It's the second time now that he's lost a long period of time, and Neal isn't exactly sure how to deal with that. He's not someone who drinks until he blacks out...well, not anymore. (Those days are long gone, gone like his history in Ireland and his past lives and loves, and it's not something he looks back on with a particular fondness.) He's not someone who forgets things. He's always prided himself on a mind that stays active and alive, always working on the next big puzzle or complication, not someone who just forgets. There is work piled up on the desk. There are emails that have gone unanswered. He's tried to figure out what has happened for the last few weeks without anything really giving him an answer.

That is, until he finds a note. In his own handwriting, on nicer stationary that he wasn't even sure he owned. The note is placed in a white envelope, with calligraphy on the front -- and when did he learn calligraphy? Since when did he care enough about his handwriting to actually take the time to learn what is very much a dying art? He's not an aristocrat. He's not royalty. What's the point in knowing it? The note has been left on his home office desk; a place he hadn't thought to look for clues until now. Pulling out a chair, he takes a seat as he carefully opens the letter. As if the letter might have something horrible in it.

For all he knew, it might. He couldn't be sure. Still, he opened it up, and read it, his hand moving over his lips as he did so.

Neal -

I do find it rather strange that I find myself writing a letter to you, considering we are the same person. But I must insist that you try your best to understand the situation that we both find ourselves in. I am no more pleased at this situation than you must be, and it's come to my understanding that you perhaps may not remember everything that has transpired this week. Perhaps that is for the best, but I can promise you that nothing horrible has happened to you. You have not done any actions that you may come to regret. I may have told a small lie to a mutual acquaintance of ours, but it is more to protect her than anything else. I assume that this will be acceptable to you.

I imagine that you are curious as to what is going on, and I plan on figuring that out. It does not appear that we have any allies here, no one to truly speak to, and it is now my goal to find those we can reach out to and align ourselves with. For now, know that I am not you, not completely. My name is Victor. I am a variety of things to various people. A ruler. A tyrant. A scientist. A rival. A villain. A god. It appears that things have changed drastically since I last remember my own world, though I do know this isn't my universe. My world. I was once the ruler of all worlds, where the only real flaw...was myself. I know the signs, I know the tells. This isn't my world, it is yours. I am determined to figure out why I am here, and to get to the bottom of it.

For now, know that I am just going to make sure that nothing happens to you. As what happens to me, will happen to you, and for now I am trying to keep my distance. Perhaps telling a lie is the smartest thing that I have done as of late, but that is yet to be seen.

I will write again when I know more. I will say, there is an amusement to the true meaning of your last name. Even in another language, it seems as though perhaps we were destined to be stuck like this. At least, for now.

Sincerely,
Victor

Neal's brows furrow in confusion as he sets the letter down and rubs at his chin a few times. Whomever wrote this note was articulate, seemed to be intelligent, and had a larger understanding of what was going on, and yet was a master of not really giving any answers at all.

It's the last line about Neal's last name that gives him pause. Seirbigh, knowing fully what it means in Irish, as he had been teased about it all his life. Doom, something his family tried to play off, as if their ancestors did not know what they were doing when they chose the name. Neal was never truly convinced one way or the other.

He pulls out his laptop though, and as it blinks to life, he thinks for a moment about what he is doing. He directs himself to Google, and types in "Victor, Doom, Calligraphy" as if those three keywords can give him any clue.

What comes up is a hit on a comic character named Victor von Doom, and Neal just rolls his eyes and laughs. He decides that he was just too drunk and played a trick on himself. Or he paid someone else to do it, as he can't really remember writing the letter. He ignores all the red flags that shoot up when he thinks of this, and he shuts his laptop down, opting to head into the office to finally catch up on work.

The letter stays on the desk as he leaves, though. A reminder that maybe, he's going a little crazy from all the work. Maybe he needs a vacation. Yeah, that has to be it.