A tall man with dark hair steps into the bar. He's wearing a dark suit, shirt open at the collar, with a cravat tied neatly around his neck.
He looks around the room, steps back out, and comes in again.
His face breaks into a smile that's more feral than friendly.
"Well, this is new."
Welcome to Milliways, Nikola Tesla.
tiny-and-eccentric!
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He looks completely undisturbed by this fact.
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"That happens around here sometimes. I was more asking if you'd ever been to Milliways before, since I didn't know where or when you came in from, but functionally it's more or less the same question."
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"I have never been to Milliways before." He offers his hand. "Nikola."
As he's supposed to have been dead in his home world for the last forty years or so, he declines giving his last name. Fame has its downsides occasionally.
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He is sitting at a table, books and papers piled around artifacts, a strange bracelet around his wrist. There is a black hared woman looking at Daniel with definite boredom from across the bar.
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The look on his face is about as far from disturbed as it's possible to be.
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"Well, after a while it does grow on you," said Daniel with a grin, "Great place to catch up on work."
He cleared a space on the table, "Would you like something to drink?"
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He smiles, as though he hasn't just been incredibly patronizing. "After that, I may consider a drink."
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Look, he's a werewolf on a full moon day. Sniffing the people looking feral is a thing.
He's also scarred up beyond the human ability to survive (there are bits defining wounds where scars are broken by clean flesh, for that matter), has a hairstyle known to anyone who has watched a certain movie starring the Governator (the Predator's player is fine with canon puncturing), and has the kind of I am looking at you expression that wild predators (small p) give potential problems.
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"Sandalwood oil, with a hint of cinnamon and just a touch of lemon," he says mildly. "I make my own cologne."
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Spoon, at this time of the month, is feral. He's held in check by the silver-plated will of Harry Wells and the knowledge that he can't afford to slip.
He's just not sure, when the moon is calling, exactly why he cares.
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He doesn't make a habit of consorting with other Abnormals, but he's definitely aware of them.
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You know that old expression "a rabbit just jumped over my grave"?
That's pretty much what's just happened to Nikky when the newcomer walks in. He looks over his shoulder and his forehead creases in thought. It's not precisely the face he used to see in the mirror many years ago, but there's enough resemblance to be disconcerting fascinating.
For the moment, he just keeps an eye on the newcomer. No need to bombard him all at once.
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Nikola notices the man watching him. It's uncanny, really, the resemblance. That's almost exactly what he'd expect to have looked like had he continued aging.
But if the man is just going to watch, Nikola will return the favor.
It's possible, though, that there's more malice in Nikola's glance than he's receiving in return.
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Of course, it could just all be an incredible coincidence. Certainly others have met those who look just like them only to find out that they are completely different people.
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"See something you like, old man?" He's just on the verge of leering.
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in other news, ahahaha, hiiii, i love you for playing sanctuary!tesla. ]
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