Of Soldiers and Swindlers

"Well, well, well. Come fer' a round three, Crackerjack?" the stallion wheezed in laughter, the half-deflated ball he was kicking rolling towards a nearby tin. "Been waiting' fer ya ta finish me off."

"Shut yer trap, Eights. Oi ain't ‘ere fer another fight." Nutcracker replied coolly, ears pinned.

"Come to laugh at ol' Eights, then? Bring yer friends with ya?"

"I ain't here ta do anyfink to ya." Cracker bit his tongue, hesitating before lowering his head, "I need yer ‘elp."

Eights froze in silence a moment, a wicked grin spreading his lips.

"You. Askin' me fer help." The scrawny stallion erupted into laughter, hooves crossing over his abdomen. His outburst ended in a series of wheezing coughs, leaving him breathless for the moments after. "Oooh, yer' shittin' me."

"Listen, if you ‘elp me, it'll clear your record. Did for me."

"That's 'cause you ain't done shit crackerjack. You wasn't nothin but a colt when the guards got ya." Eights took a match in his hooves, striking it against the wall beside him. "So, ta yer offer, I say," He lit his cigarette and tossed the match into the filthy puddle below him, "Fuck you."

The strain of increasing aggravation showed on Nutcracker’s face in the form of clenched teeth and a narrowed brow. Burnet hooves soon slammed themselves on either side of Eightball’s head, ultimately gaining the stallion’s attention, if not his respect.

“Thass it, you bloody idiot. I didn’t come ‘ere to be turned away,” Cracker snarled, face inches from the thug’s nose, “See ‘f you don’t come wiv me, you’ll be locked up for sure. And you know ‘oo’s in there? Your old friends, Lockjaw an’ Gremlin. So, unless you fancy sharing close-quarters wiv ‘em, surrounded by blokes who can just as easily turn a blind eye, I suggest you gerroff your bony arse and come wiv me.”

Eights, now paler than the dreary haze over the city, barely took a moment to cough before he nodded in agreement.

“I’ll go. Fine. But you are buyin’ me a sandwich.”

Nutcracker blinked, “You wot? You’re in the custody o’ the Guard now, d’you not understand this?”

Eights spat back, “And I ain’t eaten in three days, I don’t give a shit about your custody, I’m helpin’ you, I want some damn food.”

“See if you don’t cut yer crap right now, Eights, only sandwich you’ll be ‘avin is an ‘oof sandwich, fresh offa me. You gorrit? Oi was told ta bring you back alive, no-one said nuffink about bringin’ you back in one piece, or conscious.”

Eightball was about to offer a retort to that, but the look in the young stallion’s eyes and the tone of his voice made it plain exactly what would happen if he did.

“Fine. But if there ain’t no food where we’re goin, I ain't gonna be very, uh, co-op-er-a-tive.”