Shula coughed. She'd done her best to pay attention to the discussion - but her interest in it had waned very quickly and while she'd definitely enjoyed the momentary distraction that was watching Abbas, and his beautiful curls, she'd already investigated the entire room with her eyes and was considering counting the light fixtures. It all sounded very pointless.

Death wasn't that strange a thing in their world and she knew spectators enjoyed seeing as much blood and gore as they enjoyed everything else about the game. They literally had players armed with bats hitting explosive balls at other people with the intention to maim and knock players off their brooms often several hundreds of feet in the air. As a seeker whose capture of the snitch could very well be the difference in winning and loosing a game such bludgers were constantly coming her way. It was a fact of life. It was why Quidditch wasn't exactly seen as the most ladylike of sports and had her own family not been so involved in the game she very much doubted Mikail would even have let her play, even if it was one of the few things she was actually good at.

Her leg started to twitch and she started to yearn to move as she listened to everybody and she tried to still it.... trying to at least pretend to be somber and well behaved.  It was on the tip of her tongue to remark that she wouldn't be getting into any fights and was raring to go if Hassan needed her to replace him because she was bored and needed something to do but she held it in.

"So, be nice, don't 'goad' " She paused, reusing the word her brother had used and turning the word over with her tongue - it was such a funny word and she would've liked to say it several more times as she had liked the way it sounded but her eye fell on Mikail and she quickly decided to resist the urge to do so and rushed through the rest of her sentence. "the British and sit tight whilst we wait for further news. Is that it? Can we go now or is there something else we need to do?"

  

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The look on Sabri's face got his attention. The man looked absolutely spooked. Mikail had caused his fair share of pain and bloodshed when he was a beater, but he certainly never killed anyone. He was no killer, which that British beater certainly couldn't say anymore.

And then there was Bensouda. If the women weren't in the room, he'd be telling Yassine to fuck off, as he had so many times during their years together at Beauxbatons. The man was an artist on a broom, but he was also a complete asshole. "It's a shame the injury that took you of the game wasn't a bludger to the face, it would have made you more pleasant." He drawled, his eyes hard and distinctly challenging.

When Shu started her twitching, Mikail forced himself to take a deep breath. Snapping at his sister wasn't going to make things any better. "That is the gist, sister." He said in clipped tones. "That is unless your illustrious," His sarcasm could drown the room, "coach has any words for you all."

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"I'm not trying to cause a fight!" she protested looking towards Mikail for a moment as he basically stood there scolding them all like children, "but I do not see how it is far to her to continue the match without first speaking of how we can prevent this from happening again. That is how I'd want my memory honored. By making change, not by resuming as if it never happened." How could everyone make such light of it? It seemed as if Hassan was the only other one bothered by this. She paused, eyeing the others, arms crossed tightly against her chest. "Do not think I am scared, I am not and I do not wish to be thought of that way but I do not wish to be the next name plastered across the papers for killing a spectator. I don't wish for that to even be a headline again, no matter the name. I have family and friends in those stands that could have been killed and so do most of you."

Having said her piece, she fell silent, eyes cast downwards towards the ground as if it could shield her from the attention her outburst was sure to have gathered. "Will you keep us updated, at least, of what the British are planning?" to this, she directed the question both to Mikail and Yassine.

  

Torn between bickering with his team-mates, expressing concern over the match's future, making a joke to ease the tension, and comforting his aggrieved friend, Abbas opted for a mix. He placed a hand on Hassan's shoulder at the revelation, unable to offer anymore support without making his friend look pitiful in front of their less sensitive team-mates. It seemed Idrissi was at least trying to be sensible, but she was likely to only make it worse with her arguing. Silly woman.

"Just let it go, Idrissi," he hissed, knowing there was likely very little any of them as individuals could do to change what was to come in the following days. Alaoui was right in that regard: this was a game played on British soil, run by British officials, and a British woman had been killed, so it would be the British who decided how to move forward. Making it about them was only likely to further the tensions.

"Well, I think we've got a few good days before the British figure out how to 'save face', or whatever it is they say. It should give us time to practice—and more time for kneecap pains to settle in," he said, casting a half-smile across the room at their beater. "We've learned their play style, so we can figure out how to use it against them."

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— set by Stef <3 —

Ah, Mikail. And today he was especially tightly-wound. Sarcasm was ever his favourite weapon, though; shame it bounced right off Yassine. He granted the sponsor only a dismissive hand gesture - one that was not entirely polite, nor entirely professional - and did not refrain from rolling his eyes at Idrissi’s little tirade, either. Sometimes women were just too sensitive.

“Preventing this isn’t your problem, Idrissi,” Yassine drawled, thinking back to her performance in the match thus far. “Best not worry about the bludgers until you’ve managed to get a grip on the quaffle.” 

“You’ll all know as soon as we do,” he affirmed next. The ball was, annoyingly, in Britain’s hands on that matter. He eyed them all critically, the chasers and Sabri especially. “We’ll start back on drills tomorrow either way. But don’t get back on the pitch unless you’re prepared to win.”

Whatever the cost, frankly. What were they going to remember in ten years, in fifty years’ time? Some nameless British woman who’d lost her face in the stands, or Morocco bringing home the world cup glory?

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Feeling a headache coming on with, Mikail found himself pinching the bridge of his nose to keep from mimicking Yassine's hand gesture and possibly hexing him. It was always tempting to cause the man physical harm.

His impulse was to sooth Miss Idrissi, chivalry outweighing the fact the woman was perfectly capable of holding her own.

Al-Benali piped up before Mikail could speak with something that was nearly insightful, a surprise considering his earlier cheek. True, the players needed to focus on the win and not the stadium logistics, even Mikail wondered how to improve the game for the safety of spectators. He certainly wouldn’t risk the lives of his family in the stands for a match without safeguards again.

“I will be speaking with our hosts at the first opportunity to do my part in ensuring the safety of spectators. In the meantime, and I am loathe to say this, your captain,” it took skill to infuse a word for a position of authority with so much obvious condescension, “has the right of it. Focus on the match; bring glory home and remind the British of their place beneath you. That is all.”

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