//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: Stout Hearts and Dragonflies // by Lightoller //------------------------------// “GENERAL QUARTERS! GENERAL QUARTERS! ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS!” The grainy disembodied voice on the loudspeaker, coupled with the ear piercing BONG BONG BONG caused the large mound on the bed to stir and groan. On instinct, a pale-green hand emerged from the white comforter and brusquely grabbed the source of the infernal noise: a Smartphone atop a wooden night table. After shutting it up, the hand pulled the charging cord from the phone’s base. Gripping the device, the lump then turned over and pushed down the comforter, revealing a boy with light blue hair, unruly from a fitful night’s sleep. With his left hand, the boy cleared the sleep from his amber eyes while unlocking the phone with his right thumb. His wallpaper—depicting a majestic four-funneled ocean liner plowing through a choppy blue-green sea—greeted him. So did the time at the top of the screen: 6:30 a.m. Another groan erupted from the boy’s mouth, this one more annoyed than when his alarm sounded. Whoever decided that school should start at eight in the morning is an idiot, his mind complained. In a flash, the comforter was peeled away and the boy, clad in olive drab t-shirt and blue plaid boxers, sat up and swung his feet over the side of his double bed. His mouth widened into a yawn. Then he instinctively stretched his arms to shake off the fatigue still wracking his body. Leaning over the left side of his bed, he pulled up the blinds shielding his window and studied the sky. Though dawn was breaking, the sun was hidden behind a blanket of low hanging gray clouds. Looks like rain today, the boy thought as he pulled up the blinds to where it sat a foot and a half above the sill and slid open the window. The breezy, cool October air flooded in, causing him to shiver. It passed quickly and either way, the boy didn’t mind. After the sweatbox Canterlot had become this summer, he welcomed fall with open arms. After getting his fill, the boy shut the window, rose to his feet, and padded around his bed to the left side of his bedroom, ignoring the coldness of the hardwood floor. Here, one of the room’s cerulean walls was taken up by an oak dresser and a small desk topped with a flexible lamp, and his laptop. Passing the desk, the boy grabbed a bundle of clothing folded rather unprofessionally next to a khaki satchel and a navy blue nylon gym bag. He tucked the clothes under an arm and turned, facing the flat-screen TV and the tall oak bookcases that flanked it, their shelves burdened by hundreds of hard covers, soft covers, paperbacks, and magazines. Atop the left bookcase, which butted up against the wall, was a model ship protected by a case of clear plastic. It was a replica of the liner displayed on his phone. He briefly eyed the fishing line that served as the rigging and the immaculate paintwork coating the plastic. Gold painted letters against a flat black stand displayed the ship’s name triumphantly: RMS EXCELSIOR. Crowning the right bookcase, also shielded by plastic was a model airplane crafted from die-cast metal and plastic. The twin seats and perforated flaps gave it away as a dive-bomber, specifically a Pioneer SBP Vulture, picked out in a grayish blue tint. Despite the ugliness associated with its namesake, the plane had very pleasing lines, from its radial engined nose to its triangular tail. The canopy was open, showing off the well detailed cockpit and radioman’s seat, from which a pair of .30 caliber machine guns jutted aft. From the nearly white underbelly, an olive drab bomb hung and the wings and fuselage were emblazoned with a dark blue circle and white star. On his way past the plane, something caught the boy’s eye, which caused him to pause and run a finger gently along on the top of the case. He held the tip to eye level. “Hmm...better dust this off when I get home,” he muttered. He then looked over the bookcases and the smaller waist-high shelf the TV sat on. “These too,” he added. He was turning to head for his door when his right heel struck something metallic. For a split second the contact between skin and cold steel caused him to stiffen, but it passed quickly. He glanced down at the culprit: a metal footlocker nudged against the wooden footboard of his bed. Cursing himself for his clumsiness, the boy continued to his door, opened it, and began walking across the hallway to the bathroom. “Stoutheart!” cried an older female voice from downstairs. “That you?” “No.” The boy called back in a monotone. “Very funny mister!” the voice shot back, bemused. “Hurry up and get ready! I made you some breakfast!” “’kay”, replied Stoutheart, who quickly slipped into the bathroom to begin his usual routine. It was a quick one; within fifteen minutes, he had showered, brushed his teeth, brushed back his mop of hair into something more respectable and pulled on the clothes he had laid out the night before; this included indigo-colored denims, and a white T-shirt. Last to go on was a sweater in royal blue. Emblazoned on its front was a golden yellow crown superimposed on an anchor. Below that sat a curved ribbon in the same color which proclaimed the words JUBILEE LINE in black. Hurrying back to his room, Stoutheart slid open the door of his closet and bent down to grab his shoes. He slipped them on right there and once they were tied, stood back up and approached his night table. Pulling open the drawer, he put on his wristwatch—a cheap digital model—and stuffed his wallet into his right back pocket. Grabbing his phone again, Stoutheart eyed the home screen. “Thursday”, he murmured to himself. “Three more days to go.” Then he set the phone to vibrate and slid it into the right pocket of his jeans. “Once more unto the breach,” he sighed, smirking at the famous quote by The Bard. The smirk was a fleeting one however. Another thought quickly crossed his mind, and it turned his lips into a frown. Another day thinking about her…or is this the day where you finally grow a pair and talk to her? His mind then drifted to “her”; the smile she seemed to always have…the opal grey hair whose bangs sometimes obscured one of her raspberry-colored eyes…the cute bow which topped that hair. His mind flashed back to a summer day, when he directed her to the non-fiction section of the bookstore and the appreciative smile she flashed him. Then he thought about the wink and “thank you” she mouthed silently in yesterday’s English class after he offered her a pencil to replace the one she had broken. Then his mind flashed to the cafeteria, where he would sometimes steal a furtive glance at her during lunch. Only to look away at the slightest moment her eyes looked at him. Damn, you really got it bad don’t ‘ya? Another voice—that of Soarin’—reverberated through his mind too. “Yeah,” Stoutheart said to himself, his voice just a whisper. “Too bad its not going to amount to anything.” He then scoffed. “For all I know, Flitter’s probably seeing someone else already. I just don’t know it yet.” His mother’s voice shattered the reverie. “Stout! You ready yet?” “Coming!” the teen yelled back. He picked up his bag and walked out the door. * * * * Thumping down the staircase, Stoutheart turned left and entered the space taken up by the dining room and kitchen. The former held a large beautifully polished oak table and four matching chairs along with a china cabinet in a far corner. The latter was more modern, with a stove, oven, dishwasher, and fridge along the wall and an island in the middle that held a double sink and a wraparound countertop with stools. At the sink washing her hands, stood his mother, Snowheart. She was attired in a purple skirt, and a matching blouse that was partially hidden by her white lab coat. Her Hospital ID tag swung on its clip attached to the pen-filled left pocket. Her skin color was almost the same as her son, maybe slightly darker, but her curled hair had streaks of blue mingling with light grey. Her eyes studied her son. “Morning, honey!” She chirped happily. “Your food’s over there.” She jerked a still wet thumb to the table. “Ah, good. Thanks,” said Stoutheart. Approaching the table, he saw his usual morning fare laid out: a toasted bagel covered in cheese spread and a bowl of his favorite cereal, Frosted Wheat Bombs. Placing his satchel and gym bag on the far end of the table, Stoutheart seated himself and began tucking into the food. His mother walked over, and leaned on one of the chairs and nodded at the rapidly disappearing food. “So,” she ventured. “I did good?” “Yep!” said Stoutheart, his voice muffled by the mouthful of cereal bulging his cheeks. He swallowed and took a gulp of juice. “I taught you well.” Snowheart laughed and playfully slapped his left shoulder. “Real cute wiseguy. Better get a move on. Your aunt will be here soon.” Stoutheart rolled his eyes as he devoured his cereal before tipping up the bowl to drink up the milk. “I haven’t been late once since I started at that school. That’s not going to change today.” Snowheart gave a chuckle. “I know, dear.” Then she looked down at her watch. “Well, looks like I better get going.” She leaned in to kiss him on the forehead and tousled his hair. Stoutheart merely grumbled under the show of affection, which elicited another giggle from Snowheart. She turned to grab her purse and headed toward the door leading to the garage. “Make sure to lock up when you go!” “I always do!” Stoutheart retorted as he reached for his bagel. The sound of the door closing shut followed. Stoutheart went back to his breakfast, his ears picking up the droning of the garage’s main door opening and closing. In no time at all, the only thing that was left of the bagel was a few crumbs on the plate. Grabbing both it and cereal bowl, Stoutheart hastily rinsed both in the sink before chugging down the last of his orange juice and adding the empty glass as well. He made a mental note to clean them more thoroughly once he got home. Finally he shut off the lights, slung on his satchel, picked up his gym bag, and headed out the front entrance. Locking the deep blue door behind him, Stoutheart set his gym bag down and paced the small concrete porch of his house, occasionally looking at his watch or taking in his surroundings. The breeze that had chilled him only a short while ago sent yellow, orange, and red leaves skittering over the sidewalk and the empty driveway where his mom’s SUV had been parked. More still clung to the maple and elm trees lining his block; they were a strange mish mash of bare and mostly bare foliage. A couple of Squirrels darted about the grass in a frantic search for nuts. The remnants of the flowers his mom had planted earlier this year sat forlornly in their beds. Looking across the street, Stoutheart was drawn to a few houses sporting Halloween decorations. Jack ‘O Lanterns (real and fake) were abundant. Some houses had plastic and foam tombstones scattered about on their lawns. From gnarled tree limbs, dummies of ghosts and witches hung, rocking to the wind’s movement. Halloween, Stoutheart mused to himself. Next to Christmas, it was his favorite holiday mainly for the idea of—for just one night at least—adopting a persona wholly different to your own and getting your creative juices to flow in the process. As a kid he enjoyed the haul of goodies he got while trick-or-treating but that was gone now: he was too old for that. Still, even for a 17-year-old like him, there were compromises. The annual Halloween dance organized at his school was the big one. It wasn’t as stupendous as the Fall Formal or Spring Fling, but like all of its dances and shindigs, Canterlot High School still put on a good show for its students and staff. The music was top notch and the snacks and drinks were terrific; then again, that was the norm when Pinkie Pie or the Apple Family handled the refreshments. Then was the contest for best costume, a recent addition to the dance and one judged by Celestia, Luna, and some of the teachers. For a few moments he mused on what the prize would be, but his mind drew a big fat blank. It didn’t matter anyway. The gun-toting vigilante he was dressing up as this year was rather obscure, so he didn’t expect to win; he doubted few people knew about the exploits of The Wraith outside his circle of friends, and even then, the latter only knew because he had told them. Though the dance was still days off, the excitement in the air the past week at CHS had been electric. Stoutheart’s mind wandered back to the lunchtime gab sessions he had had with Soarin’ Fleetfoot, and Spitfire about their costumes and discussions about what horror movie was best. His three friends preferred the slasher flicks with gore and a ridiculous number of jump scares. Stoutheart on the other hand professed his like for the classics; the black and white films featuring werewolves, bloodthirsty fish men, and mummies visiting their wrath on those who disturbed their eternal rest. He enjoyed the noir-like atmosphere some of those movies exuded. This of course drew some good-natured ribbing—particularly from Fleetfoot who couldn’t resist make references to sparkling vampires—but they seemed to respect his tastes. The anticipation for the dance also brought concern, not to mention a slight frown, across Stoutheart’s face. He expected Flitter would be at the dance too, probably in tow with her sister or Thunderlane. Suddenly Stoutheart’s brain began taunting him with visions: he and Flitter jamming to the tunes pumped out on stage. The two of them laughing and joking and hamming it up with their classmates before capping off the evening with a slow dance. That latter image played out to him like a scene in one of his old movies. A pair of hearts beating faster and faster… Flitter gripping his shoulder firmly… Stoutheart’s arms doing the same around her waist… Amber eyes locked with raspberry… Flitter’s lips curling into a smile as they closed the distance to his own… HONK! HONK! As if a light switch had been flicked, the romantic vision snapped out as Stoutheart looked out over his porch as a red sedan slowed and stopped in front of his house. Hurrying to the curb, he opened the rear passenger door and tossed his bags on the seat. Then he opened the front passenger door and slid in. In the driver’s seat, a white skinned woman with pink hair and wearing hospital-like scrubs met his gaze. “Hey Aunt Red!” Stoutheart smiled. “Morning Stout,” Redheart replied warmly. “Seatbelt please.” Always with the seatbelt command, Stoutheart thought to himself as he playfully rolled his eyes and buckled himself in. He turned to look at the older woman. “Happy?” Redheart’s only response was a grin as she yanked the gearshift to DRIVE and pulled out into the street. “So,” asked Redheart, her eyes never leaving the road, “how you been?” Stoutheart gave a shrug. “Same old, same old. Nose to the grindstone, improving mind and body and all that sh—” A throat clearing noise cut him off, he turned to see Redheart lock a disapproving glare onto his eyes. “Uh…‘s-stuff!’” stammered Stoutheart, “Same old stuff!” He chuckled nervously. The smile returned. “That’s what I thought,” she smugly replied. For what seemed like hours—but was only minutes—the only noise inside the car that followed emanated from the radio. Oldies, thought Stoutheart dryly. Just like mom. His elbow on the passenger door, Stoutheart gazed out the window at the houses and people whooshing past. His aunt soon broke the silence. “So, how goes your costume?” Stoutheart looked at her. “Good”, he replied contentedly. “Picked up the goggles and shoulder holsters last week at Spook-o-Rama. The goggles had this metallic finish on their frames, but that was nothing a can or two of black spray paint couldn’t fix.” Redheart nodded. “Good to hear. Any luck with a hat yet?” The question caused Stoutheart to grimace. Compared to his dilemma with Flitter, this was a trifle but it nagged at him just as badly. “No,” he said with a sigh. “Checked the thrift stores and even that theatrical shop you told me about. Nothing.” He then shook his head. “The best I found there were those fedoras that the hipsters like to wear.” “Oh,” was Redheart’s reply. Stout could hear the disappointment laced in her voice. “I thought for sure you’d get a home run at that shop.” She used her right hand to pat his back. “Sorry, kiddo.” “It’s alright,” Stoutheart said with another sigh. “It was a solid tip anyway, and I’d be kicking myself if I didn’t check it out.” His face then scrunched up in frustration. “I could find the perfect slouch hat online,” he grumbled. “But even the cheapest one I found still cost over a hundred bucks. I mean, even the helmets Fleetfoot and Spitfire bought for their costumes aren’t that expensive!” “Why don’t you ask your mother to order one?” suggested Redheart. Stoutheart rested his elbow on the door and exhaled through his nostrils. “It’d be nice, but I don’t think it’ll fly with her. I just can’t see mom agreeing to pay an arm and a leg for a hat.” He then rubbed his chin in silence. After a moment or two, he spoke up again. “I might go the mall this weekend. Try Spook-o-Rama or Party Station again. It’s a longshot, but I’m not giving up. I didn’t bust my ass at that bookstore all summer for nothing.” Surprisingly, Redheart didn’t chide her nephew for his language this time. “Y’know,” she smiled, “I think I heard a bit of your old man in that statement.” He turned slightly and smiled. “Thanks.” “No problem, sweetie.” * * * * It wasn’t long before the form of Canterlot High School appeared in Redheart’s windshield. Like clockwork, she slowed and pulled up to the curb a few yards from the Wondercolts Statue. Stoutheart unbuckled himself, got out of the car and collected his gear. “Have a good day!” Redheart called out from the front. “I’ll try!” Stoutheart called back. He closed the door and watched as his aunt pulled away and rounded the curve that would take her to the faculty parking lot behind the school. Slinging the strap of his satchel onto his left shoulder, Stoutheart walked at a good pace across the courtyard, sometimes keeping to the paved path, but from time to time moving onto the grass so as not to get in another person’s way. High above the glass ceiling that sheltered the library, the endless canopy of grey clouds continued their slow crawl. The gloomy sky seemed even darker now, though Stoutheart figured it was his eyes playing tricks on him. Either way the school had a somewhat dismal appearance in spite of its burgundy brickwork or the gold-colored horses spaced about the roof. Yep, definitely getting rain again, judged the teen as he picked up the pace toward his destination: the glass doors forming the school’s entrance. Around him, the other denizens of CHS followed suit. Every now and then, Stoutheart nodded and waved at someone he recognized: Derpy, who was conversing with the flower siblings about something. Bon Bon, eagerly showing off the latest Con Mane book to Lyra; Octavia, effortlessly lugging her cello case alongside Vinyl Scratch, whose head bobbed to the rhythm of her so-called “wubs”. On his way past the statue, he also caught sight of some of the Rainbooms, along with that new girl that recently transferred in from Crystal Prep, Twilight Sparkle, if his memory was right. The bespectacled girl chatted with Sunset Shimmer while Rainbow Dash bounced a soccer ball on her head, probably trying for a world record. Applejack, Rarity, and Fluttershy were nowhere to be seen, but Pinkie Pie was there as well, and Stoutheart couldn’t help but chuckle and shake his head as she noticed him and waved with all the excitement of one of those tube flailing things car dealerships display. He returned the favor, eliciting a giggle from the school’s premier party planner. Climbing the stairs leading to the building, Stoutheart paused and looked back at the sea of faces streaming in. His eyes picked up no sign of Flitter. Maybe if he just waited by the entrance until she showed up… No, admonished his mind, too weird.Besides, classes will begin soon and it’s getting pretty thick with people here. He pulled open one of doors and passed through, offering a “good morning” to Principal Celestia and Vice-Principal Luna in the lobby. Looking around, Stoutheart inspected the walls displayed with cutouts of witches, zombies, goblins, and skeletons. The railings on the upper level were covered with fake cottony spider webs and cutouts of bats. Vying for space with these decorations were the orange and green posters which advertised the dance in slime dripping font. After taking this scene in, Stoutheart made a straight beeline to his locker. He opened the door, hung his satchel on a hook and looked down at the nylon bag. “Phys Ed in the morning. Hell of a wake-up call that’s for sure,” grunted Stoutheart as he zipped up the duffel, stuffed it in his locker, and closed the door. * * * * Entering the boys changing room and shower, Stoutheart plopped his bag down on the closest bench to the entrance, kicked off his shoes, and began undressing. From his peripheral vision, he could see that some of the other teens he shared Phys Ed. with were already there, including Thunderlane—his dark gray skin and silvery mohawk were unmistakable—Flash Sentry, and another teen with powder blue skin and dark, swept-back blue hair. “Sup’ professor!” he called out cheerfully. Stoutheart, in the process of unbuttoning his pants, looked up and nodded an acknowledgement. “Hey Soarin'.” Then he smirked. “Leave any of those mini apple pies for the rest of us?” “Ha, friggin ha,” Soarin retorted in a mock deadpan. “You’re a riot Stout.” He then changed the subject. “Spit and Fleet told me that those helmets they ordered for their costumes should be delivered sometime today.” The statement brought a look of puzzlement across Flash’s face. “Helmets? What kind of helmets?” “Oh, Spitfire’s going as an X-Wing Pilot this year,” explained Soarin, “and Fleetfoot’s going as a TIE Fighter pilot.” “Really?” chirped Thunderlane. He sounded impressed. “Yep!” said Stoutheart simply as he pulled off his pants, slipped on a pair of navy blue shorts, and adjusted the drawstring. He then gestured to Flash and Thunderlane. “What about you two?” “Well,” began Flash, “I was gonna’ go as one of those old school gangsters from the Prohibition Era. Got inspired last month after seeing some movie on TV. Angels with Filthy Souls I think it was called.” Stoutheart nodded. He knew that film well. A brief mental image of the protagonist cackling madly as he unloaded his submachine gun played out… Only to end as soon as Thunderlane spoke up. “I’m going as Copperfang.” Stoutheart’s eyes widened. “The guy from Escape From Manehattan? Sweet.” “Hell yeah,” Thunderlane beamed. “Love that movie. Escape from Los Pegasus too, even if it just recycles the plot. Anyhoo, I got everything ready to go for Friday.” “Ditto!” exclaimed Soarin' as he pulled a sky-blue Wondercolts T-shirt over his head. “The last piece of my outfit came yesterday.” His mouth spread into a wide grin. “Now I’m just counting the days till showtime!” Lucky bastard, thought Stoutheart bitterly as he put on his own Wondercolts shirt. Thunderlane’s attention was piqued once again. “What’re you going as anyway, Soar?” “I,” proclaimed Soarin proudly, “am going as Sundowner.” “He’s that dude who sometimes pals around with Daring Do right?” “Bingo!” said Soarin. “He first appeared in Daring Do and the Wake of the Appleloosa. He started out as a soldier in the Prench Foreign Legion who helped Daring locate a Confederate Ironclad loaded with gold in the Alkharab Desert, defeated a local warlord, and avenged the massacre of his unit. “Ah yeah, I remember that one,” said Stoutheart wistfully. “The prologue of the Appleloosa shooting her way out to sea was awesome.” “Wait, hold up,” said a Flash while making the appropriate gesture with his hands. “A warship from the Civil War in a Zebrican desert? How the hell does that work?” Soarin smiled slyly. “I’d tell you, but, you know, spoilers and all that jazz. You’ll just have to see read the book for yourself. Trust me Sentry, it’s really good.” Flash simply nodded his head before continuing to put on his gym clothes. “What about you Stoutheart?” He asked in a curious voice. “Who are you going as this time around?” “Uhh…” Stoutheart paused to smooth out his T-shirt. “Ever heard of a character called The Wraith?” Flash shared a look with Thunderlane, looked back at Stoutheart and shook his head. “Not really, who’s he?” Stoutheart took a breath. “Well, long story short, he’s a vigilante featured in series of pulp novels throughout the 1930’s and 40’s. That’s who I’m going as.” “Pulp?” interrupted Thunderlane. “They got that name from the cheap paper the books were printed on,” Stout explained as he re-laced his shoes. A series of “ahs” and “ohs” came from both the mohawked teen and Flash. “Anyway long story short,” continued Stoutheart, “he operates in a fictional city called Bridleton, fighting all kinds of criminals. Mad scientists, serial killers, the mob, even foreign spies.” “Soo…he’s like Nighthawk?” ventured Flash as he closed his gym bag. Stoutheart shook his head. “Not exactly. First, his outfit is way cooler. Second, unlike Nighthawk, the Wraith has no problem killing criminals he fights, usually with his twin .45 caliber pistols.” “I see,” said Flash. “Funny you should mention Nighthawk too,” added Stoutheart. “You see, much of tropes used in the Nighthawk comics were first used by the Wraith. Secret lair, cool car, rich guy alter-ego and all that.” He stood up from the bench. “As a matter of fact, Nighthawk’s debut comic in 1939 was lifted directly from a Wraith story that came out five years before.” Flash let out a whistle. “Huh, didn’t know that.” “Mmm, hmm,” acknowledged Stoutheart. “Nowadays the Wraith is kind of forgotten, but back then he was just as popular. Books, various comic book runs, even a TV series from the mid-nineties that I used to watch on re-runs. That’s how I first found out about him.” Soarin nodded softly before speaking like a documentary narrator. “And that concludes today’s episode of Live with Professor Stoutheart. Tune in next week when he reveals the dark truth behind Zingers and Diet Burple.” He, Flash, and Thunderlane shared a good laugh. Even though it was at his expense, Stoutheart knew Soarin enough to know there was no malice in his remark. He just grinned as he headed toward the exit only to pause after a few steps. The grin quickly vanished. The gears in his head began to turn again. Thunderlane hangs out with Flitter and Cloudchaser. A lot. Cafeteria, soccer games, the front lawn after school gets out. They’re almost as joined at the hip as Lyra and Bon Bon. If anyone knows those two, it’s him. All you gotta do is ask. Ask him if Flitter’s seeing anyone. Simple question! Easy peasy. But it wasn’t easy. Not for Stoutheart. He could feel a tightening in his gut as he weighed the choice. His jaw clenched tight while his left hand balled into a fist, not as if to fight though. The fingertips concealed within that fist rubbed nervously along the soft skin of his palms. Do it. “H-hey ‘Lane?” He still had his back turned to the other boys. He gulped. Well, now you’re committed. No turning back Professor. Normally he didn’t wince under the nickname Spitfire had bestowed on him, but there was always a first time for everything. “Yeah?” came the reply. Do it…Do it…Do it…Do it. Hissed his brain. “Uhh…n-nevermind, sorry. I…forgot what I going to say.” Pansy. Stoutheart was out of sight just seconds before the bell rang.