[something is very wrong. he knows this the moment he wakes up somewhere that is cold--cold but not ice and not permeating. he wonders if this is just another nightmare or trancelike state that overcomes him during the long, hourless periods of time he is kept in the dark. it's been at least thirty-six hours since he awoke in this place and there are no signs of his handlers, the strike team, or a safe house. the communicator he has kept diligently in his ear is nothing but static, crackling occasionally but never with the voices that steer him in the way he is used to.
he's growing more and more erratic--restless with no sign of his target or what he is required to return to. and the people here? it's as if they are suspended in time, their technology so far behind what he is used to over the decades of ever-changing items that he is not certain this is even present time. even more evidence that this isn't real--
but the sudden smell of blood that hits him in a rush--that's very real. the small figure that accompanies it is also real, and for one impossibly slow moment there is something that practically assaults him in realization. punches through the simmering surface of half-thoughts and broken bits of...things that he cannot connect. they hold meaning to someone, but they make little sense to him. this though--this sudden vision of a cold day in a cramped apartment with creaking floorboards floods him so fiercely he stops dead in his tracks.
"you're gonna catch your death like that, jesus christ [---], c'mon into bed, sit up just like that for me, yeah--" sit up to clear the air passages. keep him warm. keep him breathing.
who was he? he can't remember a name, was it the very same as this man?
it's the only thing resembling a lead that he has and he's into pursuit before his mind can catch up, quietly tracking behind him through the sudden fog. if this is an erroneous pursuit punishment will come. but the pain he is used to. the uncertainty? no. he has to know.
no subject
he's growing more and more erratic--restless with no sign of his target or what he is required to return to. and the people here? it's as if they are suspended in time, their technology so far behind what he is used to over the decades of ever-changing items that he is not certain this is even present time. even more evidence that this isn't real--
but the sudden smell of blood that hits him in a rush--that's very real. the small figure that accompanies it is also real, and for one impossibly slow moment there is something that practically assaults him in realization. punches through the simmering surface of half-thoughts and broken bits of...things that he cannot connect. they hold meaning to someone, but they make little sense to him. this though--this sudden vision of a cold day in a cramped apartment with creaking floorboards floods him so fiercely he stops dead in his tracks.
"you're gonna catch your death like that, jesus christ [---], c'mon into bed, sit up just like that for me, yeah--" sit up to clear the air passages. keep him warm. keep him breathing.
who was he? he can't remember a name, was it the very same as this man?
it's the only thing resembling a lead that he has and he's into pursuit before his mind can catch up, quietly tracking behind him through the sudden fog. if this is an erroneous pursuit punishment will come. but the pain he is used to. the uncertainty? no. he has to know.
what was his name--yours?]