The Children's Teeth

by Erin McCole Cupp
CathyLex@aol.com


Date: 22 Oct 1998
NOTE:  I wanted to repost this since I
plan to post the prequel "Sister's
Blood" soon.  Changes from the
original (unfinished) posting are
relatively minor, so if you enjoyed this
the first time around, you still should
have a good read.  Don't worry, though;
I didn't revise it to change history
for the sake of the prequel!  I just
needed to fix some grammar -- especially
the French grammar.

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

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

RATING:  PG-13 for violence & language

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

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

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

THANKS: to Julie, for correcting my
French grammar.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her anesthesia.  

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

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

Almost.  But the dead don't talk.  

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

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

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

//Thanks, Mom.//  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click.

Silence.  

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

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

She hung up.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pause.  "Kev?"

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

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

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

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

"Didn't they card you?"

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

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

"Thanks, //mon cher//."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jeez, Meg.  How much did you drink?"

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

"Broke?  You?  Never."

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

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

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

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

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

Meg Mulder was afraid.  

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

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

"I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We're almost there."

"Now!"

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

"Mmm," Kevin joked, "minty fresh."  

"Not funny," she choked between heaves.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes passed and the videophone rang on
and on.  

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

"Who is it?"  Meg called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END 1/11

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All four of them laughed embarrassed
little laughs.

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

The three others turned and glared at The
Janitor.  

"What?  What did I say?"

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

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

All four of the men exchanged glances.

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

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

The three others glared at him once more.

"What?  What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Meg, you okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

END 2/11  

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

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

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

"Kevin!  What did you just do?"

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

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

"Meg--"

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

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

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

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

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

Meg closed her eyes.

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

Her voice softened.  "That was
different."

"How?  How was that different?"

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

Kevin hung his head and sighed.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pulled forth an oval charm on a
silver chain.  

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

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

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

"Can you download it?"

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

"Come on, at least read the email."

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

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

Shaking his head, he opened the email:

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

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

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

WITH DEEPEST AFFECTION,
GERALD CHO, LGM

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

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

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

"Well, let's chance it."

"If my system crashes because of this--"

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

He huffed.  "You'd better."

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

They gaped at the screen as the file came
up.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

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

"Meg, I--"

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

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

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

"Did you finish reading that download?"

Her face clouded over and she nodded.

"What did it say?"

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

"Like what?"

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

"What!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Meg?  Are you decent?"

The only answer was the hiss of the
shower.  

He knocked harder.  "Meg?  Open up!"

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

"MEG!  I'M COMING IN NOW!"  

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

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

"Damn."

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

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

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

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

He picked up the phone and hit redial.  

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


END 3/11  

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

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

//I have finally lost my mind.//

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

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

//I have finally lost my mind.//

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shuddered.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//I have finally lost my mind.//

END 4/11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"W-w-w-what wife?"

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

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

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

The man flicked his eyes at her,
incredulous.

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

"O-o-okay."  

"Thanks.  You're a peach."

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

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

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

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

Then the lights began flashing at him
from behind.  

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

"Wonderful," he muttered.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kev, it's me."

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

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

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

"For what?"

"Speeding, I think."

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

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

Silence rang out from the other end.  

"Meg?"

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

"Special Agent Emily --"

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

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

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

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


END 5/11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shh, sweetie, shhh."

"Is Daddy in there?"

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

"What made him sick?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I go see Daddy now?"

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

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

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

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

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

Her mother smiled again.  

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

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

"Hi, Daddy," she whispered to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her mother nodded softly.  

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

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

"Then lower her down to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END 6/11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He held out his arm for her to take.  

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

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

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

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

Meg rolled her eyes.  

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

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

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

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

It was a bee.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's the one.  Emily Lynch."

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

"ALL RECORDS FOR LYNCH, EMILY ARE
CLASSIFIED."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Home address?" Meg asked.

Glasses scrolled down to the requested
information.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


END 7/11

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

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

"Who is it?"  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His frown grew even deeper.  "Who?"

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

Recognition flickered across his solid
face.

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

"When did that happen?'

"About nine this morning."

"Have you tried to contact your friend
since?"

Meg shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir, that's not necessary--"

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

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

"Go ahead and make the call."

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

Meg cradled the reciever with a sigh.  

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

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

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

"How so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, my la--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her heart leapt in relief. "KEVIN!"

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

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

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

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

Her father's letter had said...

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

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

"GET!!!  IN!!! THE!!! CAR!!!"

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

She had been shot.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

END "The Children's Teeth" 8/11

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

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

Stars.  

Clouds.  

A heavy, constant hum.  

Rattling.  Fog.  

Fog.  Blackness.

Stars.  

Blackness.  Merciful blackness.  

Then, stars and rattling again.

And all along, a searing, piercing pain.  

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

"Hang on, little sister.  Hang on."

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

A white jacket and an obscured face.  

"Oh, my God."

//Oh, my God.//

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

And then, blackness.  

Blackness.

Fog.  Blackness.   

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

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

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

Then, blackness again, relieved by
dreams...  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Daddy?  Are you okay?"

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

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

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

"Did I hear my name?"  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Talking to each other with your eyes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good golly, Miss Molly."

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

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

It didn't matter.  They were here now.  

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

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

Somehow, she knew he understood.

She drifted off into an easy sleep.

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


END 9/11

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

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

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

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

Nuns?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I answer that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meg looked at this Emily critically.  
"How?"

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

"Colonization," Meg whispered.  

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

He nodded gravely.

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

"You'd been watching me?"

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

"What about Kevin?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And Kevin?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meg's eyes pinched at the understanding.  

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

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

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

"Now what?"  She asked.

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

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

"How?"  Meg asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Slim," her father admitted.

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

"But Meg, you--"

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

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

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

Her parents obviously hesitated at
leaving her at all.  

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

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

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

"Yes?"

"How did you kill that other Emily?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"  Scully cried.  "What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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


END "The Children's Teeth" 10/11

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

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

"Cold."

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

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

"I'm-m f-fine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh no," Wexford breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

Wexford shook her head in regret.    

"Cho should get it," Meg volunteered.

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

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

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

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

His face wrenched in agony and went
deathly pale.  

Meg frowned at him.  "What now?"

"I'm afraid of needles."

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

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

"Aaah--" was his only response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleather-boy put his jacket on again and
obeyed.

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

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

Wexford nodded, tapping her right jeans
pocket