[ It doesn't take Amos long to decide the others from the van aren't a threat. They're confused and scared and some of them are pissed off, but it isn't at him, and the noise at the open end of the alley has most of them occupied.
He fucked up, clearly. Between that mistake and the disorientation that's keeping him sluggish, the woman gets her hands on his scrubs and throws her weight into dragging him back into the alley. His hands come up quickly, and he makes a choice — tries to get a grip on her arms, her wrists. It isn't gentle, but it's gentler than the alternative of trying to get leverage on her thin neck.
Whatever he's planning next doesn't happen. Amos freezes up, neutral expression cracking as the emotions crash through the link, and for a second he isn't here — he's on Tycho Station, a kid yelling, back in Baltimore. And for a second, she'll feel the empathy link without interference, like an echo chamber that grows quickly and jaggedly dimmer; trying to cut it up, make it make sense, make it less.
Then the brakes hit, hard. The dim blue glow at his chest flares up and ice floods back across the link and snuffs it all out, the fear and the anger and the hate; it's probably about as pleasant as going through a windshield, but on the other side there's nothing. The feedback loop goes dead and Amos's grip on her arms becomes fractionally less intense, but his expression hasn't lost its edge, and he isn't letting go.
She doesn't know what happened. Even after that, her question registers, but that doesn't make his question any less accusatory than her threat. ]
arrival
He fucked up, clearly. Between that mistake and the disorientation that's keeping him sluggish, the woman gets her hands on his scrubs and throws her weight into dragging him back into the alley. His hands come up quickly, and he makes a choice — tries to get a grip on her arms, her wrists. It isn't gentle, but it's gentler than the alternative of trying to get leverage on her thin neck.
Whatever he's planning next doesn't happen. Amos freezes up, neutral expression cracking as the emotions crash through the link, and for a second he isn't here — he's on Tycho Station, a kid yelling, back in Baltimore. And for a second, she'll feel the empathy link without interference, like an echo chamber that grows quickly and jaggedly dimmer; trying to cut it up, make it make sense, make it less.
Then the brakes hit, hard. The dim blue glow at his chest flares up and ice floods back across the link and snuffs it all out, the fear and the anger and the hate; it's probably about as pleasant as going through a windshield, but on the other side there's nothing. The feedback loop goes dead and Amos's grip on her arms becomes fractionally less intense, but his expression hasn't lost its edge, and he isn't letting go.
She doesn't know what happened. Even after that, her question registers, but that doesn't make his question any less accusatory than her threat. ]
What the hell was that?