Chapter Text
If Desmond had to point when in time his life went downhill, he would have immediately picked the moment of his birth.
But things had been going well since he left his family and the family business. Well enough that Desmond actually thought things were looking up.
Of course, he just jinxed himself instead.
So if anyone was to ask Desmond when his life went downhill right now, it would be the closing of Bad Weather, the bar he worked for since he was eighteen years old because the police raided the damn bar for…
… illegal gambling on centaur races.
What the fuck.
Desmond was so annoyed.
Gambling on centaur races was legal. Hell, that was how most training center were able to keep their doors open for aspiring centaurs who wanted to race competitively for various reasons.
But his boss didn’t want to pay the 10% cut that the Centaur Racing Association, mostly known as CeRA, takes on every winning so he made his own ‘little’ gambling den in the VIP section of Bad Weather.
Desmond just thought those rooms were reserved for people who want to watch Centaur Racing while getting drunk without having to deal with the loud music that rattled the floor of the main section of the bar.
Fucking hell.
The only reason that he wasn’t arrested like his ex-boss was because the detective who interrogated him believed his surprise at hearing that there was illegal gambling happening on the VIP rooms of Bad Weather.
Surprise was an understatement though.
Desmond had been disappointed and found the entire thing ridiculous. He might have gone into a rant about how stupid it was to not use the official gambling ‘house’ just because they took 10% from all winnings because the centaurs get a cut on all bets made in their name and, with how short a centaur’s racing career was, that cut may very well be the only thing that would keep centaurs from going homeless after their racing career was over.
Since he was just the bartender, not once had he had any direct interaction with the VIP rooms which helped prove his innocence.
But Desmond knew that he came off as a very passionate centaur racing fan that found illegal gambling a sin punishable by death.
(He cannot stress how much he wasn’t a fan but, at the same time, he wasn’t going to try and dissuade any help he got to not be thrown into jail.)
Honestly, Desmond was just so fucking annoyed that he was suddenly unemployed because his ex-boss had a crippling gambling addiction.
All for ten fucking percent.
If he could, he would throw bottles of the most expensive liquors they had in the bar just to give his ex-boss a big fuck you.
Unfortunately, the entirety of Bad Weather was still under police custody.
Now, here he was…
A month after the closure of Bad Weather, unemployed and quickly burning his savings to pay for rent and utilities.
Oh and an unhealthy amount of cheap instant noodles.
His current job interview average was one interview a day and there were a few who wanted to hire him but…
None of them provided a salary that would cover his monthly expenses (even if he was to just eat instant noodles each day) which meant he would have to get two jobs and…
Desmond wasn’t that desperate yet.
Well…
If this second month turned out to be a bust, he might just become that desperate…
It was by luck that he met the inspector that was in charge of his previous employment’s case. He just finished a job interview in this nice coffee shop and the owner had been apologetic when their talk fell thru because of the salary.
It was a nice coffee shop but, yeah…
Desmond was definitely not going to work there for a college student’s part-time salary.
Even if they had a ‘one coffee free every day’ policy for their employees.
Desmond had to go through coffee withdrawal because coffee was one of the things he had to stop buying to try and save up as much as he could and, yeah, getting his coffee fix was low in his list of ‘things I need to keep me alive’ right now.
“Hey, Miles!”
Desmond didn’t want to acknowledge the inspector. He didn’t want to talk about centaur racing or his ex-boss’ stupid choices in life.
He was still bitter over that because he really thought his ex-boss understood how many of his employees were surviving because of Bad Weather.
Then again…
Desmond realized that the illegal gambling ring in Bad Weather might be why they were able to receive a much higher than usual salary. Something he only realized after trying his luck on other bars here in New York.
Ugh.
Desmond had survived by receiving money that took advantages of centaurs.
How ironically disgusting.
“Hello, Detective Hassan.” Desmond greeted politely because he wasn’t a rude asshole even if he just wanted to go home and wallow in self-pity while looking at job openings online.
“Hey. So…” Detective Hassan took out a piece of folded paper as she asked, “I remembered the way you talk about centaurs and you sound like you know a thing or two about helping them. Have you worked in a training center before?”
Desmond kept his face relaxed even as he had a flash of his life on the Farm. He focused on the paper on the detective’s hand to stop himself from remembering his parents and younger brother as he answered, “Yes. I’ve spent years helping out in a training center.”
“Oh, good. Here.” The detective handed the folded piece of paper to Desmond who took it because it would be rude not to. As he unfolded the paper, the detective explained, “My girlfriend’s a doctor that helps out injured centaurs. One of her patients was released earlier this year but she’s worried that he might be overexerting himself to prepare for his races. She talked to his trainer and they agreed that there should be an in-house support and I remembered you.”
“Ah, just to be clear…” The detective waved the space between them, “This is a coincidence. I was actually on my way to your home to talk to you since you didn’t leave any phone number on the file you filled out in the precinct.”
Desmond supposed by waving the space between them she was explaining that meeting in this coffee shop was a coincidence.
He didn’t even realize that he had forgotten to put his phone number. The only people who asked for his number were drunks that thought he was the prettiest bartender they ever saw and wanted to fuck him so…
He didn’t really have a habit of giving it out.
“Sorry about that. I must have forgotten.” Desmond said as he looked at the paper in his hand. It was a handwritten note with the contact information of a ‘Malik Al-Sayf’ who was apparently the co-owner and trainer of a Centaur Racing training center called ‘Aquila Training Center’.
He never heard of such a center before so it was probably new. Desmond’s knowledge of training centers had not been updated since…
Well… since he left the Farm.
“Malik will have to interview you, of course. He’s the centaur’s trainer.” The detective explained, “But it’s not a bad deal. They’ll offer food and board because you’ll be an in-house support and there’s only one centaur there at the moment but, if things go well, they believe they would have applications next year…”
So a new training center then with dreams of making it big and pushing all that stress to the only centaur they had.
“Also…” She leaned closer and whispered, “I’m not into centaur racing myself but my girlfriend said that her patient is super good.”
“Super good.” Desmond repeated with a raised eyebrow.
Yeah, that was what all training center say. They would gamble all those hopes onto one centaur and that would rarely go well.
The detective rubbed the back of her neck as she said, “Yeah. Don’t know if it means anything but she said that he might be the second coming of ‘The Prince’.”
Well, now.
That was just bullshit.
“I see…” Desmond said noncommittally before folding the piece of paper, “I’ll schedule for an interview.”
“That’s great!” Detective Hassan patted his shoulder as she grinned, “Good luck! If you get in, I’ll introduce you to my girlfriend.”
“I’d appreciate that, detective.” Desmond said with a polite smile.
He doubted it though.
The second coming of ‘The Prince’…
What a load of crap.
The Prince was the title of a legendary centaur that dominated the racing scene centuries ago, when centaur racing was at its infancy.
Lots of centaurs bragged about having The Prince as their ancestor but no one could truly prove it.
After all…
There was no real information of The Prince. No name, birth date, death date…
Nothing.
Desmond himself didn’t believe he was real. Not exactly.
During that time, centaur racing was seen more like a passtime for unemployed centaurs. It was only after legends of The Prince, the undefeated fastest centaur, that people got curious enough to watch the races.
From there, betting on who would win became the most stable way to keep the races going.
Records were spotty at best during that time so there were those who theorized that The Prince wasn’t a single centaur but multiple centaurs that dominated the racetracks that kept popping up in alarming rates, most of which died down soon enough, leaving only the most popular of the races.
It made sense.
After all…
The Prince’s legend continued for a decade or more, depending on which source you were reading.
But centaurs could only race for three years. Any more than that and they risked getting injured or worse.
Their racing careers had always been like shooting stars.
Awe-inspiring.
Flashy.
And…
Quick.
The address noted down in the piece of paper was for a Turin, New York. A place Desmond didn’t even know existed which wasn’t all that surprising. He was born and raised in South Dakota, had a little ‘joyride’ that ended with him living in New York city since he was eighteen years old.
He never even thought about checking what was beyond the city that never sleeps.
Still, it was rude for him to just come unannounced so he called the phone number listed in the piece of paper.
It rang thrice before someone picked up.
“Hello.”
“Uh, hello.” Desmond wanted to smack his forehead.
Did Detective Hassan even tell the training center about him?
“Is this Malik Al-Sayf?” Desmond asked, more to gain some time to think of what he should say next than to actually be sure he called the right person.
“Yes. May I ask who’s calling?”
Oh, wow. The man sounded both polite and commanding at the same time.
Definitely a trainer, for sure.
“Oh, good.” Desmond nodded even though there was no way that man would see him nodding, “My name is Desmond Miles. I got your contact info from Detective Hassan. Her girlfriend talked to you about getting an in-house support?”
“Ah, yes. Dr. Geary mentioned her before. You’re interested in the position?”
“Yes.”
Free food and board were tempting, that was for sure.
“But… I’m not a licensed medical professional.” Desmond admitted, “If you need medical support like a doctor or nurse…”
“No. That’s not what we’re looking for. We have a doctor in our center. What we need is primarily someone that can provide a more rounded type of support around here.”
Still pretty vague.
Desmond was leaning on his guess that they needed a gofer which he didn’t exactly mind.
“Oh, well, I might be able to help.” Desmond said, waiting for the man on the other side of the phone to say something else.
“We’ll need all the help we can get. How about you come visit our training center this weekend and we’ll have a proper interview?”
This phone call could just serve as an interview but alright.
“Sounds good. What time should I come by this weekend?” Desmond asked as he leaned against the counter of his small kitchen, his instant noodle having steeped too long and he’d have to eat soggy noodles later.
Yuuuum.
“Around 8 in the morning?”
Too early for Desmond’s taste but sounded about right. Training centers were usually up and running around 5 in the morning, some around 3 or 4 am.
8 was about the right time that every necessary things that needed to be done would be finished and they would have a bit of free time to do administration work.
“Sure, I’ll see you then.” Desmond agreed. He might as well try fixing his sleeping schedule as soon as he could.
He wanted to sigh. He was already thinking that he would get this job. Being overconfident was bad for his health.
“Yes, we’ll see you this weekend, Mr. Miles. Thank you for taking interest in this job opening.”
Too formal for his taste but… sure.
“And thank you for giving me a chance.” Desmond said, knowing it sounded awkward but fuck it.
“See you this weekend then.”
“Yup. Bye.” Desmond waited for the other side to drop the call after a polite “Goodbye.” before tapping the ‘disconnect’ button on his phone. Once he was sure the call was over, he placed the phone on the counter and sighed as he rubbed his face.
The end was pretty awkward and he hoped this Malik Al-Sayf wouldn’t be as awkward to talk to in person.
For now…
There was a cup of soggy instant noodles waiting for him.
It would take around five hours just to get to Turin from New York city and, as tempting as it was to travel the day before and just rent out a motel for the night, that would mean having to pay for a motel room so…
He was leaving the comforts of his apartment at the ungodly hour of two in the morning just to be sure that he wouldn’t be late even if something happened on the road.
Before he left for Turin, Desmond made sure to screenshot its location in Google map (Google map couldn’t even find the training center in Turin so not a famous one as Desmond expected) and took a photo of the piece of paper with Malik’s contact information.
He sent both to another bartender, a working college student by the name of Clay Kaczmarek, that used to work in Bad Weather with the message “If you don’t hear from me by the end of the day, send help.”
“noooo don’t go into the woods! stripper job still open 4 u”
Desmond just rolled his eyes and sent one of his most used GIF (courtesy of Clay’s messages), a GIF of a cartoon cat slowly showing its middle finger.
His phone had always been in silent mode but he made sure to keep the GPS on, just in case, before leaving his apartment.
The best part of this entire day was riding his hard-earned motorcycle and feeling the wind against his helmet and leather jacket.
God.
He should go on drives like this more often.
Wait.
He didn’t exactly have money to waste on gas right now.
Once he had a job, he should go on drives like this more often.
He was making good headway and found a lodge with its own restaurant on West Road. There weren’t that many cars parked so he was able to park his motorcycle near the entrance of the restaurant. A nice woman greeted him when he entered and escorted him to one of the smaller tables, suggesting the maple wrap which he ordered because he wasn’t exactly craving for anything.
And, really, anything that wasn’t instant noodles would be welcomed at this point.
The food was great. The price wasn’t all that bad but Desmond still wanted to wince. He would need to top up on gas as well so this was an expensive day for his dwindling savings.
He would probably have to skip lunch later which wasn’t all that bad.
… it was but Desmond could deal with it.
After that nice breakfast, he continued on his way to the very remote area where the training center was.
He took some time to take pictures of the road that would lead to the training center and sent it to Clay.
He immediately got a text back.
“damn where u goin? camp crystal lake?”
Desmond just let out a resigned sigh and sent the obligatory middle finger cat.
He made sure to include in the picture the sorry state of a sign that said “this way to Aquila Training Center” but…
It wasn’t exactly all that helpful.
At the very least, Clay would know he went there.
If Desmond didn’t get lost or spirited away by woodland fae.
Not that he believed fae existed, of course.
He continued to ride his motorcycle deeper into this woodlands or forest or whatever was the right term for “lots of trees but have an okay road to drive in”.
At the very least, they must have paved the road just so it would be easy to drive in and out. It was important that the truck they would be using for transportation wouldn’t rattle too much since shaking due to bad road was one of the leading causes of injury for centaurs.
Midway through, the path split into two and there was another sorry-looking sign that pointed at the left road while saying “This way to Aquila Training Center”.
Dear god.
Maybe Clay was right. Maybe he was going to become part of a real life dumb 80s slasher film instead.
But, at this point, maybe surviving a horror plot would give him enough publicity to get enough money to actually survive this capitalist hellscape he lived in.
Oh, man.
He was getting into his head too much. Thankfully, he finally reached the training center.
It looked more like a ranch than a state of the art training center if Desmond was completely honest.
The gates were huge though and, while he could see the center itself thanks to having chained linked fence, it looked brand new and…
Desmond wasn’t entirely sure but the fence had a ‘will electrocute if touched’ vibe to it that he wasn’t willing to test it out.
Instead, he parked his motorcycle in front of the gates and took off his helmet and leather jacket, placing both on the motorcycle, before walking towards the small black device that had a speaker on top and a black button on the bottom. He pressed the bottom and waited, hearing a loud sound echoing all over the center. It sounded like bell tolling so it wasn’t all that bad.
If it was a buzzing sound, that would have been annoying.
A few seconds later, the same male voice he talked to earlier this week crackled over the device’s speakers, “Yes?”
“Ah, hello. Hi.”
Smooth, Desmond.
“It’s Desmond. We talked last Wednesday…”
“Mr. Miles. Of course. Please give me a minute.”
Desmond watched as the gates creaked as it automatically opened by sliding to the right.
“Once you’ve entered the property, please wait at the building to your right. I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Alrighty. I’ll wait for you there.” Desmond wanted to wince.
Alrighty?
This was a sure sign that he had little experience talking to people who weren’t drunkenly flirting with him (customers of Bad Weather) or just flatout trying to annoy him (Clay).
He stepped forward and took a quick look around what he could see as he made his way to the right building. A large practice track occupied the left side as far as Desmond could see. If he had to guess, it was probably a 3000 meter practice track that had smaller inner tracks.
If that was true and the turf (and dirt) was of good quality then…
It was a double-edged sword.
Many centers believed good track was all they needed to have winners.
That was stupid.
The centaurs’ health, both physical and mental, was important too.
God.
Desmond was starting to dread actually agreeing to this.
He parked his motorcycle next to the building, making sure to keep it as close to the building as possible so it wouldn’t get clipped by any large vehicles or a speeding centaur.
The door to the building slid open and he stepped inside before sliding it close. He walked as he looked around, recognizing it as a preparation station for centaurs.
This was where they changed their shoes and wind down with after-workout stretches. Desmond stepped to the nearest one to check it and stepped back when someone turned around to look at him, “Oh, sorry! I didn’t know anyone was here.”
It was a man with a hood up, holding a hand towel in one hand and a squirt bottle in another. The room he was cleaning covered three fourths of his body with a wide door that probably swung open, Desmond wasn’t sure.
“It’s fine.” The man answered, sharing a similar accent to the one Desmond had been talking to.
He must also be a worker here. Probably a janitor or something?
Desmond kept a respectable distance as he asked, “So… how long have you been working here?”
The man raised an eyebrow as he squirted the wall to the right.
“Oh, sorry. That was rude, right?” Desmond rubbed the back of his neck as he tried again, “My name is Desmond. I’m here for the in-house support interview… thingie…”
“Thingie…” The man repeated, making Desmond’s cheeks reddened. Thankfully, the man gave him a break and introduced himself, “I’m Altaïr. I’ve been working here since it opened.”
“Oh then… can you tell me anything about this place?” Desmond watched as Altaïr meticulously wiped down the wall, squirting more liquid as he wiped further down, “I mean… I don’t really know anything about this training center or the centaur that’s training here.”
Altaïr hummed before his lips curled into a small smirk, “Malik would tell you that our dear centaur is an arrogant idiot who thinks too highly of his skills.”
Damn.
Friction between trainer and centaur?
That was a red flag.
“And you?”
Altaïr hummed at Desmond’s question as he turned to tilt his head slightly. It took a moment for Desmond to understand that it was his way of silently asking Desmond to clarify what he was asking. He gave a sheepish smile as he tried to be clearer, “Sorry. I mean… what do you think?”
“What do I think?” Altaïr repeated the question as he dropped his hands to fully face Desmond. His eyes held a golden gleam to them that held Desmond’s attention as he asked, “What do you think is the most important thing a centaur needs to win?”
“Me?” Desmond asked, more to stop himself from repeating the words he heard repeatedly growing up.
Bloodline.
Desmond tightened his hands to fists, his nails digging into his palms and anchoring him to the present.
“I… I never really thought about it.” Desmond answered honestly. He gave Altaïr an empty smile as he asked, “Sorry. I can’t think of a good answer. What about you? What do you think is the most important thing a centaur needs to win?”
It was a cop out. Repeating the question to the one who asked…
But Altaïr didn’t call him out. Instead, he answered confidently, “Desire.”
“Desire?” Desmond repeated, unable to stop himself.
It was such a left field answer in Desmond’s eyes.
“If you have desire, you will do anything to take it with your own two hands.” Altaïr explained as he stepped closer. He placed his hands on the top of the door separating them, “Skill can be learned. Speed and stamina can be trained. Bloodline can be overcome. Desire is the fuel that will keep you going. The desire to win. The desire to show the world that…”
“I exist.” Altaïr proclaimed.
Before Desmond could say anything to that, his brain was snagged by the man’s usage of the word ‘I’.
The door slid open and a man around Desmond’s age wearing a pair of clean white hoodie and a pair of nice looking brown jogging pants, his eyes glancing at Altaïr for a brief moment before he said, “I see you’ve met our troublesome centaur.”
Oh…
Altaïr pushed the door open, revealing that the floor had been elevated about three to four feet from the ground. On the other side of the door was a cleaned (shiny) open area large enough for a centaur to do his after-workout stretches and, apparently, clean.
And Altaïr… a smaller than average centaur wearing the same white hoodie. His equine body was the same hue as his dark brown hair with a white sock mark on his left front leg.
Altaïr leaned forward to place the squirt bottle and towel on the hanger next to the door. He stayed in that position as he raised his head to stare at Desmond’s eyes, his lips curling into an amused smirk that made Desmond’s heart skipped a beat. (Out of embarrassment! It was absolutely out of embarrassment!!!)
“Hello, Desmond.” The ma- no. The centaur said in an almost teasing tone, “I’m the troublesome arrogant centaur of this training center. And, yes, I’ve been working here since it opened. I’m the co-owner, after all.”
Fuck.