Burning The Midnight Oil


                                            - - - -

                                            >The buzz of your alarm clock jolts you awake for the third time this morning.

                                            >But unlike the last two times, you finally sit up in bed to greet its annoying chime.

                                            >You stare daggers at the blurry red mass vibrating on your fuzzy nightstand.

                                            "Hush." You mutter as you give it a hard smack on the top, silencing it until further notice.

                                            >With that out of the way, you attempt to rub the sleep from your eyes, yawning all the while.

                                            "What... What day is it?"

                                            >Last you checked, you should be getting that supply drop that Ms. Pea mentioned...

                                            "M-Ms. Pea..."

                                            >You feel yet another wave of hot embarrassment shoot through your body and up to the tips of your ears.

                                            >You bring up your blanket to your nose and let out a pathetic little whimper.

                                            >You vividly remember that poor middle aged mailmare innocently poking her head through your open window at dusk and greeting you warmly as you were having some, uh... some alone time.

                                            >She didn't *see* you doing anything due to your habit of staying under the covers, but you could tell from her expression that she most definitely knew *something* was off…

                                            >Even after calming down enough from her sudden intrusion that you could leave your bed and meet her at the window, you could barely make eye contact with her as she casually explained what the letter was for.

                                            >She told you that the basics would always be provided, but if you wanted anything special, you'd have to jot it down.

                                            >You managed to blabber out a question regarding the limitations of 'special' items and she just shrugged and said it depends on your contact's budget.

                                            >Assuming she meant your dad... You scribbled down a note for the box of replacement typewriter keys under your bed and some warm, fresh clothes and a quick guide on how to use a washer/dryer combo thingy.

                                            >You uh... You kind of suck at the whole 'doing laundry' thing.

                                            >You don't know *why* it happened, but all of your socks are now tinged pink.

                                            >It's not that big of a deal, but you're still a little miffed that your cat paw socks don't match your 'a-mew-zing!' hoodie anymore...

                                            "I- I'm still surprised they let me bring whatever I wanted..."

                                            >It feels weird having most of your stuff here.

                                            >The only things you didn't have with you was your laptop and Hubert, your pet fern.

                                            >You let out a soft sigh.

                                            "Why didn't I just bring him? Dad won't even remember to water him..."

                                            >The only solace you have is that you made sure to stick one of mom's old glass self-watering thingies in his soil, so he should be okay for a while longer.

                                            >...As you feel the warmth of daylight begin to brush up against your cheek, you instinctively hide your face with a half asleep wing.

                                            "I don't wanna get uppp..."

                                            >But you don't exactly have a choice, do you?

                                            >You grumble a bit as you search halfheartedly for your glasses on your nightstand.

                                            "Look at you... Blind as a bat."

                                            >And... there we go.

                                            >Feeling slightly less disabled, you reluctantly slip out of your warm bed, intent on getting dressed for the day.


                                            >You shuffle over to the pile of 'probably' clean clothes you have stacked up on the old rocking chair that was here when you moved in and begin to rummage around for something to cover your lithe frame.

                                            >After giving them the tried and true sniff test, you settle on wearing a baggy cardigan you wore the other day and fresh socks.

                                            >You briefly ponder changing underwear as well, but you decide to delay that until you get around to doing some wash.

                                            >They'll be fine till then. Probably.

                                            "And it's not like anypony will see me, right?"

                                            >You're sure they'll just drop off the box of supplies by the little shack outside and you'll have to haul it back to the lighthouse in a cart or... something.

                                            >Wait, do you even *have* a cart?

                                            >You swear there was one downstairs...

                                            >You'll uh- You'll worry about that later!

                                            "First things first... Breakfast."

                                            >You've never been much of a morning pony, but you've always been a sucker for a good breakfast.

                                            >Dad always said that if you ever wanted to feel wide awake and ready for the day, even if you didn't want to be, you had to fill up your tum at the proper time instead of eating random junk in the middle of the day.

                                            >You're not sure if he actually believed that or not, but it certainly convinced you to dig into your waffles as a filly.

                                            >Helped that you liked waffles anyways.

                                            >Especially the kind with the little chocolate chips...

                                            "Hmph... now I want waffles."

                                            >Luna's rump... When was the last time you had one?

                                            "Probably... oh never mind!"

                                            >You're stalling! Stop that and be a big mare.

                                            >Adjusting you glasses as you stand before your door, you take a deep breath.

                                            "I-It's a new day... Go out there and... and make the most of it."

                                            >You ruffle your wings a little as you slink out of your room and into the stairwell.

                                            >As your ears begin to perk at the familiar sounds that begin to fill them, you turn your gaze skywards.

                                            >Peering up at the spiral staircase that leads to the lantern room used to make you dizzy, but after being here a while...

                                            >It was an almost comforting sight.

                                            >You could hear the rough churning of gears below, and the ever-present hum of the lantern above made your sensitive ears flick and prickle a little as they adjusted to the sensation once more.

                                            "Good morning." You murmur to yourself as you begin to make your way downstairs.

                                            >You awkwardly hum along with the lantern until you're so far below that you can't here it anymore.

                                            >Finally, your hooves touch the soft carpet of the ground floor and you let out a sigh.

                                            >You sure hope you have something left to even *make* breakfast...

                                            >Turning to your right, you make your way into the kitchen and begin to scavenge around for something to sustain your loathsome form for yet another day.

                                            >Just as you feared, you come up empty-hooved when it came to breakfast foods.

                                            >Reluctantly, you settled on grabbing a can of veggie soup from the store room and eating it cold.

                                            >Why didn't you warm it up?

                                            >That's... A good question.

                                            >That was dumb of you.


                                            >With your belly partially filled with mushy peas and carrots, you turn your attention to the chalkboard that sat haphazardly in the middle of what you assume was once a break room of sorts, but was now brimming with dusty charts and dreadfully boring old books.

                                            >You tried leafing through a few the first day you were here, but they were simply too dense and went completely over your head.

                                            >Didn't help that most of them were in prench...

                                            "Of all the languages, it just *had* to be the one that I completely flunked in school..."

                                            >Lame books aside, you now focus on the schedule shakily outlined on the chalkboard before you.

                                            >Just beside it was a small sketchy approximation of what you perceive yourself as.

                                            >A frail, dorky little mare lying among the green grass of chalkboard hill with a pair of big oval glasses on her face and an awkward little fanged smile to bring it all together.

                                            >Mini-you's chalky body was a much brighter white than your own, so it wasn't *that* accurate.

                                            >You were more of an... eggshell, in reality.

                                            >A uh- A dirty eggshell.

                                            >More like a very light gray, really...

                                            "Isn't that what eggshell is already? Wait... No, no you're getting off track again."

                                            >You shake your jumbled thoughts from your head and pick up a piece of chalk from a nearby mug with an anchor motif going on.

                                            >You think whoever was here before you liked their nautical theming.

                                            "Time to plahn out yer dahy, Mehdy."

                                            >With chalk pursed between your lips you narrow your eyes at the board.

                                            "Letsh shee..."

                                            >You topped up the lantern the other night, so you don't have to worry about that for a bit...

                                            >The storeroom looked to be mouse free last you checked. (...What are you even supposed to do if you actually *find* a mouse? Invite it to tea?)

                                            >The bathtub is no longer clogged, so shower time is now totally on the table. (Go figure that it was your own dumb hair in the drain...)

                                            >And of course... You still need to watch out for ships once night rolls around. (So yet another night of twiddling your hooves as you wait around for something to happen... Yippee.)

                                            >After running though the events of the previous days and jotting them down, you quickly realize that you have...

                                            >Absolutely nothing to do. Again.

                                            >Setting your chalk aside, you let out a sigh.

                                            "What am I even supposed to do all day? My typewriter's broken..."

                                            >You guess you could, like... Go exploring?

                                            >No... No, that'd take too much effort.

                                            >You'd just get all sweaty and burn off all ninety something calories you just ate and be hungry *again*.

                                            >Bleh... you hate having to nourish a body.

                                            >Especially one as pathetic as yours.

                                            >Why couldn't you have been born a pretty flower?

                                            "Or a jellyfish..."

                                            >You trot around in circles a bit, lost in thought and idly licking the chalk off your lips.

                                            >It's kind of sweet, like those candy cigarettes that your mom would buy you at the-

                                            >*Rrrrrringriiiing!*

                                            "A-AH!"

                                            >You scramble under a nearby table and cover your poor ringing ears with your hooves.

                                            "W-w-what was that?!"


                                            >A million different possibilities run through your panicked mind, but the most likely scenario is that you probably did something terribly wrong.

                                            "I-I'm sorry muh- Mr. Lighthouse please don't be a-angry! Ahm sorry p-please stop..."

                                            >A desperate whine escapes your throat as your ears are assaulted with harsh noise once again.

                                            >Luna help you, you're gonna die.

                                            >You can almost see the headline now.

                                            >'The worst pony for the job! Kissless virgin bucks everything up and now our beloved lighthouse is now a smoking crater! A bajillion seamares have died because of this sad, sad idiot...'

                                            "W-what do I do what do I... I..."

                                            >Wait.

                                            >M-maybe it's... the doorbell?

                                            >S-stop being a baby and think rationally!

                                            >You rub away the panicked tears from the corners of your eyes and sniffle.

                                            "D-do... Do lighthouses have doorbells?"

                                            >Where is the noise coming from, anyways?

                                            >You shimmy out from under your hiding place and cautiously poke your head out.

                                            >Your ears flat against your head and still somewhat hidden behind the table, you look towards the front door.

                                            >Well, there's not exactly a *back* door, is there? So in reality it's more like the uh...

                                            >Oh hush up.

                                            >There's a... well, it almost looks like there's an old timey fire alarm above the door.

                                            >It has nothing labeling it as such, so maybe it *is* a doorbell.

                                            >What a cruel design. It doesn't even have a cover to muffle it!

                                            >It's almost like this place wasn't designed with bat ponies with weird medical problems in mind...

                                            "It's... been a bit since it last rung."

                                            >Or is it rang?

                                            >W-whatever...

                                            >If it *is* a doorbell... That means you have a guest.

                                            "Maybe it's the supply pony..."

                                            >You’d love to eat something that wasn't canned veggies or lukewarm bottled water.

                                            "Maybe they'll give me some juice concentrate... Ehe..."

                                            >Some apple juice would be lovely right about-

                                            "OHMYGOSHTHEDOOR!"

                                            >If that's a doorbell that means somepony is at the door and that means they've been waiting for you this whole time get up get up GET UP!

                                            >You bumble to your hooves and frantically look around for your shades.

                                            "W-where... There!"

                                            >You find them hanging up on the coat rack near the door and struggle to put them on with your shaky hooves.

                                            "Good going, Middy... W-wasting everypony's time like usual!"

                                            >There's probably a dozen other lighthouses this pony has to deliver to and you're making them *wait*.

                                            >With your eyes shielded from troublesome UVs, you take a deep breath to calm your nerves.

                                            "This is fine! You're fine. Nopony is mad at you..."

                                            >After patting your face a bit to keep yourself focused, you whip around to the door and grab hold of its handle.

                                            >With all the elegance of a malnourished gazelle, you tug open the door and awkwardly thrust yourself into the daylight.

                                            "I-I'm here! Sorry for the uhm... the delay, I was *super* busy a-and uhm..."

                                            >Your voice trails off as you realize that there was nopony there.

                                            "Huh?"

                                            >You take a few steps away from the doorway and look around nervously.

                                            "H-hello? Is somepony there?"


                                            >The isle was small and rocky, the only greenery that kept you company being a bit of stubborn brush and the moss that clung desperately to the cobblestone path that peppered the way down to the dock.

                                            "Speaking of which..."

                                            >There seems to be a dingy docked in your pier.

                                            "...That doesn't sound right."

                                            >You shake your head and squint at the shack at the end of the path.

                                            >It's hard to make out due to your nearsightedness, but you're pretty sure the door is cracked open.

                                            >Considering it was locked before, you guess whoever is here is inside.

                                            "But why did the doorbell go off if nopony came up to the door?"

                                            >Maybe it's... remote?

                                            “That… makes sense I guess.”

                                            >There's gotta be a little button or something down there that makes all that awful racket.

                                            "...And I'm gonna break it."

                                            >You could like… Take a big ol’ rubber mallet and smack it around a bit, maybe spit on it too.

                                            >The thought makes you stifle back an awkward little laugh.

                                            “H-heh… That’ll show ‘em.”

                                            >Your rebellious daydream aside, the more reasonable option is telling the supply pony about your dumb ears and asking them politely to just knock next time around.

                                            >...Or at least muffle the bell before they leave.

                                            "If all else fails... I guess I could always put a sock over it."

                                            >All you'd need to do is find a stepladder...

                                            >...As you continue to stare listlessly in the direction of the shack, a stiff sea breeze suddenly whips your mane in front of you, so you take a moment to brush the pale pink mess out of your face with a huff.

                                            >At this point, your mane is nearing your hooves and you’ve had to bunch up some of your tail into a flail-like bun with a scrunchie to keep it from dragging around.

                                            >You probably look like a total homebody, which was… fair.

                                            >You were more than content to sit around all day, tapping away on your laptop and posting dumb little stories for your blog of seven followers to read.

                                            >It made you happy to see ponies engage with something you made, even if it wasn’t always positive.

                                            >You miss it.

                                            >It… It made you feel like you had friends.

                                            “T-that… That’s enough. You gotta focus.”

                                            >You need to go over there and talk to that uh… that total stranger in that wooden shack!

                                            >T-talking is easy! You do it all the time!

                                            >...Your breathing is getting funny.

                                            >I-It’s almost like you’re nervous or something!

                                            >You squeeze your eyes shut and take a few purposeful breaths.

                                            >C-come on Middy… You’re not a foal anymore! Talking to other ponies isn’t some insurmountable task the requires *minutes* of preparation and mommy to let you hold her wing!

                                            [spoiler]>E-even if you’d really really like that right about now…[/spoiler]

                                            >Just… Just take a step off the landing and DO IT!

                                            “O-okay… here we go.”

                                            >With a dry swallow, you gingerly step onto the path.

                                            >As you feel the cool wetness of the cobble underhoof begin to seep into your poor socks, you shudder.

                                            "Guh... T-this is so friggin' gross..."

                                            >You should've just stayed in bed today...


                                            >You continue to trudge forward at a brisk pace, so as not to stay on the path for too long and soil your already ruined socks further.

                                            “S-should have brought my slippers with me…”

                                            >As nice as that sounds, you think you’d feel even worse if your fruit bat slippers got torn up as well.

                                            >The logical solution would have been to simply take off your socks like a normal, well adjusted pony, but the brightest star in the constellation, you are not.

                                            “Phew...”

                                            >You get that the path is so winding because it follows the natural curvature of the incline or whatever but it’s starting to feel like nopony thought to just, you know, make it straight?

                                            >You pause to turn back to the lighthouse with a pout.

                                            “Concrete exists! It’s existed since before the second rejoining! This dumb lighthouse isn’t *that* old, I know you could have made it work! Friggin… Ugh.”

                                            >How about you stop getting mad at the ghosts of long dead architects and keep walking?

                                            >You probably look like you’ve gone cuckoo, yelling at nothing in your skivvies…

                                            >Turning back to the path forward, your ears droop as you realize that you’ve barely made it halfway.

                                            >Letting out a tired sigh, you halfhearted lift a hoof to-

                                            >*BOOM*

                                            >You let out a yelp and fall back on your rump as a puff of glittering magic bursts forth from the shack door and dissipates in the wind.

                                            “W-what just…”

                                            >Your ears swivel in the direction of the shack as you begin to hear loud coughing coming from inside.

                                            “ohlunathebUCKINGSUPPYPONY!”

                                            >With a mixture of adrenaline and panic running through your veins, you scramble to your hooves and bolt down the hill as fast as you can manage.

                                            >You may have noodle legs and a paper flank, but you didn’t make a B- in gym class from just sitting around!

                                            >As your hooves touch down on the old wooden dock, you whip around to face the shack door, panting.

                                            “H-h-hello? Are you alright?”

                                            >You take a little step forward.

                                            “S-say something if you aren’t dead! …P-please?”

                                            >Your ears perk as you're greeted by another bout of coughing.

                                            >”I’m -guh- I’m fine! Just… Christ, when was the last time someone cleaned out this thing? Hardtack would have *never* let it get this bad…”

                                            >The almost scolding voice of a stallion likely older than you swiftly drains the valiance from your stance and you soon find yourself meekly staring at the ground.

                                            “I- I just… there was a loud noise a-and…”

                                            >You flinch as you hear something metallic snap and clatter to the floor.

                                            >”You got to be…” He lets out a labored sigh. “It’s fine. I’ve got a spare.”

                                            >Your wings ruffle nervously against the fabric of your cardigan as you hear him move around the creaky shack.

                                            >”Sorry, but could you grab that wrench from the box outside? It’s got uh- it’s got yellow tape on it.”

                                            >You glance through the strands of mane shielding your face at a reddish toolbox that sits just beside the door and notice the wrench in question.

                                            “...okie.”


                                            >You shuffle over and gingerly pick up the tool in your mouth.

                                            >It’s cold against your teeth.

                                            “Ah gah eht…”

                                            >Despite how unintelligible your voice is with a wrench between your lips, you think he figured out what you said.

                                            >”Great! Just bring it over and we’ll be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”

                                            >You got nipped by a lamb at a petting zoo once…

                                            >Sheep are mean.

                                            >You slowly inch over to the door and put a hoof on it.

                                            >Just… Make yourself useful, Middy.

                                            >If you do that then maybe he won’t have a reason to yell at you.

                                            >You push weakly at the door and it squeakily creaks open.

                                            >With your eyes firmly to the floor, you shuffle forward until you’re passed the threshold of the door.

                                            “H…Here you-”

                                            >You freeze up.

                                            >And the wrench falls from your mouth and clatters to the floor.

                                            >As you finally muster the courage to glance up at what you assumed was the supply pony, you quickly realize what was hunched over in the dim lantern light of the shack didn’t register as a pony at all.

                                            >”Wha- Why’d you go and do that?”

                                            >You stumble backwards as it gets up from the floor and stands at its full height.

                                            >It’s… it’s huge!

                                            >Its head nearly brushes up against the ceiling.

                                            >Your wings flare in panic as it takes a step towards you with unknown intent.

                                            >”Oh, uh… Hey now, just relax a minute and-”

                                            >Your panic only rises as you feel one of your socks catch on something and you begin to lose your balance.

                                            >Before you know it, your sock has now slipped off your hoof and you’ve turtled onto your back.

                                            >Your eyes were watering not just due to fearful tears, but also because you lost your shades on the way down.

                                            >It must have ate the supply pony an- and used that puff of weird smoke and his voice t-to lure you in and now it’s gonna eat you and you really don’t want to die like this p-please don’t-

                                            >You go dead silent as you realize that it now stands over you.

                                            >It puts its claws on its… hips?

                                            >“Are you done?”

                                            >You continue to stare up at it from behind your hooves with wide, teary eyes.

                                            “B-but-”

                                            >”I ain’t a monster! I promise I’m not.”

                                            >It does some weird gesture to emphasize that, but it goes right over your head.

                                            >Now that it was in the light coming from the outside… It wasn’t *that* scary.

                                            >If anything, now it just looks kinda… doughy.

                                            >Like bread you haven’t baked all the way.

                                            >He kind of reminds you of a shaved poodle you saw once.

                                            >He had a kindly face which held an expression as tired as it was sympathetic and you can’t help but avert your gaze when you realize how much of a fit you just threw over nothing.

                                            “I…I guess we came off on the wrong hoof a-and I uhm… I’m sorry.”

                                            >Despite the danger having passed, you still flinch a little as he offers a claw to you.

                                            >With nervous hesitation, you gently set a socked hoof in his grasp and without much effort at all, he helped you upright.

                                            >He flashes a small smile. “It’s alright, mare.”


                                            >With that, he gingerly picks up the wrench from the ground and turns back to the odd machine behind him.

                                            >Seeing as it's coated in a fine layer of sparkly dust, you think it might be the reason why the shack is all glittery inside.

                                            >”You’d think something as idiotproof as this hunk of junk wouldn’t backfire so easily…”

                                            >You stay in place, fidgeting with your hooves as you watch his movements from behind your messy bangs.

                                            >He kneels down in front of the machine and brushes dust off what you think is some kind of access panel.

                                            >”Now where was I…”

                                            >Your ears twitch and flick at the sound of metal on metal, but it’s not loud or grating enough that you feel the need to cover them up just yet.

                                            >If anything, the noises just make you more curious as to what he’s doing.

                                            “Excuse me? I- I’m sorry to interrupt but can I… ask something?”

                                            >He turns to face you.

                                            >”Shoot.”

                                            “Y-you look like you uhm…” You eye his dirty attire for an admittedly awkward amount of time. “Fix stuff.”

                                            >“Uh-huh?”

                                            ”A-are you a mechanic?”

                                            >He laughs a little. “Aha… No.”

                                            >He taps the side of the machine with the wrench. “I'm just the delivery guy, but I've been told to check on the generator whenever I stop by to make sure the operator has been cleaning it properly.”

                                            “Oh.”

                                            >He frowns at the dusty machine and lets out a sigh. “And as you can see… It turns out someone got lazy while I was away! Blasted thing was choking on excess gem powder when I got here and *apparently* that stuff gets real volatile when it’s left undisturbed for a long enough time… If that little tantrum was anything to go by, it’s probably been what, two- three months without someone checking it?”

                                            “O-oh…”

                                            >Oh no.

                                            >That- That’s about how long *you’ve* been here.

                                            >It… It was *your* responsibility.

                                            >He could have been blown to smithereens a-and it would have been all YOUR fault!

                                            >You can feel your stomach drop as he looks over again.

                                            >”Hey… are you by chance the daughter of the new lighthouse operator or something?”

                                            “W-w-well I- I uhm…”

                                            >A desperate part of you wants to go along with it, but you already know that it would only delay the inevitable.

                                            >Just… get it over with.

                                            >You can feel tears begin to form in the corner of your eyes as you shake your head.

                                            “A-actually I… I’m the lighthouse operator, s-sir…”

                                            >Before he can react beyond a blink, you hop up to your hooves and take a few unsteady steps towards him.

                                            “Ahm sorry! Th- the door was locked and I just thought that maybe it was just a tool shed or something and didn’t think anything of it b-but I *should* have looked into it and I’m such a stupid d-dumb idiot who deserves to be yelled at and can barely function as a pony a-and-”

                                            >You squeeze your eyes shut as he lifts an arm, expecting the worst.

                                            >...

                                            >...But nothing happens.


                                            >You hear him sigh.

                                            >”So... you’re telling me no one told you about the generator? Like at all?”

                                            >You open an eye to gaze up at him and notice that he has crossed his arms.

                                            >Feeling a little less weary of retaliation, you open your other eye and lift your head.

                                            “N-no sir…”

                                            >His expression didn’t feel like anger, but it wasn’t a positive one either.

                                            >”And who exactly showed you the ropes?”

                                            “I-I don’t remember her name but it was a unicorn who showed me around. She uhm… She kind of went a little too fast for my liking but she said I did well during orientation so I guess she was satisfied that I wouldn't, you know… burn the place down?”

                                            >His eyes narrow. “Purple unicorn?”

                                            “I think she was more of a uhm… violet.”

                                            >He shakes his head. “I’m guessing that it was probably Plum, then… Should have just called me in early so I could do it myself. Not like anyone else bothered to listen to Tack.”

                                            >You continue to stand there as he turns around and begins to rummage around in what you guess is his saddlebag.

                                            >Do… Do non ponies have saddlebags?

                                            >Maybe it’s just a ‘bag’ then…

                                            “Y-you’re not mad at me…?”

                                            >”Well, considering you haven’t ‘burned the place down’, I take it you’ve been doing just about everything else right. A clogged gen’ won’t kill you, it’ll just make you cold as hell. It’s a combination of everything being neglected all at once that will do you in.”

                                            >He pulls out a piece of blueish cloth. “Come here for a sec, will ya?”

                                            >He almost immediately notices the way you eye the cloth with concern

                                            >“It’s to get the hair outta your face, mare. I’m gonna show you how to clean this thing, alright?”

                                            “O-oh! I… Thank you, sir.”

                                            >He shakes his head as you shuffle a little closer. “And stop calling me ‘sir’. I ain’t that old.”

                                            “Aha… Sorry.”

                                            >Now in front of him once more, the ‘delivery guy’ pulls back your bangs with the cloth and loosely ties it in the back, leaving your eyes clear of mane for the first time in a while.

                                            “So what’s your name then? If you don’t mind me asking…”

                                            >”Anon E. Mousse Jr. …But ‘Anon’ is just fine.”

                                            “Well it’s… N-nice to meet you, Anon!”

                                            >”Ditto, uh…”

                                            “Mibby!” You blurt out without as much as a second thought.

                                            >”Mibby?”

                                            >You clear your throat.

                                            “M-Middy! I meant… Middy.”

                                            >You rub your foreleg a bit.

                                            “I-it’s actually Midnight Oil, but I uhm… I always liked Middy.”

                                            >“Must be pretty early for you then. Given the name.”

                                            “I mean… It *did* take a lot of effort to get out of bed today! H-hah…”

                                            >He chuckles. “Well… I’m glad you did, Middy. I could use the extra hoof.”

                                            >You can feel your face redden at actually being called your self-appointed nickname.

                                            >It feels way better than being called ‘Night-Night’...

                                            >You… probably shouldn’t tell him about that one.

                                            >You’d rather leave dumb high school nicknames back in high school.