(no subject)

[out_on_the_mat]

Smug Charlie is smug today. Why? Because he actually had a tip pay off at the track and had a bot come out on top in a slug fest against a favored opponent.

To celebrate he's at a table in Milliways wearing actual clean laundry, eating steak and eggs with a beer.

He also has pen and pad of paper and a list of names. On the paper he's doing a lot of sums and scribbling, deciding who's going to get paid today and how much.

There's also a racing form at his elbow, which he'll be consulting after he sees how far the cash is going to go towards paying his debts.

He's in a great mood so company isn't minded in the least.

(no subject)

[cottoncandypink]

After being thrown in jail for defending himself, Wilford got the hell out of dodge, determined to never come back.

Since then, the bar has shown up three times. The first two, Wilford managed to nope right out and avoid stepping all the way through the door. This time, with his hands full of scalding hot coffee and an iPad playing a segment for next week's show, Wilford doesn't realise where he is until he hears the door shut in such a way that it sounds very much locked. After some careful shuffling of coffee and expensive electronics, Wilford tries the door to find it is indeed very much locked. He only just manages to restrain himself from kicking it, and glares hatefully at it instead.

This time, he's not going to let himself get caught off-guard, though. He'd gleaned enough information the last time he was here to understand, more or less, what this place is. After a quick stop to the Bar to pick something up, Wilford takes over the sofa by the fire to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do next.

On his way over, he notices a comically-large pink moustache on the mermaid in the trilobite tank, and has a very good idea of who put it there. But he's not going to give the creep the satisfaction of reacting to it.

(no subject)

[mogget_cat]

The door opens to a large, noisy room crowded with clusters of people, huddled with stuffed trashbags and sleeping bags and bags of all sorts holding what few worldly possessions they could carry. The room is the event space, fellowship hall, meeting hall, or whatever phrasing they use for the large open room used for whatever it is needed for at the given moment, of a sizeable christian church. Right now, it is serving as a makeshift shelter. The crying of infants punctuate the general noise of conversation. The whole room smells of damp people and things, of sweat and potential mildew, and of easily-prepared food that was cooked in large quantities and kept hot too long.

Yrael comes through the door and into the bar, as filthy and tired of rain as any of the people behind him. The NOLA Pay It Forward t-shirt he wears was white at some point, but now is a mottled grey from the chest-level high-water mark. The sturdy jeans he wears are merely damp now, but are filthy from multiple excursions into muddy waters to collect survivors stranded on rooftops or the tops of vehicles.

It has been a long two weeks. If he were human, Yrael would be exhausted. But he is not, so he is merely tired of being damp and muddy.

If it weren't for the prospect of being covered in yet more water, Yrael would almost want a shower.

He'll settle for a drink and burning the clothes he's wearing.

(no subject)

[lazy_but_loyal]

Pam walks into the bar.

Her expression clearly says, Fuck off, I hate you.

But that's what it says every day, so.

She's about to turn around and get out of here when she remembers she has, like, paperwork and shit to do. And she doesn't feel like doing any of it. So she's not going to. At least not right now.

What she is going to do, is go behind the bar and help herself to a bag of donor blood in the refrigerator. It gets squeezed out into a glass and popped into the microwave until it reaches 98 degrees or thereabouts.

It's not fresh, but Pam doesn't feel like working for a drink either.

(no subject)

[explosive_artist]

Sabine comes in, hair freshly dyed (indigo with orange tips) and heads to Bar for a drink when she realizes where she is. She also can't help rolling her shoulders at the unexpected space. Space living, even on a freighter, gets cramped. Add in a lasat, a species known for needing space and taking up more, and well, you tend to appreciate strange bars that appear out of no where.

As near as she can tell, no one else on the Ghost gets the Milliways treatment. She's not sure how she feels about that.

Motion out of the corner of her eye and a flashing light on her wrist comm pull her thoughts to the here and now. Looking from her gauntlet to the rafters, she scowls and begins a hushed conversation with bar, which ultimately concludes with, "Yes, I've got the credits. Here." and the appearance of a medium sized supply crate.

Grabbing her helmet and crate, she retreats to a secluded booth to activate her prowler 1000, which goes floating up into the rafters. Nice little droid, though she'll have to repaint it ASAP.

Wait, is that a pink mustache? What is with this bar?

(no subject)

[just_cant_lose]

 OOM:

...I can read you like a magazine
Ain't it funny, rumours fly
And I know you heard about me

(no subject)

[littleyellowboxes]

Deadpool is sitting at a table in the bar. On this table is a plate containing the remains of a burger, a few empty beer cans, a few full beer cans, and a brand new 64 pack of crayons.

He is currently occupied with a coloring book that is not work safe, nor safe for the eyes of small, easily traumatized children.

Not that we're usually work safe anyway.

"Shhh. I think it's working. I feel calmer already!"


He's also online as weirdwardWiseacre if that's more your style.

(no subject)

[freedom_is_grey]

Apprentices are exhausting. Ysalwen herself couldn't have been like this, right? She was quiet and biddable and . . . .

A fountain of repressed rage and disappointment, okay, yes.

Which means she ought to be able to work with her current apprentice fountain of badly-repressed rage and disappointment, the former saarebas who has chosen the name Meraad for herself. It's a good name, particularly for someone who now lives on the coast, and who can see the sea any time she likes. Particularly the sea crashing over rocks and pulling the unwary down with the power of its undertow.

They've been working on turning that rage in constructive directions, but it's -- difficult. Explaining hope and freedom to someone born under the Qun -- it's difficult. But at least she's letting herself feel angry now.

Which is why Ysalwen, having changed out of her recently-charred robes -- training exercises are no joke when working with someone having a particular set of skills and the will to use them -- is poring over old scrolls and tomes, looking for suggestions in how to -- well.

How to train a battlemage. Effectively. (Some heavy adaptation is likely to happen, because . . . the Chantry has never been unbiased. Nor have most of the mages serving in the Circle. Ah well.)

Liranan is napping at her feet. He has never been charred at all. Not by Meraad, anyway. It's something.

(no subject)

[i_am_your_host]

The door abruptly swings open, Emcee stumbles in, and the door slams shut.

Emcee turns and spits in German at the closed door, "Fuck you and your tiny cock!"

He's out of breath from running. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he's clutching his leather coat in one hand, and a pair of trousers in the other-- someone else's trousers-- he himself is dressed-- which he throws angrily across the floor.

There's blood dribbling down his chin from a cut on his lip and a bruise forming on his left cheek.

(He'll receive the envelope as soon as he calms down and gets to the bar.)

[OOC: No other help threads, please! Not plot locked, but kind of an inadvertent first come first served deal. Reactions are welcome, or if your pup is concerned enough to want to follow him upstairs, please DM me first. Thank you!]