Fic: Poor Little Greenie
Manchester, Sam thought, strolling down the street. His city. And he was its defender.
He patted the trusty laser pistol by his side. Let the bloody Daleks try for it now. He’d show them what was what.
As he was passing a pub, he heard a voice call, “Oi, Tyler!”
Straightening his slash-back blazer, Sam stepped inside. “Guv?”
Gene sat at the table, in front of a plate full of razor blades. “Bout time you showed up.”
“Am I late?” Sam didn’t remember being told to meet Gene here.
“You should get something while you’re here.” Gene took a forkful of razor blades and popped them in his mouth. “Check out the waitress. She’s got an arse like Marilyn Monroe.”
“What are you doing?” Sam asked.
Gene took another bite of razors. “Tastes nice.”
A voice behind Sam made him jump. “Poor little greenie.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you want to be lonely Sam? Is that why you don’t want to look?”
“Don’t want to look at what?” Sam gave the girl a confused frown.
Gene’s fork clattered to the table. “Excuse me, but do we have business to attend to, or don’t we?”
“Right, guv,” said Sam, and they were outside. He felt around for his laser pistol but it was gone.
Gene held it up briefly, before tucking it into his pocket. “Walk and talk, Tyler. That’s what being a copper’s all about.” He pointed up at the sky, the world shifted, and they were on their backs, lying in the grass.
Sam felt dizzy.
“This is the life. Forget that country rubbish; give me a place like Manchester. Factories, chimney stacks, grime. That’s the kind of place for me.”
Sam rubbed his head. “I don’t feel well.” His stomach had gone queasy. “I think I have a concussion.” He’d hit his head...somewhere, hadn’t he?
“Poor little greenie,” said the girl from the test card.
Gene sighed. “Again? I’ll call Cartwright. Cartwright!” he bellowed.
Annie appeared, smiling. “I really can’t stay.”
Sam sat up. “Annie, what’s happening?”
“I have to go away.”
“Something’s wrong. Everything keeps spinning.”
“The evening has been...” She stepped back.
“No, wait!” Sam held out his hand. “Help me!”
“So very nice.”
Sam caught her hand, then lost his grip at her startlingly cold touch. “Your hands. They’re…”
She…faded, like the Cheshire Cat, leaving only a smile.
“…just like ice,” Sam finished.
Gene clapped him on the back, smiling like a snake. “Birds. It never lasts, Sammy-boy. Off to work. There’s some nut-job shaving women’s heads to make underwear. We need to check the hair salons. Let’s go.”
Sam took a step, but everything twisted again. And he was lying in bed. On his back. Next to Gene.
There was a frightening second before he looked over and realized they were both fully dressed.
“Gene?” he asked. “What are we doing?”
“Protecting the city. Every brick and chimney of it.”
“You keep talking about the chimneys.”
“Well, they’re important.”
Sam sat up. It his him that they couldn’t both be in his bed and still have so much space.
He looked down to see the floor below him, and fell. Hard.
“Ow.”
“Poor little greenie,” said the girl from the television.
Sam shook his head. “What’s going on here?” They couldn’t keep messing around like that. There was that hair-thief to catch, and vanishing Annie, and...Daleks.
Wasn’t there?
Gene tossed Sam the keys. “Let’s go.”
“You’re letting me drive?” That wasn’t right at all.
“Can’t drive the new module.”
“You got rid of the Cortina?” That was even less right. Sam stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk.
Parked on the street was something out of Buck Rodgers; long, white and skinny. The top opened up, revealing a long flat couch.
“Hop in, Sammy boy.”
Sam climbed in. “Where do you fit in?” he asked, lying down.
“Right here.” Gene climbed on top of Sam. He twisted up to bite the glowing neon handle that shut the capsule.
“Guv,” said Sam, “something very strange is going on here.”
“Come on, Sam.” Gene smiled. “You’re missing the bleeding obvious. What do you know about the Gene Genie?”
Sam swallowed nervously. He could hear the lyrics running through his head. “Loves to be loved.”
“If you insist.” Gene leaned in closer, and closer...
Sam jerked awake. He was alone in his flat, in his same little bed.
“Hello, Sam.”
Well, not quite alone.
“What do you want?” he asked the girl.
“What do you want, Sam? Why did you wake up?”
“Go away.” He threw his pillow at her.
She didn’t duck or flinch as the pillow sailed past her. “Do you want to be lonely?”
“I’m not lonely. Go away.”
She frowned at him. “Poor little greenie.”
“What?”
“Poor little greenie,” she repeated, in a voice like David Bowie.
Sam blinked. He reached up and rubbed his eyes. When he took his hands down, he found himself staring at the ceiling. His pillow was still beneath his head.
The radio was playing "Jean Genie."
It took him ten minutes to believe he was actually awake this time. Or as awake as he ever got.
He couldn’t look Gene in the eyes all that day.
He patted the trusty laser pistol by his side. Let the bloody Daleks try for it now. He’d show them what was what.
As he was passing a pub, he heard a voice call, “Oi, Tyler!”
Straightening his slash-back blazer, Sam stepped inside. “Guv?”
Gene sat at the table, in front of a plate full of razor blades. “Bout time you showed up.”
“Am I late?” Sam didn’t remember being told to meet Gene here.
“You should get something while you’re here.” Gene took a forkful of razor blades and popped them in his mouth. “Check out the waitress. She’s got an arse like Marilyn Monroe.”
“What are you doing?” Sam asked.
Gene took another bite of razors. “Tastes nice.”
A voice behind Sam made him jump. “Poor little greenie.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you want to be lonely Sam? Is that why you don’t want to look?”
“Don’t want to look at what?” Sam gave the girl a confused frown.
Gene’s fork clattered to the table. “Excuse me, but do we have business to attend to, or don’t we?”
“Right, guv,” said Sam, and they were outside. He felt around for his laser pistol but it was gone.
Gene held it up briefly, before tucking it into his pocket. “Walk and talk, Tyler. That’s what being a copper’s all about.” He pointed up at the sky, the world shifted, and they were on their backs, lying in the grass.
Sam felt dizzy.
“This is the life. Forget that country rubbish; give me a place like Manchester. Factories, chimney stacks, grime. That’s the kind of place for me.”
Sam rubbed his head. “I don’t feel well.” His stomach had gone queasy. “I think I have a concussion.” He’d hit his head...somewhere, hadn’t he?
“Poor little greenie,” said the girl from the test card.
Gene sighed. “Again? I’ll call Cartwright. Cartwright!” he bellowed.
Annie appeared, smiling. “I really can’t stay.”
Sam sat up. “Annie, what’s happening?”
“I have to go away.”
“Something’s wrong. Everything keeps spinning.”
“The evening has been...” She stepped back.
“No, wait!” Sam held out his hand. “Help me!”
“So very nice.”
Sam caught her hand, then lost his grip at her startlingly cold touch. “Your hands. They’re…”
She…faded, like the Cheshire Cat, leaving only a smile.
“…just like ice,” Sam finished.
Gene clapped him on the back, smiling like a snake. “Birds. It never lasts, Sammy-boy. Off to work. There’s some nut-job shaving women’s heads to make underwear. We need to check the hair salons. Let’s go.”
Sam took a step, but everything twisted again. And he was lying in bed. On his back. Next to Gene.
There was a frightening second before he looked over and realized they were both fully dressed.
“Gene?” he asked. “What are we doing?”
“Protecting the city. Every brick and chimney of it.”
“You keep talking about the chimneys.”
“Well, they’re important.”
Sam sat up. It his him that they couldn’t both be in his bed and still have so much space.
He looked down to see the floor below him, and fell. Hard.
“Ow.”
“Poor little greenie,” said the girl from the television.
Sam shook his head. “What’s going on here?” They couldn’t keep messing around like that. There was that hair-thief to catch, and vanishing Annie, and...Daleks.
Wasn’t there?
Gene tossed Sam the keys. “Let’s go.”
“You’re letting me drive?” That wasn’t right at all.
“Can’t drive the new module.”
“You got rid of the Cortina?” That was even less right. Sam stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk.
Parked on the street was something out of Buck Rodgers; long, white and skinny. The top opened up, revealing a long flat couch.
“Hop in, Sammy boy.”
Sam climbed in. “Where do you fit in?” he asked, lying down.
“Right here.” Gene climbed on top of Sam. He twisted up to bite the glowing neon handle that shut the capsule.
“Guv,” said Sam, “something very strange is going on here.”
“Come on, Sam.” Gene smiled. “You’re missing the bleeding obvious. What do you know about the Gene Genie?”
Sam swallowed nervously. He could hear the lyrics running through his head. “Loves to be loved.”
“If you insist.” Gene leaned in closer, and closer...
Sam jerked awake. He was alone in his flat, in his same little bed.
“Hello, Sam.”
Well, not quite alone.
“What do you want?” he asked the girl.
“What do you want, Sam? Why did you wake up?”
“Go away.” He threw his pillow at her.
She didn’t duck or flinch as the pillow sailed past her. “Do you want to be lonely?”
“I’m not lonely. Go away.”
She frowned at him. “Poor little greenie.”
“What?”
“Poor little greenie,” she repeated, in a voice like David Bowie.
Sam blinked. He reached up and rubbed his eyes. When he took his hands down, he found himself staring at the ceiling. His pillow was still beneath his head.
The radio was playing "Jean Genie."
It took him ten minutes to believe he was actually awake this time. Or as awake as he ever got.
He couldn’t look Gene in the eyes all that day.