Author: melanie
Feedback: Yes, I know it's long, but tell me what you
think, this is my baby! Review it at
the bottom, or drop me a line at starchica8@cs.com
This is part one of a series, so feedback
really means a lot. Talk to me!
Spoilers: I guess Orison probably qualifies. This is set sometime during the 8th
season, before Requiem but after Millennium. A few background jokes might be lost on you if you haven't seen some
episodes, but nothing specific comes to mind. Mostly it stands alone.
Disclaimer: Yeah, whatever, C.C., Mulder and Scully
belong to you. Uh-huh. That's what you think, but in reality, they
live in the hearts of fanfic writers everywhere!!! So there. (Don't sue.)
********************
-August 30, 2000-
Martha
Benkin's husband disappeared.
He
worked in the local computer plant for thirty years, supporting her while she
did nothing but collect antique cars. One day he disappears, and she's immediately screaming for the
paranormal investigators. I assume
that's partly because the insurance company won't give her a cent unless she
can prove he died.
I
lean my head gently against the pads of my fingers. This latest case is making me extremely irritated. Honestly, this case is not only bogus, it's
probably the most transparent file that I've seen in ages. The car was not found. The man's credit card was used at a gas
station fifty miles away, heading in the general direction of Vegas. I read the police report. It said, as politely as humanly possible,
'if this lady were not such an obstinate bitch, we would not even have
investigated this far. Because she is
such an obstinate bitch, we are not going to register her missing husband as a
resident of Nevada. Yet.'
And
lady? I know all about missing
guys. There's usually a good reason
they're gone.
"Excuse
me. Where should I put this?" A distraction. I look up to see a delivery man leaning in the door, holding up
a manila envelope. It's really a rather
mundane object- and ordinarily it would be as boring to me as the bogus file
that I'm working on. Today my heart
skips a beat before I reply.
*It
really did skip a beat, unless I'm mistaken. That can't be healthy.*
"Did
you check it for-"
"It's
bug free, ma'am." He sounds
condescending. I've seen that look
before on a parent who has decided to humor a child.
I
get that a lot recently.
All
the 'special treatment' is beginning to get on my nerves. I glare at him until finally he looks away
uncomfortably, and I add a point to the 'Scully' side of the board. They can laugh at me. Fine. But not a single one has beaten me at a staredown to date.
"Put
it over there." I gesture towards
Mulder's vacant desk, and he shrugs, tossing the envelope down on the cluttered
surface. I look back at the file in
front of me. I should concentrate on
it, should try to get it off my desk before some bureaucrat decides that it's
worth investigation. Thanks to my
legendary willpower, that doomed attempt lasts almost as long as it takes the
man to get out of sight. *So much for the bored exterior, Dana.* I hurry over to the desk.
It
hasn't changed for almost three weeks, for the sole reason that I've been
carefully avoiding it. The same way I haven't allowed myself to get involved in
any cases, sticking strictly to the paperwork. We're always so behind on that down here that it's held out so far. And so far no one's called me on it. Still, it's like I've been holding my
breath. I realize that I actually am
holding my breath now, interestingly enough, with an envelope that just might
hold news of Mulder before me. It has
no return address, no postmark. I tear
it open.
My
breath escapes in a rush, and I immediately have to gulp it back to replenish
my oxygen supply. Feels like weeks
since I took a breath, but that can't be right. I distinctly remember breathing...*oh, for God's sake, Dana, I
don't know and it doesn't matter right now.* The blood courses back through me, and I let myself lean on the desk for
support when my knees grow weak with this sudden rush of gratitude. Mulder is all right, at least for now.
I
glance furtively towards the door, as if someone will be watching me read the
incriminating message. Of course, no
one's there, but I shred the message anyway. Mulder's supposed to be dead, after all. If someone happens to casually break into the office sometime,
having correspondence from him would not promote that belief very well.
I
sound incredibly paranoid even in my own head. If I don't have a right to be paranoid, no one does. Nonetheless...
I
suddenly have a raging headache. This
all started as a quest for Mulder's sister. You know what they say about the road to hell, but how did we end up
like this?
******************
-August
8, 2000-
"I'm
going home, Mulder." I walked past his
desk, tired from too much Mulder, too many unanticipated case trips, and not
enough sleep. Not nearly enough sleep. I had my evening planned out: disconnect the
phones, (including my cell phone, Mulder) find a good book, and read it in the
long, hot bath I was going to take. With bubbles. Then I was going
to get some sleep. Of course, I'd been
telling myself this for seven years, but tonight I was determined. If Mulder had other plans, I knew where he
could stick them.
But
if he did, he didn't say anything. He
just looked up from his file and grinned amicably. "See you tomorrow, then."
It
suddenly occurred to me to wonder if he was going to get any sleep tonight. *How is it that even when that man isn't
taking up your time, you use it worrying about him unnecessarily?* I raised my eyebrows, silently asking him if
he planned on taking care of himself tonight.
"I'll
get out of here soon, Scully." He apparently
understood what I was thinking. "Don't
worry." He made shooing motions toward
me. In the process, he managed to knock
a particularly large pile of papers off his desk. *Oh, he'll be out of here in extremely short order. Sure.*
"Go,"
he said again. This time I turned to
leave.
"Night,
Mulder." I walked out to my car,
guessing that Mulder would probably get some sleep tonight. Not much, maybe, but he'd get some. We'd fallen into kind of a routine
recently. He seemed more content now,
and he did sleep more. We both
did. Like we'd reached the calm after
the storm, maybe. *Or maybe it's just
the eye.* I ignored the unwanted
thought. I'll know better next
time. Lost in my comforting musings, I
didn't even think to look for anyone who might be hiding. Even it I had, I might have missed the man
concealed under the Toyota in the next space. But as I opened the door to my car, he sprang out and pinned my arms
behind me.
"You
need to get in the car." His voice
growled. I tried to struggle against
him, but he just pressed me against the side of the car. The steel of a gun barrel caused a sudden
cold sensation against my jaw. Oh, God. "You're gonna do exactly as I tell you. Understand?" This last was punctuated by a jab of his weapon, sending cold
shivers of dread down my spine. He
released me slowly.
My
whole body trembled marginally as I slid into the car. I've been abducted, kidnaped, held
hostage...I've been through the proverbial loop. But somehow I've never gotten used to it. Even after everything, how should I
react? 'Oh, another kidnaper? Sure, hold on while I leave some appropriate
clues for my partner. I'll be right
with you.' Right. Try thinking calmly the next time someone
attacks you. It's not as easy as it
looks.
So
maybe I can forgive myself for being a little unnerved at this point. Even the
Ice Queen can be caught by surprise. But when the voice directed me to Mulder's apartment, I started shaking
in earnest, and it was all I could do to get the key into the ignition.
*So
much for a relaxing evening.*
*********************
-August
30, 2000-
I
make my way through the crowd at the city fair to a greasy fast food
stand. My healthy diet, not that it
ever existed, has gone the way of the dinosaurs by now and I order two
burgers. After paying the attendant and
grabbing my dinner, I melt back into the noisy crowd, trying to make myself
shorter. Among yells, loud music, lots
of food, and a various assortment of street thieves, I don't think anyone
notices me. Nonetheless, I'm a fairly
tall, silent man shoving my way through a crowd of shorter, loud people, and
people are bound to see me. No sense
increasing the number.
I
finally find a back alley and I enter it with relief. They've become familiar to me after three weeks of hiding. Their concealment is even comforting, like
the release that comes with anonymity. It's a novelty to an FBI agent to suddenly be the hunted, to get to play
cops and robbers when you're the robber. And I've been being the fugitive with the same energy that I put into
everything else. The intensity that's
only bearable when I can tell myself that it's a game, that I'm competing
against Them and I can't let Them win.
Me
and my games, I know, but they're what's gotten me through my life. I know the game will wear off soon enough,
because I'm not cut out for life as a fugitive. Meanwhile, I slink and skulk and walk in the shadows with the
best of 'em, and I'm going to enjoy this game as long as I can. Once I can't enjoy it, I'll slip, and I
don't want to slip until it's been long enough that no one's watching.
I
eat standing up, watching for anyone who might be looking for me. Just like it says in the rules- when Scully
is not around, thou shalt cover your own ass. My money supply is getting lower, I noticed at the burger stand, but I
still have a little under a hundred. So
I'm not going to e-mail the Gunmen on my handy little computer just yet. Yeah,
and maybe I can hire myself out as a housecleaner to supplement my funds, I
joke to myself. I've got to admit, my
jokes are getting pretty rusty since there's no one to laugh with. As for laughing with myself, people tend to
remember tall men who walk around laughing at silent jokes. That just wouldn't be following the rules at
all. It's hard to believe that such a
short time ago I laughed so much. It's
hard to believe there will be a time when I will be able to laugh again.
But
I want to believe.
***************
-August
31, 2000-
Today
I thought about leaving. It wouldn't be
hard to remove the chip from my neck and go to Mulder. I don't know where he is, it wouldn't be
safe for me to know, but maybe the Lone Gunmen could tell me. Then we could disappear together, maybe
start over where no one knows who we are. But I really don't know if I could find him. Or how long it would take for the cancer to kill me, or how far
they might go to find me. Would they
follow me? *It's possible, isn't it?* And God, the stakes are too high, I can't risk the consequences of that.
So here I am, helpless and alone and bordering on crazy. Bordering on grey. That's an odd thing that happens to me sometimes, when I'm tired
and sick at heart and I don't know what to think.
It's
been happening more than ever in the past three weeks.
It
first happened before I'd even met Mulder, the day my Sunday School teacher was
killed. I remember just standing there
in the door of the room that Melissa and I shared, listening to my mother tell
me the news. It was the first time I
saw the world through and adult's eyes. And that was the first time my world went grey. The optometrist my parents insisted on
taking me to was just thrilled to have a patient with intermittent black and
white vision, and I never told anyone about it after that.
I
eventually convinced even myself that it hadn't happened, since it didn't
happen again until over a decade later. Not until after the X-files had been shut down for the first time. That night after the man with the green
blood, with the Mulder and his informant lying motionless on the pavement, my
world went colorless. It was like a
black and white TV, and the image of the jet black (*It used to be white, Dana,
what happened?*) panel van receding down the highway is burned into my memory
forever. And there was Mulder, lying on
the pavement. He was white,
representing the good intentions of the world to me. Lot of good those intentions did him. For crying out loud, the van got away and I was left to clean
Mulder and his damned informant off the pavement. It was the epitome of every cynical though I had ever had. I hate that memory.
Ever
since that night, my world goes black and white every time that the confusion
gets to be too much for me. There are
just so many shades of grey, so many things that I can't classify. I still don't know who's right, between the
intrigue, the big talk, and all the things that we just don't know. Things just seem to get more grey the
farther I get into the web Mulder discovered. I know it's just my mind's way of dealing with the confusion, and I
should probably see a psychiatrist about it if I value my sanity. It's very convincing, though, and the shades
of just get muddier. The last thing
black enough to faze me was-
*Oh. It wasn't so long ago. Donny Phaster.*
I still get goosebumps when I think about my
experiences with him. I must have
scared the hell out of Mulder, coming out of the doorway like that. Raising my gun to the level of his head,
firing three times...do you know, my world wasn't just colorless at this point,
it was absolutely silent. The sound of
madness. And then the single blast of
gunshot, bringing me back to reality. Making me realize what I'd done.
What
really brought that all home to me was the look on Mulder's face. For a long time, he's always been my basis
for the good of the world. *Not etiquette, maybe, but...* I knew that Donny
Phaster was about the most evil man on the face of the earth, but could killing
him have been right when it brought that sort of reaction from the man who
represents good?
But
now I have a more serious problem. *More serious, Dana? You killed a man that night.* With Mulder gone, I have no basis of
good. And without him, I'm beginning to
forget what white- what good- was like.
****************
-August
8, 2000-
The
man had me unlock Mulder's apartment while he fondled the gun concealed under
his jacket. This was the first time I'd
had a clear view of him, and I was surprised at what I saw. That man who had kidnaped me no more than
fifty feet away from the FBI headquarters was a pale, brown-haired man, only a
few inches taller than I am. His build
seemed slight, but I could attest to his surprising strength. *The
bastard.* I pushed the door open and
stepped inside, but had only moved two steps without his 'guidance' before he
twisted my arms behind me. *It's so
nice to be relieved of the responsibility of movement again.*
"Have
a seat." He gave me a gentle push and,
because I was off balance to start with, I fell clumsily into Mulder's rolling
desk chair. He pushed me into position
next to the leather couch, but only after securing my wrists and ankles to the
chair. The knots felt pretty secure,
but I thought I could get out of them if given a few minutes alone. Which I was most probably not going to get.
"Why
are you doing this?" It sounded too
melodramatic for my own good, but those were the first words that came to mind,
and I wasn't in much of a position to quibble over phrasing. I decided they would have to do.
The
man just looked at me, a slow, sardonic grin spreading across his face. He made himself comfortable on Mulder's
couch instead of replying. I tried
again. "Are you part of the Syndicate?"
"Agent
Scully," he spoke with a clipped tone, almost European. Quite possibly European, actually. "My identity is immaterial. It's likely to be changed the minute I exit
this apartment, so knowing won't help you in any way. Instead, we wait for Agent Mulder." He glanced at his watch. It was seven now, so Mulder should be home soon, if he was keeping his
promises tonight. I wished for once
that he wouldn't. *Come on, Mulder, find something interesting in the pile you
spilled?*
"Any
bets on how long he takes?" My captor
raised an eyebrow at me, as if he knew Mulder's work habits. I hated him in that instant. There wasn't a hell of a lot I could do
about it, though.
I
contemplated my strategy. I was
powerless physically, whatever cub scout pack this guy had been in as a kid
taught knots pretty well. But I'm a
loud screamer, when I need to be. Maybe, when Mulder started to unlock the door...
"Don't
try to warn your partner," my captor turned to me and trained his gun at the
left side of my skull. Then he released
the safety. "I can gag you if need be,
but I thought you'd understand this just as well. I'm not here to harm either of you." He gave me that slow smile again, chilling me and igniting
reckless anger at the same time. "I
promise."
I
had a sudden and unquenchable urge to spit on him. In fact, I was so angry that I actually arched my back and let
one fly. Satisfyingly, it landed on his
face. So all my years as a tomboy
weren't wasted. He simply glared at me,
wiping it off. A point to the 'Scully'
side of the board.
"I
guess we'll need the gag after all," he muttered, pulling a three foot strip of
cloth out of his jacket.
Shit.
******************
-September
3, 2000-
I
don't know if my messages reach Scully. If she's wise, she destroys them, so hopefully there is no way for
anyone to find that out, short of holding her at gunpoint for the answer. But still, I wonder if she gets the coded
e-mails that the Lone Gunmen should be forwarding to her. I wonder if she knows that I'm all right.
The
filthy bus that has just taken me one hundred miles into the middle of nowhere
pulls away from the curb. The fare was
twenty dollars, and I'm running dangerously low on cash. Of course, I can have the Gunmen send money,
but I keep telling myself to wait a little longer. And I will wait, and maybe go on a bit of a diet in the
meantime.
*That's
all you need, to lose some weight.* I
saw myself in the mirror the other day, and I really am the classic example of
a string bean at this point. I must be
down to one hundred and forty-five pounds now, and for someone my height that's
scrawny. Any fat I used to carry around
has long since dissolved, and my muscle mass is definitely not what it once
was. It was hard to tell because the
mirror was so filthy, public bathrooms are wonderful that way, but my face
looked a bit like someone I'd be profiling, not an FBI agent. I didn't linger long over my reflection.
Where
am I going to stay, I wonder. In the
city, I can sleep on a park bench or in some alley- with one hand on my gun at
all times. This town can't have a
population of more than a hundred thousand people in a twenty mile radius. People notice miscellaneous bums in places
like this.
I've
probably walked a mile from the bus stop at this point, and I'm at a Shell gas
station right now. It's pretty small,
with a couple old gas pumps and a dilapidated mini mart. Also a pay phone. *Where there's a pay
phone, there's a telephone book.* I
head over to it. Hmm, let's
see...Mike's House of Pizza, no... Ranlow Accounting, no... Vanessa's Exotic
Dancers, hmm... *Focus, Mulder.* I flip
a few more pages and find the local YMCA in bold print. Now that I can do something with. I memorize the address and phone number
before closing the book. It sounds like
a street I saw a few blocks ago, so I should be able to find it after a
while.
I
smile ruefully. I know my life hasn't
been normal up til now, but it there's been at least some stability.
*Normal? Stability? Ha. Hahahaha.* Sure, not much, but
now I don't have a life. Literally. If not for Scully, I'd turn around and head
to DC this second, to hell with the fact that I'm supposed to be dead, to hell
with everything. But there's no going
back now, I'm doing what has to be done. And I have to hide out for a while longer.
I
hate it.
***********************
-September
1, 2000-
"Agent
Scully. Please have a seat." I look at Skinner, over to the brunette
fidgeting in the chair across the room, and back at Skinner. He gives me a look, the 'damn-it-Scully-for-this-once-cooperate'
look, so I settle slowly into a chair. Wouldn't want to piss off the A.D. Oh no. I would never think of
such a thing.
"Agent
Scully, this is Agent Andras." I smile
faintly at the brunette, noting that he doesn't use any first names. Should that mean something to me? Probably not, no one has used first names in
this department since Diana Fowley died. I look the unfamiliar woman over. It's hard to tell how tall she is, but her shoes have two and a half
inch heels on them, so she probably isn't much over five and a half feet. (I've come to the conclusion long ago that
no one wears heels if they are over five eight, and the height of the heel is
directly related to how much shorter you are than that. Hence my shoes.) She's wearing a tailored grey skirt suit, a lot like every other
female agent in the Bureau, but her skin is significantly darker than most of
the people the FBI tends to hire. I'd
guess she's part Spanish, or maybe even Mexican. Her wavy brown hair falls slightly past her shoulders, and part
of it is gathered up with a barrette behind her head, keeping it out of her
eyes. I turn to look at Skinner
again. He's not being very talkative
today, and it make me a bit nervous.
"As
we're all aware, Agent Mulder is no longer with us." He pauses uncomfortably and I revel in the fact that Mulder isn't
dead. *Right, but he sure as hell isn't here, either.* "Due to the nature of the X-files, it is
advantageous to have two agents assigned to them at all times. Agent Scully, I know you've been held back
recently by your lack of a partner. Agent Andras has been moved to the X-files to fill that role."
Oh
really.
He's
finally being replaced, then. They're
going to forget about him, move on, give me a new partner, and eventually shut
us down, I'm sure. Hell, that's
probably what they sent her to do, find reasons to close the X-files. What right do they have? Who told them they could be God? I press my hand against my stomach and
flutter my eyes shut to keep from exploding in rage. Damn them, replacing Mulder. Three weeks and they've forgotten him.
*You
aren't surprised, are you, Dana? Did
you expect them to leave you alone forever? And over three weeks of doing nothing, Dana, twenty-four days the FBI's
been humoring you. What did you
want? You wanted them to wait to see if
he'd come back? Illusions are so
comforting, aren't they?*
"Agent
Scully?" I stop beating myself up long
enough to focus on Skinner. I wonder
what I'd missed. Not that he could have had anything useful to say. Not that he ever does.
God
I miss Mulder.
"Take
Agent Andras down to the X-files office, show her around, brief her on some
past and current files. Get her
started, and I expect the X-files to be functioning again immediately." His face softens, but he doesn't say
anything. I head towards the door,
crisply asking my new partner to follow me. I hold the door for her to show some measure of respect, though I don't
feel very cordial at the moment. Skinner mutters something to me once she's out the door. It sounds like some sort of encouragement,
but I'm in no frame of mind to accept pity. I close the door firmly behind me and stride to catch up with Andras.
*Interesting that she's so confident of her way to a place she supposedly
hasn't been before.* Once we're in the
elevator, she starts to reach for a button but then stops.
"You
tell me," she says with a shrug.
I
lean over and punch the button marked 'B'.
"Going
down." I study the wall for a moment,
then my shoes. Neither provides much of
an escape. Finally I give up and
address her directly.
"What
got you interested in the X-files?" She
looks a little surprised that I'm talking to her, and I don't think I blame her. Well. Who said I had to be nice to Mulder's replacement?
"I
was born in Adelaide, New Mexico. That's right outside of, uh, Roswell." She smiles sheepishly. "I've
always been interested in crime fighting, so the FBI was a natural career
choice for me, but I also have a lot of interest in paranormal phenomena. What kid who grew up in that area didn't get
interested in aliens?" She smiles a
little at me, but I don't return it, so she looks away and starts to finish her
thought. "I haven't really done
anything with this in a long time, but when I heard there was a position open
here, I immediately applied."
She
must be about twenty-five, I think. Probably not too green anymore, but that all depends on when she joined
the FBI. And still, not Mulder. I sigh.
"May
I ask how you got involved in the X-files?" She speaks politely, as if I would have every right not to tell
her.
*There's
a thought.*
"I
was assigned to debunk Agent Mulder's work. I thought it would be a temporary assignment, but it turned out to be a
lot more than that. And after
that..." I pause, assessing her
reaction. I'll make it short and sweet,
I decide. I have no idea what to trust
her with. "We were partners, and he was
dedicated to this." That should do for
now. She's a detective, after all. If she wants to know more she can look in
the file.
"And
now you're dedicated to this for him?" I don't know if she means it to be a question or a statement, but I
respond to her with a simple nod.
But
she has no idea how right she is. At
least I hope she doesn't. *Your turn again, Andras.*
"How
long have you been with the Bureau?" And how green are you really?
"I've
been here for almost two years now. Mostly I've done perfunctory checks and investigations." She shrugged. "Freshman work." *About
as green as you were.* Oh no. I will not identify with her. No way.
Finally
the elevator doors open, and it strikes me that it was a very long ride, with
nobody getting on or off. Maybe it just seemed that way to me, who
knows.
"This
is it," I step out of the elevator and
dodge boxes until I come to the door and push it open.
"You
still have Agent Mulder's name tag on here?" Andras points to the sign on the door that read 'Fox Mulder'. I left it up, didn't I? I don't see how I could have forgotten it,
it's the first thing I see of the office every morning. But maybe that's why I missed it, after all.
"I
guess I forgot to take that down." I
reluctantly slide the name tag out of it's holder and place it face down on the
desk inside.
"You'll
have to get one of your own now, huh?" She smiled, looking torn between sympathy and lightheartedness. I'm in no mood for either.
"Yes. I will." I slide the tag into the desk drawer and lock it in there, along with
all the other things that are awaiting his return. His desk. His stuff. But he's gone. And it isn't like either of us were ever particular about whose
stuff went was whose. Our office. Our desk. And it's mine now
I'll
take good care of everything for you, Mulder. I promise.
*****************
-August
8, 2000-
Fourteen
people walked by Mulder's door before I heard a set of footsteps slow to a stop
in front of it. *Dammit, Mulder, couldn't you have just stayed at work? Couldn't you have ignored my worries and
worked late, giving me time to get out of this?* It wasn't really me they wanted. It would have been all right.
He
hummed softly as he opened the door and locked it behind him. I struggled against the tight gag, knotted
securely behind my head. But I couldn't
make any noise, especially with the gun barrel softly caressing my left
temple. It sent a hot shiver of
impotent rage down my spine every time it touched me, but I was helpless
because of it. Mulder entered unwarned.
He
had turned around and taken a step before he saw me tied to his desk
chair. The increasingly uncomfortable
piece of furniture was situated so that he could just see me from where he was,
but he couldn't see the nameless man beside me. I could see the train of thought on his face, the investigator in
him going through all the logical explanations for why I could be sitting tied
to his desk chair when he got home. He
opened his mouth to say something, but before he got it out my captor was up
and on my right side, clearly within Mulder's view and still holding the gun
against my forehead.
Time
froze.
I
swear, if Mulder had been in that frame of mind after we were finished, he
probably would have started an investigation on it. Or maybe not, but stood frozen like that for what could easily
have been forever. Mulder stood tense
and unsure, looking like he had been caught very off-balance by it all. The dark-haired man beside me leaned his
weight casually on the foot nearest me as if he had all the time in the world,
as if none of this fazed him in the slightest. The gun froze to a circle of flesh on the side of my face that I can
almost still feel.
"What
the hell are you doing?" Mulder snarled
softly, with the suppressed rage of a cautious lion. Not a muscle in his body moved, besides his eyes, which were
darting back and forth between me and my captor.
"Hello
to you, too, Agent Mulder. I've got an
explanation for you, of course, but you'll have to put your gun on the floor
before you get it." Mulder slowly
reached for the weapon and placed it carefully on the floor in front of his
feet, eyes never leaving the short man next to me. My own gun was safely inside the jacket of the man beside me by
now, and I'm sure Mulder felt just as helpless without his weapon as I
did. *Sure, and having it would give
him the warm fuzzies, with you tied to his desk chair at gunpoint.*
"Now,
sit down." My captor gestured slightly
with his gun to indicate a chair on the other side of the room. Mulder strode forward and sat. Angrily. As soon as he was seated, my captor's free hand went to my neck and
untied the gag.
"You
won't need to yell now, and if you can keep your damned saliva in your own
mouth, I'll keep the gag off." I was
sorely tempted to spit on him anyway, but had no desire to be re-gagged. Mulder glared at the man.
"If
you even leave a bruise on her-"
The
gun twisted suddenly and painfully into my flesh.
"If
you do anything unwise, Mulder," the short man said quietly, "I may well do
more than that."
"Who
the hell do you think you are?" I
hissed at him venomously. "What do you
want?"
"A
career change. For Agent Mulder."
"What?" Mulder sounded bewildered. They want him to
quit the FBI, I thought, but why? To
stop his search? We already know about
the Consortium and Colonization, is there more?
"Listen
to me, Mulder. Spender is dying,
Krycheck is a traitor, and the younger Spender is a moron. You know about the Syndicate's plans, you
know what we are trying to accomplish. And you alone can bring the Syndicate back to life."
"You
want him to replace Cancer Man?" The
man looked amusedly down at my appalled face.
"Yes."
"No." Mulder spoke loudly and firmly. "The Consortium is dead, and it's damned
well going to stay that way."
"
What is it that you don't you understand, Mulder? This is your chance to save the human race. This is how you can save lives."
"No! It's how I can save your lives and deliver
the rest of the species to slavery. I
won't do that. I'll leave that to you
bastards."
"We
had no choice in our actions, Mulder. There was no other option," the man said testily. "You have no option either."
"Because
you'll kill me?" Mulder had his best
poker face on, and it was good. The
trace of fear was almost undetectable. "I'm long overdue for that. You've
been trying to get to me for five years, it's about time you did it
right." No, no, I thought. That doesn't make sense. He wouldn't have tied me up like this just
to threaten Mulder. It has something to
do with me.
"No,
you're going to use me again, aren't you?" I said. "I'm living on borrowed
time anyway, what with the damned cancer you gave me. I've made my peace with death." Mulder looked frantically at me. I had no intention of looking down the wrong end of his gun when it went
off, and I knew rationally that he wouldn't really kill me, because if he did,
there would be no reason left for Mulder to cooperate. He was going to use me as a hostage. But he couldn't hold me hostage forever, not
an FBI agent. *You'd like to think
so.* No, he couldn't, it would be too
high-profile. Which meant he had
something in mind that he could enforce from a distant position.
He
can't know.
*And
even if he does, what can he do about it?*
"You
won't kill her," Mulder spoke up. "She's vaccinated. You need
her." Another good point. Which applied to him, too, now that I
thought of it.
The
gun at my head remained steady as my captor shrugged, but traveled down my body
as he spoke.
"We
need her, yes. But we don't need her
child." The gun barrel jabbed into my
stomach, eliciting a cry of surprise and anger from my lips.
*Oh,
God. He knows.*
******************
-September
3, 2000-
I
walk toward the YMCA thinking morose thoughts. Here I am, supposedly an important figure in this era of history because
of what Scully and I have discovered, and I have to hide out and sleep in
anonymous halfway houses. The only
redemption to the situation is that I might get to take a few laps in the pool. The thought brings a rare smile to my face. *Hmm, exercise, that would be nice.* I haven't gotten any designated exercise
since I left D.C. *Another facet of
life that has simply been erased during the past three weeks.*
Suddenly
a figure flies by me from out of nowhere. I have no idea where he came from so fast, although my guess is the
dubious cover of bushes along the side of the street. He tears past me, grabbing hold of my backpack as he goes by and
managing to separate it from me in my surprise.
It
takes me a few seconds to process all this and start chasing after the hunched
figure of a man fleeing into the darkness. I pump my legs as hard as I can make them go, but it's pitch black, and
before I've chased him five hundred feet he's gone into the darkness just as he
came.
*Aw,
shit. The money is in that bag. The computer. Everything.* A frustrated
growl escapes me into the night air and I punch out at nothing. Oh, my luck is wonderful. I slept in city parks and alleyways for
weeks without managing to get myself into a bind like this. *Heck, if you made
enough weird noises, people even left you alone for the most part.* Then the minute I hit a small town some guy
rips my bag off. So much for the safe
rural areas. I curse my luck all the
way to the YMCA, hoping I'll be able to figure something out. Oh, damn, am I a dipshit.
I
walk in. Yep, it's the good old
YMCA. I used to have a membership at a
place like this before I joined the FBI and got access to their facilities
free. Family place, real nice. I never needed to ask if they actually made
good on the hospitality promised in that song, though. I think they do. I hope they do. And I
hope they have a phone.
I
can imagine what I look like. I haven't
bathed in a day or two, not many showers as a fugitive. My jeans are worn at the knee in a small
hole, and my leather jacket is incredibly scuffed and dirty. I haven't gotten my hair cut in three weeks
either, and between that and my lack of hygiene, it must look something like
the infamous hairstyle of Albert Einstein. I'm probably quite a sight, but I walk up to the desk anyway.
"Hey,
uh, I have problem." The kid at the
desk, 'Eric', according to the nametag, looks up. "Um, I just got into town. Someone stole my bag, so I don't have any money for a place to
stay." Eric smiles patronizingly,
obviously he's ready for people like me.
"Well,
I'm Eric. And you are..?"
"Rob
Petry." The lie slides quickly and
easily off my tongue, and I wonder if it's stupid to use the name. *Probably.* But hey, it's the sort of thing I've been doing my whole life, why stop
now?
"Do
you know anyone in town?" He's busy
pulling sign-in sheets and other such tools of the devil out of the desk as he
asks, and I'm getting urges to get the hell out of this place with it's
documentation and people who'll see me and might even remember me. I grit my teeth and repress the feeling,
though, I don't have a lot of choice here.
"No,
I'm just...passing through." *You're a
drifter now.* I just created Rob Petry,
the drifter. I wonder what this guy
would do if I flashed my badge or something.
Not
that I have my badge. I left that back
in Washington.
Ok,
so I'm Rob Petry now. No shit.
"All
right, Rob, then why don't you sign in. I'll set you up with a place to sleep for a few days, that's fine." He starts to get up, but then apparently has
a better thought. "You want to use the
phone to have someone send money or something?" Yeah, that would probably be good.
"Sure,
yeah. Thanks." I smile a little at him and finish signing
in under my pseudonym. *Hmm, a
call. You probably even get more than
one, if you want it. Ha, ha, ha.* I can call the boys, I guess, but I have to
do this without being too weird in front of the kid at the desk. It's likely to be weird if I call the Lone
Gunmen. Hell, it's likely to be weird
almost no matter who I call.
*Hey,
Skinner, guess who's back from the dead?*
Scully,
I think. She can talk to the boys for
me, plus she knows the cover name. At
least I hope she still remembers it. It
will be less suspicious if I call a female...my sister, I'll have to say...
*Scully.*
I'm
going to talk to Scully.
I'm
suddenly aware of a big open ache in my gut. I wonder if it's been there all along, or if I'm suddenly developing an
ulcer. No, there have been several
nights spent on park benches with this ache...and the matching one in the
vicinity of my heart.
*Scully.*
"If
you're done signing in, the phone's in the back room." Eric jerks a thumb over his shoulder at a
door behind him. "Can you call collect,
if it's long distance?" He grins at
me. "Sorry, you know how it is with
budgets."
"Oh
yeah, do I know. I'll do that. I think my sister can get money here within
a few days." He smiles at me and I head
into the back room. I pick up the grey
receiver gingerly, paranoia buzzing in my head at the thought of calling
Scully. What if they have her line
tapped?
*They
won't. You're dead. As far as they're concerned, their worries
are over.*
But
still.
*Just
dial the damned phone.*
Fine.
The
recorded voice asks me to give my name. Right, this is easy.
"Rob
Petry." I count to ten three times
while the hold music plays. Come on,
Scully, I think, pick up. Know the
voice, or the name, or just accept the call out the kindness of your heart,
just pick up, for God's sake.
"Hello,
Rob." I jolt slightly at the familiar
voice. She sounds tired. Weary, even. Why am I not surprised?
"Hi,
Laura." I speak loudly for Eric's
benefit. Then I almost whisper.
"Scully,
it's me."
***********************
-September
3, 2000-
The
phone rings, shaking me from a restless half sleep. It's eleven o'clock, and I can't think who would be calling. Agent Andras? I don't think so. She
hasn't called this late yet, anyway. Skinner? No, probably not. Mom? Maybe.
*Mulder?*
I
wish.
*Maybe
you should stop guessing and pick up the phone.*
"Hello?"
"You
have a collect call from-" the canned voice pauses to let "-Rob Petry-"
talk. Will I accept charges?
Yes. Yes, I will accept charges. *Called it.*
I
stop breathing for a moment. *Wait a minute. Why is he calling? He must be in
deep, if he has to risk a telephone call. What kind of trouble is he getting himself into?*
"Hello,
Rob." *Is it safe to use an alias that
he's used before?*
"Hello,
Laura." He speaks loudly, like someone
needs reassurance of who he's calling. "Scully, it's me." Oh, geez. It's his voice, deep and nervous, and what
the hell is he doing on a telephone line, anyway?
"I
know. What's wrong? Why are you risking a call?" I grip the receiver with both hands, holding
it tightly to me ear like it's some sort of a lifeline. Maybe it is. It's my only real connection to a man carrying a piece of me with
him.
It's
not smart to give pieces of yourself away. But sometimes I guess you just can't help it. No matter how many years you put it off, eventually something
happens and you do.
And
inevitably, you end up permanently separated from the person now in possession
of part of you.
"Someone
stole my bag, Scully. I need you to get
the boys to send money." The Gunmen are
still supplying his money, then. I
figured they were, his will had left them everything in his bank account and
the leftovers from his life insurance.
"How
much do you need?" Another thought
occurs to me, a potentially dangerous thought. "Where should I have them send it?"
"Have
them send about two hundred dollars, and I'm in Kolad, South Dakota. Staying at the YMCA." He sounds as uncomfortable saying this as I
feel hearing it. So I know his enforced
vacation has done nothing to lessen his tendency towards paranoia. What a shock. I just hope whoever might still be looking for Mulder gave up
hope when he died. Of course, he's been
dead before, so it's possible they're still looking for him.
Christ. I'm really not cut out for this.
"Yeah, and you're safe at home." I realize I spoke aloud, and laugh bitterly at Mulder's comment. I hate to think what it must be like for him, and if I do, I'll just send myself on yet another guilt trip, so I force myself not to go there tonight.
"I'll
have them send it, Rob." My breath
hitches slightly as I prepare to end the call. "Mulder...I miss you." This is
all I can say without completely breaking down, my voice is gravelly as it is,
and my head and heart are throbbing. I
squeeze my eyes shut and curse the whole thing. Just the whole damned setup, especially all those men playing God
who got us into this. Next time I see
that rat Spender, maybe I'll punch him just because he's the Cancer Man's
son. Damn them, damn them.
"I
know, Scully, I miss you too. But it's
just seven more months, and I'll be back, good as ever. If I ever was any good." He ends the connection with a click and I'm
listening to an empty line again.
I
laugh weakly at his last joke, hang up slowly. I'm almost unwilling to put the receiver down, like putting Mulder away
or something, but hell, that's what I'm doing anyway, right? That's what I have to do.
*It's
just another piece, Dana. You won't
miss it for long.*
But
he's coming back. Seven months, that's
all.
*Sure.*
But
he is alive. Not quite ok, maybe,
probably a little the worse for wear. But who isn't? Who's ok? I'm not.
*Exactly.*
I
pick up the phone and dial the Lone Gunmen.
"Langly,
it's Scully... You guys still
up?... Ok, I'm coming over.... No, I can't talk on the phone... Yeah,
exactly. I'll be right over."
Kolad,
South Dakota.
Washington,
D.C.
It's
just another piece.
******************
-August
8, 2000-
Mulder
stared at the gun in my belly incredulously. He was beginning to understand. His eyes lifted slowly to meet mine, full of disbelief and what, under
other circumstances, might very well have been hope.
But
they were going to use our child against us. There was no hope of anything in that.
"I'm
pregnant, Mulder."
"Oh,
my God." I wince at the words and they
way he has to learn of this. I had been
overwhelmed when I found out that I was going to have a baby. Surprise and disbelief and most of all joy
caused alternating bouts of tears and uncontrollable laughter to incapacitate
me for the entire evening. I had been
planning to tell Mulder soon, I just had to come to grips with the whole thing
myself first. I hadn't exactly imagined
it happening like this.
"It
doesn't matter, though," I said bravely, turning my face towards the malignant
presence of the man at my side. "If you
kill her now, you'll kill me too. And
you need me." I tried to look strident,
or brave, or rebellious, but my confidence quickly leaked away as he smiled
slowly.
"You
have an implant. It's a useful
gadget. It can plant suggestions into
the host's consciousness. It can
incapacitate them by short-circuiting their brain functions. And did you know, it can also trigger the
production of the chemicals that cause miscarriages?"
Implant.
*Baby.*
Miscarriage.
Horrible
comprehension and a deafening roar filled my head, my vision flickering black
and white like it does when I get lost. I was feeling very lost at that moment.
"I
will return here tomorrow, and you will tell me what your decision is
then." The man lowered the gun and
walked past Mulder, giving me a meaningful look. "But like I said, there is not really a choice in this matter, is
there?" With that and a slam of the door,
he was gone.
Tears
filled my eyes as Mulder rushed over to untie me from his chair. When my arms were finally free, I let them
fall around his neck and clung to him for dear life. Sobs racked my body silently, and for several minutes we just
held each other while I wept. He
stroked my hair, just holding his cheek to mine and letting my tears run down
both of them. I think he wept also, but
I was too busy crying to tell, and by the time I had finished, it didn't really
matter who had cried and who had not. They were our tears, for our child. Our poor child.
"Go
home, Scully." Mulder had pulled away
from me far enough to look into my eyes, and he spoke softly as one hand
caressed my neck.
"I
won't let you say yes, Mulder." I
lifted my eyes to meet his. I blinked
the tears away. *You can be brave if he can.* "I can have another baby." *Maybe. Once you figure out how
you got this one.*
Only
a slight hitch in my breathing betrayed me in the statement.
"I'm
not going to say yes. But you're
keeping the baby."
"How?" He faced me with the expressionless look
that told me he was about to bullshit me, like he did so easily with so many
people. "Truth, Mulder." He closed his eyes.
"I'll
disappear until she's born." He looked
back up at me. "She?" I had had an ultrasound done when I found
out. It was a she.
"Yes,
she." He leaned his forehead against
mine for another moment, closing his eyes and letting a tear fall. I held him.
"I'll
disappear until she's delivered," he started again. "Until they can't kill her through you. I'll-" He looked around again, gauging his idea. "I'll set fire to my apartment. I'll go into hiding, and everyone will think
I died in the fire. You and the Lone
Gunmen will be the only ones who know otherwise." A look of exquisite anguish crossed his features, and I reached out
to him again.
"This
is not your fault."
"It
is my fault. This," he touched
the back of my neck. "This is my fault. Duane Barry was my fault. Melissa was my fault. Emily was
my fault. Donny Phaster was my
fault. Scully, you would be happy if it
weren't for me." He looked so
incredibly beaten, and the anguish in his voice told me this could be the straw
that breaks the camel's back. *Some
straw.*
"I
would be dead if it weren't for you. Every time something happened to me, you were the one fighting the
hardest to save me."
"But
nothing would ever have happened to you if it weren't for me." Another tear spilled down his cheek and he
pulled me close to him, kissing my hair. Mulder, I thought, I joined the FBI by choice. I stayed of by choice. *Well, mostly.* Don't be so hard on yourself. "I owe you everything, remember?" He whispers to me, with the memory of another tearful conversation in
this same building. If he quits now,
they win. But if he doesn't quit, they
win anyway.
My
own tears started again, soaking onto his suit jacket. God, this was really happening. He tilted my chin up to look into his eyes
as he spoke.
"I
owe you this."
******************
End
Part 1/?
Tell
me what you think, and hopefully the next installment will be out soon. I hope you all liked it!