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It is good to know that even in this messed-up universe they have a place for sketchy motels with cash-only signs and a strict
ask me no questions
vibe hovering over the check-in. Without the show-me pass that Olivia now knows is so vital to functioning over here, she didn’t know how far she would get after she slipped from her pursuers. But a swift stick-em-up outside an ATM had at least put money in her pocket, and although the faces are different, the persuasive power behind a dirty wad of bills is just as strong here as it is back home.
Olivia closes the blinds, and triple checks than no chink will let light spill into the parking lot outside. She has every lamp in the room switched on, including the bathroom’s, although it keeps the fan automatically whirring and thumping in an offbeat drone. She has a headache, but she can’t really mind. If she goes to sleep—at some point she will need to sleep—Olivia will not wake up in the dark.
The adrenaline is gone, and she can no longer avoid thinking about the fact that she is standing in a dirty room, shaking from exhaustion, and utterly alone in a strange world with no idea of where she will go next. She wants to cry, but thinks she might be too tired to summon the tears.
The thought,
why has nobody come?
feels like a betrayal, but even Olivia Dunham tires of saving her own self every damn time. It was part of the reason she had her team, wasn’t it? Why she had slowly let herself trust Broyles and Astrid, Walter…Peter. They backed her up and she gave them purpose. But not here. Here, people who look like friends turned away from her with indifference or disgust, utterly unmoved and pitiless as she
begged
for help. Could it really be so different over here? Had Walter really damaged them that much?
Olivia’s headache begins to press against her vision, making everything seem fuzzy-edged and dim. She squints; she thinks even the lights are different here. Not in the same way incandescence and florescence differ at home, but in the very essence of the light they cast. Underneath the constant jarring thump of the fan, she can hear everything thrumming and buzzing in some foreign frequency. It could almost be deafening.
She needs to sleep. As of now, Olivia’s only plan is to move and keep moving until she finds a way to get back home. She will need to be alert, and sharp, and utterly reliant on only herself. With her stolen gun in easy reach between herself and the door, Olivia wraps the worn blanket around her shoulders and slumps in momentary defeat onto the bed. Closing her eyes against everything, she wishes she could forget, just for the moment, how far she is from everything she knows. She can’t, but she promises herself that she will not have to live with it for long.
--
She starts awake to the all-too-familiar sound of a door being rammed open. Minutes or hours may have gone by, but she doesn’t have time to check as she grabs the gun and inches towards the curtains. Sure enough, Fringe Division trucks crowd the parking lot, as agents rush into the room downstairs she paid for, but at least had the foresight not to stay in. Yet it still shakes her to her core that they were able to find her so quickly this time.
Cursing everything in this world—save the small bathroom window that will just work as an exit—Olivia turns away. They can keep looking. But she’ll be gone by the time they get here.