m. f. luder (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bigfootfetish) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ximilia2023-04-01 09:36 pm
bigfootfetish) wrote in ximilia2023-04-01 09:36 pm
text. un: knicksfan1961
[ In 1999, usernames describing interests are king and web 2.0 has yet to be dreamt of. This looks like a place to keep a weblog, and Mulder's not opposed to the possibilities. ]
Since childhood, I've dreamt of space. Who among us didn't, raised as we were? We grew up in the shadow of JFK's promise to take America to the moon, watching Neil Armstrong's fateful steps on minuscule TV screens, sitting in sweltering living rooms and imagining we were the ones clambering out of Apollo 11. That it might have been faked by Stanley Kubrick is beyond the point; we were kids, and we believed.
I've taken a giant leap for a man, let alone mankind, waking up in what appears to be a space station and not a sound-stage built by the Walt Disney Company. I see no flaws as of yet, no flies in the ointment. And yet I confess that I'm suspicious.
My concerns are several, key among them the possibility that I'm actually dying in a cave somewhere under the surface of North Carolina. That this is a distraction from the real work I intend to do, lunatic hallucinations designed to keep me from escaping my fate - but if my mind doesn't deceive me, this could be the case I've waited for. There's no denying that the bargain I've (allegedly) made is a strange one, threatening the fabric of time and space. And yet it feels almost reasonable: if I can be stolen from a hospital bed to the furthest reaches of the universe, why can't I intercede in events that have already happened?
(Merely existing here, witnessing technology beyond any I've seen in my dealings with Cancer Man or his shadowy colleagues, already continues work I've chased for years. I want to know more.)
I'm keeping a careful eye out for anomalies in my perceptions, anything that might lend credence to my null-hypothesis (digestion by way of fungi). I'm also on the search for a functional television and VCR; among other things, I've arrived with a handful of videotapes, but I have no way of watching them.
Since childhood, I've dreamt of space. Who among us didn't, raised as we were? We grew up in the shadow of JFK's promise to take America to the moon, watching Neil Armstrong's fateful steps on minuscule TV screens, sitting in sweltering living rooms and imagining we were the ones clambering out of Apollo 11. That it might have been faked by Stanley Kubrick is beyond the point; we were kids, and we believed.
I've taken a giant leap for a man, let alone mankind, waking up in what appears to be a space station and not a sound-stage built by the Walt Disney Company. I see no flaws as of yet, no flies in the ointment. And yet I confess that I'm suspicious.
My concerns are several, key among them the possibility that I'm actually dying in a cave somewhere under the surface of North Carolina. That this is a distraction from the real work I intend to do, lunatic hallucinations designed to keep me from escaping my fate - but if my mind doesn't deceive me, this could be the case I've waited for. There's no denying that the bargain I've (allegedly) made is a strange one, threatening the fabric of time and space. And yet it feels almost reasonable: if I can be stolen from a hospital bed to the furthest reaches of the universe, why can't I intercede in events that have already happened?
(Merely existing here, witnessing technology beyond any I've seen in my dealings with Cancer Man or his shadowy colleagues, already continues work I've chased for years. I want to know more.)
I'm keeping a careful eye out for anomalies in my perceptions, anything that might lend credence to my null-hypothesis (digestion by way of fungi). I'm also on the search for a functional television and VCR; among other things, I've arrived with a handful of videotapes, but I have no way of watching them.
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[ Except maybe that someone saw them at the batting cages. Which is a troubling thought. ]
Last time we spoke you weren't up to bantering. What did I miss?
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Look, we're both here, and this connection clearly isn't secure. Where can I find you?
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There's a common room, in the southwest wing of the station.
[ It's not like she can effectively hide, here, from whoever has brought them; so she doesn't say anything more, but she'll be there. Sitting at a small table with her hands folded in front of her, in a way that would probably read as calm and unruffled if you didn't know her well. ]
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[ And he is, dressed like he's ready for a hike in the woods rather than a day of interviewing witnesses. If he was recently doused in hydrochloric acid, he doesn't look like it. Handsome, mostly sane, mildly concerned Fox Mulder, walking into the common room like he's steeling himself for the possibility that he's actually alone. Which probably just looks like walking into the room, for anyone who isn't - ]
Scully?
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Swallowing hard, she-- well, she almost stands up and runs over, but if this isn't real she isn't going to give whoever's done it the satisfaction. But she can't keep it off her face, the complicated tangle of relief and hope and fear; the way her knuckles whiten as her fingers tense. ]
Mulder??
[ He looks-- okay. He can't possibly be okay, can he?
She doesn't look particularly put together; her hair's a wavy wreck, her rumpled linen shirt and tank top are both the worse for wear, marked with sweat and streaks of sand and soil; her capri pants would never pass the FBI dresscode.
Awkwardly, she stands up, but she doesn't move; she can't let herself get her hopes up. Maybe he'll disappear. Maybe he's not here at all-- maybe she's still in North Carolina, and he's going to dissolve away. ]
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He knows that look, or thinks he does. Scully wants to believe, but she won't, or can't. Mulder's seen doubt in her eyes so often that he can't miss it, even when it's trained on him. ]
Okay, tell me the truth. [ He's crossing the room in long strides. If Mohammad won't come to the mountain... ] It was the triple-X bill that convinced you, wasn't it?
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If it's really Mulder-- if any of this is happening-- he won't mention a few stray tears on his shirt. ]
Are you really-- Mulder, what happened?
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He can't quite remember, one way or another. He'd believed them, sure, but had he truly sensed anything? Or had his brain simply forgotten to notice that there were no smells in the air, no real heft to his service weapon? ]
Mutual abduction?
[ Something's happening, that's obvious by the way she buries her face in his chest. This isn't the Scully who'd lain next to him in the back of an ambulance, her dirty fingers wrapped around his. Sure, they'd almost died out there. Sure, it was one of their more ignoble brushes with eternity - what kind of madman would die in the Carolinas, given the choice? - but they'd both lived. Probably. It's not the kind of thing that leaves either of them broken up for long. ]
C'mon, Scully, what's wrong?
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But everything else tells her-- this must be real. The heat of his body, the familiar scent of him, the way he hangs on to her. These things would be so much harder to counterfeit, wouldn't they?
(Or is it wishful thinking-- the echo of memory? Perhaps the only one fooling her is herself.)
She pulls back with a delicate sniff, her hand still bunched in his sleeve. ]
You were in the hospital when I left-- they said you were unpredictable. Getting worse.
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[ He's still stuck on being digested - which, in fairness, he thinks is a fair thing to be stuck on. With his free hand, the one that isn't attached to an arm Scully's got hold of, he brushes back a few soft strands of hair behind her ear.
There's something more - there has to be. This is more upset than he's seen her in a while. Since the time slip in the Bermuda Triangle, maybe? ]
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[ Considering the state he was in, a bit of amnesia would be the least of his worries. He's talking and walking and not screaming and hasn't collapsed once, or claimed to hear voices. What that means, she isn't sure. ]
That was months ago. Mulder, there was this artifact-- I don't understand the effect it had on you, not yet. You were delirious. Having violent outbursts.
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Violent outbursts? I'd have to be delirious. [ Which is to say, yep, he doesn't remember anything past the Schiffs. ] What kind of artifact are we talking about?
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[ One that is, essentially, sitting in her assigned quarters right now; there's every reason to think the rubbings she collected in Africa would have the same properties as the ones that triggered Mulder's condition. Which is not a thought she likes. She could show him, and she definitely, absolutely should not show him. ]
I had to leave you there-- you weren't in any condition to travel. I was trying to find answers, and then.... I woke up here.
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[ He doesn't even know he should want to see some pencil rubbings, and he still wants to. Because even without the details, even without knowing just what it is she investigated without him - ]
This sounds big, Scully. You wouldn't investigate a total fraud, I know you.
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[ It's a calculated admission; whoever brought her here must know where they brought her from, but she doesn't want to give up too much detail. ]
I don't know what it is-- whether it's real or not-- but it's big, you're not wrong. But-- I just don't understand how you're okay.
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[ Nowhere near where they were, not even close to the things he'd had in mind for after they solved the Schiff case. His hand's landed at her shoulder, the solidity of her frame beneath it reassuring; if he's touching her, she's real. ]
The obvious answer is time travel. Now, unless I've developed amnesia - and from what you've said about my mental state, it's entirely possible - I'm a few months behind you. But they're pulling people into this space station from decades past our time. What's a season?
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[ Which is oddly reassuring-- another point in favor of this being actually Mulder, or at least not being someone trying to pretend to be Mulder. The possibility that she's having a psychotic break remains unresolved. ]
There are people claiming to be from other planets. I guess time travel is one of the less unreasonable things they're asking us to swallow. But-- Mulder, I don't know what any of it means. But I don't know what will happen if I just leave you there.
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[ He starts guiding them over to a sleek, spacey-looking couch, aware on some level that just standing here probably makes everything feel worse. ]
What exactly is happening to me? Maybe we can catch it before it happens. We have foreknowledge on our side here.
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[ Her tone and expression are grim. She lets herself be led, trying not to think about how sure she'd been that he'd never guide her this way again, that he was going to waste away in that padded room. ]
You were hospitalized after collapsing. I was following a lead, by the time I got back I couldn't even get in to speak to you.
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[ If he's anything right now, he's curious. He can't be anything else, in the face of the madness she's describing. What's he supposed to do, succumb to despair in the face of his own burgeoning schizophrenia? Fixate on the artifact so you don't think too deeply on what it progressed quickly means, Fox.
Whatever happened, it's still in the future. They can still fight it. ]
You were on to something, weren't you? [ If she weren't, they'd have no reason to keep her away from him. ] Tell me what you found.
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[ A ship. The words, unbelievable as they are, sit on the tip of her tongue. ]
Nothing makes any sense. The letters-- the content-- it's all impossible; even Chuck thought it was a fake. I can't explain why it affects anyone-- or why it only affected you. But I don't know how to stop it.
[ Even forewarned, it's not like she can imagine him turning down the case. ]
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[ He's fascinated, maybe even a little jealous. There's more she isn't saying, or at least he thinks there is - call it an instinct, the result of knowing Scully for years. What's left out, he can't quite say, but something must be. Something that would make getting to the bottom of this tablet's origins a priority, even in the face of insanity.
He kicks his feet onto a coffee table, putting his arms over the back of the couch. It's a silent invitation for her to slouch next to him, one she can easily ignore if she likes. ]
If you can recreate them, maybe we can get to the bottom of it. All the information with none of the insanity-induced telepathy.
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[ Cote D'Ivoire by way of New Mexico. She's just following intuitions and chasing clues; if there's a grand plan, an explanation, she can't see it just yet.
With a sigh, she sinks into the couch beside him. She's too tired and lost for decorum, and she still can't entirely trust he won't vanish if she looks away. ]
"And God blessed them, and God said unto them, be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth."
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[ He doesn't let his arm settle around her shoulders, but it's behind them, and that's close enough. Mulder lets his head tip back until he's looking up at the ceiling, turning the words over in his mind.
For a moment, he lets himself consider the possibility that she's dug up what's left of Moses' copy of the ten commandments - but she'd be quoting Exodus, in that case. ]
Sounds like I'm more allergic to organized religion than I realized.
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[ Kind of a weak joke, as these things go, but she can't blame him. She leans back and lets her eyes fall shut; the sense of his presence is so familiar she's finding it harder to maintain her healthy disbelief that he could be here. And, God, what a relief that he's okay.
All her panic, her need to get home-- well, she still doesn't love the idea of being lost in space, but it's infinitely more complicated when the person she wants to save is better off here than in reality. ]
There are other fragments-- Albert Hosteen was doing the translations.
[ That, she figures, ought to clarify part of what's so strange about it; found in Africa, written in Navajo, inscribed with Biblical verse and genetic maps. ]
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