(Past) Past Tense [Open]

[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.

Scene Change [open]

[singthesong]

In retrospect, he possibly should not have taunted them all at once like that.

The Balladeer stumbles, catching himself on a tree and gasping sharply for air. The familiar weight of his guitar is on his back, but he's not sure how they got here. He isn't sure where here is. He recalls the assassins surrounding him, closing in, and then -

- he doesn't know what happened then exactly, but thinking about it makes his skin crawl. Something has gone terribly wrong.

But it’s okay. He's okay, and wherever he is there doesn't seem to be trouble here. It looks like a park, bright green under the heat of a summer sun. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the sound of people talking and laughing and playing, which makes him wince a little, because since he's here there are probably going to be gunshots soon. He hates to see how they react. It’s worse when they’re actual witnesses; someone always feels like they should have done something more. There's a song in it, something mournful that he's half-heard in a million different voices over the years but never quite put his finger on. Those aren't really the stories he's here to tell. Still, he's always held on hope that they will get told someday.

Whatever's going to happen, he needs to be there, so he starts walking towards the noise, darting a quick glance out towards the audience as he goes to see if he can get a read on their mood. They must have seen what happened just now, at least.

Orrrrr they could just be totally gone.

He spins a quick circle, then swings the guitar about and plays a few chords from one of his older songs. He's not even sure why - does he think it'll summon them back? It didn't. Thinking about it, he can't even really see where it was they were anymore. "Okay," he breathes, fingers tightening around the neck of his guitar. His voice sounds strange, spoken aloud to no one. "Ooooookay. I guess it's time for my monologue."

Nothing. He's just talking to himself. “I don’t even get a tape?" he asks the trees. "I’ve got a few thoughts about West Side Story, I could go on.” There's another moment of quiet. He lets out a rather half-hearted laugh, shakes his head as if he knows what’s happening to him and is merely amused by it, and takes off towards the sound of people at a faster pace.

From there, he can be found wandering around Central Park. On the outset, he doesn't look entirely out of place there - maybe more like a very lost tourist than a transdimensional transplant. One with a guitar slung at his side who keeps scrutinizing the skyline like it isn't supposed to be there.

But he's not worried! Once he figures out what president is about to die, this will all make sense. Things’ll be fine.