[Day eleven. Almost two weeks in this place he now knows he shouldn't be in.
For Jack's part, enough of his repressed memories have rolled in like a storm cloud finally ready to drop its payload like last week's hailstorm that he can see clearly what he'd only suspected before: Wayward Pines is wrong. The names of countries and towns are wrong, the peaceful streets are wrong, the people are wrong, his memories are wrong--and around every corner, a notice paper with its shady rules is ready to mock him for it.
The Skills Fair presents a good opportunity for observing the observers, and it's the main reason Jack makes an appearance. He dresses casually in jeans and a jacket, after having used the cash reserves he apparently had "before" the accident to purchase a change of clothes, and the effect is that of an averagely-dressed teenager you wouldn't look twice at in a crowd. It's more casual than he's used to, but beggars can't be choosers. Beggars trying to blend especially.
Circling the park, he watches people interacting at a distance, gaze drifting to a camera on a post or a streetlight every so often--now that he's picked up on them, they're easier to notice. (And easier to be careful of. They still have his katana in lock-up and he'll be needing that back.) Eventually his recon sends him into the path of Rachel's booth. Picking up one of her instructional pamphlets, it's with a dull stab of homesickness that he looks it over, partly for something to do with his hands, partly out of curiosity. It could be a page pulled straight from his childhood lessons, back when they were just learning their punches and blocks.
They.
Fighting is something he knows so well it's like breathing--but it'd always been with a group. With them. With Class Zero. One stab isn't good enough--homesickness picks up a knife and goes to town, inflicting multiple stab wounds on his feelings. Hello, 9-1-1, he has people he needs to get back to but he can't, and it sucks.
Inwardly sighing, he goes back to watching, and in between demonstrations, he trades smiles with the redhead leading the instruction.]
Smooth moves.
[A week ago, he might not been in the right state of mind, memory-wise, to appreciate the evidence of long hours of practice in her technique, but now he can.]
no subject
For Jack's part, enough of his repressed memories have rolled in like a storm cloud finally ready to drop its payload like last week's hailstorm that he can see clearly what he'd only suspected before: Wayward Pines is wrong. The names of countries and towns are wrong, the peaceful streets are wrong, the people are wrong, his memories are wrong--and around every corner, a notice paper with its shady rules is ready to mock him for it.
The Skills Fair presents a good opportunity for observing the observers, and it's the main reason Jack makes an appearance. He dresses casually in jeans and a jacket, after having used the cash reserves he apparently had "before" the accident to purchase a change of clothes, and the effect is that of an averagely-dressed teenager you wouldn't look twice at in a crowd. It's more casual than he's used to, but beggars can't be choosers. Beggars trying to blend especially.
Circling the park, he watches people interacting at a distance, gaze drifting to a camera on a post or a streetlight every so often--now that he's picked up on them, they're easier to notice. (And easier to be careful of. They still have his katana in lock-up and he'll be needing that back.) Eventually his recon sends him into the path of Rachel's booth. Picking up one of her instructional pamphlets, it's with a dull stab of homesickness that he looks it over, partly for something to do with his hands, partly out of curiosity. It could be a page pulled straight from his childhood lessons, back when they were just learning their punches and blocks.
They.
Fighting is something he knows so well it's like breathing--but it'd always been with a group. With them. With Class Zero. One stab isn't good enough--homesickness picks up a knife and goes to town, inflicting multiple stab wounds on his feelings. Hello, 9-1-1, he has people he needs to get back to but he can't, and it sucks.
Inwardly sighing, he goes back to watching, and in between demonstrations, he trades smiles with the redhead leading the instruction.]
Smooth moves.
[A week ago, he might not been in the right state of mind, memory-wise, to appreciate the evidence of long hours of practice in her technique, but now he can.]