milliways_bar | Apr. 19th, 2008

Apr. 19th, 2008

broodingbacchus.livejournal.com

Somehow, Imriel managed to a) find himself a room and b) figure out how to work the bathtub.

It is thus that there is a much-cleaned-up dark-haired young man sitting by the fireplace with a can of soda, brooding.

The soda is very much at odds with his rather archaic outfit.

Occasionally he glances at the place where the door isn't and scowls, or glances at the Observation Window and frowns.

Botherable.

[tinytag: imriel]

candied-rabbit.livejournal.com

So, it's Saturday, for a certain rabbit-boy who's sitting at the Bar, this morning.

Momiji, for the record, very much approves of Saturday. And, no doubt, once he finishes up the breakfast that has been set in front of him, there will be a great deal of scampering about and playing.

For now, though, he's actually having a calm moment, lazily eating and poking his nose into a book of Goethe poems.

...If it wasn't for the bright pink pajama pants he's still wearing and the rabbit-ears presently flopping about on his head, he'd be totally inconspicuous, actually.

[tinytag: assassin!]

navyafterone

[ OOM: James has a hell of a workload that isn't (entirely) his fault, but at least his brat of a sister hasn't forgotten how to be nice. Mostly.

(Pretend this was posted yesterday.)

tinytag: james adams ]

3rdtimelucky.livejournal.com

Goldy's Saturday brunch consists of a hearty Denver omelet, some toast, and a steaming mug of coffee.

She's settled longways in a booth once more, languidly indulging in the fare and engaging in passive observation of the bar room and ceiling area. Her lovely locks are taking a serious beating from being constantly tied up in public, but the baseball cap and glasses pseudo-disguise seems to be working so far, so she's sticking with that winning formula again today.

[tiny-tag: assassin]

forced-pilgrim.livejournal.com

If you wanted to understand why a four-foot-tall monkey in a saffron robe is pushing a hot dog cart (complete with umbrella) through the bar, you would have to know about the Buddhist hot dog joke.

(Monkey can be very literal.)

Even if you don't know the Buddhist hot dog joke, you can get a hot dog. They're vegetarian. And the mustard is excellent.

lil-green-apple.livejournal.com

What Pomona had not expected when she entered the bar this morning, was to discover pie. The scent of apples had never been quite so enticing as when it was drifting from that wedge of brown pastry, and after a few nervous false starts, she secured the name of the food- apple pie- and a piece of it for herself, from the bar.

And then, an entire pie along with a few forks and napkins (provided free without asking by the bar, which perhaps was worried for its upholstery), which she carried outside to the grass for an impromptu picnic.

If you stop and talk to her, you might just be allowed a piece.

maxwellsdemon02

[OOM: Mary and Duo have a talk about the past and the future in the greenhouse.]

the-h-star-r.livejournal.com

( I'm afraid so, but isn't it nice? )

So these three strange patrons are currently sharing a booth.

Homestar Runner is sitting in one side, roasting marshmallows and making s'mores.

Mia Ausa is sitting next to him, learning about the wonder of s'mores and making sure the fire she provided for roasting doesn't go out of control or burn out.

Farley Flavors is leaning against the other side, pointedly facing perpendicular to the other two, smoking his cigar.

Any of them would be happy to chat.

And there's a two out of three chance you'll get s'mores out of the deal!

lissla-lissar.livejournal.com

The wolves will be out tonight, and so Lissar does her run here long before the moon peeks out. Her dogs, all seven of them, strain beside her as they attempt to keep up with the light steps of the white woman.

She has on her tunic (for comfort) and jeans (for a little extra warmth) as well as her red-and-white bandanna. That just keeps her hair somewhat contained. Her path is the one she ran with the Grey Wolf some weeks ago, and as they cannot keep the punishing pace the dogs fall behind and walk it off on their way back to the bar.

Lissar, herself, could go at this pace all night. So it is when the last of the younger dogs, good Ob, falls back toward the bar that Lissar and Ash pick up the pace to circle the loop again. There is enough to be done at work tonight that Lissar would prefer not to take her nightly run there, and the poor military dogs will be grateful for Lissar's lessened energy - not to mention their trainers.

She would welcome companions to run (and even slow for them), or pause for conversation should someone be along her route. Otherwise she will be all long legs and joy in motion until the sun begins to fade.

shecalledmefred.livejournal.com

There must be an unwritten rule which states that any anticipated stretch of time must be preceded by times which try one's happiness and patience. To wit, I have been anointed rescuer, adviser, and shoulder-to-cry on to friends suffering sudden and unexplained (to them) crises. Three in the last day alone: one sees no way to avoid divorce; another has misplaced her thousand dollar cat; another is stranded in Rome. Are you at all surprised that, having been a marriage councilor, search patrol and travel agent in a day, I walk into Milliways thoroughly exhausted? The Bar still refusing to serve me alcohol does not make the situation any better. I drag my feet towards the fireplace, where I gracelessly collapse into an armchair...

[ ...and within a few minutes, he's sound asleep. ]

[ petit tag: ouranos; paul varjack ]

undignified

Wes's quarters turned into a bar, which isn't something he usually complains about. But he just got off duty, and after almost eight hours cooped up inside an X-wing without even anything to shoot, he's tired.

Too tired to bother traipsing up the stairs to his room here.

Which is why there's a pilot, orange flightsuit and all, asleep on the couch by the fire.

mrmoneypenny.livejournal.com

Off in the oddly impromptu shooting range, there’s a Villiers with a gun.

It’s quite a fine gun, in his opinion. A Glock 34, perfect for competitive shooting, and deadly enough to be used as an MI6 employee’s handgun. He’s quite a good shot with it -- the target pages that have already had a few rounds unloaded into them can attest to that fact.

Valentinian the practice droid, however, would probably be laughing at Villiers if it still had personality.

For, you must understand, Villiers is well-versed in shooting immobile targets. And while he never really had to go through weapons training, seeing that he was only an aide in MI6, but it certainly helped his job to know how to handle a gun.

We’ll get to the point already: Villiers fails at hitting the moving droid with anything more than a graze.

cheevy.livejournal.com

[OOM: The pain that sets you free]

It's been two months here, but a year in his time outside. Now, a certain poet is back, essentially hiding in the furthest booth from the main crowd he can find, in its least noticable corner, sulking over a notebook and a mug of (spiked) cocoa.

If you can find him, you can say hello. He may not say much. Or he may. One never knows.

m-antonivs.livejournal.com

(oom: Sometimes illusions don't shatter, they just crumble.)

Later that morning, having slept and bathed, young Antony finds his way into the bar rather than the dining room of his house. He isn't upset by the change in location; more quiet and thoughtful than anything else, unusual for him.

He can have breakfast just as well here as at home, so that is what he sets out to do. Up to the bar he goes, to order some bread and cheese and grapes and water.

He wouldn't mind company.

eirenikos

Three days after a discussion with Clark, Eirene finally decides to emerge from her room in an attempt to be social and prove to herself that she can get this human thing down. You can find her at a coffee table in front of a couch near the fireplace. There is a mug of hot cocoa to the side, along with a plate of cheese and crackers, though it doesn't look like she's all that hungry.

And then there are the popsicle sticks, lots of them, in a container at the other end of the table, looming over the glue sticks huddled together in safety. If you can't see a distinct pattern to the building that is slowly taking shape, it's because there isn't one. Tonight is free form, you see, and she probably won't mind the company.

[tiny tag: Eirene]

fatboyrun.livejournal.com

When Dennis ducks behind the bar, he's in washed-out jeans and a Siouxie and the Banshees T-shirt. He absently thumbs through a book or two of drinks (paying more attention to his cigarette than the book, truth be told), but in the end, he goes for the easiest route possible for his first official shift, rather than rock the boat by trying something fancy.

HAPPY HOUR SPECIALS:
Lager
Cider
Dennis settles in, leaning on the Bar and blowing out a stream of smoke. After a minute, his eyes slowly flick sideways, toward the cigarette in his hand.

It takes a couple of minutes of searching, but he eventually digs out a dusty ashtray from a shelf. It's in the shape of an elephant ear, but it'll do the job.

His kindness for the evening done, he taps his cigarette into the ear, draws himself a pint, sets it on the Bar, and says to the couple of nearest patrons, "You alright?"

[Threadhopping highly encouraged!]

[tag: apollo, dennis doyle, ella harkins, gordon freeman, paul varjak]

[EDIT: CRAP. CRAP CRAP. I have to run for the moment, highly unexpected, very sorry; will be picking up tags ASAP!]

just_the_doctor

When the Doctor comes downstairs to get a pot of tea and some dinner, he instantly notices that something's changed.

He can see the door.

Dinner and tea are forgotten as he dashes back upstairs and returns with the two Magnaclamps he'd entered with.

He doesn't pause as he heads through the door and back into the fray.

Some time later, an astute observer looking out the Observation Window might spot a tiny blue box in orbit around one of the dying stars.

Not too long after that, the familiar wheezing death-throes-of-an-accordion sound echoes through the lakeside area and the blue box appears in its familiar spot at the end of a well-traveled footpath.

And shortly after that, the back door opens, and a haggard-looking Time Lord with tear tracks staining his cheeks walks inside, pausing at the bar only long enough to get some tea before retreating to a booth in one of the many darkened corners the room seems to always have.

[ooc: This is probably not the best time to be meeting the Doctor for the first or second time, so only people he knows pretty well, please.]

acts_of_gord

January in New Mexico is drawing to a close, and the weather's beginning to warm up- during the day, anyway. Night falls hard and fast in the deserts around Black Mesa, so anyone who's gone walking in his or her off hours is well advised to make for the surface access doors to Area C as quickly as possible once the dark begins to fall. That, and that alone, is behind Gordon's somewhat harried expression as he ducks through the Milliways door; no joyful news, no nightmarish horrors, just it's damned cold out there.

A slightly exasperated look crosses his face as he notes that this is anything but Area C. "Fine," he says to no one in particular. "If that's the way it's going to be- does the kitchen here do a decent pot roast?"

[SUNDAY AFTERNOON OOC EDIT: Still open for tags!]

[tinytag: Gordon Freeman]

justiceoverlaw

The Nightmare Detective is stretching slightly as he comes through the Door; he just spent several hours sitting at the computer, tracking down a rather subtle fraud operation involving several major corporations. (He suspects Synaptica, but he hasn't got anything solid yet.)

Next step, of course, is to do something about it - raid a few offices, and deploy a sneaky little program to gum up the digital works. But even vigilante detectives need snacktime.

The Revenant blinks. "This certainly isn't the kitchen. It'll do, though."

guppy_sandhu

Technically there's two young people sitting at a table in the corner. At least that's what the two plastic (empty) cups would suggest.

Someone brought his imaginary friend to the bar today. But who's anyone in here to say that they aren't real?

irredeemableant.livejournal.com

There is a huffy Eric at the bar this evening, sans his Ant-Man suit. His ribs ache, though his black eye is almost fully faded.

He's picking at a plate of nachos, shooting back gulps from a bottle of Rolling Rock, and watching pretty girls at the bar. He's remembering who he left behind, tonight. Abigail. The woman he thought he loved, but now it seems like it was just like Veronica.

Maybe he really just isn't cut out to be a good guy.

He's botherable. In fact, he hopes someone will distract him from all his horrible philosophizing.

[tiny tag: Eric O'Grady]