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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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"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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