EPISODE 1: Lux et Veritas Chapter 5: (written in e-mail, then posted) ******************************************** Date: 10-28-01, 07:33 AM RP: Dana Scully / CSM Subject: {RP Ep: 1 Chapter 5 Part 1} (CSM/Scully) From: Brandi -0-0-0-0-0-0- "Previously, on "The X-Files..." -0-0-0-0-0-0- **** (Byers): "It's a flight manifest for a privately chartered jet flying out of Georgia last night--- Phelps, Larry R. Scully, Dana K. Spender, C.G.B. Mulder let the paper fall, exhaling. "Forget the pizza Langley... I need a beer." **** (Marion Fleming): "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." **** (Scully): 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... **** (The Gentleman, on the phone to CSM): "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. ... 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. -------------- Chapter 5 -------------- Dying is not the easiest thing to do. It can be quite the inconvenience, going about the task, far harder than inducing it, I would think. Even in the smallest window of time, the art of dying is a complex, twining mystery. There are those who claim relief when we shall tumble into sleep, but surely they are wrong. It is difficult to harness the will against the persistence of life, to extinguish the innate response, to silence the battle cry against the darkness soon to pass. Sweet, beautiful life--its force drumming in our breast, sounding victory. Yes, it must be harder to die than to assume the mindless craft of simply living. Here in this face there lies no peace, no welcome door to unreality. No, an unnatural interference has bent his will and swung the entrance wide for him to pass. An unnatural interference caught the horror in his gaze, the acceptance, the petulant child retreating as the black of night descends. It should be touted with flowers and music, this act of dying...that death should be this beautiful, and I, the hand of God. Marian looked on him with love, the glow of the task writ smoothly on her face. She had not killed him, after all, but merely finished what was started long ago. Certainly the Project henchmen would find her soon enough, but it was no matter. Looking back on Larry's still form, she wondered if that wasn't such a bad idea. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Office of the Magic Bullet newsletter (aka The Lone Gunmen Lair) ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ "Mulder, didn't you say last time that you wondered why Smoking Man hadn't killed her? Maybe this is his chance." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The Frontier Inn Roswell, New Mexico ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The water was scalding, yet it wasn't hot enough to burn away the memories. Diversion tactics, visual imagery, nothing had worked to rid her of the filthy scene. The large tiled room, her footsteps matching time with the racing of her heart, and the children--their innocence stolen for some darker purpose. She shut off the water and opened the bathroom door for air. As puffs of cool mingled with smothering steam, an image in the mirror slowly materialized, gave way to pattern and design, the shape of her face a Vaseline-blur, like in a dream. The past week has been a dream, she thought absently. The orb, her deception, revelation, and decision. Why was she here with him? Could he be trusted? Again she thought of the risk, the danger of his company. She could very well be a pawn in this game, but how? And for what purpose? And the Project--as a scientist she was trained to acknowledge and uphold irrevocable proof, science and theory her only measure in an ever-maddening world; but in her work on the X-Files, those edges had been rounded, corners cut and allowances made to permit the Truth to assume digestible form. What she'd seen on this journey was unmistakable, the Truth revealed undeniable, and the trust she'd so freely given--totally out of character. In minutes she was dressed but no more resolved, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, waiting. Was this man to be feared or favored? She had been deceived in the past, after all, but felt confident she could handle herself. Too many times she had shut people out for fear of what might happen, for fear of losing herself. Now she felt she'd lost herself already. > 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. The sound of it made her breath quicken, knowing exactly who was on the other side. On feet that weren't her own she made her way to the door, unchained the latch and opened it. He was dressed to the nines. Black suit, fine silk shirt, a beautiful cut to the jacket. Funeral clothes, she thought strangely, though he looked and smelled magnificent. Almost disappointed, she noticed he wasn't carrying any wine. She felt sorely underdressed, having changed into jeans and a t-shirt after her shower. Her hair fell damp and feathered around her face, and without her shoes she'd lost 2-3 inches in height. Her smile was genuine, effectively hiding her nervousness. "Hi, come in." She stepped back to let him enter as she took a seat on the bed, opposite the table and chair. Oddly enough, this hotel room had only one. The new presence in the room was undeniable, mingling with the still-warm, shower-scented air. An essence perfectly him--composure, refinement, and intelligence--but tonight, there was something else. He appeared strangely quiet, almost grim. She noticed him eyeing the little centerpiece on the table and blushed. "Um, that's my Christmas tree," she said, indicating the little potted cactus with the modest string of lights. "I'm not going to make it home this year, so I thought I should celebrate as best I can." Even to her, it sounded pathetic. The Cigarette Smoking Man sat down on a chair by the table. The gun in his jacket felt heavy. The air in the room was humid from her shower, thick with the smell of her shampoo, her toiletries. Avoiding her eyes, he said, "Maybe you should have gone. Spent time with your loved ones. You would have been safer that way." Had it been earlier in the evening, she might have caught the edge in his voice, the cool detachment that seeped in around his words. She might have heard it in time to caution herself, but she didn't. Instead she considered his statement, weighing it adequately before sliding forward on the edge of the bed. His gaze was a slippery fish, darting from point to point. Why did he not want to look at her? "Yes, I could have gone. I could be playing with Matthew and chatting with Bill about the Navy. After a few bottles of wine we'd all talk about Dad, and Missy, and how different it would be if they were here. But they aren't here. And I'm not there." She looked up at him, caught his eyes before he dropped them again. "I'm here with you, in this room, tonight; and I might be a fool for saying so, but I have no question of my safety." She cleared her throat against the awkwardness. When she spoke, her voice was measured and a tad darker than her earlier whimsy. She leaned forward a bit, hands on her knees, just to catch his face in the gaslight lamp. "What I've seen, I--" She stopped abruptly, holding his gaze. "I have to know something first." Her eyes were clear, even pleading. "Did you know the Project was still going on prior to our arrival? Because I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right..." "Still going on," said CSM. He glanced around the room like a college student contemplating a line of poetry. "Still going on." The tiny blinking lights on the cactus, the design on the bedspread, an Americanized version of Indian symbols. "No, I did not know that. Tell me, what did you see today?" She took a breath, steeled her nerves and began recalling what she'd tried to forget all afternoon. She didn't know where to begin--the long blinding halls, the dirty yellow tile, the expressionless soldiers who'd dropped her at her car... "There were children," she managed finally, "of varying ages. They were restrained in chairs resembling those a dentist would use, and--" Her voice trailed off, and suddenly it was she who could not meet his face. "And they were attached to machines, seemingly a large network of visual and auditory programming. Their vitals were also being closely monitored. When I saw that, I knew. I knew the project was still going on." She ran a hand through her hair, strangely nervous by her proximity to him. "C.G.... we can't let them do this," she pleaded. "We can't let there be any more people like Larry. We can save these children." She looked into his face, seeking some measure of understanding, needing reassurance as much as air. "I know you have connections," she added carefully, "and I know what those connections are capable of." Disgusted with the futility of her words she stood up, began to pace around the room, her arms folded across her chest. "I'm not stupid. I know you are a dangerous man, and that my association with you puts myself and your position at risk. But, you asked me here for a reason. It isn't just my science that you want, is it?" His face was blank, unreadable. "I won't be a patsy for whatever might come. I need to know my place in all of this. I need to know where I stand with you." He wanted to blurt it out, just flat out tell her, Dana I've fallen in love with you. Maybe she'd slap him. What would it matter? He thought of the gun. Maybe she'd laugh at him. What would it matter? Thought of the gun in his jacket. Maybe she'd be disgusted. Thought as he sat there watching his hands in his lap. She must be getting suspicious now. He leaned back in the chair, away from the light of the lamp. Shadows fell across his face so that she could not see his eyes. In the pale lamplight, she thought she saw his hand move, only slightly. "I think Mulder knows," she said finally. "I talked to him this morning; he was very suspicious... asked too many questions." She sighed, exasperated. "I think he might be looking for me." He tilted his head and said flatly, "He's your partner. Naturally he is concerned." Her eyes slipped closed, fighting the images; the memories of the little boy, the rows of chairs, and the firm hand that landed on her shoulder. Only when she turned around, did she realize the hand was no memory at all. It was a reality. The air conditioned cycled, yet it was hot in the room. New Mexico could be torrid, even this time of year. If only a cold front would come through. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this," he said. "I thought your medical expertise might come in handy. With Larry. I didn't know about the children." A swell of unspoken words withered in her throat. You didn't drag me into anything, she wanted to say. I came willingly. I came because I wanted to, because I'd rather be nowhere else. Because you make me feel... entirely alive. But she said none of these things. If she looked deeply enough inside him, could he see her looking back? Could he know her without saying all she couldn't say? It was enough, she supposed, that they shared this familiarity, this comfort. This should be enough; but deep within she knew she wanted more. He looked at her face, pale and smooth like a saint's. "Besides, I enjoy your company." She looked at him truly, without restraint. Suddenly she realized he was afraid, just as afraid as she was. "I think you know I feel the same," she finally said. Her eyes burned his, the way the fire and brimstone of her bibles burned sinners. The reason he avoided her eyes, he didn't want her to see what was inside him. He didn't want to lean in towards her, like he was doing now. Lose his composure and think about kissing her. He closed his eyes. He could deal with her slapping him. It was the disgust, the anger she would surely feel at such disrespect, that made him turn away, blink, and quickly bring forth a cool cloak from his wardrobe of facades. As when he'd watched Deep Throat shoot the Reticulan, as when he had seen the work on Gibson Praise, he caught his breath and hid the soul they said he didn't have behind the face they paid him to have. And then, it was over. As if a switch had been flipped, what small moment that passed between them was suddenly a distant memory. His eyes darkened as he turned away from her, towards the mirror. His conversation there, wordless and brief, drove a wedge of ice through Scully's heart; and for the first time in his presence, she feared for her life. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ TO BE CONTINUED... ******************************************** Date: 12-03-01, 10:00 AM RP: Dana Scully / CSM Subject: {RP Ep: 1 Chapter 5 Part 2} (CSM/Scully) From: Brandi "Yes?" "Sir, we have a... situation." The Gentleman adjusted the phone closer to his mouth, speaking softly as to not evoke interest from the others. "How do you mean." The man on the other end took a breath. "Marian Fleming. She's become a problem, I--" "I have taken care of that," the Gentlemen snapped. "She will soon be no one's problem." The other man hesitated. "Yes sir, but things have changed. Phelps is dead." The Gentleman cleared his throat, not believing what the man was telling him. He adjusted the sleeve of his suit, lowering his voice. "This of course is not the place to discuss such matters. Meet me as soon as possible. You know the place." ~*~*~*~*~*~ Dulles International Airport ~*~*~*~*~*~ Mulder walked back and forth in front of the gates trying to look inconspicuous. He held the cell phone to his ear, and said, "Come on, you can do it." At the Office of the Magic Bullet newsletter, Langley typed and typed on the keyboard, his head tilted, holding the phone up against his shoulder. "I told you, man, all the flights are booked. It's a bad time to travel. Everyone wants to go home for the holidays." At that moment, the loudspeakers announced, "Attention, passenger M. F. Luder, please come to gate nine, M. F. Luder, gate nine, please." Mulder said, "I'll call you back," and clicked the phone off. He ran towards gate nine. Finally reaching the podium, he said, "I was just paged. I'm M. F. Luder." The well-groomed lady in crisp airline uniform smiled like a model and said, "You're in luck, sir. We can get you on Flight 1121 to Santa Fe. It's only a couple hours' drive from Roswell, or you can try to get a connection from there. Will that be okay?" "When does it take off?" ~*~*~*~*~*~ Twisted Decadence Boutique d'art New York City, New York ~*~*~*~*~*~ The Well-Manicured Man gazed openly at Degas, his ballerinas arching madly over the bars of a thousand rehearsals, enchanting onlookers even now. Their faces always held such whimsy, WMM mused, such attitude from where they were, fixed in oils yet never wholly finished This gallery he had used on several occasions. It was exclusive, open late, and not very far from the offices on 46th. The owners knew him well, had sold him several pieces, so his impromptu meetings never raised an eyebrow, no matter the hour. "They really are beautiful, aren't they," came a voice from behind. "The coloring, the light; my God they seem to breath, don't they Mr. Solomon? They seem in every way, ecstatic." "What do you know of art, Albrecht," he replied, still looking at the painting. "As much as I need to know, old man." When he finally turned around, Albrecht was smiling like a Cheshire cat. "It's good to see you. I was remarking the other day how long it's been." The Gentleman was not amused. "It hasn't been long enough," he said dryly. Albrecht followed the Well-Manicured Man to the back of the gallery, into an alcove featuring celebrated black and white photography of the 20th century. They settled on a bench there, a small wall fixture washing away the color from the photos and their little brass plaques. The world reduced to monochrome as they faded into shadows. "How have you been, Mr. Solomon?" "Stop calling me that, Albrecht. You know that is not my name." The other man's smile faded, his eyes darkening just a tad. "Yes I do," he said quietly, "just as you know 'Albrecht' isn't mine." As usual, the Gentleman recovered quickly. "Why is it that when we meet, we must always play these elaborate games..." Albrecht allowed his gaze some distance, acknowledging the paintings, the shine of the new marble floor. "Because the business is a game," he said finally. "You know that as well as anyone." WMM ignored him, concentrating on why he was there. "Is it true, Albrecht? Is Phelps dead?" "Yes, it's true. That's why I'm here. They contacted me from New Mexico. Your being there is of the utmost importance." The Gentleman could feel his face growing hot. He had always been secretly against the Project, had even tried to thwart its progress on several occasions, but nonetheless he was responsible for its success or failure. By default, he was in charge. "How did it happen," he said finally. "How did he die." Albrecht shifted on the leather bench, still unsure they were alone. "Marian Fleming," he replied blandly. "She murdered him, we suspect. One of the nurses say she was the last one alone with him, though the cause of death is still unknown." He took out a flask and sipped from it. "Poor bastard. She killed Robert Jamieson too. Put a bullet right between his eyes. They found him only an hour ago." The Gentlemen straightened his spine, still not believing what he was hearing. Albrecht continued. "What about your man; the Smoker... I thought he was taking care of her?" WMM fingered his tie, smoothing it down flat. "He was. He *is.* There just wasn't enough time, apparently. I didn't foresee this happening." "What do you mean you didn't 'foresee' this? I thought he was the one? None of this would be happening if he had done what he was told. Don't tell me he's slipping in his duties, Mr. Solomon. He would be quite difficult to replace, you know, now that his son is dead." WMM looked at him, annoyed. "That is not news to anyone, Albrecht. Besides, he has never failed, you must remember." Albrecht delighted in the Gentleman's obvious discomfort. "Very well. But do tell me, then, what could he be doing in New Mexico that is so time consuming?" There was nothing he could say to that, for he only half knew himself. On the adjacent wall, the clock noted the hour. It should be finished by now, he thought, her body should be at the bottom of the quarry, as planned. "He's on another job," he said finally, "taking care of some unfinished business." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Staring at his reflection in the dresser mirror, the Cigarette Smoking Man held his own gaze until his heartbeat steadied. He imagined a bullet at close range might go through a body and hit that mirror, shattering it in a spiderweb pattern, splattering it with blood. "Anyway," CSM said. He could sense when she was looking at him, and it improved his posture. "I came here for a reason." He cleared his throat, swallowed. Squinted at the milky pattern of the wallpaper. "I thought you came because I asked you to," she replied steadily, walking sidewise toward the bed, soundless in her bare feet. "Are you saying there is some other reason you're here?" The air still held a hint of her shampoo, humidity, something she'd sprayed. A few molecules that the room air conditioner had not yet cycled through its filter. He took a deep breath. From outside the room came the faint sounds of footsteps as people walked by. Children's voices muffled by the walls. By all respects he was impenetrable, seemingly absorbed in thought. When she slid open the top drawer of the nightstand, he never even noticed. He pulled out his black leather gloves from the front pocket, and slipped them on. Slowly, one by one. Closely watching his hands. He stared at his fingers as he flexed them inside the gloves. He reached in the Armani jacket and pulled out the Beretta. Checked the silencer to make sure it was on tight. She could see the gun in the reflection of the mirror; just a flash of it before it disappeared beneath the silk of his suit. This is why you can't get close to him, she thought absently. Her eyes fixed on his finely gloved hands, (assassin hands), adjusting the fit of the leather around his wrists. [You know better than to love, Dana. All you've ever loved has been taken from you]. Her hand trembled only slightly as she reached into the darkness. There in the drawer, wedged between Gideon and Kleenex, lay her Sig Sauer. She wrapped her hands around the cool steel, steadying her breath. "I want you to turn around," she said evenly, "and keep your hands where I can see them." ~*~*~*~*~*~ 35,000 feet ~*~*~*~*~*~ Beyond the window where he sat, there was blackness, nothing more. "Dammit Scully, pick up the phone," he muttered to himself. For over an hour he'd tried to contact her with no success. Although the flight was well under way, it would still be a while until he arrived in Santa Fe, and even longer before he got to Roswell. With each passing moment he felt more and more helpless. With the help of the Gunmen he'd secured a car and a cover story, but it wouldn't be long before Skinner would be privy to his most recent "stunt." Essentially, all he could do was wait. As angry as he was at Scully's apparent dishonesty, he wanted nothing more than to find her without incident, safe and unharmed. As the night progressed, though, he feared for her safety more than he was prepared to admit. "The cellular customer you are--" Mulder clicked off the phone in disgust. "It's only a matter of time, Scully," he said to no one. "You can't hide the company you keep." Leaning his head against the seat he closed his eyes, forcing sleep. The person he trusted most in the world, his partner, had lied to him. Had she gone willingly? It seemed that way. Some sort of alliance? His thoughts fragmented into shards of unanswered questions, unresolved fear: Smoking Man... Scully... better not hurt her... ~*~*~*~*~*~ She held the Sig with a steady arm, waiting for him to reply. "I don't think you heard me," she said again, a little lower. "I want you to turn around, and keep your hands where I can see them." The room was an enemy--cold, cluttered and distracting. Her emotions, raw and exposed only moments before, struggled to regain some semblance of control. Slowly she advanced along the side of the bed, passing near the table and the little cactus-tree. Under the blinding glare of the gaslight lamp she could see only his shadow as it began to move, lost all vision of his hands or where they were. As if in slow motion, she stepped out of the light and into the path of his blank expression, into the path of the blue/black Beretta pointed directly at her chest. "What are you doing?" Unmoving, he stared at her. Deer in headlights. His left hand still frozen on the silencer as he wondered why she would walk in front of his weapon. Absurdly, he found his mind sliding, like water melting down a glacier. He thought of the neighborhood children by the Syndicate's house, the twisted shopping list, the cigarette he'd left unsmoked in the light of the Tiffany lamp. But the sight of the Sig Sauer made some innate reaction keep the gun raised, made the index finger of his right hand slowly wrap around the trigger. Instinctively she straightened her aim, steeled her grasp and silently chastised herself for letting him advance. Her body was rigid yet her eyes were wide with fear. Her breath hitched in short bursts, revealing a weakness she wasn't ready to divulge. The two stood in an awkward dance, crackles of heat and tension passing between them with every shaky breath. Had she not established a comfort with this man, the face-off would have been easier. But this, this was different. This was personal. "Is this what you want," she said into the Beretta. "Is this what you had in mind all this time? Answer me, dammit! How long were you planning to use me before tonight? How long?" His heartbeat felt like it could be measured in rpm's. The fight-or-flight instinct revving up, a good adrenaline buzz beginning to kick in. She looked into his face, and, for the first time, read him easily. He didn't want this. He wanted her, but the costs were too high. "If you want to deny what's happened between us, then do it. Go ahead, complete your mission," she spat. "Do it for 'the greater good'." She met his eyes and held them. He observed her face, her body language, watching for the sign that would tell him when she might shoot, that subtle twitch that cornered animals revealed one-tenth of a second before they took action. Absurdly, he found himself dissecting the word "us." Looking for meanings where he wanted to find them. Analyzing, overanalyzing her use of the word while she aimed a Sig Sauer at him. His own weapon getting heavy. "Dana..." Quickly, he searched his wardrobe of facades for a coat she wouldn't see through, and found nothing but gossamer. Must be laundry day. "If you can kill the woman who saved your life, then do it, you coward." Finally, slowly, his left hand unfroze from the silencer. He rubbed his forehead with the back of the glove, blew out a deep breath. "November, 1993." Unblinking, looking straight at the Sig. "You were in Alaska with Mulder, and you pointed a gun at him." His voice was icy, flippant. "Then in 1995, April, I think. Talk about being mad at one's boss. You pointed your gun at Skinner." He licked his lips. "I think, Agent Scully, it might be less dangerous to work against you than with you." Her hand tightened on the Sig, her voice coiled with adrenaline. "You don't want this," she said calmly. "*They* want this. And now you've got to decide. Life... or loyalty." "I *have* decided," he said deliberately. "Look, if you use your own gun, you'll get to explain this to a grand jury." She looked at him evenly, saying nothing. His eyes shown like flint-rock in the weak light of the room, and from where she stood, she could see the outline of his face, but not his expression. "You forget Donnie Pfaster," she said coolly. "It was my gun that ended his life. I know all about I grand juries. I've even perjured myself, remember? I've risked my life and career to avoid upholding the so-called "truths" of the courts [Terma]. I stopped putting faith in the system a long time ago." Briefly she thought of Missy, of Bill Mulder. "Sometimes we have to make our own justice in this world." Outside it sounded like a child laughed. Someone sang a Christmas carol. CSM offered Scully the silk handkerchief. "Go on, take it." Her heart flipped as she searched his face, narrowing her gaze in consternation. Tentatively she accepted the handkerchief, eyes wide as she watched what happened next. He turned the Beretta in his hand and held it by the barrel so the grip faced her and the silencer faced him. "I came here to give you this. It's clean. The numbers have been filed off. It is unregistered. It has no fingerprints, not even DNA traces." She looked at the smooth weapon, the light now falling fully on its shaft. Her own gun grew heavy at the sound of his voice, the implication there, causing her to lower it just a bit. Her eyes locked heatedly with his, her breathing quickened. Gingerly she proffered the handkerchief, grasping the Beretta in a silky mitt too transparent to conceal its darkness. The orb had been wrapped in silk, and the parallel did not escape her despite the tension of their stance--the Truth he offered once again, wrapped in silk and honesty. As it was before, it was hers to accept, or not. His voice sounded tight to him, a little too high-pitched. "The Syndicate has decided, yet again, that you are a problem. They will send one of their men, maybe two." He smiled. "I guess you know the MO by now." The smile left. "Anyway, our people will send cleaners, but use this to defend yourself so you don't get caught." Her face changed in the line of his gaze; fear into realization, hard-swallowed truth. He hadn't come to kill her. He'd come to save her. The carol faded as though the singer was becoming distant. The air conditioner cycled, and in the mirror, the miniature lights on the cactus blinked. "Fortunately, our assassins are generally ineffective," he said. "I think you'll be all right. Still, they will kill me for protecting you." "You came here to help me," she said numbly, the tail-end rising in question. By nature her defenses were so thick, so effective she'd essentially been poised to retaliate, to justify; to gasp above the flood before it came. With this man, this night; it was not the case. He tried to blink away the burn in his eyes. "Go on, Dana. Do the Syndicate's work for them. Because I could never hurt you." ~*~*~*~*~*~ TO BE CONTINUED... ******************************************** She felt her resolve slipping, threatening to shatter into a million pieces. Her throat constricted just looking at him, realizing the risks he had taken by protecting her. Quietly she lowered the gun, her eyes, her voice; the Sig clattering heavily on the nightstand as she lay it down, the Beretta soon to follow. Shaky from adrenaline, defeated and sheepish, she spoke without looking at him. "Oh my God I could never kill you," she said breathlessly, "I could never live with myself, wondering what might have been." And then her heart caught in her throat. Had she said that out loud? By the look on his face, she realized she had. Dana Scully never says those things, she found herself thinking, She never feels these feelings, warm and swirling within... Almost impulsively she reached out, thinking he might pull away, searching his eyes for permission. Gingerly she captured a still-gloved hand, wondering vaguely if he noticed the tremor in her own. "I'm not sure how you feel," she began quietly, "but I cannot deny the way I feel when I'm with you." She smiled, her eyes shining as she looked at him. The power of her admission was not lost to her; it made her drunk with newfound bravery. "It's not easy for me to trust, especially given who we are... and from what worlds we're from. I do know, though, that this week has been... unforgettable. Not just because of what I've seen, but because of what I've learned about myself, and about you." She lifted his hand, placed it above the swell of her breast, above her heart. "You'll die if you continue to protect me. You said so yourself. Logically I know it is safer if we part company, but - I just don't know how to precede. I don't know if I am strong enough to leave you now; and Larry, he still needs our help. There are so many questions that are yet to be asked--about him, and us." -0-0-0-0-0- ~*~*~*~*~*~ New York City, New York. A penthouse on the upper west side ~*~*~*~*~*~ WMM sat in front of a crackling fire, a snifter of brandy tepid on the mahogany desk. He'd slept none. Since his meeting with the man he called "Albrecht," he'd thought of nothing but the situation at hand. The situation. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, reviewing the day's events. Larry Phelps was dead, murdered by what was most recently found to be an overdose of sodium pentathol. Not an altogether terrible way to die, but still; he was valuable to the Project and to private interests. And Marian Fleming was still at large. The Consortium had tracked her movements for hours now, able to do nothing. At last report, she'd boarded a plane to Buenos Aires, final destination unknown. There had been no attempt made to thwart her progress, mostly at WMM's behest. As frustrating as it was, for now he could only wait. Spender should have been in contact by now, he thought warily. He had never been this behind schedule, and it worried WMM that Albrecht might be right; perhaps he was slipping in his duties after all. Agent Scully would not have been much of a problem, not to a man of his talents. Just to be safe, he had been careful not to contact him, lest he interrupt. The hour, though, was getting late. It was entirely possible that Spender was not yet aware of Phelps' death. Fleming had to be taken care of, and at the risk of sounding clich‚, there was only one man for the job. WMM picked up the handset of the phone and dialed his number. ~*~*~*~*~*~ Scully felt his hand tremble beneath her own, still pressing it to her chest. It was as if the entire universe was focused to one small point of light in a nondescript motel room on the outskirts of Roswell, to two people caught in a tangle of decision... to face danger together, or to part in safety. She closed the distance between them with a step, turned her face up to his. Their proximity was so close she could feel his breath on her face, could see the blinking lights of the cactus reflected in his eyes. "You have to promise me that if we part, you won't forget us," she said softly. "You have to promise me, you won't forget this." As she leaned the few inches more to allow their lips to meet, CSM's cellphone rang. ~*~*~*~*~*~ Now, CSM did not become the father of so many 1013 characters by allowing interruptions when a beautiful young woman pressed his hand to her breast and stood close and invitingly as Scully did now. As though advance might not be rejected, might even be welcome. So he closed his eyes, and the world disappeared, and he kissed her. And somewhere in the farthest edges of the universe, a telephone rang. He put his arms around her little frame. Her lips were warm, better than any wine he'd ever tasted. He felt alive, electrified, as though he had been asleep for many years and had just awakened. And the phone rang again. Its insistence seemed to break the atmosphere. He rested his cheek on hers for a moment, then pulled away and answered the call. "Yes?" "Have I interrupted?" It was the Gentleman. "Yes." "Shall I call back?" "What do you need?" A pause on the other end of the line. Then: "Scully?" "What about her?" CSM sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked at Scully's bare toes, then reached for her hand. "Did you, uh, solve that issue?" "I believe so." "There has been a development. Marian Fleming is on a plane to Buenos Aires. I will have a plane readied for you." CSM thought for a minute. "Where's the layover?" "The what?" "She found a direct flight from Roswell to Argentina?" He could hear irritation in the Gentleman's voice. "Hold on." Then: "L.A." "All right then." CSM waited, allowed for the silence on the other end of the line, for WMM to make the mental connection. It didn't matter where a ticket said you were going. It only mattered where you got off the plane. Still silence on the line. Like a seesaw that doesn't know which way to go, not a squeak out of the hinges. CSM decided to take advantage of the confusion. "One more thing," he said. "Give Scully full rights to the Air Center. Assure her safety. We need her help." "I thought you took care of her." "Skip the eggnog and resolve this yourself, if you don't like my methods. Leave the grandchildren to open the Christmas presents without you." CSM waited after the phone went dead and the dial tone came up before he pressed the phone's off button. He sensed that WMM had wanted to tell him something else - something worth making the phone call - but had failed to do so in the confusion. CSM looked over at Scully. "It seems I'm late for work", he said. "Did you say we could save those children? Do you think you could show me where they are?" "Yes," Scully replied rather breathlessly. She was still reeling from the earlier kiss, and having heard so private a conversation of which she was a subject of interest. "I can show you exactly where they are." ~*~*~*~*~*~ Scully and CSM navigated the harshly lit halls with new-found assertiveness, a marked departure from her previous sneaking about. Her mind flitted to what had happened moments before, in the hotel room; her kissing him? Smoking Man kissing her back. "I just want to check on something first," CSM said. The halls were sterile, filled with artificial light. He slid his card in the slide lock and entered Larry Phelps' room. But Larry Phelps was not there. CSM stared at the recently made bed, its military tuck, the freshly-cleaned equipment. The meaning of what he was seeing slowly sunk in. Scully approached the bed, ran her fingers along the tightly pulled sheets, the unplugged monitors pushed against the wall. "I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means," she said quietly as she turned and followed CSM. Calmly he exited the room, walked down the hall, slid his card in another lock, passed through the door. The room was the temperature of a refrigerator. There were two gurneys, each with a human form completely covered by a sheet. The two forms lay parallel to each other, the center of silence in the middle room, two halogen lamps washing the crisp white sheets glowing white. Why a facility such as Roswell Industrial Air Center needed a morgue of this capacity she dared not consider, nor for what other purposes it had been used. As she approached the two bodies she noticed there were no charts or autopsy reports present. No toe tags. CSM lifted a corner of the sheet on the first gurney, looked underneath for a minute, returned the sheet to its position. He then did the same to the other gurney. Larry Phelps he recognized. He wasn't so sure about the other body, the one with the gunshot wound to the face, though from the clothes, he seemed to be a member of the Project. So that's why Marian was fleeing, CSM thought. He sat in a chair at the edge of the room, staring numbly at the sterile equipment around him. Out loud he said, "Why?" Larry had come willingly. He could have been the key in the resistance against alien colonization. With effort, Larry could have learned to harness his skills and serve important diplomatic functions. The human race, including Scully, could have been saved from death or slavery at the hands of the Colonists. So close, and yet, another failure. The Syndicate wanted Dr. Fleming dead. Sometimes the boss was right. "Oh my God," Scully heard herself say, looking at the two bodies with both shock and confusion. Her gaze flitted from the two gurneys and to CSM's contemplative form against the wall. He looked as troubled as she did. Approaching Larry's body she carefully peeled the sheet back, folding it down to lie at his waist. Upon examination she noted the pallid alabaster skin, the bluish mouth; a signature "Y" incision denoting autopsy. Despite her efforts she could find no report, no toxicology results, though she was sure they existed. Flying by visual exam alone, Scully could deduce the cause of death was most likely pharmacological. With the rest of the sheet pulled back she could see no wounds or points of entry. She noted with some pity the chaffing of his wrists, the tiny burns on his scalp, most likely from electrodes. Whatever they were doing to Larry, death appeared to be the better deal--but that did nothing to justify what happened to him. Despite the serenity of his face and body, Larry's fingers were curled and taught, as in common overdose scenarios. This was no common scenario, though. Whatever (or whomever) had killed Larry Phelps?he saw it coming, and had tried to stop it. As for the other man, it was obvious how he died. A star-shaped gunshot wound holed out his nose and most of his jaw on the left side of his face. His body remained dressed in an Italian suit, the white shirt now dyed crimson with his blood. From his dress, he appeared to be Syndicate, though why they would kill one of their own, was beyond her. Unless it was an inside job, or was the handiwork of a defector. Quickly she ran a gloved hand beneath the jacket of his suit, patting him down for ID, but finding none. Perhaps C.G. new who he was. Scully slipped her hand from beneath the dead man's suit and returned the sheet to its rightful place. As she walked over to CSM, his head in his hands, her heels resounded a little too loudly, causing her to jump slightly at the sound. Despite their security clearance, being in there still set her on edge. She noticed with strange satisfaction that he rose to meet her. The consummate gentleman, she mused, even in circumstances such as this. When she arrived in front of him, though, he looked very preoccupied.