Mars Bars, Telephones, Cars and Nerds Part 1

It was cold. Not as cold as it had been back home but cold enough. The darkness of night had fallen upon Las Vegas, the cities bright lights fighting back against the black and defending it from the night. It was a not a nice kind of cold that had claimed the back alleys and long forgotten parts of Las Vegas. It was harsh and unforgiving. It filled a person with the thoughts that there might not be any warmth remaining. It circled around you, biting into your clothing and into your bones. It cut into your face and stabbed at your nose so hard that tears would well up in the eyes of the unprotected. It was the kind of cold that made it acceptable to wrap your hand around the edges of your cuffs to protect your hands. It was cold.
Plisken, standing on a street corner whose name was little more than a pointless reminder that he was lost, leaned against a wall, a plume of steam billowing from her nostrils. She took a deep breath, the crisp air piercing her lungs, and glanced around the street. It was empty, save for her car and a couple of prostitutes, clad in very little, across the street. The wall she leant against belonged to a little diner (dinner?) called ‘Jimmy’s’. She’d been here before, as a different version of herself, merely because a large saltire proudly hung behind the counter. The food consisted of a poorly made macaroni, some suspicious looking haggis, deep fried Mars Bar (a favourite of Plisken’s), scampi that looked distinctly like beef jerky, and some of the regular American trash. The drink choice was whiskey and nothing else. Unless you wanted water that had a 20% chance of giving you cholera.
“Hey, darlin’,” called a deep and unpleasant voice from the door, “Your Mars Bar is ready.”
Plisken nodded to the short portly woman, who had already turned to go back inside. Plisken followed and pushed open the glass door and stepped inside the warmth, or what little there was. Any heat that was being generated in the diner was produced by the noisy collection of cooking machines that were hidden away out of the customers’ sight. The diner was empty, any of the regular customers safely tucked away in bed or out on the streets looking for customers for their ‘services’. The woman behind the counter grunted, her aged face constantly screwed into a mix of disdain and anger. On the counter was a cheap looking polystyrene box, the lid open and the smell of unhealthyness drifted up to Plisken.
“That’s 50 cents,” grumbled the stout woman, opening her greasy palm to receive her money. Plisken dug around in her pockets, collecting up all the change that she’d scrounged from the streets. It came to just over 50 cents. The woman grunted incoherently and pocketed the change in a small bag on her hip. Plisken smiled and picked up the box, the heat from the ‘meal’ already warming her frozen fingers.
Outside the diner, Plisken began to bite into her night time snack. It was disgusting. It always had been. But there was something about the deep fried Mars Bar that anchored Plisken to life, kept her sane amongst the confusing twists and turns of her history. It harked back to the smells of her childhood, those long summer days and long winter nights with Garth, Emily, Edward and J.D. and Kate in November City. It was a reminder of that one night during the Belak War where for just one fleeting moment it seemed that everyone would get along in the universe. It was reminiscent of that perfect day with Garnet.
Plisken had lived for a long time, perhaps the longest of anyone. By her reckoning, she had lived for over 600 years. She’d lived through so much, seen so much and done so much that it made her wonder if there was anything left to do, anything left to live for. She had raised armies against tyrannical leaders, had fought with gods and demons, had run faster than anyone and had brought down whole empires with a single word. She was seen by some as the bringer of hope and light, the beacon in the dark world of the universe where only the good died young.
Only the good died young.
Plisken was over 600.

As Plisken finished her deep fried Mars Bar, she turned her attention to her current predicament, which was being lost. She had been happily following Cass and the others but somewhere along the line she’d just lost them. That had not happened in a long time, before their little jaunt through Abydosha. Even getting to ‘Jimmy’s’ was still a mystery to her and perhaps it was one that could not be explained easily.
We pick up where Plisken left off; taxing the crew around the streets of Las Vegas in her Aston Martin, which (for whatever reason) had suddenly become big enough to fit more than 4 people, which was strange. Well, when I say fit…
Plisken opened the door to the car and the occupants began to fall out, tumbling to the pavement outside Caesars Palace. Without even stopping to thank her for the ride, they headed into the building to make some noise. Cass may have given a little smile before going in but that would have been the extent of any thank you. Plisken threw the keys to a valet, like all the cool guys do in the movies, and began to follow her comrades but something happened. Suddenly a loud and obnoxious ringing noise began to emanate from deep within the inside pocket of Plisken’s coat, something that she had only just remembered about (and definitely not just created right now). More than a few onlookers turned their heads to find the source of the noise. Plisken reached into the coat pocket of her coat and produced the handset of a very 80s looking telephone. It was a dirty white, marketed as cream, and had a long silver aerial. Plisken pulled the aerial out, extending much longer than an aerial should have been able to, and pressed the button to accept the call.
“Ahoy Ahoy,” Plisken answered casually.
No reply, just some static. Plisken sighed and began to fiddle with some of the buttons on the handset. The aerial began to shift and move, almost like it was alive. She kept tapping at the buttons until the sound broke through the static and was clear. The aerial, instead of being straight, was now curled in a very 50s fashion.
“Hello, this is a Geronimo Pizza!” shouted a very excitable man with a very fake Italian accent, “How may I takea your order?”
Plisken cursed and pushed another button, the tip of the aerial flitting to another direction.
“Plisken?” came a voice, seemingly from deep within the phone.
“Speaking,” answered Plisken, ignoring the onlookers that had gathered around him.
“It’s Emily –“
Plisken snapped the phone away from her ear and quickly pushed the aerial down.
Emily?! She’s dead! They are all meant to be dead!
Plisken tucked the phone back inside her coat pocket, trying to push the event out of his mind.
“What was that?” asked a woman from behind Plisken.
Plisken jumped, her concentration broken by the woman’s words. She spun around to face the woman. “What do you think it was, hmm?” she snapped, angry at the world, “It was a Time Phone obviously!”
Plisken stalked away, leaving a bewildered young woman.
Plisken took a seat on the bottom of the steps to Caesars Palace, breathing in the sharp air. It was different to breathe than it had been before, back in her other body. The air seemed cleaner, fresher. She was fitter and faster than she had been before. This bio-mechanical body was certainly an improvement on the last one.
“So what is the Jujube Lounge?” asked a strange monotone voice from behind Plisken. She was almost getting sick of having her thoughts constantly interrupted. She stood and turned around to see Alex, Evelina and Jaxx, being carried by both of them down the stairs.
“Hey, guys,” called Plisken, “Need a lift?”
“Sure,” called back Alex as he helped carry the little skutter down the steps, “Know your way to the Jujube Lounge?”
“I’m sure you can point me in the right direction,” smiled Plisken, happy to have something to do for a change.

“It should be the next left here,” said Alex, pointing out the turn.
“Right,” said Plisken, slightly annoyed as Alex stretched over: there seemed to be a strange smell about him, “So, anything interesting happening today?”
Evelina peered into the front of the car from her back seat, “Phil’s back in the Time Fridge.”
“And there is a Type-6 Pulse Rifle in a safe,” finished Jaxx.
“And I need to find Stefani,” chipped in Alex.
“And Jacky,” reminded Evelina.
“And Jacky.”
“Hmm,” said Plisken, pulling up outside the Jujube Lounge, “So all fun and games as usual then?”
Alex gave a tired smile and stepped out of the car with Evelina and Jaxx. Plisken gave a little wave to the group as the climbed the steps up to the hotel, or whatever the Jujube Lounge was. She tapped the cassette player and Abbey Road started up again.
Perhaps I can take a ride around the block, she thought, clear my head.

As Plisken was driving around the block, which in Las Vegas can be surprisingly large, a pair of lights from a sleek, black Dodge Charger flashed at her. Plisken glanced into the windows to she Artemis, Boyd and a rather uppity looking alpaca.
“Hey, Plisken!” cried Artemis, rolling down the windows as the two cars met in the middle of the street.
“Artemis, Boyd,” said Plisken, nodding to each one of them in turn. They seemed to look rather fearfully at the alpaca, as if it had said something diabolical.
But Artemis snapped back into the present, “Do you know the way to the Jujube Lounge by any chance?”
“You know, I just might do,” a wide smile appearing on her face.
“No Chibbly,” said Boyd in a quivering tone. Plisken dismissed this as Boyd being, well, Boyd, and proceeded to give Artemis the directions. With a thank you and an evil stare from the animal in the back seat, the Dodge Charger sped of in the direction of the Lounge.
By the time Plisken arrived back at the Lounge, Alex and the others were well gone. A report over the Las Vegas Radio was talking about a Charger driving dangerously down the wrong side of the road and Plisken supposed that Alex was driving. Still, could be worse.
And that was what had happened to our gender changing hero up until she had started to wolf down at fatty treat outside a filthy diner somewhere in Las Vegas, long lost from everyone else.
As Plisken finished the deep fried Mars Bar, using the bonnet of her car as a seat, she sighed to herself. Just where had everyone got to? Before she could go ahead and attempt to answer that very question, although how she would go about doing that was unknown, a rough sack was placed over her head and she felt the world go black.

“Pretty… don’t you think? Pretty? … smokin’… We need… autograph … Hey… in charge… drugging… used too… you prat… Prat? … I’ll… you… Hey… boss… coming… Sir!” These were what little Plisken could make out under her drug induced drowsiness, fragments of a conversation. As her view began to swim back into place, a picture of a dark apartment began to fade in. Four men stood facing a forth, the leader of some kind. Two of them were very thin, the other two rather portly. Even in the dark, Plisken could make out that they were all incredibly pale and that they all had glasses of some kind. They where wearing t-shirts, each depicting a super-hero logo, and jeans, none of which seemed to have been given any care over the years. The what-seemed-to-be leader, one of the portly men, leaned into Plisken’s face. His face was covered in a scruffy beard that worked its way down his two chins. A pair of unfashionable spectacles was placed firmly on a greasy nose. Despite appearing to be around 30, his face was covered in spots akin to those on a teenager.
“Hello Miss Doig,” he said in a strong American accent, although the location of it was hard to pinpoint.
“Miss Doig?” said Plisken slowly, still trying to get her bearings.
“Yes,” laughed the man, “We were very lucky to find you out there in the cold.”
“What time is it?” asked Plisken, trying to stand up but found she was tied to a chair.
“Oh, about 5 in the morning. We were up all night waiting for you to awake.”
“5 in the morning?”
“Yes, you could say the long night has fallen!” laughed the man.
“But wouldn’t that mean it was night?” asked one of the thin men.
“But it could mean that the long night was gone away rather than fallen as in come,” said the other thing man.
“What do you think, Lexa Doig?” asked the last fat gentleman in a loud voice, his heavy beard shaking up in down.
“Umm… I think you have me confused with someone else…” began Plisken, becoming increasingly worried.
“Oh no,” said the leader, “We would never mistake our favourite science fiction actress with someone else.”
“Isn’t Carrie Fisher our favourite Sci-Fi actress?”
“What about Billie Piper?”
“Jewel Staite is clearly our favourite.”
“You know she’s doing a Firefly Spinoff?”
“Yeah, I saw Mike’s Tweet.”
“Guys!” cried the leader, “Can we focus on the task at hand?” There was a grumble of approval from the others. “Now,” said the leader, “Can we have your autograph?”

<OOC - Part 2 on Tuesday>