(Untitled)
[Just pre-Milliways: It's the freakiest show.]
Sam Tyler had been hoping that somewhere between leaving his flat and getting to what he still thinks of as his office, something would have happened. Something like waking up, getting home, realizing it had all been some strange fever dream, finding out that he was still a DCI after all ( Read more... )
Sam Tyler had been hoping that somewhere between leaving his flat and getting to what he still thinks of as his office, something would have happened. Something like waking up, getting home, realizing it had all been some strange fever dream, finding out that he was still a DCI after all ( Read more... )
When did she get to be on welcoming committee? Was there a memo that she missed somewhere?
He's English, she knows that much. The style of clothes puts him somewhere in the '70's. She slits her eyes at him and nods sharply at the stool again.
"You are not where you expected to be, that much is obvious. Which means you need debriefing. Debrief is easier with a drink in the hand."
Her accent is thick, Russian, and her words are clipped, not rude, simply efficient.
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Okay, so the Russian is a surprise, even moreso than the pub. But at least this first part he's got an answer for.
"Not at 7 bloody AM it's not."
He's not that far gone yet, is he? Fugue states should be much more --
"Unless -- is it 7 AM?"
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"On your side of the door, yes. Here? Mid-afternoon. Are you going to sit or are you going to stand in the floor gibbering like a child with a broken toy?"
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Out of the middle of the floor he can do, though he's going to take a second to gather himself against the back of a chair before moving too much further.
"Is this going to happen every day, do you know? Black out one place, show up in another, no actual context clues to link the two? Because I've got to tell you, I think I'm looking to opt out."
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"This place is called Milliways. And for all that it appears in strange doorways and broom closets and dark alleys when you least expect it, it is a constant of its own making."
She glances at the door and back at him, the motion almost birdlike in its sharpness. "I have no idea what happened to you on that side of your door, but here, in this place? Context is optional."
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There's a niggling thought in that back of his head that suggests that name is familiar. He can't put a finger on it just yet.
"What do you mean 'context is optional'? Context is never bloody optional, something either is or it isn't."
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"Milliways Restaurant and Bar at the End of the Universe," she intones, gesturing idly at the Window.
She never enjoys this part, but it is always revealing. She'll get back to arguing about context in a moment, if he's still able to form complete sentences.
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Twice.
"Is that -- "
He starts walking toward it, brow furrowing as he gets closer.
Huh.
Is it going to start talking to him, too?
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She fumbles for her cigarette papers and starts rolling a smoke between delicate, nicotine stained fingertips.
"Let me know when you're ready for that drink."
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The window itself seems reassuringly solid. Sam spends a couple more minutes running a visual inspection (or, as others would call it, staring), before turning back around.
"What, and it never goes off?"
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"Nyet."
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He is not comforted.
Not at all.
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"The end of the universe is just a point in space and time. Call it magic, call it science, call it what you will, it is still a pub with a patronage that spans all times and all places, some of which you may never have heard of. And it is very real."
With that last, she puts the cigarette between her lips and puffs it to life, without ever applying lighter or match to the tip.
"Very real indeed."
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Just like the absolute set-in-stone reality of 1973 has helped him to accept that that is real, too.
Wait.
"By whose definition? I mean, for all you know, I vanish when I go out the door. Or for all I know you do the same."
Like Annie. Except Annie didn't really vanish, but that's also because Sam didn't wake up.
So maybe --
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"I would never have guessed you to be one for such existentialist bullshit. Do you often dream of, oh...," she cuts a glance at the wait rats carrying some noxious drink to a lizard man at a near table, "Or..." Her eyes flit to the trilobite tank and the very intense chess game going on between a six foot tall white rabbit and a scantily clad woman all in shades of green. The latter seems to be transparent to a certain degree, when the light hits her just so, and her fingertips leave trails of iridescence in the air.
"There are more things dreamt of in your philosophie," she drawls.
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His waved hand encompasses a neat half of the bar.
"And I wish it was just something bad I ate for lunch."
He suspects it is either madness or coma.
A stomach upset would be immensely less painful.
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