OOC - Memory 1
Roswell had poured himself a sizable glass of orange juice, fairly parched after the last couple hours of running around and fetching this and that. When he had brought it to his lips, however, his ears perked at the clink of something against the glass. Thinking that somehow, someway an ice cube had found its way in when he wasn't looking - weird practical joke? - the Intern swiveled his finger in the liquid to check his theory.
His mind swam.
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Roswell found his ears filling with the sound of what he knew to be tires along an asphalt road. Wind whipped casually past his ears and through his hair with a subtle chill that spoke of a later hour. Although he couldn't see, and he had heard around the Sphere that memories were often limited in senses, he could still feeel the steering wheel beneath his casual grip.
"Beautiful countryside, don't you think? Especially at sunset." The voice came from his right, rough and aged, but not ancient. A man in his fifties or sixties, perhaps.
"Yeah, it's pretty cool." Roswell felt...eager. He wanted something from the man. "So, Mr. Hubble, you said you were going to answer my questions." Bingo. His tone was just this side of impatient, clearly uninterested in the other's casual observation of the scenery.
The man seemed to be ignoring him. "My wife Sheila and me liked to slip away sometimes...just take a drive. Nothing like flying down the highway with the woman you love by your side, now is there?" His voice was wistful and nostaglic.
Roswell felt sadness and regret ping his heart. "You're probably right."
"'Course it's gotta be the right one. You know how you know that?" He laughed, small and brief. "A kiss. That's how. Ever heard the expression, 'I saw fireworks'? It was just like the 4th of July. That ever happen to you when you kissed a girl?"
He felt the man looking at him and, again, felt his chest swell momentarily with pain. "Maybe...Once." His voice was just as sad.
"Well...it was our first anniversary. She told me she had a surprise for me. I had one for her. I took the last of my paycheck from the refinery, and I bought some fireworks from an old Indian over by the side of the road off the highway there. Just outside of town I remembered I forgot to bring matches. So I pulled in to Peppers Cafe." The light-hearted tone shifted into something almost dark. "But you know that, don't you?"
Confusion pushed the lonliness aside and it showed in Roswell's voice. "Sir?"
"Pull over to the side there. I want to show you something."
The wind altered directions against Roswell's face and he felt himself slowly turned the wheel and pushing his foot onto the brakes. Gravel dragged audibly under his tires as, finally, he came to a complete stop. They got out of the car (something open-topped, he guessed).
The man continued. "You recognize it?"
Confusion again, but stronger this time. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never been here." It showed in his tone as clear as crystal.
The stranger's voice got further from him, clearly talking as he walked away. Roswell didn't move. "It was just gettin' dark. All I needed was a pack of matches and...there, there they were...right there on the counter, in a fishbowl. Ten cents a pack." Although his words still rang as nostalgic, they were getting heavier, more serious.
"Mr. Hubble, if we're gonna make Bitter Lake and back in time for the panel-" He felt himself turn halfway back to the vehicle they had left.
The man interupted. "And you know what? I...I didn't have it. Not...not even ten cents. I thought about going back and...and getting some spare change where I kept it in the ashtray. But I said, 'Hey, bud...bud, don't make me embarrass myself in front of my lady. Uh, it's my anniversary.' And he says, uh...'Have a good time...it's on the house.'"
Roswell's confusion had replaced everything else and saturated every syllable of his words. "I don't understand."
"I didn't have a good time. Not that night. Not any night since." His voice shook with subtle tremors of sorrow that, like Roswell's bewilderment, covered every breath. The shuffle of his steps and the proximity of his voice had him walking towards Roswell, then past him. "She never did get my surprise. And I never did get hers. Not until I got a copy of the coroner's report. There it was in black ink." His tone dipped into some place dark, some place that hurt to hear. The rest sounded almost hollow. "Three months pregnant. A little girl, it said. She was carrying our child. Surprise."
"I'm sorry." And he was. He felt genuine sympathy for the man.
"And so am I. Four innocent people lost their lives startin' that day. My wife," The next was a whisper. "My baby..." The rest rose back to its rumbly, despressing tone. "That drifter, and, uh...and me. Dead man walking. That's what I felt all those years. Only thing kept me alive was you."
"Me? But..." Roswell felt the first pangs of fear. He didn't think this man was sane. "But I don't know you." The words were firm and strong, pressing the point.
"I know you." The man turned, the ground sounding out his movement.
The previous fear spiked, sending Roswell's heart into a hammer of motion and his voice into a shaky dance. He felt his arms lift and his hands go out. "Whoa, mister, you are making a big mistake."
"I know how you can change your face, your body...you're a shape-shifter because you're always running." The last bit was laughed out, but it was a laugh that sent chills up Roswell's spine. "You changed yourself into that drifter when you killed my Sheila trying to get our car. What were you running from then?" His words became a yell. "Somebody else find out your little secret?!"
Roswell's response was given inbetween frantic, scared pants of breath. "Sir, I know you're upset...but I did not kill your wife. I wouldn't kill anybody."
"Valenti told me about the healing, about the handprint...just like on Sheila." He wasn't convinced.
"I am not him. Whoever you think I am, I swear I am not him." Adrenaline flooded Roswell's system, making his hands sweat and his whole body feel like it was shaking.
"I know who you really are, what you're capable of, and I won't let you kill again." Anger. So much anger.
Roswell knew this was it. He was about to die.
"Hey!" Another voice, this one from where the road would have been. Roswell recognized it and felt a jolt of hope as, suddenly, he felt himself charge at the man and tackle him down. Something else, something heavy and metal, clattered away from the stranger's hand in the struggle.
Whoever had shouted and distracted the man, this 'Hubble', thudded his footsteps over to them. It wouldn't be soon enough, Roswell knew, and he felt his hand stretch out to stop Hubble from grabbing...something. That's when the familiar tingle along the back of his skull, the one he had only felt when he used his psychokinesis, bubbled up. Whatever had been dropped could be heard sliding away through dirt and pebbles.
"I knew it was you, you bastard!" Yelled. Screamed.
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And Roswell came to, the cup shattered at his feet and a small crystal laying in the puddle of orange juice.
What kind of person had he been?