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Nicholas Rush (
2015-10-25 07:47 pm (UTC)
The radio had come away cleanly in his hand, snapped from its mount in the globular submarine through which he had entered the city and, by extension, a universe beyond the one he had come to know and understand as, nominally, his own. Potentially in the act of tearing through so many different iterations of the same universe and its many diverging, varying, splitting counterparts, his tangible body had become partially untethered to the brane from which he originated. He lacks a means to accurately replicate the process. He also lacks a means to confirm his hypothesis. He could be wrong regarding the nature of said hypothesis, but he doubts it.
Rush closes his eyes. Right then.
He will have to acclimatize to his new set of circumstances and to do so he will have to find employment and shelter and possibly a means of contact of some kind, and since the inception of this list of requirements he has found that he has already completed the third objective which is, though he had not formerly thought to enumerate it as such, obtaining a radio.
Rush runs his fingers along the smooth contours of the 50's-styled radio. In terms of temporal placement, he finds this less than promising.
The air is cold on his skin, and he shivers and does not think about the water. He is not fond of water, in theory, in principle, in practice. He does not think about the water.
He finds he misses Asadi and he misses his dog.
He is getting distracted.
The sharp tang of salt in his nostrils is bitterly reminiscent of San Francisco, an association which he neither wants nor requires. Ports. Wharfs. Fisheries. All lay relatively within his skillset, assuming said skillset is adaptable, which it is, and he remains starkly over-qualified.
Hissing his annoyance between his teeth, Rush begins perusing the neon signs and salt-slick docks for a means of adequate employment.
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