The Manc Lion. I knew one day you'd ask to have this lion shaved.
Gene Hunt, for the most part, had been adjusting fairly well to island life. Or, at least as well as Gene hunt was capable of adjusting to anything. He'd been assigned a bed in the same room as Tyler, and that suited him just fine. It was a bit like the old days even. Well, except with closer proximity and the fact that Tyler seemed to only remember a very small portion of the days in question. Still, it worked, at least it worked for Gene, and he was mostly alright, other than being bored out of his skull.
The Jukebox was playing something familiar, but Gene hardly noticed as he scanned the bookshelf for something to pass the time with. There seemed to be an abnormal amount of copies of The Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe, but it meant nothing to him and he skipped them over before pausing on a large psychology textbook. It instantly reminded him of Drake. Drake and her stupid leather coat, and her know-it-all attitude. Drake and her nice tits and annoyingly cleaver ways.
And then he thought of the lads, Ray and Chris. They were idiots, but they were his idiots. His faithful followers. Sam was right, Gene had made some poor choices as a DCI. He'd taken his share of backhanders, and he'd banged up innocent blokes, but the lads had always stayed at his side. Well, mostly anyway.
He supposed it was only fitting that he'd get stuck on an island with the only member of his team who'd ever had the balls to call him out. The only one of them who'd ever truly betrayed him. The only one of them with any brains.
Gene huffed and slammed the book back onto the shelf.
He was feeling his age, rusty and out of it. There was so much going on around him, and Gene just couldn't keep up, couldn't take it all in. He'd spent the last few days considering the IPD, but the more he thought on it, the less inclined he was to attempt to join. He was a man past his prime, an old haggard lion who was more growl than action it seemed. He could hardly understand the place, how the bloody hell would he ever police it? Just thinking about it made his head hurt.
Heading into the kitchen, the Guv set about brewing a pot of coffee, frowning to himself as he watched it drip. Was this what his life was going to be now? Nights spent drinking until he passed out, and days filled with watching coffee brew and mad birds trying to shoot jukeboxes. Was this what Gene Hunt had become? A bystander in a mad world.
(Open to all. He's in as good a mood as you're ever likely to find him in.)
The Jukebox was playing something familiar, but Gene hardly noticed as he scanned the bookshelf for something to pass the time with. There seemed to be an abnormal amount of copies of The Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe, but it meant nothing to him and he skipped them over before pausing on a large psychology textbook. It instantly reminded him of Drake. Drake and her stupid leather coat, and her know-it-all attitude. Drake and her nice tits and annoyingly cleaver ways.
And then he thought of the lads, Ray and Chris. They were idiots, but they were his idiots. His faithful followers. Sam was right, Gene had made some poor choices as a DCI. He'd taken his share of backhanders, and he'd banged up innocent blokes, but the lads had always stayed at his side. Well, mostly anyway.
He supposed it was only fitting that he'd get stuck on an island with the only member of his team who'd ever had the balls to call him out. The only one of them who'd ever truly betrayed him. The only one of them with any brains.
Gene huffed and slammed the book back onto the shelf.
He was feeling his age, rusty and out of it. There was so much going on around him, and Gene just couldn't keep up, couldn't take it all in. He'd spent the last few days considering the IPD, but the more he thought on it, the less inclined he was to attempt to join. He was a man past his prime, an old haggard lion who was more growl than action it seemed. He could hardly understand the place, how the bloody hell would he ever police it? Just thinking about it made his head hurt.
Heading into the kitchen, the Guv set about brewing a pot of coffee, frowning to himself as he watched it drip. Was this what his life was going to be now? Nights spent drinking until he passed out, and days filled with watching coffee brew and mad birds trying to shoot jukeboxes. Was this what Gene Hunt had become? A bystander in a mad world.
(Open to all. He's in as good a mood as you're ever likely to find him in.)