ways_back_room | Weekend Entertainment: Test Drive Meme

Then, there was Milliways.

Instead of the maintenance bay.

Doesn't she just look thrilled?

Jim is at the bar, nursing a coffee. He sees a new arrival and nods but is keeping to himself.

New enough, but not brand new. New enough she still wants to reach for her gun at her thigh, but she checks the urge with noting exactly how many people are in the room and where. New enough she wants to walk out the door already, but know it'll keep appearing in every door then.

She'll just walk in, torn between the stocks and real food.

Food wins out. She heads for the bar. Confined, contained, direct and orderly. Even months from being counted as a Peacekeeper now, she still exudes it with her clothes and every move.

Jim watches and sees a soldier. Yes, also a woman, but a soldier first. The sort of person you encounter once in a while in the fleet, the sort who used to be transferred to the MACOs before that division was shut down.

This works well until she's standing in front of the thing. The bar that spits food of nowhere. Wanting anything but food cubes, but with little idea what all it does serve.

"Hello." She seems a bit confused but not lost. Maybe he can help. Maybe not.

Dark eyes cut toward the voice. Even with John's voice in her head from their first finding this place and the people, the possibilities, her posture stayed resolute. But, if she had to be here, a word cost her nothing.

"Hello."

"Are you new here? You seem a bit...uneasy." Though that could be the whole soldier thing, too.

The last word makes her jaw tighten some. "I've been here before."
But it's only a marginal scale that is true for. It's still new.

"That might be enough to make anyone uneasy." All these years coming here and he still doesn't fully trust the place.

Danny looks a little worse for wear.

That's no surprise, he's pretty sure every day spent with Steve "I like to shoot things" McGarrett is a day that shaves another six months off his life expectancy, but he deals with it, you know, because the guy might be insane but he also gets results.

Unfortunately, what Danny gets is a torn ACL, so his image -- perfectly combed back hair, neat shirt and tie, shiny badge clipped to his pocket -- is a little ruined by the cane he's got.

It's also mildly impaired by the look of surprise on his face. Not that he'd put it past McGarrett to get a bar in the office, but...there's a bar. In the office.

He really hopes nobody's going to make him drink anything blue with fruit in it.

A man at said bar is drinking a draft beer and idly watches the newcomer through his sunglasses.

A beer. A nice, normal beer, that's what he needs, something to take the edge off, because McGarrett's insanity is clearly starting to take a toll on him and his psych eval's not for another month still.

The other thing he notices is being watched, because it's pretty much old habit by now: a guy starts watching you, you start noticing. That's just how it works when you're never quite sure if the people around you are criminals or not.

So he makes his way up to the bar, leans on it, cane at an angle, and taps the surface, looking for a bartender before glancing over at the other guy.

"Hey. Bud. You know what they've got on tap, here? Anything good? Not that I don't love the Long Board, you know, but every now and again a guy's gotta switch it up, you know what I'm saying?"

"I hear ya," Michael nods, "I'm pretty sure this one's sort of a light heady ale. I don't know where they get it from, but it's not bad."

He taps the bar and adds; "First one's on the house, second's on me if you don't like it."

More than the beer, he's watching the guy with a thinly veiled smile; he knows a cop when he sees one - even the kind that one usually sees around Milliways that aren't exactly by-the-book types. When the beer materializes on the bar without a tender's aid, he just waits for the inevitable mind blown.

There's nothing about Danny that doesn't scream cop and New Jersey: it's in his voice, his accent, the way he gestures, and, most tellingly, the badge he's got clipped to the pocket of his khakis.

Because detectives wear nice pants, Steve. Cargo pants are not conducive to cultivating the correct image. They wear khakis, and nice shirts, and ties.

They do not wear flip-flops.

God, he hates Hawaii.

For a moment, though, he's actually not thinking about the Godforsaken volcanic hole of an island, because he's too busy staring at the beer that's just materialized, which is handy, because after seeing a beer materialize, he could really use a beer.

"That," he says, after a second, pointing at the glass, "is new. Okay. I haven't seen that before. I mean, I'm sure it's handy, but half the pleasure of a beer is getting it served to you by at least a guy in a flowered shirt, if not a pretty girl, but, uh...how did that happen?"

Ahh, flowered shirt - guy didn't look like Miami's finest, next best guess was the islands.

"It's, uh... well, you're not going to believe me, but it's kind of magic." He laughs, taking a long drink off his beer. "There's people a hell of a lot better at explaining it than me, but the short story is that you've found the bar at the the end of the universe - it doesn't technically exist in your world and it's easier to think of everything you see in terms of 'magic'."

(OOC: ILU, the mostest. I definitely approve of this app.)

Katya is deeply, fundamentally, anti-drinks-that-are-blue-with-fruit-in.

Such things are of the Dark and should be condemned with great prejudice.

So yes, there's a dark-haired gal with a bottle of vodka she's slowly emptying one glass-ful at a time, with black bread and cured salmon and you know what?

It's amazing. And there's no blue anywhere.

For a second, but just a second, he pauses to take stock of the pretty girl with the dark hair and dark eyes. It only makes sense, right, if he's having some kind of meltdown, that Rachel would be right in the middle of it, but Rachel doesn't drink straight vodka, as far as he knows (and if she's started, then they're going to have a serious and long discussion about appropriate habits to cultivate around Grace), so it's clearly not Rachel, which still doesn't preclude the possibility of a meltdown.

He glances behind him. It's a habit, one he's picked up around Steve, because he's almost positive Steve's got to be involved in this somehow, but Steve's not around and that bar still is, so he stumps over to the thing, near the girl, and looks for a tender before smoothing down his tie and giving her a smile.

What? She's cute, and he's friendly.

Most of the time.

"You, uh, gonna take down that whole bottle yourself? Because I have to say, that's impressive. It's downright impressive. Me, I get a little goofy off of a couple cocktails, but hey, it happens to the best of us, right?"

"It is the practice, yes?" She smiles back because (in general) she's also a fairly friendly sort of person. Bonus, her English is actually pretty good, despite a heavy Muscovite accent. "Perhaps if there was someone sharing, I would not have to empty it alone."

"Oh, Russian, okay, that kind of puts a whole new spin on things for me, because, you know, I'm just not used to seeing that sort of thing, I have to admit. And thank you."

He presses his hands together in front of his chest, smiling a squinty-eyed smile, "but I'm kind of on duty right now, so I really can't. Still, I'm sure, pretty girl like yourself, you could manage to get some company if you wanted, no problem."

The door opened and closed. A very young girl, with near radiant silver-blonde hair, entered, staring down at her dress where it fell over her knees. She'd looked up only as she let go of the door handle.

This...was not her bedroom.

There is a bar in apartment 4D.

There is a bar in apartment 4D.

"Uh ... hey, Nick?"

There's a beat before her voice gets quieter and she hesitantly makes her way closer into the barspace.

"Winston?

She is practically whispering when she says: "... Schmidt?"

... these people are definitely not her roommates.

And she has a feeling she isn't in ~~Kansas~~ her apartment anymore.

"Good morning." It's morning for Howard. And a breakfast here is much better than a breakfast at Camp So Secret It's Not on Any Map. "Lost?"

Her eyes go from the general barspace to the man speaking.

And wow.

He looks so dapper!

There are dapper chaps in this place-that-is-not-her-apartment.

"Hi.

"Uh. Maybe?"

"You just came through a door and you're not where you were. And don't understand where you are.

"It's happened to all of us here."

He offers a reassuring smile. One that is almost entirely sincere.

Augh. She's kind of a sucker for smiles, almost-sincere as they may be.

(Especially when she's got Schmidt's voice ringing in her head about finding herself a rebound.)

No, she is going to be calm and cool.

Especially since this guy, good-looking as he is, is talking crazy.

Focusing on the matter at hand, Jess clears her throat.

"Yeah, that sounds just a little bit - weird. Accurate, maybe, given the fact that this is definitely not where I live - but weird.

"Mind explaining all of this to me?"

"As much as possible. We're outside of time. Doors open randomly on other places and other times and other realities. People come through, and usually return as if nothing happened.

"Why this is possible, I can't really explain. I'm good at science, but not that good." He hasn't ruled out aliens, or future tech. Or much else.

The boys taken for bull-dancers have more or less the run of the Labyrinth after supper, but the girls are always under the eye of the priestess during the day and locked in come night. For all that staying a maiden is a matter of survival here, Thalestris still finds that that chafes.

On the other hand, this place, wherever it is, is not under the priestess's eye. It's definitely not the Bull Court, either. Nor is it the girls' quarters.

Does she ever wish she had a weapon right now.

It's not that Red minds being indoors or around people; far from it. She's just... trying to adjust to a new indoor space, and the sheer amount of information she's getting from it.
(There's a lot of different smells in the place, especially for a girl who's only just realised she's got that set of information to work with.)
And so, there's a girl (just past 'teenage,' by modern Earth standards) wearing a simple, serviceable dress and bodice, perched on a stool at the Bar, people-watching and occasionally sipping some tea. Despite being inside, she hasn't taken off her cloak ( a truly gorgeous red brocade number).
...She'd feel better about this if Mary were still here with her, but a girl can't have everything in life.

"Well...this is something new," says a guy straight out of World War Two. His rifle is on his shoulder but he keeps a hand on the strip as while this place seems mostly harmless, it is obviously not the inside of a barn.

Charles' eyes go rather wide as that man looks like a soldier from the war he knows,

"Can I be of some help?"

The guy is dressed rather oddly but he seems friendly enough; English accent and no signs of weapons.

"Yeah, maybe you could tell me what I walked into here or tell when I hit my head, cause this sure ain't the inside of a barn."

"No, it's Milliways, which is a bit out of place and time. It's also a pub, would you like something to drink?"

Charles is very much a civilian and gestures to the counter.

[OOC: If I was organized this wouldn't be going up shortly before I go to bed. Still putting it up anyway.]

Marika comes through the door. That, in and of itself, isn't surprising.

That she does it drifting through the door with her head level to the door knob before gravity catches her and brings her swiftly to the floor is more so.

"Oww," she wheezes from ankle height, "There should have been a warning about gravity fields there."

Weekend Entertainment: Test Drive Meme

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