Young Writers Society

11/1/11

Tension was in the air, seeping from the expensive table and the leather seats. Seats that looked like heaven, but concealed a back made of what felt like reinforced concrete. The light, with it's elegant lampshade looked warm and cosy. Until you turned it on and found that it was in fact a glaring LED. It was a room designed without a budget, but made on a very tight one. It wasn't a room made for comfort, merely the appearance of comfort. It was however a room designed for making decisions. One designed to suck every ounce of aggression and feeling until you had to make a decision.

It wasn't working.

In the room three very important people sat opposite each other, small cups of water to their right and some paperwork between them. The first was tall and good looking, the enthusiasm of youth in his eyes. He had a stubbly chin, an average nose and jet black hair. His name was Christophe Blanc. Most of the world knew him as the President of France.

Opposite him was a shorter thinner man, with wrinkles on his face and grey hair. No light shone in his eyes. Only the twinkle of a defeated man. Constantly fighting for what he saw as right. Not many people liked him. But recently he'd discovered he didn't care. He would just do his bit for society and fall into the blissful graveyard of the press and a nice retirement home. His name was Raymond Smith, Prime Minister of Britain.

The third man was tall and stiff, in his mid thirties. He wore a pristine military uniform with medals that shone in the stark light. His face was clean shaven and he had a small moustache. He was Colonel Jaque Gerad. Commander of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment in the French Foreign Legion and from the look on his face you see he was utterly focused on the situation.

Christophe was leaning forwards speaking in French “In the current situation this proposition makes the utmost sense”. There was a moment of silence as Raymond pressed his earphone closer, listening to the translator. He stated in a weary tone “But is it a tactic that you would be willing to enforce President? Could you make that statement knowing that millions of lives are on the line?” Again there was a tense pause as the tiny voice of the translator blurted into the earphones of the assembled French. Then with an air of confidence Christophe stated “Britain's nuclear deterrent isn't necessary for this plan to succeed, but it would be helpful. Think of the rewards Minister, the ends justify the means!” Now he was leaning forwards, uncomfortably close to the British minister, a contagious fever in his voice. “We need to do this to make sure Europe stays as a world power with a form of cohesion and the ability to react to every threat. This is the answer. You know I have American backing for this!”

Raymond looked with despair at the French President. The man was either desperate, or he'd lost it totally. “The answer is no President, nuclear weapons aren't something to bargain with. They are weapons, designed to wipe out entire cities. Some of the newer ones take out continents. Britain will not take part in something that clearly violates Human rights and destroys the morals that my government is built on.” Something different in the eyes of the minister, fever topped with a sense of defeat. “I thought I knew you Raymond, I thought you'd go with the right decision. This is the right decision, and it's never to later to join the winning side”. With that he gathered his papers, pushed back his chair and marched from the room.

Raymond sat staring at the space vacated by his French counterpart. Despairing about his colleagues and hoping that he could sort the mess out before it exploded in his face. But more than that he was angry that there was nothing he could do to stop it. Britain was powerful, but not superhuman. It couldn't take on Europe. He was angry, defeated and it looked like he was on his own. He stood up and as he left the room and nodded to a man standing outside, in a black suit and sunglasses with a wire snaking from his collar to his ear. “Make the call”

*

Alex was one of the nerds, his uniform was always perfect and his presentation immaculate. He had one of those faces that didn't stand out, eyes the colour of damp mud and hair that looked the same. He was one of the people nobody noticed, good , but not outstanding. Nice, but not popular. He was to the eyes of the world average. He was sitting on one of the plastic chairs, the ones with the back that crippled you. There was a blank piece of paper in front of him. By the whiteboard the teacher – Mrs. Philips – was talking about Poetry. Alex had never been fond of poetry, especially poetry that you studied. The whole thing seemed like a puffed up ball of nothingness. Mrs. Philips was one of the nice teachers, short with an Irish accent that made even the easiest sentence amusing. But even her amusing bumbles through the English language couldn't make a subject like this interesting.

French however, French was a subject he adored, the intricate details of something different and the way it flowed of his tongue. He often dreamed of moving to France. But somewhere in the back of his head he knew he couldn't.