a gent of good intent who's content to be ( OPEN )

[checkingin]

Who: Everyone!
Where: The initial arrival rooms, the main lobby, all over the place.
When: March 3rd
What: Welcome, newbies.

ARRIVAL.

you wake up when you hit the floor in a dark room, and the air is knocked out of your lungs. the carpet is threadbare, worn with use, kind of dusty. and you're not the first person to endure this crash landing. nor will you be the last.

once your vision rights itself, you can see the well-lit hallway through the doorjam straight ahead of you. not to say there’s monsters in the shadows, but something propels you towards that door and out into the bright hallway beyond.

and once outside your room, you can hear it: the steady thrum of rain outside.

MAIN LOBBY.

there's a staircase at the end of the lengthy hallway you tumble out of. grab your suitcase and follow the dull green exit signs on the ceiling until you reach the disappointingly bland stairs that lead you down to the ornate old fashion hotel lobby.

to your left is a warmly crackling fireplace, to your right is a lobby desk. straight ahead are three large sets of doors, though only one of them is open to the public. and outside the few (curtained, permanently dark) windows is the continually steady hiss of rain. once you leave the hallway you wake up in, you won't be able to return.

welcome to the hotel.

FRONT DESK.

though there is a bell and a plaque designating the desk to be the main desk, the customer service desk, there are currently no staff members behind it. none shall answer your calls, either.

terribly sorry for the inconvenience.

SCREENING ROOM.

on a long pull-down screen, a silent version of the phantom carriage will be playing on loop. at the back of the room, between the neat rows of fold out chairs, mounted on a wobbly table is the old-timey projector, and mounted on the walls are some rather old speakers that warble out "terrifying" old music.

along the curtained windows is another long table, with a large bowl of popcorn and a large hot drink dispenser full of hot water, but without any tea or hot chocolate packets around.

OTHER.

the ballroom is currently closed, and the grand doors locked.

there is no main door leading to the outside, good luck trying to find one.

the doors to the courtyard and breakfast hall are unlocked, but looks like you've missed the morning meal. sucks for you.

ROOMS.

you've a room key with your assigned room number on it. all the new guest residences will be located on floors three and four. while there is an open elevator in the main lobby, and the buttons light up inside, the doors will not close. all in all, you'll be better off taking the stairs.

while they're the same stairs you undoubtedly came down to get to the lobby, the door to the endless hall everyone woke up in will not reappear between the main floor and the subsequent residential halls.

there are twenty rooms per floor. feel free to get to know your surroundings; or your neighbors as they trickle in around you.

EXISTING GUESTS.

it's late when the newcomers arrive, there's a good chance you'd been about to go to sleep (or just waking up, who knows, your mom's not here to tell you when to go to bed or get up). but if you're paying attention, you might hear the hustle and bustle in the lobby below; or maybe you're just drawn there because your gut told you to go join the commotion. whatever the case may be, go mingle!

Comments

Stairs

[youcantransform]

The lie is transparent if you know what you're really looking at. Harry's witnessed it a hundred times before, experienced it once or twice - the shallow breathing, the pale skin, the sheen of sweat. Hypovolemic, if he had to hazard a guess; anaphylaxis is generally quicker.

(This does knock a hole in his 'curiously bland afterlife' theory, if only because it doesn't seem like someone would arrive with the same wounds that brought them here. He himself certainly doesn't have the hole in his skull he was anticipating.)

"With respect, sir, I don't believe that's true."

He's standing a few steps below him on the staircase; it places them level. He enunciates carefully:

"I think you're going into shock, and I'd like to help you. Are you bleeding?"

Re: Stairs

[ingrantitude]

The moment comes. Are you bleeding. He could say no. He could lie and die here, just let his body be a footnote to an otherwise tragic life. It had it's moments. He'd done good things.

Tried to. Skye was still alive.

The simple fact was, lying here defeated ...he couldn't accept it. He wanted to weep, to rage, to gnash his teeth but it manifested in a feeling of if you're going through hell keep going.

How 80s motivational poster.

Grimacing he slumped on the landing, wincing.

"...That depends. Are you a doctor?"

Quiet. Polite. Well spoken. Ward is a trained observer. He's watching the other man like a hawk trying to figure out what his game is, strong? silent? Is he as proper english butler as he looks? Or something more?

[youcantransform]

English butler on a day off, perhaps: pale cardigan, no tie. Though he does give the impression of someone for whom this is dressing down.

Harry can't tell the truth (I've been dressing wounds in the field since before you were born or even if you're waiting for a doctor you might very well bleed to death first) so instead he elaborates slightly on the persona he's chosen.

"Army medic. Previously. At least let me see what I can do to get you stable, and then I can look for help."

[ooc: Just to coordinate this with Helen's thread, if Grant would let him, we could assume Harry does exactly that and then goes looking for her? Since he's encountered her in an earlier thread anyway. She can find Grant before Harry finds her.]

[ingrantitude]

[ooc: That sounds fantastic. You guys are both great and that solves a lot of Ward's issues. So he'll go get that.]

Army Medic. Ward nods mutely.

He slumps, head pressed to the stairs and pulls a hand through his hair. If he was HYDRA...he would have killed him by now. And if he were SHIELD...he couldn't be SHIELD. Coulson couldn't have gotten anyone else there fast enough.

Picture a stray dog watching someone from underneath a dumpster. Hungry, half starved and hurt.

"...I've been shot." He pauses, "Four times."

He grimaces, "I think only two went in though."

Just survive. Nothing else. Nothing more, nothing less.

[youcantransform]

"Best to find out for sure." He rolls up his sleeves, then reaches for the zipper on the man's jacket. "May I?"

It says something that he knows he's been shot and isn't actually trying to do anything about it himself. No pressure to the wounds, no sign of field dressings that he can see - he can't even place an accurate number on how many injuries he has. Either his shock has progressed to the stage of such disorientation that he can't help himself (which Harry doesn't think is so, and if it is - well, he's a universal donor but he doubts anyone has the equipment here for a transfusion) or...

Well. He has a degree of sympathy, in this moment, for someone who would just decide it was time to stop.

If he doesn't encounter any resistance he'll open the man's jacket and start a quick, efficient check for the presence and location of his wounds.

[ingrantitude]

Stop. Stopping sounds nice. He's glaring ahead and refusing to move, just keeping himself going.

Ward will allow him to work, lying back. Most of the wounds are to his right, under his arm. One of them has gone deep. The second is embedded in the skin, visible.

The rest is all about bruises. The kind you'd get under a kevlar vest.]

How bad is it doc.

[youcantransform]

"You have two bullet wounds. One is - reasonably superficial, the other isn't."

He doesn't tell him he'll be alright, not when he doesn't know if it's true.

Even if he had the proper equipment on hand, he wouldn't try to dig out either bullet. He's bleeding but he doesn't seem to be hemorrhaging, and he won't take the risk of changing that. It's likely the damned thing is preventing as much damage as it's causing.

"I'm going to tie your jacket around you." Knotting the sleeves to put pressure on the wound. It'll buy him a little time, if nothing else. Fortunately he already knows there's at least one medical professional under this roof.

He takes the man's wrist and presses it to the knot.

"Press down on that as hard as you can."

[ingrantitude]

Ward does as he's told, staring straight ahead, "...What are my chances?" Talking helps against the pain. He knows that much. Senses that much, feels that much, "...Honestly?"

He doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry at this point. Two shots! Had he really expected it to go that differently? Had he really? Two shots! He couldn't have worn a bullet proof vest, that would have given the game away but the enemy...the enemy shot him in the back.

The cry of pain is involuntary. The noise of something breaking isn't his heart. He'll deny that to his dying day and write it in the big book of sins. I'm Agent Grant Ward, consummate liar. I have never loved anyone at all.

"...sorry."

[youcantransform]

"Nonsense," Harry says softly, dismissing the apology. "You're in pain. It helps to express it."

He squeezes the man's shoulder lightly. "I can't give you a prognosis. I simply don't know enough. But I did run into a doctor earlier - I'll go now and bring her back here..."

After a moment's though, he shucks off his cardigan and drapes it over the man's shoulders. It's a large, heavy garment, and if it has the slightest effect in keeping his temperature from dipping any further then it'll have been put to worthy use.

"...and now you have to stay alive long enough to launder that and return it to me."

He smiles softly, reassuringly.

[ingrantitude]

This kindness is unexpected.

Something cracks in Ward's mind. He realizes that he can't move, can't run, can't crawl out from under it and pull himself away. The shock is palpable.

He wants to be sick.

His face works for a moment. Tears? Crying? No. It's so sudden he chokes and manages a confused smile, halfway between a smile and a smirk.

"...Gonna need a name if that's what I gotta do."

The words are spoken gently, jokingly, but this man is being kind to him. He must want something.

Or he must be HYDRA. Like Whitehall. The thought sends his heart beating faster and he does his best to still it. Focus on something else.

[youcantransform]

"Harry. It's Harry Hart."

He doesn't ask the other man's name. Courtesy will cost moments they can't waste; if he doesn't pull through, he can regret then that he doesn't have a name to put to his failure.

"I'll be back soon with help. Maintain that pressure on the wound."

The knot will have some effect, but not enough for more than a few minutes. He picks his way carefully past the man and moves, taking the stairs two at a time as he retraces his steps towards the doctor's room. If they're lucky she'll still be there.

Wanna pick it up post doctoring?

[ingrantitude]

Ward isn't really one for thanking people. Not anymore. He's mostly confused. Harry Hart. Was there a Harry Hart in HYDRA's group?

Was it in Coulson's?

He can't recall. It doesn't sound familiar.

Later, much later, he'll force himself to hobble out and around but for now he'll just kind of lie here.

"...I'll give it back.

That's a promise."

No thanks. No thanks at all.

[youcantransform]

[ooc: definitely, but I'll hold fire until his thread with Helen is a bit more progressed so as not to step on her toes by assuming anything. ♥]