Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall Written by: Maraschino Feedback to: maraschino@ibm.net Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made. Spoilers: Everything after Momento Mori hasn't happened yet. Summary: Secrets are exposed, the truth beckons, and three powers battle for global domination -- two of them after Mulder, who finally discovers where he stands in the grand scheme of things. Rating: R for violence, profanity Category: XA *** *** PROLOGUE Mercy and memory. A strange combination indeed. That beats within my soul, within this darkened cell, as I listen for words which will no longer come, watch for those who have long since vanished. Regret is an inevitable consequence. That the memory which has solely defined me has been wasted -- ravaged by an omniscient armament who prefer the guised comfort of silence to the depths of an intricate, all-encompassing truth. It's time for mercy. Where the oppressed masses -- where the weak, and the sick, and the different -- recover and finally secure their much awaited liberation -- their redemption which has been continually denied in the face of fleeting shadows. But I can not prove this. Nor can I eliminate these men in garish black. I am but a man. But a mortal. But through an endowment which I did not ask for, through a power which I, up to now, have willingly denied, I *will* make my stand. I will grant *my* mercy to the oppressed, to the weak, to the sick, and to the different. I will take away the incorporeals' link. I will no longer be part of the lies and mirrors which have been held against me, baited me, influenced me away from the one memory which has sustained me, fuelled me throughout my meagre existence. I will make my stand. I will take *my* memory, the one which has been shrouded in whispers, coloured in grey, and wrapped in a trail of blood. I will destroy what they have given me, what they have hid from me -- because I *am* mortal. Because memory is all that I have now. And hopefully, in my last dying breath, I will be granted mercy as well. *** Location Unknown November 24, 1996 Diamond cutter glasses reflected the light of the solitary desk lamp, hiding the pupils underneath, hiding the black orbs which were staring intently at the nearby TV screen. He watched the camera pan onto the door, wobbling slightly as the camera man lost his balance, temporarily losing his war with vertigo and the bright lights that circled within his head. A shaky hand attempted four times to put the key through the key hole before finally hitting the mark -- scratch marks on the wooden panel ignored as the camera stumbled in. The picture was jostled again as the figure staggered past the doorway, only to trip over a newsletter lying at the doorstep -- the camera focusing on the window, the window sill, the wall, the base board, then finally settling for a side view glance of the hard wood floor. Diamond Cutters willed the man to get up, put his face closer to the TV screen and started whispering words of encouragement as if the man behind the box could hear him. In between the nudie pictures and the surveillance photos, in spite of the crude jokes and conspiracies, and although the two men had grown a rapport borne out of common interests, common goals -- the man staring at the TV realized he did not know the person in front of him at all. Did not know the extent of the pain that he had merely caught a glimpse of. Did not know that the events of two years ago were still haunting him -- that the demon called guilt was still languishing within the deepest recesses of his conscience -- that he would easily trade his life for the woman who was abducted seemingly ages ago. The man rubbed a gloved hand over his face, telling the son of a bitch in front of him to get up for Christ sakes. Just fucking get up, and come over with the chemical structure of LSDM. We can oogle over the latest issue of Celebrity Skin, and forget that the shoot out in the park ever happened, and that you're writhing on the floor right now, and that this is policy, and that I can't use the phone because the scrambler isn't working. The phone glared at the man accusingly, and fingers graced the number pad, dialling an imaginary number -- whispering, pleading with the man in the apartment to just please try, just try a bit harder. Just please get up. The picture on the screen was soon obscured by two elbows, soon started going back and forth in time to the rocking of the man in the box. The moans had now metamorphosed into grunts, and the man watching once again looked towards the phone, allowing his fingers to dance over the receiver, unable to make the final commitment and bring ear piece to ear. A door opened, and the camera panned towards the left, focusing on a pair of black high heeled pumps. Feet that belonged to a body that could call for help, that could help the man in the box to get up. Just get up... please. A woman cooed in the background, and the man watching heard the sounds of a cell phone being dialled. The woman told the man on the floor to stay down, to try not to move, to try not to get up. Diamond Cutters couldn't help but smile slightly at the irony. Bending over, momentarily leaning in close to say a silent farewell, the TV was turned off -- the red light of the VCR power button abruptly turned black. Throwing his glasses off onto the work bench, tired eyes now clearly visible, Frohike offered a silent whisper of thanks to the roof above. With the help of Dana Scully, Fox Mulder would get up. *** "An unidentified flying object soaring through Moscow's skies early last night? That's the question of UFO buffs everywhere, as there were ten confirmed sightings of a bright white light above the Russian capital at approximately ten o clock Russian time. This incident follows a string of similar reports over the past few days emanating from various Russian urban centers. The Russian army and militia refuse to confirm or deny such sightings, while many other citizens are reluctant to believe in the possibility of little green men, passing the reports off as fantastic figments of imagination from the more paranoid sector of Russia. "KQLY, your news leader, will continue to follow the developments in the Eastern country, and bring them exclusively to you as they continue to arise." *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia The two figures eyed each other warily. The one man was flanked by his co-conspirators, the other figure stood alone. Calm and collected he had been told, was the way to bargain. The Russian was the first to speak, a slight accent carressing each word that passed through his weathered lips. "And who would be in charge?" "Fifty-fifty both ways... equally divided power." The Russian nodded. That would be okay. For now. Past experience dictated partnerships didn't last very long when things were dealt evenly, fairly -- especially if the object in question was power. "And where are your comrades?" "They're somewhere safe. They'll come if this deal gets done." The Russian nodded. "You can guarantee that we'll be finished ahead of them?" The nod was reciprocated. "Definitely. They're missing a key component." "I trust that our facilities are suitable?" "Yes, they will do quite nicely." The Russian shared a glance with one of the men beside him -- caught his almost imperceptible nod of the head. "Then I say lets kick some American ass." The figure remained standing, eyes darting as the rest of the men in the room started to laugh. Oh, it was slang, a joke. Yes, humans liked those, he had learned. The figure started to force air though his lungs from his diaphragm, and heard a noise coming from the back of his throat. The mechanical chuckle was distracted -- came to an abrupt halt as the figure loudly cleared his throat. "Yes, that was very funny. Very humorous indeed." He headed for the door, mind already focussed on the abortion clinics and trucks, the fetal matter and DNA ligands -- their human and not-so-human physiology. When the figure spoke again, the index finger of his left hand ran over the finger nails of his right -- his voice coming out distracted, teetering on indifferent. "We'll be here and ready tomorrow." The man nodded -- a thought suddenly occurring. "Wait!" Enigmatically neutral eyes turned to greet bloodshot orbs encrusted with wrinkles. "What do I call you?" The figure stared at the man, and then realized what the Homo sapien was talking about. Oh yes. Names. Another one of those human habits. He thought back to what his deceased friend had called himself, a little more that a human year ago. What was it? The morph smiled, full lips parting to reveal perfect, pearl white teeth. "Jeremiah.... You can call me Jeremiah Smith." *** "... How are you going to know without me? How sure are you that it's not Samantha?" Mulder looks at the girl in the bus seat, softly counting to twenty, unaware a gun is held at her back and that her life is being bargained for. He looks up and sees another girl. Older. Staring at him in the bus to the left. He recognizes the brown braids. The long face. A nightgown that is too far away to tell what patterns it wears. Tears streak down her face; her right hand is outstretched. She calls to him, her voice wavering with the wind, shrouded behind the layers of glass which separates them. Her desperate fingers reach blindly, are pulled taut with longing. "Fox, I need your help." He looks back to the little girl who is nearing twenty, looks to the tall man whose mask of impassivity -- despite his best efforts -- is clouded with smugness. Looks longingly to the little girl in the nightgown who went missing so many years ago. "... twenty." The gun goes off, proceeded by an equal successor. The girl is slumped over, her torso still and unmoving, unable to force a breath to her mouth. Her blond hair now has streaks of red... streaks of brown. There is a flower pastel dress... but it has been replaced by an ankle length nightgown. The body is decomposing; the smell is almost unbearable, attacking his senses with such force that the gun falls numbly from his fingers. He does not notice when the cry escapes his lips, when his feet give out and he falls forward on to his knees -- closer to the body. Closer to the black parasites swimming in the mess of bones and blackened tissue. He looks to the dead convict behind... sees a flash of red, followed by a brilliant sparkle of gold from the neck. A gaping hole in the head that used to be his partner. Only a mass of hard yellow cells is left -- a monster that not even a bullet -- not even chemo or radiation -- can destroy. He tries to breathe... but he has killed Sam. Wants to pick up the gun and flee... but he has killed Scully. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around, only to meet the maniacally laughing visage of John Lee Roche... Mulder fell off the couch, hitting the floor hard enough to break him out his most-recent delirium. He put a hand over his mouth, a last-ditch physical barrier to try and keep the screams -- and the demons which they brought -- contained. He got back onto his couch warily, ignored the warmth and the dampness that was there. Wiped away the combination of tears and sweat that had accumulated on his face. He willed his breathing to slow, subconsciously put his hand on his heart to ease the hurt there, and tried to focus on the TV. Billy Graham and the resurrection of Jesus Christ, our Saviour. He had killed Sam. Ab Roller and 28 days to a firmer, flatter stomach. He had killed Scully. Beautiful faux pearls just for Valentine's Day exclusively on the Shopping Channel. And Roche had been laughing. Back to Billy Graham. *Laughing*. Mulder watched the evangelist for the span of ten seconds, breathing still ragged, chest still being rubbed. Like so many times before, he reached out and grabbed the phone, to call the one person who not only would care, but more importantly, was the only one who could understand. *** Scully's Apartment Annapolis, Maryland Scully raised her head and dared to look in the mirror. The cold water had done little to remove the puffiness from her eyes and the flush in her nose and cheeks. With a shaky hand, she grabbed a drink of water, carefully set the glass down on the porcelain sink and padded off back towards the bed. The Duane Barrys and Donnie Pfasters would forever chase her, would take refuge in the cocoon she thought she had built when she had entered med school. She would forever be haunted by the image of a devil possessing her soul, of watching Missy forlornly wave good-bye with a winged hand from pearly gates, just because she had turned away from the Hail Marys and Our Fathers so many years ago. She would always be held witness, prisoner, willing captor in the bright room with shiny instruments, and shinier implants. She would forever hold the burden of Missy's death on her shoulder, would forever see her father's face transplanted upon the voice of Luthor Lee Boggs. Condemned to a life of waking up, heart pounding, room spinning. She laid in bed, kicked off the covers, grabbed her housecoat and walked on shaky legs to the living room. She turned on the TV and was about to head into the kitchen to see if there was any peppermint tea, when the phone rang. "Hi, Mulder." There was a surprised pause. "How'd you know it was me?" Scully stifled a yawn. "Because we're the only ones up at three in the morning." She heard him chuckle, and she smiled. "So how come you're awake? Doctor homework?" It was familiar ground between the two partners now. Although they already knew the answer, knew that there existed real life ghouls and goblins during sleep, it was common courtesy to give the partner an out. "I couldn't sleep... you?" "Yeah..." "Nightmare?" There was a long pause. "Yeah..." Both parties bit their lip, unsure whether to push the other to talk, or to recede deeper into the comfort and familiarity of their own pain. Scully walked back to the kitchen, cordless still in hand. Turned on the hall light and the kitchen light as she passed their respective switches. The apartment was too damn dark. She prodded her partner along. "So... which one was it?" "It was a new one..." "Oh..." Mulder took his hand off his chest and reached for the remote. In the background he could hear Scully's dishes rattling. "You?" "Duane Barry." "Oh..." Scully suddenly grew interested in her tea bag, making a fuss over rearranging the boxes in her cupboard, while Mulder started a new round of channel surfing. He could be heard letting out a snort, followed by a disgusted string of indecipherable words. "What is it?" "Billy Graham." He rolled his eyes into the phone. "He says that negative experiences only make us stronger. They happen so that our belief in God can be strengthened." There was a pause, followed by a voice which had lost its acerbic edge. "Do you believe in God, Scully?" Scully's eyebrows rose, while her hand subconsciously rose to the cross on her throat. "I believe there is someone who looks over us." "Despite your scientific beliefs?" "Despite my scientific beliefs, Mulder." "...I miss her so much, Scully." Scully momentarily closed her eyes as the whisper met her ear. So the dream had been about Sam. No surprise -- considering the events of the past few months. Considering that the death of Krycek and the smoke sucking son of a bitch had effectively reopened old battle wounds and scars. Scully offered a smile into the receiver. "I know you miss her." She nodded her head in confirmation. "I know." She heard him draw a shaky breath. "I should go." There was a resigned sigh. The conversation had now returned to auto pilot -- the denouement was always the same. "Okay." "Bye, Scully." "Bye, see you tomorrow." "Tomorrow, then." Both agents reluctantly hung up the phone -- Scully still holding the phone while removing the screaming kettle from the stove, Mulder cradling the phone on his chest, trying to lose himself in infomercials and the familiar foam buttons of the remote. Both federal agents still haunted by memories which refused to leave, and which refused to be shared. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Parkade Washington, DC March 12, 1994 The young man stepped nervously into the Bureau parkade, eyes darting over the different colored Taurus' as his steps echoed off the basic cement walls. The navy blue Olds stuck out amongst the Bureau's standard fare, and he forced his feet to walk calmly, professionally, before he opened the door and sat down in the passenger seat. The click of the automatic locks was a silent message that he had now passed the point of no return. "And why do you feel you'd be right for the job?" The man started to turn to look at the occupant in the driver's seat, but was interrupted. "Don't turn around. Keep your eyes on the dashboard. Why are you right for this job?" The man stared at the dashboard, ignored the cigarette butts that were in the ashtray below it. "Because I blend in. Because people think I'm nothing more than a lab assistant. They underestimate me, they'll automatically overlook me." The dark haired man nodded. "You *are* nothing but a lab assistant." "Yes, sir." The man rolled his eyes. "For fuck sakes, this isn't some James Bond flick. I need someone to cover my ass. But right now, I'm doing okay, so you do whatever you do in those lab smocks and pocket protectors you have." "Yes, si... I mean, I understand." The man in the driver seat looked at the butts in the ashtray and abruptly shut the offending appendage. "You came highly recommended, you know. Why the hell are you stuck in some dead end Bureau job?" The passenger stiffened. "I have my reasons." The dark haired man laughed, and the passenger chanced a glance at the driver. Slight. Bureau protocol suit. Dark hair. Dark eyes. This guy was a Russian spy? Bureau Protocol turned and slapped the tech on the shoulder. Hard. "A man of mystery. I like that." He sobered. "Now get the hell out of my car. My partner's coming soon and I have to fulfil my dutiful role of green, brown-nosing agent." The door clicked to signal the lock being unfastened. The tech stepped out and suddenly stopped. He turned back towards the driver who was starting the car. "Wait! How do I get in touch with you?" Special Agent Alex Krycek revved his engine. Revved it again. "You don't. We contact you." Before the man could say another word, the car was gone. *** 2630 Hegel Place Alexandria, Virginia "Stupid, freakin' stairs... you'd think the landlord could afford to build a ramp. Wheelchair accessible and all, in this, the age of political correctness." The man looked at the stairs beckoning him, and removed the navy blue ball cap -- passing a dry hand over the sweat from his brow, wiping his palm on the similarly coloured overalls. Talking, mumbling to himself had made him the laughing stock of the rest of the company, but it was a way to make the deliveries less boring -- a way to divert the monotony and tedium that accompanied every delivery job. Silently insulting, criticizing his clients, their clients, their buildings helped him to believe that it was *them* stuck in some dead end job paying six bucks an hour, uniform included, no benefits. He heaved the tank down the stairs, adding more expletives for the landlord and the jerk who needed a new water tank. Apartment forty two. Shit, didn't he do this place a couple years ago? A beam of light shone in his face, temporarily blinding him. "Tell me what the hell you're doing down here before I call the cops." The uniformed man brought the clipboard to his eyes to shield the light, catching a glimpse of a housecoat-ed silhouette on the top of the landing. "I'm with the water delivery service, ma'am. I'm here to make some repairs on the water tank that you requested." The woman turned off the flashlight, and his mouth quirked when he saw the golf club being held threateningly in her hand. "I didn't call any repairs." The man shrugged. "It says here 2630 Hegel Place. Apartment forty two. Faulty water tank. It's already been paid for." The woman shrugged, lowering the golf club. "Apartment forty two? Wouldn't surprise me. The guy has had more repairs done than any of the other tenants combined." The woman started retreating back up the stairs. "Hey! You might want to look into getting some ramps built." His suggestion fell on deaf ears. With a melodramatic sigh, the second from the left rusty tank was removed, with it's vacant spot occupied by a pearl white replacement. The man took one final look, again cursing the landlord and the number forty two, before taking his cart and slowly making his way back up the stairs. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia The object in the figure's hand was under close inspection -- under closer scrutiny than the flashes of flesh and muted moans from the black box in front of him. It was a piece of steel. Heated, moulded so that it held a definite shape. Branded, engraved to hold a number that was in turn catalogued somewhere by someone. It had a chamber which held a clip, which held nine, pointed lead pellets. He fingered the semi-automatic, clutched the steel in clasped hands -- galvanized rosary beads held in between praying fingers. The bulk was shifted to the right where an accustomed weight settled on the palm, where the familiar shape of a trigger caressed the index finger. A gun was supposed to protect. To defend. And Special Agent Fox Mulder had done so. Had caught his fair share of John Barnetts and John Lee Roches using a government-issued gun. He had protected -- defended -- the mass of nameless bodies who would read the interviews and watch the film over breakfast the next morning, during half time in between Mike Ditka and John Madsen. Would tsk-tsk the tragic death of rapist so-and-so or serial killer what's-his-name, who had been killed by an easy-on-the-camera federal agent. Point blank, self defense... all praise the good looking fibbie. But the glare of TV cameras hid the faces behind them. A populace which would remain faceless, a populace to whom *he* would remain nameless. The irony that he could never protect -- defend -- those he knew, those who were *not* a nameless, faceless body, was not lost on the federal agent. Couldn't protect Sam. Couldn't protect his father. Scully was still here, but she was the third. Didn't things come in three? Three strikes and you're out. Third time's the charm. Scully had already been branded, was a reminder of how ineffectual the piece of steel that Mulder held, actually was. He set the gun on the coffee table -- barrel towards the opposite wall, handle towards him. Shiny gun on glossy table. Dancing colours on its metal surface. Shadows caressing the handle, moonlight reflected off the barrel. He glanced back to the TV, tried to concentrate on the glistening bodies, the intertwined legs, but failed miserably -- eyes continually darting to over *there* -- the shiny gun on the glossy table, the colours, the shadows... With a hurried, practiced move, the federal agent took the gun and threw it under the couch, hearing the satisfying thud as steel hit base board. In the company of the dancing, flickering lights on his ceiling, the man lay alone on his couch -- grappling with his demons, ignoring the sooth slayer that lay innocently below. *** The Mulder Home Chilimark, Massachusetts March 12, 1973 The nightgown-clad figure prowled around the room. Bored. She eyed the game of Stratego in the corner, but wrinkled her nose. Fox had gotten mad when she had won the last game, and now one of the blue Scout pieces was behind the bookshelf from where he had thrown it. She looked towards the TV and resisted the urge to pout. Her brother had lined up his text books in front of the television, diligently ordering her not to disturb him when he was concentrating on his school work. The seven year old eventually grabbed her doll, sat cross legged next to her brother and with slight fascination, watched his head alternately move up and down. First to study the texts below him, then back up when Bill Bixby said something particularly amusing. "Watcha' reading?" "A poem." The girl fingered the left page. "This one?" Her brother brought the book closer towards his chest, possessive. "No, this one. On the right side. The other one is a kiddie poem for butt munches like you." The young girl was unfazed. "Read it to me, then." "No." "Please." "I said no." The girl smiled, leaned over and whispered into her brother's ear. "I know about your naked girl magazine under your bed." The boy's eyes flashed, his mouth drew into a tight line. If Dad found out... He looked back towards the book, grabbing it hastily, pulling it closer towards his chest. "Fine." He proceeded to read quickly, hurriedly, ignoring the commas, the dashes, the periods -- a rushed torrent of words now devoid of their natural pauses for breath. The medley of incoherent phrases trailed off in mid sentence. The reader slammed the text shut -- conveyed his annoyance further through an exasperated sigh. "Sam, what are you looking at now?" "What's in that box?" The boy followed his sister's finger and gaze to the metal container on top of the bookshelf. The eleven year old bit his lip, shifted uncomfortably -- remembering his father's eyes, how the sinewy hand had twisted his collar as the spit of his words landed on his son's face. "Fox, I ever see you playing with this -- I ever see you *looking* at this, and I swear I will skin you alive. You got that boy?" The eleven year old swallowed -- didn't feel the book slip out of his lap and slide silently onto the floor. "It's a gun." "Why do we need a gun?" The boy shifted again. "To protect ourselves." The Nightgown leaned over to whisper conspiratorially. "Do you know how to use it, Fox?" The taller of the two shook his head, looked down momentarily, ashamed at his confession of weakness to his younger sibling. "No." Their eyes met -- naive, earnest irises a stark contrast to their cynical, tormented counterparts. "Then how would you protect me?" The boy opened his mouth to speak then closed it again. Breaking eye contact, he could hear Bill Bixby's voice drone in the background. He spoke softly, eyes studiously focused on the cover of the text below him, hands picking at the material of his pants. "Sam, even if I didn't have a gun, I would protect you the best that I could." The girl smiled, went happily to her doll and tied the red ribbons in her brown wool hair tighter, failing to notice the sigh of relief by the figure beside her. Soon occupied by the materials in front of them, both children were oblivious to the faint smell of cigarette smoke emanating from the kitchen -- did not know that their most recent exchange had been observed, scrutinized by two pairs of very watchful eyes. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference Room 3 Moscow, Russia Colonel Josef Beranek's voice was becoming agitated; he was anxious to get his point across to his comrades -- to show them the bigger picture that, god dammit, they couldn't see. "The deal was made out of necessity, I realize that. But we've been dealing with them for only twenty four hours." He paused and saw more blank stares from the members around the table. "Look, the Americans had reason to break off the alliance forty years ago, for whatever reason. Therefore, let's not make the same mistake. Bottom line: I don't trust these... beings." The eldest gentleman raised a hand, quieting the separate conferences of conversation that were transpiring. "Quiet. They can probably hear us if we continue like this." Josef Beranek looked to his superior. "Vladimir... these things cannot be trusted. They say it's fifty-fifty but only they know how to run the procedures. How can we be assured that they won't use our clinics and then run?" Some of the other members around the table voiced their agreements. Kabalevsky grew pensive. "Yes... I guess you are right." He took a cigar and cut the end off, lit the brown cylinder, then started to puff -- still talking during the entire process. "But we also have to watch the Americans. We have to watch *them* -- closely." He looked to one of the younger members who was still poised with cell phone in hand. "Anton... you want a job?" A look of surprise flashed across the young Russian's face, which was then quickly squelched. "Yes, sir." "You watch that Jeremiah... and his comrades. Closely. Without detection. Yes?" The young Russian straightened. "Yes, sir." Kabalevsky waited expectantly. No one moved. "Well, get on with it. Meeting over. Any suspicious activity is told to me, and me only." The men in the room dispersed -- with young Anton, cell phone still in hand, leading the way. Two solitary figure remained as the only exception, their shadows stretching across the far end of the table. Kabalevsky studied his cigar, took one moment to close his eyes and gather himself before turning to face the man beside him. "What do you want now, Josef?" "Why Anton? He's just a boy, Vladimir. What good is a boy spying on them?" Kabalevsky rolled his eyes. "He's a boy. *They* won't be as suspicious to see him hanging around. Plus, he has potential." He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked straight into the uniformed man's face. "I would think you would have seen it. After all, he is your son." The man started to sputter. "But he's just a boy. You should have chosen..." He stopped, his face turning red. "Chosen who, Josef? You? Should I have chosen you? For your years of faithful service to me? Is that what you wanted?" Beranek took on the onslaught with jaw clenched and eyes focused on the wall right behind Kabalevsky's head. "I just thought that perhaps I was better suited for the job." Kabalevsky smiled, causing his next words to come out with tone biting. "No, I don't think you are." He paused, studied the cigar again then proceeded to place it in between his teeth. "The job I want you to do, is to watch the Americans. They're a bigger threat right now, most likely from what little this Jeremiah fellow has told me." Beranek nodded, unable to say anything. "You will be in charge of watching the Americans *and* dealing with them, if there is any trouble. I place my trust in your abilities, Josef. Can you handle this?" Beranek nodded again -- managed a croak. "I can handle it." Kabalevsky rose from his leather chair. "Good." He started to walk away and turned back when the memory of a few months ago resurfaced. "I don't want anymore Kryceks, Josef. I want smart, reliable contacts this time. Or else it'll be your brains that they're cleaning up in a DC jogging park. Do I make myself clear?" "It's clear." Kabalevsky smiled his approval. "Good." Leaving Beranek still standing by the now empty chair, Kabalevsky walked beside the edge of the table, only pausing by the ashtray to butt out his cigar on the way out. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference Room 17 Moscow, Russia "The Russians are suspicious. I think they suspect that we're going to ditch eventually." The man known as Jeremiah waved his hand dismissively. "If they suspect anything, they really cannot act on it, now can they? They don't know how to kill us. They don't have the knowledge to carry out the Project themselves, now do they? They sound the alarms, and they're dead. Simple." One of the women nodded, curly light brown hair bobbing. "The Americans have failed in their stewardship of this planet. The Russians as well. We must be ready to become the apparent heirs -- and that means reproduction to the most efficient degree. If that means *overcoming* any potential obstacles, so be it." Another morph nodded his head in agreement. "Getting rid of the Russians will be easy. Catching up to the Americans will be difficult." Jeremiah laughed, and the other morphs looked at him, puzzled. "Our American colleagues with their bees are so far behind, that even that English fool will come begging to us on hands and knees, blubbering for his life." He leaned back in his chair, once again admiring his stubby, knuckled fingers. "I want the clinics to be cleaned out by tomorrow, and hybridization to begin at noon. Reports will come in seventy two hours from now." The room cleared and Jeremiah rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He spoke aloud to himself, imagining the Americans standing -- no, kneeling -- in front of him, begging for their lives, as many of his predecessors had to do for them. "You think you sent us away, Englishmen." A smile crept around his mouth. "But we're back, and this time, we're back for good." *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Byers threw his pen across the room, catching the attention of his two colleagues. "Something quirks thee, master Byers?" The bearded man rolled his eyes. "Langly, what the hell are we supposed to write about in the next issue? There's nothing. Nobody's hacking. Inbox is pretty much empty. No mysterious phone calls. Even Mulder's been quiet for the past couple weeks." Frohike laid down the night vision goggles he had been adjusting, while still holding the screwdriver in mid-air. "How about that news report on TWA? It smells of Big Brother." Byers shook his head disgustedly. "No, no, no... we covered that in the last issue. And the issue before that. We need something... new... or relatively new." Langly rocked back and forth on the high backed office chair, hoping the repetitive movement would help him think better. "Well, what about Vietnam? Everyone's interested in Vietnam." Byers pursed his lips. "Yeah... it's a possibility." Langly rolled over to the computer terminal -- talking more to himself, than to the other two men. "Let's see if there's anything interesting among the surviving Vietnam vets of today." The sleeves of the Metallica shirt bounced over the keyboard. "What do we want this time, boys?" Byers grew pensive, spoke slowly as thoughts started to percolate, accumulate into a semi-coherent picture. "Cross match medal recipients with significant fatality tours. Say, over one hundred." He paused. "I want them old. And I want them to be of high rank." Langly started typing, finishing with a flourish of the wrist. "Got it." He scrolled down the records and the pictures, stopping suddenly when a vaguely familiar name came into view. He looked at the occupation and whistled -- fully realizing where the familiarity came from. "Hey, Byers. You may have been onto something. How you do it, man?" The remaining two men crowded around the monitor. Frohike whistled. "His boss?" "No shit." Byers started to shake his head. "This is nothing, guys. A lot of Vietnam vets are in law enforcement." "Yeah, but look at his service record. Talk about honours and commendations city." Frohike whistled again. "Look at who his supervisory officer was." Langly rushed to the phone, grabbing the voice adapter along the way, while Byers took the seat in front of the keyboard. Frohike ran to the shelves looking for the same bugging device he had used in the White House two years ago. A story was brewing. *** St. Mary's Nursing Home Washington, DC The man walked briskly through the hallways, hearing the echo of his wingtips hitting the tiled, faded floor, watching the pale uniforms walk by, hearing the endless drone of the intercom through weathered speakers. The routine was never broken; his path never altered. Parking lot, open door, pedway, open door, cream colored hallway, left turn, open door, green hallway, down the stairs, right turn, green hallway again -- ah, they finally fixed the bathroom -- left door, open door, find the elderly man with the tremor and wheelchair amongst all the other invalids and pull up an ergonomically incorrect plastic chair. He saw a nurse approaching, her pastel-colored uniform the only sign of life in the room -- a facade of cheerfulness to remind those with catheters and feeding tubes that those with the straight- teeth smiles and bleached hair had a life to go home to after the diapers were changed and the medications dispensed. "How is he?" The nurse sighed, checked the chart and added an indifferent shrug. "Not good. Not bad." The man nodded, shrugged his coat off, and looked at the man in front of him. "Hey, dad. How's it going?" Once again, his eyes were drawn to look at the elderly man's hands. They shook. In actuality, his whole body trembled, but the intensity and the frequency of shaking in the hands was the worst, making the trembling of the body pale in comparison. The nurse was still standing behind him. "He had another nightmare last night." The man nodded his head, wondered what hideousness his father had dreamt about this time. Colleagues with their heads missing? Bodies burnt beyond recognition? Perhaps a child with her eye missing and the side of her face looking like something someone might have puked up. He had had these nightmares, too. The man reached out to grab, hold, support the cruelly disfigured hand that was trembling in front of him, but he drew back last minute and straightened the crease in his pants instead. "Hey, dad. Remember when you just got stationed in Wyoming, and taught me and James how to play baseball?" The chuckle was forced, the good memories so often easily obscured by the bad. "Mom was so mad when we hit the window. Remember, how she made us play with a ball of yarn after that? Do you remember that, dad?" The man paused, noticed his hands were wringing, so he shifted and sat on them. *Remember* was getting more and more difficult to pass through his lips. He had used it often in his visits here. It was funny how the brain worked -- funny how a mass of cells, chemicals, and electrical impulses could somehow be assembled into coherence -- into the remarkable process called memory. He looked into the hollow eyes of his father, looked for some recognition of what was being said, of who was speaking. Of course, with Alzheimer's, that recognition was being increasingly difficult to find. The man's head lowered, his hand absently coming to his forehead, as if trying to rub away the worry lines which had surfaced there. He studied the tile underneath him. Christ, it was like conversing with a block of clay. A block of clay which trembled, sported a nasal cannula, and watched reruns of Three's Company with a glassy eyed stare. He heard the meal cart rumbling, smelled the less-than-pleasing aroma of whatever crap they were serving today, and took his cue. "Lunch time, pa. You get all that time with the pretty nurses." He chanced another look into his father's eyes and sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow." The man grabbed his coat off the chair, and walked out of the room, wing tips against tile once again -- resigned to wonder for how much longer the routine would need to continue. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC The man groaned when the phone rang -- an irritating interruption as his right hand was hovering over the fine focus knob, his fingers poised to calibrate Nikon's newest microscopic masterpiece. "Yeah, this is the lab." "I have a job for you." The man automatically stiffened when an unfamiliar voice filtered through the ear piece. He was about to tell the caller that they had the wrong number when his brain placed the accent. He swallowed, remembering the deal vaguely -- placing it somewhere in between the last Bureau picnic and his disasterous blind date with Agent Henderson. He had almost forgotten. "You shouldn't be calling here." The situation was laid out to him. Ambiguously, of course. He was an underling -- told only what he needed to know, what his job would entail. That they had allied with someone, but that now the alliance was in jeopardy. They needed him to keep an eye on someone downstairs. A close eye. The tech swallowed -- nodded, even though he knew they wouldn't be able to see the gesture. "I... I understand." There was some background whispering on the other line, and the man looked back to the microscope -- not disappointed that the calibration would have to be put on hold for awhile. Beranek's voice filtered through the receiver. "Don't go chicken shit on us, American." "I won't" "We'll expect reports, three times daily." The man balked. "I can't call your country three times a day from the office." The Russian started laughing, and Colonel Beranek echoed the same words spoken by Krycek so many years ago. "You don't contact us, American. We'll contact you." *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Mulder gripped his pen tighter when he heard Scully sigh. For the fifth time in ten minutes. He started to drum his fingers against the desk, but stopped after the familiar clatter of nails hitting keyboard stopped. He looked up, only to meet the annoyed, eye-brow perched gaze of his partner. He mumbled an apology, counted to ten when he heard Scully sigh yet again and forced himself to count how many times the green window of the screen saver passed on his monitor. The office was silent except for the sporadic typing, paper rustling, and chair squeaking. Two months prior, Mulder -- with feigned resignation -- would have completed the paperwork and bureaucratic red tape, complained endlessly, and matched wits with Scully. Spontaneous nightmare conferencing aside, silence -- so often playing to their advantage in the past four years -- was now stifling them, hindering them. A roadblock, Mulder realized, that he had set up himself. A roadblock, in the shape of bodies, that had fallen and that he barely remembered in the haze of pain and codeine he had been in. Cancerman and his cigarette falling, a vial breaking, Krycek's eyes rolling, a man approaching... a haze of orange and green... and then a hospital with Scully teary and Skinner bolting as fast as he could. He had avoided Scully's questions, had been happy that there was no Bureau inquiry, and eventually things had settled down to... to *this*. A knock on the rarely-knocked door brought both agents' heads up. "Agent Rolston... what are you doing here?" Mulder watched the man adjust his glasses, the agent's eyes eventually examining the stains that littered the man's lab jacket. "Um... I just thought you guys might want to know that Brian Seutter, the guy Mulder profiled, is dealing with the DA to get a reduced sentence in return for the locations of some of his victims." Mulder sat upright. Shit. "The DA's actually going to deal with the bastard?" The tech shrugged. "Looks like it. The guy who's defending Seutter is playing hard ball and saying that he's not going to talk to anyone." "How'd you hear this?" The man looked at Scully and shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. "Word gets around. Especially if you're just a tech with a lot of time on his hands. Agent Pendrell also told me to tell you, said you guys would probably want to know." Rolston looked around the office and tried to make out the assorted headlines which adorned the walls. His eyebrows rose. "Lake Winnipeaukee Residents Spot Three Horned Creature". He dared a glance at Scully, who was supposedly, according to Pendrell, one of the better Bureau prospects. His lips turned down when he saw that the female agent's gaze was solely on her partner who was still huffing over the latest news. "Ah... Agent Scully, do you have any lab work that you need done in a hurry? Computer chips? Chemical analyses? Pendrell said you guys need a lot of stuff done last minute most of the time. Um... things are pretty slow at the lab, if I can..." "That would be great, Rolston." Mulder got up and started to usher the young agent to the door, left hand hovering threateningly over the man's back. "Thanks, she'll call you if she needs anything.... and I mean anything." He closed the door unceremoniously, and Mulder resisted the urge to smile at his partner's apparent blind spot. Any urge was quickly dampened when Mulder went back to the quarter inch thick file on his desk. Seutter. He clenched his jaw and stared at the nether region between the signature of the arresting officer and the mug shot of blue collar worker. The bastard even had the nerve to smile during the photo op. Scully spoke first -- the first time she had initiated a conversation with her partner in a long time. "You thinking about Seutter?" Mulder shook his head, reminded once again of the inefficiency of the justice system and its desire to see things resolved tidily, pretty pink ribbon included. "I just don't understand it, Scully. I mean, the bastard has killed at least twenty little boys, only ten of which they have found. I'll bet you my video collection that he gets twenty years in return for telling them where the other ten are." "What I'm wondering is how Rolston knows so much" Mulder shrugged. "Well, he was right. We do give a lot of stuff to Pendrell. I mean, they work together as techs don't they?" He didn't wait for the inevitable Scully nod. "I don't know, maybe they draw straws to see who gets to analyze the latest alien blood we come across." With hope, he glanced in the direction of his partner, who hadn't even batted an annoyed eyebrow. He tried again. "I don't know, moonlighting as a law clerk maybe?" Scully sighed. Before, she would have lobbed back with her own innuendo, or sarcastic response. Now, the jokes went over her head -- too lazy to return the favour, too pre-occupied by the matters which the jokes lamely attempted to cover. She leaned back in her chair to reach the papers currently being expelled by the laser printer, and handed the still-warm sheets to her partner. "Here... read it before you sign it." Mulder accepted the papers, and skimmed them, all ready knowing what he would read. "Charles Xavier's abilities to foresee the deaths of the victims were not in any way related to psychic or paranormal phenomena. His psychiatrist has maintained that the subject has had obsession with death stemming from the murder of his wife ten years ago. The opinion of this federal agent, and that of Agent Mulders's...." Scully watched her partner start to mumble the report, his finger following what he was reading. He bent over, signed the offending line, and handed it back to her. "Good." She nodded her head and grabbed the paper with resignation, resisting the urge to roll her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. *Good*. Everything was *good*. Mulder was *good*. She was *good*. There had been no recurrence of her cancer or Mulder's headaches which was *good*. There was no more faintly detectable smell of smoke in Skinner's office, which, of course, was *good*. So why did she feel the distance between herself and Mulder -- once so close and almost, *almost* tangible -- was rapidly spiralling, falling out of control, dangerously standing on the precipice overlooking monotony and tedium. *Good*. She forced a smile. "So... Mulder, any plans for the weekend?" Mulder looked up, eyebrows furrowed. He stole a glance at his desk calender to double check -- after all, it was only Wednesday today. He shrugged his shoulders. "No..." He opened his mouth to add on to his comments but then closed it just as quickly. "No," he repeated. Scully nodded, wondering when exactly they had started to resort to small talk. "So, how are you feeling?" The question prompted another furrowed eyebrow. "Fine. You?" "Fine." Mulder glanced up from the file he had been feigning interest in to look at the figure in front of him. Still a little bit on the thin side, but filling out nicely. It was small comfort, though, in the face of the awkward silences that had plagued them now for weeks. The clock on the office wall was marking its time, beating its drum with a loud and steady beat. Mulder's tongue took an exploratory journey around the roof of his mouth, while Scully decided it was time to examine her nails, taking a particular interest in the hang nail that was growing on her middle finger. "So, Scully." Mulder's voice seemed unnaturally loud as he started to rise from the high backed office chair, reaching behind him to grab his coat. "I guess we're finished here. I... ah... I'll see you tomorrow." She nodded her head, forced a smile. "Tomorrow, then." He left the cramped office, almost dismembering the doorknob from its wooden panel. Much to both agents' surprise, they felt more at ease when their partner was gone. *** Skyview Apartments New York, New York She needed help reaching the highest vase on the bookshelf. She was the shortest one in her family, yet she was told it was her turn to clean the wooden heir loom. She grabbed the duster at its end, stood on her tiptoes, and tried to gingerly make contact between the feather and porcelain. When it fell, she started to cry. Her mother was scared. They cleaned it up quietly, and hoped no one would notice. They cringed, could not move as they waited with bated breath until *he* came. Like the cold Moscow wind, he came in with a storm -- obscenities and furniture flying. The only word she could pass between her lips was "please". He would not stop, his endurance was so much more superior to hers, as was mostly everything else. He would say something in between the thrusts, something indecipherable, something in water that she could not make out. Her body was breaking. It was being sawed in two. Thrusts that grew in intensity, which grew in frequency. Harder. The sheets were always white. More. And the pillows had red roses on them. Faster. She helped her momma make the bed once. Couldn't understand what he was saying. Her whole world was shaking. He would slap her if she begged. He would drive her to school on his way to work -- kiss her on the forehead in front of all her friends. He would grab her harder if she cried. Sometimes he would buy her ribbons for her hair -- red ones that matched the red dress he had given her for her tenth birthday. He would groan right after climaxing. Everyone knew what was happening. They were happy. She was going to break the cycle. Momma said she would be able to make something of herself... The woman woke up suddenly in her bed, gasping for air, feeling the sweat rolling down her body -- her silk pyjamas already soaked through and through. Her hands were clenched into fists, her toes were curled -- so much so that her legs and arms were cramping under the strain. So the nightmares weren't gone. She walked into the washroom -- warily eyed the blouse that was air drying on the shower curtain rod. Took a drink of water and ignored how her hands shook or how the water dribbled out of the side of her mouth. She looked up. She did not recognize the face in the mirror. She absently noticed that the brown was showing again. Wearily, she took a mental note to make an appointment with the hairdresser again. Tired brown irises were mirrored back to her, the blue contacts were no longer disguising them. If she moved her face this way and that, and if the light caught her mouth in just the perfect angle, the faint scar could be seen. Tomorrow, the expensive cosmetics -- including her Heathermist Pink lipstick -- would take care of that defect. She opened the medicine cabinet and took out the familiar bottle of sleeping pills -- not difficult to find, as its only neighbours were the clear Aspirin bottle and the silver foil packets of Sudafed. She took them dry and padded back to her bed -- looked at the duvet and white sheets and threw them off in a jerky, desperate motion. She laid herself on the floor, felt the rough fuzz of the carpet against her cheek -- finding comfort only in the fact that she would have no more dreams tonight. *** United States Research Facility By Worland, Wyoming The man looked from his pipettes and up to the door when he could hear the running footsteps through the corridor. He dropped the glassware onto the counter, doffed the rubber gloves and plastic goggles and ran out. "What the hell is happening?" One of his colleagues slowed down. "It's Derlum." His stomach fell. Derlum? Christ, he had talked about her genetics project over soggy macaroni and cheese at the cafeteria six hours ago. "What about her?" The woman shook her head, put a hand to her chest, and continued to punctuate her words with gasps for oxygen. "I don't know... She was in the lab working and all of a sudden she went into seizures." The man started for the hall way, working quickly to a sprint. He called back to the lab tech who was still standing dumbly by the now empty laboratory. "Show me where the hell she is, Avery." Two corridors later, Troy was staring into a lab that was a carbon copy of his. The steel cabinets were to the left of the regulation fire extinguisher; the electron microscope was right beside the computer which stood across from the fridge. Troy nonsensically wondered if Derlum's fridge was anything like his -- with the DNA-containing microfuge tubes right bedside the caffeine-containing Pepsi and Kit Kats. He stepped hastily around the crowd of people, mumbling his apologies, and watched a woman empty her soggy macaroni and cheese into the steel trash can. She slumped across the metal cylinder once the heaves abated and he took her up in his arms, ignoring the glances that were passed among the spectators. "Come on... we have to get you to the infirmary, now." He started to pull the brown hair away from her face, and she buried her head further into his chest. Her moans were muffled, obscured by his lab coat and her stringy hair. "Ohhh.... soooo siiiii-ck." "I know, I know," he cooed. "I promise I'll read you your favourite story. Just for you... just like I always do." There was no answer. "Derlum... Come on... Wake up." The man kept exchanging glances -- first to the hallways and doors to see where he was headed, then back towards the whimpering woman he was carrying. Derlum was delirious. If it had been the cafeteria, six hours prior, both of them would have laughed at the alliteration. He leaned in closer to the woman, while quickening his pace. She was asking for something. Mumbling. Muttering. Push her higher, higher... Her shoulder was hurting... There was a swing in the back. The man looked with desperation at the doorways he was passing, praying the next one would lead to the infirmary. "Derlum... Hon... I can't understand what you're saying." The woman started crying, her tears starting to soak into his lab coat. She raised her head and her hazel eyes assaulted his blues. It was a whisper that passed through her lips -- three words before she would pass out. "I want Fox." *** Along 46th Avenue New York, New York Assistant Director Walter Skinner grabbed the steering wheel tighter, turned the radio on louder, turned the radio off. Felt flushed, so he turned the air conditioner on, started to shiver, so he changed the heat indicator so that the plastic indicator was in the red region, not blue. Started strumming the steering wheel with his fingers when traffic eventually slowed to a stop. "Fuck." It was spoken to no one in particular, maybe to him and what he perceived as his own lack of balls. One polite phone call to Kim, one waggle of the albatross which still hung on his neck after so many years, and the date and time was set. Eleven o'clock. The building on West 46th avenue. Can't miss it, it's the tallest one there. One hundred heat and radio adjustments later, Skinner parked underground, not failing to notice how the burly man in the kiosk was conveniently expecting his arrival. Cutting the engine, he took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, took a deep breath again, and brushed the lint off his coat. He looked at himself in the rear view mirror, wondering once again what the fuck he was doing -- trying to remind himself that they were fucking old men for Christ sakes. He walked across the pavement, ignoring the height of the high rise which was currently beckoning him. So intent on keeping his steps steady, the Assistant Director failed to step out of the way of the head banger who was rocking the opposite way with music blaring though weathered headphones. The banger put his head down, mumbling his apologies. His blond hair flew in the breeze and his short legs marched faster towards the opposite intersection. Skinner bit down on the expletives that were threatening, and concentrated his efforts into straightening the lapels of his trench coat. Walking up the steps, he made sure his holster was above the second belt loop from the belt buckle and, upon second thought, undid the safety of the semi automatic. He caught his reflection in the window of parked car, and shook his head. It was a little too paranoid -- even for him. He opened the door, crossed the threshold, and prepared himself for the inevitable ass kissing that was about to follow. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Scully tapped her feet impatiently in time to the clock on the wall. She looked at the mass of papers and folders her partner called a desk and looked back to the clock -- cross checked the time with her wrist watch. She took a sip of the coffee and leaned back into the office chair. It was quiet. No... no, things were always quiet in the basement refuge. At ease? Peaceful? Scully took another sip of the lukewarm liquid, and wondered if it was any coincidence that her moment of relaxation came at a time when her partner was not present. Without Mulder, there were no uncomfortable silences. No small talk. She uncrossed, then recrossed her legs. Damn, her pantyhose were tight today. Then again, all her clothes were starting to fit more snugly. She eyed the coffee. Caffeine and sugar. Now that the cancer had gone into remission, she had willingly submitted herself back into the federal agent daily grind. Now that her cancer had gone into remission... Mulder still had not told her. At first she had pleaded, bribed, coerced him into telling her. It was when both had nothing to do in the few personal days Skinner had given them. When the paper work started flowing, and the cases started piling, the pleas and the threats reduced in their intensity and frequency. Scully shook her head, silently chastising herself for playing it soft with her partner. Her head turned sharply as the office door flew upon, followed by a stream of standard FBI attire. The briefcase was dropped to the floor and her partner was already in the processes of removing his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. "Hey, Scully. Sorry I'm late. Bad traffic today." Scully permitted herself to nod -- her thoughts and analyses regarding the events which took place seemingly so long ago, still churning at a furious clip. Her partner sat down in the chair, leaned back, and put his feet on the desk. "So, Scully, any cases today?" She shook her head. "Nope. Skinner's been out all morning. Kim doesn't know where he is." The statement prompted a pensive "hmmmm" from her partner. He flipped through a few loose papers on his desk, then settled himself in rummaging through the one stack of bland folders beside him. When disgust got the better of him, he threw the stack onto the floor, obtaining some satisfaction in the echoes which reverberated throughout the office. "Is it just me Scully or are we really due for a case right now?" Scully sighed, looking at her lap top longingly. Yes, her fingers had been awfully twitchy lately. "Yeah." She paused, feeling the uncomfortable silence beginning to claw its way back. Shit. What did they usually do during these moments? Her mind stated the obvious. Joke. Make up a sarcastic, witty response that you used to be able to do. She cleared her throat and thought back to Apison, Tennessee and the smile she and Mulder had had in the interrogation room. "Although, if it's one of those fluke things... I may have to take a raincheck." A smile played on Mulder's lips, and Scully returned the gesture. Not because the joke was particularly funny, or original -- but because there was a sense of familiarity again, no matter how brief or awkward. Then the corners of her partner's mouth dropped, and his feet fell from the desk which was supporting them. "Oh God...." He bent over and put a hand to his mouth, jerkily leaned forward and then placed the other hand over his stomach. Scully's chair tipped over, and she knocked over the cup of cold coffee. "Mulder?" She could hear his staggered breathing as he opened the office door and made a hasty exit. The slamming of hands against the wooden panel of the men's washroom was the only indication to where her partner had gone, and Scully -- praying that it was the flu, a cold, something which had nothing to do with otherworldly creatures and government conspiracies -- followed reluctantly, hesitantly to the other end of the hallway. Both agents had joked previously that the only advantage in working in the basement was that each had an office bathroom to themselves. Each had three sinks, three soap dispensers, two napkin rolls, and five toilet stalls with which they could amuse themselves with. Nevertheless, Scully knocked before she entered and heard her voice reflected back to her eardrums after being reflected off the tiled walls. "Mulder? It's me." There was heavy breathing and then a weary, "I'm fine." His voice echoed through the stalls of the washroom. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.... It was a reminder of the numerous times both agents had said the particular phrase to each other, whether their nose was bleeding or their head was pounding. The fluorescent lights hadn't even been turned on. She found her partner leaning to the side, his face pressed against the metal stall. He opened his eyes and swallowed. "Hi, Scully. Women's washroom is over there, isn't it?" Scully stepped in and put a hand to his forehead, ignoring his flinch. Checked his pulse, checked his breathing. "Mulder, you're hot..." She raised a hand to stop any smart-ass remark that would be coming. "And don't say it." He closed his eyes. "I wasn't gonna say anything, anyways." His hazel orbs reopened, and Mulder cursed himself for bringing the trademark worried-Scully look it seemed that only he could produce. "So, what's the prognosis, doc?" Scully walked over to the sink and returned seconds later with a water containing dixie cup. "Flu? Did you wake up sick?" Mulder accepted the offering, drinking slowly to appease his stomach. "No... I was fine until just a few minutes ago." "Did you eat anything?" "Coffee, bagel... nothing I don't eat everyday." Scully put a hand on his head again. "Do you have a headache?" "Yeah... but it's just a little one." Scully sat back, staring wide eyed at her partner. No, Mulder had not noticed what he had just said. It was the same thing he had said in the motel room -- some two days before he had to be hospitalized and put on a morphine drip. Scully put a piece of hair behind her ear -- spoke slowly and calmly to appease the inevitable, possibly explosive, rebuttal. "Mulder, what if what you had before is coming back?" Mulder opened his eyes. "Nope." "But what if?" "It's not, Scully," came the snappish reply. Scully lowered her voice again. "Maybe we should just check..." He sat up straighter and shook his head. "I don't have it. This isn't it." He punctuated every consonant to make his point clear. "The ones... the ones before were much worse. Like... like an incessant beating in my head." Mulder tried to gesticulate with his hands, but found the action futile. He shook his head to reemphasize his point. "This is a two Tylenol headache, as opposed to a bottle of codeine headache." Scully's face fell. "And you couldn't tell me this before? You couldn't just ask me? Before Omaha, and Trish, and the disks, and the hospitals, and the morphine. Why?" Mulder bristled. He could have thrown the same lecture to Scully, but he didn't want his temper to upset the receding nausea. "We're both here, Scully. And that's the only thing I wish to remember about that day. I'm fine, you're fine. Let's enjoy it for however long it'll last." He stormed out of the washroom still with one hand against his stomach. Scully started for the door, but caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She stared -- ran a finger down the bridge of her nose -- caught herself, and then ran, high heels clicking, back towards the basement office. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York Organized chaos. That's how Walter Skinner wanted to describe the place. Half the people in the room were on phones, intermingling with each other, shouting, debating, arguing. Raised fists punctuated the air; there were emergency snaps to one another for pens and paper -- some of the phone numbers and notes were *that* worthy of the effort to transcribe them. A blond woman was approaching. Skinner didn't fail to realize that she was the only woman in the room. "Mr. Skinner." She extended her hand. "My name is Marita Covarrubias. I apologize for the... confusion, here. We've had some, shall we say, emergencies develop." Skinner looked around -- accepted the leather-backed seat that was offered to him. "What kind of emergencies?" The woman shook her head slightly, and smiled politely. Professionally. "Nothing. It's being resolved at the moment." Skinner reciprocated the polite, professional smile and looked around at his new surroundings. The most elderly gentleman was on the phone, approaching Skinner while talking into the receiver at the same time. "... No, no, no... Too risky. Have to make up records, and there's no time for that. The infirmary will have to do." There was another voice from behind: "I don't know! We'll make another one. Yes, it'll take some time, but if this is as serious as they say, then we have no choice." The Englishman calmly hung up the cell phone and turned his gaze towards the Assistant Director. "Ah... Mr. Skinner. How are you today?" Skinner watched the old man in the charcoal suit sit down in the chair across from him, cross his legs slightly, and signal to one of the gophers to bring him a drink. Skinner clenched his jaw, reminded himself that diplomacy was the key to any 'corporate' relationship. "Fine... you?" The man started to laugh. "Well, we are quite in the shambles aren't we?" One of the men approached the bourbon drinking man, cupped his hand to his mouth and started to whisper. Skinner cleared his throat as he tried not to stare. His only other outward sign of annoyance was a loud exhalation through his nostrils. "...wants to know... Mulder." Any flinch that was about to arise was hidden underneath Skinner's sudden need to readjust his glasses. Shit. Although the agent was a regular pain in the ass, he did not deserve the attention of this cigar smoking, bourbon guzzling old men's club. He sat passively, feigning an interest in the lamps around the room, and honed old soldier skills -- catching and saving the scraps of the conversation that were made available to him. "... Tunguska... incapacitated most likely." "... sure?" The heavier-set man turned in his direction and stared, turned back to the English man and nodded in Skinner's direction. "... wouldn't know." "... his boss." The Englishman cleared his throat, flashed another smile at the Assistant Director. "Mr. Skinner, how is Agent Mulder?" The reply was nervously diplomatic -- a futile attempt at indifference. "Why?" "Because we want to know more about the man who will become the next Assistant Director... Director, even. That is, assuming we get our own way." The man's mouth twisted into a grin, and there was a ripple of laughter. "So, Mr. Skinner, how is Mulder?" "Fine..." He did not fail to miss the members who failed to hide their surprise. One member went for the phone and furiously started dialling. "He's fine?" Skinner shrugged. "Yes... he's fine." "No... headaches or anything?" Skinner's Adam's apple bobbed as his teeth angrily ground together. The question was phrased so innocently, but the bastards knew. The fucking bastards knew everything. Judging by the reactions of those around him, he didn't do Mulder any favours by disclosing his condition. Skinner inhaled. Exhaled. Looked to the ceiling for help. God fucking damn. How many more cover-ups and conspiracies could Mulder and his partner take? How many more times would he be forced to watch them standing in the wake, picking up pieces, desperately grasping for some semblance of a truth which would keep eluding them? Two months. His agents had had only two months of perfect, HMO-is-happy, clean bills of health. Two months of not having to run for the sake of their lives in a game masterminded by the shadows he was currently sitting with. Shit. "He was admitted a couple weeks ago, but he was released shortly after." Skinner narrowed his eyes towards the Englishman. "I would think that your intricate network of spies and bugging devices would have caught this." The English tsk-tsked his disapproval at Skinner's outburst. "Why should we waste expensive technology when we have you?" The Well Manicured Man's eyes flashed. "Don't question us, Mr. Skinner." The man under the Consortium's present wrath nodded reluctantly, his insides seething. "Now, Walter, what was the cause of Mr. Mulder's hospitalization?" "Undetermined." "How did he get better?" Skinner shook his head. "Undetermined." The Englishman smiled. "First day on the job, Walter, and you've already helped us immensely. Much more than you'll ever know." Skinner closed his eyes. "Don't... don't do anything to Mulder." The man feigned innocence. "Why would we do that?" His expression quickly sobered. "Plus, it's not really your place to say, now is it?" He signalled the blond woman who had been standing at the other side of the room and watching the exchange closely. "Please show Mr. Skinner to the door." Skinner reluctantly let himself be led to the oak panel, when the blonde woman bent her head down -- allowed her hair to cover her face. "Mr. Skinner... some advice. Watch your back." Skinner opened his mouth to ask, but the door had already been shut and the deadbolt audibly locked. *** Moscow Government Family Planning Center Moscow, Russia The man groaned when the footsteps grew audibly louder and faster, soon followed by the angry protests of the petite woman. "What the hell are you doing?" The enraged woman was holding her shawl with one hand while tearing down the "Closed Until Further Notice" signs with the other. The uniformed officer's right arm acted as a vise as he roughly grabbed her by the arm, while using his free hand to reach into his jacket pocket. He fished out the leather-encased badge and shoved it in her face. "Government official. If you keep this up, I'll have to arrest you." The woman continued her attack on the building walls. "This *is* a government agency! We are legitimate! We don't do anything illegal. All the abortions are legal!" The man started to squeeze the arm harder until the woman was forced to stop. "I know that this clinic is legal. But we are shutting down all clinics temporarily for government inspections." The woman started sputtering. "What the hell? I wasn't notified of this!" "No one has been notified... we don't want any tampering." The woman stared at him, stupefied, until she noticed for the first time the soldiers who were unloading equipment from the truck parked in the street in front. "Well, how long will this... this... government inspection be?" "Indefinite." "Indefinite?" She looked back to the truck, and her eyes caught the coolers -- the bio hazard stickers professionally attached to each side. A metal contraption was pulled out, followed by a large glass tank, followed by a mismatch of body bags and containment suits. It sure as hell didn't look like any government inspection. She turned back slowly to look at the eyes of the man in front of her, planning to give up, pretend she didn't see what she saw, go placatingly and see the error of her actions -- get the hell out of there and call the police. The flash of metal was a surprise, as was the noise and the fire in her chest. She wondered if she screamed. At least she could have done that much. She could see the green uniform above her, towering over her, swimming in and out of her view. "Sorry, lady. Government orders." He threw the mock badge at her, and turned towards his soldiers. "Clean this crap up first. Then unload the van." He looked back to the coolers, fetal tissues waiting patiently within their plastic walls. "And hurry up. We still have lots to do tonight." *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC "Thanks, Kim." Scully dejectedly hung up the phone and looked at her partner, who was still fully engrossed in a game of Solitaire, some two hours later . "Not back yet. I don't think Skinner's gonna be back before today. Kim said he had a meeting in New York." Mulder sighed. "Aw, damn." He stared at the computer, no more moves -- the ace of hearts was still underneath the seven of clubs -- and he hadn't beat the computer for fifteen straight games. The cellular phone rang mercifully. "Mulder." "Hey, G-man." Mulder started to smile. "Langly." The mention of his name sent Scully's head turning toward her partner. "I think you should come here... we found something... interesting." Mulder smiled, agreeing with Langly's sentiment. "Obviously, if you're that daring to call me at work." "I think you should come here... oh, and Frohike says to bring the lovely agent... Ow!" "I don't think Scully wants to look at Frohike's um... gadgets today, boys." The last comment earned Mulder a genuine Scully glare. "Hey, Big Brother's listening, so see you later." Mulder hung up the phone, noticing that Scully was still shooting daggers at him. "So... what is it? Flying Elvis'? Mutants from Mars? Flukeman revisited?" Mulder reached for his trench coat. "I don't know... I guess I'll find out soon." He started to open the door, then paused, turning back to his partner. "Hey, Scully, you want to come?" The reply came quickly. "No thanks." Mulder nodded -- wondered if she was refusing because it was the Lone Gunmen or him. He forced a smile and opened the door. "Okay... your loss." *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Frohike met Mulder with a big grin as he entered the office, it fading when he saw no partner trailing. "So, Mulder, where is Scully?" "I told you Frohike. She's afraid of her love for you." Frohike waved his hand dismissively. "Fine, whatever. Just don't come to me when you need night vision glasses again." Mulder rolled his eyes. "Yes, I wouldn't want to disturb your peeping Tom duties, now would I?" Both men heard the annoyed grunt of the bearded man glowering at them. "Sorry... Dad." Byers shot Frohike a look and straightened his tie. "Mulder... we have some news for you." Mulder looked at the three men in front of him. Even Frohike had sobered. "What?" Langly stepped forward, prompting Mulder to wonder again how often Langly did *not* shampoo his hair to have it stick out like that. "Have you ever wondered what kind of job your boss actually does, Mulder?" Mulder shook his head, dead pan. "Don't tell me he's pulling a Hoover." Langly guffawed. "The idea of my boss in Wonderbra and Hanes is something I don't need to know, boys." Byers rolled his eyes upward. "Mulder, I'm serious." The agent relented. "Okay, what?" "We put a bug on his lapel today...." "I did that..." Byers waved his hand dismissively in the blond haired man's direction. "Yes, as Langly pointed out, he did it. It's a portable camera with mike... just like the CIA and NSA uses...." "Which I built..." "All right already! Yes, Frohike built it." He looked at Mulder, shaking his head almost disappointedly. "It's strange company you choose to keep, Mulder." Mulder shook his head, eyeing the TV Byers was turning on. "What exactly are you getting at?" "I'm just saying that your boss, Mulder, is... Well, maybe you should listen for yourself." The frames wavered and the picture was fuzzy, bouncing up and down in time with the figure's breathing. Mulder squinted -- there was little black and white contrast as the surroundings were dark to begin with. A voice, muffled, staticy -- but oh-so familiar -- percolated into Mulder's cochlea. The English accent would always be a dead giveaway. "Mr. Skinner, how is Agent Mulder?" Mulder felt himself recoil -- felt his feet back up until he was pressed up against one of the Gunman's desk, when his boss' resigned voice offered a reply. The federal agent watched -- could hear his AD reiterate his hospital stay to the gentleman who was sitting comfortably in the chair, nursing a glass of whatever liquid, and the legs which surrounded him. Mulder shook his head disbelievingly. He fucking sold him out. And why the hell were *they* so interested in him all of a sudden? Wanted a new stalking force? A new case coming which they needed him to take the blame for? There was little relief when he heard Skinner asking *them* not to hurt him. "Please show Walter to the door." He saw legs approaching. Very familiar legs. They were the first thing he noticed when he saw her. Then there was the voice -- soft, whispered, passing barely through the lips. He rose a hand to his head. Felt the onslaught of a headache coming -- comforted little that it was from stress this time, not alien parasitic worms. He felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Frohike. "What were they talking about, Mulder?" Mulder looked up, and Frohike instinctually transplanted his gaze from the agent's eyes to his forehead. The look of people being betrayed was something he dreaded, was something he would never get used to. And in his line of work, he had seen it often. In watching Mulder, he could swear it had almost been pre-ordained. "It's nothing... I'm fine." The federal agent started laughing, hysterically, without control, without any trace of humour. "I'm physically fucking fine, boys. Just the informant I've been talking to is with... them." He pointed angrily at the screen. "And my boss, of all fucking people -- my you-can-trust-me-I'm-on-your-fucking-side boss is also working for those...." He started tapping angrily on the screen, unable to come up with a suitable expletive. "... people." Byers watched Langly approaching with the latest issue of TLG and silently waved him off. Now was not the time to tell him the rest. Byers walked over to the agent, who had closed his eyes and was breathing with forced control. Mulder tucked his hands underneath his arm pits in an attempt to prevent himself from lashing out at someone... something. "I'm sorry we had to tell you this, Mulder." Mulder shook his head. "No... it's better I found out now." He heard the printer upstairs rolling, roaring, spitting out its copies. "You guys are printing this?" Byers, having just ejected the video tape, hugged it closer to his body. "Yes. Why?" "Don't." Mulder saw three pairs of eyes start to light up in protest. "I might be able to do something with this." He looked at Byers. "I *need* this, guys." Byers shook his head. "Mulder, this is all we have for our next issue." Mulder became animated. "I'll give you guys some old case files -- you'll get actual quotes from FBI agents... unnamed FBI agents of course." Langly and Frohike looked to Byers with eyebrows perked. Byers wasn't particularly interested. They had covered the flukeworms and the Max Fenigs many times already, but he relented, prompted mostly by Frohike's silent nod. "Fine. It's a deal. Your boss on hold... for now, Mulder. We'll need those case files by tonight." Mulder stood up suddenly, eyes blazing with the possibilities that had arisen. "Thanks for telling me, and keeping it under wraps. I'll talk to you guys later." Frohike was standing in Mulder's way, noting the agent's stoic posture. "Mulder, wait. What are you going to do?" Mulder looked up, noticed the man's torn gloves, his diamond cutter glasses lying on top of his head, and could see what he would easily turn to if he didn't find Samantha soon. He shook his head. "I don't know. I really don't know." *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Skinner arrived at the office, grumpy, not in the mood to talk to his secretary, to read the latest expense reports, or to return the hi's and waves of the ass-kissing agents who always hung around the office. Kim started to get up at his arrival. "Kim, hold all my calls. I don't want to talk to anyone." She began to open her mouth. "But, Mr. Skinner..." "Please, Kim..." At her boss' sharply delivered words, the woman shrank away, looking nervously to the door. Skinner looked at the far wall -- always did when he was entering the office in the morning. Always saw Bill Clinton's and Janet Reno's face smiling paternally at him. Only if Billy boy really knew what was happening -- that the Timothy McVeigh's and the Middle East terrorists were no threat compared to the ones that God-bless-America was breeding in their own country. "How long have you been working for them?" Skinner spun around. Saw Mulder sitting in the right chair -- usually taken by Scully, he absently noted -- slouched with a gun pointed to his superior's head. "Mulder... what the hell are you doing?" The agent started to shake his head. "So when Scully was dying in the hospital, and I was cleaning out the office, was that Vietnam story real, or was it just some story to keep me here and fuck me around?" Skinner looked to the door. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mulder. And I'd put that gun away, before someone gets hurt." Mulder ignored the last comment. "Why?" "Excuse me?" "What do those bastards give you that would allow you to watch Agent Scully's life go down the shit hole?" "They cured her... Didn't they?" Mulder shook his head -- put the gun down and felt like throwing up again. Christ, they had everyone twisted around their fingers. "I gave them some disks that they really wanted, maybe they wanted to fondle them or something, and they cured Scully. Or at least that's what I thought. Maybe it was you. I'm sorry, but I'll have to thank you later." "Look, Mulder, I had no choice..." Mulder shook his head -- tired of the excuses, the alibis, and the heart-felt pleas. "You manipulated lies.... You manufactured news headlines. You are part of the biggest conspiracy, all the while pretending you were on our side... I can't believe it." Skinner looked at the beaten man in front of him. Pathetic. Tragic. A quest that had begun so long ago, a past so warped and beaten that the man didn't even know who to trust. Couldn't decide between black and white -- was given a garish shade of gray and told to sort it out himself. "Agent Mulder, look, I did what I did because I have as big of an albatross as you do." Mulder shook his head. Something within Skinner snapped. "Look at me, when I speak to you, Agent Mulder." The agent reluctantly looked up, sullen. "Look, there are some things in my past, that... that... they can use against me. Just like you..." "You're not like me. I wouldn't sell myself out." "The point is, Mulder. My decisions are partly based on my past. Something I'm sure which you can relate to. We all know why you went from a promising career in VCS to the basement -- and it wasn't the lack of air conditioning." The agent nodded slowly at the sentiment. "Look Mulder. You can think of it as a voice on the inside." The AD ran to his desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Look this up." Mulder looked at the address. "What's this for?" "For you to keep your mouth shut. Even to Scully." Mulder looked at it warily, was tempted to hold it at arm's length lest it want to burn. "A deal?" "A sign of faith." Mulder looked at the paper again. An address. A set up? The real deal? "I have... sources, *sir*, that know about you as well. They're the ones who brought it to my attention. The only reason it's not in the open is that I begged they not." Mulder watched Skinner's face for any emotion, any flinch, but there was none. The agent shook his head. "I can't trust you." "I never asked that you did." The eldest man pointed to the paper. "Just look at it. You'll find something. But remember, it wasn't from me." Mulder took the slip of paper, went through the door that Skinner held open for him, sensing that he had been checkmated once again. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming January 10, 1990 The man smoking the cigarette walked calmly down the tiled floor, ignoring the pristine conditions of the walls and doors that surrounded him, the almost sterile conditions in which the men and women in their white lab coats worked, huddled, and furiously scurried. He flicked the cigarette in his path as he walked, passing the "Do Not Smoke" sign, pausing only to reach into his pocket to grasp the familiar white and red package yet again. The gated doors shut behind him, armed bodies ran past him, red alarms screamed above him. The glass enclosed room was in chaos. Pandemonium. Faces were pushed up against the glass, mouths agape, attempting to breathe the air that the glass could not provide. Their blood shot eyes were wide, threatening to burst out of their sockets -- fear emblazoned in their irises, suffocation marked in their outstretched fingers which could no longer reach for help. Men were killing children. Women were killing men. Hands were covered in blood from the appendages that were bleeding. Green ooze covered some areas of the glass -- long, trailing paths that led to a dead body, a dismembered leg or arm. Pieces of white cloth littered the room, now used as rope around one's neck -- a noose, a futile flag of surrender -- a far cry from the clean scrubs they used to be. The Cigarette Smoking Man felt a shadow approach and lit another Morley, failing to flinch when a body rebounded of the glass in front of him. "These aren't right." The man with the cigarette turned, meticulously removed the cigarette from his mouth with his thumb and index finger. "I can see that. What I would like to know is how this happened?" The man shook his head. "Some of the geneticists say some of the introns were positioned improperly." "And that translates to..." The man rubbed a hand over his face. "It means they're too violent, the foreign DNA is being expressed too strongly. The alien DNA is still overriding the human genome expression. They're not suitable for the Project ahead." "And what are you suggesting?" "I'm not suggesting anything." "Yes, you are, or you wouldn't have brought it to my attention." The Cigarette Smoking Man turned towards the other man beside him. "I want this merchandise destroyed. They're a liability. A new template needs to be built. A better one, obviously." The man started to shake his head. "I don't think..." "You don't have time to think. I want these bodies shipped somewhere far and destroyed. Does that work for you, Bill?" The man swallowed. Always buckling, couldn't say no despite his boy -- a man, he had to remind himself, despite the daughter he had lost, despite the wife who had divorced him, despite his conscience which refused to be appeased. "I understand." *** On board: Naval Ship Kensington En Route to: NAVDIST Washington, DC January 12, 1990 Upon reflection, the petty officer second class was tempted to believe that the procession had been almost poetic. Was tempted to do his best Sammy Coleridge impersonation and wax poetic about the steady stream of beige who had watched over the steady stream of green. Had watched the recently sedated cargo be loaded onto Kensington's deck, in all her gray majesty. A poetic event that quickly metamorphosed into nightmarish proportions. The steady rock of the boat dancing on the waves below it, the steady beat of water hitting steel, did little to erase the memories of three hours ago. Did little to erase the screaming that came from the deck below. The desperate pounding on the steel walls. The crying of the children. What had he become? He had joined the Navy because it was right. Because his dad had done it. Because he wanted to serve his country. Because people looked at you with that slight mix of awe and envy when you came home in the starched, white uniform. The officer steepled his hands. Laid them against his forehead. Spread his hands and tried to rub his eyes. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking. The same hands which had thrown in the container of hydrogen cyanide. The same hands which had pulled the violent surge away, only to watch one hand snake out from the mass of various appendages and grab his name pin, stuff it in its mouth in anger, and spit in his face. The same hands which had locked the port hole, which had doomed the merchandise inside to suffocate in their prison of hydrogen cyanide. The hands which had sentenced Junior Petty Officer Roberts -- up and comer, best friend -- to death because his trampled body could no longer reach the outstretched hand that was calling for him. He looked down into the dark depths of the water below him, remembering his father who had told him stories of Triton and mermaids -- of sea Gods and how humans had to respect nature, because it had no respect for you. Was Neptune that big on irony that with two hundred dead bodies below deck, he let the sun shine, look through faint wisps of white cotton. Did its own take of Coleridge and let the white foam flow, and the fair breeze blow, and the furrow follow free. The deck was silent. Eerily so. Each man to himself. Each man with his thoughts. Each man with their mouth, which they had already vowed to keep shut. Dishonorable discharge, suspension, indefinite assignment off the water and shuffling papers on base were all deterrents -- were more effective than duct tape. Physical means were effective in maintaining a ship's conspiracy of silence, but not as much so as subtle threats to one's family. The man fingered the empty space above his left pocket. His name pin was missing. He was without name. Without identity. Just a face. No longer Petty Officer second class Scully with the Kensington crew. Just silence. Just a shadow. *** Beau Forster Park Reisterstown, Maryland The tractor driver was holding his breath, a hand to his mouth. A police officer was running away, trying to find some privacy before he threw up. Two other police officers were standing at the mouth of the hole, mouths agape, eyes watering from the smell that was meeting their nostrils. Scully looked at the decomposed bodies in front of her. Hundreds? Thousands? All human. Men. Women. Children. She stole a glance at her partner, who was shaking his head slowly in disbelief. Scully remembered the man in West Virginia, how terrified he was. The smell emanating from the mass grave he showed her was identical to this one. No, this wasn't an experiment from Japanese scientists in collaboration with the United States government. It *couldn't*. Right under their noses? Mighty unlikely. She turned towards her partner, recalling how he had wanted to 'take a walk around the park'. "Mulder... how did you know about this?" Her partner shook his head. "I don't know... someone told me." "How?" "How the hell am I supposed to know how he knew?" he snapped. He took a deep breath and looked apologetically at his partner. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for." Scully nodded. The outburst had hurt, but it was the most emotion he had shown in weeks. And he had mentioned an informant. An informant meant a case. A case for the X-Files. Maybe... maybe, things were coming back to normal. "I'm going to doing some of the autopsies... Do you want to watch?" Mulder watched the decomposed remains of a girl be carried past him. His mind offered a rebuttal. Okay, a small skeleton, most likely that of a child, fifty-fifty chance that it was a girl. Patterson was creeping near -- helpless victims were killed by someone who had no respect for life. Or people. "No, Scully. I don't know if this is real or not. Maybe it's a set up. I think," he paused, ran a hand over his eyes. "I don't know what to think, Scully." Scully studied her partner, resisted the urge to leave her mouth agape. She had never seen him look so dubious, had never heard him voice his uncertainties to this degree. She noticed the slip of paper which he was desperately grabbing on to, and she pried it from his hands, ignoring the sweat that had moistened the paper and blurred the ink slightly. The address. The address of where they were now. She turned back sharply to look at her partner. "Who gave you this, Mulder? Is it someone we know?" When there was no immediate answer, Scully persisted. "Mulder, do I know this person?" Mulder shook his head sadly, as he watched another black coated body be carried past. "No... I don't think you do." *** Bianco Nero Salon and Spa New York, New York The woman with her head under the sink tried to shake her head to further emphasize her point. "No highlights. I want it straight blond. Like always." The body in front of her tsk-tsked. "Exactly. It's always blond. Ever since you've come here it's been blond." "That's why I come here, Jo. Because no one gives me grief over what colour I do my hair." The woman raised the chair and wrapped the woman's hair in a towel. "I'm just saying that your hair is a nice brown, and would really look nice with highlights." "I want it blond." "But why? I mean you have these nice eastern European eyes, or you would if you didn't wear those contacts all the time. Brown goes really well with..." The woman reached over and grabbed the peroxide bottle, annoyed. "Just do it, Jo. Okay?" A floral sleeve reached over and grabbed the peroxide bottle. "Fine. I get the hint, geesh. All I'm saying is that blond is so... so American." The woman relaxed in the chair, and ignored the mirror. Instead, she concentrated on whatever regurgitated and modified crap was in this week's issue of Time. "Exactly. American is exactly what I want." *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York The Englishman turned the pen in his fingers -- looked at the first gentlemen impatiently. "So... what's the condition of the girl?" "Poor. Delirious... Wavering in and out of consciousness." "Do they know what's causing this?" "No... The doctors think it might be a side product of the testing." The Englishman rolled his eyes. "That's what they always say. How's the grave dig going?" "Good. Mulder and Scully are occupied, Skinner has assured me." The eldest gentleman clasped his hands together, obviously pleased. "Maybe Walter will work out after all." The man signalled for another bourbon. Things were going so smoothly. He frowned. A little too smoothly for his comfort. The Russians were not ignorant, nor stupid. The lack of noise from the East was... disturbing, highly suspicious. "What about the Russians? Intel report any suspicious actions? What about the Black Cancer?" One of the gentlemen shook his head. "Nothing. Everything's quiet down there." "Quiet?" The man rolled his eyes. "Russia is never quiet." He turned around to look at the well-built man in the corner -- sitting and staring out the window, no less. "What about you? What are your friends up to?" The man looked at him, cheek bones set and jaw sharply defined. "I wouldn't know, I don't talk to them anymore." The man glared at him -- doing little to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "Well, maybe you should try and get in touch with them... now." The built man stood up and walked out the door. It was then the whispering began. "Why do we keep him?" "He was with the American anyways." "He is a liability... He could expose us." The Englishman shook his head. "Yes, he shouldn't have wasted his resources healing Mrs. Mulder, but that wasn't entirely his doing anyway." He swirled the bourbon in his glass, challenging any of the other Consortium members to defy him. "Besides his kind are hard to find." *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Mulder leaned his head against the toilet bowl, reveling for one moment, in the cool porcelain underneath his right cheek. The flu from hell was not what he needed at the moment. He had already lost too much time from his little deal at Boscher's Run Park. Shit. He would never go running there again. A little park of horrors it was turning out to be. When the nausea receded, he rummaged through the medicine cabinet, eyes catching on the old package of Gravol he had bought during his and Scully's boating experience around Norway. Mulder closed his eyes in remembrance of his partner's terse, worried questions earlier in the afternoon. She had left four hours ago after driving him home, handing him the white paper bag with the Neo-Citran and the thermos full of soup. She was probably doing autopsies right now on the bodies that were found, in the spot Skinner had told him about. The Gravol started to protest noisily when Mulder's grip on the foil package automatically tightened. Was he wherever those bastards congregated, sharing a smoke and drink with them? Or was his boss really the tortured, gun-pointed-at- my-back soul that he made himself out to be? Too many variables. Too many what ifs and perhaps He took the package of Gravol and staggered to the couch -- lay down so that his head was facing the bookshelf, so that he could look at the picture of the brown-haired, polyester clad figure posing for the cameras on the monkey bars. He looked at the picture, more for posterity, as every detail had long since been memorized. According to one of the few conversations he had had with his mother, it had supposedly been taken when she was seven and he was at summer camp. Which would explain why he didn't remember this particular picture being taken. Mulder closed his eyes, tried to catalogue his memories -- what I remember happening versus what I think I remember happening. Sam had broken her collar bone that one summer. He had been pushing her higher and higher, under the threat that she would tell mommy about the naughty magazine underneath his bed. Fact. The summer house in Maine was often a summer refuge for their family. He always built castles and moats with Sam. Fact. But dad was always grumpy, always had secret meetings behind closed doors. Did one of them smoke? Shit. Mulder. Stick to what you know... what you *know*. The abduction happened... did it? Mom and dad *did* go to the Galbraiths, so yes, he was in charge. He *did* love The Magician, so it would make sense that he would want to watch it. Then there was the light... What you *know*, Spook? Mulder opened his eyes. Memories. Dreams. Hypnosis sessions. X-File cases. Photos. They were all consuming. Inter-related. They wove in and out to create a time line of his life that was pseudo-fictional, pseudo-factual. The Arctic sprang to mind -- the haggard figure in front of the camera voicing, "we're not who we are". Skinner wasn't who he appeared to be. Neither had been Marita. Lies. Deception. Smoke and mirrors. Mulder glanced at the window remembering where the X would have been hastily taped, looked to the telephone remembering the three clicks and Deep Throat with his manila folders. So what was real? What was not? The Gravol in front of him was real. Warning: may cause drowsiness. Great. Sleep and a remedy for his nausea. If only the rest of his life could be so simple. He took the pills dry. Chewed them in the hope that he would get to sleep faster -- away from the memories, photos, lies, shadows, and the demons that plagued him so. *** Morgue -- Autopsy Bay #3 Quantico, Virginia "... This concludes the autopsy on subject number two three five, one four two. Jane Doe. Agent Doctor Dana Scully performing the autopsy." Scully switched off the tape recorder, and looked at the standard Y cut on the body. Autopsy complete. She could now move on, forget about the decomposition, forget about the smell, forget... She ran a gloved hand down the gown, smoothing the wrinkles out -- black and green stained latex against black and green stained fabric. The pathologist reminded herself to breathe. She felt her breaths going out of control and hastily spun around, running out of the autopsy room, shedding the formaldehyde-smelling garments as she slammed the steel doors open. She slowed when she saw Dr. Nguyen, equally dazed. "Dr. Scully...." The voice was nervous, amazed, a little girl in a candy store where the goods were assorted flavours of organs, artificial preservatives included. "I... I assume you were doing Reisterstown?" Scully nodded, trying not to wrinkle her nose from the stench that was emanating from the both of them. "And did you find... any abnormalities?" Scully nodded, cautious. "You?" "Oh yeah." Scully started listing them. The chiasma-like body cells. The strange tint to the blood. The toughened skin. The enlarged lungs. The absence of a belly button, of all strange things. Sexual organs of both sexes present. The doctor nodded her agreements, wide-eyed, as Scully summarized her past three hours. "Have you ever seen anything like it?" Scully shook her head no. "What did your partner say?" "I'm sorry, what?" "I mean, he's usually with you during these things, from what the other agents..." The doctor blushed slightly. "I just thought he'd be with you." "No." But the negative response could not hide the hope that had crept into Scully's voice. Mulder. She had forgotten to tell Mulder. Mulder liked this kind of stuff. This was Mulder/Scully stuff at it's best. "Excuse me, Dr. Nguyen, but I just forgot something." Scully turned on her heels, not only anxious to get into a hot shower with fragrant shampoos and soaps, but to get to the nearest phone and the man who was her partner. *** Russian Federal Planning Center Magadan, Russia The man looked out the window and paused to look at the white flakes which were coming down. They never got snow where he lived. They never got rain either. Or sleet. Humans were so lucky. And they didn't even know it. He watched the snow drifts and tried to decipher what was underneath them. Car. Car. Van. Human. Van. Shit. The figure ran outside. Blend in, was told to him -- no, *drilled* into him. Helping others was what humans did, right? Would he look suspicious if he remained at the door? Would he look even more suspicious if he helped the figure out in the snow? His one hand tightened on the automatic pistol, while the other opened the door cautiously. Feeling the snow give way underneath his feet, he turned the prone figure over who groaned in protest. "Shit." He recognized the figure, looked back to see if anyone was looking and looked back at the figure again with concerned eyes. "Damn you... why the hell do you come back now?" He dragged the figure inside, looked outside the window to see if anyone was coming in, peered inside the lab to make sure no one was coming out. "Hey." He slapped the figure's face. "Hey!" The man came to life -- grabbed the collar protecting the other man's throat and pulled him closer. Desperation was mirrored by confusion. "Help me. I made a mistake. You have to help me." The man attempted to pull the frantic hands away from his throat. "What is it?" "I don't know why I stayed. I don't know." The man started trembling. "I should have came with you. With all the others. They are only stupid Americans, and I was wrong to trust them..." The man gazed straight into the younger man's grey eyes. "I mean, here, at least, it might be awhile before their people get to us." The young figure shook his head excitedly. "No..." He looked back towards the vulnerable figure conspiratorially. "We made a deal with the people here. We have our own developing." The snow-covered man's slight change in position -- the slight gleam in his eye that said the bait had been taken -- went unnoticed by the younger, gun-carrying figure. "What?" "We did it. In a couple days..." The younger person started to withdraw, looked back to the doorway which led to the laboratory. "I don't know if I should be telling you this." The shivering stopped. "No... no.... You are young." The man smiled, Cheshire-like. "So much younger than I. What.... are you two hundred and forty five now?" The figure nodded his head. The man nodded his head, permitted himself to smile wider as his arm slowly made way to his pocket. "So young. It's such a waste." The younger man started to stumble backwards. He knew what was coming, and he started to raise the gun, although he knew it would be futile. Stall. Stall and make noise to alert the others. The voice cracked. "What's a waste?" The man pulled out the stiletto. "That I have to kill you." *** The man walked away from the clinic, batting the snowflakes that fell by his eyelashes, cursing the white stuff that was coming down. Earth. What a bizarre, strange place. He rubbed the viscous fluid off the pointed instrument and placed it carefully in his jacket pocket. By the time he had reached the end of the block, the body on the clinic's linoleum floor had been reduced to nothing but green goo. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Scully hated it when she had to pull out the piece of metal alloy. Such a small piece, hung on a ring with all the others -- its sticker claiming "Mulder" worn off so long ago. The key had granted her entrance to his empty apartment and terse e-mail shortly before she travelled to the Arctic and paddled him herself. The key made another appearance when she thought her partner was dead, and witnessed her and her boss engage in a stalement with FBI standard pistols pointed at each others' heads. It had also granted her a glimpse into the darkest recesses of Mulder's mind, as she had stood dumbfounded among sketches of gargoyles, when Bill Patterson and his ISU demons decided to take refuge in Mulder's apartment and mind temporarily. Scully was beginning to hate this piece of metal. She opened the door hesitantly, one hand guarding her leather holster. "Mulder?" She regarded the sleeping figure carefully. Sleeping in the afternoon? Not good -- too reminiscent of MJ files and fiery box cars. She walked over and picked up the packet. Gravol? She shook him. "Mulder.... Mulder.... wake up." He stirred slightly. "Mmmm... more sleep." Scully's eyebrows raised. She had never heard him ask for more sleep. "Mulder.... I have something I think you would be interested in." She watched the hazel orbs emerge and clamped down on the urge to comment on the glazed look they carried. "How many Gravol did you take?" He looked at the package and scratched the side of his head. "Two... three? I dunno.. I think it was two." Scully looked at him, handed him a file folder. "You should look at the autopsies of the bodies that they found in the mass grave. The toxicological screens have yet to come in, but they're definitely suspicious." "Why?" Scully paused, then edged her partner on. "Just look at the report, Mulder." He opened the report and Scully watched his eyes grow wide, silently relieved that not all of the Mulder spark had been lost. He shook his head. "So... what is this? In your medical opinion?" Scully shook her head. "I don't know. Mutations. Some rare disease." Scully waited for him to say it. Waited longer. She had arranged the report just so that it would stick out at him. Alien/human hybrid. Say it, Mulder. Say it. "It could be a hoax." Scully felt the wind had been knocked out of her sails. Her voice was soft. "Aren't I supposed to say that?" Mulder looked at the file in his hands. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. A to B to C... which leads me to conclude D. Was Skinner setting him up? Was it real? "Scul..." Mulder suddenly stopped, shifted -- looked uncomfortable as if the words he was about to say were foreign, painful. Full of thought, full of emotion, his string of phrases had been allowed to breed and brood through a sleepless, starless night. "Do you ever... do you ever feel that your life is like a dream? That whatever you do has already been preordained by... by... something. That you're powerless to stop it, no matter what you try to do, or things like that? That someday, someone will wake up and you'll be gone. Your whole existence was based on one big imagination. Your life is one big lie." Scully looked at her partner, speechless. The folder she had been holding fell onto the floor. She lowered herself onto the coffee table, allowed one of her hands to clutch the edge to steady herself. Mulder was seemingly in as much shock as she was as to what had just escaped from his mouth. Before, they could have laughed it off, he could have said "Ha ha, Scully. Gotcha." But there was no mischievous glint in his eyes now, hadn't been there for quite awhile. Her partner shifted uncomfortably on the couch, and Scully opened her mouth to ask the inevitable question, but her partner beat her to it. "I'm fine." Scully noticed for the first time that she was clenching Mulder's key in her fist -- tight enough so that the teeth were digging into the palm and making angry red bite marks. Her eyes fell upon the picture of Samantha which was lying on the coffee table instead of it's usual place on the bookshelf. Mulder followed his partner's gaze and cleared his throat. "I was just thinking about Sam and how much I remember of that night... that's all." Scully nodded. "That's all," she whispered matter-of-factly, trying to convince herself that this was, indeed, all. She fingered the key, resignedly getting up, knowing nothing more would come out of her partner tonight. He had expended his reserves of Mulder-sharing for the night. She placed a hand on the top of his head, and watched him close his eyes in acceptance of the gesture. "I'm here. When you're ready to talk, Mulder. I'm here." Mulder only nodded, eyes still closed. He took more comfort in Scully's sigh as she left the apartment, than in his distorted nightmares slash memories of Chilmark, Quonochontaug and the bright white light which had taken away the little girl now enclosed in the wooden frame that lay protectively between his arms. *** I stand amongst my fellow morphs, faces grim, expression determined -- the scars of a relentless war that has been raging for so many years. We have been given a warning by those who seek to destroy us, who banished us once, and threaten to do it again. But we are the apparent heirs. We are the newest class. The day of reckoning is fast approaching -- for both species. It is a finish line only one can cross -- where the prize is Gaia, and all she has to offer. A home. A sanctuary. There is no comfort in second place, unless one can take comfort in death. A signal they have sent us. A decomposed body, a mess of viscous green fluid, morph two forty five. He will be replaced. He will be revenged... as all others of our race who have been sacrificed, murdered in cold blood only to pave the way so that we may begin a journey that was started so many decades ago. So many decades ago with a country we are now enemies with, a country whose species has failed in their stewardship of the planet. They have sent us a sign. So we will send one back. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference 17 Moscow, Russia "Everything's packed and ready to go." "Where is the merchandise bound for?" "A commercial flight bound for New York." "Good... morph two forty five's death won't be in vain." "It'll teach those sons of bitches." "Don't speak that putrid human slang with me." "Sir." "Well, what are you waiting for? Get that rock delivered. I want those Americans to pay... I want them to know we're not going away this time. Not ever." *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York The stout man held the wine goblet stem in his fingers. Twisting it right, left. Trying to get the crystal to catch what little light there was in the room. "Any word yet from Russia?" The Englishman was shaking his head no, when his front pocket rang. "Yes.... yes...." The Englishman's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. "I see... they have, have they? Fine. Come back." He hung up the phone, and met the eyes of the goblet twirler. "The Russians have been busy." "So what does that mean?" The Englishman looked at the congregation around him, face grim, fully aware of the implications of the phone call. "It means we have to hurry." *** Flight 245 En route to: New York, New York From: Moscow, Russia It was a tiny suitcase, really. In the baggage compartment, it laid congruously with the Samsonites and duffels, blending in harmoniously, resting contentedly on top of canvas and vinyl. The container inside started to shift, the organisms within pushing against their polymer enclosure -- an endless cycle of anxious undulating -- a diligent, but currently futile quest for a host. Behind it, a timer was quietly beating, counting, drumming down the seconds before a barely audible pop would be heard, and a tiny hole could be made. The suitcase would bleed, start to infect those around it with its parasites. The new surroundings would serve as a catalyst, agitating them, prompting them to inhabit every suitcase pocket, every crevice in every fold of the clothes, every fissure in each zippered cosmetic bag. It was a present from a certain morph in Moscow -- lovingly packaged and gift wrapped in an innocent suitcase, brought on board by a morph, who would leave the airport five minutes later, without suitcase in hand. Not a gift for their loved ones, the morphs, nevertheless, studiously shopped around -- finally concluding that the best shop which met their intentions was in a little mine called Tunguska. After all, it was the thought that counted. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia "Well?" The man known as Jeremiah smiled. "Everything's progressing smoothly. We had an accident in Magadan... but it's been taken care of." Kabalevsky lit the cigar. "For how much longer do we have to wait?" "A few more days. Our technology is far more superior to what it was a couple decades ago." "What about the Americans?" Jeremiah smiled. "They have no chance. They are lacking someone with the marker." Kabalevsky's lighting failed. "Pardon me?" "A marker. A genetic marker in a host. A catalyst basically in human terms. The Americans had designed their species to follow one person... at least in the beginning. That person was tagged, by an organic marker." "And..." "And the Americans don't have this." The man's eyes narrowed. "Then who is our catalyst?" Jeremiah cleared his throat. "It's me." The Russian stood up. "I though we were in this fifty-fifty." The morph also started to rise from his seat, arms cautiously in a surrender position. "I just have the code. They'll listen to me, but our decision will be a group decision. Yours and mine. Fifty- fifty. Like we agreed" The Russian sat back down -- relieved, at least for the moment. He picked up his glass of scotch of and raised it to the morph -- saluting their soon to be domination of the world. *** United States Medical Research Facility Boston, Massachusetts January 3, 1960 Boris leaned back in his van and put his head against the metal. Too much static -- couldn't hear anything. So he sat upright, adjusted the knobs in the panel in front of him, and leaned back again, satisfied with the changes. Although his assignment was the tall, lanky one -- he had always had an interest in Mulder. He was more quiet, more of the studious soldier. The man who did the job quietly, without flair. For the good of his country. He could hear the conference that was occurring. Could hear the shaky, nervous voice of Mrs. Mulder. She was the stumbling block, right now. Didn't think it was morally right, didn't know how she could conceive a child in a test tube. There was an exasperated sigh from her husband. A patient puff from the man at the doorway. An explanation that the sperm and egg would be put together then implanted. That it would be easier to conceive if the cells were already dividing once they were in the womb. Boris rolled his eyes. The Americans were slow. They, the Russians, had already done this two years ago in Magadan. Finally she relented. Agreed. If this was the only way they could have children, then so be it. He watched the couple leave the brick building -- holding hands, mouthing words that he could no longer hear. He turned back to listening to the conversation in the clinic, hugging the headphones closer against his ears. There was a puff of smoke. "You'll be able to get the samples to those who'll be able to modify it?" "Of course." "Just make sure you do it right." "For God sakes, it's just modifying DNA. Don't worry, the Mulders will have a perfect... do you want a boy or girl?" There was a pause, a pensive silence marked by the lack of smoke being exhaled. "A boy... I've always wanted a boy." There was a snort. "The Mulders, nine months from now, will have a perfect baby boy." He heard steps coming closer to the trash can and then leaving. Trash cans were so good for bugs. People would dump their cigarette butts, papers -- giving no thought to the trash that was being thrown away, nor the tiny electronic device at the back. In the age of recombinant DNA, who liked to look at garbage? Boris shivered, wrapped the coat tighter around his body and glared at the frozen coffee on the console. After he sent this tape back to the big wigs at home, he would get a promotion. He knew it. He rubbed his hands, partly to keep them warm, partly in anticipation of the girls he could buy once he got home. *** United States Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming The man put a cold cloth to the woman's head and held her hand. Delusional. Too much time around chemicals. Too much time making radioactive isotopes out of phosphorous and sulfur. "Tell me a story, Fox." The man groaned. So it began again. "Fox isn't here, hon." Oh God, he prayed she wouldn't ask him to say it. "Tell me a poem -- you know which one I like." The man stifled a groan, instead, choosing to wipe the sweat off his brow. He still had bruises on his arm, and scratch and bite marks on his hands from the last time he had attempted to recite the damn child's poem. A few months ago, when plagued by nightmares, she would fall asleep while he recited it, stroking her hair. Now... now she did *this*... "A poem... please." The man took a deep breath. "Winken, Blinken, and Nod one night, sailed off in a wooden shoe -- sailed off on a river of crystal light, into a sea of dew. `Where are you going, and what do you wish...'" The woman started shaking her head furiously. "No... you're doing the voices all wrong. You're supposed to do the moon voice..." "Hon... I don't know..." The man felt desperate. Isolated. Helpless. The doctors did nothing but change medications, while the nurses only replaced the pills in favor of stainless steel needles and plastic barrels. Words hadn't even been exchanged. Troy shook his head, rocking the woman in his arms. "I don't know what the moon voice is, Derlum." The woman shook her head more -- started to ball her fists and pound at his shoulder. Her frustrated blows hardly hurt. The woman had already spent all her energy in her previous tantrums. She started to cry, lapsed into spells of whimpering, then soon fell asleep. With a sigh, the man looked out the window and saw the moon -- wished for this one moment it would talk, and that one woman could be allowed to finally sail off on her river of crystal light. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia There were certain things about Mulder's apartment which made it distinctly his. The dead fish every few months, for example. The two that always fell off the door, as another. The creaky floor board in front of the door outside. The millisecond before the creak, before Mulder waking up from his couch and reaching for his gun, the door burst open and the syringe was made clear. Mulder didn't even have time to open his mouth, for the whole world reeled itself to black. *** John F. Kennedy International Airport New York, New York The young girl stood by the conveyor belt, transfixed, counting how many suitcases and bags with flowers on them had passed her and Barbie by. She watched the tall man beside her who smelled funny pick up his black, vinyl suitcase and head expediently for the door. A man with dark, dark hair, picked up a hockey bag that looked exactly like the one her brother had. She watched with mouth agape as a bigger woman lifted the fifth of six bags onto the luggage cart. She tried to predict who would pick up the black floral bag with the pretty pink and white roses -- ah, it was the woman in the blue suit. She watched a lone, ordinary suitcase pass her by for the fourth time. Poor suitcase. It had no home, or friend to go home to. She wondered why. It certainly was a pretty suitcase. Certainly looked brand new. It didn't even have one of those ugly orange stickers that every other bag wore. She leaned over to pick it up, surprised at how easily it came into her arms, as if it carried nothing heavier than air. Perhaps her Baba was right, and she was a big, strong girl now. "Moira! What are you doing? Get your hands off that filthy suitcase." The young girl bit her lip and put the suitcase back onto the conveyor belt, wishing it the best of luck. She hugged her Barbie closer to her chest and followed the long skirt of her momma, pitying the lonely suitcase -- for at least her bags and belongings had a home to go to. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Scully ran down the basement steps, toxicological findings and briefcase in one hand, the other hovering around the rail in case one of her heels decided to slide out from underneath. While turning the door knob, she leaned her body in -- the inertia, hopefully allowing her to open the door faster. That is, if it had been unlocked in the first place. Rebounding off the door and hearing the papers and briefcase fall with a thud onto the floor, the female agent muttered her obscenities and rubbed her shoulder. "Mulder, you dumb prick, what the hell are you doing now?" She picked up the papers, straightened her trench coat, and knocked on the door. No answer. "Shit, Mulder. I don't have time for games today." She dug through her deep trench coat pockets, hands finally finding the keys. The office was dark; Mulder hadn't even come in yet. And she had rushed from Quantico to the office just because she had been worried that she was going to be late. She threw the briefcase and folder onto the desk, picking up the desk phone and dialing a familiar number. "Mulder, where the hell are you? Look, the toxicological findings came in on the mass grave, and its cyanide poisoning. Um... if you're in the shower, call me back when you get out, `kay. Bye." She hung up the receiver and threw herself into the desk chair -- just as quickly getting back up when the keys in her pocket had almost impaled her leg. In disgust, glowering over her desk, she emptied the offending pocket -- freeing her keys, a stick of gum and the folded address she had pried from Mulder's hand at Reistertown. She sat back in the chair, allowing her heels to tap in time to the second hand of the clock once again, then noticed an incongruously folded piece of paper sticking out underneath her keyboard. NEED TO SEE YOU IN OFFICE IMMEDIATELY. KIM ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE COMING. Scully sat back in the chair, folding the note back in her hand, and contented herself with flipping it in between her fingers while processing what Skinner would want. She opened the note and stared at it, knowing there was something more. Her brain was niggling, whispering -- telling her to look harder. Scully threw her keys off the piece of paper and opened it, laying it along side Skinner's request. It was hard to tell. Numbers versus letters. But the scrawl was still the same. His `I' looked exactly like the `1'. The slant was the same. Skinner had given Mulder the address of the mass grave? The logical, medical, scientific Scully chided Starbuck's presumptuousness. He was her boss, as in he assigned her cases, as in, he could have given the address to Mulder to investigate because it was a fresh, brand new, hot-off-the-wire case. But the side of Scully that had been bred by Mulder and four years of conspiracies and cover-ups, was yelling, screaming, that something was wrong. Somehow, some way, Mulder's... tailspin as of late was related to the address Skinner had given him. And how would have Skinner gotten the info? She looked at the note once again. IMMEDIATELY She threw off her trench coat, gave her make up a second look, and managed to make it half way across the office when she stopped and turned around. Looking around the postered room, Scully finally took the two slips of paper and settled on hiding them behind the `I Want To Believe' poster, then underneath the FAX machine, then in her tampon box in the bottom right drawer of her desk. Locking the office behind her, Scully made her way back up the stairs, face composed and serious -- the two slips of paper burning a hole in her right breast pocket of her blouse. *** University of New York Hospital New York, New York The woman's terrified pleas echoed through the emergency room. The child laid protectively against her chest, limp, head dangerously hanging over the woman's arms. "Oh god, someone help me! Please! Help me!" The child was roughly laid upon the stretcher; interns and residents crowded around the prone figure, her eyes still wide open. "... I don't know what happened..." "Poor breath sounds..." "... we just came back from a family trip to Russia..." "Blood pressure is one fifty over seventy five." "... she was fine in the airplane and airport and back at home..." "I'll need a blood tox..." "... and then she was unpacking and we found..." "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." ".. but, I don't underst..." "Ma'am, the waiting room is right over there." The med student turned back towards the little girl, leaned over once again with stethoscope in hand. She paused in mid air as she caught the skin... moving. The five doctors stopped their administrations, watching in fascinated horror as the child's skin undulated, moved, trembled and twitched. A nurse ran into the emergency room, wide eyed, panting. "We have a big problem." Four of the doctors ran out, surveying the unconscious, the undulating flesh, the distraught families. Chaos. Desperate pandemonium. A battle with a bug of extraterrestrial origin. A battle that would be a losing one. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference Room 17 Moscow, Russia The female morph ran into the conference room, noticing Jeremiah staring into the window over looking the courtyard, and approached cautiously. "Sir..." "What?" "New York has had their first fatality... numbers are exponentially increasing as we speak, sir." The female morph waited for any acknowledgment, watching her superior from his reflection in the window, waiting for any emotion which had been, since the beginning, lacking. The face remained impassive and the female morph slowly turned around, exiting as she came. Jeremiah looked down to floor, back up to the window, sombrely watching the Russians rush through the cold Moscow wind. As the grim Moscow twilight was emerging, as the Russians scurried home, as the morph stood there watching them, numbers were exponentially increasing in New York. His lips upturned and the outside corners of his eyes started to crinkle in response. Slowly, the morph started to smile. *** We are authority. We are the stars and stripes of this nation. We are the power born from an impotent race -- one which is mottled by depravity's garish colours. We have been born -- chosen -- because our underlings have grown weary, restless. Because we can grant them a happiness that God and his miracles and mysteries can not bestow. We give a different kind of hope. The chattel need not kneel before materialistic golden crosses -- whispering superficial prayers of undying loyalty. The men in multi-colored robes with their own self-imposed alters, need not recite empty words and false prophecies. Dreams of redemption, a holy saviour, a kingdom of gold, are merely false fairy tales -- figments of an over active imagination. It is science that has become the appeaser's religion. It is the gift that we grant to the corrupt, penitent, and unworthy. A sacrament consisting of the blood of doubters, the bread of those who are unable to appease their conscience -- the weak and the worthless. We do not give grand side shows of hope. Or faith. Such trifles are irrelevant. We have been called upon to put right and to put down. To put down those who cannot see the common good -- those who seek to destroy us, who seek to expose us, who seek to conquer us. But this is a war we will not lose -- a war that we *cannot* lose. They have their tricks and their weapons. But so do we. Because the outcome is inevitable. The date is set. And the Project is about to begin. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York "This is a serious breach in security." "Yes, most troubling indeed." "This is more than troubling. We're talking about potential exposure." "Yes, our eastern comrades don't seem to be very happy with the present... arrangements." "That rock is killing people." "Yes, it is." "How the hell can you be so complacent when it is the whole Project that is in jeopardy?" "Eye for an eye, my friend. Blood has been spilled here, so we return the favour. They've violated our land, our people -- they've killed our own..." "So..." "So by God, we kill them back." *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Vladimir had always found it strange how the memory worked. Long term memory especially. An event could happen -- innocent, innocuous, and be stored and forgotten for months... years... decades even. And then, one word could trigger the onslaught of dialogue and scenes and people that had been seen, the smells that had been smelled, the sounds that had been heard. It was the conversation he had remembered. The one at the clinic. And the one he had had with Jeremiah a mere 24 hours ago. He rushed to the conference room, surprised when he saw Jeremiah flanked by three other members of his troop, whispering. They stood up suddenly when they saw him at the doorway. "I hope I wasn't interrupting something." Jeremiah smiled. "No... no.. not at all." He mumbled something under his breath, and his companions started to file out, one bumping past Kabalevsky's shoulder as he left. The Russian sat himself across from the table, and leaned inward. "This marker you were telling me about earlier... can it be in humans as well?" Jeremiah looked amused. "I can't implant you." Kabalevsky shook his head, and looked down at the papers Jeremiah and his drones had been looking at. The morph saw where the Russian's gaze was leading to, and he flipped over the papers casually. Two pairs of eyes met, and both forced professional, diplomatic smiles. "Now, Mr. Kabalevsky... what were you going to say?" Kabalevsky paused, hearing the screaming in the back of his mind, feeling his innards protesting. He grabbed a cigar to stall, took time in lighting it to get his thoughts together. The morph was hiding something; it was obvious. Their visitors had the edge because Jeremiah had the much sought after marker. He took a casual puff, and admired the cigar momentarily. Christ, all of Russia was flapping in the wind while he and his comrades waited for Jeremiah and his... companions to do whatever it was they were doing in the abortion clinics. Both Mulder children had the marker too, he was sure of it. Perhaps this knowledge -- no, perhaps any of the Mulder children -- would start to even out the odds. Kabalevsky rose the cigar to his mouth again, meeting Jeremiah's eyes for the first time. "I just wanted to say, that if it seemed that I had qualms about you having the marker, I don't. I've thought about it, and I realize that you had no choice." Jeremiah smiled. "Yes, no choice." Both eyes met yet again, and the corners of their mouths turned upward and smiled, once again professionally and diplomatically. Both figures, despite their expensive suits, were shrouded in secrets which were hidden deceptively by fake pleasantries and gestures of kindness. The two figures separated, smiling -- the morph and the man feeling that they had bested the other. *** Holy Mary State Hospital Jakutsk, Russia Dr. Halina Wrobel was a woman of routine. She did the paper work every Tuesday and Thursday. Paychecks came every second Friday of the month. She alternated between day and night shifts once every four weeks -- working seven half days for every fourteen. Patients had their medications checked every four hours. Check in was at seven o clock precisely, check out, exactly twelve hours later. She closed the final patient folder in front of her, placing the object in the outbox along with the others. Six o clock. One more hour. She turned to survey the street in front of her behind the safety of her office blinds. Three times. Three times a delivery truck had come to the abortion clinic across the street. Three times a soldier had gone out to meet the driver, signing the clipboard then resuming his normal post just inside the main glass doors. Three times boxes and coolers had been carried into the continuously lit clinic. *Four* times yesterday. This was not routine -- not a routine government inspection at all. Government SOP -- Boris Yeltsin and his drinking buddies -- only required that all lights be functional and all floors clean -- colour coordination with the dreary Moscow winter was considered a bureaucratic bonus. She brought a hand absently towards her mouth, wondering if she was being overly paranoid. Wondered if calling the cops would perhaps settle the growing unease in her stomach. The door flew open and a young resident ran in, breathless. "Dr. Wrobel. You have to come down to emergency. We have a big problem -- a company across town..." The resident started leaving, as he quickly as he came, his voice soon fading in face of the escalating din from the hallways. Halina grabbed the lab coat, second hook from the right, and walked professionally towards the uncontrolled commotion in the curtained emergency room. The doctor instantly recoiled. The emergency was overflowing with pustular pimples. Angry, red boils which covered the faces and necks of the miserable populace inside the ER. One child was lying on the floor, still -- shirt and pants off, only a diaper on, but the rest of his body clothed in red, pus-discharging scabs. There were patients groaning in the waiting room chairs, some of the staff had brought out extra wheelchairs, while the conscious were content to share stretchers with three others. The young resident was trying to pull away from one patient who was holding his arm, begging for morphine. Men were seizing, while some of the females were gasping for air. One of the nurses came up, clutched the doctor's arm. "What do you think it is?" Halina shook her head slowly. Examining one of the sprawled unconscious lying on the tiled floor, she took her pen and gingerly poked one of the pustules, coming across a membranous sac enclosing a black, jagged tip. "Oh my God..." She brought the pen closer to her glasses, lifting her head to catch more light from the fixtures above. "These people have been stung by bees." The doctor slowly turned three hundred sixty degrees, hearing the moans, trying to ignore the pleas for help from the children, the women and the men, and the elderly. She glanced at her watch. Six forty five. New shift would be coming in soon. But like everything else this past week, this routine would be broken too. Because no one would be going home tonight. *** United States Federal Agricultural Silo Complex by Worland, Wyoming Mulder blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat up suddenly when he remembered the men in black with their syringes and semi automatics. "Mr. Mulder..." The voice was soothing. "It's okay." Mulder turned his head hastily, trying to absorb his surroundings as quickly as possible, noticing the wide circumference of metal which was surrounding them. "Yes, Mr. Mulder... A silo." "Where's Scully?" The man looked around, momentarily puzzled by the question. "Certainly not here. You'll be happy to know that we're not interested in her... this time. We're interested in you." The man laughed when he caught the glare Mulder had shot back. "Why, Mr. Mulder, I'd consider our interest in you an honour." Mulder absently rubbed his sore arm. "Where's Skinner then?" There was another confused pause. "Skinner. You know, on your side, my boss. Where is he?" "I really don't know, Mr. Mulder. Frankly, I don't really care at the moment. I'm here -- you're here -- to be shown something. Will you go quietly?" Mulder didn't answer. "Is that a yes?" Mulder looked around the silo, aware that he really had no choice. "Yes, I will go. Quietly." The Englishman smiled. "Good." The man rapped his knuckles on the door, Mulder immediately feeling the gun rifle at the small of his back. Corridors followed corridors. One silo after another. A rectangular building. A deck which overlooked a floor below. Mulder grasped the railing and looked down, exhaling at the site that was presented to him. People. Children. Men and women and babies. Commotion. Like a shopping mall. Mingling. No sense of purpose. Talking. Chiding. Arguing. Mulder swallowed, unable to take his eyes off the people standing below him. The talking stopped -- all eyes expectantly on him. The Englishman leaned over. "Tell them to do something." "Wha?..." The Englishman started to grow impatient, gesticulated wildly at the mass of people below them. "Tell them to hop on one foot." "No." The gun went exploring deeper into the small of his back. "Tell them to do it, Mr. Mulder. Do it, or suffer the consequences." Mulder looked at the man uneasily, looked back down towards the people below him. He swallowed, failing to release the lump from his throat -- feigned a sudden need to scratch his arm. "Mr. Mulder, I'm growing impatient. We'll need to get past this stage before we can proceed to the others, before you can be sent home." Home. Mulder nodded his acknowledgement absently. His attention was soon drawn to a blond woman near the front. Faded cotton dress. Mismatched sandals. Sparkling blue eyes that watched him, idolized him. He licked his lips. When the words finally passed through his lips, they came out more like a croak. "Hop... hop on one foot." Mulder would have laughed but the growing uneasiness in his stomach prevented him from doing so. The masses had started to hop, on cue from him. Faces serious, women jumping with babies in their arms, tiny children jumping, men carrying the children who couldn't. The resounding steady thud of longitudinal sound waves hitting steel walls was matched only by the throb of blood rushing past Mulder's auditory nerves. The Englishman yelled to the floor below. "Stop!" The hopping continued. "Stop!" He looked to Mulder. "Say it." Mulder shook his head -- wanting nothing more than to get out. Wanted to run away from wherever they were. Whoever they were. Didn't want to know what it meant. Didn't want to know why everyone below him was still hopping, still looking at him expectantly. The English accent was now punctuated by a more insistent point of the rifle. "Say it, Mr. Mulder. Now." "Stop." The uneasiness was growing exponentially now. The hopping ceased, blue eyes still watching. Hazel eyes still idolizing. Dark browns still watching expectantaly. Warily, he turned towards the Englishman. "What is this supposed to mean?" The man started walking down the metal catwalk, with Mulder reluctantly following. "You, Mulder, and your sister Samantha, have a job with us. This was the Mulder children's born duty. This is the gift that you were chosen to have." Mulder shook his head. "And what gift is that?" "When the bees run their course throughout the world, a new herrenvolk race -- these people -- will populate the Earth. They will need help. They will need direction. And you will provide that." Mulder looked back down at the masses below -- their eyes still intently on his. "And how do I provide that?" "You give them orders, under our command, of course. You're genetically programmed to do so." Mulder spat the words out before he could stop them. "I'm not a fucking mutant." It was his worst fear come true -- genetically altered, genetically manipulated. He and Scully had used those words so sparingly over the past four years. Tooms had been genetically altered. The Flukeman had been genetically altered. A mutant. He rolled the word around in his mind, wondering if Scully would file Fox Mulder between Eugene Victor and Flukey. The Englishman smiled again at the agent's expense. "No... no, Fox. Of course you're not. You've been feeling some nausea lately, haven't you?" Mulder looked down at the metal catwalk -- no longer willing to participate in a game that he did not have the energy to play. The man took the silence as a yes. "That was your gene being expressed. An intron -- a gene between your regular structural genes, Fox. A gene that underwent transcription and translation only in the presence of a complex protein, which of course, was delivered via your water system... at home, and at work." Mulder rubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to ignore the voice coming from... somewhere. "This is your job, Fox. This is your duty." Mulder grabbed the Englishman by his lapels, continuing when the expected gun butt to the head or ribs failed to come. Bitterness was interspersed through words which were forced through clenched teeth. "Then why don't you get Samantha to do it then... that's why you abducted her. Isn't it?" The Englishman shifted uncomfortably underneath the younger man's grip. "You're a smart boy, Fox." Mulder let go of the man's lapels, instinctually retreating three steps. "Don't say that." They were the same words his father had spoken the night his skull had played target practise to Krycek's lead pellet. A thought dawned on Mulder, brought on by the frantic search he and Scully had done some 72 hours later in an abandoned mine. "I was supposed to be taken. Why her and not me?" The man adjusted his collar, started clucking at the wrinkles in his tie, then contented himself in answering Mulder's question. "You were an experiment. Technically, you were conceived by in-vitro with some... alterations made along the way. They tried to make you perfect. And you showed with your sister that you were loving, nurturing -- a perfect candidate to lead the herrenvolk when the time came. You were brilliantly smart, but no one knew what introns did. Still don't really -- at least so the geneticists say. Your father told us about your dark moods. He said that you were prone to angry outbursts, didn't do too well in stressful situations." Mulder closed his eyes. It was the story of his life. He wasn't good enough. He wasn't fast enough. He didn't remember enough. "So you made Sam." The Englishman smiled. "So we made Sam," he agreed. Mulder nodded, felt the beginnings of panic approaching. If Sam was originally chosen, and the Consortium had to *settle* for *him*, then something had gone horribly wrong. "So... so where is she?" The man was curt, the history lesson was over. "She's dying, Fox. She's very sick. If you stay with us... we'll take you to her. If you don't... you will never see her again. You won't even get the luxury of burying her." "Don't make me make a choice." The Englishman laughed, remembering the exact same phrase spoken by the elder Mulder twenty four years previously. "I'm sorry, boy. I guess it runs in the family." He paused, a smile over his own ingeniousness growing suddenly. "I'll give you a bonus, Mr. Mulder. If you choose to serve with us, we'll let five people plus Agent Scully live. They can stay with us in a safe house until the bees finish their work. We'll pass them off as, shall we say, administrative assistants." Mulder became animated, yelling out his expletives, blindly attempting to aim his feet and fists towards the smug face in the gray suit. A hand, a pistol, a sharp pain in his cheekbone, an elbow digging into his fallen body quickly subdued him. The Englishman leaned over, his hot breath raising the hairs on Mulder's neck. "You'll be escorted back to your apartment. You can tell Agent Scully if you want. She probably won't believe you." The Englishman leaned over further and whispered into Mulder's ear. "Just remember, that we're the ones who want you. We *need* you, Fox. Can Agent Scully or the Bureau or your family, for that matter, say the same?" Repeating the events in his apartment, a syringe was produced, the clear sedative catching the bright overhead fluorescent lights above. "You have 48 hours, Fox, to make your decision." A decision. He had to make a decision. Again. Mulder caught one last glimpse of the people below him. Flashed towards the picture of Sam which was kept diligently on the bookshelf. Didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to choose anymore. Wanted nothing, a nether region, an absence of feeling. With the Englishman's imposed time limit echoing through his ears, Mulder willingly accepted the bliss of nothingness when it finally came. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC The Bureau's bull pen had always amazed Scully. Not that it was particularly spectacular looking, comprised mainly of cubicles and glass-enclosed offices. But there was always a buzz around the place -- from nine to five inclusive. Water cooler talk, basically, but Scully would have been lying to herself if she said she didn't miss what little she had briefly been a part of shortly after her residency. The dimly lit basement office and its two occupants were not conducive to a gossip-y kind of atmosphere. From fifteen feet away, she eyed Skinner's office, noting that Kim wasn't at her usual post. "Agent Scully! Agent Scully!" Scully turned somewhat hesitantly to meet the flushed face of Agent Rolston -- yet again. "Agent Rolston." Scully smiled courteously. "I was just on my way with a meeting with Assistant Director Skinner." The agent smiled sheepishly. "Those things are tough, man." He paused and looked back towards the main Bureau entrance. "Do you know where Agent Mulder is? I have... uh, something to give him." Scully nodded her head. "No, I guess that makes two of us. I haven't seen him today either. Do you want me to give him a message?" The man started backing up. "No, that's okay. It was something from Pendrell anyways. He'll probably catch up to him later." The lab tech then turned hastily on his heels and proceeded in the opposite direction. Scully stood in the middle of the bull pen momentarily trying to sort through the conversation that had just occurred, when Skinner's broad chest came into view. "Agent Scully, my office please." The two walked in silence, Skinner leading the way to what eventually would be the cafeteria. Scully reluctantly took the plastic molded chair and sat, arms crossed in front of her lap, mind going full speed behind an impassive mask. "Sir? I thought the meeting was supposed to be in your office." "Less ears here, if you know what I mean." Scully nodded her understanding and waited. "Agent Scully, are you aware of Agent Mulder's whereabouts at the moment?" Scully paused. Wasn't sure if it was yes or no that would protect her partner better. "No?" The response came out as a question, and Scully inwardly berated herself for being so obvious. "You don't know anything?" "I don't know anything." "When was the last time you talked to him?" Scully shook her head slightly, her only outward sign of her displeasure with the current line of questioning. "Pardon me, sir, but what does this have to do with the case Agent Mulder and I are working on?" "I'm sorry?" "The case. I assume this meeting was about the odd nature of the bodies we uncovered." "Of course." Scully took the ball and ran with it. "I was just wondering. Mulder never told me. Did he come to you with the case, or did you assign it to him?" Skinner looked into female agent's eyes, wondering if the question was as innocent as she was posing it to be. "Mulder came to me, said he got it from a reliable source." Scully nodded. "I see." "So, you haven't seen Mulder?" "I haven't seen him." Scully proceeded carefully. "He hasn't picked up the phone either. I think the... *case* has affected him slightly." Skinner nodded, his insides furiously boiling. Fuck. After his little rendezvous with the suits at the high rise, Skinner had put it upon himself to watch Mulder -- had even called his apartment last night, with the planned guise that there was an important protocol meeting for him and Scully first thing in the morning. He had called eleven times, with eleven rings each -- had even tried this morning before Scully had left Quantico. "That's all I was wondering, Agent Scully. It was just a small matter of protocol I had to discuss with him anyways." Scully watched her boss weave his way through the steadily increasing cafeteria crowd. Small matter of protocol, her ass. If her boss had been smart, he would have remembered that it was her, Agent Dana Scully, who had written the last three reports, expenses et al. Scully tightened the blazer around her blouse. Hypotheses were all she had currently. Vague ideas, and charges. And the only two pieces of potentially incriminating, damning evidence were two simple pieces of paper currently enclosed and protected by their makeshift silk home. *** Skyview Apartments New York, New York In the background, if one listened carefully, the tick tock of the wall clock could be heard. The drip of water from the leaky faucet provided a steady, percussion-like accompaniment. The sing song voice of Jane Pauly and Stone Philips provided the background, and the stifled sobs of the women in the bedroom provided the harmony for the elegy that was currently playing. With sombre faces, Janey and co. had announced the somber news. Late breaking footage, exclusively on the Peacock Network, just for you viewers at home flipping between Jimmy Smits and the hockey game. An outbreak they had called it. Small pox -- the dastardly disease -- was back again and wrecking havoc in the east. But don't worry, because nothing like that could ever happen in the States. The pictures of a frenzied Moscow were shown. With the camera shaking, the poor camera man later trampled, the army was out and marching, complete with riot gear, matching shields, and gas canisters. People with angry pustular boils on their face were reaching for help, only to be trampled by the mass of screaming, running, blurred beings. And in the middle of the street, unfazed by the chaos running circles around her, there was an old woman with a slight limp, with salt and pepper hair tied into a bun. The woman would have had to twist her hair, then raise her arms over her head. Then wrap the make shift rope over and over, until an adequate dome was made. The shawl was old. A grey -- once cream -- colored, knitted shawl that had often served as a crying towel, a make shift jacket, a blanket. And the dress. The woman still had the grey dress, although the hem had let out so many years ago, the top two buttons falling off some years later. Her face had been decimated by the disease which was ravaging her body. The hands were marred by arthritis, and the knuckles were painfully swollen, the tips blue from the cold Moscow wind. They clenched the little girl tightly. A little girl with brown hair and an angry red face, whose chest was heaving, whose eyes were clenched tight, and whose fingers were desperately grasping onto the knitted shawl. Milliseconds of footage, and the salad the woman had prepared fell onto the floor. In milliseconds of footage, the woman was no longer in New York, was no longer in the time of automatic transmissions and microwaves, but in Moscow with dusters and uniforms and *him*. In milliseconds of footage, the woman watched her mother pass away, still protectively embracing the stranger of a child who died just shortly before her. The past would not go away. Not ever. Not as long as there were things called dreams, and nightmares, and waking terrors. Not as long as there was a country called Russia. The sobs subsided, turning into sporadic sniffles, and the clock and the water tap resumed their steady beat. A familiar trek to the bathroom was made. A familiar bottle was opened, and the familiar shape of the sleeping aid was felt momentarily in the woman's mouth before the glass was raised and the pill was washed away. Her dreams would be silenced... at least for the night. The TV was unplugged, the anchors' faces disappearing into a black netherworld with a tiny star in the center which seconds later disappeared. Jane and Stone were silenced without so much as a whimper on their part. Russia would be silenced... at least for the night. The covers were once again thrown onto the floor, the rough smell of carpet hitting her nostrils, and the familiar hardness of the floor boards underneath a blessing. The woman sighed, satisfied. She had taken control. Silenced her dreams and Russia. And for tonight, her past could be silenced too. *** Scully looked at the toxicological reports again and sighed. Threw off her glasses and prayed she would be able to find them again in the mass of papers, old textbooks, and current medical journals which littered the coffee table and the floor surrounding it. She debated whether to call Mulder -- to inevitably get his answering machine, or to drive over to his apartment -- to inevitably meet the Mulder block slash wall slash I'm-not-letting-you-in attitude. She glanced up sharply when she heard a key being fumbled and placed in the lock. She cursed when she realized her gun was beside her suit in the bedroom. She contented herself with picking up her pen, with the nonsensical hope that it could perhaps be used as a tool to impale someone with. Scully's face changed soon as she saw the defeated figure -- dropped the pen and ran across the living room to the door. "Mulder." He tried to remove the key from the lock -- was fumbling with it until Scully put her hand over his and removed the keys herself. The hand remained over his, while the other, the one with the keys, snaked behind him to lead him to the couch. Scully looked into his eyes. Glassy. Grabbed his jacket just underneath the collar and started to pull him down. She closed her eyes momentarily when she saw the small red dot right by his shoulder. "Mulder? Mulder... do you know who I am?" He turned around to look at her, wanted to cry when he saw the worried look he had brought to her face yet again. "Scully, I have to make a choice." "Mulder, where have you been? Do you know?" The response was numb, devoid of any emotion. "Wyoming." "Wyoming?" "I have to make a choice." "Mulder, who did this to you?" "I can see Sam." Scully opened her mouth to ask another question, when Mulder's statement made her mouth pause in mid word. "Mu... what?" "They promised me Sam." Scully put a hand on his arm. "But..." "But... she's dying. And... I need to deal... again." Scully looked at him. "With what?" "With me. With my genes and my ability to lead a whole bunch of mindless hybrids as they repopulate the Earth." He laughed, laughed so hard that the tears started to stream down his cheeks. Started to laugh so hard, that he started to choke, and sob, and cry. "I mean, what kind of choice is that, Scully?" He paused to look into her eyes, saw that her eyes were currently examining the two needle punctures on his arm. "What would you do, Scully?" She lowered the sleeve carefully and started to shake her head. "Mulder, it's not..." "Please. Dana. What would you do?" Scully looked into his eyes, saw the haunted look of the not- yet-teenager who had lost his sister, the driven look that had been developed after so many years under a tyrant for a father and boss in ISU. Scully spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully as she spoke. "Well, from what you've said, you have some choices. If you accept their offer, you get to see Sam, and you are assured a position, but the whole world as we know it perishes." When her partner flinched, Scully inwardly scolded herself for using too strong of word. Mulder smiled, the corners of his mouth eventually turning down and his eyes starting to water. "They promised me, Scully. They promised me you and five others." He started to shake his head. "Choose. Pick." A whisper. "I can't. Not anymore." "If you don't accept, the hybrids will perish, and there will be no threat to the world, but you may never see Sam." Mulder started to put a hand to his chest. "It's so close, Scully. I can feel it. I can feel *her*. Don't force me to make this choice." Scully's voice grew deeper. "You have to make this choice. Yourself. You." Mulder looked back at his partner who was now standing up, pacing the room in jerky motions. "It is all about you, isn't it? It's your choice. Yours only. While I get jerked around just because I have the misfortune of being your partner. Well, damn you, Fox William Mulder, because I won't make this choice for you. I won't be a part of it." Scully stopped, walked up to her stupefied partner and pointed her index finger to his chest, spatting. "It's your choice. Your family. So you do it, William." Mulder's head snapped up, and he looked into the haunted eyes of his mother. He looked around to what Scully's apartment used to be and found himself in the summer house of Quanochontaug -- fully dressed in all its throw rugs glory. "It's your choice. Your choice only." The woman continued shrieking, shrinking, until she was a little girl with brown braids and a faded floral print nightgown. "You choose. You only..." Mulder woke up to the insistent gurgling of the fish tank beside him. He ran a hand down his forehead, along his cheek, to the back of his neck, ignoring the protests of his right arm. He looked at his answering machine. Eleven messages. Eleven messages with Scully trying not to sound worried, casually asking him to call her, and berating him for leaving his cell battery to drain. He took the picture from the bookshelf and stared at it, trying to imagine what she looked like now. Twenty three years. He ran a finger down the frame, watching the light from outside the window be reflected back from the tears that fell on the frame. The tears started streaming, the droplets started to form a steady river, and Mulder looked out the window, watching the moon, not knowing that someone else, 1900 miles away was doing the same. *** Along 46th Avenue New York, New York The cabbie's annoyed voice eventually filtered through to Scully's currently occupied mind. "Look, lady, are you going to be able to pay for this? Maybe, like, a down payment would be in order." Scully looked from the parked car to the meter. One hundred and twenty six dollars even. Apparently tailing her boss was an expensive proposition. "Look, lady. If you're waiting to see if he has an affair..." "Look, I can pay, okay?" The cabbie backed off, as Scully watched her boss emerge from his parked car and walk up the steps. She spoke to the driver in front of her, eyes still on the high rise in front of her. "What is this building?" The cabbie shrugged. "I dunno. Some sort of expensive professional firm. Some floors have restricted access they say. I don't now, seems like a club med for a bunch of rich pansies with expensive suits... present company excluded, of course." Scully nodded, having seen all she would be able to see. "Can you take me back to the airport please?" The driver balked. "But you just got here." Scully leaned further back in the cab. "Yes, but I've already found everything I need to." *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York Although slightly jetlagged, the Englishman surveyed the men surrounding him, prepared for the inevitable question and terse answer period that was about to transpire. "The girl?" "No change." "The morphs and Russians?" "They're quiet.. probably royally pissed right now... but quiet." The Englishman clasped his hands together and started rubbing them worriedly. He turned to the woman standing close to the door. "What do you think the Russians will do?" A scowl passed over her face. "How would I know what the Russians are up to? Call my mother?" The heavier set man was about to voice his displeasure when the door knocked, and the very resigned figure of the Assistant Director of the FBI was let in. "Mr. Skinner, back so soon?" "Where's Mulder?" The man paused, signalled for a drink, motioned for Skinner to sit. "Why, isn't Mulder at home? Or at work, perhaps?" "No, I checked." The Englishman's eyebrows raised. "A little protective of our underlings aren't we, Walter? I'd check harder next time. Because although he got a little... *tour* last night, he was escorted safely back home." Skinner raised his head, the only defiant gesture he could muster. "He knows about me. He knows that I work for you." The bourbon arrived, and the man took a drink. "Yes. He did mention that during our conversation. But he has always been suspicious of you, hasn't he, Walter?" When there was no answer the man continued. "You will arrange a meeting with him. I don't care where. But it has to be sometime tomorrow. Six of my armed men will accompany you. Mr. Mulder has been told he has a choice..." "And what is that choice?" "It's not really that important, because he's not really going to get that luxury. It's the illusion that counts, really." Skinner inwardly drew a breath, failing to conceal the frown that passed through the features of his face. The shit-bricked bastards -- manipulating minds which had been tinkered with far too often already. The Englishman read his mind. "Offended are we, Walter?" The man's voice lost it's teasing tone and was replaced by one more threatening, foreboding. "He will state his choice, and then I don't care if you have to persuade, bribe, coerce, or even physically force him into the van you will be driving. You will then transport him to a location which we will call into you." Skinner looked over to the woman with the warning by the door, who merely shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly. Transport? Alternately, why not describe Mulder as livestock being sent to the slaughter house -- different words, same implications. Skinner mustered a weak defense on Mulder's behalf. "I thought you gave him a choice." "We did, and this is ours." "I won't be a party to this anymore." "But you already are." "I can testify." "You're in too deep, and you'll be killed before you even reach the stand." The men surrounding him were like walls, closing in until he could feel his breath rattle in his chest, his blood start to pound in his veins. The man finished the remaining bourbon in one swallow. "Mr. Skinner, Vietnam still burns brightly in many eyes. Plus, I hear your father isn't doing too well." He stopped talking to meet the blazing, offended eyes of the man sitting across from him. "Will you do this, Mr. A. D. Skinner, or do we need to make alternate arrangements?" A harsh whisper came through Skinner's lips. "No. No alternate arrangements need to made." He closed his eyes momentarily, already begging for forgiveness from... his father? Mulder? God? "For God sakes, I'll do it. I'll bring him to you." *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Mulder placed the phone back down on the coffee table, hearing the leather groan underneath his weight. Scully would be worried. He had called in sick. Yeah, bad headache, running a fever. Tomorrow? Don't know, we'll see what the Tylenol does. No choice, really. Not like he would have been able to concentrate at work. The last cut out article regarding the lizard baby failed to be appealing. The Gunmen had sent him the newsletter whose distribution he had interrupted, urging him to read it, but instead it sat idly on his coffee table. Expense reports and multicolored folders somehow paled in comparison to making a choice between potentially saving the world or reuniting with a long lost sibling missing for twenty three years now. He realized how the casual observer could easily determine which direction was more *morally* right. But morals had long since been thrown out on the gameboard Mulder was playing on. The world was just... that. A mass of people -- beings -- who cut you off, delivered your pizza late, was the jerk who played the music too loud in the apartment above. Besides Scully and a few others, the human race was a faceless, nameless populace -- figures who Mulder didn't want to know, or who didn't want to know him. Sam... Sam was him. Sam was the part of him that was missing. Sam was the little girl he kept dreaming about. It was for her that he had beat up Charlie McCarthy. He had endured the belt for six years to protect her and her memory. The X-Files had been opened, a promising career in VICAP had been shunned. In essence, she defined him, she made him -- a part of his existence that he could, perhaps, finally hold, grasp in his arms, touch tangibly with fleeting fingers. Mulder methodically started rubbing his forehead with the cool tips of his fingers -- replaying the events in the metal silo. Christ, it was the story of his life; he wasn't even their first choice. Prone to outbursts... How the hell did the silver spooned SOB know? How the hell could his father have known? Half the time he was away on business, the other half was spent nursing his scotch and leather belt. So he *had* beat up Charlie McCarthy on the playground after school, but only after the pig had stolen Sam's lunch money. The belt came out shortly after Mr. Klassen's artificially polite-but-stern phone call home. Doesn't do very well in stressful situations... So he *did* go a little berserk when Sam fell off the swing in the back yard. But, god damn, he had been pushing her, heard her delighted shriek metamorphose into a terrified scream. Watched her fall, head first, her body weight eventually collapsing on top of the triangle the ground, her head, and her shoulder made. He *did* get a little violent when the paramedics tried to put her on a stretcher. Through his tears, though, they looked like cops, and for one brief, alarming second, he thought they were going to take *him* away. Mulder laughed out loud at the irony. *He* thought they would take *him* away. Like he had had a say in the matter. Like he had had a choice. Now he did. The fingers running over his head flattened so that the palm of his hand was pressed against his brow, was trying to ease the headache that was growing. He had to hand it to the old timer's club. They didn't waste punches, sent straight for the gut, knew exactly where his weak spot was. They waggled her in front of him, and *any* deal was automatically enticing. Ah, but he got to pick five people... plus Scully. But was Sam really worth the sacrifice? He had traveled to the Arctic to get answers. But did a single man's quest take precedence over the common good? He had freed a child molester for her. But he had managed to live twenty three years without her... surely he could do it again... Surely... Mulder's hand moved down over his face -- feeling the stubble that was beginning to grow. He *had* lived twenty three years without her. Twenty three years of beatings, which progressed to professional ridicule, which progressed to a basement office with no windows or heat, and the loss of any credibility. Twenty three years with a far fetched hope that she would be found. The phone ringing eventually brought Mulder out of his delirium, and he stared at the black object until the click of the answering machine coming on could be heard. "Mulder, this is Skinner. Pick up the damn phone." Mulder stared at the black receiver, hand still. "Mulder I know you're there. This is about... your deal." Mulder bit his lip, reached for the phone suddenly. "What?" Mulder could hear Skinner's surprised silence, and he waited impatiently for the man to continue. "Your forty eight hours is up. We'll meet at Lincoln's Memorial in two hours, where you will state your... choice." Mulder tried to analyze the voice as it droned. Obviously Walter had one big stick up his ass because he sure sounded nervous. It did little to appease Mulder's mind. "I understand." The phone clicked and Mulder threw the phone across the room, hitting one of the pictures, sending long spidery cracks which originated from the point of impact. So Walter wanted him to make the choice. Zero hour was nearing. Now if he only knew what choice to make. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference Room #3 Moscow, Russia Josef Beranek rushed into the conference room, rag over his face, red, chapped cheeks peeking out from underneath the handkerchief. "What the hell is happening out there?" Kabalevsky merely shook his head, prompting the Colonel to continue. "Where the hell did the small pox come from and why the hell is it spreading so quickly?" Kabalevsky rose his hand to quiet the murmurs amongst the other members in the group. "The virus was delivered via courier to Jakutsk, where every employee in the company was infected, where every employee with a family passed it on to the immediate members of their household..." Beranek sputtered. "But the virus has been dormant..." "Yes, it has, Josef. But it's the method of delivery that's important. Apparently bees carried this particularly virulent strain." One of the members sat up straighter, his thoughts churning. "If it's bees then that means..." Kabalevsky nodded impatiently, annoyed at his colleagues and the lack of speed their thoughts progressed at. "Yes, yes. It means the Americans are responsible..." "We should strike back, with the rock in Tunguska." Kabalevsky flashed a look of annoyance at Beranek. "As I was saying, yes, the Americans are responsible for the attack. However, we can not strike back with the rock from Tunguska, as Josef has so kindly pointed out, because someone has hit the Americans already. They think it was us, who were the instigators, so they were merely retaliating." Kabalevsky paused, staring in Beranek's direction. "My, the Americans must have worked really hard to get that package into Russia unnoticed. You'd think that perhaps someone would have picked up on it." Beranek studied the table, face turning red, anger blown fully in the inside. One man started shaking his head. "If we didn't send the rock, then who did? No one has complete access to all our facilities except for us and..." The man trailed off, eyes widening upon realization. Kabalevsky nodded. "Exactly." "So what do we do in response?" Kabalevsky reached opened a folder inside, casually flipped the top papers, pulled out an eight by ten surveillance photo. "I want him. I want him here, as soon as possible. Now." The men regarded the photo, noticed the Washington FBI headquarters in the background, regarded the lanky figure and wondered why Vladimir Kabalevsky -- Consortium head hauncho for over fifteen years now, would want an American. "Who is he?" "Special Agent Fox Mulder." Josef Beranek rolled his eyes. "Isn't this the man who we saved a few months ago?" Kabalevsky smiled. "Astute assessment, Josef. I must say, I'm impressed. Yes, we did save him. And he owes us, and I know exactly what method of payment is desirable." Beranek started shaking his head, along with assorted members around the table. "Vladimir, it's a waste of resources. My contact there says he's been quiet. We shouldn't waste our time dealing with a petty..." Kabalevsky reached for the familiar cigar and lit the end, taking pleasure in watching his comrade sputter. Yet again. "Josef, this Mulder is very valuable. Much more valuable to me and Russia than you could ever be." The man leaned forward and drew his mouth closer to his ear. The room had grown eerily quiet -- the cigar could be heard burning. "So you do your job, Josef, and get me this Mulder, or I'll make sure you get some nice cleaning up duty at the Jukutsk hospital. Small pox could be very messy -- very contagious if it isn't handled carefully. Does that work for you, Colonel Beranek?" Beranek met his superior's stare with a steely gaze of his own. "It works for me, Comrade." *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Scully knocked on the door twice before letting herself in, eyes automatically adjusting to white floor, walls, microscopes, and lab coats. "Agent Scully! This is a surprise." Scully smiled sheepishly, both to Pendrell who was sporting a goofy grin, and to Rolston, whose eyes kept darting between the two. "I hate that we always have to meet like this Pendrell, but I have a favour to ask." The man turned a shade darker than his carrot hair and waved her in closer. "Sure, anything for you... and Agent Mulder, of course." Scully offered a tight lipped smile. "Agent Mulder is on sick leave apparently." Pendrell's eyes widened. His mouth formed a warped grimace, one that was a strange mix of concern, relief, and happiness. "Yeah, I hear the flu's going around right now." A cellular phone ringing had Scully reaching into her pocket, but a nervous, "It's mine" from across the room signalled the incessant ringing was coming from Rolston's pocket. He excused himself and hastily made his exit. Scully offered an amused eyebrow in Pendrell's direction. "A lab assistant with a cellular phone? What exactly do you guys do down here?" Pendrell shrugged. "I don't know. He just got that stupid phone a few days ago. Rings *all* the time. I don't know, you'd think that he's James Bond with the way he carries himself and his phone." Scully smiled, amused -- almost forgetting the documents in her hand. "Anyways," she pulled the two photocopied notes from a manila folder and offered them to Pendrell. The second note was abruptly cut off at the end, the reference to Skinner's secretary cut out by the female agent a mere fifteen minutes ago. Scully pushed a strand of hair behind her hair while gesturing to the two notes with her other hand. "Mulder and I are tracking down a possible informant, and I was just wondering if you could find someone to analyze it, tell them it's for you, not from me. See if they were written by the same person. And call me when you get the results." Pendrell nodded, head bobbing. "Sure. Anything. I'll call you soon as I hear anything." Scully paused. "Oh, I was going to see Mulder tonight, check up on how he was doing, and I can deliver whatever message you had for him." Pendrell pursed his lips, shaking his head. "I never had a message for Mulder." "You sure? Rolston said you did." "Nope. He must have had the wrong guy." Scully paused, wondered if the confusion was really that simple. She gazed back through the slitted blinds covering the window, only to make out Skinner's broad chest moving -- fast. She offered a quick smile to Pendrell and dropped the empty manila folder onto the counter. "Excuse me, Pendrell. I must apologize, but I just forgot that I had an appointment." Scully grabbed onto the doorframe in her exit out, an attempt to turn faster and follow the retreating figure of her boss. Pendrell heard the high heel click eventually fade away, only then allowing the remnants of Scully's perfume to permeate to his nostrils. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Cafeteria Washington, DC Rolston looked around the cafeteria, cursing lunch time crowds and the monotony of black and navy suits. He eyed the table to the left -- four men. One casually reading a newspaper, the other nursing a diet cola, the other two conversing quietly. Tailored navy blue suits hid the well built bodies and non-registered semi automatic weapons at their belt. They probably even had the grim-faced badges with the giant blue letters proclaiming FBI. He weaved his way through, took the empty seat, feeling the cool gaze of four pairs of eyes on him. "Mulder's been on sick leave. His partner is suspicious." The newspaper was folded carefully in half. In half again. "So what do you suggest we do?" "Follow her. She's going to go check up on him." The one with the can looked doubtful. "Sick leave?" Rolston shifted uncomfortably. "Mulder's never sick -- well, not voluntarily. If we follow his partner, she'll lead us to him. But, I think she's leaving now, so we have to hurry." Two of the men exchanged glances, and got up suddenly -- followed quickly by the two remaining. "Let's go then." *** Agent Henderson looked up from her Tupperware container to see Agent Rolston leaving with four other agents -- four good looking agents. She sighed, wondering how the lab nerd got so popular all of a sudden. All she did was analyze hand writing... from Agent Pendrell, no less, who also had some secret, covert investigation with one of the other agents. She sighed, taking little consolation in that she was one of the few handwriting analysts. She couldn't even get a date with any of her co-workers. Well, none of the good looking ones. The Mulder disaster of couple years back still had her hesitant about approaching other men. She watched dejectedly as the tiny figure of Rolston left through the glass door with the other agents. She turned back to the cold meatloaf and her Cosmopolitan, toward the plastic molded chairs and cheap metal napkin dispensers, wishing that, just for once, she could be part of the action too. *** Lincoln Memorial Washington, DC "Hybridization allows the detection of DNA sequences similar to that of any cloned gene. These sequences can provide information about the evolutionary relationships between the gene of interest and other genes of the same organism or different organism. They can also allow the biologist to learn about the natural form of the gene, including regulatory sequences and other non coding sequences adjacent to the gene or within it..." Sara Culham closed the biology book with disgust and looked up at old Abe Lincoln. So it was January. So it was twenty degrees outside. She fully believed the cold made her think better, made her synapses fire faster -- much to the ribbing of her friends. Maybe it was the touque, or the ergonomically incorrect bench. She didn't care, as long as it helped her get her degree and away from her parents. She reached into her book bag and grabbed her sandwich, frowning when she saw that the mustard had made the corner of the bread soggy and a puckish yellow. She looked back up into Lincoln's face, wondering if the president could give her tips so that she wouldn't be assassinated in her upcoming midterm. Her gaze went down his chest, to his stomach, to his legs that were stoically planted onto the cement below. She whistled inwardly when she saw the man pacing back and forth. A little haggard -- but slim, dark, and mighty good looking. She contented herself by watching him walk -- her eyebrows furrowing when it looked like he was talking to himself, having a two sided conversation with the smoggy DC air around him. Great, why did all the good looking ones have to have all the weird quirks? *** Mulder paced the sidewalk, reminded himself that the left foot came after the right, the right foot after the left. Reminded himself to take a breath every so often to get rid of the dizziness in his head. He looked at his watch. Two more minutes according to the Indiglo Timex. He tried to convince himself that it really was not that difficult of a decision. That in the two minutes currently passing, Sam was needing him. Sam was dying. Would the guilt in allowing the whole world to perish pale in comparison in knowing that he had turned his back on his sister? Or perhaps, he wondered, whether he should have phrased it the other way around. Mulder wondered if they were lying. Debated whether they weren't. The federal agent continued to pace, one volley for every second left step, one rebuttal for every second right. Two breaths for each pro and con session. One check of the watch for every ten steps. One one eighty degree turn for every ten pavement cracks. Mulder wrapped his arms around himself, panicking briefly when the bulge at his left hip couldn't be felt. Oh yeah, he had left the gun at home. And his badge. No use in pretending everything was normal anymore. *** Sara watched the dark haired man for a couple of seconds more. Ticks, indeed. She absently wondered if even Woody Allen had as many quirks as the man pacing in front of her. She watched another man approach, and frowned. Bald... she could never go for a bald man. Obviously the dark one knew the bald guy because they were now cautiously approaching each other. The bald one was... tense. It was just in the way he was walking -- stiff, reluctant, steps dragging for that extra millisecond longer. Sara's mind ran through her endless video collection. An informant, that's who the haggard dark haired man was. And the bald man was probably some tight ass government official with his ass in a sling needing some information to save his heiny. Sara willed her ears to listen better. This was one show she didn't want to miss. *** Skinner was fully aware of the four men behind him -- somewhere unseen -- carrying semi automatics and an arsenal of drugs if need be. He saw the back of Mulder's figure first, and when the agent turned around, Skinner swore this was not the agent who had burst into his office a few days ago. Yeah fucking right. Think of it more like leading the lamb to the slaughter. Skinner wondered what the deal was this time -- wondered how severe the choice could be that the agent would leave his hair an unruly mess, the stubble a dark patch over the bottom half of the face -- it's colour only matched by the bags under the eyes. If Mulder said "Yes, I accept" what was he accepting? Something with him? Skinner almost snorted -- wondered where the high opinion of himself had come from. Scully? Skinner licked his lips. It was probable. Samantha? Skinner stole a glance at the way Mulder's fingers fidgeted, danced nervously with each other. So much more probable. He turned back towards the federal agent ten feet away and approaching, and watched his nervous breaths turn white amongst the grey of Lincoln's legs. He could almost hear the men in black, wherever they were -- supposedly watching his back -- telling him to hurry up. Every step closer to Mulder, the fine hair on Skinner's back stood up that much higher, his palms sweated that much more, his heart palpitated that much faster. Skinner swallowed -- ancient soldier's instincts telling him things were going to go very, very wrong. *** 46 miles from Ha-noi, Vietnam March 19, 1964 The heat was sweltering. The man looked ten feet ahead of him and swore he could see the ground sweating, the steam leaving from the spores of the plants and dirt. He looked ten yards away, and saw that shapes could disappear and reappear, come from seemingly nowhere, quiver, tease the viewer, and disappear to wherever it was they had come from. The only constant was the bugs. Invariable. Omni-present. Big, fat, honkin' bugs that didn't go away, no matter how much you swatted, or how much paint you put on yourself. He laid, stomach down, machine gun in hand, cradled uncomfortably in his right shoulder blade -- one finger, twitchy, nervous, a quarter of an inch away from the trigger. He felt the familiar trickle roll down his forehead, along the hairline, by his ear, and down his neck. God, it was fucking hot. He wondered if the green and black paint on his face had melted off yet. He looked further down the jungle -- just at the interface where clarity and ambiguity met. He hated the jungle -- hated the foreign noises of animals, hated the canopy of foliage and leaves which blocked out the sun, hated the broad trees which made gunshots and screams echo so that you were forced to hear, remember. He looked over at Pearson. The dumb prick was choosing now to eat. The man looked forward again -- prompted by the almost imperceptible click. It made his groin seize, his finger tense right above the trigger once again, and Pearson trade his water bottle for bullets. It was quiet again, but the man couldn't control his breathing. Couldn't open his mouth because the bugs would fly in, so he breathed noisily through his nostrils instead. Pearson gave him a threatening punch on the arm and the man nodded his understanding. He shivered as he felt the hairs on his back stand up. His heart was pounding at a furious clip, and the man had to remind himself that for every exhalation, there needed to be an inhalation. A wire moved. The men fired. And Private Walter Skinner's world went a hazy shade of orange, till it settled to a nice, comforting shade of grey. *** Lincoln Memorial Washington, DC Sara watched with fascination as the two men approached each other cautiously. She wondered when the dark haired man was going to pass the slip of paper, or cassette tape or manila folder over to the government official. She scanned the cement walkway, eyes pausing when they caught a flash of red standing peering out behind a corner. Another secret agent man. The figure shifted, and the red turned into locks of hair which blew into the figure's face, causing a trench coat-ed hand to bat the hair away annoyingly. Sara's eyebrows raised. A secret agent woman spying on secret government man. Interesting. Sara instantly wished she had her Polaroid -- because there was no way her friends were going to believe this the next time they went out drinking. *** Mulder and Skinner's meeting was highlighted with borders of red as Scully angrily tried to keep her hair at bay. Skinner had gone in a van. Rather, a van had picked him up. Indicating that there was more than one man present... somewhere. She had circled once, parked, saw Skinner walking away, saw no sign of the van again. Mulder looked... looked like shit. Looked like he hadn't slept or eaten or done much of anything for the past couple days. Scully saw Mulder's impassive gaze falter slightly when Skinner spoke to him. She clenched her hands tighter, curiosity rearing its ugly head -- prompting her to go closer, so that she could hear what was being said. Her eyebrows furrowed; she bit her lip. Mulder was becoming agitated, and Skinner was trying to calm him down. But Skinner was nervous too. It was in the way his head kept twisting ever so slightly to the right, as if to sneak a glance at something... someone. Skinner suddenly grabbed Mulder's arm and Scully instinctively grabbed for her gun. A grating noise percolated into her ears, unheard by the men under her previous scrutiny. She squinted, watching the five snow shovellers who were twenty feet away from the far side of Mulder. Snow shovelers shovelling in groups of five. Skinner desperately trying to subdue Mulder. The address Skinner had given them coinciding with Mulder's tailspin. Rolston's clinginess the past few days. Scully felt the uneasiness grow. Too many odd incidents at one time to be deemed coincidence. Only a spark was needed to turn the situation explosive. She undid the safety of her gun, held the familiar weight in her hands, awaiting the eventual detonation with bated breath. *** Sara started to grow uneasy when the five city workers armed with snow shovels *coincidentally* arrived just to the left. It was no longer fascinating. She no longer had the urge to tell her friends. She wasn't sure if she was going to come here studying ever again. Her gaze went to the secret agent woman, to the secret government man, to the informant, to the snow shovellers, then back. Her eyes did a quick once over of the five coverall-ed men. It was something about their uniforms. Something about the abnormal bulge in their stomachs, and in the way they kept darting glances towards the two men. Sara's mittened hands started rubbing together. She was afraid to breathe, in the fear her breath would be seen. She was afraid to move, in the fear of making some noise. She shrank further down the hedge, swearing she would never watch spy movies again, swearing she would never see Ol' Abe, if she could only come out of this one unscathed. *** "Don't look." Rolston heeded the Gigantaur's warning and continued shovelling, albeit sloppily. Inwardly, he huffed, even lab techs weren't forced to shovel snow. James Bond never shovelled snow. He tried to watch the two figures from the corner of his eye, but his eyes soon started to water with the effort. He had never gone out in the field. Had never faced serial murderers, or bank robbers, or terrorists. Instead, he had always taken refuge, comfort, in the monotony of his lab, the daily grind of DNA samples -- the occasional excitement coming when a new microscope was brought in, or a new analyzer was installed. Rolston swallowed. Wasn't sure whether the dry mouth was because he was nervous, or because he couldn't keep anything down today. Following the red head had been easy, no qualms. But soon as the snow shovelling had started, his breaths had come out faster, the beating of his heart had become audible and his hands had started to slide in his gloves as he shovelled. This was wrong. All wrong. Rolston took comfort only in that double oh seven always came out of escapades unscathed. He could only hope he would too. *** Sara started packing her textbook in her bag, trying to stuff, zip, and sling the sack on her back at the same time. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. That was why her heart was pumping, her stomach was threatening to expel what little of the sandwich she had eaten, and her brain was screaming at her to get the fuck out of there. The dark haired man was now shaking his head furiously, pointing his finger at the bald man and yelling with such an intensity that his chest was heaving visibly with the effort. The red head was moving closer, and Sara scanned the area again, watching the snow shovellers watch the exchange intently, noticing another group of suited men approaching from the red head's side. It was almost movie like. It was exactly like the westerns, except with Old Abe's legs as the backdrop, and expensive leather wingtips and trench coats instead of spurs and cowboy hats. The dark haired man stopped yelling and started to turn away when the bald haired man reached into his jacket. This prompted the red haired woman to come out behind her pillar with gun already raised. Sara put her hand over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming -- could hear the air coming out noisily through her partially blocked nostrils. The gun fire was deafening, apparently the two groups of men had joined the fray as well. She could hear a woman's voice yelling "FBI" and more gun fire in the background. Sara moved her hands from her mouth and covered her ears, ignoring the fact her face was now buried in snow. She occupied herself by reciting the Hail Mary a dozen times, not caring that she had turned away from the church ten years ago, not caring that she had turned away as an act of rebellion from her parents. Not caring at all. Just praying that the noise would end, that the men and one woman would disappear, and that she could go home and try to forget. Pretend to forget. *** Rolston heard the gun clatter onto the pavement, felt his body doing likewise. The sky was so... bright. It was fringed by a nice black fuzzy border that turned a shade of orange at the interface. He could feel his heart faltering, could feel the blood dripping from his lips, pooling underneath the exit wound. He saw the angry, looming figure of the bald man approaching. It was the ultimate insult. There was no recognition -- his boss didn't even know who he was. Pendrell's crush came up later, breathless -- ignoring the glare of the bald man. Both were mouthing words to him that echoed through his ears, making them indecipherable. He would have answered if he could, but the blood got in the way, producing a foamy gargle instead. He coughed, remembered vaguely a deal he had made so many years ago, in the Bureau parking lot, in the navy blue Olds. All he wanted to be was famous, accepted -- to get the girl at the end and buy her a martini, shaken, not stirred. The closest he had gotten to a woman was now, when lil' ol' Irish was checking his pulse. "Hey..." He coughed again, pitifully. "That's not the way it's supposed to happen." *** Skinner walked away from the body, rubbing a hand over his mouth. The men were gone. The snow shovellers were gone. Mulder was gone. And there was a heap of shit lying on the pavement in front of him. He studied the face, familiar... vaguely wondered who the man was working for, wondered what ideas prompted the man to do what he did, wondered why Scully was standing there, wondered where the hell Mulder was. The female agent was now doing CPR and Skinner walked towards the bloody body once again, kicking the gun away from the limp hand. The Assistant Director walked away from Agent Rolston's beaten body, disgusted -- wondering where the hell it was these people came from. *** Quonochotaug, Maine August 24, 1972 The sun is setting. It casts a red aura around the sky, an unsettling cast on the water which laps at the coastline. There are two figures sitting in the sand -- their torsos blending into the granular substance which surrounds them. Silhouettes. Children clothed in black, working in front of the fire- red paint of the sun, in front of the water which has been coloured orange. One is kneeling, feeling the gritty coarseness underneath his hands. Piling, shaping, adding twigs to make towers, moats, and castle doors. The other is sitting across from the heaped protruding mass, trying to help the figure across from her, but more often than not, causing some of the towers to fall, or digging the moat too crookedly. The taller of the two reaches over, and places the plastic vessel in the make-shift moat -- ignoring that there is no water, or that the moat is slightly too small for the plastic boat's width. The younger claps eagerly, bobbing up and down on her knees, watching the figure across from her proceed to take a leaf and place it on top of the ship's grooved deck. "Say it, Fox. Say it." The boy smiles -- the rare display of pearls hidden to the watchful eyes in the house above. He is a silhouette -- an artist's handiwork -- except to the figure across from him. Across from the figure whose eyes are bright, whose hands are wringing in anticipation. He takes the three lego men, sits them in the boat, and starts to manually move the vessel around the sandy trench. He looks up once again -- raises an eyebrow to the girl watching the hand on top of the boat expectantly. "The old moon laughed and sang a song. As they rocked in the wooden shoe. And the wind that sped them all night long, ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish that lived in the beautiful sea -- `Now cast your nets wherever you wish -- never afeared are we.'" The story teller pauses; the leaf on the boat is cast into the empty crevice. The smaller framed figure laughs. Claps her hands and starts to blow on the make-shift shoe. She is the wind, after all, and the figure beside her with the coy smile is the singing moon. The red water starts to lick at the appendages jutting just within reach of its mouth. A growing force which is coming closer to the shore -- closer to the innocents who sit underneath the burning sun. The laughing quells. A shadow is cast upon the castle, the waves of dew, and the herring fish. Black upon black. A demon amongst silhouettes. The boy is yanked cruelly by the arm, dragged towards the house that overlooks the burning sky, the orange water, and the roaring waves. "Come here, boy. I told you to be in at seven-o-clock." The silhouette and demon are rapidly disappearing, metamorphosing into human forms underneath the garish light of the patio lanterns. The young girl stands suddenly, stepping on the castle, the moat, the net, and the fishermen three. The boy is still watching her, his brown hair now highlighted, his dirty, sand encrusted hands a contrast to the pale skin. The waves are still licking her feet, running over her ankles, threatening her calves. "Fox!" The boy tries to keep up with the figure, running backwards because of the grip on his arm. His other arm is flailing wildly in a futile attempt to maintain a semblance of balance. "Sam!" The two keep calling each other, beckoning to each other, although the distance between them is rapidly increasing. Soon, he is gone, hidden behind closed doors and sounds that everyone will pretend not to hear. Will admire the patio umbrellas and the glorious texture of the peach cobbler. The girl looks back to the castle, sniffling, tears threatening. The tide has already consumed it alive. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Troy Archer wiped the sweat of his head with the back of his hand -- made sure his other hand was still supporting the frail figure in his arms. He looked down towards the book lying on the floor underneath him. He knew the poem. He had had the book memorized five months after Derlum had arrived. Memorized that it was fifteen paces from his quarters to hers -- twelve if the screaming was really bad. But he had never done a "moon" voice. There was no fox in the poem. And opening the book with its painted drawings had merely produced a double dose of Haldol for the invalid when her clenched fist met the cartilage of the nose above her. He stroked the stringy hair, mumbling his apologies when his fingers would catch occasionally in the brown mass of tangles, sweat, and deep curls. The woman began to stir again and the mantra continued, words absently spilling, rolling out of the man's mouth. Coherent only to the incoherent. Words now known by every member in the infirmary. Words now whispered to make the crying abate, to get the muscles to relax and stop the spasms. "Yes, there's a fox coming... it'll be coming soon... soon... just a little while longer... just hold on... like the book... like the moon... " Starting to shift more, legs starting to kick, arms starting to flail, the woman fought against the strong, interlocked arms that held her. The eyes were shifting, rolling underneath closed eye lids. Teeth were grinding, hands were clenching furiously at the air. The figure sat upright, eyes bolting open, one hand outstretched. The scream was deafening, bringing the medics with multicolored syringes, plunger-happy thumbs resting happily on top. "Fox!" *** Private Airplane En Route to: Moscow, Russia The two figures watched with amusement as the man on the floor continued to shift, move slowly -- as if liquid was slowing down his movements. Smiles were exchanged during the drugged dance, snickers were passed during the sing-song moans. The prone figure's eyes clenched tighter, saline staining the steel floor underneath him. The movements became more agitated -- the one arm clawing at the other, the legs kicking furiously at the air around them. A steel booted heel connected with the flailing figure's abdomen. "Shut your mouth!" It was a nether region. A place where reality and illusion and the past were intermingling. Combining. A bedroom with Apollo posters and school books and baseball bats. A monster screaming in the background -- a storm brewing outside, the thunder is particularly loud tonight. The boy knows that if he shuts his mouth the strap will be put away sooner. If he shuts his mouth maybe he can go to bed. If he shuts his mouth, maybe Sam will sneak some crackers up. If he just shuts his mouth... The figure quieted, whimpering. Curled himself into a fetal position, and clamped his lips down tight, breathing heavily through his nostrils -- the gasps marred by the hiccups which made his entire body shudder. The castle was so far away, and disappearing. Sam was going away too. A black silhouette against a brilliant Maine sunset. "Sam...." The Russian was ready. Grabbed the figure by the arm, and plunged the syringe, ignored the moan by the figure on the floor. The whimpering abated, and the two figures, for the first time on the flight, started to laugh. *** Lincoln Memorial Washington, DC Skinner watched the female's face transform slowly -- pale and shaken from the most recent shoot out, to a livid red when the object of her wrath had died with a final blood crusty sputter. "Come on, Rolston, you ass hole. Rolston, wake up... stay with me... Fuck!" Scully slammed her hands on the snow covered pavement -- turned towards her boss when she realized there was still another outlet for her anger. "What the hell just happened?" Skinner shook his head. "I think you and I both witnessed the same thing, wouldn't you say, Agent Scully?" Scully started shaking her head. Rose up form the dead body to inch her face closer to her boss' -- ignored the steady stream of garlic-smelling vapour meeting her nostrils. "We witnessed the same things, but some of us have connections. Are connected to certain circles and are privy to *certain* information." Silence descended on the two figures. Skinner stared straight ahead, focused on a point just beyond Scully's head. His counterpart focused on the eyes of the man in front of her -- attempted to analyze every facial tick, every side glance, any evidence that the man in front of her was lying. A stalemate. Again. Familiar ground. A repeat of events that had transpired only two years ago, but except for the DAT tape, the object in question was pure, unadulterated knowledge. Scully cocked her head to the side, her blue eyes boring holes into the AD's glasses. "Where is Mulder..." An afterthought: "...sir." "I don't know, Agent Scully." The female agent rubbed her chapped hands over her mouth, couldn't hold back the stinging retort when it came. "You decided to take a walk at Lincoln Park coincidentally at the same time as Mulder and five snowshovellers and four men in black." "May I remind you, so did you, Agent Scully." Skinner watched the agent's cheeks start to grow dark -- wasn't sure if it was from the stress or from the wind that had started to pick up. The next question was posed in a low, guttural growl. "So then where did your snow shovelling friends take my partner?" Confusion etched Skinner's face momentarily, to be replaced by annoyance. To be replaced by a fear that the agent was... somewhere. A weight settling in his groin told him that he had screwed up, and instinct was telling him to cover his ass and get somewhere. Far. And fast. "That wasn't us... them, Agent Scully. I came to warn Agent Mulder. I had heard through unofficial channels, as you call them, that a bounty had been put on Mulder's head. I have no idea where he is at the moment." The AD noticed the look of doubt on Scully's face. A lie was best hidden between two truths, and Mulder was the king piece on a twisted and ever-changing checkerboard. "Can you find out?" There was a bitter laugh. The fire in Scully's blue eyes had been replaced with worry, was the carbon copy of the look the female agent wore when Mulder had gone to the Arctic. "I don't know if I'm privileged to that information, Agent Scully." Scully nodded -- surveyed the park once again. Empty. No snow shovellers. No men in black. Only her, and Skinner, and the carcass in front of them. She looked towards her boss -- tried to study the eyes that refused to meet her gaze. She had respected him. She had admired his courage when he had reopened the X-Files, when he had dealt with the DAT tape and reinstated them. But the man was an enigma. Would pull Mulder's chain, would pull cases back without explanation. Would do things like... *this* -- where her boss' actions over the course of the past couple days defied any semblance of logic. The female agent pushed a lock of hair away from her face, sighing. "Can you at least tell me if the case you *assigned* to Agent Mulder was related to this, or other instances involving... unofficial channels?" Skinner shook his head -- tried to be as ambiguous as possible. "I don't know, perhaps." Skinner watched the female agent clench her jaw. But just as she trying to protect her partner, he was trying to protect someone as well. "Can you find out? Do you know why they would want him?" "Agent Scully, I don't know anything, I was just here to warn Mulder. That's all." Scully opened her mouth to add a retort, but just as soon closed it, twisting it into a tight lipped line, adding to her features newly acquired look of determination. "Fine. I have three hundred bodies from that grave. And I'll find something. I refuse to believe that there is no evidence which cannot indict these people, or you. Or lead to the whereabouts of Agent Mulder." The female agent turned on her heels, footsteps echoing through the stone pillars of Lincoln's legs. Only till the female agent was out of sight, did the Assistant Director of the FBI release a sigh. He reached for the cell phone resignedly, studying the features of the dead body in front of him. The thought that it could easily be him, propelled his fingers to dial. The thought that *they* could waggle his albatross yet again, prompted his vocal chords to work. The thought that he was in a situation that was rapidly starting to spin out of control was soon forgotten as English Accent picked up on the third ring. The cell phone soon disconnected, and Skinner was left alone once again with his thoughts, fully focused on the task at hand: getting the hell out of there, and turning Agent Rolston's murder into suicide. *** Russian Family Planning Center Moscow, Russia The lab techs were working furiously on the third green tank from the right. It was leaking. Morph one thirty one had accidentally hit it with a steel cart and now the polymer glass had a minute crack in it. "It's futile. We need a new tank." A hand reached into the tank and pulled out a membrane enclosed sac. Still pulsating, red fluid still flowing through translucent passages, the sac was thrown into the incinerator. A distinct pop could be heard mere seconds later. With a controlled efficiency, a new tank was assembled and a new fertilized cell was placed carefully in. On the other side, larger tanks were happily bubbling, one hundred and forty nine to be exact. One hundred and forty nine tanks filled with appendaged beings that bore a strong resemblance to those beings who currently walked the Earth. Jeremiah had to smile. So gullible were humans. Their bodies were so delicate, their brains so simple -- a perfect carrier for a more superior being. He looked into the holding room -- watched the four hundred some people mingle absently. Humans were also incredibly stupid. He pulled out a child, handing him a piece of metal, and both walked over to morph one thirty one. "Sir... I didn't mean to hit the tank." The technician looked at the child. Took in his pale, waxy complexion and the stout legs. "The child looks slightly sickly sir." He shifted uncomfortably when met with silence once again. "I'm sorry sir. It won't happen again." Jeremiah smiled. "It won't." A silent message was passed between child and father. The gun was raised and a hot, lead pellet went searing through the morphs neck. The boy looked back up to the taller figure, eyes expectantly waiting. The morph took the gun from the boy's hands, toed the green fluid that was now melting into the floor. Jeremiah smiled. Sickly-looking and all, the boy would do quite nicely. *** Mulder Apartment Alexandria, Virginia The case file had been strewn over the floor. The picture frame across from the couch had been shattered. The phone laid innocently below. But Scully was sitting on the couch -- for the first time really studying the girl in front of her. Her thoughts flashed back to Roche, and of what Mulder had told her had transpired in Canada, and to all the heartache, and silent tears, and body-wracking shudders, and prayed, for her partner's sake, that the little girl in the frame was worth all of it. The gun was still on the coffee table. The holster was still on the gun. Any insight to where the man in question was, was with the man in question. A knock on the door had Scully warily reaching for her hip while cautiously approaching the wooden panel. The woman outside looked confused, then scowled. "Are you a girlfriend?" Scully reached into her pocket. "Federal Agent Dana Scully." The woman squinted and leaned into the badge, studying the writing. "Yeah, well you tell your boyfriend that his rent is due. He's three days late already." Scully nodded. The woman started turning away, varicose veins showing underneath a tattered house coat. "Oh, and you also tell him, any repairs to *anything* have to be run through me." Scully's head tilted; her heart started to flutter. "What do you mean?" The woman sneered. "I mean, if he wants to fix his water filter, he has to get it okayed by me first before calling in the repair guys -- even if he pays in advance." Scully felt her stomach drop -- her innards scream, no, not again. She nodded, whispered, "I'll be sure to tell him." Soon as the woman was gone, Scully made a familiar trek to Mulder's basement -- flashlight and evidence bag in hand -- ignoring the rapidly surfacing, sick feeling of deja vu in the pit of her stomach. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Although she had always flaunted science in her partner's face -- although it was the basis of all her thought processes and opinions, Doctor Special Agent Dana Scully was fully aware that science could be one ambiguous bitch. She looked at Pendrell, trying to feign interest in the equipment that he was showing her -- the equipment that was being used to test Mulder's dialysis filter... yet again. She looked back at the evidence bag on the counter and wondered where he was this time. She doubted he was in New Mexico. The writing analysis had been a match. Surprise, surprise. But there was little Scully could do with it. She highly doubted that Skinner would be shaking in his knees if she presented the evidence to him. Pendrell finally ended his diatribe and handed Scully a half inch report. "It's the best I could do under the time restraints." Scully nodded. Flipping. Frowning. "So what is this?" Pendrell shrugged. "From first glance it looks like a bunch of polypeptide chains. The nitrogen groups, the hydrogen, the carboxyl group, and the 'R' group indicates amino acids, which logically indicates proteins which logically indicates enzymes." "But..." "But these are enzymes we've never seen before. And there's doubt to whether they're enzymes at all. Perhaps it's just nitrogenous junk." Scully sighed to vent her growing frustration. "So why would someone plant it in someone's water?" Pendrell shrugged again. "I dunno. There are no effects in terms of drug effects. There are no obvious side effects with other drugs the person might have been taking." Scully flipped though the papers and tests, eyes focusing on one particular abnormality. "What's this?" Pendrell looked over and started nodding. "That's what I was going to bring up. Nothing spectacular except for this result. It seems that the substance is basically taken up by the cell's nucleus. Every single cell. Not in the cytosol, or cytoplasm... only in the nucleus." Scully studied the report in front of her. Nucleus. The nucleus was the decision making center of every cell. DNA was carried in the nucleus. Shit, at this pace, perhaps she'd find Mulder before her fiftieth birthday. If she was lucky. She shut the folder abruptly and tucked it between her arms. Pendrell shuffled on both feet, and darted his eyes between the back room and the agent in front of him. "Agent Scully, I'm sure you heard of Rolston's suicide..." Scully nodded her head, arms closing tighter around the folder. "... I just wanted to tell you that his funeral is tomorrow. If you were thinking of coming." Scully nodded again. She didn't trust herself to speak -- considering she was the one who shot him. Or so she believed. She still wasn't sure. Pendrell started to absently pick at his lab coat pockets. "He was a really good friend. A really good guy." Scully offered a tight lipped smile -- finding she could no longer nod at the deceased lab partner's sentiments. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Mulder curled himself deeper within himself -- with his left hand reaching for a blanket that was not there. In his world of black he could hear sounds. Water dripping. Old piping. Buzzing, scurrying near him. No voices. No footsteps. He had been having a dream. A horrible dream. Something about Lincoln Memorial and Sam... and he had to choose. Why the hell was it so cold? He felt the condensation that had glued his cheek to the panel underneath him and groaned again. Shit, he was on the floor. Must have been one hell of a nightmare if he fell off the couch in the middle of it. Shit, what time was it, and would Scully be pissed? He slowly opened his eyes, preparing for the onslaught of light from the Virginia sunshine. It was still dark. And damp. The figure bolted upright -- swayed slightly at the bloodspots that were appearing before his eyes. Cement. Dark. Gray. So much like a prison not so long ago. There were voices coming -- words indecipherable because they rebounded off the cement, because they were far away, because they were... wait... wait... The figure started to panic. Russian. He was in God fucking Russia. He bolted to his feet, reaching the nearest wall in two long strides. Fingers out, blindly searching, he groped for any crevice, any crack that could assist in an escape. His hand came into contact with a small, circular opening -- a water pipe dripping parasite-infested water, made black due to the lack of light. The federal agent recoiled in horror as his senses fired simultaneously, causing the flashback to be all that more vivid. All that more real. Oh my God, the worms... Oh my God, Krycek and Trish... Oh my God, Scullywhereareyou... *** The corridor reeked of decades old dirt and decomposition. Of rats and vermin and parasites. Steady footsteps broke the contented silence of rot and decay, and the ruby ring of Colonel Josef Beranek shone like a beacon amongst the darkness that lived there. The ring was being played with -- the implement was being twirled around, rubbed, moved up and down in anticipation of the work out it would inevitably receive. With his red eye, prisoners would beg to be killed. Mistresses would beg for more. When used just right, when hit on the mouth, the blood would come spewing, and for one glorious moment, he would be looked at from below. He would look *down* at them, and for that one fleeting second he could revel in the dilated fear that showed in their eyes. That he had broken them, that they had relinquished their control to him. That he was in charge. Kabalevsky aside, Beranek took great pride that he was the most feared man in Russia. That what he lacked in brains was made up, if not more so, in brawn. He would make his mark. Permanently. He started walking towards cell forty eight. It was time to take charge once again. *** Morgue -- Autopsy Bay #6 Quantico, Virginia Scully looked at the open body in front of her. The constant air of formaldehyde was giving her a headache. The bright lamps which made the body fluid glisten, which made her tools sparkle, were starting to make spots of orange and green appear before her eyes. The scalpels and their steel friends were starting to leave blisters underneath her gloved fingers. Jane Doe was completed autopsy number one hundred and twenty two out of two hundred and four. By now, she was only a small, almost insignificant, mass of darkened bones and decomposed organ and tissue. And there had been nothing. No scars. No tattoos. No chipped teeth. No moles. Nothing. According to the dental records, Jane Doe never existed -- along with the other two hundred and three companions that she had arrived with. Scully felt the onset of desperation seeping in. Mulder was somewhere. On a lesser, but still important note, Skinner was somewhere -- Kim was at a loss as to where he went. And Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully, along with ten other bureau forensic pathologists, was in an autopsy bay fooling around with decomposed corpses. If it hadn't been so disturbing, it would have been fascinating. Lungs were enlarged, muscles would have been clearly defined. Even the children were developmentally superior. From what they could tell, each individual had been in perfect health. And with each passing organ, with each inspection of the teeth -- with each ultimately futile search for a tattoo or mole, Scully's fear that the clues to the chaos were not in the bodies, started to increase exponentially. Dr. Nguyen rushed into the room, causing Scully to jump, momentarily thinking that the body in front of her had come to life. "Dr. Scully, I think I found something." Scully studied the doctor carefully. A small piece of metal enclosed in a plastic evidence bag was being twirled nervously among the doctor's fingers. Scully slowly lowered the scalpel onto the tray, eyes wide. By God, the doctor looked scared. "What is it?" The doctor shifted uncomfortably. "I found this in the stomach of the Jane Doe I was doing. I don't know if you would know anything about or not." Scully cautiously walked towards the doctor, trying to study the elder's facial features. She took off the gloves -- hard, in an attempt to vent her frustration, getting pleasure from the resultant snap of the prophylactic. Her hand extended, reaching for the questionable object in its plastic container. Scully turned the bag over and exhaled. Didn't acknowledge that her stomach had just dropped. Didn't want to acknowledge that her mind was screaming at the implications. Scully's eyes met the doctor's, and Dr. Nguyen offered a shrug. "I highly doubt it's related to you, but I just had to make sure." Scully nodded. Could hear the roaring of her blood pass behind her ears. Dr. Nguyen had become tapestry against the cinder walls -- the object of Scully's exclusive attention was the piece of metal in front of her. She smiled absently at the doctor, wasn't sure if the lips had turned up as she had wanted, or twisted into a grimace. She took a deep breath. Counted to five. Soon adopted the Agent-Scully-unfazed-by- anything facade, realizing that perhaps she was over reacting. Perhaps it was someone else. "I'm sure it's someone else." She grasped the bag tighter, flashed some teeth. "You know, I was just going to go to the lab, I'll take this down to analysis for you." The doctor smiled. "Thanks... I appreciate it." The red head smiled back. She appreciated it too. Scully watched the doctor leave, with every footstep, clamping the pin tighter in her hand, hoping it would dissolve, disintegrate, and that everyone could magically forget. She opened her hand, opened her eyes. It was still there. The naval-issued name pin was still in her hand -- its engraved letters screaming at her, her block lettered family name spelled out patriotically. SCULLY *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia When the anxiety attack subsided, Mulder fell onto his knees. Looked up to the stone walls. Let his hands fall and touch the cold cement floor. He remembered now. Remembered seeing Scully come out from behind the pillar with her gun drawn, her red hair flaming, before faceless hands grabbed at his arms, his chest, his legs -- pushed a cloth into his face that made his eyes threaten to burst with panic, fingers try and scratch the arms which were suffocating him. He remembered trying to kick at Rolston who was shooting erratically at Scully, watched Skinner duck and try and get out of the cross fire while reaching into his jacket to pull out his own piece of metal. In his struggles he had turned his head, seeing the girl with the knapsack and the touque running away, brown hair flowing out from underneath. Watched her run as the world turned black, his cerebrum superimposing Sam's face onto the figure. Could once again see the distance between the two was rapidly increasing. Once again missed the opportunity to touch her face with fleeting fingers. Once again missed the opportunity to call her, to beckon her. Instead, it had all been ripped away. Once again. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York The colour of the bourbon in the Englishman's glass reminded Skinner of the blood that was spilled in the park a little less than five hours ago. The cigar smoke pushed him to remember the wisps of carbon residue that flew from his gun in the fuck up that was supposed to be a retrieval. The tall, lanky silhouette standing in front of the window resembled, much to Skinner's discomfort, a certain federal agent -- the goods which were the Consortium's version of the Tickle Me Elmo doll. If you build it, they will come. Indeed. The conversation, or rather, the coercion was one sided, brief. The members of the Consortium had learned long ago that torture -- the beatings, the whips, the implements, even the threat of death -- paled in comparison to grabbing something close to the heart, in reaching for something dear to the soul, and clamping. Squeezing. Like the final nails being hammered into a coffin, the squeezing began. Impossible demands were made possible only after a little duress. And if Walter couldn't go to Russia. With Marita C--whatever. In charge. And get back Mulder. Alive. And find the morphs. And kill them. And the merchandise. Then Assistant Director Walter Skinner would have to accept the consequences -- accept that an agent under his charge had been bargained away for personal gain. Then Private Walter Skinner, survivor of a hellish existence they called Vietnam, would have to watch as his secrets were shared to the TV media, to the radio, to the mothers and sisters and daughters of those men who had died a gruesome death. Then Walter Robert Skinner, impressionable kid, who liked to do nothing but play baseball and be like pop, would have to watch as the whole world heard about Daddy's dirty little secrets. The pressure came from all directions. Not only from the men around him, but from the hardwood floors, from the dim lamps, from the pale, smoke tinged walls which seemed to be enclosing him, boxing him in. Squeezing him. With a nod, Skinner could do nothing but agree. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Mulder tensed. Felt his heartbeat start to quicken, his chest start to tighten. Unknowingly, his fingers bent inwards, balling his hands into fists, nails leaving angry red marks on the palms. The footsteps had stopped in front of the door, followed by a familiar jangle of keys and the click of a lock being unfastened. The door opened and the figure inside rose, ready to face the faceless demon that stood in front of him. "Mr. Mulder... we've been expecting you." The subject under interrogation kept his mouth closed, his hands held tightly at his sides. Watching. Waiting. Colonel Josef Beranek smiled, revelling in the lithe figure of the man in front of him. In the arms which were twitching slightly underneath the strain of trying to keep hands and fingers tightly balled up into fist. In the eyes which glittered in the darkness of the cell. The mirrors of the soul which were showcasing a medley of emotions: fight versus flight, brazen courage versus gut wrenching fear. A leather wingtip crossed the threshold -- a step that echoed off the walls, that sent shivers of pleasure, of anticipation, down his spine. "Mr. Mulder, it seems your talents are desired by some of the members of our staff." The man started to rub his hands together, twisting the ring on his fourth finger. The red eye glittered in the dark, caught the eye of the man whose hands were now moving towards the front of his body. The Russian stepped in all the way, the red eye alive and looking for a target, looking for some vengeance in the face of the embarrassment he had received in front of his colleagues. "You owe us, American. You owe *me*. And I'm here to make sure you pay every cent." The red eye lashed out. And attacked. *** Margaret Scully's House Baltimore, Maryland The priest smiled at the red haired woman in front of him, held her hand within his like he had done so many times, so many years ago, and started to pat it. "Dana, it's so nice to see you again -- nice to see you healthy. The church prayed for you. Surely it's one of God's miracles you're back with us." Scully's mouth hid behind her wine glass -- covering the tight line whose surroundings were slowly turning white. She swallowed. Took a breath. Smiled slightly and murmured her thanks, ignoring the glances from her mother on the other side of the table. Ignored the paternal gaze of the black collar in front of her. She fingered the cross at her neck, felt the sharp corners of the four arms dig into her chest. With a sigh, she finally let her hand drop to her side, on top of her pants pocket, only to feel the sharp corners of the name pin -- only to once again wish the piece of metal alloy away. She dragged her eyes from the plate below her and looked across at her brother, studying his uniform, the lapels, the badges. The name pin. Her mind and heart raged another silent battle -- her heart diligently grasping onto the belief that there were plenty of Scullys in the United States. A good number of them could realistically be good, strapping men who were in the navy. Logically, a fair percentage of those could be petty officers. There. That was it exactly. But the way her mind screamed its objections, the way it pointed out the holes in the logic her heart had dictated, made Scully want to vomit the same roast beef her brother was studiously carving. She hoped Mulder would forgive her. Forgive her for changing into the V-necked pullover she loved, and driving over to mother's with trembling hands and burning pocket. Forgive her for drinking wine and pretending to laugh while trying not to cry at the irony. Her answers did not lie within Cancerman and his Morley, nor in past UFO cases with abducted MUFON members. Sadly, the answer was sitting in front of her, giving her questioning looks when he noticed her staring. He broke off the stare, eyes concentrating once more on the roast below him. "So, Dana, how's Mulder?" Scully looked wide-eyed at Bill, surprised by how off-guard the question had caught her, instantly wondering why Bill Scully would ask that question, what his motives could be, was his question as innocent as he phrased it to be... Then the panic passed, and she smiled. Then her fork started to clatter against the plate, and her hands were hastily shoved into her lap. A forced, reassuring smile was displayed for the sake of all the worried eyes at the table. "Fine... just fine." She glanced back at Bill, whose smile in return to his sister's looked genuine. Scully took another deep breath, wasn't sure if her mom had turned the thermostat up, or if it was the wine which was causing the heat in her cheeks. She laid the first bait, plunged not with both feet, but with one foot gingerly testing the waters -- still wasn't sure if she wanted to know if there were monsters lurking underneath the prim navy uniform. "Ah... actually, there was a really interesting case. A mass grave was dug up by Reisterstown. Mulder was the one who... found it. You may have heard it in the news." She looked back at her brother who was seemingly fascinated by the story. The knife was still hovering a half inch over the top of the roast. His mouth was slightly open; blue eyes pierced blue. "You guy's have any leads?" Scully started to open her mouth, but she was quickly interrupted by the eldest Scully. "This is not the place, nor the time, for such conversation." Mumbled apologies came out of the mouths of both children. Scully's hand snaked to her pocket, and she fingered the pin once again. Felt the engraved lines and curves of her name, even though she had long since committed it to memory. She looked back in the direction of her mother, who had started conversation with Father McQue. Scully noticed the worry lines, the grey hair, the eyes which had lost some of their brilliance. The way a good joke would cause the corners of her mouth to rise, but fail to enter the eyes. That in those mirrors of the soul was the feeling of emptiness, of something lost -- that at every family gathering there was the reminder that there would be two less plates set up, less presents to give, less gifts and hugs to receive. All consequences of an illness called cancer, an abduction that still remained unresolved, the death of a young woman, and the heart break and the soul searching which followed. She looked at her mother once again. Watched her hands gesticulate as she told Father McQue what happened when Charlie ratted on Bill, told mom about sneaking off her cigarettes and selling them to his buddies. How the sixteen year old had stormed around the house, saying he would never forgive Charlie for what he did. How mom stoically weathered the storm -- said that she could forgive Bill if he could forgive Charlie. Scully fingered the pin once again, wondering if, when it was all over, mom and Bill would be able to forgive her too. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Oh God, did he hurt. Did every bone, every spot of flesh, and every muscle scream in protest to each subtle change in position. That every heart beat was a pulse of fire, a rise and fall, a throb, that travelled amongst the intricate network of criss crossing veins and arteries within him. That all outside sounds had been obliterated, only to focus on the pulse that beat within his breast, the rhythmic yearning for something that had gone missing so long ago. Something that the Russian bastard with the ruby studded ring could not comprehend. That his silence was not primarily an act of defiance -- not a direct refusal of the order red eyes had issued him. But an act of waiting. Of a temporary, warped submission that allowed him to retreat, and to dream, and to relish in memories past. A parched tongue explored the chapped, broken lips around it -- Mulder's mind blindly calculating how badly it had been damaged. He could feel the blood starting to paste his lips together, could feel how the bottom was so swollen that it crawled up and over the top, right side of the lip. The Russian's threats and coercions, the steel toed boots and the ring-embellished punches had soon given way to pants and gasps, and Mulder felt a small victory in not giving in. Found some familiarity in the Russian's frustration, in his lip that bled freely because his teeth had bit into it. Just because his mind had clamped onto the last remnants of memory. Deja Vu. A chance to reminisce of times past and not-so-beautiful. The cell door opened, and Mulder reflexively drew a hand up to protect his eyes from the light, instantly groaning, feeling ten muscles protest simultaneously. The silhouetted figure glowered over his charge with a height difference of over half a foot, with a width that was twice as wide. "Yes or no?" Mulder's eyes met the glistening almond shape of his captor, and he pushed down the instinctual reflex to cower and hide. Like his dad and the swiss cheese memory during that certain night in Massachusetts, Mulder could not give the Russian what he wanted. Would not. "I said no." Beranek smiled, snapping at the air behind him. "We'll see if you're so defiant after your little trip down memory lane. I hear it's more pleasurable the second time around." Mulder's eyes darted side to side, pupils dilating in response to the sympathetic nervous system kicking in, in response to the two goons who had just entered the cell, hands fidgeting, looking for something to grab onto. The federal agent was roughly knocked down onto his stomach. Big, beefy hands that were sweating, that allowed his wrists to slide slightly, pinned his arms behind his back. A syringe bore down in clear sight, the same suspicious orange liquid that was used only a half a year ago in a little Russian town called Tunguska. Adding yet another hole to the fabric of memory that Fox Mulder chose to wrap himself in. Adding yet another moment of fear drenched sweat, of panic filled screams, and of desperate visions of the angel in the nightgown. *** Margaret Scully's house Baltimore, Maryland Two solitary figures stood in the hallway of Margaret's Scully's home -- half a foot separating the two bodies, the sound of air being inhaled and exhaled rebounding off the walls, overlapping the quiet din emanating from the living room. Bill Scully stared at his sister, a look of half amusement, half worry marking his classic Irish features. "Dana... what are you doing?" The red head pulled out an object out of her pocket, saw the light reflect off the name pin, and held it up high to her brother's eye level. "Is this your pin? Bill Scully took in hand and studied it. Twisted it this way and that, before a smile came across his face. "I don't know. Maybe. Could be. I guess it depends where you found it. There's a lot of Scullys in the navy." Scully nodded. Her mind told her to stop, to end it there. That what Billy said was logical, and that he didn't know, and that was it. She took the pin again and caressed it -- thinking of Mulder, thinking maybe... maybe this was it. This was *the* clue. But then the sound of Charlie laughing momentarily startled her, and the sad face of her mother swam into view, with eyes that spoke of yet another heart ache, of the monumental task of having to try and pick up the pieces yet again. Bill's brotherly, paternal gaze rested on her once again. "You sure?" Bill's eye's narrowed. "I'm sure." Scully's conscience was whispering, niggling. Telling her to stop before someone got hurt. "I don't believe you." The elder Scully started shifting uncomfortably. "What do you want me to say, Dana? You give me a navy pin and ask me if it's mine? How the hell am I supposed to know?" Scully started nodding, the fissures in her mind screaming at her to stop pushing for Christ sakes. Just stop. Now. "Bill, I found this pin in the mass grave at Reisterstown -- the case you seemed pretty damned interested about five minutes ago. I want to find out why a woman was so compelled to swallow a navy pin. Why there were two hundred bodies in a ditch, all dying of hydrogen cya..." Scully trailed off, leaning against the wall. She closed her eyes, ran a hand over her closed lids after seeing her brother blanch, after watching his hands start to shake. "It was found in her stomach?" Scully winced at the whisper -- tried to silence the two conflicting voices in her head. Tried to ignore Starbuck asking Special Agent Scully if the answer had been worth the look of despair on her brother's face. The look reserved for the condemned and guilty. "It was embedded in her stomach, yes." He put a hand to his face. "They died of hydrogen cyanide." The hands started to move around his face, covering his eyes. His head shook as if to shake away the last gossamers of memory. "Bill... please. I need to know." Scully found her words soon tangling themselves within her emotions which were churning madly. Her impassive facade crumbled as her next words tumbled out of her mouth. "I need to find out where Mulder is..." She turned away, putting a hand against her mouth, inwardly berating herself for letting her tongue slip. Mulder was a sticking point in her family, a festering wound. Her mom admired him, accepted his occasional bouts of insensitivity and extreme paranoia. But she was clearly in the minority. Scully had prepared herself not to bring Mulder into the equation, to not give Bill the opportunity to think her personal feelings were overshadowing her professional judgement. Her brother looked at her sister; his uniform had turned a puke colour of green underneath the lack of lights in the hallway. He remained unaffected by his younger sister's spontaneous plea -- his head shaking resolutely. "I can't, Dana. Nothing... nothing happened." He chanced a glance towards the pin once more. "It's not mine... not mine." He marched into the living room, where Scully quickly followed. She raised her finger to point, opened her mouth to scream, but suddenly stopped when she ran into the questioning glances of Father McQue and her mother. She felt the blood travel to her face, the roar begin to pound in her ears. She saw Bill standing in the middle of the living room, the object of everyone's confused glare -- a man grasping onto his life saver in the middle of shark infested waters. Bill felt a small hand touch his shoulder, and he jerked away, startled. Thinking. Remembering. He looked down into his sister's eyes, how they glistened and shone -- whether from the lighting, or from the tears that were threatening he did not know. Searching fingers tenderly touched the name pin that he wore on his chest, moved down to lay flat over his heart. "Bill," the fingers whispered. "I need to know. Please." He looked around him -- smiled a reassuring smile to his mother, regarded Father McQue with a look of half disdain, half indifference, then hastily grabbed his sister underneath her arm and roughly shoved her outside. Both figures crossed their arms, hugged their shoulders in an effort to keep the cold at bay, to prevent the wind from seeping into their bones, from disturbing the secrets that lay there. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that. We were just supposed to deliver them, and that was all." Like a runaway train, Bill's voice started to pick up. The words that came from his mouth accelerated as the torrent of guilt and anger and powerlessness threatened to overcome him. "But something happened. And Roberts... he couldn't come back out. And Dana, I reached for him... I *tried*... I think... I think I could have reached farther, if only..." Bill shook his head, unable to put into words what he had done, what he had witnessed. "... But he couldn't reach me, because there were too many..." He gesticulated wildly, trying to find a word for the mass of people down below who could dismember each other. "... Just too many. And so we had no choice but to drop the canister in." Her brother's face suddenly hardened, turned into a sneer that glistened underneath his tears. "They were supposed to hide all the evidence. I told them about the pin. And they said they would fix it. It wasn't supposed to happen like that." Bill started to nod his head, speaking now to reassure himself rather than the person in front of him. "It wasn't, Dana. I'm not... I didn't kill those people. I... I had no choice. You have to believe me." "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Bill looked up, startled. His sister's voice was impassive, devoid of any emotion -- as if she was a federal agent and he was a suspect. As if this interrogation had been rehearsed many times all ready. As if betrayal and guilt were no surprise to the girl whose pigtails he used to pull. "Because they threatened us... you. We had to keep our mouths shut. I had no choice. I had to. I mean, what good would the truth do to those in the grave?" Bill paused a beat to catch his breath, lowered his voice. "What good is the truth to you, Dana? What good was the truth to Missy?" Scully reflexively looked away. It was unfair. A low blow. A parting shot. Making comparisons, trying to look like the bigger man -- that perhaps ignorance was an adequate price to pay. That bleating voices could be rendered silent if everyone turned a blind eye, a deaf ear. "I'm trying to find my partner, Bill. Is that too much truth to ask for?" Bill Scully shook his head. "How much is he worth, Dana? How far are you willing to go?" Scully started to remove the keys from her pockets, started to walk down the walkway without jacket towards the car. Her voice wavered along with the cold winter wind; her determined steps only served to accentuate the edge that had crept into her voice. "As far as I humanly can." *** "A few days ago, KQLY news was the first on scene in the late breaking story, which has seemingly caught all of Maryland's attention, about a possible outbreak of a new, deadly disease which leaves its host incapacitated. It has now been discovered that all infected had been on board a flight from Russia to New York. KQLY has also learned that the cause of the outbreak was not viral, as originally feared, but a severe case of food poisoning. The management at Fly USA airlines has been ordered by the government to hand over all airplanes momentarily for a routine inspection of their kitchen facilities. "Over seas, an epidemic is also occurring -- not with a new virus, but with an old one. Small pox has hit Russia. It appears patient zero started in Jukutsk, and the contagion has quickly spread. It is not known how patient zero contacted the disease from a virus which has been supposedly dormant for over twenty years. There have been no reported cases in the States as of yet, and our hearts go out to the families of the victims in Russia." *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Frohike felt guilty. Extremely so. The possibilities of what could have happened to his friend were running an endless loop through his head. Of watching him groan, and rock, and blindly grope for pill bottle after pill bottle. It was his fault. He should have called the woman in front of him. The woman who was Mulder's partner. The woman who was currently standing in front of them with a dialysis filter, some folders, and a very rumpled suit -- coffee stain included. "This stays within this room." Frohike nodded. "Of course." The red head drew a breath, a look of distrust and of caution momentarily flashing in her eyes. Diamond Cutters saw this, accepted it. Knew how difficult it was for this federal agent to come to them, to stand amongst the surveillance photos, the technical equipment, and the conspiracy containing cabinets. Frohike accepted that she was desperate, that the Lone Gunmen were a last ditch effort, a grasp at straws. "This is what I know. Someone's been poisoning Mulder's water, but the only substance is a bunch of amino acids, no specific function that we can tell. A mass grave was brought to our attention. Two hundred bodies, all killed by hydrogen cyanide, all with physiological abnormalities." "Alien?" Frohike interceded. The female federal agent bristled. "Not determined." She turned back towards the other two. "Mulder's missing. He went to Lincoln Memorial, where there were two groups waiting. I don't know who they were. But, his original intentions were to meet with our boss, who was present as well." Frohike frowned, the corners of his mouth eventually turning into worry. Guilty looks were exchanged between the three Gunmen -- their self-imposed silence was costing Mulder much more than they had originally thought. That policy was a stupid bitch of a thing when it meant watching a man suffer horribly from the parasites in his head. When it meant standing impotent by the phone, with broken scrambler in hand, while watching the man in the box groan, moan, rock and grunt. And that by running yet another story on LSDM and fruit flies, by scrapping the story which showed the Assistant Director of the FBI for what he really was, they had inadvertently, maybe, perhaps caused the disappearance of the same man with the headaches. Frohike ran a hand over his face -- could feel how clammy his hand was in comparison to his flushed face. "So your boss instigated Mulder's kidnapping?" Scully shifted. The more questions the men asked, the more questions she didn't know the answers to, the more she felt like an impotent spectator. "He maintains he was trying to protect him. That..." "Hey, guys, they're talking about it again." Frohike, Langly and Scully turned towards Byers and the TV. The anchor's voice caught Scully's attention -- she whirled around, half expecting to see Rolston's face, only to see the concerned facade of Jeremy Collins as the still in the background showed a frantic hospital scene. Scully medical mindset was horrified by the pustular pimples found on the Russians, and she watched carefully as the reporter took a tour of the New York hospital where most of the food poisoned passengers of Fly USA had been taken to. The female federal agent then turned, suspiciously watching Byers fool around with the TV, with the remote, with the VCR, with the videocassette. Watched Langly take a sudden interest in the stain that was on his Metallica T-shirt, scratching at it with his too-short fingernails, diligently searching for a tool that could perform the task. Watched Frohike's eyes cast downward, as he played with his frayed gloves and adjusted the diamond cutters on his head. She watched, as the three men, through their ticks and secret glances at each other, conveyed a message that sent her internal alarms tripping, her eyes to dart nervously between the three. "What?" Frohike stole a glance towards Byers, back to Langly. "What the hell is it?" Frohike stalled, knew what the other Gunmen had been thinking as soon as the words "Russia", "US", and "unknown" came into play. Byers and Langly offered silent nods of approval, and Frohike approached the female agent carefully. "The Lone Gunmen, Agent Scully, is an organization where secrecy is of utmost importance. And to make sure that our subscribers are honest, that we are not being wired, followed, traced, or bugged, we randomly bug one of our subscribers every second month. Frohike paused, watched as the woman in front of him processed what he said, watched her eyes instantly come ablaze when she realized what he was leading to. The words came out faster, with more emotion than was intended. "We didn't want to do it, Agent Scully. We knew Mulder could be trusted, but it was policy." Frohike shot a threatening look over to Byers, remembering how the two had fought before the apparatus had been grudgingly assembled. "Apparently Mulder was ill... from Russia?" Frohike waited expectantly until the female nodded. Langly interceded, black rimmed glasses a startling contrast to the blonde hair, the pale face which rarely saw the sun. "The Russians have supposedly had that Black Cancer -- what it looks like Mulder was infected with -- since 1908. It's the source of much jealously from other countries -- including this one." Frohike nodded, continuing. "He was offered a cure from the Russians, but this was during the time you were ill. The Consortium, as you call it, offered him a cure for your cancer. And he accepted the terms of the agreement. He gave them some..." Scully shook her head, holding a hand out, a silent gesture to tell Frohike to stop -- that she could carry on from here. "So he dealt the disks that we retrieved, and Krycek and the Cigarette Man tried to kill each other." Frohike thought of the sharp shooter, then pushed the thought aside. It was only the outcome and the motives that were important now. He nodded, watched as the female agent tried to process the new information with what she already knew. Scully smiled -- bitterness accenting the corners of her mouth -- threatening to turn the upraised lips into a sneer. She turned her head to look at the floor. "It's funny that you guys would know *all* of that before Mulder would even tell me." She turned to face the three men in front of her. "How could you do that? How could you bug a man who trusts you? How could you sit there and watch as he suffered? You could have called me... you could have trusted *me*." Frohike's voice deflated, remembering the broken scrambler, the way his fingers had caressed the number pad. "I was going to, but then you walked in." Langly interceded, stepped in between Frohike and the woman who was glaring at him. "What's important now, is that the war is still raging. The Russians are retaliating with that rock that landed in 1908, while the good ol' You Es of Ay is charging back with their bees. Mulder is somewhere in between, as is your boss, most likely." Scully was still shaking her head. "I can't believe you didn't call. I can't believe you watched... bugged him." Byers cleared his throat. The words came out concisely, an attempt to bring the federal agent back to the here and now, to the problems at hand. "But at least we know. We know what happened. We have motive, Agent Scully. We have another piece of the puzzle, no matter how unethical, or how unmoral, or how un-friend-like it was of us -- it's still another clue which can lead us to Mulder. And right now, that's the most important to all four of us. That in retrospect, when we find Mulder it will all be worth it." Scully numbly nodded, refusing to meet the glances of the three men before her. Could only offer a half-hearted response in return -- a simple reiteration that lacked conviction and confidence. "It'll all be worth it." *** 64 miles from Nam-dinh, Vietnam July 4, 1964 Independence Day. Today was Independence Day. And mom and James were probably in the backyard, firing up the barbecue and enjoying apple pie and fire works. Even 12000 miles away, the fire works were still going on. A line of green, holding black pieces of metal, containing lead pellets, were firing at their straw targets. Their fire works came in the form of popping embers and artillery fire. When he was twelve, mom didn't even let him play with fire crackers. The man let go of the gun, grabbed the green bulb, bit off the metal pin, and threw the offending object, making like Babe Ruth ending a double play. The five straw huts plus one cow were reduced to, at most, five inch square pieces. "Cease fire!" The steady popping was reduced to sporadic bursts, then stopped entirely, encompassing platoon fourteen in silence. There were no more screams, no more cries for help -- only the contented crackle of a fire enjoying a hearty meal. The radio was on in all its screaming static, disjointed glory. The soldiers separated -- looked for the bunker, passed the mutilated livestock, looked for the Viet cong, passed the dismembered women, looked for the hidden weapons storage, passed the bloody children, and realized that there was nothing more to be found. Lister swore with the radio to his ear, started waving to the men. "Wrong village! We hit the wrong fucking village -- we're five miles too fucking far north!" The men blinked -- blinked at each other, in the glaring sun, in the ever-present bugs, and the stifling silence. They blinked and turned away, heading back for the jungle and the eventual comfort of the helicopter that would be waiting. They blinked at the passage of time, at the loss of over two hundred lives in one half hour, ten grenades, and two thousand bullets later. They blinked as they trudged through the underbrush, back to the 'copter, back to civilization where there would be girls and beer tonight. Especially tonight... ...as it was Independence Day. *** Private Charter En Route to: Moscow, Russia Walter Skinner shifted uncomfortably against the steel rise underneath him. He didn't want to be here. He had sworn he would never do this again. The soldiers beside him, the impassive mask that their faces wore, the uniforms that they were wearing, the guns that each person carried, were too reminiscent of a time long ago, a time he would sooner like to forget. He rubbed a hand over his face. Through instinct, by memory, the man passed his hand through hair that was no longer there. For one moment, Skinner stared at his palm and five fingers, the sweat that laid there -- before abruptly clasping his hands and resting his chin on the make-shift steeple. Marita C--whatever was watching him. Studying him, perhaps. He shook his head slightly in disbelief. The woman was his superior officer. He had to listen to *her*. The thin woman, with blond hair, who barely spoke, who looked like the black suit she was wearing was going to engulf her -- was in charge of six men. It was a suicide mission. Just like all the ones they had managed to pull off so many years ago. Over in the country which reeked of lemon grass and bat piss beer. Because there was no fucking way they were going to be able to find Mulder. And bring him back alive. And find the merchandise. And destroy it. No fucking way at all. Skinner sat back, feeling little comfort in the hum of the airplane's propellers. His fingers caressed the gun, innocently, trying to get its bearings, attempting to make the heavy weight of the black metal familiar. Shivers ran down his spine at the familiar shape, at the familiar curve of the trigger underneath his index finger. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught one of the soldiers staring at him. Skinner returned the glare, shooting daggers. It was one skill he had retained since 'Nam, and the young man with the impassive face, with the stoic facade that reminded Skinner of himself so many years ago, finally looked away. A woman's voice cut through his dry mouth, the cold sweat that rolled off in beads down his back. "We're here." Skinner looked down to meet the bleak lights of Moscow's twilight. To see the endless expanse of white across the horizon, bringing to memory Napoleon and the Nazis and the endless slew of men who had died going across this barren frontier The depressing grey atmosphere, the whispers of the dead and the dying, all caressed the six men and one woman who left the plane, beckoning them, pleading with them to join them. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Mulder felt the last vestiges of control slipping away. His heart was beating furiously, loudly within his ears, only to be overshadowed by his breathing, which was coming out laboured, bordering on panting. His eyes were wide, his fingers were desperately moving, scratching, clawing at anything, searching for something tangible. Grasping for any material that would help him escape from the chicken wire which was embracing him. Anything to escape the repeat of the hellish existence he had endured for three months after Tunguska. A face came into view from above. A sneer that was matched only by the hands that pushed the chicken wire right by his chest -- causing the metal ends to bite into bruised flesh, to cause the figure inside to writhe where there was no room. "Mr. Mulder. One more time. Will you join us, or will you not?" Mulder swallowed, felt his hands clench into a fist reflexively. There was an impatient sigh. A foot tapping. A harshly spoken expletive. There was heavier pressure set upon the chicken wire which caused the captor to gasp, his keeper to smile maliciously. "Yes or no?" Mulder's eyes looked to the left. To the right. Tried to look at the man who was standing by his head. Tried to see if there was anyone by his feet. Tried to see if there was any hope, any chance of escape beyond the criss cross of metal across his face and body. He stared above him. Studied the two pipes whose openings were circular and wide. Were encrusted with the red of rust, with the black of rock. Whose openings seemed to grow larger the more he stared at them. Whose openings seemed to be laughing, humming as centuries old metal was shifting against each other. Singing like Sam used to do at the beach. Laughing like Scully sometimes did when they were away from work. Mulder blinked and the openings seemed to metamorphose. Turn into a sneer. The pipes groaned. Screamed. They teased him. Taunted him. Like at school so many years ago. Weak. Worthless. Would have to watch, remember, re-live what it was like to watch someone slip, float, slide away. "I... I..." Mulder struggled with the words, his fingers clenching once again. The table and the chicken wire rattled as Mulder attempted to thrash around. He heard the surprised shout of the Colonel, and if only the wire could give a little... If only one of the links could please break... There was harsh exhale, the briefest of sobs, from the captor when the thrashing stopped, when the wire maintained its embrace, when the links further embedded themselves into cut arms, when each panting gasp caused his already screaming ribs to protest louder. The Russian leaned over, the anxious spittle escaping from the corner of his mouth. The Colonel smiled, snorted, as the liquid fell on the federal agent's bruised cheek bone. "What do you say, American?" Mulder closed his eyes. Asked Scully and Sam to wait a bit longer. He was running a bit late. He started to shake his head when the wire pushed further into his nose. "I... I said no." The Russian shrugged, flashing a smile before he snapped towards the air behind him. "Sweet dreams, Agent Mulder." Mulder looked up to see the pipe, heard the groan of metal against rusted metal. Watched the brown viscous liquid and Newton's gravitational force work in tandem to bring Tunguska closer to his face, closer to any opening of flesh where the worms could crawl and breed and move around. He saw the syrup falling, and closed his eyes. Felt himself moving, floating, falling. There was a jolt, knocking the breath out of him, then a flash of white. He felt so dizzy, like he was falling, and it hurt so much... The American's world, once again, submitted itself to black. *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Scully looked at the words flashing accusingly in front of her on the computer monitor. Private Walter Skinner had had numerous tours in Vietnam. Had so many casualties, accidents, and mishaps, had his records buried in so much subterfuge, red tape, and bureaucratic crap that even Langly was impressed with the federal government for the bang on job they had done in attempting the Vietnam War cover up. "You're saying Mulder knew all of this?" Frohike nodded, cautious. If the uncomfortable silences that had spotted the past half hour were any indication, Frohike was certain that Scully's impression of the Lone Gunmen had not improved. "We told him this day before yesterday, which is the day before he disappeared, from what you've said." Scully nodded in agreement, silent. Byers spoke softly, quietly, as if his voice would shatter the precious information on the computer screen in front of them. "You think that the two are related?" "Indirectly... I do. I refuse to believe my boss directly purported Mulder's abduction." Scully crossed her arms in front of her chest, and the Gunmen passed knowing looks between each other. Concrete words such as "refuse" or "always" or "never" should have been banned from the English vocabulary long ago. The female federal agent's eyes travelled to stare at the wall, a place for her eyes to settle, to allow her brain to think without any outside stimuli. Her boss' past was the perfect tool to keep Skinner under the Consortium's nose. The Kensington crew, according to her brother, God dammit, were responsible for transporting the bodies. Skinner knew about the bodies and told Mulder because... And Russia and the U.S. were waging a war of some kind because... And Mulder was... Scully angrily balled her fists together. She needed a fucking mind map to keep all the facts straight for Christ sakes. She absently wondered if Bill had told her everything, or just enough to make her happy, to get her out his hair, while he turned into the opposite direction and ran. She turned suddenly to Byers. "If I gave you a ship name, could you trace it's origin?" Byers looked at her quizzically, not understanding the question. "I mean, there's a ship called the S. S. Kensington. Would you be able to hack, or through your contacts find out where it's been throughout its history?" Byers nodded, cautiously. "Yes, but ships last for quite a few years, and there's a lot of travelling done in one year. You'll have to narrow it down to a year, or by crew." Scully bit the inside of her lip. She did not want to disclose her brother's involvement. She was hoping she would never have to. Especially to the three men in front of her. To find out one of her family members was a part of the conspiracy that they explicitly tried to exploit, Scully feared that perhaps, in their warped cosmology, the Gunmen would view it as treason. Treachery. "It would have been around 1988." Langly prodded her with a look. "Do you have a member of the crew?" Scully looked down, studying her shoes. "Bill Scully, Jr... petty officer." She sighed, her tone coming out resigned -- her last words barely audible. "I guess... I guess he would have been second class at that time." Scully heard the sharp intake of breath from one of the three, then heard the clack of fingers hitting plastic keys, then the whine of the modem starting. "'Kay, got it, Agent Scully." Scully turned around and bent over the computer desk. "Jesus Christ," she whispered. There were at least fifty stops in the year alone. Her brother had been a busy man. Langley pointed towards the bottom of the screen. "Their last stop was at USNA Annapolis." Scully closed her eyes momentarily, her next words coming out as a forced whisper. "That's right near Reisterstown." Frohike shifted side to side on both feet, nervous. Wondering, always wondering if they had broken new ground. "So now what?" Scully stopped. Stared. Indeed, now what? Other than fully proving that her brother had done the dastardly deed that he said he had done, it got them no closer to locating Mulder. Should she be looking for silos? Medical facilities? Would Langly even be able to hack such information? Christ, was Mulder even in the country? The phone rang, startling all four figures in the dimly lit room, lit only by the harsh light of the computer monitor and a desk lamp on Frohike's work bench. Langly grabbed for the scrambler, while Byers turned on the recorder. Frohike let out a nervous chuckle. "Agent Scully, I think that my colleagues are unaware that it's your cell phone that is currently ringing." Scully looked around, almost embarrassed, before reaching into her pocket to grip the familiar black rectangular prism. It was the last person she would have expected to call. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia The older of the two let loose a litany of Russian swear words before taking a deep breath and glaring at the more stout man in front of him. "What the hell are you doing, Josef? I told you to get the American to agree by reasonable means, not to beat the man up till his whole body was blue. Or to stick the Tunguskan worms in his head!" The Colonel was watching the floor, pacing, side stepping away from the worms which were swimming on the concrete floor. They wiggled, writhed, made sucking noises as they looked for a host -- now that the original one had been abruptly pushed away. Beranek looked back towards the federal agent, who was lying in a heap of chicken wire underneath the fallen steel table which had been pushed by the old fag himself until it had tilted, spilling it contents, and rendering the federal agent unconscious. "I was hoping that the threat of an unpleasant experience would force his hand, Vladimir. And I was close. He came close to breaking. I just... I just need a little more time." Beranek looked up met the cold glare of his superior -- realized that his last statement was more for his own reassurance, than anyone else's. Realized that his boss had recognized it as well. "You incompetent moron. Stupid." The insults continued to be spat out, and Beranek refused to flinch, unwilling to give his superior the satisfaction. He focused his attention on turning the ring around his fourth finger with his thumb, on ignoring the expletives that were still being hurled in his direction. Kabalevsky looked to the fallen form of the American, and his mouth turned into a frown. He turned back to Beranek. The older man leaned over to whisper in his ear, his warm, moist, hatred-reeking breath meeting the fleshy rim of the Colonel's vestibular orifice. "All you had to do, was hold something special against him, and let him squeal like a stuck pig." The eldest suddenly turned on his heels, waving to the two soldiers standing in the doorway. "I want him cleaned up and in his cell, and conscious by the time I come back." He paused, his index finger pointing threateningly in Beranek's direction. "Josef, I guarantee you, your next screw up, will be your last." Beranek nodded. Only when Kabalevsky, and the two soldiers with their American captor in tow had left, did he allow himself the luxury of putting his hands over his eyes, of sliding down the wall of the cell in relief. In dread. In fear that the unburdened images of his body floating face down in the Laptev River were a premonition of things to come. *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Scully held the phone closer to her ear, an attempt to shield herself from the prying eyes and ears of the three men around her. She huddled her arms against her chest, withdrawing into herself, into the dynamic that used to be called her family. "Bill, what's wrong?" She heard the familiar whir of car tires against pavement and knew he was driving. Heard the silence punctuated by the whooshes of cars speeding by -- that despite the windshield wipers who shrieked and the car heater that roared, Scully could still hear her brother swallow a saliva's worth of agony and repression. "I don't... if... will help, but we picked up the bodies in Texas, there's a medical facility there. I don't know what they do, but we did plenty of... deliveries for them." Scully smiled sadly -- her heart fluttering in the new found knowledge, only to be punctuated by pangs of heaviness when she remembered who the faceless informant was. That the hope she could shield her family from anymore heartache, from a Missy from ever happening again, had been once again torn to shreds. "Thank you." Scully whispered into the receiver, her voice threatening to be overcome by the background static behind her. "Thank you, Billy." "Just find him, Dana. Find him and get the bastards." She heard her brother sniff, felt her heart stop when she heard the horn bellow and the tires screech. Seemingly hours later -- after the passage of one second -- she looked up to the ceiling and mouthed her thanks when the familiar whoosh and whir and the decades worth of swallowing came across the other line. "Just end it, Dana. Please. For God sakes, end it once and for all." *** August 12, 1972 Chilimark, Massachusettes The beating has been really bad this time and the boy is lying in the darkness. Lying on his stomach for fear of awakening the monsters and ogres who have been clawing at his back for the past hour. He rubs his cheek against the cool cotton sheets, partly to wipe dry the tears that have been falling steadily, but also for the smell. For the smell of sweat and grass, and a reminder that tomorrow everything will be good again. And that tomorrow he can play baseball. And tomorrow perhaps, perhaps he can be... A slit in the darkness. A spark of light, which goes through the translucent material of the nightgown, illuminating it -- an angel in the company of darkness and ogres and monsters that are so very much real. That do not lurk in the closet or under the bed or in the dark shadow just over *there*. The illuminated figure checks right. Checks left. Carefully steps in with feather-light feet, carrying an offering in her hands. Crackers. An apple. She pads in and sits cross legged beside the bed, putting the food right underneath, knowing that it hurts a little too much right now to eat. She puts her hands on top of his, and their eyes meet, a message is passed, and the corners of their mouths turn up marginally. The angel lays her hand on top of her brother's hand, feeling comfort in the smooth skin that lies there, knowing that she is closer to his ear, and can whisper so that the monsters lurking nearby won't hear. "All night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam -- then down from the skies came the wooden shoe bringing the fisherman home; 'twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as if it could not be, and some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed of sailing that beautiful sea -- but I shall name you the fisherman three..." She pauses, smiling. "I memorized the third verse, Fox. Didn't I?" The boy offers a minute nod in return, can feel the individual strands of the angel's hair caress his cheek, can smell the shampoo of her hair start to percolate into his nostrils. Both lapse into silence, eyes still open, wary. The light of the moon filters through the heavy drapes, illuminating the figures on the bed. Silent. Darkness. Safe. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Troy Archer watched in surprise as the woman shifted her weight, started to put more of her body onto the bed. Held onto his hand, then laid her head on it. He watched, transfixed, as the woman shifted more, until she was still. He waited for the end. Waited for the cries and screams and half-hearted kicks and punches directed his way, but received only rhythmic breathing, eyes that rolled in companion to the REM-induced dreams, a drum that beat steadily when he laid his fingers upon her neck. Waited for the end of pale eye lids which hid the hazel jewels underneath, now-waxen flesh which was pulled tightly over a slightly too-big nose, full lips that were once rosy, that once laughed -- but were now pale and mute. Silent. Peacefully so. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Their orders were to bring the American to the conference room, but Alexi Gusarov forced himself to pause momentarily, was forced to study the still form of the federal agent sprawled on the cement floor in front of him. What was left of the material once called a shirt had been ripped and torn -- decorated with the grime of centuries old dust and decay, with the blood of jagged, recently inflicted cuts. It was evident that the unconscious man below him had been an unwilling sparring partner with the ruby of the Colonel's ring, with the chicken wire that was downstairs. The soldier attempted to roll the figure over, lost his balance when his hands slipped on the lubricant of blood and pus and other bodily fluids -- wiped his hands on his uniform, tried to ignore the angry red marks that marred the pale skin below him. It was the expression on the figure's face that finally caught his attention. That made him wonder where exactly the American was that made his breathing rhythmic, his jaw slack, his eyes roll underneath their lids in accompaniment to the dream that was currenly playing. It made the Russian stop and stare for the few seconds he had before they roughly called for him from the door. With his one arm outstretched, with his back cut up and his face black and blue, the Russian could swear there was a smile playing along the lips of the unconscious federal agent. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia 58/120. 36.6 degrees Celsius. 68 beats per minute. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A mess of red, swirling hair given a greenish tint by the nutrient medium it is swimming in. Porcelain skin which glows, even through the glare of the glass rectangular prism that encloses it. Piercing blue eyes that stare absently when the fleshy lids are open -- sparked only by mild electrical stimuli passing through viscous media. A small, slight body that when removed from it's glass enclosed home -- when she is washed, dried, and wrapped in old shawls and hemless dresses -- will stare absently at those like her, those around her who are all watching. Waiting. Expectant for their master to speak. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Kabalevsky studied the bound man in front of him. Noticed the similarities in face shape and body structure to the elder Mulder. The Russian had to inwardly smile -- the evil look the captor was now flashing him -- eyes that mirrored disdain, weariness, and a hint of fear -- was most definitely a genetic phenotype successfully passed on from Bill Mulder onto son. "Agent Mulder, how are you feeling?" "Fine." Mulder was about to open his mouth open to say more, but the one word was still rebounding painfully off the insides of his skull. The elder of the two paced around, clucking to himself, adjusting his belt, reaching into his pocket to grab a cigar and admire it. "Mr. Mulder, exactly who are the Lone Gunmen?" Mulder stared at the figure, unable to formulate a reply, unable to determine how the man would know about three men whom the Consortium overseas had no knowledge about. "I... I don't know what you're talking about." The man psh-awed, lighting his cigar with dramatic flair. "Oh come, now, Agent Mulder. I know for certain that your partner Agent Scully is visiting with them still. Most likely trying to find out your whereabouts. She's very pretty." Mulder ground his teeth together, hoping the Russian believed partnerships were merely professional -- that Dana Katherine Scully was a mere blip in the wide, expansive, diverse state of being that Fox William Mulder called a life. The mere thought made him want to laugh, and he quickly sobered, attempted to add conviction to the words which passed through his lips with difficulty. "My partner doesn't mean anything to me." The Russian was clearly amused by Mulder's statement. "So that's why you refused Krycek's offer and bargained with your life?" "I don't know what your talking about." Any banter in the Russian's tone of voice disappeared. "Don't lay that American bull shit upon me Agent Mulder. Trust me, I am much more resilient and efficient than my Comrade Beranek. I know very well about your partner, about you." Mulder remained silent, head upraised, trying to profile the man in front of him. Felt the pangs of a Russian Bill Patterson in front of him -- ruthless, brilliant, and with big enough balls on the slightly rotund figure to make everyone else in his way hide and run for cover. "The reason why my Comrade was so ineffectual at getting you to do our bidding, is because you're quite used to beatings... yes? Poor Josef. He takes such a liking to that ring, likes to use it." The Russian chuckled softly while Mulder continued to stare blankly. "You certainly did frustrate him enough." The man paused, looked at the federal agent again with eyes that stated they already knew the answer long before the question was even posed. "Dad took the belt to you quite often, eh?" Kabalvksy paused to exhale the cigar smoke away, still revelling in the Russian's ability to spy. In their capacity to make micro phones and micro recorders. In their efficiency in making metallic implants that could later be affixed to every American twenty dollar bill. "I know how important your partner is, Agent Mulder. I know how much you depend on... what is it? Fro-kee, Lang-lee, and Bee-ers." Mulder closed his eyes, sensing what was coming. "If you value their life, you will agree to work with us." Something in Mulder clicked, snapped, prompting his voice to come out as a barely audible, guttural growl which quickly escalated into full scale yelling. "I want to see my sister, and if you know so much about me and my father, then you undoubtedly know where my sister is. And if you want me to lead your hybrids then I recommend you stop threatening my partnerandstartfuckingtalking..." The end came out in a torrent of words and the federal agent was left momentarily breathless. For a moment, none of the figures moved, no one spoke -- a tense silence marked only by wet gasps for air playing in tandem with patient exhalations of smoke. Suddenly the Russian lashed out -- undid the bindings that held Mulder, and dragged the federal agent out of the room. Heard the agent moan with the onslaught of feeling that was rushing into his arms and legs. Felt the weakened captor trying to kick, punch, bite back in vain. Kabalevsky gripped the squirming collar tighter, pulling the younger man through hallways, corners, ramps, and dark passageways with a strength that defied his age. Eventually, the hapless federal agent was thrown into a cell that was small, and dark, and silent. Mulder could hear the footsteps receding, could hear the old man's voice steadily growing softer. "You think about what we could do to her. The imagination is a lovely thing, Mr. Mulder... and I'll be the first to admit that I have an active one." The words echoed off the walls which the captor could not see. Felt the cold floor already seeping through his trousers... underneath... somewhere. The darkness had enclosed him completely. Wholly. There would be no shadows of bugs that would inevitably be coming. Nothing to see on the cell walls. No stimuli, nothing to count when his fingers would inevitably clench, when his mind threatened to think itself out of control. Not even the comfort of the moon and the stars like in the Hilton of a cell he had been staying in previously. Just... nothing. A choked sob escaped his lips, echoing off the nether region of the walls. The noises rebounded, were superimposed upon each other's echo, only for the cycle to begin once again. Mulder attempted to cover his ears, blindly laid his body onto the floor. Eventually, when the lonliness threatened to overcome him, he uncovered his ears, allowing the howling demons to keep him company throughout the starless night. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York The Englishman watched with slight amusement as one of his colleagues paced around the room. "Donald, please sit. Have a drink and have faith. He'll call soon." The mustached figure shook his head, fingers shifting the cell phone from one hand to another. "The evacuation should have been completed by now. There's only two hundred and fifty personnel in Worland. By God, the morph has enough muscle to physically throw them out if he had to." The man continued pacing. "Something's gone wrong. We need that place empty with the exception of Mulder and the hybrids when the last phase of the Project begins." The man stopped in front of a table and started to drum his fingers on the surface. "There should have been a call by now." The ringing of the cell phone startled all members. The mustached man thumbed the on button listening intently before passing the phone to the Englishman in front of him. "We have a problem." The Englishman's jaw tightened. "What do you mean?" The voice of the Bounty Hunter filtered through the static. "Some lab tech with the name of... Troy Archer, insists that he will not leave if Mu... if Derlum doesn't come as well." The fingers of the Englishman tightened into themselves, noticed immediately by the surrounding Consortium members. "Then kill the bastard." The Bounty Hunter shifted slightly -- kept the gun trained on the man who was alternately glaring at the morph, and grasping the woman in his arms tighter. "I'm afraid we have a complication. He has an idea of... how important her disease is to us. He's using her as a shield right now." The Englishman threw his fist onto the table, causing the bourbon to spill blood on the hard wood floor below. He pursed his lips, proceeded to rub a wrinkled hand over his jaw. "Fine. Keep him there and watch him. We can deal with him later." "Fine." The connection went dead and the mustached man threw a glance at the Englishman's direction. In response, another bourbon was poured -- the glass once again being twirled between weathered fingers. The slight tremor in the hand went unnoticed by the other members, hidden by a sudden need to raise the lip of the glass to his suddenly parched mouth. "I told you to have faith, Donald. The Project has now officially begun." He rose the bourbon glass to the gentlemen in front of him, and flashed a rare, tight lipped smile. "Congratulations, gentlemen." *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Scully nursed the styrofoam cup in her hands, inhaling the smell of coffee, savouring the warmth underneath the chill that had settled upon the basement offices of the Lone Gunmen. The three men looked at her expectantly. "Agent Scully, what do you want to do?" The female looked back at the computer monitor, trying to study the logistics of the medical research facility by Worland. It was a risk to say the least. At best, Mulder would be there. At worst, Mulder wouldn't be there, nothing would be found, time would be lost, and maybe... maybe... her partner would be... Scully attempted to wash her dread down with the remainder of her bitter coffee, but the cramp in her stomach still remained. "How good are you guys in breaking into government facilities?" Scully watched two mouths stretch into an anticipatory grin, while one pulled into a grimace. "What's wrong, Byers? Bond not your style?" The bearded man shook his head. His experience in the Lombard Institute had been quite enough, thank you. He preferred the disguised comfort of hacking from miles away from a nameless computer terminal to dressing in black and dodging security guards and pistols. Scully watched Langly and Frohike start to gather the laptops, bags, wires, copper clamps, and ear pieces with an efficiency she would not have believed possible. She watched Byers finally relent and grab his grey trenchcoat. The federal agent watched them, observed them -- suddenly felt like an outsider, a mere Windows 3.1 to the Lone Gunmen's Bill Gates. The fear that perhaps they would pack up and leave without her in their haste, was very much real. That maybe they were under the impression she was a mere accessory, Mulder's right hand G-woman, a hindrance to the men who dissected computer systems with the same dedication she dissected bodies. "... Agent Scully... you ready?" Scully looked around, startled. Noticed that the three men were changed, that bags were slung over their shoulders, and that Frohike was jangling a pair of keys around his fingers. She swallowed. Was she ready for Worland indeed? Were her legs threatening to turn to jello in protest to the possibility Worland was a blind goose chase, a trap, and effective time waster while Mulder... while they could... Scully swallowed again, regarding the men in front of her. "What if he's not there?" Frohike heard the distinct impatient shift of his two counterparts while trying to smile a reassurance, that even he did not possess. This was not the Agent Doctor Dana Scully he lusted after. Not the woman who could make him feel natty and dirty in his fingerless gloves and years-old felt hats. Instead, both of them were merely human -- vulnerable and scared and fearing for the life of a common friend. "If he's not there, then we'll find him somewhere else. Alive." He paused, thoughts back to one late night, one pair of high heeled pumps. "You always do." Two pairs of eyes slowly met, and Scully nodded her acceptance. Grabbing the remaining duffel bag, the four left the building quietly, in the company of darkness, of doubts, and of hope. *** Blue Dime Motel Moscow, Russia The desk clerk watched with amusement as the husband and wife fought, as the garble of a language he did not understand was flecked with obvious disdain and impatience. Skinner crossed his arms over his chest when Marita angrily turned away, swearing. He watched the UN representative easily converse with the man at the desk, retrieve two keys and signal for him to follow her. The man at the desk said something, staring at Skinner, and Marita laughed, causing the AD's blood to boil, his fingers to tighten around the bags that they had brought in. Their footsteps echoed off the wooden walls of the empty stairwell. Considering the convoluted path one had to take to reach the motel, Skinner wouldn't have been surprised if the other neighbouring suites were vacant. He heard the distinct snerk of Marita unlocking the door, and he warily watched her test the mattress, remove her shoes with a contented sigh, and proceed to massage the balls of her feet. Skinner felt his innards seethe, barely heard the words pass through his clenched teeth due to the roar behind his ears. "... What the fuck are we waiting for?" The blonde woman on the bed kept massaging, used the other hand to signal the man in front of her to lay the bags in front of the dresser. "We wait for it to get dark. We wait to get rested, so that the jet lag has a chance to pass. So that we can eat." Marita watched the man in front of her continue to glare. Saw the sheen of sweat on his balding head, the way his knuckles were turning white with the strain of holding the bags so tightly. Marita met his glare, pitched words which she knew would shake him, which would assert exactly who was in charge, which would once again subtly reiterate what it was that was at stake. "Do you have a problem with that... soldier?" Skinner flinched, suddenly pointing an index finger in her direction, face warped by a sneer that attempted to cover the once naive, fresh face of a fatigue-clad eighteen year old who marched himself to an earth-bound hell. "Don't say that. Don't you dare." The man dropped the suitcases to the ground, snapped up the remaining key, and headed for the room next door. It was the exact response Marita was hoping to garner. *** 65 miles from Ha-noi, Vietnam May 17, 1964 The machine gun was a dull weight in his hands, the persistent jabs from the pointed bullets that hung over his shoulder were nonexistant. The sweltering heat, the faces of the soldiers beside him, whose faces would waver and wiggle due to the humidity, the bugs that flew and landed and stung and bit were no longer a nuisance, no longer noticeable. The hats on top of their heads were like miniature versions of the roofs that covered the straw huts. The dirt and grime on their clothing was matched only by the darkness of their feet, by the tan that they wore, by the dirt that clogged each toe and was baked and hardened for posterity by the sun. Hair that was black, that was darker than the machine guns that they wore, than the grease that they put on their face, stared uncomprehendingly at him. Eyes that were slitted almonds, that were shaded by the minature roofs that they wore, were enigmatic. Innocent. The shade was unexpected, the hot breath was a shock, the glare of his lieutenant shook him out of his reverie. "Do you have a problem with your orders, Private?" The sun came out in full force, the bugs resumed their biting, and the the houses swam in and out of view. The Private could manage no more than a croak. "Sir... no sir." "Then take your shot, soldier." The gun became tangible, the bullets started to pierce through the skimpy green fatigues which reeked of sweat and sun and dirt and grass. "Sir..." The man swallowed. Raised the gun. And fired. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming As the smell of sewage, grime, and wet rodent met her nasal passages, Scully inwardly wished she had brought some Vicks rub for her nose. The smell that was currently causing her stomach to lurch was exponentially worse than the smell that had come from the corpse in Oregon. "Agent Scully, a pathologist like you shouldn't be having this much trouble with the smell." Scully offered a weak smile to Frohike, once again feeling her stomach threaten to expel the coffee at the feel of cold, bat-piss smelling sewage around her nylon-clad feet. She heard Langly grunting ahead, could hear it rebounding off the walls in time with the swish swash of sewage being disturbed by their steps. "God, lets hope a sniper doesn't come this time like in Lombar..." He quickly trailed off, prompted by a sharp glare from Byers. Scully suddenly stopped in her tracks, immediately intrigued, immediately suspicious. In classic Mulder fashion, her partner had taken time to lambast the "bastard Scanlon" and mention in passing an "unfortunate incident" with vague references to a security breach, before the doors were barred, and any other forth coming information was buried underneath subterfuge and glad-you're-back smiles. She aimed the flashlight at the back of a blonde head, ignoring the silence that was punctuated only by water dripping from the ceiling overhead. "What happened?" The three men exchanged glances, nervously adjusting the packs on their shoulders before muttering replies. "Nothing." "Really. We all came out of it unscathed." "Mulder was really glad when he found out you were okay." Scully huffed, teeth grinding with the knowledge that the speech was all too familiar. She adjusted the bag on shoulder jerkily and continued walking in time with the three figures in front of her. The Gunmen were even worse than Mulder. *** The seduction was done in a shroud of smoke, underneath the guised shelter provided by the Moscow fog. Young, old lips against an old, young body. A teenager with experienced hands -- with hot, lead fingers tracing patterns through a fabric called flesh. The need for escape coupled with the insatiable need to be needed. A deal where the price was emotionless mouth against mouth, an absence of feeling when flesh met flesh. A need to feel human, and to feel real, and to escape from the smoke, and the fog, and the ever-present shadows. The sense of dread she lived in. The dread of sense he lived in. Her fingers crawled up his chest, a damaged mouth against mouth sealing the deal. Where eye contact was taboo, where there was always the threat of seeing too much, where it was better to do it now and ask questions later. Where age doesn't matter. "Take me." He takes her to a place where priority is not placed to the males, where one has to grant sexual favours to a domineering man. Away from a demon who haunts her dreams, who storms in like the cold Moscow wind. Whose presence can be felt by every bone, by every nerve -- whose very thought makes her shiver and shudder so that her bones shake and rattle even underneath the cover of her mother's embrace. She takes him to a place of not knowing, where ignorance is bliss, where denial and knowledge go hand in hand, arm in arm. Where she smells of the enemy and whispers the much sought-after secrets of the Iron Curtain. Of being a man with manly features, of feeling old youth touch his chest, of feeling the escape from a life that technically does not exist. Where she will escape with him to his country. Escape the memories here -- her mother, her younger brother who is just starting to read, the demon that lurks just within *there*. She will escape the secrets that she is bound to keep... only to find everything waiting for her, stalking her, laughing at her, when she finally arrives... "....Wake up!" The whisper was hurried, and the woman woke up to meet the enigmatic eyes of Walter Skinner, who removed his arm hastily once she looked at it accusingly. "You were groaning. I thought maybe... the other men..." The man trailed off, shaking his head, rubbing a hand over hastily awakened optic nerves. Marita nodded, subconsciously looking to the bathroom. Rather, where her bathroom usually *would* be. Where her sleeping aids would be. Of course. Dreaming. A constant companion. Why expect a respite, when the man who had haunted her dreams was most likely sleeping next to a voluptuous bosom less than fifty clicks away. Why expect any grace from her past which refused to leave, to die, to be buried despite all the colour treatments, the make up, the government job, the expensive suits. "Did I wake you?" Skinner nodded his head no. "It seems I suffer the same affliction you do." Marita nodded her understanding -- the two lapsing into an uncomfortable silence, marked only by her less-than-rhythmic breathing. "How did you get here?" Marita's eyes grew suspicious, her eyes squinting minutely. "What are you talking about?" The reply was whispered hotly, through clenched teeth. "Oh, come on. A suicide mission like this, the men we work with -- the question is pretty much self explanatory." Marita stared at the Assistant Director, eyes eventually trailing towards the window where fog and snow were once again obliterating Moscow. "I wanted out of a situation badly and someone in the group helped me get out." Marita nodded her head in affirmation, setting her jaw for a facade of determination and pride. Emotions which had long since disappeared. "I had the skills, I had knowledge that could be bargained for. I lived in an environment where the secrets of Russia were circulating regularly." The woman paused, swallowed, her arms unknowingly crossing over her chest. "It's easy when you're the opposite sex in a club full of men. They think with their balls and you can get your way." Marita smiled bitterly at the memories. "And I thought that I had gotten mine." The female fell silent and Skinner nodded slowly. "What about you?" Skinner shook his head in disbelief. "I would think that they would have told you by now." Marita only shook her head. "I know you encountered a lot of bad shit just outside Ha-noi... but I don't see how they could use that against you. Shit happened to a lot of men out there." Skinner snorted. "Shit happens... yeah, I guess I should have learned that by now." He fell silent, thinking, wondering, reliving past sanctimonious glory. Of watching his father's eyes when they awarded him the medal of honour, finding that father and son could no longer look at each other without their eyes starting to burn, without having to flinch away. Remembered his father's letter, warning him that there were corrupt people hiding amongst the lemongrass, that he had to keep the Skinner name clean -- that your name was the only thing that was left of you after you were gone. Skinner shook his head partly to clear the reverie, partly to clear the onset of drowsiness that was approaching. "Vietnam was an eye- opening experience," he attested. "I learned a lot." Like Marita previous seconds ago, the Assistant Director smiled bitterly. "A lot that I'd probably be better without knowing." Marita nodded. It was a silent game where words and silent, inconsequential gestures played. Where a male and a female stood on a board, once thinking they were players, now reduced merely to pawns. Alike. But also strikingly different. Haunted by their past, but bound together by the common shadows that plagued them so. The man left through the connecting door, bare feet padding against the naked carpet, the threads long since worn with age and use. There would be no more nightmare filled sleep for any of them tonight. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Jeremiah Smith looked down. Past the girders than ran across the ceiling, past the bland cement walls, past the assorted piles of boxes upon shelves -- down until his eyes caught the expectant orbs of the beings below him. They were beautiful. Black ones, yellow ones, white ones, red ones. He felt his blood course through his veins, felt the adrenaline of expectancy start to kick in. The Russians would need to be killed of course. Then the Tunguskan rock would need to be thrown and used to infect everyone else. And then the world would be theirs. His. He looked back down, and admired the lean legs, the muscular arms, the stringy hair, the jewels that lay in each eye, the orifices and the appendages, the folds of skin, the curvature of flesh over muscle over bone. The morph calmly walked down the stairs, meeting the blank-eyed stare of the brown-haired woman in front of him. Two fingers explored her cheek, travelled down her neck, passed fleetingly over the voluptuous chest, down the stomach -- contact ending when weathered hands revelled in the muscle that held the femur together. The morph regarded the entire room, the eyes which held steadfastly onto his own, the glorious combination of flesh, bone, and muscle that stood expectantly in front of him. So beautiful. His children. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Byers followed the red beacon in front of him reluctantly, watching for any sign of cops or cars or security or any other potential catalyst for a coronary melt down like the one he almost had after Lombard. The woman in front of him wore a grim mask of determination, anger, frustration, and weariness. Her mouth would quiver with each room that was searched, only to come up empty handed. Then a shriek, a cry -- a woman's shrill, demented voice -- cut through the still air, prompting Scully to reach for her holster, Byers to flatten his body against the wall, and Langly and Frohike to grow deathly quiet on the other end of the earpieces. The cry was desperately calling her brother's name. It sent her brother's partner and her brother's friend running blindly towards the sound of the scream with heads darting, ears straining, only to come face to face with a bewildered looking man and a pale, sweaty woman who was struggling animately in his arms. The man put one hand in the air, eyes dilated and frightened, alternating glances between the prone woman with the hair that sheltered her face, back to the daggers of eyes that were being unleashed by the federal agent. "Who are you?" The man stammered, clearly distressed. "I'm... T-Troy Archer." "What do you do here?" "I'm a... a geneticist here." Scully turned towards the woman. "And who is she?" "Amanda... Amanda Derlum. She's a geneticist as well. But she's come down with something. I've... I've been taking care of her." Scully proceeded carefully, reholstering the gun while trying to profile the man in front of her, the woman laying in front of him. "That woman... Amanda... just screamed something. What did she say?" Troy licked his lips, regarding the red head and her companion warily. "She said 'fox'. She's been saying the animal ever since she got sick." Scully nodded, felt her throat start to tighten, her knuckles start to turn white with the force she was clenching her fists with. She knelt down carefully, unable to see the face still covered by strings of sweaty hair. Her first attempts came out as a croak, but her voice soon worked its way to an audible level. "...am. Sam." The tortured seconds came to an abrupt halt as Scully's stomach turned, as a hand rose to cover the mouth that was open and aghast. As the woman in front of her answered her call. Scully carefully kneeled onto the tiled floor, slowly raised her hands towards the figure's face and lifted the mask of hair away. Scully could do nothing but gasp. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Amongst the darkness, the ever-present black, Mulder waved his hand in front of his eyes -- seeing nothing, feeling only a slight breeze. The silence was almost palpable, almost as tangible as the cement floor he was lying on. Almost as tangible as the growing organism called need that was pushing along his rib cage, causing his muscles to tighten, making his every breath catch. Mulder rolled over, laid on his back so that his eyes could stare straight above him, search for the outer fringes of the dark and find the woman with red hair and the little girl with brown braids who laid just beyond there. A truth in all its replete glory -- undarkened by the layers of lies upon shadows upon secrets. Unadulterated by the accumulation of the past thirty seven years: of crying and praying, of dealing and just holding on, of deceptions and the demons that lay within. The true light at the end of the tunnel. Another sharp pang caused Mulder's body to shudder, causing the captor to miss the thin line of illumination creeping towards the far wall. The light was suddenly blinding; it hurt his eyes. It reminded him of Arecibo and of Chilimark and of the lithe figure who floated away from him through the window. His sharp yell had caused his lips to drink red once again, and in between his squinted lids, Mulder could no longer see the trailing nightgown, nor the tiny figure of an eight year old girl. Instead, his eyes darkened immediately when they focused onto the slightly rotund silhouette of Vladimir Kabalevsky "Mr. Mulder," the voice was apologetic. "I have been gravely mistaken in my methods toward you. I should have shown a bit more... charity. Perhaps a gift from Mother Russia in honour of your quest." Mulder eyed the man warily, his muscles protesting from their disuse, the lengthy confinement having left a scratchy growth on his chin, allowing his blood to cake copper brown on his chest. "I know that in your quest for your sister, you have encountered many more... shall we say, obstacles. Many more questions. I know that your inquiries into your sister and your father -- your past -- continue to be unanswered by your American colleagues." Kabalevsky paused, saw that despite the federal agent's impassive face, Mulder's eyes followed his pacings intently. "A sign of faith, Mr. Mulder. Some information for free -- a small demonstration of what I can offer you. What the Americans will never give you, despite their deals and their promises." Mulder nodded slowly, waiting for the Russian to proceed. "Your father was a good man, Mr. Mulder. And Bill Mulder *was* your father, no matter how many hints or how many allegations there are to the contrary. What your father couldn't live with, Mr. Mulder, was not that he couldn't stand your mother's affair with the man who smoked cigarettes. Not that he had been strong armed into choosing a child. What your father couldn't live with, was the knowledge that he knowingly allowed your DNA to be tampered with, your sister's DNA to be tampered with, for the further advancement of what they call The Project." Mulder swallowed, innards turning in company with his mind, which was attempting to process the validity of the Russian's last speech. His next words came out with eyes blazing -- betraying the forced calmness in the agent's voice. The same words which were uttered to John Lee Roche held a pent-up emotion which easily surpassed the prison encounter in terms of intensity. "If that's true, tell me where my sister is." The Russian shook his head, vaguely remembering his assignments in Chilimark -- watching a little boy and his sister grow -- until he was hastily called back when the unknown vessel crashed in Svobodnyl. He turned back towards the federal agent, extending his right hand. "A sign of faith. I have given mine. And if you give us yours, if you agree to help us, I will tell you." Kabalevsky watched the man in front of him alternately stare at the hand, then regard the face of his captor. Mulder started to open his mouth when another silhouette stepped in. Mulder's arms went protectively around his chest, his body withdrew, as even in the dark, the ring still shone. Kabalevsky looked at Beranek with obvious annoyance, immediately withdrawing the hand that he had offered the federal agent, reaching for a cigar instead. "Jeremiah says he wants to see us." Mulder's eyes widened, synapses firing with the memory of an Alberta farm and of a man who had six brothers who looked exactly like him. "Jeremiah Smith?" Kabalevsky hid the look of surprise better than his Comrade with the ring. He casually turned to Mulder. "You know him?" Mulder started laughing, felt pleasure in burning ribs -- laughing manically until the guffaws rebounded off the cement wall and superimposed on each other, making the whole cell shake. "I highly doubt that Jeremiah would be without a marker." The slight shift of Beranek's eyes confirmed Mulder's statement. Mulder started to nod his head -- some of the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into the place with a resounding thud. "Which leads me to assume you want to use me for the hybrids you have inevitably made." The two Russians remained silent, while Mulder started laughing once again -- relishing momentarily that for once, he knew more than the uniformed men in front of him. "So, you go behind their back, and get me to take over the hybrids. So, were you planning to kill Jeremiah and his crew?" Mulder voice had obtained a grating edge to it, no longer laughing, deadly serious in its intensity. "Were you planning to shoot them? Nice clean shot to the head by ex-KGB soldiers? Well it won't fucking work, you stupid sons of bitches, because I've tried it and all you do is put a nice green scar on them." Mulder snorted, shaking his head. His next words were accented with sobriety, defeat. "I can't help you even if I agree. No matter what, we're all dead in the end." Mulder sat back, felt his lip bleeding again, feeling a small amount of satisfaction in the disturbed look the Russians were now carrying. The two Russians whispered to each other, and suddenly rough hands grabbed Mulder by his soiled collar of how many days old and dragged him across the cold tile, his muscles no longer willing to listen to his commands to move in walking fashion. Kabalevsky drew his lip into a tight line, walking resolutely towards the conference rooms. Beranek grunted as he dragged the American across the floor, could hear his Russian colleague checking his pistol. Checking it again. Kabalevksy's voice echoed ominously through the empty corridors. "If I die... then I'll make sure we'll all die together." *** Skinner looked at the polymer material the woman had shoved into his hands and looked at her questioningly. "It's a gas mask... and keep it on at all times." The woman snapped the bands across her head -- her voice now coming out muffled, almost nasal. She looked at the five men surrounding her and reiterated the point. "At all times, soldiers. We don't know what toxins or bio hazards are floating around in there." Skinner nodded, and waited for the commands. After all, it was familiar ground... all too familiar ground that was making his innards grind. "We shoot to kill, no questions asked. Jones and Mercer, you set the explosives, the rest of us will set off on foot and look for any stray ones." Skinner waited. Waited some more -- was eventually prompted to ask when the blond woman started distributing ammo. "Wait. What about Mulder?" Marita loaded her gun, speaking at the same time. "Mulder is second priority, the Russians are a bigger threat." Skinner shook his head. "My first job as Assistant Director is to have a certain responsibility for my agents. Agent Mulder is here, and most likely not under his free will." Marita slammed the metal barrel down onto the sodden ground, glaring at the insubordinate. "You have orders... soldier. And I'm giving them to you." Skinner tightened his jaw. The phrase reeked of 'Nam, of trying not to piss his pants, of trying not to duck behind the foliage and covering his eyes and ears till it was all over. Trying not to think. Trying not to remember. He had a responsibility to protect his name. To protect his agent. To protect his father whose wasted mind and body were rotting with every passing day. To protect so many things. He mouthed a silent go to hell to his sanctimonious medal of honour, an F-you to lemongrass reeking memories that were threatening. He leaned in close to the blonde woman who stared back with blue covered eyes. So close that their masks bumped and jarred against each other. "And I have my orders." He took the gun and loaded it in one fluid motion, fuelled by the knowledge of having done this task so many times before, prompted by a newly developed sense of purpose. Leaving the five men and one woman behind, Walter Skinner turned on his heels with only one objective in mind. *** United States Medical Facility by Worland, Wyoming Scully brushed the last remnants of hair from the woman's face, feeling a tear track down her cheek as evidence to how wrong the situation had become. Through all the John Lee Roches, the drones, and the clones, there had always been one steadfast constant. Through all the nightmares her partner had shared with her, through all the potential tests, and all the maybe grave stones, and all the possibilities of happy hugs and relieved kisses, there had always been one detail that never changed. The reunion had always involved Mulder. Scully admired the hair whose colour was only matched by her brother's, the full bottom lip, the hazel eyes which were now non responsive. She wasn't supposed to find her. She wasn't supposed to be the one doing this. It was not Dana Scully, partner of Amanda Derlum's aka Samantha Mulder's brother who should be watching this woman struggle for breath, for coherence. She pleaded with whatever God there was to please, let her live, to please find Mulder and bring him home safe, and to bring him here so things could be happy and good. If only for one minute. But if their convoluted past was any indication, things would never be happy and good Scully reached into her pocket, pulled out a photocopied replica of her partner's badge. Pushing a lock of hair away from her face, Scully handed the picture to the male geneticist in front of her. "Have you seen this man here?" Troy shook his head, still wondering what it was about Derlum which made the red head threaten tears everytime she looked at her. "No, the place was evacuated. They told us Derlum had contacted a contagious disease and that everyone had to leave, par quarantine procedures." Byers signalled with his right hand while holding the ear piece closer to his head with the other. "Langly wants to know if you want him to go looking around for Mulder." Scully started shaking her head no when Langly's staticy voice once again made it's way through Scully's ear piece. "Trust me, Agent... the place is... much deserted. I think... best... go now." Scully looked to the roof for help and rubbed a hand over her forehead as she felt Byers', Langly's and Frohike's silence in waiting for her to respond. "Fine." She leaned back against the wall, then bolted back upright. "Just... just be careful Langly." The federal agent could practically imagine the beady eyes squinting as he chuckled behind the black plastic frames. Scully turned back to Troy, pausing momentarily to regain her previous train of thought. "You were mentioning quarantine procedures." Troy shook his head, remembering how the men had guns instead of containment suits. "But they weren't quarantine procedures. They were totally wrong. Instead of looking at the gun, everyone should have seen that they wanted Derlum for something." Scully raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "You got this all from improper quarantine procedures?" Troy shook his head, looking down at the woman who was still lying in his arms after so many days. "Derlum... Derlum is different. She came here with all her bridges burned, no family -- but brilliantly smart." Troy smiled in recollection. "It was almost spooky. She had really bad nightmares though. Really bad. And then there were always the check ups." Scully ran a hand over her eyes. It was almost too much for her brain to analyze and process. "What check ups?" "They said physicals, but Derlum had about three times as many as the rest of the personnel. All the time. There was something going on." Troy looked down, ashamed. "I should have done something. The only thing I could do when they came was to stay with her." He remembered the way time slowed when he propped Derlum up, saying that they would have to shoot her too if they were going to kill him. Remembered hearing his lungs and his heart stop during the millisecond when the gun was cocked and pointed at her head. He ran a hand over his eyes, then moved it up to run short fingers through his limp blonde hair. "How did you know that the name Sam would break through to her?" Scully smiled sadly. "A guess. My partner, has been looking for his sister. For a long time. And his name is Fox. And her name is Sam." Troy nodded an understanding that he did not possess. Scully looked around the infirmary for the first time, remembering the centrifuges and electron scanning microscopes that were equal, or even superior, to the ones in Quantico. "What do you do here? This place isn't even on a regular road map." The man smiled sheepishly, shifting slightly, causing the figure in his lap to moan once more for a brother whose partner was hoping to God was alive. "It's cutting edge genetics. And in order to bypass all the government hindrances, the FDA and such, the facility is top secret." Scully nodded, the geneticist's explanation too reminiscent of Mengele and Ishimaro. "So, what were you and Sam... Amanda... working on?" Troy's eyes brightened minutely at the opportunity to talk about nucleotides and restriction enzymes. "What the big project right now is getting introns from other species and placing them in the intron spaces of other species, and controlling their translation via chemicals or electrical signals or radiation, or a number of other catalysts." Scully nodded, her head suddenly stopping in mid-air, her mouth coming agape with the memory of a dialysis filter and Pendrell's written analysis. "Would some of these chemical catalysts include amino acids?" Troy smiled. "Yes, actually." Scully grimaced, tilted her head partly in frustration, partly in despair that her and her partner had been duped. Yet again. "God damn." Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, an anger directed to those who were most likely still smoking and drinking in their high rise in New York. "They messed around with his god damned DNA in his god damned water." Scully's nostrils flared; her blue eyes bore holes into the floor that she was staring at. "Fuck it." Byers watched the federal agent in front of him release a litany of swear words that betrayed the cross on her neck, that proved Mulder's rendez vous' with VCS had worn off on her too. He heard the harsh, hurried whispering of Frohike through his ear piece, noticing that Scully had taking hers off in annoyance with the constant static. He pressed the headphones closer to her head, eyes widening, finally comprehending the panicked warning his colleague was currently issuing. Byers tried calling out for the red head woman but was immediately stopped by a sharp nod of the head by the figure glowering at him. Holding his hands up in surrender, Byers was fully aware of the barrel of the semi automatic pointed at his head -- the Bounty Hunter's intense glare enough to ensure the Gunman's silence. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Jeremiah looked at the semi automatic and held it in his hands. Experimenting. Testing the weight in his hands. Examining the bullets, fingering the pointed tips, the copper-coloured barrels. The fragility of humans was apparent -- flesh and muscle could so easily tear as a searing lead pellet traced its path. Unlike the blood of morphs, the red solvent of humans was not expendable, was not merely a clotting agent. Instead, blood was their medium of life, was the solvent in which homeostasis was maintained -- was precious, as its total sum either sustained life. Or destroyed it. The crate of fifty was empty -- one gun for each morph. The clips were distributed solemnly, with faces grim. Intentions deadly. *** Mulder was flanked by the two Russians who dragged, pulled, coerced him along the endless corridors, up never-ending ramps and down bottomless stairs. Other comrades were waiting for them, weapons in hand, semi automatics and automatics in tow. A breathless teenager came through the doors, sweat rolling down his forehead, wrinkled uniform a stark contrast to the pressed and creased uniforms of his older comrades. "Jeremiah's coming. They're armed." Kabalevsky nodded, signalled for the barely-pubescent Russian to stand guard at the door just over *there*. Mulder watched the Russians tighten their grips on their handles, heard the multitude of clicks that indicated the guns were so very much cocked -- and that the Russians were so very much serious. Mulder sagged. Apparently, his speech hadn't affected them in the least. He pictured the carnage, imagined the burning pins that would meet his nostrils and go into his lungs. That would make his eyes water and burn, like scouring pads over the corneas themselves. Could picture Sam and Scully side by side over his corpse. A dead man hoping for forgiveness. *** Skinner watched the procession of artillery file past him from the shelter of a doorway twenty feet ahead. More unnerving than the guns that they held, than the numerous clips that were secured firmly at the waist, was the silence. The steel eyes of the unearthly beings were ominous in their focused intensity. Twenty seven pairs of perfect shoes, on perfectly structured feet, travelled in perfect harmony -- foreboding, rather than beautiful, in the silence that plagued the rubber soles as they hit the tiled floor. Skinner swallowed, watching Marita and the five other soldiers approach from the opposite side. When the door opened, when the bodies floated by, in the millisecond of time when his view was clear, Skinner felt his breath catch. His eyes widened as he saw Mulder supported by two Russians -- sighing in relief, as his subordinate agent was still very much alive. But Mulder's profile was marred by blood, and his strength was visibly ebbing as his legs were sagging with the effort needed to remain upright. Skinner held the gun tighter. His responsibility only. He nodded at Marita who nodded back. Cautiously, they made their way to the door. *** Colonel Josef Beranek had taught Marita Corruvibias many things. In between the cleaning and dusting he had taught her many of the secrets of the Iron Curtain. In between the school work and the hop scotch, he had taught her strategy, often using old World War II maps and Hitler's Nazis as a guide. In between the pleading and the begging, he had taught her how to hold a gun. How to attack from a door. How to have your gun raised, cocked, and pointed as soon as you stepped away from the shelter of cover. And how to aim it at the first body you see. And Marita Corruvibias, with her brown hair that was so often hidden by peroxide, with blue contacts that hid her European browns, with a scarred lip that was caused by a demented man with a ruby ring so long ago, stepped out of her shelter, pointed her cocked gun at the first figure in view. And gasped. *** The figures in Jeremiah's view grew steadily as he walked closer to their ridiculous uniforms and their inefficient fire power. He could feel his and his cohorts' impatience start to wane with ever step that was taken -- that they were anxious to get the killing over with and go back to the hybrids waiting downstairs. He saw the familiar figure of Kabalevsky, the rotund stomach of the incompetent Beranek and saw... saw some dishevelled man being supported by both. His senses awakened by the close proximity, and the brown haired, beaten man sensed it as well. A rumbling in the breast. A tingle in the stomach. Genetic marker against genetic marker. The other man raised his head, and the morph and the man stared at each other. Silent. Jeremiah looked to Kabalevsky. Looked to Beranek and smiled, clearly amused. "And what is this?" Kabalevsky's face grew into an ugly sneer. "You've lied to us, you've used our facilities. We *trusted* you." Kabalevsky shifted, raising Mulder's body higher. "And now that we have what you have, I think it's time we terminated the deal." A line of men came up from behind Kabalevsky, weapons drawn. Mulder closed his eyes, was thinking that maybe if he held his breath and closed his eyes than maybe... maybe... Jeremiah's face was indifferent. "And you think your guns and your... " he waved his hand dismissively at Mulder. "Your marker, will be able to stop us?" A line of morphs came up from behind Jeremiah, guns trained on the men who held identical guns beaded on them. Stalemate. *** The confrontation underway in the center of the conference room went unnoticed by the man who held a gun against the blonde woman's head. Went unnoticed by the woman who held the gun aimed at the head of the brown-haired soldier. Her eyes worked in tandem with her brain, overlapping memories with what she could see. She saw his brown orbs, the ones which would cross and make faces at her, the unruly hair that could be controlled only by oil, the nose which was bent at a slight angle because the ice-containing snowball hit him in the face that one winter. A primer that she would read to him before he went to school. A lip that carried the same scar that she wore. A good bye that she never had a chance to say. An abrupt end to the hell that she had lived in, only for it to be waiting when she arrived. Anton. The brother who only existed in her dreams. The two figures pointed barrels at each other's head -- her eyes wide, his eyes slitted with suspicion and fear. They stood spell bound, guns starting to lower, Marita's eyes the only thing visible behind the black of the mask -- its glare hiding the water that was staring to gather. Suddenly the Russian drew back hastily, almost tripping over his feet, mumbling that they were all going to die anyways, and made his way to the other side, eyes still focused on the woman in front of him. Marita could do nothing but follow. *** Skinner watched the exchange, memorized, words not able to describe what he had seen transpire between the uniformed Russian and the black dressed Marita. His glance moved towards where the Russian was going, the stand off between the two men in the center, towards Mulder who was desperately holding onto the more rotund figure standing slightly towards the back. He looked over at Jones and Mercer, catching their eyes. They showed him their smoke bombs, eyes seeking approval. Skinner reached to his belt and pulled out the small canister, feeling the steel. Feeling it settle comfortably into the palm of his hand. So much like a grenade. So much like the objects he threw so long ago. Soeasytopullthepin... *** Marita followed the retreating figure hastily, suddenly stopping when Anton stepped into the open. She willed her ears to hear better -- her view was obstructed by the stack of boxes she was hiding behind. Silently praying behind. She recognized Kabalevsky, heard the familiar cadence in his tenor voicek, and watched her brother take his place beside the eldest gentleman. A scream escaped her lips as the gunshot was fired, as smoke erupted, as the green fluid bubbled and boiled, and as Humpty Dumpty and all the kings' men toppled and fell. Marita ignored the screams which were quickly threatening to engulf the room, ignored the morphs who were standing smug despite the Russians who were still getting sporadic, unaimed gun shots in. She stared at the still figure, watched him being consumed amongst all the smoke and the fumes and the flying bodies. Feeling little security in the polymer material which surrounded her mouth and nose, Marita stepped resolutely towards the middle. There would be no more running away. Not anymore. *** Skinner fired at anything, anyone, at any shadow that moved or wavered. He ignored the screams -- the agonizing, gut wrenching screams which made his groin tighten and half expect the forest green choppers to arrive and spray napalm. His eyes scanned the smoke-filled area, trying to look beyond the greenish-grey haze. Looking for *him*. He passed the green decaying bodies, the bodies of aliens that were quickly healing, oozing green blood that bubbled and boiled. Toiled and troubled. Skinner stepped out into the open, allowing himself to do a full three sixty in time with the bullets that he was firing. His responsibility was nowhere to be found. *** A slow exhale, trying not to breathe. Keep breathing out, don't breathe in. The man started to feel his last reserves of oxygen quickly depleting, his diaphragm starting to hurt with the pressure he was putting on it, with the stress of still trying to force air out of his mouth. Have to breathe. The air around him was nothing but smoke, putrid by colour, littered with the silhouettes of downed bodies and downed weapons. Have to get out. But his muscles wouldn't obey -- only screaming in protest, or offering a dull ache in consolation for their unwillingness. His arms were the only appendages working, and the laborious task of trying to drag his whole body somewhere -- to the door, to the air -- was rapidly depleting whatever reserves of oxygen, whatever little energy, that he had had originally. Have to breathe. And when the colours started to appear, when his eyes felt like they were about to burst, Mulder shook his head valiantly, trying to spell off the burning of his lungs for just... a... few... seconds... more... Unable to stop the orange and green spots which were rapidly turning to black, Mulder inhaled. *** Skinner tore off the mask, put it to the agent's face as Mulder's lungs shook with the unexpected presence of oxygen. Already staring to feel the fringes of oxygen deprevation, Skinner hefted the fallen agent over shoulder, feeling the slack figure give away easily in his arms. Without a second glance, Walter Skinner ran for his life. *** Marita looked down at downed figure in front of her. He was gasping, groaning, trying to staunch the outpouring of blood with one hand while the other reached for his pistol. The blonde woman removed the slickly-coated piece of metal from the slack hand, laying her other hand on top of the wound that used to be his chest. She looked up, feeling the tears starting to collect at the bottom of her visor. The smoke was still swirling around her -- a green Moscow fog accompanying the ever present, putrid grey. She looked back down, and the young man's eyes were still marked by confusion. He had been too young when she had left, just learning how to read, just learning how to do so many things. The eyes started to roll in their sockets; the body shuddered one last time before it grew still. No return. She took a gloved hand and closed his eyes. No regrets. She heard her words echo hollowly off the gas mask, heard it grow indecipherable amongst the din, smoke, and gunfire, so that only the deaf ears of the dead man below could hear the words she had yearned to say for so long. "Good bye." *** Skinner started for the doorway, felt the hip bones of the federal agent starting to protrude through the black woolen top into his shoulder blades. Mulder groaned absently, and incoherently muttered his annoyances with being roughly jostled. The AD looked back towards where he had just exited, instantly looking for any visible cues that Marita had been injured when he could see her hunched, defeated figure in the middle of the room. In the safety of the clean air, he took off Mulder's mask, all the while stealing glances over his shoulder to carefully study the UN informant. The woman was sitting passively, uninjured from the AD's vantage point, and he passed her stillness off as shell shock. By God, he had seen enough of it twenty five years ago, that the disorder was all too familiar. He set Mulder down against the wall, watched the agent plant his hands on the floor in attempt to gain some semblance of stability. "You stay here, Mulder." The agent merely nodded, eyes starting to close, when Skinner roughly shook his shoulder. "You have to stay awake, Mulder. You hear me? Stay awake." He added an after thought. "Scully will be waiting." The agent nodded again, watching through glassy eyes as his boss made his way back into the hell hole. As the barrel chest disappeared amongst the smoke and the smog, Mulder felt his eyelids start to grow heavy, felt them start to close underneath the weight of lead that his eyelashes seemed to be consisted of. As the blackness surrounded him, Mulder could only offer a silent apology to his partner. *** Marita spotted the familiar form and stopped. Felt her blood start to curdle, her flee reflex jolt into full force -- instantly wanted to grasp the covers and close her eyes. Dream of mamma and making the bed with the roses of red. He was still trying to move; she saw the blackened orbs around his eyes, saw the god damned ruby ring that was still around his finger. Her grunt left white clouds of condensation on her visor as she hastily grabbed the fallen man's collar and pulled him, dragged him to the clean air outside the room. She bumped into the tall form of the Assistant Director and her eyes immediately turned down guiltily. "Let's get out here. I have Mulder." Marita shook her head, still staring at the man laying at her feet. "I have to stay." Her voice grew louder to re-emphasize the point. "Go ahead, I'll stay here." Skinner looked incredulously at the female, watching her chest heave in time with his own from the exertion of having to walk through smoke, toxic alien fumes, and gun fire with a body in tow. "What the hell are talking about? The place is going to blow soon." Skinner waved his hand towards the conference room, shaking his head. "I found Cassels dead inside, but everyone else is wating for us at the rendez vous point." Skinner paused. "They're expecting *you*." Marita shook her head again, saw that Beranek's eyes had opened and were staring at her. "No. I have to stay here. There's no use in me going back." Skinner continued to stare dumbly. "Look, Skinner. You have a chance to redeem yourself." She pointed at federal agent behind him. "And I've lost that chance. And I can't go back." The man in front of her continued to stand still. "Go! What the hell are you waiting for?" The woman paused, her eyes brightening, then dulling -- dilating, then constricting -- as a bitter smile played on her lips. "That's an order, soldier. Go, get the hell out of here." Skinner continued to watch her with eyes wide as he backed up to get to Mulder. He hefted the agent over his shoulder once again, and walked back towards the woman, towards the door behind her. When he passed her, he turned around -- enigmatic eyes still watching his progress. Skinner stepped through the door, past the threshold, past a point where he could no longer see the woman who had accompanied him on this mission that had started, it seemed, so very long ago. Once again, Skinner ran. *** Beranek opened his eyes to feel his lungs aching, with the needles further burying themselves within his alveoli. His limbs were screaming at the mere thought of moving them, alternately cramping, then burning, then spasming. He opened his eyes to meet blond hair and blue eyes. She looked like his angel dressed in black, had the same figure of a girl he had known years ago. He felt his hand start to be enclosed by her soft fingers, felt the other hand start to stroke his knuckles and the ring that lay there. Her voice came out clear and rich, full of the honey barritone that he had missed. "Do you remember me?" The Colonel stared at the face, felt the first synapses fire in the excavation of a memory that had been long since forgotten. He took in the soft, cream-colored skin, the brown eyelashes which covered the wide, round eyes, the hair that had brown roots and was straight and thin -- perfect for tying red ribbons in. A lip that still bore a faint scar. "Marina." The woman smiled, gently twisted the ring off his finger, looked at her watch, and finally met the eyes of the man in front of her. Before the facility exploded, before the squeals of flesh burning and the screams of beings dying. Before the pop of embers turning into charcoal and the whir of barrels flying. Before the hushed tones of five men in black who would trudge away to the four by four waiting in the distance. Before the morphs, in their quest for global domination, could make it to the basement and order the hybrids. Before the timer hit zero and sent the electric impulse to the explosives that were planted. Before all of Moscow shook and just as quickly settled onto her bearings, the woman looked into the man's eyes. The past mirrored only by the future they would encounter together. She waited with her eyes closed. And when the light finally engulfed her, the woman smiled. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Langly pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, pressed his head, torso, and legs against the wall, wary of the electronic eye mounted on the ceiling on the far side. According to his hyper sensitive ears, every step, every worn Converse rubber sole hitting tiled floor, sounded like a brick hitting pavement. Amplified one thousand times over. His clothing, the paint which was used for the Metallica logo, was shifting too loudly against the cotton -- playing its own rendition of nails against chalk board. Everytime Frohike spoke over the ear piece, it was as if the eldest Gunmen was amplifying his voice over the facility's loud speakers. The Gunman ran a hand over his face, causing his glasses to slide back down once again -- contemplating between the steel steps to the right, and the beckoning corridor to the left. It was a choice he had been faced with numerous times in the past hour. Corridor vs. stairs. Lab room vs. conference room. Room with green door vs. room with blue door. And each decision, each hopeful glance through each door, had been rewarded with an unused pipette, or an empty table surrounded by equally empty chairs, or dusty lab equipment which further established the lack of human activity leading up to the Gunmen's arrival. "Where the hell are you, Mulder?" Langly suddenly sagged against the wall, as if the recently whispered words had expended all energy. He would never have believed that the Gunmen would have been willing to break into a government facility for two federal agents. Would never have suspected that the safety of two federal employees would override the Gunmen's fear of exposure. That when Mulder had come to then, desperate, they had willingly gone to Lombard, despite the echoing gunshots and the near misses. But that when the Thinker was killed, or when hackers emerged from cyber oblivion, only to quickly disappear again, nary a second glance was passed. Langly shook his head, cleared all hindsight and resolutely headed for the corridor. His eyebrows wrinkled at the sight of the heavy metal bolt against the outside of the farthest door. His heart began to echo within his ears as his feet moved alongside the wall, pace quickening as the door neared. The porthole was small, dusty, and the Gunman gingerly wiped the grey particles there -- it only to be replaced by red. The figure inside had the Gunmen reaching for the lock instantly, his fingers unable to move fast enough, knuckles intertwining with metal. "Scully?" The door opened quickly, the metal screaming along its hinges. Oblivious to the noise, the Gunman headed for the head that was turned away. The head which was wrapped with brilliant red string, cut short, crimped straight. "Scully?" The woman turned and Langly stumbled over his retreating feet, eyes catching the blue eyes, the porcelain skin... the ragged sweater which hung over a hole-y skirt. The Gunman shakily extended a hand and gingerly placed it upon the woman's arm, feeling the warmth permeate through the cloth into the flesh of his shocky hands. "Scul..." He trailed off, eyes catching the faces of beings who milled aimlessly. Stared aimlessly. The jeans that were slightly too big. The sandals whose straps were torn. Thousands upon thousands of people who refused to speak. Who refused to acknowledge the newest presence in the room. He turned back towards the red head, his eyes roaming over the face studiously, tracking the beauty mark above the upper lip, the widow's peak. Langly's arms retreated harshly -- crossed themselves protectively over their owner's chest. "Are you... are you prisoners?" Langly's eyes blinked as the his nervous voice echoed through the cinder walls. When there was no response, no acknowledgement, the Gunman waved his hands towards the open door. "You can go... you can leave." Amongst the echoes, the beings looked at him in passing, looked at the door in passing, looked at each other in passing -- fully oblivious to the blonde man in front of them, whose nervous panting coincided only with the far-from-rhythmic beating of his heart. The Gunman jumped when Scully's angry voice jolted through his ear piece, followed by Frohike's urgent, panicked whisper. "Problems... shit hole... get back now." The blonde pivoted, headed for the door, when his feet suddenly did a one eighty. His hand extended -- harshly pulled the woman towards the door. Her feet moved steadily, her eyes remained impassive, her back arched slightly as if it had been content in its previous position. The upraised tile came as a surprise, and Langly tripped, fought for balance, heard rubber squeal against tile, and let go of the slight hand to brace himself for the inevitable fall. His hands groped blindingly, slapping, grasping desperately onto a steel railing. The woman stopped, all hand contact lost, ratty sweater threatening to engulf her. Langly resumed running. Yelling. "Come on!" He shot wild, fearful eyes to the red hair, running backwards, legs burning as his words ran together in a rushed torrent. "Come on, lady! Come on!" Langly turned the corner, losing sight of the woman, the corridor and the previously padlocked door. Although the door was wide open, the woman and the other four thousand and thirty nine morphs did not follow. *** Private Charter En Route: Worland, Wyoming "Casualties?" Skinner held the phone closer to his ear, plugged the other orifice with his index finger when the words of the Englishman threatened obscurity as the plane's engines roared to life. "Marita and Cassels are dead." He stole a glance towards the slack face of the man in front of him. "Mulder was beat up pretty bad." There was a worried pause before the Englishman spoke again. "But he's conscious." Skinner's affirmative response garnered a relieved exhalation through the ear piece. The Assistant Director watched absently as the pilot checked the gauges, hands dancing over a multitude of buttons and switches. Felt his temper increasing as the soldiers surrounding him pretended not to stare, while casually laying their pistols on their laps. Conveniently aimed at him. He felt his innards seethe as the all-too-familiar and all-too-old charade of diplomacy continued. "Where are we going?" "It's not important." Skinner's jaw tightened. "I have a right to know." "I don't think so." Skinner's growling threat was quickly contained by the soldier to the left, by the man in black's nonchalant index which rested visibly on the trigger. The Englishman's voice sang sotto over the staticy line. "Your father, Mr. Skinner." Skinner felt his blood start to course, saw his vision threaten red when the phone was slammed down, the end button jabbed cruelly by his thumb. He made an effort to breathe steadily through his nostrils, the resultant noise prompting him to check the shallow breathing of the agent in front of him. When satisfied, his fingers drummed across his lap, through the hair he once had, picked at the dirt on his pants. Suddenly his left hand clenched, and his right hand reached for the phone he had thrown on the steel floor only minutes ago. His first attempt garnered an answering machine. His second attempt garnered a bland out of service message. His third attempt garnered an artificially friendly, bureaucratic-induced greeting. "Kim, this is Walter. Did Agent Scully report to work today?" The woman on the other line was silent, her hands clicking over plastic keys. "No, sir. Would you like me to call her house?" Skinner shook his head. "No, that's okay. I already tried." "Oh, Mr. Skinner, the..." The plane jolted, causing the overhead lights to flicker and the men to grunt and grope wildly for some semblance of support. His secretary's words, however, hit him harder than the steel ceiling across his naked head. So hard that it caused a multitude of scenes to flash beyond his eyes. So hard that the blood and the carnage and the medals and the blank stares made it hurt to breathe, made his fingers numb, made his stomach threaten to expunge all contents. Skinner didn't even remember hanging up the phone. *** 46th West Avenue New York, New York "We have a problem." The Well-Manicured Man gripped the phone tighter, pressed his lips so that they drew into a straight white line -- an attempt to keep the expletives at bay, to maintain a calm facade. "What." The Bounty Hunter paused, hearing the barely checked temper in the terse word. "Agent Scully and a companion are here." The Englishman closed his eyes and exhaled his annoyances noisily. He would not allow himself to begin pondering how Irish-Red had found Worland. He would not even begin to contemplate what the federal agent could have found. And there were so many things to be found in Worland. For the first time in years, he felt his heart begin to beat faster, a sweat starting to break out -- provide an effective lubricant between his hand and the cell. An emotion, that for so long, had been absent, despite the numerous cigarettes, morphs, and alien parasites that he had encountered. A feeling that had been eluding him since the IRA bombings in London decades ago. His head shook resolutely. The Feds could not -- *would* not -- be the ones to instill the groin shrinking, palm sweating fear that he had run away from for over two decades now. The fear that the Project would not succeed. The fear that he would not be a commandant in the cataclysmic events which would lead into the new millenium. The Englishman's head shook again. The federal agents simply had *no* right. The Bounty Hunter cleared his throat before proceeding, his monotonous voice made even deeper due to the tedium of standing with gun aimed, phone poised. "Do you want me to kill them?" The Well-Manicured Man's lips pursed, were about to open and say God yes, kill the bloody buggers. But his prior conversation with a certain Assistant Director warranted a change in direction. "No... no." The Englishman poured another bourbon and swirled the red liquid within its crystal enclosure. "We can use them as incentive." He heard a non-commital grunt from the morph before the line went dead. Donald, his mustache being the first to emerge from the smoke and shadows, approached the man with the bourbon suspiciously. "You look nervous." The Englishman looked at his hands, shocked to see them shaking. A solitary bead of sweat crawled down the back of his neck, staining the collar of his pristine shirt. He took a reassuring sip from the goblet before shaking his head. "I'm fine." Eleven pairs of eyes continued to stare at him, and the bourbon was hastily set on the table, it's owner jerkily rising. New York was too bloody far from Worland. Crappy phone connections decorated with static wouldn't be good enough this time. Not with the Project this close to completion. "Get the plane." The Consortium members remained standing, causing the Englishman to snap, to resort to the professionalism and no-holds-barred persona that -- excluding the past ten minutes -- had defined him. The hands were now still; the face was flushed, but dry. "For God sakes, I'll go." A jacket was pulled over slender shoulders, and his voice rose and fell in the time it took to manueover the buttons, straighten the collar. "Mulder will come, gentlemen. By tonight, Agent Scully will be a mere memory." *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Scully stared at the Bounty Hunter, let her blue eyes look up and bore holes into his forehead despite the headache that was rapidly threatening. Occaisionally, her eyes would drift down, would study the spot of flesh between the closely cropped hair and the edge of the starched collar. Guided only by Mulder's voice, the strange mix of brotherly affection slash paternal concern slash partner-induced attachment, "base of the neck" was the only phrase circulating endlessly through the fissures of her brain. His voice, wavering despite her best efforts to center on the echoing sound, was her assurance that he was somewhere -- was New Mexico all over again when he visited her amongst the stars and the sleep, and uttered his reassurances. That he was alive. That perhaps Skinner was with him, and that this hellish stasis of Troy continually stroking Sam's hair and Byers nervously fidgeting would end soon. She studied the Bounty Hunter once again -- studied the fingers which were drumming along the rifle's handle. Watched almost entranced as long, lean fingers danced on black metal, as the white moons of perfect fingernails moved in time with slender knuckles and agile fingers. Almost as if they were magical. So much like a man who worked for the social security administration so long ago. Scully opened her mouth to speak, then just as quickly closed it again -- wondering if the question was worth asking. She contemplated whether the silence of an unasked question was preferable to the sting of an unwanted answer. "Could you cure Mulder?" A look of amusement flashed through the morph's face. "Why would I do that?" Scully's mouth twitched before it opened slowly, the federal agent grasping for a response -- unable to find an answer amongst all the FBI manuals and medical texts that she had encountered. Finding only a response which had been thrown off the gameboard so long ago -- a strategy that was as hopeful as it was naive. "Because it's right." The Agent nodded her head in affirmation; her cross caught the fluorescent lights above. "Because it's the right thing to do." The Bounty Hunter laughed -- a strained sound that was more coughing than guffawing. "There is no right or wrong, Agent Scully. Only alive and dead. And I have my orders." The morph shifted, causing Byers to flinch when the pistol was momentraily pointing in his direction, causing a nervous gasp to escape from Troy. Scully ignored the outside stimuli and kept pressing. "And what orders are those?" "To ensure that the Project goes till completion." Scully shook her head. "Then why do they need Agent Mulder?" The Bounty Hunter smiled -- predator playing with prey, some fun before the kill. "Because his gift will be able to save mankind." Scully shook her head. "Surely you don't believe that." The Bounty Hunter smiled once again. "Appearance is everything." "Then what's in it for you?" "Survival." Scully shook her head, eyebrows furrowing. "But Mulder can't save you." "But he will, and if you want to be," the morph's face shortened, red hair growing from the previously short brown, and Scully found her own face starting to crumble when she stared into the sad eyes of Missy's. "Then you should willingly allow him to do his duty." Scully looked down at the floor, her voice halting and muffled as it was spoken into the collar of her sweater. "And... what duty is that?" Missy's sweet, slightly condescending voice had Scully's nails digging into her palms. "To control the hybrids." The brief answer almost caused Scully to look up reflexively, but instead, she wrenched her neck back down, continued to stare at the floor, allowing her eyes to collect saline. "But how?" Scully heard skin shifting once again, and she glanced up, only to harshly stare at the floor again -- alarmingly tempted to look up and see the blue eyes of her father. If not for one last time. His voice boomed off the cinder block, and Scully put a hand over her ear -- it was all too reminiscent of a jail cell and a prisoner named Luther Lee Boggs. "A remnant of the Bill Mulder legacy." Scully shook her head, unable to grasp the concepts the morph was hurling at her. "I don't understand." The morph said nothing, but to hasilty grab her chin and force her to look at the sea weathered face, the bald head that she used to kiss, the blue eyes that she had inherited. Her eyes looked to the left, concentrated on the bead of sweat on Sam's forehead. "Please... stop." Flesh shifted again, and the morph stood before her. "I told you, appearance is everything." The morph waved a hand in his captors' direction. "Humans are vile, corrupt -- as ill tempered as they are short. A society where people hide behind primitve technology, where resources are wasted, ravaged by mongerous beings. Where people kill each other, underneath the facade of moral and ethical ambitions." The morphs snorted, shaking his head. "Your partner will be the leader after this current population is destroyed. He will lead a more genteel society, one which is vastly superior to this wasteland in terms of intelligence and efficiency." He paused before proceeding once again. "Appearance is everything. The will to live is all encompassing -- even if it means defecting from your own species to work for an incompetent race such as yours." Scully shook her head. "You joined them... us just to ensure your survival... just because you thought we... they would be done first?" Scully paused, eyes squinting minutely. "A gamble," she amended seconds later. The morph said nothing but to shift the pistol from one hand to another. Scully sagged, letting her head fall back against the wall. Her eyes and ears were protesting with the information overload. Her synapses were firing wildly as they attempted to process the logic and plausibility of this most recent story, in what was becoming a sordid mess of so many. Scully's eyes were once again drawn to the hands; Mulder's voice started to fade inside her head. "Couldn't you cure him?... Please?" The morph shook his head. He pointed towards the prone figure laying on the cot. "Don't you think I would have cured her?" Scully nodded dejectedly, wiped her nose and stopped -- suddenly recalling all too vivid memories of kleenex after kleenex. Of red cotton in the garbage. Of soaking silk in the sink. She looked up to the morph, craned her neck to meet his enigmatic eyes, felt her body shudder with the memories of chemo and pain, of cheers and spotless X-Rays couriered to medical journals. "Did you cure me?" She flinched when the morph leaned in close. Her breathing came in nervous pants in response to the warmth emanating from the figure above her. "You're bleeding." Two words that two months ago, would have had her running for the bathroom, reaching for the concealed kleenexes in her pocket. Guided by instinct, Scully fingered her nose finding nothing but the dissolved salt of sweat and tears. Her eyes narrowed, and the morph offered a passing glance downward. "You're bleeding." Scully caught the message as her cheeks reddened, as her legs crossed. She stole a glance at Byers, at Troy, at Sam -- contemplated the pistol held between perfect hands and shifted again to get the morph's attention. She consciously raised her chin, attempting to maintain eye contact without flinching -- trying to save the most of whatever dignity that she still had. "Can I use the washroom?" The morph nodded, pointing to a room just to his left. She stood up, felt the blood start to rush to her head, and looked back over her shoulder towards the Bounty Hunter. His shoulders had sagged; his posture had relaxed. Scully inwardly berated herself. Under the guise of offering her a trip to the washroom, he had saved himself from needling questions, from desperate pleas. The morph's generosity was not one out of care or concern -- he had merely wanted the nosy Fed out of his short cropped hair. Scully turned a three sixty in the tiled room, eyes closing in defeat upon completion. There were no windows, no mirrors. A toilet that flushed automatically, a sink with automatic dispensers. No sharp objects. No blunt instruments. Scully had thought perhaps, perhaps the morph had given her an out. Had offered her a chance to escape. Scully looked at the smooth tile, the cinder block walls -- all other materials bolted, chained and double fastened. No chance at all. The morph was right. Appearances were everything. *** Private Charter En Route to: Worland, Wyoming Skinner felt his tailbone starting to scream as the plane continued to jolt and rock, as if turbulence had wanted to accompany them on this eerily silent trip. Skinner scrutinized the facial features of the man in front of him, watched a shadow pass through his face each time the plane jumped, jolted, and dropped. Lacerations of various sizes had painted his arms and chest red -- had even drawn a dark brown cloud on his trousers. A black and blue fabric had been cruelly pulled taut over a slender bone frame. The eyes rolled; his mouth mumbled and muttered -- offered defenses to the ghosts whose pasts refused to be reconciled. The Assistant Director maintained a close watch -- a soldier's vigil that had been done so many times before. Watching without hovering. Emotions that were buried deep within, an impassive facade to hide the fear and the deep-seeded twitches that came with not knowing, waiting, and hoping. His hands clasped together on top of his legs, which in turn attempted to anchor themselves to the unforgiving steel of the plane. A plane such as this, where the cage rocked in time to the ragged beating of the heart, where the storm outside was matched only by the one waging within. Where beneath it all, was a broken and beaten man -- whose wounds, at times, would not survive the storm, and the cage, and the facades, and would not be able to make the entire trip home. The beaten man shifted. Groaned. "Mulder... Agent Mulder." The agent's head turned towards the source of sound, but his eyes did not open. "Mulder, wake up." Skinner watched the eyes flutter, and then squint at the harshness of the overhead lights. The agent groaned, curling into a tighter ball, knees and arms drawing together to protect a throbbing mid section. His words were muffled by the clothing that was blocking his mouth. "Where are we?" "A plane." One leg gingerly bent out at the knee, soon followed by the other. "What about the facility in Russia?" Skinner sobered, shaking his head, ignoring the stares of the men around him. "It was blown up, par orders." The agent nodded, groaning as he did so. Skinner watched the federal agent attempt to sit up, watched his arms shake with the effort to support his body weight, heard the laborious breathing as Mulder finally leaned his back aginst the steel wall and straightened his legs. Mulder looked around. Weary. Wary. Eyes focusing on the soldiers, on the semi automatics that they held, on the pilot who was conversing quietly with the mouth piece of his headphones. "Where are we going, sir?" Skinner stopped momentarily at the name -- looked to Mulder who hadn't noticed the title of respect. Probably due more to reflex and protocol meetings, than to admiration, Skinner could see the rapidly growing glare of suspicion in the agent's eyes. Mulder's hands had started clenching, started to wring amongst themselves as his glances towards the window grew more frequent. "Where are we going?" Skinner swallowed, finally relented. "I don't know." He shook his head. "They won't tell me." Silence accompanied them as turbulence once again took over. Skinner looked over at the green face of the federal agent, watched him grimace when he swallowed bile. The hazel eyes dilated, and his voice came out soft, with an understanding that only Bill Mulder's son could possess. "You shouldn't let them hold what your father did against you." Skinner tilted his head. "How did you know?" Mulder offered a slight shake of the head. "Sources," was all the agent would offer. The corners of Skinner's mouth upturned. "Neither should you." Mulder pursed his lips, offering a minute shrug towards Skinner's direction. "You weren't at fault for what happened over there." It was Skinner's turn to shrug his shoulders. No, the orders to shoot hadn't come from him. The orders to watch villages burn as napalm engrained itself within his nostrils hadn't come from him. But the bullets and the grenades and the gas additive had been thrown by *his* hand. And it was *his* silence, *his* ignorance that allowed his father to pull a William Calley. That it was *his* fear of not being believed, of dishonourable discharge, that allowed My Lai and the screams and the almond slitted eyes which voiced fear and betrayal to happen again and again. That it was *him*, who accepted the medal, upon his father's recommendation, when a career in the FBI looked oh-so promising. Skinner studied the grooves in the steel floor, his right index finger twitching on an imaginary trigger. "My father taught me long ago, when my brother and I were young, that your name was the most important thing to you. He drilled it into us -- he would have mock salutes and all tha..." Skinner trailed off, not finishing. The Assistant Director shook his head, attempting to shake off the last vestiges of memory. "Alzheimer's is a horrible disease. So is Parkinson's. They make you forget... they make you vulnerable and defenseless to the enemies out there. And sometimes we need to protect the defenseless, protect their name, because they can't do it themselves." Mulder sighed wearily, his eyes closing. Too many stories, and he was too tired to offer comments on this latest one. Skinner craned his neck when the eyes closed, momentarily panicking that his agent had lost consciouness again. But the dilated hazels opened just as quickly as they had closed, and Mulder blinked, eyes drifting towards the window, fingers tracing a path towards the top, connecting the stars that lay just beyond the glass. "I just want to see her." Skinner nodded, thinking he understood. "I know, and I'm sure Scully wants to see you." A sharp bark of laughter escaped from Mulder's lips. "Yeah, I want to see Scully too." Skinner drew back, feeling foolish. He was more than embarrassed that the man in front of him, fifteen years his junior, could profile and understand him with ease. But that the agent who had earned the nickname Spooky long before Skinner had gravitated to Assistant Director, still remained an enigma. That the name Samantha Mulder would be familiar to even him. A name that caused even Walter Skinner's groin to tighten, his stomach threaten to do flip flops at the implications. Skinner followed Mulder's gaze to the window, seeing nothing but the faceless moon and faint stars. "We'll find her, Mulder." Skinner's voice caught as the plane lurched again, as his stomach protested. "Soon... I can feel it." *** United States Federal Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Scully felt each distinct fibre of the made-for-institution- type toilet paper as she awkwardly made her way back from the bathroom. However, considering how dire the situation had become -- judging by the endless throat clearing by Byers, the stillness of the woman in front of her -- the make shift maxi pad had been quickly reduced to a minor interference. She reached for an imaginary holster when the sound of rubber soles against tiled floor steadily grew louder. The morph straightened, positioned himself behind the door, waiting, pistol in hand. Words floated into the room, were carressed delicately by an English accent. "It's just me... put the gun down." Scully's eyes widened as the elderly gentleman stepped in. Byers drew his back further against the wall, wary of the bulge of a pistol hidden by the woolen jacket. The Gunman flinched when Scully's voice echoed off the cinder walls. "Where's Mulder?" The Englishman picked the lint off his overcoat, checked his cell phone, checked his pistol with melodramatic nonchalance. "He's coming. Should be landing soon." Scully exhaled. She allowed her heart to rejoice and sing at the confirmation her partner was indeed alive. And that his sister was right here, waiting. She looked back at the panting, sweating girl beside her and sobered. Her heart did not sing, rather it trembled within its bony cage. A quest so old, and so dark -- where so many people had been sacrificed. For *this*. For the knowledge that your body had been manipulated, that your sister's body had been manipulated, that... Scully closed her eyes at the thought of the rebuilding process that would have to go on after this. That is, if there was anything left to rebuild. Who would have known that when the puzzle pieces had been finally assembled, that the picture would be as bleek and dark and black, moreso than anyone could have imagined. A nightmarish existance that really proved that ignorance could have been bliss. That the horrors of VCS, and of mutilated bodies in the morgue, perhaps would have been adequate price to pay for ignorant peace. And that perhaps the mutants and the monsters, the Tooms and the Pushers, the shadows and the omniscient beings with long, magical fingers -- perhaps, *perhaps* the price excated for that truth had been too much. And much too late. Scully felt the dead weight start to settle in her stomach. Started to feel the seconds ticking. Nevous anticipation of the Armegeddon that was about to follow. So soon. *** Private Charter En Route to: Worland, Wyoming "We have really shitty weather, I don't know if we can land." Skinner could see the dark threatening clouds over head, could feel the plane rattle with the wind, rain, and snow that were pelting it, and swallowed. The pilot took a deep breath; his hands started to turn white with the force he was gripping the steering console. Skinner looked back at his agent who was grasping, almost swinging from one of the hand holds -- a desperate, make shift anchor amongst the waves of turbulence. In truth, Mulder looked miserable. He walked towards the back once more, hands out to the sides in an effort to maintain some semblance of balance, and laid a reassuring hand on Mulder's shoulder. "We're almost there. I can see the lights of the facility from the cock pit." Mulder nodded; a vigil of silence he had taken for the past few hours. He looked out the window once again, and noticed that the stars had disappeared. He looked towards his left, to the men in black, whose guns were rattling against the steel seats, whose cannisters and bulbs were shaking and causing his throat to tighten. He turned his head to the right, towards his boss, and Mulder finally noticed the way Skinner had positioned himself between the men in black and the agent who worked downstairs. Mulder's throat convulsed and he turned back towards the window once again. He took a deep breath, and allowed the acknowledgement of how same slash different they were. The security lights beckoned him, and Mulder's flee reflex kicked into full gear. He fidgeted. Squrimed. Couldn't sit still during the descent. One of the men in black finally took notice, reached for the pistol, and Mulder eventually leaned back to appease him. He felt helpless, like being led -- as if the red lights on top of the facility were his entrance into eternal damnation, a hell on Earth with his father as the gatekeeper. He looked at the man in front of him once more with dark and haunted eyes, with fear-dilated irises that reflected the fluorescense of the lights above. The agent swallowed, shook his head in jerky motions. "Please... sir. Don't..." the agent trailed off, unable to finish. "I can't do this..." The plane dipped and the pilot counted off the decreasing altitude. "40 000" Mulder looked at his boss forlornly, still pleading, fear drenched orbs reminiscent of almond slitted eyes amongst the lemongrass. "30 000" The soldiers were braced against the wall, hands occupied by holding the hand holds. "20 000" Four semi automatic pistols. Loaded. Not manned. *Right* there. "10 000" Two pilots occupied by the switches and the levers and the knobs. "5 000" Skinner dove as turbulence took over. *** United States Federal Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming It was red. So red. Her hair color was red. The button on the phone was red. The Englishman's view was obliterated by red as he listened to the calm, smug voice of the Assistant Director on the line. "Mr. Skinner, this course of action is highly unadvisable." He heard a distinct growl, an awakening of a monster that had been hidden behind paper tape, threats, and deals. "Listen, you son of a bitch, this plane is not landing until I get myselft a deal. You got that?" "What kind of deal?" "Mulder sees his sister. Now. Before he does anything for you." The Englsihman smiled. It was too easy. "She's right here." There was no hesitation as the voice sneered. "Bull shit. Your lies don't work anymore." The voice raised, the desperation still hidden. "She is." "Fuck you. Until you give me proof, we stay in the air. Any bull shit, and your pilot gets a nice hole in head. Now I know you're not concerned about my life, or the pilot's, but you've made it painfully obvious that Mulder's does." "Your father, Mr Skinn..." The monster was completely unleashed. His voice carried over the static, roared over the receiver -- so much so that Scully could hear the betrayed voice of her Assistant Director from across the room. "My father is dead! Dead! And you said you could help him if I helped you. You said that you could cure...." The voice paused -- when it started again, the personal vendetta had been replaced with professional diplomacy. "A man is dead, and any deal we had before has been officially terminated." The line clicked and the Englishman was left to stand stunned. Scared. *** The two figures huddled closer together, listening to the jaggedly incomplete conversation from the earpiece. The situation had turned explosive. Dangerously so. Frohike held the earpiece between his two fingers, scared that any twinge would break what little reception that they had managed to receive. Langly's hurried breaths left condensation marks on Forhike's lenses, as the blonde haired man leaned in close, head tilted, green eyes wide behind black rimmed glasses. Frohike ran a free, gloved hand over his eyes. Worland was supposed to be the same as Lombard. They were supposed to be out by now. Instead, he was still sitting in bat-piss sewage, while the only person who had a gun had been captured and the man who was supposed to go for help should anything happen was with her. Both Langly and Frohike shared worried glances when they heard Byers' nervous clear of the throat turn into a momentary bout of chest heaving coughs. Langly's fingers curled into fists and back out, the same repetive motion that was causing his palms to turn white. The Gunman looked over to the micro cassette recorder, the one which had been brought to Lombard and had been transcribed and added to their filing cabinets. The one which could be used for a future story, or the catalyst for the unleashing of a conspiracy... and saw that it had been turned off. Rather, the cassette had never been turned on. The tape was still at the beginning position. Langly looked questioningly at his colleague who merely sat up slightly straighter in response. Langly nodded, the conspiracy and the paper were second priority. Second priority to the man and woman who were their... friends. He wondered when exactly the transition had happened. *** The Englishman looked at Scully and smiled, still aware of the many wild cards he had sitting in front of him. "Agent Scully, I don't even want to know how you found out about this place. However, I do know that you most likely would like to see your partner. So... please. I'll call your boss, and you can ask him to bring the plane down." Scully shook her head. "No." The man's eyebrows raised. "And why not?" "Because I refuse to hand him over to you. I will not let him be coerced into a deal again. I will make the choice for him." The Englishman smiled. Pulled out another card. "Even if I threatened the life of his sister?" The woman bristled. Blinked. "It's a risk I'm willing to take. Mulder would agree with me." Scully's gaze had faltered and the Englishman smiled. "Now, Agent Scully, we both know that is far from the truth." "I told you that I will not allow Mulder to be forced into a deal that he must accept." The Englishman held one last card. Relished it. Showed his hand slowly. "Agent Scully, you said at you mother's house that you would go as far as you humanly could to find Mulder, didn't you?" Scully swallowed, not wanting to know where the mass of wires and chips were stashed, not wanting to begin to contemplating how many there were. "I did." "So that means that you'd give up your life." The answer rolled off easily her tongue, "Yes. I would." The Englishman threw something in her direction and Scully reacted volatilely, thinking it was a grenade, a bomb -- a garish red package that made a sickening sloshing sound as her hands cushioned its fall. The red vial came as a shock. As did the label on the bottom. "What is this?" The Englishman blinked -- the bluntness of the reply was decorated with a smile. "Your ova." Scully shook her head dumbly. "It's a lie." The Englishman shrugged. "Okay, if that's what makes you fell better." Scully's head continued shaking in denial, and the federal agent was forced to think back to what the morph had told her just few hours previously, to think about the wadded toilet paper that was bunching up. Her voice came out haltingly, strained. The argument lacked lustre, as if the federal agent seemed unsure of herself, seemed as if she was trying to convince herself of the very same words that were passing through her lips as she spoke. "I have my period. I get it every month. I..." Her voice trailed off, her head still shaking in denial, thinking back to all the gynacologist appointments, the cramps that appeared after the abduction, the feverish, ache-y kind of symptoms that made marking the calendar no longer necessary. The Englishman handed her the phone. "You call Skinner, tell him that Mulder's sister is here, get them to land the plane, and we can... rectify the situation." The Bounty Hunter stared at the Well-Manicured Man as his fingers, his hands, drew themselves tighter around the pistol. Scully closed her eyes, looked up to the sky, praying to a God that she was sure as hell didn't exist anymore. She gritted her teeth, when she could feel the hot tears threaten, the cross start to burn, start to be an albatross across her neck. Felt her stomach start to grind and cramp with the memory of a discussion not so long ago on a little park bench in a blissfully simple town called Home. She took the phone from the Englishman's open hand. Set it on the floor. Resolute blue eyes which were crying unseen. "No." *** Langly stood by the wall, hand poised over the red device, ear piece contentedly crackling at its new frequency -- a last minute modification just in case there were eager ears at Byers' end. He heard Frohike grunting... somewhere... close. "You okay, Frohike?" "Got it." "You ready?" "Yeah... you?" "Uh huh..." There was a pause -- the colliding air molecules casuing static in the ear pieces. Both men calming themselves, hoping to God that it would work. Both spoke at the same time -- terse words hiding the emotions of past articles and arguments, of wiring and hacking. "Be careful." Langly smiled, a private show of teeth that made his mouth hurt. Both gunmen counted in whispered tones. "Three." "Two." "*One*" The whole place exploded into a show of red light. *** "What the hell?" Sculy covered her ears from the alarms that were sounding, the red wash lights that were making her think something was happening, or was about to happen. Red... like so many explosions... maybe... Unlike the morphine induced slumbers of a couple months ago, unlike the flash of mortality she had had when Duane Barry came, Scully did not think about the cross on her neck. Was not able to whisper a Hail Mary or offer an "Oh God". She watched the Well Manicured Man ease himself out of the room. She couldn't hear anything because of the alarms. But she could see how putrid Byers' face looked. And Scully's heart twisted when she watched Troy desperately trying to cover Sam's ears, who was, in turn, shifting bonelessly. She would not hear the gun shot that would reverberate through the red wash of lights. *** Langly planted his feet in the tile, ignored the red lights that were flashing around him, did not flinch at the blaring horns blasting. His hands tightened into a ball when an older figure came out from the door. He would not allow himself the luxury of panic when Frohike was so close. There a flash, an arm, strips of wire. Langly rushed into the fray, helping Frohike pull the wire tighter around the old man's neck. A gun was hovering in and out of his view, desperate, wrinkled fingers were looking for the trigger, searching for flesh to damage. Muted groans were ignored in the quest to pull the wire tighter, to avoid the flailing hands and legs, to try and get the gun that was right *there*. A sudden elbow to the ribs and Langly heard a mass of flesh hitting floor. The Gunman looked up to see the flashing eyes of the Consortium's commandant, saw the way his head drew back for a head butt, felt his feet anchor themselves at the worst time. Unable to move. Except when the spray of blood hit his face. *** Scully put a hand over her mouth when the body of the Well- Manicured Man fell in. Three wires were twisted cruelly around his neck, but the lethal blow had come in the form of an accelerated lead pellet which had removed the entire left side of his face. Byers turned green while Troy looked away. Scully found the Bounty Hunter leaving for the door, saw that his attention was not on her, and she followed, eyes looking. Searching. She saw the figure of the Bounty Hunter approach a man with torn gloves and bent glasses, watched him cock the gun towards the blond haired man whose glasses were tinted red, whose fingers were cut with the force he he had been gripping the wire with. Watched Frohike raise the gun once again. Towards the green blooded chest of the Bounty Hunter. Towards a being who had left a federal agent dead, and another critically ill when his viral-laden blood came into contact with the agent's respiratory passages. Her screams were muted, not by the alarms, but by the blood rushing in her ears. There was a flash of light as a gun exploded. *** The wall cracked above her. The shot, fired wide, had hit the wall, squealed into the plaster and disappeared into a vertical black hole along the wall. Chipped tile rained down on her shoulder, decorated the arm that was holding the gun that had been forgotten on the floor in the Bounty Hunter's haste. She felt the neck of the Bounty Hunter yield slightly underneath the force of the metal barrel that was held against it. Frohike and Langly stood in front of them -- Frohike holding the gun limply within his fingers, Langly standing stock still with the blood still wet on his face. The Bounty Hunter raised his hands in surrender, dropping the pistol onto the floor. Scully's voice shook with the shock of watching a headless man fall three feet away. With concern for two friends who had still not spoken or moved. She absently looked towards the door, towards the opposite hallway, wondering. Always wondering when her partner would show up and the madness would end. "I will kill you if I have to." The morph started to shake his head. "Base of the neck. I know." Scully took her eyes momentarily off her captor. "Frohike? Langly? You guys alright?" Frohike nodded numbly while Langly absently mumbled his desire to clean up. Scully nodded. "Frohike, why don't you put the gun down." Scully watched the Gunman go on automatic pilot, saw how shocky the skin of both men had become. "Why don't you and Langly go inside and see Byers... he's there and there's a bathroom where you can get cleaned up." The Gunmen nodded once more, before the laborious task of shuffling their feet began. Scully turned towards the Bounty Hunter, jabbing the pistol into his neck once more, all compassion lost. "I want you to tell me the number of the phone that's on the plane Mulder is on. Becuase if you don't, I will shoot you. And no matter how good of a gambler you were in choosing the States, or that all your camrades are dead, my shot will kill you... I guarantee that I will not miss." The Hunter swallowed. Reached for the phone that was still lying on the floor. And dialled. *** Private Charter En Route: Worland, Wyoming Skinner watched his federal agent worriedly from the cockpit. Keeping the butt of his pistol against the pilot's neck, the AD was tempted to wince at how Mulder's hands trembled underneath the weight of holding the semi automatic to the soldiers. The phone ringing snapped Mulder and Skinner out of their thoughts. Mulder reached for the phone, supported the lead pellet encasing on his knees. "Mulder." There was a deafening silence. "Mulder?" "Scully?" Skinner raised his eyebrows. When the pilot starting to turn his head, the gun butt was pushed further into his neck. "Just steer the plane." "Mulder." This time the name had been spoken with relief, as if the need to hear his voice had dispelled any worries. Mulder closed his eyes, and savoured the voice that was beautiful and familiar and here and now. "Your sister is here, Mulder." He heard her smile. Her anticipation of his arrival was matched only by his own. "She's here." Mulder looked at the soldiers staring at him and sobered. "Scully are you being forced to say this?" Scully shook her head, felt the reassuring weight of the gun in her hands. "No." She smiled again, looking to Byers who was smiling as well. "The Gunmen... they're here too." Her voice sobered, still able to hear the water running, and the panic filled voices of Frohike and Langly. "Frohike and Langly killed the Englishman." Mulder mouth went agape, his head exploding at the reaction. His heart began the flutter, the quest starting to near it's end point. He nodded towards Skinner. His next words were the sweetest. "I'll see you soon, Scully." *** The Bounty Hunter looked at the federal agent wearily. "You can put down the gun, Agent Scully." The agent shook her head. "I'm not going to kill you. I have no reason to." The Bounty Hunter added a second thought. "You can trust me." At the phrase Scully laughed. She trusted no one. Not the cross that was around her neck. Not her brother. Not the green car that would be behind her. Not the man who would hold the door for her. Not the helpful lab assistant who just wanted to say hi. Not anymore. She had lived a life, four years ago, that was blissfully ignorant. That dealt with facts and figures, and numbers and chemicals. That the thought of a morph that oozed green blood would be standing in front of her asking for her trust, would have had her laughing. That the thought of the paranoiac Fox Mulder, who was a pain in the ass, would become as dear to her as life itself, would have made her think that it was time for a straight jacket, valium inclusive. That the thought of three conspricay freaks, whose dressing habits were as electic as the individuals themselves, would become her partners in crime, people who she trusted, people who would willingingly lay down their life, their exposure for her, would have made her head spin. But nothing was the same. Scully looked at Bounty Hunter -- her eyes tired, her eyes older, her eyes more experienced. She lowered her gun. Uncocked. *** Private Charter En Route to: Worland, Wyoming "Do you have problems with landing the plane?" The pilot shook his head, its range of movement sill limited by the metal pressed against it. "If you haven't noticed, this is really shitty weather we're in. I'm trying okay? I'm trying." The plane jolted, the wind picking it up, and alternatingly pushing it down, casuing the soldiers to groan, causing Mulder to scramble to keep the gun pointed in front of him. Suddenly wheels hit grass and human cargo went flying. Skinner took the gun away, admiring the red mark he had left on the back of the neck. "Thank you." The hatch was opened and Skinner stepped away. Ripped out the plane's radio. Ripped out the phone. Called for Mulder who stepped warily away from the floor, land legs still evading him. Skinner reached for the semi-automatic, the plane already travelling down the runway, towards wherever it had come. "I'll take the gun now... you don't need the extra weight." The federal agent held it closer to his chest. "I'd like to keep it if you don't mind." Skinner regarded the agent carefully, but Mulder was already making his way towards the lighted door. They were here. *** Skinner half dragged, half supported Mulder as they made their way to the entrance, eventually spotting one lock of Byers' red hair from behind the corner of a wall. Byers let out a short nervous bark of relieved laughter. "Oh man, Mulder... you look like something the cat dragged in." Mulder smiled his 'thanks, it's good to see you too', and he and Skinner slowly followed the trench coat-ed figure. Mulder's thoughts spun wildly with the prospect of seeing Sam. The prospect was all-too-familiar, and Mulder felt his doubts flare, only to feel a brief respite of relief at the knowledge Scully was fine and unharmed. Skinner raised an eyebrow as his steps echoed off the walls, as every passing room was empty, deserted, and dirty. Skinner watched the wall cameras warily, knowing that the men who smoked their cigars and drank their bourbon and built enormous, highly secured, technologically advanced facilities, could be watching. "Where is everyone?" Byers flashed a look at Skinner, startled. "It doesn't look like anyone's here. I think they evacuated it. Langly and Frohike are cleaning up, there's Scully, and this big armed government guy, and your sister with someone I presume is her friend. Troy, I think." Byers stopped at the door marked infirmary and paused. "This is it." He looked at Mulder, flashing a anticipatory smile. His mind flashed to Lombard and LSDM, to hackers and centerfolds, to arguing and watching Mulder grapple with his demons. And now, Byers found he couldn't really describe the emotion he was feeling, didn't know why it seemed the collar of his shirt was so tight all of a sudden. Didn't know why water was starting to form at the corner of his eye. Byers smiled reassuringly. "She's here, Mulder." Mulder nodded, grim. He let go of Skinner's shoulder, and crossed the threshold himself. *** Only in the nether region between dreams and reality can I see you, remember you. Caress your hand, touch your face, hear you voice. But I feel you near, just as I feel my heart weakening and my breaths begin to falter. I have lived an existance that was forced upon me, paper upon paper of a forged identity that bore a name that was not mine. I have witnessed your dreams, and the dark places you have been a passing visitor to, tangible only to my imagination, a fleeting vision of you that only my senses could touch and feel. I have accompanied you in your constant retreats back to a time of innocence -- of baseball and balogna, of beaches and boats. A past where only time was our greatest enemy, where double-edged words were more powerful than blows, where the connection between innocent and innocent, child and child was at its strongest. Was at its most vulnerable. I still remember, Fox. Although my lips refuse to work, although my hands refuse to touch, although my head cannot rest on your hand, be sure in all your heart, that I *do* remember. That I have nothing to forgive you for. And that I have always, *always* loved you. *** Scully watched wide-eyed as her partner walked in with a boldness that he did not possess, with a walk that wore a distinctive limp, with a face that was an easel to violent markings that had started so long ago. He passed her without so much as a second glance, entranced by the woman laying in front of him. Scully watched mesmorized, as the man in front of her allowed a hand to snake out, tremble with fingers slightly bent, not quite ready for the commitment of reaching out to touch. She watched him swallow and move the lock of hair from her shiny, sweaty forehead. Watched the doubt lines and the stiff posture melt away with a look at the porcelain face, at the hazel eyes, at the lips which were a mirror image to his. She watched the tears start to form at his eyes, watched his lips begin to quiver, his face start to show a multitude of emotions, from happiness, to sadness, from concern, to elation. His thumb traced her jawline, his fingers travelled across the bridge of her nose, his index fingered her lips, her hair travelled through nervous fingers which revelled in its chestnut color. His hands travelled down her body, hovering only inches above warm flesh, coursing blood. Shaking. Trembling. He moved back to her face, seemingly unable to part with the view for any longer than a few seconds. He impulsively grabbed her slack hand, then rested his head contentedly on top of it. The woman moved, shifted closer to the smell that permeated to her nose, the new aura that had surrounded her. Her lips parted, and air was exhaled, her tongue forming words that would only be audible by the man who was laying next to her. Scully watched the tears course down her partner's face, revelled in the smile that played on his lips. It was one that she had never seen before, one that caused his eyes to smile despite the tears, his lips to curve upwards despite their tremor. One that he had been saving for this occasion, saving it for now, some twenty four long and arduous years later. "I'm here, Sam." He snuggled closer to the woman, kissed her hand, her cheek, kissed her hand once again, before laying his head back on the smooth skin which overlayed her knuckles, offering a rare set of pearls back to his partner. "I'm here, Sam. And I'm back." *** Skinner watched the reunion, tempted to laugh and smile and giggle as Scully was doing at the moment. Tempted to smile at the look of... of whatever it was that was playing on Mulder's face. That was playing on Scully's face. He was tempted to smile and sigh contentedly at the light which had entered his agents' eyes. But, instead, a small drop of saline fell -- unnoticed by anyone else. He was more than tempted to cry at the bodies which had been littered. At the price one man and one woman had to pay for this moment. For this reunion with a woman who was dying. For this passage in time, which in the grand scheme of things, was mere breaths long. Soft words were passed between Mulder and Scully -- indecernible to Skinner. Scully laughed, and the AD was forced to lower his head and reflexively look away. It hurt. It hurt that he had been an obstacle and a barricade to these two more often than not. A hinderence to this moment which could have happened so much earlier. Could have been so much happier. Skinner's head turned sharply at Scully's shout of protest. Mulder bolted upright, dropped the hand he had been holding, and was now staring with eyes wide, with mouth agape towards his superior and partner. The Assistant Director had to lean forward to hear the words pass through his agent's lips, and Mulder soon roughly brushed by his shoulder in his haste to leave the room. Skinner, Scully and the three Gunmen went in persuit of the agent whose desperate steps were reverberating through the desolate hallways. More often than not, Mulder was tripping over his dead legs, stumbling into the walls, using rubbery arms to push against unforgiving cinder block. "Mulder!!" The panicked voice of Scully could be heard, her choppy footsteps falling out of time to her partner's. "Wait!" Unlike Skinner who was following Mulder with confusion and concern etched on his face, Scully knew what her partner was looking for. Her heart had skipped, her mind had screamed, when her partner had bolted upright, eyes wide, fingers cruelly dropping the slender hand that they had been stroking. Mulder's whispered words were still running through the fissures of her brain, and their jagged syllables -- their ominous rhythm -- were travelling down to her feet, making her steps falter. Her tense fingers and trembling heart were unable to part with their view of the rapidly retreating figure. She was nervous -- scared -- as she had never seen such an abrupt change in emotions, had never seen his face metamorphose so quickly from explicit horror, to calm resolve. As Scully turned the corner, as her high heels screamed on the tile floor, the pounding in her ears grew faster. Harder. She bit her lip, eyes reluctantly scanning the hallways -- scared of she would see, scared of what her partner could do. But Mulder's limping gait continued -- his arms desperately opening every door, his mouth muttering nonsensical spells, coherent only to those he was looking for. He disappeared into one empty doorway, and the room engulfed him, the federal agent failing to reappear. Scully ran forward, suddenly reached out with one hand and used the door frame as leverage to move her faster, to change her momentum faster, to see why Mulder had hesitated before he had entered... Scully blinked. Blinked again. She looked at the red hair. The skin. The eyes. Perhaps some DNA that was her was in *her*. Scully shook her head. Ridiculous. Not possible. So very possible. There was a ringing in her ears, a roar of blood, and Scully was suddenly acutely aware of the lack of sound, of the lack of movement. Of eight thousand eyes on her partner, whose mirrors to the soul had dulled, and darkened, and lost the sparkle that had been present not more than two minutes ago. Standing stock still, his lungs were still heaving with the effort expended during the short search through the hallways. Mulder suddenly turned around, heading for the door, heading for the blizzard that was threatening. The clouds which were looming. "Mulder, where are you going?" Her voice was unnaturally loud and Scully forced herself not to flinch at the rebounding echo. Mulder's mouth formed words, emitting sounds that were strained, that wavered in and out despite the silence of the beings surrounding him. "I have to do this Scully. Don't come." Mulder continued towards the glass door and opened it, causing his hair to fly haphazardly, causing the remnants of his clothing to flap wildly. Scully heard the clip being checked, watched the gun enclosed arms pull closer towards the chest -- possessive, before her feet finally obeyed, before she could finally join Skinner in his persuit towards the quickly disappearing figure of her partner. Neither the female agent nor the Assistant Director noticed the four thousand hybrids who were dilligently following. *** The snowflakes had just started, and Mulder was still leading the masses outside. The field was barren, and the women and the men with their T-shirts and their sun dresses barely shivered, did not notice the twenty degree weather which was quickly causing Scully to chill. "Mulder." The voice came out shaky, unsure. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Two of the beings came forward and Scully watched mesmorized as their eyes focused on her partner, as they walked towards him as the federal agent grimaced. Mulder suddenly turned towards Skinner, extended his hand. "I need your pistol, sir." "Mulder..." The agent shook his head desperately, aiming his pistol towards Skinner's chest with shaking, exhausted arms. "I need it now..." The Assistant Director cautiously handed over the piece of metal, and tried to analyse Mulder's intentions. Scully finally realized what her partner was planning, started to shake her head in protest despite her blood which was beginning to curdle. "Mulder, you don't need to do th.." The strained voice passed through barely moving lips, but it was overshadowed by the shaking hands which passed the pistols into two pairs of perfectly sculptured palms. "They need to be killed, Scully. They're meant to replace us." Scully watched silently as the two beings took the pistols from Mulder's hands wordlessly -- watched Mulder's eyes, watched how the rest of the hybrids lined themselves in a line. She attempted to swallow, the lump remaining in her throat when the two hybrids faced the line of beings, guns pointed. Firing squad style. Scully's breaths were coming out noisily. The snow was so loud; it was roaring by her ears, by her eyes. It was so hard to see... to see the firing squad that her partner had set up. So blind. She wished Mulder would move closer; he was only a silhouette from where she was standing, and the wind was threatening to blow him away. *** Mulder closed his eyes, felt cold tears escaping when he could see Scully turning away. The shots were fired easily, mechanically. Endlessly. Seemingly for eternity. Time to reload. Click. Snerck. Snap. An endless torrent of reloading and refiring. Of bodies falling. Of last breaths coming out as a soft exhalation. The sound of the falling snow beat their dying breaths into obscurity. Mulder opened his eyes when the shots ceased. Two pairs of expectant orbs remained fixed upon him, and Mulder's pupils dilated, then constricted. In the light of the moon, the two remaining hybrids started raising the butts of their pistols to their chins. The snow would bleed red tonight. *** Skinner raised a hand to cover his eyes. Too much. The whole thing was too much. Too much like Vietnam. Too much like the black of guns, the black of hair and enigmatic eyes, the black of charred bodies. The Stones had been right: the world should have been painted black a long time ago. The door opened and he flinched, reaching for a gun that had been long since given away. The slight frame of the man who had been carrying, caring for Mulder's sister struggled with the heavy duffel bag across his shoulder. The Assistant Director extended an arm to help him, but Troy waved him off, scowling. "There's a four by four just beyond the field. We can get you out of here. Back home to family and friends." The man in front of him snorted. "I don't have a family." He looked wistfully in Mulder's direction, back towards the brother his friend had hidden. "The only thing I've learned is that relationships hurt." A book was still tucked underneath his arm, which he handed over to Skinner with disdain, without the reverence he used to have for the worn-leather, dog-eared book of poetry. Skinner watched the man in front of him nod, and the Assistant Director accepted the book -- held it at arm's length, lest it want to burn. Troy shifted the duffel bag, pointing towards the book. "You know Tennyson's it's better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all?" Skinner nodded in recognition. Troy shook his head bitterly, shifted the bag once again, and reflexively looked behind his shoulder. "Lies. All lies." The man nodded, more to reassure himself than the person he was speaking to, then took a shaky step forward and began heading for the black anonymity of the forest. His head was held a little too high, and his steps faltered as all confidence had long been lost. Skinner hugged the book closer to his chest, watching the snow and the trees threaten to consume the retreating figure alive. *** "Mulder... where are you going?" Scully could hear her voice cracking, knew that it was barely audible with the fear that was tinging it. With the fear that things had been destroyed beyond repair. They retraced their route, leading back towards the slack, sweaty figure of the woman who used to be called Sam. Mulder picked her up, desperation and anger and pent up emotions fuelling a new found strength. Scully watched him pick up her forgotten Glock and she felt her stomach drop. "Mulder... no." He smiled, a tear betraying it immediately. "I have to." "We can help her... we can get both of you to a hospital. We can get Troy to help Pendrell to work for a cure." Her voice edged on hysteria, desperation. "The Englishman is dead, Mulder. He can't come back. Krycek is dead. So is the Cancerman. There is no one left. It's done." Mulder shook his head, running a gun enclosed hand underneath his nose. "It will never be done, Scully. Haven't you noticed?" He pointed in Skinner's direction. "Pain and suffering and secrets get passed from one generation to another." Mulder started stumbling throught the white masses circling around his feet, feeling the snow on his feverish face, hearing Samantha groan at the sudden temperature change. Scully followed doggedly -- the heavy sound of Skinner's following footsteps a minor distraction. "Mulder, don't do this. We can... we can..." She trailed off before stopping in her tracks, before dropping the hand that had been futilely reaching for her partner. "We can do something." His voice started out low, hollow, and Scully tentatively leaned forward, feeling her throat tighten at the lack of inflections in her partner's voice. "When you came back, Scully... your genes..." He paused to hold the woman in his arms tighter. "Your genes, Scully, were infected. Branched DNA that was poisoning you." Scully's lips flinched, and she reflexively studied the ground. Mulder turned suddenly, eyes momentarily flashing into hers. "I had... I had a hard time accepting the terms of your living will... but I came to respect it." Mulder eyebrows furrowed, and his words were spoken with more deliberation. "What's in me and Sam will poison us, Scully. It will kill us and everyone else." Mulder's thumb started to play with the safety, started to turn it on, off, on, and off in time to his words. His voice suddenly deflated, becoming barely audible in the swirling wind and snow. "And I'm tired of fighting, and I cannot live like this. And I need you to respect that." Scully shook her head. "I can't do that..." Mulder shifted the woman in his arms. Worked the right arm free to remove the safety one last time. "I'm tired of dealing, Scully. I'm tired of having to live my life one deal at a time. I hate having to make a choice. I hate having you to make decisions just because they are forced upon you, because they use me against you. Because they use you against me." The woman groaned underneath once again, her words miraculously clear and coherent. "Read me a poem, Fox." Mulder smiled, sadly. His tears fell as fast as the snow. His voice deepened, the tone was a forced whimsical, back to a time when a boy and a girl thought the moon was made of cheese. It was a voice that spoke in terms of boats and castles and moons, and of the promise of a new day -- despite the demons and shadows which lurked overhead. "Winken, Blinken are two little eyes..." There was a male voice yelling -- a demon in the distance and the story teller laid his head against the cool forehead of the angel in his arms. His index finger trembled as the pistol was raised. Again, there was the shouting. A female this time. Mulder bit his lip as his hands shook, as there was a flash of light, a squeal of sound. The fairy tale was cut short. As a finger depressed the trigger. *** The Bounty Hunter fell on top of her. And as she cried, and felt Skinner next to her, hovering, she felt a hand on her back, felt another on her stomach. Mulder was still muttering, and the black metal in his hand was moving closer to the target. She tried to yell at Mulder, tried to see what Skinner had shot at, tried to move and extend a hand towards her partner whose arm was getting closer and closer to his head... Two hands held her down -- restrained her. And as Scully tried to squirm away from the Bounty Hunter's groping hands, she felt a jolt of warmth as the morph suddenly retreated, mumbling his apologies. Mumbling: "Because it's right." Scully absently held her stomach, clutching the residual warmth that was lingering there. The Bounty Hunter walked away into the distance, never to be seen again. *** Mulder's hand was shaking, his index finger starting to turn white underneath the strain. The question was agonizingly desperate -- what it lacked in volume was made up in intensity. "Scully... why can't I do this?" The bloody hand still clutched the gun as a dagger. Still held it -- galvanized rosary beads between bleeding fingers. Mulder remained kneeling, rocking, eyes looking up towards an unmanned sky, asking for forgiveness from an omniscient God who had never existed. He shook his head, clutched the gun tighter, the carnage starting to blur underneath a saline cover. Mulder's fingers numbly maneuvered the piece of metal until the click of the clip being removed was heard. The two pieces were dropped into the snow and the man lowered his head, crying softly. Scully hastily pocketed the two pieces, trying to ignore the body sprawled ten feet away, the mustache starting to turn white underneath the snow, the snow starting to turn red underneath the gaping hole in the chest. She rubbed her wrist absently, felt it start to burn as the Bounty Hunter's weight had fallen on top of it. Felt her eyes start to burn in rememberence of Skinner's mad dash for the pistol, his perfect shot that landed between the eyes of the armed mustached gentleman. His hands had been painted red and black with blood and carbon residue at the same time the tendons in Mulder's arm strained to bring the gun closer to his and his sister's head. Scully leaned in, put her forehead against Mulder's hot flesh, felt Samantha's shudder pass through her brother's body and then into her own. She spoke slowly, feeling her heart pump blood to her words, feeling Mulder listening even though his eyes were miles away. "If they come, Mulder. We will protect you. We will protect Sam. She won't go away." Scully felt the bite of her naive words as Mulder's back stiffened, as his hands groped once more for a pistol that was no longer there. "We have to try, Mulder." Scully gingerly laid a hand upon Sam. When Mulder didn't move, she tried to pull her away from the snow, from the brother who was still wondering why his finger couldn't pull the trigger. "Just try." The female rolled her forehead against his, and bent her fingers so that they now held Samantha's hand. "Please." She felt the creases in his forehead lower as his eyes closed. Felt the submission, once again, as his shoulders dropped, as his hands stopped searching. Scully nodded in approval. Mulder's voice came out hollowly, on the verge of exhaustion. "One try, Scully. Only one more." She nodded, stepping back when Mulder scowled at her attempt to pull Samantha away. Scully kept her hand extended, absently watching the snowflakes melt into water droplets. In the backgroud, she could hear the wind scream, an engine come to life -- could hear the snow roar as it passed by her ears. She felt a hesitant hand on her shoulder, saw the military style black boots come into view. "Agent Scully." A hesitant pause. "Agent Mulder, we should go." Scully nodded, eyes threatening when the young woman's pale throat was exposed as her head hung over her stumbling brother's arms. Something roared again in the distance. Scully wasn't sure if it had been the engine or the snow this time. Skinner's arm laced over her shoulder and soon she was sitting in stifling warmth, the object of the Langly's and Frohike's blank stares. Byers' words of comfort blurred in the backgroud in time to the wipers squealing. The motor hummed, the tires played percussion, but Scully would remember nothing of the trip back home except for the roar of snow hitting glass. Mulder would notice nothing but the faltering beat of his sister's heart. *** "In international news, a blast rocked the Russian Department of Security and Defense early this morning. It killed nineteen memebers of the Russian cabinet, and an investigation has been launched into the cause of the explosion. It is suspected that a frozen gas line had cracked, acting as a catalyst for this tragic event. "Also, Anne Horner will explore cults, such as the one that was discovered in Worland, Wyoming. She will explore various reasons why four thousand individuals were driven to commit mass suicide, and what the use of a pistol implicates, in terms of other famous cults such a Jonestown, Waco, and the Temple of the Seven Stars. "All of this after the commercial break with Al on weather, and Ron with sports and a preview of the Trappers game tonight." *** Scully's Apartmnet Annapolis, Maryland Scully let the faint curls of steam wrap around her ankles as she stepped out of the shower. Allowed the bath towel to fully engulf her from the shoulder down to mid calf. She took another towel off the rack, proceeding to wipe the white cotton clouds from the bathroom vanity mirror. And did an inventory of the woman in front of her. Four years ago, her hair was longer. Straighter. She was a bit more plump. Had less freckles. She was sans abduction scar then. Had less wrinkles. Where had the four years gone to? She didn't know. It felt like they had been going in circular motion. Round and round they had went, and where they had stopped she sure as hell didn't know. They passed numerous road marks that were different, but not -- had taken their pit stops at Betsy Hagopian's, in North Dakota, in Tunguska, in Lombard. She had driven shot gun with a man who was currently in the hospital with his sister waiting for the abracadabra of Quantico's labs and technicians. Scully opened the cupboard and stared at the package of maxi pads in front of her. She was bleeding. And she had clutched her belly when the Bounty Hunter had fallen on her. And the feeling was so... warm. Nice. Healthy. The plastic package started to crumple in her grasp, and Scully felt the tears start to fall, her face start to crumble as the steam started to disappear and show her naked face in the stark light of the bathroom mirror. The phone rang in the distance, and her elecronically enhanced voice answered the phone after three rings. Scully braced her hands against the sink as Pendrell's voice filtered through the answering machine's speaker and into the bathroom. They had made a monoclonal antibody. Come quick and approve the procedure. Isn't science great? Scully looked at the cross on her neck and stared at it. Eventually she raised her hands and put them behind her neck. Undid the clasp and slid the cross off. The small gold pendant was carefully placed in a nearby jar of cotton balls, before the female slid the necklace back on and redid the clasp. Scully ran a finger over the dark areas underneath her eyes, down her nose to where the cancer had been, past the back of her neck to where the implant had been removed. Trying to get a grasp on the emotions that she was feeling. Uneasy. Angry. Empty. The package of maxi pads fell off the counter, and Scully shook her head to clear all introspection. With a sigh, the federal agent dressed for yet another visit to the hopsital, to her partner and her partner's sister. To the truth that, despite the monumental events of the past few days, remained as elusive as before. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York "Jesus Christ... he's dead. The man is dead." "I don't know where the Bounty Hunter went. He doesn't pick up the phone." "Christ... Donald is dead too." "The hybrids... are... just a sec... the reception is bad... Fuck. They're dead." "Mulder isn't anywhere to be seen, neither is his partner." "No trace of Skinner either." "No Troy Archer. His body isn't there." "Fuck... Derlum's not there. She's gone." The man in the shadows sat passively. He had no bourbon. No cigarette. But his eyes gleamed unnaturally amongst the black bulk of his body. He listened to the news, failing to react. By all outward appearances, operations were normal. "God, we'll have to make a new template again." "We need new hybrids." "We have to get Mulder back." The man stood up from his chair suddenly -- his salt and pepper hair standing out. His steps were sure, his face and voice had the markings of the mafia, his large figure made him all the more menacing. From the first word that the Englishman was dead, he had taken the ball and run with it. "We're not going to get Mulder. We'll make a new catalyst." The other men stood wide eyed as the man continued to speak. His hands rubbed together deliberately, and the man's face drew into a sneer. He wanted nothing more than to wash the Consortium of the Mulders' blood. "Destroy them. Destroy them all." *** Holy Cross Memorial Hospital Washington, DC The air smelled funny. Not at all like the filtered air of her room. And the sheets were light. Thin. Not at all like the duvet she always slept with. And what the hell was around her knees... cloth-like. A night shirt. She hated night shirts... always wore boxers. Her mouth was dry, and she absently wondered if she had had another nightmare. There was a background mumbling -- words made indescernible by the buzz and hiss of the air around her. No... no nightmare this time, as paper thin sheets had replaced Troy's comforting arms, and as indecipherable whispers had replaced her friend's coos of comfort. The woman opened her eyes, squinting at the sudden onslaught of light, at the bright red hair that swam into vision. Red Hair looked kind of worried, then put on an awkward smile. "Hi. I'm Agent Scully." The business-suit clad woman extended a hand, and continued to talk, undaunted, when Amanda did not reciprocate the gesture. "Do you know where you are?" The woman felt her neck protesting from disuse as she swung her head around. She took in the bed pan on the table above her head, the vinyl chair at the foot, the water pitcher -- and resisted the urge to groan. "A hospital?" Red Hair smiled again, some relief showing up on her face, her eyes suddenly growing wider in anticipation of the next question. "Do you know who you are?" "Amanda Derlum." The patient watched the woman's smile falter. She watched federal agent Scully repeat the name over in confirmation, while a pained expression shadowed her face momentarily. "And... where are you from, Amanda?" "I'm from Great Falls, Montana." The woman in the business suit swallowed, put a hand to her mouth and took a breath. Amanda watched her worriedly. It seemed it wasn't the answer the fed had been looking for. "Do you know how you got here?" Amanda shook her head. "Last thing... last thing I remember... is um... eating maccaroni with a friend of mine in the cafeteria." The federal agent nodded grimly. "That was a week and a half ago." Amanda balked. "A week and a half ago!" Her words started to sputter. "Then what.. what happened. How did I get here..." Scully sighed, hugging Amanda's chart closer to her chest. "You were found unconscious... delirious. You had a severe chemical imbalance in your bloodstream. Apparently a gene that was being expressed was acting as a toxin." Amanda closed her eyes and leaned her head further into the standard hospital pillow. "So, where am I now?" "You're in George Washington University." Scully watched Amanda's eyes snap open in surprise. "Yes, it's a long way from Wyoming, I know. But, there are some... legal and medical matters we need to clear up. GWU is one of the best hospitals in the country, and there's an investigation being mounted regarding how well your facility followed FDA protocol." A grimace passed over Amanda's face, and the patient ran a hand over her eyes. "Can you please call a man named Troy Archer?." Amanda watched Red take a step back. "I'm sorry, Amanda, but we couldn't find Troy when... some federal agents searched through the facility." Amanda bit her lip to keep from crying. "Is there any other family you would like us to call?" Scully felt her shoulder lean forward in hope... anticipation. "Anyone at all?" The patient's head shook. "No... I have no family. Troy was the only family I had." The woman nodded, absently replaying all the times she had woken up with his arms securely around her. She looked up to the federal agent to meet her troubled expression, and smiled. "He was the brother I never had." *** Mulder turned his head once again to look at the jeans and shirt that were resting impatiently on the hospital dresser. His lips twisted, and his neck moved so that his eyes were facing the ceiling once again. The fingers of his right hand laid listelessly on the scar on his left wrist -- a small ciricular puncture mark courtesy of the IV and Pendrell's magic medicine. He absently looked towards the window and sighed restlessly, knowing that he should have been changed by now. Scully had been eager to tell him that according to all tests, he was cured. She had been less eager to talk about her visits with Samantha. There was a tentative knock on the door, and Mulder inwardly cringed, hoping it wasn't the doctors with their multi-coloured sedatives, or even Scully with her Amanda's-been-through-a-difficult-time speech. His body relaxed into the bed when Byers' trench coat nervously walked into the room. "Byers." Mulder nodded his greeting, his voice still recovering from the abuse it had endured during the past week. Byers smiled as he approached the bed, settling into the nearest chair. "It's good to see you, Mulder." Mulder's eyes fell away from the Gunman's face, his reply mumbled non-commitedly. "It's good to see you too." Byers was the first to break the uncomfortable silence that was threatening to settle. "Do you have any news on your sister?" Mulder shook his head. "She... Scully says she doesn't remember anything. She won't let me see her because... whatever... Scully says it would be difficult for her." The bearded man nodded, taking in the folded clothes that were lying beside him. Mulder was in no hurry to get out of the hospital this time. "So how are Frohike and Langly?" Byers took a deep breath. "They're... fine. They were a little shaken... but they'll be okay." "That's good." Byers nodded, watching the usually-intense federal agent stare outside the window, rubbing his wrist with the opposite thumb. "Mulder... " "Mulder." The breathless voice of Scully soon gave way to her footsteps. Byers quickly noticed that Mulder turned to stare at the wall, his back towards Scully, his posture clearly saying, "leave me alone". Scully approached cautiously. "Mulder? How come you haven't changed yet? You've been discharged." The federal agent nodded, reluctantly turning to sit up, reaching for the clothes with a pained expression. Byers heard Scully's impatient sigh before she turned to him and offered a weak smile. Whether it was genuine, or out of courtesy, Byers was unsure of. The air had suddenly become charged. Tense. It reeked of things that had not yet been said as Mulder, Scully, and Byers stood in a triangle. Three was a crowd, and Byers found himself subconsciously shuffling towards the doorway. He offered a weak wave, and then stopped, sobered. He nodded to Mulder and Scully when he addressed them. "Mulder. Scully. I want you to know... that everything that's happened... it won't be printed. No matter what. None of it." Byers' face grew pensive as he thought of his next words. "We understand now. And we respect your wishes as federal agents. As friends." Mulder nodded once again, and Scully smiled her thanks. Byers glanced between the two then hastily reached for the door and left. Mulder instantly sagged, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns on his clothes. "They won, Scully." Scully shook her head. "What do you mean?" "I mean, the Englishman and the Cigarette Smoking man and Krycek are dead, but they still won. I don't have anything to show for the past four years. I'm healthy. You're healthy... my family is still torn apart... we're at the same spot we were in four years ago." "Amanda could be suffering from amnesia... I mean she could always maybe..." Mulder shook his head. "I don't think so, Scully." "So you're just going to give up?" Mulder shrugged his shoulders, setting his clothes upon the mattress, obviously uninterested in changing out of the regulation hospital gown. Scully clamped down on the urge to roll her eyes. The silence was broken by the door suddenly opening, by a breathless heavy set nurse bursting in. "Dr. Scully, we're having a problem with your patient..." Scully instinctually looked to Mulder, who merely sagged and crossed his arms protectively around his chest. Scully nodded to her partner once before running out of the room, towards the screaming from the other side of the hall. *** The girl closes her eyes, fingers twitching from the foreign metal invading flesh, from the effort being expended to remember the vestiges of a place that existed so long ago. The graininess of the sand, the whine of the sea gulls, and the vibration of the waves around her. There is a bright sun that envelops her, that glistens on the water. There is penny candy which causes her teeth to stick. There is a slight sunburn on her legs which is soothed by calamine lotion, by a poem only one person can recite perfectly. "Winken and Blinken are two little eyes, and Nod is a little head. And the wooden shoes that sailed the skies is the wee one's trundle bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings of the wonderful sight that be. And you shall see the beautiful things as you rock in the misty sea." But his face contorts, and his limbs begin to grow. His skin stretches taut and deathly grey, and then his eyes die, and widen hideously. Her body is yanked upwards and shrieks of the gulls becomes worse, the roar of the waves is replaced by an incessant hum. She cannot even say good bye to her brother as she is engulfed by the white hot light of the sun. The pain sears through her legs. It starts from the top of her thighs and bolts to her knees, making her legs tremble with the effort to stand on them. Her eyelids are heavy. Grainy. It hurts to close them, to move sandpaper eyelids over senstive corneas. But the light is so bright -- is reflected off so many mirrors and panels that the colors of pain flash before her -- a multitude of harsh greens and oranges. Her teeth are being drilled. Her mouth is forced open by long leathery appendages that scratch her face. The leather sticks carress her body, her torso, her back, her neck -- only to be replaced by obstrusive metal that squeals and grinds and drills sickeningly into bone and sinew. The noise is unbearable. A constant hum that makes her ear drums vibrate, and a high pitched whine that sears into her auditory canal. Their eyes are loud in their intensity -- they tell her things, they give her commands despite her body which is broken and torn. Masked men with masked intentions that make her cry. White red pain that shrouds the memory she desperately attempts to grasp with trembling fingers. And the lurking demons of the eternal night around her, reeking of a fate much worse than death... *** "Regression hypnosis -- sci fi or credible investigation technique? An increasing number of people are thanking the procedure in helping them retireve buried memories. Are these people merely seeking an outlet for their repressed memories? Or is hypnosis and the metaphysical world finally getting credibiltity in this scientific and technologically driven society? Caitlen Bowman will talk to a hypnotist, a neurologist, and a patient -- in an attempt to determine the fact from the science fiction." *** The sheets flew off when Amanda woke up with a gasp, with sweat rolling down her face and cooling on her heaving chest. She stared at her hands, allowed herself to calm down while she willed the trembling to stop. Agent Scully was there with a pastel-painted nurse, and Amanda wondered how often the federal agent had seen nightmares to make her look so unperturbed. Meanwhile, the nurse mumbled, shoved the unopen syringe into her pocket, and shuffled nervously back towards the hallway. Red looked from the door back to the patient and smiled an I-understand smile. "Bad dream?" Amanda hicupped, then reluctantly nodded. Scully studied the female in front of her, and drew a steadying breath. "I've heard that you've had these nightmares before." Amanda studied the sheets before mumbling an affirmation. Scully licked her lips, preparing for the next question. "I've also heard that you were given constant physicals during your tenure in Wyoming. Do you know..." "Who is that man?" Scully turned around quickly to see Mulder's startled expression disappear from the viewing window. The federal agent narrowed her eyes. "Why?" Amanda shook her head. "I don't know... He looks familiar." The patient noticed the change of expression on the federal agent's face, but it was quickly squelched. "Maybe it would help if you talked about your dreams." The answer was marred by a shuddering breath, but the response was still a resounding, "No". Amanda watched the female agent run a tongue through the inside of her mouth, and the patient turned once again towards the window -- looking for... him. She squinted, clenched her fingers tighter in an attempt to remember. The clicking of heels against tiled floor drew her head up, and the happy faces of two new anchors could be seen bantering. The red haired woman shrugged. "I thought maybe the TV would help you sleep. My partner has bad nightmares... and according to him, it helps." Scully watched Amanda's eyes divert -- pay close attention to something so fascinating that it caused her hicupping to cease. She closed her eyes as soon as regression hypnosis was mentioned, praying that Amanda wouldn't ask, even though the geneticist was studiously watching the story, had turned towards her with a new gleam in previously dull eyes. "Agent Scully." Her voice came out haltingly. "Do you know where I could get in touch with someone like that?" Scully resisted the urge to groan, and instead, exhaled. "Regression hypnosis... Amanda, is very risky. It can be very misleading. What you think is the truth... may not be." The patient shook her head, not caring. "Do you know where I could get in touch with someone like that." Scully sighed, finally relented. "I know just the man." *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York The decision to kill Skinner had come rather easily... it was by which method that was currently causing unrest. Elaborate devices had been concocted -- bombs in the office, in the telephone. Perhaps poison in the food, perhaps an induced heart attack. Maybe a tragic suicide, or perhaps death by a fiery car accident. In the end, all means were considered not worth the effort. A low life, a dingy informant that had long since outlived its purpose. With a silencer in hand, a solitary hit man was dispatched. *** Dr. Werber's Office Washington, DC Amanda woke up. Refreshed. Like the feeling you got when you just stepped out of the shower. She looked towards Agent Scully whose expression was pained, whose lips were turning the same colour as her paling skin with the force she was pressing them with. "Agent Scully, where's Agent Mulder?" Scully continued staring towards the couch, before shaking her head upon realizing the question had been directed at her. "Um... he had to go to washroom." Scully smiled shakily, remembering how Mulder had to excuse himself, had run towards the washroom with a hand over his mouth. Amanda looked towards Werber who was gazing back at her with concern. "I think that we may need to some X-rays for impla..." Agent Scully shook her head quickly, motioning for the doctor to just shut the hell up. The tape recorder had been turned off, but there were two tapes beside it. Amanda's eyes opened incredulously. "I've been under for more than two hours?" Scully nodded meekly. Amanda exchanged glances between the doctor, between Agent Scully. Her head turned at the arrival of Mulder, and she did not fail to miss the pink that tinged his eyes and nose. The dread grew in Amanda's stomach as she stared at the tape recorder in front of her. At the two tapes which were lying innocently beside it. At the look of apprehension and guilt that was playing on Agent Scully's partner's face. When she finally spoke, she instantly regretted it. Perhaps it was best not to know. "What did I say?" *** "...And what is your name?" "Samantha Ann Mulder." "And how old are you Samantha?" "I'm eight... my birthday was a month ago." "Wow... can you tell me where you live, Samantha?" "I live in 5327 Westshire Street, Chilmark, Massachusettes." "Do you have a family?" "I have a brother and a mommy and a daddy." "Okay, Samantha, I want you to imagine yourself as a bird. A small, carefree bird that can fly fast and high in the sky. And whenever things get too scary, you can fly away to the safe place that you found when I started talking. Okay?" "Okay." "I want you to go back to your house... about one month after your birthday. You're playing your favorite game with you brother, and Fox's favorite show is on TV. I want you to tell me what happened after that." "The sun... it was really bright... started to shine so... white. And the sea gulls were so loud... I couldn't hear Fox talking. I... he started to go away... he got so small. And... it hurt. Their arms hurt, their arms shined the light into my eyes and would turn hard in my fingers..." "It's okay Samantha... go to your safe place if it becomes to..." "Samantha's gone." "...What do you mean?" "Samantha's got a new name. And a new family. And I'm gone... I'm gone and Amanda Derlum is coming..." *** Dr. Werber's Office Washington, DC Amanda stared at the recorder grimly, ignoring the high pitched squeal of the end of the tape hitting the playing heads, preferring rather, to set a lazy hand over her eyes. She could hear Agent Scully and the doctor talking in subdued tones in the room next door. She had yet to hear Agent Mulder's voice. She played the name on her tongue. "Samantha... Samantha... Mulder... Mulder." She tried to imagine Troy calling her Samantha, she tried to imagine her parents in Colorado calling her Samantha, she tried to imagine Agent Mulder, the mystery man at the window that one day in the hospital, calling her Samantha. She could not. The door opened, and Mulder stepped in, awkward. "Would you like me to leave?" Amanda hesitated then shook her head no. "Are you okay?" There was another shake of the head. Mulder sat gingerly beside her, silent, before pulling a picture out of his wallet. "I don't know if this helps, but you do look like my sister." Amanda's nose flared, and she didn't dare look. Could not bear to look, because it would mean her whole life had been a lie. Her head shook minutely as if trying to deny what was fast becoming the inevitable. Mulder took in a breath, placing the picture carefully back into the pocket of his wallet. His jaw clenched, and he could feel the stifling awkardness. Perhaps he should have taken up Scully's offer to come with him. "Do you have anywhere to stay in DC?" Amanda shook her head. "Agent Scully offered a bed at her apartment until your ready to leave. That offer stands at my apartment as well, but I don't know if you'd like that." Amanda swallowed. "I think... I'd like to see if this could work. Maybe... maybe being around you could give me answers... one way or another." Mulder hid his look of surprise and nodded, hopeful. "Okay... sure." Mulder started to get up when Amanda interjected sharply. "Just don't... I don't want to get anybody's hopes up." Mulder looked towards the tape player and nodded his agreements. Scully was watching from the doorway, and Mulder reached out to put his hand on Derlum's back, but stopped last minute. Instead, his fidgety hands were shoved hastily into his jacket pockets where they broke into a nervous sweat. Scully trailed behind the two figures during the walk to Mulder's car -- saw how miserable both were as they awkwardly maneuvered the doors and seatbelts. No words were passed during the trip home. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York He used to like picking the legs off of the beetles that crawled across his family's kitchen floor when he was little. He liked to yank the braids of the girl sitting in front of him in sixth grade. The more she cried, the more he always wanted to do it again. When he was in high school, his father came home from Vietnam and told stories of raping and plundering in the Saigon forest. The more it hurt, the more they would hurt back -- eye for an eye, torture to torture. So when confronted with the proposition of terminating two federal agents, the man from the mafia was not content to simply send a hit man and bullets. No... no... he would have some fun before the kill. *** Scully's Apartment Annapolis, Maryland Scully expelled a litany of swear words as she jiggled the key into her lock, still unable to get the wooden panel to open. With a sharp sigh, she lowered her briefcase and forced her fingers to take their time, and deliberately started to turn the key -- relieved when her living room finally beckoned her. Her answering machine flashed annoyingly -- eleven messages. Scully shook her head, wondering how many of them were *not* from Mulder. She punched the play button, settling in the couch, feeling the expelled air from her coat fly up into her face. "Um... Hi, Agent Scully. This is Pendrell... you know, from the crime lab. Anyways, I've finished the DNA analysis of the two samples you've given me..." Scully immediately straightened, holding her breath, listening to the air molecules collide as Pendrell droned on about experimental procedure and method. "... and your initial conclusions were correct, Agent Scully." Scully absently mumbled her thanks and suddenly, she could no longer hear the remaining messages, her mind passing through the dozens of text books on nucleotides and alpha helices, histones and DNA-DNA hybridization. The federal agent shook her head, wondering how four nitogen base compounds could form a long chain of a heriditary mass called DNA. Wanted to marvel at how science had progressed, and allowed the lab techs like Pendrell to analyse blood, and these four nitrogen compounds to determine all sort of conclusions. Her science proved one thing, irrefutably. And when Pendrell had confirmed her suspicions, Scully did not want to wonder, or marvel. She wanted to cry, and wail, and scream that it was not supposed to be like this. But science was her sacrament, even if it meant affirming that Amanda Ann Derlum and Fox William Mulder, were indeed, brother and sister. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia It was the favorite place of Norman Rockwell-esque authors. The famed place of licking cake batter from the bowl, of cookies baking in the oven. Of children hiding behind the aprons of their mother while their older sibling tried to tickle them. Mulder couldn't help but smile bitterly at the irony as he picked through the Chinese food with his wooden chopsticks, watching Amanda doing likewise. He glanced at the folders he had left on the kitchen counter and cleared his throat. "Dr. Werber thinks that we should get some X-rays done." Amanda raised her head, her eyes clearly asking why the hell she would he want to do that. "He thinks that if your story is true, then you probably have some residual implants in you." The chopsticks dropped onto the table -- one rolled onto the floor, ignored by both parties. "No." "Why not?" "Because..." Amanda started to gesticualte wildly. "Because that tape was a confabulation. My mind must have made it up." Mulder swallowed, setting his chopsticks down with a patience he did not currently possess. The whole thing was a disaster -- from the time she had come in to see his videos on the floor, to last night when both tried, overly politely, to get control of the remote control. Mulder sagged in his chair, wondering if Amanda had only come because he had guilted her into trying. It was painfully clear that she refused to believe the validity of what she had said to Werber. He cautiously walked up to the counter and reached for the solitary file. He handed it to Amanda while keeping his eyes diverted. "We had to take X-Rays when you were admitted to the hospital after Wyoming. You can..." Mulder trailed off, as he saw the woman open the folder then abruptly close it. "That's not me. Those have been doctored." Mulder shook his head. "I guaran..." "It's a mistake. That is not me." Mulder stepped closer towards Amanda, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "Why can't you believe this?" Amanda looked at the federal agent incredulously. "Why should I? I can't even remember it." Mulder opened his mouth for a retort, but stepped back, taking a breath. "You don't even want to know what that is in your legs? In your fingers?" Amanda grimaced. "I broke my legs before when I was a kid... they're just pins." "What about your skull." Amanda held her head up resolutely. "Abnormal tissue growth." "That's rod shaped? Oh, come on..." Amanda took the file off the table and stomped towards the garbage can, unceremoniously stuffing the offending film into the trash. "That. Is not. Me." Mulder looked towards the garbage can and sneered. "Then why are you here? To appease me? 'Cause you feel sorry for me?" Amanda shook her head, tears starting to form. "Feel sorry for *you*? Why? Why would I feel sorry for *you*?" The female's hands started to wring together; something was niggling in the back of her head, saying that fighting with this man was familiar -- had happened many times before. Her lips twisted as the memory failed to materialize, as the man in front of her remained a stranger no matter how hard both were trying. "I want to see if I... I want to work this out." Mulder snorted, the biting tone of a twelve year old overshadowing any mature response that may have been forthcoming. "Well, we've surely made excellent progress haven't we, doctor?" Amanda's nostils flared and she raised her hand to slap him, watching him almost lean into it, anticipate it. The two stared at each other, breathing hard at the fleeting familiarity, before Amanda turned on her heels -- her right hand still tense, still waiting for the physical contact with a sibling's cheek. Mulder sagged back into his chair upon hearing his bedroom door slam. He looked back defeatedly to the boxes of Chinese on the table, unable to bring himself to comfort the woman sobbing in the next room. *** Scully's Apartment Annapolis, Maryland Scully held the phone in her hands, silently reciting what she would say to Mulder. When it rang -- shrill, loud, seemingly echoing through the expanse she called an apartment -- she almost dropped the offending object in shock. "Scully." There was nervous breathing on the phone, and Scully held the phone closer to her ear. "Hello, is anyone there?" Her voice was timid, nervous. It shook and trembled, and Scully found she had to plug her other ear just to hear the woman speak. "Uh... my name is Carolyn Dumain, and I... I was a part of MUFON. Um... I was there when you came to Allentown and, I..." The proceeding pause made Scully wonder if the woman had hung up. "...uh... I have cancer." Scully's innards groaned, her nose instantly started to throb with the nose bleeds it would no longer have. Scully nodded into the phone. "What can I do for you?" "There's no one in MUFON now... and no one believes me... and the doctor I'm seeing tomorrow is from the DC area, and I was wondering, if at all possible..." Scully smiled tightly into the phone. "I'll come with you. Now, what's the doctor's name?" The phone slipped as the doctor's name was uttered and Scully was forced to brace herself on the couch when her legs threatened to give. When the onslaught of Duane Barry induced images left, Scully could do nothing but breathe the name through her lips in confirmation. "Dr. Scanlon." *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia The snow has started to fall. It catches on his eyelashes, temporarily blinding him. The passage of snowflake over snowflake causes a small rustle over rustle, and everything is deathly silent. There is a woman in the distance. An angel. She is chanting, beckoning him to come to her, but he trips and falls. His hands start to slide on the snow, and he wipes his palms across his chest -- gasping in horror as it leaves streaks of read over his jacket. There is body underneath him. And he turns it over, staring at the blank eyes of a young boy with a bullet wound through the eye. He truns it back over, trying to forget about it, trying to continue with his quest towards the angel who is just over there. Suddenly the ground is littered with bodies. With obstacles. And the man tries to side step them, but some are groaning. Are wailing like the cries of the dying. And the angel is suddenly laughing because the man can move no further. Cannot move because it is his hands that are holding the gun. And it is his hands that hold the weapon of these people's demise. There is someone else in the background. She is almost oblitereated by the snow. Her face turns porcelain, her eyes turn into ice. The only indication that she is there is her red hair. She's crying, shaking her head, and she suddenly turns around and walks alway. He tries to follow, but his feet are planted. They cannot move, and the people have started to stir. Have started to rustle like the snow around them. They get up, and they rise. The headless, the mindless, the limbless -- all after one man, wanting nothing more than to engulf him alive... Mulder woke up to stare into Amanda's worried eyes. He shuddered and closed his eyes, not willing to allow himself to speak. He felt a hesitant hand across his shoulder, and a whisper of words. "Bad dream?" He nodded and took another breath. She was in a night shirt and she smiled, and Mulder almost cried at the familiarity of it all. Amanda smiled once again, and extended a hand to the federal agent, helping him sit up. "Come on... I have some food made." Mulder allowed himself to stare in wonder at how the sunlight still played upon the long brown hair of the woman currently heading towards the kitchen. With a slight twist of the lips, Mulder could do nothing but follow. *** Smitty's Restaurant Washington, DC Scully forced her hands to stay still as the woman in front of her dabbed at her nose. She forced herself to ignore the pale skin that was stretched over portruding cheek bones. She forced herself to surpress the shudders that threatened to overcome her everytime the woman mentioned Dr. Scanlon and the wonderful possibilities that chemotherapy and radiation would give her. She forced herself to ignore the woman who was a painful reminder of what little she was three months ago. Carolyn Dumain was entering the final stages of a losing battle with a pharyngeal mass that was growing in her nose. The woman spoke calmly, the only inflections in her voice coming whenever she mentioned the new experimental treatment she would be receiving. From the wonderful saint-of-a-man Dr. Scanlon. Scully nodded, all the while toying with the snap on her holster. She absently wondered if the oncologist would become another Luis Cardinal. "... you?" Scully turned to meet the questioning gaze of the slight woman. "Pardon me?" Carolyn smiled. "What about you?" Her smile faltered, and her eyes saddened. "Everyone else that was at the house when you came, they're..." Carolyn shook her head, unable to say it. Scully nodded. After all, she had painfully witnessed Penny Northern's last shuddering breath. Scully sipped the water in front of her and fingered the mark her lipstick had imprinted on the glass. "I'm fine." Carolyn smiled once again and nodded. "Then there's hope for me too," she stated resolutely. Scully hid her mouth behind a napkin, teleporting back to a time, four years ago when she was that naive. "So when do we see Dr. Scanlon tomorrow?" "Twelve o'clock." Scully nodded, silently snapping her holster back into place. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Breakfast was one meal Mulder didn't much care for, and looking at the limp scrambled eggs and cold toast in front of him was further evidence why breakfast was not the most important meal of the day. He pushed the yellow globular masses around his plate, sneaking glances at the woman in front of him. "If you don't like it, you don't have to eat it." "No.. no. They're... good." The commment earned him a snort, and Mulder sighed resignedly, inwardly berating himself for resting his hopes on the small show of teeth Amanda had flashed to him earlier. "You have an appointment with Dr. Werber today?" Amanda lowered his head and dipped a crust of toast into her eggs absently. "Yeah... I guess." Mulder bit back his sigh of exasperation. "Do you want to go?" Amanda shrugged. "Sure... whatever." Mulder pushed his plate away roughly, caushing his fork to fall off the plate, to scatter yellow masses over the table. "Do you believe in any of this?" Amanda was silent; she stared at lines which criss crossed her palms in her lap. "Are you doing this for my sake or yours?" The woman rolled her eyes and roughly got up from her seat. "What do you mean for *your* sake? I'm here to find out what happened to *me*." There was a sharp shrill, and both heads turned towards Mulder's trench coat pocket and the cell phone that it hid. Mulder willed the phone shut up, just this once, then turned back towards Amanda. "Then why won't you acknowledge the implants?" "They're not..." She started vehemently, but then trailed, unable to finish. The phone stared ringing again and Mulder stared at it with exasperation. "Why are you doing this?" Amanda shook her head. Mulder pointed towards his face. "Do I look familiar? You can at least tell me this much." Amanda shook her head once again, tears starting to threaten. Mulder's face softened. "You have an indentation on you left collar bone." His head shook, once again reliving the horrific scream. "I watched you fall. I watched you break that collar bone." Amanda refused to answer. Mulder shook his head, his arm grasping onto Amanda's desperately as desperate measures were taken. "The beach. You have to remember the beach. Maine. Sand castles." Mulder paused. "Winken, Blinken and Nod." A tear tracked down Amanda's cheek and she closed her eyes, whispering. "Not me. I don't... I can't.... I don't remember." Mulder's hand hastily dislodged itself from Amanda's arm and slammed on the kitchen table, causing the apartment to shake. "How can you refute all the evidence that's in front of you? Your blood was infected by genes that would have allowed alien/human hubrids to take over the Earth. I had to... I had to... I destroyed them..." Mulder roughly rubbed at his eyes. He had destroyed them. For him. For her. For them. And it was all falling apart. "I'm not doing this for you, Agent Mulder. I don't know you. I don't know if I *want* to know you. I'm doing this for me. Myself. Nothing else matters to me." Mulder stepped back as if slapped in the face. The cell phone cried once again, drawing both figures' attention to Mulder's trench coat. "God, shut the fuck up, Scully!" Mulder stomped to his coat and turned off the phone roughly. "So what are you saying we do?" Amanda shook her head. "I don't know. Only that it's my life." Mulder reached to the kitchen counter to grab the X-rays he rescued from the garbage. "And what do plan to do with these?" He waved the film threateningly in front of the female's face. Amanda reached out and grabbed them. "Hey!!" She pulled them away, with Mulder hissing as an edge sliced through his hand. "Get out of my life!" Amanda sneered. "God, you're such an asshole." Amanda shook her head, her voice falling. "Such a fucking butt munch." Mulder turned, horrified. "What did you say?" Amanda crumpled the X-rays in her hands, her voice distracted. "What... a fucking butt munch?" Mulder nodded, eyes wide. "That's what Samantha used to call me. That's..." The federal agent found he couldn't talk anymore. Amanda ignored the pasty complexion of the man in front of her. Ignored how his voice had trailed and been reduced to a whisper. Ignored the shaking hands that were nervously clenching and unclenching. Because whatever the price, she had to hold onto her life. *She* was in charge. And if she was Sa... or if the man in front of her was her brot... than everything would all fall apart. Amanda looked to the floor, clamping on the urge to run into the arms of the man in front of her and say, "I'm afraid, Fox. I'm afraid". She would not raise her hand and touch her collar bone, even though it throbbed with the humidity of the DC air. She would not open her mouth, for fear that she would begin to recite Winken, Blinken, and Nod by memory. Because in order to save herself, she would need to deny herself. "I can't... Fo... Agent Mulder. I can't... I'm sorry. The appointment I have with the doctor will be my last." Mulder nodded numbly. He didn't even hear the door quietly close to identify that he was, once again, alone. *** Skinner's Apartment Washington, DC The man analyzed each piece of furniture carefully. A wedding picture. A balding man with his arm around the shoulders of a dark haired woman. Both smiling with the promise of a life together -- in sickness and in health, in divorce and prenuptial agreements. A liquor cabinet. Scotch -- the good kind. About half empty. A little shelf of awards and commendations. Mostly from the FBI. Some of them pushed way in the back -- hidden by the framed FBI certificate. The purple heart in all it's blue velvet glory was tucked away in the far corner with a war's worth of dust. Big TV. Microwave dinners in the freezer. The man in black opened a closet and peered into it. He moved into the kitchen and peered behind the island. He moved into the bedroom and looked under the bed, went into the bathroom and examined the shower and shower curtain. Back in the bedroom, the man peered back into the closet, finally satisfied. He settled on his haunches and looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Six more hours at the most. The man checked his pistol, then checked the clip. Turned the safety off, and then back on. All there was left to do was wait. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Mulder stormed into the office, ignoring the female sitting to the side, and headed straight for his desk. He threw himself into the chair, and eased the headache that was growing by closing his eyes and massaging his temples. He winced when Scully spoke -- her voice seemed like it was coming from miles away. "Where have you been, Mulder?" Mulder continued massaging. "Home." Scully ran a finger over the piece of paper lying on her desk. "Things with Sam going okay?" Mulder shook his head. "Amanda... call her Amanda. And no.... things aren't going okay." Scully played with the pen on her desk. She took a deep breath and braced herself for the fall out. "Mulder, maybe it would be for the best if...." Mulder shook his head determinedly. "No!" The reply came out livid, almost desperate. "No... she...." Mulder gesticulated wildly with his hands. "She remembers some things, Scully... we're almost there." Scully leaned forward in her chair, hearing it squeak its protests. "Mulder, we have a case that we need to investigate today." "Can't it wait?" "No." Mulder moved his one hand from his temple to the back of his neck, attempting to remove the knot that had formed there. "What's it about?" "Abductions... MUFON..." Mulder started to shake his head. "I don't know, I think I should go with Amanda to Werber. We're almost there. I can feel it." Scully's eyes flashed; her jaw set. "I think this case could be a big one Mulder. The woman has cancer, like..." Scully trailed off. Her partner shifted uncomfortably before speaking once again. "I understand how this case could be important, but Amanda's going to Werber, Scully. Don't you see what that could mean? Do you know how many things we could learn? The truth is right there..." "The truth could be here." Mulder looked up, confused. "Where are you going with this, Scully?" Scully threw a report on his desk. "I tried calling you this morning, but Pendrell has the results of the genetic analysis. You and Derlum are brother and sister." Mulder glanced away, staring at the 'I Want To Believe' poster. He did not trust himself to comment. "You've found your elusive truth, Mulder... now what? What's going to happen to the X-Files? What about *my* truth. What about *my* case." Scully shook her head, her cheeks growing flushed. "Have you been redeemed, Mulder? If Amanda remembers that she had been, indeed, a Samantha Mulder in a past life, will you get your absolution? I won't. Not until I find the man responsible for me. Not until I find my truth." Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but Scully beat him. "I know where the Consortium congregates, Mulder. We can expose them. We can get them back for what did they did to us... what they did to all those innocent people who were buried in shallow graves." Mulder remained non-responsive. Scully slammed her hand on the desk, causing Mulder to jump. "Damn it, Mulder. Don't you want to see them brought to justice? Don't you remember what they did to you?" Mulder's reply was terse, threateningly low. "I'm acutely aware of what they did to me, Scully." Scully drew back a step, feeling slightly guilty in over stepping her boundaries. "And..." The male agent shook his head. "I told you, Scully, during our first case. That nothing else mattered more to me than finding my sister." He paused, looking at Scully accusingly. "I'm not in the business of revenge." Scully walked over and dropped the newly made file of Carolyn Dumain onto the table. "For you to come in here, and under the guise of finding the truth, say you cannot investigate a crime -- that you cannot help this poor woman -- is selfish." Mulder opened his mouth, unable to speak. "You are a selfish, selfish man, Agent Mulder." With the final comment, Scully briskly walked out of the office, roughly snapping her coat off from the rack. Mulder was left with nothing to look at but the sad smile of Carolyn Dumain. *** Skinner's Apartment Washington, DC Skinner unlocked the door to his apartment angrily, cursing the file that had seemingly disappeared from his briefcase. The sun filtered through the blinds, dancing with the air borne dust, and Skinner did a three sixty in the empty room in an attempt to remember where he had had the report last. He bounded up the stairs to his computer when he remembered the impromptu snooze he had taken while trying to study the report. The phone was ringing, and Skinner's left hand grabbed the receiver, while the other triumphantly grabbed the report. "Skinner." "Sir, this is Agent Scully. I was wondering if I could request a safe house for a witness I have in a case. We're going to the Bethesda medical clinic, then I would like her in protective custody." Skinner nodded, eyes squinting slightly. "I'll have someone waiting at outside the clinic for you. Have you talked to Agent Mulder recently?" Scully chastised herself for being a softie when her heart momentarily trembled. She was only partly successful when she tried to convince herself that Mulder was a jerk and not deserving of her concern anymore. "I talked to him this morning. Why?" "Has he told you he's taken an indefinite leave of absence?" The silence on the other end of the line indicated that Mulder had not told his partner his latest plans. "He said that by staying on active duty was inapporopriate, given all his attention would be on the recovery of Derlum. He said he didn't want to jeopardize any future investigations, and that you should have free reign over the section now." Scully was speechless. "Wh-what?" "He specifically said that both of you had reached a point where your expectations differed. That your plans for the section were conflicting." Scully grimaced, trying to maneuver through the DC traffic with Carolyn sitting beside her. "Fine." Skinner nodded, proceeding to say his good byes to the female agent with reluctance. He took a deep breath, wondering what had happened in the past three days that would strain Mulder and Scully's relationship so severely. Scully's reaction had been terse, almost indifferent, while Mulder's phone call had been shaky, almost emotional. The AD shook his head once again before making sure the report was still within his hands. He looked at himself in the dresser mirror and absently fixed his tie, straightened his collar. His jaw clenched -- he had always been the spitting image of his father, had even adopted most of his mannerisms. At the thought, Skinner reflexively turned away from his mirrored twin. Just as a shot embedded itself, shattering the mirror. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Dear Agent Mulder, If you're reading this, then you already know that I am gone. To where, I am not sure. But this week has been trying for you, as it has been for me. Inevitably, one of us had to break, and it turned out that that someone would be me. I tried. I really did. The dreams are there, but not. I know that I have met you previously. You seem familiar. But the dreams are soon forgotten, and I cannot discern whether the feelings I feel are friendly, brotherly.. I don't know you. You don't know me. It is useless to continue this charade. You apologized on the phone the other day. Said something along the lines that you were sorry that you were being a bad host... brother... friend. Whatever -- their meanings are now lost on me. Agent Mulder. Fox. I have nothing to forgive you for. And if it gives you comfort, I feel that deep in my heart, in the life that you insist I once had, that Sam has always, *always* loved you. Amanda Amanda wiped the tears as she folded the paper once and set it upon the coffee table. Eleven o'clock... shit, Agent Mulder would be coming soon to take her to Werber. She would have tried... she had wanted to so bad. But looking through the box that was in Mulder's closet had dissolved all her resolve, had made her feel guilty and ashamed in trying to fill an eight year old sister's role. It was a small innocent shoe box that held painful memories -- painful because they were all foreign to her. It was a small aggregate of drawings and photos -- of freezes in time that were so *normal* that it hurt. A picture of her arm in a sling. A picture of a boy and girl playing a board game. A picture with a girl and a woman sun bathing. She was not that girl. Nor could she ever be that girl. And sometimes... sometimes it would be easier to just run away. Amanda fought that the dread that was in her stomach, fought the urge to hide when she realized that she had grabbed her coat too late. The noise at the door signalled Mulder's key turning in the key lock and the much unwanted early arrival of the federal agent. Mulder took in the bags and Amanda's coat that was hanging limply off one shoulder. "What's going on?" He noticed the note addressed to him on the coffee table and started to shake his head vehemently. "You can't go. We're almost there." Amanda was about to protest when there was a sharp knock on the door. Mulder opened the door warily, eyebrows furrowing in suspicion when the UPS worker smiled his hellos. The brown uniform offered him a package, and Mulder signed the clipboard, eyeing the man's ID tag carefully. He fastened the dead bolt before turning around, momentarily pausing when he couldn't remember what he had been saying before. "I'm just saying, Amanda," Mulder continued talking as he gingerly shook the package, carefully opening it with deliberate fingers. "... that Werber is one..." His voice trailed off when the slim metal box slid into his hands. Amanda craned her head to try and get a better look. "What is it?" Mulder carefully inspected the metal rectangular prism. "I have absolutely no idea." The clasp was at the side, and Mulder unlatched it -- the box revealing itself to be a clock face. Mulder studied it, almost dropping the clock when it started ticking. The digital face started counting backwards from ten and Amanda and Mulder stared at the decreasing numbers numbly. Unable to react until the numbers hit zero. *** Skinner's Apartment Washington, DC Skinner threw himself behind the bed, reaching for his holster, swearing when he remembered this was the day of all days when he thought he wouldn't need it. There was an oppressing silence, there was not even the sound of searching foot steps. Skinner looked over the bed spread, seeing the back of a man in black. He settled back down, bracing himself, counting to three. He lunged, his hands groping for the rifle, the grunts of the disguised man audible and blessedly real. The rifle was not coming free, and Skinner felt a kick to the shin that doubled him over and caused a suprised grunt to come from his mouth. A head butt came next, just as Skinner jabbed the butt end of the rifle into the intruder's nose. Both men swayed for balance, still connected by the precarious hold they both had on the either end of the rifle. Skinner let go of the rifle with his left hand, yanking the piece of metal towards him, and felt his knuckles crack as they connected with the jaw of the man in black. The man's grip on the gun went loose and Skinner pointed the rifle towards the fallen man's head. "Who are you?" The man was silent. And Skinner pulled the bloody mask away to reveal yet another unrecognizable face -- yet another feral shadow that would disappear into the woodwork. Skinner raised the rifle ready to shoot when the unburdened phone call with Scully came to mind. Skinner's eyes widened in comprehension, and he reached for the phone. He had to contact Scully. And Mulder. Before it was too late. *** Bethesda Medical Clinic Washington, DC Scully watched Carolyn Dumain's fingers flutter nervously as they entered the medical clinic. Gone was the concise, calm woman who had talked to her over coffee yesterday. Present was an increasingly nervous woman whose head kept glancing from the federal agent to the clinic, whose mouth gaped open, then closed with unsaid words, whose hands would attempt to smooth out the collar, the cloth of her unblemished jacket. Scully undid her holster while Carolyn had her back turned. She took a deep breath, wondering what it would feel like to handcuff an unsuspecting Scanlon. Wondering if the good doctor would squeal if she pointed her pistol in his back hard enough. She wanted him in jail. She wanted him dead. She wanted him lynched and stoned for what he had done to two dozen women. She ground her teeth together, and her steps moved through the carpeted hallway faster. "Um... do you have to go to the bathroom?" Scully's head shook in confusion, her reverie broken. "What?" Her fingers fluttered to her jacket once again, and Carolyn shook her head. "Nothing... I... nothing. Let's go in." The two women sat in the waiting room; Julia Roberts' face smiled back at them from the magazine beside them. Scully found she couldn't sit still -- the index finger of her right hand were clenching and unclenching, her pistol was digging into her hip, making its presence known. A smiling nurse came in and cheerfully called Amanda's name, causing the blonde haired woman to jump. "You have to come with me." Scully nodded her head. "I was planning to come anyways." Carolyn looked immensely relieved, and started to babble. "Good. Because you *have* to come. You need to come... You...uh.. need to explain the terminology... It's good that you're coming." Scully resolutely rose from her chair, trailing Carolyn. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, and Scully reached for her pistol. She held it in her hand, behind her back, and felt the familiar weight settle into her palm. An unburdened image of blood crept into her vision, and her legs momentarily shook. She saw Missy's face when they had taken the bandages off when she had been shot. She saw all the blood that had escaped from Mulder's body when he had been hit on the docks. She remembered how the blood from her nose managed to stain everything her fingers came into contact with. And no matter how hard she tried -- no matter how hard she washed and scrubbed -- the remnants of the stain would always remain, would always be testament to the fluid that had fallen there. Scully closed her eyes when the threshold approached. Mulder was right: revenge was not their business. She reholstered her pistol silently, and composed herself when Amanda somewhat eagerly held open the door for her. When she finally entered, Carolyn started crying, her trembling beginning in earnest once again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She rushed up and grabbed Scully's arm, still pleading. "They said I had to if they were to cure me." Scully whirled around when another voice beckoned her. "Agent Scully, I wish we could have met under better circumstances." Scully stared at the unlined face of Dr. Scanlon and the semi- automatic he was holding. She almost closed her eyes at the irony. She had forgotten that for other people, revenge was their only way of life. With one hand the doctor roughly pulled Carolyn out the door, unceramoniously slamming the wooden panel shut. Scully could hear the panicked slams of the woman's open palm slamming against the wooden panel, accompanied only by Carolyn's high pitched screams. "You said... bring her here... don't kill..." There was muffled shouting in the background, and then the sound of muffled sobs being dragged away. Scully met Scanlon's impassive eyes and stood full height upon her heels. "Will your antecdote kill her or cure her?" Scanlon smiled. "Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease, as they say." His smile grew more wicked. "You of all people should know that." Scully's eyes remained focused; she would not permit them to stray from the target of her wrath. "What do you want?" "We want you and your partner to stop your meddling, permanently. Although we both know how 'distracted' Mulder has been since finding that woman. Ditched you again... surely that must hurt, Dana." Scanlon reached into his pocket, and Scully could hear the tinkle of glass hitting glass. The red test tubes still had Scully's name stencilled into the side, and the federal agent tried to ignore the brilliant red contents inside. The oncologist picked one from the pile and held it up to the light. "We told you, Agent Scully, to step away. And now, the truth will be your undoing... for you and your children." Scully watched, horrified, as the tubes fell onto the floor, shattering. The blood stayed static on the colour-coordinated tile, staining them a brilliant, frothy red. The glass fractured, shattering the cries of her babies who would not be given the chance to do so themselves. Distracted by the broken glass and the shimmering red liquid, Scully distantly heard a gun click. "Good bye, Agent Scully." She heard herself shout. There was senseless screaming everywhere. And she closed her eyes as her heart shuddred and banged like wood hitting steel. "Federal Agent. Freeze!" Scully heard the shot and felt her knees buckle. Something hit her chest, made her fall, and knocked the wind out of her. She kept her eyes screwed shut, and felt her diapraghm make a valiant effort to breathe despite the weight that had settled there. She was dying, Scully thought. She could feel the warmth of blood seep into her clothes, and the female agent nonsensically chastized herself for wearing the cream coloured coat today. She heard breathless steps as they approached, and she winced as they echoed in her ears. "Agent Scully." It was Skinner's halting voice. "Are you hurt?" Scully wanted to laugh. Of course she was hurt. She had been shot. She was dying. That's why it was so hard to breathe. Skinner was grunting now. "I tried... I tried to get here as soon as I could. You were..." There was some more grunting, the sound of Skinner reholstering his gun to free his right hand. "We need to find Mulder." And suddenly the weight was gone. The blood was turning cold, and Scully opened her eyes to stare at the still, listless corpse of a doctor that Skinner had just pulled off of her. Scully stared at the headless corpse, staring at the blood that was inching towards her feet. She hastily squirmed away, her hands reflexively resting by her hip. He helped her to her feet, and handed her a handkerchief to wipe off the the blood that was marring her pale complexion. "You okay, Agent Scully?" Scully nodded gingerly, unable to swallow. "There was a hitman at my house. I think they're trying to turn us into obituaries." Skinner paused to catch his breath and pass a hand across his brow. "No one's answering Mulder's phone and Werber says neither he nor Amanda showed up for their appointment. I..." Scully wrapped her bloody coat around her, already making her way out the door before her AD finished. Her growl grew softer as her steps began to disappear. "Then we should go and check it out." By the time Skinner could catch up, Scully's car was already started. He took the passenger seat without complaint, upon seeing the female agent waiting impatiently in the driver's seat -- complete with an intense glare that spoke volumes. If federal agent Dana Scully had any ill feelings towards her partner, they had now been long forgotten. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Both Amanda and Mulder stared at the timer and the second hand that was pointing at zero. Besides a small popping noise, there had been no explosions, no gunfire, no floors collapsing, or ceiling beams falling. Nothing. But as his head turned to examine his apartment, as he ignored the thunder in his ears, and the cold hand that clutched his stomach called dread, Mulder finally saw the blood. "Amanda," he pointed dumbly to her arm. "You're bleeding." She lifted the sleeve up slowly to reveal a long, jagged cut, caused by the a smooth metal piece that was currently gleaming with oozing blood and tissue. The metal had shattered -- popped -- causing her flesh to tear messily, causing little scraps of tissue to catch on the cotton of her shirt. When the initial shock started to wane, she started to scratch by her nose, at the back of her neck, along her shins... harder and harder until she hastily reached for the letter opener on Mulder's computer desk. Mulder watched, horrified, as the frenzied woman ran the edge of the letter opener along her leg. The woman's body started to shake in sobs as her nervous fingers found the foreign metal body. The metal glittered, and despite the nervous panting of both the male and the female in the room, the resonant buzzing could still be heard. There was a distinct pop, and Mulder stepped back, startled. The implant was gone. Disappearing without a trace. Amanda started to scratch at the back of neck, once again, and Mulder roughly grabbed her hand, stopping any scratching, enunciating his action with a stern, "Don't". The reply was plaintive. "They hurt." Mulder nodded, and reached with his arms, attempting to embrace the woman standing in front of him. Amanda accepted the gesture momentarily before shaking her head furiously and clenching her fingers into a fist. "No!" She wrestled away from his embrace, Mulder's hand slipping on the lubricant of blood, before Amanda charged, head first, into his midsection. Mulder felt his inability to draw a breath, could feel the stabbing pain in his side as his gasping breaths echoed within his ears. Nervous tenticles fluttered around his waist, and as Mulder heard the snap unfastened, all the federal agent could muster was a wheezed, "No". Mulder heard the safety click on. Off. On. Off -- just like he had done in Worland seemingly ages ago. When his vision finally cleared, when he could finally stand and breathe at the same time, he extended his hand to the woman and the gun,. "Amanda, give me the gun." The woman shook her head manically. "I'm not Amanda." "Then who are you?" "My name is Sam." The woman paused and let the gun hang loose by her side. She giggled, using her free hand to cover her mouth embarrassedly. "My name is Sam. Sam I am." Her eyes glittered and she skipped towards Mulder, wide-eyed. Eager. "Don't you remember the book, Fox? Don't you?" The woman started to grow more frantic at Mulder's confused silence. She continued to pace the room, and started to cry, verging on hysteria. "Sam... Samantha... give me the gun." The woman's demeanor changed, and she rushed to Mulder, sneering, gun pointed towards his head. "Don't you dare call me that!! I am not Sam! My name is Amanda. I was born... I was born..." The woman struggled for a response, the tendons that were holding the gun visibly straining. "I was born in Chilmark. I have a brother..." The woman rose a hand to put it against her head. "No! I have a sister. Her name is... Fox." Mulder nodded. "That's me. I'm Fox." Appeasingly, he held his hand out to the gun once again. "Just give me the gun." The woman shook her head earnestly, putting on a stage whisper. "No... no... We're not supposed to play with guns, Fox. Didn't dad tell you that?" Her shoulder spasmed and the woman clicked the safety back on. "Why did you have to tell me, Agent Mulder? Why? Oh God... it hurts..." The woman doubled over, putting both of her hands on top of her head. Mulder debated whether to lunge for the gun, but the woman rose once again, her eyes dark and soulful. "I missed you, Foxy." Mulder watched her run up, felt himself recoil instinctually at the sight of the gun running towards him. But the woman put two arms around him torso and rested her head on his chest. Squeezing. Hugging. As if there was no tomorrow. The tears flowed freely now, and Mulder finally returned the embrace. "I missed you too, Sam." *** North 146 Street Washington, DC "Oh fucking shit... hurry the fuck up..." Skinner tapped his feet impatiently on the car floor, while Scully angrily drummed her fingers along the steering wheel. The AD stuck his head outside the window once again, leaning to view the progress of the curretnly jack knifed sermi-trailer. He felt his inertia threaten to push him out of the window when Scully swerved the car into the oncoming lane and swerve back past the truck. The AD finally relented and grabbed a hold of the dash board with both hands, steeling his feet onto the floor, stealing glimpses at the woman in front of him. There was a lone man in the street, not concerned with the passing cars, nor the jack knifed semi. His shopping cart held cans, a sickly looking feral creature, and a stack of yellowed, brittle newspapers. His sign was held high, his head was uprasied despite the tattered hat, fingerless gloves, and hole filled shoes. The sign was dirty, the corners were worn with age, dirty handprints littered the sides. Skinner squinted -- the hastily scrawled sign merely said: John 18:38. Skinner looked towards Scully who was clutching the steering wheel tighter, who was dangerously maneuvering her way through a red light. Suddenly she spoke, and her words echoed through the empty expanse of the car, making her voice... unholy. "John 18:38 says: 'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'" Skinner nodded uncomfortably, and both travellers lapsed back into silence. The AD doubted such divine wisdom. He had known the truth. He had known about his father. But he had been far from free. There had not been one day were he had not felt constricted by life's chains and un-pickable padlocks. Although the beggar man was poor, and desolate, he was free. As a screaming police cruiser passed them, Skinner grimly stared out the windshield. He wondered if he would ever feel that way again. *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Mulder's nose was right above the woman's hair, and he inhaled deeply, smelling her hair once again, revelling in its shine, its texture, its length, its colour... "Sam." Mulder whispered in fear that he would dispel the magical mood. "Give me the gun... please." The woman shook herself and extracted herself from her brother's arms. "You let them take me, Fox." Mulder shook his head. "Sam, that's not true." "Yes it is," the slight figure replied plaintively. "Sam... I would never hurt you." The woman's eyes grew dark and Mulder shook his head desperately. "I would never hurt you on purpose, Sam... Now give me the gun." The woman reeled, putting a hand against her ears. "I am *not* Sam!!" She glared at Mulder, pointing the shaking gun to his temple. "I am not Sam!! You hear me?" She started to mutter, pacing the room in disjointed, ragged movement, echoing the litany over again. She stopped suddenly when the lights to Mulder's apartment went out, when the picture frames on Mulder's wall started to shake and bang against the plaster. Samantha could do nothing but scream. *** It was a terror that was not even matched in Arecibo. Or in the Arctic when the Bounty Hunter had come for him. Or even during the short seconds when the power went out when he had been talking to Duane Barry. When the lights went out, Mulder blinked, felt his blood start to rush as Sam's terrified screams once again ingrained themselves within his ears. So warm. The light was so warm, and so bright and was coming oh so close... He wrenched his eyes open and watched his sister hold the grip of his gun tighter. As she let out a wail that was matched only by the loud, wailing sirens that were buzzing overhead. Mulder lunged for the gun. *** It was too bright, and the light was cold, white and inhuman. Amanda clutched the gun tighter, felt her feet back up until she had cornered herself between Mulder's wall and the computer desk. Too familiar. She had seen the light somewhere before. She had been in this place before with the buzzing and the shaking. Somewhere were people would talk in her head and hurt her, and put things in her that would pop, shake, and rattle. There was a figure approaching her. A demon. Not like the ones from so many years ago. This one wasn't skinny, but it had its arm extended. Almost like all the alien movies where you extended your hand in a show of peace. But the demon was bad. Would hurt her again. And he was approaching. Coming slowly.... but steadily coming closer... mumbling indecipherable words that she couldn't hear because of the wailing going on overhead. Coming to take her away. Her fingers fumbled with the gun. Her shoulder screamed as she rose the pistol up, as she squinted thorugh the light and the noise. And fired. *** He was on the floor, and he didn't know whether the noise was coming from outside or from his own head. He wrenched his eyes open, to find everything coated with red. A finger inched to his forehead to find a large torn spot of flesh which was leaking blood through his eyelashes to his eyes. He was sprawled by his couch and the lights were still flashing and Amanda was still pacing. "Sam..." he attempted gingerly. The woman looked at him then ran towards his prone figure. "Oh my God, Fox!! What happened to you!!" She put a cool hand to his forehead, started to reach for some kleenexes, and Mulder was tempted to laugh manically in the comical way things were progressing. In the tragic way things were progressing. A MacBeth to her Lady, he reached for the gun, yet again. "Please Sam, give me the gun." The woman looked at the outstretched hand and seemed to contemplate the gesture. The light was highlighting her hair... was so bright, that it shone through her fingers. Mulder could see the tiny blood vessels running through, could see the slender bones... and the sickening rod of an implant aligned with the middle finger. He looked up to make eye contact, to see how young her eyes were in relation to the too-old, much maligned body. She started to pass the gun over, when the light intensified, causing Mulder to groan and shield his eyes. The sirens grew shriller, more resonant, and Mulder moved his arms by his ears, trying to open his eyes despite the brightness, trying to discern Sam's horrified screams from the sirens. The light came up to engulf her and Mulder watched her arm with the pistol move up to her head. His well-intentioned shout came out as a croak, and as her blood -- the same blood he had seen coursing through her fingers just seconds previously -- splayed onto his face, onto his apartment, onto his life and conscience, her mangled body was lifted silently upwards. The light was so bright, that when he looked around, he couldn't see anything. Couldn't see his couch. Couldn't see the picture frames that had been banging away for what seemingly seemed like hours. So dark and he couldn't see. And didn't want to hear. And didn't want to feel. He groped for support, finding the coffee table, finding his wallet, his badge, a cup, the remote... before he left his apartment, unable to do anything but run. *** Along 31 Avenue Two blocks from Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Scully looked to Skinner nervously when the third police cruiser passed by them. She stepped on the gas, but her foot was shaking and the car was jerking in time to her foot's release and non-release on the gas pedal. She turned the corner, and she momentarily lost control of the car. Skinner's hand was suddenly leaning in, taking control of the wheel, while Scully tried not to cry at the half a dozen police cruisers circled around Mulder's apartment. The air was a sea of blurry red and blue lights, yellow tape, and of black, somber looking officers. She heard herself park the car, felt her hands numbly grip the car door handle, could hear her heels as they walked up to the tape, and heard herself calmly announce that she was Dr. Dana Scully, FBI. A microphone was shoved into her face, and a woman smelling of perming solution and perfume was asking incoherent questions. Scully grew flustered, batting away at the metal objects, turning and running as fast as she could to Apartment 42. The apartment smelled of *them*. Of lost hope and shattered dreams. Of a truth that did not set Mulder free, but condemned him to a solitary prison that no one -- including herself -- was willilng to extract him from. The blood was everywhere, omni-present. On the walls, on the floor by the couch, on the letter opener, on the gun that was lying in the middle of the floor. "Where did the bodies get taken to?" Scully had to sit when the unform told her that there had been no bodies found. That someone had heard a fight going on above, and a gun discharging, and the sounds of someone falling down the stairs as they left. The unform pointed towards the dooway, and Scully bit her lip at the spots of blood leading towards the hallway. Scully kneeled over a particular spot of red by the couch. The blood had splattered a picture frame that had fallen and shattered the glass. The blood had marred the beautiful smile of a young boy and a young girl, who had been too innocent, too naive to know of the future the garish fates would hold for them. A lanky hand crossed over the girl's shoulder, and they were at the beach, in their bathing suits, unblemished skin, now blemished by the blood that was staining the picture. Scully held the picutre tight to her chest, attempting to breathe in the innocence and the joy and the naivety. Attempting to remember something that had been taken away so long ago. When it didn't come, she cried. And when a uniform walked over and handed her his wallet and badge, the sobs wracked her body. And when Skinner gently tried to pry the picture from her hands she fought back -- using both her fists and words. And then someone came, injected a stinging poison into her, and she no longer cared. No longer felt the resolve to care. No longer felt the gaping wound in her heart. No longer felt as if something had been ripped away. Just nothing. Empty. She hoped she would be able to stay here a little while longer. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC "All hospitals have been questioned, everyone at his apartment has been interviewed, Agent Scully. I'm sorry. There still has been no sightings of Mulder or his sister." Skinner looked at the empty chair beside the red haired woman, and tried to ignore it. When that failed, he attempted to superimpose a memory of a standard suit, a crazy tie, and a smug smirk into the seat, but it failed as well. When the female failed to respond to his previous statement, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes, taking off his glasses resignedly. "Agent Scully, I understand you'd like to be transferred to Quantico." The anwering tone was clipped. "Yes, sir." "You do realize that if the transfer goes through, I will need to shut down the X-Files." Scully blinked, and she licked her lips. "I'm aware of that, sir." The Assistant Director took a deep breath and paced the room, choosing to ultimately stare out the window. "So the quest of the truth disappears with Agent Mulder?" Scully's nostrils flared, and her eyes started to burn. "The truth, sir, destroyed him and his family. What would I have to gain in pursuing the truth?" Skinner pulled up a box from underneath his desk and slammed it on the surface, causing pens to fall, Scully to jump. Department of Defense was stencilled on the side, and Scully took in a shaky breath of expectancy. "It seems, Agent Scully, that you have a friend." Scully gingerly stood up, opening the lid carefully. Manilla folders were upon manilla folders, all with covers which covered documents, merchandise records, and pictures of every port and every harbour that the S. S. Kensington had gone during its two year excursion. Scully put a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the tears that were once again threatening, not wanting to begin contemplating how Bill would have managed to smuggle the files out. Skinner walked over, gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "The truth *will* set you free, Agent Scully." It *will* save you." He paused, and then nodded reassuringly. "Destroy the destroyers' ability to destroy. And it can all end right here. Right now." Scully closed her eyes and bit her lip, watching, hearing, feeling once again as another unburdened memory of Mulder surfaced. And there were so many. She looked back up at Skinner and finally nodded. She reached into the box, opened the first file, and began to read. *** Along East 27th Avenue Woodbridge, Virginia The snow was threatening to obliterate everything within view, and Shannon Malloy hugged her wool coat tighter against her body, watching people huddle under their umbrellas and manuever carefully over the ice. The leg cuffs of her scrubs were encrusted with salt, and the wetness was sticking to her legs, causing her to shiver. The smell of antiseptic and ammonia was still on her, on her hair, and the resident vowed that tonight she would forego the usual shower in favor of a good long soak in the tub. An annoyed honk of the horn broke her from her reverie, and she watched a man stumble onto the sidewalk. He continued running but his legs were shaking and his breathing had been reduced to ragged, sobbing gasps. She watched him run over the patch of ice she had just recently maneuvered over, and watched him fall, hearing a leg bone break as the exhasuted body mass fell on top of it. Shannon rushed over as the man was trying to get up. "Hey... don't." She put a hand firmly on his shoulder, and tried to look at him underneath the streetlights which were futiley trying to dispel the DC smoggy twilight. His face was covered with blood, most of it dry, but their was still some sticky ooze at his hairline. She ran her fingers by the cut and the man failed to flinch. She held the sides of his head and tried to look into his pupils, moving his head side to side. His hazel eyes refused to react or move. His clothing was dirty. Business suit slacks and a once white shirt complemented the black, worn wing tips. The clothes fit him, but the man still trying to get up did not resemble a Wallstreet type. "Hey." Shannon shrugged off her coat and covered him with it. "Stay still, you." She paused, looking into the blood covered eyelashes and the empty hazel eyes. "Do you know who you are?" The man refused to talk, and Shannon pushed further. "Hey... can you say something?" The man's mouth opened, and Shannon leaned in. "I'm fine." Shannon looked at the man incredulously. "You're fine?" The man started to curl in on himself, ignoring the jacket as it fell off his shoulders and onto the sidewalk. He was oblivious to the gawkers around him and started to rock deliberately -- repeating the litany over and over again. "I'm fine... I'm fine... I'm fine..." Sirens approached, and Shannon watched helplessly as the man tried to squirm away from the needles and the tubes, preferring to repeat his two words over and over. The ambo door eventually slammed shut and Shannon watched the blue and red lights disappear. The blood had stained the sidewalk, the body heat had melted the ice, and Shannon stepped away hastily, suddenly anxious to get home, away from the cold that was now numbing her bones. *** "And after this word from our sponsers, we will go back to Leslie Wilacy who will have the latest on the Vietnam War scandal. Ex-Assistant Director of the FBI, Walter Skinner, shocked the military and all Americans with his statement regarding the conduct of certain high ranking officials during the war thrity years ago. It is expected that at least five officials will be court martialled within the next week. "We will also have highlights of last Monday's Christmas tree decorating contest. The winning tree will surprise you. Stay tuned for all this and more, after the commerical break." *** This is me. I am not a title. I am not a federal agent. I am not a doctor. I cannot save you. I cannot shoot the shadow which you hear lurking outside the door. I cannot prescribe magic pills which will make the hurt and the pain go away. This is me. I am thought to be weak. I am thought to be the oppressed. I am thought to be sick. But I am not. I am strong. I have my memories of pain. Of desperation and depression which I would rather forget, would rather pass off as blissful ignorance, but painfully -- willfully -- choose to remember. I have my scars which can still leave me crying in front of a mirror, waking from terror filled dreams, the echoes of voices past. I still have the power of choice. Of being able to slide my foot through the guard rail of a building, of being able to look down and see the miniature cars, the stickmen people. Of being able to wonder what it would be like to fall... and then walk away. That power scares me. It scares me because I have seen how easily this power can be taken away. How it can be ravaged and turned against a desperate man. The choice now turned into an ultimatum, the ultimatum turned into a self-imposed death sentence. But this is me. I see a man who walks in every night and kisses me on the cheek. I see a little boy with red hair and blue eyes and ten tiny fingers who will call me mommy. I have a boy who is dear and precious. And will have no secrets cast upon him -- a mercy that has been granted by a martyr who has gone unnoticed. Whose disappearance was treated in passing. Whose back page obituary is looked for only by me. An unknown silhouette to everyone but me. Except to those who could forgive him, who could grant him the mercy he was desperately seeking. Who could understand it was not his choice to make, but a sentence imposed on him so long ago. A journey which I travelled for part of the way. A path I do not regret taking, despite the tears which stain my pillow, despite the memories which sometimes overtake me, despite the heartache which threatens each time I gaze at the picture above the mantlepiece. Because I have a boy who is strong, and willful, and stubborn, and free. Because I have a boy who reminds me of someone that I had almost lost. Me. *** *** FINIS