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Lincoln is a wee bit broken.

A few days ago, he was given a copy for Trainspotting so he could study Scottish accents. He has since watched Trainspotting. He cried the first time, though for the most part he stared, horrified and unable to decipher what the actors were saying.

He took it to his room and studied it. He watched it twice more with closed captioning, the second time saying the words with Renton whenever he spoke. It unnerved him when his voice and the character's onscreen meshed so exactly. He forced himself to sit through all the weirdickyscary parts, the drug addict parts and the sex parts. (He still wasn't sold on sex yet. The more he found out, the less he wanted anything to do with it.) He reasoned that if he could stand Dr. Merrick's "nice tests," he could handle this.

Now he's sitting at the Bar, staring at the untouched pint of bitters he ordered without quite knowing why. He's sure of one thing, though, and he says it aloud to hear the strangeness of the accent in his mouth all at once.

"It's shite being Scottish."

[[OOC: It's been a while since mun saw Trainspotting, so if he's fudgy on plot details, apologies.]]

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"Lincoln?"

Jordan sees a morose, depressed, unsmiling but familiar face. Yep, it's Lincoln. She waves goodbye to the nice bartender who's been serving her, and walks over to him.

"Lincoln, what are you doing here?" Her tone does not disguise her embarrassment; she shouldn't be here either. She is still glad to see him.

Of all the people -- of all the voices he never thought he had a chance of hearing again --

He gapes at her for an instant. "Jordan?" It had to be her, it had to be. He hadn't seen anyone else wearing the white suits, and he hadn't seen other women who looked like her either.

In another instant, he's on his feet clutching her tight. "Oh God. I thought I'd lost you." He squeezes his eyes shut, and feels the tears trickle down the bridge of his nose. She's not dead, she found out too, she escaped--

"Lincoln? What are you..." He's touching her. She's rigid, unsure of what to do. They are too close. Someone is going to come and separate them and then they'll know. They'll know he was out and that she wasn't where she was supposed to be either.

Then she notices he's crying. "Lincoln? What's wrong?" She hugs him back awkwardly. After a moment, she says, "Hey. You sound...different."

An image flashes before Lincoln's eyes: Jordan without any of her clothes on, lying on a bed like the women in that movie. Horrified, he jerks away. He tries to cover by scrubbing his eyes.

"It's been happening to me ever since I got here. And I just-- I just watched this thing with someone who looks like me, only awful, and all this terrible stuff happens and they -- they sounded like I'd been--"

He can't continue, so he changes the subject. "How did you get away from them?"

"Oh," she looks down, fiddling with the napkin that has her drawing of a turtle from the bartender. "I just wanted to look around before I left. There was a problem with getting quarantine clearance or something."

Oh no. "Oh no!" How long has she been in Milliways? They'll have come looking for her surely, and if she's not there...what if she misses her chance to go to the Island? It's nice here and all, and Lincoln's presence, though confusing, makes it all the more tempting to stay, but...

"I'm going to miss the boat," she says, mournfully, spinning around and looking for the tile she came up out of. "Oh no..." She turned and grabbed his arms. "Lincoln, you have to help me, I can't find the way I got in. I have to get back!"

"Jordan! Jordan!" He's yelling, but he's so agitated he doesn't notice. "You can't go back, they'll kill you!"

"What?" She takes a step back, afraid. "That's...no, no, it's really safe, it's okay. Mike said...Mike said..." But his shouting and the way his eyes aren't lying...she can't remember exactly what Mike did say. He was from New York. He said it was okay. Smelly, but okay.

"It'll be all right," she reassures him, even though she is still amidst a panic about missing her trip. "Maybe...maybe since you're here already you could come with." It's ridiculous, and completely against the rules, but maybe...

He takes her elbows, only not in the way he had back at the Stim bar -- he's scared and urgent, and doesn't realize he's gripping too hard.

"It's not all right. I saw them before I came here. I found another sector, one that's all white and there aren't any censors, and I saw Starkweather and Lima. They took Lima's baby and they dragged Starkweather away, and they're both dead, Jordan! They killed them and they were going to kill you!"

"No! Stop it! Stop...stop!" She doesn't want to hear this and she struggles to break free. She is going to go back downstairs, and if she has to wait until the next spin comes up with her name, so be it: she is going to the Island. She wants to see Lima's baby...

She swallows, cowed by too much stimulation and a sex-on-the-beach that she's regretting she had. Her brain is not capable of dealing with all of this, and only one thing out of all he says stays at the forefront of her mind, only one thing makes any sense.

"You...you saw Lima's baby?"

Lincoln lets her go, horrified at himself. He doesn't want to hurt Jordan, especially not now that he's found her here, where she's safe. He glances around: other patrons are staring at them. He clears his throat and says quietly, "Want to sit next to me?"

"Okay," she agrees with a whisper, letting him lead her to a booth. She slides in across from him, setting a protective distance between them. He seems shaky all over, and she feels responsible in some way she can't define. So she bridges the gap and takes one of his hands.

"What's wrong? Tell me." She can't promise to believe him, but she can try. "What is this about people being killed? Did you have another nightmare? Did it have something to do with that...thing you watched?"

He sits there for what feels like an age, her fingers enclosing his. He doesn't look at her. Finally, he starts talking.

"It's not a dream. It's not anything like my dreams. I came up through a tile in the floor, and I borrowed someone's blue jacket, and then I started exploring. I found a room, and Lima was in a chair, and a woman had her baby and wouldn't give it to her. And then they injected her with something, and she stopped moving. I even went in after the other people left, and I tried to wake her up but she wouldn't. She was cold and her lips were turning blue." It's a memory he hasn't revisited so vividly in weeks. He stops talking again, but he squeezes Jordan's hand a little.

"Then--" Here his voice cracks. "Then I was trying to find my way back, and I saw Starkweather running through the halls, and he was bleeding and had all sorts of things coming out of him. He was crying and people were chasing him. He kept saying 'I don't want to die, I want to go to the Island.' And then they dragged him away and I didn't see what happened to him. I ran." He searches her face for some hint of understanding. "That's what happened. I ran, and then I was here. I haven't been able to get back ever since."

She has to try to understand this.

No one had seen Starkweather after two nights ago, but he'd been just fine. He'd been whole and healthy. There are elements of his other dreams, though--fear of dying, of being chased or hunted. He's never been very clear about what exactly happens in his dreams, but this isn't too different. He's upset that she's leaving for the Island. The last male to leave was Starkweather, and his dreams twisted his unhappiness into a nightmare that should have made him feel better about staying. Sometimes, she has dreams like that, where it's her who is a breeder instead of a friend, and she gets to go to the Island.

That's where her justification breaks down. Lima. He said he saw Lima and her baby. None of them have ever seen a baby. It isn't the sort of thing they joke about, even the men, because no one wants to seem ungrateful for all they have by bringing up what they haven't got. He's seen a baby. His eyes are haunted, but there's a bit of awe in them when he talks of it. He has seen a baby. How could he make that up?

"Oh my," she whimpers, and suddenly there is a burn at the back of her throat. It is not unlike the one she felt throwing down her drink, only now she suspects it may be coming back up.

Lincoln knits his brow. "I don't know why they're doing this, if survivors are so hard to come by. I've been talking to people. I think the Contamination is made up." He looks at her again. "Hey, are you okay?"

She shakes her head.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Were you drinking? That happened to me." He looks around, trying to think of something that can help her.

"Wait -- I'll be right back."

He jogs to the Bar and orders some bread, just like John Sheppard had for him. He hurries back with the basket and offers it to her. "Eating this helps."

It tastes greasy but wonderful when it pushes the acidic touch at the back of her throat back. This bread is definitely not a suitable breakfast substitute, but she wolfs it down.

"Oh. Oh no," she mumbles, mouth full, forgetting her manners. This isn't right. She shouldn't be here, and he shouldn't be here, and everything that is inviting and nice about this place is wrong. But downstairs, wherever that is is more wrong.

Lincoln has preserved the distance she set up, and she is the one to violate it. She slips out of one side and throws herself against him as he did her. It's as natural as breathing.

"I want to go to the Island," she sobs.

It's awful, to see her like this. With some awkwardness, he puts one arm around her shoulders. A moment later, the other hand drifts over her hair and hovers. After a pause, Lincoln moves it further away.

"It isn't there," he murmurs, the Scottish accent he's been studying for two days slipping in before he has a chance to think about it.

She nods, crying in earnest and turning her face into his side. He sounds like himself, and it makes her ache. This isn't fair.

But he's right. She plays her conversation with the barman, Mike, over and curses herself an idiot. They talked about the contamination, and he knew nothing about it. 'One of those future things, isn't it?' He talked about New York...he remembered it. All she remembered was a promise to get her fair share, her honest chance. All that she remembers, a lie.

"Why? What point does all this serve?"

"I don't know." He stares out at the crowd of happy, unaffected people. "I've been thinking and thinking and thinking, but I can't come up with anything." He feels her body acutely, pressing against his ribs as he breathes in and out. "I feel like I don't know enough. But there are weird things in this place that give me hunches. There's a man here who looks exactly like me. I didn't think that could happen before I came here."

He lifts his head a little. "You should meet him. He said he was going to help us. His name is Christian." Good news is good news, after all.

"Christian?" Just Christian? Not another one of them, then. She starts to nod and then vigorously shakes her head. She grips his jacket.

"What about the others?"

Lincoln jumps at the sudden movement. Having Jordan so close is nice, but he can't stave off all the things he saw in that movie.

"Well, nobody else has heard of the Contamination. I haven't heard anybody say anything about not being able to go outside. We're being kept from something, but it's not a dead world." He shifts in his seat so he can lean his elbows on the table. "I don't know much more than that, though."

Which is a lie. He knows about sex. He knows about policemen. He knows about running. And he knows about heroin. If Trainspotting is to be believed, there might as well be a Contamination, for all the good that's out there.

"I do." She opens her clenched hand to find the napkin with the turtle picture on it. "That's a turtle." It's a bunch of circles, five in total (four for the legs, one for the head), and a triangle for a tail. "They're green or brown or lots of colors.

"And out there," she looks out the window, "is the end of the universe."

Lincoln stared at the drawing. Then he stared in the direction she was pointing.

Then, for the first time in what felt like a hundred and twenty years, he smiled at her. "I'm glad you're here now." The tension had disappeared, just like that. "I'm sorry you didn't get to see the bug. It was really neat."

"That's okay," she wipes at the her face with the back of her hand. "I think I want to see turtles more."

She is quiet a minute, then asks, "Where can we go?" She looks around the bar as if seeing it for the first time. It's dirty and worn, but homey. Still, she doubts they'd be able to stay here. "Where have you been?"

"Staying?" He points toward the corridor which leads to the rooms. "You ask the Bar for a room, and it gives one to you. It's kind of like back ho-- back at the Institute. There's a bathroom with everything in it, and a bed, and a window. There's a place to play movies now in mine, but... I don't have any I'd want to watch." He shrugs. "Still, it's nice, staying here. I like it here, sort of."

"Movies? Are those like the Ethercon streams? Can I see them? I just go to the bar and ask?"

It is a jumble of questions, and she has to know the answers to all of them. Anything else to wonder about than the Island, home. No, not home. Never home.

"Let's go." She nods, decisively. "I want to see your movies."

"Yeah, they're like that, only they're stories. At least the one I was given. I don't really know what to ask for, but yeah, it'll just give them to you."

At her suggestion they watch his movie, though, his face drains. "Uh, maybe some other time with that." He squirms visibly before leaping to his feet. "You need your room now."

He leads her over to the Bar and taps it. "Hi, I -- well, my friend Jordan, she needs a room and... and things." He hesitates. "Can you put it near mine?" A key with a number on it appears on the surface. Lincoln grins. "There you go. That's yours."

She picks up the key. Emboldened by his example, she makes a request of her own.

"I want to watch a movie." There's a pause where nothing happens, so she tries something more specific. "I want to watch a movie with Christian in it." There is a menu, a list of titles with actors named Christian in it. She closes her eyes and picks one out at random. It's in her hands a moment later, she's frowning at the picture on the box.

"Velvet Goldmine. Hey," she shows the box to Lincoln. "That guy kind of looks like you, too." His expression is worth three of those sex-on-the-beaches.

Lincoln takes the case and examines it. There seem to be funny haircuts and shiny pants involved. He swallows. "Wow, it does. I wonder what this one's about?" He glances over the blurb on the back, trying to look casual, but it doesn't say much beyond the movie won some awards and involved glam rock. "I hope it's good. I don't know what's so exciting about rocks."

"Okay." Jordan is now operating in a daze; she's been through the thrill of discovery, the highs and lows alcohol use, the shock of the truth, and now she is going to watch a move-e with Lincoln in a strange place. In the convoluted place that is her head, this makes perfect sense. What else is there to do?

She takes his hand and takes one resolute step away from the bar, then stops.

"Um, which way is it?"

He points in a vaguely left-and-up-ish direction. "It's that way. I'll walk with you."

Nobody's paying attention to them. No Proximity warnings, no forced separation by censors... it's fucking fantastic, is what it is! (That was a word he hadn't heard before Trainspotting, but it was used liberally, so it was probably pretty common.) Lincoln leads her up the stairs and down the hall until they reach her door, which is directly across from his. He sticks his hands in his pockets. "Well, here it is." He points over his shoulder. "That's my room."

She doesn't realize she misses contact--dreaded proximity, not so dreaded after all--until he's stepped away. There are two contradictory urges at war. To let him go away is to lose the only person she knows. Even if that separation is only temporary, only short, it feels wrong. But she's never had anyone, let alone a man, in her quarters before.

Then again, these aren't really her quarters. It's more an impersonal space that she is temporarily occupying. She keys open her door.

"Come inside, Lincoln." She pouts her lip, exaggerating what is already an authentic pathetic look. "Please? I don't want to be alone."

Lincoln peeks around the door into the room. It's not threatening. And what does he have to worry about from Jordan? Just because they've never been alone together doesn't mean something's going... going to happen.

"Okay," he says cheerfully, and strolls in.

Relieved, Jordan follows after him. She feels oddly safer knowing he's there.

The room is dirty, lived in, and about a third the size of her quarters back at the Institute. She tries not to dwell on that--pretty trappings hide something dangerous; she's comfortable with an environment that doesn't try to be other than what it is.

She closes the door and look for a vid screen. It takes less time to find it than to figure out where to put the strange disc that is inside the box into the machine. After a few minutes puzzling, she works it out, and goes to sit on the end of the bed. It's the closest seat to the vid screen. She pats the mattress on her side, curious about the strange, choked look on his face.

"Come on, sit."

Lincoln feels like his feet have been nailed down to the ground. She's sitting on her bed. He's seen what happens to people together in beds. They make a lot of noise like they're in pain.

Still. It's something she doesn't know about and he doesn't want to do. This is a very safe situation. He lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, just enough so he's not falling off. The movie starts. (It's sure to be a safe movie, too. After all, it's about rocks.) He points at the screen. "Hey look, stars! They're prettier than I thought they'd be."

It seems absurd, given what he has just told her and she has yet to fully grasp, but she asks, "Are you okay?" Something about her is making him uncomfortable. She has recently learned that touch gives comfort, so she is adventurous and puts a hand on his knee.

"Do you want to talk about...about what you saw?" She will help if she can. Maybe together they can work it out. The video is tempting, very pretty and very distracting, but then so, too, are his wary eyes.

Knee is close to hip is close to that part! Lincoln tries to jump up, but he only succeeds in falling spectacularly off the bed. "Wrong?" He scrambles to his feet. "Nothing's wrong, I'm fine, don't worry about it. Nothing's wrong." He avoids her eyes.

"You're lying," and she doesn't need to even scrutinize him that carefully to know it. He always was a poor liar. She's responsible in some way for this reaction and regrets it. He seemed so happy to see her before. Maybe she's being selfish.

"Sit down, okay? I promise I won't make you uncomfortable. Here," she backs up along the bed to sit at the headboard. "I'll be here, okay?"

[ooc: That icon made me crack up. Good job.]

Lincoln gestures at the door. "Maybe I'd better go. I've had a long day and I'm really tired, so are you, and maybe now that you're here the nightmares will be better, yeah?" He wrinkles his nose at the Scottish inflection slipping in. "I still want to watch the movie with you, but maybe we'd better talk in the morning, after we've both slept it off. It's been an exciting day."

It sure has. He's pacing as he says it.

She nods, still not certain what she's done to upset him.

"If you want." She hugs her knees. Without him to distract her, and her interest in the vid screen having waned from the start of his pacing about, she can only think of what he told her downstairs.

In a small voice, she asks, "Are we safe here?"

Oh no, now she looks so... small. Was Jordan ever this confusing back at the Institute?

He crouched down and took her hands. "I think so. Yes. That's one thing I'm sure of. Nobody's allowed to hurt anybody here. We're safe."

"Good," she breathes, squeezing his hands and smiling, sadly. "If what you say is true..." It doesn't bear discussing now, however. Every friend she's ever hugged goodbye, wished the best, been jealous of for getting to go to the Island, all of them are dead. And, if not for his corruptive influence, she might have been among their number.

"Thank you," she whispers, "for everything." She releases one of his hands and reaches for her abused napkin. It is her only possession, the first thing she has ever had that is unique to her alone, and it's already so beaten it might not last another day. But its hers, and its hers to do with as she wants. Doing what she wants. That will take some getting used to, but again, she has him to thank for that privilege.

"Here. Take this with you. It's not much of a present, but I want you to have it."

Lincoln looks at her, surprised but not startled by the gift-giving. "Thank you," he murmurs, and looks down at it.

He is not changing his mind about staying, he is not, he is not.

He offers her a smile, a real one. "Sweet dreams." Before anything else can happen, he walks out. The napkin is pressed to his chest.

Jordan stares at the door. Lincoln is being more unusual than ever today, and she still doesn't entirely understand what 'weeks' worth of activity could have done to him.

Exhausted, Jordan reluctantly pulls herself, still-dressed, under the covers. She lays back, staring up at the ceiling. She thinks of turtles, occasionally looking at the still playing screen, then hastily looking away again--she wasn't sure what the person who looked strangely like Lincoln was doing, but she sure wasn't ready in this state of mind.

I'm alive. Lincoln is here. I'm going to see turtles. She repeats this until she falls asleep, hoping to keep the nightmares at bay.

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