Political Warfare || Solo (Main Arc)
The midday sun beamed in through the windows. It was heating up, almost as though spring was on the way. The Prime Minister grumbled, shielding his aging eyes and reaching out to fumble for the cord that would close the blinds. Spring indeed, he thought, though it was a shame most of London wouldn’t get to see it. The thought would have caused a guilty twinge in his stomach once upon a time, but as he stroked his jowels with internal thoughtfulness, the Prime Minister knew he had worked well past that, now. There was no room for morality any more. The world was broken. This /dimension/ was broken. The only thing left was to leave it to the dogs - or, better yet, the hell hounds.
His mobile phone came alive with a small buzz and he adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose to read it. Bianca Timberlake. She had that silly girl looking at floral patterns for dresses for a new spring catalogue. A Slayer and Style, she called it. Bloody preposterous, of course, but while the girl’s eyes were on her wardrobe, they were not on him. While everyone’s eyes were on her and the other slayers, they weren’t on him either. It all worked out perfectly well. He replied with a simple ‘well done’ before letting the screen go dark. He had better things to attend to today than Bianca Timberlake.
"Are you quite certain about this, sir?" his aide asked. "The public aren’t going to be pleased when they find out we pushed MIRA through on the quiet."
He barely even heard the words. He stood, adjusting his midnight blue tie in the mirror, shirt collar fastened tightly against his expanding neckline. “It will hardly matter, Quentin,” he said in answer. “Sometimes, protecting the world means making the unpopular choice.” But that wasn’t the reason at all. The Prime Minister had stopped caring about re-election. He would likely be dead before the year was out. The public could do nothing to him that his body already was not, and in searching outside the realm of modern medicine for a cure, he had found something even greater; the promise of immortality.
"Very well, sir." His aide brushed off his shoulders with deft hands in spite of the fact the Prime Minister’s suit jacket was already spotless. "Then I believe MIRA will have passed within the day."
That was what he was hoping for.
Distraction wasn’t enough. Opening the Hellmouth wasn’t enough. It was all a matter of timing and precision and each step had been slowly calculated. Luther and Fellows had been his scape goats, warring with words, battling between them with their extreme points of view. People would blame Luther when MIRA passed, because the Prime Minister had put the words in his mouth. It had served two purposes. The first was a distraction, for the world to have already brought itself half to its knees before he brought them the rest of the way. The second, was the final step in his ritual.
Blood of the slayer, willingly given.
"Do be sure our staff are ready to receive blood, hair and saliva samples from the first to come forward, won’t you? I shall meet you in the hall."
"Of course, sir," came the reply, and off his aide scuttled.
By the end of the day, they would be one step closer. Many would die, but he would live. And people claimed politics to be a selfish sport.