My name is Knight Shift. And I work the night shift.

So while my parents probably thought they were being clever with the name, I really have grown tired of the jokes. I mean, really… it’s unique, sure, but it has nothing to do with my cutie mark or whatever. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn’t change my name for anything. It’s got a nice ring to it, and… yeah, it does lend itself to some good wisecracks now and then. I just wish it wasn't the same one over and over again. "Oh, your name is Knight Shift and you're working the night shift! It's like you were meant for this job!" But I wasn't. I really, really wasn't...

My thoughts snap back to where I’m at right now, which is behind the counter at my job. It’s 12:01 right now. I work at a five-and-dime, a convenience store with a gas station attached. It’s pretty important, really. We get a lot of customers. One of ‘em is standing right in front of me as I’m thinking this. An earth pony mare, with a powder-blue coat. “Twenty bits on pump three.” she tells me. Tosses the coins on the counter and runs out the door like she’s got windigos after her. You get way too many ponies who just toss you their bits, tell you which gas pump they’re on, and run off without so much as a word of pleasantries. I tell you what, if one more pony pulls that stunt today… I yell a “have a nice day” after her anyway, though. No sense in being rude.

And once again I’m alone in the store. The blue-colored mare’s car is the only one out there at the pump, and I’m just sitting there like a dumbass with nothing to do. That’s the night shift, really- five solid hours of buck-all. I’m always desperately trying to avoid watching the clock, makes time go slower. I need something to do, and fast.

To that end, I turn around and look over the cigarette rack. Nasty things, cigarettes, although I’m about the only pony who can’t stand them, it seems. The smoke is absolutely dreadful. They came into fashion about twenty years ago, maybe less, and they’ve been selling tons ever since. Movie stars smoke ‘em, doctors smoke ‘em- just about everypony. I use my horn to levitate a pack of Neighports, which I then use to check all the other rows, and see if they’re filled up all the way. I know they are- I’ve checked them six or seven times in the last half hour. But it kills time, I guess. Gotta do something, and I just don’t feel like cleaning anything right now. There’s several hours left to do that.

The door jingles behind me, and I spin around. There’s a portly earth pony stallion there; I don’t even have a chance to pop off a “good evening”, because he’s already stalking through the candy racks like a starving predator. This guy’s not starved, not by a long shot. The grease from a previous meal stains his bright lime green vest where he wiped his hoof. His fluorescent garb and the grime and dust caked on him indicates he’s some kind of construction worker. He looks absolutely beat, and on further inspection, the grease on his shirt might actually be lubricant.

I watch him, trying not to appear creepy. It’s sort of habitual to study the customers that come in- they’re few and far between at this late hour. I especially like to scrutinized the construction workers- they come from building sites all over Baltimare, doing tons of different jobs, from driving rivets to painting houses to repairing construction vehicles. This stallion looks like he was doing the third one.

By this time, he’s picked out a bag of peppermints, and headed for the coffee machine, to get something to keep him awake on the drive home. That’s the real reason I’m here all night- to keep the coffee running. Just about everypony comes in to get the stuff. He has his own mug, and he fills it up to the brim with black coffee, no sugar or cream. Must’ve had a long day to need that. He takes a sip, seemingly oblivious to what must be a scalding hot beverage, and comes over to the counter. I greet him with a decent amount of exuberance, like always. It’s my job to give everypony a good smile and a word of good cheer to send them happily on their way, after all.

Well, okay, technically my job is “Sales Associate”, but I like to think of myself that way…

The construction pony mumbles a response back as I tap away at the keys on the cash register. The total rings up to four bits, and the stallion holds out the coins to me. I take them with my magic and toss them in the drawer, reminding myself to check them over later for old-issue coins. I collect the old ones- they’re not worth more than any other bit right now, but they’re definitely going to be in a few more years, I bet. My dad says I should collect them, anyway, and he knows a lot about how that sort of thing goes.

The stallion shuffles blearily out the door after slipping the mints into his saddlebag. “Have a good night!” I call after him, but he doesn’t respond. The door closes again, and I’m left alone once more. The emptiness is deafening. I stave it off with the loud DING of the No Sale button, and the drawer leaps out at me with a sharp CLACK. I pick up the bits I’d just received with my magic, looking at the dates. There’s a 1011, a 1012, a brand-new 1018… and the real prize, a 957. Excellent. It’s from the Fillydelphia mint, which means it’s not as rare as it could be. Still good, though. The bits from 1010 onward aren’t gold anymore, they’re a gold alloy that just looks like it’s all gold. These older coins are taken out of circulation whenever possible. I swap the 957 for a newer one out of my pocket, replace the bits, and shut the drawer.

Shaking each hoof individually, I try to think of little things to keep my mind on. Mentally cataloguing my activities like this is one of them. I look around the little store. The glass double doors are set in an all-glass window wall thing to my left. I’m not sure what that’s called. Maybe a facade? Anyway, the counter runs perpendicular to that, on the right as you come in. The aisles are to the left, running parallel to the facade. Between the L-shaped counter and the facade is the way to the bathrooms. Set in the opposite wall from the counter, beyond the aisles, is the cooler, with its vast legion of drinks stacked in pretty, colorful rows and columns. The aisle furthest from the door is replaced with the coffee bar. All in all, it’s a small, yet tidy, layout.

I’m just about to consider singing a song, or even- Celestia forbid- cleaning, when a car pulls into the empty lot. It’s a pretty nice one, very sleek, and dark in color. A Ponytiac, I realize, when the hood ornament pulls into view. That’s a good Detrot-built brand. And like I mentioned, it looks brand new, though I’m not entirely sure what kind it is.

The occupant of the car is revealed to be a unicorn stallion, wearing business attire and a warm hat. It gets pretty cold here, especially at this time of year, in the dead of winter. The businesspony pushes the door open with his dark green magic, and rushes in. He does at least spare me a “good evening”, then gallops for the bathroom. For the umpteenth time, I’m glad I cleaned it as soon as I got here tonight. I’m left alone again, in a way, while he avails himself of the facilities; but it’s a stressful, forced aloneness. I know he could hear if I were to talk out loud, and I can’t leave the counter, so I’m trapped- bound, gagged, and tied to the railroad tracks, metaphorically speaking. I can’t resist the temptation any longer. The only way I can avoid looking at the clock is to force my eyes to remain closed. I squeeze them shut with every ounce of willpower. The ticking becomes gradually louder the longer I wait. It’s growing more and more unbearable by the second… I try to think of something… anything… anything! Nothing comes to mind. Clocks begin to appear before my still-closed eyes, beckoning me to open them. Become one with us, they say. Join us. You only have to give in… just give up… you can’t defeat the timepieces. No! I mentally retort. Never! The struggle continues for what seems like an eternity. The clocks grow in number, blotting out all other thoughts. They engulf the inside of my eyelids, dominating my vision. I feel my grip on reality slipping… an eternity passes, then another, locked in the endless struggle between good and clocks. The battle rages, neither side gaining the upper hand in a war that threatens to destroy time itself.

After about thirty seconds, the businesspony exits the bathroom. My eyes snap open, and I exhale in relief, now that I have something to focus on rather than the clock. Rather than buying anything, though, he just bids me farewell, and leaves as quickly as he’d entered. Before I realize what I’ve done, my eyes drift upwards and I find myself staring at the timepiece mounted on the wall behind me.

The time is 12:05.

Well, buck.

Author's Note

The first of several. At least three.

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