Invictus

[Captain Canada]

Out of the night that covers me
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul.

[Captain Canada]

Table of Contents

[Captain Canada]

Reserved Post

[Captain Canada]

Reserved Post II

[Captain Canada]

Chapter I - I Shall Be Released

The courtroom was oppressively still, its silence louder than any gavel's strike. Dusty sunlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows high on the wall, casting pale slats across the polished mahogany benches and the grim faces of the gallery. The ceiling fan overhead spun slowly, stirring the stale scent of paper, sweat, and long-decided fates. At the front of the room, Judge Miriam Halbrook sat elevated behind her bench, a carved symbol of justice looming above her — blindfolded, balanced, merciless.

Rasheed Jones stood motionless at the defendant’s table. His wrists, though unshackled, trembled slightly as though still bound by something heavier than chains. He wore a charcoal-gray suit that sagged on his frame, as if it too had given up. His once-sharp jaw was now shadowed and slack, eyes rimmed with fatigue and bloodshot from sleepless nights. Dark circles under his eyes told the story of a man haunted — not only by the memory of what had happened but by the creeping inevitability of what was to come.

His lawyer, Vanessa Kent, stood beside him, her palm resting gently on his back, an anchor in a storm too great to calm. Her voice broke the silence, steady but strained.

"Your Honor, with the utmost respect, I implore you — consider the entirety of this man’s life, not only the tragedy that brought us here today. Rasheed Jones is not a hardened criminal. He is a father. He is a provider. He is a man whose life has been carved by circumstance, not malice."

Judge Halbrook’s expression didn’t flicker. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun, and the deep lines around her mouth held the severity of decades spent delivering judgment. Her gavel sat in reach, untouched but threatening — a loaded gun of ritual.

"I've considered everything, Counselor," the judge said coolly, her voice echoing like thunder down the vaulted room. "But we live in a time where consequence is diluted by sentiment. A man is dead, and another cannot walk away from that without the weight of justice. This court finds the defendant guilty of manslaughter in the first degree."

A low murmur rolled through the courtroom like a distant earthquake, quickly silenced by the hammer of the gavel.

"Guilty," the word reverberated through Rasheed’s mind like a war drum. He stared ahead, unblinking, as if by sheer will he could make the floor open and swallow him whole. He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. His breath was shallow, his lips parted slightly, but no sound came. Everything — the wood grain of the bench, the hushed whispers of the gallery, the warm hand on his shoulder — blurred into a single overwhelming pressure in his chest.
In his mind, he saw his son — Zane, barely six — drawing with broken crayons at the visiting room table, asking him when he could come home.

“Soon, Papa?” The words had gutted Rasheed then. Now, it gutted him again.

Vanessa tried once more, voice cracking as she stepped forward. "Your Honor, I understand the need for accountability. But please, in your sentencing… consider Zane. Don’t punish the child for the sins of the father."

Judge Halbrook’s eyes narrowed. “This court is not blind to the pain in this room, but it is bound to uphold the law, not emotion. Mr. Jones will receive no special mercy because he fathered a child. In fact, that child deserves to grow up in a world where people know that actions have consequences. He will understand that his father made a terrible decision — and paid a price.”

Rasheed’s knees buckled slightly beneath him. He did not cry — the tears had long since dried inside him — but something deeper fractured, invisible to the eye. At that moment, he wasn’t a man in a courtroom. He was a boy again, standing at the edge of the street where his older brother bled out on the pavement, watching the red and blue lights come but never deliver peace.

And now, he was part of that cycle. A new red. A new blue.

He looked up at the judge through hollow eyes and whispered, barely audible, “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

But the court had already moved on.

***

“Here we are with a classic PIAA 6A matchup between the #1 ranked school in the state, St. Joseph’s Prep, and Upper St. Clair. We’re here late in the fourth quarter and we have a shocker. Upper St. Clair has managed one hell of a comeback after coming into the second half down 17 points. They’re here, down 28-24, with 1:06 left on the clock, on their own 35-yard line.”

Aches and pains.

That’s all Zane could feel coursing through his body. He swore if he could feel his hair, it would be in pain as well. In all of his years playing football, he’s never been hit so much. There was a reason St. Joseph’s was the number one team in the state of Pennsylvania.

They finished every tackle with precision and execution. They made you earn every yard. You could score on them, sure. But, you would pay the price.

The game was starting to crawl towards its inevitable end, and Upper St. Clair had an opportunity to do something worthwhile after a season filled with mostly disappointment. They had caught the Hawks asleep at the wheel - already knowing that they were guaranteed a top seed in the state playoff tournament. A berth Zane and his team would not be sharing.

No. They got to play spoiler instead. Rob St. Joseph’s of their precious undefeated record. All they had to do was finish the job.

Zane took a deep breath and tugged on his sweat-logged gloves that he felt slipping every time his hands pulsed. He tugged anxiously on the facemask of his helmet while making his way into the huddle, seeing his equally exhausted teammates, wavering determination in their eyes. They had a shot, but it was deflating every second.

“We gotta want this shit, boys. All gas, no breaks. We have nothing to fucking lose” the quarterback, Cedric Hall, said as he looked diligently at his callsheet that was soaked from a mix of scattered rains the game had experienced and his own sweat.

“Let’s keep pushing,” said one hulking offensive lineman, Rory. “Let’s beat these motherfuckers.”

Zane peered down towards the end zone they were aiming for, seeing the scoreboard showing them down four points at the end. The clock would start ticking in a moment, as would their chance to win the game. His stomach churned with anxiety, but he tried his best to block it out.

He listened as Cedric called out the next three plays, as the Panthers would no doubt go into a no-huddle situation. He recycled them in his head and ran to the line.

The cornerback opposite him had played him physically all game long, using his lanky, tall arms to jab into Zane’s breast-plate all game, getting a fist full of jersey every time his speed proved too much for him to handle. If he was going to be effective at all in this last drive, he needed to be quicker - no matter how much his feet protested.

The ball was snapped and, as expected, the corner went for the jab. Zane dipped his right shoulder and pressed into the turf with all his might, taking off into the inside. The corner’s hand slid right past him, and he scrambled to replace the cushion that Zane was effectively speeding through.

He felt a tug coming, fingers grasping for cloth. Zane kept hustling until he made it to his 15-yard landmark, pressing a foot into the ground and whipping himself around as quickly as he could. He felt the defender struggle to hit the breaks as efficiently. Like clockwork, there was the ball, rocketing towards him in a perfect spiral.

….

“What a snag from Junior wide receiver Zane Jones, who’s been blanketed all game by Cornelius St. James. That’s only his second catch of the game but it couldn’t be a more important one. Gain of 12 yards for the first down.”

“Cedric Hall rips it from the gut of running back Arterrious Ruben and rumbles it himself, just getting out of bounds after a gain of seven yards. The Panthers are prowling yet again.”

“Hall tosses it on a quick screen to tight end Dalton Sampson, and - wow, what a fantastic block from Zane Jones. He catches the edge and picks up the first down and more. The Panthers have reached the red-zone and are bearing down on the Hawks. They have to be panicking now. Timeout, Upper St. Clair.

….

Zane’s shoulder was throbbing after connecting with a sprinting outside linebacker that did his all to fight through him. He did just enough to get Dalton enough time to get the first down and get out of bounds. His body continued to protest in every way imaginable, but they were too close to break now.

“Bend all you want, but I’ll be damned if you break now.” he recited over and over again in his head. He took a look across the field and saw that St. Joseph’s defense looked equally battered, and it gave him an unconscious spring of energy.

Not a lot, but enough.

Hands on hips. Deep mouth breathing that slightly fogged up their visors. Unstrapping and restrapping their gloves. They were hanging on for dear life.

Time for the knockout blow.

He lined up wide right, with Cornelius St. James trailing him once again. He kept peering inside, trying to predict what was coming. Cedric began his cadence and he took two steps back, angling his body towards the backfield. No press coverage this time. He wouldn’t get caught lacking again.

The ball was snapped and Zane beelined it to the inside shade, with the corner trying to stay overtop but not bite too hard inside. He flew into the endzone and broke across for a drag route before looking back for the ball. He saw Cedric getting pressured and dashing out of the pocket away from where Zane was sprinting to.

As if set on automatic, Zane stuttered his feet to slow down his momentum before whipping back across to the far corner of the end zone, catching Cornelius off guard. Once again, a step too slow to Zane’s quickness. He looked again and saw Cedric pointing to the corner before taking his non-throwing hand off the ball, preparing to throw.

Zane pumped like never before, praying he could make it to the spot in time. He saw Cedric’s release, another perfect spiral that felt like Zane would never get there in time. He kept pumping, fighting across the turf but suddenly feeling like he was stuck in molasses.

The crowd disappeared, the frenzy suddenly turned as quiet as a mouse. In a hopeless gesture, he outstretched his left hand as far as it possibly could go. All he needed was a chance.

Everything in his life could change in just one moment.

…

“Touchdown Panthers! Can you believe it? Zane Jones gets his fingertips on the ball and ropes it to his body. What an impressive one-handed catch with seven seconds left in the fourth quarter. It is absolute pandemonium here. With the extra point, Upper St. Clair will go up 31-28.”

….

It felt as though confetti may come down from the sky at any moment. The Panthers had pulled it off. They scored a touchdown, took a lead, and held it for what felt like the first time all season. They just so happened to have done it against the best team in the state. Their undefeated record was no longer.

Consider Goliath slain.

Fans flocked down to the field, celebrating like the night would never end. A few recognized Zane from his catch and patted him on the shoulder pads and the helmet, basically thanking him for winning the game. He wished he could match their mood, but all he could think about was that he couldn’t get to the locker room fast enough.

Don’t get it wrong - he loved that they had pulled it off. If anything, he was still in disbelief. However, the pain had breached surface level and made their way to his bones. The dull ache worsened now that the adrenaline had died down. With every step, misery reared its ugly head.

They won, but the price was sufficient.

Just as he limped his way towards the locker room, he was mobbed by a handful of teammates, jubilant with their helmets off.

“Brother Z!” called out one of the seniors, named Tate Andrews. As the team’s defensive captain and MIKE linebacker, his jersey bore the marks of a battle fought hard and won. His face bore eyeblack that had long smudged from the perfectly-crafted lines you could find him adorning during the pre-game. “What a fucking catch, my boy. I ain’t know you had it in you.”

Zane wore a sheepish grin and shrugged. “To tell the truth, neither did I. Glad Cedric found me when he did. Fuck these clowns.”

“You know we gotta do it up big, right?”

Zane responded with a deep sigh, shuffling onto whatever leg presently felt better as he watched more fans and teammates sprint around the field, still deep in their celebration. “I don’t know man,” he responded. “I’m pretty sure I’ve broken every bone in my body. A party sounds like the last place I want to be.”

“I’m sorry,” Tate immediately responded, holding up his hand. “I know I’m not leaving this team to no bunch of bitches, am I right? The address will be in the team group chat. I better see you there.” He left no room for a response, waltzing away before Zane could ever open his mouth.

“I better see you there or we’ll show up at your house - we have your address!” he bellowed from afar. Zane shook his head and kept making his way through the crowd, still gathering the odd appraisal or two.

***

The house smelled like roasted chicken and something faintly sweet—maybe sweet potatoes or the boxed apple pie Mary always doctored up with cinnamon and nutmeg like it was from scratch. The living room was warm and worn, the kind of place where every cushion had its own soft groove and the TV remote had a designated spot no one dared mess with. Outside, the trees had started giving up, shedding yellow-orange leaves that collected on the front steps.

Zane dropped his bag near the entryway, trying not to track mud past the mat. He could hear Mary humming in the kitchen, the low hum of The Price Is Right reruns echoing from the TV.

“Zane? That you, baby?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Grandma.”

Mary appeared from around the corner, wiping her hands on a faded Steelers apron. Her gray curls framed her soft, lined face, and she studied Zane with that same unreadable mix of love and quiet concern she always seemed to carry.

“You eat enough today?” she asked, before he could even sit. Her studying found the results he expected to find. “You look like Hell with a half-baked smile.”

Zane gave a crooked smile. “Yes, ma’am. That’s how I’m feeling. But I got just enough energy to eat.”

Mary chuckled, motioning toward the dining table. “Sit down. I saved you a plate. Didn’t look like you had your whole spirit with you this morning, so I figured you might need something hot by the time you got back.”

Zane sat, poking at the food with his fork. He wasn’t really hungry, not in his stomach, but the thought counted for more than he could say.

Mary sat across from him in her usual chair, pulling the blanket from behind her knees and wrapping it over them again. Her voice was gentle but direct—always had been.

“We watching Price is Right, or you got other plans this evening?” she asked, kindly nodding to the late Bob Barker crooning on the television in the distance. Zane smirked before responding.

“More of a Family Feud guy myself, if I’m telling the truth.”

“I saw your face this morning. You looked like someone told you the world stopped spinning.”

Zane kept chewing. “We won, but the season’s over. Ain’t much else to do but move on.”

“Mhm,” she nodded slowly. “You’re seventeen. Don’t have to move on like you 45 with a mortgage and a bum knee.”

Zane chuckled softly, stabbing a green bean, feeling the throbbing sensation in both of his legs like he had something much worse than a simple bum knee. “It just feels like I’m running out of time. Like I gotta do everything right, right now, or I lose the chance.”

Mary leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Zane Elijah Jones, listen to me. You are not a failure because one door didn’t open the minute you knocked. Football ain’t your whole name. You hear me?”

He nodded reluctantly. She reached over, placing a hand on his wrist.

“I know you feel like football’s your way out. And maybe it is. But don’t burn yourself down trying to prove you belong somewhere that’s still trying to figure out who it lets in. Sometimes the blessing is in the delay, not the shortcut.”

Zane looked at her, eyes softening. “Coach thinks if I hit these camps, there’s still a shot. But I gotta grind now. No time for parties or distractions.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Is that what tonight is? A distraction?”

He hesitated. “The guys are throwing something. Just the team, nothing crazy. You know them - they’ll take any opportunity to celebrate. Got a big one for beating St. Joseph’s tonight.”

“I see. And who’s house is this going to be at?” she asked, with an arch of her brow that only grandmothers could get away with.

Zane huffed, leaning back. “A great question that I don’t have the answer to. I’ve just got an address.”

Mary shook her head with a knowing smirk. “Doesn’t sound as small as a team-bonding session, grandson. But, what do I know?”

“I know you attended your fair share of events in your heyday, grandma.” Zane smirked back. “You and grandpa do too much dancing on these Sunday mornings to not know how to get down.”

“Hush, boy” she joked back, holding up a hand to silence him with love. “We falling off the trail. You’re too damn eager to grow. I know life and its circumstances have forced you to grow a little fast. But you’re a kid. Enjoy it while you still can. Before life comes with its hands out expecting its pound of flesh.”

Zane sat in silence for a beat. The TV buzzed low behind them, but the warmth in the room wrapped around him tighter than any hoodie.

“I guess,” he said finally, “maybe I’ll go. For a bit. Just to be around people again. Not think so much.”

Mary smiled, satisfied. “Good. You need to laugh. Just be back by a decent hour. And don’t come home smelling like you’ve been baptized in Red Solo cups and bad decisions.”

Zane laughed for real this time, standing to scrape his plate.

“Yes, ma’am.”

As he disappeared down the hall toward his room, Mary turned back to the TV, but not before whispering softly to herself:

“Don’t let the world rush you, baby. You got time. You just don’t know it yet.”

[Soapy]

TRAUMA!

Welcome to the club, gang.

You got a follower in me.

Quite a coincidence though (it'll make sense soon)

[Agent]

[redsox907]

TRAUMA!

Welcome to the club, gang.

You got a follower in me.

Quite a coincidence though (it'll make sense soon)

inbd soapy turns Prairie into an RTG as Book's son, as a WR doe

you know I'm in bro

bout time we got a good WR up in this bihh

[Caesar]

Ain’t Zane the name of the main love interest on that one Black woman’s romance novel series? This boy about to be a ho.

Interested to see where you take this

[Captain Canada]

TRAUMA!

Welcome to the club, gang.

You got a follower in me.

Quite a coincidence though (it'll make sense soon)

Appreciate the support, brudda. I see you

TRAUMA!

Welcome to the club, gang.

You got a follower in me.

Quite a coincidence though (it'll make sense soon)

inbd soapy turns Prairie into an RTG as Book's son, as a WR doe

you know I'm in bro

bout time we got a good WR up in this bihh

We're here to inspire the masses. SoapDeLaGhetto gon' do his thing.

Ain’t Zane the name of the main love interest on that one Black woman’s romance novel series? This boy about to be a ho.

Interested to see where you take this

My man is a God-fearing bloke. I don't know what you speak of.