(Untitled)

[rebelheartalien]

At some point during the night or day, a sign went up in the main bar.

It just reads:

Could friends and family of Kim Bauer, Shelley Winters, Nita Callahan and Trillian Astra please contact Michael Guerin or Ford Prefect as soon as possible?

Comments

[puckishly]

Puck's eyes narrow at the sign.

This can't bode well.

[onehoopyprefect]

Ford notices the man looking at the sign.

"Which one did you know?" he asks softly from a nearby table.

[puckishly]

The fairy turns to him sharply.

His gaze is cool and assessing.

"Nita Callahan."

[onehoopyprefect]

"Ah."

He turns haunted eyes up to the fae.

"They're gone."

[puckishly]

"Gone."

The word is dangerously soft.

"Gone, mortal?

"Prithee be more specific."

[onehoopyprefect]

Ford rolls his eyes. Mortal. Figures.

"Gone as in 'not here'. As in 'no longer on the premises'. As in 'Elvis has left the building'."

[puckishly]

Very deliberately, Puck strolls over to his table.

For accuracy's sake, let's say 'stalks.'

"Do you care to play games?"

A sharp-toothed, humorless smile.

"Because I frankly haven't the patience."

[onehoopyprefect]

Ford laughs. He throws his head back and laughs.

For accuracy's sake, let's say 'hysterically'.

"You don't have the patience? You don't have the patience?"

Ford stands up, still chuckling. Then, suddenly, he grabs Puck by the lapels and forces him back into the wall.

"Now you listen to me. I don't know what you are, and I don't much care right now. One of those bottom-feeding Forsaken bastards took the woman I love and three other people, Nita included, to who-fucking-knows-where, and you don't have the patience!"

[puckishly]

With a snarl, Puck's hand darts out, and slim, unyielding fingers wrap around Ford's neck-- hard enough to restrain, to hurt, but not to choke.

He needs him talking.

"You listen to me, gentle friend," he growls softly, fangs flashing. "Your pain is of no particular concern to me. What I desire to know is what's befallen Nita Callahan."

A sweet smile.

A little pressure.

"And you're going to tell me. Slowly. And prithee do avoid the histrionics."

[onehoopyprefect]

Ford's hand clamps around Puck's wrist, nails digging in. Betelgeuseans have notoriously strong windpipes, so he's not worried about that at the moment.

"Maybe you should ask Ishamael. All you fancy immortal types seem to have a club anyway. I'm sure you're old pals!"

The last word of that is punctuated with a stomp to the instep and an elbow across the face.

[puckishly]

Puck's head snaps to the side, and his eyes slide to Ford very slowly.

The light in them is bright and feral.

"I'm sure," he growls softly, and his hand, which hasn't loosened its grip despite the clawing of Ford's nails, begins to tighten.

"I'll remember thee to thy lady, should we meet," he purrs. "That I'll grant, though you've been so terribly rude."

[creator_raven]

Something small and black and heavy drops from the rafters, landing on Puck's shoulder and digging in with prickly bird-talons.

"Puck."

He nips at the fae's ear, not hard enough to draw blood.

"There are better places for such things, perhaps. Also it is difficult to make the dead talk, yes?"

The bird tilts its head, one bright eye regarding Ford.

"Though possibly I am very hungry."

He nips at Puck again. Maybe it's a game.

[onehoopyprefect]

"Yeah," he chokes out, "you big magic types gotta stick together, huh? One big zarking game to you. Lives hang in the balance, and that's all just cricket, isn't it?"

[puckishly]

Puck's grip doesn't relax, but it doesn't get any tighter.

"Raven," he says conversationally, "I'm given to understand that our Nita Callahan is in something of a scrape. This fellow here knows aught of it, but he isn't being quite so forthcoming as one would hope."

[creator_raven]

"Possibly you are not being encouraging."

He blinks, fire flickering briefly in bird-bright eyes. Then he drops from Puck's shoulder, boots hitting the floor even as his hand grips Puck's arm.

His gaze, dark now, fixes on Ford.

"I am not so fond of crickets, perhaps. Nor of games."

He waves one hand vaguely.

"It is a thing."

But his fingers are very tight on Puck's shoulder, and one hand toys idly with the threads on his ragged coatsleeve.

[onehoopyprefect]

Ford stares back at Raven, unflinching.

"Well, here's another 'thing', birdman. They. Are. Gone. If I knew where, you can swatting well bet that I wouldn't be wasting my time here with the likes of you. I would be there doing everything I can to get them back."