Just be a little sarcastic. Just enough to show you don't take life too seriously. Cheeky. Puckish, Angelus sometimes calls it.
As Finch talks, he lets the gears in his head spin a bit, musing over what his possible persona might be. Of course, he always keeps a fairly fleshed-out persona on hand, it's just a matter of amending the details as the situation and expectations warrant.
He has to play to expectations to a degree. The personal presentation can only do so much. He knows he's got certain fixed variables he has to inevitably contend with, like his sodding face.
Angelus couldn't have waited five sodding years Spike thinks, a little wryly to himself. Maybe ten.
What do human twentyish-year-olds do nowadays? Spike runs through his options, considers what he could possibly claim to do that would be in the realm of stereotypical expectations.
Military is right out. He's arguably had over a century of military training, but even when he has posed as a soldier in human warfare, it's not been in any sort of sanctioned, official, capacity. More like battlefield scavenging-- a lone jackal, looking for opportunities on the fringes.
Human warfare has moved away from the kind of training he's had. Broadswords are very passe. Hell, no one's even using a crossbow anymore.
Spike grins dutifully and nods with a laugh and light, forgettable quip about the difference between Yank socket fittings and British. Throws in a light anecdote about what passes for hotel service in Poland.
"And the towels, mate-- well, you seem posh, so I expect you're used to a bit of luxury, but I reckon I never saw anything like 'em."
The sense of residual euphoria has worn off now. Spike feels a bit spent, generally. Slightly light-headed. "I dunno-- maybe I'll find some other blokes who can play three chords and we'll form a punk group. I'm workin' on a few punk adaptations of some modern pop songs. You ought to hear what I'm doin' with Taylor Swift."
Now, just what does he do back home? Spike mulls this over for a nano-second, considering the possibilities versus what stereotypical expectations would demand.
"Well, er, I'm a bit of a jack of all trades, as it were," Spike finally settles on this as an acceptably non-specific answer. "Sort of a... freelance troubleshooter. Bit of this and that. What sort of conference was it?"
no subject
As Finch talks, he lets the gears in his head spin a bit, musing over what his possible persona might be. Of course, he always keeps a fairly fleshed-out persona on hand, it's just a matter of amending the details as the situation and expectations warrant.
He has to play to expectations to a degree. The personal presentation can only do so much. He knows he's got certain fixed variables he has to inevitably contend with, like his sodding face.
Angelus couldn't have waited five sodding years Spike thinks, a little wryly to himself. Maybe ten.
What do human twentyish-year-olds do nowadays? Spike runs through his options, considers what he could possibly claim to do that would be in the realm of stereotypical expectations.
Military is right out. He's arguably had over a century of military training, but even when he has posed as a soldier in human warfare, it's not been in any sort of sanctioned, official, capacity. More like battlefield scavenging-- a lone jackal, looking for opportunities on the fringes.
Human warfare has moved away from the kind of training he's had. Broadswords are very passe. Hell, no one's even using a crossbow anymore.
Spike grins dutifully and nods with a laugh and light, forgettable quip about the difference between Yank socket fittings and British. Throws in a light anecdote about what passes for hotel service in Poland.
"And the towels, mate-- well, you seem posh, so I expect you're used to a bit of luxury, but I reckon I never saw anything like 'em."
The sense of residual euphoria has worn off now. Spike feels a bit spent, generally. Slightly light-headed. "I dunno-- maybe I'll find some other blokes who can play three chords and we'll form a punk group. I'm workin' on a few punk adaptations of some modern pop songs. You ought to hear what I'm doin' with Taylor Swift."
Now, just what does he do back home? Spike mulls this over for a nano-second, considering the possibilities versus what stereotypical expectations would demand.
"Well, er, I'm a bit of a jack of all trades, as it were," Spike finally settles on this as an acceptably non-specific answer. "Sort of a... freelance troubleshooter. Bit of this and that. What sort of conference was it?"