'Let me guess,' he mused, pulling out the phone. 'More rugby related nonsense. It's a shame they didn't bother to phone me; at least that way I could tell them that there's now nowhere to coach... that it's all been destroyed.' Phone in one hand, one of the mugs in the other, he depressed the button to read the text with his nose. Tumbling precariously to the floor, spinning like an out of control fair ride, Gee Tee's favourite mug splintered into a thousand pieces across the dirty tiled floor. Stunned, he was unable to believe what he'd just read, well... for about a second anyway. After that, he moved with all the speed he'd been blessed with, first telling the old shopkeeper what had happened, next making his way back to Salisbridge with all the haste he could muster, all the time silently praying that she'd pull through.
* * *
Ending up sitting on a blue plastic seat mainly made up of holes, one from a row of four, Peter despised the dark and dreary corridor well beneath the main hospital building. They had refused him entry; this was as far as he'd been allowed to go. Many times over, he'd tried to explain who he was and what had happened, but it had all fallen on deaf ears. Hours had passed, well... about three anyway, and still they wouldn't tell him anything. Rubbing his longer than usual stubble with both hands, he gazed aimlessly at the notice board on the wall opposite, wondering what else he could do. It was then that a familiar shape came flying round the corner at the far end of the corridor.
"Tank!" shouted Peter.
Puffing, panting and sweating profusely, Tank doubled up in front of his friend, just about managing to get out a "Hi."
Letting his best mate catch his breath, grateful to have some company in this fruitless situation, Peter sat back, wondering exactly what the doctors were doing.
"How is she?" asked the strapping rugby player, once he'd recovered a little.
"I don't know. They won't tell me anything."
"Why the hell not?" replied Tank, absolutely furious.
"I don't know. They won't tell me why they won't tell me," explained Peter as best he could.
"Well, we'll soon see about that," announced Tank firmly, stalking off towards the nearest member of the King's Guard, further down the corridor.
Trailing in his wake, Peter hoped they'd find out more about their friend. In the end though, it didn't happen. It took the appearance of four guards before Tank grudgingly made his way back to the row of blue seats. As the two friends sat in comparative silence, wondering just what was going on, Peter hit on an idea, well... more like an act of desperation. When Peter had been alone with him at his private residence, the king had given the young hockey playing dragon a telepathic way to get a message to him, should he ever need to do so. It was extremely private, and only something a few dragons knew about, and he'd been thinking about using it for a while now, but with everything that was going on across the globe, he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to try and disrupt what he knew would be a very busy, stressful and crucial time for the monarch. That and the fact that he felt more than a little selfish, using his connection to the king just to see if he could pull a few strings and find out what was going on with Richie. But as time ticked away in the airless corridor where both friends sat, the third of their little trio lying tortuously close in a room nearby, he came to a decision. Using his consciousness in much the same way as he would to download his favourite paper to fire off the message, he kept it short and to the point, hoping it would be enough.
* * *
Hours passed, with the two friends still sitting in the same place, only the King's Guards for company. They'd both found it odd that not a single noise had come out from the room that Richie and Tim were supposedly in. Not the hushed tones of a doctor, the sound of equipment being moved around, or the rustling of bed sheets. It was most disconcerting.
Two hours or so later, the guards had a scheduled shift change, and were replaced by much sterner looking, human shaped dragons, with the one in the middle of the corridor nearest to the two friends having a permanent snarl drawn across his face. It was hard to take your eyes off him. Peter, fearful of anyone in authority, tried his best not to stare. Tank, not so much. After only a matter of minutes, said guard came swaggering down the corridor towards the pair of them. Peter swallowed uncomfortably. Tank continued to stare.
"What's your problem fella?" growled the snarling guard.
"Nothing!" replied Tank, a little too smugly for the guard's liking. In a move that Peter barely saw, that's how fast it was, the guard picked up Tank by the throat, and held him high above his head, against the shiny wall. Peter stood, panicked, not knowing what to do.
"So you think you're tough do you?" barked the guard at Tank, while Peter watched helplessly. Tank tried to respond, but the only sound that came out was a rather wet gurgle, the grip on his windpipe was so tight. As his friend started going a rather strange colour in the face, the guard's grip tightened even more, and Peter wondered just what he could do. But before he could act and do something that would no doubt have serious repercussions, a voice accompanied by resounding footsteps boomed down the corridor.
"UNHAND HIM AT ONCE!" it ordered.
Instantly recognising the voice, Peter had never in his life been so grateful to see... FLASH!
Striding down the corridor with utter purpose and determination, the ex-Crimson Guard watched as the snarling human shaped dragon relinquished his grip on Tank's throat, the young rugby player sliding down the wall, ending up slumped on the floor in a heap.
"Who the hell do you think y... Wait a minute. I know you. You're the one that's stuck... stuck as a human," mocked the guard, chuckling all the time. "Oh... look how afraid I am... Stuck-as-a-human," taunted the guard. By this time, some of the other guards had moved out of the shadows from their concealed positions, taking a keen interest in what was going on.
"Should I be afraid of you... Stuck-as-a-human? Should I? Why don't you shove off and go mix with your own kind?" the guard scoffed, the snarl on his face long since having bent into a smile. It was so fast in coming, Peter had no idea it had even happened. And he wasn't the only one. Flash had moved so quickly, so gracefully, that now it was the guard who was pinned high up against the wall by the throat, held firmly in place by one of Flash's mighty hands. Some of the guard's colleagues took a step forward, that is, until one of them signalled for them to stand down, which they immediately did, sloping back to the concealment of their former positions. Flash and the guard, meanwhile, had locked steely gazes on each other. As they did so, the guard managed to squeak,
"You'll pay for this, you know."
Flash moved in closer, tightening his already firm grip.
"If I ever hear of you trying to pull a stunt like this again, I'll rip your head off and pee down your neck. Do you understand me?" roared the ex-Crimson Guard, sounding to Peter about as menacing as Manson had on that fateful night.
Taking a few valuable seconds to think, the guard, with his brain being starved of oxygen, had little choice but to nod in agreement. Casually, Flash threw him against the opposite wall, where he destroyed the notice board and everything on it, paying him no more attention. Offering Tank a hand up, the grateful rugby player grasped the proffered hand, and allowed himself to be pulled up. Meanwhile, Peter could see the barely breathing guard now getting up from the floor, thinking about taking Flash from behind, but it must have been the briefest of thoughts, because he very quickly slunk off down the corridor, replaced immediately by one of his colleagues.