aka Lolitics is my 6th sense

[lolitics_meme]

Welcome to our glorious sixth post.

That's right: 6! But let's move on to not bore you with interesting facts ;)

All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
Otherwise it will get very chaotic.

Places of interest:
1) Unfilled prompts can be found on

Comments

Fill: It is Time (aka 2025 futurefic) - 3b/?

[anonymous]

Startled, Nick fumbled with his mobile and almost dropped it. He felt a strange twisting sensation in his stomach, but gave nonchalance his best shot, affecting a distracted tone as he said, “What of him?”

“The name’s familiar…ex-Prime Minister, right?”

“Yes.” Nick turned his attention back to the essay, but the words swam before his eyes.

“A while back,” she continued. “Five…no, ten years… Did you overlap with him?”

Nick took a moment to compose himself, still staring unseeing at his mobile, before he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I was his deputy, briefly. As I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Great.” She grinned, and Nick felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach. He waited, silent, until at last she continued of her own accord. “We’re getting him on the show.”

“What? Why?” Nick felt heat rise to his cheeks; flustered, he turned away, shaking his head. “No, absolutely not.”

“Sorry hun, no veto on this one. Orders from the network.”

“I don’t care about the - since when does the network dictate which guests we have on the show?”

She grimaced. “Have you seen the Nielsen ratings lately? They can order us to do anything they like.”

“But why?” Nick whirled back around to face her. “What purpose would it serve?”

“Why not? British politics is kinda cute. You know, you have those shouty things where everyone insults each other, but all in quaint accents.”

Nick glared at her, horrified to hear the ordeal of Prime Minister’s Questions reduced to such flippancy.

Karen shrugged. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Nick struggled with a few possible retorts - that it was all ancient history, irrelevant to today’s issues, that David would be too busy for some silly talk show (possibly that one was even true; he wouldn’t know) - but the argument wouldn’t form in his head. “No,” he said instead. “I’ll have no part in this.”

“You don’t really have a choice,” Karen pointed out in her reasonable tone.

“Yes I do,” Nick insisted. “I have other offers, you know.”

Karen looked genuinely taken aback at that. “You’d quit rather than talk to your old boss? You hate him that much, huh?”

“I don’t - “ Nick was so thrown by that assumption that he had no answer. “Why him? Surely someone who’s been in government for the last ten years?” He racked his brain for a friendly Labour name, but came up blank, the image of David’s face lingering stubbornly in his head.

“Nuh-uh. Has to be Cameron. Network insists. And you’re contacting him.”

“What?”

“Just a quick call, a primer, then our people will call his people to set it up. Got it?”

Nick sank into his chair, feeling decidedly lightheaded. It was the lack of sleep, he told himself. Perhaps, when his brain was functioning again, he’d be able to figure out a way out of this.

Karen hopped off the desk. “Okay, meeting time,” she said with a mock groan. She paused at the door and looked back over her shoulder. “Our meeting’s at noon, right? Get us a response by then.”

“What?” Nick’s head jerked up. “Today?”

But Karen ignored him. As the door clicked shut behind her, he slumped back into his chair. What the hell? As if he could just call up now, after ten years…

Nick scrolled idly through the names in his contact list, until he saw David’s. He hovered over the name for a moment, trying to imagine how that conversation might go, but he couldn’t even think up an opener.

He could try a text, he thought. It was probably an out of date number anyway, so he’d never get a response, he could report back that he tried and failed, and they could forget the whole ludicrous idea.

Unconsciously holding his breath, he opened up the relevant app. It brought up their message history, diligently copied across however many mobiles he’d owned in the last decade for no reason he could fathom. Their last conversation stared up at him, stark in its black and white clarity.