[an unflattering angle of Ianto's face; he seems to realize and adjusts to a level angle]Hello! Hello. This is Ianto Jones, broadcasting live from that blue police box in Central Park.
[Ianto's finger reaches for the screen, and the shot flips from his face to what appears to be the interior of a diner. Sort of like this, but also not. The walls are decorated with various souvenirs from Earth and beyond, both vintage and futuristic. As the camera pans somewhat carelessly over the room, Ianto asks of someone unseen:] D'we still have to be coy about that? ROMAC's gone, yeah?
[The camera rights, scans over the surroundings, the bar, some kind of glowing purple rock, a weathered metal sign that says BOWIE BASE TWO, a photograph portrait of Ianto, what appears to be the Eighth Doctor, and an unidentified man in Edwardian dress, a collection of increasingly alien tie pins, bottles of alcohol labeled in non-Earthen languages, et cetera. More to himself,] Well deserved. Awful name.
[The view turns to the windows of the diner, through which the light of a brilliant nebula shines, rather than sunlight. Through the beams of the ceiling, one can see a smokey, sort of Harry-Potter-Great-Hall-esque view of stars.] I gather that September is National Breakfast Month in the States. September's nearly done but I didn't want us to miss out.
[another unflattering angle of Ianto's face; he adjusts] Stop by this evening for breakfast. We'll be open late. Or come this afternoon.
[with a shrug] I'll be here.
[He reaches for the screen, pauses, pulls his hand back.] It's in the TARDIS. In the Ramble. Central Park.
[to the ceiling] No more hiding!
[conspiratorially, to the camera,] She needs more friends.
[His hand obscures the screen and the broadcast ends.] ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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singthesong
