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15th September, 9:55 am. Prison cell.
Sep. 15th, 2012 11:37 am*Peter sits at his desk and sulks. He's already paced back and forth across the room 60 times (he counted), and is now waiting for the hour before he'll do so again. It's become a bit of a ritual, something to break up the day and stretch his legs in the confined space of the cell.
He glares at the stack of BIS work still left to do. The stream of paper is seemingly neverending, and that's part of the problem. There is never any sense that he has completed something- achieved anything indeed except knocked down one more briefing to a digestible size, with a thousand still to go. He makes no decisions, alters no part of government policy, merely reads in, concatonates and writes out a one page summary in what is now perfect longhand. He is bored out of his skull.
Peter hasn't tested the wards since Paddy was last on guard- all the guards since have been magical and rather more inclined to enquire as to what he is doing than previously. He supposes John has warned them to be extra vigilant and the lack of even an illusion of privacy grates. He hasn't managed to de-spell the phone either, and the knowledge that it has taken over a week to fail to do something he would normally be able to complete in under 10 minutes is yet one more frustration on top of the pile. It is growing incresingly difficult for him to maintain his temper, to keep to the social niceties and not just snap at the next comment, change into the wolf and howl at the door. But for now he bides his time with pacing and thinking up excessively creative means of revenge.*
He glares at the stack of BIS work still left to do. The stream of paper is seemingly neverending, and that's part of the problem. There is never any sense that he has completed something- achieved anything indeed except knocked down one more briefing to a digestible size, with a thousand still to go. He makes no decisions, alters no part of government policy, merely reads in, concatonates and writes out a one page summary in what is now perfect longhand. He is bored out of his skull.
Peter hasn't tested the wards since Paddy was last on guard- all the guards since have been magical and rather more inclined to enquire as to what he is doing than previously. He supposes John has warned them to be extra vigilant and the lack of even an illusion of privacy grates. He hasn't managed to de-spell the phone either, and the knowledge that it has taken over a week to fail to do something he would normally be able to complete in under 10 minutes is yet one more frustration on top of the pile. It is growing incresingly difficult for him to maintain his temper, to keep to the social niceties and not just snap at the next comment, change into the wolf and howl at the door. But for now he bides his time with pacing and thinking up excessively creative means of revenge.*
