milliways_bar | Entries tagged with olga

The door opens.

Then

He walks to the bar from the stairs, straight-backed, white-faced. He orders a bottle of good whiskey, and five packets of fags, and turns for a corner booth, one that gives him a clear view of the door. He’s careful not to catch anyone’s eye.

He sits down, lays his things out, pours a drink, lights a smoke. And watches the door, like it’s the only thing that exists. Maybe he’ll get lucky. Maybe whatever’s out there, the faceless, nameless thing that let him be…this – maybe it’ll cut him a break, once in his miserable - ha! - life.

[OOC: Not at all plotlocked! Open indefinitely. But please, only people who won’t give him a hard time. And apologies if he’s not the most conversational. :\]

olyabird

The light and warmth of the Bar is an unexpected surprise, seeing as she was systematically searching the catacombs beneath Paris. But it isn't unwelcome. She's been gone so long, she knows she'll hear no end of grief, but that doesn't matter.

Right now, there's a bottle of Vodka and a pack of Turkish cigarettes with her name on it. And if she waits here, he'll show up. Sooner or later.

katyafeline.livejournal.com

It has become something of a habit - every evening she shows up at the bar to get vodka and pelmeni. Bar has, valiantly, tried to get her to eat something else - with all the cuisines available, it's something of a crime to stick so stubbornly to one meal.

Bar has ways of dealing with obstinent patrons. This evening when she comes down, Katya is not presented with food.

She is presented with a napkin.

"... Me? Really? You are sure about this?"

There's another napkin. Katya studies it thoughtfully.

"Still going to have the pelmeni. And I need a little bit to set up." This is, evidently, alright with the sentient furniture, because Katya nods and heads off towards the kitchens.

Half an hour later she has everything set up to her liking, and writes out the specials, letting Bar translate them from Cyrillic to the language of choice as she goes.

Happy Hour
Vodka
Cognac
Medovukha
Budweiser Budvar
Sbiten
Water if you annoy your bartender

That done, and the large copper samovar full of sbiten steaming away to itself on her side of the counter, she dusts off her hands and contemplates adding a 'make sure to buy one for your bartender' clause on there.

notabricklayer.livejournal.com

Leonard McCoy knows better than to let his guard down around the bar. He's been told to be careful by a certain Other more times than he cares to count.

Which is why he's sprawled on the couch, a book in his lap (a real book, gotten from the Bar as a treat), ~~snoring, completely asleep~~ just resting his eyes. The print is harder to read than common handheld electronic tablets.

Yes.

That is it entirely.

katyafeline.livejournal.com

Все мы, все мы в этом мире тленны,
Тихо льется с кленов листьев медь…
Будь же ты вовек благословенно,
Что пришло процвесть и умереть.

In this world of ours we all are mortal,
Copper leaves from maples gently slide…
Ever blest was I to be accorded
Time for blossoming before I died.
~ Sergei Esenin, 1921

(OOC: EP open until it scrolls, all events that happened in-bar visible, physical changes mod-approved. Have at!)

one_man_army

OOC: Now that the mun is free from holiday lack of brain and work overload, have some underplayed pups for your tagging and threading pleasure! Your options, should you choose to accept them:

Carl is out back, trudging through the snow near the lake as he contemplates just what he wants to do with the rest of the afternoon. His options run the full scale of the spectrum (go for a run in the woods, target practice, sit on the beach, drink, etc.) which means he's relatively lost in thought, but part of him is just enjoying the weather. He is Scottish, so it is totally normal to enjoy this type of weather.

Skellig is indoors, sitting on the floor near the fireplace. He hasn't been around much since his return to the bar, due to the fact that Bones & Olga insisted that he stay upstairs with them (since both of them wanted to keep an eye on his healing progress, physical and mental, it was just easier) but today he's downstairs with a heaping plate of eggrolls and a six-pack of Newcastle. (Bottles, mind you.) And a blanket.

Dan is also indoors today, sitting at a table with a knife and a large pile of vegetables. The vegetables are being peeled, sliced, and diced into bite-sized pieces.

Doc is also indoors, but he's at the bar with a bottle of Woodford and a pack of cigarettes, slowly working his way through both.

All of them are botherable. Open until it scrolls!

27_53

OOM & not!OOM:
(follows one, two, & three)
nothing but rotten apples lay here light-years from the tree

(and the poison that took my soul
it keeps me from feeling anything)

katyafeline.livejournal.com

The front door opens.

This sentence is utterly inadequate to describe the way it slams open, the air cracking fracturing falling bounding in a cat-like fashion, resolving in the form of one young woman... a girl, really, skidding into a runner's crouch, her blonde curls slightly frizzed in their ponytail, the bangles under the sleeve of her denim jacket jangling softly.

...

She blinks.

This is definitely different.

notabricklayer.livejournal.com

((OOM: An almost deserted planet, with a security team in tow... what could possibly go wrong?))

McCoy does not bounce, stomp, or stroll into the bar. When the door slides open, and he walks in, his gait is stiff. He feels like death warmed over... and even if this is a vast improvement over just a few hours ago, he's hardly up to full speed. He'd 'borrowed' some scrubs out of the medical lockers, not wanting to roam the halls of the Enterprise in a medbay-issued dressing gown, hadn't bothered to go find his boots, and had taken the warm blanket off of the bed he'd woken up on with him when he made his escape. He knows he won't be allowed back on duty for some time, at least, but he'll be damned if he spends it all cooped up in the medbay.

...

He grins, tiredly, when he realizes where he is, and painstakingly takes himself to the Bar.

"My dear, if you could rustle up some cornbread smothered in jam, I'd be deeply in your debt."

notabricklayer.livejournal.com

McCoy wanders downstairs, still a bit shaken up by the utterly oddball dream he had earlier. Still, a good dinner and a drink sounds like a good way to go about correcting things, in his opinion.

That is, until he gets down to the lower landing.

"What in blazes...?" He grumbles, disconcerted by the sudden change in attire. Perhaps inspired by a certain Other, the Bar has seen fit to deck him out as a gunslinger this year. It seems that in a Western, the good doctor would be cast as a black hat. Who knew he could pull it off?

notabricklayer.livejournal.com

McCoy ambles into the bar, drying his hands and whistling softly through his teeth. One of these fine days, his captain is going to do something so hare-brained it will get him killed. Like, say, beaming down to a planet with only a medical nurse to meet a man two previous expeditions couldn't find but they picked up on the first sensor sweep.

Something like that.

One would correctly suspect that the physical after this particular 'mission' was unnecessarily brutal. That's what you get when you frustrate your CMO. That, and your diet card changed to salads only for a straight week.

Still, now he's here, and that's something that improves his mood considerably. And here, he can have a decent meal without a certain senior officer making calf-eyes at his plate. He's placing his order at the Bar (catfish and collard greens) when a thought occurs to him.

Well.

She did say be creative. A short conference with Bar later (accompanied by a dip in his bank account back in his own universe), there is a present waiting for Olga the next time she comes in. Satisfied, he takes his plate, and a glass of good Tennessee whiskey, over to an empty booth and tucks in hungrily. It's hard work, lecturing your command officer.

olyabird.livejournal.com

[OOM: Warnings for adult content in both links:

И этих грез в мировом дуновенье
Как дым несусь я н таю невольно,
И в этом прозренье, н в этом забвенье
Легко мне жить и дышать мне не больно.

~ Начало 1862

Through the worldly breath of these reveries
I fly like smoke, involuntarily disperse,
And in this vision, in this delerium,
I can live with ease and breathe without pain.

~ Afanasii Fet 1862
]

tags: Olga, Leonard 'Bones' McCoy

necessary_child

There is a Sam outside in the moonlight, enjoying the very last tendrils of the summer's warmth to ... well. Who knows. His face is utterly unreadable, but he's out by the lake, sitting on a particularly large rock on the lakeside with his sword (the one that was a gift from Atton, not his true sword, lost beyond his door) balanced delicately across his knees.

You can come and talk to him, though. If you're the right person, you might even manage to make him smile.

notabricklayer.livejournal.com

((OOM: There's a reason Dr. McCoy hates transporter beams))

The front door opens, and one starfleet officer strolls inside after what has become another very long day on the job. He's sore and tired, but it's a pleasantly tired (if an unpleasantly sore). He thought about risking a lecture from Chapel to treat the bruising left behind from today's adventures, but really, he doesn't feel up to it at the moment. He is, however, up for some bourbon. A few minutes after entering he has a glass of his very own, and a seat the bar.

Yes, this'll do him fine.

notabricklayer.livejournal.com

((Not-Really-Out-Of-Milliways: After a chance encounter between a doctor who is having a difficult day and an Other who is having a difficult night, they decide rather suddenly to change their luck on their own. As any good scientist can tell you, every experiment should be repeated to verify the data.

Rated R. Very very R, for things that would break at least two of the bar rules if it weren't done upstairs.))

olyabird.livejournal.com

There comes a moment when one has been awake for so many hours in a row, the very passage of time seems to lose its meaning. She can't remember how long its been since she had a solid night's sleep. As she crosses the threshold into the bar, she realises she must have been thinking very hard about a pot of Turkish coffee and a moment's respite.

She pauses just inside the door, taking a moment to wipe away a layer of cobwebs and filth from her hair and face, pulling her hair back into a knot at the base of her skull. The air behind her distorts, like a mirror on the verge of breaking, but only for a span of heartbeats, and then it returns to normal.

She slips the heavy wool coat off her shoulders and tosses it over a chair, sinking down and nodding thanks as the waitrat brings her usual, Turkish coffee, black and thick and sweet. Her hands curl around the cup and she sighs, letting her eyes close for a long moment as she breathes in that heavenly aroma.

[open until her next post, all threads occur after the thread with Bones ]

[tiny curious tag: Penelope Clearwater]

olyabird.livejournal.com

Olga has taken up residence in a corner booth today, shuffling an ancient deck of tarot cards between nicotine stained fingers. She turns the cards up one at a time in groups of three, and after a moment's brief scrutiny, scribbles something in a tattered notebook. One page is divided into columns, lined with symbols and tic marks, and on the page opposite, a rough sketch is taking form. It looks like a face. Or half a face, anyway.

The ashtray at her elbow is overflowing, and she's on her third or fourth cup of Turkish coffee.

Whatever she's up to, by the look on her face, it's less fortune telling and more quantum mechanics. Or worse, accounting.

tiny Manc Lion tag: DCI Gene Hunt

di_or_dci

[Just pre-Milliways: It's the freakiest show.]

Sam Tyler had been hoping that somewhere between leaving his flat and getting to what he still thinks of as his office, something would have happened. Something like waking up, getting home, realizing it had all been some strange fever dream, finding out that he was still a DCI after all --

Anything, really.

What he wasn't hoping for was to find a pub where the front door to his building had been. Especially a pub this big, full of this many people and . . . not-people . . . . At least it's a change from 1973. But --

"All right, that's the arse end of enough. Wake up, Sam. Wake up. Come on, you can do it. Just reach out and -- "

[Tinytag!: Sam Tyler

Edit: And since this headvoice is kind of new and I don't want to get overwhelmed, please ping before tagging. He will have another EP soon, too! Thanks!]

olyabird.livejournal.com

There is a mousy brown woman with pale skin settled at the bar. Her wiry frame swims in the faded charcoal man's coat she's wearing, and despite the warm weather outside, she's wearing threadbare wool gloves with the fingertips cut out. Her fingertips are stained with nicotine and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Weeks possibly.

Before her on the bar is a stack of musty old books, in several different languages, most of them in Cyrillic text. She is resolutely ignoring them. There's a half full ashtray to her one side, half empty bottle of vodka to the other.

She intends to fill one and empty the other before the night is too much older.

the_gene_genie

OOM: My name is Sam Tyler. I had an accident and woke up in 1973...

Pubs are very pleasant places to be, especially when you're there on official business because you can let the journos buy the beer. They always think if they get him pissed enough, he'll tell more than he's supposed to.

Unfortunately for them, he's got the tolerance of an iron mule and they'd fallen by the wayside long ago. So he nipped back to the office and grabbed Tyler's file, meaning to read it again over his, now, very belated lunch.

But the canteen appears to have turned into another pub. This one, in fact.

'The universe obviously wants me t'get pissed,' he mutters under his breath, and y'know? That's just fine with him. OK, he feels like a fanny ordering a whiskey chaser from thin air but it arrives straight away and with no lip, so he can cope with the embarrassment.

And it's as good a place as any to have a think on his new DI.

[Tag of Manc Lion proportions: Gene Hunt]

a-fell.livejournal.com

Aziraphael is in the bar for once, sitting at a table with a cup of mint-scented tea and a stack of papers. They don't look as yellowed as one might expect, and he's frowning slightly as he pores over them, allowing only the occasional frustrated click of his tongue to express his displeasure.

He looks ever so slightly disheveled, as though a few threads have worked loose in some indefinable inner fabric. It's not so obvious as having circles under his eyes, but any observer would say that he looks tired. Ridiculous, of course. It isn't as though he needs sleep.

olyabird.livejournal.com

Olga usually uses the door from her favourite coffee house in Istanbul. Usually...

Nothing about today is usual.

If your eyes are focused on the empty floor in front of the Window, you might notice the air itself fracturing, bending like a heat mirage, growing dark, as if the light itself is afraid of the rift that's forming. And you might notice the petite woman appear in that space, one hand across her eyes like she's walking out of a shop into the bright morning sun.

A long grey great coat hangs from her shoulders in tatters. The coat is not worn with age, no. It's been shredded by something very sharp. Knives, teeth, claws, it's impossible to tell. Her riding boots are muddy, and a sharp eye might catch a few drops of blood falling from her right hand.

As soon as the Gloom closes behind her, Olga's lips thin into a hard line.

"You again."

[ooc: car keys bait for Kate Beckett,

fanofthegenre ]

mnt_mike

Mike has set up his favorite barstool behind Bar for a change of pace.
Why, you may ask?
Because he's actually out here to tend to Bar during Happy Hour.

GASP in wonder!
MARVEL in awe!
RUN do not WALK, to have your drink made by the crazy man who didn't drink even before he got knocked up.

On the Specials Board behind Bar reads:

Tell the Barman a joke
And your drink is free.

beenbornearlier.livejournal.com

When Dick Winters approaches the bar, he's confronted by a small napkin. Picking it up in one hand, he laughs silently when he sees what it says.

"You sure about that?" he asks, shrugging when another napkin appears. Making his way behind the bar, he straightens out his shirt before writing on the specials board.

Specials

Eagle Eye
Easy Does It
Jump Starter

That done, he cleans his hands off with a napkin and waits.

master_bruce

When the door opens this evening, anyone nearby may get blasted with the stench of oil, and heat and harbour. The noise that blows in is of someplace busy, where no one is speaking English and alot of machinery and crates are getting moved around.

And Bruce almost looks disappointed to see the bar. He looks different from the last time he was here; leaner, more muscle and shorter hair. He's also very dirty and dressed in waterproof pants (too big for him) like a fisherman would wear, and a wifebeater that may have been white, once. He turns around to walk straight back out but then stops. If he needs a test of himself, this is as good a place as any.

His order for the evening consists of a glass of regular tap water and he sits at the bar with it, seemingly deep in thought.

[OOC: Slowtime, we can haz plzthx? Something came up. <3]