milliways_bar | (no subject)

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(no subject)

By now, Curtis has resigned himself to losing time every so often. If a day seems to pass quicker than he expects, or he looks out a window and blinks in surprise when he sees the moon instead of the sun? Yeah, that's kinda par for the course for him. Seems like eighteen years in a metal box have permanently fucked up that part of his brain, and since there's nothing he can do about it, better to just roll with it and try to make it work.

But he's never lost time quite like this before.

One minute he's up in the gym, and the next, almost instantly, he's down at a table in the bar. There's a notebook open in front of him, full of little sketches of...cartoon bears? And he's holding a pencil like he'd been the one drawing them.

Carefully, very carefully, Curtis sets down the pencil. The back of his hand looks -- weird. Skewed a little bigger, or something. His eyes widen as they travel up his arm and he realizes it's not just his hand.

And --

His left arm's back. It's whole. It's just as big as the other one.

What the fuck.

Eventually he'll stop staring at his arms and hands like he's never seen them before. And when he gets up and catches his reflection in the mirror above the bar, he'll be in for an even bigger shock.

[ooc: bodyswap shenanigans, activate! catch him at his table or somewhere else in the bar; post is open until the plot wraps, with the usual caveats for slow.]

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Dejah had gone for a run when Curtis went to work out in the gym. She needed the air, the wide open skies. Milliways was a bit claustrophobic for her occasionally. And he didn't have the lung capacity yet to keep up with her on a three mile warm up, much less the twelve mile run that just about made her start to feel normal again.

She's just returning, coming in through the back door wearing the short skirts she prefers to run in (short enough to betray the clan markings on the tops of her thighs). There's a light sheen of sweat on her skin and she looks refreshed. Awake. Lighter, some how. Running lets her let go for a little while and just be.

She stops at the bar to pick up a tall glass of water.

Edited 2015-11-08 00:20 (UTC)

So, okay: that sight is much, much better than his own weirdly muscular arms. Damn.

And once Curtis regains enough presence of mind to shake himself out of it --

"Dejah -- "

-- he's on his feet and heading for the bar, moving much, much faster than he anticipated.

Dejah turns at the sound of her name. The inflection and the pitch is familiar enough, but the face.

She blinks and her eyes go wide.

He might look like Curtis, but he's clean-shaven, filled out, and healthy in a way that goes beyond normal human health. And he has two arms.

She draws herself up to her full height, one hand dropping down and behind her.

"Yes?" He can't feel the tone of her voice. He may have gained an arm but he lost another sense in the transition.

Edited 2015-11-08 00:48 (UTC)

He didn't drink the Voice of Barsoom very long ago, but it's pretty amazing how fast humans can adapt to something. In the intervening time, he's gotten used to that weird sixth sense whenever he's around her, sensing the ebb and flow of her emotions like the sway of a train car.

And suddenly, there's nothing. Just a blank void. Like the unreality of being on unmoving ground again.

Curtis falters. "I -- "

And that's when he catches sight of his reflection, and every thought flees from his head.

She sees him falter and her head tilts.

"I'm sorry, have we met?"

She's heard of doppelgangers here, in passing. She never thought to experience it, and a whisper in the back of her mind is practically screaming that this is some Thern trick. A ruse to get her to drop her guard.

He looks...

His beard's gone. His hair's longer and lighter, like somebody who can go out in the sun and doesn't have to worry about catching lice from anyone. It's not just his arms that're bigger, either -- his whole face has filled out, the hollowness finally gone from his eyes and cheeks, his shoulders broad, his legs solid.

He looks Front. No, not even that.

He looks like he never got on the train in the first place.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Curtis whispers, and realizes that even his voice doesn't have the low, scratchy gravel it developed after almost two decades in the Tail. He touches his left forearm, unable to stop staring. "Dejah..."

What the fuck is going on. What happened?

She's taking in every detail. His bone structure. His posture. His mannerisms. He is equal parts foreign and familiar. When she speaks, her voice isn't entirely cold, but it has an unmistakable edge.

"You clearly know who I am. And -- I am afraid I have no idea who you are."

Wrong. The thought whispers up through her subconscious.

"Might I inquire how you know my name?"

"It's -- "

It's me, he wants to say.

(This isn't him at all.)

He finally wrenches his gaze away from the mirror above the bar. "It's Curtis," he says.

You are, her thoughts whisper. Her rational mind on the other hand?

Her hand shifts to the small of her back, and he can hear the distinct click of her dagger unsheathing.

"I'm sorry?"

He remembers her stories about the Thern. How they could change their appearance to match anyone they desired.

How she knows it's only a matter of time before they come back for Helium someday.

Slowly, Curtis raises his familiar-but-not hands, both flesh and bone. He resists the urge to back up a step. "I don't know what happened," he says. "But it's me. I swear to god."

How could he even prove it, though?

Her expression darkens. Hardens in a way he's never seen before. Her eyes flash blue. The Thern would never be so ridiculously obvious, would they?

She rolls her jaw and her hand grips the hilt of her dagger, loose and ready to draw the moment he slips up. She holds her breath. And then fires a question at him like a bullet from a gun.

"What happened to Edgar's mother?"

All the air goes out of him as if she's already driven the dagger into his belly. She can hear his breath audibly catch, and see how rapidly he pales.

Don't make me say it here.

"She's dead." His throat works. "She died the first month."

That's all he can force himself to admit.

The emotional response is better than any neurological signature. And just as quickly as she hardened, she melts.

She closes the distance between them, her hand lighting on his arm. His cheek.

"Curtis? How the hell...?"

Oh, thank Christ. (Not just that she recognizes him -- that he doesn't have to elaborate further in the middle of the whole goddamn bar.)

He sags, leaning into the hand on his face. It feels...strange, being touched without his beard getting in the way. But, you know, no less strange than every other fucking thing going on with his body right now, so he can deal.

"I don't know." One hand catches her wrist, gently; the other settles on her waist. "Something happened, I was up in the gym and then I was down here, and -- "

A helpless shrug.

"All right. All right. Let's just -- sit down. Here."

She guides him to a bar stool. Her hand fixes around his wrist. His left wrist. And then it slides down to his hand.

"Is this how you looked -- before the Train?"

"I don't know." Immediately, he slips their fingers together, holding fast. "No. I don't think..."

He was only seventeen. There's no way he could've looked like this -- or even the seventeen-year-old version of this.

And he can't bring himself to voice his other thought: maybe it's what I would've looked like if the world hadn't froze.

She takes another long look, studying him. He seems healthy enough.

"Hang on a moment."

She shakes her hand and lets her bracelet slip down to her wrist. Her thumb passes over the pinkish grey stone set in silver. She closes her eyes for a moment.

Curtis frowns.

And waits a beat before asking, "What?"

She opens her eyes again, and if it's possible, looks even more dismayed.

"Curtis. You're alive."

"Wait, what?"

He's staring again.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this body -- it has an bioelectric signature compatible with a living organism."

Now Dejah's the one looking a little wobbly. She slips onto a bar stool, her grip on his hand tight as a vise.

"What in the holy name of Issus is going on?"

He's alive.

He's alive, and he looks like he spent eighteen years actually living a life instead of being stuck in the Tail, and he doesn't have any fucking idea how --

Curtis forces himself to breathe. In, out. In again.

"Hey." Quieter. "Maybe we should go upstairs?"

One hand over her eyes, Dejah can't stop a manic little giggle that rises.

"Now's hardly the time, Curtis..."

She's almost relieved he can't feel her thoughts right now.

"Not like -- "

He suppresses a sigh. (And a smile. Who's he kidding.)

"Do you wanna stay down here instead?"

Maybe this isn't a bad enough shock to necessitate a retreat from the bar after all.

"At least until we know more about what's going on? Is this temporary? Is it -- permanent?"

She draws his hand to her cheek. It feels strange. No callouses. And the scent is his -- but not.