Midnight

For the third time this morning, I hear John's alarm clock blaring an electronic maelstrom of auditory pain. I have been nice thus far and left him alone, but this is getting a little ridiculous now.

Lazy bastard.

With a sigh of resignation, I set aside my laptop and the article I had been perusing and slip off of the couch. John's room is visually blocked by the door, which he left slightly ajar.

While I do not find it extraordinary for him to hit the snooze button once in a while, it is rare for him to dawdle on the decision. In the back of my mind, I am a little concerned. I realize now that it has been blaring for quite some time before the noise is silenced this morning on the prior two occasions.

By that I mean I'm concerned for my own well-being since he's basically hiding me here – so I sort of need him alive. Not that I'm worried about that, either; after all, he has obviously silenced his alarms. They don't turn off by themselves – at least, that I know of.

I use one of my wings to ease open the door, proceeding to creep into his room. Like most of the upstairs, his room is a barren affair, with the walls painted a pale robin egg blue that has faded with time. Merely a bed, an end table, and a dresser grace this room as far as furnishings while a single large window hangs over the bed. Aside from that feature and a door leading to a walk-in closet, the walls are blank and devoid of decoration.

A lump I assume is John's dozing form is nestled within a cocoon of blankets. It's more covers than I would expect to see, considering the temperature in here – which is on the upper end of comfortable, even with the ceiling fan switched on.

"Hey sloth, stop hitting the snooze button. It's almost nine-thirty," I bark.

John's pathetic form shifts a bit before he speaks, a fatigued mumble of unintelligible words.

"I don't understand moonspeak, try again in English."

This time, I just get a pained, sleepy groan in response.

"Alright, enough of this." Storming over to his bedside, I lean over and grab hold of an end of the linens with my teeth. In a swift jerk, I pull them aside to expose John to the sunlight.

He doesn't put up even a token fight, preferring to focus on bracing his eyes for the sharp contrast of light by squinting and holding his arms up. He looks unusually pale this morning while also quivering from head to toe. Exhaustion is also obvious in his sluggish attempts to get himself focused on the waking world, and on me.

"You look awful," I finally manage to tell him.

"You were a lot prettier last night, too," he strikes back, shuddering particularly hard as he grabs the sheets to cover himself back up.

"Stop being disgusting – what are you doing?"

"I feel like shit, Midnight," he groans. "Unless you cranked the AC down to the fifties, I'm gonna guess I'm suffering from the chills right now."

"So you're cold?" I state, not quite following the issue here.

"I'm sick. Ill. Whatever you want to call it. I can't be up and around like this," he groans. "Probably got a fever, and I'm feeling dizzy just trying to look at you. I can't open today."

"You can't afford not to open up; we lost almost two full days due to weather just last week," I protest. The thought of more lost revenue makes me more uneasy than I care to admit.

"Alright, alright. Damn slave driver." Slowly, John sits himself upright, still clinging to the sheets in which he's draped himself. He pauses before making any further motions to rise from the bed, seeming to sway back and forth a bit. "Is the room spinning for you?" he asks.

"No..."

While my first instinct is to believe he's screwing with me or playing it up as an excuse, the look of utter fatigue he sports and the continued swaying back and forth convinces me otherwise. Frustrated, I motion with a hoof for him to lay back down, which he obliges with an accompanying groan.

"Sorry. I didn't ask to be sick, Midnight," he apologizes, shifting around a bit to find a more comfortable position.

"I know, I know," I grumble in response, turning to head back out of his room. Maybe I'm overreacting a bit; considering the ease of access the website now provides, a vast majority of orders are being placed online nowadays...

Still, not being open at all has to hurt business somewhat, and I want to forge this place a financial foundation as rock solid as possible, as soon as possible. The hours open to the public have already been cut back out of necessity; pulling parts for the increased load of online orders requires more dedicated time out in the yard.

I understand this is the transition period until we focus exclusively on shipping out parts aside from customer pickup maybe once a week. However, I still don't like another day of closure at this point in time. I cannot sit back and do nothing today – not when I know I am fully capable of this work.

"I'm opening up on my own," I announce, whirling back around to face John.

"You wha?" He sits up right away – going just a bit too far forward before his delayed reactions stabilize him.

"I'll open up shop for a little bit. Answer any calls, deal with whatever customers we get, and get caught up on the parts we need to pull," I quickly rail off in succession.

"Absolutely not, Midnight," he rebuts without a moment of thought.

Undaunted by his refusal, I pin my ears back with fierce determination and step forward. "Why not? I'm more than capable of doing it, and it's not like I'm asking you to hand the whole business over to me," I argue in defiance.

"Have you forgotten you aren't really supposed to be here?" he says, pointing a finger at me. "What if— well, what if someone from the place you came from happens to walk in and recognizes you? It's game over."

Judging by how little thought went into that argument, he must be delirious with an illness that makes him more stupid than normal.

"What the hell kind of an excuse is that? Have you somehow forgotten the numerous times I have been working on engines in the shop while customers walked in?" I counter, unwilling to yield an inch. "How about the few times I've interacted with them? Are you being retarded on purpose?"

John opens up his mouth to speak but is unable to find any words that will help him.

"I'm my own mare anyways, John – you said so yourself. I'm pretty sure I can manage without your expertise for a little bit."

"I don't like this idea," he continues to stonewall. "You still aren't supposed to legally be out on your own, you told me that."

"Yet this is private property – your private property, might I add."

I've already decided this is something I will do, whether I have John's approval or not. But I would still prefer to have his blessing, rather than do this behind his back. It's out of a desire to avoid hearing his droll scolding voice later on in the evening when he finds out.

"Pull parts out back. That's it."

I shake my head fervently. "Open till about two in the afternoon, answer any calls, and then pull parts out back."

John scowls at my counteroffer. But after considering his options for a few silent moments, he emits a sigh. "I'm not going to win with you, am I?"

Once again, I shake my head.

"Be careful, Midnight," he says in a solemn voice.

"You act as if I'm going to get caught and get you in trouble," I chastise, feeling a bit smug now that I've gotten him to agree.

"Dammit, I'm not worried about that, I'm worried about you." The way he emphasizes his concern makes me feel...

Odd.

"Shut up," is all I can reply with, embarrassed by suddenly being thrust into the central focus like this.

"No, I'm serious. I want you around Midnight – I don't care if you think that's weird or makes you feel uncomfortable," he proceeds to clarify.

"Well come on, your business is—"

"I'm not talking about having you around to help me. Let go of your pride for just five minutes, please."

"Then what is it?" I demand, feeling like I should just bolt now and leave his rambling for later.

"I enjoy your company, Midnight. I want you around for you. So yes, I'm worried for your sake."

I swallow hard at that statement.

"I realize it's a longshot that someone is going to recognize you, put two and two together, and come to the conclusion you're essentially a fugitive. But I can't vouch for you if I'm not there; I can't make up some quick excuse to cover your ass. So jus—"

I unfurl my left wing and shove him back down to a lying position. "You're doing way too much talking for someone as sick and out of it as you are," I tell him. "Shut up, get some sleep. I'll be fine, you candyass."

Without giving him another chance to speak, I trot out of the room, closing the door behind me. It's only now I realize I've been holding my breath for some time; I let it out in a big exhale.

'I want you around.' I've never heard that directed toward me – not unless it was for someone else's shot at a massive ego boost.

Or prestige. Or monetary gain.

My whole existence is based on a company's financial gamble and the politics within that hierarchy of jackasses. It is only in hindsight I better understand that. The few compliments and discussions shared were more or less to keep me 'agreeable,' that everything I was put through was all for 'a greater good.'

Bullshit. I have always been a vessel for someone else's goal.

Now, to be kept around for – well, me, my 'company' as John so eloquently described...

It's a wave of emotions I've never felt before. A completely foreign feeling that is almost overwhelming right now.

Why?

In reality, what do I have to offer aside from my aptitude to learn skills at a rapid pace and my gift of making ferrous objects float in the air? My whole plan to fit here and make this my home revolves only around making myself useful as a tool, not whatever John thinks of me now.

Fucking rambling moron. He even said so on day one, he had no interest in ponies, no interest in me or my past. Which was fine – it's what I wanted. It was what felt normal.

What the hell happened to that?

John just keeps digging beyond what he initially offered and what we agreed upon – face-value facts, present day. I don't want to delve into the past; I can't change it. It doesn't matter anymore, and it's unpleasant to reflect upon.

...and I hate what I am now. I don't even know how to describe myself anymore. John pressing his way further and further into my past is forcing me to come back to that painful issue of identity.

What does he serve to gain from it? It's completely illogical. Why do things suddenly have to be so damn complicated? And why-

No, I have to get a grip on myself; I have things that need to be done. I need to stop thinking about shit that doesn't matter. With another deep breath, I shove those thoughts and worries down into the recesses of my mind and head out the door.

This is obscenely boring.

How John managed to occupy himself month after month sitting and waiting for customers is beyond my scope of understanding. Almost an hour and a half has transpired since opening the front gates...

Not a single person has popped in. However, I did get a few stares from passersby when fiddling with the lock and propping the gate open near the road. Despite the confidence I crowed about when convincing John to let me do this, I found myself feeling uncomfortable and a bit unnerved by the attention.

Again, It must be said that I am not used to having eyes on me; I am not used to being out in the open for all to see. By end design, I suppose I am meant to be striking in appearance, even if aesthetics were an afterthought. Regardless, my appearance is far from a boon right now, considering the circumstances.

But, no one stopped and shrieked in horror. Sirens didn't begin to blare as the authorities closed in to neutralize me. Just some people lifting off the throttle for a double-take while driving by. Who knows, maybe it was their first time seeing the business?

There was never any thought put into what I was going to do once outside of the facility. Tending to a junkyard certainly wasn't something that sprung to mind. But beggars can't be choosers.

Now... I have too much time to think. What illness does John have? With little knowledge of human physiology, that question has me feeling more than passing concern.

Will he be okay? Could it be fatal? He didn't seem overly concerned about it...

But what if that was to allay my fears? Fears that he probably doesn't know I have...

Yeah, trying to hide inevitable death is probably a reach. However, I would like to see him back to normal as quickly as possible for my peace of mind. The least I could do is at least check on him a few times throughout the day, in case he needs anything.

After some time to let my anxious thoughts settle, I begin to feel like it isn't so awful to think that John cares. I guess I have to admit it's sort of a relief; It means I don't have to constantly be looking out for myself in every direction. Someone has my back. That's a new feeling. Hell, interacting with anyone on a regular basis, let alone in a casual manner is new for me. All I really remember from birth until arriving here is virtual isolation.

'Birth' might not be an appropriate term, but the point still stands. It was all part of the experiment, after all.

To be fully independent.

The creak of stairs draws my attention away from internal musings and into present consciousness. My eyes dart upward and to my right, honing in on the sound my ears pinpoint to find John carefully making his way down the steps, wearing a bedsheet like a cloak.

"What the hell are you doing? Get back to bed!" I shout, aghast to see him as he tries not to fall the rest of the way down with his lack of balance – as well as my sudden outburst.

"You want me to shit in the sink?" he croaks.

"Not... particularly?" I try not to gag at the thought.

"Then you're going to watch me stumble down the stairs. May as well see if a hot shower helps me at all, while I'm down here," he explains, holding out a fresh change of leisure clothes out from under his makeshift robe.

I don't say anything else as I warily watch him traverse the rest of the steps, relaxing once his feet touch the concrete floor.

"Any customers yet?" he asks upon hitting ground level.

I shake my head in the negative, which elicits a frown from him. "Sorry. How many orders came in overnight?"

"I... hadn't thought about checking that," I admit, appalled that simple task had slipped my mind.

"You worrying about me?" John suggests with a smirk.

That face instantly draws my ire. Even if he is kind of right in that assumption. "Are you sure you didn't just come down here to annoy me when I'm supposed to be rid of you for the day?" I growl at him.

He shrugs while walking into the bathroom and closing the door behind. "I'm a man of many talents," his muffled voice echoes from the other side.

Smartass.

While John does his thing, I decide to check emails on the computer for orders, as reminded by him. And there are quite a few new ones in the last fourteen or so hours. Just at a glance, most seem to be engine parts. Those are quite simple, as my prior work has left shelves full of sorted parts in the building.

Let's see... Pontiac 400 heads, Ford truck 351 oil pan, Jeep 360 four-barrel intake...

I don't recall doing any Jeep stuff. But there are numerous parts I can identify or I know are tagged. Book smarts don't necessarily translate into instant visual identification – not like John can do. I still need reference tags for a number of these items. The knowledge John possesses likely comes with experience.

Almost in time with the sound of the water being turned on, I pad over to the storage room and make my way along the narrow shelved corridors. The lighting in this room is awful, but I have no issues seeing in the dark, thanks to my eyes. I guess I don't completely hate those.

I find it entertaining whenever John has to stumble his way around in hereon the search for a component. It isn't out of pure sadism; by his own admission, he's brought this struggle upon himself. Like other aspects of his business, the clutter and poor lighting were something he noticed but never bothered to improve.

With as much stockpiling as the two of us have accomplished, reaching and replacing light fixtures will be a tall task. It goes without saying before that could be accomplished, better organization of the standing metal shelves should come first.

Maybe someday...

I manage to find the Pontiac heads within the first handful of shelves, aided by the metallic light blue paint still coating much of the cast exterior. One thing crossed off of my mental list, I snap them up and trot back to the entrance, placing them down outside the door and around the corner.

Before I turn back to head for another part, someone appears from around the corner of the open garage bay door.

A customer!

Excitement and anxiousness build, until I get a better look at the visitor and what he has in hand. Carrying a large box, the man is clad in a drab brown uniform...

It's just a package delivery driver. Dammit.

"Well good morning, miss," he greets with a smile and in a voice that borderlines baby talk. "Your owner wouldn't happen to be around to sign for this package, would he?"

Owner. I clench my jaw and bite my tongue at that insulting word being directed toward me. And the way he says that! Like I'm some sort of imbecile! I have half a mind to—

"In here, but I'm a little occupied at the moment!" John shouts through the sounds of running water. "She can sign for it, can't she?"

"Of course, sorry about that," the delivery driver announces back, his gaze drawn toward the closed bathroom door.

It gives me a moment to scowl at him in an attempt to relieve some anger. Just as he is about to return his attention to me, I bring back a more approachable appearance.

"Where do you want this?" he asks politely, motioning to the large package with a nod of his head. The box is large enough to require the use of both hands.

Well, he can shove it wh—

"I'll take it," I reply, as I'm able to sense some sort of ferrous material inside I can grasp.

It's strange how my ability works, but I can 'feel' when something can be moved or drawn toward me. From that, I can normally get a sense of general shape, as well as any separate pieces.

Feeling the presence of four cylindrical objects, I latch onto them and float the box to the floor, much to the driver's shock and awe.

"Whoa. Never seen that before."

It takes a moment of staring agape at me before he reaches for a device on his hip. With practiced motions, he taps through a few things before holding it out toward me, as well as some sort of plastic pen. No – a stylus.

I don't know how I know that term. I guess like so many other items, names, and phrases, it's just there.

"Sign here and I'll be out of your way," he directs.

Having the spotlight on me now is a bit embarrassing, as I know full well I cannot handle that object. I divert my attention to other nearby odds and ends. It takes only a split second to spot the ideal candidate – the thin metal wire tying the identification tag to the engine heads I set down moments ago.

The wire unwinds itself under my silent instructions, weaving through the air and wrapping around the stylus pen.

"Man, they keep on coming up with crazier inventions, don't they?" he says, wide-eyed and astounded.

"Something like that," I reply, taking a moment to scrawl my name on the touchscreen.

'Midnight.'

That sort of makes it official now, doesn't it? It was a quick thought to avoid John from using the cringe-worthy 'Turbo' moniker, but I have come to actually like the name. It sure beats an alphanumeric project code.

The delivery man takes a moment to look at what I jotted down on the screen. It appears to get a renewed smile from him as he puts it away and offers a departing wave.

"Have a good day, Midnight."

I return a half-hearted wave with a hoof, waiting for him to disappear beyond the brick-and-mortar door frame. A growl of simmering frustration escapes me once the coast is clear – I can't just let that 'owner' term slide.

For more than one reason.

"Sorry, Midnight."

"What?" I turn to face the bathroom door after hearing John's apology from the other side.

"I was a little worried you might not take too well to him asking for your..." he trails off.

"Owner?" I suggest, keeping my audible bitterness to the minimum I can muster.

"Yeah. I figured I would just speak up."

I could berate him for that. After all, this is supposed to be my day flying solo. Perhaps he came down here to 'shower' because he doesn't trust me...

Even if that were true, he's right. That comment had me peeved, even if that is the cover I need to hide behind.

"I probably would have had to fetch you for approval anyway. And no, that did not sit well with me," I sigh. "Thank you."

I await the gasp or comment pointing out the rare appearance of my manners. But aside from the water shutting off, all is silent.

That's... abnormal.

"John?"

"Yeah? I'm here."

"Oh. I was expecting you to be a smartass about my thank you," I admit.

"Should I?"

"Normally you would have. Is this part of being ill?"

I hear him chuckle slightly. "No, but I think I know why I feel like shit," he announces.

"Do tell." I'm eager to hear this piece of news.

"You remember that chicken bacon ranch pizza I had about a week ago?"

I do recall that pizza - because it looked like a horrendous concoction when he opened the box that night. I didn't touch it.

"That was last week, though."

"And there were still leftovers. Maybe a little too old to eat safely..."

"Dumbass."

"Yeah, I deserve that. But it means I'll probably be feeling better once it's out of my system, so hopefully tomorrow."

The door opens, greeting me with a wave of steam that rolls outward. John shuffles out in his new change of clothes, his short brown hair still looking slightly damp.

"Anyway – to tell you the truth, I guess I see now that you've got your own demons to work through. As much as I like to pick for fun and enjoy getting it back, that's not fair to you. You're trying."

Try as I might, it's impossible to keep stoic. I can feel my face grow hot.

"I'm— we all got the little things that bother us. You're making a mountain out of a molehill."

"Maybe. Let's just leave it at that. I still feel like everything is moving while I'm standing still."

A cooling wave of relief washes over me with that gentle dismissal. All that's left is the mystery in the package just delivered.

"What did you order, anyway? Whatever it is, there's four of 'em, and I can tell they're some sort of metal tubes."

John is wide-eyed after my remark describing the contents I can sense within.

"You figured that all out just by picking it up?"

"Still sealed, isn't it?" I pick up the box and spin it around, demonstrating the lack of loose flaps.

"Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag. I don't want you thinking they're the keys to your own private fun time," he comments, wiggling his eyebrows.

Metal tubes as private fun ti—

I take a step back from him upon realization and snort, insulted by the idea. "Don't be a pervert! Fucking sicko!" I shout at him.

He bows as if being applauded, almost losing his balance in the process as he takes a half step to correct himself. "Shock absorbers for the Trailduster. Leaf springs will still be a week, I think," he finally explains, standing up straight with a serious face.

"You actually went and bought that stuff?"

That was something I had anticipated was a joke to be forgotten.

"Said I was gonna do it, I'm not going to lie and pretend I didn't. But you're gonna help me replace them, right?"

"Absolutely!" I can't help it, but the fact he remembered and went ahead with the idea thrills me. No more smacking my horn against the roof when the trail gets ragged!

Evidently, my excitement is infectious, as a grin spreads over John's face as well.

"I am going to take note that I think this is genuinely the happiest I've ever seen you, and the biggest smile you've ever sported."

"Still unsettling as well?" I shoot back, stretching my grin just a little wider to show off my teeth.

"Maybe not as much. I still wouldn't trust you with my fingers near your mouth, though."

"Get back to bed, sicky."

He wearily salutes me before heading back up the stairs. As he reaches for the doorknob at the top of the landing, my mind shifts back to an earlier puzzle I figure he will understand.

"John, one of the orders is for a Jeep intake, 360 four-barrel. Do we have any of those?" I shout up to him.

"Yeah, should have at least one or two AMC intakes in there," he replies, pointing to the storage room.

I shake my head, mystified as to how he managed to mishear me.

"Jeep, John."

"Yeah, I know – that's my bad for not explaining," he says, rubbing the back of his head. "Jeep was owned by AMC – American Motors Corporation – starting in 1970. AMC and Jeep shared the same engines."

"Oh. Alright then," I reply. I'm still not quite certain what I'm looking for...

"Yeah. Whatever we got down there for AMC intakes, that will work. The intake is the same across the board, from the 304 all the way to the 401. All those engines are virtually the same – same block, cylinder heads, the whole nine yards. Just different bore and stroke combinations."

I must have made a face that triggered him to explain. At least now it makes sense, without me having to ask.

"Well that's awfully convenient."

"I thought so. Them boys up in Kenosha, Wisconsin had some damn good ideas compared to the Detroit Big Three. At least up until forming an alliance with the French and Renault in the eighties. Damn shame."

With that, he opens the door to the living quarters, stepping in and turning one last time to face me.

"Don't be afraid to ask if you need any help. I'm going to try to get some more sleep and power through this crap," he says.

"I'll be fine. Just get better - and don't eat any more expired food, stupid," I lecture him.

"You're no fun," he scoffs, before shutting the door.

Now, back in isolation, I can't help but think maybe having someone who cares isn't so bad after all...