milliways_bar | Jun. 19th, 2008

Jun. 19th, 2008

gotham-knocking.livejournal.com

The date in Knox's timeline is August 19, 1991. It's a date he will remember, he guesses, as you don't have headlines like "SOVIET COUP" and "GOODBYE, GORBY - COLD WAR BACK!" every day.

Of course, by the time Knox hit lunch today, the news in the morning papers had been picked to pieces by the Today Show and Good Morning America, and by CNN. Such things never stop a good reporter from trying to find the story behind the story. Though being a local reporter who's never covered any foreign news and who's half a world from the events is a bit of a problem. But this is the big news of the day, maybe of the year, and Knox figures he can write a good column on the topic. So after lunch, he's off to Gotham's Little Moscow neighborhood to interview the emigres.

But first, some lunch and a crash course in everything that's been going on in the Soviet Union he was ignoring of late.

[ooc: slowtime for work likely]

doesright.livejournal.com

[oom: Once upon a time in Canada, there unfolded a tale of heroes and villains, and it all began with two boys, a girl, and a horse...]

[tinytag; Dudley Do-Right]

ash-imperfect.livejournal.com

Asher is..unnerved, when he enters the Bar. It has only been one night since he was last here, and oh, what a night it was.

It's only by the skin of his teeth that he managed to shut his door before one of Musette's flunkies followed. Belle Morte is more insistent than ever, now that Asher is healed, that he should return to her side. And that, he cannot allow. He would not survive her a second time, and he does not trust Jean Claude to save him again.

He strides through the bar, looking around quickly, heading towards the stairs, and Teja's room.

[plotlocked to Teja and Tonio, sorry! Continues OOM]

gone_byebye

There is a small problem with trying to get from New York City to Port St. Helena, Oregon, when you are a man in Ray's position. The problem is that almost none of the airlines that fly out of the New York City area have anybody on the ticket desk who can get beyond "What the hell is that?" when it comes to small scaly five-armed five-eyed shoulder alien chatterboxes, and even the ones that do have security people who dig in their heels at the prospect. The State Department's going to have words with these folks if Ray has anything to say about it, but that'll happen later. Right now he has to get across country with Jhalak by means that don't involve either security people or twitchy Amtrak passengers.

He's stopping at Milliways before going to face the Avis people. Lord, he hates renting cars.

[OOC: Ray currently has

facile_fivefold on his shoulder, but as our friendly neighborhood Jotok isn't my character, I'm assuming it finally fell asleep for a while. Unless the mun wants to step in and play its responses, of course- my apologies, I haven't your email!]

[tinytag: Long-Reach the Jotok]

alittle-priest.livejournal.com

Jack hated everyone today.

Even if Sebastien had walked through the door carefully avoiding the rays of sunlight through the bar, Jack very well might have slugged him one in the face (fruitlessly, of course), called him a git, and stomped off. Everything bloody hurt and he could barely get anything through his head but a stream of curse words in a dozen different languages that all seemed to blur along with his vision as he made his way to the counter.

Breakfast could not wait even a minute.

"Four roasted chickens and a bottle of Coca-cola," he ordered, deciding that the other werewolf could hang himself for all he cared. His stomach, however, roiled faintly.

"And some dry white toast."

[tinytag: jack priest]

shoeless-ed.livejournal.com

"A, B, C, D, E, F, bananaberries!"

That would be Ed.

"H, I, J, K, L M N O bananaberries!"

She is hanging upside-down from one of the rafters.

"Q R S, T, U, bananaberries..."

What she lacks in tonal precision, she makes up for in volume.

"...W, X, Y and bananaberries!"

That and sheer randomness.

"Now I know my A, B, bananaberries, next time won't you sing with bananaberries!"

For the love of God, someone distract her before she starts singing again.

youhaveaheart.livejournal.com

Now that he's ascertained that he's not going to be going anywhere beyond Milliways itself [read: go back home], he's taken to exploring the bar.

That and there's only so many times you can open The Door Leading Home only to find another door behind it before feeling the urge to just rip it all off its hinges [doing that took all of five minutes—BlackWarGreymon can be easily frustrated].

He's seen the note regarding the full moon, and pretty much ignored it. It wasn't a Rule, so who cared if he wandered about at night.

He didn't, though. Self-preservation instincts and all.

Maybe next time.

Which brings us back to exploring the bar.

It's getting boring. And when things get boring, he gets frustrated.

Sometimes, what you need to fend off boredom is company.

Bar company.

So you can do something with someone that doesn't break any of those Rules.

[Mini Tag: BlackWarGreymon]

Current Mood: bored

redcatalina.livejournal.com

Milliways, have a pirate.

Even if said pirate is wearing a dress. And a rather daring one, at least for Cat's average manner of dressing. It shows her shoulders, and ankles, and arms!

Scandalous, yes.

But there is Catalina, with a book and tea by the fireplace. The book is not particularly interesting, really.

[ Catalina Erantzo ]

badinlatin

While Mal's pretty sure he smells at least somewhat different than how he did thirty years ago, Tequila did not give him a hard time at all when the old man wandered out to the stables to check and make sure he hadn't been slacking off in his duties.

Or something. Timelines are hard.

Coming back, Mal's acquired a new notepad for his pocket and a ballpoint pen, so he's scrawling random notes to himself while ensconced in a chair.

blue_ajah

She is seated at her preferred table this evening, with several letters neatly stacked within reach.

Only one of them is not sealed and addressed in her own careful hand.

Moiraine continues to write, with occasional pauses to compose her thoughts. As she does, she keeps a watchful eye on the room.

lastgunslinger

Plankboards eventually give way not to a dusty street, as one might imagine, nor to the desert around where one might imagine the myth-pool's honky-tonk belongs.
if I could start again a million miles away
No; instead it's the forest -- the jungly one, lush, green, replete, where the one path is beset on both sides by strange, snake-sounding rustling, and low growls.
I would keep myself
Our friend (if we're being generous) keeps his (whole right) hand dangling near his 'prentice guns, low on his hips -- did he have those, before? -- and his chin up. He doesn't trouble to be quiet, either.
I could find a way
Where is the clearing at the end of the path not the clearing?

Did it even occur to you that it's June 19th?

When it's Milliways.

Roland Deschain, son of Steven, comes through the door and looks extremely unimpressed.

immortalthief

So the newly reborn immortal is most happy with the world. For the first time she feels invincible. And with this new feeling comes a new sort of confidence that seems to suit her. This also makes the ending universes far less frightening. So she stares out of the window sipping an electric blue smoothie.

lil-green-apple.livejournal.com

Tonight, there are suspicious, loud and fumbly baking sorts of noises coming from the kitchen. If one were to pause in one’s pursuit of alcohol or meal to investigate, one would find a dryad almost entirely covered in flour, apologizing relentlessly to the kitchen staff as she completely messes up the kitchen in her attempts to make what appears to be a highly deformed apple monster.

One would also notice on the counter an even more highly deformed apple pie-type thing with bits of shell sticking through the surface like fractured bone; a large amount of spilled cinnamon, sugar, flour, butter, eggshells, and, of course, apples bits; a seashell, which the nymph every so often picks up and places to her ear; and a large amount of beleaguered kitchen staff attempting damage control on particularly monstrous pie-attempts that may or may not be sentient by now.

By now, Bar might be regretting letting it slip that there are such things as recipes for apple pies.

nolongerhunted

Dead girl in the bar... curled up in a chair near the fireplace. Her sketch book is beside her and she's off in a world of her own. A cup of tea and a sandwich is sitting on a plate beside her but it's gone untouched. In fact, we think she's forgotten all about it.

Or maybe she's just not hungry. Who knows.

not_lugosi

Bela's stopped in for a quiet evening. She reclines comfortably in an armchair while she watches the other patrons. She wonders, not for the first time, whether any of them have sold their souls.

You never know.

lasthalfmile

He's sitting near the Observation Window with a distant look in his eyes, but when you're staring at the end of the universe stuck on repeat, you'd likely to get the same look if you were thinking like he was.

There's no whiskey, this evening. No newspaper, either. Just a man at a table, staring out at the end of all things.

flail_victoria

Seras ran through a door and ended up in Milliways. She had her coffin and her master's coffin strapped to her back, as well, as the Halconnen over one shoulder, an ammo box in hand, and a few more munitions slung around her.

She stopped, "Cripes!!! Milliways Again!!!!!"

mogget_cat

Specials on the board tonight include:

Grateful Dead
Lifesaver
Black and White

But the bartender for tonight may be hard to find, if you don't know him.

Maybe he's hiding behind the cat which is lounging upon the bar.

Or maybe not.

He is completely unaware of what he's missed.

(Tiny Tag: Bela Talbot)

ETA: Due to unforeseen braindeath, mun must call slowtime for the night. <3

notascreensaver

There's a tired looking Game sprite seated in a booth. On the table in front of her is a stack of README files and a half-finished mug of Java. She's staring blearily at a README in her hand whilst propping up her head with the other and looks to be in serious danger of dozing off.

Some conversation might help.

shufti

Security member in the bar, doing paperwork.

Shufti isn't really in a position to be doing much else, at present. She can move around all right, but the backache isn't fun and the baby seems to have taken up martial arts in her womb.

Jack, for once, is being incredibly well behaved and drawing pictures with crayons.

[tinytag: Jack Manackle]

rebel-falcon.livejournal.com

OOM: Time passes outside the bar. Things, however, don't change. They get worse. (Warnings for violence and mentions of abusive situations in the OOM, so please take that into consideration before reading.)

When the door opens, the teenager who hauls himself into the bar is obviously hurting. Badly. There are bruises almost everywhere, blood soaked into his shirt (which is practically rags, at this point) and he can barely keep himself upright. It takes every ounce of his strength to make it to the door, from where he is outside -- so it's not a surprise when he slumps down against the wall near it once he's inside.

Everything hurts, and he feels like he's going to be sick, so he closes his eyes and burrows his head into his arms, trying to make the pain in his head go away.

(It's not working.)

[ooc: plotlocked, sorry. no worries, he'll be bound for awhile so a less injured/hurting version will be available later in the week. thanks guys.]

walksindeath

When the door opens, the woman doesn't so much step through as leap, a sword in one hand and the fingers of the other crooked ready to shape a Charter spell, spinning as she lands to face the way she came -- and stops, staring at the blank wall, body poised and panting in disbelief.

Sabriel feels the warmth of the indoors next, an abrupt wave that almost feels uncomfortable under her armoured clothes after the exertion of the fight, but it is nothing to her Death-sense, something that had been simple and sharp, focused on the physical presence of the Mordicant, is now... fuzzy. She turns, black eyes widening at the sight of the bar, and the Mark on her forehead flares with soft light as she reaches for the comforting presence of the Charter.

The sword remains in her hand as she stands in front of the door, transfixed, and at the lack of immediate threat, her free hand brushes against the bandolier at her chest, tracing Saraneth's handle before going to rest against Ranna, uncertain.

Sabriel has lived a long and hard thirty-four years, but none of them have prepared her for this.

Tinytag: Sabriel

[OOC: If your pup is dead or in any way differently alive, Sabriel can probably sense it. If you don't want this for any reason, but still want to tag her, go ahead! Just let me know in this post here, or ping amyberries on AIM. If you have any other questions, I'm happy to talk about those, too - we can work things out!

Also: Gone for sleep now. You are all AWESOME - slowtimes to be picked up tomorrow, if that's okay? If fade works better for you, just let me know. Goodnight!]