UNTITLED (Gilda), by Unknown


                                            [Copied from https://pastebin.com/8dd8wNyD]


                                            "So..."

                                            > You close the fence and squat down, moving to unclip the collar around the trembling pony's neck.

                                            "First lesson, I suppose. You can't escape."

                                            > Taking a seat on the chilly ground beneath her, you let the leash loop around one hand.

                                            "I mean - you can go ahead and run. I'm still going to have to stand up, and that earth-pony body will let you far outlast me. But, you won't get away."

                                            > Light blue eyes peer up at you, fearful but guarded.

                                            "You'll probably not even hit the edge of the field before my security system gets you. So - look, for your own safety, don't try it? Please?"

                                            > She will try it, though.

                                            > All the signs are there.

                                            > Her head is swiveling, noting the lack of any barrier greater than a few low-set wooden rails.

                                            > No cameras, fields, or fences that would keep anything remotely intelligent in.

                                            > One leg rises to tug at the halter still fixed around her muzzle - a sign of how much she chafes at the imprisonment.

                                            "Second lesson - work with me, and I'll make your life a lot less miserable. Here's how it works: You put in your time on the fields, you earn scrip from me."

                                            > "Yes, master."

                                            > She's taken great pains to soften her voice, but nothing can hide the bitter edge to it.

                                            "Take that scrip, you buy increased rations, time off, and some special orders from me."

                                            > Ticking off thoughts on your fingers, you move to the third:

                                            "Outside of your shift on the field, you're free to roam the property. Put in extra time for more scrip, relax, sleep, I don't care."

                                            > Motioning around to the simple fence, you add:

                                            "Just stay in your limits - obey curfew, don't leave the property or the security system will get you, and there are a couple other off-limits areas one of the others will sh-"

                                            > Any further statements are cut off as you go tumbling, her rear-hooves having slammed into your chest at the exact second you looked away.

                                            > Smart girl - but not so smart as to listen to you.

                                            > By the time you've gathered yourself and are upright again she's already halfway across the fields; a few of the workers there pause to look up at her go, but none move to aid or accompany her.

                                            > A few even call out desperate cries to stop.

                                            > They know.

                                            > Rising to your feet, you set off at a comfortable walking pace.

                                            > No need to rush yourself.

                                            > The mare's been reduced to little more than a cream-colored spot in the distance when a brown-and-white blur slams into her.

                                            > Two forms go tumbling through the fields in a wild ball of hooves, claws, wings, and snapping jaws.

                                            > A cry echoes across the fields; several ponies visibly wince.

                                            > In the end, though, they go still - two brown wings standing upright as a beacon to draw you in.

                                            > She's crying when you do approach, the desperate cry of one fearing for their life.

                                            > "Get it off me! I'm sorry - please, get it off! I won't try again!"

                                            > Even so, you let her feel the pressure of razor-sharp talons on her throat a moment longer before speaking.

                                            "That's enough. Let her go."

                                            > Rising, the mare flinches back as she meets the piercing, golden eyes that had tracked her down.

                                            > Pausing to lightly pat the griffon on the head, you shoot her a grin.

                                            "Like I said - security system."

                                            > A soft quork followed, by a soft beak-click issues from your enforcer, and you chuckle.

                                            "Yes, she did run well. I'm sure she'll be a good worker, once she gets herself in line."

                                            > Click, click, and a little trilling warble.

                                            "No, there's no need to punish her. Everyone tries to do that once."

                                            > "What's - what's wrong with her voice? What did you do to her?"

                                            > In response to the mare's question, your griffon opens her jaws - and the mare shrieks.

                                            > "Her tongue! Dear Celestia, her tongue!"

                                            "Best I can tell, she ate a load of shrapnel back in the fighting. Tore up her voicebox real bad among other things, and they had to just take her tongue straight out."

                                            > Stroking the coarse fur coating the griffon's back, you let a cold grin touch your lips.

                                            "Doesn't stop her talons or beak, though, and she's a bit grumpy about being a slave too. Still likes hunting, though, don't cross my rules or she won't be so gentle next time."

                                            -------

                                            > You're tucking away the last of dinner when Gilda appears, sailing in through an open window to touch down with the soft click-click of claws on tile.

                                            "Hey. You get them all tucked away for the night?"

                                            > An affirmative little quork is your answer.

                                            "Good. Even the new mare?"

                                            > A repeat of the same noise, soon followed by the noises of dinner being hastily scarfed down.

                                            "Okay. Keep an eye on her - for someone with candy on their but, she's got a bit of bite to her. Might be a while before she calms down and fits in."

                                            > Click, quork, and an annoyed-sounding warble.

                                            "...yeah, I know. I don't like having you play the bad guy either, but it really does help."

                                            > Instead of any audible answer, a head forces its way into your lap - great, liquid golden eyes peering up at you.

                                            > Sighing gently, you reach down to scratch at the downy covering layered over the back of her neck.

                                            > Eyes soon begin to fall half shut, and Gilda issues a contented little noise as she rests there.

                                            "Yeah, it's rough being alone, Gilda. I know you hate being just 'the security', but - really, it's better. Fear keeps them in line more than any whip, cattle prod, or any other cruelty would."

                                            > A chirp, and breath roughly hissed through her beak.

                                            "Displays like that teach them, Gilda. You know that as much as I do; it's not like I'm asking you to do them all the time."

                                            > Chirp, warble, chirp.

                                            > Sighing softly, you nod.

                                            "Alright. Maybe. One or two of the better behaving ones, you could let your hair down around. But if this causes problems, it's on your head."

                                            > That's a lie and you both know it.

                                            > You'd never be able to bring yourself to use a whip on Gilda.

                                            > She trusts you too much.

                                            > Instead of pressing further, though, she lets her eyes fall the rest of the way shut under the influence of your gentle rubbing.

                                            > The sound that soon issues from her throat is rough, ragged, and burbling in a way it should never be.

                                            > Even so however, as your fingers continue to work away at the muscles lacing her neck there's no mistaking what the noise is.

                                            > Leaning back, you smile at the contentedly purring griffon in your lap.