Everything comes to an end, and though she wished that the fun hadn’t ended as soon as it did, Rosewing was ready to move on to other things. Most likely she’d be asked to patrol the halls or some other dull task, and that was fine by her; she’d already had her free-time for the day, and she was feeling in a good mood.

The motel room was quiet and subdued, a stark contrast to earlier events. The nightstand lantern had been hung on a wall hook to better illuminate the room, the resulting light casting the griffons' shifting shadows onto the opposite wall. A small bowl of water sat on the floor, both griffons using it to dampen some rags with which to clean themselves, wiping and scrubbing away at their bodies to remove any traces of their earlier activity.

Smoothing out the fur on the inside of her thigh, Rosewing discarded her washcloth to the floor with a soft plap, not even bothering to aim for the bowl. Based on all of the other objects scattered throughout the room, it wouldn’t require an observer to be a PipBuck technician to figure out that the griffon didn’t much care for tidying up her room.

Wordlessly, she scooped up the barding that had been hastily shucked off from earlier. Rather than the bulky metal and plastic armor that her companions wore, Rosewing’s barding was much more flexible, consisting of hardened leather that came with pockets for inserting metal plates, in case she needed more protection. Sitting back on her haunches and keeping her wings flat against her sides, she lifted the barding over herself and let it slide down her arms and head, wiggling a little bit until the barding settled over her torso and midsection, her wings wriggling through the gaps in the leather.

Taking a moment to adjust the straps, Rosewing looked over to Razor-Quill who, despite not being as spry as he used to, had already finished donning his own, heavier barding and was now smoothing the covers of the bed… her bed, since it was her room.

“Are you seriously doing my bed?” Rosewing asked incredulously, though she couldn’t help but smile.

“A bit of order in your life will probably do you a bit of good, you know,” Razor-Quill replied, his attention focused on tucking in any loose edges of aged linen bed sheets under the mattress.

The slender griffon rolled her eyes at that. If she had wanted order in her life, she’d have become a peace-trooper for the NCR, rather than being the mercenary she was now.

No, rules and regulations didn’t appeal to her one bit; following the orders of one person was already near the limits of her tolerance, but having to follow the orders of anyone that outranked her? The relative freedom that she had grown up with was all that she knew, ever since she had been a cub. Like many children in the Wasteland her education had been of a more pragmatic than academic nature, and a failing grade was never a stern talking to.

Mercenaries weren’t simply born, though. They needed to get new blood from somewhere, and the fact that an expectant mother was probably too busy watching over her egg — or swollen belly, in the case of a pony — made things worse when it came to getting new contracts. Fortunately for them, there were plenty of orphans out there who hadn’t been softened by the coddling of parents, and were perfect candidates for “professional” mercenaries. In return the orphans received the safety and comforts that typically came with being part of a close-knit mercenary band.

Nothing came free though, and her education had been of the nature one would expect from a group of hardened mercenaries. Mercenaries like Razor-Quill.

It took Rosewing a moment to realize that Razor-Quill was looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for something. Whatever that reason may have been, she must have missed it.

“What?” Rosewing squawked, slightly embarrassed that she’d been caught reminiscing.

Razor-Quill simply gave her an even stare, his blue eyes looking into her hazel. With one half of his body illuminated by the wall-mounted lantern and the other casting a deep shadow across the room, he certainly did look intimidating, and a bit eerie. Rosewing didn’t know what Razor-Quill had asked, so she remained silent, waiting on him.

“Rosewing,” the older griffon spoke, an edge of annoyance in his voice. “I’m about to ask you to do something that you aren’t going to like.”

Rosewing felt her body relax, not even realizing that her muscles had been tensed up. Letting out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, she gave the other a griffon a sheepish smile.

“So, how bad is it?” she asked half-jokingly, some self-confidence returning to her demeanor. She was no stranger to doing unpleasant jobs, and not even bedding the leader of Sabre Squad could completely free her from her responsibilities.

Razor-Quill’s expression didn’t falter, and a newfound sense of dread began to well up inside Rosewing’s breast. What could possibly be so bad as to make Razor-Quill extra-extra-seriousness all of the sudden?

“I know you don’t like it,” Razor-Quill began, the edges of his beak forming into a small frown, “but I need you to escort the other survivor down to the pantry.”

“The pony?” Rosewing asked, her words laced with a desperate hopefulness.

The male griffon simply shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers, as though watching for any sign of insubordination.

Rosewing swallowed nervously, her talons clicking against the floorboards as she tried to find a way to get out of having to deal with the other survivor.

“And what’re you going to be doing?” she demanded, hoping to maybe turn the conversation around and perhaps get the other griffon to change his mind.

“I’m having Statchel get the pony and bring her to the pantry, which is the same place you’re going to be when you bring in the —” Razor-Quill paused for a moment, as though trying to decide on the right word to use in reference to the other survivor — “ape. After that, I’m going to do a quick perimeter sweep. The least you can do for me is take care of one unarmed wastelander. And by ‘take care of’, I don’t mean shoot. Understood?”

Rosewing found herself nodding, her beak forming a discontented grimace. Razor-Quill watched her for a moment longer before nodding his own head, apparently satisfied that his “request” would be followed.

Wordlessly, Razor-Quill turned away from the bed, heading over toward the door before suddenly stopping. He turned around again, walking up to the nightstand and opened a drawer. “Almost forgot.”

Rosewing could just make out the mumbled words that the other griffon had said, and she looked at him quizzically. What had he forgotten? The answer came to her, literally, as Razor-Quill tossed her something that flashed in the lantern light.

An outstretched claw caught the object by its steel chain, and she saw that it was the medallion that she had recently looted, its golden surface lined with a latticework of wire-thin gems that seemed to change color, depending on how the light hit it.

She smiled, glad that despite the job she’d been given, Razor-Quill hadn’t let her forget about her prize. Wanting to thank him, she looked up just in time to see the door gently close shut.

Alone in the room now, her smile fell into a frown. Though she enjoyed the mercenary lifestyle and the opportunities it offered, even she had to admit that it was missing a few things. With a dreary sigh, she hung the jewelry chain around her neck and let the medallion slip into her barding, between the peytral and the plumage underneath. She searched the floor for the remaining pieces of her barding, ignoring the bits of trash and other debris that littered the area.

It didn’t take her long to find her missing bits of armor, and after awkwardly putting on the thin steel hock-guards and tail-blade, she was nearly finished with her preparations to escort the “ape” — as Razor-Quill had called it — to dinner. Rosewing had purposely been taking her time, but she could only procrastinate for so long.

Letting out another sigh, she headed over to the bed, leaning down to reach underneath to find the final piece of equipment to finish her “ensemble”. Talons scratching and sweeping against the dusty floor and bits of paper and glass, it took her a moment to find what she was looking for, but when she did she had no trouble bringing it out from under the bed. It hadn’t been under the bed for any longer for an hour or two, but that hadn’t stopped her leather holster from becoming a brief resting place for several dust-bunnies.

Hanging off of her right shoulder were several plastic buckles, and it was here that she connected the matching buckles of her holster to the ones on her barding. With a satisfying click, both herself and her weapon — Rose Red — were ready to do their “duty.”

Shrugging her shoulders to make sure the weapon wasn’t too unbalanced, Rosewing headed toward the nightstand, where she saw that Razor-Quill had left a key — presumably for the creature’s holding room. Tucking the key into one of her barding pockets, she squinted up at the lantern hanging above her, a talon reaching up to flick the switch. By the time the room had dimmed down into its natural darkness, Rosewing had already exited the room and closed the door behind her.

While the flickering of candles wasn’t nearly as bright as the lantern she had just turned off, they provided more than enough light for her eyes to adjust to the hallway. Unlike everywhere else in the motel, the second-level hallway had absolutely nothing in the way of ornamentation, save for the mottled, dusty wallpaper that ran between doorways.

Rosewing looked down both ends of the hall to see if anyone else was around; first to the left toward the stairwell, then to the end of the hallway on her right. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary she headed right, following the zig-zag of doors toward the end of the hall. As she padded down the hallway, she slipped a claw into her pocket to remove the key that had been given to her by Razor-Quill. Easily hobbling along on three limbs, she stopped at the end of the hallway, looking down at the key and then to the door she stood before.

42, she mused, turning the little brass key in her claw.

With a final, self-pitying sigh she inserted the key and unlocked the door, which had been removed and reinstalled so that it couldn’t be unlocked from the inside. Rosewing could still see traces of the door’s original orientation, even in the candle light.

Arm crossing over her breast and reaching toward its opposite shoulder she took a moment to pop the retaining strap of her holster, wrapping her claw around the familiar grip of Rose Red. Giving the boxy, rectangular pistol a perfunctory check to make sure that it wouldn’t blow up in her face, she turned the weapon toward the door and shoved it open, letting her candle-lit shadow flow into the room.

Eyes taking the barest moment to adjust, she scanned the relatively bare and musty smelling room, looking for what she knew to be the room’s only inhabitant. It didn’t take her long to find it sitting on the floor, nor for her weapon to be aimed in its direction. Whether the creature’s slight wince came from the sudden light entering the room or simply reacting to the weapon aimed at it’s relatively flat face, she didn’t much care.

“Get up, freak. It’s time for supper,” she barked, a talon-tip stroking the pistol’s trigger guard, as if in anticipation. Make my day, I dare you.

The creature blinked at her, eyes wide and the little tufts above them shooting up, perhaps in surprise. Whatever the reason, the reaction was short-lived, and soon the creature’s eyes returned to their original size and the eye-tufts settled back down.

Before she could repeat herself, the creature slowly stood up on its paws, its fleshy claws set behind its head. Rosewing had to stop herself from letting the talon slip inside the trigger guard, such was her surprise in how smoothly the creature had stood up on its hind legs.

Surprised as Rosewing was for dealing with something outside of her expertise, it was by no means enough to make her turn tail and run, or to make her forget her “duty”. While she may have only come up to the apparently-bipedal creature’s waist, she was the one with gun. If push came to shove, she would be the one burning holes in things.

The biped didn’t make any further moves from its position next to the bed, simply staring down at her with a face that made it perfectly clear how it felt about the position it was in. Just as Rosewing was about to wave the biped closer to the door, her eyes caught the dark shape that stood out against the biped’s pale neck. It took her a moment to figure out why she had suddenly became so focused on the band, but the reason became clear soon enough when the biped turned its head to the side for her to look.

One didn’t need to have been a slave to get the general idea of what a slave collar looked like; a dark, metal band that wrapped around a victim’s neck, the collar itself packed with enough explosives to make escape futile.

The knowledge that the creature standing before her had, or still was, a slave did little to change her feelings toward it. It was just that, a creature, and certainly not another griffon. Rosewing waved the creature to come toward the doorway, taking a few steps back herself so that she would never be within swiping distance of its long arms. As the ambient light from the hallway gradually illuminated the approaching biped, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of nausea roll through her.

The griffon already knew that the creature was mostly hairless, save for its mane and strange eye-tufts. What she wasn’t expecting was that it still had plenty of fur on its arms and legs! Of course, calling it “fur” would have been an overstatement, considering the very minor coverage provided by the thin, lightly shaded hairs that ran down the biped’s legs and arms. The only protection against the elements that the creature had were the two pieces of clothing that Statchel had failed to strip from it, either due to being lazy, or pity.

The first — and most substantial — piece of clothing was a grey shirt covering the biped’s upper body, neat stitching connecting the short sleeves that served to cover a portion of its upper arms; there was even a little pocket stitched to the front of the shirt. The second piece of clothing was also grey, appearing to be made of the same cloth as the shirt. Covering the groin and moving down to cover the upper thighs — though not far enough to cover the ugly, speckled bruises on one leg — there was no mystery for her as to what purpose the cloth served.

Remembering the first time she had seen the creature, it had looked weak and helpless amidst the rubble, even with the admittedly impressive looking armor it wore. The one standing before her now didn’t look so helpless now, though it did lack the barding and equipment it had before; she wondered if it would have been so submissive if Statchel hadn’t removed the armor. Looking back up at its face, Rosewing could tell that she wasn’t the only one doing some sizing up, and she had to fight off a shudder of revulsion when it was looking back at her. Wings ruffling in annoyance she took a few more steps back, clearing the doorway entirely.

Once more in the hallway, she gave the creature another suspicious look beckoning it forward with the end of her pistol.

“Keep your claws, paws, whatever, where they are and move forward. No funny business, or you get dusted.” The nearly inaudible but by no means subtle flick of her weapon’s safety only punctuated her readiness to deal with any problem.

Though she didn’t have lips herself, Rosewing had been around ponies long enough to recognize what it meant when someone pressed their lips together until there was only a thin line. If the freak standing in front of her was feeling annoyed or angry, it would just have to deal with it.

The ‘freak’ in question moved forward, obeying her instructions, its strange body moving in a way that struck her as off somehow, though she couldn’t think of any reason other than that the proportions and joints of its body were far different than hers. She moved laterally from the doorway, putting some space between it and herself so that she could maneuver if the biped decided it wanted to try its chances.

Claws still behind its head, the creature’s face was still locked in the same stern, humorless expression as it had when she first entered the room. Maintaining eye contact with her, it began to move forward, lifting one leg at a time — impressive considering the fact that it only had two to stand on — until stopping at the doorway.

“Any further orders for this toy soldier?” a voice asked, its smooth baritone easily understandable save for the strange accent that hovered minutely over every word.

Rosewing felt her body tense up at the unexpected remark, mentally stuttering for a brief second before realizing that the speaker was right in front of her. Recovering from the brief startle, she regained her composure, muscles loosening up slightly.

“Down the hall and stop at the edge of the stairs.” She punctuated her order with a wave of the pistol she still held. “Anything else, and you’re dust.”

The biped simply nodded, expression unchanging as its head ducked underneath the doorframe to enter the hallway, its back turned to her as its fleshy feet padded softly against the ancient floorboards.

The griffoness watched as her charge obeyed the order, her observant eyes catching another strangeness of the creature’s anatomy. Unlike the ears of a pony or donkey, the biped’s were located differently and were of a completely different structure, the cartilage forming stiff, inflexible looking ridges.

Sorta like a seashell… sorta. She couldn’t help but be amused that seashells were what came to mind when looking at an ear, no matter how strange it may have looked. She shook her head to clear the imagery, though not without a soft smile on her beak. As much as she disliked her current task, it didn’t mean she had time to relax.

The biped hadn’t gotten too far ahead of her during her musings; it had only gotten to the halfway point between her and the stairwell. Wasting no more time on silly thoughts or daydreams, she moved to close the distance between herself and her charge. As the distance between Rosewing and the staircase lessened, the opposite occurred with the lighting. The candles ahead of her were more closely placed, unlike the ones behind her which had been used more sparingly.

With the lightning more even and less erratic, she could clearly see that there was some sort of symbol adorning the back of the biped’s shirt, one that she was unfamiliar with. The design was made up of three empty ovals, their light blue edges intersecting across a central point to create a six-pointed symmetrical shape. A small dot sat on the edge of each oval, giving off the impression that the dots were following a sort of elliptical orbit.

While never going so far as to call herself an artist, Rosewing couldn’t help but admire the way a series of simple shapes formed to create one more complicated. She herself liked to paint or draw when the occasion allowed, such as the time she had given her weapon the distinctive floral patterning that had become its namesake.

“Stop,” Rosewing ordered, the biped obeying and stopping at the top of the staircase. Its head turned slightly to the side, as if trying to angle one of its stiff ears toward her. The griffoness let her eyes wander toward the symbol on the creature’s shirt again, her curiosity beginning to get the better of her.

“What’s the symbol on your back?” Rosewing asked abruptly, for the first time actually interested in anything to do with the strange biped.

Seeming to stiffen at the question, the biped remained silent for a moment before speaking, its tone firm despite the slight accent.

“Something-for-something,” it said, the first three words blending together strangely, sounding as if the words were sped up somehow. “Answer my question first and I’ll answer yours.”

Rosewing couldn’t help but frown at the offer. Unlike the ponies that made up the vast majority of the Wasteland’s population, griffons weren’t the type of people to be open to personal questions. This was simply fact, a fact that anyone should already know.

That being the case, she didn’t really see a particular any particular harm in playing along, so long as the question wasn’t too outrageous. After mulling it over for a moment she decided to go along with the offer, despite the oddness of its earlier words.

“Fine. Whadd’ya wanna ask?” The words came out a touch harsher than she had intended for them to be, but they got the point across well enough. She was the boss after all, at least for the moment.

Blunt, pale claws still steepled behind its head, the biped asked its question, voice firm and even. “What are you?”

As far as questions went it was one of the more absurd ones, so much so that Rosewing couldn’t help but let her head draw back in mild surprise, eyes wide for a brief second.

What are you? Oddly enough, she found that she didn’t doubt for a moment the sincerity of the question. She didn’t think that the biped was pulling her tail when it had asked the question, nor did she think it was asking what she did for a living.

The biped hadn’t moved since it had asked its question, simply standing patiently as it awaited the answer to its question. Breaking the pregnant pause that followed the creature’s question, Rosewing finally answered.

“Griffon. I’m a griffon.” She couldn’t help but feel not just a little bit self-conscious as she said that.

The biped simply nodded, claws still steepled over the back of its head. “A deal’s a deal. Ask away.”

Rosewing frowned. Now that it was her turn to ask a question, she wasn’t so sure she shouldn’t ask about something else. On the one wing, she still had no idea what the creature actually was, other than being male and walking two legs. On the other, she could still ask about the symbol on the shirt, which in truth appealed to her more than simply knowing what to call the owner of said shirt.

Knowing Statchel’s ever-present curiosity, she figured that if anyone was most likely to ask the first question, it would be him. As far as she knew, the other two griffons of the group didn’t share her interest in art, at least not to the same degree that she did, which made the decision on what to ask that much easier.

“What’s the symbol on the back of your shirt mean?” Her pistol flicked toward said symbol for emphasis, more for herself than for anything else. The owner of the shirt answered her immediately, the firmness of its tone softening somewhat, as if the question was about something that interested it.

“It’s a simple depiction of the —” its voice seemed to dip for a moment, saying something guttural and unintelligble, —” model. To be more specific, it is a stone atom, hence the three electrons.”

Rosewing couldn’t help but make note of the little quirks she heard in the biped’s speech, which didn’t seem to be related to its slight accent. She had noticed the same little quirk earlier as well, when the biped had made its little offer. It wasn’t the first time she had spoken with foreigners hailing from outside of Equestria, and for the most part she’d had little trouble in understanding them. The same was true here, and aside from the little irregularities in its speech the biped spoke the language very well.

“So…” Rosewing began, writing off the biped’s speech impediment in favor of getting some follow-up information on the symbol. “...it’s related to science, then?”

“You would be correct.” The interest that had colored the biped’s explanation was gone, its tone once more falling back to the firm base that seemed to be the norm.

Wow… lame, were the words that ran through her head at that moment, mirroring the disappointment she felt at learning the meaning behind the symbol. What a damned waste of a design.

“Right, enough questions. Down the stairs you go,” Rosewing ordered, curiosity replaced with the forceful tone she had used when first meeting the biped. The one time she’d taken an interest in something foreign, and it turned out that it was something for nerds.

The biped complied, claws still behind its head as it took the first step down the stairs, its head dangerously close to brushing against the sloping ceiling. One step, then two, both paws on a tread before repeating the process with the next one down. Watching her charge descend, Rosewing couldn’t help but notice the circular aperture in the back of its collar, or the flecks of metal within gleaming back at her like a trio of brass stars.

With the final creak of wood the biped reach the foot of the stairs, taking a few more steps before stopping in front of the wall, not deviating at all from the order Rosewing had given it. Satisfaction was the furthest thing from her mind, though, even with the biped’s wordless compliance of her orders. Her gaze was focused solely on that hole in back of the creature’s neck, a heaviness welling up in her breast that only increased the longer she stared. The biped shifted, its body pivoting enough so that its pale blue eyes looked back into her hazel. Its expression was still locked in that same stern look as before, but its eyes had hardened into one of annoyance. She had been staring for too long.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” The biped’s words were spoken with an air of calm indifference, belying the hardness in the owner’s eyes.

Rosewing was silent, unable to break the gaze she shared with the creature at the foot of the stairs. Shaking herself mentally, she forced herself to break the silence to give a pair of commands.

“Move down the hall, claws behind your head. No fast movements, or you’re done.” The biped gave a curt nod, the hardness in its eyes softening, before turning around again to walk out of her sight. The griffon let out a ragged sigh, just becoming aware that she’d been holding her breath until then. The tightness in her breast had begun to recede, and she felt soon enough that there would be no more problems.

Descending down the stairs and reaching the first floor she turned her head to look down the hall, seeing the biped moving toward an awaiting Statchel. The male griffon gave Rosewing a respectful nod, but her attention was elsewhere, once more focused on the aperture at the base of the creature’s neck. Something about a living creature having what looked like an exposed socket on its neck made her flesh crawl.

Only machines are supposed to have those, came a small voice in the back of her mind.

Still standing in the hall, Rosewing watched Statchel direct the biped into the room with the measured prods of a machine-pistol. The brown griffon gave her a questioning look, as if to ask if anything was wrong. She shook her head. With a shrug, Statchel followed the biped inside, the griffon’s tail pulling the door closed behind him. Muffled voices reached Rosewing’s hearing a moment later, the content behind whatever being said of no interest to her; she was happy enough just to be alone, if only for a second.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Rosewing began to roll her shoulders and stretch her legs, feeling the unease she felt earlier flow away with whatever tension had built up in her muscles. Wish I could just stay here. Smiling at the thought, she knew that wasn’t an option. Razor-Quill might have been relatively lenient and laid-back compared to some other griffons she’d met, but when commands were issued he expected nothing but obedience.

Taking one last procrastinating stretch before walking toward the door to the pantry, Rosewing steeled herself against whatever discomfort she’d soon face, and opened the door.

Author's Note

So I finally got this chapter out. It was originally going to be 10k words, and have more perspectives, but I figured it's been long enough that I need to get something out. Criticisms and critiques are much appreciated, and encouraged.