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thepacifistrouter · 7 months

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The Spark (Wheatley The Best PM fanfic)

Hello!

I've been reading everything I could about Wheatley the Best PM, a Waffles AU from years ago (twitters, one-shots, questions, wiki, etc.) and, although I found it fun and interesting… I felt like it was missing something …I mean, yes, in itself it is unfinished, but I mean that an element was missing, perhaps even that affected the fact of being able to continue moving forward with the idea, I don't know. After much thought, I came to the conclusion that the story lacked… hope, especially for our protagonist, that it seemed that the negative things around him were much bigger and heavier than the positive ones (too many flaws, no friends real, or at least real support, his cat was killed, his plant, current pet missing and his grandmother is presumed dead, etc), there didn't seem to be any solid reasons for anyone to want to help him personally, not even Chell I'm not talking about a possible Chelley, I'm talking about Chell showing real interest, initiative in, not even being his friend, but at least wanting to help him, knowing the difficult situation he is in, I know he has his reasons, but still. It's difficult to work on unfinished material, but… for some reason, I wanted to try it and… I think I finally came up with a… plausible idea to add hope for our favorite Prime Minister and his story.

I clarify that I'm not even half as good writer as Waffles… and I'm sure she won't read this… but… I don't know, I wanted to publish it, I hope you like it.

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They were a few thought weeks, really though weeks, 2 weeks to be precise, but not because of the cold and snow, nor because the work was particularly difficult (which technically, it wasn't), but because of her boss, the Prime Minister. The tallest and most idiotic Prime Minister the country could ever have, but it was only aware of the former. They were also not aware that the person in charge of the nation was, actually a being that was difficult to define as human, but who was the one who pulled the strings of everything under the shadows. She wasn't someone you wanted to be around, in fact, if it weren't for the Prime Minister having decided on her, she would never have taken that job on her behalf.

Curiously, until a few weeks before, her job had been up and down, but it was bearable, as was her boss. especially in the last week. When he regularly offered to take her home in the Sentinel, even though at first, she did not feel comfortable with that, it eventually became a pleasant time, but sadly, illusory and therefore, temporary.

After having to endure the wrath of Hurricane Caro, aka, his "best friend" all by himself, after having let her know his displeasure during that last Sentinel trip together, even though he tried to pretend nothing had happened the very next morning, things only got worse.

First, because the following days, from time to time, the Prime Minister was called to meet with Her, long and alone meetings, no one knew exactly what was being discussed there, but when they finished, it was clear that it couldn't be anything good. Especially because, due to the clear nerves he had when entering, he seems to had spilled coffee on his leg I none of them and, clumsily tried to hide it. And even without that, you could see a clear glow of satisfaction in Her eyes as She left, and something was changing in the Prime Minister's gaze and in his manners with others. At first was almost imperceptible, it was not very different from how he acted before, but this was just more... intense, less patient, more self-aware of his actions... in a bad way, he seemed to make more and more efforts to appear serious and imposing, trying to look more professional, which, for him, meant being more bossy, being more categorical when giving opinions or making decisions, etc. He didn't even post anything on his Twitter anymore.

Somehow, he managed to make this less noticeable by having public appearances, it was there, but it was still more like any other public appearance before those weeks, silly and lost. Still, Chell, being as sharp as she was, she saw it, she saw that it wasn't the same anymore.

She noticed how he corrected his posture much more often, looking for imperfections in his clothes, at some point he began to adjust his glasses every time it looked like he would say or do something, but he changed them at the last second for something else a little less like him; like being offered some biscuits, but in the last second, he ended up refusing them, saying that he would start a healthier diet soon and that it would be better to leave the biscuits to the children. Even once, on their way to an opening outside London, they spotted a circus in the distance, she could have bet she saw that spark of childish excitement in his eyes, only for him to, in the next breath, remark that he really liked them as a child, but now he had more interesting and important things to pay attention to.

Tension began to be felt in the No10 atmosphere, a tension that grew as the days passed, becoming palpable for anyone around, specially her.

She didn’t give a damn.

Maybe he was her boss, but she wasn't willing to let his stupid attitudes get to her, it already bothered her enough that she was affected by his tantrum at the Sentinel, no matter how sorry she was for him, no matter how much she could understand his situation, what happened was not her fault. It wasn't her fault that he wasn't able to open his eyes to his "best friend", it wasn't her fault that he was incapable of running his life, much less a nation, or that his will was so weak with what really mattered, he was not even able to ask for help other than some advice from time to time or for silly, irrelevant things or accidents he caused with his clumsiness. The only possible guilt she could really feel was not having done anything to try to change things or say something during the elections, perhaps that was the main reason, along with her own plans, why she had not tried to quit her job. He was not her responsibility out of what her work or her guts could demand, like saving his life of himself, which was still on her ‘not exactly something to be too proud of’ list of things.

It was true, after all, despite the time that had passed and there being something about him that could have made her consider to saving him as not a complete waste, from her point of view, that life was still a harmful and dangerous disaster, for himself and for the nation that, It is assumed that it was under his charge. Even taking his precious Caro out of the equation, who was the one who made him a danger to the general population, his position on her life and her mission doesn't change much... irrelevant, almost expendable. Remembering the times she saved him of problems that should only be problems for little kids and not for a ruler of an entire country, that he ignored obvious problems for him or blaming others for them because of his own insecurities and lack of self-steem, or when he began to become especially unbearable in the way he treated others, especially in the last week. She didn't hate him, he wasn't someone worth hating, but she wouldn't let someone so needy and annoying upset her, it was true that he had his more tractable moments where he can even feel friendly and kind, like someone to be nice with… but that was far too temporary, and still, again, even if it wasn’t… that didn't make him her responsibility… aside from her job. There were more important things to worry about, there was a whole nation full of people to worry about to. She couldn't, she didn't have to, she didn’t need to focus on his life problems.

The snow was beginning to fall in a foggy London, she was well dressed for the occasion, scarf, coat, gloves, etc. Luckily it was time to go home, she alone had to stop by to do a couple of purchases for herself. It wasn't her favourite activity, but it had to be done, and that same day she had to go shopping for clothes for her boss, who would say that buying a pair of packages of special-sized socks online was a mission of national importance.

At least she didn't have to deal with him anymore for today… or so she thought.

The streets were empty due to the hour, the snow and the fog, in the distance, at least from what could be seen, she saw some garbage containers, which told her that she was, more or less, halfway home. The containers were an expected sight for her, what she didn't expect was to see the lanky guy with glasses, overdressed in formal clothes - despite being outside of his working hours- standing in front of them, staring at them, as if he couldn't decide what would be his next step after getting there. She was about to cross the street, taking advantage of the fact that he hadn't seen her, so she could continue without having to go through an awkward encounter with her boss, but something protruding from the box he was carrying caught her attention. From the distance, it looked like just a piece of fabric, but she realized that it was a sleeve, a sleeve of a huge sweater that she had seen before, its size and its owner made it difficult to forget, after all.

She doesn't know what prompted her to move a little closer to be sure if she was seeing wrong instead of following her original plan to cross the street and quicken her pace. She regretted not doing so the second he became aware of her presence, although her reaction was a bit...unexpected?

“… Oh, hello… Michelle” He barely turns his head to look at her for a second and immediately return to the initial position. “You can continue your way, I just… took advantage of the hour… you know, lack of public hour… to get rid of… some trash I had at home, you know, free up some space… A-and I would ask someone else to do it! but… Well, it would’ve been like letting someone snoop though the Prime Minister’s garbage, that’d bee totally weird and controversial, right? Embarrassing paper news material…. No, it was best to do it myself, after all… it’s close to me…”. He adjusts his glasses “I-I mean, close to my home, not me, pfff! is just garbage, how could possibly be that close to me? Is close to my home, like… in the way home, that’s what I meant to say…”

What, this?" It's from my nan. She used to knit me jumpers for school, but she always had to make 'em bloody huge or I'd grow out of it in five minutes flat.

Chell notice how, while he was talking, something was missing in his look, something that had been there before, but seemed to be dismissing over time. She looked at the box, there were many things, some familiar to her, others not, a huge blue sweater, stratospheric blue like the eyes of its owner, long and colourful socks, with almost psychedelic and childlike patterns, one of them with what it seems to be a large coffee stain, she even though she saw a hair clip with a little frog, in a corner.

Something was wrong.

The Prime Minister noticed Chell's gaze towards the box. “Oi, oi!! it's private!! didn't your parents teach you to not look at other people's trash!?... and... and anyway, now that you did, which again, super rude, but since what's done is done, a little saying there, I guess you're wondering about the sweater, after all, you'd already seen it and it's hard not to notice it because the size and the loud colour and that… well, the thing’s that... after thinking about it well, I considered that, honestly, I didn't need it anymore… sentimental value is for people who can't afford actual value, after all, I mean, I'm the Prime Minister! I can buy a much better sweater, more suitable! This one is 2 bloody sizes too big for me! I looked ridiculous wearing it, didn't I? Heheheh... yeah, luckily no one else saw me with that... to be honest... it-it was about time to get rid of it… and-and I don't think my nan would mind, really, after all, she is... is…" He adjusts his glasses "Well, you already have your answer, don’t you? It's getting cold. I'll just... I'm trying to think if I forgot something to throw or if I get rid of something important by mistake, that's all, human mistake could happen even to me, so… you can continue your way home, like I said, nothing important happens here..."

Chell couldn't imagine why he would be taking this decision; it was clearly taking him a while to let go of that box. She was almost certain that he would never let Caro or anyone at No10 know of the existence of any of the things in the box, why would he be getting rid of them, then? The only plausible answer that her mind pictures was Her and their meetings those weeks.

Even though Chell was good at solving puzzles and unknowns, she enjoyed it to a certain extent, at that moment she didn't have much desire or energy to think further about it, it's not like the Prime Minister's clothes or trash were her business and, besides, he didn't seem in the best of moods at that moment; She noticed that ‘something’ that was missing again, that kind of spark that seemed to have been replaced by the small glint in his glasses reflected every time she adjusted them. His stare was almost dead.

She decided that she no longer wanted to be there, so she was about to return to her path, when they both heard something move and squeak that came from the container, they focused their sight on the place where the sound came from. It was a well tied plastic bag, in the middle of several bigger bags and some empty cans.

Chell didn't have much time to think about it when the Prime Minister spoke “Oh... that must be, without a doubt, a cat that someone threw in the trash, I know about this, remember I told you my father loves cats? Yeah, I told you that time when... nevermind, nevermind, thing is he used to pick up cats on his way home sometimes, and he would talk to us about what were the most common places, you know, the most repeated methods to get rid of a cat, he mentioned the use of tied bags in rivers, slopes, gutters, garbage cans, etc. So, I'm sure, 100% accuracy, that there is a cat in that bag" he says in an almost pretentious tone, Chell already saw that she’d have to take him out of the trash for trying to pick up the bag from where he is, instead of turning around to approach it, like someone who thinks before acting would do, but...

He adjusted his glasses "... Oh well... it's better… i-it’s better to finish this and go home, I was told that the snow should not take long to increase..." then, he proceeds to, slowly, place the box in the container, away from the moving bag, pretending he no longer saw it; they could even hear moans and squeaks from time to time.

Something was definitely wrong.

Chell couldn’t help but stare at him, he noticed it, then she looks at the bag “…What? The bag?... is… is just…“ He adjust his glasses “is just a stupid cat, isn’t it? W-What others do with their stuff is none of my business…”

She kept looking at him, he seemed to be, or trying to be, serious and she didn't see any intention in him of wanting to go for the bag, so she wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but she decided to, at least, say something.

“How about a shelter?”

“Heh, nah, at this time? in this weather? The closest one would take too long to get here and I'm not going to waste my time on foot, much less picking up other people's trash and you shouldn't either… again, it's getting late...”

The bag moves again, but he turns to leave. She decides to try again.

“So... are you just going to leave it there?”

He stops, but at first he doesn't turn around. He adjusted his glasses and she could see a bit of the reflection of the light from the street spotlight in them.

“...Is funny, you know? Because I thought...I thought I was being clear about this...but okay, okay I'll take the time to be clearer anyway...so yeah...I'm going to leave it there...whatever happens to that bag... or that cat or whatever... it's not my problem... I have more important Prime Minister things to think about than… than a useless cat... be-besides, there must be a reason why they left it in garbage like that, shouldn’t it?" he turns to look at her "there must be a good reason, a very good reason why someone decided to get rid of their cat like that, probably several reasons... so why would I…"

“Such as?” She interrupts, maintaining her usual serious, cold, and calm tone and countenance, yet, somehow, there was a small hint of challenge in the way she asked it. It was involuntary, or that's what she wanted to believe.

“Such as? Well, that’s easy, actually, a really easy answer, to be honest, there are a lot of possible reasons… for-for example, and this is just the first things that comes to my mind, being very noisy, cats can be quite noisy, really, especially at night, have you ever heard a cat fight? Well, let me tell you, it is very noisy, or could just be one of those who do not stop meowing…. Anyway, other option here, It-it could also be one of those that spends its time scratching or biting things everywhere, like clothes, armchairs, curtains or walls, whatever, that's typical of cats, be destructive, small earthquakes, to be honest… you don't want that in your house... and... well, if I had to name something else, some other good reason that occurs to me, well... well it's still easy" he adjusts his glasses "it could… it could simply be a useless cat...like… like a cat too stupid to fulfil the main role of a cat, the traditional mouse catcher, be the pest controller… yeah… yeah, in fact I think it is the most plausible reason, because it would undoubtedly involve the other 2 reasons I already said, and… and not to also mention the waste of money, space and food!" He turns to look at the bag while saying this, with a look that seemed to have begun to bother with its contents, but even so, it almost seemed empty "Yes, without a doubt that must have been it, a useless cat that only got in the way and caused annoyance... I mean-I mean, just look at it! It's not even able to use the claws nature gave it to try to escape, it’s just a plastic bag! Even so, the moron is not capable of trying to use them to escape on its own" he looked with what seemed almost a look of hatred at the bag, which was moving and emitting squeaks less and less, as if it were getting tired “No, I have no reason worry about such a thing…”

Chell was struck by the hatred that began to appear in his voice and in his eyes, for something that was nothing more than a speculation, he was just assuming all those things... or perhaps more than that… but she didn't back down in this game because of it, although, at this point, she wasn't sure why.

"Even if it were like that… it's just a cat…”

“Yeah, you said it, just a cat” he interrupts “It's just a cat, the country… no, not even the country, we can reduce the population ratio for this, actually, let’s better say the city where we are right now, London, I meant London, is full of other cats, many in houses where they are wanted, many strays that have managed to survive on their own; in short, cats that have earned their place in this life on their own, that they have been useful for their purpose or the one that their owners gave them... this is not one of them... I don't see why... should we spend efforts on a hopeless case like this… it doesn’t deserve… is just not worth it... to be honest”.

It seemed like he was going to return to his path but noticing how the young woman continued to stare at him, he seemed to take that as an incentive to continue. He adjusts his glasses.

“Besides, even if I considered... which I'm not considering! Just to make that perfectly clear, I'm not considering anything! but... but if I did, I couldn't, like I said, I'm sure I mentioned it, I have more important things to worry about… like, vital nation things to take care of, important Prime Minister business, decisions to take… as you might already know, I couldn't take care of it, I don't have time to laze round, taking care of another cat that can't even catch mice… no, to be honest, it would… it would, without a doubt, be a waste of time for both of us…”

This time, he turned to look at her, that look that seemed dead, but now also showed a small hint of... irony? “And you... you are also here after all, don't think that I’m not considering you in the scheme of things, but-but I know that you would not take it either! I remember it well from those times, that big red sign of 'NO PETS ALLOWED’ in front of the building door, so no, hehe, you couldn't take it even if you wanted to, right? See? even for you it would be just troubles... because... be-because... let's say that for some reason, you decide to take it anyway, thinking that you could... I don't know, just hide it from the management, but ‘eeeh!’ bad news, and I think you can guess it too, you couldn't! You just couldn't hide it for long, plus it wouldn't be worth it!" A smile appears on his face, a smile she didn't like at all. "Like I said, cats, especially idiot cats like this, can be very loud... and you... you spend most of your day at work, how would you try to hide it while you're away?! A-and let's not mention everything you would have to teach it! to use the sand box, also difficult to hide, not to scratch things or bite them, not to throw things off the table... even though... even though he may be a sweet, innocent... happy... with that tender little face that welcomes you home every day..."

For a second, for that small moment when he said that and his voice seemed to even soften, she thought she saw that familiar silly, happy glint in his eyes, but as soon as it came, it was gone. He adjusted his glasses.

"It's just not worth it!! It's not bloody worth it! honestly, because the truth… the truth is that it would only cause problems!... Plus, it could have rabies or ringworm or something worse…” The snow begins to increase “No... it's not worth to even trying to help... to be honest..."

He turns to look at the bag again, this time with a rather tired tone, perhaps because of everything he said, perhaps because of the weather... or perhaps because of something else.

"Yeah... at this point, probably... the best we can do for it... for all the trouble it would entail... for being too weak, too idiotic to help himself... for be too useless to others... the best thing for everyone would be... not to help him at all...” Suddenly his voice lowered all its volume and the energy with which he spoke a few seconds ago, even sounded a little sad. The plastic bag hardly moved anymore. “No one would gain anything by helping him... but at the same time... no one would lose anything by not helping... leave it there and let destiny takes care of its misery... it's for the best..."

A short dead silence, you could almost hear the snow falling. He finally turns away and continues his way.

"I'm going home...see you...see you tomorrow at work...good night."

He walks with an almost robotic firmness, but determined, no longer wanting to wait. She watches him leave, then looks at the bag and decides to return to her own path at a fast pace, in the opposite direction, the way home, thinking about everything that just happened.

Although she was surprised by the coldness of the Prime Minister's words and movements that night, so unlike him and at the same time so typical of his way of carrying things out, but still. It's not that his life decisions were any of her business, it just caught her attention.

It was strange to say or think this about her boss, but he had a point. The nearest shelter would never arrive on time, especially not at that hour and weather. He, much to her surprise, really didn't seem to have a choice to do anything about it. It was true that she had no solid reason to think that the cat was everything he said it was, but she herself, at that moment, had nowhere to take the cat, it would be a problem for her to take it to her apartment due to the lack of space and the strict policy; she didn’t even know anyone else who could or would be willing to care for the cat, at least until it could be get to a shelter.

The snow and cold increased, as did her pace, she really had no good reason to go through so much trouble to help a being who couldn't help but give it, even if it was unintentional.

It'll probably die soon in this weather and no help... probably tonight she thought, without slowing her pace, feeling bad for no having someone to turn to to help the poor creature.

(…)Look at him, why would anyone not want a perfectly good little cat like that? (…)

Things like that made her doubt that she had any hope in him, that he could actually be more than just the lesser of two evils, watching how he was doing less and less of his part to believe it, to make her believe that he was worthy of any help... In the end it would just be a nuisance

(…) No. She’s never going to let me have a funeral for a bloody cat. ’Specially one that kept going out of his way to sick up on her handbag. I mean, I stuck up for him, I said it was just an unfortunate mistake- a- series of unfortunate mistakes (…)

Anyway, the important thing at that moment was to get home early, it was getting dark and cold.

She had plans to follow, people, an entire population to help, unlike what the Prime Minister believed he did. In her eyes, more than cruel, he was also being a great hypocrite, she knew that he did not take real actions for his people and, even if he did, she also knew that helping a helpless animal did not actually harm or affect to those people at all. It wasn't an attitude that completely surprised her coming from him, knowing that he wasn't capable of noticing how little or nothing he actually did right, of ignoring or blaming others, including things, for what goes wrong. He didn't do anything when he should and when he had a real opportunity to do something other than what his "best friend" told him, to really help with something - like now - he just made excuses not to do it...

(…)But- but sh-she- just said that- snfff- that at least that was one less thh… thing to laze round all day get-getting uh-uh-underfoot. Joking, obviously, just- just how she talks(…)

She had no real reasons, which for her was the same as saying, no practical reasons, for spending time or efforts on...thinking about helping...someone like that...

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Her step was quick and determined, just like her. She hoped she would be able to arrive in time, she was almost at the door of her apartment building when she decided to turn back, the probability that it would be too late was there, but she had never liked the idea of giving up when she set a goal, for however low the chances of success were, if they weren't 0, then it could happen, she would make it happen.

This mentality had always been a part of her, always, she didn't have an easy life, she just never let it stop her from moving forward, always being efficient, always with her eyes on her goal no matter what, no matter how difficult it could be, always looking for the best and most efficient solution possible in her hand, always seeking to remove any possible obstacle from her path or at least not let it disturb or interrupt her too much; After all, no matter how pessimistic - although she preferred to say 'realistic' - she might be, as she was taught to always guided by what she considered to be the right thing to do, she never let adversity get in the way of her principles.

Always seeking the greater good, always evaluating and classifying each cause and those involved in silence, drawing a line of action, based on the value and danger of each one for the cause, always seeking to go unnoticed, determined not to suffer any more inconvenience than the necessary - that is, those planned - as far as possible. If an unexpected problem arose, she would adapt, she was good at adapting to different situations, she knew how unpredictable and unfair life could be, she had internalized that… so internalized... that sometimes she forgot... the weight of other things of value in this life besides usefulness or practicality, even talking about such high and important roles in this society, such as being Prime Minister...

Sometimes she forgot that, as valuable and important her mission was, there were little things that worth fighting for, no matter how irrelevant or useless they seemed in other ways, even if they were a nuisance, even if they might be perceived as a waste of time... maybe they weren't so much, after all, it was those little details that had kept her from completely losing faith in people.... maybe...just maybe

She finally made it back to where the containers were, she didn't waste much time recovering breath and look, immediately, in the direction where the bag was, found what she was looking for, but not exactly in the way she expected.

Maybe there was still a little hope.

The bag was now untied and inside the box with the Prime Minister's things, half stuffed under the stratospheric blue sweater. She could also notice how the bag moved, how a feline nose peeked out, weakly, from the opening. The little one was still fighting, despite everything.

Chell looks around for a second in case she managed to see someone. There was no one. What she did see were large footprints on the ground, striding footprints of someone who came and left in a hurry. She couldn't help but feel a small wave of relief and gave a slight grin, but it was quick, after all, there wasn't much time to waste.

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She entered her small apartment, she was covered in a thin layer of snow, but it didn't matter. She carefully closed the door with her foot, and then went straight to her bed to leave the bulky bags with her purchases on her bed. She went to turn on a small heater that she had for days like this, while she shook off the snow and took off gloves and scarf. He went back to the bags and took out the box that was inside one of them. She removed the bulky sweater inside her a little to reveal the weak, thin cat beneath it, just enough to uncover his familiar orange head, then set it down near the heater.

The world was really very small, very small - she never thought that the cat in the container would be the missing little Kevin. She was sure that his mysterious disappearance meant he had died, probably because of Caro. She wasn't that far from the truth, but it was still quite a surprise, it would have been a pleasant surprise if it weren't for the implications of it.

The bag in which they found the small cat was not just any type of bag, it was for medical waste, and there were 2 of them (one inside the other), she noticed this after taking the small animal out of it, this not only implied that it was left there with the intention that he could not get out even if he tried, he would not be able to get out, but expecting for it to try - and she could see that he did try - but in addition, she noticed other details, such as that one of his hind legs had marks, as if someone had been had him tied up for a while. She also found very similar markings on the tip of his tail, which she was sure looked a little shorter. He seemed scared when she opened the bag wide to take it out, but luckily, after a quick smell, he seemed to have recognized her and didn't give her any major trouble.

The Prime Minister had many flaws, he was and could be many negative things, but she knew him well enough to know that he would never be so cruel, even leaving out the worst details. No, she knew, she was more than sure who had been the guilty even though she had no proof. After all, She loved to play with Her prey, slowly exhausting them, testing how far they could last until She got bored and then getting rid of them, abandoned to their fate, no longer having the tools or energy to fight back or at least, to move forward. Animal or human.

Chell used a small empty tupperware to give him water. She was sure that she had some grilled chicken that she had left over from the other day that would work for the occasion. The little feline, having already overcome the cold a little, thanks to the sweater and the heater, manages to drink. He was no kind of mouser, much less a Chief Mouser material... but even so, he seemed to refuse to let go his tinny little, he refused to give up, without thinking about it, without anyone asking him, he just did...

She knew that when he regained his strength, it would be harder to keep it hidden with everything he had to do, it would, definitely be a problem and a hassle, but something would occur to her, she had faced bigger problems and even the idiot who caused the most recent problems was able to deal with this for a while. She would figure it out, she will just have to be creative. With the cat... and with the idiot.

After all - despite everything, the adversity, the wear and tear, his own limitations - mental or physical -, despite having to deal DIRECTLY with HER, even seeming like all is lost in his most recent attitude... Even so, he shows a small spark of hope, involuntary, but existing… in his attitude, even in his look, the spark was weak… bit was still there.

She simply couldn't leave him on his own like this, knowing that there was something good to rescue, from her point of view, it was stupid to think that he didn't deserve her effort and her help to get out of the hole he was in, to be better, alone. she needed to think of a way to approach things that would work under the current circumstances, there had to be a way, there always was and she would find it. She knew that it would be difficult and that it would involve going through more than one disappointment and inconvenience... but she had to try...

Yes, it was stupid to think that, just because we had a larger cause on our hands, there was no value in also trying to deal with a small cause... especially if it was directly linked to the larger cause...

As stupid as thinking that you need a stupid, weak, squeaky cat to give you a solid, logical reason for you to take it out of the garbage in the middle of the snow.

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Aaand that was it, I know I'm like 10 years later, but if you read this... thanks you

hope you liked it or at least you found it good enough

thepacifistrouter out

6 notes · View notes

waffleguppies · 10 years

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Sentinel (A PM Wheatley Shortfic)

The first time the big car swoops past her, Chell nearly makes a run for it. It's evening, pouring with rain, and in the heavy beam of the Sentinel's headlights her umbrella is awash with spiralling gold.

The sleek black Jaguar glides around the junction just before the bridge and comes back, sweeping into the bus lane with an authority that displaces without any room for argument a double-decker bus, three cyclists, and a confused florist's van. A brace of heavy police bikes edge in behind, cutting the rainslick tarmac into hissing ribbons, tucking into the lee of the parent vehicle. The two SO1 officers look back at her with twin weary, wet faces made a blank by twin glossy, rain-streaked black visors. One of them says something into his shoulder mic. The other sneezes.

She stands there, close to the kerb, one foot poised before the other- she'd been about to step down, to cut through the gridlocked river of cars to the far side. The mouth of Westminster Underground yawns across the way, a friendly blue and red glow in the noisome black downpour, completely out of her reach.

The Sentinel's rear window sits just at the level of her sternum. As she stands there, rain trickling down her neck, the glass rolls down with all the mechanical smoothness of a dinner-table conjurer, revealing its punchline with an urbane flourish. A punchline with a million-watt grin, his glasses rather crooked on his nose, suggesting that he recently launched himself across the inside of the car in a hurry.

"Where're you headed?"

The interior of the Sentinel is cool and comfortable to the point of absurdity. It's like diving into a pool, a fog of new leather and the staticky note of the hardware that fills it, the displays and the tech clustered thickly behind the panels around her, and a very faint note of something else. Light and pleasant, it feels its way up into the back of her mind and puts her teeth on edge. She scrunches her soaking umbrella in numb hands and settles herself into the bucket seat behind the driver, holding herself stiffly against the door.

The Prime Minister looks excessively proud of himself. He has retracted himself into the passenger-side seat to give her room, although he's not trying that hard. His great black spidery legs are propped firmly against the back of the seat in front, where a taciturn bodyguard is studying the Satnav with a face that suggests he has had a long day.

"Not like you," he pronounces, "to get yourself caught out in the storm. Not up to the level of forward-planning I've come to expect, from yourself."

His tone suggests that everyone has the option to defer the weather with a private car and a flock of people with umbrellas who magically appear at each end. There is something scrawled on the back of his hand, inscribed in scrubby blue capitals. It's upside down, but she thinks it says TUNA!

"Still, not all bad, I'm not complaining, just means I get a chance to save your neck. Not that we're keeping score, I'm not keeping score... three-one, though. at this point. In case you were wondering."

She reaches up and twists the hangar strap into a death grip, and the car purrs out into the traffic.

The second time, the weather is perfectly dry. It's a half-shade day, overcast and close, and the sun is a dusty circle of glare choking in a sky the colour of lambswool. She is carrying her coat, and when she folds herself into the Sentinel's cool interior she bundles it up in her arms and holds it there, a tight reassuring pumpkin-orange shield of cloth.

"Where're you headed?" The Prime Minister beams at her. The back seat is awash with documents and pens, and a slightly confused-looking man in a white suit. He is holding his attaché case in the same manner as Chell is holding her coat, as if trying to save it from vanishing into the general mess.

"Oh, this is His Serene Highness Antoni-Enric IV, the Co-Prince of Andorra, well, one of 'em anyway. We lost the other one in Harrods, bit of an international incident in the making there, potentially. Tone, this is Michelle, we're just dropping her home."

"Bonsoir," says His Serene Highness, to Chell. "Pouvez-vous lui dire que je souhaiterais me rendre aux lieux d'aisance?"

She never asks, and neither does he. Rain or shine, four or five or six days a week, she will leave Downing Street in the gathering dusk, cut past the bleak ivory façades of the cabinet offices on Parliament Street and across into the shadow of Big Ben. With the station entrance beckoning before her, as she goes to cross the street the big Sentinel will pass, turn, stop. In mid-evening traffic it takes the driver less than half an hour to ferry them through the thinning arteries of the city into Trinity Rise with its lumpy roads and squat banks of hamster-cage flats, into the next street over from hers- she will not let him, or the patient driver, or the blank-faced SO1 double act on their bikes, get a fix on her front door.

It saves her time, if nothing else. Cars and buses vanish in front of the Sentinel like they have been spontaneously magicked away elsewhere. One-way streets and traffic lights are a voluntary nicety, barely observed. One night, they meet an ambulance on Lambeth Road- sirens blaring, lights whirling, hurrying cars out of its path like startled fish. To Chell's horror, when it comes up against the Sentinel, the ambulance pulls up with a desperate dying wail and lets them pass.

"Don't worry, sure it wasn't anything too major," says the Prime Minister, guiltily, seeing her face. "Fairly sure they pull out the siren at the drop of a hat, policy, probably, insurance." He leans forward. "Er, minor note, Jerry, mate, you could actually give way to emergency vehicles, in future. At least give 'em the option. Showing off, no call for it really, is there?"

"So I said, well, yes, technically, we can't get rid of the Shadow Cabinet, because yes, it is an age-old institution set in place to promote accountability and guard the interests of the public, but seriously, does anyone know exactly what they do? Hang around in Whitehall all day, being generally creepy, getting underfoot, seems to be the general idea. I'd rather have a horde of mice descending on the place, to be honest, or some other sort of vermin, at least then I'd be allowed to call in Rentokill or get Kev on them. Terrifying. You look up and there's the Shadow Secretary of State for Education, look back one second later and there's ten of them, it's like The Birds or something-"

The car slides silently through Brixton, under a gentle grey drizzle that blurs Chell's view, turns the tinted glass of the window into a soft-focus lens. The Prime Minister, his chin hooked precariously over his own knee, his trouser leg pulled up and vivd argyle sock pulled down, is cheerfully applying Germolene to a nasty-looking abrasion on his shin. If the car brakes suddenly, Chell estimates, he will either bite off his tongue or knock out half his own teeth.

"-and old Grumpy Trousers, he is absolutely no help at all, I asked him the other day, Craigy, any chance you can keep your posse in one room or something, stop me tripping over Shadow Wales every time I try to make a sandwich, but no, nothing, no help at all. I mean, James Bond never had this problem, did he? When Doctor Who's off saving the world nobody expects him to put up with Davros skulking round the Tardis poking things and sending snotty little memos criticising his driving."

Chell stares out the window. The car has condescended to stop at a set of lights. The occupants of the Toyota that has pulled up next to them are lined up against the windows, four identical moon-faced expressions of thwarted curiosity. The driver points the dark eye of his phone at her face, and although she knows the Sentinel's windows are flawlessly opaque she feels a sick little spike of anxiety. She makes herself look away.

"He..." She pauses. She is never sure how he'll take contradiction, and under normal circumstances she wouldn't take the risk. The car makes it a little easier, somehow. It is something like neutral ground, slipping further from his kingdom with every revolution of its slashproof tyres, so much harder for her to feel the danger as she watches him across the long slant of black carpet between them. He is intent, squinting myopically, trying to screw the tiny cap back on to the tube of Germolene without losing it down the gap between his knees and the seat.

"He opposes your ministry. Not you."

The Prime Minister snorts, winding his sock carefully back up the length of his bony shin. "It's the same thing, love."

"Is it?"

He pretends not to hear her, but he says nothing else about the Leader of the Opposition for the rest of the trip.

Sometimes, she stops at the café on the corner of Parliament Street, countering his welcoming grin with a warm paper cup. Sometimes, the half-dozen screens set into the Sentinel's interior are blazing with scrolling red-and-white urgency, the news from a dozen different stations, and he stares at them with his glasses lit up with starry points of tessellated light, as if trying to stare down the truth. Once, he stops for chips. The scent of vinegar and fried batter floods the car, makes her overburdened head spin and her stomach twist up in a hungry knot, so that when he offers her the greasy paper, she stuffs herself like Persephone and then feels furious with herself, compromised.

Once, the streets are brilliant with black ice and the car skids across the empty lanes of Tulse Hill and bumps gently into a bollard. They are both flung sideways and he grabs at her in terror, and she has to politely prise his fingers off her sleeve and talk him out of charging Lambeth Council with attempted assassination. Once, the inside of the Sentinel is an absolute garden of fresh-cut flowers, because he's on his way to an emergency summit and apparently the Belgian Consulate likes that sort of thing. Chell spends the ride hiding her quiet smile in the enormous vase of pale orange roses shoved into her lap for safe-keeping, while he argues with Interflora on the phone.

He is different, off the clock. He is just as mercurial, his moods range from sunny and triumphant to jumpy and paranoid to downright sulky, but although he rants and moans about his worries and tries to coax her into giving him advice, he never pulls rank, never demands that she fix his problems. He seems to be trying to act as if they are two people sharing a taxi, as if they are both heading home and there is no question of distance and danger and towering rank.

She gives up on trying to understand what he thinks he's doing. Her best guess is that, in his usual ham-fisted way, he's probably trying to be kind. After a few weeks, she stops thinking up excuses she'll never use, and when she reaches the corner of Bridge Street each day, her step starts to slow by itself. Without trying to, without making any concession to herself, she has started to enjoy the ride, She learns to welcome the respite, the thinking space, the easy shortcut to her home, the cool comfortable starlit gloom and the endless, rambling, chatter of a man who seems to want to convince himself that she's his friend.

It's hard for her to keep her silence. She finds herself venturing more than a few taciturn sentences, giving her opinions more freely. He fiddles with the radio and breaks it, she gets it working again. They listen to Just a Minute (he gets the shows days before they're aired, he tells her gleefully, on special request from the Director-General) and terrible drivetime music that sounds as if it was selected by a deaf robot. He is adamant that he could do better, and privately, she agrees.

It's strange, baffling and strangely touching and good, and it can't last.

The day has been hellishly hot, and the air is sticky and stifling. The Sentinel rolls up to the verge, but for the first time the window doesn't budge an inch. After a moment the bodyguard, a silent man called Nick, gets out and opens the door for her. His eyes are empty of comment, and she is immediately on her guard.

The Prime Minister is bunched in his usual seat, his knees drawn up and tie loosened, a brooding threadbare crow in his big black coat. He is busy tearing at the side of one of his nails with his teeth, going at it with ferocious energy, and as the door shuts behind her with a heavy clump he shoots her a single, dangerous sideways glance. There are no TV screens today, no flowers, no music. There is a book on his lap, a glossy serious coffee-table thing full of pictures of past Prime Ministers, but he's staring right through it.

The Sentinel eases out into the traffic. He says nothing, beginning on his thumbnail. She keeps still, holding her coat tightly balled against her chest. She hasn't done this in weeks, but now she needs to. She's bracing for impact, looking for an escape.

"I don't really need-" She clears her throat. "Today-"

"Oh, really, don't you." He comes back at her, snapping up, quicker than a rake in the undergrowth. "Don't you. Not surprising, not as if I can keep anyone else happy around here for five minutes, better if I just buggered off and left you all to it, really. Is that what you think? That's what you think, isn't it? Yeah. Again, astonishment factor, nil."

He smacks the partition with the back of his hand. "Oi, Jer, Her Royal bloody Highness here doesn't actually need us today, we can drop her off as soon as we're off the main drag."

Shadows dapple through the tinted windows- light, shade, light. Chell's face feels hot and her stomach is leaden, but she refuses to be moved, to be bullied by this man. She concentrates on settling herself, calming and grounding herself in her own mind until her thoughts still and settle like tempered steel. By the time she's finished, she is a cool immovable object, gathered around her core.

The Prime Minister slumps back in the seat. There are nasty blue-grey grooves under his eyes, behind the glasses, and his long face is haggard, sullen. His gaze flick-flick-flicks about the Sentinel's cool interior, the fractious stratosphere blue touching on her face for the smallest of seconds before glancing off and lodging on the book in his lap. He turns a page, looking blindly through it with his mouth turned down in glowering line.

"Nice of you," he says, at last, "to stick around."

She'd gone across to Portcullis House after lunch, to track down some records he'd asked for the previous week. On the face of it, she'd known he was supposed to be in private meetings for the rest of the day. In reality, she'd taken the first opportunity she could to make herself scarce. She, and everyone else in the danger zone, had known that She was on the warpath. You could taste it, as soon as you set foot in Number 10- a dangerous, furious undercurrent. Death in the air.

"Nice to know I can rely on you."

She watches him, warily.

"Sarcasm," he says, to the book in his lap, "obviously. Because in fact, you vanished. You vanished, and I could have done with your back, seriously, genuinely could have done, but no, poof, there you went, plus Kev buggered off too I might mention, pair of you nowhere to be found. Three Musketeers down to one, poor old Dogtanian left all on his own to face the music. Again. You have no idea," louder, "what she's like, when she gets like that. I'm sure it's all fun and games to you, oh, haha, here she comes, better leave her to it, better let her take it out on daft old Wheatley, but it's no laughing matter for me, I can tell you."

"I'm sorry," she says, because she is. Not because she feels at fault, but because she is sorry for him, genuinely sorry that he had to face the wrath of his 'best friend' alone.

"Sorry doesn't really cut it, love." The Prime Minister's voice loses its bile all at once, goes high and hapless, running the length of an exhausted sigh. "I know, I know, you couldn't do anything, what could you do? Can't do anything about her. Even you." He runs a shaky hand through the hair that hangs, limp and disobliging, across his forehead, and stabs his torn finger down at a photograph of David Lloyd George with something like genuine hatred.

"Smug bastard. Had it easy. Fair enough, World War One, but she's bloody World War One, Two, and Three all by herself- the entire Special Edition box set, she is, when she's got a mood on."

He puts his head in his hands. "I- I don't mind telling you, days like this, I just- I just want to pack it in. I just want to go home. Just want to go home. But I mean, where's that? Up there? Third floor? Yes, I suppose, I mean, technically- legally- that's what'd be on my gas bill, if I got gas bills that is- and traditionally, that is supposed to be my pad, my crib- and I mean, where else? Where else is there? Not Easton. Not bloody Stapleton Road above the offy."

He gives a weak reflexive shudder, staring through the seat in front.

"Not Nan's."

There is a silence. The Prime Minister shuts the book, mechanically, puts it on the floor.

"Days like this," he says, to the seat, "I just want to- to- I just want get out. That's it, that's all. I just want to get out."

"You could," she says. He doesn't react, although his ragged fingernail creeps back up towards his teeth.

"You could tell Jerry to take you anywhere." Trying to wake him up to the fact that she is there, that she means it, she reaches out over the bundle of her coat and stops his hand with hers, restoring his poor chewed fingers to his lap. "Right now."

This time, he hears her. His head comes up, and for a moment his miserable eyes fix, really fix, on her and there is such a look of terrified hope in them that she thinks she's done it, she's got through to him at last. She knows that this is him, the him underneath, trapped and drowning, desperate for help.

The Sentinel goes over a speed-bump. Only a tiny jostle, absorbed by the car's bombproof suspension, but the moment crumbles and his eyes harden and narrow. His smile is a faithless split in his face, a long way from his ordinary frantic grin, desolate and suspicious and old. It is a smile that shares with her the wry understanding that they are both out for themselves, that the fragile handful of minutes they might spend together as equals in this quiet safe space is nothing but a comforting fiction.

"If I didn't know better," he says, "I'd think you were trying to get rid of me."

The Sentinel pulls up sharply after the traffic lights, and Chell gets out and shuts the door, her nerves jangling like overstrained wires. She starts away from the car through the thick, still evening heat, conscious of having gone too far and gotten too close, conscious too that something she is not even allowing herself to feel has been hurt somehow, wounded without a single blow.

She knows, without quite knowing how, that tomorrow he will act as if nothing happened at all. She also knows, with the same numb, prophetic certainty, that this is the last time he will ever offer her a lift.

As it turns out, she's right on both counts.

#wheatley #chell #thebestpm #my writings

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