July 9-20: Operation: Sundowner

[lysistrategic]

The first time it happens, Joan wakes and curls toward the warmth of the sun on her bed, eyes shut tight against the sight of her husband not there. When she rolls, her hand touches flesh, a broad barrel chest; an arm lifts, and as she always has, Joan curls into the curve of his strength. She doesn't dare open her eyes and find it's just a dream, but it's so powerfully real, tears leak from the corners of her eyes.

"Joanie?" Arthur rumbles, half asleep but worried half to death.

She knows the tone and the reason, of course; she never cries and if she is, then something is terribly wrong. When she shakes her head, her tears dampen her hair and it sticks to him. He smooths her hair, catches her chin and makes her look at him but she's still afraid to open her damp, sticky lids. Finally, she does and his thumb sweeps against her cheek, questions in his eyes.

"I dreamed you were gone," she says, because she's a spy and she knows if he's confused then it has to have been a dream. Nightmare, the longest of her life. Months. Is Emily real?

"I'm still here." Confirmation, still.

She nods and he kisses her, in that steady, certain way that he has. It's always been her undoing. "Love me?" she asks, and after he tells her, "Always, my wife," he does.

Hours later, when they rise from bed well after breakfast to an empty kitchen - their own home, Emily and Matt moved out last week - Joan remembers. She knows the island's playing this trick, but Arthur will worry. So she leaves it at nightmare and moves on. But she spends the rest of the afternoon making notes about everything she knows on the island and everyone. At the top of every page in the notebook, it has her name and Arthur's, the date of their marriage, and Annie and Auggie's names. Just in case it happens again.

****
The second time it happens, she is doing laundry. Hers and a man's. She doesn't recognize the room she's in, but she knows her name and her job. There's a notebook in her back pocket, a dangerous crutch. She pulls it out, reads, and wonders...are Annie and Auggie the names of the children this cover are supposed to have? Practical, she puts the load in to wash and hops up on the washer (she's young still, she can get away with these things) and reads what she's written. It's beyond strange and she can't begin to imagine the stakes if she's ended it with It's all real. But she hides the notebook under the dry laundry and she runs with it.

It's not until two days later that her memories return.

****
After that, it comes and goes. Sometimes for as short as minutes, other times for days. She converts the notes to a locked file on the computer she's borrowed from Dairine and it pops up every time she powers it on. The password her first phone number, 4645215, which she keeps despite the temptation toward security change because the first thing in the file after Arthur is your husband is always Don't change the password, Joan.

It's terrifying, this journey back and forth in time. But she does her best to keep it to herself, not wanting to worry Arthur and Emily and Matthew, Annie and Auggie and Sarah, Anatoly, Jonas, Dairine, and John. Arthur's name becomes a mantra. A totem. The day she's at the beach and it takes her back to the hospital, she finds a pleasing shell and pockets it to rub with her thumb. When she finds her way back home (carefully, carefully, because something is obviously wrong), opens the computer and the file, she uses ink from her drawing class to write Arthur's name inside the shell. After that, she never leaves it home.

The worst are the days when she's ten and Daddy's gone again or in the field and Megan's missing, at least until she ends up back in the terrible six months where everything with Arthur was wrong. She finds the notes and knows they've made up and he never strayed, but the new ring on her finger sits wrong and it's impossible to pretend she's deeply, warmly in love when she wakes up wanting to strangle him for the brush of his fingers against her skin.

Most of the time, she's in the field again, which makes her think it's a coma she's in or a concussion on the lucid days. There's almost always an op she has to finish, some dire countdown or parcel trade or seduction. When she comes back around, memories restored to the present and all is well, it's not the tear-stricken days of her youth or almost losing Meg that kills her. It's almost betraying Arthur that - uncharacteristically poetic for her - rends her soul.

Eventually even her good days turn sour, filled with fears of forgetting. The coffee she always has in hand cools, forgotten while her thumb sweeps against the inside of the shell. Even when she remembers who she is and where, Joan's cast adrift on the stormy sea of memory. The island is responsible, she tells herself firmly, but the specter of Alzheimer's, sundowning, early onset dementia looms large, leaving her often raw, frightened, stripped bare.

[ooc: find Joan anywhere on the island, any time between now and let's say the twentieth of July. Things she does regularly: her classes, cooking in her kitchen or the main one especially when she's stressed, laundry (and if you want to tag her off the laundry scene here email me because I only want one), drink coffee and read off her laptop, run in the mornings, yoga at night, help Matt with the garden he's putting in, wandering aimlessly looking for her targets. If you need a specific date/date-range, let me know. And if you want her without amnesia on one of the raw days, let me know that too. I'll decide what she does or doesn't remember for your thread. If you want to discuss in advance, drop me an email at technosagery @ gmail and I'll get right on it.]

Comments

[chesspolitik]

It was utterly exhausting to keep up a facade of normality but Anatoly didn't know what else he could do. Showing his grief and anger at the island would do nothing to change things. He could rage and weep all he liked, Lex would not remember him and think he was a fool in the bargain.

No, it was better that he kept his emotions in check and went about his day. He was out of practice at that, it was true, but he would remember the hang of it soon enough. This was much better than than holding out hope for something that might never happen. If the island decreed that Lex was never to remember what they had, then he had to accept that. He might even come to believe it was for the best.

Until he reached that stage of acceptance, he had to keep himself busy and towards that end, he walked. Late night, early morning - the time didn't matter. If his brain needed quieting, then he got up to wander.

[lysistrategic]

Joan is supposed to be in Nairobi; she is supposed to be meeting Megan at their extraction point. Meg will be frantic, desperately trying to contact her, and Joan's failure to turn up may well get her killed. This is what her mind tells her while she stares at the unfamiliar ocean from an unfamiliar shore.

The notebook in her back pocket (a ridiculous security risk) tells her this is her home, the year relatively is 2012 (relatively, because apparently it is no actual year here), the boss she's been falling in love with is actually her husband and he's here. He kissed her when she woke this morning, held her close against him and she let him, fortunately, in her confusion, and then found the notebook when he went to make her coffee. She has no way of knowing if this is normal for him.

And all she can think about is Meg.

She finds a rock to sit on and pulls her knees up close to her. The notebook says not to try to make sense of it, just to accept and remember, to keep her cover and try not to let Annie, Auggie and Arthur know this was happening - apparently again, but she doesn't remember that any more than she remembers Annie and Auggie or this island.

So she watches the waves, tucks her chin, and tries to meditate to the ebb and flow of tide.

[chesspolitik]

At the sight of Joan sitting upon a rock, Anatoly brightened. If ever anyone was capable of distracting him, it was her and he eagerly made his way over. As he drew closer and realized she was meditating, he paused for a moment, torn between greeting her and leaving her in peace.

"Joan? Am I interrupting you?"

[lysistrategic]

Joan keeps her head low when the man calls her name and glances at him out of the corner of her eyes. The notebook has descriptions of her friends here, but if it's a lie, he could be an enemy. She rifles her mind for a description in the book that matches and comes up with, "Anatoly," said kindly, as he's apparently very dear. And then adds in Russian that she hopes is near to as good as what she'd been learning with him, "Not at all. I was only daydreaming."

Mourning. Worrying. Longing.

[chesspolitik]

Anatoly smiled happily, very pleased at her progress. Russian was such a difficult language to learn and she was making impressive headway with it and that was something to be praised and admired. "That was very good! You are doing very well!"

A bit sheepishly, he added in English, "I am glad I am not disturbing you. How are you doing today?"

[iliketodruitt]

He's trying. He's trying so hard to not let everything fall apart. Ever since that day when Helen came and told him about the pregnancy, he felt as if his entire being was held together by frayed twine. It was his own fault, holding out hope for a woman that he had lost over a hundred years ago and was married to another man.

But it was Helen and he was John, and she would always be the only one for him. So now he was tasked with the job of trying to be himself with the knowledge that he would never be with Helen again. It was something that should have happened long ago but if he could change the past, there were more important things to consider.

The meditation was helping though. In lotus position on the beach, he breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. He enjoyed the wind ruffling through his hair and the calm sound of the waves. He was supposed to be blocking those things out, but for the moment he was taking pleasure in the small things. After all, that was all he had most days.

When he heard someone approaching on the sand, he opened one eye to see Joan running along the beach. Giving a small smile, he offered a wave to her. If she wanted to run on, that was fine with him, but it would be rude not to at least acknowledge a friend.

[lysistrategic]

Today is one of the not-so-bad days. Joan remembers almost everything, except the last few amnesia days. The shell in her pocket with Arthur's name in it, and the ubiquitous notebook (tucked in the waist of her jogging shorts) remind her that it's happened, but her strides cover the ground strong and sure. Maybe today will be the last day, she thinks, while her arms pump and her lungs burn. Maybe tomorrow she can end this nightmare of play-pretend on top of her day-to-day operational play-pretend. It's like being a double agent, and she's exhausted with it.

A figure in the sand on the beach up ahead draws her eye and when she gets in range, he waves. It's John. She definitely remembers her husband's none-too-happy about this particular friendship, but he knows better than to stand in her way. She drops out of her jog to say hello, and depending on whether he wants company or not, maybe she'll sit and stay for awhile.

"Hello, John," she offers warmly, perhaps more warmly than usual with the gnawing concerns rubbing her raw.

[iliketodruitt]

"I would say it's a good morning for a run, but on a temperate, tropical island there aren't very many poor mornings for it," John said. While being stranded in an alternate dimension, one could certainly do worse than a place like Tabula Rasa for a locale.

He hadn't seen Joan in a while, but then he hadn't seen many people in a while. John spent most of his time with his experiments and in Rapture at the best of times, and lately had hardly been the best of times.

"You're welcome to join me here if you're at a point where you can stop for a bit."

[lysistrategic]

"It's nice for a run as long as it's not December in Victorian London or high summer in the American West," Joan observes wryly and then wipes her face on the hand towel tucked into her shorts. "And I'd be pleased to stop for a bit, if you'd like the company."

Something about his manner seems off to Joan, and at first, she can't think what. She frowns, thinking it's a memory she's lost, but then it comes to her. Helen's pregnancy. Maybe that's what has him subdued seeming, not that he's ever especially vivacious, but his posture suggests more than a little ennui.

"Are you well? I haven't seen you what seems a rather long time for what is a very small island."

[wizard_errant]

Dairine's gone looking for Joan. It's computer-related mostly, though that's not the only reason; she meant to give her one of the other two Musketeers but couldn't quite bring herself to, which meant building a new laptop out of all the parts she's collected over time. Which was nice, as projects go; sensible and uncomplicated and easy the way it seems like nothing is.

The point is, she's been looking for Joan. And after a while, she finds her.

[lysistrategic]

Thankfully, it's one of the good days. Joan remembers everything today, and she's spent an hour updating the notebook, and several enjoying her husband in case she doesn't remember him again tomorrow. Her fingers clutch at the fabric of her dress at that thought, at the thought that... but it's hardly a useful thought, when the island is riddled with people suffering various forms of amnesia, even if hers seems different. She has to continue to believe that this will stop and she'll be able to trust her mind again.

So she smiles when she sees Dairine coming into the kitchen carrying what looks like a laptop, if nothing like what she's ever seen. "Dairine--" Her voice is warm, her eyes clear and sharp. "New toy?"

[wizard_errant]

Dairine lets out a breath; she's always worried these days someone won't remember her. "I thought you might be able to use it," she explains, holding the little thing up. "Or at least give the poor thing a home."

[lysistrategic]

Joan notes the holding of her breath and the release of it when Joan greets her. Obviously Dairine hadn't been certain - either of her welcome (had they fought? there's nothing in the journal about it) or of Joan's recognition (did she run into her on one of the bad days, something Joan forgot to write down?). She smiles reassuringly.

"You won't be offended--" She holds out her hands for the computer. "--if I say that it's adorable, will you?" It is very cute. "Does it have a name?"

[thinkimstrange]

Jonas didn't need to be an alien to know something was wrong with Joan. She seemed distracted the few times he'd seen her this month but he'd tried to just leave it alone. To ignore the things he'd noticed when he'd spoke her to, to act like nothing was wrong. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done but he was willing to do to give her her privacy. She had her husband and people from home to help her. She didn't need a meddling Kelownan as well.

So when he found her in the kitchen drinking coffee one morning, Jonas still tried to pretend all was well as he joined her with his own cup of tea. "Good morning Joan. How are you?"

[lysistrategic]

Joan doesn't recognize the voice or the blond young man who addresses her, but she knows from the journal that is common now. It happens to her often. At least, if she believes what's in the pages. She has to, she supposes, because her body hurts but there are no stitches, no fresh wounds, and when she moves there is no weakness.

"Good morning," she answers, taking care to make her voice kind while she searches the pages of the journal in memory to put the name with the details of a pleasantly handsome face. "I'm all right. A bit of a headache from sleeping poorly but the caffeine will help." Jonas. That's the name. "And you, Jonas?"

[thinkimstrange]

"I'm sorry to hear about your sleep. I hope it's not an ongoing problem?" He tried not to let his worry show, he did, but his smile just had that hint of worry that he couldn't completely erase. When under pressure of a goa'uld like Nirrti, he could control his expression just fine but not when he was worried about a friend.

"I'm well now that classes have started. It's nice to have the distraction, especially one that involves other people. How's Arthur?" He figured simple questions couldn't hurt.

[lysistrategic]

He's so obviously concerned, Joan twists with guilt over not remembering this sweet young man. Her stomach twists anyhow with remnants of nausea from pain medications she hasn't - according to the journal and laptop named Nittany (it speaks, which is strange; she left it at 'home') - taken in years.

"I was in an accident--" Days ago. "Some years ago, and I occasionally suffer from exceptionally vivid dreams." True, but not truth. The most skillfully crafted lie. "It's nothing to worry yourself over, in any event. And Arthur's fine." Arthur. Her husband. She'd never dreamed... "How are things over in--" Where was it now? Emily. Matt. Sarah. Daniel. What had she read, quickly now? ... "New Atlantis. With the baby?" There's a baby. She read that, didn't she? "How did the painting turn out?" That she felt on firmer footing about. She'd seen it earlier while trying to figure out why she wasn't bleeding to death.

[just_hormones]

It's pretty hard not to notice something's been going on this month, even for Aphrodite, who is a lot better than she used to be at looking outside herself but still has her periods of self-centeredness. Never knowing whether someone she's supposed to know will remember her is totally annoying, and Aphrodite will be so relieved when the whole amnesia thing goes away, hopefully sooner rather than later. It's bad enough she's got to deal with a place where the majority of the population either doesn't know or doesn't care how to properly treat a goddess.

On her way to the compound, she spots a familiar face coming out of the school. "Hey, Joanie!" she calls with a bright smile, waving at her friend.

[lysistrategic]

Joan's heart skips. She glances up from the notebook that tells her where she must go next in order to maintain this facade. In all the world, there are five people who have called her 'Joanie'. Her mother, her sisters, Megan, and Arthur.

But before she can shout for Meg and grab her, Joan sees, no. It's not her. And even though the journal says Meg's fine - she made it out; they both did - there's a flash of lethal fury at this pretty, bubbly blonde. She's a very good covert operative, one of the best, and the flash never makes it to her eyes. Instead she gives a pleasant wave of greeting. "Hello," she calls, but though the journal had informed her this person would be the goddess Aphrodite, she could not make herself believe it. "You look lovely today." One assumes it's always safe to compliment a woman who thinks she's a goddess.

[just_hormones]

"Aren't you sweet!" Aphrodite chirps, about as close as she gets to a thank you on most occasions when someone does what she thinks is totally stating the obvious. Not that she doesn't enjoy the obvious being stated when it comes to how awesome she looks. "Did you just get out of class?"

[lysistrategic]

"I was just heading to class, actually." True or not, although it appears to be from the schedule that says she has Painting soon with a teacher, Charlie Jones, that she's helpfully noted has red hair and there's a hastily penned 'F' there, which she assumes is for 'Female' and not her grade. Although she imagines it reflects her grade as well, since Joan has never been able to paint a lick. She remembers trying to paint trim in her first apartment and even that had been a disaster.

"And you, where are you on your way to?" Please, Joan thinks. Let it be somewhere she needs to be soon. Joan needs to go somewhere and think, try to figure this out.

[damnfinecup]

Dale had always felt an affinity for those people he ran into while out running in the morning, some kind of secret runners' society where they never had to talk about their membership, it was just understood. And of course, he knew Joan in other contexts as well, so when he saw her out on the paths with him in the hours before the real heat of the day hit, he gave her a wave and a smile and, as they were going in generally the same direction on this particularly day, matched pace with her.

[lysistrategic]

Even when she thinks she might get off with just the pleasant wave of greeting between two morning joggers, Joan wracks her mind for some means to remember him. She's looked over the journal already (Arthur gave it to her, and directed her to the critical files on her computer; she hates that he knows, hates the look in his eyes, but she's grateful for his non-patronizing assistance) but her mind is stuck on operational details. The last thing she remembers is being in a bathroom in an office building in Mexico City with Annie and Meg. When he matches pace with her, it's clear she must know him more than in passing, but it takes too long to link the smile, the generally peaceful demeanor, the jogging and the tendency to listen before he talks to -- "Dale, good morning."

[damnfinecup]

"Not too hot," said Dale, "which is not something you can say about every morning here on the island. Just starting out, or getting ready to head in?" From the look of her Dale would presume that she'd been out a while, but it was just a friendly question, not an interrogation, and he only noticed because noticing things was too ingrained in him.

[lysistrategic]

"Neither," Joan answers truthfully, even if she might normally be heading in now. She reaches back to pull her ponytail tight and keeps pace. "I'm--" A little smile, hopefully disarming, eyes flashing playfully. "Playing hooky today. I'm not feeling in the mood for stillness painting and drawing and yoga. And you?" He looks as though he's just getting start.