What was once a health clinic back in the 1800s, now mostly a storage room for sundry tables, chairs, old projectors, old actual-chalk blackboards, and other serviceable but outdated equipment, was a good basement-plus-two-floors of unsurveillanced, rarely checked on haven. He could sneak in with minimal difficulty and no one marking his goings thanks to the massive rhododendron that flanked two sides of the buildings and had long since blobbed leafy screens over many first floor windows. They weren't much pruned, and what’s more, it was getting on to their blooming season so they wouldn't get pruned any time soon.

He'd made himself a nice little stakeout in what must have once been a patient resting room- there were built in cabinets in the walls with old glass panels to show the cabinet contents - probably linens and towels and blankets at some point. Or maybe that was called a surgical step down ? Well, what it was called now, anyway, but probably not back in the 19th century. Standing there as Thraen, not Quenton, he laid out a XLite foam sleeping pad that would return heat back to his body and conserved warmth, a thick, microfleece sleeping bag rated for arctic camping, and a comprehensive first aid kit that had all KINDS of goodies- a CPR face shield, scalpel, EMT shears, splinter forceps, duct tape, digital thermometer irrigation syringes, wound closure strips, gauze pads, sterile dressings, trauma pads, nitrile gloves even a bio-hazard waste bag. It had moldable splints for fractures even, in the case that something on himself or another got broken. He didn’t actually know the particulars of using all the first aid stuff, thankfully it came with a manual, but it seemed like it was going to be something worth learning if he was going to be going out having fists, feet or weaponry brandished at him. Having a place to bring someone, or just crawl back to himself, was a big step. And it was a place that could be used to lie up in for a few days to heal up without alerting authorities or having to come up with excuses to tell others not involved.

Step two was ensuring that the furniture was placed and moved to block view of the little corner cubby in case there was any inkling of a janitor or security officer getting the idea of walking the hall. So Thraen set to lifting and shifting the tables and stacking chairs and other equipment full and towards the door in. If it looked like the room was jam packed from there, most people wouldn’t think to go beyond the first layers to notice that space had been eked out. It was important to look natural, so a point he’d considered when he picked it out, so he’d saved up some rock dust from the art studio to sprinkle and blow onto things to simulate the decades of stagnation he was disturbing. The devil, or in this case safety, was in the details. And he had to admit, moving furniture about with the new powers was a hundred times easier than it would be normally! He was so much stronger as Thraen than he was as Quenton.

So what was he missing?
Oh, of course- a storm lamp might be a good idea.

And some books?
And some sort of snacks or food that would keep. If someone or many were wounded, they wouldn't or shouldn't be getting up and about, in and out, to go get supply. Nevermind that there'd be no telling how available in-and-out would be in such a case. So really, a compliment of regular disaster type supplies was a good idea. He could stack it on the bottom, accessible from laying down shelves. Water, crackers, canned goods and opener, possibly a couple bottles of whiskey for civil-war sort of triage. Maybe just get some MRE's from an army/navy surplus? That wouldn't be a terrible idea, now would it.