[Injuries. Jumbled memories. A general sense of "what the hell?" It's like a bullet point summary of Jack's (albeit short) life in Wayward Pines to date, down to the sense of helpless confusion. If Jack didn't know any better, he'd say this dude was reading his mind.]
No kidding? That's exactly what happened to me and my--
[So animated is he gesturing his surprise with his hands that he accidentally sends the spoon flying out of its gelatinous prison and onto the ground. He looks down at it like he half forgot it was there.]
Er, never mind that, there's more where that came from. [Hopefully they don't hand out citations for littering around here. Attention returning to Rohan, he picks up where he left off.] Me and this guy I think I grew up with, that is. Neither of us remember things clearly from before the hospital, and he's in bad shape, too. So maybe? Must've been a hell of a freak thing for it to happen to all of us.
[His thoughts skip back to the bloody clothes hanging in the closet, and the journal tucked in with his belongings. Passages written in his hand fleshing out a strange, unsettled childhood where the word "war" reoccurs again and again, those few short letters packed with hidden meaning he can only just scratch the surface of. Like the word "accident." Simple words, but there's history behind them he can't get at.
What's happening in the present day refuses to be pinned down with equal stubbornness--like what's up with the town rules.]
no subject
No kidding? That's exactly what happened to me and my--
[So animated is he gesturing his surprise with his hands that he accidentally sends the spoon flying out of its gelatinous prison and onto the ground. He looks down at it like he half forgot it was there.]
Er, never mind that, there's more where that came from. [Hopefully they don't hand out citations for littering around here. Attention returning to Rohan, he picks up where he left off.] Me and this guy I think I grew up with, that is. Neither of us remember things clearly from before the hospital, and he's in bad shape, too. So maybe? Must've been a hell of a freak thing for it to happen to all of us.
[His thoughts skip back to the bloody clothes hanging in the closet, and the journal tucked in with his belongings. Passages written in his hand fleshing out a strange, unsettled childhood where the word "war" reoccurs again and again, those few short letters packed with hidden meaning he can only just scratch the surface of. Like the word "accident." Simple words, but there's history behind them he can't get at.
What's happening in the present day refuses to be pinned down with equal stubbornness--like what's up with the town rules.]
You don't... remember Wayward Pines, either?