(no subject)
It's kind of a pointless thing, Eduardo has come to believe, keeping track of time on the island. Sure, having classes, even just a few of them, makes keeping track of the days of the week a no-brainer, but when everything seems kind of backwards in the first place - leaving late November and having it be January, knowing people from years in his future, the calendar stating it to be twenty-fucking-eleven - counting the days or following the date doesn't strike him as something that's especially consequential. He'd be hard-pressed to miss it, though, this time around, having enough of a notion of the day that, when he walks by the calendar, it's an easy thing to piece together. Maybe February fourth isn't a date that's important in the grand scheme of things, when it's been less than a year for him (that in itself is something practically incomprehensible, when it feels like an entire lifetime), but he doesn't think he could forget it anyway. The day they went live, not technically the day it all got started but the one that really counts, it's one he remembers in remarkable detail, waiting outside Mark's dorm, standing over his shoulder as he added the finishing touches. They'd been so hopeful, back then, on the brink of something great and not even realizing just how big it would be. Even now, he doesn't quite know, having picked up only a few facts to put it in perspective, but he gets the impression that the million they were reaching the day he arrived here is nothing in comparison. (How he feels about that, he doesn't know. On one hand, he wants to be contrary, but there's pride he can't ignore all the same.)
None of it should matter here in the first place, in the absence of Mark and the internet and money at all, but it leaves him more thoughtful than he might otherwise be anyway. It's a habit he knows he'll have to break, staying stuck more in the past than the present, but it's more than he can change this early in the game, too. The bookshelf has, thus far, been unyielding as far as any news about Facebook goes, even today, but he's not so hung up on it as to just stand there searching. What he needs instead is something else to focus on. It's with that in mind that he heads to the kitchen, though it's not yet time for dinner; he doesn't suspect it will take his mind wholly off everything, but at least it'll be something, better than the alternative. He's not going to accomplish anything by fixating so intently on what happened to him, or on the fact that, if the calendar here is anything to go by, then it's been seven years since that day in Kirkland.
It doesn't cross his mind that the island might have other plans. He's just taken a seat at a table with a glass of iced tea when he hears a noise, and while it's easily enough ignored at first, with all the people going in and out of the kitchen even without a meal being served, he realizes, after a few moments, that it's not going anywhere, and that it isn't just white noise, but the distinct sound of clucking. Though it's familiar enough that he feels his stomach sink, it isn't until, wide-eyed, he gets slowly off his chair to look beneath it that he pieces together what must be going on. In a black wire cage, there sits a chicken, which would probably be weird enough on its own, except it isn't just any chicken, and Eduardo knows it. He's had yet to experience it, things from home showing up the way people say they do, but this has to be that; he has no doubt about it. Of course, it figures that on a day like this, he would get the chicken he fed chicken to, before he knew that wasn't okay, the temporary catastrophe it caused still far too fresh in his mind. "Oh, shit," he breathes, a hand running through his hair before he picks up the cage and sets it on the table, figuring he probably shouldn't just keep crouching beside the chair. What the hell he's supposed to do with this, he doesn't know, when taking care of it for a week was obviously bad enough, but even in the absence of the Phoenix Club, he isn't sure he could just hand it off to someone else. It's shown up here for a reason, after all, even if he hates that that's the case. If it's supposed to be telling him that Mark really did plant that story, he doesn't want to think about it yet. He'll have enough else to deal with first. "Shit, this is - this is not good."
[Timed to Friday afternoon. ST/LT more than welcome, and despite the chicken, it's a fine time to meet him. Open to tags until this says otherwise.]
None of it should matter here in the first place, in the absence of Mark and the internet and money at all, but it leaves him more thoughtful than he might otherwise be anyway. It's a habit he knows he'll have to break, staying stuck more in the past than the present, but it's more than he can change this early in the game, too. The bookshelf has, thus far, been unyielding as far as any news about Facebook goes, even today, but he's not so hung up on it as to just stand there searching. What he needs instead is something else to focus on. It's with that in mind that he heads to the kitchen, though it's not yet time for dinner; he doesn't suspect it will take his mind wholly off everything, but at least it'll be something, better than the alternative. He's not going to accomplish anything by fixating so intently on what happened to him, or on the fact that, if the calendar here is anything to go by, then it's been seven years since that day in Kirkland.
It doesn't cross his mind that the island might have other plans. He's just taken a seat at a table with a glass of iced tea when he hears a noise, and while it's easily enough ignored at first, with all the people going in and out of the kitchen even without a meal being served, he realizes, after a few moments, that it's not going anywhere, and that it isn't just white noise, but the distinct sound of clucking. Though it's familiar enough that he feels his stomach sink, it isn't until, wide-eyed, he gets slowly off his chair to look beneath it that he pieces together what must be going on. In a black wire cage, there sits a chicken, which would probably be weird enough on its own, except it isn't just any chicken, and Eduardo knows it. He's had yet to experience it, things from home showing up the way people say they do, but this has to be that; he has no doubt about it. Of course, it figures that on a day like this, he would get the chicken he fed chicken to, before he knew that wasn't okay, the temporary catastrophe it caused still far too fresh in his mind. "Oh, shit," he breathes, a hand running through his hair before he picks up the cage and sets it on the table, figuring he probably shouldn't just keep crouching beside the chair. What the hell he's supposed to do with this, he doesn't know, when taking care of it for a week was obviously bad enough, but even in the absence of the Phoenix Club, he isn't sure he could just hand it off to someone else. It's shown up here for a reason, after all, even if he hates that that's the case. If it's supposed to be telling him that Mark really did plant that story, he doesn't want to think about it yet. He'll have enough else to deal with first. "Shit, this is - this is not good."
[Timed to Friday afternoon. ST/LT more than welcome, and despite the chicken, it's a fine time to meet him. Open to tags until this says otherwise.]