milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There's no announcement.

There's no fanfare.

No humorous misunderstandings.

Nick Fury enters the bar, sits down at a table, opens the newspaper he was carrying, and starts to read. It's the New York Times.

The relaxed pose he is cultivating is somewhat at odds with all the black leather, kevlar, and hidden weapons he is currently sporting.

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Sunshine nods, understanding. She knows very well the difference between being cheap and staying afloat, but sometimes one is necessary for the other. She heads to the bar to have a small chat.

Fury's cinnamon roll and its brethren are famous in New Arcadia. They regularly have grizzled vets licking their fingers, off-duty cops and Special Other Forces pulling rank to decide who gets the last one, and businesswomen in powersuits sprinting in high-heels over cobblestones to make it to Charlie's each morning before they run out. It's the incarnation of the meeting point between high-quality ingredients (Rae is very particular about her flour) and a skilled baker who loves making delicious food and seeing the delight of those taking their first bite.

Fury closes his eyes for a moment, then takes a long pull of coffee after his bite. The picture of satisfaction.

Looks like she has another convert.

Rae comes back shortly afterwards. "I used the ten blinks you gave me as a world reference - Bar says that $1.36 of my world's currency should translate to $0.49 of your world's currency."

She isn't surprised - she knows her world's economy is shot.

"...Technically $0.48999 repeating, but I felt it safe to round up."

"Close enough for government work," Fury says, with poorly hidden amusement.

"Here." He slides two quarters, a dime, a nickel, and three pennies across the table to her. "They'll only end up in the swear jar, back home."

"Thank you," Rae laughs, accepting the strangely heavy coins with their unfamiliar profiles and symbols. "It's a good thing we don't have a swear jar at work back home, or else we'd all be absolutely broke. The rule is mainly just not to let the patrons hear you swear - though the unspoken rule is not to let Charlie hear you swear near the patrons - most of the coffeehouse's clientele wouldn't mind one bit."

"I'm Rae," she says, remembering that she hadn't introduced herself. "Though most people call me Sunshine."

"Pleasure," he says. "Nick Fury." He offers her a hand to shake. He has already carefully wiped his hand on a napkin, so there is no frosting present.

"Interesting nickname."

"Nice to meet you, Nick Fury," she grins brightly, wiping her hand on her apron to make sure it's clean of flour before shaking his hand. It's the familiar, long-practiced gesture of one used to having to do it. "Is it Nick, or Mr. Fury?"

He doesn't look like any 'Nick' she's met. As to the nickname, well, it's complicated.

"Technically, it'd be 'Director Fury', but seeing as you don't work for me, either 'Nick', or just 'Fury' is fine."

He has another sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug.

"Nick it is, then," Rae smiles, snagging a cinnamon roll for herself. >_> He won't tell on her, will he?

"Mind me asking what sort of director you are?" She's guessing he's the director of some sort of organization or corporation. Some blockbuster vid directors always deck themselves out in odd ensembles, but she's never seen one in all that black leather, complete with eyepatch.

"I'm afraid that's very classified, ma'am." His smile doesn't change a wit. "But that probably answers your question pretty well anyway."

Rae laughs lightly, and asks no more. "Well enough, certainly. You sound like my SOFs, though you're not wearing nearly enough khaki."

Or... any at all. Black leather's not standard uniform, no.

"Black is very slimming," he says. "And I think I'm more of a Winter. So khaki is right out."

"Ha! I'd been telling Pat he'd look better in blue for years," she says, wryly.

Not mentioning Pat's tendency to turn blue, grow a third (all-blue) eye in the middle of his forehead, grow additional fingers and sharp (blue) teeth when he holds his breath long enough.

"But then he just started wearing navy blue. Which... practically counts as khaki anyway." You'd never catch Rae in any neutral color. White, black, beige, ecru, khaki, nope. Only the brightest of bright colors.

"Is he Navy? Because you can tell Navy boys whatever you want, but they never listen. Especially if it involves having a fashion sense." Those hats.

He is just as composed while discussing fashion as he is when the topic is alternate universe economics.

"Nah, he's SOF. Special Other Forces. The regional headquarters is just about a mile away from my step-dad's coffeehouse, so they're regulars."

They've always known they had a rapt audience in Sunshine, when they wanted to talk shop. Less so now that she's (extremely-)unofficially working for them.

"Special Other Forces? Sounds like Tuesday, to me." His voice is dryly amused.

"Oh?" she looks surprised. "You have Others, in your world?" The capital letter is pretty evident in her tone.

If his answer is yes, he'd be the first person Rae has met who both has them and calls them by the same name.

"Maybe not." He definitely caught the capital. "Or at least not exactly. But we do have people with...unique skill sets."

"Ah," she says, surprise clearing. "Then that's a 'no.'"

"Others are sentient non-humans. Weres, demons, vampires, 'ubis, trolls, wraiths, doxies, et cetera." It's a very long list. "SOFs police the Others, while the straight cops police the humans."

Though SOF's job is mostly cleaning up after the fact, usually a vampire attack, and giving the sterilized ashes of the blood-drained bodies to their next of kin, with their condolences. It's not the SOFs' fault they're underpaid, overworked, and stretched too thin to make much of an impact.

"That's a no," he confirms, after taking a moment to process her explanation. "We'd probably be interested in exchanging intelligence with them just in case," Fury says, with the wry amusement of someone very use to putting out fires. Whether they be literal or metaphorical.

Or possibly metaphysical.

"I'm sure you would," she says, also wry, as she takes another bite of her cinnamon roll. "But they don't know about this place, or other worlds."

And they won't be finding out from her. She needs this place to be her refuge.

"Probably for the best." He also has another bite, and there is a moment of blissful silence.

"You wouldn't want a bunch of mooks swarming the place, after all."

"It's extremely far into the Do Not Want end of the scale, yeah."

The wry smile is... pretty much gone. Why yes, keeping secrets from SOF is a legitimate worry, especially to one like Sunshine, who has trouble keeping her thoughts from showing on her face.

If SOF execs found out - about Milliways, about what Sunshine can do - Rae would be disappeared in SOF's underground labs faster than she could blink, and spend the rest of her natural life (and longer) chained to the Goddess of Pain's desk as her new pet research project.

"So don't tell 'em." It's part simple statement, part order, part rough encouragement.

"This place seems to attract exactly who it wants, and when. There isn't much point in worrying about it. Preparing for it, definitely."

"Wasn't going to. Tell them, I mean. Worrying about them finding out, well," she shrugs, "I worry about a lot of things, so it's not too far out of my way."

Those faint scars of scratches and scrapes on her shoulders and arms, barely visible, weren't made by particularly ferocious dough. Thankfully, her apron covers most of her more noticeable scars, though the necklace-like burn scar may be visible where her neck meets her shoulders, above the collar of her shirt, if her hair doesn't fully cover it.