CHAPTER ZERO

                                                             SCOUTING REPORT

 

       “Not much to look at, now is he?” said the girl with the violet hair. Though her face was mostly hidden behind dark, oddly-shaped glasses and beneath the hood of her purple sweatshirt, the practiced, bored disdain that poured from her lips like dry wine made her position on the subject all too clear. “He’s short, he’s scrawny and there’s not a spark of--”

       “No worries, he’ll grow into his paws,” said the dapper old man distractedly. Dressed in a gray suit and tie that matched the silver of his thinning hairline and well-trimmed goatee, he was fidgeting with his own set of spectacles – using a small knob to turn the lenses clockwise, then counter-clockwise, squinting through them toward the nearby green, white-striped field.

       She started to chew on her lip. “I mean, I hate to drag you all the way here and not have anything to show for it, but I’m starting to think this guy’s more chump than champ.”

       The elderly gentleman leaned his head sideways and scrunched his eyes even more. “No, no, it’s alright, my dear … I … I think I see some potential there. Maybe.”

       “Here, give me those,” said the girl, snatching the sophisticated eyewear right off of the old man’s face. “You always get ‘em out of alignment.”

       “Not my fault,” he grumbled, shifting his position on the uncomfortable wooden bleacher. “Seems like every time they make a new gadget – something that’s supposed better than the last – it never works as well as the old one, and it breaks in a shorter amount of time.”

       “People call that progress, boss,” she said with a smirk, handing the glasses back. “But the specs aren’t wrong. I’m telling you, that boy is just another golden goose chase.”

       The old man readjusted the spectacles, placing them on the very tip of his nose. He then shifted his attention toward the few dozen young men sitting on benches a hundred yards away. He turned the lenses one way, then the other, then peered over the top and turned them some more. And some more.

       A snicker escaped from under the girl’s hoodie.

       “I don’t care what the damn things say, Vesper,” he grumbled, placing the sunglasses into a black velvet case that he then tucked into his jacket pocket. “There is magic in that boy.”

       Vesper turned her attention back toward the field, allowing a few strands of silken hair to spill out from beneath her hood. She spun the lenses on her own dark glasses impatiently. 

       “Well, maybe I’d get a reading if he would dosomething,” she snapped. “He’s just sitting there, listening to that fat man talk.” Her eyes glimmered mischievously. “Perhaps I could concoct a little test…? I promise it’ll be more controlled than during your last visit.”

       The old man smiled, but shook his head. “I believe that will be unnecessary, my dear Vesper. As we speak, it seems that our quarry is preparing for an audition of sorts.”

       “Oh yeah, I’ve seen this before,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “It’s a pale imitation of what we have back home. I’m just saying the kid’s not going to give us a decent reading no matter what he does. I mean, look at him - the armor he’s wearing just makes him look even smaller. He’s a tiny mouse compared to the rest of those oxen. Can’t we just go home and try again next week?”

       The older gentleman turned to her. “I’m afraid not, my dear. I believe that this one is our best chance.”

       Vesper sighed, and began to chew on one of her own violet curls. “You’re probably right. You wouldn’t have made the trip if there wasn’t potential here. I just hate this place.”

       Silence fell over the two of them as the fat man on the green field yelled at the young men some more. Vesper tapped her foot impatiently. 

       “They say there’s going to be a new king,” said the old man distractedly as he once again removed the spectacles from their case.

       “President,” corrected Vesper. “This nation calls its leader The President. And there’s only going to be a new one because these dims have the most ridiculous system of government.”

       “Ridiculous how?” The old man stopped fidgeting with his spectacles for long enough to remove a white handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit, with which he began to polish the lenses. 

       Punctuating her distaste with an exasperated sigh, Vesper ran her fingers through her hair. “The dims allow the common people to have a voice in who leads them – and once chosen, those leaders can only reign for a short time. Four years.”

       “They just pick someone at random? No feats of skill or strength?”

       “Or knowledge. They pick them based on attractiveness, I think. In this country, at least.”

       The old man shook his head. “It’s such a dismal world. There are times that I wonder how you put up with it.”

       “I drink a lot when I’m here,” she said dryly. 

       “You realize, this would be quite the extended jaunt,” said the old man cautiously.

       Her lips pulled together into a tight grimace. “I’m aware.” 

       “It will be worth it, Vesper,” he said hopefully. “I’m quite certain of this one. I have a feeling that--”

       “You’ve been ‘certain’ a dozen times in the last six months, boss,” said Vesper impatiently. “Isn’t it possible that they’re all gone? I mean, you would think that if any of them were left, one of the Wolves would have picked up a scent years ago…”

       The old man held up his hand as a breeze washed by the bleachers on which the two spectators sat. The young man that they had been scouting had jumped off of the bench and was running toward the open field.

       “Watch,” he said confidently.

       

       A single bead of sweat threatened to drip off the end of Leo Fairchild’s nose as he surveyed the scene before him. Crouching behind seven teenagers twice his size, he turned to the right and shouted “Blue, twenty-two,” then repeated it to his left. And still the stubborn bead of moisture refused to move, no matter how he shook his head. He shifted his left foot and made another guttural sound, and as the oblong ball was snapped firmly into his hands, the drop of sweat finally broke free and plummeted towards the ground.

       By the time it splashed to the painted grass, the football was already in the hands of Leo’s favorite receiver, twelve yards down the field.

       A sharp whistle from the sidelines stopped the action. “Next play, wannabes,” barked Coach Romanski. “Hustle, you pansies, I don’t have all afternoon. Starting to get hot out here.”

       Coach was right. Though it was only early June, the first day of tryouts was the hottest of the year so far. Leo was glad that his training regimen involved keeping hydrated – wearing full pads was already beginning to wear him out.

       “Not used to seeing you sweat so much,” joked David as the two of them ran back toward the huddle. David Monroe had been Leo’s best friend from early childhood.

       “If you’re notsweating,” grinned Leo, poking David in the chest, “I guess I’m just going to have to throw the ball farther.” 

       David beamed. “Keep throwing them like you’ve been, and we’re both going to make varsity this year.”

       “We may make the team, but we’re not making any friends,” said Leo, gesturing to the bench where the older players were glowering in their direction.

       “Let the haters hate,” said David with a shrug. “C’mon, pal. Today, we go big or go home.”

       Coach sent in another play, and the group broke their huddle and stepped back toward the line of scrimmage. Leo once again scanned the eleven defenders on the other side of the ball: eight were seniors, and all of them no doubt wanted to be on the team as badly as sophomores Leo and David did. But the defense had been reduced to ineffectiveness ever since Leo had begun his tryout for the quarterback position, and the older players’ frustrations were beginning to boil over.

       Of course, none of that was Leo’s fault. He and David had trained hard for this throughout their freshman year. Leo wasn’t going to have any problems getting into any college he wanted, thanks to his family’s wealth and his own exemplary grades. But David had lost his father at an early age and his mother currently worked two jobs to keep her son fed and clothed. A football scholarship would really go a long way toward helping David make it into a good college. 

Of course, admitted Leo to the other half of his brain, that’s not the only reason I’m trying out.

       As he stepped up to the line, he glanced across the field to where the cheerleading squad was also having their tryouts. A shy smile and a wave from a pretty blonde in a short skirt reminded him that there would be other fringe benefits to a starting quarterback position.

       Benefits indeed.

       Again, the ball snapped into Leo’s confident hands, and he checked his receivers down, comparing the matchups.

       They’re still double-covering the seniors and underestimating David, he realized as the play began to develop.

       One quick slant pass later, and David was streaking down the middle of the field with the ball.

       The whistle blew and the coach stormed onto the field. “Murphy, you wet sack of beans, you call that coverage?” he yelled. “Wait, don’t tell me – you got a restraining order, and gotta stay twenty feet away from your receiver at all times, right?”

       When one of the other defensive players chuckled, the coach wheeled on him. “And Jones! You trying to sell the newb quarterback some girl scout cookies? Gonna knock politely at his door, maybe ask him sweetly not to throw the ball?” Coach was red-faced by now. “Both of you, get off my field!”

       Jones and Murphy shot eye-lasers at Leo as they headed back to the bench, deliberately shoulder-bumping into the sophomores running to take their places on defense. Jones took his fury out on a stack of water cups and Murphy threw his helmet at a group of freshmen.

       Yikes. Glad those two are on our side.

       The afternoon wore on, and Leo ran a dozen more plays with the varsity offense, sticking closely to the playbook in order to show the coach that he could be a good team player. Some screen routes and a few handoffs later, he was feeling pretty good about his chances. But when one of the seniors stumbled halfway through his pattern, Leo just couldn’t help himself. He heaved the ball downfield into the waiting arms of a wide-open David.

       Coach whistled the play dead before David could go into his touchdown dance. “I’m sorry,” yelled coach, slamming his clipboard into the ground, “but someone has neglected to inform y’all that cheerleader tryouts are over on the other side, you bunch of girls! The Raccoons had the number one ranked defense last season – and you’re letting a couple of sophomores embarrass the whole lot of you!”

       This time, more than a dozen scowls were directed toward Leo. He just kept grinning back at them.

       Making friends wherever I go.

       “Okay, Jones, Murphy, get back in there,” yelled Coach. “Run Z-47 slant right.”

       Up until this point, coach had been calling all of the plays. These were tryouts, after all, and Leo’s intense study of the playbook had hopefully proven to the coaching staff that he could run the offense just like a quarterback should.

       But Leo didn’t recognize ‘Z-47 slant right.’

       He shot a glance over at David, who mirrored the same bewildered look. The older players all seemed to know what was going on … in fact, the defensive players all looked particularly pleased with the play selection.

       That doesn’t bode well.

       Leo sauntered up to the line, unwilling to admit that he had no idea what was going on, and proceeded with his cadence. He glanced around for hints from the offensive formation. 

       Hmm. There’s no running back, so this’ll be a passing down. I can do that. I’ll find a way to make it work, whatever it is.

       As Leo took the snap from the shotgun formation, several steps behind center, he suddenly realized why he didn’t recognize the play.

       Each and every one of the offensive linemen who had been protecting him for the past hour – all of the seniors who had at least a hundred pounds on Leo’s sophomore form – every single one of them stepped aside as soon as the ball reached Leo’s hands, allowing the defensive players right through the front line.

       Leo had less than three seconds to avoid being flattened. 

       As he scanned the field, it occurred to him that this was probably another kind of test. The coach wanted to see how the fledgling quarterback would respond to the kind of pressure he might encounter in a real game situation. Leo repressed any feelings of panic, took five steps backward, and began to look for a way out.

       Two seconds.

       Three of his receivers had run their original routes, and either had no idea or didn’t care that their quarterback was in trouble. His outlet receiver was standing behind him with a smug grin and his arms crossed. No help there either.

       One second.

       David was on the ground about a yard past the line of scrimmage – a senior had finally recognized him as a threat, and had stiffarmed him the moment the ball had been hiked.

       And finally, Leo was out of time as the wall of linebackers stampeded into his personal space. He stepped left to avoid one incoming rusher, but a second was right behind him. Leo jumped backward just in time to avoid an outstretched hand, and the second player tripped over his own teammate. But there was no way that Leo was going to get away from the third, fourth and fifth defenders. He was going to get hit, and hit hard.

       But instead of securing the ball to keep from fumbling, Leo’s arm snapped back and forward in a fluid, almost effortless motion just as he was struck by the three huge linemen. The ball leapt out of his hand – and right into the facemask of Jones. 

Spiraling wildly into the air, the football bounced off of the big guy’s shoulderpads, and then ricocheted off of another defender’s elbow. From there, it caromed off of an offensive lineman’s knee … 

… and landed in David’s hands just as he was picking himself off of the ground. Of the eleven defenders on the field, not one was between him and the goal line.

From under a pile of bodies, Leo grinned brightly as he watched David run the eighty yards to the endzone. Dozens of players and coaches looked on, too stunned to do anything but watch.

 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m convinced,” said the silver-haired old man, standing up and stretching. The wooden slats of the bleachers weren’t terribly comfortable. “He’s blossomed, but isn’t quite ripe yet.”

Vesper laughed. “That’s a strange way to put it, boss.”

“But you see it, too?”

“All I saw was a display of dumb luck,” shrugged Vesper. “It was a fluke, and something any dim could do.”

“That wasn’t dumbluck, Vesper. That was carefully craftedluck, the kind of thing that only--” The old man turned his spectacles back toward the field. “Hmm … how about now?”

The young man in question had removed his helmet. He had blue eyes, a regal nose, thick eyebrows and dark chestnut hair that was currently mussed up by his helmet. 

“Oooo,” sighed Vesper. “He’s pretty, I’ll admit. Boy-band pretty. But still too little.”

“Look more closely,” said the old man. “The hair, the smile, the chin, and the eyes especially.”

Vesper twisted the lenses of her sunglasses. “Oh,” she said after a moment.

“The resemblance is uncanny.”

       Across the field, the young man trotted over to a grouping of girls. They were oozing excitement over his performance. He smiled brightly - his grin was almost mesmerizing.

       “Yeah, I guess I see it now,” she said disapprovingly. “Little prick’s kinda full of himself, don’t you think?”

       “Family characteristic, I’m afraid,” said the old man. “But we’re going to change all of that. You do know what to do, right?”

            Vesper nodded with a sly smile. “Destroy his life, of course.”