Olivia Dunham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flip_the_lights) wrote2012-12-01 11:12 pm
flip_the_lights) wrote2012-12-01 11:12 pm
[Milliways]
I'm not crazy.
The thought throbs at her temples like a migraine. Upstairs, in the room Bar directed her toward when she asked for a key, Olivia presses her arms to her thighs, presses her forehead to her hands.
My mother died when I was fourteen. My sister is alive. I have a niece named Ella, I have never won an Olympic medal for marksmanship, and I am not crazy.
In spite of the evidence, a few corners of her brain send up weak protests, throwing out memories that continue to mingle with her own. But by now, she knows enough to differentiate; she can fit together the story of her own life, sweeping aside the pieces that make up the other Olivia's life. The memories they implanted in her. The ones she believed, for over a month, as she went about her business and laughed with her partners and reassured everyone that she was fit to return to work. The ones that stayed as background as she formed new memories with her mother, and Charlie Francis, and --
She desperately wants to cry, but the anger's doing a fine job of burning the tears away.
(She misses her mother and Charlie so much that it feels like she's been gutshot.)
There are two possible plans of attack. The easiest one -- the one she plans to try again once she's taken the night to recuperate -- is using Milliways as an intermediary the same way she used the isolation tank, bringing all her focus to bear on opening a door to her world. It's a quick escape, a way to slip out before any of Red's Fringe Division know she's caught on. The less easy way involves playing along for days, weeks even, as she waits for Secretary Bishop to schedule another test.
Or she supposes she could always break into the testing facility on Liberty Island, but -- no. Not a chance.
Either way, first she needs to take Bucky's advice: rest, get her head on straight, and then execute the plan. She won't be good to anyone, least of all herself, if she rushes in before she's recovered from the shock.
Her body has other ideas. Sleep's too long a time coming, and when she finally succumbs, the light of a new morning has started to peek through the windows.
Olivia's last thought before drifting off is the same quiet mantra: I'm not crazy.
Not crazy, but not having the easiest time getting her ability in line, either. Triggering the glimmer is one thing -- she's done that on demand before. Triggering her ability to cross over? She's never managed that alone, nor without whatever cocktail of drugs Bishop pumped into her system.
Olivia spends most of the morning stationed like a sentry at the front door. Every time the pathway clears for a moment, she moves in, opening and shutting and opening the door again. Concentrate, she demands of herself. Concentrate harder.
It has to work. She's never had a problem getting in or out of Milliways when she wants it. All she has to do is will herself over, think about home, think about --
With a click, the latch gives way under her hand, and the door swings open on a construction site.
Her breath catches in her throat. Even as a dumbfounded part of herself whispers, it worked, and where am I? she's already eeling through the gap and slamming the door closed. Olivia leans back against -- it's not a door any longer, just a series of poles and half-finished foundation. Above her, a banner flaps in the wind.
COMING FALL 2011, it says. MANHATTAN'S FINEST LUXURY APARTMENTS.
Two ts. Not one.
Oh, god, she thinks, and has to cover her mouth as if all her composure will come spilling out. She did it.
But she's also right where she left herself: two hundred miles south of Boston, her wallet full of money and identification that won't do her any good. (Well. The one-dollar bills might. The tens and twenties, though, printed with images of Thomas Jefferson and Martin Luther King, Jr, won't buy her anything but forgery charges.) As she ducks through the poles and runs around the slumbering giants of construction equipment, Olivia paws through her pockets in search of anything that might pass as legal tender.
The quarters may have a different face stamped on them, but the pay phone she finds can't tell the difference. She breathes a quick sigh of relief as the dial tone starts up, then presses ten swift digits and abruptly can't breathe at all.
One ring. Two. Three.
Peter won't pick up his phone if he doesn't recognize the number, she realizes, and leans her forehead against the top of the phone as his voicemail clicks on. "Hi, you've reached Peter Bishop. I can't take your call right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you ASAP. Thanks."
In the split-second before the beep sounds, she weighs her options: try again later with another precious quarter, leave a vague message, leave a detailed message that the other Olivia might hear, hope he picks up halfway through --
Beep.
"Peter, it's me," she says, shutting her eyes. "If you've put this on speaker, turn it off. Listen. The woman you've spent the last five weeks with is not me. It's the Olivia from the Other Side -- they took me hostage, I've made it back to our New York and I'm heading up to Boston as fast as I can. If you're with her now, detain her, don't let her out of your sight -- "
The second beep cuts her off, a genial voice asking for more money if she wishes to continue. Swearing, Olivia jams the phone back into the receiver and turns around. Car horns blare in front of her; above her loom the familiar skyscrapers that -- in some vocal corner of her mind -- refuse to look anything but wrong.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
Squaring her shoulders, she marches down the sidewalk to what she hopes is a path home.
Flying's out of the question. Trains aren't any better. Hitchhiking might work, but it's an option of last resort; she doesn't want to pick the wrong car and fight her way to safety somewhere in Connecticut.
That leaves a route to Chelsea, and what she hopes to God is the Massive Dynamic skyscraper.
Nina Sharp is a very busy woman, her assistant keeps reminding Olivia, and cannot accept anybody unless they've already made an appointment. Ten minutes of cajoling -- please, just tell her it's Olivia Dunham and it's an emergency -- finally ends in a reluctant page to Ms. Sharp's office, followed by Nina's arrival five minutes later. The metronome click of her heels slows as she approaches Olivia, eyes fixing on her hair. Swiftly, Olivia stands up, but doesn't approach.
"Agent Dunham," says Nina, smooth and poised and polite. "That's a new look for you."
A sharp pang strikes Olivia under her ribs as she remembers Bucky saying the exact same thing. She swallows it down. "I'd be happy to explain if you gave me some of your time."
Nina doesn't react for a moment; then, the politeness shapes itself into a smile. "Of course," she says. "I'll escort you to my office."
Turns out Nina won't be her only escort. Halfway there, a pair of armed guards fall in silent step behind Olivia as they make their way upstairs. The instant the door's shut, Nina spins to face her.
"You can start," she says, "by giving me one good reason why I shouldn't alert Lieutenant Broyles that your side has crossed over to ours."
After so many hours spent trying to convince herself of who she is, Olivia doesn't know if she has the strength to convince someone else, too. She fists her fingers tight, willing herself to maintain focus. "They already have crossed over," she says. "Weeks ago. The Olivia who's up in Boston right now is from the Other Side -- they switched me for her. They made me think I was her."
As rapidly as she can, Olivia lays it all out for Nina, watching as the other woman goes paler and paler. When she finishes, Nina's mouth has practically disappeared, so hard is she pressing her lips together. Several beats go by before she meets Olivia's explanation with one low-voiced question: "Why should I believe you?"
Olivia laughs, choked and watery. "I barely even believed myself until a couple of days ago," she says, and draws a hand over her hair, as if to secure her bangs back with her fingers. "I don't know why you should. But I have to get back to Boston. Peter already knows I'm on my way, I just need the money for some kind of ticket."
Her eyes narrow, thoughtful. "That's all you're asking for," she says. "Money?"
Olivia nods, silent.
Money, it seems, is a far easier request to fulfill than secrecy or loyalty. Nina warns Olivia that she'll be notifying Broyles anyway -- "For completeness' sake, you understand." -- before pressing an envelope with five hundred dollars into her hand. "I expect you'll be quick," she says as Olivia checks the twenties, each one printed with Andrew Jackson's face. "And I also expect you to be careful."
Olivia looks up. For a second, she thinks she catches some sort of flicker in Nina's eyes, but it passes before either of them can remark upon it.
Every flight between LaGuardia and Logan has long since been booked, so Penn Station becomes her final option. A few tickets remain on the Acela up to South Station; Olivia books one without hesitation, clutching it far more tightly than the remaining two hundred dollars as she makes her way to the gate.
She rounds a corner, comes face-to-face with a mirror, adjusts her course -- and stops dead when her reflection doesn't move with her. The other woman stares in mingled horror and disbelief. When she finally shifts, blonde hair peeks out from underneath the hood of her sweatshirt.
Olivia doesn't shout, doesn't draw her weapon. All she does is launch into a sprint as the other Olivia whirls around and flees.
Penn Station's packed this time of day, and her dopplegangar makes good use of the crowds, diving for the thickest parts of each pathway and stairwell they take. "Make a hole!" Olivia finally bellows in frustration; a few people listen, and comply, but not nearly enough to make any kind of progress. She swears a constant stream once she realizes the other Olivia's headed for the giant hall connecting all the concourses. If she loses her in the throng --
"FBI! Freeze!"
-- someone else will be there to pick up the slack.
She sees them when they're still a hundred yards away, long before they notice a second red-haired Olivia pursuing their target. Broyles, Astrid, and -- oh, god, and Peter, he's there with them, unharmed and real and every part of his face taut with fury as he runs to intercept the doppelganger. The blonde Olivia doesn't break stride; pivoting on a dime, she dives for the women's bathrooms, leaving Astrid to pick up the pursuit in Peter's stead.
Which means it's finally safe to distract him.
"Peter!" she yells. His head snaps toward her as fast as her doppelganger spun for the bathrooms. Olivia stumbles to a halt, breathing hard: her body, too worn from the sprint and stress, abruptly refuses to go any further. No. She needs to keep moving, needs to get across those last few yards to Peter's side, needs to --
needs to do nothing at all as he's suddenly there, crushing her in a hug, whispering her name over and over. Face buried against him, Olivia clings back as if he'll vanish into smoke.
He's real. He's here. She's here.
"I've got you, I've got you," he keeps whispering. Behind him, Astrid emerges from the bathroom; Olivia just barely catches the headshake she gives Broyles and the words she's gone, they extracted her. "I've got you."
She nods against Peter's shoulder, words refusing to come at first.
"Please take me home," she finally whispers, and closes her eyes as she listens to the beat of his heart.
The thought throbs at her temples like a migraine. Upstairs, in the room Bar directed her toward when she asked for a key, Olivia presses her arms to her thighs, presses her forehead to her hands.
My mother died when I was fourteen. My sister is alive. I have a niece named Ella, I have never won an Olympic medal for marksmanship, and I am not crazy.
In spite of the evidence, a few corners of her brain send up weak protests, throwing out memories that continue to mingle with her own. But by now, she knows enough to differentiate; she can fit together the story of her own life, sweeping aside the pieces that make up the other Olivia's life. The memories they implanted in her. The ones she believed, for over a month, as she went about her business and laughed with her partners and reassured everyone that she was fit to return to work. The ones that stayed as background as she formed new memories with her mother, and Charlie Francis, and --
She desperately wants to cry, but the anger's doing a fine job of burning the tears away.
(She misses her mother and Charlie so much that it feels like she's been gutshot.)
There are two possible plans of attack. The easiest one -- the one she plans to try again once she's taken the night to recuperate -- is using Milliways as an intermediary the same way she used the isolation tank, bringing all her focus to bear on opening a door to her world. It's a quick escape, a way to slip out before any of Red's Fringe Division know she's caught on. The less easy way involves playing along for days, weeks even, as she waits for Secretary Bishop to schedule another test.
Or she supposes she could always break into the testing facility on Liberty Island, but -- no. Not a chance.
Either way, first she needs to take Bucky's advice: rest, get her head on straight, and then execute the plan. She won't be good to anyone, least of all herself, if she rushes in before she's recovered from the shock.
Her body has other ideas. Sleep's too long a time coming, and when she finally succumbs, the light of a new morning has started to peek through the windows.
Olivia's last thought before drifting off is the same quiet mantra: I'm not crazy.
Not crazy, but not having the easiest time getting her ability in line, either. Triggering the glimmer is one thing -- she's done that on demand before. Triggering her ability to cross over? She's never managed that alone, nor without whatever cocktail of drugs Bishop pumped into her system.
Olivia spends most of the morning stationed like a sentry at the front door. Every time the pathway clears for a moment, she moves in, opening and shutting and opening the door again. Concentrate, she demands of herself. Concentrate harder.
It has to work. She's never had a problem getting in or out of Milliways when she wants it. All she has to do is will herself over, think about home, think about --
With a click, the latch gives way under her hand, and the door swings open on a construction site.
Her breath catches in her throat. Even as a dumbfounded part of herself whispers, it worked, and where am I? she's already eeling through the gap and slamming the door closed. Olivia leans back against -- it's not a door any longer, just a series of poles and half-finished foundation. Above her, a banner flaps in the wind.
COMING FALL 2011, it says. MANHATTAN'S FINEST LUXURY APARTMENTS.
Two ts. Not one.
Oh, god, she thinks, and has to cover her mouth as if all her composure will come spilling out. She did it.
But she's also right where she left herself: two hundred miles south of Boston, her wallet full of money and identification that won't do her any good. (Well. The one-dollar bills might. The tens and twenties, though, printed with images of Thomas Jefferson and Martin Luther King, Jr, won't buy her anything but forgery charges.) As she ducks through the poles and runs around the slumbering giants of construction equipment, Olivia paws through her pockets in search of anything that might pass as legal tender.
The quarters may have a different face stamped on them, but the pay phone she finds can't tell the difference. She breathes a quick sigh of relief as the dial tone starts up, then presses ten swift digits and abruptly can't breathe at all.
One ring. Two. Three.
Peter won't pick up his phone if he doesn't recognize the number, she realizes, and leans her forehead against the top of the phone as his voicemail clicks on. "Hi, you've reached Peter Bishop. I can't take your call right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you ASAP. Thanks."
In the split-second before the beep sounds, she weighs her options: try again later with another precious quarter, leave a vague message, leave a detailed message that the other Olivia might hear, hope he picks up halfway through --
Beep.
"Peter, it's me," she says, shutting her eyes. "If you've put this on speaker, turn it off. Listen. The woman you've spent the last five weeks with is not me. It's the Olivia from the Other Side -- they took me hostage, I've made it back to our New York and I'm heading up to Boston as fast as I can. If you're with her now, detain her, don't let her out of your sight -- "
The second beep cuts her off, a genial voice asking for more money if she wishes to continue. Swearing, Olivia jams the phone back into the receiver and turns around. Car horns blare in front of her; above her loom the familiar skyscrapers that -- in some vocal corner of her mind -- refuse to look anything but wrong.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
Squaring her shoulders, she marches down the sidewalk to what she hopes is a path home.
Flying's out of the question. Trains aren't any better. Hitchhiking might work, but it's an option of last resort; she doesn't want to pick the wrong car and fight her way to safety somewhere in Connecticut.
That leaves a route to Chelsea, and what she hopes to God is the Massive Dynamic skyscraper.
Nina Sharp is a very busy woman, her assistant keeps reminding Olivia, and cannot accept anybody unless they've already made an appointment. Ten minutes of cajoling -- please, just tell her it's Olivia Dunham and it's an emergency -- finally ends in a reluctant page to Ms. Sharp's office, followed by Nina's arrival five minutes later. The metronome click of her heels slows as she approaches Olivia, eyes fixing on her hair. Swiftly, Olivia stands up, but doesn't approach.
"Agent Dunham," says Nina, smooth and poised and polite. "That's a new look for you."
A sharp pang strikes Olivia under her ribs as she remembers Bucky saying the exact same thing. She swallows it down. "I'd be happy to explain if you gave me some of your time."
Nina doesn't react for a moment; then, the politeness shapes itself into a smile. "Of course," she says. "I'll escort you to my office."
Turns out Nina won't be her only escort. Halfway there, a pair of armed guards fall in silent step behind Olivia as they make their way upstairs. The instant the door's shut, Nina spins to face her.
"You can start," she says, "by giving me one good reason why I shouldn't alert Lieutenant Broyles that your side has crossed over to ours."
After so many hours spent trying to convince herself of who she is, Olivia doesn't know if she has the strength to convince someone else, too. She fists her fingers tight, willing herself to maintain focus. "They already have crossed over," she says. "Weeks ago. The Olivia who's up in Boston right now is from the Other Side -- they switched me for her. They made me think I was her."
As rapidly as she can, Olivia lays it all out for Nina, watching as the other woman goes paler and paler. When she finishes, Nina's mouth has practically disappeared, so hard is she pressing her lips together. Several beats go by before she meets Olivia's explanation with one low-voiced question: "Why should I believe you?"
Olivia laughs, choked and watery. "I barely even believed myself until a couple of days ago," she says, and draws a hand over her hair, as if to secure her bangs back with her fingers. "I don't know why you should. But I have to get back to Boston. Peter already knows I'm on my way, I just need the money for some kind of ticket."
Her eyes narrow, thoughtful. "That's all you're asking for," she says. "Money?"
Olivia nods, silent.
Money, it seems, is a far easier request to fulfill than secrecy or loyalty. Nina warns Olivia that she'll be notifying Broyles anyway -- "For completeness' sake, you understand." -- before pressing an envelope with five hundred dollars into her hand. "I expect you'll be quick," she says as Olivia checks the twenties, each one printed with Andrew Jackson's face. "And I also expect you to be careful."
Olivia looks up. For a second, she thinks she catches some sort of flicker in Nina's eyes, but it passes before either of them can remark upon it.
Every flight between LaGuardia and Logan has long since been booked, so Penn Station becomes her final option. A few tickets remain on the Acela up to South Station; Olivia books one without hesitation, clutching it far more tightly than the remaining two hundred dollars as she makes her way to the gate.
She rounds a corner, comes face-to-face with a mirror, adjusts her course -- and stops dead when her reflection doesn't move with her. The other woman stares in mingled horror and disbelief. When she finally shifts, blonde hair peeks out from underneath the hood of her sweatshirt.
Olivia doesn't shout, doesn't draw her weapon. All she does is launch into a sprint as the other Olivia whirls around and flees.
Penn Station's packed this time of day, and her dopplegangar makes good use of the crowds, diving for the thickest parts of each pathway and stairwell they take. "Make a hole!" Olivia finally bellows in frustration; a few people listen, and comply, but not nearly enough to make any kind of progress. She swears a constant stream once she realizes the other Olivia's headed for the giant hall connecting all the concourses. If she loses her in the throng --
"FBI! Freeze!"
-- someone else will be there to pick up the slack.
She sees them when they're still a hundred yards away, long before they notice a second red-haired Olivia pursuing their target. Broyles, Astrid, and -- oh, god, and Peter, he's there with them, unharmed and real and every part of his face taut with fury as he runs to intercept the doppelganger. The blonde Olivia doesn't break stride; pivoting on a dime, she dives for the women's bathrooms, leaving Astrid to pick up the pursuit in Peter's stead.
Which means it's finally safe to distract him.
"Peter!" she yells. His head snaps toward her as fast as her doppelganger spun for the bathrooms. Olivia stumbles to a halt, breathing hard: her body, too worn from the sprint and stress, abruptly refuses to go any further. No. She needs to keep moving, needs to get across those last few yards to Peter's side, needs to --
needs to do nothing at all as he's suddenly there, crushing her in a hug, whispering her name over and over. Face buried against him, Olivia clings back as if he'll vanish into smoke.
He's real. He's here. She's here.
"I've got you, I've got you," he keeps whispering. Behind him, Astrid emerges from the bathroom; Olivia just barely catches the headshake she gives Broyles and the words she's gone, they extracted her. "I've got you."
She nods against Peter's shoulder, words refusing to come at first.
"Please take me home," she finally whispers, and closes her eyes as she listens to the beat of his heart.