Post by Katpride on Nov 27, 2021 4:31:40 GMT
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Another day, another shift at their favorite milkshake establishment. Lark goes about their daily tasks with unusually low energy, even more absent-minded than they usually are.
Though they may like to act as though they have no idea what’s going on at any given moment, they can generally keep track of the things they need to. But today, their thoughts are sluggish, like an engine revving but there’s nothing in the tank.
Today, they don’t play any pranks. No sleight of hand as they slide glasses onto tables, no stickers or lollipops hidden inside napkins. They forget how to operate the milkshake machine, staring at it blankly for a long moment before they can recall how to start it. They don’t notice the sprinkles tangled in the untameable mane they call hair.
Lark trips on their way to a booth and only a hasty time stop saves them from a big mess and a disappointed customer. Even then, they almost forget that objects keep going if they’re holding them. Their powers are useless when they can’t remember how they work.
Maybe they shouldn’t have come in today. Or maybe they shouldn’t have come in today right now. It isn’t too late to just… go back to bed, and try the rest of this day on tomorrow.
That’s a funny phrase, isn’t it? Back to bed. They can’t remember the last time they slept the whole night through, much less in a proper bed rather than wherever they decide to pass out. That probably isn’t the best sign, but it’s their life. They can decide how to live it.
Maybe they’ll just… close their eyes… for a moment…
Lark drops like a stone, but before they can fall very far, there’s a flash of green light and another Lark appears, this one light on their feet and much more awake as they catch their past self. They lean the sleeping Lark gently against them, infinitely careful. The crowd of worried onlookers watches on, but they keep their posture purposefully relaxed.
“Haha, sorry about that. I’ll just get them outta your hair.” They quip, hiding their nervousness with a grin before the light flashes again and they’re gone.
Out of sight, Lark hangs on tightly to their past self, aware of hair curling against their face and a weight on their shoulder and not much else in that in-between space. They keep their arm securely around their waist, feeling for the familiar tug of their past self within the main timeline, aiming for a time they know they’ll be in their apartment.
“We can’t keep doing that,” they mumble, once space resolves itself into their apartment, a few weeks displaced from their proper time. A third Lark stands in the living room, packing a backpack which is propped carelessly on the couch.
“Doing what?” The youngest Lark asks, unphased by the interruption but confused by the lack of context.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” Another smile. The pair of Larks flashes away again, back to the present time but still within the apartment.
The older Lark shuffles a few steps over and deposits the sleeping Lark onto the couch, which is now vacant. They aren’t quite strong enough to haul themself all the way to their bedroom, nor do they want to take the time to navigate the mess that they’d probably find there. But wow, they do look tired. The bags under their eyes are going to have to start paying rent, soon.
They retrieve a blanket and stay with their past self as they sleep, flipping through a book and sitting on the floor with their back against the couch. When they start to stir, predictably, about once every hour on the hour, Lark adjusts the blanket or tucks an errant limb back onto the couch until they settle again.
They know what they’re dreaming about. They’ve already lived it, after all, and, even if they hadn’t, it rarely changes. They dream of that night, the end of their journey. They dream of the places they’ve been, the people they’ve met. They dream of significance and nothingness and memories and being forgotten.
Sometimes, a perfect memory is a curse. It allows you to see the faults in everyone else’s recollections, and to know exactly how easily other people forget.
Lark wakes up. They get dinner. They go back to bed, and they try yesterday again when they’re more awake. For them, this journey takes hours. For the patrons of Milk Punch, they reappear only seconds after they had disappeared. They bow deeply, playing it all off as a magic act.
“Now back to your regularly scheduled programming,” they joke, going back to work with their usual joviality and completely dodging any attempts to query after their well-being.
They’ve got it all under control. Or, if they don’t have it under control right now, they will in the future, which is practically the same thing.
Another day, another shift at their favorite milkshake establishment. Lark goes about their daily tasks with unusually low energy, even more absent-minded than they usually are.
Though they may like to act as though they have no idea what’s going on at any given moment, they can generally keep track of the things they need to. But today, their thoughts are sluggish, like an engine revving but there’s nothing in the tank.
Today, they don’t play any pranks. No sleight of hand as they slide glasses onto tables, no stickers or lollipops hidden inside napkins. They forget how to operate the milkshake machine, staring at it blankly for a long moment before they can recall how to start it. They don’t notice the sprinkles tangled in the untameable mane they call hair.
Lark trips on their way to a booth and only a hasty time stop saves them from a big mess and a disappointed customer. Even then, they almost forget that objects keep going if they’re holding them. Their powers are useless when they can’t remember how they work.
Maybe they shouldn’t have come in today. Or maybe they shouldn’t have come in today right now. It isn’t too late to just… go back to bed, and try the rest of this day on tomorrow.
That’s a funny phrase, isn’t it? Back to bed. They can’t remember the last time they slept the whole night through, much less in a proper bed rather than wherever they decide to pass out. That probably isn’t the best sign, but it’s their life. They can decide how to live it.
Maybe they’ll just… close their eyes… for a moment…
Lark drops like a stone, but before they can fall very far, there’s a flash of green light and another Lark appears, this one light on their feet and much more awake as they catch their past self. They lean the sleeping Lark gently against them, infinitely careful. The crowd of worried onlookers watches on, but they keep their posture purposefully relaxed.
“Haha, sorry about that. I’ll just get them outta your hair.” They quip, hiding their nervousness with a grin before the light flashes again and they’re gone.
Out of sight, Lark hangs on tightly to their past self, aware of hair curling against their face and a weight on their shoulder and not much else in that in-between space. They keep their arm securely around their waist, feeling for the familiar tug of their past self within the main timeline, aiming for a time they know they’ll be in their apartment.
“We can’t keep doing that,” they mumble, once space resolves itself into their apartment, a few weeks displaced from their proper time. A third Lark stands in the living room, packing a backpack which is propped carelessly on the couch.
“Doing what?” The youngest Lark asks, unphased by the interruption but confused by the lack of context.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” Another smile. The pair of Larks flashes away again, back to the present time but still within the apartment.
The older Lark shuffles a few steps over and deposits the sleeping Lark onto the couch, which is now vacant. They aren’t quite strong enough to haul themself all the way to their bedroom, nor do they want to take the time to navigate the mess that they’d probably find there. But wow, they do look tired. The bags under their eyes are going to have to start paying rent, soon.
They retrieve a blanket and stay with their past self as they sleep, flipping through a book and sitting on the floor with their back against the couch. When they start to stir, predictably, about once every hour on the hour, Lark adjusts the blanket or tucks an errant limb back onto the couch until they settle again.
They know what they’re dreaming about. They’ve already lived it, after all, and, even if they hadn’t, it rarely changes. They dream of that night, the end of their journey. They dream of the places they’ve been, the people they’ve met. They dream of significance and nothingness and memories and being forgotten.
Sometimes, a perfect memory is a curse. It allows you to see the faults in everyone else’s recollections, and to know exactly how easily other people forget.
Lark wakes up. They get dinner. They go back to bed, and they try yesterday again when they’re more awake. For them, this journey takes hours. For the patrons of Milk Punch, they reappear only seconds after they had disappeared. They bow deeply, playing it all off as a magic act.
“Now back to your regularly scheduled programming,” they joke, going back to work with their usual joviality and completely dodging any attempts to query after their well-being.
They’ve got it all under control. Or, if they don’t have it under control right now, they will in the future, which is practically the same thing.