milliways_bar | Jun. 4th, 2007

Jun. 4th, 2007

gotapenny.livejournal.com

When the door into Milliways opens again, it's to a house somewhere in Rhode Island. The wonderious smells of someone cooking waft through the door along with the sounds that come with it. Sounds of children playing outside can also be heard off in the distance.

The 10-year-old kid that steps in doesn't seem to notice where he's going as he looks over his shoulder, back into the hallway of whatever floor he's on. "George Marcelo Luz!" a woman's voice echos from somewhere on the otherside of the door in Portuguese, "Você melhora para não se esquecer de remover o lixo, homem novo, ou você quer outro falando a?"

"No, mama. Eu não me esquecerei!" Luz replies back almost rolling his eyes. He has more important things on his mind like the baseball game he and his friends are planing at the sandlot. Trash can come later.

Opening his mouth to say something else George turns his head around expecting to find his bedroom but...to find the strange place the game of tag had been held a few nights before. Reaching up he feels over his head expecting to find a bump or knot from being smacked on the side of the head a few hours ago. Not back talking or swearing around his mother was a key to surviving during the day.

"Uh...huh.." Steping inside he looks around, frowning. "I guess I deserved that.."

pleasantskull.livejournal.com

( OOM: Skulduggery Pleasant, Detective extraordinaire, gets a surprise visit from a troll while out walking, but gets a little more than he bargained for with a not-so-mysterious door. )

The front door is swung open forcefully and in barrels a rather frantic figure, who is immediately up on his feet again and poised for a fight.

What he spots, however, is not the expected sight of a troll, or some other equally dastardly beastie, but a Bar-- A Bar he distinctly remembers not seeing in the park-keepers shed.

All preparation for battle fades from him rapidly as he takes in the sight, though a weariness is kept ready for the weirdness that may ensue. Not that the man can get much weirder in his lifestyle anyway.

Should anyone be looking his way after such an ungraceful entrance, they'd probably be quick to pick up on the fact that Milliway's has got yet another dead patron to add to it's ranks, though this one is by no means normal: Despite the classic detective look he's sporting, this man is, undoubtedly, a skeleton in a suit.

~~( ooc: Bed time for me. Slowtimes are love for anyone who wants to post or is already posting. )~~

prydeful

[OOM: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away River reacted to Faith leaving.

And then came this.

Millitimed to whenthehellever. It's done! That's all that matters.]

wolflord_andain

[OOM: In which Galadan follows Mary's advice and gives Gabriel a few relevant bits of information.]

f33dm3.livejournal.com

[pre-Milliways: Subsequent to the events you have just witnessed...]

The front door of Milliways cre-e-eaks open, just a bit. Those looking from the right angle may see the rubble of a demolished building just outside the door.

There are muffled voices:

"It's creepy. I swear it's lookin' at me..."
"Don't be stupid, it's a plant. Just--hey, watch it!"

A clatter of objects being spilled on the ground, and then something small and green rolls in through the open door, coming to rest several feet inside.

It's a plant. A tiny little plant in a tiny little pot, lying sideways on the floor.

Very strange. And interesting.

And, to certain patrons, more than a little familiar.

lissla-lissar.livejournal.com

The white woman and her pack of fleethounds is once again taking the air outside. The sight of ten hunting dogs, even if seven of them are untried puppies, running together is an impressive sight. The woman running at the front of the pack is no less impressive; she exceeds the speed of the dogs with an easy grace.

Under normal circumstances (and nothing about this place can count) normal hunters ride horses to keep pace with fleethounds. The fleet in their name is not merely for show.

turned_captain

Three hours a day on top of training your fiancee and a large amount of blacksmith work means that Will doesn't have much time for pleasantries within the bar. It's also probably why he doesn't have any friends.

That's OK, he has his swords.

He has many swords, in fact. People charge him with commissions occasionally. It's possible that he has a few wrapped in cloth to his side today as he takes his breakfast.

[OOC: yep, if you have ICly asked Will for a commission, or OOCly asked me if your pup can have one, or even if you want to say now that they've asked him, then that's all fine. Or, just chat with the blacksmith]

pirate-gibbs.livejournal.com

Gibbs didn't sleep too well last night. Did he really hear all the werewolves out there? Or was it his imagination? Just knowing that they were out there...it's enough to give even a hardened pirate the creeps, isn't it?

Not that Gibbs was sleeping well anyway. He's been oddly introspective of late. He can't recall the date, or even the year, but it was June when he left home. When he put on the uniform for the first time and went to see, a boy of 16 thinking that he would find adventure and glory serving King and Country. Time's taken that fool notion from him, but there are days when he remembers his years in the service.

So if you come and say hello, you might catch the pirate yawning. Or thinking.

mnt_mike

While it is notable that the seldom seen, sandy-haired Barman is seated at one of the many out of the way tables in Milliways, it is far more important that people take note of the rather large, bright red shoe box on the table, just slightly to his left.

Of course that's really only the case if you can see either the sandy-haired Barman and his rather large, bright red shoe box behind the ginormous wall of paperwork currently piled high up on one of the many out of the way tables in Milliways.

"crud."

callitavesper.livejournal.com

Standard lunch break procedures: newspaper, coffee, table, very nice suit.

Today, a slight variation: coffee, table, paperwork in a manila folder, very nice suit. And a bagel. Any bets on how likely it is that Bond will divulge the contents of said manila folder?

awesome_lilly

[OOM: A long time ago, Lilly talked to Mel about moving out... and repressed elves and perverted fish. Yeah, we don't know either.]

the_seafarer

It's a fine day, warm enough that the horses are outside to graze, and far too fine to spend inside--particularly while there's work to be done. And there's always work: rails to mend, stalls and tack to clean, straw to be scattered over new woodchips until the stables are neat.

There's a railing that was spiltered a few days ago when one of the stallions was knocking playfully at the wood, and so Caspian is outside with his tools and a new timber to shape. Little golden curls of wood fall to the grass, and he's whistling to himself. Now and agains he straightens to look out at the lake or towards the wood, or to nod at a passerby, before setting back to work.

lichvell-r.livejournal.com

And Lo, there is, again, the same (un)loved pale girl, with her books, notes, and drawing pad. And of course, she must be again plotting terror and woe.

Or just reading and studying while inspiration does not strike for today's drawing session. One or the other.

[New PB, same pup. No, her looks did not change, just I decided she needed a human face.]

lvpd_sidle

When the door opens to the bar, Sara is a little surprised.

It's been a couple of months.

She finds a seat in a booth and orders decaffeinated coffee from one of the waitrats.

[ooc: This is Sara's last post in the bar before her retirement. Come one, come all. Slowtimes accepted.]

not-a-wizard.livejournal.com

There's an inkstained gentleman, writing furiously in a booth. His fingers have ink on them, his hand has ink on it where it's been brushing the page, his shirt cuff has ink on it where it's been dragged. His forehead has ink on it where black fingers pushed hair out of his face.

He hasn't eaten because he's been writing and he looks incredibly excited to be nearly finished-- not even nearly-- here. We. Are.

Yes.

Telemain puts down the pen with a triumphant 'hah' and straightens up for an immediate head rush from sitting one way too long. He looks like he's about to die, possibly. But! He'll die happy.

First things first, the waitrat is flagged for more tea. Someone tell him to take a breath and eat something, for heaven's sake.

hero_farmboy

A few minutes ago, Clark was getting ready to leave. There are chores to be done, Phantoms to look for and oh, right. Sleep.

Then he noticed the door was gone. To those who've been around for a while he likely looked like the average patron, glaring at the wall where a door should be. He even smacked it once, just to be sure.

Right now, however, Clark is moping at a table, and not only because he can't leave. He just hit something and nothing happened.

Stupid magic.

hippodamio

Fate is as the Spinners spin it, and if one's life-thread turns for a time away from certain doors, there is not much to be done about that. Days may spin out into weeks, months; years, even, and at the end of that much time one may perhaps be forgiven for forgetting that merely because a door has opened onto one place for all the time you have known it, it may not necessarily always open so.

The lad who opens the door is not quite the height of a man yet, and moves with the odd grace of a young man striving to overcome the awkwardness that comes of shooting up a hand or two in height without warning. He wears dark kidskin breeches and a leather jerkin that might have been blue once. That was some time ago, by the sight of him. One does not end up covered in the grime of a roadside struggle, red to the elbows, without it leaving some mark on one's clothes. And one's weapons; while the bronze spear he bears looks as if he tried to wipe it clean, it could do with almost as much cleaning as he.

He stands a little inside the doorway, staring around him in something like wonder as very old memories come back to him. "Oh," he says. "This place again." The spear is shifted to his left hand as he awkwardly touches still-wet knuckles to his brow and bows deeply to the Bar.

awesome_lilly

Puck's got the kids tonight. Lilly was wondering if she'd miss them, if maybe, just maybe she was starting to get attached to the nameless little poop factories.

Nope.

She's relaxing in a booth with a vodka tonic, a large order of fried paradoxes, and no maternal pangs whatsoever.

dragonofgrey.livejournal.com

The icon doesn't really have to do with the post. Draco's not currently being a pimp or a player right now. What he is, is sitting in the bar. Relaxed in a booth, still wandless, and now sans moonstone necklace. Rapier strapped to his belt for sword practice. Having some wine with his dinner. He sort of knows his birthday is soon (Actually it's tomorrow). He doesn't know that there are plans being made for it.

irkentak.livejournal.com

Parts of tiny gears, wires, and Irken microchips lay scattered across the table in Tak's booth.

The Irken has been working hard for several hours now with a strange tool in her claw that sparks violet as she tinkers on the tiny robot's head. Every once in a while the eyes flicker on to glow a bright blue for a brief moment before dying again into gray.

And every time this happens, Tak grumbles under her breath in Irken as she searches for a new problem to fix.

A break may be needed...

presidentpythia

Her hands are trembling, she notes, and when she looks in the mirror Roslin sees that her face is drawn. "I look like--"

A dying woman. She stops that train of thought quickly.

"--a crone."

They've just finished the two hundred and fifteenth jump and restarted the countdown clock. She'd made an excuse to Billy and stepped into the privacy of her quarters for a few minutes, to splash some water on her face in an attempt to wake herself up.

It's been days on end, and the Cylons just keep coming. Every thirty-three minutes, like clockwork. Like the machines they are.

Of course, machines don't need sleep.

Roslin sighs and goes to her closet to get out a change of clothes. What she doesn't yet know as she reaches for the door is that the constant, rapid FTL jumps have combined with an undetected instability left as a lingering side effect from the pseudo-explosion that Apollo had triggered to open a small pocket in the fabric of space and time.

Give that she's just opened her closet door on a bar instead of her second dress suit, however, it may not take her too long to figure that out.

callsignhusker

Midshift CAP is halfway through. He's left Gaeta with the deck.

It's been quiet for two days as they get the tylium off the asteroid and into the refinery ship. Adama's had sleep. Real, actual sleep -- long, and satisfying.

He's had time to get back with the bag -- working for hours, working with Saul. He's had time to walk down to the flight deck, to speak to Tyrol and his crew, to listen. He's had time to visit the memorial hall. He's had time to sit and read.

This is what life is now. And as Adama comes in and requests a cup of coffee, he doesn't feel content. Not really satisfied, either.

But he can't help but think (as he doctors his coffee with sugar, and lots of it) that life could be so much worse.

his-sarah-jane.livejournal.com

Unaware of gloom and doom surrounding her friends, there is currently a Sarah Jane sitting at the bar, flipping through a copy of the London Times (2006 edition) as she sips at her tea.

[ooc: warning for chance of slow slowtime due to travelling!]

collects_ears

There is a bartender.

There are drinks to be had.

If you order one, he'll be pleased to make it for you.

"Tonight's drinks are Chocolate Cake #2, P.S. I Love You, Wedding Anniversary and Wedding Belle Cocktail".

There's conversation to be had.

puckishly.livejournal.com

At another booth, quite removed from Lilly's, Puck is in the process of coaxing Girlbaby and Boybaby into eating some quantity of unidentifiable fruity mush. Personally, he doesn't see what's wrong with starting them on ale, but apparently the mush is preferable.

The kids still don't have names, but the contest is ongoing; Puck is optimistic.

(Personally, he still likes Raspberry and Beret.)

"Oh, do cooperate," he says with a mournful pouty face that makes Boybaby giggle. "I like it little better than you do, but you really must keep up your strength if you're ever to graduate to a better repast."

And, because he is a cheater, he startles Boybaby by conjuring up a spider out of a used napkin, then pops a spoonful of mush into his mouth before the kid realizes what's going on.

:D?

[OOC: Hey, have to wake up early tomo-- today ... slowtimes are love I heart you all?]

guppy_sandhu

Some people find Accident and Emergency a very nervewracking place. As such some patients like to bring along something to keep them calm. Children may want to bring their favourite teddy bear, which the doctor can then cunningly use to show them what's going to happen. Some people bring husbands, which are generally less use than a teddy bear and take up more space.

Guppy sighs a little as he sits down at the bar, ordering an orange juice. There's always the odd person who thinks it's going to be a really good idea to bring their pet to keep them company. Often because they're convinced it'll be lonely. And really, it wasn't much fun telling the little old lady in cubicle four that she simply couldn't have her pet snake in the department.

It'll be even less fun when he notices its head is sticking out of his jacket pocket.

***

Snowball is sitting in one corner of the bar, attempting to square lash two pieces of wood together.

This is quite a difficult task for a pig.

wheelsy_sheriff

Bill is at a table tonight with a basket of french fries and a coke. Just kicking back, not avoiding going home whatsoever, and enjoying the evening.

He's not in uniform tonight and despite what's waiting for him on the otherside of the door he's in a good mood. Fried foods and sugary drinks do that you know.

called_lioness

Lucy's two small dragons settled at her sides.

This isn't terribly important to her, except when they start hissing for bits of her sandwich.

The book she's reading as she hums quietly isn't all that important either, honestly, but sometimes it's nice to just slowly browse and sit in the bar and listen to the murmur of conversations that's all about.