*Meg's sitting at a table, and frowning.
In front of her - not right in front; more in the middle of the table, far enough that she'd have to reach to pull it closer if she wanted to read it - is a book. A history book, to be precise, an overview of the twentieth century; Meg picked it up from the bar a few minutes ago
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So it is that Meg gains a redhead also eyeing the book.
It's Milliways. Anything could happen.
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When she does, however, she looks up, breaking into a grin.*
- Shelley? I haven't seen you in ages!
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"Yes! I have not been here," she explains.
"How are you? Apart from, er, worried by literature?"
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*She perks up.* But other than that I've been good - though there were the weeks with the baby which were, er, less restful. Er. Anyways - how've you been? Where've you been?
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"Hey, Leggo-my-Meggo! Where've you been all my life?"
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The question is, where have you been for the past month or so?
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"Well," he says, voice muffled, "we spent most of it back at the ranch trying to train up the next generation."
He swallows and smiles apologetically.
"Slayers. Imported from Zimbabwe."
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*. . . for the record, Meg things Zimbabwe is somewhere in South America.*
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That does not look like a book on highly personal diseases.
"Bit of a troublesome subject, is it?" he inquires of the girl.
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Little bit, *she admits, looking up with an easy grin.* I've never been much of a historian - and the situation is sort of, er, complicated.
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But. On the other hand, dead, so it's not like it's going to affect anything -
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No, he hadn't been there a moment ago.
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Salut, Mordred -
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. . . well, halves of them, anyways. I've even finished some!
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"... History of the future?"
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