The Silver Chip

A restaurant. The clinking of cutlery, muffled griffon voices. A few ponies, who had come here for the exotic, were also enjoying the local dishes. The place is located in the southwestern part of Vanhoover, controlled mostly by griffons, particularly the Falcon family. If ponies are seen here, they are almost certainly wearing electric collars on their necks: with so many birds of prey around, free ponies feel more than just out of place—they feel like prey and don't enter these neighborhoods unless absolutely necessary.

The warm light of the chandeliers illuminated the richly decorated hall. The smell of roasted, boiled, baked, smoked meats wafted around. Differently cooked meat dishes are common and familiar to these predatory creatures. Less fresh vegetables, more juicy meat. For ponies, some dishes seem extreme—and not just because of the high price.

The steady hum of voices and the clinking of dishes was drowned in a shrill rumble, like the squeak of a broken vinyl record. All eyes turned toward the source of the noise. An orange earth pony in a black and white waiter's outfit raised his head and looked blankly at the mess he'd made: the shards of a plate were lying on the tiled floor, and a dish—the same dish that the local ponies didn't eat for moral reasons—was sprawled on the beige surface a little farther away.

"Rich Inner World." This dish consisted mostly of entrails—soft roasted liver, boiled spleen, smoked lungs and kidneys, intestines stuffed with meat—served with a blood-red sauce. Seated at a nearby table, an important-looking griffon looked at the spoiled dish with frustration. His attention slowly shifted to the frightened waiter. Under the frowning gaze, his heart beat even harder: the earth pony almost fainted; the whole world stopped for him. He froze, huddled on the floor, inwardly praying to all the deities and entities he knew that his insides would not serve as a substitute for the "Rich Inner World".

The visitors were silent. The background melody was drowned out for a second by the door swinging open sharply as a brown bird of prey in a white kitchen outfit with a hood burst into the hall. She ran toward the fallen waiter as fast as if she had used a teleportation spell. Her entire aura radiated violent anger: some in the hall even sympathized with the bungler.

"Holiday! For fuck's sake!" curved claws dug into the skin of his front leg. Out of anxiety, he didn't notice it. The high cost of the meal clouded Holiday's mind: his monthly salary wasn't even close. "Get up!"

When she addressed the griffon, it was as if she'd been replaced. Her anger was changed to worry and subservience in the blink of an eye as the chef apologized as if her life depended on it. The customer, with a paw on his beak and leaning on the table, watched her absently. He knew he would get a replacement.

"I sincerely apologize for this... careless bag of bones. I will bring you a new one. I'll call the cleaning staff..." her gaze stayed fixed on the gilded card on the table, gleaming in the chandelier light. It bore a stylized symbol: a pony skull with a crown. A symbol of high status. "Just please wait."

The griffon female dragged the guilty employee behind her, as slack as the said bag of bones. The last thing he wanted was to end up under the red sauce on the King's white plate. As soon as the chef and Holiday were out the door, a brown mare with a mop and a bucket came out with a discreet gait, her eyes downcast.

The high-flying bird lazily watched the thorough cleaning. The guest involuntarily caught a glimpse of the mare's neck and couldn't help but lick his beak.

What an appetizing neck, he thought. Too bad the slave collar didn't allow me to get a good look at it.

***

The kitchen was bustling with activity. Through the clamor and clinking of tools, the junior chefs were shouting, preparing the ingredients for the dishes. The workers preferred not to glare at the angry chef. She pressed Holiday against the refrigerator and hovered over him like a rock, spreading her front paws at his sides.

"What's wrong with you, huh?" the griffon growled harshly, glaring at the frightened, skinny stallion. His brown eyes stared absent-mindedly at the tiled floor and his ears flicked back. "You screwed up a dish for almost five thousand caps! I thought you wouldn't be dangling in the clouds knowing the value of the dish!"

Silence. He couldn't utter a word, frozen with fear: the beak looming over him could crack his skull or rip open his belly with a single blow.

The cup of patience was full, and the griffon struck the refrigerator in a rage, leaving a small dent in it and drawing the attention of the nearby cooks. In the next instant, she backed away annoyed, sighing loudly.

"Fuck!" She paced back and forth, swishing her tail angrily through the air. "Do you know how much hassle it is to get ingredients? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Holiday's whole body trembled, but he obediently looked up. He could hardly make eye contact with his superior—she was about to throw him at a dish. The griffon, noticing the stallion's condition, struggled to control her anger, not out of sympathy, but just to keep him from fainting during the conversation. On the other hand, his subdued, frightened look gave her pleasure.

"I suspect what you're thinking." She cast a keen eye over his lean and weak body: the waiter's clothes didn't fit him, but hung like a hanger. "Your hide and bones aren't fit for this. I don't plan to make you a slave, though I have every right to do so for the damage you've done. To bother with you, fatten you up, and waste caps? No, thank you. You'll work it out yourself."

He obediently waited for the details. His boss's last words signaled a small chance to make things right. A chance to save his skin and not become a luxury dish for some wealthy griffon. However, if the griffon's words were to be believed, he was no good for that. It is not generosity but practicality that drives her.

"Given your situation, I won't demand the impossible. You have one year to pay back the five thousand caps. But until then, I don't want to see your hoof in my restaurant, got it?"

The earth pony nodded intensely, his brown eyes wide open.

"Does it have to be caps?" if his ragged, complaining voice had taken on a physical embodiment, it would have resembled a roadway after a bombing raid.

The griffon sighed mentally: his fear was so beautiful!

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, tapping her beak thoughtfully with the claw of her forepaw.

"Could be in the equivalent of gems. Or..." Holiday's back was ice-cold: the griffon's smile was colder than the refrigerator he was leaning against. "Bring me a reasonably well-fed pony. Not a junkie, a relatively healthy one. Willing to end his life. Convince him to give his body to me. On a voluntary basis, of course. I don't want any trouble with the law. Have him write a will, make a memory—in general, to keep the nose clean."

A sneer sounded in the voice of the boss: the reaction of the potential prey amused her. However, the method mentioned was indeed used for getting ingredients. There were other options, legitimate and not so legitimate, but when a pony disappeared, the police would start their investigation at her restaurant.

Holiday felt disgusted with himself when he realized he had seriously considered such a possibility. He didn't like this restaurant at all. Normally he would have despised it, but he had no choice—his absent-mindedness had earned him a reputation as a bungler among the pony establishments, and in a neighborhood populated by griffons, he had the opportunity to find work. All collarless Vanhoover citizens, including Holiday himself, did not come here of their own free will, unless it was to buy or test the Falcon family's top-of-the-line firearms.

The change of expression on the young waiter's face didn't escape the griffon, and she liked it—she guessed he was seriously considering her offer. Griffons rarely considered ponies as food, but this predator was just in the minority. She looked down at his orange neck and leaned in; the sharp tip of her massive yellow beak rubbed against it.

Holiday flinched but didn't dare squeak, petrified. His ears rang, a cold nausea came to his throat, and his knees weakened enough that he could have melted and sprawled on the floor.

He looked around pitifully. A lump of butter had fallen into the hot pan and was melting fast—the junior cooks, mostly female griffons, were minding their own business and stubbornly ignoring what their boss was doing.

The touch of the beak was painful, but not strong enough to split the skin. The tip rustled upward through the orange fur, breathing deeply the exhilarating scent of frightened prey. The lower part of the beak opened, as if eager to snatch a bite. Just one poor, but so appetizing bite!

After stroking his cheek, and then his temple, it dipped its beak under his ear, which was pressed down in helpless terror.

"So young..." the griffon whispered with a huff, who was twice his age. That sweet voice would have delighted any male, but Holiday's face was paler than snow. "Healthy. You smell good. Too bad you're too skinny."

The griffon reveled in his tense body. She loves to play with ponies, making them freeze in primal fear of a predator. She finds special pleasure in males. Perhaps that's the reason she agreed to hire him, though she sensed a catch: why would a pony take a job at a restaurant where he'd be served his own kin? She'd realized the extent of his daydreaming in the first week, but she hoped the expensive meal would make him more careful and cautious. She wanted to see a free pony carrying their kin to the plate. Slave waiters had a different attitude... The idea amused her. It was fascinating—until the precious inner world of a pony was smeared on the tile.

She would forever remember the features on Holiday's face when he found out what kind of dish he would be carrying. When he'd been poked in the face for his place in the food chain.

The memory made her body quiver, the brown feathers on her neck rise; in a voluptuous rush, the thin bird's tongue fluttered in his ear.

Holiday's glazed eyes opened wider, and his breath came in short gasps as a nasty, dangerous insect crawled into his vulnerable spot, wriggling and tickling. He could hardly suppress the urge to twitch and throw it off, realizing that doing so would only make things worse. The huge predator loomed over him, showing that it would not tolerate any attempt to escape. Tears of hopelessness came to her eyes.

The griffon stopped, feeling the growing tingle under her tail as the predatory thrill began to turn her on. She leaned back and took another look at the fired employee.

Maybe I shouldn't let him go. Those frightened eyes of hunted prey are so... tempting! Making him my slave now... Oh, no. Even for my entertainment, he's skinny, and he's not worth 5,000 caps yet. Let him work for it. If he doesn't, I'll settle for what I've got. The look of fear on his face makes me horny. That'll do it for a while.

Holiday almost stopped breathing when he saw the griffon's face: the change didn't bode well. It was as if his superior had rethought something and changed her plans for his body.

"If you don't manage to get five thousand caps back in a year..." she smiled predatorily, licking her beak faintly. "I'll find you. Don't think about running away, it'll be worse. Don't forget," she spread her massive brown wings slightly. "I'll find you from on high anywhere in the city."

The young stallion gasped as if a clawed paw had already closed around his throat. Fortunately, his imagination could not enter the real griffon's fantasies—otherwise nothing would have saved him from fainting.

The griffon took out his Vanhoover passport and made a note of who and what Holiday owed. Carelessly she tossed the little pocketbook, causing the stallion to jump up in fear.

"Leave the uniforms here. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

***

Holiday ran down the street as fast as he could, as if the bloodthirsty griffon were already chasing him. His eyes were blurry. He headed for the coast, hoping the cool, salty air would calm his panic. The clatter of the pony's hooves attracted the attention of griffons and slave ponies, but the passersby did not stop him, parting at the sight of his crying face.

The waterfront was not far from his former place of employment. Through his own sobs he soon heard the muffled sound of the surf, and after another block, he saw the dark blue water stretching to the horizon. The sun, moving slowly toward the Desert Ocean, played in its waves with red glints. The scenery broke through the fog of confusion and fright, chaining the mind to itself, longing for peace and support.

Slowing his pace, the stallion stopped at the cracked stone fence, standing up on his hind legs and throwing his front legs over the railing. Salty air hit his nose as he inhaled deeply. Relief swept over his body, his knees buckling—he hugged the railing like the close friend he needed. The cold of the stone didn't bother him: his cheap casual clothes protected him from it. A shrill wind fluttered his short dark orange mane.

The water below foamed, slapping against the algae-greened concrete foundation. One wave was strong enough for the spray to reach his orange face—the coolness offered serenity; his breathing evened out, allowing the stallion to sink into dreamy contemplation.

The sun was still high. There were approximately two hours before it would hide. Orange rays glistened on the water; the sky and clouds—thinning rapidly toward the horizon above the shore—took on darker hues. Nature seemed to be a bystander: it did not care what was going on in the arteries of the streets and the cavities of the houses. It simply existed and would continue to exist. No terrors or wars would destroy the beauty of the sunset; it could not be tarnished, spoiled, or blackened. It would remain pure and infallible, attractive and alluring. Holiday would like to dissolve into it, to become a part of it, to be free from the problems of everyday life. To be free from the chains of his miserable existence, from anxiety, pain, poverty... and that nasty griffon.

A pensive gaze wandered over the topography of the waves; over the horizon where the boundary between sky and ocean dissolved; over the foaming water caressing the foundations. The sound of the vast water drowned out the other sounds around him, allowing him to focus on the eternal beauty.

His gaze flickered to the side, and what he saw brought Holiday back down to earth. The remains of Vanhoover's pre-war harbors were bathed in golden light. About a hundred years ago, ships and boats were still rusting there, but with the labor of tens of thousands of slaves and the special abilities of unicorns, they had managed to dismantle and recycle what was left after the war. Now there are only a few dozen working boats and launches left in the city of three hundred thousand. Most of them are of the sailing principle: the energy problem does not allow spending precious gems and fuel on shipping. After all, the city has been living in isolation for about a hundred years. Unless intrepid tourists or travelers from the south, where the ruins of Hoofland, one of the twelve metropolises of Equestria, are located, can sail in. But there are few such visitors: the distance is too great, the scaremongering of Hoofland fanatics too plentiful.

The locals only have to go out into the Desert Ocean to fish or search for sunken pre-war ships. And also to interact with a huge island nearby. Green Island, or simply The Island, is favored by Vanhoover's griffons, who spend a lot of time hunting the local wildlife. Although a bridge connects Vanhoover to the island town, many ponies prefer to get there by boat.

Nearly two hundred years ago, Vanhoover was attempted to be attacked, but it was too far from the front: one of the megaspells exploded somewhere in the The Island mountains, so the town escaped heavy radiation contamination; the other fell far to the east of here, at the base of the northern mountains.

Holiday found himself scrolling aimlessly through a free school program in his head. His face creased, and he returned to contemplation. The blood-red disk was sinking toward the water. A feverish attack of nausea clenched his insides—the landscape around him took on hues that reminded him of the contents of extreme meals.

The remnants of the lunch sloshed into the ocean with a dull thud. Holiday coughed, spat the remains, and breathed heavily, feeling the hot tears on his cheeks again. He wiped them away, straightened up, blew his nose, and walked down the embankment.

A couple of griffons were having a lively discussion with their front paws over the railing.

"What a fool you are..." the female griffon said, gesturing vigorously with her front paws. "To bet on someone who's lost so many fights in a row before..."

"If he's lost that many, then he must have won in the near future," the male griffon replied.

"Statistical probabilities have never worked in regards to the Arena. It's all about skill... and internal bargaining over who loses a fight. Nothing more. Don't be so naive."

"Perhaps I should join in, too?"

"You?" the female griffon laughed. "You can't even beat me. Do you think you can do it?"

"Against a pony..."

"Oh, don't embarrass yourself. Fighting a pony is like fighting a griffon without claws or wings. No intrigue."

Holiday walked past, their voices lost in the sound of the surf. He stopped, looking thoughtfully at his right foreleg, thin and weak, and sighed hopelessly. He couldn't even fight furniture, he'd tripped over a nightstand and tried to retaliate, but he'd only gotten himself hurt worse.

In the Arena, there is no need to kill anyone—only to make the opponent surrender or lose consciousness. The close combat skills would give a chance to earn the necessary amount of money in duels. And it's really best not to count on bets, as fights—both between masters and slaves for the amusement of the crowd—are often bought. His math skills would be of no use there.

The bitter taste of vomit still lingered in his mouth. He went to the nearest store that sold purified water in glass bottles, rinsed his mouth, spit, and then began to drink. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but he continued to sit on the bench and stare after it, taking small sips of water.

Night was gradually descending on the rows of countless houses and establishments, but the street lights came on on on schedule. Holiday did not notice the lanterns turning on and the gradual appearance of lights in the windows of the nearest houses. His thoughts were somewhere far away again. He looked at the empty glass bottle.

I should turn it in and get a couple caps, he thought. It wouldn't go to waste.

He turned in the bottle and went to a cheap but at least normal-and-not-fucking-exotic restaurant, where he had a meal of fish, hay and grass salad and apple juice, to put it mildly. Vanhoover had much more to offer if there were caps, which Holiday barely had enough to make ends meet. The available caps would last him two weeks, maybe three.

Slave labor had practically rebuilt this city and its infrastructure in a hundred and fifty years. Holiday didn't realize that no other city in the Wasteland produced as many goods as Vanhoover alone had to offer. To him, that was a given, and right now all he cared about was better food. As many do. Only the wealthy portion of the population can eat both vegetables and meat from animals raised in the greenhouses and farms of the Waterfall, one of the five great families.

In Vanhoover, connections and status decide everything. Kings. Families. It's hard to get a job without them, especially in competition with the dutiful slaves who make up the majority. And yet some masters—they're called by the standard of every non-slave—find it easier to pay a wage to a hired laborer than to care for a slave, make sure they're healthy, provide more or less normal conditions, and hire separate staff to look after them.

Why Holiday with his position did not become a slave? Simple. No one wants to mess around with an untrained slave with the current needs of the city—especially such a scrawny wimp.

But things are not so bad, Holiday thought as he set the emptied juice glass back on the table. I have a place to try to mortgage, after all.

The music from the modest radio set on the table by the cash register was replaced by the energetic buddy voice of local DJ Oscar.

"How are you spending your evening, folks? I hope you're not lying down with an overdose behind a dumpster somewhere after a hard day's work. That's not what we live for, and there's always time to die. For example, today a careless mare was walking down the street and slipped on a pile of dog shit, breaking her neck. That's a shitty death, isn't it? Be vigilant and watch your hooves and paws. And now to the commercials. The Softhooves family chain of stores 'Dressed to the Nine" has started a spring sale...".

The orange stallion walked out of the restaurant and leisurely clattered home. Occasionally he would stop at some lamppost and stare at the yellow light as if looking for a way out in it.

He only has a year. And where would he look for a job that would allow him not only to survive, but to save enough caps to pay off his debt?

He ran through the options in his head, sometimes humiliating and disgusting, evaluating their potential. His ears twitched as he heard a noise nearby. The characteristic tantalizing clink of slot machines came from the casino across the street.

Gambling was and still is an integral part of any society. It offers the opportunity to get rich quick. As a charismatic swindler with an energetic and cheerful voice, he invites you to try your luck, trust it, give all of yourself, all of your savings for a chance to return everything in tenfold. And that chance could come at any moment. Even on the first try.

Holiday wasn't the type to fall for that nonsense. He understood the principle of probability all too well, not to mention the fact that in places like this, slot machines are often rigged to minimize the profit of the visitors. Sure, someone is allowed to pull off a score to give the illusion of opportunity—but in the end, the house always wins.

The singing of the machine reminded him of a project that had been abandoned a long time ago: the high cost of components and lack of knowledge had taken its toll. But now there was nothing to lose—Holiday decided to bet everything he had left on one number. Spin the roulette wheel, croupier.