[ Two years. Two years of a life like this one, running and clamoring over buildings until your feet give out. Two years of staring at the face of something unfathomable. There wasn't any part of Nathan's life he didn't know how to name — accounted for every spell, every casting, every decision. Every part of himself he carved away to make room for magic, to steal and hurt and lie, at least Nathan had known. Two years, but he'd known.
People band together in times of tragedy. Maybe, for Ian's world, it was like this one. People willing to fight less, to share exhausted smiles, shrug and smile and try to point towards some goal together.
Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was crueler, not kinder. Maybe Ian had to joke around about things that didn't exist anymore just to keep them alive, in-spirit, because the alternative was worse.
Nathan doesn't know if this is it. Some half-hearted fake zombie walk and a sports bar and an adjustment to insect protein, and then this: monsters, alien parasites. The real, true reality behind the curtain. (The quick look Ian had given him, in the mouth of that alleyway. The little way he'd said, Just in case we die—) There have been other cities destroyed, and Nathan isn't blind to the way the streets look. Mercenaries, politicians, people trying to band together in different locations and different names. Whatever's coming out the other end of this, it isn't going to be easy, blue glows or not. But at least most of them will be alive, maybe. ]
It doesn't sound ridiculous.
[ Nathan says. He fixes Ian with a steady look and Ian looks back, and it's not satisfaction he feels so much as it is that surefire knowledge that he isn't lying.
It's hard to look at, when someone tells you the whole truth. Half the time, it's because there's something in it that speaks to you, too.
Nathan hesitates. It shows in the way he stares down at his hands, at where he's holding onto his own wrist, trying to soothe away the dull ache of an old injury with his head gently bowed. For a little while, it seems like maybe he's run out of things to say. That he's listened, and he's holding onto this story, the misery Ian's telling. And that'll be it.
Instead, Nathan glances back up. His expression softens. ]
What're you so scared of?
[ Is it rebuilding? Is it as simple as the fear that this is it— that it's a life full of more running, more loss? Is it failing somebody, is it death, is it dying— what is it?
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People band together in times of tragedy. Maybe, for Ian's world, it was like this one. People willing to fight less, to share exhausted smiles, shrug and smile and try to point towards some goal together.
Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was crueler, not kinder. Maybe Ian had to joke around about things that didn't exist anymore just to keep them alive, in-spirit, because the alternative was worse.
Nathan doesn't know if this is it. Some half-hearted fake zombie walk and a sports bar and an adjustment to insect protein, and then this: monsters, alien parasites. The real, true reality behind the curtain. (The quick look Ian had given him, in the mouth of that alleyway. The little way he'd said, Just in case we die—) There have been other cities destroyed, and Nathan isn't blind to the way the streets look. Mercenaries, politicians, people trying to band together in different locations and different names. Whatever's coming out the other end of this, it isn't going to be easy, blue glows or not. But at least most of them will be alive, maybe. ]
It doesn't sound ridiculous.
[ Nathan says. He fixes Ian with a steady look and Ian looks back, and it's not satisfaction he feels so much as it is that surefire knowledge that he isn't lying.
It's hard to look at, when someone tells you the whole truth. Half the time, it's because there's something in it that speaks to you, too.
Nathan hesitates. It shows in the way he stares down at his hands, at where he's holding onto his own wrist, trying to soothe away the dull ache of an old injury with his head gently bowed. For a little while, it seems like maybe he's run out of things to say. That he's listened, and he's holding onto this story, the misery Ian's telling. And that'll be it.
Instead, Nathan glances back up. His expression softens. ]
What're you so scared of?
[ Is it rebuilding? Is it as simple as the fear that this is it— that it's a life full of more running, more loss? Is it failing somebody, is it death, is it dying— what is it?
His world was ruined. Maybe this one is too.
But what the hell happened to this guy? ]