[One thousand three hundred and eleven. That's how many times Joy ran through that particular memory, that's how many events Nick just logged. Words escape him, he's not an especially poetic guy, and this requires someone with a lot more nuance and insight than he has. Joy would be the one he'd need to explain this and she is offline, he made certain.
Hancock, at least, seems to realize what memory Nick's just crashed through several hundred times. It would have been an overwhelming experience with any memory at all, that many repititions, each identical, each distinct and separate. Any computer, even one as advanced as Nick, would have trouble with any file copied and pasted so many times and that experience was not insubstantial.
Despite his feelings of uselessness, Nick absolutely considers Hancock an anchor and the ferocity of his hug is both for himself, to keep from drifting away in that memory, and to provide some consolation to that raw edition of the man he loves. Nick listens, stares off at nothing, and Hancock...he apologizes again. This time, Nick hears it, hears the guilt in it, hears the dedication, and finally, finally he has context for that stubborn, protective streak.]
What?
[Nick draws back reluctantly, keeping his hold on Hancock but shifting to look him in the face. Lamplight eyes focus on Hancock's face and refocus again. Nick's brow dips and he's sure Hancock can hear the gears grinding in his skull. Nick feels--he's not fully sure--the scope of emotion he can experience is doing doubletime but, most of all, he feels the yawning, hollow of bereavement.
Does he want to forget it?]
Do you?
[It's not meant to be contentious, or angry, but that emotion was a crash course in the finer points of emotional turmoil. The instant Nick unlocked it, it shifted the foundations of what and who he is. So...maybe he sounds a little defensive, a little hurt, but it's not his hurt. He is a voyeur of a voyeur, but Nick has to believe that copies matter--he has to.]
no subject
Hancock, at least, seems to realize what memory Nick's just crashed through several hundred times. It would have been an overwhelming experience with any memory at all, that many repititions, each identical, each distinct and separate. Any computer, even one as advanced as Nick, would have trouble with any file copied and pasted so many times and that experience was not insubstantial.
Despite his feelings of uselessness, Nick absolutely considers Hancock an anchor and the ferocity of his hug is both for himself, to keep from drifting away in that memory, and to provide some consolation to that raw edition of the man he loves. Nick listens, stares off at nothing, and Hancock...he apologizes again. This time, Nick hears it, hears the guilt in it, hears the dedication, and finally, finally he has context for that stubborn, protective streak.]
What?
[Nick draws back reluctantly, keeping his hold on Hancock but shifting to look him in the face. Lamplight eyes focus on Hancock's face and refocus again. Nick's brow dips and he's sure Hancock can hear the gears grinding in his skull. Nick feels--he's not fully sure--the scope of emotion he can experience is doing doubletime but, most of all, he feels the yawning, hollow of bereavement.
Does he want to forget it?]
Do you?
[It's not meant to be contentious, or angry, but that emotion was a crash course in the finer points of emotional turmoil. The instant Nick unlocked it, it shifted the foundations of what and who he is. So...maybe he sounds a little defensive, a little hurt, but it's not his hurt. He is a voyeur of a voyeur, but Nick has to believe that copies matter--he has to.]