Author's note: Sorry about time confusion in chapter eleven. The date of Gibson's "hormone therapy" should have been 52 days after. Happy holidays!
"Time is on the side of the oppressed today, it's against the oppressor. Truth is on the side of the oppressed today, it's against the oppressor. You don't need anything else." Malcolm X
Near Washington, D.C.
53 days after
He was dreaming. Falling asleep on the cold tile floor with a chain on his wrist had seemed impossible, but apparently exhaustion had gotten the better of him. This was one of those dreams that he knew wasn't real…like watching a movie and wondering absently what might happen next and what it could mean on a deeper, psychological level. He saw a little girl in denim overalls meandering through the shadows of tall trees. Streams of silver moonlight shined in her long, curly, dark hair, and a stuffed animal dangled from her hand. She began to walk brusquely, causing her hair to billow behind her, and Gibson felt his dream self hurrying down a beaten path after her. He couldn't explain it, but he needed to see her face—he needed to speak with her. Panic began to set in. The farther he ran, the further away she became until her small frame was nothing more than another shadow tapering away in the distance. Suddenly, a soft voice whispered in his ear, Don't worry about me. I'll take care of myself. Someone will find me. He whirled around to see that he stood alone in a circle of pine trees—but, no—he was moving, rising, higher and higher, flying? No—someone holding him, sending him up and away.
Gibson awoke with a start, gasping and shaking his head from side to side. Okay, so the sensation had not been flying exactly; the same two technicians from the day before had lifted him and were now carrying him, one supporting his head and shoulders and the other bearing the weight of his legs. He squirmed about in their grasp, feeling as though he were falling, careening toward the earth from a great height. The dream world had not entirely abandoned his consciousness.
"Hold still," the one above his head directed sternly.
Gibson squinted at the man's round face and into his dark, empty eyes; the whites were barely showing. Gibson shivered and looked away. Just then, Skinner passed, coming from the opposite direction with William slung, unconscious, over his shoulder.
"Hey—hey Skinner," Gibson called, "where are you taking him?"
Of course, he offered no reply; Gibson attempted to crane his neck back to see where they were going as Skinner's heavy footsteps echoed to the end of the corridor and around the corner.
The lighting shifted from dull to bright as the men carried him into another passage. Abruptly, it was as if someone had flipped on a sound system. A cacophony of shrieks and agonized screams and desperate pleas surrounded him on all sides. At first, Gibson thought the voices were only in his head—he had heard them before from far away. No. They were here, aloud, tangible…the torture was so real he could smell it. Violet lights overhead burned painfully onto his retinas. If I don't see any more fucking purple for the rest of my life, I will die a happy man.
All of the blood rushed from his temples dizzyingly as the men hastily flipped him upright and began to strap him in to some kind of device on the wall. They hooked his feet into metal rings, and when he could no longer move a muscle, he heard an electric whir as the machine raised him a good ten feet off the ground. The room was completely bare, unlike the medical bay he'd had the pleasure of seeing the day before, except for a blank screen on the wall in front of him.
"Since you are the chosen one, you are able to move to the last step now. Today is the day of your transformation. This is the beginning of your true existence, your destiny."
The lights extinguished all at once, and Gibson's heart pounded as the darkness came alive like a venomous snake swallowing him whole. The electric whir returned, and he cried out when a clamp came over his eyelids, forcing them to remain open. Bright colored lights appeared on the screen and slowly morphed into an image.
"Focus on the inner dot on the screen," came a voice from below, "You will not feel pain while we alter your genetics if you concentrate on the screen. Before you see it, you must repeat this after me—From this day forward, I devote my existence to the cause and will bow before my Lords and pay homage to Them for all eternity."
This is it. Oh God, this is it. I will not lose myself I will remember I will not let go never… never
"From this day forward, I devote my existence to the cause and will bow before my Lords and pay homage to Them for all eternity," he repeated mechanically.
"Very good. Now it may begin."
A sea of colors swirled around the screen, and as Gibson kept his eyes on the center, he began to perceive a clear picture. It was a landscape, familiar somehow and yet wholly unlike anything he had seen on Earth. Magnificent stars swept across the sky over a splash of violet and midnight blue. The heavens were bright and close, and four moons each covered a quadrant of the sky. Gibson lowered his gaze and realized that his eyes controlled the image. He looked straight ahead and then from right to left to discover that he was seeing a beach, but it was more than simple observation; he could smell the tangy salt splashing off the surf and feel the wind ruffling his hair and the soft velvet sand trickling between his toes. When he looked down, he watched his own toes on the screen resting on a bed of wine red sand, deeper and richer than the color of blood. The ocean ahead was a dark, inky blue, almost black. Gibson stepped forward until he was ankle deep in the small waves. Around his feet, the water glowed in rings of royal purple that faded around the edges to soft lavender.
"That is our life force. The human eye distinguishes it as a purple aura. We have many other colors that you have never known, so your brain reads them all as either purple or black."
Gibson quickly turned to look behind him, and the sensation of entrapment in the restraints completely disappeared. His surroundings had become as real as anything he'd ever seen or touched or smelled.
An old man stood behind him; tall and thin with a wiry, bony face and thick white hair.
"And this place—it was part of our home long ago," he continued, "We were driven out by others that came, who sought to kill and destroy. Soon it was our time to leave. But our Gods—our creators, sent five spirit protectors as had been decreed in the Exodus prophecy 12 million years before. They are our Lords, our saviors, and They traveled with us into the far reaches of space and time."
Gibson cleared his throat and realized that he could speak.
"Why Earth? Why humans? After the violence done to you, how could you inflict the same on us?"
"Because that is the way of it—one civilization dies and another prospers. But we have helped you, and you will understand that in time. Humans had reached a deplorable state, had destroyed the land and the water given to them. Now after selecting the ones who can survive, we will make you into something greater than you are and rebuild this planet. You will be born again into the clemency of our Gods. We watched your race closely, prepared for the attack for over a century in your time while the people of the Earth continued the mundane tasks of their daily lives in total ignorance. We took some of you—those special ones that believed in us—tested you, and learned how your bodies worked. We were able to alter our surface appearances in imitation of yours. Some humans learned of our cause and agreed to help us, but you already know the rest of that story."
"Your cause is some kind of holy war?"
"We merely desire to help your lost race so that through good works, we might reach the next stage of illumination after our own deaths. Your people will also have the chance to obtain eternal life."
"Some believe we already have that—through our God."
"Your God does not exist. If he does, then where is he now, pray tell? I don't see him doing much in the way of protecting his imperfect creation. Even if he were real, he could not stand against our great army. Our forces shall sweep over your planet in a great wave, destroying every mountain, rock, tree, and of course, all expendable creatures."
Over the old man's shoulder, Gibson saw a woman slowly walking down the beach. She wore a long, black gown that billowed in a train behind her, and as she approached him, he was immediately struck by her beauty. Her face was framed with delicate chestnut curls cropped just below her chin, and piercing sapphire eyes gazed back at him. Intense love and sadness swirled in the blue depths of those eyes, making his heart ache. Her silence told him more than words ever could.
"Take her hand, Gibson. Her destiny lies alongside your own. Together you shall be the ears and eyes of the new Kingdom, and you will be blessed to wield great power. One day your children of the new race will rule the fate of many."
Gibson brushed his fingers against hers, and she looked down and squeezed his hand in return. He felt her shaking. No, this is not our fate. I promise it will never happen. He willed her to hear him, and he believed she understood.
"Look at me, Gibson Praise. See me as I am," the old man commanded.
Gibson squinted as great flashes of white light flooded and broke the man's skin until he was completely transformed. Dark oval hollows took the place of his eyes, his nose disappeared, his mouth shrank, and his chin narrowed to a point. He stood now clothed in a robe of the most brilliant color Gibson had ever seen; it was blue and silver, yet shone glints of amber and turquoise.
"Kneel before me. Kneel before me and swear your honor," the man's voice boomed, though his lips did not move.
Gibson reached desperately for the woman's hand; her touch had briefly comforted him. But she was gone. Where she had stood, the red sand swirled from the ground into the wind. He stumbled to his knees. I am stronger than this. I won't let it beat me. I will never serve Them. I will stop it I will stop it
"I wash you clean of the dirt of your former life. You are born anew this day."
He touched Gibson's forehead, and tingling warmth spread from the crown of Gibson's head to the tips of his toes. His skin glowed in a soft, warm light.
"Welcome your new eyes, your new ears, and your new strength."
"NO…I…WILL…NOT…FOLLOW…YOU…I AM GIBSON PRAISE AND I WILL FIGHT YOU UNTIL THE DAY I DIE."
With greater strength than he had ever possessed, Gibson tore through the restraints that bound his head and arms. The vision morphed from reality to displaced images on the screen, and his consciousness returned to the room with the two technicians. One of them was injecting a long, metal syringe into his ankle. With incredible ease, he kicked through the thick strapping and metal clamps around his legs, and the technician flew backward helplessly after being struck in the face. Gibson jumped down from where he hung on the wall just as the other flew over to tackle him. Swiftly, he snatched the syringe from the floor and jammed the needle into the back of the man's neck before racing out of the room. I'm coming, William.
--
Somewhere in Virginia
55 days after
Sweat tricked down her forehead and her eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion. She was famished; she'd had nothing to eat in almost two days. Apparently, the one meal a day came after nightfall, and she'd already missed it when she arrived the night before. The assembly line work proved quickly to be painfully never-ending and monotonous, and her back and legs ached from hunching over the wooden table for hours.
The short, squinty-eyed overseer loomed over her for the fifth time to observe the finished work; and obviously dissatisfied with her progress, brandished his night stick in front of her eyes in silent threat. Dana hurriedly grabbed a pair of blades from the table beside her, bound them with three strips of leather, and thrust the bundle into the pile on her other side. The overseer sneered, cracked the stick across his palm, and continued down the aisle.
"I'm pretty fast with this. I can help you finish those," said the fair-skinned, freckled, sandy-haired woman standing behind Dana. She sharpened the blades quickly, leaving a mountainous pile beside her.
"Thank you… I'm just so tired."
"I understand…I don't know if this will help, but…it isn't so terrible here. I mean, it's better than being dead. And they aren't all as bad as him," the woman indicated the overseer with a tilt of her chin as he barked at someone two rows in front of them.
"What do you mean not as bad?"
"Well, Isaac brought you, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"He's the kindest. Sometimes, he sneaks us extra food and brings special things from outside. He feels sorry for us, and he doesn't agree with the Lord a lot of the time."
"When does the Lord come?"
"Every few weeks or so. He observes us while we work. The new ones are sent to bed with him for one night each. It's symbolic of us giving ourselves to him, or some shit like that. I know that sounds horrible, but it's just one night, and we've all done it. He should be back in a few days."
"Lauren told me he lives in that purple dome a few miles from here."
"Yes, he and the four other Lords live there. It's some kind of hospital camp for altering human DNA. That's all I know. We're just told that he's a powerful leader, and we have to worship him…sorry, I didn't catch your name, did I?"
"I'm Dana."
"I'm Sarah. I was afourth grade teacher. What did you do, Dana?"
"I was a doctor…Has anyone ever escaped from here?"
"…Not successfully," Sarah whispered nervously as her fingers sped up awkwardly to tie the blades faster.
"Sarah, I have to get out of here."
"We all have to get out of here!" she snapped.
"Listen," Dana whispered, "I think my husband is in that dome. I have to get him out of there before…he's changed, or worse. If you can help me find a way out, I'll come back for you."
"We'll be tortured and killed."
"If we're caught."
"They'd catch us."
"What about Isaac? Maybe he could help."
"No…he may feel sorry for us, but he'd never commit treason for us."
"I'm going to talk to him," Dana said hesitantly.
"And then he'll turn you in. You may as well sign your own death warrant."
--
56 days after
Dana paced her cell, chewing her fingernails as she threw anxious glances out the window at the shimmer of violet on the inky horizon. Lauren slept on her side in the far corner, snoring softly. He would be back soon to collect their trays and bowls from the meal. Yesterday, he'd come exactly two hours after bringing the food to remove the trash. Then he'd asked Dana if she'd needed anything. "If you ever want something, all you have to do is ask. I can get it for you." For the first time that night, she'd looked into his eyes and found something almost human: sadness, shame, compassion.
Would he really turn me in? Probably…But he might agree to help. It's my only chance—I have to ask. This is worth the risk.
Exactly on time, she heard the click of Isaac's boots on the stone staircase and watched silently as he approached out of the shadows, carrying a large trash bag.
"Trash and dishes," he said simply.
"Isaac…I need something," she whispered.
--
Near Washington, D.C.
53 days after
A shrill alarm rang through the long corridor menacingly. Somewhere, They were shouting, calling to one another in frantic voices, running after him. Gibson silently crept along the wall, quickly poking his head in each exam room. No, not here. Keep going. It's this way. He felt as though a string were attached at the center of his chest pulling him down an unseen path. Maybe it's William. It's helping me find him. When he came to a dead end and had to choose between right or left, he naturally veered to the left without any hesitation. Not much farther. As he turned the corner, he heard several footsteps pounding down the hall behind him, so he ducked into the closest, darkened room to avoid being seen. Someone drew a sharp breath behind him, and as he whipped around in a defensive posture, prepared to fight, he saw that it was merely another prisoner. A man hung bound to the wall in the same manner that Gibson had, and his eyes were glazed over robotically, focused on a blank screen. I'm going to see so many of them. I can't help them. I have to keep going. Time's running out—William…
Just as Gibson began to cautiously step out the door, he heard something that made him halt immediately.
"No, I would rather die…You'll never have me, you son of a bitch."
His voice…No. I imagined it.
The man continued to mumble, apparently conversing with the image he saw on the screen.
"Where's Scully? What have you done with her? What have you done…"
"Oh my God!" Gibson gasped.
--
Somewhere in Virginia
56 days after
"Please…Just let me get him out of there. I have to see him, I need to…even if it's one last time. I'll come back. If you do this for me, I give you my word that I will come back. I wouldn't let you suffer for me. You provide for the women here…it gives them hope…"
"If I do this, you have to promise…promise that you would return before the light of day. Even if you do not find whom you seek."
"I promise."
Isaac buried his face in his hands and leaned back against the stone wall. He had remained in the cell quietly listening to her story for over an hour. Judging by his look of shock when she'd first asked him, Dana had feared that he would slap her across the face and immediately inform the Lord of her escape plans. However, he had allowed her to continue speaking, giving her the adrenaline rush of hope. Her heart thudded rapidly while she waited anxiously for his response.
"…The Lord will be here in three days. I can release you tomorrow night after the meal if you can return by day break."
"I don't know if that's enough time—"
"I will wait for you. If you have not returned by one hour before the sun rises, I will inform my colleagues that you have escaped...Be assured that we would soon find you, and the consequences would be severe."
"Agreed."
--
Near Washington, D.C.
53 days after
Gibson fumbled with the control panel in his haste to lower the machine to the ground.
"Come on, damn it!"
He punched each button before he finally heard the motor whirring as the contraption slid down the wall.
"Mulder…can you hear me? Don't listen to him. You can still come back…All you have to do is force yourself to leave. Listen to my voice. I'm a friend," Gibson said evenly as he tried to restrain himself from violently shaking the man back to reality.
"No…not real."
"Yes, you're right. It isn't real."
Gibson glanced over at a tray of syringes beside the control panel. Mulder had not yet been injected. The technician probably ran from the room in the middle of the procedure when the alarm sounded. After a great deal of struggling, Gibson removed all of the restraints, and Mulder sank to the ground limply. I can't believe this is real. He was here—this entire time—he was here. Voices echoed down the hall. They were close. I won't go without him. Gibson could no longer contain his frustration; he slapped Mulder's cheek and firmly shook his shoulders.
"Mulder, open your eyes and look at me! Come back…for Scully. If you ever want to see her again, then listen to me and open your eyes NOW!"
Slowly and with great difficulty, Mulder blinked open his heavy eyelids. Gibson studied his face closely in the dim light, trying to see if he'd really left the dream.
"My wife and my daughter…I have to find them. Please help me. I need to get out of here. My family is in danger…" Mulder murmured.
"I'll help you, but you have to get up. They're coming. We need to get out of here before They find us."
Mulder nodded, and Gibson gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet.
"This way, My Lord. I think the unbeliever ran this way," a voice called from around the corner.
"Run!" Gibson hissed.