It was a quiet night. The air smelt of aged whiskey, with a slight hint of cheap tobacco. The atmosphere was peaceful and calm. Friendly was the best way to put it.
Bar Stool liked nights like these.
The day had ended—gone was the bright light of the sun. Instead, silver moonlight shone in through the bar windows. It added to the atmosphere. The few patrons still left in the bar nursed their drinks, far slower then when the sun was at its zenith.
The solo bartender tended to these merry few: refilled their drinks, took a few orders, and notified a few distraught ponies that their kitchen had closed over an hour before. It was roughly eleven at night, judging by the stallion's inner clock, and his shift would be ending in about half an hour when the bar officially closed.
Despite the soon to arrive closing, most ponies didn't seem to notice or care. They chatted with their drinking buddies—the soft sound of tall tales and healthy exaggerations filled the air. Bar Stool listens to these stories: he heard a few that made him chuckle, a few that made him sad, and a few that made him smile.
He had worked at the bar for a few years now. It was originally supposed to be temporary, while he sought greater employment, but found that the quiet little haunt had refused to let him leave. The earthpony had befriended a few locals, and he didn't hate the work. It paid well enough, and he was content with that. He didn't have a drive, really, for greater things—and that suited him just fine.
Despite the general friendly and welcome atmosphere, one part of the bar was divorced of all these feelings—it was cold, lonely, and unwelcome.
Bar Stool frowned.
His eyes turned from behind the bar to a single soul that rested at the edge of a counter. A mare, hoof on cheek, played with a long empty rocks glass. She swirled it on its edge. Her eyes were cold and empty—her face devoid of almost all life.
She had come in about half an hour prior. Her eyes just as empty as they were now. She was young, no younger nineteen or so (definitely past the legal drinking age, he was sure) . She looked a little dirty: her two toned mane of gold and orange messy and unkempt, her turquoise fur dark and faded. He originally though of her as some young vagrant, come in to avoid the cold of the fall breeze, and was fully prepared to kindly ask her to leave.
But, to his surprise; she sat at her spot, put a few bits on the counter, and ordered a small glass of whiskey. He bit his lip, but noted that nopony seemed to mind or notice her presence, so he gave the mare her drink. She didn't smell, at least, so he had allowed her to stay. If he was being honest: she looked more an exaused filly, tired after a long journey, then a pony off the street.
A half hour had come and gone, but she still sat there—golden eyes pointed at nothingness. He chewed his inner cheek.
Was she waiting for someone? He had asked himself several times, but that seemed unlikely. She didn't turn her eyes toward the door, or at the clock. Just… sat there.
Bar Stool snapped out of his gaze where he noticed a raised hoof from the other side of the bar. He shook his head, then made his way over to the pony in question. He mixed him a quick Old Fashioned—bourbon, splash of bitters, pinch of raw sugar, lightly crushed orange slice, and a cherry for garnish—over some ice. He gave it a quick stir and slid it over to the stallion. He gave a small glass of water to his more inebriated friend. After that, he closed out the remaining tabs, then trotted to the middle of the counter.
"Last call!" he shouted out.
A few ponies mumbled to themselves. A few left, a few stayed, but one pony still didn't move. He sighed. He didn't want to end up kicking the mare out, but part of him had a feeling that might end up happening. He would be closing soon, so he guessed that it wouldn't matter either way.
A thought popped into his head. A fleeting, quick though. He sucked in a quick breath through his teeth, then trotted over to the mare.
"Something on your mind?" Bar Stool spoke, which gained the attention of the mare.
She turned to him, lifeless golden eyes met his, then shrugged. Her gaze fell to her glass still in her hoof.
"Nothing that anypony would want to know," she muttered sadly.
He looked to the mare—his own eyes now held concern. That sad glance had been enough to snap Bar Stool out of his pessimistic chain of thought. He originally though the mare as a possible pest—those sad eyes told him otherwise.
"You sure about that?" he found himself saying. "Everypony's got a story to tell."
The mare snorted.
Bar Stool chewed his cheek. "You got a name?"
“Depends,” she muttered. “Who’s asking?”
"Nopony Special," he replied.
The mare turned her head to the stallion, a confused look on her face. He smirked in response.
“For real?”
“Nah,” he chuckled. “It’s a bartender joke. Name’s Bar Stool.”
“Whatever,” she muttered.
“Anyways,” Bar Stool continued, “what brings you here, stranger?"
The mare dropped her head to the counter with a 'thud' and raised her glass to the air. "Cheap whiskey," she muttered, then brought the glass back down.
"Is that all?" Bar Stool chuckled.
"Do I need a better reason to be in a bar?"
"Touche."
There was silence. Bar Stool raised his eyes as a small party rose from their booth and exited the bar. With them gone, he was now alone with the mare. His eyes flicked to the clock.
"Fifteen minutes," he muttered to himself.
"What?"
Bar Stool chuckled. He reached under the bar, pulled a bottle of cheap whiskey from the tank, then poured the amber liquid into the mares empty glass. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged in response.
"You got fifteen minutes before we close." He motioned to the mare's filled glass. "That's fifteen minutes for you to make that pour free."
The mare gave him a look of disgust. "Look, I ain't that kinda mare."
His eyes went wide, then he threw back his head in laughter. A moment later, he wiped a tear from his eye. "No, not like that," he muttered from a fleeting chuckle. "Tell me about yourself, or tell me a story. It gets boring before close. Entertain me, kid."
The mare scrunched up her nose, then looked to her glass. She seemed to think for a second, then brought the glass to her lips and gave it a generous sip.
"Alright, sure," she took another sip. "I grew up in Philly. Boring childhood. Family cared enough to put me through basic schooling. Tried out for the Wonderbolts—" She took a huge sip that almost emptied the glass. "—didn't work out too well. Took the long way back from the academy. Stopped by a few places along the way. Made some enemies. Lost some friends. Lost a lot of friends. Just got back into town…"
Bar Stool, who had wiped down the counter up to the mare, motioned for her to move. She complied, picked up her glass while the stallion wiped the area, then put it back down once he was done.
"I'm not sure what I'm gonna tell my parents. Or what I'm gonna do, honestly. They paid for my tuition—they're not gonna take it well."
"Yeah. If you were my kid, well, I'd be pretty pissed."
She shot him a 'seriously?' look.
"What,” he shrugged. “It's true."
The mare exhaled slowly, then took a sip. "Anyways, I stopped here and spent the last of my bits on a drink." She chuckled. "I hope this story works, because I don't got a bit to my name."
She looked up at the stallion. He gave her a sad smile.
"Got a plan, Kid?"
"Nope.” She finished the glass in one swig, then pounded the empty glass on the counter. “Probably gonna get disowned by my parents. So, I'll have to get a job or something. With how badly I bucked up at the academy, they put me on a watch-list.” Bar Stool raised an eyebrow, the mare continued, “Basically, since the Wonderbolts are technically a branch of the military, I've been officially brought up on ‘Reckless Endangerment’. Didn't throw me in the can, but put me on a list. No Lightning Wrangling, no chariot pulling, and I'm not even allowed to do any form of racing." The mare sighed. "So, I'm bucked."
"I may not be a Pegasus, but aren't there other things to do?" Bar Stool asked. "I mean, can't you push clouds or… Something?"
She rolled her eyes and muttered something. Bar Stool cocked an eyebrow. She noticed.
"Well, yes, but those jobs suck! I mean, cloud pushing is a joke! Everything else is so… Boring!"
"Boring is okay. Boring can pay the bills."
"Yes, but what's the point in that? I want to reach higher. I want to be somepony. Ponies may not give a shit about who pulls their chariot, but Lightning Wrangling is a respected weather position, and racing can be just as popular as being a Wonderbolt!" she sighed. "I don't want to be content. I don't want to be nopony. I… I want ponies to care about me…"
"I don't know about becoming famous, but you need to start somewhere." Bar Stool said and shrugged. "Get a job. Work your ass off. Maybe, somepony'll notice ya."
"Yeah, maybe…"
There was silence. Bar Stool looked up at the clock. He tapped the counter to get the mare's attention. Once she looked up at him, he motioned to the clock. "Afraid your time is up, Kid. I gotta close."
She looked at the clock, then to her drink, then up at him with pleading eyes. Bar Stool cracked a small smile. "It's on me."
The mare released a breath she had been holding. She got up off the stool and headed to the door. Once she got there, though, she looked back at the stallion behind the counter. After a second, she looked to the ground nervously.
"You… think everything gonna work out?" she spoke, not more than a whisper.
"Don’t ask me, kid,” he said, then smirked. “I'm Nopony Special."
The mare let out a chuckle and shook her head. With one last sad smile, the mare left the bar.
Bar Stool watched the door for a moment, then sighed. “We’re all Nopony Special, kid.”