Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.
A/N: Inspired by a very long wait filled with daydreaming and an X-Files book at the airport. Not a crossover.
If Only They Were Dreams
She sat with her luggage at the airport. Of course, there was nothing in her luggage. It was there for the effect that she was another teenager traveling alone, and now waiting for a parent to call on her cell phone and tell her to come down to arrivals.
She stared at her book. Stared, but did not read. She was too restless to read. She gave up and put her book away. Quickly, she replaced it with her old laptop. Her brother's mp3 player had more memory than the computer. However, it served its purpose. She pulled up the file, and re-read it. Then she read the details she had found. She glanced casually at her watch. He should be here soon. Was the plane delayed? Should she go check?
She looked around. Soon, she saw a familiar face. Make that five familiar faces. She'd seen all of them before. In her dreams, they'd all been sad. Afraid, even. They looked expectant now. The professional looking blond woman was standing by the defiant looking brunette girl. The three guys, the black man, the dark haired one that had once been traumatized – she could feel it under him, cured from his conscious, but never truly gone – and the young light haired one that seemed to look up to the other two. They all started waving at once. An older man waved back. Bingo. That was her target.
She always called them her targets. That helped her to keep it impersonal, even if her business wasn't. He had his luggage. It had been carry-on. No checked bags.
She stared a little, trying to get a feel for the proper timing. Not yet. There were reunions going on. He and his little family were talking about the trip he'd just been on. She would have to follow and wait.
The Las Vegas night air was cool as she stepped out into it. She followed the group to their car. She extended a mental ear.
Gotta think about that latest case. Poor girl. She was in the brunette's mind. Images followed. Wrong one.
Grissom might like to give some input on the latest death. That just can't be a suicide. The black man's mind. Still not right. She needed to find out where they were going. At least she knew her target's name, now.
Dinner. Maybe at Al's? The blond woman's. She said something to the older man. He smiled and agreed. So did everyone else. Her mind was already navigating the way to the restaurant.
She frowned. She had to get her target away from the others. It would be too hard to give him the message with the others around. She sighed. This was going to take more mental invasion than she liked doing. Mental invasion was fine, so long as she did surface thoughts and didn't stay long. Finding out normal information felt like looking at someone's dirty magazine. Guilt was not an uncommon feeling for her.
She got into her brother's car that she had borrowed. She was older – eighteen to be exact – but her brother had gotten the car for his birthday from her parents. She sighed. It was almost new, but he had gotten into a minor accident within three days of receiving his new present, causing a smashed front headlight. She would have been far more careful.
She got in, and drove to the restaurant. Maybe she could catch her target alone by chance. If not, she would have to go to his house. She sighed. All she knew was that he worked the graveyard shift. This was going to be a long night.
She approached the apartment door. He would be getting into bed soon. It was now or never. The others had taken forever to leave, and one of them – his mind had revealed him as Nick Stokes – had asked her if he'd seen her before and what she was doing. It had been close. She told him she had no idea where he would have seen her before, and that she was waiting for her best friend to get out of her ex-boyfriend's house so she could be taken home. It had, of course, been a bald faced lie. She had no friends. By all accounts, she was completely alone in the world.
She walked up and knocked on the door. She heard footsteps, and then a rattling that was probably a chain lock being opened. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
"Mr. Grissom?" She asked.
"Yes." He eyed her suspiciously.
"I need to tell you something of the utmost importance." She said quickly. No turning back now.
"Won't you come in?" He asked, almost surprised. She thought for a moment, slightly thrown by the question. No one ever asked her in.
Showing him the computer file might make him think it was a piece of fiction written by a girl with an overactive imagination. Besides. She wanted to get up early tomorrow. However, she didn't want the whole neighborhood to hear them. Both were equal difficulties. She sighed. The lesser of two evils would have to be the best choice.
"Yes please." The apartment was clean, but held several full bookshelves and the walls were covered in mounted butterflies. He led her to a table in the middle of the apartment.
"Now, may I ask a few questions of my own?" Grissom asked. She smiled. This was an interesting turn of events. She could start proving things before she even told him the story.
"My name is Morgan Careston. I am eighteen years old. No, my family has no idea I'm even out, but they don't really care. Yes, I have been following you tonight. I started following you at the airport, in fact. No, this information could not have been told with the others present. I am quite aware that you are a forensic scientist, and judging by your walls, you have a specialty in entomology. I also know you were at a forensic seminar at MIT. You are also especially surprised that I anticipated all of your questions. Is this right?" She said.
"Yes. Yes that is right." Grissom answered, clearly spooked. "What did you want to tell me, now?"
"At precisely two forty seven AM, you will hear a knock at your door. Under no circumstances should you answer it. Should you answer it, there will be a tremendous tragedy. I shouldn't tell you any more, as it would cause some – other – problems." Morgan said calmly.
"I'm sorry. I need some tea. Do you want any?" He asked. He clearly didn't know what to make of her. In Morgan's own right, she didn't know what to make of him. Every other target shooed her away within moments of her knocking at the door. He was willing to serve her tea.
"No thank you. I try to keep all of my assignments impersonal. I need to go now." She said with finality. She quickly pressed a finger to the tabletop.
"Wait. Do you need an excuse for your parents? I can tell them you were perfectly safe." He was trying to get more information from her. Or he was too shaken to make sure he didn't open the door when she said he shouldn't.
"I assure you, I won't be missed." Morgan rose to leave. He stopped her.
"Why can't you tell me more?"
"I can't tell you that. It's like thinking about an elephant. Once I tell you, you won't be able to forget." She turned, and walked out the door. Morgan gazed off towards her car. She had the most ominous feeling in her gut. It was all-too familiar.
Grissom stared after the strange girl. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened.
She had been non-descript enough. Her mousy brown hair hung limply past her shoulders. Her skin was pale, and her piercing blue eyes seemed sunken in her thin face. She was tiny for eighteen. She barely came up to Grissom's upper arm. She also seemed haunted by demons in her own life that would follow her wherever she went.
Grissom was also very disturbed by her comment regarding her family. They didn't know she was out, but they wouldn't care. Grissom sighed, suddenly weighed down by the new information. He sat down on his couch.
Maybe he shouldn't have taken the night off. He glanced up at the clock. Two forty five. If he left now, he could miss the knock that was promised. He grabbed his coat and keys, and then dashed to the bedroom for his cell phone.
As he grabbed the doorknob, he heard a knock on the door. It was too late. He had already jerked it open. He happened to glance at the clock as whoever it was dragged him into unconsciousness. Two forty seven.
Morgan sat up with a jolt. She stared at the clock. It was six in the morning. Mr. Grissom would have had the knock just over three hours ago. She shook herself. She couldn't shake the ominous feeling. But she never had that kind of wake-up call.
Are you trying to contact me, Mr. Grissom?
Yes. He responded almost immediately.
That's the first time an assignment has ever tried to contact me first. You learn quickly.
I try to always be a quick study. What just happened?
I don't know. Tell me where you are. Targets never continue contact unless something has gone horribly wrong.
I planned to go into work. I guess I left too late because the knock came as I was opening the door to leave. I'm tied up and gagged in the trunk of someone's car.
There's no way to avoid the inevitable, I guess. Here's what you need to know. The creature that has taken you is not human. It is a demon that feeds on human memory and consciousness. If I had told you last night, you would have unknowingly opened a mental door for it. The way I told you, you had at least a fighting chance.
So what do I do to get out of this situation?
Nothing. There is nothing you can do. I can do some things, but very little. I can help, but it won't be easy, and I can't be sure that it will be reversible.
I'll take my chances.
You're the first to ever say that. You don't even know the results yet. You're also probably the calmest person I've ever worked with.
I know what happens when people panic. I try to avoid it.
That's good. I'll try to contact a friend of yours to start investigating.
Wait! Aren't you going to help?
There's nothing I can do until the last second. That's when the gates will be open. You'll have to sit tight for several more hours. And I promise you. Those next several hours will be the closest to hell that you have ever experienced.
Morgan! Morgan, don't go! I don't want to be alone with this – this thing! Don't leave me!
I'm never truly gone, Gilbert Grissom.
Sara. Sara Sidle. Isn't it odd that you haven't heard from Grissom yet? Morgan hated this. She hated being in someone's head without their permission. Hated planting thoughts. Hated the whole bad business of her powers.
Yeah, come to think of it. Where is Grissom?
That's right. Don't you need to check on him? Call his apartment? Go over and ask him to breakfast. That would assuage your doubts.
Yeah. I will do that. I'll ask him to breakfast.
Good girl. Go right now. Go see. Maybe even bring Nick and Warrick. Morgan quickly gleaned names from Sara's conscious thought.
Yeah, yeah. Nick and Warrick would have fun. I'll go right now. Morgan could hear Sara getting up and leaving. Mission accomplished? Maybe.
Sara stared in shock at the crime scene that Grissom's apartment had become. The whole place looked ransacked. Pictures were shattered on the floor. Books were strewn everywhere. Worst of all, Grissom was gone. Nick and Warrick continued to process the scene. Sara stared. She couldn't process the scene in her mind, much less the scientific aspect.
"Hey, check this out. Whole fingerprint." Warrick said, pulling a fingerprint off the table.
"That's the only thing we're gonna get from Grissom's place. It's pretty clean. Nothing else. And I somehow doubt that Grissom just up and left like this. Plus, there's no sign of forced entry." Nick said. He was worried, even though he didn't show it.
"So, Grissom knew his kidnapper." Sara concluded.
"Probably." Warrick confirmed.
"Well, we should go run that print back at the lab. It might be a lead." Nick was already getting up to go.
Sara suddenly couldn't shake an ominous feeling.
Morgan was sitting on her bed.
Morgan.
Hello, Mr. Grissom.
Morgan we just stopped. Where am I?
A warehouse somewhere.
I'm scared. I'm never scared.
Don't worry.
I'm worrying.
Well, stop. Worrying will make it worse.
I can't stop.
Your friends will be there soon. Try to stay calm.
I'm calm. We're going inside.
I know.
I'm not really calm, Morgan.
I know that, too.
I'm scared.
I know.
"Sara, come check this out. The fingerprint got a match." Warrick called Sara over.
"Whose is it?"
"A girl at the high school. Her fingerprints were in as part of a school project back in middle school."
"How long ago?"
"Almost six years. She'd be eighteen now. Her name is Morgan Careston. Not too much on her. No serious allegations, but there's some kind of presumed connection between her and about ten people who are in comas right now. They all were kidnapped after she saw them." Warrick finished.
"How long has this been going on?" Sara asked, suddenly curios.
"About four years."
"Ten people in four years? That's a lot for a teenage girl. Think she has anything to do with them?"
"It's a good start. We'll get Brass and go question her." Warrick said, getting up from the computer.
"Is Morgan Careston in?" Detective Brass asked the blond teenage boy who answered the door.
"Yeah. What do you want to talk to her for?" the boy responded, rudely.
"We need to ask her some questions regarding a case."
"Mom! Morgan did something bad!" The boy called back into the house. An equally blond, middle-aged woman came to the door.
"What did she do now?" the woman, presumably the mother, asked.
"Nothing that we know of. We just need to ask her some questions." Brass replied, calmly.
"Attic bedroom. She's grounded, so don't ask her to come out." The woman said, let Brass, Sara and Warrick in, and then left.
Sara and Warrick followed Brass up the staircase to a staircase at the end of the hall. They climbed it. The door at the top was jerked open before they could knock.
"Hello. I've been expecting you." The girl said flatly.
"A little cliché, if I do say so myself." Brass replied.
"I can't help it. Come in. I'll explain as much as I can." All three CSI's entered the Spartan bedroom. There were no posters, no colors in the paint job, no pretty bedspread. Nothing was there to suggest that someone even lived in the room. Sara inspected the bookshelf. The few books that were there were decidedly strange.
"ESP, The Sixth Sense, UFO's, the Occult – you don't really believe in any of this, do you?" Sara asked her.
"Only because I have experienced it." Morgan replied softly. "Please, sit down wherever." She gestured to the few sitting spaces in the room. Namely, the bed, and a small wooden chair near the desk. Morgan herself sat in the window seat. It was the only colorful spot in the room.
"Ms. Careston, we-" Brass started
" – found a fingerprint that matched mine in Mr. Grissom's apartment. You also know that I have an obscure connection to ten kidnap cases. I knew you weren't so foolish as to miss such an obvious bit of help. However, don't you find its placement on the table a little odd?" She said, mysteriously.
"Yeah. You don't just find an index finger print in such an unnatural position unless…" Warrick began making the connection almost immediately.
"Unless it was put there on purpose." Morgan completed the connection. "As you heard from my mother, I'm grounded. I can't just leave my room. I needed you to come to me."
"Thus, the use of the fingerprint that you knew would be on file. Clever." Sara said, catching the drift of what she was saying.
"Precisely. I need to show you the file I wrote on my vision." Morgan said, lifting and opening a file in the windowsill.
"Vision? You mean like seeing the future? Come on. That stuff doesn't exist." Sara scoffed immediately.
"Explain, then, how I was able to plant the idea of getting Mr. Grissom into your head. It wasn't there before." Morgan replied, testily. "Would you have ever thought to check?"
"That doesn't prove anything. I could have thought of that on my own." Sara's voice began to rise.
Explain how I could do this. Morgan projected her thoughts into the minds of all present.
All gasped.
"It's not so much that I want these powers. It's that I was given them for reasons I don't – and probably never will – fully understand. I do what I can." She raised her pale hands in a gesture of helplessness.
Sara picked up a framed picture on the nightstand. It showed the perfect nuclear family. Mother, Father, Brother, Sister and a little cocker spaniel. The two parents were standing behind the boy. Morgan was off to the side. Something seemed very wrong about the picture.
"How do you get a brown haired girl from two parents with white-blond hair?" Warrick asked, voicing Sara's question.
"You don't." Morgan replied.
A/N: I like to leave you hanging with a story like this…