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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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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."

"Oh, and we all know how well that always works."

"I served myself, back in the '70s. Tour of duty along the DMZ in Korea. Didn't see much, happy to say, but we had a few alerts that weren't much fun."

"Actually it's worked rather well so far," the Brig disagrees mildly. "Granted, our operations have been rather localised so far. That makes a difference, I suppose."

Well, you know, Toby the pessimist. It's a Thing.

"That and the American legislature probably isn't involved." Not that Toby wouldn't normally defend his country's government. But he's facing having to write a speech for the President that will goad the most stubborn members of Congress to do the right thing (an effectively impossible feat). And, besides, the Brits are sort of family, anyway.

True enough.

"No, definitely not," the Brigadier agrees. "They've next to nothing to do with it, really. No offense, of course."

"Oh, believe me, none taken."

He squints. "Five times in the past week you said? That you ended up here?"

"What's that all about?"

"I wish I knew. I can't help but wonder if it weren't something to do with the reactor facility we've been investigating lately."

"Some sort of, what do they call it, 'space-time' thing?"

"I guess that's as plausible a reason for ending up in a place like this as any."

Not that that would help explain Toby's being here in the least. But that's something else his intuition has safely stowed away for the moment.

"Something like that," the Brigadier agrees. "I'll be glad if it settles down any time soon. It was starting to get far too irritating for my liking."

"Me, the place lets me get comfortable. Lets a few weeks go by. Then I get this horrible moment when I actually think I sort of miss it. Still nothing happens. Then, just when I start to feel relieved that it won't happen again--it happens."

"I tell you, the owners here have one hell of a sense of humor."

"In that case I suppose I should expect to find myself here again the next time we've got a mission in front of us," the Brig mutters. "Since they seem to find it funny to snatch me away when I'm about to do something of importance."

"I'm starting to think maybe I should be setting up a typewriter in one of these booths. Maybe wait for JFK to come in through the door and give me second opinions."

Whoa, now there's a disturbing thought. Toby drains the last of his martini and orders another.

"Say hello to Winston Churchill for me should he turn up while you're at it," the Brigadier says, and gets his own drink refilled. "I suppose I really ought to compose my incident report to UNIT command as long as I'm here and save myself the time upon returning."

"And I should probably get started on trying to salvage this," Toby replies, looking at the stack of paper in front of him as if he'd rather just chuck the entire thing and start all over. Which he might, once he gets through most of that second martini.

"Pleasure to meet you, Brigadier. I guess we'll be seeing each other around, if the owners have their way about it."

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fiveroundsrapid.livejournal.com - 2006-10-13 03:37 (UTC) - Expand

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