So I have been spending all day writing my entry for The Real LJ Idol. This week we’re doing Intersections — which is where two competitors team up together and write two pieces that connect in at least one important way. Our idea is basically going to involve Mitchel being drunk. It’s going to be glorious.

Except the first version of it sucked. The second version sucked, too, but I learned a whole lot and tomorrow — TOMORROW I’m gonna fucking rewrite it and start a third version and turn Mitchel’s drunkenness up to 11. It’ll be glorious. It’ll be hilarious. 

I’m brought into what must be the communications room. The Mirks are fond of seeing one’s face while speaking — they have no use for phones and the like. On one screen I can see Bates quite plainly. He’s leaning back in his seat, eyes upturned towards the ceiling. I murmur a thank you to the Mirk, shaking my head when the sound of my voice seems to startle Bates out of whatever fantasy he’s having. A racy one, considering the flush that blossoms on his cheeks as he straightens himself.

“You were looking for me, Emperor?” I drawl as I near the screen. There’s a chair, but I opt to stand. I still feel a little too warm, and it’d be best if I didn’t lose control. I’m certain I’d never hear the end of it, if I did. I go to straighten my tie, only to remember I’m not wearing one at the moment.

Bates snorts, obviously catching my own little slip-up. He then blinks, his eyebrows bunching closely together. “<i>Mitchel</i>?” he laughs, a ridiculous grin breaking out over his lips. “Is that really <i>you</i>?”

“Who the hell else would it be, Bates?” I mutter in response. I clear my throat, feigning interest in my fingernails as Bates sputters something inaudible. “What’s so dire that you needed to interrupt my well-deserved vacation?”

Bates regains his composure, a look of amusement crossing his features. “There’s a slight — <i>diplomatic</i> issue on Mirk. D’you think you could handle it for us?”

I want to say no. The sarcastic undercurrent to his voice means whatever this “issue,” is, he and Callahan refuse to take it seriously. However, despite my initial inclination to decline, I know I can’t. After all, when an Emperor tells you to jump, the only proper response is <i>How high?</i> Bates clearly knows it, too, what with the way a self-satisfied smirk plants itself on his lips. “What is it that you need me to do?”

“What? No bitching about being on vacation?” Bates asks, sounding aghast. There’s also a note of understanding hidden in his voice — one I’m sure he had no intention of letting me hear. A workaholic like himself? He must know just as well as I do how hard it is to <i>actually</i> vacation.

“Clearly you have no intention of handling the issue yourself, <i>Emperor</i>. Otherwise you wouldn’t have even made this call.” I smirk at him, leaning against the console. “Unless, of course, you <i>missed</i> me.”

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Bates grumbles, shaking his head. He bristles, pushing those wiry frames of his back up his nose. He clears his throat, his eyes focusing on a point somewhere beyond me.