14:28 <hrolf> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlGmYetiCjA 14:30 <hrolf> There’s a young boy standing by the door and leaning against a wall. His face is weathered and rough, couldn’t be more than eighteen going on forty. He’s tapping his foot as the lads begin to sing again. He doesn’t know half the words, but he likes to sing along. And he likes to shoot his gun. But he doesn’t know what it means when they say- 14:30 <hrolf> A voice booms behind him. “Hughesie!” 14:31 <hrolf> The boy turns to find a large, red brute of a man behind him and a heavily muscled arm slipping around his shoulders. “Bout ye? Enjoying yersel then?” 14:33 <hrolf> “Aye, Giggsy, I-“ before he can finish, the man gives him a genial pat on the back and saunters over to the centre of the pub. 14:34 <hrolf> There’s a naked man tied to a chair. He’s bleeding profusely in a number of places, his face and torso covered in bruises. His eyes are black and puffy. Burn marks in the shape of crucifixes cover his body. An odd device is affixed to his wrist, pulsating and letting off the occasional flash of white light. Giggs holds him up from a slump by his hair. 14:35 <hrolf> “Still want to see the medals I got in Flanders boyo? I can stuff em up your arse to go with the ginger beer!” This draws some rough laughter, and elicits a chuckle from Hughesie. He pulls a fisted hand back, winding up - and lets it hang limply as a loud, insistent knock from without interrupts the festivities. 14:36 <hrolf> Being closest to the door, Hughesie heads to open it but he’s beaten to the punch. Giggs is a lot faster than he looks. The night outside is dark and gloomy, a dimly lit street illuminated with duelling defaced murals and high walls decorated with barbed wire and broken glass. 14:37 <hrolf> There’s two men there. One of them starts up: “Sarge-“ He’s roughly shoved away. Giggs steps past him to let out a loud wolf whistle. 14:38 <hrolf> “Pretty lady - want to see the medals I got down in Flanders?” The man has only one joke, it seems. 14:38 <hrolf> The young woman across the street pulls the hood of her coat up and quickens her pace, almost at a run as she rounds the corner and out of view. The sound of her heels clacking on the footpath fades away into the distance. There’s laughter again, from inside and out. Rolfie chuckles again, but it sounds more strained this time. He shifts uneasily. Giggs turns and gives him a wink. 14:39 <hrolf> The second visitor clears his throat. He’s dressed different, shaved different, and looks a lot less rough around the edges. He raises an eyebrow, his voice is icy: “Step aside.” 14:40 <hrolf> In more sober circumstances, the accent would’ve registered a more obsequious response. But the party’s been going for hours, and Giggs isn't having it. He cracks his knuckles, tilts his head and squares up the newcomer. “And who the fuck might you be then?” 14:41 <hrolf> Hughesie taps Giggs on his shoulder, trembling and tentative. “‘e…’e’s wif my lot. With the…you know.” He moves his hand away and snaps to attention, saluting. “Brigadier Parker, sir, I’m Junior Specialist Rolf Hughes sir, we met at the-“ 14:42 <hrolf> “Yes, yes. I remember. No time to waste man, I’m here on urgent business.” He walks past a stupefied Giggs and into the pub serving as a makeshift barracks. He’s dressed appropriately for Belfast in January, and he removes his gloves as he steps inside to a sea of curiously hostile looks. He gives the man in the chair a once over, looking him up and down in disgust, finally pointing in his direction. 14:44 <hrolf> “This…” he seems to struggle to enunciate a description, giving up. “…this is to be freed. It’s coming with us.” 14:44 <hrolf> Giggs isn’t far behind him. “But it’s a bloodsucker! And a boggin’ provo on top o it…he killed three of ours, he can’t just dander out of here like it done nothin-” 14:45 <hrolf> “I wasn't interested in a discussion." 14:45 <hrolf> There’s a pin drop silence in the room now. The music’s been turned down. Giggs stares daggers at the Englishman back, but says nothing. There’s a time and place to bite the hand that feeds, but this evening isn't it. 14:47 <hrolf> The man in the chair begins to rasp in a rough approximation of a laugh. Blood burbles through his lips. The words come out, weak but clear: “I don’t know who ye all are but I’ll remember yer faces. I’ll find ye. I won’t age, but ye all will. I’ll find ye. I’ll find ye all.” He can barely hold one eye open, but Hughesie feels his gaze linger on him. 14:48 <hrolf> “Someone called in a favour, but I wouldn’t push it.” Parker hands his gloves over to the man who arrived with him. “Get it cleaned up, and then we’ll be taking it with us.” 14:49 <hrolf> “And Specialist Hughes. A word. Outside." 14:52 <hrolf> Hughesie follows reluctantly to find him waiting a few yards away from the entrance, out of earshot of the paras. “You’ve done good work up here, Hughes. Keep it up and you just might get a permanent position with the Office." 14:52 <hrolf> Hughesie beams. “Much obliged, sir, and fank you!” 14:55 <hrolf> Parker rubs his eyes in exhaustion. He says nothing for a few moments, then shakes his head. “That thing inside has got connections, and friends with long memories. Disgrace to let it go, but the way things are going…well, never mind. I’d avoid anything to do with its kind if I were you, Hughes. Stay away from them. For as long as you can.” 14:55 <hrolf> The boy’s face pales. “Yessir.” 14:56 <hrolf> “And Hughes, the locals…a useful, if distasteful, necessity. Don’t let them rub off on you.” 14:56 <hrolf> “Yes, sir. I won’t, sir.” 14:56 <hrolf> But he won’t be back at HQ for another six months.