Mnemovore: Nathan, Wednesday
Jun. 24th, 2009 03:28 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-cable.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsNathan stays lost.
Something was wrong. Something was so wrong.
Nathan shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his expression level through sheer force of will as he strode down the road, ignoring the looks he got from passing townsfolk. He was breathing harder than he should have been, adrenaline coursing through him. For some reason he couldn't force himself back to calm, couldn't switch off. He should have been able to do that. Why couldn't he?
No one's answering. No one's answering. Every number he'd tried for the others had either been out of service, or a stranger had answered. It didn't seem possible. Mistra couldn't have found all the Pack's safehouses.
Yes, they could. Because GW knew them all, and if they'd taken the locations out of his mind, acted fast... no, too fast. It's only... Nathan stopped dead, blinking,
What day was it? He shook his head slightly, ignoring the way it made the ever-present headache swell. Three days? Four? He was having trouble keeping track. Whenever he fell asleep, he dreamed, and woke up in a panic to find out that it was light when it had been dark, or vice-versa. And to make it worse, he was losing chunks of time. He had no idea how he'd gotten to this town, for one. Or where the local currency in his pocket had come from.
Which was bizarre in and of itself, because he knew this was the Ukraine, but he had no idea what was up with the strange-looking banknotes.
All at once, he realized he was standing in the middle of the road staring at his money, and common sense kicked back in. He shoved it back into his pocket and picked up the pace. He had to get out of the open. His watch was telling him it was just past noon. If he kept moving, he could be out of here, and somewhere else, somewhere--
--he opened his eyes to find himself curled up on the ground, the moon bright in the night sky overhead. In the next moment, he registered the unmistakable sensation of someone searching him. Panic translated into a lash of TK that sent the figure bending over him flying with a pained grunt. White pain exploded behind Nathan's eyes at the exertion, and he lurched up to his hands and knees. Have to get up.
Cursing, suddenly, and someone barking out something in Russian that Nathan didn't process until the first kick landed in his ribs. He hit the ground, shielding his head to buy himself a moment. Ignoring the next kick, and the first one from the other direction, too, because all he needed was a moment to adjust.
One of his assailants went down as Nathan kicked his legs out from under him. Nathan rolled back to his feet, staggering but focused on the second, who scrambled backwards, reaching down to grab... something. A pipe?
"~Go on,~" Nathan growled shakily at the man in Russian. "~Just try and take me out with a pipe.~" The man rushed him with a yell, and Nathan dodged his wild swing, taking the opening the man so kindly left him.
The pipe-wielding idiot was on the ground roughly three seconds later, clutching at a broken arm and sobbing. Nathan reacted an instant too late to the other man, who was back on his feet and coming at him from behind. The knife the man was carrying sliced Nathan's arm open, but he overextended himself doing it. Nathan grabbed his wrist and twisted, and the knife clattered to the ground.
For a heartbeat they stared at each other. The man was lanky and blond, with a scraggly beard and a sharp face, and Nathan's eyes narrowed. The pounding in his head made it hard to think, but some things were very clear.
"I warned you, John," he muttered. "No more trying to stab me in the back..."
It didn't occur to him until afterwards to wonder why Lense had tried to literally stab him, or why he hadn't tried to alter gravity once in the very short fight that had followed. Especially since John's hand-to-hand had never been all that good.
By then he was out of town and on the road. He needed to get away, find a vehicle. Figure out why things made so little sense. He tore a strip off his jacket after a while and bound up his arm. In a way he was glad for the wound, because it meant that this was actually happening. The thought that this was all a mindscape, that Mistra had found him, had occurred to him.
But blood meant that it was real.
Something was wrong. Something was so wrong.
Nathan shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his expression level through sheer force of will as he strode down the road, ignoring the looks he got from passing townsfolk. He was breathing harder than he should have been, adrenaline coursing through him. For some reason he couldn't force himself back to calm, couldn't switch off. He should have been able to do that. Why couldn't he?
No one's answering. No one's answering. Every number he'd tried for the others had either been out of service, or a stranger had answered. It didn't seem possible. Mistra couldn't have found all the Pack's safehouses.
Yes, they could. Because GW knew them all, and if they'd taken the locations out of his mind, acted fast... no, too fast. It's only... Nathan stopped dead, blinking,
What day was it? He shook his head slightly, ignoring the way it made the ever-present headache swell. Three days? Four? He was having trouble keeping track. Whenever he fell asleep, he dreamed, and woke up in a panic to find out that it was light when it had been dark, or vice-versa. And to make it worse, he was losing chunks of time. He had no idea how he'd gotten to this town, for one. Or where the local currency in his pocket had come from.
Which was bizarre in and of itself, because he knew this was the Ukraine, but he had no idea what was up with the strange-looking banknotes.
All at once, he realized he was standing in the middle of the road staring at his money, and common sense kicked back in. He shoved it back into his pocket and picked up the pace. He had to get out of the open. His watch was telling him it was just past noon. If he kept moving, he could be out of here, and somewhere else, somewhere--
--he opened his eyes to find himself curled up on the ground, the moon bright in the night sky overhead. In the next moment, he registered the unmistakable sensation of someone searching him. Panic translated into a lash of TK that sent the figure bending over him flying with a pained grunt. White pain exploded behind Nathan's eyes at the exertion, and he lurched up to his hands and knees. Have to get up.
Cursing, suddenly, and someone barking out something in Russian that Nathan didn't process until the first kick landed in his ribs. He hit the ground, shielding his head to buy himself a moment. Ignoring the next kick, and the first one from the other direction, too, because all he needed was a moment to adjust.
One of his assailants went down as Nathan kicked his legs out from under him. Nathan rolled back to his feet, staggering but focused on the second, who scrambled backwards, reaching down to grab... something. A pipe?
"~Go on,~" Nathan growled shakily at the man in Russian. "~Just try and take me out with a pipe.~" The man rushed him with a yell, and Nathan dodged his wild swing, taking the opening the man so kindly left him.
The pipe-wielding idiot was on the ground roughly three seconds later, clutching at a broken arm and sobbing. Nathan reacted an instant too late to the other man, who was back on his feet and coming at him from behind. The knife the man was carrying sliced Nathan's arm open, but he overextended himself doing it. Nathan grabbed his wrist and twisted, and the knife clattered to the ground.
For a heartbeat they stared at each other. The man was lanky and blond, with a scraggly beard and a sharp face, and Nathan's eyes narrowed. The pounding in his head made it hard to think, but some things were very clear.
"I warned you, John," he muttered. "No more trying to stab me in the back..."
It didn't occur to him until afterwards to wonder why Lense had tried to literally stab him, or why he hadn't tried to alter gravity once in the very short fight that had followed. Especially since John's hand-to-hand had never been all that good.
By then he was out of town and on the road. He needed to get away, find a vehicle. Figure out why things made so little sense. He tore a strip off his jacket after a while and bound up his arm. In a way he was glad for the wound, because it meant that this was actually happening. The thought that this was all a mindscape, that Mistra had found him, had occurred to him.
But blood meant that it was real.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}