Terrence Lorcie studied himself in the dressing room mirror, noticing for the first time that he looked on the wrong side of his actual age. Politics, it can kill a man. It can certainly put crow’s feet on his face. Lorcie had lived a pampered thirty-five years, clearly evident by his smooth complexion and immaculate hairstyle. The life of one of the city’s richest and most influential men was never all that hard. He may have felt a little worn in the past few years, certainly tried to his limits at times, but in reality Lorcie relished the challenges and demands of a life in the public eye. Being a successful banker and investor had been fun for a few years, but now he was more than ready for his next challenge. As far as challenges go, they did not get much greater than this.

“You’re on in five Mr. Lorcie,” a stagehand informed him.

“I’ll be out in a sec,” he threw his hands up in the air in pseudo-annoyance, “My own network and I still get hassled!”

“I weep for you, Mr. Lorcie,” Christine scoffed.

“Hey, my life isn’t always rosy. Business and politics are both cutthroat fields you know. They might look old and feeble, but give them half a chance and those senators will eat you alive.”

Christine rolled her eyes, “They might want to eat you alive.”

“What can I say, some of us were meant to rock the boat. How’s my breath?” Lorcie opened his mouth unflatteringly wide.

His aid wrinkled her nose reflexively, “Fine, and it’s television, you know?”

‘“Look the part, feel the part, and you become the part,’ right?” Lorcie quoted from memory.

“If that were true I’d have become a coffee percolator by now.”

“A damn expensive coffee percolator.”

“How would you know? When was the last time you bought any of your own things?” Christine retorted, smoothing a crease in her navy dress suit as she spoke.

“Point taken.”

“For the record, it might not be so wise to quote him during your first public address.”

“You have to hand it to the guy, he has some punchy catchphrases! If I had his skill with people then maybe those bloody geriatrics wouldn’t have black-balled me.”

“This is your first address; do you really want to be seen as some kind of rebel sympathiser?”

By way of acknowledgement Lorcie ceased fumbling with his tie for a moment and gave Christine a reassuring look. The prodigious banker-turned-politician was many things, but he was not a fool. If anyone knew how to present themselves to the public then it was Terrence Lorcie - even his fiercest opponents had to concede that much.

Christine was being naïve, though; Lorcie was going to be branded a rebel no matter what he said. He was about to make an unsanctioned public address on behalf of the failing senate, despite not being an inaugurated member. No matter. He was going to launch himself onto the political stage one way or another.

Fortunately, recent events had devastated the typical order of things, and nobody was ever so quick to capitalise on the chaos as Lorcie. The climate was one of fear, and the people would need a strong individual to turn to, to reassure them that they will weather this storm as a unified metropolis. At least that’s what his campaign posters will say.

“It’s time, sir,” a bespectacled, owl looking woman proclaimed, wearing a headset which dwarfed her round face.

Lorcie simply nodded.

“How do I look?”

Christine studied him, “Like a senator.”

He smiled but wasn’t sure that was a compliment.

There was nobody present to hear his statement. No journalists or audience waited to question, applaud or criticize. Instead, Lorcie found himself staring into the shadowy distance, with only the reflective lenses of cameras and the featureless silhouettes of his staff for comfort.

A red light appeared above the central camera. That was his cue. He was now on air to the city’s multi-million strong population, and they would be expecting him to alleviate all of their fears.

He swallowed hard.

“Make no mistake, people of Tartarus,” Lorcie flicked his eyes in Christine’s direction before quoting Polias once more, ‘“this is the age of change.”’