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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[Wow. Tony can already tell this one's a special snowflake.]

Yeah, well, clearly you haven't tried the Lucky Charms yet. You should They're magically delicious.

[A bemused laugh.]

Lucky charms are, in my experience, far more apt in replacing breakfast entirely with a morning fuck.

Can't say I've had the chance since my arrival. Breakfast it is.

[So, that was not the kind of reaction he was expecting.

THIS IS AN INTRIGUING DEVELOPMENT.]

Well, I guess whatever floats, um, your proverbial boat--let me guess. Lawyer? No, not quite--advertising?

Programme producer for the BBC and British Intelligence.

Though I've a very long acquaintance with politics and history, I could never be a barrister.

[They wouldn't have taken to a belligerently homosexual in the courtroom. Not when sodomy is quite illegal.]

Couldn't have guessed that. [He means it sarcastically, though the British Intelligence bit is a bit surprising, really.]

I have to ask, though--are you really supposed to tell people you're British Intelligence? Seems like the sort of thing you don't generally tell random strangers you meet over the magical journal in the backwater Twilight Zone.

[Another dark little laugh.]

The Foreign Office is hardly a Bureau of secrecy. The information I handle may very well be secret, but my position is not. The well trodden path expected.

I am no agent of death, but an artisan of conversation with the right people in the right places for the right situations.

[You know, he caught on to the "artisan of conversation" bit.

Still, nowhere near as exciting as his job.]

Sounds fun--yeah, let me tell you, being an agent of death wouldn't exactly get you many friends around here. So, good choice there.

I'd assume not. Isn't exactly my choice, you know. Doesn't fit with the lifestyle I tend to enjoy.

Killing hardly accompanies good gin, cigarettes, well thrown parties, and good connections.

What is it you do, sir?

[Ohoho. That's a loaded question. Better yet, what doesn't he do?]

Do you want the short version or the long version?

If you are to go about giving me the long version, it should at least be over a drink.

[A short low laugh.]

Though it's entirely your choice.

[He's not one to turn down the opportunity for a drink, so.]

How about I give you the short version and then you can decide if you want the drink and the long version.

But--I might as well cheat and tell you. You will.

[Tony has a kindred spirit in regards to spirits, then.]

I think that's completely fair. Although, I may as well rig the game myself and tell you that I'll ask for the long version on the pretence of company and a drink alone. Whether or not you add to my motives relies solely on this shorter narrative you propose.

You have me quite anxious.

[Well, he hates to keep a captive audience waiting. Sometimes.]

Well, as long as your sure. Does the word 'superhero' mean anything to you? Because I'm one of those. A hero. That's super.

Something of an American marvel, I believe. England isn't the sort to publish heroes in their comic magazines of a 'super' class. We pompous British bastards are far more fond of slapstick and ridiculous things, you know.

[Translation: Not really. Superman, after all, was only come up with in 1938, and it was a purely American concept that coined 'superhero'. For all the things Guy Burgess reads (The Times, The Daily Mail, the latest political journals, boxes full of intelligence) comics is not one of them.]

Very noble thing, comics. A varying art form, which is something I can have an appreciation for.

[Because clearly, Tony can't be a hero. He draws one!]

[Aw, sheesh. You just had to go on about the comics, didn't you. As much as he loves the fact that he features in some of them? The idea that they might contain pieces of his future is downright unsettling.]

See--no, that's not quite it. I'm actually the hero. One of the ones from the pages. Larger than life, diverting international crises? Yeah, that's me. That's sort of what I do. Dominant hobby.

[There's a bit of a pause before he speaks again. This man may be the strangest person he's spoken to, but what logic prevented men with ridiculous powers when he could converse with a naval lieutenant from the Napoleonic Wars?]

I suppose this would be the moment when the drink would not only be a pleasant addition to the morning, but preferable?

[He supposes such outlandish things are a bit harder to grasp than living histories. Super heroes. Diverting international crises. Is that what it takes? The best ways of diverting international crises is to do so underhandedly. Though the sorts of people that find themselves attempting manoeuvres of under the table dealings are those that pass information. People such as himself. Traitors, spies, ghastly unheroic and destined for tragedy. England will blot out his name, surely, if he is ever caught. Swept beneath the corner of a rug for infiltrating British Intelligence, American Intelligence, breaking the German codes of Enigma, and doling out the secrets of the Manhattan project to Stalin in Russia. Nobody dons bloody suits and trounces upon the poor robbed banks of their community, whisking away women in a trance. People risk being caught and executed, hiding what they stand for and hating who they pretend to be, biting back that it's hard because it's what could potentially end the slaughter of millions.

Men in masks were made for diversions. Guy has his masks, and he is very good at wearing them. He is a walking, talking, all-singing, all-dancing diversion. A poor drunken bastard whose 'second life' can never be seen. Not in England. Not by the fascists.]

Edited 2011-10-03 02:05 (UTC)

[Oh, he's just going to have so much fun telling him all about his adventures as the Invincible Iron Man, American patriot and symbol of freedom, isn't he?]

...Isn't it always preferable?

Good Spirits. You know where to find it?

You've quite the point there. Well spoken! I like you.

[There's a small kerfuffle as Guy begins grabbing his coat with the broadcast still on.]

I was there just the other night, I believe I'll find it again. Though I don't believe I caught your name.

[Dryly:]

Why, thank you. I'm flattered.

[Ah. Right. He still forgets he actually has to introduce himself here. Being world famous sort of does that to you.]

Tony Stark. And I'm going to go ahead and guess you haven't heard of me. Or Iron Man, for that matter.

I'm decisively ignorant about most American things by choice. So no, I don't recognize either.

See you at the bar, Mister Stark.

[Guy slings his too-big coat over the clothes that slump over his body and makes for Good Spirits, whistling as he goes.]

[Of course he doesn't.

Tony heads to the bar himself, but he's an expert at being fashionably late, so Guy may be waiting for quite some time before the billionaire actually comes in.

But he does get there eventually, and looks for someone distinctly British-looking...]

[Ah, another one who likes to make entrances? Oh, Guy is very much the sort for that. It could only be better if he found someone to do so with.

He's on his second gin, neat, when Tony walks in. Guy's been scanning those who come through the doorway for someone who looks as conceited as he sounded through the bloody journals. Someone who clearly dresses well, because men who have something to say about themselves always do. Being a man who--in any normal circumstance--would be swathed from head to toe in Savile Rowe fine tailoring and haberdashery, he knows what to look for on another.

Oh yes, here we are. Good suit, silk tie, very American looking to boot. Good posture, and looking like he expects the whole bloody bar to gape at him.

So this is the mark.]

Ah, so the hero graces us at last! Mister Stark, I assume?

[He re-perches a cigarette between his lips and puffs at it in a way that seems almost precarious from the tilt of his chin and the beginning smirk on his lips.]

You assume correctly. Way to go. Ten points for the Queen. [Yep, he guessed. Someone distinctly British. He's vaguely reminded of JARVIS--you know, were Guy a sophisticated AI Tony programmed himself to run his house. It's probably just the accent.

He takes a seat next to him while perusing a catalog of favorite drinks imprinted into his mind.]

I'd apologize for keeping you waiting, but--I won't. Nothing personal.

You know me well already. Queen and country, tea and cricket.

[It's a shame Guy hasn't found his own clothes yet, for his appearance is utterly ridiculous for what he's been able to gather. Being a shorter man, his suit seems to dwarf him, wrinkled and bunching around his ankles and wrists, the trouser cuffs scuffled and torn from dragging. His tie has been pulled at, and it's quite clear he's slept in his ensemble. Not out of choice, but nothing about him would give evidence to that other than perhaps assumptions based in stereotypes that being a Brit, he's far too posh for that.

It wouldn't be wrong.]

You seem to think your presence alone brings me to the bar. Sorry to disappoint you, F.E. Homo Sapien.

[His smirk hasn't disappeared, so despite his petty choice of address, he seems satisfied and amused that Tony joined him.]

[He latches onto that first statement, completely dismissing the idea that his presence alone wasn't enough to summon someone to a bar (protip: he thinks it always is).]

Yeah, I'm curious about that. Actually. Cricket, I mean. What's up with that? It's like Baseball Junior.

[Of course, he says this knowing full well which came first. But he can't resist the opportunity to purposefully bungle some stereotypes.]

1st Broadcast- [voice]

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[voice] .... I am sorry for this tl;dr. At least he didn't rant yet? Hedoesthat >.>

[voice] But I love teal deer!

[voice] OH GOOD. I'm a frequent fiend of tldr XD

[voice] EXCELLENT.

[voice/action] HUZZAH

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