A Large Hall in Rotterdam, The Netherlands, Monday Morning
"...and thank you for your time," Peter finished. The speech had sounded easy: as far as public speaking went, he was apparently a natural. That was good to know, because right now he wasn't so sure that he'd said everything that had needed to be said, and he was entirely sure he'd said a lot of things he really hadn't needed to say.
But everyone was applauding. No one had booed. As far as a first campaign speech went, it could've been a lot worse.
He slipped backstage, fiddling with his tie all the way. He waved away at least two sycophants (he had sycophants now; that was new) and went for his dressing room immediately. Opened the door. Slammed it shut behind him.
Rushed towards the sink, where he bent over and puked his guts out.
Oh, he thought, wouldn't it just be my luck if a journalist walked in right now? I can see the headlines now. 'Peter Wiggin - Too Young To Be Hegemon?', followed by an article about how twelve-year-old thespians don't react this way.
[[ for the girl who's here if she wants, and open to phone calls ]]
But everyone was applauding. No one had booed. As far as a first campaign speech went, it could've been a lot worse.
He slipped backstage, fiddling with his tie all the way. He waved away at least two sycophants (he had sycophants now; that was new) and went for his dressing room immediately. Opened the door. Slammed it shut behind him.
Rushed towards the sink, where he bent over and puked his guts out.
Oh, he thought, wouldn't it just be my luck if a journalist walked in right now? I can see the headlines now. 'Peter Wiggin - Too Young To Be Hegemon?', followed by an article about how twelve-year-old thespians don't react this way.
[[ for the girl who's here if she wants, and open to phone calls ]]