milliways_bar | (no subject)

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As the door swings open the bar is filled with the sound of gun fire. A man screams before being silenced by a grenade shoved into his mouth; an explosion rings out.

A red high-heel steps on the upper-half of what's left of the man and walks through the door, bringing with it a beautiful woman poured perfectly into a red cocktail dress.

The red dress crosses the bar and takes a seat at a discreetly lit booth. A hand wipes a smear of blood from a cheek and a tongue licks it from fingers. A look of satisfaction exposes sharp, perfect teeth; a skirmish erupts in a sleepy hamlet in Italy. Lips sip from a glass of red wine that has appeared on the table.

'Just as I remember,' a silky voice says to no one in particular.

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Her entrance has been noted by more than one, no doubt, but this one slides noiselessly into the booth across from her in an immaculate black suit and a leather briefcase.

"I had wondered when you might grace this place again," he says, sounding amused.

'I figured I'd come in and class the place up.' She grins and crosses her legs.

'Besides, I had to find some way to see you without Frannie around. She's always giving me that look. I think she may be in love with you.'

He looks floored by this, and not a little repulsed.

"Frannie? Surely not. I think she's just - er - blind to your charms. Don't you get that look in other places?"

'Only from fish. But, really, do fish have looks?' This question is pondered momentarily before she moves back to the meat of the conversation.

'But seriously, haven't you seen the way she looks at you? It's like the way a puppy looks at its master. Or Tony Blair looks at George Bush.'

"Good," he says shortly, before he's really thought it through.

"I am her boss. And I should therefore have utter control over her thoughts, movements, and desires."

Like a puppy and its master. Red has such a way with words.

A sharp smile. 'You do have a thing for control.' She runs her fingertip over the back of his hand, tracing shapes. Blood appears in the wake of her nail before quickly healing. He doesn't seem to mind.

'How is business these days?'

"Booming, naturally. Dieting will never go out of style," he says, watching her hand.

"I did a turn behind the bar recently, actually." Manual labor! It is indeed a cruel, heartless world. He allows a thin smile at the memory.

"I might have found some new markets. Or new customers, at least."

'You,' she says, in disbelief. 'Tended bar? What happen, you lose a bet?'

"It was made clear to me," he says, trying to retain his dignity, "that if I did not, life in here would be made extremely difficult until I did. It seemed the easiest course."

A waitrat hovers uneasily near their table and he looks at it disdainfully, then back to Red.

"So I did. Would you care for a refill?" he asks, though clearly it pains him.

A laugh is suppressed, though it clearly takes great resolve. 'I would love one.'

He whispers to the waitrat and it scampers off, clearly relieved to be away from these beings that make it so uneasy.

"I can't imagine what the specials will be if you ever have to take a turn."

The rat is back almost immediately; a new glass of wine for her, a glass of sparkling water for him, and it's off again without waiting to see if there's anything else.

A moment is spent pondering exactly what the special would be if she tended bar. The only thing that comes to mind is 'bloodshed,' and she's not quite sure if that's a drink.

'It would be entertaining to say the least. But something tells me you won't be given the pleasure.'

"How disappointing," he says, not sounding particularly disappointed at all. "But I suppose you're not looking to grow your consumer base. How is business, as you measure it?"

Grin. 'Booming.' She looks over her shoulder are the char marks on the doorframe. She licks the blood from the back of his hand off her fingertip. 'And yours?'

"Excellent, of course. I had no idea that flavored water would take off the way it did, but I'm certainly not disappointed. We added vitamins." He seems to find this extremely amusing.

"Now our products are being copied by other corporations. Too late, naturally."

Lots of things change in Milliways.

Like bar leadership.

There's an old lady behind the bar now, silver hair falling to her shoulders and scrawling on a chalkboard.

An odd thing happens in the span of a few seconds. Firstly, the booth where the woman sat is now empty. And secondly, at the bar sits a young man, no more than twenty-one. He wears a red shirt and a brown duster. His head is shaved--military style.

' 'Scuse me, ma'am. Could I trouble you for a cold beer?'

"Not a problem at all."

A flash of a smile before Sallie turns to one side, only requiring a bit of assistance from Bar to know where everything is.

Sallie slides a nondescript brown bottle towards the new arrival. "You new?"

The man takes it, giving her a nod of the head in gratitude. A shy smile is followed with: 'Not exactly. I've been here a few times. Just depends on when I can get out of that gorram war. Pardon my language, ma'am.' His cheeks flush just slightly in embarrassment.

Gorram war.

Gorram.

War.

Sallie inhales heavily, "...where are you from?"

'As of right now, I'm calling Hera home. If you can consider living in trenches and burnt out churches 'home.'' A sip from his beer. His posture is one of a weary, worn-out soldier; a man who hasn't seen a real shower or decent food in months.

All those people.

"I know of it. I'm on Shadow. Have been for some time."

Sallie asks the Bar if she can lock the boy away from his door.

Bar refuses to give her answers she likes.

Surprise. 'Shadow, really?' His face seems to light up. 'A good friend of mine is from there as well. Maybe you know him? Sergeant Mal Reynolds.'

Alanna watches her walk in, sit down and sip wine with those lips that always look freshly bitten.

Not once during all this does the knight remember to breathe.

Yesterday, she fought a major battle; the signs of it are in the bruises, the scratches, the dark circles that haven't quite faded.

Of course War has decided to put in an appearance this evening. Of course.

War has noticed her--she always does--and winks.

When War speaks, she speaks barely above a whisper, but even though she sits all the across the noisy room, the voice sounds as if it's right in Alanna's ear. Is it? 'Been a busy girl, have you?'

Very.

The voice rings in Alanna's ear, making her dig the short fingernails of her right hand into the table. Her left curls around a coffee mug and lifts.

"Always. I do so hate to be idle."

'Idle hands are the Devil's playthings. Or, well, in this case, his son's.' Her finger slides along the rim of her wine glass, creating a low humming sound.

Even though Alanna knows War is across the room, even though, she drops the coffee mug back to the table and flicks at the hair around her ear -- almost as if she expects War to suddenly appear and rake her blood red fingernails along her scalp.

"This is stupid," Alanna mutters, pushing to her feet and stalking across the room. She sits at War's table, uninvited, and says, "Clever. How long have you been waiting to use that one?"

War is doesn't seem to mind the uninvited guest.

Calmly, 'Not very. I just thought it up. It's called improvising. You should try using it in battle sometime, might help you not get your ass so badly kicked.'

Alanna's chin goes up and her eyes narrow.

"I don't recall ever having that problem," she declares, leaning on the table. "I've never thrown my sword at an innocent bystander, it's true. But then again, I've never needed to, either."

She guffaws. ''Innocent?' Really? Something tells me of all the adjectives ever used to describe Thom, 'innocent,'' she spits the word out covered in venom. 'Innocent was never one of them.'

That almost makes Alanna laugh, surprised and loud and a little mean.

Almost.

"There was a time," she replies, shrugging one shoulder. "Miss him, do you?"

She does.

'Not even a little.' Cold. Honest.

"What do you miss?" Alanna asks.

Her careful mask melts into true, potentially unwise curiosity.

War considers this for a moment before releasing a longing sigh and answering in a tone that one may consider fond, 'Caligula.'

Place? Food? Roman emperor?

The name is familiar, but Alanna isn't sure why or which of these three things is correct. Her study of Earth history and culture is sporadic at best.

Part of her even longs to ask if it's a personal problem.

Eventually: "Why?"

Ava's head snaps around at the sound of the explosion; she may wonder for a fleeting second if they're all going to die for real.

Then, when no fiery death is forthcoming, she simply watches the redhead's approach with what is half boredom and half appreciation for the red-on-red-on-red look.

"I like your dress," she says cheerfully.

[ooc: Let me know if it's too late to tag. D: Could not resist.]

War gazes at the girl with her burning orange eyes. 'It is quite nice, isn't it?' No, she's not above narcissism.

[ooc: not at all! Expect slowtime, though. RL is a bitch...much like War.]

"It's really pretty."

Ava sounds a little dreamy.

She misses the sight of blood sometimes. It strikes her as a little weird, but maybe it's an acquired taste-- like sushi.

She notices War's eyes a moment later and starts, feeling ice-cold for a second-- no, no, orange is not yellow.

Important distinction.

[ooc: not to worry! RL is bitchy to all.]

Ava's right, it's not the same--it's worse.

War licks her lips, touches her wine glass; a man is gutted for political subversion somewhere in Russia. The room suddenly feels like the heat has been turned up.

Ava's eyes are wide by default-- she always looks a little shocked, regardless of how she actually feels.

Now, however, they are exceptionally sauceresque, her mouth forming a small, round 'o.'

Both attracted and mildly terrified, she squeaks, "You're not the Devil too, are you?"

A smile cuts its way across her lips. 'Lucifer?' The names slides around and sizzles in her mouth like an ice cube dropped on to a hot griddle. 'No,' she says with a little laugh. 'But we do go way back.'

Ava nods, slowly.

"Huh. Okay."

A delicate pause.

"So, uh."

War ignores the girl's discomfort. 'Do you know him?'

She's on firmer ground with this one.

"Depends on what you mean," Ava replies cheerfully, having recovered herself somewhat. (She is taking pains to be polite.)

"Technically speaking, I've met a him and a her, assuming the her wasn't just a poser Satan. But we didn't hang out or anything."

Dude, who *are* you, anyway? goes unasked.

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