milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

He comes down the stairs, in costume, after what seems like a particularly long nap. Maybe more than a nap. Looks about the place, and gets the sense that he's missed a lot.

Taking note of a bit of a mess, he pitches in. In about thirty seconds, dirty dishes are in the kitchen, chairs are back at tables, and whatever denizens of the place are sleeping off too- much-to-drink on the floor are placed on couches and chairs. He picks up a dozen or so pirate hats and takes them to the back of the kitchen, not sure why they're there or what to do with them.

"Bar, a Swiss and American cheese omelette, two eggs, well-done; a cup of Sumatran decaf, light, three sugars; a glass of orange juice; and the August 23, 1977 sports section from the Central City News."

The bar produces breakfast, but it comes up short on the sports section. All Flash gets is a photocopy of the story he was looking for, about a particularly exciting baseball game he recalled between Central City and Star City. He takes his meal to a table and reads the story, and wonders what other reading material - if any - he can get.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bruce wanders in from the House of Arch. He sees the man in red and remembers him from before. He walks over.

"Hello."

He smiles, and tries very hard to think of this young man as being just that, and not a child version of his colleague and friend.

"Hi, Bruce. Care to join me? We can get you something to eat."

"Sure." He smiles at him.

"You in the mood for brekafast, lunch, or dinner? I can't say I'm entirely sure what the time is, especially when I look out the window.

"Haven't seen you for a while. How's your, er, training going?"

He hopes that Bruce doesn't think he's being condescending. It's been so long since he dealt with any kids, though. So long since Kid Flash was really a kid.

He considers. "Lunch. Can I have macaroni and cheese, please?"

He grins at the next question. "Good! Watch."

He lies down on the ground, then propels his knees up to his chest and rolls forward and up in one fluid motion. "Isn't it cool?"

The roll looks familiar. It's one he's seen Robin do once or twice, though not one that looks like Batman would use too often as an adult.

"Not bad. Did Raph teach that to you?

"But you'd better eat your macaroni while it's warm."

"Yup." He sits down at the table and digs into his food. After swallowing his mouthful of macaroni, he asks, "What are you doing?"

"Just trying to catch up on...well, I'm not sure what. I asked the bar for a specific newspaper. The Titans-Robins game on August 22, 1977. 1-0, Robins. Willets' no-hitter and McCovey's great catch. Saw it when I was about 12 or 13. Think is, the bar only gave me a photocopy.

"Anyway, I got to thinking that I have time to think here in the first place, and found myself missing baseball. You a baseball fan?"

Bruce thinks of games of catch and tee-ball on the Manor lawn, and flinches.

"Not really." His macaroni suddenly becomes very interesting.

No. No, he wouldn't be. And yet the man he knew seemed to know a little about everything.

"You should give it a try. I know it can seem old-fashioned and slow. But there's a lot going on there. Strategy and timing and teamwork and training. It's not that different from what I do, sometimes."

"Really?" Bruce says shyly, pushing his food around. "Tell me?"

Flash warms to the topic, but tries not to let his old enthusiasm carry him away.

"Well, I'll assume you know the basics of the game. So I figure that you know professional athletes - the ones I admires, at least - take good care of themselves. They train year-round.

"But then they need a certain kind of discipline that goes beyond mind and body. It's a team sport. You work with your teammates to get the job done. You can't win the game alone. Just like I couldn't beat the bad guys alone. I worked with the cops, with the FBI, with other heroes, all the time. They picked me up when we faced someone who had me outclassed, and I did the same for them.

"And that's just for starters. There's also a lot of thinking, but I couldn't do that justice. I love the game, but I'm just a fan."

Bruce thinks about this and absent-mindedly chews some of his food.

"How do you beat bad guys?"

"Well, I usually use my speed. But I also try to outthink them. And try to find their weaknesses.

"And I have to patient. Just because I can move fast dones't mean I should. My enemies - my Rogues Gallery, the newspapers call them - always make mistakes. Sometimes small ones. But I have to wait for things to develop. At least as long as they aren't doing much more than robbing banks.

"But keep in mind that I do think rather fast, so I"m not sure my methods would apply to, er, other cirmefighters. Patience, though, is a sure thing."

Is he really telling the future Batman this? The same Batman who is the paradigm of patience in his own day?

"Does that make you a detective? Like Sherlock Holmes?" Bruce *loves* Sherlock Holmes stories.

He has to smile at that.

"Not really. I sometimes help detectives, since I know some things about chemistry and police forensics."

No need, he thinks, to confuse Bruce with the life of Barry Allen, police scientist, at this point.

"But I wouldn't call myself a detective. I tend not to solve too many mysteries. And I'm certainly not Sherlcok Holmes. My buddy Ralph, maybe he'sthat good, but I'm not that kind of smart."

How much to encourage him? Or it is inevitable?

"Neat. Will you teach me?"

At last. The question is before him. Is Bruce supposed to learn from him? Does it matter?

"I can try. But I'm not a teacher. And a lot of what I do, I can't teach you. But I did say you need to learn patience, and I think having me as a teacher might help with that."

{OOC: Offline now.}

Bruce nods at this. "Ok."

He looks down at his bowl. It is empty. "I should go back to Ms. White's room now. Bye."

He gets up and walks to the painting portal.

[OOC: Flash wouldn't be able to tell what time it was by looking out the observation window at a dying universe, but the day-night patterns of the sky out in the back yard follow an Earth-normal 24-hour cycle, so he'd be able to tell roughly whether it was morning, noon, afternoon, etc.]

{OOC: I know, but he's still getting the hang of it. And as he's been away for a while, I figured I would leave him a bit out of it.}

[OOC: Ah, okay. Just trying to eliminate possible OOC confuddlement. IC confuddlement is fine, but I didn't want you the mun to be confused.]

Tim, nursing a cup of tea and sore head, was, to put it mildly, somewhat surprised to see the red costume walk past him, get his meal, and sit down. After pondering whether or not it would be an intrusion, he walks over and smiles at the man now poring over his news story.

"Cool Flash costume, mate."

Michael strolls over, in his plain grey Dr. Primoris suit, and chuckles. "I don't think it's just a costume, young man."

Given the number of people whom he had previously thought to be just fictional that Tim has already seen in his short time at Milliways, he mentally chides himself for being so slow on the uptake.

With a nod and smile to the man in grey (supressing his initial instinct to jump up and declare Young man? I'm twenty-seven, I'll have you know! in an uncharacteristically haught manner), he turns back to the man in the Flash costume.

"So you're the real Flash, then?" He pauses for a moment. There are only two questions that he could possibly contemplate asking at this moment in time. Pushing So who's faster, you or Superman? to the back of his mind, he plumps for, "So which one are you?"

He smiles. Even if he's only recognized as a fictional character, it's still nice to be known sometimes. Just better not let it go to my head, he thinks.

"Yes, I am the real thing. Or one of them, at any rate. As for which one, I'm the first to wear this costume. I hope you don't mind that I'm not being specific, but I kind of feel like I need to keep my real name quiet for now. But I suspect you know it anyway."

Tim smiles, and taps his nose conspiratorially.

"Absolutely. Your secret's safe with me!"

He immediately plunges his head into his hands as the horribly cliched nature of what he's just said strikes him.

"Sorry. It's all a bit new to me, this. I'm still trying to get my head around it, to be honest."

Among the many thoughts swirling around Tim's head at this juncture is the ever-dawning idea that there must be entire worlds, universes even, out there in which these people, who he's spent far too many hours of his life reading about or watching on a TV screen, actually exist. And, for whatever reason, these people are able to congregate at Milliways. Now that he comes to think of it, wasn't Milliways out of a book, too? And while we're getting metaphysical about these things, what if my world isn't even the "real" world, but just one of these multitude of dimensions? What if my own life is actually a comic book, or a TV show? How weird would that be?

There's another thought preoccupying Tim's mind at this moment, though. We've got a copy of Showcase #4 behind the counter at Fantasy Bazaar. I wonder how much it'd be worth if I could get this guy to sign it?

Guiltily, he quickly shuns the thought from his mind (albeit with the knowledge that Bilbo, his boss, would probably kill him were he ever to learn of this rather bizarre missed opportunity). He smiles at the Flash, and proffers his hand once more.

"Well, it was great to meet you. An absolute honour, in fact. Um. Keep up the good work. I'll, erm, leave you to your breakfast, shall I?"

In between I'm still trying to get my head around it and It was great to meet you, Michael nods. "Maybe I can help you through it. I'm an old hand at dealing with superhumans." He holds out a hand for shaking. "Michael Daemon Donighal, at your service."

"Hi Michael. I'm Tim. Tim Bisley."

He shakes Michael's hand.

"So what do you do, exactly?"

"At the moment, proofreading for a small publishing firm in central Pennsylvania in 2004. But before that, in my own universe, I was a supervillain from roughly 1943 to 2061. If you're a comics fanboy, the name 'Divis Mal' might mean something to you. Then again, it might not; there was plenty of merchandise with that name on it in my old universe, but I don't know if that signifies for others."

"Reasonable reaction," Michael allows as. "After all, there are presumably plenty of people who don't know it, and the more that knowledge is kept to those who already have it, the less chance of it becoming known to somebody who shouldn't, if one of your foes ever shows up here."

*Snow and the kids enter the bar, and she looks over at the table as she passes. Huh, don't think I've seen him around before*

[OOC: Not sure if you're still in, but I think there was a previously stated IC desire to chat with Snow]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only