32
Tough As Steel
Clear liquid bubbled away inside a huge glass jar on a sterile white table. At the bottom of it lay half a dozen or so unrecognisable objects, looking like tiny black leaves which had been rescued from a forest fire. Where once they would have been flat, thick, strong and slightly pliable, the delicate objects were now curled right up, flimsy and thin. Unbelievably, they were scales... dragon scales! And they were the only ones remaining from the famous, heroic laminium ball playing dragon called... STEEL! Rescued by one of the on duty medics on that fateful day, he'd spotted them drifting on the surface of the furious bubbling lava, alongside the laminium ball star's broken and battered body. Recognising them for what they were, the quick thinking medic had scooped them up and immediately placed them in a sterile container, before helping to cart the barely living hero back to the medical centre. Now the scales remained locked away in this rarely visited room, part of a pioneering new experiment using new and untested mantras by the most eminent scientists from across the globe, under the direct orders of the king himself.
Two rooms down, in another deeply sterile room, what remained of the courageous laminium ball playing dragon clung limply onto life, his body a wreck, despite the ministrations of some of the best dragon physicians in the world. His scalded and burnt frame looked like the charred remains of an animal caught up in a burning building. Only the bones from the wing radius remained; the tissue from the wings themselves had disintegrated completely. Ribs were exposed and warped out of shape, as well as the caudal spade (the end of his tail that controls advanced aerobatics and in his case, used to hold and move the laminium ball) had been totally shattered and was missing. How he was clinging onto life was a mystery to all the medical staff. But somehow, against all odds... he was. And that was enough for now. All of them... surgeons, scientists, nurses, cleaners... were working around the clock, deep inside the secluded London medical facility that he'd been transferred to only days after the match. Things were looking bleak, bleaker than any of them had ever known. But they were buoyed and impressed with his desire to live and just hoped that they, like him, could live up to his name.
33
In Need of a King Sized Bed
Soft snoring echoed throughout the aisles in the single most magnificent library of its kind. Sitting slumped at a beautifully carved oak desk, situated in a tiny alcove off one of those aisles, the source's left hand was hanging limply down by his side, while his right hand had the slightest of grips on an exotic looking fountain pen made from brushed laminium, coloured blood red. Once a gift from an emissary to the current writer's predecessor, it had just finished writing the word 'urgent' on an expensive vellum sheet, nestled snugly on the table beneath tousled long grey strands of hair, before the writer had clearly dropped off, exhausted.
An hour or so later, he awoke with a start, the first thought running through his mind being exactly how terrible he felt. Sitting up, he dabbed at the drool that had spilt onto the vellum, with the sleeve of his robe. Rubbing his neck, it felt stiff, tense and knotted. Whispering a curse as he struggled to his feet, the muscles in his back and legs started to spasm. Casting the pain aside as a mere inconvenience, he picked up his precious pen and the beautifully crafted piece of vellum and headed for the nearest staircase. Reaching the ground floor, he headed on through to his private residence, briefly considering seeking out his bed. But there was too much to do, doubly so since that dreadful explosion at the laminium ball match. Since then he'd hardly had any sleep, hence his little visit to the land of nod, in the middle of replying to important correspondence.
Entering the expansive kitchen, he flicked the switch on the coffee machine and waited patiently for the caffeine boost that he so desperately needed. Despite everything on his mind, his thoughts turned to one bright light, the one being in all of this he was convinced he could trust... Flash! Despite his rather unfortunate human shaped condition, the ex-Crimson Guard had proved his worth many times over; in the brief time he'd been investigating the stadium bombing, he'd achieved more than the King's and Crimson Guards put together. With the apparent vote rigging, and now this, the world seemed to have turned on its head. Having Flash metaphorically by his side gave the king hope, hope for the future, hope that whatever evil was being perpetrated, it could be summarily defeated and banished for good.
Swigging some of the very strong coffee, he brushed his wavy, grey hair back behind his ears and ran through the list of things he had to do in his head, a list that got longer as each hour passed. Deep down inside he longed for the day when the list was but a distant memory, when he could saunter out amongst other dragons, and experience life as it should be.
34
Whistle While You Work
Brilliant bright sunshine set against the backdrop of a stunning blue sky, reflected every which way off the windscreen on his rather happy drive to work. For the most part, he liked being behind the wheel, often thinking that if he couldn't do the job he was in, he would have liked to have done something that involved driving. Not anything big, like container lorries or large vans, mind you. Just something that meant he could chauffeur a nice car around. On occasion, he'd found himself chatting to the engineer who regularly visited his office to repair and maintain his printer. From the man's description, it sounded like his job would suit Peter down to the ground: a company car, all that driving, not necessarily being your own boss, but being left to your own devices and able to use your own initiative. He could just see himself cruising along the motorway on a hot summer's day, window down, blazing hot sun warming the skin on his arm as it hung effortlessly out of the window, radio tuned to his favourite station.
Daydream slipping away as he flicked the indicator down to signal a right turn into Cropptech's main entrance, his smile remained as he gently applied the car's brakes, stopping directly in front of the red and white striped barrier. As a burly guard stepped forward, Peter fumbled with one hand for the security pass that had gotten tangled around his neck, while winding down the window with the other. By the time he'd completed those two relatively simple operations, a large grinning head much the same size as a basketball, loomed into view.
"Must be quite tricky, a man of your position, multitasking," stated a very formal voice, noticing Peter's lack of dexterity.
Fingers flapping about in a panic, Peter gazed up at his would be inquisitor... and let out a low chuckle.
"Fancy you being out here this morning. Aren't you supposed to be on toilet cleaning duty?" he replied, trying to remain as deadpan as possible.
"Nope! Checked all the toilets earlier. The cling film's all in position as it should be."
Covering his windscreen with spittle, Peter burst out laughing. The 'cling-film-on-the-toilet' trick was a renowned hockey player prank, as he'd found to his cost at a house party to which he'd been invited on first joining the hockey club, and he'd been on his guard at parties ever since. At least he'd managed to laugh about it... eventually. On one lonely nightshift that he'd helped to cover, that story and a few others, had come out, with his colleagues finding the whole incident hilarious, and not a week passed when it wasn't mentioned in some way, shape or form, particularly by the individual now leaning halfway through the car window, Peter's friend... OWEN!