Central London 2135
There were many deeply unfortunate things about being Stuart Reed's son, and this day in particular was destined to be filled with them.
"I don't want to DO this," he'd hissed desperately to his mother, that morning, as she'd methodically wiped her already spotless kitchen countertop.
She had sighed loudly, and rolled her eyes.
In retrospect, Malcolm didn't know what he'd been thinking. If his mother didn't deign to interfere with his annual banishment to Pit Camp, she was hardly likely to exert herself, on his behalf, with regard to THIS.
Yes, there were many profoundly unfortunate things about being Stuart Reed's son.
In fact, just at this moment, Malcolm could only think of one GOOD thing about being Stuart Reed's son.
Sturt Reed was used to cadets. To lecturing military cadets. And military cadets were apparently not expected to look at whoever was currently lecturing them straight in the eye.
And so, even as his father ranted and berated, Malcolm was currently allowed the one, near-perfect luxury of staring of into the middle distance, and only listening hard enough to say "Yes, sir," at all the appropriate moments.
Despite the show, nobody in the busy square was paying them much mind. The people of London were apparently very concerned about their own business today, and that was just as well.
Malcolm liked to imagine that, rather than the being Stuart's oldest, ONLY son, he was instead at the end of a long line of brothers. A long line of brothers, all of whom had ended up shooting themselves in the face out of sheer outraged humiliation and had been promptly buried, in rows, beneath his mother's hollyhocks.
Perhaps we are all reincarnated as pigeons, he mused, my brothers and I. And we get to fly around Trafalgar Square endlessly shitting on things.
It was a cheering thought, but Stuart's rant was over. It was time.
Deciding that it was marginally less humiliating than being dragged into such a place, Malcolm walked into the musty, high-vaulted building under his own power, walking in time to music inside his head, in order to keep his hesitancy out of his stride. His father had made it exquisitely clear that he was not leaving here without one, and further protests would only prolong the inevitable. And so Malcolm resolved to declare himself ENORMOUSLY attracted to whichever one he saw first, and just get the whole unpleasant business over with as quickly as possible. Whichever FEMALE one he saw first, that was. He wasn't nearly stupid enough to open up THAT can of worms.
And so, it all happened very quickly in the end. There was one in the manager's office even as Malcolm and Stuart walked in. She had apparently only just arrived.
"Brand new stock," the manager oozed.
"Yes, fine, her." Malcolm said quickly.
"Very attractive, as you can see," the manager purred.
A sales pitch, yes, but Malcolm supposed it was true enough.
Then he realized that a previously unforeseen side benefit of this trip had fallen into his lap. Costing his father as much money as possible, with no added inconvenience to himself. Surely this shapely, pretty brunette wasn't cheap.
Her large eyes sought his, and he ignored her.
"A certified virgin," the manager pouted. "Which is a premium feature, but highly desirable to the discerning..."
"Yes. Absolutely," Malcolm replied tightly.
The manager frowned slightly. "We have other..."
"Absolutely not. I've made up my mind. I've decided. This one. Thank you for your help. Er...goodbye?"
"Then I will make the shipping arrangements," the manager replied smoothly, and after making the necessary pleasantries required by Stuart's wealth and rank showed them to the door.
Back on the street Malcolm sucked in big lungfuls of air as if he'd emerged from a miasma. And somewhere in the wild depths of his mind a part of him awoke, insisting that he think about what he'd just done. He stamped on it hard.
Then Sturt stepped abruptly into his line of sight. "So, you went from dragging your heels to suddenly demanding a gold tier virgin, did you?"
"Yes," Malcolm replied firmly, raising his eyes to meet his father's, determined to claim this one small triumph. But when he looked into Stuart's eyes for the irritation he'd expected in response to such extravagance, he didn't see it.
He saw something much worse, something which brought him perilously close to the suicide of vomiting straight into his father's face.
He saw a smouldering, begrudging pride.
