milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[A Great Man Dies.. And John Preston is Brought back.]

....John Preston is in the bar.

That fact in and of itself shouldn't be strange. But he's been busy, and the Bar hasn't cared to show itself save for a few happenstance showings.

So Preston, Gun Drawn, Front splattered with Gore and Red, throws open the door-slams it shut-

And stares.

"...........Father Damn it all to-"

He whirls about-there's no time for Milliways now-he's got to go back, he's got things to do-

And the door vanishes.

One John Preston, in the bar, looking seriously like he wants to kick the door-that's-not-there in.

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"And I thought I was in a fucking awful mood today," Wells says from where he sits with his evening pint. "Who died, Preston?"

Preston can't hear you. He's too busy trying to hurt the wall. He raises a fist-then drops it. It wouldn't do any damn good anyway.

Growling to himself, Preston whirls about, dripping, and spots Wells.
"...Jurgen."
Point blank. No niceties. If there was ever a moment the man wanted to kick some serious tail, that time is now.

"Shit."

Sometimes that's all you need to say.

Preston drops his guns on the table with an unceremonious clank.

The man does not swear. Swear words went out when they finally evicted most of hollywood and when the MPAA and the RIAA closed their doors forever, but Preston-

He stands, coat still dripping gore, "...I can't be here. I have to go back. There are things that need to be ac-accomplished." Find the guy. Kill Him, "...They have no idea how to handle investigations back home, This has to happen now- I can't stay here-"

"Time's frozen out there, Preston. If the door's gone time's not gonna fucking move." wells stands away from the table. "Get a good deep breath into you and think, man- you can't do a blasted thing until that door comes back so you might as well use your fucking brain, all right?"

Preston's functioning on a level between KILL KILL KILL and OMG OMG OMG-the only thing keeping him from doing something stupid like turning the table over, grabbing his gun, and...shooting things being the knowledge that if Wells wanted to-he could probably turn him into a human pretzel.

There's a pause

Before Preston kicks over the chair closest to him, sending it skidding a few feet away. He then drops to his knees, clenching his fists at his sides.

Is he crying? Probably not safe to approach to confirm it.

This startles Max, who at this particular moment in millitime is sitting by himself drinking tabasco hot chocolate, and he turns his head, startled, and uprights the chair with a slight jerk of the head.

... Then, noticing the raw emotion of the situation, immediately starts looking at the papers again like he didn't do anything.

Nothing to see here.

Probably just as well. Wells was about to grab the chair before it hit anybody. Since it's not moving any more, he's got Preston to deal with instead.

Safe? Ha. There is quite literally nothing Preston can do that'll leave so much as a mark. He's not talking yet, though. He's just going to stand nearby, until Preston looks like he's about ready to surface.

Not like the man would even hear him at this point.

Preston raises his head, eyes wet. Now there's-well-shame. And the very real knowledge that he's covered in someone's inner workings.

Librians are so like children sometimes. Take the man sitting on the floor right now, completely oblivious to everything around him.

"....This is...awful."

No other words to describe it.

Drawing in a shaky breath, he puts a hand out to steady himself, ready to clamber to his feet.

"Gimme your hand, mate," Wells says quietly, holding out one of his own. "You don't need any more shit right now."

His experience with Jurgen's been extremely limited. He only met him the once, when the man was so dazed from his treatment at the hands of the interrogators that he kept mistaking Wells for Father. (Not that that was a real surprise- that was what he'd been there for.) But he's heard how Preston's talked about the man.

This really can't end well, whatever happens.

Preston accepts it, getting to his feet like a wooden puppet, or a leaden drone.

True, there's the brief flash of taking his pain out on somebody-but-Preston is a rational man.

Once on his feet, he looks ready to collapse again, "....He was my friend."

First Mary, Now Jurgen.

"I know, mate," says Wells. "I know."

Not much you can say at a time like that. The important thing's to get him calmed down to start with.

"No you don't." Preston pushes himself away, suddenly angered, "-You don't know-because you were never oppressed. Because you didn't have to-to-"

He waves a hand, "-You-"

Ah the frustration of not being able to express your feelings. Preston's knees look ready to buckle.

"I know what it's like to fucking well lose someone you'd've given your right goddamn arm for," Wells snaps. "That's not enough for you?"

Today has not been a good day for Wells' mood.

It might get worse.

Preston stares.

And continues to stare..before he grimaces, "...you don't understand-it-"

Preston grimaces, "-He wasn't just my friend-he was-"

"Maybe I understand, maybe I don't," Wells says. "But this is getting us nowhere, either way. Oi, you." He snaps his fingers and points at one of the startled waitrats. "Tea and a paper bag for him, and Guinness for me. We're gonna need it."

See Preston.
See Preston make his "Totally confused" face, "...What's the paper bag for?"

"At the rate you're going you're gonna either hyperventilate or fucking puke, ya poozer," Wells says bluntly. "You'll need the bag either way."

Preston stares quizzically, "...I'm not-"

Feeling sick to my stomache?

"-You're not a mind reader are you?" Preston can answer with a little bit more control now.

"Fuck no," says Wells. "I just know trauma."

"...He was my friend." Preston looks ready to collapse-suddenly aware of his state, "...It's too much. First Mary, and then-Everybody-"

A flailing moment, "...He kept talking about people being made Equal. He wanted us to unite as a people-as a race again-for the first time-who would kill a man like that?"

Wells grabs the overthrown chair. Without asking or being asked, he shoves it directly under Preston's rear end. "Sit," he orders. "Christ, your knees're about to give way."

He shakes his head. "Someone with a vested interest in the old order. Who else? Someone who wanted your country taken apart and left vulnerable to its enemies. God knows there's enough bastards like that out there."

Preston's affronted, but not coherent enough to say or do anything against the order. He obeys blindly. It's what he's good at.

"...We're not in my country." Preston shrugs out of his white jacket, dropping it unceremoniously on the table next to his weapons. Some waitrat somewhere is going to have a fit.

"I hate to break it to you, Preston, but that doesn't mean shit." Wells snatches the tray away from the arriving wait-rat and sets it down in front of the other man. "You're just as likely to have enemies foreign as domestic. Stop thinkin' like an idealist and think like an absolute bastard for once- who profits if you lot're thrown into chaos?"

The irony of this isn't lost on Preston. He laughs-it's a dry laugh. The kind of laugh that hasn't been used in a while. It might-well...It might just be a little unsettling.

"...It's..." too damn funny, "...The Resistence."

The irony being, that once upon a time Preston was the resistance.

It takes Wells a moment to figure out what Preston's saying. "So you've got counter-revolutionaries, then. Fucking wonderful."

"-No no-"

This is going to require more explination.

Preston sighs, "...In the third conflict, while Xylyx and Entropia were whiping out the United States with their collective Nuclear arsenal-the-Libria that was-" Preston searches for a way to explain, "...Experimented with viruses and diseases."

He is suddenly very embarassed by this, "...There was one in particular based off a virulent strain of AIDS. With a little Genetic Manipulation they were able to make people super fast and super strong. The Xylyxians called them Hemophages."

A pause. Preston studying Wells in all seriousness, "...Vampires."

Blink. Blink.

"You're absolutely certain it was hemophage and not hemovore?" he says tensely.

"...Hemophage." Preston says, "-Absolutely. It killed off more then half their population. Men, women, and children within two decades after father came to power."

"...What's a Hemovore?"

"A sort of vampiric thing from a very, very bad timeline," Wells says. "Wanted to make sure you hadn't gone down the road that led that way. Anyway, go on."

Preston raises a brow, but says nothing, "...From what I was told, these people weren't dangerous-except to other people. They're highly infectious. One scratch, one touch, and you're infected. Enhanced speed and strength with a metabolism that kills you from the inside out."

Preston's hand clenches into a fist, "....If-They were responsible-"

It should be noted Preston hasn't discussed how these people are being horribly oppressed.

"Ah," says Wells. There's been a sudden drop in his voice level; it's a lot calmer now. "Keep hold of that, Preston. The 'if'. Don't you dare charge off into this half-cocked and take down the wrong culprit."

"Who else could be?" Preston frowned at him, "-They're resistence. They have motive."

Preston is showing his um...sometimes juvenile nature.

"A lot of people have motive, Preston. Listen to a bastard, all right? I've seen revolution. You take out a dictator, you put summat up in his place- unless you take a lot of steps, the dictator's old chums're gonna be pretty fucking pissed. They'll come back- they always try. And if they're smart, they'll pin it on someone who'd give 'em trouble and give the new government every reasin in the world to kill off their enemies. Two kills with one bullet, you might say." He grimaces. "Don't lunge at the easy target. It's nearly enver that easy."

Cynicism is ugly, but in Wells' case it's hard-won over the course of a lifetime.

Preston stares, "...That's futile. They won't succeed. The Regime that replaced the old ways was ultimately superior.."

Wells snorts. "Fine. Fine. You keep telling yourself that. How about you go and explain it to them in person?"

"-I intend to." Preston says, missing the point completely, "...I mean, what you're saying is reasonable, but-"

He shakes his head, "...We're not in Libria. they're not in Xylyx."

Wells has been forced by his condition to become a master of self-restraint. This is good, because right now, he'd love nothing better than to smack the Grammaton Cleric and shout at him.

He'll settle for slamming his palms against the table and channeling all of that into one tightly focussed word:

"Preston."

Preston is not going to be dissuaded. Even by a friend, "-You don't understand."

"-It took us months to arrive at Xylyx. The last time Libria had diplomatic relations with Xylyx, we were still called the United States, and they were still called China." Preston's annoyed now, "-The political climate is different. There are no longer such things as alliances across continents-the possibility, of members of Father's Regime being in Xylyx is-is-Impossible!"

"How do you know that you haven't had a traitor in your midst?" says Wells. "Or how d'you know there's not a faction in this other country that really doesn't want you people strong again and found a way to get in a few words with your old guard when you weren't looking? Come on, Preston..."

He hates to do this. He really does.

"How long did I keep my inconceivable secret before you found out?"

Preston's fist clenches at his side again. If werewolves can sense attack(Or at least the chemical process that leads to the fight or flight response?) Preston might be preparing to do something.

He doesn't say anything.

"....Inconcievable."

Wells does something else he hates to do, but damn, it had a hell of an effect on him and his lads when Ryan did it.

He doesn't say anything. He just lifts one eyebrow fractionally and cants his head ever so slightly to the side. It's a mixture of were you going to say something else? and you know I'm right, don't you?, and from the inside, at least, it's enough to make the skin crawl.

It takes a hell of alot to unnerve a cleric.

Preston however does not acknowledge that Wells is staring him down. The man should play poker. He has an excellent Poker face.

Inside however, he's sweating. And trying to figure out what that expression means.

"....You're looking for a conspiracy where there isn't one." Preston said bluntly, "-It logically is the resistence. Pre-Librians-"

And there's a hint of that old Father-Made-Me-Superior Air, "...Are not known for thinking logically."

Two straight years of fugitiving will do that to a man.

Wells snorts. "That so?" he says. "Fine, then. Me, I thought it was the voice of fucking experience talking. I know betrayal when I smell it, Preston, and its smell is all over what you've told me. Good luck with your vengeance, but you need to remember- just 'cos it's logical doesn't necessarily mean it's the fucking truth."

With that he gets up and heads for the back door. The black mood of earlier is settling on him hard right now.

Preston isn't aware that he might have damaged whatever relationship he had with Wells.

Standing up, he frowns in the man's direction, but he's just too proud to admit that he might be right.

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