Olivia Dunham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flip_the_lights) wrote2012-11-06 06:15 pm
flip_the_lights) wrote2012-11-06 06:15 pm
[Liberty Island, Manhatan, NY]
Time doesn't pass in hours anymore. It passes in meals, in doctor's appointments, in the on-and-off of the lights, and the number of needles in her arm.
Everyone speaks to her so gently, like they're trying to teach arithmetic to a small child. One and one is two. Two plus two is four. No, sweetheart, your sister isn't alive. This is Lincoln Lee, your partner -- you recognize him, don't you?
Olivia stares straight ahead and answers all their questions in a flat monotone, no longer bothering to yank on the restraints anymore. That is not my mother. My mother died when I was fourteen. The Charlie Francis that I knew was murdered. I have never won an Olympic medal for marksmanship. None of these are me. This is not my life.
But this is your life, Agent Dunham, they insist. Every one of them claims she suffered a psychotic break during the opera house shootout, most likely triggered by head trauma. She isn't from an alternate universe right next door to theirs. Surely she must hear how absurd that sounds.
You think I'm trying to convince you you're someone you're not? asks one of the doctors. Why would I do that?
Olivia swallows. I don't know.
The drugs are the worst. She can't place a pattern to where and when they'll happen: sometimes they wheel in the equipment directly after her latest psychological evaluation, while other times they fetch her from her holding cell. It's always a series of shots and something like a blood transfusion, every part of it searing her body like a fire she can't control, making her stomach churn and her head swim.
Please, she always whispers. Please don't do this.
They ignore her.
On the way to her sixth treatment, her arm rests limp in the hand of her escort. He doesn't notice the extra attention she pays to his fingers on the keypad, the one that opens and closes the elevator doors. Once she's on the table, everything proceeds as usual: she offers her standard weak-voiced protestation, flinches and tenses as the needle goes in, shuts her eyes tight to try and ward off the pain.
When they administer the third injection, though, her eyes fly back open, wide, too wide. "I don't feel so good," she manages, and hauls in a desperate gasp of air. "I can't -- I can't breathe -- "
They're so busy unstrapping her restraints that they don't bother to remove the needle first. Olivia seizes it, jumps to her feet, and stabs it through the neck of the closest doctor.
Everything after that blurs into alarms and gunshots. She sprints through the facility hallways, disarms a guard long enough to get his gun, keeps running as she slams through doors and opens the elevator. It spits her out into the warm night air. Wherever she's being held, it's near forest dense enough to hide her for a hundred feet, until --
She stumbles to a halt, arms windmilling hard enough to carry herself backward three quick steps.
Until it opens up on a cliff that plummets straight for the Hudson River. Breathlessness no longer feigned, she looks up and over her shoulder at the searchlights; high above her, the Statue of Liberty -- still bronze, its bluish patina buffed away -- points her torch toward a circling helicopter.
Either she stays to be remade against her will, or she makes it home...or she dies as she plunges into the surf.
Olivia turns around, takes three running steps, and vaults into the water.
By the time she makes it across the Hudson, she's too exhausted to do anything for several hours. Dawn creeps over Manhatan as she tucks herself in an alleyway, shivering hard, waiting until she has the strength to stand up. Once she does, she makes her way to a line of cabs parked under a bridge.
Just like the buses, you need a Show Me to get a ride, but the cab driver she chooses is open to negotiation after he sees her gun. His name is Henry; he has a family, a wife and a daughter. Olivia doesn't have the luxury to feel bad about hijacking his car. Right now, she just needs to get home.
Their first stop is a clothing store. Holding his Show Me hostage -- all it takes is a glance to memorize his address -- Olivia sends him inside to get her something to wear that isn't a hospital gown. As she tears open the bags and shimmies into a new shirt and pants, Henry says, "Nice ink. What's it mean?"
She looks up, sharply. "What?"
Henry gestures. "Tattoo on the back of your neck," he says. "Looks like a sun of some kind."
Olivia can feel herself going pale. She presses her fingers to the back of her neck, struggling to keep her composure. "They must have done it to me," she whispers. "She must have one. The other one must have a tattoo."
By this point, Henry knows all about how she's on the run from a government facility, and clearly doesn't believe a word of it. Olivia can't handle another placating voice trying to soothe her away from perceived insanity; she snaps at him, demanding he stop, insisting she isn't crazy. He still doesn't look convinced, but frankly, that isn't her problem. Not as long as he takes her where she needs to go and doesn't do anything stupid.
Right now, she can only think of one place to go: the opera house where she first crossed over.
The police officers surrounding the Orpheum recognize her on sight. Even though they assume she must be there on behalf of Fringe Division, they're quite firm about refusing to let her go inside. "We should step back," one of them says.
"I'll only be a minute -- "
"No, no, there's no time for that," the officer insists. "The protocol's already in effect."
"Yeah, I understand," says Olivia, trying once again to breeze past.
"You can't," repeats the officer -- and as he does, a low hiss sounds within the building. Olivia stops, staring at the clouds of white smoke that begin to billow around the entrance. This time, when the officer pushes her back, she moves without hesitating.
The fog seems to thicken in front of her eyes: not in density, but as if it's sinking lower, changing back into a liquid that roils out of the opera house like a tidal wave. A yellowish tint begins to form at its edges. Its path slows, turning to syrup, turning to a hard crystalline shell that envelops the whole building like an iceberg.
Amber, she remembers someone calling it. The quarantine method they use when a spot is beyond repair. There's no way to break it once it's been activated. After the news that four people disappeared into thin air inside the Orpheum, of course they'd want to contain the perceived breach.
She wants to claw at the stone, slam her hands against it like it's another glass partition. Under the watchful eye of the cops, all she does is whisper, "No," to her red-haired reflection in the surface of the stone.
Massive Dynamic's her next option, but to get down to Chelsea, they'll need extra gas. As Henry refills the cab's tank, Olivia takes the opportunity to duck into the restroom.
Like every gas station bathroom, it's filthy, the lights buzzing with a half-broken hum and the walls splashed with graffiti. She can barely get a good look at herself through the scratches on the mirror. Olivia doesn't need fine details, though; all she needs is proof, as she draws her hair into her fist and twists to see the back of her neck.
At first, she can't spot anything. Desperate, she pushes at her skin, trying to drag it around into view.
Then her fingers brush against something dark that isn't just a crack in the mirror, and she freezes. As if following an unwritten direction, her fingernails curve inward, hard enough to leave red marks alongside the black ink when she finally manages to relax her grip.
It's such a small violation. Barely the size of a quarter. It's not even the worst thing their needles have done to her.
(Why would they try to convince Olivia she's someone she's not?)
Mechanically, Olivia lets her hair fall back over the tattoo, pushes open the door of the single bathroom stall, and -- isolated, alone, hidden under the flickering lights that cannot decide whether to turn on or off -- presses her forehead to the door as she starts to sob.
Everyone speaks to her so gently, like they're trying to teach arithmetic to a small child. One and one is two. Two plus two is four. No, sweetheart, your sister isn't alive. This is Lincoln Lee, your partner -- you recognize him, don't you?
Olivia stares straight ahead and answers all their questions in a flat monotone, no longer bothering to yank on the restraints anymore. That is not my mother. My mother died when I was fourteen. The Charlie Francis that I knew was murdered. I have never won an Olympic medal for marksmanship. None of these are me. This is not my life.
But this is your life, Agent Dunham, they insist. Every one of them claims she suffered a psychotic break during the opera house shootout, most likely triggered by head trauma. She isn't from an alternate universe right next door to theirs. Surely she must hear how absurd that sounds.
You think I'm trying to convince you you're someone you're not? asks one of the doctors. Why would I do that?
Olivia swallows. I don't know.
The drugs are the worst. She can't place a pattern to where and when they'll happen: sometimes they wheel in the equipment directly after her latest psychological evaluation, while other times they fetch her from her holding cell. It's always a series of shots and something like a blood transfusion, every part of it searing her body like a fire she can't control, making her stomach churn and her head swim.
Please, she always whispers. Please don't do this.
They ignore her.
On the way to her sixth treatment, her arm rests limp in the hand of her escort. He doesn't notice the extra attention she pays to his fingers on the keypad, the one that opens and closes the elevator doors. Once she's on the table, everything proceeds as usual: she offers her standard weak-voiced protestation, flinches and tenses as the needle goes in, shuts her eyes tight to try and ward off the pain.
When they administer the third injection, though, her eyes fly back open, wide, too wide. "I don't feel so good," she manages, and hauls in a desperate gasp of air. "I can't -- I can't breathe -- "
They're so busy unstrapping her restraints that they don't bother to remove the needle first. Olivia seizes it, jumps to her feet, and stabs it through the neck of the closest doctor.
Everything after that blurs into alarms and gunshots. She sprints through the facility hallways, disarms a guard long enough to get his gun, keeps running as she slams through doors and opens the elevator. It spits her out into the warm night air. Wherever she's being held, it's near forest dense enough to hide her for a hundred feet, until --
She stumbles to a halt, arms windmilling hard enough to carry herself backward three quick steps.
Until it opens up on a cliff that plummets straight for the Hudson River. Breathlessness no longer feigned, she looks up and over her shoulder at the searchlights; high above her, the Statue of Liberty -- still bronze, its bluish patina buffed away -- points her torch toward a circling helicopter.
Either she stays to be remade against her will, or she makes it home...or she dies as she plunges into the surf.
Olivia turns around, takes three running steps, and vaults into the water.
By the time she makes it across the Hudson, she's too exhausted to do anything for several hours. Dawn creeps over Manhatan as she tucks herself in an alleyway, shivering hard, waiting until she has the strength to stand up. Once she does, she makes her way to a line of cabs parked under a bridge.
Just like the buses, you need a Show Me to get a ride, but the cab driver she chooses is open to negotiation after he sees her gun. His name is Henry; he has a family, a wife and a daughter. Olivia doesn't have the luxury to feel bad about hijacking his car. Right now, she just needs to get home.
Their first stop is a clothing store. Holding his Show Me hostage -- all it takes is a glance to memorize his address -- Olivia sends him inside to get her something to wear that isn't a hospital gown. As she tears open the bags and shimmies into a new shirt and pants, Henry says, "Nice ink. What's it mean?"
She looks up, sharply. "What?"
Henry gestures. "Tattoo on the back of your neck," he says. "Looks like a sun of some kind."
Olivia can feel herself going pale. She presses her fingers to the back of her neck, struggling to keep her composure. "They must have done it to me," she whispers. "She must have one. The other one must have a tattoo."
By this point, Henry knows all about how she's on the run from a government facility, and clearly doesn't believe a word of it. Olivia can't handle another placating voice trying to soothe her away from perceived insanity; she snaps at him, demanding he stop, insisting she isn't crazy. He still doesn't look convinced, but frankly, that isn't her problem. Not as long as he takes her where she needs to go and doesn't do anything stupid.
Right now, she can only think of one place to go: the opera house where she first crossed over.
The police officers surrounding the Orpheum recognize her on sight. Even though they assume she must be there on behalf of Fringe Division, they're quite firm about refusing to let her go inside. "We should step back," one of them says.
"I'll only be a minute -- "
"No, no, there's no time for that," the officer insists. "The protocol's already in effect."
"Yeah, I understand," says Olivia, trying once again to breeze past.
"You can't," repeats the officer -- and as he does, a low hiss sounds within the building. Olivia stops, staring at the clouds of white smoke that begin to billow around the entrance. This time, when the officer pushes her back, she moves without hesitating.
The fog seems to thicken in front of her eyes: not in density, but as if it's sinking lower, changing back into a liquid that roils out of the opera house like a tidal wave. A yellowish tint begins to form at its edges. Its path slows, turning to syrup, turning to a hard crystalline shell that envelops the whole building like an iceberg.
Amber, she remembers someone calling it. The quarantine method they use when a spot is beyond repair. There's no way to break it once it's been activated. After the news that four people disappeared into thin air inside the Orpheum, of course they'd want to contain the perceived breach.
She wants to claw at the stone, slam her hands against it like it's another glass partition. Under the watchful eye of the cops, all she does is whisper, "No," to her red-haired reflection in the surface of the stone.
Massive Dynamic's her next option, but to get down to Chelsea, they'll need extra gas. As Henry refills the cab's tank, Olivia takes the opportunity to duck into the restroom.
Like every gas station bathroom, it's filthy, the lights buzzing with a half-broken hum and the walls splashed with graffiti. She can barely get a good look at herself through the scratches on the mirror. Olivia doesn't need fine details, though; all she needs is proof, as she draws her hair into her fist and twists to see the back of her neck.
At first, she can't spot anything. Desperate, she pushes at her skin, trying to drag it around into view.
Then her fingers brush against something dark that isn't just a crack in the mirror, and she freezes. As if following an unwritten direction, her fingernails curve inward, hard enough to leave red marks alongside the black ink when she finally manages to relax her grip.
It's such a small violation. Barely the size of a quarter. It's not even the worst thing their needles have done to her.
(Why would they try to convince Olivia she's someone she's not?)
Mechanically, Olivia lets her hair fall back over the tattoo, pushes open the door of the single bathroom stall, and -- isolated, alone, hidden under the flickering lights that cannot decide whether to turn on or off -- presses her forehead to the door as she starts to sob.