DISCLAIMER:  The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and
1013 Productions.  The situations into 
which I have placed them are of my own creation.

CATEGORY: XRA
RATING: PG (certain chapters will be labelled NC-17)
ARCHIVAL: Please archive at Gossamer;  anyone else, just let me know!
SPOILERS: This story contains few specific spoilers, but a general knowledge of
Season 5 is assumed.
SUMMARY: Guilt is painted in shades of grey.  When Scully is involved in a
serious crime, how will Mulder react?

TIMELINE: This story takes place sometime after Folie A Deux but before The
End.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Much of what I have done in this story is harsh, for both the
characters and readers.  The harshness is within a specific emotional context,
however;  don't necessarily abandon the story if you're uncomfortable with the
first 
three chapters.  I could not have written this story without the wonderful
assistance of Kirsten, Dasha, and Elizabeth -- thank you very much.  And a
special thank you to Kem, who helped me create the original concept several
months ago.

Preponderance will be posted in two "Books".  The end of chapter nine marks a
natural ending point for the first half of the story, though it does end on a
cliffhanger of sorts.  :)


PREPONDERANCE
By Alanna Rabun.

Chapter One.

+++++

I can still hear the echo of the gunshot.

I can still hear the panicked voices of the witnesses.  

I can still hear her scream as she fell to the floor, a pool of carmine blood
spreading on the linoleum, filling the cracks between the tiles.

I can still see her long, curly brown hair slowly turning red from her own
blood -- a parody of my own hair, strawberry-tinted since birth and turned into
auburn after years of Clairol.

I can still feel my finger squeezing the trigger, and the mixture of rage and
exhiliration I felt at that moment.

I can still see Samantha, dead in front of me.  

+++++

The American interstate highway system was intended to link the nation in a
network of roadways, where even the smallest towns could feel bound to the
cities by four-lane divided highways.  Instead, the use of on-and-off-ramps and
kelly green road signs only made small-town Americana seem remote, only to be
accessed via ramps and smaller routes.  

The transportation this time was an '89 Ford Escort, paid for in cash, bought
from a man in western Virginia who wanted to get rid of it as quickly as
possible without the hassle of transferring license and registration.  Its
plates had already been 
changed twice, stolen from abandoned cars in deserted parking lots.  It
currently "belonged" to Jim Chisholm, yet it wasn't the '78 Chevy pickup
registered with the North Carolina Department of Transportation.  The Tennessee
state line was fast 
approaching, and another car would have to be obtained, lest this one become so
familiar that the highway patrol could easily trace it.

The driver diligently obeyed the posted speed limits, never exceeding them by
more than 5 mph, even in construction zones where 40 mph dragged at the car
like a ton of bricks and other motorists followed behind, honking their horns
and 
shooting dirty looks at the grandma -- the cultural stereotypes ran deep --
with an allergy to lead feet.  Though speeding tickets were the least of the
driver's worries, they promised the very real threat of license and plate
checks.

That kind of exposure could and *would* prove deadly.

The familiar golden arches on an upcoming off ramp beckoned a greedy stomach
unaccustomed to going so long without nourishment.  Pulling off the interstate,
the drive-thru was a beacon and the promise of Value Meal #2 was manna.

Karen Cooper, her thoughts consumed with the argument she'd had with her
boyfriend that morning, stole a glance at the clock as she took the order. 
Months of working the window had ingrained a mechanical set of actions as
predictable as 
Pavlov's dog.  As she stuffed the fries and burger into the paper bag and
snapped a lid on the large Diet Coke, she gave only a cursory glance at the
driver of the car.  The only relevant thought that entered her mind was that
the woman really needed to put on some lipstick and that Karen could have done
a better dye job in her sleep.  

And since she'd not bothered to look at the WANTED posters last time she went
to the post office, Karen had no idea that the driver was Dana Katherine
Scully, a fugitive wanted for first-degree murder.

+++++

Every time I close my eyes, the memories appear.  They perform a grotesque
slideshow of horrors on the backs of my eyelids.  In a perfect world I could
pretend that none of it ever happened, but I learned a long time ago that the
world was 
far from perfect.

I also wish I could just choose a reaction and stick with it -- that I could be
afraid or furious or guilty or sad, but not all of those at once.  They blend
together in a whirling kaleidoscope.  They mock me.

They slowly kill me.

On some miles of this road, I feel guilty and sad at what I've done to my
mother.  My actions have destroyed her, because they were my own.  Instead of
being the victim, this time I was the murderer, the criminal.

One of my first criminal justice courses at Quantico taught me that crime is
painted in shades of grey.  That no such set of events is ever so cut-and-dried
that motivations and repurcussions can be easily delineated.

I'm discovering the truth of that statement with each passing day.

Even when my life would seem to fall apart, I could do no wrong in my parents'
eyes.  I was their angel.  I was perfect.  But in the past ten days, I have
betrayed my mother twice.  

First, by the security camera footage showing me murdering... that woman.  CNN
must have played it a dozen times before the angry calls flooded in from
viewers, appalled that such violence could be shown on their television sets. 
When I first 
saw her in that stiflingly hot Rockville, MD, police station, she told me that
she would do everything in her power to clear my name.

But underneath the bravery of her words, I could hear her chant, "Videotape
doesn't lie."

I betrayed her again by jumping bail.  I don't know what she had to use as
collateral to secure the $500,000 bail from some bondsman, nor did I want to
know.  And I still shudder with self-loathing that my first thought upon my
release was not that I had to go back to my mother's house as I had been
instructed like some delinquent teenager, but that I had to get the hell out of
town.

Mom was probably going through hell right now, as much as from the bondsman
blaming her for my disappearance as from the hurt I've caused her.  

I'm also terrified.  I know that someone is tracking me, following my every
move.  I know that I'll never escape them.

But the emotion that bleeds through my mind as I cross over the Arkansas state
line into Oklahoma is fury.  A white-hot, seething anger at Mulder, for -- my
God -- for everything.  It is a throbbing fury that slowly consumes me.  

Damn him.

Damn him to hell.

I'll see him there.

+++++

Billboards along the interstate showed that a city was approaching.   The cheap
"Hits of the 60s" tape she'd bought at a gas station a few states back was
wearing thin, and the humor she'd felt at Del Shannon's song "Runaway" slowly
faded 
into bitterness and irritation.  She popped the tape out of the deck and began
scanning the stations.  On the low end of the dial, Scully found an NPR
station, and the announcers' plummy tones swept a wave of nostalgia through
her, bringing 
her back to D.C., to the relatively cultured, academic life she'd once led.

She didn't pay very close attention as the latest news was read, instead
letting it filter through her conscious as background noise.  After the voice
had read the latest financial reports, they broke for local news and Scully
heard everything which was going on in Oklahoma City.  Even as she tried to
concentrate, to give her something to think about aside from her own situation
and where she was going, she couldn't help but listen.  

One segment sent a shockwave through her body and she had to fight to keep the
car on the road.

"Today, attorneys for the family of Samantha Mulder, the woman who was murdered
in a Rockville, MD, grocery store last week, announced their intention to file
a multi-million dollar wrongful death civil suit against suspect Dana Scully
after her criminal trial."

Scully trained her eyes on the road and gripped the steering wheel so tightly
that spasms of pain shot up her arms.  

The announcer droned on.  "Before the O. J. Simpson murder trial, such wrongful
death suits were fairly uncommon, but as NPR correspondent Susan Bergman
reports, many families are turning to them as another way for them to seek
their 
own justice."  

She reached up and angrily snapped off the radio.  A thrill of sheer fury
coursed through her body, and she had to grip the steering wheel even harder,
lest she break out into a screaming, hissing fit.

Damn him.

He and his family couldn't be contented with the near-certainty that she would
be convicted of murder, could they?  She had always known that Albertina Mulder
was a bitter, vindictive old woman, but for so long, Scully had believed that
her son wasn't like that -- that he could see reason and had compassion.  

Apparently, she had been wrong.

That bastard.  

She was glad that each mile she drove carried her further away from him.

+++++

The lights of the road blurred into nothingness.  She jerked back in the
driver's seat of a '91 Camry she'd bought in Dallas and took another sip of
godawful gas station coffee.  Scully glanced over at her map in the darkness
and, comparing it to the signs she'd seen in the past few miles.  Scully was
about an hour outside of Lubbock and, much as she hated to stop her journey,
she had to get some sleep.  For nearly thirty hours straight, she'd driven,
with only the minimum of stops -- 
fast food, gas, and a couple of catnaps in rest areas where it wouldn't be
noticed.  She knew where she was going and had to get there as quickly as
possible, but her haste wouldn't be any advantage if she showed up on the verge
of exhaustion. 

The miles to Lubbock passed in a monotonous blur, full of flat lands and flat
emotions.  The only excitement came when she glanced in her rearview mirror and
noticed the flashing lights of a highway patrol car.  Panicking, she looked at
the 
speedometer and saw she was going only 3 miles and hour over the posted speed
limit, but knew that excessive speed was the least of the reasons why she might
be pulled over.

Scully could actually feel her heart stop beating...

.... then start again as the patrol car sped past her in pursuit of someone
else.

As she caught her first glimpse of Lubbock's streetlights, she laughed, feeling
like she was caught in a bizarre country song.  Then again, if she tried to
sell her story to Nashville, even the most conservative, government-hating of
record producers wouldn't buy it for a second.

Several billboards announced budget chain motels in the coming miles, so she
pulled off the interstate at the indicated exit and sought out the first she
saw, a Red Roof Inn.  Despite the romance inherent in small, dingy diners and
rundown 
motor lodges, corporate lodging and dining offered the best anonymity by far. 
The clerk barely gave her a second glance as she paid for a single room in cash
under a name which really didn't matter.  

Rather than immediately going to bed, she headed toward the Wal-Mart next to
the hotel.  Scully wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot shower and curl
up on a firm mattress, but she had to stock up on a few supplies and Saturday
night would offer less visibility than a Sunday morning, when clerks would
glare at her for skipping church.  She pulled into the parking lot and checked
her pockets for the remains of her stash of money.  Scully was still surprised
that cleaning out her savings and checking accounts had been so easy --
apparently the authorities hadn't seen fit to freeze her assets.  She still had
plenty of money left, but not enough to waste.

Inside the store, she walked up and down the aisles.  Into her cart went
crackers and candy bars, shampoo and a toothbrush.  She carefully selected a
dark brown hair dye to cover up the bad bleached-blonde dye job she'd done at
home right before she left, then some scissors and mousse to complete the style
change.  In the clothing department, Scully chose some bland blue jeans and
t-shirts, plus a selection of underwear.  Lastly, she chose a flashlight and
pocket knife -- it wouldn't provide as much protection as the gun she still
carried next to her body, but additional weaponry wouldn't hurt.  

The supplies were paid for in cash, and at the checkout she resisted the urge
to glance at the covers of the newsmagazines, not wanting to see if her name or
photo were featured within.  Back in her room, Scully dialed the operator and
asked for the number for pizza delivery, and when it arrived, she was nearly
too tired to manage to eat more than a slice.  

Her hunger sated and her body clean, she stripped off all her clothes and
placed her gun under her pillow, then crashed into a deep sleep.

+++++

The place is dark, so dark.  

I take a step forward and a blast of frigid-cold air hits me like a wall.  I
cross my arms over my chest and find that I'm naked, my body unprotected from
the chill of this place.  My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and I see that
it's a cave, filled with dripping stalagmites and stony walls.  

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a soft moan, followed by a louder wail.  A
disembodied voice begins calling out to me.

"Dana......."

I spin around to locate the sound and am caught off-balance, falling to the
hard, unforgiving floor.  Water seeps through my skin, bathing me in ice.  

The wailing gets closer.  

"Dana!"

I hazard a chance at opening my eyes, and there she is.

Samantha. 

Her clothes are bloody and I can see straight through the bullet hole in her
skull to the darkness behind her.  She looks at me, rage mixing with pity on
what's left of her face.

"Why did you kill me, Dana?" she half-moans, half-screams.

I try to stand but some unseen force is pinning me to the ground.

Her voice rises to a scream.

"WHY DID YOU KILL ME?"

+++++

I wake up, drenched in sweat, my arms and legs akimbo and the bedspread kicked
to the floor.  Bright sunlight streaming through the window blinds me and I
turn away, burying my face in the pillow.  

Shards of dream-memory assault me, but they won't fuse into a whole and tell me
what they mean.  

I finally open my eyes and look over at the digital clock.

11:47. 

Oh, God!  I race out of bed and frantically pull on my clothes.  My few
possessions are bundled into a plastic Wal-Mart shopping bag, and I shove my
pistol into the waistband of my jeans as I hurry out of the room.  The room key
is dropped into the return box just minutes shy of the noon deadline, and I
fight the urge to peel out of the parking lot, instead taking my time so as not
to attract attention.

At the stoplight where I'll turn onto the interstate onramp, my hand moves to
the back of my neck, fingering the plastic band-aid there.  The skin was still
sore.

The chip was gone.

+++++

END (1/9)


DISCLAIMERS, ETC, IN CHAPTER ONE.

PREPONDERANCE 
By Alanna Rabun 

Chapter Two. 

+++++ 

My fingertips scratch at the back of my neck. 

The bandage is dry, nothing more than an ordinary band-aid.  As I rub it, I can
feel the tiny hairs on my skin sticking to the adhesive, and the pull almost
makes me wince.  I can still feel the scalpel in my hands, and the way I held
the small mirror in front of me to catch my reflection in the larger mirror,
performing self-surgery in a dingy motel bathroom.  I should be terrified of
having picked up an infection, but my body has already been through so much
hell, my immune system must be made of iron. 

The chip is the double-edged sword of life and death, in so many ways. 

Keep it, and live.  Remove it, and die. 

Get rid of it and escape Their tracking system.  Hold on to it and keep the key
to oh-so-goddamned-much. 

Do I have a choice? 

If They want to find me, They will.   And at this point, whatever the hell They
could do to me, it couldn't be any worse than going back to D.C. and facing a
life in prison. 

As I get out of the car and unscrew the gas cap, I can feel the faint rattling
of the chip in the amber prescription bottle in my pocket.  Though the cadence
is erratic, it has all the strength and surety of a timebomb. I angrily shove
the keys into the ignition after filling up the car, then fight the urge to
press down on the accelerator with all the force left in my weary body. 

And then I feel the soft, liquid tricking in my nasal cavity. 

Oh, shit. 

My thumb brushes over my upper lip and smears fluid onto the pad of my finger. 
If I weren't driving, I'd close my eyes and steel myself, but I'm hitting the
interstate and I don't have that luxury.  Instead, I grip the steering wheel
tightly with my other hand and take a deep breath, then look at my hand. 

It's clear. 

No blood. 

I nearly faint with relief. 

Just a cold.  Just a runny nose.  My shoulders shake with relieved, sardonic
laughter.  No cancer.... at least, not yet.  I don't have any kleenex, so I
sniffle until my nose is slightly clearer, and resolve to steal a roll of
toilet paper at the next place I stop. 

I've been given a reprieve. 

In the middle of my death sentence. 

+++++ 

Her moment of realization had been slow in coming.  When she'd first realized
just why all this was happening, she almost felt jealous of those trademarked
Mulder Leaps of Logic.  Why hadn't she thought of it sooner? Why hadn't she
known that the goddamned chip would give her one thing and take away everything
else? 

It had given her life.  It had taken her control. 

That incident at the dam in Pennsylvania should have been Scully's first clue
-- that it was a means of control, not salvation.  The distinct, overpowering
yearning feeling came on so slowly that she hadn't noticed it at first, so
caught up as she was in all the other horrors of their situation. Chaos, born
from crises of faith and power, confused her and rendered her helpless.  She'd
grown so accustomed to suppressing these for so long that ignoring them had
become as much a part of her biological makeup as breathing and the beat of her
heart. 

It was rational.  It was expected, she'd told herself.  One doesn't go through
what she had endured over the past year without having their entire life thrown
into disarray.  She could handle it -- she always had.  Despite having been
educated in exploring every aspect of any given situation, the thought that a
small piece of metal implanted in the back of her neck being the cause of this
newest crisis hadn't even occurred to her. Before, when she'd first returned
from her abduction, she'd walked around with the chip for nearly a year with it
in her neck without experiencing any problems, so after she'd implanted the new
one, she thought that just maybe, she could go back to the way things had been
way back then. 

That ride home from the Rockville Police Department after her mother had posted
bail had been excruciating.  Instead of feeling guilt or horror or even the
urge to investigate, she'd merely stared out the window as her mother's Buick
navigated the familiar streets home.  When they'd finally arrived at her
apartment building, Maggie Scully made her first error, though the naive woman
hadn't known it at the time. 

"You get settled in, Dana -- take a shower, lie down, get some sleep. Okay? 
I'm going to run home and get some things so I can stay here with you." 

Court orders, of course, but a devil sitting on Dana's left shoulder neglected
to tell the older woman that leaving her daughter alone would be the biggest
mistake she could have made.  Scully watched with bated breath as her mother
went through the motions of turning on the lamps and walking through the
apartment, then made to leave, and she'd felt for all the world like she was
sixteen again, waiting for her parents to get out of the house so she could
finally have some fun. 

Maggie left, and Dana counted to a hundred, then raced around the apartment,
gathering what she would need.  As she piled toiletries into a ziploc bag,
stiff neck muscles screamed at her and she stopped for just a second to roll
her head on her neck, stretching out the muscles. 

She felt the chip. 

She felt a bolt of realization. 

That was it. 

That savior-chip was causing all this hell. 

Without even stopping to rationally consider her options, she fumbled in a
drawer where she kept her medical supplies, and grabbed a scalpel enclosed in a
hard plastic case.  Shoving it into the bag, she threw some clothes on top of
it and ran to the entryway for her spare set of car keys.  Not bothering to
take the time to worry that leaving in her own car would leave her open to
exposure, she fled the apartment and headed toward freedom. 

She would remove that goddamned chip the first chance she got. 

She knew it could kill her. 

She would go away to die. 

Alone. 

And find the Truth along the way. 

Before it was too late. 

Dana Katherine Scully would die with a clear name.  A clear soul. 

If only she could slough off the mantle of guilt. 

+++++ 

She left Texas behind after another few hours of monotonous driving. Everything
around her felt dead -- the grass, the sky, even the occasional house she
passed. 

Of course, Scully thought, maybe I'm the one who's dead. 

Ever since she'd removed the chip, she could feel the small changes in her
body.  She was easily distracted.  If she'd had anyone to talk to, she probably
would have found herself easily irritable.  Her entire body felt tightly-wound
-- a kite without the benefit of being high. 

Scully self-diagnosed herself.  Panic attacks.  Was complete emotional
breakdown far behind?  Remove an animal from its environment and, unless
properly nurtured, it flounders and eventually dies.  Just as she was doing
now. 

Shit. 

A macabre bubble of laughter forced its way through her throat.  If she died
tomorrow, Mulder would get everything.  Granted, there wasn't much to have, but
she'd built up a fairly decent savings portfolio over the years. As she passed
a sign welcoming her to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, memories of the time
she'd written her most recent will were summoned to the front of her mind... 

.... choosing which mementoes to leave her family .... arranging for the
perpetual upkeep of Emily's tiny grave .... then the words, "All my remaining
possessions, monetary and tangible, I hereby bequeath to Fox William Mulder. 

//With this ring, I thee wed.  With this body, I thee worship.  With all my
worldly goods, I thee endow.// 

A quick trip to the Bureau's LegAtt offices, and it was official. 

And then it all went to hell in a handbasket -- or, in this case, a shopping
cart. 

She'd intended the gesture as a final gift of love when she'd been dying of the
cancer.  Now, the cruel irony of it slapped at her.  What would Mulder do with
his bequest now?  Throw her possessions in the sea?  Build a bonfire with the
cash from her savings? 

She pulled into the first gas station she saw across the border, and went
inside to buy a couple of Diet Cokes and a big bag of chips, and use the
bathroom.  Glancing down at the map on the passenger seat, she saw she still
had about four hours of driving before she got there.  Four more hours of what
was left of her life. 

+++++ 

Hours after her arrest, she'd been summoned from the holding tank at the police
station.  The guard refused to tell her who had asked to meet with her, but
Scully had assumed it was the attorney she'd asked her mother to call. 

It was Mulder. 

She watched his body settle into the wooden chair across the table.  His entire
body was tense, a masterpiece drawn on the tight lines of his face. He said
nothing, but she could see the skin of his hands stretched taut over his
knuckles. 

They remained there, a stalemate of two, for minutes too long to count.  A
basic wall clock hung proudly behind him, but Scully had no interest in
watching it.  She couldn't.  Not with Mulder there. 

The room grew humid with tension.  She had so many things she wanted to say to
him -- a thousand pleas rising through her belly like nausea.  But the death in
his eyes rendered her mute. 

He finally stood and began to pace under the watchful glare of the security
camera perched in one corner.  Each step was a measured dance of fury -- a
suppression of emotion she'd seldom seen from him before.  Mulder was a man
whose emotions were a window display at Macy's, heralding each new season with
a splash of different hues and textures.  She scarcely recognized this Mulder. 

And the fear continued to build within her, sucking at the marrow of her bones.


He stopped pacing and turned to look at her.  The man she had once loved -- and
might still love, were she not so damn afraid -- looked so old.  So old. 

And his voice was dead. 

"I saw the videotape." 

Having not spoken to anyone since she'd been spirited away from the Safeway in
a squad car, the existence of video was news to her. 

"What does it show?"  She didn't have to ask, but the latent masochist in her
forced the question. 

"It shows a woman -- you -- walking up to another woman -- Sa..." he caught
himself, "her -- saying a few wordxs, then pulling out a gun and shooting her
twice in the chest and once in the head, at point-blank range."  His hard voice
tripped a rhumba over the words. 

She did not know what to say in response, so she remained mute, marveling at
her complete lack of any emotional response.  If he were to ask her how she was
feeling, she would have murmured, "I'm fine." 

Before her, Mulder wrung his elegant hands with a dowager's fury. 

"Preliminary blood tests came back.  The woman was human.  An old friend of
ours," without saying the name, she knew he referred to the Smoking Man,
"informed me that the woman you murdered was my sister." 

//The woman you murdered// 

The words rang through her ears with a hollow clamor.  She wanted to feel
angry, ashamed, ANYTHING, but she just felt dead. 

Mulder leaned forward and rested his face in his hands.  It was the first time
she saw him allow himself to show any emotion.  Any weakness. 

His voice wept salty tears when he once again raised his face to meet hers. 

"Why did you kill Samantha?" 

At those words, she could literally feel the tendons of her strength snap,
brittle and twisted.  A wave of fury began at the back of her skull and spread
through her body in crashing waves. 

And she could not control her bitter anger as she spat out the damning words. 

"She had to die." 

+++++ 

Everything around me is so quiet, so still. 

The road to Albuquerque stretches before me, a ribbon of gray curling over
fields of brown and dusky green.  I let my mind drift, lulled into suspended
animation by the monotony of the car's vibrations. 

I wonder what is happening back in D.C. right now. 

I wonder what Mulder is doing. 

I feel so damned alone. 

Are they all searching high and low for me?  Are they doing the forensics
investigations I've done a million times before, gathering evidence to link me
to my crime?  I know what Mulder's doing.  He's meeting with his attorneys,
plotting how he can make me pay for what I've done. 

Mulder. 

His lack of trust in me still stings my heart, but I can't say I'm surprised. 
After all, I saw the videotape of me murdering Samantha.  The evidence is there
-- the preponderance of facts pointing to my guilt were too much for him to
bear.  And all those years of our trust, our connection, vanished at what I'd
done.  I can't blame him.  I don't. 

But I do. 

Goddamn you, Mulder!  How can you not trust me?  How can you have such faith in
truth, only to let it melt away when I betray you? 

I loved you once.  I loved you so passionately every cell in my body sang in
your presence.  Every doubt in my mind at my own worthiness evaporated with one
look from you.  But I can't love you anymore, not when you couldn't stand by me
when I needed you most.  Not when you become me, believing in the evidence
without standing by me, searching for the truth. 

I hate you. 

A million miles couldn't bring me far enough from you. 

The hunter becomes the hunted.  I've spent the past five years searching for
criminals, trying to track them down and capture them.  I've gained a wealth of
knowledge in the process.  But, just like every criminal I've hunted, I know
that I will be caught. 

Time is of the essence. 

Miles to go before I sleep. 

Miles to go before I die. 

And I am so alone. 

+++++ 

END (2/9) 

DISCLAIMERS ETC IN CHAPTER ONE.

Preponderance 
By Alanna Rabun. 

Chapter Three. 

+++++ 

She rolled into town with the impact of a muted trumpet. 

After passing through Albuquerque, Scully found an abandoned car on a side
farm-market road, and hotwired it, managing to get it down the highway to Las
Cruces without having to kill the engine.  As the signs of approaching
civilizations emerged as phenixes from the dry land -- several fast-food
restaurants, a couple of gas stations, a grocery store -- she began scoping out
locations where she could decamp safely. 

Though she'd managed to change her appearance enough to keep casual observers
from recognizing her from the images flashed over television and newspapers,
she didn't dare become complacent.  Short, black hair and a mild sunburn went a
long way toward distancing her from her F.B.I. persona, but they could never
provide safety -- and they only made her feel more foreign and uneasy, so far
removed from the control she'd always exercised over her appearance. 

Once she'd reached the old, beautiful downtown, she stopped the car and let it
die in a parking lot.  Gathering her meager possessions into a shoulder bag,
she carefully cleansed all remnants of her occupation from the vehicle,
spit-polishing the steering wheel and gearshift to clear her fingerprints. 
Emerging from the car, she slung the bag over her shoulder and took her first
tentative steps. 

She fished a few coins out of her jeans pocket and bought a newspaper.  It was
Sunday and the small paper contained a scattering of classified ads. Scully
slipped into a Denny's and scoured the ads over bottomless cups of coffee and a
full breakfast, welcoming the eggs and bacon even though the hour was fast
approaching twilight.  She circled a few housing possibilities and then turned
to the main news section. 

The only mention of Rancho Cardenas was a small ad in the metropolitan section,
announcing an upcoming cattle auction.  She didn't need to call the number
listed to know how to get there -- every minute detail had already been etched
into the grooves of her mind.  Turning back to the classifieds, she held her
breath while she looked over the few employment listings, then her heart nearly
lept out of her body as she spotted a listing for domestic help wanted at the
ranch.  The date at the end of the listing showed that the ad had been placed
the Friday before, and Scully glanced up at the ceiling, finally believing that
just perhaps, God had finally chosen to give her a break. 

After nearly an hour of reading and planning, she paid her bill and emerged
from the restaurant.  Scully walked down the street to a Budget Inn she'd seen
earlier, and requested a room under the generic name, "Barbara Smith".  Once
inside her room, she stripped off her clothing and ran a bath, then immersed
herself in a scalding hot pool of water.  The bath invigorated her, giving her
a false optimism that perhaps her body wouldn't fail her after all. 

But she knew better than to hope. 

Each heartbeat brought blood coursing through her veins, spreading all the
impurities in her body.  Each heartbeat brought the potential of death. 

Hope was a luxury, and she was poor. 

+++++ 

Sleep chose not to pay her a visit that night.  After several hours of lying on
the bed, too tense to enjoy the cartoons on the television -- she didn't dare
turn on any news programs -- the time for her to leave finally approached. 

Before going to the office to pay for another night at the motel, she picked up
the phone.  Taking several deep breaths, she dialed the number in the
employment listing. 

A pleasant voice answered.  "Rancho Cardenas.  How can I help you?" 

"Yes, hi."  Scully's hand gripped the phone so tightly her hand ached. "I'm
calling about the help wanted ad?" 

"Ah, great!  We only placed that ad last week!  Are you interested in the
housekeeping position?" 

Scully knew better than to let the voice give her any optimism.  "Yes, I am. 
Could I come out there this morning to apply?" 

She heard the rustlings of papers and a distant voice asking "Carla" a
question.  After a few seconds, the woman spoke again.  "Sorry, it's been a
crazy morning around here.  Sure, come on out.  We'll be here." 

"Great, thanks."  Scully allowed just a small bit of tension to release from
her body. 

"Do you need directions?" 

"Um, no."  She tried to keep her voice neutral and just a little bit naive. 
"Someone already told me where you're located.  I'll be walking out there,
though, so it might take me a while." 

"Good Lord, don't walk!"  The woman's -- Carla's? -- laughter echoed down the
wire.  "Are you downtown?" 

"Yes ma'am." 

"Okay.  Go to North Alameda Boulevard.  Bus #27 south will take you right to
our front gates.   I'm sorry, what is your name?" 

Scully caught her breath, then said, "Barbara Smith." 

"Hi, Barbara.  I'm Carla Mendoza.  I look forward to meeting you!"  With that,
the line disconnected. 

Scully felt like she'd just bought a dollar's worth of hope. 


+++++ 

After buying a few groceries at a small Hispanic store, Scully made her way
over to North Alameda Blvd. and found a bus stop.  She glanced up at the sign
and saw that #27 was indeed stopping on that street.  She sat down on the bench
and pulled out one of the pastries she'd bought, the egg bread covered with
sugary dough waging war with her stomach.  Pan de huevo was one of a
progression of new, foreign experiences. 

Of all the risks she'd taken in her years with the Bureau, the one on which she
was embarking was the most frightening. 

She waited for a few endless minutes before the bus pulled up in front of her. 
Gathering her bag in her arms, she boarded the bus and gave the drive enough
fare for the trip, then settled onto one of the hard plastic seats. The
anonymous bus carried her through the city, then civilization began to fade as
they emerged into ranch country.  The slight roll of scrub-and-grass-covered
hills exacerbated the roiling of her stomach. 

Scully kept a vigilant watch of every mile they covered, until she saw a
wrought-iron arch appear on her right.  Pulling on the bell-cord, she signaled
her desire to stop, then made her way to the bus' exit as it pulled to a stop
at Rancho Cardenas. 

The dusty earth was firm under her feet, giving her mission a sense of levity
it had already possessed in spades.  She walked down the paved road for nearly
a mile, until the ranch house emerged from behind a bluff.  It shimmered in the
midmorning heat, reminding her of Xanadu. 

Her stately pleasuredome.  Her truth. 

+++++ 

She had never been a good liar.  In fact, she was awful at it.  Mulder told her
once that he hoped she never had occasion to lie to someone besides him,
because she'd never be able to pull it off.  Of course, she had honed the art
of lying to him to perfection over the years. 

And now, her biggest test loomed before her. 

Scully smoothed down her hair and rubbed her palms over her face, trying once
again to redden her complexion.  The motion stung her sunburn, but she knew
that every small movement was necessary.  Finally, she pulled open the door of
the ranch's business office, and stepped inside. 

Everything was normal -- almost too normal for a business linked with such a
nefarious corporation.  The building was merely a generic, prefabricated
building, but someone had made an attempt to dress it up slightly, with a vase
of cut flowers on the secretary's desk and some framed posters advertising
rodeos on the walls.  She walked up to the empty desk, and stood there, waiting
patiently for the secretary to return.  Just as she began to feel impatient, a
young woman emerged from a closed office. 

"Can I help you?"  She wore jeans and a short-sleeved sweater with buttons down
the front, making Scully feel better about her own casual dress. 

Scully stood up straight, pushing some stray hair out of her eyes, trying to
look somewhat nervous.  She didn't have to try hard.  "Yes, I'm here to apply
for a job." 

The woman smiled.  "Wait, you're Barbara.... I'm sorry, I don't remember your
last name." 

"Barbara Smith," Scully supplied. 

"Oh, right.  Hi there!"  The woman held out her hand for Scully to shake. "I'm
Carla Mendoza.  Nice to meet you.  Why don't you come into my office?" 

The women went inside and Scully sat down in the plain chair in front of the
desk.  "I'm sorry I don't have an application for you to fill out, but Dolores
just ran into town to Office Max to pick up some more of those standard ones. 
So, why don't I tell you a little bit about the job and you can tell me about
yourself." 

"Fine with me."  Scully forced herself to smile in return. 

"Well, to be honest, there really isn't much to tell.  The woman who used to do
the housekeeping around here just got de-- had to leave the area suddenly, and
we're looking to replace her." 

Deported, huh?  The news was music to her ears -- a company which hired illegal
aliens would probably be quite willing to overlook Scully's own lack of
documentation. 

"So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Barbara." 

Scully looked down at her hands, trying to appear nervous.  "Well, I... um... I
had to leave home pretty suddenly too.  My husband, he took things a little too
far." 

"Ah."  Carla leaned back in her chair in feminine understanding.  Scully felt a
stab of guilt at preying on sympathies by using such a ghastly excuse. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't give you any references or social security numbers --
that sort of thing.  I don't want him to track me down." 

Carla placed her hands flat on her desk and smiled softly.  "No, I understand. 
That won't be a problem."  She paused for a moment, then continued, "Well,
since I'm in charge of hiring, you're in.  I like you." 

This is far too easy, Scully thought. 

"We can pay you $4.50 an hour for eight hours a day.  I know it's below minimum
wage, but we can also provide you with free housing here on site." 

Far too easy. 

"That's great.  Thank you."  Scully plastered a not-insincere smile on her
face. 

"Hey, can you start today?"  She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out some
papers while Scully gave her assent.  "Okay, when Dolores gets back with the
application, I'll need you to fill out at least the basic information, but we
won't file any paperwork with the government, so you won't have to worry about
your husband finding you." 

Once again, Scully murmured her thanks.  She jotted down her name and a made-up
social security number on the paper Carla handed her, and rose to her feet. 
Carla gave her a quick tour of the office and ranch house, and Scully paid very
close attention, quickly memorizing the layout and estimating where she'd be
able to find the information she'd need.  Once the tour was completed, Carla
led her out to the cabin which would be hers.  It was clustered with three
other small one-room cabins, but the lack of many windows gave it some privacy.
 A key was pressed into Scully's palm. 

"Why don't you go put your stuff inside and we'll meet back in the office in an
hour.  How does that sound?" 

"That's great.  I can't begin to thank you for all the help you've given me." 

Carla smiled over her shoulder as she began the walk back to the office. "Hey,
no problem!  Call it New Mexico hospitality."  With that, she was gone. 

Scully walked into the cabin and sat down on the faded brown sofa, letting the
darkness flow over her.  The words "too easy" echoed through her mind. 

And she waited for the other shoe to drop. 

+++++ 

Everything feels so foreign.  Though the office I'm cleaning is quite similar
to any other small-town office, the ranch itself is so different. Wide open
spaces, wood fences -- it's like I've stepped into a Ralph Lauren ad, save the
emaciated models. 

I've made little effort to meet anyone here, save Carla and Dolores.
Fortunately, I've never been the social type, and anonymity is essential to my
safety right now.  Exposure would mean death.  My reclusiveness hasn't caused
many problems, either.  Gossip spreads quickly in small communities, and most
of the ranch hands probably assume I'm too traumatized by my "husband" to be
social. 

I am traumatized, but for reasons I doubt they suspect. 

It's my third day here.  Every night I go back to my small cabin, turn up the
air conditioner, and settle onto the sofa.  I wish I had a computer and
internet connection, but all I can manage is low-tech brainpower. 

The days are beastly hot but the nights are cool.  I walk over to my two small
windows and open them, letting the day's heat seep out of the cabin. The owners
do not provide televisions, and I'm glad.  I have enough to worry about without
having to hear my name on the nightly news. 

I write down one word:  WestAssure.  Rancho Cardenas' HMO.  And that is why I'm
here. 

This evening, after the ranch had finished its daily business and I'd emptied
the trashcans and wiped off all the surfaces, I went into Carla's office and
pulled out the WestAssure file.  She'd saved the company prospectus, and I
quickly photocopied it, along with the rest of the contents of the file.  I
commune with it tonight. 

It is all I have to go on.  It contains the keys to the truth I seek. 

+++++ 

The damning words come easily enough. 

"Barbara, I forgot to tell you," Carla said the next afternoon as she got ready
to leave for the night.  "You're going to need to go into town to the clinic to
get your pre-employment checkup." 

"Checkup?"  Scully tried to keep her voice even. 

Carla ruffled through her handbag, looking for something or another. "Yeah,
sorry I forgot to tell you earlier.  The name is WestAssure -- it's the HMO our
employees use." 

"But can I--" 

The woman pulled out a business card and handed it to Scully.  "You're not a
documented worker, but WestAssure has always been great about letting us send
undocs to their clinic for basic health care.  Kinda makes you wonder about all
those stories that HMOs are really just heartless corporations, huh?" 

Heartless corporations, indeed, Scully thought.  "I really don't think I'll
need it, Carla.  In fact, I'd rather not." 

Carla slung her purse over her shoulder and stood to walk out of the room. "I
hope not, too, but better safe than sorry.  Want me to call tomorrow and get
you an appointment?" 

"No, that's okay,"  the business card shook slightly in her trembling hands. 
"I'll do it tomorrow." 

"Great!  See you then." 

"See you,"  Scully called out to the exiting woman. 

WestAssure. 

The name was both infuriating and incredibly welcome.  Scully remembered the
research she'd done on the corporation before her arrest.  They were ostensibly
a large corporate health management organization, but, not surprisingly, only
had offices in "abduction" hotspots:  Allentown, PA, Bellefleur, OR,
Hattiesburg, MS, McKinney, TX.  According to their financial reports, major
shareholders included executives on the boards of TransGen and Roush
pharmaceutical companies, and Scully had no doubt they were a Consortium front.


The possibility of getting inside their facilities was what had led Scully to
violate bail and throw caution -- everything -- to the wind and come out here. 
And here was her chance.  Why the hell was she suddenly so apprehensive? 

Though she'd never admit it to them, Scully had been known to read the
occasional issue of The Lone Gunmen.  A couple of months ago, they had run an
article saying that WestAssure was using its clients for all kinds of medical
experimentation, and Mulder had told her that among the unprinted allegations
was that they were implanting chips like hers into their patients.  She'd given
her typical Scully non-answer to his comment, but the idea had insinuated
itself into her mind, surfacing again when she'd first removed the chip after
fleeing D.C. 

And now, her opportunity was at hand.  She picked up the phone and dialed the
number on the business card. 

Scully set up an appointment for the next afternoon.  When she'd expressed
difficulty in finding transportation to their clinic, the nurse told her that
they'd be more than willing to send someone out to Rancho Cardenas to pick her
up.  Scully almost laughed at the offer -- they were probably quite eager to
have fresh blood. 

After hanging up the phone, she quickly finished her cleaning duties, then set
the office alarm and locked the door behind her.  Scully was once again
surprised at the trust the ranch had placed in her, but not the least bit
guilty for abusing it. 

As she walked the quarter mile to her cabin, she halfheartedly returned the
wave of one of the ranch hands who was rounding up the cattle.  She still
didn't know his name, nor did she have any desire to find out what it was.
Looking ahead at the horizon, she watched the sun slowly disappearing over the
mountains, with a sky the color of blood. 

Blood. 

The sky was an omen.  Her breath caught when she felt the familiar pressure in
her sinusoid cavity.  Raising a finger to her upper lip, she brushed it over
the slick skin, and it came away red.  A nosebleed.  Oh, God. 

She had staved off death so far, but here on the plateaux of southern New
Mexico, it came calling for her. 

Her steps quickened as the cabin approached.  Scully's hand dug furiously in
her pocket for her key, and she stabbed it into the lock just as the sun
slipped behind the mountains.  The cabin was dark, so dark, and she welcomed
it, wanting nothing more than to slip into darkness herself.  To die, to bring
an end to all this agony. 

Scully hurried over to the sink in the small kitchenette, and grabbed a paper
towel, dousing it in warm water before bringing it up to her nose. Pinching the
bridge of it between her fingers, she held her head back and closed her eyes,
letting the blood wash down her nasal cavity.  Maybe she'd choke on the blood. 
Maybe mercy would finally be found. 

She turned around and leaned against the hard counter, the edge of the formica
pressing into her upper back.  One deep breath after another slowly began to
relax her as she kicked off her shoes and allowed fat tears to begin falling
down her cheeks. 

And just as her world became dark, a familiar, dreaded voice echoed through the
small room. 

"Scully." 

Her eyelids flew open and through the veil of tears, she saw him. 

Mulder. 

+++++ 

END (3/9)