paradisa | [7] - forward dated to afternoon

[M's maintained radio silence, so to speak, ever since her return from the Lewis & Clark. she's kept her eye on things, and mostly limited her social appearances to those requested by Queen Anne, out of duty to crown. everyone else needed time to heal, after all, herself included. it was one thing to be strong in the face of danger and chaos for others, and it was another to deal with what she'd had to lock away to do so.

in that respect, finding the Death Match with Pixy the night of their return had been a Godsend. the next morning, she'd seen the place with fresh eyes. she had joked with Bond, once, that she might actually need a hobby, and it seemed as good a prospect as any. so without much fanfare, she'd begun spending her free time there, cleaning the place up, making it presentable. it felt almost a little like preparing Skyfall, only with less cobwebs and far less sabotage, and she was able to let the sun in the windows and play some music as she worked, here... even if the jukebox needed some better variety.

finally, she feels as though the place is up to speed, and slides onto a barstool. pulling open the journal, she takes a sip of the pint glass of water at her side, and writes]

Good afternoon, everyone.

I would like to formally announce that the Death Match bar on the second floor of the castle is under new ownership, and as of today, open for business. Currently it has no proper chef, but should anyone wish to fill the position, I will consider applications. I hope this is a welcome addition to the castle atmosphere, and that I will see some of you soon.

Cordially,
Emma

[with that, she'll just go on back to the kitchen and make sure there are supplies for the few things she does know how to make. if people want food, she won't turn them down, but their options will be a little limited. she's much better when it comes to making drinks]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ah, yes. Good afternoon.

[Excuse the Doctor as he walks in, looking around, seeming rather impressed.]

I take it you're the owner of this fine establishment?

I am, yes, though it's a recent development. The books indicate it was last owned by someone named Travis, though there's not much trace of him in the journals. So it's gone without for quite some time.

A shame. This much room could be used so well.

[He's just going to wander around curiously.]

I wonder who thought of the name.

It could, yes. I didn't want it to go to waste any longer than it had to. And considering the things that happen around here, I thought people could use a place to come and relax.

[relax = "get wasted", basically, because it's a totally legitimate coping mechanism]

I'm not sure. My book doesn't go back that far, though I've heard there are a few people here who have older ones that still do. I hadn't the heart to rename it, though. Seems to me something like that might be considered either poor form, or bad luck. Maybe both.

Yes, people rarely seem to accept change.

[Looking around and back to M.]

I just hope you stop people before they get issues with their liver. I doubt you'll be serving synthehol.

And yet it happens so often around here.

[wait what. that certainly gives her pause, but thankfully she's a sharp woman] Synthetic alcohol? No, I don't think we've any of that. There are a few non-alcoholic beers, but those always taste rubbish anyway. [she makes a face]

Rest assured, though, I know when to cut a body off. [especially ones named Bond James Bond.]

Synthehol is far from rubbish. It tastes exactly like the real thing, except without the intoxicating effects on humans.

And that's good. I would prefer to treat cuts and bruises than try to repair cirrosis.

... Oh, does it now? .... That's certainly an intriguing concept. I wonder if I could get that sort of thing in.

You must be the new fellow in the clinic. The one who signs his papers "EMH"?

You can call me the Doctor. I'm afraid I'm still undecided on a name.

Undecided? What, didn't your parents give you one?

Oh, I don't have any parents. Not unless you count my creator, Dr. Lewis Zimmerman. I would guess he's my father.

Creator? ... So you're ... [she tilts her head at him. he's not the first resident she's met who looked human but wasn't]

Are you a robot? [she says the word awkwardly, since it still sounds so ridiculous coming out of her mouth in a serious context]

Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'm a hologram.

[her eyes widen] Well, that's new. ... Where are your projections coming from?

My program is housed inside a mobile emitter, it allows me to freely move about where there are no holographic emitters present.

Really. [and now she's blatantly looking for it. it's not as though the situation calls for her to be discrete, after all]

Where is it?

Unfortunately, that would be telling.

[His Mobile Emitter is his biggest weak spot. the best thing is, no-one here is familiar with Starfleet clothing and equipment. That thing on his shoulder could be perfectly natural.]

I don't mean to be rude [overmuch] but my Emitter is the only thing keeping my program active. The less people know where to hit, the better.

No, in that context, I understand completely. Security is still important, even in a place that wants us to feel safe. Maybe even more so.

That and I've had plenty of problems with my holo-matrix over the years. I try to avoid them like humans avoid a cold.

[7] - forward dated to afternoon

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