EPISODE 1:
Lux et Veritas

Chapter 4:
Journey of a Thousand Miles


********************************************

Date:  05-16-01, 22:20:40 GMT
RP    Dana Scully
Subject:  {RP} Strange Things
From:  Brandi ~the minx~

~*~*~*~*~*~
Medical Center of Central Georgia
9:17 p.m. EST
~*~*~*~*~*~

Only at a time when we are so far removed from where we are now, can we
truly appreciate the synchronicity of so-called accidental occurrences.
Or fate.  Or simply "strange things."  Stranger still, when they make sense.

When a 3 foot long steel pipe blew through the frontal lobe of Phineas Gage
in 1848, it was deemed a freak accident; the kind of thing that just doesn't
happen.  That is until Phineas stood up, took a cart to town, and arriving at
the local doctor notified him, "Here's business enough for you."

Scully felt very much like that doctor must have felt, stuck in the middle
of a succession of strange occurrences and expected to react accordingly.

Larry Phelps, perfect stranger, bleeding but not bleeding on a busy street
in St. Augustine. Larry the dreamweaver.  Larry the liar (perhaps).  Larry,
the man she and C.G. had followed to another state only to find him clammy
and pale in the sick light of truck stop near the state border.  Larry, the
man who dreamt he murdered his sister.  Larry, the man who had tried to do
exactly that.

"Dr. Scully, can I have a moment with you?"

Dr. Callahan, the attending physician in charge of Terri's care, motioned to
Scully from where she had been waiting outside ICU.

"Mrs. Raspail has endured significant blunt-force trauma to the
head.  There is swelling in the temporal lobe due to a subdural hematoma
that was surgically relieved with some success upon arriving in the ER.  A
depressed skull fracture along the right side of the cranium is most likely
the cause.  There is some evidence of possible stroke as indicated by the
slight drawing of the left side of the patient's body, though all tests have
been inconclusive.  We should know more when she wakes up from anesthesia."

Scully exhaled a shaky breath.  "What's her Glasgow," she asked, fearing the
worst.

"It was 6 upon arrival but fell to 5 after a pre-surgical evaluation by our
resident neurologist."  Dr. Callahan paused for a moment.  "It doesn't look
good, Dr. Scully.  It's basically a waiting game from here on out."

Scully looked into the grim line of the doctor's brow, then again at the
chart she now held in her hand.  None of it looked promising, but she needed
more proof before formulating an end.  "I need to see the CT," Scully said.

"Of course.  Right this way, doctor."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Larry Phelps was in a dark place.  Awake, but not awake, he teetered in a
limbo between this world and the infinite blackness of his dreams.

They were doing the tests again.  He could *feel* it, feel Their presence
like a shroud, a part of the blackness slowly smothering him;
making him numb but somehow alive.  He sensed something else,
too, *someone* else.  Omniscient eyes betrayed the shadow where he hid,
a man in a linen suit, one hand in his pocket as he stood looking at Larry's
body in the bed.

The air in the sterile room shifted, swirled along in shapes and patterns on
the wall as Larry Phelps fell into his body, plummeting through the clouds
of his subconscious mind to settle into silence once again.  "They're
coming," he heard himself whisper with his newfound lips.  Then another
voice, small and distant piercing the blackness--

"I'm sorry sir, but you're going to have to step out into the hall..." he
heard as darkness fell around him once again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Doctor Callahan led Scully down another long hall, passing in front of the
large glass door of the ICU waiting room where families sat with prayers and
coffee and out-of-date magazines.  A man in his early fifties, head in his
hands, surrounded by two small children.  Terri's family, Scully deduced,
and immediately felt a twinge of guilt no matter how nonsensical it seemed.
Some part of her couldn't help thinking it all could have been avoided.
Seeing Benjamin Raspail's stricken face and the hollowed eyes of his
children reminded Scully why she chose forensic science rather than
practical medicine.  It is easier to deal with tragedy in past tense.

Dr. Callahan finally stopped in front of a nondescript door by the doctor's
lounge and offered it with a gesture.

"I'll be next door if you have any questions, Dr. Scully," he said as he
bowed into the adjacent room, leaving Terri's attending physician (there are
worse lies) to examine the results in private.

Scully flipped on the lighted panels in the small, dark room and began
wallpapering the smooth white surface with films of Terri's brain.

The ghostly glow of fluorescent lighting filtered through the dark and
light in varying degrees.  An ugly shade of gray splashed across the right
side of the film, a scythe-like crescent indicating her injury.  Bone shards
peppered the depression on the right side of the pre-operative film, the
hematoma a large, ugly mass.  The post-op film was cleaner minus the bone
fragments, but just as foreboding.  Terri Raspail could very well die, she
thought suddenly, and was immediately reminded as to why she was here.
Larry Phelps dreamt this.  Correction:  He *did* this.

Scully picked up Terri's chart again, flipping to the very back to retrieve
the manila folder she'd pilfered from Diagnostics.  As Larry's
"personal physician," she'd ordered a series of tests and blood work,
including CT and PET scans to get to the bottom of these episodes he'd been
having.  After questioning CSM as to what exactly happened with Larry, she
felt it necessary to proceed (however discreetly) via the proper
scientific channels.  Finally convincing the still-out-if-it Larry to
undergo some tests, she admitted him under a false name and, with the help
of a commissioned nurse, had him placed in an empty room on the children's
ward, out of the way of nosy interns eager for a "learning experience."
She hadn't had an opportunity to view the results until now.  Scully removed
the films from their protective sleeve and lined them alongside his
sister's, her mouth agape at what she saw.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Mr. Johnson?  Mr. Johnson are you waking up?"

Nurse Amy Patterson had been on shift for more than 10 hours, working over
time, but for as much as she would have liked to, she couldn't leave.  Not
yet, anyway.

"You're not waking up, are you John Doe.  Or 'Mr. Johnson', or whoever you
are."  Amy looked down disapprovingly at the man, thinking briefly how
little sleep she'd get tonight, if any.

She spoke blandly to Larry's unconscious form, a way to pass the time and
to have a little fun in the process.  Might as well entertain herself, at
least, especially since there was no way to tell how long she would be
stuck with him.

"You know, If someone would have told me I would be involved in something
like this, I would have said they were nuts," she began, thumping the line
of a saline IV.  "First of all, this isn't even my ward.  I work on 600
hall, not the kiddie floor, but the Redhead put me down here and more or
less dared me to leave.  Has she always been that bossy?"  Amy paused as if
Larry was going to answer her.  "Now I've been a nurse for fifteen years and
I'm used to taking orders from arrogant doctors, but this has a little
different feel to it.  The whole situation is, well, strange.  Don't you
think it's strange?"

Larry didn't even flinch.

Amy resumed her work, considering Mr. Johnson (or whoever he was) a lost
cause.  The plain truth was that the whole thing *was* strange.  The Redhead
and her friend had rushed into Admitting with the mystery patient in a
wheelchair.  She had admitting papers, ID'd herself as Dr. Margaret Ruse,
and ordered a shopping list of tests and diagnostic procedures for the
so-called Mr. Johnson.  Nurse Patterson just happened to be behind the desk
at the time, picking up some charts to take back to 600.  Of course, the
records nurse wasn't buying any of it, but the Redhead and the Mysterious
Man weren't taking "no" for an answer.  Well, it was more like *she* wasn't
taking "no" for an answer.  The Mysterious Man just stood there as if he
knew more than he was letting on.  Total.  Control.  Seizing the opportunity
to make a little fast cash, Nurse Patterson told Cathy the records nurse
that she would take care of them, and gladly accepted some "hush money" when
The Redhead offered.  Nurse Patterson agreed to stay overnight and look
after the man in question, stipulating she would keep her mouth shut in the
process.  She was also to grant the Mysterious Man full access to the
patient, except when medically implausible (like now) at the behest of Dr.
Ruse.  There was definitely something going on between those two, but not
something she could wrap her brain around just yet.

Returning to the bed she noticed the man begin to stir, show signs of life.
"Mr. Johnson," she said, assuming the sugary-sweet tone she learned in
training.  "Mr. Johnson, we had to sedate you during the CAT scan.  I know
you are feeling groggy but you need to wake up now.  You'll feel better if
you do."

The man on the bed groaned, his eyes fluttering open, feeling sick.
"Terri..." Larry whispered chokingly, and began crying quietly as the nurse
looked on.  "Terri...he knows."

"He knows."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dana Scully had seen a lot of things during her years with the X-files, but
somehow she never ceased to be surprised/horrified/enlightened by her
findings.  This time was no different.

She shifted her gaze from Terri's film to Larry's and back again, not
believing what her eyes insisted they saw.  Larry's CT was shaded by a light
gray arc on the right side of his brain. Identical in shape to his sister's
life-threatening hematoma, but only in passing.  Larry had no hematoma, nor
had he had one in the past few days, but according to these films, Larry's
brain showed signs of recent blunt-force trauma, evidence of an injury that
was healing at a rapid rate.  Only a slight trace now, but in a pattern that
was identical to his sister's.  A cold hand closed over Scully's heart as
she realized what this indicated.  Larry not only appeared to have endured
a trauma much like the one he had inflicted on his sister, but Larry had
endured *her* trauma, to the letter.  Their blood work and films were
identical, only his were far less severe and rapidly improving.  But that
was impossible, wasn't it?

As if that weren't enough, Scully's eyes fell on a shadow, barely visible in
the dense cortex of Larry's brain.  In fact it could have easily been
overlooked as a glitch in the scan, a malfunction.  Scully however could
discern a pair of what appeared to be cones, not unlike centrioles in shape,
parallel to each other though completely a part of Larry's brain.  His
pineal gland, to be exact, one of the most mysterious, unmapped regions
of the human brain. Scully had witnessed similar technology only recently,
it having been made available to aid stroke victims as late as 1998.  But
this... this was remarkably different.  These implants (the very implication
made her shudder) were not in the cerebral cortex where they are usually
placed, but rather imbedded deep in the pineal gland, on the anterior side,
and obviously well established.  She moved to the folder, viewing magnifications
she had the technician make of each area of Larry's brain.  She pulled the
corresponding film and placed it on the board, giving her a much better view
of the anomaly.

In short it was a marvel to look at, these two foreign objects coexisting in
such a delicate environment.  Strange, would be a more adequate word, had it
not seemed so elementary.  Without a doubt the most remarkable thing was the
apparent fact that these implants were NOT new.  Years, maybe decades old,
the neurons having long ago wrapped happily around the wick-like electrode
in each of the cones.  Implants so much older than the technology used to
create them, defying logic.  And seemingly they were being used for a far
more different purpose; what that was, though, she dared not consider.

Scully flipped through the file again, retrieving the PET scans for
examination, looking for some sort of validation (or invalidation) to
resolve her suspicions.

There in a cross-section view of Larry's brain, Scully discovered an
unmistakable concentration of activity just below the central cortex.  A
bright red and yellow spectrum spread out from the center of Larry's brain,
activity like Scully had ever witnessed before.  Malignant tumors in the
last stages of disease fail to contrast as vibrantly as what she now viewed.
Scully pulled the other images, comparing them with what was apparent in the
cross-section.  Every other section of Larry's brain appeared completely
normal, save for some hyperactivity in the visual lobe.  Larry's pineal
gland, however, harbinger of two foreign objects adopted so long ago, glowed
like a Christmas tree.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully walked down the hall toward Larry's room and found CSM still
waiting outside, looking badly in need of a cigarette.  "C.G., we need to
talk," Scully said, leaning in close, "but not here."

~*~*~*~*~*~

She punched the buttons on the elevators with a not-so-steady hand, trying
to figure out a way to approach the subject of her findings.

"There's a diagnostic room where I viewed Larry's films," she began as she
walked down the brightly lit hall.  "It's relatively safe there, I've been
allotted some measure of privacy."  When she passed the large glass
doors of the waiting room, she purposely looked away.

The lights fluttered on in the tiny room as she pulled up a chair.  "Please,
I know it's late," she offered with a smile, "sit down and I'll tell you what
I've found."

Scully let out a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose as if her fatigue
might pass with such a simple act.  "First of all, there's
a good chance Terri Raspail won't pull through.  It doesn't look good, but I
think we were right in not turning Larry over to the police.  Especially now
that I've found what I have.  I had to relinquish Terri's films to Dr.
Callahan, but I still have Larry's."

Scully stood to illuminate the panels, and one by one they came to life as
she clamped the films into place.  She turned back to CSM, using her finger
as a pointer on the blue/gray images.  "This area right here displays signs
of damage that is IDENTICAL to Terri's trauma, albeit lesser in severity.  I
can't explain it, or I couldn't, until I found this."  She moved to the CT
magnifications, betraying the little cones in their unnatural habitat.
"Implants," she said decisively, "though not ones you would immediately
think of.  These are medical, made of glass with a tiny electrode anchoring
the middle.  The two of them are actually no bigger than the head of a
ballpoint pen.  They work in pairs to transmit thoughts.  It's a relatively
new and cutting edge technology used to treat stroke patients, but; not in
this case.  You see, these implants have been placed in the pineal gland, one of
the most obscure parts of the mapped brain.  Not only is the placement
of these implants extraordinary, but I would suspect the purpose for which
they were placed is even more so.  In ancient times the pineal gland was
referred to as the 'Third Eye' because of its ability to enable the body to
differentiate between night and day without the use of the eyes.
Scientifically this 'third eye' connotation is semiaccurate, being that
within the pineal gland there is a complete map of the human field of
vision.  What mystical charm the pineal gland might entail is left entirely
up to subject, though history regards it a popular myth.  Descartes called
it 'the seat of the soul,' where the true 'mind' resides as opposed to
thought and clarity.  In actuality, the pineal gland *is* mystical, though
only in pragmatic terms.  The pineal gland manufactures melatonin, which is
produced only in the dark.  In some animals the pineal gland has magnetic
properties which work with the earth's natural poles, to actually 'guide'
their way about the earth."  Scully paused for a moment, letting what she
was saying sink in for both of them.  "Listen, I'm not giving any credence
to these claims, I'm merely telling you what I know.  How it relates to
Larry's condition still remains to be seen, though I do have a theory."
Scully took a breath, gathering her thoughts in the process.

"It is in my experience, both in the field of science and in my work on the
X-files, that leads me to believe what Larry is experiencing is likened to a
natural psychic phenomenon known as paraempathy, coupled with what appears
to be some measure of precognition.  Why Larry experienced the dream about
Terri, I can't tell you, but I CAN tell you that it is of supreme
significance; the similarities cannot be refuted.  Given the evidence at
hand, superficially this appears to be a paraempathetic response, though not
a natural one.  I believe that Larry has no natural psychic ability as of
note, but that someone wanted him to have, a very long time
ago."  Scully took a stepped toward CSM and lay a hand on his arm.  "C.G.,
someone is using Larry, or was, for a task of their own interest.  These
glass implants are proof.  Though I can't explain it, Larry has in his brain
technology that is younger than any of us.  It is my belief that as a result
of the apparent purposeful misplacement of these cones, his pineal gland has
been stimulated to manufacture certain psychic responses.  C.G., we don't
know what Larry is capable of.  The episode in St. Augustine, the waitress
in the truck stop..."  She looked up at him, determined.  "You saw the
blood.  I saw it too.  As ridiculous as it may seem, our seeing what was
never there appears to be a victim's response to what is known as a Bard's
Gift, a rare but apparent psychic property that allows the gifted to
manipulate the perceptions of others.  A gift that Larry wasn't born with."
Scully took a breath, wondering if he thought her mad.  When she spoke again
her voice was even-tempered, less excited.  "As strange as it may
seem for me to be formulating such a theory, I really believe I've got
something here.  It makes sense.  The answer isn't Larry...it's *in* Larry.
And I have a feeling his sister knows more about that than he does."

As if on cue, a disturbance in the hall stole her attention.  "Code Blue
room 202!" she heard the voices yell, followed by a scuffle of feet and
equipment.  Scully bolted out of the door just in time to see Dr. Callahan
rushing into Terri Raspail's room.

"Terri," Scully breathed, as much a prayer as it was a realization.

********************************************

Date:  05-30-01, 19:31:44 GMT
RP:    CSM
Subject:  {RPG} Exits
From:  SummerSnows

Fog seemed to clear as Larry became lucid.  Slowly he began to
recognize his surroundings.  Cold, sterile, white, metal.  Comfortingly
unfamiliar.  It wasn't the test lab in Roswell, it was just a hospital.

He sat up with a start.  His movement yanked the IV, rattling the
stand.  A nurse, asleep in a chair, moaned softly, stirred, but did not
wake.

Oh no, it must have happened again, he thought, rubbing his eyes.  Time
to tell the doctors, as usual, that nothing was wrong, that whoever
brought him in had exaggerated.  Or whatever lie he needed to come up
with to match his perfect state of health.

He pulled out the IV from the back of his hand, wiped off a couple drops
of blood.  As he looked around for his clothes, he tried to recollect what
had happened, but of course, he couldn't, he never could.  Finding his
clothes neatly folded on a cold metal table, he slipped on his jeans.
Wondering who'd splurged for the private room.  The last thing he
remembered was his sister's house.

A cold chill went through him.  The dream.

He breathed in deeply, calming himself.  She was fine, he told himself.
No need to panic, no need to panic.  He'd exit this room, he thought as
he put on his shirt, and she'd be sitting in an uncomfortable chair just
outside, waiting for them to release him.  No need to panic.  She'd drive
him back to her house and make him tea, he thought, willing his hands
to stop shaking long enough to tie his shoes.

He opened the door softly so as not to wake up the nurse.  Outside his
room the walls were covered in bright colorful wallpaper with fluffy
clouds, rainbows and hot air balloons.  There were pawprints painted in
bright red on the floor, and chairs were small and in primary colors.

-0-0-0-0-0-

> "It is in my experience, both in the field of science and in my work on the
> x-files, that leads me to believe what Larry is experiencing is likened to a
> natural psychic phenomenon known as paraempathy, coupled with what appears
> to be some measure of precognition.  Why Larry experienced the dream
> about Terri, I can't tell you, but I CAN tell you that it is of supreme
> significance; the similarities cannot be refuted.  Given the evidence at
> hand, superficially this appears to be a paraempathetic response, though not
> a natural one.  I believe that Larry has no natural psychic ability as of
> note, but that someone wanted him to have, a very long time
> ago."  Scully took a stepped toward CSM and lay a hand on his arm.  "C.G.,
> someone is using Larry, or was, for a task of their own interest.  These
> glass implants are proof.  Though I can't explain it, Larry has in his brain
> technology that is younger than any of us.  It is my belief that as a result
> of the apparent purposeful misplacement of these cones, his pineal gland has
> been stimulated to manufacture certain psychic responses.  C.G., we don't
> know what Larry is capable of.  The episode in St. Augustine, the waitress
> in the truck stop..."  She looked up at him, determined.  "You saw the
> blood.  I saw it too.  As ridiculous as it may seem, our seeing what was
> never there appears to be a victim's response to what is known as a Bard's
> Gift, a rare but apparent psychic property that allows the gifted to
> manipulate the perceptions of others.  A gift that Larry wasn't born with."
> Scully took a breath, wondering if he thought her mad.  When she spoke
> again her voice was even-tempered, less excited.  "As strange as it may
> seem for me to be formulating such a theory, I really believe I've got
> something here.  It makes sense.  The answer isn't Larry... it's *in* Larry.
> And I have a feeling his sister knows more about that than he does."

"Did you find an unidentifiable substance in his blood?"  The Cigarette
Smoking Man moved away from Scully.  Her proximity disturbed him,
short-circuited his concentration.  The Morleys called him.  "It's what
triggered the seizure."  He turned, his back to the wall.  Her line of sight
felt like a firing squad.  "I know, I put it there."

He looked down at the freshly mopped floor tiles.  "You see, Dana, it
was a little test," he said by way of explanation.  "Had Larry been normal,
there would have been no reaction."  Stepping towards the lighted
panels, he pointed at the films, gray and black and fairly meaningless
to him.  "I didn't know about the cones."

> As if on cue, a disturbance in the hall stole her attention.  "Code Blue
> room 202!" she heard the voices yell, followed by a scuffle of feet and
> equipment.  Scully bolted out of the door just in time to see Dr. Callahan
> rushing into Terri Raspail's room.

After Scully left, CSM looked around the room.  He pulled a pack of
Morley's from his inside jacket pocket, lit one, inhaled.  The smoke
flowed upward in front of his face, then towards the no smoking sign on
the wall behind him.  Turning the cigarette over in his hand, he stared at
the bright red tip.  Noise still coming from the hallway.  He turned his
gaze to the films up on the wall.  Then he plucked the pictures one by
one and stuffed them into the large envelope.  Picked up the medical
chart, the folder, the magnifications.  The envelope getting awful tight,
now.  He inhaled on the Morley, dropped it to the floor and crushed it
with his shoe.

If you pretended you were supposed to be doing whatever it was you
were doing, no one would question you, he thought, as he walked down
the hall, in the opposite direction of Room 202.  Even if you had a fat
yellow envelope in your hand.  In the hospital cafeteria, the reek of bland,
overcooked canned food made him flinch.  He tossed the file into a
dumpster.  Then he found a pay phone, put some coins into it.

"It's me," he said, turning his back to the wall.  "Is this line secure?"
Observing the cafeteria.  "Are there any others?... Besides Larry."  He
pulled a notepad from a jacket pocket.  "Steven?"  He wrote the name
down.  "Do you have a last name?"  Jot, jot.  He watched a woman in a
nurse's uniform helping herself to the salad bar, piling food on top of
food.  "Who else?... You don't know?  How am I supposed to clean this
up if you don't know how many there are?"  The woman added to the
mountain of food, as though she only had one chance at the salad bar and
a famine was coming.  Scully wouldn't eat that way, CSM thought.  She
would take a serving that would leave a wren hungry.

Drawing his mind back to work, he pulled out a Morley.  "It's been
twenty years.  Are the records still there?"  Things falling off her plate
now.  "What kind of surprise?"  A half cup of salad dressing on top of
everything else.  Scully would use something painfully pungent - lemon
juice or straight vinegar.  He looked elsewhere, lit the cigarette, tried to
focus.  "Can I try a mindwipe, you know, *first*?"

He blew smoke away from the receiver.  A man walked by, glared at the
Morley, cleared his throat.  CSM spoke into the phone, "Where's the
airport here?... No, no, I'm in Macon, now, Georgia."  While he waited
for the response, he puffed on the Morley.  He put it out, then picked up
the notepad again.  Wrote down:  Herbert Smart Airport.  Hwy 16 South
to 23 North.  Replacing the paper and pen in his jacket, he said, "Have a
plane ready.  I'm on my way."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Larry followed the commotion and thus found Room 202.  Through the
window by the door, he recognized her.  "Terri!"  He put his nose to the
glass.  "Oh my god!"  Next to Terri's bed was a monitor with a straight
line that emitted a tone.  A doctor gave her an injection.

"Clear," someone yelled, and someone else put paddles on her.  The
monitor continued to say nothing.

Crying hysterically now, Larry ran into the room, pushing staff members
out of his way.

"Sir, you can't come in here."

He picked up Terri's hand, held it in his own, squeezed his eyes shut.

And the monitor thingy started going again.

-0-0-0-0-0-

CSM stood next to the pay phone, staring at the cafeteria exit, knowing
he should go catch his plane.  At the same time rationalizing all the
reasons he could ask Scully to come to New Mexico with him.  The lady
with the salad had chosen a table not too far from the bar, and was
spilling green peppers everywhere as she tried to pick food off her plate.
He felt as though a magnetic field were pulling him back to Scully.  It
was his stupid heart, he knew.  Must concentrate on the mission.

She'd think him strange, though, if he just disappeared.  So he would
allow himself to find her, tell her goodbye.  Yes, that's it, that's all.  Just
say goodbye, and get back to work.  Distance between them would clear
his head, he told himself, and the inside of his ribcage felt like something
with claws was scratching at it.  He played his word association game:
She had named him Mr. Johnson.  Johnson & Johnson.  Baby oil.
Oiliens.

Taking a deep breath, he walked through the cafeteria doors.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Larry kneeled on the floor, rested his head on the edge of the bed, crying.
He felt himself being lifted by strong, trained arms, and the nurse guiding
him towards the door said, "Look there, see?  She's going to be all right.
Now why don't you wait outside and give the doctors some room so they
can do their job?"

She left him next to the window, where he looked in for a little while, his
eyes glazed and unblinking, hypnotized by the rhythm of the heart
monitor.  And when Benjamin asked him something, he didn't say
anything.  Instead, he walked down the hall until he came across a sign
over a stairwell that said EXIT in red electric letters.  Larry looked at the
sign, reading that one word over and over.  Then he said, "No more."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Returning to the ICU area, CSM saw Scully, approached her.  Standing
in front of her, he felt big, clumsy, electrified.  He said, "I, uh, I'm going
to New Mexico."  He cleared his throat.

And before he knew what he was doing, he said, "You could come with
me."  Then concentrated on keeping his face straight, his demeanor cool.
Hoping it didn't sound as stupid and unprofessional to her as it did to him.

Behind him, CSM heard Larry's voice.  "What about me?"

He turned to look at him.  Larry's eyes were swollen, red, and his lips
pulled back like an angry cat.  Yet his tone of voice was quiet,
businesslike.

"What about you?" CSM returned.

"You stung me with something, and that's the last thing I remember,"
Larry said, as tranquil as a frozen pond.  CSM recognized the
attitude - an icy cloak covering the threat underneath.  Larry was
upset, CSM realized, and fighting fire with fire.  Copying CSM's quiet
underplayed ways.

It was late now.  CSM was tired, not up to this.  First Scully had watched
the kid throw him on the floor, now she was going to watch them in a
battle of the wits.  And CSM had nothing to say.

Larry continued, "So, the way I see it, if you know so much about my
condition, you can put an end to it, can't you?"

CSM said, "I've heard of the project in Roswell.  But I don't know
enough to help you."

"You owe me."  Larry pointed to Terri's room.  "That's your doing."

"I've got a plane to catch."

"I'm going with you."

********************************************

Date:  06-14-01, 02:39:29 GMT
RP:    Dana Scully
Subject:  {RP} Beacon Light
From:  Brandi ~the minx~

> "Did you find an unidentifiable substance in his blood?"  The Cigarette
> Smoking Man moved away from Scully.

Scully thumbed through the flip chart, remembering having found something
peculiar but disregarding it.  Ah, here it is.  "As a matter of fact, I did,
but it seemed somewhat inconsequential at the time."  She looked him
squarely in the eye.  "A slight elevation of sodium chloride in his blood,
a little above normal.

> Her proximity disturbed him,
> short-circuited his concentration.  The Morleys called him.

She picked up on his restlessness, mistaking it for deceit.  "What else do
you know," she asked, even-toned, all business.

> "It's what triggered the seizure."  He turned, his back to the wall.
> Her line of sight felt like a firing squad.  "I know, I put it there."
>
> He looked down at the freshly mopped floor tiles.  "You see, Dana, it
> was a little test," he said by way of explanation.  "Had Larry been normal,
> there would have been no reaction."  Stepping towards the lighted
> panels, he pointed at the films, gray and black and fairly meaningless
> to him.  "I didn't know about the cones."

Scully opened her mouth to speak, considered a reprimand but held her
tongue.  He *still* didn't believe her.  About what else had she been
misled?

>> As if on cue, a disturbance in the hall stole her attention.  "Code Blue
>> room 202!" she heard the voices yell, followed by a scuffle of feet and
>> equipment.  Scully bolted out of the door just in time to see Dr. Callahan
>> rushing into Terri Raspail's room.

Scully followed the throng of personnel into Terri's room, staying clearly
out of the way but itching to help.  At the center of the storm of paper
shoes and long white coats lay Terri, no doubt walking the line between life
and death.  Though she had little memory of the details, Scully's mind
traveled to a time where she too had teetered on the boundary of this world
and beyond, of a voice cutting through the blackness like a beacon; a kindly
nurse who'd held her hand and helped her choose which path to take.

Whispering a silent prayer, Scully quietly slipped out of the room and down
the hall to let the doctor's do their work.  The rest, she feared, was left up
to Terri.

(snip section)

> -0-0-0-0-0-

> Larry followed the commotion and thus found Room 202.  Through the
> window by the door, he recognized her.  "Terri!"  He put his nose to the
> glass.  "Oh my god!"  Next to Terri's bed was a monitor with a straight
> line that emitted a tone.  A doctor gave her an injection.
>
> "Clear," someone yelled, and someone else put paddles on her.  The
> monitor continued to say nothing.
>
> Crying hysterically now, Larry ran into the room, pushing staff members
> out of his way.
>
> "Sir, you can't come in here."
>
> He picked up Terri's hand, held it in his own, squeezed his eyes shut.
>
> And the monitor thingy started going again.
>
> -0-0-0-0-0-

~*~*~*~*~*~
10:31 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Apartment of Fox Mulder
~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder checked his notes, then checked them again, double checking against
himself though the information was the same.  Years with Scully had taught
him to appreciate the truth in everything, and to seek it out even if it
meant nullifying a previous theory.  In the low light of his apartment, he
was doing just that.  From the results present in the findings he now held,
it appeared the little girl he once believed was causing the death of her
playmates by way of telekinesis was no more than a hapless victim caught
in a wave strange occurrences.  True, the case was still unsolved, but it
was no longer an X-File.  Why was he always wrong when Scully was away?

As if to punctuate his last thought, the phone rang.  One ring.  Two rings.
He let the machine get it.  A few seconds later an acutely familiar voice
rang through the empty apartment.  "Mulder, it's me.  If you're there I need
you to pick up."

She sounded tired, Mulder thought.  Worn out.  He wondered if she had slept
at all.

"Scully?  Hey Scully how are things in Florida?"  Scully shifted her weight
from one foot to the other, standing near the ICU entrance on the south end,
a good bit down from Terri's room.  "Well Mulder, I'm not in Florida now.
I'm in Georgia, if you can believe that."  He paused to let her finish.  "I
ran into someone, Mulder, who is quite peculiar.  It's a strange situation.
He asked for my help."

"In what way is he peculiar," Mulder countered, his voice assuming
his usual monotone.  Scully didn't answer, per say, perhaps she didn't know
for sure.  A beat passed.  "Mulder, what do you know about paraempathetic
response?   The Bard's gift?  What about the pineal gland as a Godhead?
I really need your advice on this."

"Whoa! Scully what have you stepped in?  Sounds a whole lot more
interesting than my case.  What happened to the Holy Water thing?"

Scully scoffed at that.  "For your information it was not Holy Water,
Mulder, it was the Fountain of Youth.  Anyway, it fell apart.  It's not
important.  But I have a feeling this is."  A beat passed.  "So, will you
help me?"

> CSM stood next to the pay phone, staring at the cafeteria exit, knowing
> he should go catch his plane.  At the same time rationalizing all the
> reasons he could ask Scully to come to New Mexico with him.  The lady
> with the salad had chosen a table not too far from the bar, and was
> spilling green peppers everywhere as she tried to pick food off her plate.
> He felt as though a magnetic field were pulling him back to Scully.  It
> was his stupid heart, he knew.  Must concentrate on the mission.
>
> She'd think him strange, though, if he just disappeared.  So he would
> allow himself to find her, tell her goodbye.  Yes, that's it, that's all.  Just
> say goodbye, and get back to work.  Distance between them would clear
> his head, he told himself, and the inside of his ribcage felt like something
> with claws was scratching at it.  He played his word association game:
> She had named him Mr. Johnson.  Johnson & Johnson.  Baby oil.
> Oiliens.
>
> Taking a deep breath, he walked through the cafeteria doors.
>
> -0-0-0-0-0-
>
> Larry kneeled on the floor, rested his head on the edge of the bed, crying.
> He felt himself being lifted by strong, trained arms, and the nurse guiding
> him towards the door said, "Look there, see?  She's going to be all right.
> Now why don't you wait outside and give the doctors some room so they
> can do their job?"
>
> She left him next to the window, where he looked in for a little while,
> his eyes glazed and unblinking, hypnotized by the rhythm of the heart
> monitor.  And when Benjamin asked him something, he didn't say
> anything.  Instead, he walked down the hall until he came across a sign
> over a stairwell that said EXIT in red electric letters.  Larry looked at the
> sign, reading that one word over and over.  Then he said, "No more."
>
> -0-0-0-0-0-

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, sure Scully, wait just a min."  Mulder tucked the phone under his ear
and went to his bookshelf, searching through his extensive collection of
literary oddities.  At the same time, Scully looked up to see CSM walking
toward her, down the hall past Terri's room.  She'd wondered where he'd
been since last she saw him.

He was getting closer now, she could almost see his face.  She cleared her
throat into the receiver of the cellphone.  "Mulder?"  An affirmative grunt
answered.  "I'm going to have to go now.  Send what you have to my
laptop.  I check it regularly."

"Wait,  hold on a minute Scully, I--"

"I'll be in touch.  Take care of yourself, Mulder."

And just like that, she was gone.

> Returning to the ICU area, CSM saw Scully, approached her.  Standing
> in front of her, he felt big, clumsy, electrified.  He said, "I, uh, I'm
> going to New Mexico."  He cleared his throat.
>
> And before he knew what he was doing, he said, "You could come with
> me."  Then concentrated on keeping his face straight, his demeanor cool.
> Hoping it didn't sound as stupid and unprofessional to her as it did to him.

Scully swallowed, tucked her cellphone in her jacket pocket, meeting his
gaze with certainty.  The answer didn't take her long.

"Yes," she said simply.

Although it was but one word, the weight of its meaning was evident.

> Behind him, CSM heard Larry's voice.  "What about me?"
>
> He turned to look at him.  Larry's eyes were swollen, red, and his lips
> pulled back like an angry cat.  Yet his tone of voice was quiet,
> businesslike.
>
> "What about you?" CSM returned.
>
> "You stung me with something, and that's the last thing I remember,"
> Larry said, as tranquil as a frozen pond.  CSM recognized the
> attitude - an icy cloak covering the threat underneath.  Larry was
> upset, CSM realized, and fighting fire with fire.  Copying CSM's quiet
> underplayed ways.
>
> It was late now.  CSM was tired, not up to this.  First Scully had watched
> the kid throw him on the floor, now she was going to watch them in a
> battle of the wits.  And CSM had nothing to say.
>
> Larry continued, "So, the way I see it, if you know so much about my
> condition, you can put an end to it, can't you?"
>
> CSM said, "I've heard of the project in Roswell.  But I don't know
> enough to help you."
>
> "You owe me."  Larry pointed to Terri's room.  "That's your doing."
>
> "I've got a plane to catch."
>
> "I'm going with you."

"You're wrong, Larry."  Larry looked at Scully like she'd pulled a gun
on him.  "YOU hurt your sister, not C.G.  And not I."  She looked at them
both, dark circles under her eyes now heavy with exhaustion.  Larry
hung his head, defeated, looking as if he could cry or scream or something
related.  Not sure if emotional agitation triggered his spells or not,
Scully felt it best to keep him calm, at least until they knew the details
of his condition.  "Larry," she said in an even tone, strolling passed CSM
to bring Larry's face in view of hers.  "Larry," her voice was quieter now,
measured.  "I know about the Light, Larry.  And it's going
to be ok."  Larry fell into Scully, wrapping his arms around her as a child
would, bending slightly to compensate for the height difference.  "It's
going to be ok Larry."

"It's going to be ok."

~*~*~*~*~*~
11:47 pm.
Herbert Smart Airport
Macon, Georgia
~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully stood in the ghostly light of the airport, trying very hard to
distinguish a few stars and constellations in dense night sky.  It was
hard though, like it was in the city...too much ambient light.  With all the
track lighting and sky lamps surrounding the airport, the stars above were
completely washed into a long blank slate, dark and light and dark again.
The big sweeping beacon circling overhead... one revolution after another,
endlessly searching.  She wondered briefly if that beacon ever found
anything but sky and blackness.  If one day there might fall something in
its path...

Larry had stayed in the car as CSM talked to the pilot.  Scully felt for
him, in a way.  His life had been stolen, his mind warped into something
foreign, something alien.  The person he could have been was dead, replaced
by what he was-- a frightened man capable of anything but incapable
of handling the repercussions of that truth.  Scully identified with that
somewhat.  What person would she have become had her ova not been stolen... her
sister remained alive?  Would she be here, tonight, about to board a plane with
a man who worked for Them?  It was too much to consider, especially at the hour.
As if to interrupt her thoughts, her phone rang in her jacket pocket, its trill almost
lost amid the noise of the airport.

"Scully," she breathed, though she already had a suspecion who it might be.

"Hey, Scully, it's me."  I've got some stuff for you."

She grew dizzy, sick with the hour.  "Mulder, it's late," she answered
weakly.  "Send it to my laptop.  I can't really deal with anything right
now."  On the horizon the beacon swung long, then around and over her and
back around into the black night, lost.  It completed a revolution before
she spoke again.

"Mulder.  Are you there."

"Yeah Scully, I'm here."  He sounded resigned, or perhaps he was just tired.
"Get some rest Scully."

"Thank you," she said distantly.  "You too."

After he hung up, she turned her cellphone off for good.

~*~*~*~*~*~
Office of the Magic Bullet newsletter
(aka The Lone Gunmen Lair)
~*~*~*~*~*~

A phone rang, a tape recorder groaned to life, and a global positioning
system chirped into action.  A groggy, scruffy, less than rosy voice
answered the phone--

"Gunmen," growled Frohike.

"Oh come on Frohike, I know you weren't asleep.  Unless you nodded off
watching that video I loaned you."  Mulder's wide grin was evident even on
the phone.  "Which reminds me, you owe some late fees."

"What's up G-man?"  About that time two other receivers clicked to life,
followed by Byers and Langley voicing their hellos.

"Guys," Mulder began, looking at his parapsychology concordance openfaced on
the coffee table, "I need a favor."

--------

The plane was a private jet, compliments of the Consortium, no doubt.
Sometimes she forgot who CSM worked for, who paid the bills.  The seats
were plush leather, slate grey and roomy.  Almost like tiny couches they
were fashioned like fluffy benches with no middle dividers.  Larry was
already settled in behind them, a pillow under his head and a blanket pulled
up under his chin, sound asleep.  Scully instructed the flight
attendant, a lovely professional named Nancy ;-) not to let Larry have
any alcohol on the flight, just in case it were to exacerbate his condition.
As soon as they got to New Mexico, she wanted more tests done on Larry,
more blood work and another CT scan.

They sat waiting for the jet to take off, the pilot very courteous and in
constant communication with the small entourage.  Despite the roomy
interior, there were only six seats on the small private jet--three for crew
members and three for passengers.  Unless she wanted to sit with Larry drooling
on her shoulder, she chose the seat near CSM, hoping he wouldn't mind the
close proximity.  She leaned in close, which wasn't hard given her current
position.  "I'm going to the restroom to freshen up," she said, and rose
carrying her small overnight bag with her to the back.

The facilities were definitely not your standard issue airplane fare.  They
were a great deal larger (meaning you could actually turn around in them)
and had more amenities.  Soap and towels.  A place to hang your clothes.
It was going to be quite a long flight, so she decided it was best if she
got comfortable, or as comfortable as possible.  She still had on the light
pantsuit she'd worn to breakfast, wrinkled but more or less intact given what
she'd been through.  She took off the jacket, untucked the shirt and bagged the
clunky shoes. After washing her face she toweled off and took another look.  Her
face was clean, peppered with freckles, no makeup.  It didn't bother her now,
she thought, not since the Wayward Palms.  He hadn't minded her without
makeup then, why should he now?  He seemed to appreciate honesty, as did
she, and a clean face is about as honest as it gets.

Her thoughts briefly turned to Mulder.  He hadn't really sounded suspicious,
just occupied.  Skinner didn't mind them working separate cases, as long as
they conferred with each other from time to time, and showed up for meetings
together.  He was a stickler for "teamwork," such as it is.  After all, he'd been
the one to sign them up for that damned seminar ("Detour") a couple of years
back.  Thank God they never made it.  Unbuttoning her collar just a bit (for
comfort), she walked back to her seat, hoping to get some sleep before landing
in New Mexico.

~*~*~*~*~*~
Lone Gunmen Lair, 12:25 am
~*~*~*~*~*~

"This isn't exactly Kosher, G-man.  I mean, spying on the fair Dr. Scully
and all."

"Oh Frohike, since when are you worried about following the rules," Mulder
quipped.  "Besides, you're just madly in love with her, that's all."

"Yeah, so what if I am?"  Langley and Byers shared a laugh at that one, but
Frohike remained quiet.

"Quit stalling," Mulder said.  "Where is she."

Frohike took a breath, then hung up the phone, wanting no part of it.
Byers answered the question.  "Her cellphone places her at Herbert
Smart Airport, Macon Georgia."

Mulder didn't miss a beat.  "I want credit card records too, guys.  Screw
Frohike, this is for Scully's own good.  Call me with what you find."

Byers interrupted as Langley voiced his compliance.  "Mulder, I know you
have her best interests in mind, but, when are you going to let her live her
own life?"

Mulder left Byers with a dead line, the question still hanging in the air,
unanswered.

So...Herbert Smart, huh.  He let the feel of it linger on his tongue,
trying to decipher the meaning.  "What are you up to, Scully," he asked no
one, "Where you off to now..."

-----------

As soon as Scully settled into the feather-soft seats she felt her eyelids
grow heavy, threatening the comfort of sleep.  Once they were in the air,
she turned to speak.  "Where would you like to go first," she inquired of
CSM, knowing most certainly he had most of this planned already.  It
didn't bother her that he was keeping her in the dark, at least not anymore.
It might be for her own protection.  She chanced a look at Larry, head
plastered against the porthole, deep in sleep.  She gestured with her eyes,
behind them.  "And what are we going to do about HIM?"

Nancy approached them, asking if she'd like something to eat.  Despite her
queasiness she complied, and encouraged CSM to eat as well, since they'd had
little since the fast food they'd swallowed on the way to Terri's house.
Nancy brought her something light, at her request; rice pilaf, a section of
cantaloupe and a bit of pasta salad.

Sitting that close to CSM was disquieting.  She would shift, or move an inch
or two and the fabric of their garments would touch, or they would reach for
the same magazine and skin would meet skin, electric in its intensity.  For
so long she had been like the beacon, casting light into the infinite blackness
of her small and lonely existence, finding nothing.  Finding comfort in
finding nothing and happy to live that way.  But now there was *him*... with
every revolution he became more and more pronounced, each circle
completing another facet of his person.

And it frightened her more than being alone.

As sleep descended quietly on her exhausted form, her last thoughts were of
Larry, and of New Mexico, and of a man who'd earned her interest, her trust,
and maybe even her heart.


**Author's Notes**
"Beacon Light" is also the literal Old English meaning of my name, "Brandi," but
I remembered that only after the theme of the installment was well established.

Nancy the flight attendant is, of course, a nod to one very special Nancy I know
:-), but is also a direct referral to a wonderful flight attendant I encountered
on my return flight from Europe.  She was very sweet, pretty, and posed for a
picture when we asked.  Her name was Nancy :-)

The Lone Gunmen are used as OC's here.  Do with them as you want.  And I promise
to put Mulder back where I found him, come July :-P.

********************************************

Date:  07-03-01, 07:00:00 PM
RP:    CSM
Subject:  {RP} Nondescript Part 1 of 3
From:  SummerSnows

Part 1 of 3

> They sat waiting for the jet to take off, the pilot very courteous and in
> constant communication with the small entourage.  Despite the roomy
> interior, there were only six seats on the small private jet--three for crew
> members and three for passengers.  Unless she wanted to sit with Larry drooling
> on her shoulder, she chose the seat near CSM, hoping he wouldn't mind the
> close proximity.  She leaned in close, which wasn't hard given her current
> position.  "I'm going to the restroom to freshen up," she said, and rose
> carrying her small overnight bag with her to the back.

After Scully left, the Cigarette Smoking Man looked out the window.  As
the plane took off, he could see the airport lights, bright against the dark
rural Georgia night, the beacons circling the sky.  The beacons finding
nothing but stars.  He had been like a plane, a stealth bomber, silently and
invisibly jetting through the dark tasks of his work, avoiding the beacons
that might have exposed him with their warm light.

Nancy asked him if he wanted anything, and he ordered a Brandi.  ;)

And when Nancy returned, she also brought him a phone.

"Yes?"  He listened as he watched the elevation increase, the city lights of
Macon coming into view in the window, then getting smaller and smaller.

"Are you checking up on me?"  CSM thought for a moment.  The pilot, of
course, would have reported the names of the additional passengers.  Made
the flight plan accurate, in case of emergency.  Wrong beacon, CSM thought.

He looked over, checking that Larry was still asleep.  Into the phone, he
whispered, "What would you have liked me to do?  Blow his brains out in
the hospital?  At the truckstop, in front of everybody?"

He took a deep breath.  He expected the next question, had prepared for it.
"She's here because it's her X-File, her case."  Tried to change the subject.
"You mentioned a surprise earlier.  Is there-"

CSM sipped on his Brandi as he listened to the interruption, then said,
"Mulder knows Agent Scully is with me.  If you eliminate her, you'll get to
explain our involvement with the project to twenty TV cameras and the
NY Times."  Out of habit, he pulled the Morleys out of his pocket, but then
he just looked at them and put them back.  "I know what I'm doing," he
lied.

> -----------
>
> As soon as Scully settled into the feather-soft seats she felt her eyelids
> grow heavy, threatening the comfort of sleep.  Once they were in the air,
> she turned to speak.  "Where would you like to go first," she inquired of
> CSM, knowing most certainly he had most of this planned already.  It
> didn't bother her that he was keeping her in the dark, at least not anymore.
> It might be for her own protection.  She chanced a look at Larry, head
> plastered against the porthole, deep in sleep.  She gestured with her eyes,
> behind them.  "And what are we going to do about HIM?"

CSM leaned back against the seat, indicated the crew with his eyes.  "What
am *I* going to do with him?  I thought he was an X-File."  Then lowering
his voice so the others wouldn't hear, he said, "His, er, skills can be useful,
if he could learn to control them.  But he probably can't."

> Nancy approached them, asking if she'd like something to eat.  Despite her
> queasiness she complied, and encouraged CSM to eat as well, since they'd had
> little since the fast food they'd swallowed on the way to Terri's house.
> Nancy brought her something light, at her request; rice pilaf, a section of
> cantaloupe and a bit of pasta salad.
>
> Sitting that close to CSM was disquieting.  She would shift, or move an inch
> or two and the fabric of their garments would touch, or they would reach for
> the same magazine and skin would meet skin, electric in its intensity.  For
> so long she had been like the beacon, casting light into the infinite blackness
> of her small and lonely existence, finding nothing.  Finding comfort in
> finding nothing and happy to live that way.  But now there was *him*... with
> every revolution he became more and more pronounced, each circle
> completing another facet of his person.
>
> And it frightened her more than being alone.
>
> As sleep descended quietly on her exhausted form, her last thoughts were of
> Larry, and of New Mexico, and of a man who'd earned her interest, her trust,
> and maybe even her heart.

CSM looked at the front of the plane, watching Scully out of the corner of his
eye.  He listened to her breathing become regular as she fell asleep.  Luxuriated in the thought that she was sleeping next to him, her face
naked of makeup.  He put his pillow under her head, leaned against the
plastic walls of the plane,  closed his eyes.

To Be Continued...

********************************************

Date:  07-03-01, 07:01:23 PM
RP:    CSM
Subject:  {RP} Nondescript Part 2 of 3
From:  SummerSnows

Part 2 of 3

Larry awoke, tried to stretch the kinks out of his neck.  As comfortable as
the extravagant seats were, they were still seats, and he always had trouble
sleeping sitting up.  At least it kept him from dreaming.

Nancy came by and said, "Do you need anything?"  He shook his head no,
looked over at Scully and the man she referred to as "CG."

Who'd have imagined, Larry thought, that he would ever get into a private
plane with two strangers?  But he'd needed to put distance between himself
and loved ones he might hurt.  And he needed to stop these episodes.  He'd
expected an argument when he'd demanded to come along, and now was
beginning to wonder.  Was the lack of resistance a bad sign?  Did they
want him along for some reason?  Or were they just being nice?  The
transportation bothered him - someone had to pay for such expenses.  And
that someone must feel that Larry's hitchhiking might be worth the cost.

At least Terri would be safe.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The syllables "CG" floated through CSM's brain.

He opened his eyes and the blackness of sleep was refilled with Scully's clean features.  A dreamy grin covered his face.

As his synapses reconnected and he tried to remember where he was, it occurred to him that maybe they were in his cabin in Quebec, just the two of them, miles from any other human beings.  The dreamy grin remained.

But then the synapses figured it all out.  The humming of the plane's
engines was a clue.  The grin did a bungee-jump off his face as he realized
where he was, and he sat up, blinked his eyes, looked out the window, saw
early morning light.

-0-0-0-0-0-

CSM drove the Syndicate's dark blue Lincoln north on Roswell's Main
Street.  Though he still looked as perfect as ever :-)~~~~~ he felt unfresh,
wearing clothes he'd slept in, self-conscious of his appearance.

They passed the area of the UFO Museum.  The street lights were tall and
looked antique, except for their green globes with slanted alien eyes
painted on them.

CSM said to Scully, "I took the liberty of making arrangements for you.
Larry will be staying in a separate place.  You know, because of his little
problem."

"Oh sure," Larry said, "So it's okay for me to kill perfect strangers in any
hotel, just as long as Agent Scully is safe?  Just like the gov-"

"Did you kill someone, Mr.  Phelps?"  CSM looked at Larry in the
rear-view mirror.

"I'm talking about my sister."

"I hear she's improving," CSM said matter-of-factly.  "Don't worry.  You'll
be safe."

"What do you mean, *I* will be safe?"

"Ah.  Here we are."  He stopped in front of the Frontier Inn, turned off the
engine, stepped out of the car, pulled Scully's bag out of the trunk.

The hotel looked like it had been built before the days of the Roswell
Incident.  It looked safe enough, though, and its main attraction to the
Syndicate was its lack of computerized accounting.

"They'll have your key at the front desk," he said.  "I'd carry your bag in,
but," tilting his head towards Larry.  "Well, he might take a nap or
something."

It was bright and sunny, the dry New Mexico heat starting to kick in, the
bright sunshine absorbing into CSM's black Prada jacket.  The only
difference between here and Florida, CSM thought, was that Florida
steamed you, New Mexico roasted you.

"I know you want to, er, get to work," he said.  "Maybe your FBI ID can
get you in the airfield.  I don't know.  Until I find out what's going on, I'm
afraid I can't help you."

-0-0-0-0-0-

CSM parked in front of a small nondescript house in a small nondescript
Roswell neighborhood.  He told Larry to make himself at home, and went
upstairs.

Larry turned on the television.  When he heard running water from
upstairs, he looked around.  His heart beating faster than a hummingbird's,
he picked up knickknacks, opened books, glanced briefly in the hall closet.
Nothing unusual about the place.  The sound of running water stopped, and
he jumped back on the sofa, pretended to calmly watch TV.

~*~*~*~*~*~
Office of the Magic Bullet Newsletter
(aka The Lone Gunmen Lair)
~*~*~*~*~*~

As Langley typed commands on the keyboard, Byers glared at the monitor
and adjusted his tie.  Frohike pushed his glasses back up his nose, pointed
at a field and said, "Try that."

"I did," Langley said.  "I've tried everything."

"It doesn't make any sense," Frohike said.

"It can't be," Byers said.  But he wasn't looking at the monitor.  His eyes
wandered around the room, as though inventorying the piles of electronic
devices.

"There's nothing?"  Frohike tugged at his pony tail.

"I told you, I've been on it for hours.  I've been kicked out of two intranets,
asked to identify myself on a couple databases.  I had to redisguise the IP
several times, reroute it through Hong Kong and Melbourne.  I won't begin
to tell you how many times I changed Telnet hosts."  Langley smiled.
"There was no trouble with the government sites, though."  He shook his
head, his messy blond hair just minutes from turning into dreadlocks.
"Anyway, there's nothing since she left DC.  No plane tickets, hotels,
restaurant bills or car rentals.  Nothing on her gas card, nothing on *any*
credit cards."

"It's like she fell off the face of the earth," said Frohike.

"Or like someone's picking up her tab," said Byers.

Frohike and Langley spun around and, for a long moment, stared at Byers.

"Did you just say-"

"Do you think-"

"Think about it.  Last time Scully did this, called Mulder to say she was
okay, but other than that, left no trace."

Frohike turned back to the monitor.  "Try the FCC flight plans."

"There's no plane tickets."  Frohike gave Langley a hostile look, and
suddenly Langley seemed to understand.  "Ah.  There wouldn't be."  He
typed furiously (why don't they ever use the mouse?) while the others
looked over his shoulder.  His fingers froze and they all studied the display.

"I don't believe it."

"After everything he's done?"

"Maybe he explained why the disc was blank."

"And she..."

"...believed him."

"Should we tell Mulder?"

To Be Continued...

********************************************

Date:  07-03-01, 07:03:05 PM
RP:    CSM
Subject:  {RP} Nondescript Part 3 of 3
From:  SummerSnows

Part 3 of 3

Larry Phelps pointed at the road and said to CSM, "Uh, this isn't the turn,
uh, to Midway.  Uh.  It's a couple more miles."

Larry remembered when they had changed the name of Walker Air Force
Base to Roswell Industrial Air Center, and opened it to civilian use.  The
media had suddenly lost all interest in it.  Even the die-hard Believers, the
ones that spent all their vacation money to visit a nondescript town in a
nondescript area of New Mexico, paid it no further attention.  As the
Lincoln made its way to the back of the buildings, Larry wondered if
maybe they should have.

Inside, down a set of stairs, CSM slid his ID card through the lock, and opened
the door at the sound of the buzzer.  Told the sergeant behind the desk, "I'm
here with Larry Phelps."

"Right this way."  The sergeant led them down the hall, under the cold, sterile
fluorescent lights.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll be fine, Mr. Phelps."  He opened a doorlock and led them inside.
Except for the restraining devices on the bed and other security measures,
it had the appearance of a hospital room.  The nurses looked prepared.

"I knew it, I knew it!"  Larry hissed like a cornered animal.  "You're with
*them*, aren't you?"

"We just want to take a quick look at you, see if we can help you."

Larry made a run for the door.  CSM held him, the nurses grabbed him.  He
screamed, "What are you doing to me?  Let go of me!" and struggled until they
gave him an injection.

-0-0-0-0-0-

CSM walked down the well-lit corridor, his Armani shoes clicking on the
freshly mopped floor.  Interestingly, though the program was declared a failure
years ago, the underground section where the experiments had taken place
looked like it was still in use.  CSM wondered briefly what kind of work was
going on down here these days.  He'd expected dark hallways, spiderwebs in the
corners, even an occasional broken window.  Maybe that was the surprise he'd
been told about, that another program was being run here.  No matter, he
thought as he reached the door he was looking for, so long as the paperwork
was still there.

And it was.  Rows of file cabinets contained thick folders with all the
information of all the test subjects.  Every detail of each subject's life during the
tests, even the details of their termination, were stored here.  Still, he hadn't
expected this many file cabinets; there hadn't been that many test subjects.
Fifteen?  Twenty?  Less than fifty, he was sure, all of which were supposed to
have been terminated when the Syndicate had decided to abandon the program.
He wondered what the extra file cabinets stored.

He lit a Morley, then pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen.  All he had to do
was write down the names of the subjects without termination data in their
folders.  Once he had the list of names, he'd have to find out where they
were today.

As he searched through the first set of folders, CSM recalled how there had
been such high hopes for this program, how he'd wished he could have been
involved with it, but he had been busy with other work.  The subjects would
acquire telepathic skills and would learn to use those skills to uncover the
aliens' secrets, their plans for colonization.  With that information, they could
have saved the world.  Unfortunately, the experiments had not gone as planned.

He found the folder's termination paperwork, skimmed through it to make sure
all was in order, then closed the file.  Then reopened it.  Took a second look at
the death date, squinted at the birthday.  Something didn't match up.  He rolled
his eyes.  Some careless clerk's typos, he thought, returning the files to the
drawers.

Pulling the next set of folders, he thought of Scully, wondering if she would ask
about Larry.  Wondering what he would say.  He didn't want to lie to her, but
he couldn't endanger the mission.  Trying to reconcile his work-heart with this
new other-heart, he almost missed it on the second folder.  He inhaled on the
cigarette, returned his focus to the task at hand.  The termination paperwork
was complete, but the dates still didn't make sense.  Perhaps they had switched
to a code for the dates - some indecipherable number similar to what computers
use.

It took him a few hours to move through first few letters of the alphabet.  A
thought started to form in his mind - a thought he didn't want to think.  With its
funding hidden under several government department budgets, the experiment
might have been bigger than he'd been aware.

He licked his lips, glanced at the long row of file cabinets.  It was insane,
it was impossible.  He picked a cabinet about ten feet away and opened a
drawer.  It contained more files from the same program.  Definitely more
than fifty subjects.  He closed the drawer, put the current set of folders
away, grabbed the legal pad with nothing written on it, and left the
building.

Back in the nondescript house in the nondescript neighborhood, CSM
called Scully.  Apparently, she had turned her phone off, and he left a
short message on her voice mail.  He sat in his chair and smoked a
cigarette, and forced himself to think about anything other than Scully
and what she might have discovered.

-end-

********************************************

Date:  07-12-01, 06:34:25 PM
RP:    Dana Scully, Fox Mulder
Subject: {RP} Advent
From:  Brandi

"Advent is the perfect time to clear and prepare the Way."

--Edward Hays, A PILGRIM'S ALMANAC


~*~*~*~*~*~
Roswell Industrial Air Center
12:47 pm
~*~*~*~*~*~

The long empty hall resounded with the click of heels on tile, louder now
with no one around to hear them.  The others were in the walls, doing the
work, waiting for her arrival.

Dr. Fleming found her way to the inner room, opening a door with no
handle to stand in a black-lit observatory; the other side of a two-way
mirror.

She'd aged well, but her features placed her at around sixty; dark blonde
hair in a neat bun and wire-rimmed frames spoke of her importance.  Not
to mention five or six nurses clinging to the wall as she entered.  The
others, men and women she never thought she'd see again, had waited all
morning for her to arrive.  For twenty years she'd hidden from the past,
trying to forget who she was; but now, all of that had changed.

Larry Phelps' reappearance brought her out of retirement.

One of the young nurses approached her from the wall.  "Dr. Fleming,
I'm so glad you finally made it.  He's responding quite well to--"

"Stop the treatment at once," she ordered, her British accent thick despite
her years in the States.  The young nurse was hesitant.  "Dr. Fleming, we
have orders to implement--"

"I'm giving you new orders," she said coolly.  "Show me to the others."
The young nurse hesitated only a moment before leading her out.  As she
left the room, Dr. Fleming chanced a look back at Larry's still form
through the glass.  'He's responding well...,' she thought snidely.  That
poor little nurse doesn't have a clue.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dana Scully sat in total contrast to the bright December day, her black
suit a punctuation mark against the clear blue sky.  The cafe was
crowded, raucous and unsettling.  Had she not been well rested it might
have bothered her.  Who would have known C.G.'s shoulder would make
such an adequate pillow?

She sat waiting for the check at a Formica table by the window, a
recording of the Jingle Bell dogs mixing putridly with the loud chatter
filling the small cafe.  Ruefully she wondered if she would miss Midnight
Mass again this year.  It seemed she was always on the road around
Christmas time, having spent the last two holidays in whistle-stop towns
she couldn't even remember.

Despite the travel inconveniences, she did not regret being there.  This
was a full-fledged X-File now, and as much as it was her case, she was
glad he was here with her.  C.G.B. Spender.  When he dropped her at
her hotel early this morning she couldn't help but think of earlier in the
week, when they'd sat up all night talking, drinking wine.  It seemed so
long ago, almost like a dream.  She fought the urge to call him just to
make sure it wasn't.  Hell, she'd call him anyway.  She turned her phone
on but hesitated before reaching for the dialpad.  Almost on cue, the
bright chirp of her cellphone filled the air, nearly matching the annoying
bark of the musical dogs.

"Scully," she answered loudly.

"Whoa!  Not so loud, Scully, I'm convinced."

Mulder.  Damn.

She put on her best nice-girl voice, the one that kids use when they've
been looking for the Christmas presents again.

"Mulder, sorry, it's a little loud in here.  So, what's up?  Do you have any
new leads on your current case?"

Chuckling on the other end.  "It was a sham, Scully, some of Skinner's
busy work.  The little girl's in therapy.  Good thing I didn't call the
priest."  His voice smiled to her over the phone.  He's suspicious, she
thought.  Eight years working with this man hadn't left her completely in
the dark as to how he operates.  She played it down as she humored him.
"Priest, Mulder?  Don't tell me you're seeking solace in religion," she
countered sarcastically.  He didn't miss a beat.  "Exorcism, Scully.  I went
to college with this guy.  He's good.  Tells those demons to go straight to
Hell."  She stifled a laugh with her reprimand.  A moment passed before
he spoke again.

"What are you up to Scully?  You never called me back."  Although his
voice was still light, the tone held a darker shade of skepticism.

"I'm sorry about that Mulder," she said genuinely, "I've been a little busy
lately.  I've stumbled into an X-File, sort of."  His ears pricked like an
English setter.  "Scully, fill me in.  Tell me where and when and I'll be
there."

She headed him off.  "No, Mulder, it's ok.  I don't need you."  *wince* "I
mean, I'm doing just fine here," she corrected.  She could almost hear his
shoulders drop.  "Where's *here*," he finally asked, though it seemed as
though he could say something else.

"I told you last night, I'm in Georgia," she lied.  "I should be back soon,
and I'll fill you in on the details as soon as I get there.  This line might not
be secure."

A few beats passed.

"Mulder," she asked into silence.

"Well anyway I've got some information for you, about the Bard's gift."
His voice was low and perturbed, evading the issue.  Damn, she thought
angrily.  I've aroused his suspicion.  She could only hope Skinner could
keep him occupied with something long enough for her to get back to
D.C.  before he goes down to Georgia calling her name.

"Great, give me what you have," she said, her voice tinged with forced
enthusiasm.

"Well, the Bard's gift is inherent mostly, and it skips a generation.  It's
common among Shamanic tribes, as well as aborigines."

"So, what you're saying is that it couldn't be, say, a product of
environment?"

"That's a little far-fetched Scully, even for me.  There's been governments
to play around with it though.  The Russians did some freaky stuff in the
50's, but nothing really came of it.  The test subjects ended up as
vegetables.  Scully, why are you asking me this?"

"It's related to the case, I think.  I really don't know, Mulder, and I can't
say anything more about it.  Just know that I'm fine.  Everything is fine."

She looked up to see the bored waitress making her way through the
jam-packed circus of customers and decided to end this while she still had
the chance.

"Mulder, I gotta go.  Take care of yourself."

She didn't wait for his reply.

After paying the bill (in cash, just to be safe) she walked out into the
bright winter sun toward her rental car and drove away.  As much as she
didn't want to admit it, it was time to get to work.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Marian Fleming sat in a high-back leather chair, rich burgundy,
overstuffed.  The room in which she sat was an elaborate office, most
often used as a meeting place for the Project think tanks.  More
back-handed tax payers funds at work, she thought absently.  Or money
from private interests.  Had she not entered the room in much the same
fashion as she would soon exit, she would have thought it was part of a
separate building altogether.

Around the long mahogany table sat... "individuals," if you could call
them that.  The term was more fitting than "men and women," and more
palatable than "colleagues."  She had worked with most of these people
out of necessity, loyalty.  She hated them all.

A man in a finely creased suit stood at the head, stubbing his Cuban in a
lead crystal ash tray.

"Ms. Fleming," he said, ignoring her title, "I believe you know everyone
here, correct?" His voice rose in question but the manner was
condescending.

Dr. Fleming stood in her charcoal suit and addressed them all
simultaneously.

"Most of them, yes," she began, measuring every word.  "As they know
me."  Her eyes scanned the room for familiar faces as eyebrows arched in
surprise and realization.  Good, she thought contentedly, they have not
forgotten.  The younger ones, the new ones she didn't recognize,
exchanged nervous glances at the way she appraised them.

A red-haired man addressed the stunned silence.  "We've waited for you,
Dr. Fleming.  The next move is yours."

What do they know of anything, she thought, wanting nothing more than
to be as far away from this as possible.  "All of the moves are mine!" she
spat, her voice ragged and edged.  Standing from her seat, she addressed
the room, began to walk across the finely carpeted floor, establishing a
presence.  "You started without me," she began, slowly regaining her
composure.  "What gives you the authority to act on your own
recognizance?"  A young Asian woman, one of the newer ones, twisted
uncomfortably in her seat.

The man at the head of the table twisted his ring with the adjacent
fingers, his other hand clutching a snifter of cognac.  "We are not acting
on our own, Dr. Fleming."  You know who gives the orders."

He pinned her with his gaze.  Yes, she knew all too well the shadow men
who direct the project.  A consortium of minds and interests for "the
good of humanity."  Their intentions were mistakes.

Before she spoke he continued.  "What I might ask, is, what gives YOU
the right to accuse us of not acting accordingly?  Are we not following
the same operative?"

That same condescending tone, instilling bravery in the lesser ranks
strewn about the room.  It is danger to give the younger ones power, she
thought to herself.

One of the younger ones, a naive number-cruncher, collected the bravery
only ignorance provides.  "What are you to him anyway," he asked.

She eyed the bookshelf before turning to speak.  When she did, he looked
like a child, all questions and innocence.  Her chest tightened as the
reprimand melted on her tongue.  His fiery gaze waned in the light of her
age and wisdom.  Did he really want the answer?

"I created him," she said to no one, relishing the quiet that settled in her
wake.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Larry Phelps floated just above consciousness, in that happy little
barbiturate land where pink rabbits are real, the Phillies win the World
Series, and men don't have nightmares that stubbornly come true.
Nightmares about their sisters.  About women they never met.  Where
Larry was, men don't find charm bracelets behind hotel toilets.  And even
if they do, they never cry about it.

Memory assaulted him like strobe flashes.  Little snippets of things,
various and unrelated.  Riding his first bike.  A highschool sweetheart.
His mom's rocky road brownies.  Large, bulbous heads and
almond-shaped eyes.  Wordless conversations as his body disappeared
into a ragged web of gray matter.

It made his brain tickle, the memories.  A distinguished man and a woman
with soft red hair leaning over him.  The Florida heat.  Chamomile tea,
with honey, just the way he liked it.

More recent ones, or so he thought; he couldn't be sure.  He was sure of
nothing now, especially as the cycle began again.  A sensation, rolling
from deep within his brain, ascended on a tingling wave, igniting
memories... (erasing or instilling them?).  The Truth passed by on floaty
butterfly wings.  He reached to swat at it, but his hands... they were
*tied.*

He opened his eyes to the cold white sterility of the room in which he lay.

And Larry began to scream.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully arrived at the North End of Roswell Industrial Air Center,
obtaining clearance quite easily with her FBI credentials.  The halls were
brightly lit, buzzing with people, mostly Army personnel.  A few civilians
greeted her with sunny smiles as she made her way to the information
desk, already unfolding her badge, ready for questions.

An older woman showed her to a painfully small archive which told her
absolutely nothing of what she needed to know.  Larry.  She was looking
for mention of Larry.  Anything--a name, a cross-reference, the science
fair he won in seventh grade, anything.  If Larry's allusions to "tests"
were indeed correct, mention of such things would definitely be in these
files.  Despite her skepticism, years of experience had taught her not to
ignore a tried and true formula, no matter what its design.  Tests, white
light, and "aliens" equals military involvement.  Of course the reasoning
was flawed, but at least the formula proves consistent.  What was there in
the archives, though, was useless bunk:  population information, archival
data on the current facilities operating out of the airfield, just the
garden variety paperwork.  Given the size and current success of the
facility, Scully expected the archives to be a lot more extensive than this.
Unless this wasn't the only place they were being kept.

An hour later she decided further exploration of these dusty files was
useless.  Stretching her arms above her head, easing the tension in her
neck, something occurred to her; something entirely plausible, but risky...

She returned the records to the lady at the desk and continued down the
hall, her visitor's badge tucked discreetly in her pocket.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The scotch was good, even better after that detestable meeting.  Robert
Jamieson poured them both another double before Marian continued, her
words filling the now-empty office with sad resonance.

"This isn't the way I would have planned it.  None of this is the way..."
her words broke unevenly as if she didn't know what to say next.

"Marian.  You didn't know, did you," Robert said.

"Of course I didn't know.  If I had known I would have never lead the
research team, I would have never developed the conular implants, I
would have never--" her voice cracked, threatening to spill with emotion.
"I would have never ok'd the project if I had known it would go so
horribly wrong."

Robert put his hand over hers, waiting for her to finish.  It had been both
exhilarating and heart-wrenching to watch her in the meeting, before the
Board.  The new ones have no clue as to what she means to the Project.
They're here on assignment, doing a job.  They believe their intellect is
their greatest gift, but they are sadly mistaken.  It is their ignorance that
will save them in the end.

"If I would have known, I would have refused," she said finally.  "And
when they ordered me to kill the Project, I should have carried it out.
I should have, but I didn't.  I was young.  I let the first ones go.  And that
is why this is happening."

Her frankness touched him, her trust.  He'd known her for so many years,
worked side by side with her, but never had she divulged such honesty.

"You can't blame yourself," Robert offered.  There other interests in
mind.  In the end, we were only following orders.  Nothing has changed,
in that respect."  He emptied the glass of more than half of its contents
before continuing.  "One was here today, you know."  From the look on
her face she understood completely.

"The Gentleman," she said with a small nod, clutching her glass a tad
tighter than before.

"No," he said quietly, "It was the Smoker.  The one they call Spender.
He's the one who brought him in."

Marian became still, evidently saddened by the reference.  Robert picked
up on her melancholy almost instantly.

"Larry's the last, isn't he," he prodded gently, approaching her as you
would a frightened animal.

Silently, she nodded.  "I can only hope he is the last."

"We were so close with him, Robert.  The first beta to carry on
extra-corporeal activity and survive the physiology.  His
tele-communication experiments defied everything we'd ever known, but
the programming wasn't complete."  She dipped her head before taking a
deep breath.  "Oh God, we took him so many times... his thoughts--they
are largely my thoughts."  Her small was tinged with sadness.  "My secret
son with the black future... I should have killed him then.  It would have
been easier."

Robert tightened his grip on her hand, forcing her to look him in the eye.
"It's not too late, Marian.  They say he is useful.  His gift, what you gave
him can still be used for the Project.  They have tried for years, even
now, but haven't even scratched the surface of what you accomplished
with him.  The treatment now is meant to resume here you left off.  They
need you, Marian.  *I* need you."

"It is not too late," he said decisively.  The smile he gave her was sweetly
sad and genuine.

Marian appeared unaffected.  "It would have been easier," she said to
no one, her voice hollow and decisive.  "You know that death is
inevitable now, but it would have been easier if I had before.... before the
others."  She rose to stand, steadying herself slightly in her tipsy state.

"Larry is my greatest triumph," she said wearily, "...and my biggest
mistake."

"It's not too late," Robert repeated, his eyes wet with emotion.

Marian looked at him in the low light of the room.  The work had riddled
him with sadness, the fire within him extinguished.  He should have left
when I did, she mused, before selling out to the Cause.  The two of them
had weathered much for it to come to this:  former lovers... old
friends... two desperate warriors caught in the advent of an apocalypse.

Or so it would be, had his loyalties not changed.

She pressed the cool steel in her palm, flipping off the safety.  Carefully
she coaxed it from its hidden holster beneath her short jacket.

"You're wrong, Robert.  It is too late for you.

It's too late for all of us."

-------

The room swallowed the sound.  It was designed for that sort--to shut
out the screams as well as to keep them contained.  She smiled gingerly
as she closed the door behind her.

There would be no regrets.


~*~*~*~*~*~

-------------
6:14 EST
-------------

"Mulder."

Byers shushed the other two as he spoke above the din of what sounded
like a subway system.  "There are eyes and ears, be here in person," was
all he said.

Clicking off the phone, Mulder knew exactly where to go.

-------------------------------------
Office of the Magic Bullet newsletter
(aka The Lone Gunmen Lair)
-------------------------------------

"So what you're telling me is that Scully is off on a cross-country
adventure with the Smoking Man?"  Mulder enjoyed a big laugh, while
Byers and Frohike exchanged nervous glances.  "Listen guys, I really
think you should give Scully some credit here.  This is Scully we're
talking about."

"She's done it before," chimed Langley, who appeared from the
kitchenette wearing a "Kiss the Chef" apron and ovenmitts.  He held a hot
cookie sheet directly in front of Mulder.  "Here, have a bagel pizza.  It
will take the edge off the pain."  Mulder looked disapprovingly at the
bubbly little donut.  "No thanks, I'd rather eat Frohike's chili."  Frohike
feigned shock, then admitted that there was, in fact, some of his chili in
the fridge if anyone cared for any.

Mulder sank deeper into the threadbare couch, leaning forward with his
elbows on his knees.  "The other time was different.  It was a different
situation."  The others didn't look convinced.  "She had reasons for
running off with him."

Byers raised his eyebrows.  "Oh, she did?  Did she have reasons for lying
about it too?"  Mulder didn't speak, painfully pensive and obviously
weighing the evidence at hand.  Speaking of evidence...

"What proof do you have," he finally said.

"It's not really the proof we have, but the proof we *don't* have,"
explained Frohike.  "If she'd been on a casefile, wouldn't she have credit
card receipts, outrageous hotel and expense bills, something for Uncle
Sam to write off on?  Think about it, it's the same MO as when this
happened before."

Mulder was silent, as were the others.  None of them wanting to believe
this could be happening again.

"And then, there's this."

Byers unfolded a computer printout and handed it to Mulder.

He continued speaking as Mulder read, as if Mulder were incapable of
comprehending the information for himself.

"It's a flight manifest for a privately chartered jet flying out of Georgia
last night.  Seriously hush-hush, only the mandatory info provided under
FAA regulations--food service, safety precautions, nothing notable, until--"

"The passenger list," Mulder finished.  His voice was hollow, haunted.
His eyes read the proof before Byers could speak again:

Phelps, Larry R


Scully, Dana K


Spender, C.G. B

Mulder let the paper fall, exhaling.  "Forget the pizza Langley... I need a
beer."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully took off her three inch heels and padded in stocking feet silently
down the Exit stairs.  Three flights, four flights; hadn't she come in on the
first floor?  She couldn't count the number of hallways she'd passed
through; some well-lit, some dim and ominous, some even dusty with
cobwebs.  Thankfully she'd gone unnoticed.  Most of the personnel in this
section were civilian, oddly enough, so with downcast eyes and
determined steps she had navigated the inner halls of Roswell Industrial
Air Field without incident.

Another turn around a corner and she was alone, just like that.
Seemingly she'd slipped into a service cranny without even noticing it.
But, this was no maintenance corridor.  Instead of fuse boxes, this
"cranny" had a hallway.  And a set of stairs.

With her heart in her throat, she surveyed the surrounding area.  Unlike
the other halls, there were no security camera's present.  No frivolous
decoration or cheaply framed prints; just a generic, unassuming hallway.
Maybe that's what made it so unsettling.

As expected, at the bottom of the stairs a military officer policed a big
silver entranceway.  He thwarted her advancement with a carefully raised
hand.

"Clearance level," he demanded.  His manner was insistent and
professional, pure soldier.

She thought quickly.  "Four" she guessed precariously.  This strange mix
of Russian Roulette and 20 Questions was not her brand of
entertainment.  She waited nervously for his response, desperately trying
to mask her apprehension.

"Affiliation," he asked rather matter-of-factly.  It seems as though her
"level four" ploy had sufficed after all, at least for now.

She steeled her nerves, not wanting him to ask again.

"Department of Defense," she finally said, expecting any moment for half
a dozen Men in Black to haul her away in shackles.

When he asked her for her name, she said Spender.

He passed her through.

Carefully she made her way along the long hallway, noting the absence of
people.  The tile was large and as bright as the fluorescent fixtures
lighting the hall, but the atmosphere was clinical and very new.  The hall
smelled of the unmistakable odor of astringent, noxious and chemical.
The walls were flanked with nondescript doors, all identical and equally
spaced.  One every twelve feet, unfailing.  She took note of the absence
of handles or knobs on many of the doors, wondering how access was
attained; and perhaps more importantly, what lay behind them.  She felt
uneasy.  The hall was *too* bright, too revealing; making her a moving
target.  Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of footprints quickened her
breath.  Thoughtlessly she pressed against one of the knobless doors, the
slate gray panel opening to enfold her in its dark embrace.

Inside, all the world was black.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They might have stolen his words, but he could still scream.  In some
small way it brought him hope, gave him purpose.  His meager triumph
against a world gone mad--to go mad with it.

As the Truth encased Larry in its too-bright world, he screamed.  For the
life he had lost.  For the lives he had taken.  And for the Thing he had
become--an instrument; a tool for their purpose.  Tears pooled in his eyes
but did not spill, he wouldn't let them.  They had taken too much from
him already; they would not get his tears.

In the short lapses of this "treatment" he heard the nurses speak of, all
was revealed to him.  In flashes of the past.  In bitter truth.  In a
blond-haired girl dancing on a platform.  Her name was Goldie, and he
had killed her.

------

The nurses moved away from the soundproof observation window as
Dr. Fleming entered.  Mary, the head nurse, approached with her report.

"Dr. Fleming, Larry is ready to begin the next stage of treatment.  We
have your notes, your samples, everything.  Luckily the records were
saved for future use."

Dr. Fleming seemed oblivious to her.  Instead her gaze was fixed on
Larry, his blood-curdling screams deafening although she could not hear
their sound.  The feel of it boiled in her blood, accusing.  This is what
you made, it seemed to say, And this is how grateful I am.

She turned her head quickly away.

"Dr. Fleming," the nurse inquired.  "Are you ok?"

"Yes, yes I am," she replied a little shakily.  "Thank you for your
diligence."  The nurse turned to leave, Marian stopped her.

"Now, I need a favor from you."

The young nurse blinked twice.  "Of course Dr. Fleming, anything I can
do to further the Project."

To her credit, Marian did not shudder.

"Good," she finally managed, giving her a tight smile.  "I need a full
syringe of sodium pentathol."

Dr. Fleming watched the nurse very carefully as she computed the order.
Briefly it appeared as though she might say something, but she knew
better.  After all, this was his attending physician.  Marian spoke before
she had time to rethink her silence.

"After you do that," she said evenly, "I want you to take these notes and
everything you have that bares my name, and destroy them."

The nurse looked at her for a moment, as if seeking validation before
leaving to complete her task.

When the nurse was gone, Dr. Fleming entered the stark white room
where Larry lay, and shut the door behind her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The room was as black as pitch.  No light anywhere, rendering her eyes
useless.  However she got in there, she could find no way out, and feeling
along the walls wrought no results.  They were smooth polished tile, like
in an operating room.  The room was filled with a low mechanical hum,
but the sound gave no hint as to how big the space was or what might be
in here.  For a second Scully wondered if all of those doors might have
led to this room; such encompassing darkness must be large, she thought.
Or it could be a supply room, but the sound she heard next changed her
mind.  It was a noise, slight, but audible... something trickling through
the droning rumble of machines...

It sounded like breathing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dr. Fleming stood over Larry's bed, his throat a hoarse roar from hours
of overuse.  She was pleased he was lucid, though she envied his
position.  If only her escape could be so pleasurable.  She smiled a sad
smile.  No, it would not be so easy for her.  She must live with her sins,
as must the others.

"Larry," she said softly, "Larry, look at me."

"Who are you," he said in a dry cracked voice.  "Let me out of these
restraints.  I know what they've done to me!"

She shamed at that, hoping he would be spared the memories.  By the
time she arrived they had already begun the treatment, the mindwipes of
years passed were cruelly eradicated.  Blessedly he had never seen her
face until now.  For that, she was grateful.

"I know Larry," she said soothingly, "I know... and I'm going to make it
all go away, I promise."

"How are you going to do that," he asked warily, his eyes wide and
speculative.

"I'm going to do what I should have done a long long time ago."  She
uncapped the syringe of sodium pentathol behind her back and lightly
tapped the needle.

"I'm going to take away your pain."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Who's there," she asked sharply, her heart pounding in her ear, her
hands shaking.  Nothing was loud enough to mask the low raspy sound
that permeated the blackness.  In a blind slice of her hand she flipped a
switch, halogen bulbs flooding the large room with eerie light.  She
shielded her eyes against the assault, and when they were finally adjusted,
she looked in horror at what she saw:

There were people.  Young men, some young women, each no more than
twenty, each one a bit younger than the next--all catatonic.  They were
strapped to reclined chairs, goggles and earpieces flooding their senses,
similar to those used in virtual reality games.  Electrodes lined their
temples and forehead, charting the results on green EEG monitors.  In
horrifying, jerky movements their bodies twitched, reacting to the
unnatural stimulus they were being subjected to.  In shock, Scully slowly
moved among the rows of subjects, monitors and IVs hung in neat,
orderly fashion, obviously monitored by trained professionals.  Carefully
she bent closer to a young one, fighting back nausea.  His sandy blond
hair was matted with dirt.  Trailing down the side of his face, into his
dirty hair, were shiny threads of tears.

There are moments of time when lucidity pierces through the far-reaching
darkness and breaks free into the light of day.  Honesty is rewarded, pain
is rectified, and guilt abolished.  And then, there are times when there is
no reward for uncovering the Truth.  Heroes fall, and evil trods a clear
and even path to victory.

As long, black shadows swallowed the artificial light, with overwhelming
certainty she knew this was one of those times.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The guards dropped her at her car.  There had been little fuss made,
oddly enough.  She was detained and questioned upon being found in the
research facility, then dumped in the parking lot.  "You saw nothing,"
they said.  "Image-enhanced aversion therapy for the treatment of
phobias," they said.

"You saw nothing."

It was hours later and her hands were still shaking as she held the
cellphone to her ear.  And C.G.... "Oh God," she said aloud, "He doesn't
know."  How would she tell him?  She held her breath as each ring tolled
like a reckoning, stretching across the silence as she stood alone in the
darkness of all she'd seen.

She had to find him, she thought desperately... before the horror eclipsed
her heart and stole her breath away.

********************************************

Date:  07-28-01, 01:20:47 PM
RP:    CSM
Subject: {RP} Toldja
From:  SummerSnows

In a nondescript neighborhood in Roswell, there was a backyard where
children played on a swingset.  Their innocent laughter reached the
not-so-innocent house nextdoor, where the Cigarette Smoking Man heard
them while he waited for his cell phone to ring.

His cell phone rang.

"Yes?"

It was the Gentleman.  Another man in the shadows without a name.  CSM
lit a Morley as he listened.

"How'd she get in?" CSM asked.

"FBI access."

The bluish smoke he exhaled swirled around his face.  "What was
she doing?"

"That is the question, isn't it?  You brought her here."

"She only wanted to run some medical tests on Phelps.  I didn't tell her
where the facility is."

"Medical tests," said the Gentleman.  "On a TS beta."

He tapped the Morley on the edge of the ashtray as the sound of a
squealing child pierced the dark and curtained room.  "She already knows
about the cones," he said.  "They show up in x-rays, you know.  All we can
do is clean up the loose ends, then rumor control.  Let the Enquirer print it
so no one will believe it."

"Does she trust you?"

The question dropped him.  If she didn't trust him, she wouldn't have
gotten on the plane.  Or was his judgment being clouded by his personal
wishes?  Composing his voice, he said, "What do you want?"

"Scully knows too much.  Her presence is a threat."

CSM closed his eyes.  There was only one way to deal with threats in this
line of work.  "She knew about other things before she got here.  Her
disappearance would not be in our best interests."

"Play with fire, you get burned."

A long silence.  CSM leaned back in the leather chair, pressed the Morley
into the ashtray.  Waiting for the other guy to blink.

Finally, the caller spoke.  "There is another threat.  Her name is
Dr. Fleming and she's at the airfield.  You remember her, don't you?"

CSM clicked off the phone.

In the downstairs bathroom, he washed his hands, saw himself in the
mirror.  As the water ran, he observed his features, the signs of age, a
couple gray strands of hair making a home among the brown ones.
Nothing there, he thought, for her to see in him.

He heard the phone ringing back in the living room.  Taking his time
replacing the towel, he let it ring, in no hurry to pick up just so he could
hear the name of some other threat the Gentleman had forgotten.  Like a
twisted shopping list.  Kill her and her and him and him.  Oh, and don't
forget the milk.

> It was hours later and her hands were still shaking as she held the
> cellphone to her ear.  And C.G....  "Oh God," she said aloud, "He doesn't
> know."  How would she tell him?  She held her breath as each ring tolled
> like a reckoning, stretching across the silence as she stood alone in the
> darkness of all she'd seen.
>
> She had to find him, she thought desperately... before the horror eclipsed
> her heart and stole her breath away.

"Yes?"  On the fourth ring, or the fifth.  Just before the phone call would
transfer to an electronic voice.  CSM started to reach for his cigarettes, but
froze when he heard her voice, realized who it was.

"Shh, hold on.  I want to talk to you too.  Uh, are you at the hotel?  I'll be
there in a bit."  He pushed the off button.

He poured himself a Brandy and looked out the window, parting the thick
dark drapes.  Behind the house he could see the small residential
neighborhood, the children whose bright voices carried over the hum of the
air conditioner.  Normal people leading normal lives.  Cooking dinner and
watching television while the sun moved towards the horizon, while the
Reticulans finalized their plans, while mere humans played with vaccines
and psychology experiments and all kinds of other things that failed to
protect the locals from alien colonization.

He remembered her voice, her words back in Florida:  "I need you to know
that you can trust me."  He rubbed his eyes.

He pulled the curtain closed, put down the snifter on the oak end table, lit a
cigarette.  He took a drag, then looked at it.  Holding it in between the
thumb and first few fingers of his hand, he just looked at it.  Watched the
ash get longer and longer by the light of the Tiffany lamp.  Finally he
dropped the Morley in the ashtray, the ash broke apart, and a thin trail of
smoke rose up and up as CSM walked upstairs.

As he pulled out the two black leather cases from the back of the closet, it
occurred to him that there was something inherently wrong with the mating
instinct.  Laying the cases on top of the bed, it didn't seem right that at his
age these instincts should still be popping up at inconvenient times.  He
donned a pair of black leather gloves, opened the larger case first, then the
smaller one.  The little locks click-clicked in the stillness of the room.
Certainly the instincts shouldn't make him desire someone he knew was
barren.  He pulled out the shiny black, almost blue Beretta from its snug
gray foam nest.  Of course, he had the power to cure her barrenness, so
maybe the instincts weren't that far off.  But what about his instinct to
survive?  To allow her to get that close to this program, he thought as he
reached into the smaller case, had been a mistake.

Screwing the silencer onto the gun, he remembered King [Musings].  He
had had too much respect for the man to let someone else do the job.

He needed to hurry if he was to get to Scully before the Syndicate's
assassin did.

He took off the gloves.  Showered, changed his clothes.  A white silk shirt,
his best black Armani suit, a tie whose quality lay in its simplicity.  As
though dressing up made this business more respectable.

Then, using a silk handkerchief to avoid getting fingerprints on it, he hid
the weapon in his jacket.  Put the gloves in a front pocket.  Put the now
empty cases back up on the closet shelf.

He drove to the Frontier Inn, sat in the car in the parking lot, staring out
the windshield, watching tourists go in and out of the hotel.  Normal
people with simple lives.  Nine to five jobs, families.  People they loved and
didn't have to kill.  People who entered hotel rooms without guns.

After what seemed like a long time, the area looked deserted.  By now, the
sky was changing colors, and the outside lights started to come on, a few at
a time.  He got out of the car, and walked towards Scully's room.  Stared
at the room number for a minute or two.

CSM felt through his jacket for the gun, as though to make sure it was still
there.  Then he straightened his jacket and his tie, took a deep breath and
knocked on the door.


********************************************