This ain't no self-insert fic.
This ain't no slash fic neither.
This is Top Dog.
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It's a long journey from London to the Highlands by train. Not as bad as it is in a car, but it's still at least eight hours cooling your ass in one place. Several games of cards broke out in the compartment, ending up with Harry and Artemis going head-to-head on a bluffing match that neither won while the twins attempted to chat Hermione up. Lunch was had near York as the train pounded through the English countryside, and Hermione discovered that Crunchy Frogs (a popular variety of snack food) are liable to hop away unless you keep an eye on them; the border vanished behind at about five in the afternoon. Shortly before Glenfinnan the PA instructed all Hogwarts students to be ready to leave the train and to please have all personal belongings with them when they left the train; Blaise got his pack and departed the compartment, claiming he had to get his wheel from the guard's van.
Harry, looking smug, put his laptop back in his portable hole, and started to get into his trenchcoat.
"At fucking last." He said. "My tailbone feels like someone hit me in the arse with a baseball bat."
"Bork bork." Fred told him
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Disclaimer: One-wheeled motorcycles are neither safe nor sane. But they are definitely big and clever.
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Top Dog: Enter the Fnords
Book 1: Harry Johnson and the Headmaster's Socks.
A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic
Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace
Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH
This is not a drill.
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Chapter 4: So We're Finally There.
(In which our crew arrive at the Collegium, and bikers occur)
Exiting Glenfinnan railway station with the Luggage at her heels, Harry and Carla flanking her and the twins and Artemis behind her, several things caught Hermione's eye.
They were, to cut a long story short, bikers.
Many of them were quite distinctive bikers; although roughly half were getting aboard a variety of small bikes such as Honda CG125s, Vespa scooters and monkey bikes, there were a whole swarm of people getting onto (or rather into) things that looked like large wheels with the rider sat where the hub should be (one of which Blaise was wheeling) or bikes that hung suspended in thin air, or massive hulking things more like exceptionally ugly two-wheeled cruise missiles – even a couple of beat up old Harleys, and a machine that looked vaguely like a big dirtbike but had a single centrally-mounted wheel.
"What are those one-wheel-with-seat-in-middle things?" Hermione quietly asked. Harry chuckled.
"They're Fearchar Aoncuibheall monowheels, Amerai built." He said. "Two wheelers never really caught on in An Sleamhnaich. Then seventy-five Dachaigh Nuadh years ago, this guy called Fearchar Moireach took a 250cc 4-stroke methanol-burning lawn mower engine and stuck it into a frame inside the front wheel of a Frououshtequoo row-crop tractor. A few bits and bobs later, some parts to stop the thing gerbiling, and suddenly he had this product everyone wanted. Fearchar Motair build nearly fifty-seven thousand monowheels per year, mostly for the domestic market. Their top model has a 750cc engine kicking out a hundred and seventy-five brake horsepower, it's good for nearly a hundred and thirty miles per hour."
"That's even more mental than unimotorcyclists. At least they don't use their beasts on the road." Hermione muttered, then briefly shook her head. She turned her attention to the Luggage.
"I'd like my bike." She told it. It gave her a wooden look for a moment, then disgorged her Norton, which she proudly hefted down from the frame Jim Bollock and Crazy Stan had assembled to support it.
Harry admired it for a moment.
"A Norton Commando, it's a while since I saw one of those." He said. "I guess your father's the Granger, as in Jeff Granger, the chop builder?"
Hermione nodded.
"That's him." She said. "Hey, you're a biker, then?"
Harry raised a finger and smirked; he fiddled with his watch for a moment, rotating the bezel to a specific place then pressing a stud. There was a hiss and click, and a three-dimensional wireframe image of some sort of gigantic hulking motorcycle appeared in front of him; in a matter of a couple of split seconds the image filled in, becoming a very real and very solid gloss-black motorcycle; the suspension creaked as the massive weight of the machine settled on it. It looked like the hybrid offspring of a cruise missile, a predatory animal, and a Harley.
"Nice." Hermione said, somewhat overawed.
"She's a Fenrir-specification Corley Motors VX-21 Steel Wolf. There were only five others like her built, and only two of them are still in one piece." Harry bragged. A phalanx of monowheelers kickstarted their machines, as did the guy with the old wartime Harley.
Harry smirked, swung aboard, and kicked the starter.
The bike came to life with a roar and a blast of flame from it's gold adonised gunbarrel-like exhausts.
"Holy SHIT, is that what it looks like?" Someone yelled over the earth-shaking roar from the Fenrir; Harry and Hermione looked round, and found a small, skinny Asian-looking teenage boy dressed in blue leathers and wheeling a beat-up Suzuki GSXR750 towards them.
Harry nodded.
"She sure is!" he shouted back.
"God, she's a work of art!" the boy shouted.
"Sure is." Harry shouted back, then silenced everyone by blipping the Fenrir's throttle. The howl lifted dust from the tarmac; another blast of fire lept from the massive exhausts. The boy with the Gixer developed a silly grin and started yelling random gleeful noises.
Harry grinned; Carla climbed onto the cramped pillion seat, and wrapped her arms round him as he blipped the throttle again.
"Catch you at the Collegium!" he shouted, and threw the monster into gear. The other boy flung himself aboard his Gixer with a yelp, jamming his thumb against the starter as his ass hit the seat; Hermione swung onto her Norton and gave the kickstart a gentle boot, bringing forth that timeless throb of an old British traverse twin.
Seeing that the other two were ready, Harry grinned like a maniac and launched his ICBM of a bike, leaving the GSXR and the old Norton scrambling to keep up, as did a veritable fleet of monowheels.
Over by the station entrance, Fleggitt saw what was going on, yapped, triggered his own watch, madly scrambled into the eight-wheeled car that appeared as a result, and proceeded to do an enormous rolling burnout after the three bikes. Several other students did exactly the same thing.
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Harry was enjoying himself. Ever since he'd been given his Fenrir (talk about helluva way to show gratitude!) he'd been mad about riding the machine. Built on contract by New Australia's Corley Motors for the Champion of the Atlantean Empire, Cloud Squall himself, and derived from Corley's VX-21 Steel Wolf superbike design, the Fenrir was the highest performance production motorcycle ever built. Harry knew how lucky he was to own one; after all, only six had ever been built. The model was still on Corley's custom orders book (along with classics such as the old Twin Titan) but it cost more than an emperor's ransom due to the amount of state-of-the-art military tech jammed into it's armoured hide, so to cut a long story short none of the people who'd want one could afford one.
He became aware of a jet-like scream; he glanced at the rear view screen, and found himself confronted with a rapidly-approaching blood-red supercar he thought he recognised.
"Early Fliggitprob." He muttered. He'd been hanging around to let the Earther bikes keep up, but being overtaken by a fifteen thousand year old Frognorfian sports car would be just plain insulting.
So he opened the Fenrir's throttle to the endstop.
Just behind and to the left of him, Hermione went a bit bugeyed as the huge bike emitted an earthshaking BANG, spat fire and shot off like a very large black and chrome bullet.
Hermione very prudently decided to get the Hell out the way as the formerly orderly procession of vehicles from railway station to Collegium transformed itself into a chaotic impromptu Cannonball Run.
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It was odd, Hermione mused, that she drew so much attention. Most of the other students with bikes or cars had swarmed into the place before her; she was arriving just in front of the busses full of people who didn't have their own wheels (and Artemis's limo) which oddly enough meant that people's attention was directed her way.
As she pulled up between Harry's Fenrir and Blaise's monowheel, several people – many of them older or wearing backpatches – came over for a look at her bike. There were advantages to riding a machine that had been on the cover of Back Street Heroes.
The Norton had at one stage been her father's bike; when he built his current chop (Swamp Thing) he'd given the Norton to his daughter, mostly because he couldn't bear to sell the Norton – the two of them had been too far together – but he couldn't bear to see it rot in a shed.
She killed the engine; the timeless Brit-bike chug settled away as she pulled her helmet off.
"Kin'ell, what a beaut!" one of the admirers – a brawny young man about her own age with blazing red hair and beat-up clothing who'd baled out of a bus and came sprinting over to have a look – said, crouching down to get a better look at the airbrushed painting of triple Celtic knotwork dragons on the fuel tank. "My dad used to ride a Commando, but it didn't look half as good as this!" He had a Liverpool accent as intense as the twins.
"My dad built him." Hermione said. "I'm Hermione Granger, my dad's Jeff Granger, the chop builder. And yes my bike is Dragonheart, and yes he is a Back Street Heroes cover bike from three years ago."
"What a beaut!" the redhead enthused. "I'm Ron Weasely, pleased to meetcha. I love old British bikes, my dad is gonna give me his Commando once I pass my test."
"Are you related to Gred and Forge Weasely?" Harry asked.
Ron rolled his eyes. "They've been doing the name thing again? Yeah, they're me annoying big brothers. It's funny, really – it's supposed to be a little brother's job to be the annoying one. They make me feel redundant."
Harry chuckled. "I'm Harold Johnson, pleased to meet ya. Hey, and call me Harry, huh? Harold makes me sound like an Eton fuckhead."
"Good to-" Ron started, but broke off as he turned round and saw what Harry was sitting upon. "Holy SHIT! Is that what it looks like?"
Once again, the Fenrir took centre stage.
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"Hey, what's that noise?" Hermione asked. They'd been rejoined by Artemis, Fred and George; they were still hanging around the bikes. Course registration wasn't until Monday (today being Friday) and all that was left tonight was getting distributed between dormitories and dinner, and probably a lot of booze-related things, this being a college after all.
The noise Hermione was referencing was a distant rumble. It sounded a bit like a far-off jet aircraft.
"Sounds like a ship." Ron said, cocking his head.
"Yeah, fusion turbines." Harry mused, shutting his eyes for a moment. "I'm not sure what model… it sounds a bit like a Sulare heavy tug."
As he was speaking, the rumble grew to a roar.
"But not quite right." He said. "There should be more spaceframe harmonics."
The roar grew to a howl, and a massive steel-grey shape came slamming over the horizon, bringing a deep-toned scream that shook the ground and vibrated fillings out of teeth. The source of this noise looked a bit like a hybrid of a military transport aircraft and a fighter, only about four hundred feet long and studded with weapon-festooned turrets and jam-packed missile rails; the whole thing was a filthy shade of rust and dirt over matte grey paint, with the words BLINK DOG formed from ten foot tall cleaned sections along the sides.
Four massive fireballs erupted from the bellypan as it came to a halt in midair; these belches of flame were heralded by a differing-toned roar. A moment later, multiple blasts of blue fire leapt from the sides of the tail with a deep, percussive BANG; with that out the way, the aircraft deposited itself onto the sea of tarmac that extended out from the car park below the castle. The groan of springs was easily audible over the scream from the engines that were lowering the ship; a few moments later, more fireballs burst forth with another shattering BLAM.
"Interesting." Harry said as the howl faded. "She's a DX-32."
"What the fuck is that?" Hermione asked, seriously impressed by the dirty monster that was now looming over the bottom of the car park.
"The Mentler D-frame is the galaxy's second commonest model of starship; the DX is the heavy dropship version." Harry told her. "Only the Nergok Fnood number 7 frame outdoes the D-frame. The DX-32 is considered the galaxy's finest hot-rod frame, and those beauties are rare; out of two hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and sixteen produced, less than a thousand are still operational. You can tell the different models apart from the profile of the cockpit and tailfins; the '32 has stubby tailfins and a more bulbulous cockpit. All models of DX are heavy-duty tank transport dropships designed to shift a tank talon from deep space to surface in as little time as possible then act as field headquarters and fire support for the armoured unit, though in the Saotome Clanguard they are used to transport all types of surface-operation talon except from mech talons. The DX-32 is regarded as the ultimate classic."
"That's a starship?" Hermione asked. "I thought starships looked more like, I dunno, a tangle of tubes and girders and stuff?"
"Well, they need aerodynamics and heat shields if they're re-entry capable." Harry pointed out. "Being re-entry capable is part of the D-frame's design spec."
"LSS-17332 Blink Dog." Artemis said, lowering his field glasses. "Ring any bells?"
Harry, Blaise and the Weaselys all nodded.
"The LSS-17332 Blink Dog is the third greatest asteroid racer ever built." Fred told Artemis, sounding reproachful. "Funny – I thought she'd been scrapped years back."
"She was." Harry said. "Some fuckwit brought her down hard enough to distort her spine. Her drives were stripped out and she was left in the Dachaigh Nuadh boneyards… fucking shame. Thirty-five years ago she was bought for bugger all by a New Aussie who apparently had a warp drive on him. These days she's registered as a cargo vessel, but if you ask after top-notch blockade runners you're likely to get pointed towards the Blink Dog."
There was a juddering CRUNCH, and the Dog's nose ramp started to lower itself with a yowl of tortured hydraulics and corroded hinges; once it hit ground, a large and incredibly rusty pickup truck made it's way down.
"If she's a DX-32, someone's dropped the suspension." Blaise said. "She's lower than a DX-34."
Harry snorted.
"Dude, she's a hot-rod. Of course she's got lowered suspension. That's a bit like asking if a Kenti landwarrior knows how to shoot a grav rifle."
The rusty crewcab came rolling past, giving Hermione a closer look; it looked like a 1950's Caddilac reinvented as a double-cab pickup and given a thick jacket of jury-rigged repairs. It had tailfins, six square acres of chrome and a missing headlight. The front passenger door was a hole blocked by a couple of sheets of welded-on corrugated iron. The back axle was visibly bent. The tailgate was held closed by baler twine. The rear window was completely absent. The whole thing looked like it had just been dug up.
"Ye gods." Hermione said as the filth-coated monster came to a creaking rest just at the end of the line of bikes, jetcycles and monowheels. It had dropped what looked like a section of axle on it's way.
"Typical Holden Brigand Colonist." Harry told her.
"I don't think I want to know." Hermione remarked, dusting the back of her bike in case the monster's decay had infected it.
"The Holden Brigand," Harry continued, "Is the most famous New Australian pickup truck. It was in production between 1841 and 1856. The Colonist is the colonial model, so propelled by DC electric motors on the wheelhubs. Most Brigand Colonists are rust-buckets that haven't seen five minutes maintenance since the day they left the factory, and that thing looks to be a case in point."
"Don't knock the Beast, mate." The rusty monster's driver said, proving herself to be both Australian and female as she climbed out (it was hard to tell about the gender, but nothing male and human has a contralto voice) and gave her vehicle an affectionate slap on the bonnet, causing it to drop a shower of rust flakes. "She's a good old ute, mate." She was about five feet short, ginger, flat-chested and as plain as a slice of Hovis Brown; the only way to identify her gender was her voice and the fact she lacked a beard. She was dressed in a scruffy blue boiler suit, hiking boots and a battered Aussie bush hat.
"My description of the degree of wear and tear your vehicle has taken was not a criticism." Harry told her. "It was me being admiring, any vehicle still running while being that beat up would be impressive."
"I have to bash the Beast's powerpack with a lump hammer every time we're gonna use it, mate." A bearded version of the driver said, getting out of the passenger side through the hole that had once held a window; he had a resonant baritone voice and was wearing an ancient Merchant Navy captain's hat in addition to his boiler suit and boots. "Gudday, mate. Name's Bruce Walker, and that's me twin sister,"
"Alice Walker, mate." The driver said. "Gudday."
"So what am I, sliced ham?" a pleasant tenor voice asked as the beat-up ute's offside rear door swung open.
Hermione blinked, sincerely nonplussed, as she saw the owner of this voice.
For a start, and despite the tenor voice, this was a female person. She was obviously a Kenti – she shared the catlike face, digitigrade legs and bony wing-like things from Harry's photo of his mates. Her fur was jet black, she had a wry smile on her face, her eyes glittered green, and she was dressed in a pink crop-top, little black corset, digitigrade combat boots and ultra-short urban camouflage shorts. She was also about seven foot tall and extremely athletic; the scars that studded the backs of her knuckles marked her as a fighter, as did the sizeable handgun she had on her belt.
"Nope Nav, you're Tarai Riata T'rash'gal." Bruce told her. "You forgot your name or something? If you don't watch out you'll make a bloke worry about the environmental integrity of your brain, sheila."
"Bite me, Chief." Tarai snapped, giving him the finger. "Hey, and you guys? Call me Tara."
"Strewth, Nav." Alice grumbled. "No need to bite Bruce's head off."
"Why? It's not like he uses it."
"But he'd look kinda fucked up without one."
"True."
"So, you wanna introduce yourselves, peeps?" Bruce asked.
"I'll go one better than that." Harry said. "I'm Harry Johnson, that's Hermione Granger, this is my familiar Carla, that's Blaise Zabini, that's Ron Weasely, that's Fred Weasely, that's George Weasely, and here comes Artemis Fowl."
"Gudday." The three Blink Dog crewmembers chorused. Another rumble-roar-howl announced another starship arriving; this one was about the size and shape of an overgrown two-seater sports car.
"Crikey mate, that's an ADX-28 Titan!" Alice said.
"Which means?" Hermione asked.
"You don't know much, do you sheila? A sled is the starship equivalent of a Ferrari two-seater, right? Well, the ADX-28 is made for blokes who're too big to fit in any other sled."
The massive sled's cockpit hissed open, and out stepped a giant. Tara took one look at him and nearly fainted.
The weapon-festooned figure was obviously a Kenti; he had the cat-like face, the cat-like legs, the cat-like tail and the bony insectile wing things.
He was also nine and a half feet of surly-looking iron-hard muscle covered in wiry sand-brown fur, and was carrying enough firepower to start World Wars 3, 4 and 5 at the one go.
"Holy shit he's huge." Hermione whispered.
Harry's face split into a massive grin.
"ELA JAHI!" He shouted.
"SHIONRA!" the giant catman bellowed, spinning round; his voice was so deep it was like a diesel truck engine.
Hermione recognised him as soon as he turned round. He was the sandy-furred titan who was apparently Harry's best friend.
"S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath, as I live and breathe!" Harry continued, dashing over and proceeding to exuberantly pound on the catman's hulking shoulder. "Take a look at you, man! Every time I think I got out…"
"Good to see you, Johnson." S'tarak'hai replied, his broad grin showing a lot of razor-sharp dentistry; he slapped Harry on the back. "How're you doing, tough guy?"
"Pretty fucking good." Harry told him with a casual one-shouldered shrug; big man and giant catman started sauntering towards the people who'd been sharing Harry's compartment.
"Zarie sends her love." S'tarak'hai remarked, keeping a straight face. Harry rolled his eyes. "The squad's their usual selves, all gun and no brain. So, you wanna tell me how you got your hands on a CX21 Fenrir?"
"Aw, the bike's Cloud's way of saying thanks for what I did for his boss."
S'tarak'hai let out a low chuckle.
"You sure get around, Johnson."
"You know me, man. Frognorf today, the Imperial Throne tomorrow, Kendarat next week and Dachaigh Nuadh the week after that. Wherever there's people willing to pay by the ass kicked, I'm there."
"True." At that stage, S'tarak'hai noticed Tara, who was trying (and failing) to hide behind her crewmates. "Tarai. It's been a long time."
"Uh… hi, S'tarak'hai." Tara said, sounding freaked out. "You've grown."
"Time does that, as does cybernetics." S'tarak'hai said. "We need to talk."
"I guess." Tara whispered, staring at her feet.
"Now see here mate!" Bruce snapped, a hand on his gun. "I dunno where you get off coming over here and threatening my navigator, but-"
"It's cool, Chief." Tara snapped, glaring at him.
Bruce looked utterly confused. S'tarak'hai glared at him.
"Threaten Tarai?" he asked. "I'd do that as soon as you'd shoot your twin."
And, with that, the massive catman stormed off.
"That," Alice said, "Didn't go well. Who's that bloke, Nav? Your ex?"
Tara glared at her.
"That's S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath." Harry remarked. "Kendarat's finest. He's the son of High Alpha K'tarag'jal R'hara'tath, and I hear rumours he's K'tarag'jal's heir. I definitely know he's one of the First Legion's best squad leaders."
"Which means?" Hermione asked.
Harry sighed.
"The First Legion is the Kenti equivalent of 22 Special Air Service. K'tarag'jal R'hara'tath is the personal bodyguard of Queen Rialia the Twelfth, the current ruling queen of the Thousand Kingdoms. And in case you were wondering, Talon Alpha First Class S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath is the finest sentient being I have ever met, and one of the vanishingly few people I trust."
"I don't blame you." Tara said in a soft voice, still staring at her feet.
"This is starting to disturb me, Nav." Bruce said. "Look, I ain't gonna press, but if you want to talk, you know where to find me and you know where to find Alice, right? And you know we'll keep things to ourselves."
"Thanks, Chief." Tara said. "I just… I don't think I'm ready to talk to anyone about this."
Alice rested a hand on her shoulder.
"We're the Blink Doggers and you're one of us, Nav. We're right by you, no worries. Don't ever forget that."
"Thanks, Skipper."
"No worries."
"That bloke didn't do anything bad to you, did he?" Bruce checked, once again fingering his gun.
"It's not like that, Chief." Tara assured.
Bruce nodded, his look distant.
"Good."
End chapter.
General revision 18/ April /07, improvements to formatting.
Further general revision 25/April/07, more improvements to formatting.
Usual chances of response to flames apply.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
Glenfinnan is the station on the West Highland Line that was used in the Harry Potter movies.
Corley Motors comes from the old LucasArts adventure game 'Full Throttle'. I needed a motorcycle manufacturer that doesn't exist on real-world Earth, and they were the first one out the References Hat.
TRANSLATIONS
Aoncuibheall : One-wheel
An Sleamhnaich : The Skid
Dachaigh Nuadh : New Home
'Ela Jahi' times 'Shionra!' translates roughly as 'First Legion' times 'Ooh-rah!'
Links for monowheels, unimotorcycles, the Norton Commando and Harry's bike posted to link thread on Top Dog forums, see my profile.
OMAKE OMAKE OMAKE OMAKE OMAKE OMAKE FNORD
Voldemort was dead.
He was indeed an ex-Dark Lord.
He was pushing up daisies.
He had gone to a worse place.
This did of course leave his unfortunate executioner to confront a much more feared entity; the press.
"How did you kill You-Know-Who, Mr Potter?" Rita Skeeter squalled.
"With an AK." Harry said.
There was a frozen silence.
"An AK?"
"An AK."
"You… used an Unforgivable?"
"That's not what I said. I said I used an AK."
"But that's the Killing Curse!" Someone complained.
Harry looked annoyed and pulled an automatic rifle out of under the table.
"No it's not." he said. "I shot Voldemort in the face with this; it's a Kalashnikov AK47. Mr Blood Supremacist Moron didn't do anything to defend himself against little bits of lead travelling faster than the speed of sound."
(AN: I find referring to the Av Kav as 'AK' comical, because in my mind an AK comes with Kalashnikov markings. Whenever someone's described as 'hit with an AK' in Potter fics, I have visions of Soviet rifles…)