> Stout Hearts and Dragonflies
>  by Lightoller
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“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.
> Chapter 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Applejack?” boomed Iron Will’s voice as he began taking attendance. 

“Here,” drawled the farmgirl.

“Brindle?”

“Here,” called out another voice, this time male. 

“Bulk Biceps?” 

“YEAAHHHHH!” roared an excited voice. The echo reverberating around the gym’s walls made Stoutheart wince slightly. 

“A simple ‘here’ is enough,” groaned Iron Will. “Chance-a-Lot?”

“Here.”

As the names were read out and the chorus of “here” and “present” answered, Stoutheart folded his arms and killed time by looking about the gym. His eyes traced over the lines forming the basketball court, the hoops, the cages that protected the bell and clock from errant balls, and the bleachers. As usual for the class, the first three rows had been unfolded from the wall.

When that got boring, he began stealing glances at some of his classmates. He, along with Flash, Thunderlane, Soarin, and the other boys in the class stood around in a loose group, their faces and body language a mix of boredom and impatience. Off to his left, he could see that the girls, standing only a few feet away, looked and acted the same way. To the absolute surprise of no-one, Pinkie looked like she was about to burst, while Rainbow and Fleetfoot fidgeted, and Rarity inspected one of her fingernails. Derpy appeared jittery, but seemed to calm a bit once Sunset Shimmer laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.   

The only one who didn’t seem bored or impatient was Spitfire. With her golden yellow skin and hair resembling a burning matchstick, she stood out in the crowd. She had adopted the same stance as Stoutheart, but instead looked absolutely stone-faced. It reminded him of a general reviewing their troops during a march past. Given her position as captain of the Wondercolts soccer team, the comparison wasn’t far off the mark.

Stoutheart’s eyes then focused on something else—or rather someone else. Standing just behind Spitfire was Flitter. As usual, she stood near Cloudchaser, the older, spiky-haired girl muttering something to her sibling that Stoutheart’s ears could not pick up. She was garbed in the same Wondercolts T-shirt he wore and her shorts matched the color of her bow, which was absent. Since the beginning of the year, Stoutheart had noticed that, for whatever reason, she had taken it off before gym. But the lack of that bow did not detract from her lithe form in the slightest. 

“Stoutheart?”

His mind began conjurning that vision again. Of them dancing…

“Stoutheart?” 

Of them embracing… 

“STOUTHEART!” barked Iron Will.

“Huh?” gasped the startled teen. From his field of vision he could see the coach staring at him with a mask of annoyance. Both in front of him and behind him the sounds of half a dozen voices snickering filled his ears. 

“P-present!” he stammered. Stoutheart could almost feel his cheeks warming up with the embarrassment and decided that looking down at the gym’s polished wooden floor was a better alternative than meeting the amused gazes of his peers. Stupid brain.

Eventually, the last name of the roll call was read out. “All right then, now that that’s out of the way,” said Iron Will, “all of you delinquents form up for stretches. Lets get those muscles ready for what’s to come!” He emphasized his order with a short blast from his whistle.

Instantly, the floor of the gym was alive with the thumping and squeaking of two dozen pairs of shoes, as the students formed into a series of lines—four of them each had five students spaced apart, one behind the other. The fifth line was similar, but only bore four students. Stoutheart found himself in the middle of the third line. A glance to either side showed the forms of Applejack and Rarity next to him. 

Another blast from Iron Will’s whistle told them to begin. The easier stretches were tackled first; arm rotations, followed by stretches to the quads, calves, and hamstrings. As he had been taught, Stoutheart held each stretch in three intervals of 15 seconds. His still fatigued muscles ached in protest, but he ignored them. In his right ear, he could hear the groans of Rarity’s exertion but nothing from Applejack. Compared to that farm of hers, this is probably a cakewalk, surmised Stoutheart. 

Then he—together with a few others around him—moved on to the floor stretches; toe touches, sit and reaches, and push-ups. He hated the latter, but gritted his teeth and pressed on. By the 20th—and last—push-up, His face was red and his arms felt like stretched rubber bands. Beads of sweat tickled the skin of his temple and cheeks. He could feel more of it forming beneath his shirt. He let out a slight groan as he got to his feet, put his hands on his hips, closed his eyes and began breathing slowly—in his nose and out his mouth—to slow his jack hammering heart.

Inhale…count to five…exhale, he repeated in his head. Inhale…count to five…exhale. For some time—Stoutheart wasn’t keeping track—he repeated the process until Iron Will’s whistle again ended the respite and forced open his eyes. A look around revealed that his classmates, stragglers included, were also back on their feet. 

“Very good delinquents!” crowed Iron Will. His lips then curved into a grin. “Now, let’s try for our first heart attack shall we? Twenty laps around the gym!” The whistle blew again.

A scattering of groans and sighs erupted as the students began fanning out to the perimeter of the gym. Stoutheart took a deep breath. If he was asked to sum up his physique or stamina in one word, “average” would probably that word of choice. Take it easy, warned his brain. It’s Phys Ed, not the Olympics. Don’t wear yourself out. 

He took up a jog, as did many of the others to his front and back. He was not surprised in the least to see most of the athletes up at the front of the formation. Rainbow and Spitfire were leading, appearing so close as to be neck and neck. Soarin and Fleetfoot were in single file hot pursuit, while Thunderlane and Cloudchaser appeared to be side-by-side. 

Stoutheart on the other hand was firmly in the middle, jogging briskly behind Applejack and Sunset Shimmer, sometimes slowing so as not to bump them, but increasing his speed lest he bump someone behind him. While rounding the corners, he sometimes stole a look back at his pursuers; Flash, Pinkie, Derpy—and Flitter. 

Focus, commanded his brain. Last thing you need right now is a distraction. Stoutheart grimaced as he forged on. The walls and bleachers seemed to rush by him in a blur. Once again his heart pounded furiously. The rushing of blood filled his ears as did the heavy panting emerging from his mouth. The sweat was flowing more freely now; he could feel his forehead, cheeks and neck slick with it. At times, beads of the stuff invaded his eyes, forcing them shut against the sting. When this happened, Stoutheart used the back of his right hand to furiously clear the offending drops and regain his vision. 

On his fifteenth lap, he could feel himself lagging. Applejack and Sunset were still ahead, but pulling away rapidly. The squeaking, thumping footsteps of those behind him grew nearer.  

“C’mon, Rarity, get the lead out!” hollered Iron Will. 

“I’m moving as fast as I can!” whined a voice far behind Stoutheart. 

Though not directed at him, the exhortation seemed to spur the boy onward. As if to help, his mind began painting another image; him, clad in the outfit of The Wraith, sprinting and leaping effortlessly across the concrete and gravel rooftops of Bridleton as he spent another night delivering his own brand of justice to the wicked and protecting those they would prey on. 

The short daydream proved a useful incentive. Eventually, with great relief, Stoutheart completed his final lap, slowed and stomped over to the middle of the gym, where those who had already completed their run and waited for the stragglers to finish. Stoutheart bent over and rested his hands on his knees. His breathing came in gasps at first, but soon the same breathing exercise he had performed after his push-ups took over, interrupted sometimes by a short cough as his lungs greedily sucked in the cool, gym air. 

“Nice hustle back there,” huffed a girl’s voice off to his left. Turning his head, Stoutheart met Flitter’s gaze.

“Uh…thanks,” acknowledged Stoutheart with a nervous smile. “For someone who doesn’t do sports, you didn’t do too bad either.”

Flitter returned the compliment with a smile of her own. “Well, I may not be a jock like my sister but I manage.”

“Not bad delinquents!” yelled Iron Will. Stoutheart and Flitter looked in the direction his voice came from; one of the bleachers. At the gym teacher’s feet, a gunny sack lay beside him. “Now we’re really gonna’ have some fun!” 

“Dodgeball?” exclaimed Rainbow. Her face lit up like she had just got her hands on the latest Daring Do Book, signed by A.K. Yearling herself.

“CORRECTAMUNDO!” cried Iron Will triumphantly. From where he stood, Stoutheart swore he heard a squee come from Pinkie Pie’s lips. Some of the other students groaned while a few hisses of “yes” floated about the gym.

All Stoutheart could give was a flat “Huzzah.”

Flitter must have heard him because the next thing his ears picked up was a giggle—a rather cute giggle. “Not a fan?” she teased. 

“They might as well tie me to a post and offer me a blindfold,” he groaned out. Flitter snorted with laughter. 

“Aw c’mon, it can’t be that bad,” she assured him. As far as he could tell, the sympathy in her tone seemed real.

Stoutheart cracked another smile. “I’ve have my good days for sure, but they’ve been few and far between.”

“Alright then,” announced Iron Will. “The leaders for each team will be Rainbow Dash-”

“AW YEAH!” hollered the teen as she pumped her fist in the air. 

“-and Spitfire,” he finished with an annoyed voice.

“Got it!” the Wondercolts captain replied. The two athletes stood side by side while Iron Will approached them and fished a coin from his pocket. “Call it.”

“Heads,” said Spitfire. 

“Tails,” replied Rainbow. 

Iron Will then flipped the coin into the air and caught it deftly with his right palm. “Heads,” he announced. “You get first pick of your troops Spit.”

The fiery-haired student nodded and scanned the crowd. “Fleetfoot! You’re with me!”

“Got it!” came a raspy voice. Stoutheart saw the girl behind that voice—with light grey hair and skin like an arctic ice floe—dart over and stand next to Spitfire. 

“I pick Soarin!” announced Dash. 

“Sweet!” exclaimed the Wondercolt.

Spitfire made her next choice. “Thunderlane!”

Followed by Rainbow: “Applejack!”

And so it went on. One by one, the loose group of students thinned as they took position behind their “captains”. When Flitter was called, Stoutheart watched as she headed over to Rainbow’s team. More seconds ticked by in his head. Team mates or opponents? he wondered. 

The answer was not long in coming. “Stoutheart!” called Spitfire. Well, that settles that. Stoutheart jogged over to where Fleetfoot and Soarin stood. 

“Welcome to the winning side Professor,” said Fleetfoot, her smugness on full display.

“Don’t count your chickens, Flatfoot.” retorted Stoutheart, who got a raspberry blown at him in response.

Each side soon had their order of battle. Reaching into the sack, Iron Will produced some large rubber balls. He tossed two to Rainbow and Applejack and two more to Spitfire and Soarin.

“Alright then, GO TO WAR!” At the sound of his whistle blast, both factions spread out, keeping their eyes peeled for a target. Stoutheart paced about his team’s side of the court, never staying in one spot for more than a second. At times he would bump into another player but there was no time for apologies.  

The first salvos came from Applejack and Rainbow, who launched their balls simultaneously. A knot of students jumped or ran out the path of one, but the other ball thudded into Bulk Biceps’s left shoulder while he was distracted, sending him off to the bleachers with a grumble. 

Soarin and Fleetfoot quickly got their revenge, hurling their own balls at Brindle, who tried for a catch but fumbled, and Chance-a-Lot, who took his ball to the knee. Meanwhile Stoutheart sprinted over to one of the balls left from Rainbow and Applejack’s assault, snatched it up and threw as hard as his arm muscles would allow. It made no contact and bounced harmlessly off the far wall. His shoes squeaked as he hurried to another position. 

Keep at it, he thought to himself. Don’t let them get a bead on you! Wait, what the hell am I saying? This is dodgeball, not friggin’ D-Day!

Glancing to the right, he spied Thunderlane chucking a ball that connected hard with Rarity’s buttocks. She remained standing, but her eyes smoldered with fury. 

“Thunderlane!” she screeched. “How dare you hit me in that area!” 

“Sorry!” the boy called back sheepishly.

“Clear the court Rarity! You’re out!” ordered Rainbow. The fashionista gave a sharp “humpf!” as she stomped over to the bench. 

Amidst this the battle continued. Around Stoutheart the thwack of the rubber balls hitting something—or someone—rung in his ears as did the cries of his squad: 

“I’m open!” 

“Nail that sucker!”

“Get some!”

“Nice save Sunset!” 

“Wheee! Run run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Pinkie Pie Man!”

The attrition was beginning to show. Thunderlane took a ball to the side. So did Sandalwood. Fleetfoot, for all her agility, also got nailed in the posterior courtesy of Rainbow Dash. Unlike Rarity however, the grey-haired girl took the knockout it in stride.

The onslaught wasn’t completely one sided however. Pinkie’s bouncing and skipping about the court couldn’t save her from a hit to the back courtesy of Sunset Shimmer. High Winds took out Soarin’ and, in what must have been the highlight of the game, Derpy made a belly slide towards a vacant ball, grabbed it, and caught Rainbow—of all people—in a lucky hit to her right thigh. 

“AW COME ON!” raged the soccer star. The absurdity of the strike—and who inflicted it—caused Stoutheart to sputter with laughter. Rainbow must have heard him because he turned and met his eyes with a glare. 

Stoutheart merely shrugged, re-focused on the battle, and kept up his erratic movements. His hands were empty so he kept his eyes peeled for a loose ball. Soon, a flash of red bouncing on the ground caught his attention. Running toward it, he scooped the ball in his hands before someone else could. As he did this, a human shape appeared out of the corner of his left eye. 

Turning, he was just in time to see Flash Sentry fire off his own ball. His mind screamed at him to duck, but instead he held the ball out in front of him. His gamble worked. As soon as Flash’s ball struck his own, Stoutheart, with a slight turn of his body, bounced the ball behind him, hoping someone would catch it.

Spitfire did. “Thanks Professor!” He heard her call out. 

Stoutheart didn’t reply. His focus was solely on Flash, who began to turn and run away the second his shot failed. Ball in hand, Stoutheart cocked his right arm. For whatever reason, a scene from some Sci-Fi movie played out in his mind: Eagle One, Fox Two! He flung the ball with a grunt…

…and gave a slight smile as it bounced off Flash’s right shoulder and hit the floor. No time to celebrate. Stoutheart began to move, his head on a swivel and looking for a new target. He heard Spitfire’s voice again, still behind him. This time, it sounded frantic.

“Watch it Stou—” His head shifted back to the front, just in time to see another bright-red blur coming toward him.

THWACK!

The jab of pain to Stoutheart’s face came with the speed of a lightning bolt and seemed centered around his nose and upper lip. His eyes closed on reflex, and for what seemed like a nanosecond he thought he could see firecrackers exploding behind his eyelids. A watery sensation followed. On reflex, he brought his right hand up to massage away the tears and discomfort. 

“Uuugh,” he grunted. He still had his eyes closed, but clearly heard Iron Will’s whistle chirp. “Time out!” he barked. More squeaks and footsteps followed.

Opening his eyes, Stoutheart used his free hand to clear the tears blurring his vision. Spitfire and Sunset Shimmer stood before him as did some of his opponents. Their faces were a mix of shock and bewilderment. He noticed that Flitter had a hand cupped over her mouth; her eyes bore a horrified look.

Stoutheart felt a hand on one of his shoulders. “Oh my gosh!” gasped Sunset Shimmer. “Are you alright Stout?”

Stoutheart looked at the girl and nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I think so.” He pulled his right hand away. Tiny gobs of deep crimson stained his fingers and palms. He could also feel liquid trickling past his lips. “Ah son-of-a—” 

Sunset never let him finished the sentence. “Somebody get something for the blood!” 

“Okie-dokie-lokie!” shouted Pinkie Pie. In a matter of seconds, she had appeared at Stoutheart’s side with sheets of paper towels. How exactly Stoutheart didn’t care; he stopped thinking about Pinkie’s quirks long ago. With a grateful nod, he took them and began mopping up the trickle of blood that had by now moved to his chin. He kept his mouth closed so as not to ingest any of the liquid. 

The next thing Stoutheart saw was the barrel-chested form of his gym teacher towering above him. “Let Iron Will take a look,” he said. “Lift your head up son.” The drill instructor voice he had been using moments before was gone. Replacing it was quiet professionalism with a hint of concern. Stoutheart did as he was told.

“It’s alright coach,” the boy said softly. “I don’t think it’s serious.”

Iron Will hummed as he looked over Stoutheart’s face. “You’re probably right. Those balls don’t have the heft to break bone. Looks like a run of the mill nosebleed.” 

“I know what to do,” Stoutheart responded.

For a moment or two, the athletic coach gave him a look before nodding. “Alright, have a seat over there,” Iron Will jerked a thumb to the bench Thunderlane and Fleetfoot occupied. As Stoutheart walked over, his mother’s voice rang in his head as if she was lecturing him. 

If you get a nosebleed, sit down, lean your head and body forward a bit and pinch the soft part of your nose up against the bony part. Breathe through your mouth and keep up the pinching thing for ten minutes. Don’t let up. Looking at his watch, Stoutheart set a 10 minute timer before using his right thumb and index finger to pinch the cartilage of his nose shut.

Behind him, he heard Iron Will address the class. “Alright, who’s responsible for that?” The sternness in his voice made Stoutheart pause and look back. 

For a few moments, the gym was as quiet as a cemetery, but then a girl’s voice broke it. “It…it was me coach,” squeaked Flitter. She had taken her hands away from her mouth and now used one of them to nervously rub an arm. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to!” The worry in her eyes was evident to Stoutheart’s own. 

Iron Will eyed the girl for a second or two before he took a breath. “Iron Will believes you kid,” he nodded with a sigh. He then turned to the rest of the class. “Folks, watch it with your aim from now on! Iron Will knows some of you really like this game, but the last thing we need is the nurse’s office looking like a field hospital.” He scooped up some balls and tossed them toward each team. “Alright, back to it!”

As soon as the coach’s whistle blew, Stoutheart turned and moved quickly to the bench, plopped down with a sigh and leaned forward just as his mother advised. Thunderlane and Fleetfoot sat off to his left. “You okay dude?” asked the boy. 

Stoutheart looked at him and gave a thumbs up with his free hand. “About ten minutes of this, and I should be good to go.”

“Should’ve zigged instead of zagged Professor”, said Fleetfoot cheekily. Stoutheart did not answer. Instead he gave his best stink eye to the smirking Wondercolt.  

“Okay, I gotta ask,” said Thunderlane with an arched eyebrow. “How’d you land a nickname like that anyway? I know I and all of the other soccer players have nicknames so…” 

Stoutheart opened his mouth to answer, but Fleetfoot beat him to the punch. “You can thank Spitfire for it. She and Stout share the same history class. Earlier this year, Time Turner gave them a test. Because of soccer, Spits didn’t study much so—”

“I offered to help her,” finished Stoutheart, his eyes focused on the dodgeball game. He then looked at his two classmates. “History’s my best subject so thanks to me, Spitfire was able to ace the test.” He chuckled. “After class ended, she came to my locker and said, ‘Thanks for the help Professor.’” He shrugged. “So there you go.”

“Ah,” said Thunderlane with a nod. After that, the three benched players sat watching the rest of the game, cheering their team mates and offering support. Spitfire and Sunset seemed to be having the most success out of anyone; barring a few exceptions, their aim looked as impressive as their agility. Their fusillade weeded out Applejack, the opposing side’s last heavy hitter, Frost Glow, and Cloudchaser. 

To her credit, Flitter seemed to put up a valiant fight, taking out Derpy and Foggy Blue before she too succumbed to a ball. Stoutheart saw her head toward the benches on her team’s side of the court only to pause, say something to Cloudchaser, and turn right.

Crap, she’s coming toward me. Stoutheart tried refocusing on the game, but his eyes refused; they kept shifting toward Flitter’s approach. Crap, crap, crap. He heard some shuffling and saw that Thunderlane and Fleetfoot had scooched farther down. Glancing down, he saw that he was only a few inches from the end so he followed suit. 

“Hey,” came Flitter’s voice as she sat down. “Are you alright Stoutheart?”

Stoutheart gulped and looked at her. The concern was still etched on her face. He gave a quick nod. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Nothing serious.” Put her at ease, he thought. He gave a sly smile. “Nice shot by the way.” 

The remark seemed to work. Flitter reciprocated with her own smile as she sat down. “For someone who thought he was facing a firing squad, you didn’t do too bad. It’s also nice to see a ball to face hasn’t soured your sense of humor.” Her face morphed into regret and she gave a sigh. “Sorry by the way. I don’t know what happened. I just had the ball and…”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Stoutheart as he reached out a hand and gave her a pat on the shoulder. Flitter eyes registered surprise at the touch and in that instant Stoutheart’s brain flooded with regret of his own.

Idiot! Idiot! IDIOT! His cheeks blushed and he pulled the hand away as if an alligator nearly bit it off.

At best, he expected Flitter to give him a disapproving glare at the touch. At worst, she would verbally rip him a new one for the bold move. But to Stoutheart’s own surprise she didn’t. She just smiled and gave a nod before curiosity took hold.

“What’s with the nose holding thing anyway?” 

Stoutheart pointed at his nose again. “Oh this? It’s something my mom taught me. She’s a Registered Nurse.” 

“Oh that’s right too!” said Flitter. “I see her dropping you off and picking you up sometimes outside the school.” 

The comment caused Stoutheart to give the girl a quizzical stare. Then it contorted into a smile, followed by a snort of laughter. 

“What? Was it something I said?” Flitter asked.

Stoutheart’s laughter ceased and he met her gaze again. Try as it might, all of the sweat and exertion of Phys Ed could not tarnish her attractiveness. That bang of opal grey flopped down in front of her eye, causing her to push it up and out of the way.

“Nurse Redheart isn’t my mom. She’s my aunt,” Stoutheart clarified.

A tinge of red crossed Flitter’s cheeks. “Oh. I-I thought…” she never finished the sentence. Instead Flitter gave a groan and facepalmed. “God, I’m such a dope.”

“No you’re not,” said Stoutheart with a grin. “If it’s any consolation, you’re not the first person to assume that. Both Aunt Redheart and my mom are RN’s. My mom however works over at Canterlot General. She’s the Director of Nursing there.” 

“That’s pretty impressive.” 

Stoutheart nodded. “Yep. Hours can be long though, and there have been days where she’s dog tired, but it’s something she’s wanted to do her whole life.” 

Suddenly, a series of whoops and cheers erupted from the court. The two students looked towards the source of the noise and saw Spitfire, Sunset, High Winds and a few others doing some fist pumps and high fiving each other. A glance to the other side showed that the court was vacant. Rainbow Dash’s team either cooled their heels on a bench or was walking over to it. 

“Well, looks like victory is ours, I guess,” he looked at her and said with a grin.

Flitter’s response was to lean closer to him stick her tongue out at him in mock defiance. “Enjoy it while it lasts Stout.” The remark caused Stoutheart’s cheeks to warm up. He had a hard time pinning down the tone. It seemed almost…seductive.

Don’t be ridiculous, he thought. She’s just being playful. There’s nothing between the lines there. Then Stoutheart’s attention was drawn to the beeping of his watch. He glanced down at it and saw that the timer he set had reached zero. He carefully let go of his nose and looked back at Flitter. 

“See any more blood coming out?”

Flitter eyed him cautiously. “Hmm…Nope! Looks like you’re mom’s advice paid off. I’ll have to tell Cloudy about that next time she has a soccer game.”

“It’s pretty easy to learn. You can even find it online,” explained Stoutheart. “The most important thing is to press your cartilage, that’s the soft squishy part of the nose, hard up against the bony portion for ten minutes and keep it there. No matter what.”

“Wish the two of us knew that this summer. During a match with Crystal Prep, Cloudy got beaned pretty good.”

“Damn. Was she alright?”

“Aside from a bloody nose like yours, she was fine.” Flitter’s lips then shifted into grimace. Her voice darkened. “Knowing those Crystal Prep jerks, I wouldn’t be surprised if it they did it on purpose.”

“I don’t think they’re all bad," countered Stoutheart with a shrug. “Take that new girl for instance, Twilight Sparkle. She’s from CP and while I’ve talked to her only a few times, she seems nice to me. Shy, but nice.”

Flitter opened her mouth for a reply but the tweet of Iron Will’s whistle silenced her. “Okay delinquents, that’s all for today. Hit the showers and I’ll see you tomorrow!” Stoutheart and Flitter stood up at the same time.

“Guess I’ll see you in history class later!” she said with a smile. 

Stoutheart gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Prench Revolution. Can’t wait,” he shot back dryly. “Good thing we got Time Turner this year. He’s got a knack for making any lecture sound exciting.” He sighed. “Still, I wish we’d hurry up and get to the two world wars.” 

“Oh? You an expert?” ventured Flitter, her voice full of curiosity. 

“Well,” began Stoutheart as he scratched the back of his head, “I wouldn’t really call myself an expert by any stretch, but I do have a big interest. Particularly the maritime aspects of them; you know, naval battles, ships and all that. Sea disasters too.”

Flitter rolled her eyes playfully. “My Dad would like talking to you. He’s got a thing for military history. Seems every time Cloudy and I see him, he got his nose in a book about some battle or a famous general. Given his time in the Army, I’m not surprised.”

“Really?” asked Stoutheart, his voice an octave higher.

“Mmm, hmm,” nodded Flitter. “He’s retired though.”

“Hey Flit!” shouted a voice far behind them. Looking back, the two students saw Cloudchaser by the girl’s shower room. Her arm was making a beckoning motion.  “Hurry up! Harshwhinny will kill you if you’re late again!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Flitter muttered. “Sorry Stout, gotta’ go. See you later!” As she turned around, Flitter waved her goodbye, which Stoutheart weakly returned with one of his own.

Well, he thought. You blew it. Again.

He stood there watching her go, but that did not last long. The thought of looking at her like some lecherous creep sent a jab of shame through him. He made a quick turn and walked with a purpose toward the boys shower room, his eyes looking down at the gym floor ahead of him.

From the corner of his right eye, a shadow loomed into view. “You okay?” rasped Fleetfoot.

Stoutheart stopped, looked up and nodded wearily.

“Man, I thought for sure you were going to wear her handprint across your face when you gave her that pat,” the soccer player said with a smile. 

“You saw?” asked Stoutheart. When Fleetfoot nodded, he gave a scoff before looking up to the gym ceiling. “Somebody up there must like me,” he replied.

“So,” prodded Fleetfoot. “Profess your love yet?” She emphasized the question with a wink.

Stoutheart gave his classmate a look, but there was no anger behind the eyes. His feelings for Flitter were known to not only her, but Spitfire and Soarin too. The quick, surreptitious looks Stoutheart had sometimes shot Flitter at lunch had eventually given him away. However he was confident that the three students would keep his secret. Nobody in Canterlot High took a Pinkie Promise lightly. If they did, they only had themselves to blame for what happened next.

“Nah,” grunted Stoutheart, his tone laced with resignation. He looked at his watch. If I don’t dawdle anymore, I’ve got just enough time to get cleaned up and changed. 

“I better get going Fleet,” he muttered softly before giving a wave. “See ya later.”

Then he hurried off, leaving Fleetfoot to shrug and make her way to the girls shower room.
> 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.
> Chapter 4
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though only a year-and-a-half old, the Regal Motors 710 Wendigo had already been praised as one of the most attractive cars to come out of the Equestrian automobile market, but in the cloud shrouded moonlight that hung over Bridleton, the jet black example that sat near the abandoned warehouse had the appearance of a sinister beast from a children’s fairy tale.

Its long hood, ghoulishly nicknamed a “coffin nose” by its designers, was smooth save for the eight silver louvers that wrapped around the front of it. Nestled behind those louvers was a supercharged V-8 engine that could push the Wendigo up to 112 miles per hour. The front fenders of the car seemed to have no headlights, but they were there; in another unique flourish, the Wendigo’s designers had made them retractable.

It seemed ridiculous that such a car, another expensive toy made for the country’s wealthy and elite, would be parked on the side of a dumpy-looking stretch of road outside the forest of skyscrapers that probed the black heavens, but there it lay. The engine was still and no human eyes ogled the car’s bodywork or the chrome-lined windshield. Even if there were, peering into the latter would have been futile. The windows were tinted, yielding no trace of movement inside.

From behind those windows sat a human shape, the folds of his black trench coat showing dimly under the Wendigo’s illuminated instrument panel. He was hatless, but most of the wearer’s face—not to mention his entire head—was concealed beneath a cloth hood reminiscent of a medieval executioner. A gloved hand held a set of night binoculars to the holes of the hood—and the amber eyes behind it. Above the eyeholes, a pair of goggles sat awkwardly on the figure’s forehead.

Slowly and methodically, the driver panned the binoculars across the vista before him. Through a rusty, chain-link fence that was mercifully free of barbed wire at the top, he could make out form of a warehouse, its reddish-brown brickwork worn from years and years of harsh Bridleton weather. Thanks to the moonlight that filtered through the clouds, he could see ugly streaks of rust marring almost every foot of the corrugated steel roof. The windows surrounding the upper level of the two-story building appeared black and lifeless. 

On the right side of the warehouse, the driver focused on a steel fire escape that rose fifteen feet up the wall and ended at a door that pierced the brick wall. Might be a way in, he judged silently to himself. 

Then he panned the binoculars back and forth over the area surrounding the warehouse. From its walls to the fence was a vast concrete field. Here and there, the shadowy forms of shipping crates, piles of steel drums, cars, trucks and a few trailers carpeted its surface. Must have been a distribution center for something, mused the figure in black. As far he could see, the perimeter seemed vacant. Not even a stray cat was visible through the powerful binoculars. 

“Still,” he muttered, “better be on my toes.” From the left side of the car, a mournful wail caused the black-shrouded head to turn away from the binoculars and gaze upon the glistening iron bands of the Bridleton Railyard. He was just in time to see a steam locomotive chugging out from behind a string of boxcars, dirtying the crisp, star speckled air with a black smoke plume.

The driver shifted his focus to a clock on the car’s instrument panel. The luminous hands read 11:37. 

As if to mock him, events of the past few days flickered swiftly in his brain. The sight of the four innocent women, gaping blood soaked cavities in each of their chests where their hearts had been gruesomely carved out. Their open sightless eyes and slacked jaws of death. The helpless look in Flitter’s own eyes as those thugs, hidden behind their robes and hoods dragged her away to be victim number five while he fought off their comrades.

He purged the vision from his head with prejudice, leaned over and dropped the binoculars on the passenger seat, careful not to crush the crown of the slouch hat that sat upon the upholstered leather. Then, he pulled back the left cuff of his coat, revealing a wrist watch.

That was only partially true. While the upper portion of the rectangular steel case did indeed have all the parts one would expect for a watch, the bottom portion carried what seemed to be a tiny square of fine wire mesh. On the right side of the case were two buttons. He pressed one. 

“Sparks, you there?” he asked calmly into the watch. 

Within a second, a hiss of static erupted from the tiny speaker. “Standing by sir,” a male voice squawked back. “Hit pay dirt?”

“Looks like it,” said the stranger with an air of confidence. “Seems that the chat I had earlier with my friend from the kidnapping scene was quite helpful. Then again, anyone with common sense would talk when they’re dangling upside down from a thirty story building.” From beneath the mask, he smirked evilly, savoring the screaming and blubbering the robed thug had made as he spilled the beans high above the column of twinkling traffic lights.  

“Location?” asked Sparks.

The stranger picked up the binoculars, brought them back up to his eyes and turned the focusing thumbwheel. “Lettering’s faded on the front, but I think the place is called Chinook Moving and Storage.” 

Over the watch’s speaker came a strange sound—almost like paper shuffling. Then Sparks’s voice returned. “Got it! Sixteen twelve North Industrial Street.” 

The figure opened a glove compartment, leaned over and shoved the binoculars in. “Sparks get on the scrambler,” he said firmly into the watch speaker. “Place an anonymous call with Bridleton PD and tell them they can find Miss Flitter there.” He glanced at the watch’s luminous dial. “Midnight’s in twenty minutes. I’m going in.”

“Be careful sir,” came Sparks’s voice. Even on his wrist radio, the wearer sensed the concern. 

“Thanks.” 

Ending the transmission, the driver removed the twin .45 pistols from his shoulder holsters one at a time, slightly pulled the back the blued slides for a brass check, and inserted them back into place. He then lowered the goggles over his eyes, concealing them behind lenses as black as the maw of a well. It was illusory; the lenses worked like a one-way mirror in an interrogation room. The wearer could see just fine. Finally, he reached for the hat. 

“Time to go crash a party,” said Stoutheart grimly as he put the hat on. 



*  *  *  *


With the skill and speed of a Polyneighsian native, The Wraith scaled the outside of the chain link fence and dropped down to the concrete like a cat. For a second or two he hesitated and listened for any reaction to his leather shoes hitting the cracked and weed-strewn concrete. He heard nothing, just the distant noise of more locomotives shunting cars in the rail yard behind him. 

The vigilante craned his neck skyward. A blanket of thick puffy clouds obscured the full moon, but its glow touched their edges like quicksilver. Grateful for the extra darkness that it brought on the ground, The Wraith set off in a sprint toward the nearest shipping crate, huddling behind its cover and peering over the top edge toward the warehouse. 

No one in sight. So far, so good, thought Stoutheart. He moved out and began darting among the vehicles littered in front of him. Between their concealing embrace, he paused for short periods, his ears tuned for the sound of foreign footsteps or a hushed voice. He heard nothing save for his heart beating within his ribcage. He peeked from over hoods, around corners, and under the large gaps between the parking lot and the underbodies of the trailers. No human shapes materialized in his goggles.

Closing to within 25 yards of the warehouse, The Wraith hunkered behind a stack of oil drums and peered over the metal rim. He easily made out the wooden floor-to-ceiling double doors that were wide enough to let a truck through. One such truck, a small green nondescript model, sat near the left door. It seemed to be vacant. The Wraith was about to spring from his cover when the driver’s side door—which was closer to warehouse entrance—opened with a squeal and a man stepped out. From behind his mask, Stoutheart bit his lip. He held his position and lowered himself behind the drums until only his hat and the rims of his goggles were visible.

Unlike the robes and hoods the cultists wore, the truck driver was in normal street clothes; overcoat, slacks, and a flat cabbie cap perched on his head. The telltale pinprick of light near his mouth revealed a cigarette clenched in his lips. Dangling from his right hand was a favorite weapon of Bridleton’s underworld: a .45 caliber Clopton Submachine Gun. The fifty round drum magazine and wooden vertical foregrip stuck out like a sore thumb.

His body language seemed relaxed. After closing the door, the driver, puffing away on his smoke, strolled across the front of the warehouse, his hands now cradling the Clopton and  head swiveling from side to side and occasionally skyward. Then he disappeared around a corner.  

Like a spring that had been wound too tightly, The Wraith tore out of his hiding place, padded towards the wall, and hugged it. Normally he would have waited a moment, but time was not on his side, nor Flitter’s. That was coldly apparent. The cloud cover wouldn’t last forever in the breeze either. He looked up. The large bank of cloud was halfway across now. A few more minutes, and the moon would re-emerge and bathe him in natural moonlight which increased the odds of detection tenfold. He had to take a chance.  

Peeking around the corner, The Wraith hunched down to give the lowest possible profile. His eyes picked up another truck trailer maybe ten feet from the fire escape he spotted earlier. His target’s legs could be seen walking toward the trailer’s back end and disappeared behind the double wheels. The Wraith emerged from the corner and crept quickly but with caution toward the trailer. 

Rounding the trailer revealed the sight of the man standing a few feet ahead, his back unknowingly facing The Wraith, and a still glowing cigarette butt discarded on the ground. The Clopton leaned up against one of the trailer tires. His legs were spread and his hands were concealed behind the overcoat. From between the legs, a thin stream of watery liquid pattered onto the ground sending up wisps of steam in the chilly air.

Reaching into his trench coat, The Wraith pulled out a knife; it was a nasty affair that was dagger shaped, and sported a seven inch double edged blade. Gripping the handle, he closed noiselessly to within shoulder-tapping distance of the gunman. Then, The Wraith held his breath, tensed his muscles—and lunged. 

There was not an ounce of hesitation. The Wraith’s left glove clamped hard over the man’s mouth, sending a muffled grunt of panic. His hands sprang up and gripped the black sleeve that had wrapped around him. In a fraction of a second, the Wraith’s left hand jerked the body back hard and with his right hand, he thrust all seven inches of his knife into the back of the man’s neck just below the hairline and upward into his brain. As if a light switch had been flipped, all noise and movement ceased and the guard went limp. 

The Wraith held the corpse during its fall; he set it down gently, like a baby being placed in its crib. The gunman’s aquamarine eyes stared up at the sky, fixed and unseeing. 

After wiping its blade clean on the body’s jacket, the Wraith slipped the knife back into his trench coat. As he rose to his feet, he spotted the Clopton, picked it up and slung it around his body. He didn’t know how many cultists lurked in the warehouse; the extra firepower couldn’t hurt. He turned away from the body and ascended the fire escape and approached the weathered door. A slow turning of the knob revealed that it was locked. 

Kneeling down before the knob, The Wraith dug into one of the outside pockets of his trench coat and pulled out a small leather pouch. Opening it revealed a lock picking set. 

He inserted a tension bar into the keyhole, and turned it before shoving in a pick. The lock was just as weathered as the door, but after a few moments of fighting the tumblers, a rewarding click was heard. The Wraith opened the door and entered.

It was like stepping into an enormous cavern. The inside of the Chinook Moving and Storage Company was bare. Nothing one would associate with such a company remained. Shelves, tables, workstations, all of it was long gone, leaving a gray concrete floor littered with papers, empty cardboard boxes, more crates, and other miscellaneous trash. Light fixtures hanging from cords in the ceiling marched in orderly rows to the back wall of the building but they offered no illumination. The power had been shut off years ago.

Even so, there was light. The Wraith noticed it off to his right side. Gingerly he stepped along the catwalk, heading to the warehouse’s rear. After about ten feet, his eyes found the source: two smooth columns each surmounted by bronze bowls from which spewed tongues of flame fueled by some flammable liquid. Possibly oil or kerosene, guessed Stoutheart.

Towering over those columns and glowing in their flickering warmth was a wall of deep purple fabric that extended across the breadth of the warehouse floor and rose within five or six feet of the warehouse roof. It was enormous, the kind of curtain that wouldn’t look out of place at Bridleton’s palatial Opera House. On its wrinkled surface, the white silhouette of a ram’s head glared through empty but narrowed eyes. 

Stoutheart’s eyes then turned to the floor. About a dozen or so human figures, clad in robes and hoods, stood as still as store mannequins before the twin columns of fire and faced the curtain. The robes nearly matched the curtain’s color and were only broken by crimson sashes around their waists. Knives hung from the sashes in scabbards. On his perch, Stoutheart could hear their voices droning together in a low murmur. It almost sounded like a chant, but he could not make out the words. 

Between the cultists and the curtain was a space of bare concrete, and it was there that Stoutheart saw something else: the white painted outline of a four pointed star. Each of its apexes had a lumpy form on them. For a split-second, Stoutheart thought they resembled potatoes, but then the realization hit him and his jaw clenched so hard he thought he would chip a tooth. The “potatoes” were the hearts of the cult’s four previous victims. 

Forcing down the bile that tried to rise in his throat, Stoutheart looked away and pressed on. Then, he saw shafts of whitish-blue light filtering in through the windows above; the moon was out. In a flash, Stoutheart hugged the walls and was swallowed up in pools of shadows. From his left he heard rustling and footsteps thumping on the floor below. 

Glancing down, he saw a man, clad in his own robe, appearing on the stage and taking position on a square of moonlight cast dead center on the floor, just above one of the moonlit squares. An actor couldn’t have done any better. He too was robed in purple but unlike the fully enclosed hoods of the other cultists, this one’s hood covered only the back and sides of his head. The gleaming gold mask that concealed his face was the spitting image of the ram’s head looming above him. His left hand gripped a dagger, its hilt gilded like the mask but its blade black and shiny. Stoutheart guessed it was obsidian. Two more cultists flanked the masked man. Unlike their comrades, they too were armed with Cloptons.

He turned away and pressed on, trying to filter out the voice that boomed from the mouth hole of the leader and reverberated across the warehouse walls. His tone seemed triumphant, but Stoutheart could sense arrogance in the voice as well. 

“My brothers!” it roared, “The hour of our master’s resurrection is at hand! For too long, this city—nay, this country—has become riddled with a vile cancer. Its leaders blind their people and deceive them with false hopes. Its people have been infected by the iniquity and avarice of the dregs and whores who thrive and multiply within their clubs and speakeasies like so many rats and cockroaches. ”

Stoutheart had to give the bastard credit; his followers seemed to be hanging on to his every word and had their eyes riveted to him instead of the catwalk. He crept behind the curtain and looked down. There below, lay a back door, rows of more crates, empty drums, and, framed in another square of moonlight, was an ornate, wooden table. 

On its surface struggled a woman with a purple bow and a white silk dress whose beauty was marred with a long tear that ran from hem to knee level, exposing a pale blue leg. She was barefoot. Her arms stretched out above her. Ropes encircled her wrists and to these were attached more ropes that were secured to the one set of the table’s legs. Her ankles got the same treatment and a strip of white cloth was tied snugly around her mouth. Her groans and muffled whimpers filled the air but were lost amidst the banter of the cult leader.

“All of us here know deep down in our own hearts that society is sick. But do not fret my brothers! Fortune shines on us just as the rays of the moon do right now!”

More cheers erupted from behind the curtain. Stoutheart acted fast. He moved away from the wall, reached back into his coat, and pulled out a spool of wire, one end of which was attached to a small fist-sized grappling hook. He wound the hooked end of the wire around the catwalk railing and tugged. It held. 

Then, gripping the wire in his gloved hands, The Wraith threw it to the ground, clambered over the railing, and lowered himself down, hand over hand, his feet acting as a brake.

“With this final offering of flesh and blood,” the cult leader crowed on, “we shall summon Grogar from his slumber. We shall bear witness as he purges this cursed land, and from the ashes of that land, a new world…a purer world, will arise for us all!”

The second his feet hit the concrete, The Wraith dashed over to Flitter. The sudden appearance of the vigilante in the moonlight startled her. She gave a stifled cry of surprise.

“HAIL GROGAR!” cried the mob from behind the curtain.

“It’s alright Miss,” whispered Stoutheart. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He pulled out his knife again and slashed away the ropes binding her hands. 

“HAIL GROGAR!” 

Then he cut free her ankles.

“HAIL GROGAR!” 

He untied the gag and tossed it into the darkness. “The Wraith?” she gasped while sitting up. 

“HAIL GROGAR!” 

The vigilante said nothing. He gave a firm nod before pointing to the crates and barrels. “Get behind those and stay down,” he commanded. Flitter hopped down from the table. 

“What about them?” she hissed with fear. “They’re maniacs!” 

“Not for long,” The Wraith replied darkly as he unslung the Clopton and jerked back the charging handle. “Now go!”

Flitter did what she was told. Satisfied she was out of sight, he turned just in time to see the curtain part as if it were at a movie premiere. The cult leader and his guards still had their backs to it and didn’t see The Wraith. But the rest of the crowd did. Here and there, gasps of shock emerged. 

The Wraith did not hesitate. He snapped the Clopton up to hip level, aiming at the left guard, who began turning toward whatever his comrades were gasping at. The quick burst that flamed out of the Clopton’s muzzle compensator sounded like thunder in the cavernous warehouse. It’s nickname—“The Chopper”—was well founded. The cultist’s body jerked violently as his robe shredded and was dyed crimson under the barrage of .45 caliber bullets that chewed into his upper body. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, the body collapsed to the cold floor with a sickening wet thump.

The other guard reacted quicker, but it wasn’t enough. Even before his comrade went down, The Wraith had turned and cut loose with another burst that stitched a line of red, gory holes up his abdomen and chest. This cultist never got a shot off either. The impact of the bullets sent him hurtling backwards, arms flailing, and the submachine gun in his hands clattered to the floor. 

The moment the Clopton sang its first song, the cult leader turned to face the source of the noise; just in time to see the second man slain. From his own position, The Wraith saw his opponent’s eyes lock on to the bodies and then him; he took satisfaction in the eyes that widened in shock from behind that gold mask.

“Your angel of death awaits,” growled The Wraith, his voice gravelly and frigid as a glacier.

The shock did not last for long. “Kill him,” came the leader’s voice came out as a low hiss. His followers did not move, apparently not hearing him. He turned his head to the crowd. 

“KILL HIM YOU FOOLS!” He raged and pointed a trembling finger at The Wraith. “KILL HIM AND BRING ME HIS HEART!”

As if they had snapped out of a trance, the cultists, drew their knives and charged toward The Wraith screaming in rage while two broke off and headed for the guns lying unfired on the ground. 

The vigilante shouldered his Clopton for a better aim and cut loose with short controlled bursts into the crowd, walking the fire from left to right. Years of training—both on the range and in the filthy hellscape of Prance—showed. The Clopton’s bullets ripped through them, sending the first wave reeling backward or crumpling to the floor. 

Almost as soon as the fusillade began, The Wraith heard a series of clicks. The Clopton’s magazine had run dry. He could see more knife wielding cultists rushing behind the first wave, eyes blazing with hatred. Gripping the butt of the Clopton, The Wraith swung the submachine gun like a baseball and released it, sending the ten pounds of steel and wood twirling toward the closest cult member. He was grimly satisfied when it made perfect contact with the crook’s face and sent him sprawling back to the ground, where he lay still. 

The second the Clopton left his grip, The Wraith’s hands crossed his chest, dove for the shoulder holsters and clutched the ivory grips of his 1911’s. He pulled his pistols out in a blur, lined up the cultists and fired. In the grand interior of the warehouse, the blasts sounded like field guns. They blazed and spat more .45 caliber slugs at the murderous crowd, sending more bodies flopping down atop those already carpeting the concrete and staining its weathered surface with red, glistening slicks.

The Wraith’s guns thinned the mob drastically, but four remained standing, knives glinting malevolently in the light of the fires. The slides of the pistols had locked back. Stoutheart had extra magazines tucked away, but the cultists that closed on his position made reloading suicidal. He had enough time to holster the 1911’s and pull out his fighting knife as the closest cultist brought his knife above his head and tried to bring it down. 

“DIE INTERLOPER!” he screeched. His moves were sloppy and he paid for it. The Wraith easily blocked his assailant’s downward thrust with his left arm and in the same motion jabbed his knife forward, piercing what he hoped was the cultist’s neck. He slashed across the hood and the flesh beneath it, causing the man’s eyes morph from rage to terror as his carotid artery was severed. Wet gurgling noises emerged as the cultist dropped his knife and fell, futilely clutching at his neck as his blood surged out from under his hood and stained his robe crimson. 

The next cultist charged like a mad bull, slashing his own blade wildly in the hope of piercing the Wraith’s body while emitting a frustrated volley of curses. Try as he might, his blade only slashed and whooshed through air. The Wraith dodged and weaved before getting a hold of the man’s knife hand at the wrist, tightened his grip like a boa constrictor and twisted hard, sending an agonized cry from the cultist’s mouth. The grip on his knife loosened and he began to stoop as the pain overwhelmed him. That pain was doubled with a punch centered on one of the eyeholes of the attacker’s hood. 

Then, an outraged bellow filled Stoutheart’s ears. It came from behind. A turn of the head revealed another charging cultist, ready to bring his own knife down on the vigilante’s back. 

There was no time to judge, thought Stoutheart. His hand still wrapped around the first man’s wrist, he twirled him around and chucked him bodily into his comrade. The momentum of the collision sent the duo tumbling violently into the floor. The head of the cultist who took the blow bounced off the concrete sending a dazed groan from beneath his hood. 

The other cultist-turned bowling ball pulled himself off the ground and tried to reach for his knife, but the Wraith was on him like a lion on a gazelle. He clutched the man’s head and drove his right knee viciously into the cultist’s lower jaw. The head jerked back from the whiplash and sent him sprawling once again to the floor. Then The Wraith finished him off by bringing his right foot down on the man’s face with the force of a hammer hitting a railroad spike. He moved no more.

Snapping around, The Wraith saw the would-be backstabber beginning to sit up, holding his head with a free hand. His other hand still gripped his knife. Again, The Wraith charged and leapt onto the recovering figure’s chest, knocking the wind out of him and pushing him again to the ground. Before the cultist could comprehend and react, The Wraith clutched his throat, brought up an arm and plunged the blade of his own knife into the cultist’s right eye sending up a scream. Then he twisted the blade. With a sickening crunch, the scream died away and the cultist lay still. 

Rising to his feet, the Wraith turned to face the cult leader and his last remaining follower, both of whom stood a few feet apart, knives in hand. The subordinate’s posture gave him the look of man wracked with indecision. The Wraith saw his eyes widened in terror, like a deer frozen in the bright glare of a car’s headlights. He could see the knife trembling. 

“What are you waiting for, you fool?” snapped the cult leader’s voice. “Kill him! Do it!” 

The cultist stole a glance at his leader, then The Wraith, who used the lull to reload his pistols. The slides flashed forward with an audible clack. For a few tense seconds, the two faced each other. The cultist’s knife trembled as he looked around at the stilled forms of the dead and the few moaning forms of the living. 

The Wraith’s fingers caressed the triggers of his weapons. The coal black lenses of his goggles seemed to stare into the man’s soul. Then, whatever indoctrination that had been drilled into him by his leader evaporated. The knife clattered to the ground and the cultist sprinted to the double doors, his breath coming in fear-tinged gasps. 

“Coward! Damn you!” snarled the cult leader. He then looked back at The Wraith. “Die!” he shouted before bringing his knife up and cocked his arm back at the elbow to throw the weapon. Instead one of The Wraith’s pistols barked again, sending a bullet slamming into the bastard’s right leg, sending him to the ground with an agonized cry that soon morphed into moans and teeth-clenched hisses. 

Stoutheart gave a mirthless chuckle as he holstered his left gun and walked slowly over to the wounded figure. He stepped over the bodies before him and shook his head mockingly. “Good help’s hard to find these days.”

With a pained gasp, the cult leader tried to reach for the dagger, which had fallen from his hand, but The Wraith kicked away the weapon, sending it skidding off into the shadows. Then The Wraith bent down and pulled off the ram mask. Meeting his gaze was a middle aged male with a beard of grey and pale blue skin. His head was bald. The red irises of his eyes watered with the pain of his bullet wound but they blazed with impotent fury.

Stoutheart looked in the direction of where the knife disappeared before eying his quarry. “Let me guess. That’s what you used on the other four?” he asked emotionlessly.

The leader’s sucked in a breath before his lips formed a crooked smile. “They were means to an end dark avenger,” he sneered. His use of the nickname The Wraith had been given by the Bridleton press was soaked in venom. “This is only a setback. More like me will take my place and I promise you, Grogar will drown this city in blood and even the likes of you won’t be able to stop it.”

Stouthert responded to the threat with another cold laugh before reaching into his trench coat with his free hand and producing a small white card. He tossed it onto the cult leader’s chest. The design of the front lay face up: a black letter “W” superimposed over the scales of justice.

“There,” spat The Wraith. “So your master will know who sent you.”

Then he rose, aimed his .45 at the monster’s forehead and pulled the trigger, sending another thunderclap tearing through the vast warehouse. In an instant, the red eyes lost their anger as they glazed over and the body became as still as the others littered around it. 

Without a word, The Wraith turned away and looked back at the curtain. The sight of Flitter standing in front of it took him aback. Her arms were wrapped around her body in an attempt to ward off the chill interior of the warehouse. Rasped breathing came from her lips. Her eyes were widened in shock and her skin seemed paler.

“Oh my…” she croaked, looking down at the carnage. She brought a hand to her mouth.

Stoutheart holstered the pistol and hurried over to her. He filled Flitter’s vision and placed a hand gently on one of her shoulders. “Come on miss. No need to see this anymore. You’re safe now.” His tone was still gravelly but warmness had replaced the ice cold brutality. He draped an arm across her shoulders, turned her around and led her back behind the curtain. 

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. But then Stoutheart decided to break the silence. “Are you alright?” he asked somewhat hesitantly. In his line of work, the words sounded almost…alien. 

Flitter looked up at the goggled eyes. The fear had subsided a bit. She took a breath and nodded. “Uh huh. I…I…I think s-so,” she stammered. Stoutheart could see tears welling up in her own eyes but she brushed them away with a palm, sniffled, and took a gulp, trying to stem the emotional dam that was threatening to burst. It seemed to work. A few deep breaths later, she looked up at the strange figure that had saved her. 

“I…I don’t know if you get this a lot, but thank you,” she said, her tone grateful, but still tinged with nervousness. Stoutheart nodded in acknowledgment but the hug that followed seconds later sent a jolt of surprise through his body. Nevertheless, he returned it in spades. After what seemed like a solid minute, the two broke the embrace.

“Sorry,” said Flitter sheepishly while looking into his goggles.

Stoutheart shrugged. “It’s alright.” Then he stiffened and looked up as a distant, but recognizable wail was heard in the distance. 

“What is it?” asked Flitter as she looked around. 

He met her eyes again. “My fans in the Bridleton Police Department,” said Stoutheart dryly. “I let them know where you were before I snuck in. Even so, I better go before they arrive.” 

Flitter watched as he ran back to the line he had used to lower himself, clambered back up, untied the wire, coiled it and put it back in his coat. Then, he tipped his hat to her and turned to flee. 

“Wraith!” called out Flitter’s voice. 

Stoutheart turned back and looked down at her. “Yes?” 

Her mouth opened to speak, but the words did not belong to her: “GENERAL QUARTERS! GENERAL QUARTERS! ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS!” 



*  *  *  *


Stoutheart was sleeping on his back when the phone alarm blared within his room. Unlike the movies, where someone wakes from a dream by dramatically shooting up from their bed into a sitting position, he instead gave a startled gasp and snapped his eyes open. After catching his breath for a moment or two, he propped himself up on his right elbow. Clearing the sleep from his eyes, he stared at the phone and killed the alarm. Then he lay back down and gave a deep sigh. 

“Damn,” he muttered.
> Chapter 5
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stoutheart’s stomach rumbled. Again. 

It seemed louder than the last one a few minutes ago, but he could care less if it drew someone’s stare. He was starving, but he pinned the blame for that solely on himself. His breakfast earlier that morning consisted of an orange before he decided to head outside and wait for his ride. The calisthenics and game of handball in Phys Ed had done the rest. 

The latter had ended in a loss for him and “Team Spitfire”—no doubt giving Rainbow Dash a small measure of revenge for the drubbing her team took yesterday—but Stoutheart didn’t mind. Spitfire’s tired remark of “Can’t win ‘em all” bounced in his head like a pinball. He admired her graciousness in defeat. Besides, it was not like he and his team got steamrolled. They made Dash’s crew work their asses off for that victory, eliciting respect from Iron Will that surprised everyone.

Flitter had been on his team as well, but unlike yesterday, Stoutheart had little time to make small talk with her. The fast paced nature of the game, coupled with fatigue, made it impossible, though she did offer her usual bevy of compliments once the game mercifully ended. Stoutheart wanted to mentally kick himself for letting another chance to tell Flitter how he felt about her slip through his grasp, but the logical part of his brain had won out: Not the time. Not the place.

He cut the reverie short by glancing at the menu scribbled on the chalkboard behind the counter. Apparently the faculty had decided to forego the usual Friday fare of hamburgers and fries and try something new: spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread on the side. On the outside, Stoutheart’s mouth was closed, but on the inside, it watered.

Ignoring the chit chat around him, Stoutheart approached the counter and held out his bowl. Almost mechanically, a big heap of steaming noodles plopped down into it, followed by a deluge of tomato sauce and topped with some meat balls. 

“There ya’ go sonny!” said Granny Smith with a smile. “Figured since you’re in the same gym class as mah’ granddaughter, you outta’ get a big helpin’ to get you through the rest of the day!”

“Thanks ma’am,” replied a grateful Stoutheart who flashed his own smile. He then moved farther down the counter, where he dusted the food with some parmesan cheese and had a slice of freshly baked garlic bread dropped next to his pasta by another staff member armed with some tongs. Before leaving, he snatched up some napkins, and paid for a bottle of Burple Classic.

Leaving the line, Stoutheart re-entered the cafeteria and headed for his usual seat. Up ahead, he could make out Spitfire and Fleetfoot. The former was taking her time with her food while the latter appeared to be digging into the spaghetti if she hadn’t seen the dish in years. Soarin’ was there too, but his back was to Stout.

On his way over, Stoutheart’s eyes drew to the left; Thunderlane, Cloudchaser, and Flitter sat just across the aisle. The two sisters were eating, but appeared to be listening as Thunderlane related some kind of anecdote, sometimes using hand gestures to emphasize the storytelling. 

Though he refocused his stare ahead, Stoutheart slowed a bit as he passed them. The idea of finding an empty seat next to the trio and chatting with them filled his mind, but like “Operation ask Thunderlane if Flitter’s Single”, it became stillborn. Instead, he turned right and headed for his usual table, taking a seat next to Soarin’.

“Hey Stout!” Fleetfoot called out with a mouthful of pasta. Some of it, partially chewed, flew out and landed on table. Spitfire made a face. 

“Geez, Fleet! Say it don’t spray it!” 

The girl swallowed her food and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry ‘bout that!” She quickly mopped up the disgusting blob with a napkin and used a second to wipe away the sauce staining the corners of her face.

Stoutheart sat down and cracked open a soda. “I take it the spaghetti’s good?” he said nodding over to Fleetfoot’s rapidly disappearing bowl.

“Yup,” said Soarin’ as he twirled up another forkful. “I don’t know what they used in this stuff, but it’s damned delicious.” 

Stoutheart nodded for taking a bite of his own. “Wow, you ain’t kidding,” he said while chewing. He then swallowed. “Tastes almost like the stuff my grandma cooks when I visit her.” He began chowing down, savoring the richness of the sauce and the juiciness of each meatball. To his palette, they tasted like the frozen meatballs his mom sometimes bought at TitanMart. He didn’t mind a bit. In his ravenous state, they were just as heavenly as anything homemade. Then he took a sip of his drink. Nectar from the gods, he thought blissfully. 

“What do you three clowns have planned for the weekend?” asked Spitfire as she brought a bottle of iced tea to her lips. 

“Scorched Earth marathon on my JoyBox,” announced Soarin’. “Sunset Shimmer’s going down. Hard.”

“Binge watch some episodes of Ogres and Oubliettes,” said Fleetfoot without prodding. 

The other three stopped eating and stared at the Wondercolt. 

“What?” she shrugged and took a draught of her root beer. “I know it’s based on a board game and all that, but it’s really good! What about you skipper?” 

Spitfire’s mouth tightened into a grin. “Catch up on my beauty sleep for starters. After that, I’ll play it by ear.” She turned to Stoutheart and gestured to him with a meatball impaled fork. “What about your weekend Stout? Got any new books waiting in the wings?” 

Stoutheart looked up from his spaghetti. “Nah, I’m going hat hunting tomorrow.” 

“Hat hunting?” asked Soarin’, his face a mask of confusion. 

“For my Wraith costume on Monday,” explained Stoutheart. Only then did his friends nod in realization. 

“You still haven’t found one yet?” asked Spitfire matter-of-factly. 

Stoutheart shook his head and sighed. “I’m going to try the mall again and see what I can come up with. Call it a last ditch effort, I guess.” His words carried a bit of optimism. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and find something.” 

“And if you don’t?” rasped Fleetfoot before taking another mouthful of pasta. 

“Then I’m screwed,” Stoutheart shot back flatly as he stabbed another meatball and ate it. “Aside from that, I dunno.”

For the next few minutes, the four of them ate in silence, their only company being the combined babble of hundreds of voices within the cafeteria. The urge to look over to his left overwhelmed his mind and he tried everything he could think of to stop himself: he focused on the deliciousness of his lunch. When that didn’t work, he reminisced about the last non-fiction book he read. Then he ran some lyrics of his favorite band—a power metal group called Phalanx—through his head. But the urge to gawk was irresistible, and he cursed himself for his weakness. 

This time it was Cloudchaser talking, going on about the latest Sapphire Shores album if his ears didn’t deceive him. Thunderlane seemed to be listening as he shoveled in another mouthful of spaghetti while Flitter sipped at a carton of chocolate milk. The skirt and T-shirt of yesterday were gone, replaced with a light pink hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. Given the sudden drop in temperature that had come with last night’s storm, the attire was sensible.

Suddenly, as if she sensed Stoutheart’s eyes on her, Flitter turned away from her sister and caught his gaze. His pulse quickened and his breath caught in his throat. She smiled and waved at him, but Stoutheart did not return the gesture. With the speed of a whip, he jerked his head around to look at his meal. 

Nice going dumbass, he thought bitterly. You probably made her think she did something wrong. He hung his head at the move and grimaced before finishing off the rest of his lunch. He could feel a belch coming on, but when it came, he stifled it.

“How long’s this going to go on?” Spitfire’s voice came with the intensity of a gunshot that broke Stoutheart out of his mental self-flagellation. He looked up at the girl, sighed once again and tried to form a response, but anything he had formed in his brain ended up dying in his throat. 

Soarin’ leaned over to him. “Just go and talk to her dude!” he whispered. 

“No,” said Stoutheart his tone once again flat.

“C’mon, what do you have to lose?”

Stoutheart scoffed and turned to meet his gaze. “I’m sure that’ll go down great,” he shot back sardonically. “‘Hey Flitter, how’s it going. Nice weather we’re having huh? By the way, I have a crush on you. Would you like to go to the dance with me on Monday?’”

“Just trying to help Stout,” he replied back defensively.

Stoutheart looked over at his classmate and nodded weakly. “I know, I know. Sorry.” He began tracing lines in the remnants of his spaghetti sauce with a fork. “This is all new to me. I haven’t the faintest idea how to proceed.”

Spitfire gave him a sympathetic look. “I wish I had some wisdom to give you, but this whole romance thing is alien to me too. I’d probably have better luck performing quantum physics while standing on my head.” 

“It’s alright,” acknowledged Stoutheart with a chuckle. It didn’t last long. “Maybe I’m wasting my time,” he sighed.

“How so?” asked Spitfire. 

“I dunno,” shrugged Stoutheart. “Maybe…” he took a moment to form what to say next. “Maybe she’s already seeing someone but is keeping it on the Q.T.”

“Maybe she’s not even into guys!” blurted Fleetfoot. Her mouth was crammed again with spaghetti but the words came clear enough. 

“Seriously?” deadpanned Spitfire.

Fleetfoot swallowed her food put her hands up in a defensive posture. “What? It’s possible! I’m sure there’s a few girls here who swing that way. Look at Lyra and Bon Bon! Also that one chick who plays the cello.”

“Octavia?” said Soarin’, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you know she’s a lesbian?”

“I saw her holding hands with Vinyl last week after school. Don’t need to be a rocket scientist to know they’re together.”

“Fleet may be a bit rough around the edges in her presentation, but she’s got a point,” said Stoutheart, steering the conversation back on track. “Can’t dismiss it out of hand.”

“I stand by what I said before Stout,” reiterated Soarin’, who jerked his head in the direction of Flitter’s table. “Take your butt over there and talk to her.”

Stoutheart did a sideways glance to that table before refocusing on his friends. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just don’t know.” He then dropped the fork on the plate and took a bite of his garlic bread. It was lukewarm now, but Stoutheart didn’t seem to care. “And even if we did get together, I doubt it would last.”

“Ah c’mon Stout, don’t say that,” encouraged Spitfire. 

“No, I’m sure of it.” Stoutheart’s voice was quiet but hard as steel. He rubbed his chin. “I give it a week…maybe a month before she’d get bored and dump me.”

“You don’t know that,” countered the soccer captain. “For all we know she could be a closet egghead like yourself. If not, well, I’m sure you’ll be able to break the ice with something.”

“I’m with Spitty,” said Fleetfoot gesturing to her classmate with her fork. “You could always wow her with that story about your great-grandpa wiping out the whole Neighponese navy.” She flashed a sauce smeared smile.

Stoutheart had half-a-mind to correct her on his namesake’s exploits at Cerberus Island, but quickly killed the notion. “Maybe,” he said wanly as he brought his garlic bread up for another bite. He munched it in silence, while the three soccer players looked at him, expecting to say something else. When he didn’t, Spitfire, Fleetfoot, and Soarin’ shifted awkwardly to another matter. To Stoutheart, their words came muffled, as if he were wearing ear plugs. He was too lost in his own thoughts to notice and he didn’t really mind. Ruining someone’s lunch with his problems was not on his agenda today.

As Stoutheart consumed the bread, his mind pondered. He gave a sideways glance at Flitter’s table again. Nope, sorry Soarin’. Not happening. His brows furrowed in irritation. After a few minutes, the best idea he could conjure up was what he would do if Flitter shot him down. If she says no, I’ll leave it at that. I won’t beg, I won’t put on some ridiculous scheme to win her over, or pursue her like some sicko. The idea of giving up annoyed him, but his decision was final.  

Once his bread was gone, Stoutheart picked up the rest of his Burple and chugged it. Then he looked at his watch and rose from his seat.

“Where you goin’ Stout? Library again?” asked Soarin’.

“Mmm hmm,” grunted Stoutheart with a nod. “Maybe there’s a book there about the Excelsior I haven’t read yet.”

“Doubt it. You must have read every book about that ship by now,” teased Fleetfoot. 

“Just the good ones Fleet,” replied Stoutheart as he collected his utensils in his bowl. “Just the good ones.”

He masked his internal struggle with a smile before giving parting wave to his friends and headed back into the kitchen, where he dropped off his bowl and threw his bottle in a blue recycling bin. Then he walked through the cafeteria doors and was gone.  




	* *  *  *


The route to the library was well known to Stoutheart; he had traveled it frequently following his afternoon repasts, and usually it took all but a few minutes, but today was different. He walked slowly, as if his navy blue and white sneakers were crafted from lead. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jeans. He moved through the hallway with barely an acknowledgement of the walls, the lockers, and the Halloween décor that mirrored the CHS lobby. The same went for the smattering of students that hurried past him in a blur or sat chatting in twos or threes off to the side. 

He had all but purged the thought of Flitter from his mind when a noise made him jerk his head up and look left—in the direction of an entrance to a public restroom, a pair of wall mounted arrows pointing to the boys room off to the right, and the girls room to the left. The sound came from the former. 

Stoutheart’s curiosity was piqued. He inched forward to the wall and picked up a smacking noise akin to someone smashing their fist into an open palm followed by another grunt. It sounded male—and young. 

“You little shit!” another male voice—older—tore the air. 

Well, this isn’t good, judged Stoutheart as he hugged the wall and crept slowly along it as if he were in one of his Wraith books. Reaching the end of the wall, he carefully peered around, taking care only to show the top of his head and eyes. 

On the floor, lay the crumpled form of boy, with pale grey skin and a crop of dark grayish blue hair that looked like a miniature, less flashy version of Soarin’s own hair style. The eyes were shut tight in pain, and the mouth curled into a grimace. His arms encircled his abdomen, an obvious sign that he had been hit there. “That all you got Hat Trick?” hissed the boy painfully but with a pinch of smugness. “My grandma hits better than you and she’s got arthritis.”

Standing above him was a boy almost Stoutheart’s height. He was clad in a hoodie whose sky blue color suggested to Stout that it was official Wonderbolts apparel, and mustard cargo pants whose cuffs draped themselves over a pair of black sneakers. Rising from the top of the hoodie was a neck of peach-colored skin and a head obscured by a thick mop of coppery hair. His left hand was clenched tight into a fist, while his right massaged that side of his body, a sign that the kid on the ground had got his own blow in before being felled.

“Humor ain’t gonna’ save your ass Bumble,” the aggressor’s emphasis on the boy’s name was venomous. “Neither is your big brother.” 

“I don’t need his help with an idiot like you,” he spat back defiantly. “Even Fluttershy could take your ass without breaking a sweat.”

Like waving a red flag before a bull, the remark seemed to send Hat Trick over the edge. He charged at his victim and grabbed him by his charcoal grey t-shirt, jerked him to his feet, and slammed him back first into the far wall next to the handicapped toilet stall. He cocked his right arm back for a punch.  

I don’t think so pal, Stoutheart thought to himself as he emerged and ran toward Hat-Trick. His footsteps must have caught to boy’s attention because Stoutheart could see his head turning to seek out the source of the noise. 

Stoutheart was on him before he could turn fully. He wrapped his sweater clad arms around Hat-Trick’s neck sending a gasp of surprise from boy. Then, with every ounce of strength he could muster, he threw Hat Trick into the row of sinks to his right. Hat Trick struck the countertop back first, sending an angry, pained cry spurting from his lips. The impact also buckled his legs and sent him the tiled floor. Immediately, Stoutheart put himself between Hat-Trick and his victim. 

Expecting retaliation, Stoutheart clenched his fists and glared hard at the bully, who rose up from the floor with a groan. Stoutheart mustered up his best death glare at Hat Trick, whose own emerald green eyes blazed with anger. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he blurted with nostrils flaring.

Your worst nightmare. That’s what Stoutheart wanted to say, but he held his tongue. For one, it was clichéd as hell. Also, he lacked the intimidating voice to pull it off. Even so, Stoutheart tried the latter as he mustered up a “get lost”.

Judging from Hat Trick’s scoffing, Stoutheart knew he failed. “You gonna make me hero?” sneered Hat-Trick condescendingly while looking the interloper over. “This ain’t any of your business.” 

“Tough shit,” replied Stoutheart coldly. “Whatever beef you have with this kid is over,” he jerked a thumb to the grey-skinned boy who was using the interruption to get back on his feet. “Now, in case you’re hard of hearing, I said get lost.”

Hat Trick let out a low chuckle—and then lunged. Stoutheart cursed himself for letting his guard down as Hat Trick gave a hard tackle into Stoutheart’s abdomen, driving the wind from his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground. No sooner did he land than Hat Trick began flailing his arms, trying to land punch after punch on Stoutheart’s head. 

Stoutheart had figured what would come next with that tackle and brought his arms up to block any blows threatening to land on his face, but Hat Trick also saw this and began striking the side of his head, his neck, and his ears. To Stoutheart, the latter were the most painful—he felt as if his eardrums would rupture from such an onslaught. 

Though wincing from the pummeling, Stoutheart looked through the gaps between in his arms and saw a chance; his knees seemed to be below Hat Trick’s own gut. He did not hesitate. He thrust his right knee up as if his life depended on it—because it did. 

The gamble paid off. Hat Trick let out a guttural cry and the blows lessened. Stoutheart wanted to massage his head from the punches, but he worked through the pain and began administering his own blows to Hat Trick’s face in an effort to get him off. He aimed for his cheeks, jaw line, and temples. The mauling was unskilled but as far as Stoutheart could tell, it worked. Hat-Trick backed off, holding his head with grunts and words that were unintelligible, but which Stoutheart guessed were curses. He used the opportunity to scramble to his feet. A flash of grey made him look to the left; the boy he had helped was standing near the steel wall toilet stall. “You alright?” he asked while catching his breath.

The youngster nodded before looking ahead. “Watch it! He’s getting back up.” 

Stoutheart turned back to see Hat Trick making his own recovery. His face was reddened and his chest heaved with exertion. He ran toward Stoutheart again, fists ready. This time, Stoutheart was ready.

As his aggressor closed the distance, he whipped his right arm into one of the few fighting moves he knew; a haymaker. The knuckles of his hand caught Hat-Trick right on the mouth. The force jerked his head back like a whip and caused him to stumble and fall to floor on his buttocks. He gave another groan of pain and cupped a hand underneath his mouth. 

From Hat Trick’s lips, a white tooth emerged and was spat out into the bully’s palm, along with a few drops of blood and saliva. More saliva hung from his lower lip in a thin string. His eyes looked back up at Stoutheart, incandescent with rage.

Great,sighed Stoutheart internally, his heart feeling like it had been dunked in ice water. Just great.  

“You motherfucker!” roared Hat Trick, sending out more gobs of bloody drool. He was back on his feet in seconds and began to charge his attacker with renewed fury.

“HOLD IT!” hollered a male voice, older and very authoritative. Stoutheart snapped away from Hat Trick, who also paused in mid-charge and turned to where the voice originated. 

Standing before them was a middle-aged man with tan skin and a thick mop of hair almost a black as coal. He was dressed in a brown sweater and his pale blue eyes narrowed at the sight of the three boys. Stoutheart instantly recognized him as Mr. Cranky Doodle. 

“What’s going on here?” asked Mr. Doodle, the annoyance in his voice on display for all to hear.

For what seemed like an eternity—but was probably only a few seconds—no one in that bathroom spoke, prompting Mr. Doodle to bark out a “well?” that made Stoutheart feel like he was going to leap out of his skin. 

“I-I saw him,” he pointed to Hat Trick, “beating this kid up,” he began gesturing to the teen behind him, “so I uh…”

“He’s lying!” snapped Hat Trick indignantly. 

“It’s true!” the boy behind Stoutheart shot back before pointing at Hat-Trick. “This idiot jumped me while I was washing my hands and-“

“Shut up!”

“Enough!” yelled Mr. Doodle. He looked down at the floor, massaged his temples, let out a sigh and then looked back at the three boys. “All of you. Office. Now.” He then pointed to the restroom entrance. The tone in the teacher’s voice told Stoutheart that further discussion was futile. Hat Trick, his eyes still projecting hate, left first, grabbing some paper towels on the way out to pick up his tooth. Stoutheart and the boy behind him followed, with Mr. Doodle bringing up the rear in case they tried anything. 

This is gonna be fun, mused Stoutheart, his thoughts dripping in sarcasm. 




	* *  *  *


For what seemed like the tenth time since arriving in the reception room, Stoutheart gave a quiet sigh. If his watch was any indication, he had been sitting in the upholstered chair for a good five minutes, but his brain cruelly made it feel like an hour. He wished he had a book to read, but made do with eying the surroundings of the room. The walls were the same light green as the hallways; the floor the same teal-like color. 

A clock above the door silently ticked away the hours, and the only noise heard was the clacking as Celestia and Luna’s personal secretary, Raven Inkwell, pounded away at her keyboard, her eyes locked firmly on the monitor atop her desk. A healthy looking potted plant shared desk space with the monitor, and behind Raven’s back, a metal shelf held books, binders and other office paraphernalia. Completing the whole space were some steel filing cabinets, framed photos of the school in the past, and a couple of corny motivational posters.

Stoutheart fixed a quick glance at Hat Trick, who sat at the far wall on a metal framed chair upholstered in cheap leather. He held a wad of paper towels to the gap where one of his upper front teeth had once sat. Thanks to his hate-filled stare, Stoutheart averted his gaze lest he antagonize the kid further. He gave another sigh and bent downward. He rested his elbows on his knees, and wrung his hands. His eyes danced over the scuff marks and specks of dirt on the floor.

“You okay?” came a voice softly to his right. Stoutheart looked in its direction and met the gaze of the younger student he had helped out. He sat in a chair, arms folded across his abdomen. Stoutheart nodded.

“All things being equal, I’d rather be in Fillydelphia.”

“Huh?” the boy asked in a confused voice.

“Sorry, heard it on a movie years ago,” explained Stoutheart with a smile. “How about you?”

“I’ll live,” the boy answered. He held out a hand. “Name’s Rumble by the way.”

Stoutheart reached out and shook it. “I'm Stoutheart. I take it you're Thunderlane’s brother?”

Rumble’s eyes flashed in mild surprise. “How do you-”

“Lane's in my Phys Ed class. I’ve heard him mention your name a couple times before,” elaborated Stoutheart. “That’s how I put two and two together.”

“You two gonna’ exchange phone numbers now?” taunted Hat Trick from across the room, a smug look on his face.

Stoutheart had half-a-mind to tell him to piss off, but Raven Inkwell beat him to it, albeit in much less vulgar way. “If you don’t have anything productive to say young man, I suggest you keep your mouth shut,” she said while fixing a stern look at the boy. It seemed to work. Hat-Trick withered under the rebuke and went silent.

After a few more minutes of quiet, punctuated only by Raven’s keyboard skills, the inner door to the Principal’s office opened. Cranky Doodle emerged, walking through the anteroom and leaving without making eye contact with anyone there.

“Raven? You can send the boys in now,” an unseen female voice called out from the open door.  

Stoutheart and Rumble needed no urging. The two of them rose from their seats immediately and headed for the doorway, with Hat Trick taking up the rear. 

Stoutheart had never set foot in Principal Celestia’s office before, but it appeared exactly as he had imagined it. Nice looking desk, bookshelves, photos and diplomas preserved in frames, a few plants here and there. Celestia sat behind the desk, elbows resting on it and her fingers steepled. A tablet, protected by a purple cover, sat off to her right. Behind her, arms folded across her chest, stood Vice-Principal Luna. Though both their demeanor seemed calm, Stoutheart couldn’t help but liken himself to being in a coliseum, about to be the main course for a starving tiger. 

“Please,” said Celestia firmly. “Sit.” She gestured to the three chairs before her desk and the boys took a seat; Rumble to the right, Hat Trick to the left, and Stoutheart in the middle.

“Now then,” the Principal began. “Mr. Doodle has informed me of what he walked in on earlier, but I would like to know what exactly happened before he showed up.” 

The silence was deafening, but in the end Rumble stepped up to the plate and broke it. “Yesterday, I saw Hat Trick trying to look off my Geography test. I kept whispering him to get lost, but he kept at it. Eventually Miss Cheerilee heard us and when I told her what happened, she gave Hat-Trick detention right then and there.”

Hat Trick gave Rumble an angry look as the teen continued his story. “Then today after lunch, he came across me getting all up in my face as if the detention was my fault! I tried to leave, but he wouldn’t let me. Then he started hitting me.”

“That’s crap and you know it!” snapped Hat Trick, he voice breaking in indignation. 

“Hat-Trick, calm yourself,” said Luna reproachfully. 

“It’s not true!” said the teen with a shake of his head. “I-I was just in there cleaning myself up after lunch, minding my own business when this clown flew off the handle.” He pointed an accusing finger at Rumble, who shared a look with Stoutheart before looking back at his attacker. 

“Seriously? That’s the excuse you’re going with for trying to attack me?” 

“Hey you struck me too!” complained Hat Trick. 

“Only to defend myself dumbass.” 

“Enough,” said Celestia harshly. She didn’t even need to raise her voice to end the bickering. She then looked ahead to the middle chair. “Stoutheart is it?” 

The teen nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“How exactly are you involved in this incident Stoutheart?” The authority in her voice was still there, but it had softened a little.

Stoutheart took a deep breath, cleared his throat and explained what he had seen and did. He left nothing out, feeling that doing so would only be detrimental to his case. Despite his nervousness, he kept eye contact with Celestia and Luna as he talked. Finally after a few minutes, he sat back in his chair and sighed. “That’s what happened ma’am.”

“I see,” Celestia said quietly while nodding her head. She turned to the left. “Rumble, can you confirm what Stoutheart just told Miss Luna and myself?” 

Now it was Rumble’s turn to nod. “Absolutely. Stoutheart jumped in to help me and as far as I could tell, he defended himself when Hat Trick started going after him.”

“Defending himself?” exploded Hat Trick as he sat forward and leveled a finger at Stoutheart’s head. “That son-of-a-bitch knocked out one of my teeth!”

“Mind your tongue young man!” snapped Luna, her eyes narrowed and her voice frosty. She leaned over, putting her palms on the desk. “You may get away with that outside these walls, but not here. Understand?” Hat Trick acknowledged her rebuke with a weak nod.

“Before you three entered my office, I had Miss Inkwell take the liberty of pulling up each your student files and sending them to my tablet,” explained Celestia as she patted the purple cover protecting the device. “You two,”—she gestured to Rumble and Stoutheart—“are largely clean. A few cases of tardiness, but nothing severe.”

She then fixed Hat Trick with an icy glare. “You on the other hand, are different. I seem to recall last week a student reporting you and some of your friends for playing keep away with Button Mash’s phone in the cafeteria.”

“Not to mention stealing Featherweight’s camera and hiding it in the gymnasium storage room,” added Luna, her tone still harsh. “If I too recall, when you were confronted about it, your excuse was, and I quote ‘it was just a joke!’ You seem to have an interest in picking on students a grade lower than you.” Stoutheart shot Hat Trick a look, but the boy didn’t say a word. He looked straight ahead at the principal and sat stock still as if he had been turned into a department store mannequin.  

“And now, you’ve decided to inflict harm on a third student because he refused to give you a free ride on a test? To say I’m disappointed in your behavior Hat-Trick would be a gross understatement.” Stoutheart could almost sense Celestia’s anger rising with that remark. In all the time he had attended CHS so far, he couldn’t even count the moments the principal lost her cool on one hand.

She would not lose it today either. Instead, Celestia took a deep breath before continuing. “Since detention after school obviously is not a deterrent for your actions, I believe a three day suspension and a notification of your parents on what you did here today is the best course.”

For a few moments, Hat Trick couldn’t speak. His eyes however widened and gradually so did his mouth. “Are…are you serious?” he spluttered in incredulity. 

“Very,” said Celestia acidly. 

“But its Friday,” said Hat Trick, expecting that that would somehow make the principal see the error of her ways. 

“I’m aware of that,” replied Celestia. “That’s why your suspension will start on Monday.”

“But…but what about him?” Hat Trick pointed to Stoutheart again. “You see what he did to my teeth?” he then pointed at the gap in his mouth. “What’s he gonna’ get?” he asked with an air of indignance. 

“How we discipline students here is our business!” snapped Luna. “Not yours.”

As if to emphasize that statement, the bell outside the office rang. Opening a drawer, Celestia produced three slips of paper and quickly scribbled on them. She then slid all three over to the end of her desk. 

“Here are some passes so neither of you are marked as late for your next class.” She looked at Rumble, still massaging his abdomen, and Hat Trick. “I suggest you two visit Nurse Redheart after leaving here, but it’s your choice. That’ll be all.”

The three boys rose from their seats without a word, turned and headed toward the door. This time Stoutheart brought up the rear. 

“Stoutheart?” asked Celestia. “A moment please if you will.”

Turning to look back at the principal and vice-principal, Stoutheart felt an icy hand of uneasiness clench around him. He gulped, nodded, and turned to face them. As soon as the other two boys left, Luna moved behind Stoutheart and closed the door. The student meanwhile had re-approached the desk. 

Despite standing up for Rumble, pangs of shame and worry tore through his mind. He averted his eyes from Celestia and looked at the floor, wishing at that moment he could melt into it.

“Stout,” said Celestia calmly. “Please look at me.”

Stoutheart took a breath and did what he was told. “I-I’m sorry ma’am,” he stammered. “I-I didn’t intend to hurt Hat Trick like that. He was coming at me again an—”

Celestia sighed and gave a nod. “I know, I know.” She once again steepled her fingers. “Look, I don’t condone the action you took earlier in that bathroom Stoutheart, but I do understand it.” 

“It’s an admirable move, sticking up for yourself and another person against a bully.” came Luna’s voice from behind.

“I just hope it doesn’t come back and bite me in the future,” groused Stoutheart. The thought of Hat Trick hounding him for the rest of the school year sent made his jaw clench tight.

“I’m sure it won’t,” assured Celestia, her lips taught. “After what happened today, I plan to nip Hat Trick’s antics in the bud. I won’t have him terrorizing students as Sunset Shimmer did before.”

The memories of Sunset before her reformation sent a chill through Stoutheart’s body. In those days he made sure to give the girl a berth wide enough to hold an aircraft carrier, but he silently reminded himself that those days were long gone now. The fact that she was first to his side after Flitter bloodied his nose yesterday proved she had come a very long way from her days as the “Queen Bitch of Canterlot High”.   

Stoutheart nodded at the principal’s vow, before speaking again. “What about me?” he asked with some hesitancy. Detention here I come, he thought.

Celestia eyed the teen carefully, as if he were a specimen in a tube. “I won’t mince words young man, what you did could easily have earned you a detention or perhaps even a suspension like Hat Trick, but given that you defended yourself, that Rumble corroborated your actions, and that up to this point your record at CHS has been spotless, I’m willing to let this slide.”

What, thought Stoutheart dumbly.

“Make no mistake though,” came Luna’s voice, sounding as if it were set in steel. Stoutheart turned his head to face her. 

“If you pull a stunt like this again Stoutheart, my sister and I will drop the hammer on you so hard, the next time you emerge from the ground, you’ll be on the other side of the world in Austallia. Are we clear?”

Stoutheart took a breath and nodded slowly. “Crystal clear ma’am.”

“Good,” said Luna as she opened the door for him. “Do not make us regret our decision.”




	*  *  *  *


To Stoutheart, the ringing of the final bell of the day felt like a tremendous weight being lifted off his shoulders.  Arriving at his locker, he swung the door open and pulled on his jacket—a bomber style affair in brown leather with a collar of white faux fur—slung his satchel over his shoulders, picked up his gym bag, and threaded his way through the growing lines of students to the main entrance like a man with a purpose. 

Emerging outside, he paused on the steps of the school to zip up his jacket farther in an attempt to ward off the cold air. Across the sky scudded numerous tufts of clouds, pushed along by the bitter winds that blew leaves across the school lawn or sent them twirling up into the air. When it wasn’t blocked by a cloud, the sun shone brightly, making Stoutheart squint in mild discomfort. 

Shifting his focus ahead, Stoutheart descended the steps and hurried past the Wondercolt statue to the curb. Once there, he began pacing the grass between it and the sidewalk, his free left hand in a jacket pocket and waited patiently for Aunt Redheart to appear. Though relieved at his fortune, he still felt uneasy at what he had done. Maybe he should have just found some help. 

And what? Leave Rumble to get tuned up by that jerk? his thoughts chided him. You have nothing to be ashamed of. He came at you!

After a few moments of contemplation, Stoutheart shook away the nagging thoughts and continued his pacing; sometimes stopping to glance at his watch and sometimes looking over the knots of students streaming out of the school and across its grounds. On the opposite street sat a string of vehicles, no doubt filled with parents waiting patiently to pick up their children.

He looked back behind the school in time to see another knot of students emerge from the entrance. Hat Trick was one of them. His backpack was slung, and his head hung low as he strutted across the grounds with a sour look on his face. In that moment, Stoutheart turned away from the boy, not in contempt, but to limit the possibility of him making any eye contact that may provoke the bully’s anger. If he had bothered to look, he would have seen Hat Trick get into a blue-grey pickup truck, which pulled away moments later.

Then, a familiar voice filled Stoutheart's ears. “Hey! Stoutheart!” shouted Thunderlane.

The cry spun Stoutheart back around to face the school. He saw his Phys Ed classmate approaching, clad in a hoodie that nearly matched his skin color and khaki cargo pants. Rumble was just behind him and off to the left. Close to Thunderlane’s right side was Cloudchaser, sporting ripped jeans and a denim blue jacket covering a T-shirt emblazoned with a shooting star. 

Then there was Flitter, who brought up the rear, her long hair blowing serenely in the breeze, one hand gripping the strap of her schoolbag, with a blue and white striped dragonfly pinned to the flap.

“Uh, hey guys,” said Stoutheart as he flashed a quick wave. 

“Heard about what happened this afternoon,” replied Thunderlane as he extended his arm in a fist bump. “Thanks for helping Rumble out against that idiot.”

“No problem,” acknowledged Stoutheart with a shrug before accepting the fist bump. He then looked at Rumble. “Any serious injuries?”

Rumble shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. The nurse checked me over and didn’t find anything bad. I’ll probably end up with a bruise or two though.”

“It’ll take more than a few punches to put this little punk out of action,” chuckled Cloudchaser as he tousled Rumble’s hair, causing the younger boy to groan in embarrassment.  

“Clouuud!” he whined as he tried to reconfigure his hair. Flitter put her hand to a mouth to stifle a laugh. 

“You know you love it,” said Cloudchaser with a grin.

“Are you okay?” queried Flitter as her eyes locked with Stoutheart’s. 

The lovestruck teen took a breath. “Uh y-yeah! Yeah,” he replied. “I had a mild headache in English class. Not surprising considering the hits I took, but Aunt Redheart set me up with some ibuprofen afterward. I’m alright now.” He then looked down at the ground and scuffed some dirt with his shoes. A sigh escaped.

“Is…is something wrong Stout?” Flitter asked with a hint of concern. 

Aside from having romantic feelings for you and being too chicken shit to act on them, I’m fine. He thought with some annoyance before meeting her gaze and answering her. “I just got that stupid fight replaying in my head is all,” he explained with dejection in his voice.

“Did you get in trouble?” the question came from Cloudchaser this time.

Stoutheart turned to her. “No,” he answered with a shake of his head. “Celestia and Luna let me off with a warning.” Then he scowled. “Still don’t feel too happy about it.”

“About what? Standing up for my brother and yourself?” challenged Thunderlane.

“I don’t know,” muttered Stoutheart wringing his hands once again. “I just…I just feel like crap is all. I can’t explain it.” 

The next thing the teen felt was a pair of arms wrapping around his back and pulling him forward. The sudden movement made him look up, in time to see Flitter grab him in a tight, but comforting hug. The speed and spontaneousness of it caused Stoutheart to gasp in surprise. He felt his eyes bulge in shock and his body felt paralyzed, as if electricity had passed through it. His eyes looked down to see Flitter’s face, but it was hidden by her mass of hair and her bow. Almost mechanically, he brought his arms up and returned the hug in appreciation.

Flitter broke the embrace and stepped back, her bluish gray cheeks tinged in red. Thunderlane cracked a smile, Rumble looked on in mild surprise, and a snicker escaped Cloudchaser’s lips. 

“Sorry,” squeaked Flitter. “I-I didn’t mean to make things weird! You looked upset and I just wanted t-to…”

“What I think my sister is trying to say,” interrupted Cloudchaser with a sly grin, “is that she wanted to cheer you up and show her gratitude for helping Rumble out today. We’re both kinda’ fond of the kid. All four of us live in the same neighborhood you see so we’re a bit…close.”

“Oh! I…uh see,” Stoutheart stammered in realization. “Well, always happy to help I guess,” he replied with a lopsided smile.

“Well, that was…something,” said Thunderlane, breaking the ice. He turned to Cloudchaser. “We should get going babe, got some serious gaming ahead of us tonight!”

“Don’t you mean me whooping your butt again?” teased Cloudchaser seductively. 

“Oh it is so on,” vowed Thunderlane as he took Cloudchaser’s hand in his own. He looked back at Stoutheart and waved. “See you on Monday dude!” Then the two of them began walking he looked at Flitter and Rumble. “You two slowpokes coming?”

Flitter rolled her eyes. “Right behind you,” she called back dryly. Rumble ran ahead of her to catch up with his brother and Cloudchaser. Flitter turned to follow but hesitated. She looked over her shoulder. “See you on Monday Stout!”

Stoutheart said nothing. He merely acknowledged Flitter’s farewell with wave and a smile of his own. “Not the time, not the place,” he repeated to himself softly, remembering his earlier thought in Phys Ed. At first he felt some relief at the fact that Thunderlane and Cloudchaser were an item, but it was fleeting. For all he knew, Flitter also had a special someone out there. Maybe she’s shyer about it, he hypothesized.

He continued to look at her as she, Thunderlane, Rumble, and Cloudchaser wandered a few more yards up the sidewalk before piling into a black sports car and taking their leave of the school, the group offering another wave to Stoutheart as they turned around and passed him. 

Five minutes later, the distinctive red car belonging to Nurse Redheart rounded the corner and pulled up beside him. “Where to sir?” she asked with a grin. 

Stoutheart grinned back as he put his bags in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat beside her. “2855 Woodbine Avenue,” he said in a pompous tone. “There’s an extra twenty in it for you if you hurry.”

She rolled her eyes at the joke as Stoutheart closed the door, buckled up, and settled in for the short journey.
> Chapter 6
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

He felt another yawn rising but held it back with an effort that included clenching his jaw and breathing through his nose. Being a Saturday, Stoutheart had slept in until a quarter after nine in the morning, but the bright sun, combined by the uncomfortable pressure building up in his bladder did an even better job of rousing him from his bed than his phone alarm did. 

After answering the call of nature, his routine of getting ready played out much like the previous five days albeit with an exception. With no school to worry about, Stoutheart had no urgency to get a move on. It was 9:50 by the time he emerged from the bathroom, clean from head to toe, hair slightly damp but neatly sculpted to his approving eyes, teeth freshly brushed. For the day’s attire, he selected some khaki cargo pants, a maroon T-shirt, and, over that, his Jubilee Line sweater, laundered and smelling as fresh as an Alpine meadow in springtime.

Once back in his bedroom, Stoutheart quickly pulled on his socks and shoes, and took stock of what he needed for the day. He slipped his phone in his right pocket and reached for his wallet. A cursory check of its interior revealed forty dollars in the pouch that held bills. Hopefully it’s enough should I hit pay dirt, thought Stoutheart. Lastly, he picked up a pair of fully charged wireless earbuds and dropped them into the left pocket, followed by his house keys. Satisfied, he turned and left, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Dropping down to the main level, he saw his mother seated on the couch, sipping at a mug of tea while eying a file folder which Stoutheart assumed was related to her hospital work. She had traded her work clothes for a rose wool knit sweater and faded blue jeans. The TV was on—at the moment blaring a commercial—but she paid no attention to it; her eyes were firmly locked on the folder. Stoutheart knew from experience that even on her days off, her mornings were usually taken up with reports and a conference call with her staff. A pang of sympathy crossed his mind. 

The thumping of his shoes on the steps caused his mother to look up from the file and stare at him. “Morning!” she called out cheerfully as she brought the mug to her lips. 

Stoutheart looked at her, smiled, and gave a nod as he made his way to the kitchen. “Morning,” he said evenly. 

“How’d you sleep?” his mother asked.

“Fine,” said Stoutheart with a shrug before reaching into the cupboard for a bowl. He felt another yawn coming, but this time he didn’t stifle it. Over the next few minutes, he poured some Frosted Wheat Bombs into the bowl—followed by some milk and some orange juice into a glass—and took a seat at the dining room table.

“So,” prodded Snowheart, “what do you have planned today?”

Stoutheart paused with a spoonful of cereal near his mouth. “I was going to go to the mall and look for a hat.” Then he shoveled the food in.

For a brief second, Snowheart’s face appeared quizzical but then the realization hit her and she brightened. “Oh that’s right, for your Halloween costume!” she exclaimed. 

“Mmm hmm,” Stoutheart acknowledged with a nod as he swallowed his cereal and reached for his glass of juice. “I’m betting that that Halloween store which pops up every year might’ve got something new in since my last visit.” His explanation was tinged with uncertainty. 

“What about that store Aunt Redheart told you about last week?” inquired Snowheart. 

Stoutheart shook his head and set down his glass down. “Nothing,” he replied bluntly as he scooped up more cereal. “Well stocked, don’t get me wrong, but they didn’t have what I needed.” 

“Sorry to hear that,” his mother said while shooting him a sympathetic look. Stoutheart merely nodded in appreciation as he polished off the orange juice in a long draught. 

“You have money in case you find something?” probed Snowheart. 

Stoutheart’s head nodded again, his cheeks bulging with more cereal before swallowing. “Forty bucks. Ought to be enough I think.” He finished off the rest of his breakfast in silence and after sipping up the last of the milk in his bowl, he glanced at his watch. “I better get going,” he said as he rose from the table, picked up his glass and bowl and approached the sink. 

“How are you getting there?” 

“Hmm?” grunted Stoutheart as he did a quick rinse of his bowl and glass. “Oh I was going to take the bus. The 114 stops a couple blocks away from the house and its route goes right to the mall. I got money for that too by the way.”

“You sure?” asked Snowheart with a hint of concern that her son detected. 

Stoutheart rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “Yes mother, I’ll be alright. This isn’t the first time I’ve used Canterlot’s public transit system you know.”

“I know sweetie, I know,” she said with a sigh before taking another sip of her tea. “Might want to throw on a jacket before heading out though. The sun’s out, but the forecast says it’s still going to be chilly today.”  

Stoutheart fished his phone out of pocket and tapped the weather app. “You’re not kidding,” he shot back. “Thirty two degrees in October?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Last time this year, it was in the upper forties.” 

“You can thank that cold front which snuck in from the north yesterday,” explained Snowheart. “At least that’s what the weathergirl said on the TV.” 

And to think, there’s still people who believe Global Warming is a load of crap, Stoutheart thought wryly, as he walked to the closet near the front door, opened it and pulled some coats aside until he felt the familiar leathery presence of his bomber jacket. He slipped it on and pulled up the zipper to its collar. The left pocket bulged with something. Stoutheart reached in and pulled out a black wool ski cap that he placed on his head and adjusted it to his liking. It made him look like a stevedore, but it was comfortable and had proven quite reliable at keeping his head warm. 

Then he returned to the living room. “Alright,” he announced with finality, “I’m outta’ here.” 

Snowheart looked up at him. “Before you go, bring me my purse.” Walking back toward the dining room table, Stoutheart picked up the purse—which had been resting on the seat of a chair—and placed it next to her. He watched as his mother rummaged through the bag, expecting that she wanted her phone to make a call. Instead she produced a crumpled twenty dollar bill.

“Here,” she said warmly. “In case you decide to grab a bite to eat at the mall.”

For a long moment, Stoutheart considered a protest. He was certain he had enough for both a hat and a meal, but in the end, he knew his mother just as well as she knew him. When it came to being generous, she would take no for answer. He flashed an appreciative smile as he took the bill in his hand.

“Thanks mom,” he said.

“No problem kiddo.” 

Stoutheart put the bill in his wallet, then turned and headed for the door. 

“Good luck!” she called back as her son opened the door. 

“Thanks!” replied Stoutheart just as he shut the door and locked it. Turning around, he took in a deep breath of the chilly air before slipping on his earbuds. “Operation Haberdasher is a go”, he said aloud to himself before jogging down the steps to the sidewalk.




*  *  *  *


The scenery from behind the spotted, dirty windows went by in a blur, but Stoutheart paid no heed. Nor did he pay heed to the babbling of the other passengers on the bus, or the muffled throaty roar of its engine as it rumbled along the street. The bus was packed like a sardine tin and its bouncing made him grateful he was able to get a vacant seat upon boarding—up near the front—and not have to resort to standing and keeping a death grip on one of the yellow support posts.

He relaxed in the seat, palms on his knees, eyes closed, and continued to bob his head as the buds fastened around his ears blared the sweet sounds of Phalanx into his head. The current song was a familiar one to Stoutheart; so-much-so that when he mouthed the lyrics silently to himself, it was without error:

See the white light

The light within

Be your own disciple

Fan the sparks of will

For all of us waiting

Our kingdom will come

Rays of power shining

Rays of magic fall

On the golden voice

That speaks within us all

For all of us waiting

Your kingdom will come

Eventually the song ended, and Stoutheart was halfway through another one when a loud musical bong reverberated through the interior of the bus, followed by an equally loud, computerized female voice. 

“Crystal Heights Mall,” it announced.

Through Stoutheart’s earbuds, the voice came muffled, but was loud enough for him to look up and take notice of the red LED sign that advertised his upcoming destination. He raised his arms to stretch and tapped the right earbud twice. The music ceased immediately and he took the devices out and dropped them in one of his jacket pockets.

Looking ahead through the front windows, he could see the bus effortlessly enter the parking lot and reach the curb outside the enormous mall’s north entrance, where a series of glass shelters sat off to one side. Would-be passengers could be seen huddled inside them, some eying the oncoming bus, others scanning the transit map hanging on one glass wall. 

The second the front doors folded open with a swish, Stoutheart rose from his seat, quickly nodded his thanks to the driver and stepped outside, moving quickly toward the glass doors while dodging the oncoming stream of people approaching in his direction. A glance skyward showed that the sky was still devoid of clouds. True to his mother’s word, the sun beamed brightly in the clear cerulean sky but its rays did not alleviate the cold. A shiver crept up Stoutheart’s back, but he quickly shrugged it off as he strode toward the doors of the mall, pulled open one of them, and stepped in.

Given the temperature outside, Stoutheart expected the mall to have ratcheted up the thermometer in order to compensate and make things a bit more comfortable for its patrons, but the teen could feel no sudden rise in heat. He already sweated enough this week in Phys Ed and was grateful. Even so, he took off his ski cap and pocketed that too, as he continued to walk along the gleaming tiled corridor, glancing idly at some the stores that passed him. 

He passed the large board in the center of the corridor that displayed a color-coded map of the mall and a numbered directory with nary a glance. He knew where he needed to go. Party Station was the closest to where he entered the mall, so naturally he opted to go there first.

It was on the second level, so Stoutheart sought out the first escalator he came across. Once on the upper level, he walked toward the eastern end of the mall. The aisles were thick with shoppers—young and old, male and female—but he weaved about them like a race car driver jockeying for the lead. Inevitably, the illuminated, multicolored sign proclaiming Party Station soon loomed up ahead and to his left. 

He entered the store and made a beeline for the headwear section, but after moving up and down the aisle four times, his eyes surveying the shelves and racks from top to bottom, Stoutheart’s mouth curled into a grimace of disappointment. There was nothing he could see that even remotely resembled The Wraith’s hat. Plenty of bowlers, top hats, propeller beanies, tricorns, even those horned helmets many people still thought Vikings wore. But the distinctive black slouch hat was nowhere to be seen. 

Deep down in his gut, Stoutheart expected this. Party Station, he felt, was a forlorn hope but he couldn’t dismiss it. Turning around, he walked out of the store. Reaching the main hub of the mall, Stoutheart took another escalator back down to the first level and this time headed in a westerly direction. 

His quarry was at the end of the corridor: a large black banner attached to a façade of a defunct store whose original purpose Stoutheart could only guess. On one end of the banner, the grim reaper wielded his scythe menacingly, while the grinning form of a jack-o-lantern took up the other end. Between the two figures were the words SPOOK-O-RAMA printed in white slasher-type font. 

Passing through the open entrance, Stoutheart scarcely gave the tall shelves laid out before him a glance. His eyes were focused on the back wall, where he knew the hats and masks were located. Once there, he opted for a different search pattern. He walked along the hat racks length-wise, his eyes darting from top to bottom and side to side. Stoutheart didn’t keep track of the time, but he guessed he must have checked those racks for five or six minutes before his peripheral vision caught something off to his right. He turned to find the source. There, surrounded by Phantom of the Opera masks and some goofy beer helmets, it lay: a row of matte black fedoras with wide brims.  

Stoutheart’s eyes widened slightly. Well, that’s something, he thought with surprise. I don’t remember it on my last visit; must be a new item. He closed to within an arm’s reach of the hats and pulled the first one off the hook. The feel of the material caused him to crease his forehead in confusion. He pinched the brim.

“Foam,” he murmured. “Cheap foam.” He looked over the hat carefully from all angles. It seemed to match The Wraith’s own hat quite well, although the band encircling it appeared to be molded on instead of a ribbon. He considered griping about the hat’s manufacture, but the old adage of “beggars can’t be choosers” flashed through his mind and convinced him otherwise. He turned the hat over and peeked inside the band. The white sticker proclaimed its cost as $15.99.

For a very long moment, Stoutheart stood there and gazed at the hat before shrugging. Better than nothing, he thought as he plucked another hat off the hook and replaced the one he had examined. The prize clutched in his left hand, he headed for the checkout. He fished out one of his twenties and gave it to the cashier, who handed back some change and placed the hat in a large paper shopping bag with handles. Stoutheart returned her smile with one of his own, nodded and gave his thanks before leaving the store.

Near a bench in the middle of the aisle he stopped so as not to get in the way of other shoppers. He glanced at his watch.

Day’s still young, mused Stoutheart as he emitted a relieved sigh, content that Operation Haberdasher had borne fruit. Maybe I’ll swing by Bookopolis and see if they got anything new. Then grab a bite to eat, followed by a bus home.

“Yeah, that sounds like a plan,” he murmured to himself as he made a U-turn and headed back the way he came.




*  *  *  *


Bookopolis was situated close to the west entrance, so much so that it was the first store would-be shoppers often saw as they streamed in through that area. The only other businesses in the vicinity were a hair salon and a branch of Canterlot Credit Union. Stopping before the open entryway, Stoutheart eyed the glowing red serif letters and, above it, an open book and white silhouettes of buildings rising from its pages like some kind of child’s pop-up book. 

He took a breath and sighed in quiet contentment. He felt nothing could beat the “mom and pop” booksellers that dotted the downtown core of Canterlot, but Bookopolis, despite being a retail giant, had a quiet, easygoing atmosphere all its own. It was these factors that convinced Stoutheart to try and get a job with them over the summer. He half expected his mother to protest, believing that someone his age would have plenty of time to join the workforce as he got older, but he had won her over and backed his decision. Though she didn’t show it, Stoutheart suspected his mother had swelled with pride at his maturity.  

Stepping through the bookstore’s threshold, Stoutheart padded across the glossy hardwood surface dotted with racks holding stylish book bags, and tables displaying everything from bargain priced books, to leather-bound journals and day planners, and accessories for the latest E-readers. On either side of these displays sat six foot high shelves, displaying a seemingly endless assortment of hardcovers and paperbacks.

For being a weekend the store didn’t seem to be busy, but every now and then he saw customers perusing the aisles or a staff member restocking a shelf, their ID tags easily seen. Some of them recognized Stoutheart from when he worked there over the summer; waves, nods, and greetings backed by toothy smiles would quickly follow.

Off to the left, the teen could hear the faint beeping as someone’s purchase was being scanned at the checkout. Farther ahead he could hear the squeal of young voices in the children’s section, which took up one whole corner of the store and whose fairy tale appearance could have given diabetes to a health nut. In the air hung the aroma of roasted beans, milk, cinnamon, and sugar from the small coffee stand located within the store.

With his search for a hat complete, Stoutheart had no further need to rush. His first stop was the magazines section. He spent maybe 10 or 15 minutes ogling the issues on its “History” shelf as well as some of the so-called “Warbird” magazines chronicling everything from the biplane fighters that once dueled over the trenches to the jet-on-jet dogfights of the Cold War. 

Then he walked over the history section, which was located at the back of the store near a wall filled with books on sports and musicians. The section was subdivided into several tall shelves, with placards bearing the words ancient history, world history, and military history. 

He sought out the latter first, scanning the shelves. Every now and then, he would pull a title out of its resting place, eye the front and back cover, or even leaf through the pages. With Christmas only a few months off, he decided to compile a mental list of what piqued his interest. Duel #83: UEN Battleship vs. INN Battleship…#57: Q-Ship vs. U-Boat…With Their Flags Flying: The sinking of HMS Reliant and the Odin…Deliverance in the Deep: The Loss of the UES Hatchetfish and the Miraculous Rescue of her Crew.

Stoutheart smiled faintly at the last title. Grandpa would like that one for sure. He was serving on Hatchetfish’s sister sub, Amberjack, when the former sank in March 1978, the result of a collision with a freighter while running surfaced in a fog bank. Because of his grandfather’s storytelling, Stoutheart was familiar with what happened next: the freighter’s bow tore a gash in Hatchetfish’s starboard quarter, flooding her reactor and turbine rooms and drowning half of her 105 officers and men under the merciless onslaught. 

Though the rest of the sub was sealed off, Hatchetfish plunged 1,100 feet before coming to rest on a ledge of a massive undersea canyon. The sinking marked the first use of the Navy’s Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle in an actual emergency. Forty hours after she went down, the DSRV mated with Hatchetfish’s forward escape hatch and picked up all of the survivors.

After skimming paragraphs and the photographs in its middle, Stoutheart slid the book back into its place on a shelf and proceeded around a corner to the World History section. He knew from experience that any books on the Excelsior would have been kept here, and he could not resist the urge to see if any new literature on the lost liner had cropped up.

At first the pickings were slim. Bending down, hands on his knees for support, he quickly spied six books on the Excelsior arranged in a row on a shelf that was maybe a foot or so above the floor. Four of them he owned already so he didn’t give them much thought. He pulled out the fifth book and looked disdainfully at the cover. 

“Excelsior: The Shocking Truth”, he read the title in a low mutter before turning it over to read the description on its back cover. He had seen an online review of this one last month. Three hundred and fifty pages of the author’s theory that a coal fire smoldering in one of Excelsior’s bunkers compromised a watertight bulkhead and hastened her end.

“Pass,” snorted Stoutheart as he placed the book back in its spot. He had read enough about the disaster to know that the fire had been extinguished a day before the collision and its heat had done little more than cause some paint to blister and a couple small dings to form; hardly proof of a weakened bulkhead. The review had systematically demolished the author’s hypothesis. So had another online article—nearly 30 pages long—that Stoutheart saved to his laptop for his perusal.

Looking away from the ridiculous tome, Stoutheart focused on the spine of the sixth book and was intrigued by its title: A Last Gallant Act: The Final Hours of Excelsior’s Band.

Stoutheart glanced at the author’s name. Okay Mr. Onyx Star, you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention. Of all the events that played out on the Excelsior’s decks that cold, terrible night a century ago, the eight men who made up the liner’s band, all of whom perished playing lively ragtime on the slanting Boat Deck to calm fearful passengers as the lifeboats were filled and lowered, became immortalized as heroes, despite their movements about the ship and what tunes they played during the sinking remained murky. Reading the description written on the endpapers of the dust jacket, Stoutheart found that the book’s intent was “to solve these mysteries by proposing solutions based on all existing historical evidence.”

His interest seized, Stoutheart moved further down the aisle until he found a small nook with a circular wooden table a pair of vacant armchairs upholstered in leather. Flopping down into its comfortable embrace, Stoutheart placed his bag on the table top and cracked open the book. He went through page after page, his eyes skimming paragraph after paragraph. His face showed no reaction to the printed words, but gradually he became impressed with Onyx Star’s level of research. His mind shut off the hustle and bustle of the store. Time stopped. Definitely going on my Christmas list this year, he concluded as he eyed the bibliography. 

“Good read?” offered a voice. It came with the intensity of a gunshot and startled Stoutheart so much he gave a sharp gasp of fright. Startled, the book fell from his hands and clattered to the ground. He reached down for it and picked it up.

“Oh gosh,” said the voice, “Sorry about that!” Though showing signs of embarrassment, Stoutheart instantly recognized the tone in the voice. It was sweet and slightly slurred. He froze in a mix of astonishment and dread. Can’t be, he thought. His breath catching in his throat, he looked up and saw a pair of boots: lilac with purple flames.

He swallowed and craned his neck up further. The next thing he saw were white tights with dragonflies on them. Then a pleated purple skirt…a shapely athletic body clad in a Wondercolts hoodie…that beautiful face with the raspberry colored eyes, one of which was, not surprisingly, partly concealed by a bang of grey hair.

Oh…crap.

“Hey there,” said the smiling form of Flitter. She waved at him with her left hand. The right one held a bag much like his own.

For a long, interminable moment, Stoutheart did not speak. He looked dumbly at the girl standing before him. His mouth opened slightly as if to speak, but no sound emerged from it. Stop looking like a caught fish, stupid, commanded his inner voice. Talk. 

“Flitter! Uhh…hi!” the tone was high pitched and felt so awkward to Stoutheart that it made him cringe mentally. With some effort, Stoutheart shed the deer in the headlights look and tried to regain his composure. “What,” he began before clearing his throat, “what brings you here?”

Flitter shrugged before holding up her bag. “Cloudchaser and I got a call today that our Halloween costumes were in, so we came to pick them up. Then we split up and decided to browse around. I wanted to swing by here and check if any new Daring Do books were in.” She looked over at Stoutheart’s bag. “I see you’ve been at Spook-o-Rama too.” 

Stoutheart nodded and looked down at his own bag. “Yeah, I needed one more piece to complete my own costume.” He set the book down on the table, and pulled his hat out of the bag to show her. 

“Oooh!” she said moving in to get a better look. “Looks like something a private eye would wear! Are you going as one of those this year?”

Stoutheart gave a chuckle that did little to hide his nervousness. “No uh…not exactly.” He looked down at the fedora for a moment before speaking again, “I’m going as a vigilante called The Wraith.” 

“Never heard of him,” replied Flitter.

Stoutheart met her gaze once again. “Not surprising. He’s kinda’ forgotten these days.”

With her free hand Flitter gestured over to the other chair. “Is it alright if I sit? My feet are getting sore and I wanna give my arms a rest after hauling this thing around.” She held up the bag and Stoutheart could see the hem of a dress peeking above the brim.

“S-sure,” stammered Stoutheart. “What are you and your sister going as anyway?”

“Well, Cloudy chose a ninja outfit this year, and I’m going as an old west saloon girl.” Flitter took a seat and gave a relieved sigh. “Geez, I forgot how comfy these chairs are.”

“Indeed. I remember dozing off in one these a few months back while waiting for my mom to pick me up following my shift,” admitted Stoutheart with a chuckle. 

Flitter giggled. “I believe it.”

At that moment Stoutheart’s mind lewdly teased him with a mental picture of Flitter in that saloon dress—replete with garters and fishnets—dancing upon a stage to a raucous crowd, her gorgeously made up face winking seductively at him before blowing a kiss.

You have issues dude, he thought to himself with some disgust. He got rid of the image from his mind and looked around. “Where is Cloudchaser anyway?” he asked with curiosity.

“If I know my sister,” said Flitter with a hint of sarcasm, “she’s probably either in the music store or in the arcade trying to beat Thunderlane’s score at Killshot.” Then she changed the subject. “So this Wraith guy…” 

“First appeared in 1930 at the height of the Great Depression,” Stoutheart began. He was calmer now. “The creation of a Manehattan writer named Silver Script, who wrote his stories for Amazing Tales Magazine under the pen name Flint Ironstag.”

“Nineteen thirty?” Flitter sounded incredulous. 

“Yep,” confirmed Stoutheart. “And the stories kept on coming until 1949, when they were cancelled due to low sales. All told, 325 stories were published, most by Script, but several other authors helped out with the workload, all of them using his pseudonym.”

“I see,” said Flitter. “What’s the Wraith’s backstory? Is he another rich guy playing hero like Nighthawk?”

Stoutheart laughed. “If anything, the Wraith set the standard for the ‘wealthy crimefighter’. He’s the alter-ego of a Gilded Venture, who’s not only the wealthiest man in the city of Bridleton, but also a veteran of First World War.” 

“Army?” asked Flitter.

Stoutheart nodded. “Though commissioned as an officer, he earned the respect of his peers by sneaking out into No Man’s Land to rescue wounded and trapped soldiers.”

“It’s almost as if he had something to prove,” mused Flitter.

“You’re not far off,” said Stoutheart. “In addition to his missions of mercy, Venture also volunteered for and led raids on enemy trenches and fortifications. Over time, his skill, ferocity, and bloodlust struck fear in the hearts of countless Teuton soldiers, so much so that they put a bounty on his head—fifty thousand marks—and gave him a nickname: Der Höllehund.

“What’s that mean?”

“The Hellhound,” said Stoutheart, his face displaying a crooked smile.

“Charming,” replied Flitter with an eye roll.

Stoutheart chuckled as he went on. “Eventually the war ended and Gilded Venture went home, working hard to become Bridleton’s favorite son. But as he adjusted back to his rich playboy lifestyle, he witnessed the city going into a downward spiral of crime and violence. Murderers, thieves, and maniacs stalked the streets. Various gangs waged their turf wars, not caring who got caught in the crossfire. Cops and city officials either struggled against the tide or savored their payoffs.”

“Kind of an exaggeration don’t you think?” said Flitter skeptically.

Stoutheart made a so-so gesture with his right hand. “Some of it was. A madman threatening the city with some doomsday machine is pure fantasy, but in real life big cities like Manehattan, Chicacolt, and Vanhoover were all hotbeds of crime and corruption in those days. Old Silver Script saw it splashed across the papers and radio on a regular basis, so he couldn’t resist transplanting what he heard and read in the media into his work.”

“Anyway,” Stoutheart continued, “Gilded Venture got fed up with criminals running roughshod over his city and decided to do something about it. He trains both his mind and body to peak performance, uses his wealth and influence to establish a network of agents to aid him—” 

“Hold on,” interrupted Flitter. “Agents? Like…spies?”

“Yeah,” said Stoutheart matter-of-factly. “The Wraith didn’t wage his war on crime alone. Over the course of the books, he recruits countless men and women into his organization, forming an intelligence network rivaling any government agency. The majority of them are folks he saved over the years.”

“So is it just the books that The Wraith appeared in?”

“Oh no,” said Stoutheart with another shake of his head. “There were some short lived comic runs during the seventies and eighties, and a TV series.” 

“TV series?” asked Flitter curiously. “Animated or live action?” 

“Live action,” Stoutheart replied. “The episodes were a mish-mash of stories taken from the pulp books and radio show as well as some original ideas. It was pretty good too. Stuck to the source material quite closely.”

“Is that what got you interested in The Wraith?” asked Flitter.

Stoutheart gave another nod. “First saw it a few years ago being re-run on one of those stations that broadcasts old TV shows. The books came later, followed by some newer works recently published by Ka-Blammo! Comics.”

Flitter gave a nod of her own in understanding but before she could speak, a faint rumbling sound emanated from her abdomen turning the girl’s cheeks red. Embarrassed, she averted her eyes from Stoutheart and her arms crossed her belly.

“Stupid stomach,” she groaned. “That’s what I get for skipping breakfast today. Sorry you had to hear that.”

Stoutheart laughed. “Don’t be. I’ve experienced that feeling a lot of times too so I know how it feels.”

Rising from her chair, Flitter stretched her arms and legs before picking up her bag. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you later Stout. Is…is it alright if I call you Stout?”

“Not at all,” Stoutheart said with a shrug. “Most of my family and friends call me that anyway.” He smiled and she returned the favor, causing his heart rate to rise slightly. Then they exchanged waves and Stoutheart watched as Flitter turned away and headed back toward the mall. 

There she goes, he thought resignedly. Another chance and you blew it. Well done.

Stoutheart took in a deep breath and looked away with sadness as he eyed the book he had been reading when the object of his hidden affection surprised him. He sighed as he picked up the tome and flipped through the pages. But no matter how hard he tried, his brain cruelly refused to let him concentrate. Flitter had shot to the forefront of his attention and she refused to leave. 

Stoutheart closed the book once again, placed it on the table as gently as if it were priceless artifact, hung his head, and silently cursed to himself. He cursed his timidity around her. He thought about that reassuring pat he gave her on Thursday and winced. He did the same thing when he remembered looking away from her in the cafeteria. Then, for added measure, he cursed Flitter herself for being so damned attractive.

Don’t blame her for your inaction you asshole, snapped his mind. With the speed of a nuclear fireball blossoming across a desert floor, more regret surged over Stoutheart for saying such a stupid thing. Though he felt no headache, he began massaging his right temple.

“Stout?” came Flitter’s voice from behind. Stoutheart snapped up his head, shifted his body and turned to face her. He could plainly see her wringing her hands. The strap of her shopping bag hung from a wrist.

“Something wrong?” asked Stoutheart. A new feeling—confusion—overtook his mind.

“No…I mean…well…y’see…” Flitter’s voice trailed off before she took a breath and spoke once again. “I looked back and saw you all hunched over there looking upset and I was wondering…” another intake of air followed and behind that, a string of words that were spat out with the speed of a machine gun. 

“Wouldyouliketohavelunchwithme?”

Stoutheart scrunched his face. “I’m sorry, what was that last bit?” 

“Lunch with me,” repeated Flitter in a more normal tone but with her face blushing in embarrassment. “How ‘bout it? I mean I know it sounds weird and all, but I just figured you could use the company.” She offered a hand to him and smiled. “What do you say?”

For a long, tense moment Stoutheart looked at the outstretched hand, his face morphing into a look of incredulity. He then looked up at Flitter, his amber eyes meeting hers. He couldn’t believe this was happening, but soon the incredulity passed and Stoutheart’s lips quickly formed into an appreciative grin as he took the hand in his own and Flitter helped him up.

“Sounds good to me,” he said as he gathered up his bag and walked side by side with Flitter out of the bookstore.
> Chapter 7
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stoutheart figured it was five minutes, give or take, before he and Flitter arrived at the Food Court, which dominated the mall’s south end. Like everywhere else, stores surrounded it on the upper level and the eateries that made up the court’s lower level were a cornucopia of franchises. Burger joints shared space with shops that prepared and served sandwiches, Sardegnian pasta, Kirinese cuisine, pretzels, and ice cream. There was also the juice bar that Stoutheart remembered from his lunch breaks over the summer. 

Last but not least was a vegetarian place that always seemed to be busy and today was no different. Among the crowd standing before it, Stoutheart recognized Sunset Shimmer, Rarity, and Fluttershy. Their backs were to him, and their body language made it obvious they were eying the menu board hanging above them and behind the counter.

“So,” came Flitter’s voice, which helped jolt Stoutheart out of his observations, “what are you going to have?” 

Stoutheart scratched his chin, hummed softly, and did a quick look around before making his decision. “I’m hankering for Burger World today.” He pointed to a structure off to his left. “Hadn’t been there in a while. You?”

“Mile High Subs,” said Flitter with a hint of finality. She nodded to the sub shop a few feet ahead of them. “Always liked their chicken and bacon ranch melt.” She reached into her hoodie pocket and produced a wallet with a dragonfly stitched on it. “Got enough here for two,” she said checking the bill pouch. “I think I’ll get Cloudy something too.”

“Well that’s awfully nice of you,” said Stoutheart in mild surprise. 

Flitter shrugged. “Mom and Dad made sure I had enough cash in case the two of us were hungry. We both like Mile High and Cloudy’s a creature of habit anyway.” She gave a wink and a smirk. “I know what she likes.”

Stoutheart smiled back, silently admiring her thoughtfulness. “Well,” he said taking a breath. “What say we order?”

“Sure thing,” acknowledged Flitter with a nod. The two of them split up and headed for their desired eateries. Approaching the counter for Burger World, Stoutheart studied the menu laid out in front of him before looking at the employee behind the register. 

“Can I get a number two combo, please?”

A few minutes later, Stoutheart had a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a large Burple Classic placed in front of him on a tray. He paid, grabbed a few napkins, filled a tiny paper cup with some ketchup turned away to seek out a seat. He quickly found one—or rather four: all of them tucked into a square table in the middle of the food court. Carefully, so as not spill his drink, Stoutheart walked over to the table and claimed it. Sitting down, his eyes caught sight of Rarity, Fluttershy, and Sunset sitting three tables away, each of them getting ready to dig into a salad. The trio caught sight of Stoutheart, smiled and waved. He waved back before looking in the direction of Mile High Subs.

He was just in time to see Flitter tapping on her phone before picking up her own tray and looking around for him. He waved to get her attention and watched as she headed over. Even though she was burdened with the tray of food, Flitter moved about the maze of tables gracefully, like ink on a sheet of glass. Stoutheart prepared to eat, but he could feel himself getting warmer now so he unzipped his bomber jacket and, without getting back up, shed the garment and draped it on his chair’s backrest.

“Hope, this is good enough,” said Stoutheart gesturing to the table before dipping his first fries into the ketchup and eating them.

“Perfect,” replied Flitter as she sat down and took her sub off the tray, along with a large drink and a bag of barbecue flavored chips and placed the other sub, chips, and drink on a vacant area of the table. 

“What did you get your sister?” asked Stoutheart nodding at the untouched food. 

“Turkey breast and ham, with lettuce, tomato, onions and honey mustard,” answered Flitter as she unwrapped her sub and picked up half of it. “Got her some salt and vinegar chips and a peach iced tea on the side.” Flitter took a bite of her sub and moaned in delight. “I forgot how good these are.” 

Stoutheart ate a few more fries before washing them down with his drink and took a bite of his burger. It may have been fast food, but the beef, bacon, and tangy barbecue sauce tasted heavenly. “She on the way?”

Flitter nodded as she sipped at her own drink. “Texted her while waiting for my order. She should be here soon.” She then looked down at Stoutheart’s chest. “What’s Jubilee Line?”

“Hmm?” asked Stoutheart as he swallowed another mouthful of burger. Only when Flitter gestured to the front of his sweater did he understand. “Oh, this! Well, the Jubilee Line was a steamship company founded in the mid-nineteenth century and lasted until the 1930’s. It was the company that owned the Excelsior.” 

“Excelsior,” hummed Flitter in thought before the realization hit her. “That’s the ship that sank a hundred years ago right? Hit an iceberg I think.”

Stoutheart nodded. “Bingo. You’re…familiar with it?”

Flitter gave a sheepish look. “I saw the movie on TV a few times.”

At least a dozen films had been made about Excelsior’s maiden voyage over the decades, but Stoutheart knew exactly what film Flitter was talking about. “Ah,” he began. “Good flick. The romantic stuff was silly but the director did a damn fine job recreating the ship.”

“Judging from the sweater, I take it you’re a fan?”

“Of the ship and her history,” clarified Stoutheart. “Ever since I was in elementary school.”

Flitter arched an eyebrow in interest before taking another bite of her sub. “Elementary school? How exactly did that come about?”

“Simple really,” answered Stoutheart with a shrug. “Back in the sixth grade, my class had to do a history project about famous disasters. One day while at my grandparent’s house, my grandpa overheard me talking about my assignment with my grandma and gave me a book to read. It was about the Excelsior’s last night afloat. I read it front to back and by the time I was finished, my mind was made up.” Stoutheart picked up another fry, dipped it in some ketchup, and ate it. “Grandpa ended up helping out with the research phase of my project, loaning me books from his own collection and pointing me to other books at the library.”

“Did you pass?” inquired Flitter.

Stoutheart beamed with pride. “Got an A Plus. Gave a good report and backed it up by bringing in photos, hand drawn maps and diagrams; the whole shebang.” He sighed wistfully before going on. “I figured that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. From that moment on I was hooked. Started reading every book I could find on the ship, watched every film and TV documentary I could. Some of them I own now.”

“I take it you’re grandpa’s interested in ships?” 

“Yeah, but then again he served in the Navy so I suppose it was kind of a given,” admitted Stoutheart with a sly smile. 

“Get out,” said Flitter. “Really?”

“Yep,” confirmed Stoutheart with a nod. “During the Cold War he was a torpedoman on a nuclear attack sub called the Amberjack.”

“Holy cow,” murmured Flitter. “Did he…did he help sink any ships?”

Stoutheart gave a laugh. “Just some floating derelicts during fleet exercises. Some of the patrols he went on are still classified; however I can tell you he went to the North Pole on one voyage. My mom even has a photo of him with some of his shipmates standing on the ice.”

“That is so cool,” said Flitter in awe. “My grandpa was a Sarkhan veteran. He was army though, like my dad. You know those guys who sat inside those helicopters with the machine guns—” 

“Door gunners,” interrupted Stoutheart knowledgeably.

“Yeah, door gunners. He was one of those. Served two tours over there. He got wounded a couple times too, but nothing severe.” Then a solemn look came over her and she looked down at her food. “He died of cancer a couple years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” said Stoutheart, mustering as much sympathy as he could.

Flitter looked back up at him, gave a sniffle, and smiled appreciatively. “Thanks.” She then sighed. “Sometimes I still see him laid out in that hospital bed, tubes sticking out of him, his body frail, and his face all…”

She trailed off, but Stoutheart took up the conversation. “Aunt Redheart once told my mom that when someone you loved dies, it’s better to remember them in happier times. Take all those good memories you have of them, hold onto to them, and don’t ever let go of them.”

Flitter studied his face, as if trying to detect any hint of sincerity. Then her mouth curved up into a slight smile. “Sounds like the kind of thing you’d see on a sympathy card.”

Stoutheart returned the smile with one of his own. He wasn’t offended in the slightest. “Maybe,” he offered with a shrug. “But I like to think it helped my mom out.”

“Who did she lose?” asked Flitter, all trace of sadness and regret replaced with curiosity.

“My dad,” answered Stoutheart in a low tone.  

The curiosity vanished and was replaced with shock. “Your dad? Was he in the military too?”

Stoutheart shook his head. “No, he was a cop with Canterlot PD.” He began playing with the straw of his drink. “Thing is, mom was pregnant with me when it happened so I never knew him.” He then added dryly, “I suppose someone’s got a sick sense of humor.”

“How…how did he die?” The hesitation in Flitter’s question was plain to hear.

“My mom didn’t go into details when I was younger,” explained Stoutheart, “but eventually she showed me some newspaper clippings that filled in the blanks. One night, my dad stopped a car on the freeway just outside of town. A bunch of students from Everton were in it, coming back from a party or something. Taillight was burned out, I think. My dad was sitting in his squad car writing up a ticket when a big semi roared up from behind and plowed into his car. The momentum carried the car into the one the Everton group were riding in. He was killed instantly. The people in the other car were injured, but pulled through.”

“Oh my gosh,” muttered Flitter as she shook her head in dismay. A few moments passed before she spoke again. “How did it happen? Was the truck driver drunk or something?” 

Stoutheart shook his head. “He fell asleep at the wheel. Apparently he had been on a long haul from Las Pegasus with little rest.” He sighed. “He ended up with a manslaughter charge and some prison time. Five years I think it was.”

“Five years?” blurted Flitter incredulously.

Stoutheart gave another nod. “From what mom told me, he was extremely remorseful. Poor guy even tried to kill himself in hospital once he found out. He served the full sentence and got paroled. Dropped out of sight after that.” Stoutheart paused to wet his whistle before continuing. “About a week after the funeral, mom went into labor and, well…” he threw up his hands. “Here I am.”

“Must have been hard growing up like that,” Flitter ventured quietly. 

“I got by,” Stoutheart replied flashing smile that was a faint but assuring. “My grandparents took care of me when my mom couldn’t. Even Aunt Redheart did too when she wasn’t busy with her nursing. I had it pretty good, but as I got older I couldn’t help but notice my mom getting sad from time to time, especially whenever my dad’s birthday or their anniversary rolls around. I don’t have to be a shrink to know it still eats at her. Best I can do is give her a hug, tell her I love her, and keep my nose clean.” 

The sound of soles slapping the mall floor brought both teens out of the somberness. Stoutheart looked up and ahead while Flitter turned around in her chair, coming face to face with her sister. “About time you showed up,” she teased. 

Cloudchaser, her own bag in hand, stuck her tongue out at her. Stoutheart could see that she still wore her denim jacket, but this time it was over a plain white T-shirt. She also wore jeans, but Stoutheart could tell from their intactness they were not the same ones from yesterday. 

“Stoutheart? What’re you doing here?” asked the newcomer in surprise as she took a seat next to her sister and set the bag down by her feet.

“Costume shopping, just like you and Flitter,” Stoutheart answered. “We uh…ran into each other in Bookopolis and, well…”

“He looked lonely so I invited him to have lunch with us,” announced Flitter cheerfully. Cloudchaser looked over at Stoutheart. As far as he could tell, she didn’t seem suspicious at all to her sibling’s reason so he shrugged again. “Hope you don’t mind,” he added, his voice slightly uneasy.

“Nah, I don’t mind,” Cloudchaser said with a smile and a shake of her head. She looked down at the tray of untouched food and turned to Flitter. “You get me my usual?”

“Mmm hmm,” nodded Flitter as she sipped at her drink.

“Good,” said Cloudchaser with a relieved sigh. “I’m starving, and this’ll help me forget that weirdo I put up with in the music store.”

“Weirdo?” asked Flitter.

Cloudchaser’s mouth was full with a bite of her sub so she settled with a nod before swallowing. “Kept giving me looks while I was browsing the DVD section,” she explained with disgusted tone before sipping at her iced tea. “It was almost like he was checking me out but trying not to make it look obvious.”

“Did you recognize him?” asked Stoutheart with mild intrigue. “Was he a Canterlot High student?”

Cloudchaser scrunched her face in contemplation before giving a shake of her head. “Don’t think so. He looked like he was our age, but I’ve never seen him at CHS.”

“Probably from another school then,” guessed Stoutheart.

Now it was Flitter’s turn. “What’d he look like?”

Cloudchaser ate a couple of chips before beginning. “About Thunderlane’s height I’d guess. Wore a black hoodie, dark blue jeans, and had reddish hair.” She took another bite of her sub. “It’s no big deal anyway. I just avoided eye contact and minded my own business until I was done.”

“Did he follow you out?”

“No, once I was back in the mall, I checked my six and didn’t see him. Maybe he got bored with me after I gave him the cold shoulder.” She picked up her drink and waved it dismissively before taking a long pull of it. “Anyway, let’s forget it and chow down. No point in letting this gourmet spread go to waste.”

Stoutheart and Flitter smiled at the girl’s remark and began attacking the remainder of their meals and losing themselves in chit chat. They started with their respective costumes before moving onto a variety of topics. They each compared their favorite bands before Cloudchaser went on about this year’s successful run for Wondercolts. 

Being a neophyte to sports, Stoutheart merely listened and offered little comment, but there were a few times his mind wandered. That vision of him and Flitter kissing at the Halloween dance re-emerged to taunt him. Hot on its heels was the vision of him garbed once again as The Wraith, standing in a dark Bridleton alleyway, unloading his pistols at an encroaching group of criminals while Flitter stood behind him, hands on his shoulder and terror etched on her face.

His eyes wandered too, but not to Flitter though. He suppressed the urge to look her over lest she catch on and feel uncomfortable at his gawking. That was the last thing he wanted today. Instead, his eyes darted around the food court. Looking to the right, he spied Sunset, Fluttershy, and Rarity at a table, with bowls of salad laid out before each of them. Whereas Fluttershy ate normally, Rarity, who sat off to her left, seemed to be consuming her meal more daintily, while Sunset devoured her salad as if she had not seen one in months. 

“What about you Stout?” Flitter’s voice made him shift his view back toward the siblings. 

“Huh?”

“We were talking about Daring Do,” explained the girl. “You a fan?”

Stoutheart quickly collected himself and nodded. “Not a diehard fan like Rainbow Dash is but—”

“I doubt anyone is as diehard a fan like Rainbow,” interrupted Cloudchaser with a wry smirk.

Stoutheart laughed. “You’re probably right,” he said with a snort before finishing off the last of his drink. Then he looked at Flitter. “In answer to your question, I’ve dabbled in a few books. I like the movies too.” 

“What’re your favorites?” pressed Flitter who leaned in curiously, arms folded on the table. 

“As far as books go, Wake of the Appleloosa. For movies, it’s a tossup between The Iron Phoenix and The Slaughterers Chalice. Phoenix has terrific action, especially that scene where Daring fights the Teuton soldiers aboard the armored train. As for Chalice , it has the best ending. I mean Daring, her mom, and her friends riding off into the sunset was perfect.” He emphasized that last statement with a chef’s kiss.  

Flitter rolled her eyes teasingly. “Leave it to a ship nerd like you to prefer a novel featuring a long lost ironclad.”

Stoutheart grinned smugly. “What can I say? I know what I like.”

“Ship nerd?” asked Cloudchaser in puzzlement.

“I have a thing for ships and sea disasters,” Stoutheart explained. “Also I found Sundowner to be a well written companion. Better than some of the others Yearling has written that’s for sure.”

“Like the whiny nightclub singer who tagged along with her in The Sanctum of Fire,” said Cloudchaser with a visible shudder.

“God, don’t remind me,” groaned Stoutheart. “I would have preferred Appleloosa becoming a film over that book. Even so, it had its moments.” Then he made a face, as if he had just had a spoonful of the nastiest tasting cough medicine shoved into his mouth.  “At least it wasn’t Chariots of the Gods.” 

“Oh c’mon, Chariots of the Gods wasn’t that bad,” countered Flitter.

“The warehouse scene at the beginning kicked ass, I’ll give you that. But the movie just felt like a big heaping pile of meh.” He was going to gripe about the infamous ‘fridge scene’ but something caught his eye up ahead, past Flitter and Cloudchaser’s heads. There, in the distance just outside the food court, stood a teen boy.

He was about six feet estimated Stoutheart but that was not what made him stand out amongst the crowd. It was the black hoodie, jeans covering black and white soled sneakers and the unruly mop of orange-red hair. It fit Cloudchaser’s description almost to a tee. Below that hair, a pair of periwinkle eyes set into an ivory face ignored Cloudchaser as if she were invisible and looked directly at Stoutheart menacingly, like a wolf hidden in a tree line eying the biggest, plumpest sheep in a field.

Stoutheart was more perplexed than concerned. His brow furrowed slightly. What’s his deal? he wondered to himself.

A few seconds later, Stoutheart saw newcomer walk towards his table, his demeanor never changing.  “Crap,” he muttered.

Cloudchaser heard him. “What’s up?” 

“You’re admirer from the music store is coming toward us.”

“You’re joking,” deadpanned the girl.

“I wish I was,” said Stoutheart wearily before nodding up ahead. “See for yourself.” 

Cloudchaser turned in her seat, followed a fraction of a second later by Flitter, who then looked at her sister. “What does he want?” she asked with an edge in her voice.

“Not your sister, that’s for sure.” The two girls heard Stoutheart’s proclamation and looked back at him quizzically. 

“I think it’s me he wants to have a word with,” he said with a grimace.
> Chapter 8
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though he would later chalk it up to his mind playing tricks on him, Stoutheart thought the unwelcome guest’s scowl deepened as he neared his table. Whatever was to come, he tensed and in an effort to stave off his encroaching nervousness, he snatched up an unused napkin with his right hand and began forming it into a ball. On the other side of the table, Flitter and Cloudchaser had twisted in their seats to get a better look at the boy. Once he reached the table, they turned back around but still kept their eyes on him, this time from the side. 

Their reaction to the newcomer’s appearance was like night and day; Flitter’s face bore the same kind of wariness as Stoutheart. Cloudchaser’s face on the other hand was one of annoyance, like she had just tried to whack a fly with a swatter only to see it escape at the last second.

The boy ignored them as if they weren’t even there; his eyes were locked firmly and menacingly on Stoutheart, who struggled to return the look with a neutral expression. He tightened his grip on the balled up napkin until his knuckles went white.

After a tense and interminable time, Stoutheart decided to break the ice. As much as he tried to keep his voice calm, his nerves got the best of him. “Can I help you?” he asked, with an upraised eyebrow.

“Your name Stoutheart?” queried the stranger in a tone that was unmistakably caustic.

Stoutheart looked at Flitter and Cloudchaser before returning the boy’s gaze and nodded. “Yeah,” he replied before sucking in a breath. 

“I figured so,” the redhead spat back. “My brother described you perfectly.”

This time it was Flitter who spoke. “Brother?” The bafflement in her voice was obvious to everyone around her.  

“Yeah,” said the teen, eyeing her before looking back at Stoutheart with a know-it-all smirk. “You know, the one you punched in the face yesterday?”

The floodgates opened and for a fleeting moment Stoutheart’s mind played for him the sight of Hat-Trick spitting out his tooth in that restroom. Damn it, he thought in despair. He leaned back in his chair deflated. His eyes avoided his antagonist’s withering gaze and stared down meekly at the tray holding the remnants of his lunch. He felt like he was about to bring it back up. 

“Ah, so you do remember him,” the boy’s voice came again, this time with a hint of smugness.

“What do you want creep?” asked a still irritated Cloudchaser. The smirk vanished and the teen turned to face her. 

“Oh it’s you,” he acknowledged with obvious condescension. “The cutie from the music store right? Gotta’ say you’re even nicer looking up close.” He then winked at her lecherously. “The name’s Firebrand by the way.” Cloudchaser did not answer him verbally but showed her disgust by raising her up her left hand slightly and showing the interloper her middle finger. The gesture only made Firebrand chuckle in amusement.

“Like my sister said,” Flitter broke in tersely, “what do you want?”

“Nothing from you two,” answered Firebrand dismissively. He looked back at the still hunched form of Stoutheart. “This punk ass bastard on the other hand owes me an apology for tuning up my little brother.” The fake jocularity was gone now, and the statement was made with a contemptuous sneer that made brought Stoutheart out of his languor. He stared daggers at the teen.  

The girls were taken aback at the demand and stared at each other as if they hadn’t heard the ridiculous demand. Flitter looked back at the boy. “This the same brother who tried to use my friend Rumble as a punching bag yesterday?” she asked sarcastically. “That brother?”

“I don’t care,” Firebrand shot back acidly. “Nobody lays a hand on Hat-Trick like that and walks away.” He turned back to Stoutheart and glared at him but it was short lived. The suspicion and animosity in Stoutheart’s face morphed into bemusement. He snickered, and this caused Firebrand’s face to flush with anger. 

“Something funny tough guy?”

“Yeah,” snapped Stoutheart, his posture more relaxed, “you.” He readjusted himself in his chair, pulled his hand away revealing the white ball that had once been a napkin, and flicked it in Firebrand’s direction. It made soft contact with the teen at groin level. Firebrand’s eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a scowl. 

“I wish I had a mirror to show how stupid you look right now kid” said Stoutheart, even though he had a feeling Firebrand was the same age as him—maybe even older. He took some satisfaction at noticing Firebrand’s scowl deepen a bit before going on. “Your brother’s a bullying jackass who thought his shit didn’t stink and decided to beat up another person all because he couldn’t be bothered to study and decided that cheating was an easier solution. Might I also add, he tried to beat up me,” Stoutheart jerked a thumb into his chest for emphasis. “He charged at me, I defended myself, and it cost him. If you’re expecting me to apologize, or beg for forgiveness or some other garbage, you’ll be going home disappointed. It’ll be a cold day in hell before that ever happens.” 

Stoutheart then rose up from his seat, left the table, and approached Firebrand until they were almost nose to nose. “I may have just barely met you,” he concluded, fire in his amber eyes and his voice set in granite, “but I can already tell you’re just as much an asshole as Hat-Trick is, and to put it mildly, you can go fuck yourself.” 

For a long moment, no one at the table spoke. The only noise was the background babble of the food court and some incomprehensible noises emitting from Firebrand’s mouth. His nostrils flared like maddened bull, and his left eye twitched but Stoutheart’s gaze shifted over to Flitter, whose mouth was slightly agape in awe, and Cloudchaser, who was looking at Firebrand with a shit-eating grin. 

The glance would cost him. Suddenly the look of the girls became one of alarm and Stoutheart caught on. He turned his head back just in time to see the knuckles of a clenched fist speeding toward him. He had no time to throw his hands up to block and the blow landed smack dab into the area of his right eye. 

The stab of pain that shot through Stoutheart’s head was like Flitter’s dodgeball hit times five and was accompanied simultaneously by a bright flash, as if a camera had gone off just inches from his face. Stoutheart let out a loud, pained grunt and shut his eyes tight. Fireworks lit up the accompanying darkness. His ears picked up a pair of gasps from the table—he didn’t know which gasp belonged to whom—and more distant gasps and indistinct yells from somewhere unseen. 

Unlike Flitter’s dodgeball hit, Firebrand’s punch also had enough heft to send Stoutheart reeling. His knees buckled. He could feel himself falling and Stoutheart, his eyes still shut in pain, flailed in an attempt to clutch anything solid. His fingers grasped only air and soon he thudded onto the hard, unyielding floor buttocks first, followed by his back. Sucking in a breath, Stoutheart tried to open his eyes. The left was fine, but the right throbbed with agony and opened only slightly, as if the eyelids were drooping with fatigue. 

He didn’t have time to react to what happened next. Amidst yells of panic and anger, he saw the form of Firebrand leap into his view and land hard on his body, sending another wave of pain washing over Stoutheart as well as a harsh gasp. He feebly tried to put his hands up to ward off further blows and made a choking noise as the fingers of Firebrand’s left hand clutched around his throat. The hand squeezed like a vice, sending gasps of shock burbling from Stoutheart’s mouth. Then Firebrand, his teeth bared in a mix of rage and contempt, brought his fist down on Stoutheart’s face in rapid succession. 

In desperation, Stoutheart’s hands went on the defensive. One hand tried to wrest free the grip on his throat while the other hand and attached arm hovered in front of his face in an effort to ward off Firebrand’s assault. The blows came like hammers and each one sent pain rocketing through his head. His ears picked up a bevy of voices; curses from Sunset Shimmer that could have made a sailor blush, Rarity calling Firebrand a “filthy ruffian” and, in the distance, a few people cheering as if they were watching a wrestling match.

He also heard Firebrand’s voice. “Hope you enjoyed your lunch prick,” it sneered viciously between blows. “Cause after today you’re gonna look pretty funny trying to eat a burger with no fucking teeth!” 

Suddenly the pressure on Stoutheart’s throat weakened and he gratefully sucked in lungful after lungful of air and coughed. The punches mercifully stopped too and he heard grunts from Firebrand. Stoutheart opened his eyes and rolled onto his hands and knees, chest heaving.

He saw Firebrand on his knees clawing furiously at Flitter, who had wrapped a hoodie clad arm around his neck in her own chokehold. The bully’s eyes blinked and bulged. His arms were pinned behind his back by Cloudchaser, whose face showed obvious strain as she put all of her strength into restraining Firebrand. His mouth opened and closed like a fish caught and hauled up onto a boat. Flitter gritted her teeth in anger and her body trembled.

“Leave him alone you jackass!” she screeched.

It was a valiant effort on the part of the siblings, but Firebrand summoned some unknown strength from the recesses of his body and slowly broke his arms free of Cloudchaser’s grip. He elbowed her so hard in the gut that she crumpled to the floor inhaling sharply. Then he easily pried Flitter’s hand off his neck and twisted it at the wrist, causing her to yelp. Then, still clutching Flitter in the hold, he rose to his feet, turned and shoved her back first into a table, where she crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. She had little time to recover from this new blow when Firebrand backhanded her across the face.  

The harsh sound of the slap, coupled with Flitter’s pained cry, made Stoutheart look up and he locked eyes with her. She lay seated on the floor, one hand massaging the red mark on her cheek. Her eyes were shut tight. He also saw Cloudchaser on her knees massaging her abdomen with a grimace. Then he saw Firebrand towering over Flitter, hatred in his own eyes, and his breath coming in huffs and puffs.

“You little bitch,” he gasped, rubbing his throat.

The spectacle sent pure unadulterated rage boiling within Stoutheart’s body. Not since his elementary school days, when a class bully ruined a book he had been reading, had Stoutheart wanted to pound someone into the ground until they were a greasy smear. Now, in that very moment, in that food court, that desire had returned. With great willpower he ignored the limited vision of his swollen right eye as well as the pain rippling the rest of his face and got back on his feet. As he did so, he took sadistic satisfaction that Firebrand still looked down at Flitter and didn’t see him recover. 

Inhaling through his nose, he took off running, his legs pumping like the pistons of a steam locomotive. He gave no dramatic war cry as he closed the short distance with Firebrand, who heard his footsteps and turned in their direction. He was too late to avoid what was coming.  

Channeling every ounce of his body weight behind his dash, Stoutheart thrust one of his shoulders into Firebrand’s lower body like a ram about the butt horns with its opponent. The strike doubled him over at the waist like a folding law chair. His legs left the ground. His arms rose up as if praising some ancient deity. His eyes grew wide like saucers and a guttural gasp erupted from his lips as the wind was driven from his lungs. For a millisecond, Stoutheart’s own feet left the ground as he speared his target and slammed him violently into the floor back first. Firebrand’s head bounced off the floor too. 

Before he could even give out a groan and massage his head, Stoutheart repaid Firebrand’s brutality in full. His arms swung sloppily but furiously, both fists slamming into the other boy’s face. He savored the meaty sounds his knuckles made as they contacted flesh. Blood rushed through his ears like the rapids in Ghastly Gorge and his breath came in heavy, furious gasps punctuated every now and then by strings of curses. 

Then, as he raised his right hand to land another blow, the soft touch of hand wrapped around his wrist and held it fast. 

“Stoutheart, enough! Stop it!” commanded Flitter’s voice firmly. 

It worked. Stoutheart halted in his offensive, and took a series of deep breaths. Slowly, almost mechanically, he lowered his hand and looked up into those raspberry eyes which showed obvious concern. Shame and regret quickly replaced wrath as he looked back down at Firebrand’s face which was starting to swell in some places. Then he met Flitter’s gaze again and nodded weakly.

“I-I…” he stammered before pausing and taking a gulp. “I’m sorry.” Flitter made no reply. Instead she helped him to a standing position despite the fact that his legs felt like they were made of Jello.

“Are you alright?” he croaked.

Flitter nodded reassuringly as Cloudchaser, also back on her feet, walked over to her side. “Yeah, I’m fine too,” she shot back sarcastically while flashing a lopsided grin and still massaging herself. Flitter rolled her eyes but Stoutheart said nothing. He brought a hand up to his right eye and softly probed the flesh, sending tiny jolts of pain through his face. He silently cursed himself for doing such a thing. His head already felt like there was a rivet gang working away inside his skull and the last thing he needed to do was exacerbate it. Then he looked back down at Firebrand, who had turned onto his side and curled up into a fetal position, breathing heavily and muttering incoherently. Stoutheart cursed himself again, this time for what he had just done.

Then a gruff male voice broke up the reverie. “Hold it right there!” 

It came from behind so Stoutheart, along with Flitter and Cloudchaser, turned around and came face-to-face with three people. One of them was Fluttershy, hands cupped to her mouth and her eyes wide with worry. Flanking her were two security guards clad in white shirt, black pants and vest. One was a rose-skinned male with forest green hair whose body looked like it was carved from a mountain. The other was a female with pearl gray skin, navy blue hair tied into a bun, and a neutral expression on her face. She was shorter—the top of her head reached the man’s shoulders—but athletic. The male guard’s eyes danced over the scene before giving Stoutheart and the two girls with him the stern look perfected over the years by schoolteachers.

“I’m afraid you three are going to have to come with me,” the male guard told them firmly. While Flitter and Cloudchaser looked at the guard as if he just sprouted a second head from his shoulders, Stoutheart sagged his shoulders, averted his eyes from the guard and gave a quiet sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time in a whisper no one had heard.




*  *  *  *


The game of counting scuff marks marring the glossy beige floor got boring and he could feel his back starting to ache so Stoutheart leaned back into the hard plastic chair all the while keeping the ice pack firmly against his eye. It was little more than a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and secured with a knot, but to Stoutheart it worked just as good. The meeting of frigid cold and warm, swollen skin made him give another quiet sight of relief. 

Then, for the umpteenth time, his head swiveled and he took in his surroundings. The walls of the security office were whitewashed but showed some signs of dinginess and seemed to magnify the harshness of the florescent white lights set into the foam ceiling tiles. Then there was the gray steel door, the red fire extinguisher hanging next to it, and the large cork board on a far wall from which were pinned sheets of paper and a few photos of people. They resembled police mugshots and Stoutheart suspected that the board served as a “wall of shame” so-to-speak; folks who had gotten the boot for shoplifting or some other kind of mischief. Many of them looked young. Stoutheart dryly wondered if his photo would grace that board today before mall security showed him the door.

Judging from the ice pack given to him by the female guard after she ushered him, Flitter, and Cloudchaser into the office, along with the sympathetic smile she gave, Stoutheart doubted it. He looked over to the far right wall at the guard, who was seated at a desk covered with papers, a couple magazines, and, mounted to the wall above it, a series of flat TV screens that showed in real time what the electronic eyes of the Crystal Heights Mall saw. The desk also had a phone and Stoutheart could plainly see the guard hunched over it, speaking quietly into the receiver.   

To his right, he heard a soft clacking sound and turned his head away to find it. There, in the chair closest to the desk, he quickly found the source: a Smartphone in Cloudchaser’s hand, her fingers dancing across the screen keyboard with the dexterity of a concert pianist. Probably texting her parents or Thunderlane, guessed Stoutheart.

Then he shifted his gaze to Flitter, who sat between her sister and him. She was hunched over and wringing her hands in obvious nervousness. Her eyes seemed to be looking over her shopping bag, which sat between her feet. Suddenly, she had the feeling she was being watched and turned to look at him. Still embarrassed by his outburst in the food court, he averted his eyes from her and once again looked down at his own bag, which sat in a empty patch of floor between his chair and the wall.

Oh come on, Stoutheart chided himself. Don’t pull that same crap like in the cafeteria on Friday. Within his head, a mental tug of war began.

She’s disgusted with me.

Disgusted? You saw her eyes after she stopped you right? She just didn’t want you doing anything you’d regret. You rang that idiot’s bell pretty good after all. You’re just overreacting.

No, I acted like a brute. He frowned slightly. Great, now I sound like Rarity.

Bullshit. You’re no brute. Firebrand is. He hurt her just like his brother hurt Rumble. Enough with the damn pity party! You stuck your neck out for both of them. End of Story.

His thoughts were cut off by a hand wrapping itself around his own. The softness of the touch made him stiffen, as if an electrical current had shot up through his body. Slowly, as if his neck muscles were made of clay, Stoutheart turned to meet Flitter’s gaze with his unobstructed eye.

“How are you holding up Stout?” 

Stoutheart’s mouth formed a slight smile. The sincerity and warmth in her words touched him. “I’m…I’m alright.” He pulled the ice pack from his eye and blinked it a few times and sighed. “Feels like half my vision is in widescreen.”

Flitter giggled. “I’m sure it’ll heal up fine.”

“You’ll probably get yourself a nice shiner to boot too,” added Cloudchaser looking up from her phone. She cracked a grin. “Who knows? Maybe next week you’ll have some admirers to fawn over it.” She finished her prediction with a wink that made Flitter scrunch her face in disapproval and caused Stoutheart’s cheeks to get warmer than they already were. Flitter responded to the teasing by playfully punching her sister in the shoulder. 

“Ow,” Cloudchaser shot back in a deadpan tone.

The sound of the phone being placed back into its cradle made the three teens look in the direction of the security guard, who turned around in her rolling office chair to face them. “Your mom’s on her way to pick you up,” she said looking at Stoutheart. He said nothing and acknowledged her statement with just a nod. That ought to be fun, he thought sarcastically. He imagined the look on her face when she entered the door and saw him battered as he was. He also imagined her finding out where Firebrand lived and giving him and his parents a piece of her mind, her eyes smoldering with indignation.

Then, unbelievably, his mental focus shifted to Firebrand; or more specifically the sight of him lying on the floor. He mused on what injuries he had courtesy of that tackle. He figured he would end up with the same collection of bruises but anything was possible. Internal injuries? Concussion? He must’ve landed pretty hard. He tried to dismiss the concern gnawing at him, only for his mind to cruelly play for him the sight of Firebrand’s parents hitting him and his mom with a financially crippling lawsuit. It seemed absurd, yet he couldn’t dismiss that either.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to contact your folks too?” The guard’s question was leveled at Flitter and Cloudchaser but it snapped Stoutheart out of his latest rumination. 

“Nah,” said Cloudchaser dismissively while holding up her phone. “I let them know already. We both came here in my car, so there’s no need to call up a ride for us.”

“Ah the wonders of technology,” muttered the guard as she turned back to the screens. 

Just then, the door to the office swung open and in walked the other security guard who took off his hat and scratched the back of his head with the bill. 

“How’s the other kid?” asked his partner. 

“He’s got a goose egg on the back of his head and a few bruises, but he seems alright.” He then puffed his cheeks and put his cap back on. “He’s gone now thankfully.” He turned to Stoutheart. “Kept going on and on about how he was going to get you.”

“Well, it’s always nice to make new friends,” Stoutheart muttered acidly with a sigh. Flitter on the other hand scoffed. “Idiot.” 

Cloudchaser heard her. “Got that right,” she added with a nod. 

“Did one of his parents come pick him up?” the female guard asked inquisitively.

Her partner nodded. “His father.” He spat the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Real piece of work that one. Wanted to tear in here and give him a blast,” he gestured to Stoutheart, “but that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. Not on my watch.”

“Thanks mister—” Stoutheart began. 

“Brisk,” finished the guard. “Brisk Bolt.” He offered and hand and Stoutheart shook it. Then Brisk turned to the other guard, still seated at her desk but now reading a magazine. “Your babysitter here is Dew Blossom,” he added with a grin. 

“Cute Brisk,” said Dew in an annoyed tone while looking up from her magazine, “real cute.” Brisk Bolt laughed at his remark before bending down to get a closer look at Stoutheart’s face. “How you holding up kid?” The harshness in his voice was gone now, replaced by a mix of friendliness and concern that seemed out of place for guy who looked like he could bench press Stoutheart’s body weight.

Stoutheart felt like a rare insect under a magnifying glass, but mustered up a shrug to hide his discomfort. “I’ll live,” he began before exhaling tiredly. “If what you said about Firebrand is true though, I Probably won’t be for long.” 

“Don’t worry about that clown,” Flitter said encouragingly before putting a hand on his shoulder which sent his heart skipping a few beats. “He’s probably just butthurt you got the better of him. ‘Full of piss and vinegar’, as my dad says sometimes.”

“Exactly,” offered Cloudchaser with a chuckle. “That guy deserved to get knocked down a peg, just like his brother.” 

Stoutheart gave an appreciative smile. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“And if he tries to deny it, all I can say is ‘good luck’.” This from Brisk Bolt, who pointed over to the TV screens. “Our cameras almost certainly caught what he did. Hell, someone in that food court probably filmed it too.”

The thought of the fight being recorded on some rubbernecker’s phone filled Stoutheart with more dread, but there was precious little he could do. The time old saying played in his mind: It is what it is. 

“Between you and me,” admitted Brisk, “that was one hell of a tackle you pulled off. You play football?”

Stoutheart shook his head. “Nope. I’m more of an egghead,” he replied, borrowing one of Rainbow Dash’s terms. “Besides my mom wouldn’t stand for it. She’d nag me constantly about concussions and brain damage.”

“Well he's right. It was one hell of a tackle,” admitted Cloudchaser.

“Adrenaline is a strange thing,” offered Stoutheart with a shrug. Seeing someone you’re sweet on getting hurt will do it too, he then thought bitterly. “I hadn’t been that pissed off since the seventh grade.”

“What happened?” asked a curious Flitter. 

“One day during recess,” Stoutheart began “this big kid who had a reputation of being a bully thought it would be fun to snatch a book I was reading out of my hands. It had rained the previous day, so there were puddles everywhere in the schoolyard. After a short game of ‘keep away’, he flung my book into one of those puddles. Then he just stood there and laughed at me.” His mouth formed into a devilish grin. “He paid for it dearly.”

“How so?” 

“While he was still cackling like a hyena,” explained Stoutheart, “I ran up and kicked him as hard as I could in the nuts. He walked funny for a week.”

Cloudchaser and Flitter sputtered with laughter and much to everyone else’s surprise, so did Brisk Bolt. Even Dew Blossom looked up from her magazine and smiled. “That’s a good way to make a statement."

“I’d have to agree,” said Stoutheart. “The jerk got the message and never bothered me again.”

Eventually the laughter died away and for the next fifteen minutes silence reigned, with the three teens killing time by browsing on their phones while Brisk studied the camera footage on the TV screens and Dew Blossom continued reading her magazine. Stoutheart became so engrossed with his phone that when a sharp knock sounded on the door, it startled him.

Brisk Bolt reached for the door and opened it, revealing Snowheart, still wearing the same clothes Stoutheart had seen her that morning, but with her purse slung over her shoulder. The second she saw her son sitting before her, with that makeshift ice pack on his face, her eyes went wide in alarm.

“Hi mom,” greeted Stoutheart. He forced a smile, but all it did was make him look like a kid who had been caught scribbling on the walls with a marker or with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

She dropped her purse to the floor and rushed over to him. “Let me see,” she ordered as her hands reached up and grasped the ice pack. 

“Mom,” he complained.

“Don’t ‘mom’ me,” she warned. “I want to see.” It was a losing battle and Stoutheart knew it. He relented and allowed his mother to remove the bag. 

“Oh for the love of—” she gasped and trailed off as she examined the swollen eye. Reaching down into her purse, she pulled out a penlight, and pried open Stoutheart’s right eyelid. 

“Mooom!” he whined. “I’m fine!”

“Hush,” Snowheart commanded firmly as she played the beam over his iris and pupil. The glare made spots form in his vision. Then she repeated same procedure for his left eye. “What day is it?” 

“Huh?” Stoutheart asked.

“What day is it?”

“October 29,” he groaned, finally realizing what she was doing.

“Where do you live?” 

“2855 Woodbine Avenue,” said Stoutheart, his annoyance rising. He could hear snickering off to his left but kept looking at his mother. 

“When did the Neighponese bomb Trinity Harbor?”

“Seriously?” he blurted. “I don’t have a concussion.”

“Just humor me Stout,” she pleaded. 

Stoutheart sighed and began reciting as if he were up in front of a classroom. “December 7, 1941. First wave struck at 7:55 a.m., the second wave at 8:50.” He put the ice pack back on his eye. “Happy?”  

Snowheart sighed with relief. “I am now,” she said before clicking off the penlight and dropping it back in her purse and rising to her feet. She still looked down at him but the concern was replaced with irritation. “What the hell happened Stout? Who did this?”

“Well, you see—” Stoutheart began but trailed off. He wanted to look away but the hands gripping the sides of his head refused to let him.

“I wasn’t his fault!” Flitter cut in. The excited tone in her voice made Snowheart turn her head and study her, causing Flitter to throw in a hasty “ma’am” for good measure.

“Yeah!” threw in Cloudchaser. “It was that jerkoff Firebrand! He wanted payback for what Stoutheart did to his brother. He decked Stoutheart and my sis and I jumped in to help!”

Stoutheart turned and gave Cloudchaser a frosty look before once again meeting his mother’s gaze. “What does she mean by ‘brother’? What’s going on Stout?”

Stoutheart looked down at the floor and grimaced. Flitter leaned in and whispered, “you didn’t tell her?”

Snowheart heard her. “Tell me what?” she asked impatiently.

As if he were about to meditate, Stoutheart closed his eyes and sucked in some air through his nostrils. Then he looked up at his mother before speaking. “Yesterday I walked in on a friend of theirs getting beat up by some kid named Hat-Trick,” he paused to jerk a thumb over at Flitter and Cloudchaser. “This kid and I fought and I…I knocked out one of his teeth.”

“Oh for God’s sake Stout,” Snowheart moaned before closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“He charged me!” he snapped while throwing his hands up defensively. “I wasn’t going to let him beat me up too!”

After a few moments, Snowheart sighed and looked up at the girls. “You say this Hat-Trick, or whatever his name is, has a brother?”

Flitter and Cloudchaser nodded rapidly and simultaneously. “Firebrand. His name was Firebrand,” said the latter. “He saw us eating with your son at the food court and he tried to pick a fight with him.” She and Flitter then gave a recap of the brawl, sometimes using hand gestures to illustrate the story. Snowheart said nothing but nodded from time to time.

“We caught it on camera too,” Brisk Bolt once the story ended, pointing to the TV screens. “It corroborates what the girls just said.” He ushered Snowheart over to one of the screens. Dew Blossom had the foresight to ready the footage for playback and showed it to her. For a few tense minutes, the only nose in the room was some soft murmuring as Brisk Bolt indicated who was who in the footage. 

“Where’s this other boy?” Snowheart finally asked the security guards as the footage was paused. 

“For obvious reasons we kept him in our break room down the hall ma’am,” explained Brisk with folded arms. “He’s gone now. His father stopped by and picked him up before you arrived.” 

“I see,” said Snowheart before turning back to her son. Stoutheart immediately looked back down at the floor, wishing at that moment it would open up into a hole and swallow him. The best he could offer was another verbal apology.

He then felt a hand land gently on his left shoulder and squeeze it. Looking up, he saw his mother towering over him, the same kind of sympathy on her face as Flitter or Dew Blossom. “It’s alright Stout,” she said calmly. “It’s alright.” She then looked back at the girls. “Thank you both for helping my son. Forgive me but I never got your names.”

Flitter gestured to herself. “I’m Flitter, and that’s Cloudchaser over there.” She pointed to her sister who waved casually.  

“I take it you two also go to Canterlot High?”

“Mmm, hmm,” answered Flitter with a nod. “We’re both in Phys Ed with Stout and I share an English class with him too.” 

“Well, I’m glad my son has surrounded himself with such good people. Once again I’m grateful.” Then she noticed the bag at Stoutheart’s feet. “Well,” she began smugly, “in addition to meeting up with two good looking ladies, I see you also snagged a hat.” She tousled his hair affectionately. 

“Mom stop,” he grumbled with blushing cheeks. “Not in front of them please.” He looked over at Flitter and Cloudchaser, their faces contorted in giggles.

“That’s the least you deserve for scaring me like that,” said Snowheart in mock reproach. “Now then, get your stuff and let’s head home so I can get you a new ice pack.” Suddenly she refocused on the siblings. “Can I offer you two a ride home?” 

“We brought our own,” Cloudchaser assured her. “Thanks anyway though Mrs.—”

“Snowheart dear, my name is Snowheart.”

As his mother turned around and offered thanks to Brisk Bolt and Dew Blossom, Stoutheart rose from his chair, stretched, and picked up his bomber jacket draped over the backrest. 

“T-thanks you two,” he said with a smile before slipping the jacket on.

“No biggie,” replied Cloudchaser with a cheeky grin. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” asked Flitter concernedly.

Stoutheart nodded with conviction before nodding in the direction of his mother. “She’ll make sure of that,” he answered with an eye roll. 

For a few moments he looked into Flitter’s face. The red mark left by Firebrand's hand had faded a bit, but it did not mar her beauty, nor those gorgeous raspberry eyes and her infectious smile. From the deepest recesses of his mind, the desire to give her a hug like the one she wrapped him in yesterday surged up. So did a desire to finally tell her how he really felt about her.

But Stoutheart was a realist, and the sight of him of admitting his love for Flitter in a mall security office, in front of her sister, his mother, and two security guards was too abhorrent to even think about. He couldn’t do that to himself—or her. 

The opening of the door helped jolt Stoutheart back to the real world. “Come on Stout,” he heard his mother’s voice from the threshold. “You’ve had a busy day.”

“On the way,” he called out to her. With some final, quick, and awkward waves to the remaining four in the office, he departed. In that moment, a familiar phrase reverberated in his head. 

Not the time, not the place.
> Chapter 9
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.”