Pietro had been met with a strange and very abnormal feeling, the second he had woken that morning. Nothing had seemed out of place or different in his rented one-room apartment, but since the second he left his dream-like state of sleep, a feeling of misplacement had been settling within him. Sure, he was not a big fan of the place he was staying, but a roof was a roof and a bed was a bed - even if it was a hardened spring bed. Spring bed? No, the mattress he had gone to sleep on had not been made with springs, or had it? In his morning haze, and quickly running thoughts, he had little time - and/or patience - to worry about the material of his (also rented) mattress (it came with the place, so it was his for as long as he payed).
He had left the place only seven minutes after waking. It had taken him six minutes to force himself to rise from beneath the covers, and then another minute to get dressed, brush his teeth, grab a little of the cash from the top drawer and then head out of the door.
In the real world - that still seemed unusual on this early morning - or what time was it exactly? He was about to reach for the phone in his pocket, when he realised that he did not have it. Hm. He had to have forgotten it at home. It bothered him only little, since he rarely needed it, and had it more because it felt necessary.
In the moment he had stepped out on the streets of Brooklyn, he had been quick to realise that something was off. Completely and utterly off. He was misplaced. He had been misplaced, for though the streets looked familiar, the settings and his surroundings were different. Very different.
At first he had thought of running. Just sprinting into the heart of Manhattan in hopes of figuring out what the hell was happening, but these strange tides did not make him feel comfortable about racing off into a crowd of... of people?
Caught in his own (racing) thoughts, with wandering eyes and painfully slow movement, someone approached him - someone he did not hurry past like the rest, for when he let his eyes fall on the person, the stone in his stomach grew a bit smaller and much lighter.
He did not know what it was about her, but he knew, just by looking at her, that she felt the same... strangeness as he did. Perhaps it was her choice of clothing? It stood out, but in a normal toned down way. The kind of clothing that would be considered normal, fashionable, where he had been just yesterday.
“No,” he had not intended to say that, because it was after all New York he was walking around in, wasn’t it? But when he spoke the word he seemed to sure that he was not from around here. He had never in fact been here before. “And I guess you aren’t either?” The accent gave him away enough to make it obvious that he wasn’t from America at all, but he had a feeling that that was not what she had meant.
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