The Bar at the End of the Universe

Quinn stayed at Milliways last night; he had a feeling that going home to pick up the things he wanted to hand around was probably the last time he'd be able to come and go as he pleased. There are still people he needs to talk to, and things he wants to do, before going home for however long the door isn't going to appear. Right now, he's seated at one of the tables near the fire, looking a good deal more relaxed than he ever has before in his time at Milliways.

The Bar's sense of time and the Landlord's sense of doors have never entirely agreed with Quinn. Doors tend to open for him at the worst possible moments; the restroom, or the rooms upstairs, or any other room not the main bar tends to hold him out of time for days or even weeks at a stretch before returning him to the main flow. His world being without magic probably has something to do with it, but we may never know. All Quinn knows is that a day or so ago, he came into the Bar in an effort to grab a few moments to work out what to do about the Americans, who lost their leader and half their number and now have nothing whatsoever left to lose.

He emerges from the men's room and heads outside to think; this may be the last time he sees green growing things, since he plans to go back soon, and he'd like to get them fixed in his memory.

Sometime very, very soon, Quinn is going to have to go home and deal with the worst situation of his life. The dragons were bad enough for the past twenty years, but right now they've got competition: seventy angry, leaderless American soldiers who've just returned from their attempt to reach London and take out the male they thought lived there. Bad enough Van Zant died before they could go, but their unit got ambushed along the way- three hundred miles and more is a long way to go without something like that happening. He still doesn't know how they thought they were going to get away with it. He just knows that they lost more than half their number on the road, and came back, and now they have nothing to lose and a castle full of freaks, weirdoes, and civilians to vent it on.

He's out back just now, under the fringes of the trees. There's a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that says he's probably never going to see a tree again once he goes home, and he'd sort of like to have the memory well fixed in his mind before he goes.


[OOC: Technically this is a car keys post, if Remy LeBeau's mun is up for it, but anyone who feels it appropriate is always welcome to tag. Thank you!]

Quinn will be going home soon, if he has anything at all to say about it. Bar likes playing tricks with his time stream, it seems. But he figures he's had more than enough respite from the problem of the Americans, and he'd like very much to gather up the medical types he was looking for and bring them back to the castle now. The sooner it's begun, the sooner it'll be done.

Not that he won't miss this place when he goes, but... it's not really real, is it. Oh, it's real enough, it's solid, but it's not everyday life. It's not his world and it can't ever be, no matter how much he wishes it might be. He's got people to look after and dragons to deal with.

So- one last cup of coffee, then, before he goes looking for the people who'd spoken of an interest, and maybe Suzi, too.

Quinn hasn't tried to go home yet, largely because he's not really looking forward to going home to a castle full of angry Americans and wounded men. He's going to have to go back soon, though, he knows that. So for now, he's come downstairs to check on his posting about medical and healer types, then get an apple (it's going to be years before he sees another one, if they ever get to the point of seeing them at all) and a seat at the Bar.

Quinn makes his way down the stairs, rubbing at his face with the heel of one hand. He didn't sleep too well last night, not that that's anything new for him, but when he tried the door somewhere after midnight just to see, he found that the damn thing wouldn't open. So he went back upstairs to see if a lot of bad sleep could take the place of an appropriate amount of good.

Either the answer is no, or he really and truly misses coffee, because he's sitting sullenly at one of the better-lit tables with a steaming mug cradled in both hands.

[OOM: The Americans claimed to be dragon slayers when they turned up on Quinn's doorstep. And now, they get to prove it... only things don't turn out like they'd planned.]

When the Bar's front door opens, the only thing visible on the other side is a dimly lit castle hallway. There's a whiff of disinfectant and iodine, and of scorched ... hair, perhaps, if one tries not to think about to too hard. The man who opened the door doesn't notice; he's too busy looking around the Bar as the door closes behind him. "Oh, hell," says Quinn, and his shoulders sag visibly. This was not where he'd meant to end up.

A few moments later he's got a seat at the bar, but the near-invisible trembling that'd been touching on all his movements when he came in's overcome his resistance. He doesn't even bother ordering just yet. He's just going to thunk his head down on the Bar's top and leave it there for a while. It's simpler that way.

(OOC: I realise I posted this last night, but I'm still good for tags this morning if anyone's interested.)