By Kelly
kelly37421@mindspring.com
 

Rating: PG-13 for language
Classification: um, vignette? Story? Definite Scully angst
Spoilers: Emily, X-Files: Fight the Future
dialogue is used from the episode and the movie
Summary: mirage - something that is illusory or insubstantial
Feedback: kelly37421@mindspring.com
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never have. Never will. 1013 and Fox own
'em. No profit or infringement intended.
Author's Note: This one is a bit of a departure for me, and wouldn't
be possible without the help of my skilled beta reader Dasha K.
Thanks!

Ok to archive at Gossamer and Ephemeral. Anywhere else, please ask
first.

Mirage by Kelly

She still couldn't believe he'd gotten Skinner to approve the 302.
"Bet you regret that now, huh, Partner?" she whispered through cracked
lips, licking the blood from the split tissue, desperate for any
moisture in her mouth. Her throat felt like she'd swallowed a cheese
grater. She opened her eyes to check on her partner. He was still
unresponsive. Come on, Mulder, don't do this to me, Dana thought
desperately. I take back every time I mentally told you to shut up.
Please. Checking his pulse, she shifted slightly to keep him in her
shadow as much as possible. His heart rate was too fast. Damn it,
Mulder.

And all this for an investigation of three people who had won over
100,000 dollars in under an hour playing craps at Caesar's Palace, and
who all claimed that the ghost of Elvis told them the correct numbers
to wager. She'd thought it was an excuse for a free trip to Vegas
until they'd been snatched, stuffed in the trunk, and dumped in the
desert. According to their watches whoever had taken them had driven
for four hours. There were certainly no signs of neon on the
shimmering horizon, the images moving as if on a roller coaster in the
crematorial heat. She wondered if they were actually in Death Valley
or just a suburb.

The first few hours in the inferno they'd discussed the case, trying
to figure who they had pissed off  badly enough to do this. They'd
questioned the winning guests and the employees, examined the tables,
and reviewed the security video. Except for the fact the house was
*losing*, it all looked perfectly normal.

And of course he had insisted they visit the other casinos and hotels
to see if anything similar had happened there. Mulder claimed the
contortionists at Circus, Circus were *obviously* aliens to be able to
sit on their own heads.  The thought of those white tigers still made
her shudder inexplicably.  Something about the claws . . . . At least
if he had visited any topless showgirl reviews or, ahem, *Gentlemen's
Clubs*, he had done it on his own time. Nah, even he had to sleep some
time. And it really matters *now*, doesn't it Dana? she thought,
bending her head trying to combat the dizziness. She winced against
the piercing glare coming off the sand.

Like sand through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives.
Where had they been when she and Missy watched that? San Diego?
Seattle? Norfolk? The schools and neighbors had changed, but Salem
stayed the same. Mom had caught an episode, and promptly forbidden
them to watch it again. So they didn't. Not at *their* house anyway.

"How you doing, Mulder? I appreciate the gesture of  the cold shoulder
treatment, but I'd really rather talk now . . .  How 'bout those
Yankees?" she mumbled, peering at his crimson face.

 Still nothing.

Even with the impromptu hats they'd fashioned from their jackets, she
could feel her scalp blistering. Maybe that was how French Foreign
Legion hats got started. Her arms and legs were already bright red.
She giggled weakly. I promise God, get us out of this and I'll never
eat lobster again.

Where were the damn spigots? Bugs Bunny always found a cactus with a
spigot in it to drink from when he was in the desert. Root beer or
iced tea- she didn't care which. No, Gatorade. To replace the
electrolytes. An icy tub of that florescent green Gatorade, big enough
to float in, and a long straw. Cactus's were green, right? Shit, they
didn't even have a cactus! And no cactus, no spigot - those were the
rules. Even Daffy Duck knew that.

Uh-oh.

Okay. Okay. Deep breath. Disorientation is a common symptom of heat
stroke.

She knew this might happen. The air temperature was at least 100
degrees, and the temperature on the sand must be 10 to 20 degrees
hotter than that. How long can the human body last at these
temperatures without water? She should know that. But at the moment
she was more worried about the blow Mulder had taken to the temple
when they were grabbed. Dana briefly peeled back his eyelids. His
pupils were still normal, but he had been unconscious for over thirty
minutes now.  Intracranial hemorrhage, cerebral edema, detached
retina, stroke, coma - the possible complications trudged tiredly
through her mind.  "Hang on, Mulder. We were going to meet with
Detective McMurdo at the casino to compare notes when we were taken.
He'll be looking for us."

One good thing about his silence, she supposed. She didn't have to
listen to him tell her to drink his blood if he went first or some
such nonsense. Dana had always believed he had a martyr complex, but
that would have really been too much. Frowning, she wiped some sand
that clung to his stubbled cheek. She stared at it on her fingertips.

Her cross gleamed cruelly in the coffin, shiny as a tear against the
sand.

No.

NO.

Trembling, she reached for the crucifix. No, it wasn't possible. The
experiments stopped when Emily died. They had to. That was why she had
. . . . NO! The tomb was empty, but Mary saw her child again. But for
her, it began where it ended. In nothingness. A nightmare born from
her deepest fears, coming to her unguarded. Whispering images unlocked
from time and distance. A soul unbound - touched by others but never
held. On a course charted by some unseen hand. The journey ahead
promising no more than her past reflecting back upon her. Until at
last, she reached the end. Facing a truth she could no longer deny.
Alone, as always.

No.

Not alone.

"We're going to get out of this," she whispered, bending close. "Do
you hear me? I promise. Oh, please, Mulder. I need you. You've kept me
honest and made me whole," she said stroking his long-fingered hand,
and bringing it lightly to her lips, imploring him to say something,
anything. "I want you to imagine some place cold, an endless expanse
of snow and ice. The coldest temperature ever recorded was -128.56
degrees in Antarctica." Where had she read that? "Do you hear me?"
Mind over matter, Mulder. You should like that. Antarctica is the
largest desert in the world, she mused. It's too cold for much water
to evaporate and enter the atmosphere to create rain.

Her mind was drifting, rising away on the tormenting waves of heat.
The arid landscape began to sway and spin around her as she fought for
consciousness. She could almost feel the super heated air baking her
lungs cell by cell. No, not heat. It was cold. Remember, Dana, snow
and ice. Closing her eyes and finally collapsing beside him, barely
audible, "I don't want to do this without you. I don't know if I can.
And if we quit now, they win." Cold, the wind was so cold.

She thought she heard a distant buzzing in the sky.

x   x   x   x   x

"Dana?"

"Dana?"

Blearily opening her eyes, she saw a large woman wearing heavy
clothes. "Do you remember the three items I told you earlier,
Sweetheart?"

 "Desert, circus, tiger." Whoa, where did that come from?

The woman smiled. "Do you remember where you are?"

Uhhhhh . . . .

"You're at McMurdo Station in Antarctica. I'm Nurse Owens by the way.
Don't worry, disorientation is common in severe cases of hypothermia.
The warming blankets and IV are helping. You're more coherent each
time you wake up. You should fine in an hour or so, Honey," patting
her on the leg as she made a notation on the chart.

"Mulder?" Dana croaked. If she had hypothermia why the hell did her
throat hurt so badly?

"Your partner is in the next bed," motioning to her right.

Dana could see him now, his face reddened from exposure. She wished he
would open his open his eyes and speak to her. She longed to hear his
voice.

"He has a mild concussion along with the hypothermia, but he should be
fine. You were both incredibly lucky. ASA was about ready to send the
Ice Pirates after you when a SCAR plane spotted you checking out a
seismic disturbance. You rest now, and I'll go check on Fox."

The who was ready to send the what? Scar? She thought he was a lion,
not a tiger. Rest. Okay, she could do that. When she woke up again,
she'd check on Mulder. Well, maybe she could rest. Was this a warming
blanket or a broiling blanket? How long had they put that IV in the
microwave anyway? It was so hot, she felt so hot . . . .

End

Feedback gratefully answered at kelly37421@mindspring.com

ASA - Antarctic Support Associates provides logistical support for
expeditions in the Antarctic
Ice Pirates - nickname for the pilots of the Navy Bell Huey
helicopters that were part of the VXE-6 squadron based in McMurdo.
They airlifted scientists and their equipment to remote locations. The
base was closed in 1999.
SCAR - Scientific Committee on Antarctic Research

information gathered on the web