Fapman - The Stalliongrader

>'Dear god, why this is girl is looking at me so resolutely? Is it my face?' you thought as you noticed her.
>You passed by her with a sweating hand, trying to avoid eye-contact.
>The corridor was full of other students, so avoiding her was as easy as pushing into the crowd.
>Loud and unsafe corridors was only one of the few flaws of Canterlot High, but hey, as a new guy you can't complain.
>You used to go to high school in Stalliongrad before you had moved to your Grandpa's place a week ago, and since then this girl's eyes followed you almost everywhere.
>Yes, sure, she was cute, but the fact that she never tried to talk with you was a bit creepy.
>You didn't try either, but that was beside the point.
>Before you let yourself drown in your thoughts, you stopped next to your locker.
>According to your schedule, your next class period was PE.
>You changed your Math book for a bag which held your gym clothes, which was from your last school but Mr. Sombra generously allowed you to used it, after principal intervention, though.
>After that, you looked around only to see that the blue haired girl gave up her stalking thing, and disappear into the crowd of students, which at that point had thinned out.
>The way to the sport hall was well marked on a plan you’d got from principal Celestia, who was a pretty cool babe, by the way.
>You reached a changing room for males as the first one, and changed your clothes in completely silence, before others showed up.
>Not like you were eager, or something, but your policy occurred that if you have to wait, then at least wait prepared.
>And as a former president of the Chess club from your last school, you weren’t very talkative.
>Not only because of your strong accent.
>They were just too immature for you.
>At least, that was your version.

>You didn’t know that they were afraid of a big, new guy, who spoke with stupid grunting.
>Until the lesson started, you waited outside the room, sitting in the corridor and looking at the big, pure hall.
>It was filled with many different sport instruments you couldn’t recognize, perhaps because you played chess.
>You spotted Mr. Sombra in his black track suit finished placing wooden chests and vaulting horses in the middle of the hall, constructing some kind of, for a lack of a better word, polygon, and then moved back to his room.
>Once again, you looked around.
>Comparing this sport hall to Stalliongrad’s hall was like trying to describe a difference between freezing and melting.
>Everything here was smaller, cleaner and more likeable, not like the great but frosty walls and streets in your homeland.
>A bell finally rang, announcing your first PE class, and you hoped, the last one.
>On hall’s floor were painted with multiple lines to distinguish between the many sport disciplines.
>You had chosen the line dividing a main sport part from the corridor, from where people could watch the game, and after that you stood at it, pushing your chest in front of you.
>Mr. Sombra showed up on the opposite side of the hall, but your classmates didn’t join you in the line, instead of that they sat next to a wall, like there was nothing to do.
>’Maybe drill isn’t a subject here?’
>It hit you, but you didn’t move as Mr. Sombra came closer.
>His voice was low but quiet, “So, you’re the new guy.”
>It was a stupid question, since you’d met once in principal Celestia’s office, but you kept your composure and nodded.
>Showing disrespect to teachers was enough to be expelled in Stalliongrad.
>He grinned, and focused on your red tracksuit.
>It was a simple thing, and a bit washed out.
>Mr. Sombra didn’t comment on the big letters written exactly above your heart.

>They said, ‘In Stallions We Trust’, which was a motto of young party activists.
>And yes, you had used to be a young activist to be allowed to play in chess competitions.
>Nevertheless, that didn’t mean much anymore.
>”Boys, come here!” Mr. Sombra cried to your classmates. “We have a fresh meat here! Let’s see how tough he is.”
>The group of your contemporaries slowly got up, and came closer.
>To your great surprise, they were giggling and they didn’t form a line.
>”However, before the fun with your new friend, all of you have to run the path I prepared for you.”
>A rumbling ran through them.
>”And the warm up will lead our new player,” teacher’s hand landed on your arm.
>You and Mr. Sombra were the same height, but he pushed you easily and you started to run round the room, stretching your hands out, making circles.
>After the first turn you saw that other guys are doing exactly the same.
>Your warm-up took only 5 minutes as Mr. Sombra called you all and gave an instruction how to run through the ‘play ground’ he had prepared.
>It was, as you already noticed, a very primitive path of chests and vaulting horses, some to jump over them, some to avoid contact with.
>Finally, the students made a line, with you on its end.
>The exercise had begun, and skimpy, yellow guy with pink hairs gave a little show of his flexibility.
>An another guy, green and freckled, was faster but he did that without grace, and on every competition he would be disqualified for that lack of style.
>That wasn’t left without a comment of orange guy with blue hairs, who stood before you, “Damn. He runs like a thief does.”
>It triggered a little wave of people’s giggling, but you stayed calm.
>Thank gods, that your face didn’t move when he turned to you, like he checked to see if you laughed.
>His greenness was his parents problem, not yours, so you didn’t even bother to look at him.

>Next guy, a fat one, also got a little critique from this orange jerk, but you didn’t understand every word.
>A language barrier can be a blessing sometimes.
>Mr. Sombra was too far away to hear that, and he was too focused on looking at the runners, writing down their times.
>You weren’t listening anymore.
>When it was orange one’s turn, to your great dissatisfaction, he did everything almost flawless and got the best time.
>It was disgusting, as those who were insulted by him, cheered now for him.
>”New guy, your turn!”
>It was Mr. Sombra voice, and the path was clear, only you left.
>Ok, it was only a test, simple one, even you could do that without failure.
>’Your new classmates are watching you, don’t bring shame upon yourself,’ you thought as you moved.
>Left, right, pull, jump, land, roll, run, your body worked automatically.
>It reminded you of a mandatory drill camp for young sportsman.
>You were no sportsman, but Stalliongrad politics were very serious about chess players.
>And you were doing well, faster than everyone else, even this orange douche.
>Huh, it was really good to doing that, refreshing.
>As long as you hadn’t slipped two steps before the last hurdle, and instead of jumping your head met the hurdle, with a loud and blunt sound.
>You didn’t know what hurt more, the embarrassment, or your head.
>When you stood up, Mr. Sombra and half of the group were already next to you.
>”Easy kid, sit down, Sit down I said. You,” he looked at someone other, “Go find the nurse. Now.”
>Then his cold eyes met yours, and you sat down.
>Or rather fell, because you felt more than dizzy.
>Since the world was twirling, you closed your eyes and grabbed the floor like you could fell even deeper, a hard grip of Mr. Sombra was felt on your arms.
>A couple of voices spoke as you drifted away.
>”Look at this.”
>”Wow, how did he-”
>”Shut up, ki-“, Mr. Sombra’s voice changed, “What the…”

>The pain in your head was too weak to beat out your curiosity, so you open your eyes slightly, only to see a wooden hurdle, with a big hole in middle of two central planks.
>”Damn, son. Do you have some steel tile in your head? Where did you learn how to hit like that?”
“I was Stalliongrad champion once.”
>He frowned, others were uncertain.
>”At what?”
“At chess, sir.”