[h1][center][color=9e0b0f]House[/color][/center][/h1]
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He had made it. He had become a member of the mercenary corps. House would have loved to celebrate it with a round of dice, but he couldn't find anyone around so he settled for a nap instead. Of course that decision wasn't a quick one, seeing as no one had bothered to point him towards a room to call his own. So for his first 3 hours as a true marine recruit House wandered around the marineford looking for a place to stay. In the end he made a wager with a Janitor he met and, after beating him fair and square, acquired a key to an empty room in the Naval Military's quarters. It was a single bed bedroom and even had a small desk. As far as he could tell, House had acquired a room in the far north of the building and he made the Janitor promise to keep their arrangement off the books for as long as possible. Sighing loudly, he tossed his trench coat over the small chair and threw himself onto the bed to finally take his celebratory nap.

About two hours later he was awoken by a flying paper crane, that was bumping against his forehead repeatedly. After unsuccessfully swatting at it for a second, House gave in, opened his eyes and sat up, grabbing the now patiently hovering piece of paper and unfolding it in his dazed state. As he was reading the note he yawned and looked at the small alarm clock on the desk, which was standing in front of the window. Half past eleven. He got up, still yawning and stretching his arms wide, before letting them fall to his sides and standing still for a moment. A second past. [color=9e0b0f]"Wait what?!"[/color] House exclaimed, suddenly wide awake, and looked at the used to be crane again. [color=9e0b0f]"That's thirty minutes from now! I need to get going!"[/color] He pulled his trench coat from the floor, as he had missed the chair before his nap, threw it on and ran out of his room, taking the time to lock it behind him and putting the key into the inner pocket of his coat. 

House guessed that he took approximately 28 of the 30 minutes he had left, arriving at the Southern Port severely winded and struggling to catch his breath. He leaned himself on a small bollard next to his co-mercenaries to compose himself and raised his head again just in time to see a red-headed lady front flip onto the port side. He tried to straighten up and say something along the lines of "8 points, but the landing lacked style", but instead he coughed, leaned back down and admitted defeat to the shortness of his breath. Taking slow deep breaths, he resigned to waiting for what was to come next.