Nurse Redheart

"'Patient exhibits symptoms of...' Dysentery? Dyspepsia? Dysphoria?" Redheart rubs her throbbing temples. Being the head nurse is rewarding but thankless, especially when doctors scrawl like drunk kindergartners.

"'Experiences acute...' hoof ache? Headache? Heartache? Oh for Celestia's sake!"

Enough! With a fed-up whinny, she shoves the clipboard under her foreleg and marches down the hall.

Patients need help now! Her M.D isn't for "Master of Deciphering"!

Room 102. Two quick hoof-raps, then she shoulders through the door, pasting on a sunny smile. "Good morning! I'm Nurse Redheart. And how are we feeling today?"

"Beauty sleep?" Ha! The mirror tells no lies—double shifts leave only casualties in their wake, a procession of shambling corpses.

Mane a rat's nest. Eyes bloodshot bruises. Her soul, dying, begs for one wink of mercy.

"Smile, Redheart," she mutters, hoof-blasting icy water onto her face. "Twelve more hours until you can collapse again."

Out she zombie-trots, braced for bruises, bizarre magic mayhem. This place feeds on the marrow of its nurses. And come Tartarus or timberwolves, she'll keep it chugging.

Forget 'Employee of the Month.' They ought to name a blend in her honor: 'Intravenous Drip of Consciousness.'

"Morning!" The receptionist's nauseating smile stabs Redheart's eyes. "How'd ya sleep?"

She chokes back envy's green bile. "Like a foal," she lies, every fiber screaming agony. "Just need some coffee before I hit the floor running."

The breakroom brew calls her name. She chugs it in desperate gulps.

Ohhh yes... sweet caffeinated lifeblood, her only salvation.

WHAM!

Her fleeting peace shatters with the door.

Another lonely Hearts and Hooves Day, looming like a bad hangover.

Redheart slouches alone at the grungy bar, nursing bottom-shelf swill. The story of her life. Two days scouring Celestia-forsaken streets without a whiff of a decent stallion.

Even the damn doctors avoid her like plague. "Never hitch to a nurse," they smirk. Must smell her desperation from a mile off. All she catches is antiseptic and cheap shampoo.

She raises a wobbly hoof. "Another round. Don't be stingy with the pour."

Lucky seven? Eight? Buck it. Numbers blur. She wallows in the sweet spot—inhibitions rock-bottom, but still (mostly) lucid.

"You sure, Red?" The bartender cocks a brow. "Seems you've had plenty."

"I'm prescribing myself another. Trust me, I'm a nurse."

"Rough night?"

"Rough life."

A what-can-you-do shrug, and another cider sloshes into her mug, foam cresting the brim.

She takes a graceless swig, brew slopping down her chin. Some prize filly she turned out to be.

Head meets bar in resignation, cheek adhered to tacky lacquered wood. The drink has loosened her tongue, the booze imbuing her with liquid wisdom she simply must share.

"Ya know stallions' problem? Can't handle a strong, independent mare who's seen their—"

WHAM! The door blasts open, letting in a gust of icy wind and a flurry of napkins.

Every eye snaps to the figure in the doorway.