PSL for thewake with memories_of_me

[playingtrack3]

Word had it that even the Purple Gang steered clear of the little rotgut room on Boccacia Street. It was hidden at the back of a watchmaker's shop: the owner specialized in fob watches, strangely enough, and not the wristwatches that were coming into style. It was situated between a milliner and an eye doctor: glasses, monacles, fancy hats, fancy watches. All the accoutrements that made a person's appearance uniquely them. So it was no wonder that a lot of one-of-a-kind folk were to be found going in and out over the course of the day. No one paid it much mind.

If you knew how to knock just right on the grandfather clock at the back of the watchmaker's shop, however, it opened up, and if you knew the password, the red-faced dwarf at the door would let you through. (People said that Mr. Paro should never have hired a tiny bouncer who looked like he was constantly about to blow a heart valve, but for a tiny guy, he packed a hell of a punch, and knew how to keep the wrong people out and let the right people in.)

Once you were inside ... well, the clientele sure didn't look like they were from Detroit, New York, Dublin, Sicily ... let alone Chicago. Some of 'em were downright creepifying. Any flatfoot or G-man who set his foot in the Boccacia Street speakeasy wasn't leaving: or if he was, he wasn't doing any talking once he did. They said the only one who made it out alive went straight to the crazy house with his arms tied up, babbling about monsters and demons, some drink that made you see time.

Very few knew the place by name, and even fewer spoke it aloud, but those who did called it The Shobogan. It was surprisingly spacious for a place hidden at the back of a watch and clock shop, but given the nature of the business, no one really questioned it much, being too busy enjoying the wares and the company to care. On any given night, Mr. Ned Paro himself could be found behind the counter in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, garters keeping his cuffs from getting in the way, his worn gray bib apron keeping the rest of his outfit immaculate for when he did step out from behind the bar to socialize. He was, somehow, one of a small handfew who were actually human... though the perception filters kept folks from realizing it, of course. They only really tended to fall when someone really, really wore out their welcome...

Comments

Hope I am getting the fashion correct...

[memories_of_me]

Enough oddness trickled through her carefully built and hidden network to draw her attention to this place. It sounded like the kind of place that would draw the Doctor's attention, so she needed to be there first. There, and so established as to seem part of the furnishings. Someone that whoever was left behind here would know well enough to confide in. That was always the hard part. Getting to know the people before the Doctor did. It took some guessing, and a whole lot of following the news. Because where she traveled in order, he didn't. And sometimes the whispers were enough to know when he'd brought someone to the past, so that she could get a glimpse of them, and enough information to find them before he did. Sometimes it only got her a place where he might show up.

Rather like a predator stalking a watering hole. Given the nature of this particular place, she found the analogy... apt.

So she studied the local fashions for the area, and dressed herself to suit. Just enough different that someone might be interested in talking to her, just enough the same to blend in seamlessly. And just enough confidence to convince people that despite being a woman on her own she was not a target to be messed with.

Her blouse was pale brown and buttoned up right to her neck, with a tight necklace over. Nothing flashy or expensive looking. More a statement that she wasn't the sort to loosen her button or her stance. Her skirt was a richer brown and went to midcalf to hide the short pants she wore under. One never knew when they might have to run... or might need a quick change. It was amazing how easy it was to confuse pursuit by a simple change from skirt to shorts, a missing necklace, a single open button, and a missing hat. Her shoes were plain and flat, more for comfort than style.

All her style was in the hat.

The hat was somewhat floppy of brim and dipped down, shadowing her eyes and utterly hiding the hair that was braided and pinned about the crown of her head. There was a small pocket watch, without a cover, inset unto the decorations on the broad band, all but hidden under the feather and clearly fake jewels. The feathers were a nice angry grey. She had learned the password, of course, and had come with just enough money in her small purse to prove herself as belonging among the elite, but not enough to arouse suspicions as to where she got it. She also carried what looked like a closed parasol. The tip was sharp enough to punch through a shoe, though it didn't look it, slightly scuffed and dusty. And it didn't actually open. It served as storage when she needed to ditch the hat, skirt, and even purse. Without the hinged arms that made it open and close, there was just enough space.

So she went through the song and dance required for entrance, then helped herself to an empty small table against a wall, preferably in a corner, where she could watch the room as she sipped her drink, watching the door subtly. Just another people watcher looking for an interesting place to drink... nothing to see here...

[playingtrack3]

He smells the time on her the moment she walks through the door, as though she'd walked in drenched in perfume. Not a fact, not a fixed point, but still a tulip in a weed patch. He watches, waits until she's almost out of whatever she's drinking, then shows up with another with perfect timing, on a tray.

"Last I heard, it didn't look like rain. You expecting trouble, little lady?"

[memories_of_me]

She took the drink and offered back her empty cup with a small bill wrapped around it as tip. "I find it is generally easier to not use an umbrella I have than to use one I have left behind," she said, simply. She was wondering if he was commenting on the spiked tip or the ability to use such a thing as a club, but she kept her face neutral and polite. She would have to watch this one. He was sharp.

[playingtrack3]

"Preparedness is one of the few virtues we actually favor here, I admit." He gave a tiny nod to the shotgun mounted over the bar. The firearm was for show, of course: the laser screwdriver tucked in the inside pocket of his waistcoat was the true insurance. He swapped out her empty glass for the one on his tray.

"Welcome to the Shobogan. F'you haven't heard by now, I'm Mr. Paro. Ned to my friends."

[memories_of_me]

"Mr. Paro it is then," she said with a nod, but a hint of a smile. Subtle. Small. "Thank you for the welcome." She fished out another small bill and lay it on the table. "Anything specific I should know about if I'm to consider this as a regular place to spend some time and money?"

[playingtrack3]

"Well, considering your common sense is in working order, which it seems to be..."

He palmed the bill, helped himself to a seat, and attempted the lightest of touches on her mind, trying to figure out what sort of creature she was, what reason she would have to be so steeped in time that it seemed to cram itself between the stitches of her clothes and seeped from her with every blink.

"We're only open to a handful of clients on the new moon since a few specific folks moved to town. So if you find yourself a bit thirsty those nights, you're out of luck."

[memories_of_me]

Human with a bit of Mire. And not all that long ago. No mental shields or awareness. "Now that sounds exclusive. How does one join such a limited clientele?"

A few specific folks moved to town? This seemed like something that might call the Doctor's attention.

[playingtrack3]

That bit of Mire, now that's intriguing. There's only one explanation he can think of, and a human wouldn't have been able to get hold of it by herself, not in a time like this. So she's time traveled somehow. Which means she might be one of the Doctor's little human pets.

"Oh, those particular clients have ... a condition, I guess you'd say. And they pay me a reasonable sum to make sure they still have a safe place to enjoy themselves when it flares up."

If she runs and tells him, he'll want to investigate, which would be a lovely little trap to spring. The gears in his head are already turning.

[memories_of_me]

"And I seem so much a threat that I could not be enjoying my wine while they are present?" she asked with practiced casualness. "I think I must thank you for thinking so highly of me and my capabilities."

[playingtrack3]

"Oh, it's not that you're a threat to them. It's that they'd likely want to eat you alive."

That's a casualness that isn't practiced, but natural, almost too much so. He enjoys shocking the few humans who manage to find their way here and don't know what's really going on. If she's really someone who knows the Doctor, she'll go warn him ... and he can have someone follow her to him. But really, he thinks, who else would give Mire tech to someone it doesn't belong to, someone who looks so young?

"You must get told you're a little young to be drinking on a regular basis. Has that gotten old yet?"

[memories_of_me]

"Well," she said, with a ghost of a smile as she sipped her drink. "It might be amusing to watch them try."

She set her drink down and raised a brow at him. "as for the joke it has gotten precisely as old as I have."

[playingtrack3]

"I take it that's ... quite a bit older than advertised." He smirks. "I may know a thing or two about that."

[memories_of_me]

"Really? Please, do share," she said with a hint of a grin.

[playingtrack3]

Given that she'd found the place, and everything he'd already sussed out about her, he saw no harm in baiting her a little farther with a snippet of truth.

"I'm over a thousand years old, myself. Luck of genetics, though, nothing so fancy as Mire biotech."

[memories_of_me]

"Luck comes in many forms..." she said, leaning back slightly. "It is rare to meet another immortal. You and I, I think that makes three or four I know of now." And yes, she is baiting in return.

[playingtrack3]

"Three or four. That's impressive. Here in Chicago, or just throughout time?"

He can play this game for just as long as she can, and he gets comfortable in his chair to prove it. One of the other employees slides in to take his place behind the bar, noting that he's busy engaging a customer.

So weird playing her more.... friendly and open.

[memories_of_me]

She just gave him a small smile as an answer and leaned back to sip her drink.

[playingtrack3]

"Oh come on now, it's your move, you can't just toss it back to me like we're playing Uno."

The look he shot her was both amused and annoyed - of course she had spunk, a fair share of immortals did. He was more concerned with what she intended to do.

[memories_of_me]

"I prefer chess," she said, simply.

[playingtrack3]

"Oh, but that's the sort of game the boring immortals play. Everyone uses it as this great, stodgy, ancient metaphor of wisdom and strategy, but really, change it up a bit. Add a little color. You really want to see a complicated game, play live chess, or maybe Twilight Imperium."

:: coughs and dies at the Twilight Imperium ref. You are clearly trying to murder me today....

[memories_of_me]

"I could have said Go," was her simple reply.

and you are clearly My People for knowing of it XD

[playingtrack3]

"Alright, fair point. Either way, should I be looking for a strange man with a blue box to be following you in here at any moment?"

He avoided using the words 'meddling idiot' in an attempt to appear at least remotely neutral.

Try me at Waterdeep or Catan any day, my friend.

[memories_of_me]

"That is an awfully specific and rather odd question, I presume a story goes along with it?"

you are definitely my people. Carcassonne? Forbidden Island? XD

[playingtrack3]

"More than one." He gives her a 'come off it' sort of look. "Anyone living as long as you and I is bound to know of The Doctor."

Carcassonne yes. FI is a co-op, so no thanks. Given who you play, gotta ask... Avalon?

[memories_of_me]

"Stories I suspect I would enjoy hearing to make a long night pass that much more quickly, some evening," she said. "And I would think most long lived people would learn to avoid doctors." A grin like it is a joke as she tests the waters.

On my wishlist, but never played! 7 Wonders?

[playingtrack3]

"Especially this one," he intones. Maybe she's playing dumb, maybe she's luring him into something for him, but ... he never could resist the urge to be a showman, tell a story, hook people in with words. "Ask any race across the Galaxy: each has a story about the Time Lord in his blue box, and the ruin its engine heralds."

You would LOVE Avalon. A lying/acting game where of course we are all good guys... Not yet on 7.

[memories_of_me]

"Ruin? From a man small enough to fit in a box? Surely you must be jesting with me."

[playingtrack3]

He raised his eyebrows, waving over another round of drinks from the fellow taking his place at the bar.

"Leave the bottle," he says, sotto voce, and waits until they're alone again before continuing, pouring for them both. "It would seem like it, wouldn't it? But neither man nor box are what most would expect. The box travels time and space, larger on the inside than on the outside through either magic or science - whichever of the two you're more keen to believe in. And the man? A master of war, the sort who slips between the front lines under the guise of friendship and meddles until everything comes apart at the seams. Utterly ruthless to those who dare oppose him."

[memories_of_me]

"My dear sir, I think I would suspect you of selling fishtails to sell more moonshine with you saying such things," she said with a chuckle and a smile. "A box that travels in time? Bigger on the inside? And saying magic or science seems like fishing for my gullibility, to see which way I bite. But I think you reached a bit too far with that last bit." she grinned and sipped her drink. "It seems someone like that would wind up quickly with a reputation such as no one would see him as a friend, nor trust him. Leaders tend not to last long when they trust so poorly. And whole epic tales spin about the fall of any great countries."

[playingtrack3]

"Any tale can seem fantastic until it's proven," he shrugged, leaning back in his chair to sip at his drink. A signet ring winks in the low light on his right ring finger - not the original, long since destroyed, but a commissioned replica of the one he'd worn as Prime Minister: to remind him never to underestimate the guile and trickery of humans, no matter how stupid they seemed.

"I'm not fishing for gullibility at all. Simply conveying that some call him a magician, and some consider him a scientist. Really, though, he's just a rogue traveler from a planet long lost to time. A madman too wrapped up in his own idea of himself."

[memories_of_me]

"Well, presuming you lack for truth, I might still be interested in the tale."

She sipped her drink, not obviously making note of the ring, but memorizing it all the same.

/headcanons what the ring means, don't mind me

[playingtrack3]

If she was memorizing it, she'd most certainly notice the double helix of Gallifreyan circles inside which spelled "eternity" and "power", gleaming against the emerald green of the base.

"Which tale would you like? I know countless ones. Perhaps the story of the planet of Sarn, and how he nearly brought about the destruction of a colony of refugees?"

That is fine.

[memories_of_me]

She was memorizing it, though she could not read it.

"A tale of a whole planet? A whole other world? Now I would suspect you of teasing me and be properly offended if I wasn't curious," she teased lightly. "I suppose I ought to let you spin your fiction, if only so I could sleep tonight."