Any other time—any other man, Jack would gut him. For daring to allege, to impersonate his Jack…except he’s impersonating him personally. 2007 Cardiff, not 1941.
This man calling himself Jack—this man with the eyes he can’t forget.
The rain stops. The world goes still, and the air is ice cold.
Jack has to stop and think for a long moment. He has to be sure, because he’s lost so much to madness and time, to slow torture and more years than any human man was meant to carry in his head.
He has to make sure he’s remembering the right name, so when he says it out loud it’s slow, careful, deliberate. It’s discovery and denouncement, a certainty he’s wrong and that hope, that scrap of hope that kept him from oblivion screaming that maybe he’s right.
no subject
This man calling himself Jack—this man with the eyes he can’t forget.
The rain stops. The world goes still, and the air is ice cold.
Jack has to stop and think for a long moment. He has to be sure, because he’s lost so much to madness and time, to slow torture and more years than any human man was meant to carry in his head.
He has to make sure he’s remembering the right name, so when he says it out loud it’s slow, careful, deliberate. It’s discovery and denouncement, a certainty he’s wrong and that hope, that scrap of hope that kept him from oblivion screaming that maybe he’s right.
“…Javic Piotr Thane.”