Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count 500 words.
Notes: I love this song, and it can be extremely obnoxious if you want to tell the world to screw off. Oh ELO, you rock in the geekiest of ways. Er, this fic isn't very spoilery at all.
He skipped to the other side of the avenue, sunshine beating down on his head. It was not a cheerful light, not for Sam. It was harsh and demanding, much like Gene Hunt. It assailed Sam’s senses with all that it could muster.
And he had that damn song stuck in his head. The one which hadn’t been released yet. The one with the electronica and the harmonisation and the snappy jaunty rhythm. He hated that song.
He’d made it up to number twenty-five, a notebook firmly secured in his hand, eyes squinting against the glare. Another round of pointed questions with no answers. Polite tone and inward seething.
He wanted to be in the station, researching. But no. Hunt had given him a firm kick up the backside, literally, and told him to be on his way, doing the work Chris should be doing, if only Chris wasn’t at home with what he liked to call “the influential flu”. Sam wasn’t sure Chris even knew what ‘influential’ meant.
But this wasn’t the real Sam Tyler, was it? Relished every moment of policework, he did. Most passionate man on the force they said. So passionate he put all others to shame. Off with the anger, on with the pretty face. Not that it really mattered.
He kept solving these cases. Kept working through them. Using his modern knowledge and techniques which were practically Neanderthal. He kept doing this, day in, day out, as cheery colours beckoned overhead. Thinking… thinking that eventually, one of these cases, one of these teeny, insignificant cases, was going to be his salvation. Surely this was why he was here?
But no. It was biscuit after biscuit of foolish investigation which lead him nowhere. Weeks of constant toil for no reward. And everyone else seemed happy. They were pleased with all of these magnificent results. Chris with his flu, Gene with his… well, whatever the malignant tumour was which caused Gene to be a regular source of annoyment. Even Ray.
Not Sam. Not the boy who was a treacle tart short of a dessert.
He plastered the smile on his face, allowing the person at the door to welcome him in, being as charming as he could manage. He did his utmost not to scowl when the kindly old gent said how wonderful it was there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Yeah. Wonderful. Like lard.
He had a look around the house, asking his questions surrounding what Mr Notte had or had not witnessed, collected his information and waved goodbye. Back on the avenue he had another look about the place. Maybe he’d catch something uniform had missed. Or perhaps not. Either way, it was worth a gander.
As usual, he didn’t find anything, and even if he did, the use would be very little. He’d still be on an avenue like this next week, with another not-yet-released pop track blaring through his head, and the constant feeling of entrapment under a bright blue sky.