Title: A Short Lesson in Fraud, Freud, and Survivor's Guilt
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)
Rating: PG
Classification: SA
Distribution: Just ask me.
Spoilers: Requiem
Keywords:
Summary: Aboard an alien ship, Mulder learns several kinds of
truth.
Disclaimer: As everyone knows, Chris Carter own everything,
including the characters which I'm about to borrow. But don't
worry, it doesn't affect the timeline and none of them will
remember a thing by tomorrow.
Author's Notes: Thanks to Aris, as usual for helping with
everything.
* * *
At first there was silence. Real silence, like he'd never
experienced before. It was so quiet he could hear his heart
beating. He didn't know how long the silence lasted. Hours.
Days. Weeks. Maybe even months. Seemed like years to him. It was
then that he learned the meaning of deafening silence. And
still, breaking it was worse than bearing it.
He didn't understand. He'd sleep on the floor of the cell, and
spend the rest of his time lying around. He didn't eat or drink.
His throat was dry and his stomach growled occasionally, but he
didn't feel dehydrated or weak.
The silence ended with the opening of a door in a place where he
didn't expect a door to be. Bodies in big astronaut-like suits
came in and grabbed him by the arms. There was a sting in his
neck, and he blacked out.
When he woke up there was silence again and his whole body
ached. Then it happened again. And again. He'd lost count of how
many times. Sleep turned into moments of unconsciousness, a
means of escaping the pain. His waking moments were spent
tossing and turning on the metal floor, trying to find a
comfortable position. Trying not to go mad.
Just when he became convinced he was going to lose his mind, the
door opened. It wasn't the men in suits. It wasn't a man, at
all. But she was human, or at least seemed that way. "Good
afternoon," she said.
"Is it afternoon?" he tried to say. It came out strange. Rusty,
almost.
"In a few timezones," she replied with a smile. After a short
pause, she continued. "I'm going to be your contact with them,
so I need to verify some things."
"Who's 'them'?"
"The aliens," she said. "You're Fox Mulder?" He nodded. "The UFO
chaser?" He nodded again. "We've heard about you. Even up here."
"Up... here?" Logically, he knew he wasn't on earth. His mind
just hadn't had the time to process it yet. She shrugged.
"Born October 13th, '61? Parents William and Teena?" He nodded
the affirmative to both. "Good." She ran her pale fingers
through short, black hair. "This saves me a lot of digging
through the bureaucracy."
She left and came back later with a tray of food. She leaned
against the wall while he ate. It took him a few minutes to stop
and realize he was eating like a pig. 'Like a dog' was probably
more accurate, on his knees in front of the tray.
"Are there any other humans here?" he asked.
She nodded. "Several."
"Billy Miles? Theresa Hosey?" She nodded. "Was my sister one of
them?"
"No, she wasn't one of them."
She took the tray when he was finished and came back with food
in what soon started to seem like regular intervals. Once in a
while they'd chat about anything that came to mind. Her
knowledge of anything on Earth was vague at best. She could
listen to him talk for hours. They'd talk about music, American
culture, the X-Files.
Once in a while, he'd have the chance to question her a little.
She wouldn't give him any helpful information. No name, no age,
no state where she was born or raised. But the things she would
tell, made her more and more human to him. And more likable.
She'd get a twinkle of nostalgia in her narrow, brown eyes. Yes,
she had a family, once. A mother, a father, and a brother. She
could barely remember any of them. It had to be almost thirty
years since she'd last seen any of them. "They raised me," she
said. "For almost as long as I can remember."
"Do you know a lot about them?"
She smiled. "Everything there is to know."
"And you can communicate with them? How? Telepathically?"
"No. They're not telepathic. I use my mouth and they use theirs.
It's what they're made for. And I have to say that theirs is the
hardest language I've had the chance to study."
"How many have you studied?"
"Quite a few. But I only speak eight of them fluently." She
actually sounded disappointed in herself at admitting it. And
the rest of the time was spent talking about how difficult it is
to keep eight languages straight in one's head. The subject of
her past didn't come up again, no matter how hard he tried.
One time, after conversation had died, he raised his head up to
her. "I'm not going back, am I?" he asked. She didn't answer. He
shoved another piece of bread in his mouth and chewed slowly.
"Do you really have what to go back for?"
He swallowed and nearly choked on it. Did he? "I wasn't aware I
had the option."
She shrugged again. She had that way of dodging any question she
didn't want to answer, be it by a shrug or just silence.
"How long have I been up here?" he asked. She shrugged again. He
asked again.
"It's not important," she said and left him to eat by himself.
He never pressed a question again after that.
Three more times she came and went in silence. He was sure he
was going to lose his mind. The next time she came in, she
wasn't bearing the usual tray of food. "They want to see you,"
she said simply. She put a change of clothes down on the floor
and left. He changed into them and waited. Nothing happened.
He sat against the cold metal wall and waited. He let himself
fall asleep.
When he woke up, he couldn't move. He couldn't see, either. His
head throbbed and he felt hungry for the first time since he'd
arrived. He couldn't feel anything, but the sounds around him
frightened him. Drills, beeping, high pitched whines.
All at once, pain from his entire body flooded his brain. Needle
punctures, heat, cold, dull aches. He couldn't even be sure
which came from where. He screamed. His mouth moved to form
words, but he wasn't sure what he was saying. The only one he'd
consciously said was, "Scully."
Then he passed out.
He opened his eyes again and found that he was tied down. He was
surrounded by masks he couldn't make out the face behind. And
one familiar, smiling face. "What's going on?" he asked her.
"You're going back," she said. "They just need to make sure you
don't remember anything."
"But..." he began to protest. "My proof that it happened..."
"You'll find your proof," she said. "One way or another. But not
like this. They can't allow it." He didn't know what to say. "I
know you won't remember this," she said, "Not now at least, but
be careful. You're walking a fine line. You wave your gun around
as carelessly now as you did your father's on the night you lost
your sister. And you're losing aim of your real goal - to find
her."
"But she's dead."
"Only if you believe she is. It's easier for you. You don't feel
as guilty." Every moment he'd spent with her, he'd felt she had
a special insight into his soul. He was almost sure of it now.
But something nagged in the back of his mind. "Maybe it should
have been you. Maybe you could've stopped it. Or maybe it
wouldn't have happened if you'd have let her watch the movie
instead of Watergate."
For a messenger of a "them" that weren't telepathic, she knew
too much about him. Too much about what had happened. And he
could find only one explanation for it. "How could you know what
happened that night?" He questioned, determined to get some
answers before he left. "The only other person in the room with
me that night was--"
"Yes," she cut him off, then turned her back.
One of the suited forms dripped liquid into his eyes and
blackness descended over him.
---
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)
Rating: PG
Classification: SA
Distribution: Just ask me.
Spoilers: Requiem
Keywords:
Summary: Aboard an alien ship, Mulder learns several kinds of
truth.
Disclaimer: As everyone knows, Chris Carter own everything,
including the characters which I'm about to borrow. But don't
worry, it doesn't affect the timeline and none of them will
remember a thing by tomorrow.
Author's Notes: Thanks to Aris, as usual for helping with
everything.
* * *
At first there was silence. Real silence, like he'd never
experienced before. It was so quiet he could hear his heart
beating. He didn't know how long the silence lasted. Hours.
Days. Weeks. Maybe even months. Seemed like years to him. It was
then that he learned the meaning of deafening silence. And
still, breaking it was worse than bearing it.
He didn't understand. He'd sleep on the floor of the cell, and
spend the rest of his time lying around. He didn't eat or drink.
His throat was dry and his stomach growled occasionally, but he
didn't feel dehydrated or weak.
The silence ended with the opening of a door in a place where he
didn't expect a door to be. Bodies in big astronaut-like suits
came in and grabbed him by the arms. There was a sting in his
neck, and he blacked out.
When he woke up there was silence again and his whole body
ached. Then it happened again. And again. He'd lost count of how
many times. Sleep turned into moments of unconsciousness, a
means of escaping the pain. His waking moments were spent
tossing and turning on the metal floor, trying to find a
comfortable position. Trying not to go mad.
Just when he became convinced he was going to lose his mind, the
door opened. It wasn't the men in suits. It wasn't a man, at
all. But she was human, or at least seemed that way. "Good
afternoon," she said.
"Is it afternoon?" he tried to say. It came out strange. Rusty,
almost.
"In a few timezones," she replied with a smile. After a short
pause, she continued. "I'm going to be your contact with them,
so I need to verify some things."
"Who's 'them'?"
"The aliens," she said. "You're Fox Mulder?" He nodded. "The UFO
chaser?" He nodded again. "We've heard about you. Even up here."
"Up... here?" Logically, he knew he wasn't on earth. His mind
just hadn't had the time to process it yet. She shrugged.
"Born October 13th, '61? Parents William and Teena?" He nodded
the affirmative to both. "Good." She ran her pale fingers
through short, black hair. "This saves me a lot of digging
through the bureaucracy."
She left and came back later with a tray of food. She leaned
against the wall while he ate. It took him a few minutes to stop
and realize he was eating like a pig. 'Like a dog' was probably
more accurate, on his knees in front of the tray.
"Are there any other humans here?" he asked.
She nodded. "Several."
"Billy Miles? Theresa Hosey?" She nodded. "Was my sister one of
them?"
"No, she wasn't one of them."
She took the tray when he was finished and came back with food
in what soon started to seem like regular intervals. Once in a
while they'd chat about anything that came to mind. Her
knowledge of anything on Earth was vague at best. She could
listen to him talk for hours. They'd talk about music, American
culture, the X-Files.
Once in a while, he'd have the chance to question her a little.
She wouldn't give him any helpful information. No name, no age,
no state where she was born or raised. But the things she would
tell, made her more and more human to him. And more likable.
She'd get a twinkle of nostalgia in her narrow, brown eyes. Yes,
she had a family, once. A mother, a father, and a brother. She
could barely remember any of them. It had to be almost thirty
years since she'd last seen any of them. "They raised me," she
said. "For almost as long as I can remember."
"Do you know a lot about them?"
She smiled. "Everything there is to know."
"And you can communicate with them? How? Telepathically?"
"No. They're not telepathic. I use my mouth and they use theirs.
It's what they're made for. And I have to say that theirs is the
hardest language I've had the chance to study."
"How many have you studied?"
"Quite a few. But I only speak eight of them fluently." She
actually sounded disappointed in herself at admitting it. And
the rest of the time was spent talking about how difficult it is
to keep eight languages straight in one's head. The subject of
her past didn't come up again, no matter how hard he tried.
One time, after conversation had died, he raised his head up to
her. "I'm not going back, am I?" he asked. She didn't answer. He
shoved another piece of bread in his mouth and chewed slowly.
"Do you really have what to go back for?"
He swallowed and nearly choked on it. Did he? "I wasn't aware I
had the option."
She shrugged again. She had that way of dodging any question she
didn't want to answer, be it by a shrug or just silence.
"How long have I been up here?" he asked. She shrugged again. He
asked again.
"It's not important," she said and left him to eat by himself.
He never pressed a question again after that.
Three more times she came and went in silence. He was sure he
was going to lose his mind. The next time she came in, she
wasn't bearing the usual tray of food. "They want to see you,"
she said simply. She put a change of clothes down on the floor
and left. He changed into them and waited. Nothing happened.
He sat against the cold metal wall and waited. He let himself
fall asleep.
When he woke up, he couldn't move. He couldn't see, either. His
head throbbed and he felt hungry for the first time since he'd
arrived. He couldn't feel anything, but the sounds around him
frightened him. Drills, beeping, high pitched whines.
All at once, pain from his entire body flooded his brain. Needle
punctures, heat, cold, dull aches. He couldn't even be sure
which came from where. He screamed. His mouth moved to form
words, but he wasn't sure what he was saying. The only one he'd
consciously said was, "Scully."
Then he passed out.
He opened his eyes again and found that he was tied down. He was
surrounded by masks he couldn't make out the face behind. And
one familiar, smiling face. "What's going on?" he asked her.
"You're going back," she said. "They just need to make sure you
don't remember anything."
"But..." he began to protest. "My proof that it happened..."
"You'll find your proof," she said. "One way or another. But not
like this. They can't allow it." He didn't know what to say. "I
know you won't remember this," she said, "Not now at least, but
be careful. You're walking a fine line. You wave your gun around
as carelessly now as you did your father's on the night you lost
your sister. And you're losing aim of your real goal - to find
her."
"But she's dead."
"Only if you believe she is. It's easier for you. You don't feel
as guilty." Every moment he'd spent with her, he'd felt she had
a special insight into his soul. He was almost sure of it now.
But something nagged in the back of his mind. "Maybe it should
have been you. Maybe you could've stopped it. Or maybe it
wouldn't have happened if you'd have let her watch the movie
instead of Watergate."
For a messenger of a "them" that weren't telepathic, she knew
too much about him. Too much about what had happened. And he
could find only one explanation for it. "How could you know what
happened that night?" He questioned, determined to get some
answers before he left. "The only other person in the room with
me that night was--"
"Yes," she cut him off, then turned her back.
One of the suited forms dripped liquid into his eyes and
blackness descended over him.
---