"Welcome to Milliways!" Shouts a late teen-looking woman from the bar, gesturing with a mug of something.

Ah, this is not the break room -

Locke closes the door behind him, pausing in his tracks to look back at where he entered and to the lady hanging out at the bar.

He clears his throat, rubs his eyeglasses with some fabric, and puts `em back on, blinking.

"... Hello?" What was he even supposed to say?! "To be frank, I've never heard of a Milliways before and... oh drat."

"It steals doors. It'll let you out again, pretty harmless place, really. As long as you don't go home with anyone, heheh."

"Wouldn't plan on it."

Locke straightens out his tie, sitting down at the bar. He crosses his legs over another, contemplating on whether or not to stay. That decision is made when he decides on ordering wine. Coffee can fuck off for today.

He glances to Walta, adjusting his posture to one filled with regality (that he lacked.) "Door-stealing is quite impressive for a - this is a restaurant, yes? I'm not seeing things? Is this place sentient, in any way?"

"Bar here is, the place itself less so. It's also interdimensional." She raps the bartop affectionately with a hand that briefly looks kind of clawed.

Welcome to Milliways. The first drink is free; Would you like anything?

A suddenly appearing napkin asks him in neat cursive writing.

Good lord, the lady's brandishing claws. 

"Interdimensional?" Locke whispers, pondering. For a moment, he stares at Walta's hand and retracts his gaze to the napkin. "Wait — one second. If you have any rosé wine available, I'll take it."

He needs a fucking drink ASAP.

Of course.

And here is a glass of wine as sudden as the napkins; No label or other information is provided but it's smooth and appealing.

"I've found Milliways very pleasing! It goes for interesting people, I'm pretty sure."

Locke grabs the bottle, holding it with intrigue. Far, far better than cheap coffee from the Yard's break room.

"Well, I'll say! This place has exquisite taste for what it considers interesting. You've been here before, then? Yes, yes?"

"A few times. Makes a nice break, some place where I'm definitely safe and can't be found for a while."

"I see, I see."

It's possible to leave and come back, then. The Yard doesn't have to know, Locke, you're happily drinking away on wine.

He sips his wine from its glass. What's it taste like? Ordinary rosé wine? Pretty, sweet, and pink?

"Oh, by the way." Hand's out for a shake. "Detective Investigator Locke Picard, it's a pleasure to meet you."

'Ordinary' undersells it. It's very pretty and pink, almost literally sparkling. The sweetness is accented by a hint of some fruit flavor he's never ancountered before, lingering on the tongue and all but negating the burn of alcohol.

"Ooh, a detective. Catch many dangerous evildoers lately, lawman? Bring down a gang and book the lot?" She snickers.

Locke scoffs, "Not in the slightest. Lately, I've been in charge of investigating a bizarre string of murders in the western part of my city. Nothing is linking them together, yet I suspect they're connected."

Sip, groan. "It's unfair how I'm called incompetent for doing my job, and of course! The case I've gotten is near unsolvable, and the others I had previously were the easiest to crack in years! ... Why do you ask, hm?"

"I may or may not have as much respect for the law as some would like me to. It does not help that the law includes burning me at the stake."

"And I hope, if you're being serious, that means you're running from the law?"

Good lord, this wine is fucking delicious. Instead of sips, Locke's turned to gulping. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Aye, yai yai. It's times like these, where I'm thankful that I only operate within the United Kingdom's boundaries of law."

Not messing with a gal that has clawed hands, not gettin' his throat cut. No siree!

She's getting a kick out of how cautious he's being after the subtle flaunt of claw.

"Running gets old fast. Not that open war is any better, but maybe a three out of ten is the balance I've found. I try not to hurt actual innocents, though."

"Good for you, then. It's rare that I come across anyone who has standards." Such as his certain rival. What a buffoon, why is he thinking about him?

"Nobody should involve innocents in their crimes, nonetheless, their fights. I've witnessed instances of the uninvolved becoming roped into the deeds of shameless, cruel bastards. It's... disgusting."

Another gulp. Damn, is Locke okay?

"The wheel turns and grinds, fat and sinew feed the gears, bones stoke the embers and blood oils the chains. Society is built upon the implicit threat of violence, sir. And all the power, all the real choice, flows to the top - to those who put themselves at the top. For each blow I strike against Louis the Twit and his government, they are more than capable of taking it twice over out of the peasants with more tax. Ignoring that to feel self-righteous would be a lie. Satisfying as self-righteousness is."

"A treacherous lie, indeed." 

Locke strokes his windswept bangs, setting down the wine glass. "Violence is something that'll forever exist in the foundations of society. You, I, we all smell it everywhere."

"It's an unfortunate reality, yet... strangely enough, our suffering gives us the motivation and will to fight back. If we lived in, let's say, a paradise. One free from the trials and tribulations that bring us sorrow, only to have only joy. Would it be fulfilling? Of course not."

He kicks back, stretching out his legs and then tapping his dapper shoes against the floor. "As long as you're empowering those around you, and knocking this Louis guy down a few pegs... I have no reason to think of you on the level of the money-hungry idiots I've interrogated in the past."

"-I disagree. Paradise leaving a bored and empty life? Of course not? Why of course? You take a premise as a conclusion there. A real paradise would have games and challenges, though I suppose depending on how you define it... If you say 'only joy' to mean that we would smile contentedly as we see a loved one die, then I do agree."

"Ah, there are many times I've seen my own die. All of them. Goodfellas, wiseguys. Their deaths brought me joy, but to those I've slaughtered in the name of the don - I'm not sure how to feel about those."

Locke sips his wine, leaning down against the bar counter. He rests his chin on top of his gloved palm. "It's good, kind. The way you see paradise. Everyone has their own idea of it, and for me - it's to bring justice to those that've wronged me. Forced my hand to kill. And in turn, I shall lock them all behind bars. Everyone who suffers, deserves to feel peace one final time before they pass on. Those who cause suffering, can rot for all I care."

"But, nay. I shouldn't ramble on too much..." 

"Rambling on and drinking is great fun, though."

She taps her mug on the bartop twice; It gets refilled with beer. "Thanks, Bar. See, I think about this a lot, though - it's so easy to go 'ha, evil is evil and good is good'. Really easy. But the true monsters, who kill for the sake of killing, are rare as hen's teeth. A don, you say? A boss? Why did you join? I bet it wasn't for the thrill of the kill. You caused suffering. You feel remorse, now. This shit is complicated. I can run around and have my fun, striking at bank fraudsters and corrupt bishops, but it doesn't really solve anything - the world keeps on spinning, same sad story as before. 'Cause I don't know how to build a 'just' society, and there's enough history to show me what a terrible idea trying to do so anyway is."

"At the time, I had no choice. Desperate for a home, yearning for family. Wasn't sure what happened to my blood one, but they dumped their child at an orphanage and hoped someone would adopt me."

Drinking and rambling is fun, goddamn it. Locke still feels some kind of guilt for spewing his gunk at a stranger. But, she's friendly and that's what matters. 

So, he goes on.

"Then, there was Fischel. He was my boss, and he's my father. A crockpot full of shit who decided to raise his son and immediately induct my naive ass into organized crime on my sixteenth birthday. Fuck him, and fuck everything he's done."

And hell to Locke's kill streak, too. No wonder Alfendi hates his guts. Could sense the devil in him.

"What kinds of history, may I ask? How many attempts were there at pure justice, to bring forth retribution for the lives taken, that have failed? Tell me, so that I may not assassinate the Prime Minister and take London down with me."