Next plan of action. Hmm...
Keats frowns, tapping the blank notebook in front of him as he lounges back in his chair, thinking hard. Nothing too radical, nothing he can be blamed for. Something Alex and Gene will know he did, but can't prove he did.
And nothing I have to be in his office for. God damn the man... oh, no, I'm in no position to be asking that, being God-damned myself.
The pen abruptly breaks, spilling ink all over the notebook; Keats swears fluently, looking around for a cloth to mop it up, frowning as the sharp stink of the fluid reaches his nostrils. That doesn't smell like ink... that's... petrol!
The pen, abandoned next to the notebook, abruptly splits open to reveal a cloth; he presumes Hunt stuffed it in there to keep the petrol canister in place, snatching it out and beginning to daub at the petrol.
The notebook abruptly bursts into flames.
Keats yells, snatching his coat off the coat hanger to put the flaming book out; it's only when the soft crackling has ceased completely that he draws it away, looking down at the cloth and seeing a smoking match, concealed in the fabric, next to a piece of paper off the side of a matchbox. Very clever, Hunt. I use it to clean it up, the match lights, and off it goes... I am going to get you back for this, you puny little Northern bastard!
And then an idea dawns on him, incredibly cruel even for him, and he laughs, throwing the smouldering notebook in the bin and, picking up the coat hanger, drawing the trenchcoat over his shoulders, realising too late that it is still just about lit.
"AAAHHHEEEAAAHHH!"
Gene and Alex, walking down the corridor at the time by a happy coincidence with Ray, Chris and Shaz in tow, fall about laughing as Keats leaps out of his office with the back of his suit on fire, screeching and yelping as he drops and rolls, extinguishing the flames on the concrete floor, glaring up at the five as they chortle together, a gleam in Gene's eyes. He suspects this one was his idea.
"Very funny," he hisses. Alex sniffs the air, her face rearranged into mock concern.
"I can smell smoke, Gene. I think it's coming from DCI Keats's office... we should check in there, make sure it's alright."
Gene shakes his head, staring down at Keats with triumph in his eyes.
"Ray, go in an' check DCI Keats's office over."
"Yes, Guv," Ray says, his eyes glittering as he heads in, smirking at Keats on his way. The demon picks himself up with as much dignity as possible, holding his head as high as it will go- not as tall as Gene, unfortunately. Or even Alex. Bother. Even WPC Granger isn't far off. Gene laughs.
"'Ow's yer coat? Looked a bit blackened ter me... might be time ter pop down to the 'igh street. See if they do anythin' resemblin' dead elephant skin."
"You're one to talk. Exhibit A: DCI Hunt's feet."
Keats sneers at the boots, which twitch as Gene also looks down at them, straightening back up with a grin.
"Exhibit A: my feet. Even they are more stylish than you'll ever 'ope ter be."
Keats opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by Ray coming back out, an unpleasant smirk on his face as he looks round at Gene, nodding.
"Nothin' o' concern there, except the CD collection."
Gene smiles slyly; the coppers clustered around him snigger.
"Very well then. Off we go. Nice seein' yer, Jimbo."
He walks past, making sure to hit Keats with his shoulder as he heads to the entrance. The demon grinds his teeth, slipping his coat off to examine it and groaning at the scorch marks running through the back. His nice new suit will be ruined too. Looks like Moss Bros will be doing good business today.
He retreats to his office to start planning, sinking into his nicely-adjusted chair and finding a fresh notebook and pen, opening it and starting to write, a devilish smile creeping over his face as the plan forms and flourishes in his head.
He doesn't realise that DS Carling has put a pad of white ink under his bottom, which is in the shape of a penis, and that the ink has now permanently imprinted a (very small) manhood on his trousers.
On his way to the High Street, he wonders why people are sniggering.
Eight o'clock at night, and Keats judges that it's the perfect time. Gene and Alex are staying late, looking over case files by order of the Super; they'll be there until at least nine.
The journalist at the News of the World had been very helpful, pulling several strings to find Keats the picture he wanted. Of course, the veiled threats helped; some were even quite inventive, Keats thinks as he strolls towards CID, smiling at his own imagination. The piece of newspaper tucked in his pocket has raised his spirits sky-high... as low as it'll make Hunt's sink.
He doesn't pass anyone in the corridors, and he is thankful for it, beaming to himself as he heads silently towards the office. He can hear the low rumble of Hunt's voice already, Drake answering in a higher tone, a tinge of amusement in her voice.
One long-fingered hand presses something to the doorframe and retracts.
The movement catches Gene's eye; he stands up, his stance aggressive, jaw jutting as he walks towards the door, stopping dead (how appropriate, Keats thinks) as he sees the picture, horror thick on his features. Alex walks up with him, her jaw dropping, grabbing Gene's arm and making to steer him away from the picture, but Gene is frozen to the spot with shock, his eyes gradually narrowing with loathing as he moves forwards, reaching out towards the picture.
"Pretty, isn't it, Hunt?"
Keats steps out, shining his torch on the picture, illuminating it to its hateful brightest. The picture shows DI Sam Tyler, but not as a brilliant police officer, one of the brightest sparks in the GMP; this picture has his face superimposed over a broken, destroyed body, sodden and gory, maimed beyond recognition.
Gene steps back, his eyes finding Keats; the murderous look in his eyes would intimidate anyone but one of Satan's servants. Keats simply smiles, turning the torch to show the picture up even better.
"Yes, I very much like it. Don't know about you, but I think it's brilliant. Might ask my friend at the News of the World to print it-"
He never finishes his sentence. Gene lunges forwards, his fist swinging towards Keats's smug face: by instinct, Keats jabs out with his sharpened nails, his middle and index fingers slicing into Gene's stomach through his shirt, sliding through flesh as Gene cries out, recoiling, his fingers turning red as blood dribbles from his skin. Alex shrieks, moving to support him into a chair, but Gene shakes his head, still bent from the blow.
"You'll pay fer this," he hisses, blood dripping onto the checkerboard floor. "You will pay!"
He reaches up to grab the picture from the door, ripping it to shreds with his bloodied fingers, throwing the pieces in Chris's bin as he straightens as far as the wounds will let him, shoving Keats roughly to one side as he all but runs out of CID, dropping against the wall in the foyer as the blood leaks from his face and stomach. Alex's face is full of horror, yelling to Viv for an ambulance as Keats steals out.
Instead of triumph, he now feels worry, disappointment- that prank went badly wrong, although it backfired more on Hunt- and a slight apprehension to what will happen next.
Even if Hunt doesn't name him- and he doubts he will- this is not childish pranks anymore, simple point-scoring against each other, almost petty. He looks down at his nails, seeing blood pooled on the nails, staining the pale skin. Gene's blood.
This is now all-out war.
A/N: It had to happen sooner or later! Hope you enjoyed, and please drop a review- your response to this story so far has been awesome, thank you so much. Jazzola :)