Stoutheart’s hands, glistening and dripping wet from water, turned off the tap and pulled a hand towel from the metal ring mounted on the wall next to the mirror. He dried his hands thoroughly until only a hint of moistness remained on his skin. Satisfied, he threaded the towel back through the ring and turned to leave but paused and looked into the mirror of his bathroom. His mouth curved down into a scowl and for the second time today, he sighed quietly.
“Bastard,” he hisssed.
He then focused on his right eye, or more specifically the angry black-blue ring that formed around it, marring his skin. Cloudchaser should be a fortune teller, he thought wryly as he studied the coloration before shifting his attention to the bruises on his cheeks and jaw line. The throbbing pain that had come with them was gone, but Stoutheart figured they would still hurt to the touch and did not probe them. At least his head didn’t pound anymore. The Ibuprofen his mother had given him last night before bed worked like a charm and he was grateful for that.
Then Stoutheart’s mind wandered to what tomorrow would bring. He could easily imagine the wide-eyed stares and whispers of his classmates when he returned to school tomorrow, along with the incessant questions of “what happened?” and “are you alright?” Earlier that morning, he had toyed with the idea of borrowing some of his mom’s makeup to hide the injuries but quickly scotched it. The sweat and exertion of Phys Ed would have erased it before the period ended.
Besides, figured Stoutheart, it wasn’t like he had anything to be ashamed of. Firebrand was the aggressor, pure and simple. It wasn’t Stoutheart’s fault he couldn’t take a rebuke to his stupidity. Inevitably his thoughts once again turned to Flitter. He remembered how she and her sister jumped unhesitatingly to his aid after Firebrand’s opening shot and the warm assurance she had shown him in the security office. To Stoutheart, it was a display of kindness that could have rivaled anything shown by Fluttershy. And he admired it.
On his way out of the bathroom, that admiration was overwhelmed by more thoughts. Tomorrow’s the big day loverboy, teased his mind. Think you can still do it?
Stoutheart refused to answer the question, shook it off, and returned to his bedroom. He had no plans today so had opted for a simpler attire; jeans, white T-shirt, and socks. With a contented sigh, he lay down on his bed, adjusted his pillows until he was comfortable, and picked up his copy of Casefiles of the Wraith.
For about an hour and a half, the only sounds filling Stoutheart’s ears were the occasional muffled whoosh of a passing car and tweeting of birds outside his window as well as the turning of pages as the teen absorbed himself in the remaining three stories featured in the book. The last of them, Terror in Wax, was among his favorites; a sculptor who populated his wax museum with the corpses of those he murdered. He had read it before, but it still thrilled him, especially when The Wraith closed out the story by sending the madman hurtling off a raised platform and into a vat of boiling wax, a poetic end to his depravity.
He was almost to that climax when his ears picked up a thumping noise outside his room. He glanced at the closed door, its upper half covered in the replica of a propaganda poster showing an Equestrian navy destroyer slicing through the hull of a U-boat. The noise was faint at first, but grew more and more pronounced; a sure sign to Stoutheart that someone was coming up the stairs. He was untroubled. He knew who was on the way up.
Only three or four seconds passed before the expected knock on the door came. “Come in,” Stoutheart called out, eyes still glued to the pages of his book.
The door creaked opened and his mother stood in the threshold. “How you holding up?” she asked with curiosity.
Stoutheart lowered the book onto his chest and shrugged. “Fine,” he replied coolly.
Snowheart didn’t accept her son’s answer and closed in to get a better look at the bruises. “That the truth, or are you just playing tough guy?”
“Yes, it’s the truth,” Stoutheart said with a roll of his eyes. “No more headaches and pain. Bruises are probably still tender though but I’m not touching them.” He then saw one of his mother’s eyebrows rise. “Honest!” he added defensively.
That seemed to satisfy Snowheart, for she hummed in acknowledgement and leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. He made no protest at the display of motherly affection.
“What’re you reading?” she asked, looking down at the book. He raised it back up and showed her the cover.
“Ah, your friend The Wraith,” she proclaimed dramatically before cracking a lopsided smile and sighing in faux relief. “Well, at least it isn’t one of those Excelsior books. Those silly things will rot your brain.”
Stoutheart stuck his tongue out at her, a trait he picked up from his grandmother. “Hilarious,” he droned as he picked the book back up, this time positioning it so that it concealed his face.
Snowheart giggled. “Tough crowd,” she mused before turning and heading for the door. Then she looked back at him. “It’s almost noon. You hungry?”
Stoutheart lowered the book just enough to show his eyes. “Nah, I’m still full from breakfast. Thanks anyway.”
“No problem sweetie,” said Snowheart. “If you change your mind let me know.”
Stoutheart prepared to answer, but a yawn rose up and he merely nodded an acknowledgement as she shut the door and left.
Ten minutes later, Stoutheart polished off the last page of his book. Rising to a seated position, he carefully tossed the book onto a clear space on his desk. Then he lay back on his bed, and sighed contentedly as he found a comfortable position; ankles crossed, hands behind his head For a few minutes he was silent, his eyes dancing around the wall décor of the room, his “private library” as his mother jokingly called it, and, finally the black foam fedora also sitting on his desk, silently awaiting its duty tomorrow night. He almost began thinking about how it might clash with the rest of his costume, but a glance to the two remotes sitting on his night table helped him avoid mulling about it. One remote was for his TV. The other handled his satellite receiver, which filled the gap separating the top of his shelf and the TV that sat on it.
Probably not much on but what the hell, couldn’t hurt to try. He grabbed both and pressed their “On” buttons within a second of each other.
Sadly, Stoutheart was proven right this day. He felt like he had wasted an hour channel surfing but doubted it. More like minutes perhaps, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Stoutheart would have better luck divining water from sand dunes in a desert. All he turned up were reruns of police and crime procedurals, recaps of the day’s top stories on the news, kids programs, and those god-awful reality shows that laid it on thick with the fakeness and drama.
He didn’t even bother stopping to check the Tempus Network. He used to enjoy the history themed channel when he was younger, but the influx of car restorations, knife making, pawn shop haggling, and shows about aliens and the occult made it damn near unwatchable.
He was still clicking away when his phone, also sitting on his night table, sounded with the sharp shrilling tone of a bosun’s whistle. Setting the remotes down on his bed, Stoutheart grabbed the phone and eyed the screen. The word “SOARIN” was splashed across it in capital letters. Below that the words “Vis-a-Vis” sat in lowercase letters along with a green oval and the question, “Accept?” within it.
Stoutheart tapped it without hesitation and the screen immediately rose up revealing the grinning face of Soarin.
That grin however didn’t last. It quickly became slack with shock and Stoutheart could plainly see his eyes widen.
“Like my new look?” asked Stoutheart, breaking the ice. The question was dipped in sarcasm but the smile was genuine.
“Holy crap Stout,” he replied in wonder. “You alright?”
There’s one, Stoutheart thought wryly. “The bruises look worse than they are,” he assured him. “I’m okay.”
“That guy really did a number on you,” said Soarin, who leaned in as if to get a better look. Then a look of realization washed over him and his face took a hangdog expression.
Stoutheart’s eyebrows rose slightly in puzzlement. “How do you know about my little tango with Firebrand?” Somehow, deep down in his gut, he had an inkling of what the answer to his question was and he didn’t like it. A tendril of uneasiness began to wrap around him.
Soarin’s eyes briefly looked away before returning Stoutheart’s gaze. He took a sharp breath. “It’s over on YouFace,” he explained with a smidge of regret. “Fleetfoot showed it to me early this morning. Was practically the first thing that popped up on my phone after I turned it on.”
“Great, just great,” moaned Stoutheart sullenly.
“Sorry dude,” offered Soarin sympathetically. “Figured I’d tell you before you got surprised tomorrow at school.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Stoutheart said with a wave of his hand before giving a sigh and broaching the inevitable question. “Any idea who filmed it?”
Soarin shook his head. “The username’s SFlare22. According to Fleet, she came across it last night while doing some browsing before bed.”
“This Flare guy worked fast,” Stoutheart mused. He shifted his position in the bed slightly. Then his curiosity got the better of him. “How many hits does it have?”
Soarin seemed to hesitate for a long moment before sucking in a breath and speaking. “Seventy-four thousand views.”
Stoutheart shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Son-of-a bitch,” he groaned.
“And that’s just when I first saw it,” added Soarin helplessly. “Who knows how many hits it’s got now. Looks like you’re a celebrity now.” There was no hint of enthusiasm in that last statement.
“Not something I’m going to relish,” said Stoutheart, mildly annoyed. “Can you send me the video?” he asked.
“Y-you sure?” asked Soarin hesitantly.
Stoutheart gave a firm nod of his head. “Yeah. I’m going to see it one way or another, so there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Lay it on me.”
“Ooookay then,” began Soarin. “Gimme a moment.”
The connection cut out and for a minute or two all Stoutheart could see was the main screen of his phone. Then a web link in underlined blue text appeared at the top of the screen. A second later Soarin re-established contact.
“Well, there you go,” he announced. He was a bit more cheerful now. “Between you and me Stout, the tackle you gave that guy was byootiful!” He gave a chef’s kiss that turned Stoutheart’s frown into a smile. “You got all the makings of a quarterback there, professor,” Soarin added cheekily.
“That’s what one of the security guards who helped me out said yesterday,” replied Stoutheart with a modest shrug. “Well, more or less.”
Soarin flashed a wolfish grin. “Your crush didn’t do too bad either. If Flitter catches you cheating down the road, you’re gonna’ be in for a bad time.”
A blush of embarrassment crossed Stoutheart’s cheeks. He thought of a retort but decided to counter Soarin’s jab by changing the subject. “So, tried your Halloween costume on yet?”
Soarin nodded enthusiastically. “Yesterday. Everything fits like a glove. I tell you man, that army surplus store on Main Street was an absolute godsend. Found most of the gear I need there. Whatever I couldn’t find, I made.”
“Wait,” interrupted Stoutheart. “Made?”
Soarin nodded smugly. “Found some cosplay tutorials online. How about you? Rustle up a hat?”
Stoutheart crawled off his bed, phone still in hand, and walked over to his desk. He picked the fedora up with a free hand and held it front of the screen.
“Hey, you lucked out!” Soarin’s voice exclaimed happily.
Stoutheart turned the screen back to his face. “Yeah. It’s not perfect mind you, but I have to take what I can get on such short notice.”
“Well, at least you won’t look silly come Monday.”
“Too true,” Stoutheart said with a relieved smile. “How’d you do on your game night?” he asked without bothering to stifle a yawn.
Soarin shook his head grimly. “Sunset Shimmer got better since the last time we played. She whooped my ass at least a dozen times last night.”
“Well,” said Stoutheart with a smug grin of his own, “the glory days weren’t going to last forever old chap.”
“Up yours professor,” Soarin shot back humorously. He opened his mouth to say something, but the riff of an electric guitar cut him off on his end of the conversation. “I Got another call. Probably either Fleetfoot or Spitfire. Look, I’ll catch you tomorrow Stout, okay?”
“No problem Soar. Thanks for checking in on me by the way.”
Soarin gave a thumbs up before cutting the connection, leaving Stoutheart alone once more. The TV was still on, but he ignored it. His mind was focused on other matters. He pulled open his “messages” folder, revealing the link to Sflare22’s video.
For a good minute, Stoutheart’s right index finger hovered over the link hesitatingly. For some silly reason he felt like he was about to pry the lid off of a casket. Then his mind chided him: like the commercial says, just wing it! He swallowed and tapped the screen.
In just a few seconds, the web browser Stoutheart used opened and the familiar layout of the video sharing service known as YouFace appeared. So did a square of black with a loading symbol. Just below that were the black, bold words of the video’s title: Big fight at Canterlot Mall. Bully gets Rocked!
When the video began, it revealed a distant shot of Stoutheart leaning toward Firebrand, evidently in the midst of telling him off, while Flitter and Cloudchaser looked between the two boys. It was evident that the camera belonged to a Smartphone and it was a good quality one judging from the clarity of the video. At one point, the back of a girl’s head, curtained by green and pistachio hair, and a pair of headphones clamped down over her ears, appeared in the lower left corner of the screen.
Then the camera jiggled a bit and zoomed in just in time to catch Firebrand haul back and sock Stoutheart in the face, sending up a gasp a surprise from “headphones” who then turned to face the camera, revealing a face with eyes that were almost as amber as Stoutheart’s.
“Holy crap! You get that Sunny?” she exclaimed.
Even watching it from his phone, Stoutheart winced slightly as saw himself recoil, stumble, and fall.
Aside from some more jostling, the camera captured everything that followed. Anger clouded his face as he watched Firebrand assault Flitter and her sister and smirked as he watched himself drive his body into Firebrand. A tremendous whoop sounded off camera, which then turned back to reveal headphones once again, her lips had curled into a wide grin. The camera quickly panned back, showing Stoutheart getting back to his feet and helping Flitter up. Then the video flashed to black.
Stoutheart placed the phone back on his night table and rubbed his eyes with his palms. He wanted to gripe at the damnable luck and curse Sflare22, but caught himself. There was no point. With a grunt, Stoutheart once again sat up but this time he swung his feet onto the floor. He rubbed a hand through his hair and looked down at his stocking feet. Then he inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, his lips warbling and sounding like a horse.
A noise from the TV caught his attention. He turned turned and saw that it was currently displaying a commercial for cosmetics. He watched uninterested until another commercial started up. Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind and he looked back to his closet door.
Sure, why not, he thought flatly.
Rising to his feet, he stretched, walked over, gripped the closet’s door handle, and slid it open. Inside, rising about three feet from the floor and stretching across its width was a three tiered wooden shelf showing the spines of DVD’s and Blu-Rays. Stoutheart took a squatting posture and brushed away some of the shirts hanging in front of the shelf.
“Hmm,” he began. “Let’s see.” His eyes swept over the cases and after a few minutes examination, which at times was punctuated by some low humming of a tune, he settled on a thick DVD case and pulled it out. Its cover showed a dramatic painting of the Excelsior making her final plunge into the sea, lifeboats and thrashing, panicking swimmers surrounding her hulk. Hanging above it all was the DVD’s title: Excelsior: The Complete Story.
The title may have smacked of haughtiness, but Stoutheart knew from past viewings that the two-part program was anything but. Many Excelsior buffs around the world praised it as one of the most accurate and gripping documentaries about the ill-fated ship, despite being made over 20 years before he was born.
Walking in front of his TV, Stoutheart cracked the case and inserted the first disc into his DVD player, which sat next to his satellite receiver. Picking up the remote that sat atop the machine, he waited for the main menu to pop up, highlighted “Play” on the screen and hit “select” on the remote.
Greeting him was a flurry of images; of the majestic ship, some of her passengers, and a blue sea marred with foreboding patches of ice. Over it, period music played along with a narrator speaking in a distinguished Trottingham accent.
“She was the largest ship in the world. Designed to be the epitome of style, luxury and safety. Her passengers included the world’s most famous celebrities. But four days into her maiden voyage, she would face a disaster so terrible it would shatter the faith of an age. She was the legendary RMS Excelsior.”
The first part of documentary ran for an hour an thirty minutes and for the first half of it, Stoutheart watched quietly in rapt attention, his mind a hundred years and thousands of miles away in the waters of the North Atlantic.
Then, just as the narrator described the moment Excelsior’s lookout spotted the iceberg, Stoutheart’s phone jingled with the sound of a telegraph key. He frowned and hit the “pause” button before leaning over and picking up the phone and eyeing the screen:
MOM: There’s someone here to see you. One of your friends from school.
Stoutheart was perplexed and the gears in his mind began turning. Who was it? he wondered. Unless he was gifted with super speed, it couldn’t have been Soarin, so Stoutheart was content to eliminate him. Sunset Shimmer maybe? Fluttershy? They saw me get beat up too. No…can’t be. They don’t know where I live. Besides, even if they did they’re probably hanging out with the rest of the Rainbooms. Thick as thieves they are.
He was sure Spitfire knew his address. He remembered she had dropped by his house one time when he was helping her study for that test. To Stoutheart, Spitty seemed like the most obvious candidate to be paying a visit. Still, he had to be sure.
“Who is it?” Stoutheart tapped out on his phone questioningly.
In a matter of a few seconds the reply came back:
MOM: One of those girls from the mall. The one with the bow.
The revelation came to Stoutheart like he had been punched in the face again. Dread swept over him like the frigid winds of a blizzard. If he had bothered to look at his arm, he would have seen goose bumps forming on his skin, but his eyes were locked firmly on the electronic words scrawled across his phone. His mouth opened slightly in disbelief and it was a long minute before he spoke. When those words finally did come, it came in a blunt, low mutter.
“Crap.”