(no subject)

[mighty_avenger]

Carol’s found herself a comfortable spot to settle in for an exciting afternoon of filling out mission reports. Carol’s always been in it for the action, not the paper pushing, but she knows the reports are important and can’t be put off forever. The Avengers aren’t in the business of vigilante justice, after all, so they have to have a paper trail.

Not that there’s actual paper involved these days. Carol’s testing out a prototype Stark tablet—"Danvers, if you can’t break it, nobody can."—"Shut up, Stark!"—which has proven to be much more convenient than lugging around a bunch of files.

Convenient in part because what she did tote along is the cat carrier resting on the floor not far from her feet, though it’s inhabitant has temporarily abandoned it. Instead, the fluffy orange cat is curled up on the chair opposite Carol’s. Like all her feline brethren, Chewie has the ability to nap in even the most remarkable circumstances.

(no subject)

[claudiometer]

Claudia.
Blue streak, today.
Table covered in parts. (Farnsworth-y parts, today, not Tesla parts.)
Botherable.

(no subject)

[damncompass]

Joshua.
T-shirt and sweatpants.
Table covered in papers. (dissertation translation today!)
Paralleling his sister. (botherable!)

(new career in a new town)

[scarred_grin]

It's her day off--well, she only works two days a week, not that weeks or any other measure of time really matter here, but she worked yesterday and is not doing so today--so here's Loki in Serafina-shape, lounging on the couch with a mimosa and a half-empty box of chocolates, taking care of some paperwork. (Apparently she cared enough about her appearance today to do her hair and makeup, but not enough to change into daytime clothes; old-time starlet reading fan mail over brunch was the look she was going for, and when your dressing gown looks that good on you, why not show it off? So here she is.)

She's writing thank-you notes with her beautiful handwriting, a dying art for a dying art form--it's the little touches that make her clients so loyal--but mostly she's enjoying her drink, looking up at the window and contemplating her next career move.

There's always beauty consultant; unlike all the products and treatments in all those commercials, she actually can erase scars and tattoos, reduce the signs of aging, whatever a person might want. All she has to do is invent some herbal concoction as a cover story... Or better still. Television executive. Less interaction with people, but maybe she could finally do something about the fact that there is nothing on in the middle of the night that she hasn't already seen a hundred times...

Botherable. You may even get yourself a thank-you note.

EP: Kate Barlow | Outside, Shooting Range

[ikissdhimbck]

It's been a little while since the last time Kate was in the bar. Well, one should say it's been a little while since she was downstairs, honestly. After reconciling with Tommy, they spent some time alone working things out between them. She dried out a little, and as a result ended up with a nasty cold.

She's feeling better now, past the stages of chicken soup and hot tea. The weather's been fair, and she thought she'd take the opportunity to get a little practicing in at the target range. Last time she was downstairs, Mr. Marston caught her to say they should be heading back out to his world soon, and she's still feeling twitchy. Wouldn't do to jeopardize his mission being all nervy.

She sucks in a few calming breaths, and levels her Colt at the glass bottles lined up twenty paces off. Each of the six following blasts are accompanied by the crack of shattering glass, and as she pops open the loading gate to go again, she pretends her hands aren't shaking. She also brought her Winchester out with her, along with the Railway Rifle Ellen gifted her. To warm up, she'd shot a few railroad spikes off into wooden pells, letting the choo-choo of the trigger calm her nerves. Might be about time to pick it back up again.

Utterly botherable, and possibly due for a snack break.


[ooc: Open as long as there's interest.]

Happy Hour

[not_his_pa]

When William comes in, he's yawning, he's been working hard to keep from thinking too much about Thalia or the look on Dick Grayson's face. He can't change anything for either of them but he can make sure the ranch is as profitable as possible. His coffee comes with a note and he sighs before getting behind and writing up specials.

Specials
Coffee
Whiskey
Lost for Words
Gone Tomorrow
Anything good going on in your life, tell me and your drink is free.

Then he goes to get some biscuits from the kitchen before sitting down and pulling out his current dime novel.

(OOC: I'm off for bed but this is open for new tags until the next Happy Hour goes up.)

(no subject)

[nita_callahan]

So it's a typical Saturday night in Milliways.

The front door is suddenly shoved open, disgorging a cloud of steam and ash, the smell of molten rock, and Nita Callahan: disheveled, sweaty, with something that looks very much (but not exactly) like Princess Leia's blaster in her right hand. Tucked under her left arm, headless horseman-style, is a geodesic sphere the size of a dodgeball made of something that might be shimmering blue metal and might be crystal. She blinks at the bar briefly, breathless.

". . . Oh. Awesome."

Yep. Typical Saturday night in Milliways.