[center][h3][color=f26522]Freddie Milton Hughes-Jackson[/color][/h3]
[i][u]Location[/u]:[/i] Faraday Heights, 24B, Home
[i][u]Interacting With[/u]: Eve Lumiére [@Write][/i][/center]

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[i]"When love breaks up, When the dawn light wakes up, A new life is born, Somehow I have to make this final breakthru . . . Now!

I wake up, Feel just fine, Your face, Fills my mind, I get religion quick, 'Cos you're looking divine[/i]

As strains of the one and only Freddie Mercury washed through the apartment from the media centre in the corner, the one and only Freddie Milton Hughes-Jackson opened his eyes to greet the new day. It took a few beats for his mind to sort itself out and then he felt a gentle tapping on his shoulder. Rolling over, he was greeted by the first magical sight of the day; a breakfast tray, complete with orange juice, a cloth handkerchief, buttered crumpets and a steaming cup of English Breakfast tea, hovering in the air over the bed. Still gently poking his shoulder was a small teaspoon, given the task of making sure he didn't knock over the tray and ruin the last hour's work of his animated household appliances. Even though he was woken up this way almost every day, Freddie couldn't help but grin. Magic, what a wonderful thing to have in your life.

He sat up, picked up the teaspoon, gently put it down on the tray and then eased the tray onto his lap. Sip the tea, nibble the crumpets, drink the orange juice and enjoy the continued pay off of a week's casting, experimentation, recasting of the different animations necessary to make sure that the food was not only made properly but delivered gently. During the testing period he'd been hit over the head many, many times by both the breakfast tray and the tea spoon. Still, no one said the path to the perfect breakfast was supposed to be easy. Speaking of the perfect breakfast, he got to work finishing his own off. Hmmm, the crumpets were well buttered but slightly overcooked, have to modify some of the spell parameters. Swallowing the last of the orange juice, Freddie put the tray aside (it immediately began to float towards the kitchen and wash itself), leapt out of bed and and showered. With personal hygiene out of the way, he came back to the bedroom and began choosing his outfit for the day. Wallace of [i]Wallace and Gromit[/i] or a 1950s book clerk from Kent? Choices, choices.

[i]Living breathing, Rock 'n' Roll, this never ending fight![/i]

As Freddie reached the end of another song, Freddie spoke up. "[color=f26522]Radio what's new, please[/color]" he said, staring at the media centre. It took half a second for the spells to translate his spoken commands into commands for the machine but then BBC Radio One came to life with its characteristic businesslike tone. "[color=gray]Outrage sparked on both sides of the debate over the emergence of the 'Others' today with the well publicised murder of Nick Bloodfang. The Werewolf was being held in captivity after the manslaughter of a young girl whose parents have chosen to keep anonymous and was today found dead in his cell. A group calling themselves Helsing have claimed responsibility on Youtube alongside posting a manifesto of Other persecution. According to this manifesto, this will be but the first of many deaths to come. We take you now to-[/color]". The voice stopped abruptly when Freddie threw the tea spoon at it, the universal command for animated objects in the flat to stop whatever they're doing.

Deftly tying his tie, Freddie swore quietly. Even in his own home, the seat of his power and independence, he didn't like to curse. But dammit all if every development in the outing of the Others hadn't made things worse and worse. The Unseelie trying to freeze Britain back into the dark ages, Vampires being chased away from bloodbanks (as if that's going to help anyone) and now this... It would try the patience of a saint.

[b]RING RING RING RING RING[/b]

And speaking of patience... There are two phones in Faraday Heights 24B. One is Freddie's mobile, a stylishly modern contraption that's covered in arcane glyphs and eldritch scrawls that do everything from improve the battery life to guarantee free wifi, even underground. The other is an archaic lump of black plastic and ancient wiring that only rings when one person calls it. The ring is like the bells of doom, signalling the death of free will and the collapse of empire.

Freddie picked up the phone and said "[color=f26522]Hi mum, how are you doing?[/color]"

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Thereafter followed a brief exchange as well rehearsed as the script of any telemarketer. Cynthia Evergreen Hughes inquired after Freddie's health and happiness, Freddie told her he was fine. He asked how her and Marcus, his father, were doing, she told them they were tolerably well. She told him he really aught to be publishing another thesis on the myriad inaccuracies and inefficiencies of Berthault Batterton's treaties on the natural relationship between magic and electricity, he said that he'd get to work on it any day now. She asked him whether he had made any new friends in the same tone of voice she'd used when he was five, he said he could put many names to faces in the area. And so on and so on. He laughed when he was supposed to, she gave dry chuckles whenever he tried his hand at a joke. Upon leaving home, Freddie hoped that daily interrogations on his academic, physical and social well being would become a thing of the past. He had therefore been somewhat dismayed when his mum had presented him with a house warming present; a telephone that only she had the number to and enchanted to tell her whether he was in hearing distance of the phone.

When the conversation was finally done and Freddie had extracted himself from the verbal clutches of his mother, he gathered up his bag, keys and other affects before rapping twice on the wall by the front door and saying "[color=f26522]But nothing's what it seems, please.[/color]" At his words, the mass of animists tools, chalk, stardust, cutlery, cogs, gears and wires that occupied most of the floor and surface space in the flat flowed into a series of large plastic boxes which duly put on their own lids and slid under the bed. Just a precaution, should he be lucky (or should that be unlucky?) enough to have someone with him when he returned. He also had counter phrase to put everything back in the perfectly ordered mess he liked to work in.

His mood was still pretty grey when he stepped outside and locked the door. The combination of his mother's phone call and the awful news on the radio had done a good job of spoiling the honest satisfaction Freddie got from his morning wake up. He was therefore scowling when he turned around to see a statuesque beauty in a white towel and nothing else standing in the opposite doorway, some letters in her hand and a playful smirk on her lips. His next door neighbour, the ever enchanting and fantastically french Eve Lumiére, gave him a little wave.

"[color=2f556b]Ah Freddie, enchanté, how are you?[/color]"

"[color=f26522]Uh... I'm good, yes, f-fine, good. You are? I mean, sorry, I mean, how're you?[/color]"

As most of his brain alternatively went into panic mode or melted in the heat of his embarrassment, he morosely reflected that it would be nice if every conversation was a well worked out as the one he constantly had with his mother. Even if you didn't like what was being said, at least you could say your parts without committing social suicide.