REVISED: The Children's Teeth (1/11)
by Erin McCole Cupp (CathyLex@aol.com)

NOTE:  I wanted to repost this since I 
plan to post the prequel "Sister's 
Blood" soon.  Changes from the 
original (unfinished) posting are 
relatively minor, so if you enjoyed this 
the first time around, you still should 
have a good read.  Don't worry, though;
I didn't revise it to change history
for the sake of the prequel!  I just 
needed to fix some grammar -- especially
the French grammar.

ARCHIVE: Gossamer YES -- ARCHIVE THIS 
VERSION.  Others, just let me know via 
email so I can let my husband know where 
to visit; make sure my name and email 
stay attached.  

CATEGORY: MSR, alternative universe, 
chock full o'angst

RATING:  PG-13 for violence & language

SPOLIERS:  "Emily" & other results of uh, 
Duane Barry/Ascension/One Breath, vague 
references to everything up to and 
including XFFTF

DISCLAIMERS:  All characters mentioned 
from here on (with the exception of Meg, 
her two cats, Kevin Declan & family, 
Gerald Cho, Wexford, Mr. Moroz, the 
people working at the French Consulate, 
and the assorted nun) are in some way the 
intellectual property of Chris Carter, 
1013 Productions, and the Fox Network.  
No commercial gain or other harm is 
intended

OVERALL DEDICATION: In the end, isn't it 
all for JC, best friend & inspiration 
extraordinaire?

THANKS: to Julie, for correcting my 
French grammar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"In those days they shall no longer say, 
'The fathers ate unripe grapes, 
and the children's teeth 
are set on edge,' 
but through his own fault only 
shall anyone die: 
the teeth of him who eats 
the unripe grapes 
shall be set on edge."
-- Jeremiah 31: 29-30
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Meg's head hurt.  The pain bound itself 
all the way around her head just at 
eyebrow level, like some invisible, too-
tight terrycloth sweatband.  Her wrists 
hurt from so much typing.  She could 
practically hear her eyelids scraping 
across her eyes each time she blinked, 
she'd been sitting in front of this 
blasted computer for so long.  She looked 
back down at the document she was 
translating, and //les circonflex et les 
accents aigu// swam across the pages like 
so many fields of windswept corn.  The 
translating software on the computer was 
down, and as the youngest of the lowly 
interns, not to mention the only American 
among them, her fate was sealed.

"//Mademoiselle//," her internship 
advisor called over to her, "//c'est 
l'heur de quitter.  On y va?//"    Time 
to go home, Meg.  

If only she didn't have to finish this 
lengthy translation.  If only she 
could...  

"//Non, merci//" she shook her head and 
rubbed her eyes, thankful her mascara was 
smudgeproof.   "//Pas maintenant.  En 
premier, il faut que je finisse.//"

Madame Veillat smiled at her zealous 
intern.  "//Ah, d'accord.  A bientot.//"

"//A bientot.//"  Until tomorrow, Meg 
answered as Madame left the office, 
locking the door protectively behind her.  

//It's nice to have someone who wants to 
keep me safe again.  That used to be Mom 
and Dad's job.  And I used to yell at 
them for being overprotective. Funny.   
Ha ha ha. Har-dee-har-dee-har.  Friggin' 
hilarious.//  

Meg raised her hands and rubbed her 
temples.  Why did she do this to herself? 
Nearly two years had gone by, and she 
still stung herself unnecessarily with 
the grief.  She turned back to her work 
and fell into the thoughtlessness of 
translation.  Word for word.  Idiom for 
idiom.  

This wandering between languages -- 
French, German, Spanish, Japanese, even 
some Russian (though that had been a bit 
difficult) -- had always been her forte.  
In the past two years, it had also become 
her work, her family, her comfort.  

Her anesthesia.  

What the other interns thought of as 
unbridled ambition in the tall, quiet, 
extraordinarily young and suprisingly 
smart American girl, Meg herself knew to 
be mere defense mechanism.  She never 
before had needed to work hard at 
understanding her favorite academic 
subjects; how else would she have 
graduated college with an honors degree 
in Foreign Languages at the tender age of 
nineteen?  Such things had always come as 
naturally to her as both her stubborn 
independence and her dry wit.  These 
days, however, she deliberately chose to 
labor at the tasks before her, to let the 
work drain her to the dregs.  A maniacal 
workaholic at the age of twenty.

"Sublimation," she could almost hear her 
father saying.  

Almost.  But the dead don't talk.  

No.  No, no, no.  //Non//.  //Nyet//.  
Idiom for idiom.  Word for word.  Don't 
feel, just translate.  Break down the 
words, chew them to bits, digest them 
until their meanings are lost and their 
ghosts can't edge past this novocained 
wall of lead.  

Something tickled at the base of her 
neck, startling her.  Her disobedient 
hair was wriggling out of its braid for 
the third time today.  Why did she even 
bother?  She stopped and undid the braid 
entirely, hoping that freeing her hair 
might lighten her headache.  Her sandy 
curls fell just past her shoulders.  

Darkness fell over the New York skyline, 
tinting the clouds blue-gray with 
reflected city light.  She would have to 
walk to and from the subway alone in the 
dark.  Well, it wouldn't be the first 
time.  She had a gun and she knew how to 
use it.  

//Thanks, Mom.//  

Another reminder.  Back to work, Meg, 
back to work.  She submerged her 
consciousness for almost another hour, 
and then the phone rang.  

//At this hour?  I'm the only one left in 
the office.//  

Reaching for a pen and paper, entirely 
ready to take a message for Mme. Veillat, 
Meg answered.  "//Consulate Francais.//"

The voice on the other end was female, 
American, and quite unexpected. 

"Miss Mulder."  It was not a question, 
but a confirmation.

"Y-yes?"  She was not prepared for the 
voice on the other end to be speaking her 
native tongue, much less asking for her.  
"Speaking."

"You are not an orphan," the voice 
continued smoothly.  "Someone will be in 
contact with you tomorrow."

Click.

Silence.  

Meg did not cradle the receiver, but 
stared off into space, the proverbial 
deer in headlights.  

Then another voice came through the 
receiver.  "If you would like to make a 
call, please hang up and..."

She hung up.  

It had to be a crank call.  Had to be.  
Must be.  //Il faut.//  

When she pulled her hand away from the 
phone, she noticed that she was shaking 
uncontrollably, even to the chattering of 
her teeth.  

Without a second thought, she gathered up 
her coat and bag -- gun inside --and left 
the office, locking the door behind her.  

She did not want to go back to her lonely 
apartment.  Never mind her two cats. They 
would survive another few hours or so 
without her.  Instead, she made a stop at 
the second floor of the Consulate.  It 
was a Wednesday night, so the place would 
be far from crowded, and her intern ID 
badge did not list her birthdate.  
Besides, these were the French.  They 
would let her in without question.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rang, but it took Kevin two 
rings to wake up.  Even then, he slapped 
the snooze button on his alarm clock 
eight times before he realized that the 
noise was not coming from his bedside.  
He stumbled over to the desk in his room 
and picked up the phone.  

"Mnhllo?"  His lips were not quite 
working yet.

Pause.  "Kev?"

Even the sleepy fog of his brain 
recognized the familiar voice.  "Meg?  
What the hell are you calling me for at 
this hour?  You know I have to wake up 
early."

The voice on the other end sounded muddy 
and slurred.  "Umhn zztuck at the 
Consulate Club `n' I don't have `nuff 
money for the subway home.  Come `n' get 
me?"

"What are you doing over there at--" he 
found his glasses and looked at his clock 
again "--at quarter to midnight?"

"Whudduyathink?  Drinkin' like a sponge, 
dumbass."

"Didn't they card you?"

"Kevin, can ya come get me or not?"

"Aw man, Meg.  Yeah, I'll come get you.  
Give me ten minutes."  

"Thanks, //mon cher//." 

"Yeah, //mon cher// my black ass."

"Jus' come rescue my little white ass, 
will you, Prince Charm-less?"

Only Meg could get away with talking to 
him like that.  He hung up on her and 
started to dress.  He hoped she was sober 
enough to realize that he did not have 
the proper ID to go up and meet her.  
Thank God traffic was lighter at this 
hour, otherwise he really would have 
killed her for making him "rescue her 
little white ass" -- yet again.  Then 
again, she had rescued him enough during 
their childhood years.  It was a mutual 
thing, which would probably never end.  

An irritating late spring drizzle had 
begun to fall on his way there -- just 
enough to need the wipers, but pathetic 
enough to make them screech against the 
windshield in protest at being so 
misused.  

When he pulled up to the building, Meg 
was standing by the curb, her bag slung 
over one shoulder and both her hands 
jammed deep into the pockets of her 
trenchcoat.  For the first time probably 
since sixth grade, all of her hair was 
down.  The drizzle settled on the 
frizzing curls and reflected the 
streetlight from above, forming an urban 
halo around her glowering face.  She 
swayed on her feet, but her gaze was 
steady.  He leaned across and opened the 
door for her.

She sank into the passenger's seat, and 
Kevin took a whif.  "Man, do you smell 
minty fresh.  The French acutally stock 
their bars with Rumple Minze?"

"Nothin' but shots.  To wash this taste 
out of my mouth.  Didn't work, though."

"Jeez, Meg.  How much did you drink?"

"Enough to be broke for the rest of the 
week."

"Broke?  You?  Never."

Fumbling drunkenly with her lapbelt, she 
mumbled, "I see the Crap Cruiser started 
tonight?  Did you finally feed the 
hamsters in the wheel that powers this 
thing?"  

She was referring to his slightly 
reliable `12 Toyota.  She was always 
pestering him to invest in a new car, 
especially now that he was raking in the 
bucks with his computer job.  Still, this 
was the first car he had ever bought with 
his own money; he held onto it out of 
sentimental attachement.  Not to mention 
the fact that it was cheaper to insure.

He pulled away from the curb and dodged a 
bus to get back into traffic.  "This Crap 
Cruiser is taking you home, so I suggest 
you--"  

"Don't take me home," Meg interruped 
quietly.

Kevin glanced at her for as long as he 
could and still keep from rear-ending the 
car in front of them.  Her face did not 
carry its customary arrogant smirk.  He 
knew her well enough to gauge her 
emotions, and what she was feeling now 
was something she would have allowed only 
him, her best and oldest friend, to see.

Meg Mulder was afraid.  

Kevin could only think of three times he 
had seen this expression -- not phobia, 
but real fear -- on her face. The first 
was when he dragged her on her first 
upside-down roller coaster when she was 
six and he was eight.  Seven loops 
forwards, seven loops backwards.  They 
were both the same height then -- just 
tall enough to be allowed on the ride.  
She had been scared to death, but both 
their dads came along with them and sat 
in the seats right behind them.  As the 
coaster had reached the top, Meg had 
clutched Kevin's dark hand in her pale 
one, clutched so hard he was afraid she 
might break both their fingers.  And then 
the roller coaster thundered down the 
other side of the hill, and Meg threw her 
arms in the air, screaming with delight.  
At her insistence, they went on that 
roller coaster eight times after that. 

The second was at her parents' burial.  
Kevin and his mom had stayed behind after 
everyone besides Meg and her grandmother 
had left the cemetery.  Ever since that 
old bald guy had told Meg that her 
parents had died in that explosion, Meg 
had kept a steely expression in her 
turquoise eyes.  She did not cry.  She 
stuck out her jaw and kept telling 
everyone: 

"I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

But at that cemetery, when her 
grandmother threw her arms around her 
granddaughter and began to sob, Meg's 
stoicism broke.  Kevin saw her face 
blanch as her composure washed away under 
her grandmother's tears.  Meg still did 
not cry, but Kevin saw her face and knew 
she was afraid.  

Not even one year later, he attended the 
funeral for that grandmother, Meg's 
namesake, killed in a car crash.  Meg did 
not cry at the viewing or the funeral.  
But at the gathering at their home 
afterwards, one of Meg's uncles (the one 
she didn't like at all, whose name Kevin 
could never remember) approached her 
about selling this house and her moving 
in with him and his family when she 
wasn't going to school at Georgetown.  
But she //was// eighteen.  She //could// 
decide for herself.  

Immediately after that conversation with 
Uncle Whatshisface, Kevin pulled his best 
friend into her parents' old room and 
closed the door behind him; she might not 
admit it, but she needed a friend now 
more than ever.  He lifted her face to 
his, forcing her to look directly at him 
for the first time in months.  Finally, 
the tears welled up in those blue green 
seas, and she buried her face in his 
shoulder, sobbing, lost.  All he could do 
was hold her and stroke her hair, 
soothing, "It's okay.  It's alright."

They never again spoke of it, but that 
was the third time Kevin saw Meg's fear.  
That also helped him understand why she 
moved back to school before the summer 
was over (not just because she wanted to 
take summer classes), and why she stayed 
with him and his family the next 
Christmas, three houses down from her 
childhood home.  The old house was sold, 
and Meg inherited that and other money 
from those three deaths.  She was never 
broke, for she invested wisely with no 
outside help, but she was never the same 
after that terrible span.  

She graduated Georgetown the same year he 
graduated Catholic U.  He landed a great 
job in New York; he was certain she had 
applied for this internship so she could 
be close to him again, though she never 
would have admitted it.  

"She's trying to hold onto a little bit 
of her childhood, son," his mother had 
told him.  "The rest has been taken from 
her.  Can you blame her?"

Of course not.  He was actually happy 
she'd be following him.  He didn't mind 
having her along at all.  She'd be 
someone to talk to.  Together again, 
neither of them would be quite so lost in 
the great big real world.  

Now, in the Crap Cruiser, the only 
talking was the plaintive rattle of the 
engine.  He did not ask her anything else 
and drove straight to his own apartment.  
In the coherence of morning she would 
tell him what was wrong.  Or, he'd help 
her figure out what was wrong.  

Two minutes away from his apartment, Meg 
rolled down the window.  "Pull over," she 
ordered.

"We're almost there."

"Now!"

He figured out what was coming and pulled 
over.  Meg threw the door open and bent 
to the curb.  Kevin leaned over his 
friend and pulled her hair back as she 
vomited into the street.  

"Mmm," Kevin joked, "minty fresh."  

"Not funny," she choked between heaves.  

Kevin reached and brushed back a stray 
lock of hair that had fallen and clung to 
Meg's sweaty left cheek.  

As they climbed the steps to his 
apartment, she clung to him with both 
arms and he kept one arm around her 
shoulders.  

"You're finally taller than me," she 
slurred drowsily.  "When'd that happen?"

"Tenth grade."  He tried to laugh, but it 
came out as a puff of air from his nose.  
They were silent the rest of the way up.  
He unlocked his door and led her to the 
bedroom.  

When she realized where he was taking 
her, she giggled.  "Why, Kevin Declan! 
You're not going to take advantage of a 
girl, are ya?"

"No, I'm going to take advantage of the 
couch, and you're going to promise not to 
do the technicolor yawn all over my new 
sheets."

She passed out before she even hit the 
pillow.  He emptied his trash can, left 
it by the bedside as a precautionary 
measure and shut the door on his way out 
to the living room.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The alcoholic stupor wore off around four 
in the morning, and from then on Meg 
could not sleep.  After lying in the bed 
for another hour, fighting the spins, she 
crawled into Kevin's bathroom for a drink 
of water.  Thinking little about 
communication of germs, she cranked open 
the faucet and held under it the blue 
plastic cup sitting next to Kevin's 
toothbrush.  As she sipped, she sat on 
the cool tile and leaned her forehead 
against the obnoxiously yellow yet 
cooling porcelain of the sink.  

Someone would be in contact with her 
tomorrow.  Well, today, at this point.  
If, of course, that woman had been 
telling her the truth.  Which she 
probably hadn't been.  Most likely, it 
was one of the other interns who could 
fake a really good //accent Americain//.  
But why?  Jealousy?   Meg laughed. Yeah, 
jealous of what?  The sparkling 
opportunity to shrivel up in front of a 
computer screen all day and into the 
night?  Maybe it was something else.  
Those French had a sick sense of humor, 
after all.  Their language was musical 
and skyward bound.  The people, however, 
were flatulent of soul, in Meg's humbly 
hung-over opinion.  Meg reached up into 
the sink and got herself another cup of 
water.

The videophone on Kevin's computer 
started to ring and Meg startled at the 
shards of broken silence settling around 
her.  She pressed her eyes with the 
fingers of her right hand.  She really 
should have gone out and woke Kevin so he 
could answer the call, but her gelatinous 
legs would not respond to her brain's 
commands.  

Minutes passed and the videophone rang on 
and on.  

Finally, Kevin opened the bedroom door, 
muttering impatient curses at his 
computer.  From her vantage point, Meg 
watched Kevin flop into the desk chair 
and wiggle the mouse to get the screen to 
switch itself back on again.  A few beeps 
and clicks and the videophone software 
was fully engaged.  

"Who is it?"  Meg called.

"Huh.  No ID.  This better not be another 
advertisement for a home equity loan," 
Prince Charm-less grumbled.  

"Especially not at five am," Meg agreed, 
pulling herself up to a standing position 
by leaning heavily on both the toilet and 
the sink.  

"Should I answer it?"  Kevin asked her 
once she was standing in the bathroom 
doorway.  

Meg shrugged.  "It's been ringing for 
five minutes.  If you keep ignoring it, I 
have a feeling they'll persist."

With a sigh, Kevin clicked in all the 
right places and accepted the call. 

"Mr. Declan," a male voice answered, "We 
need to talk to Margaret Mulder."

Kevin turned wide eyes on his friend.  He 
stammered, "It-it.  It's for you."

END 1/11

"The Children's Teeth" (2/11) 
by Erin McCole Cupp (CathyLex@aol.com)


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What a lioness was your mother, 
a lion of lions!
Among young lions she raised her cubs."    
--Ezekiel 19: 2
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first, Meg was obviously thrown off, 
but she quickly recomposed herself.  She 
turned to the bathroom mirror, combed her 
fingers loosely through her disheveled 
curls, and smoothed her hands over her 
wrinkled blouse.  With a resigned sigh 
she stepped in front of the computer.  
Kevin got up out of his chair and 
indicated for Meg to take it, but she 
shook her head and he resumed his seat.


"Whoa," came another voice from the 
computer.  "Look-ie here.  That's a 
Scully all right."

Meg arched a suspicious eyebrow at the 
four men staring back at her from the 
other side of the videophone.  All four 
of them reminded her of people she had 
encountered during her college years.  
The man who had just spoken looked sort 
of old and slimy, like the janitor on the 
men's floor of her freshman dorm, whom 
Meg had always suspected of peeking up 
the drains to look in on the girls' 
showers upstairs.  This guy had very 
little of his graying hair left, and his 
eyes bugged out at her from behind thick 
glasses.  

"Nah, look at that nose.  That's a Mulder 
nose if I ever saw one."

This was spoken by a guy who looked like 
one of her old roommates' Performance 
Studies professors -- old, but trying too 
hard to look too young and missing the 
mark completely.  His white hair was a 
little too thin and stringy to be so 
long, and his high-fashion glasses were 
not only about four years out of date, 
but entirely out of place on his peaked, 
wrinkled face.

"Can I get you some salt?"  Meg asked.

All four men stared at her, unsure of 
what she was saying.  

"You know," she explained, "to pour on my 
wounds?"

All four of them laughed embarrassed 
little laughs.

"You lucked out, sweetheart," The Janitor 
told her.  "You got the petite version of 
that nose.  You make that nose look 
good."

The three others turned and glared at The 
Janitor.  

"What?  What did I say?"

A third man looked like he could have 
been a real college professor: complete 
with understated salt-and-cinnamon 
haircut, neatly trimmed beard, and a worn 
but distinguished suit and tie.  This one 
just smiled at her softly and said, "So, 
you're Miracle Meg."

At his words, Meg's knees called for 
surrender.  She leaned on Kevin's 
shoulder to keep from falling over.  Her 
voice came out detestably weak:  "How did 
you know about that?"

All four of the men exchanged glances.

The Professor replied, "We're...friends 
of your father's."

"And your mother's," The Janitor pointed 
out, "very, very good friends."

The three others glared at him once more.

"What?  What?"

"Well," said the fourth, a young Asian 
guy about her age, dressed like all the 
Computer Graphics majors would dress -- 
in black faux leather from head to toe, 
"not all of us were honored to make their 
acquaintance.  I am simply a fervent 
admirer of their work."

"Their...work?"  Kevin asked.  "Meg, 
weren't they just FBI agents?"

Meg rubbed her weary eyes and nodded, 
"Yeah.  What's to admire?  And how the 
hell did you find me here?"

Glasses-man pointed to Kevin.  "He has to 
leave.  We need to talk to you alone."

"What the--?"  Kevin stood up and shouted 
at the screen.  "This is my apartment, my 
computer, who do you think--"

Meg made her face blank and her voice 
steel.  "No.  Kevin stays."

The three older men on the other side of 
the screen were visibly taken aback by 
the girl's unconscious attempt at 
imitating her mother.  The attempt was 
unreservedly successful.  

The Professor leaned into the screen.  
"Meg -- do you mind if we call you 
'Meg'?"

The girl shrugged.  "I mind if you call 
me 'Margaret.' 'Meg' is infinitely 
better."

"We needed to get in touch with you 
because you may be in danger.  You are 
being tracked--"

"No kidding, Professor.  You're the ones 
tracking me."  

Glasses-man interrupted, "We only 
contacted you because a number of 
classified satellites have been keeping 
tabs on you for the past three days."

"If they're so classified," Kevin asked, 
his voice still heavy with irritation, 
"then how do you know about them?"

Smugly shaking his head from side to 
side, The Janitor answered, "We make it 
our business to know these things."

The Professor continued:  "The people who 
wanted your parents dead two years ago 
may be after you now.  You need to get 
out of New York and go into hiding."

"What do you mean 'wanted my parents 
dead'?  They caught the guy who set that 
bomb."  

//Meg, honey?//  //Hey, Gram!//  //Honey, 
something terrible has happened...//

The spins returned and her grip on 
Kevin's shoulder tightened.

"Meg, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Kevin," she whispered back.  

"They caught //a// guy," answered 
Glasses-man, "but not //the// guy."

"Look," Kevin broke in, "why are you 
sickos doing this to her?  Can't you see 
you're messing with her head?  What is 
your problem?"

"Meg, you've been kept in the dark for 
too long now," The Professor almost 
shouted, "and now it could cost you your 
life, and Mulder and Scully's lives, if 
you don't listen to us."

"A little difficult to kill them twice, 
don't you think?"  Meg inquired bitterly.  

The four men talked to each other with 
their eyes once more.  "We think," 
answered The Janitor, "that the reason 
you're being watched is because whoever 
is watching you thinks your parents are 
alive."  

END 2/11  

"The Children's Teeth" (3/11) by Erin 
McCole Cupp (CathyLex@aol.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Then you shall know the truth, 
and the truth shall set you free."
-John 8:32
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"All right, that's enough, you sick 
bastards," Kevin sneered at the 
videophone as he clicked with the mouse 
and the screen went black.

"Kevin!  What did you just do?"

Kevin turned and blinked at his friend.  
Dark circles sat under bloodshot, angry 
eyes.  "Meg, come on.  Don't tell me you 
were actually falling for all that crap."

"I don't know!  You didn't even give me 
the chance!  Get the connection back!"

"Meg--"

"Do it, Kevin!"  Her voice had reached a 
nearly hysterical pitch, very unlike Meg.  

Kevin stood up and put his hands on her 
shoulders, looking right into her eyes.  
"Look, Meg, I am really starting to worry 
about you.  You've been through the 
wringer these past two years, and you've 
never given yourself a chance to deal 
with it.  You keep working yourself into 
a zombie state, and after what happened 
last night... Meg, you're just skipping 
down the yellow brick road to self-
destruction.  Something's gonna give, and 
soon.  I think it's time you got yourself 
some help."

Her eyes and voice turned icy with 
sarcasm.  "I appreciate your minor in 
psychology, Dr. Declan, but--"

He cut her off by turning his forearms up 
to her.  Thin, pale scars trickled down 
each wrist.  Upon seeing them, Meg's eyes 
lost their ice.

"You stopped me from going down that same 
road seven years ago.  Remember?"

Meg closed her eyes.

"Hell, Meg, your mom is the one who saved 
my life when you found me like that, five 
minutes from bleeding myself to death.  
She might have saved my life, but 
//you're// the one who made sure I got 
the help I needed to keep on living."

Her voice softened.  "That was 
different."

"How?  How was that different?"

The tension between them snapped when 
Kevin's computer merrily announced: "You 
have new mail!"  

Kevin hung his head and sighed.  

Meg flicked her eyes back at the 
computer.  "It's from them," she 
whispered up at him.  

Kevin looked back at Meg before he 
returned to the computer and opened up 
his mail account.  Clicking in all the 
right places, he announced, "'Subject: 
For Miracle Meg.'  What is all this 
'Miracle Meg' crap, anyway?  It's not 
about that stupid nickname you got in 
fifth grade, is it?  What was it?  
'Miracle Grow'?"

Meg rolled her eyes.  "Sort of, in a 
round about way.  We were doing this 
thing in class about the importance of 
names, and the teacher told us to go 
around and say if we had a nickname.  So 
I made the mistake of telling the class 
that Grandma called me 'Miracle Meg.'  It 
got mutated into 'Miracle Grow' because I 
was so tall."

"I'm still confused.  Why did your 
Grandma call you 'Miracle Meg' in the 
first place?"

Meg shrugged again.  "I was never 
supposed to be born.  My mom was 
infertile because of some medical testing 
she went through when she was younger.  
She never told me much more than that."

Kevin's eyes narrowed.  "But if she was 
infertile, then how //were// you born?"

Her eyebrows jumped up and down.  "Well, 
that would be a miracle, don't you think?  
And that's why I wear this..."

She pulled forth an oval charm on a 
silver chain.  

"Your Miraculous Medal?  I thought that 
was a gift from your aunt, that nun in 
Philadelphia."

"Yeah, my mom's cousin, my Aunt Bridget.  
She gave this to my mom when she found 
out that mom would never have kids, and 
//voila!//  Here I am."

Kevin nodded and looked back at the 
computer screen.  "It has a download 
attached."  

"Can you download it?"

Kevin sighed yet again.  "I don't know if 
I should.  It's never good to accept 
downloads from strangers."

"Come on, at least read the email."

"Meg, do you know how little sleep I'm 
running on?"

She bent and kissed him on the cheek.  "I 
know.  I don't deserve your friendship."  

Shaking his head, he opened the email:

MY LADY MULDER:
     PLEASE READ THE ATTACHED FILE.  IT 
CONTAINS INFORMATION YOU NEED TO KNOW. WE 
PROMISED YOUR FATHER WE WOULD GIVE THIS 
TO YOU WHEN YOU WERE OLD ENOUGH.  

     WE MAY BE ABLE TO HELP YOU FIND YOUR 
PARENTS.MEET ME AT THE PERRENOD FARM IN 
LIBERTY, NY AT 5:00PM.  

     BE CAREFUL!  YOU ARE BEING WATCHED, 
AND NOT JUST BY US!

WITH DEEPEST AFFECTION,
GERALD CHO, LGM

"'My Lady'?  'With deepest affection'?"  
Kevin snickered, "What a weirdo.  And 
what does LGM stand for?"

"Can you scan the file for virus?"  Meg 
asked, kneeling beside Kevin.

Frowning at the screen and maneuvering 
the mouse, Kevin nodded.  "I can, but 
they might be smooth enough to have 
encrypted a virus that my software can't 
detect."

"Well, let's chance it."

"If my system crashes because of this--"

"Don't worry.  I'll buy you a new one."

He huffed.  "You'd better."

In mere seconds the file was scanned and 
available for use.  Kevin stood and gave 
Meg the chair and the mouse.  Her mouth 
was a bucket of sand as she swallowed and 
opened the file.

They gaped at the screen as the file came 
up.  

"'Dear Meg,'" Kevin whispered.  "It's a 
letter."

"It's my dad's handwriting," Meg 
whispered in return.  "They must have 
scanned a letter he wrote before he--"

She stopped and swallowed again, just 
before scrolling to the bottom of the 
document.  

Kevin counted aloud.  "Four, five, six, 
seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, 
thirteen.  Thirteen pages!"

"Thank you, Count von Count," Meg 
smirked, trying hard to cover her dismay 
at seeing her father's handwriting 
addressing her from beyond the grave.  
"Looks like I have some reading to do."  

Kevin nodded and patted her on her back.  
"Well, you do that while I try to get 
ready for work."

As she began to read through her father's 
barely-legible scrawl, she heard Kevin on 
the phone in the background.  "Hi, this 
is Kevin Declan in Communication Design.  
I'm going to be about two hours late this 
morning.  Family emergency."

Meg made a mental note to call in to Mme. 
Veillat.  She had a feeling she finally 
would be making use of one of her sick 
days today.  

Then, she dove into the thirteen pages of 
what her parents had been hiding from her 
for the past twenty years.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Kevin came out of the bathroom, Meg 
was shuffling around his bedroom, 
searching through his dresser.  

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for something to wear out of 
here.  I can't very well wear this suit 
again.  It smells awful -- like it spent 
all night in a bar or something.  I'm 
going to borrow your green t-shirt and a 
pair of your jeans.  Do you have a belt I 
can use to hold them up?"

"Meg, I--"

"I promise I'll give it all back.  Oooh!  
Can I borrow a baseball cap too, to hide 
all this hair?  And how about a pair of 
your sneakers?"

"Meg, they'll never fit.  Your feet are 
too small."

"Hmn.  Nobody's ever said that to me 
before."  She flashed him a winning 
smile.  "Throw in two pairs of socks and 
you got yourself a deal, mister."

"Did you finish reading that download?"

Her face clouded over and she nodded.

"What did it say?"

Meg continued gathering in her arms items 
around the room.  "Well, it explained a 
whole lot."

"Like what?"

"Oh, like why my mom never made me eat 
liver."

"What!"

"Nothing, nothing.  Do you remember Jodie 
Waterhouse?"

Kevin stared at her as he began threading 
his tie under his collar.  "Jodie 
Waterhouse?  That girl you were friends 
with in middle school?  Preacher's Kid, 
really naive?"

"Yeah.  Remember that time she came over 
and the three of us were playing 'Star 
Wars' or something, and she said she was 
having these weird stomach pains, and 
when she went to the bathroom she said 
she was bleeding?"

"How could I forget?"  Kevin laughed.  
"Even I knew what was happening to her.  
The look on your mom's face when she had 
to explain to the poor girl that she was 
getting her period.  Jodie's parents 
hadn't even told her about it at all."

Meg stopped and looked up at Kevin, her 
expression a strange flavor of bitter.  
"I think I'm feeling right now what Jodie 
felt that day when my mom told her the 
truth."  

Kevin studied Meg, trying to wrench a 
clue from her suddenly blank face.  "What 
did that letter say?"  

Meg shook her head and carried all of her 
stuff and some of Kevin's into the 
bathroom.  "If I told you, you wouldn't 
believe me."

She shut the door behind her, and Kevin 
heard the shower faucet start to run.  
Without reading the letter from Meg's 
dad, Kevin saved it and put it away 
before he went out into the kitchen to 
make breakfast.  He found some eggs and 
cheese and tried to throw together his 
special "hang-over omlettes" for the 
occasion, but after forty five minutes 
turned the omlettes into inedible rubber, 
Meg was still in the shower.  

Kevin worried.  He went back into his 
bedroom and knocked on the bathroom door.  

"Meg?  Are you decent?"

The only answer was the hiss of the 
shower.  

He knocked harder.  "Meg?  Open up!"

Still no answer.  He panicked, realizing 
he had left his razors out on the sink.  
She might have...

"MEG!  I'M COMING IN NOW!"  

He turned the knob.  It was locked.  He 
reached above the doorframe and pulled 
down the little steel pick that served as 
the key.  He jiggled and prodded and the 
door yielded.  

The window was open and the beach towel 
that served as a curtain pushed aside.  
Meg's wool suit, trenchcoat and bag lay 
on the floor. Kevin leaned out the window 
and looked up and down the alleyway five 
floors below; he saw nothing but trash.  

"Damn."

He turned back to the inside and saw a 
piece of paper and something metal lying 
on the closed toilet lid.  The metal was 
a key.  Her apartment key.  The paper was 
an old receipt on the back of which she 
had scribbled, "Please feed S & Mr. B for 
me?  Thanks!  You're a doll.  MGM."

MGM.  Margaret Grace Mulder.  "S" stood 
for Schrodinger.  "Mr. B" stood for Mr. 
Bigglesworth.  Her two cats.  

Kevin crumpled the note in his hand.  He 
muttered to his reflection in the 
bathroom mirror, "She ditched me!"  

But where had she gone?  That was easily 
answered.  He ran back to the computer 
and reopened that email.  "Liberty, New 
York."  He whispered to himself.  

He picked up the phone and hit redial.  

"Hi, this is Kevin Declan in 
Communication Design again.  Looks like I 
can't come in at all today.  That family 
emergency is turning into a family 
disaster."


END 3/11  

"The Children's Teeth" (4/11) 
by Erin McCole Cupp (CathyLex@aol.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Where the carcass lies, 
there the vultures will gather."
--Matthew 24: 28
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

//I have finally lost my mind.//

Five stories above the dirty alleyway 
behind Kevin's apartment, Meg was 
clinging to the narrow ledge leading from 
his bathroom window to the rusty old fire 
escape.  In baggy clothes, shoes three 
sizes too big for her feet, and with a 
backpack -- Kevin's backpack -- this was 
not easy.  It would have been much, much 
easier just to take the stairs down and 
walk out the front door, but if what she 
had just read and just been told was 
true, the apartment's "security cameras" 
made such a trip far too risky.  

Not nearly as risky as shuffling along a 
six-inch ledge to get to a dilapidated 
fire escape.  

//I have finally lost my mind.//

Her fingernails dug into the mortar 
between the bricks.  Ten more feet.  Five 
more.  Three.  Reach, stretch, and grab 
the skinny railing, then swing up onto 
the escape.  And escape.  Kevin would 
come looking for her, of course.  He 
always did.  But with a head start in 
this huge city, she figured she'd be able 
to keep him out of this as much as 
possible.  

Then she had to ask herself: exactly what 
was the "this" from which she was 
protecting Kevin?  An incredible scenario 
of aliens, conspiracists, colonization, 
viruses and vaccines.  

Incredible.  Unbelieveable...except for 
the fact that it explained so much.  

Her father's letter explained so much of 
those little ghosts of uncertainty that 
still haunted her from her childhood:  
why Grandma Scully had lived with them 
(to protect Meg), why they got her a 
puppy when she had asked for a baby 
brother, why they never took her in on 
"take your kids to work" day, why they 
had forbidden her to join up with a 
French exchange student program when she 
was fifteen, most of all why they had 
always evaded her questions of, "Why do 
you have to go away so much?"

It explained the cold look of fear on her 
fearless parents' faces when she had told 
them, "I could work for the CIA!  I could 
be a spy!  I could work at the UN!"

Then, as a sulky fourteen year-old, she 
had told herself that her parents were 
just grumpy old dream-squashers when her 
father had suggested that she teach high 
school instead.  Had Meg but known...

//Why didn't they tell me?//

Even that was easily explained.  How 
//would// they have told her?  Yes, 
sweetheart, there are real vampires.  We 
don't go visit your Aunt Samantha's grave 
because she was abducted by aliens when 
she was //your// age.  Don't watch so 
much TV, because it will rot your brain.  
Literally.  We're afraid to let you go to 
France because you might be abducted and 
come back to us with an implant or a 
virus or worse.  There really //might// 
be a monster under your bed.  Sleep 
tight, honey!  

She shuddered.  

So now, knowing what she knew, what was 
she doing?  Why would her parents have 
disappeared if they weren't really dead?  
Why would they have left her grieving, 
hanging, numb for nearly two whole years?  

A line from her father's letter came back 
to her:  "Since the day we found out you 
just might be born, everything we have 
ever done has been to protect you."

She laughed bitterly and mumbled to 
herself.  "Who were they to decide that 
for me?"  

That answer was simple.  He was her 
father, she was her mother.  Tears bit at 
her eyelids as she tasted this painful 
brew of her parents' love and betrayal.  
They had hidden the universe from her, 
hidden her from the universe:  gone to 
private doctors -- friends of her 
mother's-- for all of her immunizations, 
sent her to private schools, went to 
crowded places for vacations, shielded 
her from security cameras at every 
chance.  And now, here she was, running 
to a stranger, hiding from the unknown, 
trying to find out if they really might 
be alive.  

After all, their bodies had never been 
found.  She had never before allowed 
herself the luxury of the possibilities, 
of the hope that arose as a result.  

Then again, if she was being tracked, it 
was because whoever was doing the 
tracking hoped Meg would lead them 
directly to her parents.  So if she was 
to look for them, she would have to do so 
unnoticed.  And the cameras were 
everywhere.  In the buses, the taxis, at 
the ATM's, her apartment.  Options were 
slim.  

She had survived her downward climb.  Her 
feet met the cracked asphalt beneath her, 
and her gun slapped against her thigh 
through the pocket of Kevin's jeans.  She 
stopped and pulled Kevin's belt tighter.  

Looking out on the street, her inborn 
recklessness took over.  She had no money 
left.  She had to get to Liberty.  She 
watched the cars pass her, watched them 
stop as the light blushed red.  

Genes long dormant began stirring within 
her, her mother's legacy.  Her mother had 
had this particular genetic trait, but 
had too much integrity to ever call upon 
it.  Her father would have called upon 
it, had it been his by heritage, but it 
was not, as fate would have it.  She 
approached one of the stopped cars and 
knocked on the window.  When the driver 
opened the window two inches, that 
genetic trait kicked in full force.  

She turned on the Irish charm.  She 
pulled her gun from her pocket and smiled 
as only a gun-wielding Irishwoman could 
have.   

"Good morning, sir," she sang out to the 
driver who blinked at the gun pointed his 
way.  "I was hoping you could drive me 
somewhere."  

The man pressed a button with a shaking 
finger and the door popped open.  Meg 
took a seat and buckled her lapbelt.  

The light turned green.  "Do you know how 
to get to Liberty?"

The man nodded, his eyes dark and wide, 
his lower lip trembling.  She was afraid 
he had wet his pants.  

"Oh, good," she giggled, "that makes 
matters easier.  Liberty, then, if you 
please."  

The man gulped and drove.  Meg began to 
laugh hysterically.  

//I have finally lost my mind.//

END 4/11

The Children's Teeth" (5/11) 
by Erin McCole Cupp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"A man who has friends 
must show himself friendly, 
and there is a friend 
who sticks closer than a brother."  
-- Proverbs 18:24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kevin unlocked the door and automatically 
reached down to prevent Schrodinger from 
running out into the hallway again. He 
picked up the fuzzy gray creature and 
tucked him under his arm while walking 
into Meg's apartment.

He looked around at the artfully messy 
living room.  Boxes of her belongings -- 
still unpacked after a year -- piled up 
against the wall.  The door to the 
bedroom stood ajar, revealing more boxes, 
but no bed.  Mr. Bigglesworth sat fat and 
majestic on the pillow of Meg's futon, 
facing the silent television with a 
look of utter boredom on his feline face.  
Schrodinger wiggled out of Kevin's arms 
only to flop at his feet and play with 
the laces of Kevin's shoes.  

"Ouch!  Quit it, Schrodie!"  The younger 
of the two cat's claws had just gone 
through Kevin's socks and assaulted his 
ankles.  He reached down and lifted 
Schrodinger up by the scruff of his neck 
as a warning.  The warning did not have 
its desired effect.  Schrodinger promply 
began to purr and nuzzle Kevin's face.  

Mr. Bigglesworth looked up at the two of 
them and rolled his yellow eyes.  

"Okay, what do you two want," he called 
as cheerfully as he could, placing 
Schrodinger on the carpet, "canned or 
dry?"

Schrodinger trotted enthusiastically 
behind Kevin into the kitchen, and Kevin 
could almost hear Mr. Bigglesworth groan 
at the effort required to lift his 
bulbous body off the futon and into the 
kitchen.  Only breakfast could have so 
motivated the flabby brown tabby.  
Feeling creative, Kevin divided one can 
of "chicken & giblet delight" and two 
handfuls of kitty kibbles into the two 
cats' bowls.  He mixed the food with a 
fork and dropped the fork onto the ever 
rising pile of dishes in Meg's sink.  
Both cat's ate ravenously.  He freshened 
their water bowls as well.  

Looking up onto the fridge, he saw, 
tucked under a magnet, a picture of the 
two of them at Meg's senior prom.  The 
picture had been taken in her living 
room, probably by her grandmother.  In 
it, Kevin was dipping Meg, her rose in 
his teeth.  Meg had thrown her head back, 
her mouth open wide in unrestrained 
laughter.  When after that had she ever 
laughed in that way again?  They had been 
so young then, he in his tux and she in a 
blue-silver gown, elegant beyond her 
years.  Her hair had been swept up into 
some complicated twist, and tiny white 
roses peeked out from her gold curls.  
That dress had made her tomboy figure 
unrecognizable, and her eyes had 
glimmered like deep green-blue pools.  
The candlelight at the tables had brought 
out the red highlights in her hair.  He 
had almost kissed her that night.  

Almost.  

He took a walk into the bathroom to make 
sure the litter pan was not in need of 
freshening as well.  It was not.  He was 
very, very glad.  

Well, with the cats fed, he was free to 
pursue Meg, hopefully to keep her from 
doing anything stupid.  He stepped out of 
her apartment and locked the deadbolt 
behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So, Mr. Moroz," Meg said to break the 
tension as they came out of the darkness 
of the Lincoln Tunnel, "do you have any 
children?"

The man was thirtysomething and very 
nervous.  Meg didn't want to scare him.  
She merely wanted his help, and the best 
way to get it just happened to be with a 
gun.  Oh well.

"Uh," he swallowed, "y-y-no.  No, I 
don't."

"Hmm," Meg nodded.  "That's a shame.  You 
seem like such a nice guy, like you'd 
make a great dad.  What about your wife?"

"W-w-w-what wife?"

"The one who gave you that wedding band 
on your left ring finger."

"Oh?  Oh!  That wife.  She's fine.  She's 
great."

Meg reached for the cell phone that sat 
between them.  "You want to call her?"

The man flicked his eyes at her, 
incredulous.

"Go ahead," she shrugged.  "While you're 
at it, you might want to call in to work, 
tell 'em you need the day off or 
something.  Just don't mention me, okay?"

"O-o-okay."  

"Thanks.  You're a peach."

Every toll booth they encountered, Meg 
pulled Kevin's baseball cap low over her 
face and feigned sleep against the car 
door.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kevin was speeding.  The little Telemap 
in the Crap Cruiser was on the fritz -- 
yet again -- so he was getting to Liberty 
the old fashioned way, with a rustly, 
wrinkly map that defied all efforts at 
any convenient folding pattern. 

He was about one hour away, he guessed.  
He glanced down at the map to see if his 
guess might be right.  The car veered 
sharply into the gravel-packed shoulder.  
With a grumbled curse, he looked up and 
regained control.  He was still speeding.  

Then the lights began flashing at him 
from behind.  

"Great.  Just great."  Kevin pulled over 
and brought out his license and 
registration, waiting for the inevitable.  
On top of everything, he was about to 
increase his insurance rates.

"Wonderful," he muttered.  

In the rearview, he saw the baconmobile.  
He also saw the black sedan behind it.  A 
blond woman, late twenties, in a somber 
business suit got out of the sedan and 
approached his car.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meg changed her mind.  She told Mr. Moroz 
to drop her off about four miles down the 
road from Liberty.  She had until five 
o'clock and it was just barely nine-
thirty am, according to her watch.  Well, 
according to Kevin's watch.  She had 
plenty of time to walk around, find the 
Perrenod farm, and find a payphone, but 
not necessarily in that order. The 
payphone came first.  

And that was what she found first.  A 
"Phone-from-car" outside of a gas 
station, close to the road and far from 
any visible cameras.  Still, to be on the 
safe side, she dipped her head low and 
kept close to the phone as she dialed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The blond woman had just introduced 
herself with a badge, saying she was 
Special Agent Emily Lynch from the FBI, 
and she had a few questions for him.  
Would he please step out of the car? 

As he opened the door, his cell phone 
rang, nearly turning his heart 
palpitations into a full-blown heart 
attack.  The blond FBI agent nodded at 
him, indicating that he was free to 
answer the call.

With a confused sigh, Kevin accepted the 
call.  "Hello?"

"Kev, it's me."

His heart eased a bit at Meg's voice, 
sounding somewhat safe.  "Where are you?"

"I'm fine.  I just wanted to make sure 
you're not following me.  Where are you?'

"This really isn't a good time, Meg.  
I've just been pulled over."

"For what?"

"Speeding, I think."

"Oh.  Good.  When you're done with 
getting your ticket, go back to your 
apartment.  I'll call you there."

"I'd like to, but I have an appointment 
with Special Agent Emily Lynch."

Silence rang out from the other end.  

"Meg?"

"Kev, what did you say her name was?"

"Special Agent Emily --"

"Oh, God, Kevin!  Get out of there!  Get 
back in your car and just drive away!"

This time, Meg was on the receiving end 
of the silence.  A clattering smacked her 
ear -- the sound of Kevin's cell phone 
being knocked to the ground.

"Kevin!  Are you there?  Kevin!  Can you 
hear me?" 

He could not.  The black sedan rolled 
right over the cell phone lying on the 
road, crushing it to bits as it drove off 
for parts unknown.  


END 5/11

"The Children's Teeth" 6/11 
by Erin McCole Cupp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You're not beaten 
if you can still take a beating."
--Henry Rollins
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Noon had just passed, and the late spring 
sun was hot.  Meg was tired, but she 
could not allow herself to sleep.  From 
the directions of the service station 
attendant, she had found the Perrenod 
Farm -- a vast stretch of abandoned 
fields punctuated with a single burnt-out 
farmhouse.  She found an overgrown field 
of grass and lay down in it, hoping that 
would hide her.  

Because she knew what had happened.  They 
had followed Kevin hoping to find her.  
Not finding her, they had taken Kevin to 
get to her.  They wanted to get to her so 
they could get to her parents, if they 
indeed were still alive.  

So //They// would come looking for her.  
Possibly here.  

If only she had been in that car with 
Kevin.... Guilt teased her with what 
could have been, had she not been so 
thoughtless.  She needed to stop and 
think.  Memories stirred.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hospital smell was harsh on her young 
nostrils.  Her tiny hands clung, one to 
Grandma's hand, one to her kindergarten-
sized school bag.  Up the elevator, down 
the winding halls, eye-level with 
doorknobs and desktops.  Nurses in 
colorful scrubs, doctors in white 
jackets, and then a beloved figure 
standing in front of a door just down the 
hall.

"Mommy!"  Meg had called out, forgetting 
what Grandma had told her about being 
quiet in the hospital.  Her mother smiled 
and walked quickly to meet them.  And 
then Meg was in her mother's arms, her 
schoolbag hitting her mother on the back. 

"Shh, sweetie, shhh."

"Is Daddy in there?"

"Yes, he is, honey.  He's resting so he 
can get better."

"What made him sick?"

Her mother sat down on a chair just 
outside the room, gathering Meg onto her 
lap.  Meg's feet dangled at the ends of 
her long legs, knocking against her 
mother's shins.  A moment of silence 
passed as Mother and Grandmother 
exchanged looks.  

Then, her mother's voice soothed, "Some 
people were trying to hurt some other 
people, and Daddy and I tried to stop 
them."

Meg fixed wide eyes on her mother's face.  
"Did they shoot at you?  With guns?"

Her mother sucked in her cheeks then 
answered.  "Yes, and Daddy got hurt, but 
the doctor says he's going to be okay.  
He just needs to rest in the hospital for 
a while."

Meg knew that guns were dangerous.  She 
was scared.  Her mother saw the fear on 
her normally fearless little face and 
pulled her closer, hugging her tightly.  
Meg hugged back, hard.  

"Can I go see Daddy now?"

Her mother let Meg go and put her down on 
the floor.  She held Meg gently by the 
shoulders and gave her a very serious 
look.  "We can go see him, but you have 
to promise to be very quiet, because 
you're too young to be allowed into his 
room."

Meg straightened herself up, trying to 
look older.  "I'm very grown-up.  You 
told me so yesterday when I read that 
story to you."

Meg felt her mother's hand against her 
cheek.  Her mother nodded as a 
bittersweet smile graced her face.  

"I'll stay out here," Grandma told them.  
"I'll wait for you right here, okay, 
Miracle Meg?"  

Meg silently followed her mother into the 
dark hospital room, lacing her small 
fingers in her mother's cool ones.  Meg 
squeezed her mother's hand bravely and 
whispered up to her, "It'll be okay, 
Mommy."

Her mother smiled again.  

In the room, they stood together by her 
father's bedside, but Meg was still too 
small to see anything other than a big 
white lump so far up on the elevated 
mattress.  Her mother saw her craning her 
neck, and she picked little Meg up in her 
arms.  

Then she saw her father's face, pale, his 
eyes closed.  

"Hi, Daddy," she whispered to him.

His eyelids fluttered and opened.  His 
eyes scanned the room and settled on the 
two women who had come to visit him.  
Slowly, painfully, a smile spread across 
his face.  

"Good golly, Miss Molly!" His voice 
rasped to her merrily, calling her by his 
personal nickname for her.

"I have a picture for you," she whispered 
and wriggled out of her mother's arms.  
She opened her school bag and brought out 
a piece of paper.  She handed it to her 
mother, saying, "Here, show this to 
Daddy."

Her mother took the paper obediently and 
held it before her father.  "It's 
beautiful," he said quietly.

"It's okay.  I'm not a very good artist, 
but I am good at explaining things, so 
I'll tell you what it is," Meg reported 
to her father as her mother lifted her up 
once more.  "It's a rose.  Grandma says 
that if you pray to St. Therese for 
something and you see a rose, that means 
you get your wish.  So I made a rose just 
in case anyone was praying for 
something."

Her father nodded and swallowed.  "Very, 
very nice.  Scully, tape it up on the 
wall over there?"

Her mother nodded softly.  

Her father smiled at her again, a weak 
but warm smile.  "Come here, Miss Molly, 
and give your dad a kiss."

"Mulder, no.  You have to lie still if 
you're going to--"

"Then lower her down to me."

Her mother sighed hopelessly and held 
their daughter close to the hospital bed, 
standing among the IV poles and heart 
monitors.  Meg held onto her mother 
tightly but leaned down so she could kiss 
her Daddy on the forehead.  Tubes were 
coming out of his nose.  The hospital 
smell was still harsh.

"Daddy," she pleaded in a whisper as she 
sat upright once more, "please don't get 
shot again."  

He laughed a little.  "I'll do my best, 
Miss Molly.  I'll do my best."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meg sat up, startled.  The memory had 
been so real.  She must have been so 
tired that she slipped directly into REM.  
She looked down at herself to make sure 
that she was indeed twenty years old, 
sitting in a grassy field wearing Kevin's 
oversized clothes, not five years old and 
clinging to her Mommy's suit lapels.  

The sun had moved; she had indeed slept 
and woke up thirstier than ever.  She 
would have given the world for an ice 
cold root beer right about now.  And she 
would have given that root beer if she 
could just find Kevin.  

She had to think.  What to do?  With 
Kevin gone, there was no one to help her.  
She had no car, no money, and she was 
suffering guilt from her earlier car-
jacking escapade.  Never before had she 
felt so alone.  

Her stomach grumbled again.  Her head 
swam and she felt vaguely faint.  She did 
not want to eat, but her body indicated 
to her otherwise.  She searched in 
Kevin's backpack, hoping he'd left some 
sort of food in there.  All she found was 
a half-emptied pack of orange Tic-Tacs.  
Better than nothing.  She opened up the 
box and shook the contents into her open 
mouth.  

As she mushed the candies around with her 
gravely tongue, her stomach's grumbling 
grew louder and more insistent, then 
seemed to take on a life of its own.  It 
wasn't until she had pressed her hands 
frantically to her middle that she 
realized the noise was not being produced 
by her stomach at all.  The noise came 
from above.  

She curled up into the smallest ball she 
could possibly form and huddled among the 
grasses.  A bit of her memory urged her 
to start praying.  She hadn't prayed for 
just over two years.  She hadn't 
abandoned God out of her grief, or so she 
told herself. She simply hadn't had time 
to think about Him.  She made the time 
now.  

As a five year-old, she had prayed to St. 
Therese.  Now, she did the same.  

"Please, let me find them."  Mom.  Dad.  
Kevin.  

The rumbling noise grew closer, closer 
still.  She looked up and saw a little 
Cessna skim the field twenty feet above 
her to come to a landing father down the 
field.  She knelt in place and peered 
just over the tops of the tall grasses.  
A man clad all in black stepped out of 
the cockpit and looked around.

Even so far away, over the rippling of 
the grasses and the hammering of her 
heart in her ears, Meg could hear the 
creaking of his outfit.  

"Pleather-boy," she whispered to herself.  
By the sun, he was about two hours early.  
She stood up and looked at him.  His eyes 
recognized her and he came running 
towards her, removing his sunglasses with 
his right hand.  

And in his left hand he was carrying, of 
all things, a deep red rose.  The hair on 
Meg's arms prickled.  

END 6/11

"The Children's Teeth" 7/11 
by Erin McCole Cupp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What shall we say after that?  
If God is for us, who can be against us?"
--Romans 8:31
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pleather-boy swept before Meg into a bow 
such as Queen Camilla of England herself 
might have received.  His outfit creaked 
at the motion.  He held the rose up to 
her with great flourish.  

"My lady Mulder," he said, falling to one 
knee like a post-millennial dork-in-
shining-pleather.  "It is my great honor 
to escort you to the headquarters of The 
Lone Gunmen."  

She gaped at him in utter disorientation.  
"Are you. . . Gerald Cho?"

He bowed his head again, making his 
outfit creak even more, but he remained 
on his knee.  "At your service, my lady."  

The hand with the rose remained extended 
towards her.  //This guy clearly has 
involved himself in one too many role-
playing games.//  

Tentatively, she took the rose from him.  
"Thank you," she mumbled, not wanting to 
seem too callous.

"I am relieved that you are here early," 
he said, getting up clumsily, with even 
more creaking.  "All the better for us.  
We must be going."  

He held out his arm for her to take.  

Meg tried very hard not to laugh.  //And 
I thought *I* had lost my mind.// 

For her part, Meg ignored the proffered 
arm.  She slung Kevin's backpack on her 
shoulder and began walking toward the 
Cessna.  The creak-creak-creak noise that 
followed her revealed that Mr. Cho was 
not far behind.  

She hopped up into the passenger's seat 
of the cockpit.  When the pilot had 
seated himself, she asked him, "So, where 
are you taking me, anyway?"

"Washington, D. C.," he informed her, 
still keeping his voice flourishing.  "I 
regret that I cannot tell you more than 
that, my lady."

Meg rolled her eyes.  

Thank God he had met her in an airplane 
and not a car.  It was a long, long drive 
from Liberty to D. C.  She had a feeling, 
regardless, that this was going to be a 
long flight as well.  

Pleather-boy was getting the plane 
started when another buzzing sizzled 
right next to Meg's ear.  She turned and 
found the source of the buzz bouncing 
against the window with futility.  Meg 
began to scream to high heaven.

"What is it?"  Cho snapped his head to 
look at the cause of "his Lady's" 
screaming.  Seeing what it was, he took a 
roll of papers from the floor and swatted 
at the window, twice.  On the second 
swat, the offensive creature was dead and 
had landed in Meg's lap.  Her screaming 
increased.

Pleather-boy picked it up in his fingers 
and made the connection with his 
knowledge of Meg's background...

It was a bee.  

Shuddering, Meg tugged nervously on her 
Miraculous Medal dangling from its silver 
chain.  "Sorry," she wheezed.  "It's just 
this phobia I've always had..."

As she spoke the words, she made the 
connection as well -- the connection to 
what her father had included in his 
letter.  She'd always been so angry at 
herself for being afraid of something so 
stupid as, of all things, bumble bees.  
She'd never had any fear of snakes, 
heights, water, spiders, even public 
speaking, but a friggin' bumble bee could 
send her fearless self into hysterics.  
Now, even that childish demon had its 
origin.  Kevin would be so amused when 
she told him.  When she saw him again.  

She buckled herself into the seat as 
Pleather-boy began the takeoff process 
once more.  She removed Kevin's hat and 
wiped the cold beads of sweat off of her 
forehead and cheeks.  This was going to 
be a long flight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And it was.  It turned out to be one of 
the longer hours of her life, followed by 
a car ride in a little gray Ford, almost 
as run-down as Kevin's Crap Cruiser.  
Pleather-boy's urging for her to hide 
under her hat was redundant; she had done 
so as soon as he had directed the car 
from the abandoned airfield out onto a 
busy road.  

The Beltway.  Metro signs.  Familiar 
roads.  Familiar sounds and smells.  She 
was missing it all, though.  Her face 
slouched under the brim of the baseball 
cap.  Her mind churned.  How to find 
Kevin without falling into the trap that 
had been set for her with Kevin as the 
bait?  She thoughtfully turned the rose 
in her hand, feeling justly punished with 
the prickling of the thorns against her 
fingers.

In less than another hour, Pleather-boy 
was opening her car door for her and 
leading her through a dank garage, up 
some flights of steps and through a dark 
hallway.  Buttons beeped, locks yielded, 
and they were through a door, walking up 
a narrow staircase into a dark room 
cluttered with various chunks of 
equipment -- mostly of the computer 
variety.

Glasses-man, The Janitor and The 
Professor were there, too.  They turned 
and looked as she and Pleather-boy 
reached the top of the steps.  All three 
of them stood and stared at her.

//They see me,// Meg thought, //and they 
see two ghosts.//

The eeriness of the situation was 
palpable.  They were measuring her up to 
see how much of her was really her 
parents.  Meg straightened her spine and 
looked back at them all, in turn, 
unblinking.  

"Yep," nodded The Janitor, "that's a 
Scully all right."

"Here I am," she announced, ignoring him 
and keeping the tremor out of her voice.  
"You said you might be able to help me 
find my parents.  Now you have to help me 
find Kevin Declan, too."  

They must have known she would make that 
demand, because The Professor answered 
her, "We saw what happened to him, up to 
a point."

Glasses-man interrupted, "That's why Cho 
here was sent out to find you so early."

Meg took the chair that Pleather-boy 
offered her and set the rose on her lap.  
"You saw what happened 'up to a point'?  
At which point did you lose track of him?  
Is he even alive?"

She was aware her voice was verging on 
the hysterical once more.  She gripped 
her knees and tried to calm herself.  
//So much for me being a Scully, on that 
point.//

"While we've been waiting for you," The 
Professor told her, "we've been doing 
some checking.  It turns out that a 
fingerprint turned up at a crime scene in 
western Pennsylvania four days ago."  

"So what?" Meg asked, "That's where 
fingerprints usually turn up, isn't it?"

Glasses interrupted, "But the fingerprint 
was found at the scene of a murder of a 
convenience store clerk.  The local cops 
found the owners of all the fingerprints 
left at that scene except for this one 
particular fingerprint."

"Which belongs," The Professor finished 
for him, "to a deceased FBI agent, one 
Fox William Mulder."  

Meg was glad she was sitting down.  "Was 
it a fresh print?"

"Fresher than a prom date," assured The 
Janitor.  "The report from one of our 
online sources said it couldn't have been 
more than two days old."

"But it wasn't from the day of the 
murder," Pleather-boy added to set Meg's 
mind at ease.  

Meg breathed deeply.  "So that's why they 
started keeping an eye on me.  Still, how 
can we be sure it was really--"

She broke off, unable to bring herself to 
say "my father" out loud.  The hope was 
still too difficult to accept.  She 
swallowed and started over.  "How can we 
be sure it was really him?  Can you check 
out the security tapes from the days 
before that murder?"

The Professor shook his head.  "The store 
is in a small, rural town called Mount 
Carmel.  It didn't have a security 
camera."  

"Dead end, then."  Meg's shoulders 
slumped in defeat.  "Well, what about 
Kevin?"

"After our call to Declan's house this 
morning, we did lose track of you," The 
Professor told her, "so that means you 
did a good job of eluding the cameras."  

"But those satellites we've been plugging 
into for the past three days," The 
Janitor told her, "'conveniently,' 
they've been down ever since we saw what 
happened to your buddy."

Meg turned angry eyes on him.  "What did 
you see?"

"He was pulled over by the State 
Troopers," reported Glasses.  "A black 
sedan pulled up behind them, and a woman 
from the black car approached Kevin's 
car.  He got out, she touched him on the 
shoulder and pulled him into the black 
car."

Meg squeezed her eyes shut and dug 
through her memory of that phone 
conversation.  "Emily," she breathed.  

She turned back to The Janitor.  "Do you 
make it your business to weasel into 
government employee databases?"

He folded his arms.  "That's one of our 
many specialties."

"Good.  See if there are any FBI agents 
with the first name of 'Emily'," she 
ordered.  

At that, The Lone Gunmen went to work for 
yet another Mulder.  Glasses-man took the 
keyboard and brought forth records on 
several Emily's working in the federal 
government.  The search narrowed to a 
list of only those Emily's working for 
the FBI.  Meg ran her eyes over the list 
scrolling onto the screen.  Finding the 
one that jabbed at her memory, she 
pointed her finger at the screen.

"That's the one.  Emily Lynch."

Another double-click, and a new screen 
came up.  

"ALL RECORDS FOR LYNCH, EMILY ARE 
CLASSIFIED."

Meg laughed.  After what she had read 
this morning, this was exactly what she 
had expected to find.  

"Wait," Glasses responded, "let me see if 
I can hack it."

"No," Meg shook her head.  "No, don't 
bother, at least not yet.  Look up 
somebody else for me, though.  There is 
somebody else that might be able to 
help."

All four men looked at her yet again, 
trying to figure out what she was doing. 

Meg, keeping her eyes on the screen, said 
softly, "See if you can find a Skinner 
for me.  Assistant Director Skinner."

With a shrug, Glasses-man attacked the 
keyboard once more.  The database 
cheerfully obliged with the requested 
information.

"Home address?" Meg asked.

Glasses scrolled down to the requested 
information.  

"Thanks.  Print that out for me," she 
requested.  "Now, who can loan me a car?"

"I will drive you," Pleather-boy 
insisted.  

Meg pursed her lips. //I was afraid he'd 
say that//

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time they pulled into the 
apartment complex parking lot, it was 
nearly seven.  Meg sat up straight for 
the first time since they had emerged 
from the Lone Gunmen's garage and looked 
at all the cars, searching for a dark-
green, late-model Buick, registered to 
one Walter Skinner.  

She saw it.  He was home.  She opened the 
door and got out.  So did Pleather-boy.  

She froze and turned her most chilling 
expression on him.  "Look.  I need to do 
this alone."

Pleather-boy looked at her with 
uncertainty for what seemed like a full 
minute.  When her glare did not waver in 
the slightest, he finally sat back behind 
the steering wheel and shut his door.  
Meg sighed in relief.  

She walked up to the proper building, her 
heart playing the bongos through her 
entire body.  

//What if he doesn't remember who I am?//

Taking a deep breath, she pressed the 
intercom buzzer next to the name 
"Skinner," and waited for a reply. 


END 7/11

"The Children's Teeth" 8/11 
by Erin McCole Cupp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You can't kill the devil."  
--Chris Carter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Who is it?"  

The voice coming at her from the intercom 
was hard and clipped, making Meg's nerves 
jump even more than they already were.  

"Sir," Meg cleared her throat.  "Excuse 
me for bothering you, sir, but--"

Her throat closed up.  There was a 
security camera just above the lintel to 
the building's main entrance bearing 
directly down on her.  

The intercom crackled once more with that 
authoritative voice.  "I'll let you 
through."

Meg was shocked as the door buzzed and 
popped open to admit her.  //Well, that 
was easier than I thought.  I guess he 
does remember me after all.//

She went through the door and up the 
flight of steps to the second apartment 
on the right.  Her parents' boss was 
opening the door as she came down the 
hall.  

As he turned in her direction, he began 
saying in a voice of controlled shock, 
"Agent Sc--"

He stopped himself mid-word.  As his eyes 
came to rest on her, she realized he 
hadn't remembered her at all.  When he 
heard her voice over the intercom, he 
simmply had thought she was her mother.  
Over the phone, people had always 
mistaken her voice for her mother's.  
That used to be funny.

For the merest moment, the older man's 
face spoke volumes, then was a mask of 
unyielding control once more. 

Once again, Meg thought, //He sees me, 
and he sees two ghosts.//

She tried to regain her grip on her 
floundering sense of humor.  "Sorry, 
she's not here right now.  Can I take a 
message?"

Meg was not surprised when Skinner did 
not even smile at her joke.  Wordlessly, 
he indicated for her to come inside.  

Once he had shut the door behind them, he 
spoke.  "Miss Mulder, how are you doing?  
I haven't seen you since--"

"The funeral, yes."  She answered him.  
"I'm fine, thank you."

The Assistant Director nodded in 
acknowledgement.  "What brings you here 
unnanounced?"

Meg suddenly became aware of how 
intimidating this man was.  She tried to 
remind herself that this was just an old 
bald guy who should have retired years 
ago, especially since he hadn't been 
promoted in decades.  But standing here 
before him now made her wonder how her 
father and mother could have ever defied 
him in any way, shape or form.  

And here she was, about to interrogate 
him.  Meg took a deep breath, and began 
the with the words she had rehearsed in 
her mind on the way over to this 
apartment building.  

"Mr. Skinner, sir, at the funeral you 
told me that if I ever needed anything 
that you could help with, that I 
shouldn't hesitate to contact you."

He folded his still-powerful arms across 
his chest and nodded at her to continue.  
His glasses reflected the room's light.  

"I've received some strange information 
within the past twenty-four hours, and I 
was wondering if you knew the whereabouts 
of my parents."

His greying brows deepened in their 
seeming perpetual frown.  His tight jaw 
tightened.  "Miss Mulder, I don't mean to 
be harsh, but your parents were killed in 
that explosion two years ago.  To the 
best of my knowledge, they are somewhere 
in the rubble that resulted from said 
explosion."

Meg's eyes shut on her involuntarily, and 
her face burned.  //Sunburn.  That's what 
I get for being half-Irish and falling 
asleep in a field at high noon.//

The Assistant Director saw her reaction 
and indicated for her to take a seat on a 
nearby couch.  She nodded with gratitude 
and sat down, removing her hat.  Kevin's 
hat.

As he sat down opposite Meg, the 
Assistant Director asked her, "What sort 
of information have you received?"

Meg perched on the edge of the sofa.  
"First, I received a phone call at work.  
Someone telling me that I -- that I am 
not an orphan, and that someone would be 
in contact with me."  

His frown grew even deeper.  "Who?"

"Who called me?  A woman, but I could not 
recognize the voice.  Then, early this 
morning I got a call at a friend's house 
from some former colleagues of my 
father's from outside the Bureau--"

Recognition flickered across his solid 
face.

"--who said there was evidence that my 
parents are still alive, and that someone 
wants to use me to find them.  So when I 
went to meet them, that friend I was 
staying with was pulled over by the 
police and someone from the FBI.  Ever 
since, I've lost contact with him."

"When did that happen?'

"About nine this morning."

"Have you tried to contact your friend 
since?"

Meg shook her head.

"What about these 'colleagues.'  Do they 
call themselves 'The Lone Gunmen?'"

Meg was about to nod when her stomach 
decided to speak up instead.  Loudly.  
Meg cringed with embarrassment.  

The shadow of a smile visited the 
Assistant Director's face for the 
briefest of moments.  "Miss Mulder, when 
was the last time you ate?"

Sheepishly, she answered, "I had some 
Tic-tacs around three this afternoon, 
sir."  

Assistant Director Skinner stood up and 
walked into his kitchen.  "Why don't you 
try to contact your missing friend while 
I make a sandwich for you."

"Sir, that's not necessary--"

"I insist.  There's a phone on the 
endtable."

"But, sir, it's long distance to New York 
City."

"Go ahead and make the call."

Meg felt she had just been issued an 
order.  She went over to the phone and 
dialed Kevin's home number.  When that 
was not successful she tried his cell 
phone.  The call was rung directly 
through to an automated message:  "This 
call cannot be connected due to a 
hardware malfunction.  Please contact 
your service provider for more details."

Meg cradled the reciever with a sigh.  

Assitant Director Skinner returned to the 
living room with a ham sandwich and glass 
of iced tea.  Meg didn't feel much like 
eating or drinking, but she sat down 
anyway and accepted the offered 
provisions with a whispered, "Thank you, 
sir."  

"Miss Mulder, have you considered the 
possibility that these two calls you have 
received are simply someone's sick joke?"

Meg laboriously swallowed her first bite 
of sandwich before replying.  "I have 
considered that possibility, sir.  The 
first call from the woman could easily be 
a joke.  My contact with the Lone Gunmen, 
however, has -- well, sir, it's explained 
a whole lot of my life and my 
relationship with my parents."

"How so?"

"My father left a letter for me with them 
before the explosion, just in case 
anything should ever have happened to him 
or to my mother.  I was given an 
opportunity to read that letter this 
morning."

"How can you be sure this letter was from 
your father?"

She heard the accusation implied in his 
unspoken words.  He thought that in her 
vulnerability she'd been taken in by some 
sort of scam.  Kevin had thought the same 
thing.  

"Sir," she replied evenly, "I know about 
the X-files."

His face changed when she said that; not 
obviously, but his lack of expression 
changed minutely into another lack of 
expression.  "I see."

She kept her eyes fixed on him as he 
removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge 
of his nose.  Only then did the man look 
the slightest bit old, perhaps because 
the movement revealed so much of his 
weariness.  But then his glasses were 
back in place, and the Assistant Director 
was his mighty self once more.  

"Miss Mulder," he said, "I know it is 
difficult to lose any family member at 
any time, much less both parents and a 
grandmother within the space of a few 
months.  I can understand your wanting 
your parents to be alive, but we need to 
think rationally here.  

"The man who was responsible for your 
parents' death is dead as well, and I'm 
not talking about the man who confessed. 
I'm talking about the man behind it all.  
That man died of lung cancer more than 
eighteen months ago.  I myself saw the 
body.  The people who worked with him -- 
all dead.  Time alone killed them.  There 
are no more X-files."

Meg pushed the sandwich away.  "So, 
you're saying--"

"Miss Mulder," the Assistant Director 
said, "you should go home, back to New 
York.  Call me when you get in.  I know 
someone in New York, and I can arrange 
for you to get the best grief counseling 
available."  

Fighting the intimidation she felt, she 
forced herself to look directly into the 
man's eyes.  His concern was genuine.  He 
was not covering for her parents.  Her 
parents //were// dead.  

Meg swallowed the lump in her throat.  
She was strong, and she would not cry, 
certainly not here.  She stood and 
extended her hand to Assistant Director 
Skinner.  He took it and returned her 
firm handshake.  

"I'm sorry I bothered you, sir," she said 
as she walked to the door.  "Thank you 
for your time, honesty, and for the 
sandwich."

"Miss Mulder," he replied, "good luck.  
If you still can't find your friend, you 
know where to reach me"  

"Thank you."  She nodded and walked back 
down the hall to the stairs.  She did not 
look back, even when she heard the door 
to Skinner's apartment close behind her 
with a final //click//.  

Down the steps, across the parking lot, 
and she opened the passenger door to 
Pleather-boy's car.  He regarded her in 
expectant silence.  

She took a few deep breaths before she 
could respond.  "Just take me back to New 
York."

"But, my la--"

"Cut the 'my lady' crap and just get me 
back to New York, would you, Pleather-
boy?"

Hurt, Cho turned the key in the ignition 
and pulled back onto the street.  Meg 
kept the hat off her head and sat up 
straight.  No more of these stupid games.  
Kevin had probably just been carjacked.  
Bizarrely enough, that should have been a 
comfort.  He would be okay.  He had to be 
okay.  When she got in tonight, she would 
call the police and file a missing 
person's report.  Then she would call his 
mother.  

//How am I going to explain this to Mrs. 
Declan?//

Up ahead, a sign blared for a convenience 
store.  Meg had no money.

She pointed to the sign.  "Stop up there.  
I need an ATM."

Wordlessly, Pleather-boy obeyed, and Meg 
went inside.  She looked up at the 
security camera behind the counter, but 
she made no move to hide from it.  She 
walked up to the ATM and punched in her 
numbers.  While waiting for her cash & 
receipt, she looked directly into the 
camera and laughed at herself for being 
so gullible, and at such cost to her best 
friend.  Resigned, Meg agreed with Kevin 
and Skinner; it was time to get help.  

As she left the store, she passed by a 
stand of cheap flowers; she and Kevin 
called them "honey-I'm-sorry" bouqets.  
With a deep sigh, Meg picked up four and 
paid for them before returning to the 
car.  Pleather-boy was waiting by her 
door and opened it up for her.  Guilt 
panged at her some more.

"Can we stop somewhere before we get 
back?"  She asked him as nicely as she 
could.  "I think I need to make a visit."

"Certainly my la--"  Pleather-boy stopped 
himself and nodded.  "Of course.  Where 
do you want to stop?"

"I need to pay a visit to my parents and 
my grandmother."

At first, Pleather-boy looked quite 
confused, but then he understood.  They 
both got in the car and Pleather-boy 
pointed the car towards the cemetery.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm coming with you," Pleather-boy 
informed her as she opened her door.  

The cemetery was officially closed after 
dark, but Meg had insisted in her quietly 
forceful way.  Besides, Pleather-boy 
didn't seem to have that much respect for 
authority, even graveyard authority.  
They had driven through the winding paths 
up to the section where the Scully family 
plots were.  Meg had been here only four 
times before, but with her photographic 
memory, she knew her way even in the 
dark.

She stepped out of the car and walked to 
the grave stones, Pleather-boy creaking 
along behind her.  When she saw the four 
stones she had come to visit, she turned 
to her escort.  

"Please," was all she said.  He seemed to 
understand and kept back a little as she 
approached.

Meg stopped at the stone that marked the 
grave of her aunt, Melissa Scully, and 
placed one bouquet before it.  In the 
summers, when Meg was little, she would 
spend all of her time outside, the sun 
would bleach her sandy gold curls.  
Grandma would wind her hair into pigtails 
each morning to keep it from tangling too 
much, and as she did so she would tell 
Meg how much she looked like her Aunt 
Melissa at that age.  

Another bouquet for Grandma, Margaret 
Scully.  Closing her eyes, Meg touched 
the stone as if its solid coolness could 
connect her somehow to what had been 
lost: discipline, traditions, heritage, 
and ever-present, unconditional love.  
When all else was turbulent, Meg could 
always count on Grandma to make it all 
better.  

She stepped to her right and stood before 
the grave stones that memorialized her 
parents.  No caskets lay beneath her 
feet, merely earth.  Grandma had been the 
one who had insisted on the stones, so 
that something would have remained behind 
in their memory.  Meg's fingers tightened 
around the crinkly plastic covering the 
bouquets' stems.  

But the rustling that she heard was not a 
result of that movement.  She looked up 
and saw shadows stirring in the darkness 
ahead.  She blinked and squinted and saw 
a familiar figure.

Her heart leapt in relief. "KEVIN!"

He did not speak.  Meg threw the flowers 
down and began running to him, throwing 
her arms out to hug him and never let him 
go.  

But another figure stepped right behind 
him.  Blond, late twenties, somber 
business suit.  Meg froze in her tracks 
and looked closely at Kevin's blank face.  
That was when she saw his eyes.  

Meg stepped backwards.  "Kevin.  Oh, no."

Kevin blinked, and the blackness swirled.  
He began walking toward her with a 
purpose.

Her father's letter had said... 

Meg turned on her heel and started to 
run.  She shouted to Cho,  "GET IN THE 
CAR!"

There were more rustlings behind her, but 
she did not look back.  Pleather-boy was 
slow to respond.  He kept looking behind 
her in fascination.  

"GET!!!  IN!!! THE!!! CAR!!!"

Then, the pain hit her in her back, 
somewhere on her left side.  A scream 
curdled into the night sky, but it was 
not her own; it came from behind her.  A 
woman's scream.  The force of Meg's pain 
pitched her forward.  Her face kissed the 
dewy grass.  She could hear nothing, but 
over the moist smell of growing grass she 
smelled something that had the darkness 
of gunfire.  

She had been shot.  

She tried to get up, but she found 
herself unable.  Warm blood tricked over 
her back and shoulder down onto the 
grass.  "Kevin," she whimpered, 
"Kevin..."

"Shh," came a woman's voice over her.  
Someone was touching her on her back. 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a 
chin-length bob of blond hair.

"Emily," she cried with all of her 
dwindling strength. "No..."

"Shh," the woman repeated as she placed 
her palm over the source of Meg's newly-
spilled blood.  "Don't fight it.  Just 
don't fight it, little sister."

Meg detested herself and her weakness; 
she found she could not fight this 
Emily's power as she slipped into 
unconsciousness.

END "The Children's Teeth" 8/11

"The Children's Teeth" 9/11 
by Erin McCole Cupp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Can a mother forsake her child,  
Be without tenderness 
for the child of her womb?  
Even should she forget, 
I will never forget you."
--Isaiah 49: 15
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stars.  

Clouds.  

A heavy, constant hum.  

Rattling.  Fog.  

Fog.  Blackness.

Stars.  

Blackness.  Merciful blackness.  

Then, stars and rattling again.

And all along, a searing, piercing pain.  

Voices?  Voices.  The two frantic voices 
that had been there all along.  One of 
them spoke to her often, softly:

"Hang on, little sister.  Hang on."

A flutter of blond hair.  Movement and 
persistent touch.  Being lifted and 
stretched out.  The pain... the pain... 
Another voice shouting for help.  A 
flurry of hands, tubes, needles.  A swish 
of robes.  

A white jacket and an obscured face.  

"Oh, my God."

//Oh, my God.// 

Meg dreamed she knew the voice.  But it 
could only have been a dream, a dream of 
fresh grief.

And then, blackness.  

Blackness.

Fog.  Blackness.   

Then, through the blackness, quiet.  A 
light, constant "beep" counted time.  
Pressure on her hands.  A feather-light 
touch brushing against her hair.  Still, 
nothing but blackness.

Through the blackness, someone singing 
softly, singing softly to her.  Her heart 
responded to the sound before her brain 
could.

"//Good golly, Miss Molly...//"

Then, blackness again, relieved by 
dreams...  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The game was different, but the scene was 
so similar.  An eight year-old girl in 
pigtails plopped on the floor in front of 
the television, pondering her next move.  
He watched across the board from her, 
waiting his turn.  

As she picked up a white pawn, she looked 
up, distracted momentarily.  "Dad!  You 
make such a mess with these!"

She was pointing to the crumbling mess of 
sunflower seeds falling bit by bit onto 
the chess board.  

"Watch," she told him.  "This is how you 
can be neater."  

Meg carefully placed a sunflower seed in 
her mouth, with the seam of the shell 
poised vertically between her top and 
bottom front teeth.  With a calculated 
effort, she pressed her jaws together and 
the shell cracked neatly in two.  

She spit the two halves onto her palm and 
proudly showed them to her father.  
"See!"  

She was expecting him to laugh at her.  
Instead, his face became a mask of worry.  

She automatically bit down on the kernel.  
"Ouch!"  Something was running down her 
lower lip.  She wiped her hand against 
her face, and her hand was painted with a 
thin streak of red.

"C'mere, Miss Molly," her dad said, 
holding out his arms to her.  "Let me 
see."

Clambering over the chess board and 
scattering the pieces, she climbed into 
her father's lap.  She opened her mouth 
and he peeked in.

His sigh of relief was heavy.  "It's just 
a loose tooth."

Meg reached in and wiggled the bottom 
tooth around with her finger.  She looked 
up at her father's face once more, and 
found it pale, distressed.

"Daddy?  Are you okay?"

He responded by hugging her tightly, 
patting her pigtails protectively.  "I'm 
okay, Miss Molly.  Let's get Doctor Mom 
to take a look at it."

"Daddy, Mommy's not a dentist.  I can 
pull it out myself."

He scooped her up anyway and held her 
high in the air.  She reached up and, 
giggling, tapped the ceiling.

"Did I hear my name?"  

"Mom!  I have another loose tooth and Dad 
doesn't think I can take care of it 
myself."

Her father replied in a silly indignant 
voice, "Tattletale."

He put her back down on the ground and 
she ran to her mother, who bent down to 
look in her daughter's open mouth.  

"Schheee?"  Meg slurred, pointing.  She 
closed her jaw again and reported to her 
mother, "It just bled a little teeny bit, 
and Daddy got all scared, but I wasn't 
scared at all."

Mommy looked up at Daddy silently, her 
eyes full of knowledge.

Meg put her hands on her hips.  "You two 
are doing that again."

Mommy looked back at her, ready to laugh.  
"Doing what?"

"Talking to each other with your eyes."

Always in control, Meg's mother changed 
the subject.  "Daddy's going to get a 
little bit of gauze from the bathroom so 
you can take your own tooth out, and the 
gauze will keep you from bleeding all 
over the chess board.  Sound good?"

Meg considered the offer, then nodded.  
"Yep.  Sounds good."

Mommy bent to kiss her daughter on the 
forehead, and Meg returned the kiss with 
a giggle.  Looking up, Meg watched as her 
parents spoke to each other once more 
without saying a word.  Still, eight year 
old Meg could not help feeling just 
slightly left out.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eight years old.  She had been eight 
years old when... 

What her mother had understood then, Meg 
could finally understand now, even if 
only in a dream.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of all the dreams she had, that one had 
been the most vivid.  She woke up in 
pain, but the fog and blackness were 
gone.  So was the black, starlit sky.  
She blinked and felt her eyelids rejoice 
in the movement.  The pressure on her 
right hand increased.  

Meg turned her head slightly to the 
right, and the effort was momentous.  Her 
eyes focused.  She blinked and saw 
copper, lightly touched with silver, a 
tiny flash of gold, and two blue, blue 
skies.  

"Mommy," she tried to say, but found she 
could not speak.

Was this real?  Had she died?  No, she 
was in too much pain for heaven.  She 
felt her mother squeeze her hand firmly, 
felt two drops of salt water fall onto 
her from above.

Her mother was crying and smiling.  "Hi, 
sweetie."

She tried to ask where her father was, 
but again could not.  There was something 
in her throat.

"Shh, honey," her mother soothed, 
touching her cheek lightly.  "It's okay.  
You're going to be fine.  Just lie still 
and try to stay quiet.  There will be 
plenty of time to talk later."

Her own cheeks were wet as the tears 
spilled silently down.  

"Good golly, Miss Molly."

Her left hand was squeezed and she turned 
her head in the direction.  There was her 
father, smiling at her, shaking his 
graying head in amazement.  

She looked carefully at both parent's 
faces and saw the scars.  Burn scars.  
Dimly, her mind realized that they had 
been in that explosion.  But how did they 
get to be here now, at her bedside, 
holding her hands and urging her on to 
recovery?

It didn't matter.  They were here now.  

"Meg," her father leaned close and 
whispered to her, "please don't get shot 
again."

//I'll do my best, Daddy,// she tried to 
say with her eyes,  //I'll do my best.//

Somehow, she knew he understood.

She drifted off into an easy sleep. 

The more she rested, the sooner she would 
be able to find Kevin.  


END 9/11

"The Children's Teeth" 10/11 
by Erin McCole Cupp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There is nothing concealed 
that will not be revealed, 
no secret that will not be known."  
--Luke 12:2

The Curse:  "When you grow up, I hope you 
have children just like you!" 
-- Bill Cosby's mother
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mere hours later, a cluster of brown-
robed nuns and one Doctor Dana Scully 
worked together to remove the majority of 
the medical tubing from Meg's body.  
Meg's mother was issuing commands in her 
deep, authoritative doctor's voice.  

Nuns?

It was not by any means a pleasant 
experience.  She was grateful that her 
father held her hand the entire time; and 
yet, as an independent twenty year old 
woman, she was embarrassed at the depth 
of her gratitude.  

One of the nuns offered her ice chips as 
soon as she was able to accept them, 
which she crunched on greedily.  The ice 
seemed to melt almost on contact.  

Her mother was by her side once more.  
The authoritative voice was replaced with 
soft concern.  "How are you feeling?"

Meg swallowed the water and automatically 
rasped, "I'm fine, Mom."

Meg's mother gave her a look; she knew 
Meg was not telling the complete truth in 
that statement.  Meg's father, however, 
was chuckling softly to himself.  Both 
blue-eyed women arched inquisitive 
eyebrows at him.

"See?"  He simply smirked at Meg's 
mother, "It's genetic, and there is no 
cure."

Meg didn't understand, but she was still 
too uncomfortable to spend time puzzling 
out her parents' in-jokes.  And there 
were more important questions to be 
answered.  

"What happened?" She asked, looking from 
mother to father.  "How did I get here?"

The sooner she had that answer, the 
sooner she would know what happened to 
Kevin.

"Can I answer that?"

A blond woman in her mid- to late-
twenties came closer to Meg's bed.  She 
wore no makeup, and instead of the somber 
business suit she wore blue jeans and a 
white t-shirt.  Meg increased her grip on 
her parents' hands.

"No, Meg," her father reassured her, 
"it's all right."

Meg turned her panicked face to his.  
"But she's--"

"Emily Wexford," her mother interrupted.  
"She's the one who saved you and brought 
you here to us."

The Emily frowned.  "No.  I should have 
been able to do more..."

"Wexford," her mother reassured, "you did 
all you could."

Meg shook her head.  "I don't understand.  
What is going on here?"

"Don't worry about it, Meg," her father 
said.

"No!"  Meg's dry voice cracked at the 
force of that one word.  "I've been kept 
in the dark for twenty years.  I'm in on 
this now whether you like it or not. 
Whether I like it or not.  My best friend 
could be dead right now for all I know, 
//because// I'm in on this, and I'm still 
not entirely sure what 'this' is!  
Somebody damn well better give me some 
answers, and that somebody better do it 
now!"

Her parents exchanged looks that could 
only have been, Meg realized, guilt.  At 
once, Meg regretted her outburst.  She 
looked down at the sheets.  

"Mulder," her mother said, the 
authoritative voice returning, "she's 
right."  

Her father's face was blank.  Meg was not 
surprised.  

"Wexford," her mother requested, "tell 
Meg what happened at the cemetery."

The Emily stepped closer yet as the 
doctor beckoned her to do so.  With a 
deep breath, she began to explain.  
"There are five of us.  Well, there 
//were// five of us at the beginning.  
Emilys, that is.  One died over twenty 
years ago."

Meg glanced at her mother, whose eyes 
were gently closed.

"I killed another two nights ago in the 
cemetery."

Meg looked at this Emily critically.  
"How?"

She continued.  "The four of us who made 
it to adulthood were recruited by those 
who created us to serve their purposes.  
Then I found out what their purposes 
were."

"Colonization," Meg whispered.  

She answered her father's questioning 
look with, "I got your letter."

He nodded gravely.

Emily nodded as well.  "So I joined The 
Resistance.  Two nights ago, I was at 
that cemetery."

"You'd been watching me?"

"For the resistance.  When we saw you 
back in front of the cameras again, I was 
sent to follow you, to protect you in 
case //They// tried to hurt you."

"What about Kevin?"

"As you've probably guessed, //They// 
caught him to catch you.  They'd given 
him the black virus.  From what we 
understand, he was to give it to you, and 
you were to go find your parents so their 
hiding place could be destroyed."

Meg shuddered.  So what she had seen in 
Kevin's eyes had been what she thought it 
was.  She blinked back the tears.

"When you started to run from them in the 
graveyard," she continued, "Lynch, the 
Emily keeping an eye on Kevin, shot you, 
presumably to stop you.  My guess is that 
her plan was to heal you, then give you 
the virus and send you out to find Mulder 
and Scully."  

"But I'm okay, relatively speaking," Meg 
insisted, "What happened?"

"They didn't know I was there, watching.  
I was able to get the oil out of Kevin 
and keep you alive enough to fly you out 
here."

She was an alien-human hybrid.  She could 
heal people.  "But why couldn't you heal 
me all the way?  And where is Kevin now?"

"I don't understand the healing mechanism 
entirely, so I don't have complete 
control over it," Wexford explained, her 
expression pained.  "I haven't had enough 
time or training.  All I was able to 
learn fully was how to remove the black 
oil, and a few simple healing 
techniques."

"And Kevin?"

"I removed the oil, but we had to get you 
here fast if you were to survive.  What a 
relief that your friend Cho had a plane."

Meg's heart ached.  "So Kevin was left 
behind..."   

Wexford nodded, "...and the virus most 
certainly returned to him.  That was two 
nights ago.  He's still in //Their// 
control."

Meg looked up at her, trying to compose 
herself.  They had sacrificed Kevin to 
save her.  She shook her head and closed 
her eyes.  Meg felt her mother's arms go 
around her tightly.  Meg breathed deeply 
to keep the tears at bay.  

At length, after her mother had let go, 
Meg was in control enough to ask, "So 
when are we going to go find Kevin?  We 
can save him, right?  You have the --?  
Oh..."

Her mother leaned closer once more, 
concerned.  "What is it?"

Meg raised a hand to her brow, full 
comprehension dawning on her.  "That's 
why you've been in hiding for two years.  
You have the vaccine.

She heard both parents sigh with relief 
that she understood.  Her mother 
confirmed her suspicions.  "We've just 
finished the final phase of testing.  We 
began mass production about three weeks 
ago."

"We couldn't risk exposure by contacting 
you," her father added, his voice 
weakening.  "Too many lives were at 
stake. . . . //Your// life was at stake."  

Meg's eyes pinched at the understanding.  

Her mother's eyes were shining with the 
threat of tears once more, and her mother 
hardly ever cried.  "It was the hardest 
decision we'd ever made."  

Meg sighed, ready to cry again herself.  
"No, I understand.  I'm glad you did this 
if it helped find the vaccine. Now let's 
get some of it to Kevin."  

The three about her bedside looked at 
each other without speaking.  

"Now what?"  She asked.

"Right now," her father explained to her 
evenly, "we're in the underground 
passageways of a Carmelite religious 
cloister near Lake Erie.  We have reason 
to believe that Cho's plane was tracked 
here.  We're in the process of evacuating 
to a secondary site in Kentucky."

"If we don't," her mother continued, "all 
our work will be destroyed when //They// 
get here."

"How?"  Meg asked.

"Bombs," Wexford informed her.  "Fire,  
whatever they can think of.  To the 
public, it will all be explained away, of 
course.  As usual."  

So that gave a reason for all the nuns 
bustling about, packing boxes of 
equipment and taking them upstairs.  

"Great," Meg replied, "so we're moving to 
a safe location.  What does that have to 
do with Kevin?"

"Meggie," her father said, obviously 
saddened, "we only have another forty-
eight hours to find Kevin before it would 
be too late.  We don't have the people to 
complete the move //and// go back and get 
Kevin in time."  

"I told you I would go," Wexford 
insisted.

Meg's mother shook her head.  "No.  It's 
too dangerous for anyone, even you, to go 
alone."

"Then I'll go with her," Meg said, 
sitting up as straight as she could.

Her father shook his head.  "No.  
Absolutely not."

"Meg," her mother said, "you're not well 
enough yet, even if you did have the 
proper training."  

"But somebody has to go back and get 
him!"  

"Then I'll go with Wexford," her father 
said. 

"Mulder, you can't.  We need you here."  
Her mother's eyes pleaded.

"Besides," Wexford added, "this isn't a 
job for someone so..."

She stopped and bit her lip, embarrassed.  
Meg bit down on the corners of her own 
lips to keep from laughing at her 
father's equally embarrassed expression. 
For someone who would be sixty in 
October, her father was in pretty good 
shape. But still... he would be sixty in 
October.  

"For someone who has all the scar tissue 
in his joints that you have," Wexford 
finished diplomatically.  

"But Meg's right," Doctor Scully 
admitted.  "We can't leave Kevin behind.  
We do need to come up with a plan."

Meg, however, was coming up with a plan 
of her own.  "If we could evacuate 
sooner, is there a chance we could save 
Kevin?"

"Slim," her father admitted.

"Good," Meg nodded.  "Why don't you stop 
waiting by my bedside and help get us out 
of here sooner?"

"But Meg, you--"

"I'm fine, Mom," Meg insisted again, in a 
stronger voice this time.  

Her mother clearly did not enjoy taking 
what she usually dished out.  

"Go finish saving the world," Meg 
continued, trying to smile, "I'll be 
alright.  Just don't leave without me."  

Her parents obviously hesitated at 
leaving her at all.  

"Go!  Hurry!  Another life is at stake, 
too."

Reluctantly, they both kissed her on the 
forehead before leaving the room, 
promising to be back to visit shortly.  
As much as it hurt Meg to watch them go, 
even knowing she would see them again, 
she continued turning her plan over and 
over in her mind.  

As Emily Wexford nodded at Meg, taking 
her leave, Meg hissed to her, "Wexford."

"Yes?"

"How did you kill that other Emily?"

Silently, Wexford pulled something long 
and silver from her pocket.  Meg knewwhat 
it was.  So, Wexford had one.  Good.  
That made the execution of her plan that 
much easier.  

"I need your help.  Can you pull out this 
IV?  We have some work to do."

At first, Wexford frowned at Meg.  And 
then she understood.  Emily Wexford 
nodded at Meg Mulder.  "Not bad, little 
sister.  What's the plan?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Doctor Scully!"  Sister Anne called to 
her over all the evacuation-induced 
shouting.  

Brushing back a wayward strand of her 
silvering hair (no need for hair color in 
a cloister), Scully walked over to the 
nun.   "What is it?"  She shouted back. 

"We were packing up the last of the 
vaccine, and we can't account for one 
vial!"

Adrenaline shot through Scully's blood.  
There could be a security problem 
wandering the passages below.  Great.  
She nodded and ran to Sister Cecilia.

"Sound the bell," she told the nun, who 
nodded back in clipped understanding.  

Communications here were well-guarded.  
Neither Scully nor Mulder had picked up a 
cell phone in nearly two years.  Even 
old-fashioned walkie-talikes were 
suspect.  The primitive cloister bell was 
the best, most secure communication they 
had.  Even if it was heard outside of 
their base of operations, no one would 
understand its significance.  

"Meg," she murmured to herself and began 
running for the improvised hospital room 
where her daughter was recuperating.  In 
the hallway, she ran into Mulder.  They 
didn't need to speak.  They simply kept 
running.  

They found the room empty.  With the 
anger of a father worried about his only 
daughter, Mulder ran to the empty bed and 
smacked his fist down on the bedside 
table with a muttered curse.  Then, he 
froze.  

He bent and picked up a piece of paper 
left on the bedside table.  He read it 
and cursed some more.

"What?"  Scully cried.  "What is it?"

Mulder handed the note to her.  "She 
ditched us."

Wide-eyed, Scully read the note and 
looked back up at her partner.  Her jaw 
set angrily. 

"If you ever have entertained any doubt 
of that child's paternity," she growled 
to Mulder, "here is absolute, undeniable 
proof that she is //yours//!"

Mulder continued staring at the note in 
Scully's hand.  "I can't believe she 
ditched us."  

"It's genetic," Scully called over her 
shoulder as she ran back outside, "and 
there is no cure."  


END "The Children's Teeth" 10/11

"The Children's Teeth" 11/11 
by Erin McCole Cupp (CathyLex@aol.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There is no greater love than this: 
to lay down one's life 
for one's friends."
--John 15:13
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Cold." 

Meg had whispered the word involuntarily.  
She hadn't wanted to speak her thoughts 
out loud, but it had slipped out through 
her chattering teeth.  She wrapped 
Wexford's jacket around her more tightly 
and winced as the rattling Cessna jabbed 
new life into her wound's pain.  
Pleather-boy looked over at her briefly 
but then thankfully turned his 
concentration back to piloting their 
little aircraft.

Wexford leaned forward from her seat in 
the back and asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm-m f-fine."

Sure she was fine, considering she was in 
shock.  She was shivering more than 
Pleather-boy's plane, she was bathed in 
an icy sweat that nearly soaked through 
the shirt Wexford had loaned her, and the 
nausea in her stomach and the pain in her 
shoulder blade were fighting a lively war 
for her attention.  

She looked down at the pair of jeans she 
was wearing -- also Wexford's -- and 
thought to herself, //Where's the 
flood?//  Three pairs of Wexford's socks 
helped her fit back into Kevin's 
sneakers, because trying to fit Meg's 
size ten feet into petite Wexford's shoes 
had been a lost cause.

"Here," Wexford extended a closed fist to 
Meg.

Meg opened her palm underneath it.  "What 
is it?"

"Another pain killer.  But eat some of 
those crackers first."  Wexford pointed 
down at Kevin's freshly stocked backpack, 
and obediently, Meg pulled out the sleeve 
of soda crackers and the bottle of water 
Wexford had packed for her.  

Twenty minutes later, the pain killer 
took its effect.  Meg was still in pain, 
of course, but at least she could 
function.  She was still shivering.  
Wexford reached forward again and draped 
a rough-woven, brown wool blanket over 
her.  Meg tugged on it gratefully.  

"We're almost there," Pleather-boy 
announced, "fifteen minutes more."

Meg nodded and for the next fifteen 
minutes rubbed her arms briskly to get 
them warmed up again.  As Pleather-boy 
brought them in for a landing in a wide 
field, Meg wrapped her fingers around the 
seat belt and gritted her teeth.  The 
drug seemed to lose its effect as the 
plane bounced against the ground and 
jolted Meg about.  She gritted her teeth 
some more to keep from passing out yet 
again.

Wexford rustled about, bringing forth the 
needed equipment as Cho turned off the 
Cessna.  

"Oh no," Wexford breathed.

Meg was still hurting too much to turn 
around. "What is it?"

"I didn't bring enough vaccine," she 
groaned.  "There's only enough in this 
vial for two doses."

"That's okay," Meg contended, "we only 
need the one for Kevin, right?"

Wexford tapped her fingernails against 
the vial.  "No.  We need one for both of 
you, too.  Just in case."

Of course.  Why hadn't Meg thought of 
that?  "So only one of us can get the 
vaccine."

Wexford shook her head in regret.    

"Cho should get it," Meg volunteered.

"What?"  Pleather-boy's eyes gaped at 
her.  "My lady, you're the one who will 
be in closest contact with the virus.  
You should be vaccinated."

"No matter what happens," Meg explained, 
"we still need you to fly us out of here.  
I can't fly a plane.  Can you, Wexford?"

Needle in one hand, vial in the other, 
Wexford shook her blond head silently.

"Well, then," Meg swallowed and dug her 
fingers into the blanket, "that's 
settled.  Cho, roll up your sleeve."

His face wrenched in agony and went 
deathly pale.  

Meg frowned at him.  "What now?"

"I'm afraid of needles."

Meg didn't have the energy to roll her 
eyes, but Wexford did it for her.  

"Yeah, well I'm afraid of being stuck 
here with two homicidal alien-human 
hybrids and an extraterrestrial virus," 
Meg muttered back at him.  "Roll up your 
friggin' sleeve."

"Aaah--" was his only response.

"Cho," Meg shouted, "don't make me shoot 
you!"

Apparently he was too scared to think 
that she wouldn't have shot him for the 
same reason she insisted he get the 
vaccination.  With shaking fingers, Cho 
removed his pleather jacket.  Underneath 
he wore --surprise! -- a black t-shirt.  
He stuck his arm towards Wexford and 
turned his head to the window.  

Offering no words of comfort, Wexford 
injected the serum into the vulnerable 
flesh at the inner fold of his elbow.  
She then handed the vial and a fresh 
syringe off to Meg.  Meg dropped her 
blanket and accepted the two vital items.  
With clammy hands, Meg refilled the 
syringe and concealed it carefully, 
poised for attack, in the sleeve of the 
borrowed jacket.  

"Is it done yet?"  Pleather-boy 
whimpered.  

The two young women exchanged dryly 
amused looks.  "Done," both informed him.  

"Now restart the plane," Wexford ordered.  
"You shouldn't have turned it off in the 
first place."

Pleather-boy put his jacket on again and 
obeyed.

Wexford looked up, her eyes following the 
black sedan that approached their plane 
from across the field.  "They're here."

The last two Emilys rode in the car; 
Kevin Declan sat straight and unblinking 
in the back seat.  With a shuddering 
breath, Meg turned to Wexford, ignoring 
the pinch in her shoulder.  "Ready?"

Wexford nodded, tapping her right jeans 
pocket, assuring herself that the weapon 
was still there.  Then, she climbed over 
Meg and opened the door to step outside.  
Meg stayed where she was, according to 
the plan.   

"Don't forget," Wexford said in a serious 
voice, "you have to act quickly."  

Meg murmured quiet acknowledgement and 
squelched all her fears that, in her 
woundedness, she would not be quick 
enough.  Meg dropped her head and feigned 
unconsciousness.

//This is all part of the plan.//

Voices had begun an exchange just outside 
of her window.  Without moving her head, 
Meg listened carefully.  She could barely 
hear what was going on over the hum of 
the plane and Pleather-boy's jagged 
breathing.

"So, Wexford," a voice just like 
Wexford's called out through the dim, 
dusty air,  "The wayward sheep returns to 
the flock."  

"Abbot," the woman beside Meg called 
back.  "Let's make the exchange and get 
it over with."  

"So," another Emily sneered, "that's her 
there?"

"Yes, Merchant," Wexford answered her, 
"she's unconscious but alive."

"Too bad you didn't stay with us," one of 
the other voice said.  "You could have 
learned enough to save her."

Wexford must have ignored their laughter, 
because she did not retort.  

What felt like an eon passed before the 
door next to Meg opened up.  Her fingers 
tightened around the syringe.  

Familiar fingers reached for her chin, 
tilted her face up to look at him.  The 
gesture echoed of past tenderness.

Her heart throbbed at the sight of 
Kevin's face.

Her heart nearly died at the sight of 
Kevin's eyes.  

With a swift movement, Meg tore the 
possessed-Kevin's shirt collar aside with 
her left arm.  With her right arm, she 
thrust the needle into the tender flesh 
just beside his collarbone.  Her thumb 
pressed the plunger, and the vaccine 
disappeared into him.  He blinked.

Another swift movement, and Wexford had 
pulled him away so the black oil would 
pour out onto the ground and not onto an 
unvaccinated Meg.  Horrified, Meg saw the 
virus oozing out of Kevin's eyes and 
mouth, turning his screams of agony into 
violent gurgles as the fluid poured forth 
from him.  

Meg dropped the empty syringe and 
unbuckled her seatbelt.  She flung 
herself against the back wall of the 
cockpit, as she and Wexford had planned.  
Now, it was up to Wexford to help Kevin 
back into the cockpit and get herself in 
so Cho could fly them to safety in 
Kentucky.  

But too long of a moment went by, and 
Kevin was not yet in her arms.  

"Wexford!"  Cho shouted.  

A struggle crackled outside the plane.  
Cho unbuckled himself and reached across 
the cockpit.  Meg sat up and looked 
outside, watching as Cho grabbed Kevin by 
his shirt and dragged him up into the 
cockpit.  Meg reached for him greedily, 
oblivious to the harmless film of dead 
virus that still remained on his skin.  
She pulled him to her, his name a murmur 
within her.  A weak moan escaped Kevin's 
lips.  

Then, a strangled cry sounded a few yards 
away.  Meg snapped her head up just in 
time to see one of the other Emilys twist 
Wexford's arm, forcing her to release the 
silver gimlet weapon.  

"WEXFORD!"  Meg screamed.  "NO!"

Another Emily grabbed the weapon.  It 
gleamed as she drove it into the base of 
Wexford's neck.  

Wexford's eyes widened.  Then, her body 
fell limp upon the grasses of the field.  

Meg struggled to get out of the cockpit, 
but Cho shut her door with a curse and 
leapt back into his seat.  

"We can't just leave her there!" She 
shouted at Cho.  Meg grasped the door 
handle to open it, but her fingers were 
slick with oil.  "Let me out!"  

"If you go back there, you die too!" He 
shouted back over the increasing hum of 
the engine.  "You know her blood is toxic 
to us!"

Meg pounded her fists against the window 
in futile lament.  "No..."

Cho pointed the plane skyward and they 
took off.  His voice was heavy with 
desolation as he told her, "There was 
nothing you could have done..."

Meg pressed her fist to her mouth.  She 
closed her eyes to the pain, which was 
now reaching her on all possible levels.

"Meg?"  

Kevin's voice reached her through it all, 
however.  She turned to him and he 
blinked at her, confused.  Her body 
buckled as she crawled to him, crawling 
to the shore after swimming through a 
hurricane.  His arms were weak and slack, 
but they were warm and safe as they 
encircled her.

"You saved me..."

His voice was full of wonder.  She let 
her head fall against his chest, and 
unconsciousness claimed her once again.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they landed at the new site, the 
Kentucky Trappist monastery, Meg was 
conscious once more, barely.  Kevin was 
still very weak, but with Cho's help, he 
handed Meg over to her father, who 
scooped her up in his arms as if she were 
five again.  

Meg's father looked down at her, his 
expression pure worry.  In a deadpan 
voice told her, "You're grounded."

Still, behind his jokes, and behind her 
mother's doctor face, Meg became aware of 
something else -- something she was sure 
her parents themselves couldn't even 
recognize -- tucked away in the midst of 
their relief that she, Meg, would be 
safe.

//I am a pale version of Samantha,// she 
thought dimly, //and a dark version of 
Melissa.//

"You look at me," she murmured in a 
faltering voice, "and you see two 
ghosts."

Their eyes told her they did not 
understand what she meant, that they 
thought she was speaking out of delirium.  
Over all the commotion, Meg heard Cho 
relating what had happened to Wexford.  

"See?  We're equals now."  Meg whispered 
up to her father.  Then, she looked at 
her mother and said, "I've lost a sister, 
too."

Her mother's eyes began to glisten.  Her 
father drew a sharp breath as he 
continued carrying her into the safety of 
the monastery. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kevin was feeling like his old self again 
less than twenty-four hours later, and he 
immediately claimed for his own the chair 
right next to Meg's bed.  Cho had found a 
chess set for them, and once Meg was able 
to sit up again without pain, and when 
they weren't talking, they had begun to 
play.  

At night when Meg slept, Kevin remained 
in his chair, his head leaning on the 
side of Meg's bed.  If she napped during 
the day, Kevin simply held her hand and 
gazed at her, silent and wondering.  

One time, Meg's parents were coming in 
for another of their frequent visits, and 
they found Kevin watching over their 
daughter this way.  

Mulder placed a hand on his partner's 
shoulder and whispered into her ear, 
"Does that look at all familiar to you?"  

Scully laughed softly, leaning against 
him.  "Maybe a little."  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Weeks had passed.  The sweetness of the 
summer night called out to Meg through 
the tiny windows of her basement office 
in the monastery.  She'd been spending so 
much time on her latest project -- 
learning Swahili -- because, for the 
first time in her life, so much depended 
on it.  She was now part of something 
important.  

When she first had made the suggestion as 
to how her gifts could be used for this 
purpose, her parents had needed much 
persuasion before they reluctantly 
agreed.  They needed her gift for multi-
lingual gab, but they hesitated to expose 
her to more danger.  

Then, the first time she had helped them 
communicate with the resistance in Japan, 
she had turned to her father with a self-
satisfied smirk:

"And you said I should have taught high 
school!"

In two more weeks she and Kevin, with Cho 
as their pilot, would be leaving for 
Africa to distribute some of the vaccine.  
Because they all knew the date was set.  
They simply did not have the luxury of 
knowing when that date would be.

Meg wandered through the halls to the 
nearest exit, which led out to the 
vineyard.  Removing her shoes, she walked 
among the grapevines, marveling at the 
twinkling of fireflies among the leaves 
and the ripening grapes.  

Ordinary fireflies.  Nothing to fear.  
She smiled and wiggled her toes deeper 
into the velvety wet grass.  

Behind her, someone cleared his throat.  
She turned and smiled at Kevin, who 
carried a jug of the monastery's sweet 
wine.  Meg had just celebrated her 
twenty-first birthday a week and a half 
before.  

"Did you finally get in contact with your 
mom?"  She asked him.  Her voice was soft 
on the humid night air.

"Yeah, thanks to those three ancient 
geeks."  He was referring to the Lone 
Gunmen.  "That scrambler they gave us 
sure comes in handy for stuff like that."

"They're angels, aren't they?"  Her voice 
dripped sarcasm.

"They can't be all bad," he answered her.  
"After all, they did adopt Schrodinger 
and Mr. Bigglesworth for you."

"Yeah.  Mom and Dad thought that was 
hilarious."

"Where are they, anyway?"

"My parents?"  Meg shrugged.  "They went 
to bed."

Kevin looked at his watch.  "It's only 
ten o'clock."

Meg shrugged again. 

Kevin snickered.  "You know what they're 
doing, don't you?"

"Eeeeeewwww!  Yuck!  Puh-lease, Kevin!"  
Meg shuddered at him.  "Don't even make 
me think-- ugh!"

He laughed and offered her an earthenware 
mug, which she took and held as Kevin 
poured the wine, first for Meg, then for 
himself.  

Kevin held his mug up to her in a toast.  
"To our parents."

Meg clinked her mug against his and took 
a sip.  The wine was warm and sweet. 

"You miss your mom, don't you?"

Kevin swallowed his sip of wine and 
placed the jug down in the grass.  His 
voice was sad as he answered, "Yeah, I 
do."

"You don't have to stay, you know."  

She almost hoped that he wouldn't.  This 
work was so dangerous, and he was only 
involved in the first place because of 
her...

Kevin shook his head.  "No, I do.  I need 
to be a part of this."

Meg stepped closer to him.  "Why?"

Kevin sighed and looked up at the sky.  
"Remember when I was in the hospital, 
after I -- well, you know?"

After he had slit his wrists.  Meg 
nodded.

"Your grandmother came to visit me.  She 
asked me how I felt.  I told her I felt 
worthless, because I was going to end up 
just like my dad..."

The dad who had left Kevin and his mother 
when Kevin was only nine.

"... and she told me something I will 
never forget.  She said, 'God puts good 
people in the way of evil plans.'  I 
didn't understand what she meant... and 
then all this happened.  I thought at the 
time that maybe she meant you, or maybe 
that I was a good person in spite of my 
dad.  But now it means something totally 
different to me.

"I think it means that all this happened 
for a reason, that we were put here for a 
purpose --"

"--to get in //Their// way," Meg finished 
for him.  

Kevin nodded at her, his dark eyes 
locking with hers.  

With her free hand, she tugged 
thoughtfully on her Miraculous Medal.  
The silver of the Medal warmed at her 
touch.  Meg looked up at the sky, then 
back at Kevin.  

She raised her mug to him and he raised 
his in return.  

Meg's eyes twinkled at him in the 
darkness.  She toasted: for Grandma 
Scully, for Emily Sim and Emily Wexford.  

For Melissa.  For Samantha.  For all the 
lost.  For all their lives still meant, 
even in the loss.  

"To getting in //Their// way."  

Kevin laughed a solemn, reverent laugh.  
"To getting in //Their// way."

Their mugs met.

END 11/11





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Visit The Basement Office:http://members.xoom.com/galias/erin.htm

"I just want to be taken away to some place where I don't have to worry about
finding a job."