*Ring* *Ring* *Ring*

I barely contain myself from smashing that little piece of trash into smithereens. Clocks are not expensive, but I don’t want to stress my budget. I turn it off. Standing up, the thick covers are lazily thrown aside. Sounds of rumbling escape my throat.

Another day in the frontier.

Why can’t I just continue sleeping?! Bloody mornings.

The kitchen greets my caffeine-deprived eyes. I turn on the kettle. I have to drink my instant coffee on my way to work. While the water starts to boil, I open a cabin, taking out a cup.

I could sleep sooner. However, I wouldn’t survive that, with no free time, no housekeeping, no socializing – though there isn’t much of that to begin with.

There is not enough time.

Dull light enters the kitchen through the windows.

My roommate comes in. I live in a shared company apartment; I couldn't afford it otherwise. Gold, West & Co. Ltd. does offer the luxury of running water for their workers, which is a mighty blessing. “Morning, Lionheart. Is there still hot water?”

I nod, not one for many words, as I put on my postal uniform, a Gold, West & Co. Ltd.’s uniform. Pretty much everything in this district is made by the company. At least it’s warm enough to keep away the north’s cold which bites through the feathers. I open the door.

He makes his tea. The lucky bastard works three hours less per day and gets paid the same as I. Well, not everygriff’s parents could afford high school. “Fabel,” I say, “don’t forget, you are cooking today.”

“I won’t.” He’s surely a nice griff, I simply never get the opportunity to talk with him that often. “See ya later, Lionheart.” Always so calm. He has a kind smile, a genuine one.

“Yeah, bye.”

Today I have distribution duty. I swear, if another guard dog tries to bite my ass, I’m going to wring its neck, cook, and eat it.

My quota is right on its way on getting fulfilled. The weather is at its usual, cool, slightly windy conditions, another blessing. The mail needs to be delivered no matter how dangerous flying might become. And I have the displeasure of having the uppity snob district, inhabited by middle management, which means they have their houses on high, hard-to-reach places, which on the other talon gives me the pleasure of them not talking to me. I hate suburbia.

“Here’s your package.” I hold out the clipboard. They sign. Finally, the last one for the shift. With no further exchange of words, I leave.

The path from here to the post office leads through the city center. No moment to dawdle remains. My schedule was rationalized to its most efficient.

There is not enough time.

I hate the city center. It is one of the few places not completely dominated by a single magnates. This may be nice for the economy or whatever. Except Talon Gunworks Inc., but they are practically omnipresent.

“Experience the new feather oil, experience true fragrance.”

“The Kitchen GUN™®©. Clean your kitchen with one easy bullet.”

“We won’t lie, let’s get right to the matter. This is advertisement: Buy our motor carriage.” By the gods, I could never afford one of these things.

I am untouched, baby, and I am all yours.
Underneath is a picture of … a burger on red velvet?

This place is not good for my sensibilities. Ignoring it and focusing on my task, I continue to my goal.

Oh, for gods’ sake. A vendor, he’s blocking my way “Hey, might you, good sir,” A fake smile “,be interested in –“

“I DON’T CARE! Get out of my way or I’ll cave in your skull with your garbage!”

He did back up. Everygriff, everycreature in this city – this world is a godsdamned, dirty imbecile! It’s … I …

I just want my bloody peace.

I bite into my cheap sandwich. It is filled with some kind of meat; I don’t dare to look at the ingredients list. Nonetheless, I haven’t eaten the whole day – it tastes like ambrosia.

A griffiness enters the break room.

Oh, no. It’s HER, the most bootlicking, cock-sucking creature in existent, the supervisor. When one does step a little away from her standards it’s off to the gallows. Figuratively, of course. Though, it could be literally, a poor, jobless griffon might as well be dead.

“Ah, Lionheart,” she read it off my name tag. The same fake smile as every other griffin “, how is your day?”

“It’s fine, just like any other.” She once cut somegriff’s pay because they took too much time in the shitter. She doesn’t care. I have it easy, there is always a bush in reach while I work. It’s all about efficiency for her; she even gets rewarded for it.

“Right? A calm day is a day where nothing wrong happens.” Shut up, stop talking to me, stop taking away my break time. “Of course, if something wrong happens, just tell me. We are like a family after all, here in Gold, West & Co.”

“Will do.”

“Great!” She probably trades with souls as a side business.

Her topics to fraternalize herself have run out – she walks out of the breakroom, her quick check-up being fulfilled. “By the way, be careful. I think there is a storm brewing outside.” And she’s gone.

A sigh escapes me. Telling me to be careful won’t make the weather any better. She deserves to be buried alive.

Another griffoness emerges from her hiding place. She made the smart decision and hid herself before the supervisor arrived.

We great each other. She doesn’t smile, it’s genuine, a breath of fresh air.

“Mildred,” talking with her at least isn’t a chore, “how did you sense her coming?”

“Honestly, I can’t tell you. It’s just a feeling you’ll get eventually. The quieting chatter is usually the biggest giveaway.”

“Yeah.”

“Should we do something about it?”

“What? About Her?”

“Yes, exactly. This is getting ludicrous; we should tell some higher up about it.” The higher ups hired her in the first place.

“That’s naïve.” We can’t do anything. What should we do? Create a union? Technically, we are already in a trade union, but it rarely does anything. I cannot remember it doing anything ever. They are pocketed by the corporations, even if nogriff can prove it. “Don’t be ridiculous.” And if it is possible, I wouldn’t want to risk it.

“But –“ SHIT. The time. My break is gone. I quickly stuff the sandwich into my beak. Just a few more hours, then I’m done.

As employees of Gold, West & Co. Ltd. we are offered payment in either common currency or the company’s own currency. Most take the company’s money. With this cash, products of Gold, West & Co. Ltd. in Gold, West & Co. Ltd. stores are cheaper. That’s why I have a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. pen, a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. uniform, and live in a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. house. I was rocked in a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. crib. I take Gold, West & Co. Ltd. medicine, and I will land in a company coffin.

When my parents came here in the promise of a stable, new frontier they signed a contract. That contract had much fine print.

When I grew up, they stopped bothering, the fine print was no longer fine. I still signed. A talon speaks louder than ink on paper, anyway. The other companies are the same, just in a different flavor, so, I chose the devil I knew. No griffon in the frontier is a citizen of any country. But citizenship and employment here may as well be the same.

Now, I am considering my loyalties. Gold, West & Co. Ltd. CAN STICK THEIR BLOODY MAIL UP THEIR–

*Rumble*

That whore was right. A storm is here. It’s wet, it’s windy, and it’s throwing me around like I’m nothing. My clothes and outer feathers are drenched. I’m freezing. The gods show their uncaringness towards me. Now, there is thunder. I hate them. I hate the weather. They never showed love towards me. I return the favor.

A mighty draft almost knocks me off my feet. I look up, towards the next house. There is no safe passage. I have to fly. The shitty mailbag is more watertight than my clothing. The packages are unharmed. With small trepidation – being afraid costs too much time – I push upwards.

A crackle. The air’s electrifying. Despite the dampness my feathers stand up.

Another crackle. It turns to loud murmur. I’m halfway there. The wind is flowing rightwards, leftwards, forwards, backwards, upwards, and downwards. Upwards I go. A lighting, going downwards, meeting me in the center.

A lighting strike’s main discharge lasts about 30 microseconds. In that short time the environment is set alight, mine darkens.

I hate this city, I hate everycreature inside it, I hate the overworked nurse who is tending to me, I hate this hospital, I hate the indifferent doctor.

The pain, the pain stopped bothering me. In fact, I have never been calmer. I don’t have to work tomorrow. Yeah, sure I am inside a corporate hospital – dirt is tastier than their food – but the bed is comfortable (enough), and, yes, I may go in debt a little, and, yes, I may have trouble breathing, and, yes, way too many bones are broken, and, yes, I am almost deaf on one ear, and, yes, I suffer from frostbite, but that is okay. Because it was a work accident, I got a decent discount for my treatment.

“You have a visitor.” The nurse says, “it’s the griffon that brought you in.” I wasn’t conscious after the strike. Might as well thank them. “Should I bring him in?“

“Yeah”

Opening the door, the griffon steps in. “Hey, Lionheart, are you feeling well?”

“Fabel?”

“I noticed you weren’t coming home, and I know you usually don’t do that, at least not without making it a big thing. I was worried, so, I asked at your workplace. And after they told me they haven’t heard of you, I searched for you.” He says, “along your route, I found a bush with smoke coming from it. And ya know…”

I never thought of him as a worried kind. Did he actually care? Maybe he simply was worried about my share of the apartment payment. Does he want a favor? He can’t just *help*. That would be ridiculous. “Why? I won’t be able to pay rent.”

“What do you mean why? Don’t worry about rent, I’ll cover yours until you’re fine.”

What is wrong with him? Is he just oblivious? “But …”

“Shut up, doom-and-gloom.” He says with amusement, “I’m only looking out for you. Speaking of, how are ya?”

“Shit.”

“At least, you didn’t get a head injury. I wouldn’t have believed another answer.”

That slightly moved the corners of my mouth. “You’re sure you aren’t secretly a pony?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re so…” naïve, childish, innocent, “cute.”

He looks at me wide-eyed. Why?

Oh, I just realized what I said wrong word I said what I said I didn’t mean that I mean yes he is cute but not no I mean I like him but not in that way –

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, taking it with humor and ripping me from my thoughts. “I am going to come back tomorrow. Maybe bring some games to kill the boredom. See ya.”

Fabel did come back, and then he came back again, again, and again, making my hospital stay sufferable. He took time out of his days to make me happy.

Today we are playing some card game whose rules I only learned because it’s the only game he brought. The game is not fun.

He is sitting on the ground; we’re putting the cards precariously on the side of the bed. The hospital fucks didn’t have any spare chairs or tables. “Fabel,” I say, “you don’t have to sit there.”

“Hmm?”

“Hop on the bed.”

“Ok,” he didn’t even bat an eye, jumping on the bed, watching to not rebreak my bone. The bed is small, therefore pressing us together – it is cozy. He laid opposite of me; only the card’s backsides were visible. We continue to play, laying the cards on my lap. It is still unsteady but a little better.

I lost the first games because he was accustomed to the rules of the game. However, after I got the hang of it the victories become more equally distributed. The defeats didn’t anger me, it is only a stupid card game.

Fabel, he helped me, beyond any reason. He continues to do so. Why? Would I? …

No. Shame, disgrace, fills me; I am self-centered, wrathful, unlike him. He shouldn’t have cared for me. If all cared for themselves, then all would be cared for.

“Fabel,” I have to say it, I don’t know why, but I must be honest to him.

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t have done the same.”

“Done what?”

“Help you. I wouldn’t have searched for you. I wouldn’t have met you every day.”

“Would you now?” Is all he asks.

Would I? After all he has done for me? “Yes.” But would I help him because I’m a sympathetic griff or because I like him? Probably the latter. I’m not happy about it. It is what it is.

He simply nodded. My words didn’t disgust him. Wordlessly, we continue, despite my words he still likes me. He really is ponylike.

He is cute.

Then, after the – I didn’t count how many rounds we played – the door opens. A griffiness enters. Bitch didn’t even knock.

Immediately, I see, based on the formal attire, she is a salesgriff. “Good day, griffs. I am sent by the company. Are you Lionheart?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, I am here for some official work…” She continues talking about how she is checking that I am *actually* unable to work. Then she forces me to fill out forms, while Fabel awkwardly sits by me. “We also noticed that you haven’t given a written testament. Your accident brought this to our attention. You should rectify it in case your next accident is more fatal.”

Her eyes then swivel between us, “oh, I see, I walked in here on some private get-together. Fitting, you see, the company is supportive of all minorities.” Of course, they are, as long as they have money. “Therefore, we offer gay funerals.”

Something in me broke. Blood pumps into my head. My face goes red in a whirlwind of emotions. “By the gods, GET THE EVERLOVING FUCK OUT BEFORE I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!” I scream. I take the lamp at my bedside table, threatening to throw it.

She quickly escaped.

“Lion, she was only doing her job.” Fabel says.

Looking at him, my racing heart slows down. “I know.” But my anger overturned my sympathy.

“Home sweet home.” Fabel says. We walked together from the hospital to the apartment.

We’re back at the flat. It is as I remembered. Time passed but the world did not turn.

Yet again I stand to do the same thing. Luckily, I didn’t build hope for my rest to be permanent – I would only have found disappointment. Rest will come when I’m dead.

It is what it is.

“Should I make something?” he asks, pointing at the kitchen.

“No,” I say, I don’t want to feel completely useless, “sit down,” being a dependent is not the best for my self-worth.

“K, sir.” He mock-salutes at my authoritative language.

I roll my eyes. I get going at the meal – I’m sure there is a fancy word for what I’m preparing, even though I’m simply throwing anything that I found in the kitchen together.

Casserole, that’s what it is. I’m not a good cook, I know enough one needs to know to survive. It suffices.

After I finish, I lay everything on the shaky table. It has been a long time since we ate together – it was on the first days we lived together – I found it weird like we were dating, and I stopped. But now, it seems fine.

“Lion, have you ever thought about doing something about your anger issue.”

“What do you mean?”

“How you screamed at the griffess or the nurse isn’t normal.” I also screamed at him, the nurse, almost forgot that.

“It is normal. Some only understand the language of violence, It’s the griffon way. I know that the griffons in your office smear honey on their words, but behind their words is nothing different from what I am saying. I just say the truth outright.”

“Maybe… but the table begs to differ.”

It was some time ago, two days before I was hospitalized, I was searching for a pen underneath the table. I hit my head, in a moment of rage I threw it out of the window. “I see your point.” I look at the ad-hoc-repaired table. “But it is who I am.”

“No creature is uncorrectable.”

“Yeah, sure.” I say spitefully “We have our natures. We can’t change that.”

“It’s not in your nature to be angry. You can change to the better.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, really?” he stands up. What is he getting at? Abruptly, he puts his two forelegs around me, his face is aside mine. Our bodies are rubbing at eachother. “How do you feel?”

“Uhm…” confused, “normal.”

“Would you have felt the same if I did this to you some months ago?”

“I would have punched you.”

“Then our relationship changed. If you can change the way you think about me, then you can change the way you think about other things and yourself.”

Can I? … “I can try. “

“Fabel, what are you reading?”

“The Friendship Journal.”

“You read pony – … honestly, that explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Want to go out?”

It is a rare day, a holiday. Some national holiday, not one I care about. The thing I care about is the free day I have because of it.

“Sure, where do ya wanna go?”

We could walk through the city. But it’s stressful and not something I want to ruin our free day with. They all want me to spend my money I don’t have, to buy shit I don’t want, to impress those around me who I despise.

We could go to the park. No, the tolls are too high.

How about a bar? Again, they only want my money and give me poison to forget how shitty that transaction is.

Now, I have an idea. “I have a place with nice view I haven’t visited for a while.”

A modern ruin. I haven’t been in one of those places since … I was a chick, I think. I can’t remember, I have been stuck in monotony for so long time started to distort. It is a calming experience, seeing things that once were, maybe they were better, or maybe not. Most likely not.

I fly over the fence with the big ‘do not enter’ signs, “Heart, is that really a good idea?”

“They won’t put guards in an abandoned place like this.”

“I don’t mean – okay, I also mean this. Isn’t this very unsafe?”

I don’t know why they closed down, they have taken anything of worth, no machinery remains, and anything else is scavenged by now. Only a hollow industrial complex stands there with its steel skeleton and chimneys. “Not if you’re careful.”

He still hesitates.

I sigh, “I’ll watch out.”

This was enough for him – he trusts me – he gives a quick look into every direction, before following along. “I wonder what they made here.”

“Don’t know.” There isn’t much left to tell us. I figure this whole industrial complex is now a part of some real estate speculation scheme. They have no reason to bulldoze these ruins, it would only cost them money.

I find overgrown train tracks. Walking along them, we find a large room, must have been storage. Most of the structures oxidized, what isn’t gray turned brown, and the rest is overgrown.

We don’t linger long in the dark structures; I have my eyes elsewhere. “Do ya like this?” he asks, “it’s a bit … depressing.”

“Yeah. We are completely unbothered here.”

Fabel disagrees, he didn’t voice it, instead we approached a – “is that a piano?” A whole upright piano stood in our way.

“Yeah.” Maybe they produced music instruments here? No, they wouldn’t need giant chimneys for that. Likelier somegriff wanted to throw out their piano. Why they did it here will stay a mystery.

Nature wasn’t kind to the instrument. Its wood is soft, some keys are missing, the strings must have rusted by now. “I can play piano, but I don’t think …” he presses the d-key. When the soaked hammer hits the string, it falls apart – the wood splinters, the strings snap, and the keyboard falls off the main body. Fabel looks disappointed, but it was what he expected. “Maybe later.” He is looking at the pile, pondering.

I came here to show him something and have calm day—this is getting too melancholic. I point at a platform at the chimney. “Let’s meet up there.”

It takes no time until we fly to the platform. I go to the side with lee and sit down.

Ever since they privatized the weather, it became less and less common that a griffon, pegasus, or any flying creature could just take a cloud. If I stand on the wrong cloud, I could be shot, they are property after all.

It isn’t a thing anymore, to just ‘sit down’.

This is the best next thing. No griff cares about this place, and from here I have a beautiful view on the city. “It looks nice.” He says. I nod, sitting down. “Oh, ya wanted to chill here? Ya could have said that sooner, we could have brought a picnic, this is a nice view.”

“Next time.” I say.

He sits down next to me.

I could see history in the city. Though most of the very old buildings don’t stand anymore, some still stand in the poorer districts in need of renovation. Glass buildings were erected in the east, business district. The riffraff like us lives in the midst of that.

It is all surrounded by the suburb, the richer the less densely populated.

He unconsciously leans against me.

That is it.

I have all the time in the world right now.

I don’t need more.

“See you later, Fabel.” I give him a hug. Life became a bit more bearable after my hospital visit. Though, I have to toil the same work, I at least have something to look forward to at the end of a shift. Hanging out with creatures I like is pleasanter than I thought.

“See ya’, Lion.”

Another day, another dime.

The streets are as I remembered them, I wasn’t gone for that long, a few advertisements may be different, I don’t pay it much attention.

I enter the post office, the enormous establishment, distributing packages and mail since mail existed as a concept. Some griffons are too lazy to walk or fly, making my life just a bit worse.

Having entered the green – it’s actually white, but moss grew on it –structure, I walk to my day’s assignment.

“Lionheart,” swiveling my head around I see the speaker, I get stopped in my track. It’s the foregriffiness, “for you,” she presses an envelope into my talon.

I don’t make any guesses about what it could be, before ripping it, wordlessly, open – ignoring the griffiness, who tries to discern the letter’s insides. The contents meet my eyes.

The words flux around each other, the nicely worded message does not serve its substance any better, in fact this honeying makes it only worse. I crumple the letter.

I breathe in. Think about it. Anger will not bring me any further. Talk it out. Take his advice. Yes, I’m sure if I show them my point-of-view, it’ll turn out fine. Breathe out. It wouldn’t to discuss it with the supervisor, she doesn’t have the authority to make those calls. No. Those who do are higher up. I simply need to talk with the one whose signature is on the paper.

Feeling aloof, I ask, “where’s the boss?”

I am in the higher floors of the establishment, a place the likes of I rarely get to see. Ignoring any formality and pretending I belong here, which can bring one into many places, I beeline to the fat fuck’s office.

I enter it. There she sits. Of course, she isn’t *THE* owner of Gold, West & Co. Ltd., she is one of the many shareholders who has taken responsibility for the department, -- there is no *one* boss. She is probably just somegriff’s faildaughter.

I slam the letter on the desk.

“What’s this?” asks she.

“Something you should reconsider, miss.” I say.

“You were fired. I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“Not your PROBLEM!? You’re the department head.”

“Calm down, or I will call security.” She says with indifference – she hears these sorts of complains daily. “Do you think I know everything that is going on? I don’t know what sorts of calculations personnel management made, or what you did.”

The red flood reaches my head. My life – it’s all I have known – I have to uproot everything – I have debt – Do other companies even take griffins that were fired? “I did nothing wrong,” my voice cracks similar to teenager’s pubescent voice-cracks. I take breaths between my words. “I did everything as ordered.”

“Listen, maybe you missed a rota, a quota, too often, maybe you aren’t efficient enough, maybe we rationalized your position away because we automized some work, or maybe it simply is a bug in the bureaucratic machinery of our company. In the end, it’s none of your business, you signed the contract – the company has the freedom to fire you at any time.”

I don’t know her name, she doesn’t even know mine, yet I want to give her a barrage of insults that have never been uttered. I stop trusting my tongue to say anything. She doesn’t pay me much attention.

“Hey, if you’re lucky you can be rehired.” She says, “and if you’re upset you can buy an apology.”

Another scrub it won’t go off it will not my feathers coat my talons painted red the porcelain the floor the everything knock screams no no no they are here it is too late I flee go flee into beyond the yonder the wooden floor then the gravel streets griffons follow me they hunt me they have weapons deadly weapons she deserved I regret not it they will use them I fly others see me shock the blood damned am I hate them I hate every last one of them a tackle no longer in the air assailant I struggle against them

– An old radio commercial –

“A dream only for one, two bucks and ninety-nine. Feel depressed, melancholic, self-deprecating, or *static*? Freedom in the Frontier can become lonely. Adventure lays in every creek. When we settle down, we lose a part of our selves. But don’t worry. We have a shortcut.

Feel woeful? Then go to the bottle-o and catch alcohol.

You want a good life? Coming right up, we have the hookup.

Feel lonely? There’s a number you can call.

A waffle iron, a needed companion in the kitchen. Or a radio that’ll feed you the day’s tales.

Self-fulfillment? Need self-worth? We are sure to have it, from the secrets to heaven to dolly dolls for the chicks.

Just call 5555-*static* or visit any of our stores.

*static*

Visit our stores and you can convince yourself. Have look. Now, new, and different Pollyanna.”

“Oooh.”

“With a delightful new, really real feature – ingeniously engineered with magic: a voice. It’s like she’s really here!”

“Aaah, wow.”

“Pollyanna, say hi to our dear listeners.”

“How’s it going? Listeners.”

“Great. Tell us about yourself.“

“I like to play. Do you like to play too.”

“Wow. Isn’t this wonderful?! Endless amusement for the small ones. Only as long supply lasts.”

May pose a choking hazard. Don’t put it in the reach of under 3-year-olds or magically capable children. Parental supervision is advised.
We take payments in cash, credit, debts, blood, organs, or firstborn.

Gray walls around me. There was no trial, nothing that can be called one – not one where I stood a chance. It was a circlejerk about how hard they wanted to fuck me. It all took about eight hours.

A heavy necklet tells all I am now the property of my former employers – they own the prison, as they owned the police, and the judge. It’s bad. A real cosmic fuck-you by the universe.

A factory-prison complex. They don’t dig holes for prisoner and let them rot. That wouldn’t be profitable enough. They want the scum of the planet to repay society. According to the other inmates I’ve had luck in disguise, the least of the worst; I work in the toy manufacturing – monotonous, boring, degrading, better than the alternatives. They should have thrown me in a ditch and call it a day. Justice is only served if it serves them or if they are directly affected.

Griffons do get out eventually. But then? Then what? When I leave, if ever, they didn’t tell me how long I’m stuck here, I’m going to land right back. No creature would hire or work with a criminal.

The sun has set today.

“Wanna suck dick?” asks my cellmate.

“Shut up, faggot.” I say.

The prisoners, they are all crooks. They didn’t differentiate by crime severity, from pickpocketers to outright psychos, everycreature is in the same cellblocks. No creature is to be trusted. I only need to stay out of their eyes. If only. It’s only a question of when some group wants to assert their authority. That I didn’t get to wash myself before coming here bought me some time.

“Hey, I’m not gay, you’re the faggot here,” he says, “and it’s not gay to get you dick sucked, it’s gay to suck dick.”

“That’s not how…” He should have some sense beaten into him… Oh, I shouldn’t bother, three fourths of the prison to my guesses can’t even read, “shut up.”

“I hear how you call a name in the nights, a guy’s one. Oh, aren’t you a loverchick?! What was his name? You …”

I ignore him.

I haven’t heard anything from Fabel. He doesn’t have to, really, doesn’t, no, absolutely not.

Why should he?

I’m now no better than those crooks.

I miss him.

It somehow came out what my crime is. Except from my coat during my entrance, I said nothing about it, nothing to announce it. I don’t know how they figured it out. It spread, like any gossip does, like wildfire.

That’s not the strangest part.

A group of griffs congratulated me, saying things like, ‘she had it coming’, after they heard who my victim was. Weird times.

I don’t care. I don’t care for what I did. I don’t care who supports it.

Caring costs too much energy. I can’t. I can’t anymore. Pretending to not have given up is already hard enough.

I only commit to the same movements at the assembly line. I have to screw on the head of some idiotic toy. Afterwards it is shot with magic by a big construct with a charged crystal to speak some prewritten lines.

A griff slips something into my coat. I pretend to not notice. While they pretend to not have done anything. Why are they bothering me? Let me crumble in peace.

After the last shift, I have enough privacy in my cell bed to look at the smuggle ware.

It’s a letter.

I quickly rip it open, reading it before the lights go out.

I hope this letter reaches you, Lionheart.

I had to bribe guards; I can only hope they do not go back on their words. This is not a guarantee. But if you are, hopefully, reading this then it worked. I thought about what I wanted to write you. I had no idea what I should tell you, still have none. I could preach to you and tell you what you did was wrong and immoral, but you already know that.

Lionheart, I miss you, I want you back. However, I don’t think that is possible. I know you do not like to honey words; I will respect that. We should not meet again. It would not be good for us for you to come back.

But I still believe in you. You can better yourself, you are not irredeemable. Though not in whatever Tartarus they stuck you in.

In the envelope is a one-use teleport shard. It isn’t charged, otherwise it wouldn’t have gone through detection. Please, go, make friends, and be a good gryphon.

I am sure you can find a way.

Love you,
Fabel.

PS The shard was the only one I could afford. It has a ‘bad destination’, but from where you are it can only go up.

I look into the envelope again in which I find the small crystal.

That simple-hearted, starry-eyed, immature oaf! Why would he do that?

My nose runs. The eyes water. I press the letter to my chest.

“Stop crying!”

Why would he do that? We were nothing but roommates! Friends. Acquaintances. Nothing more.

I cover my face with the small pillow, smothering any involuntary sobs. I am an adult! I shouldn’t be crying over this. Of course, he doesn’t want to see me; I’m a criminal. He’s still helping me. Despite my crimes. Despite me owing him so much already. Despite everything. It hurts.

“Shut up!”

And of course, he still helps me, he’s too naïve. It’s obvious. So, why am I crying? I want to see him again.I wish for his hugs.

Godsdammnit, I love him. I love that oaf. I want to repay him – it will never happen. I want to show him I love him – it will never happen.

I want to see him again.

“Let me sleep.”

“Crybaby!”

I miss him.

I will not spend more time in this hole than I must.

I formed a very simple plan that will help me charge the crystal: The gem that powers the assembly is not only full of that magic energy, it is overcharged. Technically against international regulation – not that they, the powers that be, care about that. I only need to bring the shard to it and place the shard upon it, and then hope it works.

The crystal, it must be real. I trust Fabel.

They won’t let every bum at the machinery, except of course if you pay the guards. That’s why I stole all the cigarettes from my cellmate, the currency of the prison. His hiding place was bad.

The prison guards can be categorized into two groups: The sadists, that want to inflict as much suffering as they are able to, and the uncaring. Luckily for me, the one specifically watching the machinery around the crystal only wanted to see the paycheck of the day and some cigarettes.

The whole assembly line is visible, the crystal not being the exception. I have to do it quick before any other griffon notices. When it’s charged it should be mission accomplished. After it is charged it shouldn’t matter if they see I will be gone. The other prisoners don’t care – no creature wants to be a snitch.

I put the plan in action.

During work an opportunity closes in. I wait until the traffic around the crystal is low enough.

The only guard remaining ‘conveniently’ looks away from my position. It doesn’t take long until I am in reach of the minimally secured crystal. I admit I don’t know much about magic – it should work, like starting a fire by putting wood on red, hot, glowing metal – magic is a form of energy after all.

I put the shard on the crystal.

It doesn’t work, the shard doesn’t start to glow.

“HEY, what are you doing over there!” a guard. My time’s up.

I am not going to surrender. “SUCK MY BALLS.” Not my most creative insults. Maybe if I make it leak, I could charge the shard. Does magic even leak? I don’t have the time. I take a random piece of metal. It’s used to unstuck clogs in the machine.

I hit the crystal.

Some of the guards take their weapons. It cracks.

Uhm, that’s good?

The crack widens. The guards stand still, fearing what could happen.

That’s better?

The crystal blindingly radiates, forcing my eyes to close.

A rainbow is flowing through the ceiling, falling against gravity. The whole prison is now finely decorated to resemble a kindergarten playground: The prison cells have ribbons, colorful curtains instead of bars; the whole machine is replaced with an oversized bubble blower; the gray concrete walls now consist of padded fabric, inconsistently colored in eye-burning technicolor; the prisoners and guards are worse of, cursed on their own way, the nearest to the epicenter have it worst.

The guards now wear military tunics, their weapons changed to muskets. The ones closer to the event have their skin and fur turned into plastic, making them look like toy soldiers. Some prisoners are now animals, others have reversed colors, while the rest seem to be ‘falling’ into different directions.

Did they fill the crystal with chaos magic?

”.siht did eH .rekcuf taht teG“

They take aim at me with their muskets. I quickly jump behind cover. The bullets ricochet at the obstacle. Against the walls. Smoke plumes, along with excessive amounts of confetti fill the air, worsening the visibility. They try to reload, fumbling around with their muskets. This buys me time.

I look at me. I am unaffected, hopefully. The shard glows brightly. It must be active. It must have absorbed the wave. How does it work?

“Как перезарядить мушкет?”

“¿Qué hablas? Dioses míos, hablad normal. No os entiendo.”

I pull it, I twist it, I press it – nothing works. I shy over my impromptu barricade of a pile of colorful cubes. The puppets, that were strewn around the floor, start to stand up. I don’t want to know what they are going to do. The prisoners, those who are able to, see this as their opportunity to revolt.

The guards are now completely distracted.

I go back to my shard. It must work somehow. “Please, get me out of here, to Fabel, anywhere.” It doesn’t react. I should have figured out how it works before all this.

I will not give up at this point. I am so close. The outside will be mine. I will find home. You, you bloody shard, will get me there!

A puppet crawls over the cubes. “Do you want to –“ I take the puppet by the head, and throw it against the wall, shattering it into pieces.

I look at the shard. Is this what it takes, you shit?!

I don’t contain myself from smashing that little piece of trash into smithereens. The magical artifact hits the floor, completely broken.

That’s what you deserve!

Wait. Oh, oops –

The pieces glow, making me blink.

I’m not putting the blame on Fabel. No absolutely not. I should’ve asked around about how those crystals work. Having to break them isn’t exactly something I would call intuitive design.

Oh whatever! I’m free! I did it. Free as a bird. Falling like a stone.

I should flab my win—

Ah—

A table slams into me. A fork stabs. I fall off the table.

“What’s that?!”

“A griffon.”

I look up. Ponies.

Pulling out the cutlery out of my chest. It wasn’t too deep in.

“Are you alright?” one of the two, the one with a messy mane, says.

“Yeah.” I say, not paying the ponies any mind, moving away from them. This little fall was nothing. I have gotten worse. I’m free. At the first steps my legs seize.

“Your name.” The mare asks. She is holding my legs in her magic. I haven’t seen ponies that often in my life, I barely even spoke to any pony before. Not many of them live in Nova Griffonia. I understand why. Who would, after all, live with gruff griffons instead of rainbow pony land if they had the choice?

“I’m sorry I interrupted your cutesy teatime, pony, but I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Hey, what’s wrong about being cutesy? Nice collar, by the way.” the stallion says with snark, the mare rolls her eyes. I look down. My necklet was turned a beautiful, multicolored flower wreath.

“Your name, now.” She keeps me still in place.

“Oh, and while you’re at it, could you tell me your number.” Did he just wink at me? I ignore him and focus on the mare.

“Or what, you lovey-dovey ponies? Going to hug me to death?”

“You better tell me what I asked you, or I will report your racist ass.”

“Report me to whom? The police? They don’t care.”

There is a pause. “There is teleporting magic on you. You aren’t from here, are you?”

I couldn’t have gotten that far.

I look around: I’m near an establishment, which’s standing near a large, open space with ponies walking about; gray, boring buildings surround the space; red banners with a hammer and a hoof iron are hanging on the buildings, infecting them like a disease; there’s a giant building with a pony’s statue atop of it pierces the earth.

I have the feeling I’m not in Nova anymore.

Author's Note

I had too much fun with this chapter. As inspiration I used the USA and (slightly) exaggerated it.