The First Penitatas
Chapter 35 – Kingsball

To many on Taviksaad, the Kingsball Grand Stadium was the true capital of the world. It was a product of off-world money, built a decade ago by those who desperately wished for this new sport to take the Kyyreni species by storm. On Taviksaad, it had found its following.

The stadium's seating was split into four equally sized partitions, colour coded to match the primary teams: Reds, Blues, Greens and Golds. These were the only 'official' teams – all others played for the rare and fleeting privilege of wearing those colours on the field. In recent years, lesser teams had formed: the Silvers being the first of them, followed by the Purples. This year, the crowds that filled the stadium noticed that eight flagpoles stood along the north-east edge of the pitch. That alone was enough to whip them into a frenzy unrivalled at any event before.
“Eight teams!” Alif squealed from his seat in the stands, which his backside had scarcely touched since arriving. “Oskar Steelhand's team is bound to be playing in the tournament this year!”
Beside the gleeful child, Udum and his wife were far less animated. Ever the teacher, Udum placed a black-furred paw on the back of Alif's head and pointed out, “more teams implies more competition. Oskar's team are seasoned, but some would argue past their prime.”
“But they've finished second more than any other!” Alif protested, compelled by tribal loyalty to defend the honour of his heroes.
“And the Reds under Van son of Ban are one win away from a record victory streak. I don't begrudge you taking joy from all this, I merely urge you to temper your wild enthusiasm, lest fate leave you heartbroken.”
Before Alif could react to his master's words, a great roar snapped the boy's focus to the field. “Oskar!” he cried, but his little voice was drowned by the other Blues all around him.
Oskar Steelhand, perhaps the greatest lancer on Taviksaad, led the Blues out onto the field. Behind him was the team's second lancer, followed by the four linesmen and three wardens. They arrayed themselves on the clash, proudly sporting their bright blue shirts and black shorts. Once they were arrayed at attention the second team emerged wearing white shirts and blue shorts. These were a team of young, hungry men led by a hulking brute known as 'The Wall'. Last season he had played for the Golds and earned his nickname. This year, he aspired to command a team of his own. The Wall had already crushed his former team, breaking the leg of his previous captain in the process. The fans in the Gold seats were backing their ex-player to the hilt, perhaps hoping he'd destroy the Blues before the tourney proper and end Oskar's dreams forever.
With the teams arrayed against each other, the captains stepped forward and clasped arms in a sign of friendship. Then they broke away and took their starting places. The field was squashed octagon, almost but not quite rectangular; the clash marked the halfway point, with a circle in the middle designating the exclusion zone. The linesmen could start anywhere outside of that circle. Each side of the field contained a strip of turf known as a flanking zone, marked by a white line, and a lancer started in each of these. The wardens all spread out in the rear half of their own side.
The referees took their places, cameras panned around in readiness for the starting rush, and the screens around the arena top lit up to show the oval ball being placed with care in the exact centre of the pitch. With officials safely out of the way, a whistle was blown. Once, twice, thrice.
On the third blow, the game began.

Inside the Sinking Light, roars of outrage echoed off the walls at the gross injustice on the screen. The challengers had secured the ball and passed it backward, trying to work it out to the flank. The linesman carrying it had darted forward, only to find Oskar coming right at him. He jinked, braced, and slammed clean into the older player. Both men dropped, but the younger challenger was slippery; he flicked himself up and away, ignoring his lancer's call for the ball and powering on himself. That was not the problem – the anger came from the fact he was in the flanking zone when he crossed into the Blues half of the pitch, a blatant foul! Yet the game went on, and the young charger had shouldered his way past the Blue wardens to score.
“Unbelievable!” Bast cried in dismay. The Enforcer-Captain was wearing a Blues flag like a cloak. Apparently unaware the referees could not hear him through the screen he added, “You shit-head refs need to open your fucking eyes!”
“That is some bullshit,” Kadan agreed. He wasn't wearing any colours, but he was happy to go along with Bast's fanaticism. He caught movement in the corner of his vision and waved a girl over. “If there's any scotch left, bring a bottle. Otherwise, any good spirit. Charge the Guild.”
“Scotch?” Bast asked, intrigued by the alien name.
“The Lord Governor introduced me to it,” Kadan replied. “It has been suggested I should enjoy the perks of my station more than I do.”
The comment made Bast glow with joy, “By the Gods! Could it be that Kadan is finally happy about something? You have to tell me, man! Spill it all!”
“Oh fuck off and watch your game,” Kadan spat back, but Bast was unrelenting.
“Not a chance! You've been in a rut since the old man died, if not before. I worry, you know? I fret about that cloud you've got over your head. It's always been there, but the past few years it got darker and stormier.”
“I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't talk about my dark and stormy clouds,” the Guildmaster replied with an irritable flick of his tail.
“Only because I thought you'd bite my head off if I brought it up! If you can't be open with me, who can you talk to?” Bast pressed, his tone clearly pleading for a confession.
The scotch arrived in the nick of time, and Kadan filled his glass to the brim with it. The alien alcohol was knocked back with shocking speed. As the glass thudded back onto the table, Kadan said, “Fine, you want a heart to heart with me? The truth is I'm lost, Bast, and Skal's to blame. I really care about that boy; I worry over him, the way I wish my own parents had worried over me. But he does things that make me lose my temper, and then I thrash his hide raw and I feel fucking awful for it afterwards. I can't help it. I haven't told anyone this, but I was with the Lord Governor when we took back the Broadcast Guild building. I saw him rip a man apart, pulling off limbs with his bare hands thanks to that power armour he had. I wished I was him. In that moment, I wished I was the one who could pull a man's arms and legs off as easy as snapping a pencil, but something in me... it was as if my soul left my body, Bast, like I was looking at myself and that whole battle from outside of it all. I had this moment of perfect clarity... and I didn't like the man I saw.”
“The Lord-Governor?”
“Me, Bast. I think I saw myself how others see me for the first time in my life, and I hated it.”
“Fuck,” Bast sighed. He went to rub his eyes but noticed in time the flecks of alcohol on his fur, and thought better of it. “I don't know what to tell you. I wish I did, really I do, but...”
“I don't expect you to have answers for me, Bast. It's fine though. Just saying that out loud has taken a weight off, and you getting another round in will help even more.”
“That I can do!” Bast answered with relief, noting Kadan's newfound smile. The captain failed to spot that it didn't reach the eyes, and it faded as soon as his back was turned.

Administrator Emyl had come to the Pennys an hour before lunch to remind them, painfully, that being a penitatas involved punishment. The pair had taken shelter in Kadan's bedroom while the upstairs was being cleaned and tidied, their location and lack of toys prompting a bit of rough play. They initially feared their wrestling, and the associated shrieks and barks had been what brought about the belting Emyl gave them, but the young female was quick to correct that assumption. This was 'unearned', as penitatas often called it; a punishment they were getting because of their sentence, not because of present behaviour.
Skal had done his best to put on a brave face throughout. It seemed there was a growing circle of participants when it came to his corporal punishments, and he was not fond of that. Emyl had him strip down to bare fur and rest his weight upon the bed for the belting. The thwap of the brown leather strap against his rear made Sam wince in the corner of his vision as Skal grit his teeth against the sting. The second strike sent a tremble through his jaw and foot-paws alike; the third, delivered sloppily, snapped against his rear at a slight angle to bite more than thud. The Kyyreni boy's left leg twitched up and off the floor as he yelped in pain. “S-sorry,” he mumbled, though Emyl didn't seem to mind his behaviour. Once settled again, he took the rest of his swats without major disruption, although he was red-eyed by the end and whimpering as childishly as anyone would expect, and his left leg jiggled of its own accord.
When it was over, he shuffled up onto the bed and lay with his feet on the pillows so he could hold Sam's paws and support her. The Penny girl didn't take her belting as well as he did, tearing up much sooner, and openly sobbing after the fifth smack. Emyl had to hold Sam's tail to keep it out of the way as she finished, and when released the offending appendage swung down sharply in a futile attempt to regain some modesty.
“Alright, it's all done,” Emyl assured them both. “Why don't you two crawl into bed and take a nap? Someone will come get you when it's time to eat.”
The pair obeyed without argument. Cuddling under soft sheets helped to forget the ache under their tails, so much so that Skal actually managed to sleep, however briefly. Kas jostled him awake, and as the boy rolled out of bed his stomach reminded him, loudly, how long ago breakfast had been. “Wakey-wakey!” the medicalos sang. He tugged on his Reds sash and added, “if you get a move on we can catch round two of the games!” 
Skal looked down at his feet, then scanned the rest of the floor in search of his shorts before remembering he'd left them on the other side of the bed. Walking back around took him past a corner table, where he briefly stopped to examine the box in pride of place. It was a jewel-case topped with clear plastic, with his mother's life-ring inside upon a purple cushion. He hadn't put it on today, nor did he recall wearing it yesterday. The revelation left him with a sudden pang of guilt, and he hastily donned the memento once more. The soft thud of iron against his heart felt briefly unusual after its unintentional absence.
“Before we all die of old age, Skal!” Kas shouted from the doorway, prompting the Penny boy to hurry up and get his shorts back on. He squirmed into his shirt while they walked to the dining room. “You missed one hell of a match while you were sleeping, by the way - Oskar Steelhand's team won their match a whopping 4-1!”
“Woah, that's a hell of a score!” the boy answered as he fished his cutlery set out of its usual hiding place.
“Damn right! But the best part was when he faced off against The Wall! After the challengers scored they kept dumping the ball out of play, so the Blues got a penalty start. They flick straight to Oskar, who drives down the flank. Next thing you know he's spinning around and whoosh!” Kas hurled an invisible ball down the landing, “He bombs it right into their own half! warden Rokkr catches it, flicks to Van, who gets smashed to the ground on the midway line! Kad recovers and flicks it back to Rokker, who arcs the ball and hurls it with all his might down the field... right at The Wall!”
“Wait, he threw it at the other team?”
Kas nodded manically, “dead on, like he was passing to the guy! But then Oskar comes in like the vengeance of the Gods and leaps for the ball as The Wall's reaching out... BAM! You could hear his jaw break! The Wall goes down with Oskar on top of him, ball clutched to his heart, then he bounces up and he's planting a point before anyone else can touch his tail! The whole stadium's going mental – you probably heard us cheering downstairs – and then the camera panned to The Wall, who's still down. Next thing he's got first-aiders all around him. They carried him off on a stretcher! Well, that was it really; his team just couldn't come back from losing their captain.”
“Is he out for good?” Sam asked as they passed into the bustling eating area. With the Correctors building expanding, both threw the growth in Corrector staff and Kadan's presence as Guildmaster, a proper, professional catering service had been required. The trio joined the queue, waiting their turn behind a line of female accountants and administrators.
Kas shrugged at Sam's question. “No idea, but he's probably not playing any games this season. After a defeat like that, their hopes of placing are dead and gone.”
The day's choices were far from inspiring; Skal settled for a white-meat main meal that came with a hot orange sauce to mask the blandness, with a side of strongly-scented vegetables and black sausage. He topped his meal off with a roll of blood bread. The dark, sour loaf provided a nice contrast to the sweetened sauce.
The three rejuves found a table by the far wall. Someone had hung a poster up there, displaying a bottle of water and the message 'Stay alert. Stay awake. Hydrate!', which some daring soul had appended with the alternate slogan 'Drink beer. Get shit-faced!'. Kas, who had gotten his meal first, also fetched some plastic cups and a jug of water for the table. The water had bits of fruit in it and tasted pleasantly of citrus.
“Who's playing next?” Skal asked between sloppy mouthfuls of bread and strips of meat.
The question made Kas grin eagerly. “It's our lot - The Sergeant! He's a former man of the Guild, as is the woman on his team. Naturally, they want to be the Black team.”
The mention of a woman on the team caught Skal's attention. There was no rule that said women couldn't play Kingsball, but few ever did. It was a violent game after all; females tended to favour sports where contact was frowned upon. Women were expected to pursue careers that required intelligence, mental flexibility and a good memory, and Kingsball handed out concussions as consolation prizes – somewhat hindering their career opportunities once their days on the turf came to an end.
Fed and watered, Kas suggested they find a good seat in the break room. Competition for seats was fierce, but it was easy enough for three rejuves to find a spot at the front, settling on the floor with stolen cushions for comfort. The entire room had been rearranged to provide excellent views of the largest screen on which the events of the City stadium were broadcast. Most of the females were sat farthest from the door, with males closest. In each group, those who wore team colours tended to have staked out the best seats, although a pair of Silvers had bracketed the drinks trolley with military precision.
To Skal's great surprise, Corrector-Captain Haal walked in scant minutes before the game began. He sported a fan sash and broad cap that were both slightly too large for him, each of which had the phrase 'I back the Blacks' sewn in. “Didn't take you for the sporting type,” Skal said with a grin.
Haal stiffened subtly, as he often did when confronted with one of the many things that fell outside of his comfort zone. “The Guild has sponsored a team, Prospect, it would send entirely the wrong message not to show solidarity with them.”
Kas snorted at the answer, “I bet Bast isn't! He'll be shit-faced now that his beloved Blues are safe!”
The rejuve'd captain made a vaguely uncomfortable noise from the back of his throat. More fans were arriving – Torn and Emyr, both without obvious allegiance. The latter carried what looked promisingly like a glass bottle of milk, in which little flecks of spice drifted. There were plastic cups stacked and balanced over the bottle-top. Haal accepted the bottle and carried with with care over to the trio. “I'm not really a follower of sporting events, but I would like to try. I thought a small gratuity would be appropriate.”
“Ooh! Captain, I could kiss you!” Kas giggled as he set himself the task of pouring out the drinks.
“I would rather you didn't. Also, your measures are overly large,” Haal protested.
“Yeah, but we can only enjoy this little mixer for a few more years, right? Three, four at most? You'll miss it when it's gone, so glug while you can!”
Haal took the bottle back as the last cup was filled, “I will pour the measures from now on.”
Skal couldn't help but grin. The silly bickering and full belly had put him in a good mood, but a comfortable seat with friends and some spirited spiced milk sweetened the deal. He turned his eyes to the screen as someone turned up the volume, and the throaty cheers of the distant stadium filled his ears.

The two teams stepped out onto the field – Sergeant's team in black shirts and white shorts, their opponent's reversed. All eyes were on the Sergeant in the break room, with fans of all stripes cheering for him. The woman on the team, who had been christened 'Numbers', received almost equal support, though Sam seemed especially eager to see her succeed.
As ever, the match was fast and frantic from the very start. Both teams had it all to play for, and the next forty minutes would decide their fates for years to come. The challengers in white began strong, but couldn't break the black defenders – time and again they were driven to ground, beaten back, and the ball either forced out of play or brought to ground too many times. “Are we stalling?” asked one of the Correctors. She wore a Golds sash proudly.
The match was half over when the Sergeant's team finally made their move. Another attack was blunted, and the ball was wild. Numbers found it and bolted for the edge of the pitch, jinking past her lancer and running as though the Shepherd were at her tail. The noise from the stadium was unreal as opposing players frantically fell back or came forward, desperate to lock her in and force her off-side or out of play. At the very last second the flicked her tail to shift balance and jinked back out of the wide zone as she crossed the line of clash. There was an opposing lancer waiting for her, but as the two met the Sergeant came barrelling in. The force of both ex-Guilders slamming into the same opponent sent him sprawling, and with the grace of a dancer, Numbers vaulted over him. The howls of the watching Enforcers threatened to shake the screen off the wall.
Sergeant jinked left, Numbers right. She feigned a dump-off and duped a would-be tackler, leaving him in the dirt, then bolted off again. Sergeant fell into step, half a pace behind and three arm lengths away, ready for the ball. His eyes were locked forward, but his right ear was turned toward her, listening for the tell.
An opposing warden was ahead. Others were closing, but they had no hope of stopping Sergeant – it was down to the man ahead. If he went for Sergeant, Numbers had a chance to sprint for the point. If he went for Numbers, and she dumped, Sergeant could walk it home.
Numbers planted her foot, and stumbled. It was barely anything, just a tiny drop in speed, but it ended the drive – Sergeant was now ahead of her, and she couldn't pass forward in the opposing half. She tucked in and braced for impact as the opposing player smashed into her, and both went sprawling. She desperately tried to keep the ball, but it slipped from her grasp and went off ahead of her, toward the Sergeant. He went for it, grabbing it off the bounce, and the shriek of a referee's whistle broke the heart of every Enforcer. “Foul play – forward pass!” the referee proclaimed.
“Gods damn it!” Kas howled in an act of shameless blasphemy. “What happened? All she had to do was pass!”
“She tripped on something,” Sam insisted, pointing to the replay for emphasis.
Skal gave a disappointed sigh of his own. “It would have been such a damn good play as well.”
The minutes ticked on. With ten to go, the Sergeant's team let a player slip through due to a painful error, costing them a linesman in the process. As he limped off and the substitute jogged up, hope began to fade. The very next play swung all that around – the substitute scored control of the ball and passed to Numbers, who tore clean through the opposing team and went straight for the line. The opposing wardens were totally flat-footed, and barely responded in time. Just as they lined up for the tackle, Numbers effortlessly flicked the ball out sideways – a backward pass by the slimmest of angles, and Sergeant took it. Everyone present tensed, expecting a referee's whistle, but none came. Sergeant scored to finish a drive drive for the ages; snap to score in under twenty seconds. “Did you see that?” Kas shrieked, leaping up and down with manic glee at the sudden snap of fortune. He was so enthralled he demanded Haal surrender his hat, which he wore proudly for the remaining minutes of the game.
The four rejuves had topped up their drinks, with Kas' placed a safe distance away in case of more manic reactions, but none could touch them as that required looking away from the screen. Play after play came and was thwarted, momentum swinging back and forth as both teams pushed and were repelled. Every attempt was heart-stopping, and each got closer to success with every push.
Seconds remained on the clock as the final break was made. Sergeant slammed into the clash, crushing his shoulder into his opponent with such force he cartwheeled overhead. He grabbed the ball and brought it up like a weapon, smashing the jaw of another linesman and sending a tooth flying. Then he flung it backward, clear of the scrum. The ball was kept and passed back again to the waiting warden. It was going to be a passing play – and Numbers was the target.
She ran deep. Sweat poured from her brow as she drew upon every last ounce of strength and went for it. The ball sailed high, a glorious throw into empty field. She got a paw under it, but couldn't hold – it tumbled in the air for just a moment, then Numbers found purchase and tucked it to her chest. The clumsy catch had forced her to slow, but the gap she'd wanted remained. She ran, head down, tail flying out behind as a counterbalance. Two opponents closed from either side as she neared the line. The first grabbed at her, but she flicked her tail up out of his reach. The second dived for a full body tackle, and Numbers threw herself forward with arms outstretched to get as much reach as she could...
“She made it!” Sam cried, but even Skal barely heard her over the primal roar of triumph that shook the whole building.
“Wait!” Haal shouted. “Look at the screen! There is a match official on the pitch!”
The room quietened down as joy gave way to fear. The camera pulled up to look at one of the screens around the stadium as the image blurred into a digital overlay of the pitch. Field tracking cameras extrapolated the exact position of where the ball came to rest when Numbers hit the ground, filling in her outline as a shadow that began at her feet and finished at the topmost tip of the ball. She was short! By just two millimetres, she was short of the line!
A collective groan of pain filled the room as the screen returned to the pitch to show Numbers sat on the turf, weeping in frustration and fatigue. A draw did not necessarily put them out of the running, but it was most certainly enough to rob them of their prize – if they did compete, it would not be as the Blacks.

There was a queue for the toilets, so Kadan took to the alley. Through the warm haze of intoxication, the Guildmaster grinned to himself as a mischievous internal monologue justified his actions; it was a damn tradition to piss in the gutters! I did it all the time when Wall Ball was the game to go and see! A snicker escaped his muzzle at the memory. He was a lot younger then, with less aches and pains and far, far fewer responsibilities. Gods, but he missed being young sometimes!
He shook off the last droplets from his manhood and tucked himself back in, but didn't head inside straight away. He took out his communicator and punched in the call-code for captain Raan. The connecting chime played for much longer than Kadan was comfortable with, but eventually a familiar voice came through. “This is Raan”.
“Kadan here. Everything okay up there?”
“Just the usual hooligans. Red and Green fans have been going at each other like mortal enemies, a lot of them are injured but most of it's too minor to bother the paramedics.”
“I can get backup over there,” Kadan said, hoping to sound supportive.
Raan gave a soft snort over the line. “We've got it more than handled, Guildmaster. Enjoy the next match.”
Kadan ended the call. He didn't know the Daysider all that well as a person, but his reputation spoke for itself – a hard-working, proactive member of the Guild, with experience on the line and as part of the border security details. In the aftermath of the Terror, Raan had practically demanded a captaincy to help fill the void in the officer corps; he was the kind of man Kadan was going to need if the Guild were ever to recover.
The Guildmaster glanced down at his communicator and said to the sleeping screen, “I think I'm talking myself into making you Enforcer-General.”
As the little device was returned to its pouch, Kadan was gripped by a curious impulse. It pulled him further into the alley and through to the street beyond. Once there, assailed by the sights and sounds and smells of another set of eateries, bars and brothels, the Guildmaster took a few moments to gaze up at the wound in the dome above Vices. It had been expanded rather than sealed, seemingly to neaten the opening and properly secure the edges. Despite its use as an entrance and exit point having been forbidden by law, guidance lights had been installed along the edges of the wound to direct inbound traffic to enter from the north, and outbound to leave from the south. Kadan certainly couldn't fault that – if people were going to break the law, he's much rather they did it in ways that avoided mid-air collisions.
A tug on his tail snapped him back to reality. He'd snagged his tuft on a loose strap dangling from the long frock of a passing female. She span sharply on the heels of her shoes, a pendant of the Brewers Guild flapping around her neck from the sheer speed of the move. Her mouth was open to bark a curse before her eyes took in who it was she intended to insult, and she went from raging to demure in an eye-blink. Kadan waved away the apology and crossed the street, moving east. He still wasn't sure why.
A waft of steam hooked his attention with the smell of boiled meat. Kadan scooped a paper bowl of pink, floppy sausage meat with no regard to the three people waiting their turn, shouting to the vendor to bill the Guild. His snack was slimy and doubtless made of the cheapest off-cuts imaginable, but it was real meat – Kadan could tell that much, even through the haze of alcohol. The sausage was a special kind of awful that was impossible to accomplish by accident; within a minute of finishing them the mind forgot the reality of their taste and texture, somehow convincing itself the meal had been a pleasant and satisfying experience. He was going to get more on the way back.
Another alley opened up before him. Somewhere above a piece of wall-mounted machinery burped and popped. A lost Reds hat lay in a puddle of something acrid, and likely organic in origin. The street beyond had much less foot traffic, and had clear signs of disrepair; it had not been devastated by the Terror, being away from the wound and the various battle sites, but it was clear that the fever of Kingsball had not gripped this street. The next one over was even worse, and at last Kadan found what it was he was being drawn too.
The Doll House was now a burnt out shell of a building. When word got out of Lady Sin's arrest and her involvement with the Blighted Cult, vigilantes had torched her den of depravity. There had been lynchings too – of her staff, or of those suspected of being her clients. The child slaves had been scattered across various shelters and hospices; some had yet to be accounted for, but their bodies were never found. That had to be a good thing, surely?
From beneath the soft shroud of intoxication, a black shard of sober pessimism surfaced. Lady Sin, for all the evil she'd done, had been a known variable; the Doll House had drawn and kept worst of Vices in one place, and for all her many other faults she had run her establishment by the letter of the law. There would be another Doll House, if there wasn't already, but if that one chose to stay underground it could not be regulated – its slaves could not be protected.
Movement in the ruin drew Kadan's attention. A child slipped from behind a fire-blackened chunk of wall. All her visible fur was ashen, but the shape of her features told Kadan she was a Dawnsider, and he put her age at around eleven or twelve given she was shedding her cub-fur. The girl only wore a skirt, and emerged with her tail raised off to the side in the manner of a sex worker. When the child realised who and what Kadan was, she froze.
“Don't run,” he growled at her and took a step forward. She flinched away from him. “Don't. Run.” he said again, more forcefully this time, and made a point of waving toward the pistol on his hip. The child remained rooted to the spot after that.
Up close, Kadan saw more clearly the markings on the back of her paws. “A rejuve? What's your name?”
“Aydr, sir,” Aydr whimpered in reply.
“What are you doing here, Aydr?”
The girl sagged at the question, ears and tail flattening and muzzle hanging low. “What I have to to survive,” was her sorrowful answer.
“There are better ways,” Kadan answered, with all harshness drained from his voice. “You could sell yourself into indenturement.”
The suggestion made Aydr shiver. “We aren't willing to take that risk.”
“There are more of you here? Take me to them.”
Aydr looked momentarily startled, but complied. She wound her way through the skeletal remains of the Doll House, stepping over charred piles unidentifiable debris until reaching a section where a substantial chunk of the roof had fallen in to form the crudest of shelters. “In there?” Kadan asked, and Aydr nodded. “Bring them out.”
The girl knelt down and called in a trembling voice, “Leyl! Come out here, please?”
Another female emerged, this one grey-furred with a few freckles of brown across her muzzle. She was younger than Aydr, and wore the markings of a penitatas. “Are you a runaway?” Kadan asked the girl as she scrambled out of her hiding place.
“I bought her, back when I had money and a business,” Aydr answered. Her voice had found a little courage. “Leyl didn't want to go back into the system, so we stuck together.”
Kadan let out a huff that intoxication turned into a whinny. “This is exactly the kind of shit I do not want on a day off,” he bemoaned to the world in general. “I'm going to call in a car for you two, and you can spend some time in the cells.”
“We aren't going anywhere,” Aydr tried to protest, but Kadan wasn't having it.
“You are not giving me any shit, you little brat! You can be charged with trespass, or exploitation of a minor. Your choice!”
The rejuve relented, lowering her muzzle and letting her ears fold flat against her skull. Satisfied, Kadan called in a car to shuttle the pair to the cells and waited for the collection. By the time they had been detained, Kadan's pad was blaring in its pocket. He checked the messages, finding to no surprise that Bast was asking after him. “Relax you old bastard, I'm coming back,” Kadan sighed and sent a message to the same effect. The walk had meant to clear his head, but it had served only to darken his mood.

Hafn Tavik watched the closing seconds of the match through the vast, sloping window of the Royal Box. No expense had been spared in the construction of the viewing space; an intricate network of sensors and projectors ringed the reinforced glass, transforming the window into a multi-user interactive display. Hafn reached out with his left paw, his right being occupied by a glass of sweet, bubbly juice, and amber dots flickered into life on the glass in front of him. Through simple, intuitive twists of the wrist and flexing of the fingers he was able to zoom in on individual players. The glass directly behind the projection darkened, yet did so without sullying the viewing experience of the Kyyreni either side of him. He did not support either of the teams playing for the Blacks uniform, but seeing the ex-Enforcers comfort each other in grief tugged painfully at the heart. He sharply dismissed the image with a flick of the wrist and the window became just a window once more.
The Kyyreni boy turned to scan the rest of the room's occupants. Almost all were from House Vaskal, although a few members of other Houses were also in attendance. The youths, he noted, were all gathered in their own social circles that were as far from him as the room allowed. Hafn grimaced at the unwelcome observation and focused instead on the adults, noting quickly one conspicuous absence. “Isn't Lord Wokun joining us?” he asked.
Eskal, who had been subtly leaning on the handrail, turned his focus to the boy. “He is meeting with  Lord Bjol, so I doubt he will attend.”
“I thought we didn't like Lord Bjol?” Hafn's bluntness earned him a smack across the back of the head from his bodyguard, while Eskal settled for a disapproving scowl.
The battle-scarred Eskal turned his eyes back to the playing fields. “You support the Reds, yes? Who did you want to win during the Blues match?”
Hafn shrugged, “Didn't really care.”
“Wrong answer,” Eskal shot back. “Anyone who makes even a cursory study of the game would know that Oskar's team was the far greater threat to the Reds. The Blues now have a strong team yet again, and are in prime position to take the crown next season.”
“But they came second last season, then they lost the Favour match!” Hafn protested.
Eskal gave a smile that Hafn loathed. He'd seen it on Udum's face many a time; it was the grin of someone who knew far more than he did, and was pleased to gloat about it. “Perhaps Oskar threw that match? Losing the Favour meant that the Greens automatically qualified for next season, but half of that team have retired while Oskar's team is unchanged. If the Greens had lost, and that team were now competing for placement it would be a true test of their abilities. If found wanting, they would be replaced by a stronger team, and the Greens would go into the new season all the better for it. We are loyal to the flag, after all, and not the men who play under it.”
Hafn's brow furrowed as the studied the flagpoles below, as if they might give some clue as to the lesson Eskal wanted him to learn. “Wouldn't it have been bad for the Blues if Oskar lost?”
“Absolutely, but greatness is not achieved without risk. Oskar has played the meta-game well. That kind of thinking is essential in your future as well, Hafn Tavik.”
The use of his Name of Legend hammered home the importance of Eskal's statements. “So I should have backed The Wall?”
Another hateful smile formed on Eskal's muzzle. “Assume I am a Red and ask me about that game.”
“Okay... how do you feel about Oskar winning?”
“I think it is fair to say that Oskar Steelhand is one of the finest Kingsball players this world has ever seen, and he affirmed that excellence today. The Blues could not hope for a better team representing them in the season to come.” the honeyed words flowed easily from Eskal's maw.
“So... we should pretend to support people we don't?”
“Sometimes that is necessary,” Eskal confirmed. “The Lord Vaskal seeks to bring Bjol's rival into the City, which is a move Bjol will resist unless placated. The ring of challenge decides all matters, but it is always preferred to never go that far. At least, most see it that way; my brother was ever the exception.”
Hafn turned his attention back to the field, watching as half-naked dancers span and twirled to up-beat music. His lips moved soundlessly as he tried to work through the lesson Eskal sought to teach. His tail tucked against his legs instinctively as he risked a conclusion. “You think that I should be nice to people I don't like, right? But I don't have any enemies... except Skal.”
“You have more enemies than you will ever know,” Dekkr cut-in coldly, making the boy flinch.
Eskal, more kind in his tone, offered his own thoughts. “Skal is not your enemy, Hafn. Even if he were, it would be wise for you to seek good terms with him. He is the son of the Enforcers Guildmaster, after all, and Guildmaser Kadan is favoured by Lord Wokun. It reflects poorly on House Vaskal for you to carry a grudge against a member of that Guild.” After a moment's thought he added, “why not invite Skal to the flag ceremony?”
“Dekkr said I wasn't allowed to invite friends,” Hafn replied.
The bodyguard gave a harsh snort. “I said you couldn't invite the slut.”
“Friends get into fights, Hafn!” Eskal snapped, more to interrupt any further argument between Hafn and his bodyguard. “I spent most of my young life fighting with people who would have given their lives for me without a second thought. We'll invite Skal over, you'll enjoy the party together, and by the time you return to Ylari's classroom the pair of you will be fastest friends again. Trust me.”
“Fine,” Hafn relented, “I'll... send an invitation.”
“I will take care of it for you,” Eskal assured. “Enjoy the dancing girls.”
Hafn nodded, his eyes refocusing as instructed, though it was hard to enjoy the performance when he knew he was about to be thrust into an unwelcome, and extremely awkward social situation. “Sometimes I wish I wasn't a Tavik,” he mumbled to himself. The dismissive grunt from Dekkr suggested the bodyguard agreed. With little other choice, he got to practising what he would say when Skal arrived. 

With a House Vaskal guard leading the way, and both Ivaka and Administrator Emyl following along as chaperones, Skal, Sam, Kas and Ros made swift progress through the Kingsball stadium. The games were over, and as such it seemed every soul had chosen to fill themselves with as much food and drink as physically possible prior to the final pronouncements and the beginning of a new sporting season. The common thrall-classes were happy to crowd and push against each other, but they parted like water at the sight of nobility.
The doors to the viewing room opened, and as if it were scripted Lord-Governor Wokun was there to greet them with Hafn at his side. The Lord gave a faint smile as he addressed his Houseguard. “The Guildmaster is not joining us?”
The Kyyreni cleared his throat awkwardly, “No, Lord. He wished to remain at his own event.” This description left out the rather hostile expletives Kadan had used when told his attendance was demanded.
Wokun shrugged, “no matter. Hafn, why don't you find your friends a viewing spot? We have a few minutes yet before the event.”
The boy's smile was obviously forced when he focused on Skal, but became more organic towards Ros and Ivaka. “I'm glad you could come. I'll show you how to use the viewing window!”
“I'm sure these fine women would prefer not to be surrounded by rowdy children,” Eskal slipped in as gracefully as his war-wounds allowed, which was scarcely. He offered a paw to Ivaka and poured on the charm, “might I serve you a drink for a change?”
“I would love that,” Ivaka replied, her muzzle flush with excitement. “Ros, make sure you behave yourself!”
“Yes ma'am!” the boy shot back playfully, eager to join his friend. Even the looming presence of Dekkr couldn't dull the Penny's mood. In any case, the bodyguard's focus was entirely on Sam, whose displeasure at the attention was obvious to all.
Hafn took to explaining the functioning of the window's built-in display, but the laser focus of the lifeward made even him uncomfortable. “Is there something wrong, Dekkr?”
The augmented Kyyreni focused on Sam. “Show me those arms,” he grunted. He took Sam's artificial limb in his own, and the two could not be more different; Sam's limbs passed for organic from a distance, whereas Dekkr sported something more akin to industrial machinery. He carefully rolled her arm over and back, studying how the false-fur case flexed and shifted. “Good craftsmanship. Here I thought it was only Lord Wokun who obsessed over your Guild.” he let her arm drop and finally turned his focus elsewhere.
With the tension broken, Hafn could return to his pride of place as instructor in the wonders of high technology. He focused primarily on Ros, who in turn found both their host and Kas vying for his attentions. That left Skal and Sam mostly in each other's company, though pushed slightly to one side. If Sam was bothered at all by that she hid it expertly, content to indulge in everything from pulling up replays and informational feeds on her new favourite player, Numbers, to ordering a sugary fruit pastry to snack on.
The treat came along with a spattering of other food and drink items, delivered by a nude male slave who wore only cuffs and a blindfold. Hafn, glass of sparkling water in hand, gave Skal his full attention for the first time since the boy's arrival. “I think we should talk about our... falling out,” he offered awkwardly, glass hovering under his chin as he spoke so he could drink from it whenever he began to fumble for words.
Skal frowned, but held his tongue while Hafn struggled on. “I don't know what happened to you during the Terror. I know what I was told, but I'm starting to think...” he glanced over at Eskal, who was grinning with childish pride while Ivaka laughed at some awful joke or another. The noble boy steeled his jaw and continued, “I don't think I ever asked what happened to you that night. The Terror was the most frightening night of my life. Same for all of us, right? But you had it a hundred times worse than me, and I never even asked if you were okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a shit friend.”
The confession was like a warming balm, soothing away the lingering bitterness Skal had brought with him. It flowed softly through him, like a ripple of breath, flowing from ears to tail tips like a mother's brushing stroke. The Penny boy allowed himself a faint smile. “You know, after our fight, Udum told me something about you.” The mention of Udum made Hafn's ears prick. “He said you weren't worthy of your bloodline yet, but that I had a duty as your friend to help make you worthy to lead us all. I was jealous of you and what you've got now. I guess I'll always be jealous to some extent. But I honestly think Lyy is trying to use you, and that's why I lashed out.”
Hafn glanced at Dekkr, “Yeah, you're not the only one who doesn't like her,” he grumbled.
“I like her as a friend,” Skal added quickly, “but the moment she found out you were important she latched onto you like a leech! Can't you see how suspicious that is?”
“That's-” Hafn began, snarling defensively, but his expression flickered as Dekkr's artificial paw closed on his shoulder. The young scion of Tavik hesitated, casting his bodyguard and awkward look before huffing out some of his anger. “You're wrong, Skal,” he growled.
It was Ros' turn to place a paw on the boy. “I hate to hurt you, Hafn, but the way Lyy acted towards you before all this? She had no feelings for you. Take from someone who's been hurt.”
Sam offered her own insight. “I like Lyy as a friend, but she became a penitatas because she was a con artist. She'd pretend to fall in love with rich men, gain their trust, then run away with all she could carry.”
“You're lying,” Hafn croaked, his jaw trembling under the weight of what had been said.
Ros gave the boy a sympathetic look. “You know I don't want to hurt your feelings, but sometimes we need to hear hard truths. You'll get over her.”
“Oh yeah, you can get over alright!” Kas added with more enthusiasm than was appropriate. “You're nobility! You should-”
“Enough!” Ros barked, instantly putting an end to Kas' aggressive fantasies. He turned back to Hafn, calm and caring once more. “I think you should be honest with Lyy about this. Tell her how much you like her, and how much you want to be with her, but tell her you can't be anything more than friends. Make it clear you have to keep some distance from her, that you can't invite her to events or to the palace, or spend time with her outside of Udum's school. Make it House Vaskal that keeps you apart. If she really does value your friendship, she will accept that.”
The young Tavik tried to laugh, but it came out more as a shuddering breath. “When did you get so good with relationships?” he asked, fighting with every syllable not to fall apart and bawl like the heartbroken cub he clearly was.
Ros' ears gave a subtle twitch at the question. “I learned all this the hard way,” he answered. Though he spoke softly, it was clear he had no wish to expand on his answer. Kas, humbled and lesson learned, wordlessly took the boy's paw to offer comfort.

The pain of the moment faded soon after, eased as it was by the commencement of the final spectacle. All across the City, through screens or in person, Kyyreni and alien alike bore witness to the final flag ceremony. An announcer, so full of energy it came across as performative, drew in the spotlights as he bellowed out a swift recap of the games played out across the planet. Then came the teams. The Reds, their position guaranteed as last season's winners, were the first to line up in front of their banner. The noise from their fans was primordial, devolving into a series of overlapping and conflicting chants that made the specific words impossible to decipher, yet the underlying meaning was obvious.
Then there were the Greens, who like the Reds had not played during the tourney due to winning Favour. Their team had far more energy than the Reds, for as Eskal had observed many players were stepping onto the field in colours for the first time in their career. They knew the weight of expectations, and were eager to please. This passion of theirs was enhanced all the more by the fact that their team captain wore a subtle crest of House Vaskal, the team's sponsor.
For a Daysider penitatas in the stands, the third team was the most glorious of all. Led by Oskar Steelhand, the Blues took their place. Oskar broke away as his team formed up, jogging out into the open to blow exaggerated kisses to females and offer less intimate acknowledgements to males who caught his eye. Though Alif was far back in the stands, he was nevertheless convinced Oskar had pointed directly at him shortly before falling back into place. The boy wept from the overwhelming surge of emotion that imagined recognition caused.
The Usurper-Golds followed. Like the Greens they were mostly unproven players, yet their performance in the tourney had been the biggest upset of the whole event. Many a gambling den would be paying out on long odds wagers thanks to them.
The Silvers, Blacks and Purples all took their places, but for the penitatas guests watching with Hafn it was the last team who won the most adulation. The Browns emerged with The Sergeant at the head, his team having qualified for colours by a single point scored. The lesser teams received less furious applause and booming cheers than the main four, but for one girl in the royal box their presence was enough to make her a die-hard fan of the sport.
After the ceremony came the after party and the meeting of the teams; a short event, but one all rejuves involved were overjoyed to be part of. More memorable for both Hafn and Ros was the parting, for both boys saw Eskal planting a soft kiss on Ivaka's cheek. They all went home with high spirits, especially those who would be seeing each other again in Rejuve School soon after. By all accounts, the day had served its purpose; to reinvigorate and unify the people of Taviksaad, and to give them something to look forward to in the wake of the dark days still recent in memory. It had been a good day for all.

Epilogue

Aydr shivered in her cell, clinging tightly to Leyl for warmth and comfort. They hadn't eaten today, nor did anyone seem to consider bringing them sustenance to be an urgent task. Last time Aydr had been here it was on the other side of the very cage she now sat in, looking at a frightened, freshly rejuved cub of six. There was a very real chance she would also be six again soon. That thought terrified her.
The soft rap of bare footpaws drew her attention. A fellow rejuve was approaching; a Dawnsider male in an age-appropriate Enforcers Guild uniform. In the dim light, the girl relied on thermal sense to make out his features, which was enough to spark a flicker of familiarity, growing to full realisation as he stepped up to the bars. “Captain Haal?” she whispered.
“Corrector-Captain Haal,” the boy replied with a hint of awkwardness. “I remember you from the Play Room.”
“It's been a while since I had that business,” Aydr confessed.
“I see.” Haal clasped his paws behind his back to create an air of professionalism. “Then perhaps you should start at the beginning, and perhaps I can find some way to help you out of your current predicament.”