Ray Vecchio
01 July 2012 @ 12:01 am

The clothes he had dragged on didn't fit right. The shirt pulled over his shoulders, trousers were a little tight around the waist, but they were quality, slick and sharp, so he figured they had to be his.

The room was a mess. Mattress tossed off the bed base, drawers hanging open, side tables upturned. He was searching, frantically. He didn't know what he was looking for; clues, he guessed. When he'd woken up in a strange bed, in a strange wooden house, his first thought was that he'd been drugged. He always went on hunches, so he had run with the idea. Now he had a thousand and one questions and no answers, so he had to fill the blanks in himself. Just until the drugs wore off. Just until his brain kicked into gear.

A utility bill, an address book, something that would jog his memory, give him a name, at least. It felt like panic was his automatic go-to, so he was letting nature take its course, right until the frustration overwhelmed him and he held his head, trying to breath deeply.

There was a scratching at the door. A whine.

He tried to ignore it.

The clothes were definitely his. There were nothing but male clothes in the room, after all. A coupla nice watches. He had slipped one on to complete the look. The chain around his neck felt weird, as did the ring on his finger. Was this his place?

Scanning the room, he huffed out a heavy sigh, bending down to scoop up a suit jacket that had got caught in the cross-fire. He felt the material between his fingers. When he slipped it on, tried to make it comfortable across his too-broad shoulders, it felt familiar all of a sudden. It was a feeling he tried to hold onto. All of this had to be his, right?

Slipping unsteady hands into his pockets, he leaned against the nearest wall, tipping his head back and letting his eyes slide shut.

He cracked one open, just slightly. His hand slowly reappeared, a scrap of paper caught between thumb and forefinger. He brought it up to his face, studying it carefully. American Thread. Dry cleaners. A date stamp. A pick-up time. A name.

A Talos.

He got the same wash of feeling he'd gotten from the jacket. Familiarity. Something he was craving right now. This was him. A Talos.

The whining outside the door got louder, a faint annoyed growl ending each one. His mouth flattened into a line. There wasn't much he was sure of, but he did know A Talos wasn't a fan of stray dogs.