[Guy rose early feeling a little bit restless and intellectually dull. His days have thus far been a little ho-hum by the development of some routine, and being a man who enjoys flash and spontaneity amongst stimulating conversation and the occasional indulgence, he's been terribly, terribly bored. He's admired the "gallery" Luceti has to offer, frequented the bar and made his social rounds within the small circle he's established thus far. His social scene is nothing when one compares it to the flocks he had in London. Yet there’s little he can do, long denied those groups and relegated to here.

In an effort to fill the hours with some thing, he walked to the library with the intention of indulging in something a little less satisfying for a frustrated ponce, yet highly enjoyable for a man who read history at Cambridge. Ah, modern warfare. Just what are all the lovely systems up to some fifty years after his time?

As he sits in one of the aisles, back against the bookshelf, he thumbs through a rather intriguing book that caught his eye. “Most Famous Double Spies In Espionage History”. It isn’t out of narcissism that he picked it up, but more out of curiosity. Who could his contemporaries be?

Then he notices something. A flicker of a word on the next page. The sentences that follow frightens him, and his stomach contents curdle as he reads it.

But Burgess' much-vaunted help ingratiated him to the British intelligence community, though it had no idea that he was feeding the Russians every piece of secret information—including copies of Chamberlain's private messages—he could obtain. Burgess used his BBC position to develop contacts with important leaders in Europe who might later unwittingly provide him with more information to give to his Soviet....

The book has his name. A book about the most famous double agents in spy history. The only way one could be written about is if they were found out, and Guy is suddenly shaking with the realization. His whole body is keen to wretch, trembling with overcoming nausea. They’re caught in the future. They’re all bloody, bloody, had.

He doesn’t want to know what happens to him or any of the others, but they know. They all know, and they know everything. The Malnosso have his entire life at the tips of their fingers, and as skittles, dominoes... by God. They know about Kim, Anthony, Donald, every last one of them and everything they have ever touched.

He had expected that the Malnosso knew something, enough. Not this much. Not everything. Nor did he realize that every single one of his secrets was published for the public, that any soul with enough curiosity could read it.

They have to do something. He has to do something.

Tearing a title page out of the book, he pulls out a pen and begins to scrawl furiously, crossing out this word and that letter, scratching scribbles and arrows and making a convoluted mess. He runs from aisle to aisle, occasionally yanking books from the shelves, rifling through them madly, only to dart across to another one, plop down, and continue his mad jottings. An hour later, he writes this in his journal, half-crazed. Too much so to remember the damn filters Giles taught him.]


“Alea iacta est,” they told him. So it has again, our little gamblers bits.

                                       

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( The Decoding Process, not cut ICly )

( OOC Historical info, for the curious. )


[Should anyone come to the library, it won’t be difficult to locate Guy. Down one of the aisles, he’ll be sitting on the floor, a small pile of books haphazardly strewn about him, journal still open for anything that may be written back. If that wasn’t strange enough, once Kim and Anthony have joined him, it won’t be much longer before a hearty bonfire is started just behind House 32. Guy will be making trips between the library and their home, arms laden with as many books as he can carry.]

[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.]