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 -- playing its own rendition of
nails against chalk board.

 Everytime Frohike spoke over the ear piece, it was as if the eldest
Gunmen was amplifying his voice over the facility's loud speakers.

 The Gunman ran a hand over his face, causing his glasses to slide
back down once again -- contemplating between the steel steps to the
right, and the beckoning corridor to the left.  It was a choice he had
been faced with numerous times in the past hour.  Corridor vs. stairs.
Lab room vs. conference room.  Room with green door vs. room with blue
door.

 And each decision, each hopeful glance through each door, had been
rewarded with an unused pipette, or an empty table surrounded by equally
empty chairs, or dusty lab equipment which further established the lack
of human activity leading up to the Gunmen's arrival.

 "Where the hell are you, Mulder?"

 Langly suddenly sagged against the wall, as if the recently
whispered words had expended all energy.  He would never have believed
that the Gunmen would have been willing to break into a government
facility for two federal agents.  Would never have suspected that the
safety of two federal employees would override the Gunmen's fear of
exposure.

 That when Mulder had come to then, desperate, they had willingly
gone to Lombard, despite the echoing gunshots and the near misses.  But
that when the Thinker was killed, or when hackers emerged from cyber
oblivion, only to quickly disappear again, nary a second glance was
passed.

 Langly shook his head, cleared all hindsight and resolutely
headed for the corridor.  His eyebrows wrinkled at the sight of the
heavy metal bolt against the outside of the farthest door.  His heart
began to echo within his ears as his feet moved alongside the wall,
pace quickening as the door neared.

 The porthole was small, dusty, and the Gunman gingerly wiped the
grey particles there -- it only to be replaced by red.  The figure
inside had the Gunmen reaching for the lock instantly, his fingers unable
to move fast enough, knuckles intertwining with metal.

 "Scully?"

 The door opened quickly, the metal screaming along its hinges.
Oblivious to the noise, the Gunman headed for the head that was turned
away.  The head which was wrapped with brilliant red string, cut short,
crimped straight.

 "Scully?"

 The woman turned and Langly stumbled over his retreating feet,
eyes catching the blue eyes, the porcelain skin... the ragged sweater
which hung over a hole-y skirt.  The Gunman shakily extended a hand
and gingerly placed it upon the woman's arm, feeling the warmth permeate
through the cloth into the flesh of his shocky hands.

 "Scul..."

 He trailed off, eyes catching the faces of beings who milled
aimlessly.  Stared aimlessly.  The jeans that were slightly too big.
The sandals whose straps were torn.

 Thousands upon thousands of people who refused to speak.  Who
refused to acknowledge the newest presence in the room.

 He turned back towards the red head, his eyes roaming over the face
studiously, tracking the beauty mark above the upper lip, the widow's
peak.  Langly's arms retreated harshly -- crossed themselves protectively
over their owner's chest.

  "Are you... are you prisoners?"

 Langly's eyes blinked as the his nervous voice echoed through the
cinder walls.  When there was no response, no acknowledgement, the Gunman
waved his hands towards the open door.

 "You can go... you can leave."

 Amongst the echoes, the beings looked at him in passing, looked at
the door in passing, looked at each other in passing -- fully oblivious
to the blonde man in front of them, whose nervous panting coincided only
with the far-from-rhythmic beating of his heart.

 The Gunman jumped when Scully's angry voice jolted through his
ear piece, followed by Frohike's urgent, panicked whisper.

 "Problems... shit hole... get back now."

 The blonde pivoted, headed for the door, when his feet suddenly
did a one eighty.  His hand extended -- harshly pulled the woman
towards the door.

 Her feet moved steadily, her eyes remained impassive, her back
arched slightly as if it had been content in its previous position.

 The upraised tile came as a surprise, and Langly tripped, fought
for balance, heard rubber squeal against tile, and let go of the slight
hand to brace himself for the inevitable fall.

 His hands groped blindingly, slapping, grasping desperately onto
a steel railing.  The woman stopped, all hand contact lost, ratty
sweater threatening to engulf her.

 Langly resumed running.  Yelling.  "Come on!"  He shot wild,
fearful eyes to the red hair, running backwards, legs burning as his
words ran together in a rushed torrent.  "Come on, lady!  Come on!"

 Langly turned the corner, losing sight of the woman, the corridor
and the previously padlocked door.

 Although the door was wide open, the woman and the other four
thousand and thirty nine morphs did not follow.

***

Private Charter
En Route:  Worland, Wyoming

 "Casualties?"

 Skinner held the phone closer to his ear, plugged the other
orifice with his index finger when the words of the Englishman
threatened obscurity as the plane's engines roared to life.  "Marita
and Cassels are dead."  He stole a glance towards the slack
face of the man in front of him.  "Mulder was beat up pretty
bad."

 There was a worried pause before the Englishman spoke again.
"But he's conscious."

 Skinner's affirmative response garnered a relieved exhalation
through the ear piece.  The Assistant Director watched absently as
the pilot checked the gauges, hands dancing over a multitude of
buttons and switches.  Felt his temper increasing as the soldiers
surrounding him pretended not to stare, while casually laying their
pistols on their laps.  Conveniently aimed at him.  He felt his innards
seethe as the all-too-familiar and all-too-old charade of diplomacy
continued.  "Where are we going?"

 "It's not important."

 Skinner's jaw tightened.  "I have a right to know."

 "I don't think so."

 Skinner's growling threat was quickly contained by the soldier
to the left, by the man in black's nonchalant index which rested
visibly on the trigger.

 The Englishman's voice sang sotto over the staticy line.  "Your
father, Mr. Skinner."

 Skinner felt his blood start to course, saw his vision threaten
red when the phone was slammed down, the end button jabbed cruelly by
his thumb.

 He made an effort to breathe steadily through his nostrils, the
resultant noise prompting him to check the shallow breathing of the
agent in front of him.  When satisfied, his fingers drummed across his
lap, through the hair he once had, picked at the dirt on his pants.

 Suddenly his left hand clenched, and his right hand reached for the
phone he had thrown on the steel floor only minutes ago.

 His first attempt garnered an answering machine.

 His second attempt garnered a bland out of service message.

 His third attempt garnered an artificially friendly,
bureaucratic-induced greeting.

 "Kim, this is Walter.  Did Agent Scully report to work today?"

 The woman on the other line was silent, her hands clicking
over plastic keys.  "No, sir.  Would you like me to call her
house?"

 Skinner shook his head.  "No, that's okay.  I already tried."

 "Oh, Mr. Skinner, the..."

 The plane jolted, causing the overhead lights to flicker and
the men to grunt and grope wildly for some semblance of support.

 His secretary's words, however, hit him harder than the steel
ceiling across his naked head.  So hard that it caused a multitude of
scenes to flash beyond his eyes.  So hard that the blood and the carnage
and the medals and the blank stares made it hurt to breathe, made his
fingers numb, made his stomach threaten to expunge all contents.

 Skinner didn't even remember hanging up the phone.

***

46th West Avenue
New York, New York

 "We have a problem."

 The Well-Manicured Man gripped the phone tighter, pressed his
lips so that they drew into a straight white line -- an attempt to
keep the expletives at bay, to maintain a calm facade.  "What."

 The Bounty Hunter paused, hearing the barely checked temper in
the terse word.  "Agent Scully and a companion are here."

 The Englishman closed his eyes and exhaled his annoyances
noisily.  He would not allow himself to begin pondering how Irish-Red
had found Worland.  He would not even begin to contemplate what the
federal agent could have found.

 And there were so many things to be found in Worland.

 For the first time in years, he felt his heart begin to beat
faster, a sweat starting to break out -- provide an effective
lubricant between his hand and the cell.  An emotion, that for so
long, had been absent, despite the numerous cigarettes, morphs, and
alien parasites that he had encountered.

 A feeling that had been eluding him since the IRA bombings
in London decades ago.

 His head shook resolutely.

 The Feds could not -- *would* not -- be the ones to instill
the groin shrinking, palm sweating fear that he had run away from
for over two decades now.

 The fear that the Project would not succeed.

 The fear that he would not be a commandant in the cataclysmic
events which would lead into the new millenium.

 The Englishman's head shook again.

 The federal agents simply had *no* right.

 The Bounty Hunter cleared his throat before proceeding, his
monotonous voice made even deeper due to the tedium of standing
with gun aimed, phone poised.  "Do you want me to kill them?"

 The Well-Manicured Man's lips pursed, were about to open
and say God yes, kill the bloody buggers.  But his prior conversation
with a certain Assistant Director warranted a change in direction.
"No... no."  The Englishman poured another bourbon and swirled
the red liquid within its crystal enclosure.  "We can use them as
incentive."

 He heard a non-commital grunt from the morph before the line went
dead.

 Donald, his mustache being the first to emerge from the smoke
and shadows, approached the man with the bourbon suspiciously.

 "You look nervous."

 The Englishman looked at his hands, shocked to see them shaking.
A solitary bead of sweat crawled down the back of his neck, staining
the collar of his pristine shirt.  He took a reassuring sip from the
goblet before shaking his head.  "I'm fine."

 Eleven pairs of eyes continued to stare at him, and the bourbon
was hastily set on the table, it's owner jerkily rising.

 New York was too bloody far from Worland.  Crappy phone
connections decorated with static wouldn't be good enough this time.

 Not with the Project this close to completion.

 "Get the plane."

 The Consortium members remained standing, causing the Englishman
to snap, to resort to the professionalism and no-holds-barred persona
that -- excluding the past ten minutes -- had defined him.

 The hands were now still; the face was flushed, but dry.  "For
God sakes, I'll go."  A jacket was pulled over slender shoulders,
and his voice rose and fell in the time it took to manueover the
buttons, straighten the collar.  "Mulder will come, gentlemen.  By
tonight, Agent Scully will be a mere memory."

***

United States Medical Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 Scully stared at the Bounty Hunter, let her blue eyes look up
and bore holes into his forehead despite the headache that was
rapidly threatening.

 Occaisionally, her eyes would drift down, would study the
spot of flesh between the closely cropped hair and the edge of the
starched collar.  Guided only by Mulder's voice, the strange mix of
brotherly affection slash paternal concern slash partner-induced
attachment, "base of the neck" was the only phrase circulating
endlessly through the fissures of her brain.

 His voice, wavering despite her best efforts to center on
the echoing sound, was her assurance that he was somewhere -- was
New Mexico all over again when he visited her amongst the stars and
the sleep, and uttered his reassurances.

 That he was alive.

 That perhaps Skinner was with him, and that this hellish stasis of
Troy continually stroking Sam's hair and Byers nervously fidgeting
would end soon.

 She studied the Bounty Hunter once again -- studied the fingers
which were drumming along the rifle's handle.  Watched almost entranced
as long, lean fingers danced on black metal, as the white moons
of perfect fingernails moved in time with slender knuckles and agile
fingers.

 Almost as if they were magical.

 So much like a man who worked for the social security administration
so long ago.

 Scully opened her mouth to speak, then just as quickly closed it
again -- wondering if the question was worth asking.  She contemplated
whether the silence of an unasked question was preferable to the sting
of an unwanted answer.

 "Could you cure Mulder?"

 A look of amusement flashed through the morph's face.  "Why would
I do that?"

 Scully's mouth twitched before it opened slowly, the federal
agent grasping for a response -- unable to find an answer amongst all
the FBI manuals and medical texts that she had encountered.  Finding
only a response which had been thrown off the gameboard so long ago --
a strategy that was as hopeful as it was naive.

 "Because it's right."  The Agent nodded her head in affirmation;
her cross caught the fluorescent lights above.  "Because it's the right
thing to do."

 The Bounty Hunter laughed -- a strained sound that was more
coughing than guffawing.  "There is no right or wrong, Agent Scully.
Only alive and dead.  And I have my orders."  The morph shifted,
causing Byers to flinch when the pistol was momentraily pointing in
his direction, causing a nervous gasp to escape from Troy.

 Scully ignored the outside stimuli and kept pressing.  "And
what orders are those?"

 "To ensure that the Project goes till completion."

 Scully shook her head.  "Then why do they need Agent Mulder?"

 The Bounty Hunter smiled -- predator playing with prey, some
fun before the kill.  "Because his gift will be able to save mankind."

 Scully shook her head.  "Surely you don't believe that."

 The Bounty Hunter smiled once again.  "Appearance is
everything."

 "Then what's in it for you?"

 "Survival."

 Scully shook her head, eyebrows furrowing.  "But Mulder can't
save you."

 "But he will, and if you want to be," the morph's face shortened,
red hair growing from the previously short brown, and Scully found her
own face starting to crumble when she stared into the sad eyes of
Missy's.  "Then you should willingly allow him to do his duty."

 Scully looked down at the floor, her voice halting and muffled
as it was spoken into the collar of her sweater.  "And... what duty
is that?"

 Missy's sweet, slightly condescending voice had Scully's nails
digging into her palms.  "To control the hybrids."

 The brief answer almost caused Scully to look up reflexively,
but instead, she wrenched her neck back down, continued to stare at
the floor, allowing her eyes to collect saline.  "But how?"

 Scully heard skin shifting once again, and she glanced up, only
to harshly stare at the floor again -- alarmingly tempted to look up
and see the blue eyes of her father.  If not for one last time.  His
voice boomed off the cinder block, and Scully put a hand over her
ear -- it was all too reminiscent of a jail cell and a prisoner named
Luther Lee Boggs.

 "A remnant of the Bill Mulder legacy."

 Scully shook her head, unable to grasp the concepts the morph
was hurling at her.  "I don't understand."  The morph said nothing,
but to hasilty grab her chin and force her to look at the sea
weathered face, the bald head that she used to kiss, the blue eyes that
she had inherited.  Her eyes looked to the left, concentrated on the
bead of sweat on Sam's forehead.  "Please... stop."

 Flesh shifted again, and the morph stood before her.  "I told
you, appearance is everything."  The morph waved a hand in his captors'
direction.  "Humans are vile, corrupt -- as ill tempered as they are
short.  A society where people hide behind primitve technology, where
resources are wasted, ravaged by mongerous beings.  Where people kill
each other, underneath the facade of moral and ethical ambitions."

 The morphs snorted, shaking his head.  "Your partner will be
the leader after this current population is destroyed.  He will
lead a more genteel society, one which is vastly superior to this
wasteland in terms of intelligence and efficiency."  He paused
before proceeding once again.  "Appearance is everything.  The will
to live is all encompassing -- even if it means defecting from your own
species to work for an incompetent race such as yours."

 Scully shook her head.  "You joined them... us just to ensure
your survival... just because you thought we... they would be done
first?"  Scully paused, eyes squinting minutely.  "A gamble," she
amended seconds later.

 The morph said nothing but to shift the pistol from one hand
to another.

 Scully sagged, letting her head fall back against the wall.
Her eyes and ears were protesting with the information overload.  Her
synapses were firing wildly as they attempted to process the logic
and plausibility of this most recent story, in what was becoming a
sordid mess of so many.  Scully's eyes were once again drawn to the
hands; Mulder's voice started to fade inside her head.

 "Couldn't you cure him?... Please?"

 The morph shook his head.  He pointed towards the prone figure
laying on the cot.  "Don't you think I would have cured her?"

 Scully nodded dejectedly, wiped her nose and stopped -- suddenly
recalling all too vivid memories of kleenex after kleenex.  Of red
cotton in the garbage.  Of soaking silk in the sink.  She looked up to
the morph, craned her neck to meet his enigmatic eyes, felt her body
shudder with the memories of chemo and pain, of cheers and spotless
X-Rays couriered to medical journals.  "Did you cure me?"

 She flinched when the morph leaned in close.  Her breathing
came in nervous pants in response to the warmth emanating from the
figure above her.

 "You're bleeding."

 Two words that two months ago, would have had her running
for the bathroom, reaching for the concealed kleenexes in her pocket.
Guided by instinct, Scully fingered her nose finding nothing but the
dissolved salt of sweat and tears.  Her eyes narrowed, and the morph
offered a passing glance downward.  "You're bleeding."

 Scully caught the message as her cheeks reddened, as her legs
crossed.  She stole a glance at Byers, at Troy, at Sam -- contemplated
the pistol held between perfect hands and shifted again to get the
morph's attention.  She consciously raised her chin, attempting to
maintain eye contact without flinching -- trying to save the most of
whatever dignity that she still had.  "Can I use the washroom?"

 The morph nodded, pointing to a room just to his left.

 She stood up, felt the blood start to rush to her head, and
looked back over her shoulder towards the Bounty Hunter.  His shoulders
had sagged; his posture had relaxed.  Scully inwardly berated herself.
Under the guise of offering her a trip to the washroom, he had saved
himself from needling questions, from desperate pleas.  The morph's
generosity was not one out of care or concern -- he had merely wanted
the nosy Fed out of his short cropped hair.

 Scully turned a three sixty in the tiled room, eyes closing in
defeat upon completion.

 There were no windows, no mirrors.  A toilet that flushed
automatically, a sink with automatic dispensers.  No sharp objects.
No blunt instruments.  Scully had thought perhaps, perhaps the morph
had given her an out.  Had offered her a chance to escape.

 Scully looked at the smooth tile, the cinder block walls --
all other materials bolted, chained and double fastened.

 No chance at all.

 The morph was right.

 Appearances were everything.
 

***

I've seen the anger and I've seen all the dreams
And I've watched an existance torn apart at the seams
And though I may seem helpless
I will do all that I can do
  -- Sarah McLachlan "Shelter"

***

Private Charter
En Route to:  Worland, Wyoming

 Skinner felt his tailbone starting to scream as the plane
continued to jolt and rock, as if turbulence had wanted to accompany
them on this eerily silent trip.

 Skinner scrutinized the facial features of the man in front of
him, watched a shadow pass through his face each time the plane jumped,
jolted, and dropped.  Lacerations of various sizes had painted his arms
and chest red -- had even drawn a dark brown cloud on his trousers.
A black and blue fabric had been cruelly pulled taut over a slender bone
frame.  The eyes rolled; his mouth mumbled and muttered -- offered
defenses to the ghosts whose pasts refused to be reconciled.

 The Assistant Director maintained a close watch -- a soldier's
vigil that had been done so many times before.  Watching without
hovering.  Emotions that were buried deep within, an impassive facade to
hide the fear and the deep-seeded twitches that came with not knowing,
waiting, and hoping.  His hands clasped together on top of his legs,
which in turn attempted to anchor themselves to the unforgiving
steel of the plane.

 A plane such as this, where the cage rocked in time to the ragged
beating of the heart, where the storm outside was matched only by the
one waging within.  Where beneath it all, was a broken and beaten man --
whose wounds, at times, would not survive the storm, and the cage, and
the facades, and would not be able to make the entire trip home.

 The beaten man shifted.  Groaned.

 "Mulder... Agent Mulder."  The agent's head turned towards the
source of sound, but his eyes did not open.  "Mulder, wake up."

 Skinner watched the eyes flutter, and then squint at the harshness
of the overhead lights.  The agent groaned, curling into a tighter ball,
knees and arms drawing together to protect a throbbing mid section.
His words were muffled by the clothing that was blocking his mouth.
"Where are we?"

 "A plane."

 One leg gingerly bent out at the knee, soon followed by the other.
"What about the facility in Russia?"

 Skinner sobered, shaking his head, ignoring the stares of the men
around him.  "It was blown up, par orders."

 The agent nodded, groaning as he did so.  Skinner watched the
federal agent attempt to sit up, watched his arms shake with the effort
to support his body weight, heard the laborious breathing as Mulder
finally leaned his back aginst the steel wall and straightened his legs.

 Mulder looked around.  Weary.  Wary.  Eyes focusing on the
soldiers, on the semi automatics that they held, on the pilot who
was conversing quietly with the mouth piece of his headphones.  "Where
are we going, sir?"

 Skinner stopped momentarily at the name -- looked to Mulder
who hadn't noticed the title of respect.  Probably due more to reflex
and protocol meetings, than to admiration, Skinner could see the
rapidly growing glare of suspicion in the agent's eyes.

 Mulder's hands had started clenching, started to wring amongst
themselves as his glances towards the window grew more frequent.
"Where are we going?"

 Skinner swallowed, finally relented.  "I don't know."  He
shook his head.  "They won't tell me."

 Silence accompanied them as turbulence once again took over.
Skinner looked over at the green face of the federal agent, watched
him grimace when he swallowed bile.  The hazel eyes dilated, and his
voice came out soft, with an understanding that only Bill Mulder's
son could possess.  "You shouldn't let them hold what your father
did against you."

 Skinner tilted his head.  "How did you know?"

 Mulder offered a slight shake of the head.  "Sources," was all
the agent would offer.

 The corners of Skinner's mouth upturned.  "Neither should you."

 Mulder pursed his lips, offering a minute shrug towards
Skinner's direction.  "You weren't at fault for what happened over
there."

 It was Skinner's turn to shrug his shoulders.  No, the orders
to shoot hadn't come from him.  The orders to watch villages burn as
napalm engrained itself within his nostrils hadn't come from him.  But
the bullets and the grenades and the gas additive had been thrown by *his*
hand.  And it was *his* silence, *his* ignorance that allowed his
father to pull a William Calley.  That it was *his* fear of not
being believed, of dishonourable discharge, that allowed My Lai and
the screams and the almond slitted eyes which voiced fear and
betrayal to happen again and again.  That it was *him*, who accepted
the medal, upon his father's recommendation, when a career in the
FBI looked oh-so promising.

 Skinner studied the grooves in the steel floor, his right index
finger twitching on an imaginary trigger.  "My father taught me long
ago, when my brother and I were young, that your name was the most
important thing to you.  He drilled it into us -- he would have mock
salutes and all tha..."  Skinner trailed off, not finishing.  The
Assistant Director shook his head, attempting to shake off the last
vestiges of memory.  "Alzheimer's is a horrible disease.  So is
Parkinson's.  They make you forget... they make you vulnerable and
defenseless to the enemies out there.  And sometimes we need to protect
the defenseless, protect their name, because they can't do it
themselves."

 Mulder sighed wearily, his eyes closing.  Too many stories, and he
was too tired to offer comments on this latest one.

 Skinner craned his neck when the eyes closed, momentarily panicking
that his agent had lost consciouness again.  But the dilated hazels
opened just as quickly as they had closed, and Mulder blinked, eyes
drifting towards the window, fingers tracing a path towards the top,
connecting the stars that lay just beyond the glass.

 "I just want to see her."

 Skinner nodded, thinking he understood.  "I know, and I'm sure
Scully wants to see you."

 A sharp bark of laughter escaped from Mulder's lips.  "Yeah, I
want to see Scully too."

 Skinner drew back, feeling foolish.  He was more than embarrassed
that the man in front of him, fifteen years his junior, could profile and
understand him with ease.  But that the agent who had earned the nickname
Spooky long before Skinner had gravitated to Assistant Director, still
remained an enigma.

 That the name Samantha Mulder would be familiar to even him.
A name that caused even Walter Skinner's groin to tighten, his stomach
threaten to do flip flops at the implications.

 Skinner followed Mulder's gaze to the window, seeing nothing but
the faceless moon and faint stars.  "We'll find her, Mulder."  Skinner's
voice caught as the plane lurched again, as his stomach protested.
"Soon... I can feel it."

***

United States Federal Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 Scully felt each distinct fibre of the made-for-institution-
type toilet paper as she awkwardly made her way back from the bathroom.
However, considering how dire the situation had become -- judging
by the endless throat clearing by Byers, the stillness of the woman
in front of her -- the make shift maxi pad had been quickly reduced to a
minor interference.

 She reached for an imaginary holster when the sound of rubber
soles against tiled floor steadily grew louder.  The morph straightened,
positioned himself behind the door, waiting, pistol in hand.  Words
floated into the room, were carressed delicately by an English accent.

 "It's just me... put the gun down."

 Scully's eyes widened as the elderly gentleman stepped in.  Byers
drew his back further against the wall, wary of the bulge of a pistol
hidden by the woolen jacket.  The Gunman flinched when Scully's voice
echoed off the cinder walls.

 "Where's Mulder?"

 The Englishman picked the lint off his overcoat, checked his
cell phone, checked his pistol with melodramatic nonchalance.  "He's
coming.  Should be landing soon."

 Scully exhaled.

 She allowed her heart to rejoice and sing at the confirmation
her partner was indeed alive.  And that his sister was right here,
waiting.

 She looked back at the panting, sweating girl beside her and
sobered.  Her heart did not sing, rather it trembled within its bony
cage.  A quest so old, and so dark -- where so many people had been
sacrificed.

 For *this*.

 For the knowledge that your body had been manipulated, that
your sister's body had been manipulated, that...

 Scully closed her eyes at the thought of the rebuilding process
that would have to go on after this.

 That is, if there was anything left to rebuild.

 Who would have known that when the puzzle pieces had been
finally assembled, that the picture would be as bleek and dark and
black, moreso than anyone could have imagined.  A nightmarish
existance that really proved that ignorance could have been bliss.
That the horrors of VCS, and of mutilated bodies in the morgue,
perhaps would have been adequate price to pay for ignorant peace.  And
that perhaps the mutants and the monsters, the Tooms and the
Pushers, the shadows and the omniscient beings with long, magical
fingers -- perhaps, *perhaps* the price excated for that truth had
been too much.

 And much too late.

 Scully felt the dead weight start to settle in her stomach.

 Started to feel the seconds ticking.

 Nevous anticipation of the Armegeddon that was about to follow.

 So soon.

***

Private Charter
En Route to:  Worland, Wyoming

 "We have really shitty weather, I don't know if we can land."

 Skinner could see the dark threatening clouds over head, could
feel the plane rattle with the wind, rain, and snow that were
pelting it, and swallowed.

 The pilot took a deep breath; his hands started to turn white
with the force he was gripping the steering console.  Skinner
looked back at his agent who was grasping, almost swinging from one
of the hand holds -- a desperate, make shift anchor amongst the waves
of turbulence.  In truth, Mulder looked miserable.

 He walked towards the back once more, hands out to the sides
in an effort to maintain some semblance of balance, and laid a
reassuring hand on Mulder's shoulder.  "We're almost there.  I can
see the lights of the facility from the cock pit."

 Mulder nodded; a vigil of silence he had taken for the past
few hours.  He looked out the window once again, and noticed that the
stars had disappeared.  He looked towards his left, to the men in black,
whose guns were rattling against the steel seats, whose cannisters and
bulbs were shaking and causing his throat to tighten.  He turned his head
to the right, towards his boss, and Mulder finally noticed the way
Skinner had positioned himself between the men in black and the agent
who worked downstairs.  Mulder's throat convulsed and he turned back
towards the window once again.  He took a deep breath, and allowed the
acknowledgement of how same slash different they were.

 The security lights beckoned him, and Mulder's flee reflex
kicked into full gear.  He fidgeted.  Squrimed.  Couldn't sit still
during the descent.  One of the men in black finally took notice,
reached for the pistol, and Mulder eventually leaned back to appease him.
He felt helpless, like being led -- as if the red lights on top of
the facility were his entrance into eternal damnation, a hell on
Earth with his father as the gatekeeper.  He looked at the man in
front of him once more with dark and haunted eyes, with fear-dilated
irises that reflected the fluorescense of the lights above.  The agent
swallowed, shook his head in jerky motions.  "Please... sir.
Don't..." the agent trailed off, unable to finish.  "I can't do
this..."

 The plane dipped and the pilot counted off the decreasing altitude.

 "40 000"

 Mulder looked at his boss forlornly, still pleading, fear drenched
orbs reminiscent of almond slitted eyes amongst the lemongrass.

 "30 000"

 The soldiers were braced against the wall, hands occupied by
holding the hand holds.

 "20 000"

 Four semi automatic pistols.  Loaded.  Not manned.

 *Right* there.

 "10 000"

 Two pilots occupied by the switches and the levers and the knobs.

 "5 000"

 Skinner dove as turbulence took over.

***

United States Federal Research Facility
by Worland, Wyoming

 It was red.

 So red.

 Her hair color was red.

 The button on the phone was red.

 The Englishman's view was obliterated by red as he listened to
the calm, smug voice of the Assistant Director on the line.

 "Mr. Skinner, this course of action is highly unadvisable."

 He heard a distinct growl, an awakening of a monster that had
been hidden behind paper tape, threats, and deals.  "Listen, you son
of a bitch, this plane is not landing until I get myselft a deal.  You
got that?"

 "What kind of deal?"

 "Mulder sees his sister.  Now.  Before he does anything for you."

 The Englsihman smiled.  It was too easy.  "She's right here."

 There was no hesitation as the voice sneered.  "Bull shit.  Your
lies don't work anymore."

 The voice raised, the desperation still hidden.  "She is."

 "Fuck you.  Until you give me proof, we stay in the air.  Any
bull shit, and your pilot gets a nice hole in head.  Now I know you're
not concerned about my life, or the pilot's, but you've made it
painfully obvious that Mulder's does."

 "Your father, Mr Skinn..."

 The monster was completely unleashed.  His voice carried over
the static, roared over the receiver -- so much so that Scully could hear
the betrayed voice of her Assistant Director from across the room.
"My father is dead!  Dead!  And you said you could help him if I helped
you.  You said that you could cure...."  The voice paused -- when it
started again, the personal vendetta had been replaced with
professional diplomacy.  "A man is dead, and any deal we had before
has been officially terminated."

 The line clicked and the Englishman was left to stand stunned.

 Scared.

***

 The two figures huddled closer together, listening to the
jaggedly incomplete conversation from the earpiece.

 The situation had turned explosive.  Dangerously so.

 Frohike held the earpiece between his two fingers, scared that
any twinge would break what little reception that they had managed to
receive.  Langly's hurried breaths left condensation marks on Forhike's
lenses, as the blonde haired man leaned in close, head tilted, green
eyes wide behind black rimmed glasses.

 Frohike ran a free, gloved hand over his eyes.  Worland was
supposed to be the same as Lombard.  They were supposed to be out
by now.  Instead, he was still sitting in bat-piss sewage, while the
only person who had a gun had been captured and the man who was
supposed to go for help should anything happen was with her.

 Both Langly and Frohike shared worried glances when they heard
Byers' nervous clear of the throat turn into a momentary bout of chest
heaving coughs.

 Langly's fingers curled into fists and back out, the same
repetive motion that was causing his palms to turn white.

 The Gunman looked over to the micro cassette recorder, the one
which had been brought to Lombard and had been transcribed and added
to their filing cabinets.  The one which could be used for a future story,
or the catalyst for the unleashing of a conspiracy... and saw that it had
been turned off.

 Rather, the cassette had never been turned on.  The tape was
still at the beginning position.

 Langly looked questioningly at his colleague who merely sat
up slightly straighter in response.

 Langly nodded, the conspiracy and the paper were second priority.
Second priority to the man and woman who were their... friends.

 He wondered when exactly the transition had happened.

***

 The Englishman looked at Scully and smiled, still aware of the
many wild cards he had sitting in front of him.  "Agent Scully, I
don't even want to know how you found out about this place.  However,
I do know that you most likely would like to see your partner.  So...
please.  I'll call your boss, and you can ask him to bring the plane
down."

 Scully shook her head.  "No."

 The man's eyebrows raised.  "And why not?"

 "Because I refuse to hand him over to you.  I will not let
him be coerced into a deal again.  I will make the choice for him."

 The Englishman smiled.  Pulled out another card.  "Even if I
threatened the life of his sister?"

 The woman bristled.  Blinked.  "It's a risk I'm willing to take.
Mulder would agree with me."

 Scully's gaze had faltered and the Englishman smiled.  "Now,
Agent Scully, we both know that is far from the truth."

 "I told you that I will not allow Mulder to be forced into a
deal that he must accept."

 The Englishman held one last card.  Relished it.  Showed his
hand slowly.  "Agent Scully, you said at you mother's house that you
would go as far as you humanly could to find Mulder, didn't you?"

 Scully swallowed, not wanting to know where the mass of wires
and chips were stashed, not wanting to begin to contemplating how many
there were.  "I did."

 "So that means that you'd give up your life."

 The answer rolled off easily her tongue,  "Yes.  I would."

 The Englishman threw something in her direction and Scully
reacted volatilely, thinking it was a grenade, a bomb -- a garish
red package that made a sickening sloshing sound as her hands
cushioned its fall.

 The red vial came as a shock.  As did the label on the bottom.

 "What is this?"

 The Englishman blinked -- the bluntness of the reply was decorated
with a smile.  "Your ova."

 Scully shook her head dumbly.  "It's a lie."

 The Englishman shrugged.  "Okay, if that's what makes you
fell better."

 Scully's head continued shaking in denial, and the federal
agent was forced to think back to what the morph had told her just
few hours previously, to think about the wadded toilet paper that
was bunching up.  Her voice came out haltingly, strained.  The argument
lacked lustre, as if the federal agent seemed unsure of herself, seemed
as if she was trying to convince herself of the very same words that
were passing through her lips as she spoke.  "I have my period.  I get
it every month.  I..."

 Her voice trailed off, her head still shaking in denial,
thinking back to all the gynacologist appointments, the
cramps that appeared after the abduction, the feverish, ache-y kind
of symptoms that made marking the calendar no longer necessary.

 The Englishman handed her the phone.  "You call Skinner, tell
him that Mulder's sister is here, get them to land the plane, and
we can... rectify the situation."

 The Bounty Hunter stared at the Well-Manicured Man as his
fingers, his hands, drew themselves tighter around the pistol.

 Scully closed her eyes, looked up to the sky, praying to a God
that she was sure as hell didn't exist anymore.  She gritted her teeth,
when she could feel the hot tears threaten, the cross start to burn,
start to be an albatross across her neck.  Felt her stomach start to
grind and cramp with the memory of a discussion not so long ago
on a little park bench in a blissfully simple town called Home.

 She took the phone from the Englishman's open hand.  Set it on the
floor.  Resolute blue eyes which were crying unseen.

 "No."

***

 Langly stood by the wall, hand poised over the red device,
ear piece contentedly crackling at its new frequency -- a last minute
modification just in case there were eager ears at Byers' end.

 He heard Frohike grunting... somewhere... close.

 "You okay, Frohike?"

 "Got it."

 "You ready?"

 "Yeah... you?"

 "Uh huh..."

 There was a pause -- the colliding air molecules casuing
static in the ear pieces.  Both men calming themselves, hoping to
God that it would work.

 Both spoke at the same time -- terse words hiding the emotions
of past articles and arguments, of wiring and hacking.

 "Be careful."

 Langly smiled, a private show of teeth that made his mouth hurt.

 Both gunmen counted in whispered tones.

 "Three."

 "Two."

 "*One*"

 The whole place exploded into a show of red light.

***

The tragedy of life is not so much what men suffer, but rather
what they miss.
  -- Thomas Carlyle

***

 "What the hell?"

 Sculy covered her ears from the alarms that were sounding, the
red wash lights that were making her think something was happening, or
was about to happen.  Red... like so many explosions... maybe...

 Unlike the morphine induced slumbers of a couple months ago,
unlike the flash of mortality she had had when Duane Barry came, Scully
did not think about the cross on her neck.  Was not able to whisper a
Hail Mary or offer an "Oh God".

 She watched the Well Manicured Man ease himself out of the room.
She couldn't hear anything because of the alarms.  But she could see how
putrid Byers' face looked.  And Scully's heart twisted when she watched
Troy desperately trying to cover Sam's ears, who was, in turn, shifting
bonelessly.

 She would not hear the gun shot that would reverberate through the
red wash of lights.

***

 Langly planted his feet in the tile, ignored the red lights that
were flashing around him, did not flinch at the blaring horns blasting.
His hands tightened into a ball when an older figure came out from
the door.  He would not allow himself the luxury of panic when Frohike
was so close.

 There a flash, an arm, strips of wire.  Langly rushed into the fray,
helping Frohike pull the wire tighter around the old man's neck.  A gun
was hovering in and out of his view, desperate, wrinkled fingers were
looking for the trigger, searching for flesh to damage.  Muted groans
were ignored in the quest to pull the wire tighter, to avoid the flailing
hands and legs, to try and get the gun that was right *there*.

 A sudden elbow to the ribs and Langly heard a mass of flesh hitting
floor.  The Gunman looked up to see the flashing eyes of the Consortium's
commandant, saw the way his head drew back for a head butt, felt his feet
anchor themselves at the worst time.

 Unable to move.

 Except when the spray of blood hit his face.

***

 Scully put a hand over her mouth when the body of the Well-
Manicured Man fell in.  Three wires were twisted cruelly around his
neck, but the lethal blow had come in the form of an accelerated lead
pellet which had removed the entire left side of his face.

 Byers turned green while Troy looked away.  Scully found the
Bounty Hunter leaving for the door, saw that his attention was not
on her, and she followed, eyes looking.  Searching.

  She saw the figure of the Bounty Hunter approach a man
with torn gloves and bent glasses, watched him cock the gun towards
the blond haired man whose glasses were tinted red, whose fingers
were cut with the force he he had been gripping the wire with.

 Watched Frohike raise the gun once again.

 Towards the green blooded chest of the Bounty Hunter.

 Towards a being who had left a federal agent dead, and another
critically ill when his viral-laden blood came into contact with
the agent's respiratory passages.

 Her screams were muted, not by the alarms, but by the blood
rushing in her ears.

 There was a flash of light as a gun exploded.

***

 The wall cracked above her.  The shot, fired wide, had hit the
wall, squealed into the plaster and disappeared into a vertical black
hole along the wall.  Chipped tile rained down on her shoulder, decorated
the arm that was holding the gun that had been forgotten on the floor in
the Bounty Hunter's haste.

 She felt the neck of the Bounty Hunter yield slightly
underneath the force of the metal barrel that was held against it.

 Frohike and Langly stood in front of them -- Frohike holding
the gun limply within his fingers, Langly standing stock still with the
blood still wet on his face.

 The Bounty Hunter raised his hands in surrender, dropping the
pistol onto the floor.

 Scully's voice shook with the shock of watching a headless man fall
three feet away.  With concern for two friends who had still not spoken
or moved.  She absently looked towards the door, towards the opposite
hallway, wondering.  Always wondering when her partner would show
up and the madness would end.  "I will kill you if I have to."

 The morph started to shake his head.

 "Base of the neck.  I know."  Scully took her eyes momentarily
off her captor.  "Frohike?  Langly?  You guys alright?"

 Frohike nodded numbly while Langly absently mumbled his desire
to clean up.  Scully nodded.  "Frohike, why don't you put the gun down."
Scully watched the Gunman go on automatic pilot, saw how shocky the
skin of both men had become.  "Why don't you and Langly go inside
and see Byers... he's there and there's a bathroom where you can get
cleaned up."

 The Gunmen nodded once more, before the laborious task of
shuffling their feet began.  Scully turned towards the Bounty Hunter,
jabbing the pistol into his neck once more, all compassion lost.  "I want
you to tell me the number of the phone that's on the plane Mulder is on.
Becuase if you don't, I will shoot you.  And no matter how good
of a gambler you were in choosing the States, or that all your
camrades are dead, my shot will kill you... I guarantee that I will
not miss."

 The Hunter swallowed.  Reached for the phone that was still lying
on the floor.

 And dialled.

***

Private Charter
En Route:  Worland, Wyoming

 Skinner watched his federal agent worriedly from the cockpit.
Keeping the butt of his pistol against the pilot's neck, the AD was
tempted to wince at how Mulder's hands trembled underneath the weight of
holding the semi automatic to the soldiers.

 The phone ringing snapped Mulder and Skinner out of their
thoughts.

 Mulder reached for the phone, supported the lead pellet encasing
on his knees.

 "Mulder."

 There was a deafening silence.  "Mulder?"

 "Scully?"

 Skinner raised his eyebrows.  When the pilot starting to turn
his head, the gun butt was pushed further into his neck.  "Just
steer the plane."

 "Mulder."  This time the name had been spoken with relief, as if
the need to hear his voice had dispelled any worries.  Mulder closed his
eyes, and savoured the voice that was beautiful and familiar and here
and now.  "Your sister is here, Mulder."  He heard her smile.  Her
anticipation of his arrival was matched only by his own.  "She's here."

 Mulder looked at the soldiers staring at him and sobered.
"Scully are you being forced to say this?"

 Scully shook her head, felt the reassuring weight of the gun in
her hands.  "No."  She smiled again, looking to Byers who was smiling
as well.  "The Gunmen... they're here too."  Her voice sobered, still able
to hear the water running, and the panic filled voices of Frohike and
Langly.  "Frohike and Langly killed the Englishman."

 Mulder mouth went agape, his head exploding at the reaction.  His
heart began the flutter, the quest starting to near it's end point.
He nodded towards Skinner.

 His next words were the sweetest.  "I'll see you soon, Scully."

***

 The Bounty Hunter looked at the federal agent wearily.  "You
can put down the gun, Agent Scully."

 The agent shook her head.

 "I'm not going to kill you.  I have no reason to."  The Bounty
Hunter added a second thought.  "You can trust me."

 At the phrase Scully laughed.  She trusted no one.  Not the
cross that was around her neck.  Not her brother.  Not the green car
that would be behind her.  Not the man who would hold the door for
her.  Not the helpful lab assistant who just wanted to say hi.

 Not anymore.

 She had lived a life, four years ago, that was blissfully
ignorant.  That dealt with facts and figures, and numbers and
chemicals.

 That the thought of a morph that oozed green blood would be
standing in front of her asking for her trust, would have had her
laughing.

 That the thought of the paranoiac Fox Mulder, who was a pain in
the ass, would become as dear to her as life itself, would have made
her think that it was time for a straight jacket, valium inclusive.

 That the thought of three conspricay freaks, whose dressing
habits were as electic as the individuals themselves, would become
her partners in crime, people who she trusted, people who would
willingingly lay down their life, their exposure for her, would
have made her head spin.

 But nothing was the same.

 Scully looked at Bounty Hunter -- her eyes tired, her eyes older,
her eyes more experienced.

 She lowered her gun.

 Uncocked.

***

Private Charter
En Route to:  Worland, Wyoming

 "Do you have problems with landing the plane?"

 The pilot shook his head, its range of movement sill limited
by the metal pressed against it.  "If you haven't noticed, this is
really shitty weather we're in.  I'm trying okay?  I'm trying."

 The plane jolted, the wind picking it up, and alternatingly
pushing it down, casuing the soldiers to groan, causing Mulder
to scramble to keep the gun pointed in front of him.

 Suddenly wheels hit grass and human cargo went flying.

 Skinner took the gun away, admiring the red mark he had left
on the back of the neck.  "Thank you."

 The hatch was opened and Skinner stepped away.  Ripped out the
plane's radio.  Ripped out the phone.  Called for Mulder who stepped
warily away from the floor, land legs still evading him.

 Skinner reached for the semi-automatic, the plane already
travelling down the runway, towards wherever it had come.  "I'll take
the gun now... you don't need the extra weight."

 The federal agent held it closer to his chest.  "I'd like
to keep it if you don't mind."

 Skinner regarded the agent carefully, but Mulder was already
making his way towards the lighted door.

 They were here.

***

 Skinner half dragged, half supported Mulder as they made their
way to the entrance, eventually spotting one lock of Byers' red hair from
behind the corner of a wall.

 Byers let out a short nervous bark of relieved laughter.  "Oh
man, Mulder... you look like something the cat dragged in."

 Mulder smiled his 'thanks, it's good to see you too', and he and
Skinner slowly followed the trench coat-ed figure.

 Mulder's thoughts spun wildly with the prospect of seeing Sam.
The prospect was all-too-familiar, and Mulder felt his doubts flare, only
to feel a brief respite of relief at the knowledge Scully was fine and
unharmed.

 Skinner raised an eyebrow as his steps echoed off the walls,
as every passing room was empty, deserted, and dirty.  Skinner
watched the wall cameras warily, knowing that the men who smoked their
cigars and drank their bourbon and built enormous, highly secured,
technologically advanced facilities, could be watching.

   "Where is everyone?"

 Byers flashed a look at Skinner, startled.  "It doesn't look
like anyone's here.  I think they evacuated it.  Langly and Frohike
are cleaning up, there's Scully, and this big armed government guy,
and your sister with someone I presume is her friend.  Troy, I think."

 Byers stopped at the door marked infirmary and paused.  "This is
it."  He looked at Mulder, flashing a anticipatory smile.  His mind
flashed to Lombard and LSDM, to hackers and centerfolds, to arguing
and watching Mulder grapple with his demons.  And now, Byers found he
couldn't really describe the emotion he was feeling, didn't know why it
seemed the collar of his shirt was so tight all of a sudden.  Didn't
know why water was starting to form at the corner of his eye.  Byers
smiled reassuringly.  "She's here, Mulder."

 Mulder nodded, grim.

 He let go of Skinner's shoulder, and crossed the threshold himself.

***

Only in the nether region between dreams and reality can I see you,
remember you.  Caress your hand, touch your face, hear you voice.

But I feel you near, just as I feel my heart weakening and my breaths
begin to falter.

I have lived an existance that was forced upon me, paper upon paper
of a forged identity that bore a name that was not mine.

I have witnessed your dreams, and the dark places you have been a
passing visitor to, tangible only to my imagination, a fleeting vision
of you that only my senses could touch and feel.

I have accompanied you in your constant retreats back to a time of
innocence -- of baseball and balogna, of beaches and boats.  A past
where only time was our greatest enemy, where double-edged words
were more powerful than blows, where the connection between innocent
and innocent, child and child was at its strongest.  Was at its most
vulnerable.

I still remember, Fox.

Although my lips refuse to work, although my hands refuse to touch,
although my head cannot rest on your hand, be sure in all your heart,
that I *do* remember.

That I have nothing to forgive you for.

And that I have always, *always* loved you.

***

Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd,
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
  -- William Shakespeare "Othello"

***

 Scully watched wide-eyed as her partner walked in with a
boldness that he did not possess, with a walk that wore a distinctive
limp, with a face that was an easel to violent markings that had
started so long ago.

 He passed her without so much as a second glance, entranced
by the woman laying in front of him.  Scully watched mesmorized, as
the man in front of her allowed a hand to snake out, tremble with
fingers slightly bent, not quite ready for the commitment of reaching
out to touch.  She watched him swallow and move the lock of hair
from her shiny, sweaty forehead.  Watched the doubt lines and the
stiff posture melt away with a look at the porcelain face, at the hazel
eyes, at the lips which were a mirror image to his.

 She watched the tears start to form at his eyes, watched his lips
begin to quiver, his face start to show a multitude of emotions,
from happiness, to sadness, from concern, to elation.  His thumb
traced her jawline, his fingers travelled across the bridge of her
nose, his index fingered her lips, her hair travelled through nervous
fingers which revelled in its chestnut color.

 His hands travelled down her body, hovering only inches above
warm flesh, coursing blood.  Shaking.  Trembling.  He moved back to
her face, seemingly unable to part with the view for any longer than
a few seconds.  He impulsively grabbed her slack hand, then rested his
head contentedly on top of it.

 The woman moved, shifted closer to the smell that permeated to her
nose, the new aura that had surrounded her.  Her lips parted, and air
was exhaled, her tongue forming words that would only be audible by
the man who was laying next to her.

 Scully watched the tears course down her partner's face,
revelled in the smile that played on his lips.  It was one that she had
never seen before, one that caused his eyes to smile despite the tears,
his lips to curve upwards despite their tremor.  One that he had been
saving for this occasion, saving it for now, some twenty four
long and arduous years later.  "I'm here, Sam."  He snuggled closer to the
woman, kissed her hand, her cheek, kissed her hand once again, before
laying his head back on the smooth skin which overlayed her knuckles,
offering a rare set of pearls back to his partner.

 "I'm here, Sam.  And I'm back."

***

 Skinner watched the reunion, tempted to laugh and smile and
giggle as Scully was doing at the moment.  Tempted to smile at the
look of... of whatever it was that was playing on Mulder's face.  That
was playing on Scully's face.  He was tempted to smile and sigh
contentedly at the light which had entered his agents' eyes.

 But, instead, a small drop of saline fell -- unnoticed by
anyone else.  He was more than tempted to cry at the bodies which had
been littered.  At the price one man and one woman had to pay for this
moment.  For this reunion with a woman who was dying.  For this passage
in time, which in the grand scheme of things, was mere breaths long.

 Soft words were passed between Mulder and Scully -- indecernible
to Skinner.  Scully laughed, and the AD was forced to lower his head and
reflexively look away.

 It hurt.

 It hurt that he had been an obstacle and a barricade to these
two more often than not.  A hinderence to this moment which could
have happened so much earlier.  Could have been so much happier.

 Skinner's head turned sharply at Scully's shout of protest.
Mulder bolted upright, dropped the hand he had been holding, and was
now staring with eyes wide, with mouth agape towards his superior
and partner.  The Assistant Director had to lean forward to hear the
words pass through his agent's lips, and Mulder soon roughly brushed
by his shoulder in his haste to leave the room.

 Skinner, Scully and the three Gunmen went in persuit of the
agent whose desperate steps were reverberating through the desolate
hallways.  More often than not, Mulder was tripping over his dead legs,
stumbling into the walls, using rubbery arms to push against unforgiving
cinder block.

 "Mulder!!"  The panicked voice of Scully could be heard, her
choppy footsteps falling out of time to her partner's.  "Wait!"

 Unlike Skinner who was following Mulder with confusion and
concern etched on his face, Scully knew what her partner was looking
for.  Her heart had skipped, her mind had screamed, when her partner
had bolted upright, eyes wide, fingers cruelly dropping the slender
hand that they had been stroking.  Mulder's whispered words were
still running through the fissures of her brain, and their jagged
syllables -- their ominous rhythm -- were travelling down to her feet,
making her steps falter.

 <The hybrids, Scully, the hybridsScullythehybridsScullythe...>

 Her tense fingers and trembling heart were unable to part with
their view of the rapidly retreating figure.  She was nervous --
scared -- as she had never seen such an abrupt change in emotions,
had never seen his face metamorphose so quickly from explicit horror,
to calm resolve.

 As Scully turned the corner, as her high heels screamed on
the tile floor, the pounding in her ears grew faster.  Harder.  She bit
her lip, eyes reluctantly scanning the hallways -- scared of she
would see, scared of what her partner could do.

 But Mulder's limping gait continued -- his arms desperately
opening every door, his mouth muttering nonsensical spells, coherent
only to those he was looking for.  He disappeared into one empty
doorway, and the room engulfed him, the federal agent failing to
reappear.

 Scully ran forward, suddenly reached out with one hand and used
the door frame as leverage to move her faster, to change her momentum
faster, to see why Mulder had hesitated before he had entered...

 Scully blinked.

 Blinked again.

 She looked at the red hair.  The skin.  The eyes.  Perhaps some DNA
that was her was in *her*.  Scully shook her head.  Ridiculous.  Not
possible.

 So very possible.

 There was a ringing in her ears, a roar of blood, and Scully was
suddenly acutely aware of the lack of sound, of the lack of
movement.  Of eight thousand eyes on her partner, whose mirrors to the
soul had dulled, and darkened, and lost the sparkle that had been present
not more than two minutes ago.  Standing stock still, his lungs were
still heaving with the effort expended during the short search through
the hallways.

 Mulder suddenly turned around, heading for the door, heading for
the blizzard that was threatening.  The clouds which were looming.

 "Mulder, where are you going?"

 Her voice was unnaturally loud and Scully forced herself not to
flinch at the rebounding echo.

 Mulder's mouth formed words, emitting sounds that were strained,
that wavered in and out despite the silence of the beings surrounding him.

"I have to do this Scully.  Don't come."

 Mulder continued towards the glass door and opened it, causing his
hair to fly haphazardly, causing the remnants of his clothing to
flap wildly.

 Scully heard the clip being checked, watched the gun enclosed
arms pull closer towards the chest -- possessive, before her feet
finally obeyed, before she could finally join Skinner in his persuit
towards the quickly disappearing figure of her partner.

 Neither the female agent nor the Assistant Director noticed the
four thousand hybrids who were dilligently following.

***

 The snowflakes had just started, and Mulder was still leading
the masses outside.  The field was barren, and the women and the men with
their T-shirts and their sun dresses barely shivered, did not notice
the twenty degree weather which was quickly causing Scully to chill.

 "Mulder."  The voice came out shaky, unsure.  "Mulder, what
are you doing?"

 Two of the beings came forward and Scully watched mesmorized as
their eyes focused on her partner, as they walked towards him as the
federal agent grimaced.  Mulder suddenly turned towards Skinner, extended
his hand.  "I need your pistol, sir."

 "Mulder..."

 The agent shook his head desperately, aiming his pistol towards
Skinner's chest with shaking, exhausted arms.  "I need it now..."

 The Assistant Director cautiously handed over the piece of metal,
and tried to analyse Mulder's intentions.

  Scully finally realized what her partner was planning, started
to shake her head in protest despite her blood which was beginning
to curdle.  "Mulder, you don't need to do th.."

 The strained voice passed through barely moving lips, but it was
overshadowed by the shaking hands which passed the pistols into two pairs
of perfectly sculptured palms.  "They need to be killed, Scully.  They're
meant to replace us."

 Scully watched silently as the two beings took the pistols from
Mulder's hands wordlessly -- watched Mulder's eyes, watched
how the rest of the hybrids lined themselves in a line.  She attempted
to swallow, the lump remaining in her throat when the two hybrids faced
the line of beings, guns pointed.  Firing squad style.

 Scully's breaths were coming out noisily.  The snow was so loud; it
was roaring by her ears, by her eyes.  It was so hard to see... to see the
firing squad that her partner had set up.

 So blind.

 She wished Mulder would move closer; he was only a silhouette from
where she was standing, and the wind was threatening to blow him away.

***

 Mulder closed his eyes, felt cold tears escaping when he could see
Scully turning away.  The shots were fired easily, mechanically.

 Endlessly.  Seemingly for eternity.

 Time to reload.  Click.  Snerck.  Snap.  An endless torrent
of reloading and refiring.  Of bodies falling.  Of last breaths coming
out as a soft exhalation.

 The sound of the falling snow beat their dying breaths into
obscurity.

 Mulder opened his eyes when the shots ceased.  Two pairs of
expectant orbs remained fixed upon him, and Mulder's pupils dilated,
then constricted.

 In the light of the moon, the two remaining hybrids started
raising the butts of their pistols to their chins.

 The snow would bleed red tonight.

***

 Skinner raised a hand to cover his eyes.  Too much.  The whole
thing was too much.  Too much like Vietnam.  Too much like the black of
guns, the black of hair and enigmatic eyes, the black of charred bodies.
The Stones had been right:  the world should have been painted black
a long time ago.

 The door opened and he flinched, reaching for a gun that had been
long since given away.

 The slight frame of the man who had been carrying, caring for
Mulder's sister struggled with the heavy duffel bag across his shoulder.

 The Assistant Director extended an arm to help him, but Troy
waved him off, scowling.

 "There's a four by four just beyond the field.  We can get you
out of here.  Back home to family and friends."

 The man in front of him snorted.  "I don't have a family."  He
looked wistfully in Mulder's direction, back towards the brother his
friend had hidden.  "The only thing I've learned is that relationships
hurt."  A book was still tucked underneath his arm, which he handed
over to Skinner with disdain, without the reverence he used to
have for the worn-leather, dog-eared book of poetry.  Skinner
watched the man in front of him nod, and the Assistant Director
accepted the book -- held it at arm's length, lest it want to burn.

 Troy shifted the duffel bag, pointing towards the book.  "You
know Tennyson's it's better to have loved and lost than not to have
loved at all?"

 Skinner nodded in recognition.

 Troy shook his head bitterly, shifted the bag once again, and
reflexively looked behind his shoulder.  "Lies.  All lies."  The man
nodded, more to reassure himself than the person he was speaking to,
then took a shaky step forward and began heading for the black anonymity
of the forest.  His head was held a little too high, and his steps
faltered as all confidence had long been lost.

 Skinner hugged the book closer to his chest, watching the snow and
the trees threaten to consume the retreating figure alive.

***

 "Mulder... where are you going?"

 Scully could hear her voice cracking, knew that it was barely
audible with the fear that was tinging it.  With the fear that things
had been destroyed beyond repair.

 They retraced their route, leading back towards the slack, sweaty
figure of the woman who used to be called Sam.  Mulder picked her up,
desperation and anger and pent up emotions fuelling a new found
strength.  Scully watched him pick up her forgotten Glock and she felt
her stomach drop.

 "Mulder... no."

 He smiled, a tear betraying it immediately.  "I have to."

 "We can help her... we can get both of you to a hospital.  We
can get Troy to help Pendrell to work for a cure."  Her voice edged
on hysteria, desperation.  "The Englishman is dead, Mulder.  He can't
come back.  Krycek is dead.  So is the Cancerman.  There is no one
left.  It's done."

 Mulder shook his head, running a gun enclosed hand underneath
his nose.  "It will never be done, Scully.  Haven't you noticed?"  He
pointed in Skinner's direction.  "Pain and suffering and secrets get
passed from one generation to another."

 Mulder started stumbling throught the white masses circling
around his feet, feeling the snow on his feverish face, hearing
Samantha groan at the sudden temperature change.

 Scully followed doggedly -- the heavy sound of Skinner's
following footsteps a minor distraction.  "Mulder, don't do this.  We
can... we can..."  She trailed off before stopping in her tracks, before
dropping the hand that had been futilely reaching for her partner.
"We can do something."

 His voice started out low, hollow, and Scully tentatively leaned
forward, feeling her throat tighten at the lack of inflections in
her partner's voice.  "When you came back, Scully... your genes..."  He
paused to hold the woman in his arms tighter.  "Your genes, Scully,
were infected.  Branched DNA that was poisoning you."

 Scully's lips flinched, and she reflexively studied the ground.
Mulder turned suddenly, eyes momentarily flashing into hers.  "I had...
I had a hard time accepting the terms of your living will... but I came
to respect it."  Mulder eyebrows furrowed, and his words were spoken
with more deliberation.  "What's in me and Sam will poison us, Scully.  It
will kill us and everyone else."  Mulder's thumb started to play with the
safety, started to turn it on, off, on, and off in time to his words.  His
voice suddenly deflated, becoming barely audible in the swirling wind and
snow.  "And I'm tired of fighting, and I cannot live like this.  And I
need you to respect that."

 Scully shook her head.  "I can't do that..."

 Mulder shifted the woman in his arms.  Worked the right arm
free to remove the safety one last time.  "I'm tired of dealing, Scully.
I'm tired of having to live my life one deal at a time.  I hate having
to make a choice.  I hate having you to make decisions just because
they are forced upon you, because they use me against you.  Because
they use you against me."

 The woman groaned underneath once again, her words miraculously
clear and coherent.  "Read me a poem, Fox."

 Mulder smiled, sadly.  His tears fell as fast as the snow.

 His voice deepened, the tone was a forced whimsical, back to
a time when a boy and a girl thought the moon was made of cheese.
It was a voice that spoke in terms of boats and castles and moons,
and of the promise of a new day -- despite the demons and shadows which
lurked overhead.  "Winken, Blinken are two little eyes..."

 There was a male voice yelling -- a demon in the distance and
the story teller laid his head against the cool forehead of the angel in
his arms.  His index finger trembled as the pistol was raised.

 Again, there was the shouting.  A female this time.  Mulder bit
his lip as his hands shook, as there was a flash of light, a squeal of
sound.

 The fairy tale was cut short.

 As a finger depressed the trigger.

***

 The Bounty Hunter fell on top of her.

 And as she cried, and felt Skinner next to her, hovering, she
felt a hand on her back, felt another on her stomach.  Mulder was still
muttering, and the black metal in his hand was moving closer to the
target.

 She tried to yell at Mulder, tried to see what Skinner had shot
at, tried to move and extend a hand towards her partner whose arm was
getting closer and closer to his head...

 Two hands held her down -- restrained her.  And as Scully tried to
squirm away from the Bounty Hunter's groping hands, she felt a jolt of
warmth as the morph suddenly retreated, mumbling his apologies.  Mumbling:

"Because it's right."

 Scully absently held her stomach, clutching the residual warmth that
was lingering there.

 The Bounty Hunter walked away into the distance, never to be seen
again.

***

 Mulder's hand was shaking, his index finger starting to turn
white underneath the strain.  The question was agonizingly desperate --
what it lacked in volume was made up in intensity.

 "Scully... why can't I do this?"

 The bloody hand still clutched the gun as a dagger.  Still
held it -- galvanized rosary beads between bleeding fingers.  Mulder
remained kneeling, rocking, eyes looking up towards an unmanned sky,
asking for forgiveness from an omniscient God who had never
existed.

 He shook his head, clutched the gun tighter, the carnage
starting to blur underneath a saline cover.  Mulder's fingers numbly
maneuvered the piece of metal until the click of the clip being
removed was heard.  The two pieces were dropped into the snow and
the man lowered his head, crying softly.

 Scully hastily pocketed the two pieces, trying to ignore the body
sprawled ten feet away, the mustache starting to turn white underneath
the snow, the snow starting to turn red underneath the gaping hole in the
chest.

 She rubbed her wrist absently, felt it start to burn as the
Bounty Hunter's weight had fallen on top of it.  Felt her eyes
start to burn in rememberence of Skinner's mad dash for the pistol,
his perfect shot that landed between the eyes of the armed mustached
gentleman.  His hands had been painted red and black with blood
and carbon residue at the same time the tendons in Mulder's arm
strained to bring the gun closer to his and his sister's head.

 Scully leaned in, put her forehead against Mulder's hot flesh,
felt Samantha's shudder pass through her brother's body and then
into her own.

 She spoke slowly, feeling her heart pump blood to her words,
feeling Mulder listening even though his eyes were miles away.  "If they
come, Mulder.  We will protect you.  We will protect Sam.  She won't go
away."  Scully felt the bite of her naive words as Mulder's back stiffened,
as his hands groped once more for a pistol that was no longer there.  "We
have to try, Mulder."  Scully gingerly laid a hand upon Sam.  When Mulder
didn't move, she tried to pull her away from the snow, from the brother
who was still wondering why his finger couldn't pull the trigger.  "Just
try."  The female rolled her forehead against his, and bent her fingers
so that they now held Samantha's hand.  "Please."

 She felt the creases in his forehead lower as his eyes closed.
Felt the submission, once again, as his shoulders dropped, as his hands
stopped searching.

 Scully nodded in approval.

 Mulder's voice came out hollowly, on the verge of exhaustion.
"One try, Scully.  Only one more."

 She nodded, stepping back when Mulder scowled at her attempt to
pull Samantha away.

 Scully kept her hand extended, absently watching the snowflakes melt
into water droplets.  In the backgroud, she could hear the wind scream,
an engine come to life -- could hear the snow roar as it passed by
her ears.

 She felt a hesitant hand on her shoulder, saw the military
style black boots come into view.

 "Agent Scully."  A hesitant pause.  "Agent Mulder, we should go."

 Scully nodded, eyes threatening when the young woman's pale
throat was exposed as her head hung over her stumbling brother's arms.
Something roared again in the distance.  Scully wasn't sure if it
had been the engine or the snow this time.

 Skinner's arm laced over her shoulder and soon she was
sitting in stifling warmth, the object of the Langly's and
Frohike's blank stares.  Byers' words of comfort blurred in the
backgroud in time to the wipers squealing.  The motor hummed, the
tires played percussion, but Scully would remember nothing of
the trip back home except for the roar of snow hitting glass.

 Mulder would notice nothing but the faltering beat of his
sister's heart.
 

***

I don't believe in heaven or hell,
No saints, no sermon, no devil as well.
No pearly gates, no phoney crowd,
The wars you break, the babes you drown.
Those lost at sea and never found.
  -- Sarah McLachlan "Dear God"

***

  "In international news, a blast rocked the Russian
 Department of Security and Defense early this morning.
 It killed nineteen memebers of the Russian cabinet, and
 an investigation has been launched into the cause of the
 explosion.  It is suspected that a frozen gas line had
 cracked, acting as a catalyst for this tragic event.

  "Also, Anne Horner will explore cults, such as the
 one that was discovered in Worland, Wyoming.  She will
 explore various reasons why four thousand individuals were
 driven to commit mass suicide, and what the use of a pistol
 implicates, in terms of other famous cults such a Jonestown,
 Waco, and the Temple of the Seven Stars.

  "All of this after the commercial break with Al on
 weather, and Ron with sports and a preview of the Trappers
 game tonight."

***

Scully's Apartmnet
Annapolis, Maryland

 Scully let the faint curls of steam wrap around her ankles as she
stepped out of the shower.  Allowed the bath towel to fully engulf her
from the shoulder down to mid calf.  She took another towel off the
rack, proceeding to wipe the white cotton clouds from the bathroom vanity
mirror.

 And did an inventory of the woman in front of her.

 Four years ago, her hair was longer.  Straighter.  She was
a bit more plump.  Had less freckles.  She was sans abduction scar
then.  Had less wrinkles.

 Where had the four years gone to?

 She didn't know.  It felt like they had been going in circular
motion.  Round and round they had went, and where they had stopped she
sure as hell didn't know.  They passed numerous road marks that were
different, but not -- had taken their pit stops at Betsy Hagopian's,
in North Dakota, in Tunguska, in Lombard.  She had driven shot gun with
a man who was currently in the hospital with his sister waiting for the
abracadabra of Quantico's labs and technicians.

 Scully opened the cupboard and stared at the package of maxi
pads in front of her.  She was bleeding.  And she had clutched her
belly when the Bounty Hunter had fallen on her.  And the feeling was
so... warm.  Nice.

 Healthy.

 The plastic package started to crumple in her grasp, and Scully
felt the tears start to fall, her face start to crumble as the steam
started to disappear and show her naked face in the stark light of
the bathroom mirror.

 The phone rang in the distance, and her elecronically enhanced
voice answered the phone after three rings.  Scully braced her hands
against the sink as Pendrell's voice filtered through the answering
machine's speaker and into the bathroom.

 They had made a monoclonal antibody.

 Come quick and approve the procedure.

 Isn't science great?

 Scully looked at the cross on her neck and stared at it.  Eventually
she raised her hands and put them behind her neck.  Undid the clasp and
slid the cross off.  The small gold pendant was carefully placed in a
nearby jar of cotton balls, before the female slid the necklace back on
and redid the clasp.

 Scully ran a finger over the dark areas underneath her eyes, down
her nose to where the cancer had been, past the back of her neck to where
the implant had been removed.

 Trying to get a grasp on the emotions that she was feeling.

 Uneasy.  Angry.

 Empty.

 The package of maxi pads fell off the counter, and Scully shook
her head to clear all introspection.  With a sigh, the federal agent
dressed for yet another visit to the hopsital, to her partner and her
partner's sister.

 To the truth that, despite the monumental events of the past few
days, remained as elusive as before.

***

West 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 "Jesus Christ... he's dead.  The man is dead."

 "I don't know where the Bounty Hunter went.  He doesn't pick up the
phone."

 "Christ... Donald is dead too."

 "The hybrids... are... just a sec... the reception is bad...
Fuck.  They're dead."

 "Mulder isn't anywhere to be seen, neither is his partner."

 "No trace of Skinner either."

 "No Troy Archer.  His body isn't there."

 "Fuck... Derlum's not there.  She's gone."

 The man in the shadows sat passively.  He had no bourbon.  No
cigarette.  But his eyes gleamed unnaturally amongst the black bulk
of his body.  He listened to the news, failing to react.  By
all outward appearances, operations were normal.

 "God, we'll have to make a new template again."

 "We need new hybrids."

 "We have to get Mulder back."

 The man stood up from his chair suddenly -- his salt and pepper
hair standing out.  His steps were sure, his face and voice had the
markings of the mafia, his large figure made him all the more menacing.
From the first word that the Englishman was dead, he had taken the ball
and run with it.

 "We're not going to get Mulder.  We'll make a new catalyst."

 The other men stood wide eyed as the man continued to speak.
His hands rubbed together deliberately, and the man's face drew into
a sneer.  He wanted nothing more than to wash the Consortium of the
Mulders' blood.

 "Destroy them.  Destroy them all."

***

Holy Cross Memorial Hospital
Washington, DC

 The air smelled funny.  Not at all like the filtered air of her
room.  And the sheets were light.  Thin.  Not at all like the duvet she
always slept with.  And what the hell was around her knees... cloth-like.
A night shirt.  She hated night shirts... always wore boxers.

 Her mouth was dry, and she absently wondered if she had had another
nightmare.  There was a background mumbling -- words made indescernible
by the buzz and hiss of the air around her.  No... no nightmare this time,
as paper thin sheets had replaced Troy's comforting arms, and as
indecipherable whispers had replaced her friend's coos of comfort.

 The woman opened her eyes, squinting at the sudden onslaught of
light, at the bright red hair that swam into vision.

 Red Hair looked kind of worried, then put on an awkward smile.  "Hi.
I'm Agent Scully."  The business-suit clad woman extended a hand, and
continued to talk, undaunted, when Amanda did not reciprocate the gesture.
"Do you know where you are?"

 The woman felt her neck protesting from disuse as she swung her head
around.  She took in the bed pan on the table above her head, the vinyl
chair at the foot, the water pitcher -- and resisted the urge to groan.

 "A hospital?"

 Red Hair smiled again, some relief showing up on her face, her
eyes suddenly growing wider in anticipation of the next question.  "Do
you know who you are?"

 "Amanda Derlum."

 The patient watched the woman's smile falter.  She watched federal
agent Scully repeat the name over in confirmation, while a pained
expression shadowed her face momentarily.  "And... where are you from,
Amanda?"

 "I'm from Great Falls, Montana."

 The woman in the business suit swallowed, put a hand to her mouth
and took a breath.  Amanda watched her worriedly.  It seemed it wasn't the
answer the fed had been looking for.

 "Do you know how you got here?"

 Amanda shook her head.  "Last thing... last thing I remember...
is um... eating maccaroni with a friend of mine in the cafeteria."

 The federal agent nodded grimly.  "That was a week and a half ago."

 Amanda balked.  "A week and a half ago!"  Her words started to
sputter.  "Then what.. what happened.  How did I get here..."

 Scully sighed, hugging Amanda's chart closer to her chest.  "You
were found unconscious... delirious.  You had a severe chemical
imbalance in your bloodstream.  Apparently a gene that was being
expressed was acting as a toxin."

 Amanda closed her eyes and leaned her head further into the
standard hospital pillow.  "So, where am I now?"

 "You're in George Washington University."

 Scully watched Amanda's eyes snap open in surprise.  "Yes, it's
a long way from Wyoming, I know.  But, there are some... legal and
medical matters we need to clear up.  GWU is one of the best hospitals
in the country, and there's an investigation being mounted regarding how
well your facility followed FDA protocol."

 A grimace passed over Amanda's face, and the patient ran a hand
over her eyes.  "Can you please call a man named Troy Archer?."

 Amanda watched Red take a step back.  "I'm sorry, Amanda, but we
couldn't find Troy when... some federal agents searched through the
facility."

 Amanda bit her lip to keep from crying.

 "Is there any other family you would like us to call?"  Scully
felt her shoulder lean forward in hope... anticipation.  "Anyone
at all?"

 The patient's head shook.  "No... I have no family.  Troy was
the only family I had."

 The woman nodded, absently replaying all the times she had woken
up with his arms securely around her.  She looked up to the federal agent
to meet her troubled expression, and smiled.  "He was the brother I never
had."

***

 Mulder turned his head once again to look at the jeans and shirt
that were resting impatiently on the hospital dresser.  His lips
twisted, and his neck moved so that his eyes were facing the ceiling
once again.

 The fingers of his right hand laid listelessly on the scar on
his left wrist -- a small ciricular puncture mark courtesy of the
IV and Pendrell's magic medicine.

 He absently looked towards the window and sighed restlessly,
knowing that he should have been changed by now.  Scully
had been eager to tell him that according to all tests, he was cured.

 She had been less eager to talk about her visits with Samantha.

 There was a tentative knock on the door, and Mulder inwardly
cringed, hoping it wasn't the doctors with their multi-coloured sedatives,
or even Scully with her Amanda's-been-through-a-difficult-time speech.

 His body relaxed into the bed when Byers' trench coat
nervously walked into the room.

 "Byers."  Mulder nodded his greeting, his voice still recovering
from the abuse it had endured during the past week.

 Byers smiled as he approached the bed, settling into the nearest
chair.  "It's good to see you, Mulder."

 Mulder's eyes fell away from the Gunman's face, his reply
mumbled non-commitedly.  "It's good to see you too."

 Byers was the first to break the uncomfortable silence that was
threatening to settle.  "Do you have any news on your sister?"

 Mulder shook his head.  "She... Scully says she doesn't remember
anything.  She won't let me see her because... whatever... Scully says it
would be difficult for her."

 The bearded man nodded, taking in the folded clothes that were
lying beside him.

 Mulder was in no hurry to get out of the hospital this time.

 "So how are Frohike and Langly?"

 Byers took a deep breath.  "They're... fine.  They were a little
shaken... but they'll be okay."

 "That's good."

 Byers nodded, watching the usually-intense federal agent stare
outside the window, rubbing his wrist with the opposite thumb.

 "Mulder... "

 "Mulder."

 The breathless voice of Scully soon gave way to her footsteps.
Byers quickly noticed that Mulder turned to stare at the wall, his
back towards Scully, his posture clearly saying, "leave me alone".

 Scully approached cautiously.  "Mulder?  How come you haven't
changed yet?  You've been discharged."

 The federal agent nodded, reluctantly turning to sit up, reaching
for the clothes with a pained expression.

 Byers heard Scully's impatient sigh before she turned to him and
offered a weak smile.  Whether it was genuine, or out of courtesy, Byers
was unsure of.

 The air had suddenly become charged.  Tense.  It reeked of things
that had not yet been said as Mulder, Scully, and Byers stood in a
triangle.  Three was a crowd, and Byers found himself subconsciously
shuffling towards the doorway.

 He offered a weak wave, and then stopped, sobered.  He nodded
to Mulder and Scully when he addressed them.  "Mulder.  Scully.  I
want you to know... that everything that's happened... it won't be
printed.  No matter what.  None of it."  Byers' face grew pensive
as he thought of his next words.  "We understand now.  And we respect
your wishes as federal agents.  As friends."

 Mulder nodded once again, and Scully smiled her thanks.  Byers
glanced between the two then hastily reached for the door and left.

 Mulder instantly sagged, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns
on his clothes.  "They won, Scully."

 Scully shook her head.  "What do you mean?"

 "I mean, the Englishman and the Cigarette Smoking man and Krycek
are dead, but they still won.  I don't have anything to show for the
past four years.  I'm healthy.  You're healthy... my family is still
torn apart... we're at the same spot we were in four years ago."

 "Amanda could be suffering from amnesia... I mean she could always
maybe..."

 Mulder shook his head.  "I don't think so, Scully."

 "So you're just going to give up?"

 Mulder shrugged his shoulders, setting his clothes upon the
mattress, obviously uninterested in changing out of the regulation
hospital gown.

 Scully clamped down on the urge to roll her eyes.  The silence
was broken by the door suddenly opening, by a breathless heavy set
nurse bursting in.  "Dr. Scully, we're having a problem with your
patient..."

 Scully instinctually looked to Mulder, who merely sagged and crossed
his arms protectively around his chest.  Scully nodded to her partner once
before running out of the room, towards the screaming from the other side
of the hall.

***

 The girl closes her eyes, fingers twitching from the foreign metal
invading flesh, from the effort being expended to remember the vestiges
of a place that existed so long ago.  The graininess of the sand, the
whine of the sea gulls, and the vibration of the waves around her.  There
is a bright sun that envelops her, that glistens on the water.  There is
penny candy which causes her teeth to stick.  There is a slight sunburn
on her legs which is soothed by calamine lotion, by a poem only one person
can recite perfectly.

 "Winken and Blinken are two little eyes, and Nod is a little head.
And the wooden shoes that sailed the skies is the wee one's trundle bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings of the wonderful sight that be.  And
you shall see the beautiful things as you rock in the misty sea."

 But his face contorts, and his limbs begin to grow.  His skin
stretches taut and deathly grey, and then his eyes die, and widen
hideously.  Her body is yanked upwards and shrieks of the gulls
becomes worse, the roar of the waves is replaced by an incessant hum.
She cannot even say good bye to her brother as she is engulfed by the
white hot light of the sun.

 The pain sears through her legs.  It starts from the top of her
thighs and bolts to her knees, making her legs tremble with the
effort to stand on them.

 Her eyelids are heavy.  Grainy.  It hurts to close them, to move
sandpaper eyelids over senstive corneas.  But the light is so bright -- is
reflected off so many mirrors and panels that the colors of pain flash
before her -- a multitude of harsh greens and oranges.

 Her teeth are being drilled.  Her mouth is forced open by long
leathery appendages that scratch her face.  The leather sticks carress
her body, her torso, her back, her neck -- only to be replaced by
obstrusive metal that squeals and grinds and drills sickeningly into bone
and sinew.

 The noise is unbearable.  A constant hum that makes her ear drums
vibrate, and a high pitched whine that sears into her auditory canal.
Their eyes are loud in their intensity -- they tell her things, they
give her commands despite her body which is broken and torn.

 Masked men with masked intentions that make her cry.

 White red pain that shrouds the memory she desperately attempts
to grasp with trembling fingers.

 And the lurking demons of the eternal night around her, reeking
of a fate much worse than death...

***

  "Regression hypnosis -- sci fi or credible
 investigation technique?  An increasing number of
 people are thanking the procedure in helping them
 retireve buried memories.

  Are these people merely seeking an outlet for
 their repressed memories?  Or is hypnosis and the
 metaphysical world finally getting credibiltity in
 this scientific and technologically driven society?

  Caitlen Bowman will talk to a hypnotist, a
 neurologist, and a patient -- in an attempt to
 determine the fact from the science fiction."

***

 The sheets flew off when Amanda woke up with a gasp, with sweat
rolling down her face and cooling on her heaving chest.  She stared
at her hands, allowed herself to calm down while she willed the trembling
to stop.

 Agent Scully was there with a pastel-painted nurse, and Amanda
wondered how often the federal agent had seen nightmares to make her
look so unperturbed.  Meanwhile, the nurse mumbled, shoved the unopen
syringe into her pocket, and shuffled nervously back towards the
hallway.

 Red looked from the door back to the patient and smiled an
I-understand smile.  "Bad dream?"

 Amanda hicupped, then reluctantly nodded.

 Scully studied the female in front of her, and drew a steadying
breath.  "I've heard that you've had these nightmares before."

 Amanda studied the sheets before mumbling an affirmation.

 Scully licked her lips, preparing for the next question.  "I've also
heard that you were given constant physicals during your tenure in
Wyoming.  Do you know..."

 "Who is that man?"

 Scully turned around quickly to see Mulder's startled expression
disappear from the viewing window.  The federal agent narrowed her
eyes.  "Why?"

 Amanda shook her head.  "I don't know... He looks familiar."

 The patient noticed the change of expression on the federal
agent's face, but it was quickly squelched.  "Maybe it would help
if you talked about your dreams."

 The answer was marred by a shuddering breath, but the response
was still a resounding, "No".

 Amanda watched the female agent run a tongue through the inside
of her mouth, and the patient turned once again towards the window --
looking for... him.  She squinted, clenched her fingers tighter in
an attempt to remember.

 The clicking of heels against tiled floor drew her head up, and
the happy faces of two new anchors could be seen bantering.  The
red haired woman shrugged.

 "I thought maybe the TV would help you sleep.  My partner has
bad nightmares... and according to him, it helps."

 Scully watched Amanda's eyes divert -- pay close attention to
something so fascinating that it caused her hicupping to cease.

 She closed her eyes as soon as regression hypnosis was mentioned,
praying that Amanda wouldn't ask, even though the geneticist
was studiously watching the story, had turned towards her with a new
gleam in previously dull eyes.

 "Agent Scully."  Her voice came out haltingly.  "Do you know where I
could get in touch with someone like that?"

 Scully resisted the urge to groan, and instead, exhaled.  "Regression
hypnosis... Amanda, is very risky.  It can be very misleading.  What you
think is the truth... may not be."

 The patient shook her head, not caring.  "Do you know where I could
get in touch with someone like that."

 Scully sighed, finally relented.  "I know just the man."

***

West 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 The decision to kill Skinner had come rather easily... it was by
which method that was currently causing unrest.

 Elaborate devices had been concocted -- bombs in the office, in
the telephone.  Perhaps poison in the food, perhaps an induced heart
attack.  Maybe a tragic suicide, or perhaps death by a fiery car
accident.

 In the end, all means were considered not worth the effort.  A
low life, a dingy informant that had long since outlived its purpose.

 With a silencer in hand, a solitary hit man was dispatched.

***

Dr. Werber's Office
Washington, DC

 Amanda woke up.  Refreshed.  Like the feeling you got when you just
stepped out of the shower.  She looked towards Agent Scully whose
expression was pained, whose lips were turning the same colour as her
paling skin with the force she was pressing them with.

 "Agent Scully, where's Agent Mulder?"

 Scully continued staring towards the couch, before shaking her
head upon realizing the question had been directed at her.  "Um... he
had to go to washroom."  Scully smiled shakily, remembering how Mulder
had to excuse himself, had run towards the washroom with a hand over his
mouth.

 Amanda looked towards Werber who was gazing back at her with
concern.  "I think that we may need to some X-rays for impla..."

 Agent Scully shook her head quickly, motioning for the doctor
to just shut the hell up.  The tape recorder had been turned off, but
there were two tapes beside it.  Amanda's eyes opened incredulously.
"I've been under for more than two hours?"

 Scully nodded meekly.

 Amanda exchanged glances between the doctor, between Agent Scully.
Her head turned at the arrival of Mulder, and she did not fail to
miss the pink that tinged his eyes and nose.

 The dread grew in Amanda's stomach as she stared at the tape
recorder in front of her.  At the two tapes which were lying innocently
beside it.  At the look of apprehension and guilt that was playing on
Agent Scully's partner's face.

 When she finally spoke, she instantly regretted it.  Perhaps it
was best not to know.

 "What did I say?"
 

***

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I
  -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

***

 "...And what is your name?"

 "Samantha Ann Mulder."

 "And how old are you Samantha?"

 "I'm eight... my birthday was a month ago."

 "Wow... can you tell me where you live, Samantha?"

 "I live in 5327 Westshire Street, Chilmark, Massachusettes."

 "Do you have a family?"

 "I have a brother and a mommy and a daddy."

 "Okay, Samantha, I want you to imagine yourself as a bird.  A
small, carefree bird that can fly fast and high in the sky.  And
whenever things get too scary, you can fly away to the safe place that
you found when I started talking.  Okay?"

 "Okay."

 "I want you to go back to your house... about one month after
your birthday.  You're playing your favorite game with you
brother, and Fox's favorite show is on TV.  I want you to tell me
what happened after that."

 "The sun... it was really bright... started to shine so... white.
And the sea gulls were so loud... I couldn't hear Fox talking.  I...
he started to go away... he got so small.  And... it hurt.  Their
arms hurt, their arms shined the light into my eyes and would
turn hard in my fingers..."

 "It's okay Samantha... go to your safe place if it becomes to..."

 "Samantha's gone."

 "...What do you mean?"

 "Samantha's got a new name.  And a new family.  And I'm gone...
I'm gone and Amanda Derlum is coming..."

***

Dr. Werber's Office
Washington, DC

 Amanda stared at the recorder grimly, ignoring the high
pitched squeal of the end of the tape hitting the playing heads,
preferring rather, to set a lazy hand over her eyes.  She could hear
Agent Scully and the doctor talking in subdued tones in the room
next door.

 She had yet to hear Agent Mulder's voice.

 She played the name on her tongue.  "Samantha... Samantha...
Mulder... Mulder."  She tried to imagine Troy calling her Samantha, she
tried to imagine her parents in Colorado calling her Samantha, she tried
to imagine Agent Mulder, the mystery man at the window that one day in
the hospital, calling her Samantha.

 She could not.

 The door opened, and Mulder stepped in, awkward.

 "Would you like me to leave?"

 Amanda hesitated then shook her head no.

 "Are you okay?"

 There was another shake of the head.

 Mulder sat gingerly beside her, silent, before pulling a
picture out of his wallet.  "I don't know if this helps, but you do
look like my sister."

 Amanda's nose flared, and she didn't dare look.  Could not bear to
look, because it would mean her whole life had been a lie.  Her head
shook minutely as if trying to deny what was fast becoming the inevitable.

 Mulder took in a breath, placing the picture carefully back into the
pocket of his wallet.  His jaw clenched, and he could feel the stifling
awkardness.  Perhaps he should have taken up Scully's offer to come with
him.

 "Do you have anywhere to stay in DC?"

 Amanda shook her head.

 "Agent Scully offered a bed at her apartment until your ready
to leave.  That offer stands at my apartment as well, but I don't know
if you'd like that."

 Amanda swallowed.  "I think... I'd like to see if this could work.
Maybe... maybe being around you could give me answers... one way
or another."

 Mulder hid his look of surprise and nodded, hopeful.  "Okay...
sure."

 Mulder started to get up when Amanda interjected sharply.  "Just
don't... I don't want to get anybody's hopes up."

 Mulder looked towards the tape player and nodded his agreements.

 Scully was watching from the doorway, and Mulder reached out
to put his hand on Derlum's back, but stopped last minute.  Instead,
his fidgety hands were shoved hastily into his jacket pockets where
they broke into a nervous sweat.

 Scully trailed behind the two figures during the walk to Mulder's
car -- saw how miserable both were as they awkwardly maneuvered the
doors and seatbelts.

 No words were passed during the trip home.

***

West 46th Avenue
New York, New York

 He used to like picking the legs off of the beetles that crawled
across his family's kitchen floor when he was little.

 He liked to yank the braids of the girl sitting in front of him
in sixth grade.  The more she cried, the more he always wanted to do it
again.

 When he was in high school, his father came home from Vietnam and
told stories of raping and plundering in the Saigon forest.  The more
it hurt, the more they would hurt back -- eye for an eye, torture
to torture.

 So when confronted with the proposition of terminating two
federal agents, the man from the mafia was not content to simply send
a hit man and bullets.

 No... no... he would have some fun before the kill.

***

Scully's Apartment
Annapolis, Maryland

 Scully expelled a litany of swear words as she jiggled the key
into her lock, still unable to get the wooden panel to open.  With a
sharp sigh, she lowered her briefcase and forced her fingers to take their
time, and deliberately started to turn the key -- relieved when her
living room finally beckoned her.

 Her answering machine flashed annoyingly -- eleven messages.
Scully shook her head, wondering how many of them were *not* from
Mulder.

 She punched the play button, settling in the couch, feeling the
expelled air from her coat fly up into her face.

 "Um... Hi, Agent Scully.  This is Pendrell... you know, from the
crime lab.  Anyways, I've finished the DNA analysis of the two samples
you've given me..."

 Scully immediately straightened, holding her breath, listening
to the air molecules collide as Pendrell droned on about experimental
procedure and method.

 "... and your initial conclusions were correct, Agent Scully."

 Scully absently mumbled her thanks and suddenly, she could no
longer hear the remaining messages, her mind passing through the dozens
of text books on nucleotides and alpha helices, histones and DNA-DNA
hybridization.

 The federal agent shook her head, wondering how four nitogen
base compounds could form a long chain of a heriditary mass called DNA.
Wanted to marvel at how science had progressed, and allowed the
lab techs like Pendrell to analyse blood, and these four nitrogen
compounds to determine all sort of conclusions.

 Her science proved one thing, irrefutably.  And when Pendrell
had confirmed her suspicions, Scully did not want to wonder, or
marvel.

 She wanted to cry, and wail, and scream that it was not
supposed to be like this.

 But science was her sacrament, even if it meant affirming that
Amanda Ann Derlum and Fox William Mulder, were indeed, brother and
sister.

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 It was the favorite place of Norman Rockwell-esque authors.  The
famed place of licking cake batter from the bowl, of cookies baking in
the oven.  Of children hiding behind the aprons of their mother while
their older sibling tried to tickle them.

 Mulder couldn't help but smile bitterly at the irony as he picked
through the Chinese food with his wooden chopsticks, watching Amanda
doing likewise.  He glanced at the folders he had left on the
kitchen counter and cleared his throat.

 "Dr. Werber thinks that we should get some X-rays done."

 Amanda raised her head, her eyes clearly asking why the hell
she would he want to do that.

 "He thinks that if your story is true, then you probably have some
residual implants in you."

 The chopsticks dropped onto the table -- one rolled onto the
floor, ignored by both parties.

 "No."

 "Why not?"

 "Because..."  Amanda started to gesticualte wildly.  "Because that
tape was a confabulation.  My mind must have made it up."

 Mulder swallowed, setting his chopsticks down with a patience he
did not currently possess.  The whole thing was a disaster -- from the
time she had come in to see his videos on the floor, to last night
when both tried, overly politely, to get control of the remote control.
Mulder sagged in his chair, wondering if Amanda had only come because
he had guilted her into trying.  It was painfully clear that she refused
to believe the validity of what she had said to Werber.

 He cautiously walked up to the counter and reached for the
solitary file.  He handed it to Amanda while keeping his eyes diverted.
"We had to take X-Rays when you were admitted to the hospital after
Wyoming.  You can..."

 Mulder trailed off, as he saw the woman open the folder then
abruptly close it.  "That's not me.  Those have been doctored."

 Mulder shook his head.  "I guaran..."

 "It's a mistake.  That is not me."

 Mulder stepped closer towards Amanda, trying to keep the whine
out of his voice.  "Why can't you believe this?"

 Amanda looked at the federal agent incredulously.  "Why should
I?  I can't even remember it."

 Mulder opened his mouth for a retort, but stepped back, taking a
breath.  "You don't even want to know what that is in your legs?  In
your fingers?"

 Amanda grimaced.  "I broke my legs before when I was a kid...
they're just pins."

 "What about your skull."

 Amanda held her head up resolutely.  "Abnormal tissue growth."

 "That's rod shaped?  Oh, come on..."

 Amanda took the file off the table and stomped towards the garbage
can, unceremoniously stuffing the offending film into the trash.  "That.
Is not.  Me."

 Mulder looked towards the garbage can and sneered.  "Then why are
you here?  To appease me?  'Cause you feel sorry for me?"

 Amanda shook her head, tears starting to form.  "Feel sorry for
*you*?  Why?  Why would I feel sorry for *you*?"  The female's hands
started to wring together; something was niggling in the back of her
head, saying that fighting with this man was familiar -- had happened
many times before.  Her lips twisted as the memory failed to materialize,
as the man in front of her remained a stranger no matter how hard
both were trying.  "I want to see if I... I want to work this out."

 Mulder snorted, the biting tone of a twelve year old overshadowing
any mature response that may have been forthcoming.  "Well, we've surely
made excellent progress haven't we, doctor?"

 Amanda's nostils flared and she raised her hand to slap him,
watching him almost lean into it, anticipate it.  The two stared at each
other, breathing hard at the fleeting familiarity, before Amanda turned
on her heels -- her right hand still tense, still waiting for the
physical contact with a sibling's cheek.

 Mulder sagged back into his chair upon hearing his bedroom door
slam.  He looked back defeatedly to the boxes of Chinese on the table,
unable to bring himself to comfort the woman sobbing in the next room.

***

Scully's Apartment
Annapolis, Maryland

 Scully held the phone in her hands, silently reciting what she
would say to Mulder.  When it rang -- shrill, loud, seemingly echoing
through the expanse she called an apartment -- she almost dropped the
offending object in shock.

 "Scully."

 There was nervous breathing on the phone, and Scully held the
phone closer to her ear.

 "Hello, is anyone there?"

 Her voice was timid, nervous.  It shook and trembled, and Scully
found she had to plug her other ear just to hear the woman speak.

 "Uh... my name is Carolyn Dumain, and I... I was a part of
MUFON.  Um... I was there when you came to Allentown and, I..."  The
proceeding pause made Scully wonder if the woman had hung up.  "...uh...
I have cancer."

 Scully's innards groaned, her nose instantly started to throb
with the nose bleeds it would no longer have.  Scully nodded into
the phone.  "What can I do for you?"

 "There's no one in MUFON now... and no one believes me... and
the doctor I'm seeing tomorrow is from the DC area, and I was wondering,
if at all possible..."

 Scully smiled tightly into the phone.  "I'll come with you.  Now,
what's the doctor's name?"

 The phone slipped as the doctor's name was uttered and Scully
was forced to brace herself on the couch when her legs threatened to
give.  When the onslaught of Duane Barry induced images left, Scully could
do nothing but breathe the name through her lips in confirmation.

 "Dr. Scanlon."

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 The snow has started to fall.

 It catches on his eyelashes, temporarily blinding him.  The
passage of snowflake over snowflake causes a small rustle over rustle,
and everything is deathly silent.

 There is a woman in the distance.  An angel.  She is chanting,
beckoning him to come to her, but he trips and falls.  His hands start
to slide on the snow, and he wipes his palms across his chest -- gasping
in horror as it leaves streaks of read over his jacket.

 There is body underneath him.  And he turns it over, staring at
the blank eyes of a young boy with a bullet wound through the eye.  He
truns it back over, trying to forget about it, trying to continue with
his quest towards the angel who is just over there.

 Suddenly the ground is littered with bodies.  With obstacles.  And
the man tries to side step them, but some are groaning.  Are wailing like
the cries of the dying.  And the angel is suddenly laughing because the
man can move no further.  Cannot move because it is his hands that are
holding the gun.  And it is his hands that hold the weapon of these
people's demise.

 There is someone else in the background.  She is almost oblitereated
by the snow.  Her face turns porcelain, her eyes turn into ice.  The only
indication that she is there is her red hair.  She's crying, shaking
her head, and she suddenly turns around and walks alway.

 He tries to follow, but his feet are planted.  They cannot move,
and the people have started to stir.  Have started to rustle like the
snow around them.  They get up, and they rise.  The headless, the mindless,

the limbless -- all after one man, wanting nothing more than to engulf him
alive...

 Mulder woke up to stare into Amanda's worried eyes.  He
shuddered and closed his eyes, not willing to allow himself to speak.

 He felt a hesitant hand across his shoulder, and a whisper of
words.  "Bad dream?"

 He nodded and took another breath.

 She was in a night shirt and she smiled, and Mulder almost cried
at the familiarity of it all.  Amanda smiled once again, and extended
a hand to the federal agent, helping him sit up.

 "Come on... I have some food made."

 Mulder allowed himself to stare in wonder at how the sunlight
still played upon the long brown hair of the woman currently heading
towards the kitchen.

 With a slight twist of the lips, Mulder could do nothing but
follow.

***

Smitty's Restaurant
Washington, DC

 Scully forced her hands to stay still as the woman in front of
her dabbed at her nose.  She forced herself to ignore the pale skin that
was stretched over portruding cheek bones.  She forced herself to
surpress the shudders that threatened to overcome her everytime the
woman mentioned Dr. Scanlon and the wonderful possibilities that
chemotherapy and radiation would give her.

 She forced herself to ignore the woman who was a painful reminder
of what little she was three months ago.

 Carolyn Dumain was entering the final stages of a losing battle
with a pharyngeal mass that was growing in her nose.

 The woman spoke calmly, the only inflections in her voice coming
whenever she mentioned the new experimental treatment she would be
receiving.

 From the wonderful saint-of-a-man Dr. Scanlon.

 Scully nodded, all the while toying with the snap on her holster.
She absently wondered if the oncologist would become another Luis
Cardinal.

 "... you?"

 Scully turned to meet the questioning gaze of the slight woman.
"Pardon me?"

 Carolyn smiled.  "What about you?"  Her smile faltered, and
her eyes saddened.  "Everyone else that was at the house when you came,
they're..."  Carolyn shook her head, unable to say it.

 Scully nodded.  After all, she had painfully witnessed Penny
Northern's last shuddering breath.  Scully sipped the water in front of her

and fingered the mark her lipstick had imprinted on the glass.  "I'm fine."

 Carolyn smiled once again and nodded.  "Then there's hope for
me too," she stated resolutely.

 Scully hid her mouth behind a napkin, teleporting back to a time,
four years ago when she was that naive.  "So when do we see Dr. Scanlon
tomorrow?"

 "Twelve o'clock."

 Scully nodded, silently snapping her holster back into place.

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 Breakfast was one meal Mulder didn't much care for, and looking
at the limp scrambled eggs and cold toast in front of him was further
evidence why breakfast was not the most important meal of the day.

 He pushed the yellow globular masses around his plate, sneaking
glances at the woman in front of him.

 "If you don't like it, you don't have to eat it."

 "No.. no.  They're... good."

 The commment earned him a snort, and Mulder sighed resignedly,
inwardly berating himself for resting his hopes on the small show of
teeth Amanda had flashed to him earlier.

 "You have an appointment with Dr. Werber today?"

 Amanda lowered his head and dipped a crust of toast into her eggs
absently.  "Yeah... I guess."

 Mulder bit back his sigh of exasperation.  "Do you want to go?"

 Amanda shrugged.  "Sure... whatever."

 Mulder pushed his plate away roughly, caushing his fork to fall off
the plate, to scatter yellow masses over the table.  "Do you believe
in any of this?"

 Amanda was silent; she stared at lines which criss crossed her palms
in her lap.

 "Are you doing this for my sake or yours?"

 The woman rolled her eyes and roughly got up from her seat.  "What
do you mean for *your* sake?  I'm here to find out what happened to *me*."

 There was a sharp shrill, and both heads turned towards Mulder's
trench coat pocket and the cell phone that it hid.  Mulder willed
the phone shut up, just this once, then turned back towards Amanda.
"Then why won't you acknowledge the implants?"

 "They're not..." She started vehemently, but then trailed, unable
to finish.

 The phone stared ringing again and Mulder stared at it with
exasperation.  "Why are you doing this?"

 Amanda shook her head.

 Mulder pointed towards his face.  "Do I look familiar?  You can
at least tell me this much."

 Amanda shook her head once again, tears starting to threaten.

 Mulder's face softened.  "You have an indentation on you left
collar bone."  His head shook, once again reliving the horrific scream.
"I watched you fall.  I watched you break that collar bone."

 Amanda refused to answer.

 Mulder shook his head, his arm grasping onto Amanda's desperately
as desperate measures were taken.  "The beach.  You have to remember
the beach.  Maine.  Sand castles."  Mulder paused.  "Winken, Blinken
and Nod."

 A tear tracked down Amanda's cheek and she closed her eyes,
whispering.  "Not me.  I don't... I can't.... I don't remember."

 Mulder's hand hastily dislodged itself from Amanda's arm and
slammed on the kitchen table, causing the apartment to shake.  "How
can you refute all the evidence that's in front of you?  Your
blood was infected by genes that would have allowed alien/human hubrids
to take over the Earth.  I had to... I had to... I destroyed them..."
Mulder roughly rubbed at his eyes.  He had destroyed them.  For him.
For her.  For them.

 And it was all falling apart.

 "I'm not doing this for you, Agent Mulder.  I don't know you.  I
don't know if I *want* to know you.  I'm doing this for me.  Myself.
Nothing else matters to me."

 Mulder stepped back as if slapped in the face.  The cell phone
cried once again, drawing both figures' attention to Mulder's trench
coat.  "God, shut the fuck up, Scully!"  Mulder stomped to his coat and
turned off the phone roughly.  "So what are you saying we do?"

 Amanda shook her head.  "I don't know.  Only that it's my life."

 Mulder reached to the kitchen counter to grab the X-rays he rescued
from the garbage.  "And what do plan to do with these?"  He waved the film
threateningly in front of the female's face.

 Amanda reached out and grabbed them.  "Hey!!"  She pulled
them away, with Mulder hissing as an edge sliced through his hand.
"Get out of my life!"  Amanda sneered.  "God, you're such
an asshole."  Amanda shook her head, her voice falling.  "Such a
fucking butt munch."

 Mulder turned, horrified.  "What did you say?"

 Amanda crumpled the X-rays in her hands, her voice distracted.
"What... a fucking butt munch?"

 Mulder nodded, eyes wide.  "That's what Samantha used to call me.
That's..."  The federal agent found he couldn't talk anymore.

 Amanda ignored the pasty complexion of the man in front of her.
Ignored how his voice had trailed and been reduced to a whisper.  Ignored
the shaking hands that were nervously clenching and unclenching.
Because whatever the price, she had to hold onto her life.  *She* was in
charge.  And if she was Sa... or if the man in front of her was her brot...

than everything would all fall apart.

 Amanda looked to the floor, clamping on the urge to run into the
arms of the man in front of her and say, "I'm afraid, Fox.  I'm afraid".
She would not raise her hand and touch her collar bone, even though it
throbbed with the humidity of the DC air.

 She would not open her mouth, for fear that she would begin to
recite Winken, Blinken, and Nod by memory.

 Because in order to save herself, she would need to deny
herself.

 "I can't... Fo... Agent Mulder.  I can't... I'm sorry.  The
appointment I have with the doctor will be my last."

 Mulder nodded numbly.  He didn't even hear the door quietly
close to identify that he was, once again, alone.
 

***

Mercy and truth are met together:  righteousness and peace have
kissed each other.
Truth shall fluorish out of the earth:  and righteousness hath
looked down from heaven.
  -- Psalm 85:10-11

***

Skinner's Apartment
Washington, DC

 The man analyzed each piece of furniture carefully.  A wedding
picture.  A balding man with his arm around the shoulders of a dark haired
woman.  Both smiling with the promise of a life together -- in sickness
and in health, in divorce and prenuptial agreements.  A liquor cabinet.
Scotch -- the good kind.  About half empty.  A little shelf of awards
and commendations.  Mostly from the FBI.  Some of them pushed way in the
back -- hidden by the framed FBI certificate.  The purple heart in all
it's blue velvet glory was tucked away in the far corner with a war's
worth of dust.  Big TV.  Microwave dinners in the freezer.

 The man in black opened a closet and peered into it.  He moved
into the kitchen and peered behind the island.  He moved into the bedroom
and looked under the bed, went into the bathroom and examined the
shower and shower curtain.

 Back in the bedroom, the man peered back into the closet,
finally satisfied.  He settled on his haunches and looked at his watch.

 Eleven o'clock.

 Six more hours at the most.  The man checked his pistol, then
checked the clip.  Turned the safety off, and then back on.

 All there was left to do was wait.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 Mulder stormed into the office, ignoring the female sitting to the
side, and headed straight for his desk.  He threw himself into the chair,
and eased the headache that was growing by closing his eyes and massaging
his temples.  He winced when Scully spoke -- her voice seemed like it was
coming from miles away.

 "Where have you been, Mulder?"

 Mulder continued massaging.  "Home."

 Scully ran a finger over the piece of paper lying on her desk.
"Things with Sam going okay?"

 Mulder shook his head.  "Amanda... call her Amanda.  And no....
things aren't going okay."

 Scully played with the pen on her desk.  She took a deep breath and
braced herself for the fall out.  "Mulder, maybe it would be for the best
if...."

 Mulder shook his head determinedly.  "No!"  The reply came out livid,
almost desperate.  "No... she...."  Mulder gesticulated wildly with his
hands.  "She remembers some things, Scully... we're almost there."

 Scully leaned forward in her chair, hearing it squeak its protests.
"Mulder, we have a case that we need to investigate today."

 "Can't it wait?"

 "No."

 Mulder moved his one hand from his temple to the back of his neck,
attempting to remove the knot that had formed there.  "What's it about?"

 "Abductions... MUFON..."

 Mulder started to shake his head.  "I don't know, I think I should
go with Amanda to Werber.  We're almost there.  I can feel it."

 Scully's eyes flashed; her jaw set.  "I think this case could be
a big one Mulder.  The woman has cancer, like..."  Scully trailed off.

 Her partner shifted uncomfortably before speaking once again.
"I understand how this case could be important, but Amanda's going to
Werber, Scully.  Don't you see what that could mean?  Do you know how
many things we could learn?  The truth is right there..."

 "The truth could be here."

 Mulder looked up, confused.  "Where are you going with this, Scully?"

 Scully threw a report on his desk.  "I tried calling you this morning,
but Pendrell has the results of the genetic analysis.  You and Derlum
are brother and sister."

 Mulder glanced away, staring at the 'I Want To Believe' poster.  He
did not trust himself to comment.

 "You've found your elusive truth, Mulder... now what?  What's
going to happen to the X-Files?  What about *my* truth.  What about
*my* case."  Scully shook her head, her cheeks growing flushed.
"Have you been redeemed, Mulder?  If Amanda remembers that
she had been, indeed, a Samantha Mulder in a past life, will you
get your absolution?  I won't.  Not until I find the man responsible for
me.  Not until I find my truth."

 Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but Scully beat him.

 "I know where the Consortium congregates, Mulder.  We can expose
them.  We can get them back for what did they did to us... what they did
to all those innocent people who were buried in shallow graves."

 Mulder remained non-responsive.

 Scully slammed her hand on the desk, causing Mulder to jump.  "Damn
it, Mulder.  Don't you want to see them brought to justice?  Don't you
remember what they did to you?"

 Mulder's reply was terse, threateningly low.  "I'm acutely aware of
what they did to me, Scully."

 Scully drew back a step, feeling slightly guilty in over stepping
her boundaries.  "And..."

 The male agent shook his head.  "I told you, Scully, during our
first case.  That nothing else mattered more to me than finding my sister."
He paused, looking at Scully accusingly.  "I'm not in the business of
revenge."

 Scully walked over and dropped the newly made file of Carolyn
Dumain onto the table.  "For you to come in here, and under the
guise of finding the truth, say you cannot investigate a crime -- that
you cannot help this poor woman -- is selfish."

 Mulder opened his mouth, unable to speak.

 "You are a selfish, selfish man, Agent Mulder."

 With the final comment, Scully briskly walked out of the office,
roughly snapping her coat off from the rack.

 Mulder was left with nothing to look at but the sad smile of
Carolyn Dumain.

***

Skinner's Apartment
Washington, DC

 Skinner unlocked the door to his apartment angrily, cursing
the file that had seemingly disappeared from his briefcase.  The
sun filtered through the blinds, dancing with the air borne dust, and
Skinner did a three sixty in the empty room in an attempt to remember
where he had had the report last.

 He bounded up the stairs to his computer when he remembered the
impromptu snooze he had taken while trying to study the report.

 The phone was ringing, and Skinner's left hand grabbed the
receiver, while the other triumphantly grabbed the report.

 "Skinner."

 "Sir, this is Agent Scully.  I was wondering if I could request
a safe house for a witness I have in a case.  We're going to the
Bethesda medical clinic, then I would like her in protective custody."

 Skinner nodded, eyes squinting slightly.  "I'll have someone
waiting at outside the clinic for you.  Have you talked to Agent
Mulder recently?"

 Scully chastised herself for being a softie when her heart
momentarily trembled.  She was only partly successful when she
tried to convince herself that Mulder was a jerk and not deserving
of her concern anymore.  "I talked to him this morning.  Why?"

 "Has he told you he's taken an indefinite leave of absence?"  The
silence on the other end of the line indicated that Mulder had not
told his partner his latest plans.  "He said that by staying on
active duty was inapporopriate, given all his attention would be
on the recovery of Derlum.  He said he didn't want to jeopardize
any future investigations, and that you should have free reign over
the section now."

 Scully was speechless.  "Wh-what?"

 "He specifically said that both of you had reached a point where
your expectations differed.  That your plans for the section were
conflicting."

 Scully grimaced, trying to maneuver through the DC traffic with
Carolyn sitting beside her.  "Fine."

 Skinner nodded, proceeding to say his good byes to the female
agent with reluctance.  He took a deep breath, wondering what had
happened in the past three days that would strain Mulder and Scully's
relationship so severely.  Scully's reaction had been terse, almost
indifferent, while Mulder's phone call had been shaky, almost emotional.
The AD shook his head once again before making sure the report was
still within his hands.

 He looked at himself in the dresser mirror and absently fixed his
tie, straightened his collar.  His jaw clenched -- he had always been the
spitting image of his father, had even adopted most of his mannerisms.
At the thought, Skinner reflexively turned away from his mirrored twin.

 Just as a shot embedded itself, shattering the mirror.

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

Dear Agent Mulder,

 If you're reading this, then you already know that I am gone.  To
where, I am not sure.  But this week has been trying for you, as it has
been for me.  Inevitably, one of us had to break, and it turned out that
that someone would be me.

 I tried.  I really did.  The dreams are there, but not.  I know
that I have met you previously.  You seem familiar.  But the dreams are
soon forgotten, and  I cannot discern whether the feelings I feel are
friendly, brotherly..

 I don't know you.  You don't know me.

 It is useless to continue this charade.

 You apologized on the phone the other day.  Said something along the
lines that you were sorry that you were being a bad host... brother...
friend.  Whatever -- their meanings are now lost on me.

 Agent Mulder.

 Fox.

 I have nothing to forgive you for.

 And if it gives you comfort, I feel that deep in my heart, in the
life that you insist I once had, that Sam has always, *always* loved
you.

        Amanda

 Amanda wiped the tears as she folded the paper once and set
it upon the coffee table.  Eleven o'clock... shit, Agent Mulder
would be coming soon to take her to Werber.

 She would have tried... she had wanted to so bad.  But looking
through the box that was in Mulder's closet had dissolved all her resolve,
had made her feel guilty and ashamed in trying to fill an eight year
old sister's role.

 It was a small innocent shoe box that held painful memories --
painful because they were all foreign to her.  It was a small
aggregate of drawings and photos -- of freezes in time that were so
*normal* that it hurt.  A picture of her arm in a sling.  A picture of
a boy and girl playing a board game.  A picture with a girl and a woman
sun bathing.

 She was not that girl.  Nor could she ever be that girl.  And
sometimes... sometimes it would be easier to just run away.

 Amanda fought that the dread that was in her stomach, fought
the urge to hide when she realized that she had grabbed her coat too
late.  The noise at the door signalled Mulder's key turning in the key
lock and the much unwanted early arrival of the federal agent.

 Mulder took in the bags and Amanda's coat that was hanging limply
off one shoulder.  "What's going on?"

 He noticed the note addressed to him on the coffee table and started
to shake his head vehemently.  "You can't go.  We're almost there."

 Amanda was about to protest when there was a sharp knock on the
door.  Mulder opened the door warily, eyebrows furrowing in suspicion
when the UPS worker smiled his hellos.

 The brown uniform offered him a package, and Mulder signed the
clipboard, eyeing the man's ID tag carefully.  He fastened the dead bolt
before turning around, momentarily pausing when he couldn't remember what
he had been saying before.  "I'm just saying, Amanda," Mulder continued
talking as he gingerly shook the package, carefully opening it with
deliberate fingers.  "... that Werber is one..."  His voice trailed off
when the slim metal box slid into his hands.

 Amanda craned her head to try and get a better look.  "What is
it?"

 Mulder carefully inspected the metal rectangular prism.  "I have
absolutely no idea."  The clasp was at the side, and Mulder unlatched it --

the box revealing itself to be a clock face.

 Mulder studied it, almost dropping the clock when it started ticking.
The digital face started counting backwards from ten and Amanda and Mulder
stared at the decreasing numbers numbly.

 Unable to react until the numbers hit zero.

***

Skinner's Apartment
Washington, DC

 Skinner threw himself behind the bed, reaching for his holster,
swearing when he remembered this was the day of all days when he thought
he wouldn't need it.

 There was an oppressing silence, there was not even the sound of
searching foot steps.  Skinner looked over the bed spread, seeing the
back of a man in black.  He settled back down, bracing himself, counting
to three.

 He lunged, his hands groping for the rifle, the grunts of the
disguised man audible and blessedly real.  The rifle was not coming
free, and Skinner felt a kick to the shin that doubled him over and
caused a suprised grunt to come from his mouth.  A head butt came next,
just as Skinner jabbed the butt end of the rifle into the intruder's nose.
 

 Both men swayed for balance, still connected by the precarious
hold they both had on the either end of the rifle.

 Skinner let go of the rifle with his left hand, yanking the piece
of metal towards him, and felt his knuckles crack as they connected
with the jaw of the man in black.  The man's grip on the gun went loose
and Skinner pointed the rifle towards the fallen man's head.

 "Who are you?"

 The man was silent.  And Skinner pulled the bloody mask away to
reveal yet another unrecognizable face -- yet another feral shadow that
would disappear into the woodwork.

 Skinner raised the rifle ready to shoot when the unburdened phone
call with Scully came to mind.  Skinner's eyes widened in comprehension,
and he reached for the phone.  He had to contact Scully.  And Mulder.

 Before it was too late.

***

Bethesda Medical Clinic
Washington, DC

 Scully watched Carolyn Dumain's fingers flutter nervously as they
entered the medical clinic.  Gone was the concise, calm woman who had
talked to her over coffee yesterday.  Present was an increasingly nervous
woman whose head kept glancing from the federal agent to the clinic,
whose mouth gaped open, then closed with unsaid words, whose hands
would attempt to smooth out the collar, the cloth of her unblemished
jacket.

 Scully undid her holster while Carolyn had her back turned.  She
took a deep breath, wondering what it would feel like to handcuff
an unsuspecting Scanlon.  Wondering if the good doctor would squeal
if she pointed her pistol in his back hard enough.  She wanted him in
jail.  She wanted him dead.  She wanted him lynched and stoned for
what he had done to two dozen women.  She ground her teeth together, and
her steps moved through the carpeted hallway faster.

 "Um... do you have to go to the bathroom?"

 Scully's head shook in confusion, her reverie broken.  "What?"

 Her fingers fluttered to her jacket once again, and Carolyn shook
her head.  "Nothing... I... nothing.  Let's go in."

 The two women sat in the waiting room; Julia Roberts' face smiled
back at them from the magazine beside them.  Scully found she couldn't
sit still -- the index finger of her right hand were clenching and
unclenching, her pistol was digging into her hip, making its presence
known.  A smiling nurse came in and cheerfully called Amanda's name,
causing the blonde haired woman to jump.

 "You have to come with me."

 Scully nodded her head.  "I was planning to come anyways."

 Carolyn looked immensely relieved, and started to babble.  "Good.
Because you *have* to come.  You need to come... You...uh.. need to
explain the terminology... It's good that you're coming."

 Scully resolutely rose from her chair, trailing Carolyn.

 Their footsteps echoed hollowly, and Scully reached for her pistol.
She held it in her hand, behind her back, and felt the familiar weight
settle into her palm.

 An unburdened image of blood crept into her vision, and her legs
momentarily shook.  She saw Missy's face when they had taken the bandages
off when she had been shot.  She saw all the blood that had escaped
from Mulder's body when he had been hit on the docks.  She remembered
how the blood from her nose managed to stain everything her fingers
came into contact with.  And no matter how hard she tried -- no matter
how hard she washed and scrubbed -- the remnants of the stain would
always remain, would always be testament to the fluid that had
fallen there.

 Scully closed her eyes when the threshold approached.  Mulder was
right:  revenge was not their business.  She reholstered her pistol
silently, and composed herself when Amanda somewhat eagerly held open
the door for her.  When she finally entered, Carolyn started crying, her
trembling beginning in earnest once again.

 "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."  She rushed up and grabbed Scully's arm,
still pleading.  "They said I had to if they were to cure me."

 Scully whirled around when another voice beckoned her.

 "Agent Scully, I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

 Scully stared at the unlined face of Dr. Scanlon and the semi-
automatic he was holding.  She almost closed her eyes at the irony.

 She had forgotten that for other people, revenge was their only
way of life.

 With one hand the doctor roughly pulled Carolyn out the door,
unceramoniously slamming the wooden panel shut.

 Scully could hear the panicked slams of the woman's open palm
slamming against the wooden panel, accompanied only by Carolyn's high
pitched screams.  "You said... bring her here... don't kill..."

 There was muffled shouting in the background, and then the
sound of muffled sobs being dragged away.

 Scully met Scanlon's impassive eyes and stood full height upon
her heels.  "Will your antecdote kill her or cure her?"

 Scanlon smiled.  "Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease,
as they say."  His smile grew more wicked.  "You of all people
should know that."

 Scully's eyes remained focused; she would not permit them to stray
from the target of her wrath.  "What do you want?"

 "We want you and your partner to stop your meddling, permanently.
Although we both know how 'distracted' Mulder has been since finding
that woman.  Ditched you again... surely that must hurt, Dana."

 Scanlon reached into his pocket, and Scully could hear the
tinkle of glass hitting glass.  The red test tubes still had Scully's
name stencilled into the side, and the federal agent tried to ignore
the brilliant red contents inside.  The oncologist picked one from
the pile and held it up to the light.

 "We told you, Agent Scully, to step away.  And now, the truth
will be your undoing... for you and your children."

 Scully watched, horrified, as the tubes fell onto the floor,
shattering.  The blood stayed static on the colour-coordinated tile,
staining them a brilliant, frothy red.  The glass fractured, shattering
the cries of her babies who would not be given the chance to do so
themselves.  Distracted by the broken glass and the shimmering red
liquid, Scully distantly heard a gun click.

 "Good bye, Agent Scully."

 She heard herself shout.  There was senseless screaming everywhere.
And she closed her eyes as her heart shuddred and banged like wood hitting
steel.

 "Federal Agent.  Freeze!"

 Scully heard the shot and felt her knees buckle.  Something hit her
chest, made her fall, and knocked the wind out of her.  She kept her
eyes screwed shut, and felt her diapraghm make a valiant effort to breathe
despite the weight that had settled there.  She was dying, Scully thought.
She could feel the warmth of blood seep into her clothes, and the female
agent nonsensically chastized herself for wearing the cream coloured
coat today.

 She heard breathless steps as they approached, and she winced as they
echoed in her ears.  "Agent Scully."  It was Skinner's halting voice.
"Are you hurt?"

 Scully wanted to laugh.  Of course she was hurt.  She had been shot.
She was dying.  That's why it was so hard to breathe.

 Skinner was grunting now.  "I tried... I tried to get here as
soon as I could.  You were..."  There was some more grunting, the sound
of Skinner reholstering his gun to free his right hand.  "We need
to find Mulder."

 And suddenly the weight was gone.  The blood was turning cold, and
Scully opened her eyes to stare at the still, listless corpse of
a doctor that Skinner had just pulled off of her.

 Scully stared at the headless corpse, staring at the blood that
was inching towards her feet.  She hastily squirmed away, her hands
reflexively resting by her hip.

 He helped her to her feet, and handed her a handkerchief to wipe
off the the blood that was marring her pale complexion.  "You okay,
Agent Scully?"

 Scully nodded gingerly, unable to swallow.

 "There was a hitman at my house.  I think they're trying to turn
us into obituaries."  Skinner paused to catch his breath and pass
a hand across his brow.  "No one's answering Mulder's phone and
Werber says neither he nor Amanda showed up for their appointment.  I..."

 Scully wrapped her bloody coat around her, already making her
way out the door before her AD finished.  Her growl grew softer as
her steps began to disappear.  "Then we should go and check it out."

 By the time Skinner could catch up, Scully's car was already started.
He took the passenger seat without complaint, upon seeing the female agent
waiting impatiently in the driver's seat -- complete with an intense glare
that spoke volumes.

 If federal agent Dana Scully had any ill feelings towards her
partner, they had now been long forgotten.

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 Both Amanda and Mulder stared at the timer and the second hand that
was pointing at zero.

 Besides a small popping noise, there had been no explosions, no
gunfire, no floors collapsing, or ceiling beams falling.

 Nothing.

 But as his head turned to examine his apartment, as he ignored
the thunder in his ears, and the cold hand that clutched his stomach
called dread, Mulder finally saw the blood.

 "Amanda," he pointed dumbly to her arm.  "You're bleeding."

 She lifted the sleeve up slowly to reveal a long, jagged cut,
caused by the a smooth metal piece that was currently gleaming with
oozing blood and tissue.  The metal had shattered -- popped -- causing
her flesh to tear messily, causing little scraps of tissue to catch on
the cotton of her shirt.

 When the initial shock started to wane, she started to scratch by
her nose, at the back of her neck, along her shins... harder and harder
until she hastily reached for the letter opener on Mulder's computer desk.

 Mulder watched, horrified, as the frenzied woman ran the edge of
the letter opener along her leg.  The woman's body started to shake in
sobs as her nervous fingers found the foreign metal body.  The
metal glittered, and despite the nervous panting of both the male
and the female in the room, the resonant buzzing could still be heard.
There was a distinct pop, and Mulder stepped back, startled.

 The implant was gone.

 Disappearing without a trace.

 Amanda started to scratch at the back of neck, once again, and
Mulder roughly grabbed her hand, stopping any scratching, enunciating
his action with a stern, "Don't".

 The reply was plaintive.  "They hurt."

 Mulder nodded, and reached with his arms, attempting to embrace
the woman standing in front of him.

 Amanda accepted the gesture momentarily before shaking her
head furiously and clenching her fingers into a fist.  "No!"  She
wrestled away from his embrace, Mulder's hand slipping on the
lubricant of blood, before Amanda charged, head first, into his
midsection.

 Mulder felt his inability to draw a breath, could feel the
stabbing pain in his side as his gasping breaths echoed within
his ears.

 Nervous tenticles fluttered around his waist, and as Mulder
heard the snap unfastened, all the federal agent could muster was
a wheezed, "No".

 Mulder heard the safety click on.  Off.  On.  Off -- just like he
had done in Worland seemingly ages ago.  When his vision finally cleared,
when he could finally stand and breathe at the same time, he extended
his hand to the woman and the gun,.

 "Amanda, give me the gun."

 The woman shook her head manically.  "I'm not Amanda."

 "Then who are you?"

 "My name is Sam."  The woman paused and let the gun hang loose
by her side.  She giggled, using her free hand to cover her mouth
embarrassedly.  "My name is Sam.  Sam I am."  Her eyes glittered and
she skipped towards Mulder, wide-eyed.  Eager.  "Don't you remember
the book, Fox?  Don't you?"  The woman started to grow more frantic
at Mulder's confused silence.  She continued to pace the room, and
started to cry, verging on hysteria.

 "Sam... Samantha... give me the gun."

 The woman's demeanor changed, and she rushed to Mulder, sneering,
gun pointed towards his head.  "Don't you dare call me that!!  I am not
Sam! My name is Amanda.  I was born... I was born..."  The woman
struggled for a response, the tendons that were holding the gun
visibly straining.  "I was born in Chilmark.  I have a brother..." The
woman rose a hand to put it against her head.  "No!  I have a sister.
Her name is... Fox."

 Mulder nodded.  "That's me.  I'm Fox."  Appeasingly, he held
his hand out to the gun once again.  "Just give me the gun."

 The woman shook her head earnestly, putting on a stage whisper.
"No... no... We're not supposed to play with guns, Fox.  Didn't dad tell
you that?"  Her shoulder spasmed and the woman clicked the safety back
on.  "Why did you have to tell me, Agent Mulder?  Why?  Oh God... it
hurts..."

 The woman doubled over, putting both of her hands on top of her
head.  Mulder debated whether to lunge for the gun, but the woman
rose once again, her eyes dark and soulful.  "I missed you, Foxy."

 Mulder watched her run up, felt himself recoil instinctually
at the sight of the gun running towards him.  But the woman put
two arms around him torso and rested her head on his chest.  Squeezing.
Hugging.

 As if there was no tomorrow.

 The tears flowed freely now, and Mulder finally returned the
embrace.  "I missed you too, Sam."

***

North 146 Street
Washington, DC

 "Oh fucking shit... hurry the fuck up..."

 Skinner tapped his feet impatiently on the car floor, while
Scully angrily drummed her fingers along the steering wheel.

 The AD stuck his head outside the window once again, leaning
to view the progress of the curretnly jack knifed sermi-trailer.
He felt his inertia threaten to push him out of the window when Scully
swerved the car into the oncoming lane and swerve back past the
truck.

 The AD finally relented and grabbed a hold of the dash board with
both hands, steeling his feet onto the floor, stealing glimpses at the
woman in front of him.

 There was a lone man in the street, not concerned with the
passing cars, nor the jack knifed semi.  His shopping cart held cans,
a sickly looking feral creature, and a stack of yellowed, brittle
newspapers.  His sign was held high, his head was uprasied despite
the tattered hat, fingerless gloves, and hole filled shoes.  The sign
was dirty, the corners were worn with age, dirty handprints littered
the sides.  Skinner squinted -- the hastily scrawled sign merely said:
John 18:38.

 Skinner looked towards Scully who was clutching the steering
wheel tighter, who was dangerously maneuvering her way through
a red light.

 Suddenly she spoke, and her words echoed through the empty
expanse of the car, making her voice... unholy.  "John 18:38 says:
'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'"

 Skinner nodded uncomfortably, and both travellers lapsed back into
silence.  The AD doubted such divine wisdom.

 He had known the truth.  He had known about his father.  But he
had been far from free.  There had not been one day were he had not felt
constricted by life's chains and un-pickable padlocks.

 Although the beggar man was poor, and desolate, he was free.

 As a screaming police cruiser passed them, Skinner grimly stared out
the windshield.  He wondered if he would ever feel that way again.
 

***

Look straight in the mirror, watch it come clearer
I look like a painter, behind all the grease
But painting's creating, and I'm just erasing
A crystal-clear canvas is my masterpiece
  -- Barenaked Ladies "When I Fall"

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 Mulder's nose was right above the woman's hair, and he inhaled
deeply, smelling her hair once again, revelling in its shine, its
texture, its length, its colour...

 "Sam."  Mulder whispered in fear that he would dispel the magical
mood.  "Give me the gun... please."

 The woman shook herself and extracted herself from her brother's
arms.  "You let them take me, Fox."

 Mulder shook his head.  "Sam, that's not true."

 "Yes it is," the slight figure replied plaintively.

 "Sam... I would never hurt you."

 The woman's eyes grew dark and Mulder shook his head desperately.
"I would never hurt you on purpose, Sam... Now give me the gun."

 The woman reeled, putting a hand against her ears.  "I am *not*
Sam!!"  She glared at Mulder, pointing the shaking gun to his temple.
"I am not Sam!!  You hear me?"  She started to mutter, pacing the room
in disjointed, ragged movement, echoing the litany over again.

 She stopped suddenly when the lights to Mulder's apartment
went out, when the picture frames on Mulder's wall started to shake
and bang against the plaster.

 Samantha could do nothing but scream.

***

 It was a terror that was not even matched in Arecibo.  Or in the
Arctic when the Bounty Hunter had come for him.  Or even during the
short seconds when the power went out when he had been talking to Duane
Barry.

 When the lights went out, Mulder blinked, felt his blood start
to rush as Sam's terrified screams once again ingrained themselves within
his ears.  So warm.  The light was so warm, and so bright and was coming
oh so close...

 He wrenched his eyes open and watched his sister hold the grip
of his gun tighter.  As she let out a wail that was matched only by the
loud, wailing sirens that were buzzing overhead.

  Mulder lunged for the gun.

***

 It was too bright, and the light was cold, white and inhuman.
Amanda clutched the gun tighter, felt her feet back up until she had
cornered herself between Mulder's wall and the computer desk.

 Too familiar.  She had seen the light somewhere before.  She
had been in this place before with the buzzing and the shaking.

 Somewhere were people would talk in her head and hurt her, and
put things in her that would pop, shake, and rattle.

 There was a figure approaching her.  A demon.  Not like the
ones from so many years ago.  This one wasn't skinny, but it had its
arm extended.  Almost like all the alien movies where you extended your
hand in a show of peace.

 But the demon was bad.  Would hurt her again.  And he was
approaching.  Coming slowly.... but steadily coming closer... mumbling
indecipherable words that she couldn't hear because of the wailing
going on overhead.

 Coming to take her away.

 Her fingers fumbled with the gun.  Her shoulder screamed
as she rose the pistol up, as she squinted thorugh the light
and the noise.

 And fired.

***

 He was on the floor, and he didn't know whether the noise was
coming from outside or from his own head.  He wrenched his eyes open,
to find everything coated with red.  A finger inched to his forehead
to find a large torn spot of flesh which was leaking blood through his
eyelashes to his eyes.

 He was sprawled by his couch and the lights were still flashing
and Amanda was still pacing.  "Sam..." he attempted gingerly.

 The woman looked at him then ran towards his prone figure.  "Oh
my God, Fox!!  What happened to you!!"  She put a cool hand to his
forehead, started to reach for some kleenexes, and Mulder was tempted
to laugh manically in the comical way things were progressing.

 In the tragic way things were progressing.

 A MacBeth to her Lady, he reached for the gun, yet again.  "Please
Sam, give me the gun."  The woman looked at the outstretched hand and
seemed to contemplate the gesture.  The light was highlighting her hair...
was so bright, that it shone through her fingers.  Mulder could see the
tiny blood vessels running through, could see the slender bones... and the
sickening rod of an implant aligned with the middle finger.  He looked
up to make eye contact, to see how young her eyes were in relation to the
too-old, much maligned body.

 She started to pass the gun over, when the light intensified,
causing Mulder to groan and shield his eyes.  The sirens grew shriller,
more resonant, and Mulder moved his arms by his ears, trying to open his
eyes despite the brightness, trying to discern Sam's horrified screams
from the sirens.

 The light came up to engulf her and Mulder watched her arm
with the pistol move up to her head.  His well-intentioned shout
came out as a croak, and as her blood -- the same blood he had
seen coursing through her fingers just seconds previously -- splayed
onto his face, onto his apartment, onto his life and conscience,
her mangled body was lifted silently upwards.  The light was so bright,
that when he looked around, he couldn't see anything.  Couldn't
see his couch.  Couldn't see the picture frames that had been banging
away for what seemingly seemed like hours.

 So dark and he couldn't see.  And didn't want to hear.  And
didn't want to feel.

 He groped for support, finding the coffee table, finding his wallet,
his badge, a cup, the remote... before he left his apartment, unable
to do anything but run.

***

Along 31 Avenue
Two blocks from Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 Scully looked to Skinner nervously when the third police cruiser
passed by them.  She stepped on the gas, but her foot was shaking and
the car was jerking in time to her foot's release and non-release
on the gas pedal.

 She turned the corner, and she momentarily lost control of the
car.  Skinner's hand was suddenly leaning in, taking control of the wheel,
while Scully tried not to cry at the half a dozen police cruisers circled
around Mulder's apartment.  The air was a sea of blurry red and blue
lights,  yellow tape, and of black, somber looking officers.

 She heard herself park the car, felt her hands numbly grip
the car door handle, could hear her heels as they walked up to the
tape, and heard herself calmly announce that she was Dr. Dana Scully,
FBI.

 A microphone was shoved into her face, and a woman smelling of
perming solution and perfume was asking incoherent questions.  Scully
grew flustered, batting away at the metal objects, turning and running
as fast as she could to Apartment 42.

 The apartment smelled of *them*.  Of lost hope and shattered
dreams.  Of a truth that did not set Mulder free, but condemned him
to a solitary prison that no one -- including herself -- was willilng
to extract him from.

 The blood was everywhere, omni-present.  On the walls, on the
floor by the couch, on the letter opener, on the gun that was lying
in the middle of the floor.

 "Where did the bodies get taken to?"

 Scully had to sit when the unform told her that there had been no
bodies found.  That someone had heard a fight going on above, and a
gun discharging, and the sounds of someone falling down the stairs
as they left.  The unform pointed towards the dooway, and Scully
bit her lip at the spots of blood leading towards the hallway.

 Scully kneeled over a particular spot of red by the couch.
The blood had splattered a picture frame that had fallen and shattered
the glass.  The blood had marred the beautiful smile of a young boy
and a young girl, who had been too innocent, too naive to know of the
future the garish fates would hold for them.  A lanky hand crossed over
the girl's shoulder, and they were at the beach, in their bathing suits,
unblemished skin, now blemished by the blood that was staining the
picture.  Scully held the picutre tight to her chest, attempting to
breathe in the innocence and the joy and the naivety.  Attempting to
remember something that had been taken away so long ago.

 When it didn't come, she cried.  And when a uniform walked
over and handed her his wallet and badge, the sobs wracked her body.
And when Skinner gently tried to pry the picture from her hands
she fought back -- using both her fists and words.

 And then someone came, injected a stinging poison into her, and
she no longer cared.  No longer felt the resolve to care.  No longer
felt the gaping wound in her heart.  No longer felt as if something had
been ripped away.

 Just nothing.  Empty.

 She hoped she would be able to stay here a little while longer.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 "All hospitals have been questioned, everyone at his apartment
has been interviewed, Agent Scully.  I'm sorry.  There still has been
no sightings of Mulder or his sister."

 Skinner looked at the empty chair beside the red haired woman, and
tried to ignore it.  When that failed, he attempted to superimpose a
memory of a standard suit, a crazy tie, and a smug smirk into the seat,
but it failed as well.  When the female failed to respond to his previous
statement, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes, taking off his glasses
resignedly.  "Agent Scully, I understand you'd like to be transferred to
Quantico."

 The anwering tone was clipped.  "Yes, sir."

 "You do realize that if the transfer goes through, I will need
to shut down the X-Files."

 Scully blinked, and she licked her lips.  "I'm aware of that, sir."

 The Assistant Director took a deep breath and paced the room,
choosing to ultimately stare out the window.  "So the quest of the truth
disappears with Agent Mulder?"

 Scully's nostrils flared, and her eyes started to burn.  "The
truth, sir, destroyed him and his family.  What would I have to gain
in pursuing the truth?"

 Skinner pulled up a box from underneath his desk and slammed it on
the surface, causing pens to fall, Scully to jump.  Department of
Defense was stencilled on the side, and Scully took in a shaky breath of
expectancy.  "It seems, Agent Scully, that you have a friend."

 Scully gingerly stood up, opening the lid carefully.  Manilla
folders were upon manilla folders, all with covers which covered
documents, merchandise records, and pictures of every port and every
harbour that the S. S. Kensington had gone during its two year
excursion.  Scully put a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the tears
that were once again threatening, not wanting to begin contemplating
how Bill would have managed to smuggle the files out.

 Skinner walked over, gently placed a hand on her shoulder.  "The
truth *will* set you free, Agent Scully."  It *will* save you."  He
paused, and then nodded reassuringly.  "Destroy the destroyers'
ability to destroy.  And it can all end right here.  Right now."

 Scully closed her eyes and bit her lip, watching, hearing, feeling
once again as another unburdened memory of Mulder surfaced.

 And there were so many.

 She looked back up at Skinner and finally nodded.

 She reached into the box, opened the first file, and began to
read.

***

Along East 27th Avenue
Woodbridge, Virginia

 The snow was threatening to obliterate everything within view, and
Shannon Malloy hugged her wool coat tighter against her body, watching
people huddle under their umbrellas and manuever carefully over
the ice.

 The leg cuffs of her scrubs were encrusted with salt, and the
wetness was sticking to her legs, causing her to shiver.  The smell
of antiseptic and ammonia was still on her, on her hair, and the
resident vowed that tonight she would forego the usual shower in favor
of a good long soak in the tub.

 An annoyed honk of the horn broke her from her reverie, and she
watched a man stumble onto the sidewalk.  He continued running but his
legs were shaking and his breathing had been reduced to ragged,
sobbing gasps.  She watched him run over the patch of ice she had
just recently maneuvered over, and watched him fall, hearing a leg bone
break as the exhasuted body mass fell on top of it.

 Shannon rushed over as the man was trying to get up.

 "Hey... don't."

 She put a hand firmly on his shoulder, and tried to look at
him underneath the streetlights which were futiley trying to dispel
the DC smoggy twilight.

 His face was covered with blood, most of it dry, but their was
still some sticky ooze at his hairline.  She ran her fingers by the cut
and the man failed to flinch.  She held the sides of his head and
tried to look into his pupils, moving his head side to side.

 His hazel eyes refused to react or move.

 His clothing was dirty.  Business suit slacks and a once
white shirt complemented the black, worn wing tips.  The clothes fit
him, but the man still trying to get up did not resemble a Wallstreet
type.

 "Hey."  Shannon shrugged off her coat and covered him with
it.  "Stay still, you."  She paused, looking into the blood
covered eyelashes and the empty hazel eyes.  "Do you know who you
are?"

 The man refused to talk, and Shannon pushed further.  "Hey...
can you say something?"

 The man's mouth opened, and Shannon leaned in.

 "I'm fine."

 Shannon looked at the man incredulously.  "You're fine?"

 The man started to curl in on himself, ignoring the jacket as
it fell off his shoulders and onto the sidewalk.  He was oblivious to
the gawkers around him and started to rock deliberately -- repeating
the litany over and over again.  "I'm fine... I'm fine... I'm fine..."

 Sirens approached, and Shannon watched helplessly as the man
tried to squirm away from the needles and the tubes, preferring to
repeat his two words over and over.

 The ambo door eventually slammed shut and Shannon watched the blue
and red lights disappear.  The blood had stained the sidewalk, the body
heat had melted the ice, and Shannon stepped away hastily, suddenly
anxious to get home, away from the cold that was now numbing her bones.

***

  "And after this word from our sponsers, we will go
 back to Leslie Wilacy who will have the latest on the
 Vietnam War scandal.  Ex-Assistant Director of the FBI,
 Walter Skinner, shocked the military and all Americans
 with his statement regarding the conduct of certain high
 ranking officials during the war thrity years ago.  It is
 expected that at least five officials will be court
 martialled within the next week.

  "We will also have highlights of last Monday's
 Christmas tree decorating contest.  The winning tree will
 surprise you.  Stay tuned for all this and more, after the
 commerical break."

***

This is me.

I am not a title.  I am not a federal agent.  I am not a doctor.  I
cannot save you.  I cannot shoot the shadow which you hear lurking
outside the door.  I cannot prescribe magic pills which will make the
hurt and the pain go away.

This is me.

I am thought to be weak.  I am thought to be the oppressed.  I am
thought to be sick.

But I am not.

I am strong.

I have my memories of pain.  Of desperation and depression which I
would rather forget, would rather pass off as blissful ignorance, but
painfully -- willfully -- choose to remember.  I have my scars which can
still leave me crying in front of a mirror, waking from terror filled
dreams, the echoes of voices past.

I still have the power of choice.

Of being able to slide my foot through the guard rail of a building,
of being able to look down and see the miniature cars, the stickmen
people.

Of being able to wonder what it would be like to fall... and then
walk away.

That power scares me.

It scares me because I have seen how easily this power can be taken
away.  How it can be ravaged and turned against a desperate man.  The
choice now turned into an ultimatum, the ultimatum turned into a
self-imposed death sentence.

But this is me.

I see a man who walks in every night and kisses me on the cheek.  I
see a little boy with red hair and blue eyes and ten tiny fingers
who will call me mommy.

I have a boy who is dear and precious.  And will have no secrets cast
upon him -- a mercy that has been granted by a martyr who has gone
unnoticed.  Whose disappearance was treated in passing.  Whose back
page obituary is looked for only by me.

An unknown silhouette to everyone but me.

Except to those who could forgive him, who could grant him the mercy
he was desperately seeking.  Who could understand it was not his
choice to make, but a sentence imposed on him so long ago.

A journey which I travelled for part of the way.  A path I do not
regret taking, despite the tears which stain my pillow, despite the
memories which sometimes overtake me, despite the heartache which
threatens each time I gaze at the picture above the mantlepiece.

Because I have a boy who is strong, and willful, and stubborn, and
free.  Because I have a boy who reminds me of someone that I had almost
lost.

Me.

***
***

FINIS

Feedback puh-lease to:  maraschino@ibm.net
 

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

First of all, a big jug of maple syrup for all of you who commented on
IOTP.  It means so much to a first time writer.

The story started... oh lordy, in June?  I'm not sure... it just seems
like I've been working on it *forever*.  One of my main goals, was not
to center so much on Mulder and Scully.  I think Marita and Skinner
are interesting just because they are on the fringe, and because
we've been given little or no indication as to why they are where
they are, and how they got there.  Yes, I am quite aware of the Marita
death squad out there, and yesssssss, I do agree that she's not one of
the... er, better characters on the show, but I wanted to incorporate
as much myth as I could in this story, and try and make it all fit.

The poem that is continually being referred to, is called, "Winken,
Blinken, and Nod" by Eugene Field.  The title of the story, is from
Joy Kogawa's book "Obasan".  And no, I'm not making any moo-lah
from using those either.

With my puny sized brain, a story cannot be written without the help
of cyber amigos around you.  Heartfelt thanks to Jeannie from BRC who
deserves so much cyber chocolate for all the reading and re-reading and
waiting for parts that she did :)

Coincidentally, she didn't edit the last four or so parts, so that
explains the exponential increase in spelling and grammatical
errors at the end  :)

To Raine who read through 100 000 kb of revisions and skipped
all the polite stuff to be brutally honest.

To Anna, who convinced me that it was okay to kill and torture just
for the fun of it, and reminds me that there is always something worse
than having to go to school.

Most of all, to my Nutella-esque friend who's been here since the beginning
and would dig out her pom poms whenever I felt like bashing my head into
the monitor, or running my tongue over with a fork.  Here's to
friendship, sweet pea.

Thanks, all.