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Instincts and habits both have a tendency to outlast clear memory. You may not consciously recall that you double-check the microwave door because of a faulty latch in a work breakroom eight years ago, but you double-check it all the same.

It felt wrong and dangerous to be Maus, and not - well. Whatever his name was; Kay still felt wrong as well. But he had the persistence of knowledge enough to realize that this was a remnant from a danger that he was no longer subjected to. The other dangers were, of course, still present. More so, in some ways; he now lacked the sheltering influence of an organization.

But while it felt wrong and dangerous, there was also an exhilarating sense of rightness to it: a relief, white-hot still, that contended strongly against the remnants of his instinctive fears, and had on this occasion vanquished it.

It was a comfort, when he stepped out onto the quiet sidewalks, to feel that he was not entirely alone. More of a relief, when he felt that that ineffable presence was something much larger than himself. He attempted to aim himself towards it, therefore, at as leisurely a stroll as he could force himself into.

He felt that he ought to have some sort of keys to jingle; some sort of audible signifier of his approach, as if he was a hiker on some bear-tenanted trail. But he had quickly realized that his new uniform seemed designed to move quietly, with soft leather soles and soft leather gloves. It might have worked better if it wasn't bright yellow, but who was he to question what mysterious camouflage might have been required in some ancient time that he had no recollection of, any more than he had a recollection of who he had been a week ago?

He could whistle, though, and he did, a little tunelessly, a series of notes that meandered around the general shape of the theme song to Arthur. It was not a necessary thing, given that they would be as aware of him as he was of them, but it felt like extending a sign of his peaceful intention.

That wasn't really necessary anymore, either. But those microwave doors, again.

"I don't know," he said. "It's been stuck in my head and I can't place it."

This wasn't true, of course.

He ran his eyes over her with the quick glance of curiosity, seeming to linger briefly on the glowing marks on her skin, and he squinted beneath his too-heavy eyebrows. "Memory's a bit of an issue these days, but not all of it. Mercury?" he said. He had retained some things - not much, but some - but more than that, he'd gotten himself apprised of as many basics as he could as quickly as he could without completely overflowing his brain, and looking up planetary symbols and mentally quizzing himself had been a way to kill some of the interminable free time where his fear used to be. This had been a request to himself, in the form of a note stuck on top of the boxes he'd squirreled away as the meager foundations of a future life he had no conception of, and luckily, he had been around those who would at least partially oblige, although they'd left some sizable gaps.

But his tone, as he said it, was one of tentative questioning, and if the smallness of his aura and a certain worn-thin look around his eyes hadn't betrayed the degree of his newness, the voice probably would have.

"Ah. Yeah. Which, as it's been pointed out to me, is sort of a weird thing to say, since we're all more or less of Earth." He paused. "Maus," he added. Not the most auspicious name for a grown-a** man, mustache and all, but he said it without self-consciousness. "Maybe some of us are less of Earth than others, though," he observed, giving her uniform an absent look-over. "You'd be right at home on a rave floor." He said this with a great deal of approval in it, as if administering very high praise. "Or maybe a crime scene. Or a shitty motel room being checked for - well."

And then he grinned, not at all apologetic, as apparently having intended this as a compliment was enough to offset his immediately going somewhere awful with it. It was a strange grin, which might have been more boyish had it not crinkled up the corners of his eyes, as if he was a man who'd spent a lot of time smiling, at some point. "You come out here a lot, Blade Runner? I'm still figuring out where I can walk around with out taking my own life in my hands."

"It does seem to be a numbers game," he agreed, making a face of visible discomfort. "Gotta say I wasn't much encouraged by the genuinely warm welcome I got when I came over. On the whole I think I'd rather be processed like one of a hundred rather than given so much hospitality that it feels like I'm being celebrated in some way. But maybe that was just my genuine charm and charisma," he added, moving past it lightly.

"The one who scooped me up told me not to go out alone, and then she told me that she goes out alone all the damn time and to do whatever I feel like doing," he said, with a little laugh. "So am I right in thinking that people like to give out advice and then not follow it, over on this side?"

He pushed, with his thumb, a sad-looking stuffed mushroom tucked into the side of his belt, which somehow had the impressive quality of looking even less useful than an actual, real mushroom.

He eyed her shield, however, as he did so.

"I'm trying to imagine," he said, "what this turns into, if a pot lid turns into a shield."

And his mind was going to some entertaining places, but probably not ones he should share with a stranger. It would be uncouth.

"How long did it take to get from one to the other?"