Stout Hearts and Dragonflies

by Lightoller

Chapter 3

It was ten minutes to three in the afternoon when Stoutheart pushed open the door and stepped inside his house. He closed the door behind him and turned the deadbolt. Then he inhaled, held it for a few seconds and puffed out the air from his cheeks.

He had entered a combination den/office, with an arm chair in the left corner and, up ahead a desk topped by a monitor and computer tower. It belonged to his mother. When she wasn’t streaming some movie or TV show on it, she could be found typing up morning reports for her staff on the weekend or in some kind of conference call on her phone.

His real destination however was the kitchen. It was too early for dinner and at any rate, he was still full from the meal of chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese he had had for lunch. Setting his bags down on the dining room table, he moved to the sink and finished cleaning the bowl and plate that had once held his breakfast.

After putting them away, he then walked over to the living room, dominated by a large couch nestled next to a window looking out into his backyard, a coffee table topped with a few grocery flyers, a smaller couch that sat at a ninety degree angle to its bigger counterpart, and a light blue cabinet that held some family heirlooms and supported the large flat screen TV and satellite receiver. Completing the ensemble were a few smaller tables with drawers that flanked the couches, some lamps, and a gas fireplace sitting in a corner of one of the lilac-painted walls.

Leaning over the coffee table, Stoutheart picked up the remotes for both the TV and satellite and turned them on simultaneously. After maybe a minute or two of channel surfing, he came across some crime drama. It was about some Librarian who solved mysteries as a pastime. Stoutheart thought it was ridiculous, but in the end, he didn’t care. He just wanted some background noise for what he was about to do next.

Settling into the chair at the head of the table, Stoutheart opened his satchel and pulled out his binder and a series of textbooks. He eyed the covers. “Hmm…” he began. “Lets get the math out of the way first,” he murmured. “The history and English stuff are small potatoes.”

For about an hour, he dived into the algebra assignment he had partially finished, poring over the notes he had scribbled down feverishly during the teacher’s lecture, and then using what he gleaned to tackle the equations remaining on his worksheet. Of all the subjects he had this semester, Math was probably Stoutheart’s weakest, but he stubbornly kept at it, jotting down an answer and checking it. Sometimes he shook his head and muttered something unintelligible before erasing his answer and penciling in a new one, praying silently that it was right.

Finally, the perseverance paid off. With a sigh of relief, he closed his math textbook with a dramatic slap, leaned back in his chair, and massaged his eyes with his palms. From behind those closed lids, visions of his morning exchange with Flitter swirled into view, but he quickly banished them by opening his eyes and refocusing on his English and history work.

A pattering sound filled his ears. Curious, he turned and looked at the sliding door that opened to the backyard. His earlier assumption about rain had proved correct. Water pelted the glass relentlessly and rivulets of the clear liquid streaked down the surface. More of it could be heard bombarding the roof of the metal shelter covering the patio; the wood it was crafted from was darkened and completely slick with rainwater.

Squinting into the distance, Stoutheart could see more rain rolling across the grass in sheets and attacking the wood fence that bordered his yard. Judging by the sound, he suspected that it was a light downpour. The sky seemed even a deeper grey than this morning, though Stoutheart chalked that up to the fading daylight. It mattered little. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight anyway. He tuned out Mother Nature’s barrage outside and tried to get back to his homework.

But to his chagrin, something wouldn’t let him. No, that wasn’t correct. Someone. The image of Flitter again loomed up in his mind. He appreciated the sincerity in her voice when she apologized for bopping him in the face with that ball. To anyone else, her slightly slurred timbre might have been a turn off, but not to Stoutheart. It only added to her cuteness.

So did the outfit he saw her in later on that day; the purple skirt with the three embroidered dragonflies, the light pink T-shirt, the lilac-colored boots with purple flames licking up their height, and the tights emblazoned with more dragonflies zipping across their white cotton surface.

Suddenly, he found himself overwhelmed by a wave of disgust. As if a headache had come over him, he massaged his forehead. In addition to being an Egghead, and a coward, you’re also a perv, he thought bitterly. Close behind that wave was another, this time bearing self-doubt. You’d have as much chance of being with Flitter as jumping into the ocean and freediving your ass all the way down to the Excelsior.

As if to twist the metaphorical knife even farther, he then conjured up a picture of him approaching Flitter while she stood at her locker. Of him taking a deep breath staring firmly into her eyes and explaining how he felt about her…how he liked her and if she would accompany him to the dance.

Only two possible outcomes came to Stoutheart, and they both sucked. The first was Flitter cruelly laughing off his advance and mocking his attempt, his intelligence, and his looks sending him scuttling away with his head down in a stunned, heartbroken silence. That seemed unlikely to Stoutheart but he still played it out in his head before moving on to the more likely outcome.

“That…that’s sweet of you Stoutheart, it really is,” he imagined her beginning in a low tone before laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “But I…I don’t know. Look, don’t get me wrong, you seem like a great guy. You really do, but I just don’t think I’m ready for a relationship.” The vision finished with her giving him a warm hug and looking with sympathy into his crestfallen face. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered before rushing off into the crowd thickening within the hallway.

As if to exorcise the vision, Stoutheart inhaled and exhaled out his nose and began to attack his remaining homework with the vigor of a soldier charging the enemy with bayonet fixed. The strategy worked almost too well; he became so engrossed that when the faint sound of the garage door opening reached his ears, it startled him. He looked at his watch. The digital numbers read 5:07.

"Looks like she’s home on time,” muttered Stoutheart to himself. The English homework was long finished and he was in the midst of his history assignment when the inner door to the garage opened and his mom walked in. “Hey babe,” she called out.

“Hey,” replied Stoutheart tonelessly. He didn’t bother to look up.

“How was your day?” asked Snowheart.

That question on the other hand tore Stoutheart from his binder. “It was fine, nothing special,” he said with a quick shrug. He decided to keep the dodgeball incident to himself. He loved his mother with every fiber of his being, but she tended to fuss over him whenever he got as much as a scraped knee. Her long career in nursing and tending to the sick and injured offered only a partial explanation; the other part sat on the fireplace mantle, which Stoutheart cast an eye over to.

In the center of that mantle, flanked on both sides by photos of his grandparents and great-grandparents, sat a framed photo of a middle-aged man with ivory skin and a broad smile. He was clad in the dress uniform of the Canterlot Police Department and traces of blue hair, almost the same as Stoutheart’s, could be seen peeking out from beneath his cap. Next to the frame was a CPD badge encased in plastic. The lettering below it read:

Officer Valiant Shield

End of Watch: August 8, 2005

His stare was broken by a long sigh as his mother sat down on the short couch facing the TV and snatched up the remote. “What are you watching here?” asked Snowheart.

“Oh that? It’s nothing,” Stoutheart replied as he wrote down another answer in his binder. “I’m almost done here anyway and I don’t think there’s anything good on there for me tonight.” He looked back at the TV and saw that his mother had already switched the feed over to a streaming service she had subscribed to and began clicking through the selections. She halted on a thumbnail of a ship rising up from the sea floor like some prehistoric monster, tiny submersibles surrounding its decrepit hulk.

“You seen this one yet Stout? It’s called Raise the Excelsior,”

“Uh, huh,” replied the teen before returning to his paper. “Watched it last Saturday. Loved the raising scenes and the soundtrack, but other than that it was forgettable. The novel was way better.” He could almost sense her eyes rolling.

“Why am I not surprised,” said Snowheart with mock sarcasm. “I think you must have watched every movie that’s been made about that ship.”

Stoutheart looked back toward the couch and grinned. “Aside from a few silent movies that don’t exist anymore, you’re probably right. Same goes for the documentaries. Well, the good ones at least.” After a few more minutes of silence, he sighed contentedly and closed his binder. “Well, that’s all for that crap,” he muttered to himself. In a flash, he had the binder zipped up and tossed back into his satchel. His textbooks, pens, and pencils followed. He stood up from the table, stretched, and with both hands grabbed the satchel and gym bag before heading to the stairs.

“Homework done?” asked Snowheart.

“Yup,” he answered.

“Good. How do you feel about ravioli tonight?”

Stoutheart looked at her and nodded. “That’s fine.”

He marched up the stairs without another word.

* * * *

After dropping his soiled gym clothes and Jubilee Line sweater in his basket and his satchel on the desk, Stoutheart kicked off his shoes, put them in his closet, turned around and placed his hands on his hips. “Time to get to work,” he told himself. He flicked on his night table lamp and re-approached the footlocker at his bed. His eyes scanned the white stenciled lettering splashed across the battleship gray metal. Even with the passing of nearly eight decades, the scratched and chipped letters were still easily readable:

Lt. Stoutheart, UEN

Bombing Six

It had originally belonged to great-grandfather. Snowheart loved him just as much as she loved both her late husband and father; it was no surprise she chose such a name upon finding out she would give birth to a son.

The items the elder Stoutheart kept in there—including his uniform and the flight helmet and goggles he had worn on every one of his missions—were gone; either safe in storage or gracing the heirloom cabinet down in the living room. When decorating his room, the younger Stoutheart had convinced his mother to let him have the footlocker, with the promise that he would take good care of it. So far, he had upheld that promise.

If someone were to ask the teen about where he got such an obsessive interest in maritime history, he would have unequivocally credited both his grandfather, a submariner who loved telling sea stories, as well as his namesake. The record that namesake had racked up was enviable. Helping to tear up Neighponese planes and ships in his dive-bomber over Rongelo Atoll had earned him a Distinguished Flying Cross. Then, a few months later, came an even greater moment of glory.

“Cerberus Island,” murmured Stoutheart. He savored the name like a bottle of his favorite soft drink. His great-grandfather’s role in that momentous battle had been small but the teen was still enthralled by it. He had often imagined himself in his shoes, hurtling through the sky in that SBP, the wind roaring outside; the black puffs of flak and orange baseball-sized tracers tearing angrily past his windscreen; one hand on the bomb release handle, the other gripping the control column like a vise; the illuminated gun sight set firm and unyielding on the flight deck of that Neighponese aircraft carrier, its dull teak deck and the crimson disc of the rising sun looming invitingly…

Stoutheart blinked the vision away. Daydreaming isn’t going to clean your room. Opening the lid, he reached down and pulled out what he needed: a microfiber dust cloth, and a rainbow colored feather duster on a telescopic wand. Thus armed, he used them to attack the footlocker first, wiping away the thin layer of dust coating the dented steel.

Then, he went after his models. With the care of a mother washing her newborn, he rubbed the cloth over the plastic display case shielding the miniature dive-bomber. Aside from the different ID numbers painted on the fuselage, it was a dead ringer for his great-grandfathers. After tossing the cloth on the bed, he gingerly picked up the model and case and set it down on the footlocker. Once he had erased the offending dust from the top of the bookcase, he placed the model back in its place. He repeated the same thing for the other case, the one proudly displaying his Excelsior model.

Reaching for the feather duster, he then ran the nylon fibers over the two glass picture frames attached to the wall above the model ship. The right frame held a period advertisement of the Excelsior cutting through the sea, smoke belching from three of her four buff and black funnels. Above the ship the emblem of the Jubilee Line blazed. At the bottom of the poster, black letters outlined in white proclaimed: THE LARGEST AND FINEST STEAMERS IN THE WORLD: EXCELSIOR (46,000 TONS) & ARTEMIS (45,000 TONS).

The left frame protected a yellowed reproduction of the front page of the Manehattan Times, showing a black and white photo of the Excelsior steaming out of the port of Southayton. It was a very flattering photo, showing off the liner’s attractiveness in full. However, it contrasted grimly with the bold, black headlines above it: EXCELSIOR SINKS, 1,250 PERISH: NEW LUXURY LINER GOES DOWN THREE HOURS AFTER STRIKING ICEBERG; 866 BELIEVED SAVED; NOTED NAMES MISSING.

Next, Stoutheart quickly and methodically attacked the dust on his desk, dresser, and laptop, followed by the three framed posters above it all that displayed painted profiles of warships, planes, and tanks. His night table and the lamp soon followed.

The last hurdles were the bookcases. Here, the feather duster came into its own as Stoutheart pushed it into the gap that separated the shelves from the top of each row of books. With one arm and the back of a hand, Stoutheart held the books in place as he pushed and pulled the feather duster in and out.

Finally the battle was done. Re-opening the footlocker, he collapsed the feather duster and dropped it and the cloth inside before shutting the lid. Looking through the window, Stoutheart saw the rain stippling the glass. Dusk had by now thrown its shroud over the neighborhood. A smattering of lights burned in the houses across the street while rain became caught in the pale white cone of a street lamp.

“Stout!” came his mother’s voice from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready! Bring your dirty clothes down too so I can wash them.”

Without a reply, he picked up his basket and headed downstairs to the basement, where he set the basket atop the washer. Upon returning to the main level, Stoutheart helped himself to a bowl of four cheese ravioli smothered in tomato sauce. It was a simple meal, easy to make, but delicious nonetheless. He looked over at his mother. Snowheart was now sprawled out on the bigger couch watching a romantic drama; it was about some woman getting catapulted through time to eighteenth century Trotland. An empty sauce-smeared bowl sat on the coffee table.

“How’s the ravioli?” asked his mother not looking away from the TV.

“Terrific,” complimented Stoutheart between mouthfuls. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.” He finished the rest of meal in silence, sometimes glancing over at his mom’s show with mild interest. Then he helped himself to a second bowl. Once that was done, he put his bowl in the sink and quickly cleaned and dried it. Then it was back up the stairs.

Re-entering his room, he walked over to the left bookcase, squatted down and examined the titles.

If he had to guess, maybe 70 percent of his personal library was maritime themed, but like any book lover, Stoutheart enjoyed a little variety every now and then. For such a wet, dreary evening, stories of Dreadnoughts slugging it out on the high seas and Kamikaze attacks didn’t seem appropriate. Stoutheart reached for the shelf and pulled out a paperback before standing back up. He eyed the painted illustration on its cover.

Looking back at him was a male figure. Only the upper half of his body—from chest to head—was visible. He was clad completely in black; a trench coat with wing sleeves, cloth mask, and welder-type goggles concealing the eyes, their black lenses glinting. Just above the goggles sat a broad brimmed slouch hat. The arms of the figure were crossed in front of him and gripped in each of the gloved hands was the slab sided form of a M1911 automatic pistol. Behind the figure loomed the silhouette of a city skyline with a smattering of lit windows painted across it and set in front of a midnight blue sky that was livened with a crescent moon. At the top of the cover the book’s title blared at Stoutheart in crimson font: CASE FILES OF THE WRAITH.

Placing the book on his night table, Stoutheart adjusted the pillows on his bed and sprawled out on it, squirming around until he was comfortable. He picked up the book and began reading. Case Files of the Wraith was an anthology book containing a dozen or so short stories chronicling the vigilante’s war on crime.

In no time at all, Stoutheart had lost himself in the adventures of the so-called “Dark Avenger of Bridleton”. The Wraith solved a murder mystery in a mansion before foiling a heist of gold bullion on a train. Then there were the weapons smugglers who used a lost pirate ship and her crew as a cover for their operation. He stopped a band of mercenaries from smothering Bridleton in a cloud of poison gas, and hunted a serial killer with a predilection for imitating the infamous Trottingham Ripper.

He was halfway through the sixth story—in which The Wraith fought a cult that performed human sacrifice—when a rumbling sensation on his right thigh jerked him back to reality. It was his phone; he still had it on vibrate. Laying the book down page first on the bed, he pulled out the phone and eyed the caller ID. It was Spitfire. Instead of a normal call, she was requesting a video face-to-face.

He unlocked the phone and was greeted by the flame-haired girl. “Hey Stout,” she replied calmly but with a faint smile.

“Hey Spitty,” he acknowledged while flashing his own smile. “What’s up?”

“Oh, just wanted to see how you were holding up after that bonking you took today,”

As if by reflex, Stoutheart scratched his nose. “I’m alright,” he replied with confidence. “A number 1 as they used to say.” Spitfire chuckled at the quaint remark.

“Figured as much. Hey hold on a sec, I want to show you something.” In a few moments a text message popped up. Stoutheart tapped it and was greeted with a photo of Spitfire in her pilot costume. The helmet, with its orange tinted visor and the red painted Starbird of the Rebel Alliance was tucked under one arm. He eyed over the image carefully and marveled at how accurate it was to the real thing. He went back to the video call.

“Damn, that’s pretty impressive,” he admitted. “You just might be a shoe in for a prize at the dance.” A thought crossed his mind. “Any idea what they’re offering this time?”

Spitfire gave a shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.” She paused for a moment and when she finally spoke, it was a bit more hushed, as if someone was standing behind her though, as far as Stoutheart could tell, she was alone.

“I saw Flitter talking to you…”

“It was nothing,” he interrupted. “She was just apologizing for the ball. After that we just shot the shit for awhile before Coach dismissed us. Nothing earth shattering.” His lips curled into a slight frown. “Fleet asked if I had professed my love yet.”

The remark caused Spitfire to snort. “She’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.” Her mouth curved in a mischievous smile. “Want me to pound her after school tomorrow?”

Stoutheart sighed, gave a smile of his own and shook his head. “Nah, I’m not the cruel type and I know neither are you despite the hardass façade you put on.”

“For your information,” said Spitfire in mock hurtfulness, “That hardassery is the reason we’ve won so many games.”

“Hardassery isn’t even a word Spit,” scoffed Stoutheart with a knowing smile. The remark caused the soccer player to stick her tongue out and give a very un-Spitfire like raspberry.

“Whatever, Professor.” She then paused and got serious. “By the way, you tell anyone I just did that, I’ll kill you.”

Stoutheart chuckled. “Too late. I recorded it and after I finish this call I’m going to send it to the tabloids.” The comment sent a spurt of laughter from Spitfire.

“Nice to see that ball hasn’t changed your personality,” she said after composing herself.

Almost like what Flitter said, he thought wistfully. Thanks to Spitfire’s voice, the reverie didn’t last. “I almost forgot! My mom and I were watching a game show earlier and a trivia question popped up. As soon as I heard it, I thought of you.”

“Oh?” said Stoutheart, his voice raised in mild curiosity. “Shoot.”

After a moment of two of thinking, she cleared her throat. “It said ‘in 1918, this ship became the largest UEN vessel to go missing.’”

“The Charon.” Stoutheart’s words came out a fraction of a second after Spitfire’s. “She was a navy collier. 545 feet long, 64 foot beam, 19,380 tons displacement. Sailed from Rio De Janeighro to Baltimare loaded with manganese ore and carrying 310 crew and passengers. She disappeared without so much as a SOS. No debris either. A lot of historians think the Devil’s Triangle got her.”

Spitfire gave a golf clap. “Not bad professor. Figured you’d be stumped this time, but I should’ve known better.” Then she became thoughtful. “What’s a collier anyway?”

“It’s a ship that hauls coal. Back in 1918, most of Equestria’s warships ran on the stuff, so the Charon was built to provide it. Forgive me if I don’t get up and bow, but I’m too comfortable.”

Spitfire tried to chuckle, but it was lost in an audible yawn. “I better let you go,” she sighed. “Morning comes fast.”

Stoutheart gave a nod. “Thanks for the check up Spit. See you tomorrow.”

“No problem Stout. See ya!”

As soon as the call ended, Stoutheart put the phone on his night table, plugged in its charger and went back to his book. But five pages in, he too began yawning. He tried to press on, but he could feel his eyelids drooping as if his eyelashes had heavy weights tied to them. He looked at his watch. The time was 9:15.

Stoutheart looked at the unread pages of the book and scrunched his face. “Morning comes fast.” He repeated Spitfire’s words in a murmur.

Rising to his feet, he fished out a bookmark from his night table drawer and stuck it in the book. Then he took off his watch and placed it next to phone. Walking to his dresser, he set the book down on it, pulled open some drawers and removed some clean clothing for tomorrow before plopping the pile next to the book.

Next, he stripped down to his boxers and pushed open the window a crack to admit some fresh air. Just like that morning, he shivered but it ended the moment he pulled back the covers and slid under their warm embrace with a soft sigh. Stifling another yawn, he clicked off the lamp, casting the entire bedroom in near darkness.

From behind closed eyes, a pale shape, devoid of any distinguishing features materialized as if it were an apparition in an old ghost story. Before sleep overwhelmed his mind, Stoutheart thought the top of the weird shape resembled a bow.