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Marc woke not in Steven's apartment, as he expected, but in the storage unit he kept his weapons and other relevant paraphernalia. He jolted back into himself violently, struggled to orient himself in the new space. What had he been doing moments before?
Pain radiated from his jaw in answer. Oh, that's right-fighting thugs. Your thugs.
The cot in the corner creaked.
Spinning around, Marc found you seated on its edge, eyeing him warily. Confusion roiled in his chest.
"H-how did we get here?" he heard himself ask.
"Marc?"
He jerked his head in a nod.
"Uh..." You glanced around the room, empty hands grasping at air. "Well, you-or I guess, not you-brought me here after...taking care of those guys."
Marc blinked at you, his mind sluggish. Glancing down at his hands, he noticed dried blood embedded in the cuticles of his nails, though much of it had been washed off. A sinking feeling blossomed unpleasantly in his stomach.
Turning away from you, he whispered, "Steven?"
Silence. Then: "What time is it?"
Marc glanced at the watch on his wrist. He had lost nearly an hour and a half. "Still the same night."
Steven appeared in the semi-reflective walls of the room. "What happened?" He glanced past Marc, froze. "What's she doing here? What did you do!?"
Flinching at the betrayed accusation in Steven's voice, Marc turned back to you. Your expression hadn't changed, a cross between high-alert caution and deep-seated curiosity with a splash of incredulity. You had witnessed whatever he had done during the blackout, he was sure-possibly at ground zero, meaning he had some explaining to do...if he had the answers.
