"Whoah!" is the cry, as a young woman in a super-suit goes tumbling through the door, knocking over several chairs as she skids along the ground before eventually being stopped by the bar
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Molly is different, but the red hair and the worried eyes and the inimitable awkward everything else (clothes, really, even; there's not much you can do to the culinary garb, since it hasn't changed much at all in A Long Time) are still totally the same. And if ten years actually had passed, in Paris? Still would be, probably. It's a thing.
Anyway. She's getting eyed from near the trilobite tank.
That was a rather theatrical entrance. Trilobites are kind of too weird to look at for very long anyway. They don't have faces.
It's become a bit of a habit, really. Apparently the bar likes theatrics from its young mutants.
Molly dusts herself off, matter-of-factly, and pushes her goggles up onto her forehead as she examines her newly-revamped costume.
"Sorry, Bar. Got punched again." Apologetically. "What's with the sweet new makeover, anyway?"
But Bar is not forthcoming, so Molly contents herself with ordering a very large blackcurrant-and-sparkles milkshake (which should provide a clue to who she is), instead. She leans casually against the bartop, sipping it, and looks over the bar.
Linguini looks around for any other people she could be looking at.
There are a lot of them, but not right where he's sitting. Well, then.
"...Hi."
He eyes the milkshake. (They're popular, clearly.)
Then the girl.
She looks really familiar, but any concrete idea of who she might be (because he's never seen her before, she has pink streaks in her hair!) eludes him. Or is being apprehended by the WELL THAT JUST DOESN'T MAKE SENSE parts of his brain. The fact that it still works sometimes obviously means he hasn't been coming to Milliways long enough.
She's skinnier than she should be, and there's what looks like it might become a black eye visible now she's pulled the goggles up, as Molly distractedly tucks one of her bangs behind her ear, then tugs it out again.
She still remembers him, remembers Paris. She's got the beret tucked away somewhere back home, or at least part of it.
Half cockney, half spanish accent. A girl of about fourteen with black curly hair has been loitering near the door. Just trying to work out what this place is all about. She wears a simple schooldress, but it comes down to near her feet.
"I don't suppose you know why the clothes change do you? Mine seem to stay similar, except the uniform gets longer."
The young woman seemed faintly familiar perhaps, or perhaps not. Kate had been noticing that earlier fashions weren't affected by the bar, so she was dressed in a green bliaut (medieval dress with wide sleeves) today. It was comfortable, and meant she could avoid corsets or bustles at least.
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Anyway. She's getting eyed from near the trilobite tank.
That was a rather theatrical entrance. Trilobites are kind of too weird to look at for very long anyway. They don't have faces.
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Molly dusts herself off, matter-of-factly, and pushes her goggles up onto her forehead as she examines her newly-revamped costume.
"Sorry, Bar. Got punched again." Apologetically. "What's with the sweet new makeover, anyway?"
But Bar is not forthcoming, so Molly contents herself with ordering a very large blackcurrant-and-sparkles milkshake (which should provide a clue to who she is), instead. She leans casually against the bartop, sipping it, and looks over the bar.
And sees him.
"Oh."
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There are a lot of them, but not right where he's sitting. Well, then.
"...Hi."
He eyes the milkshake. (They're popular, clearly.)
Then the girl.
She looks really familiar, but any concrete idea of who she might be (because he's never seen her before, she has pink streaks in her hair!) eludes him. Or is being apprehended by the WELL THAT JUST DOESN'T MAKE SENSE parts of his brain. The fact that it still works sometimes obviously means he hasn't been coming to Milliways long enough.
Reply
She's skinnier than she should be, and there's what looks like it might become a black eye visible now she's pulled the goggles up, as Molly distractedly tucks one of her bangs behind her ear, then tugs it out again.
She still remembers him, remembers Paris. She's got the beret tucked away somewhere back home, or at least part of it.
Molly bites her lip.
"Hi, Alfredo."
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Half cockney, half spanish accent. A girl of about fourteen with black curly hair has been loitering near the door. Just trying to work out what this place is all about. She wears a simple schooldress, but it comes down to near her feet.
"I don't suppose you know why the clothes change do you? Mine seem to stay similar, except the uniform gets longer."
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"I've been here once in the last ten years. Have you asked Bar?"
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She offers her a hand up. "I'm Carlotta."
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Molly dusts herself off. "I'm Molly."
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She got up, and hurried over, "You all right?"
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Molly doesn't recognise her.
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She offers him her hand. "Call me Molly."
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