milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOM: There'll always be an England. It's just that eventually, it's REALLY going to suck.]

The door opens, and for a moment the ruddy-gold light of candles and lamps can be seen on the other side. Not for long, though. The blue-clad, bearded fellow who trudges through closes the door behind him.

And then stops, two paces in, and stares.

Quinn Abercromby hasn't got any words at all for this.

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Quinn blinks, and shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "My name's Quinn. Who're you?"

If he'd been a little older when the dragons came, maybe he'd have seen more Sean Bean movies. But he wasn't, and by his time there's just no point in VCRs any more. So. Look of total lack of recognition for the dead Cleric.

Awww, no love for the Bean Collective.

Of course, that seemed to make sense. An amused light flickered across his features as he thought of how Preston would react to this bit of news.

"Errol Partridge."

That gets a nod. "Good to meet you, Partridge. What the hell happened to my bed? This was my sleeping quarters the last time I opened that door."

Partridge crooked a smile at that, "You're not in your quarters anymore, or your world. This is called Milliways, the Bar and Restaurant at the End of the Universe."

Quinn starts to refute that- or question it, or something- but honestly? He's lived with the same hundred or two people for the past ten years now. He's been all over the castle, and he's seen people born and brought in and buried. And none of them are here.

As far as he's concerned, it doesn't matter whether this place is at the end of the Universe, or in New York City. Both are equally impossible, from where he's been.

His knees suddenly unsteady, he grabs for the nearest chair and drops into it, fighting the urge to bury his face in his hands.

Partridge remarked with great concern for the man, "I'm sorry. You should still be able to get back to your world. There are exceptions of course."

Quinn's staring at the table still, but he nods. "All right," he says a bit hoarsely. "How? Just- out the door? Just like that?"

"Yes, exactly," he nodded in agreement.

Quinn looks over at the door for a moment before turning back to Patridge. "Okay," he says. "Okay. That's... that's good."

There's a pause.

"Am I dead? Is that it?"

He can think of a lot worse places to spend eternity than in a pub. England, for one.

Partridge shook his head, "I don't think so. Some like myself are dead, but not all. Many are still alive here too."

"Gotcha," says Quinn. "'Cos I could accept this as the afterlife. That'd be easy." He glances over at the other man. "You look in pretty good shape, for a dead man."

Partridge nodded, "I thought it was when I first arrived as well. For obvious reasons."

He added, "Well, Clerics such as myself had to keep our bodies in efficient and top fighting form for maximum sucess."

"Actually, I meant the bit where nothing's decaying or falling off. Dead people tend to do that back home." Quinn pauses. "'course, dead people back home don't tend to talk, either, so that's not much use for a comparison, is it... Cleric, huh? What, like a kung-fu monk or summat?"

Probably not the sentence one would expect out of that face, beard or no.

"Actually none of the dead here are like that. Not sure if anyone can die here in fact." How little he knows...

Partridge seemed amused at the irony of the question, and then explained some of the background of the Grammaton Clerics.

Quinn?

Stares.

".... that's sick, mate," he says. "That's just- that's nasty."

Partridge was grim, "Never said it was pleasent. At least it will only be a bad memory, and a warning for future generations now. That world is now free."

Quinn exhales. "Suppose so," he murmurs. "No offense, mate, but- I'll take the dragons over that any day."

Partridge frowned at that, "Dragons? But that's only in stories and poems. Mythical creatures."

Quinn snorts. "Tell that to my people," he says. "They've been alive and active where I come from for the past twenty years. I saw the first one come out from under London when I was twelve years old. They've bloody near destroyed everything."

"I'm sorry," Partridge honestly admitted. "How did it happen?"

There's a sigh as Quinn settles back in his chair. "Far as anyone can tell, the species's been around for a long, long time," he says. "Millions of years. There's scientists who think- who thought- that it was the dragons that killed off the dinosaurs, or did the other mass extinctions. Dunno how they got to that conclusion, but I remember hearing that when I was younger. They've been in hibernation all that time, 'cos there hasn't been enough life on Earth for it to be worth their while. But when I was twelve, my mum was in charge of a construction project- digging new infrastructure for the London Underground- and woke up the first one. It came blazing out of its cave, burning and smashing-"

He shivers, swallows, and has to look away.

"Anyway, after that... after that they just started popping up, all over the place. Waking up, the survivors of... I dunno the last time they were really, seriously active. But it wasn't like the Middle Ages and the stories- they woke up and they bred, and you got swarms of the bloody things. They just sprung up like cockroaches, and it didn't matter how many the military killed 'cos there were ten living for every dead..."

Partridge was silent at that, unsure what to say.

There's not that much that can be said, really.

"They're starving now, I think," says Quinn quietly. "At least- that's the impression we get when we see them. We're hoping we can outlast them somehow, 'cos only one species is getting out of this alive."

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