milliways_bar | Jan. 5th, 2007

Jan. 5th, 2007

3rdtimelucky.livejournal.com

We got back a while ago...

They got back a while ago. Paying little attention to the others, or where they might be headed, Goldy had gone upstairs, changed out of her wet clothes and tried to do something with her hair. She failed in the latter task, much to her added chagrin. It still looked like shit when she was through drying and styling it.

Regardless, she's now ensconced in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, crappy lackluster hair and all, nursing a large vodka tonic. She doesn't look upset or depressed necessarily. In fact, there's no emotion apparent whatsoever. She just looks blank.

bitey-castle.livejournal.com

((OOM: Bitey's arrival at Milliways.))

When Bitey is finished swimming through an endless sea of white radiance, he falls forward onto a hard, wooden floor. He looks up, and is in a treeless place he does not recognize.

Immediately he is standing, eyes wide, and alert. His head turns every which way at once. There are creatures here. Big Foots? No, these are thinner, and hairless. The wind is gone. The wind is never gone. He looks up, and sees no green canopy, no blue sky shrouded by billowing white clouds. This is not his grove. Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

His back is a bit sore from the swift kick that sent him here. Ignoring it, he zooms about the room as fast as he can manage, trying to find a safe place. This is too much - he can't take it all in at once. Is this the witches house? No, he has seen the inside of that place, if briefly. This place is much larger.

He finds an empty booth, near the bar, and jumps beneath it, peering out with round, glowing eyes. Where in all of Brackenwood could he possibly be?

twiststheblade

>>OOM: And things will never be the same again. . Ever.

futures_of_ash

It had been another of those nights when she'd woken up in her usual screaming fit, light and flames dancing through the air of her small room. She was truly weary of waking up with blood in her throat, though at least the shifting of furniture had ceased. There were things she worried about breaking now...

She hadn't the heart to go down through the Bar, so she'd slipped out her window into the winter beyond. Pacing was far from productive, so she'd stopped that. Now, now she sat in a tromped square, packing snowballs. It was something to keep her hands busy, and mayhap kids would care to use them when she was done.

fallen-april.livejournal.com

April's downstairs curled up on a couch, keeping an absent eye on a little gray kitten as she pounces invisible assailants on the cushions. The kitten, not April. April is doodling in one of her new journals (Tom was smart - got them unlined) and thinking.

If you think you can guess what she's thinking about, you're probably wrong. But feel free to guess anyway. She could use the company.

thiefprinceremy.livejournal.com

Lookit that, the Amazing Shirtless Wonder was back.

Well, really he'd never gone away, he'd been around, really, srsly he had!

Well, he'd been the Amazing Fully-Clothed Wonder for a while, but now, for the time being and despite the cold, he was draped over one of the chairs near the fire in all his shirtless glory.

Go ahead and talk to him, he enjoys the ~~ogling~~ company.

(that said, mun's got patchy connection times due to being at work, but the pup is an insistant little pest when he wants to be, so slowtime warnings abound

gotham-knocking.livejournal.com

[OOM: Knox's job interview]

works-in-space.livejournal.com

He was jogging, making his way around the lake and through snow and slush and ice. Of late, he'd been jogging every day. Indeed, Jim was in better shape now than he'd been in in years. If and when the Bar let him go home, he might even be able to cope with the hot, thin air of Vulcan.

Had he become solitary, on all these jogs? Probably. He didn't intent to be a loner - he liked people, after all - but being inside he began to feel like a captive more and more. Outside, he could at least indulge in the illusion that there was more to life here than a building and a door he never could see. There were mountains that reminded him of California, a lake that spoke to him of pioneer ancestors, and air that had at least the hint of being natural and not reprocessed.

So he jogged. And at the same time, he looked to see if anyone else was taking in the woods and the lake this fine, cold morning.

gone_byebye

Ray went home last night, because sooner or later you've got to square your shoulders, pick up the phone, and spontaneously freak out to the point where tell the obsessively persistent reporters, "Я не говорю по-English."

.... this is why Venkman does the PR.

Anyway, he tried that the last time Janine let him anywhere near the phone. There was a moment of silence before his sister said, "Actually, Ray, I'm pretty sure you do."

So he's got an appointment now, because Catherine didn't have time to talk everything out over the phone. Actually, no. Two appointments. The talk with his sister is going to have to take place soon, because the official 'come on down, sit a spell, talk with us' notice arrived from Congress while he was making some very flustered apologies. Is it any wonder he's in Milliways now instead with a mug of some kind of specialty coffee roughly the size of his head? He could use the break- and probably the company.

milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com

Some mornings- so it is said- it simply does not pay to gnaw through the leather straps.

Three nights of werewolfing, two nights and one day of replaying the incident with Ace over in his mind, the inability to get through to Zuko, the talk with his father, the talk with Annie about Zuko, and the very distinct impression of having hunted something large and dangerous in tandem with another werewolf he knew all too well- oh, yeah, this is not his idea of the best morning in the world. There's only one thing you can really do on a morning like that, if you are the sort of man who values his liver.

Off to one side of the lake, Harry Wells has set up the hay bales and targets and marked off the firing range with a couple of flags from Bar. Those who look his way will see him practising with the silent, smokeless pistol Hephaestos gave him.

He's going to be there for hours.

wyrd-fox.livejournal.com

Foxtrot hasn't been down in the main area of the Bar much lately. Oh, he's been around - darting down to pick up a drink or meal along with another stack of the literature insists on giving him - but he's been mostly upstairs.

When he comes down this time, he's carrying a stack of closed boxes that look like they've been made of paper mache (newspapers and magazines are obviously the raw materials). Each is a little bigger than the boxes you'd sell boots in and the resulting stack reaches from his hips to well over his head.

As he places them on Bar's countertop he emerges from behind the stack with a wicked grin.

"Now, love, I wonder if you'd give me a little help here."

A whispered conference and the boxes all vanish. Foxtrot snickers and settles down with a beer and pizza (and a new stack of magazines).

Each time Bob orders something, he'll get one of those boxes. Inside is an elaborate paper mache sculpture, accented with bits of origami (Granted, it's difficult to use magazine pages for origami. You have to laminate several layers to achieve the proper stiffness, but FX is persistant.).

The thing is, each sculpture is undoubtedly R-rated. They are 3-D, made-to-scale reproductions of diagrams from the Kitsune Sutra. The insides of the lids contain helpful notes like, "Don't use honey for this one. Takes forever to get out of fur" or "Beginners might want to use a small trampoline to get the necessary hang time".

Oh, retaliation can be sweet!

callitavesper.livejournal.com

James actually is in a suit today, a light gray suit with a lightly striped white shirt and a black tie with thin silver stripes. He's dressed up to do the town, but is doing nothing more than sitting at a table, doodling in a notepad Bar gave him. The rectangular sketches almost look like blueprints for a room, if blueprints were drawn by modestly talented five year olds.

James is a Jack of some trades, not all. All that matters is that the blueprints make sense to him, since it's his room he's planning. Rulers and straight lines come later.

mendanddefend_archive

From over near the fire pit, there's a blast of yellow light and a loud humming sound.

After a few seconds, it stops.

A few seconds after that, there's a string of curses in English, binary, and Webspeak.

Repeat ad nauseum.

Apparently, when Foxtrot made his little diorama boxes for Bob, he took the precaution of making them virtually indestructible.

Bob is trying to destroy them anyway.

[ooc: ~~Going to run errands, will tag when I get back in an hour or so.~~ Back! Tag away! ...please?]

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

[Out of Milliways for far too long, Patrick Bateman spends his New Year's Eve alone.]

lvpd_sidle

"--if I were you, I'd tell him to--" Sara blinks, momentarily losing her train of thought when she enters the bar.

Oh well. Not like Catherine wouldn't be there when she went back out.

"Gingerbread latte and a Greek salad," she tells a waitrat, finding a comfortable chair near one of the fireplaces.

captainryan.livejournal.com

This morning, after cleaning up and eating something that was killed by someone other than himself, Captain Ryan asked the bar for some hand wraps.

He's now outside beating the shit out of a tree.

It's hard to tell who's receiving more damage, since blood is starting to seep through the thick bandages.

[FYI: Contrary to the icon, Ryan does not have a gun. Sadly, the pic of him getting ready to hit something is on mun's other computer, currently 200 miles from her present location.]

[OOC: ~~Am away for half hour to hour. Tags will be picked up when I return. Thanks!~~ Back!]

runmakitarun.livejournal.com

Makita's been in the bar for a couple of days now, which means it's about time that she familiarized herself with the layout. It's not that she doesn't believe people when they tell her that no one's going to bust into the bar shooting. It's that she... well, okay, she doesn't believe people when they tell her that no one's going to bust in shooting. Doesn't really believe them anyway. The idea's just too alien.

So she's wandering around the bar. All around the bar. Looking under tables, climbing around the rafters, peeking behind Bar, checking out the restrooms. She's not in a hurry, and wouldn't mind an interruption.

[ooc: ~~The mun apparently forgot to eat today, and has only just now remembered. Out for food, but fear not! Makita will be back!~~ Told ya!]

organicmeatbag.livejournal.com

Revan had started to not look for the door awhile back. He had figured it would appear in time and it does. He might not know how long ago it reappeared, it might have been days or minutes ago, but he notices it when he comes down from his room this afternoon. Last time, he rushed for it. This time, he stares at it as all the memories of what was going on out there come rushing back to him.

Not that he forgot what was happening out there – Bastila being tortured, the crew headed toward Korriban, and a war that kept growing – but he had pushed the memories aside until they were in the back of his mind. It made it easier to live, Bound to this place, not having to think or worry about events that could not be dealt with while trapped in a bar at the end of the Universe.

He thinks of them now though as he scribbles a note to Kira, who left two nights ago with warning and her own letter of goodbye. Even if the note is nothing more than a couple of lines and it might not be the greatest of goodbyes and he may be back before she returns, he writes one; he remembers the slap she gave him when he left with no goodbye the first time.

He places the note on Bar's counter, asking in a soft voice for her to deliver it as soon as Kira returns, and he heads for the door.

He might not be ready to face Korriban, that sickening feeling of foreboding curling into the pit of his stomach at the thought of the Sith Academy, but he has to go and, without another look around Milliways, he walks out the door.

blackholesandrevelations

John Crichton was slumped in an armchair, a cup of coffee balanced on his knee. He was not asleep...you see, he was just resting his eyes. And snoring slightly.

Someone should poke him and let him know that...balancing coffee on your knee while sleeping is not smart. He should have learned this!

pc-cooper.livejournal.com

There's a table in the middle of the bar, that has a coffee cup on it, and a bag of doughnuts that have the store name of Tesco printed on it. A notebook is open and there's a Gwen Cooper there too, not really paying attention to the notebook or the doughnuts or the coffee.

That exploding galaxy is much more exciting. But she's very botherable.

dontlooklisten.livejournal.com

The talks about being Gen and what Companions went through with Ilyana Dumas were fascinating ~~(if slowtimed)~~, but honestly? Some days, a guy just needs to get his hands dirty on the stuff of the world he already knows. Thus, Whistler is dissecting- very carefully- a rather complicated sixteen-line office telephone, periodically pausing to run his fingers along the wires until he finds the contact points at which he can test this junction or that. It's slow going, but every piece of hardware work Whistler does is slow going. It's part of the deal.

Oh, and we might as well mention that he's fooling with the Milliways sound system again, too. At least the parts pointed at the area of the table where he's working. Those patrons who were geeky enough would recognize the music he put on as the Blade Runner soundtrack.

aint-no-kid.livejournal.com

The bright lights of Coronet City spilled into Milliways as the door opened and Mission backed into the room, not quite noticing where she was, as she struggled and dragged an unconscious Gamorrean in with her. She let go of the Gamorrean as soon as his bulky body was through the door and she stopped to give his lumpy belly a good kick before walking around him to close the door.

As she turned around, back to face the unconscious porcine alien, that was when she noticed where she was.

"Oh, kriff!"

She sighed, hands on her hips, as she glanced around before she turned and opened the door then grabbed the Gamorrean by the foot.

"I hope this doesn't count as bringing business into the Bar," she mumbled as she started to drag the Gamorrean out the door again. "I mean, I wasn't expecting to walk into here or anything. Kriffing blips in time and space."

After some moments of much struggling, Mission had the Gamorrean out the door again and out onto the causeway. She had been hoping to do this somewhere private, but, as none of the passing persons took any interest in her or the Gamorrean, it was the lower slums of the City and these sorts of things happened all the time, she searched his bags and pockets until she found what she was looking for: a keycard.

She pocketed the keycard, smiling cheerfully at a Duro that glanced her way, and she turned, walking back into Milliways and heading straight for Bar to sit on one of the stools and order some food.

bohemian-mark.livejournal.com

Mark wanders into the bar, and plunks on a stool. "Bar, I need something to read." A book appears on the bar, and Mark eyes it for a moment. "Fitzgerald, Bar? That's... not my usual fare." It stubbornly remains there, however, and a cup of steaming tea appears alongside it. "Well, I guess I'm reading it." Taking the book and the tea, he retires to an armchair, draping himself over it. Feel free to bug him.

slayer_fray

[OOMs: After falling asleep in the Bar, Mel had woken up in a strange apartment upstairs, where she met a overly generous radie and his brother. Since then she decided that trying to sleep in the bar wasn't necessarily the best idea. So she ended up getting sleep outside, and fighting for her right to do so.]

slayer_fray

So sleeping in the bar tends to result in one being lifted and moved onto people's couches. Mel's not a fan of that. She's much happier fighting for her right to sleep on the street. That way she's earned it and owes people nothing.

But still, this place has the best price for her ill-gotten sil, so eventually she sneaks back in.

Still 14, still black haired, no longer limping, little Mel Fray heads straight towards the Bar, picks up a large meal of burger and fries, and retreats to a booth.

Sure, you could talk to her, but she's just here for the food.

mazokutrickster.livejournal.com

He'd left the bar after talking to those who'd greeted him on his first arrival.

The implications of this bar at the end of the universe ~~with a nice view!~~, this nexus between worlds percolated around in his brain for quite some time after that. Also, the need to somehow figure out if it was just he who somehow had access or if the door was visible to any of his race who happened upon it. The only way to discover that, however, would be to risk discovery of it and he wasn't, yet, willing to do that.

And so, he continued to inwardly mull over the possibilities all the while going about his business.

And sometime later, when he got the chance, he came back again, the door just where he'd left it, he'd half expected it to have disappeared into the ether.

Please to be noting one purple-haired, chaos loving, trickster-priest, monster race guy inna bar.

He has a staff. It's shiny.

http://users.livejournal.com/_to_the_bone/

Jack walks into the bar, grinning proudly, on his feet again and clutching the car keys like they're the most important thing in the universe. Immediately, he orders a milkshake, vanilla, in celebration.

Settling in a booth, he's already running over things in his head he'll need to put in the car to make this work.

This is going to be good.

mollyprewett.livejournal.com

Molly wakes from her nap with a strong desire to be around people (and not cook), so she leaves a note for Cain and heads for the bar.

It feels like forever since she’s been here, and is instantly glad she came when the Bar produces a plate of lemon chicken, a bowl of frozen grapes and a tall glass of cranberry juice.

She takes her meal to a table and watches the people as she eats. Come say hi!

longlonghair

Rapunzel has been overcome with temptation, and snuck downstairs to sit at the piano. When no one comes to chase her away or tell her she's not allowed, she begins to play. Soon she adds her voice to the melody, and enjoys the simple pleasure of the song.

If you'd like to hear something in particular, she'd probably play it for you, or you could just come and listen--she has a very good voice.

white_flowers

She knows very well what day it is.

How could she not?

(and none can stop the Dark from rising)

The woman who was once Blodwen Rowlands, now known to some as Anghared North-- but who, more importantly, once was the White Rider of the Dark-- has come to the bar tonight for just this reason. Too restless to stay in her little cottage by the sea, too many thoughts which will not leave her be, oh goodness no, not on this night.

Not on Twelfth Night.

And so, she has settled tonight at a corner table, idly fiddling with the bright silver (wish) ring on its chain, when she is not toying with a cup of tea.

Thinking.

dragonofgrey.livejournal.com

Despite the cold, Draco was bundled up some while he flew on his broom. Been a while, and anything to get his mind off of recent matters. His month's reprieve was up, and he had debts to pay up. Too many of them. So he was out back, wanting to spend some time to forget his troubles.

walker-cain.livejournal.com

[OOM: Cain has a conversation with a friend about the odder aspects of Molly's pregnancy.]

last-kuruta.livejournal.com

Kurapika stood at the doorway. Here again. But he nodded once - yes, he could stand to be here.

He went to the bar and spoke, in his ever-soft voice, "Water, please." And once the glass was there, he sipped and he turned to evaluate the bar's patrons.

It was as interesting a mix as he had seen during the Hunter exam.

shining-mercury.livejournal.com

A very, very thick book makes its way into Milliways.

After a moment, a blue-haired teen sticks her head out from behind it, blinking owlishly.

"Oh!" she exclaims, surprised. "Oh, my ..."

She smiles.

"I certainly didn't think I'd ever see this place again."

After a moment's careful checking, she's satisfied that she isn't what they call ... Bound, isn't it?

Now to find a seat!

hearthethoughts.livejournal.com

[In Los Angeles, There is a House of death. This is proceeded by a room of Fire, and in the end, Matt Parkman finally Snaps]

Matt's momentarily thrown by the fact that his precinct's bathroom has suddenly turned into the bar.

Aware he might still be carrying curies from the Sprague's, he grimaces-then shakes his head. Fuck it.

Honestly, if he blows up right now he could care less. Exploding from the inside out. That'd be a way to go.

Rubbing his left hand he walks across the bar, focusing all of his mental energy into keeping the bar-patron's voices out as he sits.

"...Beer."

Pause.

"No. Um. No Beer. Just Alcohol."
Matt is provided with a vodka that he stares at before shrugging it off. It's booze.

Despite the appearance of settling into a big long drunk, he could probably stand to talk about it.

Current Mood: angry

sime-channel.livejournal.com

Suzi is still reading about canning, and still knitting. She has to admit that it goes faster when she's reading with her eyes instead of a tentacle tip, but at the same time she's starting to miss the sense of connection she gets with Whistler by reading in the way that he does.

She's thinking about trading in for a Braille book as soon as she's comfortable with the basics. Not that she expects him to ever join her in Quinn's time, or to ever help with canning, but just...to know that if he wanted to, he could.

the_antiangst

Angel's over by the fire, with pizza. He's known Bar was over the tofu thing for a while now, but this is still the first time he's tried for pizza since then.
It worked, so there's plenty for the sharing. If you don't mind pineapple-bacon-extra cheese, anyway.

realmrsreynolds

Tomorrow is Sallie's big baking contest; the first of the new year.

Millicent Parker is going down, and Sallie Reynolds is in the kitchens of Milliways, practicing in an oven twice the size of her own, so she can account for variances in different heating methods. So far she's done three different pies -- sweet potato, apple crisp and blueberry -- leaving them on the bartop with a sign (PIES BY SALLIE REYNOLDS - FREE OF CHARGE.)

After bringing a fourth pie out -- another blueberry, because she had extra filling -- Sallie edits the sign: (HAVE A REQUEST? ASK ME, AND I'LL TRY.)

Millicent Parker is absolutely going down.

[ooc: slowtime or fade. *falls over* night all!]

stuck-mynock.livejournal.com

[OOM: In which messages are sent, and people don't reply to things.]

Atton enters the bar, dragging his heels all the way over to the booth, where he flops down and grabs a glass of something distinctly noxious smelling from a waitrat and gulps down a bit of it.

He may be quietly (quietly compared to how loud he usually sings, anyway) singing a drinking song that has more swear words strung together in vaguely rhyming patterns than actual lyrics.

Botherable.

guppy_sandhu

Guppy is getting fidgetty.

He likes the bar. He like Holby. He just also likes to be able to move between them in a free way.

He's been trying to persuade Bar to let him out. It's very difficult to bribe her really, past wiping the fingerprints off the part of her surface nearest to him. Plus the fact that he's fighting a losing battle on the grounds that Bar herself doesn't control whether he's Bound or not. Not that he knows that.

'It's for your own good you know' appears in a note on her surface. Guppy considers for a moment.

"Well yes, but I've sat and done very little for the last four days. Can I at least go and get the paperwork from my locker and go for my date? Please?"

Beat.

'No.' Maybe she'll let him know at some point.

wheelsy_sheriff

Bill is having a bad day. End to a bad week actually. He's lost his wallet, his mom's mad at him for missing dinner on Wednesday, yesterday he got beat up by a drunk ( though he'll argue he had that fight won given that the guy was down and cuffed he just got a lucky kick in before Bill got him into the car) and today his car was run into by an old man in a station wagon. Not a great way to be woken from a nap to be sure.

So it's an irritated Bill Pardy who walks into the bar tonight with a limp, holding a bag of ice against the side of his head where a knot has formed. He sits down at the bar and orders himself a Wild Turkey and a beer and slumps down against the counter, the undamaged side of his face planted into his hand leaning on his elbow.

shufti

Shufti is sitting in a booth near the corner, paper and quill in hand, trying to write a list of very important things to plan.

She rubs the ring slightly, before adding 'fud' to the list and reading it back to herself.

She frowns slightly, then crosses the word out and writes 'food', then reads it back again.

And then, still not happy with it, puts an e on the end.

notboundnow.livejournal.com

So it's been a little while. And he's still a little twitchy.

But Prometheus is back now, back and acting breezy as he strides through the door like he meant to do it.

Like his new jacket? He does.

fighting_mad

Plourr is nursing a glass of whiskey, despite the doctor's gentle recommendation (which went something along the lines of: "Don't you dare drink, Princess"). For the moment, though, the glass rests on the Bar alongside her arm, and she is bent low over the atrociously green cast covering her right arm. It is still covered in sworls of paint, designs and a flower or two, but she has a knife in hand and is absorbed in carving into the plaster. It's difficult to say whether she's making patterns or actually attempting to cut the cast off of her arm. Either way, tonight has apparently been designated 'make the palace doctor shriek as much as possible!' night. She is dressed simply, in high brown boots, a knee-length brown skirt, and a fitted tan tunic with three-quarter length sleeves, and a small strip of tape still holds together a cut just above her eyebrow.

She sits intent on her task, red hair falling into her eyes, broad shoulders hunched over the Bar. She isn't naturally left-handed. It isn't going especially well. But it doesn't require much thought.