[discplot] diners, dashing, and falling anvils

[picksthelosers]

Existence is a vast and complicated place. No honestly, it is. Things get lost, misplaced, often dropped, shoved into pockets and never seen again. Whole universes go missing, and when they reappear, they’re covered in lint. This place is no exception1On first inspection, it is a diner. All vinyl covered booths that are shades like teal and maroon

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[sir_samuel]

Vimes had woken up in utter confusion. He was still in a bed, still with his family, still in a nondescript room, but something was wrong.

It took him a while to realize that it was the smell. Fried food. Badly fried food.* With lots of drippings. He had actually smiled.

Some hours later, sitting in a sticky vinyl booth with a glass of fruit juice, he had decided that that had been the only good thing to come of whatever magic had brought him here (and he was done trying to figure out what). He had seen the others, of course. And he had seen Her. Oh, he had seen her. Yes, the Lady was getting a lot of glares in her direction tonight from a old copper who was now not only away from home, but trapped inside some tacky little slice of hell with no explanation and at the whim of, well, gods knew what.

It was probably her fault. It usually was.

*There’s no other kind worth having.

[throw_the_book]

Carrot firmly believed that it was always nice to be reminded that you were in charge of something when you were least in charge of any given situation. So, with this in mind, Carrot sat himself in the sticky (how interesting!) vinyl booth across from his Commander, the tacky blue material doing all sorts of wonderfully charming things for his eyes1, and said, "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

1. Even a humdrum universeside diner was somehow designed to make him shine. Hmmph.

[sir_samuel]

Vimes blinked once or twice as the... Carrotness of Carrot entered his vision. He raised both eyebrows.

"You usually do without meaning to," he pointed out. "Go ahead."

[throw_the_book]

Carrot was aware that the rules of Ankh-Morpork, and even the rules of Tabula Rasa, simply did not apply here. In fact, he would have preferred a book of Laws and Ordinances to go along with his pie -- and he was very intent on trying the pie, possibly pecan, maybe blueberry -- but as such, he would just have to make do.

Smiling gently, he said, "It would probably be best not to strain your eyes too much, sir. Not here. Glaring can be very difficult on the cognitive processes," he nodded sagely.

[headline_maker]

The last place Sacharissa had expected to wake up was curled on the sticky plastic seat of a booth in a place that smelled of grease, salt and some other less savory things she couldn't place.1 The fact remained, however, that here she was. Groggy and bewildered, with a back that ached faintly from having laid there for sometime, Sacharissa sat up and looked around.

"Where are we?" It seemed the right question to ask.

1 There was a strong chance, of course, that no one, not even the cook staff, actually could.

[dogbitesman]

"Try the waffles," William said, sliding into the booth in the seat opposite to Sacharissa. "They're divine." A beat, and then a wry, "Apparently."

[headline_maker]

"Or something like it," she said, blinking at her new surroundings. "Where are we?" This wasn't the island, unless someone had made intensive changes to the decor. Or perhaps she was dreaming. Maybe she'd hit her head on something.

[dogbitesman]

"As I understand it, the Lady's ... home, or something like it," William said, with a slightly skeptical glance about the place. "A wizard once told me that when people visit the homes of the gods, they're not actually seeing them as they are, they're just interpreting what their senses tell them in a way they can comprehend. He said you'd go mad, otherwise."

[forged_hero]

There had, Moist decided later, been worse places he had woken up.

The underside of a bright pink plastic pony with a trap door in, however, did place first in the Creativity Category.

Since he'd woken, poked around, and made the mistake of opening the front door*, it gradually dawned upon Moist that this was a very Disc-esq bit of madness. And then the Lady had made her entrance.

And then Moist had taken up residence under the table he now called home. A pair of legs joined him eventually, but they did not seem inclined to conversation, so he had let it be. Besides, he was busy listening for sounds that may indicate a piano getting ready to be dropped.

Because she has that sort of sense of humor, see. Oh, I'm sorry - She.

"Gods be damned," he muttered, knees tucked up beneath his chin.

*In space, no one can hear you scream. Or, as it happens, squeal like a little girl.

[feel free to own the pair of legs]

[picksthelosers]

"Do you know how expensive1 damning is these days?" says voice that belongs to the pair of legs.

A face joins them (them being the legs and the voice) and it's smiling and nodding.

"Eggy toast?" She offers, holding out a plate, and pulling off the bacon from the plate, eating it in layers. "Franneddy makes the best eggy toast in six corners2."

1: Approx. $297694.78 before taxes and accounting for inflation, 45 years ago.
2: 9 corners, if you cut them.

[forged_hero]

"What is it?" Moist said warily, barely controlling the flinch back.

"Ostrich? Vulture?" He took the plate, inching until he back was against the opposite booth, neck hunched under the table. He eyed the legs for kicking.

"...phoenix?"

[picksthelosers]

"Sam."

The plate is pulled closer and she sniffs it, before holding it out again, like offering food to an abused dog.

"The bald eagle."

She pulls the garnish off and starts to eat that as well. "It's not going to get cold, promise."