AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is unfinished and will not be
updated. I abandoned it quite a few years ago and have since moved on
to other fandoms and more polished prose. I hope you enjoy it, but
you'll have to imagine the rest of Megan's adventures for yourselves. Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: Blame Paramount.
Summary: Megan Quincy, teenage girl, gets caught up in a mysterious government project and ends up in the most unlikely of places.
Rating:PG for minor language.
The Misadventures of Megan Quincy
Chapter I: Megan Lends a Hand
by toastedcheese (formerly galadriel)
Megan Quincy, called Meg or even Quinn when people are too lazy to say her name properly, is an ordinary girl. Too ordinary, in fact. Her hair is dull brown, sometimes violet streaked, golden tinted in the summer. Her feet are big and clumsy, but the rest of her is small, looking up at the world, wondering if she will ever grow into her shoes.
I know Megan very well, perhaps because she is me. I am very proud of this accomplishment, since most people go through life never really knowing themselves. They simply stroll along, sight-seeing like high-heeled and camera-holding tourists, looking at about everything except themselves.
I'm a tourist too, studying the world, but I don't stop there. I like to take a look at myself, trying to understand my own nature and occasionally better it. And I daydream; taking the world and molding it like clay, into castles and stars and dragons. I am an artist, you could say, constantly painting the canvases of my mind.
Maybe this is why I was not too surprised when one Thursday afternoon last winter, a sleek, black car with government license plate drove into the parking lot of my apartment building.
Not surprised does not mean apathetic. I was fascinated with this car's appearance, and watched through my bedroom window as a man in a black suit and tie exited the car and slowly walked towards the door, as if he had all the time in the world.
My mind raced with the possibilities: perhaps one of my neighbors was in trouble with the CIA or the FBI. Maybe I was living near a murderer or a terrorist! The thought both horrified and excited me. I put aside the homework with which I was struggling and ran out of my room to the front door, looking through the peephole in case the mysterious man happened to walk through our hallway.
Seconds later, a figure wearing an expensive-looking black suit appeared in the left of my view. In a few seconds, I made some important observations. He was one of those in-between people, whose age could range from thirty to fifty. His dark hair was slicked back from a long, drawn-out face. Pale blue eyes peered out wearily. He was very business-like, very conscientious, very boring.
To my astonishment, the man stopped at my door and gently tapped the doorbell. Something about the way his eyes regarded the peephole made my spine shiver, as if he could see me.
The chime sounded. I reluctantly put on the chain and open the door as far as it would go, peeking my head out into the hallway. "Yes?" I asked timidly. My voice shook, something that I had not intended it to do.
"CIA," he proclaimed in a dull voice. "Are you Megan Quincy?"
Five minutes later, Agent Jim Roschland was drinking day-old coffee in my kitchen. My brain was still trying to process this situation, and I was having trouble thinking clearly.
"I suppose you'd like to know why I'm here," he said after a few sips of his drink. He placed the chipped mug on the table. His voice had grown livelier; perhaps the caffeine had woken him up.
"I was wondering when you'd get to that," I answered, my voice braver than I'd expected.
He took an extra long swill of the coffee, wiped his mouth with a napkin, sighed, and began. "Miss Quincy, I am on an extremely confidential project called A.A.U.P. We've been watching you for several months, and believe you are the perfect candidate for a very important mission."
I stared at him as if he were a mad clown with a toy gun, asking for the contents of my mother's jewelry box. Me? Important government mission? Without thinking, I blurted out, "Like hell you do."
Roschland sighed again. There was a hint of sorrow in his voice as he spoke. "Believe it or not, Miss Quincy, it's true. I'm afraid I cannot give you specific details at this point, but you may know this much: that your cooperation will be an enormous contribution to science as we know it. Of course," his voice became quiet, almost soothing if not for its decidedly grainy texture, like sandpaper, "you must leave your home."
The mad clown threw away his fake gun and assaulted me with a jelly donut. "You've got to be kidding. How can I even be sure you're a CIA agent and not some wacko who's gonna kidnap me and ask my parents for a ransom?"
Roschland said nothing. His eyes were distinctly bored. He retrieved a wide-mouthed blue jar from the left pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table. He slowly unscrewed the lid and placed it beside the jar. Inside was a gray gel similar to the fluid of a lava lamp.
"What's that?" I asked, looking at it in curiosity.
"Touch it," he urged. "It won't hurt you."
I gave him a bewildered look, shrugged, and placed my palm on the surface of the sludge. It looked about as dangerous as a dyspeptic slug, and if the agent really wanted to kill me, surely there were more direct ways than goop poisoning.
Nothing happened. The gray material was cool like mud, with the consistency of Jello. I pulled my hand away and gave Roschland a doubtful look.
"Wait," he said. Moments after his words, the goop began to take shape, as if invisible hands were molding it. It morphed into a reproduction of my hand, identical in shape, size, and color. The only difference was the lack of blue nail polish.
A million scenes flashed through my head as I stared dumbly at the dismembered finger sticking out of the remainder of the goop. Most of them involved cheesy episodes of Star Trek. Only one thing was certain, and it was absolutely impossible.
The goop had just replicated my hand.
I found it rather hard to believe that a kidnapper would have such an unbelievably sci-fi substance. This was the type of thing that would be hidden away in government vaults and kept there.
I continued to stare at the impossible image in front of me,
wondering if it could possibly be real. After a few seconds of
gawking, I looked away. My head hurt.
"Where did you get that," I managed.
Roschland, silent as usual, took something else out of his jacket pocket, a small glass vial full of a clear liquid. I wondered if he would remove a floor lamp next. He took the cork out of the bottle and poured the liquid onto the finger, reverting it to its gray form. When he was done, he closed both jar and vial and put both into his pocket.
"What you just saw is not of this universe. That is all I can tell you."
I didn't even attempt to process that information. I couldn't grasp it in the least. So I let it slide. "What happens if I decide not to go?" I asked timidly.
Out of the left pocket came a small blue plastic bead. "This, when charged and placed on your forehead, will stun you for twenty seconds, enough for me to leave. It will then erase your memories of this encounter."
That was it. The whole thing was crazy. "Right, and if I go with you I get to wear a spiffy suit and kill aliens?" I laughed.
Roschland was not amused. "This may sound like a joke, but I can assure you it's quite effective." The expression on his face was solemn as a church, his eyes unblinking.
I blinked. "You're serious, aren't you." I looked at the blue plastic gem again: this time in fear.
When I was a little kid, I fell out of a tree onto the edge of the sidewalk. I hit the ground in just the right way so that my skull didn't break, but I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up, I had amnesia. It only lasted for a couple days, and my memories of the experience are vague, but what I do remember fills me with terror. I didn't know who I was or where I was, I had no identity. For two days, I was completely alone.
I'd forgotten the experience over the years, pushed it back into the depths of my memory, but at the sight of this weapon, this small blue monster in front of me, the memories came back with a vengeance. Irrational as it may sound, the idea of losing my memory made my stomach churn.
Besides, this was the first interesting thing that had occurred in my life. This was my chance to have an adventure, to see more miracles like the replicating goo. Two points for Roschland on that account.
And so I said the two words that shaped my future. They were rather mindless, rather selfish, rather stupid. But I said them none the less.
"I'll go."
Five minutes later, I was packing a small black suitcase. Roschland was standing in my door uneasily, eyeing my stuffed animals and posters as if they were really tape recorders or enemy bombs.
What does one pack when they're leaving forever? After useful items such as my favorite clothes, toothpaste, shampoo, etc, I had some decisions to make.
First, a dog-eared journal that I was currently writing in. Next, a computer disk containing typed-up journal entries of the last two years, previously saved in this format with the eventual intent of publishing them on the Web. Then, a couple disks containing some of my better short stories and all of my fan fiction, good or not. An avid fan of Buffy, Daria, and Star Trek, my attempts at rewriting the lives of my favorite characters have usually resulted in failure, but a couple stories actually turned out decently. My CD collection, a couple favorite books, and my life savings--aka, $22.50--went in after that, and that was all. There were plenty more things I'd like to take, but nothing crucial.
"Are you done?" Roschland called from the door.
I nodded. "I'd...like to leave a note, just a short one..." I murmured, realizing what I was doing and having a million second thoughts all at once.
"I'm sorry," Roschland said, his eyes returning to their unhappy state. He slowly entered my room, fishing for something in his jacket. I stared at him in surprise, wondering what he'd produce next from the magic pocket.
In a couple of seconds, a small red plastic gem was in his hand.
"What the hell is that?" I asked, startled but unmoving
Roschland took a tiny metallic pin from the jacket and began prodding the gem. He prodded at it three times. Then he placed it on my forehead. Before I could remove it, my eyes filled with inky black.
"Good night, Megan."
After reading numerous books dealing with fainting, it is clear to me that all sense of time is lost after passing out. If you haven't had as much experience with the topic, I'll assure you that the fictional tales are truthful to real life. Therefore, it would be a cliche to start by saying, "Minutes or hours later." Unfortunately, that's what really happened, so cliches be damned.
Minutes or hours later, I awoke. Barely. I was aware of voices around me, voices that were strangely familiar. I tried to identify them, but that amount of thinking made my head hurt. My eyes also ached, and I didn't feel like opening them quite yet. So I lay there, breathing and wondering where on earth I was.
"Doctor! She's awake," was the first really clear phrase I heard. The voice--I knew that voice, but I couldn't put a face to it. I managed to open my eyes slightly, just wide enough to see.
What I saw was enough to make me faint again.
