The door opened with little resistance, certainly no more than he would have expected. That wasn't really true, of course; he had been expecting, or rather dreading, a great deal of resistance. Refusal might have been a better word for it. After all that had happened in however long it had actually been it wouldn't really have surprised him one bit. That was the rather sad truth of it, how much of an impact it had had on his usually unwavering optimism.
But it did open. The handle twisted under his touch, as it should have, and the jamb released. When he gave the door a nudge, it swung inward without so much as a squeak. For several seconds all Miguel could do was stand and stare at it, disbelieving, at least until the relief set in, quickly followed by the determination. It was once again rearing its head and reasserting itself, driving him to step forward and through the doorway, crossing the threshold, and as he did so a set of steps came into being, practically melting out of the darkness and into corporeality.
He watched them take shape and then wasted no time at all in approaching them. Without so much as a shred of hesitation he lifted one foot and set it on the bottommost step. It held, supporting his weight easily. He took another. And then another. After that it was a challenge to keep himself from running up, sprinting even, forcing himself to take his time. Just in case.
In case of what? He couldn't even begin to imagine. But after everything, after all that he had experienced and endured so far, it couldn't really hurt to be cautious.
Up and up the steps went and Miguel half-expected the muscles in his thighs to start complaining after a while but they didn't even so much as twinge. So he kept on climbing, glancing back only once to see that it was a bottomless stream of steps behind him. How many had he climbed? How many more did he still have to climb? Looking up and ahead it was impossible to tell. So he kept on climbing.
As he went the air around him seemed to change. It was almost like it was becoming thinner, not to the point where it was becoming a strain to breathe comfortably, but more like it was less oppressive than it had been before. Miguel hadn't even noticed that the air had seemed thicker down there, wherever he had been, but now that he was climbing out of it he knew that to be true. How he knew that he couldn't even begin to work out, but he could feel it in his bones, the truth and certainty of it. He just knew. That knowledge drove him on, upward, higher and higher, the air becoming clearer and freer still, filling his lungs more smoothly and easily.
Still he forced himself to keep from running, forced himself to take his time. Just in case.
When at last a platform came, an end to the previously endless flight of stairs, it caught Miguel off guard. He lifted his foot to take another step and ended up stumbling a little, catching himself after a moment and giving a breathless sort of laugh, a touch self-deprecating but more relieved than anything. Even now though, after climbing God only knew how many stairs, there wasn't even the slightest ache in his legs.
It was as he was lifting his head from looking down at his own legs and feet that he noticed something. Something odd.
A reflection. His own, more to the point.
Miguel frowned, confused, and noticed immediately that that frown was not replicated on the face staring back at him.
Not a reflection.
And that was when it lunged at him, surging forward and reaching to grab.
Wendy rounded the corner as quickly as she could without risking losing her footing, catching sight of O'Neill immediately standing beside Ortiz's bed with his IV pole grasped in one hand with the other rested atop that of his friend. There was a disbelieving look on his face, the slightest shake moving his head back and forth, and even before she had entered the room properly he was saying, "His hand. It keeps moving."
Later she would have words with the Lieutenant about being out of bed before being cleared to do so but for the time being she had other concerns. She moved right up to the side of Ortiz's bed and checked the monitors, looking for any changes, finding them in the slightest elevation of his heartbeat. Not unusual, she knew, and she withdrew her light from her pocket to once again check for his response. Carefully she lifted one eyelid and then the other, shining and then removing and then shining the light again right into the Sensor Chief's pupils, watching keenly for even the slightest change. But there was nothing. Still no response.
She lifted her head and looked at O'Neill, finding him looking right back at her, obviously watching her. "What?" he asked, with no small amount of urgency.
"There's no change," she said, frowning, before she looked down the Lieutenant's arm to where his hand was laid over Ortiz's. "It's still happening now?"
O'Neill's response was a nod, but she noticed he didn't move his own hand to show her, almost as if he feared the movement would stop if he pulled back. So she raised her own and set it on the hand closest to her, on her side of the bed. And she waited. "Oh my God." The words sprang from her lips the second she felt the movement, twitching of muscles and discernible shifts of his fingers beneath her touch. She looked first to O'Neill and then to Ortiz's face. There was no change in his expression, not even the slightest shift. "I don't understand it." And she wasn't afraid to admit as much.
"What's going on?" O'Neill asked her, and when she looked at him, on the verge of repeating her previous statement, he was already shaking his head before turning his gaze pointedly to the head of the bed. "I mean in there. What's happening?"
Wendy followed his gaze. Of course. That was the only explanation, surely. She glanced back to O'Neill only briefly before she shifted her weight, keeping her hand where she had laid it over Ortiz's before taking her other and resting it across his forehead. As she drew in a breath, slow and deep, she closed her eyes.
At first there was very little but a kind of steady, dark silence, but after a short while she felt it, in trickles and drops to begin with before it came in rushes and waves instead. Surprise and disbelief, defiance and determination, resolution, denial and frustration. And anger. Such hot, fierce, biting rage, something that just didn't belong in the man between them, something that didn't make any—
"Oh my God." And her eyes opened, snapping to O'Neill's concerned face instantly. Horror was creeping through her veins, icy and ominous and gaining speed and strength. She was shaking her head without realising it, looking down at Miguel where he lay in the bed, unmoving save for those twitches and jerks in his hands.
"What is it?" O'Neill asked her, fear slipping into his voice. "What?"
Without taking her eyes from Miguel's face she answered Tim. "He's not alone in there."
"What?" O'Neill sounded incredulous, stammering for several seconds before he found his voice again enough to say, "But you got her out! And she's unconscious!"
"Not her." Wendy lifted her eyes from Miguel and looked at Tim, holding his gaze firmly with her own. "It's him." She saw the confusion on the Lieutenant's face, justified and expected. "It's Miguel." She looked back down at him. "The other Miguel, the one that she brought to the surface." Of its own accord her hand on his forehead stroked upward and over his hair once again. "He's not gone. I thought he was, but—" She had been so foolish to take so much for granted, to make such wild and ignorant assumptions. Standing there she could feel Tim's confusion as it bubbled beyond his ability to contain and she frowned, regretfully, and looked at him once more. "He's fighting."
"Fighting?" O'Neill looked between them, his gaze darting up and down a little wildly. "What—you mean—Miguel?"
"Both of them, yes." Drawing in a breath that shuddered not only on the way in but on its way out as well, she added gravely, "And only one of them will survive."
It had caught him off guard, managing not only to grab him but drive him back and all the way down to the ground. He hit hard, the wind knocked out of him, grunting in pain and surprise before he realised the attack probably wouldn't end there. He had brought his hands up, grabbing the other him in return, and his hands were still clutching in their uniform. An instinctive grab and clutch, and one he used now to try and force the other him to a safer distance.
Another him. It was insane. It couldn't be possible.
But it could. He knew that. Something, or someone, had to have been holding the reins in that time when he had been all the way down at the bottom of—well, whatever it was. When he had been down there this other version of himself, identical in every way physically, must have been in control.
It punched him. Hard. A single solid blow to the face and Miguel was seeing stars, barely even having the breath to curse in his disbelief at the power of it. It felt like it could have knocked him out, very possibly, if it had been just a fraction harder.
And the other him was already rearing back for another blow.
Miguel shoved with his hands, throwing the other him up as much as possible, leaving himself just enough room to get his booted feet up between them so he could push. It was enough, thankfully, to get his mirror off him and send them back in a tumble and a roll, his weight tucking over one shoulder. It was textbook, that roll, right out of basic training. Miguel noticed that in as much time as it took to scramble over and up into a crouch, trying to anticipate what would come next.
This was him, another him. Surely he could anticipate it, see what was coming, get ahead of it.
For several seconds they stared at one another, facing off without moving or making a sound beyond the in and out of their breathing, and then the Other charged forward anew. Miguel seized the opportunity, tucking himself forward and down and using the momentum of it to carry him over in a roll. It caught the Other at just the right moment, knocking his legs out from under him and spilling him to the ground. Miguel corrected himself, crouching again, and turned to see what might be coming next, turning at just the wrong moment and catching a glancing blow from a boot across his jaw. It sent him sprawling and he had to fight to get his focus back, working to keep the fog at bay, hearing as well as sensing the approach of the Other.
Strong hands caught in the back of his uniform and pulled, heaving, dragging him up and to his feet, which struggled to plant under him with the force and speed of the motion. Miguel ended up looking himself in the face up close, eye to eye, seeing in the Other's little more than fierce intent and drive. And anger. So much anger.
Still grasping his uniform the Other swung him around, hard and fast, and released his grip mid-swing. Miguel was powerless to stop himself from being flung, losing his footing yet again and going down and over. When he felt the ground vanish underneath him he couldn't help but let out a yell that was more a yelp than anything and grab wildly, blindly, at anything at all to stop him from dropping. His hand caught on something solid and he held on for dear life. When the world stopped spinning and he could see straight he saw that he had reached the edge where all those steps led, and the solid thing he had caught hold of was one of those steps. His heart skipped, jumped, almost lodged in his throat, and Miguel had just enough time to recognise how lucky he had been before the sound of approaching footsteps reached him.
The Other.
Sure enough he was there, coming fast, and already raising one foot to drive it down right on top of Miguel's hand. With a breathless curse he yanked the hand away before the flat of that boot could come smashing down on his fingers, reaching and grabbing with his other to take hold of the next step down. It meant a drop, and an abrupt one, making his shoulder ache hotly, but it wasn't an impossibly long fall to what could only be a devastating landing. Looking down proved just how far it was, or rather how impossible it was to gauge the distance. It seemed to go on forever. The steps dwindled and faded into the black, uncountable, their end well and truly out of sight.
There was a sound above him like a growl, rough and angry, and Miguel looked up to see the Other glaring down at him. He was lowering into what looked like a crouch, getting closer, and then he was folding one leg toward himself.
Oh no.
At the last moment Miguel summoned his strength and swung his weight, back and then forward, letting out a yell of determination and desperation as his momentum carried him across and under. For a second that seemed to stretch into an eternity he feared that his reach was lacking, his arm wasn't long enough, he had miscalculated and was about to send himself sprawling into the abyss, but then his fingers caught and he was just able to get his grip before he had no choice but to release the other. There was a roar of frustration as the Other's foot plunged down into empty air.
He had to move. Fast. Ignoring the building ache in his arms as much as possible Miguel lunged with his other arm and grabbed the topmost step, heaving his weight upward until he had his chest over the drop, supporting himself awkwardly and more than a little painfully with his arms on the steps from which he was so precariously dangling. The Other was just turning his head, black hair whipping across his face, fixing him with a dark and resentful stare.
Move, move, move. There was no time to do anything but move. Miguel had to haul himself up and get clear before the Other could correct from almost unbalancing himself and lash out again. So he pulled and heaved and shoved his way onto the step and instead of trying, awkwardly and desperately, to seize the opportunity to shove the Other right off the edge he had so very nearly fallen from himself he concentrated instead on getting off the steps altogether. It was too dangerous. Not worth the risk.
He heard the smack of a palm striking the step where he had been as he all but threw himself at the platform, rolling himself over and away to get more distance between them. Even after that he didn't feel safe, pushing himself up, all the way out of a crouch and to his feet proper, backing up several more feet as the Other straightened and ascended the steps to follow.
This was crazy. Even after all that had happened Miguel wondered if this wasn't the craziest thing he had ever experienced and it very possibly was but it was neither the time nor the place to figure that out for certain. This was, he had realised, very literally a matter of life and death.
Only one of them was getting out of this alive. And Miguel had to make sure he was the one who survived.
"What the hell do you mean only one of them will survive?" Ford looked as though he had just been told everything he had ever believed was a lie, his expression was so full of disbelief and scepticism. "It's Miguel's body. It's his mind. How can there be two of him in there to begin with?" He turned to take in the faces of those gathered, already shaking his head in what they all knew to be dismissal.
With a short sigh Bridger said, "Like I told you, Jonathan—"
The Commander cut him off with an emphatic wave of his hand, conceding by saying, "I know what you told me, Captain, but didn't that device Lucas disrupted keep that altered personality, or whatever it was, at the surface?" If the teenager had been present he likely would have answered that himself, but he wasn't. Wendy was fairly sure he was sleeping, at last, or at least calmed to such a point that she could no longer pick up on his distress as easily as if it were her own.
"It helped to hold it there, yes, but it was Irina who brought it up in the first place." Of that much she was certain, and if any of them had asked her how she knew, she would not have been able to tell them. She just knew.
Ford fixed her with an unconvinced look. "Brought it up from where? Are you telling me that we've all got one of these—what?—mirror personalities inside of us?" His hands were on his hips again, his gaze flitting from one face to the next. It occurred to Wendy then that the Commander was looking for an ally in all of this, someone else to back him up in his disbelief.
Neither Bridger nor O'Neill jumped to his defence, which left the Commander fighting his corner alone.
"Essentially, yes." Thankfully she was used to being faced with such cynicism, the fierce stubbornness that so often went hand in hand with the uniform. It helped her to be patient when faced with the types of refusals and dismissals that Commander Ford was so very good at. Of course, that didn't make it any less frustrating to have to have these verbal battles when there were clearly more urgent matters they ought to be dealing with. "But that's boiling it right down to its simplest form."
Ford's brows raised, a little exaggeratedly. "Right now I like simple."
She pulled in a breath. It was as much to steady her own nerves as it was to fuel the explanation she was about to offer. "There have been psychological studies that show every human being has the capacity for good, but also the capacity for evil. We all have it in us to do terrible things, but it's our choices in life that define us and shape our personalities. Very few people are truly evil, we all know that, but—" At that she paused, looking from one face to the next, part of her expecting an argument from one of them. When nothing came she went on, "A parapsychologist by the name of Doctor Teresa Brae theorised that within every living person there is what she calls a second self, what you're calling a mirror personality. Usually it's buried so far down in our psyche that it will never see the light of day, a sort of by-product of all the choices we make, or more to the point, all the things we don't do as a result of those choices." Hopefully she had explained it well enough to do Teresa's theory justice. Wendy had met the woman, a gifted parapsychologist, and had been fascinated by her ideas and hypotheses, but trying to simplify and summarise them, especially under such strange and serious circumstances, was certainly easier said than done.
"This is crazy. You're talking Jekyll and Hyde here."
His refusal to budge wasn't surprising. "In a way, yes." She would give him that much. But she frowned, going on to ask him, "Is that really so hard to believe?"
Ford levelled a dubious look her way. "Frankly? Yes. Jekyll and Hyde is fiction."
Bridger stepped in then, at least figuratively, saying pointedly, "Science fiction, Commander." He leaned heavily on the word, drawing a line under it.
"Oh, come on, Captain, don't tell me you're buying this." Ford was quick to look her way then. "No offence, Doctor, it's just that this is all a little—" But he trailed off, taking one hand from his hip to wave it without direction in front of him as if to say you know what I mean.
Crazy, he meant. He had said it already.
But Wendy didn't think it was so crazy, and clearly, neither did Nathan. He turned his attention squarely on his second in command. "What other explanation is there, Jonathan?" He tilted his head, as if inviting the Commander to challenge or contradict. When he was met with silence the Captain went on, "We all saw this other Ortiz for ourselves and it was not the man who sits on that bridge every day. I can tell you that."
A little of the stiffness in Ford's shoulders had disappeared but he still wasn't convinced. "So he'd been brainwashed." He shrugged a little as he said it, almost as if he didn't quite buy that himself, but he was still looking for more rational explanations. Wendy couldn't hold that against him.
"No. It was more than that. Something much worse," Nathan countered with a shake of his head. "People who have been brainwashed, and in such a short space of time, don't show as much emotion as Ortiz did in that factory. They don't have that—"
"Rage." Wendy didn't even realise she had said the word until they were all looking her way. But there it was, out in the open, hanging in the air between them, ugly and unavoidable. She had felt it, that rage. It had frightened her.
"Exactly." Nathan turned back to Ford. "And it was rage, Commander. Pure and simple."
Ford's hands left his hips then, but he went on to cross his arms over his chest. A defensive stance, most would say, but Wendy knew that with Jonathan Ford it was more of a thoughtful posture. "This woman is the most powerful psychic we've ever come across. You're telling me she couldn't make him behave that way?" He glanced at O'Neill. "We know she took control of Ortiz at least twice while he was on board seaQuest. And that was at a distance. Surely in such close proximity—"
It was her turn to cut someone off, shaking her head as she said with certainty, "No." Ford looked her way, a little surprised, but it passed quickly. "In order to take complete control of another person she was having to concentrate solely on that individual. For all intents and purposes, while she was in control of Ortiz, she wasn't in her own body. She was in his." Something else she just knew. "There is no way she could have been interacting with all of us, and attacking Tony the way she was for that matter, if she was in control of Miguel like that."
The Commander was quiet for a while, close on a minute, before he let out a sigh. His voice was quieter, lacking a good deal of his former conviction when he said, "This is crazy."
"Yes. It is." For the first time since the two senior officers had come into the room O'Neill spoke, from his place perched on the edge of his bed close by. "But that doesn't make it any less true."
Ford looked in the Lieutenant's direction, frowning, obviously trying to think things through and come up with a logical explanation. Wendy suspected he came up short, and quickly.
Nathan regarded his Executive Officer sombrely. "We've all seen with our own eyes just how crazy the real world can be, Jonathan. Think of all the things we've encountered that we never would have thought possible when we joined the service. We've seen, felt, stranger things than this." At that he motioned with one hand towards the bed in which their Sensor Chief was laying.
Almost as if on some kind of cue, as if responding to that gesture of the Captain's hand, Miguel moved. Not a great deal, but it was more than just a twitch of his fingers, or the slightest jerk of his hand against the mattress. It was almost as if he was dreaming, Wendy thought; a small sideways tip of his head, first one way and then the other, and then the subtlest shift of one arm. The sound it made against the sheets was oddly loud in the otherwise quiet space.
"What really matters here," Nathan said once the movement had stopped, bringing his gaze up and turning it to take in the others in the room, "is whether or not we can do anything to help Ortiz." His gaze ended up on Wendy, meeting hers and holding it. There had been no questioning inflection in his tone but he was looking to her for an answer all the same.
And she didn't like the answer she was about to give him any more than he would, she knew, but she saw no sense in lying. False hope would help no one, ultimately. "I don't think so. I can feel them in there, but that's it. I can't get in." And God knew she had tried. Even as they had stood there, discussing the situation, she had been trying. She lowered her gaze to Miguel's face, knowing that she wasn't alone in hating the idea that he was having to do this alone. "It's up to him now."
