greatoldjohn | Open RP

They find it in a heavy wooden trunk, sanded smooth and carved with the initials A. L.. It's part of a collection, an inheritance of century-old pieces from mixed estate sales over the years.

Neal finds himself drawn to the chest. Drawn to how plain and sturdy and simple it is. Like the person who owned it knew the value of being underestimated, the security in being able to go unnoticed. That and... and. And something. A feeling, a voice, he's not sure.

He fiddles the lock open while the FBI is still on the other side of the attic, burning with curiosity. He tosses the lock lightly into a corner, so he can there was no lock on the chest before he opened it, and then does.

It's an almost vertigo-like sensation, the way he can only seem to focus on one of the things inside.

Edited 2023-10-13 05:57 (UTC)

The first thing he'll hear is this: a deep, otherworldly voice that comes from inside of him as opposed to outside. There's also something weird about his body, something strange happening where he can't feel his left arm, his left leg. In fact, everything on that side of him feels numb and odd and awkward probably. But there's also the voice. He's never heard that voice before, but even then, there's so much delicate hope in it.

[...Arthur? Arthur, you came back?]

Edited 2023-10-26 22:51 (UTC)

He doesn't know who he is.

"Arthur?" There's hope in that, too, but no time-softened British accent.

Neal! Someone's voice, a voice he thinks is familiar but can't be sure, muffled like there's a wall between him and the speaker. The ground underneath part of his back thrums with running footsteps. His ears feel like they're ringing, except one of them feels like nothing at all. And he can only see out of one eye.

Is that normal?

"Who are you?" It's soft, said almost to himself, because the voice came from so close. His focus is clearing, but his mind is still blank. A man probably ten or fifteen years his senior stoops over him, worry in his eyes.

"Neal! Can you hear me?" To someone else, the man says, "What the hell is wrong with his arm?"

John has been processing while Art- while Neal, apparently had been going through all of that, and he's not happy to see the other man coming so quickly. It's going to make things a lot more difficult.

[ My name is John. Your friend can't hear me. And your memory will come back in a moment or two. Don't be alarmed. ]

The arm in question is going to start moving then, completely independent of Neal, and he's going to give a little wave of yeah, huh, wild right? I'm fine.

"It's in my head," he says, looking at the man standing over him--over them?--in confusion. He's starting to notice a presence sharing his internal space, an impression of a being and a glimpse of emotions that aren't his.

"Neal, what are you talking about?"

He catches up with himself then, still confused about who he is, what just happened. But instinct is to play it off, to smile and nod and lie, so he trusts his instincts. "I- I guess I slipped. Landed on my left side--little stiff."

"That didn't look like a slip. It looked like you passed out."

"I'm fine, I promise. I didn't pass out." Neal moves to sit up and there's a half-second where limp weight drags at half his body before that pull disappears and he slowly, slowly gets to his feet.

He feels weird. In that he doesn't feel at all on one side. Absolutely nothing. "Uh, I think I might have hit my head on the way down. Mind if I go outside and get some air?"

Peter frowns, glancing at a black woman in a crisp suit at his side. "Diana, get EMS out here to give him a look and keep an eye on him outside until they get here."

"Sure thing, boss." The woman, Diana, eyeballs Neal. "You good, Caffrey?"

"I-- Yeah, I. Yeah."

The voice is a little more of a growl.

[ *Don't* say that there's a voice in your head talking to you. You'll get us locked up in an asylum, asshole. Now... come on. Let's go outside and... and we can figure out what happened here. ]

Neal flinches at the intensity of the growl, at the chest-deep stir of unfamiliar emotions. The emotions of whoever is in this overlapping space with him. Whoever is slowly synching with Neal's footsteps to walk seamlessly after no more than thirty feet. It's somehow even more disorienting to see glimpses of his left foot and hand moving with confidence instead of uncertainty. When they were uncoordinated he could at least pretend the total numbness of his left side was from falling. A intense bruise, minor nerve damage, anything. Now, it's like his body ends in the middle and is supported on the other side by emptiness.

"Neal Caffrey," he says quietly. "I remember that name. I remember my name."

Not much else yet but it's something. Diana is a few steps too far back to hear him murmuring. "Who are you? Why is my body numb?"

[ You'll remember more in time, though if there's something familiar we could do to jog your memory faster, it would help. ]

They keep walking and John is clearly thinking, not taking the effort to hide that processing from Neal even if he can't see into what the thoughts actually are.

[I told you: my name is John. John Doe. And your body isn't 'numb'. Half of it is under my control. *I* can feel it just fine. ]

"I'm not sure."

Art. Art, but that's so wildly unspecific as to be useless.

He stumbles when the voice--John--informs Neal that he's controlling half of his body. "What?"

That's full volume, and Diana takes a couple of quick steps forward to grab Neal's arm and keep him from falling. "What's wrong? Dizzy?"

[ ...we need to find some privacy. You might need to make something up to give us some time.

See if she can give us a room alone to sit in for a time. That would probably work. ]

Neal takes the direction seamlessly, glancing at Diana and not bothering to hide his disorientation. "Is there-- a bathroom, maybe? While you call EMS? I feel like I'm going to be sick."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, come on." She helps him to the nearest bathroom--one room, no stalls, a lock. Good enough.

As soon as Diana steps away to make the call, Neal closes and locks the door and turns on the overhead fans. He sounds more shaken than he wants to.

"Not the most elegant place for you to explain what the hell is happening, but it'll have to do."

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