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“Do you think we are going to be letting out soon? I must go to a match.”
“I don't know what situation it is you think you've gotten your fine self into, boyo, but it's clearly not the same one as the rest of us.”
A pair of strong-personality-having men stare at each other from the shadows seeping down the walls of a circular prison, a deep, circular hole in the ground. Where the shadows end, stark white light, deadly desert light, strikes the red floor of the hole. It's painfully hot, and the skin of both men is just as red as the sand, and sweaty. A shadow dances and down comes the noise of scratching from one of the many ostrich guards stationed around the mouth of the pore in the leathery hide of the world.
A female voice joins the chorus from another slim line of shadow. “Who died and made you king?” a woman calling herself ‘Hawke’ aims her furious blue eyes at the second speaker, one Colin Moriarty.
The man so-called smirks lasciviously at her, then lights his last cigarette. “No one. I was born king, lass.”
“Oh my gosh, don't start again.” Groans another young woman pressing herself up against the wall. Unlike the first, who is some sort of European, this female displays Japanese features. But like the first she possesses short black hair and an aura of violence. Pretty much everyone, and there are quite a few people stuck in this hole, displays an aura of violent intelligence and cold yet furious passion. It's really quite remarkable that there has been no murder-
“Shut up.” growls a red haired man in shining silver armour. Snatching a rock off the ground, he flings it at the top of the pit, aiming for an entity he can hear but not see - the Narrator, a coo-
“The bitchass Narrator. Not cool, just crazy.” quips a scary Russian standing beside the nice athlete who deliriously thinks he'll be getting to his match anytime soon. How amusing. Across from him, another scary Russian snorts. There are a lot of Russians in this pit. And Irish - the Russians of the British Isles.
With the knight's acknowledgement of their master, all the little people in the hole begin squawking and flapping about, stepping most unwisely into the fifty degree °C sun. “Let us out! Let us out! Let us out!” they cry, none of them saying please because they're that sort of people.
A bottle of cheap lotion hits the red soil of the pit. The sand is an inverse to the permafrost of Russia - never watered. The bottle does not skid. The captives stare at it as an ostrich commandant struts along the rim of the pit. They know what they need to do. The knight bursts into tears.