Writing "original" fiction
Dec. 11th, 2003 09:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusAuthor: Icarus
Title: The First Signs of Living
Rating: PG-13 (yes, I do write something other than porn ;)
Summary: A highly derivative experiment in Tom Clancy-esque action, to prepare myself to write the next part of Beg Me For It, SNAFU. Okay, it was also something I wrote for school. I like to be efficient and combine things.
The First Signs of Living
by Icarus
Spencer Wellington didn't enjoy reading the newspaper anymore. A chill wind blustered into his flat as he wrapped his dressing gown a little tighter, and dutifully picked it up anyway.
Reading the news used to be fun. He would spot mentions of his name in the Society section and read the gossip about who he'd been seen with that evening, or a reference here and there to his hobnobbing with various foreign dignitaries - sometimes there'd even be a picture; he was so striking in his suit and tie, shaking hands with Ambassador Vladamir Molotov.
He set the newspaper aside on the counter, and sat down to his quiet breakfast. He spread marmalade on his toast and then checked the time. There was no sound but the ticking of the clock in his spotless kitchen, and the faint click of his silverware.
He knew what was in the paper today.
Last night he'd been virtually blinded by the camara flashes as he had stepped up to the microphone. It was startlingly bright, under those lights, and hot. He'd instantly regretted wearing the wool jacket. He set his notes delicately on the podium as the flashes continued, rudely, and then cleared his throat.
"In the wake of recent allegations…" The cameras flashed. "…a full investigation has been undertaken into the actions of former Prime Minister, Allistor MacMillian. The departments currently under investigation include, but are not limited to…."
The questions clamoured immediately, but Spencer was not authorised to speak on the government's behalf beyond his carefully vetted speech. He nodded to his audience and picked up his papers, "no further questions, thank you."
The camera crews descended almost immediately to disassemble the room. The podium walked off, cords were wrapped, lights shut off in the clatter. Spencer pushed his way through the crowd of workman and milling reporters seeking a follow-up or off-the-record comment. He brushed them away. He saw the man he was looking for, his hand already on the door. That bald spot of Harvey's stood out.
"Harvey - Harvey!" Spencer called out his Department head with a friendly wave. He dodged a ladder and squirmed between two men in overalls; Harvey turned wearily. He was a big man and the door all but disappeared behind him. "Say now, how - how was that, do you think? Do you think that went over all right?"
"You were fine, Spencer."
"Yes, you see, it's not really my job to do these little announcements, now is it?" Spencer said.
"You are doing very well, and we appreciate your extra efforts these last few weeks."
"That's good, very good," Spencer began, but as Harvey turned to leave, he stopped him, "but you know, if I deliver such speeches too often, well - people might start to associate my face with bad news."
He had the man's attention then. After a pause, he simply said, "Miranda should be back from holiday soon."
"Good then," Spencer bobbed, "so she'll take over?"
His measured reassurances were somewhat less than reassuring. Spencer watched his boss leave, and was jostled left and right by the reporters who didn't recognise him from even moments before, let alone from five years ago.
Spencer brushed his teeth, spit, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Losing his hair already, at twenty-eight. He ran his hands through it, squashed the dark mass down and tried to picture it all gone. That wasn't difficult. He looked just like his father, who was now retired and pretending he wasn't bored with his hobbies.
He abandoned that line of thought with a huff of breath. On a day like today he needed to be chipper.
Spencer set his teacup in the sink and promised himself he would do the washing up when he got home. There'd still be time before he changed into his costume. The Lord Mimbleton's Halloween Ball was that evening, all but mandatory for anyone who had any political ambitions. Spencer's five-year plan was somewhat, well, utterly derailed - but his ten-year could still be salvaged with some effort.
The cat stretched towards the clean, white counters, and he scooped her up. "Come along, Millie. It's time for you to go home."
She bumped her head under his chin as he shouldered his way out the uncooperative door as it was caught by the wind, then knocked at the neighbour's with his foot. The aluminum banged. Millie wasn't really his cat, but he and his neighbor disagreed vehemently about her being put out at night, so they'd come to this arrangement. Niko Molotov, when he visited years before, had laughed over Irish coffee at the whole thing; but it was satisfactory for all concerned.
His neighbor arrived, wearing a hairnet and helmut of curlers. "Don't let them get to you, dearie," she said, wagging her finger like a grandmother, though she was really not much older than Spencer's brother.
Pardon? Oh. Yes, the paper. Of course his name had come up in the investigation. If he had been forgotten, no doubt seeing him in front of the cameras had reminded certain reporters of the past allegations against him. That's why he hadn't read the news.
At his office, Spencer began his day by moving the boxes off his desk.
He threaded his way through a jungle of cardboard and stray bits of packing material that squeaked underfoot as he put away armloads of folders. The file cabinets were pulled out from the wall at odd angles, but teetered when Spencer tried to shoulder them back. With wide eyes and a quick glance at the door, he left them where they were. Just outside, he could hear his new assistant chatting loudly with one of the three or four other people she supported. He sighed.
This was the third time this year his office had been moved, and he tried to ignore the fact that each time the office was slightly smaller. Temporary set-backs were normal.
"You'll go far, young man," Prime Minister MacMillian had told him, "if you play your cards right." Then he had floated out of power on a golden parachute and a storm of controversy. Was that playing his cards right? Spencer thought, somewhat waspishly.
He gave up on the cleaning once he could see his desktop again, and began searching for the annotated copy of the PM's daily brief, due today in an hour. It wasn't in the folder where he had left it on Friday. It looked like someone must have put it in one of the larger boxes with his old files, which was not where it ought to be at all. He pulled off a lid…
"Oh, for God's sakes."
The contents were a shambles. Empty folders splayed on top of loose, dumped out papers; some sheets were still stacked, but others were crumpled, folded and torn, wrenched off their staples. Somebody must have rummaged through them roughly sometime over the weekend. He put the lid carefully back on the box.
"I was cleared, damn you all," he said to the empty room. "Cleared."
He sank with a sigh to his chair, head in his hands. And a piece of paper crinkled underneath him. It was a message to meet his brother for lunch, and under it… the PM's brief. It had been on his chair the whole time.
"Oh. Bit of luck, that."
The morning sun backlit the windows in Harvey's office and shone on the back of his head as he acknowledged Spencer's presence with a curt nod during a phone call. Spencer stepped in quietly. There were bright streaks along the smooth shine of his desk, and pictures of man's kids smiled from the credenza. There was a new set of abstract kid-drawings pinned to the wall above it. Spencer couldn't imagine ever wanting kids. He couldn't even tell what those drawings were.
He set his changes to the PM's brief in front of Harvey, and edged his chair a little closer to the desk. The chrome hissed along the carpet. Harvey's eyes scanned the brief quickly as he hung up the phone with a click.
"This is good. Good work," he nodded and glanced up. Spencer glowed at the compliment. "I'm glad you're here, I wanted to talk to you about something."
Spencer brightened. "Have you considered my request for a transfer? International Relations is really more my field."
Harvey blinked for a moment, then his chin lifted with recognition. "Ah. That is… being given all due consideration. Would you mind closing the door?"
"Oh. No, not at all." Spencer squirmed out of the chair to shut it.
His supervisor looked at him over his heavy knuckles, and sighed. "Spencer. You do very good work. On the whole. However, there have been some concerns voiced about your performance lately. Your absence last week was… regrettably poor timing. Sophie had to fill in for your press call, and there were two projects whose deadlines were that day."
"I was ill, sir!" Spencer quickly forced himself to lower his voice. "They moved those deadlines up, on the day I was sick. I had no way of knowing that they were suddenly due."
There was a moment's silence, as Harvey sucked the inside of his mouth thoughtfully.
"Deadlines change," he said at last. "This is a fast-paced world we're in, Spencer. You know the level of commitment and dedication it requires. We need people we can count on.
"I am afraid we are going to have to put you on notice, thirty days to improve. But I'm sure you'll turn it around. You've survived a great deal already, haven't you?" Harvey chuckled in his beefy voice. Spencer winced at the reference to his past association with Minister MacMillian. "Well, I'm glad that's over and done with. Are you going to the Halloween Ball tonight?"
"Yes, of course I am." Spencer's voice was unintentionally sharp. He smoothed his temper. "Sir. I've worked here for seven years…."
"…and two administrations."
"Exactly!"
Harvey shook his head. Bright blue eyes met Spencer's. "I'm afraid there isn't much I can do."
Spencer chewed his lip. "May I speak with Director Crowlings about this? Would you mind terribly if I did that?"
"We do have an open door policy here. No, go right ahead," he said, settling back into the plush leather chair with depressing confidence. A paranoid person would think that Spencer was giving those conferences just to focus the investigation on him.
Spencer's brother Dan dug into his Chinese food with gusto. Dishes clattered behind the counter, echoing, and someone to Spencer's left jabbered heedlessly at great speed in Mandarin. Ni-Shu-Ah. The word leapt out. Spencer recognised it from the old days, but couldn't quite remember what it meant. Good morning, perhaps?
"Here, you have to try this, Spence -" Dan held out a dangling, jelly-like object on the end of his fork, "- some kind of mushroom, I think. Goes down like it can swim."
"No, thank you," Spencer said. He eyed it cautiously.
"Suit yourself." He slurped it down, and spoke without quite finishing his bite. He gestured with his fork. A fork at a Chinese restaurant. "So. I did it. I passed the entrance exams!"
Spencer was struggling to move his chair out of the way of a short, stubby lady with a large bag that had poked into his back. She pushed her way past several people. Asians didn't respect personal space, the Cultural Attache had warned him. You had to get used to that. "What? Oh. That's good."
"Police academy, here I come." He took another generous mouthful. "You know, that'll make two successful brothers in the family."
Dan continued chewing. "Saw that press conference thingy of yours last night. You did pretty good," he took a swig of his cola, "'cept for the part where you dropped your pen of course."
"It rolled off the podium."
"Yeah. Everything else was good. Boy, that Minister MacMillian really made a mess of things, eh?"
Spencer's chopsticks froze midway to his mouth; then he finished his bite. "You could say that."
"I'm surprised he didn't take everything that wasn't nailed down. Next thing you know, they'll be trying him for espionage, too," Dan chortled.
"What? What do you mean by that?"
Spencer spent the afternoon unpacking the rest of his boxes. Fortunately, only two of them had been rummaged through this time. He left the sorting of those for another day, or perhaps, never. His mind spun on plans within plans to reverse the bad turn his life had taken. Thirty days was just a legal formality of course. He was as good as gone. But he was still friends with the Minister of Agriculture, and if he could garner a little support from the Director she might -
"Unpacking, Spence?" The familiar unwelcome voice leered from the doorway. Spencer didn't look up, and didn't say anything. He continued to unpack.
"I wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you."
Everyone knew. He wondered if they knew before he walked into Harvey's office this morning, or after. Probably before.
Spencer inwardly counted to ten, sticking staunchly to his policy of silence. Any one of the cross responses that sprung to mind could get him into even worse trouble. It was just jealousy at his previous closeness with the Prime Minister coming home to roost. He waited until the gloating heckler moved on to more interesting prey.
Spencer escaped the endless boxes to pick up his mail. His new in-box had only one item, which he must have overlooked when he came in that morning.
It was a simple blank white invitation envelope, with an unsigned note:
Tonight. At the party. Meet me by the punch bowl.
A slow smile warmed Spencer's face as he read it twice more. He kissed it, then slipped it into his breast pocket with a light pat.
Perhaps his luck might turn around after all.
Spencer stood behind his tiny desk and examined his even tinier office. It looked pathetically crowded with the furniture from his old office. He had made his decision.
Briskly he told the receptionist that he'd be out for an hour or so, barely looking at her as he strode out the door. He didn't bother to tell his new assistant; let the rumour mill sleep for an hour or so.
Home looked odd and unwelcoming during the day, too brightly lit, as if the furniture had been caught doing something wrong and was surprised to see him. He brushed off that uncomfortable feeling and made for the bedroom.
There he pulled open a dresser drawer, third from the bottom, and began pulling out all the clothes, neatly stacking them on the bed.
Once the drawer was emptied, he pried up the bottom. It stuck for a moment; then the fake balsa wood bottom came free with a light crack. He had it from a Magician's shop. As a child, Spencer had been quite certain he was destined to be a master Illusionist - he even knew the right term. Surprising, those things that proved useful later in life.
There was only one item in the bottom of the drawer: a thin manila folder, marked in hesitant pencil, 'MacMillian/Molotov.' He lifted it out with almost a sense of reverence.
He was light-headed as he returned to the office, though borne down by a curious weight as well, and time seemed to drag. If anyone spoke to him as he carried that folder under his jacket, he didn't recall it.
He sat behind his desk, and it took several beats for his heart to stop racing. Then he picked up the phone, and said, as calmly as he could:
"Director Crowlings, please."
This year, the prestigious National Gallery of Art had been hired for Lord Mimbleton's party, after terrorist threats the year before had shut down his mansion for a week. No bombs had been found, but he wasn't about to be inconvenienced like that again. If there were trouble, let the art world suffer.
Laughter and classical music echoed down the dark corridors, where paintings stared over the partygoers' heads. Certain areas had been cordoned off with thick velvet rope, and security was tight, if relatively invisible. There was the occasional hiss and chatter of a walkie-talkie, but police costumes fit right in with the rest.
Harvey had come as a knight in shining armor, like he had last year and the year before, and the year before that. At the moment, Spencer thought that the back end of a horse would suit him better. Andrea, the front desk receptionist, had made quite a stir with her Lady Godiva costume and was surrounded by a bevy of admirers, complementing her on how little she'd worn.
Spencer put his feather cap back on, and adjusted the bow slung over his shoulder. He didn't understand why the staff had been so surprised at his costume.
"You seem more the Sheriff of Nottingham type," Allen Jewitt from the Ministry of Finance had explained. He had come as the Grinch.
"Or Prince John," Sophie had added, her butterfly wings shaking with giggles. There was a round of laughter and applause at the skillful dig at himself and the corrupt former Minister.
It had soured Spencer on all this 'party' business. He hovered around the punch bowl, trying not to be too obvious about it. With any luck, his 'friend' would arrive soon, and he could leave this farce, this charade. But the dreary celebration dragged on, as the staid government workers grew slowly louder, and more and more drunk. Laughter and small talk chattered down the halls eerily as Spencer paced away from the hub of the party for a moment's peace. He returned quickly, nervous about leaving the punchbowl too long.
"Join the party!" a bouyant and red-faced Assistant Interim Direct of Who Cares clapped him on the back. He was dressed as some sort of large rodent. "We're here to have fun, Robin Hood."
"Well, I'm here to work," Spencer said. Then instantly decided he'd had enough punch. Too much, in fact. Fortunately the… squirrel, rat, raccoon? whatever it was, wandered off. Two fairies, more secretaries competing for the 'least amount of clothing' award, shifted him away from the bowl, ignored him as they chatted. A man in a vicious-looking paper mache Chinese dragon mask approached.
"Leave a little punch for the rest of us. Spencer."
There are certain voices that you never forget, and if you know someone well enough you can recognise the glint of their eyes even behind a paper mache mask. Spencer nearly dropped his glass.
"Ni -" Spencer stopped the name just in time, and whispered. "You fool, what are you doing here?"
The man raised his glass in a mocking toast. "I'm here for the punch. Talk normally."
Spencer stared straight ahead. "I certainly didn't expect to see you."
"You haven't seen me. Just a dragon, here for some punch." Spencer could hear the smile behind the stiff mask.
They edged away from the crowd and quietly slipped around one of the velvet cords. Their footsteps were a staccato sound down the empty halls, the thump of Niko's boots alternated with the soft pad of Spencer's green slippers. Robin Hood must have been quiet in the forest. He also must have had cold, wet feet if he wore these things. Spencer could feel the chill from the marble floor.
In one of the darkened corridors surrounded by shadowy paintings, Niko Molotov pulled off his mask, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. Spencer opened his mouth to protest this stupidity, but Niko cut him off. "Don't. I can't breathe under this thing."
He glanced up at his friend with a quick smile. "Wow, Spencer, you look really bad. You could pass for forty."
"Oh, fuck you," Spencer said vehemently; look who's talking, "it's been a bad day - week - hell, it's been a bad a five years. Where have you been? And what happened to your neck?"
A shiney smooth scar shone across it like bone. There had been rumours, wildly conflicting ones, as to what had happened to Niko. Most described a violent demise, but Spencer hadn't found any of them credible.
"My 'death' almost became the real thing." Niko waggled his eyebrows. "So my commander has since 'been retired.'"
Spencer shook his head with a slight smile. "You know, for a chess player, you are pretty damned bloodthirsty."
"I still beat you though."
"You owe me a rematch -- I've been practicing."
Niko snorted. "Good luck. Practice all you like: it's a lost cause. Look, I didn't come here to talk about old times."
"I'm fond of lost causes as you know, but yes, I figured that. Why, then? Why you?"
"Why? Because I'm your friend; I've come to save you from a terrible mistake."
"Meeting you?" Spencer grinned.
"Ha-ha, you're funny." Niko glanced around. "You've been compromised, Spencer."
"It's all right, Niko, I have it all under control…"
"Haven't you noticed that you've been marginalised? Isolated? You know nothing useful anymore."
"No, no, my transfer to International is going through. I just negotiated it this afternoon." It had come at a price. Spencer brushed at his mouth and tried to put on his best smile. This wasn't what he'd planned with the Director Crowlings this afternoon. It wasn't supposed to be Niko for one thing, just a regular drop. Spencer was never good at improvising, but he made a snap decision and said smoothly, "But it is good to see you again. Come along. Let's go somewhere where we can talk, to get caught up on each other's lives…."
Niko stiffened. He'd put his mask back on, and the dragon shook its head. "You're through, Spencer. There are only two ways to handle things now, and you are very lucky it's me -- and even luckier I need a ticket out of here."
"A ticket -? Oh shit, Niko - no!"
Niko's .40 caliber SIG was already cold against Spencer's head, Niko's arm already wrapped around his chest. There was the sound of running footsteps, quickly pattering towards them, too soon to have not been waiting for some signal.
"Oh, damn you. I've got a cat to take care of!"
The metallic click of weapons echoed in the hallways; louder footsteps…
Then the first four policemen rounded the corner, their guns drawn…
But Niko had Spencer as a shield, and walked-dragged Spencer backward towards the exit. "She is not even your cat."
The helicopter blades beat time overhead. A grey sea, striped with whitecaps stretched below as far as Spencer could see.
"You can take that wire off now," Niko said casually, holding out his hand. The dragon head sat on the seat beside him.
Spencer was silent.
"Oh, Spencer. You forget -- I know you. I knew how desperate your situation was. I would have done the same."
Mentally, Spencer calculated the odds of survival from being dropped out of a helicopter at this height. Would they shoot him first? The only handgun he saw was Niko's, and that was a .40 SIG. Too messy at close range, and it might put a drafty hole in the chopper. He made these calculations very fast. Spencer began to unbutton his Robin Hood shirt… was it called a jerkin? Odd things ran through his mind.
"Just the one?" he said carefully, swallowing against a dry throat, "or both of them?"
The wire dangled like a small snake in his hand.
Niko's smile was genuine. "You do love me."
Spencer smiled and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Quite a busy hour or so that had been. The seat was metal, hard, and quite uncomfortable. He hoped the flight wouldn't be too long.
It occurred to Spencer that the government had made a mistake. He was a familiar face after all those press conferences, a sympathetic figure -- possibly even a national hero by now. The clamour for his rescue had probably already begun.
He started to quietly laugh, and told Niko, "I want a rematch."
News report:
Terrorists attacked the governor's Annual Halloween Ball yesterday evening, in an apparent attempt on the governor's life. Fortunately, the attack was unsuccessful, thanks largely to careful security measures undertaken since last year's terrorist threats. The governor and his family are unharmed. There were no injuries.
One government employee however, Spencer Wellington, was taken hostage in the melee.
"It's a tragedy," said Harvey Lowell, his supervisor. "Spencer's a - a good man, and a good worker, too. Shame about that 'no negotiation' policy, eh?"
Nina Strausmann, Mr Wellington's next door neighbour, had this to say, "He is such a gentle, sweet boy, very quiet. And he took quite good care of my Millie."
Title: The First Signs of Living
Rating: PG-13 (yes, I do write something other than porn ;)
Summary: A highly derivative experiment in Tom Clancy-esque action, to prepare myself to write the next part of Beg Me For It, SNAFU. Okay, it was also something I wrote for school. I like to be efficient and combine things.
The First Signs of Living
by Icarus
Spencer Wellington didn't enjoy reading the newspaper anymore. A chill wind blustered into his flat as he wrapped his dressing gown a little tighter, and dutifully picked it up anyway.
Reading the news used to be fun. He would spot mentions of his name in the Society section and read the gossip about who he'd been seen with that evening, or a reference here and there to his hobnobbing with various foreign dignitaries - sometimes there'd even be a picture; he was so striking in his suit and tie, shaking hands with Ambassador Vladamir Molotov.
He set the newspaper aside on the counter, and sat down to his quiet breakfast. He spread marmalade on his toast and then checked the time. There was no sound but the ticking of the clock in his spotless kitchen, and the faint click of his silverware.
He knew what was in the paper today.
Last night he'd been virtually blinded by the camara flashes as he had stepped up to the microphone. It was startlingly bright, under those lights, and hot. He'd instantly regretted wearing the wool jacket. He set his notes delicately on the podium as the flashes continued, rudely, and then cleared his throat.
"In the wake of recent allegations…" The cameras flashed. "…a full investigation has been undertaken into the actions of former Prime Minister, Allistor MacMillian. The departments currently under investigation include, but are not limited to…."
The questions clamoured immediately, but Spencer was not authorised to speak on the government's behalf beyond his carefully vetted speech. He nodded to his audience and picked up his papers, "no further questions, thank you."
The camera crews descended almost immediately to disassemble the room. The podium walked off, cords were wrapped, lights shut off in the clatter. Spencer pushed his way through the crowd of workman and milling reporters seeking a follow-up or off-the-record comment. He brushed them away. He saw the man he was looking for, his hand already on the door. That bald spot of Harvey's stood out.
"Harvey - Harvey!" Spencer called out his Department head with a friendly wave. He dodged a ladder and squirmed between two men in overalls; Harvey turned wearily. He was a big man and the door all but disappeared behind him. "Say now, how - how was that, do you think? Do you think that went over all right?"
"You were fine, Spencer."
"Yes, you see, it's not really my job to do these little announcements, now is it?" Spencer said.
"You are doing very well, and we appreciate your extra efforts these last few weeks."
"That's good, very good," Spencer began, but as Harvey turned to leave, he stopped him, "but you know, if I deliver such speeches too often, well - people might start to associate my face with bad news."
He had the man's attention then. After a pause, he simply said, "Miranda should be back from holiday soon."
"Good then," Spencer bobbed, "so she'll take over?"
His measured reassurances were somewhat less than reassuring. Spencer watched his boss leave, and was jostled left and right by the reporters who didn't recognise him from even moments before, let alone from five years ago.
Spencer brushed his teeth, spit, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Losing his hair already, at twenty-eight. He ran his hands through it, squashed the dark mass down and tried to picture it all gone. That wasn't difficult. He looked just like his father, who was now retired and pretending he wasn't bored with his hobbies.
He abandoned that line of thought with a huff of breath. On a day like today he needed to be chipper.
Spencer set his teacup in the sink and promised himself he would do the washing up when he got home. There'd still be time before he changed into his costume. The Lord Mimbleton's Halloween Ball was that evening, all but mandatory for anyone who had any political ambitions. Spencer's five-year plan was somewhat, well, utterly derailed - but his ten-year could still be salvaged with some effort.
The cat stretched towards the clean, white counters, and he scooped her up. "Come along, Millie. It's time for you to go home."
She bumped her head under his chin as he shouldered his way out the uncooperative door as it was caught by the wind, then knocked at the neighbour's with his foot. The aluminum banged. Millie wasn't really his cat, but he and his neighbor disagreed vehemently about her being put out at night, so they'd come to this arrangement. Niko Molotov, when he visited years before, had laughed over Irish coffee at the whole thing; but it was satisfactory for all concerned.
His neighbor arrived, wearing a hairnet and helmut of curlers. "Don't let them get to you, dearie," she said, wagging her finger like a grandmother, though she was really not much older than Spencer's brother.
Pardon? Oh. Yes, the paper. Of course his name had come up in the investigation. If he had been forgotten, no doubt seeing him in front of the cameras had reminded certain reporters of the past allegations against him. That's why he hadn't read the news.
At his office, Spencer began his day by moving the boxes off his desk.
He threaded his way through a jungle of cardboard and stray bits of packing material that squeaked underfoot as he put away armloads of folders. The file cabinets were pulled out from the wall at odd angles, but teetered when Spencer tried to shoulder them back. With wide eyes and a quick glance at the door, he left them where they were. Just outside, he could hear his new assistant chatting loudly with one of the three or four other people she supported. He sighed.
This was the third time this year his office had been moved, and he tried to ignore the fact that each time the office was slightly smaller. Temporary set-backs were normal.
"You'll go far, young man," Prime Minister MacMillian had told him, "if you play your cards right." Then he had floated out of power on a golden parachute and a storm of controversy. Was that playing his cards right? Spencer thought, somewhat waspishly.
He gave up on the cleaning once he could see his desktop again, and began searching for the annotated copy of the PM's daily brief, due today in an hour. It wasn't in the folder where he had left it on Friday. It looked like someone must have put it in one of the larger boxes with his old files, which was not where it ought to be at all. He pulled off a lid…
"Oh, for God's sakes."
The contents were a shambles. Empty folders splayed on top of loose, dumped out papers; some sheets were still stacked, but others were crumpled, folded and torn, wrenched off their staples. Somebody must have rummaged through them roughly sometime over the weekend. He put the lid carefully back on the box.
"I was cleared, damn you all," he said to the empty room. "Cleared."
He sank with a sigh to his chair, head in his hands. And a piece of paper crinkled underneath him. It was a message to meet his brother for lunch, and under it… the PM's brief. It had been on his chair the whole time.
"Oh. Bit of luck, that."
The morning sun backlit the windows in Harvey's office and shone on the back of his head as he acknowledged Spencer's presence with a curt nod during a phone call. Spencer stepped in quietly. There were bright streaks along the smooth shine of his desk, and pictures of man's kids smiled from the credenza. There was a new set of abstract kid-drawings pinned to the wall above it. Spencer couldn't imagine ever wanting kids. He couldn't even tell what those drawings were.
He set his changes to the PM's brief in front of Harvey, and edged his chair a little closer to the desk. The chrome hissed along the carpet. Harvey's eyes scanned the brief quickly as he hung up the phone with a click.
"This is good. Good work," he nodded and glanced up. Spencer glowed at the compliment. "I'm glad you're here, I wanted to talk to you about something."
Spencer brightened. "Have you considered my request for a transfer? International Relations is really more my field."
Harvey blinked for a moment, then his chin lifted with recognition. "Ah. That is… being given all due consideration. Would you mind closing the door?"
"Oh. No, not at all." Spencer squirmed out of the chair to shut it.
His supervisor looked at him over his heavy knuckles, and sighed. "Spencer. You do very good work. On the whole. However, there have been some concerns voiced about your performance lately. Your absence last week was… regrettably poor timing. Sophie had to fill in for your press call, and there were two projects whose deadlines were that day."
"I was ill, sir!" Spencer quickly forced himself to lower his voice. "They moved those deadlines up, on the day I was sick. I had no way of knowing that they were suddenly due."
There was a moment's silence, as Harvey sucked the inside of his mouth thoughtfully.
"Deadlines change," he said at last. "This is a fast-paced world we're in, Spencer. You know the level of commitment and dedication it requires. We need people we can count on.
"I am afraid we are going to have to put you on notice, thirty days to improve. But I'm sure you'll turn it around. You've survived a great deal already, haven't you?" Harvey chuckled in his beefy voice. Spencer winced at the reference to his past association with Minister MacMillian. "Well, I'm glad that's over and done with. Are you going to the Halloween Ball tonight?"
"Yes, of course I am." Spencer's voice was unintentionally sharp. He smoothed his temper. "Sir. I've worked here for seven years…."
"…and two administrations."
"Exactly!"
Harvey shook his head. Bright blue eyes met Spencer's. "I'm afraid there isn't much I can do."
Spencer chewed his lip. "May I speak with Director Crowlings about this? Would you mind terribly if I did that?"
"We do have an open door policy here. No, go right ahead," he said, settling back into the plush leather chair with depressing confidence. A paranoid person would think that Spencer was giving those conferences just to focus the investigation on him.
Spencer's brother Dan dug into his Chinese food with gusto. Dishes clattered behind the counter, echoing, and someone to Spencer's left jabbered heedlessly at great speed in Mandarin. Ni-Shu-Ah. The word leapt out. Spencer recognised it from the old days, but couldn't quite remember what it meant. Good morning, perhaps?
"Here, you have to try this, Spence -" Dan held out a dangling, jelly-like object on the end of his fork, "- some kind of mushroom, I think. Goes down like it can swim."
"No, thank you," Spencer said. He eyed it cautiously.
"Suit yourself." He slurped it down, and spoke without quite finishing his bite. He gestured with his fork. A fork at a Chinese restaurant. "So. I did it. I passed the entrance exams!"
Spencer was struggling to move his chair out of the way of a short, stubby lady with a large bag that had poked into his back. She pushed her way past several people. Asians didn't respect personal space, the Cultural Attache had warned him. You had to get used to that. "What? Oh. That's good."
"Police academy, here I come." He took another generous mouthful. "You know, that'll make two successful brothers in the family."
Dan continued chewing. "Saw that press conference thingy of yours last night. You did pretty good," he took a swig of his cola, "'cept for the part where you dropped your pen of course."
"It rolled off the podium."
"Yeah. Everything else was good. Boy, that Minister MacMillian really made a mess of things, eh?"
Spencer's chopsticks froze midway to his mouth; then he finished his bite. "You could say that."
"I'm surprised he didn't take everything that wasn't nailed down. Next thing you know, they'll be trying him for espionage, too," Dan chortled.
"What? What do you mean by that?"
Spencer spent the afternoon unpacking the rest of his boxes. Fortunately, only two of them had been rummaged through this time. He left the sorting of those for another day, or perhaps, never. His mind spun on plans within plans to reverse the bad turn his life had taken. Thirty days was just a legal formality of course. He was as good as gone. But he was still friends with the Minister of Agriculture, and if he could garner a little support from the Director she might -
"Unpacking, Spence?" The familiar unwelcome voice leered from the doorway. Spencer didn't look up, and didn't say anything. He continued to unpack.
"I wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you."
Everyone knew. He wondered if they knew before he walked into Harvey's office this morning, or after. Probably before.
Spencer inwardly counted to ten, sticking staunchly to his policy of silence. Any one of the cross responses that sprung to mind could get him into even worse trouble. It was just jealousy at his previous closeness with the Prime Minister coming home to roost. He waited until the gloating heckler moved on to more interesting prey.
Spencer escaped the endless boxes to pick up his mail. His new in-box had only one item, which he must have overlooked when he came in that morning.
It was a simple blank white invitation envelope, with an unsigned note:
Tonight. At the party. Meet me by the punch bowl.
A slow smile warmed Spencer's face as he read it twice more. He kissed it, then slipped it into his breast pocket with a light pat.
Perhaps his luck might turn around after all.
Spencer stood behind his tiny desk and examined his even tinier office. It looked pathetically crowded with the furniture from his old office. He had made his decision.
Briskly he told the receptionist that he'd be out for an hour or so, barely looking at her as he strode out the door. He didn't bother to tell his new assistant; let the rumour mill sleep for an hour or so.
Home looked odd and unwelcoming during the day, too brightly lit, as if the furniture had been caught doing something wrong and was surprised to see him. He brushed off that uncomfortable feeling and made for the bedroom.
There he pulled open a dresser drawer, third from the bottom, and began pulling out all the clothes, neatly stacking them on the bed.
Once the drawer was emptied, he pried up the bottom. It stuck for a moment; then the fake balsa wood bottom came free with a light crack. He had it from a Magician's shop. As a child, Spencer had been quite certain he was destined to be a master Illusionist - he even knew the right term. Surprising, those things that proved useful later in life.
There was only one item in the bottom of the drawer: a thin manila folder, marked in hesitant pencil, 'MacMillian/Molotov.' He lifted it out with almost a sense of reverence.
He was light-headed as he returned to the office, though borne down by a curious weight as well, and time seemed to drag. If anyone spoke to him as he carried that folder under his jacket, he didn't recall it.
He sat behind his desk, and it took several beats for his heart to stop racing. Then he picked up the phone, and said, as calmly as he could:
"Director Crowlings, please."
This year, the prestigious National Gallery of Art had been hired for Lord Mimbleton's party, after terrorist threats the year before had shut down his mansion for a week. No bombs had been found, but he wasn't about to be inconvenienced like that again. If there were trouble, let the art world suffer.
Laughter and classical music echoed down the dark corridors, where paintings stared over the partygoers' heads. Certain areas had been cordoned off with thick velvet rope, and security was tight, if relatively invisible. There was the occasional hiss and chatter of a walkie-talkie, but police costumes fit right in with the rest.
Harvey had come as a knight in shining armor, like he had last year and the year before, and the year before that. At the moment, Spencer thought that the back end of a horse would suit him better. Andrea, the front desk receptionist, had made quite a stir with her Lady Godiva costume and was surrounded by a bevy of admirers, complementing her on how little she'd worn.
Spencer put his feather cap back on, and adjusted the bow slung over his shoulder. He didn't understand why the staff had been so surprised at his costume.
"You seem more the Sheriff of Nottingham type," Allen Jewitt from the Ministry of Finance had explained. He had come as the Grinch.
"Or Prince John," Sophie had added, her butterfly wings shaking with giggles. There was a round of laughter and applause at the skillful dig at himself and the corrupt former Minister.
It had soured Spencer on all this 'party' business. He hovered around the punch bowl, trying not to be too obvious about it. With any luck, his 'friend' would arrive soon, and he could leave this farce, this charade. But the dreary celebration dragged on, as the staid government workers grew slowly louder, and more and more drunk. Laughter and small talk chattered down the halls eerily as Spencer paced away from the hub of the party for a moment's peace. He returned quickly, nervous about leaving the punchbowl too long.
"Join the party!" a bouyant and red-faced Assistant Interim Direct of Who Cares clapped him on the back. He was dressed as some sort of large rodent. "We're here to have fun, Robin Hood."
"Well, I'm here to work," Spencer said. Then instantly decided he'd had enough punch. Too much, in fact. Fortunately the… squirrel, rat, raccoon? whatever it was, wandered off. Two fairies, more secretaries competing for the 'least amount of clothing' award, shifted him away from the bowl, ignored him as they chatted. A man in a vicious-looking paper mache Chinese dragon mask approached.
"Leave a little punch for the rest of us. Spencer."
There are certain voices that you never forget, and if you know someone well enough you can recognise the glint of their eyes even behind a paper mache mask. Spencer nearly dropped his glass.
"Ni -" Spencer stopped the name just in time, and whispered. "You fool, what are you doing here?"
The man raised his glass in a mocking toast. "I'm here for the punch. Talk normally."
Spencer stared straight ahead. "I certainly didn't expect to see you."
"You haven't seen me. Just a dragon, here for some punch." Spencer could hear the smile behind the stiff mask.
They edged away from the crowd and quietly slipped around one of the velvet cords. Their footsteps were a staccato sound down the empty halls, the thump of Niko's boots alternated with the soft pad of Spencer's green slippers. Robin Hood must have been quiet in the forest. He also must have had cold, wet feet if he wore these things. Spencer could feel the chill from the marble floor.
In one of the darkened corridors surrounded by shadowy paintings, Niko Molotov pulled off his mask, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. Spencer opened his mouth to protest this stupidity, but Niko cut him off. "Don't. I can't breathe under this thing."
He glanced up at his friend with a quick smile. "Wow, Spencer, you look really bad. You could pass for forty."
"Oh, fuck you," Spencer said vehemently; look who's talking, "it's been a bad day - week - hell, it's been a bad a five years. Where have you been? And what happened to your neck?"
A shiney smooth scar shone across it like bone. There had been rumours, wildly conflicting ones, as to what had happened to Niko. Most described a violent demise, but Spencer hadn't found any of them credible.
"My 'death' almost became the real thing." Niko waggled his eyebrows. "So my commander has since 'been retired.'"
Spencer shook his head with a slight smile. "You know, for a chess player, you are pretty damned bloodthirsty."
"I still beat you though."
"You owe me a rematch -- I've been practicing."
Niko snorted. "Good luck. Practice all you like: it's a lost cause. Look, I didn't come here to talk about old times."
"I'm fond of lost causes as you know, but yes, I figured that. Why, then? Why you?"
"Why? Because I'm your friend; I've come to save you from a terrible mistake."
"Meeting you?" Spencer grinned.
"Ha-ha, you're funny." Niko glanced around. "You've been compromised, Spencer."
"It's all right, Niko, I have it all under control…"
"Haven't you noticed that you've been marginalised? Isolated? You know nothing useful anymore."
"No, no, my transfer to International is going through. I just negotiated it this afternoon." It had come at a price. Spencer brushed at his mouth and tried to put on his best smile. This wasn't what he'd planned with the Director Crowlings this afternoon. It wasn't supposed to be Niko for one thing, just a regular drop. Spencer was never good at improvising, but he made a snap decision and said smoothly, "But it is good to see you again. Come along. Let's go somewhere where we can talk, to get caught up on each other's lives…."
Niko stiffened. He'd put his mask back on, and the dragon shook its head. "You're through, Spencer. There are only two ways to handle things now, and you are very lucky it's me -- and even luckier I need a ticket out of here."
"A ticket -? Oh shit, Niko - no!"
Niko's .40 caliber SIG was already cold against Spencer's head, Niko's arm already wrapped around his chest. There was the sound of running footsteps, quickly pattering towards them, too soon to have not been waiting for some signal.
"Oh, damn you. I've got a cat to take care of!"
The metallic click of weapons echoed in the hallways; louder footsteps…
Then the first four policemen rounded the corner, their guns drawn…
But Niko had Spencer as a shield, and walked-dragged Spencer backward towards the exit. "She is not even your cat."
The helicopter blades beat time overhead. A grey sea, striped with whitecaps stretched below as far as Spencer could see.
"You can take that wire off now," Niko said casually, holding out his hand. The dragon head sat on the seat beside him.
Spencer was silent.
"Oh, Spencer. You forget -- I know you. I knew how desperate your situation was. I would have done the same."
Mentally, Spencer calculated the odds of survival from being dropped out of a helicopter at this height. Would they shoot him first? The only handgun he saw was Niko's, and that was a .40 SIG. Too messy at close range, and it might put a drafty hole in the chopper. He made these calculations very fast. Spencer began to unbutton his Robin Hood shirt… was it called a jerkin? Odd things ran through his mind.
"Just the one?" he said carefully, swallowing against a dry throat, "or both of them?"
The wire dangled like a small snake in his hand.
Niko's smile was genuine. "You do love me."
Spencer smiled and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Quite a busy hour or so that had been. The seat was metal, hard, and quite uncomfortable. He hoped the flight wouldn't be too long.
It occurred to Spencer that the government had made a mistake. He was a familiar face after all those press conferences, a sympathetic figure -- possibly even a national hero by now. The clamour for his rescue had probably already begun.
He started to quietly laugh, and told Niko, "I want a rematch."
News report:
Terrorists attacked the governor's Annual Halloween Ball yesterday evening, in an apparent attempt on the governor's life. Fortunately, the attack was unsuccessful, thanks largely to careful security measures undertaken since last year's terrorist threats. The governor and his family are unharmed. There were no injuries.
One government employee however, Spencer Wellington, was taken hostage in the melee.
"It's a tragedy," said Harvey Lowell, his supervisor. "Spencer's a - a good man, and a good worker, too. Shame about that 'no negotiation' policy, eh?"
Nina Strausmann, Mr Wellington's next door neighbour, had this to say, "He is such a gentle, sweet boy, very quiet. And he took quite good care of my Millie."
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Date: 2003-12-13 11:43 am (UTC)Niko is based on an ex-boyfriend, and a kid I hated in high school, but who has just the right personality traits.
Icarus