'I Am Become Death…'
An Ashes to Ashes S3 Fanfic
Well, Gentle Reader, it would appear that the Dark Gothic/Film Noir Froggy Muse who guides my writing is well and truly entrenched. And trust me, that would be slightly more humourous if I hadn't set my Writer's Group challenge entry in a First World War Dugout near Bapaume....
So, I normally write GALEX or Gene and Alex based fic, but this one, well, it came from nowhere about a week ago, and I finally knuckled down today (Monday 3rd May) and hammered out the actual thing, nailing down those floating ideas into an actual MS Word document, which you know have here.
Oooooh, its *dark*. And then some. Darker than a bar of Cadbury's Bournville, eaten whilst dressed in black during a power cut. In November. At midnight.
The title, I think most people should know, is from a quote taken from a Hindu text, and quoted by Oppenheimer in regards to the first Atomic Bomb.
The character I've written for, though I find fascinating in an equally destructive way, I can't actually stand! That must speak volumes for my prejudices and also for the A2A writers and Daniel Mays, the actor portraying DCI James Keats.
I've given Keats a middle name in line with his hints about a very religious upbringing. During the Commonwealth period of English History, when Cromwell was in charge, the Puritans called themselves and their children some pretty strange sounding names - see novels like 'Children of the New Forest' and the Christopher Redmayne mystery novels for evidence - things like 'Praise-God' and 'Hail-The-Almighty' as Christian Names. I have imagined Keats' parents to be of a similar mindset.
So, with that in mind, steal yourselves and read on. But please remember I don't like him!!!
Ah - legal bit. Okay, I don't own *anything* to do with Ashes To Ashes, character names, character backgrounds, the Audi Quattro, theme tune, anything.
Sadly.
Sighs Heavily
So, cue A2A theme:
I AM BECOME DEATH...
Despite what people might think of him, DCI James Keats, rising young star with the Met's Discipline and Complaints Section, wasn't an automaton.
Far from it.
He felt the warmth of the sun, like that corny Beach Boys song crooned.
He felt the cold.
He certainly felt the heat; especially in the space they laughingly called the 'office' Fenchurch East had thrown him in.
It was ridiculous to them, DCI Keats, the spy amongst them, sweltering away in his cubby hole with the files of past glories and all the lost bikes CID sneaked in when they thought he wasn't looking.
But he was looking okay. Taking mental notes as well as the ones he was submitting back to Head Office.
Yes, he thought, he was a fully functioning human being alright…
He even remembered quite vividly the retort of DCI Hunt's revolver, the rev of the Ford Transit's engine and the 'thud' as DC Louise Gardiner's body hit the filthy cobbles.
Everyone else froze, unable to believe what had just happened. He could see it in their faces.
He could read their minds.
How, they were asking themselves, could have a situation that was in the palm of their hands, have so quickly gone down the drain so drastically?
He knew.
Hunt.
It was all about Gene Hunt.
He, James Kingdom Keats, had been the only one to step forward.
He'd walked round the rest of CID, useless in their frozen poses, like stunned children playing 'Statues', and looked down at Louise.
Her breathing had been fast and shallow, the colour already draining from her face as the internal bleeding from inside her rib cage raged out of control.
He'd knelt down, feeling every cobble edge against his knees through his lightweight trousers, and eased her dying body onto his lap.
'Shhhhh' he remembered telling her, calming her as you might a fractious child waking after a nightmare.
He'd told her it would be alright.
And it was.
In a way.
Just not the way she hoped it would be.
But he'd eased her pain. Taken away the frightened child look on her face, eased her breathing.
And she'd looked him in the eye, just for a fraction of a second and he thought she showed a moment's panic.
They all did that.
Lying there, looking at him, she'd seen him.
Really seen him.
Seen him in a way that no member of Fenchurch East CID would, he knew that.
And if he continued on his path, tracking them on theirs, they wouldn't.
Until it was too late.
Oh, like the careful, cautious man he was, he'd been patient.
He knew they didn't want to trust him. On principle, if nothing else.
Their minds, as one, poisoned by Hunt who knew a natural predator when he saw one, with or without a suit.
Takes one to know one, as they say.
Hunt might like to be referred to as 'The Manc Lion'.
But he'd do well to remember he wasn't the top of the food chain.
And as DC Louise Gardiner's life force slowly and gently left her, leaving an empty husk before an audience who never expected such a performance, he felt the same rush that made his life worth living.
He'd saved Chris Skelton's career. Not that the drivelling idiot had much of one left.
He'd made Ray Carlton think his promotion was a safe one, long overdue and well deserved.
He'd even made young Sharon Granger believe she had a promising future as a CID officer.
And, his pride and joy, DI Alex Drake was starting to make definite moves to his side of the playing field.
Only DCI Gene Hunt resisted.
Idiots.
Fools.
Imbeciles.
Simple minded children.
The lot of them.
One by one, he would strip them away from their leader, their false idol, their foul mouthed, gun wielding, unprincipled golden calf of a god, Hunt.
The rot had set in nicely. And bit by bit, hint by hint, report by report, he would drag them away from Hunt.
A few might come unwillingly at first, feeling guilty at their defection.
The seeds had been sown, however, and he, James Keats, was not about to let all this good work fall on stony ground.
His little heart to heart with Alex Drake was his first confirmation that things were moving in a definite direction for him.
Once one had come over, into the light, into the right, other sheep would follow.
The mighty oak, the ravaging Lion, the Genie in the bottle – all things must pass, and yet Gene didn't have a clue how close he was to toppling into the abyss he himself had created.
The paperwork trail was enough, but Jim hungered for more.
He hadn't clawed his way to this assignment without picking up a few things.
And by working through the files stretching back over a decade, he'd picked up even more.
Ammunition in a war Hunt couldn't possibly win.
Oh, Jim knew that Hunt would throw his all into this battle, that was a given from day one.
Let him think he could win a few minor skirmishes.
Let Hunt believe he could blag, bluster and blarney his way through this whole sorry campaign.
He may not want to loose a single foot soldier, but really, he didn't even realise it wasn't up to him anymore.
He had lost his power, his ability to rule supreme and unchallenged.
That time and been and gone.
Now someone else held it.
And Hunt didn't even know.
Idiots.
Fools.
Imbeciles.
Simple Minded Children.
There Are None So Blind As Will Not See.
But they could be made to see.
And would.
DCI James Kingdom Keats, Metropolitan Police Commission's Rising Star of Discipline and Complaints sat quietly and compiled his evidence.
Late into the night and again early in the morning.
He would strip Hunt of his department with every embarrassment and humiliation made plain to him.
For he, James Kingdom Keats, was become DCI Gene Hunt's personal Death.
Destroyer of worlds.
And Fenchurch East didn't have a prayer…