"So this is the famous Joe Black Security and Investigation building," the man mutters to himself as he approaches the entrance.
Those not familiar with the ways of the Nexus might find the sight of a short, bipedal canine humanoid wearing a business suit unusual. It takes a special kind of ignorance to maintain such an unfamiliarity, however -- probably a good thing for the being in question, given looks from several passers-by.
Once inside, he looks around at the decor. He remains silent, but his expression isn't very complimentary. "'Scuze me," he says to the receptionist at the front desk, labeled as Leona Duttonsby by the name plaque on the desk, while stifling an urge to wretch at the neon green lipstick's clashing violently with Duttonsby's dark orange hair. "I donnae have an appointment, but I was led to believe, by one Ms. Alty, that Joe Black wanted to talk wi' Duncan MacDonald, namely meself. Would ye be a dear an' buzz him for me, lass?" And do something about the color-blindness that resulted in that hideous color scheme, he doesn't say.
"One moment, please," Leona breathes with a smile. She keys the intercom. "Mr. Black? There's a Mr. Duncan MacDonald here to see you?"
"Send him in, please," comes the reply.
Good, none of that silly "I'm so important you have to wait so I can prove my importance" crap, Duncan thinks as he walks towards the door to Joe's office.
Joe stands and walks around his desk to meet his guest as he comes in. "Mr. MacDonald," he says, offering his hand, "Glad you could make it. Can I offer you a drink?"
"If ye've got some scotch I'd appreciate it," MacDonald says as he accepts the offered handshake, hiding his minor dismay at yet another tall person to cause him neck strain. "A Scot drinking scotch may be cliche, p'rhaps, but it's my liver to abuse as I please," he adds with a wry grin.
"Mine, too," Joe chuckles, pouring himself a scotch while he's at it.
"Knew there was a reason I liked ye," Duncan says with a chuckle as he settles into the seat across from Joe's chair.
"Now," the terrier says after the preliminary pleasantries are finished, "how may I be of assistance to ye, Mr. Black?"
Joe sits back in his plush leather chair. "I was wonderin' what you could tell me about the Daedalus Project. Turns out you aren't the only one it dropped off in Nexus."
The glass pauses half-way to the terrier's lips. His fur hides much of his reaction, but doesn't totally mask the look of the recipient of a sucker-punch.
"What... how..." His hand clenches the glass tightly, the slight tremble from his tense grip causing ripples on the surface of his drink. Almost as an afterthought, he fires the scotch down his throat in one quick motion, and takes a deep breath.
"What do ye ken already?" MacDonald asks after regaining a semblance of self-control, carefully setting the glass down while awaiting Black's answer.
Joe takes a sip before answering and shrugs. "A bit. A colony spacecraft in a no-magic, high-tech reality, carryin' a motley crew of humans and uplifted animals... and at least one psychotic woman stuffed to the gills with advanced cybernetics, nanites, geneboosts, and God only knows what else, who's now _here_, which is the only reason I give a damn about the whole business."
"I... I heard rumors about someone like that," Duncan begins after a moment's thought, visibly doing better in reigning in his reaction, "but never substantiated ones. First, though, lemme give ye a wee bit o' me background. I was originally Assistant Chief Engineer of the Daedalus. Later the cap'n was incapacitated, an' the ChEng got promoted, as did I. If ye consider tryin' to reign in a complete and utter madhouse a promotion," he adds with a wry grin. His expression sobers quickly. "I hear that you may have some kinda familiarity with the subject, so I'll share one li'l bit that I've _never_ told Tyna. And I donnae want her to _ever_ hear it, from anyone, ye ken?"
Joe nods. "Won't leave this room, Mr. MacDonald. Consider it a professional courtesy to someone already doin' me a favor."
MacDonald chuckles quietly. "Not quite sure what favor I'm really doin' besides helpin' ye pass some time, but that'll work."
"Donnae ask me 'bout the 'How' or 'why', I couldnae answer that. All I know is the 'what'. Roughly two subjective months into the trip, I died of heart failure, a common cause of death of chimeras -- the folks like me, human with animal bits." MacDonald swallows hard, and reaches for the glass, belatedly remembering he emptied it earlier. His hand remains paused in the air a moment, trembling slightly.
"I think I could use another one. A double, if ye don't mind."
Joe rises without comment, speaking only once the requested scotch kisses the ice. "So you died, and woke up in Nexus? That's been known to happen now and then." He shrugs as he hands over the drink. "'Course, this bein' Nexus, just about _everything's_ been known to happen now and then."
"That's just fine an' dandy to a regular in this whole Nexus thing," MacDonald grumbles as he accepts the drink, "but imagine when all ye ever heard, saw, or read gets tossed into the commode after having a heart attack. I cannae speak for Tyna or anyone else, but I for one am too old to wake up to the sound of all I ken leavin' by way of the loo." More slowly than the first, but not by much, the second drink joins the first, down the canine's throat.
Duncan shakes his head. "Anyway, I'm afraid I donnae have anything solid on what ye wanna know. What I do have is personal speculation, unverified claims, and prob'bly outright fabrications. Start with her name... 'John Doe' strikes me as somethin' someone made up as a joke on how relatively li'l she's known. An half the stuff attributed to her is so ridiculous that I'd hardly believe it if I saw it meself. Bein' the Head Monkey Herder, I heard quite a few wild tales from folks tryin' to put one over on me. Stuff like sproutin' tentacles like some ridiculous Geiger work, or like somethin' outta any sea monster movie. Turnin' invisible, growin' ginsu knives outta her fingertips. Things like that."
"Mmm," Joe nods. He takes a long, leisurely drink. "Sounds like quite a tough customer, if half that's true." He shrugs. "Guess I'll just have to see."
"If even half that's true, I'll be a monkey's uncle," MacDonald says with a snort. "Tho wi' this 'Nexus' place that's maybe nae sayin' much," he adds.
"Anyway," he continues, "I do appreciate your help. This is more information than I had before you came in."
"Not sure how I was helpful," Duncan says dubiously, "but glad to be of service to ye. Thanks for the booze, Mr. Black. Anythin' else I can help ye wi'?"
"No, I believe that'll do it," Joe replies, rising from his chair and offering his hand.
Duncan follows suit, taking Black's hand in his own furred one for a firm handshake.
"But if you think of anything else, please give me a call. Mind if I call you if I come up with any more questions on my end?"
"I'll do that, and I donnae mind. Ye can reach me at Tyna's place. Now that ye mention it, though, I do have one other question. Could ye direct me to the nearest bar? I've some thinkin' to do on me own, and I do that best while musin' over a shotglass."
Joe chuckles. "Easy enough. There's a speakeasy right across the street. Just tell'em Joe sent you. Not that they'd keep you out either way."
"And that speakeasy didnae have anything to do with the choice of this buildin' fer yer headquarters, right? Donnae answer that, I'm nae one to talk 'bout bein'... shall we say, 'inclined towards spiritous drink'. Thanks fer directions, in any case. Good day to ye," Duncan concludes, then turns to walk out the door.
Barely more than a minute passes before suspicious eyes look out a peek hole, the suspicion turning quickly to confusion, MacDonald effectively invisible to the view from the hole in the door.
"Down here, ye gorilla." the diminutive canine grumbles. "Joe sent me."
The door opens, only to reveal that MacDonald's intended insult is merely an accurate description, the immense primate now standing before the chimera looking quite out of place in the oversized -- but not oversized enough for the fabric to not look strained -- tuxedo. "Wiseass," the bouncer grumbles, but steps aside to allow Duncan access to the place itself.
\\Discretion is the better part of valor\\ Duncan silently decides, biting back a retort about the bouncer's clothing.
"I'll have a scotch," Duncan says after flagging down a bartender. "And if ye put ice in it I'll be usin' summa yer tentacles so string ye up by, ye ken?"
"Really, sir," the humanoid octopus serving as the bartender wheezes indignantly through the breathing apparatus that distorts its high-pitched nasal voice, "there is no need to threaten violence against me. I am one of the best bartenders in this reality, and I _never_ deliver anything but what the patrons order."
MacDonald, already in an enforced silence by the lovecraftian oddity before him, just nods, finding his voice a moment later. "Quite right, I shouldnae be threatenin' ye. Apologies."
Satisfied with MacDonald's apology, the bartender quickly serves the requested drink, which to the pleasant surprise of Duncan is a double. "I am mildly telepathic," it explains, adding "but only about drinks" in reply to the uncomfortable expression on the canine's face.
"At least ye don't get to decide which way the elevator goes," Duncan mutters.
"Pardon, sir?" the bartender asks curiously.
"Never mind. Reference from another reality," the chimera explains. "If ye don't mind, I'd like some time alone. An' even if ye do mind, leave the bottle," he adds, placing a large gold coin on the bar to quiet the bartender's complaint. \\Good thing gold counts here.\\
It doesn't, at least not directly, but that was beyond the former Chief Engineer's knowledge, and the bar owner had arrangements to make gold count when the bills come due.
After taking the coin, the bartender departs, leaving the bottle in Duncan's reach.
"To the Daedalus, the only ship in a bottle that ever lost a sailor," he says to the mirror behind the bar in a toast, and downs the drink.
A mousy-looking human leans closer at those words. He sailed in a bottle? But the guy wants to drink alone. Far be it from him to disturb anyone tonight.
Eathan Gyrfalcon props his boots up on one of the four or five brass railings mounted underneath the bar for that purpose, and motions the bartender over. Again. "Coffee, please." He stirs the spoon idly against the sides of the mug, making a soft clinking noise.
Half way through remembering the Engineering Department staff, the assassin's request catches the edge of Duncan's consciousness, resulting in the third glass left hanging inches from MacDonald's mouth.
"If I'm pryin', yer pardon, but most people come to a bar to drink somethin' 'sinful'," the canine observes after downing the third shot, subconsciously thankful for something to interrupt lingering on lost friends and associates.
Eathan shrugs, and looks over at Duncan briefly before going back to the coffee. "Means're different, ends are the same. The memories just fade away differently this way."
He slides a credit across the bar to the tender. Asks Duncan, "so what's led you to sin in a shotglass?"
"Memories, as ye said," Duncan replies while pouring himself a fourth glass. "Friends lost, among other things." He casually sends the fourth shot to follow the path of the other three, only a moment separating an empty glass from a full one. "What's it to ye?" he asks, turning his head to consider the newcomer.
"Eh." He pauses a moment, dumps another packet of sugar-substitute into the coffee. "Just making conversation, I guess, among the select few who start their drinking in the middle of the day." He smiles slightly, knowing that he includes himself in that group.
Duncan snorts. "Not like there's much else to do, bein' outta work an' all, wi' no one lookin' for an engineer from a backwards dimension."
The terrier pours another shot, then lifts the glass, pausing half of the way to his lips to gaze at the amber liquid, drifting off in thought.
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