[ He agrees, and when their hands touch he'll find nothing malicious behind it. Amusement, curiosity, the drive to teach coupled with the drive to learn, maybe just a little bit of trepidation at what he's about to show, but...
It can't all be good.
He closes his eyes, and he finds the things he wants to push through. The memories are told through his eyes, through his perspective, and by virtue of the empathy bond Thomas will also get snatches of emotion as they unfold - not full-fledged feelings, but glimpses that are more like echoes Ian's re-experiencing by remembering. First person camera angle, but with smell and taste and stereo sound.
Sixteen years old, Weaverville California, flying down a hill at the top of town on a bike going way too fucking fast - but the view's nice. A mining down, very rural-america, brick buildings and all things pleasant.
Twenty-two, music festival, a thousand people all jumping at once to the sound of pearl jam, where Ian was admittedly rolling on a shitload of ecstasy - but it was good, and bright, and brilliantly happy.
Thirty-one, and he stands with his hands in his pockets leaning against a wooden desk behind him, a classroom of thirty or so students looking down at him. One student raises their hand to answer a question, it's incorrect, his TA scoffs an absent irreverent, "wrong," without looking up from the papers he's reviewing. He's doing his best not to laugh, and he glosses over it by mildly explaining it in a way that helps make things make more sense.
Thirty-three, standing in the middle of a sidewalk feeling distracted and nothing particularly significant one minute - but a sudden cacaphony of murmurs and then yells drag his attention up to the sky. A ship the size of four city blocks eases down from the clouds so painfully slowly it's almost difficult to tell that it's moving at all. It lands irreverently on buildings and cars and people. Two or three or four or six people shoulder-check him in their frantic fear, their drive to escape the city, but Ian's stunned to stillness with his mind blanked out, disbelief, shock, numb, unable to process it.
Thirty-three, watching from the treeline as what looks like a magnet the size of an apartment building rips an entire store out of the ground, concrete and detritus rain down from it, and it's carried away leaving a vacant hole where it had been.
Thirty-three, and they've been walking for four days straight, and he's exhausted, and a little girl behind him stumbles as he knees give out. He scoops her up despite the fact that his back is fucking killing him, exchanges a silent look with his TA, and they keep walking.
Thirty-four, they're in a small camp made of four or five cabins. There's a fire pit and some crops growing, there's a workshop across the clearing, there are six or eight people with guns milling around while one person cooks under a pavilion probably meant to house cookouts. The new normal.
He peels his hands away, and he studies Thomas's face. ]
no subject
[ He agrees, and when their hands touch he'll find nothing malicious behind it. Amusement, curiosity, the drive to teach coupled with the drive to learn, maybe just a little bit of trepidation at what he's about to show, but...
It can't all be good.
He closes his eyes, and he finds the things he wants to push through. The memories are told through his eyes, through his perspective, and by virtue of the empathy bond Thomas will also get snatches of emotion as they unfold - not full-fledged feelings, but glimpses that are more like echoes Ian's re-experiencing by remembering. First person camera angle, but with smell and taste and stereo sound.
Sixteen years old, Weaverville California, flying down a hill at the top of town on a bike going way too fucking fast - but the view's nice. A mining down, very rural-america, brick buildings and all things pleasant.
Twenty-two, music festival, a thousand people all jumping at once to the sound of pearl jam, where Ian was admittedly rolling on a shitload of ecstasy - but it was good, and bright, and brilliantly happy.
Thirty-one, and he stands with his hands in his pockets leaning against a wooden desk behind him, a classroom of thirty or so students looking down at him. One student raises their hand to answer a question, it's incorrect, his TA scoffs an absent irreverent, "wrong," without looking up from the papers he's reviewing. He's doing his best not to laugh, and he glosses over it by mildly explaining it in a way that helps make things make more sense.
Thirty-three, standing in the middle of a sidewalk feeling distracted and nothing particularly significant one minute - but a sudden cacaphony of murmurs and then yells drag his attention up to the sky. A ship the size of four city blocks eases down from the clouds so painfully slowly it's almost difficult to tell that it's moving at all. It lands irreverently on buildings and cars and people. Two or three or four or six people shoulder-check him in their frantic fear, their drive to escape the city, but Ian's stunned to stillness with his mind blanked out, disbelief, shock, numb, unable to process it.
Thirty-three, watching from the treeline as what looks like a magnet the size of an apartment building rips an entire store out of the ground, concrete and detritus rain down from it, and it's carried away leaving a vacant hole where it had been.
Thirty-three, and they've been walking for four days straight, and he's exhausted, and a little girl behind him stumbles as he knees give out. He scoops her up despite the fact that his back is fucking killing him, exchanges a silent look with his TA, and they keep walking.
Thirty-four, they're in a small camp made of four or five cabins. There's a fire pit and some crops growing, there's a workshop across the clearing, there are six or eight people with guns milling around while one person cooks under a pavilion probably meant to house cookouts. The new normal.
He peels his hands away, and he studies Thomas's face. ]