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. ***