From: KiMeriKal@aol.com
Date: Wed, 14 Mar 2001 03:42:46 EST
Subject: REV:  Pentimento ( 1/1 )
Source: xff


Title:  Pentimento
Author: Cathleen Faye / Kimerikal@aol.com
Rated:  PG13 - M/S angst, language
Archive: Just ask!
Summary: Pentimento is an art term meaning to obscure what was once 
there, such as painting a new picture over an older one on a canvas.  
But as it ages, oil paint on canvas can become transparent and slowly, 
what was there before can be seen again and the whole truth of the 
picture, once lost and obscured, can be rediscovered.  This story of 
reunion is much the same.
Notes:  This is a revision of a story first post last summer. Hopefully,
it's an improvement!
_______________________________________________________________________



The cruelest thing that the Grays do is let me watch.  

The huge screen is always there on the back wall of my windowless room. 
It looks like one of those flat-screen TVs that manufacturers keep 
telling people they'll all have in their homes one day.  

Well, I have one.  And I hate it.

Granted, they don't MAKE me watch.  It's not like they put my head in a 
vice, tie me down, force my eyes open, and make me watch the screen.  
No, it's even more insidious than that.  They merely hung that thing on 
my wall so that I could see what I was missing, so that I could watch 
every single facet of my life going on without me.  And although I can 
turn the sound down, I can't turn it off, only they can.  

They knew ahead of time that I would be unable to stop watching my 
world and the people in it.  The ones I left behind.  I can see their 
faces; I can hear their voices.  In the beginning, foolishly, I would 
walk up to the glass and try to touch them, passing my hand over the 
ice-cold screen.  The people left behind don't have a clue that in a 
very real sense, I'm near them everyday.  

But the experience of them has become a memory for me now.  I'm always 
with them, but I'm never WITH them--I can never interact.  I've watched 
my work go on, taken over by someone else.  I've watched my friends go 
about their business.  I've watched my partner slowly fall in love.  

I've even watched sunsets, but I can't feel them.  I can't feel 
anything but cold and dark.

Oh God, I miss the sun.  I miss what the warmth of it felt like upon my 
skin.  There are times when I can close my eyes and almost conjure that 
feeling.  Almost.  But in truth, the visceral experience of the beauty 
of sunlight is gone for me.  Like so much else, it's just a memory now.

And that is the cruelest thing that these Gray bastards do.  They let 
me see what I am missing.  What may never be mine again.  I'm let 
close, but I'm always separate, always disconnected.  I wonder if all 
the others that are imprisoned here too are allowed to watch their life 
go on or if I'm just somehow special.  This is something I've not been 
able to discover.

I know the Grays will be coming to my room soon.  Time is not something 
I try to keep track of anymore, although I did at first.  But even so, 
I have that internal clock that allows me to measure small chucks of 
time precisely.  I've always had it, but the ability is mostly useless 
now as there doesn't seem much point in marking time.  In fact, it only 
hurts to do so.  I mean, it's not as if I'm counting down towards a 
release date.

But even though I know they're coming, I don't turn towards the door 
because I can't take my eyes off the screen.  It's showing a different 
scene showing now, but the memory of what I witnessed a few hours ago 
is still burned into my eyes, like staring at the sun.  The 
recollection of it will be there forever and the grief of it is 
crushing.  I've wished for many things in my time here, but not for 
this.  Never for this.

I'm sorry.  Dear God, I'm so sorry.  Pathetic words.  Perhaps the most 
inadequate in the human language for the expression of regret and pain. 

And there's been a lot of pain.  At first, I thought the worst was the 
excruciating tests that brought tears to my eyes and ignored pleas to 
end the agony.  But then there are the mind probes where they dig into 
every dark secret of my being and examine it for exploitation.  My 
essence, all that I am, is stolen from me and given away to others.  
This doesn't erase the memory from my mind, although it does make it 
hazy, a little harder for me to conjure up. 

But as time progressed and I lost track of it, the real pain, the real 
torture, was the despairing isolation of my cell.  It's always ice 
cold.  Always dimly lit, save the glow of screen when they've turned it 
on.  It's my personal hell and I am all alone in it.  

The Grays don't seem to understand the human concept of loneliness.  
They know I am distressed for the changes in my physical state are 
closely monitored.  With the screen, I wonder if they were actually 
trying to be kind to their captive, much the way a zookeeper would 
build a better cage.  But they don't understand that watching only 
makes it worse.  And in the end, it's cruel that I'm allowed to see.

At first, I wondered at their ability to see everything.  Of course, it 
makes sense that with their advanced technology, these little Gray 
geeks have would have no problem surveilling the people they planned to 
conquer.  To think I wasted all that time in my apartment and office 
tracking down bugs and video spy cameras planted by the consortium.  
Foolishly, I wasn't thinking big picture enough.  

The Grays have been spying on the spies since the beginning, and with 
technology that makes Krycek's little nanotechnology palmtop look like 
something built with Leggos.  They are in everywhere that they can get 
their clones in to plant the equipment; almost no building or place is 
beyond their penetration.  They can look at and hear anything they 
want, whenever they want for as long as they want.  And from the sky, 
their ships can see nose hair on a rat in an open field; they can hear 
its breath.  

The human race doesn't have a chance.  The only thing that has kept the 
outright invasion at bay is the fact that we outnumber them, literally 
by billions.  Apparently, the Grays feel that even cream puffs can win 
a war if there are enough of them.  They can wait us out as they 
populate with clones.  During my testing phase here, I've learned more 
about clones than I ever thought possible.  The Grays seem to have no 
problem with letting me understand what they're doing.  I suppose 
that's because they know I'm not going anywhere. 

And the clones are everywhere.  It's far, far more pervasive than we 
thought.  It's not just Samantha or a scientist here and there.  There 
are thousands upon thousands who have been taken and replaced with 
beings who are controlled from above.  Beings who don't even actually 
know that they ARE clones because they've been implanted with the 
memories of the original beings.  It's straight out of Blade Runner.  
Perhaps Ridley Scott is a clone too.  

It's almost amusing that like all artificial, manufactured items, 
sometimes the clones get quirky, out of line or malfunction entirely.  
The friends, family, and co-workers all just think the clone is having 
a bad day or is going through a phase.  Well, I got news for you guys, 
it's not PMS, it's a clone.  

Of course, another problem with clones is that they aren't terribly 
good at reproducing on their own.  It's something that the Grays 
haven't quite got worked out.  Sometimes it works, but most times, it 
doesn't.  For all their advanced technology, getting artificial life to 
create life, even with help from humans, just doesn't work as well as 
they'd hoped.  So, they just keep taking people and manufacturing the 
clones up here in a more controlled environment.  Where they have 
people like me to extract from and experiment upon until they get it 
right. 

But there are others who are taken who are not replaced with a clone.  
These poor souls are the lab rats of the Grays.  During what can only 
be described as reverse engineering their DNA is so totally fucked up 
that by the time the Grays are done, they don't want to reproduce them.  
They are merely experimented upon and discarded.  There are times when 
I wish I were one of them.  Their misery is over.   

But I guess I fulfill a useful need for them.  Just my luck.

But lately the Grays have been concerned about me; I can hear it in my 
mind.  I'm not doing well and they know it.  I think it has finally, 
finally dawned on them that I've given up on the hope that I held onto 
for so long.  And they've realized that I am, quite literally, dying of 
the loneliness and despair.  And they've realized that no matter how 
many nutrients they pump into me or how much they stimulate my muscles, 
if I will myself to give up, I will die and they can't stop it.  And as 
easily as they discard human life, they don't want me to die.  They 
need me, I'm one of their best apparently and I'm no use to them dead. 

But just hours ago, I witnessed just how they plan to solve their 
problem.  And it's broken my heart.  And for all that I've wished for 
in my time here, I never wished for this.  Not once.  I swear.

I hear the mechanical snicking sound that the door makes just before it 
opens, when the lock disengages.  In fact, during my imprisonment, I've 
become so inured to the sound that I rarely even bother to turn around 
any more.  It's not as if the little Gray bastards were ever coming to 
let me go home.  Usually when the door opens, it just means I'm being 
offered food or that my ass will be drug away for more procedures and I 
have no interest in facilitating either.  And I haven't even bothered 
to rush the door in a very, very long time.  I used to and several 
times, through trickery or happenstance, I got out.  But each time I 
found that there is nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, no way to escape.  
I never even made it far enough to reach the other humans that I know 
are here.  And I paid dearly for each of those attempts.

So I remain in the soft shadows of the darkened room, watching the two 
people on the screen talking, the sound very low.  Behind me, the door 
swooshes open, sounding amazingly like the ones on Star Trek.  As it 
slides open, I hear someone pushed inside, stumble, and then regain 
balance.  The door slams shut immediately and the lock engages again.  
I hear the sound of soft cursing and then a hand slam against the door 
in anger.  At the sudden, violent noise, I take a deep breath and close 
my eyes.  I know that feeling of frustration all too well.  

The room falls quiet, save for the soft breath I can hear.  And for a 
crazy second, I wonder how long I can obscure my presence before I'm 
noticed.  But I know it's not possible and slowly, I turn away from the 
screen and look towards the door.  I step into the light, and my heart 
is aching because I know that in order to keep me alive my partner has 
been sentenced to share my hell.  

But I never wished for this.  I swear.  Not once.

Sensing now that he's not alone, Mulder turns away slowly from the door 
and I see his beautiful hazel eyes in person for the first time in 
almost five years.  His gaze meets mine and the deep confusion is 
instant in his expression.  His lips part, but then he loses the words 
as his gaze is momentarily drawn up to the screen behind me.  

To her--to that thing that took over my life.  Over the years, I have 
grown to both hate her and feel sorry for her.  In its own way, it is 
also a victim--the poor silly thing thinks that she's real, believes 
that she's human.  She thinks those memories are hers.  

But they are not; they are mine.

And at this moment, she is telling Skinner her good news.  It seems 
that she's become one of the clones who's been able to successfully 
breed on its own.  The Grays will be pleased.  I reach over and shut 
off the sound.

Mulder moves his gaze from the screen and focuses back on me.  His eyes 
narrow in concentration as he takes in my waist-length hair, my thin 
face with the dark circles under my eyes, and my pale skin that hasn't 
seen sunlight in years.  His eyes sweep down my body and he now sees 
the gentle swell of yet another implanted child growing within.  Yet, 
another clone to be taken from my body during the second trimester and 
placed in a tank of green goo that will hyper-accelerate its growth.  
After that, some memories will be implanted and it will be sent back to 
my world.  This is my seventh time since Duane Barry abducted me. 

Mulder looks back up at my eyes.  And as I stare back at him, because 
Mulder is the most intuitive person I've ever known, I see the 
understanding come into his expression.  He takes in a pained, sharp 
breath and his hand comes up to cover his mouth as the terrible 
knowledge settles heavy down upon him.  

"Oh my God...Scully--" It's not a question and it's all he can get out 
before his voice breaks roughly and he slumps back against the door, a 
mixture of horror and sadness radiating from his eyes as he stares at 
me. 

I nod, confirming his statement and with another glance at the screen 
behind me, Mulder slides slowly down to the floor as the full weight of 
realization becomes too heavy to bear.  Overwhelmed, he lowers his head 
in his hands, hiding from the truth he sees, both on the screen and 
standing before him.  An ungodly howl that is remorse, fear, and pain 
all mixed together emanates from him and it freezes me into place.  A 
few moments later, I hear his anguished voice from behind his hands.  
"Oh God, I'm so sorry."

For a moment, I'm confused and then I suddenly realize that he's 
apologizing for not knowing the truth during all those years, for not 
figuring it out.  How like him, I think.  I've brought him into this 
nightmare and yet he's the one apologizing.  But how could you have 
known, Mulder?  No one knows.  Jesus, not even the consortium knew how 
they'd been so thoroughly infiltrated.  Only the Grays knew.  

Just as they knew that I would never leave Mulder alone to suffer the 
terrible pain of cold isolation or make him endure in this hell by 
himself.  The bastards have crushed my last act of defiance in the 
cruelest way possible.  I hate them with all my heart for what they 
have done.

Mulder finally looks back up at me and his eyes are bright with pain, 
though he does not cry for it still seems too unreal, too stunning.  
But he will though.  And I know he has questions, and I know Mulder; he 
will ask all of them.  He will want his answers.  But for right now he 
knows, he understands.  He believes.    

His eyes search my face for a long time and I can't help but wonder 
what he sees.  Although I've only rarely seen glimpses of myself on a 
shiny surface, I know that I must look very different from the other 
woman he's spent the last five years with.  That other is the one who's 
gotten to eat real food, enjoy real exercise, use her intellect, read 
books, see movies, hear music, love him, have his child, and bask in 
the warm sun.  She's the one who has had all the problems and joys of 
that a human life can offer.  A life that I took for granted--even 
bitched and complained about.  A life I would give anything to have 
back. 

But what does Mulder see when he looks at me now?  It has been almost 
five years since he has actually seen the real me.  I've been covered 
up, obliterated.

The screen behind me has gone dark now, leaving only the soft glow of 
the single overhead light in the cold room.  But even so, his gaze 
never leaves mine.  As he looks at me, an expression I can't read 
crosses his face and he reaches inside the collar of his sweater, to 
the back of his neck.  He is feeling for an implant, I think, and I 
shake my head gently to reassure him.  The clones have the implants, 
Mulder, not us.  There is no need; they already have us completely 
under control. 

But he slowly removes his hand, looking down at his palm a moment 
before raising his eyes to meet mine again.  As he looks at me, I see 
his gentle compassion in his handsome face, that sure and kind empathy.  
I've missed that look in his eyes so that it almost hurts to see it 
now.  He then slowly reaches his hand out towards me, offering me 
something.  

Over the last five years all physical contact with the Grays has 
resulted in either icy cold touch that makes my skin crawl or 
excruciating pain and I hesitate to come near a human again.  Mulder 
sees this, nods once, and waits patiently.  He knows that I am not 
afraid of him, but rather, that I am unsure of my own emotions.  He 
knows that I am holding on to them by a thin frayed thread that is 
close to breaking.  

"This is yours," he says, that low voice that I've listened to for 
years is soothing and his eyes beckon me to come to him.  I take the 
few steps forward to stand between his large feet where he sits on the 
floor, and slowly I reach my hand out to him.  Our fingers brush 
together and linger.  He's warm, oh God, he's so warm.  After feeling 
only cold for so long his gentle touch is like a gift.  I lift the tiny 
cross and chain from his palm.  

"Do you remember, Scully?" he asks softly.

I stare at the tiny symbol of my once strong faith, at the small 
promise that there is more to this life than we can comprehend 
sometimes.  

And then I look back at him; at the man who has always known this even 
without the trappings of an organized faith and I feel myself smile for 
the first time in five years.  I grasp his offering tightly in my fist 
and, slowly, I find myself sitting down on the floor next to his warm 
body, breathing deep and taking in his male human scent as I do so, as 
I look at his kind, familiar face. 

"Yes, Mulder, I remember." 



The end.
_______________________________________________________________________

Thanks for taking the time to read my story!  This was originally 
written back in September, 2000 before we found out the answer to the 
"Did she give him her cross?" question <g>.  And I've been meaning to
do a few revisions on this for a while so it seemed like the "lull" in
XF seemed the right time.

I would so love to hear any feedback or comments you might want to
send my way at kimerikal@aol.com