Fight Club

by xTSGx

Midnight vs. Popularity

For copyright/disclaimer information, see the prologue.

Chapter Four: Midnight vs. Popularity

Midnight stared out the train window and into the villages and towns that made up the outskirts of Manehattan. She had a very comfortable seat—and it wasn't just thanks to the dark blue cape she was using as a backrest. She was sitting in first class. Normally, such an idea would disgust her. All those bits she could have spent on bills instead being blown on leg and wing room. But she hadn't paid for the ticket. Equestria's largest sports magazine had.

She sat back in her seat. A small whimper came from behind her. Night might have been a power hungry, evil mare, but she made an excellent cushion. She adjusted her position slightly before continuing to gaze out the window. It was rare for her to leave Hollow Shades and, as foalish as it was, she couldn't help but be a little giddy at the prospect. Hollow Shades was nice—even if it didn't pay particularly well—but it still grew stale and repetitive. Now, she could get some new experiences that didn't involve shade or Night Guard warehouses.

Like getting interviewed. Of all the things she thought she'd get out of the fighting league, becoming famous was not one of them. She was snapped out of her musings by the snack cart that squeaked its way down the middle of the train car. Wing and leg room weren't the only benefits of first-class. The slice of apple pie with a dash of whipped cream and sprinkled cinnamon on top caught her eye, and judging from the growl that emanated from her lean, lithe belly, her stomach as well.

“Thank you,” the stallion nodded as she took the pie and leaned back into her seat. A small smile formed at the muffled moan that resounded, “Now, Night, I'm sure if the positions were reversed and I was the one squashed flat against your back, you wouldn't hesitate to enjoy every minute of it,” That mare really did make an excellent cushion. She should delay turning in her opponents more often.

Over all, the pie was pretty meh. She wasn't exactly a connoisseur on apple pie, but the whipped cream tasted stale, the apples hadn't been baked long enough and were still hard, and the crust was soggy. Not what she had been expecting given this was first class and all. Oh well. Even bad food tasted great when you knew it was totally free. She set the plate on the little tray table in front of her before she leaned over and opened a pocket of her duffle bag.

She pulled out the free copy of Sports Weekly she had been sent and flipped through it. Sports Weekly. Equestria's number one sports magazine. She paused when she got to the section on the fighting league. That couldn't be right. A flip back to the table of contents only made her eyes widen in shock. She knew the fighting league had gotten somewhat popular, but twenty pages devoted to it?! Hoofball had twenty-two and that was hundreds of years old. The whole magazine only had about a hundred pages total.

All this for a “sport” that was only a few months old. Just how popular were those recordings? Were there fans? Fans of her? Cheering her on as she fought Echo and Speck and Night Terror? Spending money on merchandise? Panic flared up deep inside her followed very quickly by anger. If that stupid contract she signed had given Bill or the league all of her merchandising rights, she knew who her next opponent was going to be. Merchandise was where the real money was made.

She flipped back to the section on the fighting league. Best not to think about such things right now. She had an interview—and photo session—to prepare for. No, no. That was incorrect. It wasn't just an interview. It was a cover story. They wouldn't be talking about the next commissioner of hoofball, they'd be talking about her, complete with a big picture of her slapped right on the cover.

She was never much of a sports fan—all that excitement and hope for a team or pony that'd likely lose right when it mattered, why go through the heartache?—so she didn't much care about the supposed “prestige” being on the Sports Weekly's cover entailed. What she did care about was how much money they were going to pay her. Twenty thousand bits—that's the amount Bill had told her, anyway.

She scrunched up her nose. Most athletes would probably laugh hysterically at such a minuscule number. They wouldn't open their front door for that much. It was nothing in the billion bit industry. She was certain either Sports Weekly was exploiting her in not forking over a bigger sum, or Bill was a terrible negotiator. Probably the later.

She was in no position to complain, though. The fighting league had plenty of other participants. Participants who'd be more than happy to get twenty thousand bits. Participants who also didn't have a tab due at their local gardening expo. Twenty thousand bits for a day in Manehattan and getting your face on a million magazines? Who'd pass that up?

The train lurched slightly as it started to slow. She looked out the window to see the bustle of Equestria's largest city. Ponies walked and ran. Carts and even some of those fancy automated carriages jostled for room on the streets. She craned her neck up and pressed her nose against the glass to see the buildings reaching high into the sky.

It was an amazing sight—especially compared to the relative silence and peace of Hollow Shades—but Midnight couldn't help feel a twinge of disappointment as she soaked in the sights and sounds from outside her train car. Concrete, brick, metal—but very few plants. There was a tree here, and a rectangular planter there, but no lush gardens or landscapes to be seen. Just the dull gray of concrete and cold metal of a city.

She sat back against her soft, muscular cushion while the train slowed to a crawl as it approached the station. It seemed she could cross Manehattan off her list of possible career building locations, “Now arriving at Fifth Street Station. Please refrain from exiting the train cars until an attendant has ensured your safe departure. Thank you for choosing the Equestria Eastern Railroad, Equestira's leading rail service.”

The train car came to a halt and very quickly the sounds of shuffling and movement erupted as the car's passengers were roused from their first class seats. Ponies began removing their luggage, gathering up items they had kept with them in their seats, and tried to calm the excitement of their foals at the adventures that awaited.

Midnight stood up, before her cape tugged her back. It seemed Night had become pressed into the seat's fabric. Reaching a hoof back, she peeled the flattened mare off of the upholstery and let her flutter down and settle onto her back as she stretched herself out after sitting down for the two hour train ride. Midnight grunted in relief as her tight and sore muscles flexed and her joints popped.

She was glad Night hadn't put up more of fight and had resorted to vampirism instead of something more physically exertive—like a rolling pin. While she was still a little sore from it, it was nowhere near as bad as it had been for some of her other fights. The way she had felt after the Gloom Wing fight, she could have sworn she was the one that had been flattened by a mallet. Once she had stretched herself enough, she picked up her duffle bag and slung it over her shoulder before exiting the train car.

Fifth Street Station wasn't nearly as impressive as Equestria Central Station, but it really wasn't meant to be. It was just what it was designed for—an efficient train station meant to move ponies quickly and effectively. It's simple wooden panels and floor elicited little buzz or gawking and that was perfectly fine with Midnight. If time equaled money, then she had very little of either. Although she couldn't help but pause for several minutes to admire the lovely koi pond that sat in the middle of the lobby. There was chrysantha and umbrella palm and she could swear there was even some pony's baby red

Once she had finished admiring, she walked out of the station and into the Manehattan sun. Sports Weekly was based in its corporate parent's headquarters, the... the... Something Building. Her memory never had been the strongest. She sat down at a bench just outside the station and rummaged in her duffle bag for the map they had mailed her.

She looked at the highlights that had been drawn. Fifth Street to Seventh, then down to Lunar Blvd. Midnight's wings unintentionally flared out in excitement when she saw where their headquarters was located—the National Financial Center, home of the famed Summer Garden Atrium. Otherwise known as the only place in Equestria proper that had Celestia robusta palm trees.

There were a host of other plants there, but the palm trees had always been the main attraction. Midnight gritted her teeth in anger. Why hadn't she brought a camera? She'd be able to see some of the only palm trees in the country, and she wouldn't even have any pictures to remember them with. Money troubles or no money troubles, seeing a rare plant is a once in a lifetime opportunity. She still had the framed picture of the Ponya raimondii in full bloom she took when she was twelve hanging above her bed.

She stood up from the bench and looked over at the street sign that was a short distance away. Fifth Street. Best to get a move on now. Would be really unprofessional to be late to a twenty thousand bit photoshoot. She gazed up at the tall buildings and old brick apartments that lined Fifth Street. Hollow Shades really had nothing on Equestria's most populous city. She started walking. Twenty blocks was a fair distance and she wasn't about to pay four bits to take the subway.

-----

Midnight gazed in awe as she walked into the atrium. The palm trees were just as she had imagined them: all neatly lined up in rows on either side of the brick path that snaked its way through the glass structure. Her awe quickly bled into frustration. The place was packed. One would think that would be cause for delight for the gardener. Thousands of ponies enjoying the beauties of the foliage.

But that was just it. They weren't. Business ponies rushed through on their way to the skyscrapers. Tourists had merely stopped on the benches to rest their hooves for a minute and not to admire the mare ferns or daisies that had been carefully laid out around the palm trees. Not a one bothered to look up at the blue sky and floppy palm leaves that framed the glass ceiling.

As much as she wanted to, she couldn't blame them. They had places to be. Things to do. Money to make. She could spend all day here, but she had an appointment just as all of them did. Manehattan was a busy city. So busy nopony could seem to take a break and enjoy the wonders that had been planted right under their noses.

She slipped one last glance at the palm trees before she—very politely—shoved her way through the crowded path and toward the lobby of the National Financial Center. Thank goodness the lobby was open air. With all the ponies going in and out, it would be a nightmare if a door got jammed or something. Once inside, she was greeted with posh granite floors and marble walls.

She looked back down at the instructions, “Floor ten, huh?” she looked over at the brass lined elevator and hesitated for a second. Those new inventions always unnerved her for some reason. What was next? A little glass box with moving pictures? She shook her head. Nah, those crystals the fights were recorded on pretty much served that purpose already.

She looked over her shoulder at the squashed dark blue cape that sat gently on her back, “Ready to be interviewed, Night?” She interpreted the soft moan in response as a “yes” and walked into the elevator.

“Which floor, ma'am?” A stallion with a simply magnificent mustache that covered what seemed like his entire lower face stood diligently at a lever that controlled the elevator.

“Uh, floor ten, please,” she replied.

“Very good,” The metal gate closed and the stallion pulled the lever down. The ride to floor ten wasn't very smooth. Creaks and groans that made her tufted eyes jerk and twitch resounded from seemingly every possible area of the elevator. She nearly leapt out the elevator once the gate had opened, “Floor ten.”

“Thanks.”

The stallion nodded, “You're very much welcome.” The gate closed once more and the elevator made its way back down toward the lobby.

Midnight turned to look at the receptionist desk that sat in the small lobby. Hung on the front of the long, curved desk were the words “Equestrian Magazine Co.” The apparent owner of Sports Weekly. And Equestria Daily, Horse News Monthly, Better Hooves and Gardens, Neightional Inquiror, and Mares and Stallions Living if the framed covers that were hung on the wall behind the desk were anything to go by.

“Can I help you?” Her attention snapped from the framed covers to the earth pony receptionist. She walked up.

“Uh, yes. I'm Midnight Dream and I'm here for the Sports Weekly interview/cover shoot... thing,”

The receptionist nodded before picking up the phone in front of her, “Justified Text, Midnight Dream is here,” the mare nodded a few times at what Midnight assumed was the pony on the other end, “Alrighty, I will,” she looked up at Midnight, “Editor Justified Text will see you in his office,” in what seemed like a fraction of a second, she had taken out a diagram of floor ten, a pencil, wrote directions to the editor's office, and handed it to Midnight, “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. It's why I'm here.”

Midnight readjusted her duffle bag before she walked through the door and into the chaos that made up the Equestrian Magazine Company. Pieces of paper fluttered about while ponies screamed over the sound of dozens of typewriters. In the background, the faint rumble of printing presses could be heard. Midnight looked down at the diagram, “Where's this Justified Text at, anyway?”

-----

A golden stallion stared out his corner office window at a freighter that was slowly and carefully pulling into Manehattan Harbor, “I'm not happy about this.”

The brown stallion sipped his coffee lightly before placing it back on the coaster in front of him, “You don't have to be happy about it. You just have to do it, Mr. Text.”

Justified Text looked behind him at the pegasus sipping coffee, “Of course I do. It's not every day your CEO calls you up demanding editorial discretion.”

The brown stallion raised a hoof, “Ah, ah, ah. The CEO of Equestrian Magazine didn't call you, one of the UFL's Benefactors did. Please remember to use the proper terminology. We already have Attorney General Skies doing some saber rattling over the league's activities. The Benefactors don't need their confidentiality compromised,” the stallion idly swirled his coffee around in the white mug it was in, “Especially when Princ—”

There was knock at the office door. Justified Text sat down in his leather office chair, “Come in.”

“Hello, Mr. Justified Text, I'm here for that fighting league interview,” Midnight caught one final glance at the management style of the Equestrian Magazine Company before she closed the door. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from her mane and hastily flapped Night several times to clear her of the debris that had accumulated.

“Ah, Miss Dream. It took you long enough,” Bill raised the coffee mug in a mock toast, “How is Manehattan?”

Midnight paused in her attempt to find a trash bin to throw the piece of paper in. What in the world was Bill doing here? “B-Bill? Why are you here?” She would have thought he'd be busy scoping out another warehouse or preparing her to fight one of the Captains of the Guard.

“I'm you're manager, Miss Dream, and you're about to be the central topic of one of the biggest sporting honors in Equestria. Why wouldn't I be here?”

That... actually made a great deal of sense, “Okay, so why didn't you just come with me?” Not that she wasn't glad he decided to travel separately. She'd almost rather Night have won than spend two hours stuck on a train next to him.

“If you must know, the league had some business they wished for me to attend to here. We're negotiating a contract with the Equestria Broadcasting Corporation to get radio broadcasts of the fights. Crystals are great and all, but they have a limited magic savvy customer base,” Of course they were negotiating a new revenue stream. One that probably wasn't covered in her contract, “And before you start complaining,” Midnight shut her mouth just as she was about to give the pegasus a piece of her mind about contracts, “All fighters will receive a twenty-five percent cut.”

Midnight scrunched her nose in a pout, “We should be getting at least fifty percent. We're doing all the work,” she mumbled.

“Yes, well, you don't currently have a lawsuit pending from the Warehouse Workers Union of Equestria.”

Justified cleared his throat, “Mr. Booking, Miss Dream. I hate to interrupt your squabbling, but Sports Weekly has very tight deadlines to keep. If you'd follow me, we can begin the photo shoot,” he motioned toward the door. As the group was leaving the office, he looked at Midnight's dark blue cape, “Uh, Miss Dream?”

She looked over her shoulder at the unicorn, “Yes?”

“Might I ask what you're wearing? Because it looks an awful lot like a—”

“Pony?” she grabbed Night's head and flapped her several times, “This is Night Terror, my last opponent. Say 'hi,' Night.”

“Uuuuuuhhhnnnnn.”

“I... see. I thought you turned in your defeated opponent after beating them?”

The group zigzagged through a maze of cubicles as they headed toward a set of stairs that lead to the next floor“Well, I was going to turn her in, but it was so late by the time the fight finished—because somepony—” she glared at Bill, who just rolled his eyes, “—decided to schedule the fight so late—that I opted to just keep her for the night. Then I had to get ready and all that so I just decided to take her with me,” She rubbed Night's flattened leathery wings, which were tightly pressed to the mare's back, with a hoof, “She's a really comfortable cape, too.”

The group walked up the twisting wrought iron staircase and into the next floor up. The room was just as big as the office a floor below. Midnight had never seen so much white before. Half the room was covered in white sheets and movable pieces of boarding. The other half was filled with what was probably very, very expensive photography equipment. Ranging from cameras chairs to complex lighting contraptions that looked like umbrellas with light bulbs taped to the ends.

“I'm sure she'll make a very nice bonus to the photo shoot, although you might have to leave her out of the cover image depending on what legal says.” A million bit lawsuit was the last thing he needed right now. He motioned to an earth pony who was busy polishing a lens, “Now, I'd like to introduce you to Auto Focus, our chief photographer. He'll be the one directing today. Auto?”

The stallion lazily raised a hoof over his head and waved it, his focus still firmly on the lens. Justified's PR mask cracked with a snorted in annoyance before he was able to recompose himself, “My apologies. Auto Focus can be rather... focused on his special talent at times.”

“No problem,” Midnight knew what that was like. Spending hours and hours on seemingly menial tasks like ensuring the mulch was evenly distributed or that your collection of those little cards that came stuck in a potted plant's dirt where all neatly arranged and stacked by species—or cultivar group.

Auto gave the lens one last look before he screwed it onto his camera. After ensuring it fit snugly, he tested the zoom several times before he wrapped the camera's strap around his neck and turned around, “So, Text, who we workin' over, today?”

Justified rubbed an eye with a hoof, “It could be worse, I suppose. I could have had a multimillionaire athlete diva doing a cover shoot today,” he mumbled to himself before straightening up, “Auto, meet Miss Dream and Mr. Booking of the Underground Fighting League. Miss Dream will be on next week's cover.”

Auto eyed Midnight. She cast a weary look at the earth pony. The last pony to stare at her like that tried to suck her dry and turn her into a seat cushion, “Uh, hello?”

Auto started circling around her, “My, my. I've never seen a bat pony before—or do you call yourselves thestrals? I skipped that sociopolitical class in school.”

Midnight crinkled her nose at the archaic term. Princess Luna was pretty much the only pony that still referred to them as such—and that was more because of the whole “olde Englishe” thinge than due to official terminology, “Bat pony's fine.”

“Ah, okay. Bat pony then. Now, where to begin? First we have to be careful with the lighting. Too much and that light gray fur of yours will wash out, and too little at it'll make you look like some kind of spooky vampony. Then there's the ma—wait, what's that on your back?” He pointed to Night's squashed body.

“Oh, that would be my last opponent, Night Terror. I didn't get to turn her in in time, so she's been tagging along as a comfy, soft cape,” Midnight wiggled her flank, which let Night flutter into the air before she gently settled back onto Midnight's back.

“Wow, what kind of fighting league is that?” He shook his head and waved a hoof dismissively, “Never mind. That opens up a whole new set of possibilities, though,” he looked over his shoulder at one of the dozen or so ponies who were busy fiddling with their equipment, “Hey, Bulb, did you remember to get the fan?”

“What in Celestia's heaving thighs would we need the fan for?”

“So that's a 'no,' then? Go get it,” He looked back at Night's flattened out body, “It'll be great. We'll get that cape of your flapping around wildly. It'll make for some great shots.” he walked up to Midnight, “While Bulb goes and gets the fan, why don't we get started? No doubt Text is ready to pop a blood vessel with how long this is taking.”

“Sure,” Midnight looked around at the empty white void that made up most of the room, “Where do you want me to stand?”

Auto had retrieved a tripod and was setting up his camera on it, “Oh, uh, there's fine,” he pointed to a random spot on the white floor, “It's not really about getting the right photo just yet. I just want to get a feel for how things are—how photogenic you are, what angles work best—that sort of thing. Now, smile!”

Midnight smiled as the camera's shutter began to go off. Every couple of seconds, a flash bulb would flash with a loud bang, “Good, good. Now try some different poses. Doesn't matter what, just different ones each time,” she hovered in the air, spun around, bared her fangs, grabbed Night and waved her in front of her herself.

As she practicing her dodging abilities, a question kept nagging away. This wasn't at all like what she had been expecting. She figured they'd go to a gym or something and take some pictures of her punching a punching bag or mock wrestling another pony. But a big empty room full of camera equipment? “Say, Auto?”

“Yes?”

She did a roll and Night's squashed flank fell over her face, causing her to flip the squished mare over her head, “I'm not into photography, but why aren't we doing like a location shoot? Why a white room?”

Auto grabbed a more portable camera from off a nearby trunk and started walking around Midnight, snapping pictures from every angle possible, “Location shoots are so last decade. Cutouts are what we do now.”

“Cutouts?” For a second, panic swelled within her and she scanned the room, searching for presses or mallets—any kind of heavy object that could be thrown at her. With the way things had been going lately, she wouldn't be surprised if they really were going to try to turn her into a cutout.

“Yeah. Well, it's more properly called collaging. We take a picture, then we carefully cut out the parts we want and place them over other pictures. It's much cheaper and more artistically friendly. That way we can have you posing in just about any location imaginable. And with the artists we have, we can make you look exactly like you would in that location.”

Oh. No presses, then. That was a relief. That would also explain the lack of gym equipment, “Oh, I guess that makes sense,” She could tell it was more about the cost than the art. When you got down to it, everything boiled down to bits. It was a lesson she found to be quite hard.

“He's that damn fan you wanted, Auto. It was a huge pain in the flank to get from storage,” the large industrial sized metal fan was wheeled over.

“Excellent. Now the real fun can begin.”

********

Bill smiled. They were ahead of schedule. The photoshoot hadn't taken nearly as long as he had thought, but he wasn't a photographer, so he didn't really know anything about photoshoot's or how long they take. He glance over an article about bean curd prices before looking up at the wall clock that hung above his somewhat uncomfortable waiting room chair. Now if only the actual interview could be as fast as the photos had been, he'd be able to get out of this city and get back to league work. Midnight's next fight was coming up and he needed to think of a way to really take advantage of this magazine publicity.

Bill licked a hoof and flipped the magazine's page. No more backwater Night Guards, that was for sure. He'd need to bring in some star power to go against the undefeated bat pony. It was high time she actually faced a challenge. Huh, that was interesting. ManeChem was going to be divesting their solvent division. He'd have to check and see how much stock he had. The price might be going up. The door to his right burst open and out stomped the gray bat pony that had allowed him to purchase that stock. Oh no. She had that glare in her eyes and she appeared to be scanning the room for him. Maybe if he kept the magazine close she'd—

“There you are!” she walked in front of him, “That was horrible—I mean, it started out fine, but it ended terribly. No wonder athletes don't do these things for twenty thousand bits. I probably wouldn't after that.”

He tossed the magazine down on the end table next to his chair, “Yes you would.”

Midnight huffed, “Maybe I would, but it was still bad.”

He could feel one of those annoying behind-the-eye headaches coming on. That bat pony seemed to induce those quite often, “And just what was bad about getting interviewed for a cover story in Equestria's third best selling magazine?”

“Half the questions were about karma.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Karma?”

“Yeah. Karma,” she began to pace around in front of him. It was like she was nervous or something, “'Do you believe in it?' 'Do you think you can remain undefeated?' 'How do you think your fans feel about the ways you've defeated your competition?' 'Do you know anything about karmatic field theory?'”

She stopped and looked at him. He noticed her wings were far more jittery than usual. They were causing that foal Night Terror to flutter and shake on her back, “Did you know there's such a thing? Some kind of magical aura ponies have that is influenced by the positive and negative decisions they make? That plays a role in 'random chance?' I-I didn't know that.”

She was worried about that? “It's a ten page interview, Miss Dream. No doubt it's going to have different sections in it—there's probably an entire page devoted to your 'record' and the likelihood of you being defeated. They probably tossed in that karma information as a nice little hook to the readers.”

Midnight inhaled deeply. Right, right. It was just some useless fluff to pad the article out. She hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't like fate would deal her a cruel hand for beating her opponents, was it? “Y-You're right, Bill. I'm sure it was nothing.” She already had enough to worry about with all the bills and ponies trying to flatten her. She didn't need to add crazy unicorn theories to the list.

“Of course it was,” He stood up from his waiting room chair. Midnight winced at the cracking noises the emanated from his back and ankles. He was almost as bad as Night had been.

“Ah, there you two are,” Justified Text wove between several empty cubicles—it seemed the day shift was starting to pack it in—and stopped in front of the duo, “I see Cross Eye finished her interview. How'd that go, Miss Dream?”

Terribly, “It went well. Although, I can't say I'm one for the media spotlight.”

Justified chuckled, “Few ever are. In fact, I've found over the years that most of the time the spotlight seems to find those least qualified to be in it—not that I'm implying you're in that camp, of course.”

It sure felt like she was in that camp, “Now that it's over, have you come to bid us goodbye before everypony else leaves and we're the only ones here?”

Justified glanced over his shoulder at the increasingly empty office. Once five o'clock hit, everypony bolted for the door like there was a fire. He strongly suspected if there ever was a fire, they'd actually be slower getting out, “Partly,” He looked over to Bill, “I actually wanted to give Mr. Booking the copies of the pictures from the shoot he requested—” He passed Bill a large white envelope before looking at Midnight, “And give you your check.”

Midnight's wings shot straight up. A wide, beaming smile promptly followed, “My check?!”

Justified shrunk back slightly while Bill merely rolled his eyes. That mare and her bit obsession, “Yes. Twenty thousand bits is quite a large sum. Better to give it to you in person than trust the Royal Mail Service to do it.” He handed her an envelope, “Please give a day or two to allow the bank to process it before you try spending it. They need to verify it with us after they receive it.”

She practically ripped his leg off when she grabbed it. A long, some might argue erotic, sigh followed as she opened the envelope and gazed down at the thin strip of paper marked with the First National Bank of Eauestria's logo. Twenty thousand bits. Two, followed by four zeros—six if you count the cents. It was her's. This fighting thing had been the best thing to ever happen to her.

Justified looked over to Bill with increasing alarm, “Is she alright?” The last thing he needed was witnessing that damn cover image curse happen right in front of him.

Bill looked up from the three of the photos of the athletic mare, “Oh, she's fine. She's had money issues lately and gets rather excited when she comes across some,” A bit too excited if you asked him, “Is there any way you could have two hundred of each of these printed out in the next two hours?” He handed them over to Justified who looked down at them and then back at the brown stallion.

“You're lucky the printers are here till nine. I'd have to speak with them, but I'm sure that's possible.”

“Good, because Miss Dream here has a little publicity gig down at the boardwalk later today and I'd like there to be something to give out to the fans.”

It felt like a piece of specialized paper, but she knew that rectangle with Justified's signature on it was really worth hundreds of cubic feet of topsoil. Or several years' worth of mortgage payments. She'd never fall behind again! That's what twenty thousand bits got you. Twenty thousand bits. Two, followed by fo—wait, what did Bill say, again? She looked up, “Huh? I'm doing what now?”

Bill looked at her, “Publicity. Fans. Autographs. That sort of thing. You're one of the UFL's stars, Miss Dream. It's high time we start using that star power for something.”

Fans? Publicity? It was bad enough getting interviewed about karma, “Wait, wait ,wait, wait. Fans? But I'm just a bat pony gardener.”

Bill stared at her. She was still on about that gardening thing? “A gardener who's currently undefeated and who has had some of the most exciting fights. Watching ponies fight is boring—you bring a unique take on a tired sport.”

If that's what you wanted to call flattening, then sure, “But fans? Publicity? You don't need me for that kind of stuff.”

Bill let out an exasperated sigh before rubbing his temple with a hoof, “You'll get a thousand bit bonus for it if you do.” Money was the root of all evil and the only way to get that stubborn mare to do anything.

Midnight practically leaned up against him, a wide smile on her face, “So, when does it start, again?”

********

“I actually got an ad in my mail about it,” She'd nearly memorized that line by now, she had said it so much, “Then I just went to their office in Hollow Shades and signed up for the first fight,” Everypony asked the same questions. Over, and over, and over again. 'How'd you get started?' 'What was your favorite fight?' 'Why do you have a flower for a cutie mark if you're into fighting?' That one annoyed her more and more every time it was asked.

“Really?” the pink filly hopped up and down excitedly at discovering just how easy it would be to beat up all those meanies—and get bits for it, too! “That's sooooo cool,” she stopped hopping and sulked, a pout forming, “Why couldn't they have sent me a flyer?”

Midnight chuckled, “I don't think you're quite ready just yet,” Or desperate enough financially. More so the later than the former.

“I'm plenty ready!” she puffed out her pink chest, “Just look at these moves,” the pegasus filly started to bob and weave, intermixing it with several punches in the air. All the while she yelled out exaggerated grunts and groans. She tried several times to take off but only succeeded in increasing her jump height by a foot or two. Finally, she ended her display with a roll and a kick of her kind legs, “See?”

Midnight's smile couldn't be dampened. She was just so cute. The pinkness certainly helped. No wonder ponies had foals, “Quite impressive, but I still think you'll have to wait a few years before trying out for the big leagues.”

“But why?” she leaned up against the table to get closer to the bat pony, “I got all the moves I need. All you need to do is put in a good word with those Benefacers of yours and I'd be a shoo-in.”

Before Midnight could respond, a voice resounded from the benches on the other side of the boardwalk, “Cloudfire, it's time to go. We have to get back to your uncle's before it gets dark.”

Cloudfire jumped down from the table and turned around, “Awww, but mom!”

“Buts are for babies, Cloudfire. Now come on.”

She turned back around, “Thanks for everything, Miss Midnight,” she placed the autographed photo in her satchel before fastening it back onto her back.

“Oh no. Thank you for rooting for me. These fights are a lot easier to win with fans like you cheering me on.”

With a sparkle in her eyes, the filly nodded before she scampered away to meet her mom at the benches. Midnight watched the pair slowly walk away before turning her attention to the next pony that walked up to her small table, “Hello there.”

“Hello,” The pegasus mare looked her over, “So, you're Midnight Dream, huh?”

“That I am,” a sudden gust of wind from the harbor blew across the boardwalk, causing the cheap plastic tablecloth to flutter wildly. Night joined the tablecloth and flapped around in the wind, letting out several squeaks as she did. Midnight hastily grabbed hold of the dozens of photos that were on the table to prevent them from blowing away. The boardwalk, with it's benches, wide walkways, and what she could guess was one of those piers with an amusement park, was really nice, but the wind could get rather annoying. That was the fifth gust that hour. No wonder nopony else bothered with booths or tables.

Once she was sure the wind had died down, she placed the photos back in their rough piles and repositioned Night so that she assumed the comfy backrest that she was becoming an expert at, “Now that that's over, which picture do you want?”

The white mare looked down at her options. There was a picture of Midnight with her chest puffed out and Night Terror fluttering about like a cape; one of her in an aggressive stance, with her fangs bared menacingly; and one of her with an awkward, nervous smile while she scratched the back of her head. That Auto Focus may not be the most socially inclined pony, but he really knew how to do market appeal, “I guess I'll take that one,” she pointed to Midnight's bared fangs, “What can I say, I've always been a fan of fangs.”

Midnight ran her tongue over her fangs, “They're fantastic for juicing fruits,” Always play up the fruit angle. That was bat pony PR rule one. Rule two was to deny their role in the Great Baltimare Durian Flood of 873.

The mare smirked, “Always with the Night Guard propaganda, even with plain evidence to the contrary laying right on your back,” Midnight glanced over her shoulder at the flat blue mare that was pressed against her fold up chair. Right. She sometimes forgot about the whole 'fights are recorded and viewed by millions of ponies' thing.

“Hey, that was purely defensive. You saw.” she opened the ink pad, pressed her hoof onto it, and “signed” the picture. The first couple had been tricky, but after doing it a few dozen times, you tend to get the hang of it. After she handed the picture to the mare she glanced down at her hoof. With the number of pictures she'd stamped with it, she'd be lucky if the blue ink ever came off.

The mare looked over the picture, “I know. I said I was a fan of fangs, didn't I?” she looked up at Midnight, “So how was it?”

The vague questions were the worst. It was like they expected her to have telepathy. Going into ponies' heads was Princess Luna's thing, not bat ponies'. At least to her knowledge. Who knows what secrets the Night Guard had, “You're gonna have to be more specific.”

The mare rolled her eyes, “You know? You're last fight. I've heard there's nothing quite like the sensation of sucking another pony's blood.”

Midnight suppressed a shudder of pleasure at the memory. She had definitely heard right, “You've been reading too much about bat pony nationalism. It was alright, but I think I'll stick to watermelons,” That didn't mean she would flap her gums to everypony about it. She wasn't about to be the one that set back bat pony relations a century.

The mare snorted and shook her head, “You bat ponies sure are tight knit. Never leaving that town of yours. Never defying that 'fangs are for fruit' Night Guard PR. Never bucking the trend,” she looked back done at the picture, “I suppose it's why I got into bat ponies. You all are just so... mysterious.”

Got into? Midnight had heard about a wide range of hobbies. Trainspotting, building birdhouses with little furniture inside for the birds, biking—but bat ponies? Was there really a whole group of ponies that obsessed over her species—race, cline, whatever it's called. She never paid attention to the genetics section of biology. Not when botany was right around the corner.

Did they attend meetings? Draw art? Sneak into Hollow Shades? Write creepy stories about bat ponies doing really weird things? The mare rolled her eyes, “Oh, stop.”

Midnight was snapped out her thoughts of a whole mailing list of bat pony fighting novels, “What?”

“You were giving me that look.”

She really needed to hide her reactions better, “What look?” Ignorance was always a great strategy.

“It's the look almost every bat pony gives when I tell them I'm fascinated by their culture. It's like you guys can't believe that other ponies would hold an interest.”

Midnight raised an eyebrow, “Is there this much interest in unicorn or pegasi culture?”

“I don't know. Maybe? I'm sure each subspecies has its fans. I just find bat ponies the most interesting. There's just so much you guys have that the other subs lack. The wings, the ear tufts, the fangs, the darker coloration.” As the mare said each one, she gazed over that part of Midnight's athletic body.

“So I take it you're more interested in my appearance than my fighting abilities?” She wasn't quite sure what to feel. She thought she'd have fans, but her species having fans? That was something else entirely. Those nationalists wouldn't be happy if they found out bat ponies were being reduced to a an obsession of nerdy pegasi. She'd have to bring it up with them the next time they came to her door as an annoyance tactic.

“Well, partly. I was following all the bat ponies that were taking part. Now, you and Captain-General Solar Eclipse are the only ones left,” she smiled, “I will say ever since that fight with Second Lieutenant Echo I've been rooting for you over the others. There's just something about those fights of yours that pique my inter—” A short distance away, past a very impatient tan earth pony foal who was pacing around, a brick and stone clock tower's bell rang out the time, eight o'clock.

The mare's head jerked over to the large clock in panic, “It's eight already?! Oh no. Where'd the day go?” she looked back at Midnight, “I'm sorry, Midnight, but I really have to go. It was nice talking with you.”

“You too.”

She flapped her wings several times to stretch the muscles before she took off and hovered off the ground, “Thanks for the autograph. I'll be rooting for you during your next fight—even if it is against a pegasus.” The mare and Midnight exchanged waves before she started flying away.

Midnight's attention was abruptly shifted away from the disappearing white pegasus and onto her table, where the tan earth pony colt had plopped himself, “Finally. I thought she'd never leave. So you're Midnight Dream?”

“Yup.” No need to be formal. He was foal, after all.

“Oh, boy! I didn't think I'd get to see you. After all the traffic and burst water mains—and then that pegasus, I was sure I was going to miss you,” he pointed at one of the pictures of her smiling awkwardly, “I want that one. I already got one of Gloom Wing posing aggressively, and Lightning Dust probably has the best puffed out chest picture around.”

He has publicity shots of other fighters? Either that or Gloom Wing liked photography. She wasn't sure who that Lightning Dust pony was, but the fighting league had gotten pretty big. She wasn't the only one in these fights, “Sure thing, kid.” she grabbed one of the picture's and got her hoof ready.

He hopped off the table and let his saddlebag slide off his back and onto the ground once he landed, “Thanks! I heard you're doing the next cover of Sports Weekly, too.”

She dabbed some of the blue ink off her hoof. Even after so many pictures, it was still hard to get the right amount. Too much and the hoofprint wouldn't dry right and too little and it wouldn't show up well on the glossy paper, “As a matter of fact, I am. Where do you think these photos came from?”

“Aren't you worried?”

Midnight stamped her hoofprint onto the publicity shot, “No, why would I be worried?”

The foal looked around conspiratorially, “You know, the curse.”

She furrowed her brow as she gave him the picture, “The... curse?”

“Yeah! The Sports Weekly cover curse. Almost everypony that gets featured suffers some form of misfortune,” he reached into his saddlebag and held up a several week old copy of Sports Weekly, “You see him?” The foal pointed to the brown earth pony on the cover.

Midnight looked at the cover. She may not be into sports, but she could still recognize hoofball when she saw it. Looked like he played for the ritzy Canterlot Castles judging by the logo on his jersey. Her attention was drawn to the suggested retail price. They didn't print that on those free promotional copies. Her eyes widened, “Five bits?! Justified Text charges five bits for one of these!?” That was insane. Five bits for some glossy paper and ink glued together. She knew she was getting a bad deal. Twenty thousand bits. They were raking in the dough and they had the gall to just give her twenty thousand bits.

Screw fighting—she needed to get into the printing industry. That was where the real money was at. Maybe she could start a gardening magazine. There were all sorts of things to write articles on. How to plant bulbs. Identifying poison oak. Maybe dress up the titles with something really worrying—The Most Dangerous Thing Your Foals Will Encounter, The Plant That Will Kill You In Minutes—to drum up more readers. She'd be set.

The foal looked at the gray athlete with a puzzled expression. He thought ponies getting bit signs in their eyes was just something that happened in cartoons but here was evidence it apparently happened in real life as well, “Uh, Miss Dream? Are you okay?”

Midnight was snapped out of her fantasy of owning a rare five thousand year old juniper tree, “I'm sorry, kid, I got distracted. What were you saying?”

“The curse,” he said forebodingly.

“Yeah. Right. 'The curse'.”

He seemed to not grasp her sarcasm because he just carried on, pointing at the cover he still held, “That's Growth Hormone, star of the Castles. Two days after appeared on the cover, he broke his foreleg and is out for the season.”

Midnight suppressed a snort, “It's just a pony's tale. Athletes get hurt all the time.” It was a miracle she hadn't popped a tendon or something yet, “It doesn't mean there's a curse.”

The foal was still determined. He tossed the magazine on the ground before grabbing another from his saddlebag and throwing it on top of the first, “Perfect Season, featured last month. Got a sprained ankle.” Another magazine joined the pile, “Corked Bat, also last month. His team got swept out of the playoffs.” A third magazine, “Juiced Ball, five weeks ago. Got disqualified from the World Championships for having too tight of a swimsuit.”

Magazine after magazine. Injury after injury. Midnight couldn't help but wince when the young foal started a second pile when the first become taller than he was. It was just a coincidence. It had to be. She wasn't bound for some horrible fate. She'd be out of these fights long before something bad happened. Karmetic field theory was just a theory by crazy unicorns, right? Another magazine hit the stack and another cringe inducing injury went along with it. How'd he fit so many magazines into his saddlebag, let alone carry all of them across half of Manehattan?

“Ref Ball, featured four months ago. She ate some spaghetti.”

Wait, that wasn't horrifying. That would actually be pretty good. She looked around the stack of magazines and at the foal, “That doesn't sound bad.”

“She has a gluten allergy and was out with intestinal cramping for three weeks.”

“Alright, alright! I get it,” Intestinal cramping. For three weeks. It'd be better to get forced through a wringer for that time than go through something like that, “You don't have to worry. I'll be fine.” Probably. Maybe. She'd have enough bits to pay off her little cottage in no time. She'd be out of the 'ring' long before her magazine cover joined the foal's stack.

“I'd just be careful, Miss Dream, or you just might end up like that cape of yours.”

Midnight glanced over her shoulder at the still squashed Night. Maybe it was about time to turn her in. A gentle breeze caused the wafer thin mare to flutter softly off Midnight's back and into the air. Night let out a soft whimper that Midnight could just barely hear over the breeze. In all the excitement and publicity of Manehattan, she had completely forgotten about her defeated opponent's fate.

As Night flapped in the air, Midnight realized she had put her pony cape through quite a lot. Night had been pressed against Midnight's back so often and with such force that her belly and chest had been indented into the shape of Midnight's back. Her blue and white mane and tail had become jagged and rough from the abuse. It also appeared as though she was quite a bit flatter than she had been after the fight. Her muscular body just wasn't able to withstand being a backrest for too long. They just don't make capes like they used to.

It wasn't Midnight's fault. She had never had much in the way of clothing and Night's soft fur was very comfortable. The flat mare's muscular body also meant that she was nicely padded and somewhat firm—but still soft and cushiony. She was the perfect backrest.

Midnight looked back at the foal, “I don't think I'll wind up like her. She had this nasty habit of chewing with her mouth open.”

The foal crinkled his nose at the faux posse Night Terror had apparently committed before his face brightened, “Oh yeah. Thanks for the picture.” he held up the publicity shot, “I've nearly got a full collection of all the active fighters.”

Midnight smiled, bemused. Oh for the days when your only worry was collecting autographed photos and not crippling debt. No wonder nostalgia was regarded as one of the stronger feelings, “Oh?”

“Yeah! I actually got Rainbow Dash's before she started fighting—but I'm counting it anyway,” The Element of Loyalty was involved in the fighting league? One of the ponies that had defeated an insane alicorn, a spirit of chaos, and the entire changeling hivemind? She was doing these fights too? Midnight fidgeted slightly.

“Especially since Spitfire's gonna be the hardest to get. I don't know when the Wonderbolts are supposed to be back in Manehattan.” S-Spitfire? Captain of the Wonderbolts? Sure, the Wonderbolts didn't have the greatest reputation but they were still vastly superior to a failed gardener. She might be able to avoid facing Rainbow Dash, but it was doubtful her lucky streak would prevent her from at least running across one of them. She fidgeted again. What had she gotten herself into?

The foal pouted, “And I don't know what I'm going to do if the rumors that Princess Luna's joining are tr—hey, Miss Dream? Are you okay? Why are you so sweaty all of a sudden? And why do you look so pale?”

End of Chapter Four

Author's Note:

No actual fetish scenes this chapter as the plot takes center stage. You'll just have to settle for the passing scenes of Night Terror.

Get ready, because we're getting out of OCs and moving into canon characters. OOCness, here we come.