[oom] Nothing Changes

[lady_bols]

[oom:

"All right then. The skeleton in the closet. A private education. Years at Oxbridge. All counted for nothing really. Because I, Alex Drake, was once -- a prostitute."

]

tiny tag with a mean left hook: DI Alex Drake

(no subject)

[pickyourmoments]

[OOM: Out of Milliways]

Chandler's over by the fireplace in his pyjamas and holding a very large cup of coffee, and he's looking rather like the cat that swallowed the canary.

Very botherable.

_{[ooc: OOM millitimed to a few days ago.]}

(no subject)

[notimewarp]

Tim came into the Bar with the intent of getting some work done, so when the napkin shows up, he can't help be a little annoyed.

"I'm not even drinking right now," he says. "That's not fair."

Still, he clambers behind the bar and gets everything set up, making quick work of getting the Specials Board up.

Specials:
Cowboy Killer
Blow Job
Irish Car Bomb

Extra Special:
Pig on the Rocks

Specials up, he pulls out his sketchbook and gets to work while he waits for people to come round.

_{[ooc: The mun is battling a nasty flu, and may be off and on during the evening. Feel free to tag in, but replies may be a bit slow at times.]}

(no subject)

[prob-japanese.livejournal.com]

"-I was passing my time away
To the left and to the right
Bulidings towering to the sky
It's out of sight-"

Bumblebee's still pretty thrilled about how things worked out at home after all the hell Megatron and Shockwave put everyone through. Hence the choice of song. On the other hand he's here now, and that's good too; it's been a while since he's seen some people. Getting everything back in working order at home keeps a mech busy as anything. Nothing wrong with a little R&R.

(no subject)

[shadowsusannah.livejournal.com]

Second verse, same as the first.

Susannah is back, trying once again to get some work done away from her troublesome menfolk. Not that she doesn't have a perfectly good office to hide in if she really felt like playing the recluse. But they don't keep liquor in the house, and where would she be without her Dragonfly?

The mountain of paper situation has only gotten worse; more resumes, print-outs of her memos that she's now marking up in red pen, and a file from the Vannay Institute about Stephen King's latest publications. Among other things.

She's open to distraction; just don't bring up Ron Howard.

(no subject)

[electro_kinetic]

You could say Nori doesn't look the best; still sort of pale, palpably tired, and by the way she moves her back is still sore. But she's alive and breathing and can see the door back to her world--it appeared sometime this morning between when she came downstairs and when she got food.

But she's holed up on the couch with a pillow to curl around and a book the Bar gave her with the water and painkillers she got without asking. Noriko is idly keeping an eye out for any of the people she needs to talk to, those being the three that healed her after she apparently walked in shot. Things are still fuzzy in remembrance of that, really. (She isn't entirely sure she wants to remember being shot.)

(no subject)

[parkerlee]

[OOM: Destination, Texas]

The Oklahoma border has been reached! And none too soon. Parker was beginning to feel like she would be driving through Colorado for the rest of time.

She had stopped for a lunch-ish meal at a rest stop just over the state line. But is not too upset to find Milliway inside its front door.

Parker comes in dressed for comfortable car travel. Khaki shorts and a blue tank top, her hair up in a loose bun, sunglasses resting on top of her head, bag slung over her shoulder.

The bag gets dropped to the floor as Parker drops into a comfortable chair, feet going automatically up onto the ottoman.

“Oh, thank God. A seat that isn’t moving,” she sighs.

She’ll get to food in a moment.

(no subject)

[fairytaleknight]

It's been -- weeks? months? days? a single day repeated over and over? -- since Fakir last came to Milliways. The weather of Goldkronedorf has been sunny and indeterminately warm, except twice when ominous clouds hovered over the clock tower just for the sake of variety. Mr. Cat has led lessons on pointe technique and pas de deux and demonstrated leaps and pirouettes and arm movements. Fakir is almost sure Mr. Cat gave exactly the same lesson six times in a row last week, and every dancer in the advanced class performed exactly the same way every time.

Nothing's happened since Fakir's last visit to the Bar. Nothing at all has happened, unless you count Duck being filthy and temporarily turning into a turtle. Mytho hasn't gotten any more heartshards. (Okay, so maybe that has something to do with Duck being a turtle.) The Raven has not invaded the town. Fakir practices the sword every morning at dawn, and he hasn't once been called upon to use it.

Every morning, Fakir wakes up and thinks, I'm still alive.

...What's going on?

The answer, not that Fakir knows it: somewhere in the great machine of Goldkronedorf, the gears are stuck tightly. But it won't be very long, now; someone's pulling a chain, and the machine is creaking, creaking, creaking--

For the moment, Fakir sits at a table in the bar, writing a paper on Swan Lake. (He could have sworn he got the same assignment ages ago.)

(no subject)

[changeinasnap]

So first the gates of Hell open.

Then the Weekly World News shuts down.

Then it turns out the Winchester brothers, Señor Muttonhead and Muttonhead Junior, are the ones responsible for bullet point A up there?

Man, this is the worst fall ever.

Sulking, he scoops up a bite of waffle -- okay, more like a tiny island of cooked dough in an Atlantic-sized sea of maple syrup -- and eyes Milliways at large. Maybe he should tie a couple of metaphorical shoelaces together or something. Pranks always make him feel better.

(Hey, don't judge. He's a trickster. He's allowed!)



[OOC: as per usual, slowtimes are highly likely, but! Post is open until it scrolls.]

(no subject)

[themidnightson]

Edward is frowning troubledly at a flyer.

It was folded and left in his math book by a little bird.
Who really should know better than to butt in this time.
Except Edward can't hold it against Alice. Not completely.




As much as he hates the idea of prom. The idea of Bella.
In a dress. Shoes. Her hair. Smiling. Showing up with flowers.
He's far too old for this, and yet some part of him wants it.



Shoving it back between two pages, Edward forced himself back to actually reading the gauche gibberish of his high school history book.

(no subject)

[noteful]

[OOM: Bless thee! Thou art translated.]