It was so simple. Almost too simple. What did you do with a miscarriage of justice?

Go to someone who could sort it out.

Mac's bent and rotten to the core, but not all of them go along with his pathetic little schemes and his filthy corruption. Gene's cherry-picked those decent officers who are left.

Chief Superintendent Richard Jones, to be precise. He and Mac shared a rank, but among those who carried influence, Chief Super Jones was the senior. Not only did he have a good bit more experience than Mac, but he was also in the Commissioner's inner circle and as straight as a die. Only his age- and his desire to remain alive- kept him from interfering with Mac.

Well, if he doesn't start interfering now, it won't be his life that's on a knife edge. It'll be Gene's.

She passed PC Crawford in the corridor, holding Gene's warrant card. The smirk he gave her was enough to make a saint start wondering about which orifice to stick something sharp at.

Alex was far from a saint.

After a brief tussle, PC Crawford's chances of fathering children were much reduced and Alex had possession of the warrant card, heading down the corridor to the much-appreciated sound of Keats having seven bells knocked out of him by various members of CID. For a second, she wondered when she had become so violent; Gene's smile flashed in her mind's eye, and she smiled wryly to herself, trying and failing to suppress a giggle.

Yes, CID's conduct was falling apart. But things were coming to a head, she'd known that as soon as Gene had been arrested. Soon Mac would be in the firing line and they would be (relatively, at least) safe.

Chief Superintendent Jones. I'm sorry if it's a bad time, but DCI Hunt's in a lot of danger and I need your help in sorting out a bit of corruption- I promise you won't regret it, and we won't let Mac get to you, but Gene really is in a lot of trouble and I have to help him out of it.

Pull on the heart-strings. Assure him Gene was in danger. That was exactly what she needed to do.

His office was right in front of her. Slightly ajar, so she knocked and pushed it open, her hand shaking very slightly.

There was total silence in the small room.

Until Alex screamed.

"You ready to talk, Hunt?"

"S-sod off."

The cold was making it hard to think clearly, luring Gene into a deceptively lucid state which only made him feel more agitated. Determined not to give Mac any satisfaction, Gene gritted his teeth to try and stop his teeth chattering. Mac gave a wolfish smile.

"I'm sure you'd like to get warm, Gene. I could turn up the heating down here… we could have a little natter, you know. Like men. Like brothers."

"I'm not yer b-brother an' I never will be," Gene hissed, wrapping his arms round himself to try and save heat, glaring at Mac. The Chief Super simply smiled.

"But it could get you out of this, Gene. You join us, and all the charges will be dropped, it'll have been a misunderstanding and that will have been that. You become one of us, and we'll forget all of this, we'll be brothers, we'll be kinsmen. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Gene? To be back in your CID, back in charge of your officers, back with your Alex. Would be brilliant, wouldn't it? Just say the word. There's a meeting tonight, I can take you along. We'll warm you up- can't be shivering while you're becoming one of us now, can we? There's a ceremony- you can clean yourself up, go home, talk to Alex. You can be one of us. The future of the Metropolitan Police. We keep London safe, Gene."

Gene raised his head, his eyes guarded, dark. Mac smiled, putting a hand out on Gene's shoulder.

"Just say the word, Gene. Say the word."

Gene shuddered under Mac's fingers, clenching his fists on his back. His face was devoid of expression.

And then the fire in his eyes burst back into life.

"Did yer say that ter Kevin Hales, too? Promise 'im 'e'd be part o' the future o' the Metropolitan Police, 'e'd be a brother, a kinsman. An' then yer 'ad 'im imprisoned and murdered. Just a pawn in yer game. You betrayed 'is trust. You think I'd ever, ever, join the Masons, after what you've done? You sicken me. All of yer."

Mac sat for a second, completely still. Gene held his breath.

The first punch was unexpected. The second just hurt.

And then Mac was on his feet, pushing Gene to the floor, punching and smacking and kicking and hurting, hurting so much; Gene tried in vain to fight back, launching himself at Mac's legs, but he gave it away too soon and Mac simply dodged out of his way, landing a solid kick on Gene's back as the DCI howled with agony and rage, swerving to land a single punch on Mac's shin and being rewarded with a gasp of pain-

"STOP, OR I'LL SHOOT!"

Gene glanced up, just in time to get a fist in the face from Mac.

As he spat blood out of his mouth, peering up towards the doorway, he glimpsed Crawford with a gun behind Mac's broad frame, a grin on his face, the barrel trained on Gene's head.

Game bloody over. Oh, bloody great.

"I have a warrant to request your holding in Fenchurch Scrubs until your trial in two days' time, Mr Hunt," Crawford said evenly, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. "Since you're also getting into fights with police officers, I should recommend putting you in with the inmates for the time being. We can arrange it, you know. The prison governor is a- particular- friend of mine."

The grin grew. Gene nursed his injured arm, seething with pent-up fury, soul utterly willing to launch himself at Crawford and Mac and rip them apart with his bare hands but body very much unable to.

"I'm sure the inmates there will be very, very pleased to see you, Mr Hunt. Especially as you put the majority of them away there. Several names spring to mind… oh yes. You'll get a very warm reception. Blood temperature, I should think."

"I'd work on the 'evil-mastermind' lines, if I were you," Gene growled, pushing himself up and straightening his back, hugely enjoying looking down on both Mac and Crawford. "They lack somethin'… imagination, intelligence, effect…"

Crawford made to knee him in the groin. Gene got there first, watching with some satisfaction despite subsequently being grabbed by Mac as the PC sank to the floor, clutching his crown jewels.

"That's the second time today, Crawford," Mac sighed, watching his officer unsympathetically as he snapped the cuffs on Gene's wrists, holding him firmly against the wall. Gene knew without looking that the wall would be spotted with blood when he moved away.

"'Oo was the first?"

"Your bloody DI Drake," Crawford hissed, kicking out at Gene's ankle and missing by a country mile. Even Mac looked contemptuous.

"Remind me ter get 'er some flowers after you two are be'ind bars where yer belong," Gene smirked back, getting a knee in the small of the back for his efforts. He bore the pain like the veteran he was, refusing to let Mac see he was getting to him.

"Shall we, Gene? The prison van's waiting."

"It's alright, ma'am, just sit down an' I'll make yer another cuppa… it's OK, ma'am. It's OK."

"He was… He was…"

"I know, ma'am. I know. It must've been an awful shock."

"And Gene…"

"The Guv'll be fine, ma'am. 'Ere yer go… drink that."

Alex's shaking fingers clutched the mug of tea Shaz was pushing into her hands, sweetened with what seemed like half the sugar in the station. Ray was talking as quietly as he could with two men Alex didn't recognise, both clutching police files; Chris was in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next with the other DCs. From what Alex could hear, most of them thought going after Keats again and beating him up somewhere very public would be the best thing, but Keats was safely ensconced in hospital at the mercy of the NHS and would not be relinquished for a little while yet.

"Are they- are they getting him down?" Alex asked hesitantly, waving a trembling hand in the vague direction of Chief Superintendent Jones' office. Shaz nodded, calmly lifting the tea to Alex's lips to make her take a sip.

"There was a note in 'is jacket, said 'e was committin' suicide an' that 'e just didn' see any point carryin' on, but I'm not so sure. Didn' look like 'is 'andwritin' ter me."

"Chief Super Jones' handwriting is very small, italic, and he curls his fs, gs, ps and qs up," Alex murmured, one finger tracing the letters in the air as she spoke. "What's the writing on the note like?"

"Big, chunky, no curl ups. That's why I thought. They used a different pen, too. The pen on the Chief Super's desk used blue ink, the note was written in black ink."

"Well done, Shaz." Alex took another sip of treacly tea, the combination of sweetness and police work beginning to calm her jangling nerves. "So we can put a case forward that the note wasn't written by Richard Jones. It was probably either Mac or PC Crawford… PC Crawford. Mac won't want to put his own neck on the line…"

Her voice tailed off as the metaphor she'd used echoed in the room. Shaz hurriedly tipped more tea into her superior officer's mouth.

"Come on, ma'am. Drink up, an' we can go an' talk to the Commissioner about it. Well, you'll talk to 'im. I'm just a WPC."

"The smartest WPC I've ever known, Shaz Granger, and don't you ever forget it. Gene has the papers in his desk for your promotion, you know."

Shaz turned a rather fetching shade of pink, hurriedly bowing her head to try and hide the smile on her face. Alex just smiled back, a little shakily.

"Ma'am?"

Both women swerved as DC Terry Smith yelled into CID, his normally placid face filled with panic, eyes wide. Ray leapt up from his chair as though it had scalded him.

"There's a prison van outside. They're taking the Guv to Fenchurch Scrubs!"

The light burned his eyes, the tarmac under his bare feet stinging. There was blood staining his clothes, more matting his hair, and he could barely stand upright. Gene knew it was meant to be a public humiliation, the Manc Lion tamed and beaten into submission for all to see. But he couldn't find it in himself to care any more.

If he really was going to Fenchurch Scrubs, to be put in with the assorted scum he'd put away there, he'd be dead within the hour.

None of them would exactly be pleased to see him now, would they?

He didn't register the driver getting out and greeting Mac, or the curious look the man gave him as the rear doors were unlocked. His feet were now frozen, blue and numb, his socks and trainers discarded somewhere in the station; he thanked whatever higher being that might be listening they didn't have his snakeskin boots. Those boots felt more a part of him than his own ball-sack.

"If you please, Gene."

Mac's voice was dripping with smug triumph, his eyes gleaming cruelly. Gene glared. You know I won't make it up those stairs, yer greasy bastard. It's all a part of this game yer playin'. Grindin' me down. Not goin' ter 'appen.

"Can't, Mack. 'Aven't 'ad my phone call yet."

"Lift him up," Mac instructed, kicking the backs of Gene's knees; the DCI collapsed into Crawford's arms, felling both of them.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Crawford. Get him in the van before I shoot you, you incompetent tosser."

Crawford, looking severely disgruntled, hauled Gene up like an unruly drunk, depositing him in the cold cell of the prison van; Mac closed the doors behind him, smiling through at Gene like a crocodile would smile at a goldfish. Gene gritted his teeth, punching the wall of the van and yelping at the pain that flared through his hand. The frustration was too much to bear.

"Bolly… where are yer when I need yer, Bolly?"

He was a six-year-old boy again, locked in the cupboard under the stairs, bruised and battered by his father. Just for a second, he thought he could hear his mother outside, screaming his name, shrieking at his father to get off her; he shut his eyes tight, but ripped them back open again as someone pounded on the back doors of the van and a voice that was now clearly Alex's yelled his name, raw desperation lacing each syllable.

"Gene! Gene, we'll have you out of there by tonight, I promise, sweetheart! I promise!"

Sweetheart? Soft mare… wait. She called me sweetheart?

Gene couldn't stop his heart doing a triple flip as her words sunk in, so affected by them he nearly forgot to reply.

"Oh… I- shit! Get me out, Bolls! I'll buy yer all the Bollinger Luigi can fit in 'is cellar if yer get me out of 'ere- an' if yer comin' ter the prison, bring some socks an' shoes fer me, eh?"

"You're bare-footed? Gene, what have they done to you? I'll kill you, Charles Mackintosh- I'll kill you!"

"I'd be careful who you say that in front of, DI Drake."

Gene, giving up on dignity, pushed his mouth to the crack between the doors and screamed her name, yelling "Alex! Alex!" as the van pulled away and the indicator clicked on, like a funeral drum as Alex's cries became fainter and fainter and the rumbles of the van gradually eclipsed her voice.

Gene collapsed to the floor of the van and curled into himself, trying and failing to stop shivering.

"One Eugene 'Unt, believed 'ypofermic. Just give 'im a blanket, doc, 'e's probably fakin' it. They've said 'e's goin' straight in with the rest of 'em, an' believe me, 'e ain't keen, seein' as 'e put most of 'em there. 'E's a copper. A DCI, no less."

Jabbering like a housewife and with an expression of mild disbelief on his face, the young Cockney prison guard holding onto Gene's elbow all but threw him into the optomistically-named Medical Bay of Fenchurch Scrubs, a small, grey room containing a bed, a box of syringes, a suitcase and a doctor, a mild-looking elderly man with swept-back hair and eyes reminiscent of Father Christmas. Gene's legs, too battered to hold him up, folded like a wounded deer's beneath him; with his arms cuffed behind his back, he was left to fall flat on his face onto the floor of the medical bay, moaning quietly about "police brutality". The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"Can you tell me, Steve, how I am meant to treat him for hypothermia if his arms are cuffed behind his back? It's one of the worst positions for maintaining body heat. Uncuff him."

"But doc…"

"I don't give a damn what the governor said. Uncuff him, now, or I'll get an ambulance for him, and your governor really wouldn't like that."

Steve sniffed, leaning down to uncuff the DCI lying at his feet and haul him up onto the bed beside him, watching Gene's trembling.

"You know what, doc? 'E don't look so good."

"That's why he's in the Medical Bay, Steve," the doctor explained patiently, his voice akin to that of someone explaining an everyday concept to a recalcitrant child. Gene smirked through his chattering teeth.

"Go and get some more blankets for me, would you, Steve? I've got a thermometer."

Steve nodded, heading off somewhere whistling as the doctor eased over to sit beside Gene, putting his hand on Gene's pulse. The DCI knocked his hands away, huddling into himself, trying and failing to summon up the full Gene Genie glare at the man.

"Mr Hunt, you're absolutely freezing. I need to know exactly how cold you are so as to determine what's best to do with you."

Eyeing the syringes beside the bed with some apprehension, Gene fell silent, letting the doctor press his fingers to his neck.

"Racing. If you'd just open your mouth so I can pop a thermometer in… I'm Doctor Wexford, by the way. And I happen to be on your side. I wouldn't trust Charles Mackintosh as far as I could throw Brighton Pier."

Gene raised his head, a little quickly-quashed hope in his eyes as Dr Wexford retrieved the thermometer and took a reading.

"35˚… you really need to warm up. Steve! Where are those blankets? Thank you very much… just hold those in place, Mr Hunt. Now. Tell me, what's got you into this mess?"

"Robbed M-Mac's vault. In T-Talbot Street. Found out 'e 'ad somethin' in there th-that could prove 'e was c-corrupt," Gene muttered, trying not to show his thankfulness for the blankets. "They're p-puttin' me in with all the p-people I've put away. They'll bloody c-cut me open an' d-drag me insides out wi' b-blunt instruments."

"There's not a lot I can do about that, Mr Hunt," Dr Wexford said quietly, rubbing Gene's arms as the shivering began to abate. "Do you have any colleagues on side? Anyone I can contact?"

"DI Drake. Alex Drake. 'Er number… yer got a pad?"

Something, his copper's nous, told him Dr Wexford was on his side. The doctor nodded, pulling a pad from his coat and jotting down the number Gene narrated in elegant italic script, then handed it over for Gene to scrawl 'Alex Drake- DI, Fenchurch East CID' in his messy Mancunian scribble. 'Ope 'e can read it. My teachers never could.

"I'll contact her… hello, Steve. Back so soon?"

The prison guard wore a slightly apologetic expression, holding out a pair of handcuffs in both hands. Gene glared.

"Got to take Mr 'Unt frew now. The governor said 'e'll warm up fine in the cells. Everyone's 'avin' their food."

Dr Wexford nodded silently, pulling a drawer by his side open and rummaging about in it, retrieving a pair of socks and handing them to his patient. Gene gave a thankful huff.

"I'm not letting you walk about with bare feet, Mr Hunt. You keep warm, OK? You don't want to get any colder. And," he added in a quiet voice, as Steve turned away to have a bellowed conversation with a mate halfway across the prison, "I'll phone, er, DI Drake, and try to organise something. Just try to stay safe, try to keep out of their way."

"OK. Ta, doc."

"My pleasure. Take care."

And then his wrists were cuffed behind his back once again, and he was stumbling on feet that were beginning to regain sensation into a broad, incredibly spartan room with a few half-broken chairs and the odd table, filled to the brim with the scum of London's streets.

One of whom had just recognised the man standing in the doorway.

"Bloody 'ell," the man hissed, revealing several missing teeth and blackened gums as his mouth fell open in shock, a cigarette dropping from his lips. Gene raised his head, staring straight past the people in the room in feigned nonchalance, trying hard not to shrink back as David Bonds walked slowly forwards, both hands clenching into fists at his side, his face beginning to fill with utter rage, eyes popping.

"Gene Hunt, as I live an' breathe… not so mighty now, are ya?"

"I'm innocent," Gene replied loudly, his voice echoing in the sudden silence that had dropped over the room like a lead tarpaulin. Each and every face was turned his way, bloodshot and hooded eyes flicking between the DCI and David Bonds, one standing tall, the other almost exploding with fury.

Bonds stepped closer, less than an inch away from Gene as Steve stood by, a little unsure. The old man's teeth were grinding unpleasantly, every inch of his body shaking with anger; Gene knew with a horrible clarity what was coming, but dodging would only anger him further.

His old childhood instincts kicked in, and he closed his eyes, his mind beginning to shut down, anticipating the suffering that was sure to come.

"You killed my son, you bastard!"

And then there was a pair of wrinkled fists slamming into his face, and Gene just had time to register a lot of pain and noise and being dragged backwards before the darkness took him over.

A/N: That got rather long! Please remember to review, or I'll get Gene to bring you to my study and do my History revision for me. And nobody wants to be doing that, trust me. Hope you enjoyed it, and more soon. Jazzola :D Oh, and almost forgot: full marks and go to the top of the class if you spotted the reference to The Ruth Rendell Mysteries, which was one of Philip Glenister's first TV appearances back in the early 90s. (I am giving out hyperlinks if anyone wants to watch- either the whole episode or just his parts. Who wants to see the Gene Genie aged 28?)