milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Wilford had been warned about Milliways having a sense of humour. So it's not really a surprise when the first door he steps through, after acquiring some highly classified information, takes him right to the bar.

But for once, this is a good thing. For one, he need not rush to get through his stack of required reading. And for two, he's pretty sure he's not going to run into anybody who cares that he has it. He heads straight to the fireplace (just in case, so he can quickly destroy the evidence if he has to) and takes over the sofa so he can read through the stack of extranormal event logs and anomaly reports stolen from the SCP Foundation's archives.

While none of them seem to relate directly to Milliways, there's enough dimension-hopping magical doors and rooms documented to give Wilford a pretty good idea of what he's dealing with. And most are classified Safe or Euclid, which is also promising. Milliways, of course, could be the exception, but somehow Wilford doesn't seem to think so (he's deliberately not thinking about the way all of his saves blip right out of existence as soon as he steps through the door, however). Wilford's theory that this place is meant to be a tool of some sort seems more and more plausible, the farther into his stack of reading he gets. He just has to learn how to use it effectively.

He’s an absolute picture of calm, with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a stack of stolen folders on the table in front of him. He doesn’t look like he’s about to punch anything at all, in fact.

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There is a gentleman in a nearby chair, drinking coffee as well and playing with a white-and-tabby cat.

Wilford seems entirely engrossed in the reports he's reading. He's starting with the folder stamped SCP-025, and as he reads, he seems to swing back and forth between looking almost bored and mildly disturbed.

He hasn't even noticed the cat yet, or the man playing with it.

The cat, however, jumps on the table with the folders because it wants to know.

Of course.

That gets Wilford's attention. He quickly leans forward to both shoo the cat away, and make sure it doesn't knock anything down. There are a lot of papers there that he really doesn't want to get mixed up.

"Get out of here! Scram!" he says, swatting at the cat while trying not to spill his coffee.

The cat swats back.

"Please don't do that, Ferdinand," the gentleman says. "It's rude."

Wilford glares at the cat and then tries to shoo it away again.

"This thing yours?" he asks, looking up at the other man.

Wilford doesn't mind the idea of cats, but when they're getting into his stuff, he's not exactly a fan.

"No," the gentleman says. "He merely decided to join me for the sake of getting some fish and attention."

He reaches over to pick up the cat.

"Don't disturb people's work, Ferdinand," he tells it, earnestly. "Those papers are probably as dangerous as your own human's fires and blades."

He's not too far off, actually. Giving the cat one last nasty look, Wilford sets them right again, making sure nothing's been shuffled loose. It all seems fine, so Wilford sits back with an annoyed sigh.

"Well, it got the attention, all right," Wilford says.

He looks down at his clothes, now worried about the issue of impossible-to-remove cat hair stuck to him.

"He."

Ferdinand settles on the man's lap and is rewarded with a piece of fish.

"Whatever."

That calm? It's gone now. The cat destroyed it, and this is Wilford's feeble attempt at being civil. He tries to regain it with a sip of coffee that's still far too hot to drink.

"I thought you said it wasn't yours."

"No, he isn't," the man says. "But he's friendly enough, and I have spoken with his regular human, so I know his name."

Wilford doesn't think any cat is friendly, but he keeps that to himself.

"Where is its owner? Why isn't it with him?" Wilford asks.

"Cats don't have owners," the gentleman says, "and his human is most likely in the forge, working. But he's a free cat who is allowed to wander where he wants to, and beg from whoever he wants to."

Free cats are even worse.

"Oh, good god. It's not a person, is it?" Wilford asks.

Because those are the worst kind of cats.

"No," the gentleman says. "Ferdinand is just a cat, alive and ordinary, as are most of the forge cats."

"Thank god for that," Wilford says.

He wasn't in the mood to deal with cats that are people today. Cats that are cats are bad enough.

"Are you scared of cats?" the gentleman asks.

"Of course not!"

How dare he even assume that? The nerve!

"I'm not not particularly fond of creatures that come straight from hell."

"You don't say."

Said very mildly.

Wilford's starting to wonder about this man who seems overly-friendly with the cat. It's probably a bad idea to keep pushing the matter, but Wilford's never been good at knowing when to stop.

"Yeah. I do," he says, almost defiantly.

"What in your world suggests such a thing about cats?"

"You typically only see them when demons and ghosts are around," Wilford says. "That, or when they just feel like scaring you into an early heart attack by jumping out of a cupboard."

Cats very rarely seem to appear at any other time.

"They don't just lie around, groom themselves, hunt insects or come for food or cuddles?" the gentleman asks, astonished. "How do they even support themselves, if that is all they do?"

"Eating human flesh, I imagine," Wilford says.

It may not be too far off, actually.

"How do they kill the humans they need for food?" the man asks. "They are quite small, you know."

He ruffles Ferdinand's ears, as if for proof.

"Who says the cat killed anybody?" Wilford asks.

It was probably the demon that the cat was following around.

"Then who does?"

"The demon the cat's following around, usually," Wilford answers simply.

He'd have thought that would be obvious.

Edited 2016-09-01 17:42 (UTC)

"So in your world, cats are usually associated with demons, and the demons are their, for want of a better word, masters?" the gentleman says.

"Master? Who the hell knows? You just don't want to be around when they are," Wilford says.

"I must inform you," the gentleman says, "that in my world, cats are quite different, and being around them, or dogs, can be very enjoyable."

"Nothing wrong with dogs," Wilford says. "Usually, anyway."

Not that Wilford particularly enjoys having them around either, but they're not the same death omen as cats.

"In many world, cats are just as harmless," the gentleman declares.

Wilford's starting to get a little annoyed with this guy. "Your point?" he asks dryly.

"My point is that you can't judge this little furry fellow by the cats of your world," the gentleman says.

"Hmm."

Clearly, Wilford is unconvinced.

"Just keep it on your side," he says.

"Him."

"Whatever."

Wilford goes back to reading over his report, skimming back over it to find the spot where he'd left off. He doesn't care what this guy has to say about cats. Wilford's going to do what's best for Wilford, and stay the hell away from the furry little beasts.

Ferdinand is much more interested in the fish in the covered dish by the gentleman's side than in Wilford's papers, so that might work out well.

"So what do you do then, when you're not cavorting with evil?" Wilford asks over the report he's reading.

"I'm a psychiatrist," the gentleman says. "And I like to cook as a hobby."

oh, this guy gets better and better. Wilford isn't overly fond of shrinks. They have a habit of telling him things he doesn't want to hear.

"Cooking's good," he says, ignoring the first bit. "Your mom teach you, or did you go to school for it?"