By:  Maraschino
maraschino@ibm.net or pinkus1013@hotmail.com
 

Disclaimer:  This story is based on the characters created by Chris
Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting.  No copyright
infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

Spoilers:  Everything after Momento Mori hasn't happened yet.

Summary:  Secrets are exposed, the truth beckons, and three powers battle
for global domination -- two of them after Mulder, who finally discovers
where he stands in the grand scheme of things.

Rating:  R for violence, profanity

Category:  XA
 

***
***

PROLOGUE

Mercy and memory.

A strange combination indeed.  That beats within my soul, within this
darkened cell, as I listen for words which will no longer come, watch
for those who have long since vanished.

Regret is an inevitable consequence.

That the memory which has solely defined me has been wasted -- ravaged
by an omniscient armament who prefer the guised comfort of silence to
the depths of an intricate, all-encompassing truth.

It's time for mercy.

Where the oppressed masses -- where the weak, and the sick, and the
different -- recover and finally secure their much awaited liberation --
their redemption which has been continually denied in the face of
fleeting shadows.

But I can not prove this.

Nor can I eliminate these men in garish black.

I am but a man.

But a mortal.

But through an endowment which I did not ask for, through a power
which I, up to now, have willingly denied, I *will* make my stand.

I will grant *my* mercy to the oppressed, to the weak, to the sick,
and to the different.

I will take away the incorporeals' link.  I will no longer be part
of the lies and mirrors which have been held against me, baited me,
influenced me away from the one memory which has sustained me,
fuelled me throughout my meagre existence.

I will make my stand.  I will take *my* memory, the one which has
been shrouded in whispers, coloured in grey, and wrapped in a trail
of blood.  I will destroy what they have given me, what they have
hid from me -- because I *am* mortal.

Because memory is all that I have now.

And hopefully, in my last dying breath, I will be granted mercy as
well.

***

Location Unknown
November 24, 1996

 Diamond cutter glasses reflected the light of the solitary desk
lamp, hiding the pupils underneath, hiding the black orbs which were
staring intently at the nearby TV screen.

 He watched the camera pan onto the door, wobbling slightly as
the camera man lost his balance, temporarily losing his war with
vertigo and the bright lights that circled within his head.  A shaky
hand attempted four times to put the key through the key hole before
finally hitting the mark -- scratch marks on the wooden panel ignored
as the camera stumbled in.

 The picture was jostled again as the figure staggered past the
doorway, only to trip over a newsletter lying at the doorstep -- the
camera focusing on the window, the window sill, the wall, the base
board, then finally settling for a side view glance of the hard wood
floor.

 Diamond Cutters willed the man to get up, put his face closer to
the TV screen and started whispering words of encouragement as if the
man behind the box could hear him.

 In between the nudie pictures and the surveillance photos, in
spite of the crude jokes and conspiracies, and although the two men had
grown a rapport borne out of common interests, common goals -- the man
staring at the TV realized he did not know the person in front of him
at all.

 Did not know the extent of the pain that he had merely caught a
glimpse of.  Did not know that the events of two years ago were still
haunting him -- that the demon called guilt was still languishing
within the deepest recesses of his conscience -- that he would easily
trade his life for the woman who was abducted seemingly ages ago.

 The man rubbed a gloved hand over his face, telling the son of a
bitch in front of him to get up for Christ sakes.  Just fucking get up,
and come over with the chemical structure of LSDM.  We can oogle over
the latest issue of Celebrity Skin, and forget that the shoot out in
the park ever happened, and that you're writhing on the floor right
now, and that this is policy, and that I can't use the phone because
the scrambler isn't working.

 The phone glared at the man accusingly, and fingers graced the
number pad, dialling an imaginary number -- whispering, pleading with
the man in the apartment to just please try, just try a bit harder.
 
 Just please get up.

 The picture on the screen was soon obscured by two elbows, soon
started going back and forth in time to the rocking of the man in
the box.  The moans had now metamorphosed into grunts, and the man
watching once again looked towards the phone, allowing his fingers to
dance over the receiver, unable to make the final commitment and bring
ear piece to ear.

 A door opened, and the camera panned towards the left, focusing
on a pair of black high heeled pumps.  Feet that belonged to a body
that could call for help, that could help the man in the box to get up.

 Just get up... please.

 A woman cooed in the background, and the man watching heard the
sounds of a cell phone being dialled.  The woman told the man on the
floor to stay down, to try not to move, to try not to get up.

 Diamond Cutters couldn't help but smile slightly at the irony.

 Bending over, momentarily leaning in close to say a silent
farewell, the TV was turned off  -- the red light of the VCR power
button abruptly turned black.  Throwing his glasses off onto the
work bench, tired eyes now clearly visible, Frohike offered a silent
whisper of thanks to the roof above.

 With the help of Dana Scully, Fox Mulder would get up.

***

  "An unidentified flying object soaring through
 Moscow's skies early last night?  That's the question of
 UFO buffs everywhere, as there were ten confirmed
 sightings of a bright white light above the Russian
 capital at approximately ten o clock Russian time.

  This incident follows a string of similar reports
 over the past few days emanating from various Russian
 urban centers.  The Russian army and militia refuse to
 confirm or deny such sightings, while many other citizens
 are reluctant to believe in the possibility of little
 green men, passing the reports off as fantastic figments
 of imagination from the more paranoid sector of Russia.

  "KQLY, your news leader, will continue to follow
 the developments in the Eastern country, and bring them
 exclusively to you as they continue to arise."

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 The two figures eyed each other warily.  The one man was flanked
by his co-conspirators, the other figure stood alone.

 Calm and collected he had been told, was the way to bargain.

 The Russian was the first to speak, a slight accent carressing
each word that passed through his weathered lips.  "And who would be in
charge?"

 "Fifty-fifty both ways... equally divided power."

 The Russian nodded.  That would be okay.  For now.  Past
experience dictated partnerships didn't last very long when things
were dealt evenly, fairly -- especially if the object in question was
power.

 "And where are your comrades?"

 "They're somewhere safe.  They'll come if this deal gets done."

 The Russian nodded.  "You can guarantee that we'll be finished
ahead of them?"

 The nod was reciprocated.  "Definitely.  They're missing a key
component."

 "I trust that our facilities are suitable?"

 "Yes, they will do quite nicely."

 The Russian shared a glance with one of the men beside him --
caught his almost imperceptible nod of the head.  "Then I say lets
kick some American ass."

 The figure remained standing, eyes darting as the rest of the
men in the room started to laugh.  Oh, it was slang, a joke.  Yes,
humans liked those, he had learned.  The figure started to force air
though his lungs from his diaphragm, and heard a noise coming from
the back of his throat.  The mechanical chuckle was distracted -- came
to an abrupt halt as the figure loudly cleared his throat.  "Yes, that
was very funny.  Very humorous indeed."  He headed for the door, mind
already focussed on the abortion clinics and trucks, the fetal matter and
DNA ligands -- their human and not-so-human physiology.  When
the figure spoke again, the index finger of his left hand ran over
the finger nails of his right -- his voice coming out distracted,
teetering on indifferent.  "We'll be here and ready tomorrow."
 
 The man nodded -- a thought suddenly occurring.  "Wait!"
Enigmatically neutral eyes turned to greet bloodshot orbs encrusted
with wrinkles.  "What do I call you?"

 The figure stared at the man, and then realized what the Homo
sapien was talking about.  Oh yes.  Names.  Another one of those
human habits.  He thought back to what his deceased friend had called
himself, a little more that a human year ago.  What was it?

 The morph smiled, full lips parting to reveal perfect, pearl
white teeth.  "Jeremiah.... You can call me Jeremiah Smith."

***

 "... How are you going to know without me?  How sure are you that
it's not Samantha?"

 Mulder looks at the girl in the bus seat, softly counting to
twenty, unaware a gun is held at her back and that her life is being
bargained for.  He looks up and sees another girl.  Older.  Staring
at him in the bus to the left.

 He recognizes the brown braids.  The long face.  A nightgown
that is too far away to tell what patterns it wears.  Tears streak down
her face; her right hand is outstretched.  She calls to him, her voice
wavering with the wind, shrouded behind the layers of glass which
separates them.  Her desperate fingers reach blindly, are pulled taut with
longing.  "Fox, I need your help."

 He looks back to the little girl who is nearing twenty, looks
to the tall man whose mask of impassivity -- despite his best efforts --
is clouded with smugness.  Looks longingly to the little girl in the
nightgown who went missing so many years ago.

 "... twenty."

 The gun goes off, proceeded by an equal successor.  The girl is
slumped over, her torso still and unmoving, unable to force a breath
to her mouth.  Her blond hair now has streaks of red... streaks of
brown.  There is a flower pastel dress... but it has been replaced by
an ankle length nightgown.  The body is decomposing; the smell is
almost unbearable, attacking his senses with such force that the gun
falls numbly from his fingers.  He does not notice when the cry
escapes his lips, when his feet give out and he falls forward on to
his knees -- closer to the body.  Closer to the black parasites
swimming in the mess of bones and blackened tissue.

 He looks to the dead convict behind... sees a flash of red,
followed by a brilliant sparkle of gold from the neck.  A gaping hole
in the head that used to be his partner.  Only a mass of hard yellow
cells is left -- a monster that not even a bullet -- not even chemo
or radiation -- can destroy.

 He tries to breathe... but he has killed Sam.  Wants to pick up
the gun and flee... but he has killed Scully.  He feels a hand on his
shoulder and turns around, only to meet the maniacally laughing visage
of John Lee Roche...

 Mulder fell off the couch, hitting the floor hard enough to
break him out his most-recent delirium.  He put a hand over his
mouth, a last-ditch physical barrier to try and keep the screams --
and the demons which they brought -- contained.

 He got back onto his couch warily, ignored the warmth and the
dampness that was there.  Wiped away the combination of tears and
sweat that had accumulated on his face.  He willed his breathing to
slow, subconsciously put his hand on his heart to ease the hurt there,
and tried to focus on the TV.

 Billy Graham and the resurrection of Jesus Christ, our Saviour.

 He had killed Sam.

 Ab Roller and 28 days to a firmer, flatter stomach.

 He had killed Scully.

 Beautiful faux pearls just for Valentine's Day exclusively on
the Shopping Channel.

 And Roche had been laughing.

 Back to Billy Graham.

 *Laughing*.

 Mulder watched the evangelist for the span of ten seconds,
breathing still ragged, chest still being rubbed.

 Like so many times before, he reached out and grabbed the phone,
to call the one person who not only would care, but more importantly,
was the only one who could understand.

***

Scully's Apartment
Annapolis, Maryland

 Scully raised her head and dared to look in the mirror.  The cold
water had done little to remove the puffiness from her eyes and the
flush in her nose and cheeks.  With a shaky hand, she grabbed a drink
of water, carefully set the glass down on the porcelain sink and
padded off back towards the bed.

 The Duane Barrys and Donnie Pfasters would forever chase her,
would take refuge in the cocoon she thought she had built when she
had entered med school.  She would forever be haunted by the image of
a devil possessing her soul, of watching Missy forlornly wave good-bye
with a winged hand from pearly gates, just because she had turned away
from the Hail Marys and Our Fathers so many years ago.

 She would always be held witness, prisoner, willing captor in
the bright room with shiny instruments, and shinier implants.  She
would forever hold the burden of Missy's death on her shoulder, would
forever see her father's face transplanted upon the voice of Luthor
Lee Boggs.

 Condemned to a life of waking up, heart pounding, room spinning.

 She laid in bed, kicked off the covers, grabbed her housecoat
and walked on shaky legs to the living room.  She turned on the TV and was
about to head into the kitchen to see if there was any peppermint tea,
when the phone rang.

 "Hi, Mulder."

 There was a surprised pause.  "How'd you know it was me?"

 Scully stifled a yawn.  "Because we're the only ones up at three
in the morning."

 She heard him chuckle, and she smiled.  "So how come you're
awake?  Doctor homework?"

 It was familiar ground between the two partners now.  Although
they already knew the answer, knew that there existed real life
ghouls and goblins during sleep, it was common courtesy to give the
partner an out.
 
 "I couldn't sleep... you?"

 "Yeah..."

 "Nightmare?"

 There was a long pause.  "Yeah..."

 Both parties bit their lip, unsure whether to push the other to
talk, or to recede deeper into the comfort and familiarity of their
own pain.

 Scully walked back to the kitchen, cordless still in hand.
Turned on the hall light and the kitchen light as she passed their
respective switches.  The apartment was too damn dark.  She prodded
her partner along.  "So... which one was it?"

 "It was a new one..."

 "Oh..."

 Mulder took his hand off his chest and reached for the remote.
In the background he could hear Scully's dishes rattling.  "You?"

 "Duane Barry."

 "Oh..."

 Scully suddenly grew interested in her tea bag, making a fuss
over rearranging the boxes in her cupboard, while Mulder
started a new round of channel surfing.  He could be heard letting
out a snort, followed by a disgusted string of indecipherable words.

 "What is it?"

 "Billy Graham."  He rolled his eyes into the phone.  "He says
that negative experiences only make us stronger.  They happen so that
our belief in God can be strengthened."  There was a pause, followed
by a voice which had lost its acerbic edge.  "Do you believe in God,
Scully?"

 Scully's eyebrows rose, while her hand subconsciously rose to
the cross on her throat.  "I believe there is someone who looks over
us."

 "Despite your scientific beliefs?"

 "Despite my scientific beliefs, Mulder."

 "...I miss her so much, Scully."

 Scully momentarily closed her eyes as the whisper met her ear.  So
the dream had been about Sam.  No surprise -- considering the events of
the past few months.  Considering that the death of Krycek and the smoke
sucking son of a bitch had effectively reopened old battle wounds
and scars.  Scully offered a smile into the receiver.  "I know you
miss her."  She nodded her head in confirmation.  "I know."

 She heard him draw a shaky breath.  "I should go."

 There was a resigned sigh.  The conversation had now returned to
auto pilot -- the denouement was always the same.  "Okay."

 "Bye, Scully."

 "Bye, see you tomorrow."

 "Tomorrow, then."

 Both agents reluctantly hung up the phone -- Scully still
holding the phone while removing the screaming kettle from the stove,
Mulder cradling the phone on his chest, trying to lose himself in
infomercials and the familiar foam buttons of the remote.

 Both federal agents still haunted by memories which refused
to leave, and which refused to be shared.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation Parkade
Washington, DC
March 12, 1994

 The young man stepped nervously into the Bureau parkade, eyes
darting over the different colored Taurus' as his steps echoed off
the basic cement walls.  The navy blue Olds stuck out amongst the
Bureau's standard fare, and he forced his feet to walk calmly,
professionally, before he opened the door and sat down in the passenger
seat.  The click of the automatic locks was a silent message that he
had now passed the point of no return.

 "And why do you feel you'd be right for the job?"

 The man started to turn to look at the occupant in the driver's
seat, but was interrupted.  "Don't turn around.  Keep your eyes on
the dashboard.  Why are you right for this job?"

 The man stared at the dashboard, ignored the cigarette butts
that were in the ashtray below it.  "Because I blend in.  Because
people think I'm nothing more than a lab assistant.  They underestimate
me, they'll automatically overlook me."

 The dark haired man nodded.  "You *are* nothing but a lab
assistant."

 "Yes, sir."

 The man rolled his eyes.  "For fuck sakes, this isn't some James
Bond flick.  I need someone to cover my ass.  But right now, I'm doing
okay, so you do whatever you do in those lab smocks and pocket
protectors you have."

 "Yes, si... I mean, I understand."

 The man in the driver seat looked at the butts in the ashtray
and abruptly shut the offending appendage.  "You came highly
recommended, you know.  Why the hell are you stuck in some dead end
Bureau job?"

 The passenger stiffened.  "I have my reasons."

 The dark haired man laughed, and the passenger chanced a glance
at the driver.  Slight.  Bureau protocol suit.  Dark hair.  Dark eyes.
This guy was a Russian spy?  Bureau Protocol turned and slapped the
tech on the shoulder.  Hard.  "A man of mystery.  I like that."  He
sobered.  "Now get the hell out of my car.  My partner's coming soon
and I have to fulfil my dutiful role of green, brown-nosing agent."

 The door clicked to signal the lock being unfastened.  The tech
stepped out and suddenly stopped.  He turned back towards the driver
who was starting the car.  "Wait!  How do I get in touch with you?"

 Special Agent Alex Krycek revved his engine.  Revved it again.
"You don't.  We contact you."

 Before the man could say another word, the car was gone.

***

2630 Hegel Place
Alexandria, Virginia

 "Stupid, freakin' stairs... you'd think the landlord could afford
to build a ramp.  Wheelchair accessible and all, in this, the age of
political correctness."

 The man looked at the stairs beckoning him, and removed the navy
blue ball cap -- passing a dry hand over the sweat from his brow, wiping
his palm on the similarly coloured overalls.

 Talking, mumbling to himself had made him the laughing stock of
the rest of the company, but it was a way to make the deliveries less
boring -- a way to divert the monotony and tedium that accompanied
every delivery job.

 Silently insulting, criticizing his clients, their clients,
their buildings helped him to believe that it was *them*
stuck in some dead end job paying six bucks an hour, uniform included,
no benefits.

 He heaved the tank down the stairs, adding more expletives for
the landlord and the jerk who needed a new water tank.  Apartment
forty two.  Shit, didn't he do this place a couple years ago?

 A beam of light shone in his face, temporarily blinding him.
"Tell me what the hell you're doing down here before I call the cops."

 The uniformed man brought the clipboard to his eyes to shield
the light, catching a glimpse of a housecoat-ed silhouette on the
top of the landing.  "I'm with the water delivery service, ma'am.  I'm
here to make some repairs on the water tank that you requested."

 The woman turned off the flashlight, and his mouth quirked when
he saw the golf club being held threateningly in her hand.  "I didn't
call any repairs."

 The man shrugged.  "It says here 2630 Hegel Place.  Apartment
forty two.  Faulty water tank.  It's already been paid for."

 The woman shrugged, lowering the golf club.  "Apartment forty
two?  Wouldn't surprise me.  The guy has had more repairs done than
any of the other tenants combined."

 The woman started retreating back up the stairs.

 "Hey!  You might want to look into getting some ramps built."

 His suggestion fell on deaf ears.  With a melodramatic sigh, the
second from the left rusty tank was removed, with it's vacant spot
occupied by a pearl white replacement.  The man took one final look,
again cursing the landlord and the number forty two, before taking his
cart and slowly making his way back up the stairs.

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 The object in the figure's hand was under close inspection --
under closer scrutiny than the flashes of flesh and muted moans from
the black box in front of him.

 It was a piece of steel.  Heated, moulded so that it held a
definite shape.  Branded, engraved to hold a number that was in turn
catalogued somewhere by someone.  It had a chamber which held a clip,
which held nine, pointed lead pellets.

 He fingered the semi-automatic, clutched the steel in clasped
hands -- galvanized rosary beads held in between praying fingers.  The
bulk was shifted to the right where an accustomed weight settled
on the palm, where the familiar shape of a trigger caressed the
index finger.

 A gun was supposed to protect.  To defend.

 And Special Agent Fox Mulder had done so.  Had caught his fair
share of John Barnetts and John Lee Roches using a government-issued
gun.  He had protected -- defended -- the mass of nameless bodies who
would read the interviews and watch the film over breakfast the next
morning, during half time in between Mike Ditka and John Madsen.
Would tsk-tsk the tragic death of rapist so-and-so or serial
killer what's-his-name, who had been killed by an easy-on-the-camera
federal agent.  Point blank, self defense... all praise the good
looking fibbie.
 
 But the glare of TV cameras hid the faces behind them.  A
populace which would remain faceless, a populace to whom *he* would
remain nameless.

 The irony that he could never protect -- defend -- those he
knew, those who were *not* a nameless, faceless body, was not lost on
the federal agent.

 Couldn't protect Sam.

 Couldn't protect his father.

 Scully was still here, but she was the third.  Didn't things
come in three?  Three strikes and you're out.  Third time's the charm.
Scully had already been branded, was a reminder of how ineffectual
the piece of steel that Mulder held, actually was.

 He set the gun on the coffee table -- barrel towards the
opposite wall, handle towards him.  Shiny gun on glossy table.
Dancing colours on its metal surface.  Shadows caressing the handle,
moonlight reflected off the barrel.

 He glanced back to the TV, tried to concentrate on the glistening
bodies, the intertwined legs, but failed miserably -- eyes continually
darting to over *there* -- the shiny gun on the glossy table, the colours,
the shadows...

 With a hurried, practiced move, the federal agent took the gun
and threw it under the couch, hearing the satisfying thud as steel
hit base board.

 In the company of the dancing, flickering lights on his ceiling, the
man lay alone on his couch -- grappling with his demons, ignoring the
sooth slayer that lay innocently below.

***

The Mulder Home
Chilimark, Massachusetts
March 12, 1973

 The nightgown-clad figure prowled around the room.  Bored.
She eyed the game of Stratego in the corner, but wrinkled her nose.
Fox had gotten mad when she had won the last game, and now one of the
blue Scout pieces was behind the bookshelf from where he had thrown
it.

 She looked towards the TV and resisted the urge to pout.
Her brother had lined up his text books in front of the television,
diligently ordering her not to disturb him when he was concentrating
on his school work.

 The seven year old eventually grabbed her doll, sat cross legged
next to her brother and with slight fascination, watched his head
alternately move up and down.  First to study the texts below him,
then back up when Bill Bixby said something particularly amusing.

 "Watcha' reading?"

 "A poem."

 The girl fingered the left page.  "This one?"

 Her brother brought the book closer towards his chest, possessive.
"No, this one.  On the right side.  The other one is a kiddie poem for
butt munches like you."

 The young girl was unfazed.  "Read it to me, then."

 "No."

 "Please."

 "I said no."

 The girl smiled, leaned over and whispered into her brother's ear.
"I know about your naked girl magazine under your bed."

 The boy's eyes flashed, his mouth drew into a tight line.  If
Dad found out...

 He looked back towards the book, grabbing it hastily,
pulling it closer towards his chest.  "Fine."  He proceeded to read
quickly, hurriedly, ignoring the commas, the dashes, the periods -- a
rushed torrent of words now devoid of their natural pauses for breath.
The medley of incoherent phrases trailed off in mid sentence.  The
reader slammed the text shut -- conveyed his annoyance further through
an exasperated sigh.  "Sam, what are you looking at now?"
 
 "What's in that box?"

 The boy followed his sister's finger and gaze to the metal
container on top of the bookshelf.  The eleven year old bit his lip,
shifted uncomfortably -- remembering his father's eyes, how the sinewy
hand had twisted his collar as the spit of his words landed on his
son's face.  "Fox, I ever see you playing with this -- I ever see you
*looking* at this, and I swear I will skin you alive.  You got that boy?"

 The eleven year old swallowed -- didn't feel the book slip out of
his lap and slide silently onto the floor.  "It's a gun."

 "Why do we need a gun?"

 The boy shifted again.  "To protect ourselves."

 The Nightgown leaned over to whisper conspiratorially.  "Do you
know how to use it, Fox?"

 The taller of the two shook his head, looked down momentarily,
ashamed at his confession of weakness to his younger sibling.  "No."

 Their eyes met -- naive, earnest irises a stark contrast to their
cynical, tormented counterparts.  "Then how would you protect me?"

 The boy opened his mouth to speak then closed it again.  Breaking
eye contact, he could hear Bill Bixby's voice drone in the background.
He spoke softly, eyes studiously focused on the cover of the text below
him, hands picking at the material of his pants.  "Sam, even if I didn't
have a gun, I would protect you the best that I could."

 The girl smiled, went happily to her doll and tied the red ribbons
in her brown wool hair tighter, failing to notice the sigh of relief
by the figure beside her.

 Soon occupied by the materials in front of them, both children
were oblivious to the faint smell of cigarette smoke emanating from the
kitchen --  did not know that their most recent exchange had been
observed, scrutinized by two pairs of very watchful eyes.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference Room 3
Moscow, Russia

 Colonel Josef Beranek's voice was becoming agitated; he was anxious
to get his point across to his comrades -- to show them the bigger picture
that, god dammit, they couldn't see.  "The deal was made out of
necessity, I realize that.  But we've been dealing with them for only
twenty four hours."  He paused and saw more blank stares from the
members around the table.  "Look, the Americans had reason to break
off the alliance forty years ago, for whatever reason.  Therefore,
let's not make the same mistake.  Bottom line:  I don't trust these...
beings."

 The eldest gentleman raised a hand, quieting the separate
conferences of conversation that were transpiring.  "Quiet.  They
can probably hear us if we continue like this."

 Josef Beranek looked to his superior.  "Vladimir... these
things cannot be trusted.  They say it's fifty-fifty but only they
know how to run the procedures.  How can we be assured that they
won't use our clinics and then run?"

 Some of the other members around the table voiced their
agreements.

 Kabalevsky grew pensive.  "Yes... I guess you are right."  He
took a cigar and cut the end off, lit the brown cylinder, then started
to puff -- still talking during the entire process.  "But we also have
to watch the Americans.  We have to watch *them* -- closely."  He
looked to one of the younger members who was still poised with cell
phone in hand.  "Anton... you want a job?"

 A look of surprise flashed across the young Russian's face,
which was then quickly squelched.  "Yes, sir."

 "You watch that Jeremiah... and his comrades.  Closely.  Without
detection.  Yes?"

 The young Russian straightened.  "Yes, sir."

 Kabalevsky waited expectantly.  No one moved.  "Well, get on
with it.  Meeting over.  Any suspicious activity is told to me, and
me only."

 The men in the room dispersed -- with young Anton, cell phone
still in hand, leading the way.  Two solitary figure remained as the only
exception, their shadows stretching across the far end of the table.

 Kabalevsky studied his cigar, took one moment to close his eyes
and gather himself before turning to face the man beside him.  "What
do you want now, Josef?"

 "Why Anton?  He's just a boy, Vladimir.  What good is a boy
spying on them?"

 Kabalevsky rolled his eyes.  "He's a boy.  *They* won't be as
suspicious to see him hanging around.  Plus, he has potential."  He
took the cigar out of his mouth and looked straight into the uniformed
man's face.  "I would think you would have seen it.  After all, he is
your son."

 The man started to sputter.  "But he's just a boy.  You should
have chosen..."  He stopped, his face turning red.

 "Chosen who, Josef?  You?  Should I have chosen you?  For your
years of faithful service to me?  Is that what you wanted?"

 Beranek took on the onslaught with jaw clenched and eyes focused
on the wall right behind Kabalevsky's head.  "I just thought that
perhaps I was better suited for the job."

 Kabalevsky smiled, causing his next words to come out with tone
biting.  "No, I don't think you are."  He paused, studied the cigar
again then proceeded to place it in between his teeth.  "The job I
want you to do, is to watch the Americans.  They're a bigger threat
right now, most likely from what little this Jeremiah fellow has told
me."

 Beranek nodded, unable to say anything.

 "You will be in charge of watching the Americans *and* dealing
with them, if there is any trouble.  I place my trust in your abilities,
Josef.  Can you handle this?"

 Beranek nodded again -- managed a croak.  "I can handle it."

 Kabalevsky rose from his leather chair.  "Good."  He started to
walk away and turned back when the memory of a few months ago
resurfaced.  "I don't want anymore Kryceks, Josef.  I want smart,
reliable contacts this time.  Or else it'll be your brains that
they're cleaning up in a DC jogging park.  Do I make myself clear?"

 "It's clear."

 Kabalevsky smiled his approval.  "Good."  Leaving Beranek still
standing by the now empty chair, Kabalevsky walked beside the edge
of the table, only pausing by the ashtray to butt out his cigar on the
way out.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference Room 17
Moscow, Russia

 "The Russians are suspicious.  I think they suspect that we're
going to ditch eventually."

 The man known as Jeremiah waved his hand dismissively.  "If they
suspect anything, they really cannot act on it, now can they?  They
don't know how to kill us.  They don't have the knowledge to carry
out the Project themselves, now do they?  They sound the alarms, and
they're dead.  Simple."

 One of the women nodded, curly light brown hair bobbing.  "The
Americans have failed in their stewardship of this planet.  The Russians
as well.  We must be ready to become the apparent heirs -- and that
means reproduction to the most efficient degree.  If that means
*overcoming* any potential obstacles, so be it."

 Another morph nodded his head in agreement.  "Getting rid of
the Russians will be easy.  Catching up to the Americans will be
difficult."

 Jeremiah laughed, and the other morphs looked at him, puzzled.
"Our American colleagues with their bees are so far behind, that even
that English fool will come begging to us on hands and knees,
blubbering for his life."

 He leaned back in his chair, once again admiring his stubby,
knuckled fingers.  "I want the clinics to be cleaned out by tomorrow,
and hybridization to begin at noon.  Reports will come in seventy two
hours from now."

 The room cleared and Jeremiah rubbed his hands together in
anticipation.  He spoke aloud to himself, imagining the Americans
standing -- no, kneeling -- in front of him, begging for their
lives, as many of his predecessors had to do for them.  "You think
you sent us away, Englishmen."  A smile crept around his mouth.
"But we're back, and this time, we're back for good."

***

The Lone Gunmen Headquarters
Location Unknown

 Byers threw his pen across the room, catching the attention of
his two colleagues.

 "Something quirks thee, master Byers?"

 The bearded man rolled his eyes.  "Langly, what the hell are
we supposed to write about in the next issue?  There's nothing.
Nobody's hacking.  Inbox is pretty much empty.  No mysterious phone
calls.  Even Mulder's been quiet for the past couple weeks."

 Frohike laid down the night vision goggles he had been adjusting,
while still holding the screwdriver in mid-air.  "How about that news
report on TWA?  It smells of Big Brother."

 Byers shook his head disgustedly.  "No, no, no... we covered
that in the last issue.  And the issue before that.  We need
something... new... or relatively new."

 Langly rocked back and forth on the high backed office chair,
hoping the repetitive movement would help him think better.  "Well,
what about Vietnam?  Everyone's interested in Vietnam."

 Byers pursed his lips.  "Yeah... it's a possibility."

 Langly rolled over to the computer terminal -- talking more to
himself, than to the other two men.  "Let's see if there's anything
interesting among the surviving Vietnam vets of today."  The sleeves
of the Metallica shirt bounced over the keyboard.  "What do we want
this time, boys?"

 Byers grew pensive, spoke slowly as thoughts started to
percolate, accumulate into a semi-coherent picture.  "Cross match
medal recipients with significant fatality tours.  Say, over one
hundred."  He paused.  "I want them old.  And I want them to be of
high rank."

 Langly started typing, finishing with a flourish of the wrist.
"Got it."  He scrolled down the records and the pictures, stopping
suddenly when a vaguely familiar name came into view.  He looked at
the occupation and whistled -- fully realizing where the familiarity
came from.  "Hey, Byers.  You may have been onto something.  How you
do it, man?"

 The remaining two men crowded around the monitor.

 Frohike whistled.  "His boss?"

 "No shit."

 Byers started to shake his head.  "This is nothing, guys.  A lot
of Vietnam vets are in law enforcement."

 "Yeah, but look at his service record.  Talk about honours and
commendations city."

 Frohike whistled again.  "Look at who his supervisory officer
was."

 Langly rushed to the phone, grabbing the voice adapter along the
way, while Byers took the seat in front of the keyboard.  Frohike ran
to the shelves looking for the same bugging device he had used in the
White House two years ago.

 A story was brewing.

***

St. Mary's Nursing Home
Washington, DC

 The man walked briskly through the hallways, hearing the echo of
his wingtips hitting the tiled, faded floor, watching the pale uniforms
walk by, hearing the endless drone of the intercom through weathered
speakers.

 The routine was never broken; his path never altered.

 Parking lot, open door, pedway, open door, cream colored hallway,
left turn, open door, green hallway, down the stairs, right turn, green
hallway again -- ah, they finally fixed the bathroom -- left door,
open door, find the elderly man with the tremor and wheelchair amongst
all the other invalids and pull up an ergonomically incorrect plastic
chair.

 He saw a nurse approaching, her pastel-colored uniform the
only sign of life in the room -- a facade of cheerfulness to remind
those with catheters and feeding tubes that those with the straight-
teeth smiles and bleached hair had a life to go home to after the
diapers were changed and the medications dispensed.

 "How is he?"

 The nurse sighed, checked the chart and added an indifferent shrug.
"Not good.  Not bad."

 The man nodded, shrugged his coat off, and looked at the man in
front of him.

 "Hey, dad.  How's it going?"

 Once again, his eyes were drawn to look at the elderly man's
hands.  They shook.  In actuality, his whole body trembled, but the
intensity and the frequency of shaking in the hands was the worst,
making the trembling of the body pale in comparison.

 The nurse was still standing behind him.  "He had another
nightmare last night."

 The man nodded his head, wondered what hideousness his father
had dreamt about this time.  Colleagues with their heads missing?
Bodies burnt beyond recognition?  Perhaps a child with her eye
missing and the side of her face looking like something someone
might have puked up.

 He had had these nightmares, too.

 The man reached out to grab, hold, support the cruelly disfigured
hand that was trembling in front of him, but he drew back last minute and
straightened the crease in his pants instead.  "Hey, dad.  Remember when
you just got stationed in Wyoming, and taught me and James how to play
baseball?"  The chuckle was forced, the good memories so often easily
obscured by the bad.  "Mom was so mad when we hit the window.  Remember,
how she made us play with a ball of yarn after that?  Do you remember
that, dad?"

 The man paused, noticed his hands were wringing, so he shifted
and sat on them.

 *Remember* was getting more and more difficult to pass through
his lips.

 He had used it often in his visits here.  It was funny how the
brain worked -- funny how a mass of cells, chemicals, and electrical
impulses could somehow be assembled into coherence -- into the
remarkable process called memory.

 He looked into the hollow eyes of his father, looked for some
recognition of what was being said, of who was speaking.  Of course,
with Alzheimer's, that recognition was being increasingly difficult
to find.  The man's head lowered, his hand absently coming to his
forehead, as if trying to rub away the worry lines which had surfaced
there.  He studied the tile underneath him.  Christ, it was like
conversing with a block of clay.  A block of clay which trembled,
sported a nasal cannula, and watched reruns of Three's Company with a
glassy eyed stare.

 He heard the meal cart rumbling, smelled the less-than-pleasing
aroma of whatever crap they were serving today, and took his cue.
"Lunch time, pa.  You get all that time with the pretty nurses."  He
chanced another look into his father's eyes and sighed.  "I'll see
you tomorrow."

 The man grabbed his coat off the chair, and walked out of the
room, wing tips against tile once again -- resigned to wonder for how
much longer the routine would need to continue.
 

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 The man groaned when the phone rang -- an irritating interruption
as his right hand was hovering over the fine focus knob, his fingers
poised to calibrate Nikon's newest microscopic masterpiece.

 "Yeah, this is the lab."

 "I have a job for you."

 The man automatically stiffened when an unfamiliar voice filtered
through the ear piece.  He was about to tell the caller that they
had the wrong number when his brain placed the accent.  He
swallowed, remembering the deal vaguely -- placing it somewhere in
between the last Bureau picnic and his disasterous blind date with Agent
Henderson.

 He had almost forgotten.

 "You shouldn't be calling here."

 The situation was laid out to him.  Ambiguously, of course.  He
was an underling -- told only what he needed to know, what his job
would entail.   That they had allied with someone, but that now the
alliance was in jeopardy.  They needed him to keep an eye on someone
downstairs.  A close eye.

 The tech swallowed -- nodded, even though he knew they wouldn't
be able to see the gesture.  "I... I understand."

 There was some background whispering on the other line, and
the man looked back to the microscope -- not disappointed that the
calibration would have to be put on hold for awhile.

 Beranek's voice filtered through the receiver.  "Don't go
chicken shit on us, American."

 "I won't"

 "We'll expect reports, three times daily."

 The man balked.  "I can't call your country three times a day
from the office."

 The Russian started laughing, and Colonel Beranek echoed the same
words spoken by Krycek so many years ago.

 "You don't contact us, American.  We'll contact you."

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 Mulder gripped his pen tighter when he heard Scully sigh.  For
the fifth time in ten minutes.  He started to drum his fingers against
the desk, but stopped after the familiar clatter of nails hitting
keyboard stopped.  He looked up, only to meet the annoyed, eye-brow
perched gaze of his partner.

 He mumbled an apology, counted to ten when he heard Scully
sigh yet again and forced himself to count how many times the green
window of the screen saver passed on his monitor.

 The office was silent except for the sporadic typing, paper
rustling, and chair squeaking.  Two months prior, Mulder -- with
feigned resignation -- would have completed the paperwork and
bureaucratic red tape, complained endlessly, and matched wits
with Scully.

 Spontaneous nightmare conferencing aside, silence -- so often
playing to their advantage in the past four years -- was now stifling
them, hindering them.  A roadblock, Mulder realized, that he had set
up himself.  A roadblock, in the shape of bodies, that had fallen and
that he barely remembered in the haze of pain and codeine he had
been in.  Cancerman and his cigarette falling, a vial breaking,
Krycek's eyes rolling, a man approaching... a haze of orange and
green...  and then a hospital with Scully teary and Skinner bolting
as fast as he could.

 He had avoided Scully's questions, had been happy that there was
no Bureau inquiry, and eventually things had settled down to... to
*this*.

 A knock on the rarely-knocked door brought both agents' heads up.
 
 "Agent Rolston... what are you doing here?"

 Mulder watched the man adjust his glasses, the agent's eyes
eventually examining the stains that littered the man's lab jacket.
"Um... I just thought you guys might want to know that Brian Seutter,
the guy Mulder profiled, is dealing with the DA to get a reduced sentence
in return for the locations of some of his victims."

 Mulder sat upright.  Shit.  "The DA's actually going to deal
with the bastard?"

 The tech shrugged.  "Looks like it.  The guy who's defending
Seutter is playing hard ball and saying that he's not going to talk
to anyone."

 "How'd you hear this?"

 The man looked at Scully and shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.
"Word gets around.  Especially if you're just a tech with a lot of
time on his hands.  Agent Pendrell also told me to tell you, said
you guys would probably want to know."

 Rolston looked around the office and tried to make out the
assorted headlines which adorned the walls.  His eyebrows rose.  "Lake
Winnipeaukee Residents Spot Three Horned Creature".  He dared a glance
at Scully, who was supposedly, according to Pendrell, one of
the better Bureau prospects.  His lips turned down when he saw that
the female agent's gaze was solely on her partner who was still huffing
over the latest news.

 "Ah... Agent Scully, do you have any lab work that you need
done in a hurry?  Computer chips?  Chemical analyses?  Pendrell said
you guys need a lot of stuff done last minute most of the time.  Um...
things are pretty slow at the lab, if I can..."

 "That would be great, Rolston."  Mulder got up and started to
usher the young agent to the door, left hand hovering threateningly
over the man's back.  "Thanks, she'll call you if she needs
anything.... and I mean anything."

 He closed the door unceremoniously, and Mulder resisted the urge to
smile at his partner's apparent blind spot.  Any urge was quickly
dampened when Mulder went back to the quarter inch thick file on his
desk.  Seutter.  He clenched his jaw and stared at the nether region
between the signature of the arresting officer and the mug shot of
blue collar worker.  The bastard even had the nerve to smile during
the photo op.

 Scully spoke first -- the first time she had initiated a
conversation with her partner in a long time.

 "You thinking about Seutter?"

 Mulder shook his head, reminded once again of the inefficiency
of the justice system and its desire to see things resolved tidily,
pretty pink ribbon included.  "I just don't understand it, Scully.
I mean, the bastard has killed at least twenty little boys, only ten
of which they have found.  I'll bet you my video collection that he
gets twenty years in return for telling them where the other ten are."

 "What I'm wondering is how Rolston knows so much"

 Mulder shrugged.  "Well, he was right.  We do give a lot of stuff
to Pendrell.  I mean, they work together as techs don't they?"  He
didn't wait for the inevitable Scully nod.  "I don't know, maybe they
draw straws to see who gets to analyze the latest alien blood we come
across."  With hope, he glanced in the direction of his partner, who
hadn't even batted an annoyed eyebrow.  He tried again.  "I don't
know, moonlighting as a law clerk maybe?"

 Scully sighed.  Before, she would have lobbed back with her own
innuendo, or sarcastic response.  Now, the jokes went over her head --
too lazy to return the favour, too pre-occupied by the matters which
the jokes lamely attempted to cover.

 She leaned back in her chair to reach the papers currently being
expelled by the laser printer, and handed the still-warm sheets to her
partner.  "Here... read it before you sign it."

 Mulder accepted the papers, and skimmed them, all ready knowing
what he would read.  "Charles Xavier's abilities to foresee the deaths
of the victims were not in any way related to psychic or paranormal
phenomena.  His psychiatrist has maintained that the subject has had
obsession with death stemming from the murder of his wife ten years
ago.  The opinion of this federal agent, and that of Agent
Mulders's...."

 Scully watched her partner start to mumble the report, his finger
following what he was reading.  He bent over, signed the offending
line, and handed it back to her.

 "Good."

 She nodded her head and grabbed the paper with resignation,
resisting the urge to roll her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

 *Good*.

 Everything was *good*.  Mulder was *good*.  She was *good*.
There had been no recurrence of her cancer or Mulder's headaches which
was *good*.  There was no more faintly detectable smell of smoke in
Skinner's office, which, of course, was *good*.

 So why did she feel the distance between herself and Mulder --
once so close and almost, *almost* tangible -- was rapidly spiralling,
falling out of control, dangerously standing on the precipice
overlooking monotony and tedium.

 *Good*.

 She forced a smile.  "So... Mulder, any plans for the weekend?"

 Mulder looked up, eyebrows furrowed.  He stole a glance at his
desk calender to double check -- after all, it was only Wednesday today.
He shrugged his shoulders.  "No..."  He opened his mouth to add on to
his comments but then closed it just as quickly.  "No," he repeated.

 Scully nodded, wondering when exactly they had started to resort
to small talk.  "So, how are you feeling?"

 The question prompted another furrowed eyebrow.  "Fine.  You?"

 "Fine."

 Mulder glanced up from the file he had been feigning interest in to
look at the figure in front of him.  Still a little bit on the thin
side, but filling out nicely.  It was small comfort, though, in the face
of the awkward silences that had plagued them now for weeks.

 The clock on the office wall was marking its time, beating its
drum with a loud and steady beat.  Mulder's tongue took an exploratory
journey around the roof of his mouth, while Scully decided it was time
to examine her nails, taking a particular interest in the hang nail
that was growing on her middle finger.

 "So, Scully."  Mulder's voice seemed unnaturally loud as he
started to rise from the high backed office chair, reaching behind
him to grab his coat.  "I guess we're finished here.  I... ah... I'll
see you tomorrow."

 She nodded her head, forced a smile.  "Tomorrow, then."

 He left the cramped office, almost dismembering the doorknob
from its wooden panel.

 Much to both agents' surprise, they felt more at ease when
their partner was gone.

***
 

Skyview Apartments
New York, New York

 She needed help reaching the highest vase on the bookshelf.

 She was the shortest one in her family, yet she was told it was
her turn to clean the wooden heir loom.

 She grabbed the duster at its end, stood on her tiptoes, and
tried to gingerly make contact between the feather and porcelain.

 When it fell, she started to cry.

 Her mother was scared.  They cleaned it up quietly, and hoped no
one would notice.  They cringed, could not move as they waited with bated
breath until *he* came.

 Like the cold Moscow wind, he came in with a storm -- obscenities
and furniture flying.  The only word she could pass between her lips
was "please".

 He would not stop, his endurance was so much more superior to
hers, as was mostly everything else.  He would say something in between
the thrusts, something indecipherable, something in water that she
could not make out.

 Her body was breaking.

 It was being sawed in two.

 Thrusts that grew in intensity, which grew in frequency.

 Harder.

 The sheets were always white.

 More.

 And the pillows had red roses on them.

 Faster.

 She helped her momma make the bed once.

 Couldn't understand what he was saying.

 Her whole world was shaking.

 He would slap her if she begged.

 He would drive her to school on his way to work -- kiss her on
the forehead in front of all her friends.

 He would grab her harder if she cried.

 Sometimes he would buy her ribbons for her hair -- red ones that
matched the red dress he had given her for her tenth birthday.

 He would groan right after climaxing.

 Everyone knew what was happening.  They were happy.

 She was going to break the cycle.

 Momma said she would be able to make something of herself...

 The woman woke up suddenly in her bed, gasping for air, feeling
the sweat rolling down her body -- her silk pyjamas already soaked
through and through.  Her hands were clenched into fists, her toes
were curled -- so much so that her legs and arms were cramping under
the strain.

 So the nightmares weren't gone.

 She walked into the washroom -- warily eyed the blouse that was
air drying on the shower curtain rod.  Took a drink of water and
ignored how her hands shook or how the water dribbled out of the side
of her mouth.

 She looked up.

 She did not recognize the face in the mirror.

 She absently noticed that the brown was showing again.  Wearily,
she took a mental note to make an appointment with the hairdresser
again.  Tired brown irises were mirrored back to her, the blue contacts
were no longer disguising them.  If she moved her face this way and
that, and if the light caught her mouth in just the perfect angle, the
faint scar could be seen.  Tomorrow, the expensive cosmetics --
including her Heathermist Pink lipstick -- would take care of that
defect.

 She opened the medicine cabinet and took out the familiar bottle
of sleeping pills -- not difficult to find, as its only neighbours were
the clear Aspirin bottle and the silver foil packets of Sudafed.  She
took them dry and padded back to her bed -- looked at the duvet and
white sheets and threw them off in a jerky, desperate motion.

 She laid herself on the floor, felt the rough fuzz of the carpet
against her cheek -- finding comfort only in the fact that she would
have no more dreams tonight.

***

United States Research Facility
By Worland, Wyoming

 The man looked from his pipettes and up to the door when he
could hear the running footsteps through the corridor.  He dropped the
glassware onto the counter, doffed the rubber gloves and plastic
goggles and ran out.

 "What the hell is happening?"

 One of his colleagues slowed down.  "It's Derlum."

 His stomach fell.  Derlum?  Christ, he had talked about her
genetics project over soggy macaroni and cheese at the cafeteria
six hours ago.  "What about her?"

 The woman shook her head, put a hand to her chest, and continued
to punctuate her words with gasps for oxygen.  "I don't know... She was
in the lab working and all of a sudden she went into seizures."

 The man started for the hall way, working quickly to a sprint.
He called back to the lab tech who was still standing dumbly by the now
empty laboratory.  "Show me where the hell she is, Avery."

 Two corridors later, Troy was staring into a lab that was a carbon
copy of his.  The steel cabinets were to the left of the regulation fire
extinguisher; the electron microscope was right beside the computer which
stood across from the fridge.  Troy nonsensically wondered if Derlum's
fridge was anything like his -- with the DNA-containing microfuge tubes
right bedside the caffeine-containing Pepsi and Kit Kats.

 He stepped hastily around the crowd of people, mumbling his
apologies, and watched a woman empty her soggy macaroni and cheese into
the steel trash can.  She slumped across the metal cylinder once the
heaves abated and he took her up in his arms, ignoring the glances
that were passed among the spectators.  "Come on... we have to get you
to the infirmary, now."

 He started to pull the brown hair away from her face, and she
buried her head further into his chest.  Her moans were muffled,
obscured by his lab coat and her stringy hair.  "Ohhh.... soooo
siiiii-ck."

 "I know, I know," he cooed.  "I promise I'll read you your
favourite story.  Just for you... just like I always do."

 There was no answer.

 "Derlum... Come on... Wake up."

 The man kept exchanging glances -- first to the hallways and
doors to see where he was headed, then back towards the whimpering woman
he was carrying.

 Derlum was delirious.

 If it had been the cafeteria, six hours prior, both of them
would have laughed at the alliteration.

  He leaned in closer to the woman, while quickening his pace.
She was asking for something.  Mumbling.  Muttering.  Push her higher,
higher... Her shoulder was hurting... There was a swing in the back.

 The man looked with desperation at the doorways he was passing,
praying the next one would lead to the infirmary.  "Derlum... Hon...
I can't understand what you're saying."

 The woman started crying, her tears starting to soak into his
lab coat.  She raised her head and her hazel eyes assaulted his blues.

 It was a whisper that passed through her lips -- three words
before she would pass out.  "I want Fox."

***

Along 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 Assistant Director Walter Skinner grabbed the steering wheel
tighter, turned the radio on louder, turned the radio off.  Felt
flushed, so he turned the air conditioner on, started to shiver, so he
changed the heat indicator so that the plastic indicator was in the
red region, not blue.  Started strumming the steering wheel with his
fingers when traffic eventually slowed to a stop.

 "Fuck."

 It was spoken to no one in particular, maybe to him and what he
perceived as his own lack of balls.

 One polite phone call to Kim, one waggle of the albatross which
still hung on his neck after so many years, and the date and time was
set.

 Eleven o'clock.

 The building on West 46th avenue.

 Can't miss it, it's the tallest one there.

 One hundred heat and radio adjustments later, Skinner parked
underground, not failing to notice how the burly man in the kiosk was
conveniently expecting his arrival.  Cutting the engine, he took a deep
breath, adjusted his glasses, took a deep breath again, and brushed the
lint off his coat.  He looked at himself in the rear view mirror,
wondering once again what the fuck he was doing -- trying to remind
himself that they were fucking old men for Christ sakes.

 He walked across the pavement, ignoring the height of the high
rise which was currently beckoning him.  So intent on keeping his steps
steady, the Assistant Director failed to step out of the way of the
head banger who was rocking the opposite way with music blaring though
weathered headphones.

 The banger put his head down, mumbling his apologies.  His blond
hair flew in the breeze and his short legs marched faster towards the
opposite intersection.  Skinner bit down on the expletives that were
threatening, and concentrated his efforts into straightening the
lapels of his trench coat.

 Walking up the steps, he made sure his holster was above the
second belt loop from the belt buckle and, upon second thought, undid
the safety of the semi automatic.  He caught his reflection in the window
of parked car, and shook his head.  It was a little too paranoid -- even
for him.

 He opened the door, crossed the threshold, and prepared himself
for the inevitable ass kissing that was about to follow.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 Scully tapped her feet impatiently in time to the clock on the
wall.  She looked at the mass of papers and folders her partner called
a desk and looked back to the clock -- cross checked the time with her
wrist watch.  She took a sip of the coffee and leaned back into the
office chair.

 It was quiet.

 No... no, things were always quiet in the basement refuge.  At
ease?  Peaceful?  Scully took another sip of the lukewarm liquid, and
wondered if it was any coincidence that her moment of relaxation came
at a time when her partner was not present.

 Without Mulder, there were no uncomfortable silences.

 No small talk.

 She uncrossed, then recrossed her legs.  Damn, her pantyhose were
tight today.  Then again, all her clothes were starting to fit more
snugly.

 She eyed the coffee.  Caffeine and sugar.  Now that the cancer
had gone into remission, she had willingly submitted herself back
into the federal agent daily grind.

 Now that her cancer had gone into remission...

 Mulder still had not told her.  At first she had pleaded, bribed,
coerced him into telling her.  It was when both had nothing to do in
the few personal days Skinner had given them.  When the paper work
started flowing, and the cases started piling, the pleas and the
threats reduced in their intensity and frequency.

 Scully shook her head, silently chastising herself for playing
it soft with her partner.

 Her head turned sharply as the office door flew upon, followed
by a stream of standard FBI attire.  The briefcase was dropped to the
floor and her partner was already in the processes of removing his
suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

 "Hey, Scully.  Sorry I'm late.  Bad traffic today."

 Scully permitted herself to nod -- her thoughts and analyses
regarding the events which took place seemingly so long ago, still
churning at a furious clip.
 
 Her partner sat down in the chair, leaned back, and put his feet
on the desk.  "So, Scully, any cases today?"

 She shook her head. "Nope.  Skinner's been out all morning.
Kim doesn't know where he is."

 The statement prompted a pensive "hmmmm" from her partner.  He
flipped through a few loose papers on his desk, then settled himself
in rummaging through the one stack of bland folders beside him.  When
disgust got the better of him, he threw the stack onto the floor,
obtaining some satisfaction in the echoes which reverberated throughout
the office.  "Is it just me Scully or are we really due for a case right
now?"

 Scully sighed, looking at her lap top longingly.  Yes, her fingers
had been awfully twitchy lately.  "Yeah."  She paused, feeling the
uncomfortable silence beginning to claw its way back.  Shit.  What
did they usually do during these moments?  Her mind stated the
obvious.  Joke.  Make up a sarcastic, witty response that you used to
be able to do.  She cleared her throat and thought back to Apison,
Tennessee and the smile she and Mulder had had in the interrogation
room.  "Although, if it's one of those fluke things... I may have to
take a raincheck."

 A smile played on Mulder's lips, and Scully returned the gesture.
Not because the joke was particularly funny, or original -- but because
there was a sense of familiarity again, no matter how brief or awkward.

 Then the corners of her partner's mouth dropped, and his feet
fell from the desk which was supporting them.  "Oh God...."  He bent
over and put a hand to his mouth, jerkily leaned forward and then
placed the other hand over his stomach.

 Scully's chair tipped over, and she knocked over the cup of cold
coffee.  "Mulder?"
 
 She could hear his staggered breathing as he opened the office
door and made a hasty exit.  The slamming of hands against the wooden
panel of the men's washroom was the only indication to where her
partner had gone, and Scully -- praying that it was the flu, a cold,
something which had nothing to do with otherworldly creatures and
government conspiracies -- followed reluctantly, hesitantly to the
other end of the hallway.

 Both agents had joked previously that the only advantage in
working in the basement was that each had an office bathroom to
themselves.  Each had three sinks, three soap dispensers, two napkin
rolls, and five toilet stalls with which they could amuse themselves
with.  Nevertheless, Scully knocked before she entered and heard her
voice reflected back to her eardrums after being reflected off the
tiled walls.

 "Mulder?  It's me."

 There was heavy breathing and then a weary, "I'm fine."

 His voice echoed through the stalls of the washroom.

 I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine....

 It was a reminder of the numerous times both agents had said the
particular phrase to each other, whether their nose was bleeding or
their head was pounding.

 The fluorescent lights hadn't even been turned on.  She found
her partner leaning to the side, his face pressed against the metal
stall.

 He opened his eyes and swallowed.  "Hi, Scully.  Women's
washroom is over there, isn't it?"

 Scully stepped in and put a hand to his forehead, ignoring his
flinch.  Checked his pulse, checked his breathing.  "Mulder, you're
hot..."  She raised a hand to stop any smart-ass remark that would be
coming.  "And don't say it."

 He closed his eyes.  "I wasn't gonna say anything, anyways."
His hazel orbs reopened, and Mulder cursed himself for bringing the
trademark worried-Scully look it seemed that only he could produce.
"So, what's the prognosis, doc?"

 Scully walked over to the sink and returned seconds later with
a water containing dixie cup.  "Flu?  Did you wake up sick?"

 Mulder accepted the offering, drinking slowly to appease his stomach.
"No... I was fine until just a few minutes ago."

 "Did you eat anything?"

 "Coffee, bagel... nothing I don't eat everyday."

 Scully put a hand on his head again.  "Do you have a headache?"

 "Yeah... but it's just a little one."

 Scully sat back, staring wide eyed at her partner.  No, Mulder had
not noticed what he had just said.  It was the same thing he had said in
the motel room -- some two days before he had to be hospitalized and put
on a morphine drip.

 Scully put a piece of hair behind her ear -- spoke slowly and
calmly to appease the inevitable, possibly explosive, rebuttal.
"Mulder, what if what you had before is coming back?"

 Mulder opened his eyes.  "Nope."

 "But what if?"

 "It's not, Scully," came the snappish reply.

 Scully lowered her voice again.  "Maybe we should just check..."

 He sat up straighter and shook his head.  "I don't have it.
This isn't it."  He punctuated every consonant to make his point
clear.  "The ones... the ones before were much worse.  Like... like
an incessant beating in my head."  Mulder tried to gesticulate with
his hands, but found the action futile.  He shook his head to reemphasize
his point.  "This is a two Tylenol headache, as opposed to a bottle of
codeine headache."

 Scully's face fell.  "And you couldn't tell me this before?  You
couldn't just ask me?  Before Omaha, and Trish, and the disks, and the
hospitals, and the morphine.  Why?"

 Mulder bristled.  He could have thrown the same lecture to Scully,
but he didn't want his temper to upset the receding nausea.  "We're
both here, Scully.  And that's the only thing I wish to remember about
that day.  I'm fine, you're fine.  Let's enjoy it for however long
it'll last."

 He stormed out of the washroom still with one hand against his
stomach.  Scully started for the door, but caught her reflection in
the bathroom mirror.  She stared -- ran a finger down the bridge of
her nose -- caught herself, and then ran, high heels clicking, back
towards the basement office.

***

West 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 Organized chaos.

 That's how Walter Skinner wanted to describe the place.  Half
the people in the room were on phones, intermingling with each other,
shouting, debating, arguing.  Raised fists punctuated the air; there
were emergency snaps to one another for pens and paper -- some of
the phone numbers and notes were *that* worthy of the effort to
transcribe them.

 A blond woman was approaching.  Skinner didn't fail to realize
that she was the only woman in the room.  "Mr. Skinner."  She
extended her hand.  "My name is Marita Covarrubias.  I apologize for
the... confusion, here.  We've had some, shall we say, emergencies
develop."

 Skinner looked around -- accepted the leather-backed seat that
was offered to him.  "What kind of emergencies?"

 The woman shook her head slightly, and smiled politely.
Professionally.  "Nothing.  It's being resolved at the moment."

 Skinner reciprocated the polite, professional smile and looked
around at his new surroundings.  The most elderly gentleman was on
the phone, approaching Skinner while talking into the receiver at
the same time.  "... No, no, no... Too risky.  Have to make up records,
and there's no time for that.  The infirmary will have to do."

 There was another voice from behind:  "I don't know!  We'll make
another one.  Yes, it'll take some time, but if this is as serious as
they say, then we have no choice."

 The Englishman calmly hung up the cell phone and turned his gaze
towards the Assistant Director.  "Ah... Mr. Skinner.  How are you
today?"  Skinner watched the old man in the charcoal suit sit down in
the chair across from him, cross his legs slightly, and signal to
one of the gophers to bring him a drink.

 Skinner clenched his jaw, reminded himself that diplomacy was
the key to any 'corporate' relationship.  "Fine... you?"

 The man started to laugh.  "Well, we are quite in the shambles
aren't we?"

 One of the men approached the bourbon drinking man, cupped his
hand to his mouth and started to whisper.  Skinner cleared his throat
as he tried not to stare.  His only other outward sign of annoyance
was a loud exhalation through his nostrils.

 "...wants to know... Mulder."

 Any flinch that was about to arise was hidden underneath
Skinner's sudden need to readjust his glasses.  Shit.  Although the
agent was a regular pain in the ass, he did not deserve the attention
of this cigar smoking, bourbon guzzling old men's club.  He sat
passively, feigning an interest in the lamps around the room, and
honed old soldier skills -- catching and saving the scraps of the
conversation that were made available to him.

 "... Tunguska... incapacitated most likely."

 "... sure?"

 The heavier-set man turned in his direction and stared, turned
back to the English man and nodded in Skinner's direction.

 "... wouldn't know."

 "... his boss."

 The Englishman cleared his throat, flashed another smile at the
Assistant Director.  "Mr. Skinner, how is Agent Mulder?"

 The reply was nervously diplomatic -- a futile attempt at
indifference.  "Why?"

 "Because we want to know more about the man who will become the
next Assistant Director... Director, even.  That is, assuming we
get our own way."  The man's mouth twisted into a grin, and there was
a ripple of laughter.  "So, Mr. Skinner, how is Mulder?"

 "Fine..."

 He did not fail to miss the members who failed to hide their
surprise.  One member went for the phone and furiously started dialling.

 "He's fine?"

 Skinner shrugged.  "Yes... he's fine."

 "No... headaches or anything?"

 Skinner's Adam's apple bobbed as his teeth angrily ground together.
The question was phrased so innocently, but the bastards knew.  The
fucking bastards knew everything.  Judging by the reactions of those
around him, he didn't do Mulder any favours by disclosing his condition.

 Skinner inhaled.  Exhaled.  Looked to the ceiling for help.  God
fucking damn.  How many more cover-ups and conspiracies could Mulder and
his partner take?  How many more times would he be forced to watch them
standing in the wake, picking up pieces, desperately grasping for some
semblance of a truth which would keep eluding them?

 Two months.  His agents had had only two months of perfect,
HMO-is-happy, clean bills of health.  Two months of not having
to run for the sake of their lives in a game masterminded by the
shadows he was currently sitting with.

 Shit.

 "He was admitted a couple weeks ago, but he was released shortly
after."  Skinner narrowed his eyes towards the Englishman.  "I would think
that your intricate network of spies and bugging devices would have caught
this."

 The English tsk-tsked his disapproval at Skinner's outburst.
"Why should we waste expensive technology when we have you?"  The
Well Manicured Man's eyes flashed.  "Don't question us, Mr. Skinner."

 The man under the Consortium's present wrath nodded reluctantly,
his insides seething.

 "Now, Walter, what was the cause of Mr. Mulder's hospitalization?"

 "Undetermined."

 "How did he get better?"

 Skinner shook his head.  "Undetermined."

 The Englishman smiled.  "First day on the job, Walter, and you've
already helped us immensely.  Much more than you'll ever know."

 Skinner closed his eyes.  "Don't... don't do anything to Mulder."

 The man feigned innocence.  "Why would we do that?"  His
expression quickly sobered.  "Plus, it's not really your place to say,
now is it?"

 He signalled the blond woman who had been standing at the other
side of the room and watching the exchange closely.  "Please show Mr.
Skinner to the door."

 Skinner reluctantly let himself be led to the oak panel, when
the blonde woman bent her head down -- allowed her hair to cover her
face.  "Mr. Skinner... some advice.  Watch your back."

 Skinner opened his mouth to ask, but the door had already been
shut and the deadbolt audibly locked.

***

Moscow Government Family Planning Center
Moscow, Russia

 The man groaned when the footsteps grew audibly louder and faster,
soon followed by the angry protests of the petite woman.

 "What the hell are you doing?"  The enraged woman was holding her
shawl with one hand while tearing down the "Closed Until Further Notice"
signs with the other.

 The uniformed officer's right arm acted as a vise as he roughly
grabbed her by the arm, while using his free hand to reach into his
jacket pocket.  He fished out the leather-encased badge and shoved it
in her face.  "Government official.  If you keep this up, I'll have to
arrest you."

 The woman continued her attack on the building walls.  "This
*is* a government agency!  We are legitimate!  We don't do anything
illegal.  All the abortions are legal!"

 The man started to squeeze the arm harder until the woman was
forced to stop.  "I know that this clinic is legal.  But we are
shutting down all clinics temporarily for government inspections."

 The woman started sputtering.  "What the hell?  I wasn't
notified of this!"

 "No one has been notified... we don't want any tampering."

 The woman stared at him, stupefied, until she noticed for the
first time the soldiers who were unloading equipment from the truck
parked in the street in front.  "Well, how long will this... this...
government inspection be?"

 "Indefinite."

 "Indefinite?"  She looked back to the truck, and her eyes caught
the coolers -- the bio hazard stickers professionally attached to each
side.  A metal contraption was pulled out, followed by a large glass tank,
followed by a mismatch of body bags and containment suits.  It sure as
hell didn't look like any government inspection.  She turned back slowly
to look at the eyes of the man in front of her, planning to give up,
pretend she didn't see what she saw, go placatingly and see the error
of her actions -- get the hell out of there and call the police.

 The flash of metal was a surprise, as was the noise and the fire
in her chest.  She wondered if she screamed.  At least she could have
done that much.  She could see the green uniform above her, towering
over her, swimming in and out of her view.

 "Sorry, lady.  Government orders."  He threw the mock badge at
her, and turned towards his soldiers.  "Clean this crap up first.
Then unload the van."

 He looked back to the coolers, fetal tissues waiting patiently
within their plastic walls.

 "And hurry up.  We still have lots to do tonight."

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 "Thanks, Kim."  Scully dejectedly hung up the phone and looked at
her partner, who was still fully engrossed in a game of Solitaire, some
two hours later .  "Not back yet.  I don't think Skinner's gonna be
back before today.  Kim said he had a meeting in New York."

 Mulder sighed.  "Aw, damn."  He stared at the computer, no more
moves -- the ace of hearts was still underneath the seven of clubs --
and he hadn't beat the computer for fifteen straight games.

 The cellular phone rang mercifully.  "Mulder."

 "Hey, G-man."

 Mulder started to smile.  "Langly."  The mention of his name sent
Scully's head turning toward her partner.

 "I think you should come here... we found something...
interesting."

 Mulder smiled, agreeing with Langly's sentiment.  "Obviously, if
you're that daring to call me at work."

 "I think you should come here... oh, and Frohike says to bring
the lovely agent... Ow!"

 "I don't think Scully wants to look at Frohike's um... gadgets
today, boys."  The last comment earned Mulder a genuine Scully glare.

 "Hey, Big Brother's listening, so see you later."

 Mulder hung up the phone, noticing that Scully was still shooting
daggers at him.

 "So... what is it?  Flying Elvis'?  Mutants from Mars?  Flukeman
revisited?"

 Mulder reached for his trench coat.  "I don't know... I guess
I'll find out soon."

 He started to open the door, then paused, turning back to his
partner.  "Hey, Scully, you want to come?"

 The reply came quickly.  "No thanks."

 Mulder nodded -- wondered if she was refusing because it was the
Lone Gunmen or him.  He forced a smile and opened the door.  "Okay...
your loss."

***

The Lone Gunmen Headquarters
Location Unknown

 Frohike met Mulder with a big grin as he entered the office, it
fading when he saw no partner trailing.  "So, Mulder, where is Scully?"

 "I told you Frohike.  She's afraid of her love for you."

 Frohike waved his hand dismissively.  "Fine, whatever.  Just
don't come to me when you need night vision glasses again."

 Mulder rolled his eyes.  "Yes, I wouldn't want to disturb your
peeping Tom duties, now would I?"

 Both men heard the annoyed grunt of the bearded man glowering
at them.

 "Sorry... Dad."

 Byers shot Frohike a look and straightened his tie.  "Mulder...
we have some news for you."

 Mulder looked at the three men in front of him.  Even Frohike
had sobered.  "What?"

 Langly stepped forward, prompting Mulder to wonder again how
often Langly did *not* shampoo his hair to have it stick out like that.
"Have you ever wondered what kind of job your boss actually does,
Mulder?"

 Mulder shook his head, dead pan.  "Don't tell me he's pulling a
Hoover."  Langly guffawed.  "The idea of my boss in Wonderbra and Hanes
is something I don't need to know, boys."

 Byers rolled his eyes upward.  "Mulder, I'm serious."

 The agent relented.  "Okay, what?"

 "We put a bug on his lapel today...."

 "I did that..."

 Byers waved his hand dismissively in the blond haired man's
direction.  "Yes, as Langly pointed out, he did it.  It's a portable
camera with mike... just like the CIA and NSA uses...."

 "Which I built..."

 "All right already!  Yes, Frohike built it."  He looked at Mulder,
shaking his head almost disappointedly.  "It's strange company you
choose to keep, Mulder."

 Mulder shook his head, eyeing the TV Byers was turning on.  "What
exactly are you getting at?"

 "I'm just saying that your boss, Mulder, is... Well, maybe you
should listen for yourself."

 The frames wavered and the picture was fuzzy, bouncing up and
down in time with the figure's breathing.  Mulder squinted -- there
was little black and white contrast as the surroundings were dark
to begin with.

 A voice, muffled, staticy -- but oh-so familiar -- percolated
into Mulder's cochlea.  The English accent would always be a dead
giveaway.  "Mr. Skinner, how is Agent Mulder?"

 Mulder felt himself recoil -- felt his feet back up until he was
pressed up against one of the Gunman's desk, when his boss' resigned voice
offered a reply.

 The federal agent watched -- could hear his AD reiterate his
hospital stay to the gentleman who was sitting comfortably in the chair,
nursing a glass of whatever liquid, and the legs which surrounded him.

 Mulder shook his head disbelievingly.  He fucking sold him out.
And why the hell were *they* so interested in him all of a sudden?  Wanted
a new stalking force?  A new case coming which they needed him to take the
blame for?  There was little relief when he heard Skinner asking *them*
not to hurt him.

 "Please show Walter to the door."

 He saw legs approaching.  Very familiar legs.  They were the
first thing he noticed when he saw her.  Then there was the voice --
soft, whispered, passing barely through the lips.

 He rose a hand to his head.  Felt the onslaught of a headache
coming -- comforted little that it was from stress this time, not
alien parasitic worms.  He felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
Frohike.

 "What were they talking about, Mulder?"

 Mulder looked up, and Frohike instinctually transplanted his gaze
from the agent's eyes to his forehead.  The look of people being betrayed
was something he dreaded, was something he would never get used to.

 And in his line of work, he had seen it often.

 In watching Mulder, he could swear it had almost been pre-ordained.

 "It's nothing... I'm fine."  The federal agent started laughing,
hysterically, without control, without any trace of humour.  "I'm
physically fucking fine, boys.  Just the informant I've been talking to
is with... them."  He pointed angrily at the screen.  "And my boss, of
all fucking people -- my you-can-trust-me-I'm-on-your-fucking-side boss
is also working for those...."  He started tapping angrily on the screen,
unable to come up with a suitable expletive.  "... people."

 Byers watched Langly approaching with the latest issue of TLG
and silently waved him off.  Now was not the time to tell him the
rest.  Byers walked over to the agent, who had closed his eyes and was
breathing with forced control.  Mulder tucked his hands underneath his
arm pits in an attempt to prevent himself from lashing out at someone...
something.

 "I'm sorry we had to tell you this, Mulder."

 Mulder shook his head.  "No... it's better I found out now."  He
heard the printer upstairs rolling, roaring, spitting out its copies.
"You guys are printing this?"

 Byers, having just ejected the video tape, hugged it closer to
his body.  "Yes.  Why?"

 "Don't."  Mulder saw three pairs of eyes start to light up in
protest.  "I might be able to do something with this."  He looked at
Byers.  "I *need* this, guys."

 Byers shook his head.  "Mulder, this is all we have for our
next issue."

 Mulder became animated.  "I'll give you guys some old case
files -- you'll get actual quotes from FBI agents... unnamed FBI agents
of course."

 Langly and Frohike looked to Byers with eyebrows perked.  Byers
wasn't particularly interested.  They had covered the flukeworms and
the Max Fenigs many times already, but he relented, prompted mostly
by Frohike's silent nod. "Fine.  It's a deal.  Your boss on hold...
for now, Mulder.  We'll need those case files by tonight."

 Mulder stood up suddenly, eyes blazing with the possibilities
that had arisen.  "Thanks for telling me, and keeping it under wraps.
I'll talk to you guys later."

 Frohike was standing in Mulder's way, noting the agent's stoic
posture.  "Mulder, wait.  What are you going to do?"

 Mulder looked up, noticed the man's torn gloves, his diamond
cutter glasses lying on top of his head, and could see what he would easily
turn to if he didn't find Samantha soon.  He shook his head.

 "I don't know.  I really don't know."

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 Skinner arrived at the office, grumpy, not in the mood to talk
to his secretary, to read the latest expense reports, or to return the
hi's and waves of the ass-kissing agents who always hung around the
office.

 Kim started to get up at his arrival.

 "Kim, hold all my calls.  I don't want to talk to anyone."  She
began to open her mouth.

 "But, Mr. Skinner..."

 "Please, Kim..."

 At her boss' sharply delivered words, the woman shrank away,
looking nervously to the door.

 Skinner looked at the far wall -- always did when he was entering
the office in the morning.  Always saw Bill Clinton's and Janet Reno's
face smiling paternally at him.  Only if Billy boy really knew what
was happening -- that the Timothy McVeigh's and the Middle East
terrorists were no threat compared to the ones that God-bless-America
was breeding in their own country.

 "How long have you been working for them?"

 Skinner spun around.  Saw Mulder sitting in the right chair --
usually taken by Scully, he absently noted -- slouched with a gun
pointed to his superior's head.

 "Mulder... what the hell are you doing?"

 The agent started to shake his head.  "So when Scully was dying
in the hospital, and I was cleaning out the office, was that Vietnam
story real, or was it just some story to keep me here and fuck me
around?"

 Skinner looked to the door.  "I don't know what you're talking
about, Mulder.  And I'd put that gun away, before someone gets hurt."

 Mulder ignored the last comment.  "Why?"

 "Excuse me?"

 "What do those bastards give you that would allow you to watch
Agent Scully's life go down the shit hole?"

 "They cured her... Didn't they?"

 Mulder shook his head -- put the gun down and felt like throwing
up again.  Christ, they had everyone twisted around their fingers.  "I
gave them some disks that they really wanted, maybe they wanted to
fondle them or something, and they cured Scully.  Or at least that's
what I thought.  Maybe it was you.  I'm sorry, but I'll have to thank
you later."

 "Look, Mulder, I had no choice..."

 Mulder shook his head -- tired of the excuses, the alibis, and
the heart-felt pleas.  "You manipulated lies.... You manufactured news
headlines.  You are part of the biggest conspiracy, all the while
pretending you were on our side... I can't believe it."

 Skinner looked at the beaten man in front of him.  Pathetic.
Tragic.  A quest that had begun so long ago, a past so warped and
beaten that the man didn't even know who to trust.  Couldn't decide
between black and white -- was given a garish shade of gray and told
to sort it out himself.  "Agent Mulder, look, I did what I did because
I have as big of an albatross as you do."

 Mulder shook his head.

 Something within Skinner snapped.  "Look at me, when I speak to
you, Agent Mulder."  The agent reluctantly looked up, sullen.  "Look,
there are some things in my past, that... that... they can use against
me.  Just like you..."

 "You're not like me.  I wouldn't sell myself out."

 "The point is, Mulder.  My decisions are partly based on my past.
Something I'm sure which you can relate to.  We all know why you went
from a promising career in VCS to the basement -- and it wasn't the
lack of air conditioning."

 The agent nodded slowly at the sentiment.

 "Look Mulder.  You can think of it as a voice on the inside."
The AD ran to his desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper.
"Look this up."

 Mulder looked at the address.  "What's this for?"

 "For you to keep your mouth shut.  Even to Scully."

 Mulder looked at it warily, was tempted to hold it at arm's
length lest it want to burn.  "A deal?"

 "A sign of faith."

 Mulder looked at the paper again.  An address.  A set up?  The
real deal?  "I have... sources, *sir*, that know about you as well.
They're the ones who brought it to my attention.  The only reason it's
not in the open is that I begged they not."  Mulder watched Skinner's
face for any emotion, any flinch, but there was none.  The agent shook
his head.  "I can't trust you."

 "I never asked that you did."  The eldest man pointed to the
paper.  "Just look at it.  You'll find something.  But remember, it
wasn't from me."

 Mulder took the slip of paper, went through the door that
Skinner held open for him, sensing that he had been checkmated
once again.

***

United States Medical Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming
January 10, 1990

 The man smoking the cigarette walked calmly down the tiled
floor, ignoring the pristine conditions of the walls and doors
that surrounded him, the almost sterile conditions in which the
men and women in their white lab coats worked, huddled, and
furiously scurried.

 He flicked the cigarette in his path as he walked, passing the
"Do Not Smoke" sign, pausing only to reach into his pocket to grasp
the familiar white and red package yet again.

 The gated doors shut behind him, armed bodies ran past him, red
alarms screamed above him.

 The glass enclosed room was in chaos.  Pandemonium.  Faces were
pushed up against the glass, mouths agape, attempting to breathe the
air that the glass could not provide.  Their blood shot eyes were wide,
threatening to burst out of their sockets -- fear emblazoned in their
irises, suffocation marked in their outstretched fingers which could no
longer reach for help.  Men were killing children.  Women were killing
men.  Hands were covered in blood from the appendages that were bleeding.
Green ooze covered some areas of the glass -- long, trailing paths that
led to a dead body, a dismembered leg or arm.  Pieces of white cloth
littered the room, now used as rope around one's neck -- a noose, a
futile flag of surrender -- a far cry from the clean scrubs they used to
be.

 The Cigarette Smoking Man felt a shadow approach and lit
another Morley, failing to flinch when a body rebounded of the
glass in front of him.

 "These aren't right."

 The man with the cigarette turned, meticulously removed the
cigarette from his mouth with his thumb and index finger.  "I can
see that.  What I would like to know is how this happened?"

 The man shook his head.  "Some of the geneticists say some of
the introns were positioned improperly."

 "And that translates to..."

 The man rubbed a hand over his face.  "It means they're too
violent, the foreign DNA is being expressed too strongly.  The
alien DNA is still overriding the human genome expression.  They're
not suitable for the Project ahead."

 "And what are you suggesting?"

 "I'm not suggesting anything."

 "Yes, you are, or you wouldn't have brought it to my attention."
The Cigarette Smoking Man turned towards the other man beside him.
"I want this merchandise destroyed.  They're a liability.  A new template
needs to be built.  A better one, obviously."

 The man started to shake his head.  "I don't think..."

 "You don't have time to think.  I want these bodies shipped
somewhere far and destroyed.  Does that work for you, Bill?"

 The man swallowed.  Always buckling, couldn't say no despite
his boy -- a man, he had to remind himself, despite the daughter he
had lost, despite the wife who had divorced him, despite his
conscience which refused to be appeased.

 "I understand."

***

On board:  Naval Ship Kensington
En Route to:  NAVDIST Washington, DC
January 12, 1990

 Upon reflection, the petty officer second class was tempted to
believe that the procession had been almost poetic.  Was tempted to do his
best Sammy Coleridge impersonation and wax poetic about the steady
stream of beige who had watched over the steady stream of green.  Had
watched the recently sedated cargo be loaded onto Kensington's deck, in
all her gray majesty.

 A poetic event that quickly metamorphosed into nightmarish
proportions.

 The steady rock of the boat dancing on the waves below it, the
steady beat of water hitting steel, did little to erase the memories
of three hours ago.  Did little to erase the screaming that came from
the deck below.  The desperate pounding on the steel walls.  The crying
of the children.

 What had he become?

 He had joined the Navy because it was right.  Because his dad
had done it.  Because he wanted to serve his country.  Because people
looked at you with that slight mix of awe and envy when you came
home in the starched, white uniform.

 The officer steepled his hands.  Laid them against his forehead.
Spread his hands and tried to rub his eyes.

 He couldn't stop his hands from shaking.

 The same hands which had thrown in the container of hydrogen
cyanide.  The same hands which had pulled the violent surge away,
only to watch one hand snake out from the mass of various appendages and
grab his name pin, stuff it in its mouth in anger, and spit in his face.
The same hands which had locked the port hole, which had doomed the
merchandise inside to suffocate in their prison of hydrogen cyanide.
The hands which had sentenced Junior Petty Officer Roberts -- up and
comer, best friend -- to death because his trampled body could no
longer reach the outstretched hand that was calling for him.

 He looked down into the dark depths of the water below him,
remembering his father who had told him stories of Triton and mermaids --
of sea Gods and how humans had to respect nature, because it had no
respect for you.

 Was Neptune that big on irony that with two hundred dead bodies
below deck, he let the sun shine, look through faint wisps of white
cotton.  Did its own take of Coleridge and let the white foam flow,
and the fair breeze blow, and the furrow follow free.

 The deck was silent.  Eerily so.  Each man to himself.  Each
man with his thoughts.  Each man with their mouth, which they had
already vowed to keep shut.  Dishonorable discharge, suspension,
indefinite assignment off the water and shuffling papers on base were
all deterrents -- were more effective than duct tape.  Physical
means were effective in maintaining a ship's conspiracy of silence,
but not as much so as subtle threats to one's family.

 The man fingered the empty space above his left pocket.  His
name pin was missing.  He was without name.  Without identity.  Just
a face.

 No longer Petty Officer second class Scully with the Kensington
crew.

 Just silence.

 Just a shadow.

***

Beau Forster Park
Reisterstown, Maryland

 The tractor driver was holding his breath, a hand to his mouth.

 A police officer was running away, trying to find some privacy
before he threw up.

 Two other police officers were standing at the mouth of the hole,
mouths agape, eyes watering from the smell that was meeting their
nostrils.

 Scully looked at the decomposed bodies in front of her.  Hundreds?
Thousands?  All human.  Men.  Women.  Children.  She stole a glance at
her partner, who was shaking his head slowly in disbelief.  Scully
remembered the man in West Virginia, how terrified he was.  The smell
emanating from the mass grave he showed her was identical to this one.
No, this wasn't an experiment from Japanese scientists in collaboration
with the United States government.  It *couldn't*.  Right under their
noses?  Mighty unlikely.

 She turned towards her partner, recalling how he had wanted to 'take
a walk around the park'.  "Mulder... how did you know about this?"

 Her partner shook his head.  "I don't know... someone told me."

 "How?"
 
 "How the hell am I supposed to know how he knew?" he snapped.
He took a deep breath and looked apologetically at his partner.  "I'm
sorry, that was uncalled for."

 Scully nodded.  The outburst had hurt, but it was the most
emotion he had shown in weeks.  And he had mentioned an informant.
An informant meant a case.  A case for the X-Files.  Maybe... maybe,
things were coming back to normal.

 "I'm going to doing some of the autopsies... Do you want to
watch?"

 Mulder watched the decomposed remains of a girl be carried past
him.  His mind offered a rebuttal.  Okay, a small skeleton, most likely
that of a child, fifty-fifty chance that it was a girl.  Patterson was
creeping near -- helpless victims were killed by someone who had no
respect for life.  Or people.  "No, Scully.  I don't know if this is
real or not.  Maybe it's a set up.  I think," he paused, ran a hand
over his eyes.  "I don't know what to think, Scully."

 Scully studied her partner, resisted the urge to leave her mouth
agape.  She had never seen him look so dubious, had never heard him voice
his uncertainties to this degree.  She noticed the slip of paper which
he was desperately grabbing on to, and she pried it from his hands,
ignoring the sweat that had moistened the paper and blurred the ink
slightly.  The address.  The address of where they were now.  She
turned back sharply to look at her partner.  "Who gave you this,
Mulder?  Is it someone we know?"  When there was no immediate answer,
Scully persisted.  "Mulder, do I know this person?"

 Mulder shook his head sadly, as he watched another black coated
body be carried past.  "No... I don't think you do."
 

***

West 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 "This is a serious breach in security."

 "Yes, most troubling indeed."

 "This is more than troubling.  We're talking about potential
exposure."

 "Yes, our eastern comrades don't seem to be very happy with the
present... arrangements."

 "That rock is killing people."

 "Yes, it is."

 "How the hell can you be so complacent when it is the whole
Project that is in jeopardy?"

 "Eye for an eye, my friend.  Blood has been spilled here, so we
return the favour.  They've violated our land, our people -- they've
killed our own..."

 "So..."

 "So by God, we kill them back."

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Vladimir had always found it strange how the memory worked.  Long
term memory especially.  An event could happen -- innocent, innocuous,
and be stored and forgotten for months... years... decades even.  And
then, one word could trigger the onslaught of dialogue and scenes and
people that had been seen, the smells that had been smelled, the sounds
that had been heard.

 It was the conversation he had remembered.

 The one at the clinic.

 And the one he had had with Jeremiah a mere 24 hours ago.

 He rushed to the conference room, surprised when he saw Jeremiah
flanked by three other members of his troop, whispering.  They stood
up suddenly when they saw him at the doorway.

 "I hope I wasn't interrupting something."

 Jeremiah smiled.  "No... no.. not at all."  He mumbled something
under his breath, and his companions started to file out, one bumping
past Kabalevsky's shoulder as he left.

 The Russian sat himself across from the table, and leaned
inward.  "This marker you were telling me about earlier... can it be
in humans as well?"

 Jeremiah looked amused.  "I can't implant you."

 Kabalevsky shook his head, and looked down at the papers Jeremiah
and his drones had been looking at.  The morph saw where the Russian's
gaze was leading to, and he flipped over the papers casually.  Two pairs of

eyes met, and both forced professional, diplomatic smiles.

 "Now, Mr. Kabalevsky... what were you going to say?"

 Kabalevsky paused, hearing the screaming in the back of his
mind, feeling his innards protesting.  He grabbed a cigar to stall,
took time in lighting it to get his thoughts together.  The morph was
hiding something; it was obvious.  Their visitors had the edge because
Jeremiah had the much sought after marker.  He took a casual puff,
and admired the cigar momentarily.

 Christ, all of Russia was flapping in the wind while he and his
comrades waited for Jeremiah and his... companions to do whatever it
was they were doing in the abortion clinics.  Both Mulder children had
the marker too, he was sure of it.  Perhaps this knowledge -- no,
perhaps any of the Mulder children -- would start to even out the odds.

 Kabalevsky rose the cigar to his mouth again, meeting Jeremiah's
eyes for the first time.  "I just wanted to say, that if it seemed that
I had qualms about you having the marker, I don't.  I've thought about
it, and I realize that you had no choice."

 Jeremiah smiled.  "Yes, no choice."

 Both eyes met yet again, and the corners of their mouths turned
upward and smiled, once again professionally and diplomatically.  Both
figures, despite their expensive suits, were shrouded in secrets which
were hidden deceptively by fake pleasantries and gestures of kindness.

 The two figures separated, smiling -- the morph and the man
feeling that they had bested the other.
 

***

Holy Mary State Hospital
Jakutsk, Russia

 Dr. Halina Wrobel was a woman of routine.  She did the paper
work every Tuesday and Thursday.  Paychecks came every second Friday
of the month.  She alternated between day and night shifts once every
four weeks -- working seven half days for every fourteen.  Patients
had their medications checked every four hours.  Check in was at seven
o clock precisely, check out, exactly twelve hours later.

 She closed the final patient folder in front of her, placing the
object in the outbox along with the others.  Six o clock.  One more
hour.  She turned to survey the street in front of her behind the
safety of her office blinds.

 Three times.

 Three times a delivery truck had come to the abortion clinic
across the street.  Three times a soldier had gone out to meet the
driver, signing the clipboard then resuming his normal post just
inside the main glass doors. Three times boxes and coolers had been
carried into the continuously lit clinic.

 *Four* times yesterday.

 This was not routine -- not a routine government inspection at
all.  Government SOP -- Boris Yeltsin and his drinking buddies -- only
required that all lights be functional and all floors clean -- colour
coordination with the dreary Moscow winter was considered a
bureaucratic bonus.

 She brought a hand absently towards her mouth, wondering if
she was being overly paranoid.  Wondered if calling the cops would
perhaps settle the growing unease in her stomach.

 The door flew open and a young resident ran in, breathless.
"Dr. Wrobel.  You have to come down to emergency.  We have a big
problem -- a company across town..."  The resident started leaving,
as he quickly as he came, his voice soon fading in face of the
escalating din from the hallways.

 Halina grabbed the lab coat, second hook from the right, and
walked professionally towards the uncontrolled commotion in the curtained
emergency room.

 The doctor instantly recoiled.

 The emergency was overflowing with pustular pimples.  Angry, red
boils which covered the faces and necks of the miserable populace
inside the ER.  One child was lying on the floor, still -- shirt and
pants off, only a diaper on, but the rest of his body clothed in red,
pus-discharging scabs.

 There were patients groaning in the waiting room chairs, some
of the staff had brought out extra wheelchairs, while the conscious were
content to share stretchers with three others.

 The young resident was trying to pull away from one patient who
was holding his arm, begging for morphine.  Men were seizing, while some
of the females were gasping for air.

 One of the nurses came up, clutched the doctor's arm.  "What do
you think it is?"

 Halina shook her head slowly.  Examining one of the sprawled
unconscious lying on the tiled floor, she took her pen and gingerly
poked one of the pustules, coming across a membranous sac enclosing a
black, jagged tip.

 "Oh my God..."  She brought the pen closer to her glasses,
lifting her head to catch more light from the fixtures above.  "These
people have been stung by bees."

 The doctor slowly turned three hundred sixty degrees, hearing
the moans, trying to ignore the pleas for help from the children, the
women and the men, and the elderly.

 She glanced at her watch.  Six forty five.  New shift would be
coming in soon.  But like everything else this past week, this routine
would be broken too.

 Because no one would be going home tonight.

***

United States Federal Agricultural Silo Complex
by Worland, Wyoming

 Mulder blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat up suddenly when he
remembered the men in black with their syringes and semi automatics.

 "Mr. Mulder..."  The voice was soothing.  "It's okay."

 Mulder turned his head hastily, trying to absorb his surroundings
as quickly as possible, noticing the wide circumference of metal
which was surrounding them.

 "Yes, Mr. Mulder... A silo."

 "Where's Scully?"

 The man looked around, momentarily puzzled by the question.
"Certainly not here.  You'll be happy to know that we're not
interested in her... this time.  We're interested in you."

 The man laughed when he caught the glare Mulder had shot back.
"Why, Mr. Mulder, I'd consider our interest in you an honour."

 Mulder absently rubbed his sore arm.  "Where's Skinner then?"

 There was another confused pause.

 "Skinner.  You know, on your side, my boss.  Where is he?"

 "I really don't know, Mr. Mulder.  Frankly, I don't really care
at the moment.  I'm here -- you're here -- to be shown something.  Will
you go quietly?"

 Mulder didn't answer.

 "Is that a yes?"

 Mulder looked around the silo, aware that he really had no
choice.  "Yes, I will go.  Quietly."

 The Englishman smiled.  "Good."

 The man rapped his knuckles on the door, Mulder immediately
feeling the gun rifle at the small of his back.  Corridors followed
corridors.  One silo after another.  A rectangular building.  A deck
which overlooked a floor below.

 Mulder grasped the railing and looked down, exhaling at the
site that was presented to him.

 People.  Children.  Men and women and babies.  Commotion.
Like a shopping mall.  Mingling.  No sense of purpose.  Talking.
Chiding.  Arguing.

 Mulder swallowed, unable to take his eyes off the people standing
below him.

 The talking stopped -- all eyes expectantly on him.

 The Englishman leaned over.  "Tell them to do something."

 "Wha?..."

 The Englishman started to grow impatient, gesticulated wildly at
the mass of people below them.  "Tell them to hop on one foot."

 "No."

 The gun went exploring deeper into the small of his back.  "Tell
them to do it, Mr. Mulder.  Do it, or suffer the consequences."

 Mulder looked at the man uneasily, looked back down towards the
people below him.  He swallowed, failing to release the lump from his
throat -- feigned a sudden need to scratch his arm.

 "Mr. Mulder, I'm growing impatient.  We'll need to get past this
stage before we can proceed to the others, before you can be sent
home."

 Home.  Mulder nodded his acknowledgement absently.   His attention
was soon drawn to a blond woman near the front.  Faded cotton dress.
Mismatched sandals.  Sparkling blue eyes that watched him, idolized him.
He licked his lips.  When the words finally passed through his lips, they
came out more like a croak.  "Hop... hop on one foot."

 Mulder would have laughed but the growing uneasiness in his
stomach prevented him from doing so.  The masses had started to hop,
on cue from him.  Faces serious, women jumping with babies in their
arms, tiny children jumping, men carrying the children who couldn't.
The resounding steady thud of longitudinal sound waves hitting
steel walls was matched only by the throb of blood rushing past
Mulder's auditory nerves.

 The Englishman yelled to the floor below.  "Stop!"  The hopping
continued.  "Stop!"  He looked to Mulder.  "Say it."

 Mulder shook his head -- wanting nothing more than to get out.
Wanted to run away from wherever they were.  Whoever they were.  Didn't
want to know what it meant.  Didn't want to know why everyone below him
was still hopping, still looking at him expectantly.

 The English accent was now punctuated by a more insistent point
of the rifle.  "Say it, Mr. Mulder.  Now."

 "Stop."

 The uneasiness was growing exponentially now.  The hopping
ceased, blue eyes still watching.  Hazel eyes still idolizing.  Dark
browns still watching expectantaly.

 Warily, he turned towards the Englishman.  "What is this
supposed to mean?"

 The man started walking down the metal catwalk, with Mulder
reluctantly following.  "You, Mulder, and your sister Samantha, have
a job with us.  This was the Mulder children's born duty.  This is
the gift that you were chosen to have."

 Mulder shook his head.  "And what gift is that?"

 "When the bees run their course throughout the world, a new
herrenvolk race -- these people -- will populate the Earth.  They will
need help.  They will need direction.  And you will provide that."

 Mulder looked back down at the masses below -- their eyes still
intently on his.  "And how do I provide that?"

 "You give them orders, under our command, of course.  You're
genetically programmed to do so."
 
 Mulder spat the words out before he could stop them.  "I'm not
a fucking mutant."  It was his worst fear come true -- genetically
altered, genetically manipulated.  He and Scully had used those words
so sparingly over the past four years.  Tooms had been genetically
altered.  The Flukeman had been genetically altered.  A mutant.  He
rolled the word around in his mind, wondering if Scully would file
Fox Mulder between Eugene Victor and Flukey.

 The Englishman smiled again at the agent's expense.  "No... no,
Fox.  Of course you're not.  You've been feeling some nausea lately,
haven't you?"

 Mulder looked down at the metal catwalk -- no longer willing to
participate in a game that he did not have the energy to play.

 The man took the silence as a yes.  "That was your gene being
expressed.  An intron -- a gene between your regular structural genes,
Fox.  A gene that underwent transcription and translation only in the
presence of a complex protein, which of course, was delivered via
your water system... at home, and at work."

 Mulder rubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to ignore the
voice coming from... somewhere.

 "This is your job, Fox.  This is your duty."

 Mulder grabbed the Englishman by his lapels, continuing when the
expected gun butt to the head or ribs failed to come.  Bitterness was
interspersed through words which were forced through clenched teeth.
"Then why don't you get Samantha to do it then... that's why you abducted
her.  Isn't it?"

 The Englishman shifted uncomfortably underneath the younger
man's grip.  "You're a smart boy, Fox."

 Mulder let go of the man's lapels, instinctually retreating three
steps.  "Don't say that."  They were the same words his father had spoken
the night his skull had played target practise to Krycek's lead pellet.
A thought dawned on Mulder, brought on by the frantic search he and Scully
had done some 72 hours later in an abandoned mine.  "I was supposed to be
taken.  Why her and not me?"

 The man adjusted his collar, started clucking at the wrinkles in
his tie, then contented himself in answering Mulder's question.  "You
were an experiment.  Technically, you were conceived by in-vitro with
some... alterations made along the way.  They tried to make you
perfect.  And you showed with your sister that you were loving,
nurturing -- a perfect candidate to lead the herrenvolk when the time
came.  You were brilliantly smart, but no one knew what introns did.
Still don't really -- at least so the geneticists say.  Your father
told us about your dark moods.  He said that you were prone to angry
outbursts, didn't do too well in stressful situations."

 Mulder closed his eyes.  It was the story of his life.  He wasn't
good enough.  He wasn't fast enough.  He didn't remember enough.  "So
you made Sam."

 The Englishman smiled.  "So we made Sam," he agreed.

 Mulder nodded, felt the beginnings of panic approaching.  If Sam
was originally chosen, and the Consortium had to *settle* for *him*,
then something had gone horribly wrong.  "So... so where is she?"

 The man was curt, the history lesson was over.  "She's dying,
Fox.  She's very sick.  If you stay with us... we'll take you to her.
If you don't... you will never see her again.  You won't even get
the luxury of burying her."

 "Don't make me make a choice."

 The Englishman laughed, remembering the exact same phrase spoken
by the elder Mulder twenty four years previously.  "I'm sorry, boy.  I
guess it runs in the family."  He paused, a smile over his own
ingeniousness growing suddenly.  "I'll give you a bonus, Mr. Mulder.
If you choose to serve with us, we'll let five people plus Agent
Scully live.  They can stay with us in a safe house until the bees
finish their work.  We'll pass them off as, shall we say,
administrative assistants."

 Mulder became animated, yelling out his expletives, blindly
attempting to aim his feet and fists towards the smug face in the gray
suit.  A hand, a pistol, a sharp pain in his cheekbone, an elbow digging
into his fallen body quickly subdued him.  The Englishman leaned over,
his hot breath raising the hairs on Mulder's neck.  "You'll be escorted
back to your apartment.  You can tell Agent Scully if you want.  She
probably won't believe you."  The Englishman leaned over further and
whispered into Mulder's ear.  "Just remember, that we're the ones who
want you.  We *need* you, Fox.  Can Agent Scully or the Bureau or your
family, for that matter, say the same?"

 Repeating the events in his apartment, a syringe was
produced, the clear sedative catching the bright overhead fluorescent
lights above.  "You have 48 hours, Fox, to make your decision."

 A decision.  He had to make a decision.  Again.  Mulder caught
one last glimpse of the people below him.  Flashed towards the picture
of Sam which was kept diligently on the bookshelf.  Didn't want to
think anymore.  Didn't want to choose anymore.  Wanted nothing, a
nether region, an absence of feeling.  With the Englishman's imposed
time limit echoing through his ears, Mulder willingly accepted the
bliss of nothingness when it finally came.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 The Bureau's bull pen had always amazed Scully.  Not that it was
particularly spectacular looking, comprised mainly of cubicles and
glass-enclosed offices.  But there was always a buzz around the place --
from nine to five inclusive.  Water cooler talk, basically, but Scully
would have been lying to herself if she said she didn't miss what little
she had briefly been a part of shortly after her residency.

 The dimly lit basement office and its two occupants were not
conducive to a gossip-y kind of atmosphere.

 From fifteen feet away, she eyed Skinner's office, noting that
Kim wasn't at her usual post.

 "Agent Scully!  Agent Scully!"

 Scully turned somewhat hesitantly to meet the flushed face of
Agent Rolston -- yet again.  "Agent Rolston."  Scully smiled
courteously.  "I was just on my way with a meeting with Assistant
Director Skinner."

 The agent smiled sheepishly.  "Those things are tough, man."  He
paused and looked back towards the main Bureau entrance.  "Do you know
where Agent Mulder is?  I have... uh, something to give him."

 Scully nodded her head.  "No, I guess that makes two of us.  I
haven't seen him today either.  Do you want me to give him a message?"

 The man started backing up.  "No, that's okay.  It was something
from Pendrell anyways. He'll probably catch up to him later."  The lab
tech then  turned hastily on his heels and proceeded in the opposite
direction.

 Scully stood in the middle of the bull pen momentarily trying to
sort through the conversation that had just occurred, when Skinner's
broad chest came into view.

 "Agent Scully, my office please."

 The two walked in silence, Skinner leading the way to what
eventually would be the cafeteria.

 Scully reluctantly took the plastic molded chair and sat, arms
crossed in front of her lap, mind going full speed behind an impassive
mask.  "Sir?  I thought the meeting was supposed to be in your office."

 "Less ears here, if you know what I mean."

 Scully nodded her understanding and waited.

 "Agent Scully, are you aware of Agent Mulder's whereabouts at
the moment?"

 Scully paused.  Wasn't sure if it was yes or no that would
protect her partner better.

 "No?"  The response came out as a question, and Scully inwardly
berated herself for being so obvious.

 "You don't know anything?"

 "I don't know anything."

 "When was the last time you talked to him?"

 Scully shook her head slightly, her only outward sign of her
displeasure with the current line of questioning.  "Pardon me, sir,
but what does this have to do with the case Agent Mulder and I are
working on?"

 "I'm sorry?"

 "The case.  I assume this meeting was about the odd nature of the
bodies we uncovered."

 "Of course."

 Scully took the ball and ran with it.  "I was just wondering.
Mulder never told me.  Did he come to you with the case, or did you
assign it to him?"

 Skinner looked