August 22nd, 1890 — Howler Stadium, Hawthorne Hollow Moroccan Team Lounge

Mikail hadn't expected Mr. Prewett to send him to inform the team about the deadly development on the pitch. He'd expected to shock the British team with the speed and borderline vicious play style of the Moroccan teams, but it hadn't been any of his countrymen responsible for the disturbing news he brought them now. He'd sent a team attendant to fetch his sisters and the rest of the reserve team and headed for the visiting team lounge.  He'd had the chance to tell Hassani and Bensouda that the news was dark, but he'd prefer to only say this once.

Perching on the arm of one of the provided couches, he waited as the players began to file in, taking far longer than his liking. The longer he waited, the less he enjoyed his role as messenger. "Do take your time everyone, it isn't as if an international match was halted because of a rogue bludger. I couldn't possibly be here with something important." There was a snap to his tone, but he still managed to sound bored, despite the hardness in his eyes.

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Karim Hassani, Abbas al-Benali, Nabil Wahbi, Meryem Idrissi, Zakarya Alaoui, Jamal Selhim, Hassan Sabri, Yassine Bensouda, Aziza Karim, Ashiq Amin, and Shula Karim

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   Ophelia Devine

Yassine barely refrained from rolling his eyes at Mikail's snark, and although he did stop talking - he hadn't finished his list of grievances with their chasers, and hadn't even started praising Alaoui's aim (man of the match, anyone?) - he still shot Wahbi an impressed hand gesture to say nice work for his little stink pellet stunt. 

He'd seen the bludger soar into the crowd from the box he was in before he'd tramped down here, but he was still decidedly unimpressed that they had cut off the match for it. Dark news, indeed. Pity for the crowd, sure enough, but it was the world cup final, and the Moroccan team had just been getting into the swing of things.

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   Kieran Abernathy

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Jamal filed in alongside the other players, he was in better shape than some of the players, all of his limbs were working. The fact that the match had been called to a halt told all of the players how serious the situation was, and it seemed to confirm the rumours they had traded amoung themselves after they had landed. So this wasn't a case of someone taking a nasty bludger whack, a war wound to boast of in bar stories for years to come. The woman must be, as they had suspected, dead. That sent a shiver down his spine. It was easy when playing in magically padded equipment to forget how nasty the bludgers could be, or how, if one went haywire how serious of an incident it could be.


'It's as bad as it seems then?' Jamal asked, leaning against a wall his arms folded across his chest. There were not enough seats in the room for all of them, but between the women and the injured he wasn't in desperate need of a seat, even if the adrenaline draining from his body had given his legs a rubbery quality.

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Once the game had been paused, ministry officals had made quick work of shuffling them all into lounge - and then leaving there with far more questions than answers. Meryem had been quick to avoid drawing near Yassine and rather took a seat on a couch a bit away. Their coach's rage was tangible in the air and she had no desire to take the brunt of it even if she'd known she played poorly.

She perched on the edge of a couch, knees tucked up into her chest and arms wrapped around. If she took up the smallest amount of spaces possible more of her teammates could sit. At least they didn't sport quite as many injuries as the British.

Karim was the first person to enter once the ministry officals left. Why Karim? Why not someone more... government official? Regardless of his position, Meryem's stomach flipped as he started to speak. Even if she was okay with her teams more 'reckless' style of play, knowing a spectator (or more than one) could have been hurt did not sit well. Had it been a British player hurt she wouldn't've cared. Had it been her own teammate hurt, well yes she would worry about them but they knew the risks.

"They aren't okay, are they? Are the walls not warded? How did that even happen?"

  

Hassan Sabri was very much Not Okay. There had been a bludger where the woman's brain should have been. That thought was on repeat in his mind, a fact he had managed to relay to Abbas before all but shutting down.

The seeker paced a the back of the lounge space that had been designated for the Moroccan team, his broomstick still slung over his shoulder, too much in shock to be irritated by Karim's tone.

  

Shula had been sitting in the stands and had heard the whispers that the poor woman who had been hit but a rogue bludger had not survived. It was bad but not nearly unexpected. She knew enough from having to dodge the buggers that they were dangerous and violent and without any protection at all they could be lethal.

Quidditch in general was a violent sport - after all the amount of injuries that both sides took during a game made it clear the sport was not for the faint hearted but still the fact a spectator had been hurt at all wasn't good. Neither was the fact that the game had halted and they'd all been called in - both the starters and the reservists.

It was especially bad that Mikail was there.

She squished herself in, next to Meryem.

She opened her mouth to comment about what she'd seen - the blood from the stands and the lack of belief in the womans survival and then closed it again because no doubt her brother had the center stage for whatever reason and he would not appreciate one of his own sisters being a disruptive influence.So instead took the opportunity to observe the people around her - her eyes finally settling on Hassan Sabri, the first string seeker.

He did not look okay at all. She bit her lip. Uh-oh. As a spectator she felt detached from the whole thing, it wasn't as if she'd been involved in the incident at all but the team who'd been playing at the time...

  

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Abbas hadn't been breathing right since Hassan told him there'd been a death. A death. It wasn't just an ordinary injury, or even a mauling; someone had lost their life, and their family was never going to be the same. He'd never thought of himself as the serious sort, but he found himself growing more angry and agitated every second with Karim's tone. Cocky asshole.

He allowed his elbow to brush against Hassan's, the most comfort he could offer at the moment.

"Just say it already," he demanded, agitated. "We're all thinking it, so just—say it."

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— set by Stef <3 —

The adrenaline rush from finally hitting Bixby had long worn off, and rather abruptly too when he'd heard that a spectator had not only been hit by a bludger but had died. He hadn't seen the corpse - of that he was glad - but he'd heard the talk the entire way off the pitch. He was hoping that it was all an exaggeration and that this person had merely been seriously wounded but the atmosphere was not filling him with hope.

That said he was ridiculously relieved not to have been the beater responsible. The British had the home field advantage and it also felt as though they were the crowd favorite, it would be easier for the British to shake off the bludger incident than it would be for a guest nation. At least that was how Zakarya saw it.

His eyes drifted to Sabri and he felt a tug of pity for the man - he seemed to be as shaken as though he were the beater responsible. Once his brain was fully out of high stakes quidditch mode he'd probably feel quite sorry for MacFusty, he couldn't imagine how he'd feel if he'd dealt the fatal blow.

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— The Moroccan Kneecapper —

Everyone's a critic. It was most likely best to ignore al-Benali as arguing with children would hardly make this day easier, but the opinionated youngster needed to remember his place, and it was never speaking up unchallenged to a Karim. "Yes, thank you for your lack of patience, al-Benali. It will most certainly solve today's issues." He offered in a tone dripping with condescension before taking in the room. The pale look of Sabri actually caught him off guard. The poor boy looked like he'd seen the carnage himself, sadly, he probably knew better than Mikail did what the next words would be.

"Before the rumors further circulate, there was a casualty in the stands. At least one woman was injured, but another did not survive the impact. The game is postponed until a later date to be decided." He let that settle for a moment, let the team get over their annoyance at a stalled match and recenter on the bigger picture. "Thankfully, none of you were responsible for the accident, but I must warn you: be on your best behavior. We are guests here and, after today, hardly welcome ones. No fights, no goading the British, no reminding them that their horrid aim killed a woman. Do your best to not to be the savages the Brits think we are."

Unfortunately, lecturing came to him easier than team building. So did being an ass in stressful situations. "As disappointing as that is, perhaps you will use the time to remember how to play the game and stop embarrassing yourselves out there."

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There it was, confirmation. It was quite sobering. Was it safe to assume it wasn't a Moroccan spectator? Surely Karim would know and would have said as much? If the British beaters were going to save their best shots for the crowd they could at least have the common courtesy to only hit their countrymen.

Zak wondered how long the match would be delayed for, would they keep their score or restart completely fresh? It wasn't unheard of for quidditch games to break if they went on for a long time and he assumed things would be picked up where they were left off but perhaps they wouldn't. It wasn't often someone in the stands died mid-game and as much as he loved quidditch he didn't have encyclopedic knowledge on the sport, he knew the important stuff and had picked up some interesting quidditch facts in his time but otherwise he knew what he had to and that was that.

More importantly though, how long did it take for shattered kneecaps to heal and would his hard work today count for nothing by the time the new match date came around? How long were they talking? "Will we be starting over completely? It hardly seems fair to carry the scores over if the injured British are back on the pitch like today never happened."

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   Hermia Bonaccord

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— The Moroccan Kneecapper —

As Karim spoke her stomach sunk even further,
something she hadn't thought possible. Her face paled and she curled her hands into gist in her lap, using the sharp bite of her fingernails digging into her palms to ground herself. A flame of anger sputtered then and her next words were soft even in her anger.

"A woman died and you are worried about our scores? Did the British say what happened? How could a buldger have been allowed into the stands? We're there not shield charms in place? Will they be doing anything different if they resume the match?"

Maybe she could find the family of the woman who'd died. She could visit our send some kind of apology note or something! The same for the woman injured.

  

Zakarya hadn't expected Meryem of all people to call him out, had it been one of the guys he would've probably felt less like he needed to justify himself but she'd managed to make him feel a touch guilty about it. "Make no mistake, I think it's horrible what happened, but it won't change the fact that the game will continue and someone will still take home the World Cup. It's disgraceful she had to die this way but it was the British who didn't protect her and the British who hit the bludger, do you want the Quidditch World Cup going to people like that? Is that fair to the woman who died?"

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— The Moroccan Kneecapper —

Ashiq was quite shocked to hear that a woman had died. He nodded in agreement with their sponsors words. It seemed pretty general good sportmanship being asked of them. He could do that. As Meryem and Zakarya spoke, his eyes went back to Mikail as he waited to see what his answers to the questions posed would be.

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Mikail wasn't a religious man, but there was a very good chance that both the God of his parents and the God of his country were laughing at him as he took in the beginnings of a squabble among the team. "Remember when I said "no fights" not a minute ago?" Exasperated big brother and father quickly dominated his tone. Merlin, if this was a glimpse at the future with his children, he was shipping them all off to boarding schools.

Miss Idrissi proved herself the the soul of the team, which was of little shock, but he also knew this wasn't the time for a bleeding heart. Then there was Alaoui. It was hard not to laugh when the beater chimed in. Mikail would remember to pat the man on the back when the witches were out of the room. While he wished the younger man would see the big picture, the concern for a match over a life had him fighting back a laugh. At least the man was dedicated.

"Now is not the time for an ethics debate. While I have been given some insights, I am still the 'outsider.' I do not know when we will begin again and I do not know if we will restart or continue. I would assume a continuation, but I won't stake my honor on that. Whatever happens, give the match your all, but do not goad the British in the meantime." Directing his gaze straight at Alaoui, he added, "I highly doubt the dead woman is moralizing from the grave. Sadly, people die in the sport, both play and viewer. Today may remind the British to shield spectators. It is not the duty of anyone here to remind them of that."

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"She did not just die."

Hassan had remained largely quiet, but spoke up now, eyes boring into the team's sponsor—eyes that had seen some shit. Of course Zak was wondering about the game; he didn't have the full picture. None of them did.

"The bludger it...completely destroyed her face," the seeker said, voice still shaky. "Like a skull caved in with a boulder."

  

“Nasty,” Yassine remarked in the silence following Sabri’s description, because he had had a callous attitude about everything else in life, so he may as well be callous here.

“Let me know if anyone’s too afraid to ever play again,” he added, propping himself up a little further on his couch, his folded arms suggesting he would have little mercy for anyone who could be run out of the sport in fear of a smashed-in skull or two. “The British might be scared to hit another bludger when we restart, but you’d better not be.”

Mikail could afford to prioritise the diplomacy of the affair, from his vantage point; Yassine’s field was dependent on the outcome of the match, whether they continued or began again. In fact - if he were to be devil’s advocate here - it was not out of the question that it was all a British ploy to switch out a few of their players, the moment they'd started getting worried out there; gone wrong, of course, death surely hadn’t been intended, but a ploy nonetheless.

“But no fights,” he parroted again, not entirely unsarcastic.

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