milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Dr. Malcolm Crowe comes down the stairs, strolls over to the bar, and orders a scotch.

That sentence hasn’t appeared in quite a while, but that’s not to say Malcolm hasn’t been around. He has. But after a year and a half, his life in Milliways has settled into a comfortable routine, and he’s been keeping an especially low profile. He's still been coming down to the bar, but early in the morning, usually after a jog around the lake.

So he’s not expecting anything unusual when he asks for a Glenmorangie and gets back not only his drink but also a book.

That’s not so odd, though. Bar (or the Landlord or whoever) has often sent books his way unannounced. So Malcolm just picks up the old leatherbound volume, and looks it over.

The title turns out to be The Night Side of Nature, or Ghosts and Ghost Seers, and Malcolm is about to tell Bar, “Very funny,” when he sees the name of the author and, beside it, a wood-engraved illustration of her.

“Catherine Crowe?” Malcolm whispers. The family resemblance is unmistakable.

“What the hell?”

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Ever gotten that feeling you're being watched?

A little upsweep of the hairs on the back of your neck?

The empty rafters groan a little overhead.

. . . oh, well. Maybe it's just a ghost.

Malcolm knows all about fight or flight. Well... he's written papers about it, anyway.

Despite surviving a physical fitness program devised by his good pal, Jack Bauer, Malcolm still doesn't qualify as much of a 'survivor.'

So when he feels that little upsweep--and he does--he turns to look around the bar, but never thinks to glance up.

There's a soft, electric sizzling sound from overhead, and little pops of electricity.

Someone just figured this conversation would start quicker if she were visible.

Malcolm looks back and is startled to see a very sizable Predator right above his head.

It's only because he's been at Milliways as long as he has that he's able to reply not with a rather unmanly shriek, but:

"Uhhh.... Can I help you?"

That shriek is standing by if he needs it, though.

This is obviously a very, very important question, given the way the creature tilts its head on one side in surprise.

"No." Its voice is cavernous. Its body language remains surprised. "Why would you ask that?"

It very nearly gets a headtilt of its own in response.

Malcolm is tempted to ask, "Why would you ask why I would ask that?", but he's fairly certain, professionally speaking, that down that path lies madness. And for all he knows, annoyance and then violence. The Predator does, after all, look like, well, a predator.

"Because... that's what I do? I'm a doctor. I help people."

There's a pause. The mask tilts the other way.

"Why would they let you?"

Malcolm squints slightly. This is going to be one of those particularly odd cross-cultural discussions, he can tell already.

"...Usually because they want me to."

"They're in pain of some kind. And want somebody to help them make it go away."

This is obviously cause for more thought.

"Where do you find them? Do you follow them around?"

Malcolm, perhaps wisely, decides not to even get into the question of 'stalking.'

"Usually, they find me. Or they look for help in the infirmary." Malcolm nods in that direction. "If you're ever hurt, you're welcome to go there too."

Malcolm gets ready for another headtilt in response to that last comment. It seems pretty clear that whoever this is, they're not in the habit of getting help from others.

His expectations? Totally met. She's going to get a crick in her neck if this keeps up.

"Why would it make any difference to be hurt in there?"

"Well," Malcolm's eyes look toward the infirmary for a moment, though he's careful to keep looking up. "That's where we have the things we need to help them get better. The other doctors like me. It's where we keep our medicine and medical supplies."

Malcolm is keeping his language simple, not because he's under any delusion that this is a child, but to keep possible misunderstandings to a minimum. After all, she's still looming right above him in a way that makes Malcolm feel a lot more sympathetic to mice than he ever has in the past.

She's crouched perfectly comfortably, keeping her balance without apparent effort as she moves her. . . call them hands to hang on either side of the beam.

. . . it hasn't occurred to her most people talk like this, because, well, they do where she's from.

"Why don't you carry them? It seems easier than carrying the hunter to the place, even if you do usually travel in herds."

Malcolm has to puzzle over that for a bit, and he's still not sure he quite understands, but:

"Sometimes carrying them risks hurting them even more. In there, they can rest until their wounds heal."

"Besides, we don't really travel like we used to. Not in the same way."

Malcolm is sure as hell not going to encourage the continued use of the word 'herd' in this conversation.

"No, carry the supplies, not the wounded." There's a thoughtful rumble, interspersed with a staccato clicking noise. "I wouldn't think so. You've covered your planet and made farms. Nowhere to migrate, besides over the crops of others."

Malcolm nods with a silent, 'Ah.'

"We do carry the supplies when we can. But the supplies we need for the worst injuries are too heavy to carry, and too delicate to move around. So we keep them in a centralized place, and then have very fast vehicles to carry injured people to them."

He grimaces. "That doesn't always work. But we do the best we can."

Malcolm squints as he tries to get a closer look at her. "That looks pretty advanced to me. What you're wearing I mean. That armor. The equipment you're carrying."

What do you do when you're talking to an ooman who didn't think to bring any focussing equipment, but who either is trying to make faces, or trying to see you?

You fall backward, hooking your foot over the rafters, catching them with your hand, and hanging sideways. There, you're lower now.

"The technology is good. The quality is what I can afford. These will not stand up over a truly good hunt. I explore."

Malcolm is impressed. For someone so large, she's a lot faster and more dextrous than he expected.

He takes as long a look as he figures would be polite and then nods. "Looks pretty good to me."

"My name is Malcolm, by the way."

A lot of people have been surprised by the ability of very large aliens to bounce through the treetops like gibbons.

"It won't stand up to molten stone or the blood of the hard meat." She sounds as dismissive as something that booms like that can.

"Well, I don't suppose most things would." Malcolm offers sympathetically.

'Molten stone' is easy enough to guess. The blood part has him wondering, but that sounds like one of those things he'll sleep better for not knowing about.

"Do you remember how you got here? I haven't seen you around before, so I'm guessing you must have just arrived."

So it's slightly concern that makes Bill Block hesitate as he goes to the bar and grabs a beer.

Concern knits his brows together. Guy maybe doesn't look so good?

"...you all right partner?"

"Huh?" Malcolm looks up, and noticing the thermometer makes an educated guess that the infirmary might have just picked up another staffmember.

"Yes, thanks. I'm fine. Just... thrown off a little to see this." Malcolm closes the book and offers a hand.

"I don't think we've met. I'm Dr. Malcolm Crowe."

Oh thank god. Another physician. Bill grins as best as he can, "Doctor Block."

Yes, let the name slide for now.

"...You ask for a magazine and they hand you this or somethin?"

"Glad to meet you."

"No, just asked for the drink. The book came extra. Bar does that sometimes. At least, I think it's Bar who's doing it. Could be the Landlord himself for all I know."

He looks down at the book again. "I have a feeling it comes from an ancestor of mine. Never saw it before, though."

He raises an eyebrow, "...An ancestor of yours."

Disbelief? Yes. Skeptical? Of course, "...You have kids?"

Years of hiding reactions to the things his patients have sometimes said helps Malcolm to conceal the pain that question raises. Memories of Anna. Funny how most days he's fine about leaving that life behind. Other days, not so fine.

"No. My wife and I never had the chance. I had a run-in with a former patient a couple of years ago. Neither one of us got out of it alive."

"So, here I am. Bound to the bar."

That's the thing about doctors. Meeting dead people is going to be a shock for almost anyone, but at least doctors have ways of dealing with death as routine. It had been a while since Malcolm had met someone who could probably roll with it.

Bill Block has seen some strange shit. Really strange shit. He's seen stuff that would curl ordinary stomachs.

So...he listens, shifting the thermometer back and forth in his mouth as he watches the man for any signs of trauma. Fever. Head injury. Some sort of wound he can't see.

"...If I asked you if you hit your head or got into a fight." Block says quietly, "Or if you were sick, running a fever, you'd probably say no huh? Means that your story's probably true huh?"

He's in a magical bar at the end of the universe. "Damn. Sorry about that partner. Truly sorry."

What else can he say? The man's Dead for chrissake.

And suddenly there is a pang in a place in his heart that hadn't been used in months. Years.

He looks truly disgruntled, "...You got any relatives on your family tree who're writers?"

"Thanks," Malcolm says, meaning it.

"I've been here for a long time, though. Nearly two years. I've had time to get used to it."

"Used to this place," he adds, amazed that he can finally say that.

"And, no. No writers that I knew about. Except.... There was a Catherine. I never knew much about her. Now that I'm thinking about it, I don't think my family ever wanted to talk about her."

"To be honest, I basically forgot she even existed. Until I saw this."

"Black sheep huh?"

Block leans forward, totally unaware that he might be invading the man's personal space, "...I've got relatives like that. 'cept they're usually jail bait, hence why I don't talk about um'. Now on my wife's side, you could write a damn book about that thick."

He points and eyes the title, "...Ghosts?"

Oh, yeah, this guy's going to be one of the colorful ones.

Still. He might have the skills, and the infirmary could always use an extra hand.

"I always figured my family was pretty boring. Guess maybe I was wrong. Anyway, I'll find out soon enough."

"And, yeah, 'ghosts.' Always a good way to get my attention, given that I was one for nearly a year. Back on my Earth."

This is not Kaifan. This is not a house in Kaifan. This is a bar that, for all purposes, looks like it should be in New York City. Or even California.

Whatever happens, this is not the desert, and that makes him tense.

Which is why he's skulking around until he finds a man who looks to have a vague air of authority. There is the sound of a gun being clicked and-

And Christopher Muldoon blinks and pulls off his mask, "....What the fuck?"

Malcolm was just minding his own business, taking a look around the bar as he put the glass back down. But seeing the new arrival, Malcolm blinks back, then looks down at his drink.

He got that book without asking. Maybe that's not the drink he thought--?

No. No, that would be too easy. This wasn't just the drink. Fucking Milliways, the Landlord had finally grabbed someone from somewhere who looked just like him.

Great.

Well, maybe the guy's friendly and good-intentioned at least. Malcolm looks at him again, and makes a wry smile.

"Just arrived?"

Much later when he reviews this situation, he'll be kicking himself.

For now however, the gun is hanging limply in one hand. The silver device beside him beeps, which immeaditely distracts him.

Before he turns to face this man again, "........What?"

The simple answer is yes, the not so simple answer is, "....Where the fuck am I, and who the fuck are you?"

"Welcome to Milliways, the Bar at the End of the Universe."

"No. Really. End of the Universe. Right out there." Malcolm points.

He'd love to have an easier, less traumatic way to tell people about this, but he's learned that getting them over the shock as quickly as possible is about the best you can do.

Pure gut instinct compells Muldoon to look and raise his gun before letting loose a string of profanity that would kill the pope.
He somehow knows it.

How could he not? It looks like what you get when you throw a grenade and run. The desert sand billowing up around you and sending smoke across the landscape.

his eyes widen, "....Mary mother of god-"

Instead of panicking however, he raises the weapon again, "...What the fuck is going on?"

"Well, first of all, don't worry. No one's going to threaten you in here. There are Rules people follow."

"Most of the time," Malcolm adds wryly.

"This place has a way of grabbing people. Wherever and whenever they are, they pass through a door of some kind and end up coming through That One over there. It just... happens. It's been nearly two years for me, and I'm still not certain why any of us were brought here."

Ignore the icon man and focus on the expression hmm?

Muldoon automatically looks to where his double (doppleganger much?) is pointing.

"...Can we get back through it if required?"

It seems the most obvious question to ask.

"...Depends."

"If you can see the Door there, you're good. If not, well, you'll be staying here for a while. Until the Landlord says otherwise."

Muldoon turns, "....Still there."

Kaifan ass-end of nowhere. Joy, "....This place forces you to take a fucking vacation?"

"Heh," Malcolm doesn't quite laugh. It's hard to manage any real humor about that.

"I wouldn't call it much of a vacation. More like an invitation to a new life that sometimes you don't get to refuse. Looks like you lucked out, though. If the Door's there, you can leave when you want."

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