milliways_bar | (no subject)

Gordon's been out by the lake since sundown, doing his best to walk or run himself into a state of exhaustion advanced enough to let him sleep for once. It didn't really take, so he's come inside, a bit damp from the usual Scottish weather. It's not all that different from the weather he used to slog through at home, a fact which may have inspired an idea or two. He migrates over to the Bar and says, "Excuse me. Do you have back issues of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer in stock?"

A napkin materializes with one word on it: Yes.

"Good. May I please have an issue from..." He drums his fingers on the bartop a moment, thinking. "The first week of September. 1982. I- oh."

After riffling through the Local News section he adds, much more quietly, "Any chance of the WSU alumni newsletter and a pair of scissors?"

That, too, seems to have worked. He looks for a moment as if he might ask for something else; then he goes silent and heads in search of a place to sit. His guns can wait. For now, this is more important.

[Tinytag: Gordon Freeman, Wilbur Whateley, Alyx Vance. Open until it scrolls off the front page.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"There's an odd number of parallels there..." Annabelle says after a moment. It does sound interesting."

"I can't recall anything like that being published back in my time."

"Did your world have a Jules Verne? A lot of the early science fiction writers in my world took their inspiration from him," Gordon says. "I'm pretty sure the early pulp magazines got started in the 1920s with this stuff."

"The name sounds vaguely familiar...I must have just missed reading them. The only pulps I ever followed were The Tales of the AEon Society, and that was because my friends and I were in them."

Gordon nods. "I'd imagine that'd make a difference," he says. "Verne was a novelist, though, and older than the pulps. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Journey To The Center Of The Earth, that kind of thing."

"Most of the stories were reasonably accurate accounts, as they were taken from Whitley's journals. If the general public had realized how true they were there might have been a bit of a panic."

"I may have to look those novels up." She grimaces, "Until your door opens I have time on my hands, after all."

"You're always welcome when I'm out on the range," Gordon notes. "Either way."

"Thank you for the invitation. It occurs to me that you haven't seen me use anything other than the knives...not that stationary targets are the best for displaying skill." She shrugs.

"I could always try throwing something," Gordon suggests after some thought. "Poor man's skeet-shooting rig."

Annabelle brightens, "That would work. Stationary targets just aren't the same. I'll return the favor for you, if you like."

She'll remember not to try to hit Gordon with them, really.

"Sure. Headcrabs're nasty about leaping when you're not looking, anyway."

"If you want me to actually throw them at you, you may want to wear a helmet."

Friends do not concuss friends during weapons practice, and Gordon's seen her aim with knives...