The Bar at the End of the Universe

[Post/Pre-Milliways: Hyde's room]

* Hyde, Mike and Indy appear at the top of the stairs chuckling to each other. Hyde and Mike head on down while Indy seems to notice an interesting mark on the wall which he proceeds to stare at for several minutes *

* Eventually he decides that the mark is not actually that interesting. He treads carefully, peering closely at each stair as he descends. To a casual observer it might not be apparent that he hasn't actually been to bed. Nor that he's spent the last twenty four hours in Hyde's room... doing whatever it is that happens in Hyde's room. What they would notice is that he is sporting a rather large amount of twinkie cream matted into his hair and splotched across his face. Quite fetching really *

* The scruffy explorer is already in conversation with someone — possibly himself or possibly the stairs *

Each stair is an independent being with its own dimensions and angles. One must treat each step with the respect it deserves. Stairs have rights too. Don't you? We need to get some carpeting on this one, it looks cold. Oh you do have carpet. That's nice. Very comfy. Mmmm... soft under my feet. Feet have feelings too you know? Not independent ones... but still, you gotta take them into consideration with the whole walking on stuff thing. It'd be real hard to walk if you got your feet stolen for example. 'Specially down stairs. Right?

* Once he has reached the bottom of the staircase he just stands there looking at his feet for a while, wondering why they haven't answered his question. Through sunken bloodshot eyes Indy squints at the bar with his mouth curled in an immovable smirk. He spies Hyde *

I seeeee you! FOOD! And bananas!

* He runs over and bounces onto a stool next to Hyde, peering up and down the length of the counter curiously *

* Indy ambles downstairs nonchalantly with his leather jacket slung casually over one shoulder. Ever since the nutty mayhem of several weeks ago, he's kept a rather low profile. Half a day of unconsciousness under the bar in a pool of someone else's vomit tends to do that to a person. He has kept to shadowy back tables, drunk very little and talked to less than no-one *

* He strolls up to the bar and orders a bourbon from an irate rat who was just about to be cut for the night. The drink arrives, accompanied by a verminous scowl. With a squeak that can only be described as bitchy, the rat points its tail at the snifter and scurries off before Indy can order anything else *

* A smile breaks across his rugged face as he pulls out his familiar bar stool and places his jacket over it. The worn leather creaks as he slides onto the seat. After cocking an eyebrow at the rabbit several stools down, he takes a tentative sip from his glass. It feels good. It feels right. He sighs happily, looking around and taking in the meggy general atmosphere *