Theater of the Absurd I: Strange Land By Anna Otto and Ashlea Ensro Email: annaotto1@aol.com and morleyphile@yahoo.com Rating: R Classification: XHA, UST Spoilers: Beyond the Sea, Anasazi, the rest are untraceable. Archive: yes, but please let us know. Summary: As Skinner searches for long-lost friends, he becomes a target in a game of cat-and-mouse. Sometimes, what's lost is best not found. Or, how can we make Mulder and Scully blissfully happy? Disclaimer: Paul and Kathy belong to themselves, and we wouldn't claim ownership of them because (gasp!) we are afraid of them. And so would be Chris Carter, who with 1013 Productions and Fox, owns Mulder, Scully, and everyone else you recognize. Those you don't recognize are probably ours. Feedback: Yes, please! It is always appreciated. Author's Notes at the end. ~*~ "No prayers for November to linger longer Stick your spoon in the wall We'll slaughter them all..." -- Tom Waits, _November_ "You are paralyzed by the fact that cruelty is often amusing." -- Douglas Coupland, _Shampoo Planet_ ~*~ Intro She turned her eyes upward to squint at the brown sun through the dark shades of the Ray-Ban. She didn't think that she could endure yet another oppressive late autumn of Baltimore, the incessant rain, sky like an overturned ashtray. The air itself was color gray, heavy atmosphere pressing into her chest, bringing out the lingering sorrow like an unwanted guest to the solitary dinner in her silent house. Margaret Scully wore white, a flattering, fashionable suit Tara insisted she buy during their latest shopping excursion. San Diego brimmed over with fancy shops, highest-quality merchandise displayed in a psychedelic kaleidoscope of every window. It was a sin not to satisfy worldly desires here, in the city designed for tourist pleasure. It was a sin not to blend in with the cheerful crowd; the worries and concerns were always left behind, if only for a fleeting moment of self-indulgence. She caught a glimpse of a woman in the large polished window of the department store, not recognizing herself for a brief second, doing a double-take on her own reflection. She looked... rested. The haunted lines on her face smoothed out, the calm blue eyes were a perfect match for the clear sky in the background. Grudgingly, Margaret admitted that Bill was right - this vacation in the farthest corner of the country, this time with a happy family, was just what she needed at the moment. Not that the longing didn't subside in two years, not that she still felt the bone-crushing grief of the first several months after... She shook her head slightly, willing the stray dark thoughts back into Baltimore, into the late autumn so conspicuously absent here, into gray clouds that shed tears for her. Abominable as she found the thought, Margaret Scully admitted with a measure of relief that she didn't miss Dana quite so much any longer. It felt like a betrayal - as if she was deserting her youngest child. And yet, she couldn't allow the grief to envelop her fully. If she gave in this time, she would melt away, tear after tear, day after day. So she chose the alternative. And she allowed herself to forget, to concentrate on other matters. And she was almost fine... but Novembers were difficult to endure. Too many bad memories, she supposed. Too many sharp corners. One headstone too many hidden in the basement of the Baltimore house. But with wisdom acquired over the years, Margaret calmly assured herself that it would get easier. Practice made perfect. The heat drove her toward the sidewalk booths in search of cool refreshment. A cold drink seemed the pinnacle of her desires at the moment, and she scanned the choices available until her gaze fell on the man chatting away with a bored street vendor about the latest football game. Easy-fit khakis, white T-shirt, black impenetrable sunglasses, hair shorter than she remembered. Fox Mulder looked younger than his forty years, relaxed, and... disgustingly happy. The brief moment of shock and flash of joy were quickly replaced by the churning anger. Her daughter's disappearance was obviously involuntary, but the disappearance of her partner looked less sinister in its nature. This chance meeting was only further proof that Mulder chose to disappear - chose to run away rather than face the burden of guilt and grief that went hand in hand with Dana's absence. Still, Margaret had been thinking of him, often with a pang of concern and sadness. And after two years, Mulder was whole, healthy, and apparently unconcerned with the world of gray air and November. The nonchalance of his posture couldn't be a pretense, the lightness of his laughter couldn't be studied, and the smile couldn't be more genuine. Repressing the bitter distaste, Margaret inched closer to him, focusing on his face intently, suddenly at a loss for words. Mulder turned to face her, a frown of confusion and a friendly grin warring in the handsome face. "Can I help you with something?" Nothing he could have said or done would have shocked Margaret more than this simple phrase, injected with just an appropriate measure of politeness and stranger's disinterest. She gulped for air, now unsure whether she could believe her eyes, if she could trust the mental image of the intense man she carried in her memories throughout the years. He took his dark glasses off to give her a view of the familiar eyes, and she shuddered. No, there was no mistake. "Fox..." She spoke hesitantly now, the bizarre situation taking the edge off her voice. "Have we met before?" His hand reached out to support her when she staggered backward a bit at the question. Such a gentleman, still. "Fox, I am Margaret." Her voice broke, the feeling of utter surrealism taking away her sense of balance. "Dana's mother. You couldn't have... you couldn't have forgotten me." The man listened attentively, lips still shaped into a polite smile. "Maybe you've mistaken me for someone else. My name is Paul... but you do look familiar." The street vendor retreated back into the shade of his booth, watching the scene with interest. Increasingly uncomfortable, Margaret stepped further away, but couldn't resist speaking again, the last effort of reaching through to him. "How could you abandon Dana?" The brows furrowed, the anger at some ridiculous accusation and obvious incomprehension darkening the eyes to seaweed green. "I am sure I don't know who you're talking about." He turned nervously to watch the doors of the nearest boutique, sighing in visible relief when they opened and smiling warmly at the petite woman running down the steps. "Paul, I finally found it," she declared breathlessly, whirling around to display the latest acquisition for her wardrobe, a stunning ensemble of gray and blue that highlighted the remarkable eyes and sweeping red hair. "I should always take you along for shopping. You bring me luck." "Dana!" Margaret Scully exclaimed while some demon whispered suggestions of hallucinations in her ears. She almost fell forward to be closer to Dana, to embrace her and finally alleviate the gaping hole in her chest, the one which existence she'd just been denying. And somewhere in the back of her mind, one thought was circling around: she didn't remember the last time her daughter smiled this openly, the last time her face shone with such unguarded happiness. The woman retreated, the bewilderment matching that of her companion. "I am sorry... do you know me?" Sunstroke, or madness, or else her daughter refused to acknowledge the presence of her mother. "Dana, it's me... your mother..." Margaret spoke, begging for some resolution - some understanding, a flicker of remembrance in the blue eyes that matched the clear California skies. The man leaned down to whisper something in the woman's ear - and from far away, Margaret heard the words of bafflement and concern for her sanity. "Excuse us," he said aloud. Hands linked, they walked away without returning glances. Forgetting about her as easily as if she were a broken paper cup left on the pavement, a piece of ice melting in the yellow lemonade that the vendor offered her silently. They chatted happily in the distance, a look of admiration and a double entendre falling from the man's lips to compliment the woman's purchase. He called her Kathy. And something inside of Margaret Scully broke, and she spilled the lemonade on the clean asphalt as she let out a high-pitched wail. So inappropriate under the sky with no clouds, among the crowd free of worry or concern, breathing in transparent, easy air. November didn't exist in San Diego, or so everyone kept saying. ~*~ Act I: Sunny California Paul leaned over Kathy, easily invading her personal space. She didn't move, concentrating on the culture in the microscope, right hand writing the notes, left hand adjusting the controls. "Last time I saw you study something this intently, it turned out to be the schedule of football games," he whispered in her ear. "We all have our weaknesses," Kathy muttered, continuing her work. "Yours being that cute new guy from Chargers." Paul smirked, straddling the nearby chair. "Something interesting?" "Yes." Her eyes still didn't break contact with the lens. "It seems that the vaccine's effect varies with the age of the infected subject." Receiving an encouraging node from Paul, she continued eagerly. "The younger the subject, the less vaccine is required to counteract the action of the virus. Considering that we've also found the correlation in responses from different sexes, we may be close to determining exactly how much vaccine is necessary for a certain person." As usual, Paul's eyes glazed over slightly when hearing of the scientific discoveries, and Kathy stopped abruptly, abandoning the microscope and paying full attention to her partner. "Your turn." He knew that she was indulging him, but he was grateful for it. All in all, he swore to take more interest in the experiment with which she'd been obsessed - the one that interested most of the branch and was vital to the future of the Project. But science was never his forte - while he had more than a passing knowledge of biology and chemistry, he had no desire to find out anything more about them. "We have a guest from D.C.," Paul announced instead. "And I am guessing, a new assignment." She watched his eyes dance with excitement, and smiled internally. Their partnership was younger than many others - they've been working together for only two years, yet they were incomparable in action, their skills and mindsets complementing each other. Kathy felt pride in being partnered with the best psychologist not only in California branch, but probably in the entire organization - and she knew that her medical expertise was often irreplaceable. Besides, the man was positively endearing in these moments, the anticipation of the new game, the preparation for the new hunt. "Let's go," Paul jumped off the chair, and held out the door for her impatiently. "These dead cells can wait until later." Sighing theatrically, Kathy walked out. Paul followed, falling slightly behind to watch his partner's confident gait, and wondering for thehundredth time how she managed to appear so much taller than she actually was. She turned around, red hair framing a face creased in a small frown. "Weren't you in a hurry?" Paul shook his head and caught up with her. Sometimes he thought that their communication was almost uncanny. He felt it ever since she walked into his office and extended her hand, presenting herself as his new partner. It was as if they knew each other in the previous life. * * * "Sometimes I think that tobacco actually improves your lungs," Paul tossed a greeting to the older man, settling down in the armchair, noting the rumpled suit and the gray bags under colorless eyes with concern. "How was your flight?" The guest from D.C. shrugged indifferently. "Same as usual. I've been told you were busy, so I decided to come here instead of calling you to the capital before time," he lit another cigarette, carefully directing the smoke away from their faces. "Besides, this one is important." He paused dramatically. "Vital, in fact." Two pairs of eyes focused on him intently. Satisfied that he had their full attention, Smoking Man proceeded. "Walter Sergei Skinner, Assistant Director of the FBI," he pulled out a thick file. "Once an agreeable man, but bothersome as of lately. In the last couple of years, he's become quite a problem." "No possibility of taking him out?" Paul studied the photograph carefully, appraising the high forehead, determined set of the jaw, intelligent eyes behind thick glasses. The gears in his mind already started processing the information, mental profile of the man half-written in the eidetic pages of his stellar memory. "No. And since he'd been focused on one of our operations, currently in process, we need to deflect his attention. At least temporarily." "Next phase of testing the vaccine?" Kathy inquired, raising an eyebrow, understandably upset. "How did he get a whiff of that?" Smoking Man cringed with displeasure. "He has some personal interest in interfering with the Project." In answer to an unspoken question, he waved his hand tiredly. "It's a long story, and someday I will tell it to you." "We'll hold you to that," Paul closed the file resolutely, knowing that he would have to come back to it later and read everything once again in detail. But for now, there were other matters to attend to. "Are you here for awhile?" he asked the older man. "Leaving tomorrow," the Smoking Man took another drag on the cigarette. "I won't take anymore of your time," he stood up and picked up his old briefcase. "Though I'd much prefer to spend November in San Diego, but duties call." "Why don't you come over for dinner?" Kathy suggested quickly. "I will cook your favorite. Paul, you too." The Smoking Man blinked, embarrassed at the invitation. He never could get used to the friendliness with which he was always greeted here. "Oh... that... yes, of course." With a passing smile, he glanced in Kathy's warm blue eyes, disbelieving once again that this woman could ever have been his enemy. This particular experiment was a staggering success - he would have to commend the doctor who performed the operation. So much better than a simple, detestable murder. Perhaps due to his lack of friends, the Smoking Man knew how to respect his enemies. He would have to tell the doctor to transfer the knowledge to his colleagues - one never knew when death would visit, after all. Paul and Kathy grinned at each other, pleased as always with their constant efforts in making their colleague more sociable. San Diego was a young branch, and the elders visiting here were treated with special respect and attention. "Later, then." He stepped out of the office and leaned against the wall momentarily, struggling for composure. Recovery time was always necessary after these conversations with Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. No, he corrected himself, Paul Bartlett and Kathy Mott. The dinner tonight would be more difficult than normal. * * * Paul had to laugh at Kathy's antics. She seemed as equally vibrant and fulfilled in front of a stove as she was huddled over a microscope. Her flaming red hair tied back in a loose ponytail, she raced around the tiny kitchen, measuring flour and water with an accuracy that couldbe described as no less than scientific. He leaned back on the couch, watching her. He had offered to help her cook, but she had tersely informed him that the Kraft Dinner wasn't exactly what she had in mind. Rebuked, Paul was content to smile at the sight of his partner in an oversized apron that read, "Kiss the Cook", constructing some sort of exotic delicacy with a name he couldn't even pronounce. "You never fail to astound me, Kathy," Paul said. "With my outstanding domestic prowess?" Kathy's grinning head popped into the doorway of the living room. "With your outstanding anal retentiveness," Paul shot back. "Got a problem with organization, Paul?" She turned away slightly as a clatter of pots and pans sounded from behind her. "Hey Kathy?" "Yeah?" "Do you schedule sex, too?' She stuck her tongue out at him, then disappeared back into the kitchen. He turned the file over in his hand. Something about the case bothered him. He had never met this Walter Sergei Skinner, but he was already strangely fascinated by the profile he had constructed. Once again, he glanced over the eyes of the man in the photograph, sparkling with an acerbic sternness. Haunted, Paul thought. He looked haunted. No doubt his tour of duty with the Marines had strongly shaped him. He was tough, hard as nails, and as impassioned about his work as Paul and Kathy were about theirs. A good man, he decided, and a worthy enemy. Such a pity that he was on the wrong side. "What are you thinking about?" Kathy's sleeves were rolled up, her thin arms covered in flour. There was another speck of white on the tip of her nose - he reached up and flicked it off. "Work," he sighed, "I'm contributing to the Project, unlike *some* people I could mention." "I'm contributing to the Project!" Kathy laughed, leaning over the couch to stare at the photo. "Honestly, how often do you think our Washington friend gets to have a decent homemade meal?" "That's my Kathy Mott. Selflessly devoting herself to the Grand Cause of preventing the Elders from starving to death." Her expression turned serious as she looked to the file. "So, Paul, what sort of devious plans did you have in mind for our Mr. Skinner?" Paul rolled his eyes. "We'll have to be creative here. There isn't much our colleagues haven't already tried." He flipped to another page. "Look at this. Framed for the murder of a prostitute, survived an assassination attempt by one Luis Cardinale, implicated in several mysterious deaths..." Kathy readjusted her ponytail, her eyes scanning the page along with Paul. "It's a big assignment, Kathy. Makes you wonder why they wouldn't send someone more experienced." He shrugged. "It's... flattering, actually." "I'll say." She flopped onto the couch beside him. He turned back to the picture on the first page. Paul could honestly say that he was captivated by something in the photograph. "He looks so--" "--constipated," Kathy said, giggling. She sounded like a schoolgirl. He closed the file as she made her way back to the kitchen. * * * "I believe in the extreme methods as much you do, Kathy," Paul gestured with his fork, lost in the heat of the dispute. "But violence is not an answer to everything." "It is clean and it doesn't lead to complications," she answered with conviction. "Think of the inconvenient person as of a tumor. You may treat it with radiation, chemotherapy, or designer antibiotics, and in some cases, it will even help. But the best option is to simply excise the cancerous mass before it metastasizes." Paul snorted. "It's not exactly subtle. The knife may get rid of the tumor, but it leaves a wound in its wake." "Sooner or later, wounds are healed. But sometimes, other ways of dealing with the problem are about as effective as a new age remedy." He laughed suddenly, amused at Kathy's pained grimace. "I am amazed you haven't become a surgeon." "That's because dead people complain less when I use the aforementioned knife." She smiled, turning her gaze to the other guest. "More wine?" The Smoking Man accepted the gracious offer silently, feeling almost inadequate to participate in the argument taking place in front of him. Often, he thought that he didn't know these two people, that he had no keys to their hearts, no comprehension of their minds. And sometimes, he was afraid of them - the most unfamiliar sensation. "Have you had a chance to look over the file?" he tried to change the topic. "Yes," Paul rubbed his forehead. "Will we have access to the FBI building?" he asked vaguely, evaluating the situation from all angles. The Smoking Man shook his head. "That won't be possible." Paul nodded thoughtfully, mildly curious about the reasons behind this limitation, but trusting the elder to make the best judgement. More often than not, fake passes and false ID pictures were simply there for the asking, though he agreed that in more delicate cases, such as this one, discretion was more important. "Walter Skinner is an excellent example why violence doesn't always work," Paul glanced at Kathy meaningfully. "But I can offer an alternative... something more subtle." "Use his family or friends?" she suggested offhandedly. "I don't think he has any." "But he used to." He left the table to pick up the thick folder, leafing through it quickly. "These two agents he used to supervise who disappeared... Mulder and Scully..." "Wait," Kathy picked up his train of thought immediately. "Walter Skinner has been visiting the Bureau counselor regularly since their disappearances. Could they have affected him so much?" Paul's eyes glinted enthusiastically. "It's obvious that he has been investigating this matter on the side. All we have to do is make him believe that Mulder and Scully are still alive, send him on some dead-end trails..." "...And there is no way he will be able to concentrate on anything else," she finished for him. The older man steepled his hands, hiding a sad smile behind his fingers, mutely agreeing with Kathy's position on the value of simple violence. Two years ago, he voted against staging the murders of Mulder and Scully, but at this moment, he pitied Walter Skinner and his misguided bull-headed search for the two agents. Because the Assistant Director was about to be engaged in the game of cat and mouse that would probably cost him another shred of his heart. "Brilliant," was all he said aloud. After all, he could expect no less from the partners. Paul shrugged, satisfied with having found a solution to the problem. Kathy beamed at her guests, gathering the empty plates, disappearing into the kitchen. "Dessert?" her eyes sparkled as she re-entered, and the two men nodded agreeably. The dinner proceeded in companionable silence. ~*~ Act II: Visual and Auditory Phenomena Skinner stared at his own hand, clasped around the metal doorknob. The fluorescent lights gave his skin a sickly, yellow-orange cast, a color in perfect harmony with the faintly antiseptic smell of the hallway. They had taken great pains to make this place... comfortable. The walls were painted in soft shades of turquoise and pink, accented by large plants placed strategically in various corners. It was all so carefully planned, as if to ensure that the proper impression was given - this was not a psychiatric hospital. It was a rest home. The glare of the fluorescent lights destroyed that impression. He opened the door. She sat on the bed, facing away from him, her long, dark hair in tangles over the back of her sky blue terrycloth bathrobe. Her tiny room was almost bare, the only light a pale, waning glow from the barred window. "Mrs. Scully?" Skinner's voice was soft, cautious. He didn't want to alarm her. She turned, slowly. He had been apprehensive before - ever since he had gotten the call - afraid of the insanity that would no doubt be present in her eyes. But now - now he was just confused. He had only met Margaret Scully a few times, but he had always sensed that she was as stable, as stoic as her youngest daughter. He had admired her for that - few people he knew were as consistent. She looked no different, now. She stood up, moving slowly, cautiously. "Call me Margaret," she said. He closed the door slowly. "It was... um... it was good of you to come." "They said you were asking for me." Margaret motioned for him to sit down in the wooden chair by the bed. They both remained standing. "I didn't know who else I could talk to," Margaret said, finally. "About..." The words were strange, unfamiliar. "Dana?" The older woman nodded. "Dana, and Fox." "What happened... Margaret? How did you get here?" She leaned against the wall, the light emphasizing the lines in her face. She looked old, weary. "I...checked myself in." She laughed, a dark, bitter sound. "I was so afraid..." "What-" He trailed off. She would tell him - he needed to be patient. "I don't expect you to understand." Margaret sniffed, brushing at her eyes. "Mr. Skinner... I know how strange this is going to sound... I know... you have no reason to believe me..." "You'd be surprised at what I'd believe," Skinner said solemnly. "I've seen them." * * * Later, they sat together in the cafeteria. Margaret stabbed undecisively at a lump of greenish-gray meat. "So... now I'm a crazy, I guess." Her plastic knife was ridiculously ineffective against the unidentifiable hospital food. Skinner looked down at his own plate, piled with a similar substance. The meat was an X-File in itself. He sipped at his coffee instead. "Margaret," he began, "You know I have never, for a moment, believed... Dana and Fox to be dead." "It was them." She pushed the plate away, disgusted. "I *saw* them. They looked exactly the same, both of them. The same, but... but different, somehow. They didn't recognize me." "Whatever you want to believe-" With a ferocious intensity, she slammed her fist into the table. "I *know* it was them, Mr. Skinner." Her voice was quiet, but her eyes were fierce and unwavering. "I know..." and then a faint mist drew over her gaze, and she reached her hand up to wipe away a tear. "That's why I'm here." For a moment, he didn't speak. "I know that this must be a very difficult time for you," he started, "It's difficult for me too. I've been talking to someone - if you want, maybe, I could get you an appointment - " "Don't you see?" Margaret once again looked drained, defeated. "I lost my husband, and my older daughter, and God knows I've almost lost Dana so many times..." She lowered her head. "It was her. Or..." Her dark eyes met Skinner's. "Or I really am crazy." Skinner opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. * * * "Sir, it doesn't look likely that Dr. Hassen was involved in dealing drugs," Agent Holmes received a nod from Skinner to continue. "Despite the fact that amount of cocaine found was enough to satisfy a small army of addicts, we think the bags were deposited in his car at the time of the shooting." "So that his death would be attributed to the wrong sources," Agent Marsel confirmed. "There are no Dr. Hassen's fingerprints on the bags with cocaine, but there were no gloves anywhere in the car or on his persona. Moreover, reconstructing his profile, I can scarcely imagine him being involved in the drug business. It's only a hunch, but..." Skinner sighed, absently rubbing his temples. Wrong sources. Hunches. Extreme possibilities. This conversation was like a replay of so many others he used to have when the X-Files division was still open... Shaking himself mentally, he tried to forget the unwanted comparisons, visiting Margaret Scully, and the two agents that he was responsible for. "Do you have anything concrete?" He spoke quietly. "Something more than hunches?" The partners glanced at each other nervously. "No, sir," Agent Holmes said quickly, her hands clutching the armrests of the chair. "However, Dr. Hassen worked in the Alderwood Medical Center, where he may have been involved in some extracurricular experiments..." Skinner shot an annoyed look at his secretary who stepped in the office before the agent could continue. She smiled apologetically, giving him a small envelope with the word "URGENT" written across it in a crisp black script. "Sir, this was just delivered from the mail room. I thought it may be important." Skinner nodded his thanks, wishing to get back to the conversation at hand, but ripping the envelope impatiently. After reading the first sentence, he clutched the piece of paper in his hands, willing the shaking to subside. Several minutes passed in silence, disrupted only by Agent Holmes' delicate cough. "Sir, is anything wrong?" Skinner passed a hand over his face, looking up at the partners. "Agents..." his voice was low and he made a conscious effort to regain his composure. He needed to be alone to process everything that happened in the last few days without interruptions, and he needed to evaluate this new development rationally. "Please continue with your investigation, and we will talk again tomorrow." Agent Marsel nodded, relieved that this inquisition would be postponed, and tugged at his partner's sleeve. The two left the room hurriedly, and Skinner pulled out a thick folder with investigative reports from two years ago. The pictures of Dana Scully's trashed apartment were difficult to behold even now. But the pictures of Fox Mulder's relatively undisturbed apartment were, perhaps, even more disquieting. It was as if he was willing to leave, as if at the very end, it was his choice. Back then, Skinner was alone in his conviction that Mulder's disappearance was not a voluntary action. And today, he was probably the only one still working on finding the whereabouts of the vanished partners. Exhausted, Skinner stared once again at the letter in front of him. "You are seeking information about the two missing agents. Tonight, 11 p.m., underground parking lot of the Downtown Hilton. Just you - and me." Brief and to the point. Teasing and callous. This could be a real lead. Or it could be a trap. His instinct couldn't decide which way to go. In the end, he knew that he had little choice. Even if someone led him by the leash, he had to come to this clandestine meeting. He owed it to Mulder and Scully. He owed it to Margaret. He owed it to himself. * * * "Sloppy job with Dr. Hassen," Kathy commented calmly as she watched the black and white surveillance film. "We'll have to mention it to the Elders." Paul nodded agreeably, pouring himself a glass of ice tea. "But what beautiful timing," he pointed out, pleased with the effect the letter had on Walter Skinner. "This is better than horror movies," Kathy replied, enthralled. "Too bad we don't have popcorn," Paul sat down beside her, rubbing his left shoulder absently. The old gunshot wound sometimes bothered him in the wet Novembers of Washington D.C., reminding him of the operation gone wrong and of a long chase through the alleys, culminating with the whistle of the bullet in his ears. Someone screaming, "No!" Hitting the ground and a stream of hot blood staining his clothes... Kathy's small fingers massaged the scar tenderly, taking the pain away. Falling fast, as if from a great height, down into the gentle arms of his partner, her soothing words through the fog of the fever, the feeling of loss and sadness so great that he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't... "Paul?" Kathy's worried eyes swam into view, and he gasped, trying to ward off the strange vision. "You all right?" she repeated, her hand still on his shoulder, shaking him lightly. "Fine," Paul replied quickly, smiling in reassurance. What was that? He didn't even have a partner back then... "Is everything ready for tonight?" he asked, switching the topic. "Yes," she nodded. "I can't wait." He chuckled, focusing again on the screen and a picture of Walter Skinner who was seemingly mesmerized by some old photographs. "These Mulder and Scully... they must have been important to him," he observed, wondering once again what kind of a relationship could have possibly existed between the two agents and the Assistant Director. Skinner was respectful and attentive, yet somewhat indifferent to Agents Holmes and Marsel... "You hit on the right note, Paul," Kathy smiled, enjoying the show. "Well done, partner." * * * Walter Skinner never would have guessed that he would one day be standing in an underground parking lot, waiting for yet another shadowy informant to lead him down yet another dead end. He leaned against the wall, eyes scanning the darkness for any sense of movement. The parking garage was hot, stiflingly, suffocatingly hot, and the smell of gas and oil choked the air. He looked at his watch. A quarter to twelve. Nothing. Nothing, but he was still waiting. It was the sort of thing Mulder would do. Mulder wouldn't leave. He would stay and wait all night if need be, if only to prove his commitment to The Truth. It should have been Mulder standing here, waiting. Footsteps sounded lightly over the cement floor. He saw nothing at first, and then the darkness seemed to coalesce, forming arms, legs, a hat tipped over a shadowed face. "Mr. Skinner." His hand reached for his gun, and he stepped forward to meet the stranger. "So glad you could make it." The man's voice was a quiet hiss, mocking. "I regret that I could not have been more punctual." Skinner's eyes were slowly adjusting to the low light. It didn't help that the man was dressed entirely in black. He looked to be young, perhaps in his early thirties, Asian, slight of build, nondescript. Weren't they all nondescript? "Who are you?" The stranger tilted his hat even lower. "That's not for you to ask, Mr. Skinner." "You said you had information. About Mulder and Scully." He almost choked on the last sentence. After two years, it was still a fresh wound. "Perhaps." "What do you want from me?" He spat out the words - a bitter taste. "Your employer already owns my soul." The man laughed. "I want nothing from you, Mr. Skinner. Only for you to know the truth." "Where have I heard that before?" No response. Skinner grabbed the man by the collar of his coat and flung him hard against the wall. "Don't play games with me. I've had enough." The man squeezed out a tight smile. "They're still alive," he said. "Where are they?" "Let me down." Reluctantly, Skinner released his grip on the younger man. "They're closer than you think." "Where are they?" "That's your job, isn't it? I give you clues, and you find them." His teeth flashed, bright white in the darkness. "You've given me nothing." "Quite contrary, Mr. Skinner, I've told you everything." He sighed, turning slightly. "I was told to give you a message." "From whom?" Another guarded smile. "I was told to tell you that the truth is out there." Skinner stood there, unable to move. The stranger laughed, and as his laugh faded, he sunk further into the shadows. "Wait!" Skinner ran to catch up with him. The man stopped. "What do you want?" "What do I call you?" A pair of heavily lidded eyes peered towards him. "You don't," the stranger said. "But-" "I'll be in touch." And then he was gone. Paralyzed, Skinner listened to the echoes of fleeing footsteps in the parking lot. * * * Kathy exploded into a fit of giggling that seemed only vaguely incompatible with her usual calm, practical bearing. "The truth is out there," she mimicked, "The truth is out there... Paul, did you see the *look* on his face?" Paul smirked, and said nothing. "Oh, rewind the tape. I have to see that again." His eyes narrowed as he watched the tiny figures circle each other in the darkness of the parking garage. He had to admit - it was terribly funny. Martin Ng was one of their best - and he had been in top form tonight. "Too bad we don't have some old photos to give to him," Paul said, "Maybe of his agents floating face down in a cloning tank... that would have been priceless." "Too dangerous." Kathy studied the screen. "God, I wish I could have been there." Paul laughed. "Next time, Kathy, *you* can be the shadowy informant." She clapped her hands together in mock excitement. "Oh, can I? Can I?" On the screen, Skinner was speaking again. "What do I call you?" "You don't!" Kathy shrieked. "Oh, I could *never* do that with a straight face." "You can't look at vaccine slides with a straight face, Kathy." "I just... can't wait..." Kathy hit pause as the camera captured Skinner's baffled expression. "To see what he does when he gets into the office in the morning." Paul lay a hand on her shoulder. "I'll run out and buy the popcorn." * * * The package was plain, sans return address, same black letters beside his name: "URGENT." Skinner pulled on the latex gloves and ripped the carton. White plastic rubbish poured on his table, revealing a small, tastefully decorated white box. The typewritten note attached to it read, "The Truth is in me." All of a sudden, he didn't want to open the box. He couldn't do this. He wanted to treat this like any other case, where there were some answers to be found, and some solutions to be put down on paper. He didn't want to be led around on a string like a puppet, dutifully obeying strange informants who actually laughed in his face while spewing forth some vague leads. He wanted to run to his superior and tell him that he couldn't work on this case, it was too difficult, it was too close to him. His only superior was the Director of FBI, and the man seemed almost relieved that the two maverick agents would no longer present him with any more possible problems. Now he understood why surgeons couldn't operate on their relatives and friends. Skinner fingered the top gently, then opened it up, trying to distance himself from whatever he would find inside, preparing for any horrific surprises, even Jack-in-a-Box. Inside, the box was just as elegant as outside. Dark chocolate velvet covered the walls. There was a small note with an address written on it. The music registered centuries later. It was a vaguely familiar tune of some old popular song, wistful and light. He couldn't recognize it. Was the song a clue? For that matter, was there a secret compartment in a box? He took out a small pocketknife, preparing to cut through the velvet. "This is a lovely piece," the voice in Skinner's ears startled him, and he dropped the knife on the floor with a loud bang. "I must compliment your taste." "What do you want," Skinner grumbled, closing the box and glancing briefly at the Smoking Man. "Where did you find it?" Why did he want to know? "My niece gave it to me," he lied easily. "Do you not like her?" the Smoking Man sat down, uninvited. "Is that why you were going to chop it up into little pieces?" Skinner put the knife back into his pocket. "I wasn't. You didn't answer my question." The older man focused at some point in the wall and shook his head, smiling, a truly friendly expression on his face. "Kids with their toys..." His smile faded as he looked back at Skinner. "So how are you doing, Walter?" Skinner gaped at him. "I don't have time for chit-chats." "You never call, you never write." The Smoking Man appeared chagrined. "How long has it been since our last meeting?" "I forgot to mark my calendar," Skinner stood up and turned away, hoping to signal the message. "Please make an appointment with my secretary next time you want to speak with me." "I can't," he took out a cigarette. "She doesn't know my name." "Use secret code," Skinner suggested helpfully. "Shadowy conspirator double-oh seven." "I know when I am not wanted," he blew out a perfect circle of gray smoke, and stood up. "Don't let your dates keep you up late." Skinner stared at him morosely, wondering if the man ever spoke in plain language. All of Mulder's informants probably learned the craft of artful bullshit from him, and his new "messenger" was of the same ilk if not worse. "I wish I knew what you were talking about." "Please, Mr. Skinner," the Smoking Man looked vaguely insulted. "You certainly do." After his departure, Skinner opened up the box again and listened to the plaintive tune. For two years, there was nothing - no leads, no clues, no answers, no mysterious letters, no informants. All the activity of the last few days was somewhat suspicious... yet, heartening. When did Mulder and Scully become so important to him? Why would he give up years of his life just to see them sitting in these chairs, just to listen to Mulder's outrageous theories toned down by Scully's rational ones? It was dangerous to keep up hope. It was worse not to be able to hope. Suddenly, he wanted to cry. Skinner picked up the phone and dialed a number that he didn't want to memorize - didn't want to get used to. "Margaret Scully, please." "This is Margaret," she sounded reassuringly calm, and Skinner sighed in relief. Margaret Scully didn't seem to ever change, even in a psychiatric hospital. Or whatever they wanted to call it. "This is Walter Skinner," he paused, unsure of what it was he wanted to ask. "I am sorry to bother you." "Don't apologize," she seemed to smile. "Did something happen?" "No," he answered quickly. "I just wanted to find out... a few more details about your meeting with Dana and Fox," if there was a meeting, he amended mentally. "If you don't mind telling me..." She sighed. "I don't mind. What do you want to know?" "You said they were different. How?" Margaret was silent for a moment, composing her thoughts. "They were blissfully happy. There are no sad people in San Diego, but... don't misunderstand me, Mr. Skinner. God knows there were enough tragedies in their lives to break weaker people, yet I believe they were happy, in their own way. But I've never seen them behave quite like this - as if they hadn't a care in the world, as if... they owned it. As if nothing bad had ever happened to them." Maybe, afterlife was in California, Skinner thought darkly. "What is that music in the background?" she asked suddenly, a tremor in her voice. "A musical box. A present from my niece," he laughed. "I can't recognize the melody." It took him awhile to realize she was crying softly. His heart performed a clumsy pirouette and fell. "Margaret?" "Beyond the Sea," her voice was rough, thick with tears. "My husband and I... Dana loved that song. Excuse me." Skinner put the receiver down gently, working through the mess of clues in his head. The truth is out there. They're closer than you think. The truth is in me. Dana loved that song. "Somewhere beyond the sea," he whispered to no one. The room was suddenly warmer than it'd been before - as if the presence of two ghosts from the past touched it in passing. When his secretary came in, she found her boss staring at the open white box, listening to some silly tune - and she was quite certain that she was born after the song was written. "Sir," she felt as if she had to shout to reach him, but her voice came out shaky, instead. "Agents Holmes and Marsel requested a meeting. They wanted a search warrant?" "I really don't think they need one," Skinner sounded miles away. "I will talk to them later." ~*~ Act III: Somewhere Beyond The Sea The laughter echoing from the small room was as infectious as it was startling, and the Smoking Man wondered when was the last time someone had this much fun in this facility. Paul Bartlett and Kathy Mott elevated the conspiracy to art, and art to absurdity, each operation performed with startling ease. he heard Paul say once. And he wondered if the current work in progress would destroy Walter Skinner. Not that he cared. "You deserve an Oscar for this cameo," Kathy stood up as he entered the room, giving him a round of applause. "Brava, bravissimo," Paul joined her enthusiastically. "This was a marvelous improvisation." The Smoking Man waved his hand in mock exasperation. "I haven't prepared an acceptance speech anyway. What's in the sequel?" he pointed to the tape. "A scavenger hunt," Paul leaned back in his chair watching as the computer scanned through the database. He told himself that it would be extremely helpful to know who Mulder and Scully were; moreover, he was becoming increasingly curious. But it was as if they'd never existed - there wasn't a scrap of information to be found about them. "Did you know them?" "Mulder and Scully?" The Smoking Man watched calmly as the search came up empty, once again. "Yes - there are few in this organization who didn't." "Tell us about them." "They were an inconvenience," he replied honestly. "Mulder was a believer in the existence of alien life. Charismatic, sharp, brilliant, even though his head was in the clouds most of the time. Scully was a scientist, more of a skeptic, loyal and honest. Their dedication to the search for the truth was equally beneficial and dangerous for us. Disastrous even." Paul smiled wistfully at the description. "She sounds like you, Kathy." "No," she hit the pause button. "I am not a skeptic." "They were excellent partners," the Smoking Man continued, lost in recollections. "A force to be reckoned with. As much as I believe in your talents, you wouldn't come up with a successful scenario to separate them." Kathy's expression was faintly chastising. "Don't give him a challenge." Paul's eyes were innocent. "It's not that much of a brain teaser. All partnerships are based on trust - you just have to find a way to break it. And there is always... a way to find someone's darkest fears, and to make one's partner into the enemy." The Smoking Man smiled enigmatically. "Some partnerships cannot be broken. In the end, I wouldn't even attempt to do that." "Please, the people are gone," Kathy pointed out. "There is no point in discussing how to separate them." Paul ignored the remark as his fingers beat out a nervous rhythm on the table. "If everyone in this organization knew of Mulder and Scully... why didn't we?" The Smoking Man took a deep drag on the cigarette, trying to conceal the slight quiver in his voice. "San Diego is far from here." He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "It probably didn't concern you." "Beyond the Sea," Kathy's voice held an edge of awe. Paul looked up. "What?" "That's what it was, 'Beyond the Sea,'" she whispered. "When I found this box and played this melody, I knew I heard it somewhere before... I had to buy it." Paul's hand was suddenly draped over her shoulders, and she realized that tears were poring down her cheeks. "What's wrong with me?" She hit the stop button, getting rid of the music, genuinely astonished at her reaction. Her partner frowned, not replying. If he could, he would console her, but he'd never seen her cry before. Baffled, he turned to the Smoking Man who watched the scene with interest but no real surprise. "Watch the hunt from a distance," the older man threw over his shoulder while exiting. "Remember, the key is not to get involved." * * * //Somewhere beyond the sea, Somewhere, waiting for me, My lover stands on golden sands And watches the ships that go sailing// "Sir?" Marsel's dark eyes watched him intently from beneath thick lashes. Skinner shook his head, trying to pay attention. They were so young, both of them - just kids, really. He wondered when it was that he had gotten old enough to think of them as kids. "Sorry." Skinner's glance darted to the little white box. "That's nice," Holmes said, without any real conviction. "Thank you." "About the warrant," Marsel began, then stopped. "Sir, you seem..." He trailed off. Still nervous - still young. "Distracted," Holmes finished. Skinner gave a small smile, oddly touched by the way they finished each other's sentences. The expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I see no cause for a search warrant," Skinner said, "Your prime suspect is dead. In fact -- I see no reason why the case should even remain open. Do you have any evidence at all?" "Whatever happened to intuition?" Marsel asked. "I don't believe in intuition." Skinner's voice came out much more snappish than he intended it. "I want hard, solid evidence." "Sir--" Holmes swallowed, as apprehensive as her partner. "Sir, *something* is going on at the Alderwood Medical Center. I - *we* - want to know what that something is." She tried to meet Skinner's eyes, but the gesture was unsuccessful. "Please." Skinner said nothing for a long time. Finally he sighed - the weariness looming over him with such a strong presence that he was half-convinced Holmes and Marsel could *see* it. "The warrant will be waiting for you at the end of the day." His voice was cool, controlled - the Smoking Man would have been proud. "Thank you, sir." He noticed Holmes picking at her fingernail - the dark red polish was slightly chipped. "That will be all." The two agents stood - Marsel left immediately; Holmes lingered by the door. She was staring at something on a little table. "Sir - can I ask you something?" "Yes, Agent Holmes?" "Why do you have an ashtray on this table when there's a no-smoking sign on your desk?" Under other circumstances, Skinner might have laughed. Her innocent comment should have darkened his mood, but in fact it had quite the opposite effect. "Agent Holmes..." He closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring up a face ingrained in his mind, even after two years. "That's why they put the I in FBI." She gave a crooked smile, not quite getting the joke, nodded to him, and slipped out the door. When he heard it close behind her, he returned to his desk, slumping bonelessly into his chair. He lifted the lid of the small white box, the tune filtering into his ears, the words forming in his head. //We'll meet beyond the shore, We'll kiss just as before. Happy we'll be beyond the sea, And never again I'll go sailing!// He picked up the note and traced one finger over the address. 57 I Street NW. * * * "Sir?" He lifted his head, blowing out a long stream of gray smoke. Distraction wasn't good - in his business, it could be fatal. He stared at the too-eager young man sitting at the table across from him. Martin Ng took another swig of Scotch. It wasn't his drink of choice - the smoker could tell by the wince on the younger man's face. Still - it would do, apparently. "You've done a good job, Martin." A slight blush rose in the kid's face, barely visible in the darkness of the bar. "That... wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about." The Smoking Man nodded. "What did you want to talk to me about, Martin?" He was impatient, though he had nothing more pressing to do tonight. "Paul and Kathy." The names slipped off Martin's tongue effortlessly - the smoker felt a vague pang of envy. Even now, it was difficult. "They're too close." "Are they?" He felt the dark eyes search his face for any trace of emotion. "I took care of the records. But... they're not children, sir. They'll find out." He took a puff of his cigarette. "No," he kept his voice deliberately even, "No, I don't think they will." "I worry about you, you know. About them." "The situation is under control." For a moment, he almost believed that Martin would buy that. One glance in the young man's eyes dispelled any illusions. This was a man intolerant of secrets. This was a new breed of conspirator - honest in his ruthlessness, bold and unafraid. The smoker looked forward to the day when he and his colleagues would pass on the torch to Martin - to Paul and to Kathy - with an equal measure of foreboding and relief. Paul and Kathy. One day he would be buried in the ground, and they would run the world from the smoky room on 46th Street. That thought chilled him to the bone as much as it warmed his heart. The sound of Martin clearing his throat broke him from his reverie. "And what would you suggest?" He was aware of how weary he sounded. "This could be turned to our advantage." He put out his cigarette in the ashtray, nodding for Martin to continue. "Nothing would distract Skinner more than catching a glimpse of what he seeks the most." The young man offered a thin smile. "And realizing what it has become." * * * Cold wind picked up the brown leaves and swept them at Skinner's feet. Half a moon shone dully on the gray building, reflecting in the broken windows. The door opened with a mournful screech, the sound of abandoned houses and ghostly memories. Cobwebs caressed his face, and the dust seeped into his lungs. Broken chairs surrounded a three-legged table, the remnants of rotting food lay on the ground. It served as a home for homeless not too long ago. And now it served as a playground for Catch 101. With a sigh of disappointment, he stepped up the creaky stairs that led to the second floor. What exactly did he expect when he came to this address? A yellow-brick road to the city of Oz? Yes, he answered himself cynically, and a couple of red slippers. If not for the pale glow of the streetlight, he wouldn't have noticed the arrow on the floor. The last message was carved in the windowsill and the first words caused his neck to snap, as he looked up and around. SOMEONE IS ALWAYS WATCHING. More or less satisfied that he was alone in the tiny old place, Skinner read the next sentence. ALEXANDRIA IS LOVELY THIS TIME OF YEAR. Nothing was in Alexandria except for Mulder's old apartment - which was probably rented out to someone else by now, unless the bad reputation preceded the place where informants died. Feeling as if he were trying to catch his own tail, Skinner walked out of the house and stepped into his car. He was halfway to Alexandria when he realized where he was heading. Where would he draw the line before he stopped being a willing target in this hunt? Someone is always watching. The chilling message had a purpose other than simply alerting him that he might be followed, though he began to track the cars behind him almost unconsciously. And unless this was a nostalgic tour of the past, Skinner doubted that he was expected to come knocking on that door. In this game, every word and every sound had its own cryptic meaning - layers and layers of secrets to be deciphered. Shadows moved in the windows of Mulder's old place. Stifling the urge to walk up the stairs and knock on the door where nothing would greet him but disinterested faces of strangers, Skinner dragged his gaze to the opposite side of the street. To be confronted by a view of the old abandoned house, its second story windows situated directly across apartment 42. A perfect place for watching. Another arrow on the floor greeted him upstairs. Floorboards complained and shadows scattered as he walked to the window. "It certainly took you long enough." Skinner flinched, recognizing the soft hiss of his informant. "What kind of a sick game is this?" "If you didn't want to play, you wouldn't be here." A smile played over the sharp features. "I've been waiting for you." "So sorry to have inconvenienced you," Skinner spit out. "You could have simply told me the right address and time." "I believed in your investigative ability." There was no condescension in the younger man's expression. "But I am afraid you are not using it to full capacity." "What's that supposed to mean?" Skinner stepped away from his informant's breath, tinged slightly with alcohol. The man followed, leaning in closer, shoving a piece of paper in Skinner's hand. "If you ever get tired driving from one address to the next, look at the one real clue that you have," he whispered, looking around nervously. "What clue?" The room grew even darker as the light across the street was extinguished, and the silhouettes disappeared. Skinner had been watching the windows just as someone had watched Mulder on the night before he was gone. The thought sickened him, and he felt the iron control slip, the next question falling from his lips involuntarily. "Why don't you just tell me where they are?" The informant grinned, showing his teeth, drawing back. "Who seeks shall always find, Mr. Skinner." His steps were feather-light as he ran downstairs. Back in his car, Skinner looked at the latest address in passing, throwing it aside in exasperation. Wearily, he picked up the musical box and turned it over in his hands, wondering if perhaps cutting it up with a pocketknife wasn't the best idea in the first place. Under the unflattering glare of streetlights, he could see the defects and scrapes on the white surface. It was exquisite and tasteful, but old - a unique creation one would find at the antique shop, not at the mall. The force of revelation was enough to send his pulse racing. At home, Skinner armed himself with Yellow Pages and wrote down the addresses of twenty-something popular antique shops in the area. The one real clue. The one solution to the puzzle. It was a long shot, but perhaps the only chance he had if he wanted to bend the rules of the game. * * * Holmes glanced at her partner unhappily, only to be met by an equally miserable expression. "He didn't leave us a search warrant?" Skinner's secretary shrugged her shoulders in apology. "I don't think so." Marsel searched the empty surface of the desk once again. "Are you sure?" They sounded like two children deprived of the favorite toy. "Pretty sure," she nodded. "He departed in a hurry - he will probably have it ready for you tomorrow." She watched as they bid hasty goodbyes and left the office in defeat. "Skinner won't give us the warrant," Holmes whispered once they were out of the reception room. "He was busy today," Marsel's voice was devoid of conviction. "We should wait until tomorrow." Holmes stabbed the button of the elevator angrily. "Let's just say... that's as long as I am willing to wait." Marsel looked in her eyes full of steely determination. "I know." * * * Paul paced around the room, restless. The chill that came last night brought light snow in the morning, and he stopped at the window to watch the flakes settle on the ground, a feeling of familiarity settling over him pleasantly. Familiarity? "I wish we lived here, Kathy." His partner looked up from the medical journal. "Why?" "It feels like home," he explained, now uneasy. "I grew up in California," he muttered, to no one. "Me too - the first Christmas I remember, I asked my mother what was the white stuff under a tree, and she said snow," Kathy smiled at the memory. "I hadn't seen the real snow until I went North to the university." "You must miss her." "That will sound strange, but - I don't," Kathy's eyes narrowed as if she was contemplating a curious puzzle instead of the memory of her parents who died when she was nineteen. She glanced over at Paul, seeing a frown settle on his face and hastily apologizing for her callousness. "I must have blocked it out. I don't even remember their funerals." "No," Paul's hand reached out to soothe her. "You were young - it's understandable." "I wish we could do more than direct the game," Kathy changed the topic swiftly, uncomfortable. "We can't bug every place we send him to." "Why can't we go inside the FBI building?" Paul questioned in tone. "I've always wanted a chance to visit - at least as a tourist." "Why must we stay away?" The partners stared at each other, two pairs of curious eyes full of questions, impatient for answers. Kathy was the first one to break the silence, standing up decisively and grabbing the keys to the car. "Come on. We are going for a drive." Paul shrugged inside the coat, his eyebrows still creased in a frown. "Kathy, I remember every page of every one of Sigmund Freud's books, and I don't even subscribe to his theories," he started, falling short. Seeing the encouragement to continue, he inhaled deeply, the next words pouring out in a flood. "But I have no recollection of my parents' funerals either. For that matter, I don't even remember what they died of." * * * It was the ninth store he had visited that day, and he was beginning to loathe the clutter, the narrow walls filled with junk that seemed to close in on him, the dusty, musky air that spoke of centuries past, memories forgotten. This antique store was empty, save for the elderly woman at the counter. Not likely to be a conspirator, Skinner thought, although, one never knew. He looked around, anxious, then approached her. "Can I help you?" "Um..." The ninth time he had done this, and he was still not exactly sure how to proceed. "I was hoping... that you could help me." She sniffed. In the light of a Tiffany lamp, the tiny white hairs above her mouth glistened - she seemed made of cobwebs and mothballs. He brought out the box, lay it on the counter. One bony, wrinkled claw snapped over it, lifted it and drew it close to the glinting blue eyes. The old woman kept sniffing, turning the box over and over, then opened it, listening to the tune. "Junk," she proclaimed, finally, "It'll fetch you about five." "I wasn't looking to sell it," Skinner said, "I was wondering if you could tell me where it came from. Have you seen this before?" "If I had to keep track of every piece of garbage that was bought or sold in this place..." Skinner flashed his badge. "It may be evidence in a federal investigation. Have you or have you not seen this box before?" The old woman stared at him for a moment in stunned silence. "Pushy, aren't you?" She snorted, staring again at the box. "I've seen it." "Where?" Before she could answer, the door opened in a clatter of chimes. Both Skinner and the woman gave a start - then he sighed in relief as two teenage girls entered the shop. "Please... where have you seen this?" "Father McCue brought it in. From St. Johns' Church. It's around here - do you know it?" Father McCue. The name sounded familiar - although he wasn't sure why. "He said he found it in the basement of the church." At once, her voice grew strangely mechanical, as if she spoke the words from rote. "He said he had no use for it." "Is the church here - in Alexandria?" The woman nodded. "Been there every Sunday for the past 30 years. He's a good man, Father McCue." "I'm sure he is." She couldn't be with them, Skinner decided. She knew nothing - but they had told her what to say. They had known he would be coming. Somehow, that thought was even more chilling. "Who did you sell this to?" She shrugged. "A young lady, if my memory serves me correctly. She didn't give a name." She lifted the lid of the box, listening to the music. "It's nice," she said, "Worthless, but nice." He stared at her a moment longer, then broke the gaze. "Thank you for your time. You've been very helpful." He picked up the box and started to leave, just as one of the girls approached the counter. "Sir?" the old woman called after him. He turned slightly. "The woman who bought this." The old woman coughed, clearing her throat. "She said that nothing vanishes without a trace." He had to run outside to avoid being noisily sick on the floor of the little antique store. * * * She found him sitting alone, the door to his motel room slightly ajar. She knocked, then pushed it open slowly. "Paul?" Kathy reached for the light switch. "Leave it off." She stepped into the living room. A square of moonlight, streaming in from the window, dimly illuminated his hunched form. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see the photograph that lay before him on the table. "Paul?" Her voice sounded strangely high-pitched, tentative. She lay a hand on his shoulder. "Paul, what's wrong?" "I thought..." She leaned closer to hear the mumble, desperate, yet still so very restrained. "I thought I knew it all... everything..." "Paul?" She felt like an idiot. "They lied to us, Kathy." "Who?" He stood abruptly - she recoiled as he towered over her. Staggering back, she watched as in an instant he grew less imposing, shrinking back into the couch, his eyes tormented, terrified. "I don't know," he whispered. He looked towards the photo. "I changed my mind. Turn on the light, Kathy." She obeyed, her thin fingers trembling. "I was thinking... about our talk, yesterday." He sighed. "Here. See for yourself." He was staring at a picture of a boy who was obviously a younger Paul, his left hand encased in a baseball glove, grinning broadly. An older man - Paul's father, had his arm wrapped around the child. A typical family picture, Kathy thought - but her sharp eyes instantly picked out the inaccuracies. A misplaced shadow here, only a few millimeters off, a faint outline there, something an untrained observer would never discover. "This photograph is a fake." She turned to stare at him. "I don't understand, Paul. Who would alter a picture of you and your father?" "And why?" Paul pushed it away. "For what purpose? I don't understand. Kathy... I... I don't remember any of this." "Any of-" "I don't remember playing baseball with my father. Hell, I don't even remember *having* a father. I don't... this man... I don't remember him. God, Kathy, why can't I *remember*?" For a long time, she said nothing. Then her hand crept towards his, encasing it in a firm grip. "I know how you feel. I mean... that song..." "'Beyond the Sea'." "I don't remember ever hearing it before. But...all of a sudden, it was like... my world was ending. Like everything was just... over." She stared at the picture. Paul wasn't the sentimental type - he had rarely spoken of his family, and it was somehow incongruous to discover that he carried this photo in his wallet. "What's happening to us?" Paul whispered. "I don't know." Kathy's voice was suddenly stronger - she took assurance in it. "But we'll find out. We have people to help us. We're not alone." She closed her eyes. "We have to get through this Skinner situation. That's the priority now. We'll deal with this later - right now we promised our friend we'd help him. It's important to him. But as soon as it's over..." She swallowed. "As soon as it's over, we'll figure this out. Okay?" "Okay." Paul's voice sounded breathy, a child's voice. The sound of the phone ringing startled her out of her reverie. Paul groaned, then leaned over to answer it. "Yeah." A long pause. "Okay... we'll be right over." Paul hung up. "Who was that?" she asked. "Our associates at the Alderwood Medical Center. It seems like they need us to do a little impromptu surgery." She grabbed her coat and followed him out. ~*~ Act IV: Curiosity May Be Hazardous to Your Health Skinner knocked on the door gently, afraid to disturb the tenuous peace of all the residents on this floor. Afraid that at this late hour, the words he wanted to say to Margaret would mean nothing else but an admission of his own weakness and confusion. Afraid that she would choose not to believe him, just as he didn't want to believe her a week ago. "I am sorry to wake you up," he whispered when she opened the door. She didn't seem surprised to see him. "I wasn't asleep. Come in." He stepped inside and studied the gray carpet under his feet. "What's wrong?" Her words were tinged with concern, and he felt guilty, realizing that this was concern for him. "Margaret, by any chance, do you know of Father McCue?" She seemed to shrink in the blue robe that was a couple of sizes too big for her. "Yes." "Who is he?" Skinner demanded, barely aware of the urgency of his voice. "A priest in the church I usually attend. A friend of the family." Margaret frowned. "How did you know about him?" The explanation struck him as funny. Such non-threatening things, really. A pretty white box playing an old song. A priest in the neighborhood church. A young woman visiting an antique shop. He himself, too much of a coward to show a picture of the redheaded FBI agent to the owner of the shop. "Why are you laughing?" He stopped, drew a deep breath. "Margaret, you don't belong here." She nodded sympathetically, motioned him to a chair. "Tell me what happened." Skinner accepted the invitation silently. What did happen, really? The simplest explanation, while also the most incredible... he shook his head. Mulder was never afraid to draw conclusions and build improbable theories; he possessed a unique ability to interpret clues in the unconventional way. But in this particular case, Skinner didn't want to take his example and draw the appropriate conclusions. "They're playing a game," he whispered finally. "And I can't help but play along." "Who?" He ignored the question. "Margaret, I believe that you did see Dana and Fox. Or at least, you think you saw them. Which doesn't make you crazy." "Walter..." "I can't explain it," the quietude of his voice was deceptive. "But I can't allow you to stay here." He stopped abruptly at the ring of his cellular. "Skinner speaking." "Mr. Skinner, you've been a hard man to find." He closed eyes at his informant's jocular voice. "I am busy right now." "Too busy for your agents?" mocking laughter followed. "My, Paul and Kathy *are* talented." "I am not playing this game anymore," Skinner hissed, meaning it. "So you can just..." "Holmes and Marsel *are* your agents at the present time, aren't they, Mr. Skinner?" the voice on the other end of the line was still amused. "They are in danger. But will you get there in time?" The beep signaled the end of the conversation, and Skinner stared at the phone in horror, barely comprehending the implications of what he'd just heard. "Who was this?" Margaret's eyes were dark as she reached out to grasp his hand. "What's going on?" Skinner stood up, studiously avoiding the contact with the small woman. "I have failed so badly," he began and faltered. "I have to go." She watched as he departed swiftly, his voice still echoing in her ears. It was always painful to contemplate the sight of a strong man breaking. * * * Martin laughed softly, putting down the phone and picking up the newspaper he was scanning through. "I wouldn't get so comfortable." He looked up to see the smoker's gray eyes studying him coldly. "So you've heard." "Do you realize what you've just done?" the whisper carried an unspoken malice. Martin smiled, feigning calmness he didn't possess. "Paul and Kathy will take care of the situation. We should have paid more attention to the activities of Holmes and Marsel." "If Skinner sees them..." "Nothing but good will come of it," the young man's voice rang with conviction. "This is what we've wanted all along." The smoker drew back, his eyes flicking away. "It's not Skinner I'm worried about." "They will be fine," Martin chuckled, unconcerned. "Paul and Kathy know how to handle... wait," he interrupted himself. "You aren't worried about them," the realization wasn't earth shattering, but it was the first time he'd articulated it in so many words. "You are worried of what will happen to you if they discover who they really are." The older man was suddenly less imposing, his presence less menacing. "I understand now," Martin whispered, not waiting for an answer. "Though I don't understand why." "Why what?" "Why are they so important to you?" there was an urgency, but hardly an accusation or judgment in Martin's voice. He studied the smoker's tired posture, the eyes seemingly made of fragile glass. Just an old man. So easy to break. "Martin..." "I am going there," the young man picked up his discarded jacket, the earlier cockiness gone. "See you later." The Smoking Man sat down, fingers tracing the outlines of the newspaper unconsciously. Perhaps, this would be the ultimate test of whether the change had been complete. And if it failed, it would certainly be the ultimate test of where Paul's and Kathy's loyalties lay now. * * * "I feel obliged to tell you again that this really isn't a good idea." Holmes grinned at her partner in the darkness. "Your opinion is duly noted. Now let's go." Marsel cut the chains on the door with a pair of clippers. It swung open, revealing a dark void that was at the same time terrifying and welcoming. Holmes followed him inside, turning on her flashlight. If anyone had been conducting criminal activities in this place, they had done so a very long time ago. As Holmes slowly circled the beam around the room, both agents could see that the large space was completely empty. The floorboards had been taken out, leaving raw plywood layered with dust. Cobwebs hung in the corners; Holmes saw a mouse scurry across the floor. There was no sign of any human presence at all. "I think we're too late," Marsel said. "I want to have a closer look around." Holmes walked up to the wall, traced her hand along it, searching for another door. "Holmes, what are we doing here?" Marsel remained where he was, his eyes on his partner. "Looking for evidence." "In the middle of the night, in an abandoned building..." Holmes' voice was snappish. "Got a better place to look?" She gave a start as her fingers brushed over a slit in the wall. Under a closer inspection, she saw the vague outline of a door. The knob was half-broken - tugging at it, she noted immediately that it was locked. "Damn." "Stand back." Marsel drew his gun and pointed it at the remains of the doorknob. "We don't have a search warrant... this is against procedure..." "And I didn't come all the way out here in the middle of the night to follow procedure." He aimed carefully and fired a single shot, shattering the lock. Still holding his gun, he pushed the door open. "What the -" It was a laboratory, but unlike any she had seen before. Rows of tanks illuminated the room with an eerie green glow. The bodies suspended in them cast strange shadows over the walls. The forms were the approximate sizes and shapes of small children, but the proportions were all wrong - hideously, monstrously deformed. She glanced at Marsel. His face was pale and sickly in the light. He was reading the labels on a row of test tubes. She drew in a quick gasp as one of the bodies in the tanks turned over, scratching its face with one arm. She had thought they were dead. Somehow, this was even worse. "Holmes!" Tearing her eyes away from the macabre sight, she turned towards her partner. "What are they?" She didn't know whether she was talking about the bodies or the labels. "A vaccine of some sort... blood samples." He met her eyes. "We have to get out of here." A dark chuckle. "I guess we've found our evidence." "I don't -" She broke off, randomly snatching two tubes - one a blood sample, one labeled as a vaccine. "We have to get out of here." She stared at the bodies. "We can't get them out." He headed for the door. "Too bad... no one will *ever* believe us." As she closed the door to the laboratory behind them, Holmes had the distinct impression that they were running for their lives. * * * From the shadows of the laboratory, a silent figure watched. He listened to the door slam, then dialed a number with shaking fingers. "Mott." The voice on the other end was strong and confident. He allowed himself a faint smile. "They're here. Should I stop them?" A pause, muttering. Kathy was conferring with her partner. "No." He breathed a sigh of relief - he wouldn't want to have to chase after them. "No... it's okay. Let them go. We'll head them off on their way out. Thank you." He hung up. Kathy Mott was the most congenial, amicable member of the organization he'd ever met. In his line of work, he rarely met anyone he could genuinely like. And her... of all people. Another sigh as he put the cellular phone away. Such a pity, really. *** Holmes kept driving, trying not to think about the bodies in the tanks, about the two vials hidden in the glove compartment of the car. Marsel was silent beside her, his eyes scanning the trees as they drove along the road leading to the highway. Neither of them had said a word since they left the Alderwood Medical Center. Neither of them could speak. "Marsel?" The weakness of her voice surprised her. He looked up. "Yeah?" "What the hell were those things?" He swallowed. "The tanks?" "Uh huh." Marsel turned back towards the window. "Damned if I know." The words were meant to be light, funny; they weren't. "They were alive, Marsel. I saw them move." "Perversions in the name of science..." "Yeah... well I can't wait to get these samples to the lab." she thought, The bright headlights from an approaching car temporarily blinded her - she raised one hand to shield her eyes. "Goddamn it!" She slammed the horn loudly, as the other car squealed in a sharp U-turn behind them. "Son-of-a-bitch." She pushed her foot into the pedal, determined to speed away from the drunken maniac. The other car mirrored her action, nearly ramming into them, pushing her farther and farther from the side of the road. They were approaching a bridge now; she cursed under her breath. She couldn't slow down or change her course without ramming into the other car - she could only hope she could keep control. Marsel was staring into the rearview mirror. "What a fucking lunatic." Holmes grunted as the bridge loomed closer and closer. The car behind them sped up, and she swerved to avoid it, the steering wheel suddenly loose beneath her hands - And then they were falling... Cascading over the side of the bridge toward the running creek below, too quickly for comprehension, falling faster towards - Darkness. *** She came to minutes later. Her head hurt. She raised one hand to touch the back of her skull, feeling matted, sticky blood. They had plummeted straight down. She and Marsel were lucky to be alive. Marsel. She twisted, impatiently tearing at her seatbelt to face her partner. He was slumped against the bloodstained window, his eyes closed. She could see little in the dim light; only his pale cheek and slack jaw, splattered with more blood. She leaned over, touching a trembling hand to his throat. The pulse was there, faint, thready, but there. "Marsel?" she whispered, "Marsel, can you hear me?" He groaned weakly. "Holmes?" "I'm here... Marsel, listen to me. You're gonna be okay, just hang in there. I'll call for help... don't you fucking die on me, Marsel." "Not... going to die." He didn't sound sure. She reached for her cellphone, opened it. There was no tone. It had been smashed beyond repair by the crash. "What's wrong?" Her partner's voice was growing fainter. She reached over to gently pat his shoulder. "Nothing," she whispered, "Nothing's wrong, Marsel. The ambulance is on its way." She unfastened her seatbelt and kicked the door open. This was all her fault. All of this; this whole, pointless exercise. Marsel was going to die because of her, and for what? A few vials of something that might be incriminating evidence against a dead man. Nothing. It was so very absurd, when she thought about it. Straining, she managed to pull his broken body from the wreckage of the car, laying him down on the damp grass of the creek. She took off her trenchcoat and wrapped it around him, her eyes searching for some sign of human life, someone to help her. He was going to die. "Help..." A plaintive whisper, lost in the darkness. There was no one around - no one to save them. "Help... please." As if in answer to her prayers, she heard the approach of soft footsteps. She looked up to see two figures, a man and a woman, faintly sketched against the night sky. Their faces looked vaguely familiar - the people who had run her off the road. The man raised a gun slowly, pointing it directly at her head. The woman followed suit, her blue eyes cold and glimmering. "We don't want to hurt you," she said, in a tone that was far from entirely reassuring. Holmes gave a bitter laugh. "Then what do you want?" The man smiled. On another person, the smile might have been charming - on him it was merely chilling. "Oh, Agent Holmes," he said, "I think you know what we want." *** The second Skinner reached the bridge he knew he was too late. Even in the darkness he could make out the form of the mangled car. Another car, a black sedan, was parked on the bridge. He slowed his own car, parking it behind the sedan, and reached for his gun. And he stepped outside, already terrified of what he might find. *** Holmes cradled her partner's injured body in her arms. "Take the goddamn things." She stared from one impassive face to the next. "They're in the glove compartment." The man nodded to the woman, who went to search the wrecked car. He continued to stare at Holmes and Marsel - continued to aim his gun at them. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" No response. "I swear to God if Marsel dies I'm going to find out who you are. I'm going to find you and make you pay, you son-of-a-bitch." Clearly unmoved, the man's finger clicked on the trigger. "Stop right there." Holmes looked up in surprise - the voice did not come from the man standing in front of her, and it certainly did not come from the redheaded woman, who was slipping the two vials into the pocket of her trench coat. This was a new voice, one she recognized, and the sweetest music she could have possibly heard in that moment in time. It was the voice of Walter Skinner. He stood behind the man, his gun trained on the dark-haired head. "Don't move. Drop your weapon, turn around slowly, and put your hands in the air." "That might not be a good idea." This was the woman, who had turned to aim at Skinner. He glanced at her, and then his mouth dropped open. "Sc-" He turned towards the man, his eyes widening in recognition. "Mulder?" The younger man laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know? Last I heard, Mulder was hiding out in the basement of a church in Alexandria. But that was just a rumor, of course..." "Mulder..." Skinner's voice was trembling, the dazed voice of a madman. "The truth is out there, Mr. Skinner." Another laugh; Holmes shivered, pulling Marsel closer to her. "So... at last we meet." Stunned silence. The woman took a few steps closer. "You look surprised." She smiled. "Don't you know who we are?" "Of course I -" He paused. In that instant Holmes saw something terrifying. She saw Walter Skinner grow old. "No... no," Skinner closed his eyes. "I don't think I do." Still aiming her gun at Skinner, the woman began to retreat towards the car. The man went to follow her - but before he left, he flashed another triumphant grin. "Perhaps we'll meet again, Mr. Skinner," he said, "Perhaps..." It was only the squeal of the sedan pulling away that informed Holmes that they were now alone. ~*~ Act V: When Wrong Questions Happen to Happy People Kathy turned the phone over and over in her hands, glancing in the rearview window from time to time. "Their phone was broken." Paul grimaced. If they dialed 911, it would be too easy to trace them. "I am sure Skinner has one." "Um... yeah." She put the phone away with regret. It was difficult to reconcile the instincts of a doctor and the duties of her job. Paul drove in silence, his eyes glued to the highway. There was something inconsistent in Skinner's behavior, something that didn't concur with the profile he constructed, and he couldn't put his finger down on it. "I don't want to go back to San Diego just yet," Kathy read the labels on the vials she took from the car thoughtfully. "There is some interesting data here, and I want to work with these samples for a few days. Paul?" "What? Oh, sorry," he responded after a pause. "I was just thinking about Skinner." "It's over," Kathy hid the vials back in her pocket. "His gun was trembling in his hands. He is destroyed." "That's exactly what bothers me," Paul muttered. "The game we played was designed to distract him, not destroy him. Besides, Walter Skinner is a courageous man. He went through a war. He survived an assassination attempt. Why would he quiver in our presence?" She shrugged. "Perhaps we overestimated him." "No, I don't think so," Paul bit his lip and continued to drive in silence. "Maybe you should speak to our friend about this photograph of you and your father," Kathy suggested abruptly. "I will." He sounded indifferent, his mind busy with other matters. "He recognized us." "Who?" Kathy echoed. "Skinner - he acted as if he recognized us," Paul explained. "How is that possible?" She frowned, going once again over the meeting. "You are asking the wrong question." "What do you mean?" "How would Skinner know that his agents were in danger unless someone informed him? And if someone informed him, who would it be?" He glanced at her, a cloud of suspicion darkening his eyes. They spoke the name simultaneously. "Martin." * * * Skinner measured the icy shore of the creek with tight, exhaustive steps. Much easier to move, to do something that would block out the confusion in his mind, the sharp edges of guilt that threatened to overwhelm him. Anything was easier than contemplating the sight of Holmes' hunched figure, drowning in the trenchcoat he put on her shoulders, or Marsel's pale face splattered with blood. "You will be all right," Holmes whispered to her partner as if he could hear her. "Hang in there. Please," she added softly, almost inaudibly. Skinner glanced at his watch and cursed the unfortunate location of the accident. The nearest hospital was twenty miles away, and by his calculations, the ambulance wouldn't be here for at least another fifteen minutes. "I'm sorry," he heard her say and stopped his pacing. "I shouldn't have... this is all my fault." "Agent Holmes," Skinner was surprised at the strength of his own voice. He didn't feel strong any longer. "I must ask you to do something." Her tone was vacant. "Yes." "Do not blame yourself." He made it sound like an order. "If there is anyone to blame for this, it's me." He kneeled down beside her, trying to relay the message with his eyes. "I should have foreseen..." "That I would talk Marsel into committing a felony?" Holmes' chuckle ended in a sob. Skinner's lips stretched into a parody of a smile. "That too." She touched the back of her head distractedly, her fingers once again encountering slick blood. "Damn." Skinner stood up, circling around once again, immensely relieved to hear the siren of ambulance in the distance. As he looked up at the bridge, he noticed a dark figure hovering over the edge, as if he were a curious passerby gorging on the sight of the devastating car accident. And recognizing the shadow, Skinner closed his eyes and wondered if he would ever be able to forget this night. If he could ever forget the sight of two friends who looked at him without recognition, their guns expressing more than their eyes. Lost in the chaos of the arriving police and medical technicians, he chose a moment to ask the driver which hospital the agents would be taken to and ran up the hill, chasing after his informant, cornering him just before he was ready to slip into his car. "Mr. Skinner," the young man smiled, unperturbed. "I didn't make it in time, as you see." "You didn't have to," Skinner grabbed him by the collar, pinning him to the car door. "Though I suppose I should thank you for inviting me here." "Yes, you should," Martin nodded seriously. "And you'd better let me go. I am not responsible for what happened down there." "Oh, Santa Claus is," Skinner quipped, but let his informant go, too tired to care. "Were they clones?" "Who?" Martin's eyebrows shut up in confusion, then smoothed out suddenly. "No, they weren't clones. Mr. Skinner, I told you that I wanted you to know the truth. Now you do." Skinner shook his head stubbornly. "This... isn't the truth. These people weren't Mulder and Scully." "Who else would be able to engineer this intrigue so beautifully?" Martin asked. "Who would know you so well? Who would guess what phrases to drop, what clues to offer, to lead you on the leash for so long? Who else would be able to make you believe that Mulder and Scully were alive?" "No," he leaned against the railing, shivering in the chill of the cold night, feeling the bile rise in his throat. "They didn't know me." "That is debatable, Mr. Skinner," Martin corrected his hat and got back in the car. "Please look after your agents in the future. So long." Skinner watched as the red Mustang sped away, then walked slowly to his own car. No matter how tired he felt. No matter how afraid he was to find out. He had to go to the hospital and make sure that it wasn't too late for Marsel and Holmes. He couldn't let it be. * * * Martin frowned, trying to remember the number of the hotel, then dialed it quickly. "Paul Bartlett speaking." "Hey," Martin smiled at the familiar voice. "How did it go?" "Fine," Paul replied calmly. "We recovered the samples." "Good. I suppose this is over," he tried to keep his eyes on the road. "Will we see you before you leave town?" "Yes, in fact," Paul conferred with Kathy softly. "We are staying for a few more days." Martin felt a snake of apprehension uncurl inside him. "That's great. Any reason?" "Kathy wants to take a look at some samples, work in the local laboratory," Paul explained. "And I have some other business to take care of." It sounded innocent enough. Martin allowed himself to inhale deeply. There was no reason to worry that they might have discovered something. If in two years... no. He shook his head, chuckling lightly. "Good night, then." "Good night," Paul hung up the phone and turned to face Kathy. "Martin sounds worried. And I want to know what he is hiding." * * * Skinner listened to the beeps of the monitors, taking assurance in their hypnotic regularity. Holmes' white face framed in black hair was almost childlike in sleep. He tried to remember how old she was and couldn't. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? She seemed too young to encounter evil that lurked unseen among men. Too young to carry such guilt on her shoulders. Mulder was twelve when the burden of guilt was laid upon him. He couldn't think about Mulder. About Scully. He had to stop remembering them. If the people he'd seen this night weren't clones, then they were but bare shells devoid of the souls of his long-lost agents. As bitter as the notion was, he could have accepted it. Could have tried to forget. Except... There were intelligence, humor, and life in their eyes. No matter what their actions were, Skinner couldn't get over the feeling that underneath the cruelty and disregard, they were still... Mulder and Scully. Dear God, what had been done to them? He heard a weak coughing from the side and snapped back to reality. "Marsel?" Holmes sounded panicked. "How is he?" "Calm down," Skinner patted her on the shoulder. "He is in surgery. The doctors say we were just in time." "Just in time," she whispered, her mouth curling downward in a grimace of failure. "This wasn't supposed to happen at all." "You should rest," Skinner stood up, preparing to leave. "You have a concussion." Holmes settled down, her normally soft brown eyes focusing on him with cold intensity. "You knew them." "Knew whom?" "The people who did this to Marsel." The anger spilled out of her voice. "Tell me who they are." "Agent Holmes, I..." Skinner fell silent. "They reminded me of people I used to know a long time ago. That's all." "Mulder," Holmes rolled the name over her tongue. "Wasn't he the agent in charge of the X-Files department?" "This wasn't Mulder," Skinner answered, testing the content of truth in his words. "I don't know who they were." She turned away and watched the snow falling behind the window. "I will find out." He walked out, went to the surgery waiting room, watched the doors together with a few other people, and thought about the young woman who had just chosen the course of her life. One was never too young to want revenge. * * * The fingers on Kathy's left hand were crossed as she squeezed the eyedropper with her right, releasing two drops of vaccine into the infected tissue. Black worms oozed out of the tissue sample, coalescing at the perimeter of the Petrie dish. The timer on her watch beeped. Kathy Mott let out a whoop of triumph as the door opened behind her. "Kathy?" Unable to contain herself, she flung her arms around Paul, half lifting him to whirl him around. He shot her a faintly puzzled smile. "Kathy, I knew you liked me, but..." "We did it!" She grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the Petrie dish. "This new synthesis of the vaccine... the one they were testing in Alderwood... they almost had it. And now-" "Now..." "We have it. Look!" Obligingly, he followed her gaze, squinting at the still-squirming organisms. "It's effective within twelve seconds. Do you know what this means?" "The next phase. The human trials." If there was any remorse in his voice, he kept it well hidden. She searched his eyes for a moment, wondering if it was disapproval that she saw - then decided against it as he smiled broadly and put his arms around her. "We did it," he breathed. *** "I'd like to propose a toast." The Smoking Man raised his glass. "And... of course, to offer my condolences..." Paul laughed; Kathy beamed, her blue eyes shining as she raised her own glass. "So, from sunny San Diego to gray old Washington." Martin laughed. "Such are the rewards for saving humanity." "We all do what we must," Paul said with a light shrug of his shoulders. "Besides, we haven't saved humanity..." Kathy started. "Yet," Paul completed her sentence, and the two partners grinned at each other. Whatever darkness had followed them from the night on the bridge had been dispelled now - they were content to bask in the glory of the evening - their evening, the eve of their promotions and transfers to Washington. Paul remembered his sudden, mad wish to live in D.C. - if California was the afterlife, then this must be the land of wishes. He sipped at his wine, watching Martin out of the corner of his eye. Not all of the darkness was gone, then. *** Afterwards he stood with Kathy, watching their colleagues chat in little groups across the room. They were mostly from the D.C. branch, and other than the Smoking Man and Martin, Paul and Kathy knew very few of them. Occasionally someone would drift over to offer congratulations, then disappear into the crowd. The smoker stood alone, watching the proceedings with aloof, unreadable eyes. The wall around him was actually visible, a twirling, spiraling smokescreen. "He looks lonely," Kathy commented, "I think we should go talk to him." "Go on." Paul glanced at a flicker of movement in the corner. "I'll join you in a second. I want to go talk to Martin." "Why?" "Something... something isn't right about this. I just have this hunch that he's hiding something." "About Skinner, you mean?" Paul nodded. "Do you think this is the place..." He lay a hand on her arm. "Relax. I'm not about to go off making wild accusations. Just a few questions, to clarify some matters." He paused. "I'm sure it's nothing." Kathy gave a tentative smile. He watched her as she made her way over to the old man standing against the wall, then he made his way through the crowd of people, over to where Martin was stooped over the bar, draining away the remains of a glass of vodka. "Martin?" The younger man looked up. "Oh, hey Paul. Congratulations." "Thank you. Do you mind if I have a seat?" "'Course not." Martin nodded towards the bartender. "Another round for me and my friend here..." "I don't drink..." "You should." He laughed. "C'mon, it's on me." "Thanks." He had the urge to put *something* in his mouth, anyway - alcohol wasn't his preference, but it would do. "Hey - no problem. There aren't enough parties going on here - don't get used to it." Paul made an attempt to laugh, but it fell short. Martin's dark eyes watched him intently. "You look troubled, Paul." "I... I've been thinking..." Martin shook his head. "Bad habit to get into." He took a swig of vodka. "Seriously, though. You sounded... I don't know... you sounded cold the last time I spoke to you. What's on your mind?" "Skinner, actually. I was wondering how he knew that his agents were in trouble... how he knew to come that night..." "And you think I had something to do with it?" "I wasn't suggesting-" "I did." Martin finished the drink and called for two more, although Paul had barely touched his. The two men saw Kathy approach - Martin grabbed the bartender and told him to make it three. "It's not what you're implying, Paul. I'm working for the same cause you are." "Are you?" Paul's voice dropped below freezing. Kathy stared at him. "You've got to admit..." Martin smiled as the bartender brought over the new drinks. "Whatever my - whatever *our* methods, the operation was a success. That's why you're here, isn't it?" "But what I don't understand," Kathy said, "Is why Skinner reacted the way he did. He had the case closed, all evidence labeled unsubstantiated, but... why? I mean, you'd think our presence would have only encouraged him..." Martin looked from one face to another. "You're asking the wrong questions," he said. "What questions should we be asking?" Kathy's tone was an equal match to her partner's. "Only one." Paul caught a whiff of Martin's alcohol-laden breath as the younger man leaned closer towards them. "What really happened to Mulder and Scully?" "Martin?" He was gone in a heartbeat, and Paul felt Kathy's hand clutch his with white knuckles. And the room was spinning, the voices a dull roar within the smoky air. As everything caved inward, a giant claw reached up to grab the remains of November and bring it crashing down around his head. END. We mean... CURTAIN. (Maybe not...) Author's Notes (from Anna): With the recent upsurge of stories about Mulder and/or Scully in the Consortium (and you can find them all at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Labyrinth/1495/consortium.html ), we noticed that the general mood prevalent in these stories was, almost always, tragic. Mulder or Scully or both always suffered. Which prompted the question: is it possible to have Mulder AND Scully in the Consortium AND happy? This is the answer. We didn't think it was truly possible for Mulder and Scully to be happy in any circumstances, because their lives had too many tragedies already. Memories that would poison whatever happiness they may obtain in the present or future. Hence, delete the memories - delete the tragedies - implant new memories - put them in sunny California - not even attempt to divide them - watch how happy they are. Doesn't it make you wonder how Consortium hasn't come up with this concept yet? But we didn't try to make the rest of the characters quite as happy Ashlea and I have discovered that we are of like minds when it comes to impromptu angst, CSM, and our favorite agents in the Consortium stories, so I am pretty sure there is more to come. Which makes me happy as a clam, since writing this was an exhilarating experience, and I attribute it all to my wonderful co-author. More (from Ashlea): Er... what Anna said. Especially the part about the wonderful co- author. Anna and I were among the few (there's more of us, they just won't admit to it!) who watched CSM offer Mulder the chance of a lifetime in Redux II, and really, REALLY hoped that Mulder would accept. Especially in light of the alien-invasion arc, we've come to realize that Mulder and Scully are relatively ineffectual within the FBI. The mythology of the show has elevated to such a state that if all of the questions were resolved, if colonization did proceed - our heroes would NOT be in a position to do much about it. ("Hey, little green man! Stop! FBI!") The real power lies with the Consortium. This is (I believe) the root of our fascination. Personal issues and assassinations of family members aside - given the choice, where would YOU want to be? I'd like to thank my co-conspirator - I mean, co-author - for making this story what it was. It is truly amazing what two twisted minds can come up with... this is just the beginning... Huge thanks from both of us to Rachel and Seda for beta-reading. This wouldn't be half as much fun without you, guys. All feedback will be cherished and put into a pretty white box for safekeeping annaotto1@aol.com and morleyphile@yahoo.com Know Your Exits! http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599 Take Me To Your Leader http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Labyrinth/1495