Page 12 of The Bright and Hungry Future of Hawks

He’d been thinking about his.

“Yes. Tell me, where do you see yourself in five years, Mr Rider?”

He wondered what he’d reply to that if someone asked him. Only the other week, driving to that Godforsaken country that had a prince he disliked intensely, he had asked that of himself. Thirty-seven: how many more years did he have? He’d never anticipated reaching forty. In fact, each decade still alive had been something of an achievement.

But in five years’ time, where did he see himself?

“…before.” Once more with the odd frown, this time accompanied by a glance to his wall clock, as if Mr Benjamin Rider had more interesting things to be doing.

“Do you know London well, Mr Rider?”

To Aleksey’s practised eye, Benjamin Rider was entirely raw material—as if a bored god had created a human in his image but hadn’t given this new creation much thought afterwards. Clearly, Ben had made an attempt for this important interview. He was wearing a suit, of sorts: it had obviously come from the high street. He had donned desert boots rather than shoes, however. His tie was plain, which was good, and his nails were relatively clean. Where he had made more effort, which intrigued Aleksey, was above the neckline. Ben’s stubble was not the result of careless shaving. Far from it—it was affectation. That hair was not casually rumpled either. Mentally, he removed Ben’s suit and put him in a tailor-made one. It fit him extremely nicely. He removed it and left him naked for a while, considering what outfit to choose next.

“…awesome cock.”

Aleksey nodded sagely to the answer he’d not heard.

Then he did hear it.

He blinked. “Sorry?”

Ben pursed his lips and nodded to himself, as if he’d just had something confirmed. With an almost imperceptible smirk, he repeated, “The Royal Victoria. London—sites I saw? Awesome dock. Look, sir, I’m confused. Are you offering me a job or something? My CO just ordered me to come today. Said it might be something interesting.”

“May I call you Benjamin? Do you mind?”

He saw a brief flicker of annoyance on the other man’s face. “Yeah, I do. Ben, please. My mother always called me Benjamin, and I really hated it.”

“Ah. Well, Benjamin, that is the question.”

“Err. Sorry, what? What is? Sir.”

“We make our own destinies in life, do you not agree, Benjamin?”

Was that a stony glare? He sincerely hoped so.

“No, I don’t. Not at all. But I still don’t understand why I’m—“

“You think there is some old man in the sky guiding your course? Or that the universe is perhaps sentient?”

“Is what? I don’t know what—look, if there is a fucking god, he’s probably wondering what the hell he’s got me—!”

“Please do not swear, Mr Rider. It is hardly appropriate in Whitehall.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But I just want to know; I’m really not clear why I was—“

“Patience, Benjamin. As Ghandi said, to lose patience is to lose the battle.”

Aleksey, focused entirely upon what Ben’s eyes were saying, saw a brief moment when the young man considered a response to this that had nothing serene about it at all. He followed Ben’s thought process—the spring across the desk, the punch that would follow—and smirked inwardly, very pleased with how the interview was going. He began to twist his leather chair a little from side to side, because he could, and because Ben’s was an uncomfortable static one.

“Sir. Can you please tell me if there is a job? That at least?”

“These things are delicate; I am sure you understand. There are more ways to skin a cat after all.”

“Swing. The expression is swing a cat.”

Aleksey stopped rotating his chair. “No it is not. Why would you want to swing it? In any way?”

“Huh? Cus that’s what it’s for? Hello? Swinging? How does skin a cat make any sense at all?” Then he suddenly chuckled quietly to himself and murmured in an undertone, “Unless you were a complete retard and thought it meant a furry meowing thing.”

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