2nd Broadcast- [written/action]
[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,
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[ at some point -- in the library -- buffy approaches. it's not often she gets to be taller than anyone so she puffs up a bit at the sight of guy sitting on the floor.
she had been on her way to the other side of the building. there is a large large codex that she very much wants to break into without alerting a certain pirate that she'd one any breaking-in at all. this is meant to be casing mission; eye up the book and think a little harder on it.
but then she sees guy and her curiousity wins out. the mission is temporarily abandoned. ]
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I've always wondered what it would be like... to not be remembered, but to walk in shadows of the night and be remarkably forgotten. They say that things can purify one's sins, vindicate them of their crimes. Water, fire... but what of the fires that burn the innocent, those that were bright and needed no cleansing?
To mollify the pillars, the old-boys and burn... it will consume us in the end; there will be no pyres for us, the condemned English. [He thought they were in the camps once, destined to be the ashes of those they pretended to hate.] How such little words... the compromises...it was all so very over the top, he told me.
[Blunt, Burgess and Bell] Like Tumbler Wells...
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Most people aren't, you know. Remembered.
[ she takes a tentative seat next to guy on the floor. ]
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[He looks down at the books, hoping curiosity won't prompt her to start looking through them. Then he'll have to act, and ask for forgiveness later when he becomes brash and bitter.]
Even if that's how all the parties were planned.
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but she does situate her wings against the lowest parts of the nearest shelf and stretch her legs out before her. ]
Me neither. Wanna form a club? We could come up with a really bitching name.
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A club. Membership for life?
[While the question is spoken in part for Buffy, it also is said as a link to a time some twelve years ago. He was a student then, bright and a little more round faced, sitting before the dean for an action that wasn't a bit reprehensible by their standards. He should have been punished, then, but he understood. Cambridge was a club. Everything he had ever touched as a planted old-boy was a club.]
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[ she pushed aside a book with her foot; eying him. ]
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Occupational hazard shoves it away a little too quickly.]
Is your future written out, there for you to find?
[Even still, it provokes a train of thought he pursues, a path away from maddening thoughts.]
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[ melaka fray and her tales of a twenty-first century slayer who ends magic. ends demons. ends the line she expanded. ]
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He doesn't want clarity any more. He takes a pull from the amber bottle. He might have muttered God help me but gin seemed a more likely saviour. Gin and fire.]
Did you want to know? Or did it come as a terrifying surprise?
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Oh, I was surprised. Very surprised. Horrified, even. I don't like being told what I'm gonna be -- kinda rubs my independence the wrong way.
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[He takes a breath. This is the information he can give, that he's been waiting to give. It has to be done. It's all part of the magic trick.]
I not only work for the BBC and the British Foreign Office. I work in British intelligence.
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[ she turns her head; re-evaluating. ] You so don't look the part. But I guess that's the point, isn't it?
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['Spy' is a rather large leap, but he supposes that those who don't know the full scope of what working in British intelligence means would do so. Some of them simply made decisions, worked as secretaries looking at the information of military operations and what governments were pushing what and who in which areas at what time. He won't confirm or deny it, but when you say you work in British intelligence and you're preparing to burn a section of a library, people know.
Yet that is exactly the point as well. Have them all thinking about how bloody obvious it is that you're a spy for England and they won't be looking for Moscow's red streak.]
You realize why this is all so very dangerous, don't you? None of this should have been written. Contacts, information, people... lives. Lives are on the bloody line here, and it's far greater than myself.
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Correction. These are...what? History books? Lives were on the line. Now it's a nerd's wet dream.
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[His voice goes grave, ripe with passion and dark seriousness.]
This is my time. These are my contemporaries. My sources. My contacts. An entire network built to try and end a bloody war. Bombs are being dropped on London. Paris is only just being taken back after Hitler marched beneath the Arc de Triomphe. My own associate was there when they evacuated the embassy. Stalingrade is killing Russian soldiers by thirty thousand a week.
This is now, dear girl. This is my life. This is my country. This is everything, and it all could collapse because of these bloody, bloody books.
'History' is relative by time. If I'm a spy, and I'm reading about myself, that means I was caught in wartime. I don't want to know by whom, how much information they extracted, how I died, what I compromised.
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