Nov. 16th, 2012

crowsong: Gin with his head down, the rim of his hat throwing shadows over his eyes. He's frowning. (I'll drop you off in Harlem;)
[personal profile] crowsong
[It's been quite some time since the events that took place on Fortuna.

He had been trying to play it all off as a very long, deranged dream. It was all unbelievable. He would not speak a word of it to anyone; who would believe him? To claim he'd been held captive on an alien planet, to be a very large and well-dressed lab rat to a group of faceless scientists, and— this is where it all sounds like some depraved fantasy of his— to have killed other residents and watched them come back to life?

It all sounded like something born of his imagination.

He had stopped the car by the side of the road. He hadn't been willing to part with the Porsche since his return, driving it almost constantly, if not, then sitting in it, watching it, feeling it to make sure it was still there... driving familiar routes to reassure himself that this was the Tokyo he left behind.

For now, he watched the snowflakes drift lazily as they showered down from heaven, before hastily winds carried them away in a flurry. Snow gathered on the roof of his car.

It was the first snow of winter, but when did he leave? It was much earlier... February... late February? No, early March. How long was he gone? Vodka claimed he never left, but how could that be? Did they send a copy to claim his place in the world, to cover up his absence?

His hand had found his hair at some point, he only now registered, holding a lock of it and running his thumb over the ends. It wasn't any shorter... but he knew he cut his hair and jaggedly, despite his best efforts, he remembered that! Was it their doing? He hadn't escaped, then— they restored his body and sent him back, perhaps only temporarily... this was another experiment, wasn't it? They wouldn't pay him the good courtesy of healing him before sending him off. Not a single new scar on him, although that torture should've left him sporting several—

He turned on the radio knob, searching for something to chase the unsettling thoughts back to the darkest recesses of his mind. Nothing worked.

For the first time, he felt uncomfortable being in the car, and decided he had better leave. He felt cramped, suffocating... maybe a walk would do him well. He could soothe himself with familiar sights until this particularly cruel experiment was over, then... go into hiding for a while.

Ikebukuro was quintessential Tokyo. It wasn't very large, but it had a taste of almost everything any other district had to offer. ... but really, what was he doing wandering eastwards— as if he were in the right state to head into the red light district...

Maybe he'll stop at a restaurant instead and dine on something that wasn't canned or a single tray of takoyaki. Or something sickly sweet from the wedding of the woman he killed and the man who—

He needed a distraction.]

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