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 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.

"...i'm told it's the universe ending." Preston says, studying the window.

"Sort of like getting slapped in the face, proof positive that we're not in our own worlds anymore." Preston's voice is cheerful now.

"No wonder it stopped," Wells says, unable to help himself. "There's no moon left. Jesus Christ. There's no fuckin' moon..."

"I'm sorry?" Preston's face is quizzical, "...What about the moon now?"

"Nothing. Never mind." He shakes his head sharply and forces himself to turn away. "I could do with a drink, though."

Preston, sensing that he's caused some kind of offense, nods once, "...What would you prefer?"

Consider this on Preston's tab.

Flagging down a passing waitrat, Preston says, "Green tea for me-and for the gentleman-"

"I could do with a Guinness," says Wells. Then: "Oh, don't tell me Disney runs this place."

"...Disney? the conglomerate?" Preston frowned, "....I can't recall that they have a stake in this place it just-well-it just is. I've never thought to ask about the rats."

Preston frowns, "They were notorious for seeming to own everything though weren't they?"

Disney of Preston's world extremely different, most likely, mebbe.

"You hear jokes about the Rat, but I never thought... never mind." He shakes his head. "I'll ask later."

He leans across the table.

"Now, if y'don't mind... what's this about the end of the universe? Am I dead after all? You and that woman who tried to levitate my arse make a pretty poor substitute for Saint Peter."

Preston frowns, "....no. This is a different-"

He considers this.

"This place-I suppose is connected to numerous worlds." Preston said finally, "Some kind of-crossroads. A meeting-place for people from different worlds."

"For example, In my world-"
A swallow.

"In my world, a man who could very nearly be your identical twin has set up an almost orwellian dictatorship that rules over people with an iron fist, controlling the populace with drugs." He likes that word, orwellian, "The Clerics function as Secret police, enforcing his orders and carrying out the continuation of Father's teaching."

Best way to talk about something is to just get it out in the open.

"....."

Preston blinks.

"I beg your pardon?"

The very obvious fact is, that he's never heard that expression before.

"....no...I'm not-shitting you..." Preston winces at the words, "I kill people. I'm very very good at killing people for Father. There are people who are better then me however. far better. I've seen-"

Well, the things that Preston's seen in Milliways. One could write a book.

"All kinds. People with magical abilities." He nods, perfectly serious.

And this is Clerical Serious.
This is the kind of serious that people see before Preston shoots them normally.

Wells sighs. "Don't try to swear, lad, you haven't had the practice. No matter what they've got you doing."

The wait-rat arrives, and he takes his drink; it's dark as coffee, but there's a thick layer of foam on top, and close enough, one would smell the alcohol for sure.

"Magic, huh? There's a surprise," he says dryly. "You sure this place isn't being run by Special Weapons Division after all?"

Preston shakes his head, "If there were any government involved I'd know." He's pretty sure of that, "This place just...Is."

Preston's nearly gagging off the alcoholic taste, "....That's certainly-strong stuff."
He winces. Obviously not used to it, buring his face in his green tea.

Not-literally of course.

"Mmh. All right." He relaxes a bit; there's still the possibility that this could be some sort of analogue of the Village, but right now he's not entirely sure he cares.

"What, this?" Wells looks at his glass. "Hardly. Don't tell me Big Daddy's outlawed alcohol, too? You poor, poor bastard- even Winston Smith got his gin..."