The Wanderer's Guide to Somewhere (CLOSED)

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 3 (72) - Planet Hunter

Next thing, Pierre rushed his way along the terminal corridors of the Cenial International Airport. Like any day, it was filled with hundreds of thousands of passengers, majority of them flying to major destinations in Terranea but significant numbers well beyond and far in their destination of long-haul destinations. In that way, Pierre McCarthy was at the very ideal spot of being alone, where nobody was watching him run across the moving walkways, and maybe one or two enthusiasts would take a blurry picture of him making his way to the departure gate. Heck, Pierre himself wasn't sure about it either.

By the end of the rush, with him standing in front of the Aeroquebec flight to Winnipeg, where he's going to have a two-hour layover before eventually reaching Prince Eric, Manitoba, it came to Pierre that the fading hopes were vividly hanging before his eyes, because he was having trouble seeing and kept taking breaks before finally recover. Thus, Pierre was being reminded of how the waves were hitting right into the wall.

Back home. Not in the way I wanted, but urgency brings men to duty..

Almost as he was reminded of the fact, Pierre became aware of the fact that the long day awaited him. As durable as he has been with travel all his life, and how life had Pierre be content with the life of a vagabond and a merchant, the feeling of returning home still stirred his eyes.

Pierre felt the mysterious mist, almost transparent yet visible, that a normal, human eye would not see and just watched the sparkles transpire as he showed his ticket, got his luggage checked and watched himself enter the Air Terranea double-decker. The noise of the four engines, loud and clear, were still crashing his eardrums, but his eyes were far too starry to be affected by what he's accustomed to.

---

Being one of the most on-demand agent in the Multiverse had brought with it its own pressures, the things that did not change since fifteen years ago. Having multiple phone numbers and high phone bills were one thing, though he was increasingly shifting towards working in Xoom and Arsenal, two virtual meeting apps that were becoming popular across the Multiverse. Watching the growth of Arabella, who's been mostly fine on her own for past half decade, taught him that spending lots of time with his daughter was above and all the most important part in his young life. Now she was on her senior year of high school, and is expected to go back home and study at either St. Croix, California or Farrer on a full-ride scholarship. Pierre knew time does pass quickly when one's a parent, and the possibility of living alone was more than enough to keep him at toes.

Before he was to receive an saddening phone call, he was going to conduct one matter of business first. While stopping at the Charles Merton Regimbault Airport's Terminal 2, Pierre pulled his phone out and called an important client, recent arrival too, of his. 'Dobri Becher! Hope all's well with you today, Maks (Shishkin).'

'Thank you, thank you.' Pierre heard Maks Shishkin speaking in his native Magev through the cell phone, as he was waiting along the Falafel stall. The sun was shining all over the glassy windows of the departure floor. 'I was wondering if you have heard back much from Energija about possible destinations-'

'Okay, relax, Maks. Be clear with me here- have the board said much to you about whether they are willing to get you out of the country?'

'Yes, but they are taking forever with it. Frankly, I know what I am worth, and can wait it out to see where the opportunity abides in the greener patches,' Maks confidently shot back through the phone. 'Are you currently in Cenial right now?'

'No, I'm gonna be out of country for a few days,' responded Pierre, hoping not to piss off his client so much. 'But I will be in Mytanija by next week, and you have to promise me that you won't cause fuss with the ultras or the board, can you promise me that?

'Sure. Should I stay at home, or keep training with the club facilities? At least until we hear more about any possible transfer sagas-'

'Of course! If anything, you must keep doing it.' he graciously nodded, drawing the attention of a couple of locals who had assumed Pierre was a high-stakes businessman. 'I know you aren't happy, but you gotta keep doing it. They all know you loved Kanadin and whatnot, but remember not to burn down bridges. They know you are the best they have- a Taeshani club clearly wasn't satisfactory enough for those back there- but somewhere bigger and better? Now that I can work around.'

'Sure, thank you.' And then Pierre ended the call, firmly convinced that he was going to have enough paperworks and advanced command of Magev to deal with in a week's time.

---

Pierre watched the sun set as he watched the scenic views of the Far Western mountain ranges on the background, the Prince Eric traffic barely present for once, and the taxi making their way from the Prince Eric International Airport at the city's southwest. It was almost getting dark, and his final destination had changed from Alexandre IV General Hospital, where Elora Hosmer had passed before the Air Terranea flight's arrival in Montreal, to the Ridley Funeral Home on the affluent West Prince Eric district.

The city's parks and enduring pockets of wilderness were reflecting into his feelings, almost as if he didn't intend to be here. During most of the year, Prince Eric rained for months at the time, and the local citizens had embraced the morning alarm clock of nature, almost as if fate had meant them to explore outdoors and appreciate the slower pace. So this meant that for most of the year, the families and the couples would spend much of their time on a different pace than that of the rest, and much of the city would be left during the holidays as well.

This wasn't so much the case right now, however, as the early-summer views were as clear as they could get in the solemn state of mind Pierre found himself confined. As he looked into the window of the taxi, Pierre clenched his fists against the door and watched the minutes, which felt more like hours on this cab ride, pass by. As his taxi slowly drove past the southern suburbs, then the Downtown and over the bridge, Pierre watched the flowery biers, one after another, pass him in various walkways and cross their streets. He was feeling the sudden chill brought by the western winds, and particular pressure at the height of expectations in visiting his first love's death, contributed to the state of mind where Pierre was at his ease with himself, but not at the same time.

Pierre always found it uncomfortable visiting the Quebecois west coast. Sure, he knew the city well, the product of having a couple of Swanguard Athletic (Q-League) or Prince Eric Seahawks (QFL) players as his clients, but visiting the city on a funeral, in the place where he had never associated his boyhood days over, was an entirely different task. All of sudden, Pierre was thinking about how to greet some of his long-lost friends and acquaintances, how to explain his recent absences from the alumni association, and most importantly, to not to emotionally fall apart. Pierre knew it would all be easier when all the schedule would be over in three days, and he could fly to Cenial before the homeland called on an urgent matter once more. His parents would be visiting the twosome family instead and not much would have to be said about why he had to keep mostly quiet about the news back home. But Pierre knew that regardless of what happened afterwards, nothing was going to be the same - her passing had extinguished one of the hopeful flames in his mind, and much of his energy was going to be spent on mourning.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

OOC: This is my first experience writing my RP with Korean dialogues, and specifically in dialect. As a native speaker of the Southeastern dialect (though a slightly different branch) of Korean language, it’s one that I didn’t feel uncomfortable writing, but am aware the nuance may not be delivered well when translated in English. So, for non-Korean speakers (basically everybody on the competition but myself and Chromatika), let’s imagine this as if a bunch of Edinburghians speaking to each other while on a funeral in, I guess, Plymouth.

The Agent

PART 4 (73) - Turning Tables

When Pierre woke up, all he could see were grey and smell the East Coast sea salt of losses. It started to rain just as the cab reached five blocks off the funeral home, and even the sky seemed to mourn the death of Elora Watkins as the funeral home's parking lot was filled to its every last spot. The neighbourhood, built mostly in the 1970s and 1980s (so almost sixty and seventy years ago, for those who haven’t done their maths), represented the ranks of formerly nouveau riche who by this point had established themselves as local 'elites' for some time, and Elora unintendedly ended up spent the past decade of her life here.

Marked by age 37, one cannot deny the extent of tragedy in the very funeral. Sure, she had lost her husband, a respected indigenous leader whom he had met while they were both working as environmentalists, to illness several years ago, but nobody had expected her to pass so early as well, passing overnight on a sleep after brief battle with an apparently curable illness. Perhaps that was why we were seeing a slightly smaller crowd than expected (many were still travelling all the way from the East Coast or abroad), but the mood still made it seem as if everything were packed. Nobody, not even the local Rabbi with decades of experience would have been able to provide easing statements right away with that.

Upon entering the funeral home, the fellow mourners were greeted to one of the most grim sights in the history of the neighbourhood. Pierre McCarthy's suits were dripping with the rain, his dark-brown hair wet and rearranged, and his face was so distraught with the sense of loss that very few would recognise him as one of the most powerful agents in all of the Multiverse. As he entered into the main hall, after dropping an envelope of money in the box intended to pay for the funeral, Pierre wasn't sure if he was walking in the inferno or the city after a historical earthquake. He looked down, not looking at Elora's parents, brother or poor daughter named Zinaida Woodcarver, partly out of his sense of loss in not being able to be present for her last moments, but also due to all the weight time flushing at us all.

As he watched, Pierre kept imagining himself losing control of his emotions and words, and as he bowed thrice while offering incense as a Quebecois custom, Pierre refused to see the high school self of his creep up again and take him away. Pierre knew his best intention was to never go back into those days, especially as his mistakes were simply far too costly in his petty eyes to say otherwise. He had left behind most of those days for a reason- some of so-called 'old friends' he had blocked on almost every form of social media, and some he simply no longer had any words to say. But this time, it was different, and nothing of forced nature of Maison McCarthy's business was required for him to go.

He's been through everything at this point- from the underground nightclubs in Esca, Mytanija, to the locker rooms of Cold Hill University, but the funerals still had him feel things that he thought he had left it all behind and this wasn't something Pierre, even as a father, was capable of handling it for more than half an hour of his life. Now he was mourning for the dead beloved of his in this dark, quiet funeral home, with everybody else feeling no joy, and some mourners smoking cigarettes on a smoking room to destress in what's not really an effective way to non-smokers.

Pierre didn't know what to say to Elora's soul, as he walked out of the main chamber- there was nothing left for him to say any further at this point in time. Frankly, he didn't want to think about it either- a small mistake that hurt both parties when they were fifteen still left Pierre not wanting to go back and imagine their younger selves. The photo of Elora smiling on the photo frame, the older version of the pretty, brown-haired Jewish woman of Ashkenazi origins (a rarity out in the East Coast), was more than enough.

The dining room on the funeral home was filled with wreaths from her friends and family, and when Pierre arrived to grab the dinner the rowdy atmosphere of a Quebecois funeral greeted him as well. The smell of east coast food, filled with local produce caught on net, were blasting at his nose.

Eating at the corner tables, hurriedly eating their supper before likely heading back to the hotel, Pierre McCarthy’s friends from Gaeseong Secondary School could notice how much Pierre had changed from his teenage days, when the greenery in him were plentiful and the leather hides far too stiff to be worn. From some distance they could all see that, even with the rain affecting the usually well-preserved conditions of his suits, Pierre’s sheer class and magic had made them think of exoticities from far and abroad that they, being uncreative minds now working as white-collared labourers, would not be able to understand.

Watching him approach, few of Pierre’s friends murmured their mumbles and buzzed like bees in an almost circular manner, which only made the silliness evident to all those around him, including the table of the deceased’s friends on the other side of the room. The sight of loudmouthed Haligonians all stuck in a funeral home of affluent Prince Eric neighbourhood funeral home was quite amusing to say the least.

So approached Pierre, whose physical absence from all the Gaeseong SS’s alumni association events had puzzled all those who knew him as a classmate, a friend and an acquaintance, with such public excitement that it immediately disarmed him. As Pierre came to them like a dream, their faces all lit up, as they greeted each other like that of a sequence from the dreamed realm, long gone in our plebeian consciousness, but never really left either.

‘정구지! 니가 은제 왔나! (Garlic chives, since when did you arrive?)’ asked Alexander Nam gracefully, giving him a hug right at the spot. ‘고향 떠나더니 니 이제 멋재이 됐네! (You’ve come back dandy and fancy)’

‘아들아, 잘 있었나? (Hello fuckers, how have y’all been doing?)’ said Pierre, trying not to keep his voice up. ‘보고 싶었다, 강냉이. 글니까 말이다. (Sure thang, you corny bastard. Really wanted to see you guys).‘

‘대면대면하다. 믿겨지지가 않네. (It does feel strange, hard to believe it so.)’ shouted Adolph Xiao, scratching his head in a manner that showed his social awkwardness, even to this day as a high-earning software engineer. ‘니 고향 떠날때 즐때로 돌아오지 않는데 캤는데 (You really said you didn’t want to come back home).’

Pierre felt his eyes becoming wearier upon the promise he had made twenty years earlier, as he fixed his glasses once more. ‘글네. 뭐 이렇게라도 돌아오리라는걸 알았으면 말 안했슬라는데...만다꼬 내가 그랬을까. (Yeah. Why did I stupidly promise myself never to come back, when I was gonna come back at least on this form).’

‘마, 글 필요읍다. (Hush. Don’t feel sorry),’ Alexander responded, telling Pierre to sit on the empty seat right opposite of his. ‘이제 고마하고 이제 뭐좀 무라. (Shut up and grab some food, it’s gonna be a long night for you, isn’t it?’

‘그래, 알겠다.’ Pierre nodded and grabbed the seat, before asking the water to grab him some Galbitang. ‘아재, 여기 탕 하나 주소!’

---

‘Sorry about your loss,’ Alexander said his words of condolences slowly, his closest friend of his, back in English. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. There is no other way to say it.’

‘Why bother,’ responded Pierre, trying his best to hold back his emotions. ‘She’s gone now, and all I, as a parasite, could offer the deceased’s loved ones, is my tears and mourns.’ Pierre McCarthy, being the master of handling almost every athlete he had to counsel, manage and of course help out, knew how to deal with emotions, but this time he couldn’t. Every bit of the moment he was resisting the lure of crying his eyes out to Elora’s friends, who had all known him well to this day, and Alexander was only keeping him sane at this point.

Of course, this was inevitable. There once was a time when they were the closest friends growing up in the Moryang-dong district of Halifax. They had both grown up in the same district for generations, attending the same schools for twelve years, even as they knew their lives were eventually going to change after that. Pierre wanted to move away to somewhere he would be misunderstood as a bohemian reading through past-life stories and memories, and Alexander the opposite, desiring comfort and stability through the chemical equations. Perhaps they had known that eventually Pierre, as always haunted by ghosts of his former selves and their shells, would come back.

‘Is Arabella aware of...you know?’ Alexander asked in a hoarse voice, wondering about the tennis prospect who’s currently in Gergary for a tournament. ‘That you are not back home or in Mytanija? You know, for a man who keeps his commitments steady, it’s quite unexpected of you to be here.’

‘I don’t think today’s the day to talk of such things.’ Pierre responded, as he watched his left hand shake while holding the spoon. Perhaps the Galbitang was a bit colder than he would have liked, but it’s likelier that he was feeling the shiver. He noticed that Elora’s friends, all well entrenched in their respective fields as gentry professionals and social activists, were watching him from a distance, but simply could care less.

‘Shishkin is aware I won’t be coming to Mytanija until next week, and am not in a condition to talk about such things.’

‘Yeah.’ Alexander nodded in approval, as they continued to eat. ‘I remember the days when we were all ready to move onto university. Of course, we were rather too optimistic about our outlooks and it all, but you know….the high hopes were never too bad to have.’

‘Didn’t even have the high hopes anyway.’ Pierre sighed, closing his eyes briefly before resuming to talk. ‘I wasn’t the one who missed out on the timing and failed his promposal. Of course, not that I was smart enough two years prior, with the letter I sent to her proxy of your ex.’

‘Still feeling the blues over something that she accepted your apology a year after that instance?’ asked Alexander, drinking a glass of water to clear his salty mouth. ‘Like you’ve always done, chasing cars that never slowed down, even with a daughter and whatnot.’

‘And that’s all too true. I can’t explain. And while that’s brought me glory and money, I have never really gained from them. Instead, I have come to detest my younger selves and now, it’s all late. I had so many questions to ask Elora since that time in Montreal a decade ago, but the questions mean nothing when she’s not there anymore.’

Then the time stopped. Pierre and Alexander ate for a few more minutes and then, after drawing a deep breath or two, Pierre opened his mouth again. ‘Time stood still, and now we never will get to hear what she would have said.’

All the pain, and the hollowed compartment of his heart, was evident enough for him, as they continued to reminisce about the days. 'How's the school doing these days?' Pierre casually asked, his expression a mix of casual and curiosity to hear from his perspective. 'Is the alumni association still filled with politicking, ahead of the Federal elections? That's at least what Dinah and Ye-Rang had mentioned to me over Spacebook.' He paused, trying not to place too much emphasis on the political wings - Pierre, with his personal connections to Arsene Kim, was a centre-left Parti Justice du Quebec supporter (PJQ) while Alexander, victim of right-wing propaganda from pre-purge days, had firmly stood on the Parti Quebecois (PQ).

'Well, those matter less for somebody abroad like you, but the life is the same there, from what mum and dad have mentioned.' Alexander responded, still amazed at how much of the old school life they were able to remember and keep on track for alumni. 'They will probably ask you for donations or support come this September- the footy team's doing well for once, and we'll probably need new floodlights again.'

'Hmmmm,' Pierre responded. 'I mean, you know I'm never the one to refuse suggestions. Still, I can't really do the job in-person- would rather not be idolised or despised in the school where I had been 1) accused as a stalker before, 2) was near some of our so-called friends from those days who used to childishly sprout, um, anti-semitic remarks, and 3) would be most likely reminded of..her.'

'Fair enough,' Alexander responded. 'But you won't refuse their offer, at least in discreet form.

'Sure.' Pierre nodded. 'I can do that. Home is home, and the expectation for the McCarthy's remain as high as ever.' This was true, the McCarthy family's reputation in Halifax, partly thanks to his famous uncle, Sir. Joel of acting and fencing fame, but also due to him and his cousins' part as well. 'If there's anything else, tell them to email or telephone me after I go back to Cenial.'

'Good, Sounds good.' He loudly said it, before going back to quietly mentioning an intriguing note. 'Also, you may also want to talk to her daughter while you're still in town, by the way.' He saw Pierre's eyes lit up, as a recollection from one of his recruiting notes came up. 'She's a prodigy, I heard people say that earlier in the evening on the other table.' Alexander grudgingly whispered. 'And I am not kidding on the words, as you know too well. Now or never, is what I will tell you.'

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

The Agent

PART 5 (74) - If You Were My Love-High Horses

'Alright, Iago Martensson here. Who's calling somebody at ten in the night?'
'It's me. The Grim Reaper McCarthy. No, not the actor.'

The phone call between a Swanguard Athletic's head scout didn't go off to the best start. Of course, it would rarely go well if somebody's waking him up, just as the middle-aged man's about to go into the bed, and even less so if the said agent was a notorious headhunter of talents both foreign and domestic. This, in one way, would have meant that McCarthy would have a widespread coverage of prospects and stars, from Ranorian quarterback Deondre Rhine to Maethoru SC midfielder Kherles Ensaunden on the other side of the Salamantic Sea, but also sheer layer of fear in those who would try their best to ban their prospects from being represented by McCarthy. Still, there's not much you could do, in the end, to stop the man from getting what he wants, and Iago Martensson felt that immediately upon hearing Pierre's voice.

'Sorry for waking you up this late in the night. But it does concern both of us.'
'I thought you have already made the scouting trip to see Hannigan, Woo and van den Vries last month. What's the matter this time?'
'Tell me about Zina Woodcarver. West Prince Eric Secondary, sophomore, the girl who scored 54 goals in high school level, Manitoba 4AAA.'

All that took was ten seconds for Pierre to say out the basic details. He didn't need to say it further, for his involvement with the very situation was going to continue down the road.

Crud, was all that Iago Martensson said, as he tried to think of best ways to describe the high school prospect they did have in mind. Having seen the directions local talent have gone lately, Martensson knew this was going to happen at some point. For a small-market (relatively so, on Q-League level) side, Swanguard hasn't been the most aggressive of organisations to build up their prospects and the tiger parents knew that as well. Over time, some of the creme de la creme would find their trades either on collegiate level, where they would feel less binded to stay out in West Coast after graduation, or go to major clubs out east or in southwest.

Now, what's next? That's something Iago didn't exactly have the answer for. The past decade had seen Swanguard Athletic's front office, increasingly frustrated with Pierre's tactics, refusing to sign any academy prospect that had his name under the agent section. Now, especially as the organisation continued to plunder its riches and struggled to retool the rank of what's mostly aged-out core of their players, they were going to lose someone right on their backyard. Zinaida Woodcarver was someone who they always had on the radar from the age ten, but it was Elora Watkins and Paul Woodcarver who, for the sake of their daughter's education, had kept their only child away from the dangerous world of academy football. They had long planned to pitch her a nice case for a professional contract at age 18, or to sign her after college, but now the ship may have sailed.

'Well, it's straightforward. I'm surprised you didn't ask me earlier but-' Iago said.
'But no buts. We have no time for that. I'm only here in Prince Eric 'til the end of the week, so please stop wasting my time.'
'Alright then, so here we go...'

---

Fifteen years. Fifteen years and each time, he had no option but to keep the past from the Sang-go days fossilised. There were no other options for him, especially given that his options were limited and perhaps he may have made the internal decisions too early in life. But this time, Pierre McCarthy was feeling slightly different, as he was contemplating by the Jacuzzi tub installed into the bathroom of his suite at Northandryun Everett hotel. With each and every recollections, Pierre believed that it is never too late to rectify whatever the past had brought upon him, and give back.

As an agent who started from the bottom, Pierre knew very well about how much of a wild hunt chasing those prospects were. The tasks, almost befitting to the dogs' task of chasing cars out on the street, required Pierre to understand that the individuals he was handling were very much teenagers with their own lives. But still, while there remained the uncertain task of what laid ahead of him, Pierre could see the stars align before his eyes. He was being reminded of Gianmarco Del Prete, the notorious Ortelian midfielder whose talismanic presence had become notorious in Tikariot, and how the human determination was the best weapon to fix any course of events that may have gone wrong. With the reminder of such turn of events, the idea of being that lifelong mentor and agent to Elora's daughter, whom he was now sure of her talent, was more than enough to take the leap of faith.

As the water became warmer and he slowly fell into a lucid, dose-like REM state, Pierre McCarthy wondered what would be the blueprint he would have to think for her. There were always a couple of teams that were always delighted to bring a couple of major prospects from high school, but he wasn't sure which of the major teams were going to be convinced enough on Pierre's sales pitch, the one that did not require so much of metrics, but rather his acumen for talent better explained in words and genuine contours. Pierre knew he had to be careful, for anything other than a surefire would mean that he would be jeopardising a sixteen-year old's future career.

Fortunately, there were enough water to almost submerge Pierre. As he closed his eyes in the serenity, he became so immersed to the past life's thoughts that he could start recalling those present at his Senior Prom. The past life him would have tried to swim his way out of the nightmare that had become that April and May, but Pierre had since come to accept what's not really possible to change.

---

Nineteen Years Ago (2027)

It was an early May afternoon in Halifax, as Pierre and his famous uncle, prominent actor Joel-Lynn McCarthy were eating a simple meal of Milmyeon, in a local eatery at the Continental Market (shi-jang). The maritime city of 2 million was off to their normal lives. One could feel the occasional breeze of the wind from the sea while shopping outdoors, and hear the sound of loud, old fans once inside. The Haligonians of all ages, whether Mainlander or foreigner, were busy eating the delicacies the city has been known for, from the seafood to contemporary and fusion cuisine.

'Are you still unsure on your vow?' asked uncle Joel, in his low, charming voice as they struggled to handle through the glass noodles. The fifty-year old actor, who has won plenty in his career, wasn't always in his hometown, as he would normally be either out of country, spend time in Quebec City for business purposes, or back home in Cornwall, where he was living with his wife, a Jazz-country vocalist by the name of Diane Kasaboski. So to Pierre, spending time with his uncle could not have come at any better timing, especially since he admired his uncle, who left Halifax to attend Ashcroft College (high school) and then Queen's College (university) on scholarship before finding his foot in the unexpected field.

The fact Pierre was also a high school senior, whose decision to attend college abroad had made many raise eyebrows, meant that he may have needed his uncle's words even more. The extended family may be generally middle-class now, but there once was a time, when his grandfather passed away when his deep-sea fishing boat capsized when uncle Joel was seven, so the entire family of his grandmother, and the 4 eldest children had to set up shop in the nearby Samchi Fisheries Market. In some ways, poverty still rang clear in the back of minds for the family, and Pierre knew that was one of the reasons why his family hasn't always been the most receptive towards his decision to attend University of Ceni.

'Always, uncle,' Pierre answered with his lack of assurance, trying his best not to say too much. He felt, perhaps too courteously, that it was probably at his interest not to waste his uncle's time. 'I don't want to stay home, and want to get as far away as possible.'

'I could see that.' Joel-Lynn answered, thinking about his younger self, as they continued to eat. Both bowls of the noodle, now mostly void of the noodles, are left with red, thick soup. 'It's not easy being a high school senior these days. Especially with the decisions you had to make after your HSC scores are up, and you get the offers coming in droves come April.' His uncle, while attending high school in a province where the high school grades were only those the applicants had to send to universities, was aware of the emotional difficulties that the regulated examinations had meant to others. In some ways, it had served as both an advantage and a disadvantage- this normally meant that there would be more roadblocks for the southwest (Frontenac/Ontario/Outaouais/Northwest), Labrador or Manitoba provinces for admissions to Farrer or St. Croix.

'Yeah. There are other reasons, of course, but I think it may be the right time for me to go, especially with how concentrated the regions can get these days, and Terranea is a good case study.' Pierre nodded, and he continued to explain along the lines of the situations of old that, in hindsight of the post-Foxchester era, may be eerie enough for a casual observer. 'I know what our country has, and we should be proud of it. But there are lot more to learn on the other side beyond our comfortable homes, because it's quite telling that we need greater cooperation from our region more than we may have needed in past. The Calanias, the north, and whatnot, and actually spending time where there have been greater cooperation between the nations would be a better idea.'

His reflection had come in the times of particular trials for the Quebecois sports. For most part, the life has remained normal, but the Quebecois withdrawal from international football which, while a fairly straightforward measure of the Ministry of Sport and the new Cabinet under Thierry-Luc Saganash and the Parti Quebecois (PQ), were more than enough to suggest otherwise. The Qubecois withdrawal, which was tied around the particular weapons scandal associated with the Quebecois involvement in Gregoryisgodistan, as well as the money spent from it used to host a successful World Cup 77 with San Jose Guayabal, had meant that the 2028 Federal Elections would spell the worst ever defeat for the incumbent Nouveau Parti Democratique (NPD). While the decision to withdraw from international football had come out of the Baek-Bechmanis Affair, it was a challenge that would affect subsequent cabinets, to this day and likely the near future. This alone was enough to raise key questions in the Quebecois sports and its regional priorities that, in all honesty, were shaking with the demise of COCANEFA just a few years prior to the Affair.

'You know, that's how I felt for the longest time as well.' Uncle Joel responded, as he was thinking about the younger self once again. He knew he had to give careful advice here, because his mattered a lot. 'That is a valid concern. I don't think I would be a good example, because my scholarship came because of coach Ahn (OOC note: Sir. Philippe Ahn was a legendary foil and sabre coach in the Quebecois circuit who coached Ashcroft College, Carleton School and then Univ. de Gaspe, though the latter happened due to his diversion from accepting his Queen's College offer due to a circumstance) knew he wanted to build a winning program, and saw great potential.' Those were the days when the tensions flew at much higher level between the finest coaches of the sport, especially as William Yi (eventual Duke of Bathurst) and Ahn brought the rise of the Quebecois national fencing team program. Joel-Lynn, having been under both coaches (William Yi graciously took the Queen's College job under his friend's request!), knew that he was lucky.

He then continued speaking. 'But you, unlike me, have choices. This means you can always calculate the risks and whatnot. And because of that, you will face greater scrutiny for whatever the challenges you will face. But you must never look back, and never try to switch courses to your second choice.' Uncle Joel perhaps knew that was the best he could give on the matter. This wasn't anything new to him, and that's how he ended up, while pursuing a Masters degree in cinema studies at Iggulden University in Montreal, ended up in a pathway that he did not expect to become part of. 'Eventually I had to retire from fencing after the 2002 Commonwealth Games, but I knew that was the best. Aunt Diane was pregnant with Clara, and I knew it was best to go back to Cornwall, where her parents and sister were still there, and just go whenever there's work. No regrets.'

The likewise was what Pierre was thinking about as well. As he was spending the last months of living in his Halifax home, he had quickly realised how he was going to realise his hometown when his flight eventually took off from Halifax International Airport. Most of the city itself was the one governed and driven by the Haligonians' fiery selves, from the condominium-packed south shores to the traditional centre near the station, and the old, old hills of Dongnae and the northern and western edges that had long supplanted the old factories of the South Shore. It rained constantly, and the early-morning mists would bring the exhilarating feeling out of many who had inhabited there. He was going to piss it, from its rolling hills and unnavigable roads to the neverending coastline it has earned its name for.

'And this I promise to you, that I won't look back.' Pierre answered, glad that his uncle had approved the idea, however conditional it may have been. Not that it mattered much anyway, because Pierre knew he had made the choice out of sheer impulse, to avoid any possible reconnection with the tiniest of mistakes committed while younger. 'I promise not to look back.'

---

It was three in the morning when Pierre woke up. He wasn't sure on how to feel about all this, as he rubbed his eyes and got out of the tub.

The wet puddle all over the bathroom floor, which was as slippery as it could have gotten, told it all. As a middle-aged man Pierre had particularly rocky sleeping patterns, and moving all over the bed happened to be one of them. His emotional unavailability, where his responsibility for his daughter Arabella (whose text he had to answer as soon as he was back in his bed) took precedence over his own thoughts, was partly reflected through such.

He reluctantly nodded out of consciousness. It had been a long time since he was going to make a bet on a Quebecois teenager this young an yet this full in potential, and he knew he's not always had success in this department of things. For past several years, he had seen the likes of Deondre Rhine (under unofficial capacity before the Cold Hill University's Ranorian season ended back in January) and Maks Shishkin listen to him with different degrees of reception that has not made his time as agent to the future stars easiest. Not to mention the one time he had failed to sign a promising catching prospect out of St. Croix, whose desire to commit himself to eventual demise was so strong, it was only prevented by the butterfly effect of a smurf orgy in Porto Nowi. But for most part, he knew how to handle young prospects and at least market them appropriately, to the point where Deondre Rhine had gotten away with every chargeable sin in Cold Hill and Quebec City, and Maks Shishkin had now made a headline for him being seen on a Aquamarine concert to see Roksana Balasevic, the darling of every Mytanar fans whose fanbase in Montreal of all places were as large as a king's ransom (in general sense).

This time, he had different ideas though, as he knew personal stakes were at hand with his upcoming client. As the daughter and only child of his high school beloved, the orphan whose grandmothers were either dead or in Halifax, Pierre knew he had to take everything in the store to make this work. He knew not a lot of places were willing to sign up for that, and really only Koreana, Haligonian or CSKA were going to take up the offer on her. Pierre would have to think a bit, dial a number or two by the end of breakfast time out east.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 6 (75) - Little House

The West coast wind caressed over the Prince Eric Jewish Cemetery, bringing with it the purple rain that was ever so dreary to every funeralgoer on sight. The mourners, after three days of Shib'a, were gathered in circles as the Rabbi led the funeral prayers and delivered an eulogy, while doing their best to avoid their clothes from getting wet.

It was one of the Maytime funerals that was pleasant, but even sadder because of how pleasant the weather can get out in the Quebecois west coast, and how the boundaries between life and death were indistinguishable in the middle of nature. In that alone, the scene was not an easy one, as the urban planner, activist and environmentalist was put into rest. The finest of the Quebecois peoples, from dozens of friends and family members out in her East Coast hometown of Halifax, to her home of almost twenty years in Prince Eric, had turned out in droves to reflect on her life. Grim, lost and in disbelief over how early Elora could have left the earth, not much was said between them, and even the slightest glance at another of their guest was frowned by others.

True to form for the woman known for her soft-spoken self, the services to communities she had served and hoped to serve, as well as the love of nature, the funeral was still the one that filled with energy. The silence may have been uncharacteristically dominant here, but the eulogies, delivered by a Rabbi whom the Watkins-Woodcarver had known well, and the chants were more than enough to replace the unnecessary exchange of words. Of course, it was made easier by the fact that in her immediate family, all of her parents, in-laws and husband had all passed away due to old age or a tragic accident, so the only one person left to mourn was her daughter, Zinaida 'Zina'. Most of the goers, including our Pierre McCathy, were not saying much because they didn't know what to say to a sixteen year old about the news. With many trying to figure out on clearing the way so they could figure out on how to form two lines for the lonely girl to pass through, it was needless to say that it was an anticlimactic funeral of some sorts.

Zina Woodcarver's mother, Elora 'Lo' Watkins, was a well known name in Winnipeg, where Manitoba legislature is located, and Quebec City, for obvious reasons that's to do with federal politics and the government. She was one of the major non-lifelong politicians who had long found ways to aim with social-indigenous advocacy, and had worked on the unexpected coalition between the Indigenous Alliance of Quebec (IAQ) and the PJLQ in 2045 election. It was not like this had meant much to the grade-ten student in Zina, as she was usually busy with athletics and spending time in West Prince Eric Secondary (WPES). As she followed the rabbi, uncle and some of her cousins in singing the funeral chants, she was feeling the loss harbouring her even more.

Zinaida knew there were lots of words flying in town about the presence of a certain agent, one who also attended school with er mother, but was unsure on his presence for the entire duration of the funeral. The situation must have affected him to some degree, and while not much were said from Elora's friends or that of the mutual classmates Pierre McCarthy had with his mother, she knew there were probably unspeakable things that happened between them.

I do not know, and I know it's not the time to ask, but one day, we will know....

Zina also knew that this had meant that perhaps she would have to navigate through her life in sport, all alone, which she did not feel most excited about. Her parents were both student-athletes back when they were younger, and they had both played field hockey and handball at the local University of Prince Raoul Islands (UPRI), a collegiate powerhouse known for a particularly large offering of sports sponsored by the athletics department. She knew that may have been where her talent, already good enough to play with the eighteen and nineteen year olds in academy setting while a freshman after two years of structured football with Swanguard Athletic, came from, and knew that there stood a possibility for her to find a career in sports.

Unfortunately, she was still figuring things out in life, and while her talent had gotten everybody at Swanguard and some other clubs noticing her, everybody knew she was not exactly a proven one like Hong Yeong-Sahm (now of Tikhon) or Jean-Christophe Babin (Montreal Koreana). With this in mind, as well as the worries over her daughter, Elora had asked her not to let life figure out, enjoy it all and jump into the world of college football before anything goes, and she agreed.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Zina was brought to her thought waves as she mourned, cried and everybody followed the mourners and the coffin was slowly placed underground. Somewhere far, a church bell was ringing to mark that it was three in the afternoon, and it had only added a chilling effect on her mind. Now, with no immediate surviving family member, and the words slowly coming into her ears from a classmate or her coaches, Zina knew she had to make a decision sooner than later. The unexpected speedrun to adulthood may have had to happen for her, especially now with an agent not far, and Zina knew there were many questions to be answered after she had to say the second goodbye to her mother. Pierre McCarthy may be the one to ask while he's still in the town, especially as she had figured out that something kept him staying for this long.

From the three days of the funeral, it was evident that Pierre had gone through particular pain, and the sight of an agent, so prone to be caught in public light, to be found mourning over someone he didn't have much in common on surface, likely hid something. Zina knew that Halifax was a particularly well known city for the brotherhoods, which was an alien concept to the provincial west coast folk whose composure and attitude were at the other side of the spectrum. If anything, those were what may have allowed him to maintain a very extensive network to the point where he were managing the Conavacio siblings, Marco and Kingsley-Roger Hertel, and many others. But Zina also knew how extensive the mind maps of interactions and relationships were whenever she would visit Halifax, and maybe that's why he didn't want to say much about it.

What kept him so far away, for so long?

It was that question that Zina realised that it was going to be a long road ahead for her. From the lone tear to her eye, it was evident that sometimes, what brings success can also make you feel so alone. She understood that feeling more and more, as her loved ones passed over the course of her sixteen years of life so far, and that did not help her feel better. Of course, Zina didn't know he had a daughter from an oopsie daisie while a college senior, but that too had meant that they were no different.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 7 (76) - Comrade

Like much of the gentrified district of Downton-Westside, Prince Eric Ascott Hotel was at the latest of cutting edge technology and the minimalist aesthetics. A clean, modern design mostly befitted with white and use of synthetic materials, it spoke both of the trends both trendy and unfortunate for those with the slightest eye in art.

With how odd the hotel looked, from the moment she entered the lobby to the conference room she was invited by Pierre to visit, Zina immediately figured out how the taste and the relatively recent acquisition of wealth had meant so little in terms of acquisition of talent or even ability to identify it. Noticing that the world she's going to enter will either resemble the tacky aesthetics or those too old to even have a Wi-Fi connection, Zina carried herself with the confidence not expected from a sixteen-year old who had just lost her mother, with all her effort placed into blocking the tragedy out of her mind.

I am doing this, and it will be for my family, Zina said to herself, as she left the elevator and then walked few steps to the right as suggested by a sign. She was feeling tired, which somewhat helped regularise her walking patterns, and ran herself on fumes. Fortunately for Zina, it had taken little time for her to find her way out for she, without realising it, made turns and stops and then walked all the way to the farthest corner of this hotel. Now she was standing in front of the Meeting Room 'Rose'.

Unfortunately, Zinaida Woodcarver was already late to the meeting as she opened the door, carrying a couple of luggage carriers and a backpack, and entered the meeting room. Pierre McCarthy, sitting on his chair facing the medium-sized table, had already downed a couple of bottles of Gin, even though it was only noon, and he was clearly not amused with how much extra time he had in drinking. While Pierre, aware of the 'dificult' policies many countries had towards some forms of smoking- for some countries it would be cigarettes, others marijuana- did not smoke, he had spent many years drinking under regular capacities. Whether it be home or abroad, preferably somewhere where his daughter was nowhere near his presence he drank like a whale, and he knew very well about the habit. At Zina's funeral the past three days, he was advised by his friends and acquaintances, whom were quite impressed with how much his life had turned around from a socially questionable joker to a giant in the sports management, to maybe tone down the level of alcohol consumption. With them he had chatted for a bit, and exchanged numbers with some, but for most part kept himself on phone whenever he was not mourning about Elora.

'You are late, young lady.' Pierre said, his metal glasses slightly dirty as he watched the six-footer drop her luggages and sit on the other side of the table. After letting her slowly sit down, calm herself and breathe a little while, he raised his left hand forward (he's a natural lefty) and welcomed her. 'But oh my, is it my pleasure to meet Elora Watkins's daughter, never did I imagine it.'

All she could manage was a gracious smile, trying to indicate that she was not feeling too uncomfortable about the current situation, given what had passed for the past week of her life. 'Thank you, sir.' Zina said, as she shook his hand with her left hand as well. 'I know it hasn't been the best of times for us to meet, especially not right now.'

'No, never say that in my presence,' He smiled back at Zina, the full curve of his smile suggesting the genuine enthusiasm and willingness of his action. 'I love meeting people, and this is nothing to call a wolf and say is not the right time.' Despite that he's twenty-two years older than the teenager, and had seen lot more on life elsewhere, there was something quintessentially Quebecois and child-like with the superagent that Zina found delightful.

Was he stuck in the past-time, or is it just one of those moments? Zinaida wondered, as he continued to speak. 'So, I know you are ready to move on, as we talked about it sometime after the funeral yesterday. I know that you are thinking of joining a professional career in football, whether it be Swanguard or elsewhere.'

'Yes. I did say that earlier.' Zina nodded, as she watched Pierre write down notes in the cursives, writing in a pace so quick and unassuming that it was a work of its own right. Zina had of course heard of Pierre's names long before the funeral, and she did little bit of fresearch on his reputation- whether it be through the latest transfer rumours or those who he had known. But the pace of his resourcefulness was seen right there. That's what Elora's friends who, while not entirely inclined on telling much about Pierre, had mentioned in a few comments given to her, and she was noticing it.

Pierre's facial expression, worn down and somewhat rugged from the days of mourning, started to change a bit as he thought about how to say the words. He swallowed hard, brought back his own composure, and then spoke again. 'Well, first, please do not worry about whatever the arrangements I will come up with for you by the end of this week. That's not why I am here. For those who have known me through other avenues, they know me better for other reasons. Whether it be as father of Arabella the tennis prospect, the cousin to legendary Cornwall actor Sir. Joel-Lynn, or-'

He muttered, struggling to figure out. Zina, trying to ease the struggle, spoke out the term that they both had in mind. 'A leach?'

‘Perfect! That's the right term to describe me as an agent if I am a club president.' He raised both his hands in joy, indicating that Zina read his mind perfectly. While Zina slightly chuckled at how easy Pierre seemed to please, she anticipated what was the next thing he's going to say. Then he continued speaking: 'But that's what I'm supposed to do. I am supposed to defend the interests of my athletes, and they have what, twenty years maximum in their career to live off of. And we also have to remember the legacies they will have to carve, and I am not going to let anybody overwhelm you.'

'Thank you. But that implies that I will have to start looking for clubs,' Zina looked at Pierre, who stopped jotting down the notes. 'Won't it be a bit too late in the year?' She had realised that she said something not so smart, though that's not really one for her to be blamed upon. Like what was said earlier, Zina was given little choice earlier in her life, and it was only now that the options were opening up and she, in a hurried spin of twenty-four hours, was figuring them out...

'Nonsense,' he answered back. 'If there's anything I've been surprised over the past week here is that no Swanguard official nor agent has approached to sign with you.' He sighed. 'By doing so, those whom you were supposed to trust are not giving you one bit of honest advice. Whatever they are calling for honest advice would be no more than a bullshit.'

'I see.' She nodded, realising that Pierre clearly wasn't in the best of terms with her hometown club. 'If that's the case then, Where do we plan to go next? Sorry or asking too much-'

'And that's why we are going to Montreal starting this week.' He was not one bit amused, though unfairly so, at how unequipped Zina was in knowing about the industry. And this is a girl who excelled in Swanguard Academy and in high school! Were Elora that overprotective of her interests, to the point where she failed to give her a choice? He sighed, as he scratched a couple of lines off his notes. 'We won't be staying here- Swanguard clearly hasn't helped you to prepare for this, and I won't let them affect your career like how I've seen it happen far too often before.' He looked back at Zina, whose blue eyes glistened once again. 'We will be heading to Montreal and then Quebec City, or just Montreal. Those people there take the business seriously, and they know I am not to be messed with, especially when it involves the memories of your mother...'

'Okay, so what happened between you and my mother?' She interrupted, trying to figure out what he was exactly saying there. 'Are you saying that there was something?'

Pierre shook his head to suggest otherwise. 'Maybe not now, Zina,' he added before grabbing another glass on the rocks. 'But let me tell you one thing, and it's that I rarely atone. But for very few I atone for my own mistakes against them, I atone for the slightest of mistakes.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 8 (77) - No Hard Feelings

No way, am I really leaving home? That was all that's on Zina's young mind, as she closed her eyes on the business class seat of the Spiritair VIA flight from Prince Eric International to Montreal C.M. Regimbault. As have said earlier, Zina was able to quickly find out about how serious the business was, and what reputation Pierre McCarthy carried himself with. But to what degree, she was still finding out on her own, and it was only after signing the deal, where she was probably given the most generous management deal out there in the business for a young prospect, that she was able to figure out that what he had meant as in business. He did his best to hide, but sometimes he would go through the procedures Zina was able to figure out some of the signs Pierre brought with him all the way from Ceni over decades ago, and Zina would wonder why her mother never told her about Pierre, especially to a particularly sporty child.

Perhaps Pierre didn't want to admit something that had happened when they were high schoolers, but she wasn't sure if that's something that's in her right to ask. She knew Pierre expected something better than to dredge up past memories that left him all mourning for three full days of the Jewish funeral, and now everything was being thrusted upon her feet and mind. High expectations had meant that she would have maximum, three trials, before she would find out what was going to be the next chapter.

Did Zina worry about the possibility of failure? Maybe. She's nervous, like any sixteen year old should be. For now, however, she was busy texting and messaging her friends farewell for once more, especially now that the school year has ended, and Zina was thinking about the life ahead of hers.

Now, her mind was somewhere in the void that stood between yesterday afternoon and what was going to be the trial with Pierre arranged with Montreal Koreana tomorrow afternoon, and everything that was standing's going to be a blur in the long-term memory. Zina knew this had meant that she was going to forget the taste of a brief lunch she just had, and a lot of things that were going to unfold tonight, the drive into the city, the visit to Maison M, and other things that would come before the trial...

Zina knew it wasn't a particularly easy time of the year for anybody else, having turned around more than twice to see her agent constantly on phone and typing notes and working on presentation files to make necessary pitches. Unlike hers, his timeframe worked around in orange-coloured clock that worked far too perfectly, and she could see it in his eyes that he was working to forget enough things elsewhere. That’s the very type of people who carried flames in their eyes, but had diverted them to their professional passions in order to separate themselves from the personal ones- those that an average Manitoban would not understand from those of Two Metropoles of Montreal or Quebec City, or even the East Coast.

Perhaps that's where Zina knew she could trust Pierre with all her hear. If she needed to ask him questions, he would answer them in three options that she could choose inside her mind, and they would always be done in most safe terms. Pierre, being a parent of a daughter whose career has already taken off, knew how to handle a teenager and never would he work against her interests for his own. But then, Zina also knew, from the 'previous night's incident', that he would lock himself in his hotel room upon return, turn his phone off in preference to have people direct his calls to his hotel, and set himself on alarm clock for five in the morning. Reflecting from her having to call the concierge, who would then redirect the phone call to his room, over something so minor it needed no more than a vague mention here, it was clear that Pierre's intentions were always clear, but the clouds were too dark for people to figure out once he turned off his switch.

Koreana, Glory Glory Koreana they said. The Blue Devils.

Zina now thought of the prospects that first struck upon the club. While a lifetime Swanguard fan, just by the virtue of being a Prince Eric native, Zina always found fascination to the multi-sport clubs that those out east had. In this country, on whatever the league you watch on television or via live streams, or something else, you would see either or both Koreana or CSKA playing. And it wasn't just those teams in the background either - you would see Koreana winning a few in football and basketball, CSKA winning even more in hockey and handball, and volleyball were split between them.

Sure, not everybody held the dream of joining the club, but it was one that many, especially given the significance of the Quebecois military (CSKA) and the Koreana Society (OOC note: Imagine an IC equivalent of Maccabi youth+sports org in Israel), had dreamed of and their locations only added even more allure to it. That's something that Pierre had told her when she asked him about why those two clubs in mind, especially when the smaller clubs like Hochelaga or Levis Athletic would be easier, in theory, for her to get playing time.

'I think you need to aim higher, young lady,' was all that he said. It was probably all that he was going to explain about his preference for the two giants over others, especially given the whole network that both CSKA and Koreana held. The symbol of the youth organisations that either funnelled into the Royal Quebecois Forces (via ROTC systems) or the Koreana Society, both also owned public and private schools, from primary level all the way to the age, which they had managed to maximise their utility value for both education and academics. Due to Pierre not always being on Zina's assistance, and the fact that he still maintained residence in Cenial, had meant that this was probably the best measure Zina would have gotten....if she makes it.

Ring, ring! Zina saw her phone buzz, with the Montreal area code reminding her that it's either Koreana or Pierre. After turning around to see that it was Pierre who decided to make a call on the other side of the business class, she picked up the call. 'Allo?'

'Zina, this is Pierre.' Pierre responded with a slow, gentle tone. 'I'm just saying this right now, before the plane start to descend. Please do not worry about me not saying enough to you today. I have a client, a hopeless romantic, who came all the way to see his beloved without letting me know, and the transfer situation hasn't been the easiest for him.'

It must have been about Shishkin? Zina nodded, as she remembered Pierre mentioning about Aquamarine and its biggest fan, who also happened to be involved in one of the most complicated sagas all window long. 'No worries. I know you are busy, and whatnot...' she said.

'Yes, but when I tell you not to worry, it's because I have faith in you, Zinaida W. Woodcarver.' Pierre sounded bit more sure, trying to assert his stance. 'I do not want you to feel nervous before heading to Koreana, especially because it's a huge place. Sure, there are lots of interests may be flying everywhere there, and you will meet lots of people and wander around a bit, but you won't be alone. I won't make that happen.'

'Thank you, Pierre.' Zina responded, trying her best not to sound stunned by the fear of failure, as she blinked her eyes few times, before she hung up the phone. 'Will do my best.,' Unfortunately, whether that had worked out in her favour or not was another story, for Zina now knew she couldn't squander her opportunity. She figured out that Pierre wanted her to go to Koreana out of her considerations. If anything, from the sound of it, Pierre probably doesn't even want her to drag the trials phase to go to Quebec City- the level of degeneracy that had unfolded with Sebastien Petit, Garthapis Koulouris and not to mention, the shadows of Marco Hertel that loomed around in the PlayToy Mansion. If there's one guy who knew the best to separate some of his clients from the rest, that would have been Pierre anyway. And the prospects of her being tainted, which would make Elora roll from her grave, was not something Pierre wanted to think about either.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 8 - MUNBAE-DONG

About two hours later, Zina and Pierre got out of their flight and drove to Zina's hotel, which was located at the heart of Koreana District, just north of the Royal Cross station. The traffic jam was the usual, as they watched the cars and the busses stuck in the highway. Having been away from the city for few months, Pierre realised that he once again forgot about how nightmarish it was to get into the city from the airport, on the western end of the island, and spent much of the hour talking to Zina about the city's eateries and how easy it was to accumulate data on those places.

Pierre was wearing a grey suit with blue ties, right to the Koreana club's colours, while Zina was wearing jeans and a yellow blouse conidered too springtime in Quebec City, but considered acceptable in Montreal. Pierre had realised that the move wasn't going to be easy on Zina, especially if culture shock were to be taken into account, and reminded himself to add a clause to the contract later. Of course, all were going to be up to Zina, and he wasn't going to do it any other way.

The drive into the city, through and past the suburbs and then into the West End where the van driver, not the most familiar of the knowledge, went into zig-zag and found themselves stuck again. In how silent he became, Zina noticed Pierre trying not to think about the affairs beyond his control. His eyes were closed and his mouth shut, but the sharp tensions all over his limbs had meant that he was always ready to wake up for a call, or an important text.

Fortunately, all that happened afterwards came in a series of blurs, as the van eventually found their way around and arrived at the hotel. Zina and Pierre, tired from six hours of travel, got out of the car, and then checked into their separate rooms. Pierre, who always made sure to have a stroll before grabbing an English breakfast at a hotel restaurant, got the keys to the second floor room, while Zina had a full penthouse for herself to rest for the rest of the day.

Looking back at Zina, Pierre smiled once more. 'So, you will have the entire penthouse on the fourteenth floor.' Pierre said, before giving her instructions. 'Please do not worry about tomorrow- I already got everything covered. Make sure you get full hours of rest, try any room service you wish to, and maybe have a walk around the District. It’s a nice time to be out in the District. And finally,' He cleared his throat once more. 'If you need me for anything, just call via the concierge once it's past ten.'

---

Fortunately, Zinaida didn't call the concierge the rest of the night.

'I'm not worried one bit, though I may sound like I'm worried.' Pierre denied to Christina Jo what was on each other's mind, as they were having a full plate at Namho-dong Samgyeopsal Grills. 'You know, at this point in my life I've seen so many prospects that approaching one for a chance to excel in a trial for Montreal Koreana is such an easy thing to do.'

Part of his admission was genuine, since he was so used to seeing prospects over the past two decades, to the point where he had to step back and not interfere in the course of his daughter Arabella's tennis career. But the other part of his admission was on how confident Pierre McCarthy was in Zina, whom he had only seen a few clips, heard a bit from scared Swanguard and high school scouts, and approached out of remorse for the daughter of someone he loved back in high school. All the way down to his blood Pierre was bold, always willing to make mistakes, and he had faith Zina could turn out to be like Kate Huitema-Omeasoo, the UI1877 golden globe winner whose superstardom with Istria City FC was more than enough to suggest that the Quebecois football, after all this time, had finally returned.

Now that Pierre was talking to someone in the industry, and a personal friend of his dating all the way back to his early twenties, he was able to show his rationale and other emotions a bit more. One of the best parts about it, and coming to Montreal every time, was that he was able to go to different eateries that he had in mind, and while Pierre had a wide range of audiences he dines with, this time it happened to be the Vice Chairman of the Montreal Koreana Sporting Society. With this place happened to be located in a back alley, not far away from at least six Underground stations but not in the public view, they knew some form of privacy was guaranteed.

'Well, no doubt.' Christine nodded, as he poured the Soju on her shot glass. 'Thank you,' she said before they clinked the shot and started drinking again. 'I don't think you have missed much in terms of talent acumen. At least, not one bit with me, when I was in charge of basketball and handball teams. Do you recall your own successes on that front?'

'Oh, of course I do!' Pierre chuckled, happy that his friend had to start the drinks off with excellent news. 'Who don't remember the signing stories of Marianne Kasaboski, Zackaël Lapierre or the Petitpa siblings?' The best part of it all, of course, was that while Lapierre wasn't of either sport Christine served as the general manager (it was Volleyball), he knew the organisation through and through, and not just in a couple of strong sports. 'Anyhow, I do think that Zinaida will become a great player for Koreana, even a club legend, if she doesn't go abroad. Of course, nowadays, it's expected of most national team players to head abroad, carve their trades abroad and eventually return home when time's right...'

'So you think that she's next in line, if what you are saying is correct.' Christina picked up a couple of spoons of rice, before placing them in the perilla leaf and a couple of Samgyeopsal pieces and peppers added on top. 'You know, many people have said that we are seeing the rejuvenation of Quebecois forwards, who have either turned into headcases or are reliable but not exactly at the levels expected from those that came after the Golden Generations.' She sighed, as she then ate, chewed and swallowed the combination. 'Pardon me. You know, a dozen years spent away from international football has certainly limited our abilities more often than not.'

'Do you need another shot?' Pierre asked, to which she responded with an affirmative nod. 'Yeah, I do think that Zinaida Woodcarver, if given the right training and ability to perhaps accelerate her progress, could be playing for the Grim Reapers sooner than later.' Pierre continued to speak while pouring Soju on her shot glass, his certainty turning into uncertainty. 'It's just I know, it won't be easy for Zina, and lord knows what kind of a danger out there for a sixteen year old, in a world where we are getting bad news on The Taegukgi or Le Mazepa-'

'Yes, and I know you and I were burned four years ago by Michel Fillion. That certainly taught us something, and it is to cull those troubled elements out of the club before they threaten to unravel anybody's season.' Pierre and Christina continued to drink for a while, without saying anything, as they reminisced about the nightmare that was the Michel Fillion saga. 'I mean...' he continued, steam slowly coming out of his ears. 'I don't know, who would have thought that he would divorce his sweetheart, just to have a love affair with his team captain's wife, have her divorce him and then get remarried? You know that's when I cut all chords with him, and to this day I have no idea why he did that.'

'And I don't either...' Christina said, as they saw the line getting longer and longer in the past twenty minutes. 'You know, I've come to not really think a lot about how the children these days live. I have two myself, and they are getting older and older every minute, but it's always hard trying to figure out what they want even as they enter their twenties and whatnot, you know?'

'I do, that's for sure.' Pierre's face turned grave again. While quietly left behind for a while, that was something that clouded his mind from time to time. In about a year, Arabella was going to graduate high school and then what? It was a matter of fact that Pierre's feeling the age weight into him though he's not even forty, and now he had to think about what was next. 'It's not easy being a parent, and I'm sure you heard that from me when I first started, to represent my cousin Marianne.'

'Yes, I do.' Chistina agreed. 'I was just retired after a long career, and you were just out of school, off to your first free agent deal. And you weren't just coming out just out of school, but with a daughter you had only found out after your one night mate, a sleaze, told you well into it.' She sighed. 'You know, it's never easy being a parent, but you've handled it so well to this point. I'm sure Arabella knows that and she is happy about you. I grew up under one myself, and my mum kept me floating all my life.'

Pierre nodded. 'Now, that's why I don't think Zina will fail.' he said, likely ripping off a line from a recruiting pitch. 'We will have to establish a lot of clauses when she passes the trial though. I'm not gonna be here negotiating for ridiculous sums like what Kate Huitema-Omeasoo was able to get from Istria City, not because I don't think she deserves it, but because we can always go back to it. But we do need a lot of clauses set, just to make sure that we won't have her mother mourn from her graves and haunt me down.'

'Alright then.' Christina nodded before asking. The air was now getting thick with cigarette smoke from other tables. 'So what are those clauses?'

---

Of course, while all of this was going on, Zinaida was having different thoughts back in her room. Not that she couldn't do much about it though - the desire to walk alone in the big streets of this M-named city, for once, was sufficient for her to start getting changed back to simple street clothes of a pale tee-shirt and Jeans. Her mind was once again bound in curiosity, and she were obliged to head to where the wind were blowing that late-May evening.

The lack of response from Pierre was highly favourable. Of course, Pierre was too busy having drinks with Christina Jo, whose discussions were starting to set up a crucial foundation for Zinaida's future career with Montreal Koreana and maybe to somewhere bigger. Not that Zinaida had minded much at this point though- she was young, beautiful and most importantly found herself as high as any hope could be. Perhaps hope and everything else that stood before her between now and the distant future were what kept her internally floating. To be fond of the chances, now that so much was lost and left behind from her childhood, were what Zina carried inside her mind.

'Here we go. Let's see how the city lights were going to be,' wrote Zina on her message to an old friend back in West Prince Eric Secondary, 'and perhaps, there would be pleasant surprises before it's too late and I have to sleep.'

So in a few minutes, Zina slowly opened her door, and found herself walking to the elevator. She was googling possible shops and maybe a couple of pubs on her phone to see if she would have any luck, for it was only eight-thirty in the evening. The Quebecois of the two metropoles, as always, have reputation for waking up late and staying up late, in the manners similar to our continental friends in the RLverse of Europe (or if you are from the author's world, Korea applies too), so that alone was enough for a sixteen-year old to sneak out while it's possible (Koreana academy has different rules with weekday outings).

Zinaida was soon descending along with the elevator, and still had she not thought of exact walking route. The trial was still going to happen early enough tomorrow, and she knew that there will be a wake-up call from the concierge as the first reminder, and then Pierre as the second warning. Zina was still quite unsure on how long she was going to be there either. Perhaps she had found herself as much of a tabula rasa as Pierre had thought of her as a prospect, or it may just be in that her state of mind's focused but in middle of this sea of disorientation where most others, without a positive mind and chance for hopes, would have been crushed already.

Don't worry, Zina. You can do this. said Zina as she tried to relax, quieting her fears down by saying that a short walk's going to be a short walk, even as the Montreal of 2047 has seen unfortunate tragedies against women in night hours. The short dose of being alone, and in nowhere while being at one of the most bustling districts of this city, was going to be enough for the night. And when the elevator finally stopped at the ground floor, she exited and found herself looking for the exit not far away from the front desk.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 10 - Tilted

'Pssst.' Zina Woodcarver looked to the right and saw a short, scruffy-haired teenager around her age with a jumper and a tracksuit waving at her. Huh? She wondered, trying her best to avoid the wave of the stranger. She couldn't help but to agree with her inner thought that he probably knew who she was though. If what Pierre McCarthy had said was correct, in that he knew everybody and their respective traits in this town, that probably meant something in this city where connections were valuable, wealth was uneven, and the Underground was well-heated.

It made Zina somewhat conscious and frustrated. Even though she wanted to run away, she couldn't do so, and Zina couldn't help but to hope that he wasn't going to approach her any further. Of course, that's not what exactly happened, for the stranger shouted back at her just as she was halfway out of it. 'Zina Woodcarver!'

She turned around. It was once again the stranger, whose voice rang across the room. 'Stop! Stop!' He shouted, his voice ringing across the lobby, catching the attention of three security guards, two concierges and a valet turn around. Immediately feeling the shiver, Zina froze as he approached her like a westerly wind the very next moment.

'Uh....how do you know me?' Zina asked, trying to divert the others' attention away from the two. Nerves reaching rushing towards her head, she briefly chewed her lips twice before looking back at him. The same stranger looked back, grinned once more, and then began to speak. 'Of course. You're the new girl coming to tomorrow's trial right?' At that moment, Zina smiled and nodded to indicate that she was indeed the person Jean-Christophe Babin happened to be looking for, and then she shrugged twice over her shoulder.

'Well, good.' Jean-Christophe resumed speaking. 'Because Pierre told me to look out for a girl who may seem a bit lost in this hotel lobby.'

'Well, how did you know I was going to come downstairs?' Zinaida asked, trying to figure out the very reason behind it.

'I'm surprised he has not said one word about Jean-Christophe Babin, the latest Koreana extraordinaire!' Jean-Christophe chuckled. 'But sometimes life does go like that. It's really unfortunate but what can you do?' partly on how deliberately silly he was sounding, but also on how Zinaida flinched so little upon hearing his name. Not that his ego was that small to be hurt by his name not being among the likes of Hertels, Manitopyes, or Okellos, but still, the reminder of how much he had to go in order to really be there was something he always embraced.

'Alright. Now, why don't you stop wasting my time for a sec?' Zina shot back.

'Really, that's not why I came.' Jean-Christophe responded, his face turning into a pit of seriousness. 'Pierre asked me to find you today, when the time's right, because he wanted me to give you bits of how it's like, and what to expect here...with Koreana and whatnot. Really, that's why, and I was like 'okie dokie chief', and walked a little here.'

'So a tour guide?'

'Not exactly, because you won't be visiting the complex until tomorrow, but sure.' He responded, before he heard a loud rumble from his stomach. 'Now, I think it's just about time for dinner. Why don't we go somewhere nearby and talk there? Easier that way, I'm sure...'

---

'First, let's start with weekly wage. The toughest one because you've seen me demand for lot more before, and by the end of every deal you do agree that I'm giving my players what they deserve.' Pierre said after gulping a glass of Torsten's Beer, his endless experiences with the overall Sporting division of the Koreana Society laid out with his leverage. For better or worse, that's how he ran the cirque, and with the list of clients he has served for just short of past twenty years, it was inevitable.

'Why not five thousand? Unproven asset, but you seem to be too sure on her succeeding. Haven't seen that level since, what, Heo Myeong-Yoon on WQBL?' Christina asked first, starting off heavy with the amount.

'Sure, though it doesn't have to be exactly five thousand.' Pierre responded, proposing a different idea than one he would usually suggest in terms of prospects. 'Five thousand works, but only three thousand on salary. Remaining two thousand, so that would roughly combine for what, 104000 Quebecois Pounds, would instead go to her savings account that won't be open until Zina turns twenty-five. I know my client won't be happy about it, but that will actually help out nicely if she needs the money later in life, and that's the very least I can do.'

'Fair. I like that idea.' Christina nodded, the fumes coming from cigarettes and Samgyeopsal burners on the other tables clouding their eyes. It was almost as if there were mysterious layer to it, like that of a Hong Kong Noire film. 'Given the conversion rate, 312,000$ ever year would mean that generous sum be available for life after football, should she be interested in taking that path. What's the next one?'

Now getting to the more important part of the negotiations, Pierre coughed twice. 'Secondly, would be to ensure that she would be given as much support as possible. Yes, I know this is rich coming from me, the one who could easily rip off Ezra Carp in broad daylight, but I, too, am a father, and think that the orphan girl Zina, who is going to be the face of your team, deserves a better life than whatever she could have fallen into back in West Coast.' He then picked up the second bottle of beer in the last five minutes. 'And I know this can backfire. I have had many mistakes with ungrateful clients in the past, and have burned bridges with them on almost every single instance, but Zina isn't one of those. I've known her mother for lord knows how long-'

'Sure. And that's a very valid reasoning to have, especially with the way the contracts evolve with our academy products and other prospects. But why are you doing this, specifically to this prospect and not to others?'

Then they briefly paused, and watched the clock tick.

'Yes, and we all know the memories last for very long time, in this country...' Pierre gathered his thoughts together, the alcohol more than enough to further facilitate his inner thoughts into something more potent but flawed too. For someone who was rarely drinking in public capacity, and made mistakes with alcohol on rarer frequencies, this was not going well. 'Call this a product of atonement, if you wish to, but really it's best for you as well. You would not want Zina or JC to be affected by the outside distractions, especially if they are coming from the national team or other places, and Alexandre has what? 3 years? The Valladar is a great leader who does his own things his way, but you cannot rely on him forever.'

Christina resisted the temptation to call Pierre out for the hypocrisy that he has created with the clan of misfits, orgy-seekers and criminals whose he had defended their interested at CSKA Quebec, and nodded. 'Alright, fair. let's talk about the clauses then.'

'So first, there ought to be at least one or two clause(s) with refusal to national team commitments that may be viewed as too dangerous or unnecessary. Whether they be filled with injury avoidance clauses too or other ones we need less time to discuss, I will let the front office decide. But what matters is that she won’t be heading into undesirable locations, whether home or away. This country has its own history of playing games in either an arctic prison or Terra Henrius after all.'

'One that we cannot risk.'

'Exactly why, and I'm sure we cannot risk either him or her or Dong-Woon out like that, unless the entire qualifiers are hosted there.' 'He coughed once again, before resumed speaking with a smooth pace. 'As for others, those are simpler ones but we can discuss them, one by one. First, she will be guaranteed education up to A-Levels, with an education package available for any degree she obtains after that. Koreana will grant her a release clause to worthy clubs of top 10 leagues in her interest, and next we have...'

---

The fried chicken bistro was not the one that was commonly associated with football prospects, and definitely not those of top Quebecois clubs that have an extensive youth academy network. Jean-Christophe knew that too well- if anything, that may have been why he deliberately picked here to chat with the stranger he had just met- and his preference for something that could fill his stomach up easily and for longer time, had meant that it made too much sense for them to be here.

Of course, however, this wasn't done with particular consideration towards Zina, and really Jean-Christophe should have counted himself lucky for not making a bad impression and getting into trouble with far too many people who were involved in his eighteen year old self by this point. As Jean-Christophe slowly chomped a four piece combo meal, with generous Cajun fries and lots of barbecue sauce drenched over it, Zina was quite amused that two prospects, on the same division too, would just end up out of the blue.

The place was brightly lit, the walls filled with Acadianan memorabilia largely consisting of those who had visited the place over the last two decades, and it was mostly filled with students or locals also looking for cheap frills. Zina had a hinge that he wasn't just there to wait for Pierre, especially if he had known the superagent well enough. It was still a solid fifteen minute walk from the Complex, so he would have been required to alter plans from usual work he would have also had to do while back there, whether it's practicing on own or to complete coursework from the Lycee, and Zina could see what it had meant.

Not giving the slightest fuck… Zina gave a slight frown as Jean-Christophe continued to eat, without much awareness of their surroundings.

Unfortunately, this was something she knew she would have to deal with, if the trial with the Koreana club goes well. While she wasn’t one of thousands aware of the fact in this city, people have indeed known Jean-Christophe Babin was going to use every opportunity to avoid himself from doing 'unnecessary work', so it was almost certain that Jean-Christophe Babin had to be asked for a greater reason. No wonder he brought his own gym bag and backpack all the way to here, because he was going home after this. It was unimpressive that his intentions were that obvious, given that Zina had enough things to worry for the rest of the night, even more so after they were going to say goodbye in an hour’s time.

Somewhat startled, Zina gave him a stare, before opening her mouth. ‘So, you’re still here during the off-season? Isn’t it summer holidays here as well?’ she asked.

‘Naw fam.’ he responded, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Schools don’t finish here until exams are through in June.’ He then coughed twice, before resuming to speak. ‘So still a couple of weeks and exams away. Not that this affects you-’

Zina glanced at how quickly the plate was being emptied. ‘So you go school, train, and back? For how long?’

‘Man, you really are new to this, aren’t you?’ Jean-Christophe looked back at her, almost as if she were unbelievably naive about the situation she was getting into, before he gulped coke from the paper cup. ‘Exactly. Team practices until six, and then we grab dinner at the cafeteria, then usually a voluntary practice session with coaches whenever we wanna schedule them.’

‘That’s entirely fair.’ she responded. ‘It seems like you could train whenever you want to, and you could study whenever you have to. Of course, you won’t be sleeping, but..’ Zina looked at a small plastic cup of Americano coffee, which she ordered from a Red Horse Cafe just outside the hotel. ‘That’s where coffee does come handy, I guess...’

‘Sure, that’s one way to say it.’ Jean-Christophe nodded. ‘The Lycee (author’s note: Lycee-Koreana, the postsecondary institution run by the Koreana Society, is considered one of the most prestigious high schools in the country.) is not easy though. I’ve seen far too many colleagues having to decide between getting below 8s or 9s, or to falter because they spend too little time on the field.’ For the young man whose academic struggles were more than enough, this simply struck too real for him to deny it. ‘Of course, I’m going for the latter because you know, I just can’t wait to play more football, earn more money and see where life takes me. 8s still get me a diploma.’

‘Uh, huh,’ Zinaida said, wondering if he’s actually not giving a darn, or more tampered by factors beyond the young man’s control. For the girl whose grades never strayed from the 90s (author’s note: grading systems in Quebec and Shingoryeo depend on what region- Zinaida is from the West Coast, where the usual 0-100 scale is used, while most of central Quebec, including the Lycees, employs 0-20 scale), and who probably had the confidence and awareness to pick right courses (important, especially given her less than impressive command in Korean language), this made little sense.
‘Anyways, how do you find Pierre as an agent? You must know a fair bit about him, having been on the senior contract for a couple of seasons now.’

‘Oh, Pierre’s jolly good fun. I mean he’s usually busy, but whenever you message him for something quick, like a favour, or a long-term contract extension, a transfer, he usually becomes your genie in the bottle.’ They both grinned and then chuckled, trying to imagine a somewhat heavy man with glasses and slowly balding hair as a symbol of modern-day Pappi Long Legs. ‘But yeah, he’s good at what he does and gives proper fucks at it.’
Zina decided to stop being a pain in the arse for a bit, and amused herself to a couple of thoughts. ‘What kind of favours do you and...uh...others usually ask?’ Zina asked, trying to get more out of this conversation.

‘Believe it or not, most of them are petty. Big enough to the point where you would rather not ask your coaches or teachers about it because it’s well beyond any of higher-ups’ pay grade, at least I think so, but petty enough to the point where you can’t ask well….Alexandre or Giles Ken or Dejan Wasic about. Heck, even my brotha, Shim Dong-Woon.’

‘And what would those favours be?’ Zina asked, looking around a couple of times to see if anybody was overhearing their conversation. ‘No way they can’t be that odd.’

‘Oh, they are really simple. Concert tickets, latest shoes, maybe beta test versions of QHL50, signed albums or if you are one of those prudes, elle-peees…’ Jean-Christophe wasn’t sure on how to explain it any further, because they were clearly on the border of excessive materialism and inherent pettiness. Youth prospects were both passionate in the game they were playing for, and also easy to fall into mental limitations of their own. The fact that many had spent several years in the academy setting with similarly-minded folks had only made it worse. ‘I got to meet Frank Lundrigan, his brother and girlfriend, who’s probably the biggest writer ever if you’re a CSKA fan that way. It was the last international break, when they had the home game at The Samseongoloondongjang.’

‘Oh?’ she enquired. Frank Lundrigan was a midfielder who, in his past two seasons with TSV Marzig, was rumoured by many as the greatest competition to Marco Hertel on the attacking midfielder position that was once thought to be permanently Hertel’s for a decade. The consistent midfielder didn’t come back to Quebec often, but for Tessa Maitfield, the Schottian international and CSKA Quebec captain, he did plenty of efforts to do so. ‘It must have been great- I’ve never been a huge Marco Hertel fan anyway.’

‘And that’s the right answer you give to any Koreana scout.’ Jean-Christophe grinned. ‘That we are chaste but not really chaste, punk-and-pop-loving children who listen to Huyton Grammaire, Aquamarine and Bataclan-chez-nous. So Clement (Mattern-Soh) got an Aquamarine ticket at Royal Walton Hall, half the guys got the new sneakers, and my last roomie, Nam-Soo, got to receive a lesson from Heo Myeong-Shin, two years before both of them actually ended up in Cassadaigua.’

It was the world’s worst-kept secret that Pierre McCarthy always made sure to separate two herds of his clients, whether in one sport or another, from each other. He knew, from the painful lessons of the last few years, that it was in his clients’ best interests to avoid meeting their opposites, especially if his clients were prospects. Perhaps he was lucky not much news has come yet of Denis Dezelac’s private life in Borograd, nor have there been anything less than decency from Daniel Galbraith, the Tumbran national team legend whose transfer from Straton FC to Perce Town landed explosions across the Esportivan sky.

‘Like don’t get me wrong. I know we are all spoiled children.’ Jean-Christophe was quick to add. ‘And really, we are lucky to have Pierre for that reason as well. He’s happy to do it, me and my buddies are happy because he gets us what we want. Of course, it’s no paradise. Hotter heads collide even among the same lads- that’s why we all know Tessa Maitfield is moving to Banija- okay, I didn’t say that, but that’s pretty much...yeah.’

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

The Royal Quebecois Football Association presents...The Grim Reapers! ver. wc87.

Independent Athletes from Quebec (IAQ) - World Cup 87 Team
Group A versus Chromatika, Commonwealth of Baker Park and Squornshelous Remnant States

GOALKEEPERS: Padraig McGibbon (1912 Stelburg, STL), Nelson Okello (Hoima Warriors, BNJ)
DEFENDERS: Bastian Borges Jr (Slateport Bulls, VLD), Chewbacca (Hoima Warriors, BNJ), Hazel Hanson-Conavacio (Haligonian), Donovan Kim-Lumaniyka (CSKA Quebec, QUE), Fabrice Manitopyes (Fontvielle Impact, VLD), Leah McKechnie (Montreal Koreana, QUE), Lucien Raeff (Rozelle, BRE)

MIDFIELDERS: Jean-Christophe Babin (Montreal Koreana), Erin Kang (Rulandea Kosta, FFD), Arsene-Michael Litt (FC Felsenkirchen 1878), Frank Lundrigan (TSV Marzig, STL), Sinead MacDougall (Myana, CMT), Seamus McKellar (Haligonian, QUE), Shin Dong-Woon (Montreal Koreana, QUE)

FORWARDS: Enrico Hanson-Conavacio (Myana, CMT), Kate Huitema-Omeasoo (Istria City FC, BNJ), Kim Seung-Yoon (RGS Athletic, EFL), Eloise Kweon (Sabrefell Moths, NPH), Pablo Mancosu (Pradera FC, VLD), Zinaida Woodcarver (Montreal Koreana, QUE)

Expected Starting XI vs Chromatika: Okello; Borges Jr - Manitopyes - Raeff - Hazel; MacDougall - E. Kang; S.Y. Kim - Lundrigan - Huitema-Omeasoo; Enrico

---

The Agent

PART 11 - Jumper

The conversation went on, as Pierre and Christina one wave of customers left and were replaced by another wave. 'How long do you see them sticking around with the club?' Christina asked, as Pierre closed his eyes and tried to come out with an appropriate response. 'Because we've seen a lot of waves here lately, and really, I don't see that change.' The talk about the ways of the life, with the state of Quebecois market had go on. 'But such is the way of the life, really. You know this too well- that a lot of the guys we have right now, won't be back in five years' time. Whether it's because of something good or bad I'll let you decide, but really, we have to think about that while getting to this young lady, Zinaida, as well.'

'I know. That's why we are still here at eleven in the fucking night.' Pierre answered, as he finally came up with a response while on an almost empty table. 'And if we have to be honest, I could see all three of gone by twenty five. Even twenty three.' Pierre decided that he answered to the ways the market had dictated itself, and not to one of his own preference. There was no denial that he would rather desire the Shim-Babin-Zina trio last forever, with Koreana winning the Q-League championship for ten out of thirteen years or so. But that would be dishonest on his part, and he knew any of the trio could probably end up in somewhere higher. 'Maybe Dong-Woon would be the easiest out of the trio to stay, but you know, it's going to be near-impossible to keep his demands on playing with an internationally-winning club...'

'Good, and that's inevitable I guess.' Christina agreed and gestured the waiter to bring a couple more bottles of Yongwanggang beer. 'These days, with all the Quebecois players moving abroad for bigger money and opportunities....not always the easiest to handle for sure.'

'And as someone who spent twenty years in Terranea, all I can say for my clients is to aim for the best.' Pierre felt slightly sadder, remembering that he didn't expect to come back on an elongated schedule than what he had originally had in mind. 'It's like that feeling when you know your daughter has to move for college or pros and the home will feel a bit emptier...' One more year and she'll be gone, like Zina. The only difference, however, is that one were going to be heading to college and then train mostly on her own crew, while the other, he hoped, would be with the Blue Devils until a bigger league came calling.

'Have I told you about the prospect in San Ortelio? Dominico Cappa?' He asked.

'No, but tell me more.' Christina responded with a slight glow in her eyes. 'He's the Ortelian captain on the DBC team right? The ones who won in Valanora just last month.'

'Yes. That's exactly who I'm talking about.' Pierre responded, just as the waiter dropped a couple of beer bottles on their table. 'Fairly promising guy, a recent client of mine. Plays in a middling side at San Ortelio, so you may question the competition quality there, but his field vision is impressive enough and we should maybe target him in long run...' He unscrewed the cap and resumed speaking. 'Of course, it will take a bit for him to come here, especially since it requires the oceans between southern Rushmore and northern Ana-I meant, Atlantian Oceania...'

'Tempting, though it continues to amaze me that you, a salesman, would know what my scouts don't.' Christina was once again unimpressed with the lack of scouting updates and progressions made from the Koreana's Rushmori scouting team, whether it be basketball, volleyball or more importantly football. Sure, she would have been fine with making a couple of misses, like the Mytanars or Hispinards in volleyball, but really, underestimating the mid-north bloc's prospects was not something she was happy about. 'Though I don't know how long that lack of profile would help us elsewhere, when we are talking about the likes of Euraleague and the Zenith...'

'Exactly. And I am not as confident about it either.' Pierre responded as he continued to pace the conversation. 'And I don't think he will come to us anytime soon, if ever- there are much better options just in that region, let alone elsewhere in Atlantian Oceania (OOC note: My timeline for Season 6 is roughly around mid-WCQ87, so this predates the Foxchester Declaration). If an offer comes from the Zenith, then he'll probably go. He's mentally tough enough for it at least.'

'Fair enough. But I do see what you're telling me here at least.' Christina's eyes lit up again, as they continued to talk about possible targets for the upcoming season. 'Now what about Suzanna Barter? The Kohnheadian on Kingston FC who apparently wants to aim for a winning club.'

'Now, she's not my client but you never know. Of course, Rimouski may say otherwise...'

---

'Sooner than later, you'll be there as well.' said Jean-Christophe as he and Zina were looking at the Koreana Complex from the top of the hill that faced against it. The morning drizzle had made it a somewhat of cool late Spring day, and the fog that shrouded the city into the night had added additional layer of mystique to it. They looked from the behind, and watched in awe as a few dozens of academy players, from gridiron to baseball in both lycee and club level, practiced under the bright lights across several fields- it was a sight to behold for those not as familiar with it. Sitting on the gigantic rock where him and a couple of his friends would often spend hours chatting or skipping class, Jean-Christophe assessed the grounds once again and nodded. 'Yeah, one of dozens on the ladder, but you never know...it's very rare for a free agent to really come here outta blue.'

'Well, getting playing time would be another story,' Zina responded, noticing the rows of Under-23 players playing a routine test match. 'The media don't call this the only relevant Montreal club left these days, at least.' Of course, everybody knew that was the truth nowadays. There once was a time when Montreal used to have four football teams - Koreana, City, Hochelaga and Impact were the ones- and it used to be the bragging rights for many locals.

Now, a decade had passed and Koreana the only one left standing, with City going through financial troubles and other two going up and down as if peeking through a neighbour's bedroom on a degenerate's average night routine, and the only rivalry that became relevant for most was beating CSKA Quebec as often as possible. The talent pipeline became somewhat saturated because of that, and with the Quebecois return to IFCF and NSWC, there was no denying that Koreana found additional joy in selling youth talent to higher-ranked leagues with greater competition.

'Believe me. You will.' Jean-Christophe responded, his assurance once again vouchable as if it's made out of a golden lottery ticket with 100% success rate guaranteed. 'I bet you have what it takes to make it. If not, you wouldn't be joining here this late. You'd probably be staying out west, and maybe hope for a better chance there. Nevermind that Swanguard or (Winnipeg) United or even Rovers aren't the best place.'

'I see what you mean. Maybe it's just...having to move to the other side of the country, and with so little....it's not easy. And not to mention that there aren't a lot of places I could go. Really, it's not as easy as you think.' Zina laughed weakly. 'And some, by this point, have already made their statements. We've all heard about Kate Huitema-Omeasoo, Seung-Myeon Kravitz-Hyeon, even Wilton Ramos...'

'Wilton Ramos who let his career rot in Laketown Rangers, all the way out in Taeshan?' Jean-Christophe laughed, but Zina's face remained unchanged, maybe even more unconvinced. 'That's a bad move, and his uncle Sauron, who reps that homie, should've been a goner. He really could have found a better club to move, than one that barely bid for shit the first time and only succeeded the second time because he was unhappy about the relegation squad.' Zina remained unflinched on the surface. 'Now for the other two, you are right. Seung-Myeon's from a year above, went a year abroad in 1912 Stelburg, and then came back with an even fatter contract. Still a bad move though- he could have just told coach Hwang he’d love to go on a loan!' He continued speaking. ‘At least KHO earns 100k a week with Istria nowadays, and every company wants her sponsoring them. But really, it’s not about how early you can go, and how quickly you climb the ladder, but about doing it the right way. That’s why you gotta trust Pierre and see how it goes.’

Zzzzzzz…. At that next moment, his phone let out a buzz.

'JC here. Hello?' Jean-Christophe quickly answered the phone, as he saw Pierre's name right on his cellphone. ‘Pierre, what’s up? What’s going on?’ Everybody knew that Jean-Christophe Babin, after a phenomenal rookie season that wrapped up, was currently en route to sign a five year contract renegotiation with Montreal Koreana, but Jean-Christophe certainly didn't want that to interrupt him from meeting a probable new teammate. It's not because he was with a charming woman just a year younger than her- JC has been dating a sweetheart of his, a volleyball player also with Koreana academy, for a couple of years- but her first impressions were more than enough for the seventeen year old to convince himself that they were going to be stuck looking out for each other, in one way or another.

‘Are you at the rock right now?’ Pierre responded on the other side of the phone, immediately figuring out that Jean-Christophe was not really diverting from his usual self. ‘And I guess with your future teammate.’ It was a bizarre feeling that sometimes you would know where one would be around on a given day or time, but Pierre was no fool and the bonds he had shared with his players were more than what was needed to establish business deals. This probably had a bit to do with that East Coast mindset, where humanly bonds were highly valued, but also because Pierre didn’t have much family aside from his daughter and those back in Halifax. Sometimes trade-offs happen.

‘Oh certainly, thanks once again for the offer, Pierre.’ Jean-Christophe responded as he heard lots of loud, background noise over the restaurant from the other side. Probably meeting with somebody, not sure whom though. He thought, before assuming that it’s either a friend or another client. ‘Somebody who I’ll be playing with or against for many years to come…I love that idea.’ Jean-Christophe gave out a light grin. ‘It’s a pleasure.’

‘Don’t screw it up.’ Pierre warned as Jean-Christophe turned off the microphone mode on his phone. He knew not everything had to be heard, and from what her expressions had delivered, Zina was probably unimpressed with [some aspects of] him by now. ‘No tabloids at Maison M offices tomorrow please, alright?’ Pierre gave a reminder, as Jean-Christophe flinched and Zina struggled to hide her delight.

‘Alright, will do.’ He said, before hanging up the call.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 12 - Audio

Part I: Future

The match was coming down to its final minute, and there was no doubt that the Grim Reapers were still very much alive and running. The opening match of the tournament, like the Grim Reapers' form against Chromatika side that was rapidly becoming its nearest rival, was a back and forth affair, and while the Grim Reapers were trailing, 2-3 after Vasiliy Marten Kuznetsov's goal on the 87th minute, it could have easily gone the other way.

Of course, that's sometimes how life went along in international football. The Quebecois, currently ranked 31st, did have a formidable squad with its rapidly increasing accumulation of international experience on both national team and domestic levels, and they had finished the second half of the qualifying round with seven straight wins and eight wins out of nine games in the half. Since surviving through the qualifying round where they were not really feeling at home for their home matches, the Quebecois have certainly played well. The friendly match victories against Hispinas and the hosts aside, they have also drawn the group A’s second pot in Commonwealth of Baker Park to 3-3, in front of a sellout crowd in Kingston.
However, if the Grim Reapers can tell one thing about the one-goal difference, it's very much like a life, as those ones usually involve odd bounces.

And in middle of it, was Zinaida Woodcarver. Substituted from Kate Huitema-Omeasoo on the right wing right at the eighty-fifth minute, Zina found herself situated just outside of the penalty box, as she moved back and forth, looking at how the ball moved back and forth on the middle and the left flank, with Frank Lundrigan, Kim Seung-Yoon, Erin Kang and Enrico Hanson-Conavacio working their way around the match.

Here we go, but may have to move bit more to the centre, like small triangles. Zina thought, looking at the very cluster of Chromatik and Quebecois players where the ball were. It was a particularly frustrating sight for both sides, with lots of passes and close checks between the two sides whose focus were to either get the ball out (if you're the home side), or to find a way to break through the back four that was now complemented with Enigma Armageddon, an elite midfielder on her own right.

Maybe I'll move a bit more to the left, and hope for the cross. Zina knew there was no way Enrico Hanson-Conavacio, who had splashes brilliance that really made the difference at various points during the game, was going to get the ball beyond the touch. Sure, Enrico Hanson-Conavacio was a super-soldier, but the Anormalies knew the Myana superstar even better than some of his teammates, so maybe he had to be used as a decoy.

Decoy? Zina felt the spark inside her head, as she began to accelerate. 0 to the hundred, real quick. The gap, and Enrico's clog too evident now, Zina moved back and then to the left, so that she would be just outside of the penalty box, but on the vast emptiness of real estate. Valence Ilya, who was doing a solid job covering Kate Huitema-Omeasoo earlier, noticed her moving, but the speedster was quick enough to outpace as Frank Lundrigan crossed the ball to her feet.

Alright. Zina felt the ball hitting the side of her right feet with a heavy first touch. The Montreal Koreana forward moved left, going zig-zag on her footwork, but now the oppposing centrebacks had closed the gap. Now there was no choice, but to shoot it.

Cheers!

Without ado, she shot the ball, high and to the right corner as hard as she could. Like a cannon ball it went, with its penumbra so graceful yet immaterial. For a sec it looked like it was destined to go in, almost as if the fate had finally decided to smile on Grim Reapers after far too many 2-3 losses since The Return.

But those who know the future would say otherwise at how the unnatural would end up, for it was Juxon Fillar who had timed his jump accurately, as he go to it on time and punched the ball away.

'ZI---NA! ZI----NA! ZI-----NA!'

The next she heard was a massive chant from the Quebecois contingent, present on the south stand of the stadium, as they called her name out. This was then followed by a round of applause from both the home and the away fans, as the ball was hurried forward to the midfields by Henri de Aea. Zina, who had spent past three years in waves of emotions from the life-changing events that had happened to her since then, was crying on the inside. Unlike the older generation of Quebecois legends in Hazel van Robben or Leonardo Conavacio, she kept her forward and moved back by few steps, as if nothing had happened. But the round of applause continued as they went back and forth, and Zinaida knew her debut match as a Grim Reaper for the World Cup proper did make some impact. One that was not really marked with a game-tying goal on the 93rd minute as the she would have hoped, but certainly not the last time she's going to star in those star-studded football fields.

Part II: Present

‘Seems like we have a good crop among the youngsters, yes.’ Jang Moon-Ho, said back to Pierre McCarthy as the head coach of Montreal Koreana’s Under-18 academy side spoke in a high, hoarse vocal tone. ‘The blue and the white will fit them nicely, with some silver linings for the best and the bronzed grit for the rest.’ He looked happy, delightful to be back watching a football game in person after a week off from his scouting trips, as they were talking in a small coffee room that the youth coaches had on the Clubhouse One.

‘As expected, though it’s really a Maytime match and not one to be taken with particular value.’ Pierre went around, trying not to place too much value out of a mere practice match. Of course, he knew that’s not exactly why the twenty-six kids, with mere weeks ahead of their spring term exams, had played the unscheduled match out of the blue anyway. Sometimes, not everything had to be told, and Pierre knew he was at fault for it.

‘In all fairness, Pierre, I know you aren’t going to be perfectly content with the level of steel and the lock we would expect from the midfielders or the defenders.’ Moon-Ho added, acknowledging the experience gap between the senior team players and the prospects. ‘But don’t mistake rusty playing with undervaluing of their potential…I see a lot more from them in future.’ The score, a seven-four in favour of the red team, was enough to suggest that, and the assistant coaches were left with a checklist of what drills and other skill training exercises the prospects would have to do after the June exams.

‘Why would I? If I have to be honest with you, that’s not the slightest bit of my concern.’ Pierre responded as a matter of fact, trying not to speak specifically about his specific prospect’s performance. ‘We are going to have, what, four possible national teamers from them alone? Seung-Myeon (Kravitz-Hyeon) on goal, Mathinna (Bouck) and Clement (Mattern-Soh) on defence, Jean-Christophe (Babin) up middle.’

‘Change that to five, unless you decide to become an absent father that you never were.’ Moon-Ho chuckled before looking back at Pierre. ‘...that Woodcarver. I could see her being the best among the fabulous five, if all cards fall nicely.’ Coach Jang continued grinning, as he watched Pierre stare back at his client. ‘I am very impressed with how aware she is on the footwork, the consistent pacing and not to mention her passing ability. Give her any bit of space and you be Dairy-Queen’d (DQ’d) for the next match because the coach won’t let you back...I don’t expect it from a first-timer, especially one whose trial was arranged by her agent.’ He nodded, his lips forward and straight. ‘What has kept her long from joining us or the CSKA, Pierre? Seriously.’

‘Can’t really say, but what I know is that she will be best off being cared for, and by those who know those who are driven, but also uncertain.’ Pierre responded with assurance of an old-world man, determined that not everything about her mother, and her passing, had to be said at this point in time. ‘Do you genuinely see a KHO-level potential for her? Especially in those that we cannot quantify unlike what Football Operator 48 attempts to do so for gamers?’ In over fifteen years of dealing with prospects, in which Zina just happened to be one of them, he knew that not everything had to be told and that sometimes those not visible were the most distinctive, defining traits that made and broke careers. Whether she would say much of her story or not in future time or not, Pierre saying bare minimum was probably the best option available.

‘Twenty out of twenty.’ Moon-Ho nodded back like a maniac. ‘How many times have I seen the level of talent and tangibles from a Quebecois under-21 prospect since the IAQ era began? Three.’ Moon-Ho continued with display of confidence. In his twenty five years with Koreana under every level from the U12s, he had never lost the mojo that galvanised those around him. He knew that it was what eventually accelerated his career as well, and did his best to keep it going. ‘Enrico the Schottian devilchild is probably the biggest Quebecois name known in Chromatika outside the Prime Minister or the Queen. Huitema-Omeasoo won the golden boot in both Quebec and Banija, and Istria City FC are S-FPL champs. The third? This young lady you brought out of the blue.’ Moon-Ho pointed to the pitch, seemingly unaware that Jean-Christophe, Zinaida and a couple of their classmates were walking towards there. ‘The one who may already be too big for the club, and this was just D-1 of her professional career!’

‘In the syndicate of matters most inevitable in Quebecois football, the Montreal Koreana.’ Pierre waved at the kids, as they slowly walked towards their way. ‘You know what, that’s the most confiding news I’ve heard in years.’ Pierre smiled back at the four, unsure about the morality of his actions but sure about this being the best he could have given to Elora’s daughter.

The neverending circles, the Taeguks, of Red, Blue and Yellow. With the shades of darkness to reflect upon the endless nights of the sleepless country with wandering hearts with hopes and dreams. ‘We have done our part as humans. Let fate come at her like an autumn breeze, and be ordained with Tricolour Taegeuk.’

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

The Agent

PART 13 - Non-Believer

Part III: Past

Sometimes, we all make the worst mistakes. Of course, whether one’s able to recover from the damage depends on the person’s character at the immediate days, weeks or months past it, and be able to carry on.

And you, dear reader, knows that clearly wasn’t what had happened to Mr. Pierre McCarthy.

His worst mistake happened at seven p.m. in the evening at the Gaeseong Secondary School’s hockey arena. Let’s pretend I, the narrator currently typing while in middle of his fourteen-day quarantine in Seoul, on the other side of the fourth wall, am Tanner Baillergeon-Keefe, a friend of both our poor (vedny) Pierre and Elora Watkins, and explain what had happened.

Pierre, who would often come to the match with a couple of friends who weren’t interested in hockey as much as him, had made up his mind the day before. As his friends and her friends, coming from entirely different socioeconomic means and also different stages of understanding the society and its politicking circuits, Pierre felt that the cold war of tensions that lied within their friendship were unsustainable and that perhaps the best solution was to put an end to it. But Pierre was filled with an endless pit of nerves, and he was worried of public embarrassment he was to face with her friends, many of whom they had shared common denominators of a music program, so somebody had to deliver the letter.

This avatar of mine, of course, didn’t think too much about it. Unlike Pierre at the time, he was a realist, and he believed everything to be a longer race where the eventual winner would be the lucky guy at the Prom come the May of their senior year, so still around thirty months away. But what he did not realise was that just following his friend’s instructions, without any rebuttal to make him think otherwise, was a recipe for disaster.

Five minutes later, while the varsity hockey match between Gaeseong and the Gyeongnam Collegiate happened - unlike other sports, hockey’s been maintained as mixed-gender sport in all levels here in Quebec and shingoryeo- Tanner started to walk along the concourse, and thought about how he was going to handle the situation. Usually he was not really afraid of delivering something, for he was simply too young, goody-two-shoe and acute to do drug deliveries, but the letter he was asked to deliver for Pierre certainly had a bad feeling to it. He knew Pierre was prone to making mistakes out of judgmental errors, especially if motivated by emotions, and that something’s going to go wrong if he delivered it.

But he also knew there was nothing he could have done, but to deliver it. The odd dose of confidence he held that evening, likely influenced by scoring a perfect mark on his maths quiz that only counted for 5% of the Year 10 grade, had told him to think otherwise. It was not up to him to challenge his friend and ruin what was a solid high school match, after all. With the doubt evaporating, Tanner quickly walked his way to deliver the letter to Elora Watkins.

---

Part IV: Present

'Well, congratulations Zina.' said Pierre McCarthy gently, sipping a cup of coffee placed over a long, mahogany table that didn't really fit the flat. 'I'm sure if somebody had told you a week ago that you would sign your first professional contract with Montreal Koreana, the defending champions, with assurance of a first-team spot and lots.' He smiled back at Zina, being in awe over how reminiscent she was like that of her late mother.

'Thank you Pierre,' she responded with a glow, feeling slightly tired as she looked back at him. The long table was an odd feature in this shared flat that Pierre rented out to his clients. Occupied by four clients of his at either Montreal Koreana or intercollegiate teams, the flat was messy, with lots of cans on the table, sofa, and the charging pods lying near the TV set and video game consoles. Pierre, of course, knew this sight was more the norm than the exception, and that it was better there were some human smells (better worded in Korean language as '사람냄새' ~~Quebbles~~) than the dry vacuum with no sign of a life. 'I don't know....there has been a lot going on in my life, and that the waves of people...who come and pass by...and it hasn't been the easiest for me to handle.'

'No, and that is never your fault.' Pierre moved his left hand forward with a backhanded motion, as he shook his head to indicate otherwise. 'If I have ever learned one thing from those days, of being an underappreciated dreamer, and it's that you should never your blame yourself for what's happened to you.' He then slowly drew his hand back, still looking at Zina as his gaze shook. 'And that's probably the best way to handle whatever that comes to you, as you become older, else you'll be regretting things forever.'

'And if you were standing before my mum, what would have said?' Zina asked, as Pierre grabbed another sip with his left hand on the cup handle and his right hand on his wallet, entrenched quietly on the right pocket of his dress pants. 'I remember you telling me that you and mum had a thing back in high school...'

'Yes, that's absolutely true...it's not the easiest thing to say, especially since I'm talking to her daughter, but yes, you got that part right.' Pierre answered, giving a slow nod as he ignored a temptation to grab a drink from the refrigerator. 'I remember meeting Elora the first time, twenty-five years from now. Her and I came from neighbourhoods not far from each other, but went to different schools.'

'I see what you mean. I remember visiting the Old Centre of the city, with all the old buildings centred by the Heart, Suho-dong and the Nalchi Market. Just east of it, near the Seomyeon Cross and the Bujeon station, is apparently where you grew up.' she answered, remembering the details of stories mum and her late maternal grandparents have told her, as she grabbed a glass of whisky on the other side of the table and poured it on a glass cup right in front of it. 'Are you going to drink tonight?' Zina asked Pierre.

'Yes. I went to Gaeseong Middle School right next to the high school, and her Mountfield Yeshiva, which was a Jewish school that went K to 12. It was a small community I remembered, but a lot of her friends also ended up coming to Gaeseong Secondary or went to another major ones.' answered Pierre, gesturing with his hand the refusal to drink for the night, as he had a long way to go before the Aeroquebec flight to Greencaster was scheduled to take off at 1am. 'But the fate did come to call, and the proximity, as well as the fact that my uncle happened to be Sir. Joel, helped I guess.'

'But what exactly happened?'

'Well, a classic tragedy,' Pierre responded, shaking a little on the inside as he tried to find ways to not say too much. 'Let's say there was once upon a time when I was a prude with visions, but not the right words or actions.' Pierre swallowed, realising that it was too late to change the conversation. 'It was Elora who defended me when I was unfairly accused of actions I did not commit, who understood me the best, and really....didn't run away when she could have, just as I made that leap of judgment.'

It was then that Zinaida Woodcarver realised that she was entering the tunnel of neverending emotional circles, the multiples of multiples that Pierre had chained half of him inside his body. 'So you were saying that you two...knew each other, beyond the levels you had ever mentioned?' Zina stopped herself for a second, trying to gather her own thoughts. 'And is that the reason why you never came back, and the artificial gap...for all those years?'

'Correct, because many years ago I made a mistake out of my foolishness, and lord dreads what happened afterwards.' Pierre answered the questions, a lone tear forming on his left eye. 'It was from the time when her friends and mine were the worst of enemies, and they represented the different sectarians with different ideals, that were never going to agree unless it was for mere extracurriculars. Being a sixteen year old, you probably know too well about how the social dynamics work in any, fucking, high school, and how silly they were looking back many years later, but really shape the fuck our of you.' All this time he had kept the social contact from the old high schoolmates limited, purging them over time while keeping a few useful ones and a couple of lifelong friends on the stack, one leaf after another until the tree was seemingly barren in the wintry state his emotions had found themselves under.

'Well, of course! That's why it hurts the most when you use the words as weapons.' Zina replied, her picture slowly forming around her head.

'And that's where the worst judgment was made, mademoiselle.' Pierre answered, the left lens of his glasses reflecting the infrared blue light twice, before reverting to the normal, as he looked at the beautiful, low skyline of the Big Smoke. From some distance, he could see the Esplanade Tower on the south shore, beyond the river that had separated the island from its more recent, glass-built South Shore. 'A letter was sent to her from the proxy, we couldn't talk to each other for a month because of my mistake, and much more...' He felt Zinaida gazing back at him out of empathy, an attempt in trying to understand The Agent. 'I asked for forgiveness my junior year, and of course she did, and we became friends. But there were some things that couldn't be brought back, so I knew the best I could do at that point in time, was to fly away, as far as I could be without being left a destitute...and yeah.' Pierre answered with a smile, standing before horrified Zinaida in response.

‘I could see why,’ Zina responded, doing her best from her body shaking from the tension. Even with previous words Pierre had briefly given to her over the course of the last three days, this was an impressive development for her. The ties that bound us all, the neverending ties that the Quebecois people were truly known for, had brought her to the agent, whose life had come with plenty of misunderstandings and non-requittals. Zina wondered if that may have been why his eyes, already dark, were sprinkled with starlight when the past-life memories had come up.

‘And you know, she was right. That’s the worst part.’ Pierre laughed, giving in as he grabbed the half-filled beer can situated right in front of him. ‘It’s not the easiest being the non-believer, and I was wrong in staying that way all this time. Now can you please grab me a cab for the airport?’

‘Alright, have a rest on the couch.’ Zina answered, as Pierre moved to lie on the couch. It was interesting that Pierre McCarthy, a self-committed non-beliver, was admitting to a mistake for once. It was an amusing feeling, the one reflecting that of a true Anaia every man needs, and Zinaida could agree on that.

---

Part V: Past

While walking along the seated sections, Tanner struggled to think on how to say it to Elora. Nothing was coming out of the nutcase that was his mind, and when he couldn’t conjure up beyond a sentence, Tanner knew this was going to be a bit of a mess that he had to deliver for a messy friend with messy emotional problems. And all he heard, while the game-winning goal happened on a loose turnover committed by Gaeseong’s second-pairing defenceman, Ellery Quinn, was hollow and mounted to nothing.

He said his usual greetings to them, and then came the usual conversations. Few small talks, few comments about how their varsity team’s doing, and then when they were about to talk about a small party to be held this weekend, Tanner passed the letter to Elora, whose brown hair stood long and heavy like the test of time. The next thing he recalled was the silence. It wasn’t even the silence that weighed down upon them though, as the letter, containing the awful content they were able to detect upon its opening, sank everybody’s mood.

He quickly turned around, only to look into the other end of the rink and see Pierre, who looked as devastated as he could have appeared. While Tanner didn’t feel the same degree of pain, he knew his friend had to bear the price, and that if anything’s possible, he would have done to reverse it.

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

OOC: A couple of lines from the song linked here, La Fouine's Sabary, were used.

The Agent

PART 14 - Sabary

The thick, red fog surrounded and then draped all over the Anaian-Atlantean Metropolis of Montreal at three in the morning. (OOC: pre-AOxit) It was a quiet morning, even as the season of festivities started to approach us over time, and the city seemed to have slowed down like the sleeping citizens of their own. It was as if Hypnos, the ancient Greek deity also known for being the personification of sleep, had come out in full action.

It was at the very middle of it that Pierre McCarthy, heading out to somewhere from nowhere, was standing, as he was walking along the walkways of the Aeroport Charles Merton Regimbault's Terminal 3, watching the clouds just placing themselves on the stand-by, almost as if they were waiting for him to leave so the sky would clear again.

Désert de guerre, donc mirage de paix... A line of words emerged out of his head, as Pierre tried his best to figure out the very itineraries of days to come in Maethoru, where he's going to have to deal with finalising the very details of a contract involving Maks Shishkin transfer. Pierre knew the words and the numbers already - none were so unreasonable or yet expensive, as expected from Ko-orenite clubs - but how to handle the process involving the transfer of the Mytanar footballer, whose senses can be surprisingly viewed as that of a romantic, was one that he, even as a veteran agent spanning across the northern Rushmore and southern Atlantian Oceania, required some time to spend getting into the very mindset of his own.

Mais qui n’a pas fait ce rêve, ce rêve de grandeur?
Milliard a fixé le ciel à suspens entre les heures
Mais quel est mon avenir?

His head continued to twirl back and forth, as the past week of events had flashed back and forth for Pierre. His stray thoughts, flashing like the light, continued to reflect upon the moments lost, the what if's and the why did I's, and all that he could do was to wonder, as he shook his head twice before looking at the duty free shops he's rarely visited in this very city. Notions of dull, faux grandeur seen on display... he saw a couple of the stores, full of expensive items but with only one employee to handle the operations, staying empty in the seconds he looked at them. He was only taking a brief look at them, not only because he's grown out of those spending habits a while back, but also because the thirty minutes that he had between now and the boarding call was more than enough for him to take a look.

Thirty minutes that feel more like three hours....all things be damned.

Has Pierre McCarthy expected his own life to involve travelling as a job, just to get away from past ghosts that continue to entice him these days? Probably not, let alone being an agent of the highest calibre in many sports. The sporting world, as he had come to learn over the years, was fickle, and the unexpected absences of a country or two regarded as high-flying powerhouses would often have him at watch. But those were the surprises that a life of his own can bring, and he had seen such in his daughter and Zinaida, the benefactory of his honte. When Arabella, his daughter whose tennis career was limited but still held massive potential of her own, messaged him on the way to airport saying that it's not about the dust, but about the dandelion seeds that float into the air, there was a massive realisation made that brought him brought the time back to his side again. After all the deals made and even a half-bungled relocation phase for Zinaida, who he knew was still going to have to adjust to the life in the big cities after spending all her life in Prince Eric, there was something bigger to look forward.

All the reasons to come back to where I had left behind to forget.

It felt like a new start was in sights again. He knew that no matter how filled the past were with misunderstandings and denials, there was some form of inevitability with the ways stars would align, and how the past would ask you to pay up. Perhaps that's what we would expect, as gone were the days of slow, quiet mist that has calmed or silenced (?) the nation. He was indeed living in the 2040s, and maybe the sense of optimism and hope that had come from the athletes and the coaches of this era had perhaps suited him better.

And that's maybe where the story gets rewritten and start again.

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

OOC: Season 2 of TWGS Vol. 2 continues with the metaphorical children of superagent Pierre McCarthy in style of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. I'd like to thank San Ortelio, Banija and Squornshelous in advance for their permission in letting me use their respective characters and/or settings for this series.

Lost In The Wild

PART 1 - Intro

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single shearer in possession of a good flock of golden sheep, must be in want of a shed.

However little known or displayed of such sentiments in a man, especially in a sports agent like Pierre McCarthy whose notion of a fa-muh-lee was not set to the very bones, this truth would continue to dip him into the cold ridges of holy water. Especially as the truth would continue to remind him about his part within the greater world, placing him as the observer of all that would unfold with the younger generation of sportsmen.

'Father,' said Arabella to her father one July morning, 'Have you heard that the Chevening Hall is bringing in a new tenant for once?'

'No, and life goes on,' Pierre replied, giving her the indication that it wasn't something of his interest. 'You and I, my dear, have watched the tides of wealth and prestige come and go anywhere we go, and those can be frivolous unless providing some meaning.'

'But it may be of your interest,' Arabella urged him back, her smile shining as brightly as that of Emily Romanescu on her good day. 'Especially as the mysterious owner of the house is someone you probably know. Maybe not a direct client of yours, but at least someone who you would have enough confidence to approach for the future-time.'

Pierre McCarthy stayed silent for a minute, indicating to his daughter that not only was he busy thinking, but also that he was finding ways to frame it the best way possible that he had no interest in another higher-up whose metropolitan lives he held simply too little interest beyond mere footnotes. 'Go on with that,' he eventually cleared his throat, looking back at his daughter. 'But you have to remember that someone's social credit, or fame, does not equate to their value to us.'

'Father, I mean, Pierre,' answered Arabella insistently, emphasising Pierre as a matter of breaking ranks. Of course, this wasn't something that her father liked to hear, but it at least works well in getting his attention. 'It's been said that there's no boring man without history who would dare live in such a mansion like Chevening Hall. Why wouldn't you wanna know about who he is?'

'Hm,' was all he said, before Pierre resumed talking. 'Well, tell me who he is, and I won't be against seeing the man.'

That was more than enough of an invitation for his daughter. 'Why, father, so you must know about Jock Pardue, the ginger on the men's tennis team at Farer. So he says that Chevening was quietly, without public record but with so many second-hand news from the boys of the Metropolitain blue (OOC: dark blue is the colour of Montreal Metropolitain university) that Chevening is taken by a businessman of Pavolan origins,' she cleared her throat, before continuing with the gossip. 'The words are that the Ortelian quietly came to visit a friend or two on Sunday afternoon, came to take a look at the house on Monday morning, and was so impressed with the historicity of the house that he gave an irresistible offer to Dame Pyeon immediately.'

'Conditions being?'

'That he is to move into the house by the end of the week, with sole use of living here for much of the year. The words say that he's a man of significant fortune on both sides of the oceans separating Rushmore and Anaia.'

'So one of those people,' Pierre nodded, as he underlined a paragraph from a briefing of a minor league baseball prospect. It was clear to him, based on the sound of it all, that this man was either someone whose heritage brought him back here, or really a foreigner who felt more comfortable in the Quebecois soil for whatever the reason he's yet to figure out. As for why, it's not something that he's had a clear answer towards, considering twenty-something years he's spent mostly abroad, but there were rough gist he was getting from the sound of it. 'Name?'

'Garth Bates-Nugent, they say.'

Ah, was what was on his mind. Garth Bates-Nugent, that's a name he's heard from time to time, usually on business columns of newspapers in both Cenial and abroad, and while they had never met each other, he recalled a couple of times his name was mentioned for sponsorship purposes. He asked: 'Does he have family here? He's said to be on news column every once in a while, n'est-ce-pas?'

'Not one born out of him, no, but he does have a sister removed by a decade, they say. Where else do you think Danielle Bates-Nugent finds her money? Of course, everybody knows draws money and attention anywhere she goes, but even then, you cannot ignore that the starting point needs to exist for obvious reasons.'

'Yes. Bates-Nugent I remember.' Pierre raised his eyebrows upon the mention of Danielle Bates-Nugent. There once was a time when Danielle Bates-Nugent, an outside hitter with solid height and decent fundamentals, was a major prospect for the national team alongside the likes of Alexanne Bayley, Park Da-Bin and Naomi Goldbloom. Unfortunately, her decision to switch into beach volleyball, and to represent her home country of San Ortelio, was not taken particularly well by some in the Quebecois indoor circuits. 'She's a solid player a decade ago, and I heard that she's still on point with the beach. Probably fits better. Still, how can this affect us?'

'Father, please,' replied Arabella, 'You should remember that the Maison M, whether it stands for McCarthy or Misiriyaa, isn't going to last forever. No matter how it goes down with my career, you should consider ways in which you can eventually walk off into the sunset. Garth may be someone with interest and acumen, which means you would not be making a mistake in making apt consideration to take a look at him.'

'And is that why he's here? With Misiriyaa in mind?'

'Of course not, and if anything this house is probably not in his mind as well,' answered Arabella. 'But the words say that he's one with a penchant for intrigue and anything that brings it, and Maison M corporation may not be out of his interest if we bring him to take a look at it. Or if we can visit him comme necessaire.'

'Valid argument, but let an occasion fall into that.' said Pierre, giving his daughter a stare. 'You may go on your own time, but remember that you have your own commitments that involve not to fool around with my clients. Especially the children still living there. Jean-Christophe may have moved out, but you know the rest aren't so settled, so to say. They may like the best of occasions, but you have to think of them like your equals, those of your age.'

'Those in the Misiriyaa should worry less about it. But let's be honest - whoever resides in a house of several athletes, whose abilities alone bring attention and people, will find themselves in neverending drama. You have done your best to protect me from the troubles all my life, father, but you cannot insist this will be the case for others forever.'

'That's true, but the house still exists to give semblance of a home to these kids, Bella. You know all about the safeties, that's how your mother and I raised you.'

'But, father, you should still find time to see Mr. Bates-Nugent when he moves in later this week.'

'Gah, that involves unnecessary business,' Pierre rolled his head twice. 'That is more than what I would like to work for.'

'But please think about this for Misiriyaa. You have to think like an establishment now that you are back here. Apparently the people back in Farrer are approaching him for athletics funding, and are determined to make use out of their alumnus. So indeed you should think about seeing that man, for he may be interested with you, and maybe he will be able to provide bit more for your metaphorical children. Or at least give them more options.'

'You are thinking of them too much like commodities and not like genuine persons, Bella. I dare say he will be glad with Maison McCarthy, but Maison Misiriyaa has genuine human beings who I know is not best off to being left in the hands of someone I have yet to really know in person. I will throw in good words for any of them, but don't let them just be arranged into circumstances that I could only find to be no more than miserable.'

'Come on, Pierre,' Arabella shot back after rolling her eyes. 'This isn't a dubious plan, or even a marriage plot. But coincidences can be designed, and maybe we'll be able to say that something significant in their lives were partly thanks to what we set things up for. Zinaida may be better off if there's stability, for one, but so are others - has that not how the Majesties have met?'

'First of it all, we do not exactly know the stories behind how they met beyond 'well they met at the Winter Olympics in Electrum', but Her Majesty's legitimacy to the throne would not have been questioned even without marriage to another royal,' answered he, 'This may have been a question for late Jacques IX for his father the Henri VIII or grandfather Sylvain IV had married a royal or even a noblewoman of high ranks, but his case was more than resolved by being a war hero, the conqueror of Nazi Felix and Holy Republican Empire. Daughter of him and Elizaveta Dolgorukina has more legitimacy than anyone since Henri VIII.' He then continued explaining, 'Franck Rosenshield, on the other hand, can testify more to how lives can change by just somehow ending up being at the right place at right time.' (OOC: Francois Rosenshield isn't a major character in this storyline, but he will be part of a storyline currently is in planning stages by another NSSer)

'Yes, but Frank is a family friend of ours and he willingly chose to leave home as well,' Arabella reminded his father of their trip to Cabo Azure just a year ago. 'He seems happier than ever there, and I don't see why they would be unhappy if something beautiful is created out of whatever we throw at Zina, J-C, Joelinton, or Natalie...you know what I'm saying papa.'

'Yes, but plans come with responsibilities too, Bella. That's how the profession works - on trust and responsibilities. You won't withdraw from a match out of frustrations, won't you?' he asked. 'You are a professional, and you are expected to stick to it.'

'No, I am not a quitter. But you need to stop thinking that doing nothing will work out. Father, you have to think of yourself. Please,' she gave a light plead.

'Will consider then. Let life fall into it, and I'll work on something.'

Pierre McCarthy was an odd agent, someone who even his daughter, the only companion of his own flesh who she's lived twenty-one years with, has failed to understand at times. Arabella's mind was bit less tripped up. But Arabella McCarthy, who has spent first eighteen years in Ceni before moving to Montreal to attend college and Tennis Quebec's national team program with her father, always had plans of her own too. Of course, more will be told about them in due time.

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

Lost In The Wild

PART 2 (85) - Budapest

Of course, that’s not how it exactly turned out, as we propels forward to the weekend when the very quintet of teenagers who reside in the house - footballers Zinaida Woodcarver, Jean-Christophe Babin, and Joelinton Dyxkeson, and volleyballer Natalie Wesoloski-Okafor and wrestler Matteo Hanson-Conavacio - are heading to the Roxburgh Music Festival (OOC: IC Glastonbury). Ready to enjoy the finest lineup the Roxburgh has produced in thirty years, the crew sets themself up right in the middle of ‘The Cocoon’, the 360-degree circular stage the festival is long famous for.

'Alright, so here we go again,' Zinaida Woodcarver said to Jean-Christophe Babin in a matter of reminding everybody else, as they exited the Ile-Grimaud station and started walking towards the Borowick Farm on the far edge of the town of Roxburgh. They always had trouble getting to places on time, and going to a three-day long festival was by all means a real commitment to the friends who have gone through plenty.

The lives of half-dozen friends who lived at the Maison Misiriyaa, Pierre McCarthy's residence for his youth clients in heart of the metropolis, involved having regular routines set for them every day, but also involved being away at various unexpected moments. Furthermore, with advents of international transfer markets in most of bigger sports these days, it was expected for friendships to be placed into challenges of own especially as they had . So in some ways, it was amazing that they were still able to put some semblance of regularity in synchronisation with each other's lives.

'Sure, but we never regret going out on Roxburgh every June, don't we?' Jean-Christophe answered back, as he touched his forehead twice, feeling the sunscreen starting to melt in the heat of a Montrealais summer. 'But maybe next time, we should leave home much earlier, like eight in the morning instead of eleven. Maybe then we'd have been able to travel with Joelinton, Nat and Mario.' Of course, attending any massive gathering with friends, let alone the biggest music festival in this part of Anaia, was a tricky one to do so without coordination in advance, and both Zinaida and Jean-Christophe knew they were going to have a wee long hour before finding their friends' tent in front of 'The Cocoon', the 360-degree circular stage the Roxburgh Festival's been long famous for.

Of course, with these festivals we all go circular in pedestals with our habits. It was like last year, when Jean-Christophe had a shortened summer figuring out his transfer to Sabrefell Moths of the Zenith, and they went out the weekend before he was due to fly abroad. That year's Roxburgh, filled with an impressive setlist of 2010s rock stars that may as well have brought the entire country on board, was a particularly painful one to find any space to set up a tent, and after barely able to find a space to stand, the entire farm was hit with a thunderstorm that while provided some memorable performances videotaped, only caused pain and misery for the boys of the blue...

---

'Gosh, the tent is getting blown away! We need to dismantle it!'
'Let's look for somewhere else. Maybe on the outskirts of the farm. Probably a better idea to set it up there for now and come back to the Cocoon when it calms down.'
'Okay, there's a problem. I don't think the thunderstorm's gonna end tonight-'
'Look, those guys on the blue tent are leaving, maybe we should take that spot-'
'Fuck that, I'm not going to watch The Jamborees play, Joel!'
'Calm down, we'll have to settle into a solution. We can watch Axhova Wilkes tomorrow.'
'Can we please grab our tent before lightning strikes on it?'
'Will do, Zina. Let's call it a day guys. Maybe we can come back tomorrow and actually have an empty spot if all the boomers away right?'
'No, we need to stay. Those boomers, they won't go away. Have you seen some of the tents people have put up? Those are legit criminal of tents.'
'Ain't bogan, that's for sure.'
'Oh, shut it. Let's just bolt the pillars and redo the carpets.'
'No, you shut it.'
'No you JC-'
'Calm down, guys, calm down. No need to fight!''

---

Anyways let’s go back to the actual walk. It took about half an hour from Ile-Grimaud Station to the Borowick Farm, following the line of festivalgoers who were walking along the reed fields and marshes. The oldest Quebecois attendees of the initial days, whose numbers barely exist sheerly on the merits of their age, remembered the initial years this pilgrimage was held, with everybody coming along for the more medieval fair of music, dance and spontaneous entertainment. While these days there's a less of that on the road to there, with most festivalgoers either going straight to the Farm by car or just walking along the fields with barely any pop-up stalls on line due to stricter enforcements by local authorities (boo!), the walk itself still held that quaint, timeless atmosphere that people's come to associate Roxburgh with.

The festival's evolution from the initial years of infrequent festivals to an annual ritual had the effect of generating a mental state that would come once every year, which would kick off the summer festival season in this northerly nation, carrying into other music festivals all over it. Then, even as people would grow old and out of their twenties mindset, people would still be able to recollect their own time at the festival and carry it on, meaning that there's always going to be overlap of past and present

The walk to it was notoriously Pays-Bas flat, meaning that all they had to do when walking was to watch the surrounding reed fields and walking with their arms up in the air. 'You know, when we first started going...do you think we would have imagined this to continue on and on?' Zinaida asked, as she looked at the blue, clear skies that coloured brightly into their minds. As a West Coast girl who had grown up in Prince Eric, where the snow was rare and rain constant in the city proper, any kind of an overcast day was viewed with joy. Zinaida remembered that to be one of the positives that had come with it, especially after four years living in the city.

'There's something with it that involves going outside of the dreary city, and the complex, no doubt,' Jean-Christophe nodded, his sunglasses deflecting light into multiple directions. 'You know, there is a question that people often use on the other side of the city...I think it was 'can they do it on a cold rainy night in Stoke', and there's that dreariness in Montreal whenever we enter in it, and also when we go outside. Probably why we are all here, to get away in this farm just half an hour metro ride away.' He chuckled.

'You know...At least there was a relief that friendships of this group, while often placed into challenges due to the way people conduct their business and lives these days, was rewarding everybody involved. Unlike in past, people have come to understand distances bit more, and have figured out solutions as needed. 'You know, sometimes I think of home and the mountains, along the ski hills of Bassingbroke and Heinzer, and see those images.' Zinaida answered slowly, as they approached the narrow entrance of the Borowick Farm. 'The mountains back there, and the way sometimes you could find yourself isolated on weekends...but not far away from the piano tunes of rainy mondays back in the city. It makes you think.'

There was that nostalgic element that somehow popped into her mind at that very moment, as Zina's head briefly spun and rolled. 'Sometimes it be like that,' he answered. Jean-Christophe wasn't as sure on why she was saying it right now, on the very verge of entering the festival grounds, but he nodded anyway.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Lost In The Wild

PART 3 (86) - I Need A Good One

Pierre McCarthy was the first person in the neighbourhood to greet Garth Bates-Nugent. No matter how inconvenienced he was feeling, his daughter did raise an important point about visiting the Chevening Hall's new owner no matter what enquiry, and while she was deliberately kept not known until several days after, and into the Friday of the very weekend, it was in every single matter of consideration for Pierre to disclose it to her anyhow. Over the morning coffee, just as Arabella was reading the title of The Gaegyeong Gazette, Pierre addressed to her with a single cough:

'Garth Bates-Nugent does have a decent sense of fashion, so to say.'

'How would you of all persons know?' asked Arabella amusingly, as she raised her right eyebrow, 'Have the words already spread across the entire 1ere arrondissement of Montreal?'

'Gah, there is no arrondissement here, please don't mistake here with the old-world capitol...la petite mademoiselle,' Bashir, a minor-named associate who came to pick up a file to be processed later today, disputed, shortly before throwing back a wink at Arabella (groan), 'Have the Gazette reported on some of the plans he's had in mind at the MSE (Montreal Stock Exchange)?'

'Well...I am aware of them, Bashir, thanks to a newspaper and a telephone notification or two, but those aren't the ones I'm thinking about right now,' gently answered Pierre, 'But I am glad you have let me know about those, because I believe Monsieur Garth and I have other matters to discuss. For I have decided that him and I could bear each other for a bit more, though I don't know what he will think about that!' he chuckled.

Arabella tried his best not to erupt back with a response over his father's spontaneity, but, having hard time handling it on her own, decided to let it loose. 'Please don't come around with the assumption that I am a foreigner with mainlander blood, Bashir,' said Arabella. 'I very much represent the Tricolour as well as you do, and have always done so even when living in Cenial.'

'Children,' said Pierre in a scolding manner, 'Please be patient with each other for once, and understand that Maison M, where we stand, is not really a place to discuss about personal disgruntlements over citizenships or how Quebecois they can get. We work internationally, for what it's worth,' he then slowly grabbed a cup of espresso, before continuing. 'So when is your next major winter ball to be, daughter? Won't it be a grand plaisir for me, just as much as it is for you and I presume this young gentleman?'

'Well the major ones we've seen it through already. We've already went through Bal de Ballons and the Stelburg Opera Ball last May, and the royal court ball at Metropolis is almost impossible to get invitation these days,' sighed Arabella when being reminded about the ball season, something that continues strongly in various corners of the Multiverse, Quebec being one of the few pockets, 'I do know that Ballo Cavaliere in Astello expects the certain Quebecois presence, especially regarding sportspeople, though it seems like they will only take a few. Not sure if I would qualify.'

'Aye, and for what it's worth getting into Ballo Cavaliere, don't we have a few good friends of ours back there?' her father asked, amused with his daughter missing her rough placement (pla-ceu-man) in terms of social standings, 'You have met Canvelli and St-Amant before, a great-nephew of Sir. Joel, and a certain Lundrigan can write you a reference if necessary.'

'Yes, but you are missing the point about where we are going with plans for the year, rebutted Arabella. 'Stop thinking about it just for me, father. You have to think about how to link the Maison, from Zina to JC, through these balles. What balls do you have to say about that?'

Then, Arabella McCarthy, you will have the advantage of our dear neighbour, and should have no trouble coming to Astello on a December, just for a quaint, post-exam vacation season.'

'I know where we stand, but impossible, father, impossible. We are not of military ties, not in last three generations, and do not have family there. What is there for an agent to assume that he will be so openly accepted into the Cavaliere there?'

'I honour your pessimism on the merits of Ballo Cavaliere being a winter ball with stately domain in the country, as well as the fact that some parts of the world have trickier grounds to meet in terms of what they constitute for meaningful employment. But one thing that I have taught you well, and I still think I do, is that the times are always changing. You may think that these occasions are for snobs, and yet you have already been attending these occasions with all my blessings and investments! Do not be afraid to come right out and say who we are and what we're about, because that's why we continue to be invited to these occasions.'

Arabella did her best to swallow some words, before calming down to speak. 'Okay, so you think that a half-dozen of us will have no trouble meeting with the finest of the finest, and may be able to begin dispersing into our own worlds.'

'Not sure on the latter part, but let's not leave out said possibility,' Pierre answered. 'This is part of the dealings, and part of what the agents have to do. I keep you away from all this for the practical and personal reasons of being your father, but you don't complain to me about that either, dear daughter.'

'Sir, so what you are saying is that we will be seeing Mr. Bates-Nugent today and I guess in mid-December?' asked Bashir, as he took down notes. 'Right before the storm of the winter transfer market.'

'Let's say that we do. As I have already paid the man an actual visit, and expect to do so at any point today when he calls with an idea, the matter becomes more of an inevitability than a what if. And we work in a place where what if's are the ones that work as our lifeblood,' said Pierre, before noticing the tension between Bashir and Arabella again.

'Now, now, please be patient with me as I'll try to procure plenty. Billets aren't that hard to get when with me, but we have to remember that it takes all and every form of effort to keep the boys and girls in rein in middle of a festival ground,' said Pierre, fatigued with all the confidence he held and not the anticipation he should have had, but was unable to bring it forward. 'For today, some reconnaissance with friends is also on agenda as well, so to a festival I will head off. Feel free to join si vous voulez, but otherwise sit back and watch!'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Lost In The Wild

PART 4 (87) - Gravity

Figment I - Intro/Overview of 4 years between seasons 6 and 7

The Maison Misiriyaa, to those who had visited the place, was a mystique chronotope of confusion, dreams and feelings that coexist alongside the sportspeople of this northerly nation. Of course, when the sporting Multiverse's biggest sports agency is personally involved in housing of the athletes, so young and diversely-minded, contracted to Montreal Koreana, it is expected for the space to generate a certain atmosphere of fresh spirit no less refreshing.

---

Mesdames et messieurs...entering the pitch for the first time....Jean-Christophe Babin!

The debut of Jean-Christophe Babin, the first resident of the house, was the one that rang freshly into the minds of Pierre McCarthy, Jean-Christophe and the others residing at the house at the time. Standing in middle of the snow-filled turf, they could remember the very moment when Jean-Christophe, warming himself on the sidelines like how every diligent prospect would, before being given a gentle tap on the shoulder to replace slowly-aging starter in Louis Kuelvic on the 79th minute.

To many, this was just another day where a highly-talented prospect, from the most famous academy side of this country from their winningest side, was going to play for the first time. Being the club with likes of Karl Varsteeg, Zachary Fortin, and Michel Fillion (yuck!) coming out of its academies, this was nothing, but to the initial class of residents this had meant a ton for their bonds had continued well past the initial awkwardness of living together...with their agent who wasn't always around, but at least tried his best. 'Save this picture!' Pierre McCarthy remembered Mario Itsumi, then a 15-year basketball prospect from Nunavut, shouting as Pierre took a picture of him.

---

''And now the Grim Reapers are serving for the championship....the serve reception goes wide! MacDonald hits the chance ball...And they have done it! GRIM REAPERS HAVE DONE IT! GRIM REAPERS HAVE DONE IT! Coming into the final, Defending champions, HUElavia has been as ready as they were, having played in three out of last four championship finals, but Quebec, outstanding performance in the knockout rounds, have done it!'

Back in that Volleyball World Expo (OOC: a year before the start of season 7, so three years after season 6), everybody was watching Natalie Wesoloski-Okafor's games all tournament long at home. Pierre remembered, before and during every Grim Reapers match, there being plenty of thoughts exchanged between Matteo, Zinaida, Arabella and others over the living room table, about how daunting it must be to be compared as one of the best in the world, and to be scrutinised in every angle after each game.

The unenforced errors...they are the scariest things that only put the limits to the phrase 'sky is the limit'... Pierre recalled a thought that brushed past his head at the time, in a competition that pitted so many of the international stars who were bound to face each other every year. Some more frequent than others due to heading to a top three league in Quebec, Mytanija and Bollonich, but no less easy for rest either. Something that had not really come in the minds of any of them - but then who would? Not everybody had lived in the same world of expectations, and only so few- Kate Huitema-Omeasoo and Erin Kang, and now their OG friend Jean-Christophe- were able to say that they knew the weight of the world....

---

And sometimes tough choices have to be made...

Of course, this had required a bit of sacrifice on Pierre McCarthy's part as well, as he made his decision to permanently move to Montreal and the Maison Misiriyaa/McCarthy. When he had really left his home country for Ceni, only to return for his business trips, the country was still in middle of its decadelong absence from international football and was undergoing major power struggles from within re: its sporting organisations. Now, the country was gradually on its upswing and those who had spent their twenties and thirties during those troubled times were now the ones watching from the sidelines, whether as coach, administrator or just a parent to their kid(s) playing sports.

Of course, he was not the exception from this either, for he has a daughter who reps Quebec in tennis, a sports it's not really known for either. Arabella, who was brought to this world as an accident by the chance of contraceptives failing to work on one night stand back in his junior year with University of Ceni, was now twenty and have had plenty of professional record in her career. Arabella, one of the 2052 Olympians least heard of the Quebecois media, was settling into ups and downs of her tennis career, and it was hard for Pierre and everybody else to figure her heard out at times.

---

'But guys....no matter what, we are one. Always were, are and will be. Together we dream as one.'

But Pierre knew that, no matter how different their understanding of the world were, the fragments of dreams and the Mount Atlas in the very art deco house were always going to bring these lads and lasses together. It meant being forged around the brotherhood and the sisterhood of not only those who have served for the sports club of Montreal Koreana. It meant living together in a house that disappear into the night's veil but always come back to the wanderer as a base camp. Finally, it meant that those who leave behind their pieces of heart and soul here be able to retrieve them whenever in need on various corners of the world they lived in, and never find themselves alone.

---

Figment II, Part 3 (3 years ago)

The weight of it all.

The final practice of the season had just ended, and coach Hwang dismissed them for the month of June - the IFCF commitments weren't going to commence until July, and it was generally advised for the coaches not to overburden the players with unnecessary team practises that could get them injured. It had worked well for Hwang Joon-Ho's Montreal Koreana so far into his tenure, with the team once again winning a crucial Q-League title, and the reward came in the form of everybody hurrying themselves into their month of summer holidays. Coach Hwang, the assistants and the physiotherapist were going to stay longer at the team lounge on the top floor of the complex's football division building, but this was more or less to get things settled. So Zinaida was all alone, and was contemplating whether to fly back to Prince Eric tomorrow morning, or to stay a week before making a decision.

Home...is so far...where I have spent so long, had once known everybody but is it really...

Zinaida was already inside the deserted women's locker room of the Practice facility, and she was looking before her mother's clothes that aligned perfectly on the hanger. It was unusual for any player, no matter her story, to put the clothes of their deceased parents on the hanger, let alone for two years, and Zinaida kept the fact mostly to herself as a way of remembering the past life back home. The blouse was perfectly pale in colour and carefully woven in fabric, while the jeans held the shades of indigo whose age had started to reflect with how its blue hues had paled. An elaborate thunderbird necklace, doused and elegantly carved in silver, had patterns all eyes would be drawn into, and she had worn them twice on team functions, tying her heritage - her father was an indigenous man of respected status in Prince Eric society - with grace whenever its services were needed. While she, who would rarely speak to the media beyond basic answers and kept to the closest group of friends of Maison M circles, seldom spoke about her family, there were glimpses like this that would remind people now and then.

But no matter what, I stay rooted to who I am.

Of course, on top shelf, Zinaida placed her Prince Eric Athletics cap for the summer season, when baseball would be played all over the pitches - this including her hometown, where the small-town Athletics held a cult-like popularity thanks to their consistent struggle for survival. Zinaida thought to herself as a tiny teardrop came out of her left eye, and she took a step back.

Have I lost too much...I know I don't regret any bit of my decisions but all that I've lost for a lifetime given to me....of chances... Zinaida thought once again, before picking up her cap and then wearing it over her head. It was going to be a long drive back to the Maison Misiriyaa from the Complex tonight, especially with what's a 20 minute drive of flat streets and then a minor hill going to feel like a 2 hour drive over the mountains of sentiments.

All to prove...and I have done so. But there's so much more.

Perhaps it was the weight of the world, or the fact that Zinaida Woodcarver held the key to the world of her choices, but the one with massive weight of own. On the evening of signing her first professional contract with Montreal Koreana, Zinaida had found out from Pierre McCarthy, her agent who naturally became her landlord alongside other, like-minded Montreal Koreana sportspeople of her age, that Pierre had done it all out of an unfulfilled duty. The duty...the duty... Zinaida felt that word shimmer into her consciousness as she closed the locker. She remembered how Pierre's left hand, which seemed frozen and unmoving the entire week of their connaissance, shook violently. When asked about the tremor, Pierre briefly mentioned to her about his juvenile days - how tensions flew between him and her mother Elora, how he had committed a pair of mistakes that shattered everything between them as high school sophomores, and how the list of what if's had weighed on the back of his head for many years.

The leap of faith that is.

But at the end of it stood a horizon, and while she has yet to figure out when the clouds would clear and she would be able to properly see the sun rise form it, Zinaida knew it was going to happen sooner than later. This has yet to really come post-her parents' death, but there's that hope that have inched closer and closer each and every step of the way. At least on the surface this was the case - A pair of excellent seasons, a national team call-up, representing the country at the U18WC and the DBC, seeing her name marked on the big 3 of The Gaegyeong Gazette, Le Mazepa and The Taegukgi (even though she really only read Le Mazepa, much to the disappointment of more conservative readership of the intellectual circles that formed the backbone of The Koreana Society), and being invited to every function imaginable....Zinaida were slowly climbing the walls on the surface.

Brick by brick.

But there's still lot more for Zinaida, and her friends, to grow into figures bigger than their material or external selves. In this city, and the Complex they spend their countless hours for, the bricks themselves represented the very foundation required of success that would not only carry them into professional successes, but life beyond it as well. So many legends had graced these brick walls and the murals since the early 20th century, but only a few dozen were remembered past the quintessential sands of time and dust. While Zina and her friends all started off well, time would tell if they could survive the trials of it all.

Figment III

'ZINA! ZINA! ZINAAAAA!'

It was the voice of Matteo Hanson-Conavacio. Just as before, Zinaida found her flashbacks halted just as she reached. This time, it was in the middle of the festival grounds where the loud, amp-filled music echoed all over her like a ball of kinetic energy. As she turned around to see a 170cm tall, musular figure smiling right in front of her, Zinaida felt like she was being blasted into the middle of a stage, a prospect that was daunting enough all alone with no excitement.

'Hey!' Zina shouted back in off-pitch, before giving a hug and a peck to the cheek for him, Natalie and Joelinton Dykeson, before slowly coming back into the focus. The circle of tents surrounding The Cocoon was filled to the every square metre of land with flashy tents, messy shoes with grass and syringes all over and near it, and smell of marijuana and cigarettes all over it. The sea of flags from all over Anaia, Atlantian Oceania, Rushmore and rest of the multiverse, brought by the festivalgoers as a matter of tradition, swarmed the vicinities, and they fluttered over the sky like majestic sails of ocean-travelling clippers of mercenaries from centuries past. Thousands of tents, intended for half-dozen peoples but carrying a dozen each, were carefully nailed to the ground, containing all sorts of unneeded amenities and items inside for the sake of aesthetics.

And at the centre of it all, right in front of the massive, 360-degree stage, stood there. Their height and physique were as evident as the seven devils of seven hills from ancient myth and history, and contemporary music (OOC: combined reference to seven hills of Rome, and Seven Devils, a Florence + The Machine song from their 2011 album Ceremonials), with the summer reddening their skin and light absorbing into their shades.

'How fucking are you doing? Looks even more dazzling than ever!' Natalie Wesoloski-Okafor asked cheerfully, as they gave each other a fist-bump. A left-handed opposite known both for her 192cm height, night-and-day performances every match, and ability to draw all media attention when with Montreal Koreana VC or the volleyball national team, she was more than aware that perhaps few hundred people were looking at them and their tent, even in the middle of the chaos. 'You didn't arrive late for once! Great, and the next three days are just going to be absolutely splendid!'

Zinaida nodded to Natalie, desperately in need of getting her mind off the funk she was feeling following the flashback. After four years in the 'Grand Smoke' she had considered herself pretty good with recovering, but it still required a greater mile of outer and inner strength for her to push through the wild lifestyle she was trying to play catch-up to her more accustomed friends. 'Right, so let's just drop off our backpacks on the tent, and figure things out first...' Zinaida scratched her short hair, and went up and down twice in the air with her hands. 'We can never get enough things to prepare for...JC and I covered any pills, energisers or vitamins if needed. There's always time for that, since we aren't in a hurry.'

'You sure you aren't going to freak out like how it went last time?' Natalie asked, adding a minor chuckle to indicate that it was a minor rib at her and no more. No offence intended. 'God, I hope we won't get the same problem this time.'

'Nope, nope, and nope. Weather looks all great and that this weekend!' Zinaida shouted, her smile glowing in the sunlight.

'Brilliant! All more the reason for us to enjoy the occasion right?!?!?!?' Jean-Christophe nodded, loosely banging his chest with his left hand. It was a necessary measure, given their imperative to focus on maintaining best physical condition possible as professionals, but even then Jean-Christophe always sought to take derivative routes whenever possible. 'You know, it amazes me how we stick together even when the times remain uncertain with it all, and I'm glad for it.'

'Sure you do, but you know, it's not like we were ever going to leave this city,' Natalie answered back, catching Jean-Christophe right on guard as he remembered that it was he who had left on a grand transfer a year ago, crossing the murky waters that stood between Rushmore and Anaia, to city of Sabrefell, Nephara. Ah, the inevitable, he felt the ribs touching each other upon the remark.

'But we love the city always. Though it bears its teeth like a light, and spits us after every few-day doses,' he answered back. Easier said than actualised, considering extensive love-hate struggle everybody held with this metropolis.

Finally, completing the crew, Joelinton Dyxkeson emerged from the blue, him walking into the fold after his weak frame were being pushed aside few times along the way from makeshift loos on the outer ring of The Cocoon. 'Oh hey, guys,' he said with hoarse, high-pitched voice. 'I hope we won't get lost again this time around...the line behind me probably felt like an hour long, and god, there were people leaving behind their droppings everywhere...' he said in a rather ominous matter, something that was made worse by his 2m height and 50kg of weight that seldom matched it. Tales of lines, dropped syringes and peoples casually ending up in fights were inevitable part of the Roxburgh stories since the festival had become prominent in the nineties, and with strong crowds this year in the uncertain times, the signs already didn't look too good.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Lost In The Wild

PART 5 (88) - Youngblood

Figment IV - The Cocoon (1)

Sooner than later, the company was in middle of their festive mood. As they had done so over last five years, the quintet were once again finding themselves comfortable being in middle of the festival that brought together over a hundred thousand people. This year, however, they unintentionally found themselves being noticed by the public, and their height, a natural feature, combined with flashy clothes, an artificial feature, more or less sealed the world their presence. The Quebecois and Quebec-based youths had found themselves in middle of the crowd, right in front of The Cocoon, and gently intermingled with the youths from all over the Multiverse who had made their pilgrimage to the 'Roxy'.

Yes! Hellyeah! Here we go! Those were the magic words, as the confirmation of their name, identity or even ocupation, had been more than what they had needed to integrate themselves into the crowd, and sooner than later, they found themselves sparkling like the individual pieces of the disco ball dotting brightly in Jean-Christophe and Natalie's nightclub, Musical Secretary.

The front-centre of the Cocoon's filled with universally-adoring festivalgoers, who had made a lifestyle out of themselves to immerse into the festivals and their rituals. On the surface, there was nothing that would have distinguished them from those of every other party, other than the fact that this was a historic festival of significance in Anaia-Atlantian Oceania, but also how they seemed to notice each other right away. Whether it be due to their status, socioeconomic backgrounds, or sheer tastes, their love of the atmosphere and the joy were more than enough, and now the festival was filled with flags of every nation imaginable, as they gathered for tonight's headliners show and started singing sixties tune while Ixtotz and the Birakas, the Mertagnian superband, were quickly setting up one last time before the actual performance:

Here comes the sun do, do, do
Here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

As Zinaida, Jean-Christophe, Natalie and Matteo sang the lines and waved their arms alongside their compatriots, the Cocoon was filled with a genuine sense of euphoria in the air of a Montreal may day, swaying them back and forth with flushes of different feelings that had finally reached them after bouts of amazement about the strength of their core. Was it the product of how cynical they had become at the state of the world? Or was it the amazement at how they had outlasted the test of time? Hard to say. Now, they had just reached the wrong side of the teenage-twenties border, and considering that all of their lives were gradually changing, with more people on their circles and farther voyages assured, they had come to realise that what they had promised could not last forever.

Then they don't know what this feeling is like, Zinaida thought to herself, as she saw the sunset slowly develop like a watercolour painting of an east coast cove. Mixed in the shades of lavender and orange, and draped in the loose pale strips like the Suns of the ancient Arizonan city of Φοῖνιξ, she saw her friends raised their telephones and turned on the flashlights. The white rectangles, small in size but powerful in numbers, shot up the skies like fireflies, and the contours of the flags became loosely visible again, though seemingly in a curtain call-manner.

Then, the sounds of the crowd singing slowly died down, and all that people could see were the flashlights, and one empty circle right in middle of the stage. It was then that Ixtotz Barro, thin, pale and charming-looking lead vocalist, came to the stage. Wearing a leather motorcycle jacket and tight trousers, and a pair of aviator sunglasses to cover his eyes, Ixtotz gave them a smirk.

'HOW ARE YOU?' Shouted Ixtotz, as he raised his hands in the air. A massive shout was followed by a massive roar of ambiguously affirmative shouts.

'ARE YOU EXCITED?' He asked again. What followed up with the rest of the concert was a louder roar of 'YES!' in the highest pitch possible.

'Thank you very much everyone,' he said, fixing his in-ear monitors once, before taking a look at the crowd. He continued, before raising his left arm to void: 'For those who think they are too cool to raise their arms, this one's for your girlfriend.' he said, giving the crowd a wink to suggest that their first hit, 'I don't know what you looking for', and then belted out the one word.

'LAAAAADY!'

Figment V - The Cocoon (II)

'DUDUDU-DADADA-DUDUDU-DADADA
TATATATA-TADADA-TADADA-DADADA-DADADA'

'YAAAA!' Zinaida saw Matteo's face glow up with the red, and his scruffy hair shake, as the intro quickly climbed in a crescendo. The drum beats hitting the very bottom pit of the soul, the strums of guitar swayed back and forth like reeds middle of a windy marshland. Zina was a teenager who didn't always have the easiest times with the festivals (as mentioned few times by now), but there was just about enough music, tension and sparkle to bring up her mood into frenzy. It was nowhere near winning Q-League titles (something that has not happened since her debut season with Montreal Koreana three years ago), or making actual progress on an international career, but the music and the vibes were more than ample reasons to enjoy for tonight.

Stop making the eyes at me
I'll stop making the eyes at you...

Of course remembering the song titles and actual lyrics were another challenge, but that didn't matter as much when you were drunk and tired. As someone who, since the start of her career, had a slightly difficult challenge getting used to more novelties that would come with being a college-aged person, this idea of being out for once every year on une grande fete, just embracing the rhythm of the night was something that she found as a novel experience year-after-year. As the shrouds of the night would drop into the stages of the outdoor environment, it was doing more than enough magic.

It was then that she felt someone bumping past her. 'Hey, hey, watch it!' said Zinaida, pushing back with her left arm, as the gigantic stranger turned around before looking at her again. What it is that surprises me // Is that I don't really want you to, Zinaida heard subsequent lines delicately sung by Ixtotz Barro, before seeing the person. 'Really, you could at least have a pair of eyes..'

What followed the response was not that of anger, but confusion, as the stranger turned around and blinked twice before scratching his head a couple of times with his right hand. Who is she...? It was clear from the appearance that he was a public individual and maybe an athlete, though it was hard for Zina to see in limited vision (thanks darkness!) whether he was an active athlete or not. 'Uh...sorry,' the stranger answered, the phone on his right hand pointing downwards to shine at his slippers. 'But are you Mara Orro from Huyton Grammaire?'

Not again, Zinaida sighed on the inside. This was probably the 50022902th time she's heard comparison to the blonde, contralto vocalist of Montrealais alternate group Huyton Grammaire, and while she's found Orro's music to be quite pleasant and fitting to occasions like this (they were at the Roxy just two years ago, though not as headliner then), the number of times she's heard the comparison was getting into her head. Not every Montrealais know each other, not even the hipster of hipsters, please, thought Zina inside her mind before answering back. 'No, I'm Zina,' she said in response, showing a loose smile that was barely made on time. 'I hear that a lot though.'

'Lars Pozdnitseff,' said the stranger, before taking off the Gatchingerrak Union basketball cap. It was clear from Zinaida and her unassuming, still-busy friends that he wasn't a Quebecois, for his accent, while not difficult to understand at all, was lot more direct, flatter and certainly sounded of higher tone than whatever his native tongue was. 'Sorry about that. I don't live here, but came out to see what this Roxy's about. Julien my man, and few of my buds here for the headliners like you said...'

And your shoulders are frozen (cold as the night)
Oh, but you're an explosion (you're dynamite)
Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand
And lighting the fuse might result in a bang, b-b-bang-oh

There was a bit of that chaos that went back and forth as small bundles of words went back and forth between them, and while it was taking a lot out of their minds going back and forth between the music and each other's words, just about enough was being made out of it. Their friends (Joelinton excluded, as he's already opted out of the group stage), busy with the adoring gaze of Ixtotz hypnotised them and allured them to the front.

It wasn't long before they would be disrupted, however, as Lars's friends, also of foreign extraction, came out and forward. 'Oh...shit!' One of his mates, Olympique goalkeeper Julien Furman, immediately figured out from some distance though, as the Novopetrogradian goalkeeper immediately came to distance. 'Is that Zina?' The googly-eyed man with scruffy moustache, whose enthusiasm seemed more Quebecois than Rushmori, rushed forward, giving two of them a bear hug. 'My my! What a perfect matter of coincidence to see you here too!' said Julien loudly in a manner that felt more like a shout than saying. 'Lars didn't tell us that he was lost, but people help the people as they said. What a joy what a joy what a joy.'

Figment VI - Cocoon and Omuga

'Okay...so it's hard to hear, but glad you made it,' Julien Furman said, as the goalkeeper looked at his longtime friend Zinaida Woodcarver. 'I hope you aren't too disappointed that...uh...Lars isn't the most approachable of persons if anything. You know...being a 214cm centre and whatnot...'

'Don't bother, it's all good Jules,' Zinaida answered, as they all walked sideways. It was evident by that point that the crowd was getting too dense in the Cocoon, and with the way the people have been dancing in middle of it - what was the new term for that new dancing style? ugh - there was no doubt that finding relief on the outer circles were a better idea, more or less. 'Thank fuck we are all here though. I know Nat and JC are busy dancing it away as you'd expect them, but the giant looked more or less..out of place? Slightly tired, maybe buzzed. I don't know.' It was probable that neither of them nor Lars really knew how to react to the latest dancing style currently in vogue right now.

'Nah, it's fine. Nobody would have thought that this year's pogos section moved slightly too close to the centre,' Julien answered without trying to explain too much. It's not really a year for the Pogos - last year would have been a better one for it, but that's debatable.' It was clear to everybody else that Zinaida Woodcarver wasn't really a raver, and that, combined with the infamous rules of the Maison Misiriyaa, had already ruled out the possibility that she was taking part in the Pogo circles. The Pogos, the dance style originated from Farfadillis with its code of dancing up and down, with the dancers moving around like a pogo stick, were not for those with fainted heart, and even Julien, a Montrealais (a Mon City boy though of south shores) with streaks of a Novopetrogradian boar, was only getting into it recently. 'Anyways, did you hear that Lars and a friend of his may be moving to Quebec sooner than later?'

'Uh...no.' Zinaida shifted slightly confusingly. 'Like everybody around me knows who Lars is, to be fair, but I don't really watch basketball. Like let's be honest - there are three people outside of MTK who I know-'

'Okay, but this guy's legit.' Julien said, somehow feeling odd that they were talking something that was very much the opposite of having fun in a business. Of course, that's debatable on whether this companion of his, 'Like Lars has been known for years on his intentions to eventually move there, but this guy's entirely different story. Also tall but the guy plays 3-position and he could actually pass well-'

'Okay, okay, okay-' Zinaida nodded along, trying to slow Julien down from giving her too much information that she wasn't able to process right off the bat. 'So this guy's legit, somebody who plays midfielder and is like Enrico (Hanson-Conavacio) tall (190cm), and has visions of, I guess, Hazel (Hanson-Conavacio) tall.'

'Something like that.' Julien snapped his finger in confirmation, just as Ixtotz started playing. 'His name is something like...Luke Omuga. Think of Omega brand, I don't know. He said he's Kitaran, lived a decade in Winnipeg so another westerner like you, and then moved to Petrograd because his father was doing some business...some insane shit, that's for sure!' Julien took a deep breath. 'Anyways he's a pretty big stud there at Armada Petrograd, and has recently declared for the draft and plans to finally cross waters. Pretty exciting stuff because you know, the tensions between Nyowani Kitara and everywhere else. But he's a kid who's like me or Lars in some ways, so I can vouch on him for ya.'

'Okay, well seems like he's not the life of the party apparently,' Zinaida answered back, feeling not too impressed. 'And if he's a true blue, where is he when all of us are here?'

'Well, let's be clear here,' Julien said, just as Lars was approaching them from some distance. He was smiling and waving at them, to which Julien and Zina gave a light wave telling him to come back. 'Hey-oh!' Julien shouted, before resuming to speak. 'He has some..uh...paperworks to fill. Apparently the Home Office called him the day before, asking about few clarifications, and they wanted him to figure out how the sponsorship of his residency is going to work. The guy could have applied for visa, but I guess there were some things that allowed him to stay longer if this experiment were to work out-'

BZZZZZ!

It was then that their phone snapped. Feeling all three of their pockets snap, Zinaida, Julien and Lars checked their phones. It was a text from Pierre McCarthy, their manager and the Maitre of the Maison M:

Guys, get out. Joelinton got into trouble.

What the actual fuck.

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

OOC: Vol. II is indefinitely put on hiatus due to many reasons that come from lack of inspirations to quite a few partners not being active. It will be resumed in future-time.

In the meanwhile, we get a minor spin-off series. Short one that involves Christine II, the monarch of Quebec and Shingoryeo, and our beloved Lundrigans. Of course, there's more than just positive feelings there, as it is an emergency that causes the Queen, long aware of her magical abilities, to go on a quick outing....

Avalon

PART 1 - Atlas

Christine, unofficially of Dolgoroukii surname, slowly walked along the paved streets of Aspen. Two to three centuries had changed since the city's wealthy and the aristocracy had first built their apartments and hotels, but there's always that air of affluence and prestige that had not really departed the western half of the Downtown. Elm, spruce and maple trees covered the pavements, and the birds continued to whistle in their usual selves. Some of the old houses on the more open of streets near the metro stations, where aged lords and ladies had resided, were now commercial properties and saw commercial activities. Some of the lesser traditional of residents, who had come from nouveau-riche or even of non-traditional ways of earning money, had moved into the district in the second half of previous century, but even they themselves were multi-generation residents with their children and grandchildren being born into this area of Songak.

Mille. Dolgorukii knew Songak well - it was her job as a monarch to do so. But this was her first visit to this neighbourhood of the city, for she not only had no reason to visit it, but had preferred to avoid making personal visits to the city. So on a rare visit like this, the thirty-four year old woman had to think carefully and make sure that all were going to be quick, swift and without possibility of her being seen by the public. This was not easy, but Christine had ways to ensure that her presence, disguised by powers beyond most minds, were enough to make a rare outing work.

'No matter how well the intentions were, I cannot forgive the way she had brought you to your current state.'

Mille. Dolgorukii had told her friend, The Writer (don't worry we'll find out who he is very quickly), on the day he found out about her abilities thirteen years ago. The Writer, then a roommate of hers before their graduation from St. Croix, had accidentally walked into the room, and promised to her, then-The Princess, on a bloodbinding vow not to say a word about her possession by a spirit.

'But the fate wills that there be a child. Does not clarify if she comes from you or her, but the words have been said and told.'

Thirteen years had passed since. The Princess became The Queen, The Writer had taken a long way but returned to the home soil, and the world danced again in the midst of 2040s and 2050s. The Writer owned a small, two-floored apartment in Aspen, one that was not his but of his wife, The Musician. The area, being close and yet isolated from the bustling streetlights we have all come to remember Songak-Wangsan-Montreal, did not see a lot of unexpected guests or suspicious eyes, and the 9-to-5 routines of many had made it easier for the couple, whose husband's usual absence from the intellectual circles he had long made his name within, to raise their children. Even if it had not afforded the relative security of being in Coxwell Park, The Musician's family estate where you needed at least an hour's train ride or a drive from the corner of Twin Cities' metropolitan area, being in a pocket of seclusion just ten minutes from Royal Arlenia Hospital, had meant that they could keep a better eye on the conditions, degenerative and evident.

'And it is not the promise I can make for you.'

The Queen knew that The Writer, wearing a mask and with either of his children, used to walk in a certain route with little change. She had long heard about it from him over their exchanges, which were never done virtually but only in written form over mail. And she had long heard about it through his vivid descriptions of clovers and flowers his daughter, a sensible one, would point out and pick for her mother. The trail of words that would describe his joys, appearing small and yet magnified in their delight, were constant, delightful and emulating.

'I do not have specific faiths myself, but I run under a limited timeframe, let's say a shelf-life, and you cannot and will not transcend what we've been told and gifted.'

It was a cool day with spring breeze, with the May skies of this city famous for their hues. Some say they evoke the clearest blues of their eyes, while the others say they come at the equinox of bygone eras, brought by the spirits who have refused to accept their departure time. It was in this espirit de corps that Christine shed a solitary tear, took a deep breath, and continued to walk closer and closer to the household. Slowly and delicately, caught unaware by the naked eye of an average citizen, she fixed her sunglasses, the left side of her hazel-golden locks, and looked back to see if her bodyguards, dressed in plain clothes, were still within distance.

Tong-Tong,

The Queen was suddenly caught outside of her moment as a small football dropped, hitting the pavement before rolling along the hallway. 'Oh,' Christine raised her eyebrows, as she quickly walked towards the ball. Guards were still nowhere near sight. Well it cannot be that urgent. The Queen thought to herself as she grabbed it, her beret slightly shaking. There was still not a single cloud outside, and yet the ball's mysterious drop suggested something else. Right. Christine blinked, only to see a short, brown-haired girl dressed in a blue blouse, aged around 6 or 7, standing before her.

'Ma'am.' said the young girl, looking at the ball. The young girl, who just happened to notice Christine just as The Queen felt her layer of semi-invisibility buzz, looked familiar to her, but Christine wasn't sure why. Was it because of the way she had said those words at the regency? Christine did not know for her whose memory, admittedly, was something that needed more improvement beyond the use of the spirited eye.

But it was clear from the surface that the child, whose eyes and face had suggested aura beyond her age, was not normal. Oh, thought Christine, as The Queen looked once more at the child. Young girl had loose brown and straw-coloured hair flowing, and wore her blouse loosely. To anyone it was clear that she had her father's eyes and built, and mother's facial complexion, a compliment to those who knew both the father and the mother.

This can't be, Christine felt the tremor inside her body, a couple of her fingers twitching, as The Queen gave the girl a sad look at the absence of a parental figure on this hour of a week-day, before noticing a clear hue. This can't be, She drew a breath, swallowed her spit, and then positioned herself lower to meet the girl's eyes. 'Hello dear, do you happen to know where 131 Highgate Square is?' was what she asked, as Christine hoped that this was who she thought it was.

'Yes, ma'am. Are you looking for my dad?' she asked, her face dimming from a temple full of candles to a Mahavira Hall with a solitary light. 'He's busy and says he wants no visitors.'

'Yes, I am a friend of his.' Christine answered, as she slowly regained her calm. 'Your father invited me to come at two. Said I needed to pick up something from him.' This was of course a lie - nowhere did Christine call the girl's father, The Writer, that The Queen was going to make an unplanned visit to their house, and without presence of a guard. But all it took was for her to make an exception where she saw necessary, and motivated by an unexpected visit to Royal Arlenia just hours before, Christine knew that she had to see The Writer. 'Can you please lead me to your place?' asked she, pretending that the guards, who now moved back a dozen steps to keep distance, were not present.

She smiled. 'Yes, ma'am.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Avalon

PART 2 - ZVVL

Neither dead nor living. The Writer felt those words ring into his head, as he slowly emerged from the living room sofa of his bedroom. Did he expect any differently of his recent state, feeling half dead, half living, half the time in hospital and other half a deserted home? He wasn't sure, but the Writer knew that he saw as little need to see the light as possible.

Night, Night, thought the Writer, as he stood and slowly walked in circles of the living room. Most of her life, The Writer had brought life into the words he said like the threads of fate. When he had first met The Musician as a sixteen year old lad, the first threads were connected from Jellyfish-like stings to actual bundles of the time, the space and the feelings. Then seventeen, Eileen de Ramaut kept herself quiet in the family estate, and it was in those woods of the Coxwell Park, the Old Forest and the islands bordering Semarland that the Writer felt closer than close. The feelings of that week he first came to see her on the warming weeks of March still existed on paper seventeen years after the fateful, rainy afternoon in middle of Joongyeong, but the Writer knew they were of no value and that they only constitute as exercise.

Brr, Brr.

The Writer jumped a millimetre, got back and walked to the door of his room, immediately feeling as if this ring came from her daughter Claire. One of the worst-known open secret in the Songako-Montrealais musical circles, the one that's not discussed openly in public, however, was the comatose state of The Musician. Considering the Writer's seclusion, combined with a de facto control on press, it was already enough to imagine the pain that stood underneath the veil of silence, but nobody, who had the misfortune of opening this dying house, could prepare for the dying roots and the dark, crispy branches of the flat.

'Claire, where have you beeen-' The Writer froze and shouted as he saw the woman, just an acorn short of him, stood behind his daughter. 'Oh, you,' said he.

It was the person he had not expected to see. Standing behind his daughter, dressed in a summer coat, a mask, and a grey beret, was The Queen, his longtime friend from their St. Croix days. Her face, so calm on the surface and yet containing a fire that's mixed of both fear and disappointment, and the messy mix of the blonde hair, was more than enough to suggest him that. They, who first met as Prof. Heo's introductory module students, had been roommates for last two years of college. He's seen her silently question every step of the way in the last months of Jacques IX's life, she's seen him confessing that he had once loved a woman, but left her to protect her from a mortal secret about his health. But even then, the sheer sight of a dark, dying main floor of the flat was more than enough to infuriate the Queen.

'Okay...why are you here?' breathed the Writer, and it was obvious from his voice, as he asked Claire, that he did not expect the Queen to meet his daughter that way. 'Umm, Claire, can papa have a moment with your friend, auntie Kristina? Maybe stay in your room for few minutes and we can go outside to say hi to mama after that.'

'Yes, papa.' Claire nodded slowly, her head moving down. Feeling sad and subdued, she walked upstairs, while the Queen and the Writer started walking to the living room, before sitting on the opposite side of a large tea table. Aided by a swish or two, the room's unruly piles were at least moved to one side, while the antiques, feeling a couple of wind brushes, sat.

'Well, I'll keep a single light on, but make yourself comfortable.' said he, snapping a finger as the chandeliers turned on, before they sat on the table. Then they said nothing for about ten minutes. The writer, whose mental and physical condition had long deteriorated over last decade, held his guard low, and the Queen, with her opal eyes looking back at him in the solitude-filled gaze. The atmosphere was buzzing with unspoken tension across the room.

'How did you not tell me about this pitiful state you are in, Asher,' Christine lifted her right arm, slapping her friend with a full swing of her hand. The sound of the slap, shearing through the air, rang across the room and into rest of the apartment. Asher, feeling the slap, was drawn back for a second, but gathered strength to hear once more from the Queen. 'Why didn't you tell me that your wife's dying in that cold, cold hospital ward, and that I have not been notified of all this, even as you wrote me of your progresses?'

Lord,. Asher felt a slow time-buffer, as he felt his heart, feeling as heavy as a boulder, sink into the bottom of the ocean, while Christine looked back at him. The idea of an unexpected visit by the monarch over a personal matter, even when they were close friends, was not something that had ever been on an agenda. But then, he did not expect her, whose life, in his opinions, often involved a life busier than enquiring about the childbirth of a woman she disliked so much, to know without a word. 'My suffering is better kept as an individual suffering, and I felt it best not to write you about it all,' Asher said, looking right to see a massive portrait of him, his wife Eileen, and the families lined up for their wedding photo. 'They, her family, have right to know for it involves the holy matrimony and me not seeing mine so much nowadays, but my duty to you, the Crown, remains no more nor less than to provide what her majesty find interesting about mes livres.’

‘No, but your daughter certainly knew who I was, through the veil,’ said Christine, remembering the earlier sight where Claire, while trying to retrieve her ball, happened to see a semi-transparent Christine. 'Is she..who I think she is? And she is possessed too?'

Asher took a breath, having a hard time phrasing the words together. 'Yes, the woman who you had wished to give the world's blessings even when she was yet to be born.' said he, 'Not intentionally, as I had not intentioned myself to accidentally notice you in magical apparition when I had to ask you about house dinner at The Acadianan Cafe when we were nineteen.' he then coughed twice, thinking about the time when Asher accidentally stumbled to Christine, ever calm and controlled, possessed. 'Anyways she's heading back tomorrow, and I have to say goodbye to her and Henry, who's with the Bathurst's and Annandale's, this evening.'

'The girl of the prophecy.' Christine was shaking, as she felt a half-dozen puzzles pieced together. She turned to look at another picture on the wall, this time of the two children. 'Good lord that Claire at least bears semblance of the mother…but heading back? To Coxwell where you two had finally escaped for once?' Christine lifted the tone, intensity matching the nerves. 'And what is the father going to do? Is he just going to lie around the first floor, forever absent from his bedchambers, and do nothing but to pray to the gods who will not listen to you?'

'Praying, and writing as a mode of atonement is all that I could do to keep this world, and that of hers alive,' answered Asher, coughing twice as he struggled to pace himself, staring to cry. 'Please don't do this to me tonight, my kids need me and I am sending them back home to protect from what had happened to this place without her.' While the Writer wasn't sure whether his daughter, who was most likely upstairs in the room she's been sharing with her brother, was hearing this, it was clear from the sounds of it that their visit was going to be a short one. 'Tonight they will have to go back to their grandparents, and come back later to see their mother.'

'I know what it means to lose a soul, and also to pass off a mere statistic as nothing,' said she. 'You are here with your daughter, the one who is going to be the Queen of this country one day, and yet you have lost the grip of hope and reality!' Asher's pleas for his friend to calm down was ignored, as her eyes changed colour from opal to red. 'Do you know what is like to lose a loved one, and what it feels like to not being able to do anything? And well, that woman?'

'No, but to not being able to do much, while she lies dying and my daughter Sophie, who came out miraculously alive, being separated from her mother, is enough to tell you what had happened here, and all that I feel like about this vain life.' Asher answered, his glare sharpened. 'Nobody knows what it is. But whatever the illness that she had gotten after the childbirth is enough has not subsided. It will eventually kill her.'

'Do not think that way. You must remember to carry on with your own life before assuming the worst, Valletta,' Christine said, directly using the baron title that was of his mother, the Baroness who was once the princess of the Vdaran ex-royal family, to suggest a degree of command. 'You cannot pretend that no secret can last forever in this country where I sit in a throne of bones.'

'Especially not in this day and age where worst qualifying campaign in fifty years cause mass suicides on the Reneegrad,' Asher felt the bitter taste of the cigarettes in his mouth, as he looked at the Queen once more. 'So I pay the price for hurting her the day I had met her, but the children will be safe from that. They will visit her often and pray too, but it is a sight I cannot bear myself.' He pinched his eyes twice, before looking. 'I expect to finish writing the chapter of 6th of 13th month, 1989 in a week, and after visiting Eileen at the hospital that morning, I will see you as scheduled at the Palace.'

Christine had none of it. Erupting over his friend's behaviour, she punched the table. 'ENOUGH!' she shouted.

Then the ceiling cracked, with the chandeliers breaking into dozens of pieces. They, colliding into each other like the regent's fists, were deflected and hit the wall like a million darts released upon activation of a booby trap.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Avalon

PART 3 - Storms

The lights were out. With Christine's eruption having just occurred minutes prior, the living room of this half-dead house was now even messier than how it had been for past several weeks. At least there was no more room for the room to be any less messier, after the series of decay it has seen without The Musician...

Christine looked out the living room window, the sight of toddlers and their parents hanging out in the private park catching her eyes, as her friend, Asher the Writer, feeling the full, brunt impact of the force, lied back in the couch. In some ways, she was feeling the very same pain her friend was reeling from, for she was also without her eldest child, HRH Alexandre, who was in his first year of studies, alone, at the Royal School in Concord Heights.

I feel angry about all this, but is it really his hopelessness that's bothering me here? Christine thought, initially over the state of the house. Or is this really about how hopeless I feel over this?

Then she thought of her late father, who had accepted the fact that she, by some coincidence, luck or even curse, had innate abilities beyond his knowledge (whether this is true or not remains to be seen). Then she found herself remembering that Eileen, The Musician who was shielded from the Queen's feelings about/against her by years of internalisation, was at the ward, and how that sight of the dying woman had left a light blow on her.

---

Earlier that day...

The third intensive care unit of Royal Arlenia Hospital was a quiet space. Built two hundred years ago in 1854, when the hospital saw the addition of a new wing, first of over twelve the hospital complex would see, but it's as if the age of the very building's walls, had seeped into its atmosphere. The lights were dim, the hallways wide (made worse by the reminders of modern architecture that emphasises narrower hallways and rooms), and the visitors plenty as the loved ones of those comatose or too ill came and went.

Christine II slowly walked along the hallways, as she was accompanied by a pair of hospital officials, hearing their words about the recent set of renovations the nation's biggest hospital has completed. This was part of her two days of engagements in Songak, the nation's commercial and economic capital, with the hospital visit, just one of dozens she performed each and every year, kicking off a series of engagements that were to occur throughout the day.

The visit, however, turned out to be not the one that she had expected, as she neared the end of the hallway and the elevators.

A nurse, a burly man of his forties, walked out of the elevator with a massive bouquet of sweet-brier, and gave the Queen a courtesy. The middle-aged man, who had the finesse long attained from years of the job, still looked very much surprised to see the Queen, and his surprised expressions, combined with disheveled blonde hair of his peeking out of the cap, were more than enough to suggest so, as he gave a quick neck bow to queen as a form of greeting.

It was at that moment she felt something odd. Haedanghwa is a rare bouquet to anywhere and for anyone, and only a few who know the true meanings behind the flower, would dare bring one to a ward, thought she, as she nodded twice to indicate that she has received his curtesy.

But Christine knew right off the bat that there's either someone unusual or special who were staying at the ward, and couldn't help but to ask the nurse. 'Um, sir,' asked Christine, trying her best to lift her voice from that of officialdom to an uplifting manner. 'That's one of the most beautiful bouquets I have seen. A rare type of flowers for a visit too. Who is the lucky person receiving them today?'

The nurse froze, as he looked twice at the administrators on the Queen's company, before they gave a light nod indicating that it's more than prudent for her to answer back. 'He has unfortunately asked not to say his name, ma'am, but he has told me that his wife, who is one of our patients here, will remember them when she wakes up,' he answered. 'Says that the flowers, not exact but similar to the ones that she would remember growing up in the Mengwes shores.'

'I see,' said she, her left hand shaking once more. 'Must be a woman of remarkable gift or wisdom. In any case, is it possible for us to see the room?'

'Would you really wish to do so, ma'am?' asked one of the administrators, a pale-haired man in his fifties, gown and an old watch, 'The patient has been under coma for past couple of months and I do not know if that will be the best for the patient's recovery-'

It was then that the Queen interrupted him. 'Yes,' answered Christine, swallowing past a solitary doubt. 'It would take no more than a minute.'

---

Two Days Later

It was early in the Tuesday morning when Christine returned to the Royal Archives, two days after the very incident at her friend's place and a day and half after her return to the Palais Royale. Returning to the lives and realities of the Palais, where the guards wore blue and marched in front of the palace to the presence of visiting tourists and bypassing locals, Christine felt the freeze of time back home easier to handle.

As a building located just down the road from the Palace, but still technically on the Crown soil, the Royal Archives was a quiet place that rarely accepted unexpected visitors. The only person who could go around that rule and allow admissions was Dr. Heo Dong-Soo, whose average height was disguised perfectly by his greying hair, sharp gaze and intimidating posture. The Queen knew Dr. Heo, a former professor of hers who shared long history with the late Jacques IX, knew just as much about the royal household or their friends than anybody else actually within the household. While he, who came from decent but not outstanding or luckiest backgrounds, rarely gave out advice to any members, there was no doubt that he, the man of words and practical advice, served a role of his that aided the Crown anytime his service was needed.

'Ma'am.' said Dr. Heo, the presence of the Queen bringing him to a quick raise. Noticing that she had come in an earliest possible time, that being eight in the morning for the Chief of the Archives, he gave a quick neck bow, before remain standing under an unspoken rule for a subject not to sit in front of a monarch. 'Please, have a seat.'

'Will do,' said Christine, as she sat on a wooden chair front of hers, 'Professor, have you been aware of the whole situation with...um...the woman?'

'Can you be more specific, ma'am?' asked Dr. Heo, having difficulty with what the monarch was asking. 'With you this can mean many things. Especially in this day and age with the uncertainties in Concord Heights.'

'It's not about the Seja (世子 - author's note: Korean term for Crown Prince) nor the situations with my sister-in-law (referring to Cassie III of Cassadaigua, the eldest sister of Caspian, Duke of Halifax).'

'Oh.' He uttered, a moment of silence followed. Dr. Heo then resumed, before speaking first. 'Is it over Valletta? or his wife?'

'Yes,' answered Christine, before asking another question. 'Of course, your children have moved out long ago, but were you too aware of how his wife, the musician granddaughter of the Baron Lauzon, and her illness?'

Dr. Heo stopped for a second, before realising that this was something that he had an answer but not one straight to the line. 'I have, by the virtue of my daughter being a fan of hers, and well you know the friendship she has maintained with the Vdaran over the years,' he nodded, lighting a cigar. 'She told me and my son, of course, but neither of us had said anything over it. It is likely le Palais knew about it, but likely had to cut off the command of the information a step or two before it reaches you.'

'Understandable.'

Dr. Heo's Korean, standardised as he spoke, was slowly paced enough to suggest that he wanted to save as many words as possible. Partly to spare a potential fury, but also to keep his face straight. 'Ma'am,' said he, his half-pale hair shining at age 63. 'We all know how it feels to lose a parent so early, and to lose a wife or husband that early too. You and I both miss your late father, who we remember for different reasons.'

'서쪽의 동수, 동쪽의 제임스를 말하시는겁니까? (Are you referring to Dong-Soo of the West, and James of the West?)' asked Christine, remembering the term that had been used by both him and her father in past.

'Very much so,' nodded he, remembering his teenage and early-twenties. 'They used to call us that because I was on the west side of the river at Queen's College, and Prince Jacques served at the RMC, and both of us were sabreurs who were born around same time, only a year apart I'd say.' It was clear that he was having reflections to his earlier self, to the times when all was lost. 'It was his idea that I come back to Joongyeong when my late wife had passed. He explicitly said that I shouldn't spend rest of my life waiting to join Maureen (Turner).'

'I could imagine the level of grief it must have taken for you.' said she.

'No doubt, so that's partly why the words have been kept from you, ma'am.' he said, 'While the prophecies you may have received over the years may be kept to us, and maybe a couple of others, we all risk our own lives to uphold the balance of those we stand for, and would rather not risk it all.' He remembered that there were still two Queen Mothers by technicality, Queen Nathalie her grandmother and Queen Elisabeth (Elizaveta Dolgoruki, to be specific), whose griefs had shaped much of the palace and the castles they had now moved out to. 'And that's what Mr. Lundrigan, your friend and also a former student of mine, would have preferred.'

'And that's understandable,' Christine answered, remained disappointed over the answer. 'It's a good thing the children do not know, and Caspian not believing in it either, in any case. The Queen Mother, of course, always believed in those abilities, and I was lucky enough in said accord.' It was then that she had a realisation as she turned around asked, 'But the sight of that woman....no matter my distaste, was abnormal. Neither dead nor living, but an illness that was killing her slowly and over time. Almost as if it's up to those beyond that of human science. Do the Shingoryeo-Shiloks (The Veritable Records of the Shingoryeoite Dynasty) record such instances?'

'I believe so, ma'am,' Dr. Heo's deep voice rang forth the affirmation, as Christine looked back at him. She always knew that the historian, who had not really let go of the layer of darkness that followed his wife's untimely death sixteen years ago, lifting his voice to a surprisingly rich and rarely-used texture of tenor, was a good thing. 'Of course, this country doesn't run out of bizarre occurrences and the use of magic and other shamanistic talent, like that of yours, come up fairly often on the scribes' records.' he then continued, 'There have been specifically two instances where this had happened in the past century alone.'

'And what would be those cases?' Christine asked, feeling the light flash twice before his eyes.

'The first instance, which occurred in June 1977, involved a wizard,' answered Dr. Heo, trying not to brief too much about the unrelated situation. There once was a time when Dr. Heo and then-Princess Christine were able to have more entertaining conversations involving unusual occurrences of history, but those times have passed following the death of late Jacques IX when she was 21. 'Still fifteen in age, he quickly lost control of his innate abilities and nearly destroyed the high school the night of his prom, before burying himself alive in a matter of Wildhornian-realisation.'

'Poor thing.' That was the least she could say about it.

Dr. Heo watched the cigar fumes slowly rise to the air, before having another puff. 'And the other time, something that I have only found out just two years ago, involved your grandfather. Henri VIII, when he was still a Sesohn (second-in-line to throne, usually child of Crown Prince/Princess), used to travel extensively, and often without entourage. Said he preferred to be on his accords for these trips, no matter his love for Queen Nathalie. This I'm sure she, your grandmother, can confirm.'

'Go on,' Christine said, remembering a line or two had been mentioned about Henri VIII's younger self from her grandmother. Queen Nathalie rarely spoke about her late husband to Christine, and with her usually out on her own country estates, knowing the late monarch, whose late reign was cut short by an accidental cut of pufferfish he had fished and eaten one summer holiday, was left up to others.

'In the year 1987, three of the days' entries were left blanked out by the scribes. It was just marked as "HRH Henri had left the palace to spend three days in a mysterious land north of Pacific named Dǣl. In the original text, it's written as Samgakjoo, but with Joo written as a state or a province (州), instead of a sand island (洲). So a triangle state is what he wrote,' he continued speaking. 'Of course that's an unusual term, and that's what people have spent forty years searching, but to no success - the king had passed too early to finish reading the Annals of the Sylvain IV before him and your father had no intention to go through them under wartime in his first decade of throne, before moving onto other ventures.'

'But you did say that you have found out about this two years ago. There's got to be something that you have found out about the country since then.'

'That is exactly what I'm suggesting, ma'am,' said Dr. Heo, his voice slowing down further. 'It's a land distant from our memories named Delte, out in North Pacific.' he said, fumes now everywhere in the room. 'Of course, It is unlikely a great number of people would remember the late Henri VIII, especially if he had come incognito, but you may have better luck the closer you approach the Garga Marsh.'

'And how do we approach the very Delte?' Christine asked.

'Well you are the one who has the abilities to do so, isn't it?' That's all he said.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Avalon

PART 4 - 만조상해원경 (萬祖上解寃經)

So this is the way it's going to go.

Dr. Heo was walking into middle of the trail, looking at the series of rolling hills seen that he's about to face in front of the hills. This trip had come unexpectedly so - first came a visit by the Christine II, a former student of his who's now the monarch of this portal nation. This was then followed by her enquiry about rare, past occurrences of incidents involving those possessed with innate abilities coming from the spirits of this land. Then came the unexpected invitation, and he, without any event that could not be rescheduled outside of his appointment, had agreed to it.

Thus, the last twenty-four hours had seen the mentor, who had put two days of paid sick leave, and his protege, who had placed a self-duplicate of hers back in the Palais, heading off to a three-day trip in Sandhouse Cottage, a quiet property three hours north of Joongyeong.

Have I gotten this old? Or have I gotten that far behind the world? thought he, as the wind started blowing into their direction. Walking half-a-kilometre pace behind his student, even without the royal protocol to avoid walking in front of her, was not the way he had expected things to turn out on the trail. No matter how old and frail he had gotten Dr. Heo, whose two children Myeong-Shin and Myeong-Yoon have become two of the most prominent sporting icons in past twenty years, had gotten used to thinking as if he was still his forties when his children were teenagers and his wife Maureen was still alive.

Maybe I have, Dr. Heo agreed, as the wind continued to blow over their faces, forcing him to grab the glass frames with both hands in order to keep them from blowing into the air. This wasn't his own fault, however, as life's course had brought him to an unexpected spot. Over the past six years, Dr. Heo unexpectedly ended up from the position as a mere professor of research, the one whose age and acumen had remained well above and beyond his age, to a figure of even greater positions. Being the Chair of Royal Archives - the position once considered secondary to his primary position as Jacques IX Professor of History and Comparative Literature at his alma mater, Seonggyungwan University College at Univ. St. Croix - ended up being a more demanding one than one he's come to expect when he came to accept the offer.

At various points during his position, Dr. Heo had seen every shape and form of the Capitoliens, whose undergraduate behaviour had often come up with sense of privilege, but the biggest part of it all involved HRH Christine, then-Princess of Abitibi as the first in line of succession to the throne, as he had come to develop a strong mentorship with her from the first year 'Introduction to Cultural and Intellectual History of Quebec and the Commonwealth' module.

Her behaviour, from the way she had spoken of the ancestral spirits to being in part of this immense turtle, located on the mantle of this land, was by no means normal. Then Christine, her father's declining conditions affecting her mind as she had worked herself closer to the tripos, had further developed the connections he, a devout practitioner of Quebecois Buddhism and Taoism that always held shamanistic elements, had only heard of from tales and records. Those that he had never imagined to see from anybody, let alone a Regina.

Perhaps my biggest weakness, the one that had landed me this position, was my faithfulness to it all.

It was then that he, his head looking towards the ground while on bottom of a small hill, felt a thud as he fell backwards. A blast of wind hit him, which was then followed by a light wave of dust. His head now facing the sky, Dr. Heo could see what had happened.

'And there she goes.'

Dr. Heo said as he watched a single, thin ray of light flew across the sky from the east to the west. It was a quick show, for it, distinctive on the beginning, became smaller and smaller until he could see nothing.

It was just between two of them, as a subject gave a neck bow to Christine, as he kissed her hand. Christine the Second, who had just been crowned as the monarch of this Anaian state, was still getting accustomed to the position. All her life she had been ready, even more so by the shortcomings of her father receiving little to no time as the Seja (Crown Prince) and not Sesohn (Third in line of succession as the eldest child of the monarch. Even then, however, all of the learning curve in ascending to the throne, followed by a royal wedding to her beloved Caspian of Cassadaigua in three months' time, was not easy to handle.

'It isn't as easy as it looks, just like what my father would have said,' said Christine, as she nodded to the subject, before sitting back on her chair.

'No, and the hubris of a man who thinks of it likely, one who dares dream of becoming a god without a sense of morals or servitude, can be costly for all,' answered the tall, thin dark-haired figure standing just over six-feet tall, as he continued standing. On an early April of the capitol, it was particularly easy to hear the birds who chirped and sung loudly in middle of the air. Just by the sounds you could have a rough sense of what time to have, and how the fruits of the orchard trees would taste on a given day. While the man, who was of decent background but not enough to warrant himself of frequent visits, did not know that, he was nonetheless delighted to have the conversation continue on a good note. Like how two good friends would.

The clouds were a zone between the man and the machine, and where the time passed fluidly and differently. Her body separated into two, with a duplicate back in the Palais Royale, The Queen was in middle of a flight. This form of travel, only the third time she had ever done so, seemed endless and wore everybody out, and it took a lot for the blonde-haired, elegantly-dressed woman in her robes to maintain her composure and focus as she approached Delte.

The Duty to be silent above it all, beyond most people's suspicions, Christine thought to herself, as she blasted through the clouds in a blaze. is the hardest of all jobs.

This flight was a matter of inevitability to her, and perhaps one that crossed paths between her duty and choice...

'Well, it was only a year ago when you had vowed never to return to this country for her own sake....you had vowed to end this life and that Dongajul (dense tightrope made out of straw) of your own life for her.'

The friend, mere son of a diplomat and an islet princess, kept his head low, before nodding in agreement as Queen closed her mouth.

'I had thought so too, because I did not want her, who I had loved all this time, to be hurt by my very existence,' said Asher Lundrigan, holding back the emotional luggage that dragged his mind like an ankle chain. 'I am capable of hurting, and I do not regret one bit in letting her go because I couldn't promise her I could promise a future, one that's eternal and binding, for her. But it was her who was ready to dive into it all for someone who has lacks a redeeming quality of his own.' He said, before continuing to speak as he was being reminded of his father, The Honourable Robert Lundrigan, the recently-retired MP for far-left NPD after two decades of service with the Her Majesty's Quebecois Foreign Service. 'One can say that I am like like his own father.'

'Do not say that it's a bad thing,' said Christine in a stern manner, 'There is no such thing as a bloodline of heroes or traitors in this universe, and never did I ever insist that you speak about yourself or those you love in said manners.'

'It is not wrong, however. My father lacked seafaring talents of the Baron Bron-Yr-Aur and grandpa the Baron before his, so he chose to loot the coffers of the homeland.'

The Queen, whose travel to the ancestral homeland on the trip to the other side of the interrealm portal on the gap year between high school and St. Croix, had a different opinion. 'But he had done the right thing - the decision taken by your father and his colleagues on the other side of the portal to loot the coffers of Yoon Seok-Yeol, the Korean Yanukovich, and his cronies was right.' She continued speaking, 'Their disregard of the rules of the land and the law given to them, no matter how flawed said laws may have been at the time, left everybody horrified back home. That's why my late father approved it, and had taken close interest in Balmas Cabinet's project over the five year course it had ran from year 2021 to 2026, even as the cabinets changed and his successor got imprisoned.'

'But for what?' asked Asher, as he fixed his glasses once to question it. 'Looting from the coffers, no matter how valiant the cause may have been, is a problem in itself into the future. Would this not get in the way of the so-called future you speak of, especially if it cannot be secured?'

'Who had said that?' Christine asked. 'You cannot ignore the legacies of what your father had done as a Robin hood technocrat, no matter how ironic that had just sounded like, or even what you have done in this life so far. It's just that's what it means for duty to call home and the weight of it shall not be your burden.'

'For her it would not get in the way, no matter your hatred for actions of my own mistakes.' Asher said, noting that the prophecy had mentioned either/or, not both. 'But for me that would be a deterrent factor if you were speaking of it on my half..'

'But that was a matter from twenty two years ago,' Christine shook her head. 'To do nothing, and to let the ancestral homeland be looted by a group of poorly-intentioned bandits, is any worse than to do something and for what we view as good.' she answered. 'Our ancestors may have left six and a half centuries ago, but we have never let go of the homeland.'

'On that note,' enquired Asher, as he cleared his throat. 'I am good to see my friend once again.'

The figure started feeling the air lighten up as he flew, started breathing slower as she slowly awaited a moment to descend. In the early morning, the Deltean oceans produced mists just enough for her to hide it, and even if it would not have been possible for her to do so, she would have been able to turn herself into a transparent figure until the landing's near. Christine was the Grand Chief of the four religious pillars of the Quebecois state after all, and her abilities, brought together under one body and many wills, enabled her to do so.

I have made my own choice to go there, said she. To Delte.

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

OOC: Next 3-4 parts will take place in the mysterious country located in North Pacific named Delte.

Many thanks to Mr. Delte in advance for allowing me to use his nation as a setting for much of this spin-off series. Likewise goes to Cassadaigua for allowing me to incorporate their domestic situation into parts of the storyline as well.

Avalon

PART 5 - Let Somebody Go

While Christine was losing the control of her mind and soul spread away in Cassadaigua and here in Delte, a wave caught her and swooped her away with such magnificent force that if this had applied to a mere mortal, she would not have survived the crash.

Right, thought Christine as she swam as the waves dictated her to do so, groaning along as she was being driven closer and closer to the land by mysterious force the regent did not have a clear understanding towards.

At the same time, as she swam on, she came to see the shores of an unknown nation that wasn't exactly Delte itself, though not to her knowledge, but a nearby pays named Taxhavn. Upon noticing that there were some lights, she came to a vague realisation that this would be the best place for her to land or at least crash into, for the dark, heavy clouds started covering the skies again on an afternoon. She said:

'Lord. I do not know who to call, but if anybody's out there, please let them guide me to them. In my distress I draw close to your boundaries, and I hold onto the very last of my abilities to stay close to my mission that involves a life too valuable to be lost. Have mercy on me, as I ask for your mercy.'

It was then that the waves blasted her to the shores, and brought her safely to the rocky beaches of Taxhavnian shores. At last Christine had landed, though her body was battered and bruised by the descent from the skies that had landed unexpectedly out of step and timing. Her eyes, flying over a sixteen-hour flight but without the abilities of a bird, felt bleached and saltwater ran all over her mouth and hair. But the arrival to this mysterious land on North Pacific, where any man, let alone an Anaian with saltwater taste of southern Rushmore (OOC: reference to Christine II's marriage to Caspian of Cassadaigua, Novopetrogradian mother, and of course the current affairs ongoing in Concord Heights that involve her other version), rarely ever dared to travel, she was glad enough.

So Christine laid herself down in middle of the beach, exhausted enough to not think of those back home. A mysterious being, who had heard her pleas, dropped the sprinkles of sweet sleep to the place, and let the night come to it.

---

After saying goodbyes to their distraught father and comatose mother, it was time for the three Lundrigan children to head back to Coxwell Park, a historic, small estate located on the country's southeastern coast where their maternal family had lived.

It was a challenging moment in particular for Claire, the eldest child at age 7, for she had not only seen her mother remain in coma, but also witnessed an unexpected moment of devastation and fury that had involved her father and Christine the Second, someone she had obviously heard of in mentioning but had taken some time to recognise her face. Back at Coxwell Park, her maternal family felt particularly sad about the ongoing illness of their Plongeon (Eileen's nickname and pseudonym), and gradually abandoned the duties maintaining their lives and the estate that had needed massive uptake of their grounds. The once-lively estate and their grounds of five-dozen residents, already in middle of a chaotic state brought by decades of mismanagement, had started to lose their colours too, and the sight of it all had left her timid and quiet.

Back at her old home, a two-floor house where she was first brought into a week into her birth, Claire started reading the papers her parents had left back in their study. Originally, Claire started reading them as her brother, 4-year old Henry, and sister, 100-days old Maude, were taken care of by her aunts and uncles, who felt particular empathy towards Asher and Eileen's children. But the more and more she read, Claire had come to realise that the papers, left in their original shape as they were five years ago, had meant something else.

From the lines her mother had written about astringent, bitter love of late-teenage days, and her father's reflections about the times bygone in the Montrealais-Songakien buildings, Claire felt the emotions that flashed once again back to her old flat. She knew these feelings they delivered weren't entirely positive and that she didn't know how to explain in vocabulary of a 7-year old.

Being a daughter of a prominent writer and a acclaimed singer-songwriter, however, she knew there got to be a reason why the papers were laid out as they were in the study. While first weeks of the endeavour, which involved her just searching through the house, did not materialise into anything, her eventual efforts would pay off when she, sitting on her chair in front of the old, wooden piano, pressed a key.

Ding. She played a white key with her right hand, not being able to play the instrument yet. It produced a jarringly-hollow sound.

'Alright,' said Claire. While she had not started learning piano yet, Claire knew that the piano, based on her recollections of her mother playing the instrument, didn't produce said sound. So she decided to have a try at it again.

Ding. She hit the black key next to it, to no success. Now there was a bit of confusion inside her mind. There was something bizarre about the way this piano worked, that she knew for sure. But Claire wasn't sure why her mother, who had used this piano for three decades by now, or her father, who seemingly knew everybody and sometimes even had guests the young girl had naturally felt to be suspicious, had kept this unfixed.

As she stood in front of it, Claire originally suspected that the piano may have been broken and needed a repair, but the recent weeks of events have come to change her mind on it. With one more dose of determination and additional rations of frustration to be spent, she pressed the button. DING!

This time, however, the outcome was different.

---

So there Christine slept, silent and unmoving by sleep and weight of the world. But the forces of the old-world of hers were prompt to notice her state and went off to their equivalents in Delte and Taxhavn. Now, the Nomarque Mint, some distance away, continued to produce the works of greed and pollution from materials they had plundered from the earth, so the spirits, too polluted but unable to escape the stench, had come to notice it quickly enough. Thus the spirits wasted no time in turning into a form of some billionaire they could disguise themselves into, who had the ability to transport the woman out of it and into Delte, for they had heard of the same medicinal root that reputedly had the ability to save their land upon the moment of activation.

The veiled billionaire-figure went straight to the beach where Christine remained asleep. Two of their spirits, both muscular and full of fur, broke the ranks. They took the form of a helicopter, while a dozen others, who still remained in their solitary figure comparable to a Tsurube-Otoshi in Pom Poko, stood in front of her and said:

'Dear stranger from the Land of the Festive Evening (OOC note: parody of the term 'Land of the Morning Calm'), is it not the time to fly to the land-strip that hold boundless secrets and roots of all healing and killing that you and I look for? We believe that you are not greedy and looking for sheer, unexplained murder of a poor woman, but rather do this for a valiant cause that your spirits have approved the use of your abilities. Aye, aye, please climb and fly to the Sam-gak-ju with us.'

Christine, opening her eyes and mouth glowing in a golden ray, stood and followed the figure into the helicopter.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Avalon

PART 6 - Атаман

Cabinet Room, 11 Gwangmoo Boulevard, Joongyeong (Quebec City)

...Prime Minister Arsene Pineau Kim and his third ministry, a joint NPD-PJLQ cabinet, quickly gathered themselves to discuss the latest the current events in Cassadaigua. On one hand, Her Majesty's Cabinet were pleased to know that their ten-day state visit to the Vatmarkian nation, one that's considered of high significance, were going to proceed accordingly in a month's time. But the latest news from Concord Heights involving the succession crisis were not something that they had really answers or excitement over, and the complicated nature of the situation involving Joongyeong, where Christine II reigned and Queen Nathalie, the grandmother of the Quebecois monarch, was referred as the 'Grandmother of Rushmore', was still alive, though visibly in declining conditions.

While the Cabinet had long heard from their Prime Minister and their close allies at the Palais Royale that their Queen favoured her sister-in-law, she also had particular reservations to leave her public opinions on the matter due to reasons not limited to, but factoring in the education of the Seja (Crown Prince). This was something that Her Majesty's Cabinet, who had stayed in favourable terms with her, had to take note, and thus a meeting was held in middle of 11 Gwangmoo Boulevard, the Prime Ministerial residence and office.

Arsene Kim called the meeting to order. 'Order, order,' he said, all the chatter evaporating before his eyes as the cabinet members, exactly twenty-three in number and of varied age groups, became quiet. 'Welcome to this meeting. As we are all here to know, we have two matters to discuss- the ongoing succession crisis in Quebec, and what Her Majesty had asked us about, specifically regarding the matters of concern.' Everybody, knowing what their topic of discussion were, nodded along to the topic. 'Of course, with the history and the values of our institutions to those on the other side of the ocean, especially considering our country's reputation as the in-laws of Rushmore, which extends all the way to the tiniest hamlets of Cabo Azure, it is something to consider. So let's start with that.'

The Prime Minister continued. 'As far as it stands, the current situation may appear a mere family squabble with our interests, whether that of the Cabinet or the Opposition, on both sides. But the situation proves to be lot more complicated, especially when we consider that the situation there involves the Royal House. It is true that Concord Heights has full control over how the nation's governed and run, which differentiates it from here or Metropolis or even Busukuma.

'So yes, we will be looking at the situation carefully over the course of the state visit, where two-hundred people, some ministerial, some businesspeople and others of distinguished backgrounds, heading to cities of Brattleboro and Concord Heights.' He then noticed that Julien Hamon-Lizotte, the Foreign Affairs Secretary notorious for Anaia-skeptic stance, raised his hand. 'Yes. Minister Hamon-Lizotte, please.'

'Arsene, please excuse me here, but how many privy councilors, specifically those of the House of Lords, will be attending this state visit?' asked Julien Hamon-Lizotte, a balding man with grey suits and a beer belly in his forties. 'And will there be any who can advise the Courts of the Palace there?'

'As far as concerned, twelve councilors which includes four members of the Successions Committee involved in reviewing the Order of Succession set by the Royal Successions Act of year 1789 under Catherine the First (posthumously titled Queen Taejong).' Arsene answered, remembering the details from the extensive list that had to be confirmed the previous evening.

'Noted. It has been raised on yesterday's sessions, which I'm sure most of us were here for, that the Royal Successions Act does not allow restoration of the succession rights of those disinherited from the Crown and their respective children.' said Julien, before continuing to speak about said precedent. 'This was indeed the case for Jacques VI and Sylvain II's younger siblings, who either died early or had marriages against what was previously the Royal Marriages and Divine Assent Act of 1678, which precedes the very Successions Act itself.'

'That is indeed true, Julien, but the situation there, as you know well being the minister on this field of expertise, is different, for it may be that the Palais, of both names Joongyeong and Quebec City, may be too cruel and strict towards our own highnesses who we expect duties and values expected of god's sacred mission,' answered Arsene. While this answer, considering the two friends' camaraderie, drew the Foreign Secretary's nod, this drew murmurs from four to five ministers of far-left NPD ranks, whose stance towards monarchy had remained lukewarm at best. 'Perhaps Concord Heights is right in not denying Brianna, a woman of her own merits and good nature, succession rights. This was something that the late Henri VIII, whose soul we all bless, had to risk when marrying our Queen Mother Nathalie.'

'God Save the Queen!' was shouted by six, mostly-senior members of Her Majesty's Cabinet, as they wished for her health to improve. 'Long Live the Queen Mother Nathalie.'

'You may be right, and that is specifically why I must refrain from commenting on this, at least when we cross the waters between Anaia, AO and Rushmore. But wouldn't it make sense for you or a councilor, one preferably in the Committee or the Upper Chamber (judges of the Quebecois supreme court are appointed members to the House of Lords, though they rarely sit on sessions), to give them our recommendations on establishing a successions act on this situation establishing Cassandra or Brianna as first in line?' asked Julien, with a minor round of 'hear, hear's' being shared by half-dozen ministers of the cabinet.

'That is certainly possible for us to advise Concord Heights on,' said Arsene, before citing examples from the other side of the portal. 'It is indeed true that what caused the downfall of not only the Wang's of the Goryeo dynasty but also the Yi's of the Joseon dynasty were the murky nature of succession laws in there, though it was also to do with the practice of having concubines, something that's long abolished since year 1757 under Emperor Taejo (Alexandre I, the first Quebecois monarch in current form).

'That is true, Minister Kim, and indeed we have a situation here that could possibly divide the nation,' said Isabelle Yotún, young, Transport Secretary of Huayramarcan Quechua heritage. 'But that does not mean that we cannot have the best of both worlds. While a nation whose powers of governance are primarily placed on the hands of the royals themselves, the Dagans have also established themselves as a pinnacle of stability in Rushmore where Marianne and Southwest Eastnorth are demonstrable examples of chaos and vagabond identities, Pavolan nations ever so unpredictable, and Euran vampires set out to destabilise any country of their interest.'

Another round of hear-hear's occurred, after which the thirty-year old continued to speak. 'And the Dagans, no matter how challenged they will be in future-time, have always done things their way, and we have seen this before with their tradition of timeliness, as have seen by Cassie I when she, having achieved her full cycle of reign, abdicated in favour of her daughter, the great-grandmother of our very Prince Alexandre!'

Another round of hear-hear's followed, the third time this happening in last five minutes unfortunately making it sound silly and repetitive. Appropriate reflection of how silly the pomp and circumstance could get in this country. 'That is very much correct, but please stick to the point, Isabelle!' shouted Yoon Sang-Shik, a middle-aged minister, followed by a laughter.

'Not at the right time, Mssr. Yoon,' coughed Arsene to suggest his dissatisfaction. 'But I do see your line of thought in that the Privy Councilors or other ministers, or even myself, could suggest possible co-regency for Princess Brianne, a voice desiring change, and Princess Cassandra, who we all recognise as a voice of legitimacy. As a matter of compromise.'

'Very much so, Minister Kim. I understand that we, as Her Majesty's Cabinet, could only suggest or even advise, but not enforce these ideas. Sovereignty are there to be respected. But that's what I would suggest to the elderly Queen, if I were the Duke of Halifax (refers to Caspian, whose primary title as the Prince Consort is the Duke of Halifax).'

'Noted. Thank you, Isabelle, and we will keep quiet until the next month. But for now, we will move onto the next topic: the very Dagan man in this palace. Of course, it's been made clear to us that Prince Consort will also be joining the trip as asked by Her Majesty.' Unlike his predecessor Kim Seung-Yin, a relatively-incompetent man whose grace and ability to stay in line helped Christine II through the year leading up to her coronation and the Royal Wedding, Arsene Kim and the Quebecois high society had more mixed feelings about the Prince Consort who did not always fit the extravaganza of the stuck-up high society here (author's note: blame them, not him tbh). 'Of course, this comes against our past advice that requested only one of the monarch and the consort, whether Queen or Prince, to be abroad on a state visit, but we are not in a position to oppose Duke of Halifax from visiting Brattleboro, where he was once a Duke before marriage, and Concord Heights. It's all understandable because what father, especially one with redeemable qualities like His Royal Highness, the Duke of Halifax, would not want to see his son?'

Without a word the billionaire-figure snapped the lash into the thin air, and they left the beach. The helicopter flew into the cloudy skies, the spirits producing howling sounds that vaguely resembled that of the flying instrument, as they flew their course from the Taxhavnian shores into inland Delte. They were careful enough not to go too fast, else they be seen beyond their magical disguise, so Christine kept herself calm.

As they had reached the mid-day point, just halfway between the beach and Oswark, the spirits decided to ask the regent. They gathered around her, and one of them, now in the shape of Henri VIII her grandfather, asked:

'What brings you here, dear child? The art of breaking your body and soul into two pieces is one thing, but bringing them back together is a task no different on own. So why would you dare doing this, all because of a woman who figures so minor in greater prophecies back home?'

Christine figured that to be an enquiring spirit, for the form had come in the form of his grandfather but in three different eras: a man in the head of his twenties, the clothes of his thirties, and the torso that took the effect of pufferfish poison he had accidentally consumed while cooking it as his catch on a holiday trip. So then she said: 'The so-called greater prophecy only said the line "he shall be bound together to the woman who comes from the Muse of Taewha Era or the Lost Timekeeper from the Era of Queen who reigns fifty-one years of her regency."'

'It does not specify whether it means the child of both or either,' the first spirit said. 'What made you think, and perhaps realise, that it would not involve two families but only one?'

'This was something beyond the prophecies given by those back home, and left up to the decision and the willpower of two mortals, that being the Muse and the Lost Timekeeper,' answered Christine. 'The Lost Timekeeper wasn't granted his wish of timely death away from home, for he made his mistake to leave the said Muse of Taewha without a word the first time.'

Then the first spirit dissipated, replaced by the second spirit came to her in the form of her father, the late Jacques IX the Warrior-King. They asked: 'This is interesting. So you are implying that the heartbroken Muse of Taewha, who had waited all along for an ingrateful man to come back, was responsible for you flying here? That is extremely petty for all the reasons standing.'

'That is correct,' Christine nodded, being reminded of her immediate discontentment when finding out about it all. 'I had advised him against such paths for years before, especially on the scenario that neither would work out. But the said Muse of Taewha was ready to welcome him back to her life even after what had happened to him during those declining years, and had stayed with him throughout. That's what I had not expected.'

'Your father's sacrifice, with the first decade of his reign fighting in the battlefields of Felix and Free Republics, were not made for nothing, after all.' responded the spirit, who had responded in third-person form after recognising that Christine the Second knew the disguise was working. 'His heroics, even if they had involved the Equestrians or the false god worshippers of Gregoryisgodistan, were legendary - me and some of my colleagues have seen it all, from some distance away.'

'I would not compare their sacrifices, for that's unfair on my late father or the Muse,' Christine said in disagreement, before continuing. 'But if this were up to me, I would not have come here. If one of two me's dies, so does the other and all becomes nothing. It's not something that even my authority as the High Spiritual of the Land, where I combine four religious pillars of the state, would be able to prevent.'

'Understandable,' appeared the third figure, who became present in the form of Catherine V, her future granddaughter who unfortunately looked a mix of her grandfathers. 'So you have made this voyage to Sam-Gak-Ju, to save the woman on the what if's of a medicinal root, because you believe this is the very least you can do to ensure that the bigger picture is painted to the completion? As your so-called prophecy has told you so?'

'That is correct,' answered Christine. That must be the perfective form if this works, she thought as she looked at the figure that portrayed herself as a woman much taller than her. With how closely they resembled a mix of her husband and her friend, there was no doubt that the spirits were reading her mind as they were on the helicopter. 'The Lost Timekeeper knows he has finite amount of time, the Muse of Taewha does not, and I have neither heart nor resolution to leave the poor children of theirs without their mother.'

'All understood,' was all that the third figure said, as the first two forms too emerged right next to him. They nodded thrice, and then finished the session and flew back into their shores.

The next moment Christine found herself in balcony of the lone penthouse in Prince Tyrbert Hotel, where she was able to see the view of entire town of Oswark. Realising that she's about halfway into the voyage, Christine went inside to the suite and thought for half-an-hour with her eyes closed before looking around the suite. The four-room suite was decorated in the revivalist manner to give minimal semblance to the fourteenth century, when the Dukes of Oswark, Aroth and his nephew Athad, built the famed castle that nowadays lied in ruins.

Even then, however, there were some additions to the suite that were not supposed to be there, as a mysteriously-retrograde 80s television was placed right in front of a comfortable, vanilla-coloured sofa, while a coffee table, which was carved only out of emerald and platinum, stood exactly midway between the television and the sofa. On top of the table was a rare piece of jewelry. Formed from eight, rolled electrum wires that bore floral and point-work designs with ring-shaped terminals, it immediately caught the Queen's attention as she reached for it, only to stop when she read a small, paper card right under it:

'Three women.
One elderly. Two ageless. Three mortal.
A Moogoonghwa Menorah. A Canterbury Cross. A Finder's Fan.
Rushmore. Anaia. North Pacific.
To Die. To Live. To Decide.
You May Head to March Hoard.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Avalon

PART 7 - Open

The first week's dream came in the form of a young man colliding into a woman.

It was in middle of a cafe in middle of the Capitol's purple rain.

The second week's dream came in the form of the same couple.

A young man kissing his lover in middle of a busy, circular cross of Songak.
He then said to her that they were never meant to be each other before turning his back on her, both of them crying in the rain.

Then the third week's dream arrived, this time featuring a middle-aged man and his daughter. (OOC: this has not yet arrived or written, check back mid-2024 aka. Season 15.)

The man, lying on his deathbed, said that he was never meant to make those mistakes, but that it was best for her.
The daughter, a beautiful woman resembling the second woman, asked her father to stop saying those words.
And then the father said to her 'Do not lose the hold to it all', before passing into eternity..

It was indeed true that times were unusual for His Royal Highness Alexandre. Not just because of unusual times in the country he happened to reside in, but because of something well above and beyond the mortal realms. Night after night, Alexandre was immersed into the mild fever that had emerged every night he slept inside his dormitory room in Royal School, Concord Heights. Usually he, being a half-Dagan, would ignore something like that.

But Alexandre, who has yet to be appointed Prince of Abitibi as a crown prince (and wouldn't be until age 18), had his own questions about them. While he never reached to the last of the episodical occurrences of these visions -- perhaps for his own best in fear of his young mind not being capable to handle them under current capacity -- Alexandre knew that a part of the responsibilities being a Quebecois monarch involved religious responsibilities as a Lord/Lady High Spiritual. Indeed, that position and the duties required of it were not exactly what he was capable of, so Alexandre had a feeling that this could be what his mother the Queen and grandmother, Queen Mother Elisabeth (Elizaveta), had implied back home.

Alexandre was only turning ten, but looked more like a twelve or thirteen years old. This was partly because of his height and build, already over six feet tall and with strong fillings of marrow within his bones, but also because of his all-aware, calm demeanour, that came in the form of his brushstroke brows, ability to reason with himself or a colleague, and ability to conjure up specific lines or words from old texts something that would have been translated better in his native Quebecois soil than in Concord Heights.

The occasional episodes of his time at the Royal School came in various threads comparable to modern RLStates or YourNewWorld Sports forums, but those generally consisted of the stereotypical illusions of grandeur and pride that had come with the nations. Armed with wealth and prestige expected from the so-called 'Gakushuin of the Portal's Otherside', there would be intellectual debates sought out by the aged philosophy teachers, the drama and musical theatre practices following the traditionals of Dagan theatre scenes in the capitol, both areas that Alexandre held firm interests towards and stayed active within the school's extracurricular clubs.

There would also be political debates that involved the Dagan Succession Crisis and the Petition of Princess Brianna, not to mention the ethics of the Dagan expansion into the unchartered north of the land and into the upstreams of Valladar Westlands' Rivers. Alexandre, being a foreign male whose relatives were involved on both sides of the saga, found those matters challenging to handle as he was neither his mother, a woman who would be able to entirely view it from the third person's perspective, or his father, a man logical and scientific enough to the point where it would cost points in the Joongyeongian High Society. He had enough of logic and rationale, certainly well beyond his years, and ability to at least control the narrative, but was he really in a position to say his thoughts? Not exactly. At least not while he's a first-year student, and fifth-oldest of Courtney I's great-granchildren.

The Absurd happens when there is uncertainty, was what he would also say a lot, and that would reflect his thoughts about all of this. My father's country and therefore mine, but am a foreigner. All of this comes close and afar.

Of course, being a boarding student of the Concord Height's Royal School, whose student population of the rich and the privilege had boarded, had meant that he, as most students would, had to register whatever the meetings he had outside the school hours. Sometimes they came in form of visiting his maternal family, including the elderly grandmother the Cassie II, at The Palace, while other times they came in parents of known Quebecois names in the Cassadagan society.

While this was less of an issue with his family members, who no doubt were in middle of a very complicated situation he was observing from distance, but stayed well out of the way, but it was slightly more challenging to socialise with those around his Quebecois peers. They had varied from the famous - legendary third-baseman Heo Myeong-Shin of the Royals fame being one - to a couple of investors, military manufacturers and professors - but no matter how every occasion, especially with his audience, went well, he felt bored and predictable with the usual circles.

So, at that age, understanding of love, or even a sense of yearning, was not something that was on his mind. He of course knew them in concepts and there was no doubt that childhood affection was what defined the young child, however regal or princely, of the concept. Christine the Second and HRH Caspian gave their three children exactly that. Unfortunately, the Queen was usually occupied, the Consort awkward enough, and the Prince was away on the other side of the ocean that separated Anaia and Atlantian Oceania from Rushmore. This had meant that Alexandre, who had come home three to four months a year, had only understood what his mates would rah-rah about as 'ideas'.

Thus, the most unexpected surprise of the year happened to Alexandre when Alexandre woke up from the same old nightmare of his one Maytime evening. God, not another one again...the one where the poor girl's crying before his dying father, thought he as he lit the candles on the coffee table located right next to his bed. He looked out to the small window of his room, only to see that the moon was still in middle of the sky, likely indicating that he should go back to sleep.

Right... thought he, his eyes turning back to the bed. The phone didn't blink a light or two, so nothing urgent (or redundant, coming from sport league or newswire apps) enough for him to check. Maybe just nothing.

But there was another light source, one that's warmer in colour, that he had noticed on the actual desk. But that's not nothing. Not with the way things work in this family back home,said Alexandre, as he walked out of his bed and towards the desk. What he saw was a photograph, previously dark and empty, being filled with an image. Image of a girl his age, whose eyes spoke the opal-like depth and smile hiding the marvelous depth of the Blood Sea on the eastern shores between Quebec and its eastly neighbours of Anaia and Atlantian Oceania. Her brown hair, messy as they were, were draped like palace carpets, and she was smiling back at him.

'My heavens,' was what the Crown Prince said, as he watched the image completed from the state of nothingness. He knew it wasn't somebody within his family, or anybody in the Royal School or those he's seen on television or social media. He simply had no recollections or memories of this girl.

But, in any case, what Alexandre knew was that the photograph must not be seen by anybody. It has to be hidden.
He didn't know where - Maybe in his pockets. Maybe his wallet.
But maybe it didn't matter after all. All he knew was that the photograph had to be hidden until he's going to meet this girl.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Avalon

PART 8 - Dead Air

'Elderly and ageless differentiated can mean something, but it's a must for someone who isn't ageless to be elderly. Likely implication of the Lord or Lady High Spiritual,' said Christine, who had immediately figured that part out. She also felt a slight hinge that one of three personnages, given the recent turn of narratives, implied Eileen, but the third person would have had to come from the house.

It was then that, to her surprise, the television right in front of her was turned on, first to the buzz and the black-and-white image of dead air, before revealing a scene.

...But the first scene, while featuring Claire Lundrigan, was not what the regent had expected. The living room of the small family's hut, all coloured in black and white per retrograde tradition, was messy, the furnitures all mixed up, and there was nobody but her, mimicking the motions of her mother, playing the piano. It was clear to Christine that the girl, to her surprise, did not know how to properly play the instrument. But every time the eight-year old girl, who kept her eyes closed the entire time out of an actual fear, struggled through the keys, a loose golden thread would extend and surround her, before flying away to the corners of the screen....

'Poor girl, her and her siblings all with their grandparents back in Coxwell, but so far from where their parents are,' said Christine, sighing as she watched the threads slowly evaporate and disappear. Then the first scene ended, followed by another ten seconds of dead air. The silence, deafening, was more than enough to tell her that the time flew differently between her and the mortal world, which had included her duplicate on a state-visit to Cassadaigua.

She blinked. Then the second scene was turned on, once again Christine finding herself in front of a cold, cold scene:

...The second scene was much more simplistic one, with the colours no longer plain black and white, but including hues of Oxford Blue and silver. Christine saw that her son Alexandre was lying in his bed. A couple of posters, featuring the Concord Heights Royals and the Quebecois national basketball team (vintage Riley Jeon-Keane!)m, as well as extensive figurine collections of the Royal Quebecois Navy, dominated the walls of the young prince. The gigantic, decently-built prince was staring at the picture of Claire Lundrigan, with a glow in his eyes and face that Christine had not seen in some time. One thing that he may not have noticed, however, was that the picture itself was spreading golden-shaped pollen in the air. Almost as if...

'....That piano is not a normal instrument,' thought Christine, immediately realising what the prophecy had meant. 'I do not know when that piano's made of, and I do not wish to know, but they definitely function like the wheels in the sky.'

This was something that Christine, who thought she had control over it all, did not expect. For many years, she thought she had control over the narrative through her actions, with the blessings of the Lundrigans' marriage, something that she reluctantly granted, being the driver in ensuring that the lines of her own prophecy, which she had received as an agent of the land, would be materialised.

But now it was something else. With her own discovery, through the 1980s television screen that a single piano, could do something like that without her own action...she realised that the prophecy's 'either', no matter her reminders to Asher her longtime friend, may not have mattered either way after all.

Then the screen went back to dead air again. This time it would last for twenty seconds, before resuming to a different scene:

The third scene was markedly different than the first two. Not only because it had gone back almost seventy years in time, but because of how different everything looked and felt back then.

Of course, it makes sense. It was the summer of 1988, just half a year before the pandemic that had left thousands dead and much of nation shut for a few months lasting into early-1989. Joongyeong, the nation's historic capitol with large boulevards, freshly-baked baguettes and cafes in daytime and pochas in nighttime, was almost at the end of the 1980s. Marked with neoliberal economic policies and the increased dialogue between them and the Gatchingerrak Bloc of nations, the nation as whole was undergoing massive changes that while overlapped with tensions everywhere, excitement followed along.

That summer was kicked off with the Royal Wedding of HRH Henri, Prince of Abitibi, and Nathalie, a commoner of middle-class, Jewish background. It was the first royal wedding involving a member outside of the royalty (usually had meant foreign) or aristocracy, and thus symbolised a society that was willing to open itself up further, at least domestically so. They, Christine's grandparents, were children of the 1970s that had labour disputes, educational reforms, and rock n roll, and thus had had a more liberal, sympathetic vision of the country and its peoples.

While the wedding footage, recorded in full details by the QBC, were not shown, what instead showed on the television was that of the 1988 Joongyeong Quebecois Commonwealth Games. Held across the city of 4.5 million people, the entire city was filled with unexpected dose of postmodernist excitement that had not come since Summer 65's failures. Symbols and pictograms were minimised to their simplest, mimicable forms while bright prints of magentas, yellows, aquas and oranges covered the city, long viewed to be posh, intellectual and thus highbrow to its excess.

As the screen continued to show the patchy footages, Christine noticed her grandparents being part of the crowd, waving and conversing with them like normal persons. Smiling, jubilant and certainly glowing, they were living in middle of a summer that their granddaughter knew it wasn't really attainable in this day and age...

Then the television turned dark again. This time, however, there would be barely any time left before the final scene would show:

Thus came the final scene, as Christine sadly looked at the weary form of same Prince Henri.

It was 1994. The marshes and the murky waters stood firm and quietly, almost as if time had stopped around her grandfather, and there was a solitary island, which contained a small, wooden hut, in middle of it. Christine, noticing that his grandfather was in middle of that very 1994 as mentioned by Dr. Heo, figured out that she was witnessing a piece of his memory that was poured into the Garga Torc.

To freeze time, and all for that very journey that could realistically destroy a figure. There is that cruel, cruel parallel I have fallen under, Christine thought to herself.

And if a man has to cross the water to do so....who would he do it for? Men are simplistic creatures, and barring life-long missions which this scene isn't one, it takes a lot to do everything in such spark...and that must be her.

It was then that Christine realised that who the third woman was, just as her grandfather, the late Henri VIII, started crossing the water.