milliways_bar | Entries tagged with james bond

With daylight fading, a man is at the makeshift gun range with a box of ammunition and a six-pack of beer to go along with his target shooting. For most people, the idea of practice while drinking isn't a wise idea, but James Bond is not 'most people'.

The gun he's using is a silenced Walther, and he's keeping watch on his surroundings in between clips.

Most of the time, he'd refrain from showing off his training in a public place like this. He knows people here could be dangerous, or even enemies.

But boredom is a worse enemy.

Beer in hand, he retrieves a spent paper target (neatly clustered in all the right places) and places another one down range before heading back for another go.

oo_7

When the front door opens, James steps through and nearly stumbles over a stick that's been jammed between the legs of a nearby chair; he kicks it aside and then pauses as he realizes he's found his way back to the bar at the end of the universe.

He's dressed a little more casually tonight; dark overcoat over a t-shirt and jeans. He notices the music shift to a new song as he enters but doesn't pay it too much mind.

At first, anyway.

After a few loops of the tune, however, he'll be paying a little more attention. It seems like it's following him as he moves from the main dining area to the bar itself. There's no bartender on duty, so the order is spoken out loud, to the bar itself.

(Considering a piece of furniture a female still isn't happening.)

"Vodka martini," he mutters. "Shaken, not stirred."

[OOC: Open until I say it's not.]

oo_7

Pre-entrance #1: Prague
Pre-entrance #2: Madagascar

When the door opens, it exposes a well-lit hallway and the silhouette of a man who for all intents and purposes, planned on coming home after a long day of travel and fixing himself a stiff drink before heading to bed.

But when the man steps into a crowded bar instead of what he had expected to be his empty flat, he stops short and scans the room instinctively, before stepping aside and out of the walkway.

(The door clicks shut behind him, locking, though he's unaware of that at the moment.)

He moves into the room, aware of his surroundings, everything being watched with his sharp gaze as he heads for the counter. His mind is running a hundred miles an hour, trying to figure out how a bar ended up in his living room. But there's no time for panic; he knows he needs to analyse the situation at hand and find a resolution to it.

(But, there is a bar full of strangers in his living room, and there are some things even thorough analysis won't explain.)

Perhaps someone wants to help him out?

[OOC: A brand new, fully reset James Bond in the bar; this one will have no recollection of any versions that came before him. Mun is in crackchat tonight for any questions or concerns! Open until I say it's not.]

11:45EST - Slows please! Will pick up tags or new threads tomorrow. <3

one_man_army

Those familiar with the sounds of gunfire and/or grenade explosions will probably take notice of the Front Door faster than those who are not; and while the Bar itself is in no danger from any shrapnel or wayward bullets, it is not protected from sound.

In this case, the door flies open with the bone-rattling sound of a nearby explosion, sending a man in camo fatigues and body armor sprawling onto the floor in a cloud of dust and smoke. His face is obscured by a black helmet and a pair of tinted goggles; his hands are wrapped around a M4, and it's only thanks now-closed door that he doesn't fire a burst back out into the fight.

(His men are out there, and he needs to get back--)

With a grunt, he tries to haul himself up off the floor, and manages enough footing to throw his weight at the door, shoulder first. It doesn't budge - and the soldier ends up in a heap at the foot of the door, blocking the path.

That hurt. A lot. He'll try again in just a minute, once his ears stop ringing and his teeth stop humming in his mouth. Damn RPGs are always more trouble than they're worth.

[OOC: Post is open. Carl will not shoot your pup - though he hasn't realized fully exactly where he is, since this is a pre-Milliways timeline shift that's occuring. He's younger, beneath the gear. Any questions can be hit on AIM at young scurlock. edit: SLOWTIMES please, still open to new tags though all will be hit back in the morning.]

cruelcharisma

James had been in a brutal, close quarters combat fight with... well, who gave a fuck what the bloke's name was. He'd turned out to be part of Quantum, and things had gone south rather quickly. M would be none too pleased with him for offing the chap without interrogating him, yet when locked in combat, it was either Bond or him. And Bond was always going to choose himself.

They'd traded severe blows in the Madrid apartment, and the adrenaline coursing through Bond — which might as well have been a constant component of his blood, given how often he found himself in such situations — fueled his fury. The thug was a hunk of meat and muscle, standing at least half a foot taller than him, and at one point picked Bond up and tossed him through a closed sliding glass door, shattering it as Bond fell through to the other side.

James hastily grabbed a long, severe-looking shard of the glass door as he pulled himself to his feet to find himself... not in the apartment. It was a... bar? And it definitely wasn't in Madrid, by the decor. And the thug wasn't there either. Dropping the shard of glass, he put a hand to his side to nurse the pain of a kidney shot, arching his back to loosen up after being thrown through the glass door, and slowly walked towards a bar stool. He felt small little superficial cuts along his face and hands, yet worried more about figuring out where he was, and getting a stiff drink.

Yet there was no barkeep. What kind of bar was this? "What does it take to get a vodka martini around here?" Bond said gruffly. And yet one appeared in front of him. He eyed it carefully, as he'd had trick martinis before. Had he died in that fight? Well, he thought, picking up the glass, when in wherever-the-bloody-hell-I-am. Down the hatch.

maxwellsdemon02

Duo sits at the bar. He has a mostly empty beer in one hand, and a half thoughtful, half zoned-out expression on his face.

He might be staring at you. Sorry.

[OOC: Er, you might want to ping before tagging. You'll see why in a second.]

callitavesper.livejournal.com

Here is the proverbial person you haven't seen in a long time.

He hasn't seen this place in a long time, either. A damn thing it showed up where it did, too. A world class intelligence agency and it can't even afford half-decent food! He's been living with canteen cuisine for far too long. He and Sarah Jane have tried to compensate with home cooking, but nine times out of ten they just order something in and call it a day. When he's at home, of course.

Bond being Bond, he doesn't rush into the bar with a thousand watt smile. He merely makes a faint grin and walks purposefully towards the bar herself, where he orders lunch and cup of coffee (way too early for a vodka martini).

If you need the blond man in the nice suit, he's at the bar, looking vaguely happy.

firstcptjack.livejournal.com

Jack lets himself behind the Bar and pats the top. "Have a rest now, dear."

A napkin with an admonishing message appears on the top. Jack reads it with a wince and pats the top again. "It's entirely my fault. It won't happen again."

The Bar has an air of "it had better not" as she settles in to rest.

Tonight's Specials
Snakebite #3
Mellow Tennessee
Jack's Vanilla Coke

"Welcome to happy hour. What can I get you?"

raptorcanaria

This time, when Dinah enters the bar, she's come prepared.

Captain Reynolds said there was a gym; and training grounds out by the lake. He also said that people were happy to teach and spar, and usually all you had to do was ask.

So that's why there's a fifteen year old, dressed in shorts and a tank top strolling out to the lake area with a sports holdall slung over her shoulder.

Hopefully someone will be there.

[Tiny tag: Dinah Lance, Hercules]

alwaysroomforhope

There are a lot of things Steph hasn't been for a long time. Alive, for example (she only realised yesterday that her hair hasn't grown in nearly three years). Helpless (she's grown out of that forever -- she hopes). Annoying (okay, well....). Zuko's girlfriend. (You can tell she's over that one, because she's no longer talking constantly about how over it she is.)

Or...

Robin.

But some things you never grow out of.

Therefore: your Security member on duty is not the unimpressive blonde teenager she usually is, but an ... well, okay, an unimpressive blonde teenager in a really impressive Robin outfit, fiddling with her pockets in between beaming at the room in general, hanging from a rafter happily.

She'd forgotten how much fun this uniform was. All the pockets! All the toys! The feeling like she could kick the world's ass with her pinky!

Being a superhero is awesome.

surf-or-fight.livejournal.com

He wasn't a bad officer, I guess. He loved his boys and they felt safe with him. He was one of those guys that had that weird light around him. You just knew he wasn't gonna get so much as a scratch here.

"Look, Timmy, I want the boys out of there in under an hour. You got that? I want the choppers out. I want all of my wounded treated, and -- god -- dammit!"

The door is slammed open, and in strides (no, swaggers) a man; not heavily set, but not one to be taken lightly, either. Following directly on his heels is something -- almost an aura.

Smell that? You smell that?

Napalm, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that.

I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombed, for 12 hours. When it was all over, I walked up. We didn't find one of 'em, not one stinkin' dink body. The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like... victory.

A cigarette hangs from his lips, not a spot of ash visible on the army-green shirt or the bright yellow dickie, the decorations on his cavalry hat a little reminiscent of a skull and crossbones. He stands straight, one hand on his hip, the other propped up easily on his side, fingers wrapped around the handle of an automatic rifle. On one side of his chest are embroidered the words: U.S. ARMY, and on the other: KILGORE.

A pair of jet-black aviators hides his eyes, and the rest of his face is emotionless.

However, after a moment, he spits out the cigarette, stubbing it out with the heel of one of his boots once it reaches the floor.

"Shit" he mutters, brow furrowing slightly. His voice is husky and coarse, worn from yelling over the noise of helicopter blades.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

[ tiny tag ; bill kilgore, ben wade

ooc ; when tagging, please keep in mind that Kilgore is not a person afraid to make it known when he doesn't like you, and isn't afraid to make it known rather blatantly. in addition, he is not from a time or place that particularly encourages what we like to call political correctness, and he won't hesitate to pull out a few slurs if he feels like using them. this is purely ic, and the mun means no offense.

calling it a night! will pick up slowtimes tomorrow, and tags are open into the forseeable future. ]

callitavesper.livejournal.com

Out of Milliways: A trip to Hyde Park.

Warnings for a grown man talking babytalk.

callitavesper.livejournal.com

The man who walks through the door feels a lot older and looks very familiar. To everyone else, he's the friendly neighborhood ~~axe murderer~~ store manager. To himself, he's--well, not himself. Look, he's made a career out of pretending to be other people, but pretending to be someone he knows, vaguely, someone who creeps him the fuck out on principle based both on his looks and his overenthusiastic attitude, that's just not on.

As usual, he's not asking questions. He's marching straight up to the bar and saying, "Be a dear and get me a double burbon."

And one appears.

Because what woman's going to say no to James Bond?

stilljustandrew

*The front door opens, and Andrew steps in. And stumbles slightly as his sneakers are replaced with boots.*

*He glances down, plucks at the front of his shirt with a resigned sigh, and heads on into the bar. He's looking for his cousin, and then for somebody else.*

callitavesper.livejournal.com

From Russia with reminiscence.

his-sarah-jane.livejournal.com

It's not the first time Sarah Jane has walked in to the pub close to work to find herself in Milliways. It is, however, the first time her clothing suddenly changes on her.

It takes her a few seconds to realize. Suddenly, it's a lot warmer and her dress trousers have been replaced by layers of skirts and a pair of bloomers. The blouse she was wearing is gone. In fact, when she looks down, Sarah is more than surprised to see a blue calico dress. She turns her head to notice the puffy sleeves. Her hands go to her neck and chest where she feels the ruffles sticking out from a camisole. Her waist feels tighter than usual, leading to suspicions of a corset and possibly even a corset cover.

A bloody corset. She's close to swearing or retaliating at the nearest person. A hand goes upward: her hair had been down earlier. Now it's up in some sort of fancy Victorian bun. Eyes close and Sarah Jane takes a steadying breath. Her purse has been replaced by a period handbag and her gloved hands also hold a pretty blue parasol.

Eyes opening again, Sarah Jane scowls. Perhaps if this had been her choice, as it was when she had found Victoria's old dress in the TARDIS, it would have been a different story. As it stands, she is far from happy with this sudden change in wardrobe.

callitavesper.livejournal.com

"--put all these deadly poisons in a pe--"

There's Mr. Bond at the doorway, deadly pe--(n) in hand, shocked first that he's in the bar and second because the bar has changed. It only takes a short moment for him to notice his clothes (and the deadly, deadly pen) have changed, too. With a look of casual resignation, Bond places the pen inside a breast pocket and strides to the bar. Once situated on a stool, he says: "As long as you still can serve me a great, strong cup of black coffee, I'll forgive you."

Which she delivers, of course. In a nice cup, too!

[ une petite tag: villiers ]

mal-nightingale.livejournal.com

It's been a while since Malcolm's been about, and he looks a little apprehensive upon coming in the bar today.

(The last time he was in, he was Bound for a ridiculously long time ~~thanks to the mun~~.)

As soon as the door closes behind him, he turns to look.

It's still there.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he heads over to Bar to get a cup of tea.

his-sarah-jane.livejournal.com

When Sarah Jane asks for a cup of tea from Bar today, it's accompanied by a note from James. As Valerie squirms in her arms, she reads it over and frowns slightly.

It would have been nice to say goodbye properly.

But, she supposes, at least he left a note.

She tucks it in her pocket before taking a seat on a barstool. Valerie gurgles, reaching for a napkin. Neither are in much of a hurry to go anywhere today.

callitavesper.livejournal.com

Before exiting, James leaves two notes at the bar for ( Sarah Jane ) ( and Lissar. )

Having done this, he wastes no time walking out the door. He has a mission to complete.

callitavesper.livejournal.com

One would think that a man who's spent the majority of his time Bound complaining incessantly would jump right out the door when he saw it; but if one knew what this man faced outside that door, one would reconsider. Bond doesn't think it's a very good idea to just rush back into a life-or-death situation, so he's preparing, remembering, replaying what had happened in his mind.

He will leave tomorrow, to return to the same-old-same-old routine that this over two month break has served as a boring (but maybe necessary) break.

[ ooc: not open for tagging, as my brain is not really functioning at the mo. he may be in later? may not. depends on how my brain's functioning. ]

callitavesper.livejournal.com

There are only so many ways to say "James Bond is in the bar." The mun can't think of any other way to say it besides: James Bond is in the bar. At the bar, specifically, eating and reading yet another non-fiction book.

[ ooc: this post is going nowhere i swears >.> ]

queenofmay

There is a shiny security badge on and tea service nearby, but Marian is distracted by the books around her (that if you were watching she came down from the great library with only a short time ago).

They are in small, disjointed piles. The first is The Essential Rumi, The Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Leaves of Grass: The Annotated Edition. The second is Being a Record of the Journey of Caspian the Seafarer to the East and Stories of Old Narnia.

The last book she is flipping through presently.

Company and commentary or distractions are welcome!

[OOC: EP will open all afternoon and evening.]

fatboyrun.livejournal.com

Dennis doesn't spot the notice, when he first arrives in Milliways tonight. It's not til he wanders Bar-wards that he spots the cardboard sign, and his face takes on a decided greenish tinge. His attention goes from the sign to the large board filled with innumerable names and types of currency. Dennis squints at the small type, getting up on his knees on a stool and leaning on the bar in order to get a better look at the number next to his name. He leans, he leans, he leans, just a little farther--

And, perhaps predictably, there is a startled "HURK!" sort of a noise, a frantic waving of arms (too little, too late), and a thud that rattles all of the glassware in the general vicinity.

Behind the bar, Dennis says, "...Ow."

He perks up a little, though, as he picks himself up and takes in his surroundings. Since he's back here already, he figures, he might as well get himself a drink. He'll need it, if he's going to figure out how to pay his tab.

Thus, there is a man in a blue windbreaker standing behind the bar, unlit cigarette in his mouth, utterly absorbed in pouring a pint.

(He is bartending, even if he may not realise it yet.)

[Tag: Dennis Doyle, Gordon O'Dell]

callitavesper.livejournal.com

The mun, having been confined to the house for a week due to the flu, is in need of a distraction. Therefore, there is a James Bond in the bar, at the bar, as always, smoking and enjoying a vodka martini.