milliways_bar | Entries tagged with voodoo

There's a new addition out by the firing range. Ask three different people who put it up, and you'll probably get three different answers.

Voodoo's helmet rests atop the extended stock of his HK416, which is stuck muzzle-down into his boots. A white placard rests against the top of the boots. The writing on it is simple - legal name and callsign, rank, branch of service, date of birth and death.

It's not so bad, as memorials go.

[OOC: That's all, folks! Feel free to tag in with reactions as you feel appropriate, but I won't be threading.]

boston_bruiser

[Out of Milliways, millitimed far, far, far into the future because Fallout: New Vegas would take forever to work through conventionally and the mun simply doesn’t have the patience for it:

Feel it comin' in the air
And the screams from everywhere
I'm addicted to the thrill
It's a dangerous love affair
Can't be scared when it goes down
Got a problem, tell me now
Only thing that's on my mind
Is who's gonna run this town tonight

]

boston_bruiser

Look, here's the deal.

Voodoo likes Ellen. She's an all-around good kid. If you were to press him on it, he'd probably admit he cares about her a good deal more than he does the average post-nuclear schmuck.

What he doesn't care for is being stuck in her body.

With us so far?

What makes this particular round of Milliways horsefuckery particularly intolerable to Voodoo is that usually he just PTs and trains out back until it goes away. The thing is, his body is used to PTing 90 minutes a day, six days a week, at borderline crazy intensities and weights along with having access to some of the best post-PT recovery money can buy. Ellen's - isn't. And he's locked out of his room, so blowing stuff up at the range is out.

Bar's open, though.

And it would appear an already slightly-inebriated Paladin 101 is taking advantage of this. With a tall bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and a very tall glass of whiskey that is only getting fuller.

Stick around and you'll see it get bottoms-upped.

boston_bruiser

Post-nuclear America sucks ass.

There's the wildlife (a fourth of which want to take a chunk out of you), the denizens (an eighth of which will shoot you on sight), but most of all, there's the terrain and the climate. Nuclear armageddon has shifted the climate to a nuclear summer - not the kind of weather you want when you're trying to stealth your way up a spire in Zion National Park to put a bunch of booger-eaters in the hurt locker with forty pounds of gear on you.

All in all, Voodoo's sweaty, a little frayed around the nerves from some afternoon firefights with the White Legs, and running on not a whole lot of sleep or food. He's not asking for the world - just some potatoes and eggs and a nice bunk to conk out in.

But when he comes into Milliways tonight, he feels - different. Shorter. Lighter. And-

(-where the fuck's his G-Shock? That's a freaking PipBoy on his arm. Could he-

-ohhhhh no. Oh no-no-no-no-)

A quick look in a mirror later, and-

"GOD-FUCKING-DAMMIT."

aaaaaaaagh_sky

Things are going on in Philadelphia ~~and the mun will deal with them very soon~~. That is undeniable.

So is the Door, much to Ellen's irritation.

So is the calendar.

"Bar?" says Ellen. "Are there any- I don't know, any history books from my world that cover today, that you would be allowed to give me?"

No books appear.

"How about newspapers or magazines from October of 2077, then?"

Those, she gets: a fairly hefty stack of both types of printed media.

"Thank you," she says soberly, and takes them over to a table, acquiring a bottle of Nuka-Cola a little later. It seems like today, the anniversary of the Great War, is the sort of day when one should familiarize oneself properly with the history involved.

(She's botherable as long as you don't make her spill the soda.)

headed4hell

Grace feels like celebrating.

But, you might say, Grace often feels like celebrating. You'd be correct. However it is not often that Grace comes home and spends ten frantic minutes hunting for Gus and convinced he's been dognapped or worse by the irate drug dealer she is currently trying to take down.

(He was under the bed.)

Which is why tonight's happy hour comes with a canine companion in the (rather large) form of Gus stretched out on a dog bed at Bar's end, happily devouring a bone.

"Gus Gus," Grace calls out as she scrawls specials on the board. "You okay?"

Aaaaaruuuufff! comes back.

"Good. Bar's open, people."

Grace lights up a cigarette and settles in, only shaking a little.

Specials:

The blue one
The green one
Whatever's in that bottle with the skull and crossbones
Gus's choice

[OOC: I'm up and down, usual slowtime warnings apply unless you ping and want something quick, tag amongst yourselves, etc. :D ETA: Have to take a break for tonight. Will pick up tags in the morning!]

lifethatisscratched

At the end of days, the seven seals will be broken, and four horsemen will be sent to roam the Earth: one on a white horse, with a bow with which to conquer. One on a red horse, with a great sword to take peace from the land. One on a black horse, with a pair of balances in his hand. And on a pale horse - Death, and Hell follows him. It is in this manner that the day of judgement begins.

That is what the colonists' holy books say.

What they fail to mention is this: sometimes, God does not wait to punish the wicked. Sometimes, He sends a rider of His own.

And Hell does not follow him.

Hell is in him.

His mount is similarly endowed - blue flames lick up its sides as he comes in from the forest at a trot, perusing all there is to be seen.

It is a strange place, to be sure. But there is an aura of wickedness about it, all the same - an aura that must be purged.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck."

So the defensemen for the Red Wings were harder than they looked. How was he supposed to know?

Okay, so Voodoo might've let his temper get the better of him - again - and picked a fight he shouldn't have - again.

(And he might've gotten put in the penalty box. Again.)

But cross-checking the center? Those pricks totally deserved it.

He's long since changed out of his gear and is holding a napkin to a bloody nose. (Is it broken? Christ, it better not be. The team was supposed to go bar-crawling through Detroit tonight.)

If all goes well, they should be in the Fire Nation's capital city by the day after tomorrow.

If you ask Mako, it can't come soon enough. The boiler room is a cauldron on the best of days, but as summer approaches, it's turning into something scorching.

(It's days like this he envies Bolin. Firebenders are always slotted into something to do with the engine.)

For now, he's using Bar to extend his break, loosening his overalls just a touch as he leans back in a booth, hand on a cold glass of water.

[OOC: The gang's all here! See this post for their writeups. For this AU, Connor will be coming in for the first time, but for Voodoo and Mako, assume that if their canonical incarnations know you, these AU versions will as well.]

freedom_is_grey

It's a cool and chilly day, but Ysalwen has a cloak so she doesn't care about that. She also has some judicious physical shielding that will protect her and her books from any raindrops that happen to fall on them. Sitting under a tree would definitely be tempting fate, otherwise.

Liranan scoffs at this delicacy and flops comfortably outside of her protective overhang.

She rubs his stomach with her booted foot anyway, attention fixed on the spellbook and physics treatises in front of her.

She is trying to connect some dots.

aaaaaaaagh_sky

Out of Milliways: It is probably best not to speak of the ruins of Cincinnati, or of what lurked in the landscape of thorns where Hoosier National Forest once stood, or of the stretch of road punctuated solely by massive granite sculptures of Popeye chararacters, who watched over the endless empty miles with blank gray eyes, forever.

Unfortunately that leaves Voodoo's journey through the ruins of East St. Louis to talk about instead...

boston_bruiser

On the other side of the door, Voodoo's getting closer to Legion territory by the day. From what he can gather, they're a hard bunch of dudes - assholes, but hard. That means he's got to be harder, and that means PT.

Bar's loaned him a weight vest, one of the 60-pound ones, and he's running a circuit of wind sprints and bodyweight exercises in-between sprints to and from the shooting range, where he takes a series of snapshots with his carbine. The targets are all man-sized and at varying distances - the important thing is being able to hit them accurately and consistently under pressure.

You'll hear the gunshots if you're close, the occasional curse when he misses if you're closer. It's hard to bat a thousand right out of the gate.

morecurious

All those pictures Skye took on her first entrance? They went from her phone as soon as she got home. Now she's back in bar and... they're busy redownloading from some sort of network she's not even sure she's connected to.

It's weird as hell.

She's sitting at the bar, her phone held in both hands at eye level as she tries to figure out what's going on.

Magic, probably. This place is damn weird.

gottadealwithit

Korra is a pro-bender!

KORRA is a pro-bender!

Korra is PRO-BENDER!

I mean, obviously she's a pro-bender, because pro-bending is awesome and Korra is awesome and it's totally modern and exactly what she needs to get her head around airbending, yup.

She'd be in a constant state of eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee except that as it turns out - pro-bending is really hard work. and it involves early mornings and drills and learning rules and look - it's hard to be constantly excited if your new friends keep hitting you with fire and earth all the time.

(Although one of these new friends? Totally cute.)

So it's a tired but happy Korra who stumbles into the bar, her brand new helmet tucked under her arm, and gives the place a grin.

"Oh good. I could really use a drink."

raptorcanaria

A couple of years ago, Dinah lost her Thunderbird. Funny story actually - she and Batgirl were pursuing Firefly and Killer Moth... no, you're right you don't need it in an entrance post.

Anyway, Dinah's bike was turned to toast and she sulked about it for at least a week. Until Bruce happened to let it slip into conversation that he's recovered the remains and was keeping it in the cave. "So it couldn't be traced to you, Ted Grant, or any of the rest of us."

(Because he's a good friend.)

This is why Dinah has had the burned out shell of a Triumph Thunderbird stored in the back of the Arrow cave, waiting for a time when she wouldn't be working, saving the multiverse, babysitting or anything else, so she could work on it.

Like all things, sometimes you just have to MAKE the time. By coming into the bar in which time stands still, obviously!

Dinah has utilised a cart, and is now carefully wheeling her poor wreck of a bike through a pre-cleared path towards the elevator to the garage.

Go on, tell her it's a lost cause.

cassiefuckingcage

When Cassie makes her way downstairs for breakfast, her customary eggs and not-quite-disgusting protein drink are accompanied by a minor surprise.

Cassie's not in the mood for minor surprises right now. She regards the viewscreen, and its explanation of the day's happenings, with skepticism and annoyance.

"Fine. Get the shit parade over with."

The first screen displays a standard fuzzy yellow animal configuration.

"I come down first thing in the morning and you ask if I want to turn into a hamster? Next."

The second screen shows a half-Tarkatan configuration. Cassie's eyes narrow.

"Look, I really don't want to be anything other than me today. Alright?"

The screen obliges. It's like looking into a mirror now. Save for the red, glittering eyes.

Cassie's breath stops. Her vision narrows. Her fists clench and tremble with rage.

"...That's not funny. Not. Fucking. Funny."

The viewscreen informs her that there is one other option available.

"I've got a better idea: How about you give me one goddamned reason I shouldn't set you on FUCKING fire right now!?"

A loud shattering fills the bar. The cracked viewscreen disappears as chocolate-flavored protein drink trickles off the counter.

"Take this shit away, I'm not hungry anymore."

gods_that_haunt_me

On day two of Cubefall, there is a dragon in the bar.

Actually no, it's just a velociraptor of the Jurassic Park kind.

And it's stalking around with a lot of uncertainty, bobbing its head and making confused noises, and wondering what to do with its tail.

It's Floki.

It has been ____ days since the last velociraptor incident.

runningred

Jay comes bouncing up from the garage in a good mood only to be met by the wonderful madness of Cubefall. He smiles and scoops up a pad, looking over his options.

Robot, a border collie, and...

What the hell, why not. It’s worth a try.

Jay makes his selection and looks down. Swearing.

Rather than giving him a female equivalent body, he has a female super heroine equivalent body. And costume - Unnecessarily large breasts, a crop-top and shorts shorter than the thigh holster. At least the boots are practical and flat rather than stupidly high-heeled.

“Why did the costume have to be sexy? I mean, really!” Even if it does look hot on ~~him~~ her, it’s still unnecessary.

aaaaaaaagh_sky

It's noon. Or as close to noon as the asteroid on which Milliways was built ever gets. And as the not quite real sun heaves itself to directly overhead, the change sweeps over the building, inside and out. The entire Bar- walls, floor, furniture, everything- breaks out in a profusion of Legos, Capselas, Meccanoblox, and every other construction toy imaginable. And Ellen, who had been doing her best to arrange a dialog with some very peculiar people in post-atomic Philadelphia and now is in desperate need of some Nuka-Cola to clear her head, finds herself dropped directly behind the Bar. A vidwindow pops up in front of him, and in front of every other patron to enter:

Hello! Welcome to Milliways. Today, Milliways marks the Cybertronian holiday of Cubefall, the anniversary of the day upon which the Allspark first landed on the rocky world that would become Cybertron. Would you like to sample some possible reconfigurations? (y/n)

Ellen's has the additional line:

Since we're a bit low on Cybertronian patrons this year, you got nominated to do the explaining.

Ellen would say something about this, but she's got vidwindows popping up in front of her. ( And while some of them are okay she's looking less than thrilled overall. )

"WHY DOES HE KEEP SHOWING UP ON MY LIST OF OPTIONS?"

we_dont_fly

[ after this ]

Tars shouldered his way passed a line of waitrats, ignoring their indignant squeaks he strode into the bar proper. He was looking for the human. Curtis. His name was Curtis.

And he had dared to touch the face of Dejah Thoris. He would speak to this Curtis and educate him on precisely why this was a dangerous thing to do.

All he would do is speak to the man.

The crowd of evening diners shrunk back from the glowering figure. A nine-foot-tall Thark warlord on a mission is a terrifying thing to see.

[ Plot locked to

2goodarms and

hate_gettin_older, please. Reaction threads to the unfolding events are welcome! ]

freedom_is_grey

Ysalwen is seated at a corner table, Liranan napping at her feet.

She's got several books piled around her, along with several notebooks, a small dry-erase board, and a tablet.

Someone is attempting to conquer applied differential equations.

It's just the thing after first being introduced to eigenfunctions as they relate to atomic models. If only every atom was a hydrogen atom.

Wait.

boston_bruiser

[Out of Milliways: In post-nuclear America, some mercies come easier than others.]

So they've secured what used to be the Kingwood Army National Guard base. The medbay was stocked with stimpacks and Rad-X and antiseptics - they'll have to use them sparingly if they want them to last all the way to Vegas, but it's better than nothing. The armory was fresh out of assault rifles and explosives, but in one of the lockboxes they found an old Stoner 63, along with an MG42 that had somehow found its way into the states, a few spare barrels, and a couple thousand rounds of ammunition. The weapons'll shoot just fine with some TLC (and CLP), but the ammunition's more than likely gone screwy by now.

All in all, it was a good haul.

So Voodoo should probably be cheerier than he is, what with his feet up on Bar, chin in hand, and eyes staring out the Window.

2goodarms

[Room 1001, just prior: "I am not glowing."]

So now Curtis is in the gym, stripped down to his undershirt and diligently wrapping his remaining hand -- mostly it involves keeping one end of the wrap in his teeth as he twists his wrist around -- before he settles in at one of the heavy bags.

He's only wearing one sock. No shoes in the clothes pile, either.

(Shut up.)

Maybe later he'll try to figure out some cardio that doesn't involve the treadmills, since running barefoot seems like a bad plan.

[eta 11:45 PM ET: off to bed! slowtime now in effect; post open to new threads until I say it's not.]

raptorcanaria

[OOM: "Actually, I was thinking we could move to another city..."]

The conversation after that went "what about my shop?" "...what about your shop?" "It's here." "We'll buy a new one." Because if there's one thing about Oliver Queen, it's that he hasn't been not-a-millionaire for very long and still doesn't really know how money works.

But they can work it out.

Probably.

Dinah is in a booth, having ordered a bunch of real estate literature from the bar, and is currently comparing prices in neighbourhoods in a number of cities on the west coast.

Also coffee. She is drinking that as well.

hecu_marine

Shephard has a reputation in Rowlesburg for being good with children. Fortunately, that is in Rowlesburg, which is a hundred and fifty miles away from where the Vance-Freeman kids had their rather chemically impressive birthday party, so no one came looking for him to settle it.

He's off duty right now, out back, fiddling with the power settings and capabilities of his massively modified motorcycle. The radium drive is pretty sweet, but he's still getting used to it.

Botherable as long as you don't scratch the paint.

daringyoungman

THE FLOOR IS LAVA.

(It's not actually lava.)

Dick, who is thirteen years old and by all accounts too old for games like the floor is lava, skips into the bar through the door and lands on a table near by. He topples over onto his hands and walks for a little while across the backs of a couple of chairs towards another table, and tiptoes through plates and glasses without touching a single one.

He strolls idly over to the bar, fetches himself a milkshake, and starts the journey towards the fireplace. All very normal, very ordinary.

Except THE FLOOR IS LAVA.

[OOC: HELLO OPEN TO ALL. DCU!tiny Dick.]

in_revision

Ward is... pretty sure... very sure, actually, that he's done something wrong. Something very, very wrong.

Something that got him on that plane with that bunch of lunatics.

Of course, the pilot is Melinda May, and they're headed up by a living legend that isn't supposed to be living.

...

Still. He's pretty sure that somewhere along the way, he did something wrong.

And then there's this place, yep. Right on time, with how today's going. So much for getting a beer.

Ward takes up his customary people-watching spot at the Bar and adopts a relaxed pose.