April, 1995

They, whoever the mysterious they even are, had apparently decided to wait until Erik was eighteen before discharging him from government care. Erik would have preferred to have been allowed to leave when he had turned sixteen, but something about his "overtly aggressive nature" set loose in Germany didn't seem to sit well with the higher ups. And while they were hesitant when he was sixteen, they were sure and swift on his eighteenth birthday.

He was only a legal adult for thirty-five minutes before his most recent and final foster mother burst into his room and declared him no longer a charge of the state. Ursula, a heavyset woman with entirely too much make-up weighing down her eyelids, offered Erik a firm handshake and well wishes on his new journey.

At least Erik assumed that was what she had meant. Her butchered English was as bad as her Russian, and she was from there. Either way, he accepted whatever she had attempted to say, packed his handful of belongings into his pack, and didn't spare a look back as he left.

That afternoon, Erik adjusted his canvas knapsack over his left shoulder for the third time. It wasn't particularly heavy, he didn't own much, but he realized early on that his shoulders grew faster and broader than the rest of his lanky body, and as a result had to constantly loosen the leather straps before he burst right through them.

It didn't matter, though. He had finally arrived at his main destination: a recreational sports building that had recently added an ice rink. Erik couldn't feel happier about the prospect of playing hockey all day and night, free of charge, whenever he wanted. The thought made him giddy with excitement, and he was quick to take the stairs to the main building.

Erik made a beeline to what he assumed was an information center, and impatiently tapped a chipped fingernail atop the ceramic counter when the woman on the other side didn't acknowledge him. He shifted his weight from foot to foot before he finally cleared his throat.

"Excuse me?" German first. It was his most likely bet seeing as they were in Germany, but it was just his luck when she pouted and replied back in French. Erik rolled his eyes in annoyance, but switched to English. "Where do I sign up for hockey?"

Her pencil thin brows furrowed in confusion, and Erik resisted the urge to strangle her with the phone cord that was set ever-so-temptingly close to his elbow. "Hockey," he repeated, injecting phlegm into his voice in the hopes that it sounded French enough for her dainty ears.

It worked. Her green eyes lit up in recognition, and she twisted in her seat to point at a set of double doors behind her. Her peach colored lips produced words that he didn't quite grasp, and her hands start making wild motions in the air. It took him a minute, but he finally realized that she was giving him directions. He shook his head, and readjusted his knapsack.

"Never mind," he muttered back in his native tongue. He made his way towards the door, and internally hoped that he would be able to find someone that spoke at least one of the four languages he knew before he got too turned around and started throwing punches in frustration.

It takes him over half an hour to realize that the rink is actually in a separate building behind the one he's wandering in, and only the sight of blindingly white ice keeps him from seeing red. He grins, hoists his knapsack a little further up, and catches sight of a man carrying a clipboard. He figures anyone carrying a clipboard at an ice rink must be in charge of something, so he strides forward and thrusts his hand out for a shake.

"Erik Lehnsherr," he states as the man bewilderingly clasps the hand. "I'm here to play hockey."

The man looks instantly relieved, and he visibly sags under Erik's confused stare. He shakes the board in his hand, and motions towards the empty rink.

"We needed one more member," he explains in clipped German. "I almost had to go and tell the boys that we wouldn't be forming our own recreational team."

Erik's previous grin returned in full force. "Well, I'm your man."

TBC...

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