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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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."

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.

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.

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."

"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."

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."

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.

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."

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."

"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.

... 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."

Preston eyes the hand, but accepts it, "-Cleric John Preston."

He's beginning to think that the "proctologist" comment might be another one of those metaphors that strange kiddo woman spoke to him about.

"Light infirmary?"

Wells gives it a good firm shake before letting go. "Infantry," he corrects. "My division. You can't tell me the Americans don't name theirs- I fought alongside some of yours in Iraq-"

He coughs, grimacing. It's not the sound of illness, but of smoke inhalation.

"Mind if I sit?"

Preston blinks, "Please-" Preston gestures to a nearby table and takes a seat himself, "You look like you could use a seat."

Cue Knack for stating the blatently obvious.

Preston's eyebrows raise at the first comment, and his eyes go wide at the second, "....You fought in the Gulf War-"

He's on the verge of saying wars but he holds back.

"Impressive."

Wells drops gracelessly into the opposite chair, wincing just a little bit. His back might be healed, but it's still a little sore. "Yeah, I did," he says. "Hell's own sandbox. Been stationed in England since then, though."

"....England..."

Lightbulb goes on. England. Former part of Europe. Now suburb of Entropia. Enemy of the state of Libria.

Wells might or might not notice the hesitation there. then again Preston moves on to another topic.

"So you are-what they call-career military?" Preston is curious, "Were you in the middle of a military action just now?"

You know, the whole smoking and blood thing.

"Well- Scotland lately, but-" He nods. "Yeah. Signed on as soon as they'd take me, been in the Army my whole life since then."

He glances towards the door, expression rapidly shooting past sour and into utter darkness. "I was in the middle of a fucking nightmare, is where I was," he mutters. "We were on a training exercise..."

"....An excercise that was not successful?"

Preston has seen his share of these.

"Such is the lot in life for one who serves." Preston said, almost sounding like Partridge, "Ours is not to question why, ours is but to do or die."

He heard that somewhere.

Wells' eyes narrow at that. "That had better've been sarcasm, cleric," he says, and the tone of voice he uses for the title is the one other men reserve for words like crack whore. "I had five men under my command when we set foot in that forest- good, solid men I'd known for years- and they sold us into that bastard Ryan's hands like we were sheep and he was a Scotsman. Bait, is what we were- fucking bait- so don't you try feeding me that shite, all right?"

Preston's eyes go dead, "....I'm sorry."

And he is sorry, and that scares him. He's just met this fellow and he's thinking about the thousands-thousands-of others that he's known, taken out by offenders or during his monestary training-just names-no carrying.

"You cared about them."

And there's envy in his voice, "These are men you'd trained with? Studied with and ultimately fought with?"

Wells' gaze is down-pointed for a while, his thumb against the bridge of his nose. Eventually, he says, "Never mind. Y'didn't know."

"And I did, yeah; they were good lads, the lot of 'em. I've known some of them for years. Never saw combat, any of them, not even Spoon... and now this. I'd've given myself up for any of them in a heartbeat if I thought it'd do any good."

"....Half of the class that I started my training with is dead." Preston said, "....Sixty Candidates chosen to become Clerics, Twenty of them make it into the monestary, Ten of them Graduate, Five of them make first Class Cleric."

He's never thought about his classmates before, "....It is a strange emotion, caring. Especially for a soldier."

Thinking that a change of subject might be good, Preston studies the door, silent.

Wells stares at Preston as if the other man has just grown a second head. "So, you're... what, some sort of police chaplains, then?" he ventures. "'Cos I can't think of anyone other than the Israeli defence forces with that kind of mortality rate for their chaplains."

As for the second part of it, he's caught momentarily without words again- but by the time he thinks of something that might be said, the other man is looking away. Wells knows enough to give him his silence, and so turns in the opposite direction-

"... fucking hell."

He's just seen the Window.

Preston turns, noting the window, "....Isn't it incredible?"

There are more questions he'd like to ask-for instance-"What's a chaplin?" but that can wait.

"I dunno," says Wells hoarsely. "What is it?"

He wouldn't be able to look away if you paid him.