03 July 2006 @ 02:20 pm
 
[OOM: When the smoke clears at Gruinard Island, there's an assessment to be done.]
 
 
28 June 2006 @ 01:52 am
 
[OOM for the Island of Gratuitous Mayhem plot:

First, quite naturally, Harry Wells marshalled his forces in the Bar. This thread millitimed to the evening of the 27th of June or so.

Then, our heroes arrived in Scotland, where they had some animal encounters to deal with. Nothing says love like talking a dolphin out of homicide.

Upon landing at Gruinard Island, Cooper took off to accomplish as much of the mission as he could without endangering the others. Unfortunately, this did NOT go smoothly, and he had to call for help.

Cue mayhem. Includes: animal violence, human-on-human violence, and a distinctly disquieting method of taking down a werewolf.

And now....]


Some minutes after the door opened to let them go, the door opens to re-admit a crowd of people looking somewhat the worse for wear. One in particular looks a lot the worse for wear; Wells is semiconscious at best, leaning heavily on Cooper in an effort to get to the infirmary before he falls over on his face.
 
 
Wells comes down the stairs with a slim black case and a rather larger one done in dull matte olive. He stashes both of these at an easily visible table before tacking up a sign on the message board:

Will all those who volunteered their assistance to Sgt. Harry Wells please see him this evening about the mission to his world?

He signs it, nods once in satisfaction, and goes back to his seat.





(OOC: Gathering-in post for the Island of Gratuitous Mayhem plot people, but he's open for RP with other people while he waits.)
 
 
30 May 2006 @ 10:39 am
 
Wells has been up since a little before dawn, as usual for him. Annie, he figures, will be down later. For now he's got a notice to stick up on the board:

Those of you who're coming with Harry Wells to Gruinard Island- I've got the mission briefings and group assignments ready. We need to go over logistics and capabilities before anyone goes anywhere.

The squad assignments are listed (as per this post), and the note is signed 'Harry Wells'. He's not going to call himself a sergeant when attacking a British military installation is on the menu, thanks.

That having been done, it's time for breakfast.
 
 
26 May 2006 @ 10:42 am
 
It's been a long time since Harry's had to consider things like the fit of gas-masks or the packaging of emergency medicines. First-aid kits, sure, but first-aid kits won't do you much good if the air vents stop bringing in good clean sea air and start bringing in the latest stuff out of Porton Down. Best to block it before it gets to you, but if that doesn't work, you've got to get the counter-agent as quick as you can.
( Here we stand and here we fall / History won't care at all )
They didn't have to do this in Bosnia. Damn, he never thought he'd be nostalgic for that mud-heap.
( Lay the bed / light the light / Lady Mercy won't be home tonight )
Wells puts that aside for now, though. The planning's going down nicely. There'll have to be drills for some of it, to be certain- spells are nice but the masks give him more peace of mind, and no one ever gets them right on the first try. That'll come soon, and then, it's off to Scotland.

[OOC: Those of you who're participating in the Island of Gratuitous Mayhem plot, the pre-play post can be found here.]
 
 
25 May 2006 @ 10:43 pm
 
Running cleared his head, and talking with his wife cleared up a few other things. Wells is back in the Bar now, going over a name roster and scowling somewhat. He's neglecting his beer, too. That's how distracted he is.

Makes a good target, maybe. Or not. You never know with these ex-military guys.
 
 
24 May 2006 @ 09:49 pm
 
Wesley Wyndham-Pryce is sitting in one of the booths, studying a large piece of paper sealed in plastic. The paper is covered in strange texts, cryptic phrases, and a handful of chemical compounds, and Wesley is looking at it with the sort of expression one would expect to find on the face of an athlete just before a big game.

Sergeant Wells and his team are going to need protective amulets during their raid on Gruinard Island, and with the help of a certain dwarf and his forge, Wesley is planning to make them tonight. Of course, the thought's crossed his mind that he will be asking the aid of deities who might, in fact, be in the bar. Perhaps he could just ask?

Oh, yes, he thinks. Just wait for Hecate to drop by, walk up to her table, buy her a Cosmopolitan, and then ask if she would be so kind as to bless. my. amulets.

He shakes his head and makes a note to headdesk at himself once the amulets are done.

Fortunately, it's right about then that he sees the dwarven smith in question.

[Edit: not plot-locked, bother at will!]
 
 
24 May 2006 @ 08:44 pm
 
Wells slips into the Bar from upstairs, pausing at the bar only to pick up dinner and his usual pint of Bass. There's no one at the booth he likes, so he appropriates the table, sets the folder marked GRUINARD ISLAND down nearby, and starts in on dinner. He'll go over the plans later; there's some stuff in there he really doesn't want to try to read while eating.
 
 
24 May 2006 @ 02:31 pm
 
Annie is still sleeping, inside. She has good reason to be tired. Harry Wells, for his part, has about given up on being tired when he ought, hurting when he ought. He's had two years of the altered metabolism now. Fatigue toxins pass out of the werewolf's body quickly, after surprisingly little sleep. Injuries heal swiftly, whether in or out of the wolf-shape. Oh, if a bullet hits him twenty-five nights out of twenty-eight, it'll do damage and leave him bleeding quite a long while- but that won't last. Twenty-four hours later, there won't even be a mark. He found that out the hard way, six months back. (It left him wondering, as he prodded at the unmarred skin under the bloody bandage, whether he'd really killed Megan with that gunshot after all. Likely not. The explosion, now, that was another story.)

That was traumatic injuries and the weariness that comes after desperate flight. Yesterday's weariness stood no chance at all, by comparison.

So: he's awake. He has plans to make, but he's been making those for two days now and there's still time lying ahead of him to work them out in. He has people to gather, but they're not awake yet, and he won't stir them from their slumbers 'til they are. They 're not his men, after all. He's got no call and no reason to get them on their feet so early. Today it's just him, and the Bar, and an island back home and his thoughts of it.

He's out back right now, by the football pitch, with a number of poles he got from the Bar under one arm. The pitch was marked out to a hundred meters long by eighty meters wide. It's not that hard to measure out the rest of the distances and jam a pole in the ground every twenty meters or so. That'll do for a track, for now at least. If someone else is interested, fine. If not, no harm done.

A hundred meters and ten seconds were all he needed back when all he had to do was make it out the Door alive in Zuko's company. Now there's a mission, and there'll be people under his command again. It won't just be his life at stake, but theirs. And others; for all their sakes, whatever else might eventually happen, he's got to finish the mission. What happens after that he doesn't know. Probably there'll be silver involved. He can just about accept that.

But dammit, he wants to do a four-minute mile before he goes.
 
 
23 May 2006 @ 08:41 pm
 
Wells has decided he likes the booth a few away from the Observation Window best. It gives a decent view of the patrons, and it's not too far for his trips to the Bar for refills- those can't be helped, thanks to the wait-rats' attitudes. Might as well minimize them where he can, especially since tonight he's going over his plans again- photographs, floor plans, detailed lists of research projects- and writing down, or crossing out, names.
 
 
22 May 2006 @ 09:30 pm
 
There's a John Preston in the bar.

Flipping through a Librian Textbook, 2020-2035. Feel free to break him out of his revere, or point at some of the Textbook's details.

Everything's pretty much orwellian.
 
 
20 May 2006 @ 09:25 pm
 
Harry Wells is in the Bar tonight, settled in at one of the booths with a great many papers and several manila envelopes. He's had dinner, and he's got beer, but he's not paying much attention to it. The black-and-white aerial photographs he's going over are an entirely different story.
 
 
19 May 2006 @ 09:35 am
 
Lando at the Bar, relaxing. Say hi.

[ooc: millitimed to before the casinoplot]
 
 
12 May 2006 @ 09:42 am
 
The door opens, and in comes a man in a tuxedo. It's a very different look for him, isn't it.

"I don't believe it...he has a door to here. I bet he comes here all the time. Lousy stinking rich guy." As Knox already has a cocktail, he just takes a seat for a while.
 
 
11 May 2006 @ 10:39 pm
 
*Andrew's sitting at the bar, chewing on the end of his pen and contemplating the few sheets of blank paper before him. A few crumpled-up efforts litter the bartop nearby.*

*The top sheet currently has nothing written on it except one line at the top:
Dear Sir Alanna.*