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Somepony has to stand the watch. Somepony has to stay up all night, just in case.
Tonight, it's Spitfire.
Another attempt to capture the feel of long nights sitting around waiting for something to happen. Not bad, I guess, but jeeze, can you imagine twelve whole hours of this?
The desk was probably older than her. Hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of ponies had sat at the desk over the years. Various inkblots dotted the surface and the drawers had gotten rough in their tracks. A green hardcover journal sat on top the desk, a quill carelessly off to the side.
Spitfire sat down in the chair, which creaked. She opened the journal and flipped through the pages until she found the most recent entry. The bottom line read 1800 - Nothing Significant to Report.
"Yeah, like it says." Airborne gestured. "Nothing happened."
Spitfire nodded. "All right. See you in the morning."
Airborne nodded and walked out the door.
The listing of the day's activity was sparse. Nothing had been scheduled for the weather, just maintaining clear skies. Airborne's writing began at six a.m. The watch officer before him, who had stood the same twelve hour shift that Spitfire currently held, had similarly had nothing to say.
Spitfire looked at the calendar beside the desk. The next day was scheduled for gentle rains, cultivated from an incoming front.
Spitfire turned back to the log and signed her name in the book, just after Airborne's last entry. She was now on duty.
The process always seemed so formal. While the rest of the weather team slept, the dozens of hard working ponies all gone home to bed, she was awake. If anything happened, she would be the first to know. She would also have the responsibility of deciding what to do about it.
Spitfire had checked the weather visually on the way into the weather team office. It was clear, and the sunset was coming on. She decided that she wanted to see it.
1804 - watch officer to roof
The office was small, but the second floor was still better than the ground. Spitfire opened the door and walked to the railing. She'd timed it well and caught the good part of the sunset, the darkening skyline of Detrot obscuring the proper horizon.
A little breeze came up. Spitfire judged it at five knots from due west. She turned her back to it, looking east to the rising moon. While 12-hour duties weren't Spitfires' favorite thing, she didn't envy Princess Celestia, handling a pair of heavenly bodies morning and night every day.
1822 - watch officer returns
Spitfire sat down again. The office contained little besides the desk. The drawers held reference information and office supplies. Curiously, there was also a shuffleboard puck deep in the back of one of the drawers. Spitfire had discovered it the previous week. Nopony seemed to know where it came from. Probably somepony who had long since departed Detrot.
She sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling, wishing she'd remembered to stop by the library before arriving. It was going to be a long twelve hours with nothing to do.
Spitfire looked at her hooves. Her friend thought she needed to be shod. Her hooves were a little rough, true, but it wasn't like she spent a lot of time on the ground. Well, okay, running was part of her new workout plan. But shoes slowed her down and were just one more thing to worry about.
She opened the bottom drawer on the left. It contained a three-ring binder with no paper. The top left drawer had half a ream of blank paper, a ruler, an eraser, and a staple puller. The bottom right drawer had a box of paperclips, a stapler, an envelope with smaller envelopes inside, a brand new journal like the one used for the watch log, and the shuffleboard puck. The top right drawer had two quills, a bottle of ink, a broken pencil, and a crumpled ball of paper.
Spitfire unfurled the paper ball. Somepony had started to write "Detrot Weather Team" but broken their pencil halfway through the last word. She dropped the paper in the trash can.
The trash was kind of full. Not fully full, just mostly. Spitfire looked around. She looked at the trash again, sighed, and got up. After taking the bag out of the can and tying it off, she looked around for another bag. Nothing in the office. She walked out the open door and into the hallway. The supply closet next door seemed like a logical choice.
Inside was a sink, mop bucket, a carton of toilet paper rolls, and yes, trash bags.
Back in the office, Spitfire replaced the bag in the can.
1853 - took out trash
The dumpster behind the building seemed extra foul today. Possibly because Spitfire approached from the east and had the wind in her face. She lifted the lid just enough to toss the trash bag in. That done, she returned to the office. Nose still feeling molested, she made a detour to the restroom to wash her hooves. No telling what she might have touched.
The office clock read 1901. Well, that was one hour down. Spitfire sighed and leaned on the desk.