by Paul Cude
"Uhhhh," he shook his head in disgust. Just the thought of that cold, dark place made him shudder. No one should be brought up in a place like that. He had been, and it had shaped him into the being he now was. And he was determined to make those that had put him and his father there, pay dearly for doing so.
"What's the hold up?" his father demanded, grumpily.
"No hold up. We're just moving assets into place. None of this is easy. It's not as if we have a superfast underground monorail system to move them all around. Everything takes time." Not to be harsh in the slightest, he'd meant it in a no nonsense kind of way, but that's not how his father took it at all.
For an old dragon, in a desperately old, frail and fragile human form, he was quick. Off the scale quick. Instantly he straddled his son. Troydenn's index finger pressed firmly into his son's forehead. For Manson it was surreal and not the first time it had happened, not by a long way, and he had no doubt it wouldn't be the last either. Unable to move, paralysed, with even the tiniest of his muscles incapable of operating as they should, getting shallower with every second that passed, his breathing slowed. There was no pain, just the frightening prospect of his father not letting him go. Soon, he wouldn't be able to pull any air into his lungs, his vision would start to blur and things would go very badly. Briefly he wondered just how far his father would go this time, just to get his point over.
"YOU... don't speak to me like that! Understood?" Troydenn spat, knowing full well his son couldn't reply, even if he'd wanted to. "I don't want to hear about hold ups and delays. We need to get this done now. I've waited as long as I can for all of this. I don't care about your plans for the dragon domain and the rest of the planet. I just want him to PAY! I want to hear him scream, shout and beg for forgiveness. I want to take him to the very edge of death and then bring him back, over and over again. HE MUST PAY! AND IT MUST BE DONE SOON!"
Having heard the words, how could he not? But it was becoming hard to focus now, and he felt as though he were drowning. It was odd. A pervasive black had started to invade the edge of his vision, moving ever closer to the centre with every moment that passed. Wanting to close his eyes, shake the vision of that fearful face which sat right in front of him, he didn't. Having done so once before, he'd paid a frightful price that time, upon waking up. So, willing his eyes to stay open, he looked straight ahead, for as long as he could before the blackness finally took him.
5 Debt Collector
Preceding the opening of its see-your-own-reflection shiny doors, the shrill 'ding' of the lift started him out of his reverie. Quickly adjusting his tie and posture, he stood up straight, shoulders as far back as they would go. Before the doors had withdrawn fully, he stepped through the gap, feeling the luxurious, thick carpet beneath the soles of his brown suede shoes. Nodding to the secretary on the way past, knowing that she was more than just that, he did all he could to hide the nervousness he felt from her as she flashed him a sparkling smile.
'Oh how things have changed,' he mused, walking up to Garrett's office door, that nervous feeling weighing heavy on his mind, given that once again he was about to have to lie to his boss. Sometimes it seemed as though each lie tore off a tiny piece of him, never to be seen again. Knocking twice in quick succession, a voice from within uttered,
"Come."
Entering, he sat down in the chair that Garrett proffered.
"Peter my boy, how are you?" his boss asked cheerfully.
"Fine thank you si... Al," he replied, remembering both Garrett's and Paul Simon's advice.
Leaning forward, the owner's expression changed from cheerful to concerned.
"Your request to meet sounded urgent. There's nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Uhhh... no, no, well... kind of," he stumbled. "It's just that I wanted to let you know about... uh... Richie Rump. She... uh... works in the training department."
"Mr Bentwhistle," announced Garrett formally, "am I to believe that you think I don't know the names of all the people in every single country throughout the world that this company employs?"
'Of course he knows their names. That's just him... isn't it?' Peter chastised himself.
"From the directors to the janitors, the scientists to the grounds staff, the engineers to the lorry drivers, both full time and temporary staff, I make it my place to know their names, more so now than I ever used to. And I used to," announced Garrett, a little miffed. "I know who Miss Rump is, and indeed how close the two of YOU are," he added.
'Of course he does,' he thought, shaking his head. A tiny voice deep inside him was currently screaming, "Stupid, stupid, stupid," over and over again. He tried to ignore it.
"Please... you were telling me about Miss Rump," Garrett continued.
Swallowing nervously... he was having trouble with this as it was... not with the Richie part of things, but the next bit. Hoping he could go through with it when the time came, he turned back to the matter at hand.
"I just wanted you to know that she won't be able to return to work for a few weeks. She's been really badly hurt and is currently in hospital."
This took Garrett aback.
"How?" he asked.
"The explosion at the sports club, the one that's been all over the papers. She was caught up in it."
"But I thought everyone got out safely, and that there were no casualties," exclaimed the 'bald eagle'.
"That's how it appeared at first, but apparently she was caught in the periphery of the blast, something that with all the confusion surrounding it, wasn't realised until much later.
"Is she badly hurt?"
"She has some burns," answered Peter, "as well as some broken ribs, other broken bones and major bruising. While her injuries aren't life threatening, she does seem to have been very badly roughed up."
"I see," said Garrett, a faraway look in his eyes. "What can I do?" he asked. "I can have the finest doctors in the land at her bedside in hours. They'd know what to do. We can have her moved to a private hospital, with the finest treatment. Money's no object."
More than a little taken aback by the very generous offer, he shouldn't really have been surprised given Garrett's caring disposition both before, and more so after, the whole incident with the dragon Manson. The offer he'd just made would almost certainly apply to every single one of his staff.
"That's really not necessary Al," remarked Peter, remembering. "She just needs some time to recover, and in her own words, she's getting wonderful treatment and care."
Garrett nodded.
"Then I'll pay her a visit and see if there's anything else she needs."
Afraid this would happen, although she'd been moved to a different ward, he was pretty sure the dragons keeping an eye on Richie at the hospital would be deeply disappointed to have Garrett sniffing around.
"I'm pretty sure she would rather not have any visitors," he stated. "She's rather embarrassed about the whole thing, and ashamed that she's having to miss work. On that score, she's also worried about her workload. There are a couple of important training courses that she's supposed to be running next week, and she's concerned about someone else taking over."
Garrett nodded thoughtfully.
"So... it's probably better if I don't go and you just pass on our get well wishes," he said diplomatically.
"That's pretty much how I see it."
"Okay. Tell her I'll make sure her courses are covered and that she's not to rush back. In fact, tell her that she's barred from the building for at least three weeks. That should do it, shouldn't it?"
Peter smiled.
"That would be great."
"Thanks for letting me know."
"You're welcome," he replied, staying in his chair, despite Garrett expecting him to stand up.
"Is there something else I can do for you?" Garrett asked.
Swallowing nervously, Peter had never envisaged being here, asking about this. For all intents and purposes, he'd forgotten about the whole thing. But as things stood with the situatio
n at the sports club, he figured it was worth a shot. I mean, what exactly was the worst thing that could happen?
Garrett's short, sharp cough startled Peter back to the present.
"Ummm... I was wondering about the... about the conversation we had some time ago."
Scratching his chin, Garrett tried to recollect, eventually shaking his head.
"You're going to have to be a little more specific I'm afraid."
This was tearing him apart, not least because he hadn't really wanted to revisit all of this, finding it more than a little embarrassing, wondering if his employer had forgotten all about it, or even whether it had been a genuine offer in the first place. But from what little he knew, the sports club was in serious trouble, and he felt obliged, and simply wanted, to help them out if he could. So he just came out with it.
"You said some time ago that you owed me a debt, because of all that business with Manson, and saving the laminium, you offered me all sorts of rewards. I was wondering if the offer still stood?"
Running his thumb and forefinger through his bushy moustache, Cropptech's owner pondered his young charge's question. Surprised that the boy had come in to ask, he assumed it must be something important, resolving to hear him out.
"I'm certainly willing to listen to what you have to say. Whether I can promise you what you want, well, until I've heard you out, I just won't know."
Pleased that he'd got this far, Peter nodded.
"You see I play hockey at the weekends, at the sports club, the one that was destroyed in the explosion, the one that Richie got caught up in."
Garrett nodded, urging the young man to continue, fully aware of all this, just as he knew the young lady, Miss Rump, played lacrosse there, as well as a good number of his other employees, in one form or another.
"With the clubhouse obliterated, it has now come to light that the insurance policy covering everything at the club has long since been cancelled. How that's happened, I have absolutely no idea. What I do know is that the sports club and the individual clubs that make it up, are a very long way off having the funds to even begin to contemplate a rebuilding effort. I was hoping that you might consider helping out, in any way possible. I know it's asking a lot, and truth be told, in no way do I feel I need rewarding for what happened with Manson and all the laminium. But you did offer, and you did say at the time that if I ever thought of anything in the future then I should just ask. Well, this is me just asking."
And with that, he sat back in the chair, not having realised he'd moved further and further forward, letting out a huge sigh of relief.
Scribbling on the jotter that was on his table, Garrett dared not look Peter in the eye. Although surprised at the youngster coming in and making the request, he wasn't shocked that the request itself wasn't really for him. Part of him found it intriguing that the youngster didn't want money, or a house and was desperate to find out what sort of person would turn down that kind of offer, and indeed, learn a lot more about them. But in his mind, it did at least confirm that he was indeed exactly the right person to be in charge of security of not only this facility, but of all the Cropptech sites across the entire globe. Inside he smiled.
"While I cannot promise to help until I know a little more, I will certainly look into it and see what I can do. Is that okay?"
Peter smiled in approval.
"That's all I ask si... Al."
"Well, if there's nothing else?"
Rising to his feet, Peter said, "Thank you," and left quietly, closing the door behind him on the walk back towards the lift. Glad that was over, he was off to see if he had a spare shirt in his office, as the one he was currently wearing was now wetter than a dad bathing his baby.
6 The Mourning After The Week Before
The time had come to stop. Take a breath. Get some kind of perspective on the horrendous events of the last seven days. Injuries insurmountable, the loss of life had been catastrophic. Infrastructure had been ruined and would undoubtedly take years to reach its previous levels, despite the tireless work by dragons across the globe, most in teams, most exhausting their supply of mana on a daily basis.
'It could have been worse,' was what most ordinary dragons were thinking. It could have been much worse. Regardless of their efforts, the monorail was still severely crippled in places, hampering rescue and recovery efforts, in spite of seven whole days passing. They'd done as much as was dragonly possible, and now it was time for a pause, a lull in proceedings. Time to remember those lost, both human and dragon alike.
So they'd come together, a gathering like none before it in the history of their race, every single one of them donning a cloak of some sort, many colourful, a few... not so much. Even the King's Guard, of which there were many, given that the terrorists were still at large, each wore a cloak, looking mighty odd in some cases. For the entire underground community, it was the ultimate form of remembrance. Days earlier protesters had pounded the streets, complaining about the mass of bodies filling the Bereavement Grottos, all at the same time. But that decision had already been made by the council and backtracking wasn't something it was renowned for, so nearly every dragon on the planet came together, showing unity for their kind, the council, and ultimately their king, in this, the most trying of times.
And so it was, on this early morning, that each and every dragon spread across the earth made their way to the nearest Bereavement Grotto, or one of the specially assigned mourning areas that had been set up in town and city centres, market places, parks and historically significant sites. From London and Purbeck, to New York and Sydney. From Rio to Calcutta, from Auckland to Oslo. Each designated site had one thing in common... a huge LCD screen. All across the globe, dragons garbed in cloaks congregated, showing their solidarity not only with one another, but with the humans as well. With anything from hundreds to tens of thousands gathered at each location it was, as you might well expect, a very sombre occasion. Almost silent for the most part, even the dragons that knew one another only really offered each other a nod of recognition. That is until exactly 10.45 GMT, when the giant screens burst into life after a momentary fizzle of static, the face on the screen instantly recognisable, stirring emotions like no other could. Not one amongst them (apart from the pretenders within) would not lay down their life for him in a heartbeat. Honourable, courageous, fair-minded and an excellent leader, were just a few of the many terms used to describe him as far as those watching were concerned. Having led them for decades now, on an enlightened course, with barely a blip along the way, they knew he must be suffering, but they had no idea just how much. Across the silent spaces, his powerful yet compassionate voice rang out.
"Seven days ago, the world changed. The very nature of this planet changed. It wasn't predicted or forecast. No one either here or above had a clue what was coming. But come it did. As your king, the responsibility for defending not only our realm, but that of the humans above... falls to me. It was I, who let you down. It was I, who should have been aware of the threat. And let me assure you now, the burden of this failure will live strong in me for the rest of my life."
There was a long pause while the king just stared silently into the camera, almost as if taking the measure of each and every dragon out there.
7 The Mark Of True Evil
Strangely, the underground world which the dragons inhabited wasn't quite the idyllic realm that most liked to think. Much like its counterpart on the surface, it had its fair share of squalor and deeply shady depths. In one of those depths, in a run down, long since forgotten about suburb of London, beings that didn't belong, outsiders, were up to no good.
Through a heavy, metal, rusting, side door, a steady stream of nagas slithered into the dark, abandoned building. A cowled human form stood silently at the front next to an authoritative looking naga who was overseeing operations. As the shop floor of what had previously been a thriving laminium ball merchandise factory, which had moved on to bigger and better premises, filled up with many hundreds
of nagas, an overpowering smell of decaying fish pervaded every last part of the run down building. Only when all the available space had been filled did the naga in charge speak.
"You know why we're all here. The debt to our captured king must be honoured if he is to be free again. It won't be long before we can leave all of this and return to the cold solitude of the waters we call our own. Until then, we have instructions to follow, a mission to help accomplish. You are here to swear a magical oath to the future leader of not only the cursed dragons, but of the entire planet itself. When this has come to pass, you will be released from your bond, any obligations forgotten. You will now repeat the chant."
At that, every naga made themselves that bit straighter, that bit taller, in anticipation of what was to come.
Drawing back his cowl, the human shape that had stood unmoving at the front revealed a scarred and disfigured face. Humans, or even dragons, would have gasped, that's how bad it was. But it made no difference to the nagas; they cared not for aesthetics of any kind. Intricately moving his fingers while at the same time weaving his hands out in front of him, he began to recite the chant.