As a unicorn waitress telekinetically poured champagne for the table, Naught took one last mental inventory of his weaponry.
Collapsible repeating crossbow with a spare twelve-bolt magazine. Check.
Telescopic spear. Check.
Retractable claws housed in each of his sabatons, four in all. Check, check, check, and check.
"Naughty. I thought we agreed no sabatons at the table."
"Right. Sorry, babe."
He slipped off the ones covering his front hooves and placed them under his chair. Okay, scratch those last two checks.
He finished taking inventory. Last but not least was the most important weapon in his portable armory: the Radiant Palm. A gift from his favorite griffon alchemist (and by "gift" he of course meant stolen contraband), the unassuming iron band sat gingerly in the breast pocket of his officer's coat.
The coat was completely unornamented, although not because he had failed to earn any medals during his career as a Royal Guard. On the contrary: he had hoarded enough decorations wrought from precious stones to make a dragon blush. However, he had no idea where any of them were now. Probably making the rounds on some black market in Yakyakistan.
From his sleeve he removed a nickel-plated pocket watch. Compared to the medals he had pawned, it was markedly plain-looking. Inscribed on its rounded edge was the phrase Etta noxiis en perpe thuum - "And the night will last forever." The greatest lie ever told.
He flipped open the watch. It was a quarter after eleven.
"Something wrong, Naughty? You look distracted."
Octavia Philharmonica sat with both elbows on the table, her cheek balanced languidly on the frog of an upturned hoof. She hadn't worn anything cute for their date. She was dressed like any number of Manehattanites on their way home from work: a black overcoat that enveloped her statuesque frame, an aggressively masculine white button-up, that pink tie she wore everywhere, and a black fedora with a band the same color as the tie.
Actually, she wasn't wearing the fedora. It was sitting at the edge of the table. After all, proper ladies didn't wear hats indoors (although they apparently sat with their elbows on the table and didn't bother removing their coats before dinner).
"It's nothing," said Naught. "I just can't decide what to order. So many choices."
"And not a bite of real food in sight," said Octavia.
"You can't mean that," said Naught. "What do you have against the Tasty Treat? Or, as the locals call it, the Loveable Double-T."
"First of all: that horrendous nickname," said Octavia. "And secondly: do you not find this establishment a tad" - she surveyed the area with a look of mild disgust - "pedestrian?"
"I like this place. The ponies who eat here don't use the word pedestrian the way you just did."
"You mean the correct way."
"Also, the cooks add this newfangled thing called flavor to their dishes. The hotel brochure made it sound really exciting."
Octavia's chuckle was almost begrudging. "Someday that dry wit of yours is going to get you into trouble."
"Well, before it does, I think I'd like to try the," Naught squinted intently at his menu, "Chicken Tikka Masala."
Octavia scrunched her nose in disgust, an expression so aggressively upper-class it appeared hostile to a humble work horse like Naught. "You promised to stop eating meat in front of me," she said.
"I was probably lying when I made that promise."
"Is that why you wanted to come here? Because it is the only establishment on Restaurant Row that serves... meat." She could barely utter the word without gagging.
(Fun fact: thanks to a recent surge in popularity, the Tasty Treat had garnered a surprisingly large and loyal griffon customer base. Thus the meat.)
"No," said Naught. "I wanted to come here because it's the only place on Restaurant Row that serves seasoned meat. Or seasoned anything for that matter."
The waitress returned to take their orders. Naught regarded her with a friendly smile.
"Hi there. I think I'd like to try the -"
"If you order that repulsive dreck, you are going to bed alone tonight."
"- the repulsive dreck, please."
The waitress flashed an awkward smile. It was the look of a mare who had been getting caught in the middle of lover's spats her entire life.
"Excuse me," she said.
"I'll have the Chicken Tikka Masala," Naught clarified.
The awkward smile loosened, brightened. "How exotic! I've heard rumors that you batponies are carnivores, but I never let myself believe them. It just seems so... revolting. No offense," she added quickly.
"None taken. And we're actually omnivores, not bloodthirsty meat-eating savages," said Naught.
The waitress looked suddenly frazzled. "I-I never said -"
"That detail aside though," Naught interrupted, "the rumors are indeed true. We eat all kinds of meat." He glanced down at the waitress's shapely legs and smiled, revealing twin rows of moon-colored fangs.
The waitress recoiled but still smiled back, at once frightened and intrigued. Such was his usual effect on mares.
"Also, please don't call me batpony," he said. "Just Bat will do fine. Or Naught. Or Naughty. All the pretty mares call me Naughty."
The waitress blushed. "Wuh-Whatever you want, um, Naughty." Then her gaze shifted from the Bat's smile to his date's scowl, and the color drained from her face.
"A-And you, ma'am," she carried on bravely. "What can I get for you?"
Octavia folded her menu and set it down on the table. She did her best to look like the opposite of a mare on the verge of throttling her server.
"Is there a vegetarian option for the chicken whatever-it-is?" she said.
"Of course," said the waitress. "Made from the finest tofu in Canterlot."
"Excellent. Both my date and I will have that."
"Oh," said the waitress, confused. "But I thought he wanted..." Her gaze drifted back to Naught. He was still smiling.
"You'd better listen to the mare," Naught told the waitress. "See that face she's making? That's her I'm-planning-fourteen-different-methods-to-murder-you face."
Octavia turned her glare on Naught.
"I think she's up to method number eight. That's an ugly one. I'd scurry along if I were you."
Flustered, the waitress snatched up the menus in her telekinetic grip and all but fled back to the kitchen.
"Awwww. You're so cute when you're terrifying the help," Naught told his date.
"I swear, I have no idea I put up with you sometimes," said Octavia. "Flirting with a stranger on our anniversary. Are you out of your mind? If you were anypony else, I would be wringing your scrawny neck right now."
Naught withdrew his pocket watch and looked at it once more. Half an hour till midnight. The beginnings of a frown darkened his face.
"Worry not, babe," he said. "You'll get your chance soon enough."
He apologized for hitting on the waitress with characteristic cavalierness, and Octavia forgave him with an ease that suggested his flirtiness had never truly bothered her. Such was the nature of their relationship. They were close enough to reach out and touch one another, yet too far away for such contact to harm them.
Octavia liked it that way. She was a workaholic with a demanding career, and had no time for the drudgery that was falling in love.
Their arrangement also suited Naught well enough. Unlike the Solar Guards, who spent most of their careers stationed in Equestria, the Bats primarily operated in foreign territories. Sometimes they were an occupying force, sometimes they aided Equestria's allies in conflicts overseas, sometimes they acted as spies posing as ambassadors. The lifestyle was less-than ideal for maintaining a long-term relationship. Or a long-term anything, for that matter.
As they waited for their food to arrive, the couple slipped into a breezy conversation, the kind that meandered aimlessly - and gleefully - between a wide range of topics. Everything was covered: the latest must-read crime novels, current world events, whatever shenanigans Celestia and her extended family were getting up to this week. Chatting with Octavia had always been easy for Naught. They had little in common in the way of interests or hobbies, which, as it turned out, created the foundation for a surprisingly fulfilling relationship. They were constantly teaching each other new things.
Naught had just begun telling her about his latest trip to Griffonstone when the waitress returned with their food. Octavia listened closely as she ate and drank - and drank and drank. By the time he reached the part about the alchemist and the stolen weapon, she was good and tipsy.
"I got you a pretty cool anniversary gift," he was saying. "Can you believe it? We somehow managed to survive a whole year without murdering each other."
"Oh, Naughty!" Octavia's voice cracked with emotion (and several glasses of champagne). "I told you I didn't want any presents!"
"I know," said Naught, reaching into his breast pocket. "But I figured one little gift couldn't hurt."
"Wait, wait, wait!" Octavia said hurriedly. "Okay, you got me! I figured the exact same thing!"
She sprang out of her seat, wobbling a bit as she did so, then dragged her cello case from under the table. Her antics drew stares from the other diners.
"Take it easy, babe," said Naught. "You're getting worked up."
"But this is worth getting worked up over!" she blurted. "Naughty, I wrote you a song!"
His heart skipped a beat. "Wuh-What?" He almost rolled a tear, though he couldn't tell if it was from joy or mortification.
And then she was up on the table, her forehoof banging against the cello's wooden frame.
"He-Hey, everypony! Listen up! I wrote my boyfriend a song! H-He's the cutest, funniest, most amazing stallion in the whole world, and I love him and stuff, and he's sitting right there - in case you were wondering what all that incredibleness looks like."
Yep. Definitely mortification.
"Okay, babe," said Naught. "That's all very sweet. You can get off the table now."
Only he knew she couldn't, not with her system all a-buzz with alcohol. Octavia Philharmonica might have had a drinking problem. A tiny one. And the other diners weren't helping. They began stomping the floor in hushed applause, apparently touched by her sentiment.
"Awwwww. Thanks you guys." The more she spoke while under the influence, the more her through-the-nose Canterlot accent waned. Gradually, it was morphing into something less sophisticated, more vulgar and uncouth. Pedestrian, she might have put it herself.
"I know I'm a tad buzzed right now, but bare with me," she went on. "This song I'm about to play is a hit in the making. It's a single from my latest album, Forever Midnight, which debuts on May 17 and is currently available for pre-order at your local record store. That's Forever Midnight, and if you order today -"
"Babe," Naught interrupted. "Seriously?"
"Sorry," she said. "Anyway, I want everypony to gather round and listen closely. This song is called 'The Greatest Lie Ever Told,' and it goes a little something like this..."
Embarrassment melted into bliss as Octavia began her serenade. Even while drunk off her ass she was a brilliant musician. The song was more lullaby than radio-friendly single, and Naught soon found himself on the cusp of slumber.
And then it hit him. That title - "The Greatest Lie Ever Told." He should have been paying closer attention. Should have known better than to let his guard down.
He reached for the pocket watch, flipped it open, checked the time.
Midnight.
Octavia twisted the rubber grip at the end of her bow, and a serrated blade sprang from the edge opposite the string.
"Happy anniversary, love."
Naught was reaching for her gift, the Radiant Palm, when the bladed bow came arcing toward the crown of his skull. He bounded to safety at the last possible second. The bow cleaved his chair in two, a jagged cut, its edge doing as much smashing as slicing.
It took the other diners a moment to absorbed what had just happened. Once they had, a cacophony of panicked shouts and stampeding hooves flooded the room. Most fled the building outright, but a few moved to the walls and the entrances and stayed put, too curious for their own good.
Naught had seen it all before, everything from the panic to the rubbernecking. A decade of Guard experience urged him to reach for the collapsible crossbow hidden in his coat. The situation called for range-fighting. When your skeleton was weightless enough to take flight, closing on an adult earth mare was a good way to introduce your muzzle to the back of your skull.
But the Guard had trained him to do more than just fight; protecting civilians was also high on his list of priorities. And in the confined space of the restaurant, missed shots might translate into wounded bystanders. It wasn't worth the risk. He would have to find another way.
Still perched on the table, Octavia bent her stifles and lowered her hips into a deep squat. Her back legs tensed in preparation to pounce. Bands of muscle no thicker than violin strings rippled along her hindquarters - bold enough to stand out beneath her grey coat, and yet modest in a way that accented, rather than overwhelmed, her natural feminine curves.
Naught let himself gawk for all of three seconds - impressed, aroused, distracted - and then closed the distance between them with a single wingbeat. Before she could pounce, he skidded to a stop and reared and slipped the Radiant Palm over his right fetlock. Then his stance splayed and his shoulders turned and his hips swiveled and the heel of his trail hoof spun outward. He catapulted an uppercut at the table's edge.
The Radiant Palm activated in mid-punch. A halo of luminous runes sprang from the band and morphed into the hard-light equivalent of a griffon’s fist. Knuckles wrought from pure magic slammed into the underside of the table, flipping it end-over-end like a tossed coin.
Octavia somersaulted through the air. She hit the floor rolling, then quickly regained her hooves and even managed to catch her hat as it drifted downward: a single haphazard yet unbroken motion. Order wrenched from chaos. If her music was classical then her powers of locomotion were swing, were jazz, were old-school hip-hop. A jam session. A freestyle played by ear.
She put on her hat with all the drama and menace of a comic book villain donning her mask. The brim sat low on her brow, veiling much of her face in shadow. She began to charge at Naught, the bow clenched between her teeth, but stopped when she noticed his new hand.
She spat out the bow and caught it in the hollow of her knee, gripping it the way Guards were taught to grip their spears.
"Naughty." The accent waned even more, becoming an echo of its former self. "You've really outdone yourself this time. It's bleedin' perfect."
Naught flexed his new hand, opening and closing the hard-light talons. "I knew you'd love it."
The glowing hand vanished into his coat and then reappeared holding something that looked like a golden fountain pen. A flick of his new wrist, and the telescopic spear extended to its full length.
"Right then," said Octavia, rearing. "We gonna 'ave ourselves a proper sword fight, are we?"
"Neither of us is holding a sword," said Naught.
"Aye. It's an expression, love."
"On what continent?"
Octavia let out a whooping laugh. By now her original accent had completely vanished, replaced by the course patios of something that might have been striped Trottingham or Neighlic or some sloppy mash-up of the two.
Standing as erect as any quadruped could, Octavia lifted one of her back hooves and tapped her horseshoe with the bladed bow, like a minotaurian batter who had just stepped up to the plate. Steel clanged against steel. She did the same with her second back hoof, her second shoe, then splayed her stance and squatted and raised her weapon, brandishing it as if waiting for Naught to pitch a baseball.
"Whenever you're ready, Naughty."
Naught was ready alright. He had spent the better part of a year preparing for precisely this moment. Their first anniversary.
With his new hand he withdrew the pocket watch one last time. Five minutes after midnight. The police would be here in another five, maybe less.
Perfect. He had fewer than five minutes to murder the love of his life.
One year ago...
A heavy pall of ash blanketed the red foothills and the red mountain range and the unnaturally red pine trees. Leafless and scorched from crown to root, the trees looked more like rusted steel than charred bark, their branches stretching long and bony before tapering into a hundred skinny spindles.
During his first visit to the Badlands, back when he was still a cadet, this vast expanse of red-black desolation had failed to move Naught in the slightest. It neither shocked nor sadden him. On the contrary, it had seemed all too familiar to the younger Bat. All too bland and mundane. If anything, it reminded him of home.
The world of his youth, that nameless, endless sweep of tundra beyond the Frozen North, was colder and crueler and more barren than anything he had since encountered here in Equestria. It was a place where the worst things happened to the best creatures. Often. So often that, after awhile, even the most despicable travesties failed to resonate.
Standing atop a foothill, Naught scooped up a smattering of ash and stared at it in disbelief. What had once failed to pluck his heartstrings now severed them altogether. Was this really Equestria? He had seen it all before: the charred landscape, the dead soil, the trees like hollowed out ghosts of their former selves. And yet here it was again, brand new, its decrepitude more vivid than ever. It was almost enough to make him miss the old numbness.
He blew the ash from his hoof and watched it swirl in the breathless air before dispersing and returning to the earth. Yes, Naught supposed this place and his new home were one and the same. No matter how much he wished it were so, Equestria was no utopia. Just like his old home, and every other nation he had visited, it was rife with the manifold evils of sapience.
He glared up at one such evil now. Embedded in the mountainside was a pre-emancipation era mansion, its ivory pillars and huge, rounded entrance fashioned in the style of Canterlot Castle. Completing the regal motif was a gold spire that needled up from the domed rooftop. The architect had likely meant for it to resemble the spire that crowned Celestia's home. To Naught, however, it looked more like the common spike of a pickelhelm.
Somehow, all the redness and ash and desolation had failed to touch the mansion. Magic, Naught suspected. The powerful kind.
Long before the settler ponies began building such mansions, the Badlands, with its caverns and mines and bounty of subterranean beauty, had belonged to a tribe of diamond dogs. They lived simply; surviving on Celestia-knew-what out here in the desert, and occasionally bartering with traveling dragon merchants. They traded their gems for food, water and dragon scales (stripped from the hides of slaves and prisoners), which they used to fashion tools.
In the early days, the settler ponies were friendly with their canine neighbors. The ponies taught the dogs about farming, and the dogs, in turn, showed the ponies their caverns and mines. This was their first mistake. Before long, the wealthiest and greediest among the ponies discovered the true value of the subterranean treasures. This led first to thievery, and then to fighting, and eventually to capturing and outright enslavement.
The diamond dogs became prisoners on their own land. The settlers forced them to toil day and night in the mines, robbing the dogs of their freedom and the earth of its wealth. Those who refused to work were beaten or starved until they complied. Those who fled were recaptured, tortured and punished with doubly large workloads. And those who fled twice, if ever recaptured, were executed. Publicly. Creatively.
But these indignities had only been the beginning. Soon the breeding began. And then the bizarre shift from "slave" to "pet." And then, later, the casual humiliations of collars and leashes and dog shows and performing tricks for scraps of food.
And then, later still, fire. From above.
Upon learning of her subjects' behavior, Celestia had been furious. Younger then, so much younger, and inexperienced and overzealous and dogmatic and furious. According to the history scrolls, this collection of mountain ranges hadn't always been called the Badlands. Nor had it always been so barren, so ashen, so very, very red.
Still glaring up at the mansion, Naught trembled with a menagerie of emotions he failed to fully comprehend. There was the chest-tightening anger, of course, like a dragon squeezing his heart in a clawed fist. That one he identified easily enough. But the others were more nebulous - fear, shame, mortification, sorrow - all of them guttering in the back of his mind like dying candlelights.
More than any of them, however, even the anger, he felt an all-encompassing sense of isolation. It assured him that he belonged nowhere. Not back in the icy north, nor in Equestria, nor here on this otherworldly landscape of beautiful, terrible rolling redness.
And yet here he was. Right here. Alone with the weight of his people's history, thinking fondly - and bitterly - of his lost paws.
******
It was sunset when his allies finally joined him at the foothills. They were thirty-five minutes late. So, for them, right on time.
As Naught watched them draw nearer, he took a quick mental inventory of his gear.
Lightweight quarrel-proof vest with detachable neck and throat latch guards. Check.
Leather vambraces. Check.
Tactical combat saddle, complete with EoH flashbangs, one dragon-scale dagger, one pistol crossbow with velcro fetlock attachment, and two fully loaded mini-quivers. Check(s).
Retractable claws housed in each of his sabatons, four in all. Che -
Wait a minute. Naught repeatedly tapped his forehoof against the ground. No metallic clanging, just the normal clop, clop, clop of his bare hoof against the stone.
Shit. That was right: he had let his former drill sergeant borrow the sabatons during their last mission together, which meant he was probably never going to see them again. Annoying, but at least he still had the dagger for close work.
Despite being Bats, his allies approached on hoof. Leisurely. Very leisurely. And, as always, they were prattling on about nothing.
"Look. So let's say I'm rutting this changeling, right. And he's a dude, this hypothetical changeling, but when we get it crackin' he turns into a mare. Is that gay, my zig?"
"Depends. Does he turn into a mare while you're rutting him? I mean, does he change right in the middle of the action?"
"C'mon, cutie. The fuck I look like?"
"Well... if he's already a mare before you start, I guess it ain't gay."
"Riiight!"
"Unless..."
"Ah shit. Here we go."
"Unless you rut him in the ass. I mean her. If you rut her in the ass. Then it's probably gay."
"Wait... What?"
"Also, if you know she's actually a dude the whole time, it's probably gay. I mean, if you finish and afterwards she just up and turns into a guy, then that's different. Because you didn't know. You thought you were with a mare."
"What?!"
"I mean, like, if you see him turn into a mare - if you're in the room when he changes or some shit - then you are knowingly rutting a guy."
"And that's gay?"
"Yeah. That's pretty gay."
A pause for thought. Then: "Fuuuuuck!"
The mind-numbing idiocy of his friends' conversation made Naught forget about his people's history. He loved them for that. They continued chatting as they trotted up to the rendezvous point, their gaits as nonchalant as their conversation.
"Hold up a second. Since when does anything gay bother you anyway?" said one of them, a sleepy-eyed Bat, who, after his transformation, had changed his name to Crow. "You sleep with stallions all the time. What's the problem?"
"The problem," said the other, "is that me hooking up with this changeling -"
"Hypothetically."
"C'mon, Cutie. You killin' me.
"Really? I'm killing you? Really?"
"Okay, okay. Me hypothetically hooking up with this changeling is supposed to be, you know, a change."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"You are one complicated Bat."
The sexually frustrated Bat was Trifle, a former Manehattanite whose name suited his diminutive stature but not his expansive mind. Around his neck he wore a silver chain adorned with scrolls instead of jewels: a gift from the High Clover who oversaw the non-magical departments of Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. As far as Naught new, the little bastard never went anywhere without those scrolls.
"Yo, Naught. You gotta help me and Captain Cutie here settle a debate," said Trifle. "So let's say I'm rutting this changeling, right. And he's a dude, this hypothetical changeling, but when we get it crackin' -"
"It's gay, Trifle. It's obviously gay," Naught said dismissively. Then, immediately changing the subject: "The hay took you two so long? And what are you wearing? I suggested standard issue tactical gear for a reason. Standard. Issue."
"What? I'm wearing black," said Crow, his sleepy eyes shifting from Trifle to Naught. They were so narrow they appeared to be perpetually closed.
"Me too," said Trifle. "C'mon, cutie. Why you acting all scary and shit? Ain't nopony gonna see us coming."
Trifle flashed a grin that resembled a sprung bear trap, displaying teeth he had filed into sharp, unnatural triangles. Besides the chain of scrolls, he wore a phoenix feather hoodie with dyed plumage: a blend of grey, black and off-white in place of the firebird's usual colors. A shoulder-mounted crossbow sat to the left of his grinning face, its trigger-wire trailing from the firing pin to the corner of his mouth.
A new tattoo adorned his neck. It read "VI," the Romane numeral for six. Seeing it, Naught shook his head with wry amusement. As they said in Manehattan: you can take a zebra out of the hood (and his stripes, apparently), but you can't take the hood out of a zebra.
Crow turned his sleepy eyes up toward the mansion. An appreciative whistle flitted off his lips. "Nice digs."
"Riiight!" Trifle agreed hastily.
"Sure," said Naught. "If you're into Dog Houses."
"Yo! Do you simple ass cuties even know what you're looking at, though?" said Trifle. "That there is Bullington Longhall, the single coldest piece of Neoclassical Taurine architecture to come out of the pre-emancipation era. Period. You see that spire up on the top? It ain't just gold. It's a mixture of gold, yellow diamonds and the finest eastern hydra scales money can buy - all gathered on the Taurinus Isles and shaped by minotaurian hands. By hands, my zigs! Fingers and thumbs and shit! You can't get that kind of workmanship with hooves or mouths or even unicorn magic."
"It just looks like one of the spikes on Celestia's castle," Naught said dryly.
"Spires, fool! They're called spires!" Trifle corrected. "And of course it looks like one of Tia's. Where you think she got hers from?"
"It's not that great," said Naught.
"I don't know," said Crow. "Looks pretty impressive to me."
Trifles eyes lit up like sparklers. "Riiight! Yo, if you ever wanna learn more about it, do yourself a favor and check out Two Horns, Four Walls: A Brief History of Taurine Architecture in the Isles, Equestria and Beyond. There's five whole chapters dedicated to just Canterlot Castle."
"Celestia. I hope the history is briefer than that title," said Crow.
"I just finished volume seven this morning."
"So nothing too heavy then." Crow leaned closer to Naught and gave him a knowing nudge. They chuckled conspiratorily among themselves.
Trifle hardly noticed them. He had already unlatched and unfurled one of his necklace-scrolls - an abridged text on Taurine architecture - and was using a quill to scribble notes on Bullington Longhall in the margins.
Watching the little stallion go, Crow absentmindedly unfurled a wing and draped it across Naught's back. He used it to pull his friend closer. Unlike Naught or Trifle, Crow had been a pony before his transformation: a pegasus who once served in the Solar Guard.
Also unlike the others, something had gone wrong during his transformation ritual. His coat had darkened, his teeth had morphed into fangs, and his eyes had yellowed and narrowed (a bit too much): all the telltale features of a Bat. But his wings had failed to change. For reasons the Lunar High Priestess had yet to discover, Crow never lost his feathers.
"You okay?" he said, the feathers plush against Naught's hide.
"Yeah," said Naught. "It's just... a bit more than I'd thought it would be."
"You can sit this one out, if you want. Me and the little guy can handle it. Right Trifle?"
Without looking up from his scroll, Trifle let out a soft squeaking noise. With more volume it might have grated the ears like a bat's screech. Instead, however, it carried the warmth and tenderness of a cat's purr.
"Thanks," said Naught. "But I got this."
"Cool." Trifle still didn't look up, but he was writing slower now. "We waiting for sundown?"
"Of course," said Naught. Then, to Crow: "What's the plan, boss?"
"Yeah, Captain Cutie," said Trifle. "Let's here you quarterback this thing."
Crow blinked with tortoise-like slowness. He inhaled deeply and pushed out an agitated sigh. Then he stepped a good distance away from Naught - a professional distance - his wing reluctantly folding against his back as he did so.
He articulated the plan with a directness that contradicted his languid demeanor. Earlier he had spoken and behaved like a common grunt, or worse, a cadet still in training. But he was different now. He stood with his back straight and his chest out, his shoulders square and his chin raised. Authority resonated in his voice as he finished the explanation.
"And then we burn the motherfucker to the ground. I don't know how it survived Celestia's sunfire spell, but it won't survive ours," he concluded. His eyes widened just enough for an onlooker to notice, and a kind of cool ferocity encroached on the usual sleepiness. "That is, if Trifle here doesn't mind losing his precious Dog House."
Trifle finally looked up from his notes. "Sure, we can burn it down. One condition, though."
"Shoot," said Crow.
A flash of the bear-trap grin, wider and toothier than ever. "I get to light the first match."
