milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sam inna bar. He's got his dinner, but is currently ignoring it in favour of another very complicated game of cats-cradle with magic.

He certainly isn't preoccupied, and certainly isn't worried about a certain friend of his, or more accurately what said friend's reactions will be to an unfortunate incident the other day.

Someone really ought to tell him his food's getting cold.

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Sam shakes his head. "No. I won't die of disease or natural causes, and most weapons can only slow me down by sending me into a healing coma for a few days. But I can be killed, if you know how to do it."

"Good thing I'm not trying to figure out how." With a relaxed shrug, Gren just smiles: he's not really about trying to kill anyone... not any more. Now that he's dead, or at least no longer alive in the traditional sense, revenge doesn't have quite as much meaning as it used to.

He really doesn't want to see Vicious walk through the front door, and he's pretty sure he's not the only one.

"So... you're immortal, you might know: what is this place?" He's always figured that it was some sort of a waystation, something in between life and death, or maybe in between heaven and hell although he's not so sure about the concept of God or heaven, and he's always kind of thought that if there is a hell, it's life because that can dish up some exquisite kinds of torture most people couldn't think up in their worst nightmares.

Of course, this Sam Linnfer man might not know. Immortal doesn't necessarily equal wise.

Or mature, but that's another matter.

"Plenty have tried, none have succeeded, so I don't recommend it."

Sam laughs. "I have no idea. It's not Heaven and it's not Hell, at any rate not my version of them. I get the impression, though, that it's better just accepted for what it is: Milliways. A bar."

"I've spent a lot of my life in bars. I'm not a lush or anything and I don't even drink a lot; I'm just a sax player. I guess I figured it was some kind of fitting poetic justice for me to end up in one again after I died."

Reaching for his teacup, he swirls its contents around before taking a sip.

"And look. Now neither of us are eating our food."

It's kind of amusing.

He grins again. "And I got drunk for the first time ever in this place, so."

"...Fasting loves company? Or something."

"Something, sure."

He's always pretty much just loved company in general, with the exception of the past few months where he's spent way too much time in the futile pursuit of trying to understand what it means to be dead.

Chancing a more studious glance over at the man at the next table, he notices how dark his eyes are. They almost radiate something, but he doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about it right now.

He does think, though, that he should spend more time downstairs while he can.

Sam's eyes are very old. Sam's eyes see right through you. Sam's eyes are almost unmeetable.

He nibbles a sandwich experimentally. "Been here long, then?"

It isn't like he's really kept track of time. "It feels like a long time; I don't know. Months and months. First before I died, just a few times, and then after, and I was here for good. I think I came here because a friend of mine was here and she needed me... but I'm not sure. That sounds too noble when I stop to think about it."

Besides, Sam didn't even ask that question, but he's always been in the habit of giving more than he gets.

"Being too noble leads to all sorts of problems. In my case, generally it leads to me being shot," Sam says with a chuckle. "Been here much longer than I have, then. I've been here for about two months, I think."

"But you can come and go. That's different. Let me ask what you do when you're out there." What kinds of things do immortals do to amuse themselves? That's one question he can't ask, because he hesitates to lump all immortals into one category: it's senseless. Kind of like saying all men like women or all people with blue eyes have blond hair.

Some things, after all, defy classification. Even the concepts of death, life, and mortality.

He shrugs. "All sorts of things. I've got a part-time job as a researcher at a university. But mostly I wander about. Occasionally piss off the siblings."

Rule Hell. Defeat the hordes of demons that occasionally attack his capital. Maybe save the world, maybe just help out.

Immortality, he figures, must be its own kind of tenure. Suddenly, the concept of living forever kind of overwhelms him: he liked living and despite all the stuff that happened to him, he treasured being alive. Even though he knew it couldn't last forever -- gladly -- and even though he wasn't afraid of it ending.

Still, there are some things that could have gone differently for him and he wouldn't have complained. He can't change them.

"I never had siblings to piss off. I don't know: I don't really have any complaints about that." With a pleasant smile, he sips his tea before finally taking up a fork and eating some of the vegetables on his plate. The way food tastes now always surprises him and while he's not exactly hungry for it physically, he's hungry for the memory of the way it used to satisfy.

Sam laughs. "Lucky you, I've got lots."

He puts down his sandwich, almost untasted. "Hmm. Can't settle to anything today."

Nobody told me there'd be days like these. It's a song he's only a little bit familiar with, but it seems kind of appropriate. He lets out a little laugh. "That happens."

Picking up his own plate, he stands. "I'm going to take this out by the lake. I find it kind of inspirational out there, and I haven't written a new song in a long time."

Might as well get in one last creative blast. This might just be the one song he writes for himself and no one else.

"It was really nice meeting you. I hope we get to talk again." And really, he means it: he's not much for idly complimenting people. And he may be easy-going, but it doesn't mean he's easy.

With a little wave, he makes his way across the bar and out to the lake where the air is warm and the water sparkles and music is everywhere.

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