Chapter Text
In a dim and dirty alleyway, there lies a man. A man who was most certainly not there a second ago. He does not know his name, or how he came to be there, or where “there” even is.
All he knows is a vague feeling that he should be dead.
This doesn’t help him, so he simply stares at the patch of cracked paving and dirty brick wall within his line of sight, until he can no longer ignore the sharp ache of concrete pressing into his hips and elbows and knees and he sits up— a slow, dragging motion that’s almost as painful as simply lying there. When he looks down at his hands, it does not surprise him to see scars warping his skin. The stiff bloodstain on his shirt is rather more of a shock. However, a hurried inspection of his torso finds only a knot of scar tissue over his heart, fresh enough to sting when he presses it.
His brain grapples with this information as a memory teeters at the edge of his mind, like a forgotten word on the tip of a tongue. There— no, something... it was...
Gone.
He slumps, drained from that small mental effort. He stays like that for a long time.
When he finally heaves himself onto unsteady feet, the edges of his vision blur and he almost topples back to the ground. He grabs the wall, steadies himself. He’s... tired. Exhausted. His stomach aches, and it takes a moment to remember what that means: hungry. The sensation feels both foreign and right.
Hungry means food. He has to find food.
He straightens, lets his hand drop from the wall. He has a goal now. That’s good, that’s something. His first few steps are tentative, testing legs that waver with the memory of walking, growing more confident as he moves out of the alleyway, onto a street, down the path. The sky is clouded and dull as shopfronts pass by on one side and people on the other, all of them giving the man a wide berth as they hurry by.
There— tables and chairs, people sitting, eating. He spots a table with discarded plates and the half scraps of a lunch, attracting the attention of opportunistic pigeons that flap away as the man descends. He doesn’t bother with the cutlery. A half-hamburger, some kind of salad, cold chips. He eats so fast he barely tastes it.
An indignant shout rings from behind the man.
He flinches, spins, eyes wild as he sees a waiter storming towards him. Instinct kicks in and he snatches a handful of chips before turning on his heel and sprinting, not daring to look back even when the shout turns to concern and a question about blood and needing an ambulance.
His lungs burn. He ducks into another alley, almost indistinguishable from the first, where he sinks against the wall, sliding to the pavement. He collapses, listening to the breaths that heave his chest and burn his throat as they gradually calm and slow, returning to a shaky normal.
The handful of chips is savoured, one at a time, as a he stares at the new patch of dirty brick wall in front of him.
Perhaps he will just sit here for a while. Until he’s hungry again. Yes, that sounds good. A plan.
The wind is cold and he buttons his coat, pushing back the over-long sleeves to use his fingers. A puff of scented air from the coat’s movement caresses the man’s face, and for a moment the world tilts as his gut twists and his heart aches and he is overwhelmed with a feeling that is longing and comfort and home— and then the smell is gone and the feelings are gone and he is sitting in a cold stone alleyway, alone, with nothing but a vague tug of loss in his gut.
At least he knows one thing now.
He pulls the coat tighter around him.