She knows the gun has a certain name. The weight of the standard military issue weapon feels more familiar in her hands than the revolver she took from the hoodlums who'd tried to rob the diner, but the sound of the name that Colonel Mitchell had called her is louder: Vala Mal Doran. It's louder than Valerie Todad, louder than Val the New Girl, louder than the crossfire ricocheting through the warehouse, louder than the shouts of someone claiming he can help her remember.
Slipping past them while they're shooting each other will allow her to escape to where it's quiet enough to remember, safe enough to piece together the bizarre visions that shouldn't confirm that she's an alien from another planet, but just a witness to a strange costumed horror movie.
Rising from the cover of storage shelves, she catches a glimpse of bright daylight through the open warehouse door. There's a clear path to freedom in the span of a dozen footsteps, and no one's in sight to stop her.
No one except a tall, well-built, bespectacled, blue-eyed man pointing a strange weapon at her.
"Get out of my way."
He won't let her past, won't let her go.
Gunpowder and the metallic, electrical odor from the discharge of those strange, serpent-shaped weapons wafts through the building and jogs more memories: she remembers how to unlock and activate the serpent-like guns, how to fire them, but not what they're named. They can stun with one shot, kill with a second. She gets him to put it down, but he still won't let her go.
Yet it's the sound of his voice, the look on his face, all the words he's saying that carry her farther from danger, closer to safety, anchoring her to where she's needed most.
"...It's over. Now it's time to come home."
Home? Suddenly she's in a room, at a large table, in a meeting where her request to join something is being considered. There's the face of a big, handsome man whose forehead is branded with gold, an air of majesty and mystery about him; the face of a beautiful blonde woman with the confidence of intellectual certitude in her large, kind eyes; the face of this gentle, scholarly man with eyeglasses, welcoming her as a colleague; the amiable face of that brave colonel she'd hand-cuffed to the motel bed; the face of a gruff but fatherly man in authority. They are the explorers, the team she's "along for the ride" with. Yet foremost among them is the face that follows her into an elevator, a face that looks at her with amusement, patience, pride, respect. Home.
"Daniel?" The syllables, scant whispers, feel familiar on her tongue, like a name spoken in supplication just before she wakes from a dream.
At last, Daniel's coming forward to hold her, not letting her go, allowing their embrace to linger for as long as she needs – partly from supporting half her weight as her knees give out.
Partly by the way she's returning the force of his hug.
Partly by the way she's trembling like a moth with a broken wing, and trying to keep sobs of relief from wracking her body.
He smells of coffee and leather, of ink and old books. His is the perfume of home – a home she can almost remember. And still he doesn't let go of her, surrounding her with more than mere strength, but with compassion.
She opens her eyes, wondering how much of the Mary Kay foundation Bonnie sold her is running down her face. Through the watery lens of tears she sees three of the faces which appeared in her latest vision. (Names, what are their names?) Of course, there's Colonel Mitchell, who looks like Purpose. The blonde woman: Clarity? The majestic man: Justice?
She closes her eyes again and clings to Home.