Guy Burgess (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thatmadbastard) wrote2011-09-25 02:15 am
thatmadbastard) wrote2011-09-25 02:15 am
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.]
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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[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.
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[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.]
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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.
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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.
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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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[He takes a sip and hums along with the tapping, making up his own tune to fill the gap.]
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You know, I tried to join the navy once. I was turned away after two years at the Naval College for poor vision.
Piracy, though. I suppose I can see the appeal. [Guy keeps his tapping, a grin creeping back up his lips.]
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....and Guy rants again. >.<
Meanwhile the labouring classes are heeding the orders, towing the lines--so to speak--and completing the hierarchy. There's a purpose and point for all the things they need to do, but that doesn't eliminate the stark pecking order of the world.
The unfortunate thing is the pecking order is happy to peck at the lower totems. The poor. The aged. But you can't do anything bloody about it. There's a beak at your arse, and a bumhole in your face. Smells rightly foul, but that's bondage. It never smells right, because it's not.
[Clearly somebody doesn't like the order of the world, the military, or much else, for that matter.]
Oh yes, piracy has its appeal. It absolutely does.
XD beautiful
He sips his whiskey.]
You're rather an idealist, aren't you, Burgess.
so sorry about how late this is;; RL kicked my butt. >.<
[That, at least, is something set enough in history that the pirate should know it. Though, there were few pirates that read, by Guy's recollection. No matter. He'll find out by speaking with history, won't he?
He takes a good sized drink from the glass, ending on an Ahhh.]
I do love that burn.
SOKAY!!!!!
More's fancy thinking about criminals and the peasantry, eh? I like to think I chose my life of crime outside of any systemic influences. 'Course, I suppose I were born into it. But I chose it back again, later.
[And he will take this opportunity to also love that burn.]
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With every man I've ever spoken to, or at least grown to know on some level outside of mere professionalism or social pleasantries, there has been some part of his life that comes full circle.
[The artist whose was shunned from their mediums and encouraged towards another realm of study; the politician who grew up telling lies while the school system tried to paddle it out, only to discover years later it was his greatest weapon; the boy who was raised under the military discipline of his father, and after years of swearing it off saw himself behind a Lee-Enfield. Even Guy himself was a prime example, for there were very few who knew Guy's greatest disguise: his return to the old-boy system and rise to place himself as a pillar of it.
It was his greatest joke, the greatest fuck he would ever give, for fighting the fascists by fucking their cause was his greatest pleasure of all. Oh, how he spent his nights laughing.]
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[Guy knows that fear all too well. He won't be a spy forever. One day... they'll know.]
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[If it came down to confessions, sodomy was the only one would outwardly admit to. No, nobody can know he is a spy here.]
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Then you'd best not speak of 'em here, lad. There's those who would impose a new system of "justice" on this place.
[Smoker. And Angel. They'd openly talked about it on the journals.]
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Challenging the current power, or more along the lines of governing it to their own purposes or preference?
[His voice is lower now. This is important.]
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[It IS important. The Joanna Joyce is still at stake, Jack feels.]
They've threatened to take away my ship already, you see.
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[So it must be vigilante.]
And who are these people that think they're the spanking government?
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[Or at least he will be from here on out.
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I'm in the Intelligence Services. Simply because what I thieve isn't as noticeable cannot excuse the action.
[Being a spy is dangerous. Being a spy in wartime is a different game. If he was caught, he could be executed. That's how it was in England. Here, if everything is exactly as it reads in the guide, there is war going on as well. He could still be put to death.
His voice goes low as he reaches to refill his glass again.]
I'm not going to abandon what it is I do because it may yet prove too damn valuable.
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