Fic, Fight Night, Part 7 of 7, Fiver, 18
Sep. 9th, 2017 11:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Fight Night, Part 7 of 7
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Fiver & others
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Fiver and other OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 15,100 in 7 parts.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.
A/N : 1) Written for Soldiers Week as part of 52 Weeks of Primeval on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primeval_denial 2) Part of my Stephen/Ryan series
The crowd were getting impatient, on their feet now, stamping their feet rhythmically on the floor, demanding action and hoping for blood.
The sharp retort of a pistol shot told Fiver that Speight was serious. A bullet slammed into the rough board and threw up splinters no more than a few inches from of Gazza’s head. One ripped a red furrow across the man’s almost bald head but is spite of the blood that welled up, Gazza seemed oblivious to the pain. He was focussed solely on keeping the bunched teeshirt clamped to his stomach. The stain from the seeping blood had spread a long way across Gazza’s tattooed torso and down his muscular thighs and was pooling by his knees.
“Keep the pressure on, man!” Fiver instructed.
Gazza grunted, and Fiver could see his muscles bunch with the effort, standing out in corded knots around is powerful shoulders and upper arms.
“The next one goes through his right shoulder,” Speight declared in an alarmingly conversational tone. “On the count of three… one…”
“All right…” Fiver knew his attempt to stall had just come to an abrupt halt.
The crowd had started a slow hand-clap and yells of ‘get on with it!’ started echoing around the shed.
Keeping his eyes on the door, Fiver walked slowly back to the middle of the stage. He bent down to rest a hand on Gazza’s shoulder. “Hang on, Gaz, gonna get you out of here…”
Gazza looked up at him, eyes dull with pain. His hand, slick and red with his own blood were still clenching Fiver’s once-grey teeshirt. “Nice try, mate, but you’re talkin’ bollocks. Only way I’m leaving here is feet first.”
Fiver squeezed the tattooed shoulder. “Not dead yet.”
A heartbeat later, he heard a commotion behind the door then the scrabble of long talons on the rough flooring and another of the feathered monsters shot out onto the stage. This one had an even more impressive display of feathers, bright green mixed with purple, topped with a tall reddish-purple crest that lifted in challenge as the bird-thing puffed itself up and let out more of a roar than a squawk. It reminded Fiver of a fancy chicken he’d once seen at a petting zoo only this fucker was a hundred times bigger and could rip his guts out with one stroke from its sickle claws. It was larger than the one lying on the other side of the cage looking somehow diminished in death. Its plumage was brighter and its beak was a more vivid yellow.
The creature titled its head on one side, staring at them. It could smell the coppery tang of blood on the air. It probably hadn’t been fed for days and the prospect of live food was an enticing one.
Gazza looked up at Fiver, his face creased with pain but strangely calm. “’s enough to put you off chicken for life.”
Five took a step forward, putting himself in between Gazza and the bird. There was fuck all he’d be able to do, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. Without warning he jumped and caught hold of the bars of the cage again, swinging his booted feet in an arch towards the bird. The tactic had worked before, and it was the only one he had. It lunged at him, but he was already moving, monkeying away from Gazza, drawing the creature after him. Fiver had practiced this sort of thing relentlessly in the army, spending hours in the gym until he could beat anyone in his squad on the overhead bars and the rings. He’d lost some muscle tone in the months he’d spent on the streets but adrenaline lent him both strength and speed. He shoved all thought of the pain in his arm to the back of his mind and locked it away, the way he’s been taught.
The bird lashed out at him with its beak, but got two booted feet in the face.
By staying off the wooden stage, Fiver was preventing it bringing the sickle claws into play. If it leapt at him like a fighting cock on steroids, it would end up on its feathered arse on the wooden boards. If Fiver could goad it into taking a chance on that sort of strike, he might have the opportunity to get the upper hand. But keeping it away from Gazza was going to be the hard part.
He’d been in some crap situations during his time in the army, but nothing quite compared to this. He’d take the Taliban and ISIS over these fuckers any day. His arm muscles were on fire from the strain, but he kept moving, and drawing up his legs to his chest, before kicking out as hard as he could.
The bird was visibly angry now, feathers puffed up, crest riding high. It struck out again, this time faster than Fiver could retaliate. The hooked beak carved a long furrow down the front of his left leg. He roared with pain. Fuck stoicism. It fucking hurt and he didn’t mind who knew it, even if his yell did have some fucker creaming their pants.
Fiver was running out of steam now. He knew it. The crowd knew it. And, worst of all, the fucking bird knew it. It was playing with him now, like a cat with its prey. He took another strike, this time on his left thigh. He had no idea how deep the wound was, but didn’t even have enough energy left in him to yell in pain. He was beyond that now, operating purely on instinct. Fiver managed to keep the fucker occupied and away from Gazza, but the minute he went down, they were both fucked…
He was sweating like a pig under the lights, and it was getting harder to keep a grip on the bars as sweat slicked his palms. He swung, putting the momentum of his whole body behind the movement. He gripped the top of the cage, but then felt his hands sliding off. He clenched his fingers, trying desperately to keep hold of the bar. But desperation wasn’t enough.
Fiver dropped to the floor, his injured left leg doubled over beneath him. Red hot pain gave way to white hot agony, He scrambled to his feet, but his left ankle wouldn’t bear his weight and he crumpled over again.
The stage door flew open and a figure dressed in black stepped out, holding something that looked like an oversized child’s toy rifle. Without saying a word, the man sighted the weapon on the irate bird that a second ago had been poised to either disembowel him or peck his face off. Neither had been an attractive prospect.
The man squeezed the trigger and a crackle of electricity cut through the yells from the crowd. The bird froze in its tracks as an electric pulse coursed through its body. It crumpled to the stage and lay there twitching.
Once the man was sure the bird wasn’t getting up again, he swung the rifle over his back and went down on one knee next to Fiver. “Christ on a bike, lad, you’ve done well!”
Fiver mustered a grin. It was over. It was fucking over. “Need a medic, boss, fast.” He jerked his head to Gazza. “He won’t last much longer.”
Captain Ryan spoke urgently into his throat mike. “I need Ditz in here now, plus a paramedic team. Full medevac needed. One casualty’s lost a shed-load of blood and there are more holes in our boy than a tramp’s vest.”
The bloodlust of the crowd had evaporated and they were now scrambling for exits, the appearance of a soldier on stage like a bucket of cold water in the face for all of them. Fiver watched the chaos with grim satisfaction. They’d hit the jackpot with this fight. All the high-rollers in one place at once. Fiver just hoped that the ARC team had come with enough back-up to round up all the bastards who’d paid a fortune to see two blokes torn to death.
“We’ve got every copper in Essex here,” Ryan said, correctly interpreting the look on his face. “Plus a load from Suffolk. Every road in the area is blocked and there are dog teams on standby to track any runners. This lot aren’t anywhere any time soon.”
“Did you get Speight?” Fiver asked, as Second Lieutenant Dave Owen burst through the door with a trauma team on his heels.
“The bloke with the gun? Yeah, Finn dropped him with an EMP.”
“On max, I hope.” Fiver acknowledged Ditzy’s questioning look with the words, “I’ll keep. Sort Gazza out.”
“Gazza,” Ditzy’s voice was as calm and reassuring as ever. “My name’s Dave. We’re going to get you stabilised.”
The paramedics started to do their work, getting a line into the injured man and checking him over with the cool determination of every EMT Fiver had ever worked with. Another pair came onto the stage, carrying a lightweight stretcher. Fiver shook his head. He’d walked into that fucking arena and he was damned well going to leave it on his feet.
“He’s stubborn sod,” Ryan said with an apologetic look at the paramedics.
Fiver gripped the hand his captain held down to him and allowed himself to be hauled upright. With his arm over Ryan’s shoulder, he managed to limp across the stage and into the back room that now smelled very musky. Feathers on the floor told Fiver that the raptors had been herded in there before being released onto the stage. On the floor was what looked like a cattle prod that had presumably been used to heard the beasts. Fiver didn’t like the sods, but he was sorry he’d had to kill one. They’d got used to being able to send the creatures back to their own time alive. It seemed like a failure to have to take one down with lethal force.
The farmyard was teeming with activity. Uniformed coppers were busy rounding up the punters and herding them towards a fleet of transport wagons. The cold air felt great after the rank smell of sweat, blood and feverish excitement.
“Give me a minute, boss, please,” he said, his voice low but urgent. He’d just abruptly come down from the biggest adrenaline high of his life and he knew what would happen in the next couple of minutes. He had no fucking intention of breaking down in front of a bunch of paramedics he didn’t know from Adam, even if they had seen it all before.
Ryan helped him over to one of the portacabins and let him lean against it, keeping the weight off his bad ankle.
“Never did like fucking bloodsports,” a cultured voice drawled at Fiver’s side. Captain Joel Stringer, the officer Fiver was meant to have thumped in the elaborate cover story he’d been living for the last six months of his life, gave him a look that combined sympathetic and impressed. “Fucking stellar job.” He looked at Fiver and grinned. “Bet you’re glad that transmitter’s out of your arse.”
“It made coughing sodding tricky,” Fiver acknowledged.
Knowing that Speight would check every single one of Fiver’s meagre belongings, there had only been one place they could conceal the small but powerful transmitter that would lead the cavalry to the rescue. Fiver was just pleased it had worked. He’d been told some people shoved that sort of thing up for fun. They were fucking welcome to it. Butt plugs definitely weren’t his idea of fun, even if it hadn’t been very big.
Stringer laughed and gently squeezed his shoulder. “It’s over,” he said quietly.
Fiver closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the side of the shed. Around him, the farmyard was filled with the sound of coppers yelling at people to shut the fuck up and come quietly. The men and women from the audience were screaming and swearing but that did nothing to stop the relentless snick of metal cuffs. This phase of the operation was fucking huge and they’d really landed the jackpot. Word of an underground fight ring had been doing the rounds in various forces for a couple of years, but no one had been able to get close enough to stand a chance of bringing it down. Two undercover cops in different areas had posed as punters, but before being able to supply any crucial evidence, they’d both disappeared. Then other rumours had started to circulate, that something else was going on, something even nastier that was really pulling in the punters with the big money.
Fiver felt the trembling in his limbs and the throbbing pain from his ankle and the gashes the raptor had left in his flesh. The professor was going to bloody love that big bugger. They’d come across some feathered raptors before, but none as brightly coloured as the one that had been trying to turn him into dinner theatre….
Silent tears started to track through the blood and sweat on Fiver’s face. His chest heaved and he tried to drag air into his lungs as though it would be the last breath he’d ever take and it nearly fucking had been.
Strong arms pulled him into a hug and a familiar voice muttered,” I’ve got you, mate. Just let it all go, then we’ll get the nice medics to patch you up.”
Fiver buried his head in Finn’s shoulder and finally allowed himself to let go of the past six months and the horrors of the cage fight.
He wept and Finn held him. It felt better than anything had felt for a long time.
When he finally allowed the medics to load him onto a stretcher, one of the multitude of sounds still adding to the cacophony in the yard jogged an unpleasant memory. He grabbed Ryan’s hand.
“The pigs, boss. Check the fucking pig pen and get some DNA tests run on their shit. Some of it’s going to be human. Fuck knows what the rest’ll be.”
Then the ambulance doors closed, the engine started up, and whatever the paramedics had squirted into his arm finally started to take effect.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Fiver & others
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Fiver and other OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 15,100 in 7 parts.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.
A/N : 1) Written for Soldiers Week as part of 52 Weeks of Primeval on
primeval_denial 2) Part of my Stephen/Ryan seriesThe crowd were getting impatient, on their feet now, stamping their feet rhythmically on the floor, demanding action and hoping for blood.
The sharp retort of a pistol shot told Fiver that Speight was serious. A bullet slammed into the rough board and threw up splinters no more than a few inches from of Gazza’s head. One ripped a red furrow across the man’s almost bald head but is spite of the blood that welled up, Gazza seemed oblivious to the pain. He was focussed solely on keeping the bunched teeshirt clamped to his stomach. The stain from the seeping blood had spread a long way across Gazza’s tattooed torso and down his muscular thighs and was pooling by his knees.
“Keep the pressure on, man!” Fiver instructed.
Gazza grunted, and Fiver could see his muscles bunch with the effort, standing out in corded knots around is powerful shoulders and upper arms.
“The next one goes through his right shoulder,” Speight declared in an alarmingly conversational tone. “On the count of three… one…”
“All right…” Fiver knew his attempt to stall had just come to an abrupt halt.
The crowd had started a slow hand-clap and yells of ‘get on with it!’ started echoing around the shed.
Keeping his eyes on the door, Fiver walked slowly back to the middle of the stage. He bent down to rest a hand on Gazza’s shoulder. “Hang on, Gaz, gonna get you out of here…”
Gazza looked up at him, eyes dull with pain. His hand, slick and red with his own blood were still clenching Fiver’s once-grey teeshirt. “Nice try, mate, but you’re talkin’ bollocks. Only way I’m leaving here is feet first.”
Fiver squeezed the tattooed shoulder. “Not dead yet.”
A heartbeat later, he heard a commotion behind the door then the scrabble of long talons on the rough flooring and another of the feathered monsters shot out onto the stage. This one had an even more impressive display of feathers, bright green mixed with purple, topped with a tall reddish-purple crest that lifted in challenge as the bird-thing puffed itself up and let out more of a roar than a squawk. It reminded Fiver of a fancy chicken he’d once seen at a petting zoo only this fucker was a hundred times bigger and could rip his guts out with one stroke from its sickle claws. It was larger than the one lying on the other side of the cage looking somehow diminished in death. Its plumage was brighter and its beak was a more vivid yellow.
The creature titled its head on one side, staring at them. It could smell the coppery tang of blood on the air. It probably hadn’t been fed for days and the prospect of live food was an enticing one.
Gazza looked up at Fiver, his face creased with pain but strangely calm. “’s enough to put you off chicken for life.”
Five took a step forward, putting himself in between Gazza and the bird. There was fuck all he’d be able to do, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. Without warning he jumped and caught hold of the bars of the cage again, swinging his booted feet in an arch towards the bird. The tactic had worked before, and it was the only one he had. It lunged at him, but he was already moving, monkeying away from Gazza, drawing the creature after him. Fiver had practiced this sort of thing relentlessly in the army, spending hours in the gym until he could beat anyone in his squad on the overhead bars and the rings. He’d lost some muscle tone in the months he’d spent on the streets but adrenaline lent him both strength and speed. He shoved all thought of the pain in his arm to the back of his mind and locked it away, the way he’s been taught.
The bird lashed out at him with its beak, but got two booted feet in the face.
By staying off the wooden stage, Fiver was preventing it bringing the sickle claws into play. If it leapt at him like a fighting cock on steroids, it would end up on its feathered arse on the wooden boards. If Fiver could goad it into taking a chance on that sort of strike, he might have the opportunity to get the upper hand. But keeping it away from Gazza was going to be the hard part.
He’d been in some crap situations during his time in the army, but nothing quite compared to this. He’d take the Taliban and ISIS over these fuckers any day. His arm muscles were on fire from the strain, but he kept moving, and drawing up his legs to his chest, before kicking out as hard as he could.
The bird was visibly angry now, feathers puffed up, crest riding high. It struck out again, this time faster than Fiver could retaliate. The hooked beak carved a long furrow down the front of his left leg. He roared with pain. Fuck stoicism. It fucking hurt and he didn’t mind who knew it, even if his yell did have some fucker creaming their pants.
Fiver was running out of steam now. He knew it. The crowd knew it. And, worst of all, the fucking bird knew it. It was playing with him now, like a cat with its prey. He took another strike, this time on his left thigh. He had no idea how deep the wound was, but didn’t even have enough energy left in him to yell in pain. He was beyond that now, operating purely on instinct. Fiver managed to keep the fucker occupied and away from Gazza, but the minute he went down, they were both fucked…
He was sweating like a pig under the lights, and it was getting harder to keep a grip on the bars as sweat slicked his palms. He swung, putting the momentum of his whole body behind the movement. He gripped the top of the cage, but then felt his hands sliding off. He clenched his fingers, trying desperately to keep hold of the bar. But desperation wasn’t enough.
Fiver dropped to the floor, his injured left leg doubled over beneath him. Red hot pain gave way to white hot agony, He scrambled to his feet, but his left ankle wouldn’t bear his weight and he crumpled over again.
The stage door flew open and a figure dressed in black stepped out, holding something that looked like an oversized child’s toy rifle. Without saying a word, the man sighted the weapon on the irate bird that a second ago had been poised to either disembowel him or peck his face off. Neither had been an attractive prospect.
The man squeezed the trigger and a crackle of electricity cut through the yells from the crowd. The bird froze in its tracks as an electric pulse coursed through its body. It crumpled to the stage and lay there twitching.
Once the man was sure the bird wasn’t getting up again, he swung the rifle over his back and went down on one knee next to Fiver. “Christ on a bike, lad, you’ve done well!”
Fiver mustered a grin. It was over. It was fucking over. “Need a medic, boss, fast.” He jerked his head to Gazza. “He won’t last much longer.”
Captain Ryan spoke urgently into his throat mike. “I need Ditz in here now, plus a paramedic team. Full medevac needed. One casualty’s lost a shed-load of blood and there are more holes in our boy than a tramp’s vest.”
The bloodlust of the crowd had evaporated and they were now scrambling for exits, the appearance of a soldier on stage like a bucket of cold water in the face for all of them. Fiver watched the chaos with grim satisfaction. They’d hit the jackpot with this fight. All the high-rollers in one place at once. Fiver just hoped that the ARC team had come with enough back-up to round up all the bastards who’d paid a fortune to see two blokes torn to death.
“We’ve got every copper in Essex here,” Ryan said, correctly interpreting the look on his face. “Plus a load from Suffolk. Every road in the area is blocked and there are dog teams on standby to track any runners. This lot aren’t anywhere any time soon.”
“Did you get Speight?” Fiver asked, as Second Lieutenant Dave Owen burst through the door with a trauma team on his heels.
“The bloke with the gun? Yeah, Finn dropped him with an EMP.”
“On max, I hope.” Fiver acknowledged Ditzy’s questioning look with the words, “I’ll keep. Sort Gazza out.”
“Gazza,” Ditzy’s voice was as calm and reassuring as ever. “My name’s Dave. We’re going to get you stabilised.”
The paramedics started to do their work, getting a line into the injured man and checking him over with the cool determination of every EMT Fiver had ever worked with. Another pair came onto the stage, carrying a lightweight stretcher. Fiver shook his head. He’d walked into that fucking arena and he was damned well going to leave it on his feet.
“He’s stubborn sod,” Ryan said with an apologetic look at the paramedics.
Fiver gripped the hand his captain held down to him and allowed himself to be hauled upright. With his arm over Ryan’s shoulder, he managed to limp across the stage and into the back room that now smelled very musky. Feathers on the floor told Fiver that the raptors had been herded in there before being released onto the stage. On the floor was what looked like a cattle prod that had presumably been used to heard the beasts. Fiver didn’t like the sods, but he was sorry he’d had to kill one. They’d got used to being able to send the creatures back to their own time alive. It seemed like a failure to have to take one down with lethal force.
The farmyard was teeming with activity. Uniformed coppers were busy rounding up the punters and herding them towards a fleet of transport wagons. The cold air felt great after the rank smell of sweat, blood and feverish excitement.
“Give me a minute, boss, please,” he said, his voice low but urgent. He’d just abruptly come down from the biggest adrenaline high of his life and he knew what would happen in the next couple of minutes. He had no fucking intention of breaking down in front of a bunch of paramedics he didn’t know from Adam, even if they had seen it all before.
Ryan helped him over to one of the portacabins and let him lean against it, keeping the weight off his bad ankle.
“Never did like fucking bloodsports,” a cultured voice drawled at Fiver’s side. Captain Joel Stringer, the officer Fiver was meant to have thumped in the elaborate cover story he’d been living for the last six months of his life, gave him a look that combined sympathetic and impressed. “Fucking stellar job.” He looked at Fiver and grinned. “Bet you’re glad that transmitter’s out of your arse.”
“It made coughing sodding tricky,” Fiver acknowledged.
Knowing that Speight would check every single one of Fiver’s meagre belongings, there had only been one place they could conceal the small but powerful transmitter that would lead the cavalry to the rescue. Fiver was just pleased it had worked. He’d been told some people shoved that sort of thing up for fun. They were fucking welcome to it. Butt plugs definitely weren’t his idea of fun, even if it hadn’t been very big.
Stringer laughed and gently squeezed his shoulder. “It’s over,” he said quietly.
Fiver closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the side of the shed. Around him, the farmyard was filled with the sound of coppers yelling at people to shut the fuck up and come quietly. The men and women from the audience were screaming and swearing but that did nothing to stop the relentless snick of metal cuffs. This phase of the operation was fucking huge and they’d really landed the jackpot. Word of an underground fight ring had been doing the rounds in various forces for a couple of years, but no one had been able to get close enough to stand a chance of bringing it down. Two undercover cops in different areas had posed as punters, but before being able to supply any crucial evidence, they’d both disappeared. Then other rumours had started to circulate, that something else was going on, something even nastier that was really pulling in the punters with the big money.
Fiver felt the trembling in his limbs and the throbbing pain from his ankle and the gashes the raptor had left in his flesh. The professor was going to bloody love that big bugger. They’d come across some feathered raptors before, but none as brightly coloured as the one that had been trying to turn him into dinner theatre….
Silent tears started to track through the blood and sweat on Fiver’s face. His chest heaved and he tried to drag air into his lungs as though it would be the last breath he’d ever take and it nearly fucking had been.
Strong arms pulled him into a hug and a familiar voice muttered,” I’ve got you, mate. Just let it all go, then we’ll get the nice medics to patch you up.”
Fiver buried his head in Finn’s shoulder and finally allowed himself to let go of the past six months and the horrors of the cage fight.
He wept and Finn held him. It felt better than anything had felt for a long time.
When he finally allowed the medics to load him onto a stretcher, one of the multitude of sounds still adding to the cacophony in the yard jogged an unpleasant memory. He grabbed Ryan’s hand.
“The pigs, boss. Check the fucking pig pen and get some DNA tests run on their shit. Some of it’s going to be human. Fuck knows what the rest’ll be.”
Then the ambulance doors closed, the engine started up, and whatever the paramedics had squirted into his arm finally started to take effect.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 04:01 pm (UTC)That was the most amazing of amazing things!
I knew he just had to be under cover, but it was still terrifying wondering whether the team would arrive in time to save him (and Gazza!)
Strong arms pulled him into a hug and a familiar voice muttered,” I’ve got you, mate. Just let it all go, then we’ll get the nice medics to patch you up.”
Fiver buried his head in Finn’s shoulder
Awwww! Now I'm getting slashy Fiver/Finn feelings!
Great action, lovely pacing, and your always delightful dialogue. A stellar addition to your 'verse, m'dear!
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 04:59 pm (UTC)I'm so pleased you and other folks gave this a go, especially as it is a humongous story about a minor OC.
I'm so pleased you enjoyed it!
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 05:23 pm (UTC)Well done Fiver and well done Fred! Great fic. \o/
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 06:54 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 06:54 pm (UTC)I have a very soft spot for Gazza, so his story might well not end here.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 08:00 pm (UTC)Fiver was very nearly mincemeat there, good job he called the cavalry with his magic arse :) Brilliant story, loved the undercover awesomeness x
15K wonderful stuff.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 08:55 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it all!
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 09:50 pm (UTC)Also, it's been really nice to see Fiver fleshed out like this. I really enjoyed it.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-09 10:10 pm (UTC)I was worried it would be much too brutal for most people's taste. But underground fight rings preying on ex-servicemen are a very real problem. None of that was fiction.
I read a powerful book on the subject, and wanted to put my own slant on it. Fiver seemed like a good choice as he could play to people's prejudices and preconceptions.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-10 08:24 am (UTC)Great stuff!
no subject
Date: 2017-09-10 10:13 am (UTC)I'm so happy you and the others have stuck with it.
*g* Stringer had to appear, as he was the officer Fiver was meant to have thumped. And on this shout they'd never ever spare body they could rope in.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-03 12:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-03 03:50 pm (UTC)