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jam_pony_ficTitle: Do Transgenics Dream of Bio-Engineered Chimerae?
Author: Rana Eros
Summary: Adam remembers things differently.
Author's Notes: Betaed by Eliza, and written after "Some Assembly Required," so possibly it contradicts later canon. Title riffing on the famous story by Philip K. Dick.
Do Transgenics Dream of Bio-Engineered Chimerae?
Sometimes, Adam thinks the accident scrambled his brain worse than Doc knows. He still remembers the ranch in only the vaguest terms, all the details pulled from experiences after he woke up in the hospital, from stories Buddy and Mary have told him. He has vivid dreams about city streets and laboratories, about fighting hand-to-hand like he was trained for it. About the girl in the waiting room, who said she didn't know him.
Sometimes--and he hates himself for it, because they've never been anything but good to him--sometimes he thinks it's Doc, Buddy, and Mary who are doing a number on him. Sometimes he thinks they want him to remember a life he never actually had, and he doesn't know why.
He keeps it to himself, because he's probably wrong and he doesn't want to hurt them. Because it's best to leave the enemy guessing what you're thinking. Because he's happy here, working side-by-side with Buddy and Clint, training the dogs ("You're good at that," Clint had said, surprised, like he'd never seen Adam do it before), tracking the cattle, coming home to Mary's chili and cornbread and apple pie ("This is good," he'd said, back from the hospital, and something had flickered in her eyes before she smiled and said, "It always was your favorite"). He's happy here, and he wakes up from the dreams breathing hard, ready to run.
Run for the treeline. Evade and scatter. Go!
He doesn't want to run. Not until he knows what he's running from. Or toward.
Then he has a dream, not as bad as the others, a cabin and a fireplace and the girl from the waiting room, looking into his eyes. He's leaning in to kiss her, certain it'll be perfect, and that's what wakes him up. Nothing's perfect, not even this life with the ranch and the dogs and Mary's apple pie. Nothing but fantasies, and there's a part of his brain saying, It didn't happen that way, and that wakes him up, because that means it happened.
He wakes up, and everything's a little off. He can see too clearly in the dark, his small, plain room with no pictures, the worn quilt from Buddy's mother, before she passed. He can see the night outside the window, and he finds himself judging it, how easy it would be to slip from shadow to shadow, climb the drainpipe down and Go. He gets out of bed, and he's aware he moves too quietly for a man his size with no training, a ranch hand straight out of high school, and there's no need to sneak up on cattle, no call to be stealthy around the dogs. Still, Buddy and Mary and Clint are all asleep, and he doesn't want to wake them (maintain the advantage of surprise), so he keeps silent as he gets dressed, heads downstairs. Maybe if he just takes a walk, gives in just a little to that need to Go, he'll sleep through the rest of the night and be better able to think again in the morning (he's never slept through the night, not since they brought him home).
He gets down the stairs and sees the light on in the kitchen. He considers just slipping out the front door, but (that leaves the enemy at his back) he doesn't want to worry anybody. So he moves a little more loudly, stepping through the doorway to find Mary sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at a mug.
"Adam," she says, and she doesn't sound as surprised as she should, but her smile's fond. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Looks like I'm not the only one." He sits down across from her, so careful to keep her in sight, and it's ridiculous because it's Mary. Mary, who always looks at him with something sad and wary in her eyes.
"Just another dream from my time in. You remember."
"Yeah," though he doesn't, but they've told him Mary was in the Navy before the Pulse. He guesses she had a rough time of it, and that he used to know that.
"Thought I'd try a little home remedy for insomnia." She raises the mug, tips it toward the stove. "There's some more hot milk if you'd like a cup. And that." On the counter next to the stove is a bottle of whiskey.
He gets up and maneuvers around the kitchen so he's always facing her while he fixes his own doctored milk. She doesn't seem to notice, but then, she's got no reason to keep track of him. Any more than he's got to keep track of her.
Evade.
"You want to talk about it?" she asks, soft, while he pours the whiskey. He doesn't startle, doesn't fumble or spill. Sets the bottle back down and caps it while he swirls the liquid in his mug.
"A dream, like you said."
She turns her head enough that he can see her profile, strong-boned and drawn in the overhead light. "About the accident?"
He's never dreamed about the accident. "Just...what might have been."
She nods slowly, brings her mug around to sip from it again. "That can haunt you sure as any memory."
There's nothing sure about memory. He takes his own sip before answering, and the whiskey burns even with the milk to mitigate it. "Maybe it's better I don't remember, but that makes it hard to tell what's true."
He doesn't expect her to laugh, low and rueful. She twists to face him, and there's that look in her eyes. "Adam, we none of us remember what's true."
"That's not what I meant," he says, sharper than he intends. Don't let them see they're getting to you, and if you do, make them think you're more incapacitated than you are. He adds more tentatively, "I just thought I'd remember more by now."
"You can't push it," she says without changing expression. Then she takes another sip and turns back around. "Come sit down."
Evade and scatter. "I thought I'd look in on the cattle, make sure everything's all right."
Mary snorts. "You know you'd never hear the end of it from Buddy if you got them stirred up. Come on. Finish your drink and talk to me. It can be about the weather if you want."
I want to remember. He steps back around the table, sits across from her again. She's looking at him with a kind of fond annoyance, and he's not sure that's better than the sadness, but it's different. She's talking to him the same as ever, though, less patience than it's clear Buddy wants her to use, but Adam likes her forthrightness. He likes all of them. He drinks his own milk and whiskey, swallows past the burn. "Might rain tomorrow."
That gets him another snort, and the smile that shows off her strong, white teeth. "Think so, huh?"
Sometimes he wonders if she knows about the parts of his brain that murmur mistrust, tell him to run for the treeline. Sometimes he's certain she does know, and all his (evade and scatter) reticence is in response to her knowledge. Assume comprehensive enemy reconaissance ("They're watching us all the time, how do we get out?"). "Smells like it."
"Well, you do seem good at sniffing out bad weather," Mary says, and he gives her his own white-toothed smile, flashing dimples.
"Did I used to be?"
Her wariness returns, but the amusement and annoyance both turn into a sharpness he can't pinpoint more than that. She puts her elbows on the table, leans toward him just enough to make her point. "Yes," she says. "Yes, I think you were."
Get them to let their guard down, learn what you can.
He doesn't think Mary's giving him anything she doesn't mean to, not now, but what she means to give him is still something he can use. Maybe she's hoping it'll reassure him. It's always possible it will, that he'll work out who he is and it'll be this, a ranch hand at the Thompson place, even if it's not who he used to be.
It's also possible he'll work out who he is and decide to leave (Go!). He still doesn't know where he'd run, though. So he stays, drinking whiskey and milk with Mary in the kitchen, talking about the weather.
He wonders how he's going to remember this conversation later. He hopes he can remember it true.
END
Author: Rana Eros
Summary: Adam remembers things differently.
Author's Notes: Betaed by Eliza, and written after "Some Assembly Required," so possibly it contradicts later canon. Title riffing on the famous story by Philip K. Dick.
Do Transgenics Dream of Bio-Engineered Chimerae?
Sometimes, Adam thinks the accident scrambled his brain worse than Doc knows. He still remembers the ranch in only the vaguest terms, all the details pulled from experiences after he woke up in the hospital, from stories Buddy and Mary have told him. He has vivid dreams about city streets and laboratories, about fighting hand-to-hand like he was trained for it. About the girl in the waiting room, who said she didn't know him.
Sometimes--and he hates himself for it, because they've never been anything but good to him--sometimes he thinks it's Doc, Buddy, and Mary who are doing a number on him. Sometimes he thinks they want him to remember a life he never actually had, and he doesn't know why.
He keeps it to himself, because he's probably wrong and he doesn't want to hurt them. Because it's best to leave the enemy guessing what you're thinking. Because he's happy here, working side-by-side with Buddy and Clint, training the dogs ("You're good at that," Clint had said, surprised, like he'd never seen Adam do it before), tracking the cattle, coming home to Mary's chili and cornbread and apple pie ("This is good," he'd said, back from the hospital, and something had flickered in her eyes before she smiled and said, "It always was your favorite"). He's happy here, and he wakes up from the dreams breathing hard, ready to run.
Run for the treeline. Evade and scatter. Go!
He doesn't want to run. Not until he knows what he's running from. Or toward.
Then he has a dream, not as bad as the others, a cabin and a fireplace and the girl from the waiting room, looking into his eyes. He's leaning in to kiss her, certain it'll be perfect, and that's what wakes him up. Nothing's perfect, not even this life with the ranch and the dogs and Mary's apple pie. Nothing but fantasies, and there's a part of his brain saying, It didn't happen that way, and that wakes him up, because that means it happened.
He wakes up, and everything's a little off. He can see too clearly in the dark, his small, plain room with no pictures, the worn quilt from Buddy's mother, before she passed. He can see the night outside the window, and he finds himself judging it, how easy it would be to slip from shadow to shadow, climb the drainpipe down and Go. He gets out of bed, and he's aware he moves too quietly for a man his size with no training, a ranch hand straight out of high school, and there's no need to sneak up on cattle, no call to be stealthy around the dogs. Still, Buddy and Mary and Clint are all asleep, and he doesn't want to wake them (maintain the advantage of surprise), so he keeps silent as he gets dressed, heads downstairs. Maybe if he just takes a walk, gives in just a little to that need to Go, he'll sleep through the rest of the night and be better able to think again in the morning (he's never slept through the night, not since they brought him home).
He gets down the stairs and sees the light on in the kitchen. He considers just slipping out the front door, but (that leaves the enemy at his back) he doesn't want to worry anybody. So he moves a little more loudly, stepping through the doorway to find Mary sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at a mug.
"Adam," she says, and she doesn't sound as surprised as she should, but her smile's fond. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Looks like I'm not the only one." He sits down across from her, so careful to keep her in sight, and it's ridiculous because it's Mary. Mary, who always looks at him with something sad and wary in her eyes.
"Just another dream from my time in. You remember."
"Yeah," though he doesn't, but they've told him Mary was in the Navy before the Pulse. He guesses she had a rough time of it, and that he used to know that.
"Thought I'd try a little home remedy for insomnia." She raises the mug, tips it toward the stove. "There's some more hot milk if you'd like a cup. And that." On the counter next to the stove is a bottle of whiskey.
He gets up and maneuvers around the kitchen so he's always facing her while he fixes his own doctored milk. She doesn't seem to notice, but then, she's got no reason to keep track of him. Any more than he's got to keep track of her.
Evade.
"You want to talk about it?" she asks, soft, while he pours the whiskey. He doesn't startle, doesn't fumble or spill. Sets the bottle back down and caps it while he swirls the liquid in his mug.
"A dream, like you said."
She turns her head enough that he can see her profile, strong-boned and drawn in the overhead light. "About the accident?"
He's never dreamed about the accident. "Just...what might have been."
She nods slowly, brings her mug around to sip from it again. "That can haunt you sure as any memory."
There's nothing sure about memory. He takes his own sip before answering, and the whiskey burns even with the milk to mitigate it. "Maybe it's better I don't remember, but that makes it hard to tell what's true."
He doesn't expect her to laugh, low and rueful. She twists to face him, and there's that look in her eyes. "Adam, we none of us remember what's true."
"That's not what I meant," he says, sharper than he intends. Don't let them see they're getting to you, and if you do, make them think you're more incapacitated than you are. He adds more tentatively, "I just thought I'd remember more by now."
"You can't push it," she says without changing expression. Then she takes another sip and turns back around. "Come sit down."
Evade and scatter. "I thought I'd look in on the cattle, make sure everything's all right."
Mary snorts. "You know you'd never hear the end of it from Buddy if you got them stirred up. Come on. Finish your drink and talk to me. It can be about the weather if you want."
I want to remember. He steps back around the table, sits across from her again. She's looking at him with a kind of fond annoyance, and he's not sure that's better than the sadness, but it's different. She's talking to him the same as ever, though, less patience than it's clear Buddy wants her to use, but Adam likes her forthrightness. He likes all of them. He drinks his own milk and whiskey, swallows past the burn. "Might rain tomorrow."
That gets him another snort, and the smile that shows off her strong, white teeth. "Think so, huh?"
Sometimes he wonders if she knows about the parts of his brain that murmur mistrust, tell him to run for the treeline. Sometimes he's certain she does know, and all his (evade and scatter) reticence is in response to her knowledge. Assume comprehensive enemy reconaissance ("They're watching us all the time, how do we get out?"). "Smells like it."
"Well, you do seem good at sniffing out bad weather," Mary says, and he gives her his own white-toothed smile, flashing dimples.
"Did I used to be?"
Her wariness returns, but the amusement and annoyance both turn into a sharpness he can't pinpoint more than that. She puts her elbows on the table, leans toward him just enough to make her point. "Yes," she says. "Yes, I think you were."
Get them to let their guard down, learn what you can.
He doesn't think Mary's giving him anything she doesn't mean to, not now, but what she means to give him is still something he can use. Maybe she's hoping it'll reassure him. It's always possible it will, that he'll work out who he is and it'll be this, a ranch hand at the Thompson place, even if it's not who he used to be.
It's also possible he'll work out who he is and decide to leave (Go!). He still doesn't know where he'd run, though. So he stays, drinking whiskey and milk with Mary in the kitchen, talking about the weather.
He wonders how he's going to remember this conversation later. He hopes he can remember it true.
END
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Date: 2009-01-20 03:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 11:26 pm (UTC)This is my favourite line -
Really captured the spirit of the piece.
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Date: 2009-01-22 01:18 am (UTC)