cape_kore | File #001 // Peter Guillam // [Accidental Video]

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File #001 // Peter Guillam // [Accidental Video]

[At first the feed shows nothing but sky and a blurry, dark band that might be the edge of a sleeve. Lazily it all shifts, drifts by with only the faintest sound of rustling. Until it doesn't. Until a sharp movement covers the camera entirely and the sounds of rapid, startled movement are picked up by the communicator's mic.

Clothing, moving as a body moves. The scrape of the sole of a shoe on concrete.

Peter Guillam is awake, and definitely not in Kansas anymore – or a house in central London, as the case may be. Not there, and there's something foreign on his wrist. Suddenly his face appears as he lifts his hand up and tugs up his sleeve. It's a familiar face to some here, no doubt, save for a few distinguishing features. Most are subtle, texture and colour of his hair aside, but one isn't: the genuine confusion and fear.

He turns his wrist over to look for a clasp. None. It's uncomfortable, foreign, bugging him– bug. Little light on the face.

Oh. No, not good; the visual is obscured again as his hand covers it, fingers working their way underneath the band to try to tug it off.]

Oh, f–

[Peter's thumb brushes against the side of the communicator and the feed ends sharply.]

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[ He sees that fear and can't ignore it. ]

Hey. Everything okay?

[There's another thing which separates Peter from his lookalike: Sherlock would never have been able to manage such genuine (and then restrained, and then guilty) surprise at the fact that his wrist is talking to him. He holds it up to his face, close enough that it's clear he has no idea it's recording video.]

I... hello?

[ Phil's getting ready to head to the edge of the woods, but then he's not great at ignoring people who might need help. Actually, he's awful at it unless he's in the field and has no choice. ]

Are you new?

Hi.

[ Tony lifts his other hand into view of the screen, giving him a wave. ]

You're new, right? I recognize the look of a guy who doesn't know what the hell's going on. I'm Tony Stark. Also abruptly brought here like yourself. I've just been here long enough to have gotten used to it.

[Tiny televisions. Why not? Peter feels a bit faint.]

Mmm... hmm.

[If this is an attempt to get him to be indiscreet while he's being recorded, it won't work. He carefully resists narrowing his eyes.]

I... suppose I am, yes.

[Oh, oh no, it's talking again. Someone new this time, too. What a mess.]

You've no idea.

Well, good news is, you're not stuck here alone. Bad news is, so far we're stuck here. Secondary bit of maybe good news is that we're trying to find a way out. So it might be that you got here just in time to go home again.

[ Recognizing that he's rambling, he pulls himself back on topic. ]

This place is called Cape Kore, by the way. Wherever that is.

Oh, I've got an idea. Where are you? Do you see a fountain?

[ Phil's already heading in that direction from his house. Of course, he'll be welcoming this guy with a rifle on his back and some obvious knives, but he's looked worse. ]

[Peter's really not sure you do, sir, but alright.]

I don't-- oh, yes. Yes, there it is. I see it. I suppose you'll want me to go there now.

[He doesn't sound too keen on the idea.]

You don't know where this is?

[Peter isn't sure he believes that... but then he isn't sure he believes any of this. Perhaps he's been hit on the head particularly hard.]

[There's a sympathetic edge to Wallie's voice.]

Hey. You all right, there?

Fine. Fine. Fine.

[And anything he says three times must be true.]

Hey, if you just arrived here, I think you're justified in being a little bit not fine. I know I wasn't.

[He shrugs.]

I'm Wallie.

[Peter's silent a moment. He considers using a pseudonym, one of his alternate identities; he can still slip into them as easily as bathwater, wear them like his own skin. But it'd be pointless. If they've brought him here because of his work with Smiley, they already know his name.]

Peter. Peter Guillam.

[He's silent for a few seconds, entirely uncertain regarding the etiquette of making introductions and conversation via this startlingly impersonal medium. But why does he even care? It isn't as though he intends to stick around.]

Someone, ah, someone else said we're all trapped here; that seems...

[Unlikely. There's almost always a way out.]

It... looks like it. If anyone's found a way out, they're not sharing with the rest of us.

[He runs his hand over his face.]

I'm sorry. Wish I had some better news to share.

Oh. My. God. DUDE! Your face.

I'll meet you there in a moment, if you'd like.

I'm not sure I would like, but I suppose I haven't any choice.

[But he's not going to wait just there, out in the open. He's seen the damage snipers can do firsthand. So he stands with a wall to his back and he watches, waits for another figure to enter his vicinity.]

What's on my face?

[Maybe earlier Peter would've sounded startled, but at the moment he mostly just sounds tired.]

Nothing's on it, I mean your face in general. The face part of your face. Do you have a twin? Or is this another bullshit clone-freakout that's going to end in someone getting punched and living at my house...

Edited 2013-01-17 03:48 (UTC)

[This is either the strangest attempt at getting him to spill personal information Peter's ever been privy to or this poor girl's completely mad.]

... Wow, the silent treatment already. I thought British dudes were supposed to be polite as all hell. Way to prove me wrong, bangers and mash! I was gonna help you out, but now I think I changed my mind. Nice tie. [The angriest of compliments. Ever. Yeaaaaaaaaaaah, she's pretty crazy. But not the craziest!]

I've... really no idea what you're on about, so I'll be going now.

[If he can remember which button ends the feed, anyway.]

WAIT! There's a guy that looks like you. Here. But not really. Just the face. It kind of happens a lot... so just-- ... don't freak if you see him? And maybe don't get too close. [Because you'd probably punch him in the face]

Ah.

[For a few seconds just that. Ah. But there's a lot to that single syllable. Suspicion, disappointment, disbelief, resignation; perhaps the fact that Peter's world has just been turned upside-down twice in short succession permits him to discount the truth of the matter as irrelevant anyway.]

Well, thank you all the same.

Anything I can do for you, Peter? I mean, I know it's small consolation, but maybe it's the least I can do.

[ Phil's more concerned with dire wolves in the woods than snipers and isn't that a trip? He walks over to the fountain, sitting on the edge carefully with the cumbersome hunting rifle on his back. ]

[Peter sucks on the inside of his cheek for a moment and then sighs, bringing his wrist up closer to his face and hunching his shoulders in obvious discomfort. He despises this way of speaking already. It's so... open. It makes him nervous.]

Right. Well why not? It's not the strangest bloody thing that's happened to me today.

Never heard of it before. General consensus seems to be that it looks sort of like the New England coast, but last I checked, there wasn't a town up there where people were being held against their will.

[Peter has his bag in his hand and his gun in the bag, which is really the only consolation he has when approaching this stranger. Heavily-armed stranger. Here to bring him in for interrogation, maybe, or perhaps perfectly honest. Only one way to find out. If the former it'd be about bloody time anyway.

It really doesn't help Peter remain suspicious, though, that the closer he gets the more the stranger looks like–

No. Doesn't look like. Reminds him, though, of Richard. A bit. Or maybe he's just looking for something familiar. Anything familiar.

It makes his approach easier, less timid, but he's still watchful, grip on the handle of his bag tight.]

[Then obviously you've not looked very hard, Peter thinks, but then he wouldn't likely know unless he knows the signs. Maybe even then. Assuming, of course, he's not in on this himself, which Peter certainly isn't going to take as gospel. One may run an operation, an interrogation centre, a holding centre, nearly anywhere with the right cover. This is a bigger one than he's ever seen, though. This is... mad.]

I was in London. Just now, I was just there. We must be closer there than the Americas; the timing makes no sense.

I... maybe. Looks like rain.

[Meaning he'd like to know where he can go to find shelter.]

If you wouldn't mind telling me where I might be allowed to stay? Where to find food?

[He turns his head to look off somewhere to his right. He thinks that was a restaurant, but it looks a bit... blown up. Or something.]

[ Some people might take offense at being told they're wrong. Tony just shrugs. Who knows, maybe he is. Wouldn't be the first time. ]

I was in New York. Manhattan, actually. Flying in from California. Timing didn't make sense for me either. But I gotta warn you, it's going to get weirder before it gets better.

There's a lot of empty houses around.

[He exhales slowly, thinking.]

Look, if you need a place to crash, temporarily or permanently, I have a spare room at my place. I'm at the end of the main street through the centre of town, on the corner with the bar and the pharmacy and... well, the pile of rubble. You're welcome to it.

[Between this guy, if he takes him up on the offer, and Bruce crashing on his couch, Wallie maybe ought to just start up a hotel.]

[ Phil smiles when he sees the man approach. ]

Don't mind the arsenal. You caught me on my way out.

[ He straightens up, offering a hand. ]

Agent Phil Coulson.

[Agent? Oh, Christ. No, not a bit like Richard.]

Guillam. Peter Guillam.

[Also agent. Not terribly keen on admitting to that just yet though. He does take Phil's hand to shake, though, grip appropriately firm, and gives a businesslike but not completely ingenuine smile.]

On your way out... hunting? If I may ask.

You heard the recording on there?

[ He gestures to the communicator on Peter's wrist. ]

Some of us have been trapped here over a month. We're busting out, or trying to.

I heard it, yes, but frankly it all sounded like a load of bollocks to me. Still does. Kept for our own safety? Bit too convenient.

[But it works in interrogations. Peter knows it works. Take a man so far out of his comfort zone he's nothing left to hold on to and twist him 'til he's grateful for it and he'll give you anything.]

I suppose you've a plan for getting out, then.

It's not my plan. Agent Carter's.

The recording is full of shit, though. We're not safe here. If we find a way out, we'll come back for the civilians. Don't worry.

There's no point trying to take it off. They put it back on when you're sleeping. [She looks more bored than genuinely inclined to help, but at least she bothered saying anything at all.]

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File #001 // Peter Guillam // [Accidental Video]

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