Certain Unalienable Truths

[olbustedhotness]

((Post-MIB2. Italics are actually outside thoughts or quotes or lyrics, this time, not actually Kay's thoughts. I know, I changed my format and went weird on this one.))


It's a funny thing, isn't it? This fixation human-kind has with the passing of the torch. With that whole thing about tradition, about the teacher and the pupil. Or, if you prefer the military analogies, let's just call it the idea of the Rookie.

Ah, the Rookie. Wet behind the ears, The new guy. Fresh meat. Of course, back then, being the fresh meat only made you a few months younger than the rest of the stock. But it was enough. Damn sure it was enough. Especially when most of them were MIT graduates... engineers, astronomers ... and the rookie's the one dumb kid on the wrong back road with the bouquet of flowers in his hand and his hair slicked back with the last of his father's Brylcreem. Doesn't quite merge with the rest of the picture, with the dozen guys in black polyester, and the one kid in the plaid shirt, does it?

... Then again, I guess a jumpsuit so garish that it could stop traffic on the Autobahn tends to have the same effect, doesn'it. No matter. Mood's been established.

Let's take a look at this dumb kid, shall we? For the sake of argument, we'll call the kid Kevin. Poor Kevin stood in front of the mirror slickin' his hair back and practicin' speeches for half an hour before climbing in his mom's Volkswagen and clattering his way down those Kansas back roads. And sure, the kid was still in Kansas, but the wizard's caravan went and turned itself into a flyin' saucer straight out of Buck Rogers, and hell if Dorothy wasn't eight feet tall and grey. And he['s driven right into the middle of it, the poor boy. There's guys there, guys about his age, smarter guys, in suits. And they got this look about them, like they're tryin' to say they know what they're talkin' about. But there's somethin' behind their eyes says that in the end, they know just about as much as our boy Kevin there. He looks down at the flowers in his hand and thinks of Liz, how she's gonna be waitin' out on the porch ... but then he looks up - way up - at Dorothy, and decides, in the spirit of Southern Hospitality (and a little bit of C.Y.A, which is an old military code Dad taught him which means "Cover Your Ass"), he swallows down whatever decided to jump up and hang out in his trachea, and marches right up to the middle of the whole mess. He'd bow, but she's damn tall enough, so he just smiles, stretches out an arm, and hands her the flowers.

The guys in the suits are just gobsmacked.

There's silence for what seems like longer than that time he sat outside the principal's office, an' then Dorothy tilts her head and makes this funny sort of clicky noise. It doesn't quite sound like she's gonna eat any of them, so Kevin smiles a bit wider and decides now's the time to bow.

Damn if that alien don't bow right back.

The guys in the suits go absolutely cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs over that, and rush in to talk ... but Dorothy holds up a hand that's only got about three fingers on it, and shakes her head. She's only gonna talk to the kid, thank you very much, and the rest of them can go pound sand. But Kevin kinda looks back at them. He's got no damn clue if Dorothy can understand him, but he looks up at her, gestures over his shoulder, and goes, "Beggin' your pardon, miss ..." Mind you, it's not the loudest voice, "...but I'd rather appreciate it if one of them comes with me?"

She nods and picks the one out of the bunch that looks closest to the kid's age. He's about five years older or so, but that's about it.

"What's your name, kid?"

"... Kevin Brown, sir."

"Hell with sir. Call me Dee."

And the two of them follow Dorothy up into that saucer, and the light from the door just swallows 'em up and into history.


History doesn't necessarily repeat itself. A lot of the stuff can look damned familiar if you look close, though. And it's not a case of anything particularly spectacular. Some things are just bound to happen in certain ways. Example: There's always gonna be something you can't explain.

"... Why the hell'd it take the -flowers-?"

There's always gonna be someone who doesn't know what they've gotten themselves into.

"They were gills, not eyelids. ... Gills. He was out of breath."

And there's always someone who can tell them.

"... Why do you think you're so comfortable here?"

Those people are the wisdom-givers. They are the keepers of knowledge. They are the saviors of the unenlightened. (... They have also been known to get entirely too full of themselves.) However ... there is always, always a time when these people have told all that they know how to tell. When they don't quite know what to say next - or when they do ... but they don't want to say it. Everyone comes up with their own way. Everyone finds their own words.

This is where history usually starts to differ.

But sometimes, if history hiccups ... if time folds back on itself a little too soon, it copies. And someone's words can belong to someone else ...

"They're beautiful, aren't they?"

Again...

"The stars ..."

And again...

"We never just look anymore..."

And if history works so close, so soon ...

"See you around."

For that small a time frame ...

"No ... you won't ..."

By the laws of time, and space (never, ever forget space, because it sure as hell never forgets you), something is going to have to change, or the universe is just going to short out.

So some piece of the equation either changes ...

"...no, see, you used to drive that old busted joint. I drive ... the new hotness."

Stays the same ...

"... Old busted hotness."

Or renews itself completely.

"... I'm back. You got dust on your jacket."

It hasn't been proven, but general consensus in the localized field of study seems to think that this sort of renewal is the best solution for the process. Things keep running the way they should, deja vu stays at a minimum, and things that aren't supposed to don't surface the way they might have ad nauseum. Vicious cycles get ended.

And maybe, just maybe, it's not about passing torches or legacies or traditions. Maybe it's not that old saw about the Veteran and the Rookie. Maybe it's more about working together. Maybe it's more about finding a place where you fit, and it doesn't matter how you find it. You can find it with a bunch of carnations, you can find it with an electron microscope - hell. You can even find it in the back of a scummy third-rate pawn shop. But rest assured, you're not gonna find it when you expect to.

But I'll tell you -where- you're gonna find it, every single time, bar none.

You're gonna find it in the stars. And you're gonna have someone else standin' beside you.

And nothing - and I do mean nothing - is going to take that away.

Ever.

I can tell you're falling asleep just reading this, so I'm gonna wind up, get to the point, and make it quick.

You never met him, Jay.

But the three of us are probably more alike than we'll ever even dream of knowing.

And I figured at least one of you should know just how grateful I am.