he was told, when he was told. He opened his mouth to speak when he heard the door to the little hole of misery open.

Turning instinctively just like everyone else in the bar, he felt himself freeze as he quickly sized up what were quite obviously members of the Equestrian Earth Pony-Unicorn-Pegasus Guard. Given that he hadn't heard word of a royal visit anytime soon – and he had certainly been checking daily, with gusto – he had a sinking feeling that these two characters were hot on his trail. He turned to the griffin, prepared to make the requisite excuses and abandon the area, before realizing that she had tensed up in a momentary situational panic as well. Their eyes met, and he was sure that the hunted animal-in-a-trap expression he saw on her face was just as present on his own.

“I, uh, need to go use the facilities,” he said quickly and completely unconvincingly. To her credit, though, the griffin merely nodded in response.

“I, too, find that I am wishing to use the restroom,” she said quickly but quietly. The bar wasn't all that big a place, but the two Guardsmen at the door were taking their time to sweep the room with their steely gazes, their eyes seeming to pierce straight through the intentional darkness of the dim interior. Without another word, the griffin reached in a satchel tied across her midsection to grab a handful of money – Equestrian or Griffinian, Fusillade couldn't tell, as he was busy rummaging in his own pack for the same thing. Throwing their bits on the table in what was almost certainly overpayment by several orders of magnitude, the two simply met one another's eyes for a brief instant before sliding as casually as possible out of their respective seats, both headed for the back of the bar where the restrooms were located.

Fusillade ducked his head down next to hers as they sauntered over to the hallway holding both washrooms. “Corner of Haystack and Main Avenues, ten minutes. Yes or no?” It was a quick and dirty way to form a rendezvous, but he had little else to say and this was a way to pass the information quickly and covertly. A quietly muttered “yes” came in response to his question before the griffin split off to head to her own designated space. Doing his best not to either watch her walk away or look backwards, Fusillade beelined toward his own door, content even with the sudden idea of her being a Griffin deep-cover agent – anything was better than being captured by the hands of his 'countrymen'. A term I find less and less endearing with each passing day, he reflected drily to himself.

Fusillade magicked the door open as quietly as he could, then slipped inside and closed it silently behind himself. He glanced around; fortunately, the room was located on the outside edge of the building and contained a window. Smiling at his good fortune, he hoped that his new-found companion had similar luck and set about unlatching the clasp holding the window shut... only to find that it had been supplemented by nails haphazardly tacked into the frame. His mouth twisted in annoyance. It must have been a measure to keep people from bouncing on an open tab, but it still hampered his plans. He began to individually pry at the nails with his magic, but paused when he heard hoofsteps in the hallway outside.

“... -how you were expecting to find something worth it in this place?”

“It's cliché, sure, but these types tend to drift to such hidey-holes. It's why the stereotype is so long-lasting.”

“Hmm. As long as we get a good pat on the back and a promotion or two out of it.”

Fusillade's heart dove into his hooves and he felt himself instinctively panicking. Unless he very much missed the context, these guys were looking for a 'high-value target' in the military parlance with which he was still all-too-familiar. He couldn't think of anyone else fitting the bill, as Griffins were a dime a dozen in Equestria now that it was open to inter-species traffic... even, or perhaps especially, the more unsavory ones. He twisted in the confines of the room, his horn glowing menacingly with blue energy, and a scowl came unbidden to his face. If need be, he would fight his way out, and these two curious Guardsmen would suffer for sticking their muzzles where they weren't wanted. He braced himself as the sound of their hooffalls paused outside the door, and-

“Wait, this is the Stallion's room. I saw that guy that she was talking to slip in here, but I doubt he's anyone of consequence.”

“You sure? Could be worth our time...”

“Compared to what she's worth, doubtful. Come on, we've got her cornered, let's nab her while we still can.”

The two walked away, by the sound of it, and Fusillade released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Curiouser and curiouser. He was going to have a nice chit-chat with this Griffin when he saw her again... if she didn't skip town completely while this debacle unfolded. Shaking his head, he turned around and once more began worrying at the fasteners buried in the wooden frame of the window, digging them out one-by-one with as little noise and fanfare as he could manage. As the last one slipped out, he heard a curse from the hallway, followed by the telltale sounds of galloping hooves.

“Damn, she's gone! Come on, she can't get far!”

Despite himself, Fusillade grinned. If nothing else, his potential new companion had a similar gift for sliding right through the nets of the EUP Guard. While she was still one of them, he was open-minded enough to recognize that both he and she were pretty unwanted by Equestria. He hoped he might find common ground with her on that merit alone. Pushing the window up manually, he looked down at what was revealed to be a two-story drop. Grimacing, he leaped out, doing his best to tuck and roll – for a quadruped, anyways. He unceremoniously hit the ground, evoking a small oof as the wind was knocked out of him, and scrambled unsteadily onto his hooves. There was no one in the alley but for a young colt with a saddlebag, probably just a kid coming back from school. Fusillade met his wide-eyed gaze calmly, raised a hoof to his lips to tell him to stay quiet, then began making tracks for the streets he had indicated earlier.

As he moved, he found that he was genuinely curious how this would play out when the griffin was, apparently, a marked target. Her coat was about as distinguishing a mark as his Flankbrand; but whereas he could conceal his red-handedness with his pack, she would have a bit more trouble under the circumstances. As he approached the meeting grounds, he slowed down to a canter, then a trot, carefully scoping it out for any sign of EUP, or even the local authorities; there was none. Reducing his speed to an idle walk, he very carefully made himself seem as if he was just strolling. It helped that, being Main Avenue, the street was filled with vendors and their patrons, with a press of bodies and an overall din that into which Fusillade felt he could comfortably blend.

Doing exactly that, he began wandering from stand to stand, making all the motions for a stallion out on errands for the day, while simultaneously checking out the crowd. The first thing he realized was that griffins were more prevalent then he realized. While given a wide berth by most Equestrians, there were several dozen he could see in one direction alone. The other thing he noted was that a lot of them were gray-feathered and white-furred – it seemed that the coloration was more common than he had realized. Just as he began scan their faces, attempting to recognize his brief acquaintance from a goodly number of very similar (to his eyes, anyways) people, he felt a talon clamp down like a vise on his saddlebag.

He spun around, ready to blast the griffin scum that had dared to touch him, and came face-to-face with the Griffin female from the Saltlick.

Threats

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.