(no subject)
An unfamiliar figure enters Milliways. He's whistling a tune a hundred years ahead of the time he's ostensibly supposed to be from and has the tense, aggressively casual stroll of someone who's just ducked out of their kid's ballet recital to have a smoke.
He takes a few strides in and pauses. His eyes narrow. He looks to his left...then his right...and then behind him...and then in front of him. He raises his finger, as though he's just discovered something profound.
"...This isn't the commissary."
He takes a few strides in and pauses. His eyes narrow. He looks to his left...then his right...and then behind him...and then in front of him. He raises his finger, as though he's just discovered something profound.
"...This isn't the commissary."