Interlude 03 - The Shortest Night

PV-01
The Devious Plot cantina, recreation sector

The bar was a common place for the miners to gather after their shift. There was alcohol for a start, and the occasional pony willing to have a good time. Gravel Ire usually avoided it like the noisy, drunkard-filled, cramped room it was. Tonight however, he needed the release and the cheap apple cider that brought it. The day had been worse than usual and the day of a miner is usually hard to top. First, ten members of his crew called sick and forced him and the rest to work twice as much to compensate, then they were told there was some kind of imperial official that was to come and thus they would have to end their shift late for some fucking security reasons.

“Damn those fucking, snooty, know-it-all, better-than-you nobles,” he slurred angrily. “Come from Canterlot, looking down on us while they never did a damn on their own. Wouldn’t lift a hoof to save their own life if there wasn’t a slave to do it for them!”

The stallion interrupted his known-by-heart rant and watched his reflection in the foamless, amber liquid, staring bitterly at the recent white stripes in his once pristine black mane. There was a time where the ambient light would hide them. Not anymore. It was but one of the several tolls the mines had taken on him. With a disgusted groan, he emptied his mug. Drops of alcohol flew out and stained his grey coat. He didn’t react. He had ceased to care by the third cider and to notice by the fifth. He was still looking for the dose that would make the ponies around him more tolerable. Apparently, seven was still not enough, but he was getting close.

“Heya, friend!” said an annoyingly cheerful voice next to him.

Or maybe not so close.

“Is this seat taken?” asked another in a pain-in-the-plotly joyous tone.

“What’s your guess?” he mumbled unpleasantly, hoping that his tone would be a cue.

It was not.

The two ponies sat next to him, a great smile on their face and a mug in their hoof. Gravel Ire grumbled to himself. Just as he thought ponykind could be tolerable. He decided to ignore them. Years of experience had made him really good at it.

“Tis a nice night isn’t it?” the first pony ask, still unbearably happy.

“Assuredly! A superb one!” the second answered.

A dreadful thought came to the miner. They wouldn’t...

They would and did.

Three minutes of painful chatter later, The two unicorn-shaped nuisances were still at it, babbling his calm away. The two additional ciders he took were still not enough and hitting the double digits was something he left for the truly desperate. Something he would become soon if he didn’t get rid of them. He’d thought of leaving the place, but the two ponies were blocking his exit. And he was too proud to give them what counted as a win in his book.

“Hey did you know?”

Shut up...

“Know what?”

Shut up.

“Tonight’s the summer solstice!”

Shut up!

“Really? The night’s gonna be short!”

SHUT UP!

“Quite so! We better make the most of it then! What do you think?”

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Even with enough alcohol to put his liver on strike, Gravel knew an opportunity when he saw one and he grabbed it. It was either that or physically assault them.

“Short night my ass! Just leave me the fuck alone!” he groaned very audibly. “Every minute with your babbling feel like a freaking eternity!”

There was a second of silence. Quickly broke by their laughter.

“Ah! We got a grumpy one!” one of them said.

“Indeed! We should leave him alone now,” his accomplice answered.

“About time!” Gravel grumbled just audibly enough so they would hear him.

The intruders left the table, still laughing at him. The closest, the one on his right, tripped, falling on him and discharging his warm beverage on him at the same time. Gravel felt a sharp pain as the pony landed on his chest, which was less of an annoyance than the stallion that caused it. He helped the nuisance the best he could: by shoving the pony off of him. They exited the bar, still laughing, leaving the grumpy digger both soaked and furious.

While grumbling his best insults, describing mostly anatomically impossible and extremely painful situations for the duo, Gravel looked around him searching for a way to clean himself up. It was useless to count on the ponies here. The few that was still in the room were wasted beyond recovery. Some of them were even lying in pools of what seemed to be a mix of alcohol and body fluids.

“That’s gonna hurt tomorrow,” he sneered.

Still, he was not in a very good condition himself, and if he was to be in any shape to work the next day’s shift, he’d better go back to bed as soon as possible. Gravel was starting to feel dizzy. It was getting harder to focus. If only he could find a towel, or a napkin, or anything! The stallion started to stagger aimlessly in the room. Something wet made him trip. He felt the sharp pain on his chest again. He had not drunk that much, did he?

“You’re getting old,” he laughed, trying to get back some of his confidence.

Instinctively, he put his hoof on his chest, checking for injury. The wet and warm feeling made the blood still inside him run cold.

“Oh fuck! How the... Fuck!”

The cut on his chest was deep. Blood was continuously flowing through it, staining his fur way more than the cider had done. Gravel Ire tried and failed to get up. His limbs were weak and alcohol and panic made them unresponsive. The stallion slipped again, wetting his coat with even more blood.

“Du-did I slip on... on my... blood? OhFuckohfuckohFuckOhFuckOhFuckOhFuck...”.

Panic gave way to full-fledged terror. Gravel tried to get up while clutching his open wound with expected results. His face fell on the pool of his own fluid. Blood was everywhere, he could not escape.

“SWEET CELESTIA! SOMEPONY HELP! ANYPONY! HELP!” he pleaded.

Dead indifference met his call.

“Somepony help me...” he sobbed.

Nopony came.

Dead ponies never do.

☽☾

“No luck so far, brother mine,” the first unicorn said stashing his monomolecular dagger in a fold of his cloak.

“A noticeable lack of luck,” the second answered in kind.

“Oh well, the night is still young,”

“The shortest night of the year,”

“There’s no need for the night to end, though.”

“It can last as long as it needs.”

“For the Warmistress is coming back,” they finally said in tandem. “And the night will last forever.”

Author's Note

"When the traitor's hand strikes, it strikes with the strength of a legion."
- attibuted to the Warmistress