Participants:
| Scene Title | Scent of a Memory |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Of those things that are difficult to place, so this one is too and harder still to trace. |
| Date | August 25, 2020 |
January 25, 2020
9:37 am
The Bastion - Devon Clendaniel’s Quarters
A glance at the clock decides for him that it's time to stop for now. He scratches down notes on a nearby notepad; a reminder to contact Rhys is underlined, talk to Avi about Voss earns three question marks and a box around it. Keywords make a list in the margin, each with its own asterisk.
Then, with one hand, he pushes the notes aside. The other tabs the search closed, clears browsers, reboots. While the screen goes blank, Dev sits back to watch for a second and wonder if he'd missed anything. If he did, hopefully it'll come back to him later. The beat passes, and he pushes away from his desk. If he hurries, he can still grab coffee before his shift.
…Seven Months Later
The Bastion - Devon Clendaniel’s Quarters
August 26, 2020
6:54 pm
“Who taught me how to organize anything?” Devon complains out loud in spite of being alone in his room.
The small waste basket beside his desk is already full to the point of tipping, old papers, various notes and fliers, and a couple of catalogs take up a majority of the space. Whatever had seemed useful still resides on the desk and it's that which he's making an effort to go through.
Fingers flip through the hodgepodge of papers. The hushed murmur of “Trash, trash, might be im — no trash,” fills the quiet space. Several old to-do lists with dates of three years ago, a business card for The Benchmark, a clipping of a recipe for chocolate peanut butter krispy bars, all join the rest of the stuff he's deemed has overstayed any welcome or usefulness. He sets some hospital discharge papers aside with things of similar nature. What greets him next gives him pause.
“Emily.”
With the care he'd show a delicate flower, or a priceless artifact, he picks up a wallet-sized photograph of him and Emily, shoulders and faces with goofy expressions jammed together as though it was taken in one of those arcade style photo booths. Likely during one of the Yamagato sponsored festivals, if he had to guess.
A thumb brushes over the image, the muscles in Devon’s jaw flex and contract in longing. “We’re going to figure this out,” he promises, “just hang on. Don't give up.” His voice is tight, frustrated. His eyes sting, and he pulls in a sharp breath.
The picture is set aside, laid against the lamp on his desk as a reminder of better days and hope.
It still takes a moment for his attention to return to the slowly thinning stack of stuff. He pulls his eyes from the photo, drags a hand through his hair and rubs the back of his neck. A deeper, steadier breath is pulled in then allowed out slowly. He looks at the stack in front of him
and nearly tosses the whole mess into the trash. What worth is any of it anyway? More of it is leftover from his double than from him.
Fingers curl around the pile with indecision, and he scans the topmost sheet for any reason to keep working. Notes are what he finds, like one of so many to-do lists, or leftovers from a mission briefing. But these are handwritten notes — in his handwriting — on top that stops him. Keywords written in the margin spark a memory he can't quite catch.
Devon lifts the sheet from the pile and finds it still attached to a full pad. Prior pages also have handwritten notes, each reminiscent of something. It teases like a familiar scent on the wind, lingering just long enough to pique interest then gone without a trail to follow. He sits back in his chair to slowly turn through the pages of notes. “What…” He turns a page, discovering a roughly written timeline, names, question marks over the connecting arrows.
“Rue was arrested?” He shakes his head, although it doesn't clear away his confusion. No answers or explanations come rattling forth. “Who are Hollis and Adrienne.” He turns to the next page, with its just as cryptic scrawlings about Avi and something called Broken Watch. Of all the times he might want whatever weird connection to have been triggered, he's without any memory for something that seems more important than any medical papers or old doodles. Devon turns the notes to the beginning and leans forward for a more thorough look.
“What were we looking for?”