THE NETWORK

[ Byerly is on screen, looking pained and unhappy. ]

Nom de Dieu, I'm bored. Let's start some gossip.

Tell me - this question goes out to everyone - who's the worst person here? Or if that doesn't work, tell me who you like best. Or - mm - at least tell me who you've been secretly eyeing. Or just make up a salacious rumor, I don't care, just tell me something fun.

[ Unlike any of Byerly’s previous posts, which consisted of him monologuing interminably, this post looks to be a dialogue. There are actually two people on screen - Byerly’s lanky, elegant, sloe-eyed self, and next to him a small odd-looking fellow with intense features and a too-large head set on a hunched spine. For all the differences between them, though, the two look like they could be brothers, or at least cousins - similar noses, similar bone structure, similar skin tone, similar hair color. Ah, the products of Barrayaran inbreeding.

You can tell who set up the camera by the framing. Byerly is centered, and sitting at an angle that best shows off his fine features. Miles Vorkosigan, the small fellow, is squished off into a corner of the frame. By is the first to speak, too. ]

Bonsoir, lovely fellows and ladies. Your bosom friend and brother Byerly here with an important announcement. Though you have known me as His Imperial Majesty Byerly II of Barrayar, now I’m just plain By, because my position has been usurped. [ A fake mournful sigh. ] Brutal civil war. Deadly. Horrible. I’ve been dealt a monstrous blow.

[ Miles, meanwhile, just kind of rolls his eyes skyward. Spare him from his cousin’s melodrama. ] If by “usurped” you mean “assumed rightful authority,” then yes. I usurped you. With little resistance, I might add. [ A pause; he straightens his small frame as best he can - not that it’s especially effective given the camera angle. ] Did you really go around calling yourself His Imperial Majesty Byerly II?

But of course. [ Byerly blinks in mock-innocence. ] Sire, don’t tell me that you don’t see the Imperial office as worthy of respect. I was simply demanding the dignity due to the camp stool.

Is it more dignified to lose it to a civil war too? [ Miles arches a brow in turn. ] I could fight you, I suppose.

Oh, please don’t do that, sire. [ By’s expression is a reasonable approximation of pained. ] I don’t want to hurt you. He’s very fragile, you see. [ The last is said conspiratorially to the audience, as though Miles couldn’t hear. And, swiftly, before he can be executed for treason - ] So I wished to introduce my dear sometime-cousin and current-overlord to the network, as a grand announcement of an enormous life change, and an announcement that I will of course be hosting a coronation party for him.

-- What?

[ There’s not even the slightest twinkle of amusement in Byerly’s face; he looks perfectly solemn as he explains - ]

It is, of course, customary for those invited to a coronation to bring gifts of tribute. I would not presume to speak for my lord Emperor, but I might suggest gifts of alcohol. Or something a little harder than alcohol? A fellow does grow tired of only being drunk, and the Emperor is quite a fan of stimulants, which is why you’ll hear him babble endlessly, all the time. Would that suit you, sire?

[ Miles has been working his mouth like a frog in the background this whole time; he still sputters a moment, staring at Byerly in disbelief. ] I never agreed to a party, By -- [ He interrupts himself with a beautiful stream of cursing in Greek. ] For god’s sake, that won’t be necessary.

[ Loudly, speaking over his Emperor - ] That sounds like a yes to me! I’ll see you all tomorrow night. [ And with a wink, he cuts the feed. ]


[ ooc: blue is Byerly, red is Miles ]

[ Byerly, a handsome fellow with a hard-to-place accent that just sounds a bit different, is lounging on a couch. The angle isn't entirely flattering, since he's filming himself while laying supine, and so there's a view sort of halfway up his nostrils that is a little bit too much information. A bottle of brandy dangles from one hand, and his voice is slurring just a bit. This fellow seems quite drunk. ]

Bonsoir, you grunting peasants and cultureless rubes, and happy Winterfair to all. For those of you who are cultureless monsters, Winterfair is a time when gifts are exchanged and joy is had. My gift to you is that I won't call any of you peasants again for the duration of this broadcast. Winterfair was also the last Emperor's birthday, or thereabouts, which meant everyone had to give him their taxes for the year, but mine's not till later, so you don't need to pay me till then. I'll let you know when taxes are due. Start saving up now.

So what should you all give me instead? I suppose to begin with you could entertain me. What do you say, my cream puffs - a little game of two truths and a lie? You know the rules, since the rules are literally the name of the game. Go on, play with me, do. I'll start. I'm currently rightful Emperor of Barrayar, my great grandfather Pierre once showed up to a Winterfair ball soaked in blood to send a message, I'm terrible in bed.

Anyone who opts out of the game, I'm going to assume they're simply too in love with me to speak with me, so don't play at your own risk.

[ He winks, and then lifts the brandy to his mouth - and it apparently goes down at a bad angle, because he sits up, coughing and spluttering and getting alcohol down his front before he shuts off the feed. ]