fandomtownies | The streets of Fandom, Saturday afternoon

He'd woken up in bed with two extremely hot people in a house with a dog that was extremely excited to see him, so as far as he could tell life was good. Investigation around the house told him that a) he naturally moved pretty damn quietly, b) the kitchen had been stocked by a gourmand with a trashy sweet tooth, and c) his name was probably either Eliot, Alec, or Parker, since those were the names he found on the most mail, credit cards, and IDs around the house.

The fact that there were quite so many other names on mail, credit cards, and IDs, with only pictures of himself and the two extremely hot people was a little bit disconcerting. As was the basement full of bear traps and really antique surveillance equipment. But he figured on the third time both he and the dog (Megabyte Valentine, said her tag, which was a mouthful, and she seemed to respond to pretty much anything vaguely name-sounding he called her, so who knew) snapped to attention when a squirrel ran past on their morning walk that he was naturally pretty alert, so whatever it was he and the hot people needed all those different IDs for, they were probably pretty good at. He was sure he'd know how to react if it became a problem.

The morning walk stretched easily into the afternoon, full of stairs and long pauses along the coast to watch the water and the seagulls and stare in wonder up into the perpetual night sky, and the dog was perfectly content to wander around with him, so he wasn't in any hurry to head back to the house he'd woken up in, just yet. "Astronaut spy" was his current working theory for who he was. It made about as much sense as waking up an amnesiac without any apparent trauma for cause.

He probably should have woken the two extremely hot people this morning and asked them for intel, but he'd wanted to figure it out for himself. He seemed like that kind of guy. Which made sense, for an astronaut spy.

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"Right. Maybe keep an eye out in case things get messier later, but for the time being, I think I can live with this." He turned a wry smile toward the other man. "I'd introduce myself, but, you know."

Shrug.

"Hi. I'm 'that guy who wakes up on unfamiliar couches with a blaster nearby.'"

Said blaster was now in a holster on his hip, because even if he couldn't remember anything, it felt wrong to be leaving the apartment without it. Especially if he had no idea what was out there besides a bunch of distressed people.

"That's a bit of a mouthful. Near as I can tell I'm either Eliot, Alec, or Parker. Feel free to pick one."

"Eliot it is," Kanan decided. "There's a one in three chance of getting it right, so I'll just go with the first one and hope for the best."

It was easier that way.

"I guess I'll also answer to, 'Hey, you,' or 'that guy.' I don't think I'm actually that picky."

"Yeah, but I'm guessin' there'll be a coupla 'hey, you's and 'that guy's. You look like you could be a . . . Chris, to me."

"A Chris," Kanan echoed, raising an eyebrow. And then shrugging his shoulders. "Sure, I'll be a Chris. It's better than anything I could come up with, anyway."

Said the guy who named himself Kanan.

So, basically, yes.

"Chris it is, then. Nice to meet ya."

"A pleasure," 'Chris' replied, offering Eliot a handshake. "I'll let you know if I find out any different. Or, hell, maybe I'll just answer to 'Chris' forever. Why not?"

There were worse fates than being called Chris. Probably. Not that he could know for sure, since his memory spanned all the way back to waking up on a sofa that morning. But it seemed like a safe bet.

"You do that," Eliot said, giving him a firm shake. Very firm. 'Unaware of own strength' firm. "And if you find anything out about this whole memory loss thing."

Yeaaaah, there was a handshake that had Chris-née-Kanan-née-Caleb blinking a little. Were they supposed to be that firm? Maybe he also didn't remember how handshakes worked?

"Absolutely. Where can I find you, if I do come across anything worthwhile?"

That was a good question. "Well, I woke up in a place down . . ." He looked around and pointed. "That way. Didn't check the house number, though." Which would make it difficult for him to give Chris the address. "But -- I seem to be kind of the restless type, so I guess I'll just be -- around." He patted down his pockets. "Hey, do you have a phone?"

"Uh... there's a chance of that." Chris? Also patting down his pockets. And surfacing after a few moments with some kind of primitive datapad-looking... thing. "Does this count?"

That was absolutely a phone, yes, Kanan. Chris. You.

"Looks good to me," Eliot said, holding up his own, which he'd just located. (Apparently he didn't bother to empty the pockets of his pants last night. Which was good, since he'd been too distracted this morning to think about finding it before he left.) "Let me see if I can get this thing to tell me what its number is, and then you can just call that."

Eliot was terrible with technology, but he didn't remember that, so there was a slim chance he'd manage it.

And Kanan was used to somewhat different technology, and his first written language was Aurebesh. Really, it was a wonder he managed to figure out how to get from sleep mode to the lock screen on his own phone.

"Looks like you stand a better chance than I do," he noted, squinting at the phone in his hand. "Apparently, I'm not some kind of phone savant."

Because generally it did not take a savant just to be able to get past the lock screen, Chris.

"Hang on a sec. I think it'd be in . . . settings? If I just -- woah." Eliot tilted his head at the phone. "Wow. Okay. Mr. Hot guy back home is apparently named 'Hardison' and he texts a lot." He shook his head. "Alright let's see -- and the blonde is really flexible."

Well, he'd managed to find messaging and photos, anyway.

"Here we go." He rattled off a number. "Try that."

Chris, who had never seen a proper phone receiver in his life, needed a few more moments of poking around at the weird looking icons on the screen before, mostly by fluke, or possibly because even the Force was taking pity on him today, making his way onto the right screen.

"Okay," he typed in the number that Eliot had just rattled off, and then hit the 'send' button. That seemed like the way it was done. "These things are not at all intuitive."

Just in case Eliot was wondering.

"I'm guessing especially when you ain't clear on what a dog is," Eliot agreed, then managed to jump slightly when the ring tone started on his phone. "Jesus, what am I, some kind of depressed cowboy?"

Well.

You were in good company, Eliot. It was okay.

"They play music when you get a call?" Oh, that was actually kind of exciting. Chris hit the red button to end the call, and then by some miracle managed to actually add that number to his contact list under 'Eliot, probably.'

... It was the first and only number on there. Which was spectacularly unhelpful.

"Apparently I need to get out more."

"Half the numbers in mine have international calling codes on them," Eliot noted. "I might need to get out less."

"Maybe it just means you're well loved? Or a very busy man."

One or the other. Probably the other, huh?

The streets of Fandom, Saturday afternoon

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