Adlai Whistler ⚔ Tyrael (justiceitself) wrote in thereincarnates, @ 2017-01-01 11:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | adlai whistler, frankie discombe |
Who: Adlai Whistler & Frankie Discombe
What: A man with no memory meets a caretaker who understands the problem.
Where: Adlai's apartment, Manhattan
When: Backdated to Thursday, December 29; morning
Warnings: TBD, but probably mild
The beeping noise that had driven him out of bed that morning (an alarm, some stray bit of knowledge had told him, though he wasn't certain why it was relevant) felt like it had come not terribly long after he'd laid down to begin with, but the numbers on the clock told him that it had been at least four hours. Another stray bit of knowledge told him that four hours wasn't considered long enough to be a full night's rest. That was most likely why his eyes felt as though they had some sort of grit in them. He could have gone back to bed after he'd shut the beeping noise off, but he wasn't certain what the alarm was supposed to signify, in the first place. He'd looked around the apartment again, after the beeping had ceased and seemed unlikely to come back, but there was nothing to give him any sort of clue as to what he was supposed to do, after. Nothing as clear as the piece of plastic he had found in his wallet, with the address on it that had gotten him from the street to the apartment the night before.
There'd been a name on it, too, and some other, obscure numbers, and information that seemed pointless to have on a card. There was a picture on it, too, one that he had recognized, somehow, as himself, even before he'd found a reflective surface to confirm it. It had seemed like a reasonable assumption that both address and name belonged to him. That the address had been his was confirmed when one of the keys on the ring he'd carried had fit the locks on the door, which left him almost positive that he could claim the name, as well. Adlai Whistler. He wasn't certain if it was a good name, or a bad one, or somewhere in between. The name was just meaningless syllables, to him. He could, he supposed, begin thinking of himself as Adlai. Perhaps then it would become a more comfortable fit, begin to take on some sort of meaning. At the very least, it would guarantee he responded, if someone called him by it.
He was uncertain whether he knew anyone that might call him by it. As far as he knew, there was no one but the thundering voice in his head, the one equally clueless as to who they were and why they had been out on the streets the night before. It was possible that he was completely alone. He didn't seem to live with anyone, or at least no one who had been waiting for him the night before, or who had come home after he had stumbled through giving the address on the card to the man driving the taxi, and paid with some of the bills that he had been carrying. If he was not Adlai Whistler, after all, but had simply been holding the man's identification and money, he would owe him an apology for the expense, and for stealing his apartment and sleeping in his bed.
The things he did know seemed... random. Obscure. Nothing concrete about himself, his life, nothing personal at all, but the details of the world itself, of things like taxi cabs, keys, apartments, beds, alarms, those seemed to fill in, when he needed them, well enough that he could stumble his way through getting somewhere safe and settling in. The voice in his head knew less than he did, about that sort of thing. He... Adlai... wasn't certain what sort of knowledge that voice was responsible for. They hadn't needed it, as of yet, but he could only assume that once they did, he would make his own contribution to stumbling through whatever mess they had found themselves in.
Perhaps it was that voice that was Adlai, and he was someone else entirely. There was no way to know, really, who was who. Not when neither of them could quite recall what made them different to begin with.