A perfect 10
We might have travelled in time and are back to post number 2 or this is going to be the most porny post yet. No one knows. Or no one knew. Anyway:
Here are your guidelines, as usual.
1) 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.
2) Self-prompt ( Read more... )
Here are your guidelines, as usual.
1) 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.
2) Self-prompt ( Read more... )
“Who was it that you wanted to see while we’re here?”
“49MFP107,” Peter answered immediately, “His name’s Matthew Parris and he was taken under wing for spreading explicit anti-Government propaganda in the Murdoch press. I believe you know him.” Alastair’s face soured.
“’Course I bloody well know him. I dealt with him myself. Good catch. Why does he matter?”
“Word has reached me that he has requested to speak to me, so I’ll give him a few minutes of my time. I’m treating him as an exceptional case but only because he’s an old acquaintance of mine.”
“Just an acquaintance,” Alastair snickered, “or something more?”
“That doesn’t matter, does it? You can go on without me if you don’t want to wait.”
“He’s sure to be just another headcase,” Alastair commented, stopping and sliding open a random steel window cover and peering down at the prisoner inside. He didn’t recognise him; an elderly man with cropped grey hair, sleeping on the cell floor in his orange boiler suit, “he looks happy enough. All this wasted labour. Humans are our greatest resource and it’s criminal that they aren’t being put to better use. I’d prefer to move some men from the centres to the work camps in the country.”
“You know Tony wouldn’t listen. Strict isolation of enemies of the state - that was what he promised. He wouldn’t want them spreading their dangerous ideas.”
“At least in the work camps they can earn their cost. This is just a waste.”
Peter was distracted, counting the numbers on the cell doors opposite.
“This is it.” He pulled off his right leather glove and slipped his fingers into the pads. A small LED turned from red to green and the steel door slid away, the bullet proof glass disappearing into the wall a moment later. Inside the cell a man was lying alone, his chestnut hair cropped close to his skull and greying at the ends, boiler suit hanging like a sack from his malnourished frame. He pulled himself into a sitting position and chuckled, mouth forming into a grin in spite of his clear sickness.
“Well, well,” he muttered, “You. What a treat. It’s been... what? Twenty years, give or take a few.”
“Eighteen years, Parris.”
“Your memory is clearly sharper than mine. I never would have thought we’d meet under such circumstances. I must say that last time I saw you, you were wearing rather less and speaking far less coherently than-”
“Don’t address me with that kind of disrespect,” Peter snapped, “I’m a minister now. I could have you killed and your body disposed of in a second and no-one would notice you were gone.”
“I daresay that Mr Campbell’s control of the media is indeed complete to that extent,” the prisoner said carefully, inclining his shorn head at Alastair, “but you wouldn’t do that. You want to hear what I have to say first. I have preferential treatment.” Peter couldn’t deny that.
“Go on then. What do you want?” The prisoner’s eyes lit up and he leaned forwards, catching the breast of Peter’s coat and pulling him down into a crouch.
“I want you to reconsider your role in this regime.”
“You do? Would you care to elaborate?”
“In Blair’s mission to protect his people, he has only tightened the chains of the state; any fool can tell that, they’re only too frightened to say so. Your Government are in danger of transforming Britain into a police state. Already you have the HS patrolling the street and innocent men in detention. Political prisoners. It’s no less than repression.”
“We’re a democratic nation, and they’ve had their chance; we’ve got the mandate. If the people are dissatisfied, they will inform us so at the ballot box.”
“Do you really believe that? The secret ballot is long dead.” The prisoner whispered. “How much of this was written in your manifesto?”
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