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.
no subject
[ Gently, with some humor. If he isn't real to her, he isn't real to anyone. To himself, sure, but outside of his own head, it's Scully's opinion that matters. She makes the difference to everyone around them.
(And to him. Having her here makes him more grounded, so inherently that he hardly notices.) ]
I'm going to play along and try to find out who we're really helping. [ When you think about it, if you're an edgy man in your late thirties, that's what they do every single day. Work for the people, but also for the government, and hope the nameless men in the shadows aren't the ones who benefit most from their effort. ] Unless you can think of another way we can learn more, I think we're going to have to.
no subject
She lets her head tip onto his shoulder. ]
I don't have a better suggestion.
no subject
[ Nothing's hopeless with Scully's head resting against his shoulder. He tilts his toward her, cheek against her hair. ]
Looks like we're interstellar field agents now. Think that comes with a badge update? Because that's the one thing your subconscious forgot to pack for me.
no subject
They ground each other. That's a fact in any universe. ]
We'll have to find some crayons to make you a new one. For all the good it does.