Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing -- nothing at all.
--- Archibald MacLeish, "The End of the World"
Somewhere in Montana
50 days after
Her breath came in shuddery gasps as she ran. The forest swallowed her in a sea of murky greens and browns that slid past like water as she fled into its depths. The back of her throat constricted in panic, and she choked on the thick, heavy air. She didn't want to run, but she knew that there was no other choice. The dreams…the dreams are alive—they're real. I told them they were real. That they'd leave me. The man said they'd leave me. But he said I'd keep going. That I would always be strong. It doesn't mean forever. They'll come back 'cause God wouldn't do that, right? I wish that the man was here. I have to ask him…maybe he could help us. He's real. He's real somewhere. Maybe he'll find me and then he'll get them back from the bad ones.
It had taken the strongest will she possessed to obey her mother's words and run away. But that voice inside propelled her to do it, told her it was the right thing, and so she did it. She waited until she couldn't hear the shouting anymore and then collapsed into the dead leaves and underbrush on the forest floor. Little beads of cold sweat dotted her forehead, and she swiped them away with the back of her hand. The familiar lump and sting arose in the back of her throat; and she struggled not to cry. For some comfort, she cradled the battered stuffed cat tightly against her chest.
"It's okay, Kitty. Don't be afraid. We're going to find a way out of here, I promise. And after we get out of here, we'll find Mommy and Daddy and everything will be all right. We have to be brave now. If we're brave, we can't lose. And the bad guys never win. He says we have to believe that if we're going to continue."
For as long as she could remember, she'd dreamed about the same things. The man appeared often, sometimes older and sometimes younger. A boy also came, but not as frequently. He was different from the man, and yet they seemed connected somehow. All she could remember about the boy were his cat eyes as he looked up from the shadows; flecks of green and gold that glittered as he watched her. He never spoke, but when he looked at her, she knew he was afraid, which made her afraid. When she saw bad things happen, the man would hold her hand, but it didn't make seeing it any easier. Then she always awoke panting and frightened in her bed. Her mother and father reassured her that nightmares couldn't come true…but they were wrong.
--
Location unknown
51 days after
When Dana awoke groggily, she felt as though she were just breaking the surface of a thick pool of fog. Her head was muddled, and the only sensation she could register was the painful throbbing in her temples.
"Abby?...Abigail?" she managed in a hoarse whisper.
My arms…stuck together. She lifted her seemingly attached wrists and lightly brushed her hand against the back of her head where the pain was emanating; and her fingers were wet when she pulled them away. Blood. Her arms and legs were bound with rope and twine; she couldn't move. She twisted and writhed against the hard surface, but she couldn't break free. Dark. So dark. Where am I? Something's moving below…oh god, a car…a trunk. I'm in a trunk. The low ceiling of her prison sharply struck her knees when she raised them, and panic began to permeate her consciousness. Her heart was racing as her brain registered the limited oxygen supply, and her breath came in short gasps. She forced her legs upward in an attempt to bang the lid of the trunk open, but she only managed to bruise her already scarped knees.
--------
"Could you just give me the ticket now so I can go? I got to be someplace."
On a gathering storm comes
"Where?"
A tall handsome man
"I'm not sure but... they'll tell me when I get there."
In a dusty black coat with
"Sir... put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them."
A red right hand. He's a god he's a man he's a ghost
"You don't understand. They're waiting for me, I, I can't be late. Please? For your own sake? Don't stop Duane Barry."
I'm here I'm alive I'm here. My last chance. Hear me please hearmeplease. Mulder find me see me. Someone…
--------
The dream surrounded her again; the substance of dozens of nightmares on cold and lonely nights. The visions always took place in the trunk, limbs tied, darkness—terrible darkness—the sound of hissing snakes in her ears, his cold voice somewhere far away, and the song. Slowly, her mind began to clear, and her thoughts reassembled in the present, nearly twenty years after Skyland Mountain. Immediately the grim realization seized her: she'd failed, allowed herself to be needlessly drawn into the net. Now the isolation of the darkness overpowered her, and she knew that she would be utterly alone until the end. Hope of finding Mulder was lost, and Abigail was abandoned, left in the woods unable to defend herself. Dana softly moved her lips in a prayer she would have never imagined offering. Let the end come soon. The end for all of us. Let it be quick and painless, especially for Abigail. Even if death is truly the end, it would be better than this.
--
Near Washington, D.C.
51 days after
At first, he could not discern any English in the broken speech at all, but slowly he began to understand single interjections and piece together conversation threads. He tried reading them, but there were too many voices for him to focus on listening to one. Where were they? He couldn't see anything except for a single swirl of colors and lights with no shape or depth.
"Is he really the One?"
"Yes! Yes, it is he."
"Should we bring him before Them?"
"No, not yet. We must let him adjust first. He cannot be allowed to see until we can trust him."
"He cannot be trusted until he is changed, like the others."
"Why would he come to us?"
"Perhaps he understands. Maybe he understands the power and is ready to accept it. He must have always known it; how could one not recognize their own destiny?"
"This is the final step then?"
"Yes. Now is the time for their fate to be sealed. We will tell Them at once, and hopefully he will be ready by tomorrow."
Gibson slipped back into unconsciousness as he felt himself being lifted and dragged by his arms. In his final thoughts before the sleep overtook him, he remembered the tall dark figures with long, hollow faces and empty eyes looming over him, and the powerlessness he felt when one of them thrust a sharp object into his neck.
--
He awoke with difficulty, and as he blinked his heavy lids open, he realized that he could see again. Of course, there was nothing much to be seen. He was trapped in a small, empty, box-like room with a black tile ceiling, walls, and floor. A single violet bulb hung on a string from the ceiling, casting an unearthly glow and swaying back and forth eerily. His right wrist was cuffed with a hook and chain from the wall that dug harshly into his flesh and painfully broke the skin each time he moved. As his eyes began to focus more clearly, he glimpsed a figure in the shadows in the opposite corner. The individual seemed to be chained to the wall in the same manner. Gibson cleared his dry throat and hesitantly spoke.
"Hello? Who are you?" he asked.
The figure shifted and seemed to sit up straighter, but remained completely silent.
"Excuse me? How did you get here?...Do you speak English?"
Gibson tried to read the other person but found that he was unable. Whoever it was seemed to have the ability to block him from entering.
"Yes."
The voice was unlike anything Gibson had been expecting; it was the voice of a child.
"I know that you're not one of Them. How did you get here?" Gibson asked.
"They brought me here."
The child's voice carried a slightly deeper resonance, and Gibson decided that he was speaking with a young boy.
"How long ago?"
"I don't know. Weeks maybe. They've kept me in here mostly. They let me out sometimes for tests, but afterwards, I never remember what happened."
"You don't know what those tests are about? What do they want?"
"Something in my brain is special. They want all the special people, so They can turn us into Them. All the regular people are going to be killed; but They want to save us, so that we can be servants. They want to make us closer to Them than those men who look like people but aren't—the ones who are more like machines. We would have more power than those men; we would be a new race, They say. And after we're changed, we wouldn't remember being human. Our whole lives would be erased."
"Is there a resistance to this? Are people just letting it happen? Have you seen this happen?" Gibson asked incredulously.
"Yes, I've seen men changed. Women too. They're taking all of us in some kind of order. They've been waiting for the One—the leader of the new race who will be the most powerful servant. He and a woman will lead together, and they will have the first natural children of the new race."
"How do you know all this?"
"I listen," the boy replied simply.
"Well, that isn't the way it's going to happen. We will fight this. There are enough humans left…"
"But there aren't. People can't fight Them; They're too powerful. They know and understand things that we can't. At least this way They won't kill us. We'll live like Them, know what They know, and we won't remember hurting before."
"Don't say that! You can't be so willing to give up!"
"You just got here. When I first got here, I thought we could win too. But after what I've seen, I know that we can't."
"Where are you from? Were you taken from your parents?"
"I don't want to say anything about that," the boy said sharply with a hint of tears in his voice.
"Okay…have you always known you were different? Can you read people?"
"Read people? I don't know what that means. Mostly I can just sense things. I know when something's about to happen. Sometimes, when someone asks me a question, I know what they're going to say before they say it. Stuff like that."
A silence fell between them. Gibson waited to be asked the same questions, but the boy didn't seem as curious about him.
"I'm sorry about your parents. That must have been terrible, watching them suffer like that. I know what it's like—I've watched people that I love die…and to be an only child, feeling so alone all the time. I've taken care of myself for most of my life," Gibson said softly.
"Stop it! I don't like that! Stop looking in my mind."
"Okay, I'll stop. But it's not your fault, you know; Them murdering your parents to get to you. You need to stop blaming yourself. And not everything is lost—you still have reason to keep fighting."
"Whatever…" the boy muttered.
"My name is Gibson. Gibson Andrew Praise. What's yours?"
"William…Will," he answered tentatively.
Gibson sucked in his breath slightly and his heartbeat quickened. No way. Why is that the first thing that comes to mind? It's impossible…the chances are…but he's special. They said he was special.
"How old are you, Will?"
"I'm almost twelve."
"So you were born in 2001?"
"Yeah, in May. Why?"
"The chain on the wall has a relatively long reach. Could you step into the light a little bit?" Gibson asked hoarsely.
Gibson crawled forward as far as he was able, and as soon as he met the boy's confused expression in the center of the room, he gasped. He'd seen those eyes before, sparkling hazel with an old soul reaching out from behind them. Will's dark auburn hair fell into his eyes as he studied Gibson's look of shock.
"What?" Will asked.
"Were you adopted? Did your parents ever tell you?"
"Um, yeah. They adopted me when I was a baby. Why are you asking me all this?"
"Did they…did they ever tell you about your natural parents?"
"Not really, just that my real parents couldn't keep me—they wanted to but couldn't. They gave me up, because they wanted to do what was best for me. Sometimes I've thought about finding them but…Why do you want to know?"
"Because William…I know who you are."
--
Author's note: Answer to the gun question—Scully was trying to avoid a violent shootout in front of her daughter at all costs. Also, people can be somewhat illogical in moments of high stress and rapid thinking, like she didn't even bother checking the clip for bullets. Additionally, I needed a little poetic license to push the story in the direction where it needed to go.