The Escape from Stalliongrad
Jean considered, in the moment, that the probability of him losing the draw to a cannibal with a two hundred-year old musket was relatively low.
When the cannibal fired first, Jean was reminded that sometimes the odds are against you.
The bullet slammed into his cuirass, sending the griffon soaring out of the tavern window and into the frigid air of Tsasbaatar. His breath left his body as he rolled into the street, staggering to his feet as the cannibals began to claw their way out of the dilapidated building, their sharpened teeth leering at the prospect of fresh meat.
“Long way from Frosthill, bounty hunter!” a voice jeered with a pop of a musket from across the road kicking up a plume of dirt by Jean's head.
The bounty hunter rolled himself back onto his stomach, barely drawing his revolver in time to punch a hole in the first bandit's head that crept too close. Jean shifted back up to his feet, keeping the weapon drawn on them. The three cannibals that remained kept their distance.
“Pretty armor ya got there. Gonna look better on me!” one cannibal croaked, laughing before lunging at Jean. The bounty hunter’s revolver barked twice, tearing two of his attackers nearly in half. He scrambled to the side as he cocked the hammer back again, desperately searching for the third.
The last cannibal closed the distance between them with a wicked grin stretching across the broken gap where his beak should be, then drove a carving knife into his side.
The clank of the cannibal's knife against his armor was the first good news Jean heard all day. A crooked smile moved the scar just over his beak as he seized the cannibal by the throat and whipped him around while his friend fired off another shot.
The musket ball dug into Jean’s meatshield with an audible thwap and a splatter of blood as it tore through the body only to bounce off his plate. The bounty hunter tossed the corpse to the side. His wings carried him across the street to close the distance between him and the remaining marauder in a few bounds. She descend into a hysterical fit of laughter as he slammed into her. “It was a joke, see! A joke! See! Knew you’d be fine!”
The laughter did not stop the struggle; the pair grappled with each other until Jean whipped her over the head with his pistol, and the ugly sound of her skull cracking ended the fight. Jean fired two shots into her for good measure, then took a deep breath and stepped back.
The cold air of the Griffon Frontier tickled his feathers and carried the quiet whisper of the icy river’s current. He scanned the cluster of buildings that made up the town of Tsasbaatar. The town had some other name once. So did the river, but like most places on the Frontier, no one had asked the Yaks about them before they were driven off the land.
Reaching for a cigarette from a pouch on his side, Jean set the smoke in his beak and paused. When no other crazed maniacs popped out, he struck a match. “Y’all are safe to come out now. Cannibal problem s'all well and done.”
Slowly but surely, the inhabitants of Tsasbaatar meandered out of their hovels. Lingering sets of eyes appeared from the decayed buildings, tavern, and occasional overturned carriage. Jean felt the beginnings of a cold sweat. He expected one of the townsfolk to decide the job was best paid by shooting him from behind.
When the mayor slapped his back, he about jumped out of his skin. “Merde!”
“Easy there, boy,” the mayor said with an unsettling smile as he offered him a bag of bits. “Good pay for a good day’s work. Tsasbaatar don’t skimp no one.”
“I... thank ya.” Jean sighed with relief as he took the bag, walking towards the broken window of the tavern. Deputies and townsfolk milled about to remove the bodies and go about their lives. He leaned down to pick up his brown, wide-brimmed hat, searching through the shattered glass and splintered wood. Knocking the thin powder of snow and dirt from it, he plopped it back on his head and ran a talon along the brim.
“Don’t suppose ya might enlighten me on when the next riverboat’s comin’ by?” Jean asked with an arch of his brow as he approached the mayor again. The elder griffon smirked and gestured to a sorry-looking barge, filled with lumber and cargo.
“Another month or so, unless you’re willing to pay a modest shipping fee?” The mayor pointed to the bag of bits he’d just awarded Jean with a crooked grin.
“Boreas, I don’t know who’s worse. Ya or the cannibals,” Jean snorted as he offered a talonful of coins. “Just throw in a blanket and somethin’ strong to drink, savvy?”
“Of course. Tsasbaatar don’t skimp no one,” the mayor repeated. He patted Jean once more on the back before wandering off into the decaying township. Jean adjusted his hat with a nod, retrieved his pack from the tavern, and made his way towards the river barge.
With a healthy bottle of cheap liquor and a thick blanket made from a possibly-sentient hide, the griffon curled between a crate of crystals and a shipment of iron. At the same time, the boat lazily pushed off from the pier. Beneath The gentle river rolled and churned beneath as he drifted east towards home and another hunt.
"Enough!"
Governor Muck's voice silenced the turmoil of the cramped room in the Frosthill town hall. A guard outside the room briefly poked his head in before an empty glass pegged by Muck shattered on the door and sent the griffon scampering away.
"Weter has refused to grant us any additional funds; Teafeather has left us out to dry! All the ideas you’ve offered have been nothing short of treason or utter incompetence! Selling out to Virgil and his goons? Embracing communism? Attempting to marry me off to the cannibal’s fucking queens? To one of their kings?!" Muck roared once more as he held a cluster of papers in his claw, slamming them down onto the table as he glared daggers at the assorted advisers before him.
"We have no other options short of selling Frosthill itself back to the Yaks to pay off our debts," a particularly rotund and angry-looking griffon said with a ruffle of his feathers. "There is no hope. We are up a creek without a paddle! Virgil's thugs have seized our arms shipments, stolen our supplies, and turned the territory against us!"
"Our howitzers are made out of wooden logs and our machine guns are empty; I know," Muck said as the griffon sank back into his chair as the fight drained from him. "Does anyone have anything?"
"Rockfeller's daughter is still missing," a well dressed, albino stallion said. His suit was far too fine to be from Frosthill. Muck rose to ask who the hell he was before the stranger spoke again. "She was seen last running south towards Stalliongrad. She jumped ship in Weter last week. Rumors from Las Pegasus say that the bounty has tripled. Her father is paying an emperor's ransom for her safe return: more than enough to keep the Frontier afloat for the next ten years."
"And…all we have to do is be the ones to return her," Muck said with a slow realization as the stranger nodded in silent confirmation. "Anyone left in our pocket who is up to the task?"
"None in your pocket," the stranger said, looking over the rim of his glasses as sharp red eyes flicked back to Muck. A small folder slid across the table to the Governor, "Jean De Basse, contracted hunter, bastard of an Aquileian exile. Just completed a job up in Tsasbaatar. Most of his pay is coming back to you anyway through intermediaries at the bounty hunter's guild. De Basse is in outstanding debt due to a penchant for gambling and the finer things in life accrued in Skyfall five years ago. Buy his debt from the Skyfall Federation and I'll take care of the rest."
"What choice do we have?" Muck sighed, rising from his seat. "I will see to acquiring his debts from our friends in Skyfall…and let us have a toast. The year 1008 shall be our salvation!"
Glasses were raised, the gods thanked, and Muck let his worries slip away into the bottom of a bottle as a message was sent to the bounty office on the edge of town. The last conscious thought the Governor had was a small prayer that the bounty hunter would succeed and that the Griffon Frontier would be saved.
The stranger adjusted his suit, placed a bowler cap on his head, and tapped his cane against the ground before disappearing as quickly as he had arrived. The heir would be found, and all debts paid, one way or another.
Frosthill was the biggest "city" in the Griffon Frontier. A bustling hub of defanged cannibals and corrupt bureaucrats festering on the decades-long decay of the region. A decrepit wall surrounded the city's limits. Built back when the name ‘Grover’ meant something and the Griffon Empire’s reach could actually be felt. Brothels, taverns, and banks lined the dirty, cobblestone streets as far as the eye could see. The filth of the city outlined by thin street lamps and the occasional neon sign, its denizens milling about in the soft light.
From a distance, though, it was strangely charming and brought a smile to Jean's face. It was not quite home, but it was home to the bounty office. That was good enough for him.
Lifting himself back up onto his talons, the griffon leapt from his nest between the crates. He skipped across floating ice chunks in the river, his armor too heavy to allow him to truly fly, but jumping and gliding? That was not out of the question, and it beat having to chip in with the docking fees that the boat’s captain would inevitably try to wrangle him into.
The Frontier was falling apart at its seams and every griff was trying to make a bit of coin before whatever storm reached them first: the Yak’s raids, the dreaded Communists, or even the whispers of Virgil’s minions coming in the night. All of which were particularly interesting to the newspapers but were of little importance to Jean. In his expert opinion, the newspapers were really only good for leads.
“Good wipes too in a pinch,” he mused under his breath, the griffon landing with a grunt on the shore. Running a thumb along the rim of his hat, he began to wander the winding streets. A makeshift gate, made from a gash in the crumbling walls, served as an entry point. A tired guard raised an open claw in silent greeting as he passed into the town, the poor griffon so overworked he forgot to ask for a bribe.
The chaos of working mares catcalling from windows of their hovels and the rallying cries of extremists preaching from their corners met Jean as he turned down each block and street. One preacher after another promised salvation as others promised the goods they sold were fully legal.
The nearly lawless city was only kept in order by the guards posted on roofs, their beaks staring down at those below. No lawbringer willing, of course, would step onto the streets below. It was a good way to get shanked by a disgruntled settler or aspiring revolutionary.
The occasional pop of a rifle cut through the noise of the city, quelling dissent that grew too loud or rabble that became too radical.
The Bounty Office itself was tucked away between a general store and a whorehouse, with an inn across the street. All its clientele ever needed just a few steps away. The familiar face of a tired mare with a pastel red coat smiled at him as he entered.
“Palm Trees,” he drawled out in his thick Aquileian accent, removing the hat from his head as he dipped it to her. Jean wore a relaxed smile, presenting her with the bag of bits and his contract’s receipt. “Ya aren’t lookin' a day over thirty. I’ve come to collect on the job up there in Tsasbaatar. Got the payment all squared away, and I’m here for the card.”
The stubby snout of the mare looked at him with a weary smile, motioning for him to set the bits on the counter as she shuffled around to produce a thin punchcard made out of tin. Sliding it into a press on the back of the wall, she cranked the old HorseCo brand machine to life before it punched a perfect hole next to a row of others on the card. “Another one down Jean. How many more to go?”
“At this rate?” he asked with a snort as he counted out half of his reward, Palm Trees arching her brow at him as she held onto the punchcard before clearing her throat. Reluctantly, another quarter of the coins were counted out and slid to her personally; the cost of doing business had gone up. “I reckon another ten years ‘fore I can show my beak in any city that don’t got a cannibal problem again. Damn this debt and damn the cards, Palm.”
Finally setting the metal punchcard on the counter, she slid it towards him. “I ain't a cynic, but I doubt we're makin' it another ten years. You know that one certified stamp from the Intercontinental Guild and that’d be it. Wouldn’t have to worry about that debt if you signed on proper. Get a chance to get outta here before the storm comes.”
“I could even put in a good word if you are willing to handle a few personal favors,” she added with a grin, the older mare offering him a flash of sharpened teeth. The life of a cannibal was never kind to her features, even if she had reformed, some marks that never healed. “Nothing a griffon like you can’t handle, no?”
“Flattered, as always Palm,” Jean said with a light chuckle. “But, my maman always said I shouldn’t go stickin’ nothin' I wouldn’t want to lose in places that are pointy...'sides, I ain't tradin' one master for another in the guild. I got an ocean between me an' Skyfall, I wanna keep it like that.”
“Jackass,” Trees snorted out with a shake of her head. “Don’t say I didn’t try to save you from any trouble. Got a contract for you, specifically you. It ain’t guild approved.”
“Thought ya didn’t give out illegal cards,” Jean asked with an arch of his brow as he tucked the tin punchcard into his satchel. "I don't do them illegal cards either."
The mare offered a crooked grin, holding up thin metal card dyed completely black with only three holes punched into a straight line. “It ain’t illegal if the administration approved it. Straight from Governor Muck himself.”
“I don’t care if it's a Black Card, Palm,” Jean said as he shook his head. “The guild isn’t touchin' it, why should I? Something 'bout that there is crooked. It's just gonna be rougarouin’, why stick my neck out more?”
“Because the Skyfall Federation sold your debt,” came a prim and proper voice rolling from the corner of the room. A gangly stallion flicked the newspaper in his hooves down to stare at the bounty hunter. The pony's coat was completely white, almost like snow, with glaring red eyes that were just as cold. “The holder is now the legal government of Weter, controlled in absentia by Governor Muck and his administration. You are now a liquid asset.”
“Liquid?” Jean asked with a short squint, the griffon adjusting his armor and the oversized jacket hanging off him. Any discussion of his debts usually had him wanting to throttle someone, and there were fewer and fewer consequences he could think of for throttling the prim and proper suit before him.
“Means you can be converted into a quick payout,” the albino said with a slow nod of his head, as if he was educating a child. “Upon your reluctance to perform the contract, of course. Failure to complete your task could have the administration use you for militia target practice, or sell you to the Free Corsairs as a breeder, or even to the Zebras as a laborer. All legally without repercussion.”
“Jean De Basse, this here is Edwin Clay of General Petroleum,” Palm grunted, pouring herself a healthy glass from a bottle behind her counter. “Fella’ that’s paying Muck for the contract.”
“The Black Card is a contract in excess of a million Equestrian bits, and this one is much…much higher than that,” Edwin added with a slow nod of his grim features. Jean found himself surprised at the sheer height of the pony once the stallion lifted himself out of the chair. Edwin towered nearly a whole head over him, the corporate stooge taking only two long steps forward to stare down at the bounty hunter over the rim of his shaded glasses.
“My presence is to remind you of one thing: your life depends on this contract. I am representing perhaps the only other soul on this continent more invested in your success than Muck. You are one of many, you have competition, and they have a head start.”
“And y’all don’t care if your contractors kill one another in the process,” Jean said with a slow nod of his head. It explained why the guild would not touch a Black Card. There was such a thing as a bounty being too high. The guild would destroy itself in the process from the sheer competition; Jean had heard of chapters tearing themselves apart when Black Cards came in.
“Precisely,” Edwin said as he placed a bowler cap onto the top of his head, a cane appearing in his hoof seemingly from nowhere as he tapped it to the ground. “As it is in our best interest to see you succeed, you have been given a train ticket and a destination. Your mark was last seen in Nouveau Aquila attempting to contact smugglers to get her to Azkaban.”
“The Red Island?” Jean mused with a short grunt. “I got any time to set affairs in order before I travel to the paradise of the workin' pony?”
“Two hours is generous enough, no?” Edwin said as he tapped his cane and offered the tickets to Jean, along with a folder of the contract's details. The well dressed pony exited the office as quietly as he appeared. His voice carried at almost a whisper as he left, “We will be watching, Mister De Basse.”
“Should I even ask about my room?” Jean said with a slow shake of his head as he placed his hat back on, running a thumb across its rim.
“Property of the administration now, the suit closed you out this mornin’,” Palm said with a small shrug from behind the counter, the mare offering a sympathetic smile of pointed teeth. The mare set a ruck on the counter: all the griffon’s worldly possessions packed into an old bag. “Not a lot of you featherbrains worth a lick of salt, but you do good by folks. Best of luck Jean. Don’t get yourself killed out there, alright? Freedom ain't always what it’s cut up to be.”
Jean paused, raising a claw to tap the rim of his hat to her. As he moved to take his ruck from the counter, he supposed he could not blame Palm for what was happening. He could chew her ear out something fierce for the lack of warning, but he was not about to fool himself into thinking she had not been paid to bite her tongue. She even tried to give him an out with the guild; she never did wrong by him either before this.
Friend would be a generous word, but he would not be in the Frontier again, one way or another.
“C’est la vie...I got two hours, Palm. I reckon that I ‘ought to settle up on those favors ya pester me about, right?” He said after the long pause hung between them.
“I’ve got more gin in the backroom. Go ahead and lock up for me,” Palm said as her ears flicked in anticipation and the smile grew on her features as she polished off her glass. “I’ll make sure you get to the station in one piece.”
Four hours, several bruises, two empty bottles, and one missed train later Jean paid out of his pocket with the bits Palm gave him to slum in a freight train's cargo cars to Nouveau Aquila. The ride was rough and unforgiving, but Jean considered it a respite to what he endured that day. Getting fucked by old debts, one way or another, wore him out enough to find a bit of sleep as the train car lurched along. The rattle of boxes and glass soothing him to sleep. Some rest for the long journey ahead.
Nouveau Aquila itself was a blur, Jean's short time in the city spent seeking Clay's smuggler to take him to the island. Eventually he found himself having to enter one of the "Red-Sympathizers" clubs in the city, lying through his beak about being a wandering knight that wished to escape the monotony of capitalism and the oppressive regime in Weter.
A few hundred bits later he was loaded up into a cargo freighter in the night and sent off to his “freedom” as the pony-trafficker so boldly said.
Another night spent huddled between cramped boxes gave him time to think at the very least. He hardly had a chance to read over the file Clay gave him as he had scampered through the streets of the Aquileian Quarter. He picked through it as the ship rolled through the waves, memorizing every detail he could.
The mark was a mare, went by the name of “Paddy.” Her cutiemark was a yellow rose resting on her brown coat. The occasional white splotch made her stand out in the photos from the folder. Her black mane was tied up in a bun, almost like the ones from the pin-ups from ‘neighsha’ dancers in Lake City. Bright amber eyes stared up at Jean from each picture; Paddy held a rebellious fire in her from what he could tell.
Considering almost every photo in the file was a mugshot, it was a fair guess. Beyond that, there was no extra detail: no background, no prior jobs, and no family name.
Pocketing the photos and burning the rest of the file, Jean knew all that he needed to: take her alive, bring her back to Frosthill.
It was a task easier said than done, the ship’s horn rousing him from what little sleep he stole after burning the file. Looking out the porthole of the freighter he could not help but let out a little chuckle.
A great obelisk stood in the center of the island, a massive red flag that seemed to defy gravity fought against the winds. Jean skeptically eyed the monument and the bright yellow hammer and horseshoe on the flag's surface. “I wonder if they are compensatin’ for something?”
The Island of Azkaban, the pride of Stalliongrad. The worker’s paradise. The shining example of what could be to every passing freighter leaving Manehatten or Nouveau Aquila.
They were, of course, met with armed guards when they were herded off the ship. Jean stood among the other hopeful and desperate souls who paid the smuggler out the nose to escape here. They shifted their feet nervously as the guards stepped towards them, one among them stepping forward in an outlandish, black leather coat.
“Comrades! Welcome to your new home!” bellowed out the officer, his brown uniform adorned with a few blue stripes along the rim of his cap instead of the red the others had. “I am Commissar Coal Train, please follow my commands so we can get you all organized!”
Jean could feel the gaze of the guards on him alone; the scarred and armored griffon stood out among the significantly less armed huddled masses. He fit the profile of his cover, an errant knight seeking new purpose, but he was still the only armed one among the refugees. He kept his head low and covered his face with his hat, following the others as they were herded off the docks towards a set of clean looking buildings.
Jean could almost swear he heard the monolith groan against the winds, the shadow the flag cast hung over them as the guards took them to processing.
“Occupation?” Commissar Coal asked from the other side of the desk, a unicorn mare beside him using a typewriter to quickly transcribe everything that was said.
“Former gallant knight,” Jean said with a wide smile, lying as he shifted in his seat. Stripped completely bare down to his feathers, the griffon felt naked. “Reckon I can get my armor and piece back sometime soon? I’m feelin’ a little exposed…an’ with such fine company present, I’m sure we all just want to get on with today.”
Jean winked at the mare, flashing her a smile as he flexed his wings a bit. She giggled and the commissar’s eyes rolled so far back into his head that for a moment Jean thought he gave him a stroke.
“Reason for your arrival?” The commissar asked with a cant of his head, the stallion’s eyes snapping back to him with a long glare.
“Freedom. That's the whole point of all this right? Give me ya me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearnin' to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teemin' shore?” Jean said, another lie on the pile as he quoted one of the preachers from back in Frosthill.
“At least you've read the materials,” the Commissar snorted. “You do not strike me as the type to travel all the way from… Aquileia for philosophy alone. Who sent you?”
“No one,” Jean said simply, shaking his head once. The commissar was fishing for deeper motives; he would give what he wanted, but just not the whole truth. “...I knew this broad, well, this mare…Paddy...from back home. Met her in Nova Griffonia, beautiful amber eyes. She ran off here after an argument with her père. I’m tryin’ to see her again...make things right.”
A pause hung in the air, Jean took a deep breath and thought a silent prayer. The mare let out another giggle, her voice rolling out sweetly, “Comrade Coal, his story checks out with that mare that ran through here the other week. The one named Paddy from Nouvelle Aquila. Why don’t we let him through? The revolution could use a few more families after all.”
“Sergeant, you have a good soul,” the commissar replied coolly, resting his hooves on the table before gesturing to the door. “And…who am I to stop a wanting heart? Mister De Basse, welcome to Azkaban. I hope you find your friend and your freedom in paradise.”
Jean let out a long sigh of relief, rising to his feet as he offered a genuine smile to the pair, “Thank ya kindly, I’ll be makin’ my way to her place then…I don’t suppose I could get some help with that, actually? Letter she sent me just said she was comin’ here, not much else.”
“Sergeant Cream here will give you back your personal effects, I am sure she could give you Miss Rose’s address too,” the Commissar said with a smile as the Sergeant rose from her seat, motioning for Jean to follow her from the interrogation room. “Glory to Stalliongrad, c
omrades.”
“Glory to Stalliongrad,” Jean said as he offered a crisp salute and followed behind the mare, a light chuckle leaving him as the door closed behind him.
“...and you did not detain him?” a low male voice growled out over the phone to Commissar Coal, his tone quickly losing its patience.
“No, c
omrade…I did not think it was wise to take any action, not yet,” Coal said quickly. “If we act too rashly, we risk upsetting the peace. The sergeant is outside of our control. We cannot let word of the party stooping to…ransom to get out.”
“Then Paddy Rockfeller dies in the struggle, Commissar. A martyr to the party,” the voice grumbled before snapping once more. “...I understand your discretion, but such inaction in the face of our enemy cannot be tolerated. You have let the snake into your home, Coal. I hope you know what you are doing. If you’re wrong about this, it will not just be the corporate crony's head I take. Understood?”
“Yes, Comrade Serov. I will alert our agents,” the commissar said after a long pause. Hanging up the phone, a shaky hoof reached for a pack of cigarettes. Coal stole a moment to compose himself, lighting the smoke up and taking a long drag. Picking up the phone again, he gave the order: “Send word to the safe house, they are receiving company.”
“Take care, Jean,” Sergeant Cream mused with a wink, sliding him a small slip of paper. A phone number, one separate from the one that she had given for Paddy.
“...is this?” Jean intoned, looking at it before nonchalantly tucking it into his pocket.
“Let me know if things do not work out, comrade,” Cream added, blushing under a smile.
“...take care, sergeant,” Jean fumbled, exiting the immigration office nearly tripping over himself as he stepped out onto the streets of Azkaban.
The streets were paved and clean, automobiles rolled down them in a rainbow of colors. Identical buildings, each with their own respective flair, lined the streets. The occasional different build of the modular housing broke up any monotony. A red flag hung from every window and a mixture of all the world’s races walked the streets as equals.
For a moment, he was in paradise.
Market stalls overflowed with food. Through a store window he saw the exchange of a HorseCo radio for a hooful of bits. A minotaur surprised him with a smile, offering him a cup of coffee with the only price being a polite, “Thank you, comrade.”
A plane, a real plane made sometime in the last decade, flew overhead with a quiet hum. Everyone on the street craned their heads up to watch the aerial acrobat tear across the sky. The din of a radio broadcast playing the hymns of the martyr Comrade Steel played softly from speakers on each street corner.
Jean could only take a creeping sip of his coffee as Azkaban washed over him. It was everything that the pamphlets and preachers promised: a worker’s paradise.
He could forgo the contract and make a life in this place. Weter would not find him here nor would the vengeful General Petroleum thugs. His contract would be null and void, hidden in the sea of socialist wealth and other refugees. A pay phone sat on the corner, a mare’s number in his claw.
Freedom, a new life, and a warm bed was just one call away.
He looked up to see if Boreas could give him a sign and saw the guards posted on the roofs. They stared down at those below, cradling their rifles as they scanned the crowds. He greeted one pair with a slow wave, only to be met with the subtle shake of their heads.
He noticed then the music did not stop, the same hymn droned on repeat.
Jean double-backed to the first shop he saw: it only sold radios and only one kind of radio. The same could be said for most shops he passed, they sold a single item. The price of everything was the same per store: one sold toothpaste, the other pencils, another small pallets of canned rice. The entire city center was a bloated general store.
Jean could not wrap his head around it. Paradise was not armed guards and one kind of toothpaste. Azkaban was a gilded cage where there was no room for want or excess. It was not a place of equals, but a place of enforced equality.
The splendor of paradise left as quickly as it arrived as he stormed through the perfectly curated streets. The drone of the radio and the engine of the plane in the sky nipped at his heels. He found his resolve in the shadow of the red flag and only one thing was important now:
“Find the girl and get out.”
There was a certain, if not palatable, annoyance in trying to find Paddy's apartment. The homes were patterned in a way to not look similar at a glance, but Jean had found the pattern in the modular buildings. After every fifth one, it would revert back to the first. A local told him these Revoltsovaeby were proof that everypony could have a proper home!
Jean frowned at the thought of trying to squeeze the minotaur he saw in the square in one.
Everypony was right, but not everyone.
Eventually, he found Paddy's block. It was red, of course, with a soft blue roof. He buzzed himself in and reached her apartment in a matter of minutes.
It was at this point, he realized, he did not have a real plan.
“Kidnappin’ is out of the question,” Jean mumbled, knocking once on the door. “Rather not find freedom facin’ a firin' squad. She’s gotta come of her own volition...”
He had never heard of ships leaving Azkaban either, so chartering a ride out even if she was willing was not a real choice. There was that plane he saw earlier? He did not know how to fly, but someone on the island did and it couldn't be that hard—
WHUMP
A hole was shot through the door in front of him, a cuirass full of a slug threw him back against the wall behind him. A short squak left his beak as his world began to spin.
The remains of the door flung open as two stallions yanked him into the room. "Dumbass! Don’t shoot him! Don’t! We need him dead inside the room!"
"I think he heard us taking care of the dissident, didn’t want him to have the chance to draw on us," a stallion grunted in return, quickly moving to shut what remained of the door and use his overcoat to try and hide the damage. The other knocked Jean around with a club, keeping him pinned to the ground under his hoof.
"You are both incompetent," a mare said flatly as she walked into the room, glaring as she used her magic to levitate in a squirming mare with a yellow rose on her flank. Jean's eyes went wide when she was dropped down next to him.
Bright amber eyes stared back at him with equal surprise, her sharp features livid as she twisted helplessly on the ground with a chorus of muffled curses spouting past the gag.
"How does the commissar want us to make this look?" one of the stallions asked, adjusting his brown uniform. The blue fabric along its edge caught Jean’s eye as he began to stir slightly. He moved a talon towards his sidearm before the club struck his beak and sent him reeling back in pain with another unseemly squak.
"The daughter of Rockfeller martyrs herself killing an enemy of the state sent to tear her away from the revolution's bosom," the mare said as she drew a small knife from her side. "Which means you kill the bird with this, then you take his gun and shoot her. Three valiant officers come across the scene, take photos, alert their superior, ya-da-ya-da-ya-da…the Revolution has another hero."
Rockfeller, that explained a whole heap about the intrigue around the contract.
The trio continued to bicker among themselves, Paddy began to squirm harder in desperation. Jean caught a glimpse of her pulling a hoof free as he choked out, "W-wait..."
The mare offered him an apologetic look as she yanked his pistol from his holster. Paddy wore a silent smile as she aimed and pulled the trigger:
Click.
"...you bitch," the female officer seethed as she narrowed her eyes. The mare’s anger boiled over as she lunged at Paddy with the knife.
The stallion on Jean's throat scrambled to meet her, dropping his club as he kept her from skewering Paddy, "Ma'am! The ransom!"
Paddy let out a muffled scream, pegging the revolver at the pair. It missed, sailing over their shoulders to strike the third one on his snout with an audible crack.
The shotgun in his hooves shot wildly into the ceiling as Jean scrambled across the floor.
"Shit, you whore!" screamed the one with the shotgun, racking another slug into the chamber as before holding his broken snout. His tirade was interrupted as Jean seized him, snatching the gun and cracking his skull with its stock.
Jean pumped two slugs quickly into the other officers, their bodies flailing wildly before crashing to the ground in an ugly mess of gore. He fired off another shell into the last officer who laid twitching and groaning on the ground, tossing the shotgun away before moving to settle a talon around the gag in Paddy’s mouth.
"Before ya start, I'm Jean…been sent by one Eugene Clay to get your ass back home," he said as he started to take out her gag, the name 'Clay' instantly turning muffled thanks into another vile storm of curses.
Immediately, he put the gag back on as she punched her free hoof helplessly into his armor.
"Listen right quick," he suggested as he kept the gag there with a narrow glare. "Ain't my business to your filthy rich family's woes…but we need each other to get outta this rat’s nest alive, chere. Friendship is magic, savvy? Nod once and the gag comes off."
She glared, staring at him as if he were Maar himself, but ultimately nodded once.
He removed her gag with a smile. She replied by waving him away with a small hiss, using her hoof to pluck away at the rest of the rope to free herself. It was an awkward process, but a prideful one, "...thank you."
The clamor of worried tenants opening and closing their doors could be heard easily through the barely covered, gaping hole in the door. Jean stood back up, staring at the door as he asked a slow and hesitant question, "I don't suppose ya know a way 'outta Azkaban? I saw a plane earli-...what are you doing?"
Paddy stood over the torn bodies of the officers, stripping the bodies of their uniforms. The griffon arched a brow as he leaned down to pick up his revolver and hat, placing the latter on his head as he ran a thumb along its brim.
The mare caught his glance as she was tugging on a pair of pants, "What? Between the three of these thugs we have at least one full uniform that isn't completely covered in blood. Toss me that coat on the door, if you wouldn't mind?"
Jean did as requested, tossing her the leather coat as she buttoned up a bloody shirt. He looked through the hole in the door, greeting a small, hunched old mare who stared at him with wide eyes. Clearing his throat, he gestured to the damage, "...official party business, comrade."
The old mare skittered away with a dozen worried nods and hushed prayers. When Jean looked back Paddy had finished. The ostentatious overcoat covered most of the damage and she carried herself with enough authority to make the disguise work at a glance. "Ya are awfully...calm 'bout all of this. Are we sticking with chere or you wanna be Miss Rockfeller ?"
The mare placed the least bloodied officer cap on her head, taking a moment to secure a sidearm from the bodies. She checked to make sure the pistol was loaded this time before sliding it into her holster. "Paddy will do just fine, been doing this since I was a filly."
"Ya been puttin' on dead ponies clothes since you was a kid?" Jean prodded with a rather bemused tone.
"No, I've been doing this crap! Sick of being used as a pawn, dammit. Getting my hooves dirty by just trying to keep them clean!" she said gesturing to the chaos around them as she stormed out of the apartment without so much as a second thought. Her uniform scattered the small crowd of scared tenants that had settled outside of the door in an instant. Jean chased at her heels, offering an apologetic smile and tip of his hat to those in her wake.
"Maar's scaly cock, slow down," Jean hissed as they rounded a corner. "What'd ya mean pawn?"
"I'm a bargaining chip, you feather brain!" she exclaimed with an exasperated sigh. "Those idiots have been holding me there for days for a ransom! It doesn't matter what flag they fly, they're always just after the bits!"
"So the Reds are bad news and we're all awful folks, this ain't no big surprise," Jean said with a roll of his eyes as he jabbed a talon at her.
“I...thought they’d be different! I needed them to be different!” she punched him in the chest with a glare. Her amber eyes burned like fire and Jean was not about to snip at her again.
“...and I need you to get outta here, Paddy,” Jean relented as he shook his head with a sigh. “Sorry I ain’t what ya need, but I’m all that ya got. I promise ya right now I ain’t never gonna lie to ya. I got your back.”
She stopped in thought, looking at him with a genuine smile cracking on her face. "You said you saw a plane, right?"
"I still like my boat plan a little bit more if we're bein' honest here," Jean admitted as he tapped the brim of his hat, taking a deep breath as he looked back around the hanger's wall. Night fell fast after they managed to break away from the apartment blocks and the city stayed quiet. Azkaban was the picture perfect society and because there was no crime, there could be no roadblocks or lock-downs.
But there was a sudden flood of guards and police performing surprise ID inspections. Paddy, thankfully, was the spitting image of the officer they left bleeding in her apartment. Her ID passed cursory inspection and no guards were willing to stop her in the officer’s uniform.
"Too many guards, Jean. Besides, neither of us knows how to drive a boat and at least one of us knows how to fly a plane," Paddy answered, adjusting her coat as she drew her sidearm. "You want the one on the left or the one on the right?"
"Neither," he said with a shake of his head, making a short 'tch' sound. "Gun is gonna make some noise and I'm seein' some blue on those uniforms of theirs, don't think they're gonna fall for the 'escorting-a-prisoner' act."
"Then I'll bat my eyes and turn on that old Southern charm," she chuckled with a dark smile. "Don't hesitate, I'll give you some time to close the distance."
"Boreas help me," Jean muttered as she sauntered past him into the hanger. The two guards stood beneath the shadow of a large bomber and began to drift towards her with weapons raised. Paddy said the plane was a DB-3 or a DB-1, but all that really mattered was it had enough range to get them out of there fast.
Spreading out his wings, he flipped his revolver around in his claws to hold it like a crude club. The shouts of the guards turned to hushed whispers followed by the sound of hoofsteps drawing closer, "...fine, fine...I'll take the watch, just tag me in when you're done!"
A talon yanked the stallion's throat as he turned the corner. It was quick and violent, the muffled sound of a pony being bludgeoned to death drowned out by the drone of radio propaganda that hung in the air.
Jean bounded into the open hanger. The last guard was too busy watching Paddy slowly remove her cap with a coy grin before Jean landed on him. His neck snapped when he hit the ground at an odd angle, the weight of a full grown griffon and enchanted armor more than enough leverage to do the deed.
Jean took a deep breath, absentmindedly running a bloody claw down his face as Paddy stared wide eyed at him. "What?"
"You got some…Luna's sake never mind," she dismissed before shaking her head and moving to work her way up the ramp to the bomber's fuselage. While she rooted around the cockpit, Jean jogged back outside to start dragging the first guard's body back in to join his friend. He lumped them in a small pile behind a few crates, finishing the crude work just as Paddy reemerged.
"She's got a full tank, no payload, and enough gauges in Equestrian for me to get her off the ground…Haukland's due east of here and they'll take it off my hooves for sure," she said ruffling her mane a bit with a hoof.
Jean wore his own loose smile as he let himself bound towards the bottom of the ramp. "Haukland ain't where Clay is though, we gotta…get back to…Frosthill."
His voice fell away as he heard the soft click of a pistol’s slide falling forward.
"I'm not going back to my father, Jean," she deadpanned, keeping the pistol leveled at the griffon. "I'm going east…you saved my life today, nothing is going to change that.”
“But I am damn tired, and this is the farthest I've ever gotten from that monster! I’m so close! Freedom from an arranged engagement to some self-righteous recluse, freedom from gilded slavery!”
Jean slowly began to lower his talons before Paddy fired off a warning shot. The bullet whizzed just past the brim of his hat with deafening zip.
Her eyes narrowed, shaking her head. "I've personally seen you kill five ponies today Jean. You're a dangerous griffon, next one doesn't miss!"
"I'mma debtor first, Paddy," Jean said after a long pause, looking over his shoulder as her gunshot’s echo hung in the open hanger. His mind raced as he swore under his breath, counting down the seconds until someone sounded the alarm. "...I don't got a home no more, but I can't be hunted for the rest of my life now either. Ain't nothin' east worth seein'."
Jean looked down at his cuirass, running a talon across its scarred metal with a slow shake of his head. "Same thing that's rotten in the West is rotten in the East. Whole world is goin' to hell and runnin' just means we're gonna die tired."
"...then you're gonna help me," she countered, lowering the pistol.
"What?" Jean snorted, keeping his claws high despite seeing the pistol lowered. The quiet pop and whine of the alarm in the distance finally announced their presence in the base.
"You help me kill my father, Jean. You help me put Rockfeller in the ground with his precious oil and I'll make sure your debt disappears," she promised. Sharp amber eyes softened as she brushed back her black mane, a rare honesty heard in her voice.
Not that Jean had much of a choice; a pop of a rifle in the distance snapped against the wing of the bomber and caused them both to jump. The bounty hunter turned his head up towards her with a firm nod. "...I'll need some bits too after!"
"Ever the mercenary, aren't you?" she laughed before clambering into the plane as another rifle shot skipped over the engine. "Fine! Bits, bits galore for you! Just get your ass in the nose gun and cover me!"
Jean flung himself up the stairs, knocking them down behind him as he slammed the door shut. He swung himself under the narrow passage to the nose gun. The cramped walls were not made for anyone with wings and armor, but the blaring sound of alarms and rifle fire encouraged him to squeeze through.
The gun itself was simple enough, rack back the bolt and let loose. The clatter of the twin guns were almost muted past the glass and dwarfed the rumble of the engines coming to life. Jean could not hear the sounds of the guards outside anymore, only the flash of their rifles.
Commissar Coal stood out among the guards answering the alarm. Magic wrapped around his pistol as he fired furiously at the plane, dozens of his special agents firing with the same conviction with a volley of small arms.
Jean cut swaths through them.
The heavy guns of the aircraft's nose guns rippled through them without mercy. Their bravery was a testament to their zealotry, but Jean found that faith in the machine guns managed to overpower their patriotism.
Paddy taxied them out under fire, her voice muted over the roar of the engines. Jean was fairly sure she was trying to call out approaching targets, but from the short time he had known her, it was just as likely curses.
The bomber twisted itself out of the hanger, grinding across grass and concrete as it cut a mad path through the air strip. The rifle fire fell away as Jean felt the plane lurch beneath them, skipping as Paddy's voice screamed to any gods that would listen above him.
Through the crosshairs of his guns, Jean saw the end of the runway coming. His stomach sank and he tasted the coffee he drank that afternoon, the plane shuddering up as it sailed over the fence. The plane climbed, higher and higher as the occasional ping of a rifle striking the frame faded into nothing, the pair escaping Azkaban on a wing and a prayer.
"Say again, Commissar Coal?" Serov asked with a low growl.
"Yes sir, they escaped," the commissar sighed, the nurse tending to his wounds in his office sent away with a wave of his hoof once she finished the stitches on his hind leg. She injected a small syringe to his side before another glare from Coal sent her packing. "Over thirty casualties...at least a dozen dead. On your order we can scramble a pursuit."
"I have seen to it already, do not scramble any fighters. We cannot afford to reveal this deception. There was, instead, an accident in the hangars...improperly stored ammunition detonated during a recreational event celebrating..." There was a long pause as Coal felt Serov rubbing his hoof into his forehead on the other end. "...the success of our glorious air force. All the loose ends will be tied up properly."
"And Coal...your morphine addiction? It was a real shame," Serov added with a dry chuckle before the line went dead.
Coal's eyes went wide, the pale smile of the nurse peaked at him through the crack of the door as she snapped it closed. He tumbled over and fell as he lurched forward to catch her. His body grew weak as his world faded into darkness.
Coal's last thoughts were not to Stalliongrad, nor to Jean and Paddy, but rather that he would not mind hearing Sergeant Cream laugh one last time.
"West is startin' to look less plausible by the minute," Jean said as he set down the radio set, moving to stand behind Paddy as she kept the bomber at an easy pace below the clouds. Coasting by with clear blue skies around them, only the drone of the engines kept it from being serene. "Couldn't get into contact with anyone in Nova Aquellae, or anywhere else in Nova Griffonia for that matter either. Somethin' is going on down there, lotta chatter but no clear signal."
"Alright, we could keep going north then? Go to Vedina and see if we can't lure Clay there," Paddy proposed with a tilt of her head.
"...Vedina isn't an option," Jean coolly said with a shake of his head, a talon tapping at his armor. "Haukland seems like the only right proper choice. I got an old family friend there we can lay low with 'till we figure out how to crack this egg of yours."
"Killing the richest pony in Equus isn't exactly making breakfast, Jean," Paddy scolded with a roll of her eyes, banking the plane to the east. "You don’t have a home and you can’t go back home…so I didn't figure you to be the family friend sort?"
"Let’s not go that far, he's an old friend of my pere…my dad," Jean rolled out as he fished out a cigarette from the brim of his hat.
"And he's not gonna sell us out to my father?"
The clouds before them were open and bright, the blue sky stretching on as far as the eye could see. "...not if we give him the bomber first. We give him such a prize and he'll make us his favorites… least for a day or two."
"Really know how to give a girl hope," Paddy teased past a snort, drifting the plane low as they flew on. The pair settled into a comfortable silence, and Jean closed his eyes to steal the first bit of sleep he had for a long time.
The plane touched down with a clattering grind as it skipped across the runway. The DB-3 stood out among the cobbled together mix of seaplanes, fighters, and cargo planes from across the world. The red star on its side in sharp contrast to the bright circus of colors arranged on the other planes resting on the airstrip.
The eyes of what felt to be near a hundred souls bore down on them as Paddy taxied them at a painstaking pace to the end of the strip. "Not exactly a warm welcome…no one replied to our hails."
"And no one shot us down neither. Let's just take the blessin' we got, allons," Jean said wearing a tight smile, running his thumb across the brim of his hat as he lifted himself out of the plane. Wings carried him down to the ground with a gentle thud. The denizens of the airbase kept their eyes drawn on him, a few brandishing small arms and others started to approach with tools.
A massive griffon descended from above, the hulking frame of Hermann Meyer grabbing Jean by his gorget. "You got some nerve landing a communist plane on my airstrip…got a name runt?"
Flicking the hat from his head, Hermann inspected the intruder with a squint. Jean thrashed madly for a moment, but gave up with a short grunt, "....Jean…Jean De Basse..."
The Graf glared daggers at the bounty hunter and growled, "Who is Javert De Basse to you?"
"A knight with a bastard son carrying his own cripplin' gamblin' debt with a sister named Stella," Jean said with a meek smile. "Uncle Meyer, 'dis how ya say hello to family?"
"And the broad with the pistol pointed at my head from the fuselage?" Hermann demanded, keeping his talons tight as he kept Jean hoisted off the ground.
"Paddy...Paddy Rose," Jean said, looking over his shoulder to shoot the mare a well meaning grin. "I don't reckon I know what a 'Paddy Rose' is neither, but you know how them pony names are right…fuckin' crazy? Anyway, we brought ya a plane."
Hermann stared, the great Graf of the Hauklands stood with his mouth hanging open as he processed what dribbled out of Jean's beak. "...Javert was hung in Aquileia nearly thirty years ago, broke my Stella's heart…got some proof before I drop you from my fighter you lying shit?"
"The armor's crest," Jean squaked, swinging his legs a bit to try and touch the ground in vain. "Javert managed to knock up a courtesan 'fore Berthelot got him."
The crowd around them was buried in a muttering sea of whispers about "family" and "nephew." The Graf dropped him down before ripping back the tattered coat Jean wore to inspect a small sigil on his shoulder. The detailed engraving of a small rose over a windmill was etched onto his pauldron. "You're a good liar or you're being honest. Don't know which I hate most."
"Either way, you're getting a fancy new DB-3 out of it," Paddy whistled as she tapped a hoof against the plane from its door, wearing a coy smile that gave the Graf a low rumbling laugh.
As Jean joined the Graf in the mad laughter, the mob around them devolved into a fit of nervous chuckles before Hermann fell quiet. "Jarvet left Stella to die, alone in Vedina. Without any family, with only a fucking scullery maid to hold her damn claw. Call me 'Uncle' again and I'm taking your tongue…right now, I'm just gonna take your plane."
The Graf seized him and dragged him up to his feet. A griffon evicted Paddy from the plane, tossing her down to join them as Meyer towered over the pair with a growing smile. "Welcome to Haukland! Do whatever you gotta do and get out. You got her eyes and I don't like them on you. You're a De Basse, but you ain't my nephew. Scram."
"Not exactly a warm welcome," Paddy said as she rubbed her hoof into her forehead, the pair tucked away in a small hole in the wall bar down by the docks. The various trawlers and freighters crawled by as the occasional pair of planes soared overhead, dancing with each other in a gray sky.
"My pere didn't give his sister a warm farewell either. I think we'll chalk it up as even?" Jean snorted into a slow sip of coffee, his eyes looking towards the mare as she offered him a sympathetic look. "Don't give me that! My pere wasn't good folk neither and aren't we on a…crusade now to kill yours?"
"In a way," she compromised with a shake of her head, using her hooves to tie up her mane in a loose bun. "This is all just 'bout freedom when you skin away the politics and family. He won't let me go, he won't let you go: so we got to put him down so we can go…go and get on with our lives, be something more than a runaway and a bounty hunter."
"Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' those," Jean said.
The mare flicked a hairpin at him. "Maybe so, but I want to have a real choice in the matter.” She took a deep breath as she looked out across the docks with him. "For now? I'mma choose to enjoy the taste of it."
"The taste of what?" Jean asked over the rim of his cup.
"Freedom," she said. "It isn't pretty, it isn't nice but…we got a chance to breathe here, and I'mma make the choice to sit back and take it all in."
The sun began to peak out through the grey clouds. The misshapen and cobbled together houses across the bay painted a soft rainbow of vibrant colors. Exiles, drifters, and merchants meandered together with smiles painted on their faces and bits in their pockets as the light skipped off the Celestial Sea. It was not true freedom for the pair, not with Rockfeller's goons and the other hunters that would follow them.
"...but it’s a start," Jean said with a soft smile, enjoying the quiet company and the bitter drink in his talons.
