( marc is no stranger to hazy memories, muddled thoughts or to questioning reality. he's been here (not here) before — to misremembered pasts and presents he doesn't quite understand. he's been through worse — or that's what he tells himself, at least, as he's sprawled on sand: he didn't drown (this time), so that's a positive.

the negatives, though, are numerous. firstly, the obvious: there's barely enough sun to dry him or his clothes, sodden wet and uncomfortable, clinging to his skin in all the wrong places. there are locals speaking in a language he neither understands nor recognises (not the first time), who offer him a device he takes, looks over, and then pockets for later.

(it helps with the understanding.)

they don't stick around. )

Ugh, god—

( intoned in the way that makes it quite clear he means 'fuck', it's a quiet noise of resignation, frustration and — ultimately — acceptance. acceptance that this is where he is right now and that no, he doesn't really know what happened. there are thoughts, here and there, fragments of memory that are formless and teasing. as if, if he doesn't try and reach for them too obviously, they'll reform without prompting.

he's not dressed for the beach, not by any stretch of the imagination: white shirt (long sleeved), white tie, white waistcoat, white suit jacket, white trousers, white gloves, white boots and — finally — white (of course) mask. that sits beside him on the ground, having been pulled off ungracefully and desperately as he'd inhaled a mouthful of wet, and judging by the amount of sand clinging to it, he won't be putting it back on any time soon.

in contrast to the suit (or, at least, how the suit presumably looked BEFORE), marc is — unkempt. dishevelled. brown hair drying into messy waves frame a face that wears an assortment of day-plus old bruises, a nose that's been broken several times and not quite healed right on at least one of those occasions, a scar that runs through his left eyebrow, and he could do with a shave (unless the stubble's a choice, but who knows).

he moves to stand, abrupt and decisive, taking a moment to futilely attempt to brush sand off his suit (he'll be finding it in crevices for days—). he knows he's not alone. he can hear the sound of breaths behind him, and he reaches, slowly, carefully, deliberately into an inside pocket of his jacket. cold, wet metal. familiar. good. doesn't do anything with that knowledge. instead, he turns his head to one side, just a touch, to glance over his shoulder.

a slight frown — not notably unhappy, more the frown of a man who wears it as his de facto expression. )

Don't. It's not polite to sneak up on people. ( a level, pointed comment, hoarser than he'd usually sound (salt water). )