It's not a barman nearby that speaks up, but it is someone that looks as if they know their way around one. A bar, that is. Not a barman. He's dressed somewhat casually - tan breeches, linen shirt, high leather boots - with his rapier at his side. There is a folded blue tunic at his side, with silver edging, that might be familiar if he's read about the musketeers...
"Second," John says, "I was here earlier this...evening?" It's gone from midday to early morning for John, but it seems to still be the same time here.
He offers a hand to the stranger. "John," he says. His voice has the polished timbre of early twentieth century British academia.
"Athos," the handshake is still a bit odd for him, but he's seen enough men greet each other in this place for it to be something he can replicate. "Time tends to pass rather strange in this place."
There are no clocks, and the end of the universe stuck on repeat...
John witnessed the end of the universe on his first visit. Also the waitrats. But then, on his first visit, he was half-convinced it was a fever dream.
"It's good to meet you, Athos," John says, then pauses at the familiarity of the name, but decides not to mention it.
Moustaches like that are hardly common in Milliways.
They are, however, not in the least uncommon on the young men of Mary's world. And while Mary is not, perhaps, the most perceptive girl in the world when it comes to the people about her, it's unexpected enough to find someone here who looks like he might have walked out of her home that she's staring more than a little.
"I am indeed," John says with a hint of pride. "As are you, it would seem.
"It's 1917 in my home. What year is it for you?" He'll get used to asking questions like this someday. In the meantime, the inquiry is accompanied by a bemused look.
Comments 53
"First time in?"
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He offers a hand to the stranger. "John," he says. His voice has the polished timbre of early twentieth century British academia.
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There are no clocks, and the end of the universe stuck on repeat...
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"It's good to meet you, Athos," John says, then pauses at the familiarity of the name, but decides not to mention it.
"I don't suppose you know where the barman is?"
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They are, however, not in the least uncommon on the young men of Mary's world. And while Mary is not, perhaps, the most perceptive girl in the world when it comes to the people about her, it's unexpected enough to find someone here who looks like he might have walked out of her home that she's staring more than a little.
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He gives her a friendly smile. "Hello."
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"You're British," Mary says, displaying her incisive deductive skills. "What year is it, where you are from?"
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"It's 1917 in my home. What year is it for you?" He'll get used to asking questions like this someday. In the meantime, the inquiry is accompanied by a bemused look.
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