10-07-2016, 01:47 PM
Healed. He felt as if he had been hit in the head. In all his ruminations, his research and projections and extrapolations- the Tau matrices, the knot equations- all of it, it had simply never occurred to him that the Force could be used for healing. It was like a revelation. So blindingly obvious that he felt stupid for not realizing it.
Ignoring the man's question for the moment, he looked at his hands, touching the covering tentatively, then ripping them off and staring at the smooth unblemished skin on his arms. The gauze against his face was irritating and he removed that too. He felt as if he was a snake, shedding his skin, seeing fresh new underneath. He ran his hand along his arm in wonder, and looked again at the man with the officer, curiosity and wonder for once plain.
And he wanted to know. How. How had he been healed. He needed to see the weaves and threads. It was like a hunger in him. He wanted to see them, to write them down, play with them and take them apart and understand. The potential here was truly limitless. This was power on a level he'd never experienced before. Not in amount, he guessed. It wasn't brute force. This was deftness and complexity to a degree he didn't think possible. It intrigued him. The potential benefits...could it be possible? Was immortality achievable this way? At the very least, it was a tool that he wanted. He had to have it.
The man who had it, though, was soft. He was emotional, the sympathy plain on the man's face. Vaguely familiar, that face. He squinted, thoughts running through his mind. The voice more than the face. Voices had always been something he noticed and remembered. Perhaps it was because the way the voice gave away emotion, the way he'd had to learn to listen to the way people spoke, to listen for the danger that even a blank face or smile could hide. The voice though, the voice was the truth.
A feeling kept manifesting in his mind, vague and insubstantial, but he followed that feeling, a thread really, followed it and dissected it until it grew more concrete, specific. Gradually it coalesced and finally, he saw the man's voice. It was coming from a monitor. He was lying on the floor of Mr. VanPatton's house, on the green threadbare rug, the cloying smell of Mrs. VanPatton's perfume filling the house, so bad he could even taste it. They had been enthroned in the light blue and sea green slashed couch, overflowing with lacy pillows. Ceramic knick knacks had covered the shiny dark brown of the table. He remembered the cat one in particular. Yes he remembered. Lying on the floor crying, tasting the snot running from his nose, feeling the pain, and the volume is being turned up, to drown out his sobs. That voice. The Preacher.
"You're Jensen James,"
he said, feeling surprised. It didn't make any sense. And yet somehow it made perfect sense. Of all the hypocritical daytime preachers and sham televangelists he had been forced to watch, somehow it turned out that at least one of them really could heal. But with the Force. The empathy and concern on the man's face was clear. He thought he was doing God's work. That was a simple mentat projection. Marcus wanted what he had. Wanted to learn. Needed to learn it.
He softened his face. "Sorry. I just remember I used to watch you on TV in the foster home. My adopted family loved you. We all did. Those are some of my most cherished memories."
He smiled. "Yes. I was with the Ascendancy when...it happened."
He had to be guarded here. He had no idea what the official story was. He swallowed and earnestly went on. "Thank you for...healing"
- he let awe and wonder enter his voice- "me. I am in your debt."
I have to learn this. I have to.
Ignoring the man's question for the moment, he looked at his hands, touching the covering tentatively, then ripping them off and staring at the smooth unblemished skin on his arms. The gauze against his face was irritating and he removed that too. He felt as if he was a snake, shedding his skin, seeing fresh new underneath. He ran his hand along his arm in wonder, and looked again at the man with the officer, curiosity and wonder for once plain.
And he wanted to know. How. How had he been healed. He needed to see the weaves and threads. It was like a hunger in him. He wanted to see them, to write them down, play with them and take them apart and understand. The potential here was truly limitless. This was power on a level he'd never experienced before. Not in amount, he guessed. It wasn't brute force. This was deftness and complexity to a degree he didn't think possible. It intrigued him. The potential benefits...could it be possible? Was immortality achievable this way? At the very least, it was a tool that he wanted. He had to have it.
The man who had it, though, was soft. He was emotional, the sympathy plain on the man's face. Vaguely familiar, that face. He squinted, thoughts running through his mind. The voice more than the face. Voices had always been something he noticed and remembered. Perhaps it was because the way the voice gave away emotion, the way he'd had to learn to listen to the way people spoke, to listen for the danger that even a blank face or smile could hide. The voice though, the voice was the truth.
A feeling kept manifesting in his mind, vague and insubstantial, but he followed that feeling, a thread really, followed it and dissected it until it grew more concrete, specific. Gradually it coalesced and finally, he saw the man's voice. It was coming from a monitor. He was lying on the floor of Mr. VanPatton's house, on the green threadbare rug, the cloying smell of Mrs. VanPatton's perfume filling the house, so bad he could even taste it. They had been enthroned in the light blue and sea green slashed couch, overflowing with lacy pillows. Ceramic knick knacks had covered the shiny dark brown of the table. He remembered the cat one in particular. Yes he remembered. Lying on the floor crying, tasting the snot running from his nose, feeling the pain, and the volume is being turned up, to drown out his sobs. That voice. The Preacher.
"You're Jensen James,"
he said, feeling surprised. It didn't make any sense. And yet somehow it made perfect sense. Of all the hypocritical daytime preachers and sham televangelists he had been forced to watch, somehow it turned out that at least one of them really could heal. But with the Force. The empathy and concern on the man's face was clear. He thought he was doing God's work. That was a simple mentat projection. Marcus wanted what he had. Wanted to learn. Needed to learn it.
He softened his face. "Sorry. I just remember I used to watch you on TV in the foster home. My adopted family loved you. We all did. Those are some of my most cherished memories."
He smiled. "Yes. I was with the Ascendancy when...it happened."
He had to be guarded here. He had no idea what the official story was. He swallowed and earnestly went on. "Thank you for...healing"
- he let awe and wonder enter his voice- "me. I am in your debt."
I have to learn this. I have to.