(Untitled)

[mrmoneypenny]

There’s a flash.

There’s a bang.

There’s a Villiers sitting in the remains of an office building in the middle of Montreal, which is clearly not MI6.

To put simply, Villiers is very, very confused.

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[idealistvermin]

There's a skittering movement.

There's a quiet curse.

There's a Wendell, calling from the doorway, beckoning urgently.

"Come here, come here-- why do they always have to show up in the structurally unstable ones?"

He leans on the doorframe and coughs violently.

"Don't get too close to me, but hurry, the building could go any minute now. It's been groaning for days."

And indeed, the floors above (what's left of them) are making some seriously ominous noises.

[mrmoneypenny]

Well, that's rather unsettling. Especially the ominous noises from above. But also the fact that there's a mysterious man calling for him.

Let's see, choices, choices. Ignore the possible threat and possibly get flattened by a building, or go towards potential death-by-murder to escape death-by-building?

It's the MI6. Paranoia. It teaches you to question things.

He'll go for the moving, though, getting up with his bag still slung on his shoulder, clearly uneasy as each footstep makes the structure creak and groan.

And as much as he'd like to kindly ask WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, he'll save that for a more opportune time.

[idealistvermin]

Wendell leads him out into the street, keeping at least ten feet in front of him.

"Right," he says, nodding shortly. "Welcome to Hell. Not literally, but you won't thank me for the distinction. That noise and light that brought you here? They happen every day or so. Sometimes it's people. Sometimes it's... not."

There's a steady twitch in the left side of his face. He pauses for a coughing fit, turning away for a moment to hide it.

"There's a group of survivors I'm with. Some of us have been here since the beginning, some from before that. You can come join us, or you can try to make it out there on your own."

[mrmoneypenny]

"Hell. Right."

He's only vaguely certain that it's not a dream he's in, for dreams do not have such people in them. Plus, he has the normal number of fingers and toes, and is otherwise fine except for the whole no-longer-in-London thing.

"And how, exactly, can I get back home?" he asks, possibly in futile. It doesn't hurt to ask, at the very least, and...and from the looks of it, this place isn't particularly pleasant.