milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The Front Door opens to allow a small rubber ball to come bouncing into the bar.

"Sam!"

"Sam! Do I have to do everything around here?"

Moments later, a grumbling White House Director of Communications comes into the bar. Not that he's noticed--he's too absorbed in scowling at the sheaf of papers he has in his hand. He reaches down automatically for the ball, which has come to rest against a chair leg, and only as he rises back up does he notice where he is. Just in time to hear the Door slam shut behind him.

"Not again!"

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"You sound," says a terribly English voice, "rather like I felt not five minutes ago. I take it this was also an unlooked-for visit?"

He's sitting over at one of the tables not far from the door, still in uniform, rather pointedly avoiding a view of the Observation Window.

Toby opens his arms and looks up at the ceiling. "Finally. Could that possibly be a voice of sanity?"

Picking up his martini, he comes over to the table--then stops short.

"You're not crazy, right? Not like--," Toby gestures toward basically everyone else in the bar.

"I should certainly hope not. I can't imagine I'd keep my commission very long if I were," says the Brigadier tartly. "I was supposed to be compiling a final report on the situation back home to my superiors, and I found myself here for the fifth time in less than a week."

Toby nods, sympathetic to anyone who has something written that needs to get done. He gestures with the thick set of papers he has in his hand, then lets them fall on the table, where they land with a dull thud.

"And this, is just a speech. For the President. Of the United States. Nothing important. Only a new policy initiative for most of the Developing World." He turns to glare at Bar, raising his voice. "Not like it has to get done anytime soon."

He stops and closes his eyes. "Great. Now I'm talking to the furniture."

"Considering that the last time I was brought here against my will I was about to lead an armed squad of men in search of the people who'd shot the security chief and murdered one of the scientists at an experimental nuclear power facility, I believe I can sympathise," says the Brig. "You might as well sit. I don't expect this blasted place will let either of us go anywhere for a bit."

Toby smiles unhappily as he ponders that, then shrugs and nods as he takes a seat across from....?

He puts out a hand, "Toby Ziegler. White House Director of Communications for the Bartlet Administration."

He would have added 'the United States' in there somewhere, but if this guy is the Brit he seems to be, he can probably guess that from Toby's accent.

The hand is firmly shaken.

"Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, United Nations Intelligence Taskforce." Pause, while he runs over the last few American presidents in his head. "1970."

"United Nations? Glad to meet you. I'm from...2003."

Really, this would be so much easier if he could just accept he's completely losing his mind.

"United Nations Intelligence Taskforce," Toby repeats slowly. "I don't think I've heard of that before."

"It's entirely possible you haven't," the Brigadier concedes. "I've heard from a number of people from your time frame who've never heard of us, and some who have. I don't intend to let it alter anything on my end of affairs.'

"Well, if you've got a UN that can actually get anything done, you're better off than some of the Earths I've heard about here."

"What kind of intelligence are you usually dealing with, if you don't mind my asking?"

Of course, that might be classified, but Toby figures it doesn't hurt to ask.

He smiles, just a little. "I think it's safest to say we're tasked with monitoring, analysing, and responding to planetary threats in general. We do seem to've attracted a bit of unwelcome attention along the way."

There; that's simple enough, isn't it?

Toby, of course, takes that in the most down-to-Earth way possible, so the 'unwelcome attention' part slips by him for the moment. Actually, the most intuitive part of his brain is frantically trying to lock all memory of that phrase down in the deepest recesses of Toby's mental dungeon. Because having been in the bar before, his intuition has a pretty good idea that asking about it would only lead to Bad Things.

Best to ask instead about Happier Things. "Do you have to stay in Manhattan, or are you based in Britain?"

Probably, yes. One's brain has better survival instincts than one might think sometimes.

"Britain, as it happens," the Brigadier says. "Our members in various countries are seconded from the host country's military and are still bound to obey that chain of command. Conflicting orders get resolved in Geneva."

"It doesn't just happen to you."

Toby shrugs. "Why should it? Why not spread the joy of this place to as many people as possible?"

There may be just a bit of sarcasm in that. Possibly.

"Bar grabbed you out of nowhere too, huh?"

"Quite a while ago, but considering that my government was trying to kill me, I'd say I lucked out."

"..."

"Ok, so things could be worse."

"I don't suppose you're from Earth? Late twentieth-century?"

He gives him a rather flat look.

"I'm not from Earth at all. I'm an Ozian, thank you much, and while my country isn't exactly fruit and roses, it's certainly not the sort of place that would produce people from Kansas."

"Well, your world's got one up on mine then, that's for sure," Toby mumbles.

"So, been stuck here for a while then?"

"That's one way to put it. I've gone back, but only to... well, it ended up being to pick up my daughter, but otherwise, I'm not particularly interested in being there. So I wouldn't exactly call it stuck."

Hmm.

"There's beer here at least."

Not that he drinks it.

"Best alcohol selection I've ever seen," Toby grudgingly admits.

"Of course," he raises his voice and glances back at Bar, "You'd need that here, wouldn't you?"

"I don't drink. It only makes it worse."

Yes, getting disconnected from the present all by yourself can really make the end of the universe even worse.

"And really, this place is not nearly so bad as home."

"Me, I like my home. I like my apartment. I like my office. What I don't like is being dragged to the End of the Universe."

Toby sighs. "But, what are you going to do?"

"So, uh, your government is trying to kill you, you said. Are you some kind of activist?"

"I'm someone who's well aware that the Emperor is a rapist and a murderer," and my uncle.

He'll leave out the bit about setting the bridge on fire and blowing up the Basilica. It just doesn't sound good to strangers.

Probably true, though Toby knows a lot about spin control.

"Yeah, I could see how that would make things.... delicate."

"It's hard enough trying to reach compromises with the politicians of my country, and they don't have that kind of record. Usually."