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kore_logs2014-06-16 07:58 pm
starbuckaroobanzai) wrote in kore_logs2014-06-16 07:58 pm
Entry tags:
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.]
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.]