milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

John's at the bar, eating a bowl of cereal--Count Chocula, to be specific. It might seem a little juvenile, but on his world, you can't get it anymore. Plus, cereal and milk aren't exactly standard issue for MREs. He'll enjoy Bar's hospitality when he can take it, really.

He's got a book sitting by his elbow on the effects of combat on the human mind. It's important to stay informed. Botherable!

[Tiny Tags: Dr. John Vattic, Cpl. Adrian Shepherd, USMC]

(This is still his self from the past; he won't be around the bar much longer, so feel free to tag.)

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The book gets a curious look from the fellow in fatigues as he maneuvers towards a seat of his own, massively oversized sandwich in hand. Technically, Shephard probably ought to be wearing dress blues- the Marines are supposed to wear their dress uniforms whenever they go off base- but he figures that as long as the front door leads back to White Forest, this is still technically on base. Even if it's not a Marine base.

Anyway. Book looks interesting, and nobody ever got it through to Shephard that reading over people's shoulders was bad form.

John smiles when he sees the Marine reading over his shoulder. "Sound interesting?"

"Ain't really my thing, but it's interesting t'see what the eggheads're seein' out there," says Shephard. "This your normal breakfast readin' material?"

"Not exactly," John confesses after another spoonful filled with more chocolate than is healthy. "It's not usually as relevant to my life."

Shephard grunts. "New assignment, huh? Which side of it you on?"

(To him it's a perfectly sensible question. He means: are you a psychologist who has to treat people who've gone into combat, or have you been fighting and want to know what's going on in your own head. Adrian being Adrian, he feels no great need to explain.)

"Uh. In what sense, exactly?" John's a little slow on the ol' up-take sometimes.

"You been in the trenches, or you one of the shrinks?" Shephard clarifies. "Or you got a relative or somethin' who's been out there?"

"...both of the first group," John admits with a wry smile.

Shephard considers this, looking the man over; then he nods. "Guess I can see that," he says. "Takin' a little unauthorized furlough when you can get it, huh?"

"A little, yeah," John says. "Siberia."

He's obviously green; the awkward tone creeping into his voice at dealing with the military is obvious. But he's got potential.

(A lot of potential.)

That earns a low whistle. "Shit. That's bad territory." Shephard shakes hsi head and reassesses the man in front of him... well, whatever happens, it's gonna be interesting. "Mind if I ask just when this shit's goin' down?"

"No kidding. Uh, February, 2001?" John offers.

Another grunt. "Guessin' it ain't my universe, I don't recall hearin' bout any U.S. military action in Siberia back then," he says. "Name's Shephard, by the way. Corporal Shephard."

"Dr. John Vattic--pleased to meet you." He offers a hand. "And I doubt you would have anyway; it's highly classified. Codename WinterICE."

"Probably not," Shephard agrees. "Didn't have much of a clearance. Guessin' you ain't at liberty to talk about it, huh?"

"I really don't know, honestly. It's been sort of a whirlwind; I was called in as an expert, and then the next thing I know, I'm getting Basic Training and being sent in as part of an elite Special Ops unit in the middle of Tyumen Oblast." John shrugs. "That's not any of the mission-critical information, by the way, so regardless I'm safe."

Shephard nods. "Must be a hell of a mission. It ain't often they just grab civilians 'n stick 'em in with the rest of us."

"Yeah," John agrees. "Russian snipers everywhere, despite what the DoD might say about them being our allies."

Something in his gaze changes as he adds, "There's other things, too."

"... aww, Jesus fuck do not tell me you people've got Russian fuckers doin' top secret fuckin' research on goddamn aliens from another goddamn dimension, okay? One facility like that was bad enough!"

Remember that rueful smile from earlier? Yeah, it's back again in spades. "...not aliens." There's a sigh. "People, most likely, but that's what we're there to figure out."

"That's fine. People're fine. But not another bunch of fuckin' eggheads at the ass end of nowhere fuckin' around with aliens." He sounds very sure of that.

"Not really fine," John says, thinking of Mengele and all the other atrocities from World War II.

"Naw, see, what I mean is- they teach you to fight people in Basic, you know? Turns out your mission goes hot you've got men on hand who know how to take down humans. Fuckin' space oogieboogies- that's somethin' else, 'n I hope it don't never happen to you, 'cause it sure as fuckin' hell sucks ass."

"Oh, I see now. Okay, yeah. So it's not like the movies, then?" John shakes his head. "That's awful."

"Dunno what movies you're watchin'," says Shephard, whose tastes in science fiction run towards things like Alien Vs. Predator. "But shit yeah, 'awful''s about the right word for it."

"The ones where the aliens always have some fatal flaw that lets the humans win?" John shrugs. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's all right. We're pullin' our shit together'n goin' after them best we can. 's been sixteen years since the fuckers showed up, but hey- better late than never."

"Good," John answers emphatically, "and even though I might be going back to my world soon, I wish I could help."

"Yeah, well... you just stick with Siberia, all right? Last thing you need's a buncha fuckin' oogieboogies handing you your ass on a stick. At least with humans it's a fair fight."

"Yeah.

"All right."

Technically, Adrian's above him in this whole pecking order, so he figures he can't really question it.

Hey, you know, this is the funniest thing--

Suddenly, there's a little football-head a couple seats down, ordering a bowl of Sugar Chunk cereal.

It's twice as unhealthy without the benefit of chocolate flavor, if you're really wondering.

But the chocolate is the best part! Regardless, John gives a smile to his cereal-buddy.

"Great minds think alike, huh?"

Oh, hey, this guy has cereal too!

"Yeah, I guess so! There's no better pick-me-up than a bowl of cereal."

John laughs--kids. "Exactly."

"What kind d'you have?"

Arnold is always interested in expanding his cereal horizons.

"Count Chocula," John answers with a grin. "'I want to eat your cereal!'"

Arnold snickers. "Makes my Sugar Chunks seem mild in comparison."

"'Sugar Chunks'?" is John's dubious reply.

"Yeah, they're great. They've got real sugar!"

That gets another laugh. "As opposed to... fake sugar?"

"Well, yeah. You know, the stuff that has a really long name on the ingredients list and tastes gross?"

Of course he can tell the difference. He's a kid.

"Oh! Right, sorry. I don't see that in stuff a lot--it's in cereal?"

John's from a time when diet food is in its birth stages.

"Some cereal. Not this one, though."

Or else Arnold wouldn't be eating it by choice.

"Yeah, I figured. That's good, though. Only the best stuff." John gives him a smile before monching on a spoonful of his own cereal.

"Yep. It's so good that everybody at home eats it."

He means his literal house, not his home world. It's an important distinction to make in the bar, but Arnold tends to forget.

"Everybody?" John has a tough time believing that. "Even the 'old folks'?" He means people his age, of course.

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