milliways_bar | (no subject)

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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.]

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

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."

"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."

"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?"

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

"Impossible."

He looks down at his hands, flexing and curling and flexing the fingers.

"I'd know."

"Maybe you do not know, after all." Slightly amused tone.

"I would fucking know." The tone brooks no argument. "For one thing, there'd be a hell of a lot more hair."

He glances the rest of the way down; there's a hell of a lot of dark stain on his uniform, holes in places, and other signs that this has not been the best night of Sergeant Wells' life. A quick pat-down indicates that he still has his sidearm, which seems to reassure him somewhat.

And then the reassurance goes away as something occurs to him.

"Ryan. Shit. Shit! That bastard did this, didn't he?"

"I dont know anyone named Ryan. why you think he sent you here?"

"Because the son of a bitch outranks me and gave the order to use me and my men as bait for a pack of fucking werewolves, that's why!"

His hands aren't flexing any more, but curling into fists.

"Werewolves? I see..." She uses her best 'sure, and I am the queen of the england' tone. Why? Because she has been too nice lately. Time to be evil.

Evil, schmevil. Wells is currently pretty pissed off, and therefore does not much care.

"Look, miss- whatever your name is- I've had just about enough of this conversation. I have been clawed open, taped together, shot at, blown up, and cornered in the bloody khazi today. I've seen men die who I'd have gladly given my right arm for. I shot a woman between the eyes for threatening the last man of my squad left standing. I don't know who you are, and I don't bloody well care. If this is really some random bar, then someone hauled me here as a joke, and if it's not, then Special Weapons is going balls-to-the-wall after their latest experiment. Either way, I want a goddamned beer. I've fucking earned it."

With that, he turns and stalks towards what looks to him like the most logical place to procure alcohol- the bar.

Serena smirks, and follows him...

He stops, mid-stride.

"Don't do that," he says very evenly.

"Do, what?" All perfect innocence...

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, and instead sticks up two fingers at her before resuming his course towards a decent pint.

Very well, she watches him... it will be fun.

The set of his shoulders bespeaks a world of 'I am ignoring you', despite the shoulders in question having been badly scorched. 'Having been' is the operative word; while the clothing is burned and torn and stained, what's visible doesn't give the appearance of charred flesh.

"There a barkeep about?" he calls, leaning over the bar a ways to look for anyone who might be inclined to take a drink order.

Serena decides to be less evil... gliding over to the bar, touching the surface. "A pint of ale for the gentleman, and my usual, please..." And drinks appear.

Wells' expression doesn't change.

"... Special Weapons and Q Division," he mutters. "Bloody lovely."

He nevertheless reaches for the glass, sniffing at it carefully before deciding to attempt a taste.

High-quality strong brew, cooled to perfection. Bar serves only the best.

The woman sips her mug of steaming beverage...

He's not looking anywhere at the moment. The man really needed that drink.

Eventually, when he puts the glass down, he glances over at the woman. "Thanks for that, at least," he mutters.

"You are welcome." She smiles a genuine natural smile. "I am Serena."

Somehow he didn't expect a last name from her anyway.

"So just exactly-" He picks up the mug and takes another sip. "-exactly where is this Milliways place, anyway? And d'you happen to know how the footy went?"

"Milliways is a pocket of reality, outside normal space and time. Portals open from here, to different worlds and epochs, and people find their way in."