milliways_bar | (no subject)

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On the other side of the door, there was an explosion.

Well, there was always an explosion somewhere on the other side of the door, but this particular one was in Scotland, and it was the kind of thing that scours the landscape clean. And it was also the kind of thing that resulted in the door coming open in a burst of heat and light and gas smell, which was good, because otherwise the man in military fatigues would have been thrown into the door, rather than through it.

The Milliways door closes. The man stays where he is in a smoking heap.

[~~OOC: I've got a meeting about a web site now but should be back sometime in the next half hour to an hour. Tag if you like- I'll respond when I get back.~~ Back now.]

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"I could do with a Guinness," says Wells. Then: "Oh, don't tell me Disney runs this place."

"...Disney? the conglomerate?" Preston frowned, "....I can't recall that they have a stake in this place it just-well-it just is. I've never thought to ask about the rats."

Preston frowns, "They were notorious for seeming to own everything though weren't they?"

Disney of Preston's world extremely different, most likely, mebbe.

"You hear jokes about the Rat, but I never thought... never mind." He shakes his head. "I'll ask later."

He leans across the table.

"Now, if y'don't mind... what's this about the end of the universe? Am I dead after all? You and that woman who tried to levitate my arse make a pretty poor substitute for Saint Peter."

Preston frowns, "....no. This is a different-"

He considers this.

"This place-I suppose is connected to numerous worlds." Preston said finally, "Some kind of-crossroads. A meeting-place for people from different worlds."

"For example, In my world-"
A swallow.

"In my world, a man who could very nearly be your identical twin has set up an almost orwellian dictatorship that rules over people with an iron fist, controlling the populace with drugs." He likes that word, orwellian, "The Clerics function as Secret police, enforcing his orders and carrying out the continuation of Father's teaching."

Best way to talk about something is to just get it out in the open.

"....."

Preston blinks.

"I beg your pardon?"

The very obvious fact is, that he's never heard that expression before.

"....no...I'm not-shitting you..." Preston winces at the words, "I kill people. I'm very very good at killing people for Father. There are people who are better then me however. far better. I've seen-"

Well, the things that Preston's seen in Milliways. One could write a book.

"All kinds. People with magical abilities." He nods, perfectly serious.

And this is Clerical Serious.
This is the kind of serious that people see before Preston shoots them normally.

Wells sighs. "Don't try to swear, lad, you haven't had the practice. No matter what they've got you doing."

The wait-rat arrives, and he takes his drink; it's dark as coffee, but there's a thick layer of foam on top, and close enough, one would smell the alcohol for sure.

"Magic, huh? There's a surprise," he says dryly. "You sure this place isn't being run by Special Weapons Division after all?"

Preston shakes his head, "If there were any government involved I'd know." He's pretty sure of that, "This place just...Is."

Preston's nearly gagging off the alcoholic taste, "....That's certainly-strong stuff."
He winces. Obviously not used to it, buring his face in his green tea.

Not-literally of course.

"Mmh. All right." He relaxes a bit; there's still the possibility that this could be some sort of analogue of the Village, but right now he's not entirely sure he cares.

"What, this?" Wells looks at his glass. "Hardly. Don't tell me Big Daddy's outlawed alcohol, too? You poor, poor bastard- even Winston Smith got his gin..."

"Not outlawed." Preston shrugs, suddenly nervous, "It's used for ceremonies, and even then it's only sake. things like marriage ceremonies."

Now, seeming an opportune moment, Preston asks, "What's a Chaplin sir?"

Wells snorts. "That's close enough. I suppose next you'll be telling me there's no such thing as football in your world 'cos my evil twin thinks it encourages hooliganism."

His drink is halfway to his mouth when the question is asked. It is put down immediately. "What sort of fucked-up vocabulary book do they teach you out of in this world of yours? You've got 'cleric' and 'tetratawhatsis', but not 'chaplain'? Bloody hell... look, a chaplain's someone who's got the job of being a minister to a military unit, or a police unit, or some other form of uniformed service."

"Sports are encouraged-but-football is an EC-10 rated activity." Preston said, "I was taught that the sport encouraged base emotions like violence."

He winces, "A Minister? As in a Religious minister?"

Religion went out with Football, Music, and LOST.
Sighing, Preston finishes his tea, "There are quite a few problems it's true."

"Dunno what EC-10 means, but I think I can guess," says Wells. "Damn, I feel sorry for you lot. No footy, nearly no alcohol- please don't tell me you've got nothing but test-tube babies. I don't want to think about my evil twin takin' away sex, too."

"Yeah, a religious minister... that's what a cleric is. Didn't they tell you that at the academy or the seminary or whatever?"

"Sex..."

Preston's face is dark-red by now, "Is used primarily for the state-in vitro births are highly suspect, although the system has been discussed."

At the mention of it however, Preston beams, "Despite all of that good things do come out of it. I'm a father myself."

Absentmindedly he's got the photograph of his children.

Wells stares at him for a while, and then sadly shakes his head, covering his face with one hand. "Fuck me sideways," he mutters. "How do you stand it? ... never mind, you mentioned drugs... that's bollocks, the lot of it. You poor bastards."

Must be entertaining hearing sentiments like that coming out of that face, hey?

He leans across the table to have a look at the photograph. "Cute kids," he says absently. "I've seen more cheer in a graveyard. But cute kids."

One hand strays to his front pocket, but stops there.

Preston smiles absentmindedly, "....Thank you." It's a precious thing, that photograph.

Preston's face darkens, "....It's going to change." as soon as possible., "If I have anything to say about it."

The tone implies, "Killing" and "Lots of it."

Another change in topic, "Do you have kids?"

Wells nods, taking up his pint again. "Good luck," he says. "And if you get the chance, put the boot in a couple of extra times for me, will you? Son of a bitch's running around with my face on- that's defamation of character, that is."

"Hm? Oh, just one," he says. "She's married, though, dunno that I'd call that 'kids'. Bit young for it, but so was I, so it runs in the family really."

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