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[ Audio clicks on to the shuffle of papers and a considering hum before Rafe speaks. His voice is mild. Sincere. Level in the way one can only sound when one is way too used to having things work out the way he wants them to, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs. ]

Well. Isn't this interesting.

[ When some people say interesting, you can tell they mean something entirely different. A professor reading over a test that clearly hadn't been studied for as he reaches for a red pen; a girl at a bar at the hearing how you just never have enough time to work on your novel; a cop flipping over your registration to find it's expired. It's one of those catch-all words but when Rafe says it? Nah. He just means interesting. ]

I always appreciate being prepared, and gotta say. This pamphlet? Good stuff, clean design, very to the point. Credit where it's due.

[ Arriving like a babe in the woods isn't really Rafe's scene. After all, a wide variety of factors have suddenly been yanked out of his control; the few he has remaining to him become all the more important to take advantage of. So although he's still learning the lay of the land, he's doing so after availing himself of a room, a shower, a fresh shirt, and this handy dandy pamphlet. ]

Although... You know, not to brag or anything but I'm a guy with a couple of talents. Architecture, for one. Anybody else checking this place out? I mean, here I am walking around those gardens and one minute I'm thinking 18th-century French, fantastically preserved, then there's some Gothic elements peeking round a corner— Jesus! Lloyd Wright, right there. [ You'd think the guy was watching a match at Wimbledon, and politely un-invested in who the winner turns out to be. ] Phenomenal fenestration, when it decides to stick to something longer than a minute. I suppose I'll have to get up higher for some bearings on this whole thing. Might even be a little fun with the right equipment.

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[Nate is not a technologically-minded person, but his proclivity toward pressing buttons until something happens has served him admirably thus far, and continues to do so when he switches the channel on his phone by complete happenstance - the controls are weird, like, who puts a radio in a smart phone? - and catches the middle of a transmission.

There are certain uncanny things in a person's life that trigger gut-wrenching, visceral responses: the sickly-sweet scent of decay, the slippery feeling of water-slick moss on a river stone, the curl of a familiar voice over your ear in the dark.

Architectural jargon in a lazy, low tone, mildly amused in the way you'd imagine a film critic to sound after watching something impressive and wanting to mute their enthusiasm. Nate hears the words in bits and pieces, as though he was only catching half the feed with a shortwave that keeps going in and out of range. There's nothing wrong with the receiver at all, of course, but Nate doesn't realize he's clenching his jaw and not breathing until he accidentally drops his phone on the floor.

How long has it been? he wonders as he stoops to pick it up with the robotic movements of a man who is internally short-circuiting. Eight years? No, nine? Nine years since Nate stole out of the camp in Scotland like a thief (ha) in the night, spur of the moment bag packed with sparse supplies while he collected the rest of his dignity and subsequently threw it off of a basalt pillar cliff?

The minutes pass as he stares at his thumb hovering over the DIAL key, a fragment from home and not the one he wanted, but-

Beggars can't be choosers. Nate presses the button.]

Rafe?

[ It's a good thing this first encounter's anything but visual. There isn't any hiding the twitch at hearing that too familiar voice from home. ...Or the way Rafe's free hand finds its way to his Colt m1911.

A moment later and he's back in control. If he had to be stuck here with some face from home, there had to be less appealing options than the legendary Nathan Drake. (The mother-of-pearl digs into his palm where his fist clenches around his gun.) This could even prove advantageous, if he could wring a couple of details out of Drake over Avery. Go home with a little bit more than what he went away with.

And hey. Worst case scenario, he just has to finish what he'd started on a Madagascar cliff.

None of this debate is evident when he finally sends the reply. ]

Nate. Now what are the odds?

[ The chair creaks as he gets to his feet, suddenly too full of energy to bother staying still. The rooms are still settling for him but they're spacious enough already for him to stroll, necessary to properly digest this brand new information. ]

Then again maybe I shouldn't be that surprised. You do have a habit of just... [ A slow inhale before he scoffs, but all in good fun. If Nate can't recognize the smirk in his voice then he needs to invest in a hearing aid — presuming it's not already necessary from overdosing on gunfire and grenades. ] Turning up where you're least expected.

Edited (doh) 2016-08-23 01:23 (UTC)

[Nate almost didn't expect the pick-up, half-anticipating it to have been some vastly contrived cosmic joke, a hallucination to pickle his late afternoon by dredging up memories of another time entirely. The words he receives are conversational and almost warm, a hair shy of geniality because he knows Rafe, he knows that tone, and he knows precious little else.

Similarly incapable of keeping still at the desk he'd set up in his room Nate wears a rut into his floor, each syllable sinking into him with a weighted finality. Rafe sounds...different. Older. Which should be expected given the last time they saw each other

a lot of yelling, Christ, so much yelling and one of the work tables was overturned, papers and papers
Nate could smell wood smoke from the stove in the corner as it burned while Rafe did too
the wick lit at both ends

but it's been so long that Nate can't pinpoint why it feels off. It just does.]

I, uh. Never thought I'd say that I'm happy to hear your voice, but I've been here about a month, and- I mean, there's no one from- from where we're from.

...Really.

[ Rafe stops in his tracks, because there is no way he'd have expected Nate to be glad. Not after what Nate's put him through on the road to Avery, not after finally hearing what dear old Samuel had been up to the past two years.

A considering huh. Something is going on that he can't put his finger on, that he can't figure out, and not the same way he still sometimes lagged behind either of the Drakes when faced with clues that didn't add up. No, this isn't that beautiful mind bullshit routine that had him both admiring real brains at work and wanting to strangle somebody. ]

A whole month. [ Is there an echo in here or is it just him. ] I hate to overuse a word — you know me, Nate — but the word interesting just seems to keep popping up.

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