Wilford is sick of Billy’s living room. He’s sick of staying with someone whose culinary experience barely extends beyond a turkey sandwich. He’s sick of… everything, really.

He shuffles into the bar with Buster close at his heels, and makes slow tracks straight for the fireplace. He’s figured out that he can just about sit up comfortably if he keeps his feet up on the table and puts about three cushions behind his back, so that’s what he does to get settled. It’s a slow and painful process just getting down onto the sofa, but he manages it eventually. Once he gets there Buster climbs up with him, laying across his lap like a living blanket, and giving a semi-toothless snarl to anybody who gets too close - waitrats included.

How Wilford looks is probably a good approximation of how he feels. He hasn’t been able to shower in days, so he’s a bit of a greasy, unshaven mess, though he hasn’t got enough hair on his face yet to pull off that intentionally scruffy look his older self used to wear. The circles under his eyes are so dark, it almost looks like he was punched in the face, and he’s still looking awfully pale. The hoodie he’s wearing is about three sizes too big, but at least it’s clean. Wilford won’t let Billy get close enough to help him bathe, but he’s happy to let the man do all the laundry he wants.

In short, Wilford is a hot mess today, in every possible way. But he’d rather be a hot mess here, than on Billy’s horrible sofa, watching his horrible TV, and eating his horrible sandwiches.

Cassian knows ships, he's been working in and around them since he was a boy, but he doesn't understand all of what Anakin's doing to the X-wing. His jacket is off, his sleeves are rolled up, there's a holographic blow up of the schematics in front of him along with multiple parts and tools. Anakin is clearly rebuilding the ship and Cassian can see some of the ideas but a few of the modifications are beyond him. When he sees something he can do, he dives into the engine or cockpit to get done what he can.

Later in the day, he heads upstairs to get a towel to clean off from Bar and sit down at the counter with his datapad, a large meal and caf. Working on the X-wing did help him get a few more ideas of how to make sense of how the Empire organizes their archives but he needs to find an expert to ask more.

Tiny tag: Cassian Andor
(OOC: I have time once more, catch him downstairs in the garage or up at the counter.)

It is sweltering in Texas and the A/C in Charlie's truck kicked it a hundred and fifty miles ago.

He walks into Milliways expecting a rinky dink gas station, hoping like hell their cooler is working. When he sees the bar his head falls back on his shoulders and he heaves a grateful sigh at the ceiling.

"Thank, Christ."

Pumping on his sweaty T-shirt to try and fan himself out he heads straight for the counter, dropping onto a stool.

"Gimme an ice cold beer, please."

He gets his order and chugs it, ready to ask for another when the first is done.

When hunger and a need to be social finally drives Emcee out of hiding, and when he's fairly sure that he won't randomly burst into tears at the drop of a hat, he comes downstairs to get a meal and a drink at the bar.

A note on a napkin pops up next to his plate of Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes.

And he presses his fingers to his lips, suddenly looking as if he's going to cry.

Exile, as the Aristocra said. Perhaps it should be ringing in Mitth'raw'nuruodo's head, but he's already looking forward, waiting for the warriors who will come and find him on this nameless world.

His hut is built, the scraps of an old settlement laid out, furs and skins to make himself new garments has been obtained and neatly stitched together. Everything is as it should be, as it needs to be, for his plans to work.

Though, as he opens the door to his hut and arrives instead in a noisy bustle of people -- mostly human, by appearance -- with the occasional being who definitely does not come from the Unknown Region in it --

Perhaps he will need to make a few judicious changes to those plans. One can, after all, never be certain.

[Tinytag: Thrawn]

Bonnie is sat in a central booth, with a big box labelled:

'RAFFLE TICKETS 1 US DOLLAR OR EQUIVALENT

Prizes include:
'Vampire Tales and Other Eerie Matters'
A block of sapir tea
A plate of no-bake cookies
Cuddly Toy Demonic Bunny
Huckleberry Pie
1950s USA leather jacket'

Come buy some raffle tickets!

[ooc: See back room posts.]

Bernard is in one corner of the bar, with a bottle of wine and a book.

Who cares what that 'Jim Moriarty' bloke says; this is a perfect place to read, drink wine and hide from the customers.

(Also, who names their son after a Conan Doyle villain? What were his parents thinking? No wonder he turned out to be a weirdo, like all the other weirdos in here.)

He still hasn't entirely understood how this place works, but since he has yet to receive a bill for the wine, it isn't bothering him too much. Every now and again, he glances up from the book, people-watching. Just that little bit curious.

[oom: You’re a tough little bastard, you know that?

warning for uncomfortable and invasive medical procedures]

At some point, Wilford manages to sneak away to leave a note for Jim.

( Jim Moriarty )

There's something a bit off about the handwriting. Like maybe the person who wrote it has had more than a few too many to drink.

Young Rae Seddon is staying indoors today, as a morning rain shower has relieved her of the need to water her plants in the garden. The lettuces are forming heads and growing surprisingly well, she is daily happy to see, and the spinach will likely be fully grown soon. The carrots and radishes are beginning to fill out, too, though they are quite small still. Their leaves were left rather ragged by the bugs Rae found munching on them the other day.

(The garden pests book Rae consulted said the big ones she'd found were celery worms, but then it had to mention that they were the larva form of a rather large and pretty butterfly, so Rae had spent the day moving them to some of the taller plants growing by the forest edge. The pest book said most other pest problems - ants, aphids, caterpillars, wire worms, potato beetles, moles, mice, and mites - could be avoided by mixing up a spray involving garlic and mint and cayenne and dish soap and water. She has the spray-bottle in the kitchen's under-sink cabinet for re-application when the rain stops.)

So this morning, the ten-year-old girl is sitting on the couch near the fireplace, drawing in faint pencil-lines on a piece of white fabric, an embroidery hoop and a case of embroidery floss and needles by her side for when she finally decides what she wants to make. Currently, she is sketching an approximation of an open book upon the cloth. It is nestled in the corner of the cloth next to a rough drawing of a cat.

(OOM: Seeking new hobbies, Baze learns how to brew beer and distill moonshine.)

The bar is quiet today. People mill about, drinking and chattering and generally minding their own business.
 
Then there's the explosion.
 
Smoke pours out of an upstairs room, invading the lungs of the two Jedhan boys who flee from it. Baze Malbus and Chirrut Imwe are singed, coughing, and laughing--though Baze is secretly disappointed. Rats rush up there with buckets of water and extinguishers to put out the small fire.
 
The bite of alcohol fills the upstairs hallway.

Mmph.

If Loki was in a sunny mood the last time he was puttering around with his skiff at the lakeside, he's all looming black clouds now. The skiff looks rough. Mostly superficial damage--scorch-marks, dents, a long scrape down one side--but one of the wings isn't folding smoothly. Does he know how to fix that? Not without consulting a few manuals?

He inspects the skiff, sourly, and then climbs into the back to take a damn nap. He can't bear the thought of that depressing little Milliways room and its meager bed; better to sleep rough by the lake.

That was a lot of illusion-work, a lot of invisibility. Of course it's not taxing to his powers or anything like that, but it does leave a bit of a headache.

(That was a lot of crude showy bloodshed in someone else's universe for someone else's benefit. Of course he doesn't feel regret or anything like that, but it does leave a bit of a headache.)



((Catch him looking over his boat, or if you don't mind an extra-irritable Loki catch him napping.))

"I'll give you twenty-four hours to deliver that witch to me," Pam growls with unblinking, terrifying calmness, her fangs bared. "And if you don't, I will personally eat, fuck, and kill all three of you."

With this ultimatum, Tara, Lafayette, and Jesús hastily disappear up the dungeon stairs, slamming the door behind them.

And Pam is left alone for a moment to collect herself as best she can before she heads up, too, her stiletto boot heels clicking coldly on the damp concrete. Except that when she opens the door, which should have opened onto to the hall leading to the main room of Fangtasia, she steps into Milliways.

"Oh, goddammit."

Her fangs gleam as pointily as the decorative spikes on the shoulders of her black denim jacket.

She's really not in the mood.

[ OOM: A return to canon in which Pam and Sookie have a little chat regarding Eric. His ownership of her house, his whereabouts, blah blah blah. Pam is unsurprisingly bored and unmoved.

Until Eric turns up later with his memories gone. Pam actually has some very strong feelings about that. ]

((Loki has offered to sort out a problem for Jim in Wilford's world. It's a bloodbath. Loki feels a little weird about the whole thing--but let's be honest, we all know he's not going to learn not to go on murderous rampages, and neither will Jim.

Warnings for over the top violence in a big city. Not much really graphic detail but there's a lot of destruction.))

[OOM: Wherein sometimes plans change on the fly, and a liberation of materials turns into a prisoner rescue.]

Much as Hera loves her ship, sometimes it does get a little crowded, a little close. She misses the sky, and even though blue isn't exactly the right color, it's nicer than gunmetal gray.

Kanan seems to feel the same, which is why they can be found out back in Milliways. And, since the weather is cool and not hot, this also seemed like a great time to get some hand-to-hand practice in.

"Shouldn't you be -- oof -- faster than this?"

It's also a good time for practicing banter, as well, apparently.

[ooc: Two muns, two pups, have at!]

oom:

And would you say you feel guilty for viciously murdering these people for your Satanic rites?

warnings for violence and bloodshed.

There's a fresh set of posters up in the bar.



Pinned underneath is an additional note:

The fair is now only a few weeks away! Don't forget to sign up if you want to take part in the sports!

Bonnie
xx

[ooc: See here for details]

His door is back.

At first he doesn't notice and when he does he almost - almost - hurries through it.

Then he remembers what he was told. He will have to look the way he did when he entered.

So Eric gets dirty jeans and a small bucket of mud from Bar and heads for the men's room. Some time later, he returns, in dirty jeans and bare feet, with tousled hair and mud everywhere.

And then he goes home.


{ooc: Eric returns to canon. Feel free to catch him ere he goes}