[center][color=darkgoldenrod]"Fiat justitia, rust caelum."[/color]

[color=darkgray][i]"Let Justice Be Done Though the Heavens Fall."[/i][/color]

[color=darkgoldenrod]"Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo."[/color]

[color=darkgray][i]"If I can not bend the will of Heaven, then I shall move Hell" - Quoting Virgil's The Aeneid.[/i][/color][/center]

[color=darkgoldenrod][sup]________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/COLOR][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/ZmJ1LRX.jpeg[/img][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=darkgoldenrod][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [I]The Foundation, Various Locations Within - Present[/I]  [I][/I][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=darkgoldenrod][b]Human #5.056:[/b][/COLOR] [I][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/5z6a02FGoVsXTrJ4GiVNxE?si=TBY2UwWtQlyne0A22y-NvQ]Horses[/url][/I][/right][/sup][/indent][COLOR=darkgoldenrod][SUP][sub]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sub][/SUP][/COLOR][indent][sub][color=darkgoldenrod][B]Interaction(s):[/B][/COLOR] [I]Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation[/I][/sub][SUP][RIGHT][COLOR=darkgoldenrod][b]Previously:[/b][/COLOR] [color=white][I][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/0F1ZPfjVocooVhzUz7Sj2h?si=WRsPOGGtQ9GTvVd20H9Y7g]Midnight Man[/url][/I][/color][/right][/SUP][/indent]

[color=darkgray]
He was far from okay.

He regretted the Beam he'd drank on the plane.  Hunched and shuffling slightly ahead of where he'd stayed from the lack of space, with his pants around his heels and pissing in the corner like an animal, he had a horrible sensation that they'd choose that exact moment to open the door on him.  It was what kept him from removing his makeshift scrub pants altogether, and what had piss on his shoes.

The internal conflict that wavered and tried to convince him that the nightmares he had, weren't the engraved hauntings of a past moment he no longer possessed the memory of, and were instead premonitions of his own demise.

That this is where he'd be kept to the end.  How it would all end.

That his death would deny any semblance of justice.  Any hope of restoring what was.

The acrid smell of his own urine periodically distracted from the worst thoughts, but ultimately they'd return to him again.

When the door flew open, the light was blinding.

He wanted to eat it all and leave everyone, victim and tormentor alike, shivering in the cold.  Compensation.

But that wasn't the justice he was here for.

The hose which blasted, and then sprayed the ground and his own mess onto his clothes and himself only further cemented his resolve, as bad as it was.

[i]Trying to keep you off balance.[/i]

He was given a beige set of clothing.  He kept his mouth shut, because it was easier than trying to control what would have spewed forth if he didn't.  Opening it may have meant the end of all of this; the worst of all outcomes.

Others were given black garb.

Looking around at the people given similar attire, after what they had just been through, it was easy to see he wasn't in the group which had made a stellar first impression.

He spotted two of his three roommates taking tan coloured clothing as well.  Alex Zimmerman being the lone exception, led away in his black dress.

Taking his time to observe, he saw that the tan clothes were all ill-fitting.  Everyone bunched at the pants in front, far too big, and with no belt included.  Including some of the much larger students; and coming from the Hyperhuman school as they did, the much larger students were very sizeable indeed.  It was no coincedence.

He sidled up to Big Steve in the changing facilities and swatted his pants from his hands, dropping his own in the process.

[color=darkgoldenrod][sub]"No bloody point us both walkin' the traps holdin' our pants up the whole time."[/sub][/color]

He picked up a pair of pants which were more akin to a sack than recognisable as clothes for someone his size, and left Big Steve to pick up his own which he assumed should fit comfortably.

[color=red][sub]"What're you going to do?"[/sub][/color]

[i]Keep wearing others ill-fitting bloody pants, apparently.  And haven't things gone wonderfully when you did that before, Banjo...[/i]

When he finally pulled them on, they were so large at the top, he thought he could just about try to bunch and tie the waistline in a knot.  But they were getting called forward before he could figure out the best way to do so.

He ambled through the maze of corridors and hallways in his clown pants, up and down, and even up and through a connection point at the surface, between two of the pods.  Until he heard the clatter of metal on metal and more solid thuds, and uproarious sound of amassed people.

[i]So I guess this is the bloody gladiatorial stadium where they're finally gonna bloody kill us...[/i]

But no.  As he got closer the metal clatter became more defined.  Cutlery.  Tabletops.  More jeering, more of the student body seeming to size up the weakest amongst them.

And Banjo wearing ludicrously sized clownish pants, even amongst the group he came in with.

Would they assume he was one of the weaker?  That a larger one amongst the group stole his pants?  Had he just put a brighter spotlight on himself as weaker, lesser?

He looked up to see an assortment of black clad students seated above them.  Subtle.  Zimmerman briefly spared a second to check on who he knew down amongst the beige morass, but not long enough to risk reprisal from assocation.

Banjo turned as a hush fell over everything.

Doors had been opened by hustling attendants to allow the entry of a solitary gray haired figure, with a stylish suit and cane.

The hush implied a degree of respect for this unassuming figure.  He walked to the centre of the room and gave a singular clap, held in stark contrast to the silence his presence had drawn.

[i]Never heard a clap and hundreds of sphincters tighten in perfect bloody harmony before...[/i]

He seemed to enjoy the silence and fear his presence drew.

[i]Ego.[/i]  Banjo thought to himself.  Ever so present in people seeking the authority of the profession in the first place, but this was next level.

Then it grew, other students picked on his applause and it spread fast as others fell into line.  But it quickly hushed again as it became clear he was about to speak.

[color=white]“Welcome to our humble abode,”[/color] Montgomery called, as his eyes scanned every new student.  [color=white]“I understand, it’s not quite the lavish lifestyle you’ve all grown comfortable with.”[/color]

Banjo saw no sign of recognition, or if he were in any way familiar with him.  It was as if he was making it a point that all would now be within his notice.  Taking them within his scope of awareness.

[color=white]“My name is Dr. William Montgomery,”[/color] He introduced himself, [color=white]“I am the ‘Mind’ behind the Foundation Institute, its curriculum and the strategic advancements of the Foundation. Unlike what you’re used to, I’m sure you’d consider my methods to be cold, cruel even, but I’m afraid they get results and they get results quickly. Mr. Nakamura himself has personally approved each and every one of my methods.”[/color]

[color=white]“Those of you currently bearing your ‘Phi’ proudly are off to a great start and are on the path towards becoming a ‘Force’ to be reckoned with.”[/color] A smile towards the students in black, [color=white]“The rest of you, have a lot more to overcome.”[/color] Montgomery added, a flat, matter-of-fact address to the beige brigade.

[color=white]“That said, we have newcomers and that calls for a feast!”[/color] He shouted, and the banging of silver resumed until Montgomery waved his hand, once again immediately stilling the noise.

[color=white]“Due in part to a generous donation from the incoming P.R.C.U. students, our chefs were able to prepare you a delicious and fresh meal. A completely authentic Polpette di Cavallo con Salmoriglio.”[/color]

Banjo didn't know Italian.  But he did take more than a few units of Latin for its proximity to law, and one word stuck in his craw for a few reasons, he remembered it through no small part due to a phrase that seemed less poignant right now, as he looked up to the black garbed group.

[i]Optat ephippia bos, piger optat ardre caballus.[/i]

"The ox wishes for the horse's trappings, the lazy packhorse (or nag) wishes for the plough."

He doubted there would be a horse above them who'd be willing to settle for his plough.

The gray haired man kept talking, but Banjo barely listened.  Passively absorbing whatever was said.  He couldn't move beyond that one statement.

He was pretty sure he knew where 'cavallo' derived from.  And the use of the word 'donation' it took little guess as to what was on the plate.  The hushed whispers and murmurings only confirmed his suspicions.

His ears felt hot as the rage hit him, the anger at his own stupidity.  But the broad smile on his face did nothing to betray any signs of regret or dismay.  But all the while, It never met his eyes.  He thought for a moment, before deciding to break the hushed whispers.

[color=darkgoldenrod]"Hey, you lot ever heard this one..?"[/color]

[color=darkgoldenrod]"There's this local country cricket team, see.  Worst in the sticks.  Real buncha chaff.  Haven't won a match in about a dozen years.  So anyway, this horse is leanin' over the fence whilst they're havin' practice in the nets one week, right?  Gettin' ready to get rumbled when they play the next week.  Buncha no-hopers... not much... y'know... not much reason for positivity among 'em--  Oi, perk up sour-puss, you can relate, eh?"[/color]

Banjo shovelled a fork full of his pony and noodles into his gob and never broke stride.

[color=darkgoldenrod]"So the horse is leanin' on the railin' and watchin' on, and he chimes in just as the Captain comes back out of the net from his mediocre bloody session, and asks him 'Oi cob', any chance of a game?'  And the Captain replies, 'Oi turn it up, horses can't play bloody cricket.'  And the cheeky bastard replies.  'Well, I can.  And more to the point, a damn sight better than the bunch of you, by the looks.'  And the Captain of the team, figurin' as he hasn't got so much to lose anyway, well he says.  'Right, pad up.  If you can play as well as you talk, we'll see what we've got here.'  'Scuse I..."[/color]

He shovelled more food into his mouth, and kept going.

[color=darkgoldenrod]"So, anatomical difficulties aside, he pads up and wanders his way out inta the nets, right.  The team gets a bit shirty, but the Captain tells 'em to pull their heads in and that if the rest of them were any great shakes, he wouldn't be sendin' a horse out in the first place.  So the first bowler comes hurtlin' in on his run up, [b]WHACK![/b] horse smacks it straight back over his head, out the nets, out the bloody park.  Bowler spends the rest of the session lookin' for the bloody thing in the scrub it's gone so far.  Next bowler comes dancin' in on his spin bowler's run up.  Horse picks it beautifully, [b]WHACK[/b] tonks the bloody thing over mid wicket, same story.  Bowler goes lookin' through the scrub.  Third bowler.  'Watch me give him somethin' short.'  Comes flyin' in, bowls a bouncer.  The horse...  [b]WHACK![/b]  Perfect bloody hook shot.  Stays in the nets, but if there weren't nets... into next bloody week, that's where it would've gone.  So before the horse can decimate the confidence of their bowlin' attack any more than he already has, Captain walks over 'Mate, that was bloody amazin', call it a day though.  D'ya reckon you can make it out for a match this Saturday?  We're playin' the grainies from two towns over.'  Horse says that's fine.  He's got nothin' on over the weekend, he'll come out and smack the ball about.  Hold up..."[/color]

He shovelled more food, and the smile widened as he remembered how the joke went.

[color=darkgoldenrod]"Anyway... cut to that Saturday, horse strolls out, Captain sends him in to open the batting.  Y'know... for the intimidation factor, and curiosity, I guess.  The grainies pace bowler hurtles in at a million clicks, [b]WHACK![/b] just like in the nets.  Six on the board, just like that.  Next he decides he'll bounce him... [b]WHACK![/b] six again.  Tries to york him...  You ever tried to find a decent bowlin' line to a bloody horse?  No chance.  Six once more.  Keeps on like this and the over ends, he's smacked six sixes off the over.  A regular Gary bloody Sobers, he is.  The other opener wanders down the pitch to congratulate the horse on a good start, and cos its cricket, the bowlers obviously change ends and the other bloke's on strike now.  So he thinks, 'Right, I'll just sneak a little curly single, get this bloody wonderhorse back on strike.'  Bowler comes in, and he plays a fine one for a quick single down to fine leg.  Takes off like a shot.  [b]'Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  Yes, mate!'[/b]  He's callin' for the horse to go through, whilst lookin' behind him at the ball..."[/color]

He barely pauses to shovel more food in, and keeps going with the rhythm and the pace of the joke.

[color=darkgoldenrod]"...and then he looks up, and sees the horse hasn't moved a muscle.  Chewin' on a bit of straw and leanin' on his bat up the non strikers end.  Old mate's eyes go wide, and he turns and quickly tries to scamper back to his crease to no avail.  Bails get whipped off.  Umpire's finger raised.  They send him packing, and at this point he's bloody furious.  Just really fumin'.  So as he's got the long march back to the pavillion he detours by the horse."[/color]

Shovels more food in and chews it, before restarting so the rest don't miss any of the punchline.

[color=darkgoldenrod]"'Mate, what the bloody Hell do you call this?!  Why didn't ya run!?'  And the horse calmly says to him 'Cob, it's Sat'dee.  If I could run I'd be at the track.'  [b]HA HA HA HA![/b]"[/color]  He broke out laughing at his own joke, which if nothing else had held all of the tan dressed sufferers attention for a few minutes, and stopped the somber whisperings and occasional sobs.  A few chuckles, but no real laugh.

[color=darkgoldenrod]"Bah!  That was told perfect, I bet if it were a baseball or hockey joke you'd have been laughin' your arses off..."[/color]

A thought came into his mind.  [color=darkgoldenrod]"Anyhow...  'Scuse I."[/color]  Trying his best to do it clean, he yanked and tore the sleeve off his shirt at the stitching around the shoulder.  He did the same on the other side, and slid one sleeve inside the other before twisting the whole thing into one cord of material.

He wrapped it around his hips, just under the trouser-line and tied it off.  Before pulling his pants up and rolling the waist band down until the whole thing found its tight level, having now made a makeshift drawstring, he rolled the cuffs of his pants up to a decent length and sat and waited for everyone else to finish.

He'd bounced around on farms, sheep-shearing a refuge when they had needed a temporary new room and board during school holidays.  He'd seen people fed 'pet sheep', watched people cry over their favourite pig getting the slaughter.

Once it was dead, it was just meat.  But that didn't make him any less angry.  Most angry at himself, if anything.  But that didn't mean he didn't take it as the insult, the statement it was intended to be.

But he had no intention of letting them know they'd gotten to him.

It was bad enough he couldn't mask his claustrophobia.

Obviously he hated that they had done this to his innocent pony, but also that they did it as a statement to him.  An act against his interests to put him in his place.  And to show what they were wiling to do.

But he even took insult in other things.

The waste of it all.  It was a great horse.  Incredible on the hill country.

And something else scraped up against him as well.

Cavallo, caballo...

It had a specific meaning.  A word to diminish.  A horse of finery... was 'equus'.  Cavallo derived from the other term.  A packhorse.  A nag.  The horse version of a beater.

For some reason that final indignity scraped more than he felt it probably should.

He shovelled the final morsel from his plate and gave a grin, holding steeled eye contact with the gray haired man.

[i]So that's your first play, eh?  Well, if I could run anywhere, I wouldn't bloody be here.[/i]

[i]So gimme your next best bloody bowl, cun^.[/i]

[/color]