Chapter 11: Holly Jockey Sticks
Peter woke full of energy. Normally on a Sunday he was bleary eyed and not at all keen on getting up, but the previous night's events had him feeling hugely optimistic about everything in his life. He could still taste the Peruvian Mantra Ink though, almost as if it had merged with the cells in his throat, despite the fact that he'd changed forms since drinking it.
'Hopefully it will dissipate over time,' he thought. Checking his phone once downstairs, he found a text message reminding him that hockey training started the following Tuesday, signalling the start of the season, something he found he'd been missing like crazy all summer.
It was, of course, Richie that had got him into playing hockey after he'd been complaining about a lack of interest in his life, apart from his work, which of course he took very seriously. She'd taken up playing lacrosse some time ago, something most dragons not only frowned upon, but couldn't really see the point of. Yes, dragons had begun to infiltrate most of the popular sports at all levels, mainly professional sport, particularly because the power and adoration that most of them commanded enabled them to influence all levels of society and guide the humans in the right direction. To assume human form and participate in their sport just for fun, without using your dragon abilities seemed... unthinkable to any and all dragons. There had even been stories written in the dragon press about Richie playing lacrosse purely for pleasure, none of which cast her in a very good light, with most questioning, at the very least, her sanity. But as far as Peter could see, it was lava off a dragon's tail to her.
So, after hearing him complain about lacking something in his life, Richie dragged him down to the sports club in Salisbridge one busy Saturday afternoon. He spent all afternoon wandering around the ground, marvelling at the sheer enjoyment all the humans seemed to be getting from being part of a team sport. He'd never really paid any attention to it before, either on the television or anywhere else, and like most dragons, couldn't really see the point, but to see the games up close and personal was just... unbelievable. The passion with which the players pursued their sport, the bonding that seemed to go on in each side, the ferocity and commitment of the challenges being made against the opposition... it was all truly a wonder to behold.
That very afternoon Peter watched Richie play a whole game of lacrosse for the first time and was absolutely agog. Most of the comments in the dragon press referring to Richie almost always maintained that it was impossible for her to play without using her dragon abilities, thereby cheating. This seemed to be the most contentious part of the complaints levelled against her, with most dragons unable to comprehend why she would bother in the first place. But as Peter sat in a cold, wet dugout adjacent to the pitch and watched Richie play, he got a glimpse of something very special. Not only could he tell that Richie didn't use her abilities throughout the whole of the match (something that even he had had reservations about secretly, even though Richie had given her word on more than one occasion that she didn't use her magical abilities) but also it was blatantly obvious to Peter, who had known her nearly her whole life, that she was happier playing lacrosse than Peter had possibly ever seen her. And that includes the moments she would dazzle everyone with her amazing aerial acrobatics, something every dragon loved more than just about anything else.
'How can this running around with sticks, chasing a silly little ball produce so much pleasure?' he wondered for days afterwards. Talking to Tank didn't help either. In fact Tank was so taken aback at what Peter had said, that he had to see for himself the pleasure Richie was obviously getting out of playing in a team alongside humans. Over the coming months, the two friends attended every one of Richie's home games, hoping to find the secret to her happiness, but to no avail. However hard they tried, they just couldn't seem to hit the nail on the head as to what was so captivating about playing in a team. After a few months, Peter and Tank sat down with Richie and asked her to explain it to them. After laughing at the pair of them for what seemed like an age, and then playfully banging their heads together, she told them the only way to find out what they were missing out on, was to try it.
More than a little unsure, Peter and Tank didn't want to let their friend down, and so both agreed to go and train for a few weeks at different sports. Peter chose hockey and Tank rugby. His bigger, stronger build was ideally suited to that particular sport, even though both had really wanted to try lacrosse. Richie insisted that they try something different and said that they could always swap sports further down the line.
Peter could vividly remember turning up to his first hockey training session on a cold, wet Tuesday night. Richie came along and introduced him to the coach and then turned around and left him there... on his own, well... not exactly on his own as there were thirty other players there, but that's how it felt. The previous night Richie had shown him how to hold a stick and how to strike the ball, in his back garden.
Joining in with the other players as they did a gentle warm up in the cold November weather, he noticed even though there was no game going on, they weren't even holding their hockey sticks for goodness sake, there was still an incredible amount of... banter! Everyone from the smallest to the biggest, oldest to the youngest were all chatting, making jokes and just... bonding. Previously he'd thought the bonding thing must have just been during the matches, but on that cold wet windy night, suddenly he wasn't so sure.
Brief warm up finished, the players started to partake in exercises with a stick and ball. He joined in and although he wasn't anywhere near the best, strangely, even without all his magical abilities, he wasn't quite the worst either. Marvelling at the continued banter throughout all the exercises, something he'd wondered if the coach would stop, he was still no nearer to discovering the secret of Richie's happiness. The exercises with a stick and ball were okay, but they sure didn't set Peter's world alight. As the night progressed it got colder and wetter, which strangely, he thought, nobody seemed to mind. Just when he considered calling it a night, the coach blew his whistle (which wasn't bent... get it?) and called everyone in. Divided into two, and given blue and red bibs respectively, the group started a game.
While Richie had been showing him how to hold a stick, she also took to explaining the rules to him, something he had brushed up on much later that evening, via YouTube. It had all kind of gone in, but it was difficult to understand without experiencing it first hand, something he was now doing, and wishing with all his might that things would slow down a bit. The ball was almost a blur. Tackles were being made left, right and centre. Players were shouting for passes and screaming for their teammates to close down the opponent with the ball. He could feel his heart pounding and his temperature rising, no mean feat in the cold and the rain. Rushing about like a headless chicken, he tried desperately to get in the right place to receive a pass from one of his own side. Unfortunately one of his opponents had picked him out and decided to mark him rather tightly, making any pass seem more and more unlikely. He continued to run, trying to lose his marker, but to no avail. Just when he'd thought his chance at getting in on the action had passed, the guy who'd been marking him received the ball from one of his teammates and looked to dribble straight past him, down the wing.
By now he was fully engrossed in all the excitement and adrenaline of the match. More than a little disappointed that he hadn't seen the ball yet, he was determined to take it from the opponent now heading straight for him at quite a speed. Having watched some of the better players tackle throughout the evening, he knew just what to do. He waited until the onrushing player was nearly on top of him, and moved his stick to the open side, leaving an inviting hole to his left hand side, knowing full well his opponent would perform a dummy and take it down his so-called weaker side. The player took the bait and the dummy came. At the very last moment, Peter flipped his stick over and laid it flat on the Astroturf, as strong as he could with his one handed grip, taking the ball off the opponent with an amazing reverse stick tackle that anyone
there would have been proud of.
Having made the tackle, he could feel the excitement running through his veins (although technically not his) but was determined not to get carried away and fought the impulse to try and do anything else clever, but instead played a simple pass to one of his teammates on the other side of the pitch. Within seconds, words of encouragement from all around bombarded him, with even the odd pat on the back being thrown in for luck. That feeling was like nothing else he'd ever experienced. It was amazing. It was then that he realised. THIS WAS IT! Richie's secret. He knew that the current smile on his face would easily match any of Richie's from her lacrosse matches.
'It was so simple,' he thought. 'I just had to join in.'
The training match continued a little longer, during which time he made another couple of tackles and a few more passes. As the session came to an end, he received more pats on the back, whilst at the same time getting on the end of some of the banter. One of the captains came to take Peter's contact details on his way out and the rest, as they say, is history. He was well and truly hooked.
It was pretty much the same scenario for Tank, except that he didn't get the same lightning bolt of excitement until he played in his first game proper on a Saturday. After that, he too was hooked in very much the same way as Peter and Richie. For the three friends, the thought of not joining the humans to participate in team sport was now unfathomable, something alas most dragons could not comprehend, more's the pity.
Really excited at the thought of going training on Tuesday, Peter wondered if he'd be selected for one of the two sides to play the following Saturday. With it being September, there were usually two or three friendly or interclub games before the league season started, normally in the first week of October. Peter's thoughts turned to Tank, who had resumed training many weeks ago and would be participating in his first league game this coming Saturday.
'Perhaps I'll go and watch some of his game and get to play hockey as well. Things are looking up,' thought Peter.
With a spring in his step, he wolfed down his breakfast, breezed through the housework and settled down in front of his computer. Much as he fancied gaming for a few hours, he needed to sort some things out beforehand. Determined to design a spreadsheet that could be easily filled in with all the information he was gathering on Manson, he cleared his mind and concentrated on the task at hand. He'd thought that by putting it all in spreadsheet form, in a clear and concise manner, he might be better able to see where all of it was leading, if indeed that was at all possible. Also, a plan had been brewing deep in the back of his mind, to design a computer programme that would collect all the data from Manson's computer at Cropptech, if, that is, he could find some way of downloading it onto the former Major's computer in the first place. His software and programming skills were nowhere near what they should have been, having not been his strong suit in the nursery ring, but he did have a strong grasp of the basics, which in time should allow him to carry out his plan.
It didn't take long to create the spreadsheet, but it was time consuming adding all the data he'd already collected. He struggled to read his own writing when looking at the notes he'd already jotted down.
'Clearly,' he thought, 'I'm qualified to be a doctor or maybe even a teacher, going by this. On second thoughts, even my writing's not illegible enough to be a teacher's and I'll be damned if I'm wearing one of those crazy jackets with the patches on the elbows,' he thought with a smile on his face. 'Human teachers seem to have the worst fashion sense on the whole planet. Fact!'
After a couple more hours he'd finished transferring all of his previously collected data. He sat staring at it for an hour more, without gaining true insight or finding any significant pattern. It was then that he gave up.
Grabbing himself some lunch, he returned to his desk, determined to make a start on producing a programme that he could upload to Manson's computer. This proved harder than even he would have thought, having not been under any illusions in the first place. During his search of the internet, he'd had to be very careful. It wouldn't be prudent to type into the search engine: 'Wanted - computer spy programme, Trojan or virus', particularly if he didn't want anyone to know what he was up to. Peter's head felt like the hard drive of his computer sounded... in need of a rest. So far today he'd spent over five hours sitting at his pc, and it was only mid-afternoon.
Closing down the computer to give the whirring components a break, he slumped down on the sofa and decided to catch up with all the news from the Daily Telepath. Closing his eyes, he dispatched his consciousness, just giving it a little prod now and then to guide it in the right direction. It returned in no time at all with that day's edition. Remarkably, it contained the scores from last night's Global Cup Quarter final games. He was astonished. He'd been so caught up in the events of yesterday, that he'd totally forgotten that the Indigo Warriors were playing one of the most important matches in recent history. Speed reading the back page, his heart racing, he noted with relief that the Warriors had won and made it through to the semi finals. He continued to the in depth match report that was further inside.
Sometime later he opened his eyes and stretched his entire body, almost off the end of the sofa.
'That was pure bliss,' he thought. 'Well, nearly anyway. The only thing better would have been to be at the match itself. Pity Tank couldn't get any tickets, nevertheless, being through to the semi finals... FANTASTIC!'
Sitting up sharply, he got a bit of a head rush for his troubles, having been lying down for so long. Jumping to his feet, he proceeded to search the house for his mobile phone. Not for the first time, he couldn't remember where he'd left it. Where was that eidetic memory now? Eventually finding it in his bedroom, he fired off a text to Tank, asking if he knew any teams good enough to get to the semi finals, including a plea for the possibility of any tickets to the match. Tank replied only moments later saying that he was off coaching rugby and that he would check out the ticket situation later that evening. Peter rubbed his hands together and did a little jig on seeing Tank's reply. The Warriors reaching the semi final of the Global Cup was beyond his wildest dreams.
Returning to work the next day, he was exhausted from everything that had happened at the weekend. Although tired, he was still on a high from hearing about the Indigo Warriors and couldn't help but check his phone regularly in the hope of a text from his best friend. He had no idea how Tank managed to get hold of good laminium ball match tickets, particularly since demand always considerably outstripped supply, but he knew the contacts Tank used usually dealt in days rather than hours. Still, he could hope, couldn't he?
After clearing a little of his backlog, he focused all his attention on trying to account for all of Manson's movements, seeing if he could determine some kind of goal that his nemesis might be working towards. With access to all the security systems (CCTV, web cams, computer access and one or two trusted allies) you would think that tracking Manson's whereabouts at any one time wouldn't be too much of a challenge, but things were quite the opposite in reality. All too often he managed to slip out of the upper building undetected and then turn up in some far flung part of the complex completely by surprise. All routes in and out of Garrett's office were covered by the security cameras, and there were no blind spots: he'd checked. That said, Manson seemed to have a knack of somehow getting out of Garrett's office without being seen. The more Peter tried to work out what was going on, the more puzzled he became. Eventually he decided to get the maintenance crew to strip down all the cameras in the main building and give them a thorough overhaul, on the grounds of routine maintenance. Crews were also ordered to look out for anything suspicious and report directly back to him. Twenty four hours later, the crew chief made his way to Peter's office to report his findings.
A tall, pale skinned, gangly man named Alastair, who Peter had dealt with many times before and found very competent and extremely knowledgeable on any technical subject, knocked and entered Peter’s office. The t
wo sat either side of the paper strewn desk.
"Hi Alistair, how's it going?"
"Good thanks Peter. We've finished the maintenance you requested," affirmed Alistair, sliding a huge pile of paper across the desk. "There were no problems to report. One or two of the cameras in the stairwells had got a significant amount of dust in them, which if left much longer may have caused an issue, but other than that, nothing untoward."
Peter nodded as he picked up the top piece of paper from the pile to study.
"So does that mean it would be prudent to decrease the maintenance intervals of all the cameras in stairwells across the entire complex?"
"Already done Peter," remarked Alistair, sitting back in his chair proudly. "We've adjusted the schedule on the computer system to flag the stairwell cameras every nine months instead of every eighteen, as it was previously."
Peter leaned across the desk to shake Alistair's hand.
"Great work as always. Thanks for fitting us in at such short notice."
"Anytime, for you Peter. We value the security of this place almost as much as you do, so adjusting our schedule isn't that much of a problem. I have to ask though... it sounded when we first spoke as though you were looking for something specific. Clearly we didn't find anything. Is it something that I should be concerned about?"
For a split second Peter's brow creased as he thought about sharing his burden with Alistair. He was sure he could trust the man and didn't doubt for second that he was sincere in valuing the security of the complex, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.
"No, it's nothing to be concerned about. I just... well... I've just been working hard and have had a few late nights. I must have imagined the odd glitch on one of the monitors and wanted to be safe rather than sorry," Peter lied.
"Well, I know the feeling about working too hard. Try and catch up on your sleep. You're no good if you're nodding off in front of the monitors. And don't worry, your secret's safe with me. We've all done it at some point." With that the two shook hands and Alistair turned and headed towards the door. Before he left, Peter called out,
"Don't forget to thank your team for me, for doing such a great job."
"Of course," replied Alistair, disappearing off down the corridor.
Peter sat back in his chair, more puzzled and frustrated than ever, now that each and every camera had been checked. He felt guilty about lying to Alistair about the reason he wanted the cameras checked in the first place, but deep down he knew it was probably best not to get anyone else involved, especially as he didn't know exactly what he was dealing with.
The day dragged on, with Peter mainly staying in his office fielding phone calls, catching up on emails, and all the while keeping a close eye on the security monitors. The thought of hockey training that evening was the only thing keeping him going.
With only an hour of the working day left, a high pitched warble from his phone disrupted his chain of thought. Retrieving it from his jacket, which was hanging up on the back of his office door, his heart nearly skipped a beat when the phone's display showed there was a text from Tank.
'He's got the tickets... YIPPEE!' thought Peter, opening up the message. Peter's joy soon turned to sadness. The message read:
'Sorry couldn't get tickets to the game. However, may still be able to watch it. Will be in touch soon. Regards.' Peter let out a long sigh, disappointed at the lack of tickets.
'The biggest match of my life and I don't get to go,' he thought. 'I wonder what he meant by “may still be able to watch it”?'
Saving the email he was working on, he shut down his computer and grabbed his jacket before leaving, slightly earlier than normal. He'd had enough for today, and was once again taking advantage of his accrued flexi-time. About to get into his car, he suddenly noticed that Manson's Mercedes wasn't parked anywhere. He'd spent all afternoon keeping a close eye on the car parks, or so he thought, and Manson had still managed to slip out, in his car this time. He felt like banging his head against the roof of his car in frustration, but didn't, mainly due to the number of other workers leaving all around him.
'How does he do it?' he thought as he started up the engine and clicked his seatbelt into place, before driving home.
On getting home he made himself a light snack, and continued for an hour or so with the programme he was trying to develop on his computer. Although nothing special so far, he was quite pleased with his progress, given his limited skill set in this particular field. Zooming upstairs, he slipped effortlessly into his freshly ironed hockey kit, grabbed his water bottle, stick bag and trainers (which smelled as though they could have walked to the sports club on their own) and just about remembering to grab his phone and keys on the way out, he headed out to his car and off to the sports club.
Surprised by the sheer number of cars on arrival, it took him nearly five minutes to find a parking space. The place was nearly full, and that hardly ever happened on a busy Saturday, let alone in the week. What was going on? On his way to the pitch, he noted that not only was it hockey training, but the men's and ladies' lacrosse teams seemed to be here training as well as the entire rugby club by the look of things. As he watched the rugby players trot out of their dedicated dressing room, he spotted Tank jogging out onto the pitch. His friend must have sensed this, as he turned his head and gave Peter a little nod, which Peter duly returned. As well as all the sports, there seemed to be some sort of function going on in the clubhouse, with lots of well-dressed people going in carrying gifts and flowers.
'No wonder it's so busy,' he thought. As he got closer to the Astroturf, he had to join a queue to get in.
'Wow, I've never had to queue to get into training before. Lots of new faces as well as old ones. Everyone seems to be here, they must have missed it as much as I have over the summer.'
At precisely seven o'clock, the two groups of footballers that were using the pitch finished and the queuing hockey players streamed out onto it. As Peter made his way through the crowd, he nodded and exchanged a few friendly words with teammates. All in all it was a staggering number of people for just training, especially considering all of the first team squad was missing as their training session was separate and didn't start until eight thirty, directly after this session finished.
Being back on a hockey pitch with all these people was nothing short of awesome for Peter, with it only now dawning on him just how much he'd missed playing, and how much it meant to him. Starting with some light fitness work, the session then split the ladies from the men to work on basic stick skills. As the evening wore on, the exercises became more intense and complicated, eventually leading to a series of mini games for everyone. Eight thirty came around, with the coaches wrapping things up, allowing the first team men and ladies respectively on to the pitch.
Exhausted and baked in sweat, Peter trudged over to the sideline to find his stick bag and, more importantly, a drink. As the cold water trickled down his throat he noticed a familiar, smug face looking with contempt at those already leaving the pitch... MANSON!
'Why on earth would anyone look down on others representing the same club as you?' he thought, wiping the sweat from his forehead and neck with the bottom of his tee shirt. 'It makes no sense.'
Slinging his stick bag over his shoulder, he made sure to keep his back to the first team players, for fear of being confronted by Manson. After grabbing his wallet from the car, he headed for the bar in the hope that Richie and Tank would be there, given that the lacrosse and rugby had finished at exactly the same time as his session.
Slipping quietly into the clubhouse, he was pleasantly surprised to find the bar wasn't nearly as busy as he'd thought it would be. The private function was being held in the room upstairs that had its own bar, keeping the large main bar free downstairs for all of those club members who had just finished outside. Peter waited his turn at the large bar; even though it wasn't that busy downstairs clearly some of the bar staff were serving upstairs.
Eventually gett
ing served, he scanned the room for his friends. Richie was ensconced at the far end with a gaggle of lacrosse girls all chatting and making far too much noise for his liking. Glancing through the mass of rugby players, he could just make out Tank having a very animated discussion with two other players about tactics or a game or something, waving his hands all over the place to emphasise a point. Rather than interrupt Tank's heated conversation, he chose to prop up the bar instead, way too intimidated by all the gorgeous lacrosse girls to even think about approaching Richie. Shuffling along the bar, he turned his attention to a rather competitive doubles pool match that was taking place in the far corner between four of the rugby boys. Abruptly a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned ready to confront Manson... only to find it was the second team captain, Andy, who was clearly disturbed by the look on Peter's face.
"Sorry Andy, I thought you were someone else," Peter quipped, breaking into a big toothy smile.
"That's quite alright Peter. Good to see you at training. How was your summer?"
"Quite lazy really. Didn't do too much. Missed playing hockey like crazy though."
"Good to hear," replied Andy, producing a notebook and pen. "Are you available for Saturday?"
"Sure am. In fact, barring injury, I'm available every weekend throughout the season."
"Good man," maintained Andy, slapping Peter playfully on the back. "Well, I've got some friendly games lined up over the next few weeks and then the league starts. Hopefully we can kick on from last year's mid table position and aim to finish in the top two and gain promotion. A few new faces out there tonight that might bolster the squad from last year, especially since Ben and Matt will be missing, having both gone off to university. Anyhow Pete, I've got to catch up with some of the others before they slope off, so I'll see you on Saturday, two o'clock for a two thirty start. Okay?"
"Sure thing Andy, see you Saturday," answered Peter, raising his pint glass as Andy disappeared into a mass of hockey players.
'Fantastic, I'm in the side,' he thought, as he spotted Tank making his way towards him through a dwindling number of rugby players.
"Good training?" asked Tank, leaning over the bar, trying to attract some service.
"Yeah, it was great to be back playing again. Why are you training twice a week now?"
"Well," said Tank, "we do light work and tactics on a Tuesday, and the more physical work on a Wednesday."
"How was it?" enquired Peter.
"It was okay, but as you probably know we had our first game on Saturday and got our arses handed to us on a plate," observed Tank, shaking his head.
Peter had seen the result and match report online only that morning and was surprised that Tank hadn't mentioned it. Not that Peter would have been too much help. He didn't fully understand the rules of rugby, so anything more complicated such as tactics and formations would go straight over his head.
"Any reason why you lost?"
"Hmmm... lots. Let's just say the coach and I have differing opinions on that."
"That explains the rather frantic debate I could see you having a while ago, you know... with all the arm waving. I thought you were going to take off at one point," mocked Peter, trying to lighten the tone.
"Very good," sneered Tank sarcastically. "I don't think it was quite that bad. Anyway, how would you feel if your hockey team was going to hell and you knew how to put some of the bad things right, but the so-called important people refused to listen to what you had to say? Wouldn't be so funny then, would it?"
For the first time in what felt like forever, Peter could see his friend in real distress.
'It means so much to him, just like the hockey does to me,' he thought, slurping what was left of his drink.
"I'm sorry Tank. I understand how important it is to you, I really do. Perhaps you need to change the way you approach the problem. You've completed all the coaching courses, and teach the youngsters on a Sunday. Is there nothing there that can help you?"
Deep furrows appeared across Tank's forehead as he considered what Peter had said.
"Well, maybe I could... yeah, that just might work."
Peter stared at him blankly.
"I could simplify some of the tactics and get the kids to use them on a Sunday. The result should be about the same, maybe not quite as dynamic and full on, but just maybe those narrow minded idiots might get the idea if they see the kids using it to great effect. Thanks Pete. That might just be a great help."
"You are, of course, very welcome. On an entirely different subject though... your message mentioned something about watching the game even though you couldn't get tickets. What's that all about?"
That got Tank's full attention.
"You see, I've been working on something in my spare time. Something that should allow us..." Tank looked around to make sure no one was listening in, and then leant in close to Peter, "should allow us to watch the match through a television."
Peter was gobsmacked. He'd never heard anything that ridiculous.
"Through a television? Are you mad? How the hell do you think you can do that?"
Tank put one of his gigantic arms around his friend to calm him down and try to limit the amount of attention he seemed to be attracting with his little outburst.
"It's not as hard as you think... Pete. Would you like me to explain the details to you?"
Peter thought for a moment, slightly unsure, because Tank had that 'be careful what you wish for' look in his eyes. After a few moments had passed, still unsure, Peter decided he did want to know a little more about it.
"Go on then."
"Well, you know how you access the ... papers?"
"Yes," replied Peter carefully, fully understanding Tank's meaning.
"It's kind of like that. You see, what happens is that the match is transmitted out to the papers so that they can do match reports and snatch pictures for publication from it. The whole game remains in a giant buffer for a few more days until it is no longer required, when it's just deleted to free up space for the next one. The reason they don't transmit the whole game to every dragon out there, is that most dragons wouldn't be able to process that level of information. Also there aren't enough broadcasting nodes to transmit something of that magnitude to everyone. It's broadcast to the papers and that's it. I've developed a crystal node that can access the information at the papers’ headquarters via the local node and then display it in digital form, hopefully on a television.
"Hopefully?"
"Well... it's not fully functional yet, but it will be by the day of the game. I just need to buy a new television to test it on, that's all."
"What happened to that nice big fifty inch flat screen that you had?"
"I... um... hooked up the crystal to it and... umm... didn't regulate the power properly and it... um... kind of... exploded... umm... a bit anyway."
"IT EXPLODED!!!!!!" exclaimed Peter. "How can it explode a bit?"
"It exploded a bit," insisted Tank, "because some of the screen was still left intact, alright."
"Right," said Peter, nodding his head.
"I don't suppose..." Tank started.
"NO!" countered Peter. "Not going to happen."
"It's just that it would speed things up while I wait for a new television to be delivered."
"I like my television just how it is... thanks."
From out of nowhere, a very loud 'BOO' echoed out from behind them. Peter's glass tumbled into the air as it jumped out of his hand. Time slowed as the spinning glass headed swiftly towards the floor, and a shattering conclusion... before being expertly caught once again by... Richie.
"Crikey, you guys are jumpy," joked Richie, offering the glass back to Peter.
For his part, Peter gave Richie one of his best 'I'm more mature than you' looks, taking the glass from her before returning it to the bar.
"What's going on guys?" she demanded.
"I was just explaining to Peter how we might all watch the Indigo Warriors in the Global Cup
together," whispered Tank.
"You've got tickets... fantastic!"
"Not exactly," uttered Tank, bursting Richie's rather premature bubble.
"Oh, how are we going to watch it then?"
"On a television," chipped in Peter, rolling his eyes. "It's something Tank's been working on."
"For a second there, I thought we might actually get to see the game," Richie said to Peter, knowing all about Tank's little projects.
"Hey, that's not fair. I know I've had a bit of bad luck in the past, but this stands a real chance of working. I just need Peter to let me use his television to test the thing on. Please Peter, I know I can get this to work... honest. And once I do, we can all sit down and watch the match together, doesn't that sound great?"
It did sound great, both Richie and Peter had to admit that, but it also sounded a mite farfetched. Also, Tank's track record on succeeding in these little projects was practically zero. Still, he did find it hard to turn down his friend, particularly when he thought about all that Tank had done for him in the past.
"Okaayyyy... what do you need?" asked Peter reluctantly.
Tank lurched forward and gave his friend a huge hug.
"You won't regret it, I promise."
Peter looked over Tank's shoulder at a grinning Richie and rolled his eyes again.
"I just need to come round and use your television a couple of times between now and the match, " said Tank innocently. "That's all. Nothing will go wrong... honest."
"Sure Tank. Come round whenever you like."
And that was that. The friends chatted for a few more minutes, catching up on their respective sports and training routines. Just as Peter thought it was time for him to think about leaving, the main doors to the bar opened, and the men's first team hockey players started to file in.
'Oh crap,' was Peter's first thought. He'd hoped to leave before Manson had finished training, to avoid bumping into him. Richie caught Peter looking nervously towards the entrance.
"It's alright Pete, he's just here playing hockey. Just ignore him," remarked Richie confidently.
"The slimy rat I've been hearing about is here, is he?" I was just about to leave anyway Pete. Why don't we all go out together?" Tank gestured at Richie.
"Good Idea," added Richie, starting to lead the way.
They made their way through the very quiet bar area, returning their empty glasses en route. There couldn't have been more than twenty people left in the whole place, a dozen or so of whom were the men's first hockey team, who had just come in as a group from the Astroturf. Peter strode down the length of the bar, flanked on either side by Tank and Richie. He stared at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with Manson, hoping he could leave without being noticed. No such luck. About eight feet from the end of the massive bar, just as Peter had thought he'd made it out without being spotted, a body moved out in front of the three of them.
"Ahhhh... if it isn't my little underling. I didn't realise you had any friends. How unlikely."
He looked up into Manson's smug, round face and noticed for the first time a bottomless blackness at the centre of his eyes. He fought back his bubbling temper, knowing that whatever happened, his friends would have his back, but he realised that if something happened here, Manson would no doubt exact some sort of retribution back at Cropptech. So in a split second, he decided he would take a leaf out of Richie's book and be diplomatic and polite.
"Good evening Mr Manson. Did you have a good training session?" he said with just the slightest hint of sarcasm.
"Yes... I certainly did. It was very physical and tactically demanding. I would explain it but someone from the lower echelons of hockey like yourself would of course be hard pushed to understand it," boasted Manson, trying to provoke Peter.
Every atom in Peter's body wanted to jump up and spank Manson. Peter used all his self control and just smiled.
"See you back at work," he said, sidestepping Manson and heading towards the door. With his friends at his side, Peter had got no further than a few paces before he heard Manson's twisted voice.
"Good work checking out the security cameras. Find anything useful?"
He turned around to see Manson, hands on hips, smug as ever. As he looked deep into Manson's eyes from six feet away, everything suddenly became crystal clear. Manson knew that he'd tried unsuccessfully to track him with the security cameras. In that moment, the entire situation had changed. Manson wasn't just your run of the mill criminal trying to make some material gain. He was far more than that. Far more than a human being, Peter suspected, even though there were no obvious signs, not even to a dragon.
Breaking eye contact, the young hockey playing dragon turned slowly, and strode purposefully out the main entrance, Tank and Richie hot on his heels. The slightly chilly night air washed over him, cooling down his overly warm body and bringing his temper back into line, both at the same time. His friends walked next to him in silence as he made his way across the near deserted car park to his car, even though their cars were parked in a totally different place to his.
As they all reached his car, Peter turned and faced his friends.
"Well?" he all but demanded, expecting them to have had the same kind of epiphany about Manson that he'd had.
"Well what?" replied Richie.
"Well, did you not see what just happened?" snapped Peter sharply.
"Yes, the nasty man tried to get a rise out of you," Richie sneered sarcastically.
Peter's temperature rocketed, so much so that boiling steam rolled off him in waves in the chilly evening air.
"The whole thing, Rich, not just him provoking me."
"Yes, I can see now that he's a bit of a git, something I hadn't noticed before, for which I'm sorry, but that's all. Get over it," stormed Richie, marching off towards her car.
Peter took a step forward to follow her and continue the argument, but a huge arm came out to block his way.
"I don't think that's very wise, do you?" asked Tank quietly.
Peter took a deep breath and ran his hands through his slick hair.
"Did you notice anything?" he asked Tank hopefully, not really wanting to hear the response. Tank considered his friend's question carefully.
"As Richie said, he certainly is a first class git."
Peter's head dropped, knowing his friend was once again going to side with Richie. Tank continued.
"I tried using all my dragon senses on him as he stood there, but sensed... nothing. Just a plain old human being, albeit a git, but a human git."
'There it is,' thought Peter. 'Again he's sided with Richie. Why can't they see what's happening?'
"Despite sensing nothing other than human, there was something else," Tank said, screwing up his face in concentration. "A feeling of... it's so difficult to explain. Like the whitest cold it's possible to have. Pure, calculated malevolence. It didn't really come from him, it was just out there. On top of that, the human felt... too good to be true. Almost too human. That's the only way I can describe it."
Peter knew exactly what Tank was talking about, but was surprised to hear that he hadn't felt it radiating off Manson, as he had. It was, however, Peter thought, a start.
The two friends said their goodbyes, with Tank adding that he would be in touch about coming round to use the television. Whilst they were chatting, Richie's car sped out of the car park, something akin to a Formula One driver.