[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=b8860b]Reginald Keystone[/color][/b][/i][/h1]
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[hr][center][color=b8860b][b]Location:[/b][/color] Qasr El Nil Barracks [/center][hr][hr]
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	The Lord Major allowed for the oversight of protocol when Peter addressed whomever was behind the door, bidding the mystery man to enter. Not that it would matter in the grand scheme of things, but he [i]was[/i] waiting on word back from two enlisted men on differing matters in addition to his friend from the war making himself known. Still, the slip of tongue was harmless, resulting of an anxious disposition. Reginald smiled warmly and stood up from behind his desk, ready to meet and greet the friend of his blood. If the man was alright with walking alone into an foreign military barracks, his disfigurement couldn't be all that bad. Could it? Besides, the Lord Major was a veteran of countless engagements, touring many places in the world and getting shot at in most of them. He had seen the guts and gristle of combat, noted with chilling calm the horrors that fast-moving metal can do to living flesh and bone. Buried companions, friends, and squadmates in all manner of rearranged and grotesque conditions. Peter had prepared him, and Reginald would do his absolute best to ensure that the young war hero was as comfortable as could be. 

	The fellow soldier politely entered the room and began to address the pair, though he looked a little surprised to see the older man present. Reginald maintained his warm smile and extended a hand across his desk to greet the former Private Benaszewski, poised to give one of his more poetic greetings on behalf of the British Empire and extend every courtesy to a representative of a political and military ally. 

	[color=b8860b]"Yes yes, Mr. Benaszewski. Any friend of Peter's..."[/color] 

	And then he saw the man's face. Well, not his [i]face[/i], so much as the extraordinarily offputting piece of tooled ceramic that was held on by a false pair of spectacles, with its one lidless eye glaring underneath a painted on eyebrow and over a false moustache that abruptly flipped over to a real one on the other, more fleshy side of his head. Doll's eyes. [i]Eye[/i], rather. The man's otherwise humble demeanor made Reginald feel quite the cad, but his initial reaction was to pull away from the unnatural look of the man's prosthetic face (his mind screamed it at him yet again, [b][i]prosthetic face[/i][/b]), to flee from the sight of it and return to kill it with fire, such was his guttural reaction. 

	The Lord Major was already scrambling backwards, fumbling to say something, [i]anything[/i] except for the wordless exclamation that he wanted to, but fate took the opportunity from him. His boot snagged the roller-bearing leg of his very fine office chair, skewing his leg out behind him and to the side. The scream he had intended for his guest's appearance still issued forth, part of it at any rate, as his face descended faster than gravity alone could propel it, slamming into the top of his antique English Oak business desk with a loud, fleshy [color=b8860b]"...yaaAAH[/color][i]FRAP![/i][color=b8860b]"[/color], the furniture itself serving as a sounding board for the noise to echo slightly in the hall beyond. 

	Reginald rebounded from the table to a [i]dead straight stand[/i], trailing blood from his nose along an impossibly fast arch following the path of his very dignified (if now slightly crosseyed) head, hovering in position before gravity yanked the reins of his misfortune, tipping the Lord Major over backward. Stiff and straight as planed lumber, Reginald's body bonelessly splatted onto the floor behind his desk, where he lay for just a second, contemplating what he just witnessed before remarking on it. [color=b8860b]"By Saint Ignatius's curly crotch-beard! What the devil just transpired!"[/color] If he were lucky, it could explained it away as mere happenstance; an accident that resulted in an uncomfortable moment rather than his sudden revulsion to the man's appearance. But he was certain that George got an eyeful of his initial reaction and desire to put distance between the two of them. He felt horribly disappointed in himself. It wasn't George's fault. Reginald could have braced better, or maintained his steely Keystone resolve. But he did neither. 

	[color=b8860b]"If the two of you would please be as kind,"[/color] he started, not moving from the floor, [color=b8860b]"...do start the conversation without me. I'm an old man, and I need to lay down for a moment. Private! I apologize."[/color] Reginald reached into his pocket and retrieved his flask of good scotch, chanced a horizontal pull from it, and placed it awkwardly onto his desk from his much lower position. [color=b8860b]"Please have a drink on me, in the interim."[/color] He felt very lucky just the that their view of one another was blocked. Reginald could not see George's prosthesis, and George could not see Reginald's shame. He did not handle that well.

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Meanwhile, back at the prison...

	The good Corporal flung open the back door to the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, looking as bubbly and accommodating as ever. His smile was one of the dutiful [s]lackey[/s] soldier as he responded to Haakon with an overly saccharin, "Positively, [i]positively[/i]! Indeed it [i]is[/i], squire, time to go back to the Barracks. Hoping our 'umble accommodations look a bit more smartly then, yes?" He waved the man into the vehicle with a crisp, "Sorry about our lack of ice, but you look as if you might could use a good snort anyhow. Have at it, at your leave." He was of course referring to the small wetbar in the back of the vehicle. 

	He exhibited less grace to Josephine, owing to her choice of words. Though it could be meant in a manner otherwise, she seemed to pass along an order, and her last sentence about [i]someone else[/i] deciding to slander them hit home a touch as he believed her to mean his wonderful, compassionate commanding officer, a man to which he was intolerably loyal. [i]Intolerably[/i]. The Corporal squinted his eyes at her in an overly dramatic manner, leaning in just a little even as he held the door open for her. "Sorry, love. Just for a moment you sounded like the Lord [b]MAJOR![/b]" He threw a sideways salute and waved her into the car, whispering, "[i]Refreshments are inside, Miss.[/i]"

	The Corporal hopped into the front passenger's side of the car, owing to the fact that the Legal Officer had taken over the wheel and he didn't feel like squabbling in front of guests. The engine purred to life and soon they were on their way, putting the Cairo Prison behind them. 

	"You two didn't get the thumbscrews or the butt-spider treatment, did you? Oh, you'd remember it if you did, I'll warrant. They got ways of making people do their druthers, if they think you'd be forgot about. Fair piece you got British friends in town, long as that'll still matter."