Work Text:
Out of all the social events that Vimes had to attend on his wife's wish, this one was probably suiting him the best. He bit into his pie, enjoying the familiar taste of all the types of meat that normally weren't allowed to even appear near their house and looked around the scrum, practically unaffected by it, as he was comfortably hidden in the shadow of lady Sybil. The crowd willingly parted before her like water around a sea-jutting headland.
He was surprised she wanted to go, and even more flabbergasted that she permitted the pie, but she insisted it's important to keep in touch with the things popular within the city. And she was right that football was now the most significant thing in the public eye. Not that he protested in the slightest.
Luckily she considered the street food an important enough part of the occasion, despite not buying anything herself.
It ended up being quite an interesting experience. He was on his tiptoes the whole time, in case there was a sudden need for a cop, but even though some unusual things happened, no part of it was technically a crime.
It seemed pretty much like a classic day in Ankh-Morpork. Shouting everywhere, occasionally exchanged with cheering, mess, and cheap greasy food, just the way he liked it. But he still insisted on staying after the match, to keep the energetic crowd in check. It was easy for such masses of people to slip from the leash and turn into madmen.
"That was quite exciting, wasn't it?" Sybil said.
"Yes, dear," Vimes answered, licking the oil off his fingers.
"It was a bit worrying at moments."
"Yes, dear," repeated Vimes.
"I'm only concerned about their equipment, they should at least try to make it safer."
"Yes, d-"
"Samuel!"
"Sorry."
They stood there for a little while. Lady Sybil was happy that her husband wasn't running anywhere at the moment and Vimes seemed to be in a good mood. The streets always did him good.
Little Sam was left at home, because as much as she was willing to support this activity, she saw what it can do to the players and she didn't consider it the greatest example for the child. Plus the scrum could be very dangerous at times.
She was glad she only took the dress for working with dragons, because now the bottom hem was starting to get soaked in mud.
She still didn't quite understand the whole thing. It had many layers and some of them seemed ridiculous to her. The rivalry was crafted out of nothing. There were no differences between these people other than supporting a different team and they were willing to start violent fights over it.
Technically this occasion was connecting them all and if it was up to her she would use it to build a community but apparently these people decided to do so by yelling at each other. That was the society they chose to make. Getting together to help each other was apparently unappealing to these people.
They were just about to leave the street, when two officers appeared, carrying a short man.
Things moved quickly after that. Sam clicked into his copper self without hesitation while she focused on getting the poor man in the hospital. Only when they were carrying him up the stairs (because there was no point in waiting for the official workers to do it), she had a chance to look at his face.
He had an unusual head and colour. She went through all the types of Ankh-Morpork citizens in her head, trying to find a race that displayed these physical attributes, but couldn't think of anyone. Perhaps he was like Nobby? Simply born a little strange but fully human nevertheless?
They stopped in the main hall, requesting immediate care for the injured man and watched him being transported to an Igor.
Vimes received some information on the people that were seen around the incident and immediately ran to the Yard to take a look at the investigation himself. Sybil insisted on staying.
To her great distress, the Igor only confirmed their worries. The man was dead. There was nothing that would help his state.
The officers then left as well, considering the business finished, but she felt it would be impolite to let such a tragedy go without some grief. She sat next to the body to keep it at least some company on the poor person's way to the other side.
She never knew him, she never even saw him before, but she was sure it was a good life getting wasted for a shallow dispute.
Sybil even shed a tear or two, out of respect for the deceased life.
As the clock ticked, she was less and less sure when she should leave. There were no people showing up, and it felt wrong to leave the body alone before the relatives get to it. She hoped Sam would show up with some news. But he probably also didn't expect her to sit here for so long.
She sighed, stood up from the chair and walked over to the body. It seemed even paler than before.
“Good bye,” she said. She didn't know what else to do.
Suddenly, the body moved. First it was only a faint twitch in the chest, but a second later the whole person sat up and started coughing.
She took a terrified step back.
The man looked around in panic at first but he soon calmed his breath down.
When he recognised his location, he looked up at Sybil, who must have looked at least a bit distressed, because he said: “Hello, are you feeling well, your ladyship?”
That was surprising. He had the clothes of someone from the streets but he talked unusually delicately. And he seemed to be informed regarding the Ankh-Morporkian nobility, because apparently he recognised her even in the muddy dress.
"We thought you were dead,” she explained.
“Ah. I see. I believe I was, actually, it was a correct conclusion. But I feel much better now all of sudden. No need to worry about me,” he smiled.
He had the sharpest teeth she's ever seen.
And then it struck her.
All her ancestors were mainly interested in waging wars so there were books about orcs in the Ramkin library, with pictures, of course.
The one she was looking at definitely didn't appear to be a raging beast pulling off people's heads but he couldn't possibly belong to any other race.
She thought for a second. Her ancestors were wrong about many things.
Well... It was Ankh-Morpork after all, everyone was welcome. And how exactly was an orc different from people who chose fights and disputes as their favourite social activity?
The man gave her a little bow and handed her a handkerchief. She realised her eyes must still be reddish.
"Thank you madam for taking me to a doctor. I hope to be able to pay off this great favour in the future."
Perhaps he was a specie known for killing people, but when she thought about it, even people were know for killing people. And she could recognise a gentleman when she saw one.
She offered him a handshake. "I am very glad your condition improved.” It sounded strange, considering the condition was death, but there was no point in making more fuss about it.
He stared in shock at the offered hand for a moment and she thought about the life that he is leading in the city, hoping there are at least some people showing respect for thim. Then he reluctantly shook her hand, carefully avoiding scratching her with his long nails.
“My name is Nutt,” he introduced himself. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, your ladyship.”
“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Nutt.”
His eyes widened at the form of address.
The sounds of their speech called the Igor in. He stood in the door, staring at Nutt who was very much not dead at the moment, despite not having a pulse several minutes ago.
This medical miracle had to be immediately examined and Sybil thought it best to leave. She gave her bids to her new acquaintance and got on her way, having to interrupt another salvage of polite thanks.
Later, when she talked about the case with Sam, it became clear Nutt's identity is not apparent to anyone else.
She kept it to herself, but made a mental note to ask Havelock about it. The man was changing the city again. She sincerely hoped it would work.
Their library still contained all the books she remembered reading as a child. She picked one and skimmed through it. The illustrations showed blood-stained monsters with hideous expressions, lunging at the observer while the text urged the reader to either kill them or (if lacking the necessary means) flee.
It wouldn't be the first time that old conventions warned of fearsome barbarians, only for those very people to offer you a handkerchief when you actually met them.
She closed the book and threw it into the fireplace. And a few more. It was likely a destruction of important historical documents, but it was better than risking someone finding them.
Mr. Nutt will have a hard life in Ankh-Morpork, and she was not willing to make it harder.