"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."

"So, as far as I can tell, none. History of course is written by the victor and nothing can be truly, perfectly known, but for example -  the Austrian states have always been a tumultuous place. Earth is a common theme, even in Milliways, mind - the particular example I'm thinking of is the Austrian states and Holland, where the people can be individually quite diligent and kind - but when moving as a group turn like feral animals to anything that might threaten their security or wealth. The student revolt in Amsterdam nearly burned down the whole state. For all that they were trying to break free of old dogma and be kind and progressive and noble - when people started getting hungry, all nobility went out the window. The Ciompi revolts, the Cornish Rebellion, the Peasants' War - every example of people pushed beyond tolerance trying to build a just society I've ever read of involved burning down the old one to escape it, and trying to build on the ash, and getting something mostly the same, with different people wearing the crown."

Different Earths have different histories, Locke is slowly adapting to the idea. He wonders if it's possible for the bar to provide snacks, as he's getting quite hungry right now.

"The over-arching theme here, is how power corrupts. Good intentions barely matters in the end, when they're repeating the same cruelties enacted on them. It's a painful cycle for humanity to break through, I suppose, everyone is prone to becoming addicted to having such magnitude and authority."

"There is significance in remaining humble, even if you've won and most can't overcome their cravings to stay that way. Hope I'm following, ugh. One second."

He eyes the bar, patting the counter. "Do you have anything to eat? It's urgent, I need to concentrate."

Of course; I serve any food you can care to name, so long as it's safe for you to eat. I do charge reasonable prices after the first drink.

"That is why I tried not to become the boss. Can't do anything without me, can they..." She mutters not quite under her breath.

"I'm sure they'll figure things out. It's not like they're a hive-mind, even if they seem dependent on your aid."

Locke pulls out his wallet. "I'd like steak, please and thank you. Any cut will do fine, as long as it's rare."

"The desire to interfere when you see someone doing things in back-asswards stupid ways is too strong, sometimes. People gonna people, and I can't keep away entirely even if it's not healthy for me."

Just the steak, or would you like a full meal? Either way, I can put it on your tab for the moment.

"Stronger than the instinct to maim whenever you're watching them - or, that's only how I feel. Incompetents shouldn't have the world's permission to sink it when they're not having things their way."

He nonchalantly answers the bar, re-pocketing his leather wallet. "Full meal, please! I'm not leaving this place empty."

Here is a ribeye steak seasoned with rosemary and pepper, rare with fine marbling. It is accompanied by mashed potatoes with a dish of gravy, roast asparagus and carrots, a side salad, and a small bowl of some sort of savory white sauce.

Your tab now stands at £8.75, though if you wish for any substitutions or condiments I can make them free of charge - Enjoy!

"So cynical. Does anyone who fails to pass the test of regard deserve to rot, then? Maybe they're having a bad day. Maybe you're testing a fish on its ability to climb trees."

Locke picks up his utensils, already cutting into his steak. A meal fit for a king.

"If they weren't already having a bad day, they'd surely regret crossing Right-Heart Picard. But, no. They shouldn't rot, it's only appropriate to have them share the same air as everyone else. It's only fair that the universe is thoroughly balanced with its natural-born clowns and jesters."

He lifts a piece of meat into his mouth, biting the fork as he does.

"Some of those might call you a clown, mind. Not that I disagree entirely. -Something about this is getting tiresome. Perhaps how I try to remain an optimistic cynic. I'll have some meat as well, surprise me."

She serves Walta an omelet heavy with bacon, pork cubes, bits of chicken and turkey and beef.

All the food is, of course, delicious. And also somewhat healthier than it really ought to be, for how it tastes, not that this is immediately visible.