EPISODE 1: Lux et Veritas Chapter 3: Dreams ******************************************** Date: 12-20-00, 04:07:45 GMT RP: CSM Subject: {RP} Morning After From: SummerSnows There was light pressure in his head and a clicking sound all around. The beach below the Syndicate's condo was deserted but for them. The sun was warm, bright, washing out the colors of everything around. The sand was hot on his bare feet. Behind the clicking sound was the sound of the ocean as it washed the shore. There is fog at the corners of your monitor. Scully was in front of him, laughing, walking down the edge of the shore. She turned to look back at him, laughing, her hair floating in the seabreeze. She wore a small white bikini under a gauzy white cover that tossed around her like the robes of an angel, and it tried to occur to him that this wasn't right - she wouldn't wear that - but she was getting farther away, and he had to quicken his step. When the breeze picked up, the clicking sound increased. He still couldn't catch her, the sand was dragging on his feet. He should let her go. She laughed. He should go back and get his cell phone, go back and go to work. The Project didn't leave time for this. She looked back towards him, smiling. "Why did you follow me so closely all those years?" He tried to answer, but his voice was missing. The distance between them increased. The light seemed brighter and warmer on his face. He was running now, but still she became smaller and smaller, until, out of breath, he stopped. What was that clicking sound? He looked at his hands and they looked older than he remembered. He looked past his hands, at the sand. Her small footprints led off to eternity. He kneeled, wanting to hold a footprint in his hand, but before he could scoop one up, the ocean came and washed them all away. The Cigarette Smoking Man opened his eyes. He wasn't on the beach, he was above the beach, in bed, in the Syndicate's penthouse condo at the southern end of St. Augustine. The sliding glass door was open so that the early morning sunshine reached his face, and the vertical blinds clicked when the breeze blew in. A slight headache reminded him of the bottle of wine. A headache which should have replaced other alcohol-related effects. Like desire. He had hoped he had been drunk. He made coffee, sat on the balcony, smoked a cigarette. Starting to feel better, the headache gone, his thoughts clearer. It was all right, he thought, just a meaningless dream, just the insanity of synapses misfiring because they were trying to wake up while steeped in stale booze. Yes, that's it. That's all it was. What he needed was a good breakfast. He drove to the Florida Cracker Cafe in the historic district. Sat in the air conditioning, downing café-con-leche and Morleys while waiting for an omelet. Nothing like caffeine and nicotine for a hangover. Because, of course, he thought to himself, that's all it was. And then, the hair on the back of his neck rose, an instinct kicking in. He knew who'd set off the instinct, too, without turning around, and his heart skipped a beat even though it wasn't supposed to. ******************************************** Date: 12-21-00, 18:13:15 GMT RP: Dana Scully Subject: Re: {RP} Morning After From: Brandi ~the minx~ Peanuts. It all begins with peanuts, she thought nonsensically, as one by one the tiny cellophane packages were picked from the litter to meet a most certain end. True, it was a poor breakfast, but it would have to do for now. She only needed enough food to partner the Advil she had swallowed earlier, and would take care of a decent meal in due time. Remembering the reason for the dull ache in her head, she smiled, wondering where C.G. was and what he might be doing right now. Is he bludgeoning the crown of a soft-boiled egg? Spreading his toast with clotted cream, instead of margarine? I bet he takes marmalade, she thought with a smile. She adjusted the knob of the noisy AC with her toe and reached for more from her stash. It's lucky I save these things instead of eat them on the plane, she thought bemused. Ridiculous to eat something so salty 35,000 feet in the air... don't people know of dehydration? Even more ridiculous to drink alcohol at such an altitude. <> an inner voice accused. She squelched it with the force of her headache. Scully chewed thoughtfully in the soft daylight of another Florida morning, too tired to move but not quite exhausted enough to still her thoughts. <> The morning outside looked as though it might be warm, <> despite it being mid-December. She rubbed it away and clicked on the TV. Two cohosts sat caffeinated and annoying, the woman twisting in her seat with the exuberance of a Chihuahua. <> She clicked off the disgusting couple and stood up, the plastic wrappers falling from her lap like dead leaves. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 8:47 AM, St. Augustine's Historic District ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It was, in a word, beautiful. What the old cities are supposed to be, she thought, enchanted by her surroundings... New Orleans, San Francisco, she loved them all. And this, of course... this... the oldest city in the United States. She was right for deciding to come here, she conceded, as she walked along Saint George St. with the sun in her hair. Right for boarding the plane, right for witnessing the blue orb, right for last night. It was a mantra of affirmation she had no qualms in chanting. Above all, she was right for deciding to come to breakfast. While the peanuts had prevented an ulcer, they had done little to satiate her appetite. With no specific destination, she swam in the Old World beauty of the buildings, the gardens, the houses trapped in time. She made a silent pact to do some sightseeing later on, after getting something to eat. Maybe she could have lunch in the Hispanic Garden, she considered. The weather was beautiful, after all, and the flowers still made an impressive showing, despite the season. Yes, she could see herself munching a tuna-on-rye, settled on a bench around the bronze Queen Isabella. The plaque would proudly boast how long she had ruled her kingdom of lilac and hydrangea; arms out-spread like a benevolent goddess. The image delighted her, as did the notion of having the afternoon to herself. I might even buy a bottle of age-defying miracle water for Mulder, as a souvenir, she thought, and laughed to herself. As annoying as they were, she had always found a sort of greedy charm in gift shops and their over-priced specialties. A sign up ahead, one of those swinging signs above the doors of establishments. The hinges need grease, Scully thought, as she watched the reptilian waiter balance his tray of delicatessen from the lofty heights of the colorful sign. "An alligator in a tux... we have a winner," she muttered to herself. A little bell at the top of the Florida Cracker Cafe announced her arrival to a roomful of hungry customers, none too notable... except for one. "You have got to be kidding me," Scully thought as her heart tickled her tonsils and her mouth grew dry. Her eyes settled on CSM, caressing a Morley with his thoughtful mouth, in between draughts from an impossibly frothy coffee nestled on the white tablecloth. "What a day," she said quietly, a smile threatening the corners of her mouth as she decided what to do. Should she approach? Should she not? It was crowded enough that he might never know she was in here. "Would you like a table ma'am?" The voice drifted to her ear from some far off place. She shook her head automatically, and found the words she didn't realize she was looking for. "I'll be joining that gentleman over there," she said, and indicated CSM's table in the corner. Would he mind? Should she mind? Her heartbeat was so loud she could barely hear herself think as she came up behind C.G., leaning in, hand on his shoulder, smiling. "Is that seat taken?" she asked, knowing full well it soon would be. The waitress didn't wait for his answer, but placed the tasseled menu opposite CSM as Scully settled in. She picked up the menu, obscenely large when folded out, and begin thinking of what she might order, and say. They were both important choices. A quick perusement and she was decided. "I'll have cranberry juice, a poached egg, two wedges of wheat toast with raspberry jam and a half of grapefruit. Make the yellow soft," she added, and the waitress disappeared, nodding halfway to the kitchen. With the menu gone, there was no protection from CSM's scrutiny and no excuse not to look at him. But, she thought surprisingly, who would need one? He was wonderful, such a spectacle in his crisp linen suit--casual yet elegant as he flicked the ashes of his Morley into the little crystal tray. His eyes were steady and awake, though he looked as though he might have been a bit more affected than she had been by their wine-tasting party last night. It wasn't too evident, of course, and she wondered briefly if she looked a bit of a rube aside such a graceful creature. He fingered his napkin with one hand, but didn't break eye contact. Above all, he was composed. <>. Though the chatter in the small cafe was livening as the day aged, she found it harder to register the ambient noise as she sat across from CSM. It was tunnel vision of the most pleasant sort. The waitress arrived with his breakfast, a deliciously overstuffed omelet, the sideseam threatening to split as his knife stealthily sliced through the end of it, releasing the steam and aroma of the goody hidden beneath its folds. Scully smiled in spite of herself, and sipped her water as CSM ate. ******************************************** Date: 01-03-01, 03:29:03 GMT RP: CSM Subject: {RP} CSM 01-02-01 From: SummerSnows The Cigarette Smoking Man watched Scully sit down, look at the menu, order. Like a fictional character whose writer had writer's block, he couldn't think of anything to say or do, except put out his cigarette. As she looked at him, he looked in her eyes, found himself trying to read them, looking for meanings. She didn't look particularly hung over, and he wondered briefly if he looked old and weak, sitting next to her, feeling physically and mentally not entirely solid. After tasting the omelet, which, of course, didn't have enough conch (they never put in enough conch), he spread orange marmalade on his toast. There is a saying that says if you think the silence is awkward, imagine the conversation. He chose, for this occasion, a voice as creamy as the cafe-con-leche: "So, how are you this morning, Agent Scully?" ******************************************** Date: 01-17-01, 17:37:28 GMT RP: Dana Scully Subject: Re: {RP} CSM 01-02-01 From: Brandi ~the minx~ "No no, they're old friends. I can tell by the way they look at each other," Denise commented, looking to her friend for an opinion. It was a busier day than usual at the Florida Cracker Cafe, and the waitresses were already worn thin from the harrowing breakfast shift. Being one of the only eating establishments on St. George Street offering a breakfast menu, the modest cafe was packed with tourists, shoppers and sightseers; all except for two. He arrived first, flashing a smile at the blond-haired waitress who happened upon his table. He wasn't the usual customer here, the waitresses had decided. He was all money and manners, from his Italian shoes to his manicured nails. Most of them having worked in food service for the better part of 10 years, the waitresses knew a thing or two about people. He was certainly a welcome break from the monotony of the workday, but the plot really thickened when SHE joined him. Much like the gentleman, the woman didn't fit into the round hole of their usual patrons. It was the way she carried herself, perhaps, or the way her soft auburn hair was coifed just right to be so early in the morning. Both of them had fire in their eyes, twinkling there like a secret shared by two. Together they were a volatile pair, not to mention perfect candidates for the morning gossip. Sarah, the youngest of the waitresses, pursed her lips in thought. "I think they're lovers," she said salaciously, and poured more coffee into the thick-lipped mugs on her tray. Denise, the middle-aged waitress with the tired blond hair snorted. "Maybe they're having an affair. He has money, look at his suit." Sarah giggled. "Yes, but she has money too," she added as she carried her tray into the jungle of appetites. Denise didn't think so. The woman was beautiful, yes, and nicely dressed, but her shoes weren't extravagant, nor her bag. She prided herself in sensibility, Denise decided, while the gentleman indulged in finery. [He probably wishes to give her things of great worth, but is afraid of bruising her independence. Maybe they have a past that prevents him from taking such liberties.] "Hey, you gonna take this or what," barked a voice from behind. With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Denise grabbed the heavy tray from her boss. Cranberry juice, grapefruit... it was the woman's order. She straightened her spine and navigated through the maze of customers toward their table. They were talking, the woman using her hands and smiling. She had small hands, but strong, capable. Steel wrapped in silk. Her male counterpart made no secret of his contentment, relaxing over his plate, marveling at the curve of her lips in the soft morning light. Denise wondered briefly if there had been another. From their table the two saw her coming and quieted; though she wished they hadn't. *~*~*~*~* "And that's essentially why I joined the FBI, out of rebellion." Her bright eyes met his. "The motivation is not something I'm terribly proud of, but the decision I'm willing to keep." Why did she divulge such things? She didn't mind anymore, and he didn't seem to either. Scully smiled around her water glass, wondering if he was at all surprised. He looked serene; daring in the early morning rays. Sunlight played along his face, illuminating his features rather than revealing his age. He looked younger and younger these days, she thought quietly, and wondered what picture the two of them painted in the minds of others. "Here you are," the blond waitress said brightly, "Sorry for the delay... the kitchen's a madhouse this morning." Scully accepted her breakfast with a smile, reassuring the waitress it was no problem as she watched her walk back into the maelstrom of the kitchen. Scully ate as CSM fingered the corner of his napkin, deliberating thoughts known only to him. She liked watching him like this, taking delight in the marmalade sticky on his fingers... it would be easy to miss had she not been looking for it. What a feast he presented--smoky eyes waking to a hazy morning in a busy cafe, hands lolling in his lap, floating across to brush a crumb from her lip. She could no longer taste her toast. *~*~*~*~* Denise stole a moment between tables, sitting down on a stool out of sight from her boss to rub her aching feet. The two were quiet now, both eating but still not independent of each other. The silence was not awkward, but understood. There is definitely a history, she decided, but one so shrouded in mystery and secrets she dare not speculate. Even in moments such as these, the past shadowed every smile. It would do so for a long time. *~*~*~*~* Scully twirled the hull of her grapefruit, nudging it with her spoon until it spun like a top. At the urging of CSM, she ordered a Cafe Con Leche "to go," and now waited for the hit of caffeine like one of Pavlov's dogs. CSM picked up the coffee while paying the bill, and left the tip on his way out. He and Scully zig-zagged through the maze of customers and out into the warmth of the Old City. It was a little after 10, and the morning was fast becoming midday... the old buildings awash in the rare white brilliance of a winter sun. Christmas time is beautiful no matter where you are, Scully thought whimsically, as she recalled Christmas's of long past, holidays spent in one city and then another. As a Navy brat, she experienced the flavor of Christmas in a variety of "homes." Not once did she ever mind. Above the slow grind of tourists on St. George Street, a shout pulled Scully from her nostalgia. "Doctor! We need a doctor over here!" Scully looked at CSM, who answered without words. Squinting against the bright morning, Scully saw a group of people crowded around a figure lying on the sidewalk. She sprinted across the street and surveyed the scene. One man stood on the outer edge of the crowd of 20 or so people, holding his head. She approached him first. "I'm a medical doctor, what's the problem here?" The bearded man shook his head in disbelief. "It won't stop... won't wake up." Scully pushed her way through the crowd, yelling her credentials with CSM not far out of sight. What she saw was definitely warrant of concern. A man lay on the sidewalk, one leg behind him, unconscious. The sun-bleached sidewalk was now wet crimson, awash in the man's blood. His ashen face was smeared red, his breathing shallow and irregular. Scully straightened in alarm. "How long has he been like this," she demanded, a touch louder and higher than her normal tone. A variety of answers were given, ranging from 5 to 15 minutes, both extremes making a helluvalot of difference to the medically minded. Snapping into action, she grabbed some latex from her pocket and looked for a point of exit. [Nosebleed]. One of the worst cases she had ever seen. "Everyone out of here! If you are not related to this man, go on about your business, I have the situation under control," although that was far from true. Slowly and surely the group began to disperse, each formulating their own opinions and theories as they walked away. "Get my phone and call 911," she said, indicating to CSM that it was in her right coat pocket. She tried rousing the man, keeping a watch on his respiration and pulse while CSM talked in the background. His fingers were blue, but his airway wasn't obstructed. Strange indentations reminiscent of ligature marks bracelleted his wrists. What they were she had no clue of, and had no time to speculate. Scully turned around when she heard CSM click off the call. Her eyes were dark blue now, wide and questioning. "This guy's lost a lot of blood. I can't say I've ever seen this before. This sort of--" Her heart caught in her throat. Above the sound of distant sirens, CSM's breath hitched, and Scully reached out to steady herself with a now-perfectly clean-gloved hand. The blood was gone... and the man was waking up. ******************************************** Date: 01-28-01, 04:00:39 GMT RP: CSM Subject: {RP} CSM 01-27-01 From: SummerSnows Outside the restaurant, it was warm, the sky turquoise with humidity, the sunlight reflecting off Scully's hair, adding gloss to her lips. The Cigarette Smoking Man stood at the steps of the Florida Cracker Cafe. He could hear the hinges of the sign above him creaking in the breeze, and a mockingbird practicing its repertoire in the distance. Tourists meandered in the narrow area that used to be a street. Some glanced in shop windows that were framed in blinking Christmas lights. Handing Scully the coffee, he asked, "Where did you park?" They walked in the direction of the vehicles, along a wooden sidewalk, passing hundred-year-old houses, and bushes with bright pink flowers against dark green leaves. Nearing the City Gates, he saw a gathering of people ahead, next to a large wooden waterwheel. The wheel, a touristy thing, ladled water from a pool at its base, then dumped the water in the same pool, splashing on the wall behind it. A rustic wooden fence circumferenced the waterwheel's pool, but instead of looking at the landmark, the onlookers seemed to be curious about the base of one of the fence posts. Apparently just now realizing what they were looking at, someone in the crowd screamed. Someone else called out for a doctor. And Scully was off. As she parted the crowd, CSM saw the man on the ground by the fence. Blood puddled on the sidewalk, a rivulet of it falling into the wheel's pool. > "Get my phone and call 911," she said, indicating to CSM that it was > in her right coat pocket. Was she inviting him to reach into her clothes? *CSM goes thud* After being scraped off the carpet by his writer, CSM reached in his jacket for his own phone. And a cigarette. > Her heart caught in her throat. Above the sound of distant sirens, > CSM's breath hitched, and Scully reached out to steady herself with > a now-perfectly clean-gloved hand. The blood was gone... and the > man was waking up. Lighting the Morley as he looked over the fence, CSM saw the pool was clear. The blood was gone from there too, no trace of the rivulets he'd just seen. He kneeled next to the man, his jacket floating around him on the sidewalk like a vampire's cloak. The man's eyes fluttered, then opened. He looked at CSM, looked at Scully, and said, "I didn't do it." CSM drew on the cigarette. "Didn't do what?" He didn't answer, but he stood, wobbly at first, then leaning against the fence. Turned to Scully, then inched towards her, away from CSM, needing no time to decide who was the most benign of the two. CSM stood too, brushed his jacket with his hands, looked at Saint George Street around him. Next to a support post in the building across the street there was a barrel. To the right of the waterwheel, some benches under a palm tree. The schoolhouse. No dead bodies. Always a good sign. After putting out his cigarette, he led the man to one of the benches. The palm fronds swished above them in the hot breeze, but offered no shade from the local midday sun. "What's your name?" "Larry." Abruptly, the sirens stopped. "You look a little afraid." CSM picked up the man's hand, looked at the unscarred wrist, let the hand go. "You don't think you'll be all right?" "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm absolutely perfectly fine. It was just a- a-, you know, a- " "A what, Larry?" CSM studied him. "A- " The paramedics emerged from between a bougainvillea and an oleander, having run from the next street over, the one cars could drive on. Catching their breath, they looked at the tourists healthily walking around, then approached the benches. One of them said, "We got a call. A man bleeding from the face. You see anything like that?" Larry blew out his breath. "A nosebleed!" Looking at CSM looking at him, he lowered his voice. "I mean, it was just a nosebleed. Like I told you, I'm fine." The other paramedic started to examine Larry's face. "You had a nosebleed, sir?" The first paramedic said, "Dispatch reported profuse bleeding." "Any other symptoms, sir? Headache? Blurred vision?" "I'm fine." "Who made the call?" "We should take you in anyway, sir, get you checked out." "I did." "No, I don't need to go to the hospital. I'm fine." "And you said there was a lot of blood?" CSM tilted his head, smiled, winked with his eyebrows. "I may have overreacted. Doctor Scully, what do you think?" ******************************************** Date: 02-08-01, 21:56:18 GMT RP: Dana Scully Subject: {RP} CSM/Scully From: Brandi ~the minx~ ~*~*~*~*~ > Outside the restaurant, it was warm, the sky turquoise with humidity, > the sunlight reflecting off Scully's hair, adding gloss to her lips. > The Cigarette Smoking Man stood at the steps of the Florida Cracker > Cafe. He could hear the hinges of the sign above him creaking in the > breeze, and a mockingbird practicing its repertoire in the distance. > Tourists meandered in the narrow area that used to be a street. Some > glanced in shop windows that were framed in blinking Christmas lights. > > Handing Scully the coffee, he asked, "Where did you park?" The coffee was warm against her palm, comforting; its heat penetrating Styrofoam and vanilla hand cream to analyze her skin like a cartographic beam of infrared. Walking in syncopation with the quivering surface of her cup she trained an eye beyond the mill of tourists, as if she could spot her car above their hibiscus-print Panama Jack hats. "Well, I had quite a time of it, but I found a spot on the adjacent street, not to far from here." Boy, was that an understatement. Parking was the Seventh Circle of Hell. In a fit of desperation she squeezed into a parallel right in front of a water hydrant, counting on her gov't decals to satisfy the parking scouts. You know, having those really comes in... [Damn]. That would work of course, had she not been driving a rental car. She unconsciously quickened her step. > They walked in the direction of the vehicles, along a wooden sidewalk, > passing hundred-year-old houses, and bushes with bright pink flowers > against dark green leaves. Nearing the City Gates, he saw a gathering > of people ahead, next to a large wooden waterwheel. The wheel, a > touristy thing, ladled water from a pool at its base, then dumped the > water in the same pool, splashing on the wall behind it. A rustic > wooden fence circumferenced the waterwheel's pool, but instead of > looking at the landmark, the onlookers seemed to be curious about the > base of one of the fence posts. > > Apparently just now realizing what they were looking at, someone in the > crowd screamed. Someone else called out for a doctor. > > And Scully was off, her coffee sacrificed to a nearby receptacle. > As she parted the crowd, CSM saw the man on the ground by the fence. > Blood puddled on the sidewalk, a rivulet of it falling into the wheel's > pool. > >> "Get my phone and call 911," she said, indicating to CSM that it was >> in her right coat pocket. > > Was she inviting him to reach into her clothes? > > *CSM goes thud* > > After being scraped off the carpet by his writer, CSM reached in his > jacket for his own phone. And a cigarette. > > > >> Her heart caught in her throat. Above the sound of distant sirens, >> CSM's breath hitched, and Scully reached out to steady herself with >> a now-perfectly clean-gloved hand. The blood was gone... and the >> man was waking up. > > Lighting the Morley as he looked over the fence, CSM saw the pool was > clear. The blood was gone from there too, no trace of the rivulets he'd > just seen. He kneeled next to the man, his jacket floating around him > on the sidewalk like a vampire's cloak. > > The man's eyes fluttered, then opened. He looked at CSM, looked at > Scully, and said, "I didn't do it." Scully shot CG. Oops! I didn't finish that. *blushing* ;-) Scully shot CG a nervous glance. (Whew, that's better.) The inner workings of her mind began cataloging, facts and theories falling in line like so many dominoes. "Something is very wrong here," she thought nervously, and began searching her backlog of freakish experiences in hopes of a match. > CSM drew on the cigarette. "Didn't do what?" > > He didn't answer, but he stood, wobbly at first, then leaning against > the fence. Turned to Scully, then inched towards her, away from CSM, > needing no time to decide who was the most benign of the two. Scully struggled to understand just what had happened. The blood was there, on him, on her hands... all around. How is that possible? Beneath her, the disoriented man began muttering again. Carefully she helped him sit upright, hoping to rouse him. She leaned down to him, speaking softly as you would to wake a sleeping child. "Do you remember what happened? How you came to lie on the ground?" A beat passed. The man began to move, bringing his hands to his face, fingers curling around Scully's arm, tightening as if he endured a horror no one saw but him. She thwarted his compression with a still-gloved hand. Determined to get to the bottom of this, she pressed further with her questioning. "Has this ever happened to you before," she asked, every ounce of uncertainty now gone from her voice. After all, it wasn't like she was new to this sort of thing. Like the T-shirt says... "Same sh*t, different island." The man looked up with pale blue eyes, streaked with tears and sweat where blood should be, (where it was only moments before) and opened his lips to speak. "I... I have to... have to go" He uttered suddenly, and proceeded to stand on wobbly foal's legs. > CSM stood too, brushed his jacket with his hands, looked at Saint > George Street around him. Next to a support post in the building across > the street there was a barrel. To the right of the waterwheel, some > benches under a palm tree. The schoolhouse. > > No dead bodies. Always a good sign. > > After putting out his cigarette, he led the man to one of the benches. > The palm fronds swished above them in the hot breeze, but offered no > shade from the local midday sun. Scully stood near the cool spray from the waterwheel, fussing at the dark dots peppering her suede shoes but not minding enough to move. CSM and the man sat together on a bench across the way. Neither of them looked comfortable with the other, though the man of the hour seemed willing to talk. She watched C.G. lean in, his back now turned so she couldn't read his lips. > "What's your name?" > > "Larry." Abruptly, the sirens stopped. > > "You look a little afraid." CSM picked up the man's hand, looked at the > unscarred wrist, let the hand go. "You don't think you'll be all right?" > > "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm absolutely perfectly fine. It was just a- a-, > you know, a- " > >"A what, Larry?" CSM studied him. > > "A- " > > The paramedics emerged from between a bougainvillea and an oleander, > having run from the next street over, the one cars could drive on. > Catching their breath, they looked at the tourists healthily walking > around, then approached the benches. Scully heard the sirens slow, then stop as paramedics poured from the trees like cannibals welcoming the latest Missionary. She followed behind them, all the while eyeing the man in question. > One of them said, "We got a call. A man bleeding from the face. You see > anything like that?" > > Larry blew out his breath. "A nosebleed!" Looking at CSM looking at > him, he lowered his voice. "I mean, it was just a nosebleed. Like I > told you, I'm fine." > > The other paramedic started to examine Larry's face. "You had a > nosebleed, sir?" > > The first paramedic said, "Dispatch reported profuse bleeding." > > "Any other symptoms, sir? Headache? Blurred vision?" > > "I'm fine." > > "Who made the call?" > > "We should take you in anyway, sir, get you checked out." > > "I did." > > "No, I don't need to go to the hospital. I'm fine." > > "And you said there was a lot of blood?" > > CSM tilted his head, smiled, winked with his eyebrows. "I may have > overreacted. Doctor Scully, what do you think?" (end of retread) Scully reasoned quickly. Essentially she had two choices: To tell the truth or not. It wasn't that hard. As they say, "lying is like drinking: do it often enough and you'll soon develop a taste for it." Taking First Paramedic Glenn Brady by the arm, Scully steered him away from the fussing hovel to talk to him in private. She lowered her voice, dramatically breathing over the words she spoke as if the very air was bugged with surveillance devices. "Mr. Brady, there's been a terrible misunderstanding, I'm sorry to have wasted your time with such a matter." He moved to speak but she continued. "You see, the man who placed that call is... unstable. He has a history of this, prank calls and such, I left him alone for just a minute and..." The paramedic was sold. "Ms. Scully--" "DOCTOR Scully," she corrected. "Yes, Dr. Scully. It's quite all right, these things happen all the time. Just try and watch him more carefully from now on." Scully swallowed, trying not to wince. "Ok guys, let's load up, we're done here." The others didn't seem to question him. Glenn walked over to CSM and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "You take care now," he said, saccharin oozing from every pore. In less than five minutes the ambulance was off on another call. Scully met C.G.'s expression with neutrality, promptly putting off further explanation for another time. "It's nothing... I'll tell you later," she said with a tight smile, figuring he would appreciate the humor under better circumstances. She ran a restless hand through her hair, her person considerably worn already. Motioning with her head she turned away from Larry, turning to CSM and leaning in to make her whispers heard. "Let's not involve a lot of people in this," she said quietly. "The last thing we need is to be dragged into a formal inquiry as to why this guy has Magic Ink blood. Let's just, just for the sake of curiosity, ask a few questions and be done with it." Scully turned toward Larry now getting up to leave and approached him. "Are you sure you're ok to leave?" "I, I'll be fine," he managed, feebly straightening his jacket. He was decidedly disheveled, crumbled and dusty from lying on the sidewalk, and looked as if he'd seen a ghost. Scully appraised him, trying to think of a way to get him to talk. "You know what, I could stand some coffee right about now, why don't you let us buy you a cup?" "Don't drink the stuff," he said dryly. Scully glanced at CSM, not giving up. "Then we'll get something cool," she said, though all she wanted were answers. *~*~*~*~* Larry didn't know this place, or the people he was with, but still being a little disoriented from his latest episode he took the redhead up on her offer. She was small, delicately featured, hair like Peggy Gibson, his first girlfriend. The way she walked let him know she was intelligent, impatient, in control. No mousy bounce or cheerleader- flounce evident here, though that lovely hair could stand some disarray. The guy with her was just plain foreboding. Mystery hung about him like humidity. You know those dime store detective rags, with the guy standing on the docks at the end? Well, he could have easily been him. Poised, bemused, dragging on a cigarette, he embodied power. This man had seen things, done things, ordered things, and having been around the block and back again, everything seemed redundant. Larry hadn't figured out the two as a whole, though, wondering if he was an associate of hers, or something more. They seemed comfortable, but not completely meshed. Granted they appeared relaxed around each other, but there was something else; perhaps an uncomfortable history that was yet to be smoothed. The redhead glared at him, eyes softening just a second, wanting to know. The truth be told, Larry wanted to know too. Maybe she could tell him. ("Tell me Red, just how did that high-heel shoe end up in my hotel room? What long-legged princess walked it in there? And why was the name 'Terri' written in my handwriting on the sole? Because if you know, Sweetheart, I really wish you would tell me.") [Its bruised spike heel... scarred, wrapped in toilet paper and shoved into the drawer of the nightstand, wedged between Gideon and dust.] Larry closed his eyes; shut them tight against the image, willing it away. Scully stirred her Pepsi with a straw, sinking into the teal-blue vinyl of the booth with every small movement. "Larry," she began, measuring carefully. "Larry, can you tell us exactly what happened back there?" He shifted. "Nosebleed, I told you that. I've had them since I was a kid, it's not a big deal." She wasn't buying. "Blood doesn't disappear, Larry, unless myself, Mr. Spender here, and fifteen other onlookers were involved in a mass hallucination." She paused a beat, blinking, lowering her voice. "That I could believe save for one detail... you saw it too." Only that wasn't true. Larry Phelps wasn't used to strong women. His mother had been a soft- spoken woman, his sister married a drunk, and his Aunt Louise was a short order cook who published pulp fiction in her basement. Sound impressive? It's not. She died of an overdose on her 43rd birthday. So now this Pit Bull with an angel's face was spouting questions and he didn't know how to respond. "I said before, it was a simple nosebleed." Scully leaned over the scarred Formica, struggling for leverage against the worn springs. Her voice was smooth, a low rumble. "Larry, we can help you. I'm a medical doctor, but you have to be honest with us." The halogen light did funky things to her face, casting it in sharp angles. She looked like a Picasso. "Maybe they help. Maybe Red with her proud Roman nose and smoking friend could solve my problems with a wave of her porcelain hand. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to tell them." In Scully's opinion they were getting nowhere. He wasn't talking and her interest was waning. She waved for the check. "What do you want to know." She stopped, abandoned her former line of questioning and decided to employ a little casual conversation. "So where are you from Larry?" He relaxed a little. Questions he knew the answers to. He could do this. "Charlottesville, Virginia." Scully frowned. No way was this guy Southern. "If you don't mind me remarking, I notice you don't have an accent. Are you originally from Virginia?" She was pushing it, but it was worth a shot. "No, I grew up in... the West... New Mexico." He swallowed hard, took another draught of Pepsi. "Not a big deal... a little town called Midway." He huffed a dry laugh. "'Midway between here and nowhere' is more like it." A look passed over her face... Recognition? Who the Hell has ever heard of Midway, New Mexico? He stared at the dented table top, remembering home. [Lights in the sky, the Fourth of July in the dead of winter. Steve Dobbins wetting the bed every night after that.] Stevie went away college and never came home. The waitress arrived with the check and Scully numbly acknowledged her, too preoccupied for more than common courtesy. [Midway]. Where had she heard that before? She let the word roll around for a while, searching for kinship before almost hearing it click into position. (Midway--suburb of Roswell). A little dot of a town, right on the outskirts. Her mind began flying, getting ahead of her logic with wild ideas. She couldn't help wondering if CSM had made the same connection. "Don't do this," she warned herself. "Don't think like him, let's get all the facts first." -- "But these are the facts,"-- another voice informed, and in one fell swoop, logic was defeated in favor of an altered state of common sense. After all, science and experience don't always jive. He'd had enough... enough of their questions, enough of their company. "Just who the Hell are these people," he thought suddenly, as only now becoming flustered by their presence. "You two are cops, aren't you," he said, his voice pure ice. It was an accusation, not a question, and Scully wondered briefly how she should respond. ******************************************** Date: 02-18-01, 01:40:36 GMT RP: CSM Subject: {RP} Polarity From: SummerSnows > He'd had enough... enough of their questions, enough of their company. > "Just who the Hell are these people," he thought suddenly, as only now > becoming flustered by their presence. > > "You two are cops, aren't you," he said, his voice pure ice. It was an > accusation, not a question, and Scully wondered briefly how she should > respond. The Cigarette Smoking Man laughed, smiled generously, looked straight into Larry's eyes, the way an honest man might. "Do we look like cops to you?" He motioned towards Scully. "This is Dr. Scully. She specializes in unusual medical conditions. Just the other day, I personally benefited from her expertise." At the next table, two children played with the pieces of a tiny train set. CSM recognized them; he'd seen them by the waterwheel, among the onlookers that Scully had chased away. The boy appeared to be about six years old, and wore a tee-shirt that was fire-engine red. The little girl wore a pink dress and pony tails. As the girl tried to touch the front end of the toy locomotive to one of the cars, the boy explained that the cars were painted magnets and would only tie together if she put them the right way. Larry squinted. "You didn't answer. You *are* cops, aren't you?" He looked ready to spring, like a jack-in-the-box. "I know the law. You can't tell me you're not a cop, if you are." "What are you afraid of?" "Answer me!" The little boy explained polarity. Positives and negatives. "Larry, I'm not a cop," CSM said. "Anyway, you're wrong about the law." He pulled a pack of Morleys out of his jacket. Tapped on the box. Happened to glance over at Scully, and lay the pack on the dented Formica. He would have liked to keep looking at her, but she was too beautiful and too smart. As he reached for his lighter he looked back at Larry instead. "You can trust Dr. Scully," CSM said, holding the lighter in one hand, a cigarette in the other. "She can help you." He watched Larry sip from his soda, run a hand through his sandy hair. Starting to break. CSM lit the Morley, blew smoke at the ceiling fans. The fans pushed the smoke away like the toy train car had repelled the engine. Softly CSM said, "You look tired, Larry. How long can you go on like this?" The little boy took the train pieces from the girl. He turned the locomotive around and the car stuck to it. Larry stood up. "I have to go." -0-0-0-0-0- Through a mist, Larry could see himself. He was sitting at a front table at The Body Shop Gentlemen's Club, drinking a draft beer. He hated draft beer. Goldie was on stage, wearing a black lace bra, black thong, and black pumps - the sexy kind with the stiletto high heels. Spinning around the brass pole, then doing a split right in front of Larry's seat, her smile a hundred teeth wide, her thick long blonde hair shiny under the neon lights. Larry watched himself put a twenty-dollar bill in the black sequined elastic band on her thigh. -0-0-0-0-0- CSM moved the straw through his soda, looking at the empty seat where Larry had been. "I have an idea." -0-0-0-0-0- Through a mist, Larry could see himself. Goldie in his hotel room, standing seductively in front of the nightstand. She wore a tight black dress with a hemline above the knee, black heels, and makeup appropriate to night life. Behind her on the nightstand was a photo of a woman in her mid twenties, slightly overweight with short dark hair, a baby in one arm, her other arm around another child, maybe two years old. Smoky Mountains in the background. Next to the photo was a bottle of champagne in a metal bucket, a cheap hotel standard-issue lamp, a phone book of St. Augustine. He put his arms around her, kissed her forehead, picked her up, and sat her on the bed. She was smiling, laughing. Saying something about being free. Her boyfriend had broken up with her, she said. She said, it felt good for someone to want you when you were lonely. He started to undress her, slowly, lovingly. Took the champagne out of the bucket and into the hotel room's bathroom to open it. She followed him there. He took off one of her black high heels, then the other. He poured champagne in one of the shoes, drank it, brought it to her lips. For a moment she hesitated, then went to take a sip. With a quick twist of the wrist, he turned the shoe upside down, then jammed it upward. Champagne splashed on the bathroom tiles, stained Goldie's black dress. Goldie's head was back, now, the heel torn through the right nostril, through skin, through skull, shards of cartilage mixed with the blood that mixed with the champagne on the floor. She fell back, caught herself on the edge of the bathtub with her hand, her bracelets smashing so hard between her wrists and the porcelain, that the gold links bit into her skin and drew blood. She slid down the last few inches to the floor. Staring at him the whole time, he could see a look of disbelief behind the blood, the torn flesh. Her lungs tried to draw in one last breath, but her mouth was filling with blood, her fingertips were turning blue. -0-0-0-0-0- CSM [and Scully too, I hope :-) ] walked back up Saint George Street, towards the northern end of the Historic District, where he had parked. The sun was high in the sky, now, annoyingly bright, its heat making steam of the Florida air. -0-0-0-0-0- Through a mist, Larry saw himself dip his fingers in the blood as if it were cake icing. He picked up the black high heel shoe, and walked back to the bed, where Goldie had sat. Watched himself write Terri on the bottom of the shoe, put it in the nightstand drawer. Looked at the photo, and said, Terri, Terri, when will it be your turn. And then everything was black, as black as Goldie's dress. -0-0-0-0-0- CSM sat in the dark blue vehicle, tapping at keys on his laptop. He'd turned on the air conditioning as soon as he'd got in, so now it was only about ninety in there, down from a-hundred-and-forty. "These databases," he said, "are surprisingly easy to access." -0-0-0-0-0- And then the black went away, and Larry could see himself again. He was cleaning the bathroom, wiping blood with a hotel-standard-issue white washcloth, rinsing it in the steaming water from the bathtub faucet. Then he was driving, driving, driving. The sunrise in his rear-view mirror. On a bridge over a swamp, he pulled over, popped open the trunk, looked around. Pulled out a mass covered in plastic lawn trash bags held together with duct tape. Tossed the package into the swamp. Drove back to St. Augustine, where he walked on Saint George Street until he got to the waterwheel. There were two children there, a little boy about six years old wearing a fire-engine red tee-shirt, and a little girl, about four years old, wearing a pink dress and pony tails. And then, in his hotel room, Larry woke up. -0-0-0-0-0- "There we go," said CSM. "Super 8, 3552 North Ponce-de-Leon Boulevard. Larry Phelps, room 206. That's just up the road." Fiddling with the Morley, not sure whether to light it or not. ******************************************** Date: 03-01-01, 08:04:04 GMT RP: Dana Scully Subject: Re: {RP} Polarity From: Brandi ~the minx~ >> He'd had enough... enough of their questions, enough of their company. >> "Just who the Hell are these people," he thought suddenly, as only now >> becoming flustered by their presence. >> >> "You two are cops, aren't you," he said, his voice pure ice. It was an >> accusation, not a question, and Scully wondered briefly how she should >> respond. > > The Cigarette Smoking Man laughed, smiled generously, looked straight > into Larry's eyes, the way an honest man might. "Do we look like cops to > you?" He motioned towards Scully. "This is Dr. Scully. She specializes in > unusual medical conditions. Just the other day, I personally benefited from > her expertise." She could see it as clearly as the bubbles swirling in her soda: CSM lying in her arms, waxen and rigid on the cold floor of the lab. The blue orb glowing between her fingers, between his lips before it moved down his throat... > At the next table, two children played with the pieces of a tiny train set. > CSM recognized them; he'd seen them by the waterwheel, among the > onlookers that Scully had chased away. The boy appeared to be about six > years old, and wore a tee-shirt that was fire-engine red. The little girl wore > a pink dress and pony tails. As the girl tried to touch the front end of the > toy locomotive to one of the cars, the boy explained that the cars were > painted magnets and would only tie together if she put them the right way. > > Larry squinted. "You didn't answer. You *are* cops, aren't you?" He > looked ready to spring, like a jack-in-the-box. "I know the law. You can't > tell me you're not a cop, if you are." > > "What are you afraid of?" > > "Answer me!" > > The little boy explained polarity. Positives and negatives. > > "Larry, I'm not a cop," CSM said. "Anyway, you're wrong about the law." > He pulled a pack of Morleys out of his jacket. Tapped on the box. > Happened to glance over at Scully, and lay the pack on the dented > Formica. He would have liked to keep looking at her, but she was too > beautiful and too smart. As he reached for his lighter he looked back at > Larry instead "You can trust Dr. Scully," CSM said, holding the lighter in > one hand, a cigarette in the other. "She can help you." He watched Larry > sip from his soda, run a hand through his sandy hair. Starting to break. > CSM lit the Morley, blew smoke at the ceiling fans. The fans pushed the > smoke away like the toy train car had repelled the engine. Softly CSM > said, "You look tired, Larry. How long can you go on like this?" > > The little boy took the train pieces from the girl. He turned the locomotive > around and the car stuck to it. > > Larry stood up. "I have to go." "Larry, wait." Scully reached over CSM and pulled out a napkin from its steel trap, laying it flat on the ugly tabletop. "I want you to call me, if anything else happens to you," she began, clicking open a pen and scribbling on her napkin. "This is the number to my cell phone... if you experience ANYTHING out of the ordinary, I want you to call me." A beat passed. "You can trust me, Larry. We're not going to hurt you." The redhead held out the napkin until he took it, folding it and cramming it into his jacket pocket without a second glance. He wanted to believe her, needed to trust her, to trust someone, but he'd been jumpy ever since they'd mentioned Midway. He nodded to them both, thanked them for the soda and walked out the door. > -0-0-0-0-0- > > Through a mist, Larry could see himself. He was sitting at a front table at > The Body Shop Gentlemen's Club, drinking a draft beer. He hated draft > beer. Goldie was on stage, wearing a black lace bra, black thong, and > black pumps - the sexy kind with the stiletto high heels. Spinning around > the brass pole, then doing a split right in front of Larry's seat, her smile a > hundred teeth wide, her thick long blonde hair shiny under the neon lights. > Larry watched himself put a twenty-dollar bill in the black sequined elastic > band on her thigh. > > -0-0-0-0-0- > > CSM moved the straw through his soda, looking at the empty seat where > Larry had been. "I have an idea." > > -0-0-0-0-0- > > Through a mist, Larry could see himself. Goldie in his hotel room, > standing seductively in front of the nightstand. She wore a tight black > dress with a hemline above the knee, black heels, and makeup appropriate > to night life. Behind her on the nightstand was a photo of a woman in her > mid twenties, slightly overweight with short dark hair, a baby in one arm, > her other arm around another child, maybe two years old. Smoky > Mountains in the background. Next to the photo was a bottle of > champagne in a metal bucket, a cheap hotel standard-issue lamp, a phone > book of St. Augustine. > > He put his arms around her, kissed her forehead, picked her up, and sat her > on the bed. She was smiling, laughing. Saying something about being free. > Her boyfriend had broken up with her, she said. She said, it felt good for > someone to want you when you were lonely. > > He started to undress her, slowly, lovingly. Took the champagne out > of the bucket and into the hotel room's bathroom to open it. She > followed him there. > > He took off one of her black high heels, then the other. He poured > champagne in one of the shoes, drank it, brought it to her lips. For a > moment she hesitated, then went to take a sip. > > With a quick twist of the wrist, he turned the shoe upside down, then > jammed it upward. Champagne splashed on the bathroom tiles, stained > Goldie's black dress. Goldie's head was back, now, the heel torn through > the right nostril, through skin, through skull, shards of cartilage mixed with > the blood that mixed with the champagne on the floor. She fell back, > caught herself on the edge of the bathtub with her hand, her bracelets > smashing so hard between her wrists and the porcelain, that the gold links > bit into her skin and drew blood. She slid down the last few inches to the > floor. Staring at him the whole time, he could see a look of disbelief > behind the blood, the torn flesh. Her lungs tried to draw in one last breath, > but her mouth was filling with blood, her fingertips were turning blue. > > -0-0-0-0-0- > > CSM [and Scully too, I hope :-) ] walked back up Saint George Street, > towards the northern end of the Historic District, where he had parked. > The sun was high in the sky, now, annoyingly bright, its heat making > steam of the Florida air. > > -0-0-0-0-0- > > Through a mist, Larry saw himself dip his fingers in the blood as if it were > cake icing. He picked up the black high heel shoe, and walked back to the > bed, where Goldie had sat. Watched himself write Terri on the bottom of > the shoe, put it in the nightstand drawer. Looked at the photo, and said, > Terri, Terri, when will it be your turn. > > And then everything was black, as black as Goldie's dress. > -0-0-0-0-0- > > CSM sat in the dark blue vehicle, tapping at keys on his laptop. He'd > turned on the air conditioning as soon as he'd got in, so now it was only > about ninety in there, down from a-hundred-and-forty. "These databases," > he said, "are surprisingly easy to access." Scully huffed a dry laugh. "The FBI mainframe is virtually wide open, any 15 year old can hack it. Just two weeks ago Global Hell decorated the Bureau homepage in seasonal style... Santa and J. Edgar Hoover under the Christmas tree." She flashed CSM a mischievous smile. "I saved the screen before the cleanup crew arrived." -0-0-0-0-0- > And then the black went away, and Larry could see himself again. > > He was cleaning the bathroom, wiping blood with a hotel-standard-issue > white washcloth, rinsing it in the steaming water from the bathtub faucet. > > Then he was driving, driving, driving. The sunrise in his rear-view mirror. > On a bridge over a swamp, he pulled over, popped open the trunk, looked > around. Pulled out a mass covered in plastic lawn trash bags held together > with duct tape. Tossed the package into the swamp. Drove back to > St. Augustine, where he walked on Saint George Street until he got to the > waterwheel. There were two children there, a little boy about six years old > wearing a fire-engine red tee-shirt, and a little girl, about four years old, > wearing a pink dress and pony tails. > > And then, in his hotel room, Larry woke up. > > -0-0-0-0-0- > > "There we go," said CSM. "Super 8, 3552 North Ponce-de-Leon > Boulevard. Larry Phelps, room 206. That's just up the road." Fiddling > with the Morley, not sure whether to light it or not. (End of retread) "Well, I say we get moving," Scully said as she pulled the seatbelt across and clicked it into position. She reached for her cell phone, checking to see if it was on, then put it back in her purse. "It's doubtful that he will call, but it's worth a shot. There is definitely more here than meets the eye, that's for sure." ~*~*~*~*~* Larry Phelps sped into the parking lot of the Super 8 motel and slid into a space not far from his room. He had to get out, get away, as if he could run from himself forever. He stumbled into room, half-falling over his open suitcase. The air inside was unmistakably motel-room... stale and moist from the air conditioner. It made him sick but it was too hot to turn it off. Larry hoisted his open suitcase onto the bed and began flinging open drawers, unceremoniously hurling clothes over his shoulder and onto the bed. Opening the closet he took out his garment bag and lay it on the bed, smoothing his hands over it before he unzipped the contents. His suits still hung on their racks, the annoying wooden ones that stay bolted in place. He struggled with the little notch as he worked each rack off its runner until every suit Larry has carried with him was neatly zipped away. He made his way into the bathroom, gathering his Barbasol, Crest and assorted toiletries, packing them all in a little leather bag. He reached into the shower and plucked the little bottles of shampoo from their plastic ledge, still slippery from his morning shower. They flew from his grasp and clattered on the dirty tile floor below. Larry crouched down as best he could in the tiny space, reached his arm behind the toilet, feeling around for the conditioner that got away, when his fingers caught on something. Links... like a--Larry pulled out the charm bracelet from its hiding spot beside the plunger, unfurled the kinks and stared at the tiny baubles dangling from their moorings. A Christmas tree, a graduation cap, a kitten batting a ball of string... its face flaked with something rusty, like dried-- "Oh my God," Larry breathed, as he sank back against the door screaming. ~*~*~*~*~ Scully fiddled with the knob on the A/C, thumping it in disgust when she discovered it was on MAX cool. "So what are your thoughts on Larry Phelps," Scully began, turning in her seat so she could see CSM as he drove. She caught herself thinking how nice he looked, his profile drawn sharply against the rush of trees passed the window, and found herself wishing it were a longer drive. "I think he's hiding something," she continued, "or hiding from someone. He seemed awfully nervous to be walking the straight and narrow... we should check him for outstanding warrants." Scully leaned into the plush leather seats and gazed out the window. The world outside was a blur, a mass of green and blue and white... reality in a blender. "It's so strange, how we presume reality," she said thoughtfully, "how we purport to know that we are in fact going forward in this car, in this time, although in all appearances it would seem we are going backward." She turned from the window, toward CSM. "It's almost as if two worlds exist on separate planes, intersecting at certain points without ever knowing it. Coexisting without knowledge of each other." Smiling at the possibility of such, Scully leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. She had no idea how her musings related to Larry. ~*~*~*~*~*~ He couldn't stop crying and he didn't know why. He'd never seen the bracelet before, nor did he know where it came from, but finding it had deeply affected him. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, like a child would, averting his gaze from the tiny heap of gold on the tile floor. The little charms glinting in the sickly light of the fluorescent fixtures made his head hurt. "I've got to get up," he said to no one, "I've got to get out of here." Larry stood slowly to his feet, tucking the charm bracelet in his pocket and slipping through the bathroom door. On the dresser was a picture of his sister Terri, holding his baby niece, his young nephew standing proudly beside the two. They looked so happy. Terri was the only one that ever listened to him, the only one he could trust. No one ever believed him about what happened to Stevie, to him. Only Terri knew the truth. It was Terri who'd held him crying night after night, mopping his brow and telling him it would all be over soon. That it would stop. But it never did until he ended it himself. She had supported his decision to run away, had even sacrificed the ceramic pig she'd made in Bible school all those years ago, just so he'd have some money for food. She'd always been there for him, through the worst of times, eager to lend a hand or a shoulder to cry on. But it had been so long... The last time he'd heard from her was last Christmas. She and her husband had moved to Macon, Georgia after he got a promotion. Something to do with textiles, his trade. Larry never knew. She'd sent him a Christmas card inviting him to come down from Virginia for a holiday. He stroked the edge of the frame with a still-shaking hand. "It's about time I pay you a visit, little sis," he said, and placed the photo carefully in his overnight bag on his way out the door. ~*~*~*~*~ "I think this is our exit, the motel shouldn't be far from here." Their little morning side trip had been pleasant, despite its unusual circumstances. She enjoyed being with him like this; it made some sort of sense to her. Five minutes later their car pulled into the parking lot. The little bell above the door startled the receptionist, who was busy doing the Jumble from the Sunday paper. Scully approached the desk and flipped open her badge. "Agent Dana Scully, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need the phone records of one of your guests, a Mr. Larry Phelps, room 206." The girl turned toward the computer, rather disinterested. "Did somebody commit a murder or something, cuz I don't want know trouble. I could lose my job, you know." "Miss the details of this inquiry are classified." Sure, she could have told her more, but why bother? "We'll also need to gain access into Mr. Phelps room." Sandy (or so her name tag suggested) produced the phone records for Larry's room and came around the desk holding a large wooden key chain in a cut-out shape of Florida. "Follow me please." Scully glanced over the phone records and saw nothing of note offhand. She'd look at them more closely later. Sandy was a few steps ahead, arriving at the battered threshold and fumbling with the giant Florida carving. "Here ya go, knock yourself out." It was a concerted effort for Scully to keep from rolling her eyes. The door popped open to disarray... bedclothes on the floor, a crooked lampshade; Larry had had no time to straighten things before leaving. Scully surveyed the damage, noticing it didn't look like a robbery. Larry Phelps had left in a hurry. The three-cup Mr. Coffee on the dresser was still half-full and warm, he hadn't been gone long. She turned to Sandy. "Have you checked anyone out in the past thirty minutes?" "I just got on shift, sorry." She looked eager to leave. "When you two are done, close the door behind you." Scully donned some latex and started her investigation of the room. "If this were official we could get Forensics in here," she remarked, flipping over the covers left hanging off the bed. "I'm going to check the bathroom." The overly bright bathroom smelled of cleaner and mildew. Hotel bathroom smell. Scully noted the recently used sink, checked the drawers and cabinets and ran her fingers along the underside of the surfaces. Then she dropped to the floor, dragging her fingers along the seam where the bathtub meets the caulking, along the underside of the toilet, near the plumbing... and then she saw it. A spray of brown specks looking very much like dried blood stood out against the surface of the white toiletbrush cozy. It had not been hidden, only missed, the toilet brush stand residing in the space between the toilet and the tub. "C.G...you gotta see this." ******************************************** Date: 03-10-01, 19:55:30 GMT RP: CSM Subject: {RP} Saints and Kings From: SummerSnows > Scully fiddled with the knob on the A/C, thumping it in disgust when she > discovered it was on MAX cool. > > "So what are your thoughts on Larry Phelps," Scully began, turning in > her seat so she could see CSM as he drove. She caught herself thinking > how nice he looked, his profile drawn sharply against the rush of trees > passed the window, and found herself wishing it were a longer drive. > > "I think he's hiding something," she continued, "or hiding from someone. > He seemed awfully nervous to be walking the straight and narrow... we > should check him for outstanding warrants." "Hiding something? Oh, you mean Larry." > Scully leaned into the plush leather seats and gazed out the window. The > world outside was a blur, a mass of green and blue and white... reality in > a blender. "It's so strange, how we presume reality," she said > thoughtfully, "how we purport to know that we are in fact going > forward in this car, in this time, although in all appearances it would > seem we are going backward." She turned from the window, toward > CSM. "It's almost as if two worlds exist on separate planes, intersecting > at certain points without ever knowing it. Coexisting without knowledge > of each other." > > Smiling at the possibility of such, Scully leaned her head against the > headrest and closed her eyes. > > She had no idea how her musings related to Larry. She was testing him, thought the Cigarette Smoking Man. She had to be. Two coexisting worlds, that's exactly how Larry Phelps' life would feel, if Larry Phelps was what CSM thought he was. So unless it was a coincidence, CSM thought, Scully would know exactly how her musings related to Larry. So, was it coincidence that she was here, with him? Or was he being set up? He should trust her. It was always about trust with them, wasn't it? [En Ami]. Look at her sitting there with her eyes closed. She looked relaxed. Or was it smug? He could see it now. Scully and Mulder boasting about how CSM'd fallen right into their hands. No, that wasn't right, was it? Surely running into Larry Phelps had only been coincidence. Right? He imagined Mulder and Scully in their basement office, doubled over with laughter. He could hear Scully's voice between guffaws, "And then he had a crush on me!" And their laughter would begin anew. Silently, he took a deep breath, checked that his cool exterior was still in place. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Years in his line of work could make you overcautious. Then he remembered the look on her face when she'd been talking to the paramedic. "I'll tell you later," she'd said. But she hadn't. Something there? > Sandy (or so her name tag suggested) produced the phone records for > Larry's room and came around the desk holding a large wooden key > chain in a cut-out shape of Florida. > > "Follow me please." > > Scully glanced over the phone records and saw nothing of note > offhand. She'd look at them more closely later. > > Sandy was a few steps ahead, arriving at the battered threshold and > fumbling with the giant Florida carving. "Here ya go, knock yourself > out." It was a concerted effort for Scully to keep from rolling her eyes. CSM walked behind them, hanging back, observing. He hadn't smoked in the car because he knew Scully didn't like it, and was now was getting a huge nicotine fit. > The door popped open to disarray... bedclothes on the floor, a crooked > lampshade; Larry had had no time to straighten things before leaving. > > Scully surveyed the damage, noticing it didn't look like a robbery. Larry > Phelps had left in a hurry. The three-cup Mr. Coffee on the dresser was > still half-full and warm, he hadn't been gone long. She turned to Sandy. > "Have you checked anyone out in the past thirty minutes?" > > "I just got on shift, sorry." She looked eager to leave. "When you two > are done, close the door behind you." CSM entered, his eyes trying to adjust from the bright sunshine outside to the shadowy room. He showed no reaction to the mess around him. > Scully donned some latex and started her investigation of the room. "If > this were official we could get Forensics in here," she remarked, flipping > over the covers left hanging off the bed. "I'm going to check the > bathroom." "I, uh, I thought you said you didn't want to get many people involved?" > The overly bright bathroom smelled of cleaner and mildew. Hotel > bathroom smell. Scully noted the recently used sink, checked the > drawers and cabinets and ran her fingers along the underside of the > surfaces. Then she dropped to the floor, dragging her fingers along the > seam where the bathtub meets the caulking, along the underside of the > toilet, near the plumbing... and then she saw it. > > A spray of brown specks looking very much like dried blood stood out > against the surface of the white toiletbrush cozy. It had not been hidden, > only missed, the toilet brush stand residing in the space between the > toilet and the tub. > > "C.G...you gotta see this." But the Cigarette Smoking Man was not in the room. When Scully had gone into the bathroom, he had gone outside. He pulled a Morley out of his jacket pocket, changed his mind, tossed it on the ground below. Leaned against the second-floor railing, smelling the warm salty breeze. He took out another Morley, held it between his thumb and middle finger, studied it for a moment. Looked at the palm trees, the sea grapes, the lush green life everywhere. Tossed the Morley into the landscaping. Two adults and three small children laughed on their way towards the pool. One way to find out, he thought. He pulled out a Morley and lit it, then took out his cell phone and dialed. Even though Scully was inside, he whispered. "Larry Phelps... You *do* know the name..." He dragged on the cigarette, the breeze blowing his smoke away. "Yes... I'm familiar with the project..." And then: No one saw this coming?" While he listened, he inhaled a couple more times. A cloud passed in front of the sun, covering the world in shadow. "I can handle it." He clicked the phone off, finished the cigarette, thinking, thinking, getting his priorities straight. -0-0-0-0-0- Larry woke up, miserably hot and sticky, and it took him a moment to remember that he'd pulled over at a highway truck stop just outside of Kingsland, having crossed the state line as quickly as he could. He felt more tired now than before his nap. Trying to wake up, he went into the truck stop to buy something to drink. In the cafeteria behind all the peachy souvenirs, he sat at an uncomfortable booth in a chair made of hard plastic. The television hung in the corner from the ceiling. There was a commercial on, and the volume was turned down low. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. Larry reached up to the television buttons and changed the stations. Channel surfing at a truck stop. Hoping to not find what he was looking for. He found it. A station out of Jacksonville. "We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin." And his heart skipped a beat. Her real name was Ann Douglas, the announcer said. The body had been found west of St. Augustine, in the St. John's river, wrapped in garden trash bags and duct tape. A clip of police searching for evidence on a bridge. Air escaped Larry's lungs as though he'd been punched in the solar plexus. A clip of the mother, crying, saying she was sweet and everybody loved her, and how could something so horrible happen to such a good person. An officer describing the damage to the face, the nose broken and torn, the sinus cavity shattered, the wound extending into the brain. Then a photo of the smiling girl, whose stage name was Goldie, who had thick, long blonde hair. Who'd done a split on the stage in Larry's dream. If anyone had information, the anchorwoman said with a cheery smile, they should contact the St. Johns County Sheriff's office. Larry Phelps trembled. -0-0-0-0-0- CSM put out the Morley, went back inside the hotel room, closing the door behind him. Scully's cell phone rang. {{Note: The phone call is from Larry Phelps}} ******************************************** Date: 03-14-01, 20:45:13 GMT RP: Dana Scully Subject: {RP} Saints and Kings and Deities (Mulder mention) From: Brandi ~the minx~ >> Scully donned some latex and started her investigation of the room. "If >> this were official we could get Forensics in here," she remarked, flipping >> over the covers left hanging off the bed. "I'm going to check the >> bathroom." > > "I, uh, I thought you said you didn't want to get many people involved?" "I don't," she called out from the back, "but it would be nice to have a reliable lab, something we could use discreetly. I simply don't have the resources I would have at my disposal if I were on the job." She heard footsteps padding across the overly thick carpet, CSM most likely stepping out for some fresh air, or a cigarette. He had been careful not to smoke too much around her, and she appreciated it. >> The overly bright bathroom smelled of cleaner and mildew. Hotel >> bathroom smell. Scully noted the recently used sink, checked the >> drawers and cabinets and ran her fingers along the underside of the >> surfaces. Then she dropped to the floor, dragging her fingers along the >> seam where the bathtub meets the caulking, along the underside of the >> toilet, near the plumbing... and then she saw it. >> >> A spray of brown specks looking very much like dried blood stood out >> against the surface of the white toiletbrush cozy. It had not been hidden, >> only missed, the toilet brush stand residing in the space between the >> toilet and the tub. >> >> "C.G...you gotta see this." > > But the Cigarette Smoking Man was not in the room. When Scully had > gone into the bathroom, he had gone outside. > > He pulled a Morley out of his jacket pocket, changed his mind, tossed it on > the ground below. Leaned against the second-floor railing, smelling the > warm salty breeze. He took out another Morley, held it between his thumb > and middle finger, studied it for a moment. Looked at the palm trees, the > sea grapes, the lush green life everywhere. Tossed the Morley into the > landscaping. > > Two adults and three small children laughed on their way towards the pool. > One way to find out, he thought. He pulled out a Morley and lit it, then > took out his cell phone and dialed. > > Even though Scully was inside, he whispered. "Larry Phelps... You *do* > know the name..." He dragged on the cigarette, the breeze blowing his > smoke away. "Yes... I'm familiar with the project..." And then: No one > saw this coming?" While he listened, he inhaled a couple more times. A > cloud passed in front of the sun, covering the world in shadow. "I can > handle it." He clicked the phone off, finished the cigarette, thinking, > thinking, getting his priorities straight. Scully examined the droplets, a gruesome constellation stark and imposing in the achromatic room. Carefully she picked up the cozy, turning it over in her gloved hands for a better look, and wondered briefly if CSM was still outside. He had not responded to her earlier, so he had probably shut the door behind him as he left. She found a flimsy wastebasket liner under the sink and, with infinite care, picked up the cozy (brush and all) and placed it in the bag. -0-0-0-0-0- > Larry woke up, miserably hot and sticky, and it took him a moment to > remember that he'd pulled over at a highway truck stop just outside of > Kingsland, having crossed the state line as quickly as he could. He felt > more tired now than before his nap. Trying to wake up, he went into the > truck stop to buy something to drink. In the cafeteria behind all the peachy > souvenirs, he sat at an uncomfortable booth in a chair made of hard plastic. > > The television hung in the corner from the ceiling. There was a > commercial on, and the volume was turned down low. He looked around > to see if anyone was watching. > > Larry reached up to the television buttons and changed the stations. > Channel surfing at a truck stop. > > Hoping to not find what he was looking for. > > He found it. > > A station out of Jacksonville. "We interrupt this program for a special > news bulletin." And his heart skipped a beat. Her real name was Ann > Douglas, the announcer said. The body had been found west of > St. Augustine, in the St. John's river, wrapped in garden trash bags and > duct tape. A clip of police searching for evidence on a bridge. Air escaped > Larry's lungs as though he'd been punched in the solar plexus. A clip of the > mother, crying, saying she was sweet and everybody loved her, and how > could something so horrible happen to such a good person. An officer > describing the damage to the face, the nose broken and torn, the sinus > cavity shattered, the wound extending into the brain. Then a photo of the > smiling girl, whose stage name was Goldie, who had thick, long blonde > hair. > > Who'd done a split on the stage in Larry's dream. > > If anyone had information, the anchorwoman said with a cheery smile, > they should contact the St. Johns County Sheriff's office. > > Larry Phelps trembled. > > -0-0-0-0-0- > > CSM put out the Morley, went back inside the hotel room, closing the > door behind him. Scully heard the click of the door as CSM entered, and walked over to meet him. He had his cell phone in his hand. "Who could he have called," Scully wondered to herself, half out of curiosity, half out of fear. She knew what he was capable of, had been witness and victim to the atrocities of the Consortium, and knew full well he was their muscle, their chief operative. He wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Had all of this been a ruse? His call from the desert, the blue orb, the wine... an elaborate set up? But why? She blinked it away. She had reasons not to trust him based on history, but none as of recent. He had not hesitated to trust her so far, so she should do the same for him. Still, he had spoken to *someone*. "Is there something I should know about," Scully queried, hoping he wouldn't take it the wrong way. > Scully's cell phone rang, its sharp trill cutting through the awkwardness. {end of retread} "Scully," she said with a breath. --background noise but no voice-- "Hello?" "Dr. Scully? I... I think we need to talk." Scully looked up at CSM and mouthed the name "Larry," as to ID the caller. "Larry, tell me where you are," she said softly. The man was obviously in a fragile state. Larry shifted uncomfortably, stealing a nervous glance at the television set. "Somewhere outside of Kingsland, Georgia... the Exxon station just off the Interstate." "Larry what--" And the line went dead. ~*~*~*~*~*~ Larry slumped into the plastic booth, feeling suddenly sick and sorry he'd ever called Dr. Scully. He wished he would have kept driving. He would be with Terri by now, playing with her kids, hearing about her life and all he'd missed. "I guess *he* will be with her," Larry thought with regret. There was something about him, like he knows the punchline before he hears the joke. He set Larry on edge. And as for Dr. Scully, just what exactly had he planned on telling her, anyway? That he dreamed a woman's death in vivid Technicolor? He closed his eyes against the memory of the dream. Goldie's hair a flaxen sheet, brilliant in the neon lights. Pale and matted to her face as he saw himself slide the bag over her, the yellow drawstring phosphorescent in the blackness. Larry tangled his legs beneath the table and wept. ~*~*~*~*~ "Well, it looks like our friend is out of state," Scully said, clicking off the cell phone. She looked tired. "Somewhere near Kingsland, Georgia, in a gas station right across the state line. He sounded upset." The last words came out deflated as she stripped off the latex and settled on the edge of Larry's bed. Another wild goose chase down a dark alley. In the back of her mind there was the niggling suspicion that C.G. wasn't telling her something. When she looked up at him she felt weak, and it unnerved her. "If you know something about Larry, I need you to tell me. I need you to know that you can trust me." ~*~*~*~*~ The car was claustrophobic. It would get better when they started moving, she told herself, but until then she had to suffer the unbearable heat. She had busied herself with her GPS unit, and according to her calculations they should be with Larry in less than two hours. She picked her cell phone out of her jacket pocket, checking to see if it was on. Larry might try to call back, after all. The LCD blinked and she blinked back, not believing its claim. When she was on the phone with Larry, someone had tried to call her. Her heart raced as she pressed the arrow button down through the list, until her eyes fell on a number unmistakably familiar. Mulder. She couldn't call him back right now, not with CSM readying the car; he was distrustful of her already. She didn't want to raise his suspicions, however unwarranted they were. "I'll call him back when I can," she silently affirmed, provided he didn't call her first; although she had no idea what she could possibly say to him, or what it was he wanted to hear. ~*~*~*~*~ Larry was warm, comfortable on the floral print sofa inside his sister's home. She'd made him chamomile tea with honey, just the way he liked it, and the cup sat cooling in its ivy-edged saucer on the coffee table. She was talking now, her plum upturned mouth working with infinite precision, her eyes very much alive; but what was she saying? Larry tilted his head, strained his ear, reached up and worked the lobe fiercely. He couldn't make out a word. "Sis, speak up," Larry said, his throat choked with tears. The teacup lifted from the saucer to Larry's mouth. His trembling fingers seemed vulgar, too large for the delicate handle. Something so fragile and perfect could easily be ruined by carelessness. By secrets. "Larry," Terri began, eyes open, unafraid. The eyes of a benevolent god. His god; come to take away his sin. "Larry..." it was softer now. She spoke from far away, spoke to him like she had all those nights he sat crying, shaking... afraid of the Light. "Larry, I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to me very carefully." Terri began to glow. Light came from behind her, from all around her, emanating from every pore. Honey-colored, blinding light. She *was* a god. In that moment she shone like a god and Larry hid his face with his hands, the teacup clattering to the hardwood floor; shattered and gone. "Larry, you are not who you are." She crossed to stand before him, arms outspread like the Virgin Mary. He couldn't look at her, didn't dare look at her. The light... the Light was too bright... She didn't know. She could never know. She never *had* to know, not like he did. He felt a blinding rage like a lightening bolt seize him, casting him off to make room for something else. Something darker. From across the room Larry saw himself. His arms now weapons of spite, his hands the harbinger of memories. Standing up, he wrapped those hands around the upper arms of the benevolent god, clenched them tight around her alabaster skin and looked into her glowing countenance. Suddenly she was sent back through the air, flying through time and space as Larry watched the deity fall. In slow motion he watched himself watching her, smiling as a curtain of chestnut hair swept the floor seconds before her head struck squarely against the stone hearth. Her head lolled, a moan escaped her tea-sweet lips, and Larry was cruelly himself again. A smear of blood accused him, mocked him from its palette of bleached white stone. "Look what you did," it seemed to say. "Look who you've killed." Larry blinked through tears to find his sister, crumpled on the floor beside the fire. Caesar dead on the steps. With sickness rolling in his stomach, Larry threaded his fingers through his sister's blood-soaked hair, pulled his hand back in horror as he remembered what she had said, the crimson palm fading from view, taking the room and his sister with it into total darkness: "Larry, listen to me... You are not who you are." ~*~*~*~*~ (An hour and a half later, somewhere on I-95) Their car bulleted through the Florida heat, slicing through a ribbon of blue sky and holiday traffic. It had been a comfortable ride, but nonetheless Scully remained nervous. She was trying to prepare herself for what she might find, what condition Larry might be in. She'd had C.G. swing by The Wayward Palms so she could grab her medical bag, just in case. She wanted to be prepared for every eventuality, at least as far as Larry was concerned. The situation with Mulder was a different matter altogether. She kept thinking of what he might want, and especially what she was going to say to him. So much had happened in the past few days, it was hard enough for her to believe it herself, must less explain it to someone else in a coherent, logical fashion. She'd felt things stir inside herself she once thought dead, or at least anesthetized. She hadn't questioned the catalyst, nor did she want to. Despite her uncertainty, one thing remained true: She would do it all again, without hesitation. ~*~*~*~*~ Larry opened his eyes to the blinding artificial light of the truck stop cafeteria. His neck was craned, his head leaning back against the pasty-white wall. Napalms were going off beneath his skull, setting off a domino effect of smaller and smaller explosions, little tingles and then blinding pain again. "My god... what happened," Larry groaned, sitting up stiffly against his protesting body. Larry cleared his vision enough to see a woman standing over him. A waitress, he discerned from her uniform. "Dottie," from the nametag pinned to her breast. "You ok honey? You were putting up a fuss there for a while. Had me worried," she drawled, leaning in closer for a better look. Her thick perfume flooded his senses and sent him coughing, sending more pain to his pulsing head. Feeling smothered he leaned forward a bit more, pushing Dottie back with the acquisition of her space. Then, Dottie was eerily quiet. Larry looked up at her, her plump, manicured hand fluttering over her mouth. "Sweet Jesus," she stammered, as she stared in horror at the wall behind Larry. A smear of bright red blood, easily a hand's width in size marked the spot where Larry's head had lain. ~*~*~*~*~ (off Exit 130, just outside of Kingsland, Georgia) "There it is." The red and blue shield of the Exxon Station shimmered like a mirage on the desolate outlet road. "There's Larry's car, right there by the rear entrance." Scully and (hopefully) CSM entered the double doors of the overly bright gas station and had no trouble spotting Larry. He lay curled up on the orange plastic bench of a diner booth, his coat over him, a moist paper towel on his forehead. A waitress stood nearby, no doubt acting as a makeshift nurse. Scully ignored her, approaching Larry and squatting, speaking low. "Larry, what happened? Did you have another episode, like earlier today?" He looked at them with glassy eyes, unresponsive or simply unwilling to speak. Dottie chimed in. "Damndest thing I've ever seen. He had this wound on his head, and then it wasn't there. There was blood and everything. I know it sounds crazy, but I saw the blood. I saw it with my own eyes." And Scully believed her. ******************************************** Date: 04-04-01, 00:27:06 GMT RP: CSM Subject: {RP} Be-lie-ve From: SummerSnows > "Well, it looks like our friend is out of state," Scully said, clicking off > the cell phone. She looked tired. "Somewhere near Kingsland, > Georgia, in a gas station right across the state line. He sounded upset." > > The last words came out deflated as she stripped off the latex and > settled on the edge of Larry's bed. Another wild goose chase down a > dark alley. In the back of her mind there was the niggling suspicion that > C.G. wasn't telling her something. When she looked up at him she felt > weak, and it unnerved her. > > "If you know something about Larry, I need you to tell me. I need you > to know that you can trust me." Looking around the hotel room, the Cigarette Smoking Man reached for a Morley. "It's nothing. I was just trying to find some information for you. All I got is that Larry has relatives in Georgia. Macon, I think. If he's in Georgia now, maybe he's on his way to visit." He looked in her eyes to see if she believed him. > ~*~*~*~*~ > > The car was claustrophobic. It would get better when they started > moving, she told herself, but until then she had to suffer the unbearable > heat. She had busied herself with her GPS unit, and according to her > calculations they should be with Larry in less than two hours. > She picked her cell phone out of her jacket pocket, checking to see if it > was on. Larry might try to call back, after all. The LCD blinked and she > blinked back, not believing its claim. When she was on the phone with > Larry, someone had tried to call her. Her heart raced as she pressed the > arrow button down through the list, until her eyes fell on a number > unmistakably familiar. > > Mulder. She couldn't call him back right now, not with CSM readying > the car; he was distrustful of her already. She didn't want to raise his > suspicions, however unwarranted they were. "I'll call him back when I > can," she silently affirmed, provided he didn't call her first; although > she had no idea what she could possibly say to him, or what it was he > wanted to hear. CSM was putting his things in the trunk. He peeked around the raised trunk lid, watched Scully put her phone away. He moved stuff around, looked at the spare tire. Gathering his thoughts. Was she scheming with Mulder against him? Had she just talked with Mulder on the phone? The irony of his suspicions did not escape him: Back in 1992, she had been sent to spy on Mulder. Now she might be spying on CSM. How did you beat someone who was trying to beat you at your own game? Was there even a game? Or was he being paranoid? Larry Phelps, Dana Scully. CSM was too close to the situation to view it objectively. He slammed the trunk lid and got in the car. > (An hour and a half later, somewhere on I-95) > > Their car bulleted through the Florida heat, slicing through a ribbon of > blue sky and holiday traffic. It had been a comfortable ride, but > nonetheless Scully remained nervous. She was trying to prepare herself > for what she might find, what condition Larry might be in. She'd had > C.G. swing by The Wayward Palms so she could grab her medical bag, > just in case. She wanted to be prepared for every eventuality, at least as > far as Larry was concerned > > The situation with Mulder was a different matter altogether. She kept > thinking of what he might want, and especially what she was going to say > to him. So much had happened in the past few days, it was hard enough > for her to believe it herself, must less explain it to someone else in a > coherent, logical fashion. She'd felt things stir inside herself she once > thought dead, or at least anesthetized. She hadn't questioned the > catalyst, nor did she want to. Despite her uncertainty, one thing > remained true: She would do it all again, without hesitation. CSM had a different way of dealing with uncertainty. :) "Who was that?" he said, keeping his eyes on the road, his shoulders back against the seat. Cloaking his voice in casual attire. "On the phone. Since you like sharing phone calls." Hands at ten and two. Almost a smile on his face, not a look that conveyed anger, fear, suspicion, or anything negative at all. > Scully and (hopefully) CSM entered the double doors of the overly > bright gas station and had no trouble spotting Larry. He lay curled up > on the orange plastic bench of a diner booth, his coat over him, a moist > paper towel on his forehead. A waitress stood nearby, no doubt acting > as a makeshift nurse. > > Scully ignored her, approaching Larry and squatting, speaking low. > "Larry, what happened? Did you have another episode, like earlier > today?" > > He looked at them with glassy eyes, unresponsive or simply unwilling to > speak. Dottie chimed in. "Damndest thing I've ever seen. He had this > wound on his head, and then it wasn't there. There was blood and > everything. I know it sounds crazy, but I saw the blood. I saw it with > my own eyes. > > And Scully believed her. "Do you see any blood here? I'm fine, I told you." Larry took the paper towels off his face. "Must be the lighting in here, you know?" He looked at the three, and apparently deciding who was the most likely to tell a lie, his glance fell on CSM. "Humph," Dottie said, putting her hands on her hips. "I knows what I saw." Larry tossed off his coat, and tried to stand up. He was as wobbly as he'd been in Saint Augustine by the water wheel. "I'll be right back." Feeling along the walls and shelves, he guided himself to the front of the store. A customer a few tables away cleared his throat, and Dottie went to take his order. -0-0-0-0-0- Larry leaned his head against the wall next to the pay phone. "Come on, pick up, pick up." Finally he heard Terri's voice, but when he realized it was only her voice mail, he punched the graffiti on the wall. Trying to make himself sound cheerful, he took a deep breath before the beep. He didn't want his voice to betray his fear about her safety. The message said he was a couple hours away and wanted to come visit. Oh, and don't make me any tea. He returned to the booth, grabbed his jacket. "I have to go. I have to make sure she's okay." "Make sure who's okay?" CSM asked. Larry blinked. "Why are you here?" "You called us, remember?" "Huh? Oh yeah." He swallowed, considered that if he were in jail, at least this nightmare would be over. It might mean that his family would be safe. Besides, maybe these two really did want to help. He licked his lips, whispered to Scully. "Look, I don't know what's going on. You have to believe me. I, uh, I have these dreams, see. Weird, vivid dreams, and then I wake up, and people say they saw things that aren't there. Then I see my dreams on the evening news, and that just doesn't seem normal." As he spoke his voice got a little louder and higher pitched. "I'm not doing anything, I swear. I don't know if I'm seeing the future, or what." He donned his jacket. "Look, I just dreamed that I murdered my sister. I have to go and make sure she's okay." CSM said, "Do you have blackouts? Are there periods of time you can't remember?" For a second, the look on Larry's face was like a kid getting caught red handed. "I have to go." Dottie passed by with a heavy tray. She looked up and down at Larry wearing his coat and asked, "Where you off to?" "I'm going to see my sister." "Shug, you ain't in no shape to drive. Look at you, you can't even walk." She turned to Scully. "Look after him, will ya? He in bad shape." ******************************************** Date: 04-18-01, 12:19:39 MDT RP: Dana Scully Subject: RP :-) From: Brandi ~the minx~ > "Who was that?" he said, keeping his eyes on the road, his shoulders back > against the seat. Cloaking his voice in casual attire. Scully turned away from the road outside to glance at his profile. Of course, he saw me with my phone, she decided silently. A beat passed, but CSM spoke before she could explain. > "On the phone. Since you like sharing phone calls." Hands at ten and two. > Almost a smile on his face, not a look that conveyed anger, fear, suspicion, > or anything negative at all. She had to hide her smile. He still didn't trust her, even after all that had transpired. Of course, did she fully trust him? "Um, I was checking my call list. It looks as though Mulder tried to call me while I was on the phone with Larry." She kept her eyes on him, watching as he digested the answer in his own time. > He returned to the booth, grabbed his jacket. "I have to go. I have to > make sure she's okay." > > "Make sure who's okay?" CSM asked. > > Larry blinked. "Why are you here?" > > "You called us, remember?" > > "Huh? Oh yeah." He swallowed, considered that if he were in jail, at least > this nightmare would be over. It might mean that his family would be > safe. Besides, maybe these two really did want to help. Scully could sense the man's conflict. It was if he had landed squarely in the middle of someone else's nightmare. She could feel the weight of his gaze and could only fathom what might be going on inside his head. Feeling a bit awkward under his scrutiny, she walked to his side as he leaned in to speak. > He licked his lips, whispered to Scully. "Look, I don't know what's going > on. You have to believe me. I, uh, I have these dreams, see. Weird, vivid > dreams, and then I wake up, and people say they saw things that aren't > there. Then I see my dreams on the evening news, and that just doesn't > seem normal." As he spoke his voice got a little louder and higher > pitched. "I'm not doing anything, I swear. I don't know if I'm seeing the > future, or what." He donned his jacket. "Look, I just dreamed that I > murdered my sister. I have to go and make sure she's okay." > > CSM said, "Do you have blackouts? Are there periods of time you can't > remember?" > > For a second, the look on Larry's face was like a kid getting caught red > handed. "I have to go." > > Dottie passed by with a heavy tray. She looked up and down at Larry > wearing his coat and asked, "Where you off to?" > > "I'm going to see my sister." > > "Shug, you ain't in no shape to drive. Look at you, you can't even walk." > She turned to Scully. "Look after him, will ya? He in bad shape." "He sure is," Scully was tempted to say. She caught Larry's arm as he was fighting with the limp sleeve of his jacket. "Larry, I don't think you're ready to travel quite yet. Why don't you just sit down for a minute. We'll order something, if you're hungry." Larry straightened the collars of his wrinkled jacket, pulling away from the redhead's light touch. She and her shadowy friend were beginning to annoy him. "Listen, I don't need your help, ok? I just need to see my sister." Scully sensed his annoyance but didn't back down. "YOU called us, Larry," she said, her tone firm. "You wanted our help. If you want to go to your sister's then fine, but at least let us follow you there. I don't trust you traveling alone." Larry considered her words, trying to figure out what to do. He was so tired of having to make choices, so tired of having to fix what he never remembered screwing up. He lowered his defenses with a tired sigh. "Ok, let's go," he said as he turned and walked through the door, toward the car. ~*~*~*~*~ The drive was silent. Despite all they'd been through in the past few days, she couldn't shake the feeling that CSM was hiding something, and that he felt the same about her. But how do you win the trust of a man who deals in lies? And what *was* he hiding? She put the questions to rest, closed her eyes against her worry and listened to the lull of the car as it shuttled down the Interstate. ~*~*~*~*~ Larry adjusted his rearview mirror, just to keep an eye on them. They'd afforded him a couple of car links' space, thank God, but he could still see the doctor and her friend quite clearly. Was she... was she sleeping? He couldn't tell, too far from here, but it sure looked like it. Her head was reclined against the headrest, her eyes closed. She might be able to help him, after all, he thought randomly. He needed a distraction, something to take the edge off. He stabbed at the "seek" button on the car radio, scanning for any sort of noise, anything. He paused at a news station. ".police feel confident they are closer than ever to discovering the identity of the man who murdered Ann Douglas, a young local woman last weekend. According to the autopsy report, the victim was killed in a "most unusual" way, her body then wrapped in trash bags and deposited in a local marsh. The parents of the victim gave statement to pol-" With a shaking hand he switched it off. Larry went cold, remembering the dream he'd had. The name "Goldie," a dancing woman, her hair like spun silk. the charm bracelet he had found the morning after. "Maybe I'm psychic," he began to reason. "Perhaps somehow I knew I was supposed to stay in that hotel, that something was going to happen. But if that's true, then my dream in the gas station." "Oh my God. Terri." He floored the gas, tears threatening as his thoughts narrowed to his sister, and how to protect her. -- Larry was unaware, of course, but another part of him was narrowing too, honing to a point of total focus. the part of him that makes his dreams. ~*~*~*~*~ Three hours later Macon, Georgia Home of Terri Raspail ~*~*~*~*~ Larry helped his sister with the tumblers of iced tea, arranging them on a tray with a little bowl of lemon. He was just happy to be seeing her again, even if *they* were here. "Hey Sis," Larry whispered so the two in the den wouldn't hear, "I need to talk to you, when we're alone." Terri paused and looked up at him, her mouth a grim line. "There's nothing wrong, is there Larry?" He considered. "No, I uh, I just need tell you some things, about what's been happening. But not right now." Terri looked at her brother with real concern now. "Larry, this isn't about anything in Midway, is it, when we were kids?" Larry's eyes grew dark, his face shadowed. "I told you never to talk about that!" he spat. "I don't ever want to talk about that!" Terri didn't back down, matching his gaze. "Well Larry, maybe it's time you did." ---- Scully sank into the floral print sofa, struggling with a tumbler of iced tea proffered by Mrs. Raspail. The house was lovely. old wood, high ceilings and lots of natural light. Terri and her brother had barely let her get a word in. It was evident to Scully that the two of them hadn't seen each other in quite awhile, but Terri hadn't missed much. Just listening to his conversation with his sister, Scully learned more about Larry than she would have just by talking with him. Boring job. No significant other. Probably had Chinese in his refrigerator at home. Change the names and a few of the details and it could've been her life he was describing. Mrs. Raspail had welcomed them both with no reservations, and oddly enough very few questions. Maybe Larry's condition was known to her, and she'd dealt with this sort of thing before. Or Maybe she was just being hospitable. When Terri got up to go to the kitchen, Scully seized the opportunity to talk with her alone. "Terri," she said, catching her arm as she walked into the brightly lit kitchen. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" The woman turned and smiled. "Sure, why don't we sit down at the table. We'll leave those two alone in there." Scully glanced back at CSM, wondering if that was such a good idea. "Mrs. Raspail, Larry is experiencing some sort of phenomenon. I believe it's medical in origin, but I can't be sure. Do you remember him ever behaving in a strange manner?" Terri looked stricken, as if such an idea were a total surprise, or as if she might be remembering an instance that would fit that description. "I don't suppose so," she began. "Ms. Scully, what is this about? Is Larry in trouble?" "I don't know Mrs. Raspail. I wish we could say for sure. I believe Larry is in a very volatile state right now. He could hurt himself or others. I don't want that to happen. Larry has asked us for help," she continued, "and I will do everything in my power to do just that, but I need to know everything you can tell me about it him." She took a breath, looking down at her hands and up at Terri. "Will you cooperate with us Mrs. Raspail?" Terri paused, finally nodding almost against regretfully. "Great, anything you can divulge will be instrumental in helping us get to the bottom of this. Now what can you tell me about Larry's childhood? You two grew up in the same household, correct?" Terri swallowed, her sunny disposition edged with wariness. A beat passed with nothing. "Mrs. Raspail?" "Yes, we grew up together," she said finally. Her eyes were stormy and hard to read. "Did Larry ever exhibit any unusual behavior as a child or adolescent? Acting out, getting into trouble, maybe even hurting himself?" Terri looked as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't. Scully noticed it, saying, "Mrs. Raspail, whatever you tell me will be in utmost confidence. I give you my word." "You won't believe me," she said flatly, looking away. Scully tempered a scoff. "Try me," she said evenly. It was at this point Terri began to cry, speaking quietly through tightly shut eyes as if whatever she described was happening once again, right at that very moment. "They wouldn't leave him alone," she said, shaking her head in resignation. "They wouldn't leave him alone..." "Who wouldn't, Mrs. Raspail? Who wouldn't leave Larry alone?" Tears ran unchecked down her face, her voice strangled with emotion. "They ran tests, they ran so many tests." Her voice cooled, her mind seeing the events as if they were yesterday. Scully reached out her hand, as much trying to steady her own as Terri's. She couldn't believe what she might be hearing. "Who ran the tests, Mrs. Raspail," she asked quietly. "Who hurt Larry." Terri looked up at her finally, meeting her eyes. "The men from the 'other place.' The men from the sky," she added, putting her head on the table, sobbing. Scully considered her words, savoring them like a fine wine. "The men from the sky." Could Larry be an abductee? It almost seemed possible, considering how she'd observed him. But the phantom illnesses? Disappearing blood? Something wasn't adding up. A LOT of things weren't adding up. One thing she was sure of, though, was that the answers lay in New Mexico. She could only hope CSM thought the same. Suddenly she heard a disturbance in the den, leaving Terri at the table and rushing in to find Larry on the floor, conscious but incoherent, garbling something unintelligible. Scully leaned in to hear him better. "The light..." he stammered. "He knows about the light." His eyes darted to CSM, narrowed and went dark. Beads of sweat trailed off his forehead, his color gray and pasty. Scully looked up at CG. "How did he get like this," Scully implored, her voice a tad higher than normal. "He knows about the LIGHT," Larry said again, this time with more insistence. She turned her focus to Larry. "Larry, I want you to sit up for me, ok? We'll talk about all of this later. I just want you to sit up." Larry did as he was told, struggling to an upright position against the stone hearth. Scully rubbed her temples. Two conversations melded into one, and her world dipped and reeled until she found the edge of the couch and sat down. "He knows about the light, " she heard Larry say, and then: "the men from the sky." "He knows about the men from the sky." And she suddenly grew very cold. ******************************************** Date: 05-01-01, 00:53:15 GMT RP: CSM Subject: {RPG} Nothings From: SummerSnows >> "Who was that?" he said, keeping his eyes on the road, his shoulders >> back against the seat. Cloaking his voice in casual attire. > > Scully turned away from the road outside to glance at his profile. Of > course, he saw me with my phone, she decided silently. A beat > passed, but CSM spoke before she could explain. > >> "On the phone. Since you like sharing phone calls." Hands at ten >> and two. Almost a smile on his face, not a look that conveyed anger, >> fear, suspicion, or anything negative at all. > > She had to hide her smile. He still didn't trust her, even after all that > had transpired. Of course, did she fully trust him? > > "Um, I was checking my call list. It looks as though Mulder tried to > call me while I was on the phone with Larry." She kept her eyes on > him, watching as he digested the answer in his own time. Within Scully's stare, the Cigarette Smoking Man felt like an ant under a magnifying glass in the sun. Trying hard to maintain the cool facade now. If Mulder and Scully had something up their sleeve, she would have lied about the call. Honesty. He hadn't expected that one. Eyes on the road, controlling his breath under her observation. Even though he knew that the opposite of love is not hate but apathy, he tried to think of a reason to hate her. But in all the years he'd followed her career, she'd done nothing he could fault. She was a workaholic, like he was, alone like he was. No reason to fear her, distrust her, hate her. Nothing to balance dangerous emotions against. He tried to think of someone else. Tried to envision Teena Mulder when he had found her beautiful, tried to remind himself of the pain when he'd lost her. Nothing there. Five miles an hour over the speed limit. As normal as can be. "Did the GPS show where we're going?" > The woman turned and smiled. "Sure, why don't we sit down at the > table. We'll leave those two alone in there." Scully glanced back at > CSM, wondering if that was such a good idea. CSM found himself trying not to look in Scully's eyes, lest she look through his. Refusing to watch her walk away. He needed to clear his head, concentrate on work. "Mind if I smoke?" he said, pulling out the Morleys from the jacket pocket. "Not in my sister's house." He winked with his eyebrows. "Very well." Lightly smiling. -0-0-0-0-0- The room was bright with sunshine. Larry stirred his ice tea nervously, silently cursing his beloved sister for leaving him with the strange man. He watched CSM look at the decorations on the coffee table. Watched him pick up a tiny cup from one of Terri's miniature tea sets, examine the tiny handpainted flowers on the thin and fragile china. "I told her not to make tea." A nervous chuckle attracted the glance from the redhead's friend. Larry cleared his throat. "She made it because she knows how much I like it." He sipped from his glass, tasting chamomile, honey. Through the archway, he could see his sister and Scully in the kitchen. He couldn't hear them, though. He turned back to watch CSM handling his sister's delicate curio, resisting the urge to pull it out of his hands. Would this nightmare never end? Would his recent dream come true? He looked up at the angel atop the Christmas tree, stirred his ice tea too much, and filled the air with small talk. -0-0-0-0-0- CSM put the teacup on the coffee table. Casually he sipped from the tumbler, casually he leaned back against the floral print. Casually he put his hands in his Prada jacket's pockets, and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the tiny vial with the almost microscopic needle at the tip. Larry continued with the meaningless small talk. The tone of voice of a man who is avoiding the one conversation he knows he needs to get to. When a child about two or three years old ran into the room, it took CSM a second to recognize him from the picture in Larry's hotel room in St. Augustine. The picture must have been taken six to eight months ago. Larry picked up the child, and said, "Hey, Tiger! Good to see ya, buddy. How ya doing?" The child laughed with delight, obviously glad to see his uncle. "You remember me, eh? You recognize your uncle Larry?" Seeing CSM for the first time, the child stopped laughing. His mouth turned down, then started quivering. Then, crying as loud as his little lungs could manage, he ran out of the room. "Gerry? Gerry? Come back." Turning to CSM: "He's a little shy, hehe." As Larry started chatting again, CSM moved the device in his pocket around until the syringe was in the right position. The short vial hidden between index and middle finger, the needle placed so that when the victim was touched with the palm, the needle would pierce their skin. If CSM's theory was right, and Larry had been involved in those old DOD telekinesis projects, the fluid would bring on a seizure. If CSM was wrong, the fluid would do nothing. A bad headache, tops. Larry seemed to be talking about work, something about accounting. CSM interrupted. "She can help you." Larry put the tumbler on a coaster. "Huh?" "Dr. Scully. She can help you. She specializes in this sort of thing." Larry looked leery. "What sort of thing?" "Paranormal stuff. Monsters, aliens, dreams that come true." No reaction from Larry, as though he were waiting for more. "Abductions." "I never mentioned alien abductions. Only dreams." "But that's what it was, wasn't it? Waking up in the middle of the night? Lights in the windows? Losing time?" For a long time, Larry just stared at CSM. Then he seemed to think it over, reaching for his iced tea. CSM pricked him with the needle. "What are you doing?" Larry touched the spot on his arm where CSM had grabbed him. "Ow!" He looked at his arm for a few minutes, not moving, not speaking. When he finally looked up, his face was decorated with a maniacal grin. CSM lit a cigarette. > Suddenly she heard a disturbance in the den, leaving Terri at the table > and rushing in to find Larry on the floor, conscious but incoherent, > garbling something unintelligible. > > Scully leaned in to hear him better. "The light..." he stammered. "He > knows about the light." His eyes darted to CSM, narrowed and went > dark. Beads of sweat trailed off his forehead, his color gray and pasty. > Scully looked up at CG. "How did he get like this," Scully implored, > her voice a tad higher than normal. CSM shrugged. > "He knows about the LIGHT," Larry said again, this time with more > insistence. She turned her focus to Larry. "Larry, I want you to sit up > for me, ok? We'll talk about all of this later. I just want you to sit up." > Larry did as he was told, struggling to an upright position against the > stone hearth. > Scully rubbed her temples. Two conversations melded into one, and her > world dipped and reeled until she found the edge of the couch and sat > down. "He knows about the light, " she heard Larry say, and then: "the > men from the sky." > > "He knows about the men from the sky." And she suddenly grew very > cold. The sun was setting, starting to stream through the window. Terri strolled into the den, and did not seem surprised by Larry's convulsions, or even in a hurry to tend to him. She stood in front of Larry and spoke his name. Said, "Larry, I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to me very carefully." Larry went to the coffee table, picked up the teacup CSM had played with, and let it shatter on the hardwood floor. He squinted as he looked at Terri, the window behind her, the sunlight obviously making it hard for him to see. Terri approached him, moving out of the rays. Larry's face bathed in sunshine now. Terri said, "This is just one of your episodes. Larry, this isn't who you are." Knowing Larry couldn't hear her, CSM stood in front of Larry. This wasn't CSM's forte, physical stuff, but he had to diffuse the situation. Keep things from getting worse, making the news. Larry lunged, knocked CSM down like nothing, the Morley sailing harmlessly into the hearth. He grabbed his sister's arms, and sent her flying across the room onto the fireplace stones. ********************************************