Chimera Genetics
917 Titan Avenue
March 30, 2000
12:29 A.M.
"Langly, can you hear me?" Fox Mulder, dressed in black from head to
foot, adjusted the communication device on his tight-fitting shirt.
He lightly touched the barely-noticeable piece that rested in his
ear.
"Loud and clear, Mulder," the slightly nasally voice answered back.
Langly was underground, crouched into a fetal position, and flanked
on all sides by wires of every shape and size jutting into a modern
day Gordian knot. He was joined by Frohike who was seated on his
right, carrying a small, high-powered flashlight that, next to the
glare from Langly's suped-up laptop, provided the only source of
visible illumination.
"Ten more seconds and we'll have you on visual, Mulder," Frohike
informed him.
"Great. I always knew that I would make it to the small screen," he
replied. Mulder glanced anxiously at Byers who was performing
lookout duties. His usual well-tailored, gray suit was replaced
with a long, black duster. Mulder smiled through his anxiety.
He looked so out of context, no tie, jacket. He paced
precariously back and forth, apprehension evident in his face.
"You better hurry up, Langly," he said, "the guards will be returning
to their posts at precisely 12:30 A.M., that's only 26.45
seconds from now."
"I'm working on it," Langly replied, his fingers clinking
furiously on the keys, "Wait, wait, here we go."
"Main security cameras have been overridden," Frohike informed the
group. He watched the computer screen as the image of Mulder came
into view. "Big Brother's watching, Mulder," he told him.
"Langly," he instructed, "watch Frohike's hands for me. I don't want
him to get all voyeuristic up there on me."
"I can't promise you anything, Mulder," he said.
"Yeah," Frohike chimed in, "I can't help it. You're too much of a
sexy bitch."
The light banter was cut short by the sound of Byers' voice over the
line. "I have a visual confirmation on the guards," he said, looking
at his watch. It read precisely 12:30 A.M. His view was slightly
obscured behind the bushes where he was positioned, so he cautiously
eased his head around. He watched as the guards double-checked the
padlocks on the building and searched the grounds for any
trespassers. Byers ducked his head back behind the bush. After a
couple seconds, he felt confident that they were gone and he summed
up the courage to look a second time. He watched as the guards
finished their search and turned to leave.
"They're on the move, Mulder," Byers told him.
"So am I," he said, "Wish me luck, boys."
Mulder advanced towards the side entrance of the facility, sheltered
by the shadowy sheath of darkness. "I want that door unlocked by the
time I get there," he told them.
"We're already working on it," Langly informed him. He gazed back at
the glowing screen. "Double password protected," he said to no
one in particular, "whatever they've got in there, they want
it kept under tight raps."
Frohike watched as the security camera picked up Mulder next to the
door. "I'm at the entrance," Mulder told them, "I'm a little
disappointed it's not open yet. I was told you guys were the best in
the business."
"You get what you pay for," Frohike retorted.
"You've got one minute and fifteen seconds until the guards complete
their rotation," Byers told Langly.
"Don't rush me," Langly said, booting up a password program, "See,
we're already through the first lock." He beamed, waiting for the
approbation of his friends. Instead, all he received was a simple
"About time" muttered by Mulder under his breath as the steel clasp
holding the door in place jutted to an unlocked position.
"Forty-five seconds and counting," Byers said.
"Plenty of time," Langly replied while hacking into the second
lock.
"For me, yeah," Frohike said, "but for you, I'm not so sure." Langly
smiled, but his friend noticed the look of concern on his face as the
computer recognized the requirements for the next lock.
"Uh oh," Langly breathed. It was a nearly inaudible slip and Mulder
would certainly not have been able to hear it, were it not for the
state-of-the-line communications equipment provided by the Gunmen.
"What do you mean, 'Uh oh'?" he hissed, his voice rising a little
louder then preferred for someone breaking into a high-security
facility.
"No biggie, Mulder," Frohike assured him, "The second lock is a
numerical password, twelve digits that change variably every minute.
We'll have it up soon."
"We don't have a minute," Mulder's voice came back angrily.
"That's good," Frohike said, "because I said it changes every
minute. If we spent more than a minute cracking this code,
more alarms would go off than the time Langly tried to steal
'Debbie Does Dallas' from Blockbuster."
"Well you better hope you get it done in under a minute,
then," Mulder told them, "or you'll be enjoying Debbie
from a six by six foot cell."
"It's okay, Mulder," Langly said, simply willing the computer to read
through the possible numbers as quickly as possible, "we've already
gotten through eight of the digits."
"Twenty seconds," Byers called.
"Langly, get this high-tech piece of shit open right now!" Mulder
whispered uneasily into the microphone.
"Two more to go, Mulder."
Byers pulled a pair of binoculars over his eyes. "They're
approaching you, Mulder," he told him, "They are relatively
fifty yards away from the main gate."
"Langly!" Mulder exclaimed.
"Got it," he replied as the second lock pulled away and Mulder ducked
hastily into the doorway.
Mulder barely breathed a sigh of relief before he asked them, "Where
am I going?"
"Head straight down this hall, Mulder," Frohike replied, "and make a
left, now." The lanky figure on Langly's computer screen turned down
a dark hallway. "Duck into that room on the right," he told him,
"number 82."
Mulder did as he was told. He saw the camera in the corner of the
room follow his movements. Somehow, it made him feel secure knowing
that his three friends were there with him. The room was an
expansive laboratory composed of lengthy counters filled with
instruments used to conduct research. Magnetic stirrers swirled
in 1000mL Erlenmeyer flasks and the gentle humming from a device
that said "Cytometer" on the front panel offered the only noise
in the room.
"Now what?" Mulder asked.
"There should be a computer in there where the team stores all their
research," Langly responded, "Find it and hook us in to the
terminal."
Mulder walked slowly around the room, gazing from this way to that.
"There's at least ten of them in here," he said, "How do I know which
one is the right one?" As soon as the words were out of his lips, he
noticed a small office that was situated in the back of the room.
"Dr. Cynthia Rochester," Langly read aloud.
"Why does that name sound so familiar?" Mulder asked.
"She was number three on the list of geneticists that we gave you,
Mulder," Frohike replied, "Right behind Dr. Elizabeth Sykes and the
esteemed Dr. Maria Valesquez."
"This has got to be it," Mulder said, pulling out a device closely
resembling a handgun with an exceptionally long, thin needle on the
end. He quickly picked the lock and replaced the device in his
pocket. He slowly opened the door, revealing a beautifully furnished
office, complete with an oak desk, a well-stocked bookcase, and
several green plants. Mulder seated himself in the plush, leather
chair and placed his hand on the keyboard. "Here we go, boys, get
ready to lock and load."
Mulder drew out some well-placed wires hidden behind his back that
were given to him by Langly along with the microphone and earpiece.
"Place it in the hole to the bottom left," he heard Langly command.
"Oh, Langly," Mulder said, "I love it when you talk dirty about my
hard drive."
Frohike smirked and Langly continued with his directions, "Place the
other end into the hardware on your wrist." Mulder looked at his
right hand. He had been given the cumbersome box-like device and
simply told that it would "come in handy."
"It'll give us access to whatever it is that's hidden in there,"
Langly explained, "We'll be able copy, erase, or implant
anything that we want to, right from the comfort of our
own uncomfortable underground hideout."
"The wonders of technology," Mulder sighed.
Mulder booted up the system and hooked the computer to the device on
his wrist. The screen flashed a lovely azure, signaling that it was
ready for use.
"I can't see," Langly whined.
"Well, zoom in, damn it," Frohike said gruffly. Langly did as he was
so kindly asked and overrode the surveillance camera controls.
"Simon says take one step left, Mulder," Frohike's voice called over
his earpiece, "Your fat head is blocking our view."
Mulder let out an irritated smile. "Fat head," he mumbled to
himself, "Melvin, why don't you kiss my."
"Watch it, Mulder," Frohike pre-empted him, "Think of Byers and his
virgin ears."
Mulder stepped to the side and allowed Frohike and Langly to get a
better view. The first screen consisted of a white, rectangular
block that was password protected.
"No problem," Langly told Mulder, clicking away at the keyboard.
Mulder watched as the black circles appeared at the typing
prompt, and almost instantly, the screen was gone. In its
place was a screen with numerous icons, some personal items
-email, links- but mainly word processing folders.
"Give us a minute," Langly said, "we'll get what we came for and then
you can get your ass out of there." Through the device on Mulder's
hand, Langly accessed the folders. One would open, he would browse
through it quickly, and then it would be gone, another opening up in
its stead.
"Do a search for Project Saving Grace," Mulder instructed.
Langly and Frohike glanced at each other, a delighted look
appearing on both of their faces.
"When have you ever touched a computer, Mulder," Frohike
asked, "other than to store your porn, that is? Why
don't you just leave the hacking to the professionals?"
"Just do it," he answered. The tone in his voice intimated that he
was no longer fooling around, and Langly thought it best that they
comply.
"Alright," he said, "but I don't see what good it'll do." His words
were cut short as the image of a three-dimensional helical structure
on a black background popped-up in a window, followed by a file
hundreds of pages long entitled "Project Saving Grace: An
analysis of the progress in DNA hybridization over the past
two decades."
"Oh my God," Frohike said under his breath, as Langly chimed in, "How
did you know?"
Byers put the binoculars to his eyes. He watched in despair as at
least ten camouflaged-colored jeeps rolled up to the facility,
followed by three long, black cars. He watched as soldier after
soldier jumped from the jeeps, each carrying a loaded semi-automatic
rifle. He ducked behind a bush for cover as the security guards
opened the gates. Several men in well-tailored black suits emerged
from the black automobiles.
Byers picked up the collar of his suit and held it inches from his
mouth. "Mulder," he said, "we've got trouble. You've got to get out
of there right now. Did you hear me? You need to evacuate the
building as soon as possible."
"Why, Byers?" he heard Mulder's anxious voice over the line, "What's
going on out there?"
"They know you're here, Mulder," he answered, "They're coming for
you."
A tall, slightly overweight man with gray hair stepped out from the
back seat of the first black car. He closed the door behind him,
then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket. He
pulled one from the case and gracefully, with one single motion,
placed it between his lips. He grabbed a golden lighter from
the other pocket, engraved with the inscription "Trust No One,"
and pulled back the covering. He protected the lighter from
the night wind with one hand and drew the cold metal against
the flint with the other. He lit the cigarette, replaced the
lighter in his pocket, and took a few long drags to get the
fire burning.
A man dressed in camouflage garb approached the smoker. "What are
your orders, sir?" he asked the man in the suit.
"Bring the intruder to me, Captain," he said amidst a cloud of smoke,
"I want him alive, damaged if necessary, but alive." He took
a couple of long drags as the captain walked away to carry out
the orders. "Oh, and Captain," he called to him as the captain
turned to listen to the rest of the smoker's commands, "If he
gets away from you, you'll be filing away the rest of your
prodigious career as a desk clerk in Guam."
"Yes, sir," the captain replied, one hand raised to the forehead in a
salute and the other holding on to the gun at his side. And with
that, he was gone.
The Smoking-Man took one final drag and a threw the cigarette on the
ground. He squelched the flame with a single swipe of his
highly-polished, expensive shoes. "Now if only I could squash Mulder
this easily," he thought to himself as he viewed the proceedings, "if
only."
"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!" Mulder yelled into the microphone, "I'm
going as fast as I can, but I am not leaving here without these
files!" He watched as the bar on the "Copying" command traveled from
zero to one hundred percent.
"Mulder," Byers told him, "It's not safe to stay in there any
longer. The soldiers have entered the building and are coming
your way. You must get out. Whatever is on those files won't
matter if they get to you before you can read them."
The percentage bar continued to increase.
"C'mon, c'mon," Mulder willed under his breath.
"He's right, man," he heard Langly say, "You've got to get out of
there now. They're already at the first hallway." Langly watched
helplessly through the vantage point of the lens of the surveillance
camera. The army of green and black seemed never-ending.
"Get the hell out of there, Mulder!" Frohike's voice raised
well above its normal pitch.
"There!" he exclaimed, relieved that the copying procedure
had finally come to completion, "Did you get it?"
Langly checked his screen. It read 'File Copy Completed'. "Every
last bit," he answered.
Mulder unplugged the device from the computer console. He could hear
the footsteps treading heavily in his direction. "Be my eyes and
ears," he said nervously, "Where am I going?"
Langly pulled up a map of the layout of the building that they had
used earlier to gain access to the laboratory. "There should be a
door behind you, Mulder," he said, "Go through it in turn right down
the hall."
Mulder turned instinctively towards the sound of the lab's main door
slamming open. He heard what sounded like a hundred guns being
simultaneously cocked. He turned back and opened the door, ran
through, and shut it as quickly and quietly as possible behind him.
"Now what?" he asked.
"The stairs, Mulder," Langly answered, "Go down one more level.
That'll be the basement." Mulder complied and ran down the steps.
Upon reaching the bottom, he threw open the door and gazed into
another unlit hallway.
"Straight," Langly told him, "and make a left at the fork.
Go all the way to the end, through the door, and out the side.
Byers will have the car waiting for you."
Byers was already seated in the bulky, dingy van. "I'm already
there," he said, advancing towards the side entrance with the
headlights turned off. He waited for what seemed an eternity
until he finally saw a door open and a tall, lanky figure
dash out into the shadows.
"He's coming your way," Frohike said. Mulder advanced towards
the car and opened the passenger's side.
"The Eagle has landed," Byers said as Mulder seated himself and the
car began to inch away.
Mulder glanced at him, visibly tired from the impromptu workout.
"The Eagle has landed?" he asked, "Couldn't you come up with
something a little more original, Byers?"
Byers shrugged. "I always wanted to say that," he replied, "Didn't
you ever want to be an astronaut?"
Mulder thought about the time one of his excursions with Scully had
led him to Mission Control to save a shuttle and its crew from the
angry entity that was carried within the person of Marcus Aurelius
Belt. He shuddered at the thought of all those who had died in the
Apollo missions and the Challenger explosion. "Not really," he
answered, then said, "Let's go pick up Wally and the Beave. I'm sure
they're anxious to see what they almost got me killed for."
Washington, D.C.
Undisclosed Location
1:42 A.M.
"This is amazing, Mulder, this diskette is the motherload. It
contains everything about Project Saving Grace since its
inception two decades ago." Langly was once again seated at a
computer screen, but this time it was the state-of-the-art
machinery located in the Lone Gunmen's headquarters. Langly,
Byers, Frohike, and Mulder were all gathered around the screen,
attempting to go through the hundreds of pages of files as
quickly and efficiently as time permitted.
"Look at that," Byers said excitedly, pointing to a picture of what
looked like a coiled ladder, "It's the entire hybrid genome, every
nucleotide broken down into its most miniscule parts. If we can
analyze this, it's possible that we could determine what the compound
was that was used to kill those women."
"And below it, there," Frohike added, "they've put case studies of
every female hybrid that was created through the experiments.
They've got their names, addresses, occupations," he smiled at
Mulder, continuing, "sexual encounters. Everything down to their
favorite foods."
"Listen to this," Langly said, reading from the text, "'Project
Saving Grace was initiated in 1953 when the discovery of
deoxyribonucleic acid by scientists James Watson and Francis
Crick generated new possibilities in the fields of genetics
and microbiology. Implementing the work of both privately
and publicly-funded scientists, the collective head of the
project was able to carry out the work of extrapolating the
secrets hidden within both human DNA and the DNA recovered
from an extraterrestrial biological entity (E.B.E.) that was
recovered dead, but otherwise intact, from a crash site in
New Mexico. The work progressed without the benefits of
tangible recompense until the takeover of Chimera Genetics
in 1983 by private donors, men and women unknown to the
world, erased from history. Their names will never be
known to the masses, but they have donated their resources,
their wealth, and their lives to the pursuit of one goal:
to preserve life as human beings know it, to maintain
humankind against the coming destruction. This savior of
the world will not come in the form of the Son of Man, sent
from Heaven to smite the evil and retrieve the worthy in
the name of everlasting salvation. Instead, the savior
will come from earth, the product of the ingenious who
will fashion a new man, a synthetic hybrid, from the blood
of man and his future exterminators, the
extraterrestrials'."
"That's all very interesting," Mulder said, "but it's nothing that I
don't already know." Byers, Langly, and Frohike all raised their
eyebrows and cocked their heads to the side. "You guys can
handle all the DNA analysis and the historical background of
the project," Mulder said, "All I need to know is the name
of the twelfth hybrid."
"No problem," Langly said. He leafed casually through the
pages until he came across the section that contained all
of the experiments' information. "I'll print you out a
copy, Mulder," he said, and did so.
Mulder grabbed the page as it emerged from the printer. "Julia Marie
Thomas," he read aloud, "She lives right here in D.C.."
Mulder turned and walked towards the door.
"Where are you going now, Mulder?" Frohike asked.
"I'm going to halt the Apocalypse," he yelled back, "hold all my
calls."
Julia Thomas Residence
696 Massachusetts Ave.
10:12 A.M.
The loud banging of the garbage truck stirred Mulder from a peaceful
slumber. The sunlight from the cloudless day shone in through the
dashboard window of the car that had served as his bed for the
night. "Aw, shit," he said, closing his eyes until they adjusted
to the morning light. He rubbed his lids and then the back of
his neck which was incredibly sore due to the uncomfortable
sleeping position mandated by his upright pose. "What time is
it?" he asked himself aloud, and then looked at the watch on
his hand, "10:15, great."
He had spent the better half of the early morning staking-out the
apartment that the database had said was the living quarters of the
twelfth and final experiment, Ms. Julia Marie Thomas. He had watched
the lights in her apartment turn on and off at approximately 2:30,
and then waited patiently to make sure no one went in or out without
his knowledge. He guessed that he must have drifted off to sleep
sometime about an hour later. He was just so tired. He had gotten
more sleep in that one sitting than he had had from all the other
days combined since he had heard about the case. He was debating
whether or not he should get up and check on her suite when he
noticed an old, white van with the insignia "Rappaport
Telephone Company" drive up and park on the side of the road.
He watched the back of the man as he descended from the vehicle. He
was covered in the company's dark, blue suit with the logo stamped on
it and a blue cap which concealed his face. Only a small portion of
his long, black hair could be viewed underneath the hat which adorned
his head. He opened the back doors and pulled out a small set of
tools from the floor. He closed the door and entered the apartment
building.
Mulder stepped from his car and followed him, relieved to have the
chance to be able to stretch his legs. He walked towards the front
stoop and up the stairs, being sure to maintain a careful distance
from the viewpoint of the worker. Putting a hand on the front door
knob, he noticed that the "9" in the address "696" had become
partially unhinged and was hanging upside down. "666," he said
thoughtfully, "I wonder if that's a bad sign." He shrugged it off,
opened the doors and entered the building, coming at once to
a fork in the road. He looked long and hard in each direction
but did not see the man that was the object of his pursuit.
A woman approached him from the right hallway.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he stopped her, pulling out his badge, "did you
happen to see a man walk this way? He had blonde hair and was
wearing a blue suit?"
"I saw a man wearing a blue suit," she answered, "but he had blonde
hair, not black."
"What did the suit have on it?" he asked.
"I think it had some kind of patch," she answered, "some
phone company or something."
"Which way did he go?"
"Towards the elevator, down the hall," she told him, and pointed down
the hallway.
"Thank you," he replied hurriedly as his pace picked up from a
fast-walking stride to full-out jogging. He ran towards the elevator
and watched as the number five was lit. He looked down at the paper
in his hand. "Apartment room 552," he said to himself, and looked
left and right for the stairwell. He pushed open the door underneath
the "Exit" sign and ran up the steps, two at a time, until he reached
the fifth floor. He ran down the hallway, glancing at the numbers on
the doors. 549, 550, 551, 552. The door was already
slightly ajar. He pulled the gun from his hip and placed
both hands on it, straightening them in front of his body.
He kicked the door open and advanced into the room.
"Federal agent," he screamed, "don't move." He looked around the
room. No one was there. "Federal agent," he said again,
"I'm armed." He circled what looked to be the living room,
mentally taking in every possible detail. He walked
towards the coffee table, spotting something on the edge.
He put his index finger into the red puddle and lifted it
back up again, revealing fresh, bright, red blood.
"Come out right now," he said, "I know you're still here."
Beyond the couch, he could see a door open, leading to
another room in the house. He walked towards it, eyes
straight ahead. As he walked, he was suddenly stopped
as his foot got caught on something. It was the body
of a beautiful redhead, laying in a crumpled mass from
where she fell to the floor. He bent down and touched
his finger to her neck, feeling for a pulse. There was
none. She was already gone.
Lauren Alvarez Residence
4077 Pierceford Crossing
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
"That's the one." Scully turned and looked in the direction that the
man in her passenger's seat was pointing. "That is the residence of
Detective Alvarez."
Scully put her hand to her jacket pocket and felt inside. The
warrant papers that had taken all night to obtain were now
resting there securely within her grasp. She patted them once
or twice and then unbuckled her seat belt. "Let's go,
Detective," she said, portraying her usual calm, disaffected
demeanor.
They stepped from the car and began walking towards the door.
Grabbing on to the side railing for support, Scully proceeded up the
front steps, followed at close length by the investigator.
"Detective Alvarez?" Scully called, rapping loudly on the screen
door, "Detective Alvarez, this is Special Agent Dana Scully.
We have a warrant to search the premises. Open the door now
or risk federal condemnation." Scully waited for an answer,
but there was no reply. She nodded to the detective as she
grabbed for the gun at her hip. He nodded back in response
to the signal. He opened the screen door and held it back
for her as she raised her gun towards heaven. With one deft
move, she kicked the door ajar and walked into the house, her
gun leading the way in a threatening horizontal posture.
"I'll check down here," she told the twenty-or-so officers clad in
bullet-proof vests. She looked over in the detective's direction.
"Take some men and check upstairs," she commanded. He obliged and
proceeded towards the second floor while she scoped out the rooms
downstairs. She checked every conceivable hiding space, every nook
and cranny, but Alvarez was nowhere to be found. She walked towards
the front door and saw the detective descending the stairs.
"She's not upstairs," he informed her.
"She's not down here, either," she responded, pointing towards the
papers and objects strewn about the floor, "and by the look of the
uncharacteristically disheveled appearance of this house, I'd say
that she cleared out in a hurry." She turned towards him. "I
want your men to search everything," she instructed, "leave
nothing overlooked."
The detective put a hand to his hip. "You know," he said, "this
would be a lot easier if I knew what we were searching for."
"Yes, it would," she answered, turning to search a different room,
"I'll let you know when I find it." She walked forward, through the
hall and past the cozy kitchenette. She entered a room that she had
glossed over earlier in her search to find Alvarez. It was by far
the most intriguing of all the rooms she had seen. There was a
baby-grand piano seated on a Persian rug next to a large
bay window. Opulent vases and ethnic works were strewn
in a seemingly flawless and cohesive style about the room.
A majestic oaken desk was situated in the corner of the
room and a lovely fireplace was positioned opposite the
piano.
Above it, a mantle was filled to the brim with pictures. She gazed
through them, intrigued at the prospect of gaining some insight into
the mind of this brilliant woman, much like herself, who desired so
greatly to change her course in life that she gave up her career as a
trained scientist and devoted her life to law enforcement, instead.
She glanced over the pictures, from left to right, but the final
picture on the end of the mantle caught her eye. A young Alvarez
gazed longingly into the eyes of a tall, handsome man, which were
filled with a familiar passion that Scully had come to rely on so
faithfully over the years. He had one hand about her waist and a
drink in the other. She had her arms folded about his neck, a
gesture of the intimacy that Scully was afraid to feel. It was a
photo of years past, of the hopes of youth for the future. Now
that the future was here, Alvarez was looking to the past. After
all these years, she had held on to the hope that she and Mulder
would be together again. "No wonder they shared a life together,"
Scully thought wistfully,"she must share the same passion as he,
to have held on to this picture for so long, to have let a dream
dominate her thoughts after the passing of so much time."
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of crinkling
underneath her feet. She stooped down and picked up the picture
that must have been neglected in Alvarez's hurried attempt to
leave her home free of incriminating evidence. It was a faded
photograph of Alvarez, lying on a bed in some sort of medical
facility. There were all sorts of wires hooked up to her and
she was surrounded by five men in crisp, white labcoats.
Scully turned the picture over. Her mouth dropped as she
read the inscription written in black ink from a fountainpen.
It read, "First successful experiment of 'Saving Grace',
Maria Valesquez, 1963."
Julia Thomas Residence
696 Massachusetts Ave.
Washington, D.C.
"Damn it!" Mulder said to himself, shaking his head in
self-deprecation, "I should have prevented this." He stood up and
seated himself on the couch, contemplating what course of action he
should take next. He picked up the cell phone from his pocket,
prepared to call the Bureau and to have the body taken from
the house, when it rang unexpectedly in his hand.
"Mulder," he answered.
"Mulder, Langly, here."
"Langly, what do you want?" he asked.
"Mulder, we found something that I think you ought to know." Langly,
phone held up to his right ear, looked across the desk at his
companions. They nodded in assent, urging him forward.
"Well, what is it?" Mulder questioned.
"It's about Project Saving Grace," he replied, "We were going through
the pages of files after you left. Eventually, we came across a
section that contained references to experimentation that paved the
way for the twelve women that were created, hybrids of less stable
composition who were considered 'successful experiments,' but
who were in all actuality more alien than human."
"Just spit it out, Langly," Mulder said, putting his free hand to his
head. He had had, by all accounts, a trying day and he was growing
the slightest bit impatient listening to the long-winded explanations
of his friend.
"Mulder," he began uncertainly, "the disk gave reference to the
initial successful clone, a woman of high intelligence and
extravagant beauty, one who would be useful in the future
to generate clones from her own DNA." Langly once again
looked about the room, unsure of whether or not to continue.
Mulder sensed the hesitation in his voice.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It was Lauren, Mulder," he answered, "she was the first successful
experiment. They fashioned her from the Purity Control and then used
her intellect to carry out the work."
Mulder felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. "Are
you sure?" he managed to eek out.
"Positive," Langly answered, "it's all right here. I think
you should come over and look at the evidence."
Mulder glanced up at the mirror opposite from where he was sitting.
"I can't do that right now," he said.
"Why not?" Langly asked, "Where are you?"
"I'm bringing down a murderer," he responded, and with a smooth,
cat-like motion, he was on his feet. He turned around, threw
his cell on the ground, and faced the Yellow-Haired Man that
he had viewed in the mirror, lifting his gun directly in front
of him.
"Stay where you are," Mulder said, "or I swear by all that is holy
that I will shoot you where you stand."
"What is holy is not a matter for you to decide, Agent Mulder," the
man answered, "Only God in his awesome glory shall deign who shall be
worthy." He folded his hands in a pose of peaceful meditation.
"Blessed are the meek," he said, "for they shall inherit the Kingdom
of God."
"Don't give me your solemn, prayerful bullshit," he said, "I'm going
to send you straight to Hell, you murdering son of a bitch."
"One of us shall visit the Dark Realm," he answered, "but it will
surely be thou." The Yellow-Haired Man began advancing towards him,
only a few yards away.
"One step closer and I'll shoot," Mulder warned, but the
Yellow-Haired Man kept proceeding. Mulder pulled back the
trigger, firing one round, then another, then another, but
the Yellow-Haired Man continued his advance. He fired off
six or seven rounds before the Yellow-Haired Man had him
in his strong grasp. It was only then that Mulder saw the
gaping holes in his chest, spilling over with a green liquid.
As he clenched his eyes in pain, the Yellow-Haired Man threw
him against the wall. Mulder hit his head hard and went down.
He looked up through his stinging, red eyes at the
Yellow-Haired Man. As the darkness came, he saw his hair
change from blonde to black, and then grow long and wavy,
as Lauren's face appeared above his, like some angelic
vision. "I'm sorry, Fox," he heard her say, as he drifted
out of consciousness, "but there was no other way."
Lauren Alvarez Residence
4077 Pierceford Crossing
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Scully placed the phone against her ear. 'Beep, beep, beep.' "Still
busy," she said, "shit." She closed the phone to put it back in her
pocket when it rang unexpectedly.
"Mulder?" she asked hopefully.
"Agent Scully, it's Frohike. We've got a problem." No
catty remarks, no suggestive comments. She could tell
that there was something really the matter.
"What is it, Frohike," she asked, "I've been trying to get in contact
with Mulder but his line's busy."
"I know," Frohike answered, "we were talking to him when the phone
went dead."
"Talking to him about what?" she asked, "Where is he?" She was
growing increasingly concerned, and a little impatient, both of which
showed greatly in her voice.
"Agent Scully," he explained, "last night the boys and I
helped Mulder sneak into Chimera Genetics. Within one of
the databases there, we found evidence of Project Saving
Grace. Mulder copied a diskette of all the information
and we began going through it this morning. There were
references to all the deceased victims who were created
through the project." He looked up at Byers and Langly,
and continued, "We discovered that those twelve women were
not the first created through the Project, that there were
additional experiments conducted, women created who were
not completely hybridized."
"Let me take a wild stab in the dark," Scully interrupted, looking
down at the photograph in her hands, "Lauren Alvarez."
Frohike looked puzzled. "How did you know?" he asked her.
"Lucky guess," she answered, "Listen. I want you to go find Mulder
and tell him everything you know about Lauren Alvarez."
"He already knows," Frohike told her, "We had just finished telling
him of our findings when we lost contact with him."
"I want you to go look for him, anyway," she said, "I have a terrible
feeling that something's wrong. I'm going to finish up here,
and grab a few hair samples for analysis back at Quantico.
Then, I'm taking the first flight out of Philadelphia. I
should be back in a couple hours."
She hung up the phone and placed the picture in her pocket. She
turned towards an officer, saying, "Find me a brush, comb, anything
with a hair sample, right now. I need to get back to Washington as
soon as possible."
Washington, D.C.
Undisclosed Location
Frohike placed the phone back on the receiver.
"Why didn't you tell her about the gunshots, Frohike?" Langly asked.
The concern showed plainly upon his face. "I didn't want to worry
her," he answered.
"Yes," Byers interjected, "But don't you think she has the right to
know? I'm sure you would all agree by know that it is best to keep
Agent Scully apprised of the situation at hand. Besides, you know of
her feelings for him." He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the
next, "It's as obvious as the fact that the atomic bomb was dropped,
not to win the war, but to detract from the falsified death accounts
of Theodore Roosevelt."
"All the more reason not to make her worry," Frohike said, "Anyway,
she's four states away. What is she going to be able to do from
Pennsylvania? Let's just go check out the address of this,
what's her name, Julia Marie Thomas, ourselves. God knows
the last thing he needs is to get the feds involved."
Langly and Byers nodded their heads in agreement. They grabbed their
jackets and walked out the door, being sure to fasten the seven or
eight locks before they were gone.
917 Titan Avenue
March 30, 2000
12:29 A.M.
"Langly, can you hear me?" Fox Mulder, dressed in black from head to
foot, adjusted the communication device on his tight-fitting shirt.
He lightly touched the barely-noticeable piece that rested in his
ear.
"Loud and clear, Mulder," the slightly nasally voice answered back.
Langly was underground, crouched into a fetal position, and flanked
on all sides by wires of every shape and size jutting into a modern
day Gordian knot. He was joined by Frohike who was seated on his
right, carrying a small, high-powered flashlight that, next to the
glare from Langly's suped-up laptop, provided the only source of
visible illumination.
"Ten more seconds and we'll have you on visual, Mulder," Frohike
informed him.
"Great. I always knew that I would make it to the small screen," he
replied. Mulder glanced anxiously at Byers who was performing
lookout duties. His usual well-tailored, gray suit was replaced
with a long, black duster. Mulder smiled through his anxiety.
He looked so out of context, no tie, jacket. He paced
precariously back and forth, apprehension evident in his face.
"You better hurry up, Langly," he said, "the guards will be returning
to their posts at precisely 12:30 A.M., that's only 26.45
seconds from now."
"I'm working on it," Langly replied, his fingers clinking
furiously on the keys, "Wait, wait, here we go."
"Main security cameras have been overridden," Frohike informed the
group. He watched the computer screen as the image of Mulder came
into view. "Big Brother's watching, Mulder," he told him.
"Langly," he instructed, "watch Frohike's hands for me. I don't want
him to get all voyeuristic up there on me."
"I can't promise you anything, Mulder," he said.
"Yeah," Frohike chimed in, "I can't help it. You're too much of a
sexy bitch."
The light banter was cut short by the sound of Byers' voice over the
line. "I have a visual confirmation on the guards," he said, looking
at his watch. It read precisely 12:30 A.M. His view was slightly
obscured behind the bushes where he was positioned, so he cautiously
eased his head around. He watched as the guards double-checked the
padlocks on the building and searched the grounds for any
trespassers. Byers ducked his head back behind the bush. After a
couple seconds, he felt confident that they were gone and he summed
up the courage to look a second time. He watched as the guards
finished their search and turned to leave.
"They're on the move, Mulder," Byers told him.
"So am I," he said, "Wish me luck, boys."
Mulder advanced towards the side entrance of the facility, sheltered
by the shadowy sheath of darkness. "I want that door unlocked by the
time I get there," he told them.
"We're already working on it," Langly informed him. He gazed back at
the glowing screen. "Double password protected," he said to no
one in particular, "whatever they've got in there, they want
it kept under tight raps."
Frohike watched as the security camera picked up Mulder next to the
door. "I'm at the entrance," Mulder told them, "I'm a little
disappointed it's not open yet. I was told you guys were the best in
the business."
"You get what you pay for," Frohike retorted.
"You've got one minute and fifteen seconds until the guards complete
their rotation," Byers told Langly.
"Don't rush me," Langly said, booting up a password program, "See,
we're already through the first lock." He beamed, waiting for the
approbation of his friends. Instead, all he received was a simple
"About time" muttered by Mulder under his breath as the steel clasp
holding the door in place jutted to an unlocked position.
"Forty-five seconds and counting," Byers said.
"Plenty of time," Langly replied while hacking into the second
lock.
"For me, yeah," Frohike said, "but for you, I'm not so sure." Langly
smiled, but his friend noticed the look of concern on his face as the
computer recognized the requirements for the next lock.
"Uh oh," Langly breathed. It was a nearly inaudible slip and Mulder
would certainly not have been able to hear it, were it not for the
state-of-the-line communications equipment provided by the Gunmen.
"What do you mean, 'Uh oh'?" he hissed, his voice rising a little
louder then preferred for someone breaking into a high-security
facility.
"No biggie, Mulder," Frohike assured him, "The second lock is a
numerical password, twelve digits that change variably every minute.
We'll have it up soon."
"We don't have a minute," Mulder's voice came back angrily.
"That's good," Frohike said, "because I said it changes every
minute. If we spent more than a minute cracking this code,
more alarms would go off than the time Langly tried to steal
'Debbie Does Dallas' from Blockbuster."
"Well you better hope you get it done in under a minute,
then," Mulder told them, "or you'll be enjoying Debbie
from a six by six foot cell."
"It's okay, Mulder," Langly said, simply willing the computer to read
through the possible numbers as quickly as possible, "we've already
gotten through eight of the digits."
"Twenty seconds," Byers called.
"Langly, get this high-tech piece of shit open right now!" Mulder
whispered uneasily into the microphone.
"Two more to go, Mulder."
Byers pulled a pair of binoculars over his eyes. "They're
approaching you, Mulder," he told him, "They are relatively
fifty yards away from the main gate."
"Langly!" Mulder exclaimed.
"Got it," he replied as the second lock pulled away and Mulder ducked
hastily into the doorway.
Mulder barely breathed a sigh of relief before he asked them, "Where
am I going?"
"Head straight down this hall, Mulder," Frohike replied, "and make a
left, now." The lanky figure on Langly's computer screen turned down
a dark hallway. "Duck into that room on the right," he told him,
"number 82."
Mulder did as he was told. He saw the camera in the corner of the
room follow his movements. Somehow, it made him feel secure knowing
that his three friends were there with him. The room was an
expansive laboratory composed of lengthy counters filled with
instruments used to conduct research. Magnetic stirrers swirled
in 1000mL Erlenmeyer flasks and the gentle humming from a device
that said "Cytometer" on the front panel offered the only noise
in the room.
"Now what?" Mulder asked.
"There should be a computer in there where the team stores all their
research," Langly responded, "Find it and hook us in to the
terminal."
Mulder walked slowly around the room, gazing from this way to that.
"There's at least ten of them in here," he said, "How do I know which
one is the right one?" As soon as the words were out of his lips, he
noticed a small office that was situated in the back of the room.
"Dr. Cynthia Rochester," Langly read aloud.
"Why does that name sound so familiar?" Mulder asked.
"She was number three on the list of geneticists that we gave you,
Mulder," Frohike replied, "Right behind Dr. Elizabeth Sykes and the
esteemed Dr. Maria Valesquez."
"This has got to be it," Mulder said, pulling out a device closely
resembling a handgun with an exceptionally long, thin needle on the
end. He quickly picked the lock and replaced the device in his
pocket. He slowly opened the door, revealing a beautifully furnished
office, complete with an oak desk, a well-stocked bookcase, and
several green plants. Mulder seated himself in the plush, leather
chair and placed his hand on the keyboard. "Here we go, boys, get
ready to lock and load."
Mulder drew out some well-placed wires hidden behind his back that
were given to him by Langly along with the microphone and earpiece.
"Place it in the hole to the bottom left," he heard Langly command.
"Oh, Langly," Mulder said, "I love it when you talk dirty about my
hard drive."
Frohike smirked and Langly continued with his directions, "Place the
other end into the hardware on your wrist." Mulder looked at his
right hand. He had been given the cumbersome box-like device and
simply told that it would "come in handy."
"It'll give us access to whatever it is that's hidden in there,"
Langly explained, "We'll be able copy, erase, or implant
anything that we want to, right from the comfort of our
own uncomfortable underground hideout."
"The wonders of technology," Mulder sighed.
Mulder booted up the system and hooked the computer to the device on
his wrist. The screen flashed a lovely azure, signaling that it was
ready for use.
"I can't see," Langly whined.
"Well, zoom in, damn it," Frohike said gruffly. Langly did as he was
so kindly asked and overrode the surveillance camera controls.
"Simon says take one step left, Mulder," Frohike's voice called over
his earpiece, "Your fat head is blocking our view."
Mulder let out an irritated smile. "Fat head," he mumbled to
himself, "Melvin, why don't you kiss my."
"Watch it, Mulder," Frohike pre-empted him, "Think of Byers and his
virgin ears."
Mulder stepped to the side and allowed Frohike and Langly to get a
better view. The first screen consisted of a white, rectangular
block that was password protected.
"No problem," Langly told Mulder, clicking away at the keyboard.
Mulder watched as the black circles appeared at the typing
prompt, and almost instantly, the screen was gone. In its
place was a screen with numerous icons, some personal items
-email, links- but mainly word processing folders.
"Give us a minute," Langly said, "we'll get what we came for and then
you can get your ass out of there." Through the device on Mulder's
hand, Langly accessed the folders. One would open, he would browse
through it quickly, and then it would be gone, another opening up in
its stead.
"Do a search for Project Saving Grace," Mulder instructed.
Langly and Frohike glanced at each other, a delighted look
appearing on both of their faces.
"When have you ever touched a computer, Mulder," Frohike
asked, "other than to store your porn, that is? Why
don't you just leave the hacking to the professionals?"
"Just do it," he answered. The tone in his voice intimated that he
was no longer fooling around, and Langly thought it best that they
comply.
"Alright," he said, "but I don't see what good it'll do." His words
were cut short as the image of a three-dimensional helical structure
on a black background popped-up in a window, followed by a file
hundreds of pages long entitled "Project Saving Grace: An
analysis of the progress in DNA hybridization over the past
two decades."
"Oh my God," Frohike said under his breath, as Langly chimed in, "How
did you know?"
Byers put the binoculars to his eyes. He watched in despair as at
least ten camouflaged-colored jeeps rolled up to the facility,
followed by three long, black cars. He watched as soldier after
soldier jumped from the jeeps, each carrying a loaded semi-automatic
rifle. He ducked behind a bush for cover as the security guards
opened the gates. Several men in well-tailored black suits emerged
from the black automobiles.
Byers picked up the collar of his suit and held it inches from his
mouth. "Mulder," he said, "we've got trouble. You've got to get out
of there right now. Did you hear me? You need to evacuate the
building as soon as possible."
"Why, Byers?" he heard Mulder's anxious voice over the line, "What's
going on out there?"
"They know you're here, Mulder," he answered, "They're coming for
you."
A tall, slightly overweight man with gray hair stepped out from the
back seat of the first black car. He closed the door behind him,
then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket. He
pulled one from the case and gracefully, with one single motion,
placed it between his lips. He grabbed a golden lighter from
the other pocket, engraved with the inscription "Trust No One,"
and pulled back the covering. He protected the lighter from
the night wind with one hand and drew the cold metal against
the flint with the other. He lit the cigarette, replaced the
lighter in his pocket, and took a few long drags to get the
fire burning.
A man dressed in camouflage garb approached the smoker. "What are
your orders, sir?" he asked the man in the suit.
"Bring the intruder to me, Captain," he said amidst a cloud of smoke,
"I want him alive, damaged if necessary, but alive." He took
a couple of long drags as the captain walked away to carry out
the orders. "Oh, and Captain," he called to him as the captain
turned to listen to the rest of the smoker's commands, "If he
gets away from you, you'll be filing away the rest of your
prodigious career as a desk clerk in Guam."
"Yes, sir," the captain replied, one hand raised to the forehead in a
salute and the other holding on to the gun at his side. And with
that, he was gone.
The Smoking-Man took one final drag and a threw the cigarette on the
ground. He squelched the flame with a single swipe of his
highly-polished, expensive shoes. "Now if only I could squash Mulder
this easily," he thought to himself as he viewed the proceedings, "if
only."
"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!" Mulder yelled into the microphone, "I'm
going as fast as I can, but I am not leaving here without these
files!" He watched as the bar on the "Copying" command traveled from
zero to one hundred percent.
"Mulder," Byers told him, "It's not safe to stay in there any
longer. The soldiers have entered the building and are coming
your way. You must get out. Whatever is on those files won't
matter if they get to you before you can read them."
The percentage bar continued to increase.
"C'mon, c'mon," Mulder willed under his breath.
"He's right, man," he heard Langly say, "You've got to get out of
there now. They're already at the first hallway." Langly watched
helplessly through the vantage point of the lens of the surveillance
camera. The army of green and black seemed never-ending.
"Get the hell out of there, Mulder!" Frohike's voice raised
well above its normal pitch.
"There!" he exclaimed, relieved that the copying procedure
had finally come to completion, "Did you get it?"
Langly checked his screen. It read 'File Copy Completed'. "Every
last bit," he answered.
Mulder unplugged the device from the computer console. He could hear
the footsteps treading heavily in his direction. "Be my eyes and
ears," he said nervously, "Where am I going?"
Langly pulled up a map of the layout of the building that they had
used earlier to gain access to the laboratory. "There should be a
door behind you, Mulder," he said, "Go through it in turn right down
the hall."
Mulder turned instinctively towards the sound of the lab's main door
slamming open. He heard what sounded like a hundred guns being
simultaneously cocked. He turned back and opened the door, ran
through, and shut it as quickly and quietly as possible behind him.
"Now what?" he asked.
"The stairs, Mulder," Langly answered, "Go down one more level.
That'll be the basement." Mulder complied and ran down the steps.
Upon reaching the bottom, he threw open the door and gazed into
another unlit hallway.
"Straight," Langly told him, "and make a left at the fork.
Go all the way to the end, through the door, and out the side.
Byers will have the car waiting for you."
Byers was already seated in the bulky, dingy van. "I'm already
there," he said, advancing towards the side entrance with the
headlights turned off. He waited for what seemed an eternity
until he finally saw a door open and a tall, lanky figure
dash out into the shadows.
"He's coming your way," Frohike said. Mulder advanced towards
the car and opened the passenger's side.
"The Eagle has landed," Byers said as Mulder seated himself and the
car began to inch away.
Mulder glanced at him, visibly tired from the impromptu workout.
"The Eagle has landed?" he asked, "Couldn't you come up with
something a little more original, Byers?"
Byers shrugged. "I always wanted to say that," he replied, "Didn't
you ever want to be an astronaut?"
Mulder thought about the time one of his excursions with Scully had
led him to Mission Control to save a shuttle and its crew from the
angry entity that was carried within the person of Marcus Aurelius
Belt. He shuddered at the thought of all those who had died in the
Apollo missions and the Challenger explosion. "Not really," he
answered, then said, "Let's go pick up Wally and the Beave. I'm sure
they're anxious to see what they almost got me killed for."
Washington, D.C.
Undisclosed Location
1:42 A.M.
"This is amazing, Mulder, this diskette is the motherload. It
contains everything about Project Saving Grace since its
inception two decades ago." Langly was once again seated at a
computer screen, but this time it was the state-of-the-art
machinery located in the Lone Gunmen's headquarters. Langly,
Byers, Frohike, and Mulder were all gathered around the screen,
attempting to go through the hundreds of pages of files as
quickly and efficiently as time permitted.
"Look at that," Byers said excitedly, pointing to a picture of what
looked like a coiled ladder, "It's the entire hybrid genome, every
nucleotide broken down into its most miniscule parts. If we can
analyze this, it's possible that we could determine what the compound
was that was used to kill those women."
"And below it, there," Frohike added, "they've put case studies of
every female hybrid that was created through the experiments.
They've got their names, addresses, occupations," he smiled at
Mulder, continuing, "sexual encounters. Everything down to their
favorite foods."
"Listen to this," Langly said, reading from the text, "'Project
Saving Grace was initiated in 1953 when the discovery of
deoxyribonucleic acid by scientists James Watson and Francis
Crick generated new possibilities in the fields of genetics
and microbiology. Implementing the work of both privately
and publicly-funded scientists, the collective head of the
project was able to carry out the work of extrapolating the
secrets hidden within both human DNA and the DNA recovered
from an extraterrestrial biological entity (E.B.E.) that was
recovered dead, but otherwise intact, from a crash site in
New Mexico. The work progressed without the benefits of
tangible recompense until the takeover of Chimera Genetics
in 1983 by private donors, men and women unknown to the
world, erased from history. Their names will never be
known to the masses, but they have donated their resources,
their wealth, and their lives to the pursuit of one goal:
to preserve life as human beings know it, to maintain
humankind against the coming destruction. This savior of
the world will not come in the form of the Son of Man, sent
from Heaven to smite the evil and retrieve the worthy in
the name of everlasting salvation. Instead, the savior
will come from earth, the product of the ingenious who
will fashion a new man, a synthetic hybrid, from the blood
of man and his future exterminators, the
extraterrestrials'."
"That's all very interesting," Mulder said, "but it's nothing that I
don't already know." Byers, Langly, and Frohike all raised their
eyebrows and cocked their heads to the side. "You guys can
handle all the DNA analysis and the historical background of
the project," Mulder said, "All I need to know is the name
of the twelfth hybrid."
"No problem," Langly said. He leafed casually through the
pages until he came across the section that contained all
of the experiments' information. "I'll print you out a
copy, Mulder," he said, and did so.
Mulder grabbed the page as it emerged from the printer. "Julia Marie
Thomas," he read aloud, "She lives right here in D.C.."
Mulder turned and walked towards the door.
"Where are you going now, Mulder?" Frohike asked.
"I'm going to halt the Apocalypse," he yelled back, "hold all my
calls."
Julia Thomas Residence
696 Massachusetts Ave.
10:12 A.M.
The loud banging of the garbage truck stirred Mulder from a peaceful
slumber. The sunlight from the cloudless day shone in through the
dashboard window of the car that had served as his bed for the
night. "Aw, shit," he said, closing his eyes until they adjusted
to the morning light. He rubbed his lids and then the back of
his neck which was incredibly sore due to the uncomfortable
sleeping position mandated by his upright pose. "What time is
it?" he asked himself aloud, and then looked at the watch on
his hand, "10:15, great."
He had spent the better half of the early morning staking-out the
apartment that the database had said was the living quarters of the
twelfth and final experiment, Ms. Julia Marie Thomas. He had watched
the lights in her apartment turn on and off at approximately 2:30,
and then waited patiently to make sure no one went in or out without
his knowledge. He guessed that he must have drifted off to sleep
sometime about an hour later. He was just so tired. He had gotten
more sleep in that one sitting than he had had from all the other
days combined since he had heard about the case. He was debating
whether or not he should get up and check on her suite when he
noticed an old, white van with the insignia "Rappaport
Telephone Company" drive up and park on the side of the road.
He watched the back of the man as he descended from the vehicle. He
was covered in the company's dark, blue suit with the logo stamped on
it and a blue cap which concealed his face. Only a small portion of
his long, black hair could be viewed underneath the hat which adorned
his head. He opened the back doors and pulled out a small set of
tools from the floor. He closed the door and entered the apartment
building.
Mulder stepped from his car and followed him, relieved to have the
chance to be able to stretch his legs. He walked towards the front
stoop and up the stairs, being sure to maintain a careful distance
from the viewpoint of the worker. Putting a hand on the front door
knob, he noticed that the "9" in the address "696" had become
partially unhinged and was hanging upside down. "666," he said
thoughtfully, "I wonder if that's a bad sign." He shrugged it off,
opened the doors and entered the building, coming at once to
a fork in the road. He looked long and hard in each direction
but did not see the man that was the object of his pursuit.
A woman approached him from the right hallway.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he stopped her, pulling out his badge, "did you
happen to see a man walk this way? He had blonde hair and was
wearing a blue suit?"
"I saw a man wearing a blue suit," she answered, "but he had blonde
hair, not black."
"What did the suit have on it?" he asked.
"I think it had some kind of patch," she answered, "some
phone company or something."
"Which way did he go?"
"Towards the elevator, down the hall," she told him, and pointed down
the hallway.
"Thank you," he replied hurriedly as his pace picked up from a
fast-walking stride to full-out jogging. He ran towards the elevator
and watched as the number five was lit. He looked down at the paper
in his hand. "Apartment room 552," he said to himself, and looked
left and right for the stairwell. He pushed open the door underneath
the "Exit" sign and ran up the steps, two at a time, until he reached
the fifth floor. He ran down the hallway, glancing at the numbers on
the doors. 549, 550, 551, 552. The door was already
slightly ajar. He pulled the gun from his hip and placed
both hands on it, straightening them in front of his body.
He kicked the door open and advanced into the room.
"Federal agent," he screamed, "don't move." He looked around the
room. No one was there. "Federal agent," he said again,
"I'm armed." He circled what looked to be the living room,
mentally taking in every possible detail. He walked
towards the coffee table, spotting something on the edge.
He put his index finger into the red puddle and lifted it
back up again, revealing fresh, bright, red blood.
"Come out right now," he said, "I know you're still here."
Beyond the couch, he could see a door open, leading to
another room in the house. He walked towards it, eyes
straight ahead. As he walked, he was suddenly stopped
as his foot got caught on something. It was the body
of a beautiful redhead, laying in a crumpled mass from
where she fell to the floor. He bent down and touched
his finger to her neck, feeling for a pulse. There was
none. She was already gone.
Lauren Alvarez Residence
4077 Pierceford Crossing
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
"That's the one." Scully turned and looked in the direction that the
man in her passenger's seat was pointing. "That is the residence of
Detective Alvarez."
Scully put her hand to her jacket pocket and felt inside. The
warrant papers that had taken all night to obtain were now
resting there securely within her grasp. She patted them once
or twice and then unbuckled her seat belt. "Let's go,
Detective," she said, portraying her usual calm, disaffected
demeanor.
They stepped from the car and began walking towards the door.
Grabbing on to the side railing for support, Scully proceeded up the
front steps, followed at close length by the investigator.
"Detective Alvarez?" Scully called, rapping loudly on the screen
door, "Detective Alvarez, this is Special Agent Dana Scully.
We have a warrant to search the premises. Open the door now
or risk federal condemnation." Scully waited for an answer,
but there was no reply. She nodded to the detective as she
grabbed for the gun at her hip. He nodded back in response
to the signal. He opened the screen door and held it back
for her as she raised her gun towards heaven. With one deft
move, she kicked the door ajar and walked into the house, her
gun leading the way in a threatening horizontal posture.
"I'll check down here," she told the twenty-or-so officers clad in
bullet-proof vests. She looked over in the detective's direction.
"Take some men and check upstairs," she commanded. He obliged and
proceeded towards the second floor while she scoped out the rooms
downstairs. She checked every conceivable hiding space, every nook
and cranny, but Alvarez was nowhere to be found. She walked towards
the front door and saw the detective descending the stairs.
"She's not upstairs," he informed her.
"She's not down here, either," she responded, pointing towards the
papers and objects strewn about the floor, "and by the look of the
uncharacteristically disheveled appearance of this house, I'd say
that she cleared out in a hurry." She turned towards him. "I
want your men to search everything," she instructed, "leave
nothing overlooked."
The detective put a hand to his hip. "You know," he said, "this
would be a lot easier if I knew what we were searching for."
"Yes, it would," she answered, turning to search a different room,
"I'll let you know when I find it." She walked forward, through the
hall and past the cozy kitchenette. She entered a room that she had
glossed over earlier in her search to find Alvarez. It was by far
the most intriguing of all the rooms she had seen. There was a
baby-grand piano seated on a Persian rug next to a large
bay window. Opulent vases and ethnic works were strewn
in a seemingly flawless and cohesive style about the room.
A majestic oaken desk was situated in the corner of the
room and a lovely fireplace was positioned opposite the
piano.
Above it, a mantle was filled to the brim with pictures. She gazed
through them, intrigued at the prospect of gaining some insight into
the mind of this brilliant woman, much like herself, who desired so
greatly to change her course in life that she gave up her career as a
trained scientist and devoted her life to law enforcement, instead.
She glanced over the pictures, from left to right, but the final
picture on the end of the mantle caught her eye. A young Alvarez
gazed longingly into the eyes of a tall, handsome man, which were
filled with a familiar passion that Scully had come to rely on so
faithfully over the years. He had one hand about her waist and a
drink in the other. She had her arms folded about his neck, a
gesture of the intimacy that Scully was afraid to feel. It was a
photo of years past, of the hopes of youth for the future. Now
that the future was here, Alvarez was looking to the past. After
all these years, she had held on to the hope that she and Mulder
would be together again. "No wonder they shared a life together,"
Scully thought wistfully,"she must share the same passion as he,
to have held on to this picture for so long, to have let a dream
dominate her thoughts after the passing of so much time."
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of crinkling
underneath her feet. She stooped down and picked up the picture
that must have been neglected in Alvarez's hurried attempt to
leave her home free of incriminating evidence. It was a faded
photograph of Alvarez, lying on a bed in some sort of medical
facility. There were all sorts of wires hooked up to her and
she was surrounded by five men in crisp, white labcoats.
Scully turned the picture over. Her mouth dropped as she
read the inscription written in black ink from a fountainpen.
It read, "First successful experiment of 'Saving Grace',
Maria Valesquez, 1963."
Julia Thomas Residence
696 Massachusetts Ave.
Washington, D.C.
"Damn it!" Mulder said to himself, shaking his head in
self-deprecation, "I should have prevented this." He stood up and
seated himself on the couch, contemplating what course of action he
should take next. He picked up the cell phone from his pocket,
prepared to call the Bureau and to have the body taken from
the house, when it rang unexpectedly in his hand.
"Mulder," he answered.
"Mulder, Langly, here."
"Langly, what do you want?" he asked.
"Mulder, we found something that I think you ought to know." Langly,
phone held up to his right ear, looked across the desk at his
companions. They nodded in assent, urging him forward.
"Well, what is it?" Mulder questioned.
"It's about Project Saving Grace," he replied, "We were going through
the pages of files after you left. Eventually, we came across a
section that contained references to experimentation that paved the
way for the twelve women that were created, hybrids of less stable
composition who were considered 'successful experiments,' but
who were in all actuality more alien than human."
"Just spit it out, Langly," Mulder said, putting his free hand to his
head. He had had, by all accounts, a trying day and he was growing
the slightest bit impatient listening to the long-winded explanations
of his friend.
"Mulder," he began uncertainly, "the disk gave reference to the
initial successful clone, a woman of high intelligence and
extravagant beauty, one who would be useful in the future
to generate clones from her own DNA." Langly once again
looked about the room, unsure of whether or not to continue.
Mulder sensed the hesitation in his voice.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It was Lauren, Mulder," he answered, "she was the first successful
experiment. They fashioned her from the Purity Control and then used
her intellect to carry out the work."
Mulder felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. "Are
you sure?" he managed to eek out.
"Positive," Langly answered, "it's all right here. I think
you should come over and look at the evidence."
Mulder glanced up at the mirror opposite from where he was sitting.
"I can't do that right now," he said.
"Why not?" Langly asked, "Where are you?"
"I'm bringing down a murderer," he responded, and with a smooth,
cat-like motion, he was on his feet. He turned around, threw
his cell on the ground, and faced the Yellow-Haired Man that
he had viewed in the mirror, lifting his gun directly in front
of him.
"Stay where you are," Mulder said, "or I swear by all that is holy
that I will shoot you where you stand."
"What is holy is not a matter for you to decide, Agent Mulder," the
man answered, "Only God in his awesome glory shall deign who shall be
worthy." He folded his hands in a pose of peaceful meditation.
"Blessed are the meek," he said, "for they shall inherit the Kingdom
of God."
"Don't give me your solemn, prayerful bullshit," he said, "I'm going
to send you straight to Hell, you murdering son of a bitch."
"One of us shall visit the Dark Realm," he answered, "but it will
surely be thou." The Yellow-Haired Man began advancing towards him,
only a few yards away.
"One step closer and I'll shoot," Mulder warned, but the
Yellow-Haired Man kept proceeding. Mulder pulled back the
trigger, firing one round, then another, then another, but
the Yellow-Haired Man continued his advance. He fired off
six or seven rounds before the Yellow-Haired Man had him
in his strong grasp. It was only then that Mulder saw the
gaping holes in his chest, spilling over with a green liquid.
As he clenched his eyes in pain, the Yellow-Haired Man threw
him against the wall. Mulder hit his head hard and went down.
He looked up through his stinging, red eyes at the
Yellow-Haired Man. As the darkness came, he saw his hair
change from blonde to black, and then grow long and wavy,
as Lauren's face appeared above his, like some angelic
vision. "I'm sorry, Fox," he heard her say, as he drifted
out of consciousness, "but there was no other way."
Lauren Alvarez Residence
4077 Pierceford Crossing
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Scully placed the phone against her ear. 'Beep, beep, beep.' "Still
busy," she said, "shit." She closed the phone to put it back in her
pocket when it rang unexpectedly.
"Mulder?" she asked hopefully.
"Agent Scully, it's Frohike. We've got a problem." No
catty remarks, no suggestive comments. She could tell
that there was something really the matter.
"What is it, Frohike," she asked, "I've been trying to get in contact
with Mulder but his line's busy."
"I know," Frohike answered, "we were talking to him when the phone
went dead."
"Talking to him about what?" she asked, "Where is he?" She was
growing increasingly concerned, and a little impatient, both of which
showed greatly in her voice.
"Agent Scully," he explained, "last night the boys and I
helped Mulder sneak into Chimera Genetics. Within one of
the databases there, we found evidence of Project Saving
Grace. Mulder copied a diskette of all the information
and we began going through it this morning. There were
references to all the deceased victims who were created
through the project." He looked up at Byers and Langly,
and continued, "We discovered that those twelve women were
not the first created through the Project, that there were
additional experiments conducted, women created who were
not completely hybridized."
"Let me take a wild stab in the dark," Scully interrupted, looking
down at the photograph in her hands, "Lauren Alvarez."
Frohike looked puzzled. "How did you know?" he asked her.
"Lucky guess," she answered, "Listen. I want you to go find Mulder
and tell him everything you know about Lauren Alvarez."
"He already knows," Frohike told her, "We had just finished telling
him of our findings when we lost contact with him."
"I want you to go look for him, anyway," she said, "I have a terrible
feeling that something's wrong. I'm going to finish up here,
and grab a few hair samples for analysis back at Quantico.
Then, I'm taking the first flight out of Philadelphia. I
should be back in a couple hours."
She hung up the phone and placed the picture in her pocket. She
turned towards an officer, saying, "Find me a brush, comb, anything
with a hair sample, right now. I need to get back to Washington as
soon as possible."
Washington, D.C.
Undisclosed Location
Frohike placed the phone back on the receiver.
"Why didn't you tell her about the gunshots, Frohike?" Langly asked.
The concern showed plainly upon his face. "I didn't want to worry
her," he answered.
"Yes," Byers interjected, "But don't you think she has the right to
know? I'm sure you would all agree by know that it is best to keep
Agent Scully apprised of the situation at hand. Besides, you know of
her feelings for him." He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the
next, "It's as obvious as the fact that the atomic bomb was dropped,
not to win the war, but to detract from the falsified death accounts
of Theodore Roosevelt."
"All the more reason not to make her worry," Frohike said, "Anyway,
she's four states away. What is she going to be able to do from
Pennsylvania? Let's just go check out the address of this,
what's her name, Julia Marie Thomas, ourselves. God knows
the last thing he needs is to get the feds involved."
Langly and Byers nodded their heads in agreement. They grabbed their
jackets and walked out the door, being sure to fasten the seven or
eight locks before they were gone.