[Week 16, Day 5 | video]

[future_games]

[At first, all the video feed captures is darkness and the sound of heavy, shaky breathing. It's the type of breathing that happens when a very broken person on the verge of a breakdown and tries to calm their nerves on their own

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[VIDEO] WELL HELLO THERE

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[ This guy looks like he can use a little help. Peter hasn't seen him before so he can only assume he's just arrived. But unlike the others who arrive and are confused and scared, there's something a little broken about this man's eyes. A sort of desperation that Peter feels but doesn't quite understand. Either way, he's sure that this man could probably use a little help. ]

Hey. Are you okay?

[VIDEO] SAVE THE TREES

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2006.

[ Peter repeats numbly, parrots almost. ]

You're from 2006.

[ A year before Ireland, two years before New York, before he was pushed into that shipping container and onto the sea. What happened in all the months between the two, in all that lost time could have been anything at all. But what Peter does know is that New York doesn't explode, couldn't have, if two years later, it stands empty and still. The buildings were the only thing that seemed to live, standing silently against a slate-grey sky. But they were intact, not destroyed, not skeletons of ash. ]

Look, I don't know what happened, but I was in Montreal in 2007, and then the next thing I knew, I was in New York in 2008. Now, the New York I saw? It definitely wasn't destroyed so... that bomb must have been stopped. But something worse happened...

[ And then Peter corrects himself. ]

-- I mean, it's going to happen.

[VIDEO] SAVE THE WORLD.

[future_games]

[A year? How is that possible when it feels like he was in his loft only moments ago? He shifts uncomfortably. His desire for Peter to remember is increasing second by second, but now he's urging himself to hold things back; to spare him some shock. He decidedly bites back the knowledge that Peter himself was supposed to be the bomb

[VIDEO]

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[ Peter blinks, frowns slightly, shaking his head, as though to say no, no I don't want to tell you what it was I saw. I don't want to remember, but my mind won't stop. The images keep flashing through his mind, like a broken record of a video, of a city filled with ghosts and the piled-up bodies of the dead in warehouses; the cold of the sanitation and the scent of decay and antiseptic, though no amount of antiseptic could ever bleach the air. And there, in the middle of it all, in the middle of the endless stretch of dead buildings, gravestones of civilization, and the screaming of cold water and the clamor of chain-link fences, is Caitlin

[VIDEO]

[future_games]

[ Part of him wishes he hadn't asked. That description hits him head on, hard, leaving him even more breathless than before. Not knowing would have been torture, but the knowledge of something so dangerous trying to creep its way toward New York for the second time is absolutely shattering. It's almost as though all of those paintings, all of those pieces to the puzzle that was the bomb, didn't even matter. If these things were going to keep happening, what was the point in trying to stop them? Something would slip through the cracks eventually

[VIDEO]

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[ It didn't even occur to Peter to try to do just that. He's still learning these things about himself, what it is that comes out of his hands and his body, the way it sometimes just acts on its own; it remembers even if his mind does not. Picking up a paintbrush at Caitlin's flat on that rainy night, compelled, as though possessed by something, an image, Montreal. Wet cobblestone and street lamps casting long shadows upon himself and Caitlin. He hadn't even realized what he had done until after it was over -- his hands, covered in paint, and a painting he had never seen before sitting where the canvas had been

[VIDEO]

[future_games]

[ At Peter's mention of a girlfriend, something shifts visibly in Isaac's expression. Disdain. He can't help it. There's just something irksome about the fact that Peter, with or without his memories, found reason to move on from Simone and attempt to find some kind of happiness so quickly. Isaac can't find that reason, no matter how hard he looks. As far as he's concerned, he's done too much wrong to deserve even an ounce of happiness.

He can't hold back his bitterness anymore, and he can't stop himself when he abruptly responds in a much lower, hostile tone.]

Lucky you. You paint Montreal and I paint my own death.

[ The realization of what he just said barely even sinks in before he continues again, in the same brisk tone. ]

Did you time-travel yourself, or did someone do it for you?

[VIDEO]

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[ It never even occurred to Peter that maybe someone else could have been involved, to blame, for of all of this. So caught up in the whirlwind of a storm he had somehow been tossed into, like a butterfly in a hurricane, Peter had been too overwhelmed by all the fucked up events of his life since they found him, that he hadn't paused to think that maybe other people could have done what he could do; and though he knew there were others like him in this world, he hadn't considered the possibility that back home, where Caitlin was waiting, there might be others too. But of course there would be others -- he couldn't possibly be the only one with powers like these

[VIDEO]

[future_games]

[ Isaac knows Peter caught the sharp change in the tone of his voice, and that's how he wants it. He doesn't need to explain himself when there's already so much he's trying not to spill too soon, but it's hard for Isaac to swallow the bitterness back down. It's that same mix of jealousy and admiration as always, but with more jealousy than admiration this time. It absolutely kills him--Peter, even missing most of what makes him Peter, still has a better handle on Isaac's ability than Isaac. It's ironic and cruel, as far as Isaac sees it, and it only makes him further believe that he's been miscast as a prophet

[VIDEO]

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[ That name triggers something inside of Peter, makes him feel as though he is so close to touching upon something, to closing his hands around what it is he's been searching for this entire time. Hiro Nakamura, a name as foreign as the eyes that he remembers on a train stopped in time with the mantra playing through the still silence of it all (save the cheerleader, save the world), and Peter confused and as lost as he is now. A connection, perhaps, the name to that face Peter had been wondering about (though there's so much to consider, so much newness exploding within him that he can't make any sense of just yet). Somewhere in the distance, bells are ringing in time to a tempo Peter hears but doesn't know how to dance to just yet. The beat is a study drum, the pulse of his heart hammering in his chest. Echoing with each toll, badump badumpSave the cheerleader, save the world

[VIDEO]

[future_games]

[ Isaac gives the face in the Hitomi and inquisitive stare, silent for a moment. It's impressive how quickly something as small as a name can trigger Peter's memory, so he knows he has to be careful.

Isaac realizes, it's not so much that Peter's memories are gone. It's more like they're buried somewhere very deep, dormant until someone or something breathes life into them. ]

Why do any of these things sound familiar? You may not remember it, but you've been through it all before.

[ He replies quietly, but that bite in his voice still rings through. He knows Peter can't help but question, but the painter is growing tired and fearful that he's going to reveal too much. He wishes he could tell Peter everything he knows all in one shot, but it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.

[VIDEO]

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[ You've been through it before, he says like Peter's supposed to know this, like he should remember and he should. It's a little terrifying, absolutely frustrating, that this man who might as well have been a stranger less than half an hour ago knows more about Peter than Peter knows about himself. Knows who he is, what he's done, and what these things mean, how to piece them all together. The images spill like drops of paint on the bristles of a brush that Peter holds in his hand but doesn't know what to do with, other than to wrap his hands around the handle and hope that holding on is enough. ]

Can you tell me who I am?

[ It's a loaded question, and maybe not fair to Isaac, but Peter needs to know, needs to understand. ]