Disclaimer: The characters, items, places, etc. of Final Fantasy VI are property of Squaresoft, Inc. No infringement is intended.
5. The White Lions
by Junj - junj1@ibm.com

     The white flag of Figaro hung limply in the breezeless air, a sagging bit of dusty cloth that seemed to represent the entire encampment of men below it. If it had been breezy and cool and the flag had been sailing majestically on the afternoon wind, maybe it would’ve picked up the men’s spirits just a bit. But, as it was, they were all slouched around a small camp, picking at the grass, playing cards, absentmindedly snapping little pieces of kindling in their hands just so they had something to do other than wait in complete boredom.
     “This is boring. Make something happen.”
     Roan Serafini glanced up from the long blade of grass he was slowly ripping apart. He squinted against the glare of the sun as he found the face of his friend staring at him expectantly. He shrugged. “What the hell do you want me to do? What do you think I am? The epitome of excitement?” He shook his head and snorted. “Hardly.”
     Chris Holden smiled briefly. “Well, you know, you do hang out with the brass an awful lot, Ro.”
     “All I do is run around and hand out pamphlets or whatever!” That brought a chorus of laughter from the men around him. Roan glared at them with a touch of false anger in his eyes; the chuckles were just the response for which he had been looking, but it didn’t hurt to have them think otherwise. The laughs died down into coughs as Roan continued speaking. “I’m no more than a messenger the General liked enough to keep around after the message was done. I probably had nothing to do with it. I got ten that says it was just some good news.”
     Holden chuckled warmly. “Better than wandering back and forth with a pike in your hand wondering just where the hell the enemy is. It’s unbelievable how hard it is to find a man in this forest.”
     “Sucks for you then.”
     Holden smacked Roan upside the head, knocking his sorrel hair into disarray. “It’s gonna suck for you, too, soon. I hear the General’s short of an aide. You’ll probably get gypped into taking the job.”
     Roan groaned and let himself fall back into the warm grass. “Oh, no. I’m not even a bloody officer! How can I be an aide? People hate aides, they despise aides. My life is ruined.” He rubbed wearily at his eyes, all too aware of the laughter emanating from his friend. “And all you can do is sit there and laugh at me and my bad fortune.”
     “Oh, come on!” Holden declared. “Your life isn’t ruined. First off, they haven’t even decided if you’re going to be picked for the job. Secondly, you won’t have to go off and fight all that often. Just carry messages around the field.”
     “I did that anyway,” he groaned. “I have to wear that hot officer’s uniform. And armor! I’ll die. I enlisted, so I could be noncommissioned, so I wouldn’t have to wear that.”
     Holden ignored him. “Thirdly, you’ll always have me as your friend. Hey, wasn’t that other friend of yours an aide?”
     “ ‘Was’… Oh, no…” Roan pushed himself back up into a sitting position, pulling another blade of grass from the ground, his dread at becoming an aide forgotten. “Yeah, he was or still is for all I know. I feel really sorry for him. His father pulled some strings to get him that position, so he wouldn’t have to fight in the front lines. What a bastard, eh? I mean, you go to war to fight, but your father won’t let you? How cheap is that?”
     Holden shrugged. “Fathers don’t give up their sons for nothing,” he declared distantly.
     “You calling this war nothing? You better watch out; you could get killed for saying that.”
     “Ah, who gives a damn? Besides, if they killed me, they’d lose a great fighter and a startlingly handsome young man. People can believe what they want to about this thing. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I just think that it’s a waste of time and money and lives.”
     Roan ground his teeth together slowly. “Then why are you in it? How come you’re fighting?”
     Holden didn’t respond to that, standing up and pushing his equipment to the side with his foot. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he squinted across the small camp, watching as a group of people scuffled into the camp, dragging their feet wearily into the clearing. “Looks like something’s up,” he stated, changing the subject.
     Roan frowned, but let it go. “What? The sky?”
     Holden kicked him lightly in response. “Stop being a smart ass. I’m talking about our scouts. Looks like they found something.”
     “Maybe the other half of the army,” Roan commented dryly. The White Lions had been basically plowed through by the Empire. They were scattered within the forests sometimes in large groups, like his current regiment, or in companies, or maybe just a group of a couple of soldiers who decided they weren’t quite done fighting the Empire yet. Only God knew just how many of the White Lions were still alive, and, of course, He wasn’t telling. Nobody even knew if there was another half of the army. It was possible that they were the only ones left.
     Holden shook his head, bending over and grabbing his sword from where he had kicked it. “I don’t think so. Too small. They would’ve gone straight to the General with that. Does it look like they’re anywhere near headquarters?”
     Roan silently mocked his friend, turning to look at the collection of large tents in the middle of the encampment. “No,” he growled. “But the General isn’t always in the HQ, you know. Holden?” He turned his head to find the other man missing. “Damn it, Holden! Wait up!” He stood abruptly, shaking off the dizziness caused by the heat, and hurried after his friend. “Where the hell’re ya goin’?”
     “That’s Ash’s scouting group,” he explained. “They went out last night. Should’ve been back before dawn. They musta found something.”
     “He probably got lost.” Roan snickered. “He couldn’t find his ass with both hands and directions.”
     Holden frowned, glancing at him. “I thought Ash was your friend. If I recall, you guys grew up together. You two and that aide.”
     Roan snorted. “Asher always got everything. Mr. Perfection Achieved. I mean, look at him now. A bloody captain! I can’t even get myself a message, so I can get outta here. He’s got a company under him. More than either you or me could ever get.”
     “What makes you think that?” Holden asked, coolly arching an eyebrow. “Maybe I don’t want the responsibility. Maybe I just want to stay a lowly corporal all my life. I don’t need any stripes on my sleeves much less a bleedin’ bird to ride on. And you just got through sayin’ how you didn’t want to be an officer.”
     Roan shrugged. “Well, he always got everything, that’s for sure.”
     Holden grinned in response. “Always got the girl is what you really mean.”
     “Yeah, well, Elizabeth, she is one good-lookin’ girl is all I gotta say about that,” Roan declared. “She’s got this great rack. Makes you just wanna reach out and touch ’em.”
     “And that’s all that counts, right, Ro?”
     “Jeez, you are an idiot! I was just talking about one of her many charms. A head full of these magnificent curls, a body that puts an hourglass to shame, and her eyes. You could drown in them. They’re so blue.”
     “Stems?”
     Roan grinned. “Oh, yeah. They’re great. God’s gift to men, I swear it by my mother.”
     “You ever ask her for a good time? Women like that know men love them, you know. Most of them are just out for having fun.”
     He shook his head. “Oh, no. Not her. Purity is sacred with that family. Her mother’s a religious freak. You mention sex within a five mile radius, and, I’m telling you, you’re going get it. Hell, you couldn’t give that girl a peck on the cheek without express permission from her mother.”
     Holden laughed. “You’re running from her mother? That’s a crack. Normally, it’s the father you gotta worry about.”
     “Hell, no. Her father’s from a long line of nobility somewhere. They got kicked out from power some time ago, came to our town. He just wants it all back, I guess. Never really gave a damn about anything anybody was doing.” He sighed. “But, I’m a bad influence. I will never get close to her. My dreams will be forever shattered. Alas, it seems as though I will never have the happiness that every man deserves.”
     “Stop being so melodramatic, Roan.”
     Roan glanced up when he realized that Holden hadn’t been the one to answer him. His eyes narrowed in hatred. Asher Shaw. Ash. The guy was so unbelievably perfect; it irritating the hell out of him. Sandy brown hair, a charming smile under a neatly trimmed goatee that made him look far older than his nineteen summers. He had a polite personality, intelligence, flair, charm, he was courteous to everyone all the time. He was everything a crazy old hen would want for her little chick. Everything that Roan was not.
     “Piss off, Asher,” Roan declared surly. “Go back to the officers’ lounge, or wherever the hell it was you came from.”
     “Your mama,” Holden added, though he said the words for the jest more than out of any ill wish toward Ash. He had nothing against the guy except for a personality clash, but that couldn’t be helped. As long as it remained that way, there wouldn’t be trouble.
     Ash managed a tight grin for the sake of chivalry. “I might as well do that, I suppose. I’ve had to piss something fierce since those last couple of furlongs.”
     Holden chuckled good-naturedly. Roan just frowned. “Look, Asher, I couldn’t give a damn when you gotta take a piss. You got your mother to follow after you and keep track of that,” Roan growled. “Just tell us what you found out there.”
     Ash shook his head with a sigh. “Roan… You know I’m not supposed to disclose what my hawkers find.”
     “I could care less about your bloody rules and regulations. Your hawkers – ”
     “Scouts, guys,” Holden interjected. “I don’t know what ya-hoo came up with ‘hawkers’, but you call them scouts. A hawker is someone who sells crap on the side of the streets on Saturdays.”
     “Hawk is also associated with a supporter of war and keen eyesight,” Ash commented dryly.
     Roan rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Who gives a shit? Look, they’re gonna be dishing it out over the whiskey tonight, so why don’t ya just let us know now?!”
     Ash frowned, scratching his goatee. “I can’t tell you what I found. It would be a breach of protocol. But the General wants you both at headquarters as soon as possible.”
     “Oh… crap.”
     Holden straightened his chain mail, pulling it over his white tunic in a meager attempt to make himself look presentable. “I told you. Didn’t I tell you?”
     Roan pushed Ash aside and started walking quickly towards the HQ, trying to straighten his disarrayed hair.
     “I believe the correct way to leave the presence of an officer is to salute,” Ash declared haughtily.
     “Up yours, sir,” Roan replied, turning around briefly with the intent to demonstrate a gesture not normally taken as a salute. Holden caught the younger man’s arm before he could do anything stupid and end up with a reprimand. Roan jerked his hand away and continued to make a lousy attempt at fixing his hair. “Oh, God, I don’t wanna be an aide. Do you know all the crap they have to put up with? I feel sorry for Josha, I really do.”
     “At least you won’t have to fight. Hell, big general like that, they might even promote you straight to Major. It’s practically unheard of to be a lieutenant when you’re an aide to a one of the most prominent men in the entire army.”
     Roan frowned. “Josha has to fight. Josha’s a lieutenant.”
     Holden snorted. “General Garamonde’s from Doma. They always did everything ass-backwards anyway. Even before the Empire was formed. You ever read about their revolution? The goddamned nobility revolted against the king. The country-folk, they could care less.”
     “Oh, and that’s supposed to make me feel so much better. Stop being so intelligent. You city boys…”
     “Hick.”
     Roan grinned. “I would call you a yokel, but I’m afraid that’s a term that yokels use, so I would only end up insulting myself.”
     “You’re a yokel, whatever the hell that is.”
     “To put it loosely, a yokel is a naïve or gullible inhabitant of a small town or a rural area.”
     “Thank you for clarifying that for me. I was unaware that the hicks were educated out where you live.” Holden grinned. “Small town in a rural area?”
     Roan nodded with a short laugh, mirroring Holden’s grin. “Something like that.”
     Holden smiled once more, briefly, before snapping to attention in front of the headquarters’ tent, briskly saluting the officer on deck. “Corporal Chris Holden reporting as per request, sir,” he declared, holding the salute.
     Roan followed suit. “Private, First Class, Roan Serafini reporting as requested, sir,” he said. He was unbelievably self-conscious of the way he must have looked to the officer. His white pants were caked with dust, coating them thoroughly in various shades of tawny brown. His hair was messed up, he could tell that by the long strand that fell over his brow. It was longer than regulation, too. He would give anything for a haircut.
     The officer didn’t seem to notice, or, if he did, he didn’t care. He leaned back in a small fold-down chair, waving away their salutes as though they were merely irritating flies. His face was grinning, though, a good-natured face with rosy cheeks covered by a neatly trimmed beard. “Come now, boys, it’s too hot for that,” he replied. He glanced through a slit in the large tent behind him, wiping the sweat from his brow with one hand. “Go on in. The General’s been expecting you. I reckon what he’s got to say won’t take more than a minute.”
     “Yessir,” Holden said, pulling back the flap of the tent for Ro to enter. It was against protocol, but protocol was often bent in the White Lions. How useful was it to salute a superior officer in the middle of a battle? It only wasted time. As one rule was forgotten, the others faded from memory as well, drifting into the background and overlooked by the officers. After all, they were noncommissioned men, and they really didn’t have any manners. They weren’t gentlemen.
     As they stepped through the portal, they were met with the raucous laughter from an apparently hilarious joke. The laughter did not stop as they entered, and Holden had the horrid feeling that they had intruded upon the General’s privacy. They were, after all, simple noncoms in the infantry. The General was almost legendary among the ranks. They didn’t deserve to stand in his oversized tent listening to his subordinates crack jokes. Simpletons weren’t supposed to be privy to that.
     On the other hand, the spacious tent was blessedly dim, the only light creeping through tiny holes and rips in the side of the tent’s cloth. It was quite a difference from the scorching sun that kissed the earth outside with such ferocity that even the hardest of the cotton pickers and wheat threshers were sweating like pigs. With the shade, the heat somehow seemed less oppressive, as though the thick blanket laid over the land by a torrid sun could not touch within the confines of the tent. Or it could have only been a trick of the mind. They were inside the tent of one of the greatest generals in the history of Figaro; it could not be touched by mere heat and blazing sun. Either way, the cool was enticing. Any man who would want to brave the noonday sun after spending time in the lovely shade within the tent would need his sanity checked.
     Holden shifted his feet uncomfortably and cleared his throat. Roan seemed to have lost all sense of perception and was simply basking in the cool. “Sir?”
     The laughter cut off sharply as the General turned to them, clearly displeased with the interruption. General Fritz Richardson was a generally mild mannered man, cool brown eyes normally warm and glowing with mirth. Now, however, those mild brown eyes were colder than Narshe in winter. Even the oppressive heat seemed to drop degrees as he glared at them icily. Holden gulped, and Roan jolted back into reality, sweat beading on his brow.
     “Corporal Chris Holden, reporting, sir,” Holden declared, forcing his nervousness and fear away. It would not be a good thing to lose face in front of a general by acting like a pansy when someone gave him a bad look.
     The icy glare disappeared, though, as recognition flared in the General’s eyes. A grin appeared behind the long brown beard and mustache adorning his face as he stood. Motioning them to some chairs, he said, “Sit down, boys. You’ve been out in the sun too long. You must be delirious, standing there like fools. We left all the protocol in Figaro, you know.”
     There was the obligatory laugh from the few officers in the tent, but Holden wasn’t smiling as he made his way to the chair to which Richardson had gestured. We left all the protocol in Figaro, he thought bitterly. The hell we did, sir. Roan didn’t seem to care as he took a seat, grinning. Holden glanced at him and thought he was a fool. Shame bubbled up inside him, though, as he realized he was insulting the only friend he had in this army. Well, there was Asher, but he’d rather not consider that pompous ass as a friend.
     Richardson turned to the two officers sitting near him and dismissed them both with a jerk of his head. The two filed out of the tent, giving both Roan and Holden a dirty look as they passed, disgusted by the fact that the arrival of two lowly infantrymen had kicked them from the General’s tent. If he had been some major officer, Holden would assume that he would be disgusted as well. As it was, he merely let a shadow of a smile grace his lips. One of them snorted in response before pushing the tent flap away and disappearing into the heat.
     The General didn’t speak immediately, watching them and seeming to size them up. Finally, he rose and walked to a small folding table in the middle of the tent where he picked up a dented goblet and poured himself a cup of spiced wine. He took a sip as he returned to his seat. “I suppose you have already heard of the news regarding my aide,” he stated simply, scrutinizing the dent in his cup.
     “Yes, sir,” Roan replied, glancing at Holden from the corner of his eye.
     Richardson nodded. “That is how fast news travels in this army. When the General’s aide is killed, the lowest private knows it before nightfall. Soldiers gossip more than old women sometimes. However, what you hear now is not to travel fast through the ranks as scuttlebutt. What you hear now is not to leave this room. After carefully assessing the situation, I have decided that this is the only course of action.”
     “Sir?”
     Anger flared in the General’s eyes. “Do not interrupt me, Private.”
     Holden frowned. “If I may be so bold to point out, sir, that he can hardly help in this so-called ‘course of action’ if he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”
     “You may not be so bold, Corporal!” Richardson snapped. “I will deal with you later. This does not concern you.”
     Holden’s frown deepened, but he said nothing, glaring at the General through narrowed eyes. He didn’t like this man. A tactical genius, yes. An excellent leader, maybe. But from a distance. Once one was close, he could clearly see that this man was also a jackass. Holden did not like this man, indeed.
     “Captain Shaw returned from a scouting mission a few moments ago,” Richardson continued, watching Holden carefully as he spoke, daring him to interrupt. “What his men will undoubtedly pass off to others is that they have found a young man, an Imperial deserter. That information is wrong.” He watched them carefully. “This man is not a deserter; he is merely a farm boy who wanted to join the ranks. He did not go to the recruiting office because there is not one for miles in any direction. I have allowed him to join our army for lack of men.”
     Roan nodded, unable to see what this had to do with him. He didn’t voice his questions, afraid to invoke the General’s wrath onto him again. So, he sat quietly, thankful that he wouldn’t be called to serve as an aide, but fearful of what any of this called for him to do. He was only a messenger.
     “Private, you are to take this young man under your wing,” Richardson ordered. “You are to teach this farmer how to adequately use a sword and how to ride. Most importantly, you are to show him your trade. Teach him to be a messenger. We are about to embark on a serious mission. We are going to need as many messengers as possible.”
     “Yes, sir,” Roan said slowly. He had a feeling that there was something more going on then the General would say. He also had a feeling that it was Need To Know, and he didn’t have any need to know about it. That was fine by him. If he didn’t know, then he was unimportant. As far as he was concerned, being unimportant was good. He shifted in his chair. “Where can I find this guy?” he asked.
     The General pulled a pocket watch from the folds in his uniform, glancing at it quickly before replacing it. “By now, he is being fitted for a uniform and receiving his equipment. His name is William Snow.” He stood again, motioning Roan to do the same. Roan did so, glancing once more at Holden before making his way to where the General was searching through a mound of papers. After rummaging through the pile, mumbling something about not having an aide to organize his papers, and cursing, Richardson finally produced a plain envelope. He handed it to Roan.
     “Who should I take this to, sir?” Roan asked, shoving the papers into the pocket sewn into the inside of his uniform top.
     The General shook his head, a grin on his face. “Nobody, son. Those are your orders. Old habits die hard, eh?” He didn’t wait for a response, the grin gone as he became all business again. “You can read them if you like. However, they only repeat what I’ve said here.” He pulled a second envelope from the pile, handing it to Roan. “These orders will detach the newly recruited Private Snow to you and will put him directly under your command unless deemed otherwise by me or someone superior to me.” He cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair as he thought. “While you’re at the supply wagons, grab yourself a set of stripes for your uniform. You are now effectively promoted to staff sergeant. We can’t have a private leading around another private, can we?”
     Roan frowned. “Sir, can you do that?”
     Richardson shrugged. “Don’t see why not. There’s only one person out there who has the ability to say that I can’t, and he’s not likely to question my orders. I’m going to need you in a position of power. You’re going to run into trouble with this assignment. Even lieutenants listen to staff sergeants. A private is the mud on the bottom of their boots. You run into any other trouble with an officer, you just tell me, and I’ll see if I can get you a commission.”
     “There’s, uh, no need to worry about that, sir,” Roan said. He didn’t want to be a sergeant much less a bleedin’ officer! He forced a smile on his face. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
     “Alright.” The General quickly scrawled a letter of promotion while Roan stood quietly, watching Holden out of the corners of his eyes. Holden simply shrugged and continued to tap his fingers silently against his thigh. Richardson signed his name at the bottom and handed Roan the letter. “Good luck, Sergeant. Teach him the ropes and keep him from trouble.”
     “Aye, sir.”
     “Dismissed.”
     Roan turned smartly on his heel and started to the tent flap, glancing at Holden as he did so. There was nothing on the older man’s face. Roan knew that face. It was Holden’s poker face, the expression he wore when he didn’t want someone to know what he was thinking. It was also the expression he wore when he didn’t want to openly show that he wasn’t fond of another’s company. Roan grimaced, hoping it was the former, and ducked out into the heat.
     Richardson once again waited a few minutes before he began speaking, watching Holden carefully from where he was standing. He reached down and picked up the dented goblet, taking a sip of the bitter wine left in the cup. He sat down in a chair and set the goblet on the table. “You don’t like me.”
     Holden frowned. “No, sir.”
     Richardson shrugged. “Good, then, because I don’t like you, either. You have a despicable track record with this army. You are insubordinate, insolent, and have an unbelievable problem with authority. The only reason you are here right now is because we were short on men. Otherwise, you would be rotting in a cell for striking that officer.”
     Holden sighed, shifting in his chair. “I am aware of that, sir,” he said, clenching his teeth in anger. That pig had had it coming, anyway. Someone had to do it. Who better than he?
     “I honestly expected more from you, Christopher, and I still do. You have everything it takes to be a fine officer, and you throw it all away.” Richardson drained the cup of the remainder of its liquid. He stared at it, silence heavy within the tent. Finally, he set it on the table and began speaking again. “Your father and I were good friends. I bloody watched you grow up, and you repay your father with this.”
     “With all due respect, sir, I think that’s between me and him.”
     Richardson snorted. “If the only way you see fit to handle it is to get into a brawl, then I think it’s between you and me, now. I do not tolerate fools in the army. You are obviously a fool, and I am going to straighten you out. I owe your father that much.”
     Holden didn’t reply. He had plenty of things he would have liked to say to the bloated piece of crap sitting in front of him, but it would only prove to the man that he was insolent and insubordinate. He wouldn’t let the General have the satisfaction of being proven right just because he had a few smart remarks itching to be said.
     “You’re a pretty smart guy, Chris. Not extremely trustworthy but rather intelligent. You would have been an officer if not for that stupid prank you pulled. Being smart, you can obviously see the dilemma I am facing. I can not watch you and the army at the same time. Being a general means that I must watch the army. Being your father’s friend means that I must watch you.”
     Holden grunted. “My father is an asshole. He thinks of everything in assets and victories. Forget about him. You shouldn’t owe him anything.”
     Richardson clicked his tongue, disapproving. “You shouldn’t dishonor your father like that. Taking your mother’s maiden name was enough. Shaming him once was enough. Yet, you continue to do this to him.”
     “It would have been better if I hadn’t been born. Maybe I was switched at birth!” Holden exclaimed moronically, his eyes and tone mocking. “He was supposed to have a good, little son who jumped when he said ‘jump’ and who believed him when he said that one and one was three.”
     “Isn’t it?” Richardson asked innocently.
     Holden ignored him. “Stop playing games. You know exactly what you’re going to do, and so do I. There’s no point in wasting time like this. You’re going to put me exactly where I won’t get hurt, and you can watch me like a hawk until your heart’s content. So just hand me the bloody epaulette already.”
     Richardson smiled thinly, though there was no warmth within his gaze. “Intelligent, indeed. And perceptive as well. But let me get one thing clear with you, boy. You will do as I say. You will jump when I say ‘jump’ and you will believe me when I say that one and one is three, understood? If you make one wrong move, if you say something when you should have kept quiet, if you even breathe without my permission, you will be walking to the gallows. I hope you will realize how much that will hurt me to say to your father.”
     Probably not at all, Holden thought, frowning. You’d just tell him I died in a great battle finally attaching glory to my name. And, after that, I will go down in the history books as this valiant hero because my father would have nothing less. Instead of voicing what both of them recognized as truth, he simply nodded. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said carefully, continuing the lie. He would, and they both knew it. He, however, did not want his father to have a hero for a son. The guy had enough ego as it was.
     Richardson grinned a phony smile. “Good. I expect you to be here tomorrow morning, ready and willing to do some work. Your father has issued us some new orders which will need to be carried through at once. I give you tonight to be your foolish, smart ass self and to go frolicking off with your friends. Find yourself a new uniform, because, in the morning, I expect to see a cleanly shaven young lieutenant with a spring in his step as he carries out the tasks of my aide. I will be sourly disappointed if I find that you are still acting the jackass. You’re intelligent. Make the right choice.”
     “Aye, sir.” Holden stood up and saluted briskly, his eyes cold in a face made of stone. Richardson returned it with a lazy gesture to his forehead. Holden dropped the salute and turned, heading toward the exit.
     “Oh,” Richardson said suddenly, stopping Holden in his tracks, “and remember the gallows.”
     Holden glanced over his shoulder, pulling back the flap. “Yes, sir.” He stepped from the tent, unbelievably glad to be back in the sweltering heat that hugged the land. He hated his father. He hated his father’s friend. Damn them both. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he began to walk. Old men thought they ran the world, and, with the rate things were going, they would end up doing so sooner or later.
     A hand caught his arm, and he was jerked to a stop mid-stride. He turned angrily to see a bushy head of sorrel hair and a smile wider than the Veldt. He didn’t want to be bothered right now even by Roan’s grinning face. He couldn’t very well ignore the guy, though. He forced a smile on his face.
     “ ’Sup, Ro?” he asked, though he was fairly sure he knew what the answer was.
     “Check it out, Holden,” he said gesturing to a redheaded boy behind him. “I’ve got a groupie.”
     Holden resisted the urge to slap his forehead in hopelessness. Of all the stupid things Roan had ever said, that about topped it. “You’re such an idiot,” he declared.
     Roan’s lower lip jutted out in a mock pout. “I will pretend I didn’t hear that, so I will not have to pull rank on you to get you to address me as ‘sir’.”
     Holden smiled thinly. “Too bad. I got meself a commission, boy. I’m gonna have to pull rank on you to get you to introduce me to your friend, there.” He pushed Roan aside and held out his hand to the redheaded kid. “Name’s Chris Holden. Nice to meet you.”
     “William Snow,” the kid replied.
     Holden nodded. “Yep. I know. From now on, there will be few things I don’t know. If you need help, don’t ask him; he’s an idiot. Just come to me. I gotta catch y’all later.” He started to walk, offering no explanation. That could come later. Much later. He needed to blow off some steam. His father was such an ass. It pissed him off. Damn him. And damn Richardson. I must watch you, he thought bitterly. Yeah, whatever. He turned back to his two friends, a thought suddenly striking him. “And, Ro, when you said that Josha’s father was a bastard, you were absolutely right.”