milliways_bar | Entries tagged with kate austen

No matter where he is -- at the end of the universe or anywhere else -- it's a pretty great frakking day when a guy gets to start a whole new pyramid league with his favorite Viper pilot. A note goes up on the board:

MILLIWAYS PYRAMID LEAGUE
TEAM ASSIGNMENTS
Team 1: Ava. Elle. Kit. Rachel. Sameth. Voodoo.
Team 2: Dinah. Kara. Katya. Leo. Tommy. YT.
Team 3: Dean. Enzo. Grace. Kate. Sam.

Demo game later today.

Interested in joining but not on the roster? Sign up here.
Any questions? Ask Sam or Kara.

Once that's all set, he heads out back to warm up and -- predictably -- practice. Old habits, man, he can't shake them.

[OOC: for pyramid league info, see this back room post. The demonstration game is right here.
Here, you can sign up, react to team assignments (thread hopping highly encouraged!), or catch Sam either by the bar or outside.

Pyramid signups open forever!]

[Tag: Sam Anders, Tommy Gavin, Leo Fudou]

cbucsrule

A long time ago on a different rock floating through space, four members of the Delphi Pythons -- the University at Delphi's pyramid team -- did a little P.R. work at a college fair. Had a table set up to talk pyramid and pyramid opportunities to prospective students. It was a pretty good day, as Sam recalls, and while no one who approached him or his teammates was a stranger to the concept of pyramid, they still got to do a lot of explaining, have a lot of laughs, and do more than a little showing off.

Today's even better, because this is gonna be their league run under their rules. And even better than that, the day's got two of the best forward guards left in the known universe talking up the game they both love. They've got a couple game balls with them (strictly for advertising purposes) and a hand-written poster by the table.

END-OF-THE-UNIVERSE PYRAMID LEAGUE
Bored with the usual? Looking for something to do to pass your time? Want to get in shape or if you're already there, stay in shape? Got a good arm? Good endurance? Love contact sports? Want to kick ass and have your own ass kicked in turn? Then you're our man or woman. Sign up now. Training and equipment provided.

"It's probably overkill," Sam admits to Kara, "but at least it's not a hard sell, right?"

[OOC: Got questions? Want to sign up for the league? Just want to chat? Ask Starbuck or Sam or both. The post is open forever, man. Forever.]

ETA: Thanks, you guys, and if you haven't done it yet feel free to drop in and sign up from now until the end of time.

[Tag: Sam Anders, Leo Fudou, Tommy Gavin, Kit Walker]

cbucsrule

The problem with the backstop, he thinks as he studies it critically, is that there's only one of them. It's been slow going through no fault of his own. Just like everywhere else, shit happens, and gathering the supplies takes its time. So does putting everything together, and he's... well, he's not a mechanic, not an engineer, even if he's okay at coaxing things into shape. The biggest challenge was making the thing durable enough to withstand gameplay, but light enough to be portable. Even if he's still not perfectly satisfied with the end results, it'll do.

Just like he did at Atlas during his pre-game warmups, he sets all the available pyramid balls -- all those green-striped ones Leo made for him -- at various places on the grass. It'd be fanfrakkingtastic if he could get a couple in the cage, but it'll be just as nice if he can just hit the backstop with them from all those different locations. Even if he's not playing pro pyramid any more and most likely never will, he feels best when he keeps in shape.

First things first, always: stretching out. It's a routine he never minded people watching, not that he could stop them from doing it anyway, but he preferred it when no one else was around. He was always good with smiling for the camera, but pyramid was his job. He never needed an audience for the prep work and sure as frak doesn't mind not having his every move scrutinized now.

[Tag: Sam Anders]

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Summertime means not being limited to that warm inlet out here when you want to go swimming, and Kate's not letting it go to waste.

She had to get a swimsuit from the bar in the first place, but there's definitely something to be said for not having to dig a bathing suit out of some crash victim's unclaimed luggage.

After a quick dip in the lake, she dries herself off and takes a seat on her towel by the lakeside. She gathers her wet hair in both hands and wrings it out, staring out at the water like a boat -- or a plane -- could show up on the horizon.

Even if it happened, she's pretty sure it wouldn't be taking her back to the real world.

[open until it scrolls!]

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"--hey!"

Thrust through the door by John's hands, she blinks against the sudden light and chatter of the bar.

This is unbelievable.

She whips around, her hands still tied behind her back (but not as tightly as they could be, she admits), and finds herself face-to-face with nothing but the wall again.

No door.

Frustration eats at her -- this knowledge that this may be better than whatever's happening in the hatch eats at her even more -- and she turns around again, leaning her back against the wall, rolling her neck until she's looking up toward the ceiling.

Her back aches; her pride stings. Her secret clearly isn't safe with John.

Leaning away from the wall again, she shifts to one side and grasps for the knife he put in her pocket.

She's got to get out of his rope.

[ooc: Open until it scrolls!]

[tags: Thirteen, Reno]

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When the front door puts in an appearance for the first time since Kate fell into the bar, it sends her sprinting back up the stairs to her room to change back into the sandy jeans and tank top and button-down shirt she was wearing that day.

It's another lie she'll have to tell, and this one she expects to be one of the hardest she's tried to maintain.

Hurrying down the stairs again, she pulls her hair back into a ponytail. She doesn't know how this will work -- will she walk out into the hatch? -- but she has to take her chances. As much as she's wanted to get off the island during the month she's spent there, she doesn't want to stay still here, either.

(And if her past experience is anything to go by, she won't be able to stay away from the bar for more than a day or two anyway.)

She opens the door to meet darkness, and for a second she's tempted to go ask the bar for a flashlight. But she had one originally and dropped it as she fell down the hatch, and the less she screws with what's going on there the easier it'll be to keep the lie up.

Tentatively, she steps out, but her feet meet nothing but air.

She lands -- hard -- on her back, face twisting in pain. The impact shoots through her hips, her neck, her teeth, and then she feels nothing.

imthegoodguy.livejournal.com

Ben isn't in a terribly good mood today, as evidenced by the way he is curled up in a booth, knees at his chest, eyes staring at the part of the bench his body's not covering. Beside him on the table surface is a milkshake more milk than shake. Supposedly chocolate makes you feel better? It's not working so well for Ben.

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After finally visiting the nightclub -- she can take it or leave it -- and poking her head in the infirmary just to take a look, she'd kind of thought she'd have to go back upstairs for a beer or outside to climb a tree or wander the magically repeating forest.

But that's when she finds her way to the garage.

She doesn't know how all this got down here or what good it does anybody, but those thoughts take a back seat to actually checking things out, all the while smiling more than she has all day and humming almost under her breath.

There's a sleek motorcycle she has to run an appreciative hand over -- oh Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town? I'm counting on you Lord, please don't let me down -- and a car that looks suspiciously like an old-school Batmobile -- prove that you love me and buy the next round; Oh Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town? -- and a clunky-looking Volkswagon van she'd be reluctant to ride if you paid her.

But when she spots the Thunderbird convertible, top down, that looks like it's only missing Thelma and Louise? Well, she figures she can't be blamed for hopping in.

Grinning outright, she makes herself right at home, propping one wrist up on the steering wheel and draping her other arm over the car door.

The garage? It's actually pretty cool.

noteful

Happy, Happy Birthday, X-23

[OOC: Some threads are still in slowtime, and are open as long as the muns involved want them to be. I've tried to get all the tags on this right, and I think I have them all, but if I've missed you or gotten your tiny tag wrong, please let me know, and I'll correct. Finally, there were 1450 replies to this at the time of linking -- it is not particularly dial-up friendly. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone there. We hope you have enjoyed/are enjoying/will continue to enjoy X's party.]

[tiny tags: Artemis, Bela Talbot, Cal Chandler, Castiel, Dinah Lance, Meg Ford, x5-494/Alec, Zoe Carter]

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Perched on the edge of a booth's table with an opened beer bottle wedged between her knees and a plate of nearly-finished apple pie in one hand, Kate feels pretty good people-watching in her good old jeans and Janis Joplin shirt tonight.

She hasn't said a word to anyone yet, but that crooked smile her mouth hints at every now and then suggests better you than me.

sleazeoverstyle

Drinkin' at home or drinkin' at the end of the universe: it doesn't much matter to him. End result's gonna be the exact same, so either's good. As he opens the door, his hand goes to that knife he carries in his pocket.

Knives ain't new for him either. One hand fingering the knife's handle, he makes his way over to the bar, grabs a stool that looks like it was just made for his skinny ass, and orders himself a bottle of his usual ale. Looks around, turns his attention back to the bottle that shows up in front of him without a second thought about the shit people are wearin'. Some nights, good old Wutai Pale's the only friend he needs.

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The front door opens to let Kate in, and there's a moment in which nothing but surprised recognition moves over her face.

And then she promptly turns around to go back through the door. But it's too late, and by the time she's turned back to the wall, well, a wall is all it is. No door to be seen.

To think she'd suspected getting back when she was ready could be tricky. She puts both hands on the wall as if to test it for secret panels -- she's done this more than once before -- but there's nothing she can do to make that door reappear, and it's with a resigned roll of her eyes that she folds her arms over her chest and starts walking toward the bar itself.

Without sitting down, she pats the bar's surface once she's close enough. "Could I leave a note for someone?" A piece of paper and a pen appear in front of her, and she picks the pen up right away. "And would you mind taking Reno's drinks off my tab until we're even? It'll be about 100 gil."

She didn't spend all of it, but since he gave it to her, she thinks keeping some in case something like this happens again is probably a good idea.

Finishing her note, she lets the bar absorb it. "Thanks."

(ooc: open to tags until off the page)

sleazeoverstyle

Somewhere on the planet called Gaia, an unsuspecting but probably really friggin' deserving son of a bitch is getting killed and there might just be a lot of blood. Maybe even some guts spilling out, washing the landscape and scenery in dull red before the planet's guiding force rises up to call that sorry poor fuck back home. The Lifestream picks up around the bastard, engulfing him in a wash of green and blue and white light. Absorbing everything the guy is and was, taking all his memories with it to share, redistribute. It's a handy way of making sure no one who dies ain't ever gone for good and somewhere on the planet called Gaia, a family -- however small -- will come to know that one of its members won't ever be there any more. Somewhere else on Gaia a murderer's wiping blood and guts off his weapon, his hands, his suit, cleaning things up, congratulating himself on a job well done. Maybe even his partner's there patting him on the back, and then they go out for a drink and make a toast: To The Job.

It's happening somewhere, but today -- no matter how much he wishes he was -- Reno ain't involved with that kind of fun. Nope. As much as he yearns for the thrill of a good assignment, they don't really do that shit very much any more. All this planetary rebuilding and babysitting the boss for hours are fine for a friggin' moron, but he's a Turk. All his life, he's trained to do the shit Turks do. This nice-guy crap's a real disappointment.

Faced with all that, what's left for a guy but to head to a bar and drink? Shit, it sounded like a good idea to him, especially when he fingered that butter knife in his pocket and thought about this place at the next door he opened. That's how come his skinny butt's glued to a bar stool, his second bottle of Wutai Pale Ale in his hand and a third sitting there waiting. When he drinks, he doesn't waste time.

noattachments

This place could use some music, and Kate's not about to fool around with the karaoke machine. She's never really been the karaoke type, but something about that gives her this odd feeling. Almost like she's being watched, and she's run long enough that she's a little more aware of that feeling than most people might be.

It's the kind of feeling that usually makes her glance around and sometimes look back over her shoulder, and as tempted as she is to do just that as she walks by the machine, she doesn't give in.

It's a machine.

But she still walks with purpose toward the opposite side of the bar.

She settles down on a bar stool, sweeps her hair back in a careless ponytail, and folds her arms on top of the bar. "Got anything about Bali?"

It's better than those celebrity gossip magazines that are the most common reading material back on the island.

[tiny tag: Jo Harvelle, Penelope Widmore]

almosthonorable

"Y'know, Miss Bar, the holidays're over."

A napkin appears beside Ben's elbow.

"I ain't complainin', just didn't expect this when I said 'surprise me' -- "

Another napkin appears.

"Well, no -- "

And another.

" -- yes, ma'am."

He rolls up his shirtsleeves, sets aside the saucer of gumdrops, and picks up some licorice to lay track.

He's building a gingerbread train station. Complete with a gingerbread train. Comments from the peanut gallery are not only expected, they're damn near unavoidable.

[ tiny tag with a bullet in its heart: charlie prince ]

[ tiny tag with a heart of gold: charlie monroe ]

[ tiny tag that ain't stubborn: dan evans ]

[ tiny tag with a tiny stutter: aaron stampler ]

[ ooc: EEE, you guuuuys. *hearts all around* ~~sadly, i must dash away for work, so all threads are boarding the slowtime train; i'll be back a little before 11 p.m. EST to pick up any and all tags!~~ aaaaand, back! ]

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It was the sight of someone reading a newspaper that'd given Kate the idea, and thinking it's got to be around September 24, 2004 somewhere among the many times and places people are being pulled from, she thought she'd ask the bar for a paper from a specific date.

She can get papers for, say, the day she was born. Her 18th birthday. The day she married Kevin. Even the day of the crash gets her a newspaper, although it was printed too early for the crash to make any headlines. But that's where it stops. Every attempt she's made to get a paper from any day after the crash has resulted in absolutely nothing.

To the point of her looking around now to see if the bar has just stopped working or something, but she soon sees that's not the case.

"Please?" she finally tries, rubbing her temple. When she's presented with a hot slice of apple pie topped with a small scoop of ice cream, she reluctantly takes the hint. For now.

With a sigh, she swivels on her bar stool, carefully holding her plate in one hand and the accompanying fork in the other, and leans back on the bar as she digs in.

(ooc: Open until off the main page!)

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The door to the lake opens, and Kate comes in through it, rubbing her hands together for a moment before she starts peeling those gloves off.

It's cold. If it's not the coldest she's ever been, it's still colder than she's been in a long time.

She could just stay inside and be warm, but being able to go outside takes a little of the edge off when she's feeling closed in.

Stopping at the bar to pick up a cup of generously spiked coffee, she heads for the couch nearest the fireplace, and it's only there that she finally sheds some layers. The coat goes first, and she drapes it over the back of the couch. Her sweater goes next, and once she has it tied around her hips, she perches on the couch, feet propped up on the low table in front of her, and starts in on that coffee.

(ooc: Sleeping to avoid zombie behavior at work tomorrow. Post open until it scrolls off the page!)

cutting_edgex23

Milliways' newest Security member is downstairs tonight, finishing off a quick dinner of soup and sandwiches. Her hair is slightly damp which, given the lake is iced over, doubtless means a shower was involved somewhere.

Maybe she just finished training.

She's got her laptop open, looking over maps again. Maps of the continental United States. Occasionally she'll mark a city in red, then expand the view and make a long series of notes.

Someone is Purifier-hunting, looks like. She's good at this. And it means--

Well, it means other people do not have to waste their time.

What passerby might not realize is that, even in the midst of a furor of typing, half her attention is on the room. Or maybe more than half.

[ooc: Post open until it falls off the front page.]

scurlock

Early on the morning of the 4th, several very brightly colored signs went up around the bar. These signs were decorated with all manner of glitter, and shiny ribbons, and perhaps a touch of magic to make them hard to miss:

BONFIRE AT BEACH - TONIGHT
(Birthday party for Atton Rand)

Cake. S'mores. Snacks. Fireworks.
Rum and bonfire to keep you warm.

OPEN TO ALL.

Now, a short while before the sunset, out by the beach, there is a rather impressive bonfire already going on the sand. Up towards the trees a bit, there are some tables with snacks, stuff to make s'mores, a cake, and cups next to a large cask that is labeled 'RUM'. The cask will never run dry. There are sparklers for the cake, later. And fireworks. A table for presents, if anyone brought any. Basically, come eat, drink, and celebrate.

[ooc: OPEN! Feel free to add subthreads if you want. ALL PUPS ARE WELCOME. OPEN UNTIL...WELL, THE END OF THE UNIVERSE.]

TINYTAGS: Charlie Monroe

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It's cold out there.

Rubbing her bare hands together for warmth, Kate comes back inside through the door leading to the lake. At the bar, she gets a cup of coffee -- a little cream but no sugar -- and curves her hands around it, two fingers threading through the cup's handle.

The coffee's great, but more importantly, it's hot. After taking a quick sip, she turns on her bar stool so she's facing out, able to scan the crowd, and leans her back against the bar itself.

(ooc: Considered open until it scrolls off the main page.)

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Kate doesn't get it. If a person can come in through the front door and then have it disappear on them and reappear at some point, can't the same thing happen with the ceiling if that's where you came in?

It's not that what's out there is so much better -- the food, drinks, and real beds here are an improvement over the island fruit, recycled rain water, and plane blankets on sand -- but it's just the idea of being as stuck here as she was on the island that nags at her.

On the island, there was a thin thread of hope for rescue. Here there's... hoping to see a door that she's never actually seen in the first place.

She carefully climbed up into the rafters again tonight just so she could check out that part of the ceiling over the spot near the bar she first fell to, but it seemed as solid as ever. On the way back down, her hair escaping her ponytail, she jumped down onto the table of a booth by the wall and then hopped back to the floor from there.

With both feet firmly on the floor again, she dusts her hands off on her jeans and glances toward the bar itself. It's a good time for a beer or two.

sleazeoverstyle

HEY. This place. Just like he wanted, and a note: maybe it's just a case of right place right time, or maybe Bar's sick of takin' his gil. Whatever it is, shit yeah, he'll tend bar for a couple hours instead of drinkin' his life away. There's plenty of time for that after.

Since he was 18 he's worked for Shin-Ra and pourin' drinks behind a bar wasn't ever part of Turks training. But fuck it. If other people can do it, so can he. There's a little book that shows how to mix a bunch of drinks and if he can't figure it out, there's always hey, that's how they make that drink on my planet, pal. The specials board's already filled out for him:

Specials
Wutai Pale Ale
Icicle Run
Sex in the Red Zone
One bottled ale (easy), one beer on tap (also easy), and one drink with a name after his own heart: he maneuvers himself lightly over the bar and takes a minute to get familiar with the setup back here. Shit, he's spent enough time and money on the other side of the bar to qualify at least as an honorary bartender. How friggin' hard can it be?

"All right. I get it, it's my turn. Take it easy on me, would ya?" Yeah, yeah, like he needs that: he ain't never turned away from somethin' new just 'cause he had no idea what he was doin'. He always figures it out sooner or later.

[ETA: Thanks everyone! Slowtime now, y/n?]

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Kate's figured out that today -- five days after Halloween -- is about what it should be back home.

Nobody celebrated Halloween on the island.

It's starting to get easy to forget exactly how many days it's been since the crash or what day it is now unless you wear a watch that keeps track of the date (or unless you're Jack, she sometimes thinks), and she doesn't bother. By now Sawyer probably has any spare watches in his stash, anyway.

(But she does technically have carte blanche.)

There's still no way out of here that she's been able to find, and eventually tonight's exploration of the forest gave way to irritation. And irritation gave way to hunger. And hunger led to actually eating something for dinner. Now she's perched on a sturdy limb of the broadest tree near the bar, looking out over the lake with her dessert -- a candy bar -- in her hand.

When she's done, maybe she'll drop by Sun's room and see how she's doing.

(ooc: Open until off the main page.)

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So the door that Kate thought seemed to be in a strange place, given the layout of the bar, for a front door wasn't actually in a strange place because it wasn't the front door.

It led to the lake outside instead, and no matter what she does, she can't find a way back out.

She's seen people enter and leave, and she's tried almost everything short of looking for dynamite to blow away the section of wall where the door should be. And as much as she's wanted to get off the island, the lack of a door -- and knowledge that she can leave if she wants to -- is driving her a little crazy.

Tonight she sits outside on the ground near the lake, her arms propped on her knees, and looks out over it in much the same way she's gotten used to sitting on the beach and watching the tide come in. A half-empty bottle of beer sits on the grass beside her, and after a few minutes, her fingers make their way into the pocket of her jeans to pull out a tiny airplane.

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[OOM: Tonight. An island in the south Pacific. I'm crazy for tryin' and crazy for cryin'.]

The abrupt end of a scream comes from the rafters, and seconds later Kate is flat on her back on the floor, her teeth gritting from the impact.

She lifts her head to take a wary, disbelieving look around and then slowly gets to her feet, hands automatically reeling in the loose end of the rope still tied around her waist.

Without so much as taking a step in any direction, she casts dubious eyes back up toward the ceiling.

(John?)

She's standing in the middle of a bar, and there's nothing up there but rafters and the ceiling overhead.

She must've hit her head a lot harder than she'd thought.

[tiny tag: Reno]