Quicklog: Seven and Liam Who: Seven M & Liam R Where: Liam's apartment in Manhattan When: Several hours after this. Warnings/Rating: TBD
It hadn't taken so long, after all. A few emails shot out on his work phone did the dirty work, sending some of his most resourceful contacts the important info. Liam had returned to this New York, was holed up somewhere in Manhattan, and Seven needed him found quicker than ASAP - and then all there had been to do was wait. Uh, and try to explain to Marta that no, she wasn't going to go hunting Liam down or whatever the fuck she had threatened to do if he didn't resurface soon enough after his memory/meltdown. Because apparently that was a thing now? Like, they'd, shit, bonded? Or something? Not that her and Liam had any reason to be talking on the journals in the first place, never mind becoming BFFs, except that Marta had clearly been unable to resist her curiosity after she'd found out about Liam.
Jesus Christ. Between the two of them, Seven was pretty sure that several years had already been taken off his life. He should send them matching invoices for the blood pressure medication that he was undoubtedly going to need.
It was like low-level torture, sitting behind the wheel of his new work pickup where he'd parked it at one of the construction sites, waiting for news. He wasn't a huge fan of being tethered to his phone like it was some sort of lifeline, ever. But this was different. This was Liam, yeah? In whatever new and terrible form he had not-decided to take, this was fucking Liam. The man who didn't remember anything except his own name. Who didn't even remember Seven, for fuck's sake. God. What the hell did that mean? Brainwashing? Systematic torture and conditioning by one of the numerous and evil entities that existed in this version of New York that was decidedly not Seven's New York? Or did it mean that Liam was something 'other', now? Something dangerous?
Then the buzz came. Three sharp, preprogrammed vibes of the phone where it sat in Seven's cupholder. Found him, boss. And he was off into the midday Manhattan traffic, with just one stop at a corner bodega to pick up a bottle of Gatorade (blue, because blue was obviously the best flavour) that he shoved into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. It still made him feel stupid, bulging out from the left side of his chest like that - but at least it wasn't so obvious.
Bzzzzzz went the buzzer to the apartment that his people had zeroed in on, as Seven leaned in the downstairs doorway. Maybe he should just leave. Probably he should just leave, yeah? Except that, just maybe, Liam was up there. Some version of him.