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ethanrichards2013-10-22 11:00 am
Wrong New York [arrival - open]
When Ethan falls through the rift, it's barely noticable to him. Same time, say day, same place. Different universe.
It's near midnight at a bar in Chelsea, and he wakes up suddenly, sat alone in a both near the back. He must've dozed off for a second. He didn't think he was that tired, to be honest, but apparently he was wrong. His friends aren't there-- maybe they went out for a smoke and didn't want to disturb him?
Ethan gives a stretch, slips out of the booth, and heads outside. They're not there either, but it's not like them to ditch him. He looks at his phone, but it says his sim card is invalid. Well, that's helpful. He closes his leather jacket, deliberating for a second, before he decides to just head home and go to bed, if he really is that tired (though he doesn't really feel it). He can catch up with them later.
It's only a couple blocks to his place, and the fresh (if still rather cold) air is nice. Someone's just leaving when he reaches the building, so he doesn't even need to unlock the door to the stairwell. Not someone he recognises though, must be someone visiting.
However, when he gets to the door of his apartment, his key doesn't fit. And then he notices the name on the door. It's not his. He stares for a few seconds. Must've gotten the wrong floor - he really is out of it. He heads up one floor, but that's not his flat either. And the one above that is the top floor, and he knows that's not his. He heads downstairs again. He checks the flat below. Then he heads back up to the one that should be his and he knocks on the door, getting more and more frustrated and worried. There's no answer.
Pay phone. Half of the payphones in New York still work, so it doesn't take him too long to find out. He ignores the time machine gimmick they're doing this month, and dials the number to one of his bandmates he was just having a drink with. The number's disconnected. He tries another friend. After about half an hour, he's gone through every number stored on his phone, even his parents' house. The numbers are mostly dead, or he gets connected to pizza places that are open this late, or voicemails of people or shops that aren't.
He leans his forehead against the cold metal of the phone, trying to convince himself he's not going crazy. This is... some elaborate prank or something. April fools? No, that's almost a week ago.
Taking a deep breath, he tries to decide what to do next. Well, he can't stand around on the street all night. And he's not very keen on heading to the police station for help. There's a 24-hour pizza place nearby, he'll go there, get some food, sit, think.
Walking briskly, he's there in no time and he orders a slice of pepperoni pizza and a glass of coke. He tries to use a credit card to pay, but it won't go through, so he pays in cash -- at least he's got a fair bit on him. His appetite hadn't been particularly intense, but the smell helps, so he takes a booth and eats while he goes through the contents of his pockets. Wallet with driver's license and two credit cards (neither work), a few guitar picks, some business cards, condoms, and $180 in cash. A pocket notebook with a lot of scribbled lyrics and a pen. Smartphone (75% battery, but no service). His iPod (82% battery). A pack of gum.
He ends up sitting there all night, and most of the morning, buying another slice or a drink or a bag of chips whenever the owners start giving him stink-eye. Thankfully it's not crowded enough for them to decide to kick him out. When morning comes, he goes out and buys a paper, before heading back. Nothing weird in it. Date's right, no freaky occurences, no mention of a city-wide prank or anything.
So Ethan just continues sitting there, occasionally listening to music, occasionally scribbling down lyrics (all crap or crazy-sounding), occasionally eating, but overall mostly worrying and trying to avoid having a mental breakdown.
It's near midnight at a bar in Chelsea, and he wakes up suddenly, sat alone in a both near the back. He must've dozed off for a second. He didn't think he was that tired, to be honest, but apparently he was wrong. His friends aren't there-- maybe they went out for a smoke and didn't want to disturb him?
Ethan gives a stretch, slips out of the booth, and heads outside. They're not there either, but it's not like them to ditch him. He looks at his phone, but it says his sim card is invalid. Well, that's helpful. He closes his leather jacket, deliberating for a second, before he decides to just head home and go to bed, if he really is that tired (though he doesn't really feel it). He can catch up with them later.
It's only a couple blocks to his place, and the fresh (if still rather cold) air is nice. Someone's just leaving when he reaches the building, so he doesn't even need to unlock the door to the stairwell. Not someone he recognises though, must be someone visiting.
However, when he gets to the door of his apartment, his key doesn't fit. And then he notices the name on the door. It's not his. He stares for a few seconds. Must've gotten the wrong floor - he really is out of it. He heads up one floor, but that's not his flat either. And the one above that is the top floor, and he knows that's not his. He heads downstairs again. He checks the flat below. Then he heads back up to the one that should be his and he knocks on the door, getting more and more frustrated and worried. There's no answer.
Pay phone. Half of the payphones in New York still work, so it doesn't take him too long to find out. He ignores the time machine gimmick they're doing this month, and dials the number to one of his bandmates he was just having a drink with. The number's disconnected. He tries another friend. After about half an hour, he's gone through every number stored on his phone, even his parents' house. The numbers are mostly dead, or he gets connected to pizza places that are open this late, or voicemails of people or shops that aren't.
He leans his forehead against the cold metal of the phone, trying to convince himself he's not going crazy. This is... some elaborate prank or something. April fools? No, that's almost a week ago.
Taking a deep breath, he tries to decide what to do next. Well, he can't stand around on the street all night. And he's not very keen on heading to the police station for help. There's a 24-hour pizza place nearby, he'll go there, get some food, sit, think.
Walking briskly, he's there in no time and he orders a slice of pepperoni pizza and a glass of coke. He tries to use a credit card to pay, but it won't go through, so he pays in cash -- at least he's got a fair bit on him. His appetite hadn't been particularly intense, but the smell helps, so he takes a booth and eats while he goes through the contents of his pockets. Wallet with driver's license and two credit cards (neither work), a few guitar picks, some business cards, condoms, and $180 in cash. A pocket notebook with a lot of scribbled lyrics and a pen. Smartphone (75% battery, but no service). His iPod (82% battery). A pack of gum.
He ends up sitting there all night, and most of the morning, buying another slice or a drink or a bag of chips whenever the owners start giving him stink-eye. Thankfully it's not crowded enough for them to decide to kick him out. When morning comes, he goes out and buys a paper, before heading back. Nothing weird in it. Date's right, no freaky occurences, no mention of a city-wide prank or anything.
So Ethan just continues sitting there, occasionally listening to music, occasionally scribbling down lyrics (all crap or crazy-sounding), occasionally eating, but overall mostly worrying and trying to avoid having a mental breakdown.