(no subject)

[monkeys_arecool]

 There's a green waitrat running about the bar today, mostly busing tables as he knows rats are territorial creatures and he's not officially a waitrat. You could be forgiven for mistaking him for one though.

(no subject)

[hecu_marine]

The Resistance is pulling together their resources and getting ready for the assault on the Combine Overworld. Shephard's going to be part of that, same as Freeman and all the others. Matter of fact, he's going to be one of the people carrying the most dangerous prototype weapon they've got, Freeman being the other primary candidate. He's good with that- he's used the like before, during the original Black Mesa Incident. Not like he hasn't had to use woo-woo guns before.

But the thing is that the damn displacer cannon is gonna be heavy as hell. Throw in his conventional weapon and his enviro-gear (troll-made and otherwise), and he's gonna be lumbering around like someone wrapped him in an extra-strength EOD suit. Not really his style, fighting with all that extra weight, but it's gonna be necessary if he's gonna survive. Might as well prepare.

Which is why in the morning, by the Bar's reckoning, he's out for a run around the lake. In his Corps fatigues- the ones Kanaya repaired and updated for him- and wearing his PCV, and his helmet, and his gas mask, and wearing a backpack full of rocks and buckshot in addition to his favorite rifle. And just for the hell of it, since he can't get unspeakable trans-dimensional half-cybernetic Synth monstrosities to chase him, he's got the houndeye pups and Mrs. Wilson chasing him instead- so there's a whole flock of blue-striped alien eyeball dogs hot on his tail as he runs.

... 'course, once that's all done he's gonna go inside for a wash and a shave and a change, so if you'd rather run into him under less weird circumstances, he'll be thanking the good Lord for His gifts of bacon and coffee at a table near the fireplace, with most of the dogs back home and just Mrs. Wilson dozing at his feet. Take your pick.

(no subject)

[pullsneedles]

There's a boy outside fighting demon bunnies.

This isn't the first time he's done this but this time is...different.

"Stop it!" he cries out, swatting another one away with his stick.

Ungrateful child. You would make anyone cry.

"No!"

I'm gonna beat you! I'm gonna beat you, boy! Daddy's gonna beat you!

"No! You're not- Dad wouldn't-!"

See my heart beat in and out? There's nooooothing to worry about!

"Claus isn't here!"

He fights the last one away and wanders under the lurid pink trees and through the shockingly violet grass to the back door, dragging the stick the whole way. He hesitates before taking the handle, almost a red mailbox door, but he ultimately opens the door and steps inside.

His free hand instinctively goes up to shield his trembling eyes from the bright colors, his head shaking a little from the new assault of whispers.

Everyone's waiting for you.

Everyone's waiting to throw rocks at you, spit on you, and make your life hell.

Who's "everyone"...?

Everyone you love.

He crouches low and takes shelter from the voices and the sudden nauseating scent of putrid food.

To sum up, a pretty gross Lucas is hiding under a table in a booth. You can probably smell him or hear his mantra of "Stopitstopitstopitstopitstopit....."


[OOC: Ladies and gentlemen, we now have Tanetane Island!Lucas. This is in no way plotlocked but pinging and reading the relevant post in the backroom are encouraged.]

(no subject)

[golden_lyre]

[OOM: He's really not cut out to be a spokesperson. Even for himself.]


Orpheus is looking much sharper than usual again when he comes into the bar tonight.

He's also looking rather grumpy, and he rests his guitar against the bar before dropping heavily onto a stool.

"You know what, sweetheart? I don't even care. Just something strong."

Whatever it is Bar provides, he seems to be content with it, as he picks up the glass and drains it in one go.

"Just keep 'em coming."

First Entry

[my_brothers_humor]

And then the bar was up one Norse mythological character.

He doesn't look like a giant. Not really. He's not even as tall as Loki. Not quite.

But he's a giant all the same and more like his brother than he'd care to admit.

For a first timer, he doesn't look too terribly shocked to find himself at an interdimensional bar. In fact, he grins as he looks around the room and then head straight for the bar.

"Who should I speak to about getting a proper drink?"



tiny!tag: Bergelmir

(no subject)

[fireinthehole]

When you work a twelve-hour shift, and you do four of them in a row, you have three days off. Boyd Crowder has used his time off wisely.

Beside his glass (and his chicken dinner, his meat and three, with a big slice of cake on its own plate to the side), there is a map, looking a little damp and a little crumpled. Boyd himself now has a few scratches on his face, and more on his hands. On the barstool to his left is his army pack (Gulf War vintage), which, in addition to a couple of baloney sandwiches, a can of Coke (the other being crumpled out somewhere in the forest), some rope, and a good knife, contains a handgun (which stayed fitted at the small of his back until he emerged by the lake) and a few botanical samples. A machete, sheathed, is sandwiched between the pack and the barstool; Boyd is a trailblazer.

One hand is occupied with his fork. The other hand is writing a note in a loose, round, legible script just a little too spindly to be quite Palmer method.

( a note )

"Now," Boyd says to the bar, "my discomfort at speaking to an inanimate object is my problem, and not your own, so I must beg your indulgence, as I mean no offense. If I describe someone to you, and ask you to hold a note, would you know who that might be?"

A napkin appears.

"That's good to know. So this man -- he's shy of six feet, dark hair, blue eyes, real pale, healthy build but he's no linebacker, not even on special teams, works in the infirmary. His dress is what you might call dandified. Treated a Lieutenant Gaeta not too far back, if that's in your internal records. You know who I'm talking about?"

A napkin appears.

"In which case -- " Boyd folds the note over, and places it on the bartop. " -- would you be so kind as to see that this gets to him?"

The note disappears.

Boyd gives his thanks and returns to his dinner, pondering. Best to see how that goes over before he alerts the good lieutenant that the subterfuge with the spare room, thin as it is, will no longer be necessary.

(no subject)

[souffle_girlek]

So, in a few seconds, her entire world is going to end. She thought to watch it calmly on her couch-turned-jumpseat, but... then she remembered.

Before this all started.

She had a souffle, her very last souffle, in the oven.

And even if it isn't real, isn't worth anything, wouldn't it be just the perfect poetic point if her last souffle finally turned out perfect.

So it's a determined, tear-streaked, oven-mitt-wearing Oswin Oswald who stumbles into the bar.

"... So... Then this happened."

(no subject)

[flip_the_lights]

Olivia can't have been gone from the bar for more than a couple of weeks, she figures -- at least, until she notes the Milliways weather has moved from late spring toearly fall. She's experienced time shifts before, but never this pronounced; mentally, she makes a note to add it to the ongoing data collection.

It's been a long couple of weeks, though, and she hasn't slept well for most of them. With both the newness of the bar and the panic of the Allpocalypse receding, her mind's begun turning back toward Peter: the glimmer surrounding him, the shine in Walter's eyes as he begged her not to tell his son the truth. And then came the resonances she can't explain in this latest case, just enough to unsettle her and knock her focus askew.

She needs a break, and badly.

...Olivia just has no intention of taking it here. Instead, she's claimed a table with a glass of scotch and a sheaf of photographs from the case in question.