with a match in one hand (and my heart in the other)

Chapter 2

He thought Zain was joking at first, and he's still not absolutely certain that it isn't some sort of prank. On him, or the reporter, or both. Only, Zain assures him said reporter has been filled in on his little memory issue, and that they want to hear about the early years, about the initial experiences of struggling Indian immigrants in London, some type of inspiring contrast piece to place against the bit they've already shot of the Very Successful Restaurant. And who could remember that time better than him right now?

No, it's a terrible, awful idea and he doesn't want to do it. But Zain's excited about the marketing opportunity and full of enough eager confidence for them both, so okay, sure, send the amnesiac team member along to meet the Discovery Channel. Just don't blame him when it goes badly.

Zain delivers him to the foot of All Saints Church, explaining that they want to start with the first job he held in the city. There's no snow to be shovelled today, only the green grass and grey sky of a London summer, but the church building sits entirely unaltered by the years, heartening in its solid immutability. His eyes are still resting on it when something amongst the background traffic catches his ears; a soft, puttering tone he recognises, drawing his attention like a name as it rounds the opposite corner of the church.

The motorcycle slows to a stop at the foot of the steps, but any interest it held has already been eclipsed by the woman riding it. There's something...

He can't look away as she gets off the bike and removes her helmet, his feet carrying him towards her without needing to be told while he searches his recalcitrant memory for any glimmer of understanding. It feels like it's rushing closer as he closes the distance, knowledge glinting just out of reach and a name rising to the tip of his tongue, but with only a few metres left between them, there's a sudden slap of a -flash- again.

Explosive. Loud. Heat and dust and sharp things and crashing through the air, that tight-clenched gut feeling and another needle stabbing through his skull. The pain makes him wince away, grit his teeth against it and scrunch his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, it takes him a few seconds to reorientate himself; this windy green and grey London day feels a million miles away from where he just was.

The woman, though. She leaps back into focus with looks of sympathy and shrewd curiosity dancing together in her bright eyes, and the moment is gone but her name still feels just barely out of reach as he searches her face for it intently.

So he gives her his. "Samar Anand."

She blinks at him, once, twice, then her lips curve into a friendly smile and she takes the hand he's offered. "Hi, I'm Akira Rai, Discovery Channel."

It suits her, even if it doesn't ring a bell. He nods, closing his thumb over this warm, comfortable hand he wants to keep on holding. "Have- have we met before?" he has to ask.

Smile turning apologetic, she shakes her head. "No. I don't think so."

He echoes her headshake, glancing down and away in embarrassment as he makes an apology and attempts to laugh it off between them, "I'm sorry, my memory is on a long break, so these days every face looks familiar to me."

"It's okay, Samar," she says, answering his smile but dropping his hand as she reaches into a bag on her hip. "I know about your condition. Don't worry, I won't trouble you much."

"No no, please trouble me," he encourages, chuckling. "Maybe it might help trigger some lost memory."

"Okay then," she says, a new smile widening. Her gaze flits down to her hand, then jumps back to him with a burst of playful mischievousness. "Get ready for the trouble," she announces, and whips up her handycam.