DS Louise Gardiner (AU) [Ashes To Ashes (BBC)] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doomed_copper) wrote2012-11-14 11:52 am
doomed_copper) wrote2012-11-14 11:52 am
Contra Naturam, Chapter 3: Terra Incognita.
Police Constable James Keats had entered the force hapless, and had left it defiled. His less-than-illustrious career was an aberrance that would define him up to that moment and for evermore. He'd had the misfortune to be taken under the wing of one of the most corrupt senior officers the force had ever seen. He was seen as mutable, green, impressionable, ambitious, and someone who would take direction enthusiastically and without hesitation. Seduced by the power, perks, and the unspoken 'brotherhood' that existed between those officers on the inside, he learned very early on that having important figures at one's back almost guaranteed a rapid ascension in rank. The backhanders were a beneficial footnote---the younger Keats had to admit he longed for a cushier lifestyle than the dingy bedsit he'd been forced to live in. He was so young, yet so self-possessed; in short, he was the perfect protégé… and pawn. The foolish lad had lost his life pocketing stolen jewels from a foiled blag for his mentor, who in turn was supposed to compensate him handsomely for his 'services'. Instead of rolling on his mattress that night, covered in pound notes, the skint bobby was met by random street thugs seizing an opportunity, leaving him to die hideously on that deserted street. It was precisely 9 o’clock on August 27th, 1935 when his heart beat for the final time. Unbeknownst to him, a shift was taking place, one that he had crafted for himself during his time on Earth, an eternal destiny shackling him link by link, strangling his essence.
When he suddenly awoke several moments later, he didn't immediately know whuere he was. Rubbing his eyes, he looked wildly around him, his mouth slightly agape. The street was deserted and unfamiliar in the dusk; the automobiles parked on it were strange and angular, some with bright colours, all of them streaked with chrome. Keats looked at his hands in disbelief, turning them over and over slowly, as if to test whether this was truly real. Fingering the alien fabric of the clothing on his body, he knew they'd never been in his wardrobe. The slick, charcoal-grey coat upon him fell open at his sides to reveal a sharp, navy double-breasted suit and tie. The shoes on his feet were equally smart, their black leather gleaming in the dim light of the sunset. He felt taller---older, even. More strangely, what was this feeling of electricity and something much heavier that he couldn't quite articulate?
Getting up at last, stumbling in the midst of the fog swirling about him, he turned and realised he was standing outside his own police station. The pages of a newspaper flapped idly in the breeze as they drifted upon the pavement. Keats raced to one and lifted it up to meet his eyes: the date on it was October 21, 1957. He dropped the page in shock, moving away from it in horror as he looked upwards at the towering buildings, none of which had been there before. His hand flew to his mouth. This couldn't be possible. His entire body quaked, the adrenaline threatening to boil over. When he got his bearings once again, Keats tentatively walked towards the entrance. There had to be an explanation of some sort.
At that exact moment, he caught his reflection in the glass of the double doors. His hands moved to his face in an instant: he indeed looked older, though still possessing a touch of his younger self. He had black, horn-rimmed glasses; since when had his sight gone south? His hair was the color of night: jet-black waves that were meticulously groomed, each curl, each bend submitting in just the right fashion. His skin was smooth, completely devoid of stubble, and pale----so very pale. He was, at least here, a vision of himself that even he couldn't have conjured from the depths of his imagination. He was authoritative-appearing, perhaps even calculating, and to Keats, this was the man he'd dreamt of becoming his whole life. Fumbling inside the pockets of his coat, he pulled out what appeared to be a warrant card. Flipping it open quickly, his eyes found the three letters of validation he’d longed to see since the commencement of his policing career: D.C.I. The rush he felt at that moment was unmistakable. It was as if a thousand bolts of lightning had erupted behind him in a blaze of sparks, as the conquering of Rome must have felt to Caesar, as watching it then burn must have felt to Nero. Finding a new sense of confidence and leaving his misgivings at the double doors, he opened them with both hands and strode in with audacious pretension; any fear he'd felt had checked out. Wherever he had been, whoever he had been before, he would never be again. Whether it was madness, the product of a hallucination, or a dream, or even death, Jim Keats ceased to care. The darkness would follow him wherever he would venture from now on.
His ascension may have been immediate, but soon upon entering this kingdom, he would be answering to a much higher power, one that was as much of a duality as the one to whom Gene Hunt would bow. Even so, even with the eventual, horrific knowledge of where he had been before, in his mind he had ultimately gone through that to become so much more; the knowledge didn’t horrify him as it would the others who had met similar fates. Everything past had been prologue to this; he was the Angel of Death made whole. He was a film noir creation of both beauty and terror, of monstrosity and licence; and all hidden behind an unobjectionable, amiable smile. He was the perfect vehicle for his Boss’ ministrations.
However, as much as Jim Keats had the foresight for souls ripe for the taking, he hadn’t anticipated what he would do to Louise Gardiner. His very undoing was now in her almost-capable hands, in her inscrutable glance.
When he suddenly awoke several moments later, he didn't immediately know whuere he was. Rubbing his eyes, he looked wildly around him, his mouth slightly agape. The street was deserted and unfamiliar in the dusk; the automobiles parked on it were strange and angular, some with bright colours, all of them streaked with chrome. Keats looked at his hands in disbelief, turning them over and over slowly, as if to test whether this was truly real. Fingering the alien fabric of the clothing on his body, he knew they'd never been in his wardrobe. The slick, charcoal-grey coat upon him fell open at his sides to reveal a sharp, navy double-breasted suit and tie. The shoes on his feet were equally smart, their black leather gleaming in the dim light of the sunset. He felt taller---older, even. More strangely, what was this feeling of electricity and something much heavier that he couldn't quite articulate?
Getting up at last, stumbling in the midst of the fog swirling about him, he turned and realised he was standing outside his own police station. The pages of a newspaper flapped idly in the breeze as they drifted upon the pavement. Keats raced to one and lifted it up to meet his eyes: the date on it was October 21, 1957. He dropped the page in shock, moving away from it in horror as he looked upwards at the towering buildings, none of which had been there before. His hand flew to his mouth. This couldn't be possible. His entire body quaked, the adrenaline threatening to boil over. When he got his bearings once again, Keats tentatively walked towards the entrance. There had to be an explanation of some sort.
At that exact moment, he caught his reflection in the glass of the double doors. His hands moved to his face in an instant: he indeed looked older, though still possessing a touch of his younger self. He had black, horn-rimmed glasses; since when had his sight gone south? His hair was the color of night: jet-black waves that were meticulously groomed, each curl, each bend submitting in just the right fashion. His skin was smooth, completely devoid of stubble, and pale----so very pale. He was, at least here, a vision of himself that even he couldn't have conjured from the depths of his imagination. He was authoritative-appearing, perhaps even calculating, and to Keats, this was the man he'd dreamt of becoming his whole life. Fumbling inside the pockets of his coat, he pulled out what appeared to be a warrant card. Flipping it open quickly, his eyes found the three letters of validation he’d longed to see since the commencement of his policing career: D.C.I. The rush he felt at that moment was unmistakable. It was as if a thousand bolts of lightning had erupted behind him in a blaze of sparks, as the conquering of Rome must have felt to Caesar, as watching it then burn must have felt to Nero. Finding a new sense of confidence and leaving his misgivings at the double doors, he opened them with both hands and strode in with audacious pretension; any fear he'd felt had checked out. Wherever he had been, whoever he had been before, he would never be again. Whether it was madness, the product of a hallucination, or a dream, or even death, Jim Keats ceased to care. The darkness would follow him wherever he would venture from now on.
His ascension may have been immediate, but soon upon entering this kingdom, he would be answering to a much higher power, one that was as much of a duality as the one to whom Gene Hunt would bow. Even so, even with the eventual, horrific knowledge of where he had been before, in his mind he had ultimately gone through that to become so much more; the knowledge didn’t horrify him as it would the others who had met similar fates. Everything past had been prologue to this; he was the Angel of Death made whole. He was a film noir creation of both beauty and terror, of monstrosity and licence; and all hidden behind an unobjectionable, amiable smile. He was the perfect vehicle for his Boss’ ministrations.
However, as much as Jim Keats had the foresight for souls ripe for the taking, he hadn’t anticipated what he would do to Louise Gardiner. His very undoing was now in her almost-capable hands, in her inscrutable glance.