A Hero's 'Tail'

After 2 weeks of waiting and training, it was finally the day. The night before our agreed upon escape day I had made sure to pop the sleeping pills Grit had given me so I would have a good nights rest.
When I was awakened I was led out of the cell and into the flame training room. This time, when my bronze wings dropped from the ceiling as per usual, I slipped them onto my back without even putting them on. I snubbed the soda provided for me, breathing in deeply.
Remembering what Grit taught me about long range spitting, I hurled my fireballs in very tight, quick successions, never once leaving the ground. In ten seconds flat I had cleared the course.
I trotted out towards the obstacle course, holding my head high, waving away the griffon with the halter and muzzle. The Voice was so shocked she never noticed that I still had my wings.

As I trotted to the obstacle course, I ran through the plan one last time. Today the Voice would be adding a ‘piston obstacle’ to the course, in which sections of the floor would abruptly rise in my path or attempt to crush me.
I arrived and waited for the Voice to count me off. The moment she said go I galloped towards the first obstacle as fast as I could. Hearing a whirring beneath the floor, I screeched to a halt on top of the source of the noise, letting the piston propel me across the room.
I landed dead center on the goal. As the platform lowered to let me down, I couldn’t help it! I laughed! It was a light, sprightly thing, quite foreign to my ears.

I told myself, Onward to the gauntlet, Brutus.

Unfortunately, Grit had no ideas of how to breeze through this course, so I had to do my best work. As usual, instinct guided me to dodge a veritable hail of projectiles. I slipped up once, though, taking a chunk off my ear. I shrugged it off as nothing as I was led away to my nightly torture.
Upon arriving I was strapped into my metallic table and told to await the attendant.

As the griffon came in with a syringe and taser, I whispered, as instructed, “Beaker?”

Surprised, the griffon put a wing feather up to his beak, signaling for mum. I nodded slightly, waiting with bated breath. Over the intercom in which the Voice talked to me I heard Grit speaking.

“Hello Miss Bryant! Whatcha doing there?” Grit asked very loudly.

“I’m observing the nightly torture of my patient. What do you require, Mr. Grit?”

“Oh, you watch this every night?” Grit inquired innocently as Beaker began tasering me, turning the power extra low.

“Yes…” The Voice, AKA Miss Bryant, said, getting frustrated.

Grit donned a childish smile. “Can I watch too?”

“Fine. Just as long as you promise to leave afterward.”

“Oh, I promise. Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye!”

“Cute. Now be quiet.”

“Yes’m. I won’t make a peep.”

Grit saluted, obviously mocking her. I could just barely make out through the tinted glass that he was standing to the left and slightly behind the unicorn.

After about 5 seconds of silence and pain, Grit stretched. “Oh I’m tired. I think it’s time for bed.”

I could faintly hear sounds of scuffling. The silhouette of a hat-bedecked pony loomed from behind a cowering horned shadow.

“Hey! Let go of me, rube!” Bryant squealed, intercom forgotten.

The shade of Grit’s forelegs intercepted the shadows’ head.

“Lights out, fillyfool.” At these words, I saw the shadow of the unicorn flash swiftly towards the window, headfirst. Now I could clearly see Bryant, muzzle smashed against the pane, a massive smear of blood staining the otherwise flawless rectangle of glass.

Not willing to waste any time, Beaker tossed the taser into a corner and began unstrapping me. “Let’s get going, young one! We’ll meet Grit on the second floor. Grab my wing so I don’t lose you.”

I wrapped his wing around my intact ear and let him lead me up the white-tiled ramp to the second floor of the building. The rusty brown was crouching behind a barricade of crates and overturned gurneys, firing down the hall at a line of griffons with his rifle.

“Grit!” I called, baring my neck for him.

He leapt back, sniper rifle in one hoof, and Colt pistol in the other.

He pressed the pistol to my head and yelled at the crowd of injured attendants, “Get within 5 meters and I’ll blow Ms. Bryant’s pet’s brain out, y’hear me?”

On that note, he began inching back, Beaker covering his rear as we stepped out into the sunlight together. Six masked pony troopers were waiting for us, grinning and giving hooves-up. The gun turrets were fizzing and smoking, engineers were milling about in frustration on the ramparts. The troopers took up positions on either side of Grit and me, sweeping cover objects with gunfire. Soon we had left the compound, and Grit tossed one of the ponies a ring of keys.

He pointed to an Armored Personnel Carrier parked in a corner lot and ordered, “Breadstuffing! Get the gold key with the red teeth, jump in the APC and start driving!”

Quick to comply, the equine named Breadstuffing hopped into the seat, whipping the vehicles tail around to open the blast door to admit the small band of escapees. We jumped in as the driver rapidly switched gears.

Grit opened up the topside hatch and began shooting, yelling as we drove off, “See ya later, suckers!”