Chapter Text
Many of the Mustangs were return campers, and they were quick to assist the new kids among them with learning the ins and outs of Rebel Ranch. However, they weren’t the easiest group to work with. Consisting of preteens and those in their first year of being a teenager, they were right at that age where puberty was hitting and emotions were starting to run amok. Zeb never knew whether they were going to wind up talking to him about Kids Incorporated and the Babysitters Club books or Boyz II Men and Victoria’s Secret. Trying to relate to them by recalling his experiences at that age wasn’t always useful; sometimes it made him realize that he had grown up faster than maybe he should have, although that wasn’t anyone in particular’s fault. Unless I want teh blame meh parents for dyin’ in a car accident, Zeb thought grimly as he checked the tack on each horse that was being led up to him.
“Yeh need teh tighten yer cinch there,” Zeb instructed the 11-year-old boy who had just approached with a chunky, round-barreled bay appaloosa gelding. Gungi, whom Zeb recognized as being a new camper last year, had correctly tacked his horse up, but was now struggling to tighten the important strap that actually held the saddle on.
“Loosen this up first, ‘n then pull tha’ straps tighter,” Zeb explained, loosening the half-hitch knot first before pulling on the latigo’s straps. The brown-haired boy nodded silently, his eyes watching every movement.
“Got it?” Zeb said, putting the tail of the latigo back in it’s keeper. Gungi nodded and smiled. “Got it, thank you Zeb!”
Zeb grinned and gave him a quick salute before turning his attention to the next horse and camper. This went on for another 10 minutes or so until every Mustang had walked their horse out from the barn to the covered pavilion that served as a mounting area (there was a set of stairs for those who needed it) and a second spot for last-minute safety checks. This building also had cement bunks (like the barn) with hitches attached to wooden posts; the barn crew tethered their mounts out here between rides. Occasionally camper horses would be hitched up here as well, for various reasons.
Quinlan Vos, who would be leading this trail ride, had mounted up on his chestnut mare Skorp-Ion and was heading to the main gates that lead to Rebel Ranch’s pastures and wooded property. The campers were fairly familiar with the pecking order that the horses had, and each camper took turns (sort of) moving their horse into the chain that was beginning to form behind Quin and Skorp-Ion. Migs, who was on a stocky grey Quarter horse gelding, had already moved towards the main gate and was patiently waiting for about half of the campers to move out. Seeing what would be the approximate middle of the line, Migs cued his horse to move out and alongside the kids. Zeb waited just long enough for the last few campers to queue up, and then he headed towards where his horse was tethered. He would be bringing up the rear on this ride. Hera and Kanan always had a lead rider and a tail rider no matter how small the group; groups of 10-15 got a lead rider, a tail rider, and a third flanking rider. If the group was larger, additional flanking riders would be added. During summer camp, if the camp counselors were decent riders, they would accompany their campers as flank riders; if not, they would either stay back at the Ranchhouse or ride in line with the campers.
The last horse remaining in the pavilion was a stocky, 17 hand, jet black, Percheron-Quarter horse mix that had two white socks on his forelegs and a large amount of white on one side of his face. Phantom nickered as he saw his partner approach.
“Work first, pal, cookies later,” Zeb laughed, giving the gelding a heavy pat on the neck before checking (and tightening) the girth. Then, placing his left foot in the left stirrup and getting a grip on the saddle horn with his left hand, Zeb smoothly lifted himself up and plopped himself into the weathered leather saddle’s seat. Reaching far forward, Zeb unsnapped the rope hooked to Phantom’s halter near the horse’s chin (Rebel Ranch kept halters on under the bridles for emergency purposes) and picked up his reins in his right hand. A quick glance around confirmed that all campers had moved out, so Zeb was good to go.
Cobb Vanth was standing at the double aluminum farm gates that stayed open during the day while trail rides were heading in and out. He was resting one arm on the top bar of the gate and leaning into it, watching the last camper ride by. As Zeb rode by to catch up with the group, Cobb called out, “Did you finish cleaning those latigos?”
“…Uh…I…well, yeh see...”
“That’s what I thought,” the older man said, his tone indicating that he was inwardly rolling his eyes even if he wasn’t outwardly doing so.
“That’s not meh fault!!!” Zeb exclaimed over his shoulder as Phantom continued down the trail.
Cobb shook his head and waved Zeb on.
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The canyon at Rebel Ranch was impressive; the sandstone walls had been cut and worn by the winding Whispering River, which dumped into Lake Bahryn. Looking at it now, one would think that “river” was a misnomer. Currently, a few feet of water about 10 feet wide flowed through the middle, with sandy banks that ranged from soft, gradual slopes to rocky, labyrinthine outcroppings. However, when large amounts of snow melted, or if there was a sudden spring or summer thunderstorm, the slow-flowing, shallow creek became a deep, torrential force to be reckoned with. Thankfully, multiple deer trails and a few trails made by the staff provided points of rapid egress up the canyon walls should one be caught in the bottom during a freak storm.
The trees, moss, and ferns that grew up on the walls gave the whole place a mystical, otherworldly, ancient feel; the cooler temperatures that hung about each crevice only added to the ambiance. The heavy growth of trees and shrubs near the lower entrance partially hid the opening from view, but the horses made their way down the bank, into the water, and upstream without any hesitation. There was a braided rope gate at this opening that Kanan had installed years ago that stretched across the creek at rider level; this had to be opened by the lead rider and closed by the tail rider. Zeb could do this in his sleep, as could Phantom. Maneuvering the big horse into position, Zeb grabbed the rope with his right hand and asked Phantom to move off to the left towards a large wooden post. With a sudden sharp 90 degree pivot, Zeb had the gelding spin so his right hand could reach out and hook the loop of the rope around an angled, metal bar that was driven into the post. Neither he, Kanan, nor Hera wanted any horses or children to accidently wander in should they manage to get this far out from the Ranchhouse.
What looked to be a narrow, watery passage through high sandstone walls suddenly expanded out about 20 yards in, looking to Zeb like some sort of natural cathedral. The scent of pine and fresh water was heavy in the air, and it always caused Zeb to take a long, deep breath. It was…peaceful. Relaxing. Ethereal. The laughter of the campers and occasional snorts of horses seemed right at home with the running water and singing birds. The horses wound through the bottom of the canyon, sometimes on the banks of the river, and other times through the river itself. The barn crew tried to limit their stops in here, since any staffer dismounting would have to stand in a significant amount of water. There were a few places where the banks were wide enough (and therefore the trail crossed on dry land) that loose girths, lost stirrups, and other issues could be addressed.
“HOLD!!!!” came Migs’ voice, and Zeb could see the line grind to a halt in front of him at one of these dry locations. Migs rode Juggernaut 5 up alongside a camper who was slightly out of Zeb’s line of sight. He dismounted and appeared to be adjusting the camper’s saddle. Zeb sighed inwardly—they’d be here for a few minutes-- and glanced around him. One of the man-made trails was off to his left. He couldn’t see the trail itself, per se, but the concave surface of the canyon wall here and the trail of sand extending into some dense foliage were well-known to him. No matter how many times he rode through this canyon, he always glanced at this spot.
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June, 1978
After a bumpy first few days, Zeb was determined to turn things around, soak up all the training that Kanan had to offer, and not be “that weird kid who didn’t know how to do anything”. He was near the end of the second week of camp and things were already getting better. For example, he hadn’t punched anyone for commenting on his clothes for three whole days now, and it had been two days since he had flipped someone off for staring too long at him. He didn’t exactly have other kids clamoring to sit next to him during meals, but they didn’t scoot away from him anymore when he sat down to eat or give him a wide berth on the sidewalks like he was contagious.
The lessons with Kanan had been fantastic, and it took every ounce of control to NOT act like he was overly excited to see the long-haired young man whenever he came across him. While he appreciated every session, the riding lessons and guitar lessons were by far his favorites. Even now, as Zeb rode his horse for the summer, Eopie, he was already beginning to feel comfortable in the saddle.
Eopie was a generally easy-going, 15 hand brown mustang mare with a white blaze and three white socks. She had a striking white freeze brand on her neck that most of the campers thought was “really nifty” and a plodding sort of gait. She did not like other horses riding up right behind her; therefore, she was frequently placed at the end of the riding order on the trail. Because of her leisurely stride, however, she would occasionally fall far enough behind the group that Zeb would be asked to trot her forward so they could catch up. He didn’t know any better at the time, but trotting to him felt like a blistering, flying pace and he imagined himself as Alec on the Black every time it happened.
It was early morning, but the heat and humidity were already high. Zeb had overheard one of the barn crew telling another staffer that they would be taking the canyon trail, and now he peered around each corner as the trail wound its way through the woods with baited breath. He had heard the return campers talking about how amazing this canyon was, and he had been looking forward to seeing it. The moment he saw it though, he knew it was everything he had hoped it would be: awe-inspiring, like being transported to some fantasy realm. His gran had read The Hobbit to him last year, and thoughts of Rivendell came to mind.
Eopie seemed to be enjoying the ambiance as well, for she had slowed down and was eyeing the water with more and more interest with each step. He tapped her sides gently with his heels and used the reins to pull her head up a bit.
“Nooooope….don’t yeh even think ‘bout it…” he said, a touch of good humor coming through his attempt at a stern voice. What he lacked in horsemanship experience he seemed to make up for with a strange, indescribable ability to sense what they were thinking. Good horse sense, Kanan had called it. Zeb’s good horse sense was telling him that the mare was about to take them both for a dunking. Eopie hesitated, as if trying to decide if this kid had the clout to tell her what to do. Zeb repeated his physical and verbal aids, and finally she relented and began to move forward again.
By now, the rest of the line was several horse lengths ahead, and occasionally they would disappear from view completely as they winded through the rocks, outcroppings, and around the canyon walls. Not knowing the trail well and being unable to see where he was going, Zeb was reluctant to ask Eopie to trot up. However, when the horses ahead of him again disappeared from view on the banks of the creek, he didn’t panic. He’d get there soon enough. Might as well relax and enjoy it. Or that was his plan, until a crashing noise sounded off to his left and near the spot where his group had last been seen. A big bay horse with a rider in a black shirt and tan riding breeches came out of the woods as if from the canyon wall itself, crossed the path, and then disappeared behind a rock formation. The sudden appearance of the horse and rider caused Eopie to startle sideways and make a half-hearted attempt to turn around. If Zeb had been in any saddle other than a western saddle that was good for his size, he would have been on the ground. A combination of saddle fit and grabbing the horn with his free hand kept him in place, allowing him to use the reins in his right hand to regain control of the spooked mare. Feeling shaken and uttering a few choice words under his breath, he urged the horse back towards the source of the commotion. Eopie moved forward, but slowly and with an abundance of caution. As she did so, she made very little noise, and Zeb could then make out the sound of several boys’ voices; one now on the other side of a rocky outcropping and on his right, two others up on the canyon wall in the brush and on his left.
“Christ, that mare is worthless!” A teenaged boy called out tersely from the rocky outcropping. Zeb wasn’t an expert on accents, but he recognized this as an upper-class, English-y one. Definitely not anyone he recognized from Rebel Ranch.
“She’s only 4, and she’s never been on a hack, Dima,” another boy, sounding about Zeb’s age, responded from the left side of the trail. He spoke in the same, cultured accent, but was clearly agitated.
“That much is obvious. At this rate, perhaps we’ll be back by tomorrow morning,” Dima said contemptuously.
A loud, blowing snort suddenly emanated from the brush; anyone unfamiliar with frightened horses would probably describe the vocalization as prehistoric.
“Come on, girl. Come on. It’s a bloody rock, Crseih…like the hundreds we just passed,” the younger boy coaxed, clearly trying to sound calm, but the stress in his voice was evident.
“Why on earth did Uncle Yularen ask YOU to take her out? Could he honestly not find someone better suited? What a waste of our time!”
Zeb scrunched his nose a bit at the sound of this new voice; another boy, perhaps a bit older than him, with an unusual English-y accent. The boy was putting extra emphasis on his “wh’s”, he dropped the “r” from “better”, and his t’s were very hard/clear. Whatever it was, it reminded Zeb of some of the actors and actresses in his Gran’s favorite old movies.
Apparently Dima was just as irritated with weird accent boy’s manner of speaking, for he immediately responded:
“Will you drop that ridiculous accent already?”
“I shan’t,” weird accent boy replied smugly.
Zeb had finally urged Eopie up on the trail far enough that he would be coming into their field of vision; unfortunately, the mare named Crseih chose that exact moment to launch forward past the horse-eating rock. Zeb and Eopie both saw the muscular, thick and convex-necked steel-grey mare with mud-splattered legs heading right for them; there wasn’t enough time to pull out of the way. In the seconds before the impact, Zeb and Crseih’s rider made eye contact. The boy was about his age and of fair complexion, with tufts of dark reddish-blond (damp) hair poking out from under his velvet English riding helmet. He had a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose that extended onto his very flushed upper cheeks, and beads of sweat were running down his forehead. The fear that Zeb was feeling in that moment was reflected back at him in the boy’s amber eyes.
Crseih’s solid chest hit Eopie’s left shoulder directly in front of Zeb’s leg; Eopie let out a high-pitched squeal and, with her ears flattened back, turned and tried to take a bite out of her assaulter. Zeb frantically tried to use the reins to pull Eopie’s head in the opposite direction of the grey mare to little effect; the blond boy said a slew of words to his own partially-rearing horse in a language that Zeb didn’t recognize mixed with words that he did recognize, like kriffing Christ almighty and goddamn. What the boy wasn’t doing was much of anything with his reins. Why isn’t he trying to pull his stupid horse away? Zeb wondered angrily as he continued to try to pull Eopie’s head to the right. But Eopie was now clamping her teeth into Crseih’s prominent neck with intermittent squeals of fury, and Crseih was struggling, head held high with the whites of her eyes showing, trying to figure out which way to escape.
It was at that moment that Zeb saw the riding crop that the boy had grasped in his right hand; he had let go of his right rein long enough to reach forward and bring the riding crop down across Eopie’s nose with a firm smack. Eopie shrieked and recoiled from the blow, sidestepping away so fast that Zeb was almost unseated for the second time that morning.
“WHAT THA KRIFFING HELL,” Zeb yelled, furious that this boy had chosen to hit Eopie instead of trying to steer his own horse away. “Don’t yeh touch her!!!!” he snarled.
The blond boy’s horse was dancing around a few paces away now, but the boy managed to somehow turn her without noticeable hand movement so he could face Zeb. He was wearing the same tan riding breeches (but with mud splatters) and black polo shirt that Dima was wearing, and Zeb could see “Empire Equestrian Centre” embroidered in white on the left side with some sort of hexagon-like symbol.
His eyes flashing dangerously, the boy retorted, “If you were at least marginally skilled at controlling your own horse I wouldn’t have needed to.”
“Yer stupid horse ran into mine; seems teh me you’re tha’ one without skill,” Zeb snapped. The boy’s comment had cut deep, but Zeb wasn’t about to show it.
A low, loud whistle emanated from the trail to Zeb’s left, and he saw the third rider—weird accent boy—moving into view. This boy definitely looked maybe a year or two older than the blond boy, appeared to have dark brown hair, was in the same uniform, and was riding a tall, leggy blood bay. He had a wicked grin on his face, as if he had just stolen someone’s lunch money.
“You going to take that poodoo Sasha?!” weird accent boy laughed, stopping his horse just short of the main trail. He was now peering at Zeb in an amused but analyzing fashion, his brown eyes bright and focused in a manner that made Zeb immediately wary. The boy co*cked his head slightly off to the side, still intently staring and not blinking. Like a predator, Zeb thought.
“He’s a cheeky little bastard, isn’t he…”
“Stay out of this, Maks. This is not your quarrel.” Dima said coolly to weird accent boy, but a smile played about his lips.
The blond boy—Sasha apparently—looked furiously at Zeb. “What would someone like you know about high level horsemanship…or…” he now glanced at Eopie with a look of utter disdain, “a quality horse?”
Zeb heard the inflection in Sasha’s voice when he said “you” and recognized it all too well. “Yeh got a problem with tha’ way I look? Yeh wanna come closer ‘n say that, or yeh scared I’ll mess up that pretty face of yers?
Sasha sneered, “I’m sure my face will be perfectly fine. Yours on the other hand…well, I’m afraid it can’t look much worse than it already does now, but I’ll give it a go.” He then urged Crseih forward somehow without kicking, as she took a few very reluctant steps towards Eopie. Eopie pinned her ears back in response and swung her head as if threatening to bite again.
Out of the corner of his eye, Zeb saw Dima and Maks move their horses in a manner that boxed him in, and he wanted to laugh. As if he was going to run away from a fight with some prissy, stuck-up kid! But when he saw the spark in Sasha’s eyes, and recognized that same excitement in the boy’s visage that he often felt before a good scuffle, Zeb got the uneasy feeling that Sasha knew more about fighting than his polished appearance implied. Zeb also realized at that moment that even if he won this fight, the other two boys probably weren’t going to just let him ride away. This was now a three against one, and that Dima kid looked like he was almost twice Zeb’s age and size. Oh well, too late now. Zeb thought, gritting his teeth. He’d had worse odds in a fight before and came out on top.
Crseih seemed to change her angle of approach without visibile instruction and was now closing in at a 90 degrees from Eopie’s side…temporarily out of Eopie’s teeth and kick range. Zeb readied himself to either block or get the first strike in as best he could. Fighting on horseback was a new one for him…maybe he should try pulling Sasha down to the ground…
“HEY!!!!” An adult man’s voice called out. “YOU’RE HOLDING UP THE LINE.” Carth Onasi and his horse (the now recovered Ebon Hawk) came trotting down the path, a less than pleased expression on his face. He eyed Zeb, then the other boys, and correctly assessed the situation. He rode up alongside Zeb, causing Sasha to retreat out of the way a few steps.
“Garazeb. Trot her up, please. We’re waiting on you,” Carth said sternly, giving a sharp thumbs back with his left hand, indicating the rest of the group behind him and out of sight.
Zeb, annoyed at having the opportunity to put these snobby boys in their place snatched away from him, gave Carth a glare but silently obeyed. As he and Eopie moved forward, Zeb glanced back at Sasha and flipped him off with his free left hand. He had the pleasure of seeing the blond boy’s face darken with a fresh wave of anger, but hearing Maks erupt with laughter soured the moment. He turned to face the trail ahead of him, fighting to keep his frustration and indignation contained. Carth’s raised voice could still be heard over Eopie’s hoofbeats in the sandy soil.
“That’s enough. Do not harass my campers, or your Uncle will hear from Ms. Syndulla.”
“Harass? You misunderstand. We were simply saying hello. A warm, friendly welcome, that‘s all,” Dima said, voice as smooth as silk but with a vaguely threatening undertone.
As Zeb trotted around a rock formation, he lost the ability to hear any more of the conversation.
Their uncle…based on what he had overheard, Zeb began to deduce that these boys were brothers (they did all look similar) and they were related to Col Yularen, the guy who owned the camp next door. He had heard only a little about that camp in the short amount of time that he had been at Rebel Ranch. It was a real uppity place, full of wealthy white people, apparently. And their stuck-up, fancy-talking kids.
Soon after Zeb had rejoined the rest of the group, he heard Carth ride up behind and then alongside him.
“Garazeb…”
“It’s Zeb…” Zeb growled under his breath.
Carth let out an exasperated sigh. He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead and fixed his new camper with a frown.
“Zeb…you’ve been doing pretty well these past few days getting along with others, and I know it hasn’t been easy for you. But those boys are not anyone you want to pick a fight with.”
Zeb was silent for a moment, unable to comprehend why this would be the case. “Who are they?”
Carth’s frown shifted to something more unreadable, but it was clear he was concerned.
“Those are the Kallus brothers, their Uncle owns Empire Equestrian Centre. They’re bad news, and you’d best avoid them.”
Zeb felt that swell of indignation rising back up, and a scoff escaped his lips before he could swallow it back down.
Giving him a warning look, Carth commented, “They won’t fight fair, or with just their fists. You need to leave them alone.” He then gave Ebon Hawk a gentle tap with his heels, and she broke back into a trot, passing Zeb and Eopie and moving more towards the side of the line.
Zeb considered his words, but spent the rest of the day and several days thereafter wishing he could have punched that Sasha squarely in the face and sent him bleeding and crying back to his rich Uncle and their fancy-ass camp.
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Present Day
“No, you have to ask it a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question,” a girl could be heard saying with all the pretentiousness of a 12-year-old who only learned something recently but was going to pretend that she knew it all along.
“Okay,” another girl said, undeterred by her error. “Will I marry Joey Lawrence?”
There was a shuffling sound.
Alexsandr Kallus opened an eye to see a gaggle of preteen girls in their designer swimsuits and coverups all sitting on pool chairs surrounding one girl in particular. That girl had a large plastic 8-ball that she was rotating around in her hand, before finally coming to a stop with the painted number side down in her palms.
“It says…’Outlook not so good’.”
“That…that doesn’t mean no, though, right? Will I at least guest star on Blossom so I can see him?”
Silly schoolgirl ridiculousness, Alex thought to himself, and he adjusted his position on his own pool chair to better see the pool.
It was an Olympic-sized pool with a shallow and deep end and five lanes set up for lap swimming; five additional lanes had been opened up for free swimming (open water) and diving. A line of floats on the open water side of the pool provided a safe line of demarcation from the deep end. Callista was tossing a beach ball to a small group of friends in the shallow end of the pool, her normally strawberry-blond ponytail soaked to a dark gold with water.
Her laughter carried across the water, and Alex knew that she might have already forgotten about Maksim. He hadn’t, though. There was no sign that his older brother had left the premises, even though it had now been over an hour and a half since he had arrived.
Helloooooo my friends, this is your favorite radio DJ, Hondo Ohnaka, hoping you’re enjoying this fine day. The pool radio was loud enough to be heard over the chatter and laughter of about 30 campers. We’re getting ready to kick off the end of the morning with some flashback tracks. This first one brings back so many memories. Oh, the stories I could tell. So many of them true.
Alex was settling back into his pool chair, trying to quell the anxiety that was brewing deep within, when he saw a group of people walking down the sidewalk that ran along one edge of the pool.
I never meant to be so bad to you
One thing I said that I would never do
A look from you and I would fall from grace
And that would wipe the smile right from my face
The leader of the group was significantly shorter than everyone else, at about 5’4”. Alex knew that Maks’ height was a constant sore point for him. Despite the heat of the late morning, Maks was wearing black jeans, a black belt with silver studs and scroll-like decorations, and black boots with silver-studded details. The only reason he probably wasn’t melting was that his loud, long-sleeved, patterned, orange/gold/red/coral shirt was made of very thin material like silk crepe de chine, and he had it partially unbuttoned from the top. He looked like he had just walked off the runway at a Versace show.
“Keep walking…,” Alex breathed to himself, and at first it looked like he’d get his wish.
“Arrggh,” exclaimed the nearby preteen girl holding the Magic 8-Ball, still engrossed in conversation with her friends. “It says, ‘My sources say no’…”
Maksim, who had been sauntering down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, glanced away from his companions and towards the pool…and slowed to a halt. His gaze appeared to be focused not on the pool full of children, but on the currently empty staff-only hot tubs that were adjacent to the shallow end. The groupies were only momentarily taken aback; they stopped walking, looked at Maks with some degree of confusion, but then shrugged it off and proceeded to talk amongst themselves. Alex didn’t recognize any of them, but they were well-dressed enough that he suspected he should. Probably some random kids of well-to-do hotel magistrates, fashion designers, and foreign diplomats. There was no sign of the two private security personnel that occasionally accompanied Maks. Maks gave a wave of his hand towards the dark-haired girl in the group and said something, but his attention still seemed to be on the hot tubs. It was honestly hard to tell what he was looking at, as he was sporting a pair of gold and black aviator sunglasses. The girl enthusiastically handed Maks the cigarette that she had just lit and seemed to hover for a moment, as if expecting praise…or even some acknowledgment. Getting none, she turned back to the rest of the group and acted as if she hadn’t just been ignored.
And when your looks are gone and you’re alone
How many nights you sit beside the phone
What were the things you wanted for yourself
Teenage ambitions you remember well
As the song’s chorus hit, Maks seemed to suddenly, and inexplicably, shift his gaze right towards Alex. Even though they both had sunglasses on, there was no way Alex could pretend that he hadn’t seen his brother. Maks gave a short, sharp jerk with his chin, the cigarette held between his lips, indicating his desire for a word or two.
Exhaling slowly, Alex stood up and began to make his way over towards the fence at his usual pace. He didn’t dare look to see where Callista was; that would only draw Maks’ attention to her, and Alex was hoping she’d see the encounter and find somewhere to lay low.
Maks took a couple hits on his cigarette before removing it from his mouth and calling out over the music, “By all means, Alex, take your kriffing time.”
The sound of a swear word, along with the surly tone of Maks’ voice and his unique accent, got the attention of some older teenage girls who had been sunbathing at that end of the pool. They all sat up and began to huddle together, eyeing both brothers approvingly and with a few giggles.
“I do not believe you are in charge of my schedule,” Alex said coolly. He didn’t want to antagonize Maks, but he also wasn’t about to let his brother walk all over him.
Stopping about a foot away from the ornate, 7-foot tall, white metal fence, Alex pulled his sunglasses off of his face and slid them onto his forehead. He hoped that his brother would follow suit. Maks was easier to read when you could see his eyes.
Maks slid his Versace shades up on his head, which in turn pulled his deep chestnut, John Bender-styled hair back away from his face. A solid chunk of his curtain bangs were asymmetrically bleached and then dyed blood-red. His brown eyes, which were lined smartly with black eyeliner, seemed to burn from within. His “unorthodox” looks were nothing new; after being summoned home last year, he had stepped off the plane from Italy brazenly sporting this dye job and hair length. It had, as expected, immediately started a verbal fight between Maks, Dima, and their parents about proper decorum and family grooming standards. In the end, Maks was allowed to keep his non-conformities, but at the cost of allowing himself to be engaged to Maketh Tua. Alex strongly suspected that his parents thought a good, arranged marriage with the Coruscanti governor’s daughter would rein in their errant son’s behavior…maybe get him to take his family duties more seriously and responsibly. Alex doubted very much that Maks had any intention of following through with the marriage.
A glint of metal in the sunlight drew Alex’s eyes to a small gold chain and medallion around his brother’s neck. The medallion had a dark amber center that appeared to have something etched into it, like a long-stemmed rose bud…or something…with some ribbon…but then something else much more striking caught his attention. Peeking out from under Maks’ shirt on the left side of his upper chest were the thick black lines of a tattoo. Alex could only see the edges of it, but it looked something like stylized spokes of a wheel with arrows at the ends of the spokes. Long colored hair, earrings, and eyeliner were one thing, but neither of their parents would ever turn a blind eye to a tattoo.
“Going to tattle on me again, are you?” Maks said viciously, realizing what Alex was looking at. He had a lip curl that would give Billy Idol a run for his money.
They were only words, but they were flung like javelins. Alex knew he was referencing the events following the World Polo Championships a few years ago. Maks had every right to still be angry, and Alex regretted his own actions, but his pride prevented an apology. And Maks had been then...and still was…an asshole.
“Trying to play at being all tough and bad boy now, are you?” Alex shot back, not wanting his brother to know how hard his verbal blow had hit.
Maks gave him a wicked grin, showing off a mouthful of brilliant white teeth. The radio station was softly playing some sort of commercial, so when Maks began to sing out of nowhere and very, very slowly stalk even closer to the fence, most people in the vicinity started watching.
“Well, I ain’t evil, I’m just good lookin’
Start a little fire, and baby start cookin’
I’m a hungry man, but I don’t want pizza
I’ll blow down your house,
And then I’m gonna eat ya!”
At the last minute, he raised his arms and slammed the long, vertical bars of the fence with the palms of both of his hands, making the girls nearby squeal in surprise at the sound and then giggle nervously. Alex managed to not flinch.
Maks was aware of the girls and their reactions to his theatricality, that much was clear, but his eyes never left Alex’s…it was if he was trying to bore into Alex’s soul.
Narrowing his own eyes, Alex snapped, “What do you want? You’re wasting my time.”
“Yes, your time is SO very valuable,” Maks jeered, but then he continued before Alex could respond.
“The new balls for Saturday’s game are arriving here, by mistake, this afternoon,” he said, now just sounding annoyed. “Tell Lyste to bring them to the field on Saturday.”
Alex stiffened. “I am not your errand boy. March yourself and your friends down to the practice arena and tell him yourself. He should be down there now.”
Maks’ lip curled again. “I, unlike you, do not have time. My presence is required elsewhere and I am already behind schedule. You, on the other hand, might as well make yourself useful.”
Alex was about to tell Maks where he could go when he saw his older brother’s countenance completely shift; while Maks was certainly being difficult and irritable, he wasn’t angry per se. But at that moment, a ripple of pure fury seemed to flow right through him, and he was now looking with murderous intent directly down and to Alex’s left.
Alex didn’t need to look to know that Callista was there, although seconds later he felt her trembling, cold fingers touch his bare lower back.
“So you think father’s restraining order will protect you if you come into MY space, do you…” Maks hissed, glaring at his little sister with such mal-intent that it was clear that if he could have incinerated her with his eyes, he would have.
“Enough.” Alex said firmly. “I will convey your message to Yogar. If you are so short on time, shouldn’t you be on your way?” He felt his muscles tense automatically, bracing for….anything, really.
Maks didn’t move, and for a few concerned seconds, Alex wondered if his brother had completely tuned him out. Maks slowly brought his cigarette to his lips, and took a long drag. His eyes never left Callista, nor did he blink or shift his stance. Suddenly, he pulled the still-lit cigarette from his mouth and flicked it directly at Callista’s face. It would have hit her squarely in the forehead if Alex hadn’t instinctively brought his arm up in a protective move, effectively blocking it.
Alex maintained his stance and eye contact, making it clear that he wasn’t backing down, but was offering his brother a graceful way out. Maks eventually…and surprisingly… relented.
“Tell Lyste to make sure they are properly inflated and ready to go,” he snapped at Alex, before adding menacingly to Callista, “If you cross my path again, you better hope you’re not alone.” Without waiting for any response, he turned back to his groupies (who were all standing there watching the interaction like it was a stage drama) and aggressively waved them forward. All of them jumped like he had cracked a whip, and then proceeded to move down the sidewalk at a much faster pace than they had arrived.
“That was very foolish,” Alex said sharply and with a touch of anger, turning towards Callie. “Do NOT test him; it will not always end well.”
Callie looked up at him, and despite the fact that she was clearly trembling and fighting back tears, she managed to blurt out, “…but…I need to not let him ruin my day, and I need to not let him bully and scare me, right?”
Alex instantly felt like bantha poodoo. Kneeling down next to her, he brushed a few stray hairs away from her face and tucked them behind her right ear.
“Correct, but right now a head-on confrontation will not achieve the results we want. It will only antagonize him. If you had stayed in the pool, he would have left you alone, “ Alex responded, more gently this time. “Promise me you will not try something like that again, especially if I am not around…”
Callista nodded, tears still welling up in her eyes, but not spilling over. He then gave her a smile, and gently patted her cheek. “Go play with your mates, hm?”
Callista nodded again, and gave her brother a weak smile. But before she turned back to the pool, she began to scan the ground around her feet. Finding the still-smoking cigarette butt, she picked it up like a dead bug and started to look for a more appropriate spot to place it.
“Give that here and get in the pool…” Alex sighed, holding out his hand. His sister did as she was told before she padded off into the crowd.
As he pinched the smoking butt out and looked for a safe place to dispose it, Alex was pleased to see that everyone seemed to have gone back to their business. It was just him, cleaning up Maks’ mess…as usual.
----------
It was right around noon when Alex made his way down to the polo arena; he had assumed (correctly) that Yogar would still be finishing a few things up. This particular building was actually a large barn with stalls and paddocks along one side, and a huge indoor arena on the other. Skylights added some natural light, and there were high panels behind the spectator seating that could be removed during nice weather. Although just about any equestrian activity could be performed in there, it had an absence of mirrors, curved corners, midline/quartermarks along the sides, and goal panels sunk into the opposing ends. There was a huge tack room full of polo gear, a changing room, a meeting room with a kitchen, and a hitting cage with a fairly realistic dummy horse. While capable of being multipurpose, this barn was designed for polo.
Col. Yularen had played polo when he was younger back in England, as had his father. Soon after arriving in the United States, Col. Yularen had continued to play on an amateur level, and once he became too busy running his new Empire Equestrian Centre, he still continued to support the sport. He heavily patronized the Coruscant Polo Club, and used his own stable as a place to grow up the next generation of polo players…hence this particular barn. The Col. had been therefore delighted when Maksim had taken an interest AND had the talent to become an accomplished player. Mr. and Mrs. Kallus had just been delighted to steer their 8-year-old son away from steeplechase racing. Maks also had a knack for recognizing that talent in others; at the age of 11 he had recruited an 8-year-old Yogar to Empire’s interscholastic summer polo team. That fall, Maks had easily coerced their mother into “sponsoring” Yogar indefinitely as a member of their private school’s interscholastic team. It was an expensive sport, and while Mr. and Mrs. Lyste had done well for themselves, the school’s tuition was a bit above their means (Yogar had scholarships that helped) and an expensive after-school sport was…not really an option. But Maks had a way of getting what he wanted, and he wanted Yogar on his team.
Gritting his teeth at the thought of this brother, Alex stepped inside the barn and made his way towards the arena. Maks had been right about Yogar, of course. Because of his insight, a barely 18-year-old Yogar had wound up playing for the USA team in the World Polo Championship just a few years ago in Germany, where they had won Gold. It should have been an amazing experience for everyone, but per his usual M.O., Maks had shown up and caused so much drama that he and Alex wound up in a fistfight at the after party. Alex had stormed out and hopped a red-eye flight home, he was so pissed. And then…well…he didn’t want to think about the poor decisions he had made at the moment.
Twenty-one-year-old Yogar Lyste was standing just inside the arena with one of the maintenance staff assigned to this particular barn; they appeared to be in discussion regarding the overhead lights, which Yogar was pointing at with a foot mallet. Yogar’s dark brown hair was ruffled awkwardly from being under a helmet, and his off-white practice polo whites and slate-grey camp uniform polo shirt were splotched with arena substrate. Seeing Alex enter, Lyste stopped mid-sentence and his serious, all-business visage melted into boyish enthusiasm.
“Alex!” Yogar then turned back to the barn staff, “I think you have what you require, yes? Please notify me promptly when they arrive.” The staffer nodded, to which Yogar nodded his thanks and then headed over towards Alex.
“You have a lunch break now?” Alex queried, as he waited.
“Ah, yes! About an hour and a half, then I have a beginner’s session and then that’s it for the day. You down for Pizza Hut lunch buffet?”
“Always,” Alex said, with a wry smile. Empire had a phenomenal dining facility, and the food was top notch. However, both Alex and Yogar had developed a taste for…more standard fare…while at college. After about a week of classy meals, they both craved something not served on fine china.
“You drive, I buy? “ Alex added.
“Sure, I parked by the paddocks,” Yogar said amicably. “But you have to get one of the Beauty and the Beast hand puppets for my mom; she only has Cogsworth right now, and she’s obsessed. If dad was more of a fan of Pizza Hut, I think she’d have them all by now. Probably even duplicates.”
It was unspoken, but the truth of the matter was that Alex’s car drew attention, especially in the nearby small town of Endor, and Alex wasn’t feeling that today. Yogar understood.
Yogar’s deep blue Mustang convertible was still a bit flashy by Endor standards, despite being an older ’89 model. However, by the time anyone of consequence noticed it, Alex and Yogar were usually done doing whatever it was they needed to do in that backwoods hick town.
“Aresko left a message for me with your uncle that tonight’s city practice was canceled, since we have the opening day game on Saturday,” Yogar said, pulling the keys out of his pocket. He also realized in that moment that he still had the foot mallet in his right hand.
“Er...” he looked back at the barn, then looked at his car, then shrugged at Alex before throwing the mallet on the floor in the back seat, leaving a streak of dirt on the white leather interior. He seemed slightly distracted as he sank down in the driver’s seat. Alex followed suit, squeezing into the passenger’s seat that was already set to his liking. The car fit Yogar’s 5’9” frame just fine, but at 6’2’, Alex needed the passenger seat back almost as far as it could go.
“…you sound like you don’t approve of that? Do you not think the team is ready?”
Yogar chewed on his lower lip, his storm-blue eyes focusing ahead on nothing in particular.
“Maks feels that the team is ready. Honestly…I feel like I could do better. I could use more practice time with all of them. Especially with Maks, now that he’s back. But he’s….”
Yogar seemed to be at a loss for words, and rested his hands on the steering wheel.
“A kriffing inconsiderate, self-centered, pain in the ass,” Alex finished for him.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Yogar began weakly, but Alex interrupted.
“Well, you should. He was traipsing around the property this morning for hours, with some tart and a bunch of groupies and had the nerve to tell me about some shipment of balls that are supposed to arrive here today instead of telling you.”
Yogar quickly turned toward Alex.
“Wait, Maks was here?” His eyes had instantly brightened, but that spark of joy was snuffed out by the realization that he had been avoided.
“Yes, and he couldn’t be bothered to tell you himself,” Alex repeated contemptuously.
Now Yogar looked distressed. “Well, he is really busy…and I’m the one who ordered them. Honestly, making sure we have up to date equipment and that it’s on ground and ready to go has been, well, quite the task. I probably messed up the shipping address…or something.”
Now it was Alex’s turn to be surprised.
“You’ve been inspecting the equipment and ordering replacements? By yourself? For the whole team? Yogar, you are not the team’s personal supply master! “ Alex said, incredulously.
Yogar visibly flinched, like he had just let something slip that he shouldn’t have, and turned the car on without responding. It was hard to tell if he was starting to sweat because of nerves, or because they were sitting outside in the heat of the day.
“Yogar. Look at me,” Alex ordered.
Yogar cranked the air up, turned the radio down slightly, and then risked a side glance at his best friend.
“Don’t let your feelings for him get in the way of your common sense,” Alex said sternly, “Don’t let him take advantage of you like this! He’ll run you into the ground without a second thought, and then leave you buried in the muck.”
Yogar’s cheeks flushed red as he started up the driveway.
“Um, well, uh, he and I are the only ones that really understand the equipment, and what we need, and how to maintain it…except for Farless…and uh…he’s not keen on either of us right now, because, well…you know…” his voice trailed off, his face now a vivid scarlet.
Alex fixed Yogar with one of his infamous glares while exhaling in exasperation. Yes, he did know. While Maks had been in living in Italy, he had played polo at first for Rome, and then eventually at the Pro level for several teams. Yogar had played for their private school, the Royal Imperial Academy, Greater Coruscant Area (RIA/GCA) and for Empire interscholastically until the day he graduated high school; he then moved on to the Coruscant Polo Club, where they had made him a backup player despite the fact that he had played at the World Polo Championship. It was a combination of old money snobbery and societal cliques; Yogar was probably the best player in the club, but he was not of their social standing, he did not have more than two quality polo ponies, nor was he chums with the club members. The team captain could have cared less about playing a good game of polo; mediocre polo was fine, as he preferred to focus on the social aspect of the sport.
Then about a year ago, Maks had bought the Coruscant Polo Club and expeditiously established himself as the team owner, the only Pro player on the team, and the team captain. During their first meeting, he informed them all that he had kicked the old captain off of the team and now was placing Yogar into the Number 2 player slot, resulting in A’Shar Farless being benched. As Yogar had told Alex, during the meeting Farless had tried to stick up for the former captain and himself…and this in of itself was problematic because Maks did not like to have his authority challenged. But when Farless had further voiced his concerns that Yogar had partially obtained the position due to his status as a friend of the family, Maks had violently lost his temper.
It had taken the whole team to pull Maks off of Farless, who somehow had managed to escape serious injury and only needed stitches afterwards. Most of the team had bruises and scrapes. What had finally stopped the fight was Maks realizing that he had accidently elbowed Yogar in the face, giving him a split lip that bled profusely. Maks had shaken the others off and promptly left the premises, leaving his new team to try to patch each other up and get Farless to a doctor.
When the club finally had their next team meeting, Maks made it clear that he would not be questioned ever again. Farless, who genuinely loved the sport, continued to attend meetings and practices although he kept his social interactions with both Yogar and Maks to a minimum. This was also the point where Maks seemed to have decided that he too would limit his interaction with Yogar, and he took to avoiding his former friend as much as possible. Probably thinks Yogar cramps his style, Alex had thought to himself at the time.
A normal person would have cut their losses, but Yogar…was steadfast. Alex could see the leather Argentinian pampeano belt bracelet on his friend’s left wrist as he drove; the colors were slightly faded with wear and time, but the shades and patterns of dark blues and cream were still striking. Yogar had purchased one for himself and a red and black one for Maks during the World Polo Championship, and he wore his religiously. Alex recalled seeing Maks wear his a few times, but not since he had returned home this past year.
Having glared now for a solid two minutes and not gotten a response, Alex tried again.
“Seriously, WHY are you continuing to do this? We have been through this, “ Alex gesticulated wildly “….so many times I can’t even recall the number!”
Yogar’s cheeks remained flushed, but he was now looking very determinedly at the road ahead of them. They both knew what “this” was.
Alex was about 11 years old when his best friend admitted to having a crush on a boy…and not just any boy, but Alex’s older brother whom they hung out with all the time. The Kallus family had some staunch views on many things due to a combination of religion and upbringing, and hom*osexuality was most definitely considered unacceptable behavior. Little Alex hadn’t really evaluated his own actual thoughts on this as he didn’t think he knew anyone who was gay, but now this “gay thing” had a face. And it was Yogar. Fortunately, Yogar had chosen to reveal his feelings while Alex was spending the night at his place, and it was equally fortunate that Yogar had previously discussed these feelings with his very open-minded parents. It was these same patient and understanding parents that were able to talk Alex down from his initial freak out. While it only took a week or two for little Alex to fully adjust and accept his friend, he gained a whole new level of understanding about two years later when he experienced his own gay crisis. However, adult Alex still to this date could not quite wrap his mind around Yogar’s ability to experience attraction with complete disregard to gender, or his determination to hold on to feelings for someone who was so obviously straight AND downright toxic.
When Yogar finally chose to speak, he did so in a soft, slightly embarrassed voice. “…I guess…I’m just hopeless like that…” He gave Alex a sad smile and a hint of a shrug.
“If he ever becomes aware of your feelings, he’s either going to react very poorly or he’s just going to use it against you to get whatever he wants!”
“Well, he’s been ignoring me and avoiding me, so I think we’re good there,” Yogar sighed wistfully. “Oh!,” he suddenly exclaimed, turning up the radio, “Here we are...some pure poetry!”
“I want you to know something, all right?” Yogar said, in perfect unison with the spoken part of the song, his eyes still on the road, but clearly envisioning someone in front of him.
“See, every day in my life without you, would be like, a hundred years. The distance between us, an ocean of tears. See, all the things I do for you, are for love. Dig it!”
Alex could not resist giving Yogar a full-body eye roll. “Christ, you ARE hopeless!”
Yogar laughed, and began to sing and sway along to the radio as they continued down the road leading to Endor.
And I want you to know I do it all for love…
Author’s notes
Okay, this one wasn’t as long as the last chapter, but it still clocks in as my second-longest chapter to date. I actually had more blocked out for this chapter, but I think it ended in a good spot. All righty then, author’s blurbs!
Yes, Phantom is named for the Phantom of the Opera AND the ship in Rebels ;)
The Rebel Ranch canyon, like most of the places in this story, is based on a real place. It really is a gorgeous sandstone canyon, and I had the pleasure of riding through it almost every day as my job for several years.
The horse Alex was riding and what the hell was going on there: Crseih is a Lusitano; this Portuguese horse breed is known for its thick, arched neck that is pretty pronounced and their thick manes and tails. Col. Yularen purchased this particular mare to be used in Empire’s dressage program, and he tasked Alex on that particular day to take the mare out on the trails to give her a mental break from the dressage ring. While 8-year-old Alex isn’t a high-level dressage rider, he is a very skilled horseman, even at his young age. Col. Yularen also knows that Alex is kind and patient with horses, and he trusts him to work with this green mare. Also…if Alex has his hands full, and Dima and Maks are forced to go at his pace, they are less likely to cause trouble as a group (Col. Yularen is a pretty smart cookie, although his plan to keep them from causing trouble didn’t quite work out this time). Zeb has never seen anyone riding English-style, he is only familiar with Western riding (cowboys, ect.). Therefore, he doesn’t understand (he literally doesn’t see) all the leg and seat aides that Alex is using to control Crseih. The horses of Rebel ranch primarily respond to neck reining and taps with the back of your heels, although if you sit deep and back in the saddle and bring your legs a bit forward, they’ll halt. In short…Zeb doesn’t understand Alex’s style of riding, Alex doesn’t understand Zeb’s style AND that he’s new to riding in general, so the misunderstandings have begun!
Maksim’s accent: Mr. and Mrs. Kallus are British, but all of their children were born in the United States. However, all of their children attend/attended very posh private schools (Royal Imperial Academy, Greater Coruscant Area) from preschool to high school that teach Received Pronunciation. Therefore, between the school’s English curriculum and the English spoken at home, Alex, Callista, and Dima all sound very British despite being first generation Americans. Yogar attends the same school, but his parents are first generation Americans (their parents are German). Therefore, while he predominately sounds like Alex, he does occasionally say things with an American accent as that is how his family speaks at home. Maks on the other hand, despite getting the same schooling as his siblings, chose to learn and adopt the Transatlantic or Mid-Atlantic accent. It comes from his obsession with old movies and musicals, so when he speaks, he sounds like an American actor from the Golden Age of Hollywood. If you’re not familiar with it, definitely check it out on YouTube/google it. It is a mix of British English and American (Eastern Seaboard) English, but it has some very distinct sounds that make it stand out. The one that most people are familiar with (and the one I used in this chapter) is the pronunciation of “wh” as “Hwa”. I think there’s an episode of Family Guy where Stewie is saying “Hweet Thins” (Wheat Thins) and it’s over-emphasized. The whole family gave up on correcting him long ago.
Special thanks to CynicalPhoenix here on Ao3 for coming up with Hondo as the local celebrity radio DJ; he’s perfect for it!
Alex’s nickname: While Mr. Kallus was born in England, his parents are Russian nobility and they were born circa 1890-1900. His grandparents and some immediate family members fled Russia with Mr. Kallus’ parents before the Russian Revolution of 1917. They took a fair amount of their wealth with them, and as they had a second home in England, this is where they settled. Their culture and religion were very important to them, so while they did successfully integrate into their new country, they also tried to retain as much of their Russian identity as possible. When Lady Satine married into this family, it was to combine two “old money, aristocratic families” for mutually beneficial purposes. The Kallus family lost track of their Russian estates after the revolution, and even though they had property in England, it had been purchased as more of a vacation home; it was never meant to be a grand estate. The Yularen family is an English Earldom, but neither the Col. or Satine are the firstborn child; so the estate doesn’t go to either of them (it wouldn’t go to Satine anyway, as she’s a girl. If you want to understand this travesty, watch Downton Abbey). So Mr. and Mrs. Kallus moved to the United States to focus on their careers and to build their own legacy there.
Anyway…where am I going with this? Dimitry Kallus II (Mr. Kallus) has maintained this Russian family heritage like his parents did: his children all speak Russian fluently, they are all Russian Orthodox, they have Russian things and have visited Russia, and the boys all have a Russian first name and a patronymic “middle” name. Callista is the only exception, and that was because Mr. and Mrs Kallus agreed that he could name any boys they had, and she could name the girls. The cool thing about Russian first names is that they have a full (formal) form used in formal situations, and then they have short (informal) forms that are used between well-acquainted people (relatives, friends). Also, there is a diminutive form which is a distinct kind of derivative that implies warmth/affection and is used by parents addressing children, very close relatives, and significant others. I’m not an expert in the Russian language, so please note that this is all a simplified explanation.
Maks, Dima, and Sasha are all short (informal) forms of Maksim, Dimitry, and Alexsandr. As little kids, the brothers went by the short forms in the privacy of their homes and when it was just them hanging out together in public (no one else really around). As they got older (around the time Zeb first encounters them), Dima began to go by Dima in a more public setting because it helps distinguish him from his father, who has the same first name. He will use Dimitry in more formal settings, like business situations. Maks also continues to go by his short form in public settings, but this is because people constantly have issues with pronouncing “Maksim” and “Maks” was easier (although he does get called “Max”, rhymes with “Tax”, on a regular basis which he does not like either). Alexsandr chose to use “Alex” as his short form, which he allows family and friends to use publicly. People who are not friends or family are asked to use Alexsandr. “Sasha” is now reserved as a very affectionate diminutive, and the only family member that currently uses it is Callista. In the flashback during this chapter, Maks accidently calls Alex “Sasha” in front of Zeb because they’re still in the process of making this switch, and Alex doesn’t notice because he’s a little busy being pissed at Zeb. Unfortunately, little Zeb now thinks that “Sasha” is this kid’s name. Which is not going to play out well for little Zeb in their next encounter. So when present-day Maks calls Alex over and refers to him as "Alex", it's because this short form is now ingrained in his head, and he'll only use “Sasha” when he's actually indicating affection (see the previous chapter!).
The World Polo Championships: This is a tournament held by the Federation of International Polo and is played by national teams. It’s kind of like the Olympics for polo, since polo isn’t (currently or even recently) considered an actual Olympic sport. The teams that play in the championships are the winners from the different zones (polo zones) of the world, and the players on the team have to apply (sort of try out, but it’s an application process that looks at their accomplishments in the sport to date, their potential, their ethics, and their horsemanship) to get a spot. It is strategically set up to focus on young, up-and-coming players in the sport (i.e., a bunch of polished professional players who are at the top of their game would not be eligible). So Maks, already being an established Pro-level player at the time, was not eligible to play in the 1989 games. The games are held about every 3-4 years (the last one was in 2022, and it was Spain vs the United States!), so Maks missed his window of opportunity. He’s bitter about that.
Well, stay tuned for some more summer camp fun, a polo game, and DRAMA in the next chapter!
Songs for Chapter 6 (can be found on YouTube Channel “A Summer Place: A Star Wars Rebels Fanfiction”):
Heat of the Moment by Asia
Feed My Frankenstein by Alice Cooper
All 4 Love by Color Me Badd
