There's someone watching you, Bruce. Or rather, something. It's the color of brushed steel and the size of a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and it has a glowing yellow optical band that runs across the space where eyes and forehead would be on a normal dog.
Its head is cocked at an angle that, in the living, would be considered one of pure curiosity.
"Francis? Francis, where are you?" comes a human voice from the direction of most of the seating.
The metal dog turns towards the voice. "WHURF," it announces. No inflection, just "WHURF."
"Okay, hold still. We should probably tell Ecto you've figured out how to get here." The owner of the voice, a pudgy dark-haired man in a T-shirt and cargo pants, pushes his way through the rest of everything going on and crouches down by the dog. "Honestly, I have no idea how- what are you looking at?"
"WHURF," says the dog, pointing its head in the newcomer's direction.
"Oh! Oh. Hi there," says Ray, waving a little awkwardly. "New here?"
Man, the weird stuff just doesn't let up around here, does it?
He's not her husband, she knows that much, but, well. He still looks like he'd appreciate some help. So Molly gets up from her place at the bar, grabs the towel/blanket/ambiguously shaped large piece of cloth that it provides for her, and heads over towards the door.
"... Hi," she says, a little bit cautiously, holding out the blanket. "You might want to sit down."
'Are you okay,' isn't a question she sees as being necessary to ask.
A tall, reserved young woman tucks her pen into the pocket of her white men's button-down shirt and approaches, head tilted curiously, hands hanging loose by her sides.
Trindle spots him immediately. She isn't the proprietor, but she brings the blanket that she'd had settled around her over from the couch and manages a shy smile as she holds it out for him.
"Come and sit by the fire?" It's very quiet, but she speaks clearly enough. She wonders, as she always does upon meeting a new person, what he might think of her colouring.
After all, if he's from Oz he's just as likely to run the other way screaming. Her grandmother hadn't had a terribly good reputation.
Bruce doesn't reach for the blanket. He just stares.
There's an odd sort of recognition in his eyes, and a tinge of horror, and a lot of flat-out confusion.
(There was every possibility they'd keep experimenting after he fled, of course -- every likelihood, in fact. But this is just a kid, and she doesn't look like -- well, like he does when he--)
While she's use to the horror and confusion, she's not so used to the recognition. It makes her ... well, blink. Since he hasn't reached for the blanket and it's just as obvious that he's going to freeze his ass off if he doesn't get warm quickly, she drapes the fabric over his shoulders after a moment of hesitation.
"My name is Trindle Thropp," she explains quietly. "And my grandmother was 'the Wicked Witch', if you're from Oz."
You'd be pretty suprised about the rules this bar has, and how much they're willing to let you get away with, Bruce.
Scott's learning that, a little at a time.
New or not, he's certainly not going to let someone who looks like he's going to collapse at any second do so. Scott grabs a blanket and a hot mug of cider (hot liquid, nonalchoholic -- never know what preferences this poor fellow has) and moves towards Bruce.
Setting the mug on a table, he offers the blanket and a steadying arm. He's not your mom, but Scott's got a heart. No way he's gonna let some guy fend for himself when he looks like that.
That's fine, Bruce can do whatever he wants. No skin off Scott's nose.
Scott leads him towards the couch, and the somehow ever-present fire that only heats those who want it to.
"I'm not a doctor or anything, but something hot to drink probably would help you. You look half frozen."
Bruce also looks like he needs to cocoon and sleep for a month.
"Name's Scott Blehnwar." Scott takes a step back after Bruce sinks into the couch and does a quick once-over for obvious injuries. Besides his feet, Bruce just looks very very tired, and a little beat up. AKA "he'll be okay given time."
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Its head is cocked at an angle that, in the living, would be considered one of pure curiosity.
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Bruce hikes his pants up and leans back against the wall by the door, staring back at the -- robot, for current lack of a more precise term.
Where on Earth did he stumble into?
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The metal dog turns towards the voice. "WHURF," it announces. No inflection, just "WHURF."
"Okay, hold still. We should probably tell Ecto you've figured out how to get here." The owner of the voice, a pudgy dark-haired man in a T-shirt and cargo pants, pushes his way through the rest of everything going on and crouches down by the dog. "Honestly, I have no idea how- what are you looking at?"
"WHURF," says the dog, pointing its head in the newcomer's direction.
"Oh! Oh. Hi there," says Ray, waving a little awkwardly. "New here?"
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Seriously, what the hell.
"What is that?" he adds, fascinated.
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He's not her husband, she knows that much, but, well. He still looks like he'd appreciate some help. So Molly gets up from her place at the bar, grabs the towel/blanket/ambiguously shaped large piece of cloth that it provides for her, and heads over towards the door.
"... Hi," she says, a little bit cautiously, holding out the blanket. "You might want to sit down."
'Are you okay,' isn't a question she sees as being necessary to ask.
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Nodding, he accepts the blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, holding it close with one hand. First things first, though.
"Wh-where am I?"
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"--that's why I said you might want to sit down."
She gestures at a nearby booth.
"But, it's Milliways. Bar at the end of the universe."
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"Sorry, it's what?"
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A tall, reserved young woman tucks her pen into the pocket of her white men's button-down shirt and approaches, head tilted curiously, hands hanging loose by her sides.
She says nothing.
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"S-s-sorry," he says, through chattering teeth. "I got a little lost. I-is there a phone I could . . .?"
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She pauses, contemplatively.
"You should sit by the fire. It's warmer there."
Hannibal hasn't quite decided whether or not she feels solicitous enough to welcome him to Milliways, explain Milliways, or find him a shirt.
But this not-Will, whoever he is, is certainly terribly interesting.
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"Come and sit by the fire?" It's very quiet, but she speaks clearly enough. She wonders, as she always does upon meeting a new person, what he might think of her colouring.
After all, if he's from Oz he's just as likely to run the other way screaming. Her grandmother hadn't had a terribly good reputation.
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There's an odd sort of recognition in his eyes, and a tinge of horror, and a lot of flat-out confusion.
(There was every possibility they'd keep experimenting after he fled, of course -- every likelihood, in fact. But this is just a kid, and she doesn't look like -- well, like he does when he--)
"Who are you?" he manages after a stunned moment.
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"My name is Trindle Thropp," she explains quietly. "And my grandmother was 'the Wicked Witch', if you're from Oz."
Yeah, that's kind of how it is.
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Bruce is getting pretty good at controlling his emotions, but that still leaves him blinking for a few seconds.
"Thanks," he mumbles belatedly, pulling the blanket close with one hand. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, who did you say your grandmother was?"
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Scott's learning that, a little at a time.
New or not, he's certainly not going to let someone who looks like he's going to collapse at any second do so. Scott grabs a blanket and a hot mug of cider (hot liquid, nonalchoholic -- never know what preferences this poor fellow has) and moves towards Bruce.
Setting the mug on a table, he offers the blanket and a steadying arm. He's not your mom, but Scott's got a heart. No way he's gonna let some guy fend for himself when he looks like that.
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"Thanks."
The cider on the table gets a glance and is then ignored. Bruce tends towards the paranoid.
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Scott leads him towards the couch, and the somehow ever-present fire that only heats those who want it to.
"I'm not a doctor or anything, but something hot to drink probably would help you. You look half frozen."
Bruce also looks like he needs to cocoon and sleep for a month.
"Name's Scott Blehnwar." Scott takes a step back after Bruce sinks into the couch and does a quick once-over for obvious injuries. Besides his feet, Bruce just looks very very tired, and a little beat up. AKA "he'll be okay given time."
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"Not hot. Warm. You're supposed to -- warm up slowly, I think."
He rubs his arms as he settles onto the couch. "Scott. Thanks. I'm Bruce."
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