Oh, cool. [ And almost as an afterthought, he adds: ] I'm Hardison.

[ Hardison lives at the cross-section of relieved and impressed. Does it suck that anyone at all is stuck here? Yes. Does it hurt that one of them is an actual doctor? No. He has a feeling that that'll be super relevant eventually.

Gift horses. Not to be looked in the mouth or taken for granted. Especially very friendly ones who offer to look for coffee. ]

Now, I don't even know if this blood's fresh enough to sponge out, let alone calligraphize a convincing edit on there. I like your style, though, so I am gonna juuuuuust. [ He snags an empty notecard and a pen, scribbles something onto it, and ever-so-carefully pins it to the right of the ominous message portion of the map. ]

There! Mister Sun is scheduled. And hopefully his publicist gets fired.