milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When Nick ventures down from his room, he is not in the best of moods. After his conversation with Puck, a few things - tiny, mundane details - brought themselves to light in his mind, and now he cannot stop blaming himself.

So he does what any sensible man would do, and orders a drink.

The drink - Scotch, on the rocks - appears within seconds, but there is something odd about it.

It's resting atop a hardcover book. When Nick picks it up and reads the gold print along its side, he looks puzzled. The Great Gatsby, it reads. By F. Scott Fitzgerald.

176 pages and two and a half glasses of Scotch later, the book hits the floor with a very audible thud.

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KARR is feeling both rather cranky and nosy today, and so the AI decides to investigate the thud. He turns from his parking spot near the bar, making his way over to eyeball the book. His scanner flicks idly as he looks at it-it doesn't seem particularly interesting to him.

"Was there something in desperate need of a squashing here, or did you simply drop your book?"

And now there's a talking car.

"I dropped it," Nick says, expression blank. "It... slipped."

Nick stares, then eyes his half-empty (full?) glass. How much did he drink?

The stare and the glance at the glass doesn't go unnoticed. KARR sighs to himself. "Before you ask, no, I'm not any sort of illusion or prank."

"Okay."

Nick's still staring.

"I apologize in advance. Um. I'm not in the best mindset, right now."

In fact, he's amazed he's still able to form coherent sentences.

KARR's scanner flicks slowly as he's stared at. He's used to it. "I assume your drink has something to do with that?"

"Probably has something to do with it," and it's true, because Nick's speech is slightly slurred, "but I blame the bulk of it on the book."

"It's that terrible? How bad can a book be?"

"This book is about me," Nick states flatly.

"Then I would suggest that next time, you pay more attention to what goes into your..well, biography, I suppose."

For some reason, Nick doesn't think it's that simple.

"I... yeah."

He's at a loss for words. Honestly, can you blame him?

"So what happens to be so bad in this book, exactly?"

Karr is inherently nosy. He wants details!

"It's just... the whole thing," Nick says. "And I can't... I mean -- how was this written?"

His mind is boggled.

"Well, I would assume that someone got ahold of a keyboard or paper, or perhaps a clay tablet and a stick, and then either began to hit keys or make marks until words were formed."

"But it's from my point of view, and I never..."

There's blinking, and lots of it.

"Well, that I can't explain, unless...hm. Do you have a clone?"

It's Milliways. Stranger things have happened, both in the bar and in the multitude of worlds it connects to.

"... I don't think so?"

Nick knows strange things happen - like talking cars, for example! - but this? This is very difficult for him to wrap his mind around.

"Hm. I suppose that theory could be counted out, then. Perhaps it was written by an alternate version of yourself? That sort of thing does happen."

Blink, blink, blink.

After a few long moments of thoughtful silence, "Maybe. But why would I use a different name?"

"Perhaps that's the only difference between the universes-your names. Which seems rather doubtful, as I'm sure other things would differ, but...it's an idea."

"... maybe."

Then, an idea!

"I'll... try to research it, or something."

"I would suggest starting by asking if anyone's seen someone who looks like you. Or perhaps asking the Bar for more books."

He's not sure that more books would help with Nick's boggled state, but they might provide more information.

"I'll get around to it," Nick says, sounding slightly pathetic. "But... not now. My head hurts."

"I would normally suggest having more of whatever it is you're drinking-but in this case, I doubt drunkness would help." He pauses. "Although it would certainly be a distraction."

"Sir?"

Mary Anne picks the book up off the floor, holding it out to him. "I think you dropped this..."

Nick stares a bit absently at her for a few moments before taking the book, setting it down on his lap. He won't look at it.

"Thanks," he mutters, trying to not look too traumatized.

She chews her lower lip.

"Of course, if you meant to drop it...we could just pretend I never picked it up and put it back where it was?"

"I didn't mean to," he says, glancing quickly at it. "It slipped."

That's the complete truth.

"I think I'm going to pretend I didn't read it."

She tilts her head, eyeing the book.

"That bad, huh?"

"You could say that."

He looks downward once more; this time, his eyes remain focused on the blank cover.

"On these pages," he says, almost slurring, "are words that describe events that have happened in my life perfectly."

That gets her attention.

"Like not just 'wow, this is familiar' but more like 'who the hell was following me around and taking notes'?"

"The latter."

He drags a fingertip against the spine of it. "Except... it was written from my point of view."

"Well shit."

She glances at his glass. "I'd offer to buy you a drink, but you've got one. Don't suppose I can pick up the next round?"

Because alcohol is clearly the answer.

For some reason, her response cracks him up.

... for about a second. After his brief laughing fit, he falls right back into his confused, horrified state. Weird.

Meekly, "Sure."