Thursday, March 17, 2011

Entry: 00-007: CotV Fiction - The Dreamer

The Dreamer

by Wedge, Co-Creator

My name is Solene Pythia and I'm watching my own birth.

It is very clear to me right now.

The bored nurse who surreptitiously checks her data pad for any messages as my mother goes under the anesthesia.

The steady beep of the machinery in the room.

My mother's flashes of guilt between the contractions that she tries to conceal as pain.

I know now that at the this time, she truly didn't know if I was the daughter of the man who is squeezing her left hand and whispering sweet nothings into her ear. The man who I would later call "Dad".

It's very clear to me now, that tiny variations in the sequence of events that are about to happen can so radically change the course of my life that I still break out in a cold sweat just watching it. My muscles tense, and I hold my breath just as the Doctor pulls the tiny 6lb 7oz version of myself wailing from my mother's womb and raises me to her arms. I see the moment of decision at the point just between my mother's eyes, as she resolves to lock the secret of my conception deep in a vault within her mind never to be uttered to another soul, and the smile that erupts from her eyes from the release of this burden of decision is glorious.

I freeze this moment, and take the time to examine every detail... you see she does not make the same decision every time I re-watch this scene.

In the version of this scene that I watched immediately before this one, my mother decided to wait until she and my Dad were alone in the recovery room to tell my Dad that I was not his daughter and that there had been another man from her office who had shared a night with her some 9 months ago. My Dad and my Mom argue in this version, and I grow up calling a man named Sten "Pappa" instead of the "Dad" that I know in my heart to be true...
There are other versions of this scene I have seen that are misty and illusive which have me come out as a boy, or as fraternal twins. Each of those Solene 's (or Samuels in the case of the boy) grow up to lead entirely separate lives, never once intersecting with the life that is currently mine.

So I keep coming back to this tread in time, examining the slight fluctuations in this scene, and comparing them to the others. I see that in this version, the A/C kicks on 2.5 seconds before the baby me is handed to my mother, while in the other version it kicks on 1.35 seconds after. In the previous scene the nurse dropped her data pad and the clatter of it on the hospital floor seemed to cause the doctor to hand the baby me to my mother 1 second later than in this version, because he spared time to give the nurse a disapproving glare. Could one of these seemingly irrelevant details be the one that leads to my mother's silence rather than her admission? The question burns in the part of my mind that still clings to my humanity, to the life I once knew.
My soul is weary, but spending time re-watching this scene renews me. It hardens my resolve to do what must be done.

I take a step back from this thread of time and watch it shrink away into the mass of vibrating continuums of probability that surround my consciousness. I move across the room to the monolithic crystal that appears to have grown through the very floor of the room, and I lay my hands upon it. I see images moving through the crystal and I know that they must be sleeping. I refocus my efforts, and quest out for my disciples, those that I've watched for so long now, those that have the spark which I have selected them for from among countless sentient beings.

I find them all safe aboard The Overwatch traveling through outer space. Its early in the morning ship time, and they are all asleep, except the ever vigilant Dust. I begin to spin the dream now. Weaving the threads of probabilities around me and brushing them against the receptive subconscious's of my disciples. I try again to paint the picture for them of their future. Of one possible future which they can work together to prevent. But these tools are so imprecise, and my only method of communication is repeated innuendo, riddle, and allusion. I hope that they can tease the truth out of these messages in time and reach Montogo before Vice Mael Spaeti releases the SERK on the Assembly peacekeeping troops, but their ultimate fate is out of my hands, all I can do is watch... and dream.

My name is Solene Pythia, but my disciples call me The Dreamer, for that is all I can do in this lonely dimension outside of time. I am trapped here futilely manning a lighthouse assaulted on all sides by a sea of probabilities while I try desperately to signal to those who will open their minds to see... that there are rocks ahead.