Clark rarely thinks about how odd that sounds anymore. "Stay safe!" he calls back, sending a little wave of love over the bond, and hoping that she finds what she's looking for.
The SSV Normandy SR-2 is a fairly spacious ship, rebuilt from the ground up to be more luxurious than the first version, which was a purely military vessel. The decks and bulkheads are shining clean, mostly black with silver and white trim, and blue and white lighting. It used to be a very sterile space, absent of any life or clutter.
Harry has done his very best to change that. His lab features a long workbench running through the center, topped with what looks like an old-fashioned chemistry set with beakers and flasks. The workbench itself is a mess at the moment, strewn with random garbage and with a pot of something bubbling away over an electric burner.
Against the wall are hundreds of small storage cabinets, each one marked with a handwritten label on some kind of futuristic tape: Bus tickets. Broken electronics. Newspaper clippings. Thermal clips. And many, many more. Most of it looks like random junk that no one would ever want to hold onto. Another wall holds a bookshelf that's mostly empty at the moment, but he's slowly been accumulating dusty old books, held upright by an improvised bookend, a big glass jar of dirt labeled Earth.
Harry himself is sitting at the workbench on one of the padded leather chairs bolted to the deck, and he waves when she appears. "Welcome to my lair."
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The SSV Normandy SR-2 is a fairly spacious ship, rebuilt from the ground up to be more luxurious than the first version, which was a purely military vessel. The decks and bulkheads are shining clean, mostly black with silver and white trim, and blue and white lighting. It used to be a very sterile space, absent of any life or clutter.
Harry has done his very best to change that. His lab features a long workbench running through the center, topped with what looks like an old-fashioned chemistry set with beakers and flasks. The workbench itself is a mess at the moment, strewn with random garbage and with a pot of something bubbling away over an electric burner.
Against the wall are hundreds of small storage cabinets, each one marked with a handwritten label on some kind of futuristic tape: Bus tickets. Broken electronics. Newspaper clippings. Thermal clips. And many, many more. Most of it looks like random junk that no one would ever want to hold onto. Another wall holds a bookshelf that's mostly empty at the moment, but he's slowly been accumulating dusty old books, held upright by an improvised bookend, a big glass jar of dirt labeled Earth.
Harry himself is sitting at the workbench on one of the padded leather chairs bolted to the deck, and he waves when she appears. "Welcome to my lair."