The Bar at the End of the Universe

Wells comes down the stairs with a slim black case and a rather larger one done in dull matte olive. He stashes both of these at an easily visible table before tacking up a sign on the message board:

Will all those who volunteered their assistance to Sgt. Harry Wells please see him this evening about the mission to his world?

He signs it, nods once in satisfaction, and goes back to his seat.





(OOC: Gathering-in post for the Island of Gratuitous Mayhem plot people, but he's open for RP with other people while he waits.)

It's been a long time since Harry's had to consider things like the fit of gas-masks or the packaging of emergency medicines. First-aid kits, sure, but first-aid kits won't do you much good if the air vents stop bringing in good clean sea air and start bringing in the latest stuff out of Porton Down. Best to block it before it gets to you, but if that doesn't work, you've got to get the counter-agent as quick as you can.
( Here we stand and here we fall / History won't care at all )
They didn't have to do this in Bosnia. Damn, he never thought he'd be nostalgic for that mud-heap.
( Lay the bed / light the light / Lady Mercy won't be home tonight )
Wells puts that aside for now, though. The planning's going down nicely. There'll have to be drills for some of it, to be certain- spells are nice but the masks give him more peace of mind, and no one ever gets them right on the first try. That'll come soon, and then, it's off to Scotland.

[OOC: Those of you who're participating in the Island of Gratuitous Mayhem plot, the pre-play post can be found here.]

Annie is still sleeping, inside. She has good reason to be tired. Harry Wells, for his part, has about given up on being tired when he ought, hurting when he ought. He's had two years of the altered metabolism now. Fatigue toxins pass out of the werewolf's body quickly, after surprisingly little sleep. Injuries heal swiftly, whether in or out of the wolf-shape. Oh, if a bullet hits him twenty-five nights out of twenty-eight, it'll do damage and leave him bleeding quite a long while- but that won't last. Twenty-four hours later, there won't even be a mark. He found that out the hard way, six months back. (It left him wondering, as he prodded at the unmarred skin under the bloody bandage, whether he'd really killed Megan with that gunshot after all. Likely not. The explosion, now, that was another story.)

That was traumatic injuries and the weariness that comes after desperate flight. Yesterday's weariness stood no chance at all, by comparison.

So: he's awake. He has plans to make, but he's been making those for two days now and there's still time lying ahead of him to work them out in. He has people to gather, but they're not awake yet, and he won't stir them from their slumbers 'til they are. They 're not his men, after all. He's got no call and no reason to get them on their feet so early. Today it's just him, and the Bar, and an island back home and his thoughts of it.

He's out back right now, by the football pitch, with a number of poles he got from the Bar under one arm. The pitch was marked out to a hundred meters long by eighty meters wide. It's not that hard to measure out the rest of the distances and jam a pole in the ground every twenty meters or so. That'll do for a track, for now at least. If someone else is interested, fine. If not, no harm done.

A hundred meters and ten seconds were all he needed back when all he had to do was make it out the Door alive in Zuko's company. Now there's a mission, and there'll be people under his command again. It won't just be his life at stake, but theirs. And others; for all their sakes, whatever else might eventually happen, he's got to finish the mission. What happens after that he doesn't know. Probably there'll be silver involved. He can just about accept that.

But dammit, he wants to do a four-minute mile before he goes.