Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. This is an amateur effort and no infringement on copyright laws was intended. There was no financial gain during the thinking, writing, and posting processes of this story and it is for entertainment purposes only.
Reviews:
Gothic Spook: Wow, thank you for your enthusiasm. Now I have another Fan Fiction project to work on following this one! I was worried about the last chapter, since trying to get inside Monica's head was something I never thought I had to do (Doggett is the man!). So thank you very much!
Moon Goddess: I will! Thank you for reviewing!
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"Hold me. Whatever lies beyond this morning is a little later on.
Regardless of warnings the future doesn't scare me at all."
~Utada Hikaru, Simple and Clean from Kingdom Hearts
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Chapter 3: Failure but not Defeat
She looked senseless, almost like she had no idea what was happening to her, as if she didn't notice that both agents were armed as they approached her. It was like the guns were props in a play that they were acting in. As if they weren't even there at all.
Her red hair was matted with blood, dark spots running from her ear and down her neck. The pain was blinding to her, the shapes of reality blurring in front of her in a macabre ballet.
They didn't have time to shout for her not to move. She wouldn't have listened anyways. The voices of a million people shouted in her mind, but they had come to the same conclusion. They were compromising the mission. Their presence was destroying her ability to complete her mission.
And so they must die, simple as that.
She attacked.
John had a quick reaction time on good days. Her leg swung upward and twisted around his outstretched arm, throwing the gun aside. Monica moved in, trying to get a clean shot as she lifted herself off the ground using John as support. She twisted over his arm and booted Monica to the ground. Her strength was wearing thin, and she found herself on the pavement before she could recover from her jump.
He went for his gun, while she grabbed his partner's and got to her feet. She aimed it at Monica's head, the barrel touching Monica's scalp and making her freeze. John looked over at her, holding his own weapon.
Her green eyes were bloodshot, locked with his. John couldn't move, watching Monica lying under the hand of the inhuman bitch who held the ability to pull the bloody trigger or not.
She didn't say anything, threaten pointlessly, or mention anything that didn't need to be said. What could she say that Doggett didn't already know? I'll shoot your wife if you don't drop the gun and hand it to me. Her cruel voice was already echoing in his head. But no, she was completely silent from lack of saying anything original.
John took a deep breath, setting the gun on the ground and sliding it to her over the pavement. Her eyes never left his for a moment, one hand driving the gun into Monica's head and the other reaching for the gun on the ground in front of her. Monica didn't dare move, transfixed on the way she grasped the handle of the weapon and pulled it to her.
And she aimed the gun on John.
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Everything happened in slow motion as she straightened her legs and stood up, guns still trained on both John and Monica.
Mission failure is weakness. Weakness is death.
Kill all who compromise the mission.
And then the ringing in her ears started again. The throbbing, the painful sting of the breed starting to feel the pain of the bullet blinded her. She fought against it until she could bear it no more. Finally she shoved the gun back in her coat, the other hanging from half limp fingers as she turned and walked away from them, back down the street.
John bolted to Monica, helping her off the ground.
"Jesus Christ." She said to him, fixing her hair a little, turning for a moment to see the silhouette moving off into the night. John looked back at the car. "Where do you think she's going?"
John looked after her, holding Monica close to him. He had never been more scared than seeing her with a gun to her head, seeing her so close to death. He sighed deeply, and that's when the idea dawned on him.
"She's going to finish the job." He said. Monica felt sick to her stomach again.
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Kyle Stevens was very good at what he did. He was a personal assistant to David Ridder, a good little rat for the leader of fourth level. At the same time, however, he was a little backstabber with a different agenda to Fox Mulder, and reported as religiously to the psychology professor as he did to David Ridder. Of course, Ridder knew nothing about his relationship with Mulder.
Louis came into the headquarters and shouted out to everyone that the mission was a failure, and that they were to bring her back in, alive. That triggered Kyle's 'cigarette' break, and he slipped easily to the private confines of the alley and grabbed his private cellular device, one that division couldn't trace.
Mulder was awake on his couch, watching TV. He could see Scully through the bedroom door, ajar, her sleeping face painted with the white moonlight that streamed in through the window and the yellow light that beamed in from the TV room. Next to her bedroom was William, his own sleepy face easily seen through his open door near him. The red curls shimmered with light in an angelic halo around his head. Mulder smiled with boyish delight at the face of his son. The words sounded foreign to him. His son, as if it were an object. As long as William was his, Mulder was happy.
He knew how Doggett felt now, never being able to understand the unruly behaviour whenever Luke was mentioned. But now he could imagine himself taking that stand, beating the shit out of anyone who would dare try and hurt William.
The phone rang, awakening him from his thoughts. He grabbed it before someone could hear it. Without acknowledging the person on the line, Kyle started talking anyways.
"I've got news that is going to make you so happy." He said, and Mulder's attention was completely fixed. "Just got a call in, and it was a mission failure."
"What mission?" He asked.
"Assassination, I know that much. They sent someone into the field and she hasn't come back yet. Division's going insane though. They're calling out every agent in the field to track her down and bring her back in alive. But there's a problem."
"What problem?" Mulder asked, even though he knew Kyle would elaborate.
"Something's wrong, and no one's telling me what. I know for a fact she was wounded, I have no idea what everyone's talking about. Something called 'the breed'."
"Sounds like a project to me."
"Me too,
but who knows these days. Ridder's
starting to suspect something. I better
go."
The phone died and Mulder shook
his head, turning off the phone at his end of the line and set it on the
table. He looked at the television, the
late night infomercials trying to sell him rotisserie barbeques. His next move was crucial. Go out looking for the assassin?
His eyes wandered back to Scully. She had turned over again in bed. He looked at the TV, moving his eyes back towards his son.
For the first time in his life, Mulder was making a choice that was against the truth.
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David Ridder had found her when she was twelve, a soldier amidst children. At that point the casualties committed by her hand exceeded all at her age. She understood death as a science, understood what it did to a body, but did not grasp the emotions involved with murder.
In other words, she was perfect for his line of work.
He didn't care where she came from. He didn't care that she was the product of an experiment intended to be bought and paid for. He didn't care that she had been locked in a room since the day she arrived, tortured and beaten into submission, and was labeled with a number instead of a name. He could care less whether she felt or bled or breathed. All he cared about was the missions he assigned to her. And that was the extent of his 'love'.
Now he was worried. The mission was a failure. She was out in the open, exposed to thousands of factors that stood to destroy all that he had worked to build. She could be used, with difficulty, to completely destroy him.
And they couldn't find her. With the 'breed' injured, they couldn't trace her any longer.
And she was under the impression that mission failure was weakness.
He swore at himself, running his fingers through his sweat drenched dusty blonde hair and called Louis on the phone. He needed some good news, and at that point he would take anything.
But he would find her. He knew that much. Dead or alive, she would belong to him again.
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She looked back, seeing the Agents still eyeing her with an interest that made her lean over and grow weak in the legs. She grasped hold of the lamp post, tilting her head foreword and began to vomit blood on the ground. They were watching her, seeing her weakness. She tightened the grip on the gun as a lifeline. It was her protection, her insurance to be rid of the situation.
Kill them…Bleed them…MAUL THEM.
KILL THEM!
KILL THEM!
"FUCK YOU!" She shouted into the night, going down on one knee. She grabbed hold of her head.
The memories were flooding back. The happy ones, the light ones, the ones filled with smiles and happiness and laughter and people and faces…sunlight. She looked into the sky, the moonlight shining down on her. No, she thought. No more, this is weakness. This is evil.
This is death.
She kept walking.
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Monica was panicking. Finishing the job, she heard the words play over in her head. She was finishing the job. Brad had been reduced to a job to both the women, for different reasons. He was nothing but a job.
WHY DO I HATE MYSELF SO MUCH!?
She watched her continue on with persistence, fighting against the pain in her chest and head.
"Come on." John said, pulling her gently back to the car. He grabbed the cell phone and called the police.
He's nothing but a job, she repeated to herself. She stopped in the middle of the empty street, leaned over and vomited.
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Meredith climbed outside on her roof, her slender body sliding easily through the window and out onto the 'tower' shingles. She could see the stars that night and faced the sky with her pale face, blonde curls braided to make them more manageable when she woke up. Her blue eyes were lit up by the moon that night, her skin like snow. Her night gown was fluttering on the wind, the flaps of her white kimono hanging open over her infantile body.
She reached up to the stars, wanting to touch them. She could feel the breeze on her face and closed her eyes in pure bliss, reaching up to the sky and smiling with glory. There was a presence in the wind that she could feel, something that felt like William. Something that reminded her of him but was somehow…different.
It was hard for a seven year old to explain.
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John hugged Monica tightly, watching the police move up and down the street, looking for a girl who had come and gone with virtually no trace. The vomit was one thing. The blood was another. They sent those both to the lab. But the girl had vanished.
"We've doubled guard at the hospital." The officer told him and Monica. "Nobody's going in or out of there without going through some form of security. We've got officers going through the area with a fine tooth comb. As far as we're concerned, nothing is going to get in there."
"Thanks." John said, dismissing him. Monica leaned against him, eyes closed. "You okay?" He asked her. She shook her head.
"I wanna go home." She said. John nodded.
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Please R&R!