kore_logs | and we hauled our bones 'long troubling roads, and didn't none of us know why

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and we hauled our bones 'long troubling roads, and didn't none of us know why

Who: Dana Scully, and you!
When: Day 203
Where: Absolutely anywhere you like. She'll be roaming.
What: What's the first thing you do when you wake up in a strange, deeply suspicious place with no memory of how you got there or why you've been taken? Find Mulder. It's probably his fault anyway.

[It would have been nice to awaken just once in something approaching quietude, not to the ringing of a telephone or the shrill of her alarm or the oppressive darkness of a night on which thorned thoughts creep in the cracks between window and sill and shake her awake, or — apparently — an empty room she doesn't recognise, white-washed by mercury lamps and conspicuous absences. Scully hurtles over the stretch of no man's land between sleep and wakefulness with a speed that alarms even her, pushing herself up with a sharp, quiet gasp, all ruffled hair and confusion.

Her first thoughts are not reassuring. Bright lights, pain, the inexplicable voice — train cars, a spacecraft, whatever it had really been. The transition between the trunk of Duane Barry's car and a hospital bed. Things not worth considering. Especially as this couldn't, couldn't possibly be that. It didn't hurt. All she is is thirsty, not drugged — somehow — and not altitude-sick. That still leaves too many unsavoury options for her liking. She remembers the scalding shower in the bare, sterile room at Ft. Marlene, where the CDC burned her clothes. She'd been angry, but it had faded quickly, because it hadn't been the first time.

She can do this. The same here, get up and find out what's going on and what to do about it. It's almost familiar. That thought alone makes her stomach turn in a vague, flipflopping echo of other moments, still kinder than the chemical ache and nauseous yaw of chemotherapy.

Scully, who has long since ceased to think of herself as Dana, especially at times like these, pushes herself to her feet and is surprised to note that her clothing has not been discarded in favour of a hospital gown or a prisoner's uniform — that, in fact, it nearly all remains intact, down to the presence of badge and keys but notably lacking her cellular phone, which doesn't matter — she knows Mulder's and her mother's numbers by heart, nestled in her brain across from the number for the Bureau switchboard, and they're the only people she might need to call. Everything else in her life blossoms out from there.

She pauses in her examination of herself when the device on the table catches her eye. It's recognizable, familiar if more technologically advanced than she's accustomed to. That says a great deal to her in and of itself, speaks to the Consortium and whatever other self-interested parties with improbably vast resources move in the shadows. She doesn't smell cigarette smoke but that doesn't necessarily mean anything at all.

She picks up the device with some hesitation, turning it over in her hands. A communication device, clearly, and that alone is reason not to trust it. She knows all about how calls can be traces and surreptitiously listened to by anyone with the time and know-how. It's almost enough to convince her to set it back down, but then, maybe she wants to talk to her captors. Maybe she wants to lure them out. Get some answers, if nothing else. She slips it into her pocket with a determined sigh, deciding that she'll ditch it once she's out of here, throw it into a field or the nearest body of water, smash it with a rock, something.

Until then, she figures they probably have more than one way to tell if she's up and moving, whoever they are. (When did she start becoming so paranoid? Probably when she started waking up in places like this, especially without Mulder around to catch her and set her level again. Is he here too? He must be. What good is one of them without the other to use as leverage?)

That the door handle turns easily only further obfuscates things. There's something afoot here that makes her like the place all the less, something unsurprising that hides in the spaces between the letters of her name next to the door. At least that'll make things easier. She's self-conscious about the click of her heels as she moves warily off down the hallway, searching the nameplates for anything familiar. If Mulder is here, she'll find him. She was sent to him seven years ago a fighter, to challenge him, and he'd won her over with unconscious ease almost immediately, made herself his partner, his gallóglach, and she won't let him down now, either.]

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[Someone in armor, bearing short swords on their back, isn't the smoothest introduction to the Center, though it does set a precedent. Meja was, at first, taking pains to glamour her armor and not alarm anyone too much. A great majority of the people in the Center don't seem to come from places where swords and armor are common attire.

But within the last few weeks, Meja's more or less dropped her glamour to focus on other things, and her armor is still very much visible when she hears the click of heels on the Center's floor. She's half on her way to the library, half wandering just to wander, and turns to face the source of the sound.

(Or the hallway she imagines to be the source. At times, sound is difficult to pinpoint. But it does appear to be the unfamiliar woman.)

Her silver wolf's head epaulets, gleaming and impressive on her shoulders, might look incredibly daunting, but there's currently a rat laying on one side of them. It makes them look far less dangerous. Meja smiles, not even thinking about all of that, and tries to look friendly. She even throws a small wave in for good measure, and makes sure to stick to English until she knows more about the situation.]

Hello.

[Scully stares. Under the circumstances she thinks she's owed a bit of open wariness, politeness secondary to the establishment of both boundaries and understanding. I might be at a disadvantage, her askance gaze and ready poise say, but don't think I'll let you get close without a damn good reason. It's really only the weapon and the armour that do it, with regards to their purpose — she's seen stranger things and met stranger people.]

Hi.

[It's not a timid response. Scully hasn't been allowed timidity since med school. Being challenging comes naturally. It has, in fact, been necessary, given how disinclined people are to taking her seriously in her chosen field, courtesy her sex and her size first and foremost. After a while, the claws come out almost by default. Circumstantially, they fit better here than they might elsewhere. She lets her tone carry as much, her unwillingness to let uncertainty, or any of this, win out without a fight. She lets that statement rest between them a few moments before she speaks again.]

I'm looking for someone. A man, six foot, brown hair. His name is Fox Mulder and he might–

[–a pang of worry–]

He might need help. His bandages might need changing.

[She doesn't know what connection this woman may have to what has brought her here, but even though trust doesn't come easily, the questions do. The appeal to sympathy. Either way she's bound to learn something.]

Some answers would be nice, too, for a change.

[It's always statements like that that make Meja most annoyed at the Machine — pulling people away from others they care about, at pivotal times. She's away from Eloise, but Eloise is her løytnant and she can take care of their duties for a while if Meja goes missing. She has, in the past, when things came up. A friend in bandages? Why does the Machine do this to people?

Appealing to Meja's sympathy is easy.]

I'm sorry. If he's here, I haven't seen him. [That this woman is holding together shows promise. This place tears at you in the long run, not in the short run. But answers? Answers she can do.] This is the Science Center. I don't have any good answers for you, I'm afraid. We've all been brought here against our will. [And some find it more vexing than others.] Are you injured?

[Might as well get that question out of the way. Many people do arrive with terrible wounds.]

No. No, I'm fine.

[There's an edge of distance to Scully's voice, an undertone of realisation. She'd noted earlier that she wasn't hurt, and it had surprised her then, but it seems so much more sinister now. She'd come back from her abduction half-dead and bearing the scars of her ordeal; this is different. This is gentler even than the other unimaginable. It isn't comforting in the slightest. She looks away, gaze distant, introspective as she stews over the possibilities and draws hardly anything but blanks. Her job for the last nearing on seven years has been to explain the unexplainable; she doesn't like not having a working theory.

Scully looks back up, still wary, but clearly more willing to engage.]

Alright, then who brought us here? And why?

[Again, a slew of unsatisfyingly multitudinous possibilities present themselves. The why could be easier than the who. Scully is used to being a danger, a thorn in the side of powerful men who would just as soon see her disappear. That she seems to have done, and not for the first time, isn't a surprise -- and it shows. If nothing else, that she's taking this more or less in stride is proof that she's used to dealing with the dangerous and the unusual.]

[One of the hardest things about newcomers is that they have so many questions, and so many of those questions aren't easily answered. Or, in most cases, they can't be answered at all, and Meja's face mirrors her inner frustration briefly. Why do they know so little when they've been here so long? This place is more secretive than a Svartalvar fortress.]

In the beginning, when I arrived, it was scientists. They were studying this machine, and, as far as we know, it was the machine that brought us here. But now? We've come to their facility, and they're nowhere to be found. All we have is the machine itself.

[Which is frustratingly little.]

I don't know why it keeps bringing people here. It does seem to be the method. [She shakes her head a little.] Jeg beklager — I'm sorry, it's not the greatest thing to hear when you come here.

Scientists.

[Scully sucks on the inside of her cheek, eyebrow arching. She's thinking of train cars and sterile, chemical-scented rooms. Men in lab coats. It's not an unfamiliar scenario, at least as it's playing out in her head. It's dangerous to make assumptions, but then she's years -- years -- of evidence, all spiralling back to the same source. Until it's proven to her that this isn't another of those cases, there are certain assumptions to be made. First and foremost: trust no one. Listen, but listening isn't the same thing as trusting.]

No, thank you. Thank you, that's...

[As helpful as she might expect. Scully heaves a sigh and runs a hand over her face, squeezing her eyes shut. She pinches the bridge of her nose and gives a soft, angry laugh.]

Believe me, I've heard worse news. I suppose they don't just let people walk out the front door, either.

Ja, well. [Meja gives a dry, humorless chuckle.] You'll have to find the front door first. Very few people seem to find external doors, and don't discover anything outside of the building when they do. A... seemingly endless forest, only.

[She's just full of great news.]

One that leads back to the building. I'm admittedly curious how they accomplished that trick. As well as all of their others... In time, we might get our answers. But nothing seems to be coming quickly.

[That doesn't bother Meja personally — mostly because time feels different to someone hundreds of years old — but she doesn't want people to stay trapped here forever. Everyone has lives to get back to. Some may go, but others take their place.]

I'm Meja, by the way.

[She offers a hand to shake.]

[Scully takes the proferred hand after only a few moments' hesitation. Her handshake is firm out of habit, the habit itself formed by necessity -- in her line of work, a firm handshake and a straight spine are all some men will respect. Plenty of them don't even then.

She offers a wry smile as the handshake ends. Would be a pleasure under other circumstances...]

Scully. Dana Scully.

[There's no point in holding back: they know her name already, whoever has taken her (the nebulous "them", this "machine"; whatever the truth actually is). That implies they know plenty else about her too, and whether or not this woman can be trusted is rendered irrelevant by that fact alone. There's a part of Scully that does want to trust her. She recognises the wry humour, the world-weariness. In a way it reminds her of herself.]

I'm a medical doctor and an FBI agent, maybe I can be of some help.

[Why not? It's worked plenty of times before as an information-gathering method, and if this woman is telling the truth, and there are other people trapped here too, then Scully wants to help.]

It's nice to meet you. [She means it, too. Meja's always glad to meet someone new. Even here, where meeting someone new means that someone was kidnapped. Humans, sometimes especially so, if this woman is human. She's always been a champion of her own race. Sometimes she feels more human than Valkyrie.] We don't have many doctors around here. I'm certain you'll be helping sooner rather than later, unfortunately, if you're willing. We often have... small 'crises', you might say.

[Or not so small, but they usually didn't last long. Luckily. Although the length still meant that, during some of them, people died or were hurt. Even the more mundane changes hid danger.]

Would you like me to show you where the infirmary is? All of our medical supplies, that we know of, are there. Although many take to storing a small amount in their rooms, just in case.

That would be appreciated, thank you.

[She isn't inclined to mention that she hasn't really treated anyone -- beyond herself and Mulder -- for anything in a long time. That she's almost more familiar now with dead humans than with live ones. If she were presenting a résumé maybe it would be important to state, but she's not even completely sure she wants the job, such as it is, just yet.]

An idea of what you mean by 'crises' would be good too. I'd like to know what I'm getting into.

[And yet, she so rarely has the good fortune. What she's requesting, essentially, is a briefing. Mulder, whatever else he is -- and here she feels a pang that she swallows down, pursing her lips -- isn't particularly good at them. That, at least, doesn't have to persist past the... change in venue. She's eager to get back to him, and that means using all tools at her disposal, including the ones she's not accustomed to having.]

[Even if she doesn't want the job, knowing where the infirmary is is just a good idea. Meja leads the way at an even pace, armored boots clicking on the floor as she goes. Roland squirms around on her shoulder, secure on his silvery perch.]

Ja, well... Each one is very different from the next. We can't predict when they hit; it seems to be at random. One week, we had monsters tearing at our doors, trying to rip our guts out. Another week, everyone was given a gift box, and if they opened it one of their senses disappeared. Thankfully, they don't last forever.

[She glances to the side, to see Scully's reaction.]

It all sounds far-fetched, I know.

No! No.

[Scully's brow furrows, and she gives a helpless gesture, reaching up to squeeze the bridge of her nose.]

No, to be completely honest, I've heard stranger.

[Maybe she should be proud of that, proud of the life she's been able to lead, especially here, where by the look of it she might be justified, but it's hard to escape the automatic reaction, the quiet disbelief on her own part with regards to where her life has taken her, on the one hand, and the certainty of disbelief on the parts of other parties too. That kind of talk doesn't usually endear her to anyone -- or, more aptly, it doesn't endear Mulder to anyone, seeing as he's more frequently on the receiving end of others' incredulity, ridicule, and ire. It's bad for business. A certain image is required, and a certain amount of decorum required to uphold it.

It's not actually that difficult. Mostly you've just got to avoid talking about it like it's real. If all of this is, though... well, maybe she's actually got the sort of experience that might be needed here. Maybe that's why she's here in the first place.]

Really?

[Meja doesn't sound doubtful. Curious, maybe, and slightly relieved, but not doubtful. It's the hardest for someone to fit in here when they haven't seen an ounce of this sort of thing before. Maybe Scully will be all right. Or as 'all right' as you can be, anyway.]

Well, that's good, to be honest. We sometimes get people who don't believe a word we say, and they tend to ignore our advice with... unpleasant results.

[And then inevitably someone says 'I told you so' and someone else has to help them patch up a bleeding hand or leg.]

[ Dean's been having a... weird go of it. He doesn't remember Cas; apparently he's been sleeping with a demon, which is fucking ridiculous, except that something about it rings true. Something about it reminds him of being tired of trying to frame everything into black and white, either/or, family or foe. The lines aren't that easy; the man he modeled himself on didn't care, didn't even really ever see him.

But how could he think that? How can he miss people who he doesn't even remember, can't even place into one second of his life?

It's hard being at home, in his room, because Cas and Meg are kind of everywhere, and he doesn't know what to do with that, so he leaves. He's not really going anywhere in particular when he rounds a corner and sees an(other) unfamiliar face. Hopefully she's not his long lost sister he has no memory of. ]

Don't think I've seen you before. You new?

[If asked, Scully might profess that she's had a weirder go of it. For once, she might not actually be right in that regard. Her memory, for what that matters, is still intact -- though it might be better that it weren't. It hasn't been long enough since Côte d'Ivoire and the strange craft buried in the sand for her life to turn on its head again, but then, for all she knows, that might be part and parcel of why she's here. Because she's seen too much. Because she's seen even more than Mulder has seen, and worse, documented it.

The sum of that suspicion is what earns Dean the wary once-over as much as anything. As much as it is natural to be suspicious of passers-by upon waking up in a strange place, with no memory of having arrived there.]

Among other things, yes.

[It's obvious that she's not particularly happy about it, either. After a few more moments of consideration, she decides that if they have her here, the likelihood that they know who she is already is quite high, and so she fetches her badge from inside her jacket.]

Agent Dana Scully, FBI. I don't suppose you have any information as to what I'm doing here and how I can stop doing it as soon as humanly possible?

[I'm a little busy, her tone says, her general standoffishness only mostly masking the tight edge of worry audible in her voice and visible in her posture.]

[ Oh, wow. Check that out. Probably a real FBI agent, though a glance at her badge doesn't tell Dean all that much, and he's not all that interested in looking any closer. That guy at Moondoor, Charlie's LARP thing, could tell that Sam and Dean's badges were fakes, but Dean can't do that, anyway. It's very likely that she's lying to him the same way he lied to umpteen randoms throughout his time as an of-age hunter, but it's not like it matters here at all. ]

Dean Winchester. And, sort of. You're stuck here. Once you check in, you can't check out, that kind of thing.

[ Except for when they kick you out, but you know. First thing's first. ]

Welcome to the Hotel California. Yeah.

[Scully sets her jaw stubbornly, slipping the badge back into her pocket. Clearly she's familiar with the concept. It's reasonable to infer that this isn't the first time she's been hauled off somewhere against her will, though -- and she doesn't know this yet -- current circumstances aren't quite comparable to a kidnapping or an abduction or forceful detainment by the CDC.]

Thank you, Mr. Winchester. What can you tell me of what we're up against?

[She'd expect armed guards; at this point alien bounty hunters wouldn't surprise her. Whether or not she should be proud of the fact that she doubts she could be surprised by much of anything anymore.]

[ Dean blinks in surprise because he's generally used to keeping shit quiet around the people with the real badges, with the general assumption that they'd lock him up if he tried to tell the truth -- and they have, actually, a couple of times. They even committed him once. ]

Machine that's pulling people here and no one knows how to control it, and our babysitters are some scientists that might've skipped town and left us on our own here; we're not sure yet.

[ He licks over his lips and then nods at where she tucked her badge away. ]

This sort of thing old news to you?

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and we hauled our bones 'long troubling roads, and didn't none of us know why

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