thatmadbastard | 1st Broadcast- [voice]

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1st Broadcast- [voice]

[Guy Burgess hasn't been in Luceti long enough for most things.

Being a smaller man with little luck, he hasn't found his own clothes yet, or even been told that they were in a shop somewhere, waiting. He hasn't gotten over his newest accoutrements and the fact that no fine haberdashery could adequately swathe a pair of wings. He does like their colour, however. Reminds him of the coat he misses. He hasn't gotten the chance to make something of his bedroom or have anyone in it, but he certainly has plans. Personalizing his every surrounding is part of what Guy enjoys. His own loudness is everything his world mirrors, but none of that has happened yet.

One thing Guy has most definitely, however, been in Luceti long enough for is to make a bloody fit of breakfasts had so far with Kim and Anthony in mornings after too little sleep.

He's far too damned lazy to write, but he's sorted his way through enough of the guide to know he can press something and broadcast his voice. If there is one fucking similarity in this place, it is that he could broadcast at all. It isn't BBC radio, but what he has to say isn't exactly their material either.]

There's nothing continental about a bloody continental breakfast. At least an empire is built on a start of its kind. The best of thinkers eat empires as their breakfast, lob them into bowls and think of all the ways their countries could devour one another. Yet there's something appalling and dull, spooning into one's mouth the liquid and creamed wheaty remains of a box made hot.

At least in a continental breakfast one has something to chew on, physically, as they realize how bloody little there is to eat. EAT YOUR CONTINENTS TOMMY. THEY'RE BLOODY GOOD FOR YOU.

[There's a pause in his speech, perhaps for dramatics, though it's just as likely he's taking a suck from his cigarette.]

I've yet to find where everything is in this buggering town, but I refuse to endure another unacceptable morning of a spoon in an opened can of something. The best anachronisms are catchy, but I'd prefer not to be using little three letter blots in regards to my morning meal. Breakfast should not be UFO's... unidentified food objects splattered about in a bloody bowl.

Coffee can only take one so far without a country in it. Irish, Spanish, it doesn't matter. There's something to make it tolerable. I never knew it was possible to brew undrinkable coffee but it would seem my beloved compatriots have made a talent of it.

No more, I say. NO BUGGERING MORE.

Hello and good morning, Luceti. RISE AND SHINE YOU SHEEP OF THE WORLD. Guy Burgess, September the 24th, midmorning greetings.

[So ends your broadcast. Hope you like that you're now a substitute for the radio in part.

OOC: Backdated to before the event, that way he can get a proper introduction with people acting themselves. Also will begin tagging after work tomorrow. For now SLEEP.]

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I don't think you've made a fuss at all. [Then, a pondering look.]

When one wakes up in a pair of white breeches there has been a clear lack of clothes to find. Apparently my own were not permitted with my taking.

Really? Mine were in the shop, a day or so after I arrived. Have you looked there?

I'm afraid I can't remember where exactly it was that I went for clothes. I wasn't terribly choice with them, though I looked enough to resign myself to whatever I could tolerate. It was a very difficult day.

There's a chance that my own things are here?

Certainly a chance. I haven't heard of anyone who couldn't find their own clothes, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened. Let's go look. [He nods to the clothes shop.]

If they've my tailoring from Savile Row, you will have become the bearer of the best news since I read about the local.

[He follows with a swing in his step at the prospect.]

[When they reach the shop, Archie pushes open the door.] The local what?

The local pub. We gentlemen of business circles did away with the second part of it. Somewhere since the turn of the century 'local' implied the latter 'pub'.

[He takes the end of the door to follow Archie inside.]

[In he goes.] Pub? [He's heard the term, he's just trying to place it.]

The bar. Tavern, I suppose would be fitting of it. Where a man goes to drink and potentially find someone to take back home with them for a night if they're convincing.

[He chuckles as he walks in behind.]

I can't say I remember this shop, but it's unsurprising, really. As I mentioned before that day was very hard.

[That gets a chuckle from him, too.] That's a good word for it, not quite an alehouse or an inn, though I always liked the inns the best. No need to take anyone home, you just went upstairs. [He picks up a shirt that could probably fit Guy and offers it.]

[No need to take anyone home. That's quite a defining statement. Guy mentally tucks it away and takes the offered shirt.]

Not bad. It isn't my own, but I'm going to be in a desperate need for more shirts than what I wore before here.

I'm looking for a coat. Brown, excellent fabric, well tailored, deep pockets. I do hope my bottle is still in it. It was my father's.

[And a well known personal vice.]

[A defining statement? Archie sometimes tosses stuff like that out to make people think he does more wenching than he actually does.]

Did this bottle have anything in it? [Archie picks up a brown coat--not Guy's--and holds it up.]

[For someone who takes their cues based on the sexuality of the men they work with, it's something worth noting. At least to Guy. He's a catalogue of seduction styles, notes on the preferences and little treasures such as cigars and favourite drinks. He watches, and as he makes his show, he's detailing all the reactions.]

Gin. Unless our captors, in their infinite lack of tact and manners, helped themselves to it. Hardly gentlemanly, getting into a man's drink and stripping away his fine clothes.

[He looks at the coat.] Too dark. [He begins rifling through a rack of additional shirts, thumbing them to feel the fabric.]

I couldn't blame anyone for the drink. [Archie pulls out another coat, feeling in the pockets for any bottles. While he does that, he notices one of the coats swinging a little differently, as if weighted. He yanks it out and sticks his hand in one of the deep pockets, pulling out a bottle.]

I believe I've found it.

[Guy is quick to turn and look at the discovery, instantly lighting up in a pleased smile.]

I believe you have! Thank you, dearest Lieutenant. It seems I will not be without a proper coat, or my personal possession.

[He walks over to take the bottle first, then the coat off of Archie's hands. Then adds inquisitively:]

How cold does it get here?

Not Scotland-cold, but cold enough. Although I was dumped into a tree in the dead of winter on a windy day, when I first came. Of course you arrive in those awful trousers, and one of the legs tore, and they were sopping within minutes from the snow. I didn't stop shivering for over an hour, after they got me inside. It made me a bit less fond of the cold than I might normally be, especially after being in the Caribbean only the day before.

Scotland isn't terribly cold by my memory. The colder places? Vladivostok, Moscow, the Kuznetsk Basin and Cambridge. Of the four? Cambridge. Permanently the 19th of February.

It's why I like my coat. I was curious about here. Seems I'll be needing it come winter.

You've not experienced a Scottish winter. Although to be fair, I haven't been to Cambridge. But I've been to London, and I imagine it's about the same.

Edited 2011-09-28 16:12 (UTC)

I love Cambridge, surprisingly more than love Plymouth. There was a time in my life where I thought that was hardly possible.

[He walks a little ways down, spotting a flash of blue that looks too familiar. Picking up its sleeve he asks aloud,]

Anthony's?

[With little skill he removes the coat from its hanger and holds it up to his face, sniffing it deeply.]

Oh yes. It smells just like him. He'll be quite happy to know I found it.

[Archie's smile wanes a bit and he looks slightly weirded out. Does he know all his friends' clothes by smell?]

That's good, I'm...glad you found it.

We're very close, Anthony and I. You'll meet he and Kim eventually.

[Then, like a child in a candy store, Guy's face lights up. He's spotted a shelf with hats, a nearby rack with ties, and the shoes just down the way.]

Bowlers and brackets, ties and trousers... sir is a very, very, happy boy.

[He approaches it slowly. Oh this is perfect. He needs to bring Anthony and Kim here.]

I wonder if they've any matching kerchiefs for pockets.

If not, you can always ask at All Passions. The seamstress there did spectacularly when I asked for a gown to be made for my sweetheart, and she with only a drawing to work with! I suspect she can make anything you like.

I do believe someone told me of the woman there. Odd name I can't recall, but apparently she's very good. A suitable substitute for a Savile Row tailor, I suppose.

[He throws a look over his shoulder as he's draping a tie around his neck.]

Perhaps I'll find reason enough to commission a dress, though for now clean suits, shirts, well matched ties and scarves will do.

There is a distinct lack of women in this town who are not beautiful beyond reckoning, but the men insist on outnumbering them. Finding reason to commission a dress may or may not be a matter of luck.

[He isn't thinking so much about the fact that the Lieutenant mistakes him for a man looking at women rather than a man ridiculously talking of dressing as a woman. The proportions of the population caught his interest.]

That's very interesting. Outnumber the women by how many?

[He turns back toward the ties and the hats, looping another striking tie around his neck. His grin is rather amused and has a dirty edge to it, wondering just how many chances he'll be given here with the male population.]

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