milliways_bar | Entries tagged with tom (re your brains)

[OOM: Every once in a while, you meet people on the road.]

[No particular warnings, except, you know, living in a post-zombpocalyptic world is kind of depressing.]

re_mybrains

[OOM: April 28th, 2004. A warehouse in Kentucky.]

re_mybrains

[OOM: Still in New York, Tom quickly makes friends -- and equally quickly, makes a hard decision.]

[ooc: With many thanks to

camwyn,

sdelmonte,

batyatoon, and

crazedcrusader for their help.

Also, because it's been a while, previously in NYC.]

re_mybrains

[OOM: In New York, Tom meets his hosts and gets some much needed rest.]

[ooc: With many thanks to

camwyn,

batyatoon,

sdelmonte, and

crazedcrusader for their help!]

re_mybrains

[OOM: Still in New York, Tom's saviors take him to the local safehouse.

Or . . . safe-museum. Thing.]

[ooc: With a thousand thanks to

metaphor,

madbonnycaptain, and

camwyn for their help. :D]

re_mybrains

[OOM: Tom hits Newark, and then New York.

Things are not quite as he'd expected -- or, well, more truthfully, hoped.]

[ooc: With a thousand thanks to

quaere_verum_xi,

metaphor, and

madbonnycaptain for their help. :D]

re_mybrains

[OOM: Tom begins his trip to New York, walking from Harrisburg to Philadelphia.

Along the way, he has a few run-ins with locals -- some of them unfriendly, some of them downright weird.]

[OOC: With a thousand thanks to

bookelfe and

rymenhild for their help. :D]

re_mybrains

[OOM: Over a year ago, Tom got chased into Milliways by a shamble of zombies. Turns out they're still there -- but this time Tom's brought reinforcements.

Some of the party isn't so thrilled to see the undead again. Some of the party, on the other hand, is having a blast. And some of the party is content to rain death from above in a businesslike manner.

It turns out, though, that just because the zombies are dead doesn't mean the drama's over.]

[Warnings for language, some serious zombie-gore, and angst.]

re_mybrains

So. Today's the day. Go time. D-Day. The final countdown.

. . . you get the picture. Insert your own cliche here.

Tom is at a table by the door, keeping an eye out for his compatriots. His backpack's on the floor beside him.

He'd considered getting coffee, but judging from the way he's drumming his fingers incessantly, he doesn't really need the extra nervous energy.

[ooc: Plot-locked.]

re_mybrains

"--No, I'm fine.

"No, seriously, I am perfectly happy with my current body. Form. Whatever.

". . . Well, okay, yeah, the big smashy claw is kind of awesome. --But mean, no, I'm fine.

"Well, okay, I'll take a look at it."

Tom takes his copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves, Our Cybernetic Arms, only a little dubious, and starts for a chair -- and turns around and trots back to Bar.

"Wait wait sorry I'm a dumbass. Can you give a copy of this note to, um, Shaun, Andrew, Elle, and Hawkgirl? Thanks."

(The note reads Let's do this Saturday. --Tom. All the other phrasings he came up with sounded even more like he was asking them to dinner and a movie. Way too awkward.)

That done, he heads for a table and sits down to flip through the book, distractedly. Saturday is -- not that far away.

[OOC: This is Tom's last open entrance post for a while, so it's open for tags indefinitely.]

[tinytags: Gordon Freeman]

is-still-alive.livejournal.com

When GLaDOS gets to the bar tonight, she's immediately drawn into a conversation with the Bar herself.

In a matter of moments, she's the one behind the bar, rummaging around for a clean towel. (She hasn't done bartending before, but she figures she can handle it. How hard can it be, right? Right.)

She spends a few moments flipping through one of the many books quickly supplied to her, and then proceeds to write up the evening's specials.

Specials
balMoral
tAngerine dream
Curious comfort
spice Cake

And then, in smaller print:

There will be cake served.

That done, she sets about twittering about the bar, trying to get the ingredients for said cake together.

This isn't to say that she won't take your orders.

Because she will.

[ tiny tag: GLaDOS, barney stinson ]

re_mybrains

The front door, apparently, is fascinating.

No, really. Or at any rate, Tom apparently thinks so, because he's frowning at it like he's going to be tested on the grain pattern in an hour and he wants to get an A.

He's seated at a table not too far from the Bar, pondering the door over a Mountain Dew.

(Part of him is thinking I'm really gonna miss Mountain Dew, man.)

acts_of_gord

[OOM: For Gordon Freeman, the only way out was through. From Lambda, he made the jump to a border-world called Xen.

The less said about certain battles there, the better.

Others, though... other struggles were of more import. They brought him at the last to the battle he never thought to survive, let alone win. But win he did... or so he thought.]

The bar door opens in a gust of brilliant green light. A single armored human figure staggers out of it, stumbles; the light vanishes, and the door with it. Gordon Freeman barely avoids collapsing to the floor, although the Oompa-Loompas are probably going to want a word with him about how crowbars really oughtn't to be used as substitutes for canes...

They would be well advised, however, to time their talk most carefully. A man whose armor- whose eyeglasses- are covered in that much blood, that much yellow-grey ichor- is probably not going to be very tractable over matters of not damaging the floor. He's too busy panting, frantically trying to remember how to breathe without pain, to notice much else for a few moments. Eventually, though, he looks up and very nearly laughs. "Of all the places..." Gordon shakes his head. "Is this real? Am I here? I want a damn sandwich, if it is."

His legs wobble again, and he starts looking for better support than leaning on a woefully inadequate length of metal.

[tinytag: Ella Harkins, Sir Nicholas Fury, Gordon Freeman]

re_mybrains

Tom's been out on the shooting range again, practicing. His aim's getting better -- the paper bullseyes at the end of the range are looking pretty tattered.

As the light goes, though, he unloads his gun and takes down the targets, and eventually ends up wandering down to the lake shore and sitting, skipping rocks.

It's the first of May. Nice night to be outside.

mendanddefend_archive

"Bar?" says Bob when he comes in to Milliways today. "Get me my acoustic guitar and the sheet music for..." He trails off, then shrugs. "I dunno, surprise me."

The music which arrives is for a song entitled 'First of May,' by somebody named Jonathan Coulton. Bob takes the music and the guitar over to a comfy chair and is soon merrily strumming away.

Bar didn't see fit to include the lyrics to the song. Anybody have the guts to tell Bob what he's really playing?

The lyrics and an MP3 download of 'First of May' may be found here. WARNING: EXTREMELY NSFW.

Current Mood: cheerfully oblivious
Current Music: read the post, dummy

acts_of_gord

[OOM: He starts at Black Mesa tomorrow.]

The figure that shoves open the front door is helmeted, and armored in black and grey. It's spattered with dirt and mud, and it's leaning on a grey, fat-tired bicycle that looks like it probably sneaks out of the garage at night and devours unwary Big Wheels left on other people's lawns. The door doesn't get closed until the bicycle is all the way in; as the latch clicks shut, the figure pushes its helmet visor up with one begloved hand.

"Oh," says Gordon, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light levels in Milliways. "Wasn't expecting this place again."

[tinytag: Gordon Freeman]

watchmakers_son

It hasn't occurred to Sylar that his inability to keep track of how long it's been might be due to the bar: distorting space-time, making days pass in the span of hours. It doesn't feel like he's been around for more than several days. A week at most, maybe.

He's more inclined to think it's his own body's fault for that -- and it's not as if Milliways has ever been forthcoming with him, even when he was at his peak.

Tonight he's secured a mug of tea, and, instead of taking his usual place by the Observation Window, has opted for one by the fireplace instead. A blanket's wrapped loosely around his shoulders; sitting up as straight as he can manage, Sylar watches the flames, silent and preoccupied.

It's not as comforting as the Window, but at least it's warm.

[OOC: as a general FYI, the mun is now on Mountain time (GMT -7) and will be there for the foreseeable future.]

[Tinytag: Charlie Crews]

re_mybrains

Tom finally has bullets. Which means finally -- finally -- he can get in some target practice without worrying about wasting ammunition.

"Hey, Bar? I need some targets. For shooting practice." Beat. "Shooting with a gun. I mean, with bullets."

What? It's Milliways. Maybe people go out back and target practice with beams they shoot from their eyes.

Bar, exuding amusement, provides several life-size cardboard cutouts. Tom stares a little. "Thanks. I think."

Outside, he sets up well away from the bar, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that some instincts don't disappear even if they're not used for a year.

BANG BANG BANG.

". . . Crap. I'm dead."

Aim, apparently, isn't one of them.

[ooc: ~~Here for about two hours~~ Going, going, gone; slowtimes welcome! Man, could this post futz around with time any more?]

uksupercop.livejournal.com

"I should have known this would happen sooner or later."

[tinytag: gordon o'dell, jake o'dell, dennis doyle]

re_mybrains

Nnngh. Coffee.

Tom is not actually a zombie, he's just caffeine deprived. It's a fine distinction.

Yawning, he shuffle through the bar towards the Bar herself to remedy this.

[ooc: Plot-locked at the moment, sorry.]

got-red.livejournal.com

The manufactured weather at Milliways is still cold enough that the seats by the fire are prime nap locations. Shaun is taking full advantage of this by sprawling across the entire sofa.

He'll move if you poke him hard enough.

[ooc: not in the best headspace right now but wanted to play anyway. Warning for probable slowtime.]

re_mybrains

Tom doesn't look so hot, honestly.

Unless "hot" means "slumped in a booth in sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, drinking coffee and looking like he hasn't gotten much sleep lately."

In which case, Tom is freaking smoking.

He's got his back to the front door. It's deliberate.

[tinytag: thy kingdom come, cerberus]

re_mybrains

[Upstairs:

Are they trying to tell you something?
You're missing that one final screw
You're simply not in the pink my dear
To be honest you haven't got a clue
(-Queen, "I'm Going Slightly Mad")

Warnings for zombies.]

[tinytag: thy kingdom come]

re_mybrains

[Upstairs:

Day after day
They take some brain away
Then turn my face around
To the far side of town
And tell me that it's real
Then ask me how I feel
(-David Bowie, "All the Madmen")

Warnings for gore and bureaucratic jargon.]

[tinytag: kingdom come]

roadhouse-ellen.livejournal.com

Ellen Harvelle doesn't know her bar like the back of her hand. As folks like to point out sometimes, who goes around staring at the back of their hand like they're out to memorize it? What use'll that ever be?

She does, however, know her bar like she knows the gun she keeps on her as often as possible (one of her late husband's, modified to fit rock salt and ordinary rounds both), and like the bottles of holy water she keeps alongside the whiskey, and like the look she'll sometimes catch on her daughter's face as they work their shifts: less like you'd expect a young woman to look when she's in a barful of men, more like she's reading a bunch of walking, talking textbooks on how to jump headfirst into hunting.

And even if Ellen didn't know her bar, she'd know damn well that its back room ought to look a hell of a lot different than this.

The door swings shut behind her with a bang; Ellen keeps a hand on it as she narrows her eyes, sizing up the room. "The hell?" she mutters under her breath.