By:  Maraschino
maraschino@ibm.net
 
 

Disclaimers and red tape in Part One

***

It's easy to make a man confess the lies he tells to himself;
It's far harder to make him confess the truth.
  -- Geoffrey Household "Rogue Male"

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 When the anxiety attack subsided, Mulder fell onto his knees.
Looked up to the stone walls.  Let his hands fall and touch the cold
cement floor.

 He remembered now.

 Remembered seeing Scully come out from behind the pillar with her
gun drawn, her red hair flaming, before faceless hands grabbed at his
arms, his chest, his legs -- pushed a cloth into his face that made
his eyes threaten to burst with panic, fingers try and scratch the
arms which were suffocating him.

 He remembered trying to kick at Rolston who was shooting
erratically at Scully, watched Skinner duck and try and get out
of the cross fire while reaching into his jacket to pull out his
own piece of metal.

 In his struggles he had turned his head, seeing the girl with the
knapsack and the touque running away, brown hair flowing out from
underneath.  Watched her run as the world turned black, his cerebrum
superimposing Sam's face onto the figure.

 Could once again see the distance between the two was rapidly
increasing.

 Once again missed the opportunity to touch her face with fleeting
fingers.

 Once again missed the opportunity to call her, to beckon her.

 Instead, it had all been ripped away.

 Once again.

***

West 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 The colour of the bourbon in the Englishman's glass reminded
Skinner of the blood that was spilled in the park a little less than
five hours ago.  The cigar smoke pushed him to remember the wisps of
carbon residue that flew from his gun in the fuck up that was supposed
to be a retrieval.  The tall, lanky silhouette standing in front of
the window resembled, much to Skinner's discomfort, a certain federal
agent -- the goods which were the Consortium's version of the Tickle
Me Elmo doll.  If you build it, they will come.

 Indeed.

 The conversation, or rather, the coercion was one sided, brief.

 The members of the Consortium had learned long ago that
torture -- the beatings, the whips, the implements, even the threat
of death -- paled in comparison to grabbing something close to the
heart, in reaching for something dear to the soul, and clamping.
Squeezing.

 Like the final nails being hammered into a coffin, the squeezing
began.  Impossible demands were made possible only after a little
duress.

 And if Walter couldn't go to Russia.

 With Marita C--whatever.

 In charge.

 And get back Mulder.

 Alive.

 And find the morphs.

 And kill them.

 And the merchandise.

 Then Assistant Director Walter Skinner would have to accept the
consequences -- accept that an agent under his charge had been bargained
away for personal gain.  Then Private Walter Skinner, survivor of a
hellish existence they called Vietnam, would have to watch as his secrets
were shared to the TV media, to the radio, to the mothers and sisters and
daughters of those men who had died a gruesome death.  Then Walter Robert
Skinner, impressionable kid, who liked to do nothing but play baseball
and be like pop, would have to watch as the whole world heard about Daddy's
dirty little secrets.

 The pressure came from all directions.  Not only from the men
around him, but from the hardwood floors, from the dim lamps, from
the pale, smoke tinged walls which seemed to be enclosing him, boxing
him in.

 Squeezing him.

 With a nod, Skinner could do nothing but agree.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Mulder tensed.  Felt his heartbeat start to quicken, his chest
start to tighten.  Unknowingly, his fingers bent inwards, balling his
hands into fists, nails leaving angry red marks on the palms.

 The footsteps had stopped in front of the door, followed by a
familiar jangle of keys and the click of a lock being unfastened.  The door
opened and the figure inside rose, ready to face the faceless demon that
stood in front of him.

 "Mr. Mulder... we've been expecting you."

 The subject under interrogation kept his mouth closed, his hands
held tightly at his sides.

 Watching.

 Waiting.

 Colonel Josef Beranek smiled, revelling in the lithe figure of the
man in front of him.  In the arms which were twitching slightly
underneath the strain of trying to keep hands and fingers tightly
balled up into fist.  In the eyes which glittered in the darkness of
the cell.  The mirrors of the soul which were showcasing a medley of
emotions: fight versus flight, brazen courage versus gut wrenching fear.

 A leather wingtip crossed the threshold -- a step that echoed off
the walls, that sent shivers of pleasure, of anticipation, down his
spine.  "Mr. Mulder, it seems your talents are desired by some of the
members of our staff."  The man started to rub his hands together,
twisting the ring on his fourth finger.  The red eye glittered in the
dark, caught the eye of the man whose hands were now moving towards
the front of his body.

 The Russian stepped in all the way, the red eye alive and looking
for a target, looking for some vengeance in the face of the embarrassment
he had received in front of his colleagues.  "You owe us, American.  You
owe *me*.  And I'm here to make sure you pay every cent."

 The red eye lashed out.

 And attacked.

***

Margaret Scully's House
Baltimore, Maryland

 The priest smiled at the red haired woman in front of him, held her
hand within his like he had done so many times, so many years ago, and
started to pat it.

 "Dana, it's so nice to see you again -- nice to see you healthy.
The church prayed for you.  Surely it's one of God's miracles you're
back with us."

 Scully's mouth hid behind her wine glass -- covering the tight
line whose surroundings were slowly turning white.  She swallowed.
Took a breath.  Smiled slightly and murmured her thanks, ignoring the
glances from her mother on the other side of the table.  Ignored the
paternal gaze of the black collar in front of her.

 She fingered the cross at her neck, felt the sharp corners of the
four arms dig into her chest.  With a sigh, she finally let her hand drop
to her side, on top of her pants pocket, only to feel the sharp corners
of the name pin -- only to once again wish the piece of metal alloy away.

 She dragged her eyes from the plate below her and looked across at
her brother, studying his uniform, the lapels, the badges.

 The name pin.

 Her mind and heart raged another silent battle -- her heart
diligently grasping onto the belief that there were plenty of Scullys
in the United States.  A good number of them could realistically be
good, strapping men who were in the navy.  Logically, a fair percentage
of those could be petty officers.

 There.

 That was it exactly.

 But the way her mind screamed its objections, the way it pointed
out the holes in the logic her heart had dictated, made Scully want
to vomit the same roast beef her brother was studiously carving.

 She hoped Mulder would forgive her.  Forgive her for changing
into the V-necked pullover she loved, and driving over to mother's
with trembling hands and burning pocket.  Forgive her for drinking
wine and pretending to laugh while trying not to cry at the irony.

 Her answers did not lie within Cancerman and his Morley, nor in
past UFO cases with abducted MUFON members.

 Sadly, the answer was sitting in front of her, giving her
questioning looks when he noticed her staring.

 He broke off the stare, eyes concentrating once more on the roast
below him.  "So, Dana, how's Mulder?"

 Scully looked wide-eyed at Bill, surprised by how off-guard the
question had caught her, instantly wondering why Bill Scully would ask
that question, what his motives could be, was his question as innocent
as he phrased it to be...

 Then the panic passed, and she smiled.  Then her fork started to
clatter against the plate, and her hands were hastily shoved into her
lap.  A forced, reassuring smile was displayed for the sake of all the
worried eyes at the table.

 "Fine... just fine."  She glanced back at Bill, whose smile in
return to his sister's looked genuine.

 Scully took another deep breath, wasn't sure if her mom had turned
the thermostat up, or if it was the wine which was causing the heat in
her cheeks.  She laid the first bait, plunged not with both feet, but
with one foot gingerly testing the waters -- still wasn't sure if she
wanted to know if there were monsters lurking underneath the prim navy
uniform.

 "Ah... actually, there was a really interesting case.  A mass
grave was dug up by Reisterstown.  Mulder was the one who... found it.
You may have heard it in the news."

 She looked back at her brother who was seemingly fascinated by
the story.  The knife was still hovering a half inch over the top of
the roast. His mouth was slightly open; blue eyes pierced blue.

 "You guy's have any leads?"

 Scully started to open her mouth, but she was quickly interrupted
by the eldest Scully.

 "This is not the place, nor the time, for such conversation."

 Mumbled apologies came out of the mouths of both children.
Scully's hand snaked to her pocket, and she fingered the pin once
again.  Felt the engraved lines and curves of her name, even though
she had long since committed it to memory.

 She looked back in the direction of her mother, who had started
conversation with Father McQue.  Scully noticed the worry lines, the
grey hair, the eyes which had lost some of their brilliance.  The way
a good joke would cause the corners of her mouth to rise, but fail to
enter the eyes.  That in those mirrors of the soul was the feeling of
emptiness, of something lost -- that at every family gathering there was
the reminder that there would be two less plates set up, less presents
to give, less gifts and hugs to receive.

 All consequences of an illness called cancer, an abduction
that still remained unresolved, the death of a young woman, and the
heart break and the soul searching which followed.

 She looked at her mother once again.  Watched her hands
gesticulate as she told Father McQue what happened when Charlie ratted
on Bill, told mom about sneaking off her cigarettes and selling them
to his buddies.  How the sixteen year old had stormed around the
house, saying he would never forgive Charlie for what he did.
How mom stoically weathered the storm -- said that she could forgive
Bill if he could forgive Charlie.

 Scully fingered the pin once again, wondering if, when it was all
over, mom and Bill would be able to forgive her too.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Oh God, did he hurt.

 Did every bone, every spot of flesh, and every muscle scream
in protest to each subtle change in position.

 That every heart beat was a pulse of fire, a rise and fall, a
throb, that travelled amongst the intricate network of criss crossing
veins and arteries within him.  That all outside sounds had been
obliterated, only to focus on the pulse that beat within his breast,
the rhythmic yearning for something that had gone missing so long ago.

 Something that the Russian bastard with the ruby studded ring
could not comprehend.  That his silence was not primarily an act of
defiance -- not a direct refusal of the order red eyes had issued him.
But an act of waiting.  Of a temporary, warped submission that allowed
him to retreat, and to dream, and to relish in memories past.

 A parched tongue explored the chapped, broken lips around it --
Mulder's mind blindly calculating how badly it had been damaged.  He could
feel the blood starting to paste his lips together, could feel how
the bottom was so swollen that it crawled up and over the top, right
side of the lip.

 The Russian's threats and coercions, the steel toed boots and
the ring-embellished punches had soon given way to pants and gasps,
and Mulder felt a small victory in not giving in.  Found some
familiarity in the Russian's frustration, in his lip that bled
freely because his teeth had bit into it.  Just because his mind had
clamped onto the last remnants of memory.

 Deja Vu.

 A chance to reminisce of times past and not-so-beautiful.

 The cell door opened, and Mulder reflexively drew a hand up to
protect his eyes from the light, instantly groaning, feeling ten muscles
protest simultaneously.

 The silhouetted figure glowered over his charge with a height
difference of over half a foot, with a width that was twice as wide.
"Yes or no?"

 Mulder's eyes met the glistening almond shape of his captor, and
he pushed down the instinctual reflex to cower and hide.  Like his
dad and the swiss cheese memory during that certain night in
Massachusetts, Mulder could not give the Russian what he wanted.

 Would not.

 "I said no."

 Beranek smiled, snapping at the air behind him.  "We'll see if
you're so defiant after your little trip down memory lane.  I hear
it's more pleasurable the second time around."

 Mulder's eyes darted side to side, pupils dilating in response to
the sympathetic nervous system kicking in, in response to the
two goons who had just entered the cell, hands fidgeting, looking
for something to grab onto.

 The federal agent was roughly knocked down onto his stomach.
Big, beefy hands that were sweating, that allowed his wrists to slide
slightly, pinned his arms behind his back.  A syringe bore down in
clear sight, the same suspicious orange liquid that was used only a
half a year ago in a little Russian town called Tunguska.

 Adding yet another hole to the fabric of memory that Fox Mulder
chose to wrap himself in.

 Adding yet another moment of fear drenched sweat, of panic filled
screams, and of desperate visions of the angel in the nightgown.
 

***

Margaret Scully's house
Baltimore, Maryland

 Two solitary figures stood in the hallway of Margaret's Scully's
home -- half a foot separating the two bodies, the sound of air being
inhaled and exhaled rebounding off the walls, overlapping the quiet
din emanating from the living room.

 Bill Scully stared at his sister, a look of half amusement, half
worry marking his classic Irish features.

 "Dana... what are you doing?"

 The red head pulled out an object out of her pocket, saw the
light reflect off the name pin, and held it up high to her brother's
eye level.

 "Is this your pin?

 Bill Scully took in hand and studied it.  Twisted it this way and
that, before a smile came across his face.  "I don't know.  Maybe.
Could be.  I guess it depends where you found it.  There's a lot of
Scullys in the navy."

 Scully nodded.  Her mind told her to stop, to end it there.  That
what Billy said was logical, and that he didn't know, and that was it.
She took the pin again and caressed it -- thinking of Mulder, thinking
maybe... maybe this was it.  This was *the* clue.  But then the sound of
Charlie laughing momentarily startled her, and the sad face of her
mother swam into view, with eyes that spoke of yet another heart ache,
of the monumental task of having to try and pick up the pieces yet
again.  Bill's brotherly, paternal gaze rested on her once again.

 "You sure?"

 Bill's eye's narrowed.  "I'm sure."

 Scully's conscience was whispering, niggling.  Telling her to stop
before someone got hurt.  "I don't believe you."

 The elder Scully started shifting uncomfortably.  "What do you
want me to say, Dana?  You give me a navy pin and ask me if it's mine?
How the hell am I supposed to know?"

 Scully started nodding, the fissures in her mind screaming at her
to stop pushing for Christ sakes.  Just stop.  Now.  "Bill, I found this
pin in the mass grave at Reisterstown -- the case you seemed pretty
damned interested about five minutes ago.  I want to find out why a
woman was so compelled to swallow a navy pin.  Why there were
two hundred bodies in a ditch, all dying of hydrogen cya..."

 Scully trailed off, leaning against the wall.  She closed her
eyes, ran a hand over her closed lids after seeing her brother blanch,
after watching his hands start to shake.

 "It was found in her stomach?"

 Scully winced at the whisper -- tried to silence the two conflicting
voices in her head.  Tried to ignore Starbuck asking Special Agent
Scully if the answer had been worth the look of despair on her brother's
face.  The look reserved for the condemned and guilty.

 "It was embedded in her stomach, yes."

 He put a hand to his face.

 "They died of hydrogen cyanide."

 The hands started to move around his face, covering his eyes.  His
head shook as if to shake away the last gossamers of memory.

 "Bill... please.  I need to know."  Scully found her words soon
tangling themselves within her emotions which were churning madly.  Her
impassive facade crumbled as her next words tumbled out of her mouth.
"I need to find out where Mulder is..."  She turned away, putting
a hand against her mouth, inwardly berating herself for letting her
tongue slip.

 Mulder was a sticking point in her family, a festering wound.
Her mom admired him, accepted his occasional bouts of insensitivity
and extreme paranoia.  But she was clearly in the minority.  Scully
had prepared herself not to bring Mulder into the equation, to not give
Bill the opportunity to think her personal feelings were overshadowing
her professional judgement.

 Her brother looked at her sister; his uniform had turned a puke
colour of green underneath the lack of lights in the hallway.  He remained
unaffected by his younger sister's spontaneous plea -- his head
shaking resolutely.  "I can't, Dana.  Nothing... nothing happened."  He
chanced a glance towards the pin once more.  "It's not mine... not mine."
He marched into the living room, where Scully quickly followed.
She raised her finger to point, opened her mouth to scream, but suddenly
stopped when she ran into the questioning glances of Father McQue and
her mother.

 She felt the blood travel to her face, the roar begin to pound
in her ears.  She saw Bill standing in the middle of the living room,
the object of everyone's confused glare -- a man grasping onto his
life saver in the middle of shark infested waters.

 Bill felt a small hand touch his shoulder, and he jerked away,
startled.  Thinking.  Remembering.

 He looked down into his sister's eyes, how they glistened and
shone -- whether from the lighting, or from the tears that were
threatening he did not know.  Searching fingers tenderly touched the
name pin that he wore on his chest, moved down to lay flat over his
heart.

 "Bill," the fingers whispered.  "I need to know.  Please."

 He looked around him -- smiled a reassuring smile to his mother,
regarded Father McQue with a look of half disdain, half indifference,
then hastily grabbed his sister underneath her arm and roughly shoved
her outside.

 Both figures crossed their arms, hugged their shoulders in an
effort to keep the cold at bay, to prevent the wind from seeping into
their bones, from disturbing the secrets that lay there.

 "It wasn't supposed to happen like that.  We were just supposed
to deliver them, and that was all."  Like a runaway train, Bill's voice
started to pick up.  The words that came from his mouth accelerated as the
torrent of guilt and anger and powerlessness threatened to overcome him.
"But something happened.  And Roberts... he couldn't come back out.
And Dana, I reached for him... I *tried*... I think... I think I could
have reached farther, if only..."  Bill shook his head, unable to put
into words what he had done, what he had witnessed.

 "... But he couldn't reach me, because there were too many..."
He gesticulated wildly, trying to find a word for the mass of people down
below who could dismember each other.  "... Just too many.  And so we
had no choice but to drop the canister in."  Her brother's face
suddenly hardened, turned into a sneer that glistened underneath
his tears.  "They were supposed to hide all the evidence.  I told
them about the pin.  And they said they would fix it.  It wasn't
supposed to happen like that."  Bill started to nod his head, speaking
now to reassure himself rather than the person in front of him.
"It wasn't, Dana.  I'm not... I didn't kill those people.  I... I
had no choice.  You have to believe me."

 "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

 Bill looked up, startled.  His sister's voice was impassive,
devoid of any emotion -- as if she was a federal agent and he was a
suspect.  As if this interrogation had been rehearsed many times all
ready.

 As if betrayal and guilt were no surprise to the girl whose
pigtails he used to pull.

 "Because they threatened us... you.  We had to keep our mouths
shut.  I had no choice.  I had to.  I mean, what good would the truth
do to those in the grave?"  Bill paused a beat to catch his breath,
lowered his voice.  "What good is the truth to you, Dana?  What good
was the truth to Missy?"

 Scully reflexively looked away.  It was unfair.  A low blow.  A
parting shot.  Making comparisons, trying to look like the bigger man --
that perhaps ignorance was an adequate price to pay.  That bleating voices
could be rendered silent if everyone turned a blind eye, a deaf ear.  "I'm
trying to find my partner, Bill.  Is that too much truth to ask for?"

 Bill Scully shook his head.  "How much is he worth, Dana?  How
far are you willing to go?"

 Scully started to remove the keys from her pockets, started to
walk down the walkway without jacket towards the car.  Her voice
wavered along with the cold winter wind; her determined steps only
served to accentuate the edge that had crept into her voice.

 "As far as I humanly can."

***
 

The pain of the mind is worse than the pain of the body.
  -- Publilius Syrus

***

  "A few days ago, KQLY news was the first on scene
 in the late breaking story, which has seemingly caught all
 of Maryland's attention, about a possible outbreak of a
 new, deadly disease which leaves its host incapacitated.
 It has now been discovered that all infected had been on
 board a flight from Russia to New York.  KQLY has also
 learned that the cause of the outbreak was not viral, as
 originally feared, but a severe case of food poisoning.
 The management at Fly USA airlines has been ordered by
 the government to hand over all airplanes momentarily for
 a routine inspection of their kitchen facilities.

  "Over seas, an epidemic is also occurring -- not with
 a new virus, but with an old one.  Small pox has hit Russia.
 It appears patient zero started in Jukutsk, and the contagion
 has quickly spread.  It is not known how patient zero
 contacted the disease from a virus which has been supposedly
 dormant for over twenty years.  There have been no reported
 cases in the States as of yet, and our hearts go out to the
 families of the victims in Russia."

***

The Lone Gunmen Headquarters
Location Unknown

 Frohike felt guilty.

 Extremely so.

 The possibilities of what could have happened to his friend were
running an endless loop through his head.  Of watching him groan, and
rock, and blindly grope for pill bottle after pill bottle.

 It was his fault.

 He should have called the woman in front of him.  The woman who
was Mulder's partner.  The woman who was currently standing in front of
them with a dialysis filter, some folders, and a very rumpled suit --
coffee stain included.

 "This stays within this room."

 Frohike nodded.  "Of course."

 The red head drew a breath, a look of distrust and of caution
momentarily flashing in her eyes.  Diamond Cutters saw this, accepted it.
Knew how difficult it was for this federal agent to come to them, to
stand amongst the surveillance photos, the technical equipment, and the
conspiracy containing cabinets.  Frohike accepted that she was desperate,
that the Lone Gunmen were a last ditch effort, a grasp at straws.

 "This is what I know.  Someone's been poisoning Mulder's water,
but the only substance is a bunch of amino acids, no specific function
that we can tell.  A mass grave was brought to our attention.  Two
hundred bodies, all killed by hydrogen cyanide, all with physiological
abnormalities."

 "Alien?"  Frohike interceded.

 The female federal agent bristled.  "Not determined."  She turned
back towards the other two.  "Mulder's missing.  He went to Lincoln
Memorial, where there were two groups waiting.  I don't know who they
were.  But, his original intentions were to meet with our boss, who was
present as well."

 Frohike frowned, the corners of his mouth eventually turning into
worry.  Guilty looks were exchanged between the three Gunmen -- their
self-imposed silence was costing Mulder much more than they had originally
thought.

 That policy was a stupid bitch of a thing when it meant watching a
man suffer horribly from the parasites in his head.  When it meant
standing impotent by the phone, with broken scrambler in hand, while
watching the man in the box groan, moan, rock and grunt.

 And that by running yet another story on LSDM and fruit flies, by
scrapping the story which showed the Assistant Director of the FBI for
what he really was, they had inadvertently, maybe, perhaps caused the
disappearance of the same man with the headaches.

 Frohike ran a hand over his face -- could feel how clammy his
hand was in comparison to his flushed face.  "So your boss instigated
Mulder's kidnapping?"

 Scully shifted.  The more questions the men asked, the more
questions she didn't know the answers to, the more she felt like an
impotent spectator.  "He maintains he was trying to protect him.
That..."

 "Hey, guys, they're talking about it again."

 Frohike, Langly and Scully turned towards Byers and the TV.  The
anchor's voice caught Scully's attention -- she whirled around, half
expecting to see Rolston's face, only to see the concerned facade of
Jeremy Collins as the still in the background showed a frantic hospital
scene.

 Scully medical mindset was horrified by the pustular pimples found
on the Russians, and she watched carefully as the reporter took a tour of
the New York hospital where most of the food poisoned passengers of Fly
USA had been taken to.  The female federal agent then turned, suspiciously
watching Byers fool around with the TV, with the remote, with the VCR,
with the videocassette.  Watched Langly take a sudden interest in the
stain that was on his Metallica T-shirt, scratching at it with his
too-short fingernails, diligently searching for a tool that could perform
the task.  Watched Frohike's eyes cast downward, as he played with his
frayed gloves and adjusted the diamond cutters on his head.

 She watched, as the three men, through their ticks and secret
glances at each other, conveyed a message that sent her internal alarms
tripping, her eyes to dart nervously between the three.

 "What?"

 Frohike stole a glance towards Byers, back to Langly.

 "What the hell is it?"

 Frohike stalled, knew what the other Gunmen had been thinking as
soon as the words "Russia", "US", and "unknown" came into play.
Byers and Langly offered silent nods of approval, and Frohike approached
the female agent carefully.  "The Lone Gunmen, Agent Scully, is an
organization where secrecy is of utmost importance.  And to make sure
that our subscribers are honest, that we are not being wired, followed,
traced, or bugged, we randomly bug one of our subscribers every second
month.

 Frohike paused, watched as the woman in front of him processed
what he said, watched her eyes instantly come ablaze when she realized
what he was leading to.

 The words came out faster, with more emotion than was intended.
"We didn't want to do it, Agent Scully.  We knew Mulder could be
trusted, but it was policy."  Frohike shot a threatening look over to
Byers, remembering how the two had fought before the apparatus had been
grudgingly assembled.  "Apparently Mulder was ill... from Russia?"
Frohike waited expectantly until the female nodded.

 Langly interceded, black rimmed glasses a startling contrast to
the blonde hair, the pale face which rarely saw the sun.  "The Russians
have supposedly had that Black Cancer -- what it looks like Mulder was
infected with -- since 1908.  It's the source of much jealously from
other countries -- including this one."

 Frohike nodded, continuing.  "He was offered a cure from the
Russians, but this was during the time you were ill.  The Consortium,
as you call it, offered him a cure for your cancer.  And he accepted
the terms of the agreement.  He gave them some..."

 Scully shook her head, holding a hand out, a silent gesture
to tell Frohike to stop -- that she could carry on from here.  "So he
dealt the disks that we retrieved, and Krycek and the Cigarette Man
tried to kill each other."

 Frohike thought of the sharp shooter, then pushed the thought
aside.  It was only the outcome and the motives that were important
now.  He nodded, watched as the female agent tried to process the new
information with what she already knew.

 Scully smiled -- bitterness accenting the corners of her mouth --
threatening to turn the upraised lips into a sneer.   She turned her
head to look at the floor.  "It's funny that you guys would know *all*
of that before Mulder would even tell me."  She turned to face the three
men in front of her.  "How could you do that?  How could you bug a man
who trusts you?  How could you sit there and watch as he suffered?
You could have called me... you could have trusted *me*."

 Frohike's voice deflated, remembering the broken scrambler,
the way his fingers had caressed the number pad.  "I was going to,
but then you walked in."

 Langly interceded, stepped in between Frohike and the woman who
was glaring at him.  "What's important now, is that the war is still
raging.  The Russians are retaliating with that rock that landed in
1908, while the good ol' You Es of Ay is charging back with their bees.
Mulder is somewhere in between, as is your boss, most likely."

 Scully was still shaking her head.  "I can't believe you didn't
call.  I can't believe you watched... bugged him."

 Byers cleared his throat.  The words came out concisely, an
attempt to bring the federal agent back to the here and now, to the
problems at hand.  "But at least we know.  We know what happened.  We
have motive, Agent Scully.  We have another piece of the puzzle, no
matter how unethical, or how unmoral, or how un-friend-like it was of
us -- it's still another clue which can lead us to Mulder.  And right
now, that's the most important to all four of us.  That in retrospect,
when we find Mulder it will all be worth it."

 Scully numbly nodded, refusing to meet the glances of the three
men before her.  Could only offer a half-hearted response in return --
a simple reiteration that lacked conviction and confidence.

 "It'll all be worth it."

***

64 miles from Nam-dinh, Vietnam
July 4, 1964

 Independence Day.

 Today was Independence Day.

 And mom and James were probably in the backyard, firing up the
barbecue and enjoying apple pie and fire works.

 Even 12000 miles away, the fire works were still going on.

 A line of green, holding black pieces of metal, containing lead
pellets, were firing at their straw targets.

 Their fire works came in the form of popping embers and artillery
fire.

 When he was twelve, mom didn't even let him play with fire
crackers.

 The man let go of the gun, grabbed the green bulb, bit off the
metal pin, and threw the offending object, making like Babe Ruth
ending a double play.

 The five straw huts plus one cow were reduced to, at most, five
inch square pieces.

 "Cease fire!"

 The steady popping was reduced to sporadic bursts, then stopped
entirely, encompassing platoon fourteen in silence.

 There were no more screams, no more cries for help -- only the
contented crackle of a fire enjoying a hearty meal.

 The radio was on in all its screaming static, disjointed glory.

 The soldiers separated -- looked for the bunker, passed the
mutilated livestock, looked for the Viet cong, passed the dismembered
women, looked for the hidden weapons storage, passed the bloody
children, and realized that there was nothing more to be found.

 Lister swore with the radio to his ear, started waving to the
men.  "Wrong village!  We hit the wrong fucking village -- we're five
miles too fucking far north!"

 The men blinked -- blinked at each other, in the glaring sun, in
the ever-present bugs, and the stifling silence.

 They blinked and turned away, heading back for the jungle and the
eventual comfort of the helicopter that would be waiting.

 They blinked at the passage of time, at the loss of over two
hundred lives in one half hour, ten grenades, and two thousand bullets
later.

 They blinked as they trudged through the underbrush, back to the
'copter, back to civilization where there would be girls and beer
tonight.

 Especially tonight...

 ...as it was Independence Day.

***

Private Charter
En Route to:  Moscow, Russia

 Walter Skinner shifted uncomfortably against the steel rise
underneath him.

 He didn't want to be here.

 He had sworn he would never do this again.

 The soldiers beside him, the impassive mask that their faces
wore, the uniforms that they were wearing, the guns that each person
carried, were too reminiscent of a time long ago, a time he would sooner
like to forget.

 He rubbed a hand over his face.  Through instinct, by memory,
the man passed his hand through hair that was no longer there.  For one
moment, Skinner stared at his palm and five fingers, the sweat that
laid there -- before abruptly clasping his hands and resting his chin
on the make-shift steeple.

 Marita C--whatever was watching him.  Studying him, perhaps.  He
shook his head slightly in disbelief.  The woman was his superior
officer.  He had to listen to *her*.  The thin woman, with blond hair,
who barely spoke, who looked like the black suit she was wearing was
going to engulf her -- was in charge of six men.

 It was a suicide mission.

 Just like all the ones they had managed to pull off so many
years ago.

 Over in the country which reeked of lemon grass and bat piss
beer.

 Because there was no fucking way they were going to be able to
find Mulder.  And bring him back alive.  And find the merchandise.
And destroy it.

 No fucking way at all.

 Skinner sat back, feeling little comfort in the hum of the
airplane's propellers.

 His fingers caressed the gun, innocently, trying to get its
bearings, attempting to make the heavy weight of the black metal
familiar.  Shivers ran down his spine at the familiar shape, at the
familiar curve of the trigger underneath his index finger.  Out of the
corner of his eyes, he caught one of the soldiers staring at him.
Skinner returned the glare, shooting daggers.  It was one skill he had
retained since 'Nam, and the young man with the impassive face, with
the stoic facade that reminded Skinner of himself so many years ago,
finally looked away.

 A woman's voice cut through his dry mouth, the cold sweat that
rolled off in beads down his back.

 "We're here."

 Skinner looked down to meet the bleak lights of Moscow's twilight.
To see the endless expanse of white across the horizon, bringing to
memory Napoleon and the Nazis and the endless slew of men who had died
going across this barren frontier

 The depressing grey atmosphere, the whispers of the dead and the
dying, all caressed the six men and one woman who left the plane,
beckoning them, pleading with them to join them.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Mulder felt the last vestiges of control slipping away.  His
heart was beating furiously, loudly within his ears, only to be
overshadowed by his breathing, which was coming out laboured, bordering
on panting.  His eyes were wide, his fingers were desperately moving,
scratching, clawing at anything, searching for something tangible.

 Grasping for any material that would help him escape from the
chicken wire which was embracing him.

 Anything to escape the repeat of the hellish existence he had
endured for three months after Tunguska.

 A face came into view from above.  A sneer that was matched only
by the hands that pushed the chicken wire right by his chest -- causing
the metal ends to bite into bruised flesh, to cause the figure inside
to writhe where there was no room.

 "Mr. Mulder.  One more time.  Will you join us, or will you not?"

 Mulder swallowed, felt his hands clench into a fist reflexively.

 There was an impatient sigh.  A foot tapping.  A harshly spoken
expletive.  There was heavier pressure set upon the chicken wire which
caused the captor to gasp, his keeper to smile maliciously.  "Yes or no?"

 Mulder's eyes looked to the left.  To the right.  Tried to look at
the man who was standing by his head.  Tried to see if there was anyone
by his feet.  Tried to see if there was any hope, any chance of escape
beyond the criss cross of metal across his face and body.

 He stared above him.  Studied the two pipes whose openings were
circular and wide.  Were encrusted with the red of rust, with the black
of rock.  Whose openings seemed to grow larger the more he stared at
them.  Whose openings seemed to be laughing, humming as centuries old
metal was shifting against each other.  Singing like Sam used to do at
the beach.  Laughing like Scully sometimes did when they were away from
work.

 Mulder blinked and the openings seemed to metamorphose.  Turn into
a sneer.  The pipes groaned.  Screamed.  They teased him.  Taunted him.
Like at school so many years ago.

 Weak.

 Worthless.

 Would have to watch, remember, re-live what it was like to watch
someone slip, float, slide away.

 "I... I..."  Mulder struggled with the words, his fingers clenching
once again.  The table and the chicken wire rattled as Mulder attempted
to thrash around.  He heard the surprised shout of the Colonel, and if
only the wire could give a little... If only one of the links could please
break...

 There was harsh exhale, the briefest of sobs, from the captor
when the thrashing stopped, when the wire maintained its embrace, when
the links further embedded themselves into cut arms, when each panting
gasp caused his already screaming ribs to protest louder.

 The Russian leaned over, the anxious spittle escaping from the
corner of his mouth.  The Colonel smiled, snorted, as the liquid
fell on the federal agent's bruised cheek bone.  "What do you say,
American?"

 Mulder closed his eyes.  Asked Scully and Sam to wait a bit longer.
He was running a bit late.  He started to shake his head when the wire
pushed further into his nose.  "I... I said no."

 The Russian shrugged, flashing a smile before he snapped towards
the air behind him.  "Sweet dreams, Agent Mulder."

 Mulder looked up to see the pipe, heard the groan of metal
against rusted metal.  Watched the brown viscous liquid and Newton's
gravitational force work in tandem to bring Tunguska closer to his face,
closer to any opening of flesh where the worms could crawl and breed
and move around.

 He saw the syrup falling, and closed his eyes.  Felt himself
moving, floating, falling.  There was a jolt, knocking the breath out
of him, then a flash of white.  He felt so dizzy, like he was falling,
and it hurt so much...

 The American's world, once again, submitted itself to black.

***

The Lone Gunmen Headquarters
Location Unknown

 Scully looked at the words flashing accusingly in front of her
on the computer monitor.

 Private Walter Skinner had had numerous tours in Vietnam.  Had so
many casualties, accidents, and mishaps, had his records buried in so
much subterfuge, red tape, and bureaucratic crap that even Langly was
impressed with the federal government for the bang on job they had done
in attempting the Vietnam War cover up.

 "You're saying Mulder knew all of this?"

 Frohike nodded, cautious.  If the uncomfortable silences that had
spotted the past half hour were any indication, Frohike was certain that
Scully's impression of the Lone Gunmen had not improved. "We told him
this day before yesterday, which is the day before he disappeared, from
what you've said."

 Scully nodded in agreement, silent.

 Byers spoke softly, quietly, as if his voice would shatter the
precious information on the computer screen in front of them.  "You
think that the two are related?"

 "Indirectly... I do.  I refuse to believe my boss directly
purported Mulder's abduction."

 Scully crossed her arms in front of her chest, and the Gunmen
passed knowing looks between each other.  Concrete words such as
"refuse" or "always" or "never" should have been banned from the English
vocabulary long ago.

 The female federal agent's eyes travelled to stare at the wall,
a place for her eyes to settle, to allow her brain to think without
any outside stimuli.  Her boss' past was the perfect tool to keep
Skinner under the Consortium's nose.  The Kensington crew, according
to her brother, God dammit, were responsible for transporting the
bodies.  Skinner knew about the bodies and told Mulder because... And
Russia and the U.S. were waging a war of some kind because...  And
Mulder was...

 Scully angrily balled her fists together.  She needed a fucking
mind map to keep all the facts straight for Christ sakes.  She absently
wondered if Bill had told her everything, or just enough to make her
happy, to get her out his hair, while he turned into the opposite
direction and ran.

 She turned suddenly to Byers.  "If I gave you a ship name, could
you trace it's origin?"

 Byers looked at her quizzically, not understanding the question.

 "I mean, there's a ship called the S. S. Kensington.  Would
you be able to hack, or through your contacts find out where it's been
throughout its history?"

 Byers nodded, cautiously.  "Yes, but ships last for quite a few
years, and there's a lot of travelling done in one year.  You'll have
to narrow it down to a year, or by crew."

 Scully bit the inside of her lip.  She did not want to disclose
her brother's involvement.  She was hoping she would never have to.
Especially to the three men in front of her.  To find out one of her
family members was a part of the conspiracy that they explicitly tried
to exploit, Scully feared that perhaps, in their warped cosmology, the
Gunmen would view it as treason.

 Treachery.

 "It would have been around 1988."

 Langly prodded her with a look.  "Do you have a member of the
crew?"

 Scully looked down, studying her shoes.  "Bill Scully, Jr... petty
officer."  She sighed, her tone coming out resigned -- her last words
barely audible.  "I guess... I guess he would have been second class at
that time."

 Scully heard the sharp intake of breath from one of the three,
then heard the clack of fingers hitting plastic keys, then the whine
of the modem starting.

 "'Kay, got it, Agent Scully."

 Scully turned around and bent over the computer desk.  "Jesus
Christ," she whispered.  There were at least fifty stops in the year
alone.

 Her brother had been a busy man.

 Langley pointed towards the bottom of the screen.  "Their last
stop was at USNA Annapolis."

 Scully closed her eyes momentarily, her next words coming out as
a forced whisper.  "That's right near Reisterstown."

 Frohike shifted side to side on both feet, nervous.  Wondering,
always wondering if they had broken new ground.  "So now what?"

 Scully stopped.  Stared.  Indeed, now what?  Other than fully
proving that her brother had done the dastardly deed that he said he
had done, it got them no closer to locating Mulder.  Should she be
looking for silos?  Medical facilities?  Would Langly even be able to
hack such information?  Christ, was Mulder even in the country?

 The phone rang, startling all four figures in the dimly lit room,
lit only by the harsh light of the computer monitor and a desk lamp on
Frohike's work bench.  Langly grabbed for the scrambler, while Byers
turned on the recorder.  Frohike let out a nervous chuckle.  "Agent
Scully, I think that my colleagues are unaware that it's your cell
phone that is currently ringing."

 Scully looked around, almost embarrassed, before reaching into her
pocket to grip the familiar black rectangular prism.

 It was the last person she would have expected to call.
 

***

Cry Freedom, cry
From a crowd 10 000 wide
Hope laid upon hope
That this crowd will not subside
  -- Dave Matthews Band "Cry Freedom, Cry"

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 The older of the two let loose a litany of Russian swear words
before taking a deep breath and glaring at the more stout man in front of
him.  "What the hell are you doing, Josef?  I told you to get the American
to agree by reasonable means, not to beat the man up till his whole
body was blue.  Or to stick the Tunguskan worms in his head!"

 The Colonel was watching the floor, pacing, side stepping away from
the worms which were swimming on the concrete floor.  They wiggled,
writhed, made sucking noises as they looked for a host -- now that the
original one had been abruptly pushed away.  Beranek looked back towards
the federal agent, who was lying in a heap of chicken wire underneath
the fallen steel table which had been pushed by the old fag himself
until it had tilted, spilling it contents, and rendering the federal
agent unconscious.

 "I was hoping that the threat of an unpleasant experience would
force his hand, Vladimir.  And I was close.  He came close to breaking.
I just... I just need a little more time."  Beranek looked up met the
cold glare of his superior -- realized that his last statement was more
for his own reassurance, than anyone else's.  Realized that his boss
had recognized it as well.

 "You incompetent moron.  Stupid."  The insults continued to be
spat out, and Beranek refused to flinch, unwilling to give his
superior the satisfaction.  He focused his attention on turning the ring
around his fourth finger with his thumb, on ignoring the expletives
that were still being hurled in his direction.

 Kabalevsky looked to the fallen form of the American, and his
mouth turned into a frown.

 He turned back to Beranek.  The older man leaned over to whisper
in his ear, his warm, moist, hatred-reeking breath meeting the fleshy
rim of the Colonel's vestibular orifice.  "All you had to do, was hold
something special against him, and let him squeal like a stuck pig."

 The eldest suddenly turned on his heels, waving to the two soldiers
standing in the doorway.  "I want him cleaned up and in his cell, and
conscious by the time I come back."  He paused, his index finger pointing
threateningly in Beranek's direction.  "Josef, I guarantee you, your
next screw up, will be your last."

 Beranek nodded.  Only when Kabalevsky, and the two soldiers with
their American captor in tow had left, did he allow himself the luxury
of putting his hands over his eyes, of sliding down the wall of the cell
in relief.

 In dread.

 In fear that the unburdened images of his body floating face down
in the Laptev River were a premonition of things to come.

***

The Lone Gunmen Headquarters
Location Unknown

 Scully held the phone closer to her ear, an attempt to shield herself
from the prying eyes and ears of the three men around her.  She huddled
her arms against her chest, withdrawing into herself, into the dynamic
that used to be called her family.

 "Bill, what's wrong?"

 She heard the familiar whir of car tires against pavement
and knew he was driving.  Heard the silence punctuated by the whooshes
of cars speeding by -- that despite the windshield wipers who
shrieked and the car heater that roared, Scully could still hear her
brother swallow a saliva's worth of agony and repression.  "I don't...
if... will help, but we picked up the bodies in Texas, there's a medical
facility there.  I don't know what they do, but we did plenty of...
deliveries for them."

 Scully smiled sadly -- her heart fluttering in the new
found knowledge, only to be punctuated by pangs of heaviness when she
remembered who the faceless informant was.  That the hope she could
shield her family from anymore heartache, from a Missy from ever
happening again, had been once again torn to shreds.

 "Thank you."  Scully whispered into the receiver, her voice
threatening to be overcome by the background static behind her.
"Thank you, Billy."

 "Just find him, Dana.  Find him and get the bastards."  She
heard her brother sniff, felt her heart stop when she heard the horn
bellow and the tires screech.  Seemingly hours later -- after the
passage of one second -- she looked up to the ceiling and mouthed her
thanks when the familiar whoosh and whir and the decades worth of
swallowing came across the other line.

 "Just end it, Dana.  Please.  For God sakes, end it once and
for all."

***

August 12, 1972
Chilimark, Massachusettes

 The beating has been really bad this time and the boy is lying
in the darkness.  Lying on his stomach for fear of awakening the
monsters and ogres who have been clawing at his back for the past hour.

 He rubs his cheek against the cool cotton sheets, partly to wipe
dry the tears that have been falling steadily, but also for the smell.
For the smell of sweat and grass, and a reminder that tomorrow
everything will be good again.  And that tomorrow he can play baseball.
And tomorrow perhaps, perhaps he can be...

 A slit in the darkness.  A spark of light, which goes through the
translucent material of the nightgown, illuminating it -- an angel in
the company of darkness and ogres and monsters that are so very much
real.  That do not lurk in the closet or under the bed or in the dark
shadow just over *there*.

 The illuminated figure checks right.  Checks left.  Carefully
steps in with feather-light feet, carrying an offering in her hands.
Crackers.  An apple.

 She pads in and sits cross legged beside the bed, putting the
food right underneath, knowing that it hurts a little too much
right now to eat.  She puts her hands on top of his, and their eyes
meet, a message is passed, and the corners of their mouths turn up
marginally.

 The angel lays her hand on top of her brother's hand,
feeling comfort in the smooth skin that lies there, knowing that
she is closer to his ear, and can whisper so that the monsters lurking
nearby won't hear.

 "All night long their nets they threw to the stars in the
twinkling foam -- then down from the skies came the wooden shoe
bringing the fisherman home; 'twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as
if it could not be, and some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
of sailing that beautiful sea -- but I shall name you the fisherman
three..."

 She pauses, smiling.  "I memorized the third verse, Fox.  Didn't
I?"

 The boy offers a minute nod in return, can feel the individual
strands of the angel's hair caress his cheek, can smell the shampoo
of her hair start to percolate into his nostrils.

 Both lapse into silence, eyes still open, wary.  The light of
the moon filters through the heavy drapes, illuminating the figures on
the bed.

 Silent.

 Darkness.

 Safe.

***

United States Medical Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 Troy Archer watched in surprise as the woman shifted her weight,
started to put more of her body onto the bed.  Held onto his hand, then
laid her head on it.

 He watched, transfixed, as the woman shifted more, until she was
still.

 He waited for the end.  Waited for the cries and screams and
half-hearted kicks and punches directed his way, but received only
rhythmic breathing, eyes that rolled in companion to the REM-induced
dreams, a drum that beat steadily when he laid his fingers upon her
neck.

 Waited for the end of pale eye lids which hid the hazel jewels
underneath, now-waxen flesh which was pulled tightly over a slightly
too-big nose, full lips that were once rosy, that once laughed -- but
were now pale and mute.

 Silent.

 Peacefully so.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Their orders were to bring the American to the conference room,
but Alexi Gusarov forced himself to pause momentarily, was forced to
study the still form of the federal agent sprawled on the cement floor
in front of him.

 What was left of the material once called a shirt had been ripped
and torn -- decorated with the grime of centuries old dust and decay,
with the blood of jagged, recently inflicted cuts.  It was evident that
the unconscious man below him had been an unwilling sparring partner
with the ruby of the Colonel's ring, with the chicken wire that was
downstairs.

 The soldier attempted to roll the figure over, lost his balance
when his hands slipped on the lubricant of blood and pus and other
bodily fluids -- wiped his hands on his uniform, tried to ignore the
angry red marks that marred the pale skin below him.

 It was the expression on the figure's face that finally caught his
attention.  That made him wonder where exactly the American was that
made his breathing rhythmic, his jaw slack, his eyes roll underneath
their lids in accompaniment to the dream that was currenly playing.  It
made the Russian stop and stare for the few seconds he had before they
roughly called for him from the door.

 With his one arm outstretched, with his back cut up and his face
black and blue, the Russian could swear there was a smile playing along
the lips of the unconscious federal agent.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 58/120.

 36.6 degrees Celsius.

 68 beats per minute.

 Ten fingers.

 Ten toes.

 A mess of red, swirling hair given a greenish tint by the
nutrient medium it is swimming in.

 Porcelain skin which glows, even through the glare of the glass
rectangular prism that encloses it.

 Piercing blue eyes that stare absently when the fleshy lids are
open -- sparked only by mild electrical stimuli passing through viscous
media.

 A small, slight body that when removed from it's glass enclosed
home -- when she is washed, dried, and wrapped in old shawls and hemless
dresses -- will stare absently at those like her, those around her who
are all watching.

 Waiting.

 Expectant for their master to speak.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Kabalevsky studied the bound man in front of him.  Noticed the
similarities in face shape and body structure to the elder Mulder.
The Russian had to inwardly smile -- the evil look the captor was now
flashing him -- eyes that mirrored disdain, weariness, and a hint of
fear -- was most definitely a genetic phenotype successfully passed on
from Bill Mulder onto son.

 "Agent Mulder, how are you feeling?"

 "Fine."  Mulder was about to open his mouth open to say more, but
the one word was still rebounding painfully off the insides of his skull.

 The elder of the two paced around, clucking to himself, adjusting
his belt, reaching into his pocket to grab a cigar and admire it.  "Mr.
Mulder, exactly who are the Lone Gunmen?"

 Mulder stared at the figure, unable to formulate a reply, unable
to determine how the man would know about three men whom the Consortium
overseas had no knowledge about.

 "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

 The man psh-awed, lighting his cigar with dramatic flair.  "Oh
come, now, Agent Mulder.  I know for certain that your partner Agent
Scully is visiting with them still.  Most likely trying to find out your
whereabouts.  She's very pretty."

 Mulder ground his teeth together, hoping the Russian believed
partnerships were merely professional -- that Dana Katherine Scully
was a mere blip in the wide, expansive, diverse state of being that
Fox William Mulder called a life.  The mere thought made him want to
laugh, and he quickly sobered, attempted to add conviction to the words
which passed through his lips with difficulty.  "My partner doesn't mean
anything to me."

 The Russian was clearly amused by Mulder's statement.  "So that's
why you refused Krycek's offer and bargained with your life?"

 "I don't know what your talking about."

 Any banter in the Russian's tone of voice disappeared.  "Don't
lay that American bull shit upon me Agent Mulder.  Trust me, I am much
more resilient and efficient than my Comrade Beranek.  I know very well
about your partner, about you."

 Mulder remained silent, head upraised, trying to profile the man
in front of him.  Felt the pangs of a Russian Bill Patterson in front
of him -- ruthless, brilliant, and with big enough balls on the
slightly rotund figure to make everyone else in his way hide and run
for cover.

 "The reason why my Comrade was so ineffectual at getting you to
do our bidding, is because you're quite used to beatings... yes?  Poor
Josef.  He takes such a liking to that ring, likes to use it."  The
Russian chuckled softly while Mulder continued to stare blankly.  "You
certainly did frustrate him enough."  The man paused, looked at the
federal agent again with eyes that stated they already knew the answer
long before the question was even posed.  "Dad took the belt to you
quite often, eh?"

 Kabalvksy paused to exhale the cigar smoke away, still revelling
in the Russian's ability to spy.  In their capacity to make micro phones
and micro recorders.  In their efficiency in making metallic implants that
could later be affixed to every American twenty dollar bill.  "I know
how important your partner is, Agent Mulder.  I know how much you depend
on... what is it?
Fro-kee, Lang-lee, and Bee-ers."

 Mulder closed his eyes, sensing what was coming.

 "If you value their life, you will agree to work with us."

 Something in Mulder clicked, snapped, prompting his voice to come
out as a barely audible, guttural growl which quickly escalated into
full scale yelling.  "I want to see my sister, and if you know so much
about me and my father, then you undoubtedly know where my sister is.
And if you want me to lead your hybrids then I recommend you stop
threatening my partnerandstartfuckingtalking..."

 The end came out in a torrent of words and the federal agent
was left momentarily breathless.  For a moment, none of the figures
moved, no one spoke -- a tense silence marked only by wet gasps for
air playing in tandem with patient exhalations of smoke.

 Suddenly the Russian lashed out -- undid the bindings that held
Mulder, and dragged the federal agent out of the room.  Heard the
agent moan with the onslaught of feeling that was rushing into his
arms and legs.  Felt the weakened captor trying to kick, punch, bite
back in vain.  Kabalevsky gripped the squirming collar tighter, pulling
the younger man through hallways, corners, ramps, and dark passageways
with a strength that defied his age.  Eventually, the hapless federal
agent was thrown into a cell that was small, and dark, and silent.

 Mulder could hear the footsteps receding, could hear the old
man's voice steadily growing softer.  "You think about what we could
do to her.  The imagination is a lovely thing, Mr. Mulder... and I'll
be the first to admit that I have an active one."

 The words echoed off the walls which the captor could not see.
Felt the cold floor already seeping through his trousers... underneath...
somewhere.  The darkness had enclosed him completely.

 Wholly.

 There would be no shadows of bugs that would inevitably be coming.
Nothing to see on the cell walls.  No stimuli, nothing to count when his
fingers would inevitably clench, when his mind threatened to think
itself out of control.

 Not even the comfort of the moon and the stars like in the Hilton of
a cell he had been staying in previously.

 Just... nothing.

 A choked sob escaped his lips, echoing off the nether region of
the walls.

 The noises rebounded, were superimposed upon each other's echo,
only for the cycle to begin once again.

 Mulder attempted to cover his ears, blindly laid his body onto
the floor.  Eventually, when the lonliness threatened to overcome him,
he uncovered his ears, allowing the howling demons to keep him company
throughout the starless night.

***

West 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 The Englishman watched with slight amusement as one of his
colleagues paced around the room.

 "Donald, please sit.  Have a drink and have faith.  He'll call
soon."

 The mustached figure shook his head, fingers shifting the cell
phone from one hand to another.  "The evacuation should have been
completed by now.  There's only two hundred and fifty personnel in
Worland.  By God, the morph has enough muscle to physically throw
them out if he had to."  The man continued pacing.  "Something's gone
wrong.  We need that place empty with the exception of Mulder and the
hybrids when the last phase of the Project begins."  The man stopped
in front of a table and started to drum his fingers on the surface.
"There should have been a call by now."

 The ringing of the cell phone startled all members.  The
mustached man thumbed the on button listening intently before
passing the phone to the Englishman in front of him.

 "We have a problem."

 The Englishman's jaw tightened.  "What do you mean?"

 The voice of the Bounty Hunter filtered through the static.
"Some lab tech with the name of... Troy Archer, insists that he
will not leave if Mu... if Derlum doesn't come as well."

 The fingers of the Englishman tightened into themselves, noticed
immediately by the surrounding Consortium members.  "Then kill the
bastard."

 The Bounty Hunter shifted slightly -- kept the gun trained on
the man who was alternately glaring at the morph, and grasping the
woman in his arms tighter.  "I'm afraid we have a complication.  He has
an idea of... how important her disease is to us.  He's using her as
a shield right now."

 The Englishman threw his fist onto the table, causing the
bourbon to spill blood on the hard wood floor below.  He pursed his
lips, proceeded to rub a wrinkled hand over his jaw.  "Fine.  Keep him
there and watch him.  We can deal with him later."

 "Fine."

 The connection went dead and the mustached man threw a glance
at the Englishman's direction.  In response, another bourbon was
poured -- the glass once again being twirled between weathered fingers.

 The slight tremor in the hand went unnoticed by the other
members, hidden by a sudden need to raise the lip of the glass to
his suddenly parched mouth.

 "I told you to have faith, Donald.  The Project has now officially
begun."  He rose the bourbon glass to the gentlemen in front of him, and
flashed a rare, tight lipped smile.

 "Congratulations, gentlemen."

***

The Lone Gunmen Headquarters
Location Unknown

 Scully nursed the styrofoam cup in her hands, inhaling the smell
of coffee, savouring the warmth underneath the chill that had settled
upon the basement offices of the Lone Gunmen.  The three men looked
at her expectantly.

 "Agent Scully, what do you want to do?"

 The female looked back at the computer monitor, trying to
study the logistics of the medical research facility by Worland.
It was a risk to say the least.  At best, Mulder would be there.  At
worst, Mulder wouldn't be there, nothing would be found, time would be
lost, and maybe... maybe... her partner would be...

 Scully attempted to wash her dread down with the remainder of
her bitter coffee, but the cramp in her stomach still remained.  "How
good are you guys in breaking into government facilities?"  Scully
watched two mouths stretch into an anticipatory grin, while one pulled
into a grimace.

 "What's wrong, Byers?  Bond not your style?"

 The bearded man shook his head.  His experience in the Lombard
Institute had been quite enough, thank you.  He preferred the disguised
comfort of hacking from miles away from a nameless computer terminal to
dressing in black and dodging security guards and pistols.

 Scully watched Langly and Frohike start to gather the laptops,
bags, wires, copper clamps, and ear pieces with an efficiency she
would not have believed possible.  She watched Byers finally relent
and grab his grey trenchcoat.

 The federal agent watched them, observed them -- suddenly felt like
an outsider, a mere Windows 3.1 to the Lone Gunmen's Bill Gates.  The
fear that perhaps they would pack up and leave without her in their
haste, was very much real.  That maybe they were under the impression she
was a mere accessory, Mulder's right hand G-woman, a hindrance to the men
who dissected computer systems with the same dedication she dissected
bodies.

 "... Agent Scully... you ready?"

 Scully looked around, startled.  Noticed that the three men were
changed, that bags were slung over their shoulders, and that Frohike was
jangling a pair of keys around his fingers.  She swallowed.  Was she
ready for Worland indeed?  Were her legs threatening to turn to jello
in protest to the possibility Worland was a blind goose chase, a trap,
and effective time waster while Mulder... while they could...

 Scully swallowed again, regarding the men in front of her.
"What if he's not there?"

 Frohike heard the distinct impatient shift of his two
counterparts while trying to smile a reassurance, that even he did
not possess.  This was not the Agent Doctor Dana Scully he lusted
after.  Not the woman who could make him feel natty and dirty in
his fingerless gloves and years-old felt hats.  Instead, both of them
were merely human -- vulnerable and scared and fearing for the
life of a common friend. "If he's not there, then we'll find him
somewhere else.  Alive."  He paused, thoughts back to one late
night, one pair of high heeled pumps.  "You always do."

 Two pairs of eyes slowly met, and Scully nodded her acceptance.
Grabbing the remaining duffel bag, the four left the building quietly,
in the company of darkness, of doubts, and of hope.
 
 

***

From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting
thoughts proceed.
  -- William Wordsworth

***

Blue Dime Motel
Moscow, Russia

 The desk clerk watched with amusement as the husband and wife
fought, as the garble of a language he did not understand was flecked
with obvious disdain and impatience.

 Skinner crossed his arms over his chest when Marita angrily
turned away, swearing.  He watched the UN representative easily converse
with the man at the desk, retrieve two keys and signal for him to follow
her.  The man at the desk said something, staring at Skinner, and Marita
laughed, causing the AD's blood to boil, his fingers to tighten around
the bags that they had brought in.

 Their footsteps echoed off the wooden walls of the empty
stairwell.  Considering the convoluted path one had to take to
reach the motel, Skinner wouldn't have been surprised if the
other neighbouring suites were vacant.

 He heard the distinct snerk of Marita unlocking the door, and he
warily watched her test the mattress, remove her shoes with a contented
sigh, and proceed to massage the balls of her feet.

 Skinner felt his innards seethe, barely heard the words pass
through his clenched teeth due to the roar behind his ears.  "... What
the fuck are we waiting for?"

 The blonde woman on the bed kept massaging, used the other hand
to signal the man in front of her to lay the bags in front of the
dresser.  "We wait for it to get dark.  We wait to get rested, so that
the jet lag has a chance to pass.  So that we can eat."

 Marita watched the man in front of her continue to glare.  Saw the
sheen of sweat on his balding head, the way his knuckles were turning
white with the strain of holding the bags so tightly.

 Marita met his glare, pitched words which she knew would shake
him, which would assert exactly who was in charge, which would once
again subtly reiterate what it was that was at stake.  "Do you have a
problem with that... soldier?"

 Skinner flinched, suddenly pointing an index finger in her
direction, face warped by a sneer that attempted to cover the once
naive, fresh face of a fatigue-clad eighteen year old who marched
himself to an earth-bound hell.  "Don't say that.  Don't you dare."

 The man dropped the suitcases to the ground, snapped up the
remaining key, and headed for the room next door.

 It was the exact response Marita was hoping to garner.

***

65 miles from Ha-noi, Vietnam
May 17, 1964

 The machine gun was a dull weight in his hands, the persistent jabs
from the pointed bullets that hung over his shoulder were nonexistant.
The sweltering heat, the faces of the soldiers beside him, whose faces
would waver and wiggle due to the humidity, the bugs that flew and
landed and stung and bit were no longer a nuisance, no longer noticeable.

 The hats on top of their heads were like miniature versions of
the roofs that covered the straw huts.  The dirt and grime on their
clothing was matched only by the darkness of their feet, by the tan
that they wore, by the dirt that clogged each toe and was baked
and hardened for posterity by the sun.

 Hair that was black, that was darker than the machine guns that
they wore, than the grease that they put on their face, stared
uncomprehendingly at him.  Eyes that were slitted almonds, that were
shaded by the minature roofs that they wore, were enigmatic.

 Innocent.

 The shade was unexpected, the hot breath was a shock, the glare
of his lieutenant shook him out of his reverie.  "Do you have a problem
with your orders, Private?"

 The sun came out in full force, the bugs resumed their biting,
and the the houses swam in and out of view.  The Private could manage
no more than a croak.  "Sir... no sir."

 "Then take your shot, soldier."

 The gun became tangible, the bullets started to pierce through
the skimpy green fatigues which reeked of sweat and sun and dirt and
grass.  "Sir..."  The man swallowed.

 Raised the gun.

 And fired.

***

United States Medical Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 As the smell of sewage, grime, and wet rodent met her nasal
passages, Scully inwardly wished she had brought some Vicks rub for
her nose.  The smell that was currently causing her stomach to lurch was
exponentially worse than the smell that had come from the corpse in
Oregon.

 "Agent Scully, a pathologist like you shouldn't be having
this much trouble with the smell."

 Scully offered a weak smile to Frohike, once again feeling
her stomach threaten to expel the coffee at the feel of cold,
bat-piss smelling sewage around her nylon-clad feet.

 She heard Langly grunting ahead, could hear it rebounding off
the walls in time with the swish swash of sewage being disturbed
by their steps.  "God, lets hope a sniper doesn't come this time like
in Lombar..."  He quickly trailed off, prompted by a sharp glare from
Byers.

 Scully suddenly stopped in her tracks, immediately intrigued,
immediately suspicious.  In classic Mulder fashion, her partner had
taken time to lambast the "bastard Scanlon" and mention in passing
an "unfortunate incident" with vague references to a security breach,
before the doors were barred, and any other forth coming information
was buried underneath subterfuge and glad-you're-back smiles.

 She aimed the flashlight at the back of a blonde head, ignoring
the silence that was punctuated only by water dripping from the ceiling
overhead.  "What happened?"

 The three men exchanged glances, nervously adjusting the packs on
their shoulders before muttering replies.

 "Nothing."

 "Really.  We all came out of it unscathed."

 "Mulder was really glad when he found out you were okay."

 Scully huffed, teeth grinding with the knowledge that the speech was
all too familiar.  She adjusted the bag on shoulder jerkily and continued
walking in time with the three figures in front of her.

 The Gunmen were even worse than Mulder.

***

 The seduction was done in a shroud of smoke, underneath the
guised shelter provided by the Moscow fog.  Young, old lips against
an old, young body.  A teenager with experienced hands -- with hot,
lead fingers tracing patterns through a fabric called flesh.

 The need for escape coupled with the insatiable need to be
needed.

 A deal where the price was emotionless mouth against mouth,
an absence of feeling when flesh met flesh.  A need to feel human,
and to feel real, and to escape from the smoke, and the fog, and the
ever-present shadows.

 The sense of dread she lived in.

 The dread of sense he lived in.

 Her fingers crawled up his chest, a damaged mouth against
mouth sealing the deal.  Where eye contact was taboo, where there
was always the threat of seeing too much, where it was better to
do it now and ask questions later.

 Where age doesn't matter.

 "Take me."

 He takes her to a place where priority is not placed to the
males, where one has to grant sexual favours to a domineering man.
Away from a demon who haunts her dreams, who storms in like the
cold Moscow wind.  Whose presence can be felt by every bone, by
every nerve -- whose very thought makes her shiver and shudder so
that her bones shake and rattle even underneath the cover of her
mother's embrace.

 She takes him to a place of not knowing, where ignorance
is bliss, where denial and knowledge go hand in hand, arm in arm.
Where she smells of the enemy and whispers the much sought-after
secrets of the Iron Curtain.  Of being a man with manly features,
of feeling old youth touch his chest, of feeling the escape from
a life that technically does not exist.

 Where she will escape with him to his country.  Escape the
memories here -- her mother, her younger brother who is just starting
to read, the demon that lurks just within *there*.  She will escape
the secrets that she is bound to keep... only to find everything waiting
for her, stalking her, laughing at her, when she finally arrives...

 "....Wake up!"

 The whisper was hurried, and the woman woke up to meet
the enigmatic eyes of Walter Skinner, who removed his arm hastily
once she looked at it accusingly.

 "You were groaning.  I thought maybe... the other men..."  The
man trailed off, shaking his head, rubbing a hand over hastily awakened
optic nerves.

 Marita nodded, subconsciously looking to the bathroom.  Rather,
where her bathroom usually *would* be.

 Where her sleeping aids would be.

 Of course.  Dreaming.  A constant companion.  Why expect a respite,
when the man who had haunted her dreams was most likely sleeping next
to a voluptuous bosom less than fifty clicks away.  Why expect any grace
from her past which refused to leave, to die, to be buried despite all
the colour treatments, the make up, the government job, the expensive
suits.

 "Did I wake you?"

 Skinner nodded his head no.  "It seems I suffer the same
affliction you do."

 Marita nodded her understanding -- the two lapsing into an
uncomfortable silence, marked only by her less-than-rhythmic
breathing.

 "How did you get here?"

 Marita's eyes grew suspicious, her eyes squinting minutely.
"What are you talking about?"

 The reply was whispered hotly, through clenched teeth.  "Oh,
come on.  A suicide mission like this, the men we work with -- the
question is pretty much self explanatory."

 Marita stared at the Assistant Director, eyes eventually
trailing towards the window where fog and snow were once again
obliterating Moscow.  "I wanted out of a situation badly and someone
in the group helped me get out."  Marita nodded her head in
affirmation, setting her jaw for a facade of determination and
pride.  Emotions which had long since disappeared.  "I had the
skills, I had knowledge that could be bargained for.  I lived in
an environment where the secrets of Russia were circulating regularly."
The woman paused, swallowed, her arms unknowingly crossing over her
chest.  "It's easy when you're the opposite sex in a club full of men.
They think with their balls and you can get your way."  Marita
smiled bitterly at the memories.  "And I thought that I had gotten
mine."

 The female fell silent and Skinner nodded slowly.

 "What about you?"

 Skinner shook his head in disbelief.  "I would think that they
would have told you by now."

 Marita only shook her head.  "I know you encountered a lot of
bad shit just outside Ha-noi... but I don't see how they could use
that against you.  Shit happened to a lot of men out there."

 Skinner snorted.  "Shit happens... yeah, I guess I should have
learned that by now."  He fell silent, thinking, wondering, reliving
past sanctimonious glory.  Of watching his father's eyes when they awarded
him the medal of honour, finding that father and son could no longer
look at each other without their eyes starting to burn, without having
to flinch away.  Remembered his father's letter, warning him that there
were corrupt people hiding amongst the lemongrass, that he had to keep
the Skinner name clean -- that your name was the only thing that was left
of you after you were gone.

 Skinner shook his head partly to clear the reverie, partly to
clear the onset of drowsiness that was approaching.  "Vietnam was an eye-
opening experience," he attested.  "I learned a lot."  Like Marita
previous seconds ago, the Assistant Director smiled bitterly.  "A lot
that I'd probably be better without knowing."

 Marita nodded.  It was a silent game where words and silent,
inconsequential gestures played.  Where a male and a female stood
on a board, once thinking they were players, now reduced merely to
pawns.

 Alike.  But also strikingly different.  Haunted by their past,
but bound together by the common shadows that plagued them so.

 The man left through the connecting door, bare feet padding
against the naked carpet, the threads long since worn with age and use.

 There would be no more nightmare filled sleep for any of them
tonight.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Jeremiah Smith looked down.  Past the girders than ran across the
ceiling, past the bland cement walls, past the assorted piles of boxes
upon shelves -- down until his eyes caught the expectant orbs of the beings

below him.

 They were beautiful.

 Black ones, yellow ones, white ones, red ones.

 He felt his blood course through his veins, felt the adrenaline
of expectancy start to kick in.  The Russians would need to be killed
of course.  Then the Tunguskan rock would need to be thrown and used to
infect everyone else.  And then the world would be theirs.

 His.

 He looked back down, and admired the lean legs, the muscular
arms, the stringy hair, the jewels that lay in each eye, the orifices
and the appendages, the folds of skin, the curvature of flesh over
muscle over bone.

 The morph calmly walked down the stairs, meeting the blank-eyed
stare of the brown-haired woman in front of him.  Two fingers explored
her cheek, travelled down her neck, passed fleetingly over the voluptuous
chest, down the stomach -- contact ending when weathered hands revelled
in the muscle that held the femur together.

 The morph regarded the entire room, the eyes which held
steadfastly onto his own, the glorious combination of flesh, bone,
and muscle that stood expectantly in front of him.

 So beautiful.

 His children.

***

United States Medical Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 Byers followed the red beacon in front of him reluctantly,
watching for any sign of cops or cars or security or any other
potential catalyst for a coronary melt down like the one he almost had
after Lombard.

 The woman in front of him wore a grim mask of determination,
anger, frustration, and weariness.  Her mouth would quiver with each
room that was searched, only to come up empty handed.

 Then a shriek, a cry -- a woman's shrill, demented voice -- cut
through the still air, prompting Scully to reach for her holster,
Byers to flatten his body against the wall, and Langly and Frohike to
grow deathly quiet on the other end of the earpieces.

 The cry was desperately calling her brother's name.  It sent her
brother's partner and her brother's friend running blindly towards the
sound of the scream with heads darting, ears straining, only to come
face to face with a bewildered looking man and a pale, sweaty woman who
was struggling animately in his arms.

 The man put one hand in the air, eyes dilated and frightened,
alternating glances between the prone woman with the hair that sheltered
her face, back to the daggers of eyes that were being unleashed by the
federal agent.

 "Who are you?"

 The man stammered, clearly distressed.  "I'm... T-Troy Archer."

 "What do you do here?"

 "I'm a... a geneticist here."

 Scully turned towards the woman.  "And who is she?"

 "Amanda... Amanda Derlum.  She's a geneticist as well.  But
she's come down with something.  I've... I've been taking care of her."

 Scully proceeded carefully, reholstering the gun while trying
to profile the man in front of her, the woman laying in front of him.
"That woman... Amanda... just screamed something.  What did she say?"

 Troy licked his lips, regarding the red head and her companion
warily.  "She said 'fox'.  She's been saying the animal ever since she
got sick."

 Scully nodded, felt her throat start to tighten, her knuckles
start to turn white with the force she was clenching her fists with.
She knelt down carefully, unable to see the face still covered by
strings of sweaty hair.  Her first attempts came out as a croak,
but her voice soon worked its way to an audible level.  "...am.  Sam."

 The tortured seconds came to an abrupt halt as Scully's
stomach turned, as a hand rose to cover the mouth that was open and
aghast.

 As the woman in front of her answered her call.

 Scully carefully kneeled onto the tiled floor, slowly raised
her hands towards the figure's face and lifted the mask of hair away.

 Scully could do nothing but gasp.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Amongst the darkness, the ever-present black, Mulder waved
his hand in front of his eyes -- seeing nothing, feeling only a
slight breeze.

 The silence was almost palpable, almost as tangible as the
cement floor he was lying on.  Almost as tangible as the growing
organism called need that was pushing along his rib cage,
causing his muscles to tighten, making his every breath catch.

 Mulder rolled over, laid on his back so that his eyes could
stare straight above him, search for the outer fringes of the dark
and find the woman with red hair and the little girl with brown
braids who laid just beyond there.

 A truth in all its replete glory -- undarkened by the layers
of lies upon shadows upon secrets.  Unadulterated by the accumulation
of the past thirty seven years:  of crying and praying, of dealing
and just holding on, of deceptions and the demons that lay within.

 The true light at the end of the tunnel.

 Another sharp pang caused Mulder's body to shudder, causing
the captor to miss the thin line of illumination creeping towards the
far wall.

 The light was suddenly blinding; it hurt his eyes.  It reminded
him of Arecibo and of Chilimark and of the lithe figure who floated
away from him through the window.

 His sharp yell had caused his lips to drink red once again, and
in between his squinted lids, Mulder could no longer see the trailing
nightgown, nor the tiny figure of an eight year old girl.  Instead, his
eyes darkened immediately when they focused onto the slightly rotund
silhouette of Vladimir Kabalevsky

 "Mr. Mulder," the voice was apologetic.  "I have been gravely
mistaken in my methods toward you.  I should have shown a bit more...
charity.  Perhaps a gift from Mother Russia in honour of your quest."

 Mulder eyed the man warily, his muscles protesting from their disuse,
the lengthy confinement having left a scratchy growth on his chin,
allowing his blood to cake copper brown on his chest.

 "I know that in your quest for your sister, you have encountered
many more... shall we say, obstacles.  Many more questions.  I know that
your inquiries into your sister and your father -- your past -- continue
to be unanswered by your American colleagues."  Kabalevsky paused, saw
that despite the federal agent's impassive face, Mulder's eyes followed
his pacings intently.  "A sign of faith, Mr. Mulder.  Some information
for free -- a small demonstration of what I can offer you.  What the
Americans will never give you, despite their deals and their promises."

 Mulder nodded slowly, waiting for the Russian to proceed.

 "Your father was a good man, Mr. Mulder.  And Bill Mulder *was*
your father, no matter how many hints or how many allegations there are
to the contrary.  What your father couldn't live with, Mr. Mulder, was
not that he couldn't stand your mother's affair with the man
who smoked cigarettes.  Not that he had been strong armed into choosing
a child.  What your father couldn't live with, was the knowledge that he
knowingly allowed your DNA to be tampered with, your sister's DNA to
be tampered with, for the further advancement of what they call The
Project."

 Mulder swallowed, innards turning in company with his mind, which
was attempting to process the validity of the Russian's last speech.  His
next words came out with eyes blazing -- betraying the forced calmness
in the agent's voice.  The same words which were uttered to John Lee
Roche held a pent-up emotion which easily surpassed the prison encounter
in terms of intensity.  "If that's true, tell me where my sister is."

 The Russian shook his head, vaguely remembering his assignments
in Chilimark -- watching a little boy and his sister grow -- until he was
hastily called back when the unknown vessel crashed in Svobodnyl.
He turned back towards the federal agent, extending his right hand.  "A
sign of faith.  I have given mine.  And if you give us yours, if you
agree to help us, I will tell you."

 Kabalevsky watched the man in front of him alternately stare at
the hand, then regard the face of his captor.  Mulder started to open
his mouth when another silhouette stepped in.

 Mulder's arms went protectively around his chest, his body
withdrew, as even in the dark, the ring still shone.  Kabalevsky
looked at Beranek with obvious annoyance, immediately withdrawing
the hand that he had offered the federal agent, reaching for a cigar
instead.

 "Jeremiah says he wants to see us."

 Mulder's eyes widened, synapses firing with the memory of an
Alberta farm and of a man who had six brothers who looked exactly
like him.  "Jeremiah Smith?"

 Kabalevsky hid the look of surprise better than his Comrade
with the ring.  He casually turned to Mulder.  "You know him?"

 Mulder started laughing, felt pleasure in burning ribs --
laughing manically until the guffaws rebounded off the cement wall
and superimposed on each other, making the whole cell shake.  "I highly
doubt that Jeremiah would be without a marker."  The slight shift of
Beranek's eyes confirmed Mulder's statement.  Mulder started to nod
his head -- some of the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into
the place with a resounding thud.  "Which leads me to assume you
want to use me for the hybrids you have inevitably made."

 The two Russians remained silent, while Mulder started laughing
once again -- relishing momentarily that for once, he knew more than
the uniformed men in front of him.  "So, you go behind their back, and
get me to take over the hybrids.  So, were you planning to kill Jeremiah
and his crew?"  Mulder voice had obtained a grating edge to it, no
longer laughing, deadly serious in its intensity.  "Were you planning
to shoot them?  Nice clean shot to the head by ex-KGB soldiers?  Well
it won't fucking work, you stupid sons of bitches, because I've tried
it and all you do is put a nice green scar on them."  Mulder snorted,
shaking his head.  His next words were accented with sobriety, defeat.
"I can't help you even if I agree.  No matter what, we're all dead in
the end."  Mulder sat back, felt his lip bleeding again, feeling a small
amount of satisfaction in the disturbed look the Russians were now
carrying.

 The two Russians whispered to each other, and suddenly rough
hands grabbed Mulder by his soiled collar of how many days old and
dragged him across the cold tile, his muscles no longer willing to
listen to his commands to move in walking fashion.

 Kabalevsky drew his lip into a tight line, walking resolutely
towards the conference rooms.  Beranek grunted as he dragged the
American across the floor, could hear his Russian colleague checking
his pistol.  Checking it again.

 Kabalevksy's voice echoed ominously through the empty
corridors.  "If I die... then I'll make sure we'll all die together."

***

 Skinner looked at the polymer material the woman had shoved
into his hands and looked at her questioningly.

 "It's a gas mask... and keep it on at all times."  The woman
snapped the bands across her head -- her voice now coming out muffled,
almost nasal.  She looked at the five men surrounding her and reiterated
the point.  "At all times, soldiers.  We don't know what toxins or bio
hazards are floating around in there."

 Skinner nodded, and waited for the commands.  After all, it was
familiar ground... all too familiar ground that was making his innards
grind.

 "We shoot to kill, no questions asked.  Jones and Mercer, you
set the explosives, the rest of us will set off on foot and look for
any stray ones."

 Skinner waited.

 Waited some more -- was eventually prompted to ask when the blond
woman started distributing ammo.

 "Wait.  What about Mulder?"

 Marita loaded her gun, speaking at the same time.  "Mulder is
second priority, the Russians are a bigger threat."

 Skinner shook his head.  "My first job as Assistant Director is
to have a certain responsibility for my agents.  Agent Mulder is here,
and most likely not under his free will."

 Marita slammed the metal barrel down onto the sodden ground,
glaring at the insubordinate.  "You have orders... soldier.  And I'm giving

them to you."

 Skinner tightened his jaw.  The phrase reeked of 'Nam, of
trying not to piss his pants, of trying not to duck behind the
foliage and covering his eyes and ears till it was all over.  Trying
not to think.  Trying not to remember.

 He had a responsibility to protect his name.  To protect his
agent.  To protect his father whose wasted mind and body were rotting
with every passing day.

 To protect so many things.

 He mouthed a silent go to hell to his sanctimonious medal of
honour, an F-you to lemongrass reeking memories that were
threatening.  He leaned in close to the blonde woman who stared back
with blue covered eyes.  So close that their masks bumped and jarred
against each other.

 "And I have my orders."

 He took the gun and loaded it in one fluid motion, fuelled by
the knowledge of having done this task so many times before, prompted by
a newly developed sense of purpose.  Leaving the five men and one woman
behind, Walter Skinner turned on his heels with only one objective in
mind.

***

I have often thought upon death, and I find it the least of all evils.
  -- Francis Bacon "An Essay on Death"

***

United States Medical Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 Scully brushed the last remnants of hair from the woman's face,
feeling a tear track down her cheek as evidence to how wrong the situation
had become.

 Through all the John Lee Roches, the drones, and the clones,
there had always been one steadfast constant.  Through all the
nightmares her partner had shared with her, through all the potential
tests, and all the maybe grave stones, and all the possibilities of
happy hugs and relieved kisses, there had always been one detail that
never changed.

 The reunion had always involved Mulder.

 Scully admired the hair whose colour was only matched by her
brother's, the full bottom lip, the hazel eyes which were now non
responsive.  She wasn't supposed to find her.  She wasn't supposed to
be the one doing this.  It was not Dana Scully, partner of Amanda
Derlum's aka Samantha Mulder's brother who should be watching this
woman struggle for breath, for coherence.  She pleaded with whatever
God there was to please, let her live, to please find Mulder and
bring him home safe, and to bring him here so things could be happy
and good.  If only for one minute.

 But if their convoluted past was any indication, things would
never be happy and good

 Scully reached into her pocket, pulled out a photocopied replica
of her partner's badge.  Pushing a lock of hair away from her face,
Scully handed the picture to the male geneticist in front of her.
"Have you seen this man here?"

 Troy shook his head, still wondering what it was about Derlum
which made the red head threaten tears everytime she looked at her.  "No,
the place was evacuated.  They told us Derlum had contacted a contagious
disease and that everyone had to leave, par quarantine procedures."

 Byers signalled with his right hand while holding the ear
piece closer to his head with the other.  "Langly wants to know if you
want him to go looking around for Mulder."

 Scully started shaking her head no when Langly's staticy voice
once again made it's way through Scully's ear piece.

 "Trust me, Agent... the place is... much deserted.  I think...
best... go now."

 Scully looked to the roof for help and rubbed a hand over her
forehead as she felt Byers', Langly's and Frohike's silence in
waiting for her to respond.  "Fine."  She leaned back against the
wall, then bolted back upright.  "Just... just be careful Langly."

 The federal agent could practically imagine the beady eyes
squinting as he chuckled behind the black plastic frames.  Scully
turned back to Troy, pausing momentarily to regain her previous
train of thought.  "You were mentioning quarantine procedures."

 Troy shook his head, remembering how the men had guns instead
of containment suits.  "But they weren't quarantine procedures.  They
were totally wrong.  Instead of looking at the gun, everyone should
have seen that they wanted Derlum for something."

 Scully raised an eyebrow, suspicious.  "You got this all from
improper quarantine procedures?"

 Troy shook his head, looking down at the woman who was still
lying in his arms after so many days.  "Derlum... Derlum is different.
She came here with all her bridges burned, no family -- but brilliantly
smart."  Troy smiled in recollection.  "It was almost spooky.  She had
really bad nightmares though.  Really bad.  And then there were always
the check ups."

 Scully ran a hand over her eyes.  It was almost too much for her
brain to analyze and process.  "What check ups?"

 "They said physicals, but Derlum had about three times as many
as the rest of the personnel.  All the time.  There was something
going on."  Troy looked down, ashamed.  "I should have done something.
The only thing I could do when they came was to stay with her."  He
remembered the way time slowed when he propped Derlum up, saying that
they would have to shoot her too if they were going to kill him.
Remembered hearing his lungs and his heart stop during the millisecond
when the gun was cocked and pointed at her head.  He ran a hand over
his eyes, then moved it up to run short fingers through his limp blonde
hair.  "How did you know that the name Sam would break through to her?"

 Scully smiled sadly.  "A guess.  My partner, has been looking
for his sister.  For a long time.  And his name is Fox.  And her name
is Sam."

 Troy nodded an understanding that he did not possess.

 Scully looked around the infirmary for the first time,
remembering the centrifuges and electron scanning microscopes that were
equal, or even superior, to the ones in Quantico.  "What do you do here?
This place isn't even on a regular road map."

 The man smiled sheepishly, shifting slightly, causing the
figure in his lap to moan once more for a brother whose partner was
hoping to God was alive.  "It's cutting edge genetics.  And in
order to bypass all the government hindrances, the FDA and such,
the facility is top secret."

 Scully nodded, the geneticist's explanation too reminiscent
of Mengele and Ishimaro.  "So, what were you and Sam... Amanda...
working on?"

   Troy's eyes brightened minutely at the opportunity to talk
about nucleotides and restriction enzymes.  "What the big project right
now is getting introns from other species and placing them in the
intron spaces of other species, and controlling their translation via
chemicals or electrical signals or radiation, or a number of other
catalysts."

 Scully nodded, her head suddenly stopping in mid-air, her
mouth coming agape with the memory of a dialysis filter and Pendrell's
written analysis.  "Would some of these chemical catalysts include amino
acids?"

 Troy smiled.  "Yes, actually."

 Scully grimaced, tilted her head partly in frustration, partly in
despair that her and her partner had been duped.  Yet again.  "God damn."
Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, an anger directed to those who
were most likely still smoking and drinking in their high rise in New
York.  "They messed around with his god damned DNA in his god damned
water."  Scully's nostrils flared; her blue eyes bore holes into the
floor that she was staring at.  "Fuck it."

 Byers watched the federal agent in front of him release a litany
of swear words that betrayed the cross on her neck, that proved Mulder's
rendez vous' with VCS had worn off on her too.  He heard the harsh,
hurried whispering of Frohike through his ear piece, noticing that
Scully had taking hers off in annoyance with the constant static.  He
pressed the headphones closer to her head, eyes widening, finally
comprehending the panicked warning his colleague was currently issuing.

 Byers tried calling out for the red head woman but was
immediately stopped by a sharp nod of the head by the figure glowering
at him.

 Holding his hands up in surrender, Byers was fully aware
of the barrel of the semi automatic pointed at his head -- the Bounty
Hunter's intense glare enough to ensure the Gunman's silence.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Jeremiah looked at the semi automatic and held it in his hands.
Experimenting.  Testing the weight in his hands.  Examining the bullets,
fingering the pointed tips, the copper-coloured barrels.

 The fragility of humans was apparent -- flesh and muscle could so
easily tear as a searing lead pellet traced its path.  Unlike the blood
of morphs, the red solvent of humans was not expendable, was not merely
a clotting agent.  Instead, blood was their medium of life, was the
solvent in which homeostasis was maintained -- was precious, as its total
sum either sustained life.  Or destroyed it.

 The crate of fifty was empty -- one gun for each morph.

 The clips were distributed solemnly, with faces grim.

 Intentions deadly.

***

 Mulder was flanked by the two Russians who dragged, pulled,
coerced him along the endless corridors, up never-ending ramps and
down bottomless stairs.

 Other comrades were waiting for them, weapons in hand, semi
automatics and automatics in tow.  A breathless teenager came through
the doors, sweat rolling down his forehead, wrinkled uniform a
stark contrast to the pressed and creased uniforms of his older
comrades.

 "Jeremiah's coming.  They're armed."

 Kabalevsky nodded, signalled for the barely-pubescent Russian to
stand guard at the door just over *there*.  Mulder watched the Russians
tighten their grips on their handles, heard the multitude of clicks that
indicated the guns were so very much cocked -- and that the Russians were
so very much serious.

 Mulder sagged.  Apparently, his speech hadn't affected them in
the least.

 He pictured the carnage, imagined the burning pins that would meet
his nostrils and go into his lungs.  That would make his eyes water and
burn, like scouring pads over the corneas themselves.  Could picture
Sam and Scully side by side over his corpse.

 A dead man hoping for forgiveness.

***

 Skinner watched the procession of artillery file past him
from the shelter of a doorway twenty feet ahead.  More unnerving
than the guns that they held, than the numerous clips that were secured
firmly at the waist, was the silence.  The steel eyes of the unearthly
beings were ominous in their focused intensity.  Twenty seven pairs
of perfect shoes, on perfectly structured feet, travelled in perfect
harmony -- foreboding, rather than beautiful, in the silence that
plagued the rubber soles as they hit the tiled floor.

 Skinner swallowed, watching Marita and the five other soldiers
approach from the opposite side.

 When the door opened, when the bodies floated by, in the
millisecond of time when his view was clear, Skinner felt his breath
catch.  His eyes widened as he saw Mulder supported by two Russians --
sighing in relief, as his subordinate agent was still very much alive.
But Mulder's profile was marred by blood, and his strength was visibly
ebbing as his legs were sagging with the effort needed to remain
upright.

 Skinner held the gun tighter.

 His responsibility only.

 He nodded at Marita who nodded back.

 Cautiously, they made their way to the door.

***

 Colonel Josef Beranek had taught Marita Corruvibias many
things.  In between the cleaning and dusting he had taught her many
of the secrets of the Iron Curtain.  In between the school work and
the hop scotch, he had taught her strategy, often using old World
War II maps and Hitler's Nazis as a guide.  In between the pleading
and the begging, he had taught her how to hold a gun.

 How to attack from a door.  How to have your gun raised,
cocked, and pointed as soon as you stepped away from the shelter
of cover.  And how to aim it at the first body you see.

 And Marita Corruvibias, with her brown hair that was so often
hidden by peroxide, with blue contacts that hid her European browns,
with a scarred lip that was caused by a demented man with a ruby ring
so long ago, stepped out of her shelter, pointed her cocked gun at the
first figure in view.

 And gasped.

***

 The figures in Jeremiah's view grew steadily as he walked
closer to their ridiculous uniforms and their inefficient fire
power.  He could feel his and his cohorts' impatience start to wane
with ever step that was taken -- that they were anxious to get the
killing over with and go back to the hybrids waiting downstairs.

 He saw the familiar figure of Kabalevsky, the rotund stomach
of the incompetent Beranek and saw... saw some dishevelled man being
supported by both.

 His senses awakened by the close proximity, and the brown
haired, beaten man sensed it as well.  A rumbling in the breast.
A tingle in the stomach.  Genetic marker against genetic marker.
The other man raised his head, and the morph and the man stared
at each other.  Silent.

 Jeremiah looked to Kabalevsky.  Looked to Beranek and smiled,
clearly amused.  "And what is this?"

 Kabalevsky's face grew into an ugly sneer.  "You've lied to us,
you've used our facilities.  We *trusted* you."  Kabalevsky shifted,
raising Mulder's body higher.  "And now that we have what you have,
I think it's time we terminated the deal."

 A line of men came up from behind Kabalevsky, weapons drawn.
Mulder closed his eyes, was thinking that maybe if he held his breath
and closed his eyes than maybe... maybe...

 Jeremiah's face was indifferent.  "And you think your guns
and your... " he waved his hand dismissively at Mulder.   "Your marker,
will be able to stop us?"

 A line of morphs came up from behind Jeremiah, guns trained on
the men who held identical guns beaded on them.

 Stalemate.

***

 The confrontation underway in the center of the conference
room went unnoticed by the man who held a gun against the blonde
woman's head.  Went unnoticed by the woman who held the gun aimed
at the head of the brown-haired soldier.

 Her eyes worked in tandem with her brain, overlapping memories
with what she could see.  She saw his brown orbs, the ones which
would cross and make faces at her, the unruly hair that could be
controlled only by oil, the nose which was bent at a slight angle
because the ice-containing snowball hit him in the face that one
winter.  A primer that she would read to him before he went to school.
A lip that carried the same scar that she wore.  A good bye that
she never had a chance to say.  An abrupt end to the hell that she
had lived in, only for it to be waiting when she arrived.

 Anton.

 The brother who only existed in her dreams.

 The two figures pointed barrels at each other's head -- her
eyes wide, his eyes slitted with suspicion and fear.

 They stood spell bound, guns starting to lower, Marita's eyes
the only thing visible behind the black of the mask -- its glare
hiding the water that was staring to gather.

 Suddenly the Russian drew back hastily, almost tripping over
his feet, mumbling that they were all going to die anyways, and
made his way to the other side, eyes still focused on the woman
in front of him.

 Marita could do nothing but follow.

***

 Skinner watched the exchange, memorized, words not able to
describe what he had seen transpire between the uniformed Russian and
the black dressed Marita.

 His glance moved towards where the Russian was going, the
stand off between the two men in the center, towards Mulder who was
desperately holding onto the more rotund figure standing slightly
towards the back.

 He looked over at Jones and Mercer, catching their eyes.
They showed him their smoke bombs, eyes seeking approval.  Skinner
reached to his belt and pulled out the small canister, feeling
the steel.  Feeling it settle comfortably into the palm of his hand.
So much like a grenade.  So much like the objects he threw so long ago.

 Soeasytopullthepin...

***

 Marita followed the retreating figure hastily, suddenly
stopping when Anton stepped into the open.  She willed her ears to
hear better -- her view was obstructed by the stack of boxes she was
hiding behind.  Silently praying behind.  She recognized Kabalevsky,
heard the familiar cadence in his tenor voicek, and watched her brother
take his place beside the eldest gentleman.

 A scream escaped her lips as the gunshot was fired, as smoke
erupted, as the green fluid bubbled and boiled, and as Humpty Dumpty
and all the kings' men toppled and fell.  Marita ignored the screams
which were quickly threatening to engulf the room, ignored the morphs
who were standing smug despite the Russians who were still getting
sporadic, unaimed gun shots in.

 She stared at the still figure, watched him being consumed
amongst all the smoke and the fumes and the flying bodies.

 Feeling little security in the polymer material which
surrounded her mouth and nose, Marita stepped resolutely towards the
middle.

 There would be no more running away.

 Not anymore.

***

 Skinner fired at anything, anyone, at any shadow that moved or
wavered.  He ignored the screams -- the agonizing, gut wrenching
screams which made his groin tighten and half expect the forest
green choppers to arrive and spray napalm.  His eyes scanned the
smoke-filled area, trying to look beyond the greenish-grey haze.
Looking for *him*.

 He passed the green decaying bodies, the bodies of aliens
that were quickly healing, oozing green blood that bubbled and
boiled.  Toiled and troubled.

 Skinner stepped out into the open, allowing himself to do a
full three sixty in time with the bullets that he was firing.

 His responsibility was nowhere to be found.

***

 A slow exhale, trying not to breathe.

 Keep breathing out, don't breathe in.

 The man started to feel his last reserves of oxygen quickly
depleting, his diaphragm starting to hurt with the pressure he was
putting on it, with the stress of still trying to force air out of his
mouth.

 Have to breathe.

 The air around him was nothing but smoke, putrid by colour,
littered with the silhouettes of downed bodies and downed weapons.

 Have to get out.

 But his muscles wouldn't obey -- only screaming in protest, or
offering a dull ache in consolation for their unwillingness.  His
arms were the only appendages working, and the laborious task of
trying to drag his whole body somewhere -- to the door, to the air --
was rapidly depleting whatever reserves of oxygen, whatever little
energy, that he had had originally.

 Have to breathe.

 And when the colours started to appear, when his eyes felt
like they were about to burst, Mulder shook his head valiantly,
trying to spell off the burning of his lungs for just... a... few...
seconds... more...

 Unable to stop the orange and green spots which were rapidly
turning to black, Mulder inhaled.

***

 Skinner tore off the mask, put it to the agent's face as
Mulder's lungs shook with the unexpected presence of oxygen.  Already
staring to feel the fringes of oxygen deprevation, Skinner hefted the
fallen agent over shoulder, feeling the slack figure give away
easily in his arms.

 Without a second glance, Walter Skinner ran for his life.

***

 Marita looked down at downed figure in front of her.  He was
gasping, groaning, trying to staunch the outpouring of blood with one
hand while the other reached for his pistol.  The blonde woman removed
the slickly-coated piece of metal from the slack hand, laying her other
hand on top of the wound that used to be his chest.

 She looked up, feeling the tears starting to collect at the bottom
of her visor.  The smoke was still swirling around her -- a green Moscow
fog accompanying the ever present, putrid grey.

 She looked back down, and the young man's eyes were still marked
by confusion.  He had been too young when she had left, just learning
how to read, just learning how to do so many things.  The eyes started
to roll in their sockets; the body shuddered one last time before it
grew still.

 No return.

 She took a gloved hand and closed his eyes.

 No regrets.

 She heard her words echo hollowly off the gas mask, heard
it grow indecipherable amongst the din, smoke, and gunfire, so that
only the deaf ears of the dead man below could hear the words she
had yearned to say for so long.

 "Good bye."

***

 Skinner started for the doorway, felt the hip bones of the
federal agent starting to protrude through the black woolen top into
his shoulder blades.  Mulder groaned absently, and incoherently
muttered his annoyances with being roughly jostled.  The AD looked back
towards where he had just exited, instantly looking for any visible cues
that Marita had been injured when he could see her hunched, defeated
figure in the middle of the room.  In the safety of the clean air, he
took off Mulder's mask, all the while stealing glances over his shoulder
to carefully study the UN informant.

 The woman was sitting passively, uninjured from the AD's
vantage point, and he passed her stillness off as shell shock.  By
God, he had seen enough of it twenty five years ago, that the
disorder was all too familiar.  He set Mulder down against the
wall, watched the agent plant his hands on the floor in attempt
to gain some semblance of stability.  "You stay here, Mulder."

 The agent merely nodded, eyes starting to close, when
Skinner roughly shook his shoulder.  "You have to stay awake, Mulder.
You hear me?  Stay awake."  He added an after thought.  "Scully
will be waiting."

 The agent nodded again, watching through glassy eyes as his
boss made his way back into the hell hole.

 As the barrel chest disappeared amongst the smoke and the
smog, Mulder felt his eyelids start to grow heavy, felt them
start to close underneath the weight of lead that his eyelashes
seemed to be consisted of.

 As the blackness surrounded him, Mulder could only offer a
silent apology to his partner.

***

 Marita spotted the familiar form and stopped.

 Felt her blood start to curdle, her flee reflex jolt into full
force -- instantly wanted to grasp the covers and close her eyes.
Dream of mamma and making the bed with the roses of red.

 He was still trying to move; she saw the blackened orbs
around his eyes, saw the god damned ruby ring that was still around
his finger.

 Her grunt left white clouds of condensation on her visor
as she hastily grabbed the fallen man's collar and pulled him, dragged
him to the clean air outside the room.

 She bumped into the tall form of the Assistant Director and
her eyes immediately turned down guiltily.

 "Let's get out here.  I have Mulder."

 Marita shook her head, still staring at the man laying at her feet.
"I have to stay."  Her voice grew louder to re-emphasize the point.  "Go
ahead, I'll stay here."

 Skinner looked incredulously at the female, watching her chest
heave in time with his own from the exertion of having to walk through
smoke, toxic alien fumes, and gun fire with a body in tow.  "What the
hell are talking about?  The place is going to blow soon."  Skinner
waved his hand towards the conference room, shaking his head.  "I found
Cassels dead inside, but everyone else is wating for us at the rendez
vous point."  Skinner paused.  "They're expecting *you*."

 Marita shook her head again, saw that Beranek's eyes had opened
and were staring at her.  "No.  I have to stay here.  There's no use
in me going back."

 Skinner continued to stare dumbly.

 "Look, Skinner.  You have a chance to redeem yourself."  She
pointed at federal agent behind him.  "And I've lost that chance.  And
I can't go back."

 The man in front of her continued to stand still.

 "Go!  What the hell are you waiting for?"  The woman paused, her
eyes brightening, then dulling -- dilating, then constricting -- as a
bitter smile played on her lips.  "That's an order, soldier.  Go, get the
hell out of here."

 Skinner continued to watch her with eyes wide as he backed
up to get to Mulder.  He hefted the agent over his shoulder once again,
and walked back towards the woman, towards the door behind her.
When he passed her, he turned around -- enigmatic eyes still
watching his progress.

 Skinner stepped through the door, past the threshold, past
a point where he could no longer see the woman who had accompanied
him on this mission that had started, it seemed, so very long ago.

 Once again, Skinner ran.

***

 Beranek opened his eyes to feel his lungs aching, with the
needles further burying themselves within his alveoli.  His limbs
were screaming at the mere thought of moving them, alternately
cramping, then burning, then spasming.

 He opened his eyes to meet blond hair and blue eyes.  She
looked like his angel dressed in black, had the same figure of a
girl he had known years ago.  He felt his hand start to be enclosed
by her soft fingers, felt the other hand start to stroke his knuckles
and the ring that lay there.  Her voice came out clear and rich,
full of the honey barritone that he had missed.

 "Do you remember me?"

 The Colonel stared at the face, felt the first synapses fire
in the excavation of a memory that had been long since forgotten.
He took in the soft, cream-colored skin, the brown eyelashes which
covered the wide, round eyes, the hair that had brown roots and
was straight and thin -- perfect for tying red ribbons in.

 A lip that still bore a faint scar.

 "Marina."

 The woman smiled, gently twisted the ring off his finger,
looked at her watch, and finally met the eyes of the man in front
of her.

 Before the facility exploded, before the squeals of flesh
burning and the screams of beings dying.  Before the pop of embers
turning into charcoal and the whir of barrels flying.  Before
the hushed tones of five men in black who would trudge away to
the four by four waiting in the distance.  Before the morphs, in
their quest for global domination, could make it to the basement
and order the hybrids.  Before the timer hit zero and sent the
electric impulse to the explosives that were planted.

 Before all of Moscow shook and just as quickly settled onto
her bearings, the woman looked into the man's eyes.  The past
mirrored only by the future they would encounter together.

 She waited with her eyes closed.  And when the light finally
engulfed her, the woman smiled.
 

***

The speech that frees comes forth from that amniotic deep.  To attend
its voice, I can hear it say, is to embrace its absence.  But I
fail the task.  The word is stone.
  -- Joy Kogawa "Obasan"

***

United States Medical Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 Langly pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose,
pressed his head, torso, and legs against the wall, wary of the
electronic eye mounted on the ceiling on the far side.

 According to his hyper sensitive ears, every step, every worn
Converse rubber sole hitting tiled floor, sounded like a brick hitting
pavement.

 Amplified one thousand times over.

 His clothing, the paint which was used for the Metallica logo, was
shifting too loudly against the cotton -- pla