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tli_productionsTitle: Captain Becker's Diary: The Fiery Vengeance Edition
Fandom: Primeval
Summary: In which the anomalies have become common knowledge, but really it's all about Becker.
Characters: Becker, Abby, Jess, Connor, Emily, Matt, Lester, references to and appearances by others including OCs (and mild RPF!)
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~6900
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lady_drace and fredbassett
Warnings: Swearing, references to violence and canon character death.
Author's Notes: So this is a finale of sorts (though I've already been told to write more!) for the collection of fics starring one CaptainEmopants Becker. Almost 5 years ago I made an offhand comment in Sunday Chat that writing Becker brought out the comedy in me. It was very inappropriate for the fic I was trying to write at the time, but on its own... well.
I started out parodying Bridget Jones' Diary (because why not?) and things quickly snowballed from there. Virtually every Beckerfic I've ever written takes place in the same loose continuity, though only a few actually refer back to each other. This fic refers to many of them including but possibly not limited to Captain Becker's Diary (where it all began!), Captain Becker's Lonely Hearts Club, Miss Becker's Walk On the Wild Side and Retrograde Becker. That said it is absolutely not necessary to read anything else to understand this fic but some things may make more sense if you do.
The exception to this islsellersfic's utterly brilliant The Commonplace Book of Lady Emily Merchant which I was kindly given permission (a long time ago) to riff off, and should absolutely be read before this :)
As always, many many thanks toexplodedpen and lady_drace for being awesome.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
About the Author
Hilary E. Becker is a former British Army officer who served two overseas tours prior to his assignment to the Anomaly Research Centre in London in 2007, where he still commands the security teams.
The youngest child of a Royal Navy Captain, Hilary grew up near HMS Sherwood in Nottingham, England. He is believed to have begun keeping a diary sometime during his early teens, a practice that continues to the present day.
This collection of diary entries from his time at the ARC is his first published book.
o o o o o
It's all Giles' fault, of course.
Of course, there had been other things going on at the time, like convergence and dinosaurs everywhere and the ARC's microscopically thin cover being blown wider than an MP's expenses claim – and more dinosaurs and Matt being a tremendously self-sacrificing idiot and emotions and gunfire and King's Cross Station and really, it was no surprise that Becker had no idea what was going on until a few days later. After the shit storm had finally had a chance to settle a little.
There had been a press conference helmed by the moronic-looking Prime Minister, and another conference that an infinitely more weary-looking and experienced Lester had deftly taken charge of and all of a sudden it was common knowledge that dinosaurs (and other prehistoric creatures, but seriously, three Steven Spielberg films and all anyone cared about was dinosaurs) occasionally trampled parts of the United Kingdom and there was a (somewhat) specialised team that dealt with them.
So far, so cataclysmic.
The news team who had quickly changed their piece on ticket fare hikes to the giant floaty time warp in front of the sign for Platform 9¾ had managed to broadcast the faces of every single field team member to pretty much everywhere in the world that received the BBC. And news programmes in general. And had an internet connection.
(Said team have been instructed to stay as low as possible until further notice. It's one edict that Becker plans on obeying to the letter.)
His phone (the one still in his pocket, because there might actually be a work call and Lester had made it quite clear that the one time Becker failed to answer his phone would be the one time he was shown the metaphorical front door) beeps and Becker groans.
It's another text from Mum: WHY DIDN'T U TELL ME U FIGHT DINOSAURS
Why Mum's bad textspeak has carried over into the era of predictive text and auto-correct, Becker had no idea. It actually takes effort now to write in caps lock. Effort no sane person should possess.
Truly, he despairs.
And then the phone beeps again: ARE U WATCHING THE TV GILES IS ON THE NEWS
Becker stares wide eyed at the phone. He then drops it and starts pulling apart his sofa looking for the remote.
His hand shakes until he finds the right channel.
Giles' face fills the screen, grinning at something or other. (Probably his inflated sense of self-awesomeness.)
“...as I was saying, Prinda, you can't possibly hold the anomaly team responsible for every single thing that's gone wrong in this country over the last few years. That's why we have politicians.”
There's a burst of laughter. Fuck. Giles has an audience.
And the wanker's revelling in it.
“Well,” a female voice – Prinda? – replies, “given a lack of official statement from any of the actual team members thus far, wouldn't you say the public has a right to know -”
“Of course the public has a right to know,” Giles replies, in what Becker knows to be his very best bullshitting voice. “But there are certain situations where national security takes precedence. Ask anyone in the intelligence services.”
“Your brother's one of the team members, is he not?” Prinda's voice has grown sharp.
“Hilary Becker, former military badass.” Giles beams.
Becker groans.
“What would you like to know about him, Prinda?” Giles continues, still sporting a calculated grin.
“Anything you can tell the viewing public,” is the instant reply.
Giles considers this carefully.
Becker starts counting the ways he could kill his brother and make it look like a suicide.
“Well,” Giles begins, “I can tell you that his favourite books are Lord Of The Rings, he will happily maim and kill for that first cup of tea in a morning and that for a roast dinner with all the trimmings he's yours.”
There is more laughter. Becker wishes he'd been given the tank when he'd asked for it. His phone buzzes again but this time he ignores it, eyes glued on the screen.
“He's brave and decent and honourable,” Giles says, quietly but still cutting through the murderous rage that is Becker in the living room with the moth-eaten blanket. “And he's one of the best men I know.”
There's a collective “Aww!” from wherever Giles is holding court, and even Prinda's voice sounds her approval of Giles' statement.
Even Becker mellows a bit. Just a tiny bit. Barely a smidgeon.
“Oh,” Giles adds, with a look in his eyes that screamed DANGER! to anyone who knew or had worked with him in the past, “and he keeps a diary.”
“A diary?”
Giles beams. “Writes in it every day.”
Well, fuck.
o o o o o
Thursday
Day 1 at new job today. Go into domestic security, the major said. Take a promotion and don't see any more action until the next foreign invasion on the flimsiest of pretences, the major said.
Fuck. That. Shit.
I am working with actual legit DINOSAUR HUNTERS.
Even saw one. Not allowed to shoot it though, even a little bit.
Tried not to let enthusiasm at real life dinosaurs show; have certain reputation to uphold, now being Special Forces Captain.
Captain Becker, dinosaur hunter.
This is going to be awesome.
o o o o o
The team is sent out to an anomaly (skate park in Camberwell; local youths encouragingly obedient to being told to stay behind the hastily-erected barricades; an abundance of smartphones and camera flashes) two days after Giles' first appearance on the evening news.
All told, it's equally as normal and excruciating as Becker was expecting.
He itches at not being able to charge the youths and demand their smartphones but settles for adding to the cordon with bright yellow warning tape and his Mossberg in plain sight and his favourite scowl plastered firmly on his face. Thankfully the video of Matt shooting the T-rex is still doing the rounds on Youtube, so he doesn't have to put much effort into being intimidating.
He'd still rather have bullets.
(And he does. Yay.)
Connor's able to lock the anomaly, conveniently located in the dip of one of the larger half-pipes.
“Press is here,” Abby says, watching two vans that have just pulled up nearby. She sounds as uncomfortable as Becker feels. “Anyone want to make a comment?” she adds, wryly.
“Best not,” Jess says over the comms.
Connor pouts but doesn't argue. “Yeah, yeah. S'weird though, don't you think? Who'd have thought we'd be here -” He waves his arms around for emphasis, “- like this?”
“Alive?” Becker says before he can stop himself.
“Together?” Emily guesses.
“Out in the open,” Matt says. “The anomaly project's been secret up until now. It's a big change everyone's getting used to.”
“Some more than others,” Jess interjects again. “Becker, your brother's on the line. Wants to know if you need an assist?”
“Why's he calling Jess?” Connor wonders.
Becker groans. “Put one camera in front of the man...”
“Is that a yes?” Jess asks. “Only, I looked him up, after the last time he was in the ARC. He's got experience handling the press and Lester -”
“Do not say Lester trusts him.” Becker does not need that kind of heartbreak in his life, thank you very much.
Jess laughs. “Not even close. But Giles is the closest thing we've got left to a press officer.”
“Don't remind me,” Matt says, and Becker is forced to agree.
Within hours of the first dinosaur reports hitting the web the Ministry of Defence had sent the ARC a self-described expert in 'information management and media relations'. He'd turned out to be an utter moron with an allergy to mammoths.
Two more potential liaisons showed up that evening. One was an old friend of the Prime Minister (and whom Lester sent packing within an hour), and the other had shown real potential until learning that their job involved speaking to -
“People? Actual people? No, no, that's not my division. I deal exclusively with online information, that's it. Nothing else. No. No!”
But Giles? There weren't nearly enough words in the English language that Becker could use to describe how terrifying an idea that was.
On the other hand, how much worse can things get?
“Fine,” Becker tells Jess with gritted teeth and his finely honed sense of impending doom dinging merrily away in the background. “Get him down here.”
It's going to either be spectacular, or spectacularly awful.
Becker really, really hopes Mum's not watching the news today.
There are times he really hates being an optimist.
o o o o o
Saturday
3am Got in after anomaly alert in defunct health centre. No creatures, unless Temple flapping his arms in empty swimming pool wittering about lifespan of mould counts. Forced to babysit botanists scraping empty pool for possible prehistoric mould. Kept self awake by mentally disassembling and reassembling Mossberg. Made it to 9 times without a mistake.
(Note to self: suggest practical demonstration next time Cutter asks what the hell am paid for.)
(Additional note to self: but not out loud.)
o o o o o
The thing is, though, Giles isn't awful. He spends the entire call out on his best behaviour. Shakes the team's hands like he wasn't shooting them death glares and bitching about them behind their backs the last time he was in the same postcode as them. Calls Becker by title rather than first name.
He smiles beatifically for the cameras, manages to keep the ITN crowd in check and is completely unselfconscious about the state of his jeans and the stain on his jacket.
Becker is forced to admit, somewhat grudgingly, definitely to himself -
“I fucking rock,” Giles announces quietly after the anomaly closes and the press reluctantly begins to disperse. He strolls back across the skate park, hands in pockets.
“You look like a hobo,” Becker retorts before anyone else can jump in. They're already bristling at Giles' tone, but Becker knows how to handle him. Mostly.
Giles raises an eyebrow. “My trouser press is broken.”
“That would suggest trousers.”
Giles just snorts. “It's for effect.”
“You... dressing like a tramp?”
“Yeah. Show up to do press in shiny pinstripe, or anything matching, give off the impression you're slick. Prepared. Coated with Teflon. Show up a bit scruffy, like you've already gone a couple rounds, make people think you're hard-working. Man of the people. Marginally less likely to bullshit you. So they listen.”
“That actually makes sense,” Connor says. “I think.”
Matt doesn't seem convinced. “You were on the news the other day.”
“Talking,” Abby adds. “A lot.”
“Yeah...” Giles rubs the back of his neck. “The Channel 4 team have had it in for me since I outed their producer as an adulterous fu-” he falters as he realises there are women in his audience, “- fudging idiot.”
Abby snorts. Emily raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
Becker frowns. “So what... that was an ambush?”
Giles shrugs. “Yeah, they were hoping I'd slip up, give them something to attack H – him with. Welcome to politics, kids. Some advice – for all of you.” He looks around at the team one by one. “Dinosaurs, I get you can handle. That's your job. The press are bloodsuckers, and they won't let up on any of you. Not ever.”
Connor pulls a face. “Wonderful.”
“I'm just saying,” Giles replies, but he's looking at Becker. “Be careful.”
o o o o o
Tuesday
Spent day herding bloodsucking insects around bio-hazardous material.
That sounds good, doesn't it? Much better than being forced to accompany arsehole politicians on tour of ARC. Am highly decorated combat veteran. Have served tours of duty in Afghanistan and Cyprus. Survived both. Am now tasked with protection of idealistic civilians in pursuit of knowledge, understanding and fossilised poop.
Showed Minister overseeing ARC operation and thus own position all collected deposits of dung attributed to multiple creatures from multiple epochs. Successfully kept straight face as he slipped and fell against open cabinet containing multiple examples of aforementioned deposits. Still smell of shit.
10/10 experience, would do again.
o o o o o
It's a few days before the penny drops. And by penny dropping, Becker of course means the further erosion of life as he knows it.
It's a Friday. One of the ARC's bunk rooms has become a makeshift camp-site as more and more people decide braving public transport – and the public in general – just isn't worth it any more.
One of the squaddies actually brought his flat screen TV with him the other morning; it now adorns the wall where the bunk beds used to be. It picks up just a couple of channels clearly down here, but it's only a matter of time before Jess' list of demands is met and she upgrades the cabling.
The breakfast news is almost over when Becker gets in. He tunes out the babble and starts on the first of many reports. He gets jostled and kicked a lot as the space fills up with people, some with laptops, some with mugs and some with what smells a lot like breakfast.
The breakfast news concludes with an announcement that there is to be a Panorama special on the life and times of Philip Burton.
It's met in the break room with grumbles and various swear words. Someone suggests a drinking game. “What?” comes the protest when Becker looks up. “S'what Quinn would do.”
Becker snorts. The things Danny Quinn would do would fill a long-list for the Darwin Awards. That said, everyone's staring at him now. Becker's about to say no, because of things like decency and manners, his actual living nightmare that is honest public relations, and not speaking (or drinking) ill of the dead. Then Becker remembers the shit storm that had erupted because of the lock down and Jess – Jess nearly dying because of the power mad maniac and -
“I'll allow it,” he says.
“Yes!”
“Best CO ever!” someone else says.
Becker pulls a face.
“Too far. Got it, sir.”
Becker smirks. “As you were.”
“Who the fuck's got the remote?” a new voice asks.
Becker glances up at the TV. And shudders. Jeremy Kyle's smug, ever punchable face is announcing a special episode entitled Dinosaurs Ruined My Love Life!
“Fuck's sake...”
“Turn it off, turn it off!”
“Kill it with fire!”
On the other viable channel is rolling coverage of the Camberwell anomaly, peppered with dubious footage of other, previous, publicly unconfirmed anomaly call-outs. A voice-over announces a governmental inquiry into the anomalies. A possible UN intervention is bandied around as well.
Becker wonders if it would be possible to make a drinking game out of that as well. Someone nudges his legs and he obligingly gives way, still typing, as much to keep the laptop from falling as anything else.
The aforementioned penny made its free-fall a short while later, aided in no small part by the truly moronic decision to switch back to ITV and yet another anomaly influenced program. This time – This Morning.
Becker manages to tune most of it out. He reduces it to babbling, wittering, some vaguely technical language from a palaeontologist he's never heard of before.
Then he hears his own name.
He reacts instantly, jerking upright and staring at the TV.
“...Giles Becker, of course, seems to be becoming the ARC's de facto spokesman,” Eamonn Holmes says to no one and everyone. “So what do you make of the fact that his brother's a seemingly integral part of the operation?”
Silence reigns in the break room, and right on cue Becker's ears start burning.
“Of course, we won't know anything until more details about the operation become clear,” says a snooty-looking man Becker doesn't recognise. “But even rudimentary research suggests both are qualified. Nepotism may be a factor but possibly not a definitive one.”
“I'll say one thing for Giles Becker,” interrupts the woman next to Mr Snooty on the sofa.
Oh, shit.
The woman on the television giggles and continues, painfully unaware of her captive audience in bowels of the Anomaly Research Centre. “His brother – Captain Becker, according to some sources – keeps a diary.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
“It might be an unusual pastime, especially in this day and age – no pun intended,” she half-snorts, half-giggles, “but come on. This is someone who's reportedly been dealing with anomalies for years. Captain Becker's diaries – who wouldn't want to read those?”
The penny thuds. And then it bounces a few times, just to reinforce the effect.
One by one, everyone in the break room turns to look at Becker.
He chooses his next words very carefully. “I will shoot the first person who sticks their hand up – or says anything.”
One of the technicians opens her mouth then makes a strangled noise and quickly closes it again.
Becker emails his last report to Jess, then closes his laptop and stands up. He refuses to kick any obstacles out of his way – after all, that would be rude.
o o o o o
Monday
Bought far too many dinosaur/prehistory type books on Amazon this evening. Forewarned being forearmed is all well and good but surely council libraries have a responsibility to all would-be learners.
May write letter of complaint.
Overall day was mixed. Again was prohibited from using appropriate force to stop a lumbering Stegosaurus in a children's park. Fortunately park was devoid of little darlings owing to anomaly call out at 4 sodding am. On semi-related note, was gratified to see that London's reputation for being hotbed of nocturnal, drunken, drug dealing youths has been over-exaggerated. Suspect data anomaly (whatfuckingever) but have zero intention of carrying out further study.
(Note to self: stop spending lunch breaks with scientists.)
o o o o o
“I think it's a wonderful idea,” the Minister gushes.
“It's certainly... not without merit,” Lester allows.
“Just think of the potential media impact.”
Lester makes a quizzical face. “I hardly think that's the kind of thing you can quantify,” he says blandly.
From his defensive position at the far end of Lester's office – arms crossed, legs tense – Becker raises an eyebrow. The last time Lester had used that tone, heads had come close to literally rolling. He's pretty sure a politician had been involved then, as well.
He also hasn't felt this incidental to a conversation since the last time his sister had tried including him in childcare arrangements. Death glares had helped then; he has the sinking feeling he won't be nearly so fortunate now.
“Captain?” It's the Minister. “Captain, what do you think?”
Oh – does she mean him? Is he actually being included in a conversation that clearly has no impact beyond affecting the rest of his life?
This is why he hates politicians. And his brother for starting it.
But mostly politicians.
He blinks. “Ma'am.” Good opening. Smooth. “Even in the light of current events, surely what I do on my own time -”
“I wasn't asking for an opinion, Captain,” the Minister sniffs. Beside her Lester's expression is as tightly controlled as Becker's ever seen it.
Becker's trigger finger twitches.
“Ma'am,” he says automatically.
Her eyes narrow a fraction. “A time frame; publish your – diaries -” she makes it sound like a dirty word, like Becker's a serial killer instead of someone who keeps a diary like normal people, “- sooner, to capitalise on public goodwill, or later, to control the flow of information.”
Before Becker can fire off a truly biting comeback about opinions and his required lack thereof, Lester clears his throat loudly and says: “I'm sure you don't need any extra input into this plan, Minister. You seem to have so much of it confirmed already.”
She makes a quiet snorting noise. “Indeed, Mr Lester. Still the issue of quality remains.”
What.
Becker breathes deeply. It's Wednesday.
He breathes some more. No killing people – even politicians – on a Wednesday.
His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, breaking the cycle of murderous rage. “It's my mother,” he announces. “It's probably important, I -”
“Quite,” Lester murmurs. He motions his head to the office door. “Go on.”
Becker quickly exits out into the main operations room and answers the call. “Hello.”
“Sweetheart.”
Becker winces. “Mum.”
She sighs down the phone. “I've been trying to get hold of you for days -”
“I've been busy.”
“So I gather – dinosaur hunting, sweetheart? Really?”
“Really,” Becker says. It's not worth it trying to correct her. He's faintly aware that Jess and maybe half a dozen other people are all watching him, so he ducks down a corridor and tries to look like he's on official business.
Mum sighs again. “How long has your brother known?”
“You're really not messing around today,” Becker comments.
He gets a non-committal 'hmm' in response, so he tries again. “Anyone giving you grief?”
“Nothing your father and I can't deal with.”
And that Becker can believe. He has no doubt he'll never hear the end of it once the masses start IDing his family at large.
“You let us worry about that, though,” Mum adds.
Despite himself, Becker smiles. “Will do.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Matt walking up to him. “Got to go, Mum.”
“'Kay. Be good, sweetheart.”
And if you can't be good, be careful. Becker pockets the phone and looks at Matt. “Whatever it is, I'm very tempted to say no.”
Matt looks unimpressed. “I don't want to talk about your feelings.”
“Good. Me neither.” Becker reconsiders. “So what do you want?”
Matt brandishes a tablet at him. “Second lot of reports need redoing.” When Becker pulls a face he clarifies: “It's from above Lester.”
Of course, their new overlords: public accountability and public goodwill.
Oh, yay.
Becker sighs and motions for Matt to follow him around to his office. “Everything I need -”
“- in your inbox,” Matt finishes. “Should all be straightforward. Everyone's been roped in.”
“That doesn't really help.”
“Didn't think it would. Hey, Becker...”
When nothing else is forthcoming, Becker stops in the middle of the corridor and turns to face Matt. “What is it?”
The look on Matt's face becomes slightly constipated. “I – your diaries,” he says eventually.
Becker groans.
“Rumour is they're going to be published.”
“So everybody tells me.” Becker peers at Matt. “Are you... nervous?”
“No,” Matt says quickly. “Just – you wrote about me in that thing, right?”
“Several times.”
Again Matt doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Enough time for another little penny to drop. "Your background was solid, you know. When you first joined the team."
Pathological would be a more accurate word, but whatever.
“You fooled Lester,” Becker adds. “And besides, I thought you didn't want to talk about my feelings.”
“I don't,” Matt says.
But... the man who was born in an aborted future needs to be able to cover himself in the here and now. Becker sighs.
“I have no idea what's going to happen,” he tells Matt.
It's true – and easy enough to imagine what will come next. He'll be summoned to bring in his diaries, because he is that obsessive organiser who keeps everything, especially those pertaining to national security, they'll be torn apart by aides, PR vultures and anyone else who gets off reading about other people's lives.
The publication will go through whether he likes it or not. And as with so many of these situations, there are two possible outcomes. The public at large will a) like what he's written and, by extension, him or b) will brand him an absurd excuse for a soldier and he'll become a laughing stock for evermore.
He gave up on trying to be a hero a long time ago.
These days he'll settle for acceptance. For being good enough.
For the second time today his phone buzzes.
It's a text message from Jess. Heads up. Minister + Lester want your soul.
The phone buzzes again. And by soul I mean diaries :)
That's how it begins.
o o o o o
Monday
to do
1. give final gas/electric meter readings
2.locate gas/electric meters
3. furniture to salv. army
4. contact Dr Page's parents
o o o o o
A month ahead of the release date one hundred advance copies of the book are delivered to the ARC.
Under literally any other circumstances Becker would take the day off work, lock himself into his flat, or even maybe (just maybe) hide in his dad's garden shed and wait for updates via carrier pigeon.
The reality is that the entire street that Becker lives on has become a camping ground for the shrieky and possibly deranged, something his neighbour is only too keen to complain to him about (mostly related: she's considering a deed poll). His parents have yet to be directly linked to him, but he's not so worried about that; at least one of the swords displayed in the dining room has actually been used in a fight.
El and her family are still in Melbourne for her secondment, but she's already assured him several times by email that she'll deal with him personally when she gets back to these 'dinosaur-ravaged shores'. Actual quote.
But back to the present crisis: Becker stands in Lester's office and watches as every single ARC employee scrambles for a copy of the book. He's more scared than he thought he'd be, but he's not sure if he's scared of losing any semblance of respect he might have left, or just what every single ARC employee is going to want to do to him once they find out what's in the damn book.
“No censorship!” the minister had bleated. “We need to be seen demonstrating full and open insight into the anomaly project!”
Becker hates the newly appointed Minister for Temporal Affairs with a fiery vengeance.
He sighs.
Better to enjoy his last few moments of normality. He can worry about the rest later.
"Well," says Lester from beside him. “What are you waiting for?”
Becker frowns. “What?”
Lester waves a hand to the mêlée outside. “I should have a copy too, don't you think?”
“I'm not going out there,” Becker says. The crowd is thick, some of the traitorous bastards on his team already nosing through their hard won copies. And judging by their smirks Becker suspects most of them are looking for passages that might be about them.
Lester just stares at him, then raises his eyebrows for good measure.
Right on cue, Becker's (new, registered in his dad's name) phone buzzes. He glares at Lester for good measure, then reads the text.
It's Hilary. if you don't get me an early copy of your book i start playing your version of all by myself to your fanclub
Becker mentally swears and fumbles his reply. You swore on your life you'd deleted that.
The reply is quick. I lied... or did i? dun dun dunnnnnnnn. just get me the damn book
Becker chuckles, then steels himself to enter the fray. A printed, paperback copy of his innermost thoughts and neuroses for the closest thing he has to a best friend. He can do this.
“And don't forget my copy too, Captain.”
Becker sighs. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Anything else you want while I'm out there, sir?”
“Now now, there's no need to be facetious.”
Becker succeeds in swiping two copies from the almost depleted pile, and in doing to gets his first proper look at his own impending demise. His own face, glossy and angular and almost certainly Photoshopped, stares back up at him in a parody of his Sandhurst passing out photo. He hated that photo, and he's not keen on this one either.
Above his far too smooth hair are emblazoned the words Captain Becker's Diary: One Man's Account Of Life On The Anomaly Front Line.
He turns it over. On the back are the requisite endorsements and one line hack jobs masquerading as reviews.
“Piss your pants hilarious!” declares an idiot from the Sun.
“The best memoir you'll read this side of an extinction event!” is the pretentious conclusion of the Telegraph.
“Honest and insightful,” says the third one. The byline is Military News.
“You'll be doing your fellow servicemen and women an extraordinary boon in these uncertain times,” the major had said during the pre-publishing negotiations.
On the back inside cover are the only words Becker had insisted make it into print, and effect in real life. It doesn't make any part of the experience worth it even a tiny bit, but it helps.
All proceeds from the sale of this book and its electronic equivalents will go to designated military charities.
o o o o o
Friday
4am Woken up by mobile phone ringing. Again. Caller ID said Home Office. Again.
4.15am Fuck's sake. Answered phone.
“It's me,” said Lester. “Thank you for answering this time.”
“What is it?”
“There's an anomaly alert.”
Felt like laughing hysterically down phone then hanging up, changing number and renewing plans to create new identity and move to remote Appalachian village.
“Thought the ADD been taken down by now.”
“Quite...” Lester trailed off. Bastard. Then brain caught up with events. “Where's the anomaly?”
“Westminster.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
11.14pm Oh, what a fun day this turned out to be. Rounded up last remaining squaddies inside zone 2. Chased stegosaurus around House of Commons, joined partway through by Giles, who smelled v. much like dogshit (didn't ask). Lester joined in (didn't ask about the mammoth's welfare either). Got to manhandle various politicians and bureaucrats (never gets old).
One of them didn't make it back for impromptu roll call in member's canteen. Rather than dead/mangled/traumatised, found him talking to Lester after dinosaur repatriated (not before it had pissed on speaker's chair – suck it, John Bercow) and anomaly locked. Overheard stuff like 'prerogatives' and 'partnerships'.
Dragged away by Giles before could investigate – or yell at Lester – any further. Giles made assurances he would cover for sorry remnants of anomaly project before adding: “You know who that guy was, right?”
Did not.
Giles made sound only his mother could love (actually, that's highly doubtful). “Newsnight every month this year? Biggest FTSE improvement this quarter? Jesus, Hilary, the military's actually fried your brain.”
Glared at him until he surrendered. “That was Philip Burton.”
Still meant nothing; conveyed this by pulling face. Giles sighed and walked away. Pretty sure that counts as a win.
Text message from Lester after site dispersal. “Be at Home Office 0900. Project not over.”
(Note to self: Research Burton.)
o o o o o
That afternoon the ARC turns into something of a ghost town as everyone retreats into designated office and lab spaces to read Becker's diaries. Some double up, leaving chairs in even scarcer supply than usual.
Literally all that's missing is tumble weed.
Becker wanders the corridors. In theory he's patrolling, as the pollen cross-contamination from three days ago is still making people who spend too long on the third level a bit giggly. In practice he's scoping out potential defensive cover and escape routes.
On a whim he tries phoning Hilary again. A noise behind startles him; he whips around to see Emily stepping through the far hydraulic door. In his hand, an automated voice tells him the number he's calling is busy.
Becker ends the call and pockets the phone. “Hello,” he says. He feels faintly stupid and – yes, yes that is the tips of his ears heating up. It was only a matter of time.
Emily smiles as she comes closer. “I thought I might find you if I... explored enough.”
Becker huffs.
“You have no reason to be anxious,” Emily tells him, still in that almost infuriating calm tone. “About your journal, I mean.”
Becker huffs again. “If this is you trying to be the sage grandmother I never had, I think I appreciate it, but -”
“No,” Emily interrupts him. “This is not about our... connection. But – come on. There is an empty office back this way, surely you should have a defensible position if you anticipate a hunt?”
Becker rubs his face with his hand, but follows her down the hallway. “Yeah, sure. How many people know about that – us?” he asks. He can't imagine it's something that comes up in normal conversation – Hey, did you know Lady Emily Merchant is Captain Becker's secret great-great grandmother?
It's certainly nothing he's ever volunteered to anyone. Even the thought process is awkward.
The office is devoid of both people and furniture. Becker levers himself down to sit against a wall. Emily looks sceptical but joins him, laying her jacket on the lino before sitting on it.
“Jess and Abby assured me they would keep my secret,” she says, smoothing out the edges of her skirt.
Becker considers this. “So... potentially everyone here?”
“It is a possibility,” Emily admits, “but a small one nonetheless. I was... gratified to see it not mentioned in your journals.”
“Ripped some pages out.” Becker shrugs. “You're not my only dirty little secret.”
Emily raises a single eyebrow, and for a split second she looks like Becker's mum. It's a bit scary.
“Besides,” Becker adds. “If it does get out two things will happen.” He starts counting off on his fingers. “One – my mum. Two – the Daily Mail.”
Emily considers this. “I doubt our connection would qualify us for pillory on the 'Sidebar of Shame'.”
Okay, now Becker's scared. “I am not going to ask how you know about that.”
Emily beams at him. “You keep your secrets and I shall maintain mine.”
Now she sounds like Becker's granddad. Becker represses a shudder.
Emily possibly mistakes it for something else; she smiles. “What are you thinking about?”
“My grandfather.” When Emily's look turns enquiring, Becker elaborates: “Mum's dad. You just – reminded me a little of him. It's silly, I -”
“Not at all,” Emily says quickly. “It's only natural that you might...” She waves a hand around, then chuckles quietly.
And this is why Becker removed the damning pages. How is anyone else supposed to understand that he and Emily are related when they can barely talk about it themselves?
“Yeah, I -”
There's thumping noise outside, like a banging on the door. Becker's instantly alert and on his feet, Emily close behind. His hand twitches to his side, but he doesn't even have an EMD handy. Damn.
“Oi, Becker!” comes a muffled yell through the door.
Becker sighs. “So it begins...”
He's always hated speed-readers.
o o o o o
Friday
Tentative final meeting with Lester and Burton scheduled today. ARC to be re-established at new site, new personnel where needed and new protocols etc.
Have been tasked with drafting protocols and general field guidelines for future operation. Filled notebook in less than an hour. Will read through everything ahead of later.
Candidates for civilian team leader and field co-ordinator are being considered; have been assured own input will be considered. Thoroughly approve of latter's role.
But honesty – which El assures me is necessary, even somewhere no one else will ever see/read it.
I have to be honest now – I'm scared. I'm scared I'll never see Connor, Abby or Danny again. I'm scared I'll fuck up as badly as before. I'm scared I won't be able to hack it as a civilian. I'm scared more people will die because of the anomalies and I won't be able to stop it.
I'm scared there'll be another Sarah Page. Or Patrick Quinn. Or even Christine Johnson.
I'm also scared that I won't be there. So I have to be. And establishing protocols and vetting newcomers is a start.
o o o o o
The plot twist is one that Becker would never, ever have seen coming.
“Nice one,” says Watson the dread-locked palaeobotanist without a hint of his usual sarcasm.
Ogoe from technical support mimes punching Becker on the shoulder but thankfully refrains from any physical contact.
Connor bounces around his lab like Becker's niece when he gives her too much sugar and makes noises he couldn't decipher if he tried.
Then he beams and wraps Becker in a hug, squeezing him tighter and tighter.
Behind them Abby's smiling. “Good to know the stick up your arse was just for show,” she says dryly.
Becker grimaces and stumbles around the lab. “Co – Connor? Can't breathe.”
“Oh. Right.” Connor lets go. Becker tries to knead circulation back into his arms as Connor starts babbling. “Sorry, it's just – weird, I guess.”
“Seriously?” Becker demands before he can stop himself. “You've just read every diary entry I ever made over a thirty month period. It's weird for me.”
Connor calms down. “Yeah. It was very brave of you, though.”
No. No, no, no, no, no. “No,” Becker says out loud for good measure. “You. You were brave, both of you, in -”
“It's not a competition,” Abby interrupts him.
“We had no idea about Afghanistan,” Connor adds, and Abby nods behind him.
“That too,” she says.
Becker hesitates. Now it's weird. There's a hollow sensation where his stomach's supposed to be; he doesn't remember the last time he felt like this but he knows he doesn't like it.
“I mean it,” Abby says, “I'm serious.”
He's supposed to say something. He knows he's supposed to say something but there's nothing.
Instead he nods. Mumbles something that is almost an intelligible sentence. Then beats a hasty retreat down to the firing range. The tips of his ears are burning by the time he makes it down there. The corporal on duty has a copy of the book propped up next to her computer, but has the grace and decency to look only mildly sheepish while Becker signs in.
The first ten minutes are spent disassembling and reassembling the Sig Sauer and Mossberg. Becker can literally feel the tension leaving his shoulders as he works.
Then he turns his attention to the actual firing range. He squares himself, grabs the protective goggles and headphones, readies the Sig Sauer and lets himself smile.
Who needs therapy when you've got a gun and a paper target?
He imagines the first target is the Temporal Affairs Minister, and fires off three textbook head shots. He fires the fourth straight through the heart and has just enough time to congratulate himself when there's movement out of the corner of his eye.
Through the headphones his voice is heavily muffled. He can feel the words through his jaw more than actually hear himself speak. “Whatever it is, the answer's no.”
Jess steps into his line of vision, smiling brightly and hands held up in supplication. Becker sighs, and pulls the headphones off. “Do you need anything?”
“Just thought I'd come check on you.”
Hmm. Becker expresses this with a grunt. “No offence, Jess, but I'm not really in a people kind of mood today.”
“I figured.” Jess makes absolutely no move towards the exit, however. “Can I ask you something? I mean, I was reading your di – the book – and...”
Becker sighs. “Just get it over with.” At Jess' crestfallen expression he pulls a face. “That came out wrong. I just...”
“No – no.” Jess nods a couple of times. “It's going to be hard enough for you from now on, you don't need me adding to any of it.”
And this is why Becker will never understand women – he has absolutely no idea if Jess is being sincere or not right now. Actually, given today – and the last few weeks – it's probably him more than it is her.
And isn't that just wonderful?
He sighs. Clearly this thought process is going nowhere, so instead he makes himself look Jess in the eye, affect the most pathetic expression in his admittedly limited repertoire, and say: “Don't remind me.”
It works – possibly. Regardless, Jess smiles. “It was very brave of you, opening yourself up to the world like this.”
There are so many things Becker could do or say to that – breaking down in tears or even plotting the deaths of everyone involved in the book's publication are two nearly too tempting possibilities.
But Becker has a reputation to uphold, even if literally no one else in the ARC, or even the world in a month's time, will actually give a shit any more, and it's something he should really cling onto while it's still worth the effort.
It's also a steaming pile of bullshit as far as he's concerned. Jess has never cared much for his reputation, which is possibly why he likes her.
He smiles at her. “You're not the first person to tell me that today.”
She looks at him quizzically. “You're very mellow?”
Becker lets himself chuckle. “I really don't want to talk about my feelings right now.”
Jess nods sagely. “Of course. So – who's the paper target this time?” she asks, pointing at the four bullet holes.
Becker recognises his cue, as well as the latest clue that he no longer has any real secrets around here. “Minister.”
Jess considers this. “Clean head shots.”
“Best way.”
She grins and produces a second pair of headphones. “Mind if I watch?”
Becker shrugs. He pulls his own headphones back on and picks up the Sig Sauer again. Jess hovers in the adjacent booth, watching the target intently.
Becker checks the pistol, then his footwork.
Then he fires.
Fandom: Primeval
Summary: In which the anomalies have become common knowledge, but really it's all about Becker.
Characters: Becker, Abby, Jess, Connor, Emily, Matt, Lester, references to and appearances by others including OCs (and mild RPF!)
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~6900
Beta:
lady_drace and fredbassettWarnings: Swearing, references to violence and canon character death.
Author's Notes: So this is a finale of sorts (though I've already been told to write more!) for the collection of fics starring one Captain
I started out parodying Bridget Jones' Diary (because why not?) and things quickly snowballed from there. Virtually every Beckerfic I've ever written takes place in the same loose continuity, though only a few actually refer back to each other. This fic refers to many of them including but possibly not limited to Captain Becker's Diary (where it all began!), Captain Becker's Lonely Hearts Club, Miss Becker's Walk On the Wild Side and Retrograde Becker. That said it is absolutely not necessary to read anything else to understand this fic but some things may make more sense if you do.
The exception to this is
lsellersfic's utterly brilliant The Commonplace Book of Lady Emily Merchant which I was kindly given permission (a long time ago) to riff off, and should absolutely be read before this :)As always, many many thanks to
explodedpen and lady_drace for being awesome.About the Author
Hilary E. Becker is a former British Army officer who served two overseas tours prior to his assignment to the Anomaly Research Centre in London in 2007, where he still commands the security teams.
The youngest child of a Royal Navy Captain, Hilary grew up near HMS Sherwood in Nottingham, England. He is believed to have begun keeping a diary sometime during his early teens, a practice that continues to the present day.
This collection of diary entries from his time at the ARC is his first published book.
It's all Giles' fault, of course.
Of course, there had been other things going on at the time, like convergence and dinosaurs everywhere and the ARC's microscopically thin cover being blown wider than an MP's expenses claim – and more dinosaurs and Matt being a tremendously self-sacrificing idiot and emotions and gunfire and King's Cross Station and really, it was no surprise that Becker had no idea what was going on until a few days later. After the shit storm had finally had a chance to settle a little.
There had been a press conference helmed by the moronic-looking Prime Minister, and another conference that an infinitely more weary-looking and experienced Lester had deftly taken charge of and all of a sudden it was common knowledge that dinosaurs (and other prehistoric creatures, but seriously, three Steven Spielberg films and all anyone cared about was dinosaurs) occasionally trampled parts of the United Kingdom and there was a (somewhat) specialised team that dealt with them.
So far, so cataclysmic.
The news team who had quickly changed their piece on ticket fare hikes to the giant floaty time warp in front of the sign for Platform 9¾ had managed to broadcast the faces of every single field team member to pretty much everywhere in the world that received the BBC. And news programmes in general. And had an internet connection.
(Said team have been instructed to stay as low as possible until further notice. It's one edict that Becker plans on obeying to the letter.)
His phone (the one still in his pocket, because there might actually be a work call and Lester had made it quite clear that the one time Becker failed to answer his phone would be the one time he was shown the metaphorical front door) beeps and Becker groans.
It's another text from Mum: WHY DIDN'T U TELL ME U FIGHT DINOSAURS
Why Mum's bad textspeak has carried over into the era of predictive text and auto-correct, Becker had no idea. It actually takes effort now to write in caps lock. Effort no sane person should possess.
Truly, he despairs.
And then the phone beeps again: ARE U WATCHING THE TV GILES IS ON THE NEWS
Becker stares wide eyed at the phone. He then drops it and starts pulling apart his sofa looking for the remote.
His hand shakes until he finds the right channel.
Giles' face fills the screen, grinning at something or other. (Probably his inflated sense of self-awesomeness.)
“...as I was saying, Prinda, you can't possibly hold the anomaly team responsible for every single thing that's gone wrong in this country over the last few years. That's why we have politicians.”
There's a burst of laughter. Fuck. Giles has an audience.
And the wanker's revelling in it.
“Well,” a female voice – Prinda? – replies, “given a lack of official statement from any of the actual team members thus far, wouldn't you say the public has a right to know -”
“Of course the public has a right to know,” Giles replies, in what Becker knows to be his very best bullshitting voice. “But there are certain situations where national security takes precedence. Ask anyone in the intelligence services.”
“Your brother's one of the team members, is he not?” Prinda's voice has grown sharp.
“Hilary Becker, former military badass.” Giles beams.
Becker groans.
“What would you like to know about him, Prinda?” Giles continues, still sporting a calculated grin.
“Anything you can tell the viewing public,” is the instant reply.
Giles considers this carefully.
Becker starts counting the ways he could kill his brother and make it look like a suicide.
“Well,” Giles begins, “I can tell you that his favourite books are Lord Of The Rings, he will happily maim and kill for that first cup of tea in a morning and that for a roast dinner with all the trimmings he's yours.”
There is more laughter. Becker wishes he'd been given the tank when he'd asked for it. His phone buzzes again but this time he ignores it, eyes glued on the screen.
“He's brave and decent and honourable,” Giles says, quietly but still cutting through the murderous rage that is Becker in the living room with the moth-eaten blanket. “And he's one of the best men I know.”
There's a collective “Aww!” from wherever Giles is holding court, and even Prinda's voice sounds her approval of Giles' statement.
Even Becker mellows a bit. Just a tiny bit. Barely a smidgeon.
“Oh,” Giles adds, with a look in his eyes that screamed DANGER! to anyone who knew or had worked with him in the past, “and he keeps a diary.”
“A diary?”
Giles beams. “Writes in it every day.”
Well, fuck.
Thursday
Day 1 at new job today. Go into domestic security, the major said. Take a promotion and don't see any more action until the next foreign invasion on the flimsiest of pretences, the major said.
Fuck. That. Shit.
I am working with actual legit DINOSAUR HUNTERS.
Even saw one. Not allowed to shoot it though, even a little bit.
Tried not to let enthusiasm at real life dinosaurs show; have certain reputation to uphold, now being Special Forces Captain.
Captain Becker, dinosaur hunter.
This is going to be awesome.
The team is sent out to an anomaly (skate park in Camberwell; local youths encouragingly obedient to being told to stay behind the hastily-erected barricades; an abundance of smartphones and camera flashes) two days after Giles' first appearance on the evening news.
All told, it's equally as normal and excruciating as Becker was expecting.
He itches at not being able to charge the youths and demand their smartphones but settles for adding to the cordon with bright yellow warning tape and his Mossberg in plain sight and his favourite scowl plastered firmly on his face. Thankfully the video of Matt shooting the T-rex is still doing the rounds on Youtube, so he doesn't have to put much effort into being intimidating.
He'd still rather have bullets.
(And he does. Yay.)
Connor's able to lock the anomaly, conveniently located in the dip of one of the larger half-pipes.
“Press is here,” Abby says, watching two vans that have just pulled up nearby. She sounds as uncomfortable as Becker feels. “Anyone want to make a comment?” she adds, wryly.
“Best not,” Jess says over the comms.
Connor pouts but doesn't argue. “Yeah, yeah. S'weird though, don't you think? Who'd have thought we'd be here -” He waves his arms around for emphasis, “- like this?”
“Alive?” Becker says before he can stop himself.
“Together?” Emily guesses.
“Out in the open,” Matt says. “The anomaly project's been secret up until now. It's a big change everyone's getting used to.”
“Some more than others,” Jess interjects again. “Becker, your brother's on the line. Wants to know if you need an assist?”
“Why's he calling Jess?” Connor wonders.
Becker groans. “Put one camera in front of the man...”
“Is that a yes?” Jess asks. “Only, I looked him up, after the last time he was in the ARC. He's got experience handling the press and Lester -”
“Do not say Lester trusts him.” Becker does not need that kind of heartbreak in his life, thank you very much.
Jess laughs. “Not even close. But Giles is the closest thing we've got left to a press officer.”
“Don't remind me,” Matt says, and Becker is forced to agree.
Within hours of the first dinosaur reports hitting the web the Ministry of Defence had sent the ARC a self-described expert in 'information management and media relations'. He'd turned out to be an utter moron with an allergy to mammoths.
Two more potential liaisons showed up that evening. One was an old friend of the Prime Minister (and whom Lester sent packing within an hour), and the other had shown real potential until learning that their job involved speaking to -
“People? Actual people? No, no, that's not my division. I deal exclusively with online information, that's it. Nothing else. No. No!”
But Giles? There weren't nearly enough words in the English language that Becker could use to describe how terrifying an idea that was.
On the other hand, how much worse can things get?
“Fine,” Becker tells Jess with gritted teeth and his finely honed sense of impending doom dinging merrily away in the background. “Get him down here.”
It's going to either be spectacular, or spectacularly awful.
Becker really, really hopes Mum's not watching the news today.
There are times he really hates being an optimist.
Saturday
3am Got in after anomaly alert in defunct health centre. No creatures, unless Temple flapping his arms in empty swimming pool wittering about lifespan of mould counts. Forced to babysit botanists scraping empty pool for possible prehistoric mould. Kept self awake by mentally disassembling and reassembling Mossberg. Made it to 9 times without a mistake.
(Note to self: suggest practical demonstration next time Cutter asks what the hell am paid for.)
(Additional note to self: but not out loud.)
The thing is, though, Giles isn't awful. He spends the entire call out on his best behaviour. Shakes the team's hands like he wasn't shooting them death glares and bitching about them behind their backs the last time he was in the same postcode as them. Calls Becker by title rather than first name.
He smiles beatifically for the cameras, manages to keep the ITN crowd in check and is completely unselfconscious about the state of his jeans and the stain on his jacket.
Becker is forced to admit, somewhat grudgingly, definitely to himself -
“I fucking rock,” Giles announces quietly after the anomaly closes and the press reluctantly begins to disperse. He strolls back across the skate park, hands in pockets.
“You look like a hobo,” Becker retorts before anyone else can jump in. They're already bristling at Giles' tone, but Becker knows how to handle him. Mostly.
Giles raises an eyebrow. “My trouser press is broken.”
“That would suggest trousers.”
Giles just snorts. “It's for effect.”
“You... dressing like a tramp?”
“Yeah. Show up to do press in shiny pinstripe, or anything matching, give off the impression you're slick. Prepared. Coated with Teflon. Show up a bit scruffy, like you've already gone a couple rounds, make people think you're hard-working. Man of the people. Marginally less likely to bullshit you. So they listen.”
“That actually makes sense,” Connor says. “I think.”
Matt doesn't seem convinced. “You were on the news the other day.”
“Talking,” Abby adds. “A lot.”
“Yeah...” Giles rubs the back of his neck. “The Channel 4 team have had it in for me since I outed their producer as an adulterous fu-” he falters as he realises there are women in his audience, “- fudging idiot.”
Abby snorts. Emily raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
Becker frowns. “So what... that was an ambush?”
Giles shrugs. “Yeah, they were hoping I'd slip up, give them something to attack H – him with. Welcome to politics, kids. Some advice – for all of you.” He looks around at the team one by one. “Dinosaurs, I get you can handle. That's your job. The press are bloodsuckers, and they won't let up on any of you. Not ever.”
Connor pulls a face. “Wonderful.”
“I'm just saying,” Giles replies, but he's looking at Becker. “Be careful.”
Tuesday
Spent day herding bloodsucking insects around bio-hazardous material.
That sounds good, doesn't it? Much better than being forced to accompany arsehole politicians on tour of ARC. Am highly decorated combat veteran. Have served tours of duty in Afghanistan and Cyprus. Survived both. Am now tasked with protection of idealistic civilians in pursuit of knowledge, understanding and fossilised poop.
Showed Minister overseeing ARC operation and thus own position all collected deposits of dung attributed to multiple creatures from multiple epochs. Successfully kept straight face as he slipped and fell against open cabinet containing multiple examples of aforementioned deposits. Still smell of shit.
10/10 experience, would do again.
It's a few days before the penny drops. And by penny dropping, Becker of course means the further erosion of life as he knows it.
It's a Friday. One of the ARC's bunk rooms has become a makeshift camp-site as more and more people decide braving public transport – and the public in general – just isn't worth it any more.
One of the squaddies actually brought his flat screen TV with him the other morning; it now adorns the wall where the bunk beds used to be. It picks up just a couple of channels clearly down here, but it's only a matter of time before Jess' list of demands is met and she upgrades the cabling.
The breakfast news is almost over when Becker gets in. He tunes out the babble and starts on the first of many reports. He gets jostled and kicked a lot as the space fills up with people, some with laptops, some with mugs and some with what smells a lot like breakfast.
The breakfast news concludes with an announcement that there is to be a Panorama special on the life and times of Philip Burton.
It's met in the break room with grumbles and various swear words. Someone suggests a drinking game. “What?” comes the protest when Becker looks up. “S'what Quinn would do.”
Becker snorts. The things Danny Quinn would do would fill a long-list for the Darwin Awards. That said, everyone's staring at him now. Becker's about to say no, because of things like decency and manners, his actual living nightmare that is honest public relations, and not speaking (or drinking) ill of the dead. Then Becker remembers the shit storm that had erupted because of the lock down and Jess – Jess nearly dying because of the power mad maniac and -
“I'll allow it,” he says.
“Yes!”
“Best CO ever!” someone else says.
Becker pulls a face.
“Too far. Got it, sir.”
Becker smirks. “As you were.”
“Who the fuck's got the remote?” a new voice asks.
Becker glances up at the TV. And shudders. Jeremy Kyle's smug, ever punchable face is announcing a special episode entitled Dinosaurs Ruined My Love Life!
“Fuck's sake...”
“Turn it off, turn it off!”
“Kill it with fire!”
On the other viable channel is rolling coverage of the Camberwell anomaly, peppered with dubious footage of other, previous, publicly unconfirmed anomaly call-outs. A voice-over announces a governmental inquiry into the anomalies. A possible UN intervention is bandied around as well.
Becker wonders if it would be possible to make a drinking game out of that as well. Someone nudges his legs and he obligingly gives way, still typing, as much to keep the laptop from falling as anything else.
The aforementioned penny made its free-fall a short while later, aided in no small part by the truly moronic decision to switch back to ITV and yet another anomaly influenced program. This time – This Morning.
Becker manages to tune most of it out. He reduces it to babbling, wittering, some vaguely technical language from a palaeontologist he's never heard of before.
Then he hears his own name.
He reacts instantly, jerking upright and staring at the TV.
“...Giles Becker, of course, seems to be becoming the ARC's de facto spokesman,” Eamonn Holmes says to no one and everyone. “So what do you make of the fact that his brother's a seemingly integral part of the operation?”
Silence reigns in the break room, and right on cue Becker's ears start burning.
“Of course, we won't know anything until more details about the operation become clear,” says a snooty-looking man Becker doesn't recognise. “But even rudimentary research suggests both are qualified. Nepotism may be a factor but possibly not a definitive one.”
“I'll say one thing for Giles Becker,” interrupts the woman next to Mr Snooty on the sofa.
Oh, shit.
The woman on the television giggles and continues, painfully unaware of her captive audience in bowels of the Anomaly Research Centre. “His brother – Captain Becker, according to some sources – keeps a diary.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
“It might be an unusual pastime, especially in this day and age – no pun intended,” she half-snorts, half-giggles, “but come on. This is someone who's reportedly been dealing with anomalies for years. Captain Becker's diaries – who wouldn't want to read those?”
The penny thuds. And then it bounces a few times, just to reinforce the effect.
One by one, everyone in the break room turns to look at Becker.
He chooses his next words very carefully. “I will shoot the first person who sticks their hand up – or says anything.”
One of the technicians opens her mouth then makes a strangled noise and quickly closes it again.
Becker emails his last report to Jess, then closes his laptop and stands up. He refuses to kick any obstacles out of his way – after all, that would be rude.
Monday
Bought far too many dinosaur/prehistory type books on Amazon this evening. Forewarned being forearmed is all well and good but surely council libraries have a responsibility to all would-be learners.
May write letter of complaint.
Overall day was mixed. Again was prohibited from using appropriate force to stop a lumbering Stegosaurus in a children's park. Fortunately park was devoid of little darlings owing to anomaly call out at 4 sodding am. On semi-related note, was gratified to see that London's reputation for being hotbed of nocturnal, drunken, drug dealing youths has been over-exaggerated. Suspect data anomaly (whatfuckingever) but have zero intention of carrying out further study.
(Note to self: stop spending lunch breaks with scientists.)
“I think it's a wonderful idea,” the Minister gushes.
“It's certainly... not without merit,” Lester allows.
“Just think of the potential media impact.”
Lester makes a quizzical face. “I hardly think that's the kind of thing you can quantify,” he says blandly.
From his defensive position at the far end of Lester's office – arms crossed, legs tense – Becker raises an eyebrow. The last time Lester had used that tone, heads had come close to literally rolling. He's pretty sure a politician had been involved then, as well.
He also hasn't felt this incidental to a conversation since the last time his sister had tried including him in childcare arrangements. Death glares had helped then; he has the sinking feeling he won't be nearly so fortunate now.
“Captain?” It's the Minister. “Captain, what do you think?”
Oh – does she mean him? Is he actually being included in a conversation that clearly has no impact beyond affecting the rest of his life?
This is why he hates politicians. And his brother for starting it.
But mostly politicians.
He blinks. “Ma'am.” Good opening. Smooth. “Even in the light of current events, surely what I do on my own time -”
“I wasn't asking for an opinion, Captain,” the Minister sniffs. Beside her Lester's expression is as tightly controlled as Becker's ever seen it.
Becker's trigger finger twitches.
“Ma'am,” he says automatically.
Her eyes narrow a fraction. “A time frame; publish your – diaries -” she makes it sound like a dirty word, like Becker's a serial killer instead of someone who keeps a diary like normal people, “- sooner, to capitalise on public goodwill, or later, to control the flow of information.”
Before Becker can fire off a truly biting comeback about opinions and his required lack thereof, Lester clears his throat loudly and says: “I'm sure you don't need any extra input into this plan, Minister. You seem to have so much of it confirmed already.”
She makes a quiet snorting noise. “Indeed, Mr Lester. Still the issue of quality remains.”
What.
Becker breathes deeply. It's Wednesday.
He breathes some more. No killing people – even politicians – on a Wednesday.
His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, breaking the cycle of murderous rage. “It's my mother,” he announces. “It's probably important, I -”
“Quite,” Lester murmurs. He motions his head to the office door. “Go on.”
Becker quickly exits out into the main operations room and answers the call. “Hello.”
“Sweetheart.”
Becker winces. “Mum.”
She sighs down the phone. “I've been trying to get hold of you for days -”
“I've been busy.”
“So I gather – dinosaur hunting, sweetheart? Really?”
“Really,” Becker says. It's not worth it trying to correct her. He's faintly aware that Jess and maybe half a dozen other people are all watching him, so he ducks down a corridor and tries to look like he's on official business.
Mum sighs again. “How long has your brother known?”
“You're really not messing around today,” Becker comments.
He gets a non-committal 'hmm' in response, so he tries again. “Anyone giving you grief?”
“Nothing your father and I can't deal with.”
And that Becker can believe. He has no doubt he'll never hear the end of it once the masses start IDing his family at large.
“You let us worry about that, though,” Mum adds.
Despite himself, Becker smiles. “Will do.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Matt walking up to him. “Got to go, Mum.”
“'Kay. Be good, sweetheart.”
And if you can't be good, be careful. Becker pockets the phone and looks at Matt. “Whatever it is, I'm very tempted to say no.”
Matt looks unimpressed. “I don't want to talk about your feelings.”
“Good. Me neither.” Becker reconsiders. “So what do you want?”
Matt brandishes a tablet at him. “Second lot of reports need redoing.” When Becker pulls a face he clarifies: “It's from above Lester.”
Of course, their new overlords: public accountability and public goodwill.
Oh, yay.
Becker sighs and motions for Matt to follow him around to his office. “Everything I need -”
“- in your inbox,” Matt finishes. “Should all be straightforward. Everyone's been roped in.”
“That doesn't really help.”
“Didn't think it would. Hey, Becker...”
When nothing else is forthcoming, Becker stops in the middle of the corridor and turns to face Matt. “What is it?”
The look on Matt's face becomes slightly constipated. “I – your diaries,” he says eventually.
Becker groans.
“Rumour is they're going to be published.”
“So everybody tells me.” Becker peers at Matt. “Are you... nervous?”
“No,” Matt says quickly. “Just – you wrote about me in that thing, right?”
“Several times.”
Again Matt doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Enough time for another little penny to drop. "Your background was solid, you know. When you first joined the team."
Pathological would be a more accurate word, but whatever.
“You fooled Lester,” Becker adds. “And besides, I thought you didn't want to talk about my feelings.”
“I don't,” Matt says.
But... the man who was born in an aborted future needs to be able to cover himself in the here and now. Becker sighs.
“I have no idea what's going to happen,” he tells Matt.
It's true – and easy enough to imagine what will come next. He'll be summoned to bring in his diaries, because he is that obsessive organiser who keeps everything, especially those pertaining to national security, they'll be torn apart by aides, PR vultures and anyone else who gets off reading about other people's lives.
The publication will go through whether he likes it or not. And as with so many of these situations, there are two possible outcomes. The public at large will a) like what he's written and, by extension, him or b) will brand him an absurd excuse for a soldier and he'll become a laughing stock for evermore.
He gave up on trying to be a hero a long time ago.
These days he'll settle for acceptance. For being good enough.
For the second time today his phone buzzes.
It's a text message from Jess. Heads up. Minister + Lester want your soul.
The phone buzzes again. And by soul I mean diaries :)
That's how it begins.
Monday
to do
1. give final gas/electric meter readings
2.
3. furniture to salv. army
4. contact Dr Page's parents
A month ahead of the release date one hundred advance copies of the book are delivered to the ARC.
Under literally any other circumstances Becker would take the day off work, lock himself into his flat, or even maybe (just maybe) hide in his dad's garden shed and wait for updates via carrier pigeon.
The reality is that the entire street that Becker lives on has become a camping ground for the shrieky and possibly deranged, something his neighbour is only too keen to complain to him about (mostly related: she's considering a deed poll). His parents have yet to be directly linked to him, but he's not so worried about that; at least one of the swords displayed in the dining room has actually been used in a fight.
El and her family are still in Melbourne for her secondment, but she's already assured him several times by email that she'll deal with him personally when she gets back to these 'dinosaur-ravaged shores'. Actual quote.
But back to the present crisis: Becker stands in Lester's office and watches as every single ARC employee scrambles for a copy of the book. He's more scared than he thought he'd be, but he's not sure if he's scared of losing any semblance of respect he might have left, or just what every single ARC employee is going to want to do to him once they find out what's in the damn book.
“No censorship!” the minister had bleated. “We need to be seen demonstrating full and open insight into the anomaly project!”
Becker hates the newly appointed Minister for Temporal Affairs with a fiery vengeance.
He sighs.
Better to enjoy his last few moments of normality. He can worry about the rest later.
"Well," says Lester from beside him. “What are you waiting for?”
Becker frowns. “What?”
Lester waves a hand to the mêlée outside. “I should have a copy too, don't you think?”
“I'm not going out there,” Becker says. The crowd is thick, some of the traitorous bastards on his team already nosing through their hard won copies. And judging by their smirks Becker suspects most of them are looking for passages that might be about them.
Lester just stares at him, then raises his eyebrows for good measure.
Right on cue, Becker's (new, registered in his dad's name) phone buzzes. He glares at Lester for good measure, then reads the text.
It's Hilary. if you don't get me an early copy of your book i start playing your version of all by myself to your fanclub
Becker mentally swears and fumbles his reply. You swore on your life you'd deleted that.
The reply is quick. I lied... or did i? dun dun dunnnnnnnn. just get me the damn book
Becker chuckles, then steels himself to enter the fray. A printed, paperback copy of his innermost thoughts and neuroses for the closest thing he has to a best friend. He can do this.
“And don't forget my copy too, Captain.”
Becker sighs. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Anything else you want while I'm out there, sir?”
“Now now, there's no need to be facetious.”
Becker succeeds in swiping two copies from the almost depleted pile, and in doing to gets his first proper look at his own impending demise. His own face, glossy and angular and almost certainly Photoshopped, stares back up at him in a parody of his Sandhurst passing out photo. He hated that photo, and he's not keen on this one either.
Above his far too smooth hair are emblazoned the words Captain Becker's Diary: One Man's Account Of Life On The Anomaly Front Line.
He turns it over. On the back are the requisite endorsements and one line hack jobs masquerading as reviews.
“Piss your pants hilarious!” declares an idiot from the Sun.
“The best memoir you'll read this side of an extinction event!” is the pretentious conclusion of the Telegraph.
“Honest and insightful,” says the third one. The byline is Military News.
“You'll be doing your fellow servicemen and women an extraordinary boon in these uncertain times,” the major had said during the pre-publishing negotiations.
On the back inside cover are the only words Becker had insisted make it into print, and effect in real life. It doesn't make any part of the experience worth it even a tiny bit, but it helps.
All proceeds from the sale of this book and its electronic equivalents will go to designated military charities.
Friday
4am Woken up by mobile phone ringing. Again. Caller ID said Home Office. Again.
4.15am Fuck's sake. Answered phone.
“It's me,” said Lester. “Thank you for answering this time.”
“What is it?”
“There's an anomaly alert.”
Felt like laughing hysterically down phone then hanging up, changing number and renewing plans to create new identity and move to remote Appalachian village.
“Thought the ADD been taken down by now.”
“Quite...” Lester trailed off. Bastard. Then brain caught up with events. “Where's the anomaly?”
“Westminster.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
11.14pm Oh, what a fun day this turned out to be. Rounded up last remaining squaddies inside zone 2. Chased stegosaurus around House of Commons, joined partway through by Giles, who smelled v. much like dogshit (didn't ask). Lester joined in (didn't ask about the mammoth's welfare either). Got to manhandle various politicians and bureaucrats (never gets old).
One of them didn't make it back for impromptu roll call in member's canteen. Rather than dead/mangled/traumatised, found him talking to Lester after dinosaur repatriated (not before it had pissed on speaker's chair – suck it, John Bercow) and anomaly locked. Overheard stuff like 'prerogatives' and 'partnerships'.
Dragged away by Giles before could investigate – or yell at Lester – any further. Giles made assurances he would cover for sorry remnants of anomaly project before adding: “You know who that guy was, right?”
Did not.
Giles made sound only his mother could love (actually, that's highly doubtful). “Newsnight every month this year? Biggest FTSE improvement this quarter? Jesus, Hilary, the military's actually fried your brain.”
Glared at him until he surrendered. “That was Philip Burton.”
Still meant nothing; conveyed this by pulling face. Giles sighed and walked away. Pretty sure that counts as a win.
Text message from Lester after site dispersal. “Be at Home Office 0900. Project not over.”
(Note to self: Research Burton.)
That afternoon the ARC turns into something of a ghost town as everyone retreats into designated office and lab spaces to read Becker's diaries. Some double up, leaving chairs in even scarcer supply than usual.
Literally all that's missing is tumble weed.
Becker wanders the corridors. In theory he's patrolling, as the pollen cross-contamination from three days ago is still making people who spend too long on the third level a bit giggly. In practice he's scoping out potential defensive cover and escape routes.
On a whim he tries phoning Hilary again. A noise behind startles him; he whips around to see Emily stepping through the far hydraulic door. In his hand, an automated voice tells him the number he's calling is busy.
Becker ends the call and pockets the phone. “Hello,” he says. He feels faintly stupid and – yes, yes that is the tips of his ears heating up. It was only a matter of time.
Emily smiles as she comes closer. “I thought I might find you if I... explored enough.”
Becker huffs.
“You have no reason to be anxious,” Emily tells him, still in that almost infuriating calm tone. “About your journal, I mean.”
Becker huffs again. “If this is you trying to be the sage grandmother I never had, I think I appreciate it, but -”
“No,” Emily interrupts him. “This is not about our... connection. But – come on. There is an empty office back this way, surely you should have a defensible position if you anticipate a hunt?”
Becker rubs his face with his hand, but follows her down the hallway. “Yeah, sure. How many people know about that – us?” he asks. He can't imagine it's something that comes up in normal conversation – Hey, did you know Lady Emily Merchant is Captain Becker's secret great-great grandmother?
It's certainly nothing he's ever volunteered to anyone. Even the thought process is awkward.
The office is devoid of both people and furniture. Becker levers himself down to sit against a wall. Emily looks sceptical but joins him, laying her jacket on the lino before sitting on it.
“Jess and Abby assured me they would keep my secret,” she says, smoothing out the edges of her skirt.
Becker considers this. “So... potentially everyone here?”
“It is a possibility,” Emily admits, “but a small one nonetheless. I was... gratified to see it not mentioned in your journals.”
“Ripped some pages out.” Becker shrugs. “You're not my only dirty little secret.”
Emily raises a single eyebrow, and for a split second she looks like Becker's mum. It's a bit scary.
“Besides,” Becker adds. “If it does get out two things will happen.” He starts counting off on his fingers. “One – my mum. Two – the Daily Mail.”
Emily considers this. “I doubt our connection would qualify us for pillory on the 'Sidebar of Shame'.”
Okay, now Becker's scared. “I am not going to ask how you know about that.”
Emily beams at him. “You keep your secrets and I shall maintain mine.”
Now she sounds like Becker's granddad. Becker represses a shudder.
Emily possibly mistakes it for something else; she smiles. “What are you thinking about?”
“My grandfather.” When Emily's look turns enquiring, Becker elaborates: “Mum's dad. You just – reminded me a little of him. It's silly, I -”
“Not at all,” Emily says quickly. “It's only natural that you might...” She waves a hand around, then chuckles quietly.
And this is why Becker removed the damning pages. How is anyone else supposed to understand that he and Emily are related when they can barely talk about it themselves?
“Yeah, I -”
There's thumping noise outside, like a banging on the door. Becker's instantly alert and on his feet, Emily close behind. His hand twitches to his side, but he doesn't even have an EMD handy. Damn.
“Oi, Becker!” comes a muffled yell through the door.
Becker sighs. “So it begins...”
He's always hated speed-readers.
Friday
Tentative final meeting with Lester and Burton scheduled today. ARC to be re-established at new site, new personnel where needed and new protocols etc.
Have been tasked with drafting protocols and general field guidelines for future operation. Filled notebook in less than an hour. Will read through everything ahead of later.
Candidates for civilian team leader and field co-ordinator are being considered; have been assured own input will be considered. Thoroughly approve of latter's role.
But honesty – which El assures me is necessary, even somewhere no one else will ever see/read it.
I have to be honest now – I'm scared. I'm scared I'll never see Connor, Abby or Danny again. I'm scared I'll fuck up as badly as before. I'm scared I won't be able to hack it as a civilian. I'm scared more people will die because of the anomalies and I won't be able to stop it.
I'm scared there'll be another Sarah Page. Or Patrick Quinn. Or even Christine Johnson.
I'm also scared that I won't be there. So I have to be. And establishing protocols and vetting newcomers is a start.
The plot twist is one that Becker would never, ever have seen coming.
“Nice one,” says Watson the dread-locked palaeobotanist without a hint of his usual sarcasm.
Ogoe from technical support mimes punching Becker on the shoulder but thankfully refrains from any physical contact.
Connor bounces around his lab like Becker's niece when he gives her too much sugar and makes noises he couldn't decipher if he tried.
Then he beams and wraps Becker in a hug, squeezing him tighter and tighter.
Behind them Abby's smiling. “Good to know the stick up your arse was just for show,” she says dryly.
Becker grimaces and stumbles around the lab. “Co – Connor? Can't breathe.”
“Oh. Right.” Connor lets go. Becker tries to knead circulation back into his arms as Connor starts babbling. “Sorry, it's just – weird, I guess.”
“Seriously?” Becker demands before he can stop himself. “You've just read every diary entry I ever made over a thirty month period. It's weird for me.”
Connor calms down. “Yeah. It was very brave of you, though.”
No. No, no, no, no, no. “No,” Becker says out loud for good measure. “You. You were brave, both of you, in -”
“It's not a competition,” Abby interrupts him.
“We had no idea about Afghanistan,” Connor adds, and Abby nods behind him.
“That too,” she says.
Becker hesitates. Now it's weird. There's a hollow sensation where his stomach's supposed to be; he doesn't remember the last time he felt like this but he knows he doesn't like it.
“I mean it,” Abby says, “I'm serious.”
He's supposed to say something. He knows he's supposed to say something but there's nothing.
Instead he nods. Mumbles something that is almost an intelligible sentence. Then beats a hasty retreat down to the firing range. The tips of his ears are burning by the time he makes it down there. The corporal on duty has a copy of the book propped up next to her computer, but has the grace and decency to look only mildly sheepish while Becker signs in.
The first ten minutes are spent disassembling and reassembling the Sig Sauer and Mossberg. Becker can literally feel the tension leaving his shoulders as he works.
Then he turns his attention to the actual firing range. He squares himself, grabs the protective goggles and headphones, readies the Sig Sauer and lets himself smile.
Who needs therapy when you've got a gun and a paper target?
He imagines the first target is the Temporal Affairs Minister, and fires off three textbook head shots. He fires the fourth straight through the heart and has just enough time to congratulate himself when there's movement out of the corner of his eye.
Through the headphones his voice is heavily muffled. He can feel the words through his jaw more than actually hear himself speak. “Whatever it is, the answer's no.”
Jess steps into his line of vision, smiling brightly and hands held up in supplication. Becker sighs, and pulls the headphones off. “Do you need anything?”
“Just thought I'd come check on you.”
Hmm. Becker expresses this with a grunt. “No offence, Jess, but I'm not really in a people kind of mood today.”
“I figured.” Jess makes absolutely no move towards the exit, however. “Can I ask you something? I mean, I was reading your di – the book – and...”
Becker sighs. “Just get it over with.” At Jess' crestfallen expression he pulls a face. “That came out wrong. I just...”
“No – no.” Jess nods a couple of times. “It's going to be hard enough for you from now on, you don't need me adding to any of it.”
And this is why Becker will never understand women – he has absolutely no idea if Jess is being sincere or not right now. Actually, given today – and the last few weeks – it's probably him more than it is her.
And isn't that just wonderful?
He sighs. Clearly this thought process is going nowhere, so instead he makes himself look Jess in the eye, affect the most pathetic expression in his admittedly limited repertoire, and say: “Don't remind me.”
It works – possibly. Regardless, Jess smiles. “It was very brave of you, opening yourself up to the world like this.”
There are so many things Becker could do or say to that – breaking down in tears or even plotting the deaths of everyone involved in the book's publication are two nearly too tempting possibilities.
But Becker has a reputation to uphold, even if literally no one else in the ARC, or even the world in a month's time, will actually give a shit any more, and it's something he should really cling onto while it's still worth the effort.
It's also a steaming pile of bullshit as far as he's concerned. Jess has never cared much for his reputation, which is possibly why he likes her.
He smiles at her. “You're not the first person to tell me that today.”
She looks at him quizzically. “You're very mellow?”
Becker lets himself chuckle. “I really don't want to talk about my feelings right now.”
Jess nods sagely. “Of course. So – who's the paper target this time?” she asks, pointing at the four bullet holes.
Becker recognises his cue, as well as the latest clue that he no longer has any real secrets around here. “Minister.”
Jess considers this. “Clean head shots.”
“Best way.”
She grins and produces a second pair of headphones. “Mind if I watch?”
Becker shrugs. He pulls his own headphones back on and picks up the Sig Sauer again. Jess hovers in the adjacent booth, watching the target intently.
Becker checks the pistol, then his footwork.
Then he fires.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-02-23 08:22 pm (UTC)Giles actually turned out to be pretty useful :D But he still managed to get on Becker's wick beautifully.
It's Hilary. if you don't get me an early copy of your book i start playing your version of all by myself to your fanclub
Becker mentally swears and fumbles his reply. You swore on your life you'd deleted that.
*snorts*
Another glorious mix of wit and Becker's vulnerable side. So glad to have more of Becker's diaries, and now they are everywhere *g*
Lovely!
no subject
Date: 2015-02-24 03:04 pm (UTC)And yes. Everywhereeeeeeee
Thank you for commenting :D
no subject
Date: 2015-02-23 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-24 03:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-24 12:06 am (UTC)Lots of spiffy one-liners. That said, my favourite line is not about Becker at all: Becker snorts. The things Danny Quinn would do would fill a long-list for the Darwin Awards.
It just sums up Danny perfectly.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-24 03:08 pm (UTC)Thank you for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2015-02-27 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-27 01:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-06 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-07 01:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-08 05:16 pm (UTC)Your Becker internal voice is always perfect and this just cracked me up: Even saw one. Not allowed to shoot it though, even a little bit.. He really is like a kid in a very big sweetshop!
And, as ever, Giles was fantastic!
no subject
Date: 2015-03-08 06:25 pm (UTC)Thank you very much for commenting, and for all the betas and assists over the years :)