Title: Lady Midnight (1/8)
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Feedback: Validate me! I live for feedback at morleyphile@yahoo.com
Rating: a very strong R.
Category: XA
Spoilers: mytharc up to "One Son"
Keywords: CSM/Other, Scully/Other UST (slash), M/S UST
Disclaimer: You already know who I don't own, although if CC ever wants to loan 
me C.G.B. Spender, I will return him a much happier man. (TMI!) Isis, Amy 
Smith, Sarah Westwood, Klaus Werner, Dr. Chan, and Hess all belong to me, the 
lucky bastards. If you want to use them for anything, drop me a line...unlike CC, I 
share. :-)
Archive: Oh gosh, would y'all?

Summary: They shoot informants, don't they? (Sequel to "karass" and "Only 
Darkness")

Important: Before you read this, please read at least one of the two stories that lead 
up to it. They can both be found at:

http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599/isis.html

The case file will probably still make sense if you've seen enough mytharcs, but 
nothing else in this story will. I won't give a summary in this because you really, 
really have to read the other two. Trust me, okay?

Author's notes at the end.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"I cried, 'Oh, Lady Midnight, I fear that you grow old,
the stars eat your body and the wind makes you cold.'
'If we cry now,' she said, 'it will just be ignored.'
So I walked through the morning, sweet early morning,
I could hear my lady calling,
'You've won me, you've won me, my lord...'" -- Leonard Cohen, _Lady 
Midnight_


NEW YORK CITY, NY -- Rescuers are still digging through the rubble of an 
abandoned warehouse in search of survivors after a tragic explosion late last night. 
At least four people are dead and two more are missing. No names have been 
released pending notification of the victims' families, and no official statement on 
the cause of the blast has been made. Police are not ruling out the possibility of foul 
play, and they will neither confirm nor deny a rumour that the FBI is investigating. 
Witnesses reported a blinding flash of light visible from as much as ten city blocks 
away. The explosion levelled the warehouse and damaged several surrounding 
buildings. There is no word as of yet to the reason for the presence of the victims in 
the building, although a statement is expected to come later today.


CHAPTER I: RIBBON IN THE WILLOW

"There's a ribbon in the willow
and a tire swing rope
and a briar patch of berries
takin' over the slope
the cat'll sleep in the mailbox
and we'll never go to town
til we bury every dream in
the cold cold ground..." -- Tom Waits, _Cold, Cold Ground_


Two Weeks Earlier 
J. Edgar Hoover Building

Scully did not believe it was over.

She was back in the basement office. It looked offensively clean, despite the fire, 
despite the assassination...the office should have been drowned in blood, but it 
remained tidy, orderly. Cold.

A young man had died less than a foot away from where she now sat behind the 
desk.

She looked at the papers in front of her.

A naggingly cruel part of her mind wished that the young man in question had 
finished some of his paperwork before he had met his end on the office floor.

She pushed the thought away, concentrating instead on rearranging the pictures on 
her desk. On naming off the dead in her mind.

It felt as if the office itself was a murderer, or at the very least an accomplice to all 
the tragedies that had taken place. It felt as though the basement had stood by, 
smugly watching, as indifferent to its own destruction as that of the men and 
women who had inhabited it.

Emily's smiling face watched her as she worked. Taunted her. Begged to know if 
Scully had, at last, forgotten.

Everything was personal, these days.

She had flipped mindlessly through ten files before one caught her eye. There was a 
sticky tab on the front, and the handwriting was vaguely familiar.

It was not an X-File. It was not even an FBI file. It took her a few moments to 
identify it as a file from the Toronto Police Department.

What the hell was it doing on her desk?

It was a Missing Persons report - a young girl of about four. There were no 
records, other than a Polaroid taken from the hospital from which she had vanished 
without a trace.

A child's face stared up at her, eyes turned red in the glint of a flash. Her face was 
pasty, rosebud lips curled in a vaguely confused pout, spiky dark hair framing 
round, soft features. She was beautiful. Beautiful, and achingly familiar, 
somehow.

Scully turned back to the note.


//S.

Thought you might be interested.//


It wasn't Mulder's handwriting, nor was he generally so cryptic, at least, not lately. 
The file was dated yesterday, and he hadn't been in the office, anyway. After 
helping her move back in, he had taken a rare few days off - ostensibly to visit his 
mother, but more likely to try and distance himself from the horror of recent events.

He was certainly not in any position to be playing games with her. And if this was a 
joke, it wasn't a very funny one.

No signature. Nothing. The S. could stand for her name, or for Skinner's.

Or for C.G.B. Spender's.

Of course, Jeffrey Spender was dead, and his father almost certainly lying in a pile 
of ash like the other old men who had sold away the future.

And there were still some secrets worth knowing.

She set the file aside from the others. She would talk to Mulder about it later.

It was not over - it never would be.

***

There was a fine coating of dust over the chairs, the antique furniture. No one had 
bothered to do any restorations - the building was close to being condemned by the 
city. The top of a window was cracked, letting in a cold breeze which stirred the 
abandoned papers, the wisps of smoke that blurred the unimaginable decay.

Had it only been a week? To Conrad Strughold's eyes, it looked as though the end 
of the world had already come.

And left.

Nothing could live in this room - no breath could penetrate its awful stillness. The 
slumped form of a man leaning against a window, the rhythmic exhale of smoke, 
was only another image of death, of defeat. He might just as well have been a ghost 
- Strughold was further convinced he was the only living thing to set foot in this 
place since the incident in West Virginia.

As the sole representative of life, he felt suddenly and horribly alone.

"You might have picked a better location," the ghost said, drawing on his cigarette.

"It seemed...appropriate." Steeling himself, Strughold made his way into the room. 
The man's eyes did not acknowledge him.

"It is hardly in good taste," the ghost retorted.

Strughold paused for a moment. "The work will continue," he said.

The smoker collapsed bonelessly into one of the chairs. "I know." His voice was a 
low moan. "Oh god, don't I know it."

"This is no time to be melodramatic, old friend. We have never needed you more."

The man stared at him calmly. "You knew," he said, "You knew and you sent them 
off to die."

"Of course." Strughold managed a faint smile. "I expected you to be among them, 
actually. And then I heard word of young Spender's death, and somehow I 
knew...I knew you'd be here."

The name Spender seemed to have exactly the effect that Strughold desired - the 
smoker shrunk back into his chair, suddenly old and withered. "What do you want, 
Conrad?" he growled.

"Only to remind you of your duties. The project will go on."

"It will go on without me, then."

"I am afraid you don't seem to understand." He drew his gun slowly, dramatically. 
"I am a little short-staffed."

"If you think that frightens me..." The smoker raised himself up slightly, the 
presence of the weapon bringing an almost-recognizable glint to his pale blue eyes. 
"My wife is dead. My son is dead. My own life means nothing. If you think there 
is anything further you can do to threaten me, you overestimate my desperation."

Strughold's smile widened. "I have never overestimated you."

"Evidently not." The other man stubbed out his cigarette and took another. 
"Besides, the rebels won. We have nothing now...everything...everything is 
destroyed."

"Not everything."

The smoker closed his eyes, the expression on his face weary beyond belief. 
"Don't be so goddamned vague, Strughold. I don't have time for this."

"One of the hybrids is still alive," Strughold said in a stage whisper.

He never expected to see the man lose his cool. And he didn't, not really...but he 
paled a little, his thin shoulders trembling. It was the most emotion Strughold had 
seen him show in twenty-five years. "Leave me alone." His tone was almost a 
whimper.

"She isn't a success, not by any means. She is part of a failed experiment, one with 
which I am sure you are familiar. But she carries enough of the alien DNA for the 
work to begin again." Strughold put his hand on the man's shoulder in a mocking 
gesture of camaraderie. "And you want the work to continue, do you not?"

"If you wanted the work to continue, then why let my colleagues die?"

"They were stupid old men. You are not. I can still use you." Strughold was silent 
for a moment, trying to determine the other man's reaction . "At least, I hope I can 
still use you. She's missing. I need you to find her."

"And then what? You want her dead?"

"No, she can't die. That's the most important thing. Whatever happens to you, I 
need *her* alive."

The smoker looked up at him. "And if I refuse?" he asked. He was pitiful, really. 
Strughold wondered how he had managed to be the only survivor of the disaster at 
El Rico.

"I kill you," Strughold said simply. "Not only you, though. I happen to know that 
Cassandra and Jeffrey were not the only people to whom you have had 
some...attachment."

"You son-of-a-bitch."

"I take it you accept, then." He lifted the man's limp hand and pressed the 
photograph of the hybrid against his palm. "That's her. I want her returned to me as 
quickly as possible."

He stared at it. "She's just a child."

"So she is." Strughold made his way to the door, then stopped abruptly. "I just 
want to know one other thing," he said.

"Yes?"

"Why did you kill him?" When the man did not respond, Strughold added, 
"Spender."

The smoker's gaze flickered over him, ancient and exhausted.

"I don't know," he said finally.

Strughold let himself out.

end 1/8

"Lady Midnight" (2/8)
by Ashlea Ensro
morleyphile@yahoo.com
disclaimer in part one

CHAPTER II: MY BROKEN NIGHT

"Give me back my broken night
my secret room, my secret life
it's lonely here
there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me baby,
that's an order!" -- Leonard Cohen, _The Future_


He considered knocking for a brief moment, but the apartment door was unlocked. 
Turning the handle, he gave the door an added shove open, almost tripping over the 
overturned high heeled shoes on the floor.

Vaguely amused, he wondered if she was trying to kill him. Certainly, she must 
have known he was coming. Billie Holiday was singing out of the CD player, the 
only sound in another dead room.

//So I smoke a little too much
And I joke a little too much...//

His lips curled in a shadow of a grin. It was enough of an invitation.

The smile faded as soon as he saw her, lying on the bed. Her outstretched hand 
was as pale as the crumpled white sheets, the slender outline of her form visible 
below the covers. She made no move as he approached, and for a moment he 
wondered if she was already dead.

//So I go at a maddening pace
And I pretend that it's taking his place
But what else can you do...//

No, he decided, no, she couldn't be. Not her too.

He knelt by the bed, lay his head on the mattress beside her.

//At the end of a love affair...//

"I've done a terrible thing," he murmured.

He felt her fingers slide through his greying hair. He closed his eyes, wondering if 
she could truly absorb his relief at finding her alive. At having her touch him, 
despite all he had done.

"You've done many terrible things," she replied, "Which great sin have you come 
to confess?"

"All of them."

"I am not a priest." She rolled over to face him, dark eyes scanning him critically. 
"I have neither the will, nor the power, to forgive you."

He blinked up at her. "I didn't come here to be forgiven."

She looked terrible. He had not seen her in months, and he had been anticipating it, 
really, preparing himself, but he could never have prepared for this. She had aged 
ten years in the time that had passed - her black hair turned to grey, her cheeks 
hollowed, the lines in her face as deep and pained as his own. She reached over 
with a thin, trembling hand to claw the pack of cigarettes on the night stand. She 
was shaking so much that she could barely light one.

He lit his own cigarette, shrinking slightly from the death's head that stared at him.

"Then why come here at all?"

The two streams of smoke swirled around their heads in place of words.

"I need you," he said finally.

Despite the upheavals of the past few weeks, he did not expect to see the woman 
named Isis - the woman with whom he had shared both his bed and his darkest 
dreams - pointing a .40 Sig Sauer between his eyes. 

Her hands had stopped shaking.

"Then you should have thought of that before, you lying son-of-a-bitch."

He did not so much as blink, only replied with a soft, "I'm impressed."

"Patronize me and I pull the trigger."

"No, you won't." He stood slowly, then sat down on the bed beside her. Reached 
for her, placed one hand over the hands that gripped the gun. "You wouldn't give 
me what I want, Isis, I know you too well."

She lowered the weapon, slowly, at first, then let it drop to the floor. "When I 
heard...I thought you were dead."

"Do you think I would be so careless?"

She reached for whatever she could - the collar of his overcoat, handfuls of 
thinning hair - her kiss a mad and frantic gasp of smoke. "I hate you," she said, still 
determined, "I hate you..."

"You have more cause than most."

She pulled away, clinging to the headboard of the bed as if for protection. "Let me 
get this straight. You didn't know that the rebels would attack - but you had your 
suspicions. You said nothing - you just let it go ahead. Made sure that you could 
escape."

"Of course."

"And you never told me."

He shrugged. "Look in the mirror, Isis. You would never have made it to the 
base."

She growled. "That's not for you to judge. My daughter - *his* daughter..."

"Is only alive because I did not inform you of the plans." He drew in another breath 
of smoke. "I have lost a great deal, you know."

"Oh, poor you." She eyed the gun on the floor. "I should kill you, put you out of 
your misery."

"You wouldn't be the first to try." He glanced at his cigarette. "You would be 
successful. I have no doubt of it, even now."

Isis seemed to relax, if only slightly. "So this is what it comes down to, John? You 
give up, and you pass the torch to me. You make me one final offer, and we live 
only to do Strughold's bidding. And we become what he is..." She smiled grimly. 
"Soulless. Murderers."

"We are already murderers." He reached for her hand, wincing only slightly as she 
pulled away. "I can save you, Isis. I can save *her*."

"And the child, the hybrid?"

"Strughold wants her to live, so that the project can continue. So that the deaths of 
my wife and son will be in vain. The child dies, and he'll have to search long and 
hard before he can even begin to-"

He felt the slap across his face before he even saw her strike. "How can you be so 
cold?" she whispered. "We should let them take over, wipe us off the face of the 
planet, they would do a better job with it than men like you..." Her last words were 
almost lost in a fit of sobbing.

He touched her shoulder. "Don't tell me that you've grown a heart."

She wiped at her face with one oversized sleeve. Waited for a moment. Looked up 
at him again.

"What do I have to do?"

"Very little. Strughold has already located her. I am sure you're well aware of how 
to kill them." He handed her the photograph. "When she's dead, come back to me, 
and I will arrange the rest."

"She's just a little girl, John."

He tried to close his eyes - and couldn't. All he saw when he closed his eyes these 
days was Jeffrey's face, registering something -

<surprise? confusion?>

- as he pulled the trigger.

<Why didn't he shoot? Mulder would have fired, would have defended himself...>

<He didn't even speak...>

"She is," he said, "But I want to stop Strughold. I want to stop the colonists. And-" 
He hoped she could read his thoughts as clearly as she claimed - hoped they would 
make sense to her. "I want to save you." He stared at the photograph. "Redemption 
is seldom easy, Isis, and it is rarely absolute." He started to get up, but her weak 
grip on his wrist stopped him.

"Stay," she said, "I still hate you, but stay."

He met her gaze. "If we succeed..." he said, "There is a procedure...a dangerous 
one. Highly experimental, involving-" He didn't say it. She knew, regardless. A 
partial lobotomy that would remove the part of her brain that gave her the ability to 
read other people's. She would lose that which was both her gift and her curse.

She would be useless, as far as the scattered remains of the Consortium was 
concerned.

She would just be another woman who knew too much.

"If we succeed," she echoed. And left it at that. "Stay," she said again.

Without another word, he took her into his arms.

"For awhile," he said.

***

The hospital was quiet at night, most of the children asleep and the staff subdued. 
The click of her heels against the polished floor echoed throughout the corridor, 
making Dr. Ellen Chan painfully aware of her own presence.

She knew something was wrong before she reached Amy Smith's room. It had 
been a strange day - the girl had drawn more attention than Chan felt was good for 
any of the young patients. Several strangers had been by during the afternoon - 
one, an FBI agent who had been investigating the disappearance of a Detroit child.

No one, however, who could provide an identity for the girl, or a reason why she 
had been found sleeping on a heating vent at Bloor and Spadina.

Amy Smith was the name the social worker had given her - a name to which, after a 
week, the girl responded without hesitation. She could not remember her own. She 
was suffering from malnutrition and frostbite, but her recovery had been 
remarkable.

Miraculous.

Which was why the orderly leaning in the doorframe swept a wave of queasiness 
over her - she swayed on her feet as she approached, brushing past him to see the 
empty bed, the bloodstain on the sheets where the IV lay.

"We don't know what happened to her."

The orderly had an accent which sounded vaguely German and a voice which made 
her bristle. He was a large man, his scalp nearly shaved. He looked unfamilar - 
perhaps he was new to the hospital.

"Where is she?" She wondered if she sounded as frightened as she felt at the 
moment. How could a child simply disappear?

"As I told you, we don't know. It appears that she left of her own free will."

"There were men outside this door earlier today," she said, "Do you know who 
they were?"

"I just got on shift. She was gone at least an hour before I arrived."

Chan groaned inwardly, absurdedly grateful that there was no family to contact, no 
apologies to be made. It was bad enough that this girl, who had appeared so 
mysteriously, had vanished without a trace. At least there would be no sobbing 
parents.

It had been a long day.

"Has anyone called the police yet?" she asked.

"They've been notified. I can't imagine she will be too hard to locate. She couldn't 
have gone far."

"God," Chan said, "I hope not."

***

Klaus Werner waited until the doctor was at the end of the corridor before he 
opened his cell phone. He was certain she suspected nothing. He was good at his 
job.

Still, at the moment, he was as dumbfounded as Ellen Chan. The same question 
was running through his mind.

How the hell could a four-year-old girl escape the watchful eyes of so many adults?

When the voice answered, he spoke in German, his tone heavy with dread.

"Herr Strughold?" A pause...tense and menacing. Werner swallowed hard before 
he spoke again. "We have a problem."

***

He wakes me up in the middle of the night. He has no respect for the dead; he never 
did.

"I suppose it was a test." His voice is slurred, though not from sleep. He has not 
slept in a long time. "A test he failed."

"Go to sleep," I tell him.

"What is coming...I have seen it. Seen *them*. You couldn't possibly 
imagine...except that you must have seen it...through my eyes."

"I have no patience for this, John."

"Only the strong will survive. And the others...it is just as well that they die now, 
that they be spared from what is coming." I see a spark in the darkness as he lights 
yet another cigarette. "I was hoping he would be strong. Stronger than I was...than 
I am."

"You've been told you're a coward often enough, you don't need to hear it from 
me."

"He should have killed me. He should have shot me and taken my place. If he 
couldn't do that..."

He breaks off.

I pity him, in a way. I will die before it happens. And he never expected to live this 
long. I reach over and run my fingers through his hair. He looks up at me, smiles a 
little.

"Does it hurt you?" he asks.

"What?"

"Touching me. The memories...they must only add to your burden."

It is true. Since he came to the apartment, barely able to stand, suffering in a way 
unimaginable to most, I had nearly forgotten the constant pounding in my skull, the 
silent companion I have walked beside for all these months. But he is right - with 
every memory I take, the pressure grows, and I am nearer to death.

I will absorb his darkness, make it into my own.

I keep stroking his hair. "Yes," I tell him.

He twists away from me, breaking the contact. "Then don't touch me. Save your 
strength."

I don't respond. I don't know whether to be moved by the gesture or simply 
annoyed.

"You wonder, after awhile," he says, "Whether it's worth it, in the end. If all of the 
sacrifices are a fair price for a shadow of life...this vague existence after they come. 
If survival is enough of a reason to continue."

I lean over to kiss him softly. "It's not a question with which I need to concern 
myself," I reply.

"I know...I-" He blows a stream of smoke into the air. "That's why I knew I could 
come here."

"Protect my daughter." My voice is almost unrecognizable to my own ears - the 
words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about them. "Whatever 
else happens...make sure she's safe. That's all I want."

"You have my word," he tells me, "For whatever it's worth."

"For her to be safe...it's all I've ever wanted," I say, half to him, half to the 
darkness that has finally settled over us.

end 2/8

"Lady Midnight" (3/8)
by Ashlea Ensro
morleyphile@yahoo.com
disclaimer in part one

CHAPTER III: IN A DRY SEASON

"We serve an old man in a dry season
A lighthouse keeper in the desert sun
Dreamers and sleepers and white treason
We dream of rain and the history of the gun." -- The Sisters of Mercy, 
_Dominion/Mother Russia_


I have always considered myself a patient woman - the long waits, the sound of 
footsteps behind me, the casual interchange between boredom and suspense - this is 
why I am good at my job. Why I am still in the game. But mortality has robbed me 
of this - I am painfully aware of every minute, every heartbeat that passes.

I have so very few left.

In a way, I should be grateful for the quiet of the parking garage. It gives me time 
to think, if nothing else.

About what has happened, and about what will be.

About the smoker's offer.

I did not have time to grieve - it happened too quickly. One moment we ruled the 
world, the next, it all fell apart. Strange, how sudden. Had it not been for my own 
impending death, I might have wept for him.

Had it not been for my own impending death, I would have been there that night.

I always believed that life was supposed to seem precious at the end, that every 
moment, every living thing would be treasured and loved. But life is not precious. 
Life is something trivial and ephemeral, something to be thrown away without 
thought.

Only one life matters to me.

He offers me survival, and I suppose I will take it, if the opportunity presents itself. 
He wants me to live. He has his own purposes. I have mine.

I open the car door as the footfall approaches.

"Agent Scully?"

I can only hope my voice is as cold and contained as I intend it.

She stops dead in her tracks. "What are you doing here?"

She is beautiful, even now. She looks more and more exhausted every time I see 
her. But there is still the challenge in her voice, the small defiance in her stance.

She will never know how much I envy her. She has what I lost so many years ago.

She can still resist.

"I assume you received my message."

Scully walks towards me. "Which one?"

I hold out the photograph of Amy Smith. "Do you recognize this girl, Agent 
Scully?"

"I don't have time for your games, Isis."

"I'll tell you, then, since it seems to be such a priority for you. She is the key. You 
know the stakes, I presume."

"What's the matter? Feeling left out that they didn't invite you to the Syndicate 
barbecue?"

"Cold, Dana, very cold." I smile. It makes her wince. "You should be glad I'm not 
dead. Had we all been killed, humanity wouldn't have a chance in hell of staving 
off colonization. Do you think the rebels will save you? They just want the planet 
for themselves."

"I know who you work for."

"This isn't about vengeance, Dana. This isn't about justice. Not anymore."

She clenches her fists, knuckles white with rage. "What...is it about?"

I lean closer to her. "It's about survival."

"I know," she says, "It always has been."

I shake my head. "Not my survival. Yours."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a statement." I reach for her hand, fold it into mine. "You want to live, Agent 
Scully, and you do as I say. There are a great deal of..." I hesitate on the word, 
"...people...who are after this child. It is very important that she does not fall into 
the wrong hands."

"And whose hands are that?"

I slip into the driver's seat of my car, slamming the door and rolling down the 
window as I start the engine. "El Rico was just the beginning."

She grips the edge of the window before I can hit the gas. "Don't you drive off," 
she says, in that I-am-an-assertive-woman-who-survived-the-FBI-Academy voice 
of hers. "You want me to play your game, you start giving me answers."

I stop the car. "You start asking the right questions."

"What the hell happened to you?"

I almost laugh. It's a beginning...a tentative and awkward beginning.

"Time caught up with me."

Recalling some event in the recent past, she asks, "Did *he* do this to you?"

"You overestimate his power. Ask me something more relevant."

She plays well - six years of practice have infused her with the spirit of the game. I 
would like to believe that I had at least a small part in this. "The girl - another 
hybrid?"

"Yes." I pause. "Not a success. Not like Cassandra. But all we have at the 
moment."

"Who wants her?"

Good, Scully, good. You're learning. "Just about everyone."

Her face is almost touching mine. "Then why should I hand her over to you?"

A pause - and then an unprecedented risk. "The smoker wants her dead. I can 
protect her. You can't."

"He's still alive?"

"You're getting sidetracked again. If he wasn't alive I wouldn't have brought him 
up."

"But you work for him."

I shrug. "In some ways." I make a grand gesture of checking my watch. "Really, 
Scully, I must be going...I have so many other lies to perpetrate. One more 
question, and then I have to go."

She thinks quickly. "Why should I trust you?"

I have wondered that often enough myself, Agent Scully. I have wondered how 
you could ever trust anyone these days. The irony of it all is that I no longer trust 
myself.

I blow it off with a wisp of smoke from my cigarette.

"Take a chance, Dana," I tell her, "Live a little. At least you still have that option."

And this time, when I start the car, she does not even attempt to stop me.

***

"Before you say another word, we are catching a plane to Toronto to investigate the 
disappearance of a four-year-old girl who may be of extraterrestrial origin."

Scully managed to say it all in one breath, while simultaneously throwing down the 
file on the desk in front of Mulder. He looked up at her with the same bored, 
heavy-lidded gaze he had been shooting the rest of the world lately. 

"We're going before I say another word?" He moved his hand across the desk as 
though it were made of lead to open the manilla folder.

She had come to expect this cool apathy from him in the wake of the events in West 
Virginia. Her eagerness, or at least her willingness to pursue the hunt, seemed 
misplaced. For six years, he had been the one dragging her across the country, 
forcing her to chase after him in this desperate madman's game, impelling her with 
an endless refrain...Scully, why can't you believe?

Why won't you believe?

A stranger watched her from behind the familiar face. More than once, he had 
stumbled in his faith, questioned his belief. He had no question anymore - it had all 
been confirmed.

It was as if he simply did not care anymore.

She told herself not to be concerned. They had survived worse.

<Worse than the end of the world?>

"I've...received some information, Mulder. I thought that it might be of interest to 
you, but it appears I was mistaken."

He scowled. She started to turn just as he called her name. She tried to soften her 
glare, and failed miserably.

"Don't you ever feel like it just isn't worth it anymore? As if there's nothing to be 
won?"

She drummed her fingers on the surface of the desk. "Mulder, a week ago in 
Kersh's office, you sounded as though you were ready to take on an alien invasion 
singlehandedly. What happened?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to answer. Her gaze was equally capable of 
acknowledging the glaring brightness of the new carpet. The cleaning staff had not 
been able to get the blood out of the old one.

"We have to keep fighting," she whispered, "Otherwise, it's for nothing."

He looked down. "I know," he said, "And you're right." He forced a smile, 
incongruous on an otherwise expressionless face. "So, when do we leave?"

***

Dr. Ellen Chan kept looking out the window, anxious, as though she expected to 
see the girl come walking down the sidewalk below any minute. She was young, 
and fear made her look younger as she sat in the stiff chair, thin fingers folding in 
on each other in a nervous twitch that made even Scully uncomfortable.

"You were the one who discovered the girl was missing?" Scully asked. It had been 
on the report, but Chan's eyes widened slightly at the question.

"Sort of," she said.

"Explain."

"There was...someone there when I arrived and found Amy missing. He was 
dressed as an orderly, but I had never seen him before."

"He's not staff?"

Chan shook her head. "I thought, maybe, he might be new, but no one seems to 
have heard of him."

Mulder, leaning against the pale blue wall, felt the need to interject. "You didn't 
think of getting a name?"

Scully shot him a warning glance as Chan continued. "He seemed as surprised as I 
was that she was gone. Look, I saw this girl earlier that day. She was improving, 
but she wasn't in any condition to just...walk out of there."

"And that's what he told you?" Scully asked, "That she just walked out?"

"Like I said, he told me he didn't know. He told me that was what it looked like." 
She glanced from one face to another. "If I might ask, why is the FBI so interested 
in this kid?"

Mulder spoke quickly - too quickly. "We received a tip yesterday that her 
disappearance might be linked to an ongoing investigation."

Chan blinked. "But there have been people here all week, asking questions about 
her."

A lump of dread forced itself into Scully's throat. "People?"

"Another FBI agent. And police officers. We called the police as soon as the girl 
was admitted, but this wasn't just Toronto PD. They were mostly American, I 
think. The FBI agent told me that she was following up a case in Detroit."

"Did *she* give you her name?" Mulder asked slowly. The almost embarrassed 
silence that followed his question was enough of a response.

Scully felt sorry for the woman - she could not be expected to know of the larger 
significance of the girl's disappearance. If Amy Smith was significant at all, that 
was. She'd had the bad luck of being on shift when the key events had taken place, 
but it was unfair of Mulder to hold her responsible. "Is there anything you can tell 
us about Amy that might help us find her faster?"

"You don't think she's dead, do you?"

"We just want to find her, Dr. Chan," Scully replied.

"She was...well, she was non-verbal, but that's to be expected of young children in 
this kind of situation. Other than that - I don't know what to tell you, really."

Mulder nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Chan." He motioned for Scully to join him out in 
the hall. "We're too late," he said in a low voice.

"Mulder, I don't think they have her."

"Someone has her."

She started to walk, indicating for him to follow. "I know the Consortium doesn't 
have her," she said.

"There is no Consortium."

Scully said nothing.

"We saw the pictures, Scully. They were all burned to death...no one could have 
survived that..." His face fell as he saw her expression. "What are you trying to tell 
me, Scully?"

"Isis came to me." Her voice was almost inaudible - he leaned in closer to hear her. 
"They're trying to kill this girl. We have to protect her."

Mulder frowned. "Just who *are* we protecting?"

Scully pinned him with a sharp glare. "An innocent four-year-old child," she said.

He tried to shrug it off, and failed miserably. "Then we'll have to find her, won't 
we?"

***

He watched them, completely unaware that he had been following them for two 
blocks. He wondered how Strughold and the others could ever have considered 
them such a threat.

They were not.

He was several feet behind them, a loaded gun at his belt and the knowledge that 
the men he served cared a great deal less about the agents' welfare than the 
American branch of the Consortium ever did. He did not stand out on the street, 
amid the crowds of college kids, angry businesspeople, drunks sprawled beneath 
dirty blankets.

But still - they knew what they were dealing with now, and they should have been 
more careful.

Werner did not care, particularly. It made his job all the easier. He was just 
disappointed. These two, who had given the smoker and his colleagues such 
difficulty, were not the worthy adversaries he had expected. They were 
sleepwalking through this investigation. If they so much as managed to find the 
kid, he would probably be able to take her from right under their noses.

If they found her, that was.

He did not want to consider the alternative.

Werner stood at the corner, staring at them.

Where the hell were they going?

He found himself reconsidering his earlier strategy of using Mulder and Scully to 
lead him to the kid. They were checking toy stores, parks, in the area. Places where 
a normal child would go.

Amy Smith was not a normal child. He had a sudden, absurd vision of the kid 
stumbling through the streets, asking directions to the nearest secret research 
facility.

It was at least more probable than finding her in a playground.

They slipped out of his sight, and he let them. They were useless. He would have 
to resort to other measures.

Pausing for a moment, Werner turned off his cell phone. The last thing he wanted 
was to hear from Strughold.

In doing so, he missed seeing Scully stop dead in her tracks as Mulder asked her, 
"What if Amy Smith never left the hospital?"

end 3/8

"Lady Midnight" (4/8)
by Ashlea Ensro
morleyphile@yahoo.com
disclaimer in part one

CHAPTER IV: A TRUCE OF TRUST

"The eyes declare a truce of trust
And then it draws me far away
Where deep in the desert twilight
Sand melts in pools of the sky
When darkness lays her crimson cloak
Your lamps will call me home." -- Loreena McKennitt, _The Mystic's Dream_


Scully paused at the elevator, her hand on the button. "Are you sure?"

"It makes sense," Mulder said, "Assuming she wasn't abducted, she couldn't have 
gotten far, and someone would have noticed her wandering the streets."

He had a point, she acknowledged. "I'll start at the basement, you get the roof." 
Something inside her twisted at the thought of a lost child shivering on the roof of 
the hospital in the bitterly cold weather. He nodded as the doors slid open. He was 
watching her as she stepped back inside, the view of his face narrowing in the 
closing doors.

Damn him. Damn his newfound distance. The Mulder she had once known was 
heartbroken over every case, every victim. It might have nearly destroyed him, but 
she couldn't help thinking that the old Mulder would have already torn up the city 
looking for this child. She stared at her distorted reflection in the mirror of the 
elevator walls.

Had she somehow become him, after all these years?

She could feel the heat closing in on her as she stepped out of the elevator into the 
darkness of the basement, radiating from the furnace room. She reached for her 
flashlight as she made her way across the concrete floor.

Scully knew before she opened the door to the furnace room that Amy Smith was 
inside.

The girl was curled up against one wall, clutching a worn teddy bear against her 
face. Her feet were bare and she was dressed in a thin hospital nightgown.

The photograph did not do her justice. Lying fast asleep by the wall, she was a 
hundred times more fragile, more innocent, than the red-eyed creature in the 
snapshot.

"It's incredible, isn't it?"

The voice that came from behind her was soft enough that it did not so much as 
cause the sleeping child to stir. Scully whirled, her flashlight striking across gaunt 
features, a cigarette about to be lit.

"Did you follow me here?" she hissed.

Isis ignored her, staring instead at Amy Smith. "Fifty years of contact with another 
race, a race far more intelligent and advanced than we could ever begin to imagine. 
Fifty years of the knowledge that we are just another microscopic drop in a vast 
cosmic ocean, that if we disappeared tomorrow, there is not a God who would 
care..." Her dark eyes flashed towards Scully. "It all cumulates in this. In one who 
should never have been." She lit the cigarette, drew in a deep breath of smoke, and 
holding it her mouth, reached for a shiny metal cylinder.

Recognizing it, Scully moved in between Isis and the girl, reaching for her own 
weapon. "You lied to me."

"I had to lie to you. You would never have been able to help me, otherwise."

"Stay the hell away from her."

Isis shook her head. "I don't think you understand what they will do to this child if 
she lives. The implications, for the rest of us..."

"I don't think I care."

"I brought you on this case for a reason, Agent Scully. So that you might realize a 
small part of the larger picture. So that you might know what you're dealing with." 
She touched a switch on the cylinder, and a long, sharp spike sprung out of one 
end. "Move aside, please."

"Absolutely not."

"Don't you want to know, Dana? Aren't you going to ask me what kind of monster 
would do such a thing?"

"I know what you are."

"I thought that you, of all people, would understand. You let your own daughter 
die so that she would not live the life of suffering for which she was born."

Scully drew her gun, slowly raised it in the older woman's direction.

"That's quite unnecessary, Dana. You made the right choice the last time. Make the 
same one now."

She continued to stare at Isis, her weapon unwavering as she felt Amy stir behind 
her. "I am going to take this girl out of here and bring her someplace safe. You will 
not stop me. Do you understand?"

Isis took one step forward. "You can't threaten me. I'm already dead."

Kneeling slowly, Scully shook the girl awake. "Amy, honey, you're coming with 
me. Take my hand."

"You are making a grave mistake, Dana."

The chubby hand reached for hers, and Scully pulled the child to her feet, holding 
her close. "Come on," she whispered, "We have to go." She led the child across 
the room, past the older woman who stood statuesque among the shadows.

They reached the door. Scully let out a sigh of relief. Isis had not stopped them.

As she reached the elevator, she heard Isis call after her. "If I don't kill her, 
someone else will."

Scully bit her lip, put her gun back in her holster, and nudged Amy into the 
elevator. As soon as the doors shut beside them, she dialed Mulder's cellphone.

"Scully?"

"I have her, Mulder. Bring the car around to the front of the building - we have to 
get out of here."

***

I sense the man before I see him, a hulking presence close by. I don't sheath the 
weapon fast enough - it catches his eye, glittering in the darkness.

"She was here." It is not a question.

"Who are you?"

"We are on the same side." He moves past me to stand in the center of the room, 
eyes shifting from one corner to another. "Or at least, that was what I was told."

I realize it instantaneously, even without making contact. "Then why did Strughold 
send you?"

He turns to face me. He towers over me - not many do. "Herr Strughold's distrust 
of your employer is evidently well-founded."

"Were you sent here to kill me?"

He shakes his head. "I was sent to make certain you fulfilled the task to which you 
were assigned."

I reach out to grab his hand, but he is too fast for me. He grins as I curse under my 
breath.

"He told me who you are. What you are. I won't make that sort of mistake. Now, 
please put your weapon on the floor and back away."

"Not on your life."

"In that case, Herr Strughold will be...most interested...to learn of these 
developments."

"I'm sure he will." I drag on my cigarette, hoping it looks menacing. "I've located 
the girl. That's the first step. Assure Mr. Strughold that she will be returned as 
soon as the situation allows it."

He strikes in a lightning motion, smashing the cigarette out of my hand and 
crushing it under one boot. Contact is momentary - I catch a blinding white flash of 
hatred, of platitudes in a language I do not understand. I catch a name, and that is 
all. He breaks away too quickly for anything more.

"Very well," the man named Klaus Werner says, "Assure...Mr. Spender...that 
while he remains essential to the organization, you are not valued quite as high."

He leaves me standing alone in the darkness.

***

"Drive."

It was a desperate command. The girl was in the back of the car, eyes wide open in 
fear, and Scully slammed the car door behind her as the collapsed in the passenger 
seat.

Mulder didn't hesitate - the car squealed beneath him as he hit the gas pedal as hard 
as he could. "Where?"

Scully was gasping for breath. "Anywhere. It doesn't matter. Just...away from 
here."

He looked into the rearview mirror at Amy Smith. "Are you all right?" he asked the 
girl. She nodded. He turned to Scully, who echoed the gesture. "What happened in 
there?"

"We need to get her someplace safe. They're trying to kill her."

"Isis?"

"She let me go, Mulder. She's following someone else's orders...I don't think she 
wanted to-" Scully broke off at the sound of her partner's sharp exhale. "What?"

"How many excuses can you make for that woman?" When Scully did not answer, 
he went on. "You know who she is. You know who she works for."

"She wouldn't have helped us if she wasn't trying to somehow undermine him."

"Are you sure?" He glanced back at Amy again. "How do you know this isn't just 
another one of his games? You trust her, Scully, you trust her too much and they'll 
take advantage of that as much as they can."

"I don't..." Scully closed her eyes, sinking further into the seat. "Just drive, 
Mulder."

He clenched his jaw, watched as the first droplets of rain started to smear across the 
windshield. Scully was doing her best to ignore him. Fine. He had other issues 
with which to concern himself, not the least of which was the child sitting silently 
in the backseat. He wondered what he was supposed to do with her. Certainly, they 
couldn't hide her forever. If what Scully had been told was true, then Amy 
probably was conceived in a laboratory and had no real parents to speak of. The 
only people who would care about her whereabouts were the people who wanted 
her dead.

"We can check into a motel," he said finally, "We'll take turns keeping guard until 
we can come up with a better plan."

Her face showing the strain of exhaustion, Scully nodded assent.

He kept driving.

***

Scully hadn't moved since they had arrived at the motel. Her hair clung limp to her 
face, drenched by the brief walk from the car, wet clothing hanging off a thin 
frame. Her attention seemed as equally focused on the blurred view out the window 
as on the sleeping form of the girl on the bed.

He felt a flush of affection for his partner, despite their harsh exchange in the car.

"Why don't you go dry off," Mulder said softly, "I'll watch her for awhile."

"I'm fine." She glanced up at him. "We need to talk."

He pulled up the other chair to sit across from her. "I know."

Neither of them spoke.

The rain, pounding against the window pane, was starting to give him a headache.

"I do trust you, Scully, you know that. I'm just...concerned."

"Concerned?" Her tone wasn't accusatory, he thought, just...

Tired.

He was so horribly tired.

"About-" He was going to say "personal involvement", but he decided against it. 
"About this case...the effect it might be having on you."

"You mean Emily." She glanced at Amy. "I suppose...but I can't give up because 
of that." She paused, meeting his eyes. "*We* can't give up, Mulder." She traced 
her hand across the glass. "She said...she knew about Emily. That I let her die 
when I might have saved her."

Mulder groaned. "Scully, you can't let them get to you like that."

"Not them," she insisted, "Just Isis. Because...she understands. She lost a 
daughter too, in other ways."

"These people are trained to manipulate minds. Anything and everything she's said 
to you...it might very well be a lie..."

"It might," she agreed, "But somehow I don't think so." She shook her head. "Isis 
is sick. Maybe dying. She told me as much. You have to wonder why *they* do 
it."

"They?"

Scully took her hand away from the glass to fold it in her lap. "All of those 
people...the ones who died. I was just wondering...what made them make the 
choices they did? The sacrifices."

"Of five billion lives so their friends and families could survive?" Mulder's voice 
was contemptuous. "Scully, it doesn't take much thinking."

"But Mulder?" Her voice was a soft plea. "Wouldn't you?"

He looked at the ground. It was easier than looking at his partner, or at Amy's 
motionless body. "I almost did," he said.

She reached across the empty space, gaping between them, to take his hands in 
hers. His skin was cold to the touch, a reminder of the gathering storm outside.

They stayed like that for a long time.

***

I barely make it to the door of his apartment before collapsing against the wall. With 
a weakening hand, I pound at the door, then fall against the cheap carpet in the 
hallway.

"Who is it?"

I compose the last of my strength to whisper, "It's me."

Still suspicious, he opens the door a crack until he can see me, then steps out into 
the hallway. And then his arms are around me, dragging me to my feet and inside 
the apartment. I have covered the distance from Toronto to Washington in a daze, 
barely eating or sleeping, and from the look on his face and the thoughts racing 
through him, I can tell that I'm not at my best. He carries me to the bed before even 
shutting the door.

Attempting to sit up, I mutter, "Not now...not in the mood..."

"What happened to you?" He lights a cigarette, offering me one. I shake my head 
weakly.

"Nothing that doesn't happen to all of us, eventually."

He brushes tangled hair away from my face. I smile faintly. He is not a man known 
for his compassion.

"Strughold suspects you," I tell him, "He sent one of his men after me."

"So he's said." A wisp of smoke floats towards me, the smell oddly comforting. 
"Why didn't you terminate her when you had the chance?"

"Scully was there."

"So?"

"The girl's out of Strughold's reach, for the moment. We can - *I* can track her 
down any time I wish."

He shakes his head slowly. "I don't think that's an option at this point." A pause as 
he draws more smoke into his lungs. "Why didn't you call?"

"You know damn well why not."

He puts out the cigarette. "You couldn't do it, could you?" I recognize the edge in 
his voice, the subtle panic. He is a dangerous man at the best of times - when he is 
this desperate, he is deadly. "You couldn't kill her. I should have known."

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?"

He hesitates only slightly. "No. No, but I'm surprised Strughold's man didn't."

"Don't tell me you could have killed her."

He considers this. "I could have. I would not have enjoyed it...but..." He is 
watching me closely now. "Human weakness is one of the sacrifices I made a long 
time ago."

I take a deep breath. The dizziness, the searing pain, is subsiding, replaced by an 
overwhelming fatigue. "What now?"

"Mulder and Scully will have to return to Washington eventually, and they'll take 
the child with them. And when they do, I will send someone do to the task which 
you failed to accomplish." The anger fades from his voice, and he leans towards 
me. "And then," he says in an oddly gentle voice, "The rest of our lives."

I close my eyes. I do not want him to know how wrong he is.

It is better just to sleep.

end 4/8

"Lady Midnight" (5/8)
by Ashlea Ensro
morleyphile@yahoo.com
disclaimer in part one

CHAPTER V: FOR ALL THINGS TURN

"For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old." -- W.B. Yeats, _The Two Trees_


Scully awoke to silvery laughter from across the room. She had fallen asleep in one 
of the chairs - she was reminded of it when she tried to stand and felt a ripple of 
pain through her neck and back. It took her a few moments to remember where she 
was and why.

"Amy?" She looked over to see the girl sitting on the floor, across from Mulder, a 
small smile splitting her porcelain doll face. She wondered if her partner was doing 
his impression of Mr. Potatohead again, and if so, whether Amy was just indulging 
him.

Before either of them could respond, her cell phone rang.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, where are you?"

Skinner.

Damn.

"I'm...not entirely sure, sir." She took in the tacky orange-and-brown colour 
scheme of the motel room, the ghastly impasto painting above a bed in which 
neither of them had slept.

"You had better find out and get the hell back to Washington ASAP." He barked the 
orders through a fuzz of static, then in a more amicable tone, added, "People have 
been asking questions about you."

"What kind of questions?" Scully lowered her voice as Mulder turned to look up at 
her. "What kind of people?"

The silence was enough to send a shock of alarm through her body. "Can't they 
leave us alone?" she whispered.

"Look, Agent Scully, all I know is that there have been rumours that you may be in 
possession of some...sensitive information. The pressure's on all of us here, not 
just you and Agent Mulder."

She paused a moment before saying, "It's not exactly information, sir."

"Please clarify." There was no disguising the tremor of displeasure in the words. 
He had run out of patience a long time ago.

"I can't tell you over the phone," she said quickly. She could almost guess what he 
was thinking. It was one of *those* cases.

He let out an exasperated exhale. "I expect to see you and Agent Mulder in my 
office by nine o' clock tomorrow morning, is that understood?"

"It is understood, sir."

She hung up. "Skinner?" Mulder sounded as tired as she felt.

"He wants us back."

He shot her a crooked smile. "Doesn't it just give you a warm feeling to be in so 
much demand, Scully?"

She stood up, hearing a crack as her misused joints adjusted to the concept of 
movement. "This is serious, Mulder."

He left Amy on the floor, drawing with his pen on a sheet of motel stationary, and 
crossed the room to where Scully was standing. "They'll be waiting for us in 
Washington," he said quietly.

"We can't hide out here forever. We have to go back, arrange for a safe house, 24 
hour protection..."

"Just how safe do you expect her to be?" He glanced towards the girl, then back 
towards his partner.

She averted his gaze. "I know," she said, "I know, but what else do we do?"

He sat down on the end of the bed, his expression vacant, distant. "We go home," 
he said.

***

Her stare was on every stranger at the airport. Amy's hand enclosed in her own, 
Scully pushed through the crowds, sometimes losing sight of her partner amid the 
confusion. The girl made a few complaining noises, dragging her feet, unwilling to 
be pulled forward.

"Have you ever been on an airplane, Amy?"

A head-shake was the child's only response. She was non-verbal, Dr. Chan had 
said. Was it possible that no one had ever taught her to speak?

A man elbowed her roughly. She pulled Amy closer.

Any one of them, she thought. Any one could be waiting to grab the girl.

They boarded the plane in silence. Scully remembered, at some point, looking 
forward to these flights, going over the details of cases with Mulder, or simply 
staring out the window over the sea of clouds. Now, Amy's sullen silence appeared 
to have infected both of them. Neither she nor Mulder felt compelled to speak. She 
noticed him glance around a few times, doubtless searching among the passengers 
for the one who waited to snatch Amy from beneath them.

They sat the girl between them. She seemed perfectly content to draw on the 
remainder of the hotel stationary.

Mulder leaned over to watch her, squinting to make out a triangular blob, two 
round shapes approximately where a pair of eyes should have been.

"Is that an alien, Amy?"

The girl nodded. Scully rolled her eyes. Mulder had found a soulmate.

"Do you like aliens?"

Another nod. He glanced at his partner, obviously endowing the drawing with 
some sort of momentous significance.

Mulder's one-sided discussion with the child was drifting into the background. At 
the moment, sleep seemed more important, the heavy lull of nightmares tugging at 
her, luring her. Her eyelids leaden, she leaned her head against the window, 
fighting exhaustion and losing.

She thought she heard Mulder whisper, "Sweet dreams, Scully," but maybe she 
had just imagined it.

She woke up when they hit the ground.

***

They were already at 14th St. when Mulder said, "So, have you decided what we 
should do about her yet?"

Scully glanced back at Amy, who was half curled in the backseat, staring out the 
window. The girl's distant, glazed eyes disturbed her; she turned back to her 
partner, unwilling to watch the child any longer.

"Hey Amy, you want to see the FBI Building?" Mulder lifted his gaze to view the 
girl through the rearview mirror.

"Mulder..."

She was saved the inconvenience of finding something else to say as they were cut 
off by a passing car. Mulder swore under his breath, then muttered an apology in a 
direction that could have been either Scully's or Amy's.

"Crazy drivers," she commented.

"Yeah." He was staring at the car up ahead, now driving ridiculously slowly. 
Probably a stupid, drunk teenager - she silently berated herself for stereotyping. 
Amy covered her ears as Mulder honked the horn loudly. The noise was echoed by 
several other drivers behind him.

The other car sped up, to Scully's vast relief.

"Can you belie-" Mulder started.

He never finished his sentence.

The car slammed to a stop in front of them.

He hit the brakes, but it was too late - trying to swerve, the wheel slid from under 
him, taking on a sudden, demonic life of its own. Scully reached backwards, trying 
futilely to shield Amy, hoping that the girl had not decided to take off her seatbelt at 
some point during the drive.

She called Mulder's name, Amy's name, to no response. They were spinning out 
of control.

A distracted part of her mind noted that the girl had not so much as screamed. The 
rest was occupied with a scattered prayer and the sudden knowledge that They had 
won, yet again, that the fight was as hollow now as it had ever been.

Her last sight before she lost consciousness was a glimpse of a man's face, as the 
car rolled over one final time. He was walking towards him. He should have 
looked triumphant, she thought, or just plain evil. But all she could see was 
complete and unruffled calm.

She hated him for it. She could never have been calm.

A wave of darkness rose up and swept her under.

***

Her eyes opened slowly, taking in first overwhelming white, then Mulder's slightly 
out-of-focus face. "You're blocking my view," she muttered.

He shot her that strained smile that he reserved only for those times she awoke 
lying in a hospital bed. "Morning, sunshine," he said. There was a square of gauze 
taped over a gash on his forehead, but he was otherwise unhurt.

"How long have I been out?" She struggled to sit up, then gave up as pain blasted 
through the back of her skull.

"Only a few hours, from what I gather. Apparently we're both lucky to be alive."

This time she did sit up. "Amy..."

His face twisted in a scowl. "Gone."

"Dead?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. They took her, Scully. We were so close, and 
they took her."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "They took her *because* we were so 
close."

He reached out a hand to help her stand, but she refused it. "I think...this was all 
orchestrated. They knew we had her...they used us to lead them to her. It was all 
part of a plan."

She met his eyes for a brief instant. "Maybe," she said, "Maybe, but the important 
thing is finding her again."

"Skinner's listing this as a kidnapping, we have witnesses who can identify the car 
and driver-"

"Mulder, I can identify the driver. But I would bet you anything according to any 
kind of official records, the man will not exist."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"Then we're back to where we began."

He attempted another smile. "But Scully, I'm beginning to like it there."

"See what you can find out about the driver," she said in a tone not entirely devoid 
of amusement.

"And what are you going to do?"

She wondered if he sensed the reversal of roles as sharply as she did. "I am going 
to try some alternative channels." Her glare was a challenge to him - one which he 
declined by turning as she reached for her trenchcoat.

"Scully?" he said quietly.

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

It was the only warning he would give. She nodded. "Always," she replied.

***

Scully considered taping an X to the window momentarily, before deciding that it 
was in bad taste. Nor would an I service adequately. Maybe she should put a Kurt 
Vonnegut Jr. novel in the windowsill - at least Isis would appreciate that.

<Might be hard to see...>

In the end, she settled for opening the blinds and aiming her desktop lamp at the 
street below. She hoped it would be enough. Short of lurking in parking garages, 
she couldn't think of a better way to contact the older woman.

She wondered how Mulder had done it all those years. She had never been good at 
waiting, not waiting for hours for a woman who may or may not have been an 
enemy. A woman who had betrayed her as often as she helped her, and yet Scully 
still kept running back to her like a spurned lover.

The knock on the door came unexpectedly, just as she was debating the merits of 
giving up. She opened it, slowly. In the unflattering glare of the hall lights, Isis' 
face looked more pallid and drawn than before. She entered without a word, 
holding the wall for support. Scully motioned for her to sit down on the chair by 
the door.

"This is not a safe place to talk," Isis said. Her voice sounded like cracked leather.

"No," Scully said, "I don't imagine there is anywhere safe."

"You called. I am not in a position to help you, Agent Scully."

"A young girl's life is at stake."

Isis reached for a cigarette. "Should I be moved? Her fate was determined before 
her birth - there is nothing more I can do."

"Then why contact me in the first place? Why even tell me about her?"

"I believed that you should be aware that our mutual friends are still in operation. 
That the danger has not passed."

"That's not good enough."

She lit the cigarette, sending a wisp of smoke over Scully's pristine apartment. 
"You're right, Dana. You led us to her."

"And you took her right back."

Scully had the pleasure of seeing, for what was probably the first time, an 
expression that could be nothing other than shock cross Isis' face. "We didn't take 
her. That wasn't us."

"My partner and I were driven off the road. By a man. Who is he?"

Isis blew out a stream of smoke. "Give up, Agent Scully. Let them win this one. 
You are already in over your head."

"Who is he?" Her voice left no room for argument. Mulder might have reached for 
his gun, but Scully's soft, deadly command was enough.

Isis paused a moment, then said, "His name is Klaus Werner. He's from Berlin, 
recruited out of a skinhead group. Trained four years in the School of the Americas, 
then moved to Tunisia. Anything else you'd like to know?"

"Does he work for you?"

Isis laughed. "Your opinion of me has slipped, I see."

"For the smoking man, then?"

"He works for a man named Conrad Strughold. If the name is unfamiliar to you, I 
can only advise again that you leave now, before it's too late."

"This man, Werner, he was the one who took Amy?"

"Presumably."

"For what purpose?"

Isis glanced at the door, then back up at Scully. "I think you know."

"More tests? More...experiments on that little girl?"

"You sound surprised. It's the purpose for which she was...created."

Scully shuddered. Isis had almost said, "born".

"And that makes it *better*?" She should have been shouting, raging - she was not.

"It simply explains it." Isis closed her eyes, then opened them slowly. "You can't 
save her. I know how much you want to. And if it were up to me..." She shook her 
head. "I have a riddle for you," she said.

Scully did not respond.

"A man hears a voice from the heavens, warning him of a great disaster," Isis said, 
"He believes it on simple faith. The voice tells him: 'You cannot save the whole 
world, only that which is most essential'. When the date at last arrives, the man 
saves only that which the voice has instructed him to save, and the only ones to 
survive the disaster are his own friends and family."

"That's a riddle?"

"No." Isis stood. "The riddle is this - can you blame him?"

"C.G.B. Spender?"

Isis' lips stretched back in a cruel smile. "Noah."

"Where is Amy Smith?"

"I don't know. I came...as a personal favour. Because I realized you wouldn't 
believe it from anyone but me."

"Believe what?"

The older woman's dark stare regarded her solemnly, almost sadly. "The flood is 
coming, Dana. And there is nothing more you can do."

Scully didn't notice Isis leave, only the absence of voice, of presence, the 
realization delayed by the scent of smoke that still laced the air. She listened for the 
sound of the door closing, but if it came at all, it was almost silent.

 end 5/8

"Lady Midnight" (6/8)
by Ashlea Ensro
morleyphile@yahoo.com
disclaimer in part one

CHAPTER VI: PERESTROIKA

"My generation, we had *clarity*. Unafraid to look deep into the miasma at the 
heart of the world, what a pit, what a nightmare is there - *I* have looked, I have 
searched all my life for absolute bottom, and I found it, *believe* me: *Stygian*. 
How tragic, how brutal and short life is. How sinful people are. The immutable 
heart of what we are that bleeds through whatever we might become. All else is 
vanity. I don't know the world anymore." 
-- Tony Kushner, _Angels in America: Perestroika_


I am walking through the rain, trying to clear my head. I am surprised that I can still 
walk, but the encounter with Scully fueled me with something, and my body drives 
me on in sneering spite of the pounding in my skull.

Strughold has Amy, and our efforts were futile.

I know the path by heart, the rain-slicked streets familiar even after months of 
absence. I should be afraid to walk here at night, alone, frail, but if death comes to 
me tonight, it will be intentional. I have worked for the Consortium for thirty-five 
years, and its greatest effect has been the removal of any random factor from my 
life. There are no accidents.

So I go on, for if death wants me, it will have me regardless.

As I have so many other nights, I will stand beneath her window, unseen.

I miss her.

I have failed her.

But for tonight, I can catch a glimpse into her fairy tale bedroom, remember what I 
might have had, if I was any other woman. If she were any other woman's 
daughter.

I turn onto her street, and then stop abruptly.

She is hunched over in the rain, trying to light a cigarette. Dressed in a worn leather 
jacket, her blond hair cropped short, she has the awkward bearing and the 
persistant scowl of a teenager willing to take on the world but uncertain of just how 
to do so.

She is so innocent, despite the sins of her parents.

I could turn away now - and I should - but she looks up for a moment, blowing out 
smoke and glaring defiantly in her direction. Her eyes are her father's, but I see my 
own reflection in her angular face.

The mirror draws me closer, every slow step towards her is heartbreaking. 
"Sarah?" I try the name out tentatively. I had not spoken it aloud in eleven years.

She squints in my direction. "Do I know you?" Suspicious, of course, she should 
be.

I stare. There are no words for this, no possible way to tell her.

<I am your mother.>

<Sarah, I have failed you.>

<Ronald...I failed you long ago.>

The breath tight in my lungs, I force out a single syllable. "No." I am surprised at 
how my voice sounds - an old woman's. 

<No, but I once knew you.>

She stares after me as I brush by her. It was a risk even opening my mouth, a risk I 
cannot afford to take. But I am saved - she does not follow me, staggering 
aimlessly down the street, clutching the wall for balance. I should die here out in 
the rain, give in to my own cowardice as my one reason for living disappears into 
the night behind me. But the headlights on the road are glaring towards me, and 
when the black sedan comes to a stop beside me, I know that tonight is not the 
night.

The window rolls down, revealing a face veiled in smoke. "Get in."

I open the back door and climb in beside him. Neither of us speak until the driver 
pulls away from the curb.

"I've been looking for you," he says.

"I was talking to Agent Scully."

"I was hoping you would have good news for me." He puts out his cigarette. "But 
I suppose you don't."

"They lost her."

"Yes." He offers me a mocking smile. "Yes, Strughold appeared to take a great deal 
of pleasure in informing me."

He will go no farther in blaming me. There is a time and a place, and the inside of 
the car has ears, I am sure. "What now?" I ask.

"We go on," he says. Reaches his hand towards me, floods me with a thousand 
unintentional images, and a snippet of conscious thought.

There is a time and a place, and we will meet there.

It is an old Consortium facility, unguarded and unassuming. At twelve o' clock 
tomorrow night, we will meet there, and the woman that I was will be killed.

And I will go on, for no other purpose than his own sentimentality.

He does not love me; he never has. But even this risk is worth more than the 
thought of spending another night alone, or in the arms of a woman who does not 
know him at all.

"Thank you," I whisper, "Thank you for saving me, again."

For a long time he says nothing, staring out the tinted window, his expression 
unreadable. I reach for him, wanting to know what it is he cannot tell me, but my 
hand freezes in mid-air. I must become accustomed to life like this, unknowing, if I 
am to survive.

"Don't thank me yet," he says.

***

Mulder had to knock on the door several times before he heard Scully's voice call 
out, "It's open."

She sounded faint. He pushed the door open slowly, made his way towards the 
kitchen. The lights were off, and she was sitting at the table, staring up almost as if 
she had been expecting him.

"She's been here," he said.

"Is it that obvious?"

He sat down across from her. "Your apartment smells like smoke."

"Morleys."

"It figures."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. "Coffee?" she asked finally.

"If you're having some."

She nodded. She made no move to turn the light on, making her way through the 
small kitchen in a slow daze, automatic. He could remember nights like this. Only 
then, he had been the one waiting, awake, in the shadows.

"What did Isis have to say?"

Scully poured them each a cup of coffee. "She said a lot of things," she replied.

"Anything useful?"

She looked almost amused. "Useful, yes. Credible, no."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

She shrugged. "Nothing ever changes." A wry smile. "She made the suggestion 
that we abandon the investigation. She did a wonderful impression of Deep 
Throat...you should have been there. You would have been impressed."

"I'm sure." He sipped at the coffee - it was too strong.

"She didn't mean it."

"Scully..."

"No - listen to me. I know you don't trust her, but..." She was fumbling for words 
- he didn't feel anger now, he couldn't. "She must know that anything she said 
would pursuade us in the opposite direction. That she could never convince us to 
give up." She met his eyes. "Mulder? We're not going to give up, Mulder."

The darkness thinned out her face, drew hollow circles around her eyes, turned her 
lips black like a heroine in a 1930s movie. He swallowed the lump in his throat. 
She looked young, he thought, young and pleading.

"We won't give up," he said softly.

She started to say something, but she was interrupted by a frantic pounding at the 
door. In the same instant he decided that she must be thinking the same thought as 
he.

Not again.

He felt for his gun as he stood, weary beyond belief. Just one night, he thought, let 
there be one night, one day, when they could sit at the kitchen table and talk. One 
night to make it all okay.

But it wouldn't be tonight. That was already confirmed, it seemed.

He crossed the room to open the door.

***

I didn't expect Mulder to answer - I didn't expect him to be there at all. Scully is 
behind him, both of them barely visible in the dark entranceway.

"Forget something?" Scully asks. She puts her hand on Mulder's arm to draw him 
away and let me through.

I slump into the chair by the door, fading fast. "I need to know that I can trust you 
to do exactly as I say."

"Give me a reason," Mulder snarls, a vicious pup.

"I will be dead within the week," I say, "The very fact that I am here indicates that I 
have sold my last chance for survival."

"Sold it for what?"

I reach for my cigarettes, then hesitate, clasp one hand around the other. "For the 
truth, of course."

"I know the truth," Mulder says.

"Then you know why the situation is so urgent. Why I have come here 
tonight...why I have done what I have done."

"What have you done?" Scully asks.

"I have some information for you."

"More cryptic clues?" She is critical - more so than she would be had her partner 
not been present. Damn him - I have no time.

"No. I may know where Amy Smith is being held."

"You *may* know?" Mulder's voice grates at me, tears at me. It reminds me of the 
past, of the dead, and I cannot be reminded tonight.

"I know," I say, "The question is whether you are willing to do anything about it."

"Kill her, you mean?"

"By now you must understand what she is, the purpose for which she was brought 
into this world. What she represents."

"She is a four-year-old child," Scully says.

"A factor which you must disregard, I'm afraid." I want a cigarette, crave one, but I 
know the association they will make, and I can't afford to lose their trust. Not now. 
"She is the key to a fifty year project which will progress to catastrophic results if 
the men who have her succeed in their aims.

"The smoking man?" Mulder asks.

"No," I sink further into the chair, grip the armrests for support. "He's trying to 
stop it."

"It's his project." Mulder sounds suspicious, and I can't blame him, but suspicion 
is not a luxury he can afford right now.

"He has been involved with it, yes. But alliances change - you, of all people, 
should understand that." I crane my head to look up at Scully, hoping to find in her 
a more willing audience. "I spoke to you earlier tonight of a great disaster. You 
must realize the predicament we face. Five billion lives are at stake, and the best we 
can hope to achieve is to ally ourselves with the winning side."

"The rebels," Mulder says.

"If it is expedient to do so."

"Did they take Amy?"

I glance from Scully to Mulder, then back again. Did she not tell him? I have been 
gone for hours - she should have given him every detail.

"Amy was taken by a man who works for the leader of our group. A man whose 
agenda is to further the experiments that created both Amy and..." I meet her eyes. 
"Emily."

"For what purpose?" Mulder moves towards his partner in a protective gesture.

"Amy is a failure, in the strictest sense. As was Emily. But the only success has 
been destroyed, as has much of our research. And more importantly, the genetic 
source material."

"The alien fetus," Mulder says.

"Amy may have enough of the DNA in her to continue the project. That's why 
she's so important." I lower my gaze. "Why she has to die."

Scully starts to say something, but her partner speaks first. "Where is she?"

"I need to know that you're ready to be told," I reply, "That you're able to make the 
necessary sacrifices."

"Tell me where she is," Mulder growls.

I acknowledge defeat. I have no other choice. "She's being held at a warehouse in 
New York City. Two nights from now, she will board a plane to Tunisia with a 
man who will claim to be her father. Both will be traveling under assumed names. 
Once they reach the airport, you will be too late." I stretch my hand towards 
Scully's, unfold it to reveal an address written on a piece of paper. She lifts it, her 
fingers brushing against my palm.

"It's all right, Scully," I whisper, "Don't be afraid."

It's a lie, but it teases a weak smile to her lips. It's not all right, it never will be, but 
if it accomplishes this last, desperate maneuver, perhaps I will be absolved in some 
final judgment of all the lies I have told.

"There will be armed men - trained professional killers. They will not give her up 
easily." I reach into my pocket for the weapon. "I assume you know what this is."

Mulder takes it, springs the switch to reveal a sharp spike. He jumps back - like 
everyone does - even though by now he knows what to expect. I stand, still 
gripping the chair for support, and make my way towards the door.

"Good luck." It sounds so pathetic, so clichˇ. But these are the most sincere words 
I have spoken all night.

Scully calls my name softly as I step into the hallway. I turn.

"Will you be there?"

"I suppose you'll find out, won't you?"

***

She was late.

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he scanned the long stetch of antiseptic hallway. 
There was not another trace of human life, let alone a sign of her presence.

Where the hell was she?

For what seemed like the hundredth time, he paced the length of the corridor, 
glancing into deserted operating rooms, at rows of plastic-covered equipment.

It occurred to him that she was not coming, that she was never coming. He 
frowned, extinguishing his cigarette against the institutional white wall. It didn't 
make sense. She knew well enough that it wasn't a trap.

A phantom pain tugged at his chest - he sagged against the wall, reaching for yet 
another cigarette. Who was she, to refuse life? He had faced death often enough to 
understand survival. And she was a fool if, after everything, she could still turn his 
offer away.

But Isis was not a fool - he had known her long enough to realize this. If something 
had kept her from being here tonight, it was not a wish to die. Perhaps she was 
dead already.

And if she were not, it was proof of a treachery he had never even suspected.

He glanced at his watch, wincing inwardly. In the long run, he supposed, it did not 
matter whether she lived or died. But two defeats in two days, no matter how 
irrelevent, did not sit well with him.

His steps were heavy as he took the final walk down the hall. He had forfeited a 
lifetime, the superficial pleasures that other men possessed, for the sake of an 
obscure greater good. A lifetime of work, and he had survived long enough to be 
present as it all slipped away.

A young man, dressed in a lab coat, stopped him as he reached the front door of the 
facility.

"Sir?"

He flickered his eyes over the man's face with disinterest.

"Sir, someone left these for you." He extended a hand towards the smoker. Two 
envelopes. The older man took them and nodded a curt thanks.

He stepped outside - it was raining again. Two envelopes - letters. One blank, 
presumably intended for him, the other, to Sarah Westwood.

He smiled grimly, an expression which faded as he opened the first letter and 
scanned the contents. He folded the second, unopened, into the pocket of his trench 
coat, walked to his car, and headed for the airport.

end 6/8

"Lady Midnight" (7/8)
by Ashlea Ensro
morleyphile@yahoo.com
disclaimer in part one

CHAPTER VII: WHEN SHE'S ON A ROLL

"And when she's on a roll she pulls a razor
from her boot and a thousand
pigeons fall around her feet
So put a candle in the window
and a kiss upon his lips
till the dish outside the window fill with rain
Just like a stranger with the weeds in your heart
and pay the fiddler off till I come back again..." -- Tom Waits, _Time_


This is where it ends.

I take a deep breath, the air tight in my chest. I have never feared death, not before 
now. There was always a cause, always a good reason, an ideal to which my own 
life paled in comparison.

Now there is only Sarah.

The warehouse is menacing by night, backlit by streetlamps, a rectangular scar 
against a stage of buildings. I take note of the area - there are few residential 
buildings - mostly factories. The exposives beneath my overcoat feel heavy, the 
beat of my own heart giving them the illusion of life. I sway against the wall - 
afraid to fall, I grasp at the bricks for support.

Are there workers in factories at this hour? Would the blast reach some innocent 
passerby?

Every war is about innocents, is it not?

Tonight, there is only one who matters.

I shield the device from excess agitation. It may not even be necessary tonight. 
Only if Scully does not realize the decision she must make, only if the smoker does 
not make that decision for her...only if I am unable to kill Amy Smith myself, will I 
need to take this final action.

And if we all fail, my last act will be to take out the warehouse and as much of the 
Consortium's research as is gathered there, to kill Strughold and everyone else in 
the building.

Including myself.

I have the other weapon in the pocket of my jeans. And I wonder if it would be 
more heartbreaking to kill a single child or to destroy indiscriminately...Scully and 
Mulder, John, whoever else may be present when the bomb explodes.

But I can't think about that now.

I cross the street, fighting the pounding in my head. I can't fall, can't pass out. Not 
now. Every step is a small miracle, a miniature victory against death.

I may very well die tonight.

Even so, I will not die like this.

I reach the doors. Locked, of course. I fire at the chain, blasting it apart. The door 
swings open with one hard kick.

A flock of pigeons flutter up into the air as I step inside. It is as dark and empty in 
the interior as it is from across the street. Light streams through a crack in the wall, 
but I can't find the source - the moon or a streetlight outside - from where I stand it 
is unearthly, unnatural. My shadow creeps up on the wall behind me, and my boots 
echo as I walk across the floor.

She is here; I can sense her.

There are two doorways - one jagged and vacant, draped in shadows and pieces of 
broken wood that stand out like teeth, another, newer, presumably leading towards 
the laboratory. I head towards it, and the shadows in the first doorway move too 
quickly for my failing eyes to contemplate.

And in an instant there is a gun against the back of my head, and a voice breathing 
hot and sour into my ear.

"Looking for someone?" Klaus Werner hisses.

I close my eyes and slowly raise my hands.

***

"What the hell does he think he's doing?"

It was too easy, Strughold decided. Watching Hess' bafflement at the black sedan 
pulling up across the street, he shook his head slowly. Americans were stupid, 
reckless and foolish. He pulled out his gun, contemplated it for a moment, and then 
replaced it in its holster.

"God only knows," Strughold replied. Although, he almost clarified, they could 
both come up with a fairly good hypothesis.

Hess was still staring at the window as the car door opened and the grey-haired 
man exited, puffing on his ever-present cigarette. "Should I shoot him?"

Strughold considered it for a moment. "Wait until he comes in. We'll see what he 
wants."

Hess remained stony-faced. "The woman is here. We already know he is a traitor."

"We do," Strughold said, "But wait."

These young men, they had no concept of patience. Hess was another Berlin 
recruit, barely out of his twenties and full of misdirected, hotheaded idealism. 
Strughold could have chosen a more intelligent recruit, but the boy's brutality was 
useful, at times.

He feared that now was not one of those times.

Strughold heard the smoker pause at the door, out of sight from the window now, 
but evidently puzzled by the broken lock. Hess looked restless, fidgeting with his 
gun. Strughold shot him a warning glance.

The door creaked open, and a tall shadow crept across the floor.

Hess had his gun pointed at the man's head before Strughold could argue - he 
would not have argued, regardless. The smoker's expression did not change. 
Watery blue-grey eyes tilted in Strughold's direction with an air of utter calm.

"If you're going to do it, do it quickly and at close-range. I don't particularly enjoy 
being shot." He reached into the fold of his trench coat; Strughold could sense Hess 
prickle beside him. "I'm reaching for a cigarette."

Strughold gestured for him to go ahead. The smoker flashed him a taut smile and 
bent down to light his Morley.

"We need to talk." His words were half muttered around the end of the cigarette.

"So I gathered." Strughold took a hesitant step towards him, then stopped. "And 
the first thing we need to talk about is how you found me here."

"I was under the impression that we were on the same side."

Hess muttered something under his breath. It took all of Strughold's restraint to 
avoid kicking him.

"Are we?" Strughold asked.

There was a moment of silence as the smoker drew on his cigarette, watching 
Strughold intently. He had proven useful in the past - he certainly knew his value to 
the organization. Still, he was a traitor, and no traitor should be allowed to be so 
smug.

"You came here to do something," Strughold said, "To kill someone."

"Perhaps."

Strughold nodded once to Hess. The younger man cocked the trigger of his gun.

"You won't kill me."

Another nod, careful, and grim.

Hess fired.

The impact of the bullet flung the smoking man hard against the wall. He collapsed 
soundlessly, the silence following the gunshot broken only with the smoker's own 
weapon hitting the ground with a dull clatter. He didn't move, didn't cry out, made 
no attempt to cover the dark circle spreading across his side.

Strughold approached, standing just outside of the rapidly expanding pool of 
blood. In the still darkness of the warehouse, the red looked charcoal grey.

"You're right," Strughold said slowly, "You are much too valuable." He drew his 
gun, aimed slowly. "But if I pull the trigger, you'll never walk again."

The smoker's eyes closed in a wince of pain, then opened again. "Do as you must."

Strughold watched him for a moment. He had to admire the other man's control.

"You never should have strayed," Strughold whispered, "I could have used you."

The smoker shrugged. "Perhaps...you still might..."

Strughold turned to Hess, laying his hand on the younger man's arm. "Do what 
you want, short of killing him," he said.

Hess glanced at the motionless form, the man's shallow breathing echoing 
throughout the walls. "Why?" he asked.

His employer offered a chilling smile. "Find out what he wants."

Strughold turned slightly, catching out of the corner of his eye the sight of Hess 
reaching for his pocketknife. An uncomfortable queasiness twisted inside him as 
the blade flicked open, casting a sharp shadow over the smoking man's haggard 
features.

He pushed the sensation down. There were much greater things at stake than the 
torment of one man.

He caught one last glimpse of the shadow-shape against the wall. The knife 
glittered somewhere above the old man's cheekbone.

The smoker made no sound as the blade descended.

Strughold left the room quickly.

***

I know something has happened before I hear the gunshot. The blast only confirms 
it. Klaus Werner grins, his face skeletal in the dimly lit room, as I close my eyes. 
The voices in the next room are too muffled for me to make out, but I can piece 
together an educated guess.

"He's dead, you know," Werner says. When I don't respond, he says, "Your 
friend, the smoking man."

I aim for nonchalant indifference, but my voice breaks when I say, "He's on his 
sixth life, then."

He wants to strike me, I can tell, but he won't make contact. He is disciplined 
enough to resist temptation.

Good for him.

It is a few minutes before Strughold himself enters. "Bring her in."

"But...she-" Werner starts to protest.

"I don't care. She won't live long enough to tell your secrets. Bring her in."

Werner grabs me by the arm and drags me roughly to my feet. "This way," he 
says, as if I don't know. The memories that flood me are harsh, dark and horrific. 
They only serve to make my own hate stronger. The bomb is lying on an old desk 
by the laboratory door, beside my gun and the stiletto, and if I could reach for it, 
the building would already be levelled.

Pinpricks of light assail my eyes, hammer into my head as we enter the next room. 
I can't ignore the pain much longer, can't fight it off.

And then I see him.

No words can describe what I want to do to them. I tear my eyes away from the 
bloody body slumped against the wall to pin Strughold with my glare. My lips form 
words, but nothing comes out. No language is suitable for what I need to say.

Instead, I focus the last remaining strength I have to keep standing. I can't tremble, 
can't weep. Not now. We have lost, but they will not have the pleasure of seeing 
me break.

"Let me go," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I won't run."

Werner hisses in my ear, "Like hell you won't."

"No," Strughold says, "Let her go. I'll allow them that much."

I almost fall when Werner releases me. Strughold disappears through the door into 
the next room without another word. Staggering like a drunk, I make my way 
across the floor to collapse to my knees by his side.

"John?" I whisper, hating the sound of my own voice.

I don't expect him to be alive, but either he is stronger than I ever gave him credit 
for, or there is a God who is crueller than I could possibly imagine. "Don't touch 
me," he says in a voice choked by blood.

He doesn't need to explain any further. This is why Strughold let me go. To touch 
him, to feel what he feels, will most likely be fatal.

There are worse ways to die.

Except that I know they didn't do this to kill him.

I lay my hand over his forehead, afraid to touch him anywhere else, to cause him 
more pain. The rush of agony nearly blinds me, a white noise threatening to split 
my skull in two. There is only one conscious thought that breaks through the 
interference - his gun is on the floor two feet away from me.

"No," I whisper, "Just sleep. It's all right."

He shakes his head. "One of us has to live."

I lean in close to him, kiss his broken lips. "You're a better man than you ever gave 
yourself credit for," I tell him.

And then I break away and dive for the gun.

Hess never sees it coming - one shot and his head bursts open, a splatter of slippery 
red and splinters of bone. Werner is faster. I hear the gun go off, and at first I think 
it missed me completely before I feel the sizzle of pain along my ribcage. 
Adrenaline, rage fuels me onward, and I squeeze the trigger, dragging myself 
across the floor only when I see him hit the floor.

The laboratory door is in front of me. There are other men with guns, with 
Strughold, or waiting behind the warehouse, but I put it out of my mind. I am 
leaving John to die. But I have no doubts that Amy Smith is behind that door. I 
reach the desk, clawing for the objects which sit harmlessly on the surface.

I am a killer again.

I reach up to turn the handle of the door.

***

There were too many cars parked in front of the warehouse for it not to seem 
suspicious. "We should be taking license plates," Mulder said.

"CIA fleet sedans," Scully commented.

Mulder attempted a smile. "That'll keep things interesting. Should I take the back?"

"We...go in together." Her voice was shaky. It wasn't by the book, but nothing 
ever was, these days. She glanced at the broken chain. "Someone's been here 
already."

"We'll see," Mulder pushed the door open, inched his way in with his gun drawn.

Her comment was confirmed as he drew to an abrupt halt. Peering over his 
shoulder, she counted at least three motionless bodies on the floor. There was no 
sound from anywhere within the walls.

"I guess we found the right address," Mulder said. His eyes flickered over the 
bodies. "All dead?"

"I'll check." Scully swayed on her feet as she approached - in the darkness, she 
couldn't tell if any of the bodies were female. She knelt by one, looked over at 
Mulder to pronounce the man dead, when instead of her own voice she heard the 
rap of gunfire.

Her partner fired towards the dark shape emerging from the doorway, but it was 
another shot, from somewhere near the floor, that dropped their attacker to the 
floor.

Scully glanced towards their saviour, then at Mulder's open mouth. Wondered if 
her own expression looked as bewildered.

"Don't look so surprised, Mr. Mulder." The dry voice, though distorted and weak, 
sent a shiver of familiarity through her entire body. "If anyone kills you, it will be 
me."

A point of light flared and wavered among the shadows, by a stooped form that 
Scully had assumed initially was another corpse. She drew closer, recoiling at the 
scent of cigarette smoke.

He coughed as he inhaled. It struck her as odd, an admittance of weakness. Mulder 
put his gun back in its holster and took out his flashlight to illuminate the man's 
craggy features.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask what you're doing here," Mulder said.

Scully knelt beside the smoking man, forced herself to touch his throat. "Mulder, 
he's hurt."

The beam from the flashlight traveled over a slashed, bruised face - the older man 
tried to shield his eyes from the brightness. Scully lay her hand on his shoulder. 
"It's all right," she said, "Who did this to you?"

"Scully..." Mulder started.

She ignored him. She was a doctor, first and foremost, and she could not stand by 
and let this man die. She would have been happy enough to see him prosecuted for 
all of his crimes, to see him finally go down in flames. But it was different when he 
was lying there, half-cradled in her arms, his breathing harsh and ragged. They had 
not just shot him - they had tortured him, and that...

The implications disturbed her a great deal.

"We have to get him out of here," she said.

"Do we?"

She stared up at her partner. "Yes," she said, "We do." She reached for her cell 
phone. "Amy is still in the building, possibly Isis, and God only knows how many 
armed men. This place is a deathtrap."

"If anyone deserves it..."

"This isn't justice, Mulder. It's just revenge."

"I'd settle for revenge."

Scully opened the phone. "I'm calling for an ambulance."

Mulder made an irritated noise. "I'll do it. You go find Amy." He held out the 
stiletto weapon in one hand.

"Why?" she asked.

"Just a precaution."

She took it, feeling its solid, smooth weight. It was cold, heavy in her hand. An 
impossibly impractical thing, but even so, it felt deadly. She put it in the pocket of 
her coat, then gave into impulse and gave the smoking man's shoulder a comforting 
squeeze.

And she stood up, her footsteps mechanical as she made her way towards the door.

***

Mulder watched his partner vanish into the doorway before he forced himself to 
look down again.

"Well, C.G.B.?"

The smoking man looked unfazed. "Not my name," he muttered.

"What does it stand for?"

He had to think about it for a moment. "Charles George Benjamin, I believe," he 
said, "It was a long time ago." He tried to sit up and failed miserably. "Well done, 
Mr. Mulder."

"What makes you say that?"

The smoker did not respond at first, sinking further against the wall. "You were 
correct to guess that we are more likely to be attacked here than your partner is in 
the laboratory. Sending her off to deal with the lesser threat...it was the right thing 
to do. And it gives you the opportunity to do the thing which you could never do in 
her presence."

"And that is?" Mulder kept his voice even.

The other man's eyes, half swollen shut, regarded him knowingly for a moment, 
and then closed. Mulder held his breath, listening for a sound of life, but all he 
could hear was the pounding blood in his own head. He reached out, his hand 
trembling, to feel for a pulse. He didn't know whether to be relieved or 
disappointed at the beat beneath his fingers.

Tentatively, his thumb pressed harder, a minute gesture but enough to send a 
shudder through the otherwise motionless body. He had held this man's life in his 
hands before - held a gun to his head on several occasions - but it had never been 
this direct, this real.

He could get away with murder. He could visualize explaining to Scully -

<I'm sorry...he didn't make it...>

- wondered if she would care. Or more importantly, whether she would believe 
him.

It shouldn't have mattered. Mulder had stopped forming a mental list of his crimes - 
there were too many of them.

"If anyone deserves to die, it's you," he said aloud.

"Of course," the smoker replied.

He tightened his grip around the old man's throat. This was power...this was what 
it felt like. He swallowed hard, silently willing the smoker to open his eyes, to 
realize that his enemy understood, at last.

<That his enemy is his successor...>

<A circle repeating...>

Mulder let go abruptly, recoiled as the man's eyes at last fluttered open. Stared 
down at his hands, wondering if they were as bloodstained as the smoker's.

They looked white in the darkness, pale and cold.

"Can you stand?" Mulder asked quietly.

"No."

Mulder drew in a deep breath. "Try. Put your arms around me."

"Is there something you would like to tell me, Mr. Mulder?" His laugh sounded like 
a cough. Mulder tried to lift him, managed finally to drag him to his feet. The older 
man's weight bearing heavy on him, he struggled to the door of the warehouse.

It had stopped raining outside, at least, but the street was still slippery. "Behind the 
cars," the smoker gasped.

"Why?" Mulder half-carried him across the street, collapsed with him as they 
reached the silver Taurus. For a moment neither of them spoke, panting for breath 
in the cool damp air.

"You couldn't do it," the smoker said finally.

"I'm not you," Mulder retorted.

"That's good..." He lay against the cold concrete, staring at the tiny rivulets of 
blood seeping into the pools of rain. "You made the right decision, again."

"Why is that?" Mulder asked. He was starting to feel unsettled.

"Because I know something that you don't."

He followed direction of the older man's gaze, towards the warehouse. "What?" He 
choked the word out.

"Isis is still in that building," the smoker said, "With your partner. And.." He 
paused, searching for a reaction.

"And?"

The smoker reached for a cigarette, lit it calmly. "And she has a bomb," he 
finished.

end 7/8

"Lady Midnight" (8/8)
by Ashlea Ensro
morleyphile@yahoo.com
disclaimer in part one

CHAPTER VIII: THE NAME OF THE FIRE

"Antigone is calm tonight, and we shall never know the name of the fire which 
consumed her. She has played her part." -- Jean Anouilh, _Antigone_


The sterile hallway ended in a single room. Scully pressed against the wall, 
hugging herself for warmth. It was too quiet. She felt like Alice, falling down a 
rabbit hole into a surreal other world - the laboratory behind the door was a stark 
contrast to the rest of the warehouse. Immaculately clean, and dead silent.

She paused at the door, wanting suddenly to turn back. Mulder was waiting on the 
other side of the looking glass. And the strange weapon in her pocket weighed 
down every step she took.

She knew what was waiting for her in that room. She did not want to see it.

The door was already open. A rectangle of darkness widened as reached towards it, 
pushed the steel frame farther.

She did not draw her gun. She did not need it.

"Hello, Agent Scully," Isis said.

Scully's eyes adjusted quickly to the low light, focusing first on Isis, casually 
leaning against a canister of oxygen, a gun in one hand and the other over Amy 
Smith's small palm. The girl blinked up at Scully, her dark eyes wide and puzzled, 
but completely unafraid.

"It doesn't need to end like this," Scully replied.

Isis smiled. "No," she said, "But regardless, it will end." She lifted her hand, ran it 
distractedly through the child's spiky hair.

"Isis..."

The older woman coughed painfully, releasing her grip on Amy to fold in on 
herself, her slim shoulders shuddering.

"Are you all right?" Scully asked.

"Quite." Isis barked out another cough. For the first time, Scully noticed the 
spatters of blood on her face, her hands soaked in dark red. Some of it might have 
been from the smoker, but judging from the stream of blood trickling out of the 
corner of her mouth, Isis had not escaped unscathed whatever Consortium 
infighting had occurred.

"How long?" Scully's voice was a bare thread, wavering and failing.

"As long as I give myself. There is always a choice."

"Come with me. Mulder's waiting outside, with the car...you can still get away..."

Isis was silent for awhile. "I have a daughter, you know. She just turned eighteen. 
You should see her, Dana, she has her father's eyes." She shook her head sadly. "I 
would have done anything...anything..."

"It's not too late."

Sunken eyes seared into her. "Do you still believe that?" Isis gently shoved the girl 
in Scully's direction. "You have the means. Now end this...as it must be ended."

"No." She had spoken too loudly - her voice echoed in the small room.

"If she survives, it begins again." Scully felt the older woman's long fingers brush 
over her hand. "Don't you see? You'll only be helping their cause."

"Whose cause?"

"There is a war, Dana. Innocents fall in wars, they always do. But if one life now 
saves five billion in the future..."

Scully knelt down to be at eye-level with Amy. "Don't be afraid, sweetie," she 
whispered, "I won't hurt you."

"She is the end," Isis said, "You have a chance to stop it, to fight the future."

"And you have a chance to live." Scully pulled Amy close to her, standing shakily. 
"We all make our choices, Isis." She led the girl towards the door, stopping only to 
turn when Isis called her name.

"You're a player," Isis said, "Never forget that. And don't let *them* forget it 
either."

"Stay here," Scully told Amy. She took Isis' hands in hers, leaned in to place a soft 
kiss on her sallow cheek. "Goodbye."

The older woman's dark eyes did not waver. "You have sixty seconds to get out of 
the building," she said, "Don't get sentimental."

The realization only dawned on her when she saw Isis reach for a switch.

"Amy, grab my hand." Scully kicked the door open, dragging Amy behind her. 
The girl fought to keep up as they tore through the corridor, every second echoing 
throughout the white walls. "Run," she heard herself scream, "Run!"

She would keep running until the day she died.

***

I couldn't have waited any longer.

It was not simply theatrics - by now the commotion must have reached Strughold, 
if he is still alive.

And I cannot afford to let him live.

Sixty. I mentally measure out the steps from this room to the door of the 
warehouse. Add to that the burden of a four-year-old child, and the threat of 
Strughold's men, subtract the adrenaline burst of fear. It all comes down to 
numbers, numbers which are strong and unwavering next to the fragility of a 
human life.

If my last act is to cripple the effort of this vast machine, I will have died well.

Fifty. There are thoughts I should be thinking. Measuring out success, regrets. 
Remembering all of the people I will never see again. Remembering all of the 
people that wait for me on the other side.

The iron nails stabbing into my head erase any memories I should be considering.

Forty. Wonder which of countless religions have hit on the truth. If there is a God 
and a Heaven and a Hell and all that shit. If good intentions can redeem the worst of 
sinners.

Thirty. How time passes, be it fifty-two years or sixty seconds. The hallway is 
always too long, the journey impossible, the only indication of victory is to be the 
last one standing. Thirty seconds more to live and I should be thinking of 
something more profound, something to take with me, some last thought that will 
make sense of what little time I have had.

Twenty. I am dying for a cigarette. Is the condemned woman not allowed one last 
smoke? But the flick of a lighter in a room thick with oxygen and even these last 
moments will be taken from me.

John, if you are still alive, smoke one for me.

No, better not to. Death catches up to all of us, eventually.

Ten. I should be afraid. Instead of my life flashing before my eyes, I am thinking 
about Kurt Vonnegut Jr., wondering whether there is a battered old copy of "Cat's 
Cradle" in the Great Beyond.

There must be. It would be appropriate.

So it goes.

One.

Did I count properly?

One.

Sarah.

The bomb explodes.

***

It was an unconscious reflex, but Mulder threw his body over that of the smoker's 
to shield him from the blast. The car window shattered into a million fragments of 
glass, a glimmering rain over their heads.

He balanced the sudden act of compassion with a low growl of, "If she's in 
there..."

"You don't need to say it," the old man replied.

It was over almost before it started, grey plumes of smoke billowing out of the 
broken windows, interrupted sporadically by the crackles of flame amid the ashes. 
Mulder forced himself to stand, to let his eyes drift over the devastation.

For a moment, all he could see was the charred inferno. An invisible hand twisted 
something inside of him, forced his heart to pump faster, his legs to quiver and 
nearly give out from under him.

He almost turned, ready to blow the son-of-a-bitch's head off, when he saw her. 
Barely a wraith, a relic of the fire, her hair flame-red and her face darkened with 
ashes, she clutched Amy Smith's hand in her own. A wave of relief washed over 
him - he put his gun back in its holster and leaned against the side of the car for 
support.

"Scully..." His voice was a hollow moan. "Scully..."

"I'm..." She had started to say she was fine, but instead she only walked towards 
him, casting a glance back at the smoldering ruins. "We need to get her someplace 
safe."

"I thought...I...you were..."

Her eyes were hardened as they turned towards him. "I'm not," she said. She let go 
of Amy's hand and walked around the car to kneel by the smoking man's side. 
Mulder stood back, feeling the child's stubby fingers close around his own. Scully 
was a doctor, he tried to remind himself, a doctor and and FBI agent and a 
compassionate human being.

She said nothing to the man, only met his gaze and held it for a few seconds. Amy 
jerked Mulder's hand at the squeal of a police siren, but he remained still, all too 
aware that he stood outside this tableau.

"I'm sorry," Scully said finally.

If the smoking man felt any emotion for the woman who had died in the warehouse 
behind them, he did not show it. His face remained closed, his hand trembling 
slightly, but that could have easily been from the pain. "I know," he said.

Scully stood. "The ambulance will be here soon," she told him.

"It's unnecessary. You should get the girl somewhere hidden before any authorities 
arrive."

"Is that a threat?" Mulder asked.

The smoker shrugged. "Advice, Mr. Mulder. Leave while you still can."

Mulder spread his hand across the small of his partner's back, guiding her towards 
him, away from the man lying in the shadow of the car. His own people would 
come to take him before the ambulance arrived. Scully brushed broken glass off the 
backseat before helping Amy inside the car.

Mulder turned the key in the ignition, oddly surprised that the car was still 
functioning. There would be hell to pay at the Bureau for this, but they would deal 
with it later.

For now, they had a little girl to protect, and a city that stretched out before them, 
welcoming them into an array of lights and stars.

***

Arlington Cemetary
Six weeks later

Scully had always hated graveyards.

Ahab had been buried at sea, Missy laid to rest in a cemetary against her own 
wishes. Scully had not buried Emily, despite a thousand dreams of sand. The rows 
of white stones felt oppressive, stifling, the flowers in one hand beginning to wilt. 
It was a labyrinth, a disorienting place, and when every grave looked the same, a 
pilgrim could get lost in the city of the dead.

She stared down at the roses. Isis would have thought them garish, she was certain 
of it. Scully didn't know what she had been thinking - but one was supposed to 
bring roses to cemetaries.

That was, if she could find the right grave.

The ground was beginning to thaw, wet and squishing underneath her heels. It was 
spring, and life was supposed to feel renewed. Amy Smith was in Witness 
Protection, with a new name and a new family and as much security as she had ever 
been afforded in her short life. What remained of the old warehouse in New York 
City had been demolished following the investigation.

She and Mulder were still alive.

That was reason enough to make her wonder at the tear that slipped out of her eye 
and traced down her cheek.

"This is probably not a good place to cry."

Scully spun around, shrinking at the familiar smell of smoke, then straightened, 
made an attempt to stare him in the face.

He looked older, if that were possible. He was still walking with a cane, a jagged 
scar paralleling the contours of other lines in his face. She followed him without a 
word through the winding path that led to two identical gravestones among rows of 
indistinguishable monuments.

"Here," he said.

She let the roses fall in front of one of the graves. His movement stiff, he placed a 
pack of Morleys beside the flowers. She smiled a little at that.

She read the names. Isabelle and Ronald Cranston . "Was that her real name?" she 
asked.

A shrug. "I don't know. It likely wasn't his."

She was surprised at how forthcoming he was. Then again, the dead held no 
secrets.

"Do you know who's buried here, Agent Scully?"

"Isis and her husband."

"Not their bodies, certainly. And not their names, either." He touched one of the 
stones with his free hand, softly, almost reverantly.

She had seen him bleed. Would she see him weep now, too?

"Do you know who he was?"

The name was unfamiliar. "Should I?"

"Ask Mulder. He'll know."

It occurred to her, suddenly, that she did know. The man had died in her arms. 
Mulder had watched his funeral with a pair of binoculars.

And she knew at once why Isis had hated Mulder with such a passion.

Her husband, their first informant, had died for this quest, this elusive truth. She 
had spent all of those years in silence, longing for vengeance, but only carrying on 
his work.

And now she was dead, and the truth as far away as ever.

Scully watched the man beside her as he lit a cigarette, looking thoughtful. She 
wondered if he was pondering his actions, if he felt regret. Though Isis had 
forgiven him, his lies had torn a family apart - the minute tragedy of two somehow 
more powerful than all the hundreds she knew he had killed.

And the third - the child - Isis and Deep Throat's daughter.

It was strange to think that shadows had children.

He finished his cigarette, casting one more glance at the gravestones, and turned to 
leave.

"Wait-" Scully's voice fell flat as she realized she still did not know his name. He 
faced her, his brow creasing ever so slightly. "Do you miss her?" she whispered.

As if missing Isis would absolve him of all his sins.

"She was a good colleague," he replied tonelessly, then in a softer voice, added, "A 
good friend. Now if you will excuse me, I have a letter to deliver."

Scully nodded. It was enough.

She did not watch him as he left - did not see where he had disappeared this time.

He would be back soon enough to be their adversary. Compassion was only an 
interlude for men such as him, and pity was an indulgence she could not afford.

She knelt in the soft grass in front of the grave. The morning was still cold, her 
fingers stiff and frozen as she fumbled to open the pack of cigarettes the man had 
left. Removing one, she struck a match against the tip, feeling a sting as smoke 
flooded into her throat, wrapped her lungs in a warm, comforting cloud.

Scully thought of murmuring goodbye, but it seemed superfluous. She exhaled a 
cloud of smoke into the winter air, and smiled as the faintest touch of sunlight 
emerged from behind the clouds.

"So it goes," she said to the headstone.

And then she left the past and the dead where they belonged.

***

~EPILOGUE~

Dear Sarah,

I hope this letter finds you well.

That is how one is supposed to begin a letter, is it not?

Or this: I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

If you do not know me, if because of all that I have done, you do not remember 
me, consider it for the best. Because I loved you, I had to let you go. More painful 
sacrifices have been made, I believe, but not by me. Please understand, giving you 
away was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

As you might have guessed, I am already dead. I am not given to deathbed 
confessions, nor do I wish to tell you of the things I've seen, the sins I have 
committed. Know only that I loved you. That someone was always watching.

Your father once said that if a shark stops swimming, it dies. He said to never stop 
swimming.

I say, don't swim with the sharks.

No ideology is worth a single human life. No quest so noble, no cause so great. 
The path ahead of you is dark, as it is for all that remain among the living, but 
remember this. To make sacrifices is to sacrifice yourself. Always.

You have asked nothing of me. Had it been in my power, I would have given you 
the world.

A mother wishes only one thing for her child, and that is the promise of a better life 
than the one she has led. I have tried to give you this. But in the end, all that 
remains is ashes, despite our better intentions.

Forgive me.

Your loving mother.

FIN

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"So don't cry for me
for I'm going away
and I'll be back some lucky day." -- Tom Waits, _Lucky Day_

Author's Notes: This is where Ash gets sappy.

Big thanks to my betas, Anna and Rachel, for making me finish this even when it 
seemed hopelessly stuck, for toning down my natural tendancy for melodrama (at 
least, I hope) and for reminding me that CSM is supposed to be a bad guy. Another 
round of thanks to Laura for introducing me to the wonders of Billie Holiday. And 
yet more thanks to my housemates, for Mr. Noodles, seaweed, Jack Daniels, 
limonade (like lemonade, but with limes...it's good!), and Johnny Cash, which is 
the rather toxic mixture I ingested in order to write this thing. :-)

And finally, to all those who wrote me saying that they liked Isis (does anyone like 
her? Really?)...sorry. I will state only that they never found a body, and we'll leave 
it at that.

Need I beg once more for feedback? morleyphile@yahoo.com