I do not own anything of the X Files.
Not Alone
Her world changed, again. For weeks, or maybe months, Scully lived among them. Lived, no, she existed. This time, her memory was her own, her thoughts, deep and ugly, left to her. This time she almost lost hope, until her world changed. Her padded cell was little help when she was suddenly thrown across the small room, slamming into the far wall then crashing down to the floor. The lights flickered, dimmed, and then flickered their protest some more. Smoke, there was a hint of chemical smoke in the air and a piercing shrill bit into her sore mind. She waited, still lying on the cool floor, catching her breath. The smoke increased and another lurch, not as strong, but she slid down the floor and crashed into the side of her cot. In the inky blackness she realized, we're going down.
It took only minutes, but she was able to brace herself for the impact that was not as violent as she had anticipated, we must have been low to the ground. She picked herself off the floor, bare feet crunching on glass and other debris, made her way to the door. She was surprised when it opened; the strong magnetic locks had lost power. She swallowed hard and pushed the door again, sliding her way into the narrow metallic hall. The smoke was stronger and Scully held her arm over her mouth and coughed. She crouched as she made her way down the hall. It was familiar, but she cursed herself for not paying attention when she had been dragged from her cell to the medical room for tests. She had thought she was preserving whatever she had left, hiding deep in herself, letting her eyes glass over as the dragged her to yet another torture session.
She jogged blindly into the smoke, the flickering and flashing lights offering nothing but assisting the shrilling alarm in making her head throb. She continued forward, following the winding corridor that tilted on an angle, her hand bracing the cool wall and she moved forward. In front of her, the lights stopped, and the smoke was being sucked down and out. Out. She slowed, noticing the rippling of the metal under her feet; the shredding of the walls that suddenly disappeared from her touch. The floor heaved and groaned, a counter rhythm to the relentless shrill. Before she realized what was happening she was thrown from her feet, the floor buckling, bending and tearing in a scream of metal. She pitched forward and fell.
Maybe 15 feet. Far enough that her body jarred against the hard ground, smashing her knees into her chest, her body slammed then slumped forward. Her face pressed into the ground, dry dirt filled her mouth as she struggled to pull the air that had been forced out of her body back into her lungs. She coughed, scratching at the ground, looking for the strength to push herself up. She didn't find it. She heaved, deep ragged breaths full of sandy dirt, coating her throat, filling her nose. She gagged and vomited, bile replacing the grit. She rolled to her back, chest heaving, hands still clawing wildly at the ground as she fought with her body to calm. Agonizing seconds passed but her body finally started to still. She pulled fresh air into her nose and forced it out of her mouth. Her hands stilled at her sides and she forced her eyes open, looking up. The ship had crashed, it lay awkwardly on its side, like a plate buried in sand, a gash marred the side, the gash she had fallen through, her escape. The lights blinked and flashed above her, the angry alarm faint above her. Small explosions popped across the ship, fires burned blue and green and the chemical smoke billowed out of the hole. She was out.