rapid eye follow the chain of thought until the silence ends
It is the second-to-last day of the plagues, and, unexpectedly, the sun rises. For five hours and 35 minutes, it is a perfectly normal, if a bit cold, Chicago day
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There's a bandage around his neck that wouldn't be nearly as noticable if he hadn't gotten frustrated with the collar on his shirt and loosened the buttons and the tie with frantic, clawing fingers. He remembers vaguely what the wound is from, and that's one of the few things he can remember- shock treatments, almost every day. I don't remember why.
I don't remember.
There's something at the back of his mind, something that might make that make sense, but he can't remember. He remembers walking on four, not two, of being a tiger in a pen and a man... A man. The only face in his mind that's clear. Who was he?
"Go see your friends. Spend your last hours with no knowledge of what they meant to you, only remembering me."
He can't think of what that could have meant. Nothing has meaning anymore. He kneads the heel of his palm into his forehead and plops down under the nearest tree. I don't remember.
Wrapped around his wrist is a little bracelet with a name on it. It's not a name that has any meaning to him, but it seemed very important that he was allowed to leave with it. He leans against the tree and toys with it out of a lack of anything better to do. He doesn't know who he is, where he's from, what he's supposed to do. Nothing is familiar, everything is strange and alien, and everything about him right now feels wrong.
When the air raid sirens start, he covers his ears, and wonders if anything is ever going to make sense again.
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Air raid sirens usually mean something heading in, you know, from the air, so Rachel scurries under the nearest tree to take cover from potential fiery death from above. Or frogs or whatever the hell else might fall now. She looks up as the sky begins to fade, taking another step toward the tree, her shoulder connecting with something unexpectedly yielding. She yelps again, and looks up.
Before they're plunged into total darkness, Rachel sees the face of the man already under the tree.
"Mr. Sark?!" she shouts. "What's happening? Do you know?"
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"I don't know.." he starts. There's something about the tone and cadence of his voice that's all wrong. None of that pretentious, casual confidence- still distinctly lilting and high-pitched, still British, but it sounds wrong.
He's still confused by the concept of words, because he hasn't used them in the last four days (or ever?). He chews on his lip and cringes for no reason that he can think of. "I don't... What did you call me?" He feels he ought to be speaking louder, to be heard over the sirens, but he's only just barely managed speaking. Volume is something else entirely.
...There's something else though. Looking at her. She seems so familiar, but in the few memories he has, he can't see her face. It's awkward and uncomfortable and like fumbling in the dark.
....When did it get so dark out here?
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There's a clinking of bottles, glass on glass, as Rachel sets down her canvas grocery bag. She throws out a hand, waving it, until it connects with something she recognizes as "someone else"--muscle and bone, body warmth under very nice fabric. It's an arm, a bicep, and she closes her hand around it, moving closer.
They're standing side by side, she knows this, and yet she can barely make him out in the thick darkness that's fallen over everything.
"Why would I call you anything else?"
She's heard how he sounds. Granted, she doesn't know the man terribly well, just a handful of meetings. But it's enough to catch that something's off.
"Mr. Sark... it's me, Rachel. Don't you recognize me? Is everything okay?"
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Mr. Sark.
There's something about that name, something so familiar. It feels like there should be a certain lilt to it, spoken in a certain way. Like it's a name that actually used to mean something.
He blinks blearily in one direction, assuming it's the one he needs to look in. "Rachel..." He repeats.
It doesn't ring a bell, except... Rachel. That's the name written on the bracelet he was given. ....It seems somewhat funny.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, shaking his head. "I don't remember."
I'm not sure why. I was somewhere else before... I wasn't like this.
"I'm sorry," he repeats. It almost sounds meek. There's something about that makes him cringe again. He shouldn't be meek. He should be stronger that this.
Damned if he can remember why.
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She's not surprised that he tries to pull away but she can feel it's not right. She expected the withdrawal but the motivation feels all wrong to her. It's as if he's afraid. Nervous.
He's not himself and she can't help but worry.
"Yeah, Rachel," she repeats, trying to reassure him. "Rachel Conway."
He says he can't remember. Why can't he remember? And how much is gone?
"And you're Mr. Sark. Julian Sark. I'm a friend of yours--"
As much as the man might ever have one.
"--though it's been a little while since we last saw each other. Did something happen to you that you can't remember? Can you remember anything at all?"
She keeps hold of his arm, gently so as not to pressure or scare him, but firmly enough to convey that she's there, and she's not leaving.
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"There, there, Julian."
Something clenches in his chest and he shuts his eyes, although there's not much difference between eyes shut and eyes open in the darkness. He doesn't even know why he's reacting like this, except that this is wrong and he wants to go back. At least he actually knew what he was back there...
It's a lie. It's all a lie. Some scolding voice echoes from the back of his head and runs his free hand through his hair, almost clawing at it, as if that might make it stop.
He's being addressed. He should answer. "I don't know," he chokes out through gritted teeth. "I don't... I wasn't like this. I was different."
And he's not helping any- he's cognizant of that much, anyway. He drops his hand back to his side and rests his head against the trunk of the tree. "There was a man..." He murmurs.
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Her hand drops, but the other one retains its gentle grip on his arm. "Okay. There was a man. Did you know him? How did you meet him? What did he want?"
It's quite possibly annoying, having rapid-fire questions volleyed at you when you can't remember things, but Rachel's willing to take the chance, hoping something will shake a memory free inside Sark's head.
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She's implying that this shape is the right one, that this is who he's meant to be, and it sounds right, but feels wrong. He should remember more if it's true.
Maybe he's dreaming again...
He blinks a few times and then closes his eyes- he'll choose his own darkness, if the sky refuses to brighten. His brows knit in serious contemplation. He can see the man's face in his mind, but the name eludes him. "... S'not his name," he murmurs like someone mumbling in their sleep. "I knew him... I... Know I did."
What did he want?
"What if the value I place on you is the only value you'll ever have?"
What did he want?
"I do want you, Julian. Unfortunately, this means breaking you of your need for anyone else."
"Me," he says, his voice going from a dreamlike state to an almost manic giggle. He's not sure why it's funny. "He wanted me."
And then he left him like this and he can't remember anything else.
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"It's okay," she repeats. "It'll come back to you. In the meantime we seem to be caught in the middle of another plague. This might take a while. D'you want to sit down? It's probably safer to stay in one spot, with it being this dark, rather than wandering around. God only knows what else is out there."
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...Except no. He's definitely not. He can't remember when he got to his feet and that's definitely part of the problem. Without further prompting, he sits down without warning Rachel ahead of time, meaning he's probably dragging her down with him.
He still has that damn bracelet and he toys with it, feeling it even if he can't see it. Rachel, it says.
Rachel Conway. He can see flickers of things if he focuses, but it's like a mirage- if he tries too hard to bring it into focus, it flickers and fades away.
He kneads the palm of his hand into his forehead again, grimacing. "What do we do?" We. Because it's the two of them, but he's really more concerned with what he's supposed to do when he feels all disjointed and wrong. What if she's wrong and it never makes sense?
He can't think of that right now. Focus on the here and now.
Here and now. It's dark. There are sirens. He's with a woman who knows him, but he doesn't know her, but he feels like he should.
He's pretty sure he's supposed to be a tiger.
This is going splendidly.
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She has no intention of letting go. It's just as much anchoring herself in the darkness as it is anchoring Sark in his loss.
What do we do?
Hell if she knows, but that's hardly the sort of thing you say to a guy who's just had... something, whatever happen to him. "Let's just stay here," she assures him. "See if the darkness passes before we go blundering around. Rest, too--you sound tired. Are you hurt?"
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His hand moves to the bandage around his neck and then drops back down into his lap. It's nothing. Just a mark. "I'm fine."
For a moment, for just that flicker of a moment, he almost sounds like himself. Casually brushing everything off, because he doesn't want anyone to fret over him.
He might come out of this yet, even if everything is still foggy and confusing and the mere act of trying to think beyond what he remembers (that he was a tiger in a cage and nothing more) makes his head ache.
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Mr. Sark, you may not want anyone to fret over you, but Rachel really can't help it now. She's got no one else to fret over. Adrian's off someplace saving the day, Wes is waiting someplace in the dark for her to come home, and she can't go find Rusty. She hasn't forgotten that night on the couch in the bar, those conversations, that common ground the two of you found the deeper you got into that bottle of tequila.
She'll take care of you because you're the only one she's got left right now, of all the people she's fond of.
Rachel pats Sark's arm again. "Of course you are," she agrees. "I've never known you to be anything but." She's not just patronizing him--she means that. If there's anyone who'd come back in the face of ridiculous adversity, her money would be on him.
She sits there beside him in silence for a while, until their circumstances--sitting together under a tree, where she found him forlornly hanging around, his arm in her caring and comforting grasp--start to remind her too hard of what she's already had to let go. She feels around in the grass at her other side until she feels her shopping bag; grabbing a handful of canvas she hauls it closer.
"Want a drink?"
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If there's one good thing about this, it's that. He's been stripped of all paranoia, all suspicion, but he's left with nothing, so the jury is out on the trade-off. A man called Julian Sark who isn't the man sitting here right now wouldn't have made that trade willingly for all the diamonds in the world.
He looks up at the place where Rachel's voice is coming from and blinks a few times, still hazy and unfocused on the world around him. Given the darkness, it's probably best that he's sitting and being watched over or there would be no way he'd survive this right now.
"...Why not?" He says, almost uncertainly. It feels like the right thing to say, but the words are odd in his mouth. It feels like he's reciting a script from memory, but playing a part that doesn't suit him.
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Another sip, and one hand gently slides along Sark's arm until it finds his hand. "Here," she murmurs, guiding the bottle into it.
She's silent for a while, her arm still loosely around his. "Hopefully this'll pass, too?" she offers. "I mean. All the other plagues. Just a day. One day." She gives Sark's arm a pat. "I'll wait here with you," she adds warly, as if she actually had a choice in the matter. If she did, she'd still choose to? Counts for something, right?
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