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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Admiral?

[Guy laughs quite heartily at that.]

As mad as I was about Dartmouth, the navy wouldn't have me. I'm quite loathe to admit it, you know. Though I think I'm far more suited to my current occupation.

[Okay, he is a dead ringer for Beckett, but he speaks differently. Actually, he doesn't seem like a half-bad fellow; Jack has no qualms with people who get rejected by the Navy. He's not very happy with the Navy himself, at this point, considering what went on with Hornblower.]

Ah. And that is what, sir? Critiquing the morning meal?

As much as I have my preferences about a good English breakfast, I'm a bit more productive than that.

I work for the BBC as well as the British Foreign Office. I produce programs for the radio and work in intelligence. Of course, none of those can apply here.

You, sir?

[Jack has absolutely no idea what the BBC is. British Foreign Office? Intelligence? He understands THAT.]

Hmmm? Me? I've been working for myself for a very long time. Pirate, actually.

...Have you tried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches yet? Food of the gods, that.

If I am to make a sandwich, I'm rather partial to raw garlic on a bit of toast. Simple, adequately flavoured, quick to eat. Though it does require a drink afterwards.

[A beat]

Pirate you say? How interesting.

Edited 2011-09-26 04:31 (UTC)

[Raw garlic on......wow. But he IS British Intelligence, after all.]

Be reminded, though, Sir Guy Burgess, that there is very little to pirate here. Not much at all, really; I do maraud a bit to keep a hand in. So not as interesting as it could be.

No need for formalities. 'Guy' or 'Burgess' remain my usual address, and occasionally, I have a friend who calls me 'mad bastard.'

I'm very curious about this pirating of yours. There is a local here I believe I read about. Perhaps we could go to the pub for a drink.

Mad bastard, is it? [The pirate drawls that out with a smirk.] Interesting, sir! It just so happens that I am a bit of a mad bastard myself! Right. Pub. Now. Now-ish. I can be there in about twenty-five minutes or so, and you will then be far less curious about pirates and far more drunk off your rocker.

Well met, pirate. That sounds like a morning I can tolerate.

[A beat.]

Have I a name to bellow when I assume I have spotted you? I've been spared your introduction.

Captain Jack Sparrow, if you please! Just look for the exceptionally fierce and free-looking gentleman with the superb hat. That would be me, Burgess.

'Till then, Captain.

[It is not long before he shuffles his way into the bar, still drowning in the horribly oversized clothing he managed to take in a daze from the shops some nights ago. Everything is wrinkled from nights spent sleeping in his ridiculous ensemble, tie and all. A cigarette hangs from his mouth, recently lit.

'Exceptional' certainly marks Jack as Guy spots him, and he is immediately drawn to the rather decorated appearance this pirate has.]

I take it you are Captain Sparrow, my recent curiosity and expected company for drinking?

Aye! And I take it you, sir, are the mad Burgess what I spoke to earlier? [Jack plunks himself down on a nearby bar stool, taking in that cigarette and the baggy clothing.]

Bugger---is the Empire simply not looking after you, mate?

The very! [Guy takes the one just to the side of the pirate and has a pull on his already loosened tie.]

An unfortunate parallel to my lack of good spirited drink is a lack of clothes befitting my size. If Luceti only had a Savile Row. I'm certain I alone could keep them in business.

[Still, even missing his favoured tailor, he sports a grin as he offers his hand to shake Jack's.]

Pleasure to finally meet you, Captain.

[The hand is taken and gripped tightly before the pirate lets go.] And you, Burgess.

[Sparrow, of course, has no qualms about small men or large men or any men in the middle.

Marty, after all, was one of the stoutest men on the Pearl's crew. ]

You know, mate, often they've got your very own clothing in the shop.

[He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and blows a little smoke.]

I've been referred to someone who does alterations, and a very helpful woman pointed out the shops to me. Very high on my list of priorities is dressing myself in a properly fitting suit, though this, I think, trumps it.

[He's been severely lacking with his drinking, and it sours his days.]

Well, aye, it's highly more important to get good and thundered first. Here. Allow me. [And the pirate upends himself over the countertop to reach the Good Stuff that Buffy likes to hide away.]

[Guy watches intently curious what it is the pirate will pull out from behind the bar. Of course, he favours gin, but he's quite willing to drink what's put in front of him given the circumstances.]

I beg to wonder what it will be getting us good and soaked so very early.

[He likes the pirate already.]

[It's a really nicely aged whiskey, actually. Deep gold in color. Jack distrusts gin. Jack sets it down for Burgess to inspect.]

Mate---there are days here--entire days, mind you---I've just spent in this bar. Slow, long days. Things get boring here at times, you know.

[Not his favourite, but he's certainly not about to turn down good whiskey.]

I have a feeling we will see one another quite often. Perhaps its the drinking company you keep.

[If you're looking for less than boring, Jack, this one is a bit of a fire starter. Particularly with liquor in him.]

My company's not so bad. Vash-lad, for one. Last time we all had a session, Raven and myself dressed him as a panda and made him rob the bakery. McCoy'll drink, but he's a surly drinker. And Derek's....not here anymore. [There is a little sadness at that, but Jack soldiers on.] So my company has dwindled. Mulder shows some promise, though.

What ails a pirate to make him lonely, then?

[He puffs thoughtfully at his cigarette, tipping his chin back to sigh out the smoke.]

The Foreign Office has a way of making things lonely if you don't do something about it.

Madness has a way of making a man lonesome as well.

[He pours himself a double, then another double for Guy.]

Knew a man once who looked a great deal like yourself; based himself out of Africa. West coast. Slave trade. I don't think he cared about the loneliness.

[Jack is wrong about that; while Cutler Beckett had been glad to get away from his tyrannical father and brother and show them what he could truly accomplish in the world, he had very much missed his sister and wrote to her as much as he could before her death. Then he had felt himself very much alone in the world indeed. But he'd moved on from it, in the end, consoling himself with gains in power and position.]

[Guy takes the glass and smells it first. It's been a long time since he's had whiskey, but the liquor is inviting.]

Madness. Secrecy. It all makes it very hard to keep people close. But that's it, isn't it? It's very hard to trust people, and madness and secrecy and what I do sometimes require it all. It's very hard to be lonely, but personal desires for keeping people close have to be placed aside for things like that.

[When you have the information that can keep soldiers from dying, or perhaps the information that sees to it that a score of unsuspecting Nazi's die, when you're bearing the broken codes of Enigma or America's progress on the Manhattan project in order to help Russia build an atomic bomb... it's hard to justify risking it to fill a temporarily lonely spaces.

He raises his glass.]

To mad bastards, good company, and the eradication of loneliness so long as we're here.

Hear, hear! [A toast and a shot and the glass is set firmly back on the bartop and Sparrow is pouring again.]

You let people in, that's when they stab you right in the belly. Or the chest. Not even enough time to show them your back, is there.

[Uncomfortable words: he'd let a few people in, here, and so far...well, it hadn't gone all badly. Right now, though, there are at least three people who could have him by the throat due to the trust he has put in them. And he knows he would be blind to that betrayal right up til the moment he found himself struggling for breath.]

It IS possible to make.......friends, here.

[Guy takes his own drink in unison, carelessly setting the glass down and giving it a push toward Jack's generous pour.]

It's difficult to find worthy friends, but once you've found them friendship is everything. It's all we've got.

[He drums a few cigarette stained fingers on the bar counter top, a syncopated and chipper beat of the opening piano on a little song he loves. It's a mostly unconscious thing; he doesn't realize he's tapping it out, though the melody is playing clearly in his head.]

Perhaps we'll one day find them utterly fucking worthless, or maybe they'll one day decide to go and smash it all up. It doesn't matter.

[And to him, it really doesn't. Kim and Anthony may one day decide he's too much of a liability and burn him to the Centre in Moscow. One day, perhaps, he'll be dragged behind the iron curtain and forgotten about. Until then, they're the only thing on this sorry godforsaken earth he can trust.]

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