This evening, Midnight wanted to begin the process of creating a proper inventory system on computer in addition to a sort of virtual map of the junkyard. In essence, something that could actually point us to where a car was located much closer than 'somewhere in this row of makes.' This undertaking is a tall task considering some of the rows out here contain more than fifty cars – on just one side of the main path.

With the spreadsheet that's currently on my PC, I would fill out year and trim of cars with the barest of information every now and then when I received a vehicle, rather than being judicious and consistent. As a result, the half-assed document on my computer leaves something to be desired. Compounding the issue moving forward, I have not been diligent in regards to even marking the windshields of cars with their model year, either. Such a simple undertaking would have made our project now a bit easier.

Sure, there are a lot of cars I can discern the year or trim just by one look at the front or side – but some had more subtle visual running changes, or none at all. As a result, I will have to jot down the VIN of questionable vehicles and decode it later via internet information.

I originally suggested starting this project all the way in the back corner and working forward, but Midnight was clear and stern in her desire to start up front near the shop It seemed more than just a preference for less travel, but I left it alone.

Just as well; the back corner is where random junk gets dumped off, in addition to a hodgepodge of different makes that do not warrant their own specific section or row. A majority of those are older European imports; I rarely venture that far for a parts request, but on occasion, I do need something from an MG or Triumph

On the other hand, I have a few Volkswagens parked back in that section too; they generate a fair amount of interest and inquiries, but it seems to come and go in waves.

Nevertheless, starting right behind the shop meant we didn't need to take the Trailduster – just some walking shoes. I can't remember the last time I did this much walking without the assist of the Trailduster. I expect my legs to remind me of this hiking excursion come tomorrow morning.

Currently, Midnight levitates a steel plate in front of her with a large notebook set atop it, along with a pen wrapped in a steel spring for writing.

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised she can write, considering I knew she could read from day one. Then there's everything else she can do or has taught herself at one point or another to consider. Despite all of those prior notations, I'm still a bit awestruck watching her scribble down notes for the first few cars, much to her embarrassment.

She really gets wound up any time I point out something about her – which makes it more fun for me when she starts trying to come up with an excuse to hide her face or look elsewhere.

Speaking of fun...

Ever since discussing her long-term goals, Midnight has been a bit... distracted. Clearly something is preoccupying her mind, and I feel guilty for inadvertently causing that.

Beyond my guilt, I feel like Midnight gipped me that same night of discussion, turning away and trying to hide her laughter upon hearing my self-depracating joke. I really want to make up for that tonight.

No idea why. I just want to see her genuinely laughing for once.

As the two of us get to the mishmash section of GM cars I like to call the "Row of Shame," inspiration strikes to try something profoundly stupid. While Midnight is preoccupied with jotting down the first few cars we've encountered here, I hunch over like I'm attempting to sneak. An outstretched arm in front of Midnight forces her to halt in place.

Surprised, she looks over to me with a quizzical expression. Rather than give her a verbal answer, I put my index finger up to my lips, signaling to keep silent.

It only serves to confuse Midnight further as she cocks her head at me. In the meantime, I dig deep to harness and summon my inner Crocodile Hunter before starting my stupid charade.

Rest in peace, you crazy Australian bastard.

"What are we—"

"Quiet now, little lady. We're approaching some very dangerous creatures, and the last thing we want to do is spook them," I whisper in an awful attempt at an Aussie accent.

Midnight can only stare, dumbfounded as she tries to figure out what the hell I'm suddenly going on about – and probably what the hell that voice was supposed to emulate, too.

I ignore those possibilities as I point to direct Midnight's attention toward an old compact car that rests just off to the right of us. "Right there, a creature in its natural habitat – a '72 Chevy Vega! Let's see if we can get a bit closer look."

While I walk up to the sun-baked orange clunker, I further direct Midnight's attention to hone in on what's left of the front fenders. The body panels have been eaten away by rust in multiple areas despite the dry climate, looking more akin to swiss cheese than sheet metal at this point after years of decay that likely started at a young age.

"Very common coloration here – rust. Comes from a piss poor rust-proofing process in a dipping vat," I continue, struggling to keep my horrible fake accent consistent. "It allowed air pockets to form under the fender tops so they didn't get coated. Plastic inner fender liners were added later – after GM replaced thousands of rotten fenders under warranty those first few years."

"Are you serious?" Midnight asks, her brow raised in skepticism. While I cant be sure what exactly she's questioning, it doesn't matter; I'm committed to this charade now.

With two other Vega models next to the particular one we've approach, I only need gesture to the heaps next in line which possess the same ailment. As Midnight takes note of the ravages of the tin worm, I grab hold of the orange car's hood and flip it forward, finding the next piece of awful design is thankfully – and unfortunately – still at home. "Now we get to the really scary bits here – the 2.3-liter aluminum block four-cylinder. Despite its size, it has a tremendous thirst for oil."

"That's a diesel?" Midnight asks as she pokes her head into the engine bay for a better gander. Years of fluid leaks, dust, and grime have combined to stand the engine a grungy brown-black overall, with only hints of the aluminum block underneath peering through.

"Nah, Oldsmobile fucked that up later in the '70s with Cadillac tagging along for fun," I answer, momentarily slipping out of my fake accent. "No, this little devil would leak oil through the poor valve seats in the head, as well as allow coolant past the head gasket. Excessive heat would warp the block and cause that gasket to fail, which would cause more overheating, more warping, and so on. So the pistons would start scouring the cylinder walls and suck in oil in from the bottom end."

I close the hood to hide that sin away from the world once again while Midnight circles around to the front. Much to my surprise, she's allowing herself to smirk at my little showcase – though she may be thinking I'm too distracted to notice.

"Where are you going? I haven't even explained its final defense mechanism," I call just as she begins to move down the line of cars.

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"Well, if you get the little bugger cornered with nowhere else to go, it can backfire through the exhaust and split the muffler – conveniently placed next to the fuel tank which could overheat and catch fire. Really angry bastard, this one."

"Are you going to ham this up all evening?" she asks, trying to scowl at me with little success.

"Indeed I am, mate."

I strut past her with enthusiam now, my sights already set upon another compact that I possess for some reason. "Now look at this – this is a rare bird indeed," I gush, holding my arms out wide to emphasize the dusty white wreck as we approach.

"Really?" Midnight answers with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "It looks like another boring economy car."

"Ah, and that's the beauty of this little hatchback – you don't realize the danger of the Chevy Citation until it's too late."

Midnight bites her lip, trying as hard as she can to seem unimpressed by my continuing stupid antics. "Uh-huh, I'm sure," she finally replies.

"No, really. This thing brought out a lawsuit by the government against GM," I clarify, slipping out of my terrible accent and deciding to let it die. "There were different divisions designing different parts of the car since they would all share this platform, and not a damn one consulted the other in terms of engineering. So they managed to fart out this turd in all its misery."

"Eh... how bad could it be? I feel like you're just exaggerating at this point," Midnight comments.

"They somehow managed to have this car plagued by heavy torque steer in the front despite the lack of power; this was the first transverse engine front-wheel drive car GM developed, and I use the term "developed" here lightly. That didn't stop them from modifying a few cars for the press to get rid of that handling issue for positive reviews, which is pretty damn sad. Even worse, they won Car of the Year for 1980 as a result. There was regret later when some of those same reviewers got to drive an actual production car."

I pause to wander around back of the car, kicking one of the flat rear tires. "And then these things liked to lock up the rear wheels if you got on the brakes in an emergency. Because of course, the best way to slow down is by spinning out of control. They managed to injure a bunch of people and kill a few with that feature. That triggered many safety recalls which never fully fixed the issue, a government investigation, and a federal lawsuit that I mentioned before. I don't think anything came of that, though."

"And yet you have one in your junkyard - is there anyone that has ever wanted parts from this?"

I'm forced to shake my head. "I like to think I have this here as a warning to the world to make sure history doesn't repeat itself. Lest we forget."

While it isn't much, I hear Midnight emit a light chuckle at the comment. "How do you know this kind of crap, anyway?" she asks.

"Cars are my life, Midnight; there are so damn many stupid stories of horrendous design, it will make your head spin. GM just happened to be on point with terrible ideas in some of the lean years of Detroit's automakers, which was the 70s and 80s. King of the shitboxes."

"You know we passed several cars on the way to these shitmobiles, right? We're out here for a reason," Midnight nonchalantly responds as she turns to head back.

"No, we're out here for two reasons," I call out after her.

It gets her to stop and turn around, studying me as she tries to discern what I'm talking about. "Getting a proper database of the cars you have out here and... what?" she inquires, giving up.

"Trying to get you to have a little giggle, mate," I joke with some bastardization of a British and Aussie accent again while I trudge over to where she stands.

"I— what? Why?" Midnight wonders with a daze expression. While it's difficult to tell with her dark coat, I can almost guarantee she's blushing.

But I have to shrug with a stupid grin on my face. "I dunno, keep you on your toes, I guess. You've been... decidedly less snarky and lively the last couple of days."

It's only been recent that I've taken note of changes in positioning of her ears that coincide with certain emotions from Midnight. Now, as she mulls my words, realization hits Midnight in unison with her ears drooping. "I'm fine. I just hadn't thought of the future. Like the actual future – and you just had me considering that."

"If it helps at all, I'm not going to throw you out to live in that van again just because the junkyard is private, if that's something bothering you."

"And what if I want to go back to living out there?" she challenges.

"Then by all means, follow your dreams."

"Oh."

I don't know what that flat response was meant to convey. Unless that was bothering her. "Hey, you aren't getting soft now, are you?" I tease, unable to help myself.

"If I threaten to bite off one of your fingers, will that change your mind?" Midnight sasses in some attempt to save face. She pins her ears back while flashing those savage pearly whites, emphasizing her intentions.

Aw, it's so cute.

"Can I choose which one?"

"...No?" she spits out, taken aback by my inquiry.

"Then yes, that changes my mind."

"And what if I had said you could choose?"

"I still would have had the idea of you going soft shoved out of my mind."

"Then what was the point of asking?!"

"I'unno. Make you call me a dumbass or som—"

"Dumbass."

I flash her another goofy grin, beginning to walk back to the start of this row at a brisk pace. "Thanks, Turbo."

"Hey!" Hooves begin to beat a torrid pace upon the trail behind me as I kick my own ass into high gear. "You're losing an arm for that!"

"Perhaps I could interest you in a shitbox tale about the conrod-shattering, fire-prone Fiero! Or the economy-class Cavalier they slapped a Cadillac badge on and sold it as a luxury car named the Cimarron!"

Of course, running from Midnight is an effort in futility due to her advantage in leg count. She zips past me, flaring out her wings as if to slow herself down before pirouetting and halting me in my tracks. Midnight leers, keeping her wings outstretched as she raises her head and puffs out her chest in an attempt to intimidate.

"Hi."

"Lose the horrible impersonations when you explain to me these "shitboxes," and I will leave you whole."

"Fair enough."

"Alright, go ahead and try it again."

Time for yet another encore of the Highland Park Hummingbird singing its tune. The characteristic whine of a Chrysler starter's reduction gearing begins as the engine I've been slaving over cranks.

And cranks.

And cranks.

Just as the powerplant seems ready to catch and run, a ball of flame erupts from the throat of the carb. I jump back out of instinct from the passenger side fender, nearly falling back on my ass before I catch my balance. "Stop, stop!" I shout to my assistant.

Midnight appears from the other side of the engine bay, having just exited the driver's seat.

"Do I still have eyebrows?" I ask, leaning over the fender again while motioning to my face.

"Are you expecting me to say no, or..." she trails off, a bit confused by my question. I have to assume she did not get a view of what happened through the gap between open hood and cowl.

"Backfire out the carb. An old joke – and probably some truth to it," I explain.

"So now what?"

As I stand up straight for the first time in a while, I stretch my back and earn a few pops as a reward. "Break time. Let this sit for a little while. I think the timing is off, so that will be the next fun thing on the list."

Heading back to the Trailduster, I really just want to say fuck it and call it a day. But even if I do, I know we will just be back here again tomorrow. So, I settle for propping open the driver's door and taking a seat in the cab of my truck, getting a minor reprieve from the desert sun's rays. Midnight follows my lead and hops up into the seat on the passenger side.

"Are you still dead determined to drive that back to the shop, or is it getting to be more hassle than it's worth?" she asks.

I take another glance at the current car we're working on, an early '70s Plymouth Fury. It's another behemoth of a car, two tons of full-size Detroit steel. "I really don't want to use this to tow a car that hefty all the way back through the sand," I reply, thumping the steering wheel of the Trailduster with an open palm. "I know that Fury runs; I drove it back here."

"And how long ago was that?"

"Well..." I trail off, hesitant to give her an actual answer. It wasn't this year, that's for sure.

"I don't understand why we can't just take what we need off of the car like any other part. Care to elaborate?" Midnight asks.

"The customer wants just the front K-member – basically the cradle between the front frame rails where the engine sits. So I have to cut that out with a torch – which would be fine, if the engine was out of it. And if I felt comfortable cutting it out here. I'm not going to be able to get the car very high off the ground without a lift."

While visibly frustrated with the predicament she now understands the two of us face, Midnight nods her head.

"We can get it going; I've seen junkyard motors sit for longer and run well enough to use em as is," I add, hoping to give her some reassurance. "It's just trial and error."

As I glance around the landscape, a black Dodge Caravan that Midnight called home for months catches my eye at the end of the row. "Wanna go visit the summer home?" I quip.

She follows my line of sight, spotting the reference. "I think I'll pass, you smartass," she answers with a smirk.

"I'm guessing you aren't keen to return any time soon then, with that response."

"If you had asked me a couple of weeks ago, I may have been on the fence," she admits. "But having a butler that serves me food and an air-conditioned room to rest? Nah, you're going to have to deal with me now. You fucked up."

Though I expected to hear that, the confirmation that Midnight doesn't want to leave is still a relief; I can't lie to myself anymore – I think she's good company. That's a hard idea to fathom after being aversive to the whole idea of ponies less than a month ago, but shit changes.

In the past, heading upstairs to relax before bed was just sort of... it was a necessary ritual. The preparation for another day on the job.

But with Midnight trusting me more as each day passes, it's an opportunity of discussion and banter that's a breath of fresh air in a cycle of monotony.

I never hated my life. But this has become far removed from the dream it was supposed to be. That's sort of the way life goes, I suppose. But I'm starting to realize many issues are due to my own damn stubbornness. After butting heads with virtually every individual I tried to hire, I gave up on that and flew solo.

Maybe that's why I stopped bothering to do anything other than work, aside from the obvious lack of free time; I was trying to lie to myself that this was enjoyable. That fun was slogging through the same crap day after day, only to get a short reprieve out in the yard, and then a reprieve when it was lights out for maybe six hours.

Sundays amounted to an excuse to drink or stare at the TV.

Doing everything on my own led me to abandon my social life – what little I had, anyway. My short temper due to stress finished off any loose ends.

Yet Midnight has mixed that up, and I'm honestly afraid her absence may send me back into the same old doldrums of life.

Or lack of life, if I'm being honest.

...and I really hadn't thought about what I would do after losing this place. This steering wheel I'm gripping is all I've got – the only thing I would have left to my name once I defaulted on the loan would be this old SUV.

I would be starting all over again.

That is not a prospect I feel I could do. That's part of the reason I just shut down my mind when it came to the troubles I faced. I felt so damn stressed all the time. Something in my mind eventually just said 'fuck it.' Why worry about it, why think about it? It was making me miserable.

So I stopped thinking about the what-ifs. There wasn't much left for fate to decide beyond that. It was a matter of time with the way things were going, and I had just given up. Why try to fight it and bring this place back from the brink?

I've been lying to myself for a while now, without realizing it. Lying that I'm happy and lying that I'm living out my dream. It started out that way, but it didn't play out that way as time went on. I've just been ignoring the nightmare and drawing a happy face over it.

Perhaps it's fitting Midnight came along when she did. A Nightmare knockoff to reveal the nightmare I had accepted.

...no – that's demeaning in comparison to what she's done thus far. She's much more than a knockoff.

"You okay?"

I turn to Midnight, seeing those bright blue eyes studying me with more than passing concern.

"Yeah, just thinking."

"Do you always white-knuckle the steering wheel when you think?"

It's only now I notice the tensed muscles and tendons in my arms and hands – wielding a death grip on the aforementioned wheel. Releasing it, my limbs feel like jello for a few moments afterward.

"I was joking if you don't want me to stay," Midnight continues.

"What? No! It's fine!" I protest, realizing I had zoned out after her quip.

Midnight's looks on with incredulity as she ponders my spastic behavior. "Thinking about how you want to strangle me, or..." she trails off for a moment. "Look, you can't just leave me with 'I was thinking.' I get that's rare for you, but that hardly an excuse."

"Ouch, you show concern by bringing the fire?"

"I gotta remind you I'm not going soft, apparently," she jests. "Seriously, what's got you so stressed?"

"How about I repeat one of your lines?"

"...what do you mean?" she replies with her own question.

"Why do you care?"

That phrase hits her immediately, her ears flattening as she averts my gaze. "I mean, it's none of my business - but I don't want you suddenly snapping and driving us off of a cliff or something," she says dismissively.

Holy shit, is she really trying to bluff her way out of a genuine display of concern for me?

"Thelma and Louise finale doesn't sound fun? If it's the whole convertible thing you're afraid of missing out on, the top on the rear of this thing is removable."

"I don't understand that reference, but you're insufferable anyway," she replies.

"I try. But to be level with you, I was just thinking about how things were. I guess I'm realizing that I thought I was happy. Obviously, besides the whole ignoring this place being a pit I was throwing money into, I thought I was living the way I wanted to live – like I dreamed."

"You didn't seem all that unhappy to me. You still don't," Midnight chimes in.

"No, I suppose not. I've always enjoyed lightly picking at people, trying to be light-hearted. Maybe I've gotten so good at it I've even fooled myself. I'm beginning to feel like I've been wearing a mask for a while, and I haven't seen it when I look in the mirror."

"And now... what, exactly? You feel better?"

I have to shrug my shoulders. "Yeah, little bit. Feel like I lost some weight off of me I didn't know I had."

Both of us fall into silence now with my confession. I don't really have anything else to say, and Midnight seems to be at a loss of how to respond to that.

Perhaps she was surprised that I actually shared with her, rather than bury it like she does.

"Hey Midnight?"

She comes to attention again, allowing me a chance to study her beautiful blue eyes.

They really are something else - an unnaturally vibrant ice blue with subtle variations of shades scattered within her irises, almost like a starburst pattern. Even when they aren't glowing brightly in tune with her electromagnetic abilities, they are striking, to say the least.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for putting up with my bullshit."

"It comes with the room and services, I suppose," she says with a wave of her hoof to brush me aside.

I can't help but chuckle. "At least you know there's a catch."

Author's Note

One of the first "car spotlight" updates in this story that appears on occasion. This one just happens to focus on a few sins that cost GM gobs of market share through to the 90s.