A Design for Life

He was sitting comfortably, if it is possible to truly feel comfortable on an aeroplane. It wouldn’t be much longer before they would take off, he’d be heading home. Well, close enough, the flight was taking them to John Lennon International Airport in Liverpool, the reason? War Games had arrived at last!

After arriving in Liverpool they’d be crossing the border into Wales and heading to Gwrych Castle, a 19th-century country house near the town of Conwy, in the north of the country for several days of team building activities. There’d even been something about dragons mentioned, he wasn’t really sure what to expect from that. And then it was off to the Welsh Capital, Cardiff for Culture Shock. This would be his first time on a PRIME Supercard, just the mere thought of it had him buzzing in anticipation.

This match had been taking up more of his thoughts than any he’d had for, well, much longer than he cared to admit. He’d felt similarly before his PRIME debut, but that was a different beast altogether. He’d been on his own on that occasion, and despite not getting his arm raised as the bell rang, that was at least what he’d been used to – only worrying about himself, doing things on his own.

Now he had partners, and whilst he didn’t really have any feelings towards them personally just yet – neither positively nor negatively – he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of relying on and being relied upon by anyone. He looked around at his comrades, they weren’t all sitting ‘together’ per say but they were scattered around the surrounding rows of seats.

The first to catch his eye was Anna, her attention split between keeping an eye on Cecilworth and something that reminded him of one of those Gameboy consoles he’d wanted as a kid. Farthington, the captain of this band of misfits, was a few seats down from Anna, and was happily sipping on a cocktail. Wait, they serve cocktails before take off? And was that a scroll Cecilworth was scrawling away on? With a feather quill? Where the hell did he get that from?

Leaning across the empty seat between them, he nudged FLAMBERGE intent on drawing his attention to the odd scene. At this point he noticed The Lizard King had headphones on and was wearing a rather fetching sleep mask. Try as he might, he couldn’t resist the urge building up inside him - he flipped the mask up and jumped out of his skin at the sight of the Frenchman’s wide open, unblinking eyes. He waved his hand a few inches in front, nothing! And then a gentle snore began. He shook his head, suppressing a chuckle as he thought “What a bunch of weirdo’s”.

He did a double-take as his vision scanned past the scene outside his window. He hadn’t really seen *that* had he? There was no way to be certain now; the obstruction of the starboard wing now lay between him and the baggage truck which had just caught his attention.

Surely it was just because he’d not been able to get the thought of it out of his head since the team “meeting” at ReVival 44. He couldn’t shake the feeling though, with every passing second he became more convinced... That spooky vending machine had been on the baggage truck. He wiped the sweat from his brow, how could a vending machine make him so uneasy?

He tried to shake off the feeling; after all, it was out of his control – if the vending machine was coming along for the trip, what could he do about it? And let’s remember, this ‘new’ Seán O’Neill doesn’t sweat stuff outside of his control, right?

“Yeah, that served you well against Kenny didn’t it?”

And there it was - his great nemesis, the voice inside his head. It’d been inevitable really, not necessarily that he’d lose the contest with Kenny, he could have put together a sequence of wins and it wouldn’t have mattered. This was always going to happen when he next lost a match; the voice would return with plenty to say for itself as was so often the case.

“Fuck off! You’re not in control anymore.” He thought in answer.

“In control? Is that how you’d describe things lately Seán? Controlling our destiny? You took some life advice from a half-Canadian half-Japanese idiot who talks like a drunken Scotsman and thinks like a teenager from The Valley, and now all is well in the world? Inspired choice of role-model there oh Captain my Captain! That fuckwit doesn’t know up from down!”

There couldn’t have been a worse time for this, there was nowhere to hide on board a plane that wouldn’t touch down in the UK for what eight? nine hours? He closed his eyes tightly and started taking long deep breaths, searching for the serenity of the void where the voice couldn’t reach him.

“Why are you trying to fight me Seán? Don’t you realise by now I only want what’s best for us?”

“What would be best for ME would be if I never had to listen to your bullshit EVER AGAIN!”

For a few infuriating moments it was mocking laughter that filled his head, and that cut deeper than anything the voice could say. But not content to leave the matter be, it soon started up again.

“I’m just saying, if we stuck to the plan we’d have been prepared for Randall’s bullshit. But Dynamic spouts some crap about taking things too seriously and now you want to ‘live in the moment’, to ‘let the dice fall where they may’. You know that’s just another way of saying you give up right Seán? But then that’s the REAL habit of your lifetime, isn’t that right you fucking quitter?”

Feeling his temper reaching boiling point he had to remind himself of his surroundings. He took a deep breath and then left the voice in no doubt the dialogue was at an end. “I’ll tell you what I’m quitting, this discussion! Now fuck off!”

It was in that moment he decided perhaps his team-mates had the right idea. If he couldn’t escape the voice, he’d drown it with booze and music. He reached up to call for a stewardess and then retrieved his own headphones. He ignored the protests from the voice, determined to pay it no more attention today.

A few moments later, the first of what would go-on to become several whiskeys arrived. After scrolling through the lists of artists on his terribly dated, but nonetheless beloved iPod, he found what he was looking for. Fitting, he thought, what better way to get prepared for a week in Wales than listening to ‘the Manics’? He hit play and savoured the unmistakable scent of Irish whiskey. Taking a sip, he relaxed back in his seat as the distinctive sing-song lilt of James Dean Bradfield’s iconic vocals filled his ears and transported him back to his youth.

Libraries gave us power Then work came and made us free What price now For a shallow piece of dignity I wish I had a bottle Right here in my dirty face To wear the scars To show from where I came We don't talk about love We only wanna get drunk And we are not allowed to spend As we are told that this is the end   ******

Wales held a very special place in his heart, he’d always felt it was the closest thing you could get to Ireland outside of Ireland itself. To be fair, he felt the same about the Scots. The nations shared a pride in their Celtic heritage, and a healthy contempt for authority, having been under England’s controlling thumb for most of recorded history. For the most part, the Welsh were good hearted people, but there are of course, always exceptions to the rule as they were about to find out.

They’d stopped in the town of Flint, about half way between Liverpool and Gwrych Castle. Having realised only he and Cecilworth were likely to have UK driving licences, and knowing his place on the totem poll, Seán had volunteered to be their driver. The sight of a McDonalds had been too much to pass up, after all, when all you’ve eaten has been airline meals, anything tastes good!

He’d seen the trouble coming a mile off, more accurately; he heard it coming a mile off. As the group sat huddled around the tables outside the McDonalds, filling their hungry faces, several loud, slurred voices rang out into the night, coming ever closer. Quickly surveying his team-mates, oblivious to what was coming, he tried to assess their mood. Most seemed to be in reasonable form, all were looking tired though. The flight had taken a toll. His eye lingered on Paxton a bit longer than the others, he looked in particularly bad form, even by his own magnificent standards for that.

“Here we go” he thought as several, clearly very drunk lads, probably in their mid-to-late twenties stumbled into view. Each one carried a half empty bottle of White Lightning, the ‘cider’ of choice for teenagers and penniless alcoholics across the UK.

One thing Seán O’Neill had never been good at, was keeping on track of the ever-changing vocabulary. The most recently popular word he knew to describe these lads was ‘chavs’, when he was growing up they were usually referred to as ‘scallys’ or in Belfast they’d called them ‘smicks’. How to describe a chav? They are typically anti-social, uncultured youths, normally found wearing excessive jewellery, sports tracksuits, and knock-off designer gear. O’Neill wasn’t really sure if the rest of the world had equivalents to this lot, but he hoped for their sake they didn’t.

One talent chavs are renowned for, is opening their mouths when it would be best advised keeping them shut. So it was no surprise really, when one of the louts spotted Team Farthington and saw an opportunity to cause some trouble.

“What ‘av we ‘ere boys? Bloomin’ freak show!”

One of the others, clearly fancying himself as the Casanova of the group, seemed to decide Anna would probably be lulled by his ‘charm’. “Alrite luv’ your well fit you! Fancy a bit of a tumble?”

The one who’d spoken first took his chance to cut back in. “Dun’ bother try’na shag that lass Gaz, looks like she’d bite yer member off! You’d do better with tha’un with the dreadlocks.”

“Looks like she’s from bloody Rhyl dun’ she!” That commentary was provided by the shortest of the group.

Catching the word ‘dreadlocks’, Sage looked up, seemingly realising they were talking about him, frowning he seemed to be trying to replay what he’d heard to see if any of the other words could technically be classed as English. Anna, thankfully, didn’t seem to have understood a word they said. Lucky for them!

“Just ignore the scum.” Cecilworth, as an Englishman, would of course be all-too-familiar with chavs. He made it clear the group weren’t to get themselves involved.

“The baldy one is eye’n you up Dazza, he looks like he’s well up for a scrap!”

One glance towards Paxton showed he’d heard, and whilst he may not have been able to make out what was being said, it was clear he understood the meaning behind it. His face had taken the usual “fuck around and find out” look up by several notches. O’Neill took a deep breath and sighed, there was going to be no stopping this now.

“Hey baldy! You wan’a start sumthin’ boyo? I’ll kick yur ‘ead in pisshead!”

He closed his eyes and shook his head; he didn’t even need to open them to know what was happening around him. He felt the rush of air as Paxton leapt from his seat and launched himself at the group, Sage only a split-second behind him. As he opened his eyes he could see Farthington looked furious, but O’Neill couldn’t help but laugh and grin as he got to his feet, almost in perfect unison with the others. “One for all and all for one eh folks?”

In a moment that would fill any director in charge of a Marvel movie with pride, all of Team Farthington threw themselves into the fray...

...Several extremely satisfying minutes later, the team climbed back into their hired mini-bus, every one of them wore a smile or was laughing, nothing gives you an appreciation for the people you're with, quite like getting into a brawl. Well, almost every one of them, Paxton still wore a scowl, but that’s about as happy As O’Neill had ever seen him. Sage darted back to the table before joining them, you can’t leave munchies behind after all! He grinned as he climbed back on-board cradling enough McDonalds to feed a small village.

Our valiant heroes had long since pulled out of the car-park and were back on their journey before the first of the chavs regained consciousness. His face was a puffy, bloody mess. He wiped some of the blood from his face and studied it curiously before reaching for the nearest bottle of cider.

“Bloody gits!”

******

**Knock knock**

“Godammit”

It felt like it’d only been a few moments since he’d laid his head on the pillow. A quick scan out of the window suggested it had been rather longer than that, the late afternoon had gone now and been replaced with pitch black skies. He stumbled to the door, tripping over his luggage, carelessly abandoned on the floor. Pulling it open he was surprised to find Anna standing in front of him. “Hey Anna, what’s up?”

“The sky, the opposite of down, and other such nonsense.” That took a moment to register with O’Neill, then he saw where she was going with it. He gave the only appropriate response he knew. Finger guns, Fonzie-style! “Eyyyy!”

Anna dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a scarf, holding it out to him. “This is for you. We're gathering at the bar if you want in.”

“Yeah, sounds good to me.” He took the proffered scarf, and with nothing else obvious to do with it, he wrapped it around his neck. This seemed to meet Anna’s approval as she gave him a firm ‘that’s the spirit’ kind of nod before she excited the scene. Still half-awake, it took O’Neill a few moments to register she’d gone.

He looked down at the scarf; it was made of a green and black tartan with gold filigree. It was beautiful, but more than that, it couldn’t be a coincidence that it matched his ring-gear so well, this had been chosen specifically for him. As he reached that conclusion, something in him broke. For several long minutes he remained standing in the doorway, looking at nothing with tears falling. Maybe it was just one random act of kindness, but it’d shattered him’. He wasn’t used to this, least of all, not from people he barely knew.

Slowly he started to come back to his surroundings; with a sniff he wiped the tears from his cheeks and stepped back into his room.

Ten minutes later, he’d freshened up and was about ready to make his way down to join the others. He was looking at himself in a long vertical mirror. He was looking pretty sharply dressed by his usual standards, in a pair of sandy coloured chinos and a navy long-sleeved Henley shirt. The scarf was still wrapped loosely around his neck, but rather than look out of place, he rather thought it added to the outfit. He realised he was grinning at his reflection, isn’t it amazing what a difference a little gesture can make.

He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table before leaving his room. For the most part he wasn’t really a smoker anymore, he’d cut the habit out in his twenties. But! There was drinking to be done this evening, and he could never have drinks and not want to smoke.

There was almost a skip in his step as he jogged down the staircase to the ground-floor. He turned the corner into the bar area and his gaze fell immediately on his comrades. He suspected they’d catch the eye of anyone who walked into the bar this evening.

Cecilworth had taken charge; he was the only one of the group on his feet. He was going around the team one by one, repeating their drink order to a young barman who seemed bemused by having orders he was already jotting down be repeated by the Englishman.

“Ah O’Neill! About time, what are you drinking? Because we are drinking, that's the thing we are doing. Oh, also, you haven’t happened to see Paxton on your travels have you? No sign of the sentient gator anywhere.”

Seán nodded his appreciation at the ‘greeting’ and addressed the barman. “A pint of Guinness for me please mate.”

The barman seemed grateful that Farthington hadn’t deemed it necessary to repeat this order; he made his exit to prepare the group’s drinks. O’Neill turned his attention back to his team captain. “No lad, I’d been out for the count until Anna woke me, no idea where Paxton’s got to.”

He sat down between FLAMBERGE, who was sporting a scarf so long that it would put Tom Baker to shame, and Hanlon, whose own scarf looked... well frankly, it looked like a giant moustache. There was no point in trying to hide his amusement, especially as Hayes seemed very pleased with it.

Several conversations were simultaneously ongoing around the table, occasionally intersecting and overlapping. Back home this was what they’d call “mighty craic”. The drinks kept coming, and before long they’d placed food orders as well. All bar the mysteriously absent Paxton Ray was there, and oddly, almost completely out-of-character for this lot, nobody seemed angry, everyone was genuinely enjoying themselves. Time slipped away from them.

He caught Cecilworth eyeing him up, and deep down he knew the captain was asking himself, would this man let him down?

“I know this wasn’t the plan El Capitano, I know I wasn’t ‘meant’ to be on your team. I’m aware Troy didn’t leave you any choice in bringing me on-board. But... I’m glad she did it nonetheless. I can’t promise you victory Boss, but I can promise you this. I will give you everything I’ve got. You have my word.”

Farthington responded with a gesture suggesting that was good enough for him.

As he finished his third pint of ‘the Black Stuff’ he looked around at this collection of oddities he’d been partnered with. He realised then, he was feeling warmth towards all of them. Maybe this alliance was only temporary; after all, what reason would they have to band together after War Games?

Around fourteen hours earlier, he’d gotten on a trans-Atlantic flight with a group of people who were practically strangers. Already they’d managed to get themselves in to trouble with the scuffle in Flint. And there was bound to be more trouble ahead, even before they make the journey south to Cardiff – where had Paxton got himself to? Seán suspected there would be trouble there at the very least.

But it was there nonetheless a warmth, no, an affection for this motley crew. Ryan’s words from weeks before rang in his ears once more - “Well, the truth of it is mate; you’ve never been good on your own.”

He often thought of his friend as a childish rogue who occasionally spouted old wives tales. But as was so often the case throughout his life, he found that words from Tolkien sprung to mind, adapting their meaning perfectly to his thoughts. It was the wisdom of Gandalf the White that he heard now; “Pay heed to the tales of old wives. It may well be that they alone keep in memory what it was once needful for the wise to know.”

He felt his eyes burning as he came close to tears again. Seán O’Neill wasn’t alone anymore, not for now at least, and his heart was the fuller for it. He felt good about this, he even felt good about himself.

He thought about all the incredible talent he’d share the ring with at Culture Shock. Come what may, this would go down as one of the highlights of his career. But now it meant more to him than just an opportunity to try and keep up with the best in the world. He was ready to fight alongside these folks, he didn’t want to let them down, he’d give them his all in pursuit of victory. In short, he was ready to go to war!