“What am I going to do?”

A pile of bills sat on the kitchen table. The gray bat pony that sat next to the table brushed some of her purple mane away from her eye while she stared in increasing dread at the pile of bills. And what a pile it was. It seemed every conceivable bill had decided to mail itself to her that day. Water, gas, food, garbage disposal, property tax, mortgage—that wasn't even including all the tabs from the gardening centers that were also due. Her worry only increased as she glanced at the other pile of bills from last month that still hadn't been paid yet.

Midnight Dream looked away from the bills that bore her name. Maybe they were a paradox and if she didn't actually see them, they weren't really there. Unfortunately, that caused her gaze to land on her bank statement instead. She groaned before rubbing her eyes, “What am I going to do?” A drink. That's what she needed. Not the alcoholic kind—although that would be nice right about now—she couldn't afford it. Just a nice glass of less-than-a-penny-per-gallon tap water.

She got up from her wooden chair and fetched a glass from the drying towel next to the sink before filling it up. Her kitchen was what realtors would call “cozy.” In other words, it was pretty cramped. The table was smack dab in the middle of the small room and took up most of the open space. Midnight didn't mind. It's not as though she had the luxury of cooking complex meals. At least all that counter space could still be put to good use.

Midnight slowly drank from the glass while she looked over all the potted plants that filled up her kitchen counters and smiled for the first time since she started opening the bills. She loved gardening. She loved it so much it was her special talent, as the orange-colored blossom on her butt could attest to.

It was just so peaceful. So relaxing. She could spend hours upon hours caring for her plants. Pruning them. Watering them. You name it, she could probably do it. There was just such a wide selection of plants. The flowers helped accent her small cottage, while the many fruits (even though most were culinarily vegetables) gave her some needed nutrition. She could go on and on about all the benefits plants had, but there was one benefit she was lacking.

She loved gardening, but gardening didn't love her balance sheet. For all the pleasantries Hollow Shades provided: the isolation of the surrounding forest, the large bat pony population the Night Guard's presence created, the small town lifestyle, the unidentified green ooze that was reportedly runoff from said Guard's military base—okay, maybe not that one.

For all that, Hollow Shades lived up to it's name. It was hollow husk devoid of much in the way of gardens or landscaping—probably due to that green ooze—and it was very shady, thanks to that dense forestation that encompassed it. Combine that with a population almost entirely devoted to and reliant on the Night Guard and you get one of the worst locations for a gardener.

Midnight sighed. She could always join the Night Guard. She looked down at her lean, athletic body. She was certainly fit enough—gardening didn't do much for exercise, even with the fifty pound bags of mulch, but that didn't mean she couldn't stay fit and healthy. No point in letting all those phys ed classes as a foal go to waste.

Who knows? Maybe they could use her talents to research new crop hybrids that were immune from attack, or she'd be the one tasked with organizing Princess Luna's garden. She rubbed her eyes again. Who was she kidding? She'd be a grunt who'd get killed trying to stop Princess Twilight from turning everyone into dolls or something. If she was somehow lucky enough to use her talents, it'd probably be to develop a plant based bio-weapon or something.

If the Night Guard hadn't been an option when she turned eighteen, it still wasn't an option two years later. Those bills weren't going to pay themselves, though. She sighed as she placed the empty glass into her sink. Moving to a more gardener-friendly location was really the only sensible option. Hollow Shades' market just wasn't right for one of her talent. She looked at her leathery wings. Bat ponies were very rare outside of the enclave they had based themselves in. Moving out of Hollow Shades might solve her employment issues, but it would likely complicate her social problems. Fangs weren't exactly something everypony had.

Even then, her employment difficulties weren't guaranteed to be solved. Who'd want to hire a bat pony to do their gardening when earth ponies had a de facto monopoly on the trade? Unicorns did magic, earth ponies did plants, pegasi did weather, and bat ponies did spooky Night Guard things. She groaned. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe gardening really wasn't what she was supposed to be doing. She looked down at her cutie mark. A flower blossom could mean a lot of things.

Midnight shook her head of the doubting thoughts and sat back down at the table. She could worry and doubt her career choices later. Right now, she had debts to pay. Moving might solve her future cash problems, but she still had present issues that needed addressing. She'd probably have to take out a loan and then worry about repaying that while trying to scrape together some more money. Or maybe she could start teaching gardening at the rec center and get a few extra bits.

Her attention turned to the small pile of junk mail that sat off to the side of the table. On top of a pizza ad sat a small flyer that caught her amber eye. More specifically, it was the “Guaranteed Bits!” at the bottom of the flyer. She was no foal. Get rich quick schemes were as useless as an annual seedling in October. She already had money issues. She didn't need to add white collar crimes to the list.

But the flyer didn't espouse any get rich rhetoric. It looked like it was some kind of fighting organization, if the two silhouettes on the flyer were any indication. She skimmed over the two columns of text that were on it. It all seemed really blatant in its pitch. Beat somepony up and get paid for it. And it really emphasized the pay part.

A little too much, if she thought so. Her nose crinkled up. Somepony probably discovered her money woes and tried a little direct advertising. She really should just crumple it up and toss it into the trash. She wasn't about to be taken advantage of just because she was desperate for some bits. But just as she picked it up with a hoof and started to ball it up, she paused.

She really did need the bits. A loan was a terrible idea and one that would only lead to this same bitter display at her kitchen table next month when the first interest payment was due. The rec center wasn't likely to pay much—certainly not enough to get by. And the next Gardening Garbonza, where she could scrape up some bits selling her seedlings, wasn't until next month.

She was stuck. So what if they were targeting her? If this “Underground Fighting League” paid well enough, what difference would it make? She'd have bits. She'd pay her bills. And she could focus more on doing what she loved. This could be exactly what she was looking for, and she was about to throw it all away because of a little pride and a bruised ego.

The flyer was laid back down on the table and the creases smoothed out. She stared intently at it before her gaze shifted to her lean, muscular body. She was certainly fit enough for any possible fight. Her parents—like any good bat pony parents—had reared her with the goal of becoming a trained member of the Night Guard.

It could be easy. What were the chances she'd be matched up against another bat pony or some highly trained martial artist? She'd likely get to fight some random pony who was much less athletic than she was and hopefully even worse at fighting. She may have muscles but she hadn't the first clue how to really use them. The self defense class she took at the rec center hadn't been the best—well, except for that cool “anti-blood sucking” defense maneuver they had taught her. Good thing it was free.

She looked down at the address that was scribbled in red ink at the bottom of the flyer. That was in town. It seemed this “Underground Fighting League” had a local office. That settled it. She grabbed the flyer and walked toward her front door before pausing. Did she really want to do this? It could end horribly. She could get hurt, or worse, lose her first fight and not have a bit to show for it.

She glanced over her shoulder at the pile of bills that still sat menacingly on her table. Did she really have much of a choice?

Midnight glanced down at the flyer once more. No, that was the right address. In front of her sat one of the Night Guard's large warehouses. There were several of the things dotted around town—one right in the middle of downtown, several in the military base—but most were tucked away just on the edge of the forest that encircled Hollow Shades.

The trees that made up the forest the warehouse was tucked into swayed gently in the spring breeze. They were tall. Most of them taller than the warehouse. This forest was so old, she wondered if it had seen Celestia and Luna's ascension. The trees had just awoken from their winter slumber and were starting to bud. No doubt, in a few weeks, Hollow Shades would be completely encircled by waves of green.

It was rumored the trees made spotting the sprawling buildings full of secrets from the air more difficult, but she somehow doubted that. Just look at it. It was huge. Easily five stories high and at least a hoofball field wide. All that red brick that made up its facade certainly didn't do a thing to “conceal” it. She suspected the Night Guard just got the land cheap and made up the “spotting” story as a way to explain it and still sound cool.

She walked up to the old oak door that made up what she assumed was its main entrance and huffed when she saw the sign that was next to the door, “Authorized Personnel Only,” This was some kind of a prank, wasn't it? There were no fights. No bits. Just some acne riddled teen ponies trying to get her arrested for trespassing.

She started to turn around. But what if it wasn't? It wouldn't hurt to try. The Night Guard wouldn't keep their front door locked, now would they? All she needed to do was try to open that oak door. If it was locked, she could go home and sulk over her pile of bills, but if it wasn't...

The door pushed open with a groan of its hinges. She walked in the door and was met by a stallion sitting behind a desk. She was shocked. It was a huge warehouse, so why was the room so tiny? A bench was pressed against the one of the walls and that coffee table that sat in front of the bench really shouldn't have been there. There was hardly any leg room.

The walls looked brand new and, in her non-expert opinion, looked very shoddily done. They hadn't even been sanded and bits of had plaster dripped down them and hardened into a rough texture. The walls weren't even properly secured to the concrete floor and gaps sometimes large enough to stick a hoof into could be seen. No wonder the room was so small. It wasn't even suppose to be there.

She tried to ignore the hideous fake fern that sat in the corner, but it's crumpled plastic leaves seemed to burrow their dyed green edges into her very soul. Why? Why would somepony do such a thing? It was a mockery—a shallow, false imitation—of the real thing. Why would somepony want to mock the elegance and uniqueness—what other vascular plants reproduced with spores—of a fern?

The stallion looked in bewilderment at the bat pony who was glaring at the dusty fern in the corner, “Uh, Miss? Can I help you?”

She looked away from the disgusting fern and at the stallion, “Oh, yes. I got a flyer in the mail about an,” she looked down at the flyer, “'Underground Fighting League' and this was the address in the flyer. This is the right place, isn't it? 'Cause the sign out front says—”

“Oh, no. You're in the right place,” he smiled. “We get that a lot,” he stood up and opened a door near the desk. “If you'll come with me, I'll introduce you to Bill Booking, the League's fight manager for the Hollow Shades region.”

She followed him out of cramped room and down a long hallway. She looked through some of the open doors on each side. Some of the offices had occupants busy filling out reports, and some of them were simply empty. The stallion knocked on one of the open doors before peeking his head in, “Hey, Bill. We got another one.”

“Good, send him in.”

Him? Midnight walked past the stallion and into the office. Behind the desk sat a brown pegasus stallion. He put down the pencil in his hoof and looked her over for a moment, “Of course it's another mare,” he mumbled to himself, “It'll at least keep the stallion viewers happy.”

“Huh?” What exactly was that supposed to mean?

“Nothing, nothing—just talking to myself,” he pointed at one of the chairs on the other side of desk, “Please have a seat,” she sat down and looked over the office. Off to the side were several filing cabinets and on the wall behind him was a dusty chalkboard. An end table with an oil lamp on it was tucked into one corner of the room, “So what brings you to the Underground Fighting League today?”

She snapped her gaze over to the stallion, “Oh. Um, I received this flyer in the mail today and figured I'd stop by to see what all the fuss was about,” Call it embarrassment or pride or whatever you want, but she wasn't about to start blabbing her financial issues to every random pony she met.

“I see. Well, let me introduce myself. I'm Bill Booking—” Midnight gave him a look. Bill Booking? What kind of a name was that? He sighed when he saw her face, “My father worked in a billing department and my mother was a travel agent. They compromised on the name. And yours?”

“Midnight Dream.”

“Ah. Okay, Miss Dream,” he picked the pencil back up and fiddled with it while he leaned against the desk, “I take it you want to fight then?”

“Is there another way to get bits?” She'd definitely be up to some desk work. Or, even better, replacing all those horrible plastic ferns.

“So you're in need of some bits?”

Crap. So much for her pride, “I'm a little tight right now, yeah.”

“You can rest assured we have an excellent pay scale. The more you win, the bigger your paychecks get,” he reached down and tossed a manila folder full of graphs and information brochures onto the desk.

She feigned interest in the folder of information and 401k plans, “That's great and all, but I want to know just what this is all about before I walk into it.”

“Alright then,” he opened the folder, pulled out a brochure, and opened it, “You've seen or at least heard about those bare hoof fights earth ponies have in the hexagons, right?”

She was never much into sports, except maybe the type of grass they were playing on. She was definitely not into combat sports, “Sure.” No point in unnecessarily dragging the conversation on.

“And pegasi air acrobatics?”

Her tufted ears perked. That was more like it. Although she still preferred the exciting world of aphid demarcation, “Oh, yeah.”

“What about unicorn magic tournaments?”

Her nose inadvertently crinkled up. If there was one thing she definitely didn't want to watch, it was unicorns showing off. Bill picked up on her displeasure, “Not a fan? I don't blame you,” he leaned over the desk, “I'm not either. Regardless, we had a dream of combining all those into one big tournament—although 'tournament' is a rather loose term here. There's not really a firm organization or brackets to this thing just yet.”

“Okay. I could kind of get it would be about fighting, based on 'fighting' being in the name, but just what are we talking about here. 'Fighting's' a pretty general word.”

He reached into the folder and pulled out some kind of legal document with paragraph after paragraph on it, “If you want to be precise, we are a—” he cleared his throat, “—mixed martial art general combat sports organization using a diverse range of facilities and fighters to obtain as wide a field of fighting styles and abilities as is possible in order to excite and thrill our audience.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Wait, audience? So it's going to be in an arena full of ponies.” A little chill crept up her back. She was never the most sociable—she has a house full of plants for Luna's sake—and the thought of thousands of eyes staring at her while she made a foal of herself trying to punch somepony—ugh. She shuddered.

He put down the sheet of paper, “Oh, no. Although we could have a fight take place in one for the novelty.” He stood up and walked over to one of the filing cabinets, “No, we have a really exciting way to reach our audience.” He reached in the top drawer and pulled out a large blue crystal, “Isn't it grand?”

It looked like a pretty ordinary crystal. It would have been impressively large—if a whole empire of them hadn't popped up a year earlier. Now, Equestria was flooded with the things, “I guess?”

He walked back over and placed it on the desk. She certainly didn't sound like she thought it was grand, “Do you know what this is?”

Midnight's face reflected in its shiny blue surface as she stared into it. She looked back up at the brown pegasus, “It's... a crystal. Maybe a gem if you're lucky?” She didn't know why he'd be lucky. Those were even more common than crystals were.

He sighed like a parent would to an ignorant child, “No, it's a recording crystal,” he squeezed the crystal with a wing, causing it to glow a dark blue for a moment before a holographic image was projected into the air.

Midnight leaned back in shock, causing herself to go tumbling off the chair as it fell to the ground. What was that?! She peeked up from behind the chair. The three dimensional moving image was of an earth pony running on a track, occasionally leaping over hurdles. The image would spark and go out of focus every once in awhile, like it had bad reception or had been slightly corrupted while recording.

Bill beamed, “It's magnificent, isn't it? Magic lost with the Crystal Empire all those years ago. It really makes one think how much more advanced we'd be right now if that tyrant hadn't come along. Anyway,” he tapped the crystal and the image faded away, “The fights will be recorded onto these beauties and sold to the public. They'll be able to watch in the comfort of their own homes. No tickets. No arenas. No nothing.”

Midnight couldn't help but smirk. That really was impressive. Not to mention a probable goldmine. If she had any money, she'd probably invest in the things and get in on the ground floor. She furrowed her brow as the meaning of his words sunk in, “But if the fighting won't be in an arena, then where will it happen?”

He smiled, “Wherever. That's the great part about it all. The fights will be scheduled only a week or so in advance and could potentially take place in any location. Not only will that give the fighters more places to work with, but it'll keep viewers interested as they tune in to see not just who their favorite fighter will be fighting, but where, as well.”

She placed the chair upright and sat back down. That did not sound good, “But what about rules or laws?” Equestria wasn't the most cumbersome, legal-wise, but street fighting? That seemed a bit over-the-top.

“Internally, we simply ask you don't engage in excessive violence—we're aiming for a general audience. Externally, as a registered sporting organization, our liability is covered by the FREE Sport Act of 895. As the fights will be taking place on property with the owner's consent, there's no issue there. We, of course, do request you do not involve non-fighters in any of the fights, for obvious reasons. Violation of these simple rules may result in your termination of employment. Other than that, you just have to defeat your opponent, whether that means knocking them unconscious or having them yield is up to you and them.”

“Hmm,” it didn't sound like there was any refereeing or regulations or anything. Just bare hoofed fighting in random places. There'd be better, less dangerous opportunities to make some bits. She was sure of it, “So, what kind of pay are we talking about?” Of course, it still never hurt to ask.

Bill smirked. It was always either money or fame that motivated potential fighters, “You'll get five hundred bits—cash—for the first fight, whether you win or lose. After that, each win nets you increasing amounts that will vary depending on your popularity and other factors like the difficulty of your opponent, setting, etc. Each lose will net you substantially less than a win.”

Five hundred bits?! She only made a hundred last week gardening. Granted, it was still early in the year, but bills weren't going to wait for the spring thaw to fully kick in. And that was just for the first fight. If she actually did well...

Bill's smirk widened into a full smile upon seeing the look on Midnight's face. If she got that excited for a measly five hundred bits, she'd definitely be sucked in. But would she actually be a good fighter? “I take it you're interested?”

She nodded, distracted by visions of bills with no balance and piles of that really expensive peat moss she always had to force herself to walk past in the hardware store, “Absolutely.”

He walked around the desk and over to the still open office door, “Then there's just one last thing we need to do. If you'll follow me.” He walked out and into the hall.

Midnight got up and hastily followed him out of the office, “What do we have to do?” It was probably some kind of corporate bureaucratic red tape like talking with a lawyer or signing a contract.

The two walked toward a red metal door at the end of the hallway. The brown stallion looked back at the bat pony, “You need a proper introduction to the Underground Fighting League if you're going to become a fighter. You want to know what it's all about.”

That made a lot of sense, “Yeah, you're right,” She peeked in another open office door and saw several bat ponies slumped over their desks snoring while a few others were designing some pretty elaborate paper airplanes and tossing them out an office window to see how far they went. She huffed before catching up with Bill. They were probably getting paid way more than five hundred bits.

She looked at the door, “So what is this, exactly? Some kinda legal stuff we have to do?”

Bill pressed the crash bar and opened the door, “You could think of it as a sort of interview/orientation.” He held the door open for Midnight, “Good luck.”

Midnight stared at the massive warehouse that lay in front of her. Dozens of rows of shelves packed full of crates and boxes stacked to the rafters filled the place. In front of the shelves, more boxes and crates were chaotically stacked, as if awaiting placement on the shelves. Off to one side was a stack of wooden barrels. Heavy duty lights were suspended from the metal rafters and illuminated the building. That was good considering she didn't see a single window. There were a few skylights, though. She looked down. She was apparently standing on some kind of raised wooden loading platform.

Wait. Good luck? She turned around, “Hey, what's that supposed to—Bill?” The red door was closed and there was no sign of the brown pegasus, “Bill, are you there?” she tried to open the door but could only jiggle the handle. It was locked, “Hello?” she knocked on it several times but there was no response.

She turned back around and looked over the warehouse for a way out. Wasn't there supposed to be emergency exit signs for occasions just like this? Her eyes settled onto a light gray bat pony who was leaning against one of the boxes. She sighed in relief. For a second there, she thought something might have happened. Must be the orientation.

She hopped off the wood platform and onto the concrete floor and walked toward the pony, “Hey. I guess I'm here for the orientation?”

The mare tossed down the magazine she was reading and looked up, “Oh, is that what he's calling it now? Alrighty then,” she stretched out, causing several of her bones to pop and crack, before she straightened up, “Think fast.”

Midnight stopped, “What?” The mare jumped from the box and charged at her, fangs bared. “What are you doing?!” Midnight dove to one side and skidded across the floor.

The bat pony turned around, slightly surprised. Very seldom did rookies successfully dodge her first attack, “I'm mango farming. What does it look like I'm doing?”

Midnight stood up and backed away warily several yards, before she bumped into a crate, yelped in shock, and shot two stories into the air. She hovered in midair, trying to get her bearings and slow her rapid heartbeat.

The bat pony snickered, “Geez, you're skittish. What's got your ear tufts roughed?”

Midnight glared, “What's going on?! This isn't an orientation.”

The mare lightly cantered forward, deliberately taking several detours around several of the boxes as she slowly winded her way toward Midnight, “In a way, isn't it?”

Seeing the blue-maned pony inch ever closer, Midnight increased her height and slowly drifted back, “No, it's not!”

“Oh?” the mare's pace increased, “You agreed to join the UFL, haven't you?” Midnight slowly nodded, “Well then. Welcome,” the mare suddenly jumped onto a crate and used it to propel herself into the air and straight at Midnight, “My name's Echo and this is your first fight.”

Author's Notes:

AKA The “Weird Clopfic” Story. Just in case the lack of a crossover tag doesn't make it obvious, this has nothing to do with the film or novel.

I'm predicting most will read this for the sheer “WTF” factor. For those who are: yes, what you are about to read is a fetish. Yes, it is my fetish. And yes, the scenarios/scenes presented within this story are what I actually clop to. For the very, very few who are antiquated with the fetish, I felt like contributing something to the “genre” that seems entirely too dependent on the Twilight/Trixie interaction—especially when you have all these athletic characters you could use.

As mentioned in the disclaimer, Midnight Dream's based on the pre-existing character of Anana Umbra—although minus the blood phobia. Here's what Anana looks like and, in turn, what Midnight also looks like. I would have just used Anana directly, but I'm not a fan of her name.

Fun fact: this was originally called “Prelude” until I realized preludes are musical and prologues are literary.