( He likes where he wound up. He's not really sure why; rather, he's not sure specifically why. The dudes that he's spoken to told him about the memory loss, about how it'll come back, about how this is probably like his house, his comfort zone, somewhere he's been before. Something like that. It's definitely not his house — the sign nearby reads Singer Auto - self serve salvage yard. Singer ain't his name, and he doubts it's a nickname, either.
Whatever the case, he feels at home here — and even more at home under the shining black muscle car he found parked by the garage. Slipping underneath it felt like slipping into perfectly fitting shoes, music started playing on a slightly-tinny stereo somewhere inside the garage, and to tell you the truth he's not sure how long he's been under there when it shows up.
It.
He double-takes. One glance over, then his eyes are back up again, then his brain processes what it saw and he yanks his attention to it again — and )
Holy-
( Wildly, stupidly, he forgets he's under the damn car and makes to spring himself to standing — just to bang his head on something metal and unforgiving. They can say this is fake all they want, apparently the car didn't get the picture, and neither did his skull. )
Ahh-
( He hisses, pressing his palm to his forehead for a split second. Just long enough for the pain to concede the 2% of brain power it takes his instincts to kick back in. He goes rolling out from under the car, socket wrench gripped tightly in one hand like he's gonna... what, hit that thing with it if he has to? That's a joke.
Something on his left shoulder twinges — like an itch, or a muscle spasm.
It occurs to him that if that thing wanted to hurt him, it could probably have just crushed the whole damn car with him underneath it. Also, he's... pretty sure you can't actually die here, but he did just confirm with ringing clarity pain is still on the table. He's not about to go pulling any triggers just yet, but he's about as wary as a man can be otherwise.
...what the hell is he even looking at?
Seriously, his eyes flicker around it, and no matter how hard he squeezes his eyes shut or re-opens them and scans the thing it's like his vision can't settle on anything... stable. It's all just a constantly shifting, moving, light... pattern... animal... smoke... wavelength... thing.
About seven or eight seconds after he's upright, he finally manages to breathlessly mutter: )
no subject
Whatever the case, he feels at home here — and even more at home under the shining black muscle car he found parked by the garage. Slipping underneath it felt like slipping into perfectly fitting shoes, music started playing on a slightly-tinny stereo somewhere inside the garage, and to tell you the truth he's not sure how long he's been under there when it shows up.
It.
He double-takes. One glance over, then his eyes are back up again, then his brain processes what it saw and he yanks his attention to it again — and )
Holy-
( Wildly, stupidly, he forgets he's under the damn car and makes to spring himself to standing — just to bang his head on something metal and unforgiving. They can say this is fake all they want, apparently the car didn't get the picture, and neither did his skull. )
Ahh-
( He hisses, pressing his palm to his forehead for a split second. Just long enough for the pain to concede the 2% of brain power it takes his instincts to kick back in. He goes rolling out from under the car, socket wrench gripped tightly in one hand like he's gonna... what, hit that thing with it if he has to? That's a joke.
Something on his left shoulder twinges — like an itch, or a muscle spasm.
It occurs to him that if that thing wanted to hurt him, it could probably have just crushed the whole damn car with him underneath it. Also, he's... pretty sure you can't actually die here, but he did just confirm with ringing clarity pain is still on the table. He's not about to go pulling any triggers just yet, but he's about as wary as a man can be otherwise.
...what the hell is he even looking at?
Seriously, his eyes flicker around it, and no matter how hard he squeezes his eyes shut or re-opens them and scans the thing it's like his vision can't settle on anything... stable. It's all just a constantly shifting, moving, light... pattern... animal... smoke... wavelength... thing.
About seven or eight seconds after he's upright, he finally manages to breathlessly mutter: )
Did somebody slip me like a gallon of Ayahuasca?