#I also only know Mecca Bingo thanks to a Soothouse bit so congrats on that too

[nehswritesstuffs]

TTOU Big Finish Snippet: Workplace Security

GREETINGS AND SALUTATIONS, THE THICK OF UNIT FANS

A lot’s been going on since I last updated this series. For posterity’s context, I posted chapter fifty-seven almost twenty-one(!) months ago. Since then (while not suffering a relapse in manga brainrot) I’ve been trying to light a fire under the ass of my beta reader to actually get caught up to date so I can start throwing things around. We’re a little over halfway right now. PLUS, there is a certain individual, @fajrbismuth who has been writing me fic, and since I need to get back to writing this anyhow, I feel like gifting some fic is a great way to do it.

1878 words; another audio-only script fic like Inspections and Prototypes was, because I don’t write enough scripts; let us all pretend I would ever know what the inside of the Mecca Wishaw looks like, which will likely never happen even if I lived in Wishaw (oh and there is a bit about how shit of a name it is so yeah); oops sorry new OC just dropped; takes place in some nebulous time in 2016, around chapter 51/52; just kinda ends like the other one does, which is why it’s a snippet lol

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Footsteps in an office building—it’s the general ringing of phones and shuffling of papers and indistinct chatter that only middle-management and pencil-pushers can accurately replicate. A door opens up and SAM chuckles.

SAM: Now what do we have here?

JAMIE: Don’t you say it, Sammy—don’t you fucking say it.

SAM: It’s good to see you haven’t changed.

JAMIE: You wound me… and after I got you in here, gave your lad an opportunity to grow up in a fucking sane environment?

SAM: There are worse places than Aylsham.

JAMIE: You had the commute of a bloody American.

SAM: My uncle’s had worse.

JAMIE: My point proven.

A knock on the door.

JAMIE: Fuck in or fuck off!

The door opens.

JAMIE: Oh, Bismuth, great timing! Nothing in this bloody place is fucking set up right.

BISMUTH: That is… sort of why I’m here. At least you know what Wi-Fi is.

JAMIE: You sound troubled, pet. Who do I need to have a fucking shout at?

A beat.

BISMUTH: I’m… not a… pet…? What…?

SAM sighs, exasperated.

SAM: You don’t have someone like Jamie in your department, do you?

BISMUTH: I’ve been told it’s a blessing.

JAMIE: Ha! I’m sure Malc’s been talking me up like I’m the Third Coming, with him as the Second.

BISMUTH: Actually, no. We are here to secure your new offices, as well as your homes. You are going to be allotted two members of Security and one member of IT. Until we can get your permanent setup, some of us from the Mainframe shall be here to configure everything.

JAMIE: Huh. Sounds like a lot of fucking trouble to go through. Can’t the shits you hire for this joint set it all up?

BISMUTH: You require what I understand to be a “litany” of upgrades that need to be done, and none of them should be done by new hires. It’s no different than needing to inspect Kernow when they integrate new technology.

JAMIE: …and yeh can’t just, I dunno, delegate? Just inspect the job later?

BISMUTH: Protocol is protocol and this is what happens when we set up a new office branch, due to expansion or renovation.

A mobile pings. Keys on the screen are tapped.

SAM: That’s not a good look.

BISMUTH: What’s not a good look?

JAMIE: Your face, pet. Human expressions give away a lot, you know.

BISMUTH sighs.

BISMUTH: What is a Mecca Bingo?

JAMIE: M’neighbor’s only real reason for not offing herself once her husband kicked it. They don’t open for three more hours… though I don’t think you’re gonna get a game in with fancy lads until later in the evening…

BISMUTH: We still have to go there. Now.

JAMIE: And why’s that?

BISMUTH: This is why.

There is a pause, during which both JAMIE and SAM audibly cringe.

JAMIE: Thought I told Malc I had enough of playing Scotsomer Shitesteries for the rest of the decade.

BISMUTH: We don’t get to decide that. Now are you the one in charge here or are you going to let what I’ve heard described as a “circus” occur?

JAMIE groans.

JAMIE (grumbling): Ah, feck.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The soft rumbling sound of being in a moving car now can be heard. There is also the shuffling around of clutter.

SAM: Don’t worry; it’s not that far now.

BISMUTH: Thank you again for the lift.

SAM: Any time.

She pauses.

SAM: You alright back there?

JAMIE: Why is this your bairn’s fecking garbage dump? I feel like we’re going to get there and I’ll pop out the Toxic Avenger.

SAM: You’re just a big baby. (She puts the turn signal on.) I’ve seen your office, you know.

JAMIE: That’s organized! It makes sense!

SAM: Mmmhmm… oh… shit…

SAM puts the car in park and kills the engine. Soon as the doors open, there is a large commotion of sirens idly warning people to stay back and said people talking. The three shut the doors and make their way through the crowd.

JAMIE: Oi, we need to get through!

OLD WOMAN 1: Keep your fucking shirt on, lad. Not like we can get through.

JAMIE: Except that’s our job. We need to get through.

OLD WOMAN 2: Well, so’s that for us, but it’s not like we’re getting in any time soon.

JAMIE: Aye, you’ll get there; now just let us pass.

BISMUTH: Ma’am, the sooner we can get our jobs done, the sooner you can get to yours.

OLD WOMAN 2: Mmm, right, but you’re not going to get told off because the toilet’s not cleaned.

OLD WOMAN 1: At this rate, we won’t get in there until half-twelve, and…

SAM: Don’t worry! We’ll have it all under control! Our colleagues are taking care of things as we speak!

OLD WOMAN 1: They better!

The three make their way through the crowd. A siren whoops and there is plenty of murmuring.

BISMUTH: Ketja! Think we can get through?

There is now a new voice, deep and masculine and vaguely Slavic.

KETJA: Oh! A pleasant surprise, Director! Oi, look alive; we’ve got Mainframe brass!

The crowd gets fainter as KETJA brings them towards the building.

KETJA: What brings you up this way, ma’am?

BISMUTH: I’m here to set up the new communications hub, but when I got a text from Arwell about the situation…

KETJA: Understood. Are you the new local Communications Director?

SAM: I’m flattered, but…

JAMIE: That’s me; now who are you and what sort of fucking mess am I explaining away?

KETJA: I’m Major Ketja, the military liaison for the Glasburgh Auxiliary. That must mean you are Jamie and you are Sam. Apologies, but I’ve been a bit busy to hang around the base and meet people.

BISMUTH: Ketja has taken over a series of cases from the local authorities, which is why UNIT has responded to the scene.

JAMIE: …and why I gotta be here if all I need is some photos and details passed my way? So that there’s someone on-site to handle the fucking cunts that come sniffing about?

KETJA: It would be nice.

They go through an automatic door, the noise from outside fully being left behind them as they enter the casino. Idle slot machines on the far side of the room chirp cheerfully their wee slogans while UNIT members mill about.

JAMIE: Sweet Mary, what the fuck is that?!

KETJA: It used to be a Silurian who worked on the machines and cleaned overnight. As you can see, can’t really say its such anymore.

JAMIE: That wasn’t the photo you fucking showed me!

BISMUTH: I needed to make sure you’d come.

JAMIE growls in irritation.

SAM: …and you said this is the latest in a series?

KETJA: Correct. Arwell’s been doing a decent job of keeping it under wraps for us, but this is the most public one to-date. I believe you were there at the first one, were you not?

JAMIE: That time Malc stole m’car and took off to fucking Sterling with me still inside? Thought that was a Zygon, not a Silurian.

A beat.

JAMIE: Should that bit be that color?

BISMUTH (deadpan): Yes.

JAMIE: Fuck. I gave up smoking for this?

KETJA clears his throat.

KETJA: Victims have all been non-Human Tripartite, all who were occupying spaces they normally would alone, all having been viciously and repeatedly stabbed and mutilated. Ma’am, I’m going to need you to assist with authorizing and initiating security protocols, as this might require getting the Tripartite fully involved.

BISMUTH: All while MacDonald runs damage control?

KETJA: Precisely.

JAMIE: I’m on it, pet.

BISMUTH: You willingly let him recruit you, knowing he’s like this?

SAM: Pays well and doesn’t treat me like garbage. What can I say?

BISMUTH sighs and we hear her and KETJA walk away, their footfalls heavy with their boots on tile. JAMIE harrumphs.

JAMIE: I thought His Malcness said she was one of the more normal ones. Oh… yeah… that’s right… we can grab a wee bite here when the place opens…

SAM: Focus… we need to figure out what we’re going to tell the paps outside, as well as the Mecca corporates.

JAMIE: As far as they’re concerned, any publicity is good publicity, especially since the poor bloke didn’t die during business hours.

He hums thoughtfully.

JAMIE (shouts): Oi! Was this a bloke?

FORENSICS YUTZ (far off, bored): Signs point to “yes”.

JAMIE: Okay, so, the bloke wasn’t vivisected during business hours, so they won’t give a fuck in the end. They probably wouldn’t even give a fuck if he was, since he looks like he was the overnight caretaker, despite the fact those are some of the ones they need to give a fuck about the most…

SAM: Do you think we can spin this as an anti-immigrant attack if the paperwork’s right? Make it look like some arse got a bit carried away?

JAMIE: For now… bloody fucking Tories wouldn’t blink twice calling it an isolated incident. We can run with that as the prevailing theory. Oi, you; yeah, I’m talking to you, Brown Eyes. You got a report for me to run off?

BROWN EYES: Uh… yeah…

JAMIE: Thanks—you’re a peach.

Papers rustle.

JAMIE: Oh, good; Kate’s lot had him down as being a recent immigrant from Hyderabad with no family. This makes my life a piece of fucking cake. Might even be able to get this out of the news cycle by teatime AND not terrorize the Desis, since they have enough to fucking deal with.

SAM: Shit… yeah… anything else we can pull instead?

JAMIE: That’s what we got—might not be completely ethical, but it’s the best we got to work with. The fact he worked here might keep any nosy fucks from poking around too much.

A pause.

SAM: Okay, you actually lost me this time.

JAMIE: When was the last time you saw a headscarf in a Mecca?

A much longer pause.

SAM: Do we need to go over how many layers of stupid that was?

JAMIE: Well, do yeh?

SAM: It’s got it’s own orogeny named for it, Jamie! There’s striations! Should I go on?

JAMIE: Well, it’s not my fucking fault that the cunts couldn’t name the business for the life of them!

SAM groans loudly.

SAM (quietly): I gave up Broadland for this for fuck’s sake…

JAMIE: You’re playing Motherwell Rules now, mate.

SAM: I bet if we looked up “Motherwell Rules”, there’d be nothing about acting like a knob.

JAMIE: Look at me, Samantha… I’m a wee fucking cunt. If I don’t play the part, then I’ll be considered to be scheming, and that’s at-best. You really think I want to put ideas in their fucking heads?

SAM: Well, what would worst-case be?

JAMIE: That I’ve gone fucking soft. I plan on making this gig where I turn into the fucking bogeyman, and what sort of bogeyman’s softer than a geriatric tit?

SAM: Still, I want you to be careful, because you have the ability to insult hijabi and Irish grans who protect their permanents at the same fucking time. Jesus Christ.

JAMIE (smugly): I’m just that talented—you know that.

SAM (groaning): I guess.

She pats his shoulder.

SAM (strained): Go get ‘em. Yeah.