what_wings_dare | 🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

He should be horrified, and he is - in the same way he supposes I was drugged and caged by a serial killer is horrifying, distantly and with the knowledge that he survived it. Look what they've each come through, how close a call they each had. His arm tightens around her in a little squeeze.

But the thing that overtakes any sense of worry for her, eased along by the fact that she's here and apparently fine, is where she trails off. "Your alleged abilities. Have you been holding out on me this whole time, Scully? I could have been getting my psychic readings for free."

Everything else, they'll come back to. Her suspicions regarding ritualized death aren't unfounded; it's the right time period, if a strange choice of subject for a New Ager. He'd always held the assumption they eschewed Christianity for the most part. But there's time for that, and for digging into the details.

It's all so far in the past that it feels safe to talk about; like a story that happened to someone else. Sunlight is presumably still rotting in jail somewhere, and she's far away and for the moment safe. Older, wiser, and better able to take care of herself-- in no small part due to the lessons learned that autumn.

"Anyone would have had a 'psychic' experience in that room," she murmurs, rolling her eyes. But it's not an answer to his question. If you'd asked her a year ago-- six months-- maybe even a week-- she'd have laughed it off so much more easily. Right now-- on the heels of that eerie reading, knowing Daniel is healing in part because of what she saw in the temple-- it feels less straightforward.

Of course I'm not psychic, she wants to say; but she can't say nothing real happened back then. Of course Sunlight hadn't been an avenging angel, ready to bring about the world's rebirth in blood-- but maybe Maisie in the locker room had been more than an overactive imagination.

(It's not as though she's never seen a ghost since then.)

"I thought I could see the molecular structures of the dye in the carpet, the oxygen combusting around the candle wick-- I saw the Devil, and then I spent the next day swearing to everyone that of course I wasn't stoned."

"Only you," he says, all affection, tracing shapes idly on her hip, "would geek out on an LSD trip."

Mulder'd like the answer to be you're psychic, Scully, anyone can see that, but even he can admit that what she's describing sounds less like a vision and more like she was high off her ass and doing the scientist equivalent of staring at her hand. "What was the Devil like?"

He, after all, is the only real connection to psychic possibilities. She'll tell him that Satan was a hallucination, too, and none of it actually meant anything, but if any of it was ESP, some message from beyond Beyond Beyond, a devil could have been. Mulder's far more willing to allow for demons within his cosmology than anyone on the other side.

A protest is half on her tongue that it wasn't LSD; she can still visualize the chemical structure of the drug in her mind, which should be impossible. It had been more or less meaningless at the time, but in the aftermath she'd come to understand what she'd seen in the incense was the same thing found in the dead teen's bodies. At the time she'd set the fact aside because it was impossible, unprovable-- a little too spooky for the worldview she was building. Enough of the rest of her trip had been easy to discredit, but to imagine she'd dreamed up what turned out to be a plausible molecular structure for a drug she didn't know she was on-- inexplicable. Her bread and butter, these days.

Instead she smiles, wets her lips, taking an extra beat to figure out what to say. Or maybe only how to say it. Maybe it's contrariness, that makes her suddenly want to defend an experience she's stubbornly disbelieved for twenty years. Or perhaps it's the fact that Mulder finds it easy to laugh off the Devil in spite of everything they've seen.

"It wasn't really the Devil." That admission isn't a concession. "I think-- in a a way it was how Sunlight saw himself, and maybe part of me had already picked up on that, subconsciously." She looks away, at nothing; her gaze unfocused as she tries to find the right way to say this.

"But I wasn't totally honest," she settles on. "About how I got involved with any of it. Mulder, I saw something-- before the drugs, before I knew what I was getting into. Something I couldn't explain-- I still can't."

"Sunlight knew the monster he was." On some level, whether conscious or not. Maybe he'd wanted to frighten Scully with an image of evil lurking, but his control over what Scully saw couldn't have been such that he'd orchestrated the details of the vision.

And then she speaks again, and it's everything he never would have expected. Mulder looks at her, taking in that momentary distance in her gaze as it sharpens into the here and now. "What did you see, Scully?"

That gets a hum of more or less assent. It's more complicated-- whatever Sunlight believed he was, he thought he was a necessary force of brutality. He thought he was an angel, but as her grandmother saw things-- angels were generally monstrous. Her experiences have not dissuaded her of that view.

It takes her a moment to answer. This is-- a secret? No, not exactly-- but she's buried it, denied it, tried in so many ways to forget.

"Maisie," she murmurs, finally. "The senior who'd died-- I saw her in the locker room, like she was any other girl. And then she wasn't."

Exactly the kind of experience she flatly refuses to entertain in cases until forced. She has been holding out on him, if not - he assumes - on purpose. This can't be something a person simply forgets, but maybe she'd found ways to excuse the experience. Weird trips, stress about the murders, all kinds of strange little pieces of her life coming together to make her hallucinate. It's a thin explanation to cling to, but it sounds reasonable on the face of it. Scully loves reasonable, and as a kid with no prior experience with the supernatural, she must have needed to find a way to explain to herself what had happened.

"What happened?" He's not convinced that seeing a flash of a dead girl would be enough to burn the experience into Scully's memory; anyone could imagine that by accident, thinking of a death when everyone else is thinking of it, too. Something more must lie beneath her explanation.

Without really meaning to she shuts her eyes, trying to remember the details. Ironic, really, considering how long she spent trying to forget-- or trying to tell herself she misremembered it, she imagined it, she dreamed it.

"We were the only people in the locker room-- the period hadn't started yet," she says softly. "And she seemed sad. I asked her if she was a friend of Maisie's-- I'd never met her, I didn't recognize her-- and she seemed confused, and I rambled something about the accident and..."

She can feel an echo of the inexplicable burning sensation; without thinking about it she draws her hand to her collarbone, clasping it around her necklace.

"She screamed, not like anything I'd ever heard-- and then she started bleeding. It was like her body was just... tearing itself apart, reliving her death. Begging someone to stop. I knew it wasn't an accident because I saw her die again there."

And she knows what it sounds like-- the kind of ghost story she'd roll her eyes out on a case.

"I ran to get help-- I didn't understand, couldn't think what else to do-- but of course when everyone came there was nothing. Not a drop of blood. They thought it was some kind of prank."

[ n a m e ; ]	Dana Katherine Scully
[ c a n o n ; ]	The X-Files
[ g a m e ; ]	spicy times in noctiumrp

🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

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