It was a cold, rainy November morning in Royale City. The sky sagged like a sulking walrus—grey, bloated, and dribbling—its misty tears smearing across the stadium lights like regret on a gold-plated trophy.
Royale City Stadium — capacity 100,000 — loomed with regal pride beneath the drizzle, its art deco towers gleaming faintly with ancestral dignity. Originally constructed by MONARCH to host the ‘Giddyup Gospel Gala’—a sold-out benefit concert led by the King himself—the building still echoed with the ghostly echoes of that unlikely triumph: the King's pure tenor rising like holy fire, backed by his loyal agents in full musical regalia.
Redd had strummed his guitar with the zealous fervour. of a campfire prophet.
Soash had flailed a tambourine with unearned sensuality.
Squire had mastered the washboard in six minutes flat, aided only by adrenaline and cinnamon donuts.
Sandy’s harmonies were flawless, if a little begrudging.
JIM DANDI had rerouted half the power grid to make the lights blink in rhythm.
And Big Joe—majestic, off-tempo, and wearing cymbals strapped to his antlers—had swayed with such genuine emotion that two audience members wept.
Today, however, the stadium was being used for a very different kind of performance.
On the sidelines, beneath a vinyl football tent that sagged under the weight of rain, Assistant Director Banks stood side-by-side with Thorne of OGRE, their breath steaming in the cold. Each held a thermos—hers plain grey steel, his tastefully engraved with:
“Progress At Any Cost. Preferably Yours.”
Out on the field, Team Dominion was warming up with military discipline—high-knee jogs, tandem lunges, and call-and-response chants that echoed like a marching band composed entirely of boot camp instructors.
Redd jogged backward ahead of them, voice raised to full parade volume.
“Posture, lads! Posture is the preamble to glory! You there—Junior Agent Jenkins! Hold that stretch like the fate of Saskatchewan depends on it!”
Thorne chuckled. His smile was long and slow, like honey dripping from a crooked spoon. Or perhaps more like a snake in a vintage jungle book, coiled in compliment and contract law.
“Well, Banks,” he said, all false delight, “I, for one, am quite looking forward to this little scrimmage.”
Banks didn’t take her eyes off the field. “The junior agents are doing their best. Top form. King-inspired. Mission-ready.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Thorne purred. “I’m sure they’ll flip and flop and do whatever they think is supposed to happen in football. But I was referring to the real entertainment—seeing our OGRE enhancements come to life in the main event.”
He sipped his thermos. “I thought the air show last night was particularly successful.”
Banks turned toward him, slowly. Deliberately. Like a turret locking onto a particularly smug weather balloon.
“Successful? Football-shaped zeppelins spinning out of control? Shooting fire? Then catching fire? Then falling out of the sky—still on fire?”
Thorne didn’t flinch. “Eggs and omelettes, Director. The advertising revenue from those zeppelins alone already covers the damages. Property. Morale. Wildlife. All neatly budgeted.”
He gestured to a clipboard that one of his assistants—an eerily smiling man in a poncho—held up beside him. “Clause 42-B of the Dominion Cup Rulebook permits ‘aerial-themed celebratory formations.’ Our thermo-blimps fall comfortably within guidelines.”
Banks narrowed her eyes. “That’s the 1930 edition of the rule book, Thorne. The one with three full chapters on zeppelin etiquette and airship docking rights.”
“I didn’t write the rules,” Thorne said, spreading his hands innocently. “I just follow them. Very creatively.”
Banks exhaled through her nose. It made a noise like a pressure valve holding back a tirade.
“Why,” she muttered, more to herself than him, “are we using the 1930 edition at all?”
“I believe it was selected for its... nostalgic value,” Thorne said smoothly. “And because it doesn’t contain a single clause prohibiting steam-powered t-shirt cannons, edible programs, or parade floats shaped like stock market graphs.”
He turned back to the field.
Team Maple Might had just begun their warm-up — which, apparently, was some kind of interpretive dance involving fog machines, sequined capes, and at least one unlicensed otter.
Soash twirled once, dipped dramatically, and blew a kiss to no one in particular.
“Ah,” Thorne said with satisfaction. “Showtime.”
Soash stood at the epicentre of his manufactured mayhem, clipboard in hand, sunglasses inexplicably dry despite the drizzle. His junior agents weren’t warming up. They were rehearsing.
Each was being assigned a nickname, a backstory, and a signature entrance move—all under Soash’s breathless direction.
“You,” he declared, pointing to a wiry boy with the shoulders of someone preparing for impact, “you’re Blaze Clutchmaster. You specialize in slow-motion high-fives and mid-air thumbs-ups. I want sparks when you walk.”
The boy nodded hesitantly. Then tripped over a fog machine.
Another junior agent emerged from the tunnel growling—not with intimidation, but with the uncertainty of someone trying out a new personality mid-sentence.
Sandy, standing nearby with arms folded and every muscle in her face locked in skeptical judgment, winced.
“Why,” she asked, “are we doing this?”
Soash spun like a Broadway sorcerer, trench coat flaring, clipboard raised like a holy relic.
“Ms. Beeches—this is the stage of kings!” he cried. “This is your fifteen minutes of fame! Show your teeth! Swagger! Swagger like the fate of the franchise depends on it!”
He pointed to the sky. Then to the stands. Then, possibly, at a pigeon.
“Remember, cameras are everywhere! There. And there. And there.”
“First and foremost,” Sandy replied flatly, “we’re supposed to be playing football.”
Soash waved her off like she’d just questioned the narrative arc of his life story.
“Football is the excuse, young lady. The game is the medium. The real sport—” he slapped the clipboard with flair, “—is spectacle.”
On the opposite sideline, things were considerably more… grounded.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Redd Ensign stood with his hands on his hips, chest puffed like a parade marshal, watching his team of junior agents jog neat, mud-spattered laps in synchronized formation. No fog. No glitter. Just sweat, discipline, and motivational slogans carved into every breath.
He blew his whistle — twice, sharply — and the agents jogged over, huddling with cheerful precision.
“Squire, lad,” Redd boomed, clapping a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder, “we are about to step onto the gridiron — the battlefield of Canadian champions. And you—” he fixed Squire with an approving nod, “—are my first lieutenant.”
Squire blinked. Clearly unsure whether that meant more responsibility… or more paperwork.
“Uh… should we... give 110%?” he offered, cautiously.
Redd’s smile widened until it could’ve lit a lighthouse and three minor provinces.
“Correct!” he cried, thumping him proudly on the back. “And after that, grab some water. Hydration is half the heroism, my boy.”
He turned to the rest of the team, voice rising with righteous fervour.
“Now then — gather ‘round! We’ll be running drills, studying formations, and preparing to represent not just ourselves, but every small-town sports league from Nanaimo to Newfoundland!”
Several junior agents nodded solemnly. One saluted.
Redd saluted back without hesitation.
“This,” he declared, holding up the playbook like it was enshrined in glass at a national museum, “is how you build a nation.”
Banks sat stiffly in one of the plush corporate boxes, surrounded by chrome, velvet, and the distant scent of money trying too hard. She was not hiding her disdain. She wasn’t even trying.
Thorne, by contrast, flourished. He stood at a long table cluttered with blueprints, dessert schematics, and a clattering slide projector. Around him, OGRE yes-men in matching sport coats clicked pens and adjusted headset radios like a synchronized school of opportunistic fish.
“I veto it,” Banks said flatly.
“Which part?” Thorne smiled, slow and snake-like. “The Mighty Legends of Canadian Footballers Luncheon... or the dessert cannon?”
“The whole event,” Banks snapped, flipping through a stack of glossy concept art. “It’s supposed to honour the heroes of the game — dignity, light banter, perhaps a handshake. Not—” she held up a diagram, “—a literal three-ring circus with clowns, juggling, and a pie-to-the-face tribute.”
Thorne nodded as if she’d just complimented the font choice.
“The pies are dignity-adjacent,” he said smoothly. “They’re followed by a refreshing seltzer blast to the face. Opens the pores. Very respectful. And the rule book allows for any ‘clean-up ritual consistent with celebratory intent.’”
Banks closed her eyes. Pinched the bridge of her nose. Exhaled slowly.
“And the part where you’re launching the oldest living Hall of Fame player through a flaming hoop while riding a motorbike over a tank of orcas?”
Thorne raised a finger. “If he signed the waiver.” Another finger. “And the tank has a lid now. Health and safety.”
The yes-men murmured in approval. One whispered, “I’d pay to see that.”
Another scribbled “Merch opportunity?” in a box labelled “Legacy Branding.”
As the afternoon rain shifted from drizzle to colder drizzle, the two teams trudged onward beneath the ever-watchful eyes of their commanders.
On one end of the field, Redd and Squire stood before a chalkboard balanced precariously on two stacked crates. The board was covered in X’s, O’s, arrows, and patriotic slogans that had very little to do with football but everything to do with honour.
“This,” Redd declared, sketching a route that looked suspiciously like the St. Lawrence River, “is the Maple Surge Formation. You block east. You cut west. You dive like your great-grandmother’s butter tart recipe depends on it!”
Squire, armed with a clipboard and an emergency pencil behind his ear, nodded solemnly. “Maybe don’t collide with the hot dog stand this time,” he added helpfully.
The junior agents leaned in, sweaty and focused, one of them having written GO TEAM on their jersey in ballpoint pen. It was a training session filled with heart, if not... technique.
Meanwhile, across the field, Soash had arranged his squad into a dramatic semicircle beneath a borrowed spotlight (courtesy of a lighting truck marked “Property of OGRE — Do Not Point at Sun”).
He held the football aloft like a forbidden artifact from a lost civilization.
“All right, people,” he intoned, slowly turning so his trench coat flared just enough to suggest mystery. “This... is a football.”
The junior agents leaned forward. One of them gasped.
“It is roundish. It is leathery. It is iconic. It is... everything.”
He spun the ball on one finger. Then dropped it.
“This, my cherubs, is the centre of the drama. The lens of the narrative. The eyeball magnet. Where the ball goes, so goes the camera. Your mission is not to play — it is to perform. And always know which lens is live.”
He pointed toward the stadium lights. “They’re up there. They’re always watching.”
On the sidelines, Sandy had retreated under a plastic tarp, curled in a folding camping chair, sipping from a travel mug. In one hand, she held a small, battered book: The Rules of Canadian Football (and How to Survive Them).
“You know,” she said without looking up, “there’s an actual game tomorrow. With actual points. And a winner. Maybe someone on this team should be learning the rules.”
Soash turned, sighing like a misunderstood genius in the final act of a stage musical.
“Ms. Beeches, if you’re not here to inspire glory, I suggest you allow a professional to captain the ship of charisma.”
He spun back to the team and jabbed a finger toward a distracted junior agent mid-sip of a juice box.
“You there! Suddenly—boom! Close-up on the stadium scoreboard. The world’s watching. What do you do?”
The agent dropped the juice box, grinned like he was winning a dance-off, and burst into jazz hands.
Soash clutched his chest like he’d just witnessed the Northern Lights on a first date.
“Perfect. A full commercial break without blinking. Incredible. Banks will have to pay you to stop being this photogenic.”
He turned triumphantly to Sandy.
“See? The team’s in good hands.”
Sandy took another long sip, eyes still on her book.
“At least someone’s using their hands,” she muttered.