(Untitled)
WOOSH-FWOOM WOOSH-FWOOM WOOSH-FWOOM WOOSH-FWOOM
In the middle of the room, ever so see-through at first, then ever so blue, a Police Box materializes. It settles atop crumpled crisps bags and deflated party streamers, crushes a red plastic party cup, and inadvertently sets off a noisemaker.
It lands with an all-too-solid THWUMPThe door gaily ( Read more... )
In the middle of the room, ever so see-through at first, then ever so blue, a Police Box materializes. It settles atop crumpled crisps bags and deflated party streamers, crushes a red plastic party cup, and inadvertently sets off a noisemaker.
It lands with an all-too-solid THWUMPThe door gaily ( Read more... )
Comments 27
It seems to be the thing to do. People don't simply appear like that.
At least he's wearing splintmail, and he's glad. It won't make quite so loud a sound when he collapses to the ground and dies of shock.
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She whips in the direction of the voice, looking neither particularly scared nor worried. Bright-eyed and curious, she tilts her head and lets him speak. When he wanders off, it takes her maybe a second to decide to follow.
"Who are you?" she asks in a Scottish lilt. "And -- where are we?"
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More or less.
"Right. Start with the easy questions, why don't you."
Well, one of the questions has an answer, and that's something.
"I'm Alistair. I'd do the exaggerated noble bow, but I'm afraid the sword" -- he nods quickly to the masterpiece of metalwork hilted on his back -- "might kill somebody and Maker knows we wouldn't want that. All the blood, all the mess, all the explaining, and I'm no good at cleaning up. Terrible at it, really, and then the smell of blood lingers in the armor for weeks, it's atrocious. But listen to me, going on and on. I'm Alistair, and... I already said that." He does make a very quick little bow, mindful of the sword. "As far as where we are, I can tell you in good faith that I have absolutely no idea. Just... here, we're just here. I thought it was the Fade. It feels that way ( ... )
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She cocks an eyebrow when he suggests bowing, but doesn't have time to say anything as he chatters on. She's finding it all rather amusing. Not that she's lacking the sense to know you should be careful around some armed stranger, but because she's good at reading people and there's not much about him that sends her running to the other side of the room.
"The Fade?"
Now, that is interesting.
"What's that?"
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(The comment has been removed)
Except, she is interested. In a manner of speaking.
She toes the crumpled bag of crisps, and takes stock of the room.
"All right," she mutters eventually, her accent very Scottish. "Where am I?"
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Though her accompanying soundtrack is a little weird.
"You lookin' for some kind of hangover cure, sweetheart?"
What other reason is there to ask for a doctor at a party like this one?
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"You know, as far as pick-up lines go, that has to be the worst I've heard."
There's something truly fear-inspiring about Amy when she sounds scolding.
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After Hell, a lot of things're less terrifying than they were.
(That, and he's good at faking it.)
"That'd be because it was an actual question."
But that could change at any moment!
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"I dressed for Morocco."
She crosses her arms defensively, and eyes him up.
"I am not hungover. Just a bit ... misplaced."
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Except that Zaphod isn't hungover, as far as he knows. He might be drunk. That, yes, is a distinct possibility. Eying the drink in his hand (bright blue, and smoking slightly), he runs through the possibilities again, and nods.
Not hungover. Probably drunk (at a Probability Factor of five to one against, and falling. Rapidly) but not even a hangover of the caliber he's accustomed to could make a terrible noise such as the terrible noise that follows the not-a-hangover, making him cringe, as two hand cover the ears of one head and the other tries not to spill the drink he'd been sipping ( ... )
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She spins and blinks hard, taking an involuntary step back.
"No, as it happens."
Zaphod gets a once-over. Two heads, three arms, and questionable taste in fashion. She looks at his drink. Maybe just questionable taste, altogether.
"Not that it matters, seeing how my ride just left without me."
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Well, one head does. The other one blinks at his drink, which has just started bubbling, and downs it in a gulp, presumably to keep it from the next logical step of exploding in his hand. It's hard to hear her over the resulting coughing fit, but he pounds on his chest a few times until the burning in his esophagi has subsided.
"Did it?" One head shakes. The other orders another drink. "Hey, you know, that happens to me all the time. Occupational hazard." Looking her up and down, he takes in the fiery hair, the long legs and the way she's searching the room like she didn't want to end up at a hoopy party like this one.
Something about her reminds him a little of Trillian. Must be the scolding way she comments on her ride.
New drink in hand, he considers her idly. "You don't look like any of the hitchhikers I know." She's clean, for one thing. And he can't see a towel anywhere, although that doesn't necessarily mean she doesn't have one hidden.
Maybe it's invisible. Now that's a patent he'd like to ( ... )
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