milliways_bar | (no subject)

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sergeant wells

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It was a Monican ploy. It had to be.

How else to explain how a car door could open into such a strange place?

Trevor very nearly closes the door again and tells the driver to move on. But, if it is a Monican ploy (as it surely must be), then he owes it to his people to uncover and utterly destroy it.

Society must be preserved. Bregna must be protected.

So, Chairman Goodchild gets out of his car and steps into the establishment. It appeared to be a bar or tavern of some sort, highly archaic design.

What could they be up to now? he wonders as he wanders.

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There's a fellow in a bloody old-school military uniform- way, way back, somewheres around the twentieth or twenty-first century- with a notebook and an intent expression. He's not looking in the Chairman's direction, mind- he's got a seat by the fireplace and a cup of tea at his elbow- but you can never really tell, can you?

No, you never can. Which is why it's always wise to suspect everyone. And, while the man wasn't in any way close to wearing the outfit typical of Monican forces, he was still very clearly military. Something in the posture, a certain look to the eye.

Trevor moves over to him. "You are a soldier, yes?" he asks in a clipped, authoritative tone.

Wells glances up at the fellow and sets down his tea. "British Army, yep," he says. "Bit out of my element at the moment. Can I help you, sir?"

The accent may or may not be one that's still around in the other man's experience. While it seems to be a given that some form of the British accent will exist forever, if science fiction is to be believed, it's rarely the distinctly-not-posh-at-all sort to come out of Islington, London.

"Brit-ish," he repeats quizzically. "So this is not the Monican Free State?"

Or, at least, it wasn't claiming to be.

Wells lifts an eyebrow. "Not last time I checked, no," he says. "Dunno what state it is, if any- I don't think we've got any government whatsoever out here. This is pretty much the end of the Universe, or as close to it as it's possible to get. Not a lot of call for statehood out this way."

He considers the other man warily.

"You're not from Libria, are you? 'Cos I'm getting really fucking tired of Librians thinking I'm Father."

"Libria?" He scoffs. "Never heard of it." The implication is clear in his voice that anything he hasn't heard of is not worth knowing.

"I am Chairman Trevor Goodchild of Bregna. I must warn you that my government does not negotiate with kidnappers."

He pauses, and then leans in. In a lower, much smoother voice, he adds, "On the other hand, I, as the leader, may be able to come to some arrangement."

Wells exhales. "Good," he says. "The Libria thing's getting kind of old. Can't say I heard of Bregna, though. Where's that?"

And then he smiles, just a bit. "I'm not in charge here, mate. I got sucked in without a warning myself- 'course, I can't really complain, considerin' the alternative was death by massive fireball. You'll want the Head Barman if you're tryin' to negotiate anything. Redheaded fellow, name of Bernard. Anyone around here makes arrangements, it's generally him."

He ignores the question. If this man doesn't know where Bregna is, it's all the more reason not to lead him there.

Instead, Trevor strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Bernard, you say. Very well, I shall have to locate him quickly. The Breen take a dim view when their leaders are abducted."

Up goes the other eyebrow. "Abducted, is it? You're sure of that? Can you open the door?"

Trevor looks at the door. "Ha! You'd like me to try that, wouldn't you? Booby trapped, is it? Or maybe there's simply armed guards on the other side with orders to shoot on sight. Would make everything tidy, killed while attempting escape. You'll not get rid of me that easily!"

Wells sighs. "All right," he says. "In that case, I should tell you, there's three basic rules here. No violence in the bar proper- take it out back if you've got to hit someone, although self-defence is all right. No old business from home, mostly that means grudges. And nothing that'd-" He pauses, reconsiders. "No naked or other naughty business in public areas. That's what upstairs is for."

"Finally, it's not a rule exactly, but I shouldn't attempt to go skating on the lake if I were you. There's a fucking enormous shark in there and he doesn't take well to visitors."

"All very sensible precautions. I've instituted similar restrictions in Bregna."

Along with about four thousand others, but who's counting, eh?

"I believe I shall attempt to find this... Bernard and see if he and I can arrange something to our mutual benefit."

"Good for you, then," says Wells. He smiles, a thin little expression. "And good luck finding Bernard. Haven't seen him in a while, but he's usually about, so if you look long enough I reckon he'll turn up."

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