"Alright, touch!"

"Bind…!"

"...engage!"

Sixteen bodies crashed into each other with the force of a small explosion. It was the last play of the morning, and the purpose was simple; push the other bastards back. An oval-shaped ball tumbled in from the side to be welcomed by a barrage of kicks, each attempting to scrape it out from the centre. The frantic scramble reduced the grass underfoot to dust but until either the ball was freed or the scrum collapsed, nothing would cease.

With one last burst of strength, the men in red heaved against their opponents in blue. The ball finally burst out of one end, to be instantly scooped up by the halfback. He stumbled, just momentarily, and hurled it behind him before any blue shirts could grab at it.

As the ball recycled back from player to player, the blue team's defences were stretched wide. They needed to create a gap to keep the ball advancing, and their confidence grew with every successful pass. So long as they kept control of the ball, and the game, they could do it. It was all just a matter of discipline.

The ball span left and right between the red shirts, fuelling the hope that a "fast and furious" play through would tire out their blue shirted opponents. Yet the blues were not so easily discouraged, and kept meeting the red offence with equal determination and powerful tackles, meriting just enough strength to hold off the red assault.

And then it happened.

A furious lunge to the legs of the red player in possession brought him down. He faltered and toppled over, bringing his attacker with him. But the young man's instincts held true, and knowing it was the only option to keep the momentum alive, he wrenched his upper body around and pot-passed it upwards to the nearest of his team members.

A red player's arms stretched out to catch the ball tumbling towards him, but from nowhere, a streak of blue intercepted and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

The scattering of spectators cheered, tension swelling like a balloon around the modest grounds. Blue number fifteen was a blur as he charged down the field, side-stepping a valiant, yet ultimately flawed tackle by Red twelve.

Arcing off towards a corner in an effort to evade another red challenger, the fullback lunged for the fabled try line at the end of the pitch. Arms ensnared around his waist, desperate to drag him into touch, but the corner was within his reach…

He was going to cross that line.

He was going to win this game!

Ball in one hand, he stretched his body out as far as it would allow. Pain splintered through his limbs, but blue number fifteen managed to smack the ball down onto the grass. In the same movement, he was floored, his body thudding into the dusty ground. The ball had touched the white painted grass, he knew it had, yet he still could not fight off a rise of anxiety. Had the ball been safely in position before, or after, his body was wrenched into the purgatory known as 'touch'?

It was the referee's decision. With the blues down 22-18, and no time left on the clock, the weight of the impending judgement felt heavier than any onslaught of enemy players.

"What do you reckon?" The referee muttered to the touch judge, who grimaced back. Blue number fifteen squashed the ball firmly into the white painted grass, as if keeping it there would somehow help his case. He was well aware that one of his legs, and possibly an elbow, had however been forced into touch. But there was always a dim hope, right?

But Blue number fifteen didn't like the look on the referee's face.

"Sorry Grant," the referee grimaced. "Can't allow this one, mate."

Three shrill blasts escaped the referee's whistle, and polite applause escaped the smattering of watchers. It was over. It was bloody over.

"...bugger." He groaned, having come so close to victory. Pushing himself off the grass, he was greeted by a hand in a red jersey.

"Almost." His opponent grinned, helping him back to his feet.

"You lucky bastard." Grant shoved his red counterpart playfully.

"I'm not the bastard. It's your bloody feet, ya drongo!"

"Well these bloody feet'll be kicking you." His accent lilted, and he chased his opposite number across the field towards the changing rooms. "Oi! Get back here and lemme punch ya!" Grant chuckled, pursuing his exhausted counterpart across the pitch. He was forced to stumble to a halt however, when met with an unexpected sight.

"Huh? Izzy? That you?"

A young girl span around in reaction to his voice. "Awha?"

"Hey, there! You doing okay?" Grant asked of her. Seeming not to recognise him immediately, she widened her eyes in surprise.

"Umm… Grant?"

"Heyyy, you remembered!" He smiled, the wave of relief visibly washing over him. "So you read your diary this morning?"

He wanted to approach her, but forced himself not to. She could be… unstable sometimes, as the doctor so candidly told him.

"Mhmm!" Izzy answered him with a timid nod, "I-I… I read it all."

"Already?" Grant was stunned. "Wow. You're getting quick. Do you have any questions?"

"Umm…" She mumbled, her wide eyes glancing up at his towering figure. "D-did-"

"-I mind doing this all the time?" Grant 'finished' her question for her, obliviously. "Nah, of course not! Anything to help you, sis!"

"N-no, sorry." Izzy shook her head. "D-did you win your game?"

"Ohhh…" Grant couldn't help but chuckle. "Nah, sadly we lost it. Really close one, though."

"Aww, that's a shame." Izzy offered a tiny smile. "I guess I'll have to throw these away, then."

Only now did Grant notice the basket in her arms. Complete with the little chequered picnic blanket and everything, the sight was almost like something out of a fairy tale.

"Are those…?" He gasped, his eyes bulging.

"Ayup!" A rare hint of confidence crept into the young girl's voice. "I made cupcakes! They're n-not very good, and I burned them a little, but… chocolate?"

Grant suddenly began hopping on the spot, "Ooh, ooh ooh! M-may I?"

"O-of course!" She smiled, removing the cloth from her basket and unveiling a steady thirty cupcakes to the world.

"Sweet!" Grant cried, grabbing at least three cupcakes with little hesitation. "HEY GUYS, CUPCAKES."

"BLOODY YES!"

It was amazing the effect free food had on a team of exhausted and muddy rugby players. The siblings were swarmed within moments by a bunch of the politest six-foot tall, built-like-a-tank young men in existence.

"Oh wow, these are great!"

"Mean cupcakes, Isabelle!"

"You should sell these! Seriously!"

"W-well, umm…" Isabelle was flattered, even going so far as to blush under the weight of all these compliments. "Th-thank-"

And as quickly as the mob had arrived, they'd disappeared again, leaving Isabelle with one and a half cupcakes remaining, and an equally stunned brother.

"…oh. They're gone."

"I'd take it as a compliment, Izz." Grant chuckled. "They're off the field, so their brains have stopped working."

"I suppose…" Isabelle forced a smile. "Oh! That reminds me! A thing came for you!"

"Huh? A thing for me?"

Grant frowned. He rarely had the funds to afford anything that wasn't either rent or food, and what little money he did keep spare went to bolstering whatever cute and fluffy obsessions Isabelle was cycling through. And he hadn't ordered her anything recently... had he?

Izzy handed him over a slightly battered parcel. The brown packing paper was sporting a bright red ream of tape around one end, suggesting it had been opened at the airport. Obviously from another country. And he almost never had the funds to import something, least of all a recollection of doing it.

"International?" He muttered to himself as he turned the package over a few times. But curiosity was a different beast to caution, and he found himself tearing off the tape without a second thought. Inside he found what appeared to be a watch, of all things. The papers were instantly discarded into the nearest waste bin.

"Umm… shouldn't you read those?" Isabella asked, her concern perfectly reasonable.

"Ehh, it's only a watch, Izz. I'll be fine." Grant 'justified' his actions, promptly adjusting the strap on the watch so it fit around his wrist. "See? Nothing wrong with it."

"B-but what if it has weird functions or something?"

"There's buttons on the side here. I'll figure it out." Grant clapped a heavy hand on his sister's shoulder. "Don't you worry, Izzy Bee. Blokes have been figuring things out without manuals for thousands of years. It's how we function."

"But what if you break it?"

"Then I lose a free watch. I'm not all that keen on the colour, so it's no worries there."

"I guess…"

Isabelle cast a weary smile at her brother's overconfidence, but this wasn't something she was exactly a stranger to. A lack of money often required him to undertake DIY tasks himself, and the results were usually… rustic, to say the least.

Not once had he ever read a manual, though. That was true at least. Through his usual methods of shouting, 'experimenting', injuring himself, and shouting some more, her brother would always pull through.

And sure enough…

'Beep beep beep!'

"Heh. See? No instructions needed." Grant smirked to himself. Clenching the fist of his left arm, his newly acquired wristwatch shone in the morning sunlight.

"Alright, I guess I'd better go get changed or something." He said, bringing his little sister in close for a hug. "I'll be right out in a few moments, okay Izz? Don't you run off without me!"

"Okeydokey!" Isabelle smiled warmly. Grant gave her a half a wave on his way back to the changing rooms, and the watch on his arm continued to bleep at him.


A bright yellow umbrella fluttered into shape as she stepped outside, its cartoon lion protecting her from the dreary weather. Bundled up in a warm hoodie, the young redhead span around repeatedly, attempting to find good signal.

"...yes? That you, Da? A'right, I can hear ya now."

With an umbrella in one hand, her phone in the other, and a bag full of shopping hanging precariously from the umbrella's curved handle, the teenager strained to understand the crackling on the other end of the phone. Splishing through the puddles, the fierce weather was just another day for her.

"Huh? Of course I'm fine! What's gonna happen?"

"Look, I know ye worry Da, but it's just a bit of rain. If you come save me every time I get into trouble, I'll never be able to look after m'self, will I?"

"...oh, feck off, I did not sound like Mam!"

"Now just ye listen a moment, Caitlyn…" her father's voice was barely audible through the static, "I'm only thinkin' about what's best-"

"Look, I know ye want me te train under you, become your apprentice, all that shite," Caitlyn interrupted her dad's 'advice', "but I just don't see me usin' any of that stuff in the future. Sure, fixin' t'ings is cool, but-"

Kicking a pebble with her shoe, it skittered across the path, creating small ripples in its wake. The rain continued to pelt down, but her spirits were high; after all, work was over, and she was heading home, with the inviting prospect of a day off tomorrow. Despite the dark skies and shitey weather.

"...you got a what?" She muttered into the phone. Certain her ears were betraying her, she actually stopped in her tracks to make sure she heard properly.

"A Harley?! You're kiddin' me! A'right Da, I'll be right there! Don't touch it 'til I get home, got it?!"

Several loud noises crashed through the phone's receiver, forcing the teen to hold it at arm's length. Words soon followed.

"YA FECKIN' BEAUTY!"

"...Granda found the whiskey, didn't he?"

Shaking her head fondly, she sighed, "I'll see ya soon, Da," and hung up the phone. Sliding it shut and into the pocket of her apron, the young woman picked up her pace, walking with caution along the muddy verges. While her commute home was hardly a safe one, in darkness of night along single track roads, she couldn't just bug her father for help every time. He had enough on his plate with his mechanic work. So she made sure to stay out of trouble. But of course, he just worried more.

"If I can survive the crazy drivers here, I can handle anything." She muttered to herself, standing well back as one of said crazy drivers careered around a tight corner at breakneck speed, spattering mud over her trainers. Her lips tightened a little – these shoes cost two weeks' savings! – but then again, it was only a little mud. It would wash out.

The huge puddle that was just splashed at her by a passing car? Not so much. Those nice new shoes would likely need a bit more than just a wash now, but Caitlyn noticed with a sinking feeling that it was her shopping which took the full force of the splash.

"Ohh, ye bastard-" She groaned, stepping clear of the road and onto the lumpy, squishy grass, and peering into her shopping bag. Most of it was in packets or plastic, so her necessities – the bread, the milk, the cheese - were all fine. The potatoes were used to being a little damp, so they would survive too. The suspicious package she received earlier today wasn't so used to getting wet, however.

Addressed directly to her, the postie was lucky to catch her amidst her morning commute; otherwise it would've reached an empty house, and likely gone undelivered. Her neighbours were never sober enough to answer the door, so then it would've gone back to the post office, which was a good hour away on the bus, and the last thing she wanted to spend her one day off doing. Especially when her dad had a Harley they could both play around with. So maybe it wasn't so lucky after all, getting soaked and ruined like that.

The writing on it barely legible any more, she tore the soaked paper away, to make sure its contents were safe. Inside the packaging was a few sheets of paper and a… watch?

"The feck's this?" she grunted, snapping the device around her wrist and expecting it to do something. Unsurprisingly, it didn't.

She consulted the papers and attempted to decipher the rain stained letter. "Dear Miss Caitlyn Browne…" she read aloud to herself. "We're pleased t'inform ya that you've been chosen for – agh, it's hopeless. I can't read this."

Squelching along the muddy banks in her soaked trainers, she dropped the package and paperwork into the nearest rubbish thing, and instead resigned to what any self-respecting mechanic would do when confronted with a strange device; tinkering with it.

"How's it even…" Caitlyn muttered, prodding at various buttons along the device's side. Believing it to be a watch, she was hoping it would at least show her the time or light up or something. She huffed to herself. She would not allow herself to be outsmarted by a watch of all things. There hadn't been a piece of tech yet she couldn't figure out, and today was going to be no exception.

After pressing both the top and bottom buttons simultaneously, the tiny screen lit up.

"HAH!" She cried in exultance, only to stop and squint as the watch began to beep softly. Against the backdrop of a faintly glowing blue light, she picked out a single sentence. "Log…in?" Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. "How am I gonna get a Wi-Fi signal out here?"

Beyond figuring out exactly how she'd even be able to enter details like a username or something into hardware this basic, the young woman held her arm up high, wondering if perhaps all it needed was a phone signal. Even that was a struggle, out in the 'arse end of nowhere', as the local dialect dictated, but it was a common sight to see someone holding their phone up high, in the chance that it would grasp at a gleam of signal.

More cars splashed past on the tiny roads, paying no heed to the girl on the muddy verge with her arm up high. Whether it was too dark to pay proper attention, or such an accepted sight that the locals were simply used to it, it didn't matter. What did matter was the chorus of little beeps escaping from her new 'watch'.

"Finally…!" Caitlyn clenched a fist, if not solely for the ability to lower her arm again. Yet, unfortunately for her, examining the watch once again still didn't yield the time. Instead, little words wriggled their way across the screen.

"RUN – PROGRAM?"