I swear, I have a valid excuse for being gone for two years!

In a word; uni. I was working on getting into university (and I did, woo) so I've had so little time to myself anyway. Combine that with some constant minor health issues and you have one hell of a hiatus. Sososososososo sorry.

I'll be updating the other stories soon, since I've gotten back on my feet more or less. Thanks for being so patient!

Enjoy!

Mark braced himself against the giant papier-mâché rock as they were introduced to the audience. His skin was raw and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. The dark fur only made matters worse, attracting the beaming lights and cooking him from the inside out.

Flux, this costume was killing him.

'NAAAAAAAAAAAH-'

Well, it was too late to turn back now. He took a deep breath, adjusted his furry prison and grabbed the Simba plush. On his cue, he slowly strolled the length of the sculpture; his timing was perfect, his face was stoic, yet determined. In that moment, he was Rafiki, the great baboon.

Unfortunately, he misjudged the distance and walked straight off the edge of Pride Rock.

The wooden animal sculptures (apparently stolen from the Noah's Ark display at the local church) fell as he landed on a giraffe. Hastily sitting up, he grappled around for the young lion toy. He winced when a ball of stuffing caught his eye and followed the trail to where a mostly-decapitated Simba hung from the horn of a rhinoceros. Without thinking, Mark grabbed the corpse and held it in the air in an attempt to salvage the play. Luur growled as the audience gasped at the massacre.

Oh, he was so dead.

'Mark is so dead,' Mei seethed.

The newest Luur fangirl had been anticipating this performance, as were the rest of the footballers. In all honesty, most had forgotten that Mark was even in the play and, until the idiot had destroyed some key props in the first five minutes, all eyes were seeking out Luur. As the stagehands removed the remains of the wooden animals, the performers came up with colourful ways to punish the British lad, ranging from throwing him off Planet Akillian to planting a pair of Artegor's sunglasses in his locker and letting him die a slow, painful death. This appeared to startle Warren, who backed slowly out of the room after helping Micro-Ice stand after he had fallen over and was unable to get up, restricted by his attire.

'Mark isn't terribly popular, is he?' the Lightning's coach commented.

'Who's Mark?' Artegor asked, taking a sip of tea.

'No, I didn't break it, it was stolen… Yes, that's right… Why are you laughing?'

D'Jok huffed as Sinedd negotiated with the hotel about getting a new ceiling fan installed, and was clearly becoming increasingly frustrated. With a few choice curse words and promise to take the incident to the press if he didn't have a new fan in by the time he returned, he ended the call and crossed his arms.

'See? Even the hotel staff think you're a joke.'

'You're wearing a dress.'

'Shut up.'

The two strikers looked up as they heard slow footsteps approach them, watching in fascination as Micro-Ice waddled over. The poor thing had been wrestled into a gigantic dress that must have had at least three massive layers underneath, to the extent where any form of movement was virtually impossible. The large headdress was an interesting addition, topped only by the obscene amount of blush and eye shadow he was covered in.

'Your girlfriend is out of control,' Micro-Ice growled.

Sinedd cackled as the boy had to basically cancan over to them, all the while looking like an escaped doll from Nihlis' China collection. It seemed that D'Jok wasn't faring much better, but put on a brave face for his best friend, who had finally reached them.

'For the love of Wamba, shut your-'

There was a loud squeak as Micro-Ice hit the ground, though the impact was lowered significantly by the layers of frills.

'Do you know how long it took me to get up last time? You son of a Xenon!'

The Shadow walked away from the struggling teenager, telling D'Jok to help him up while he assembled the rest of the group for their show in an hour. The fuming redhead yanked his friend up and stormed after Sinedd to give him a piece of his mind. This left Micro-Ice to slowly make his way back to the room, grumbling and grunting as he went.

Aarch contemplated the screen as Luur delivered his final scene, leaving both the audience and performers in tears as he fell from the makeshift Pride Rock. The pure emotion that seeped from every pore of his being had left even Kernor in tears and, if he wasn't mistaken, cured the blindness of a nobleman visiting from the Ivo Moon. Performers from every team were already dubbing it Luur Day in honour of the Xenon.

None of that mattered, of course, because his rap was not going well.

He was to perform his rap after the final curtain in two hours, and he still had one measly verse. He was a proud man, but he was a sensible one; all of those hours spent agonising over motivational speeches could not be wasted. He was Aarch, he could do this.

He had to.

So, gathering his courage and pushing his pride to one side, he rose from the chair and grabbed his notes.

There was only one person who could help him now.

All in all, Mark supposed it could be worse.

Sure, he was strapped to a stretcher on his way to a hospital with a reputation more dubious than most. And yes, he was relatively useless with two broken legs. The oxygen mask was doing little for him since he was still in his furry, sweaty prison, but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was going to be picking stuffing out of his orifices for months, but that was fine, it wouldn't kill him.

Besides, he probably deserved it for putting Luur's big moment in jeopardy.

Being thrown from a papier-mâché rock to the other end of the stage hadn't been his finest moment, but he had certainly had worse, so he could hardly blame Luur. And-

The paramedic accidentally hit his head off the door of the ambulance and just like that, he was unconscious.

'Break a leg, Sinedd. Really, it would be a great help.'

'Threatened by a bit of competition, D'Jok?'

'You're no competition,' D'Jok scoffed, adjusting his gown a final time as they were introduced to the crowd.

'We'll see.'

Warren was in the midst of giving one of his speeches on how they had to work together for the good of the play, with the added bonus of it being in Shakespearean language. Micro-Ice's eyes were shining with unshed tears, having not quite grasped the complex language style yet.

Oh, it was on.