mnt_mike: (Seated)
[personal profile] mnt_mike
It's been a mostly quiet night at the Designated Tortoise. There's been good food, better cider, and an overall feeling of contentment fills the room. Mike has to admit, if ever there was a perfect tavern for one to rest their travel-weary bones, it'd be this one. Raph has chosen well. He's spent the better part of the evening stretching his ninja muscles by being unobtrusive in the back corner in order to gather intel on the woman he hopes one day might be his sister-in-law. That is, provided he can some how fix the mess Raph has made of his own lovelife.

"idiot," he whispers under his breath as he sips at his cider.

Abigail seems to be maintaining well enough. Someone not looking for it would probably imagine she's just a little bit frazzled by the evening dinner rush, but Mike knows better. He's seen those tell-tale single-minded coping mechanisms before.

The last call bell sounds, and Mike steels himself for what is likely to be a pretty awkward conversation. One by one he watches the patrons leave, none of them even casting a glance to where he's currently seated. Eventually even Thomas heads to bed. Mike hates to see the guy leave, but oh how he loves to watch him go. But no, there will hopefully be enough time to oggle his would-be brother in law later...that is, provided Mike is successful at his task. He reaches under the table for his satchel and heads for the Bar.

Date: 2010-10-29 02:56 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Thoughtful)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
Mike had been unobtrusive, yes, but hadn't gone entirely unnoticed; Abigail is quite familiar with every corner of this tavern, well-lit or very much not, and she knows Mike's was occupied for most of the evening, if not by whom. He is hardly the first patron to prefer shadows to firelight, and if he'd wanted ale from her he'd have asked.

These days, she's not much for idle conversation. Or anything except barking orders.

Almost everyone has gone for the night, now. Thomas opted for kitchen duty and an early night himself. The bar is, of course, perfectly clean, but Abigail is busy wiping it down anyway. It gives her something to focus on that isn't (that damn fool, pea-brained, idiotic jackass of a man!) the person she wants to see most, who also happens to be the person whose head she dearly wants to wallop with a bottle, broom, bedpan, barstool... whatever's handy.

Abigail pauses her furious scrubbing of the already shining wood and looks up, then back at the bottles Thomas keeps neatly lined on the shelf.

"Mithros, if you won't send him back to me so I can hit him with one..."

It's only after she's grabbed a copper brown bottle of the good stuff that her eyes swing back around.







"Mike." A snort. "I always figured, my prayers get answered, they'd get answered slightly backwards and off to the side."

Date: 2010-10-29 03:17 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Strong and proud)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
For some reason, Abigail opts to study his hair rather than meet his eyes.

"You won't find much use for politicking here," she says at last, tone cool and even, eyes watchful. "We're simple folk."

She removes wax from the bottle's lip.

"Not stupid, mind." Beat. "You've been observin' awhile?"

Date: 2010-11-09 02:32 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Strong and proud)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
"That's due to the large brain you're storin' under that mop."

It is, and the look she gives him is equally direct. A perfectly formed stack of dishes is pushed to the side and cut like a deck of cards, but the only indication that Abigail is focused on anything other than Mike is a slight narrowing of her eyes.

"Many thanks. We're proud of it." Beat. "Which of 'em sent you, then?"

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Date: 2010-12-07 03:03 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Huh)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
Mike had been unobtrusive, yes, and had gone entirely unnoticed; Abigail is quite familiar with every corner of this tavern, well-lit or very much not, and yet had somehow missed that Mike's was occupied. He is hardly the first patron to prefer shadows to firelight, of course, but if he'd wanted ale from her he'd have had to to step out and catch her attention.

These days, she's not much for visiting or idle conversation. Or anything except barking orders.

Almost everyone has gone for the night, now. Thomas opted for kitchen duty and an early night himself. The bar is, of course, perfectly clean, but Abigail is busy wiping it down anyway. It gives her something to focus on that isn't (that damn fool, pea-brained, idiotic jackass of a man!) the person she wants to see most, who also happens to be the person whose head she dearly wants to wallop with a bottle, broom, bedpan, barstool... whatever's handy.

Abigail pauses her furious scrubbing of the really very shiny wood and looks up, then back at the bottles Thomas keeps neatly lined on the shelf.

"Mithros, if you won't send him back to me so I can hit him with one..."

It's only after she's grabbed a -- now where has that bottle of the good stuff gone? -- stray tankard of ale that her eyes swing back around.







"Mike!" She covers her surprise with a snort. "Grand. The gods sent the wrong one."

Date: 2010-12-10 11:53 pm (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Deconstructing)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
"T'would serve that brother of yours right if..."

Abigail frowns and reaches down behind the bar, emerging again with what looks like a packet of paints.

Huh.

"...I did now, wouldn't it?"

Paints set aside, for now, she regards Mike with a vague smile.

"But I've no wish to go earnin' your own lass's everlastin' dislike. I've heard she hits hard and carries a sharp stick, that one."

She hasn't spotted the fuzzy dice yet, but her eyes are sweeping that way.

Date: 2010-12-11 04:21 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Soft as steel)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
As Mike dives for the dice, Abigail's frown deepens and she looks from the general area he has just pounced upon to the satchel sitting beside the seat she's sure she pushed in -- or saw pushed in? -- before she came around the bar. He'd dropped things and she hadn't noticed?

Goddess, where has her mind been.

"And likely not the sharin' type," she guesses, tone wry. "Good for you, then."

Abigail shoves the tankard toward the kitchen end of the bar.

"I'm about done with sharin' myself."

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Date: 2011-01-03 11:39 pm (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Bzuh?)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
"You've got to get the elbow in," Abigail explains cheerfully from her position atop the bar and half atop Mike.


(What.)



Mike had been unobtrusive, yes.... Abigail, who is quite familiar with every corner of this tavern, well-lit or very much not, and yet had somehow missed that Mike's was occupied, blinks rapidly. He is hardly the first patron to prefer shadows to firelight, of course, but if he'd wanted ...something... from her he'd have had to to step out and catch her attention.

These days, she's not much for visiting or idle conversation. Or anything except barking orders.

Or feeling a strong compulsion to rub kinks from the backs of that arsehole's brothers...

But she doesn't remember that at all.

Almost everyone has gone for the night, now. Thomas opted for kitchen duty and an early night himself. The bar is, of course, perfectly clean, but Abigail... must have wiped it down again anyway? It is alarmingly shiny.




Abigail pauses her furious... rubbing... and looks up, then back at the bottles Thomas keeps neatly lined on the shelf.

There's a bottle missing. She looks sideways. The bottle is now over there. She loooks down. There's still a half-naked man beneath her.

"Hello, Mike."

Sadly, he isn't Raph. Too much hair, wearing clothes far too bright, and he doesn't smell like him at all. A pity, as this really would be the perfect position to wallop him over the head with... is there a bag on that stool?

"We're on the bar," she comments, suspiciously.

Her hands resume the backrub all the same.

Date: 2011-01-04 03:16 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Look down)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
Abigail snorts and attacks a tight spot near his left shoulder blade with renewed vigor.

"Here in my place it's the bar, make no mistake."

Beat.

"Mike," she starts, frowning at the back of his head, "it's happy I am to help, as I told that lack-wit brother of yours often enough before, but I know full well someone else could've done the same where you're from -- and don't tell me you're here for the stew."



And just when did he GET here?

(She can't ask. THAT would make her sound touched in the head.)

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Date: 2011-01-06 02:50 am (UTC)
bring_a_sponge: (zed worried)
From: [personal profile] bring_a_sponge
The report comes up from the depths of Level 52x-23A, sometimes dubbed 'the Leto Deck,' though never when Zed is in earshot.

Unfortunately for Agent T, he gets to be the bearer of unexpected news. (Zed hates unexpected news.) He hands over the display tablet with all the trepidation this sort of thing deserves.

Zed reads the report slowly, and with every sentence he glowers that much more.

"Unauthorized neuralyzation in Tortall? What the fuck?"

"Yeah, the team was wonder--."

"WHAT. THE. FUCK?"

T gulps and tries to appear very small, which is never easy for a former football lineman over six feet.

Zed lurches to his feet, but before T can fling himself out the door (maybe he'll miss the catwalk and splat on the floor of the Main Hall far below, which would wouldn't be all bad compared to--), the Chief is leaning at a dangerous angle out of one of his office windows and glaring at the floor of the Main Hall where he sees:

"AGENT K! REPORT TO MY OFFICE ON THE GODDAMN DOUBLE!!"

Any other Agent on the receiving end of that command would be struck speechless with a terror profound enough to reduce even a Dentazi Hyper-Death Squad to a quivering puddle.

The entire Hall-ful of Agents turns as one to stare at K, each of them wondering if this might be the last time they ever see the legendary Agent before he spends his final days a frail and broken man.

K, meanwhile, stops, shakes his head at being interrupted on his latest report, and takes several agonizingly long minutes to close the open files and rearrange his desktop just so, before getting up and strolling casually over to the elevator, all under the baleful eye of a heaving and furious Agent Zed.

By the time K actually steps through the door of Zed's office, the Chief has had plenty of time to work himself into such a state, the man can barely speak.

"What?" K asks.

As he expects, this unleashes an explosion that comes very near blowing out every window of the office. Down on the Main Hall, everyone is diving for cover. After several minutes, when silence settles over HQ once again:

"...I'm not sure I followed that, Boss."

Zed stares wild-eyed, and K idly wonders if the Chief might have lunged for his throat if he hadn't been so busy gasping for breath. K patiently waits.

When Zed is pretty certain he can actually speak, his eyes narrow at K.

"What. The FUCK. Is this?" he thrusts the tablet at the other Agent, who takes it and spends a few minutes reading it. Very carefully. And then closes it and looks back up at Zed.

"Huh."

"Huh? HUH?!?"

"Well, you know who it's got to be."

"It's those goddamn Turtles, isn't it?"

"If I was a betting man, and I am."

"Which one? Don?"

"You really think we'd be that lucky?"

Zed drops his face into his hands.

"Raph?" he asks, with the barest trace of hope.

"Nope."

"Oh, god."

"Yeah, I'd say it has to be Mike, all right."

"Oh, god."

"Pretty much. ...So you'll probably be wanting me to head out to Tortall and get it back."

"You fucking THINK?!"
Edited Date: 2011-01-06 02:51 am (UTC)

Date: 2011-01-11 04:30 am (UTC)

Date: 2011-01-11 05:03 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Default)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
And now for something completely different...

Date: 2011-01-11 04:50 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Smile)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
Mike had been unobtrusive, yes, but hadn't gone entirely unnoticed; Abigail is quite familiar with every corner of this tavern, well-lit or very much not, and she knows Mike's was occupied for most of the evening, if not by whom. He is hardly the first patron to prefer shadows to firelight, and if he'd wanted ale from her he'd have asked.

These days, she's not much for idle conversation. Or anything except barking orders.

Almost everyone has gone for the night, now. Thomas opted for kitchen duty and an early night himself. The bar is, of course, perfectly clean, but Abigail... must have wiped it down again anyway? It is alarmingly shiny....save for one sizable smudge that looks almost like a belly print.

Abigail pauses, her head tilting as she considers the smudge. Mithros, she swears such a thing was not there moments ago. Is it possible that in her ire she's somehow missed wiping down that section of the bar? Deep in thought she turns towards where she knows Thomas stores the good stuff, hoping a drink will settle her feeling of unsettledness...only to find the bottle gone. She backs away from the empty shelf when her hand strikes the handle of a tankard that she's sure she'd cleaned and put away hours ago. Moving out from behind the bar now she sees an unfamiliar bag on one of the stools, and the floor is littered with colorful bits and bobs of material that she's never seen before.

Feeling a bit like someone is having some fun at her expense, Abigail spots movement in her peripheral vision and swings around.

"And a one, a two, a three..."

Music begins to play. Horns, if she's not mistaken, and surely the loudest, scratchiest instruments she has ever heard, save the Baron's old pipe at Pirate's Swoop.

"Remember," instructs Mike, fairly well blinding her with his bright shirt, "flail your arms!"

Inexplicably, just as a man's deep voice begins to croon, Abigail does. Without question.

"No, no. Loosen your hips. Arms left, hips right." Mike spins and throws his arms out to the side, grinning. "There you go."

What madness this might be, Abigail can not say. She follows along with Mike, tossing confused looks at the rectangular device on the bar that seems to be the source of the music, and dances like she's never danced before.

No, really. If anyone danced like this is Tortall, they would be doused with pig slops and left alone until they came to their senses.

"It's not unusual to be loved by anyoooooooone," Mike sings along, flailing around her carefully swept floor. He steps on something that crunches and a bright purple stain spreads from under his foot. "Sweet chocolate Zeus!" Abigail shouts for no discernible reason.

"Ahhhhh. Still the freshest." Mike hits the off button on the tape recorder and slips on his shades. "Tension breaker. Had to be done."

*FLASH*

Date: 2011-01-11 05:26 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Default)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
If at first you don't succeed...

Date: 2011-01-11 05:25 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Bzuh?)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
By the fire.

Eyes blank, Abigail lowers herself into a chair by the fire and stays still until the dazed look vanishes.



Mike had been unobtrusive, yes, but hadn't gone entirely unnoticed; Abigail is quite familiar with every corner of this tavern, well-lit or very much not, and she knows Mike's was occupied for most of the evening, if not by whom. He is hardly the first patron to prefer shadows to firelight, and if he'd wanted ale from her he'd have asked.

These days, she's...


...apparently losing her mind.


Abigail frowns and shakes her head like she's trying to clear it. Her eyes immediately zoom in on the purple footprints leading from the stain to Mike and his shoes.

"Mike." Beat. "What's happened to my perfectly clean floor?"

Date: 2011-01-12 01:05 am (UTC)
becareful_boyo: (Bzuh?)
From: [personal profile] becareful_boyo
Abigail raises an eyebrow.








"Where in the Great Mother's name did you find that shirt?"

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mnt_mike: (Default)
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