julianbashir: (oh shit what the fuck)
[personal profile] julianbashir
At first the only sensations Julian can connect with his own body is extreme vertigo and nausea, side-effects Bashir isn't used to experiencing with the transporter beam since he was a first year student. Still, he has the distinct feeling that he is about to puke up everything he's eaten in the last 24 hours, which isn't much thanks to the fact that his Dominion captors weren't all that concerned about giving full meals to prisoners that were just going to die anyway. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, willing himself with all his power not to vomit, and slowly realizes he is on his hands and knees gripping the sidewalk with his fingers like the whole world might slip out from under him at any moment, shaky but clearly alive, his atoms not lost forever in the vastness of space. That is certainly something to be happy about, at least. He doesn't feel like he has any parts missing, either.

Wait, the sidewalk? The surface beneath him is definitely not metallic. Julian forces his eyes open. This is not the Dominian internment camp, and he is really, really glad about that. But it isn't a rescue ship either. Julian is not prone to cursing, but as he looks around the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, "Fuck." Because this is Earth, or a planet that looks very suspiciously like Earth. Which doesn't make any sense at all. This isn't even the Earth he calls his home, but clearly an Earth from... the past? He was always a terrible history student. You'd think his last accidental trip to the past would have made him study it, but he'd thought one accidental time-travel trip was probably all he would have to suffer. Wrong, apparently.

His hand goes to where his comm badge should be before he remembers that the Dominion took that from him too. He is utterly alone, cut off from rescue. Had Garak been lost too, or had he made it out? He hopes Garak is safe, somewhere. No matter how out of time Julian's clothes might be, he is still human, or at least mostly human. Would Garak, the crew look for him, or would they assume Julian was dead? He couldn't be stuck here forever... who knew what future he would change, screw up, just by existing here? From imprisonment to freedom, but not the kind he was hoping for. There would be no rest, no return to his quarters and friends, not yet.
Too many questions, and not the right time. He stands up, gives himself a mental medical check and finds nothing pressing, and takes in a deep breath. Julian presses any remaining panic down and steels himself. "You're an officer, Jules. Act like one. What do you do next?" Survival and not messing up any timelines should be his first directive. He is trained for this, he should know what to do and has been through this before in a way, though never on his own. He needs to get out of sight, first of all. His uniform will need to be abandoned somewhere, and clothes of the time found instead. He hates to steal, but his priorities are to blend in, stay out of trouble, find out where and when he is, and if possible why. It seems to be somewhere between the 20th-22nd century, though Julian has always been a terrible history student. Why, why hadn't he cared more about history? He'd been swept into the past, into mirror universes where the future was different... by now one would think he'd learn from his mistakes.

But... research! Julian loves research. He's good at it too. It is immensely calming to think of this as nothing more than his next research project. Gathering data of his surroundings, to support or go against his formed hypothesis of when and where and why... Yes, that Julian can do. He feels slightly better already. At least so far no-one has spared him a second glance. Wherever/whenever he is, people don't seem to be thrown by strangely dressed men standing in the middle of...wherever he is. Julian needs food, water, and a good long sleep, then he can figure out how to get home without majorly messing up either history or himself.
boneshaker: (artwork)
[personal profile] boneshaker
Earth is earth, wherever he goes. That at least holds true.

It has been seven days now, and Castor has spent nearly all of them inside. It is safe inside, the small-walled home that ROMAC gave him, though for the first two nights he could not sleep for lack of the sound of the ocean, lying awake instead to cars and people and lights and the endlessly cycling impossible thought I am not where I was. He does not contact Daniel again, though he considers it several times - it is too frightening, the idea that he might make contact, lasting contact. This has to be a dream. It simply has to.

But he does not wake up. And gradually, instead, he learns to sleep again.

He rearranges his furniture obsessively, struggling to recreate his lighthouse room; he spends hours meticulously learning to use his strange little phone, and tentatively exploring the bizarre world of the internet, for which he's never before had much use. There was no source for it at the lighthouse, and though he certainly knew it existed, he had always found a greater solace in learning from books. Here, however, he has none, and he is reduced to learning about his world by curling his long body up to read exhaustingly small text from a sickly lit screen.

By the fifth day he knows he must go out, or he will go mad. He spends nearly two hours preparing himself, checking and double checking. What does he need? Keys. Train card. Spending money (how much??). Water, perhaps? How much can he carry? It is too warm for his coat. He was given a pair of shoes when he registered, but he knows he should buy more, new clothes, and new food. He hates the idea of this. Admitting defeat. Letting himself be a part of this world that shouldn't exist.

Groceries are a disaster. He barely recognizes most of the food, has no idea what to get. Clothes even more so: he makes it home after a panicked bout of petty theft, not understanding how on earth these simple garments can be so expensive. He spends the sixth day hiding out, certain someone will come knock his door down and demand retribution for the stolen clothes, but no one comes. No one had seemed to notice him at the time; he had evaded the one security guard with hardly any effort, which seems strange and lucky. He feels no pleasure in his fortune.

On the seventh day he decides he will make art.

He returns to the park - that at least is easy to find. This is a haven for him, yes there are many people, yes it is all very unfamiliar, but it is natural, and it is a landscape he has never encountered before. He has read about forests, and has very distant memories of grass and trees from his youth, but it is all still very novel. The smells, the feel of it. So many new objects, new supplies to mine.

Over and over again he creates his favorite shape, simple and soothing: a spiral. From leaves, from sticks, from wet rocks found by the water. He loses track of time doing this. On the days that there was no work, the days he was left simply to wander his beach, he always felt that this is what he had been made for. Reverently, he rests the head of a dandelion at the center of his latest work, and rests to study it for a time. For the first time in seven days he feels solid, secure in his own presence, having left his transient mark on this new world.


[ooc: Castor will be in various parts of the Park all day making neat stuff on the ground, so feel free to approach him and ask him what the heck he's doing.]
boneshaker: (startled | afraid)
[personal profile] boneshaker
The radio crackles to life an hour before dawn. Castor's already awake, as he often is, warming leftovers on the stove. The voice on the other end is cut with static, but his ear is trained enough to make out "Dock calling Boneshaker, come in, over." He flicks the burner off and steps across his drafty little room, picking up the receiver.

"Boneshaker receiving Dock, over," he answers. His voice is low and rich. Good for the radio, Inoue told him once. It was the closest she ever came to direct praise.

"Radar's---ind of interference---your location," says the dispatcher. "Any---wh---ing on, over."

Castor frowns. The static is worse than usual. He jiggles a few knobs but it seems like something more than the usual signal problems. A glance at some of the other instruments tells him whatever's causing this is causing a systemic problem. The whole circuit seems off.

"Dock, please hold, over." He sets the receiver down and studies the readout for a second, uncomprehending. Everything's off, unsynced and inconsistent with one another. Hell.

He leans toward the window, peering into the dark. He sees thick fog against the lighted horizon, but that's not new. He reaches back for the radio.

"Dock, this is Boneshaker - I'm reading interference here but I can't see nothing, over."

"Maintain-------and we'll------ming----v------"

"Dock, come in." Castor works the radio with practiced precision, trying to retune it and receiving only long bursts of static. "Dock, I'm losing you. Come in, Dock, over."

Another long burst of static, and then nothing.

"Nice," says Castor to himself, and drops the receiver. He glances woefully at the stove, feeling his stomach growl. Soup will have to wait.

He arms himself with the handheld radio and climbs the tower to the lamp, which is still burning away. He checks over everything just to be sure, but this, at least, is operational. The most important aspect. He peers out the window, trained eye searching for ships, but the sea looks dark and empty.

He lifts the walkie to his mouth and murmurs distractedly, "Boneshaker, calling all channels, come in, over."

He waits, and receives nothing.

This isn't that unusual. There've been problems before. Storms or maintenance problems, usually, not like this, but at least it's not a wholly unfamiliar situation.

Then, without any guttering prelude, the lamp goes out. Castor jerks so sharply he drops the radio, hears it clatter and break. He swears under his breath, gropes along the wall, blind in the sudden dark, his hand grasping for the lighter. There's a fierce, unexpected howl of wind, and he stiffens and stares out the window. Nothing on the water's surface. Calm and unbroken. Not wind, then. What is he hearing?

It's over in moments.

Suddenly, suddenly, light and heat and smells and noise. Ferocious and overwhelming. He staggers and falls, landing on green grass, surrounded by trees and paved pathways and most of all people. Some are staring at him, most are wandering busily about. There's a distant roar of traffic, a sound buried deep in the recesses of his memory. He hasn't heard traffic since he was in London, so many forgotten years ago. The smells and the heat are the worst thing; he strips his heavy coat immediately, strips down to his t-shirt, though that and his trousers are both black and absorbing the sun's brutal heat with a vengeance. His feet are bare. He scrambles to get up. He stares about himself, lost and afraid.

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