Three For Tea With the BMLLC


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Also Starring:

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Scene Title Three For Tea With the BMLLC
Synopsis A new addition to the exclusive club along with three real live English people to teach them how things are supposed to be done.
Date April 4, 2011

In Dreams

Vivid and vibrant hues of rich greens and blues dotted with yellow splotch centers, orange dots and squiggles, and little purple patches look strange up close. From the table where the three young women and their three guests sit, it makes the perfect setting.

Picking up a teapot, Delia leans in to fill six delicate cups smiling to all of the women gathered while giving a wary glance to the two men. Her lace fingerless gloves have just a bit of frill at the cuff, her arms bare to the shoulder where pearlescent spaghetti straps hold up the bodice of the soft cotton sundress she wears. Hidden by the table cloth is the lower half of her dress, ruined by a muck of paint when she slipped and skidded down the path to get to the table. Of course, her guest laughed.

"I didn' think you'd use real paint luv," he guffaws again as he grabs his cup by the bowl, not the handle like a proper lady, and takes a large gulp. "Made fer a good laugh, m'gonna tell me mates when I ge' back teh London." His black spiky hair matches his outfit, also not appropriate for tea; a Sex Pistols t-shirt, ripped up jeans, and more safety pins poked through piercings than the redhead can count. She really should have thought harder about her selection before bringing Sid Vicious.

To Sid Vicious' right is a rather keen auburn haired woman who leans forward, rapt with attention at the man to her left— maybe it's the Sex Pistols shirt, or maybe it's just the adult company that has her so excited, but her very presence beams. Proper English tea restricted Samara's wardrobe some, but the scape of this place certainly didn't. Like Delia, her own dress is white with spaghetti straps, but the similarities stop there. In true dancer form, her shirt is full, almost like that of a ballerina— with a layer of chiffon overlaid. "I like it!" she insists with a bright smile. "The paint! The colours! The taste!" In many respects, the young Ms. Dunham had been training herself to like tea, a talent in many respects. "And we even have a rockstar! Best tea time ever!"

Sam glances to the woman at her right— dressed in a much fancier white dress complete with a white hat tied under her chin. The pink sash around her waist matched that within the movie and even the umbrella at her side, complete with lace, is a replica of that which young girls dreamed— that which she'd carried around while galavanting with Bert. While Julie Andrews was never the perfect rendition of the character Mary Poppins, she'd certainly caught the attention of Sam Dunham. Mary Poppins' gloved fingers clasp around the handle of her teacup. Quite expectantly, she stares at Sid Vicious' grasp of the cup and then, quite obviously, turns her own gaze to her cup. Like this is the silent suggestion. "Oh my," each word is clipped with an impeccable, well-bred, English accent. Oddly cultured for a nanny. "Surely you would not draw attention to a lady's condition, wouldst you?"

Tania sits in her own chair, looking mostly at her feet (which are covered in big, oversized combat boots at the moment) while stealing quick glances at the other guests. Especially her own. The older man sits in a crisp, grey military uniform, his posture straight and his demeanor clearly of one used to command. His greying hair is slicked back from his face, revealing the deep M-shape of his hairline. His lips are pressed together. He does not approve of Sid Vicious.

And Tania only saw Star Wars once, and only A New Hope, on a stay in the hospital. And she really only caught what she wasn't sleeping through, but a few things stuck, like this man; Grand Moff Tarkin. A man who'd blow up a planet just to prove he could.

She might be having a thing about men who command fear and respect all at once these days.

But the young girl seems a bit embarrassed, as she is not dressed properly for tea at all. Jean shorts, a loose fitting t-shirt and those boots — they aren't even laced up for goodness sakes. But Tarkin, he turns to Tania, lifting an eyebrow as he states, "Your friends have interesting tastes in company." His accent also is tinted with a bit of the Brit, but, you know, dulled because he's from space.

"It's lovely that you could all join us for tea," Delia says in her own variation of a British accent, copied completely from Eileen Ruskin. Smiling at Tania, she gestures between the girl and the auburn haired mother to be as she begins introduction. "Tania this is my dear friend Samara. Samara, this is Tania, one of my housemates in Eltingville." Of course she hasn't really told the other woman exactly where in Eltingville she's staying or that she's met the woman's fiance. It's a good occasion, a happy one, not to be sullied by cracked out punk rockers or bad news.

"Taaaaanyah," Sid drawls after clunking down his cup on the table, hitting the edge of the saucer and chipping it. Wheat's left in the cup spills out onto the table, a small puddle of light brown to stain the crisp white of the cloth covering. "An' Samaaarah, I'll remembuh you two. If y'ever come teh one'o me concerts. I'll le' you backstage wi' all the rest of the groupies, eh?"

Delia goes red with embarrassment at her guest's behaviour and an admonishing glance is sent in his direction. A glance which is summarily ignored by the man in faded black.

"It's ni— " Sami begins only to revert to her own very rough, not nearly as as polished as her guest's, British accent. Her hazel eyes become alight as she shoots Tania that same energy she's reflected since she came into this space. "It's a pleasure— " she glances at Mary Poppins for approval, trust the British nanny for proper tea-time etiquette, who grants the twenty-year-old a small nod. "— to meet you, Tania." While she generally doesn't go by her fullname, no correction is given here, for such formality in form begets formality in presence.

Sid Vicious, however, breaks all rules of conformity. "Wow! That would be wicked— " Sam begins amid a clearing of the nanny's throat.

"We mustn't ever say 'wicked' dear, particularly when referencing other people," Mary Poppins' teacup is laid in its saucer as she returns both to the lacy overlay. Her blue eyes flick over towards Tarkin, "Kind sir, I request you withhold judgment until you have properly understood others. Clearly you must learn to not judge things by their appearance. Even a ratty old carpetbag could be something entirely different than it is." Her eyes cut back to Sid Vicious now as her red lips press together thoughtfully for a moment. "Take our friend here, for example. He came to tea dressed in what might be described as clothes belonging to a chimney sweep. Yet sweeps themselves have talents beyond that which most can imagine. How he dresses, while wholly inappropriate for tea, may not reflect the very self with which he lives and breathes. Further, while I believe all people should abide in life with some decorum and discretion, I do not aim to understand the euphemism laid upon his shirt, yet withhold judgment on that as well."

"Miss Poppins," Sam counters as she sets her teacup on the table, mirroring her guest, "I don't think he actually intends that to be— I mean, it's not like the Sex Pistols are actually referring to— " wait. Are they? "Is that code for pe— " she catches herself as her own face flushes red, "a phallic object?!" That might not be what should be said at tea.

Tania looks up as she's being introduced, and she starts to nod her head to Samara when Sid's drawling response cuts her off. She stares for a moment, because honestly, she is no at all sure who he is. Bach, sure. Sid Vicious? Not so much. "Ah… thank you, that is very kind," she thinks, "It is good to meet you." She does not have an English accent. It's all Russian. Very Russian. "And you, Miss Samara. I'm glad to meet a friend of Miss Deliya's."

The girl turns to introduce her guest, but oh, he's already leaning forward to reply to Miss Manners over there. "I must contradict you, it is my experience that people are exactly what they seem. Try as they might to hide what they are, it will always fail. In war, we have no time to dally on our decisions, madame." He leans back again and Tania adds, "This is Grand Moff Tarkin." But luckily, her own embarrassment is cut off by Samara's latter words, and she lifts a hand to cover a quiet laugh behind it. Teehee~

Delia sputters mid sip when her guest's t-shirt and band name is pointed out and her already red face turns a shade deeper, bordering on purple. Why did she reference Nick's playlist when picking someone for tea? Plucking her napkin from her lap, she touches the corners of her lips to pat out the dribble while trying to keep a modest composure. Delia Ryans is not going to insult either Mary Poppins or Grand Moff Tarkin with her behavior.

Her gloved hand slips under a small serving plate filled with triangle sandwiches that have the crusts cut off and have been arranged in an artful display. "Cucumber sandwich anyone? I believe we have watercress as well." She's not exactly sure just what a watercress is, she's hoping it's not like a water chestnut because a water chestnut sandwich would be horrible.

"Sammiches? S'all y'go' is tea an' sammiches?" Her guest cuts with a sneer, his clumsy hands mill about the table as he searches through various plates for something a little more suited to his tastes. "'Ere we are then luv!" His announcement comes with the triumphant lift of a small tin of Turkish Delight candy. Whoever dreamed those up didn't know about Delia's aversion to jelly logs covered in powdered su—

"No! Mister Vicious that's not— " she cuts herself off just as the rocker begins snorting the sugar from the treats. "— cocaine…"

Mary Poppins' dark eyebrows are arched quite disapprovingly at Samara's language, but no comment is given to them, instead, she engages Tarkin once more. "Grand Moff?" she repeats, as if asking whether she can call him that, or whether the name is even remotely appropriate. "Resorting to war at every turn has done man little good in the past, kind sir. Perhaps suffering could be subverted if more people resigned to the notion that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down— that sweetness achieves far more than bitterness and pain." She grants him an unwieldy smile, befitting only of a British nanny.

The snorting of the Turkish Delight is met with a snort from the British nanny, and a gaping mouth from the Sam, who Mary has decided, must be her new charge. "Close your mouth Samara, you mustn't look like a codfish. What would your mother say? And surely Mister… Vicious? Surely you must have more constructive things to do with the powdered sugar. You are making a mess of Delia's lovely table."

The instruction is met with obedience (followed by a smile from one Miss Poppins) as Samara's lips press together slightly. "Mister Vicious— I don't.. maybe you shouldn't.. " she's floored as her eyes cut back to Delia and then Tania. Well that was unexpected. Her hands are held out as she puts a single cucumber sandwich on her plate only to reach for another, and get a glare from the nanny. Finish one first is the silent command met with another obedient nod.

"A spoon full of— ! My dear lady, your idea of tactics is laughable." And yet, he looks more offended than amused at the moment. But Tania reaches over to place a hand on his arm. "Perhaps for tea we can discuss something more pleasant? Please?" The little girl and her big eyes seem to be fairly convincing, as Tarkin takes in a breath through his nose, straightens and turns back to the party.

He had every intention of continuing with pleasantries, but he and Tania are met with Sid's snorting and while the girl looks amused again, Tarkin sighs, and then chooses to ignore it. "Very fine weather, isn't it?" But Tania can only nod and try to cut off her own laughter.

While Tarkin and Poppins are busy debating~, the rocker is inhaling deeply and trying to snuff away the last bits of powder white from the outer edges of his nostrils. "Wha' kinda party is this then?!" He yells, "No booze! No drugs! No fuckin'— fuckin'!! You lied t'me yeh bitch! You said it'd be fun!!" He storms to the edge of the patio and scoops up a flower, or what would be a flower if it wasn't comprised completely of paint.

Winding up, he takes aim square at Tarkin. "Shat up y'daft ponce!!" When the paint is let flying it sails through the air in a magnificent blob, only to land splut along the right ride of Mary's nose and cheek. A beautiful mix of blue, green, and yellow make for a horrendous bit of makeup. Even worse than the soot of a chimney.

"Oh god.. oh god…" Delia's British accent has been dropped in favor of ducking under the table to hide from the terror her guest is about to cause. "Mister Vicious!!" She protests loudly, trying to get his attention. What she receives in answer is another blot of paint, this time to the side of her head as she twists to avoid it.

"Tactics? Surely you aren't suggesting that all life considers nothing besides wa— " the word is never fully annunciated as Mary Poppins is accosted by paint. Bert would never do anything so vile! Her eyes widen immensely as the smallest shriek at the cold lining her cheek escapes her lips.

Sam reaches for a napkin and shakes her head, "Miss Poppins! It's fine, just a little paint, it didn't get your lovely hat at least!" And, as usual, Sam speaks too soon. A blue glob of paint rolls down her cheek to catch a strand of lace tied underneath Mary Poppins chin. With a quick gasp Sam leans forward to dab it away, but Mary Poppins won't have that.

The British woman slides away from the table. Her finger is cast out to be wagged at the man in question, but Mary Poppins has always been a woman of action— whether it be riding her own merry-go-round racehorse in a race to win the championship or talking about incessantly sad things to get her charges away from the ceiling. Or, more imaginatively, jumping into a chalk drawing laid upon the cement. Like the man before her, she plucks a flower from the field, her fingers easily protected by the layer of lacy gloves. With a quick throw all her own, she tosses it back towards him. Not nearly as forceful, but it is a warning. She can hold her own.

All the while, Sam follows Mary's movements towards the garden, but she doesn't pick a flower, instead she suggests, "Maybe we should leave the paint flowers alone— "

Both Tania and Tarkin watch the paint flying and Sid's tantrum with the same bemused, one eyebrow lifted sort of expression. And then Tarkin looks to Tania as if the girl would be able to explain, or perhaps expecting her to, but all she can so is shrug.

And frankly, the man looks… surprised and sort of smugly amused as Mary throws back. "Is this your idea of a spoon full of sugar, madame?" He asks, his smile just as smug as he drops that one on her. Oh yes, he's very pleased with himself.

Delia's busy crawling across the lawn, smearing blades of grass against her knees and bare feet. The smooth lines that were once wonderfully defined brosh strokes trace a serpentine pattern to one of the borders of the garden where she crawls into a mix of lavender and huddles, hugging her knees against her chest. Her blue eyes drift up toward the sky that seems to be melting down on them, the colorful songbirds that unintendedly fly into the path of destruction are smudged down into large drips that drop down on the party, table, and guests.

No matter how hard she tries, she can't seem to keep the scape up. Bits of reality keep slipping in. For Samara, the brick walls of the Bay House are what's revealed under the thick layers. For Tania, the pristine walls of the bedroom she shares with her brother. For Delia… darkness.

"Tha's right you old bat! Y'think you can take me?!" Sid lets out a raucous laugh as he throws two more handfuls of paint, this time hitting both Tania and the Grand Moff himself. His t-shirt is not ruined but enhanced by the colorful blotches of paint that Poppins has been lucky enough to hit him with. "You ain't go' the balls!! Neither v'you!!"

And, as it turns out, Tarkin has asked for that which he likely doesn't want— a paint flower being tossed at him (again), with greater accuracy than the first; he's managed to make the medicine in Miss Poppins' sugar quite bitter rather than sweet. This particular plant is tossed towards his head to give a splash of colour to his militaristic appearance. Camo was so 1999 anyways. "War hardly appears in such an array Grand Moth," it appears this is what she's chosen as his name.

The reality of the bricks for Sami is actually quite dizzying, even if it's not quite there. There's an instinct to cling to the falling apart fiction, a desire to hold onto the world apart from the real world where characters can only hurt each other with paint, not even their words. Maybe if the world was made of paint people would find less reason to hurt each other. Maybe. Sam's hands move back to the table, grasping onto it like a baby monkey clings to its mother— not that reality is so bad. It's that the illusion is easy. The truth of the waking world more complex.

Poppins directs her attention back to Sid Vicious who also receives a flower (again). "Maybe we will be able to cover that insulting euphemism with some effort, Mister Vicious— "

Tania doesn't mind the paint hitting her, especially as her attention is taken by those bits of reality flashing in. "Miss Deliya…" she calls out softly, a tinge of concern in her voice for the dreamwalker.

But Tarkin. Oooh he minds so very much. It shows in a thinning of his lips, an icier stare and a glance down to his now ruined uniform. It was so perfect, moments ago. "This place is worse. Than. Alderaan." He says sharply, and Tania can only turn to look at him in surprise before that big beam of green light forms in the sky, then speeds down toward them all with a shrill shriek. Not that it made that noise in the movies, but it sounds an awful lot like a modern day missile.

Luckily, though, no one feels anything, just the thrust back into wakening, which leaves Tania jolting upright in bed. She'll get used to these odd dreams sooner or later.

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