☘ 010; [action; 50% event]
['Something is wrong' was not the right phrase for this, and Lancer knew it. This was more than simply 'something wrong'. This was reality as he knew it tearing itself apart. He knew who he was--of course, how could he not? Lancer was always sure of himself if not of anything else. But what was going on, why was he remembering things he knew he shouldn't have remembered? Why were the things he knew to be fact feeling more and more like lies and false memories?]
'I was born and raised in Muirthemne Plain. Ulster is the only place I've ever called home.'
'What? No, I've lived in quiet, peaceful Mayfield my whole life.'
[Both thoughts were fact in his mind. But that wasn't possible, of course not. How could someone have lived an entire lifetime in two different locations? One had to be true and the other a lie.]
'...can't be. Is this what happened to Bazett, is this what I couldn't stop?!'
'What am I talking about? Nothing happened, she's still living in the same house as always.'
[Lancer didn't remember what his initial droning had been like, and so in the brief moments of lucidity--which one's lucid, I'm not sure anymore--he felt something remarkably similar to apprehension and concern. Was this what it was like to fear something? He honestly wouldn't have known.]
'This is wrong. This isn't home and that's not my family.'
'Of course it is, they always have been. Why am I questioning it?'
[Lancer ground his teeth together in frustration, shutting his eyes and concentrating the best that he could. One of these had to be right. He knew which one was the truth, but why was the other so persistent?! One hand went to his head, the other arm wrapped around a pair of notebooks; one blue and one gray. Why had he made a point of picking those up when these fake memories started pouring in?]
[...and which memories were even the fake ones?]
[A; action; park]
[Lancer was out of it, to say the very least. But he knew he spent most of his time at the park, and somehow he'd wound up there today. He was sitting under a tree with the same pair of notebooks lying closed on the ground beside him. To say he might have looked troubled would be putting it lightly; he was pale, clearly unsettled, and speaking to himself under his breath.]
My name is Setanta mac Sualtam. Cu Chulainn. Servant Lancer. My mother's name was Dechtire, my father by blood Lugh Lámhfhada. My wife's name was-...it's...
[Those...were the right names, weren't they? Why had he faltered like that? He knew his wife's name as well as he knew his own, so why stop so abruptly as if there was any question about it? Lancer raised a hand to his head, an unusually blatant look of worry on his face. It wasn't that he'd forgotten, he knew the answer. But no matter what name he finished that sentence with, it would surely sound incorrect somehow. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he finish that sentence?]
'I was born and raised in Muirthemne Plain. Ulster is the only place I've ever called home.'
'What? No, I've lived in quiet, peaceful Mayfield my whole life.'
[Both thoughts were fact in his mind. But that wasn't possible, of course not. How could someone have lived an entire lifetime in two different locations? One had to be true and the other a lie.]
'...can't be. Is this what happened to Bazett, is this what I couldn't stop?!'
'What am I talking about? Nothing happened, she's still living in the same house as always.'
[Lancer didn't remember what his initial droning had been like, and so in the brief moments of lucidity--which one's lucid, I'm not sure anymore--he felt something remarkably similar to apprehension and concern. Was this what it was like to fear something? He honestly wouldn't have known.]
'This is wrong. This isn't home and that's not my family.'
'Of course it is, they always have been. Why am I questioning it?'
[Lancer ground his teeth together in frustration, shutting his eyes and concentrating the best that he could. One of these had to be right. He knew which one was the truth, but why was the other so persistent?! One hand went to his head, the other arm wrapped around a pair of notebooks; one blue and one gray. Why had he made a point of picking those up when these fake memories started pouring in?]
[...and which memories were even the fake ones?]
[A; action; park]
[Lancer was out of it, to say the very least. But he knew he spent most of his time at the park, and somehow he'd wound up there today. He was sitting under a tree with the same pair of notebooks lying closed on the ground beside him. To say he might have looked troubled would be putting it lightly; he was pale, clearly unsettled, and speaking to himself under his breath.]
My name is Setanta mac Sualtam. Cu Chulainn. Servant Lancer. My mother's name was Dechtire, my father by blood Lugh Lámhfhada. My wife's name was-...it's...
[Those...were the right names, weren't they? Why had he faltered like that? He knew his wife's name as well as he knew his own, so why stop so abruptly as if there was any question about it? Lancer raised a hand to his head, an unusually blatant look of worry on his face. It wasn't that he'd forgotten, he knew the answer. But no matter what name he finished that sentence with, it would surely sound incorrect somehow. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he finish that sentence?]