Glory
ooc: tm_northstar used and abused with permission.
He might have done well with Shakespeare. He can be confident in front of a crowd when he knows his lines - not just the words of the speech, but all the background material, all the arguments for and against. In his court days it had been tough for any legal opponent to leave him without defences, and he'd always had moral indignation and sheer anger when the facts weren't enough.
But it's more difficult to impress Congress than it ever was a jury. These men and women aren't students and young mothers and retired schoolteachers with time to waste, who just might be inspired to do good by an idealistic young guy like Robert Kelly. Most of them are lawyers. Most of them feel the weight of tax dollars and sponsorship and promises. Most of them have left their ideals far behind.
He can see Jean-Paul hovering around at the back, can sense his nervousness. Kelly isn't nervous at all. There's a sort of power, talking when others are compelled to listen, and he knows he's not talking nonsense. He knows he's good at this. He's a decent writer, a charismatic speaker. The tones and the emphases are perfect, his points made with clarity. People, in the end, pay attention to him not because they have to, but because they want to. This is how he got elected, after all: by making people want to listen.
By the time he sits down, he's almost dizzy, and the rest of the noise in the senate is a blur. He grabs for his water bottle, and doesn't realise Jean-Paul is next to him until papers are being shoved into his hand.
"How'd I do?" he asks, taking the papers, looking up at Jean-Paul's anxious face.
Jean-Paul shrugs. "Could've been worse. When's the vote?"
"Go smoke something," Kelly tells him. "I'll meet you outside afterwards."
***
They lose. Thirty-seven to fifty-one. Twelve abstentions. It's late in the day, the darkness falling around the Capitol, as Kelly makes his way outside, pulling off his tie as senator after senator around him thumps him on the back.
He's smiling when he finds Jean-Paul, slouched against a wall, smoking the stubs of cigarettes. "It wasn't even close," Jean-Paul mutters.
"It could've been worse." Kelly checks his watch. "You can go home. We've got a lot to do tomorrow."
Jean-Paul stares at him. "I thought you'd... I don't know. Isn't this one of those times you punch walls and get blindingly drunk or something? We lost. Big. And you're not even..." He straightens up, stabs a finger at Kelly's chest. "You knew this was going to happen!"
"Yes," Kelly says, eying the lit cigarette in Jean-Paul's fingers.
"Chrisse! I can't believe I... I thought you really wanted this damn act. You were trying to lose all along? Just make a good impression for the MRA? Show you're not really a bigot?"
"You know I'm not really a bigot. And not all losses are truly losses in the end."
Jean-Paul stares at him. "You get that off a motivational poster?"
"Sometimes you need a glorious defeat so they can all go and tell the boys back home they voted against the muties," Kelly says. "You need to go down in flames. And then, when you quietly add it as an amendment to something else, no one really cares too much. That's politics. That's the way we play it."
"That's stupid."
"It's the way we win."
"But when?"
"In the end. I'm told the good guys always win in the end."
Jean-Paul grinds his cigarette into the concrete. "If we're the good guys, the world's in trouble."
Kelly grins. "I tell myself that all the time."
He might have done well with Shakespeare. He can be confident in front of a crowd when he knows his lines - not just the words of the speech, but all the background material, all the arguments for and against. In his court days it had been tough for any legal opponent to leave him without defences, and he'd always had moral indignation and sheer anger when the facts weren't enough.
But it's more difficult to impress Congress than it ever was a jury. These men and women aren't students and young mothers and retired schoolteachers with time to waste, who just might be inspired to do good by an idealistic young guy like Robert Kelly. Most of them are lawyers. Most of them feel the weight of tax dollars and sponsorship and promises. Most of them have left their ideals far behind.
He can see Jean-Paul hovering around at the back, can sense his nervousness. Kelly isn't nervous at all. There's a sort of power, talking when others are compelled to listen, and he knows he's not talking nonsense. He knows he's good at this. He's a decent writer, a charismatic speaker. The tones and the emphases are perfect, his points made with clarity. People, in the end, pay attention to him not because they have to, but because they want to. This is how he got elected, after all: by making people want to listen.
By the time he sits down, he's almost dizzy, and the rest of the noise in the senate is a blur. He grabs for his water bottle, and doesn't realise Jean-Paul is next to him until papers are being shoved into his hand.
"How'd I do?" he asks, taking the papers, looking up at Jean-Paul's anxious face.
Jean-Paul shrugs. "Could've been worse. When's the vote?"
"Go smoke something," Kelly tells him. "I'll meet you outside afterwards."
***
They lose. Thirty-seven to fifty-one. Twelve abstentions. It's late in the day, the darkness falling around the Capitol, as Kelly makes his way outside, pulling off his tie as senator after senator around him thumps him on the back.
He's smiling when he finds Jean-Paul, slouched against a wall, smoking the stubs of cigarettes. "It wasn't even close," Jean-Paul mutters.
"It could've been worse." Kelly checks his watch. "You can go home. We've got a lot to do tomorrow."
Jean-Paul stares at him. "I thought you'd... I don't know. Isn't this one of those times you punch walls and get blindingly drunk or something? We lost. Big. And you're not even..." He straightens up, stabs a finger at Kelly's chest. "You knew this was going to happen!"
"Yes," Kelly says, eying the lit cigarette in Jean-Paul's fingers.
"Chrisse! I can't believe I... I thought you really wanted this damn act. You were trying to lose all along? Just make a good impression for the MRA? Show you're not really a bigot?"
"You know I'm not really a bigot. And not all losses are truly losses in the end."
Jean-Paul stares at him. "You get that off a motivational poster?"
"Sometimes you need a glorious defeat so they can all go and tell the boys back home they voted against the muties," Kelly says. "You need to go down in flames. And then, when you quietly add it as an amendment to something else, no one really cares too much. That's politics. That's the way we play it."
"That's stupid."
"It's the way we win."
"But when?"
"In the end. I'm told the good guys always win in the end."
Jean-Paul grinds his cigarette into the concrete. "If we're the good guys, the world's in trouble."
Kelly grins. "I tell myself that all the time."