Chapter Ten: Ian

There was a kitchen. There was a sink and a chrome refrigerator and a little island table with wooden country chairs where two men and an older woman sat at, eating baked ziti. Without a moment to lose, the lightbulb that hung from the ceiling flashed just a bit brighter, let out a little shower of sparks, then faded completely to absolute darkness, as the lights from the other rooms and the street outside had gone out as well.

The two men and the woman didn't seem surprised at this, and they all snapped their fingers, lighting the room with three small flames until the one man could find the candles.

Ian woke, although it wasn't so much waking as regaining a small part of his consciousness. He only squinted his eyes and tilted his head to look at the numbers from the alarm clock.

He thought, just barely, Good, the electricity's still on.

After he let his eyes close again, there was a row of a few dozen people on top of a building, over what looked to be a city. They smiled, and looked anxiously at each other, and at the exact same time, they brought their hands up, then slapped them together in a clap.

At the same time, the pillar of lightning over the city flashed before Ian's eyes and the colossal and deafening thunder roared through his head.

Ian grabbed his ears and desperately kept his eyes open. His breath and heart were competing at a thousand miles an hour. He tried to breath and loosen his hands from his head, but they continued to tremble.

So it's started, he thought.

Indeed, it was 3:42 in the morning, although he knew that in Seattle- no, "The Kinetic State of Seattle," it was 7:42 at night, and through the New York Convention, any type of warfare would not be encouraged, but accepted just twelve minutes ago.

The thunder boomed again, making Ian nearly fall off his bed and shake uncontrollably. He got himself up, took several deep breaths, and stumbled toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

Again, he made the mistake of blinking at the wrong time.

Instead of seeing his ceiling and dresser coated with dirty clothes, he saw palm trees higher than buildings, crystallized like the frozen ground beneath them. Above the woman and boy who had their hands spread across the ice, there was a dark tower, like a building or a cinderblock at least twenty stories high leaning ominously towards them. And next to the tower, there was a taller figure with his fingers set like he was pushing an invisible object, with a wicked smile on his face.

He opened his eyes just before the crash, but still, he heard it, and the collection of heart-breaking shrieks that accompanied it. He leaned against the frame of his door for a second, not capable of stopping himself from remembering what region that one was of: Manila.

Ian drove on, instead going down the opposite direction of the hall, forcefully slowing his breath down. His legs didn't cooperate, but he kept a hand on each wall to keep himself from falling over. Every so often, he cringed, but still held his eyes open until they watered. Each blink gave another scene, another part of the world where people were fighting.

In Cuba, there were walls of water threatening over every household, although they seemed to be the kindest and gave the families a chance to flee before their homes were destroyed. In Brasilia, there were lines of men and women that walked in step through the streets and seemed to multiply ever so often, with the same proud looks on their faces and the blue badges of the Brazilian Commonwealth of Self-Replicates on their shoulders.

The back door opened to a serene landscape, where there was a cool, welcomed breeze on Ian's damp face. There were the sounds of the night, with little insects and the wind brushing the trees around. There were there streetlights too, from behind him, but they did little in the dead and peaceful time of the night.

He took a deep breath, this time closing his eyes forcefully to see his parents and Elizabeth silent and asleep in their bedrooms, as they should be. It wasn't affecting them, was it? London wasn't in a conflict between any governments, an advantage of being an island with a terrible climate. The biggest war they were to encounter was probably with the neighbors over who owned the fountain in the middle of Queen's Park.

The visions of their bedrooms were melted away with a cluster of Russians holding their heads and screaming while few others watched atop a hill.

Ian went more quickly to a great and old oak tree that had various carvings of misspelled words and tic-tac-toe boards. From inside the knot, he withdrew a pipe and a lighter. He didn't care what he was smoking; as long as he could stop himself to calm down.

"Who's there?"

Michael rubbed his eyes, stepping through the hall into the sitting room. It was far too early for either of his children to be awake. Elizabeth usually woke at seven on school days and Ian... around five minutes prior to the first bell. To be quarter past six and to be hearing the voice of Gene Wilder coming from the sitting room was on the verge of a dream.

What he saw was Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory displayed on the far wall. What he didn't expect was Ian sitting on the sofa with his knees propped up to his chest, a bottle of eye drops in one hand, while the other was having its nails bitten off. Ever so often, he gave a giggle or hearty laugh even when nothing of comical value was coming from a movie.

"It's great, Dad," he said with a fixed gaze on the screen. "Bombs? Nuclear warfare? Nonexistent. But psychological warfare is the key. Make a whole town of Indians relive their worst memories and they'll give up all the land you want. And this-" He motioned to the screen with the bottle of eye drops before giving each eye a drop each. "This Veruca Salt. What a bitch. Damn, I love this movie."

Michael was speechless. He started to shudder himself, seeing Ian shake so uncontrollably.

"How... long have you been awake?" was the first thing he thought to ask.

Ian licked his lips. "I think about seven hours. Since quarter to four. What time is it? About noon?"

"It's nearly six in the morning," Michael glanced at the clock, confirming his statement, and then glanced at the window, which was still dark. "Ian, have you taken your medication?"

"Yeah. Smoked all of it."

"I meant your pills. Your prescribed medication. Ian, you need to relax. Control yourself and your ability." Michael neared the sofa, leaning in to look at Ian's bloodshot eyes, unblinking.

Ian flinched as his father got a closer and closer look at him, blinking again for a split second. He only opened his eyes wider, and put another drop in each. "I've called Dr. Yamrus. He said he'd be around later today with a refill. It seems all chemists in London have been robbed. Isn't that curious?" he laughed.

Michael stood back up straight. "Well, then. You should stay home from school and wait for him." He couldn't really think of anything else to say, except, "Will you be fine on your own?"

This time, on the screen, Charlie's grandfather was swimming through bubbles in the air, and Ian gave a full laugh as was intended at this moment. He followed it with a drop in each eye.

As his father left, Ian followed with, "Yeah. Yeah, Dad. I should be fine." The smile seemed to be plastered on his face.

Ian whistled and smiled as the birds whistled with him. The clock read four in the afternoon, but as far as he was concerned, it had been a week, not twelve hours into the war. He blinked freely, and he still saw massive earthquakes, tsunamis, tornadoes, forest fires, plagues of complete darkness, armies slapping high fives, little children over their dead parents, and many other similar events that had occurred in the last twelve hours. Frankly, at this point, he didn't give a damn.

Instead, he whistled. He walked up to the great oak, reading all the little writings that he and his childhood friends had made. He spread his arms around it as far as they could, giving the tree a big hug and kiss. He took some rope from under his arm and threw it over the lowest branch three times. He jumped and tugged on the rope to make sure it would hold well.

Ian took off his shoes. He climbed the tree, pulling himself up to the lowest branch. He pulled up the rope, placed the loop of the rope around his head, and jumped from the edge.

The branch bounded and leaned with the extra weight. Ian remembered that hanging was not the most effective method of suicide, but the wind made his eyes dry faster and the extra blinking reminded him that a long death was better than no death at all. Plus, the tree. The tree was a happy tree. It smiled at him and he tried to smile back at it.

People screamed and people clashed in combat. Fire dominated the mountain. Pounding hearts and breaths. Sweat. Tears. So much crying, so many tears. Smiles. Victory. Cheers. Death.

For a moment, through blurred vision, Ian saw someone running down a bright and sunny hill. Lots of hair. Long hair.

"Ian! Ian!"

He closed his eyes.

He coughed.

This was followed with the remembrance that coughing required the use of air through the mouth. He coughed again.

He was on the ground, with the grass tickling his head. Elizabeth's hair was in his face as she hugged him, and she was crying. It made him cry too, and as he wiped his eyes, he only saw the backs of his eyelids.

Ian smiled and cried more, crawling away from his sister to his grandmother. She cried as well, and cried harder once Ian gave her the tightest hug.

"Is it you, G-grandmama?" asked Ian in a feeble voice. His head was cool and clear, feeling only pure happiness.

Mei nodded, grasping her grandson. Her tears continued to run down her face, and she smiled, for once believing that there was someone greater than Elizabeth that allowed her to get there in time.

"Th-thank you," Ian gasped, sobbing.

The figure cracked the smallest of smirks and disappeared from the shadows of the trees.