Midnight

"Got a real boner for Halloween, huh?"

The unexpected voice intruding into the silence that's been lulling me to doze off causes me to jolt up in surprise.

I get a hold of myself pretty quickly – the squat middle-aged man that stepped up to my counter an hour earlier has returned, prize in hands. He sets down a toolbag in an awkward fashion while keeping his grip on the stamped metal panel, hoisting it up onto the counter.

Front left fender, '73 Mercury Cougar. Good shape, no rust – but a hideous sun-faded shade of green that could only be from the swinging seventies.

It's pretty easy to remember requests when the customers are only trickling in. This late in the day – well, there was a reason he startled me. YouTube can only entertain for so long in a day.

Far from being the first day on the job, the other noteworthy detail about the panel he's probably hoping I'll miss is the lightly pitted chrome Cougar script still attached behind the wheel opening.

"Emblem is extra. You still want it?"

His shoulders slump as soon as I point it out. Sorry dude, no freebies. I'm not as blind as he had hoped.

"How much extra?" he concedes.

"Another ten on top of the fender. Not exactly a mint piece," I reply.

Satisfied with that answer, he begins fishing through the pockets of his shorts.

"You never did answer my question," he reminds me in the meantime. "Halloween's still a month away last I checked."

"I'm... not sure that I follow," I admit, feeling like I'm missing the joke here.

"The old Dodge 'Scare-avan' out there off of the main path?" he wisecracks, evidently unconvinced by my confusion.

The specific notation of vehicle in and of itself raises my suspicions on more than one front. "That's a few rows down from the FoMoCo section you needed," I remind him.

His light-hearted demeanor shifts at my comment. "Oh, no – I was headed to where you said the Cougar was located, and I thought I saw something darting around near it."

"Like a bird, maybe?"

The customer isn't too impressed with my skeptical response as he lays a pair of crinkled fifty-dollar bills on the counter, followed shortly by another ten. "I don't think I want to know how you got birds that big out there. Or why they're warning people to stay away when getting anywhere close."

Well, that confirms my other suspicion. He isn't the first to mention hearing someone out there in the yard when it should otherwise be empty. But he is the first one that seems believable, rather than crazy or hopped up on something.

"If you really aren't playing a joke, I'd say you probably be on the lookout for someone out there. I wasn't interested enough to investigate," he concludes, picking up his stuff and making for the door.

"I'll keep it in mind. Thanks for the heads up," I call after him, though still not quite sure how much I believe him.

If the damp bills of the counter that reek of perspiration are any indication, the sun has been relentless again on my plot of the New Mexico desert. Heat can make a man see and hear funky things from time to time.

As I glance over at the desktop of my computer and spy the clock hitting 5 pm, I realize I get the full experience now – not just the dry heat that's settled into the open garage.

It's closing time – for the self pick and pull. I still have to pull parts for call-in orders. A long day, but that's the skids about being the only employee.

On the upside? I'm not paying someone to find innovative ways to slack off or use me as a free source of parts for their project. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirts. Way too many times. I had enough about six months ago.

So it's me myself and I going through familiar motions – heading out into the sandy sun-scorched landscape to shut and lock the chain link front gate. Heading back in and upstairs to my little shithole of a living space and filling up a couple of jugs of water. Heading out to the old shop truck that's parked just outside the open garage bay door, perpetually stocked with tools.

Did I mark down that grille of the '74 Ranchero being sold from earlier? Ah, screw it. I'll do it later if I haven't. I'm not exactly judicious in keeping track of that shit anyway.

Dropping the jugs of ice-cold water on the passenger seat through the open window, I head around and reach in through the open window of the driver's side and fumble with the door handle.

It's still pretty damn hot, but better than the sizzling chrome of the outside handle.

The door opens with a groan, reminding me I still haven't lubed the door hinges as I hop inside.

Oh well, it's an old truck. It was supposed to be junked, for some reason. That's why I even have it. Sure, there's a dent or two and some scrapes, the two-tone brown and tan paint has seen better days – but it's solid. Probably lived its whole life in this area.

A new cap and rotor, a fuel pump, and fresh gas got the last of the Chrysler big blocks – a 400 – under the hood going again. I think the guy was just hard up for any money he could get quickly. Or clueless. Maybe both.

Still, there is also the annoying exhaust leak I still haven't quite nicked, it drinks fuel (not that I was surprised), and the suspension has seen better days.

That being said, I still get a kick when the occasional person points out the RamCharger to their friend, before being perplexed by the Plymouth badges.

To be fair, I don't think I've ever seen another Trailduster, either.

It cranks up with little hesitation when I hit the key, the engine quickly settling into a low, content rumble. The radio kicks on a split second later, Three Dog Night starts singing about some road to BFE as I pull the gearshift down into drive for the jaunt out into the yard.

Coincidentally, I get to do my own investigating this evening. The 'Scare-avan' is on the list of stops. A used and abused first gen that's been out in the yard since I bought the business. Pretty lackluster find – unless one were looking for a stout little sleeper on the streets. The 2.5 liter this one has under the hood also has the turbo that made the boxy people-mover quite spicy.

As far as I know, the turbo for the Caravan is the same as any of the other 2.5 turbo Chryslers of the era, but this guy insisted on having one from a bona fide turbo van.

Whatever. He's happily paying a premium for it – that's good enough for me.

The ride out into the yard is not particularly relaxing, as prior runs down the dusty graded path and the washouts from a recent heavy rainstorm combine to make me feel like I'm on a rickety rollercoaster.

Nevertheless, this is the part of the job I enjoy. Wrenching on old cars, free from dealing with stupid people. Perhaps a bit harsh, as that is generalizing a specific group of people that I've brought upon myself.

I have a section of newer cars more towards the front – vintage auto sales pay a good premium, but having late models makes a more steady cash flow. That cash comes from some people who are hard up. Sometimes people of a more... questionable nature, or the aforementioned high as a kite group. Some people come that shouldn't even be touching a wrench, let alone work on their own car.

Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose. The only other revenue stream is from the occasional nearby factory looking for a place to offload some junk – and willing to pay fairly handsomely. As long as it isn't biohazard or nuclear, I don't ask questions. Back of the yard, by the imports, thanks for your business. The less I know, the easier it is to play dumb if the EPA or some tree-hugger group starts snooping around for some reason.

Hasn't happened, but one never knows.

I pass row upon row of weatherbeaten cars over the ensuing five or so minutes it takes to crawl toward my target. But it isn't long before I'm near the Chrysler section, and the rattlecanned black van that denotes the start and my goal.

I pull up next to the crusty van, unable to help but chuckle again at the crudely spray‐painted orange flames stretching from the edge of the front fender to the middle of the driver's door. I can't imagine what stories would come out if this heap could talk.

Shutting off the engine and hopping out of the truck, my mind hardly gives a passing thought to whatever might supposedly be lurking here. I certainly didn't spy anything 'darting around' while rolling up to the van, and I have yet to hear anything. My main focus is the job that's gonna get me paid.

Before grabbing any tools, I head over to the front of the van, reaching under the hood for the latch and popping it open. Oil, grime, and dust have ensured the engine bay possesses a nice patina of brown and black hues overall – but the mechanical snail still rests wedged between the cylinder head of the engine and the exhaust pipe.

And... no hood prop rod to keep this open.

Jack handle it is, then.

As I make my way to the tailgate of the Trailduster, something starts scurrying around... somewhere. Obviously an animal, with unsurprisingly fleet movement.

Double that on the jack handle request. It's certainly bigger than a mouse or bird by the fact that I could make out the distinct patter of footsteps - even if they were quiet. Probably a coyote. Wouldn't be the first time – though the fact it took this long to spook away is abnormal.

The sharp tang of metal on metal should get it scurrying far away for now.

Grabbing what I think I'll need to tear the turbo out of the van and tossing it into a bucket to carry, I grab the hollow handle of the floor jack still in the back and head back, making sure to step on any rocks or bits of metal to make my presence better known. Once alongside the driver's side of the van, I give the jack handle a good swing and strike the upper lip of the rear wheel arch.

It lets out a sharp crack that echoes along the relatively flat landscape of the yard.

"Don't you dare do that again."

Having expected nothing more than a frantic flurry of some animal hightailing it, the sudden presence of a voice growling out a threat forces a startled jump from me. Head on a swivel, I look around – but find no one.

So there is someone here - and from what I can tell, sounded like a young woman.

"This is private property, and we're closed!" I shout, spinning around in the hopes of catching sight of this intruder.

The sound of movement again – surprisingly quick and well-practiced as it dances among junk cars nearby.

"Leave me alone and we won't have any problems."

A demand for an answer in the same voice. Definitely feminine. I still can't figure out where she is.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but how about you stop playing hide and seek and get out of here before I have to contact the authorities!"

I'm not going to play games tonight. If this woman is squatting out here and bold enough to think she can do as she pleases, she's probably not right in the head. And quite possibly dangerous.

"So be it," she calls back. It's a normal tone, a fluid and sweet voice that has an edge of raw, unrefined spunkiness to it.

But then... nothing.

"I don't have time for this shit. The sheriff can deal with you while I get back to my work. I'm not going to look for you."

"You don't have to search. I'm behind you, dumbass."

My blood runs cold as I hear her. Right behind me.

I drop the bucket on the ground, turning and getting ready to wield the jack handle with both hands if I need to.

Instead, I damn near stumble back onto my ass as I take a step back, finally having a face to match up with the previously disembodied voice.

She isn't what I expected at all. She isn't even human.

Dark blue fur, hardly a shade above the midnight sky graces her whole form, which stands on four legs. Even with that seeming handicap, the top of her head would come up to damn near my neck, if one were counting the voluminous mass of deep blue and violet hair that flowed down from around her high-set ears and into a mane ending in slight curls, matching her bangs. From what I can see, the tail is likewise styled and colored.

But then there's the spiral horn that sprouts from her forehead area, easily making it a draw between me and her in height. The wings that begin to spread out wide and upward in an imposing display are utterly massive, though matched to her size. They seem to be a dull, dark violet hue when it comes to the feathers - not glaringly obvious, but more an accent.

Most unsettling is her face. The scowl she wears is initially dominated by her large eyes, possessing irises that glow dimly with a light that matches their sky-blue hue, topped off with slitted pupils that would look at home on a cat. But if that weren't enough, she decides to show off her dental work - bestial sharp teeth with prominent pointed canines.

Okay, maybe I'm starting to suffer from heatstroke. No way am I seeing this horse...

No. Wait a minute.

...well, now that I've gotten a moment, she is unnerving, sure. But she's a pony.

Been a while since I've paid any attention, but I remember ten or fifteen years ago, pretty fresh out of high school – somehow My Little Pony became a big thing. Particularly with a group of sweaty man-children. There was enough hubbub and demand that someone started making these... well, robots.

"You're one of those pony pet things, aren't you?" I blurt out, even as she tries to keep up her display.

The look of intimidation she's sporting falters as my response takes her by surprise. But it doesn't last long, as her short huff of irritation means I clearly struck some sort of nerve.

"I am no pet," she mutters. "I think you're referring to pony companions - and I'm... not quite that, either." The addendum at the end brings a touch of insecurity into her voice as she tucks her wings away neatly on either side.

"Alright, whatever. Tomato, tomahto - you're just one of those animatronic things that's the fruity baby step to Skynet becoming a reality," I shoot back, finding this whole situation less uneasy and more awkward by the second. "What the hell are you doing in my junkyard?"

"Yeah, and you're a sack of muscles and bone in a wrapper, if we're going to be stupid about it," she snorts back, accompanying her unhappiness with a glare. "This has been my home for months."

"Bullshit. I've owned this salvage yard for years. I've never seen you or anything else like you in my time here."

"Well, I'm obviously quite skilled at hiding, shit-for-brains," she sasses back, flashing a boastful smirk as she thrusts her chest out with pride.

I know little of these niche products – but one thing I do recall is the cost. As well as the fact they're supposed to be – well, cute and friendly. Neither descriptor fits this one - and vinegar isn't getting me anywhere.

"Okay, look," I finally relent with a sigh. "I don't know how or why you're here, but you can't be living out in my yard."

"Oh? And where am I to go then?" she demands, taking a step closer. One of her wings unfurls again, the feathers at the tip being used to point out the mounds of scrap in the distance. "Do you think I came here on my own accord? I was dumped here, discarded as useless. And judging by your business and the fact I was driven here with a load of scrap, you invited me into your yard."

Her pace of speech speeds up noticeably through her argument, making it clear there is some desperation regarding my thinly veiled threat of eviction.

She certainly can't stay out here and continue to spook customers. And while it's a stretch for her to say I invited her, I don't have a quick retort to counter her argument.

"What are you doing out here?"

The abrupt shift in tone and topic draws me away from the predicament I was just mulling and back to the... pony's attention.

That just feels weird to even think.

"I gotta pull some parts off of cars for orders," I answer back, keeping a level tone and head in some attempt to build a bridge with her. "I came out here specifically because I need the turbo off of the engine in this van."

"Perhaps I could help you, in exchange for making an exception to my residence here in the yard."

It's a proposition so absurd, that I can't help but scoff. Which of course only draws the ire of the pony, her brow furrowing in response.

Smooth, dude.

"You dismiss my offer before allowing me an attempt to prove myself?" she retorts, stepping forward.

"I don't mean to be a prick, but you have four hooves that I doubt can hold tools. And I doubt you have much knowledge of what I'm even talking about – like the turbocharger I'm trying to get out of this heap."

While keeping her eyes glued to me, she sidesteps and starts to walk along the passenger side of the vehicle, the windows giving me a view of her movements. The sand doesn't lend itself to creating loud footsteps but for her size, she's almost soundless. Quieter than she probably should be.

I start mirroring her pace from the driver's side, feeling a bit uneasy as to her plans. However, I still keep some distance as I reach the front of the Caravan. But she doesn't seem to pay me any mind, as her eyes begin to glow – this time I'm certain of it.

Almost at the same time, the hood raises up in one sharp movement, allowing the pony to step forward and glance into the engine bay.

"What the hell was that?!"

"A little thing called electromagnetism," she responds, almost bored by your shocked outburst. She pulls her head back, pointing to the spire on her head with a hoof.

My focus drawn to that bit of her anatomy, the faintest sight of what looks like heat rays seem to emanate a short distance from its surface.

"You didn't think it was just for show, did you?"

...I don't have anything to answer back with on that front. Whether it's normal or not for these robo-ponies – I haven't a clue.

Satisfied with my lack of a response, she returns to her primary focus, scanning the engine bay. It's only a few moments time, but it's not a look of a frenetic, uncertain search I anticipated...

"It would probably be easier to just take the valve cover off to reach the head bolts, and just take the whole head with exhaust and intake assemblies rather than fight with no room to get just the turbo off," she muses, lacking in any sort of emotion. "Those bolts are badly corroded, while the head bolts have at least been sitting in oil for most of their life. Unless you'd rather do it the hard way – the connection to the actual exhaust pipe heading off of the turbo downward is probably going to be punishment enough."

Cue my jaw dropping with that detailed assessment.

She doesn't have to glance back for my reaction before putting on a smirk that exposes the tips of those canines from under her lip.

Should I point out the turbocharger for you, or have I gone beyond that simple test?" she sasses, continuing on to ensure she really rubs it in. "Maybe I can be useful despite the presence of four hooves and no opposable thumbs."

"How do you know any other that?" I finally manage to speak. "I doubt they programmed you with that knowledge."

"No, but one can learn a lot just by listening to the occasional passerby weighing his options," she explains, letting the hood drop with a loud clatter as her eyes return to... not as glowing. "The other half of learning it comes from what you can see if you look in the back windows."

Perplexed by what she's trying to convey, I nonetheless follow her instructions, taking a few steps back in order to peer down through the dust-covered, tinted windows behind the driver's seat.

The second-row bench seat is gone, with the dingy grey carpeted floor instead left with scattered pamphlets, owner's manuals, various books—

And a Chilton's 1981 model year service manual. One that came up missing from my collection a few months ago.

"Hey, where the hell did you get that service manual?!" I shouted, more out of surprise than anger. I still can't help but get a jolt when the pony's reflection in the window pops up next to mine.

Holy shit is she sneaky.

"Oh, it was laying on a fender of a car over there," she says, pointing a wing toward the next section over in the junkyard, where the Ford products lie. "I had no idea where it came from, but I found it just before a rainstorm while I was hunting. Guess if I hadn't found it and taken it, you would have lost it anyway."

In that whole explanation is one word that hangs in my mind as soon as it escapes her mouth.

Hunting.

"What do you mean by 'hunting'?" I ask, that unsettled feeling from earlier on initial contact starting to well up again.

"Well – it's not like there's – there's no charging ports, after all," she stammers, taken aback by my inquiry. "I have to get energy somehow."

"And you do that... how?"

"Finding things that move on all fours and remain oblivious to the apex predator out here, duh," she snaps back.

"Oookay, I guess there's a lot I don't know about you robo-ponies," I admit. The comment doesn't come off particularly pleasing to her ears, but other than a frown appearing, she says nothing.

I'm not thrilled about having one of these things hanging around. I know I have my own bias, the the thought of some guy living alone and having one of these things... doesn't paint a very masculine picture. Not to mention she gives off some odd vibes – black project military-type vibes if I let my imagination venture away from reality a bit.

Whoever discarded this pony, for whatever reason – why didn't they deactivate her before trashing? I assume there's some sort of deactivation switch or something. I'm not keen to start snooping, but she doesn't have any obvious ports or joints, or seams...

But I don't know if these things are supposed to be that way. After all, they are meant to be as real as possible to the show, as far as I can recall from when they came out. Certainly the breathing animation is down pat, and evidently, the lack of electricity doesn't cripple them.

Beyond all of those thoughts, I can't deny I'm a bit impressed at the knowledge she's spouted thus far. And the ability to move things without having to touch them – that could come in handy for tight spots. I also don't have to pay her – she just needs a place to stay. Swiping parts from me? No reason for that.

Plenty of pros and plenty of cons. Saying no isn't really an option right now, is it? What else is there to debate?

"Alright... Turbo. You help me with pulling parts like this shit and you can stick around. Just – well, you can't stay out here."

"Erm... Turbo?" she inquires, raising an eyebrow as she's not at all thrilled with my hasty moniker.

It was pretty spur-of-the-moment desperation.

"Well I'm not calling you 'pony' or 'companion,' you got an actual name?"

"Do you?"

Yeah, we did kind of miss out on proper introductions. I'm not sure what I was thinking.

"John," I answer, hesitating for a moment before putting my hand out for a handshake. "Owner of John's Vintage Auto Sales."

The pony looks down at the gesture I've put forth but doesn't move a muscle before turning her eyes back to my face.

"I'm not going by 'Turbo,' I can tell you that much right now," she grumbles.

"So you don't have a name, I take it?"

"Beyond a collection of numbers and characters in what amounts to gibberish? No," she answers back, unable to prevent a slip of her tone into something approaching a forlorn lament as she averts her eyes."

Other than that, she says nothing, even after a moment of silence.

"So..."

"Midnight," she spits out, finally looking at me again with a determined face. "I'm not letting you come up with any more retarded names."

"Okay – we got a deal then, Midnight?" I extend my hand out just a bit further, emphasizing the gesture I'm looking for.

The name issue must have been the final hangup, for this time, she raises a hoof and accepts a shake.

It's the first time I feel the fine fur she's covered in – as well as the smooth, fluid movements of her joints as the agreement is settled.

"Deal."