milliways_bar | Aug. 25th, 2013

Aug. 25th, 2013

After this, Molly comes into the bar from the office, in a shirt that's smeared thick with gore and with an expression that clearly denotes it having been one of those days.

"Bar? Can I get a clean shirt and bra, please?"

Bar duly provides, and Molly briefly disappears back to the office with it. Changed, she re-emerges with her bloody clothes in her just-scrubbed hands.

"Don't suppose you can clean these for me, can you? I don't exactly have a lot of spares."

The clothing vanishes, and almost immediately reappears: clean, neatly folded, and accompanied by several more sets of t-shirts and underwear, since Bar apparently seems to think she needs them. The sight makes her grin and pat the bar-top gratefully.

"And I could use a beer, too, and some writing paper."

Bar duly provides, and - having retrieved her hoodie and badge - she finally settles on a bar stool to write the obligatory note.

Eventually, what she produces is this:

Hey guys,

Someone called Sunshine just came in, and she killed a couple of vampires (apparently) that she brought in with her before collapsing. Guppy and some guy called Hannibal have taken her to the Infirmary. I dumped the bodies in a cell just in case they weren't properly dead or something, 'cos vampires.

Sunshine's out for the count for the time being: I told Guppy she'd probably have someone from Security come ask her questions, cos I don't think the dead guys are patrons but I'm not that certain what the rules are.

The bodies are in the cell that's been blacked out. I'll be around if you wanna ask stuff.

Xx Molly (the older one)

The note is written in black sharpie on purple paper, and carefully pinned to the Security board. Job done, she heads back out to her stool to finish her drink.

[OOC: Warnings for gore and violence in the linked thread.]

redintheledger

Sometime after this, Natasha makes her way over to the Bar to leave a note.

"Could you give this to Clint Barton? Thank you," she adds when the note vanishes, and a napkin appears with an, of course.

(One day, she's going to get used to the Bar. Today is not that day.)

( Clint Barton )

empath_wiggin

~~Nine years to the day from when another version of her walked into the bar...~~

A small-ish girl walks into the bar, and freezes in the doorway. She looks around at the tables, the Bar itself, and the patrons. "Peter, why the frell is there a bar in your closet? This is a bit extreme, even for you." She steps forward into the Bar itself, and the door closes gently behind her. Good thing it's still there.

Bar, please welcome Valentine Wiggin. ~~Again.~~

gorgonfondness

Hey look, Mia is actually in the bar! She's curled up in a booth, finishing her supper and playing solitaire.

Despite being all comfy and such, she is quite botherable. So please do!

hecu_marine

It's been known for a long time now among the Resistance folk that Adrian Shephard's pretty much intent on recreating the Marine Corps from scratch. He hasn't gone on any official recruiting drives yet; he's planning on doing it the right way. The Corps was born in a tavern the first time around and by damn it'll be reborn in one just the same the next time he gets back to Rowlesburg. He did, however, line up his first possible recruit- a Satere-Mawe tribesman named Maripyaipok, who opted to stick with the Resistance after they killed the South American gene worm. One little catch, though. Mari refused to take orders from a man who hadn't gone through the same blindingly painful initiation rite as any of his own people.

So Shephard made some arrangements. And took a boat and some friends down to Brazil to get it done.

When the door opens it's from the interior of the Borealis. Shephard insisted they leave Mari's village early; the celebratory feast being held was really meant for the young men who'd gone through the rite for the twenty-fourth time, not for the crazy American who insisted on doing it once. He got back to the ship with the help of Nepeta and Kanaya, and they may or may not be with him right now. He isn't paying attention. What he is paying attention to is how close the nearest chair is, because his lower legs are in more pain than he'd thought physically possible.

"Hey," he says hoarsely as he collapses into the chair nearest him. "Squeaky. I ain't hallucinatin' things, right? I'm at Milliways?"

The rat gives a startled but affirmative squeak.

"Fuckin' sweet. I'mma need all the fuckin' tequila in the world, please."

The rat runs off. Shephard puts his head down on his arms and starts muttering under his breath in fifteen different languages. It's been that kind of day.

goodnight_nightvale

Cecil is working on his dream journal.

Since the city council banned all writing utensils (except during Poetry Week, or for other extenuating circumstances) he is writing by dipping an unbent paperclip into ketchup and painstakingly writing a few strokes before he has to dip again.

(Yes, the journal smells like a condiment bar.)

Steve has many places to work out at home, but none of them are quite like Milliways. Not just because he can run by a lake if he wants to, or ride a horse if a horsey friend is about to go with him, or even because he has learned so many new forms of fighting from people from other worlds.

All of those are good reasons.

But mostly he likes working out in Milliways because nobody stops and stares when he hits the punching bag hard enough to knock it off its hook again, and he doesn't have to wait until the gym is closed to let himself loose.

Really, Milliways, for all its Big People and oddness, is the most civilized place Bilbo has been since they left Rivendell.

He heaves a sigh of relief when he comes through the door, and sets himself up by the fireplace, his pack by his feet, with a mug of ale and his pipe.

Before long, there's quite an impressive collection of smoke rings floating above his head.

[ooc: Multi-pup post! Please let me know who you want.]

golden_lyre

Settling in to Steve's world has been...interesting. He keeps many of his habits from his home, but they're different to what they were there. He still gets up every morning to play a hymn to Apollo; he's just not sure Apollo hears it. He still spends a good deal of his time on the street busking; it's just that now he goes home to Steve, or is there for Steve when he comes home.

The former is requiring some adjustment. The latter is...well...nice, really.

Still, it's good to be in Milliways sometimes. For all it's strangeness, it's at least familiar.

It's nice to play without getting paid sometimes, too. (Even when he doesn't put a hat out in New York, people throw money on the ground, and he's tired of putting something in his song to discourage generosity. It can have poor effects from time to time.)

So tonight, he settled in near the Observation Window, guitar in lap, singing about endings taht are beginnings in their own right.

twiceahero

Barbara Gordon is usually found at a table by the door with a cup of coffee (if something that huge can be called a "cup"), and a laptop. This evening, however, she's up to something different.

She's in one of the more out-of-the-way corners of the bar with all the nearby tables and chairs pushed out of the way to clear a decent space on the floor. And rather than her usual business-casual sort of dress, she's in a loose-fitting tank-top (though her usual full-length skirt is still present). Spread out in front of her are bits of metal and plastic and leather and a spray of various tools. A careful look will reveal two things: first, her usual wheelchair is not in evidence at the moment; and second, the stuff spread out in front of her looks rather like it could be assembled into a wheelchair.

daringyoungman

Through the door into the bar comes a young man, casual in jeans and a shirt, his black hair sweeping in bangs across his eyes.

He is not new to the bar. He has in fact been here many times since he was a young man. Almost constantly, he might say.

What does surprise him, is Milliways doesn't look the same to him as it has recently. Subtle differences: the layout and décor are slightly different. The patrons aren't exactly the same as the regulars he's used to seeing. His name, when he looks on the tab board, has a different than usual number.

In fact, the bar looks like it did when Dick Grayson used to come here as an eleven year old, a whole decade ago.

"Holy time travel, Batman."

[DCU!Dick, but 21 instead of 11. Open to all, obviously. Ping me on lycanfae if you have any questions.]

never_shall_yield

A few days after this:

What has that convict done...in leaving me my life, in showing mercy upon me? His duty? No. Something more.
And I in showing mercy upon him in my turn--what have I done? My duty? No. Something more.

- - 'Javert Derailed', Les Misérables, Victor Hugo

[OOC: Self-harm and mentions of suicide]

herr_bookman

Autor knew, intellectually, that going to Lucas' world is not just setting one foot in the grave, but tripping into it and potentially spraining his ankle. But it wasn't until Lohengrin told him to spend time with people before he left that the fact that he might not return to do so sunk in, tangled deep into his gut.

So of course he ignores the crap out of it, smothering the feeling with tea. Catch him cheerfully playing a game of chess with Bar--and please ignore the shredded pile of napkins.

cook_the_rude

Friends and acquaintances of Rae Seddon may care to know that Miss Seddon was in an incident in her home world and is at present accepting considerate visitors in the infirmary. Please do not wake her, should she be sleeping, but feel free to gently entertain her if she is not. Thank you!