milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Tom is literally passing through tonight. One quick drink, and then he's back to the House and out with Door for the evening. The scotch here is worth the side trip. He can't help that it's the best in the universe.

ooc: semi-plot locked, please ping before tagging as brain strength is on loooow

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Someone else is passing through tonight, too.

Someone very small, and not necessarily deserving of singular conjugations.

Tom sits on his barstool, looking around. It surprises him how few unfamiliar faces are here these days. He should take the time to get to know some of them.

But not tonight.

My, it's noisy in here tonight. Laughing voices, less amused voices, clattering chairs, chattering waitrats, fizzing drinks, rustling --

What rustling?

Tom's leg itches.

He thinks nothing of the itch. For now...

It's such a mild sensation, after all, and the noise level is such that he hears no rustling.

Dun-dun-duuuuuun

He nods to someone he thought might be River, but no, she's not.

It's only a passing twinge, anyway -- his leg feels just fine now.

Winter air can be drying.

Temple and Arch, he's sick of winter. Of course, you can find pockets of all the seasons in the Underside, but for the most part, it's still winter.

Oh, there's River. He's fairly sure. He'll say hello before he goes back to the House.

His glass is half-empty.

Marjory's glass is half-full.

Marjory's egg sacs are more than half full.

Tom doesn't need to know anything about anyone's eggs.

Seriously.

UNTIL IT'S TOO LATE.

For a moment, a spot on his arm stings!

What a crazy random happenstance.

Ow! Something stung him. Or pinched him.

He rubs his arm and looks around, concerned, but nothing seems amiss.

But just in case... "Marjory?"

But there is only silence.

He rubs his arm again, but the sting is already gone. He'd have heard the rustle if she'd gotten close enough to bite him. The strange, dear, horrifying little thing...

He takes another drink of scotch and wonders whether Door will wear the red corset tonight or that fetching new black one...

Meanwhile, inside the flesh of his arm, life takes hold.

She has fulfilled her destiny.

And oh, it is glorious!

Socko, my love, she thinks; this can just be as accurately translated as, Socko, whose delicious flesh provided invaluable nutrition to the offspring incubating in my egg sacs.

She was hatched, long ago, and she crawled through the cold air to the warm, welcoming waters of Salad Finger's rusty tea kettle. Soon, her own children will make the same voyage, born of the nice, clean man who always smells so kind and edible.

And now what? Now that she has given life?

In the crook of Tom's elbow, there is only silence.

As...there usually is. Because he has no voicebox anywhere near it.

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