Out of the Blue Revisited
Based upon Sanctuary, created by Damian Kindler.
Now, I do not claim to be even half the writer as our beloved Damian Kindler, Alan McCullough, Sam Egan, or the rest are, however I was more than a little unhappy with this episode. There were just so many things that I would've done differently. I'm not particularly partial to Ashley, but considering her popularity (not to mention how important she is to Magnus' character), this episode the perfect opportunity to bring her back for an episode. So, here's what I would've done.
For the record: some of dialogue is directly from the episode, and therefore not mine, and the entire story is the rewrite of an existing storyline, the original idea is not mine.
. . . ~ ~ . . .
"Hey! Hey, wait! WAAAIIT!" Doctor Will Zimmerman yelled, chasing the garbage truck as it drove away with a black bag in either hand. "Aww. Come on!" he shouted after it, giving up his chase. "It's not even eight o'clock yet!"
"Did you catch 'em?" his wife, Abby, asked, meeting him at the end of the driveway.
"No, but I don't think last week's salmon wants to stay with us either."
"Roy," he spoke to the baby, causing his wife to chuckle. "I hope you get your timing from your mother and not me." He dropped the bags into the trash cans and retrieved his brief case from Abby.
Abby giggled that adorable giggle she had. "We are not naming our daughter Roy."
"Yes we are, and he is going to be major leaguer. There's a Cy Young Award winner in here, I can feel it." He bent at the waist to put his hand on her stomach.
"Surgery can't start without you," she held his face and placed a kiss on his lips. "Go be brilliant."
"You put your feet up and eat bon bons, okay?" he told her, stepping towards his car.
"I have prenatal yoga in an hour," she said with a laugh, knowing he was joking with her, like always.
"Chocolate," he insisted. "The boy wants chocolate." Will walked around his car and opened the driver side door, placing his briefcase inside. "Love you," he sat, settling in to the driver's seat.
"Love you," she replied in the same pseudo-mushy tone.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror to see a cat on his trunk. "Oh you have got to be kidding me." Not just any cat, that cat from across the street. "Come here," he said, stepping towards it. He made a few noises, hoping to encourage it to him.
The cat jumped off the back of his car and started walking away. Luckily, it wasn't moving very far very fast. He caught it, holding it under its belly and walked across the street, giving his wife an exasperated glance as he did. The cat wiggled, "Just relax," he told it. He knocked on the door and waited for someone to come to the door.
As suspected, it was the woman. A tall, dark haired woman, Helen, if he remembered correctly. Yep, Helen, steely woman. Unpleasant, generally. "On the trunk of my car."
"Ashley," she called, taking the cat from him. British, as well, though he couldn't exactly nail down her region. Her accent was a little more classy, timeless. Almost Victorian. He realized that was a strange thought to have and shook it off, chalking it up to the limited words he'd actually heard her say.
A young blonde, perhaps 22, 23, 24 years old, Ashley must be. "There you are, Henry," she said, taking her cat from Helen. "Where was he, Mom?"
Mom? What? Did she have her when she was like 14? He ignored it, not having the time. "Maybe you should think about declawing him before he scratches the paint on my beamer." He was met with matching indignant death stares. "Or maybe just don't let him out as much," he amended.
"Declaw?" Ashley responded, being almost shrill. "He's an innocent creature." She fawned over the cat.
He looked from Ashley to Helen and back.
Blue. Black. Swirling. Shapes.
Will's gaze was drawn past both women's shoulders to a mass behind them. "What the hell is that?" he asked, pushing past both of them.
"Hey!" they both cried out, following him.
He looked around once he reached the center of the room. It was gone.
Helen stepped in front of him, taking an aggressive posture. "Are you quite through?" she spat.
He stuttered for a moment, trying to locate words. "I'm sorry. I- I- thought I saw something."
"If I want you in my house, Doctor Zimmerman, I will invite you. Don't expect that invitation anytime soon!" She gestured towards the door. "Get out!"
Will shook his head, still greatly disturbed by the image he saw, but very aware he had just barged into these peoples' house. "I'm sorry, I'll go." Walking past the cat, he left their house and headed to work in a light daze.
. ~ .
"Not good. Not good. Not good."
Kate heard Henry mutter to himself as she joined him in their makeshift command center. "Hey, Hank, chill out."
"There will be no chilling out," he snapped at her.
"Just tell me what's going on." Kate made large, calming gestures.
"That was Declan. Apparently Nessie is more than a little agitated."
"Nessie, as in . . ."
"Giant dinosaur-like lake creature. Yeah. He says something's got her spooked."
"Hey, it's not our . . ." she gestured to the large tank behind them.
He shook his head. "No, she started acting up after . . ." he also gestured to the large tank behind them. He paused, looking at the tank. "Definitely after."
"Okay, so, Declan is dealing with it, right?"
"Yeah, but he can't deal with the huge dinosaur-snake thing that appeared the in Amazon about thirty minutes ago." He was starting to panic, she could see.
"Hank, you can handle this."
"No, I can't. I need Doctor Magnus."
She grabbed his shoulders roughly, and leaned in towards him. "Henry, you can do this," she said firmly. "You have to do this, because Doctor Magnus isn't here."
. ~ . Roll opening title sequence
She was painting, like she usually did in the evenings. Standing at her easel, palate in hand, it just didn't look right. The image in her mind wasn't what she had painted. She just couldn't understand why.
Blue. It was missing blue.
So, she added blue. Large swaths and a crooked figure eight. She peered at it carefully.
She just ruined this painting.
Or, she would have if it didn't look 'right' now.
Over her easel, Helen caught sight of John watching her quietly. He reached out to her, she took his hand and led him around the easel and behind her, his eyes closed. He never looked at her work until it was finished, or she specifically asked him to. It was never anything they had discussed, just something he had understood about her.
He stepped up close behind her. Usually, he put his hands on her hips or around her waist, but he instead put them on her shoulders and messaged lightly.
"You look tired," he said quietly.
She rolled her neck as his hands kneaded her sore muscles. "I am. I haven't been sleeping well."
"Is there anything I can do?"
She leaned back into him. "Nothing that you're not already doing." She just leaned back against him and he placed a kiss on her temple. "What do you think?" she asked quietly.
Helen could sense that he was studying the canvas carefully before answering her. "It's different," she offered before he could answer.
"I like it," he said at last.
"I do," he repeated, continuing to message her shoulders. "It's different. I think those young artsy chaps would appreciate it immensely."
"Dinner!" Ashley called from the kitchen. She stuck her head around the corner to see them, "What are we looking at?"
Helen motioned for her to come over and she stood next to them. "Hi Daddy!" she said with a big girlish smile, one she saved only for her father.
"Hello, my darling," he answered with the smile he saved only for his daughter. Ashley placed her hand on his arm and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
An image popped into Helen's mind.
Standing in a well furnished room with Ashley. There was a misty flash and then another. A man, John, had a knife to Ashley's neck.
Helen shook her head, that's wasn't right. That couldn't be right.
Ashley settled on her feet next to them and took a look at Helen's painting. She tilted her head. Both Helen and John watched their daughter patiently. "I like it, Mom."
"Oh?" Helen asked, her voice rising, her daughter's words forcing her to focus on the moment at hand, not some disjointed memory. No, not memory, image, dark dream. It couldn't have been a memory.
"It's kind of groovy," she said.
John and Helen looked at her with matching expressions.
"In a good way." Ashley shook her head as they stared at her. "Come on, dinner's ready. You can only enjoy my culinary creations for two more days before your little baby bird is back out into the big bad world all by her self."
John turned, sliding his arm around Helen's waist and gently leading her towards the kitchen. "Yes, only two more days before your mother and I have to fend for ourselves. It is a miracle we've survived this long without you."
Helen tried to chuckle at the family banter, but she couldn't. It just didn't seem right.
. ~ .
"I'm just saying, a water birth has all shorts of advantages later on in life."
Will looked up from his Modern Maternity magazine and back at his wife, filing her nails with an emery board. "I don't know, it just sounds so gimmicky."
"Low lights, soothing sounds, sensations similar to the womb . . ." He flicked past the pages with articles he really didn't care to actually read. "Sounds of water lapping . . ."
"See, this is why I chose cardiology: less tinky woo woo crap and more hard medical science."
"No, Will," Abby corrected, putting down her emery board and reaching for her lotion. "You became a heart surgeon to please your mother."
"I became a heart surgeon," he flipped on his Sean Connery impression, "for the chicks." He was rewarded with an adorable chuckle from Abby and turned back to his magazine. No sooner did his phone start to beep, he ignored it.
A second beep. "Go," Abby told him without a second thought. Whenever he could, especially now in the last weeks of pregnancy, he was trying to separate home and work. However, Abby was Abby and wouldn't let him neglect anything.
He read the text message on his phone and sighed. "Oh, damn it. They keep wanting to push up the surgery."
"You'll be fine, honey," his wife assured him.
"Not if the poor bastard dies on the table."
"He won't. You'll be brilliant. Two weeks from now, people will be talking about the Zimmerman Tri-By-Pass procedure. Your mother will be proud."
Upon the mention of his mother an image appeared in his mind. He cocked his head, as if remembering.
It was dark. His mother was telling him he'd be okay. But no, he wasn't okay. He was being drug across the ground by his ankles. He could hear her scream.
He was in a woman's arms. She was telling him it was alright and he was safe.
Will shook his head.
"Honey?" Abby asked, in reference to his distraction.
"Yeah, a my mom, I should call her." He took his glasses of his face. The woman in his thoughts was . . . Helen? The neighbor? He shook his head again. That was probably something Freudian. He didn't really want to think what.
. ~ .
Henry accepted the call coming through on his computer. It was Biggie. "How are holding up?" he asked.
Biggie grumbled. "Not well."
"What's going on?" he asked, concerned that he didn't want to know the answer. He really couldn't handle anything else right now. Between Nessie, and the snake in the Amazon, and the mass sand ray migration in Egypt . . .
"What? Sally? About what?"
Biggie grumbled. "I don't know. She can't communicate with me as well as she does with you. She keeps telling me to get Magnus."
"Well, she can't have Magnus," Henry snapped.
"I know that," Biggie defended himself.
Henry wiped his hand over his face. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm kind of stressing out over here." He took a deep breath. "Is there anyone else he can talk to? Chuck?"
Biggie shook his head. "She doesn't like him."
"Tell her to get over it. She can complain all she wants when the Doc gets back."
Biggie grumbled. "Your call, but I'm blaming you."
"Fine," Henry replied tersely.
"And Henry," Biggie said before he could end the conversation. "Good job, Henry."
Henry smiled. Good job, Henry. Doctor Magnus had said that so many times to him, her voice echoed in his head. He took another deep breath and smiled. "Thanks."
. ~ .
Wet. He was wet. His clothes were soaked and he was lying water. He looked up, he could see monitors with his face on them. His face, and . . . Helen's? The crazy neighbor?
"What are you doing?" a tall black man with an accent asked, turning away from one of the monitors. He held a syringe in his hand. "Time to go back to sleep," he assured calmly.
Will started. He sat upright in bed. Abby was asleep next to him, curled up on her side. He got out of bed, shaking his head. "What the hell was that?" he thought to himself. He looked out the window, hearing that weird, almost haunting, music coming from the neighbor's. He couldn't imagine how the other people in that house slept.
Through his window and their kitchen window, he saw someone come to the kitchen sink, it was Helen. She looked out her own window before looking up. They made eye contact for a split second. He looked up, pretending that he was just looking out his window, not being a creepy stalker. Keeping his chin up, he looked down, she was still looking at him, a questioning look on her face.
Will stepped back and closed the curtains. Heading back to bed, he shook his head. Something wasn't right.
. ~ . The Next Day
Helen was staring at her paintings. They sat out, leaning up against the walls and furniture. It just didn't make sense. What were these blue swaths across such lovely sceneries? By all accounts, it felt like she ruined her work. She could remember when art was realistic representations of the physical world. What she was looking at now wouldn't pass for scratch work in the nineteenth century.
Twentieth century, she corrected herself. She shouldn't have any memories of the nineteenth century.
She didn't have any memories of the nineteenth century.
A knock at the door drew her concentration and she made her way to the foyer. She could see her neighbor, Doctor Zimmerman's wife, standing on the other side of the door. She scowled to herself momentarily before opening the door.
"Hello!" Mrs. Zimmerman said in just about the cheeriest tone Helen had ever heard. Helen didn't respond at first, so she kept talking, "Ah, Helen, isn't it?"
Helen nodded. "Abby, right?"
Abby turned to the side and displayed her pregnant stomach, "And company," she added with a bit of grandiose humor.
"Sorry," she apologized. There was only one reason the neighbors ever came over. "Was the music too loud, did it keep you up? Or perhaps it was the cat."
"The cat?" Abby's brow furrowed, not understanding. After a second surprise covered her features, then slight embarrassment. "Oh, gosh, no. That's not why I came over." She smiled reassuringly. "Not here with a complaint."
"You're not?" That was surprising.
"No, I was just at home and I was thinking how we never get to see you and I thought well, that's not very neighborly. So, I baked you these." She handed Helen the basket she had brought with her. "Scottish shortbread. Because you're Scottish."
"English, actually," Helen answered absentmindedly. Her neighbors had never brought her anything.
"No, they're lovely," she corrected herself, realizing she sounded ungrateful. "Thank - thank you."
"Umm . .. " Abby looked around innocently. "How is the painting coming? Do you show your work? What - um - I guess . . .Those wine and cheese gallery openings. I would love to see your work." She was babbling.
"I don't show my work," Helen replied defensively. Probably a bit too defensively, she realized in retrospect. "My agent sells it privately to buyers."
"Oh! That's good for you . . ." Abby nodded slowly.
Again, an awkwardness fell over the conversation. "So how are you feeling? You look to be about - what - thirty two? Thirty three weeks? Ultrasounds showing good bone development?"
"Thirty three weeks exactly." Abby giggled. "Do you have kids?"
"Yes, a daughter," Helen responded, not giving too much information on purpose, not wanting this conversation too last much longer.
Abby lowered her gaze, looking around behind Helen. "How old is she?"
"How old were you when you had her? Fourteen?" Abby blurted.
"One hundred thirty six," Helen replied without missing a beat. One hundred thirty six? What in heaven's name would make her say that? She had been . . . How old had she been?
How old was she now?
She couldn't be one hundred sixty, that was just absurd.
Abby didn't notice Helen's correction, not at first. She was too embarrassed by her ill-mannered question. Her hands covered her mouth. "Oh my God," she said. "I am so sorry, sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain and I tend to get my foot caught in it." She paused, as if realizing Helen had said something. Abby then released a hearty, girlish giggle. "One hundred thirty six," she repeated. "Oh, right. Well, you're definitely the best looking hundred sixty year old I've ever met."
Helen forced a smile, pretended her comment was the joke Abby was convinced it was.
Abby laughed for a moment before making a large dismissive gesture. "I better be going before I get my other shoe stuck in my mouth and I can't bow out gracefully. Just drop off the basket whenever you're done. No rush."
Helen held up the basket in reference, "Thank you. I'm sure we'll love them."
As Abby left down the walk, Helen closed the door and leaned against the wall next to it. She couldn't remember how old she was. The only number coming to mind was one hundred sixty. Was this some kind of mid-life crisis where she felt much much older than she was? Helen shook her head. Maybe she should just get some sleep.
. ~ .
Helen had the odd sensation of floating. She was wet, but not cold. It was a very calm peaceful feeling. She opened her eyes and the peaceful feeling went away.
She was in some kind of lab. Leads connected her to equipment and a monitor in her field of vision showed her face. She tried to get up. Her muscles felt week.
"Woah, woah, woah," a large man said. Moroccan, she thought, perhaps. "Calm down," he told her. "It looks like we'll have to increase your medication." He injected her with something. "There you are."
She tried to keep her eyes open, but they wouldn't obey her.
"Things will be alright. Don't fight it."
"Helen," John exclaimed, putting his hands on her shoulders, so she wouldn't knock him off the side of the couch.
She stared at him in disbelief.
Long dark locks fell from his head. He wore a suit, a late nineteenth century suit, she recognized the style. There was a darkness about him.
"I will do my best to make you happy, Helen, for all eternity." He reached towards her. His gentle hand suddenly turned menacing.
"Helen, are you alright?"
It was John. It was her John. She shook her head. "I'm fine," she lied. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that . . . That her daughter wasn't safe around her husband. "You just caught me in the middle of a dream, I'm afraid."
"Apologies, Love." He moved so she could swing her feet off the couch and stand. He put his hand on her lower back, steadying her. "Perhaps you'd like a cup of tea?"
She smiled falsely. "That sounds lovely." She watched him head towards the kitchen, and sunk back down onto the couch. Helen just couldn't understand her negative reactions towards him recently. She loved this man more than she knew. Why, then, did it feel like she was living with a murderer?
. ~ .
Will sat in bed next to his wife, absently listening to the evening news while he absently read the adventure novel he'd been trying to finish. He looked up when a story caught his interest.
"Following the conviction of Jonathan Young, the Old City Ripper, associate prosecutor John Druitt may be looking to leave the district attorney's office and find his way into politics. Rumor mills around city hall continue to speculate on a Druitt making a bid for the mayor's office."
"Isn't it weird?" Will asked.
Abby put down her own book. "What?"
"Our neighbors, the Druitts."
Abby smiled. "They don't really go together, do they?"
"Yeah, I mean he's a big shot lawyer and politician, and she's . . . She's an eccentric hipster painter." He shook his head. "How do two people like that end up married? With a kid?"
"Well," Abby's voice rose. "Their daughter is twenty four. Maybe they had to get married." She paused. "How old do you think Helen was when she had her? Sixteen? Eighteen?"
Will shrugged. "I don't know. She definitely can't be older than forty five. But, you're right, maybe eighteen. And them both coming from strict British families . . . Maybe Gregory held a shotgun wedding."
"Yeah, Gregory Magnus . . . Helen's father," he trailed off. He didn't know how he knew that. Yet, there was a clear image of elder Magnus in his mind.
Abby chuckled. "Maybe." She gasped in realization. "Maybe that's why they moved out of England!"
Will knew that was wrong. This whole conversation was wrong. It just . . . He didn't know. Without having a better answer he forced a chuckle, ending the conversation. Somehow he knew they weren't actually married. Somehow he knew Magnus - Helen - was a lot older than eighteen when she had Ashley. Somehow he knew . . . none of this was right.
. ~ .
Henry stood in front of several monitors, each with a head of house on them, and Kate behind him for moral support.
"It's clear, we need to go on full alert," Declan said.
"Do you really think that's necessary?" Misbah Adani, Ravi's successor, asked.
"I think so," Henry answered. "There is way too much going on right now for this to be a coincidence."
"I tend to agree. More importantly, I think Doctor Magnus would agree as well," Declan said, undoubtedly sounding the most confident of all those involved.
There was a bit of chatter of people agreeing.
"So, it's decided," Henry said. "Every Sanctuary is going on lockdown. All emergency teams are being called in. All safe houses are being alerted and informed. The Sanctuary Network is on a full global alert."
. ~ .
Helen bolted upright, splashing water from a tank she was sitting in. Immediately she was restrained. Several sets of arms held her back. She looked around, confused and disoriented. She was she. What was going on.
Two lives seemed to be colliding in her head. Helen wasn't sure who she was.
"Woah! What's going on here? What is she doing awake?" a disembodied voice asked. "Up the meds!"
"They are already at maximum levels. She cannot endure much more," the doctor she had seen before said.
"I don't care," the disembodied voice became the voice of a man in view.
"Virgil Saint Pierre," she said, recognizing him immediately.
"You can't bet against the house, Magnus, you'll lose." He turned away from her and towards the doctor. "Up the meds. Put her back under, and up the meds."
Helen felt a shot in her arm and she started loosing consciousness.
"If she doesn't go back under now, she'll be dead the next time she wakes up."
Helen started, gasping. She looked around, she was at home, in the bed she currently shared with her husband. John was asleep next to her. She sat up and watched him for a moment. He looked . . . peaceful, as if a rage inside him was quelled, temporarily at least.
There was something about this man. Something dark. Something dangerous. And yet . . . The man she expected him to be was the not the man she was lying next to now. He wasn't who he was supposed to be. Neither was she.
The phone rang.
Helen stared at it, looking over her husband.
The phone rang again.
He grumbled and reached for it. "Yes," he growled. He paused, listening. "Yes, this is John Druitt," his voice changed. John sat up as well, turning on the bedside lamp. "Is she alright?" he asked, concern more than evident in his voice. "Of course, we'll be there right away."
He hung up the phone and turned to her. "It's Ashley, she's been in an accident."
Any and all thoughts she had had vanished, replaced by one thing: concern for her child.
. ~ .
There was minimal waiting around once Helen and John had arrived at the hospital. One of the nurses showed them to Ashley's room immediately. Ashley was laying on a bed with one of her legs up on some pillows and covered in ice. The arm on the same side was lying across her stomach with another ice pack.
"Hi guys," she waved at them with her good arm.
Helen rushed to Ashley's side - the opposite side of the injured leg - and hugged her daughter gently. "Are you alright?"
Helen moved back, giving John space to lean in and kiss his daughter's forehead. "What happened?" he asked. "I didn't ask for full details over the phone."
"Kate parked her car and we were crossing the street and she dropped her keys. So I turned around to see her pick it up, and my legs came out from underneath me."
"Drunk guy ran the light," a new voice said.
Both Helen and John turned to see a young woman. She had black hair and a darker complexion. "I'm Kate, the one who dropped her keys."
The young woman was tied to a chair in an empty space. "The name's Kate, Freelander. And, yes, that is my real name, even though it sounds made up." She was cheeky.
Helen shook the image from her mind.
Kate extended her hand. "You must be Ash's parents."
John smiled politely. "We are indeed. I suppose it was you spoke to on the phone."
She offered him a slightly sheepish smile. "That was me."
"Thank you," Helen said. "We appreciated the call." She turned to Ashley. "You'll need surgery?" she asked.
Ashley nodded. "No. Not really. The break in the arm is clean, and my leg's not broken. It's just really bruised."
"May I?" Helen asked, gesturing to Ashley's leg.
Ashley nodded and John moved to the other side of the bed. Helen lifted the blanket that covered Ashley's lap and took stock of the damage. Her thigh was bruised, swollen, and abraised. The abrasion ran up to her hip where the bruising looked the worst.
"This doesn't look too bad. You'll be alright." Helen then picked up Ashley's chart and glanced through it. Everything appeared normal. They had given her some Tylenol, but no serious medication. Ashley had always had a high pain tolerance. She remembered sewing up a cut once or twice without so much as a wince.
Sewing up a cut? Helen did a mental double take. No, that wasn't right. She'd never sown up one of Ashley's cuts. She shook it off as simply misremembering.
"Helen, quit playing doctor and sit down for a moment, will you?" John said, having already pulled up one of the chairs closer to Ashley's bed.
The words playing doctor resounded oddly in her mind, but she ignored it, put down the chart and pulled up the other chair. Ashley was alright, and that was all that was important.
. ~ .
Will opened his eyes to see a bright blue light in his face. He squinted and looked around. Again, he saw two monitors, one with his own conscious face, and the other of Helen's unconscious face.
He looked to his right, through the plexiglass of the tank he was in. Three people in lab coats were mulling over a clipboard. He sat up, and all three looked over and saw him.
"Wait!" he shouted. "Let me go."
"It's alright, Doctor Zimmerman, just sleep a little longer." Before he could respond, there was a sharp pain in the side of his neck.
"Will, are you alright?"
Will sat up quickly. It was Abby. It was okay. It was Abby.
"I thought you were supposed to be at the hospital until late."
He ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah, I was, but . . ." He took a deep breath shaking off the dream. "I just . . ."
She sat down next to him on the couch. "Tell me about it. Start from the beginning."
He frowned. "I've been having these dreams. It's like - ah - mad scientist kind of stuff. I'm in this lab and Helen is there."
"Helen?" Abby repeated slowly. "The neighbor?"
"Yeah. And when I was at the hospital today, she was there. Her daughter had been brought in with a broken leg, but Ashley's dead."
Abby's hand covered her mouth. "Oh, they must be devastated. We should bake them something."
Will shook his head. "No, she's not dead. I just . . . I remember that Ashley is supposed to be dead."
"Supposed to be?" Once again, Abby repeated his words slowly.
"Yeah, she's not supposed to be alive. She was killed," he started speaking faster and faster. "And Magnus and Druitt aren't supposed to be together. And you and I aren't supposed to be married. And Henry and Kate . . ."
Abby had fallen silent and still.
"Everything about this is wrong."
"We're not supposed to be married," she finally said.
Will looked at her wide eyed. "Abby, that's not what I meant."
"No," she stood up quickly, wiping tears from her eyes. "It's exactly what you meant, Will," she raised her voice. "You know, I've read about this happening, the husband freaking out before the baby comes." He followed her out of the house. "I just wish you would've admitted it instead of trying to plead insanity here."
"No, Abby, listen!"
She opened the car door. "No, Will. I'll listen when you're ready to -" she inhaled sharply. "to -" She wobbled on her feet and her caught her, lowering her to the ground.
"Abby!" He pushed some of her hair out of her face. "Abby, it's gonna be okay." He reached for his cell phone and called 911. He was terrified. He didn't know what to do.
. ~ .
John was still at the hospital. Helen had gone home, feeling uncomfortable and useless waiting around while her daughter sat and waited around. She looked up from the sink when she heard some commotion from across the street.
It appeared as if the Zimmerman's were having a bit of row. Mrs. Zimmerman collapsed.
Helen barely shut off the sink, pulling the towel off the counter and drying her hands as she ran out of her house and across the street. "What happened?" she asked.
Will looked apologetically guilty. "I don't know. We were just talking and she almost passed out and - and she started shaking."
"Do you have a medical kit?"
"Yeah, it's in my car."
"Good, get it." She practically pushed him out of the way to take his place supporting Abby. "Ambulance?
"It's on it's way." He went to his car and pulled out a small kit.
"Deep breaths, Abby. How's your vision?" Helen pressed her fingers against Abby's wrist to measure her pulse. It was fast, very fast.
"Blurry. Is the baby going to be okay?"
"The baby's going to be perfectly fine. I promise you." Abby was thirty four weeks, it was probably the premature onset of preeclampsia, no doubt induced by her argument with her husband.
"What's wrong with her?" Will asked.
"I'll wager premature onset of preeclampsia, likely caused by hypertension. We may have caught it in time." Helen put on the stethoscope and listened to Abby's heart and lungs.
Abby nodded, looking up at Helen and her breathing evening out. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome."
. ~ .
Helen stayed with Doctor and Missus Zimmerman all the way to the hospital. She turned over to the attending Obstetrician and sat in the waiting room. It wasn't until she was sitting down that she realized she had no idea how she knew what she was doing.
A short while later, Doctor Zimmerman entered the room and sat next to her. He stared at his hands for a minute. "I wanted to thank you."
She shook her head. "Don't mention it. It was least I could do."
"I didn't know what was wrong with her. I'm a cardiologist, blood pressure is my thing and I couldn't identify preeclampsia." He looked at her pointedly. "You could."
She didn't have an answer for him. Somehow she knew that he wasn't a cardiologist. He didn't have the expertise to identify physical conditions. She, however, she did. A disjointed image of a diploma from Oxford came into her mind. She shook it off. She had never gone to Oxford.
She had visited it once, it was such a lovely campus. But she had never gone to school there.
Doctor Zimmerman looked around the room, which was empty. "What the hell is going on here?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"I just . . . I can't figure out why my life is falling apart. And, for some reason, I know you have the answer."
"I'm not the psychiatrist."
He leaned towards her quickly. "You see, right there. Why did you say that?"
"Why is it important that I did?"
He leaned back in his chair, somewhat defeated. "Because it just is Magnus."
"What did you just call me?"
He paused for a second. "Magnus."
"That's my maiden name. I haven't used it in decades. How on Earth would you know it?"
"I must've . . ." he trailed off.
There was a short moment of silence. "I have memories of -"
"You have them too?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No. But I knew you would have them." He paused again. "Okay, here me out. This will sound crazy."
She met his gaze. She knew what he was going to say. She knew it.
"But I think that none of this-"
"Is real," she finished for him with an amount of determination she hadn't felt in several days. "Our lives-"
"Are completely wrong."
"I'm one hundred sixty years old."
"I don't remember marrying Abby."
The realizations hung between them like a fog.
"I've been having this dream," Will said slowly.
"Where you're in some kind of lab, and I'm there too?"
"We're having the same dream." He leaned in close to her. "What if we're not really here. We're there. This, all of this, is a construct, a prison. Our dreams are actually our reality. This-"
"Is all a dream."
"For what reason?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. But I know that this isn't me, and this isn't you. We're not crazy."
"What do we do?" she asked.
Will thought for a moment. "I have an idea."
. ~ .
Will lay down in a bed in one of the private rooms, which they locked the door. Helen had a syringe in her hand. "Are you ready?" she asked.
He nodded. "See you on the other side."
Helen slowly inserted the sedative into his bloodstream. She then took up position on the other bed and injected herself as well.
The lab. There were voices around her. Disembodied, still. She looked around and saw faced.
"How are thing one and thing two doing today?" The Moroccan man leaned down. "I just wish you would stop fighting it."
She jumped away. "We should stop fighting it?"
"Thing one and thing two?"
"Oh, bloody hell, it's real." They looked at each other for a second.
"How do we get out?"
"You said you thought you actually briefly before."
"Yeah, it felt like I did. Then I woke up here and things got more intense with Abby."
"Same thing with me. In my dream, I became aware of my surroundings. Then Ashley got in an accident, pulling me further into this world."
"So whenever we try to get out, something here pulls us back in."
"I think that to escape, we need to completely reject this life." It hung for a minute. "Think about it."
"Are we really talking about this? This isn't healthy." I mean, how can we be sure which reality is real."
Helen shook her head. "Other than a gut feeling . . . It's going to be a leap of faith."
. ~ .
They were rushing towards her car, it was on the bottom floor of the parking garage.
She turned to see John and Abby standing outside the elevator. They started to hurry over. "Helen! Wait!"
"You drive," Will said, tossing her his keys.
She just got in the car and locked the doors behind her when John made it to the side of the car. Abby was not far behind him.
"Helen, where are you going? Ashley needs you."
Helen ignored him. Ashley was dead.
"Will," Abby knocked on the door somewhat panicked. "Will, I need you."
He didn't look at her. "Go," he said.
Helen turned the key, started the car, and threw it into reverse and headed up. As fast as the sports car could handle the tight ascending turns, they headed upwards. As they got to the bottom of the final straight, she and Will made eye contact.
She was sure.
Nailing her foot to the floor, she took the car up to the top and through the barrier off the top of the garage.
. ~ .
She woke up. Both she and Will sat up in the warm water tanks.
"Well that was interesting. Let's get out of here."
Alarms were going off.
Two figures came down the stairs. "They're up."
"No good, it hasn't finished sequencing yet."
The younger man, a man she knew too well, leaned forward. "How are you two feeling?"
"Do you know who you are?" the Moroccan man asked.
"Virgil St. Pierre. I should've know you were behind this."
Virgil turned to the Moroccan. "Yeah, I think they're fine, now. Yes, Magnus, I'm involved here. And if I had known what I giant headache the two of you would be, I would've never taken the gig."
"What's with the tanks? And how long have we been here?"
"Three days, Big Shot. Eight hours, and twenty six minutes."
"You think this is fun for us?"
"Who brought us here?"
"We did, Doc."
Helen looked up to see Henry and Kate. "Henry, Kate."
"Good to see you up and around," Henry said, coming down the stairs with Kate on his heels. He turned to the Moroccan. "So I take it this means they're sane?"
"Yes," he nodded.
"Oh, you see, sane? Ooooh," Virgil did a little dance, which she would've thought childish if she wasn't too angry and confused to notice him.
"What are you talking about?" Will asked.
"How much do you remember?"
Will and Helen shook their heads. "Nothing."
"Come on, I'll show you," Henry said. They followed Henry up the stairs. "We got a call from the Lotus Defense guys."
"The UN national security force?"
Henry nodded. "There was a situation just south of the US/Mexican border. Something big was coming out of the ground near Juarez. At first you thought it was an off season migration of rock lizards, but then you got hit by this." He used a remote and a wall opened up.
It was a giant worm with the blue pattern she'd been seeing. "What on Earth is it?"
"We don't know. For now, I've been calling it a psych worm. It surfaced right beneath you and hit you with some psychoactive venom which apparently puts its victims in a crazy dream world while it devours you."
"Amazing creature," St. Pierre commented.
"So you did all this to save our minds?" Helen asked.
Kate nodded. "We captured the creature, but you two were. . ." she made some vague crazy-like gestures.
"Gone. Blitzed. Wacked out. Loco."
"We got it," Will stopped St. Pierre's rambling. "So those tanks we were lying in."
"May I?" St. Pierre tried again. "You were too serious to move very far, and guess who's in the neighborhood? My lab, my team, my teach. We did some fancy venom magic with a neuroactive mind control gel that I'm developing with the venom from the worm's salivary glands, and we came up with a treatment to restore your minds."
Henry continued. "The neurogel was what we were introducing into your systems to override what the worm had implanted."
"So every time we woke up, it was like a patient waking up during surgery?"
Henry nodded. "The timing was tricky. If you came out too soon, there would be damage to your minds. So we had to keep putting you under until your brains show normal activity."
"I guess you two don't like living in bliss," Kate said.
Helen and Will looked at each other for a split second, but didn't dwell.
"But where did this come from," Helen asked. "I've never even heard of this creature." Henry and Kate's pointed stares answered her question. "Hollow Earth," she concluded.
"We're getting reports from Sanctuary's world wide. We are on a full global alert."
"Then we need to head home."
. ~ . FIN . ~ .
A/N - JUST KIDDING.
The following is a scene that would be in a closely following episode:
. ~ . . . ~ .
Will walked into Magnus' office to see her standing in front of the window, staring out at the river. "You got a minute?" he asked.
She turned to him and nodded. "Sure."
He gestured for her to take a seat. She sat on one couch, he on the other.
"Magnus, I was thinking . . " He took a deep breath. "I was thinking about that dream reality."
She nodded. He knew she knew what was coming.
"I'm not saying that it was some great window in our psyches, but . . . For a while now I've been thinking about what a life with Abby would be like. I already decided if she and I were to ever become something serious, it would have to be here. This is who I am now.
He took a deep breath. This part was the hard part. "It makes sense that your happy place would include Ashley - would be about Ashley. It also makes sense to me that Druitt was there, too."
She didn't try to argue, but he could tell she had an argument brewing.
"He's probably the only person who will live as long as you do. That is unless I don't kill Tesla . . .
He paused, trying to let his joke wear off. "I think it might be time, once all this blows over, to start putting a real effort into getting that energy elemental out of him. And preferably out of the Sanctuary building, too." She rewarded him a small smile. "I'm not saying things have to be . . . you know . . . Right away. I'm just saying that I think you'll feel better if you don't have the guilt of what he's become weighing on you anymore. And one day, you're going to have someone you're not gonna have to bury."
She took a deep breath, stilling the tears that appeared.
He stood up.
"Just think about it.'
. ~ . FIN FIN . ~ .