(no subject)

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

On the other side of the door, there was an explosion.

Well, there was always an explosion somewhere on the other side of the door, but this particular one was in Scotland, and it was the kind of thing that scours the landscape clean. And it was also the kind of thing that resulted in the door coming open in a burst of heat and light and gas smell, which was good, because otherwise the man in military fatigues would have been thrown into the door, rather than through it.

The Milliways door closes. The man stays where he is in a smoking heap.

[OOC: I've got a meeting about a web site now but should be back sometime in the next half hour to an hour. Tag if you like- I'll respond when I get back. Back now.]

Comments

[mortisbelle.livejournal.com]

The vampire startles a bit, but quickly moves over, kneeling and examining the man, carefully.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

He looks- and smells, to put it bluntly- as if he's been at ground zero of a gas-fueled explosion. The burns are mostly on his back and legs, but you know how these things go.

He makes an unpleasant noise, and coughs.

[mortisbelle.livejournal.com]

"Do not move..." The vampire concentrates, and the man is lifted off the floor, and moved towards the infirmary... why, floating, yes.

(shall I open a thread there?)

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

(Don't bother.)

Abruptly the man kicks out, attempting to push himself upright in mid-lift. "What the fuck?!" he yells. "Gerroff!"

[mortisbelle.livejournal.com]

Serena raises a brow... oh, well, less wasted vitae, she cuts off Movement of the Mind, and lets the man drop, from maybe a foot height. "As you wish."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

"Agh, fuck!" swears the man as he hits. He lies absolutely still for a moment, face wreathed in a grimace; then, slowly, he props himself up on both hands. "The hell was that? ... and where am I?"

[mortisbelle.livejournal.com]

"I was taking you to the infirmary." The pale woman in sweater and trousers watches him. "Who are you?"

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

"Gnnnh..." He lifts up a hand to gingerly feel the back of his neck. "Sergeant Harry Wells, Light Infantry... fuck, can't remember my bloody serial number just at the moment..."

He flexes the arm experimentally, peering at the back of his arm as best he can through the holes in the fabric. There's still some uniform holding together.

"... what base is this?"

[mortisbelle.livejournal.com]

"This is not a base, this is Milliways bar. You just fell thru the door."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

He gives the woman a long look.

"Look, miss, the last thing I remember, I was in a farmhouse in the middle of some godforsaken Scottish glen fifty fucking miles from anything whatsoever. Possibly further. Unless you're trying to tell me that there was enough gas from that cooker-line to make an explosion bigger than Zabriskie Point, there's no fucking way I could've been blown through the door of anything but the barn." He coughs. "And that... I'd've been in pieces by then."

[mortisbelle.livejournal.com]

"Look around yourself. This is a bar; you fell in. Now, I suggest that instead of protesting the unusual state of your situation, you procure medical treatment."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

"Unusual state of-" He gives a laugh, a harsh, dry sound, and comes to his feet. "You have no idea about the unusual state of my situation, miss."

He flexes his shoulders a bit, then rolls them backwards and forwards to test the range of movement. There's only a little grimacing this time.

"What I want to know is, how long've I been unconscious?"

[mortisbelle.livejournal.com]

"No longer than a minute." The woman rises, and takes a step back.

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

Preston, having been outside-freezes.

No..

Impossible. It looked like-
no-


Father wouldn't dare have been caught-like that.

There's a Cleric.
He might be staring, hesitating, trying to think of something to do.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Wells is, for varying reasons, not in the best of moods right now. He turns on one heel and face the man staring at him.

"What?" he snaps. "And this had better be good."

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

It could just be a trick.

He goes for his guns to find-
They're not there. Or if they were they'd be totally useless if it were father because-

The bokken is still in his hands.

In a side-swipe, dangerous only if this blade had an edge, Preston brought the weapon up to the man's neck. Poised to do a pretty good wack if needed.

"....A different appearance, a different tone of voice, but you're still father." Preston's voice is edged with steel.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

He stares. He's too shocked even to flinch.

Of all the possible answer that ever could have been given, that was... probably last on the list.

"...you're too old to be mine," he says, unable to think of anything else.

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

The blade remains steady, "Yours? Never yours. I'm not your puppet anymore. Not your slave-not your soldier. Whatever this new game of yours is-dressing up like a pre-librian soldier and attempting a different form of infiltration?"

Preston's gaze remains deadly, "It's. not. going. to. work."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Wells says, staring at the man.

About now it occurs to him that he should probably look at the weapon a little more closely.

"And what the fuck is that about?" he asks, pointing at the bokken. "Shove off, will you? I need a drink."

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

Preston lowers the sword, a half inch, "This is a-Practice sword."
Father would know it on sight right?


Preston removes it, flipping it backwards.

".....you're not-"

Cue Embarassed Cleric.
Cue Cleric connecting...Some dots.

".......Oh."
Hesitating he bows, "My apologies sir....you must be new."

And obviously not a super overlord.

In haste to make amends,Preston points, "Bar is there." He pointed, "The first drink and...or item is on the house."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Wells looks left, and looks right, and looks back at the man in front of him. "No," he says, "I'm not. Whoever you're looking for, I'm not. You with Special Forces too, or something? This what you bastards planned to do with the specimens once my boys were finished dying?"

He's really not in a good mood. At all. As he warily watches Preston, one hand comes up to scratch at his opposite shoulder. The motion reveals burn-edged holes down the back of his uniform shirt's arm. Come to think of it, he's got a huge bloodstain down most of the front of his shirt, too.

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

Preston's eyes lower, but then he frowns "What? I'm not-..I'm not with This-special forces or whatever you call it." His tone is almost distainful, arrogant as he says, his tone a little light, "I am Cleric John Preston of the Tetragrammaton."

Okay. This fellow is definately not Father.
As evidenced by his appearance.

"Do you need medical attention?" Preston's studying the wounds curiously, "There are several doctors here."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Wells grunts. "Never heard of 'em," he says. "D'you always go around accusing strangers of bein' your dad?"

He drops his hand. "Medic? Nah, not likely, it's all healed up. Though if you lot've got any spares to hand I could do with a new uniform. This one's been to Hell and halfway back."

[fathers-cleric.livejournal.com]

"He's not my father." Preston said savagely, "He's my leader."

Easiest way to explain it.

Upon the man's second question however; Preston shrugs out of his coat, offering it to this-not...father. person.

"It was rather chilly outside despite my practice." He said, "That should help you."

He's still...new on the whole...greeting people inna bar thing.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

... riiiiight.

"So long as y'don't mean pack leader, I don't care if he's your bloody proctologist," says Wells, accepting the coat with some care. "But thanks."

He shrugs the coat on, and then offers one smoke-stained, bloodied hand for the shaking. "Sergeant Harry Wells, Light Infantry."