They were all in their street clothes. Damien wore a thin jacket over a Nike T Shirt, with basketball shorts barely covering his knees. Alex had a white blouse with grey sweats, and Tim wore slacks and a sweater.
"Where do I know you two from?" Damien asked.
Alex shrugged. "I think we were friends." Tim said.
"That would make sense, but why don't I know anything about you?"
"Let me check real quick, because I think I know some stuff." Tim muttered, almost closing his eyes. "You're gay, and you are from Britain." He said, pointing at Damien and Alex sequentially.
"No, i'm gay." Alex said. "At least I think I am." She scratched her head and chuckled. The other boys couldn't help but laughing along with her.
"Does that mean i'm from British?" Damien asked almost to himself, then suddenly became aware for the first time that he had a northern accent. "I guess that answers my question."
There was a moment of silence, and then Alex spoke up. "Anything else? What about... Tim? Is that your name?" Tim nodded.
"Check on our clothes and body, maybe there's some clues there." Alex said.
After a few seconds of picking through his pockets, which had nothing but spare change and a Hastings gift card, he realized that his hands were calloused in a strange manner. Not at the tips of the fingers as if he played an instrument or worked with rope, but on his knuckles and the bottom of his hands.
"Found anything?" Alex said, tying her hair a ponytail. Her search appeared to have produced something, even if it was only a hair tie.
"I think so..." Duncan said. "Check your hands, are there callouses?"
The other two did so. "Yes, I believe so." Tim said. "But when my muscles move, they don't happen to go into any certain patterns or chord formations--"
"Yeah, mine either." Alex said.
"I think we've been fighting." Damien said, trying a punch. It snapped out and hit the wall with a thick Thud.
Tim raised his leg to kick and launched one high above his shoulders. "I believe you're right."
"Uhh, boys? Look at our arms."
Damien, interested as to see what she had found, did so... and saw that there were literally hundreds of dark marks up and down, as if he had been counting something. They were the standard five-per-set fare, with the fifth being a diagonal slash through the previous four. He tried to rub them off, and realized that they would not budge. These were not pencil marks, these were scars.