TITLE: Moving Pictures AUTHOR: Dragan Antulov E-MAIL: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr CATEGORY: VRA KEYWORDS: Pre-XF; Post-colonization RATING: R (language, disturbing images, adult themes and situations) SPOILERS: Patient X/The Red and the Black SUMMARY: Nothing really... Just bits and pieces. ARCHIVE: yes to Gossamer; to others with previous notification DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on characters created by Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions. The characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Special thanks to Suzanne Bickerstaffe for her beta-editing and to Hong Te for few but precious suggestions. INTRODUCTION: This is less a fan fiction story, and more a tribute to the grand artist whose work I admire very much, and who recently passed away. Author's notes are available at the end. MOVING PICTURES X-Files Fan Fiction Story by Dragan Antulov KGB Deep Infiltration Training Center Tobolsk, Western Siberia, Soviet Union 1975 "No! No! No! Please, don't!" The green-eyed boy was sitting, tied to the chair, surrounded by a forty-something woman and a middle-aged man, both without expressions on their faces. "You know that is for your own good." "But I can't take it any more!" His green eyes were wide open, with mechanical contraptions that held his eyelids and prevented any blinking. The old man was occasionally dropping some liquid into the boy's eyes. "You must. You agreed to it. You volunteered, remember?" "But I couldn't know that it would be like this." "Exactly. You couldn't know. And you couldn't know what lurks ahead. This way you'll be safer." "But it hurts! Inside! I'm losing my mind!" "Naturally. You must lose your mind. You must lose your soul. You must lose yourself if you want to blend with your enemy." The boy's gaze was fixed towards the screen. The screen that projected images of Siberian forests, the steppes of the Don Valley, vodka, the Russian alphabet, icons, posters from the Great Patriotic War, Sputnik, Lajka, Yuri Gagarin, Mayday parades in Moscow, the collected works of Marx, Engels and Lenin. Images that were endlessly repeating on the screen. "But I... Now I hate all those things... Now I... I'm not who I am..." "Exactly. That's what everyone there would think. That you can't be our mole. This way you can go anywhere you want. The Pentagon, CIA, FBI. Whenever they put you on a lie detector, you will pass. Whenever they give you a truth drug, you'll pass." Then the images changed. There were pictures of women, in all shapes and sizes, ages, clothed, in lingerie, nude, with their legs spread, from the front, from behind, smiling, crying, frowning, standing, sitting, kneeling or performing all kinds of activities that only the most imaginative and perverted mind could fathom. "No! No! Not the women! Not the women!" The lady doctor grinned devilishly. "Yes, I know it's cruel. But, remember, experience has taught us that the most efficient agents are those who seek their amusement in... let's say... different directions. Over time you will learn to appreciate it, Alex." * Rockcliffe Ottawa, Canada Summer 1979 The taxi dropped off the tall man in his forties somewhere in the Ottawa residential suburbs. He was in front of a nice, white, two story mansion, surrounded by a wall separating it from similar luxurious houses and lines of trees. He pressed the button on the front gate. But before he could use the speakerphone, a slightly plumpish blonde in her early or mid forties appeared at the front door of the house. "Oh, you must be..." "Yes, we talked this morning. I came here to see it myself." She waved him in, ash flaking off from her cigarette to flutter onto the marble landing. He entered the house and she led him to the stairs. "Mr. Cukrov said that you are about to stay here a few weeks, or perhaps the whole summer." "Actually, yes. I need some peaceful, quiet place to work on my new project. I indeed intend to finish it in few weeks, but in case I get stuck, can I stay for more?" Woman showed him his room. It was a nice room, bright and airy, with expensive cherrywood furniture and some rather interesting paintings. "Yes. And you'll really enjoy the stay here. If you want peace and quiet, this place beats anything else in Ottawa. And you'll enjoy our neighbors. They are all well- cultivated, nice people." "Well, this place looks lovely indeed." Woman opened the window. "You have an excellent view of the front lawn. Care to have a look?" The tall man approached the window and looked outside. He pretended to look at the lawn. Actually, he surveyed the street. There was a black limousine parked, with a uniformed driver on stand-by, smoking cigarettes. Probably one of plenty in this neighborhood. "Splendid, indeed." Woman showed him the bathroom. "Look at this bathroom. State of the art plumbing and all the appliances. Even in these matters we keep the cultivated spirit of the Old Continent." The tall man just smiled. As they left the room and went into the hall, the woman spotted a bra carelessly thrown on a chair. "Excuse me," she said, wincing, as she put the bra in the drawer. At the same time she put the cigarette stub in the ashtray. "Oh, how rude of me! I haven't offered you..." "Don't worry. I don't smoke." She giggled. "I know it's bad for my health - cancer, heart and all of that. But each of us should possess a little vice, don't you agree?" The tall man smiled. "Naturally." "But it's not my only vice. My other bad habit is art. I like to collect paintings. I had so many of them that I could open a gallery around here. Would you care to see some of the paintings in my bedroom?" "Well... Yes." She led him to her bedroom. There he saw those paintings - even an untrained layman's eye could recognize cheap and worthless imitations of Van Gogh and Monet. "My God, they are beautiful!" Then he spotted an urn on a cupboard. "Oh, that's my late husband. He passed away three years ago. He had insisted on being cremated, so he could be always with me..." Her voice became slightly melancholic. "Oh, I'm sorry if..." "No, I got used to being a widow. If you can ever get used to being a widow..." She approached him. "You know what's really the hardest? I miss him, but I still have the urn and all those memories.... The hardest thing is being alone. It's a good neighborhood and I don't have to worry about the money. But, as you see, it's hard for every woman to be alone.... She always needs some man to be beside her... Especially these days... All those muggers, burglars, drug addicts and terrorists..." "All right. I think I've seen enough. I really appreciate your taking the time to show me around." The tall man edged his way out of the woman's bedroom. "The cleaning lady comes here three times a week. You won't have to worry about clean sheets or shirts. We still can't afford a full-time butler, or chauffeur, but..." The tall man was trying to reach the door as fast as he could, repeating "Gentleman should walk, but never run" to himself. "I'll let you know when I make up my mind." "Oh, it would really be a crime if you leave before seeing my garden. My flowers are the envy of the entire neighborhood." This time, cursing the genes that gave him the role of eternal gentleman, the tall man followed her to the back garden. And then he saw something beautiful, the most enchanting sight in his life. But it wasn't the flowers. There was a blanket sprawled on the grass, and on the blanket lay a blonde girl, clad in a white bikini. Her age was somewhere between eleven or thirteen. It didn't matter to the man - all he knew that she possessed that mesmerizing combination of early adolescence that gives the best of both worlds - the innocence of a child, and the seductive sexuality of a mature woman. She was sunbathing and the cream on her fair skin made her glitter, radiating pure light and heavenly majesty, like an angel. "Marita, would you turn that thing down!" But the magic wasn't gone. She rose and turned off the portable radio, playing some rock song the tall man hadn't manage to hear at all. She turned towards him and removed her reflecting glasses. The tall man looked straight into a pair of blue, heavenly eyes, an incarnation of godlike beauty. "I see that you really enjoy my flowers," Marita's mother brought him to reality. "By the way, I forgot to mention that breakfast is included too. Everybody say that I make excellent cherry pies. And the tea is as good as the ones you have in England... And, if you need it, I can take care of your hands. I couldn't help noticing how well manicured they are." The tall man smiled devilishly. "Oh, you won't have to bother, Mrs. Covarrubias. But I'm really looking forward to your cherry pies. They must be as divine and seductive as anything else around here." Mrs. Covarrubias reacted with a smile of triumph. * Berkeley, California Summer 1982 The sound of Duran Duran was filling the interior of Chevrolet Nova. Dana Scully was drumming with her fingers at the steering wheel, as nervous as her friend Michelle in passenger's seat. They didn't like the prospect of being stood up by Marvin and Phil, their sorry excuses for dates. If they don't show up here in next few minutes, Dana said to herself, she and Michelle would go that hot club in Frisco all by themselves. Finally, someone approached their car. But it wasn't Marvin or Phil. Dana quickly recognized the man, as well as his condition. Which wasn't very hard, considering that he slowly dragged himself on the pavement and held half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand. "Hi, Dana, hi Michelle... Can you tell me... Is she with you... I mean..." "No, she's not with us. Now leave us!" Dana was more angry than scared. She knew that the two of them could take care of him, if things turned nasty. "Well, if you meet her... Tell her that she's a fucking bitch... She ruined my life... I can't sleep nights... But, maybe, if you tell her... Maybe we could... You know..." "You know what," Scully didn't want to spend this evening arguing, but this was one occasion when her Irish temper took control of her. "Next time you get yourself a girlfriend, try not to throw her out on the street without any clothes on." "But... You see... She had to learn the lesson... I mean... She had thought that I wouldn't know... I saw everything... Frank and her... I saw their lips moving when they were in the class alone... Besides, if she wanted to pick her clothes... She got back through window anyway..." Scully prepared to step out of the car, open the trunk and pick up the baseball bat that Bill Jr. had given her for such occasions. But, to her great relief, the drunkard began to move away from their car, talking to an imaginary audience. "That fucking bitch... I can't live without her... I'm dying... My mind is going..." Then his throat began to produce sounds that could pass for song in less than sober audiences. "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half crazy all for the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage. But you'll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two..." What a pathetic loser, Scully thought as the man stumbled back in the darkness. Unfortunately, there were too many of them in this world. And to make it even worse, in the beginning they all looked handsome, smart, sexy, charismatic. In that particular moment, Scully decided never to let herself go through the same ordeal her roommate Daisy had been through. No, she would never fall for any man, no matter how attractive he was, if there was the slightest chance of him not passing her high scientific criteria. It might take months, years, perhaps decades, or perhaps her whole lifetime, she might die a childless old spinster, but no man would capture her heart unless he was absolutely perfect. Her musings were interrupted with quiet sobs. She turned towards Michelle. Her friend's makeup was ruined with tears. "Oh, no, don't tell me," Scully said, as she took handkerchief and began to wipe tears from Michelle's face. "Don't tell me that you..." "I simply can't help it. I know that Hal is a creep, and that he doesn't deserve her, and that it's not him but whiskey talking... But any time I hear him singing that song... It gets me... I can't feel but sorry for the guy..." * Zone 16A, Sector B18 Region West 6 Territory formerly known as United States of America 12th Year of the War A tall, grayhaired man dressed in a long black trenchcoat was walking through the wasteland, accompanied by a soldier in a khaki uniform and full combat gear. They were careful not to step on the bodies - the hundreds and thousands of them, in all shapes and all forms of mutilation - disemboweled, dismembered - but most of them charred into unrecognizable shapes. In many cases, the observer couldn't tell the difference between the hybrid, normal human, Grey or some equipment. They were smelling like rot and decay, but the strongest smell was the smell of burning flesh. The tall man was using the last resources of his willpower not to express his disgust openly. Through the years, he had seen many vile and awful things, carnage more deadly and horrible than this one, but he had never really gotten used to it. It was the same as all those burned bodies in the abandoned boxcar ages ago. "It was bad?" He asked the soldier, trying to clear his mind with more practical matters. "Yes, sir. They put up a good fight. We had higher casualties than expected." "Where are they?" "In the canyon. Between four and five thousand. We didn't have enough time to count. First we had to take care of our wounded and to secure the most immediate perimeter." They finally approached the canyon. The tall man finally saw them. Thousands. Old, young, babies, long hair, short hair, bold, blondes, brunettes, redheads. The old either lying, sitting, or standing on the slopes, surrounded by soldiers ready to spray them with a hail of bullets at the first sign of trouble. "General Crespo wanted to conduct the usual procedure with plams. But someone told us that you were in the vicinity. Perhaps with you, some alternative might be devised. We hear that you have some personal interest in this." "You heard right. It is good that you invited me. Perhaps, if by any chance, she..." "It must be hard not knowing. All photographs and records burned or shredded, everyone who knew her dead or senile, and your own memory manipulated... If only we could know how she really looks..." "Yes. But this is the only way, I guess. You may begin." Soldier signaled to one of his comrades, equipped with megaphone. "All right, people," the soldier with megaphone began to speak. "Most of you probably know who this man in the black trenchcoat is. And most of you probably know what he is looking for. And most of you know that if anyone can guarantee that we would keep our word, it is him. So, this is the deal. The one of you who shows us the body of Samantha T. Mulder, alive or dead, is to be rewarded with freedom. The rest of you would have to settle with spared life. We are generous, but only under those conditions. Now, does anybody of you know where Samantha is?" There was a silence for a while. Then, one woman, with dark hair and green eyes, stood up and yelled. "I am Samantha!" Then there was a silence. The sign of hope could be seen on tall man's face. But after a few seconds another woman rose. This one had short blonde hair. "No, I am Samantha!" Next second short redhead rose. "I am Samantha!" Then, with the grimace of spite on her face, little girl with braided black haired also rose. "I am Samantha!" She was followed by a chorus of few more voices that cried those same words. Soon the whole valley echoed with thousands of women chanting "I am Samantha!" Only one woman was silent. She looked towards thousands of her sisters, and tears began to flow down her face. Samantha T. Mulder then gazed up, towards the man in the black trenchcoat. Her brother Fox wasn't crying, but the look in his tired, hazel eyes, and his wrinkled old face was telling enough. He had failed in his life-long crusade. His sad thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the VTOL transport hovering over them. Mulder looked up and saw the portable ladders and face of the old general in the open door of the machine. "Need a lift?" He just nodded and climbed on the ladder. He got into the machine and shared its crowded space with the General and half a dozen officers. The General signalled the pilot in the cockpit and in a couple of seconds the VTOL was ten thousand feet above the ground. Mulder looked through the window towards dark, cloudy eastern horizon. Suddenly, huge bursts of orange light appeared on the ground. "Zone 14 C. It's always hot down there," the General explained. "It looks like dawn... The dawn of Man." "I've beg your pardon?" "Ah, nothing, forget it..." The General, seeing that he would have to spend the flight with a depressed Fox Mulder, turned towards cockpit and patted one of the pilots on the back. "Barry, would you turn on the radio? We would appreciate some music." "Yes, sir." The pilot switched the radio and loudspeakers on. The next second, Fox Mulder was still looking at the explosions in distance, while the voice of Vera Lynn began to fill the interior of the craft. "We'll meet again, Don't know where, don't know when, But we'll meet again, On sunny day." AUTHOR'S NOTES: The only regret I have about writing this story is the fact that I haven't got at hand the tapes of "The Killing", "Paths of Glory", "Barry Lyndon", "The Shining" and "Full Metal Jacket". I hope that some kind soul would find a way to pay tribute to those magnificent films through fanfic. Rest in peace, Stanley. -- Dragan Antulov a.k.a. Drax Fido: 2:381/100 E-mail: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr E-mail: dragan.antulov@altbbs.fido.hr E-mail: drax@purger.com