Anarchy in the UK.

It was 1982, the height of Britain’s immersion in the punk subculture, and a fiercely energetic Friday night. All across the (affectionately Christened) 'industrial cesspit' that was Liverpool, youths and adults alike were all out wasting their time in the most profitable way they could muster, and pubs all across the grimy city were alight with wild parties and the preludes to drunken adventures.

The Flighting Maid was a prime example of one of these bars – a dainty, quintessential public house from the outside, complete with the coloured windows and amiable hanging sign – although inside was what barmaid Belinda Smart considered an uncomfortably warm, smoky, sweaty hell.

The pub had been passed down through the Smart family for generations, encumbering the next potential owners every few decades like some obscene virus. It was, therefore, family-run; but with the amount of time 18-year old Belinda spent manning it alone, barely anyone knew.

Her age-worn father was there with her tonight, exhaustedly dragging up pint glasses and trying to talk sense into the regulars, just as he had been doing all afternoon. Belinda knew he was slow – he was old, after all – but his help was absolutely essential to the smooth running of this place, as chaos always ensued when she was alone for a night shift.

"Darl, I'm knackered. You don't mind if I -"

Oh. Belinda cut him off immediately with a curt wave of the hand, predicting his question before he had even formulated it into words. She scowled and wrung a dishrag until her knuckles turned white. "Course not."

After he'd pecked her cheek and willed her a decent night, Belinda turned and icily surveyed the sight that would define the next five hours of the evening shift she'd yet again been hampered with. The sweaty group of football fans dominating the booth closest to her were already droning out racially insensitive parody songs, and she could tell just by breathing in through her nose that the band of meffs now lumbering outside had left a few mushy piles of vomit for her to clean up. Charming.

Still, she didn't have time to deal with that; a swaggering band of bevied-up lightweights were already drifting her way, demanding a free round of drinks by offering, politely, to take her upstairs and give her their own definition of a 'round' with a colourful string of expletives to emphasize their point. She snarled and refused to serve, and they unenthusiastically sauntered back to their seats trailing curses behind them.

Belinda rested her head on the table-top, not even caring that her red curls were partially submerged in the lager that had pooled stickily into the lacquer of the bar. Another five hours of this treatment and she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from swinging a fist at someone's head, and then she'd have hell to pay the next morning when her father found the room looking like a bombsite.

She absent-mindedly dangled a pint glass under the drinks dispenser for herself, with such apparent intent that she didn't notice the front doors swing open.

WOOOoosh
WOOOoosh
WOOOoosh
woooOOOsh
Thumm
Thumm


The TARDIS materialized in an alleyway next to a bar called 'The fighting maid'. The doctor grabbed his bag, his jacket, and walked outside. "Ah, Liverpool 1982. A wonderful place...for most people anyway." he said. "I guess i'll have a drink, he said as he walked into the bar. He went over to the front of the store, and saw a girl with red hair. "Um, yes, what do you have to drink here?" he said, as he looked over at a group of boys singing, and looked back at her.

Belinda glanced up at the new arrival, her forehead creasing slightly as she took in his appearance. He looked like the kind of person she’d expect to see in some sort of history textbook, don in a long, tailed jacket of velvet with one of those cravats tucked into his waistcoat. She wrinkled her nose. She'd only just gotten used to those goths strutting about, was there really another 'wacky trend' flitting around? As much as she enjoyed jumping on such bandwagons, she was perfectly happy with her current punk scene – the bloke looked uncomfortably behind the times, and that tousled dark hair that curled around his angular face would likely get him into 'trouble' if he was unfortunate enough to be spotted from behind.

She'd long since given up regaining a professional composure whenever new customers waltzed in (she wouldn't make an exception for this one), so she continued pouring her own glass of lager as she spoke.

"Same stuff as everywhere, I'spose," she answered with an air of indifference. She raised the now full glass to her lips and took an ungraceful, appreciative swig, running her tongue along her top lip to catch the foam. "What can I get you?"

(OOC: This is set in Liverpool, not London.   )

The doctor stared back at the woman who was staring at him when he asked what the options were. Red-head, much? he thought to himself. "Well, in that case, i'll take some scotch." he said to her, going to sit down at one of the tables. He got back up and walked over to the woman again. That smell from the footballers was making him gag.

(OOC: Yea, sorry about that. I edited.)

Nodding, she scraped up a tumbler and turned to pour a generous amount of the beverage inside. "Good stuff, this," she said, quite loudly. "None o' that old jarg they serve up top end." She swivelled back on her heel and set the glass down on the countertop, palm casually outstretched in wait. She hoped her sell was convincing enough; she wasn't in the mood for drunken haggling tonight.

Still, rarely anyone paid until they'd downed their stuff. While she waited, she leaned against the counter and took in the stranger's appearance once more.

"Not seen you 'round 'ere before," she commented. "This somethin' new down South, or some'at? New trend? Thought we had enough o' them, really." Belinda felt almost self-conscious of being 'outdated', and she pulled absently at the lapels of her leather jacket.

"Yeah. New." the doctor said before looking back out the doors, and then looking back, reluctantly about to get up. He sat back down. "Well you seem nice. What's your name" he asked, staring intently at her before grabbing his stomach. "Oh! I seem to have to...well, do you have a bathroom?" he said to her, trying to sound as real as he could.


((Sorry for EXTREMELY short post. And sorry for being away for so long.))

Cafrin wondered through the streets, keeping an eye out for any of the Doctors when she came across the TARDIS sitting near a pub and a sandwhich shop. Sighing, Cafrin tried to open the Tardis doors, only to find them locked and not going to budge. "Well, seems like someone doesn't want to have fun." She said before looking around again. The bar seemed to draw her in, but the sandwhich shop looked more like a place the Doctor would go. With a shrug, Cafrin headed toward the sandwich shop and tried to open the locked door. "Well, that's not going to work." She laughed, looking back at the bar. "Oh, I really hate bars."

Belinda quirked an eyebrow at the apparent restlessness expressed by this stranger – most pub visitors with intent to drown their sorrows in booze would sit rigidly in the same spot for a good few hours to achieve oblivion. Maybe this bloke just didn't know how to get comfortable.

"Hm. Well, glad you think 'm nice," she said, a cheerful grin making an appearance for once. "I'm Belinda, I help run-"

She trailed off as the man made an impulsive grab at his stomach; an all-too familiar warning sign in Belinda's eyes for alcohol-induced 'stomach upsets'. Yer kiddin'… she grimaced. He barely kissed the glass!

With little sympathy for this lightweight, she waved her hand dismissively at the cracked lacquered door guarding the men's room. "O'er there, just don't try bein' sick in the sinks, I don't have time to scrape the plugholes clean again," she snapped.

Still, business was booming tonight, Belinda assured herself as she glanced at the wavering shadows outside the stained glass. She sat up and tried to mask her irritability, putting on a professional air – even if it was just to provide another regular with the fresh-faced, drink-pouring wench they expected behind the counter.

Cafrin sighed and walked up to the bar door. Instantly the smell of alcohol hit her, making her want to stay away. She hated the effect the drink gave, and even worst the taste it had. What's the point to drinking it? She asked herself as she heaved the door open and walked inside. The band in the corner hit her ears as soon as the barrier was broken, and the smell lessened as she got used to it. Looking around her, she wasn't surprised to see someone cheating at pool, a few drunks leaning on tables, and the bartender talking to patron.

So much to take in all at once, that Cafrin couldn't tell where the Doctor was, or if he was even in the bar anymore. She made her way to an empty chair at the bar and looked at the girl. "Um, can I just have a coke or something? No alcohol please." she told her as she slipped the money from her pocket.

The doctor walked down the hall and stopped by a small closet. He took out his wooden screwdriver. "Good thing I always keep my wooden one on me." he said, pulsing the door and opening it. It was just a storage closet...or so it seemed. After pulsing around a little, the room started to frizz out, like a glitching computer. "Aha!" the doctor said, as the room finally disappeared. "So it was a projection. Of course." he said, walking through the frizz. He walked into a large hall. "Hmm. Bigger on the inside." he said, smiling. After a while, he reached a small box. He looked around, and then pulsed it with his screwdriver. Quickly, the place turned back into a supply closet. "Hmm. So it was a projection...within a projection? Who would have the time to do this?" he said, sighing. He walked back down to the counter. This place is getting boring... he said, sitting back at his seat.

The door creaked open, bringing with it an unwelcome burst of cold from outside. It alerted Belinda to how uncomfortably warm it was in here, and she considered removing her leather, although she dreaded to think how the newcomer would react to a lady wearing a shirt that didn’t completely cover her collarbones.

But the new patron certainly wasn't part of the leary crowd she was accustomed to – in fact, she wasn't male at all. That was unusual. It wasn't often that a woman came to the Flighting Maid unless she was trapped in the crook of a lover's arm. Perhaps she too wasn't from around here, like that other bloke.

Her already quirked eyebrow raised even further when she took in the stranger's order. She hadn't taken a non-alcoholic order in months! Belinda's gaze slowly met the stranger's piercing amber eyes with a certain degree of discomfort – they were almost cat-like – and noticed that apart from that, not a lot of the girl was showing underneath her shadowy hood. She had this air of mysteriousness about her, much like what that other man had, and she didn't like it one bit.

"Mm, 'course," she said absently, sloshing soft drink into a glass (for once) and dragging barely one third of the offered money towards her side of the counter. It was as if this girl was expecting to pay over £1 for a glass of Coke, or something. Crazy.

She briefly glanced up and noticed that the weird historically-dressed character was returning to his seat. "Better now?" she asked in what was almost mock sympathy. "You owe me for that," she added, and nodded at the tumbler of untouched whiskey.

Cafrin looked down at the bar. She was sure the Doctor was here, but there was no way for her to track him down with the sounds and smells of the bar. She had seen many photos of him, but couldn't find him. "Thank you." She told the bartender as she picked up her coke and took a sip absent-mindedly. She had forgotten about her hood, and as she leaned forward to grab her coke, if fell farther in front of her, just barely showing her eyes. "I'm sorry, I was supposed to be meeting someone here, but I guess I must have missed him." She told the girl. "I'm Cafrin, it's nice to meet you."

"Owe you? Well...heh heh..." he said, nervously. "I'm sorry. I don't have money on me at the time." he picked up the glass. "But i'll still drink it, if you don't mind! Ooh, that rhymed! And so did that....this is weird now." he said, taking a swig of his whiskey, and looking to the girl in the red hood. He felt like he remembered her from somewhere....eh. He was probably seeing things.

Belinda smiled softly, sympathising with this girl – she too knew the shame of being ‘stood up’. She was still a little weary, though… she didn’t like the look of that hood. “I’m Belinda,” she said in automatic response. In fact, she might’ve continued her conversation if the Doctor hadn’t spoken up, and her glance hardened as she looked his way.

“You’re jokin’, la’!” she snarled. “How dare you! Expensive, that stuff, it don’t just grow on trees!” She reached out and snatched the chipped glass out of his hand, slamming it behind the counter. “You’d better conjure up some money or your soft arse is out in the cold.”

Cafrin overheard the man saying that he couldn't pay and threw the money to him. "Here, it's on me." She called out, feeling like she knew the man. She had been looking for the Doctor, but that couldn't have been the man sitting across from her.

((I am sorry, but I recently switched doctors. If you still want to be a companion, the 5th doctor is still open. I am so, SO sorry.))