milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

autor,
clint barton

(no subject)

The Bells of Saint John are ringing...

A girl with a laptop a somewhat lost expression stumbles into the bar as she searches her pockets, trading the computer from hand to hand as she does. See, the problem with hitching a ride with a 900-year-old alien with two hearts and a time machine is you forget to bring your purse, and there's a definite risk of not having your metro card.

And then her feet hit the uneven wood of the barroom floor.

And then she looks up.

And promptly backs up against the closed door with an expression that's definitely closer to panic.

"No, not again..."

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Okay. Another one.

(She looks younger, and her hair is different. He assumes other things will be, too, once he's actually met her instead of just tried to talk her out of panic.

He won't tell Oswin about this one, for a bit; wait until he has enough information to create a working hypothesis. Run it past Natasha.)

"Good to meet you," he glances to the side, to look over the bar quickly, then back to her. "The rats are waiters, and the Bar materializes things, if you'd like a coffee while I go over the rules."

"Oh God, yes." She isn't sure what to do with 'materializes things', but the Doctor never got her a coffee, and it sounds like a better option than rats. "My day has been tragically coffee-free."

She comes away from the door (with only the barest hesitation, it's a bar, she can work with bars) because he seems... very calm about everything. And she'd never met the people who'd made the last twenty-four hours of her life completely mad - unless he fails to have a back to his head, she'll be okay.

"That is a tragedy," he says, and smiles slightly. "One coffee for Clara, and I'll have a refill."

His cup of decaf refills where it is, and a mug pops up near Clara with her preferred coffee type.

She squeaks, faintly, jumping back a half step in surprise. She reaches out cautiously to touch the mug, pulling her hand back quickly after a touch, her eyes wider when yes, that mug is real, and hot.

"Well. That's." She blinks at the coffee, slowly reaching out to collect it off of the bartop and cradle it, because it smells heavenly. "Weird."

Clint nods, because there's not really anything to add to that.

"The rules are pretty simple. No violence is tolerated, though there is some lenience for self-defense. The security staff wear silver badges, but they're only guaranteed to be present in here. A woman named X is on the security team, and she's fairly trustworthy."

He takes a drink of coffee.

"They don't have an age-limit for who comes here, so the other rule is to keep your clothes on," he smiles, and shrugs. "There're rooms upstairs, if they're needed."

Her expression is pained. So pained.

"Today is making me feel prudish. This is ridiculous." She grumbles at her coffee mug, because seriously, first it's the alien with the snogbox, and now it's the nudist bar.

"If it helps, I haven't seen it need enforcing. Where're you in from?"

"London - I was actually hoping I still had my oyster card on me when I came in. My... ride left without me."

Ride, alien rescuer/stalker, whatever. She still hasn't decided how she feels about this.

Edited 2013-07-10 05:38 (UTC)

The hesitation before 'ride' is noted. It could mean a lot of things, though.

"I guess jerks are universal," he says. "I'm from California, 2011."

"Practically neighbors." She replies with a nervous (nervy) giggle. "And no, he wasn't a jerk - awfully sweet, actually, kind of... awkward. I think he was there to protect me." She muses sipping her coffee. "He just... disappeared."

"Huh," Clint says, casually but openly curious. "Were you being targeted by something?"

"... Well." It's a weird question, and one she never thought she'd have a ready answer for, but, "Yeah. Just me, at first, but. Yes. Figured that one out after they threw a plane at us."

Clint jerks an agreeing nod. He takes another drink of coffee. "Any casualties?"

A half-beat later: "I work in security."

"... Like a bouncer?" She asks, because her brain's a little frozen at the casual question about casualties.

How is this her life? She just wanted to get onto the internet.

Clint half-smiles, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I consult for groups like INTERPOL on security plans and reducing known risks."

"Oh." She blinks. "Well."

Somewhere in those blinks is a brief expression of 'where the hell were you today?' which isn't entirely (or at all) fair.

Two uploads in one day. She still has a headache from it, and was ditched at the end of it, and she's failing at fair right now.

"There's the wi-fi, for one." There's a tip for you, security man!

Clint's seen that look before.

"... someone weaponized the Wi-Fi?" Okay. That could probably happen.

He doesn't know how, but there's a reason he's not the local tech-head.

"It's like... there's something in the internet. Like, inside of it, looking out, and if it sees you, it can choose you, and if it does... well. Brains, people, are like very sophisticated computers. And computers can be hacked. They were... uploading people, brains, souls if you like, into the internet. It isn't pleasant." She rattles quickly, talking as much with her hands as anything else, gestures of distress, anger, frustration even when she sounds more clinical about the whole thing.

There's still some disconnect. It's been a really long day, and with not enough coffee.

Clint's brow furrows as he listens, and he sets his coffee down. The obvious question -- 'you were hacked?' -- is not one he feels comfortable following up on, given how shaken she was by the bar.

"To access their memories?"

Edited 2013-07-21 00:11 (UTC)

"I'm not sure why they were doing it. He never explained. Can't have been for anything pleasant. They can add things, too. Didn't know a thing about computers this morning." She's vaguely embarrassed about needing to call tech support to link into a functioning home wi-fi network. She's more embarrassed about joining a network she didn't even remotely recognize. Of course, she'd know better now.

Edited 2013-07-21 04:39 (UTC)

"Silver linings."He can imagine dozens of applications for that. (Adding hidden programs into political players, making a security guard legitimately forget to secure an entrance -- it... makes sense. Terrible sense, but sense.)

He breathes out, and nods. He wonders, again, who her friend is. "He's sure they're clear of the interference?"

"... I suppose so. I came back, after all. But he ran off before I could get beyond the 'blink dumbly at the floor' stage, dunno where he is now. Could be anywhere." She hopes he's gone back in time to put a beat-down on whoever started this mess. But he's probably off getting a sparkly space-sundae or something.

"Sounds like a long day," Clint says, dry. "You want to change the subject?"

"Please." Her world has suddenly gotten so entirely strange. "So, I'm getting a different number of corners for this place every time I count. And there's fish, in the fireplace. And a mounted bra over the bar. And... an emergency potato?"

Explain, Clint. This is weirder than weaponized wi-fi.

"The fish are pretty great," he says, with a half grin, looking over to them. "They helped me track down some of the toys from the infestation last week."

By going to stare curiously at toys, sure, but still.

"The rest of it is stuff I haven't learned yet, though I'm pretty sure one of the Bartenders would know. The corners don't move while you're looking."