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xp_logsHaller goes to pay Moira a visit, and experiences one of those unexplainable encounters he's been hearing about for the last few days.
There was a stranger in the Medlab.
Jim hadn't heard of any visitors, but an unfamiliar young man was seated at one of the terminals, typing something. Not an intruder, though -- Moira was standing next to him, holding her habitual morning coffee and showing every sign of enjoying it. Any unwelcome guest would have found it upended over his head, and that would have been only the start of his problems.
Neither of them had noticed his entrance. Jim was halfway into the process of forming an appropriate greeting when he realized that although their lips were moving no sound was coming out. Yet the tap of keystrokes was plain enough, as was the rustle of Moira's coat as she shifted position.
Something was wrong. Frowning, Jim abandoned etiquette and shut his mouth, instead questing out with his telepathy. A light, topical scan, which revealed . . .
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. As if he were the only living being in the room.
Were they more apparitions, then? Jim relaxed a little. They couldn't hurt him, if the reports were accurate, so there was nothing to fear. It was even somewhat fascinating, in an odd way. Jim studied the stranger's profile, trying to place it. He didn't look much younger than Jim. Something about his face . . .
The two phantoms continued their silent conversation, heedless of the man standing in the doorway. Moira extended a hand and combed back the stranger's reddish-brown hair, lips curving in a smile of mock-admonishment. He laughed and batted at her playfully, waving her away. Jim distinctly saw him mouth the words I'm trying to work.
And then, without reason or warning, the two figures vanished.
Jim glanced around to make sure the apparitions hadn't simply shifted location, but the room was empty. Cautiously, he approached the terminal to look at what the man had been working on. It looked like an essay, though nothing had been written yet except the sender's contact information and the title A Clinical History of Documented Congenital Mutations in the United Kingdom. He read the contact information. Twice.
Oh.
Oh, Moira.
Something in his chest twisted. It was a moment before he could move to delete the document, his hand on the mouse shaking only slightly.
The face he'd known had been younger, much younger, and pale with the shadow of pain, but Jim had reason enough to remember it. He'd seen it staring out of a picture frame on Muir a hundred times or more. It belonged to a boy never encountered, but always present -- especially in those first long, painful months of treatment.
Kevin.
There was a stranger in the Medlab.
Jim hadn't heard of any visitors, but an unfamiliar young man was seated at one of the terminals, typing something. Not an intruder, though -- Moira was standing next to him, holding her habitual morning coffee and showing every sign of enjoying it. Any unwelcome guest would have found it upended over his head, and that would have been only the start of his problems.
Neither of them had noticed his entrance. Jim was halfway into the process of forming an appropriate greeting when he realized that although their lips were moving no sound was coming out. Yet the tap of keystrokes was plain enough, as was the rustle of Moira's coat as she shifted position.
Something was wrong. Frowning, Jim abandoned etiquette and shut his mouth, instead questing out with his telepathy. A light, topical scan, which revealed . . .
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. As if he were the only living being in the room.
Were they more apparitions, then? Jim relaxed a little. They couldn't hurt him, if the reports were accurate, so there was nothing to fear. It was even somewhat fascinating, in an odd way. Jim studied the stranger's profile, trying to place it. He didn't look much younger than Jim. Something about his face . . .
The two phantoms continued their silent conversation, heedless of the man standing in the doorway. Moira extended a hand and combed back the stranger's reddish-brown hair, lips curving in a smile of mock-admonishment. He laughed and batted at her playfully, waving her away. Jim distinctly saw him mouth the words I'm trying to work.
And then, without reason or warning, the two figures vanished.
Jim glanced around to make sure the apparitions hadn't simply shifted location, but the room was empty. Cautiously, he approached the terminal to look at what the man had been working on. It looked like an essay, though nothing had been written yet except the sender's contact information and the title A Clinical History of Documented Congenital Mutations in the United Kingdom. He read the contact information. Twice.
Oh.
Oh, Moira.
Something in his chest twisted. It was a moment before he could move to delete the document, his hand on the mouse shaking only slightly.
The face he'd known had been younger, much younger, and pale with the shadow of pain, but Jim had reason enough to remember it. He'd seen it staring out of a picture frame on Muir a hundred times or more. It belonged to a boy never encountered, but always present -- especially in those first long, painful months of treatment.
Kevin.
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