001 ♙ open

[booklegging]

WHO: Jess Brightwell.
WHERE: The fountain, the town, and later on, the inn.
WHEN: July 25th.
OPEN TO: Anyone!
WARNINGS: Wet, grumpy teens and probably swearing.
STATUS: Open.

---

I. Fountain


Jess woke up to bone-chilling darkness. A wet darkness, some part of his mind supplied when a pressure pushed on him from below and he felt his limbs, sluggish and heavy, cut through liquid in an uncoordinated thrash.

Water. He was in water.

The jolting realization came too late to stop himself from doing the one thing he shouldn't do: open his mouth and inhale. The burn of frigid water in his lungs and up his nose instantly woke Jess up, and then panic was setting in for real, colder even than the gloomy water in which he was submerged. Instinct was a screaming voice in his head propelling him in the direction he'd been pushed. Up, he prayed. Let it be up.

Just when Jess thought he couldn't hold back the need to expel his lungs a second longer, he breached the surface, coughing until every muscle in his chest felt like it was spasming. He paddled his arms, fighting to clear his eyes, his movements made extra jerky by an unfamiliar weight on his back. The backpack was hardly as heavy as the fully-stocked travel packs he'd trained with, but between it and getting caught by surprise, he wasn't as graceful pulling himself from the pool as he would've liked. Half-rolling, Jess ended up in a sprawl, caught at an awkward angle on his side because of the backpack like a turtle flipped on its back.

If Glain could see this display, she'd have him running laps around the training field for the rest of his life and then some.

... Glain. The High Garda compound. The barracks.

Now that he wasn't in any immediate danger of drowning in his sleep, the questions were tumbling in. How had he gotten from there to here without waking up? Wherever "here" was.

Instinct told him something was wrong, horribly wrong, eclipsing the sweet relief at having air to gulp down. Wriggling out of the backpack, Jess pulled himself onto his knees and looked down at himself, and what he saw justified the renewed panic beating in his chest like a second heartbeat. He didn't recognize a single thing he was wearing. Where was his uniform? His belt with his tools? Anything? He reached for the bag--also unfamiliar--and tore into it, shoving aside more unfamiliar articles of clothing. Nothing. No knife, no Codex. Things he wouldn't leave behind and people wouldn't dare take from him. What the hell.

This was bad. It certainly couldn't be good.


II. Town


Later in the day, Jess could no longer resist the urge to get out from under prying eyes and take some air by himself, prompting him to head out into town on alone. Seeing was believing, and Jess needed to see what he was up against with his own eyes.

Keeping away from the main drag to avoid notice, he cautiously picked his way along the outer fringe of the settlement. Everything had a threatening newness to it that had Jess on high alert, pausing at every unfamiliar crack of a branch and checking over his shoulder at each turn to make sure he wasn't being followed. The town was larger than he'd expected and had the uncanny appearance of a set piece. Like an elaborate replica of a pioneer village that time had forgotten.

It's strange, ghost-like feel made Jess uneasy, and he put a concentrated effort into avoiding the view of windows, approaching from the rears of building until he was close enough to peer in through them. He wasn't sure he wanted to meet whoever lived in these ramshackle houses, if they were even occupied.

At one house, he tried a side door. The knob turned soundlessly under his hand. It felt like a trap. All of it did. This entire town. He'd never thought he would, but for once he missed his armored uniform and the heavy High Garda weapons that went with it. He'd feel safer with something besides a dull fear pounding in his head.


III. Inn


By all rights, Jess should be dead to the world after this rotten day--the cherry on a shite cake as he hadn't been averaging much sleep in the days proceeding this anyway--but no amount of mental and physical exhaustion could dull Jess' prickling nerves, even after day gave way to late night, and the quiet town grew even quieter.

He'd taken shelter in the inn once it'd started to get dark, seeing no better option, yet he couldn't bring himself to touch the abandoned beds. Eventually Jess crept into the front room and picked a perch near one of the windows, staring out into the inky darkness beyond with restless intensity.

He should rest. He needed to rest. He was running on fumes, stomach churning with hunger and unease both. But he just couldn't. He was used to the noise and bustle of Alexandria and having his fellow recruits around him in the barracks. This place was as quiet as a grave... and that was definitely not a comparison he appreciated, especially with how conveniently timed his abduction was when he considered all the variables at work. They'd been making moves against the Artifex, and suddenly he ended up in the middle of nowhere without his Library identification? Too well-timed.

Explanations chased themselves around his head--how he'd been taken, who would've taken him, who would notice him gone--and ended up at the same dead ends each time. Jess rested his chin on his knees, frustrating with each fruitless loop. The not knowing would kill him if the jaws of the trap he could feel closing around him didn't first.

Comments

I.

[teen_angst_bullshit]

It's become a little concerning, the way Veronica's been haunting the park these last few weeks.

She'd be the first to tell you, and emphatically, that it's not as bad as all that. She just makes a point to pass through anytime she happens to be walking by. Hell, it's practically a public service, with the number of people who have been popping up out of the damned fountain with no idea where they hell they are.

But she can't deny, either, that there's a dark little stone that's been sitting in the pit of her stomach, and every time she slips down one of those leafy tunnels to simply and innocently check for new arrivals, the stone rattles around like a second heartbeat.

Today, she sees a dark and dripping head bent low over slender shoulders and has a moment of pure, unbridled terror.

But then the face turns up, and relief sweeps in instead.

"Hey," she says in the next beat, happy to have so easily found her voice. "Please tell me you speak English."

[booklegging]

Jess paws through the bag twice--the second attempt in the hopes he'd missed something with his chilled fingers, but to no avail--and that's when he notices his bare wrist. He stops what he's doing to touch the spot where his copper band should be, not able to process he's rubbing damp skin and not metal.

The spike of horror plunges so deep that Jess thinks for one dumb moment it's pierced his brain and there's a short circuit somewhere. His senses can't be telling him the truth. He shouldn't be taking a dip in a fountain. He shouldn't be dressed like some kind of escapee from a hospital or juvenile center. His wrist shouldn't be bare. No, no, no. They'll think I've run.

Something green moves on the edge of his vision, detaching itself from the foliage. A girl. About his own age, he'd wager. Wide eyes meet wide eyes, and Jess stands up to meet her on instinct. He doesn't recognize her or the see the significance of her question; the only thing he can think about, the only thing that matters, is his missing Library band. The fact that it's impossible for those things to just slip off doesn't stop Jess from thinking maybe he'd misplaced it or dropped it. He glances over his shoulder at the fountain.

"I speak English." His voice sounds raspy to his own ears, throat tender after the gagging fit that had put him here. "Hold that thought."

If there's even a chance something had fallen in the confusion of the fountain, he has to at least check. That band is everything. Pulling in a breath, Jess is diving back under the water in the next second.

[teen_angst_bullshit]

Veronica's mouth opens to call out, an arm lifted in an aborted gesture, but it's too late. He's already gone back in. She sprints the remaining distance to the fountain and braces herself against the lip of the pool, fingers gripping hard against stone. It's an irrational reaction -- She knows of at least three people who have gone on diving expeditions to the bottom of the fountain since she got here. But still, some of the childish fear from her arrival lingers despite her better sense. This guy she knows even less than she had Frank, and she doesn't want him to go back in there, either.

Not that it matters now.

"That's not going to work," she mutters to herself. It's no good watching the water, the constant ripples obscuring anything beneath, but she looks anyway, and waits.

[booklegging]

The shock of cold water isn't as severe the second time around now that he's expecting it. He glides down into the fountain's murky depths, and then down some more, the basin deeper than any normal fountain has a right to be, feeling his way as he goes.

Before his High Garda conditioning, he wouldn't have made it after already nearly choking, but Jess is able to circle the bottom, guided by his hands which look for anything out of place. After his second circuit and still nothing, Jess has to admit defeat. He's on the fast track to blacking out at this rate.

He comes up gasping air into his much-abused lungs to find the girl from before still waiting. He can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing.

"All right," Jess says as he swims for the fountain's edge, "you have my attention."

Please, explain.

[teen_angst_bullshit]

"You know, apart from the whole diving back into the mystery fountain bit, you're taking this surprisingly well," Veronica says. She's leaned over, watching him with a faint smirk through the curtain of her dark hair, but is, in actuality, profoundly relieved that he came back up again.

"Welcome to nowhere," she says, and rocks back onto her feet again, looking for all the world like an escapee from a mental hospital with her rolled-up scrubs pants and tank top. "I should probably start by saying that it's doubtful you're going to like what I'm about to tell you."

She'd thought explaining to Thorfinn had been difficult, but being able to use plain words is somehow worse. There's nothing to hide behind or get lost in translation. No buffer, just one more person floating in a fountain.

"You can't get back through there," she says with a nod to the water. "As far as we can tell, you can't get back anywhere."

[booklegging]

He lifts himself onto dry land, creating another puddle next to his first where the half-opened bag still sits. Everything's just as it was before--fountain, park benches, garden hedges. Not just a bad dream his over-tired brain had cooked up, then. But his band is still gone, as is his Codex, his weapons, his lockpicks, everything that matters. Still a nightmare.

"You think so?" He rakes wet hair back, pulling in air in the hopes his chest will stop feeling like it's on the verge of collapse.

He'd had the same conversation with Khalila the day he'd her the friend they'd assumed dead might still be alive. You seem very calm.

Do I?

In hindsight, Jess could understand her reaction now that he's fighting not to lose his grip and shout for an explanation, or pull his hair, or both. It'd been shock freezing her in place like granite, probably. He knows the feeling.

"We're past that now that I've been soaked to the bone and robbed blind," is his bland reply. A glance at her arms--no Library band visible on her, either. "Back? Back through what, a hatch at the bottom?" He hadn't considered that he'd come up through the fountain, but now her implication makes him look at it in an insane new light. "Better start from the beginning. Like who you are and why nowhere looks like a park."

[teen_angst_bullshit]

"I'm Veronica. Sawyer," she says, and lifts her shoulders in a helpless shrug. "And any questions you have about why this place is the way it is, I can't help you with. I came out of there," she says, pointing again to the rippling water of the fountain. "It was... God, like three weeks ago, at least. A bunch of other people came up out of there at the same time, so I don't know. Hatch, maybe. Appeared out of nowhere? Beamed down by cosmic laser? Nobody knows."

She tilts her head, squinting at him in the sunlight. "Where are you from?"

ii.

[igotacrossbow]

There's a division of labor that's cropped up in their house. Cougar does most of the hunting (and most of the cooking), and Jake tends to the household chores, cleaning and airing out rooms, sweeping, fiddling with the difficult plumbing, and washing clothes. Veronica flits in and out whenever she likes, but Jake is so used to divvying up chores between him and Cougar that he doesn't really bother to give her any. Plus he feels like he can't hand her their dirty clothes and say 'go for it' without it being awkward. He's not going to ask a teenager to wash his underwear, dude.

He's just collected their dirty laundry from upstairs, singing some classic Blondie under his breath as he goes, when he stumbles across a stranger in his kitchen.

Automatically, he flings his armful of clothes at the intruder and lunges for one of the knives, the spike of adrenaline flooding his body making everything buzz as he brings the knife up to attack.

Only to realize it's just a teenager. "Jesus fucking Christ, dude!" he exclaims, huffing out a shaky laugh, his knife lowering. "You scared the crap out of me, good lord."

[booklegging]

Breaking and entering is better under the cloak of darkness for this very reason. Less chance of bumping into homeowners while they're going about their business and sending them into a panic when they catch sight of you on their property, as Jess stupidly does when he gets caught out in the open, a tingle at the nape of his neck alerting him to the presence of another too late to slip away. Before Jess realizes he's not alone and can take cover, the man's in the doorway, blocking him in against a counter and a wall.

When he'd watched through the back windows for a while and saw no movement, he'd tried his luck by hoping that meant no occupancy, but as it turns out his luck is sour. He should've guessed that the minute he woke up choking on fountain water.

Jess leaps sideways, seeking the shelter of the kitchen table and crouching to make himself a smaller target. If the man has a gun, one clear shot could be the end for him. His best bet would be to create an opening and run for the exit...

But it doesn't come to that, thankfully.

A glance tells him that's no gun concealed behind the barrage of clothes, but a knife. One the man lowers slightly. Nevertheless, Jess puts his empty hands out in the classic open-palmed "don't kill me" pose. That knife could still come back and do some damage if it comes to a fight, and from the stranger's quick reaction time, Jess doesn't like his odds of catching the other off guard.

"Sorry. I didn't think anyone was here. I thought it was unoccupied."

[igotacrossbow]

Jake laughs again, breathless, and sets the knife back where he found it, next to the knife block behind him. He should put it in the knife block, but that would require turning his back on the intruder. And while he's looking at a teenager, he knows full well how dangerous teenagers can be. Especially around here, it seems.

"No, it's definitely occupied," he points out, swiping a hand over his shaggy beard. He hasn't found any razors in the two weeks he's been here, and it's starting to show. "We live here."

Suddenly noticing that the kid is still damp, his gaze sharpens. "Wait, are you new?"

[booklegging]

"I can see that now," he says evenly. Yes, that's been made abundantly clear. Jess tracks the knife with his eyes and keeps his hands raised until the man releases the weapon, but even then he stays in a pose of surrender as he slowly straightens up. No sudden movements. He knows the drill.

The man had gone on the offensive instantaneously and clearly knew what he was doing with a blade. Strong build, vigilant. And he was keeping himself between Jess and the sharp implements and the easiest exit routes. Smart. Not someone Jess would want to tangle with even on a good day.

Not to mention he'd said we. Jess listens for sounds of other people in the house, but doesn't hear anything. That doesn't do much to reassure him, though.

"No harm intended. I'll go," he adds, almost at the same time the man takes a harder look at him. He pauses briefly. "Define 'new'? I came to in a park." His gaze wanders to the discarded clothes--scrubs in the same style as the grey ones he's wearing. He's getting the impression being ejected out of a fountain like a cannonball isn't a singular experience.

[igotacrossbow]

At the moment, Cougar is out snaring rabbits or whatever, and god knows what Veronica is doing. It sucks not having his laptops around, or even a radio, but Jake is able to entertain himself while he works on his chores.

"Yeah, but is this your first day?" The more he asks, the more he's certain of the answer. He doesn't recognize the kid's face, and while he hasn't exactly been Miss Congeniality since he arrived, too busy trying to look after Cougar and his teenage sidekick, he's been here long enough to recognize most people by sight, he thinks. "I'm sorry, I should have realized. This must be totally overwhelming. I'm Jake."

Wiping his hand on his navy-blue bottoms, Jake holds it out to shake, as friendly and non-threatening as he can be.

[booklegging]

"I guess, yes. So people keep telling me. I'm still putting together what I'm new to exactly." Terms like new and first day imply he's newly inducted into a situation that's still unfolding as they speak, and he doesn't want to think about that, or what an experienced veteran would look like. He has enough on his plate.

But he knows better. Someone had wanted him here badly enough to remove his band and cut him off from the Library, from the High Garda and Wolfe and the others. Whatever this is, there's no avoiding it, he's in the thick of it now.

The man--Jake--isn't wrong, either. Inwardly, Jess is holding it together by will alone, and though the man genuinely seems to relax from regarding him as an immediate threat, the coil of tension in Jess' stomach is wound tight as a drum. But he takes the offered hand, mostly because he is the intruder here and it's a show of good faith.

Not before he mimics Jensen and wipes the cold sweat off his hand first, though.

"Jess. I was getting a lay of the land when I saw the houses. Your back door was open and... you know." He doesn't say what he's obviously thinking: that waltzing up and knocking on the door hadn't seemed safe. Then again, slinking in the back hadn't worked out as well as he would've liked. He can't hold the guy at fault for his reaction--that he reserves for himself. He shouldn't have gotten caught.

II.

[dnr]

Even a few steps into the back door, the little brown house at the end of the row could easily pass for unoccupied. Old leaves overflow the packed gutters. Weeds thread up between loose boards in the back steps. Hinges make a muffled grinding sound in protest when the door deigns to open, and the remains of a busted lock dangle off its fore-edge. Dust coats the top of the work table in the antiquated kitchen, undisturbed.

But the rest of the room tells a different story. Silverware drawers have been pulled out and rummaged through on the counter-tops. The sink is splashed with red. Dust-free foot paths wind from kitchen to dining room, past untouched dining chairs, and another boot-swept trail leads to the left, through a door left ajar about as far as the width of a face. Beyond it, the black windowless tunnel of the top of a basement staircase.

"That's far enough," says Frank as he leans his head out into that sliver of light, with an even sort of confidence that usually comes with a rifle trained on the recipient — there isn't one, at least not visible, but all the same. He doesn't look worried. Just tense, letting the initial adrenaline roll off him again. It's just a kid. In his house.

[booklegging]

He's aware it's counterintuitive, but there's a perverse comfort in entering the house as quietly as the rickety door and groaning floor allow. The house's bare bones are strange in a way Jess can't entirely put his finger on--American design, he wants to say, with clunky, unusual mechanics--but the challenge of surveying a new space is always the same. Get in, get out, get clear. Rinse, repeat. He's done this a thousand times, and if he pretends this is normal recon, he can pretend it's just another normal day.

His pulse starts to even out as he picks his way around the edges of the room. He'd made sure the soles of his boots were completely dry so as not to attract the dust, and he's mindful not to brush up against anything that would transfer to his clothes.

No, not his clothes. The clothes someone had dressed him in.

Left with no supplies in a ghost town. Not even my Codex. What's the connection? Jess doesn't have the slightest clue what he's supposed to be doing here, and if that means going through every damn building from top to bottom to find out, so be it. The light fixtures and appliances particularly draw Jess' interest, and he even dares to touch a light socket, frowning in wonder. These aren't like homes he's ever seen, a mix of familiar and alien.

But once Jess nears enough to see the difference between one half of the kitchen and the other, the cold fist returns to his chest and tightens. Signs of recent activity show someone coming and going from the room. And that doesn't look like tomato paste in the sink. Go or stay? Those are his options. Get while the getting's good and he might avoid unfriendly company. But there's no telling how recent the activity is. He could still be in and out without anybody being the wiser.

Jess knows he's made the wrong choice the minute he takes one more step and a voice issues from the basement entry, stopping him dead in his tracks.

Should've kept a closer eye on that door, idiot. So much for that.

He hazards a glance without moving his head, waiting for what the next move's going to be. "I'm not armed." Not that he thinks for a second that'd stop the guy from adding him to the mess in the sink if he wanted to, but to make it clear this isn't a home invasion.

[dnr]

It's hard to say how long Frank had been back there watching, or even just listening, but if the settled stillness of his posture is any indication, it's long enough.

The way this kid freezes under pressure, though — waiting, not panicking — that's not something every teenager does. It's not something most people have to learn between one and twenty, and Frank can think of a few reasons why you might — none of which are anything he'd wish on a teenager. For a beat, he stays just as still, studying the stranger through the gap between door and frame.

Even if this were a home invasion, Frank wouldn't be too concerned. No signs of a partner, and he's probably got fifty pounds on this kid soaking wet. Not that he has anything worth stealing to begin with.

"Well, that wasn't real smart," he says finally, with a mite less seriousness than the situation may warrant. (But really, who breaks into a house without a weapon?) One big hand curls around the edge of the door to swing it the rest of the way open, though he doesn't make any move to close the distance between them yet. The man inside is well-built, overall-clad, and half covered in grime, but his manner is easing into something gentler. He nods to the floor.

"Lucky for you, stepping on my tile isn't a capital offense. You wanna tell me what you were looking for?"

[booklegging]

It'd be a stretch to call it a "home invasion," anyway. All signs suggest the large men's sized boot prints in the dust belong to a squatter. But finders, keepers. Jess isn't about to argue with that.

He holds still, ignoring the bunched muscles in his legs telling him to run. The man hadn't even let so much as a stray breath slip to alert Jess to his presence, and that's taking into account Jess is already jumping at every rustle of branches--he's no amateur. If there is a weapon trained on him, his gut tells him he wouldn't make it to the door.

Even so, Jess' lips quirk humorlessly at the comment. Frank has no idea how true that is. He and Glain and the others had blown past "smart" a couple train stops ago and now an innocent woman is dead.

"It's one of those days," he admits.

A decision is made and after another pregnant, nerve-prickling second, the door creaks open and Jess looks. The scare Frank had given him doesn't make it to his face; his unease with this town is on tight lock down, and he keeps his stance wide and his hands slightly lifted from his sides to show his lack of weapons. He knows dangerous men. He'd grown up with them. The burly figure filling the doorway is one--he wears that toughness like a second skin. He could've easily been one of Callum Brightwell's crew. Dark, solid. Around his father's age, possibly.

And not carrying a gun that Jess can see. Good bluffing. His father probably would want to add him to the payroll, Jess thought bitterly.

"Answers. Someone responsible so I can talk to them." The way Jess says talk makes it sound as though it could just as well be swapped out with punch. "I'm the new guy, so I've been told. Sorry to burst in unannounced."

[dnr]

Frank gives a small chuff in answer to that. Talk. This kid's got guts, he'll give him that, even if Frank's not sure he's got the right hook to back it up. Self-discipline, though, he seems to have down all right, and that's something Frank appreciates in people who are breaking into his admittedly barely inhabited home. No loose canons, no sudden movements.

"Good luck," he says, and apparently decides that's enough of a stand-off for him. Who is a threat to whom is clear enough, and that's all Frank is interested in establishing right now. He takes a step through the doorway, then another, crossing toward the dining room. "Answers aren't something we've got a lot of around here."

"You know how to braid?" he asks without preface or explanation, as he steps one foot into the dining room to reach around the wall, not quite letting Jess out of sight just yet.

[booklegging]

At least someone is wishing him luck. The rest of the world seems content to put its weight on his shoulders.

"I'm gathering that. You can't blame a guy for being curious."

Jess relaxes his hands, satisfied for the moment that he won't have to do any brawling in a dusty kitchen just yet, but he still plants himself where the two of them are never any closer than the narrowest part of the kitchen allows. Maintaining the distance between them so that he can't be easily grabbed or rushed while keeping the other person in view is something Jess does as naturally as breathing, and he appreciates it's mutual.

For some, the smell of home-baked apple pie brings on a sense of familiarity. Suspicion works pretty much the same for Jess.

The question is unexpected, however, and his brow wrinkles faintly. What? "Sure. Why?"

iii. Inn

[womanofvalue]

Peggy has been making her rounds in very short bursts, giving herself a full day to search one home or one quarter square of the area for anything like clues. At the end of the day, she returns back to the inn, in order to record her findings on the scaffolding of curtains that Jo had put up. Today, though, there's an unfamiliar form sitting on one of the sill.s

"Hello," she greets, dropping her bag of newly found artifacts heavily so it makes a sound (and also so she can measure the reaction). "Waiting for someone?"

[booklegging]

It's muffled, but the sound of the door opening and admitting a light pair of footsteps is impossible to miss. At least for Jess. It's not the easiest thing in the world to sneak up on a Brightwell and his ears are pricked particularly high this day... maybe ever since Thomas taken out of Ptolemy House. (Maybe before that.)

He lowers his legs to the floor from where he'd had them bent to rest his chin and watches to see if the owner of the footsteps steps into view. A brunette woman appears in the entryway. Older than him but around the same height; however, instead of grey scrubs like his, she's in a blue-colored set. They suit her, so she's got that going for her.

They mark each other at the same time, or so it seems to Jess, since she starts toward him not a moment later. He sits a little straighter, watching her progress. "Ma'am." Better to be mannerly until he can figure out who's friend or foe.

His gaze goes to her bag of goodies. The clunk of various items hitting the floor makes it difficult to guess what's in it, but his attention is mostly on her--on her accent, specifically. "Someone from the mother country," he observes, smiling faintly. London, too, he'd guess. "Just sitting. I don't know anyone to wait for."

He's been meeting people, but that's not really the same thing.

[womanofvalue]

She tips her head to him in greeting, hardly hiding her smile of amusement when he speaks about the mother country, a touch grateful to hear a familiar accent. In New York and then Los Angeles, Mr. Jarvis had been that point of home and she's missing that, so far. There is Killian, of course, but they're hardly best friends at this point.

"Some people here know others," she informs him, "Or perhaps not knowledge, but it seems that we come from common timelines." She offers him a polite smile, aware that his apparent age shouldn't give her reason to bring her guard down, but unfortunately, it happens almost unconsciously.

"Have you been here long, then? I haven't seen you around."

[booklegging]

He stands up to meet her to put them on more of a level. In doing so, he has to resist looking at his naked wrist, the sum of all that he's lost and all that's unfamiliar about this eerie town. Game face on, Brightwell. He won't show just far down his apprehension goes--and like a veritable iceberg, it goes pretty far.

"Timelines?" Jess repeats, brow scrunching. Common circumstances, he might have expected to explain a mass abduction. Common backgrounds, common locations, maybe. But common timelines? That's an odd way to phrase it.

His lack of comprehension probably gives away the answer, but Jess still says, "Since this morning and I have to say, it's not how I imagined my day going. Jess Brightwell." He offers her his hand. If nothing else, the day's given him time to steady himself, so his grip manages to be firm, nowhere near the jellylike consistency his limbs had taken when he'd first crawled out of the fountain.

[womanofvalue]

"I'm from 1947," Peggy says, eyeing him speculatively and thinking that he's likely from somewhere in her future, but whether it's her specific future is the question. "I've met people here from 2016, who know of me," she clarifies. "So you see? Timelines," she clarifies, because she's yet to understand how it's possible, but she's come around to actually believe it to be true.

"Peggy Carter," she introduces herself in turn, reaching out to shake his briskly, with a firm nod. "It seems I've caught you right at the start," she notes, a hint of apology in her tone. "No one else was with you when you exited? Nothing strange happened, like an odd windstorm?"

[booklegging]

What?

Jess shakes and releases her hand, but it's more of an absent movement without any conscious input behind it. He's still stuck on the dates she rattles off, both ancient history for him, as far as he's concerned. He'd been ten years old in 2016. The only significant meaning that year has is that it'd marked his first run-in with an ink-licker, an encounter that still makes Jess uncomfortable to think about.

He's gathered people here have some odd stories to tell, but this takes the issue of where everyone is from and when to a new level of crazy. He's careful not to let his incredulity show on his face. "No, sorry, I don't think I do see," he says after a beat.

Time travelling? Is that what she's suggesting? Kidnappings are a part of cold, hard reality, but that's the stuff of science fiction, not something Jess is primed to believe in.

"Were those things supposed to have happened?"