beasts are easily tamed with gatorade, sugar cubes, and scritches

Hondo Has the Opposite of a Crisis of Honor

3K word fic about a job Hondo Ohnaka ran for Kalee earlier in his career & his later wartime run-in with General Grievous.

Business was on a steady incline for Hondo Ohnaka. He had escaped slavery, poverty, the Hutts & now, as planned he would escape the attention of authority. What kind of authority? All kinds, of course. He was a self-made man. An entrepreneur & a leader. His gang, made mostly of fellow Weequay, were operating just as ordered; The Ohnaka Gang! Yes, things were going most swimmingly. For his crew to flourish they had to fly low & strike fast, as his mother would have said.

While they worked up their spice sources, doing good work in front of other backroom businessmen would help get their name out into the right circles of the galaxy. The open ended bid from the planet Kalee for smugglers was a tip top opportunity. The Galactic Republic had brought embargos down on Kalee hard & they had no choice but to turn to underhanded humanitarians (for lack of a better word). Many other gangs & syndicates showed hesitation: the distance, the environment, & the natives all had reputations for being dangerous. Nonsense!, Hondo had thought, We will do it & we will do it with good deals. The Ohnaka Gang could come out looking quite good from this & so very far from the core worlds. Out there was little in the way of pesky patrols that might get their names out into the wrong circles of the galaxy.

From the relative safety of one of his classic Weequay ships, Hondo fixed himself a drink. He flipped on the vidscreen to a call from Kalee & spread himself over his seat. Between his antique rig & their equally antiquated tech, the signal was a bit scrambled.

“Hold on, hold on,” he relayed whilst he threw a cork bottle stopper at his young pet Kowakian monkey-lizard, “Mukmuk, help me out.” Stirred into action, Mukmuk squawked a pompous little laugh but begrudgingly leapt from his perch. The monkey-lizard gave the comms unit a couple good smacks that echoed against the casing but seemed to do the trick. The screen righted itself but the color flickered on & off. At this Hondo opened his arms in a greeting gesture. “Trade Captain Blys’aan! My most beautiful 4th quadrant customer!” he exclaimed jovially, “Your run has departed as planned. You would like more good news, yes-?”

He was interrupted by his contact.

“Save ya wiles for yer core clients, Ohnaka,” Blys’aan said, the audio coming in uncorrupted. She had a thick but warm foreign accent &, although her voice was just as jubilant as Hondo’s, her words were often sharp. The both of them knew very well he did not have clients on the core worlds, not at this point in his sure to be illustrious career. “We givin ya what we agreed,” she said amenably. It was hard to describe how her voice matched her visage. Warm & welcoming, perhaps, but with a sharp wolfish wit about her. A fellow businessman.

“An don’t you go try an upsellin my boys at Hakaleel, eh?” Blys’aan had barked this as if chiding a child. As she spoke she seemed to be sorting or washing vegetables. Her motion would leave artifacts as the vidscreen dropped in & out of monochrome. This Kaleeshi woman had such a vibrant green scales that her form would blend into her backdrop of some lush foreign jungle. Only when she began peeling things did Hondo recognize the vegetable (a popular, cheap export). Consequently, he realized it seemed small in her clawed hands & that Kaleesh must be larger than the average humanoid species. This did not worry him, of course, there was no reason to make things difficult.

“You know we can’t be affording more,” she had added. Hondo knew this to be relatively true. Kalee had next to nothing in the way of recognized galactic currency but Hondo always preferred to trade in goods. Most of what the Kaleesh had been trading to the other smugglers were caches of liberated Yam’rii weapons & tech as well as Kaleeshi people willing to find work off planet. Hondo was sure the Kaleesh made for excellent crew & security but, not to be exclusive, he had his own theme going.

The Ohnaka gang got a few caches of alien weapons but they didn’t mind trading in some of Kalee’s native goods. These were composed largely of animal products: feathers, hides, cuts, live specimens, & bones. Lots & lots of bones. Raw or crafted into traditional pieces of masks or weaponry. It made sense that other less cultured crews referred to the Kaleesh as bone lizards. Hondo knew he could tremendously upsell these to any would-be trophy hunter or self-proclaimed mystic looking for exotic trinkets. Kalee was on the edge of the civilized galaxy & considered to be in wild space; it was legitimately exotic. He would barter these for basic supplies that Kalee seemed to need most of all until such time it ceased to be profitable. Therefore the smiling & nodding he was doing was not at all a lie. For now.

“Tell ya lads t’ be behavin’ themselves on planet,” Blys’aan followed. Her voice suddenly went up half an octave in a mischievous tone. Hondo bowed his head a bit before she finished, his money-making smile still plastered on his face. He liked Trade Captain Blys’aan. She was sassy. Full of spirit. It was too bad she had retired from her position & was only fielding the remaining contracts in her name to her trade company. “We don’ take kindly t’ swindlers out here in wild space.” Naturally, what was a good deal without threats thinly veiled or otherwise? That’s how you know it is good! His mother had told him as much.

Other people (Kaleesh, he assumed) had wandered in & out of the background of her call a couple times & he had taken no notice. That was until Blys’aan said, “Hate for my husband t’ haff ta make’n example outta you to de other pirates, no?” She said this with such glee, her lips pursed into a playful smile behind her bone-crested veil, that the realization of someone coming to pause behind her almost startled the smile from him. They were large. If Blys’aan had 12 standard centimeters on him, this figure would have been nearly 30 centimeters taller than him in his finest boots.

Hondo could only assume it was her new husband; the General, they called him. There was nothing coy & playful about this man. He was only on screen for a few seconds but had looked directly at the pirate, gesturing the universal signal for watching someone. The moment the General motioned to his eyes with two clawed fingers the color on the old monitor cut back in. For a split second Hondo might have been intimidated, barely registering the pointed jab his direction under the piercing predatory gaze of the General’s bright gold eyes glowering at him from behind the hollowed sockets of some animal’s bleached skull. By the time Hondo began to voice a reply to Blys’aan, the General was already out of the frame.

“Of course, of course!” Ohnaka began, very loudly & very reassuringly, “I am a man of substance, Captain! We wouldn’t dream of- of profiting off the suffering of your people. We can be excellentfriends!” He clapped his hands together at this for emphasis. Blys’aan giggled very boisterously. She must have seen her husband walking away & realized that he had been behind her. That must have been a solid relationship, threatening pirates together. Good for them. “There is no need to take the good General away from his duties,” Hondo insisted.

He had no idea what those duties were but he would prefer he keep to them. All Hondo knew about General Grievous was that he was some sort of globally celebrated veteran folk hero, & not the jaunty fun kind of folk hero. He’d heard from the other gangs considering Kalee’s jobs that the General protected his system so fiercely that even Zygerrian slavers would no longer come out this way. The details did not concern him. Hondo was there to do business!

The call carried on another few minutes as he wanted to be positive he postured assuringly enough to not get his crew killed by the natives. Blys’aan had ended the conversation with, “You be good t’ all yer space rat friends, now Ohnaka,” which he took to be endearing in a matronly way. How nice of her to wish them well. This was the last time he spoke with Import Trade Captain Blys’aan. He certainly had hoped in the moment that it was the last time he ever had to see the General.

From then on Hondo’s Kaleeshi contact was the High Trade Chief of the planet’s premier trade organization. They liked their titles, the Kaleesh. High Trade Chief Yaitee was an alright sort, very shrewd & severe. He was quite a fine businessman but desperate (the best kind of businessman) & much less fun. A couple members of his own crew would splinter off & join a poaching ring on the planet, never to be heard from again. You win some, you lose some. Then the Intergalactic Banking Clan showed up to the system. They had apparently worked out some sort of deal with the good General. Many smugglers did not like that kind of presence. Even with the IBC, the Kaleesh tried to maintain many of their under the table contracts as there wasn’t much to go around, apparently.

Over time the Ohnaka gang was getting right to where they wanted to be in the galaxy, cutting deals & running spice. Kalee became less profitable every quarter until they quietly stopped taking their jobs & moved on to greener pastures, so to speak. The last time Kalee was on his underworld radar was maybe 8 standard years after he’d taken on Blys’aan’s contract. Something about an urgent need for medical supplies. Ominous, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it even if he wanted too. Meds were very hard to smuggle & supplying them tended to land people in a lot of drama. Too much trouble to do as a regular gig. But life with spice was going quite nicely.

Hondo did not think back on dropped deals very often. Life must go on, after all. Years later the Ohnaka gang became quite good at conducting business on the fringes of the Clone Wars. Now, he was not one to take sides, but it is hard to sell to battle droids. Not impossible, but very hard. The money in the Separatists was their leader Count Dooku of Serrano. The man was loaded with money. But unfortunately their engagements fell through & Hondo hadn’t managed to make friends with the Count.

He had hoped perhaps the Count was an honorable old man that would take their falling out with grace & humility. He learned he was incorrect in this assumption when a fleet of battle droids showed up to his beautiful home & base of operations on Florrum. The Count himself did not show, busy doing Sith lord things, whatever that was. He sent his dog of war. Of course Hondo had heard the commander of Dooku’s droid army was wreaking havoc on the galaxy. Not the jaunty, fun kind of havoc. Supreme Commander of the Separatist Droid Army General Grievous. The Kaleesh liked their titles. However, up until that day, Hondo had the good fortune of never meeting him & thought maybe good for him, getting promoted to death machine, but never lingered on it.

He had not been worried. What are a few battle droids? He was not prepared for what marched into his lobby that day. It was big. Sharp. Cold. Most of all, furious. King of the clankers, indeed.

“Hondo,” it growled his name with disdain upon entering.

“General Grievous, I presume!” Hondo had greeted his guest as jovially as ever. “What a surprise! Have a seat. What, may I ask, is the honor?” The hope that maybe this could be an amicable meeting faded with each long, loud step the General took, until this overgrown battle droid stepped directly onto his desk to leer at him. When the General grabbed his very rare vintage coat lapels & lifted him off of his feet there was a split second of something, maybe horror or disgust or maybe even pity. Whatever it was had him briefly aghast to find those same blazing golden eyes he’d glimpsed so long ago. Did the General remember him? Or was he acting purely on the spiteful orders of his master?

“You can dispense with the pleasantries, pirate,” Grievous had rasped as he approached. “This planet is now under Separatist control,” he had asserted from somewhere on that uncanny plate armor that was now his face. It truly was the same man. Bone white was an interesting color choice for a killer war robot. Bold.

“Uh huh,” Hondo blinked a few times before remembering he was currently being threatened with military occupation by this fancy cyborg. “And what do you suppose that means?” he asked. His flash of empathy vanished completely as quickly as it came. He got the feeling this meeting was not going to get him any deals & in fact he may be swindled. The gall did not have time to be voiced as the General threw him to the ground with an unnecessary amount of force. Luckily he was still drunk enough not to be phased by impact.

“It means you have a new master, pirate scum” the General jeered & threw something to the ground in front of him. Hondo had another second of panic, thinking perhaps the good General was insane & opted to bomb them. But it was just a holocom. And there was the man of the hour over hologram to greet him.

“Hondo Ohnaka, we meet again,” Count Dooku began over coms with just as much disdain as his monstrous errand boy, “As I recall, last time we met face-to-face I was your prisoner.” Hondo muttered a syllable. He supposed the Jedi would never hold a grudge like this. “And you attempted to barter me off to the highest bidder.” Dooku’s face never once changed expression.

“But can you blame me?” Hondo interjected with a smile & a sheepish shrug. “I mean a Sith Lord-“ He used the same gravitas to pronounce it that everyone else did, although still not having any idea what exactly a Sith lord was. “What a handsome price you would-“

“Silence! You will pay the price for your treachery,” the Count barked.

“Well, I’m a reasonable man. Name the price. I’m sure we can reach a-“ Hondo was again cut off.

“There will be payment, but no deals…” No deals, he said? No deals? “Only demands. Your entire arsenal will be melted down. Everything you own is now property of the Separatist Alliance.”

“Now you go too far!” Hondo exclaimed indignantly. “Unacceptable! This is an outrage. This…” All of his little kingdom he had worked so hard for! Scrapped by this cad & his metal toys? He had stolen all of this fair & square. He would not stand for this! Now that he was making a scene, two commando droids clacked up & seized him by the arms with very unforgiving grip. “Hold on,” the pirate changed his tone as the droids led him away to his own brig. “We can make a deal! This is not good business!” he shouted over his shoulder.

That was a very long day for Hondo Ohnaka. Luckily the half-gallon Jedi he had captured earlier came back to rescue him with the troupe of pint sized Jedi in tow. How nice this was! Not only did they free him, but he got to witness the construction of a Jedi lightsaber. Very rare, very exclusive. In return he led them to his secret fleet of pirated ships in which they could escape. Very generous of him. They got separated in the dry canyons of Florrum but Hondo was convinced to courageously save the day in the Fetts’ souped up patrol ship, Slave 1. It was a very nice ship that the same half-gallon Jedi had grounded there some time before.

The ship had now come to the girl’s rescue in the midst of a lightsaber duel with the General himself. There were far too many laser swords flashing down there in the dust. Tano leapt dramatically into the open gangplank just out of reach of the droid general’s claws. Grievous stood & stared down this highly modified attack ship, yelling some threat. Hondo felt threatened, at least, as his initial impression concerning the General’s level of sanity seemed to be true. This completely justified opening fire on the cyborg with dual ship-graded laser cannons. The tiny Jedi were surprisingly very open to obliterating him. It would have been a nice end to the day if Hondo had stopped a galactic war right then & there but, after a bolt or two struck the ground around him the General dropped & took cover. He folded rather like a very expensive lawn chair as his Separatist tanks rolled up behind him. It was time to go.

This was exactly how he retold the tale to Jedi Kenobi. Except maybe the part about waylaying a craft full of children. The important thing is Hondo saved the day! His friends in the Republic were happy to free his base system from Separatist control or, in the very least, not arrest him for waylaying a craft full of children. Whilst Hondo & his battered gang went back to Florrum to start picking up the pieces, he may have had a quiet moment of intoxicated introspection (the best kind of introspection?).

He reflected on the concepts of good & evil, whether or not they exist, & if so, to what degree. Was his sense of honor different than his friend Kenobi’s? From the Count’s? From the General’s? Surely these were all honorable men. At least at some point in their lives. Hardship tends to polarize people. Hondo liked to be in the middle. Maybe a little to one side. Then he went to drunkenly order new ships from the holonet to defend his base from any other ideas the Count might get.

The very last time his mind wandered all the way back to the Kalee contract was when the news broke. That was a lot of news to take in, to be fair. The Clone Wars had ended with the death of General Grievous & a betrayal by the Jedi of the Republic? Where did everyone’s honor get them in the end? He fleetingly wondered how Import Trade Captain Blys’aan was doing.

The Ballad of the Boy & the Bear

The dense forest was dark and filled with despair, You couldn’t see five feet from your face with all the fog in the air. The dense forest was lifeless, not a creature did stir, Except for one beast, with sharp teeth and brown fur. Through the trees a shadow appears, could it be a monster so foul, With those vicious claws and a threatening growl? Perhaps it’s a muscular warrior here to fight with the brute, Or some colourful musician to play it to sleep with a flute? 

Why it’s a young boy, plain as can be. He shouldn’t be out here alone, should he? This is a dangerous place for young boys and girls, For there’s a hairy savage with eyes white as pearls, Who has made this dense forest it’s home, With sharp toothed jowls, bubbling with foam. Run home little boy, you mustn’t be here, You’ll be eaten alive, that much is clear.

But the boy carried on, on his dangerous quest, Did he not know of the forest’s pernicious guest? Had he wandered in here by chance, gotten lost on the way? Doesn’t he know he’s a grizzly brute’s prey? Onward he stomped until he reached a large stone tunnel going deep underground, The entrance to a cave, nestled into an earthy, tree-covered mound. The boy took a breath, tried his best to look brave And he trudged on forward into the deep, dark cave.

The boy produced a matchbox from his coat and a match he did light, And never had the boy seen such a magnificent sight For the cave was filled to the ceiling with gold, Bracelets, amulets, jewellery of old. There were coins stacked up high, sapphires and emeralds galore, There were priceless artefacts all over the floor. And Ancient paintings leant against the wall, Even a Rolex on the hat stand in the hall.

But then the boy turned his head, and next to a pile of stones, Was a pile of weaponry and a pile of bones. Fallen heroes who had battled with the ferocious animal in vain, If only they hadn’t come, and saved themselves the pain. A sudden stir from the depth of the cave gives the boy a jolt, But the boy didn’t run, dash of like a bolt, The boy stayed resolute, despite his fear, to fight with a beast was why he was here.

A shadow formed from the light of the torch of a monster so foul, With grizzly, vicious claws and a threatening growl. From the darkness of the cave the creature did stir, A beast with jagged, pointed teeth and matted brown fur. The savage stepped forward in his forest cave home, To reveal sharp toothed jowls, bubbling with foam And his bright white eyes shining like pearls, A beast with a hunger from small boys and girls.

It was a blooming great, battle-scarred bear, With cuts on his nose and legs raw from snares. The bear snarled “You’ve come for my gold, have you, ruffian? What makes you think you can handle me - Baldrick Bear the Barbarian?” The boy trembled and said “I’m not here to steal, please Mr Bear. I’m here to win some of your gold, fair and square!” The bear cackled “You think you’re going to win some of my gold?! Oh, little boy, I’m going to swallow you whole.”

“I’m sorry bear,” Said the boy “You’ll just have to wait. I challenge you to an arm wrestle to decide my fate. If I win our fight, I’d like you to give me some money, If you win, you can eat me whole, diced, or slathered in honey.” The bear grinned a sharp smile and growled, “Boy, tell me why I shouldn’t gobble you now.” “If you’re that hungry bear, by all means eat. I think you’re just scared that I’ll have you beat.”

The bear roared with laughter, and rolled on the cave floor. He giggled to himself until his belly was sore. “Fine” the bear gnashed showing his teeth, “I’ll play your game you impetuous thief.” The boy and the bear discussed the rules, Best two out of three for a handful of jewels. They both placed their elbows on the stump of a tree, The boy took a breath, and said “One, two, three!”

The bear’s grip was tight, his palms were rough, The bear’s fat fingers were covered with brown fluff. The weight of the bears arm alone was enough To drag the boy’s arm down to the stump with a puff. “I win” grinned the bear with hunger in his eyes “Not yet,” said the boy “I still have two more tries” “Why not leave now?” Said the bear, to the boy’s surprise “Do you not care for your life? Boy, be wise.”

“Best two out of three” the boy spoke with courage. The Bear roared “You can’t beat me boy, you’re rubbish!” The Boy looked the bear in the eyes and said “I will not admit defeat” Even though, in his head, he knew he had been beat. So, when the boy placed his elbow down, he quickly thought up a plan. The bear clasped the boy’s hand and the wrestle began. With both their elbows on the stump of a tree, The boy, with resolve, counted “One, Two, Three.”.

The boy couldn’t handle the strength of the hairy outsider, The bear had a reputation for being a tough fighter. So, the boy stared into the corner and his eyes grew wider, As he pointed with his left hand “Look there, it’s a spider!”. The bear rose to his feet, his elbow left the tree stump. He shrieked and yelped himself into an eight foot jump. The bear’s feet came back to the cave floor with a lump, “Kill the eight legged beast, give her a thump!”

“I win this round!” The boy said with glee, “You took off your elbow from the stump of this tree!” The bear roared with fury and thrashed all about The bear scratched up the walls and let out a shout “Oh calm down bear, please,  be well tempered and mild, Which of the two of us is supposed to be a child?” The bear snarled, then he sighed, then he grinned “One more round will decide who will win.”

“But first,” The bear spoke, most softly, “Can you tell me why you want these gems so awfully?” The Boy replied “My family are starving, we can’t afford food Last night we had to eat leaves and sticks stewed. Everyone knows you’re rich, Mr bear, so I just thought, If I could beat you at a game, we won’t have to eat naught.” “I see,” The bear said “that is truly a shame. Perhaps we shall get on, and finish this game.”

“If you don’t mind,” The boy said fearlessly “I’ve got a family to feed” “You have.” the bear quietly considered, “You have, indeed.” The bear, was impressed with the spunk of the lad, And he felt the boy’s story was rather quite sad. For the third and final time, the boy and the bear placed their elbows down, The boy was determined, but the hairy beast frowned, With their elbows both firmly on the stump of the tree The boy with vigour said “one, two, three.”

When the boy counted the third, final, three, The Bear took his elbow off from the stump of the tree And looked up to the boy with a smile so wee. The boy couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. “Looks like you’ve won.” smirked the brown bear, Placing his paws on his head, he lent back in his chair. The boy was ecstatic and he leapt into the air, This had been a frightfully stressful affair.

“I think I’ll give you this.” The bear said, throwing the boy a large precious stone. “And here’s a few smaller ones, get yourself some good food in your home.” “Thank you so much, Mr Bear.” Said the boy “You played very well.” “Not as well as you, boy” the bear smiled “that game was swell.” The boy shook the bear’s hand and the bear shook they boys’ Then the two heard an horrendously loud trumpet-y noise The bear said hurriedly “Leave here now boy, we part ways as friends, If you ever go hungry, come back here and we’ll wrestle again”

But the boy stood still and asked “What was that sound?” “Run from here boy” the bear said “and stick low to the ground. You must go now, boy,  if you want to survive. The hunters are coming, and they’ll take me dead or alive.” “What about you bear?” said the boy “What will you do?” The bear looked fiercely and said “I'll beat them black and blue. There’s never been a battle I haven’t won. Except for my battle with you, now get out of here, son.”

The boy launched through the exit and when he’d gotten outside, The cave was surrounded by an army so incredibly wide, That the boy no longer felt very brave, As the bear joined him outside the treasure filled cave.  “There’s the beast” Shouted a uniformed man “And he’s got the boy! Kill him where he stands.” “You won’t do such a thing!” The boy demanded, “Oh yes we will! Kill the beast.” the chief commanded.

The army drew all their swords and their spears The aged bear hadn’t faced an opponent like this in all his years. The infantry moved towards the bear with precision, The boy looked to the bear and made his decision. He ran between the armed troops and grizzling bear, His arms were thrown out wide, and he stood right there. Between the force of the men and his furry friend, He shouted aloud, “I will not see this bear’s life come to an end!”

The Chief spoke to the boy “So you’ve not been kidnapped by this fearsome beast?” “Kidnapped?” The boy replied “I came here so my family could feast. I beat this bear in an arm wrestle for a little bit of gold.” The chief called back in disbelief “That’s the biggest lie ever told!” “It’s true.” Gnashed the bear “It’s not me you should be pointing your swords at. This boy can beat a bear in single hand combat.” The Chief shouted “None of that matters bear, we’re killing you for your treasure. You have enough money to keep our larders stocked for ever and ever.”

“Are you all hungry?” the bear called to the crowd, “Yes!” The army said “Our cupboards are empty and our tummies are loud!” “This boy won from me an almighty jewel” Said the bear “He beat me in an arm wrestle, fair and square. The diamond he won is priceless, it could feed you all. You’ll all eat tonight, we need not brawl.” “I’ll share with you my prize,” Said the boy “If you leave this bear be. It turns out we’re friends, the bear and me.”

“Very well.” Said the Chief, “let’s get that jewel home so we can all eat. I’m craving a leg of lamb and, for desert, something sweet.” “Thank you.” Said the bear to the boy. “You’ve stopped the attack.”  “It’s quite alright, bear” The boy said “thank you for your kind act. But I'd better be going, my village needs feeding!” “That Diamond,” The bear said “won’t be all you’ll be needing, It won’t feed your entire village forever. So, just know you can come challenge me to an arm wrestle, whenever.”

Then the bear slid back into his cave in the mound, And the boy turned to the army and looked all around. “Goodbye bear!” The army cheered. “Thank you, hairy beast! Thanks to your kindness now we’ll all feast!” “You’ve done it lad!” The chief shouted “You are so brave!” “To be fair,” Said the boy “It was a close shave!” “Get on my horse, lad!” Hollered the chief “Hold that gem up proud, Tonight we eat as much as our tummies allow!”

This story is a part of 365 Stories for Sprogs, a big book filled with little stories for youngsters and parents alike! Each of these stories are written in a single day by author Harold Benjamin-Lewis. With a book like that, it could be the only storybook you’ll ever need. Well, for a year at least!

Til the End of the Night / Ch19: In which Patton saves the day, kind of

Previous / Masterpost / Next

Summary: it’s boss battle time lads

Warnings: mind control, blood, ??? i feel like i'm missing something tell me if i am

A/N: i think this story is actually going to be completed before the end of august omg

Taglist:  @thegirlthatdoesntofficiallyexist

AO3

~ ~ ~

Patton may have been in a hurry, but that didn’t mean he was about to climb over that stupid wall again. No, as it turned out, there was this wonderful invention called a gate, and while it may have been locked, that was an easy enough problem to solve. He positioned himself just far enough from the gate that he wouldn’t be seen and briefly let go of the necklace to shake everything around in Logan’s bag, making an amount of noise the guard couldn’t possibly just ignore. Sure enough, he’d barely made himself invisible again when she came out to look around. She was still trying to convince herself it was possible that an animal had made that sound, and therefore, she didn’t have to investigate any further, when Patton snuck back over to the secret door behind the bushes and re-entered the castle. He did sort of hope she wouldn’t get in any trouble because of him… even if she was working for an evil witch, she’d been literally created to do that and didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Good news: the throne room was on the first floor, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find. Even better news: it was extremely easy to find, because Patton could sense the sheer amount of magical energy concentrated in there. Not-so-good news: if there was that much magic in the air, it had to mean the ritual was progressing, and he’d better get there fast.

Patton was, as it happened, correct on this count. The ritual was in fact almost completed, with only two steps remaining. The final step was yet more recitation of magical words, which was a little anticlimactic, but the next-to-last step was where all the drama was at. Both participants- in this case, the Dragon Witch and Roman, of course- had to contribute a small amount of their own blood. See? Very dramatic, not to mention appropriate to the ritual’s purpose. Just to up the drama even further, the witch had elected to use Virgil’s confiscated dagger as the necessary sharp object for this step. Virgil did not seem to appreciate the neat irony of it all, and was struggling against the guards with all his strength in a futile attempt to break free and stop it. He’d been shouting, too, until the witch started getting a headache and silenced him with a wave. It took up nearly all the magic she had left over after pouring the majority of it into the ritual, but honestly, he was ruining her mirror-broadcast.

The witch made a small cut on her finger with the tip of the dagger and let one, two, three drops of blood fall onto the relevant runes. Logan put a hand on Virgil’s shoulder and squeezed until he calmed down- at this point, he was only wasting energy. The witch murmured a few words and began to pass the dagger to Roman, taking a breath to command him to do as she had just done… 

And nearly dropped it when the doors flew open with a resounding crash, flooding the throne room with light. “Stop!”

It was Patton, of course, standing in the doorway with his arms spread in the universal gesture of either “don’t go any further” or “hug me.” The expression on his face suggested that, sensibly, he meant the former. The two guards who had been stationed at the doors lay unconscious on the floor behind him, along with an empty glass bottle. Virgil’s head shot up with a muted gasp. On the positive side, they actually had a chance again, but he really didn’t feel good about the amount of danger Patton was in right now.

The Dragon Witch stood from her throne, radiating fury. “How dare you interrupt me, I’ll destroy you!” Patton was already moving, trying to run to his friends, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to get away from her. 

He did, however, manage to throw another of the potions in their direction before she took the last of her magic away from silencing Virgil and used it to hold him in place instead. Logan took a quick gasp of air and then held his breath, indicating to Virgil to do the same. They remained standing while the guards around them crumpled to the floor. The heroes shook out of their steadily loosening grip, and then pulled away to a safe distance to catch their breath. 

“Don’t let this one get away,” the witch shouted to Roman, making short work of confiscating the remaining bottles in Patton’s cloak pockets and tossing them out into the hallway. As soon as Roman had taken hold of Patton, she released the magic restraining him and turned to deal with the other two. She couldn’t help but laugh at the murderous look Virgil gave her when she froze Logan before he’d fully recovered from breathing a bit of his own potion.

“Let them go, or else,” he growled, and she scoffed.

“Come on now, Sorcerer, do you really think you can do anything to me like this? Without your magic, you can’t possibly-”

Her words were cut off as Virgil demonstrated where she was wrong by full-on tackling her to the floor, because as far as he was concerned, there were no rules against throwing hands just because magic happened to be involved in the situation. It was enough to break her concentration so that Logan could move again, and he immediately ran over to Patton.

“I apologize for being unable to free you, but I may be able to help if I have my supplies back,” he whispered- probably unnecessary, since Roman himself was hardly going to react and the witch was otherwise occupied, but just to be safe.

Patton nodded in understanding as Logan began fumbling with the bag. “It’s okay, I’m not- he’s not hurting me or anything.” Fortunately, the length of the shoulder strap was adjustable in such a way that it could be taken apart, and he would be able to retrieve it without Roman’s hold on Patton’s arms getting in the way.

As it turned out, that didn’t matter, because a second later Roman was given a new command along the lines of “Get this madman away from me!” and released him regardless.

Roman seized the back of Virgil’s robes and practically threw him away from the witch, just as he’d wrested his dagger back from her and was about to try using it. Patton rushed over to keep him from falling, what with not being able to use his arms for balance properly, and Logan pulled them both back to a slightly safer distance and pulled out his lockpicks. There would hopefully be enough time to get Virgil’s hands and magic free while the witch got back to her feet.

Virgil shifted impatiently as he worked, which didn’t actually help to speed up the process in the slightest. “Hurry up!”

“I am doing the best I can under the circumstances,” Logan responded testily. “Perhaps if you would stop moving-”

“Guys!” Patton interrupted them with an urgent tug on their sleeves. “I think you’re going to have time, at least… look at what she’s doing.”

They looked. Well, Virgil did, anyway; Logan was still a bit busy and only glanced from the corner of his eye. The Dragon Witch had pulled Roman with her to the opposite side of the room and was making use of what magic she had left, placing a protective barrier around where the ritual was set up. Logan, despite only seeing it for a second, groaned internally for about five- he’d been planning to go after that as soon as they had regrouped. On the other hand, it also meant she wouldn’t be able to finish the ritual without removing that shield, so it wasn’t the end of the world… he just needed to recalculate.

It wasn’t until the handcuffs clicked open and Logan looked up again that he realized what else she’d done. There was not only a shield around the ritual, but one around the entire room: no one would be coming in to interrupt them, and no one was getting out until this was settled. There went the part of his new plan that involved shoving Patton out into the hallway to stay invisible and safe while they fought the witch.

“Heroes!” The Dragon Witch finished sealing the throne room off from the rest of the castle and called across the room to them with perfect timing, just as Virgil shook the handcuffs to the floor with a look of scorn. “Turn and face me, unless you wish to surrender!”

“We’re not surrendering to you!” Patton shouted back to her, accompanied by his fiercest look. It didn’t come across as very fierce, sort of like a kitten trying to be a lion, but he did try. “Give us Roman back!”

“Hmm… I don’t think so.” Rather than hand him over, she turned to him and smirked. “My dear Prince Roman, why don’t you… oh, I don’t know, throw them across the room or something.”

Roman lifted a hand, otherwise remaining stiff and expressionless. A second later, the room around them changed shape, decorative pillars appearing right where they were standing. The world did not appreciate having two things occupy the same space. Virgil managed to yank Patton and himself out of the way before anything could solidify, but Logan, preoccupied with other thoughts, wasn’t quick enough. The newly formed pillar rejected him, and he would have been flung into the hallway if not for the barrier over the door. The others rushed to make sure he was okay- fine, he said, although more than a little sore. His body didn’t appreciate briefly having its matter combined with a chunk of stone.

The witch was very pleased with herself. “Can’t you see it’s hopeless? Even if I don’t have the power yet, the prince here bends the very fabric of reality to his will. You can’t win, little heroes.”

Logan coughed, allowing Patton to move in and heal him. “She has no magic left,” he realized out loud. “She used it all on these barriers. That’s why she’s relying on him.”

“Sure, but she still has Roman,” Virgil hissed without turning around. He was hoping that if he didn’t break eye contact, the witch wouldn’t do anything to them for long enough to get Logan back on his feet. “We’re still dead.”

“Not necessarily. It seems as though she can only use his power by giving him spoken commands. Not only does this give us a second’s warning of whatever she does, it also means that if we can only cut him off so that he can’t hear her, she won’t be able to command him anymore. I believe that if-”

The Dragon Witch cleared her throat pointedly. She did not appreciate being ignored by people who were supposed to be losing a fight against her. “Hello? Enough chitchat, are you going to be sensible and give up or am I going to get to destroy you?”

Patton finished healing and turned around to face her again. Logan noted the sweat on his brow, the careful way he held himself, and why did he keep pulling the edges of his cloak around himself like he was cold? It could have simply been overexertion of his magic, what with all the invisibility, but… Logan decided he’d better keep an eye on him, just in case there was something else going on. For now, he gave him a hand as the three stood up.

Virgil had been glaring at her this entire time, and he wasn’t going to stop now. “If we’re gonna fight, let’s fight already,” he shouted- it came across rather confidently, but in reality he was just sick of the suspense.

The witch smiled. “Oh, I was hoping you’d say that.” She grabbed Roman’s arm and pulled him forward, placing him between herself and the heroes. “I don’t care how you do it, Prince Roman- look at that, you get to use your imagination- but by any means necessary, I want those three defeated.”

A familiar sword materialized in his hand, and he took on a fighting stance. Virgil mirrored him with his dagger, standing in front of the other two, while Logan reached for something in his bag and Patton wished he could do something other than just look worried.

“Well, what are you standing there waiting for? Get on with it! Fight!”

AU where Robert is a demon sent to corrupt one Aaron Dingle

This is what came out of my brain, my apologies in advance.

*************

Demons aren’t what you think they are, neither are angels. They’re all one and the same, cloaked in light or shadows depending on their moods. God and the Devil? That’s a whole other story. No one is fighting for your soul. No otherworldly being is trying to sweet talk you to eternal damnation or lift you to the heavens above. That’s not how it works.

Free will, the first man asked for it and it was bestowed. All humans to this day have it. There is no destiny, no path laid out for you to walk. Just endless choices and pitfalls, traps and games, light and dark. All of it made by man.

No, demons like Robert do not try to lead you astray, they just whisper a suggestion. It’s entirely on you if you decide to take them up on it.

I mean if you want you could just take it.

Are you sure you want to do this?

Please, you know you’re prettier than her.

What could it hurt?

It’s only a few dollars, doesn’t he need it more than you?

Is this really what you want?

Not everything Robert whispers is bad, just like not all angels have good intentions. They just have a job to do, help you exercise your free will. Watch you live the life entirely of your making, wherever that may be. Robert gave up trying to understand what game his bosses were playing a couple hundred years ago. Now he just tried to enjoy the ride.

Unfortunately, his newest assignment, one Lachlan White, was leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Robert wasn’t needed, it didn’t matter what thoughts he sent the lad’s way it did no good. Robert saw this rarely, but they existed, humans with no conscious of any kind, no place in their heart for empathy or compassion. Robert spent most of his time wandering the weird little village Lachlan lived in and searched out the Dingles.

The Dingles were well known to angels and demons alike. They were an oddity in that they were one of the few bloodlines that couldn’t hear ethereal beings. Rumour around the metaphysical water cooler was that they were descendants of demons themselves, hundreds of years before when angels mated with humans, demons with angels. It was a bit of a free for all really. Robert wasn’t sure how the bosses had let that go on for so long but they’d had a pretty good time for a few centuries.

Robert was still known to dip his toe every now and then in the human well of desire that surrounded him but his kind could no longer create life. That had been ended. Humans like the Dingles were the reason why. They could not hear the suggestion, they were deaf to the whispers and yet still walked the line between good and evil.

Cain Dingle fascinated Robert the most. He would watch the man work on cars, able to read his thoughts. He was a mystery. He would fight and maim, make others bleed but only for noble causes, for his family. He would scheme and influence but never be unkind. Cain Dingle did not relish power but he wielded it.

Also, Robert was mesmerized by mechanics. Humans never ceased to surprise him with their ability to create, destroy and then rebuild, over and over again.

Fascinating species really.

Robert had stopped bothering to even report on Lachlan anymore so until he had a new assignment he was bored. Following the surly Cain Dingle around became less of a hobby and more of a way to break up the monotony of eternity. Robert was sitting on the roof of a car, legs crossed as he watched Cain drink a coffee and debated maybe leaving him for the day, checking in with Lachlan. Pointless still but his existence for the time being.

Then a bang at the door had him turning, expecting a customer or another Dingle. Probably that Sam, one of the purest of beings Robert had ever experienced, a true delight. Alas no, this one was new, scruffy beard and piercing eyes, snug black jumper over a broad chest.

Well, hello there human.

Immediately he tried to probe the mind of the handsome young man, but he came up blank. Instead, he was hit with the blast of Cain’s emotions, fierce love and happiness washed over Robert like a tidal wave. This one was special to Cain, that much was clear.

He watched the men embrace, backs smacked and smiles wide. Robert was struck dumb as he tried once again to sneak a peek into the gorgeous being, this Aaron. He met with a wall, he could see it clear as day, he may as well have been surrounded by barbed wire.

A Dingle and an Empath, this was one for the record books.

Humans had some of their knowledge of empathy correct. Those struck with the gift could feel and feed off the emotions of others. It was a tricky sort of power and none of them ever knew how to wield it correctly. They let it drain them instead of using the emotion to project into the cosmos, as was the intention. They were supposed to be the lights of the world but unfortunately tended to be wells of darkness. Therefore every empath built up some sort of defense mechanism, Robert didn’t know the entire workings of it but humans had survival skills unlike any other. They learned young to protect themselves, even if it was to their own detriment.

If this was true then Aaron Dingle let no one in and no ethereal being could reach him. The young man had been born into the loneliest of existences.

After that first sighting, Robert became a little obsessed, following close beside Aaron a need more than a want. The attractive man turned out to be a constant surprise. Aaron permanently scowled but smiled genuinely around animals and children, the only pure innocence of the world. There was a particular lad named Leo that made Aaron glow like the sun when he sat on the floor to play.

Leo, it seemed, was another special being, as there was always an angel waiting close by. The one today was soft eyed, as enamoured with the child as Aaron seemed to be. She smiled at Robert as their charges piled blocks into a leaning tower but her eyes flickered to Aaron.  As Leo laughed, her lips grew tight.

Before they left the angel whispered softly into Aaron’s ear, shrugging as he walked away and took no notice. It was like she just couldn’t help herself. Robert hadn’t heard the words but he felt the angel’s sorrow and he worried.

He watched Aaron walk alone, always alone, through the village. Watched him work on cars in the Dingle garage, watched him laugh and joke with others but the light never reached those eyes. He watched him drink a pint in the corner of the pub, the right ball of his fist the only small sign that this man was in distress.

The more fascinated he became the more he tried to find out what he could about Aaron’s past. There was a pain that surrounded the man, but he kept it unto himself. Robert wondered if Aaron was aware of his power to influence others, that he could project upon them his own emotions.

Robert’s concern grew so he made some inquiries and eventually found Ross, a demon of the vilest kind. Of course, they existed, there just weren’t that many. Demons like Ross were drawn to the worst sorts, those that took pleasure from the wrath they brought onto other humans.

“Someone has to do it you know.”

Ross was right, someone had to take the dirtiest of jobs. Robert was eternally grateful it didn’t have to be him.

They sat on a cliff edge, ink black around them as Ross showed Robert the things he had seen. It made Robert feel heavy and bleak, made him want to suggest the man in the visions walk in front of a speeding bus. This was nothing compared to the father’s of biblical times, this was sickness and evil. Pure evil.

“I would have comforted the boy if I could have, but as you know he cannot hear us. There was no stopping the father, I did try. Makes you question our purpose doesn’t it?”

Because there was no stopping anyone, all they could do was whisper to your soul, try to remind you of your humanity. Some like Lachlan, like Aaron’s father, just didn’t have anything to sway.

Robert avoided Aaron for a while after that. Demon or not there was only so much pain one could take. He followed Lachlan as he stomped around his mansion and lied to his mother about where he’d been and what he’d been up to. Robert whispered in Lachlan’s ear until the boy finally slept, but he had no belief it did any type of good, or bad. He debated going to a demon spot, mixing with his own kind but the desire to check on Aaron was too much. Eventually, he gave in.

He found the young man in the steamy bathroom of the village pub, a towel wrapped around his waist, defined chest dripping with water and on full display. Robert stood behind him as Aaron wiped the condensation from the mirror and stared hard at his own reflection.

He was beautiful, pale skin tinged pink, hair damp and slightly curled against his forehead. Robert wished he could make himself solid, run his fingers over the scruff on his chin, lay a comforting hand on Aaron’s defined back. More than anything he wished he could whisper words of encouragement into Aaron’s ear.

It will be all right.

You are strong and worthy.

It’s not your fault.

But it was pointless so he held his tongue.

He watched Aaron as the tears started to form in his eyes, as his breathing got rapid and he searched frantically in the cabinet drawers. Robert was confused at first until he saw the razor blade, sharp and bright, and felt the dread overtake him. Surely not, Aaron would never…

At the first press of the blade to Aaron’s skin Robert didn’t think out his actions, just reacted to the sight of red that bloomed. He knew better than to command, he knew better than to do more than suggest. There were rules after all. But this was Aaron, beautiful haunted Aaron.

NO!

Aaron dropped the blade, head whipping up to look around the small space, panic in his eyes. He pressed the towel to the small cut, shaking his head and letting the tears flow freely.

Robert was stunned. Had Aaron Dingle heard him? It was impossible and yet…

He followed Aaron to the floor, their backs pressed to the wall. Aaron was shaking and Robert could feel the empath’s pain flow through the room. He tried again, hoped he was right.

You are not alone.

You are loved.

It is NOT your fault.

Eventually, Aaron’s breathing leveled out and a calm came over the small space. When Aaron finally spoke aloud to himself (or so he thought) Robert became aware of his purpose for the first time since the Fall of Man, and he was glad for it.

“It is not my fault.”

Sorcha

Prologue

Read the above link for the full backstory.

Chapter 1

In all of James Fraser's nineteen years he could recall exactly how many days of sunshine he had seen.

How many times his mother's nose was reddened and freckled from it's bite. How they escaped the heat in pools of chilly water that turned them head to toe blue and wrinkled like newborns.

On the days, ones particular in brightly warmth, Jamie would wonder if his father were happy.

Did he too like to watch the flicker of colors shine along the scales of trout as they made their way downstream?

Did he find great delight in his silver coated cheetie Adso, in serious mortal combat with his tail?

Or had his gaze fallen on his mother, hair loose from it's pins in soft waves of crimson gold as she brushed away, lost in dreamy contentment?

On cloudy days dense with fog that shrouded all that lay outside his doorstep or ones filled with thunder so resounding Jamie could feel his teeth rattle, he was sure his father was upset with him.

Was it when he spilled their meager amount of milk on the floors?

When he'd forgotten to latch the door to the chicken coop allowing for their only two birds to flee?

Or maybe it was the many times Jamie used his fists, knees, elbows and all he had on the local boys, whose tongues of bitter spittle were too much to ignore.

What frustrated Jamie was that his mother had no answers when questioned. Only blind faith in her love and the world touched by him. Yet, he could see the waver in her spirit every year that passed, as the lines around her eyes grew slowly deeper with somber defeat until that day in the fields revitalized her anew with blessings of her unwavering devotion.

It only infuriated Jamie more.

Why would his father deny his presence in their lives.

Why wait so long to make Jamie's gift known, a gift where life sprouted from his hands that he still found startling to fathom.

Even now, he could see the shape of it hidden amongst the clouds as a hazy, distant obstruction, it's ray's stubbornly turned away from him in abandonment

That's why Jamie had settled on a plan of action put into motion with a letter.

______

Presently

Jamie was walking from the cowshed, a gleam of sweat covered his face and trickled down his neck that he swiped with the cuff of his sleeve. He carried a bucket of fresh warm milk in his hands, the snowy liquid swished along the rim teasing poor Adso, who followed in hungry anticipation, careful of his masters heavy tread.

Three days of blazing sun had passed now.

The flowers bloomed full and bright, their fragrance filling the air of sweetly spring, birdsong was no longer a whisper on the wind but a joyful chorus and the branches of the trees stretched out in a canopy to bathe in sunlight. The life around Jamie seemed to sing in a glowing hum of praise at such a rarity, and he too couldn't help but smile, despite himself.

Jamie's vision caught a glint of light down the road and shielded his eyes to ascertain the source.

"Jamie!" The glint hollered.

"Goistidh!" Jamie called back in happy recognition, and deposited the bucket of milk on the fencepost to run to his godfather.

The man was a fellow kinsman, partial anyway. When Ellen's parents forced her from home when the signs of pregnancy became apparent. She was left destitute and wandered with not but her wits, but wits can only get you so far when you have a bairn growing to the size of a great gourd and making himself known in the most painful of ways.

Murtaugh was a vagabond Ellen had met at an inn she had found work in. She took an instant liking to the mans straight forward demeanor and his lack of judgment. For him, it was love. No one in a hundred miles could be so blind to the man's undying affections the moment he laid eyes on her, and she nearly socked him for gawking at first meeting.

A friendship formed of trust and true honesty of what laid in her womb, Murtaugh had given Ellen the sum that lined his pockets, all that an expectant mother could need, though it was like pulling teeth from a she-wolf to get her to accept. And unintentionally a name. Fraser.

Ellen, touched by his heart of sincerity and generosity, made the decision herself to drop the Mackenzie name that had shunned her and found the fitting of Fraser to her liking.

Now firmly family, Murtaugh would come now and then bearing 'treasures' for the two.

Jamie's favorites had been animals with funny names and faces, intricately carved out of cherry or oak wood. When older, a dirk of Jamie's very own, much to his delight. That soon failed in comparison to the fierce broadsword, two inches of broad double edged steel, with the hilt beautifully carved with interlaced knots on the grip, given at twelve years. Jamie saw it's significance and never drew it in foolishness of play or boasting. It was kept in it's scabbard, only drawn in lessons to wield the blade.

His mother received books, fat and thin of every and all things. Mysterious intrigue that thrilled, romance that left longing and drawn out sighs, tales of heroes from long ago (more a treat for Jamie), practically myths, and philosophy that could screw the mind to a bruising knot. And once, a sterling plated hair brush simply adorned of thistles that she would keep in a fine cloth sleeve in the back of her drawers.

Their relationship, was one that never crossed the barriers of kinship but Jamie couldn't help his observations and his minds own inventions of the two.

"I dinna ken why ye go on as ye do with Murtaugh." Jamie had asked his mother while she was in a quiet mood of knitting. "Ye pay him more mind then any other suitor ye've had and there have been a few."

"I wouldna mind him much, but he's no' who I was meant for and it would be dishonest to give him my hand when I'm bound to another's, even one so far away." She smiled in quiet reply as she twisted the yarn into a loop.

"Yer not marritMam, not to him," Jamie spat, "Who ken's how many lasses he's found bonny -"

"Sàmhach." The smile vanished with a voice that was a low, sharp whisper and silenced Jamie mid sentence. She gripped the knitting needles tightly in her hands, that trembled slightly in response. "Ye may be tall as any man fer yer age but yer never too old for a strapping. Get ye to bed or get me the belt."

Jamie's mother had never raised a hand to him in all his years and the subject of marriage was never brought up again.

"Jamie lad! Och!" Murtaugh shook his head as Jamie came nearer, "I should be calling ye James now. Ye tower over me like yon oak tree." He took a moment to inspect the once wee sapling before embracing him with a hard slap on the back.

"Aye, take after Mam in that respect." Jamie said proudly.

"That ye do, the good parts of ye fer sure." Murtaugh's eyes softened long enough for Jamie to notice and went pink from cheek to ears and quickly looked upward for distraction and found it in the weather.

"It's been shining fearsome of late." Murtaugh grunted with a nod towards the sky.

"Aye, and I promise I willna question it." Jamie grinned at memories at incessant questions that would drive the man to deep gulps of liquor that caught in his beard.

"I prefer a brisk air from time to time, none of this damn jibber jabber of squawkers the light brings, but aye, tis nice." He relented with a shrug that allowed for the strap of his weatherd rucksack to slide down his arm, hastily tied closed and contents now left in partial view.

Jamie tilted his head to take a wee keek but hopes were quickly dashed by a pair of dirtied hands that moved the bag away from sight.

"Maybe ye are still a lad then."

"Curiosity never wanes, especially on a farm." Jamie laughed.

"Aye, but ye'll get yer hands strewn 'bout the fields if ye keep on as ye do. What I have willna spoil with time and I must be seein' yer mam."

"Ye should wash or she'll hand ye a tawsing and she's in a right place to do it."

"What ye mean?"

"She has a blade at the ready just now," Murtaugh raised his brows,his body stiff, "She shot a red stag this morning and is in a skinning mood." Jamie explained with a chuckle and his godfather's frame relaxed.

"Ellen was always good with a bow and a fine eye about her," he smiled fondly and patted his flat stomach. "Even so I'll take my chances, I'm right near starved."

They headed down to the cottage, followed by a miserably drenched Adso, another battle lost for the poor feline.

______

During supper, where Murtaugh donned a large swell of a bump on his noggin, he noticed the plentiful mass of food that graced the table before him and queried to the sudden abundance. The answer left him with a dead eye blink of disbelief.

A demonstration with a rose plucked from a small blue vase left him with a gaping jaw for a swarm of flies to dwell in.

"I'm still the same Jamie I always was, just..more of me to know." Jamie finished lamely, trying to reassure his godfather and looked to his mother, almost in question, who nodded in confirmation.

"Aye, same. Same is what ye call the ability to give life? That's the gift that the God above all gives women. What ye have I- I dinna ken." He was dumbfounded for sure and stared in wide eyed awe at Jamie as if he was committing the act again just now.

"I think we may have given poor Murtaugh an apoplexy." Ellen teased.

"Shall we give his plate to Adso, Mam?" Jamie added with a deliberate straight face.

Adso, who had been trying to charm his humans by  rubbing affectionately against their calves, meowed in happy enthusiasm at such a lovely idea.

He gripped his plate with a loud grunt. The dark, whiskers on Murtaughs face twitched while his nostrils flared wide like a bull, sending mother and son into hearty laughter.

"Cackle like the hens ye are ye wee ninnies, I willna show ye what's hidin' away fer ye," Murtaugh grumbled as he stuffed his gob.

It was a hollow threat.

____

The 'treasures', Murtaugh informed them, were simple this time around, for work as a traveling hired hand had been slim. But something is something, at least he hoped.

For Jamie, a wool tartan of Fraser colors in tones of the earth. Jamie traced the lines with his finger tips, a proud fabric he draped over his broad shoulders smelling mildly of lanolin.

"Verra handsome, mo chridhe." Ellen remarked, as she smoothed the fabric of the young man before her, a faint blush lighting his cheeks.

For the matron of the family Fraser, a pair of  bracelets made from the tusks of a boar, lovingly polished to an ivory glow with the tips capped in silver and etched with flowers.

"I ken the'r not finery," Murtaugh mumbled, scratching his beard to near baldness,"not jeweled or gold, just horns of tuskers."

Ellen ignored him and held the bracelets up, the lowering sun catching the ends as if it were truly studded with such splendors. Her eyes, so deeply rich in blue with shades of violet heather at the edges, held a softness, so clearly moved.

"Ye made these, mo sheann duine?"

My old man.

That was as close to a true heart endearment Jamie had ever heard. For the old man himself too.

"Aye." A man of few words when moved and one who couldn't sit in his own ineptitude to voice more.

Murtaugh cleared his throat,"Maybe we could spar a bit, Jamie, see what I can teach ye." Without waiting for an answer he quickly got to his feet and made for the door.

Ellen, seemingly unfazed, looked to Jamie, pulling his drapery away from him and gave her son a push to follow.

"Knock the manners back into your godfather till his ears ring, will ye, mo mhac?"

"Whatever ye say, Mam."

_______

Outside

After a heated sparring session that left young and old more then a bit breathless, the two men dropped like flies to the cool short grass and had themselves a wee nip of whisky to soothe muscles and joints.

"I dinna remember ye being so skilled with the blade on last meeting." Murtaugh huffed, pulling the collar of his shirt to waff in air.

"I've been taught by the local schoolmaster Murray." Jamie said casually, knowing the response he'd receive right close to his ears.

"Schoolmaster?!" Murtaugh exclaimed as predicted.

"He wasn't one in his youth and since his son marrit a wee thing he took an interest in me, maybe a bit of pity too." Jamie took a heavy swig of the brown liquid, sure to grow him a fleece if he kept on.

"That Murray ken't his sword." Murtaugh rubbed the muscles in his arm, tense from a blocked over head strike." Damn, sure."

Silence overtook them as they sat side by side watching the sun dip low behind the crest of the mountain range, washing them in a light of dying embers of ruby bronze and the air became crisp once more.

Now was as good as time as any. Jamie knew when he saw the man that it was providence, his lucky star of hope throwing him yet another bone of what he had been denied. That the letter received a few weeks ago was now a reality for the answers of his youth to be fullfilled.

"I plan on leaving, Murtaugh," Jamie spoke, his voice gruff from the sting of whisky," I want to see a bit of the world before I'm auld and greyed," not a total lie," and I want ye to look after mam for me."

"Does yer mother know?" Jamie expected a string of curses and questions, a whack definitely, but his godfathers voice was oddly soft in Scots to Jamie's ears. A man striving for patience and understanding.

"I think she may know already." Jamie thumbed the mouth of the whiskey bottle, as a tremble of nerves pulsed in his belly, "She's seen other lads leave their home, far younger than I and lately she's been sweeter than buttermilk to me." She was always sweet with him. "I've waited three seasons of crops to put more then enough coins to line her pocket…more then enough for what I need to do."

"Three?" The tone of the older man was lightly accusatory. "This plan of yers has been grinding in yer mind, hasn't it?" He swiped the bottle and gulped down the last of the amber drops.

Jamie was hesitant to reveal the correspondence he had been keeping, of the last letters contents, worried that the danger of such an endeavor would be met with him being hog tied. He scratched his wrist at the thought.

"Dinna fash, I willna be like my father. I plan on coming back home, as quickly as the wind can carry me, I assure ye."

Murtagh tapped his palm against his knee in contemplation with his head hanging low but eyes on the last of the horizons light, longer then Jamie would have imagined.

"I'll care for Ellen's well being while ye have yer walkabout," he answered softly,and I wish ye a swift and safe journey, Jamie. Just use yer heid." The expected slap finally made contact.

"Thank ye, Goistidh." Jamie stood, wiping his breeks of grass when a thought crossed his mind that curled his lips to a beaming grin," And when I come back I hope to see you and Mam hand in hand." Jamie scampered off like a child who had bested his elder, leaving the man reddened to an alarming degree with a string of mumbled curses under his breath.

It was only when Murtaugh raised himself to follow Jamie's path did he notice…

The grass was knee high now where Jamie had stepped.

Flowers that had never graced the fields bloomed in his wake.

And the man the cause of such a sight, his back to him now heading to homes embrace, unaware of how he was now lit within. A ray gently, gently aflame.

***The scene with the tusks I pulled straight from the book

Thank you to everyone for the response to this and my oneshot!! Writing is not natural for me so the support was wonderful.

Also my wifi is going to be on the fritz so the next update might be awhile.

So i had an Idea but I can't think of anything past the concept (+ yr writing for this kinda thing is like 200% better than mine) but what if the Lads founded the Fake AH crew and recruited the gents?

Oohthat’s fun – i’ve seen versions where they were two little gangswho combined into the FAHC but the idea of the actual Fake’s startingas the Lads is definitely interesting.Therewere a lot of names tossed around at the start; it’s the part offorming a crew no one really talks about, the vaguely embarrassingperiod of building an image, choosing a name, defining yourselves.Like band names there is a lot of bad before the good. Like bandnames ‘good’ is wildly subjective, particularly when determined by apack of teenage boys. The humour behind ‘Fake Crew’ isn’tparticularly high brow and not a single soul outside the originalfour Lads, including and especially their future members, have anyidea at all what the AH could possibly stand for. Most think itsmysterious, assume something clever or at least meaningful, but theshifty looks the boys shoot each other when pressed tell a differentstory.Still,they’ve made something of a name for themselves in Los Santos – theFAHC, who pull off unbelievable stunts, who lack any semblance ofrespect, dangerous in the way of feral animals, of wildfire. In thefoolhardy way of children, who care far more about making sure youhurt than they do about protecting themselves. It’s enough to keepother gangs wary, to buy themselves a little breathing room withreckless gestures and bared teeth, but not exactly the glory they arelooking for. Not quite the trembling respect they’ve dreamed of.Forthat, it seems, they’re going to have to think bigger, smarter. Beclever not just in the tricks they play and jobs they pull but in theway they twist their image, they way they recruit, build their crew.Just being more won’t do it, added thugs for the sake of numbers; itwould take an astonishing amount to really match the size of some oftheir rivals and the Lads don’t exactly play nice with strangers. No,they have to be strategic, have to select a few choice additions whocan help them rise, and after much discussion they settle on threenames they’d like to pull in; Ramsey, Patillo and the Vagabond. Loftygoals to be sure, but then, delusions of grandeur or not, the Fake’shave always considered themselves to be rather magnificent.Everyonewho’s anyone knows about the Vagabond; none of them will admit it(Ray will admit it, Ray doesn’t give a fuck) but the Lads all havehearts in their eyes every time the Vagabond slinks around, allfollow every rumour, gossip over every job. Something between heroworship and healthy respect, without any of the fear normalself-respecting individuals feel, is the perfect cocktail to have thefour of them plotting outlandish ways to pull in the mercenary.Patillo has an incredibly solid reputation for someone with no realties, invariably thought to be smart, dependable, one of the bestdrivers in the country and definitely not a woman to be trifled with.That she and Ramsey seem to have some kind of relationship, workedtogether back in the day and while going their separate ways don’tappear to have had any kind of blow up, will hopefully work in theLads favour. Last, but certainly not least, there’s Geoff Ramsey; therouge Rooster who’s been traversing the country, constantly on themove and pulling all kinds of jobs from hilariously wacky to darklyperverse. Maybe the Lads are looking a bit outside their paid gradebut with Ramsey reportedly looking to build his own crew they can’tnot try, not after realising that their crew is unfortunately in needof a proper leader.Becausenone of the Lads are leaders, not really, especially not back then.They aren’t incapable, are clearly wildly talented and loyal enoughto one another to defer a certain kind of leadership to whomever hasthe best idea or the most experience with whatever task they’refacing, but no one individual is capable of being the permanent boss.No one individual actually wants that role, not really, they’re alltoo young, too impulsive, too eager to abandon necessary goals at thedrop of a hat.  Ray,who has arguably the least interest in being the boss of all, is lessleader than lone wolf; when he’s taking point a lot of his orderstend to involve stealth, hanging back while he picks off targets,only charging in when long-distance is no longer an option. Necessaryfor particular jobs, and it’s certainly not an easy task keeping theother three in line until it’s their turn to burst into action, butit’s not a method that works for every task.Michaelmakes a magnificent leader, fierce and fearless and unwaveringlyloyal, protective of his crew until the bitter end. He is,unfortunately, utterly devoid of tact, of the patience to put up withany kind of shenanigans from anyone he doesn’t personally like, theability to create and maintain necessary relations with anyoneoutside his crew. Michael himself knows he makes a far betterLieutenant, busy with duties he actually cares about, walking theline between following orders with absolute obedience andunapologetically calling out anything he disagrees with, reliable andrelentless in equal measure.Jeremyis meticulous, when he’s in charge he plots and plans and doublechecks, the very image of the perfect boss except for one flaw; moreoften than not he’s easily swayed. Will put together the perfectstealth plan only to agree when Michael makes a convincing argumentfor the importance of rocket launchers, conduct an ideal heist untilGavin begs to go after something shiny or Ray inquires aboutabandoning the sensible get away car for hilarious motorisedscooters.WhenGavin is on his game he is fucking glorious, a flashbang of recklesslaughter and terrible ideas none of them can resist, the promise thatcome hell or hand-grenades they will all be going home with a story.When Gavin plays leader he needs a lot of faith, needs the others totrust in things that don’t seem remotely feasible, but the payoff isalways worth it. Except for the days when his words are too sharp,his eyes too cold, when he wants nothing more than to pick a fightwith the most dangerous crook in the room, to swagger around theLSPD’s station unmasked, jump from a plane without checking hisparachute; dancing with death just to see if he can. Ifthey’re not careful on those days, if they missed the clues, the restof the Lads would follow him down, unable discern between Gavin’susual absurd genius and those streaks of genuinely aimless apathyuntil they’re all careening towards destruction.So,as grating as it seems, there is an undeniable argument for apermanent leader, someone to keep them all on course, to take theresponsibilities they don’t want, someone who can captain their shipwithout trying to push them all overboard. Still, you can’t just walkup to one of these infamous criminals and hand them an invitation;selling yourself – your dream, your crew, your city – takes time,takes planning, so in the end the FAHC’s first recruitment isn’t evenone of those big three.It’spure luck when Michael meets Lindsay; finds her twirling anail-studded bat in the wreckage of a bar, sipping a cocktail likeshe hadn’t just caved a man’s head in, and really nothing on earthcould have stopped Michael from offering her a place in the crew.From talking them up in a way he’d never really bother with normally,because honestly how could he not. It doesn’t take much to get theother three onboard, Lindsay was a perfect fit, a seamless addition,and with her the FAHC is unquestionably more efficient.Strangelythe Vagabond is actually far easier to get on board than any hadanticipated. After they start actively seeking his attention Ryancan’t help but watch the Lads. Not because their jobs are impressive(they are, actually, but Ryan’s in high demand, so very many crewsout there are impressive enough) but because they are endearingeager; nothing like the pathetic begging of so many others, noattempt to convince Ryan he should be desperate to work withthem, just genuine enthusiasm to prove themselves worthy ofhis time. They’re funny, something akin to a pack of recklesspuppies; certainly capable of outrageous damage but equally likely totrip over their own oversized paws in their excitement, and in thisbusiness Ryan really shouldn’t find it as charming as he does. Theytake to leaving him all kinds of gifts; generally intriguing , oftenamusing and near always utterly gruesome, and after a month or so ofhanging around the city toying with them they manage to get a formerRooster onside to run the show and Ryan’s run out of reasons tosay no.Gavin’sthe one they sent after Geoff, when the Lads decide they’re ready totry to bring the notoriously creative, fortuitouslycrew-seeking man into the FAHC. Gavin’s first approach, full ofdeferential respect playing to Ramsey’s ego, is a complete bust; Geoffthought he was sweet, called him kid, laughed in his face andsent him out the door with a crack about coming back when he was oldenough to drive. The second approach involves pulling a full blownjob on Ramsey, one that starts with the man unknowingly buying Gavina supercar and ends with the priceless tailored suit he’s wearingbeing pinned to the wall with a nail gun, Gavin grinning away like aparticularly bloodthirsty shark, and all of a sudden Geoff can’t sayhe isn’t tempted. Deigns to finally listen to the recruitment spiel,as though he’s got any other choice right now, and despite himself isquickly sold on the whole crew.Jeremygoes out one day and comes back with a handful of people, some they’dbeen discussing as a group, some the others hadn’t heard of, but allperfectly capable of holding their own agains the Lad’s disgruntleddissent. Steffie, who takes a look at their set up, rolls her eyes,then pulls out her phone and starts making a list, talking dealersand bases and possible new hires. Trevor who immediately sets tosoothing ruffled feathers, sidling up to Gavin and gushing about someridiculous theft, questioning Michael about his preference in heavyweaponry, ignoring the way Ray is skulking around behind him. Mattthey’d all agreed on, welcoming the chance to push off allcomputering nonsense onto someone else, and Mica assures them allthat she’s got no interest in sticking around, will work contracts asrequested but isn’t about the stationary crew life. In the end noblood is spilt, no tempers flare too badly, and Jeremy is reasonablysure he isn’t going to wake up with a gun to his temple, so all inall it goes pretty well.The last missing piece, Jack, is actually tracked down by Ray in the end; he wanders off one day andcomes back with a very amused woman in tow, decked out in a hideousHawaiian shirt and driving an obscenely nice Lamborghini. Apparentlyafter finding her, not particularly difficult considering she wasn’ttrying to hide, Ray simply told Jack all about Geoff’s fumblingattempts to simultaneously familiarise himself with the mess that isLos Santos, integrate himself into, and begin to take control of, analready close-knit, functioning crew, and do it all while pretendinghe’s not at all rattled by the Lad’s unwavering fascination with thehorrifically notorious assassin who insists on sticking a strawthrough his mask to pound down a truly irresponsible number of dietcokes. It took a while for her utterly joyous, completelyuncontrollable laughter to die down, but when she finally calmed Jackimmediately started packing.

chapter draft - E (modern sports)

E (chapter discussing Modern Sports - in particular football and racing)

Get home, blah blah - short intro (150-300 words max)

Can’t wait to see the missus, things have been really good lately.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder I guess.  She always looks so beautiful when I see her after a break of whatever kind.  But as I get home at half-past two in the afternoon I get home to an empty house.  It’s so quiet where we live.  It’s still the city but quite far out north – Green Lanes/Turnpike Lane area.  It has everything you need so apart from occasionally having to go to the office for a pickup I come and go as i please.  It’s so quiet not being onsite or living on top of between four and eight other lads.  I sit down.  My knee twinges really badly and I exhale in pain.  Fuck, I forgot I got smacked with a table just before we left the last job.  My leg.  My fucking leg.  I put both legs up on the couch and turn on the TV.  It’s on one of her channels, the ones with the reality shows, talent contests and soap operas. and turn instead to my favourite channel – the best channel – SkySports News. I press the red button so I can watch the football stuff.  I love football.  Always loved football.  Only ever loved football.  Only ever wanted to be a football player.  But now, with my knee, there’s no chance.  The missus, she says i’m lucky because i’m not stupid like most of the lads still playing and I should go into management or Sports Science.  I hate sports science, sports science is the reason all our games are shit and all our players are machines.

On the news there is a horse trainer talking about his runners in the upcoming derby and the changes in, he calls it, “horse rehabilitation therapy”. post-training session and post-race hydrotherapy in particular.  Behind him is a doughnut shaped moat with a footbridge and access channel leading to it.  How long the channel is, is unclear as it leads off screen.  The moat is about 1.5 metres wide; the whole loop maybe 5 metres in diameter.  As the interview unfolds, the footbridge is raised and a girl with a horse swimming up the access channel comes into shot.  I stop listening to what the man is saying and just stare at the horse, swimming in circles, being worked quite hard by the trainer/therapist leading it around.  The horse doesn’t look like a very good swimmer.  The horse does several laps being pulled along by its face before the bridge comes up once more and it swims out of shot.  I drift back into the interview and the trainer is saying how important this is for the horses as it means they can be raced more often – and more races means more money.  That isn’t to say these horses aren’t well looked after.  No way, these horses – so long as they keep winning they keep breathing – and in some pretty nice accommodation.  I don’t like horse racing as a so-called sport. Racing as a whole is kind of unique, and horse racing even more so due to the vehicle being a living, breathing, thing. the jockey, although important is just sorta along for the ride.  He beats the horse when it needs it and stops it running when it wants to bolt, but basically the jockey is little more than a glory hunting parasite holding onto a magnificent beast for grim death as it competes with a group of similarly fantastic animals to see who can run fastest for the longest.  They don’t really care who crosses what line first.  All they care about is knowing between themselves who is the biggest strongest baddest horse.  It’s a bit like boxing versus fighting: Boxers, they need wins in a row; they need career wins and losses; they need form…  But a fighter? all a fighter needs is to know they are the baddest thing on the planet and they need to know anyone standing in their way needs to go because, well, that’s all really.  A fighter doesn’t need a referee or judges or fans.  All a fighter needs is the blood, the adrenaline, the sweat.  All he chases is the win, by whatever means necessary, to beat the challengers to his invisible crown. now animals…

…visions of that day flood my memory. the early morning. wet. butterflies in my stomach ahead of the game. the BIG game. the game to get me out of here. away from him. away from them. away from what they make me do. the game where they would be looking for the next big thing. watching. writing. the straightness of the trees we passed. rough coach seats. the music it was pop hits on a radio station called Heart. motorway service stations. the smell of petrol. boots on tiles. cold locker doors. stale sweat. kit bags. ball bags. food bags. vaseline and deep heat. legs jumping whenever i tried to sit down. our manager. the psych-up. pacing back and forth. heel-to-toe. heel-to-toe. lining up. hands on shoulder. one final roar before we go. the tunnel. nerves. the pitch. the daylight. cold air. take your positions, gentlemen as the captains do their thing…

Animals. they don’t think like we do.  Animals. they don’t care about pride or cowardice.  All an animal cares about is whether or not that animal will live to breathe another day suffering as little injury as possible because in the wild injury is the thing that will most probably kill you.

Skysports jumps from story to story and i’m so tired I keep drifting in and out of my own mind and back into the scheduling list when something catches my eye - a story on Sports Science and developments in football! i can’t resist and i skip to the story. the story has a physiotherapist from one of the big London clubs, and a sports scientist currently working with them at the junior level. the level i got to before… i still find it hard to form  it in my mind. i notice i actually physically take in a sharp breath after each word, trying to see them as a phrase rather than single unconnected words that just happen to be falling out of my mouth. the strain, i can actually feel it. just 3 words. six syllables:

before. the. accident.

before the accident. before the accident. before the accident.

i take this opportunity to try and force myself to realise where i am now. in this job, it’s easy to forget why you are here and where you actually want to be. always so tired all you can think of is sleep. or there is no work and all you can think of is money, because now you have more pressing problems like how to pay the rent…

…the whistle. and we are off. the ball floats around ahead of me down field. pulling socks up, blowing into my hands. cold. the ball comes in high. i jump with my opposite number and i win the header. falling and landing on my knee. mud. blood. wipe it off and carry on. small crowd shouts and cheers. manager is screaming. run. jump. tackle. down the wing. throw in and i pick up the ball. headers forward and backwards. no one winning yet. finding rhythm. nerves swell up, i can see them making notes, the ones that matter. blades of grass. patches of mud where the content is always most fierce…

i have missed the whole intro to the piece but i got the basics and they are talking about bone density. it’s almost like they are talking about me as i watch. the story unfolds, and on of the main, newest, most interesting developments has to do with bones (and in particular bone density). the story goes on: there are many, many, junior players now on significant salaries with a conversion rate to professional footballer at the same team or level as their junior team is so horrendously low that the percentage isn't even worth remembering. if you need a ball park figure think below 0.5%. quite a way below in fact. the conversion rate from big club (top 5 English Premiership) junior player to much smaller (scottish second division or below kinda thing) is higher, but who cares about them? the chances in the modern English game of getting back into the big leagues from there are real slim, if possible at all. but back to the story on the television - bone density. the “scientist” starts talking very excitedly about how they can now take two equal players and separate them if by nothing else, by the density of their bones. this allows them, the scientist continues, to deduce the likelihood of a player suffering broken bones or a related injury in, for example, a hard tackle. a hard tackle for example. that could put a player out for a long time. there was a single theme running throughout the piece, a theme that no one really wanted to mention, but was alluded to constantly. the theme?

money.

you see, all these kids on five- or six-figure contracts, they cost a lot of money. they can’t be kept for a single minute longer than they are needed. sure they might be able to sell or trade a player but not really. and even the ones who make it - the investment in each of these players is huge and the club needs to re-coup it’s investment. the wages they command alone - to have a player out for however long, plus all the medical costs, insurance premiums, rehabilitation therapy, the fact the player could potentially never be the same again… all these things and more are presented as justifiable reasoning to destroy a child’s dream just because his bones aren't dense enough and ignore the reality that he might be special in some other sense. all this lead me to realise that as i sat watching these people talk about my favourite game, all they were producing from here on in would be money making machines, built rather than born, for the single purpose of making as much money as possible by abusing something normal people loved for no other reason than a love of the game.  to talk about the corporate takeover of football in this country are almost redundant at this point. but to include science as a factor at this level means we are unlikely to ever see the prodigious but flawed talent that came before.  talent that is capable of turning the tide of a match with a single touch. talent as capable of a 1 star performance as a 10. talent that although unpredictable is exciting and gives people a reason to watch if only to see what happens next. whether that is a hat-trick in the last 6 minutes or a red card inside the first 30 seconds. whether they get so drunk they can’t play or get so drunk their play is sublime.  that’s why we watch other people do what we wish we were capable of. not because they did it a million times until it was perfect with a pass conversion rate of consistently over 80%, but because they flicked it over the back of their head and lobbed the goalkeeper. because the made seven professional footballers look like toddlers when they dribbled the ball all the way from the halfway line to putting the ball in the top left corner. but maybe thats the problem. when it comes down to potentially a single loss being the difference between winning the premier league and coming second is many millions of pounds. ultimately a price was put on natural ability and that price is now too high and those players have gone from rare to endangered to extinct. and all within my 30-year existence.  

…back and forth. back and forth. every player too nervous to commit. neither team wants to make the first mistake by taking a chance. we string four passes together. they get five. no one gets any closer to the goal. 10 minutes pass with nothing. 20 minutes. 30. if something doesn't happen soon. the men, they are still writing. scribbling. maybe they aren't even writing at all. have to stand out. have to push. forward. i play at the back, but i start to travel up the pitch. push the back line up. take their space. take their air. stop them breathing. more aggressive. win every ball. win every tackle. commit. 110%. all your life. all your life has been for this one single moment. in this one single game…

the piece ends talking about how much money this will save and how that money can be put to such better use but all i can think about is how similar the horses and the players have become. the animal racing industry as a whole never had anything to do with sport. a sport is something that would continue to exist without people betting large sums of money on it and all the finances generated around that. no one would race horses for fun. if you banned betting tomorrow almost all of those beautiful horses people love so much would be shot. why breed pedigrees if they aren't going to run? where’s the profit in that? normal horse enthusiasts - they are rarely willing to take on a pedigree race horse, amazing beasts though they are.  ask someone who rides. they aren't like normal horses.

…how at my first team. how coach patted me for scoring. how he did it like that. how i was doing a good job. how i was special. how we should keep it all between us. what happens here. how no one would believe me anyway. how i get to ride home in a warm car with him. don't have to walk in the cold. how that must be worth something, right? how i can do it now for him. how likes that. how sitting on him felt kind of safe. how playing well got me to a new team with a different coach after the important man at the games with the pad spoke to my father. how he didn't care what i did so long as it didn't affect him. how the man liked that. how he told me he could get me to better clubs if i helped him. how i did help him. how he told me to. how i scored and scored and passed and passed and i went to the next club like he promised and it was a good one. how he sold me to one of the best ones. how it was different here, now. how i wouldn't have to do anything like that anymore. except…

they used to race dogs in the UK in a big way. Greyhounds. now that they shut most of the tracks greyhound breeding has dramatically fallen. people don't want greyhounds anymore. not really. not like they used to. like back when these “dog lovers” would dispose of dogs by selling them to research laboratories, abandoning them, or most commonly killing them. The Environment, Food and Rural Affairs Committee give numbers of between 1,000 and 3,700 dogs as “unaccounted for” every year but no figures exist for the killing of dogs no longer able to run. most dogs would run from about 18 months to the age of three, four or maybe five. rarely some run until they are six. and its a global event. in the USA, with so few dogs being retired and so many new dogs coming in to race each year, the “ideal” scenario for a dog trainer is to sell them for research to vivisection laboratories, chemical research labs, universities. why? up to 40 cents per pound of weight. researchers love Greyhounds. they are so easy to work with. they are docile, calm, submissive creatures that don't even bark. they also have a universal blood type, no fur or fat, a large strong heart, and a unique skeletal system. lastly, they have a very high level of pain tolerance. which is especially useful.

…toot-toot-toot of the whistle and it’s halftime. heads down. tired. thirsty. sore. manager shouting. captain shaking. coach’s hand on his shoulders. occasionally he whispers in his ear thinking no one can see. i do. i know what happens. we all know what happens. when he’s alone. we go back out and it’s their turn. we chase. they chase. i win, win, win, every challenge harder. every challenge until he comes in with both feet, legs completely straight. no intention of getting the ball…

none of this sounds like any part of a sport. and increasingly the similarities between football and racing seem to outweigh the differences. as pundits and former players discuss various aspects of the last round of games i find myself thinking about several things at once. i put this down to exhaustion related confusion and try to push the conflicting thoughts down but i end up drifting into one memory that keeps persisting the harder i push it back and i lose major interest. instead, flicking through everything i have missed away working, i see a pattern - the main aspect of modern day sports now seems to revolve around drugs, cheating and money. and it isn't just the horses and the dogs.

boxing. athletics. MMA. tennis. rugby union. pole-vaulting, cycling. running. swimming. weightlifting. Australian rules football. cricket. American football. all car racing. (provide drug/cheating examples for each)

there are always going to be bad elements willing to do anything to win, but this isn't what is happening. this is everywhere and everything. i wonder if anyone ever won anything without some sort of technically-not-illegal-at-the-time chemical edge. all your heroes - they were high on drugs as you cheered them on. they were high and/or the opposition had been sexually abused, drugged or bribed. that’s it. that is modern sports.

…i can taste the mud when i bite down. wincing. pain. blinding. hot. cold. flashing white shards in my eyes. can’t hear. so far away suddenly. everything green. he gets up. brushes off. laughing. turns to the referee with arms open claiming total innocence. all i can do is hold my leg. screaming now. my foot. it’s facing the wrong way. i can feel the wind inside my bones. it hurts so badly it is almost numb. the referee runs over. whistle toot-toot-tooting away. stretcher comes. men with pads, they scribble. but it’s all over…

when i tune back in to what’s happening on the screen i notice the headline streaming across the bottom that will never go away now. another coach has been found guilty of child abuse. there are so many cases now that the legal system is clogged and some of these guys may never see trial. the abuse that runs through the whole game, mirroring the same abuse of children in the entertainment industry. as i look at my life long love. my sport i hold above all others. and all i see are the burning ruins of clubs and socially destitute stadiums. locker rooms filled with predators. enablers. drugs. match fixing. cheating. really, son, you have to see the bigger picture:

just look at how much money!

i stare at the screen in a sort of disbelief as much at myself as the illusion of honour and camaraderie i have helped to maintain. i am exhausted. i feel like so many people. so many lives. compressed into a single time line, sharing a single body. i love football? it is - it was - my life. i love sports? Sky Sports is the best channel ever. but the more i watch the more questions i have and they all lead back to the same place: drugs & money. how long have i been away? where have i been? where do we go when we are sleeping? some nights my dreams they are too real. with this job, i don't even sleep at night, necessarily. as often as not, unless i am here, at home - which is rare - i sleep whenever the opportunity arises.

when i wake up, she is there and i smile. it never seems as bad with her here. her, who has been here through it all and her biggest complaint is that she never sees me. i keep money coming in, in the way that the crew provides, but that isn't it. i still don't know what happened in the games… whenever it was now. she says:

“hey”

“hi”

“you hungry?”

“yeah”

i turn off Sky Sports.