Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

DO NOT SEND TO GOSSAMER OR ATXC - We'll handle it ourselves :)

We are finally finished! Yey!!! If you would like to read this with
more ease, it's at
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Labyrinth/1495/sands.html
or
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Chamber/9588/sands.html

Disclaimer: all characters you recognize belong not to us, but to Chris
Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions. No monetary profit is made, and no
copyright infringement is intended. All other characters are ours (poor
them!) and we reserve the right to torture them accordingly :-)

Classification: XA

Rating: R

Archive: Anywhere, but let us know, please!

Spoilers: All seasons, all episodes, up to and including Redux II

Feedback: Need we ask? It's always appreciated and will be replied to
promptly.

Warning: This story contains some disturbing scenes, but they are not
explicit or sexual in nature.

Summary: Upon his mother's death, Mulder and Scully discover a curious
document that eventually leads them to make a desperate choice. With
Mulder in the Consortium, will the truth finally be revealed? Or will
the webs of deception destroy both partners?
A nightmare version of season 5, not leading up to the movie.

Author's Notes are at the very end!!
Hope you stick around long enough.

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be
careful about what we pretend to be."

"Mother Night,"
Kurt Vonnegut


Part 1/20

He was dreaming of bees and clones and of little girls with
pigtails when a trembling vise grasped his hand, causing his head to
snap up.

"Mom?"

A painful wheeze emanated from within the figure masked in
tubes and wires, and Mulder shook his head quickly.

"Don't try to speak... You're in a hospital," there was a pause
before he could continue, resigned. "You've had another stroke."

A frustrated growl came from the woman, and a masked man in
green soon stepped into the room -- his beady-eyed attention solely on
EEG printouts and lines.

"Sec..."

"Mom," Mulder interrupted tiredly, trying to sound the reminder
gently, even though his nerves were frayed. "Don't try to speak."

"Sec... sec... ond.... doe... or..."

The doctor leaned over to shine a light in a dilated eye, and
the hand grasped Mulder's fingers tighter.

Requests for silence went unheeded by the patient, and he soon
leaned his ear closer to her mouth. "I don't understand, mom.
What's the second door?"

There was a worried grunt from the man in green when the
machines starting protesting faster, the beeps of EEG and EKG
monitors jarring and escalating.

"Sec-ond... draw-er."

Mulder leaned in closer, the eyebrows over his bloodshot eyes
furrowing. "What's in the second drawer, mom?"

She threw her head back into the pillow and a resounding
mechanical scream filled the air. The vise became loose, and
eventually fell away. Doctors soon surrounded the place, pushing
Mulder away.

He stood dumbly, unable to speak, only moving when
the men in green pushed him to do so.

<What's in the second drawer, mom?>

She wouldn't get a chance to answer as the faceless doctors
took her away.

***

Scully escaped the noisy crowd inside her mother's house by
coming out onto the front porch. With a melodramatic sigh into the
smoggy Baltimore air, she wondered when the moment had come that
Thanksgiving dinners with her family had become a heavy obligation
instead of the celebratory times that she had once looked forward to.
Was it after Dad had died and his absence at the table had become
almost palpable? Was it after Melissa was killed that the sharp tang
of guilt soon became a dish she tasted along with the turkey and
stuffing? Or was it after her victory over cancer that she realized
her way of life and that of her family's were as different as black
and white.

And that fire and water couldn't coexist -- no matter how hard they
tried.

Scully looked through the living room window to see a very
pregnant Mrs. Bill Scully batting away Charlie's exploratory hand.
The federal agent sighed again, absently rubbing her ring-less fourth
finger. She looked longingly towards her rental car, wanting nothing
more than to go back to Washington.

But there were still two more days to be spent here, with food,
Bill, Charlie, their wives, and her mother -- and there was no excuse
good enough to flee the area. She looked around at the picturesque
yard with helpless longing and tried to hide from the chill inside
her long coat.

"Dana, what are you doing here?"

Startled, Scully turned around.

"I was just getting some fresh air," she innocently replied
to the worried expression of her brother. Did it sound as false to
his ears as it did to hers?

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were avoiding us," Bill
continued. After her miraculous recovery, he honestly wanted to spend
more time with his sister. But apparently, she wanted to achieve
just the opposite, and the thought nagged at him more than he cared
to admit.

"Don't be silly," Scully smiled, as still-too-thin skin pulled
against cheek bones. "I'll be inside shortly."

Was Bill to consider this conversation over? "They just served
dessert." In case his younger sibling had forgotten, he added an
afterthought, "It's your favorite, apple cobbler." After some
hesitation, and an audible sigh, he eventually stepped inside.

"Just what I've always wanted," whispered Scully to no one in
particular. She slowly turned around to meet the beckoning glow of the
house head on.

***

Lively conversation was interrupted by a phone call that Dana
answered. She turned her back on everyone for fear of revealing the
relief she felt from hearing her partner's voice. Lately, he seemed
to save her from family gatherings all too often.

"Scully, I'm sorry to disturb you during the holidays, but..."

"It's all right," she hastened to reassure him. "What's going
on?"

There was a pause and Scully could hear Mulder's breaths
through the receiver. "My mom... Scully. She just had another
stroke."

"Mulder..." Scully shook her head -- she was lost as to what
to say. "I am so sorry."

Mulder nodded into the phone and closed his hands tighter
around the receiver. "She's in surgery now... and I don't, Scully...
I don't understand what the doctor is saying to me..." there was a
pause on the other end of the line, as if he was trying to think of
what to say next, as if trying to find a way to subtly ask his partner
to leave her family and come help him, yet again.

"I'll have to look through her things later tonight... and I
know you're with your family but would you... could you come here.
Please?" an expulsion of air and an apologetic flood of words followed
the tentative request. "It doesn't look good, and I was hoping that..."

Scully shook her head. "I'll be there," she turned when there
was an annoyed intake of breath behind her. Ignoring Bill's glare,
she turned her attention back to her partner. "What hospital are you
at?"

She gravely absorbed her partner's directions to the hospital
before gently resting the phone receiver in the cradle with closed,
tired eyes. Minutes later, she was packed and heading out the front
door. The smiles were fake, and the Happy Thanksgiving's seemed forced.

She had a perfect excuse to get away now, but it didn't make
her feel better.

* * *

Scully cursed the unfortunate timing and every holiday
tradition as she fought traffic on the way to the airport, in the line
to get tickets, and in the airplane as it was stuck behind twenty plus
other jets waiting to get on the runway.

She stared out the window as children cried, a couple bickered,
and as harried people tried to move through too-narrow aisles.
Except for Christmas, Thanksgiving was the worst time to travel --
maybe it was the guised happiness that came with forcing twelve people
to sit at a table designed for four that brought out the worst in
everyone. At any other time, she would have taken two Tylenols and
laughed at the situation, but now her heart was heavy and her mind was
filled with apprehension.

Her anxiety reached a new level when she finally made it to
the hospital and a nurse informed her dispassionately that Mrs. Mulder
passed away "just two hours ago". The nurses were at a loss as to
where the tall, lanky, brownhaired man had gone, and Scully futilely
double-checked the ICU. Exhausted, defeated, and with her patience
wearing thin, Scully grimly stepped into her rental car, on her way to
Greenwich and Mulder's mother's house. Disgusted when she passed a
Christmas tree lot, Scully gripped the steering wheel tighter, pushing
her foot harder on the gas pedal.

It was turning out to be the worst holiday yet.

Mulder met her in the doorway and listened absent-mindedly to
her condolences. Scully looked him over worriedly, noticing the
disheveled hair and the Oxford sweatshirt hanging limply on his frame.
She wondered how long it has been since he changed clothes or had
something to eat. Dark eyes never quite focused on her, and her words
seemed to miss their destination.

He cut to the chase, skipping the greetings and pleasantries,
speaking in a voice that was hollow and distracted. "I'm looking for
something my mother said is here... something I'm guessing she or my
father left for me," he aborted his speech suddenly, looking past the
door frame and suspiciously out into the yard. He pulled his partner
into the house, hastily slamming the door. Scully followed quickly.
"What is it, Mulder?"

"She didn't say." He paused, taking a couple seconds to
compose himself. "Her entire left side was paralyzed, and she had
difficulty talking, so she just mentioned something about the second
drawer."

"Second drawer where?"

He turned around, exasperated. His glowering eyes relayed the
message clearly: Would I be asking if I knew? He took a breath in an
attempt to control the emotions brewing inside, and scratched at his
neck absently. "I don't know. So I'm checking everything out. You
could start with the kitchen on the first floor, while I continue
working on the second one through the bedrooms," with the string of
words sounded more as a command than a request, he was already running
up the stairs.

"Mulder, are you all right?" Scully shouted behind him, but her
question went unheeded.

She shrugged off her coat and looked around, noticing the acute
contrast between this lonely place and her family's busy and noisy
house in Baltimore. A woman who used to live here was gone, but her
sadness and secrets lingered behind, loath to depart.

Careful not to disturb them, she began to search through the
drawers.

* * *

"Mulder, are you sure she said second drawer? Maybe, we should
look through the other ones, too," Scully looked helplessly at her
partner whose drawn face and obsessive behavior were worrying her more
with each passing minute. They had just looked over every second drawer
in
the house, but had found absolutely nothing important.

"I am not sure she even said drawer. I told you, it was
difficult for her to speak, and even more so for me to understand her,"
annoyance born from sheer frustration was clear in Mulder's voice.

"Let's look through every drawer again," suggested Scully.

"And what if we don't find it in any of them?"

"Then we will search again over everything, and we will find
it," Scully looked at the wrinkled shirt, and at the haggard man
drowning in it. "But not before you get some sleep, Mulder."

He snorted, and without any further comments, headed back
towards the bedrooms. Scully turned again to the kitchen, passionately
wishing that she knew what to look for. She wondered what secrets
were buried in the Mulder family's furniture, and she prayed for some
answers -- because this cloak and dagger routine was getting too
damned old.

Mulder finally collapsed on the couch in the living room after
hours of futile searching, while Scully looked over the contents of
second drawers seemingly for the hundredth time -- in blind hope that
they had overlooked something important.

Methodically, she went over the little things: clothes,
batteries, a few books, pens, letters, nails, knives, handkerchiefs...
Her restless mind flipped back to the letters -- a big cardboard box
full of yellowed papers that she had hesitated to look through when
she had originally discovered it.

Now, she set the box at the kitchen table and started patiently
going over each and every envelope. Except for letters from people
whose names she had never heard of, there were those from Mulder to
his mother, sent while he was in England, and some children's
scribbles that she stopped to read over. She swallowed hard when she
understood that they were Christmas lists from little Fox and
Samantha, dated the year she was abducted. She hastily closed the
dog-eared covers and shoved them deep inside the box.

She was too tired to rejoice when one of the old envelopes
stated:

"To my son, Fox Mulder.
To be opened in case of my death.
Bill Mulder."

* * *

The next morning, after much-needed rest, Scully discovered
Mulder at the kitchen table, staring at the still-unopened letter she
had left there.

"You know, Scully, I never even told mom that Sam was alive,"
he said, hiding his face in his hands.

"Mulder, I'm sure she knew that always," that hadn't come out
right, and she hastened to correct herself. "Not where she was, but
that she was all right..."

Her partner waved a hand dismissively, understanding her
message. His face grew more grim and Scully studied the table, knowing
he was still brooding over his encounter in the diner. She was afraid
to ask, to press the issue -- as far as she knew, there were still no
calls or letters from Samantha. He spoke of the encounter in passing,
abbreviating the painful details, hiding behind a shy smile as he took
her home after the cancer went into remission. But Scully could still
remember the regret and chagrin that flickered on her partner's face
while recounting the story.

Mulder shook his head. "How could I tell her? That her daughter
was just fine, but didn't want to come see her?" he stated the question
absently, not really looking for an answer, but checking just one more
time to make sure that he had done the right thing.

"Mulder, I am very sorry," Scully whispered brokenly.

"She was the only family I had left, Scully." He opened his
mouth to add more, but quickly shook his head. With a visible effort,
he tried to change the subject, suddenly turning his gaze towards the
letter. "Why do you think she never mentioned this before?"

"I don't know. Maybe she thought that there was some
information here she didn't want you to know?" Scully suggested
hesitantly.

"Maybe. Or perhaps it was useless to pretend that our family
was a well-functioning unit of American society," Mulder laughed
mirthlessly, eventually holding up the letter and waggling an
eyebrow. "And now, for some family dirt," dramatically, he ruptured
open the envelope. Inside, there was another envelope that stated:

"Fox, you may only open this after you reach 25 years of age.
Your father."

"Well, I'd say that this is long overdue, wouldn't you?"
Without any pause, Mulder pulled the stack of papers from inside. He
read them quickly, in silence, while his partner politely turned
away. "Scully..." his voice came out haltingly. "I think you may
want to read this."

The somberness of Mulder's voice compelled her to look at his
face that held an odd expression of wonder overlapped with sadness.
Slowly, she reached for the papers and began to read.

"Fox,

I entrust this letter to the care of your mother, knowing that
she will give it to you when I die. I write it days after your
fifteenth birthday, but you should not receive it until you are at
least twenty-five. Regardless of the profession you choose for
yourself, and the course your life takes, I hope that the information
contained herein will prove to be useful for you.

Don't grieve for me when the end comes, for I have not lived a
selfless and honorable life. But know that I always wished I could have
been here longer, to see my grandchildren, and their children.
Apparently, it was never meant to be, and I wish I had recognized
that a long time ago, before I joined the group who was to destroy my
family and me.

I presumed myself to be above the law and beyond the judgement
of common people; but the most frightening verdict for the crimes I
committed came from my own conscience. Guilt and shame that consume me
from within, day after day, are a penalty harsher than jail sentence or
death. As much as I have tried to rectify what I had done, nothing will
ever be enough.

Not all is what it appears to be. When you look at the night
sky, you may see the stars and the moon, but I see the source of
disaster that awaits human race. The project I have worked for is
still underway, and the deep conspiracy surrounding it now spans many
countries and governments. You must stop them, and below, I provide
you with enough material to bring these people to justice, before it's
too late. There are locations of the secret labs where frightening
experiments on human subjects are being conducted right now and the
names of everyone I know who ever authorized them.

I had been one of them.

You are a good boy, Fox, and you have always had compassion.
I can never repair the consequences of mistakes I made so long ago and
that you have to live with, but I have always loved you and your sister,

and I pray you will remember that.

I beg your forgiveness, and I leave a gift for your children,
a book called "The Eleventh Hour."

Your father.

Animal Diseases Research Center Makon, GA
Flu Research Institute Reading, PA
ECCO Labs Irvine, CA

James Hedges
Scott Edwards
Stanley Jakobsen
Dennis McInnis
Carl Rolstow
Damien Martinoff"

Scully took a deep breath before looking up to Mulder with a
raised eyebrow.

Mulder looked at the letter and then back to his partner.
"Well?"

Scully regarded her partner's dancing fingers and expectant
gaze. She saw a teenager still eager to please his father -- his quest
for the truth once again refueled. She looked at the scrawlings on
the letter, and saw the words of a guilt-stricken man, a desperate
attempt to make amends with the guilt-laden boy that would grow to be
the guilt-driven federal agent.

"Mulder, I'm not sure of this."

Her partner reached over to grab the letter from her hands, and
waved the potential evidence in front of her face.

"Scully, it's all here. Evidence," he stressed the last word
before looking around, confused, disoriented -- eventually finding the
phone posted on the far wall. He started walking resolutely towards
it, mumbling his plans to make plane reservations.

"Mulder," Scully repeated more forcefully. "I'm not sure about
this."

He roughly hung the receiver back onto the cradle and started
to pace the room with the letter firmly gripped in his left hand.
"What are you talking about? It's all here. We have to go."

Scully shook her head. "Mulder, this letter was written by
your father twenty years ago. Who knows if these places still exist?
Or if these people are even alive?" she paused and took a breath,
hoping to distract him. "What about this book your father talked
about?"

He looked around distractedly, pulling the thin book from a
pile of miscellaneous things that came from the drawers -- the colors
of the cover splashing in a sharp contrast to the drab Mulder kitchen.
Scully
gingerly opened it, her fingers soon tracing the first few lines of
the story, the animal caricatures, the crisp condition of the pages.
She gently closed the covers again, tempted to smile at the innocence
behind a simple children's book.

Bill Mulder and Innocence. It seemed like an oxymoron
engineered by the faceless shadows that had eventually killed him.
Judging by what little Mulder told her about his father, and so much
he never said, Scully did not think of William Mulder as the
sentimental type. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mulder shake
his head. "I never knew my father to be the sentimental kind, Scully."

Scully smiled at the response to her silent comment and
watched the play of emotions on Mulder's face. "Why did he leave you
this book?" she asked curiously, suspiciously.

Mulder shrugged, his vision clouding for a second. "It's a
book of puzzles. I used to love them when I was little, Dad and I
solved them together."

Scully touched the book gingerly, wondering if Mulder could
envision giving it to his kids. She sighed resignedly and asked the
question the answer to which she dreaded: "Where do you want to go?"

"Reading, Pennsylvania," he answered resolutely.

There it was, and she groaned inwardly, pushing her chair away
from the table to stand up. "Mulder, you can't rush headlong into
something your father wrote twenty years ago."

Mulder's pacing stopped, and he drew his arms protectively
over his chest. "Why not? Scully, I realize that the information is
old, but it can still be valid."

"Because. Because, Mulder, you've said yourself that your
father worked with the Cancerman."

"Trying to deceive me through a letter that he wrote when I
was fifteen years old?"

Scully shrugged. "It sounds suspicious."

"You don't trust my father," Mulder stated matter-of-factly --
his voice ominous and suspicious.

Scully gaped at her partner, hearing overtones reminiscent of
drugged water and DAT tapes. "And do you, Mulder?" she shook
her head firmly. "Don't hold that against me. We both were at that
mine, and we both saw those files."

Mulder winced at the reminder. "Scully, my father was too
guilt-stricken to do anything malevolent after Sam was taken." He
kept his voice calm as his eidetic memory flashed through drinking
binges and sobs emanating from the closed door of a bedroom. When
his voice continued, it's volume and intensity had decreased. "I think
of my father, Scully, and I've seen what guilt can do to a man."

Scully looked at her partner, and the letter that was gripped
tightly in his hands. The irony of Mulder's words was only too obvious,

and she nodded with understanding. "So do I."

***

Warm sunlight was abruptly turned to a dusky gray as it
filtered through the windows of the office high rise. A congregation
of men sat in plush, leather seats and their expensive suits blended
well with the oak walls and hardwood floors.

A decanter sat on a table, and through shots of bourbon,
secrets were being formed, and conspiracies were being manufactured.

The Well Manicured Man sat beside a more rotund figure, and
their faces lacked emotion, were not hidden anymore behind a smoke
screen.

"Mrs. Mulder is dead. How should we proceed?"

"Mulder is going through the Greenwich house right now."

"Is he going to find something?"

No one spoke, for no one knew the answer. Mr. Mulder had
been as paranoid as his son. Behind the innocent facade of the
summer house and the two Mulder houses, lay potential photographs
and documents.

"Is there a possibility of a deathbed confession?"

"Mulder and his partner seem to be looking for something
specific."

The Well Manicured Man nodded once before rising. "Mulder has
no more relatives which we could use to keep him in line. He's
dangerous. Perhaps desperate. And those are the men we most need to
fear."

***

"The Lone Gunmen."

"Turn off the tape, Langly."

"It's off."

"You still don't trust me?"

Mulder finally heard the click he had been waiting for, before
Langly started grumbling.

"Okay... it's really off this time. What do you need, G-man?"

Mulder paused from the far corner of his mother's kitchen to
look at Scully and met her steady disapproving gaze. "What do you
know about the Flu Research Institute in Reading, Pennsylvania?"

"That they study the flu?" Langly responded dryly.

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Seriously."

"All right, all right..." he could hear fingers clicking over
the keys on the keyboard, and he chanced a glance at Scully once
again -- she failed to look impressed.

"They look pretty clean, Mulder -- that is, if you were
looking for some dirt in the first place. Whoa... wait a minute..."
the clicking on the other end of the line grew more frenzied, followed
by a lengthy pause as the Gunman studied the figures playing across
his monitor. "Mulder, I don't know how you find these places, but
these guys are getting major funding from some division of government
named Rousch. Make that major, *private* -- as in *silent* --
funding."

Mulder smiled into the phone. "Thanks, Langly. I owe you
one."

He hung up the phone and looked at Scully expectantly. She
stood from her chair and sighed. "The weather in Pennsylvania better
be nice, Mulder. I didn't pack anything thicker than my trench coat."

Mulder opened his mouth, wanting to sound the numerous
innuendoes dancing through his head. Instead, he picked up the phone
once again to book two tickets to Reading, Pennsylvania.

Minutes later, they were driving to the airport. And it was
only when he was already buckled up in the airplane seat, while flying
over the state of Connecticut, that Mulder realized that in their
haste and excitement, he forgot the letter and left it carelessly on
the kitchen table near the puzzle book.

The realization was jolting enough to cause his knee to hit the
tray in front of him, the pain and the paranoia of the documents being
taken almost enough to send him into a panic attack. Scully was quick
to offer words of reason, pointing out that prior to forty eight
hours ago, only two people had knowledge of the letter. Mulder
absently nodded, hanging onto his partner's words.

He gratefully accepted a glass of water from a stewardess,
quickly finishing it, immediately asking for another -- trying to
drown the unease in his stomach.

***

"They've gone to Reading, Pennsylvania."

The Well Manicured Man raised an eyebrow while holding the
cellular phone closer to his ear. "Pardon me?"

The man in black grunted as he shrugged his falling M-16 over
his shoulder. The phone was awkwardly being held between his shoulder
and neck, as his other hand held up the letter towards the light.
"Apparently, Bill Mulder left a letter for his son with a list of
laboratories. Supposedly, it states in the letter, these places have
evidence of what Mulder is looking for."

The Well Manicured Man's lips grew into a tight line.

"Sir, these locations are fake. Bill Mulder gave his son the
wrong information."

The Englishman processed the information quickly, his pulse
quickening in suspicion of some trick. "Have you found anything
else?"

The leader looked around to his black clothed companions who
were stalking stealthily through the Mulder house. Upstairs a dresser
crashed to the ground, while beside him, floorboards were being ripped
open. "Nothing yet."

"Bring the letter, and whatever else looks... out of place,"
the Englishman commanded succinctly, before disconnecting.

The members looked at him expectantly, and the Well Manicured
Man set the phone down gently. "Retrieval has been uneventful as of
yet. Mulder and Scully are off to the Reading facility."

Some eyebrows were raised at the last statement, and the more
rotund figure sitting to the left of the Englishman cleared his throat.
"I believe that their 'find' should be rewarded with a little
media attention."

The youngest Consortium member moved towards the phone,
smirking, dialing a familiar number.

Away from his companions' studious glances, the Well Manicured
Man absently traced circles on the top of his bourbon glass -- his
mind racing. The situation was more unsettling than he would admit to
the others. A letter sheathed in innocence... a guilt-stricken father.

The factors were begging a question that nagged at the back of
mind, like the tar-laced smoke had done at the back of his throat
months ago -- would Bill Mulder's greatest legacy be yet to come?

End of Part 1/20




Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

DO NOT SEND TO GOSSAMER OR ATXC - We'll handle it ourselves :)

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 2/20

Patrick Ewing was destroying the Chicago Bulls and mindless
sportscasters were reviewing last season's shooting percentages as
Mulder mulled over the bland manila folders on the table.

Cancerman's bloodwork lay in front of him, as well as the
photographs of his blood-painted apartment. The report of the first
officer on the scene was in his hands, and Mulder's eyes were closed
to try and keep the pounding headache at bay.

Every detail had long since been memorized, each shadow
in the photographs had been engrained into the fissures of his dura
matter. Mulder had even visited the crime site.

The Cigarette Smoking Man lived his life shrouded by secrets,
and apparently he chose to die that very same way. Mulder's eyes
passed over the report, a finger traced the numbers, looking
for something -- anything -- alarming.

Mulder was tempted to show this report to his partner,
but things had always gotten in the way. Scully's recovery. Her
return to work. Her newly developed reticence to become involved in
cases like these.

Mulder sighed, dropping the papers to stretch his arms. As
evidence, adding further insult to injury, a photo of the photo of
Samantha and her older brother had been taken, and was now staring at
him. His heart burned with the knowledge that he had been this close
to his sister -- had held her hand, touched her fingers, feeling red,
human blood coursing through them. How her hair was still long...

... and how he could still make her cry.

There was a knock on the door, and the spell was broken.
Scully and Chinese food were waiting impatiently on the other side of
the wooden panel, and Mulder roughly gathered all the papers and
photos into a haphazard mass, shoving them decisively under the bed.

Opening the door to a casually dressed Scully and the
smell of garlic, Mulder smiled. "I think that the only reason why you
agreed to come to Pennsylvania was to have an excuse to order some Kung
Pao Chicken, Scully."

The female agent offered a sarcastic "har har" before setting
the bag onto the dresser. "What were you doing?

Mulder nodded towards the TV. "Watching my Knicks destroy
Chicago."

Scully rolled her eyes, muttering something about men and
testosterone. She handed a carton with chopsticks and a plastic
fork to Mulder, while settling on a chair in the far corner with her
own. To the doctor in her, the noodles smelled sinful -- chockfull of
cholesterol and salt and God knew what else. To the just recovered
cancer patient in her, the noodles were close to manna from heaven,
mouth watering, and her chopsticks soon made a repetitive journey
from the box to her appreciative tongue.

She knew Mulder was watching her -- he had been doing a lot
more of it lately. His hand was a little bit more anxious to touch the
small of her back. There were a lot more "how are you's" when she
came to the office in the morning.

She caught his eye and smiled with a mouthful of food.

Mulder returned the gesture, although the corners of his
mouth creased slightly. He felt guilty for not showing her the papers
under the bed, but his mind quickly pointed out that she
wouldn't have flashed him that smile if she had known.

He toyed with his chopsticks, not hungry all of a sudden,
anxious to go to Reading and see if his father would get
the absolution it appeared he so desperately wanted.

***

Scully and Mulder stared at the vial silently.

The Gunmen had helped them hack credentials, and both
agents were wary to avoid the video cameras that littered the
facility -- as well as the security guards with 9mm pistols at their
hips.

Scully looked at Mulder, her breaths coming out faster than
normal. The room was ice cold, and she looked around nervously
once again. Her partner held the vial up gingerly to the light,
scared of the liquid contents inside.

Purity control, the label screamed in boldfaced, courier font.

Mulder set the vial down, while Scully quickly scanned the
counters, noting the liquid nitrogen coolers. Flashing back to the
alien fetus and Deep Throat's death, Scully's gloved hand hovered
around the lid.

Her partner's panicked whisper that someone was coming
stilled her movements momentarily, then had her at the doorway to
join him. Mulder started to look around jerkily, his eyes eventually
coming to a computer terminal. Pressing the eject button,
he quickly pocketed the floppy disk before motioning to Scully to
leave.

"Freeze! Drop what's in your hand on the floor, then raise
your arms in the air where I can see them."

Mulder closed his eyes when the baritone voice came from behind
him. He turned around slowly and pointed to the ID on his lapel,
glancing at Scully. "We're authorized to be here."

"You are trespassing on government property, Agents Mulder and
Scully. Now I suggest you start walking before I have to use terminal
force."

Scully followed Mulder's sagging shoulders to the front
entrance which was beckoning them. The glass shone, almost blinding
them, and both federal agents were roughly helped out by the gun
almost touching their backs.

The sun was so bright, it seemed like there were six of them,
scattered around in a circle. Bees were buzzing overhead, beside
them, and soon, the cameras whirred, and the reporters chattered as
Mulder and Scully were surrounded.

Faceless, colorful blazers reeking of strong perfume and
aftershave flung questions in their direction.

"Is it true that you're FBI agents?"

"We received a tip that you're investigation aliens?"

"Agent Scully, is it true that you were abducted?"

"Agent Mulder, is it true that you're known as Spooky?"

Mulder shielded his eyes as a large, foam-covered microphone
was shoved at him. His brain was screaming, flashing a neon sign that
blinked "SET UP! SET UP!" in big bold letters, and inside, he was
burning -- seething with the knowledge of who the anonymous tipster
was. He watched Scully try to bat at a camera that had been pushed in
her face, and he tried to pull her to their rental car.

"What is the FBI's business in a place like this?"

"The FBI has absolutely no jurisdiction in this facility."

All heads turned as Colonel Henderson walked to the crowd,
activating his car alarm with a flair. The shine of his briefcase
matched the shine of his shoes, and his chiseled face soon bore
perfect teeth in a perfect diplomatic smile.

"Still chasing imaginary UFO's, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder spun around to face the Colonel. "Yes, I am,"
he sneered back. "But for some reason, all evidence gets... sanitized.
I wonder why."

Henderson laughed and all of a sudden, his hand snaked into
Mulder's pocket, grabbing the disk. "I believe this is ours... and
you have just committed theft." He turned back to the reporters.
"I'm afraid Agent Mulder is a little deluded. I think his
professional record speaks for itself."

Mulder turned to a camera. "Ask him about Purity Control."

Expectant lenses turned to the uniformed officer. "Purity
Control simply refers to the measures we take in securing our medical
facility. We are dealing with the flu, ladies and gentlemen. Some
'purity' must be retained for the health of all our employees."

Mulder squinted his eyes and started to see red, but Scully's
hand was on his arm, trying to pull him away.

"Ask him about Max Fenig, or the plane crash!" Scully's nails
started to dig harder.

The Colonel chortled behind him, as the cameras followed
Mulder's and Scully's retreating figures. "I'll look to the stars and
see if I can find your sister, Mulder."

In the car, Mulder let out a flood of expletives and punched
the roof with his hand. And as Scully helplessly tried to shield
them, the cameras kept rolling. The noise in the cramped vehicle was
deafening, and Scully finally -- mercifully -- started the engine,
watching the reporters scatter, driving away from the disaster.

On the way towards their motel in Reading, far from any
trailing cars, Mulder shifted his eyes to Scully, who stared back.
They dropped their gazes at the same time -- the message understood.

The hammering of nails into the X-Files' coffin had never been
more audible.

***

The trip to the Mulder home in Connecticut had been
accomplished in frosty silence.

Mulder chanced a glance from the road to Scully's arms across
the chest posture. She caught him staring at her, and fired a glare in
return. He clenched his teeth, and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Her message was loud and clear: I told you so -- now get the hell
away from me.

Mulder sighed, still cringing at her white knuckles, and the
clothes that were still slightly big for her tiny figure.

He had promised. He had promised himself to take it easy, to
get away from the conspiracies. To not push, and goad whoever it was
that was pulling the strings into doing something as manipulative and
evil as Scully's cancer again. He no longer wanted to jump
headlong into some vague reports...

... or long-lost letters from his ancestors.

Mulder resisted the urge to pound the car roof once
again -- this was only the second month, and he had already broken the
promise he had so solemnly sworn the night Scully's cancer had gone
into remission. And he knew that the stifling silence in the car was
only a prologue to the brewing storm.

"Scully... I'm sorry," Mulder looked quickly to his partner,
and she refused to bat an eye.

"You were..." The admission was difficult to make.
"...right. I shouldn't have jumped into this. I shouldn't have
forced you to come."

Scully shifted in her seat, and inhaled sharply, signaling
that he had said something wrong. "You don't have to apologize for
forcing me to come, Mulder. I'm your partner. So, don't apologize
for that."

Mulder winced at her succinct reply and cautiously nodded,
not knowing what Scully meant by her last sentence. He
was grateful when they finally pulled onto the familiar side street and
reached his mother's house.

Their feet across the pavement was the only sound as they
approached the house, and Mulder pulled Scully back when he saw the
door was ajar. Pulling their guns out of their holsters
simultaneously, the agents entered the house together.

Any strife between them disappeared momentarily as they
moved in tandem, communicating silently through hand gestures and eye
signals.

Mulder felt his legs wobble when he saw the couch upturned, the
cushions ripped, the walls torn through. Silently, he took in the
broken china, the smashed lamps, the upended cupboards and drawers --
their contents spilling onto the floor.

Mulder reholstered his gun while Scully moved past him,
mumbling that she was going to check the other rooms. He moved a
hand to cover his eyes, to hide the tears that were burning at the
back of his throat. A strangled grunt came through his mouth before he
was able to clamp down on the hurt of seeing his mother's house
ruined. He took a breath and reopened his eyes -- prepared to look
through the house with practiced detachment.

Scully came back, breathless, her eyes wide with adrenaline.
"I can't find the letter in the other rooms. Is it here?"

Mulder looked at her confused. "Letter?"

Scully nodded. "Yeah, the letter, Mulder, remember?"

His partner's voice was echoing though his ears, and a gust of
wind through the open door caused him to shiver. Scully immediately
adopted a look of a doctor examining a seriously ill patient, one that
Mulder had the privilege of seeing numerous times, and he pulled the
trench coat around him tighter, uncomfortable under her gentle
scrutiny. He shook his head, synapses finally firing. "Oh yes... the
letter. It's..." he looked haphazardly around the room. "It's not
here."

Scully sighed and nodded sympathetically. "Mulder... come
here." She turned one of the chairs over and led him to it, sitting
her partner roughly, before shuttling over to close the door.

It seemed like an epiphany, and Mulder sat further upright.
"Scully, if this letter was a decoy, they must have known it. Why would
they take it?" Mentally, he cursed himself for leaving it here, for
making a mistake characteristic of rookies straight out of the Academy.

Scully walked over and put a hand on her partner's forehead --
familiar ministrations. "Maybe they didn't and it's still here. We'll
find it," she stated confidently. She offered a smile, patting the top
of his head softly. "Or you can recite it from memory, right?" she
teased gently.

"But," Mulder pushed Scully's hand away, struggling to get out
of the chair. "The book is over there, Scully. The letter is nowhere
near it."

Scully shushed him, and Mulder could feel her tense at his
agitated words. "Let's not think about it now. We'll report the
break-in to the police," she ignored a disbelieving chuckle from Mulder
at that
and continued firmly. "Then, we will check into a motel and get some
sleep, and head for D.C. in the morning."

Mulder nodded, inspecting the chaos in the house once again.

He wondered when the madness would end.

***

"Agent Mulder, do you know what personal leave means?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does personal leave include traipsing off to Pennsylvania
under the guise of official FBI business, Agent Scully?"

"No, sir."

Mulder chanced a glance at his superior and knew that with
each newspaper headline, each segment on the six o'clock news,
his head had moved closer and closer to the proverbial hangman's
noose. The media had mocked the FBI, having a field day with the
rumors regarding Spooky Mulder in particular. But most of all, to
Mulder's chagrin, they had mocked Scully -- using her medical
credentials to label her the mad doctor.

The TV reporters were still camera happy with the story, and
Mulder was still doing a slow burn as to where the tip had come from.
Scully had semi-believed him; Skinner had outright shot the theory
down.

"Mulder, we've been in this position before. You are
suspended. Again. Without pay." There was a pause. "Yet another mark
on your professional record."

Mulder rolled his eyes.

"And Agent Scully's."

"With all due respect, sir..."

Mulder looked at Scully, but her face was expressionless.
Her legs were tightly crossed, and her fingers were interlaced tightly
in her lap.

"Sir, this was my idea. I coerced Agent Scully into going."

Skinner shook his head. "Agent Mulder, I know your division
has certain... abnormalities. But FBI procedure is very strict, and
my job is to enforce it. Scully is part of this disciplinary action."

Mulder sagged in his chair when he turned to Scully once again
and she said nothing in her own defense. God, it was so easy to just
not care anymore. Skinner was yelping in the corner. His father left
him a stupid letter, which he had fallen for, hook, line, and sinker.
His meager reputation was shot. His deceased mother's house was broken
into and trashed. Funeral homes were leaving somber messages and
estimates on his machine. Scully still refused to discuss their current
dilemma.

Mulder suddenly felt weary and old, and he closed his eyes
momentarily.

"Mulder, according to the FBI Rules and..."

"Sir... with all due respect, please state the disciplinary
action taken against myself and Agent Scully."

His rough interruption caused Scully's head to snap and
Skinner's face to turn more red.

The Assistant Director composed himself and sat at his desk.
"Indefinite suspension... at least until this matter with the media
gets resolved. No pay for the first two weeks, and a notation in your
records."

Mulder nodded resignedly, while Scully stood up to offer a
brief bob of her head. He began to follow the prim walk of his partner
when a beefy hand grabbed his arm.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner paused, making sure Scully had left the
office. You and I both have been part of some events these past few
months."

Mulder nodded in agreement.

"You gained some credibility when you pinned Blevins, but you
threw it all away with this latest charade."

Mulder started to pull himself away, and opened his mouth to
protest, but strong fingers refused to let him go.

"All I'm saying, Agent Mulder, is don't get swallowed out
there. And don't take risks at the expense of Agent Scully or the
Bureau. If you're going to take a risk, make sure it's worth it."

Mulder finally succeeded at pulling his arm away, and
Skinner straightened his shirt, making his way back to the desk chair.
"You're dismissed, Agent Mulder."

Walking out, rubbing his arm, Mulder noted that Skinner's iron
clad grip had disappeared, but his words had not.

***

Her partner was going insane. That was the only answer.

She thought that she understood his desperation and grief, but
they did not justify his insistence on going after half-decent leads.
Their subsequent fallouts were going to drive him over the edge.

And her too, if she wasn't careful.

Chasing morphs to the bowels of the Arctic, jumping onto train
cars, getting holes drilled into heads -- those gut-churning events
were occurring at a greater frequency. And the resulting sullen
silences of Mulder, his set face that screamed his insistence that he
was right, and the whole god damned world was wrong -- those periods
were lasting longer and longer, taking a toll on her, causing the
quality of X-File investigations to suffer.

First, there were the zone-outs like the one he'd had in
Connecticut. Then, like during the flight back to Washington, he would
talk her ear off, throw in the occasional lewd comment -- his
us-versus-them mentality momentarily put on the backburner.

She had hoped that the mood would last. But, she could hardly
recognize the hard-edged man who sat in Skinner's office today as her
partner.

Walking slowly towards the office, she recounted how their
names had been splashed on the pages of the newspapers. How they had
called her and her partner crazy -- too wrapped up in the hype of
hundred-million-dollar movies. She read all the articles, memorizing
each word, and then studied an interview with the flabbergasted,
indignant director of the Flu Research Institute. According to him,
his employees were really just... researching the flu.

Mulder could be so... blind sometimes, and he had a unique
ability to compound the ill consequences. If only he hadn't opened his
mouth, if he said nothing to the reporters, it wouldn't have blown up
as much as it did. And Mulder's mother's house had been trashed -- he
still hadn't made funeral plans. Scully tried to breathe deep and get
a grip on the stifling anger inside her.

The letter still hadn't been found, and Scully had watched,
fascinated, as her partner rewrote it from memory in the office, prior
to their appointment with Skinner.

She inwardly growled when she started to clear her desk.
Her partner still had no clue why she was upset.

And she was still so tired -- the cancer still looming over
her.

His next quest... she wasn't sure if she could participate in
it.

***

The contented gurgle of the fish tank above his head only made
Mulder more antsy.

He tried to lay down on the couch, but his thoughts were too
jumbled, the lights streaming through the blinds too annoying to be
ignored.

The phone rang, and Mulder debated whether to let the machine
take it. Perhaps it was Scully... Skinner... the Gunmen... Arlinsky...
Deep Throat come back from the dead. He didn't know anyone, except
for Scully, who thought that the ring of the phone sounded more
ominous than friendly.

"Mulder."

"Hi, Mulder, it's Danny. I've finished with the phone
records that you sent me."

Mulder was immediately alert, hugging the phone close to his
ear. "Yeah, and?"

"You were right, most of the numbers from the dead guy's
apartment were to office high rises with no registered users. But
there was one residential house that was called quite regularly, and
it's in the D.C. area."

"Where?"

Mulder hastily wrote down the address of the house, while
hearing his heart thud in his chest. Perhaps the Cigarette Smoking Man
had left one secret after all. "Danny, is there a name to the house?"

"Yeah..." there was a pause as paper rustled. "It's Samantha
O'Connor."

***

The drive was a blur, his left hand steering as the thumb
on his right hand nervously rubbed the fingers' knuckles.

He turned the key abruptly, and the motor died,
leaving birds to sing in the background. Mulder sat in his car,
staring at the neat yellow house with cherry bushes growing in the
front yard. A neighbor clipping his hedges was looking at the
unfamiliar Taurus with suspicion. Sighing deeply, Mulder opened the
car door.

He was nervous; his skin felt prickly, and his hands were cold.
His pulse was racing, and he tried to swallow a lump in his throat.
He barely felt his knuckles hit the door, but the knock echoed
thunderously through his ears.

Somewhere someone stopped clipping, and Mulder knocked
again, trying to remind himself that this might be nothing, and that
Samantha O'Connor did not have long, brown wavy hair with eyes
that matched her brother's.

"She's not home."

Mulder spun around to meet a heavy set, lumber-jacket wearing
man.

"What do you mean?" His voice remained steady, but
inside his every nerve trembled.

"She's moved away."

Mulder's heart stopped and his mouth momentarily gaped open.
"Do you know where to?"

He shook his head no. "I dunno, the whole family packed up and
left in a hurry."

The word 'family' pained him, and Mulder numbly pulled out his
badge. "Can I ask you some questions about Samantha O'Connor?"

The neighbor nodded. "Shoot."

To each question that Mulder fired -- whether about Samantha
O'Connor's personal whereabouts, the presence of mysterious visitors,
or her mental state -- the neighbor cheerfully stated he didn't know,
or that things appeared as normal as American apple pie.

Mulder rubbed his temple while saying thanks, and walked up the
wooden stairs to the doorway. The screen door was unlocked, as was the
heavier wooden panel, and he braced himself for what he would see...
or who he wouldn't see.

Air pushed through his lungs and roughly through his mouth when
he absorbed the bare hardwood floors and the unused moving boxes still
piled in the middle. A play of emotions went across his face -- from
the shiny eyes of heartbreak, to the grim set mouth of frustration. His
shoulders sagged in flagging determination.

Mulder felt himself tense as his right foot lashed out and
kicked the wall. A black heel mark remained imprinted, and he doubled
over, seething with an unexpressionable rage. He leaned against the
wall trying to control the errant breathing, and the hot stinging
tears that threatened to spill.

His foot was throbbing, and he relished the pain -- so much
better than the anguish he felt deep inside his chest.

When a minute passed, when the air shifted, Mulder stood up,
inhaled deeply, and let the air out slowly. He walked out of the house,
latching the lock as he went -- hoping to trap the emptiness and
desolation inside.

***

Scully walked wearily down the stairs to the X-Files office,
cursing herself for forgetting the papers she had wanted to take home.

The sight of her partner at his desk, with his sleeves rolled
up surprised her, and she automatically turned her head to the left,
expecting to see the slide projector set up.

It wasn't.

And Mulder was sitting back in his chair with one foot propped
up on the desk, a pencil to his teeth -- brooding for some time now,
by the looks of the bags under his eyes.

Scully set her things carefully on her desk and approached her
partner. "Mulder? What's wrong? We're suspended, remember?"

He shook his head, and then got up from his chair, limping to
the door, peering out, and then checking the lock as he made his way
back.

"And what happened to your foot?"

Mulder grunted. "I kicked a wall."

Scully raised her eyebrows, startled at his terseness.
Watching him settle back in his chair, Scully could see how badly his
shoulders were tensed, how many styrofoam coffee cups were scattered
around his desk.

He looked exhausted, and the wrinkles in his dress shirt were
indicative of how many hours he spent here.

It was yet another reminder of the downward spiral of her
partner, and Scully managed to contain her sigh of exasperation.

"Mulder... what's happening?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

Scully flinched imperceptibly when Mulder leaned over to
push a note towards her. His eyes narrowed at her reaction, and
he stepped clear of her path, limping back towards the door. He
grabbed his coat quickly, shutting the door behind him quietly,
leaving without any parting comments.

Scully stared at the note -- scared, terrified,
nervous, angry, annoyed at its ambiguity -- at her partner who had
just walked out and expected her to follow. She pocketed the note,
the words already engraved in her mind:

I KNOW HOW TO GET THE TRUTH

End of Part 2/20




Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

DO NOT SEND TO GOSSAMER OR ATXC - We'll handle it ourselves :)

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 3/20

With deliberately unhurried movements Scully gathered the
forgotten papers, put on a coat, and collected her bags. Before
stepping out, she swept the office mentally, scolding herself for
being paranoid. Finally, she started walking up the stairs, trying
to clamp down on the urge to run after her partner.

As she expected, Mulder was waiting beside the car, silently
motioning for her to get inside. The nonchalant stature failed to
hide his fatigue, and his lips refused to shape into a smile.
Sensing that it was best to follow, Scully got inside and waited
for some explanation. But except for a soft murmur of "Shall we
go for lunch?", the man behind the wheel remained silent, and her
pulse quickened in anticipation.

Whatever he had in mind while writing the note could not
have been good.

They walked inside a little diner, and Mulder looked around,
searching for familiar faces, finding none. He picked this place
with more care than a chess player calculates each step, making
sure that their FBI colleagues did not frequent it. Not
surprisingly, the busy atmosphere and crowds of people inside could
not distract him from the upcoming conversation with his partner.

She would not take it well.

And that was an understatement.

Scully frowned, seeing her partner lean against the wall
favoring his right foot, his eyes dark, his expression grim. A
sense of dread settled in her stomach, and the smell of food was making
her sick. At the moment, all she wanted was to be far away from him,
from this noisy room, and from D.C. Her mother had called last night,
not too subtly inviting her to spend some time in Baltimore till
"things blew over." And while the young woman had inwardly shuddered,
imagining her family's reaction to the media hoop-la around their
name, she suddenly longed for the house where she spent her childhood,
safe from insanity and conspiracies.

The same house she couldn't get away from fast enough only days
ago over Thanksgiving dinner.

The hostess had to ask them to follow her twice before either
agent responded. Mulder's hand suddenly rested on her upper
arm, and the uniformed teenager abruptly shoved two dog-eared menus
into their hands, hastily walking to a nearby table.

"Mulder, please tell me what's going on."

Her curt voice did not conceal the pleading undertones, and
Scully hated herself for them.

Mulder, who until then was researching the condensation on
the glass of water and waiting for the drops to fall down, slowly
raised his eyes to the woman in front of him. The clarity in his voice
betrayed the cacophony of thoughts and conflicting emotions that had
plagued him during the past couple of days. He reached for Scully's
hand, as if searching for a point of balance on a wildly rotating
carousel, and felt her fingers momentarily tense in surprise. The din
of the diner suddenly dissipated, and Scully watched Mulder's lips
move, the words registering seemingly hours later. "I want to join the
Consortium."

Hearing that statement and snatching her fingers away quickly,
Scully felt weeks of stress and madness explode inside her, leaving
only bleak emptiness and the tortured face of her partner. The diner
suddenly came alive again -- dishes were rattling, and patrons were
engaged in animated conversation. She was momentarily stunned by the
fact that everything around her still remained the same.

And that the Earth was still rotating around the Sun.

Mulder offered an uneasy, sad smile. "Say something, Scully."

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered, envisioning
the empty basement office, knowing that if the one constant she could
believe in disappeared -- understanding that if his statement became
real, she would be working against him. And he would be working with
the forces he so vehemently opposed.

Even though she comprehended the degree of his frustration, she
could not forgive him for making this choice -- or for leaving her
behind. She tried frantically to contain the desire to cry, to scream,
to break the nervous fingers which were now playing again with the
condensation of the glass. There was no possibility of her making a
scene here, and she congratulated him mentally on choosing a
public place to break the news.

And her heart.

"Because you are my partner, and I need your help," Mulder
watched Scully's face thoughtfully, cautiously. He knew exactly what
she was thinking, and the knowledge burned him like the flames of hell.

Scully could not believe his audacity. "You are asking me to
help you while you work for those sons-of-bitches?"

"Scully, I need you." He injected each word with as much
persuasion as he could master, because there was nothing as important
to him at the moment as making sure that the partnership forged over
the years through fires and heartaches was not destroyed by one
sentence. "I have never needed you and your trust more than now. I
would never -- do you understand? -- never become one of them. This is
a proposition to you, and I will only follow through on it after you
accept. I would only pretend to join their ranks, to get at the truth
we both so desperately want. I hope you want it as much as I do," he
aborted the speech suddenly as he watched a tear finally spill out of
Scully's clouded eyes.

Five years, thought Scully. Five years, and it could not have
come to this -- and no truth could be worth sacrificing the honesty
of this man. A desperate decision, it would only lead him further into
their web, and she was sure she would plummet to the bottom with him.

"No."

The steel in her voice galvanized him like a shot of
electricity.

"Mulder, if you are giving me a chance to stop you, let me do
it now."

"Scully, I know that lately my credibility has approached the
zero levels, and the truth I keep preaching about seems as elusive as
the mechanism of perpetual motion. But I am begging you," Mulder shook
his head, looking for words. "Do you remember that morning in the
hospital, when I told you I was offered a deal?"

She bowed her head, still shivering at the memories of the
white room, the detestable weakness, and the feeling of helplessness
against the disease. The meaning of her partner's words finally sank
in to her, nauseating her, freezing her blood. But even more
frightening was the thought that he was ready to accept the deal.
"Someone made an offer to you to join the Consortium."

"Yes. And I said no. Because I thought that there were other
ways to find the truth. And when I nailed Blevins, and when your
cancer had gone into remission, I knew -- I was certain that we would
win. But then..." he cringed at the thought of public humiliation,
Samantha's disappearance, the threat of the X-Files department being
closed down. "And now, I remember that offer, and it makes more sense
to me than ever before." Encouraged by Scully's silence, he continued.
"It would take us years to understand what the Project is, to get the
evidence, and to make people listen to us, especially after the fiasco
in Reading. But if they thought me on their side, I would have access
to all kinds of information, and we would finally be able to do
something."

"So, you want to destroy them from within," Scully nodded.

"Absolutely," Mulder searched her face for a sign of acceptance
that would not come easily.

Getting a grip on thoughts and emotions that whirred in a mad
kaleidoscope inside her, Scully evaluated the situation coldly. He had
made up his mind, and she would not be able to talk him out of it.

"Do you realize the potential consequences of your decision?
You will lose your integrity, and you may well lose your life in the
process." The fire in her eyes abated, and the tone of her voice
suddenly softened. "Damn you, I could not bear that."

Mulder's heart cinched at his partner's admission, but he
forged ahead ignoring the painful sentiment. "I know, Scully -- and I
agree on all counts." He leaned forward, whispering, seeing Scully's
eyes were only inches from his own. "But there is no gain without the
risk. Just think of how much potential lies in this prospect," he
hoped that his tone and words were enticing enough.

Scully contemplated the offer silently, her own desperation
warring with rationality. The arrangement he proposed was, of course,
utterly insane. There were so many things that could go wrong with it.
But at the same time, it made perverse sense, and she thought it more
appealing than another microphone shoved into her face. They would
have access to the actual evidence instead of the pathetic scraps
thrown at them occasionally, the ambiguous ramblings of shadowy
informants, or the false leads from dead people.

"I accept your decision." The words were out before she had a
chance to swallow them. She simply could not allow this man to go
alone into the snake pit. And if he wanted to mingle with the poisonous
creatures, she wanted to be there to pull him out.

And if, as a result, their quest was finally fulfilled, the
reward would be immeasurable.

She could not -- would not -- think about the potential fallout
should they fail.

Mulder exhaled, feeling gratitude and amazement sweep
through him. Leaning close to her ear and smiling widely, he
whispered: "You know, Scully, I always wanted to be a spy."

Scully's slight smile did not reach her eyes. She could not
help but feel as if they had just released a boomerang that could only
come back to haunt them.

Mulder watched her, relieved. And for the first time since
his mother's death, he allowed himself to relax, let the nervous
tension drain away. At the moment, he was happy to ignore the nagging
doubts, the dangers that awaited them both, and the possibility of
failure.

Because together, they stood a chance of winning this long and
arduous war.

* * *

Andrew Winters took off his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and
focused on the papers in front of him, oblivious to the chatter in the
other cubicles, the repetitive sound of coffee being poured, and the
constant ringing of the phones. It was the first case he was in charge
of, and he was determined to complete it successfully.

He finished the FBI Academy, fourth in his class, after
graduating from the University of Wisconsin, and since then, worked in
the Violent Crimes Unit. With each day, he became more and more
convinced that he had chosen the right occupation. Without being
overtly modest, Andrew considered himself an asset to the department.
And while his colleagues at first laughed at Andrew's youth and boyish
good looks, they soon began to respect him for his sharp intellect,
profiling skills, and an innate curiosity.

Winters did not remain unnoticed by his superiors, as well,
and more and more often, he participated in the high-profile cases.
The manila folder in his hand did not fit into such category, but it
was intriguing and disturbing. He also did not exactly understand why
it was in the care of the VCU, for the crimes were non-violent. Not
that he was about to question its validity.

Four women in Richmond, Virginia were reported missing over
the past few months. Each one was returned seemingly unharmed, with no
recollections of the few weeks lost, days that their families spent by
the phones, trembling and expecting the worst. Now, another one --
just a girl -- was missing, and if nothing else, Andrew honestly hoped
to expedite her return.

He inspected the picture of fifteen-year old Lina Fremont;
the girl was as average-looking and all-American as kids came. Blue
eyes dominated her round face, blond hair was fashionably cut, a huge
smile revealed a set of beautiful white teeth, and the navy school
uniform complemented her features. Winters searched his desk quickly
for a pin and fastened the photo to the wall in front of him, right
above the tiny model of a red Porsche -- the one thing about which
his fellow agents still teased him mercilessly.

Still studying her portrait, Andrew reached for the other case
profiles, preparing to call all the families once again, hoping for a
lead, knowing that he would settle for any scrap at the moment.

One of the women had to remember something.

* * *

Mulder stirred his iced tea absently, scanning the crowd inside
the upscale bar of the downtown Hilton. When the familiar figure of
Marita Covarrubias appeared in the doorway, he stood up -- not too
eagerly, he reminded himself -- and went over to greet her.

"Agent Mulder, why did you need to see me?" Marita questioned,
as they were seated at the table. "You are on suspension; there are no
cases to investigate."

Mulder grinned, detecting her curiosity and not in the least
bothered by her evident displeasure. "Actually, this is a personal
matter. I wanted to get to know you better." He looked into her eyes,
suppressing a laugh. "We just never seem to really talk, do we?"

Marita stared at him with little comprehension, her large, pale
eyes wide open. "I am afraid to ask what you mean, Agent Mulder."

"I will start." Now, he was really enjoying this meeting. "I
work in the X-Files division of the FBI. What do you do?"

The blonde shifted uncomfortably under his humorous gaze. "I'm
sure you know."

"I'm sure I don't. But I'd love to find out," Mulder sipped
his tea contentedly. "Our working relationship has been so pleasant,
I'm thinking that I'd like us to become colleagues."

Mulder watched Marita retreat slightly, her eyes marking her
confusion. "You want to work for the UN?"

"Oh, it would seem like a great job -- wouldn't it?" Mulder
mused aloud. "But it pays so little -- and the perks are so limited.
No, I'd like to work for your other bosses, Marita."

She made a small movement, as if wishing to get up -- then sat
back down again. Well, this was certainly. . . unexpected. How could
she be so careless?

Seeing the play of emotions on her smooth face, Mulder felt
something akin to pity. "It wasn't so difficult to figure out -- I was
only going on the fact that you knew just a little too much, even for
someone who works at the SRSG office."

Marita reached a decision quickly. "I didn't know you were that
unsatisfied with your present occupation. Otherwise, I would have
offered my help. . . a long time ago."

So she admitted it -- that is, to a degree that Marita
Covarrubias ever admitted anything. "Why were you so forthcoming with
sensitive information, may I ask?" Mulder questioned curiously.

"Part of my job description," Marita answered -- and for the
first time, Mulder felt that she spoke the truth. "Obviously, I will
be concentrating on the other areas from now on."

"Pity," Mulder offered calmly.

A sarcastic smile settled on her lips as she contemplated
something. "There is a weekly meeting in Manhattan next Tuesday,"
she spoke softly. "Would you like to attend?"

"I will never say no to more frequent flyer miles," Mulder
replied evenly.

Presuming that the conversation was over, Marita stood up,
glancing at the federal agent cautiously. "Please do not discount my
words as another misleading nugget of information. But you should be
more discriminating in choosing who you work for."

Mulder smirked, watching her depart, his smile faltering when
she disappeared in the sea of faces.

One certainly could not believe the words of a liar.


* * *

The Well-Manicured Man studied the large even handwriting of
Bill Mulder once again, still puzzled by the blasted letter. The names
and places listed at the bottom were so obviously wrong that they
begged further investigation, and every word was so unlike the cold,
stern man he remembered.

If Mulder senior was indeed the author, he should have been
pitied. Unless he was still waiting behind the curtains for a last
laugh.

"So far, this letter has been a blessing in disguise," a heavy
figure to his left pronounced, sarcasm dripping from each word.

"Indeed," the Well-Manicured Man muttered under his breath.
"Though it seems to me that Special Agent Fox Mulder should learn to
apply his superior intellect and place more faith in his father."

"William Mulder died a pitiful old man," his companion answered
calmly. "Guilt and grief are powerful enemies."

The thin old man played staccato on the heavy cherry-wood table,
lost deep in thought. He was remembering a devastating fire in one of
the Consortium's prized facilities that occurred decades ago, and the
underlying fear in the eyes of the man who oversaw the experiments
inside it. Bill Mulder's insistence on the accidental nature of the
disaster.

His subsequent resignation.

Several surreptitious searches of his house had been made, each
without results.

"There is a chance that Mulder senior kept some information
about the project," the Well-Manicured Man stated, leaning back in the
leather armchair. "And I would certainly like to see it."

The rotund body on his left shifted. "And you think that the
location of these magical documents are in this letter?" a slight
disbelief was apparent in the thick voice.

"It's a possibility. And something tells me that the young
Mulder is the one man who can decipher this curious little riddle,"
thin lips shaped into a smile.

"In that case, the federal agent should take a few therapy
sessions and work on his trust issues, don't you think?"

A low laughter echoed throughout the darkened room, when a
younger man entered. "There is a phone call for you, sir."

The Well-Manicured Man pushed a speaker button.

"This is Marita Covarrubias," a steady female voice spoke.
"You will never believe who will attend your next meeting."

* * *

Andrew Winters read the chart of the woman sleeping on the bed
beside him and frowned. She had been admitted to the hospital after
fainting at work and causing a minor panic. According to the doctors,
the reason behind Nancy Ivar's ill health was internal bleeding.

But what the young agent was mostly interested in was a
discovery and subsequent extraction of a small metal object near her
navel. He wrote down the doctor's name, planning to contact him, and
placed the chart back in its place.

Andrew felt like a hunting dog that just smelled a wily fox. He
didn't expect much after calling Nancy's house and listening to the
hysterical explanation of the husband, but he drove to the Richmond
Medical Center nonetheless.

He hoped that his intuition was correct, once again.

The doctor was only too happy to be rid of the little object
once Andrew flashed his badge. In D.C., he sent the metal chip
straight to the lab. An hour later, one of the technicians called him
back, asking him to come downstairs.

"Brian?" the agent shook hands with a small plump man. "Andrew
Winters." He nodded towards the vial on the counter. "So what is that
thing?"

The technician seemed excited about the article in question,
his right foot bouncing, as the man seemingly could not bring himself
to sit still. "I believe that it is a sophisticated computer chip.
Very high-tech. And I have only seen it once before in twenty years
I've worked here."

Andrew tensed, waiting for Brian to continue.

"Agent Scully -- she works with Agent Mulder in the X-Files
department -- brought it to us some time ago," he stopped,
contemplating that fact. "She would probably be able to tell you more
about it."

"Thank you," the young man pocketed a vial with the chip
gingerly and almost ran to the door.

"You're welcome," Brian shrugged. "Hey, you won't be able to
talk to them. I heard they are both on suspension."

Andrew stopped dead in his tracks. "Why?"

"Don't you read the newspapers?" The small man smirked in
disbelief. "They made quite a scandal just a couple of weeks ago in
Pennsylvania. Seems they were looking for aliens in the wrong places,"
he lowered his voice to a mock whisper. "And the FBI does frown on
that kind of publicity."

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and Andrew blindly reached
for the door. "Thanks anyway." More disconcerted and perplexed than
ever before, the young agent returned to his floor.

* * *

Mulder studied the address scrawled on the piece of paper, even
though the numbers and street names were long since learned by heart --
1342 West 46th Street. Arrangements had been surprisingly easy to make,
and he chose to interpret it as a good omen. His contact with Marita
proved to be useful, after all.

Mulder walked briskly, having no patience to fight the
afternoon Manhattan traffic even in a taxi, using physical exertion
to calm his jagged nerves. He saw the tall building from afar, and
incongruously remembered the adventure books he read as a boy,
imagining himself a character who came face to face with the castle of
the evil magician. Chuckling lightly, he picked up the pace.

This was not the time to pull out the sword.

But it would come soon.

The young man who greeted the federal agent was taken aback by
his friendly facial expression, but composed his features into a
reciprocating polite mask. "Follow me," he turned on his heel smoothly
and went ahead, expecting the visitor to follow.

The door was opened, and Mulder entered a spacious room,
appreciating its exquisite interior. Several pairs of eyes studied him
openly, while the perfectly groomed man, obviously in charge of the
situation, leaned forward with recognition.

"We have been expecting you, Mr. Mulder," a cultured voice had
undertones of excitement. "Please, sit down."

Mulder took an offered chair, choosing to remain silent.

"My deepest condolences on the passing away of your mother,"
the Well-Manicured Man continued. "I regret that I was unable to
attend the funeral."

Mulder bared his teeth in a resemblance of a smile, and tried
to contain a sarcastic remark burning his tongue. "Let us skip with the
formalities, shall we?" he replied tersely, receiving an amicable nod
in return. "First of all, I believe you have something that belongs
to me."

"Oh, you mean the letter of your father?" the heavy-set man
entered the conversation. "But by all means, keep it."

The yellow piece of paper was pushed in Mulder's direction,
and he took it knowing full well that all the necessary copies of it
have already been manufactured, that it has been read and reread
numerous times. "I believe I could bring you up on charges of mail
fraud," he commented non-threateningly.

"If I were in your place, Mr. Mulder, I would think twice
about value of this particular piece of mail," the thin man answered
evenly. "It may not be worth the trouble. Let me give you a piece of
advice: there is nothing going on in either Makon or Irvine. Don't
tell me that it was the reason for our gathering?"

Instantly, Mulder felt as an applicant to the restricted
institution, about to take a difficult entrance exam. Time to put the
cards on the table.

"I have reached a difficult decision," he started quietly.
"Some time ago, a certain member of your organization offered me a
deal which I was not prepared to make at the moment. Since I cannot
contact this person any longer," Mulder congratulated himself mentally
on his choice of words, "I have had to arrange for this meeting."

The Well-Manicured Man exchanged glances with the rotund figure
on his side. Neither had to question the identity of the mysterious
member.

"He proposed that I come to work for him. And in his absence, I
would like to offer my services to you now," he concluded, scanning the
room and trying to read the inscrutable faces around him.

"Why such a change of heart?"

Mulder bit his lip. "I have come to a point where I have little
chance of finding the truth on my own. I am on the indefinite
suspension from my status as a federal agent, and the X-Files
department faces a threat of being shut down, once again. Without
access to the necessary information, I cannot continue my job."

"And you feel you have no choice but to become one of us," the
Well-Manicured Man finished for him. "May I remind you, Agent Mulder,
that your work so far has been quite disruptive to us? How are we to
trust you?"

"If I were not of some value to you, I would have been
destroyed a long time ago," the agent replied with certainty. "All
this time, my purpose has been to find the truth, and you can give it
to me."

The only sound in the hushed room was the crackling of logs in
the fireplace.

"Let me prove my worth to you."

The thin man settled back in his chair. "We must confer on this
matter, as you understand," he directed his gaze to the young man
standing at the door. "Please see Mr. Mulder out."

The agent got up and retraced his steps to the exit but the
inquisitive question stopped him in mid-tracks. "Have you given
thought to the situation with your partner? What should you do if she
finds out your intentions?"

The realization that this was the true test of the interview
hit him, and he turned around to face the curious eyes of his
opponent. The tormented expression was easy to produce when he
remembered the anxiety that took up residence in Scully's eyes
recently, the fear that she tried to hide unsuccessfully, and his own
reluctance at plunging her into this lunacy.

"She will not find out," the message of his words was clear,
and the Well-Manicured Man bent his head, satisfied.

When the elevator doors closed, Mulder leaned against the wall,
delighted but exhausted.

He reminded himself that this was a mere preview of the days
and weeks that were to come -- and he wondered wearily how he would
get the strength to walk through the inferno that he voluntarily chose.

End of Part 3/20




Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

DO NOT SEND TO GOSSAMER OR ATXC - We'll handle it ourselves :)

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 4/20

Scully researched the newspapers and magazines methodically,
looking for a continuation of the "newest adventures of the FBI."
Lately, she had developed a curious detachment while reading them, as
if the people deconstructed within each article were not herself and
her partner. She found none today and, for a few moments, felt relieved
that there were other issues of more importance to report.

Unless someone had made sure that the current media campaign
against the FBI would stop.

And if that were the case, Mulder's negotiations had been
completed successfully. Scully took off her glasses and closed her
eyes, still uncertain about his decision -- or about her resolution to
support him. She questioned the means through which he contacted the
Consortium, considering the fact that Cancerman was gone, and Skinner
was enjoying a nicotine-free environment. Mulder had discarded her
queries with a wave of his hand and a joke, switching the topic
smoothly. She knew that he had connections, and respected the secrecy
he afforded them, but this was not the right time to be private.

The phone rang and she picked it up tentatively, hoping that
it was not her partner, because any meaningful discussion between them
was banned until further notice. And any small talk would be senseless.
They were both afraid of bugs, and Scully combed through her apartment
with a renewed vigor, her failure to find them only deepening her
disquiet.

"Agent Scully? Assistant Director Skinner."

Scully tensed, fearing another unpleasant discussion. "Yes,
sir."

"I just spoke to Agent Mulder. Both of you may come back to
work tomorrow." His voice was cold, official, and Scully
wondered how long it would take to restore the uneasy trust between him
and the X-Files department.

Although given the current situation, her mind dryly amended,
the Assistant Director had no reason to trust them at all.

"Thank you, sir. We will be there," she replied, allowing the
gratitude enter her voice,

"Have a good day, Agent Scully." He hung up before she had a
chance to say goodbye. Sighing, Scully put the phone back into its
cradle.

The games were about to begin.

* * *

Mulder entered the basement office early in the morning,
seeing Scully already at her desk and engrossed in the paperwork.
"When did you come in today?"

"Oh, about seven. We have a lot to catch up on," she replied
without lifting her head.

He nodded and slowly made way to his desk. "Did Skinner
mention to you any new cases that we could take on?"

"No," Scully chanced a glance in his direction, an unspoken
question in her eyes.

Mulder shrugged imperceptibly, the message understood, but the
answer still unclear. The fateful meeting transpired a couple of days
ago, and since then, he had heard nothing. I hope I didn't forget to
put my phone number on the application, he mused sarcastically.
However, the abruptly terminated media campaign and the invitation to
come back to work were good signs. Or bad -- depending on how he chose
to interpret them.

There was a knock on the door, and both agents flinched,
glancing at each other uneasily. In the little office, visitors
were rare -- and most often unwelcome. In this respect, they were
paranoid in sync. Scully recuperated first and went to open the door
to an impeccably dressed, broad-shouldered young man. "May I help you?"

He flashed her a wide smile and extended a hand to shake.
"Agent Scully? Agent Winters. I hope I am not interrupting
anything?"

Mulder got up from his desk, coming closer to meet him. "Agent
Mulder. No, you are not interrupting."

Scully smiled politely. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Why were
you looking for us?"

"Actually, I was looking for you, Agent Scully. Unless you
could also shed some light on my current investigation," Andrew turned
to Mulder.

"I will try," Mulder pointed to a chair, inviting him to sit
down, sensing reluctance in the fellow agent. "What is it you are
working on?"

"I am investigating several disappearances in Richmond,
Virginia," Andrew started. "Actually, all of the missing women have
already been returned, even the last one." He shook his head in
frustration. "I am certainly happy that she is back, and everything is
fine, but I never had a chance to help them... her," he sighed.
"I really want to find the man, or men, who did this, but the only
lead I have is this," he took a vial with the chip out of his pocket,
handing it over to Scully. "It was extracted from the navel of one
young woman, and the guys in the lab said that you could tell me what
it is."

Scully stared at the chip, the exact copy of the one implanted
in her neck, and tried to slow down her pounding heart. She cautiously
raised her eyes to Mulder who schooled his features into a mask of
indifference. The silence stretched interminably, and Andrew was the
first to nervously break it.

"I am glad that you are back from suspension, by the way," he
offered timidly, sensing the tension in the room and wondering about
its causes. "I hope everything has been resolved."

"I am afraid we don't know what this is," said Scully,
disregarding his last comments. She reorganized the neat pile of
reports on her desk to keep her trembling fingers busy -- ignoring
Agent Winter's questioning gaze. "I did see it before, in a similar
kind of case that still has not been solved," she finished, trying to
sound appropriately apologetic.

Andrew, visibly disappointed, pocketed the chip. "Oh. I am
sorry... I only wanted to find out what was going on, you understand.
It was my first case," he concluded with obvious regret.

Mulder eyed him sympathetically. "May I ask -- how long have
you been working for the VCU?"

"About four months. I was recruited right after I finished my
Masters in Psychology. My other passion besides the race-car driving,"
he shared with a smile.

Mulder laughed politely, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
God, he wondered if he had been this green when he came out of
Quantico. The phone rang, and his smile faltered. He excused himself
to answer it, suddenly wary of the sensitive ears in the office at the
moment. Scully followed him with her eyes, then reluctantly turned
her attention back to the young agent. "I apologize that we're unable
to help. Weren't there any witnesses to the disappearances? Do the
women remember anything?" she already suspected the answers to both
questions, but felt obligated to ask them nonetheless.

"No," Andrew got up, preparing to leave. Near the door, he
suddenly stopped and turned back to Mulder, who had just
finished the phone conversation. "Agent Mulder, if I may be so forward,
I still hear legends about you in the VCU. And the way you handled the
matter with Blevins..." he stopped, unable to find words to express his
admiration. Over the last few days, he had meticulously studied all the
materials he could find pertaining to the two agents, and what little
he learned instilled him with awe. Despite the dog-eats-dog media
frenzy, and the recent face washing Agents Mulder and Scully endured,
there was no doubt that both of them added credibility to a division
that could have easily been lost to the tabloids. "I just wanted to
let you know how much I respect your work."

Mulder busied himself with the papers on his table, inwardly
smiling. The kid was green, green, and more green. He had to hand it
to Winters, he had the art of brown nosing down to a capital T. "I
assume you've missed the latest news. We're the crazy agents."

Scully flashed him an annoyed look, then smiled at the young
agent. "Thank you. I wish you luck with your next case."

"I am still looking for the answers to this one," Andrew
replied resolutely. He stepped out of the office. What a strange
couple, he thought on the way upstairs. He was impressed with these
remarkable people who seemed to communicate without words. But silent
communication had its limits, and Andrew was ready to bet his entire
paycheck that both knew more about the chip than they let on.

Mulder went over to Scully, who had not changed her position
since Winters had left. "How are you doing?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she replied offhandedly, unable to deal
with the concern in his eyes. How many times would the damn metal chip
come back to haunt her? "He seems like a good agent. Too young for
the VCU."

Mulder's eyes darkened, and Scully stopped abruptly,
remembering how young and inexperienced her partner was when he
started to work for the same department.

"I have to go," he said softly. "I'll see you later."

Once again, she was left alone in the office, a small note in
her palm. It read:

CHECK OUT INTERNET NEWS LATELY?
SCI.ZOOLOGY.PRIMATES
SCORPIO13 FOR SKYLARK2

"See you there," Scully whispered, memorizing the name of the
newsgroup. She looked back towards the now silent office phone on
Mulder's desk, sitting innocently, but privy to secrets she didn't
know.

She did not have to wonder from where the phone call came.


* * *

Mulder settled in the plush armchair, a bit exhausted after
fighting traffic and catching a forty-five minute flight from D.C. to
JFK. He hoped that he wouldn't have to travel to Manhattan every day,
the insanity of this city did not attract him in the least.

"Welcome back, Agent Mulder," the Well-Manicured Man looked
pleased to see him. "I hope you went back to work today?"

"Yes. I have also noticed some interesting changes in the news
topics," he replied, fully realizing the underlying meaning
of the question.

"All things pass. I doubt anyone will remember your
indiscretions for long," the thin man mused. "We believe you may be an
asset to our organization. Personally, I wonder what took you so long,"
he smiled suddenly, openly delighted. "And I am glad you reevaluated
your position. By the way, I don't think we have been properly
introduced. James Milton."

Mulder could not hide his surprise, knowing that at least this
piece of information would not be forthcoming unless he was truly
accepted by the organization. "It is nice to meet you," he mumbled,
already scolding himself for the stupidity of the answer. "I assume you
have some directives for me."

"You are correct," Milton nodded approvingly. "And we need you
to continue working in the X-Files department with Agent Scully. But do
make sure to inform us of each sensitive case that comes to your
attention. We could give you some valuable advice on how to proceed
with it."

Sarcastically, he assumed that they would want to keep the
evidence, too, and accepted the assignment with a succinct nod. "Is
that all?"

"Well, there is another small matter," the old man echoed
thoughtfully. "The other members of the Consortium are doubtful of
your loyalty, Agent Mulder. And frankly, I need some assurance from
you -- a token of good will, so to speak, as a proof of your
commitment."

Mulder listened with a sinking heart, his every
instinct alerting him that this might not pass quite so easily. "What
would it be?"

"You are an Oxford-educated psychologist, if I am not
mistaken?"

Mulder concurred, uncertain of where this line of questioning
was going.

"We could use your training, then. You would talk to some
young women and try to erase their memories of the time they have
spent in our facilities." The Well-Manicured Man watched the face of
the young man for signs of distaste and hatred, finding none and
complimenting him mentally. "It is only for their own good, you
understand."

His suggestion was met by grave silence, and he continued
shortly. "It would take very little of your time, if that's what you
are concerned about."

Mulder tried desperately to collect his thoughts and wished
that time were the least of his concerns. What they required of him,
the little token of his good will, was unimaginable. However, there
was no choice but to acquiesce. "I agree."

"Well, that's settled, then," Milton paused for a second. "I
do not doubt your abilities, but I imagine you will need some
assistance in the beginning, and we will acquaint you with an older
doctor who has similar responsibilities."

"Fine. May I go?" Mulder was suddenly seized by the
desire to get away from this darkened room, his lungs spasming
claustrophobically. He could never tell Scully about this part of his
new job responsibilities.

"But of course. We have a meeting here every Tuesday, I expect
you will want to attend," the old man watched as the newest member of
their organization exited quickly. He did not fail to notice the
haunted look in his eyes, or the unconsciously clenched fists. The
second request bothered him, as was expected.

"Make a deal with the devil..." he whispered softly, still not
discounting the possibility of foul play from Fox Mulder, wondering if
the proud young man would obey his orders.

And he would be watched carefully, every step of the way.

* * *

Walter Skinner flipped on a flashlight and looked around a drab
room of Motel 6. Dirty towels on the floor, blankets of an
indescribable brown-gray shade, and a small TV bolted to the table
fit in surprisingly well with yellow police tape and a chalk outline
on the ground. He noticed some traces on the floor and knelt down to
sweep them away.

This exercise was getting old.

The Assistant Director stopped for a second, pondering his
present situation. He was on the scene of yet another bee-induced
death -- yet another unfortunate accident, this time in Upperville,
Virginia. This cloak and dagger assignment was getting uncomfortably
routine, and his woolen black sweater was scratching mercilessly
against his chest, the ball cap threatening to slide against his bare
scalp.

The memories of the previous incident were still too vivid in
Skinner's mind, and this room was a continuation of a nightmare that
began months ago. The walls of a dank bathroom weeping with honey.
Scarred, feverish children in the Payson Community Hospital. The stern,
frustratingly ambiguous reprimands of Marita Covarrubias.

Mulder pointing a gun at his head, mistrust and grief in every
word and movement.

There was no one who gained from the deal he had made with
Cancerman but the nameless, faceless people who still managed to hound
him, even now.

And he was rapidly becoming tired of cleaning up after their
indiscretions.

When Skinner did find what he was searching for -- any pieces
of evidence that the police may have overlooked -- he almost laughed.
A couple of dead bees were lying under the ventilation hole, leading
to the neighboring room. Lifting them gingerly with gloved fingers,
he placed them in the cellophane bag and pocketed it. This type of
evidence would be just the kind of thing that Mulder would sell his
soul for. The type of evidence that informants died for, that Mulder
would blindly defend at the expense of all reason.

The Assistant Director shook his head, thinking back on the
events of past few weeks. He was exasperated and frustrated with the
rogue agents of the X-Files department, especially Mulder, who
apparently thought of himself as the next James Bond. And Scully was
no better, never stopping him in his explorations. As their superior,
he had to follow the procedure and reprimand them accordingly for the
disaster in Pennsylvania. However, he felt an uncalled-for sympathy
for them as they left his office on suspension, conquered for the time
being.

He recalled his relief from the tumultuous time when Scully's
cancer went into remission and marveled at how the X-Files department
changed since then. How Scully had reported to work shortly after her
hospital stay, despite the way the suits still hung on her. How Mulder
continued quietly, mechanically -- but even Skinner could see the
former profiler lagging, his eyes showing their true age and weariness.

He could feel the cellophane bag shifting as he once
again surveyed the crime scene. With a sigh, Skinner thought that the
X-Files department could use a break right now.

The plan that was born in the next moment felt like a
revelation. Skinner shook the dead insects out of the bag on the
floor, in the same place where he'd found them. Stepping around the
strewn towels, he returned to the door and softly stepped out,
exhilaration flowing through his veins.

The next morning, back in the sun-lit office of the FBI
building, he called his secretary and told her to invite Agents Mulder
and Scully for a meeting.

There was a murder investigation to be done.

* * *

Mulder tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, waiting for
his partner's reply to appear on the screen. Despite the gravity of
their present situation, he had to admit that he was enjoying some
aspects of it, like this cryptic conversation that they conducted on
the Internet.

"It's about time you found the names for the monkeys,
Scorpio," a message appeared on the screen, and Mulder's lips curved
into a smile.

"Oh, I found one name already," he typed quickly. "For a polite
old monkey. Tell you later!"

"This new case study from the bald orangutan should be
interesting," another message floated on the screen and Mulder
appreciated Scully's discretion in not pursuing the question of the
names, as well as her inventiveness in the choice of titles.

Skinner as the bald orangutan.

Mulder would just love to see the expression on his boss' face
if he heard the comparison.

"Agreed. Just remember that from now on, I will have to
follow new guidelines on the cases in our department."

"I know, Scorpio. Just remember to be careful. It would be
terrible if the monkeys became violent."

Mulder imagined Scully's concerned face and started typing
again, trying to think of words to dispel the sudden seriousness of
their conversation. "Skylark, I know how to handle my animals. And
the monkeys were peaceful yesterday."

"Do you think that our department will enjoy an influx of
work?" her reply quickly followed.

Mulder nodded, as if she could see him. "Absolutely. We will
just hold off on making the results of experiment public, until such
time as the study is complete," he smiled at the forced jargon he
adopted and wondered how this discussion looked in comparison to
the other ones conducted in the same community.

But one thing he knew for certain: it would take an inhuman
detective ability to find them communicating here.

And for now, it had to be enough.

* * *

"Upperville is such a tiny town," Scully thought aloud,
flipping through the case file. "More people stay at the hotel than
live there."

"You know, I find it peculiar that we will be sleeping in the
same place where the investigation will be conducted," Mulder quipped,
smiling at the woman in the passenger seat. Lately, the uncomfortable
silences between them diminished, and they reverted to the easy-going
camaraderie of the old times. Whether it was the monkey-behavior
discussions and the humorous outlook that they inadvertently provided,
or the natural adjustment to the current situation, he was certainly
enjoying it.

"Well, Motel 6 is actually an improvement on your usual lodging
fare," Scully returned the gesture. "There is little information here,"
she closed the folder. "It is good to be back to work, though. I was
thinking of hugging Skinner when he gave us the case."

Mulder smirked. "Decided to make his dreams come true, huh?" he
bolted off to the side to avoid a shove from his partner. "Hey, I
wanted to hug him myself, Scully. It is great to be back."

In the parking lot of Motel 6, a middle-aged, tired-looking man
stopped them. "Are you the FBI agents?" he extended a hand to them.
"I'm Detective Michaels, I'm investigating this case."

"Were you waiting for us?" Mulder asked after introductions.

"Yes, someone from the FBI called to inform us that we should
not disturb the crime scene until you look at it," the detective
shrugged, leading them upstairs. "I don't know what you'll find here
that we haven't already. But you're welcome to look. To tell you the
truth, we could use some help with this one. Oh, I don't think we sent
you the pictures of the body -- here. They are the reason we opened
the case."

Mulder stiffened, contemplating them. The photos of the corpse
were reminiscent of the one he saw in the postal-worker death case, and
the recollections of that time came rushing back. Suddenly, it was
clear to him why Skinner gave them the case.

His jaw clenched, and he wondered if the gesture was merely
the AD's attempt to atone for his own sins -- his subtle way of
apologizing for the suspension.

Among other things.

"May I ask to look at the body itself?" Scully questioned the
officer as Mulder moved to open the draperies and let the sun in the
room.

"Of course, our forensic lab is nearby -- I can take you there
if you like?"

Once they both left, Mulder looked around, searching for
something, fully certain that he would find little if nothing. When he
discovered the bodies of the bees, he was speechless.

The first thought that came into his mind as he snapped on the
gloves and placed the insects in the plastic bag, was that he was
incredibly lucky. The next thought was that someone did a poor job
cleaning up the incriminating evidence, and it sent him crashing back
to earth. Now, it would be his responsibility to hide this evidence,
and he was suddenly thankful that Scully was not in the room at this
moment to see it -- or to watch him as he participated in the
obfuscation and criminal conspiracy.

Lifting his head, the agent saw a ventilation hole and wondered
if the bees could have come from there. It was worth checking out, and
he went to the front desk to ask who was in the next room on the night
when the death occurred, when his phone rang.

"Mulder, it's me. I am afraid we are missing the body," Scully
sounded completely unsurprised. "Detective Michaels is trying to figure
out what happened to it."

At least that is no surprise, thought Mulder, saying aloud:
"Was there any forensic work done already?"

"Yes, I have some bloodwork," the female agent answered,
leafing through the papers. "I think this person died of small-pox,
Mulder," there was a note of concern in her voice. "The pathologist
requested that blood be checked for variola virus."

So she already knew that there was something wrong here. That
made it so much easier. "I will be there to speak with the detective,"
Mulder ended the conversation, got the information from the clerk, and
drove to the Upperville police department.

"I can't understand how this happened," Detective Michaels
rubbed his temples in frustration. "Bodies do not just disappear."

"Is your morgue guarded?" Mulder questioned cautiously.

"No, there is no need for it -- it is not even locked. She is
saying that this death was caused by small-pox," the officer jabbed a
finger at Scully. She glanced at Mulder surreptitiously, flashing him
an apology with her eyes. "Isn't it supposed to have been eradicated?
And what am I to do with the case now?"

"Well, frankly, I don't think that there is a case. Neither you
nor I found anything suspicious in the hotel, and I see no indication
of a crime here," Mulder turned away, unsure if he would be able to
keep a straight face while uttering an obvious lie. The dead bee
corpses were burning a hole in his pocket, and Mulder wondered if the
sound of cellophane shifting was as loud to Scully's ears as it was to
his. "At least, I am sure that our involvement is not necessary."

"Are you positive? And what about the body?"

"Get a lock on the door, detective. And yes, I am positive."

"Well, thanks for coming out here... I guess," the detective
watched with his mouth open as both agents left hurriedly.

Scully squeezed Mulder's hand as they were walking to the car.

"These new guidelines are a bitch, Scully," he said, trying to
keep his voice level. "You know... what just happened here, don't you."

She thought that she had never seen such a guilty expression
on his face before. She quickly suppressed any concern for what would
happen when the cases started getting bigger, when the evidence became
more difficult to hide. "Oh, Mulder. Look at it this way," she smiled
encouragingly. "Now, we don't have to stay at Motel 6."

End of Part 4/20




Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

DO NOT SEND TO GOSSAMER OR ATXC - We'll handle it ourselves :)

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 5/20

Skinner pulled up to Mulder's apartment building and stepped
inside, absorbing the dull lobby walls and dark trim. Even when
lit by fluorescent, cancer-inducing lamps, the shadows in the corners
of 2490 Hegal Place refused to be dispelled. In his hand was the
three-page thick report that Mulder had unemotionally handed to him
this morning, and at the reminder of what he had read with incredulous
eyes, Skinner's hand gripped the manila folder tighter, threatening to
crumble it.

Skinner had always had respect for Mulder's investigative
skills. It was one of the things that kept the X-Files division from
dying into obscurity, giving credibility to all things strange and
unbelievable. Mulder's VCS history as a profiler extraordinaire was a
testament to his ability to observe fine details, and apply them to
the bigger picture.

So what the hell happened at the motel to make Mulder's report
sound something more like the bland Scientific American than "Spooky"
Mulder? The disjointed leaps of logic, the labyrinth of a hidden
conspiracies were noticeably missing; prose had been replaced with
regulation paragraphs.

And only Mulder would warrant a job description that included
making house calls, Skinner grimly mused. His knuckles rapped harshly
over the wooden panel, the bronze forty two staring back at him
impassively.

With a crack of the deadbolt, Mulder opened the door, squinting at
the light from the hallway. Skinner watched the agent's eyes travel
from his face, to the report, then innocently back to his face. He
made no motion to invite his boss inside.

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

"Thinking."

Skinner processed the reply, then looked around the hallway
suspiciously. His voice seemed unnaturally loud, and he wondered if
anyone on Mulder's floor had heard it. He looked back towards the
younger man, his impatience overriding his nervousness. "Can I come
inside?" Mulder's eyes drifted towards the folder once again before
he expelled a sigh and opened the door fully.

Skinner's eyes did a quick inspection of the room in front of
him, noting the psychology textbooks lying haphazardly on the coffee
table.

"A little late to cram for the finals, isn't it, Mulder?"

Mulder licked his lips, arms nervously moving from his sides to
cross his chest. "I take it this isn't a social call." Skinner shook
his head in agreement before raising the manila folder towards Mulder.

He refused to take the bait, his eyebrow rising.

"You really think, Agent Mulder, that this case did not
warrant more than three hours of investigating?"

Mulder's eyes suddenly flashed, and Skinner immediately felt
something gnaw at him -- a hint of apprehension about things to come.

"No, sir. I believe that it was an open and shut case.
Frankly, I don't know why it was handed to us, instead of VCS. It's
their jurisdiction."

Skinner ignored the condescending tone, watching Mulder
carefully. "You don't think that this case was reminiscent of
another?" He asked innocently, hedging his bait further.

"No, sir. Not reminiscent of any X-File anyway."

The AD paced the tiny apartment as the agent stood still,
studiously watching his superior's movements. "I was sure the
reporting officer said something about finding incriminating
evidence -- about suspecting foul play."

Skinner watched Mulder's jaw clench, almost feeling the teeth
grind as his cheekbones reflected the gesture.

"No evidence was found to suspect foul play."

The Assistant Director squinted his eyes and looked at the
federal agent standing in front of him. Something was wrong --
something that smelled of smoke and the bastards on West Forty Six.

He liked to think that after four years he and Mulder had
gained a certain... rapport. A professional camaraderie. But this
apartment felt cold, and its darkness only served to make him feel
more off center in the presence of the maverick agent.

Skinner suddenly stepped closer to Mulder, watching for any
flinch. When it didn't come, he consciously swept the darkened corners
of the room for dead informants or bugs, once again feeling off kilter
when he saw the half a dozen psychology texts. "These," he gestured
to the folder in his hands, "are your thoughts?"

"Yes, sir."

Skinner watched for any hints that Mulder meant the contrary,
but there were none. Whatever nervousness Mulder had failed to hide
earlier had long since disappeared -- his eyes betrayed nothing as he
leaned casually against the wall.

The Assistant Director suddenly felt foolish, overly paranoid.
But as Mulder saw him to the door, his mind screamed that the air in
the apartment had changed. It had become darker, more oppressive --
as if secrets were weighing the oxygen atoms down.

He took one last look at Mulder before the door was
respectfully closed. The sound of the dead bolt being turned jarred
him, made him abruptly swallow the flutterings growing inside him.
Skinner stepped into his car, finding comfort in the lull of the
engine. Something was going on, and he was suddenly haunted by his
warning spoken a week previously -- that if Mulder was going to take a
risk, he better damn well be sure that it was worth it.

A truck rambled past the sedan, causing Skinner's car to
shudder, causing the comfortable lull to disappear.

Change was hanging ominously in the air.

And Walter Skinner could take no comfort in the sudden dim
light that was illuminating the window of apartment forty two.

* * *

The hallway was painfully white, painfully sterile, and two
pairs of wingtips were echoing off the cinder block walls.

"Now, Fox, you're lucky. Your voice has a nice cadence to it
already, so it shouldn't be too hard to get the patients under."

Mulder nodded, still recovering from the on-the-job training he
had received thirty minutes previously. Doctor Anthony Miller was
painfully good in his area of expertise, and the sixty-year old had
taken great pains in showing his student all the ropes.

The session had had eerie overtones of Robert Modell, and
Mulder had watched, detachedly fascinated, as Dr. Miller effectively
erased the memory of a helpless young woman. His eidetic memory had
absorbed it all, and in the span of three hours, three women had been
lead like chattel -- had the part of their brains that coded for
memory re-programmed.

A key card was produced in the elder's hand and a protesting
door opened with a hollow, metallic sound.

A viewing window welcomed Mulder, and he absorbed
the frail woman sitting on the couch in the next room. Her fingers
were trembling, her legs were bone thin. She turned away abruptly,
and an angry red scar screamed at him from the base of her neck, the
stitches still visible.

In the quick once over, Mulder's eyes flashed accusingly at his
companion.

"Relax, Fox," Miller placated. "We just need to make sure you
can handle any circumstance." He stared hard at Mulder, issuing the
unsaid threat. "Should the circumstance arise."

Mulder's nostrils flared, and he once again stared at the
woman who bore a striking resemblance to his partner. Miller placed a
hand on his shoulder, and Mulder shied away, stepping closer towards
the window. He silently reminded himself that Miller was his mentor --
but the inflections in the elder's voice were too similar to yet
another Mulder. The coincidence was beyond disturbing, and he felt
himself withdrawing from the elderly man beside him -- fighting
flashbacks of Chilmark and West Tisbury.

"You ready?"

The agent looked at the Consortium member, mentally steeling
himself.

"Yeah."

"Now, remember, I'll be here watching you from the two-way
mirror. So if you have any trouble, just signal." The elder's
eyebrows furrowed and his face grew grim. "It's important to get
everything right. There are unimaginable consequences should one
detail be forgotten." Mulder nodded silently, not yet trusting
himself to speak.

Another door opened, and the faux-Scully and the "sanitizing"
room were beckoning him. The room lacked the sterile conditions of the
outside hallways. A couch was used by the patients, an office chair
by the doctors. The walls had painted with soft colors, decorated by
matching trim, while the carpet was plush. There were still life,
pastel-colored paintings adorning the walls. Even through his
uneducated eyes, Mulder knew that the entire room had been
esthetically designed to provide comfort and ease to the distressed.

Stepping in, Mulder immediately knew that he had opened the
door to his own private hell on Earth.

* * *

The Well-Manicured Man watched with amusement as a very nervous
Fox Mulder stepped into the sanitizing room. The feed off the video
camera was crystal clear -- even the beads of sweat forming on the top
of the agent's hairline were discernible.

The wheezy voice of his heavy set companion disturbed him from
his thoughts. "Mr. Mulder has turned into quite a valuable
acquisition. We needed a worthy replacement for Miller's upcoming
retirement."

The Englishman nodded absently at the Consortium member's
observation, still disturbed by Mulder's reluctant recollections of the
bees found at the motel. There was no such thing as coincidence, and
Walter Skinner was not a careless man. History dictated that a
conscience was a dangerous thing. And after Bill Mulder, such petty
hindrances were abhorred by the Consortium.

"It seems one of our other FBI assets, however, is losing
value."

The men were silent momentarily, knowing who the FBI employee
in question was. "Is he dispensable?"

The Well-Manicured Man looked to the TV screen, watching Mulder
sit professionally, although somewhat awkwardly, in a leather backed
chair. Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the FBI dispensable? He
looked to the gentlemen congregated around him and felt his lips curl
upward in a cruel semblance of a smile. "Definitely."

* * *

Anthony Miller had perfected the art of hypnotism to a science,
and Mulder could feel the doctor's eyes boring towards him through the
two way mirror. Somewhere overhead, the second hand of a clock was
beating a steady drum, marking the tormented seconds as the silence
lagged on.

Hypnosis was supposed to be a controlled form of relaxation for
the person being hypnotized, yet Mulder could feel all his motor
neurons firing -- could feel the knots forming in all his major muscle
groups.

The hairs on the back of his head prickled as he felt
expectant, ravenous eyes on him. The camera had been hidden, but not
cleverly enough, and Mulder had to fight the urge to squirm under the
gaze of the electronic eye.

Mulder took a deep breath, hiding it underneath a yawn.
He called upon the teachings of Bill Patterson to allow Fox Mulder to
temporarily disappear, to allow a more insidious presence to enter his
mind. He looked up to the patient with different eyes -- he saw her
as a chattel, a thing, a crime scene photo that could be looked at
with indifferent eyes -- filed or thrown away when its meaning was
lost. The woman turned into a pitiful object, and Mulder coldly looked
at the chart before speaking brusquely.

"Sheila Freeman?"

At the affirmative nod Mulder flipped through the papers, not
really absorbing the words -- having memorized them long ago. "The
doctors say you've been under a lot of stress. That you've been
having difficulty with your situation."

The words flowed too easily through his lips, and Mulder
watched his patient nod miserably. Something pushed his empathy down,
hid all feeling behind medical jargon and professional babble. She was
pitiful. Stupid. His mind taunted the woman silently, tried to give
the doctor some reason not to care.

The woman licked her lips when her lower lip started to
tremble, her fingers starting to wring frantically. "I don't... I
don't..." a tear ran down her cheek and her face twisted. "I don't
understand what you want from me." Her forehead wrinkled, and her
face morphed once again, snarling. Her voice rose in intensity, and
she stood up, stomping her bare foot onto plush carpet. "I want to go
home. I want to go home, you bastards!" The woman ran to the two way
mirror and started to pound on the glass, the noise reverberating
senselessly in Mulder's ears.

A door slammed open and Mulder tried to remain impassive,
indifferent to the half pleading, half furious screams of the woman
cursing at him.

Stupid, pitiful.

Bitch.

He watched detachedly as the syringe was produced, as someone
screamed, and as someone pulled his arm, talking senseless words to
him. His head dully turned, and Miller was telling him that in one
minute his patient would be more receptive to his voice.

Submissive.

The doctor in him nodded curtly, watching the patient's gown
ride up to show a pair of simple white, cotton panties as the guards
roughly sat her on the couch. Mulder blinked at the color of
innocence, at the betrayal that hung in the air -- around his neck.

Wary of the eyes in the ceiling above, Mulder leaned forward,
suddenly mesmerized by the blueness of the woman's eyes. Like
Scully's, they grew more sharp as they filled with tears. He looked
at the papers in front of him once again, to gather himself, to
remember that this was his plan. His ploy.

That he was the greatest actor in this play of life-like
proportions.

The woman was no longer fighting, the sweat around her neck
causing her hair to curl, any resemblance to Scully diminishing. Her
voice came out hollow, tired, and she slumped against Mulder's
shoulder.

"Please... I just want to go home. I need to... I want the
pain to go."

Mulder stared at the wall, swallowing, feeling his innards
churn as a voice that was not his replied. "I can make you feel
better. Then you can go home. I promise." His reassuring smile bared
all his teeth, made his face twist into a gargoyle-like mask.

And the doctor felt the woman's stare on his face soften at the
change of cadence in his voice. Her shoulders slumped in submission,
and the angry scar on her neck was now bleeding red onto the white
hospital gown. Her fingers were moving languidly, as if she were
trying to write on the air in front of her. The angry needle tracks on
her left arm betrayed the innocence of her movements, and Mulder could
see the expectant glint in her eyes -- anxious orbs waiting for the
forgetting to begin.

Baby killers and rapists were howling in the darkness that was
his mind, and a pitiful creature was bleeding in front of him.
Mulder's eyes changed color and he methodically began to speak.

It was time to put the creature out of its misery.

* * *

James Milton watched the black and white image of Fox Mulder
effectively erase the memory of a black and white Sheila Freeman. The
federal agent's voice was devoid of inflection, his posture remained
casual. In fact, nothing about the man on the TV screen resembled
the impulsive agent that they used to deal with.

"We have another assignment for you to give to Mulder."

Miller turned to accept the offered envelope, gazing at it
curiously. "What is it?"

"The means to Walter Skinner's demise."

Miller shook his head. "Mulder won't kill him, despite
anything you say."

The Englishman raised an eyebrow before settling into a more
comfortable position in his chair. "Who said we were going to kill
him?"

Miller accepted the reply silently, and thought about the
newest addition to their staff. "Mulder still hasn't talked about the
letter."

Milton waved a hand dismissively. "Give it time."

The doctor felt his annoyance grow. "What if there's nothing
in the letter?"

"There's something." The Well-Manicured Man replied
confidently. He flashed back to stories of Mulder Sr. and his tumblers
of scotch and guilt. "A father's greatest weakness is his son," he
stated cryptically, passing a knowing glance in Miller's direction.

Memories of a cancer ridden sick boy lying on Gumby bed sheets
suddenly filled the doctor's conscience. His sacrifice had not come in
time to find a cure, but his son unknowingly gave him an opportunity
to do something on a much grander scale.

Miller nodded, the message received. "I'll see Mulder gets
this right away."

* * *

His harsh breathing was echoing off the porcelain throne,
rebounding off the steel walls, and reverberating between the tiled
floor and ceiling. The dry heaves refused to abate, and Mulder noticed
too late that seeing the liquefied and emulsified remains of his lunch
only served to perpetuate the gag reflex.

He had listened to Sheila Freeman talk about tests and needles
and probes with chilling detachment. Mindful of the hidden electronic
eyes, he was able to push thoughts of Samantha and Scully away. But
as the one-sided conversation continued -- as there was talk of
implants and incisions and brain numbing body scans, Mulder's throat
started to convulse. Images of Scully's prone body and Samantha's
shriek started to threaten. There was talk of electroshock therapy --
firing all the alpha motor neurons in temporal succession so that all
the muscles in the body twitched and convulsed; the way an undisturbed
uterus had been probed cruelly for signs of life -- all the while
stealing the potential to bear one; how lasers had drilled minute
holes in flawless teeth, in the skull, through the membranous eyes,
and the delicate nose -- rattling the brain, causing the nostrils to
quiver in response to the smell. And how, more for his sake than for
his patient's, he had told her to lock up the story in a safe in
the back corner of her frontal lobe and to never speak of it again.

Her beautiful blue eyes spoke of the horror she had
experienced. And something he had hastily buried deep inside two
hours ago felt an unseen rage, a tangible desperation when it thought
of a similar red-headed woman, and the three months that she was
missing.

The doctor dissolved completely when the patient hugged him and
smiled shyly when the session was over. Two personalities -- Jeckyl
and Hyde -- and Mulder didn't know how he would be able to control
either one.

A door creaked open and he bolted upright, flushing the toilet
while wiping his mouth and drying his tears. He ignored his Consortium
acquaintance and washed his hands, dispensing a liberal amount of soap.

"It will become better, Fox."

He met the reassurance with a non-committal grunt.

The mentor rolled his eyes at his newest student's sensitivity.
They were doctors in every sense of the word. And Mulder would soon
need to learn to view his patients as minds needing repair, rather
than reincarnations of his sister's and partner's abductions.

If not out of instinct, the young man would need to do it out
of survival.

"We have another assignment for you."

Miller watched Mulder suddenly brace himself against the sink.
"What now? I'm already your stalking horse and brain washer de jour,"
a dry voice hoarsely replied.

The envelope was held out to him, and Mulder hastily dried his
hands on his suit to receive the sealed document. "My understanding
is that VCS is working on the case right now. Stonewalled, from what
I hear." Mulder turned the sealed envelope with his hands, listening,
but unable to fully absorb the words. "Maybe Agent Winters could use a
break. Cast suspicion away from the source of evidence and give him
something else to do with his time."

Mulder felt papers shifting inside, surprised at its weight.

"What is it?"

The colleague offered a cryptic phrase before leaving Mulder in
the bathroom with a fading echo. "The key to your promotion."

End of Part 5/20




Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

DO NOT SEND TO GOSSAMER OR ATXC - We'll handle it ourselves :)

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 6/20

Scully went through her e-mail, feeling the insistent gaze of
her partner that turned in her direction whenever he thought she wasn't
looking. Finally deciding that she had had enough of it, she raised her
eyes, catching him off-guard.

"What's going on, Mulder?"

"Nothing," he winked at her, putting a light expression on his
face immediately. "Just missed you."

Scully rolled her eyes, all the while wondering why the remark
that was obviously designed to appear suggestive, the usual fare of
Mulder's one-liners, instead sounded sad and wistful.

"It has only been one day, Mulder. I would think you needed a
break from me," she flashed him a quick smile.

Actually, one day and a couple of hours in hell make for an
eternity, thought Mulder, not allowing himself to voice the sentiment
aloud. He flashed back to the pained blue eyes of Sheila Freeman, the
blood seeping from the scar on her neck, and the strangely sympathetic
voice of Miller. The vaguely familiar voice that seemed to insinuate
itself deeply in his mind, a nightmare that refused to be silenced.

How could he possibly articulate to his partner these visceral,
sickening visions when she was so much a part of them? How could he
explain the need to see her healthy face and clear bright eyes after
diminishing the light in the orbs so similar? He shivered visibly as
if a gust of cold air penetrated the room -- then turned away
abruptly, leafing through the folders and trying to distract himself
from the revolting images.

He severely doubted that it would get easier with time.

"Are you all right?" Scully was studying him with undisguised
concern.

"Fine, Scully. Fine," Mulder mumbled, returning immediately to
the papers in front of him. "I have to take care of these reports for
Skinner."

Recognizing that she would not be able to get him to talk,
she returned back to her e-mail, unsettled. Whether or not this
problem was connected to the Consortium, the new policy of silence was
really getting to be a problem. They never seemed to get past the "how
are you's" these days. Scully wished nostalgically for the old times
when Mulder swept the basement weekly, as a routine, remarking
sarcastically that it provided for a good exercise. She thought that
if he found a bug now, he would probably leave it in place, careful
not to disturb the delicate instrument.

She would not mind this exercise herself were it not such a
transparent deviation from the established pattern.

"I have to assist with a few autopsies today, call me if
something comes up," Scully gathered her things, suddenly feeling
helpless and inconsequential. It seemed that Mulder was taking most of
the brunt of this battle, while she stood by impotently, a mere
watcher of the war in which she could not participate. "I would like
to help," she said softly, trying to convey the hidden meaning of her
words to her partner.

Mulder nodded, watching her step out of the office. You are
helping, Scully, more than you know, he thought grimly.

Helping me keep my sanity.

* * *

Andrew turned off the engine of the brand-new Taurus, and
gathered the papers scattered on the front seat. What a way to spend
Friday evening, he mused sarcastically, by going over the case notes
and composing profiles for the killers, alone in the tiny apartment
that he chose only for its proximity to the FBI headquarters. It was a
beautiful night, the lights of downtown tempted him, and he longed
suddenly to be out somewhere, with a few friends or a date.

Full of restless energy, Andrew slammed the car door and ran up
the steps of his apartment building. He could wish for dates all he
wanted, but unless he took the time to distract himself from work
long enough to look around, and maybe accept a few non-too-subtle
offers for company from women at work, all these wishes would remain
unfulfilled.

Only twenty-six, and already a workaholic, he thought ruefully
as he walked to his door. At this rate, he would probably have to go
back to Milwaukee for Christmas to avoid spending it in solitude. Not
that his parents wouldn't be happy to see him -- but the prospect of
spending an entire evening with Aunt Beth, who still had not lost her
cheek pinching fetish, was enough to deter Winters from seriously
entertaining such thoughts.

Sighing profoundly, Andrew tried to shake himself out of the
self-deprecating mood and plucked the keys out of his pocket. Pushing
the door open, he almost tripped over a sizable package sitting just
beyond the door frame. He cursed half-heartedly, but picked it up with
interest and looked through its contents hastily. After a brief
examination, he slowly stepped inside, forgetting to lock the door
behind him or to take off his jacket.

There were photographs. Black and white surveillance pictures,
extraordinary in quality. He put aside a few audiotapes that lacked
labels or any other identifying marks. They would have to wait while he
tried to gather some air into his lungs, to wipe clammy shaking hands
on his pants. He recognized both of the men portrayed in the pictures.

One of them apparently had no name and was most probably dead
at the moment, judging by the amount of blood found at the crime
scene. The case was still in the jurisdiction of the VCS, unresolved
and on hold for the moment. Andrew remembered listening to the
frustrated discussion of the other agents who cursed the day when this
murder without a body fell into their care. He understood their
attitude: without knowing who the victim was, it would have been very
difficult -- practically impossible -- to find the guilty party.

The second man was Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the
FBI. Speaking to the man in question. Standing on the steps leading to
the building of the victim. Entering his apartment.

Poised over a body with a gun drawn.

Andrew swallowed nervously, feeling his back muscles gather
into a tight knot. He had to be mistaken. He had never communicated
directly with the Assistant Director, but many of his colleagues spoke
of Skinner with respect, appeared to highly regard him. This man
couldn't possibly be a killer.

The last picture in the pile was a shot of a grave on the
Arlington cemetery. Unadorned headstone that proclaimed: Henry
Davidson, 1928-1997. No epithets and no flowers, simplicity and
austerity itself.

He had the name and the body of the victim, and he was almost
certain that he had the identity of the killer. Andrew collected the
tapes and papers with shaking hands, deciding numbly that he would
turn the entire package over to his boss, Dean Douglas, because
evidence like this could not be ignored, no matter how dirty the
source of it obviously was.

But the seeds of doubt were already coloring the righteousness
of his actions, and the nagging question in the back of his mind asked
insistently: "Why me?"

* * *

Mulder trained the binoculars on the windows of Andrew Winters'
apartment and watched anxiously, as the younger agent looked slowly
through the package, then collected its contents accurately. For a few
moments, he hoped that the entire parcel would end up in the garbage
basket, almost chanted the words, wishing for some telepathic ability
to transmit the fervent prayer. Understanding with despair that it
wasn't heard, he slumped against the seat of the car and closed his
eyes with a sweeping feeling of exhaustion and despondency.

Mulder was still giddy from seeing the photos and listening to
the tapes that contained a screaming, well-executed accusation against
Walter Skinner. His first impulse was to burn each piece of evidence,
one vile picture after another, as he understood the meaning behind
Miller's words for the first time. He did not want a promotion at the
price of his boss' demise.

Mulder did not care whether Skinner truly committed
the crime or not, he could understand perfectly the driving force that
pulled the trigger, could remember only too well the time when he
barely restrained himself from doing the same. The agent cursed the
day when he reiterated the details of the case in Upperville, Virginia
to the Consortium members. The speed with which the operation was
orchestrated was indicative of the reason why Skinner was no longer a
man whose services were desired.

The true perpetrators were those who hid the body, who cleverly
concealed the evidence until now, who arranged for the burial at the
cemetery that was never intended for people like Cancerman. Reading the
name on the headstone, the federal agent felt a visceral rage, a fierce
hatred for the man who stole his life, who lied to his sister, who
expertly manipulated the strings of his character for so many years,
and was instrumental in eventually making him a double agent. Mulder
could taste the clouds of smoke in the air around him, could almost
see them as vividly as during their first meeting in Skinner's office
-- or the last meeting when the conspirator offered a bargain, when he
still had the strength to refuse.

At the beginning, it had been nearly incomprehensible as to why the
Consortium would choose Agent Winters as the recipient for the
nefarious package. Mulder's photographic memory quickly provided a
response, offering the image of a young man who came to seek
advice from Scully some time before. Though Andrew Winters was a kid
barely out of college, he was already an excellent agent, still too new
to have been corrupted by power games, but already experienced enough
to make informed decisions. The sense of righteousness and justice
that all green agents shared would ensure Skinner's demise. There
would be no question that he was to become involved in the ongoing
investigation of Henry Davidson's death after he brought in this kind
of evidence -- and his unclouded judgment would be enough to influence
the outcome of this round of the game.

The snowflakes falling on the front window obscured his view of
the small, softly lit apartment, and he didn't make a movement to turn
on the wipers. After a moment, Mulder put his hands on the wheel and
took several deep breaths, trying to quell the sudden panicky feeling
in his chest. Not all was lost yet -- and Walter Skinner was still the
Assistant Director of the FBI. And as much as it was still in his
power, he would make sure that the status quo remained unchanged,
because he owed the elder man as much. Because Skinner had saved his
ass after numerous disasters.

Because given the chance, he had prevented Mulder from selling
his soul.

Turning the key in ignition, the agent turned the car around.
On the way home, he noticed a dark sedan trailing him brazenly.
Slowing down to a stop and letting it pass, he waved a hand and
grinned wickedly at the passengers, catching their surprised looks
for a brief moment.

At the very least, the Consortium could always be counted upon
to provide the best entertainment in town.

* * *

Skinner rubbed his temples in an effort to fend off the rising
headache and the strange sensation of an impending catastrophe. He
could not explain the source of his disquiet -- but he couldn't shake
it off.

He was starting to believe in premonitions. It was a damn
X-File.

"Sir, Dean Douglas and Andrew Winters are here to see you,"
Kim's unerringly official voice sounded through the speakerphone.

"Send them in," he replied immediately, slightly relieved at
the distraction that the conversation with the head of the Violent
Crimes Section would provide. Besides, he liked the man -- while less
brilliant than Bill Patterson, Dean Douglas was honest, humane, and
decidedly lacked the psychotic tendencies of his predecessor.

"Assistant Director Skinner, good to see you," the visitor
offered a hand, then pointed to the young man standing beside him.
"This is Agent Andrew Winters, the newest and brightest member of our
unit", he watched with hidden enjoyment as the agent took a couple
unconscious steps back, clearly uncomfortable with the praise and with
being in this room.

"It's nice to meet you," Skinner offered indifferently, failing
to inject the sincerity in his words and wondering what the purpose
of this strange visit was.

"Mr. Skinner, Agent Winters has come into the possession of
some documents which may help us in closing one of the outstanding
cases. I believe you took an interest in this case previously?"

"Which case are you talking about?"

"The murder of Henry Davidson," seeing that Skinner's
expression remained blank, Douglas handed the shot of a grave to him.
"And considering that we did not know the name of the victim until
today, here is the picture to go along with it."

Skinner felt the blood throb at a dangerous speed against his
skull. He could not recall meeting the cigarette-wielding bastard near
his apartment building; it was usually not necessary to go looking for
him that far. And he certainly could not remember shaking hands with
him -- now how was that for a grotesque distortion of his everyday
life?

"Where did you get this?" his voice was hoarse and he hardly
recognized it.

"I found a package near my apartment," Andrew replied
emotionlessly, trying to sustain the penetrating gaze of the Assistant
Director who was looking at him with as much affinity as one viewed a
cockroach. "I also found these," he handed him the rest of the
pictures.

Skinner leafed through the photos, studying his own face -- his
own hand that held the gun that apparently shot Henry Davidson. He
realized dully that the worst thing about this situation was his sudden
irrational fear that the pictures really portrayed him, even if he
never remembered pulling the trigger.

That's what you get when you surrender to the dark forces, he
thought. Not even your memory is safe.

And now he was starting to sound like Mulder.

"We will, of course, try to confirm the validity of these
pictures -- rather, I should say, we will try to confirm that they are
fabricated," Dean Douglas' voice cut through his musings, and Skinner
looked at him wearily.

"Is Agent Winters leading this investigation?"

"He is a part of it, but I will be in charge of this case from
now on. If these pictures are indeed real, we will have to involve the
office of Internal Affairs, and take appropriate measures." The head of
the VCS studied the AD with sympathy and not a small measure of respect.

He was certain that if Skinner were indeed a killer, he must have had a
damn good reason for dispensing with Henry Davidson, or whoever this
man was. "However... is there anything you want to tell me? What do you
know about the murder?"

"Are you asking me if I have an alibi?" Skinner questioned
directly.

Dean Douglas seemed lost in thought for a moment. "You will
notice... that I have decided to inform you of what's happening before
going through with the common procedure. I still hope that this is a
misunderstanding -- and I am sure you do, as well. But... that is the
only special favor I can allow in this case."

The Assistant Director processed the reply, evaluating his
position once again, guessing that the pictures were most likely not
fabricated, that he would be dragged in for questioning soon enough,
and Douglas was merely warning him for the moment, offering him a
reprieve that wouldn't last long.

"I appreciate your trust," he paused for a moment. "Please
inform me of what you find."

Dean Douglas nodded curtly, realizing once again the actual
devastating potential of the pictures he held in his hands, wishing
that he was free to destroy them and let the sleeping dogs lie, but
knowing that his integrity would undoubtedly prevent such action.

When he was leaving the office, he turned to look back at
Skinner, who appeared lost in the grip of some nightmare. And for
once, the comparison rang painfully true.

* * *

The partners sat across the table from Skinner, and Mulder was
answering his questions about the old case files, diligently but
impatiently. Scully studied Skinner carefully, noticing the rumpled
white shirt and the tired lines under his eyes, and wondering why
their usually prim boss appeared so disheveled and troubled. It seemed
he was simply going through the habitual mechanics of questioning
Mulder's theories, but that for once, his heart wasn't quite in it.

During an unusually long and convoluted explanation of why the
pair of Italian shoes appeared on the expense report, Skinner got up
absently and turned to the window, loosening his tie.

Mulder halted. "Well, I could just go and buy new shoes. . ."

"Forget it, Mulder," suddenly, Skinner sounded completely
indifferent to the fate of shoes that drowned in the lake, or to his
agent's stubbornness in wanting to stick the Bureau with paying for
them. "Just... forget it. You can leave them in the report if you
like."

Scully's eyes grew large as she looked at her boss, then at
Mulder who shrugged for lack of explanation. "Sir, is anything wrong?"

You bet, Skinner almost screamed at her, then bit his lip and
spoke calmly. "Yes, Agent Scully. But it's none of your concern."

Mulder took in a shuddering breath, realizing that the pictures
must have already reached the proper hands and Skinner already saw
them. So many times he had tried to convince himself that the
catastrophe he'd put in motion might be avoided, but any such
illusions had now been effectively shattered.

He wished there were proper words to apologize for arguing
about the Italian shoes while his boss' freedom and future hung in
the mid-air.

"Sir, is there anything we can do? We don't have any cases on
our hands right now."

Skinner sighed heavily, turning back to face his agents. "You
might as well know. There was some evidence found in the murder of
Henry Davidson that links me to the scene of the crime."

Scully did a double take, too shocked to understand the
implications fully. "Who is Henry Davidson?"

Skinner was silent for a second. "The Cigarette Smoking Man."

"Oh my God. I didn't know that," she spoke slowly, while
turning to look at Mulder, uncertain whether she could make the same
statement for he partner.

"What evidence could they possibly possess?" Mulder questioned,
trying to contain his anxiety and finding it almost impossible to play
the role of an ignorant. "I thought that the investigation was on
hold."

"It was. They obviously had a murder, but no body and no name.
And no suspects," Skinner replied, wondering again for a brief moment
how he came to be in this situation. The sensation was similar to
standing at the precipice of a black hole, waiting to be sucked in. He
paced by the side of the desk, needing to feel the solid ground
underneath him. "And now they have all three. And as I mentioned
previously, I'm the primary suspect."

"Oh my God," Scully breathed.

"That seems like an awful lot of information to come by,"
Mulder made a gigantic effort to keep his voice level, feeling like
the lowest scum in the pond.

"There are pictures of me shaking hands with him at the steps
of his apartment building, and of me holding a gun that killed him,"
Skinner replied grimly. "And if it is confirmed that the pictures are
real... well, you know what happens then."

"Sir, I must ask -- whatever evidence they have -- what
possible motive would you have for this murder?" Scully didn't want
this conversation to end so abruptly, realizing intuitively that she
lacked some essential pieces of data in this mind-boggling puzzle.

"Actually, I did have a motive, though I assure you both that
I was not the one who killed him," Skinner eyed Mulder uneasily,
deciding that there was no way they could keep this information under
wraps any longer. "I made a deal with Cancerman several months ago,
and he... misused my services."

"A deal? What kind of a deal?" Scully pushed for more.

"A deal that was supposed to buy a cure for your cancer."

Scully felt as if her heartbeat was the only sound in the room
as she contemplated Mulder and Skinner who looked like a pair of kids
admitting to some naughty trick. Only the FBI building was a far cry
from the playground -- and she could not believe that her partner knew
about this too. "And is this deal the reason why I am alive today?"
she whispered, her horror undisguised.

"Scully, I don't think we will ever know," Mulder hurried to
reply, cursing Skinner mentally for disclosing the information,
knowing that he had to undo the damage. "Cancerman pointed me in the
direction of the chip. Maybe it was his way of handing us the cure.
But Scully, you know that there were other factors at work."

Scully felt her eyes sting. It was so comfortable believing
that her cure had not come from the dirty hands. It was so reassuring
and so naïve to believe in miracles. "So what did he ask you to do for
him, sir? I need to know," she asked, suddenly seized by the desire
to understand the measure of this sacrifice.

"Just some clean-up jobs, nothing too big," Skinner ignored the
images of children dying from small pox. It would have happened
regardless of his involvement, he told himself, but the notion did not
ease the ache in his chest. "And I would overlook certain things, just
close my eyes at times."

Mulder was still trying to gather his thoughts, to choose the
lesser of the two evils when Skinner's voice jolted him.

"Agent Mulder, you were interested in this case, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, since you have no cases currently, you might as well
look into this," Skinner suggested calmly.

Mulder cringed inwardly but managed to nod politely, realizing
that Skinner was essentially asking them for help, as indirectly as
was possible in this situation. "Yes, absolutely."

"Dean Douglas is in charge, and Agent Andrew Winters is
working on it currently. And," Assistant Director turned to study
their concerned faces, "thank you both."

"It is me who should be saying thank you," Scully smiled
slightly. "We will speak to Dean Douglas and see what we can do."

"Sir, let me just say that I believe in your innocence," Mulder
offered helplessly, quite certain that this was probably the last time
he was speaking to Skinner while he was still an Assistant Director.
"I presume you don't have an alibi?"

Skinner shrugged. "Even if I had one, I don't think it would
help against the kind of evidence you are about to see."

Watching as his agents left the room, the Assistant Director
felt slightly uneasy, sensing again the presence of some secrets that
he was ignorant of. Something was terribly wrong, though he couldn't
quite put his finger on it.

He would just have to trust his agents to do the best they
could against the incredible odds -- one more time.

Outside Skinner's office, Scully pinned Mulder down with a
glare. "You knew about the deal. You knew and you never told me."

He threw up his hands in the air as she turned on her heel
sharply and started walking toward the elevator. "Scully! This was
hardly my secret to be shared. I found about it by accident, and I
wish to this day that I didn't know about it either."

"Why not?" People gave them way as they marched down the
hallway. "Do you also prefer to live in denial?"

"No," he stopped in his tracks, too tired of explanations on
the run. "But I can't help thinking that it should have been me
instead of Skinner. It should have been me, Scully. And now he is the
one who is paying through his nose."

She tugged his hand, trying to get them away from the curious
glances of other agents. "Mulder, these sacrificial gestures are having
too much of an adverse effect. And as egotistical as it sounds at the
moment, I'm very happy you didn't make that kind of deal."

Mulder fell silent, contemplating once again the reasons why
the Consortium seemed to accept him now, wondering if his current
situation was any better than the one he'd almost gotten into a few
months before. But the answers kept eluding him.

Before stepping in the elevator, he threw her a quick sideways
glance. "Scully, this will sound melodramatic... but did I ever mention
how happy I am that you are alive? And moreover, I don't care what
means were used to ensure your survival."

The doors opened with a chime, and she guided him lightly to
the entrance.

"You never had to, Mulder."

* * *

"I haven't asked you for a promotion," Mulder didn't bother to
hide his animosity. "This was completely uncalled for."

The obese man threw a disgusted look at his British companion.
"Agent Mulder, I don't think you are in a position to question our
motives. And what are you doing here today, the meeting is not until
tomorrow."

"The meeting is too long to wait for," Mulder's expression did
not change. "Walter Skinner's life is at stake, and I know you have no
reason to care, but I do."

Milton was unperturbed. "Walter Skinner aside, I thought you
would be grateful," he replied with a smirk. "How old are you? Forty
or so?"

The agent tried to clamp down on his anger. "As interested as
you have always been in my personal life, I am sure you remember my
birthday."

"Actually, Henry Davidson had always shown much more propensity
toward remembering such mundane dates. Personally, I couldn't care
less," Milton's eyes grew cold. "But you should give more thought to
your career in your age, Agent Mulder. Other, less talented colleagues
of yours have already made ASAC or more."

Mulder shook his head, deciding to appeal to their logic
instead. "After the recent media disaster, it would be extremely
suspicious if I suddenly became Assistant Director," he smirked. "I
can just imagine the headline: The Legacy of Insanity Continues:
Paranoid FBI Agent Promoted. Or even better: Dilbert Principle in
Action: How To Get Rid of Crazy FBI Agents Working in The Field. Why,
let's advance them to managerial positions!"

"Now you are talking sensibly," the heavy-set man was looking
at him with a bit more respect at the same time as Milton chuckled
appreciatively in his coffee. "We could arrange for press to change
their minds quite easily."

Mulder clenched his fists, wondering what new disaster he set
into motion. "I am afraid to ask," he mumbled. "What are you talking
about?"

"We will inform you of arrangements when they are made," Milton
replied quietly, having calmed down a bit. "By the way, Dr. Miller
speaks of you very highly. He thinks you are doing an extraordinary
job."

Mulder rubbed his forehead, willing the sudden headache to
subside. "I'm honored," he remarked sarcastically. "Dr. Miller is a
wonderful mentor."

"Undoubtedly. He is a good man who has known too much tragedy
in his life." The Well-Manicured Man seemed lost in thought for a
moment. "Regardless, I presume you are involved in the Davidson's
murder investigation."

"As of today, yes, and may I add that I had no choice in the
matter? I am the one who submitted the incriminating evidence on him!"
Mulder shook his head, feigning frustration. It was one thing to admit
that he didn't want a promotion, but it would have been way too
dangerous to say that he actually wanted to help Skinner.

"Well, you won't be involved in the investigation for much
longer, I hope," Milton glanced meaningfully at his companion. "I am
sure Agents Scully and Winters will handle it with competence."

Mulder fell silent, brooding on the possible implications of
this statement. "Let us just not forget that you have still not upheld
your part of the bargain -- whereas I have fulfilled all of your
requests," he stated abruptly, suddenly impatient with them.

The heavy-set man laughed for the first time as if it was the
cleverest witticism. "You have access to an abundance of information in
our facilities, Agent Mulder. Help yourself." He watched as the younger
man flew out of his chair and slammed the door in anger, not bothering
with proper good-byes. "Our newest colleague should really watch his
temper."

"Oh, I am sure that his new position will be rather beneficial
in that respect," Milton spoke quietly. "But I must say, Northam, that
this is the kind of passion our organization can only profit from."

End of Part 6/20





Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 7/20

Mulder felt the stare of the lab technicians as his normally 
drab charcoal suit clashed with the painful sterility of the cinder 
walls of the testing facility. His key card sat in his 
jacket pocket, the cameras mounted to the ceiling whined as they 
tracked his movements.

Perhaps more unsettling than the ease at which he had been 
allowed to enter, was the protection, or lack of it, between him and
the organisms the scrubbed men and women were covertly examining under
their compound microscopes. The technicians around him were disguised
behind rubber gloves, cloth masks, and the glare of fluorescent lights 
hitting plastic goggles. They moved in deliberately languid movements,
and Mulder momentarily wondered if it were the researchers, instead of
the specimens, who were extra-terrestrial in nature. The federal agent 
shoved his hands resolutely in his pockets, content to keep a 
comfortable distance between himself and the test tubes, vials, and 
agar plates.

His footsteps echoed noisily amid the hum of nuclear 
magnetic resonance machines, and Mulder slowly processed the incoming
stimuli. There was no alien blood, no clones, no black, Tunguskan 
worms. Instead, his eyes tracked over invisible cells in between clear 
cover slips and slides, over droning centrifuges as they contentedly 
spun a pus-like fluid. Mulder felt his jaw clench at the picture 
of normalcy -- unable to fathom why he had worked so hard, for so long, 
suffering so many losses.

For it to culminate with this.

Something deep inside him was shouting, jumping up and down, 
proclaiming that he had found the truth. But the rest of him felt
strangely detached -- clinically separated. The lab was anti-climactic, 
and as he progressed deeper into the laboratory he wondered how much 
the Consortium was still hiding from him. 

Mulder picked up a vial and stared at the milky substance, 
failing to feel impressed. Throwing any previous feelings of caution 
out the window, he trailed a finger as he passed microscope-bearing 
counters, suppressing a feeling of... tedium. Familiarity. 

It was as if something in the building turned what made Fox 
Mulder "Spooky" click off. As if there was a certain virus in the air 
that made him into the cold-hearted bastard who could effectively wipe 
away women's memories. It kept his hands still, instead of reaching 
for the trigger and blowing away the congregation of heads that 
conspired and laughed at other people's misfortunes.

Of course, the psychologist in Fox Mulder knew that he was
rationalizing.

That there, indeed, was nothing in the air, and that he was a
sick sonofabitch who was willing to go to any proportions, hurt an 
obscene number of people, to get this far.

Far from progressing, Mulder wondered for how much longer
he would remain at a standstill, without seeing the whole truth.

A set of sliding doors somewhere in the distance beeped, then 
whined as they slid open. Mulder inwardly cringed, half expecting Deep 
Throat to cut him off at the pass, or for green berets to force him to 
flee. He once again glanced furtively at the cameras mounted overhead, 
his peripheral vision unconsciously absorbing the large computers, 
even larger processors, and vats of material that would most likely be 
unidentifiable to Quantico's computers.

There were warnings attached to the UV irradiators, stickers
proclaiming toluene's carcinogenic effects. There was a first aid
kit buried in the corner, a fire blanket and an extinguisher mounted to
the wall.

Mulder was tempted to laugh.

As if the Consortium cared for the health of the people who 
worked for them.

He walked towards the back, passing purple bacteria colonies
growing on agar media, a proliferation of particles in test tube 
solution.

And stopped, eyes widening at the rows of alien fetuses.

Mulder crouched so that he was at eye level with the organisms.
A spot on greenish-gray flesh pulsated in time to the beat of alien's 
heart. Pale eyelids covered the eyes, and Mulder stared back 
with a forced detachment, silently begging it questions -- wondering 
why it was so valuable that a government would be willing to kill for 
it. 

Mulder gasped as the eyelids suddenly opened. Eyes like shards 
of blue ice pierced the translucent green solution. He rose rapidly, 
his knees cracking in protest. He could feel his façade of 
indifference threaten to abandon him as he forced his legs to walk 
calmly across the room.

The beeps soon surrounded him. The glow of tanks engulfed him. The
aquarium-like containers were filled with indiscernible flesh-colored 
shapes. Mulder bit his lip, suffering through an onslaught of memories 
-- of his mother's fading heartbeat at the hospital, of Scully
comatose and dying, of Deep Throat cruelly murdered, of Michael 
Kritschgau and the blend of lies and truths he uttered.

The agent leaned in closer, noticing the protruding belly of 
the buoyant figure in front of him, the criss-crossing veins and 
arteries which transported a fluid to a developing fetus that Mulder 
doubted was blood.

Monitors, buttons, and a keyboard marred the one side of the
tank, and Mulder stared at it, mesmerized by the noises and charts, 
the peaks and the valleys -- all indications of brain activity, even if 
the subject's lack of movements dictated otherwise.

A door slammed, a shadow loomed in front of him, and Mulder 
effectively clamped down on his sudden reflex to flee, his left hand 
drifting down to his pocket and key card as reminder of his 
authorization to be here. He watched warily as a technician and an
armed security guard approached -- all too familiar with the play that 
would enfold.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Mulder flashed his key card. "I'm authorized to be here."

The man squared up to Mulder's figure before shaking his head. 
"This is a control group; you threaten to contaminate it by coming in 
here unprotected. Get out."

Mulder's jaw flexed. "Not until you tell me what this
is."

The lab technician rolled his eyes, and was about to speak when
another figure cut him off at the pass.

"Enough, Brian. Mr. Mulder is right. He is authorized to be 
anywhere he chooses."

Mulder stared at the mustached man who had just recently 
entered. His brain absorbed the slight belly of success, the balding 
head, the light brown crown of hair which was quickly turning white. 
His synapses suddenly fired, the man's voice triggering a memory -- a 
recognition that almost floored him. His stomach fell -- he felt as 
if he wanted to throw up. 

He tried to convince himself that he would wake from this 
nightmare soon, that he had not given incriminating evidence to Agent
Winters, and was not gawking at the man currently standing directly
in front of him in one of the Consortium's laboratories.

Mulder tilted his head slightly, closed his eyes momentarily, 
trying to contain his breathing. He looked up at the Director of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation coolly. "Director Robinson... good
afternoon."

The elder man smiled with yellowed teeth, the grin turning him
into a garish gargoyle underneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Agent Mulder, I haven't had yet the opportunity to relay my joy in 
hearing that you've joined us."

Mulder nodded with a tight-lipped smile as the pieces fell 
into place. Skinner would effectively be history within the next week, 
the Director of the FBI was an influential member of the Consortium, 
and the section head of the X-Files was about to get a promotion. 
He felt his head start to hurt with the force he was clenching his 
teeth. There were no more proponents to the truth, only actors who 
dealt with lies and confabulations, himself included. 

Parasites infested the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

And he was the lowest rung on the evolutionary ladder.

Robinson was pumping his hand, still revealing ugly yellowed
teeth. "Brian and the other technicians will assist you in any way
possible. Right, Brian?"

Mulder watched the lab technician shy away from the Director's
presence, backing up a few steps. "Sure. No problem."

The Director nodded, satisfied with the results, and walked
away, taking the lab employee and the security guard with him.

Mulder stared at the aquariums once again, passing a hand over
his burning eyes. After he had pinned Blevins, he had felt like such 
hot shit. On top of the world with the Smoking Man dead, with Skinner 
clearly drawing his lines, with Scully being cured.

And he was made to be the fool yet again. 

By this time tomorrow, Skinner would no longer be his boss. 
His one time ally would be occupied by more pressing matters.

He was between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Mulder 
tried to convince himself that when this war was all over, he would fix 
everything.

He walked out of the room with guilt weighted steps.

***

Everything in Walter Skinner's house was silent. And the 
Assistant Director stared at the chicken in front of him, listlessly
poking at the dead animal muscle with his fork.

His paranoia was running rampant; he attributed it to too 
many years trying to pull back on Mulder's reins. Something weighed 
his stomach down, made him want to expel the bile that was churning 
in his stomach, made each swallow of thick saliva painfully slow.

The air around him was charged; major changes were afoot. 
The Consortium had been reeling him in for favors less often. The
office downstairs had been quiet. The two agents in the X-Files
division were suspiciously out of trouble.

A door knocked, and Skinner jumped, a hand trailing by his
unholstered hip. Instincts carved from the army and the FBI were 
rearing their ugly head. He unconsciously took the plate to the 
garbage, scraping the breast and vegetables away. Methodically, 
he placed the plate and fork in the sink.

He wiped his hands on his pants and pushed his glasses up, 
inhaling deeply, wondering for what he was mustering up courage.

Somber black uniforms greeted him, and Skinner noted Douglas' 
grim expression. "Walter," he nodded in greeting. "We need you to 
come to the station and answer a couple of questions."

Skinner hesitated, then finally nodded. The VCU chief's 
friendliness of a couple days ago disappeared as if by magic. "Just 
wait... " He looked around, suddenly feeling lost in his own 
apartment. "I have to get my coat."

Douglas grabbed the arm of the retreating figure, pointing a 
finger to a spot just behind Skinner. "It's right behind you."

The Assistant Director looked at the railing, seeing the tan 
material draped innocently over the oak pole. "Oh..." He grabbed 
harshly for it, wishing it had been somewhere else -- an excuse so that 
he could walk through his apartment one more time.

He suddenly had an attachment to the TV he barely watched, 
to the couch and coffee table in the living room that he hardly used. 
The thought of abandoning them suddenly made his heart beat faster, his
breaths come out harsher.

Guilt, his mind chanted. You know you're guilty.

But for what, the other part of his mind insisted. He hadn't 
killed the Cancerman. His hatred for tar and nicotine had never been so 
severe to warrant executing a man in cold blood. Despite what the 
photos showed, he had not met with the Cancerman on the night of his 
death. And most importantly, the bullet hadn't come from his gun. 

The rebuttal came quickly: memories of nameless, suffering 
children dying of small pox were testament to his guilt -- visions of 
Ajax bottles and sponges were indicative of the hole he had willingly
dug himself in.

Skinner was suddenly lost, thinking, flashing to a multitude of
confusing scenes. Mulder might have been a stupid, rash, self-centered
agent with nothing better to do than stick his nose up the asses of the 
FBI's brass. But Skinner had witnessed too much, had seen the evidence
pass right before his eyes, and understood that Mulder's paranoia was 
justified. The agent was brilliant, devoted -- and when combined with 
the strength of his partner, he held the awesome potential to turn 
lies into truths. 

A tug on his arm and Skinner was brought back to reality. 
Douglas' grip was gentle, but firm, and the Assistant Director hastily 
pulled his arm away, suddenly needing the independence.

Other uniforms showed him the warrant to search through his 
apartment, and he winced at the sound of drawers being upended, of his 
garbage can being knocked over. Skinner looked up, just before Douglas 
offered him a look that he could only characterize as pity. Another
uniformed officer was reciting Miranda rights, and Skinner stole a 
last look at his apartment as the uniforms silently lead him towards 
the elevator. 

The drive to the police station would take about forty minutes
as Douglas was saying, trying to make small talk. Skinner nodded 
grimly. The past half hour had seemed like a bad dream. In forty 
minutes, the true nightmare would begin.

***

Mulder stared as the white styrofoam cup paled in comparison to
the brownish-black liquid it contained. He was almost tempted to laugh 
at the fleeting familiarity. But instead of the Bureau's 
cafeteria, he was sitting at the research facility's canteen. And 
instead of conversing with Special Agent Doctor Scully, James Milton's 
thin figure was sitting across from him. 

It must be a conspiracy, Mulder's mind mused. The coffee here 
was as bad as the Bureau's.

"How is your assignment progressing, Fox?"

"Fine," Mulder answered quickly. "I've... adjusted to it." He
nodded his head to affirm the statement. He stared at the liquid 
in his cup again, knowing his eyes would betray him and reveal the 
words to be a blatant lie. Turning personalities on and off was 
taxing, and it was giving him migraines to swerve from one temperament 
extreme to another. The fear that he would lose himself in the process
was all too real, and it nagged continuously for attention at the back 
of his mind. 

"I uh..." he cleared his throat experimentally, "ran into 
Director Robinson."

Milton smiled. "Nice man... a very valuable acquisition to the
group."

Mulder nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

The elder member stared at the federal agent, attempting to 
analyze the slumped posture, the fingers that danced nervously on the 
table. Mulder was quiet. Sullen. And Milton wondered what thoughts 
were circulating through the young man's gifted head. "He knew your 
father really well."

He watched in admiration as Mulder's head jerked up -- the
eagerness quickly hidden as his eyes clouded over and his face grew 
impassive. "Director Robinson knew my father?"

Milton guffawed, the sound echoing through the empty room. 
"Who didn't know your father, Fox, is what you should be asking."

The federal agent nodded grimly and went back to staring at the 
coffee. Not for the first time, he wondered when the Englishman started
calling him by the first name, but suppressed the need to correct him.
It fit only too well with the surrealism of his surroundings.
When Mulder spoke again, his voice was low, tumultuous, despite the 
lack of volume.

"You knew my father, too."

Milton nodded slowly and watched as Mulder's finger started to
play with the styrofoam mug. 

"Did he ever say anything about my sister?"

The Well-Manicured Man grew pensive and his forehead creased. 
"No..." He looked to the ceiling as if trying to grab a memory, but 
then shook his head resolutely. "No. I never heard any mention of your 
sister... It was Samantha, right?"

Mulder nodded once, staring at the man in front of him. 
Milton's inflections had changed. He was a good liar. He had almost 
gone through the former profiler's finely-tuned radar undetected. 
Almost. Mulder continued to stare at the coffee, filing away the 
statement for future reference.

"Perhaps Dr. Miller may know something. He and your father
were close. Or perhaps..." the Consortium member paused as if an idea
was just forming. "Perhaps there's a mention of it in the letter your 
father sent you."

Mulder raised his head, meeting Milton's eyes. The elder 
member regarded him innocently, and Mulder's suspicions grew again. 
It was the second time the Consortium had brought up the subject of 
the letter, even though he had been quick to disregard it. He made no 
attempt to hide the annoyance in his voice. "There's nothing in it. 
You should know. You've read it already."

Milton smiled professionally. "Your father always spoke in 
tongues, Fox. Sometimes the answers to the secrets we wish to know
are closer than we think."

Mulder narrowed his eyes. The Consortium's interest in the 
letter was... unsettling. Underneath Milton's scrutiny, the gears in 
his mind were silently churning. He was prompted to wonder if his own 
quick dismissal of the letter had been premature -- perhaps he had 
missed something in his quick perusal.

The old man looked to his wrist and then back to Mulder. "One 
o'clock, Fox. If I'm not mistaken, you have an appointment."

Mulder withheld the grimace that was threatening and rose 
slowly, feigning a sudden need to stretch.

"Yet another canvas to erase and paint," Milton joked, 
enjoying his own symbolism.

The agent felt his teeth bare in a likeness of a smile.

"Dust off those women's synapses, Fox. Clean the cobwebs in 
their fissures. Makeover those lobes and revitalize their 
neurotransmitters." Milton guffawed once again, and Mulder forced air 
through his lungs, hearing himself emit a noise that was supposed to be 
a cruel resemblance of a chuckle.

He walked quickly out of the room, still hearing his lungs 
choke as he laughed. His breath hitched, his forced mirth echoed off 
the empty corridors -- even as his eyes filled with helpless tears.

*** 

Scully stared at the computer monitor in front of her, the 
bleak light of it illuminating the room, much to the protest of her
tired eyes.

Her pupils tracked the letters as Scorpio13 typed methodically.
She closed her hands around the coffee mug, attempting to absorb some 
of its warmth. But the coffee was cold, and Scully was quick to draw 
the parallels to her apartment, where it was both freezing and dark. 
She nonsensically wondered if Nescafe could also get lonely. 

Conversing with her partner by means of secretive nick names, 
metaphors, and symbols was making her weary. Conversations around the 
office were contrived -- almost farcical. Everything uttered in the 
X-Files office was a lie -- all the words were cloaked in the air of 
mundane normalcy, wary of whatever bugs may be listening. And it was 
only behind the anonymity of a newsgroup where her name was encoded, 
where they spoke in tongues, could she actually converse "normally" 
with her partner.

The cursor was suddenly blinking, waiting for her reply, and 
Scully felt her lips part in surprise at the message.

HEAD RESEARCHER AT WORK SHARES QUITE A RAPPORT WITH THE 
MONKEYS.

The agent stared at the monitor, feeling her shoulders tense 
at the sudden onslaught of helplessness. So tired of all the lies, 
of running around in circles. She wondered exactly how many moles 
actually worked in the FBI. 

Scully's fingers hovered over the keyboard, temporarily unsure
of what to write. She bit her lip, squinted as she typed with the 
right hand, drew her robe tighter around her body with her left.

DOES HE KNOW OF YOUR RAPPORT WITH THE MONKEYS?

The affirmative reply came quickly and even as Scully's eyes 
were barely surviving the war to stay open, her fingers danced on 
their own. 

WHAT'S THE CURRENT STATUS OF THE BALD MONKEY?

Scully watched UNSTABLE float across her monitor, and she
nodded to herself, hardly surprised. Mulder went on, stating in no 
uncertain terms that he had a big day of research tomorrow and how he 
was dreading it. She narrowed her eyes. Her partner still 
refused to disclose his exact duties with the Consortium, and she 
watched as the blinking cursor moved to the right as she typed. 

WHAT TYPE OF RESEARCH ARE YOU DOING?

There was a long pause before the reply came, and Scully rolled
her eyes in exasperation at Mulder's general reticence to talk, and his 
admirable ability to skirt the issue.

GETTING VALUE OUT OF MY DOCTORATE. GOTTA GO, GETTING LATE.

Scully stared at the letters, surprised by how much she didn't 
want her partner to leave. She thought of something to say -- tried to 
think of something witty, some smart-ass comment about the dark and 
porno videos. But her fingers moved of their own volition, and she 
watched in surprise, in horror, as she saw her own comment stare back 
at her from the Dell monitor.

I MISS YOU.

The pause was longer -- stretching for all eternity. There 
was no reply. There was no dialogue box to say that Scorpio13 had 
logged out, and there was no indication to say that he had received 
the message. She clenched her mug tighter, scolding herself for being 
so stupid, for saying such things over an open newsgroup where someone 
could be listening. Watching.

She wondered if she had scared Mulder away. Maybe angered him 
by her lack of caution. She was about to unhappily close the 
connection when his reply came back.

Scully smiled, and logged out happily, turning off her computer 
with a flourish. She went to bed, still seeing the black letters 
imprinted on a white background.

I MISS YOU TOO.

End of Part 7/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 8/20

"Are you telling me, Mr. Skinner, that on May seventeenth, you 
never engaged in a conversation with this man, even though there is a 
photograph -- undoctored according to your labs -- of you conversing 
with the victim."

Skinner nodded his head, his jaw clenching. It seemed he was
answering the same question over and over -- just rephrased differently
each time. "Yes."

"Did you know the victim?"

Skinner sighed. "Yes."

"What was the nature of your relationship."

"He frequented my office occasionally." The Assistant Director
contemplated his next sentence. "Although he visited less often over 
recent months."

"And what business did you have with the deceased?"

"He was a federal employee. We discussed matters of... 
protocol."

The detective sighed, throwing a doubtful look in the
Assistant Director's direction.

"Mr. Skinner... how much does a man in a profession such as 
yours make?"

Skinner shook his head, not following the line of questioning. 
"What?"

"How much do you make in a month?"

Skinner opened his mouth to protest, clamped on the sudden
urge to bolt. He felt his stomach turn over as awareness dawned. He 
knew the curve ball that was going to be thrown, and had no 
doubt as to which group of men had planted the evidence. 

"I make about six thousand dollars a month."

The detective nodded his head. "And yet, your bank records 
show that two days after the murder of the deceased you made a deposit 
for one hundred thousand dollars. That's far from chump change."

Skinner didn't say anything, scolding himself for not checking
his bank records more often. And it was so easy -- the Consortium 
could implicate and obfuscate with ease. Skinner studied the table, 
avoiding the detective's stare -- there was nothing he could say to 
defend himself. The silence was incriminating -- but it was rapidly 
becoming the only defense he had.

"Nothing to say, Mr. Skinner?"

The Assistant Director remained silent, and he felt a hand 
touch his arm. His lawyer's voice echoed through the interrogation 
room. 

"My client refuses to speak any longer. I suggest that this
questioning be brought to an end."

The detective sneered, and with an expletive-filled mutter, 
stormed out.

Skinner was tempted to stand up and voice his situation. He 
wanted to tell the detective that he was a pawn in a game. That the
evidence was rigged and he was being framed. That most likely the
man in the photograph was a clone. And that the dead man knew 
secrets about the country, and worked for a faction that did not 
abide by any rules. 

But it would sound like a plot out of a B-grade police 
melodrama, and he would be laughed at. Mocked.

Skinner now knew where Mulder's cocky facade came from. Knew
from whence Scully's steely glare had developed. He put a hand over 
his mouth, unconsciously blocking any involuntary movements from his 
mouth and vocal chords.

The door slammed and Skinner turned to his lawyer, wary of the
two-way mirror in front of him. He noted the desperation in his voice, 
fully cognizant of the evidence that was rapidly piling against him. 
"Have you heard anything from Agents Mulder and Scully yet?"

The lawyer shook her head. "I haven't heard anything at all 
from them."

The Assistant Director nodded wearily. He studied the cinder 
walls around him, and wondered if he would be able to do a lifetime 
sentence within the confines of steel bars and cement walls.

He shook his head to dispel the thought. Mulder and Scully 
would come to his defense, just as they had before. They knew what 
was going on out there. Any minute now, his mind tried to convince 
itself. He kept his eyes on the door, watching for their arrival. 

Waiting.

***

The phone ringing jarred him out of a blackness that was not
reality, but not the unconsciousness that came with dreaming. As if
reciprocating his predicament, he had been floating in a netherworld 
between fact and fiction -- his pseudo-sleep marked with tones of
gray and charcoal.

No rest for the weary, indeed.

He shoved papers out of the way in reaching for the phone, 
hearing the soft swish as his father's letter landed on the floor.
Studying his cursive strokes had made his migraine worse, and trying
to decode tangible words had only compounded his fatigue.

His hand made contact with the receiver, and he reached for 
the light beside him, squinting when the yellow-white beam 
assaulted his eyes.

"Yeah... Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, this is Special Agent in Charge Peterson from 
the Baltimore Division."

"Yeah," his voice came out smoggy, slurred as his brain was 
slowly processing each statement and formulating a coherent reply.

"We have a problem here that could warrant your... services. 
We have a hostage situation. An elementary school here is held
hostage by a male with a package of sarin attached to his chest."

Mulder shook his head. "I don't understand how I..."

Peterson was quick to interrupt. Even though the SAC's voice
was grim, Mulder could swear he heard a smirk coming from the other 
end.

"He believes he was abducted by aliens."

Mulder pursed his lips, muttering an "I see." He rubbed a 
hand harshly over his eyes, watching colors dance over his eye lids.
Was it another test by his newest employers? Or was it a real 
red ball with a madman and innocent people?

The federal agent closed his eyes, reliving his previous 
hostage negotiating experiences. He rolled his shoulders, as he 
thought of John Barnett. Feeling the muscles in his neck protest 
louder, he once again cursed FBI rules and regulations. God, protocol 
had been such a bitch -- Mulder went to bed with her once, and in the 
morning after, had to attend Steve Wallenberg's funeral.

His body fully aware as to where his thoughts were leading too, 
Mulder's hands automatically clenched, his blood pressure began to 
rise, as his thoughts turned to Duane Barry. Rolling his neck again, 
Mulder sighed audibly into the phone. If there had been any 
reluctance on his part to go to Baltimore, he realized it was already 
long gone. There was no way he could defy the Consortium with the power 
that they had. With the depths that they could sink. 

Scully was a testament to that fact. 

And there was no way he could defy lending his services to 
the Baltimore division, at the risk of leaving innocent children to
the whims of a mad man. 

"Mulder... are you still there?"

The agent shook his head, inhaling sharply. "Just let me 
get some things prepared. I'll be right there."

***

Andrew Winters walked cautiously into the interrogation room, 
wary of his superior officer sitting in handcuffs across from him. 
He watched a head rise slowly and was assaulted by the intense
glare of his Assistant Director.

Winters sat down across from him, not saying anything, trusting
that Skinner had the most to lose by keeping his mouth closed. 

The silence dragged on. Winters could feel the second hand
of his watch beat against his wrist, while Skinner was content to
stare at a spot on the wall just behind the young agent's head.

Andrew looked up when he heard Skinner clear his throat. The 
Assistant Director opened his mouth, closed it again, appearing
contemplative, then spoke slowly. Hoarsely. As if his voice was not
used to speaking. "No matter what you found, I didn't do it, Agent
Winters."

The younger man nodded courteously. He had seen the pictures 
and the evidence that was rapidly being compiled against his superior 
officer. A conviction of treason and first degree murder would be most 
likely. 

Offenses punishable by death.

But something in Winters' mind protested. Something that made
him feel at unease seeing his boss in handcuffs. It was the same
queasiness he had felt when he found the metallic implants in the 
missing women. The same stomach grinding feeling that pointed out
that the Assistant Director had been awfully careless and painfully
obvious in killing a man. 

He watched as Skinner regarded the two-way mirror warily, and 
then lowered his head in his direction. Winters reciprocated the 
gesture, hearing the Assistant Director's harsh whisper assault his 
auditory canal.

"What I'm about to say... may seem incredible," Skinner
paused. He swallowed, unsure if what he was about to say was really 
the right thing to do. If this was really the right person to 
disclose everything he so desperately wanted to say.

"You have to believe me. Just listen to me when I say that the 
man who was murdered... The... the *group* that he works with 
is involved with the secrets that Section Chief Blevins was accused 
of."

Skinner watched the younger agent's eyebrows crease. "Rousch."

The Assistant Director nodded in confirmation. "I used to... I 
used to work with them as well." Skinner watched the younger agent 
instinctually sit back -- an attempt to distance himself from the 
accused. He drew his lips into a tight line, refusing to reveal 
his relief at knowing Winters believed the story, if not completely, 
at least partially. "When I threatened to... defect, this is...
well, you see the result of that threat."

The young agent's neutral expression didn't falter, and 
he nodded, inwardly processing the story's validity.

Skinner leaned in desperately. The close quarters were making 
him claustrophobic, and he spoke too harshly, too quickly to convince 
anyone of his innocence. "You have to believe me. Agents Mulder and 
Scully can vouch for the existence of this group. You have to talk to 
them."

Winters nodded.

Skinner shifted in his chair uneasily, uncomfortable with 
having to request the simplest things. It was beyond embarrassing -- 
beyond humiliating -- to fall into subordination, having to request 
washroom breaks and pleading to make a phone call. "Please tell them I 
need to speak with them as soon as possible."

Winters nodded again. "I'll see what I can do, sir."

Skinner flinched at the title of respect, surprised, and yet
slightly reassured. Winters got up slowly from the chair, and the 
Assistant Director watched the retreating figure, startled when the 
metal door slammed shut.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. 
Skinner looked to the clock, and realized it had been twenty four hours 
since he had last talked to Mulder and Scully. He rubbed a hand
over his face. 

Perhaps Scully would be a little more doubtful of his 
innocence -- she had clearly shown her ambiguity during the last time 
he had been charged with murder. But the knowledge that Mulder knew 
about everything relieved him. The section head of the X-Files 
division could vouch for the existence of Rousch and the duplicity of 
Section Chief Blevins. The Special Agent had first-hand knowledge of 
the conspiracy that was out there, and would be able to get the charges 
dropped.

If Scully couldn't do it, Mulder certainly would.

Right?

***

The makeshift control center, made hastily from a real estate 
office, was a flurry of barely controlled FBI and state police 
activity. The elementary school across the street was under the 
watchful eyes of a chopper flying overhead, and three dozen cruisers 
around the building. Yellow tape surrounded the growing crowd of 
buzzing onlookers, their faces shining underneath the glare of news 
lights. Men, masked in black, and armed with semi-automatics clashed
with the serenity of monkey bars and picture-adorned windows. 

Mulder walked in, feeling detached, hearing warped voices
talk over the whine of modems, fax machines, and cellular phones.
Someone approached him, pumped his hand roughly and introduced himself
as the Baltimore SAC.

He recognized the smell of caffeine and adrenaline, 
blindly absorbed the hastily written names on the green chalkboard
ten feet in front of him. Mulder suppressed a shiver, attempting
to push the feelings of deja vu away. 

The federal agent blinked, and suddenly the sounds turned 
normal, Peterson's concerned face floated into view. The two federal 
employees walked the length of the building, the SAC's voice 
inflecting in time to his steps.

"Perp's name is Vernon John Fulsom. Went to elementary school
here. Has a history of petty robbery, drug charges, and had an
on again, off again relationship with a militia group. Nothing
big. He's holed himself in one of the corner classrooms with twenty- 
four children and a teacher. His back is loaded with sarin."

Mulder nodded, understanding the conundrum. The SWAT team 
wouldn't be able to shoot, for fear of breaking one of the vials. 
Any methods of violence were immediately put on the back burner for
threat of unleashing the nerve gas. The only option, other than 
killing twenty five innocent children would be for the perp in 
question to surrender completely.

"What does he want?"

Peterson cleared his throat. "He claims that aliens have 
probed his body and have left implants in... various orifices."

Mulder nodded. "Do we know anything about his abduction 
experiences?"

Peterson shook his head, his lips maintaining a grim line. 
Mulder had to applaud the man for not openly scoffing the story as
the ramblings of a mad man. It was obvious the SAC wanted a peaceful
resolution -- even if it meant putting aside personal prejudices and
opinions. "Look, Mulder, I don't care if the guy says he's Clinton's
new lover. I just want this red ball to be over -- we've had enough
children dying in schools already, wouldn't you say?"

Mulder nodded his acknowledgement. "What's the plan so far?"

"Talk to him. He knows about you. You're the only one he's
agreed to speak to."

Mulder nodded grimly as Peterson steered him towards a headset.

"I know you had a situation like this a few years ago. So, 
just remember, don't perpetuate the fantasy, remind the perp that he 
has twenty-five innocent people in there."

He sat down gingerly, hearing static enter his ears. The 
lights overhead flickered off for a millisecond, then reluctantly 
started glowing again, much to the chagrin of the agents circulating 
around him. Mulder felt his jaw clench, needing to remind himself that
Vernon John Fulsom was not Duane Barry, despite the eerie similarities. 
A SWAT officer asked silently if he was ready, and Mulder numbly 
nodded yes.

He wanted to ask if they could slow things down... if he could 
have time to pause and breathe and think. The lies and fictions that 
he was telling were blending themselves into real life. Blending 
themselves so well that he couldn't distinguish between the two any 
longer. 

An electronics technician pointed at him, indicating that
the show had begun, and that he would get no respite. Suddenly, there 
was a dialtone, a phone ringing, and a rough voice. 

"Yeah."

Mulder cleared his throat. "Vernon?"

The man laughed harshly. "VJ will do, Mr. FBI. This is Agent
Mulder, right?"

"Yes, this is Agent Mulder. How can I help you, VJ?"

"I want to talk to you."

"I'm..."

"In person. Face to face."

Mulder balked, then nodded. "Okay... okay." He rubbed a hand 
absently over his forehead, when he caught Peterson mouthing "hostages" 
to him. "I'll talk to you, VJ, but we're going to need some sort of 
sign of faith. Can you release some of the children?"

"No."

"Whatever you want, VJ... the police here will be more willing
to get it for you if you can show some good faith."

There was a hesitant pause, and the gruff voice muttered. 
"Fine. Two children. One's looking sickly and the other one's... 
been messed up."

Mulder closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, feeling himself 
drowning in a situation that was moving too fast. "Do they need 
medical attention?"

There was another pause before there was an affirmative reply.

The agent took a deep breath before asking. "I can't treat 
those children myself, VJ. Any medical treatment will have to be
administered by a professional. Will you allow a paramedic to come
with me?"

The positive reply took an agonizingly long time to come. When 
the sullen "yes" came over the head set, Mulder let out a sigh of 
relief. "I'll call right before we arrive."

The connection went dead and he heard people being dispatched 
to retrieve bulletproof vests, mikes, and ear pieces. Another man was 
introducing himself, as someone was pulling kevlar over his head. The
entire set up was screaming Duane Barry. Agent Collins was pumping his 
hand, saying something about being an FBI agent with medical knowledge. 
He was wearing a blue uniform, and someone was shoving an identical 
shirt into his arms.

So Duane Barry. 

As eager hands pushed him towards the technician with the ear 
pieces and glue, Mulder absently wondered if the fall-out would be of 
the same magnitude.

***

"Oh, Agent Winters, the DA called and said they want a 
statement from you regarding AD Skinner's case."

Andrew turned around to try and locate the source of the voice 
when another figure stepped towards him. "Winters, here's the 
paperwork from the Omaha case that accounting wants from upstairs. 
They say they need it by Tuesday."

Winters opened his mouth to protest but five manila folders 
were thrust into his hands and he only caught the retreating figure of 
the Bureau assistant.

"Oh, Winters!!" A voice boomed. "Agent Scully called and
said that she got your message."

Andrew yelled blindly across the room. "Did she say if she 
was going to come here and talk to me?"

"How the hell should I know, man. I'm just the messenger."

The young agent swore under breath as he walked to his desk,
suddenly noticing the woman waiting nervously beside it.

Winters smiled as recognition struck. "Sheila... what are you
doing here?"

The woman didn't return the smile, seemingly shrinking further
into her chair. Her timid voice was a soft exhalation as if the words
had a difficult time passing though barely moving lips. "Have you
found anything?"

Andrew shook his head.

"What about... what they found in me."

He shook his head again.

The woman continued shaking, her hands wringing. Andrew 
noticed tears forming at the corner of her eyes. "Other women have 
been found with it? The same man did all of that?"

Andrew nodded. "Yes, there have been women who were abducted
before you who have been found with metal implants in them." The
federal agent tried to convey his reassurances to the woman who
had just been released from the hospital all of twenty four hours
ago. 

Yet another disappearance. Another return. 

And yet another woman with no memory of what had happened.

His phone suddenly shook off its cradle and Andrew hastily 
balanced on one foot, shifting the folders to one hand, grabbing for 
the speaker phone.

"Yes."

"Agent Winters? This is Agent Mulder. I got a message saying 
you needed to talk to me urgently. That it was an emergency. Did
something happen to Agent Scully?"

Andrew wrinkled his eyebrows at the breathless words and hum 
coming from the other line. "I uh..." he stuttered, trying to gather 
his thoughts, "needed some information regarding Assistant Director 
Skinner's charges. He said I should talk to you."

Winters heard a lengthy pause before the voice on the other
line swore, offering a terse reply. "That's your emergency? I'm on 
the case, Winters, and I'm dealing with a hostage situation. Unless 
your emergency is more severe than the emergency in Baltimore, talk
to Agent Scully."

Andrew balked at the terse reply. "But I thought..."

"Winters, I need to go. I can't deal with your crap right 
now." Someone in the background called Mulder's name, and the 
background buzz increased in volume. "Look," he heard Mulder breathe. 
"I'll get back toyou later, okay?"

The agent stared at the phone as the line went dead. He 
slammed the manila folders onto his desk, jabbing at the speaker 
phone to end the connection. 

He turned to apologize to the woman who had been speaking when 
he noticed she had disappeared. He walked to the front of desk, 
gasping at the woman who was writhing on the floor. 

"Sheila?"

The woman was muttering, whimpering, rocking as fluttering
fingers passed over the back of her neck. Andrew kneeled on his
haunches, attempting to comfort her by placing a reassuring 
hand on her leg.

The woman jumped as if burnt, and snapped out of her trance 
with a gasp. Startling blue eyes tracked Andrew's movements
suspiciously, and the federal agent extended his hand, helping
the woman stand when she hesitantly accepted the offer.

"Should I call a doctor?"

The woman shook her head frantically, her red hair falling 
into her face. She seemed unable to form words, her voice coming out 
in gasps. She finally licked her lips and pointed to the phone. 
"That's the voice of the man who took me."

***

"Where's Mulder?"

Scully stepped carefully into the seat across from Skinner, 
noticing how her superior's eyes darted from her to the door. She
wondered where the urgency in his voice came from -- wondered
why his eyes gazed at her distrustfully.

"He was requested in Baltimore by Dean Douglas and SAC
Peterson. A hostage situation."

Skinner closed his eyes, trying to remain calm. "Is there
any indication that the situation will be resolved soon?"

Scully shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not sure. Mulder didn't
say much. At the time of the call, I don't think he was yet made
aware of what his duties would entail." 

She tried to appear casual, tried to add nonchalant inflections
into her speech. It was true that Mulder had barely said anything in 
his terse, early morning phone call. When she found out her partner
had been *requested* by the brass upstairs, her worry had grown 
exponentially. 

He reassured her that he would call as soon as possible, still
dubious as to whether the Baltimore PD and FBI really needed 
his services. She assumed that they did, if her silent cellphone
and answering machine were any indication.

"Agent Scully, I need to ask a favor."

The female federal agent nodded cautiously. "Sure."

Skinner took a deep breath before proceeding slowly, as if 
deciding what he wanted to say was a laborious task. "Can you go
over the murder scene one more time? More specifically, can
you look at the forensic evidence -- the blood, toxicology. It's
your specialty -- and I would like to hear the evidence directly
from someone I trust."

Scully nodded, warming at Skinner's disclosure of the value
he placed into her investigative skills. "Sure." 

The Assistant Director offered a thankful smile, forcing his
lips to curl upward. "Thank you."

Scully reciprocated the forced smile, suddenly feeling the 
walls closing in. She made a show of getting ready to leave, 
wondering if her jerky movements would betray her sudden need to 
escape. She hastily belted her coat around her waist, nervously 
pushing her hair away from her face. "I'll get on your request right 
away."

"Tell Agent Mulder that I need to speak to him."

Scully covered her mouth, emitting a hoarse cough. She was
unable to offer a reply.

End of Part 8/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net & anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 9/20

The school was empty, and the agents' footsteps resonated 
dully off the parquet floor. The unnatural silence gnawed on Mulder's 
already jagged nerves, and he slanted a look at his morose companion, 
seeking some distraction. "Have you ever been in a hostage situation 
before?"

Collins did not seem eager to provide the conversation. "Once."

"How did it work out?" Mulder was mildly interested, 
regretting the question in the next second as he watched Collins' 
narrowed eyes and a tense face.

"It didn't," followed a terse reply. "There were two men and 
three women, and the bastard killed them one by one. Blew his head 
off after." Collins' voice softened. "We didn't even know for a while 
there was no one alive left." There was a lengthy pause, before his 
next words came out as a mutter. "Damn silencer."

Mulder felt hot sympathy engulf him as he listened to his 
account, guessing that the lack of emotion was inversely proportional 
to the depth of the scar. "What did the SOB want?"

"Money," Collins shrugged his shoulders. "Justice. Power over 
the universe. That's all they ever want, isn't it? And they usually 
never get it."

Five lives for green paper, Mulder mused as they approached the
classroom with children. For the lives of twenty something kids, with 
all the media attention that this negotiation was already receiving, 
there would be no problem gathering a significant amount of dollars. 
But somehow he doubted that monetary profit was what VJ was looking 
for, if his own presence here were any indication. Feeling the 
kevlar scratch underneath his armpits, Mulder suddenly wished for 
such simplicity.

They knocked on the door, and soon heard the footsteps 
followed by the sounds of the lock being unbolted. A haggard-looking, 
deathly pale man greeted them with a contemptuous sneer, watching the 
agents move inside the brightly colored room.

"Why, Agent Mulder, you brought a friend," VJ spoke in mocking
intonations, a definite flicker of recognition in his eyes that 
remained, otherwise, as murky as waters of a swamp. "Welcome to our 
humble abode."

"VJ, I am a medical doctor. Where are the kids who need my
attention?" Collins sounded about as human as a robot as he looked 
through the terrorist to the bunch of children huddled up in the 
corner. Their teacher, a young woman not older than twenty-five, 
obviously on the verge of tears and barely keeping it together, held 
the hand of one small girl who appeared to have a bad case of hiccups, 
undoubtedly caused by fear. She used the other hand to obsessively 
smooth the light brown hair of a boy whose arm appeared to have been 
bent at an unnatural angle. Tears had dried on his face and Mulder 
inhaled sharply, recognizing the tell-tale signs of shock.

"There they are," VJ pointed to the boy and to another girl who
sat a few steps away from the group, holding her belly. "She threw up a
few times, and he kind of broke his arm. . ." VJ stopped, and Mulder
silently wondered how exactly the *accident* happened, firmly deciding 
that he should not ask -- at least not now.

Collins moved to the children, a smile unexpectedly lighting 
his face, while Mulder forced himself to finally look at the thin man 
who nervously fingered the vial on his chest. "Real sarin, man. . . do 
you know what that stuff does to you?"

The agent nodded calmly. "I have an idea. Really messes up your
stomach and your head," he spoke lightly, dismissively, as if he didn't
realize that the seizures alone would cause irreparable damage to the
brain -- or that if medical help was not received shortly after 
exposure, death was inevitable. The incident in Tokyo subway was 
enough of a showcase. "No one will do anything to make you use it. We 
want to work together with you -- the police outside will do anything 
in their power to get this resolved."

"Oh yeah, I've already heard this chant from them today, Agent
Mulder," VJ sneered. "Tell me something new."

"Then tell me what you want, VJ," Mulder remembered all his
psychological skills, improved recently by the lessons of Miller as 
well as repeated practice. Inject the words with an almost magical 
kindness. Gain his trust. Let him say what's on his mind. Make him 
believe you. "You wanted to talk to me, here I am. Talk."

The man shivered slightly, cockiness disappearing for the time
being, his eyes flickering from the FBI agent to the children, then to
some unidentifiable point in the blue sky barely visible through the
drawn curtains. "I am tired, man. I am so tired -- and these 
things. . . they just won't leave me alone."

"What things? Aliens?"

VJ raised the gun to his face, looked at it curiously, as if
researching its inner mechanism. "I am dying."

Mulder did a double take, stunned. It was everything that he
was unprepared to hear. "Are you sick?"

"After as many times as I have been a guinea pig, Agent Mulder, why
should that surprise you?" the man sounded exhausted, and not at all 
sane. "They want to know what that poison did to me, so they take me 
once, then twice, and again, and again, and they put things inside me, 
and do you have any idea what that's like?"

The agent nodded, remembering Duane Barry and his "it's like 
living with a gun to your head." This went beyond deja vu. This was 
twilight zone. "What poison?" he inquired, still not understanding 
what VJ was raving about.

"Oh, don't tell me you don't know," VJ bared his teeth in an 
ugly resemblance of a smile. "The Gulf War Syndrome? That weapon they
tested on all of us -- didn't think we would live long enough to 
testify?"

Mulder felt cold anger rise inside him, an almost murderous 
rage directed at Peterson and all the others who didn't do enough 
research -- again -- or just never bothered to inform him of his 
subject's history. The other agent was suddenly standing in front of 
him, and he snapped back to the situation at hand.

"I want to take the children outside. I hope you let me come 
again if something else happens," Collins spoke to VJ with a forced 
politeness.

"Just go before I change my mind," the terrorist snarled at 
him, and Collins gathered both children in his arms, signing a 
thumbs-up to the remaining agent and exiting quickly.

"I didn't know you were in the Gulf."

"Everyone forgets about wars so easily, especially if they 
ended in a victory," VJ philosophized sadly. "It's only us, veterans, 
who know anything about it. A lot of my buddies died there, and now I 
am next."

"I am sorry, VJ," Mulder was busy trying to superimpose what he
knew of the Gulf War Syndrome symptoms with the man's unhealthy 
appearance. Definitely anxiety and fatigue -- but there was no way to 
verify anything else.

"Bet you are. I think we are all getting sick from that weapon
they tested out there, guess they wanted to kill the enemy but didn't 
know its strength and ended up killing their own people."

Mulder felt a migraine rising. "Who are they?"

VJ looked at him as if he were insane. "The government, who
else?"

"VJ, I'm getting confused," Mulder wasn't lying. This story 
had so many holes, raised so many questions, and he simply failed to 
understand what perverse logic could possibly lay behind it. "I 
thought the aliens were the ones who experimented on you?" In his ear 
piece, he heard a worried voice of Peterson telling him not to anger 
the subject, and ignored it pointedly.

"Don't you get it?" VJ waved his gun in the air, exasperated. 
"They are all working together. That weapon was obviously created with 
some extraterrestrial help -- and our precious government, the United 
States of America, my ass, helped them try it out," he stopped for a 
moment, disgusted. "I thought you, of all people, would believe me!"

One of the children started crying suddenly, and VJ grimaced 
as if in pain, moving too fast for Mulder to realize what was 
happening. In the next second, the terrorist was shaking the scared 
kid, and the agent was beside him, imploring him to stop, trying to 
contain his own horror. "VJ, please. This is just a small boy -- 
remember what happened the last time -- you broke that boy's arm -- 
I am listening! I believe you, VJ!"

The teacher grabbed the small form, hugging it close as the 
man left the child momentarily. "I just hate it when they cry," he 
whispered hoarsely, a comment obviously not directed at anyone in the 
room.

"I trust you," Mulder edged away from the children gradually, 
trying to get VJ to follow him. "You have to trust me, too. I am 
working for you. You were telling me that the weapon that our 
government used in the Persian War was of extraterrestrial nature. Do 
you mean to say that the aliens experimented on you later on to find 
out the effects of the said weapon on your physiology?"

"Now, was that so hard?" VJ flashed an angry look at the agent. "And
I bet that the people who made this weapon, they probably know how to 
cure this disease. And I don't want to die yet, my man. No, I don't,
no matter how much I might miss my buddies."

Mulder looked at the sarin pointedly. "You know, I am not 
certain if the Gulf War Syndrome is fatal, but that thing will kill 
you for sure. It's your life too, VJ, remember that."

A strange smile crossed the emaciated face momentarily. "Sorry 
to disappoint you, my man, but I am not planning to die today."

The agent rubbed his temples, not sure what to make of this. 
"Let's get this straight, VJ. You are asking for the cure for your 
disease, is that all?"

"And something else, too," VJ continued smiling. "I want the 
truth about Gulf War Syndrome out. And about all the little cohorts of 
our government with the aliens. And I know, Agent Mulder," threatening 
notes entered his voice, "I know you can do it for me. Some people 
informed me of the nature of your work."

Mulder suppressed a shiver. "I will have to go and speak to the
police and other FBI agents of your demands." As Peterson continued to
whisper in his ear about hostages, he asked softly: "Would you care to
part with a few children? You don't need them all, and you know that
they are way too much trouble."

"You are not asking me to be partial and choose between them, 
are you? Or do you want to do that for me?" VJ produced some sound 
which Mulder interpreted as a laugh. "Go, do whatever it is you have 
to do -- but I want a revolution to happen today."

* * *

Scully tried to concentrate on the papers in front of her, but 
the numbers and letters danced and blurred together, refused to 
produce meaning to her tired senses. It was already three in the 
afternoon, and there was still no word from Mulder. Unless he 
absolutely couldn't get to the phone, he would have already called and 
let her know what was going on, would have asked her for help if he 
needed it. She didn't let herself guess what reasons could possibly 
prevent him from doing so.

Mulder's empty desk stared at her from across the room and a
sensation of foreboding swept over her momentarily, a strange certainty
that it would remain empty for a long time to come. But of course, 
there was no reason. . . she was just being silly, and she dropped her 
eyes quickly, ashamed of her weakness. The first line in the bloodwork 
report, Subject Name: Unidentified, swam into her line of vision. How 
fitting, she thought fleetingly. Despite the fact that the Smoking Man 
supposedly had a name now, he would always remain the unidentified 
shadow, a face disappearing in a cloud of gray smoke. Scully supposed 
that if they had ever asked him what his name was, he would have told 
them -- wouldn't bother to keep it a secret -- but it was always so 
much easier to call him Cancerman.

So much simpler to classify the enemy.

All the values in the report were decidedly normal. She found 
it bizarre that there wasn't nicotine rather than blood coursing 
through the veins of that man. He was not poisoned. There were no 
drugs or alcohol in his system. Even the red and white cell counts 
were perfectly standard, no cancer. Rarely a deviation from the norm, 
no indication of genetic diseases -- everything as ordinary and boring 
as a glass of water. 

There just had to be something here that could help Skinner, 
and Scully desperately wanted to find it. Even if he was a murderer, 
which she found hard to believe, he was also a man who sold his soul 
in the hope of giving her life. Even if she resented the obligation 
that weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Her eyes fell on the blood group, AB, and for a moment she 
thought there was something strange about that. . . a subconscious 
feeling that was gone quickly.

"Agent Scully, may I speak to you?"

The agent suddenly realized that she was not alone in the
room, and she turned in annoyance to look at Andrew Winters.

"I am sorry, I tried knocking but you didn't answer," he 
apologized quickly. "What are you working on?"

Scully took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Reminded 
herself that this young man was not to blame for her problems. "I'm 
going over Henry Davidson's bloodwork."

"Anything?"

"No," she replied resolutely, closing the folder. "I received 
your message regarding Assistant Director Skinner, but I haven't had a 
chance yet to come and talk to you in person."

"It's all right. I spoke to him yesterday and he claims that 
he has been framed and that the organization responsible works with a 
company called Rousch. Do you know anything about it? Is it possible 
that these photographs may have been faked? After all, the lab guys 
are absolutely certain that the pictures are real. . ." Andrew trailed 
off, suddenly unsure of why his mouth was running off, why he was 
doubting such irrefutable evidence.

Scully sighed, reviewing what little information she could 
safely share with him. "After Blevins, I tried to find some 
information about them on the Internet -- but there is absolutely 
nothing. Sometimes, it seems they don't exist," she said truthfully. 
"But I do know Skinner. And I find it very hard to believe that he 
would be responsible for murder," she finished softly, guilt washing 
over her once again.

Andrew leaned back in a chair, immensely tired of everyone 
speaking in half-truths. "Wasn't there a suspicion that they were 
responsible for engineering your cancer?" Silence ensued, and he went 
on, undaunted. "Wouldn't it be natural to conclude that they may deal 
with biological or chemical research?"

Scully glanced at him sharply. "These are guesses, Agent 
Winters."

The agent contemplated the small woman in front of him,
suddenly noticing an almost eerie likeness between her and Sheila 
Freeman as the memory of this morning's incident sprang to his mind. 
The incident which he dismissed as the ranting of a woman mad -- or 
at least, severely traumatized. He forced it out of his head. "You 
know, I feel like I am hitting a wall every time I talk about this 
case. And I'm carrying such a huge load already, and would you believe 
it, I didn't even notice that Christmas had come and gone," he added 
under his breath, not sure why he was sharing personal information 
with Scully, who was practically a stranger.

Scully's face softened, a fleeting smile playing on the 
corners of her lips. "Yes, the Bureau does seem to exert an odd effect 
on holiday traditions. This Thanksgiving was an blast especially -- 
Mulder's mother died on Friday, and then I had to fly to 
Greenwich. . ."

A heavy pause ensued as she returned back to that surreal day,
wondered what would have happened if she hadn't found that damn letter 
in a box. The answer was easy: her partner would be here, neither of 
them would have anything to hide, and they would probably be safely 
investigating some evil spores from another planet. She should have 
burned it and scattered the ashes at sea.

Wishful thinking, no less.

"Did you speak with Agent Mulder today? He was in such a hurry,
sounded as if he was in some sort of a hostage negotiation. . ." 
Andrew asked curiously and noted that her cool mask dropped for a 
second.

"Yes, in Baltimore," her voice felt scratchy in her throat.

"I think I saw it on the news. The guy claims to have been 
abducted by aliens, he has sarin attached to himself and twenty-four 
kids holed up in a classroom. You know, if it wasn't so sad, it would 
be funny," Andrew smiled, realizing too late what effect this news 
had on Scully. She jumped to look for a remote, gripped her desk 
tightly as the room appeared to spin for a moment. Attempted to steady 
herself as her thumb hastily tried to find the power button.

Alarmed, Andrew watched her search for CNN. "Agent Scully, I'm
sure he's all right."

Her lips pressed in a thin line, she listened to the news 
report, concentrating her attention on it fully. Understanding that 
his presence in the room was no longer desired -- or even noticed, 
for that matter, Andrew excused himself. 

For some reason that he still couldn't quite pin down, the 
entire situation with Sheila was now more disquieting than ever. He 
could not imagine Fox Mulder involved in anyone's kidnapping.

And still, he had the nasty feeling that maybe Sheila was not 
mistaken.

* * *

On the way back to the classroom, Mulder hurriedly read over 
the newspaper headline and an article he wrote about an hour ago and 
that was hastily printed by one of the newspapers whose reporters were 
standing outside. For once, he was happy to have media nearby, though 
as they read his story about the government's alliance with aliens and 
experimentation on human subjects, they must have thought him insane. 
Peterson only shook his head, resigned. Mulder couldn't care less.

The "antidote" was the easiest part, just a mixture of some 
strong sleeping pills and food colorings to make it look exotic. The 
agent raised the vial to the light, chuckled at the greenish swirls 
in the thick fluid.

Now, he only had to keep VJ from crashing the packages with 
sarin once he hit the ground, stone-cold.

If only he could trust himself to do it.

Taking a deep breath, Mulder knocked on the door once again. VJ
regarded him coolly, took the offered vial and the newspaper in silence
and started reading under the dim illumination provided by the 
streetlight.

"Are you satisfied, VJ?" the agent asked quietly. "The whole
country has just been taken by storm. I am sorry that we don't have a
TV in here or you would see some interesting news."

The terrorist continued to read. "So you believe me."

"Of course I do. I have been investigating these shadowy 
dealings for a long time, and I should probably thank you for 
providing me such a great opportunity to sink my teeth into those 
bastards," Mulder replied with enthusiasm, getting into the role, 
hearing Peterson's happy, excited whisper in the ear piece. "I wasn't 
sure it would work when I left here, but. . . Doesn't it make you 
proud that you live in the country where children's lives still mean 
more than the cover-up of lies?"

VJ stared at the vial. "I am going to live if I drink that?"

Mulder nodded, smiling. "I was assured of that. I do want to 
ask you, though -- how did you know about me?"

VJ dug into his jeans pocket, produced a picture and handed it 
to the agent. "That you, right? One friend of mine told me you could 
help me, man. That you would believe me and I could get my life back."

Mulder shuddered visibly at the touch of reverence in his 
voice, wondering who led this madman to him and how exactly he got 
such peculiar reputation. Glanced at the unnaturally silent hostages 
huddled close together. "Drink it, VJ. Let's see some magic."

"All right. But. . ." the thin man staggered in the direction 
of the kids. "I want one of them to drink it first, you know? I trust 
you, man, but I want to try it on someone else, first."

Mulder quickly evaluated his options, watching as VJ lifted up
one of the girls who immediately started squirming. The worst that 
could happen was she would fall asleep -- but VJ would still drink it,
unsuspecting the foul play. "All right. Let me hold her," Mulder heard 
the words tumble out of his mouth, and for a split second wondered
what part of him made the decision. Took the child in his hands 
automatically.

He almost fell over from the scream he heard in his ear in the 
next moment. Someone, not Peterson, but another voice, someone he 
didn't know was telling him not to let the child drink the medicine, 
that it was poison, and that VJ was supposed to die. Mulder released 
the screaming girl and grabbed for the vial, registering the look of 
betrayal on the other man's face. The shards of glass, covered with 
the thick fluid, lay everywhere on the floor.

VJ reached into his pocket again and produced a small gray 
pill, swallowing it with the speed of a magician, but his other hand 
did not quite complete the way to opening the package with sarin. The 
agent caught the convulsing body half-way to the floor, shielding the 
poison gas, comprehension of today's events dawning slowly.

He didn't want to believe that he has been manipulated so well.
Once again, he had served as a mere pawn in the carefully orchestrated 
operation.

In several minutes, an EMT was prying the dead man out of
Mulder's hands, and the children were crying in the background. Their
teacher, alternating between laughter and tears, was trying to hug him
and he responded weakly, shaking Peterson's hand at the same time. 
Red and blue whites washed over everything as he numbly crossed 
the street from the school. Reporters yelled at him from far away, and
in the distance, the body of Vernon John Fulsom was being taken to
the Baltimore city morgue.

It was all over.

But how could he begin to explain that he was the only person 
to blame for this incident?

End of Part 9/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net & anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 10/20

The X-Files office was still locked at eleven in the morning, 
and Scully reached in her bag for the keys, exhaustion overwhelming 
her for a moment. Watching the coverage from Baltimore on TV, alone 
in the cramped basement, was too unnerving, the recollections of Duane 
Barry were too fresh, and since she was unable to reach either the 
negotiations center or Mulder's cellular, she decided to stop 
torturing herself and simply drove there.

Scully arrived just in time to see the children being 
dispatched to their parents, situation apparently resolved. Adding to 
the general atmosphere of tumult and celebration was a crowd of 
reporters, TV cameras, and flashing lights that seemed to grow 
exponentially. The live wall that they created was nearly impossible 
to get through, but soon she realized that she didn't have to, 
because the only person the media seemed to be focused on was the one 
she was desperately searching for. Mulder.

He didn't see her, and Scully stepped back immediately,
searching for a quiet place to wait them out, too aware of the desire 
to touch her partner and make sure he was alive. Leaning against the 
wall, she watched the police and FBI agents slowly disperse. The 
lights of ambulances, TV cameras and headlights of the passing cars 
washed the beige school building in grotesque colors. A bad place, 
thought Scully, come on in and smell the nerve gas.

She watched casually as a well-dressed older gentleman spoke 
with another man. He turned momentarily, revealing his profile, and 
Scully's hands grew cold as she put the name, James Milton, with the 
face of a man who warned her of impending danger when Mulder was 
missing. On the way to a limousine, after saying good-byes, the other 
man threw a brief look at Scully, recognition but no light in the pale 
eyes. And she could only gaze at the departing car, wondering why a 
complete stranger recognized her while she could not recall ever 
meeting him.

Before James Milton noticed her, Scully went back to her car 
and put the keys in ignition. This hostage negotiation was somehow 
connected to the Consortium, she had absolutely no doubt about it now, 
and the realization chilled her to the bone, made her teeth chatter as 
she pulled the coat around her tighter, turned on the heat in the car 
with shaking fingers. Did Mulder know about it? During his early 
morning phone call, was he aware that twenty-four children were 
placed in danger simply on someone's whim?

The answers eluded her, and much as she wanted to believe in
her partner's ignorance, the doubt weighed massively on her heart. Her
shivers gradually subsided as the colorful crowd of reporters melted. 
From afar, Mulder looked bone-weary and yet he produced a pleasant 
smile while walking up to the Englishman and shaking his hand briefly. 
And though his eyes tracked over the remaining people, as if searching 
for someone else, Scully knew that she could not risk walking up to 
him at this moment. And even if she could, she wasn't sure if she had 
the strength to face him right now.

She knew that she would not be able to close her eyes later in 
the night as her unwilling hands moved to start the engine. And she 
knew that the cellular phone would remain frustratingly silent all 
night long, because he wouldn't call, and she would be too proud to 
dial the familiar number.

Now, after a sleepless night, she was late for work, where the 
empty desk greeted her again. And Scully was very grateful that there 
was no one who saw her face in that moment, when she could literally 
feel the walls close in on her.

On the desk, she found a note asking her to run the analysis 
on some gray pills stuffed in a cellophane bag. For some reason, that 
little thing, the impersonal request hastily scribbled on a piece of 
paper, was the final drop that broke the dam, and Scully sat down 
heavily, all her anguish and loneliness pouring out in a flood of 
tears. This is how Mulder must have felt when he met Samantha, she 
realized with a start. It must have killed him that she was alive, 
healthy, but as unreachable as the stars in the sky.

Hating herself for being melodramatic, she wiped the tears off 
angrily. There was no reason to get so worked up over this, she told 
herself sternly as she grabbed the pills on the way to the lab.

But suddenly, Scully knew exactly why the findings on 
Cancerman's blood group surprised her. Samantha's group was 00. She 
remembered it perfectly as one of the few pieces of information they 
had gotten on her during the Roche case. Just another atrocity 
embedded in her dreams, digging through the dirt with her bare hands 
and watching her partner rapidly disintegrate before her very eyes, 
one shred of his heart after another.

Cancerman had lied. Samantha was not his daughter.

* * *

The VCS department was alive with chatter and gossip today, and
Andrew did not have to guess the topic of the conversation. A tired 
face of Fox Mulder smiled at him from the morning newspaper, the 
headline above it proclaimed: "FBI AGENT SAVES LIVES." Andrew stared 
at the picture for a long time, searching the familiar face, 
imagining that there was pain and resignation hidden behind the 
courteous smile. Mulder was an enigma that only seemed to grow more 
puzzling with time.

And Winters was still very interested in Sheila Freeman's 
reaction to his voice.

Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, and the young agent 
turned around, startled.

"Agent Winters, may I speak with you for a moment?" Dean 
Douglas greeted him warmly.

"Sure," Andrew tried to gather the manila folders and books 
off the extra chair in his cubicle, but gave up when he understood 
that he had nowhere else to put them. "What's going on?"

"I just spoke with the newly appointed Assistant Director," 
Douglas said slowly, as if doubting that the conversation actually 
took place. Since he had seen the pictures of Walter Skinner holding 
a gun that shot Henry Davidson, the changes at work just kept on 
coming, and few of them were for the best. "He would like to request 
your services in another department."

"A transfer?" the young man echoed softly, dismay reflecting 
on his face when his boss confirmed. "Where?"

"Actually, you might find this new assignment interesting -- 
though a bit peculiar," Douglas replied, his own disappointment at 
losing one of the best agents in the department apparent. "Have you 
heard of the X-Files?"

Andrew just stared, shocked. "But. . . Agent Mulder. . ."

"Is the new Assistant Director. Most of it is good publicity, 
I think, and Director Robinson was quite in favor of his candidature," 
Douglas shrugged and exited the small cubicle, leaving his agent 
open-mouthed.

* * *

Scully sat in the large fifth-floor office and gazed outside at
the impressive view of Washington D.C. downtown. Across the table sat 
her partner -- ex-partner, her mind corrected mechanically -- and she 
has just realized that addressing him by the simple name of Mulder 
was improper conduct.

"I was trying to find you last night," she finally said, 
deciding to avoid names or titles for now.

"So was I," he replied colorlessly, still hurt by her absence 
even as he realized the lack of rationalism in that feeling. Because 
after walking out of that stuffy classroom, the only person he wanted 
to see was Scully. And the only one he didn't want to see was Milton. 

"I was there," she mouthed softly and turned away, realizing 
that this conversation would probably be as pointless as every other 
conversation that didn't transpire on the newsgroup. It made her 
throat constrict with the unshed tears, and she struggled to maintain 
her composure.

Mulder's eyes darkened as he watched her upset face, suddenly 
understanding the reasons why he didn't see her last night. "Oh, 
screw this," he muttered under breath and pulled his chair from behind 
the desk, putting it next to Scully's. At least physically, they were 
now on the same level. "Did you find out what the pills were?"

"Cyanide," she replied, seemingly unimpressed with his gesture.
"Where did they come from?"

"VJ swallowed one yesterday. I am pretty sure he didn't know 
what it was. They were always in his pocket -- he was planning on 
using them in case he decided to dispense with the kids."

"He thought it was an antidote to sarin, didn't he?" Scully
instantly regretted the question, watching as Mulder stiffened and 
chewed his lower lip. "May I perform the autopsy?"

"Military is handling it," he replied quickly, if gently, 
signaling that this conversation was over. Whoever staged this hostage 
charade at the Consortium certainly liked drama, he thought 
sarcastically -- even VJ's death had to resemble Duane Barry's. A sick 
man who blabbered a little too much about the Gulf War and aliens had 
been cruelly manipulated to commit suicide. Twenty four children and 
a young woman had been put in danger, two children still in hospital 
-- all of them fighting night terrors. While he, Scully, and hundreds 
of other law enforcement officials had to go through the 
adrenaline-fed hell that came with a hostage negotiation.

All to gain some publicity and have an opportunity to promote 
him.

On the other hand, Mulder already guessed who staged this
charade. He just had to confirm it.

"I was worried about you yesterday," Scully's voice broke and 
she was finally embarrassingly aware of the wetness in her eyes. It 
seemed as if every little hitch today had suddenly gained the ability 
to make her cry. "I was watching CNN coverage from Baltimore. . . 
and I could not reach you."

Mulder shaded his face with his hands. "I'm so sorry, Scully. 
I never had an opportunity to call you and let you know what was 
going on."

"I understand. You are a busy man these days, aren't you?" 
her voice held no trace of sarcasm but he flinched as if burnt.

Scully scolded herself mentally. She was behaving like a 
child. There was no reason to start fighting now. She had to maintain 
the belief that everything could still get back to normal.

The onerous silence was disrupted by Andrew Winters who 
addressed Mulder deferentially and nodded to Scully politely. In turn, 
she smiled slightly and threw a puzzled look at the newly appointed 
Assistant Director.

"Agent Winters, due to my changed position," Mulder shrugged
self-consciously, "I was hoping you wouldn't mind working as Agent 
Scully's partner from now on. You are already working with her on 
Davidson's murder, after all." And I know that you are honest and I 
can trust you, he added silently. Acknowledging that he had to prove 
that he was happy with his present position at the Consortium, but 
that he was worried about Scully, Winters' assignment was the best 
compromise Mulder could think of on the fly. He gazed knowingly at 
Scully as he spoke. "The cases that come to the X-Files department 
may be bizarre at times, but even a skeptic like her could not resist 
their appeal."

Scully had to smile at that, much as her heart ached at
the notion of working with someone else. Mulder was watching her with a
plea in his eyes, and she nodded back slightly, accepting his decision. She
put on her most gracious expression and smiled at Winters. "Well, I can 
promise you will enjoy the mind-bending surprises of working with 
ghosts and mutants."

"I would be honored," Winters said simply to Scully, 
pretending not to notice the strain in her voice. "Though I regret 
leaving Violent Crimes."

That was only partly true, the young agent amended silently. 
The job of profiling was often too much to bear, and the new 
assignment was seductive. However, he still hoped that it was not... 
permanent.

Mulder looked at him, trying to hide his surprise, remembering 
his own joy when he left the department. "Well, perhaps, you will have 
a chance to return there," he replied. Along those wishful lines, 
Mulder wondered if Skinner would ever return to the chair he was 
sitting in now. If Mulder would ever get possession of the X-Files 
again. And if, when he could finally gather enough courage to 
apologize, Scully would forgive him for everything he had done since 
that fateful day at the corner diner. 

Scully rose to her feet reluctantly. "Agent Winters, if you 
come with me, I will try to welcome you. . . to our basement."

The young man accepted the offer with a gracious smile, 
appreciating his new partner's humor. 

"Are there any new developments in Davidson's case?" Mulder
interjected quickly, cursing himself for the emotional inflection in 
his voice. The first court hearing was scheduled for tomorrow, and he 
shuddered imagining himself in Skinner's situation. Because from
where he stood, there were only a few steps to where Skinner was 
standing right now. 

"No, but... Cancerman's blood was AB. What was Samantha's?" 
Scully watched as her ex-partner's eyes widened in shock, while Andrew 
was busy trying to comprehend the meaning behind the cryptic message.

"Thank you," he said dully. "Please tell me if you find 
something else."

Scully swallowed the automatic formal reply before it had a 
chance to leave her lips and suddenly at a loss for other words, 
produced a shaky smile instead.

Mulder got up and opened the door for them silently.

And the way from the Assistant Director's office to downstairs 
had never seemed quite as long.

* * *

Miller was playing chess alone when Mulder stepped into his 
office. He often started a game in between sessions with his patients, 
and many years of practice made him an expert in this ancient art. 
Now, if he moved a Queen to B-6, whites would have a chance at taking 
a few more pieces. . .

"If you move a Queen there, the whites will lose."

"Fox, I didn't even see you come in here," Miller extended a 
hand to him. "I am just indulging myself with my little hobby."

"I can finish this game for blacks, if you like," Mulder 
offered and the doctor almost clapped his hands in delight.

"Be my guest! It has been awhile since I've had a chess 
partner," Miller reviewed his position carefully and moved a Queen to 
a different place. "You were right."

Mulder shrugged and moved a pawn. "It was your idea to use
VJ for publicity, wasn't it?" The question sounded more like a 
statement. It took all of his powers of concentration not to scream 
at the man in front of him, not to unleash all the fury within his 
heart.

The doctor threw an admiring look at his opponent. "Yes. Based 
on the information we had in his file, he fit the criteria, and he 
served his purpose nicely, wouldn't you say?"

"Why didn't you inform me of this?"

Miller shook his head, reviewing the chess board. "Oh, but I 
knew you would be against it from the start. You just do not know how 
to use people. No, that's not it. . ." he wrinkled his forehead, 
searching for proper words. "You don't realize that some people only 
serve as a means to an end. I knew you would behave in a certain way, 
and I knew he would behave in a certain way. I was not the one who 
took care of the rest of the details, such as supplying him with 
sarin, pills, and. . . a few ideas on how to utilize them. And we do 
have other people in the FBI and police who can be counted upon to 
lend us a hand."

"It was almost perfect."

"Well, some things we can't predict. But either way it worked 
out fine," Miller smiled with satisfaction, oblivious to Mulder's 
deceptively soft voice.

For a moment, the agent was torn -- one part of him shuddering 
at the cold dismissal of a human life, another applauding the man
whose psychological expertise was the key to a successful staging of
Baltimore drama. "Was he really dying?"

"Who knows? The effects of this weapon are still largely 
unknown. Personally, I am not aware of the lethal cases of the Gulf 
War Syndrome. . . it is all in a dosage, I suppose."

Another piece of a puzzle fell into place. Biological weapons 
of extraterrestrial nature would certainly be considered a worthy 
benefit from Rousch's experimentation -- all in the name of democracy 
and safety of the American public, no doubt. He wondered what other 
parts there were to the project that he wasn't aware of.

"Eventually, you will understand the large picture, Fox," 
Miller answered his silent question. "But you have not been long 
enough with this organization yet for us to trust you implicitly. 
To this end, I must commend the fact that you have immediately paired 
Agent Scully with someone else. What's in the past. . ."

Mulder laughed uneasily. "I would be a fool to pretend that it
didn't kill me inside, Miller," he moved another piece lazily and 
looked at his opponent perceptively. "If you know me that well, you 
must also know how much she means to me."

"I do. We all have our weaknesses, and Agent Scully is yours," 
the old doctor sounded oddly sympathetic. "I used to have a son. He 
was my weakness. His mother abandoned me when he was very small, and 
he and I, having no one else, were as close as two human beings can 
be, until he became ill. Leukemia," Miller pronounced the word with a 
touch of fear. "I would have done anything to make him better, and at 
the time Rousch was working on a cure for it. I think it was a side 
product of something else, but no matter. That is when your father 
asked me to join the organization."

"My father?" Mulder echoed, his pulse accelerating immediately.
"Did you know him well?" before firing off another question, he stopped
himself with an apology. "Forgive me for interrupting."

"It's all right," Miller waved a hand. "We used to work 
together, but we were never friends. I am grateful to him even though 
my son died before we had medicine that could heal him. Time, Fox, is 
merciless. And you never have enough," he finished in a whisper.

Mulder watched the sadness and longing in the older man's face 
and felt his anger drain away slowly, only to be replaced with 
sympathy. He could identify -- oh, so well -- with everything that 
Miller related, remembering his own despair when Scully became ill. 
And if the only way to cure his son was to start working for the 
Consortium, then it was the only way and he had to take it.

Because there, indeed, was never enough time.

Getting a handle on his strangely changed feelings toward the
doctor, Mulder cornered the white King with a black Knight. "You lose, 
and I have an appointment. Later," he spoke lightly and stepped out 
of the room.

Miller smiled excitedly, looking at the board. What a 
beautifully executed victory, he thought. It was hardly surprising, 
however, that the bright boy he used to know had become a brilliant 
man.

He only wished that this brilliance was enough to decipher 
whatever message it was that Bill Mulder left in a letter to his son.

Mulder leaned against the white wall and stared at the 
blinding light overhead until he felt tears burn in his eyes. The game 
was easy. The conversation extracted an unimaginable toll. He wished 
that this building, these people he worked with now could just 
disappear, that he could just shrug them off like a nightmare that 
disintegrates in the sunlight of the morning, leaving no recollection 
of its events. Perhaps, he could get Miller to erase his memory of 
the time he spent here, he thought with mounting hysteria. Then, if 
Scully asked him where he spent all this time away from the office, 
and ask she would, and soon, he could just tell her that he did 
not remember.

It would be so perfect.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Mulder slowly regained 
his focus, reminding himself that seriously entertaining such thoughts 
were a one way ticket to a straight jacket and padded walls. So the 
Consortium kept files on the people they were interested in. Probably 
on everyone who has ever been taken or experimented upon. He didn't 
know why it should have surprised him so, or why he didn't think to 
look for them previously. It would only be natural to look for them 
now. 

To look for a folder labeled Samantha Mulder.

And even though she didn't want to know him, even if she had no 
desire to learn the truth about herself -- he still wanted to know the 
truth about what happened to her.

Even if he never saw her again.

End of Part 10/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 11/20

Assistant Director.

Walter Skinner ran the title over his tongue, feeling his body 
parts becoming numb against the lumpy cot in his jail cell. He closed 
his eyes, trying to recall what exactly was in the job description 
when the Director and FBI brass had offered him the job. For some 
reason, however, his mind remained frustratingly blank -- he could not 
recall any of the terms he had so patriotically agreed to when he 
signed his contract.

His job had metamorphosed over the years. Most of the changes 
had stemmed from a certain division in the basement of the J. Edgar 
Hoover Building. The stability of tedium had been replaced by the 
Excedrin-yielding spontaneity of two federal agents. Paperwork -- the 
staple of bureaucratic monotony -- had been transformed to 
pseudo-prosaic confabulations about the paranormal. And admittedly, 
Skinner had felt something for his agents, had admired their 
relentless pursuit for the truth, and their refusal to stoop 
to the Consortium's levels.

And now Mulder was Assistant Director.

And Skinner could swear he could still smell the salty tang of 
blood, from where he had been stabbed in the back. Forget about 
Krycek the Rat, Mulder had become the new weasel on the block, and 
the squeaky mattress underneath Skinner groaned as his body weight 
abruptly shifted -- as his blood pressure rose, and his face grew red 
with thoughts of betrayal.

Mulder was too brash; he clashed with the pot-bellied, 
hair-thinning FBI brass. Skinner smiled -- Mulder would never 
survive as the Assistant Director, and he morbidly anticipated 
the younger agent to fail, and soon. Mulder knew next to nothing about 
dealing with authorities, about playing paper-laden ring around the 
rosy with the upper brass. 

But, his mind countered, Mulder's past had been pot-marked by 
contacts, by government officials... by the legacy of his father. He 
had been with VCS -- had been a part of the panhandling, paper work, 
and media frenzy that had continued past Bill Patterson's tenure into 
insanity. 

Skinner was drumming his fingers against the cot, trying to 
make some semblance of the puzzle pieces in front of him. 

The Consortium had planted evidence to implicate him for 
murder.

And Mulder was promoted in his place. 

So, either the young agent had suddenly developed a bout of 
ignorance, or he had finally succumbed to bastards on West 46th.

Skinner shuddered, closing his eyes, knowing that it was the 
greater of the two evils that Mulder had fallen to. He wondered if 
Scully was unaware of her partner's betrayal or if she was involved as 
well and couldn't decide. As dependent as the two agents were on each 
other, it was highly plausible. . . and if she were involved, it would 
certainly explain her unwillingness to help him.

He panicked -- wondering if Mulder had joined the Consortium 
willingly and if he felt any guilt. Did he even give a second thought 
about putting his Assistant Director in jail? Why would he have felt 
the need to...

Skinner was tempted to laugh hysterically. He was too aware 
of the suspicion Mulder still held towards him. More importantly, he 
wondered where the sudden need to know in what esteem Mulder held him 
in came from.

The agent's hesitance during their meeting at his apartment, 
his jerky, nervous behavior when he had requested that they look into 
his murder charge -- it was so goddamned clear now. So much for his 
Assistant Director skills and his ability to read people.

Because Walter Skinner had been blind to it all.

***

In the end, the blood of Benjamin de Hecht -- Captain of the 
NYPD -- had splattered into a familiar blossom, reminiscent of the 
blood-stained window that John Lee Roche left behind. The bullet 
from the silenced PP7 had charged the surrounding air, hiding 
everything behind a smokescreen that smelled 
like the salt of blood and the bitterness of burnt carbon.

The head had been decimated -- sulci and dura matter had been 
flung in a circle with a constant radius. Mulder stared numbly as 
blood pulsated out of the remaining eye socket in time to an 
increasingly faltering heartbeat.

The assassin -- whom Mulder remembered as the man in black who 
perforated holes in the glass doors at Lombard -- was still busy at 
work, wiping the pistol clear of prints and placing it in the hands 
of the deceased. A bag of crack cocaine was produced and shoved in 
the Captain's pockets.

There was some wet, gray matter in the assassin's hair, and 
Mulder felt as if he were floating in a dream, as if cameras were 
rolling as he moved through this surreal scene. Quentin Tarantino 
could make a film where Samuel Jackson could get brain guts in his 
hair, and pretty-faced John Travolta could brush it off with a 
straight-faced crack. Put on a T-shirt, complement it with 
a ratty bathrobe, and things would be so freaking funny. 

Mulder rubbed a gloved hand over his eyes, the smell of death 
momentarily overpowering him. 

It sure as hell wasn't funny now.

The trench-coated figure made a signal for them to leave, and 
Mulder felt his legs move of their own volition. They left the 
federal safe house under the guise of night, and the newest Consortium 
member watched as the assassin drove casually through the gates.

And Mulder heard nothing but the sickening click of his 
seatbelt as the uniformed guard at the gate waved goodbye as their 
Olds passed through.

He stared out the window as lights played on the surface of 
glass. The ninety-minute ride to the airport was accomplished in 
silence. No names had been passed, personal agendas were hidden, and 
there was no need for pleasantries.

The assassin was here to do a job -- a task that had been 
accomplished successfully many times before, and Mulder was here to... 

He swallowed, feeling his innards grind as the car ran over a 
pothole on the highway. He was here to learn a lesson.

Benjamin de Hecht had been the celebrated Captain of New 
York's men in blue. He was amiable and easy on the camera. He had 
reduced the inner city crime, and he could get the job done 
expediently when needed.

He had also been a Consortium gopher from 1985, up until three 
weeks ago, when his child had been found in a ditch. He had noted the 
abduction scar in her neck, and the pale blue face that spoke of an 
all-too-human monster. He had abruptly resigned and silently turned 
State's Evidence. 

The muted PP7 was sitting beside him, the gun barrel still 
smelling of burning lead. The message to Mulder was far from subtle, 
and he understood completely what the Consortium was stressing. 
Double crossing and betrayal were not to be permitted.

There was a pain in his stomach, and his nausea radiated in 
waves as the police cruiser wailed, speeding in the opposite 
direction. Mulder clenched his fingers together, closing his eyes, 
trying to convince himself that he had not killed the man. He had 
not pulled the trigger.

But the reel in his eidetic memory kept playing -- showing de 
Hecht's surprised green eyes and tense body. The bearded man had 
opened his mouth, issuing a surprised croak, flaying his hands for a 
weapon when his head exploded. There was the sound of tissue falling, 
hitting the floor messily before the torso collapsed. 

And Mulder had watched as the silent spectator, his head 
growing leaden, the albatross around his neck becoming heavier.

He remembered lecturing to Academy students once at 
Quantico -- describing visionary killers as those who maimed and 
tortured because they thought they were ridding the world of 
pestilence. They were the kind of killings that were justified 
because black people were incompetent, or the Aryan people were 
superior. 

And that even though the road to hell was paved with good 
intentions, it was still a road to hell.

Did his dreams of Scully and Sam mean that he was visionary? 
Could he justify the deaths of those nameless informants and human 
obstacles, in the name of those he saw in restless dreams, night after 
night? And there were so many others who suffered by the invisible 
hand of the Consortium, whose lives were destroyed and whose sanity 
was threatened.

The gaudy neon lights that cast a red hue to the interior of 
the car provided no answer, and Mulder bit his lip, once again eyeing 
the silenced PP7. 

If this, indeed, was his road to hell, Mulder mused, it *was* 
paved with good intentions. 

He looked to the assassin beside him and pressed his lips into 
a grim line. As he watched an oncoming car briefly illuminate the 
vehicle interior with white light, his heart grew warm with certainty.

There, indeed, was too much pestilence in the world. 

And he would get rid of it.

***

Scully and Andrew stood silently in the X-Files office, their 
arms crossed over their chests. She watched his eyes roam over the 
poster-adorned walls and buried her irritation, catching his growing 
smirk.

"I take it this poster is Mulder's."

Scully stared at the "I Want To Believe" poster, a smile 
growing behind her still lips. "Yes, it is." She stared at it a 
second longer than necessary, absorbing what little it seemed her and 
her ex-partner had in common. She watched Andrew with suspicious eyes 
-- not liking the way he was fingering Mulder's desk, or how he was 
rearranging the controlled chaos of files, notes, and folders.

She wondered when she had gotten so possessive as she 
tightened her arms around the chest, dug her fingernails roughly into 
her side. He opened up the file cabinet, played with the slide 
projector, grabbed a sharpened pencil, and began to play with it in 
his fingers.

Scully's annoyance grew exponentially. Was he purposely 
doing this? Was he trying to antagonize her? She pinched the skin 
underneath her rib cage so hard that she knew it would be raw 
tomorrow.

She bit her lip, knowing the answer already. Even without 
the psych Ph.D., she knew deep inside that Andrew was doing nothing 
wrong. It was her. And Mulder. It was the stupid situation that 
she had more stupidly agreed to, that was causing her skin to crawl. 
She watched the ex-VCS agent walk around Mulder's desk and heard 
the chair being pulled out.

Scully failed to prevent the horrified sound that came from 
her mouth, and Andrew stopped his body's progression from sitting 
down, staring startled at her.

Her arms quickly came from her sides to place themselves 
protectively at Mulder's desk. "Why don't you... uh... why don't you 
take my desk, Agent Winters," Scully hated how breathless her voice 
sounded. "I'll take Mulder's since I know where everything is."

Andrew rose up slowly, hearing the hesitation, regarding her 
suspiciously. "Sure."

Scully breathed a sigh of relief, her heartbeat calming down, 
her vision returning to normal. It was just a visual example of her 
dependence on Mulder, and it made her hands shake as she took up his 
chair. It was what she had grappled with during her cancer, during 
the horrible inquisition when she had to convince her superiors 
that he was dead.

And the dependence was mutual, despite Mulder's constant 
forays into danger without her. It was true that they were each 
other's weakness. While she became alternatively depressed and 
protective, Mulder would become combative and dour.

A lovely pair of bookends, as Missy would often say.

And it was becoming increasingly difficult to convince 
herself that her mood swings were in no way indicative of the 
increasing strain in her and Mulder's current long-distance 
relationship. 

"Were you surprised at Mulder's promotion?"

Scully shook herself out of her reverie, her arms 
unconsciously going around her sides once again. "What do you mean?"

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, don't you think it 
was a bit uh... premature?"

"Are you asking me if I doubt my partner's credentials?"

Andrew shook his head quickly, the incorrect use of the word 
"partner" not escaping him. "No... no..." he saw Scully waiting for 
an explanation. "I mean, Mulder really hasn't endeared himself to 
the brass, and come on," he smirked, "the X-Files isn't really the 
stuff Assistant Directors are made of."

Scully ignored the joke, watching her vision threaten red 
once again. She marveled suddenly at how different this day was from 
the first time the young agent visited the X-Files department. There 
was little left of his obvious, and somewhat flattering, fascination 
with Mulder and her. It seemed any respect he afforded them was slowly 
disappearing, as well. "Why are you antagonizing me, Agent Winters?"

Andrew stood back, wary of the daggers her eyes were 
shooting. "Why are you being so protective?"

"I just... I have a lot of respect for Mulder's abilities," 
she crossed her legs, and sat back into her ex-partner's chair. 
"I think after five years of being partnered with him I would be 
more able to make such a judgement than some young agent who has 
undoubtedly heard far too many Spooky stories at the Academy."

Andrew watched his new partner's lips curve up into a smile, 
heard the voice inflect higher as she tried to pass off the statement 
as a joke. But her blue eyes had smoldered holes into his suit, and 
her hands had turned white as her fingers balled into fists.

The silent message to back off was heard loud and clear.

* * *

Samantha had visited him in his dreams again last night.

And she was no longer the waif eight-year-old with brown rope 
for hair. She had turned into a woman, with children who hung like 
parasites on her leg, with a husband who grew like an ugly protrusion 
out of her side. Yet she flashed him a blinding smile. . .

She had disappeared, once again, and he could do nothing but 
stand still as she faded away into the ether of night. 

And even though the stars had shone brightly, the night had 
remained black. The darkness engulfed her, and the ring around her 
finger glowed cruelly as the only source of illumination.

Sam had not screamed, and she had not floated away. The feet 
of her children had shuffled in time to the mocking laugh of her 
husband, and Foxy had not reached for the gun -- had only listened to 
her wishes as she disappeared.

"Don't look for me..."

"Don't think about me..."

"When I'm ready..."

"Let me go..."

Mulder attempted to shake off the clinging gossamers of last 
night's illusion. He let out a hoarse cough, rubbing a hand behind his 
neck, feeling it slide against lubricating sweat. He watched his 
shadow move stiffly along the corridor wall, and his jaw began to ache 
with the pressure he was gritting his teeth with. 

When his feet finally stopped, when the door stood resolutely 
in front of him, Mulder's previous boldness had disappeared. His 
heartbeat fluttered, his breath came out in nervous gasps -- and his 
hands were unable to muster enough courage to open the 
steel panel in front of them.

"Don't look..."

The door hinges squeaked, moaning their disuse, and Mulder 
once again wiped his sweaty hands on already-damp pants. His mouth 
formed a tight circle as he inhaled sharply.

The file cabinets surrounded him. Neatly labeled with numbers 
and letters, they stood silently, stoically, keeping their secrets 
hidden inside.

He stood in the doorway, finding his bearings, hearing air 
particles collide. He numbly forced his feet to walk, the steel 
cabinets rebounding their echo infinitely. His fingers traced the 
labels as he made his way through the Western alphabet. His eyes 
were transfixed, and his heart stopped once again when the drawer 
labeled Mo-Mz beckoned him. 

"Don't think..."

He stared at the cabinet longer, fingers twitching at his 
sides, the sweat leaving his hands cold as it evaporated into cold, 
musty air. As if spurned by an unknown source, his fingers harshly 
pulled the cabinet open -- flaying as they passed through the 
multitude of buff-colored folders. As if fueled by a catalyst, his 
fingers moved faster, his eyes mirroring the dizzying movements 
desperately. 

"Please..."

And he stopped when he read his sister's name on the folder, 
and only debated for nanoseconds of time whether the past should 
remain buried. He pulled it out hastily, flipping through the 
contents, not really absorbing the information, dilated pupils 
tracking over random figures and comments. 

"Let me go..."

The cabinet was slammed shut, and Mulder paced the tiny 
corridor. Why couldn't he let go? Why couldn't he have a white 
picket fence with a wife who was normal? Why couldn't he have a 
normal job, with blessedly normal co-workers? Why did everything 
around him have to remain so frustratingly *abnormal*? The questions 
remained unanswered as Mulder smiled ruthlessly and pocketed the file.

Maybe Scully could decipher it.

Scully could...

Mulder's eyebrows furrowed with suspicion as he walked further 
into the steel-laden corridor. His eyes tracked intently over the 
labels till he saw what he was looking for: Sa-Sn.

"Don't look..."

This file was heavier than Samantha's. Thicker. And the 
label on the folder was more faded, as if Dana Katherine Scully's 
folder had been passed through numerous, curious hands.

"Don't think..."

Mulder's eyes blazed as he flipped through the chart. The 
letters on the page momentarily turned red as he read through the 
detached, impersonal analyses of her skin, her eyes, her.... 

He could not swallow past the bile in his throat, violated, as 
visions of seeing Scully comatose came unbidden into his mind.

"Let it go..."

He shook his head resolutely. His soul had already been sold. 
Scruples had long since been thrown away. The folders rested so 
comfortably in his hand; they could be slipped out of the Consortium's 
watch so easily...

Watching the double crosses, seeing the dealings of morally 
ambiguous shadows, Mulder smiled. Like the chess game with Miller, 
like the hypnosis he was taught to perform, nothing was beyond his 
reach. Five years of pursuing, running, and dealing had allowed him 
to sharpen his skills of deception. He would get the bastards. He 
would get the bastards no matter what had to be done. 

Mulder smiled grimly when he imagined Milton's neck twisting 
like taffy in his hands.

Taking a breath, looking nervously towards the door, Mulder 
released the ironclad grip he held on the two folders. If not for the 
numerous Duane Barry's and VJ's in the cabinets, he would do it for 
Sam. And if not for Sam, he would most certainly do it for Scully.

And the thought made his heart fall to the pit of his stomach 
once again.

Because he was spooky and his life would never involve a 
Lucy-esque wife, or friends who would drink trendy coffee and make 
funny faces.

Deep Throat had been right: the shark dies once it's stopped 
swimming.

And with the prey an arm's length away, Mulder offered a 
silent rebuttal to Samantha's plea. Because he had to look. Had to 
think.

And this time, he would not let go. 

***

Andrew came with a tangible apology five hours after their 
first fight. He placed a file on her desk, the red and white border, 
and the black, stenciled "X" boldly proclaiming it to be an X-File.

He perched on her desk, waiting for her to read it. 

"I thought this would be a good place to start," she gave him 
a questioning glance, and he smiled. "A good foray into the X-Files 
world, so to speak, at least for me."

The accompanying photograph was the first thing to catch her 
eyes. Hair as red as molten metal, eyes as blue as the clearest 
water, and a blank expression that spoke of the trauma she had been 
through. Scully started to grow uneasy as the 4' by 6' photo of an 
abduction scar failed to pass her gaze unnoticed. And the familiar 
refrain of missing time made her want to groan, hide in her apartment 
underneath the safety of her duvet. 

In Sheila Freeman's case, three weeks worth of time hadn't 
been accounted for. The report had gaps of nothing, where police 
and eyewitness accounts failed to turn up anything. In other 
paragraphs, the accounts of onlookers and police conflicted. Where 
one saw an airplane light, the other saw a hovering UFO. Where one 
heard Sheila Freeman scream, the other heard nothing, save for the 
chirping of crickets.

Scully closed the report and placed it on her desk carefully. 
"Have you met with her?"

Andrew nodded. "Yeah, actually, the case was originally VCS's 
because we thought a human perp was doing all of this."

Scully silently nodded, muttering to herself. "Human perp 
indeed."

"By the way, you will notice that she also had a chip 
extracted out of her neck," Andrew continued softly, "the one you
could tell me nothing about."

She glanced at him in annoyance, and he returned the stare, 
his teeth tentatively biting his lip.

"What?"

Andrew shrugged, offering the suggestion quietly. "I don't 
mean to bring this up, but do you think that this could be related to 
you?"

Scully's eyes blazed at the intrusion. "How do you know?"

Andrew stood his ground in front of his partner's desk, having 
expected the defensive response. "Your disappearance involved many 
FBI agents," he studied the floor, shrugging his shoulders. "They've 
all seen the reports... and uh... heard Agent Mulder's theories. I 
wasn't here when it happened, but I read all of it later."

Scully remained silent, unable to offer a response. The 
rational side of her knew that everyone in the Bureau had heard of 
her abduction -- had sidestepped it with polite conversation and 
frustratingly impersonal pleasantries. It had been a preview 
to the hushed whispers that would come once she was diagnosed with 
cancer. The female federal agent took a deep breath, trying to keep 
her temper under control. "Okay, Andrew," she said, regretting the 
condescending tone of her voice. "Then what makes this case fall 
under our jurisdiction rather than VCS's?" 

Andrew smiled grimly, and Scully wished she could slap his 
flair for the melodramatic out of him. "Here's the kicker -- 
Freeman heard Mulder's voice during her abduction."

* * *

Scully dialed the number reluctantly, never fully prepared to 
deal with the paranoid threesome who were The Lone Gunmen. But she 
very much doubted that anyone else would be able to help her in the 
current dilemma.

"Lone Gunmen."

"Byers, this is Agent Scully."

"Oh, hey, we caught all this coverage on Baltimore hostage 
negotiation," he answered happily. "Mulder seems to be a popular man 
these days."

And they had no idea just how popular, Scully thought 
sarcastically. "Listen, I need to ask you for a favor. . ."

"Sure thing," now it was Langly on the phone. "Want us to 
hack into a computer or do you need some passes to a flu institute?"

Scully rolled her eyes, though she couldn't help but smile at 
his jocular, slightly teasing tone. "Nothing that dangerous. Could I 
come by later on today?"

She heard some noises in the background, and Langly answered 
momentarily: "Frohike wants me to tell you that he can't wait. You 
still remember where we are?"

"I remember," Scully hung up, shaking her head ruefully. She 
scribbled a quick note for Andrew, feeling guilty for not including 
him. The Lone Gunmen's reaction to her bringing a new partner could 
be too much to deal with at the moment -- especially considering the 
nature of her request.

She drove quickly, punishing her car with sudden stops and 
jerky turns, and tried not to think about the bizarre case that 
Andrew brought in to the X-Files. There was, almost certainly, a way 
to clear up this confusion - this misunderstanding - and 
then they could all move on with their lives.

Byers answered the door, ceremoniously inviting her inside. 
Scully felt surreal here without Mulder - they were his friends, this 
was his territory. And she would be asking them to help her in. . . 
To help her in clearing his name, she answered her own 
question firmly. 

"Agent Scully, you look lovely as always," Frohike was 
already taking her coat and asking her to sit down on the spot he 
has just cleared off numerous papers, diskettes, and weird-looking 
things she dared not ask about. 

"Thank you," she settled down carefully, unsure how to start, 
biding her time. "I see you got a new toy?" she pointed to a huge 
scanner whose wires were already a part of the breathing computer 
system.

"State-of-the-art," Langly announced proudly. "Five thousand 
dpi resolution, keeps colors alive. . ."

Byers glanced at him with impatience, then turned to Scully 
curiously. "Where is the man of the hour - Mulder?" 

"Yeah, we haven't seen him in a while," Frohike reprised. 
"Not since you two got suspended."

Scully shifted uncomfortably under three pairs of expectant 
eyes. "Uh. . . he was promoted to Assistant Director," she uttered 
finally. They seemed numbed by the news, and she added hastily: 
"Baltimore was high-publicity case, and the position needed to be 
filled."

"Well, that is a. . . shocker," Frohike offered finally. "And 
what about the X-Files?"

She was suddenly angry. The department was not just Mulder's 
prerogative, she could do quite well without him. And it was the 
biggest lie she had ever tried to believe. "I manage them now - 
with Agent Andrew Winters, my new partner."

The looks on their faces were priceless, and Scully wished 
that she had a camera to commemorate them. Byers and Langly and 
Frohike stared at her, then at each other for an interminable time. 
"I need your help with something."

"Yes," Langly echoed. "Sorry. What is it?"

"I was hoping you had some recordings of Mulder's voice," 
she looked away momentarily. "I need them."

This request seemed to confuse them even more. "Why would you 
need that?" Langly eyed her suspiciously while Byers concentrated on 
coughing in his hand. 

"To remember what he sounds like, I don't hear from him for 
days," the joke fell flat. "Actually, for identification purposes," 
Scully amended truthfully, promising herself that she wouldn't lie 
to them if she could help it.

"Does Mulder know about this?" Byers asked softly.

"No," Scully tried not to sound defensive. "Not yet."

"Is this supposed to help him - or someone else?" Frohike 
played with a computer mouse absently.

She didn't dignify that with an answer. 

He looked down, embarrassed. "We have something, don't we, 
boys?" 

Langly threw a tape in her direction. "This might not be very 
clear, but it is the best we have."

"Bugging his apartment, aren't you?" Scully couldn't help 
returning the jab. "How does this help him?" Now, it was her turn 
to be ashamed. "Thank you though -- it helps us all," she got up and 
retraced her steps to the exit through the labyrinth of their office. 

They haven't said goodbye, and didn't see her out. When she 
closed the door, the three men looked at each other, baffled and 
concerned.

"This smells bad, boys," Frohike finally uttered. "To tell 
you the truth, it stinks."

End of Part 11/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 12/20


The courtroom buzzed with the incessant hum of nervous 
chatter from the eager media and eagle-eyed gawkers who had managed 
to find a seat in the crowded courtroom. Skinner took a breath, 
steeling himself, before looking over his shoulder for a familiar 
face. His eyes quickly scanned the rows, no pangs of recognition 
occurring. His eyes stopped tracking momentarily when the stiff 
form of Agent Winters' came into view. He noticed Winters' brow 
suddenly furrowing, as the agent looked up from his papers. Skinner 
turned his gaze away quickly, with no desire to make eye contact, 
and began concentrating on the water glass in front of him.

Mulder and Scully hadn't been among the murmuring crowd in 
the federal courtroom.

And the ex-AD wondered if the hole in his stomach was due 
to relief or worry. 

His lawyer was clucking beside him, preening the collars 
of her navy blue suit, rifling through a torrent of papers, going 
through an endless cycle of placing folders in her briefcase, only 
to replace it with a similar blue folder.

This lawyer differed from his divorce lawyer. The law, 
then, had been distant and attractive --some prosaic words on a 
piece of paper that he merely had to sign. Annulment. Irreconcilable 
differences. The words tried to say so much, but in actuality said 
so little. They spoke of the need for him and Sharon to separate, 
but said nothing of the love he had still felt for her. Behind the 
annulment and the morose judges in black robes was his inability to 
express his deepest fears -- his inability to express what he felt 
for his wife, for himself, for the future he had wanted them to have.

And in this boring courtroom that was surrounded by worn 
cedar and cheap leather, the law was repellent. Spiteful. Ignorant 
of the American flag that limply stood in the corner gathering dust. 
It played into the hands of the corrupt and the malicious, became a 
catalyst to those who would silence the testimony of innocents, while 
taking their freedom away.

Skinner chanced another glance behind him and was surprised 
to see Sharon offer a nervous smile of reassurance in his direction. 
The gesture made his chest hurt, and he had to stare at the opposite 
wall to get his breathing under control. 

The judge came, his black robe trailing, his white beard 
giving him a prophet-like aura that immediately prompted everyone to 
stand silent, keen eyes watching his progress, expectant for the words 
he was about to speak.

The pre-trial hearing would be short -- consisting only of 
a plea of guilty or not guilty. But at the thought of professing such 
words, Skinner could not fathom why his hands were starting to sweat, 
why his heart was threatening to palpitate out of control. 

Despite his years in law enforcement, the voices of the 
magistrate seemed to be coming from far away, seemed to be speaking 
language he no longer understood. The words dripped with impassioned 
disdain, an oxymoron in terms. Even though it was the mouth of the 
robed creature that was moving, not its arms, Skinner could hear the 
incriminating gravel pound loudly in his ears. 

Murder in the first degree. Conspiracy to murder. 

And somewhere in those hateful words, his name had been 
spoken.

Eyes were peering expectantly at him, the stenographer had 
stopped typing and was watching him with bored, mascara-lidded eyes. 
The judge cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. "Your plea?"

Skinner opened his mouth, hearing the words come out haltingly. 
"Not guilty," a nervous pathway fired, past law enforcement training 
rearing its ugly head. A breathless "your honor" was interjected, and 
the ex-Assistant Director suddenly wondered why his throat was so dry. 

He wondered if he was imagining the look of doubt playing 
across the judge's face. His hands grasped onto the edge of the table, 
something within him yelling directions to stand up and protest his 
innocence. But a familiar mental film of children suffering, of 
headbutting with Mulder after refusing his desperate 302's started 
playing a familiar loop in his mind. His legs were suddenly shaking, 
and he could no longer stand. His arms supported his body as he weakly 
settled in his chair.

Any desire to protest had disappeared all too quickly.

***

The house had been beautiful, once, but now was decaying. 
Limp, dead flowers that had once been painstakingly planted in the 
windowsills and front garden were now being decimated by the cold 
winter wind. Brown, dirt-spotted lawn crawled over the sidewalk, 
made dense underbrush that was decorated by equally dead dandelions.

Scully knocked on the door, pulling her trench coat tighter 
around her body, hearing the knocker squeak as its hinge protested. 
A woman with dull red hair, dressed in an old sweater and worn 
leggings, answered the door. 

"Sheila Freeman?"

The woman nodded.

Scully smiled, trying to ignore the tired bags underneath the 
woman's eyes, needing to comfort her. "I'm Agent Scully. I'm with 
the Bureau," she turned to Andrew. "And you remember Agent Winters, 
I take it?"

The woman nodded again and stood motionless by the door.

Andrew approached her and smiled warmly, placing two fingers 
gently on her arm. "Can we come in to talk?"

The woman nodded a silent affirmation once again and stepped 
inside. Scully looked at Andrew, her eyebrows raised. He merely 
shrugged his shoulders in response.

Scully inspected the house quickly, grimly noticing that the 
interior was in worse condition than the exterior. A coat of dust 
covered the mantelpieces, and crumbs cracked as they died underneath 
walking feet. 

Sheila led them to a set of couches, and the agents sat down 
gingerly.

"S-sorry about the mess," she shifted uncomfortably under 
their gazes. "Cleaning hasn't been one of my priorities."

Scully nodded understandingly, watching the woman wring her 
fingers in her lap. 

Andrew cleared his throat and gazed at Sheila pointedly. 
"We came to ask you some questions about the voice you thought you 
recognized."

Her head came up suddenly, suspicion mirrored in her 
expectant eyes. "You told me that I must have imagined it?"

Andrew shared a glance with Scully and shook his head. 
The admission to come was difficult. "I want to make sure, Sheila. . . 
Maybe, I was wrong. So we brought a tape with several voices recorded 
and we just want to see if you recognize one or more."

The young woman nodded hesitantly, pointing to the tape player 
on the bookshelf that was gathering dust along with the books. Andrew 
popped in an audiotape and pushed play, returning to his seat. Scully 
smiled inwardly, recognizing some agents from VCS. She surrendered the 
tape from The Lone Gunmen to Andrew, and he perused it quickly, 
creating a collection of numerous voices on another tape. The sixth 
voice was Mulder's and she struggled to keep her expression neutral, 
concentrating on Sheila's reaction.

She paled even further and seemingly fought for breath, 
digging her nails into the couch. "That's it. . . turn it off," her 
voice was a mere whisper, and Winters could hardly understand her. 
"Please, turn it off. I can't. . ."

He jumped across the room, bringing his finger down on the 
stop button.

Scully watched numbly, immobilized by the sudden, overwhelming 
terror. There had to be a rational explanation for this recognition. 
Maybe this woman met Mulder a long time ago and now she simply 
remembered. . . what? Leaning forward, she reflexively pushed back the 
hair that had fallen into her face. "Do you remember anything else? 
What he looked like? What exactly had he said?"

Sheila shook her head. "I've tried... I've tried so hard ever 
since then."

Andrew watched Scully's eyes momentarily dart in recognition 
and he swallowed, feeling a lump form in his throat.

Scully smiled reassuringly, trying to momentarily dispel the 
oppressing atmosphere of the house and her own discomfort. "Try one 
more time."

The federal agents watched as Sheila closed her eyes, and 
Scully empathized with her feelings of helplessness. She, herself, 
had often sat alone on her couch in her empty apartment, willing 
herself to remember... anything. The knowledge that there was a 
wrinkle of time in her memory, a space in her hippocampus that was 
unaware of her time in space so many years ago, had often forced tears 
to her eyes. And after each session of trying so hard, of squinting 
and looking into the darkness, she would hear only colored static, 
muted noises -- something that was fingertips away from her grasp. 
With a fleeting sense of familiarity, Scully fought for composure 
as she watched Sheila's fingers turn white with the strain of 
pushing them into her palm.

Sheila licked her lips, took a deep breath, and closed her 
eyes tighter, shaking her head. "It's a voice... I can't..." she 
shook her head again, biting her lip in concentration. Andrew 
watched her intently, a hand against his mouth. "It's a man's 
voice... and it's... his voice is..." she shook her head again -- 
gossamers of memory fluttering in front of her fingers. "It's... 
tense... upset," she paused and her head tilted, as if she was trying 
to hear the voice better. "He sounds so sad..." she opened her eyes 
and offered an apologetic shrug to Andrew's and Scully's look of doubt. 
"I can't remember what he says."

He leaned forward. "Anything else? Physical description?"

Sheila shook her head. "No," she added as an afterthought. 
"Not yet."

Scully tried to stretch her lips into a smile. "We'll see 
what we can do."

Sheila nodded, her eyes turning downcast. "I'm sorry I can't 
provide more," her glance shifted to the tape player. "Can I. . . can 
I keep the tape? It might be helpful."

Andrew nodded slowly, and Scully waited for the question that 
seemed inevitable, waited for her to ask them where they got the tape 
and if they knew the man whose voice she'd recognized. The question 
never came, and she was released from explanations and lies, but she 
felt no relief. The truth of the situation was that both she and 
Andrew were dishonest with Sheila.

She had always cared about a victim, and now she was lying 
to one, denying the need of someone who was in trouble. Someone who 
needed their help.

But Sheila was wrong and it didn't matter. . . 

The woman led them towards the door, her feet shuffling 
reluctantly -- bones creaking as if not used to moving. Sheila offered 
another apology, and Scully nodded sympathetically if distractedly, 
still dizzy from the conflicting emotions assaulting her. A small 
smile was shared between the two women, before the door closed, and the 
cold wind hit them in full force. Andrew had witnessed the exchange, 
and as he searched for the keys, he wondered as to what extent 
Sheila's abduction mirrored his own partner's tragic circumstances.

Two pairs of shoes clicked rhythmically down the sidewalk, and 
Scully bit the inside of her lips, hearing the familiar jerk of a car 
door being opened. She caught herself thinking that it would have 
probably been a right thing to do if they brought Sheila some pictures 
and saw if she could identify Mulder visually, as well. She aborted the 
treacherous train of thought decisively.

"So, what do you think?"

Scully waited impatiently for her door to unlock, pulling it 
open harshly before fiddling with the seat belt. "I don't know... 
I really..." she shook her head to convey the loss of words.

Andrew nodded, silent momentarily. "What do you think about 
her claims regarding Agent Mulder?"

Scully quickly turned her torso within the confines of the 
seatbelt, her eyes seeking confrontation with her partner's. "You 
seriously don't think that Mulder was behind this?"

Andrew remained silent and Scully rolled her eyes. "I don't 
believe this. Are you suggesting that Mulder abducted her?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just not ruling anything out. 
You saw her listen to his voice and. . ."

She shook her head, trying to block out her partner's words.
"You don't think that she just recognized his voice from all the recent 
media coverage about the Baltimore hostage situation? I don't even know 
why I am arguing with you though."

"First of all, she recognized it before the Baltimore incident. 
Second, I severely doubt that Sheila Freeman watched any TV news in the 
last week," Andrew's voice faltered. "Or did anything else for that 
matter." At Scully's persistent glare, Andrew raised his hands. "Okay, 
okay... it's very implausible. But... I just have a feeling," he 
frowned, trying to spell out his thoughts. "Directly, or indirectly, 
I just can't shake..."

Scully wouldn't allow him to finish, sitting back in the car 
seat with an audible, annoyed grunt. The car engine started, 
dispelling the uncomfortable silence that settled quickly, and when 
she caught Andrew staring at her, Scully turned away, suddenly 
interested in the goings-on outside the passenger window. 

She tried not to think of Mulder, and his alibis, and his 
whereabouts during the past few weeks, attempting to push the thoughts 
down as stupid.

But the seeds of doubt had already been effectively planted.

* * *

Mulder sat in the chair and tried to hunch his shoulders 
together. His back was killing him, his head was pounding, and the 
agent in the chair across from him was whining about wiretap duty.

He shifted in the chair again, noting that it was way too big. 
Mulder ignored the belittling voice in his head stating the obvious: 
that he was in way over his head, and that the chair really belonged 
to the ass of Assistant Director Skinner.

Mulder dispelled the thoughts, trying to look interested, 
attempting to focus his eyes, as his mind failed to register any of the 
words spewing from the mouth of Agent Boulton. 

He raised his hand, failing to withhold an audible sigh of 
displeasure. "Look, Agent Boulton, we need you on the Dhalia case," 
he tried a different approach, using Patterson's tactic of pandering to 
the person's ego. "Your reports so far have been excellent, and we 
really need your experience. It's a crappy job, but someone has to 
do these embezzlement cases."

Boulton opened his mouth to protest, but Mulder persisted 
raising a hand. "Do wiretap here in DC, or do it in Alaska. I don't 
care... take your pick."

Boulton swallowed and nodded. "That's all," he looked at 
Mulder with animosity brewing in his eyes, and added a terse, "sir".

Mulder nodded and smiled inwardly. "Good. Thank you," he 
remembered just how effective Patterson's threats had always been in 
controlling his fellow agents. Worked like a charm, every time, 
because his former boss never bluffed.

He waited until Boulton's receding figure was out of sight 
before immediately sagging in his chair. He closed his eyes, the 
yellow and green spots caused by headache appearing in front of his 
eyelids. 

There was a rapping on the door, and he sat upright, his brain 
protesting against the onslaught of light. The lithe figure of his 
secretary stood in front of his desk, settling a stack of files to the 
right of his nameplate.

"You were away yesterday and today, so here's the paperwork 
you need to catch up on, sir."

Mulder accepted it, seeing the unspoken question in Kim's eyes. 
The secretary displayed no emotion when he had shown up during his 
first day of work, but she had briefly panicked when Skinner's 
personal belongings had been carted away. The hesitance in her eyes 
was disappearing, but Mulder had yet to build a comfortable rapport, 
knowing that uneasiness was mutual.

"Thank you."

He flipped through the piles of finished paperwork and 302's. 
With a growing smirk, his hand stopped when it came across the 302 
originating from the X-Files office. He opened it up curiously, and 
his eyes eventually widened in surprise, then horror, as they tracked 
through the typewritten request. 

His coffee mug shook as he slammed his hand on his desk, 
letting out a string of expletives.

His heart raced faster as he read the report, closed his eyes, 
tried to calm his breathing. 

Sheila fucking Freeman.

He put a hand over his mouth and forced himself to sit down 
and read the file carefully. Objectively. The FBI had nothing so 
far; Sheila remembered nothing save for a few vague details that 
Andrew failed to include in the request. 

Mulder stared at the papers, his eyes wide. Out of all 
the people who could blow his cover, the most threatening of all 
was an abductee in the suburbs of DC.

He picked up the phone, trying to dispel panic.

His fingers shook as they pressed the numbers.

***

"Winters."

"Winters, this is Ag... Mulder."

Andrew's eyebrows shot up, and from his peripheral vision, 
he noticed Scully turning her head. "Yes?"

"Where are you?"

"We're just coming back from interviewing Freeman," Andrew 
paused, considering his words carefully. "We've expanded a bit, and 
I think that we may be able to catch the guy."

Mulder ran a hand across his face, pressing the phone tighter 
against his ear. "I'm disallowing your 302."

Winters almost dropped the phone, his mouth gaping open at 
the shock. The car protested as Andrew hit the gas harder, as his 
fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter. "What?"

Mulder forced his voice to remain calm, pinching his leg as 
he could hear Winters sputter an explanation to Scully. "I said, 
Agent Winters, that I'm disallowing your 302 on the Freeman case."

Winters felt his face grow red with outrage. "Why?"

Mulder felt queasy, as the only explanation he could come up 
with was an echo of Walter Skinner's words. "Because it's a waste 
of Bureau resources, and the X-Files could be put to better use on 
another case."

"But..."

Mulder shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling that 
things were spinning out of control. "Goodbye, Agent Winters. 
I expect to see your new 302 tomorrow morning."

The phone clicked and Winters threw the phone onto the cheap 
upholstery of the car seat. "God dammit! The bastard!!"

Scully watched her new partner in numbing confusion. Despite 
Andrew's cursing, the motor of the car was all she could hear. Her 
uneasiness grew -- a gut churning, ulcer forming sense of dread. 
It overpowered her, making her nauseous.

Her migraine extrapolated in direct proportion to her ill 
suspicion towards Mulder -- her ex-partner and her friend.

* * *

The apartment was dark, as the blinds muted the bright D.C. 
sunlight, and Mulder stared at the file, his eyes tearing as the words 
started to blur. 

He stared at the papers in front of his eyes again, blinking 
when the letters started to move of their own volition. He licked 
his lips, staring intently, *knowing* that he was missing something, 
feeling it in his bones.

He looked at Samantha's file once again, flipping absently 
through the photos, and the vague genetic and medical descriptions 
which swirled in his brain nonsensically. He tapped the paper 
methodically, staring blankly at the wall, hearing the gears in his 
mind start to churn.

The logic his mind dictated caught him off guard, but 
working and living through VCS for so long had taught him to follow 
its winding path. He leaned over, hearing his back groan with the 
stress of having sat in an office chair all day, and picked up his 
father's letter. He compared the two papers, hearing his inner mind 
chant louder, his cerebral cortex beginning to eagerly churn faster 
in anticipation.

The letter his father had written was dated 10/25/75, and 
Mulder stared, squinting, knowing something had happened that day... 
something was important about that particular date. He attempted to 
cross reference the date to those stored in his brain, finding a 
match unsuccessful. He hastily re-opened Sam's file, examining 
all the recorded dates -- again failing to find a match. 

When the realization struck, Mulder stared dumbfounded at 
the pair of identical numbers. Sam's case number was the same 
as the date of the letter. Coincidence? Mulder shook his head 
to the silent question -- there was no such thing where his father 
was concerned. 

And if the past five years had been any indication, 
everything to do with Sam had long before been intricately 
planned.

His eyes passed over the Sam's folder once again, darting 
back to the letter. His brain was roaring, the gears and cogs 
working furiously as the new stimuli were processed. The letter 
made many references to numbers, and Mulder put a hand over his 
mouth, the epiphany earth shattering.

The papers sprawled haphazardly onto the floor as he stood 
upright suddenly, knowing that there was something important that 
he had been quick to dismiss. He rummaged through the closet hastily, 
pulling out the book, "The Eleventh Hour." He recovered the letter 
and Sam's file, laying his three new puzzle pieces delicately in 
front of him. His eyes darted between the three, making 
comparisons -- and Mulder marveled at his father's ingenuity.

He sobered momentarily, looking towards the ceiling to take 
a deep breath. In all his cases with Deep Throat, X, and Marita -- 
with all the secret information they passed onto him - Mulder's heart 
always beat with anticipation. His breath hitched slightly with the 
possibility of finding yet another tangent that could lead him to 
the truth.

Staring at the letter, Mulder realized that his heart was 
ready to burst with excitement. The letter was a brilliant disguise. 

For something far more important. 

He paused, trying to maintain some semblance of control, 
as sweat rolled down his back. He regarded the letter once again, 
and offered it a sad smile, of gratitude and regret. 

He cursed his blindness that obliterated so many obvious 
clues that the letter offered. 

He hoped that it wasn't too late as he whispered a silent 
thanks to his best and least appreciated informant. 

His father.

End of Part 12/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 13/20

Scully watched J. Edgar Hoover's cement facade come into 
view as Andrew drove at a barely acceptable high speed through 
streets and into the entranceway of the Bureau parking lot. He 
stopped in front of the parking pedway and waited patiently as 
Scully started to gather her things.

"Aren't you coming in?"

Andrew shook his head, cryptically adding: "No, there's 
something that I want to clear up."

Scully looked at him, confusion marking her features. 
"Okay. Will you be back later?"

Winters nodded. "Yeah, I'll come and help you do some of the 
paperwork later, and we can file a new 302," at Scully's quizzical 
glance he stopped. "What?"

She smiled. "Having a partner that offers to help with the 
paperwork seems foreign to me," she pulled her briefcase in front of 
her knees. "I don't think Mulder has ever voluntarily subjected 
himself to paperwork in the five years that I've known him."

At the mention of Mulder's name, Winters' mouth grew into a 
grim line. "Yeah well... Mulder is his own man."

Scully nodded, not really comprehending Andrew's words. She 
decided to let the comment go when she took in the tense fingers 
around the steering wheel, his stiff posture in the Taurus car seat. 
She unfastened her seatbelt and stepped out, offering a small wave. 
"I'll see you later then."

Winters reciprocated the wave, smiling, and proceeded to put 
the car into gear. "Later."

Scully watched the car speed away, all of a sudden feeling 
lonely. Her steps felt naked as she walked a familiar path to the 
X-Files office. Mulder was no longer her partner, would no longer 
be in the office at obscene hours. Conversely, Andrew was too by 
the book. Too much like her -- and Scully was suffocating in the 
newly claustrophobic working environment.

The X-Files office was still the same, and she suppressed a 
sigh when she opened the door -- its trademark "Fox Mulder, Special 
Agent" having been torn off eagerly by Andrew during his first 
official day in the section. She sat down at her ex-partner's desk, 
and her fingers began to play lazily with a pen.

Mulder's behavior was beyond odd. It was distant -- scarily 
so. It went beyond professional detachment, and was too sly to be 
deemed paranoia. Something was not right about his revoking of the 
302, something that she was well aware had to do with his precarious 
position in the Bureau.

She didn't want to push; she didn't want to prevent him from 
doing his job, but she was beginning to become annoyed. It was 
interfering with *her* job. And although she had momentarily kept 
her doubts regarding Mulder's involvement in the Sheila Freeman case 
at bay, she was finding it increasingly hard to pretend she was 
ignorant when Winters was always pushing for answers. 

She looked at the "maybe" pile of folders in front of her 
and started perusing them slowly. She sighed, staring at a set of 
Sears-quality photos of a blond-haired girl. Demonic possession. 
Scully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. What the hell... 
it was a case that involved no aliens or smoke, and Andrew would 
finally find out what the X-Files were really about. She closed the 
file, setting it aside with one hand, grabbing for the desk phone 
with the other.

"Yeah, hi Gary, this is Agent Scully. I need a rental car."

The guy was unusually pensive, and after a seemingly long 
period of time Scully wondered if he had hung up. 

"Is this for a case?"

She raised her eyebrows at the question. "Yes... isn't 
it always?"

The guy hummed and hawed for a second before reluctantly 
replying. "Uh... we had orders from the AD not to let you acquisition 
vehicles until you got the 302 okayed by him."

Scully's cheeks flushed with outrage. "What? Mulder said 
that?"

She could almost feel the guy cringe, and forced herself to 
breathe and regain control. "Never mind, Gary," she ground out 
between her teeth. "I'll find out myself," she gritted out an 
automatic thank you before slamming the phone back on the cradle.

***

"I need to speak with a prisoner of yours?"

"It's seven o'clock and past..."

Winters thrust out his badge impatiently, trying to growl 
his way past the prison guard. "I don't care. I'm a Federal Agent 
and I want to see Walter Skinner now."

The guard got up slowly, rolling his eyes, taking an 
agonizingly long time to gather his keys. "The visiting room is..."

Winters shook his head. "Take me to his cell," at the
guard's dubious look, his face softened. "It won't take long, 
I promise."

The guard looked at him suspiciously, then headed in the 
opposite direction, indicating for Andrew to follow him.

The ex-Assistant Director was sitting on his cot reading 
the paper. Winters was tempted to remark at the normality -- except 
the prisoner's bright orange overalls marred any potential for a 
Norman Rockwell-esque scene. 

Skinner rose to his feet when he heard footsteps approaching.

Winters stared hard into his eyes, cutting to the chase. 
"What do you know about Mulder?"

Skinner balked at the question, gently setting the newspaper 
beside him. "Pardon me?"

Winters tapped his feet impatiently. "I mean, I get a 302 
disallowed today from *AD* Mulder. Coincidentally, or not 
coincidentally, it's the case involving abductions where one of the 
abductees believes she had heard Mulder's voice."

Skinner stepped back unconsciously, his mind processing the 
news. It seemed similarities abounded between the old and new 
Assistant Director. Hadn't he done the very same thing to Mulder 
in the past?

"Well?"

Ex-AD shook his head. "Mulder is his own man. He has his 
own scruples."

Winters stepped closer to the bars, breathing hard. "Every 
time I've talked to Mulder and Scully I've been hitting walls; they've 
been talking in codes. I see that they get it from you."

Skinner shook his head, started to pace the cell to give his 
legs something to do while his mind churned. "I don't know what you 
want to know."

The young agent bunched his hands into fists. "I'm so sick 
of this!! You answer questions with questions. You talk in little 
signs and eye gestures," Andrew took a breath before nailing Skinner 
with a glare. "All I want to know is, is Mulder clean?"

Skinner looked at the floor. "None of us are innocent, Agent 
Winters," he approached the cell, and reciprocated the agent's glare. 
"*None* of us are innocent, no matter how much you try to 
rationalize."

The air deflated out of Andrew, as he watched the man across 
from him settle back onto the cot and pick up the paper once again. 
He tried a different tactic. "Did Mulder come at this job honestly?" 
he paused a beat. "In your opinion."

"Everyone has a little help."

Winters smiled his appreciation at the answer. "Is it related 
to your predicament?"

Skinner had to inwardly admit that Andrew was sharp -- it was 
sad that it would most likely get the green agent killed when he asked 
the wrong question from the wrong person. He was about to say, "hell, 
yes", but his mouth couldn't open, his eyes watered as they tried to 
concentrate on the paper in front of them.

Winters accepted the silence for what it was. "I can't believe 
this. And you let them do this?"

Skinner shook his head. "What can you do?"

Winters started pacing, shaking his head. "I'll call the 
Director. I'll talk to someone. The Attorney General, if I have to."

Skinner grimaced at the agent's naiveté. It would be no shock 
if the Consortium had the Attorney General wrapped around their 
fingers. Hell, it seemed, they had the entire Bureau, including 
Mulder, kissing their asses. 

And no pounding, begging, or tale-telling would change 
anything. 

Winters tapped a cell bar with his fingers, offering a 
tightlipped smile that Skinner recognized as pity. "Thank you."

He left as quickly as he came, and Skinner suddenly felt 
tired -- unable to complete the simple task of finishing the article 
he had started earlier. He settled into his cot, hearing the drip of 
faulty plumbing, the complaining of other inmates. 

Oblivious to the mechanical eye watching his movements, and 
those of the Federal Agent who was leaving the penitentiary. 

***

For the first time in three years, Scully felt nervous as she 
pulled out her key ring, glancing over her shoulder as she shook the 
rest of the keys away from the one that she wanted. She had knocked, 
the fluttering in her stomach increasing exponentially when there was 
no answer. Anger had quickly squelched any nervousness, and she opened 
the door more roughly than was necessary when the latch finally gave 
way. 

She watched what little sunlight there was float though 
Mulder's curtains, play lazily with the dust in the air. The 
atmosphere was heavy. Old. She found it harder to breathe as she 
waded though papers and books, and she called his name once more, 
lest he think that she was an intruder. 

She would wait, she decided, the keys biting her palm. Her 
annoyance grew, as she thought of Mulder's absence. She chastised 
herself for worrying about her ex-partner's welfare while he was paying 
unwarranted attention to her division. With a resigned sigh, Scully 
threw herself down on Mulder's couch, trying to ignore the papers that 
were on his table. Curiosity eventually won, and she bent forward, 
orienteering herself with the letters and numbers in front of her. 
Various scraps of loose paper were scrawled upon. She recognized them 
as Mulder's messy cursive strokes. A string of letters would be 
written, only to be crossed out, then start again on the next line. 

Scully picked up the first paper, immediately recognizing it as 
the letter Mulder's father wrote to his son. She quickly tossed it 
aside, noticing the children's book was also opened. And very much 
perused. She frowned, remembering her partner dismissing its 
importance seemingly years ago. As she picked up the book, multitudes 
of torn paper fell out from in between the pages. Realizing her error, 
she bent down on her knees, scrambling to pick up the papers that had 
more of Mulder's nonsensical scrawls. 

The frown on Scully's face deepened, as the words on Mulder's 
papers made little or no sense. Strings and strings of letters and 
numbers. Sometimes the letters and numbers were mixed; other letters 
were written sideways, or upside down. Scully's dread grew -- a 
queasiness that was akin to how she felt when Patterson had revisited, 
or those awful hours where she had sat in her apartment, unable to get 
past her pride and call a desolate partner that she had blamed for her 
cancer. 

She was about to rise, when a folder caught her eye. Having 
been in so many hospitals, and having seen so many similar folders, 
Scully felt her heart skip when she saw the familiar buff color, the 
same strategic placement of white label. She pulled it out cautiously, 
feeling its bulk, reluctantly turning her eyes down so that she could 
see the name.

Samantha Ann Mulder.

And something in her chest dropped. Her stomach felt heavy at 
the mere thought. She sometimes forgot what it was that still drove 
Mulder -- the name that still fueled his quest. It drove her crazy 
sometimes, to see him rush headlong into things because of it. She 
felt a multitude of emotions -- her anger weighed down by other 
depressing feelings. She sighed, resolutely deciding that she 
would wait.

Scully awkwardly made her way back to the couch, trying to 
restore the files to their original order -- deciding that worn 
leather was a more comfortable spot to wallow than the floor of 
Mulder's apartment. 

***

The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation matched 
the glare of the subordinate agent sitting across from him. "Do I 
make myself clear?"

The younger agent slowly shook his head, wrinkles forming at 
the corners of his lips -- the only outward sign of his distaste. 
"Yes, sir."

Robinson smiled -- his ability to make the knees of younger 
agents quake was still in topnotch form. "I will look into your 
claims, but I can't guarantee anything," the Director paused, 
searching for the right words, meeting the agent's eyes. "I hope 
I can trust your discretion. I would like this to be a private 
matter between us until an internal investigation can be completed."

The agent's eyes twinkled; he sensed victory. "Yes, sir. I 
understand."

The Director smiled a Cheshire-like grin, knowing the trap 
had been effectively laid -- the agent's silence had been ensured.

Andrew Winters stood up, offering his hand for a handshake. 
"Thank you, sir. I wasn't sure who to turn to."

Robinson smiled again. "Anything for my fellow agents."

Winters nodded, disconcerted -- like nothing had been gained, 
despite the reassuring words.

"Oh, Agent Winters," Andrew turned around quickly. "You 
haven't told anyone, have you?"

Andrew shook his head slowly, furrowing his eyebrows. "No... 
sir," he replied after hesitating slightly. The Director nodded, 
pleased, and Andrew numbly walked out of the office, not quite 
comprehending what the last exchange meant. He had thought that 
after blowing Mulder out of the water, he would have had some sense 
of closure... perhaps some semblance of victory over getting the bad 
guys. But leaving the Director Robinson's office, Winters felt 
strangely at unease. Perhaps it wasn't the bad take-out that was 
causing his stomach to cramp up... maybe something much worse?

He shook his head, pushing the elevator button. He made a 
promise to pay more attention to the activities outside the Assistant 
Director's office from tomorrow on. He could even contact his friend 
Rich from Internal Affairs upstairs for the lowdown. 

As the elevator arrived, Winters rubbed his eyes, deciding that 
he needed a drink -- a good stiff drink to wash away the stiffness from 
his neck, to take away the cramp in his stomach, to melt away the sense 
of foreboding that was plaguing him so.

***

Director Robinson watched the receding torso eventually 
disappear, before picking up his cellular phone and dialing a 
familiar number. He recognized the voice of the gopher immediately, 
and after seconds of professional conversation, he was smoothly 
switched to Milton.

"James... We have a problem."

Milton's voice was happily curious. Robinson couldn't recall 
many times where the English gentlemen was grim. "Oh?"

"One of the agents is being nosy. He's a threat to our newest 
employee perhaps."

There was a silence before Milton asked, "How dangerous?"

"He's in a position to know things, and his suspicions are 
dangerous enough."

Again there was a silence, and Robinson glanced towards the 
door, lest eager ears be listening. There was only empty, white light 
filtering through, and the Director tuned his attention back to the 
phone, waiting for a response. 

"Name," Milton requested briskly.

"Andrew Winters."

"I'll take care of it."

Robinson hung up the phone swiftly, smiling at the 
accomplishments coming from a hard day's work.

***

Eight miles had been done easily, but when he looked at the 
hallway between the elevator and his door, Mulder sagged, wondering if 
crossing the Sahara would be easier.

"Too much coffee and doughnuts in the office make Fox Mulder a 
fat ass," he whispered under breath, pulling his key from the shoelace 
of his Reeboks.

The sight of his partner, her blue eyes blazing as soon as he 
entered made him take a step back, startled.

"Mulder," her voice was slightly shaking. "I haven't seen 
you in so long."

He nodded numbly at the forced joviality. "I know, Scully."

Her whole body was tense. Mulder recognized the tell-tale 
signs: the paler than normal face, the way she hid her clenched fists 
in the trench coat pockets. "Do you want to get a drink? You can 
tell me what's keeping you so busy, bossman."

The words had been spat out; her laugh contained no humor. 
Mulder watched as her control slightly wavered, as she took her hands 
out of her pockets to cross them in front of her chest.

"Sure, let me change, Scully," he cautiously walked around her, 
occasionally looking over his shoulder, seeing that she still hadn't 
moved from her original position. In the bedroom, he hastily changed 
into a pair of jeans lying on the floor, grabbing for the first 
sweater hanging in his closet. He quickly made his way to the living 
room, pulling the sweater over his head -- hearing his footsteps fall 
heavily onto the floor in the tense silence of his apartment. He 
gathered the files and papers that had been on his coffee table 
silently, even though he knew that they had been disturbed. He knew 
whose fault it was, and he kept his anger pushed down, stomping 
louder on the floor as he worked his way around the coffee table. 

Scully's eyebrows rose, and Mulder scowled, shaking his head. 
He forced his voice to sound somewhat happy, appropriate for a night 
out on the town. "Shall we go?"

The female federal agent nodded, her body still tense. Mulder 
followed the loud steps of her high heels through the hallways, locking 
his door. His partner was waiting impatiently at the other end of the 
hall, and Mulder looked at the distance between them.

It seemed like miles had passed before he was finally able to 
join her for a car ride that would ultimately be driven in silence.

* * *

Impossibly long legs approached Winters with a swagger that 
had a decidedly feminine stilt to it. He warily regarded her, nursing 
the bottle of Budweiser in front of him. She offered him a pouty smile 
and took the unoffered seat across the federal agent, the bangles on 
her wrist clashing noisily against each other.

"Dumped ya, huh?" she spoke through a mouthful of gum.

Winters smiled. As if. He hadn't even had anything remotely 
like a relationship since he moved to D.C. The beer was warm in his 
belly, and he heard himself reply. "Why. Interested?"

The woman smacked her heavily painted lips together, emitting 
a small moan, crossing her legs in such a way that the already high 
skirt rode further up her legs. "So, I noticed you have a fast car."

Andrew emitted a non-committal grunt, finishing off his bottle 
of beer in a dramatic final swig.

The woman pouted, finally sighing and getting up to leave. 
She grabbed his left hand, slipping a napkin into his palm. Rolling 
his eyes, he opened the folded fabric, seeing seven numbers that he 
would probably throw away once he got home. When her footsteps 
threatened to disappear, Andrew finally turned to watch the receding 
figure -- finally allowed himself to drink in her curves. He shook 
his head as she approached another solitary man at an equally 
solitary table, when something caught his eye. Her hair contrasted 
with the dull surroundings of the bar, and Andrew stared at his 
partner, as she walked alongside Mulder. He sat up straighter, 
pushing the empty beer bottle away, liquid courage coursing through 
his blood.

He watched as the two federal agents got a table and sat 
stiffly, eyeing each other warily. Andrew leaned forward, 
momentarily losing his balance, feeling the alcohol trying to pull 
his face closer to the floor. 

Their words, however, penetrated cruelly through the fog 
in his brain.

***

Scully's posture was tense as she watched Mulder intently. He 
gingerly placed the papers in front of him, going through the ritual of 
smoothing them, putting them in a straight pile.

She was about to open her mouth when Mulder put up his hand, 
calling the waiter with a forced calmness. 

"Drink, Scully?"

She shook her head, scowling at him. The waiter approached and 
after some hesitation, Mulder ordered an iced tea. The waiter left, 
grumbling, and Mulder twisted in his seat, gazing at Scully, "So?"

She sat tightlipped, unsure of where to begin, how to say 
everything she wanted to say. She opened her mouth, and no words came 
out. Mulder's expression was increasingly miserable as he played with 
the files in front of him. "What are those?"

Mulder looked to the files, shifting uncomfortably. "I need to 
ask your medical opinion on something."

Scully watched her ex-partner flip through some of the folders, 
pulling out his father's perused letter. "I figured out my father's 
letter," he proceeded cautiously. At her nod, he continued. "Okay, 
there are some connections between this and the book my father also 
gave me," he pulled out the book, flipping to a page that was already 
slightly wrinkled -- showing the wear it had endured over the last 24 
hours. "See this? The 'I write this days after your fifteenth 
birthday?' If you turn to page fifteen in the book, you see that the 
border has a whole bunch of letters in it, right?" Scully nodded. 
"From the first glance, it looks like it's a part of the book -- as 
this is a puzzle book. But if you look closely, you can see that it's 
been doctored slightly to look like..."

"... Like a base pair sequence." Scully finished, noting 
Mulder's relieved smile.

"Right. That's what I thought - -there's only four DNA base 
pairs, right? So, I was thinking that maybe this is a genetic code for 
something. Or... I don't know. But I need to know," he turned to her 
with expectant eyes. "Do you?"

Scully sat back. "I don't know what you want them to say, 
Mulder. I'm not a geneticist. The human genome hasn't even been 
completely mapped out yet," she caught his disappointed expression 
and gave up, pulling the book closer to her. "Let me look."

She examined the border, trying to note the genetic sequence. 
It raised a red flag, something she had read... but she couldn't quite 
place it. She emitted a hmmmm, and Mulder sat more forward in his 
seat. She pointed to the border, pulling some hair behind her ear. 
"You see this repeated sequence?" he nodded, looking at the repeated 
CTGG in the border. "It's what's called a mutational hot spot. Which 
means this area gets more frameshift mutations than say, any other 
normal spot in a gene." 

Scully noticed him nodding, his mouth turning into a frown. 
"Why?"

Mulder shrugged his shoulders. "Just wondering."

She shook her head. "No really, Mulder. Why?"

He sipped at his iced tea to give himself something to do. 
"Really... it's nothing."

Scully's temper grew so that her fingernails bit into her 
palms. "It's always nothing, Mulder. Isn't it?" her voice was 
deceptively calm. "I haven't heard from you in over three days. 
I don't know what you're doing. You still haven't told me what you 
do for..." she jabbed her finger angrily in the air, unable to find 
words, "...them," she leaned forward, her blue eyes shining, despite 
the dull light of the restaurant. "I have a partner who suspects you 
of kidnapping, Mulder." Scully gauged his reaction, and noticed him 
flinch. She drew back as if burned, feeling her innards drop to the 
floor, soak up the smoke and whisky that was floating in the air. 
"You know," she said it matter-of-factly. "You know about Sheila 
Freeman. You're in on it."

She waited for his answer, and he refused to meet her gaze. 
"Mulder, answer me, damn it. Are you in on it? Do you know her?"

At last he nodded, and she closed her eyes, feeling her world 
spin out of control -- as if the ground underneath her had fallen 
away. "What did you do?"

"Scully, please," his voice came out broken.

"No. I want to know."

Mulder shook his head. "It's not important."

"Not important?" a few heads turned, and she lowered her 
voice. "Not important, Mulder? This woman has no memory, except 
for hearing your voice. You take me off a case, you try to regulate 
all my activities," she lowered her voice, taking the dispute out of 
it. "I thought we were in this together, Mulder. But you are keeping 
me in the dark. You're here, but yet, you're still ditching me, in a 
way."

Mulder nodded miserably, his finger picking at the papers on 
the table. "Scully, I'll tell you later," she opened her mouth to 
protest, but he held up a hand. "Later, Scully. I promise."

He pushed the book over to her lightly. "The mutational hot 
spot you were talking about... could that lead to cancer?"

Scully paused, the rage leaving her slowly. "Yes, Mulder," 
she replied wearily.

He nodded, pensive. "What about this sequence? What does 
it mean?"

Scully breathed in impatiently, her temper rising again. 
"Why Mulder? Why is what you need to know more important than 
what I need to know? Is this about the file of Sam you have under 
your coffee table, Mulder? Is this another tidbit of info you've 
come across in her file?"

She regretted her outburst, knowing that the words 
themselves hadn't hurt him, but the disdain with which she had mocked 
his quest had. He lowered his head, pulling the book towards him, 
protectively, closing it slowly, even though his fingers were shaking.

"No," he croaked. "I found it in yours."

***

Andrew watched with smug satisfaction as his partner got 
into an argument with the Assistant Director. After a heated 
discussion, they stopped talking suddenly, each of them lost in 
their own world. Mulder was staring at the table, running his 
finger over the edge of the glass, while Scully stared blankly 
into space, occasionally glancing at him. At each turn of her head, 
he would nod gently.

Finally, the two got up, and he watched, his anger growing 
as the two embraced awkwardly, but with casualness that indicated 
familiarity. Afterwards they looked around nervously, like teenagers 
on their first date.

He stood slowly, feeling the whisky bolden his spirits, 
noting with satisfaction as Scully's eyebrows drew up in a 
surprised arch.

"Good evening, *partner*."

"Andrew, I can explain."

Andrew waved his hand dismissively. "Oh no, you don't need 
to explain anything to me, you double crossing spy," out of his 
peripheral vision, Andrew noticed Mulder trying to come in between 
them. He shook his head. "Oh, Assistant Director Mulder, I know 
about you. Although Scully probably already told you. What she 
doesn't know is that you're up for an internal investigation by 
he director."

Mulder blanched, and Andrew grinned smugly, hearing him 
whisper, "Director Robinson?"

"None other."

Mulder pulled Scully out of the way meeting Andrew face 
to face. Christ, if the kid told Robinson his suspicions.... 
"Look, Winters. You may have no reason to trust me, but don't go 
home tonight. Don't drive home. Take a taxi. Stay at a motel or 
something."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Threats don't work."

Scully noted Mulder's panic, and she put a hand on Andrew's 
shoulder, only to have him throw it off impatiently. "Andrew, please, 
maybe Mulder is right."

Mulder nodded. "Don't do anything routine tonight. 
Something... something might happen."

Scully understood, feeling his dread infect her, settling 
heavily in her stomach.

Andrew waved them off. "I'm not so drunk that I can't 
drive home, and I'm not going to listen to a corrupt AD and his 
little... bitch spy tell me what to do."

Scully stepped back instinctually, too hurt to respond, 
too numb to prevent his departure. Winters brushed roughly past 
Mulder's shoulder and left the bar.

***

There was nothing on the radio.

Andrew pushed the car into a high gear, flipping through the 
radio stations, hearing snaps of Puccini, Jewel, and Shania Twain 
complain through his speakers. His cheeks were flushed, he was hot, 
he was....

So god damned pissed off at his naivete.

He worked his tie off roughly, throwing it into the passenger 
seat, pushing down on the gas pedal harder, hearing the motor whine 
contently. 

So easy to believe, so easy to trust his new partner. His AD. 
His mind chanted expletives as he swore that tomorrow he would no 
longer look at the world through the rose-colored glasses. He flipped 
through the radio stations again, swearing at it, swearing at the car, 
swearing at Mulder and Scully, swearing at himself.

When it started to rain, he swore at the sky, as big fat 
goblets of water fell down, pounded loudly on the windshield. The 
rain and the wipers were enough to drown out the radio, and he hiked 
the volume up, finally satisfied with the Rolling Stones.

The rain grew heavier, and with a resigned sigh, and several 
swerves later, Andrew lifted his foot slightly off the gas pedal, his 
slightly muddled brain realizing he would be no good to the internal 
affairs if he was dead.

Somewhere, something was ringing, and Andrew realized it was 
his coat pocket. Scully? He decided to ignore it, but the phone kept 
ringing, kept going over Mick Jagger's voice, despite the stereo going 
as full blast. Andrew found his feet gunning against the pedal once 
again, as he gripped his fingers tighter around the steering wheel in 
anger.

He reached for the phone, jabbing at the on button with one 
angry motion with his finger. "What, you spy?"

Her heard her silence, and then a soft voice, calm and 
controlled. "Andrew, please don't go home tonight."

"Why should I listen to you?"

He heard her sigh, and then Mulder's voice coming over the 
line. "You could be in danger."

Andrew shook his head angrily. "Your opinion means nothing 
to me."

"Andrew, please."

Winters held the phone away from his ear, too upset to listen. 
His finger hovered over the end button, ready to jab it, when an 
oncoming light blinded him. He looked at the rearview mirror, at the 
high beam lights, and they left circles of blue and green behind his 
eyelids.

He must have said something because Scully and Mulder were 
jabbering incoherently, occasionally calling his name.

Something hit him, caused his neck to snap backwards, like 
it did sometimes when he was a kid, riding the wild horses on the 
farm. Soon he was falling, seeing the darkness of a deep ditch 
rapidly approaching. His forehead hit something. The seatbelt was 
where he had left it, when he couldn't be bothered in his haste, in 
his anger, to get away from the bar. His head was thrown forward, and 
there was an annoying sound of a horn somewhere. Then something 
enormously heavy pushed into his back, crushing his ribs and spine, 
pushing all air out of his lungs. His eyes bulged, the force of the 
steering wheel against his chest enough to crush his heart, turning 
the green circles behind his eyes to red, then white.

Then disappearing into nothing.


End of Part 13/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 14/20

It's not too late, Scully thought stubbornly as she clutched 
the cellular closer to her ear, as she struggled to hear something 
except for the jarring beep. Line noise seemed louder than the 
sickening crash seconds earlier. 

Her legs were numb, unable to respond to her simple command to 
move, as if the force of gravity had increased exponentially in the 
last minute. And then, she and Mulder were running towards the car, 
and she suddenly realized that she was chanting a prayer in her mind, 
and the last time she had prayed was months and months ago.

"He couldn't have driven that far," Mulder pushed the gas to 
the limit before she had a chance to close the door. The wheels 
screamed in response, the car almost flew into the opposite lane of 
traffic, and Mulder barely avoided hitting a pedestrian in his haste.

"Do you know where he lives?" Scully's hands shook while she 
was dialing 911. Oh please, she inwardly pleaded. Please allow her 
to keep speaking of her partner in the present tense.

"I am going in that direction. Just keep them on the line 
until we find..." Mulder couldn't finish the phrase, hitting the gas 
harder. He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the road 
in front of him. There was no time to engage in self-recrimination.

After this evening was over, he would have the rest of his 
life to do just that.

Scully was giving her badge number and name to the 911 
operator, and Mulder could detect the slight waver in her attempt 
to speak with a calm, professional voice. 

They heard the screaming of sirens before they saw the 
lights of police cars and ambulances, the crowd of on-lookers that 
gathered around the scene of the accident. "I am sorry, but the help 
is already here," Scully spoke in the phone with a trace of 
resignation. "Someone must have called before me. Sorry," she pushed 
the end button, not waiting for the response.

"Oh God, Scully..." Mulder moaned in agony as they watched the 
EMTs work on extracting Winters' body out of the upended vehicle. There 
was little left of the new Taurus that Scully remembered riding in. And 
the man who drove it...

She stepped out of the car and approached hesitantly, flipping 
her badge automatically. The people let her through, and she could 
finally see the light hair matted in blood, the neck that was bent at 
a slightly unnatural angle, and the broken frame of her partner. 

She studied the tar lines marring the road, trying to shrink, 
to ignore the sounds and smells that were overwhelming her. Oh, why 
did she have to lie to him...?

The regret was a burning knife in her heart. "Andrew," Scully 
whispered brokenly and reached out a hand to touch his face, while one 
of the policemen tried to wave her away. "FBI, I am his partner," she 
turned to the resisting man and struggled to keep her anger and grief 
in check. "What happened?"

"He was forced off the road. We are still trying to find 
witnesses," the policeman looked apologetic.

Scully didn't finish listening, focusing her attention on the 
still form in front of her. Oh, but these bastards were fast and 
efficient. One of the paramedics threw her a sympathetic glance, 
putting a hand on her shoulder firmly. She wondered if she looked as 
terrible as she felt.

"He is dead." He spoke the words softly, but with a certainty 
that was final. Inescapable.

"I know," Scully replied inaudibly and straightened up slowly, 
trying to focus through the red haze that obscured her vision 
momentarily, through the deafening pulse in her ears. Mulder's face 
across from her was gray even washed in the lights of police cars 
and ambulances. 

As he gradually turned to meet her gaze, she winced at the 
inhuman pain in his eyes. His breath hitched, and he moved his hand 
to cover his mouth.

And Scully knew that nothing, nothing would ever be the same.

* * *

Mulder stared at the glowing amber of the fireplace and 
wondered why he could not get warm. His teeth would start chattering 
if he didn't make a conscious effort to prevent it. Didn't the 
Consortium have enough funds for decent heating, for heaven's sake? 

Of course, he admitted to himself, that the atmosphere in this 
room was superficially most pleasant. Here, subtle comforts were always 
taken care of; slightest needs were always tended to promptly. It must 
have been the ice running through his veins, and the cold heart that 
was pulsing inside his chest. And he knew that he would not get warm 
under the hottest sun of tropics.

"Are you happy with my work?" he asked calmly, careful not to 
betray his discomfort.

Beautiful hands with prudently manicured nails settled on the 
expensive material of the gray designer suit. "But of course," a 
measured voice answered. "You are a valuable addition to our 
organization."

"And you trust me?"

"Do we have a reason not to?" Milton answered with a question 
of his own, and Mulder correctly interpreted it as a maybe. It was 
quite a change from a resounding 'no' of the days past.

He wondered briefly if he should be proud.

"I did not know whether I could fill the shoes of Walter 
Skinner, and I am certain that I could not replace him, but I think 
I have been doing quite well so far," Mulder continued 
conversationally. "Even though bureaucratic work is not something 
I am fond of, I presume that the FBI business did not suffer from 
my involvement too much."

"Personally, I think it benefited," Milton nodded, still 
not quite understanding where this current exchange was heading.

"But I have failed one of my agents already, and it 
reflects badly on me," Mulder raised his eyes to gauge the reaction 
of his colleague. "I *am* the Assistant Director. You promoted me 
to that job. And that job involves being responsible, first and 
foremost, to my agents." Mulder paused, feeling his bones shake 
as emotions threatened to overwhelm him. "And *I* was 
responsible to Special Agent Andrew Winters."

"You cannot answer for every freak out on the roads, Fox," 
Milton shrugged sympathetically. "Some people just don't know how 
to drive."

"And some people drive so well that they can execute a 
perfect homicide using a steering wheel and a pair of high beams," 
Mulder's voice raised a notch, and he noticed some heads in the 
room turning in their direction. There had been no traces left -- 
the pouring rain had effectively washed any such possibilities away, 
and any potential witnesses were either hiding or silent. The D.C. 
police ran around the city in circles, before raising a white flag 
in resignation. 

Mulder tried to pin Milton with a glare. "It's quite 
flattering to see that I am valuable enough to kill someone in 
the sake of my safety, but..."

Milton's smile was ill and condescending. "Your safety means 
safety of the Consortium. Do not ever forget that."

"Winters was my agent. He served my purposes, and he was 
doing a great job, as far as I was concerned," Mulder's voice cracked 
slightly, as he remembered the young man's passion and honesty. He 
underestimated Andrew's intelligence. Or maybe, he overestimated his 
own ability to live double lives without raising suspicion.

"And what job was that exactly? Keeping the X-Files department 
open in your absence?"

"Among other things, yes. And if he did cause trouble, I would 
have taken care of it." By now, all eyes in the room were focused on 
them, and he made sure that everyone heard his next words. "I am 
closing the X-Files department as of tomorrow."

"You are the Assistant Director," Milton's voice held no trace 
of emotion. "It is your decision."

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted and heartsick. 
This decision cost him a couple of sleepless nights, but he could not 
risk taking chances with other people's lives any longer.

"It is ironic, isn't it?" Northam offered, stopping by 
momentarily. "We have tried several times to close them down, and 
nothing worked. Director Robinson is a coward, and he preferred to 
avoid all these annoying arguments. AD Skinner had quite a conviction 
when it came to keeping your precious department open."

Mulder's hands grew cold, and his vision clouded.

"And now, you are the one closing them down. All I can say 
is," Northam stopped his tirade to shake his head in feigned display 
of amazement, "thank you."

The two elder members shared a small smile, congratulating 
themselves on the job well done, on short-term goals accomplished, 
and on the long-term strategy reinforced.

"Why didn't you just tell me to close them down sooner?" Mulder 
asked, too tired to play the guessing game anymore.

"We prefer not to interfere with things important to you," 
Milton replied softly. "You are one of us. We would be nothing as an 
organization if we did not take care of our own." There was a cruel 
smile playing on Milton's lips, and there were quiet chuckles coming 
from the back of the room.

Mulder was unable to offer a suitable response, feeling his 
body become wooden. With every passing day, with every Bureau case he 
made sure was not investigated, with every session of hypnosis in a 
building with bright overhead lights, the humanity drained out of him 
steadily. 

And every minute, he realized anew that he was becoming 
one of them.

* * *

The light in the basement office was on, and Scully hesitated 
before opening the door. But she wanted nothing more than to finish 
walking this particular circle of hell and she turned the knob 
resolutely.

Mulder sat in his old chair, feet propped up on the table, 
reading the case files. The sight was painfully familiar, infinitely 
dear, and for a split second, Scully tried to imagine that these were 
the old times. In a moment, he would raise his head, throw her a 
lopsided smile, and ask whether she had a bag packed in her car because 
they were leaving today, right now, to investigate bright lights in 
the sky of Nevada or some other similarly wonderful nonsense.

He turned to look at her slowly, his eyes lacking the usual 
glint of excitement, and the illusion was effectively shattered. "I 
came to pack up," she said haltingly, as if the carton box in her 
hands was not indicative of her intent.

Mulder nodded hesitantly, not certain whether she wanted him 
to stay or to leave. In the days since Andrew's death, the common bond 
of guilt seemed to drive them even further apart. Director Robinson 
persuaded his AD to eulogize the recently deceased Special Agent 
Winters, and during the entire funeral, Mulder was afraid to meet 
Scully's eyes, afraid to see the reflection of his own guilt in them. 
Such a tragic death. Such a young man. The lies dripped off his 
tongue, and the suppressed screams burned his throat. Such a tragic 
accident. Tsk tsk, nothing could be done.

Rumor had it that the investigation into the death of Winters 
was closed down when the tox lab upstairs discovered that the agent 
had a blood alcohol level of 0.9. Not exceedingly high, but enough to 
tarnish the funeral and to cause an elderly couple who were his parents 
to alternately yell and sob at the casket as it was laid to rest.

Mulder had been the only brass to arrive at the funeral. After 
the eulogy, realizing that the Director and Section Chief had failed 
to attend, he felt the chilly stares of his subordinate agents. And he 
quickly left the graveyard after the solemn ceremony, knowing that he 
was taking a coward's way out - lest any red-haired, blue-eyed women 
wanted to talk to him.

They haven't spoken about anything but business since then, 
and Mulder stopped short every time his fingers began dialing the 
familiar number. And today, he decided to just leave her alone and 
continued to read over the cases that he would probably never get a 
chance to investigate.

"Mulder, how I wish that you had done this earlier," she spoke 
suddenly, and his eyes watered at the regret in her voice. She couldn't 
have been more transparent while pointing an accusatory finger. "No," 
Scully continued softly, as if reading his thoughts. "You don't 
understand. I hope that one day, this department is reopened. And 
maybe there will be more than two agents working on these cases. And 
maybe it won't be located in the basement anymore."

"Suffering from the delusions of grandeur, Scully?" Mulder 
quipped sarcastically.

Scully smiled at the remark, stopping the frenzied search 
through the drawers and papers. "You don't have to answer if you don't 
know what to say, partner," she replied, refusing to take the bait. 
"This is not the right time for the X-Files. But I believe it will 
come again."

Mulder listened to the inspirational speech sullenly, knowing 
that he should have been the one providing encouragement, that the 
death of Winters hit her harder than him, that she desperately needed 
some sign, some realistic indication that they were doing the right 
thing.

And except for the wavering faith in the righteousness of his 
actions, he had nothing to offer.

"Scully, could you please reconsider going to the VCS? Quantico 
would love to have you back," he asked finally.

She shook her head negatively. "Mulder, we have been over this 
a thousand times before. Please don't ask me again."

He turned away, starting to drum his fingers on the table 
nervously. "Do you feel that you owe them something? That you are to 
blame for the death of Winters and that you will serve as some sort 
of a substitute?"

"That was a low blow," Scully's voice shook with indignation, 
and he raised his hand in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm sorry. I am just... worried."

The drumming continued, and she wondered if he wasn't so far 
from the truth, if her joining the VCS was not indicative of some deep 
masochistic tendencies. But going to Quantico would have been 
reminiscent of the last nightmarish time the X-Files were closed. 
And a teaching job would have meant no longer working in the field. 
And quite irrationally, it seemed to her that the distance between 
Washington D.C. and Quantico would symbolize the end, the ultimate, 
determining barrier between her and Mulder.

And they were still partners, damn it.

Mulder stood up decisively and took off the "I Want To 
Believe" poster, rolling it up tightly. "Here," he offered it to 
her, "I want you to have this."

The gesture spoke volumes, and Scully accepted it reverently. 
"Just for safekeeping, Mulder. You will have it back when you need it."

He smiled sadly and pointed to the little exquisite model of a 
Porsche sitting on the table. "Could I keep this?"

Scully fingered the tiny car gingerly, wondering how she could 
have missed it. Andrew must have dragged it down here and displayed it 
in the prominent place. She hardly knew him, and this Porsche... it 
was a part of him.

"Please," Mulder reiterated, and she nodded, a lump in her 
throat.

He pocketed the toy and walked out of the office quickly, 
leaving her alone. After the door closed, she gave herself permission 
to lose the brave facade for a moment; her shoulders sagged and her 
eyelids drooped tiredly. The situation was only getting worse, and 
she had to restrain herself from begging Mulder to quit while it 
wasn't too late. And yet, she knew that they were both too involved 
to quit the game now, for if they did, all the losses would have 
been for nothing. 

Her gaze fell on the poster, and her lips curved into a small 
smile. Though nothing was resolved, she had to believe that there was 
light at the end of this tunnel. She had to have faith that they would 
win at the end.

She corrected her suit and picked up the box with all the 
useless things that accumulated in her desk over the years. 

It was time to get to work.

* * *

Milton returned a tiny teacup to the saucer, sighing 
contentedly. Getting old was not so bad if one had money and power. 
The new wrinkles on the face and the protesting bones were hardly a 
reflection on his lifestyle, since there were always people ready 
to do his bidding at a moment's notice.

This weekend on the farm was a welcome vacation from the 
hassles of everyday work. The winter was coming to an end, it was 
unusually warm and dry: a perfect day for horseback riding. It was 
wonderful to see the children, too, for they rarely found the time 
to get away from the busy life in Chicago and visit.

The phone ring interrupted his reverie, and he hesitated 
briefly before picking it up, reluctant to spoil the calm evening 
with banal problems and worries.

"Milton," he answered finally, grudgingly.

"James, have you been watching CNN today?" a thick voice 
filled the receiver, and Milton grunted unhappily.

"My concept of rest does not include listening to the news."

"Turn on the TV," Northam interrupted. "You will want to look 
at this."

Milton reached for the remote and clicked on the news channel, 
slightly mollified by the pretty face of the female reporter that 
filled the screen. A frown creased her smooth forehead as she recited 
the latest news on the hurricane Yula, currently wrecking havoc on 
the shores of North Carolina. 

"The path of Yula changed significantly and unexpectedly. After 
it visited the eastern seaboard of South Carolina, it should have gone 
away from the continent, in the waters of Atlantic Ocean. The 
meteorologists had not foreseen that the hurricane would continue in 
the northern direction, and the people had little or no warning to 
prepare for the deadly consequences of this change..."

Milton's fingers on the remote tensed as he processed the 
information. "Manns Harbor?"

Northam anticipated the question. "The phones are down. We 
don't know what's happening."

"There is no reason for panic yet," Milton tried to contain his 
worry. "We will have to wait until the hurricane is gone and deal with 
it then."

"Tell me again, James," Northam sighed loudly. "Why didn't we 
build the damn lab in Irvine, California?"

The Englishman smiled mirthlessly.

"Earthquakes."

* * *

The children's book lay open on the twenty-fifth page, and 
Mulder struggled to understand the bizarre formula written beside the 
colorful pictures of animals frolicking on the grass. He remembered 
enough chemistry from school to recognize the typical elements of the 
organic compound: carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen, but its structure was 
too complex to be classified easily.

Yesterday, he tore off a piece of the letter and sent it to the 
FBI labs for analysis. The answer he was looking for was quick and 
unsurprising: the letter was written only four years ago, much too late 
for his fifteenth or twenty-fifth birthday.

Indeed, his father was a master of puzzles. But this one still 
had no solution, no easily decipherable meaning, and Mulder reached for 
the folder with Scully's name. Contrary to his expectations, and so 
unlike the discovery of the base set pairs corresponding to the 
fifteenth page of the book, there was no single mention of this organic 
formula to be found, though he saw a couple of equally strange 
schematics. He really should have shown this to Scully; she had a much 
more suitable background in this matter.

Mulder purposely bypassed the rest of the information on the 
hundreds of pages in the folder. He didn't want to read about the 
procedures administered or drugs injected, though all of them had 
been documented thoroughly, meticulously, with a cold and exacting 
professionalism. He closed his eyes on the few strange photographs 
and tissue samples filed along with the description of every single 
one of the ninety days that his partner was gone.

Every single day that he had struggled to find her... and she 
was still in the vicinity of Washington D.C., so unbelievably close 
and yet infinitely out of reach.

Earlier today, he had erased the memory of a small attractive 
woman with green eyes and long brown hair. The procedure was so routine 
by now that he had hardly paid attention to the way she looked or what 
she talked about.

She was a job.

She had a husband who was grieving about her forty-day 
disappearance and a mother who shed tears for a daughter she thought 
was dead.

At the whistle of the kettle, Mulder flung the folder aside 
and ran into the kitchen. With the stove turned off, he hugged the 
scorching metal with a palm of his hand, welcoming the pain, feeling 
the blisters form. It wouldn't do to scare the neighbors, so he used 
the other hand to clamp his mouth and contain the scream of agony. 
The heat abated slowly, and he lifted his fingers, his eyes traveling 
indifferently over the first- and second-degree burns. The rationalism 
and fear of self-destructive behavior prevailed momentarily, and he 
turned on the cold water, shoving the throbbing hand under the 
healing stream with a sensation of regret.

The pain was precious because it indicated that he could 
still feel.

And if he could feel, he was still a whole human being, and 
his emotions had not disappeared completely.

The burnt fingers were now numb, and he looked at them 
calmly, evaluating the damage. Not bad enough to go to the hospital, 
though Scully would probably have told him otherwise. Mulder bandaged 
them carefully, if awkwardly. Damn, he really should have planned 
ahead and used his left hand. Driving tomorrow was going to be hell.

Fresh coffee scalded his throat as he made his way back to 
the living room. He knew that to preserve what remained of his sanity 
and integrity, to guard Scully's cherished privacy, no one would read 
this folder again but her. If she ever wanted to know the truth about 
the months she lost, it was hers for the taking.

Though he would never ask her to take it.

His sister's file was easier to digest, and Mulder wondered 
if it was due to the fact that she was much more removed from his life 
by now. With a glance at the shimmering streetlight outside, he 
settled down for a thorough examination of the thinner folder, 
marveling at his choice of the bedtime stories.

The night was still young - and he had no time to waste.

* * *

Edward Jackson, the sheriff of Manns Harbor, North Carolina, 
looked sadly at the remnants of the small building that had served as 
the City Hall. The recent catastrophe immobilized the entire town and 
the nearby communities. The electricity was gone for awhile; it would 
be a few days before water was back; and there was little hope of 
restoring any means of communication in the near future. He had to 
stop several times while driving into town today and haul off tree 
trunks and other debris lying on the roads. At least, he somewhat 
selfishly noted, his house had not been damaged significantly.

"Good morning, sir!" a policeman greeted him happily, and 
Jackson glared at him, wondering how this morning could be classified 
as anything but horrible.

"Morning yourself, Larry. How did you make out?"

"Oh, not too bad. A tree fell on my car, so my head is touching 
the roof now while I am driving," the young man shared, still flashing 
a toothy smile. "But it could have been a whole lot worse. Why, look at 
the City Hall!"

The sheriff grunted and glanced at the sky suspiciously, amazed 
at its blue color. Such clarity seemed impossible several hours ago 
when the sky had been littered with dark, angry clouds -- deadly winds 
causing them to circulate furiously. "Get in my car," he finally said. 
"We should go assess the damage -- see who needs our help."

Most of the houses were deserted; what few people they met 
appeared busy trying to restore some semblance of order to their 
residencies. Larry twisted in his seat, looking around curiously. 
"Maybe, we should head back, sheriff? I don't think there is much 
out here."

"A couple more miles," Jackson answered briefly.

Larry nodded self-importantly and continued to stare out the 
window. "Wow, look at this place!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It will take 
awhile to rebuild."

The sheriff turned off the engine and stepped out of the car, 
struggling to remember what the building in front of him looked like 
before it was destroyed. Three floors, simple and modern, security at 
the entrance, nothing interesting in his opinion. Nothing deserving 
of the second glance. 

The two men walked around the ruins silently, glass and brick 
crumbling underneath their boots. Pieces of steel frame lay here and 
there, bent out of shape, and once again, Jackson marveled at the 
strength of the violent storm that visited their shore last night. 
Manns Harbor must have been in the direct path of Yula.

"Sheriff," Larry called out, and for the first time this 
morning, his voice sounded grave and unhappy. "I think I found 
someone... or something?"

Jackson walked over briskly and felt the hair on the back of 
his neck stand up. "Jesus, Larry... What is this thing?"

The corpse could not be classified as human, for the back 
of its head was enlarged and out of proportion to the rest of the 
body. The color of skin approached gray, and the sheriff noticed 
with disgust a few angry red pustules and sores. And yet, its face 
was unmistakably human, and its open eyes retained a rather normal 
shade of brown.

"Sheriff... there is another one over here," an expression 
of revulsion and horror replaced Larry's smile, as he started 
walking backward to the car. 

Jackson knelt down momentarily, respectfully closing the 
dead brown eyes. "I think we should let someone know about this, 
Larry. These... *people* look like they could have used some help 
before the hurricane."

Larry was too busy throwing up on the side of the road to 
reply.

End of Part 14/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 15/20

There was a knock on the door, and Mulder turned around, 
surprised to see the upset face of Miller. The old doctor never 
interfered in the sessions anymore, and Mulder came to greet him 
hurriedly. 

"Fox, please see me before you leave for today."

"Sure, as soon as I am finished here," he nodded vaguely in the 
direction of the woman.

"Good. Sorry to interrupt," Miller spoke to the empty air and 
closed the door behind him loudly.

Mulder wondered briefly what the hell this was about, then 
shrugged it off and resumed the session.

Half an hour later, he stood in the office of Miller who was 
pacing the floor in monotonous, exhausting circles.

"Fox - what happened to your hand?" he asked briskly, noticing 
the white bandages for the first time.

Mulder hid the right hand behind his back unconsciously. 
"Nothing serious. I accidentally spilled the boiling water."

Miller threw him a curious glance but seemed to accept the 
explanation. "With the money you are making now, you could afford 
paying someone to do these things for you."

"I prefer to make my own beverages, thank you," Mulder replied 
coldly.

"You really should have asked before taking the files," Miller 
stopped finally, pinning the younger man down with an unflinching gaze.

Mulder's knees buckled and he suddenly longed to sit down. God, 
he'd hoped this would last a little longer - that he'd be able to do 
some real damage before he was found out. What had he accomplished so 
far besides killing Andrew, convicting Skinner, and permanently 
scarring dozens of young women?

"I'm sorry," he squeezed through the gritted teeth.

"Yes, well," Miller pointed him to a chair. "I presume you 
know what happened to your sister."

Mulder nodded dully, waiting for the inevitable end to the 
charade.

"She was treated well, you know?" Miller continued, ignoring 
Mulder's deathly pallor. "Davidson made sure of that. I still wonder 
whether he was her father - who knows, really? - but he cared for her 
more than he would have even for his own children. There were no 
invasive procedures performed on her."

"Yes, I know that she had... privileges," Mulder said, 
suddenly seized by desire to clarify another point. "And he wasn't 
her father."

Miller shrugged. "You would know better. It's your family, 
after all. But I bet you didn't know that Samantha had telekinetic 
abilities?"

Mulder's eyebrows rose sardonically. "It was a surprise."

"Her genetic make-up was altered - we were in the middle of 
this series of experiments..." Miller stopped uncertainly. 
"Nevermind."

"Why are you telling me all this?" 

"I enjoy working with you, Fox. I like you, and I think that 
our organization still stands to benefit from your abilities," Miller 
leaned forward, inputting all of his persuasive skills in the next 
statement. "That is why I hope that you will not quit, despite what 
you've learned."

Mulder stared at the old doctor, flabbergasted and slightly 
amused. They still had no idea... no idea as to his true intentions. 
By God, he sarcastically mused, the Emmy committee would have a field 
day with his fine performance. 

"Well... I don't know," he offered finally, deciding to milk it 
for all it was worth. "You were the one who erased her memory. And 
Scully's. I saw your signature in both files."

Miller was now genuinely nervous, almost fearful. "I hope you 
understand, Fox. It was - it is - my job."

Mulder nodded weakly, remembering his own thoughts to that 
effect.

"It was never personal. In fact, I liked them both. And in the 
case of your partner, there were hardly any memories to begin with," 
Miller explained, as if that excused everything.

Mulder raised a hand, stopping the flood of explanations. He 
truly didn't want to hear this. "I will have to think about it. I 
admit that I had thoughts about resigning."

Miller looked away, accepting the statement. "While you're 
thinking... there is something you may want to consider."

"What?"

"Your sister's children are of some interest to us. She is one 
of the very few abductees who are fertile. And her husband served in 
the Persian Gulf War. Freaky coincidence, wouldn't you say? But it's 
quite a potent combination. And we would like to see what special 
abilities the offspring of such a union might possess," Miller 
concluded apologetically.

Mulder's hands balled into fists. The bandaged fingers ached 
mercilessly, and he used the pain as a counter-balance against the 
turmoil in his head. "Why weren't they taken before?"

"Not while Davidson was alive and a member of the Consortium," 
Miller replied dryly. "You might not realize this, but by coming to 
work for us, you have literally saved them."

He could hardly breathe as his world shrank to a narrow cell 
of the prison he could never hope to get out of. "How old are they?"

"The boy is four, and the girl is six. They are lovely."

Mulder opened his mouth, wanting to ask more questions, but 
then fell silent.

"I think your decision has just been made."

The man could combine sympathy with a threat in the same 
sentence. It was a talent. Mulder got up and went to the door, the 
gift of speech returning to him. "Thank you for the information."

"No problem," Miller was already busy writing something in 
his journal. "And the matter of stolen files will remain between us. 
Everyone else is too concerned with that North Carolina disaster, 
anyway."

North Carolina? Yula? Mulder questioned for a moment how the 
hurricane could have possibly affected the measured pace of business 
at the Consortium. It's not like they would have sent medical 
supplies to the victims.

And then, his thoughts turned back to the haunting memory of a 
little girl with braids, calling out for help. And to the two children 
whom he'd never seen, but whose life depended solely on him - and on 
how well he served the very force who could destroy them.

* * *

Skinner took a deep breath and tapped his foot impatiently. He 
had no desire to speak with Scully, preferring the uncomfortable cot 
in his drab cell to the excruciating silence that filled a small 
interrogation room. 

"I am surprised that you are alone, Agent Scully," he offered 
coldly, eager to finally start and finish the conversation 

She bit her lip and continued to stare into space. "Agent 
Winters is dead."

Skinner shrunk back in his seat, the news hitting him like a 
physical blow. "How?"

"Killed in an automobile accident," her eyes roamed over the 
walls nervously, searching for cameras and microphones. 

"Accident?" Skinner repeated dully, and Scully shook her head 
negatively.

So his suspicions were correct. It was one of the very few 
times when Skinner would have loved to be wrong. He felt as a 
spectator to a grotesque drama, knowing the reasons behind each scene 
played out before his eyes, but powerless to affect its outcome. 
"And I presume that Assistant Director Mulder," he spit each word 
out testily, "is too busy to visit?"

Scully tilted her head and eyed him curiously, trying to 
figure out what, if anything, Skinner suspected. She ignored the 
barb, content to turn the topic of conversation to the predicament 
of her former boss. "I have read the forensics report and I have 
evaluated all evidence, sir. Nothing at the crime scene points 
directly at you even though your fingerprints were found in the 
apartment. The pictures speak against you, but there is a chance 
that jury may be swayed..."

So she would ignore the question. Skinner sighed, irritated. 
"Why are you here? Not to tell me what I already know, I hope?"

"I am sorry, sir," Scully lost her wind momentarily. "I have 
tried, but there is so little that I can do..."

"Oh really? Who are you working for these days, Agent Scully?"

"Violent Crimes Section - as a forensic expert," she sounded 
shaky, recoiling from the expression of pity and horror on Skinner's 
face. "The X-Files were closed a few days ago."

"By Mulder?"

"Yes," blue eyes glared at him defiantly, answering all of his 
questions at once.

Skinner couldn't believe that he started this journey into 
hell for Mulder and her, for the corrupted agent and his blinded 
partner. Neither one was worth the lives of people stung by the bees. 
Neither one was worth this jail sentence, no matter how much he may 
have deserved it.

He should have warned Andrew to stay away.

"I think you should go, Agent Scully." 

She flinched and got up abruptly, her chair scraping the floor 
with a metallic screech. What was she doing here? It was obvious what 
Skinner thought of her and Mulder. She never could fool him. In a 
half-hearted attempt to fix the unfixable, she spoke urgently. "I came 
here to say that I believe you. That I believe in you, and that no 
matter what possible motive... or motives... you might have had to 
kill Cancerman, I know you wouldn't have done it. And so does Agent 
Mulder."

Skinner shook his head tiredly. "That is very sweet. However, 
I need something more than faith to get me out of this predicament."

"The trial is in a few weeks," Scully felt like she was about 
to choke on the next platitude. "And I have faith that something might 
happen in the meantime."

She left in a hurry, and the guards stepped back in the room, 
ready to escort him back to his cell. He was accustomed to the click 
of handcuffs, and the way to his cell was familiar and everyday. His 
whisper didn't carry far in the stale air.

"I don't."

Outside, Scully leaned against the car door, her knees shaking. 
With an increasing frequency, she was forced to lie and cover for 
Mulder, while innocent people she respected and cared about were 
either killed or convicted of crimes they didn't commit. And at this 
moment, she hated herself, and him, and their misguided plans.

She felt as if she were betraying not only her ex-boss, but 
also herself, and the very foundations of her beliefs. Apparently, 
the way to the truth was neither black nor white, but gray and 
shadowy.

The list of the victims was growing.

And time was running out.

* * *

Kim entered the office carrying a load of folders in her hands. 
With a sigh of relief, she set them down on Mulder's desk and offered 
her boss a polite smile. 

"What are those?" he was curious.

"X-Files, sir. Now that the department is closed, I don't know 
where to direct them. And they are still being labeled as X - maybe, 
we should speak to the administration about it?"

Mulder regarded the folders with a mixture of longing and fear, 
and she stopped, eyeing him sympathetically. 

"Sir, if you want me to drop them at the office downstairs..."

That would have been a wise decision, all things considered. 
"No," he interrupted her on impulse. "Let me look through them first 
and see if they can be directed to the other departments."

"Absolutely. I'll bring you more coffee," Kim hesitated before 
leaving, and Mulder smiled ruefully, watching her depart. He must have 
been rather unlike her previous boss; the poor thing just didn't know 
how to handle him.

He opened the first folder and touched the pages tenderly. A 
haunted house. Poltergeist. Mulder's lips curved upward and he closed 
the file gently. Not unless he could find a brigade of Ghostbusters. 
The second file spoke of a numb man who suddenly began talking and 
professing the end of the world, and claiming to have been touched 
by God. 

What a bunch of crap.

The third folder had him mesmerized. Two strange bodies, 
"half-human and weird," in description of Sheriff Jackson, were 
discovered after hurricane Yula in Manns Harbor, North Carolina. 
The building where the bodies were found was destroyed completely, 
and no one claimed ownership of it - or the bodies - yet. The 
remnants of strange apparatuses were found in the ruins, as well. 
The police of North Carolina had their hands full dealing with the 
consequences of the hurricane, and someone apparently heard enough 
of the X-Files department of the FBI to direct the case there.

Mulder's heartbeat intensified. Could this have been the 
"disaster" that had the entire Consortium on the verge of 
hysteria? Was this the location of one of their labs? If it worried 
them so greatly, there had to be evidence that could blow the 
entire operation out of the water. He had no freedom to go to Manns 
Harbor and investigate any longer, but he could ask Scully...

Kim came in carrying a fresh cup of coffee, and she had to 
touch him on the shoulder to gain his attention. "Sir, Dean Douglas 
is here to see you. Should I tell him to come back again?"

"Oh? No..." Mulder accepted the cup gratefully. "Let him in."

Dean Douglas strode into the office and settled down in 
the offered chair, obviously uncomfortable. 

"So, what brings you here?" Mulder broke the silence 
impatiently, glancing at the open folder that still beckoned him.

Douglas wiped sweaty hands on the pants nervously. Generally 
a fearless man, he always felt apprehensive around the new Assistant 
Director, and he would be hard-pressed to explain the reasons. 
Perhaps it was the ease with which Mulder ascended the career ladder. 
Perhaps it was the cold fire in his eyes. "I came here to talk about 
a rather disturbing trend I've noticed in my division."

"Oh? Which is?"

"High turn-around rate of my agents," the words were out, 
and Douglas appeared relieved. "Personally, I am glad to have Agent 
Scully working for us. She helped us out tremendously with autopsies 
and her excellent forensic expertise."

Mulder watched him coldly. "But?"

"But I question the reasons behind her transfer. Look at the 
facts. First, you ask for Agent Winters to work as her partner. He is 
killed in a few days by an unidentified vehicle. And that vehicle did 
exist, regardless of alcohol level in his blood. You quickly close 
the department and ask if the Violent Crimes Section could accommodate 
Agent Scully, though she clearly has no profiling experience. Going 
back further, Walter Skinner, a man whom I respect, is convicted for 
murder of the person whose name he didn't even know. And you're 
promoted in his place after a rather bizarre though triumphant 
resolution of the hostage situation."

Mulder listened bleakly to the recitation, praying for the 
Chief of the VCS to stop. If he began asking questions, there would 
be yet another tombstone in the Arlington cemetery and yet another 
death on his shoulders. "What is your point, Douglas?"

"My point is," he looked at the Assistant Director squarely,
"that I ask you not to use my agents so freely to fulfill your purposes 
whatever they may be. And that includes Agent Scully."

So Scully was now "his agent." Mulder smirked contemptuously. 
"Let me remind you that your department is still answerable to me. If 
I feel the need to utilize its resources, I certainly will."

Douglas seemed to ignore the rude tone of his voice, focusing 
on the tiny Porsche standing in the far corner of the table. "Mulder, 
I'm only saying this because I'm concerned. And I still hope that we 
will have a long and productive working relationship," his manner was 
soft, reconciliatory. "But I don't want to add more unsolved cases 
to this pile," he nodded to the load of X-Files, "or to our own. My 
agents are not disposable."

Mulder stared downward with the unseeing eyes, gritting his 
teeth and wishing that his tearducts were less allergic to the dust 
in the air. "Certainly not."

His point articulated, Douglas exited. Enthusiasm wavering, 
Mulder smoothed the papers in the folder with bandaged fingers. There 
were so many reasons to bury this case. Douglas' unhappiness. His 
concern for Scully. His own perilous position. Miller's precautions. 
And there were only a few unimportant incentives to give it a green 
light.

Time was running out like sand through his fingers, while the 
danger of becoming someone he'd never wanted to be was becoming all 
too real.

* * *

The screen glowed with a soft blue light, and Scully touched 
the smooth glass tentatively, feeling the cool crackle of electricity. 
They rarely spoke anymore using the monkey tongue, because Mulder was 
always too busy, and their schedules rarely coincided. But she was 
glad for this interlude, desperate to talk to him.

"Skylark, you must see the formula I've found in my textbook."

Oh, more news about the letter. It seemed to be the only thing 
Mulder was interested in these days.

"Can you type it here?"

The formula appeared on the screen as if by magic, and she 
stared at it without recognition. Her stomach cramped painfully as 
she typed the next question. "Did you see it in my lecture notes, 
as well?"

The answer was quick and unsettling. "No. But there are a 
couple of similar compounds mentioned."

"I do not recognize this. I need more time to research it."

The next words cut through her like a knife, and she barely 
suppressed her anger. 

"I have to fly out tonight. Let's talk about this later."

"Where are you going?"

"A weekly meeting. Gotta go."

Scully bit her lip in frustration. So he got everything he 
wanted out of this conversation, and now he was running away. And 
the fact that he spoke of these meetings with such ease - such 
informality - worried her.

"Wait! The presentation of the bald monkey is soon. We are not 
ready."

Mulder's answer seemed impatient. "I know."

"And you still haven't told me what kind of research you do."

The words sounded as if he was stuttering. "Ddo yo really want 
to kknow."

She envisioned his tired face, heard his resigned voice while 
another sentence floated on the screen.

"Sorry. Hard to ttype with burnt fingers."

The twinge of concern was almost an involuntary reflex, and 
Scully closed her eyes, fearing the rising headache and her obvious 
co-dependence on her ex-partner, but most of all whatever he was about 
to tell her.

"How did you burn them? Is it serious?"

"Spilled boiling water. An accident. Don't worry."

Scully sensed that there was more to the story, but didn't 
push him further. "Do you want me to study my... lecture notes?" she 
typed finally, praying for a negative answer.

His reply screamed at her angrily. "NO!!" Then, in a softer 
tone, he followed with, "Too difficult for you or for me."

She swallowed hard, erasing the treacherous thoughts from her 
mind, fear uncoiling like a poisonous snake in her heart. "This cannot 
go on much longer."

The pause lasted minutes.

"I need you to do something for me. For us," he corrected 
himself quickly. "Research a case - meet me tomorrow."

Confused but slightly reassured, she typed an affirmation. And 
then she thought about Sheila and Andrew. And about Skinner, who 
readily admitted what he had done for the Consortium. And about 
Mulder, who somehow managed to convince the Consortium that he was 
on their side.

It must have been something that he could somehow live with. 
But it was also something that he thought she would disapprove of - 
something she would despise him for.

"Scorpio?"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to know," Scully typed quickly, fully aware of 
her weakness, eyes wide open to her deliberate blindness.

Before she turned off the computer decisively, his answer 
flashed as if chasing her. 

"But you will."

* * *

Scully drank in the fresh air of North Carolina, appreciating 
the smell of early spring flowers mixed with the salt of the ocean. 
She realized with surprise that she was falling in love with the 
little town of Manns Harbor, rattled by the hurricane, but still 
unique and charming. And for the first time in so many days, she was 
delighted to be working.

Even without Mulder by her side, it felt right to be 
investigating an X-File, and Scully wondered when the 
now-extinguished department became so much a part of her life. No, 
she amended, not just a part. She would never settle for anything 
less - and she could not wish for anything more.

"Agent Scully? Sheriff Jackson," a tall burly man introduced 
himself, and she smiled, shaking his hand. "So, I guess our problems 
reached the ears of the FBI itself."

"Yes. I don't have much time," Scully spoke with regret, 
wishing that she could stay longer had there been no pressing matters 
waiting back home. "Could you point me to the ruins of the building 
where you found the bodies?"

"Sure. Take this road down to Hawthorne, turn right, and you 
will see it on the right-hand side."

"Thank you. How is restoration coming along?"

Sheriff beamed. "We are doing very well. We should receive a 
large government grant, so people will have a chance to rebuild their 
houses."

"Glad to hear that. Do you still have the bodies?" Scully 
asked hopefully.

"We just shipped them to Quantico yesterday," Jackson was 
apologetic. "Didn't know someone would be coming all the way over 
here. And we don't have a place to keep them, anyway."

She nodded, relieved that they haven't disappeared - at 
least, not yet - and prepared to drive off when sheriff stopped her 
tentatively. 

"Agent Scully, thank you so much for coming. And I sure hope 
you can find out what was happening in that place. I worked here as 
a police officer for twenty-seven years, and I would be upset to 
find out there was something going on in Manns Harbor that required 
my attention - and I never even knew of it."

"I will do my best, sheriff," Scully watched as he put the 
hat back on and swaggered to the old Wrangler. 

Minutes later, she gazed at the ruins. There was little 
left here, and she wondered around aimlessly, picking up a few pieces 
of metal and glass and packing them in the evidence bags just in 
case. Suddenly aware of someone's eyes on her back, Scully turned 
around abruptly and saw a thin elderly man on the side of the road. 

"Sir? Are you looking for something?"

"No, no," the man gulped and looked around, clearly wishing 
to escape her scrutiny. "I just stopped by to look at the damage."

"It is rather gruesome, isn't it?" she smiled, trying to put 
him at ease. "Do you know anything about what this place used to be?"

He turned the cane in his hands nervously. "I thought... no, 
I'm wrong... nevermind," he started walking away, and Scully ran 
after him on some sixth sense.

"Wait! I'm a Special Agent Scully, with the Bureau. If you 
need me for anything, here is my business card."

The old man seemed to accept it gratefully, putting it in the 
wallet with shaking hands. "Can't imagine why I would... no, can't 
imagine."

Then he limped back to the waiting car, and Scully stared 
after him, unsettled.

Quantico was the next step.

* * *

"Scorpio,

I apologize for the shortness of this e-mail. It is only due 
to lack of time.

First of all, I was amazed and very grateful to find the two 
rats from the destroyed laboratory still available. I have not 
expected such a gift, considering our terrible luck of the times 
past. I assume that parties interested have not been informed of 
their existence. Monkeys do love to eat rats, or so I've heard.

I hid them, Scorpio. A scientist can't risk losing such 
valuable exponents. First time for everything, I suppose.

Here is what I have found. In both rat corpses, the 
cerebellum, a part of the brain responsible for balance, movement, 
and coordination, was enlarged to almost twice the normal size. In 
order to accommodate this severe brain growth, the posterior parts 
of the skull were excised and replaced with metallic plates. Their 
pituitary gland's intermediate lobe was also enlarged. That is the 
lobe that has no known function in rat bodies.

While I am at a loss to explain the functionality of both 
of these changes, I may have an answer as to their possible origins. 
There were multiple pustules and sores on both gray bodies. I had 
fluid inside of them examined, and there are traces of a compound 
which formula is reminiscent of the one you have shown me before. 
The chemists I worked with are certain only that this compound is 
synthesized, but they could not tell me what it was.

These rats had also undergone extensive radiation, which may 
account for the amount of frameshift mutations discovered in their 
DNA. A textbook case, really.

Quite obviously, our competitors were experimenting with a 
structure of this unknown compound, but I could only speculate about 
their purposes.

I believe that I have also helped them in these experiments 
three years earlier. My lecture notes could be essential, to help us 
understand this case, as well as their larger goals. It may be 
painful but necessary.

The cause of death in the first case was a broken neck. In 
the second, multiple injuries and blood loss are to blame. However, 
these rats would not have survived much longer. Their immune system 
was destroyed, and their defenses against any otherwise harmless 
infection were down. In fact, their immune response would have been 
slower and less effective than if they had a rat equivalent of AIDS. 
Their stomachs and digestive tracks had also been severely damaged.

These are my findings so far. Today, I am flying out to meet a 
teacher who I feel may know some things about this case. 

I truly hope that I will have more answers for you before long. 

One last thing, Scorpio: I have lost too many colleagues 
already. People are burnt out quickly. I hope you are taking care 
of yourself. Don't work too hard.

I will see you soon,

Skylark."

The phone rang, and Mulder shredded the letter on the spot, 
scrunching the sentimental regrets at the roots. His head throbbed, 
and he shook off two more Excedrin pills in the palm of his hand, then 
sent them down his throat without water. He was already over the 
allowed daily limit, but who was counting. People as rats. What an 
allegory.

Distractedly, he picked up the phone, thinking that this 
letter was more disturbing than encouraging. Who was Scully meeting? 
Where was she? If they were still partners, he would imagine that 
she was executing a classic "I-just-ditched-you-Mulder-to-show-you-
how-it-feels" scenario. Complete with a melodramatic e-mail. And how 
did she manage to hide the bodies, anyway? 

He could better maintain plausible deniability if he didn't 
know where she was. She promised to be back soon, and Scully was 
always true to her word. 

But it was so hard to wait...

"Mulder."

"Fox, this is Milton. I am in Washington today - do you have 
some time to chat?"

Mulder glanced at the clock. 7 PM. Highly irregular. He was 
anxious now, and he tried to remind himself of Miller's strange 
reaction to his indiscretions. But Milton was far more dangerous.

"Of course," he replied smoothly, a smile in his voice. 
"I'd be delighted."

"Meet me in one hour at the facility," Milton cut him abruptly.

Oh, so no room for pleasantries. "See you there."

The beep was his answer, and Mulder hung up gently. There was 
no reason to worry.

No reason at all.

End of Part 15/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 16/20

Scully ran up the creaky steps of the old wooden house and 
knocked on the door decisively, trying to contain her excitement. 
She still could not believe that the man she met at Manns Harbor 
called, surprising her in the middle of the autopsies. At the precise 
moment when she was trying to dream up a way to hide the bodies.

The same halting voice she heard on the phone asked who was at 
the door.

"Agent Scully - we have spoken?'

It took him several minutes to unbolt the locks, and Scully 
marveled at their sheer quantity. 

"Good evening," the man shuffled, ushering her in awkwardly. 
"Please come in."

"Thank you," she stepped inside, sweeping the surroundings 
quickly. The darkness dwelled in the corners, the only other tenant 
in the old Albany, New York house. It seeped into the room from 
behind the old, valuable paintings on the walls, from behind the 
dark antique furniture. "I am sorry, I still don't know your name."

"Hans Treznor. Do sit down."

"You are German?" Scully settled down in the armchair. "You 
have no accent at all."

Treznor cringed with displeasure. "I have lived in this country 
for more than forty years. If I still had an accent, it would be 
surprising."

"I am sorry. But I presume you called me for a reason. What did 
you want to talk to me about?"

The old man's expression changed from contempt to fear as if by 
magic. "That place where we met in North Carolina. What do you know 
about it?"

Scully shrugged. "I was hoping you could tell me about it, 
actually. Two strange bodies were found there, but that's all I can 
tell you."

"I am sure you can tell me much more than that, Agent Scully," 
Treznor's eyes were still fearful, but the intelligence behind them was 
undeniable. "I did some checking-up on you, and I know that you are a 
forensic pathologist. I am sure you would have wanted to be the one to 
do the autopsies. And I would like to know what you have found."

Scully stared at him, indignation boiling inside her. "You - 
checked up on me? What gave you the right?"

"The only right I have these days, Agent Scully. The right to 
die with dignity - and the right to clear my conscience before I go."

"You don't look that frail to me," she cursed herself mentally 
for being short with him. "I was hoping you could give me some 
information. But since you seem unwilling, I will go."

"Bluffs don't work with me, Agent Scully," Treznor's cold 
voice stopped her as she was rising out of the chair. "This 
conversation will be mutually beneficial, I assure you. Now, tell 
me about the bodies."

She slid back down slowly, squeezing the handles of the 
armchair tightly. "Most of the anomalies I have found were in the 
brain..." she began uncertainly, enthusiasm and scientific curiosity 
winning her over step by step. Treznor listened attentively, nodding 
from time to time, the best audience to the strange forensic 
discoveries she had had in the longest time. "There were trace 
amounts of a substance in the pustules, and in the bloodstream of 
the bodies. And I only know that it was manufactured, but no one 
can tell me what it is," Scully finished.

"Draw me a scheme," Treznor pointed her to paper and pen on 
the table.

She scribbled a quick picture, and gave it to him. "You know 
what this is, don't you?"

"Yes," Hans contemplated it for a while. "Yes, I do," he drew 
another picture below it with unsteady fingers. "And this is the one 
they are looking for, I am sure."

Scully rummaged through her bag, pulling out a formula that 
Mulder found in his father's book. "Bingo," she whispered softly, 
smiling and trembling at the same time.

"You know how gene splicing works, don't you?" Treznor asked, 
not looking for an answer. "When two differing DNAs are being combined, 
they must be treated with the same enzyme that has the ability to split 
them in such a way that they will graft together. If it works, the 
result is a completely new DNA string, a new range of possibilities, 
a new species. This formula is the enzyme that could, in fact, combine 
the human and gray DNA."

"Gray?"

He smiled, regarding her with something akin to pity. "Alien."

"But these bodies... they wouldn't have survived!" Scully 
remembered the destruction she had found inside them and shuddered. 
"This is impossible."

"What is impossible, Agent Scully? The trick is, of course, 
to come up with a formula that will successfully splice both DNA 
strings and combine them so that the risk to health will be minimal 
and the benefits procured immeasurable. Imagine: a body that still 
resembles human, but possesses new abilities. Levitation. Telekinesis. 
Control over thought. Control over time, even."

Her head was spinning. "Regardless... are you telling me that 
this other formula you just drew for me, that this is the one?"

"Yes. Why are you so surprised? You seem to have known it as 
well."

"I am not surprised," Scully amended. "It is the place where 
we found it."

"We?" Treznor seemed edgier now, the old fear coming back.

"Me and my ex-partner," she suddenly felt regret that Mulder 
wasn't here. That she wasn't recording this conversation so that he 
could listen to it. "How do you know so much?"

Hans' face fell, and an old man with nothing to live for soon 
replaced an eager scientist. "I was one of the few unfortunates who 
conducted these experiments many years ago. Sometimes, I think that 
the human subjects we used as lab rats were the unlucky ones - now I 
think that we were the true victims. William Mulder was in charge of 
the project when I came to work in Virginia laboratory," he stopped 
curiously, seeing Scully's hand going to her throat. "Something to 
drink, perhaps?"

"No, no. I am fine," she shook her head, trying to dispel 
the sudden dizziness. "Please, continue."

"He was a determined man, relentless in the pursuit of his 
goal. He drove us all to the brink of nervous breakdowns, but we did 
find a way to combine the two with minimum damage to the subjects. 
The subject we experimented upon had lived for three months and he 
was looking quite well... I was ecstatic, you understand. Finally, 
we had a solution to the problem."

"What happened then?"

"What happened was fire, and the person who just happened to 
have started it was William Mulder. Everything burned to the ground: 
the samples, the documents, the subjects, and the knowledge. Everyone 
died - except for me, and only because I was lucky enough to have 
stepped out for a cigarette at the moment. Sometimes, the deadly 
habits prove to be beneficial."

Scully frowned. "Are you sure it was him who started the 
fire?"

Treznor cringed. "He is the only one besides me who lived. 
Simply by method of exclusion."

She tried to collect her thoughts. This barrage of information 
was refreshing and surprising, she was so used to getting some 
scraps...

"I heard what happened to him after. He resigned, his daughter 
disappeared. They were suspicious - they thought it was him as well," 
Treznor concluded. "It wasn't a Sherlock Holmes type of mystery."

"How hard was this formula to come by?" Scully wondered aloud. 
"They couldn't find it since then?"

"We only invented it by sheer luck," Hans bared his teeth. 
"No method to our madness, so to speak."

"You must have been a great scientist," Scully offered, 
suddenly sorry for the man who obviously spent most of his life in 
hiding, in fear. 

"But I have used my talent for the wrong things," he looked 
away for a moment. "At times I used to think: if I surrender this 
formula to them, if I share what I know, at least one part of their 
project will have been fulfilled. Some experimentation will stop, 
lives will be spared..."

"But you couldn't be sure that more people will not die as 
a result of this discovery," she finished softly.

"That and I was afraid for my own life. Something I truly 
needn't have concerned myself with." Treznor gazed at her 
thoughtfully. "I can guess why you know so much, Agent Scully. 
Your ex-partner's name is Fox Mulder, and I have seen enough to 
know that there are no coincidences. Old man must have kept some 
information about the project. I can do very little. But you have 
the knowledge and the means to do something. Not even they can hide 
from hurricanes."

Scully processed the information. "Thank you," she said 
finally, gratefully. "You have helped me immensely."

Hans nodded, pale eyes focusing on hers for a moment. 
"You seem to take this business rather personally, Agent Scully. 
Why?"

His words unsettled her. "I am tired of being a victim," 
she straightened in the chair.

Hans inhaled sharply and stared at her for a while. "You 
have survived. You should be happy for that."

The sun was setting behind the trees, and the darkness of 
the house mixed with the dusk outside. The steel returned back 
into her voice.

"I am."

* * *

Milton poured the wine in the glasses ceremoniously and 
handed one to Mulder. "How is work?"

"Which one?" Mulder replied in tone. "I seem to be 
fulfilling so many functions these days."

"This is your account in a Swiss bank," Milton handed him 
a piece of paper. "Access it on-line, change your password, start 
managing your assets."

Snakeskin was more pleasant to the touch than this paper 
with the strings of numbers. "How much?"

"Enough," Milton tasted the dark liquid, then swirled it 
in the light. "Enough for you to understand what the definition 
of your job is."

Mulder smiled pleasantly. "I do not recall discussing the 
terms of payment."

"You seemed more concerned with other matters at the time. 
Your interview skills must be rusty."

"Well, I only had one interview, so I could be forgiven. 
That is great news," he cheered, holding up his glass. "I can 
start shopping at Bloomingdales now. And you simply must give me 
the phone of your manicurist."

"Jokes aside, Fox," Milton replied softly. "I didn't come 
all this way here for a pleasure of your company, much as I always 
enjoy it. I am concerned... yes, I am greatly concerned with 
something we had happen at one of our laboratories in Manns Harbor, 
North Carolina."

Mulder raised his eyebrows. "What happened?"

"It was in the direct path of the hurricane, and they had 
no warning. And a bunch of idiots that they are, they had thrown 
some equipment in the truck, hauled up some subjects that were 
transportable, but left a couple that weren't. I suspect that they 
just forgot them, like one forgets spoiled vegetables at the 
bottom of the refrigerator. We should produce a new set of rules 
for our facilities. Something like: burn it to the ground if you 
know it will be found!"

"And it rhymes, too!" Mulder was now genuinely having a 
good time, congratulating himself inwardly on sending Scully to 
Manns Harbor before the Consortium began the official "sanitation".

Milton shot him a mischievous glance. He definitely liked 
this young man... finally, someone of an equal if not greater 
intellect to talk to, someone who could appreciate his twisted 
sense of humor. "Due to the nature of this disaster, we were late 
in addressing the potential problems. The ruins of the facility 
are just that: ruins, and there should be no problem with them. 
The two forgotten bodies have been found and shipped to Quantico. 
They are the only remaining piece of evidence that must be 
destroyed, but..." he enunciated each word. "They. Can't. Seem. 
To. Be. Found!"

Mulder remembered Scully's note and tried not to choke 
on the wine. "Perhaps, that's a good thing?" 

Milton cocked his head to the side. "Fox. When something 
is lost, we are usually the ones responsible."

"Ah. I seem to forget. So what do you want me to do? 
Find them?"

"No. Make sure that if they are, in fact, found by 
someone other than ourselves... that nothing happens to endanger 
this Swiss bank account."

"I will do my best," he nodded. "Can't go around losing 
thousands of dollars."

Milton smirked. "More like hundreds of thousands. It pays 
to have education these days, don't you think?"

His smile momentarily lost, Mulder concentrated on the wine. 
"The money that paid for this education came from the same source. 
Isn't that right?"

Milton didn't reply, starting to rummage through his 
pockets. "Ah, here it is," he pushed another paper across the table. 
"Another part of our deal."

Mulder read the address in Vermont, swallowed apprehensively. 
"What is it?"

"That's where Samantha O'Connor lives now, with her family. 
Isn't that what you wanted?"

Did he want it? He doubted it now, after so many years of 
searching, after so many scars on his soul. He knew what happened 
to her, and she didn't want to be disturbed... But the numbers 
and letters were a magnet, a key to the addiction so powerful it 
was not even recognized as one anymore. This way lay madness, and 
he was already contemplating the straightjacket. "I... I will think 
about it," his answer seemed to calm him somewhat. He could make 
his decision later. "Maybe..."

Milton watched him carefully. "Maybe. One other thing, Fox."

Distractedly, Mulder raised his eyes. "What is it?"

"I know that Agent Scully took a plane to a North Carolina 
location just recently. And I hope that it was for another case," 
his voice dripped with poison. "How is she doing these days?"

"I don't know," Mulder answered lightly. "We don't seem to 
talk much anymore."

"A good answer," the conspirator took another sip, rolled 
it around his mouth. "Now here is a good question: why is it that 
the only person that seems to love you... and I mean love in 
the platonic sense, of course... why is it that she is not 
questioning your whereabouts? Why is she so unconcerned about 
your promotion? And why is she not brokenhearted over the fact 
that you don't 'talk much?'"

The worry was creeping back softly but surely. "Agent 
Scully is her own person regardless of whatever feelings you 
think she has for me."

"She was your partner, Fox. I would be worried about her 
if I were you. And you just seem to ignore the issue."

"What I am trying to tell you is," Mulder steeled his 
voice, squished his fear. "There is no issue."

Milton poured more wine, then directed his eyes to the 
glass. "I always have wondered. She is the only person to get 
rid of the cancer. How? And don't tell me this crap about the 
chip. What's a chip? Only a summons device, nothing more."

There was a faint noise in his ears and he wondered 
bleakly if there was maybe something in the wine. Something that 
made him feel as if he were going to lose consciousness. Maybe 
Excedrin didn't mix well with alcohol. "She had undergone 
extensive chemotherapy." Why was he explaining this? Why did he 
feel as if the ground was about to slip from under his feet?

"What's chemotherapy to such a pronounced disease? It 
would take a miracle to clean up this much poison out of her 
system. No, I do still wonder... it would be interesting to 
find out... and the repeat visit can always be arranged..."

"Are you threatening me?" He could swear that he smelled 
the burnt skin in the air, and black and red circles danced in 
front of his eyes. The hunting season was over, and his mind kept 
going insistently over every one of the hypnosis sessions he 
performed, over each page of the folder he'd found and 
accidentally read. Miller was good, but he didn't know how 
to hit where it hurt the most.

Not Scully. Not again.

"Merely a warning, Fox," Milton got up and collected 
some files lying on the table. "Merely a warning."

* * * 

The little diner was still the same, and Scully swore to 
herself that when it was all over, she would never come back again. 
The place gave her the creeps. Moreover, meeting Mulder like this 
was too dangerous; it was an aberration, and they both knew it.

He sat at the table in the far corner of the diner, and 
she realized with a start that at a certain point in time he 
began to choose the shadowy places. Like Cancerman, she thought, 
and was immediately ashamed of the comparison.

It was a good thing that he didn't smoke.

"Mulder, you know that we can't keep meeting like this; 
we are lucky we haven't been caught yet," Scully began and 
halted uncertainly. "You look like hell."

"Gee, thanks," his lips didn't even curve into a smile. 
The silence stretched, and Scully reached out her hand to touch 
his sleeve. He shivered slightly and moved away. "Scully, do you 
have any Excedrin in your bag, by any chance? Or something to 
that effect?" his voice sounded hollow, distracted, as if he 
could not quite concentrate on the conversation at hand.

She was ready to pounce on him with questions and concerns, 
a doctor instinct kicking in immediately, but managed to refrain 
somehow and focused on finding the pills. "Here, Tylenol," she 
handed him the bottle and watched as he shook out three. "Mulder, 
that is more than you should be taking at one time."

He shot her an impatient glance. Oh, for heaven's sake, 
it's not like these were heavy drugs. "Tylenol? Give me a break."

"Mulder... what are we doing here?" she asked him finally, 
as all of her excitement over her discoveries drained away. "You 
wanted to talk in private..."

"Scully, I don't want to know where you hid the bodies. 
But I ask you to forget their location, as well," Mulder looked 
at her harshly. "Whatever you have found - do not put it into 
the report."

She looked around, half-convinced that he saw a familiar 
face and that's why he was behaving this strangely. "But... 
Mulder, the things I've seen..."

"Scully, this case never happened. It belongs to a 
non-existent department. Dean Douglas needs you to help in 
some on-going cases," Mulder paused, suddenly terrified of the 
words falling from his mouth. He didn't believe in them - but 
he needed Scully to believe in them, and he played the role 
that was almost like second skin with the unsuspected artistry.

"Mulder, you have to hear what I have found," 
Scully suddenly felt as if she fell into the twilight zone. 
The only familiar thing about this man was a glass of ice tea 
in his hands - still full. "I met with someone who worked with 
your father - who worked for him, in fact - and he told me what 
the Consortium are working on..."

He kept his expression carefully neutral. "I don't want 
to know, Scully."

Why was he being so dense? What happened in the short time 
while she was gone? "Mulder! Will you please listen to me? Did you 
bring my file here? I need to read it - there is a lot of work to 
be done - we need a plan..."

"Does the word 'no' mean anything to you?" Mulder began 
to get exasperated. "I did not bring your file, there is nothing 
we need to do, and I can hardly understand what plan you are 
talking about."

Scully struggled, trying to understand what was happening 
here. She hoped that they were past it, past whatever was 
bothering him, past not talking about their problems, past the 
uncomfortable silences. And now it seemed as though they took 
five steps back for one step forward. Trying from another angle, 
she questioned: "Did they find something out? Are you afraid of 
something - is that why you are ignoring me?"

A shadow passed over his face, and for a moment she felt 
certain that she hit the right note, that her guesses were correct. 
And yet his voice didn't waver, his eyes did not soften when he 
said the next words.

"No. I have to go, Scully."

Damn it, she was not leaving it like this. "Mulder, 
whatever you are trying to do, I do not believe in it. You are 
behaving like one of them," she used what she knew would hurt, 
and without remorse. Maybe it would crack through him. "And I 
know that you are still with me. Aren't you?"

Mulder looked at her smile, the eyes full of trust, and 
love, and faith, and closed his eyes under the sudden onslaught 
of heartache. Once and for all, he had to try and convince her 
to step away or the consequences would be deadly. "Scully, do 
you ever wonder why you can't remember anything from the time 
you were abducted?"

The smile wavered, a castle in the sand under the attack 
of heavy ocean waves. "I... I don't think about it..."

"Do you ever ask yourself how three months," Mulder 
complimented himself for not breaking down right then and there, 
"could just disappear from your memory?"

"You know," Scully answered after a pause. "You know that 
it bothers me, but it's easier not to dwell on it..." she coughed, 
trying to hide her discomfort. "Why?"

"It's an interesting trick, and since I have learned it, 
I thought I would share. You listen to the person and get their 
trust, find out what it is that bothers them, what it is they 
want to forget. Then you tell them to lock it deep in the 
recesses of their subconscious, so that it never, ever 
resurfaces again. Maybe only in their dreams that are forgotten 
in several minutes."

She didn't want to understand him. Her mind refused 
to make a connection that she knew was actually easy. "Mulder, 
no..."

"Yes," and now he meant it, now he didn't want her to 
interrupt. "That's what I have been doing for the last few months: 
perfecting the art of erasing memories. Something curious that I 
have found out, it doesn't matter whether three months or three 
days should be forgotten, the effort it takes is really the same."

Scully didn't know what was happening, she only knew that 
she wanted him to stop. But her mouth was dry, and she only raised 
her hand weakly in protest - then let it fall back to the table.

"The man who erased your memory, Anthony Miller, said that 
you didn't have that many memories to begin with. I was curious 
to find out why he mentioned that, and after I read your file a 
little more in depth, I understood that most of the time you were 
kept on depressants. After Valium caused a respiratory depression, 
it was switched to Librium. As you know, it is still a minor 
tranquilizer, and apparently at some point, it wasn't strong 
enough. Did you know that you're allergic to Thorazine? Well, 
regardless, they didn't, and you slipped into a coma as a result 
of an injection. Fortunately for them, it happened at the end of 
their experimentation, after they didn't need you any longer. So 
they simply took you off their hands, after any trace amounts of 
Thorazine disappeared from your system."

Mulder glanced at Scully who didn't protest any longer, simply 
absorbing the information. "Doctor Miller is a gifted teacher, and he 
taught me how to erase memories. I must have worked with... oh, sixty 
women so far? I've lost count. I obviously screwed up with Sheila 
Freeman, but she was the first. I became much better since then, 
I assure you."

"Where?"

For some reason, the question struck him as funny, but the 
smile he managed was unhealthy, tired. "You don't think I would 
disclose the location, do you?"

She wanted to cry, then, but the tears wouldn't come. They 
must have dried along with every positive emotion inside her heart. 
She couldn't speak, either, because it seemed an enormously 
difficult task that would drain all of her remaining energy. 

This is killing me, Scully realized suddenly, and she moved 
uncertainly, grabbing her bag and coat. "You will have your report 
tomorrow," she managed to whisper as she stood up, using the nearby 
wall for support.

Mulder wanted to ask if she was all right to drive, offer 
her a ride home. Such a normal thing to do. And yet, he was quite 
convinced that she would faint had he uttered just one more word, 
so he remained silent, watching her depart. The door slammed 
behind her, and mission accomplished, he calmly reached for 
the iced tea.

The Tylenol bottle was still at the table, and he took 
out two more pills, wishing that Codeine was available without 
a prescription.

End of Part 16/20



And now, for those who've patiently waited... <evil grin>

Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 17/20

Mulder leaned against the smooth glass of the window in 
Miller's office and tried to tune out the doctor's voice, to get lost 
in a vacuum where nothing existed or spoke or moved. He felt suspended 
in limbo, having no means to backtrack and no courage to move forward. 
Not for the first time, he thought of how stupid his plan was, and how 
it was doomed to failure.

My choices brought me to this point of ultimate resistance, he 
mused tiredly. God, it sounded like a line from a bad musical.

"So I was hoping that you'd switch with me for Thursday and 
Friday... Fox?" Miller's voice drifted back inside his comfortable 
cocoon of nothingness, and Mulder started, putting his arms across 
the chest defensively.

"Sorry, I didn't hear what you said."

"I was just saying that I have two old friends coming over 
to visit next week - and I was hoping that we could rearrange our 
schedules. I need to take a couple of days off," Miller shrugged.

Mulder was tempted to laugh. Sometimes, he forgot that he 
was dealing with real people who had families and friends, and lives 
outside of their work - outside of this building. A conversation from 
a long time ago came to him: "Mulder, I'm simply dying under this 
workload, would you help out with this guy's profile?" Anything 
short of a resounding "no" always meant yes, and Mulder was always 
unable to reply in the nanoseconds of time before gruesomely detailed 
files and photographs were shoved into his arms. A rapidly receding 
figure would offer a thumbs up, "You're the man!" 

Miller looked at Mulder expectantly, his hands pushing a pile 
of folders his way. They looked innocent enough, invitingly enticing, 
as if it was everyday someone asked if you cared to work with a few 
extra patients and wipe out their memories.

Mulder shrugged his shoulders before muttering, "I don't 
mind."

You're the man.

Miller studied Mulder's detached face, detecting a strange 
note of indifference in his voice. "Fox, are you all right?"

His eyes were already back on the world outside. "Why wouldn't 
I be?"

Miller paused, reflecting, choosing his words carefully. "You 
don't seem... yourself."

He shoots, he scores, Mulder commented inwardly. That's it: 
I've lost myself and I can't find me. Him. Whoever it was he/I used 
to be. Hello? Bureau of Lost and Found? Fox Mulder here -- seems 
the lights are on but nobody's home; the elevator ain't quite going 
to the top anymore. 

Rubbing a hand over his face, Mulder inhaled deeply, trying 
to collect his rapidly scattering thoughts. "I'm fine, Miller," dryly. 
"It's late, we ought to be leaving."

A heavy hand lay on his shoulder, and he suppressed a shudder. 
A gentle voice spoke placatingly in his ears. "Why hurry? Sit down."

Why hurry indeed? There was nothing waiting at home, no 
pressing business to attend to, no messages or e-mails to answer, 
certainly not from... Scully. He winced at the mere name, forgetting 
that he wasn't alone. All the time in the world, now - but not a 
single moment allowed to dwell on the past, certainly not a minute 
to heal his wounds.

"Why didn't you quit then?"

Miller started, incredulous. "When?"

"After your son died," Mulder explained, suddenly not caring 
that this conversation was taking on dangerous overtones, strangely 
certain that it was safe to speak with Miller on the subject.

Miller shook his head, contemplating the question. "By asking 
me that, you assume that I had a choice. I assure you that I never did 
and never will."

"I see," Mulder said bleakly.

Miller shook his head. "I'm not sure that you do, Fox. One 
can't quit from the Consortium. With the things that we have seen, 
that we have done -- do you think that we can just let one go?"

Mulder looked at the doctor questioningly, treading more into 
dangerous ground. "Did you want to be let go after your son died?"

The silence dragged on; the doctor was unable to reply 
momentarily. Miller cleared his throat before speaking slowly. 
Cautiously. "I served a greater purpose by staying. I brought some 
value to it." His last sentence sounded as if it had been rehearsed 
many times. "I worked towards seeing people like my son not have to 
suffer." 

Mulder nodded. "Did you... have you ever thought of 
turning..." he stopped himself before he could ask. But the doctor's 
eyes had flashed, and Mulder was certain that Miller knew what he had 
been about to ask. He nodded imperceptibly, smiling slightly. 
"Nothing... never mind. Not important."

Miller glanced over at Mulder, steepling his hands. He studied
the younger man across from him, almost certain that he recognized the 
signs of depression in his weary posture and unemotional expression. 
Miller, hearing a silent alarm trip in his head, was keenly aware that 
the greatest threat to the Consortium was the conscience -- the 
melancholy, the depression, the despair -- that could single-handedly 
floor a man. No stranger to dark moods -- having witnessed the 
agonizingly slow deterioration of his son -- he was too familiar with 
the way brain worked, how loneliness made one contemplate... certain 
thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. "You look very tired," he spoke 
softly. "Maybe you should take a few days off."

Oh God, there was actually concern in Miller's eyes. Mulder 
blinked, wishing for it to depart, to be left alone. "I am the 
Assistant Director of the FBI or did you forget? And exactly what 
would I do with my days off?"

Miller was exasperated. "You must have dozens of vacation days 
available at the Bureau. I don't know, you should... have fun, get 
laid, maybe travel... to Vermont, perhaps? Visit your family?"

Mulder's eyes flickered with unexpected humor. "Is this a 
suggestion of a Consortium member - or of a psychologist?"

Miller shrugged, returning a smile. "A friend, in this case."

Mulder chuckled ruefully, wondering if this was how the spies 
usually felt, if the inherent instinct for survival always turned 
black into white; enemies into friends. "Sometimes you surprise me, 
Miller. Bad advice, though - first of all, I prefer work to leisure, 
and second... I would rather go to Bosnia than to Vermont."

"Why are you so afraid to take a chance, Fox?" Miller 
questioned him softly. "Maybe she will not want to reconcile - but 
maybe, just maybe..." he left the thought finish itself. "Think of 
what you're giving up."

"She doesn't even want to know I exist," coldly, Mulder 
continued. "According to her world, I'm only a figment of her 
imagination from the time before."

Miller nodded. "But don't you wonder what would be if you 
showed up on her doorstep? What would happen if you called? I have no 
one, Fox," for a moment, he sounded old and lost. "You shouldn't allow 
that to happen to yourself. You remember her number, don't you?"

At the affirmative nod, Miller got up and started walking to 
the exit. "Dial it now. I will take a walk outside."

The door clicked behind him. Mulder stared at the phone, the 
cream-colored plastic object that held hope and despair in its 
accurate little buttons. And without any thought other than a "what 
if" beating an incessant mesmerizing motif in his ears, he began 
dialing the number.

A whisper of line noise and the contented humming of measured 
beeps and a warm alto on the other end of the line. "Hello?"

A breath of hot, bitter air through the dry, parched lips. 
"Samantha?"

Silence, then the careful, incredulous: "Fox?"

Oh, but the familiarity - the sheer closeness of it could 
simply shatter him. All these years... all these years changed so 
little. "Yes." He felt oppressive silence threatening, and he grasped 
for anything mundane to say. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

She seemed to think a moment. "No... it's all right. But this 
is not a good time."

Mulder closed his eyes, absorbing the blow, knowing that it 
was expected. "Can I call later?"

"Fox, I..." he was sure that she would say no, but she 
surprised him. "I will call you soon, I promise. But I have to go - my 
son is ill, he's in the hospital."

Mulder cursed his unfortunate timing. "Oh God... is it 
serious?"

"I... don't... know..." there was a touch of despair in her 
voice. "No one knows what's wrong with him or how serious it is. I 
have to go, Fox."

Each word was like a dash of cold water against his face. 
"Wait, Sam," a deep breath to steady his voice. "What are the 
symptoms?"

"Tommy... he has a constant fever, a temperature of 103 and it 
won't go down. It's been two weeks and he's delirious. He can't say 
what hurts, and no one can figure out what's causing it. The EEG shows 
some strange brainwaves." Her hurried voice shook and she suddenly 
aborted the recitation. "I have no time for this now. Goodbye."

Before Mulder could reply, there was a click, and he stared 
into space, feeling the heavy weight of the receiver in his hands. 
Hope or despair. White or black. Win or lose. He didn't notice when 
Miller came in and took it from him gently. "What happened, Fox?"

"Her son is very ill. His name is Tommy," Mulder replied, 
wondering why on Earth he said that, guessing that Miller probably 
knew the name. 

His nephew was called Tommy, he was four years old, and he had 
a strange disease.

Miller didn't speak for a long while, then reached out 
awkwardly across the table to touch Mulder's hand. "All the more 
reason to take this vacation now, don't you think?"

"Yes, maybe a day or two," Mulder echoed softly. He turned 
around slowly to face Miller, his eyes darkening in suspicion. "This 
illness wouldn't be a result of his parents' genetic heritage, would 
it?"

Miller pursed his lips, hearing an unspoken accusation in the 
question, and deciding to turn the conversation to a safer topic. "Did 
she want to see you?"

Mulder laughed softly. "I'm ready to bet a lot of money that 
she didn't." He shrugged helplessly. "But I have to try. Ten, 
twenty years later, I don't want to be consumed by wondering, what 
if." Mulder studied the floor as the words absently passed through 
his lips, "I've done too much of that already."

The old doctor didn't reply, perhaps lost in a world of what 
ifs and could have beens of his own.

* * *

The mindless actions of fictional characters.

A warped world from the box in front of her that seemed more 
real than the surreal events that surrounded her.

When the gunshot came, Scully jumped from the seat of her 
couch -- her pounding heart threatening to obliterate any sound coming 
from the TV.

With a harsh motion of her thumb, the rectangular prism was 
turned off, and Scully threw the remote to the opposite side of the 
couch in disgust. Pulling a stubborn lock of hair away from her face, 
she wondered how it came to be that she could relate more to the 
fiction that was presented on TV, than the true-life happenings in 
the world around her.

She took a deep breath, chastising herself for getting riled 
up over a stupid wannabe cop show. 

Three cops had shot a surrendering drug lord down like a dog, 
and hid their illegal activities behind official paperwork and false 
looks. The resulting war left four innocent co-workers wounded, and 
the fall-out left two cops quitting in disgrace.

And one committing suicide.

Scully sat in her silent apartment trying to forget what she 
saw, trying to not draw parallels to her own life -- trying not to 
place herself, or Mulder, or Winters into any of those... those... 
*actors* she had seen on TV.

She stood up suddenly, needing something to do, wanting an 
escape from her rapidly spiraling thoughts. Walking around her 
cramped apartment eventually brought her to her answering machine, 
and she jabbed at the play button -- her fidgety fingers moving in 
desperation.

"Dana, it's me. Just called to say 'hi', and that it'd be 
nice to have you over for the weekend. Call me whenever you get home, 
okay? Mom."

"Hey, Day. This is Leslie. The girls and me are getting 
together on Thursday, want to come? Call me -- remember the phone 
number: 555-2476. Bye."

The answering machine went on to drone about charities and 
Venetian blinds and agent something-or-other issuing his condolences. 
The machine clicked and moaned, the tape starting then stopping for an 
annoyingly long period of time.

She leaned stiffly against her kitchen counter, crossing her 
arms tightly against her chest. She imagined that if someone were to 
offer her a mirror, the reflection greeting her would be biting her 
lips so hard as to draw blood. 

And yet, the machine kept clicking -- and in the silence, it 
sounded like a gun reloading, firing empty casings. It had become an 
obsession, everything around her smelled, sounded, or looked like 
death. Scared for Skinner, for Mulder, for herself -- the smell of 
ground beef frying would soon be obliterated by the stench of corpse, 
ripe from decomposition, while a glass falling would become a crack 
of the rifle. The apartment was like a tomb -- the walls were content 
to echo every sound, while the maddening periods of silence were 
suffocating. 

God, Leslie hadn't called in... a long time. To go to a 
nightclub and look at slabs of male meat... Scully shuddered at the 
prospect. Normalcy now made her nauseous -- she would always look 
for the hidden camera, for the ulterior motive. Her paranoia would 
run rampant, and her fingers would always hover by her hip, ready to 
reach for the weapon in her holster.

And there lay the quandary. For as much as she yearned for a 
normal life, for as much as she pushed such terms as "friends" and 
"dates" into Mulder's face, the cloak-and-dagger routine was the only 
life she was now able to live.

At least, the only life she could live while keeping any shred 
of sanity. 

She sighed, needing something for her hands to do, needing to 
release the nervous energy in her body.

Eat.

Eating seemed like a sensible thing to do. During her cancer, 
keeping food down was almost a privilege. And now, in the midst of 
Mulder's Byzantine plan, any desire to eat had been effectively 
squelched. She looked through the cupboards, glancing over the cans 
of soup, the vegetables in the crisper of the fridge, the frozen 
casseroles in the freezer. The freezer door remained open, foil and 
Tupperware threatening to fall out.

Her eyes passed over the food quickly. Blindly. Nothing to 
eat, her mind chanted.

The frigid air was blasting into her face, and Scully welcomed 
the accompanying shivers, closing her eyes, thinking of nothing but 
the cool relief on her flushed face.

A violent shiver caused her eyes to reluctantly open, and in 
disgust, Scully grabbed blindly for a package. The plastic container 
scraped across the ice, sounding like nails against chalkboard. 
Scully swore as she grabbed for a plate, the chink of glass amplified 
in her ears. The microwave door was slammed shut, and she felt her 
fingers protest as she cruelly jabbed at the buttons on the panel.

The X-Files were shut down. She no longer had a partner. The 
relationship with the man who shared her heart was in jeopardy.

And Scully felt adrift. Lost. She felt as if she were 
swimming in a kitchen that stretched into the horizon, in the same 
apartment that seemed cramped minutes ago. 

There was no longer any purpose. All sense of direction had 
been lost.

Endless dead bodies floated by her gaze in her job in VCS -- 
and she offered cold, analytic opinions. The nightmares, the unbidden 
night terrors were quick to follow, and she often woke up, heart 
pounding, the intense images of seeing Mulder's lifeless body on a 
steel gurney rapidly disappearing. 

The beep startled her, and Scully's stomach dropped when the 
smell of leftover chicken assailed her nostrils.

She left it in the microwave, suddenly wanting a shower. 
Needing a shower. An image of Andrew came unbidden into her mind, and 
Mulder's voice -- that ridiculous, clinical, detached psych voice he 
had, was asking her again: "Are you doing this because you feel you 
need to pay for Andrew's death?" It was the same voice he used when 
describing... She shuddered, remembering the long-ago conversation on 
the newsgroup, and the cryptic "getting some value out of my 
doctorate."

Stepping into the washroom, she stalled any thoughts about 
Mulder. The topic could bring her to her knees, make the emptiness 
inside so much worse.

She concentrated on the little things. She made sure that the 
shampoo and conditioner bottles were full enough. She set out a new 
bar of soap, disposing the shriveled remains of the last one. She 
double-checked to make sure she had towels -- deciding that the peach 
one would be for her hair, the white one for her body.

She stripped quickly, suddenly feeling self-conscious, never 
letting her eyes meet those of her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

She stepped into the tub gingerly, feeling water that was 
much too cold cause goosebumps. A counter clockwise turn of the left 
knob brought blessedly warmer water, and Scully let it pound onto her 
face, colors whirling behind closed lids. 

As soon as the water was tolerable she jacked the knob more 
to the left so that it would turn degrees hotter. Her skin was soon 
rid of goosebumps, now turning a deep pink. Sweat was mingling with 
water, and steam was billowing over the shower curtain.

But it would be tears that would burn Scully's face.

* * * 

The tiny girl opened the door to his shy knock, and Mulder 
stared at her for a minute before she finally extended him a hand. 

"Hi. Are you here for my daddy?"

He stepped inside, closing the door hastily against the cold 
wind. "No... I'm here to see your mom. Is she around?"

She nodded affirmatively, light-brown ringlets of hair flying 
in all directions. "Yes, she's with Tommy. He's sick."

Mulder squatted before her. "I'm Fox. What's your name?"

"Meg," her brown eyes studied him with curiosity.

"How come you're the one opening the door? Where's your dad?"

"He's away on business," it seemed as if she wanted to add 
something, but was interrupted.

"Honey, who are you talking to?"

Mulder looked up to see Samantha on the stairs. He was 
suddenly afraid - once again - of rejection and anger. But her 
expression was one of resignation more than anything else. "Meg, 
why don't you come sit with your brother - read him a book."

The girl nodded, concern written all over the little face, 
and ran up the stairs.

"Fox, what are you doing here?"

He measured her with a glance, a trained eye noting the dark 
circles under the ever-changing eyes and a figure thinner than he 
remembered. "Sam, I..." he was lost for words. "It's good to see you. 
I never knew that I had such a beautiful niece."

She smiled briefly. "Fox, I was going to call you. I do feel 
bad about our last meeting. My father was... he didn't say it 
outright, but I could see that he was upset with me for leaving so 
soon."

Mulder processed that particular image of Cancerman with 
raised eyebrows, then decided it best to avoid the topic of dead 
fathers. "How are you doing, Sam? How's Tommy?"

"He has fever, as usual," she lowered her eyes, concentrating 
on the piece of cloth that covered the table. "Meg helps me take care 
of him."

Mulder opened his mouth to offer false platitudes, but the 
words became stuck in his throat. He shook his head in frustration, 
knowing the question had to come off his chest. "Sam, don't you ever 
wonder... about your past?" he prodded gently.

"No," Sam answered sincerely. "I don't."

"Why?"

"Because I have my present." She set her shoulders, staring 
at Mulder resolutely. "And I have my future."

He glanced around the dilapidated house permeated with the 
smell of vomit and sickness. The present was certainly not a happy 
one. And the future looked worse.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"I work for FBI," he smiled. The FBI database had failed him 
when it came to finding Samantha O'Connor's new location, but, Mulder 
mused, why bother complicating matters? He waved his hand 
dismissively. "It's not important."

Sam regarded him suspiciously. "You know, that's what my 
father used to say when he didn't want to tell me the truth... that it 
wasn't important."

Mulder met her gaze levelly. "Really."

She sighed. "Whatever."

"Can I meet my nephew?"

She looked towards the top of the landing warily, sighing. 
"Go ahead."

Mulder went upstairs, measuring each step. The door was open, 
and he stood at the threshold for a few moments, observing the scene 
in front of him. A boy with dark hair, his eyes closed, shivered under 
several blankets. Meg sat next to him, his small hand enclosed in 
hers, reading a book.

She looked up at him and at this moment, he knew that his 
heart was lost - again - to these children whom he'd never met before. 
All things considered, he just didn't think that it was possible 
anymore. "Uncle Fox," she smiled and Mulder shuddered, realizing 
belatedly that she still didn't know who he was or why he was there - 
that all little children called all strange adults 'uncle' or 'aunt.' 
"I was just reading Tommy about 'James and the Giant Peach.'"

He was confused momentarily. "You aren't reading aloud."

Meg sighed in exasperation and explained, obviously not for 
the first time. "He knows what I'm thinking." She was back to reading 
the book - aloud now - and Mulder presumed that it was for his 
benefit. A page turned by itself - and he watched it, transfixed.

"Meg, do you know what Tommy is thinking, too?"

She didn't look at him, smoothing her brother's hair tenderly, 
away from the sweaty forehead. "Yeah."

"What is he thinking now?"

She waited for a moment before responding. "He thinks that he 
likes your voice, and..." her face wrinkled, than adopted a panicked 
expression as she cleared her body away from the bed, "that he wants 
to throw up again. Mommy!"

Samantha came running in the room and produced a pail as if on 
cue. Mulder watched numbly as the boy threw up, opening his green eyes 
for a briefest second. 

"These are... remarkable children," he uttered finally. He 
sobered, remembering who was waiting for his report on West 46th, New 
York. The Consortium would have a field day investigating their 
abilities -- wouldn't think twice about using needles and drugs and 
implants. Mulder stared at the ceiling for a minute, exhaling slowly, 
praying that these two children would be able to slip through the 
Consortium's claws.

Sam sat down and cradled her head in her arms tiredly. "I 
can't take it anymore, Fox. You know... everything seemed to be so 
much easier when my father was alive. His will said that we had to 
move because we were in danger - from whom or why, I don't know. He 
also wrote that if we were ever in trouble, that we should call... 
you."

Mulder listened, questioning his own sanity as well as 
Cancerman's. What did the man have in mind, anyway? That he would 
just go to the Consortium and demand a cure for the boy? He laughed 
briefly, startling his sister. "I didn't know he had such a high 
opinion of me."

Samantha looked surprised. "From the few times that he spoke 
of you, he did so with the utmost respect. As opposed to you, might 
I add," there was a steely note in her voice.

Mulder tried to repress the nasty reply, but wasn't able to 
do so. "He never gave me the reason."

She stood up, hands crossed over her chest. "Then you didn't 
know him. I loved my father."

"Well, I loved my father too," he snarled back. "And your 
father had him killed! Besides, Davidson wasn't even your father. 
A simple blood test would prove it."

Tommy whimpered softly, and she ushered him outside roughly. 
"You're such a self-centered jerk... Did you come here to fight? "

He forced his breathing to calm down, tried to act rationally. 
"No, Sam. No. God," he sat down, threw up his hands in the air. "I 
just wanted to see you. And I was worried about my nephew."

"So was my father right, Fox? Can you do something for us?"

Mulder stood up, realizing that this meeting was becoming a 
disaster of cosmic proportions. It was too late to speak of blood 
groups. It was too late for them to reconcile. The brother and sister 
they used to be no longer existed, though he could still see their 
reflection in Tommy and Meg. Mulder felt a brief flare of anger -- 
the same blood-boiling, cheek-flushing emotion that came with the 
thought of being used -- of knowing Samantha had finally relented, 
only because she needed something for her son. "Maybe," he replied 
non-committally, turning around to leave.

"Fox, wait! Will I see you again?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Of course, Sam." On the way down, 
he caught Meg in his arms, threw her up in the air. "Goodbye, doll. 
Say hello to Tommy for me."

She giggled happily. "Bye, Uncle Fox!"

Mulder walked out, glancing briefly at the house. 

So much for the vacation in Vermont.

* * *

The Bureau parkade was silent. It was long past five o'clock, 
and all sensible employees with their sensible cars had left to go 
home to their equally sensible families. 

Scully sighed, checking her watch once again, feeling the 
sedan behind her support all her weight. After her fifth call to the 
office earlier in the afternoon, Kim had patiently spelled out that 
Mulder had been expected at a ten thirty meeting, but had suffered 
through numerous delays at the airport. The federal agent had been 
tempted to let the matter drop -- but something inside of her kept 
pushing to wait. 

One more try, it had persistently whispered.

One more last ditch effort to salvage what was left to be 
salvaged from the relationship she and Mulder used to have. And if 
not... Scully looked towards the unmoving parkade door, her heart 
starting to sink. If the effort went for naught -- then perhaps 
Mulder was right: teaching at Quantico, getting away from D.C., would 
be the next logical action. 

Soft at first, but slowly increasing in volume, the steady 
beat of footsteps could be heard echoing off of Hoover's cement 
parkade walls. Scully pushed herself upright, watching Mulder's 
figure come into plain view. He stopped, clearly shocked upon seeing 
her, then set his shoulders, his mouth pressed into a grim line. 

"Hi," he started warily, at first relieved - then alarmed - 
that she was still willing to talk to him after that memorable 
rendezvous in the diner.

"Hi yourself."

The silence fell shortly after, and Mulder refused to meet 
her eyes. 

"Skinner's trial is in just a few days," she reminded him 
softly.

Mulder nodded.

"He..." Scully stopped at the sound of a car passing nearby. 
She watched his eyes narrow, his jaw clench -- the tell-tale signs 
of a paranoid Mulder she had learned many years ago. He became 
absorbed in watching the dark sedan's progress, and she shook her 
head. "Look, Mulder," his head turned towards her, but his body 
remained facing the direction in which the car exited. "I'd be 
stupid to think that things will be fine a week from now. I don't 
know what you're doing anymore, and it seems we," she paused, leaning 
onto what Krycek had once said to them, "it seems in destroying the 
destroyer's ability to destroy, we've only destroyed ourselves."

Mulder remained silent, wanting to yell. So close, Scully. 
We're so close. Just a bit longer.

"I don't know how long this charade can last, Mulder." 

Soon, Scully, he silently implored. He stared at his feet 
as they shuffled awkwardly, realizing too late that she was now 
looking at him exasperatedly. "You haven't heard anything that 
I've said."

"I've had a lot on my mind," he snapped.

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "And that's my fault?"

The pair fell silent again, and Scully eventually shook her 
head. "Never in my wildest dreams, Mulder, have I imagined things 
would come to this."

"You mean that we, ourselves, would be responsible for our 
own undoing?"

Another car engine started, startling the two. Hesitantly, 
Scully grabbed onto one of his arms, inwardly alarmed at how thin his 
bicep had become. "Tell me, Mulder. What's next?"

He passed a glance in her direction, distracted by the 
movements of the other dark sedan. "What do you mean?"

"I mean are you going to remain the AD? Are you going to 
keep the X-Files closed?"

Mulder shook his head, trying to see behind the glare of the 
car window. "I don't know... I haven't thought about it."

Scully smiled sadly; there would be no recrimination in her 
voice. "You never do."

Mulder emitted an angry sound from his throat, finally turning 
towards her. "Is that why you're here? To tell me what I should do? 
To fight with me?"

Scully took a deep breath, startled at the change of intensity 
in his tone. The conversation was not going in the desirable 
direction, and in the one second she had met Mulder's eyes, they 
flashed an accusation. "No," she held up a hand beseechingly. "No, 
I'm not Mulder, but..."

The rest of the words were lost on him as he watched the same 
dark sedan drive slowly behind a row of parked cars. Catching a clear 
picture, in the brief second of time that the passenger wasn't 
obscured by the glare of the parkade lights, Mulder swore he could see 
Miller's face staring back at him.

Scully stopped in mid-sentence, calling Mulder's name several 
times before he glanced in her direction. "You didn't hear a thing I 
said. Again."

Mulder shook his head, trying to remain casual, trying to 
parlay a message to Scully through his eyes. "Agent Scully, I really 
need to get to the office and do some paper work."

Scully crossed her arms against her chest, watching Mulder's 
eyes plead with hers. Her nails dug into her palms harshly, and she 
was aware of the familiar tickle at the corner of her eyes which 
dictated she was about to cry. But she was so... sick... of... the... 
charade. Of the paranoia. Noises were buzzing in her ears, the 
white light from the fluorescent lamps above was making her nauseous. 
She turned away blindly, hearing her own words sink to the bottom of 
her stomach -- feeling their bitter taste for the first time.

"Goodbye, Mulder."

She was deaf to any response, the contact of high heel shoes 
hitting concrete enough to cause her teeth to collide against each 
other. Her numbed fingers eventually unlocked the car door, the sedan 
leaving the Assistant Director -- and the J. Edgar Hoover building -- 
in a cloud of exhaust. 

End of Part 17/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 18/20

His fingers were sprawled across the rough bark of an oak 
tree - its sharp skin piercing numbed, chapped hands. Mulder's 
breaths were ragged, almost out of control, and sweat fell profusely 
off his forehead, blinding his furiously blinking eyes. 

A phone call.

It was just a phone call, and it had caused him to run so hard 
that the cold air was now wheezing painfully through his lungs, 
causing billows of white to be emitted from his mouth. Forty-five 
minutes ago, he had dialed a painfully familiar number, knowing from 
the beginning that the call was already doomed to failure. He had 
listened to Scully say "hello" three times before she fell silent, 
eventually eliciting a sigh because only one person called her at one 
forty five in the morning. Biting his lip, feeling the words of 
despair start to well inside of him, he was the first to hastily hang 
up - throwing the offending object against the wall.

Like the snow that had fallen this morning - picked up and 
tossed by the sixty kilometers per hour winds - the rumors had started 
to come out in frenzy. Mouths covered by hands, gossiping lips 
cleverly hidden behind coffee mugs spoke of the Caps' chances at the 
Cup, Andrew Winters' drinking - the new, surly Assistant Director. But 
the dominating topic of the FBI's version of locker talk was Walter 
Skinner's predicament. There was no one within the J. Edgar Hoover 
building that didn't know the prosecution was going to go full bore 
for the death penalty. And with the defense running in circles, with 
the FBI labs coming up empty, the whispers and the hushed tones were 
growing in frequency.

Shaking his head to himself, trying to dispel such emotionally 
exhausting thoughts, Mulder walked through the designated trails, the 
run park silent, save for the occasional car horn from the distant 
freeway. Two thirty in the morning and all was far from good. The park 
was empty - the weather had even chased the panhandlers and garbage 
scavengers away. Illuminated only by lamps, Mulder was painfully aware 
that he was the only living entity trudging through the quarter inch 
of snow. 

He'd lost so much and alienated so many people since he began 
working for the Consortium... and yet, he gained no new understanding, 
no new truth. And he wondered if maybe his tactics were faulty from 
the start.

Walking slowly to his apartment, feeling the muscle cramps 
ease and the bite of frosty air lessen, he mentally counted the days 
left to Skinner's trial, deciding that the date was a deadline. That 
on that day, something was going to break. And he knew that the game 
was still very much in his control, and he could still decide who won.

In this roulette of chance, the house could still win on a 
double zero. 

Or they could lose.

A few hours later, he stood in the room in Manhattan, casually 
drinking coffee and waiting for someone to appear. After all these 
months, he still didn't know the habits or schedules of the Consortium 
members. Just another link in his chain of mistakes. 

"Fox! You're early today. It's a beautiful morning in New 
York," Milton was suddenly standing beside him, and Mulder tore his 
gaze away from the breathtaking view on the sleepless city.

"I do love this city," he smiled in return. "Even if I'd never 
want to live here."

For a moment, they stood side by side in comfortable silence. 
"What brings you here?"

Mulder stepped away from the window, pulled a children's book 
from the briefcase. He steadied his hands, feeling the nerves inside 
of him start to shake. The game could still be won, he reminded 
himself, and he laid out his cards, adopting his best poker face. 
"You know, Milton, it's upsetting to realize that you knew my father 
better than I did," he leafed through the pages, scanning the colorful 
pictures for the hundredth time. "I believe this is what you need."

Milton accepted the book wondrously and felt his heart rate 
speed up as his eyes fell on the formulas. "So the letter was only a 
decoy."

Mulder nodded his affirmation, feeling sweat slide down his 
back. "What are they?"

"A way to combine human and alien DNA's," Milton explained, 
satisfied expression plastered all over his face. "We were successful 
in creating the clones - but it's an entirely different matter to take 
a living human being and inject them with alien DNA."

Mulder shook his head, a bit mystified. "I thought that it had 
been successful."

Milton laughed. "You know, Michael Kritschgau did tell you 
some true things. You might have seen what you thought were successful 
experiments - but in fact, there are always too many health risks, too 
many combinations of genes possible for it to be this easy. No," he 
patted Mulder's shoulder with familiarity. "This is priceless, and 
we're in your debt."

Mulder stood up and paced the room in a tight circle. He had 
to get the damn book back -- the Ace of spades lay within pages 
fifteen to twenty-five, and he knew his gamble was dangerous. "I'm 
glad to help, James," he spoke sincerely. "But I'd appreciate it if 
I could get a book back, after you're done with it. After all," he 
paused, offering a sardonic smile, "it is for my children."

"Sure. We'll just make photocopies," Milton replied 
good-naturedly. "Did you enjoy your trip to Vermont?"

"I wish I could say that, but my sister isn't exactly the girl 
she used to be. And my nephew is terribly ill." Mulder studied the 
floor, lowering his voice. Use, and be used, he chanted inwardly, 
hoping to get something from the Consortium, cherish a minor victory, 
before following through with the rest of his plan. Before
completely alienating his partner. "He's had a fever for a 
month, it's putting a strain on his heart, he can't keep anything 
down..."

Milton listened to Mulder's exhausted sigh and weighed his 
options. "You know, Fox... I cannot possibly repair your relationship 
with Samantha. But as far as little Tommy goes, I'm sure something 
could be done."

"Milton... thank you," Mulder spoke softly, signing a mental 
thumbs-up. "I'm touched."

The elder waved the grateful words away impatiently. "There 
is still time before the colonization date," he shared thoughtfully. 
"Even if the resistance doesn't work, you are among the few chosen who 
will retain a privileged position in the new society. But for now, we 
should all enjoy the world as we know it."

"Are these formulas one of the ways to resistance?" Mulder 
asked, an empty space inside his chest growing with every minute. 

"Your father must have been non-too-happy with the success of 
his own project," Milton smirked. "If all else fails, these formulas 
are the way to change people into something different. Humanity would 
be destroyed... but only half-way."

"If humans are aliens, there is no way to eradicate them, is 
that it?" Mulder summarized. "This is not a pleasant resolution."

Milton eyed him uneasily, the masks dropped for once. "We are 
working on alternate methods."

Mulder put down the coffee cup. "I have to go - too much work 
to do, and I would like to go back to Vermont the day after tomorrow."

"Fox," Milton called after him. "If you're not happy with your 
duties at the facility, you don't have to continue."

It was at that precise moment that Mulder knew that this round 
of the game was his, unbeknownst to his opponent. "No, James. I really 
don't mind."

"Will you be back in time for Skinner's trial?"

For the first time, Mulder's knowing, cruel smile was a 
reflection of Milton's.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

Mulder tapped on the lens of the video camera impatiently, 
casting the occasional glance over his shoulder to make sure there 
were no eager eyes watching.

"Langly? Frohike? Open the door."

Half a dozen dead bolts clicked open, and Mulder stepped in 
hastily, wanting to get out of the open porch of the Lone Gunmen. 
Something under his foot creaked, and he stopped in his tracks, seeing 
the boxes and Styrofoam popcorn littering the floor.

"And you wonder why people believe that bachelors are messy."

The glare off of Langly's glasses hid the Gunman's eyes as he 
spoke. "Geez, Mulder, you have a sixth sense when it comes to 
timing."

Mulder passed a quizzical glance in Langly's direction, trying 
to sidestep the obstacles in his path. "What do you mean?"

"This!" Frohike announced proudly, gesturing towards a 
blinking, metal monstrosity in the corner of the office. "It's the 
newest CIA masterpiece. She utilizes polarized filters, lasers, and 
can analyze data with something as simple as infra-red technology, to 
something as complex as electron microscopy."

Mulder shook his head. "And in layman's terms that means?"

Frohike smiled. "A top notch photograph analyzer. Maybe 
twenty years down the road from what you feebs have."

"Really?" Mulder couldn't help but challenge.

Byers cleared his throat, in an effort to remind the remaining 
Gunmen of the more important issues at hand. "It allows us depth 
perception, to a point. Extrapolation of data."

"Basically, it's the photographic equivalent of the TV 
analyzer we used when chickadee Scully was being zapped by those TV 
tubes," Frohike interjected.

Mulder stared blankly at Byers. "Okay, so why is this 
important to me?"

Langly picked up a photograph from the workbench in front of 
him and shook it in his view. "Your picture, I presume?" 

Mulder passed a quick glance at the dead body of Cancerman and 
the halfback figure of Walter Skinner. "Geez, I forgot that I gave it 
to you," he muttered. At the Gunmen's silence, he waved a hand 
encouragingly. "Okay... yeah... I remember... go on."

"We checked for abnormalities, as you wanted. Didn't get 
anything off of our regular filters, but when we ran it through Big 
Bertha here, this baby is what we got." Frohike rummaged through some 
folders in front of him and produced an oddly colored piece of paper.

Mulder gazed at it carefully, absorbing the dark horizontal 
blob on the bottom of the paper, and the lighter vertical blob to the 
right. He shrugged his shoulders. "And I'm looking at...?"

Byers walked over, taking the photo from Mulder's hand, and 
placing it directly on top of the printout. "See, how the colored 
masses correspond to the placement of the bodies?"

He nodded.

"So, this horizontal mass is the dead guy, and this vertical 
mass is the shooter," Byers continued.

"Okay..."

"You see the dead guy? The spot on the printout is dark. The 
frequency corresponds to a wavelength of 780 nanometers. This is the 
extrapolation and depth perception we were talking about."

Mulder nodded, acknowledging that he understood so far. 

"780 nanometers corresponds to the color of red." Byers 
paused a beat. "Blood."

Realization dawned and Mulder pointed to the lighter vertical 
mass. "So then what about this one?"

Frohike wagged an eyebrow. "That, my friend, corresponds to a 
wavelength of approximately 550 nanometers. Which is the wavelength 
for--"

"--green," Mulder finished breathlessly.

The Gunmen nodded simultaneously.

"You wanted your proof, Mulder. You got it."

Mulder shook his head, a genuine smile on his lips untainted 
with cynicism or mockery. "I have to hand it to you, boys. You 
surpassed yourselves again."

The Gunmen smiled crazily at each other, unused to the 
compliment.

"But," Mulder continued. "I can't use it."

Frohike's face fell. "Why not?"

"When I gave you the picture, I was..." he struggled for the 
right words. "I was in a position to do something. But I'm not in 
that position anymore."

Langly pushed his glasses up. "This is about your promotion 
and Scully."

"It's about a political gamble gone askew," Mulder corrected 
testily.

"Then what do you want us to do with this stuff?"

Mulder turned towards Byers, smiling mirthlessly. "That's 
why I came here in the first place." He licked his lips nervously 
before continuing. "There's some stuff, including this photo and that 
printout, that I want you to forward to Scully, after I send it to 
you."

Frohike nodded.

"They *have* to get to Scully," Mulder re-emphasized. "Just 
tell her not to use them before the trial."

The three gunmen nodded while glancing at each other, 
disconcerted. "Why can't you give them to her yourself?" Langly 
finally breached the silence.

Mulder ignored the question, instead rubbing his temples with 
his fingers, his feet seemingly stuck to the cheaply tiled floor of 
the office. 

"Where are you disappearing to?" Byers ventured carefully, 
abandoning the previous line of inquisition.

Mulder crossed his arms in front of his chest, shrugging his 
shoulders. "I have some matters that need to be taken care of." There 
was silence, as he continued to rub his temples -- as the Gunmen 
fidgeted with the metal gadgets closest to them.

A soft voice broke through the oppression. "Can I borrow your 
videotapes while you're gone?"

Mulder offered a self-deprecating smile as Frohike's attempt 
to lighten the mood was only partly successful. "Go ahead, whack 
yourself silly."

Frohike offered a chuckle, trying to maintain the camaraderie. 
"So, this trip, Mulder -- is it business... or pleasure?" The Gunman 
followed the last word with a leer.

Mulder smiled, excited about seeing both Tommy and Meg again, 
realizing suddenly that Samantha had become a secondary interest in 
the equation. He turned towards Frohike, returning the photo and the 
printout. "Just... family matters. I met some cute new relatives." 

Frohike accepted the papers with raised eyebrows, noticing how
Mulder's hand stayed in contact with his longer than was necessary, 
his light words not deceiving him as to the seriousness of the 
situation.

A hoarse bark of laughter escaped his throat as he approached 
the door to leave. "At the risk of sounding like a cheesy B-grade 
spy movie, I appreciate all the digging you've done for me. I won't 
be seeing much of you guys in the next few days, and I just..." Mulder 
let his words trail off, the testosterone in the office prohibiting 
any more emotional sentiments. 

Frohike stepped forward, worry etched on his face. "Mulder, if 
we don't hear anything from you..."

Mulder shook his head. "You'll hear from me. Or about me. 
Whichever way, I promise," he offered cryptically, before walking out 
the door.

* * *

"The cause of death: knife wounds in the stomach and in the 
chest, which damaged several major organs, including lungs, and 
caused a fatal blood loss. The body was discovered approximately 
fifteen hours after death..." Scully stopped typing, shaking her tired 
fingers. It just never ends, she thought distractedly. How did they 
ever manage without a forensic expert in the department before?

She jumped at the phone ring, then picked it up with a sigh, 
imagining it to be yet another request from one of the VCS agents for 
on-the-spot analysis of yet another corpse.

"Agent Scully? This is Edward Jackson, remember me?"

"Of course, sheriff," she tried to match the cheerful tone, 
only to come to the conclusion that she should have taken drama 
classes in school instead of something as useless as physics. "I was 
going to call you."

Liar.

"Oh, good. I just wanted to check how the investigation was 
going. Did you find something out?"

Yes, I did, Sheriff. The two bodies you've discovered were 
used as lab rats in the attempt to change a human into an alien. "No," 
her nails dug hard into her palm. "There is nothing unusual about the 
bodies. I'm sorry."

For a few moments, there was only shocked, mistrustful silence 
on the other end of the line. "That is impossible, Agent Scully. I've 
seen them myself, and those bodies were not... usual," Jackson's tone 
was careful but firm.

Too many lies. There were just too many lies, and who was she 
serving by perpetuating them? "Sheriff, what you saw was a result of 
decomposition. Now, I must apologize, but I have very little time..." 
Scully finished breathlessly.

The Sheriff sounded disappointed. "Well, goodbye, in that 
case. Sorry for disturbing you."

Receiver back in the cradle, Scully looked at the screen of 
her laptop blankly, then slammed it down. The machine beeped jarringly 
in protest. She has just deceived yet another honest man. She glanced 
at the calendar fearfully, noting how Skinner's trial was closer by 
yet another day. 

Resignedly, she pulled the stack of photographs and a 
magnifying glass out of the drawer. As many times as Andrew, Mulder, 
and herself had studied the pictures, the only thing that became 
abundantly clear was the topnotch quality of the film and the skill 
of the photographer. Cancerman was smiling as he shook hands with 
Skinner, and Scully studied the expression on his face with curiosity. 

Their silhouettes reflected in the polished windows of the 
apartment building. Her fingers trembled suddenly and she used the 
other hand to steady the disobedient wrist. A car, with a license 
plate number, was visible in one of the windows, and she tried to 
imagine how this picture would look like had it been taken from the 
inside of it.

Scully clamped her mouth tightly to stop from laughing 
hysterically out loud. There was no reason to jump for joy yet. 
T4ZYE5, she typed hurriedly into the database. The computer hummed, 
finally spitting out the name of Erran Drake.

Scully looked back to the report, flipping through hastily 
scrawled interview statements, carbon copies of receipts, and poorly 
photocopied documents. Andrew had beat her to the punch, noting in 
big, block, capital letters that T4ZYE5 did indeed belong to Erran
Drake, who, upon closer investigation, was dead. Time of death: two 
days after Cancerman's. That looked promising, but there was nothing - 
absolutely nothing else to be found about him. Her fingers fluttered 
nervously over the keyboard as her frustration grew in direct 
proportion. Finally, she slammed her fist down on the table, feeling 
the sharp recoil of pain. No matter how careless they might have been, 
there was no way to prove that Erran Drake was the one to take the 
picture - and even if he did, it still did not absolve Skinner from 
murder.

Her phone rang again, and she considered unplugging it - 
finally picked it up with disgust. "Scully."

"Agent Scully, I was hoping to find you." Frohike's voice was 
at its most charming. "We've missed you since your last visit."

"Frohike," she smiled and threw another look at the computer 
screen. "Just the man I need at the moment."

The little gnome sounded pleased. "Really? To what do I owe 
such favor?"

"I need you to check something for me. Erran Drake, car 
license T4ZYE5, deceased. Any information at all."

"I'm wounded. You never need us for anything but information," 
he sighed melodramatically. "So what are you looking for, exactly?"

"I'll know when I see it," she admitted honestly.

"Well, it just so happens that we have something interesting 
to give you," Frohike informed her solemnly. "We'll be waiting, and 
by the time you get here, Langly will dig something up about the guy." 
He hung up the phone before she had a chance to ask anymore questions. 
Scully glanced guiltily at the reports, knowing that there would be no 
more work accomplished today for the VCS. With a sigh, she stood up 
and corrected her suit, bracing herself for the perfunctory 
conversation with Douglas.

"Sir," she opened the door of his office after his impatient 
"come in" and tried to produce a smile. "I need to leave for the rest 
of the day."

"Why, Agent Scully? Is it another request from upstairs?" 
Douglas didn't raise his eyes from the papers on the table. 

She bit her lip. It was nearly impossible to talk to the man 
after the Manns Harbor non-case. "No. It's... personal."

His expression didn't change. "Oh yes, I forgot. Assistant 
Director Mulder is on vacation, so he wouldn't be handing you any 
cases in the meantime."

The words resonated dully inside her skull, and she listened 
to their dying echo numbly. A vacation. Now, of all times. "May I go?" 
she questioned quietly, and Douglas waved her off resignedly. 

The drive was a blur, and only when parked in front of The 
Lone Gunmen's office was Scully finally aware of the tension 
accumulated in her shoulders, of the tight lines around her mouth 
reflected in the video monitor. And yet, she found herself returning 
Frohike's smile. Oh, but it was good to be among... friends. Her throat 
constricted suddenly and she couldn't offer a greeting.

"We'll need a handsome reward for what we're about to share 
with you," Byers informed her, deadpan.

"We ask for your immortal soul," Langly confirmed, fighting 
back a grin.

"And a kiss?" Frohike ventured hopefully.

She stared at Frohike, who batted his eyes innocently. "A 
kiss. Right." As the Gunman continued to stare, she waved her hand, 
exasperated. "Okay, okay, whatever you want. Do tell. You must have 
found undeniable proof that JFK was abducted by aliens and it was his 
clone who got shot instead."

"That's a good one," Langly chuckled appreciatively.

"But here is something better," Byers gestured toward the pile 
of papers. "Proof that unless your ex-boss has green blood, he is not 
a murderer."

Scully's eyes brightened as she listened to his explanation of 
the photoanalysis. When he finished, she sighed in satisfaction. "This 
is so out there, but..."

"But it just might work." Frohike finished. "Reasonable doubt, 
Agent Scully, is all the jury will need. Now, about Erran Drake - 
and I know you will love what you hear..."

"But first, who is this guy?" Langly asked curiously. 

"He may be the person who took these pictures," Scully 
explained impatiently. "Now, I'm all ears."

"His death was... an unfortunate accident. He fell under a 
train in the subway," Langly's voice suggested that he didn't believe 
for a single moment in the accidental classification of the 
occurrence. "His bank account was frozen since his death, but we were 
able to filter out numerous and rather generous deposits from - say 
it with me..."

"Rousch," the chorus of four voices completed the sentence.

The feeling of triumvirate dissipated only too soon, and 
Scully collected the printouts carefully. "This is wonderful, but 
very circumstantial."

Frohike raised a warning finger. "Never despair, Agent Scully. 
Here is an advice from someone who studied law. Reasonable doubt is 
the defense attorney's best friend. And sometimes," he lowered his 
voice in a mock whisper. "Sometimes the best way to win a difficult 
case is to turn the jury's attention onto something more interesting."

"Something larger than the case, just make sure that it's all 
connected," Byers confirmed. "And this just might be it," he pushed 
the stack of papers and folders in her direction.

Scully accepted it curiously, settling down in the quickly 
offered chair. "Oh my God," she whispered under her breath. "Where... 
where did you get this?"

"An old friend," Frohike murmured as she raised her hand to 
the forehead, shadowing her eyes so that he couldn't read her 
expression. The three Gunmen exchanged a bemused look.

"Did you read this?"

Langly shrugged uncomfortably. "We couldn't help it - most of 
it came by fax."

"From what little we saw, we couldn't understand what it was," 
Byers offered apologetically. "So consider us just as ignorant as we 
were before seeing it."

Small things. Meaningless if taken apart. As destructive as a 
nuclear bomb if taken together. An address on top of one page and a 
schedule of lab technicians. The list of women missing over the past 
several months, the dates of their abductions and returns correlated 
with the schedule of the "subjects" brought to the facility. Requests 
for supplies and technology signed and approved by the name that 
appeared in yet another list of several dozen names. A Manhattan 
address.

Finally, Scully came to the two manila envelopes and raised 
her eyes questioningly. "They came in the mail," Frohike explained. 
"We haven't opened them up. There is also this box."

Scully accepted the small carton, opening it impatiently, 
seeing the tissue and liquid samples, knowing she would have to spend 
several days in the lab with the chemists and biologists, poring over 
each and arguing over the results. And, she reminded herself, there 
were still two interesting bodies stashed in the little-known corner 
of the FBI morgue. 

It was difficult to put this box aside, but there were still 
envelopes to go through. She tore the first one, pulling out a thin 
buff-colored folder, labeled Vernon John Fulsom. VJ. She tossed it 
aside in annoyance, ripping the second envelope and revealing another 
similar folder, only thicker. A yellow post-it was pasted over the 
label; "stay impersonal" typed in capital accurate letters. Fully 
expecting to see her own name under it, she tore off the note. Sheila 
Maria Freeman.

She clenched her fists. Stay impersonal, her ass.

The bastard.

Scully leafed through the pages briskly, scanning the 
paragraphs and photos with a wildly beating heart. There were names 
here as well, signatures of the doctors. And the light dimmed in the 
room as she read the entry on the last page, as she recognized the 
expansive stroke of the familiar handwriting. Darkly, she thought 
that she'd never wanted to believe in the truth that Mulder told her. 
The Gunmen jumped to pick up the papers fluttering to the ground as 
they spilled from the clumsy, shaking fingers. "I can't. I can't use 
this," Scully looked at Frohike with a plea.

He sat down near her gingerly. "I don't understand. What is 
it?"

It is the end, she wanted to scream. It's the means to 
destroying Them, but it's the means destroying Mulder at the same 
time. It was a choice she couldn't make. "Where is he?" she couldn't 
bring herself to pronounce the name out loud.

Frohike shrunk back at the bitterness and rage in her voice. 
"He mentioned something about cute new relatives?"

Scully stared at him without comprehension. Byers extended 
her the folder, and she made no move to accept it.

"I refuse to make this choice. It will destroy him," the words 
were spoken low, even as the raw anguish made her insides churn 
painfully. It figured that she would break down here, in the presence 
of Mulder's friends who, unknowingly, were giving her the means to his 
demise. 

Frohike touched her hand gently, still in the dark as to the 
larger picture, but beginning to understand Scully's reaction. 
"Somehow, I know that I will regret this advice," he spoke hesitantly. 
"But it seems to me that if Mulder gave it to you - whatever this 'it' 
is, then he trusts you with it. He's freed you from making the choice 
by making it for you."

She closed her eyes tightly, praying for the strength that she 
didn't have. "But it wasn't his choice to make," she whispered hotly. 
"We were supposed to be in this together," she reminisced softly. 
"I made him promise... no more ditching..." Of course she would have 
no choice in the matter. He would take it from her as well. 

Frohike looked at her solemnly, speaking softly. "Isn't it 
Mulder you should be telling this to?"

Scully had a very good hunch that she would have a hard time 
finding him before the trial, and her affirmative nod was reluctant. 
Her fingers eventually squeezed Frohike's hand gently. She suddenly 
leaned over, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

The Gunman blinked, blushing furiously, while the other two 
grinned like fools -- passing wide-eyed, junior high looks between 
each other. 

"You asked for it," Scully stood up and accepted the offered 
folder, gripping it firmly, then collected the rest of the papers. On 
the way out, she stopped. "You might as well have my immortal soul," 
she tried to inject a smile into her voice but the words still sounded 
broken and emotionless. 

"Agent Scully?" Frohike called uncertainly and halted.

She finished without turning around, "...because I don't 
think I'll be needing it any longer."

* * *

Mulder popped open the trunk of his rental car, but before he 
could drop the shoulder bag inside, he was suddenly entangled in two 
laughing children. "What are you trying to do, guys, stop me from 
leaving?" he encircled his arms around both of them tightly, reluctant 
to let go. 

A flash of light blinded him momentarily, and he looked up to 
see Samantha with a Polaroid camera in her hands and a guilty 
expression on her face. "I thought you might want to have a picture."

Mulder gripped the kids harder to himself. "I'll miss you very 
much."

"Me or the kids?" Sam asked gently.

He didn't want to answer honestly, though several days in 
Vermont with Meg and a healthy Tommy took his mind off his ever 
persistent, and ever omniscient, demons. Not just phantoms of his 
imagination anymore, his mind fully registered that his nephew 
and niece had now taken priority over his sister. 

He turned towards her, offering a smile - knowing the void
that had plagued his heart since a cold, clear night in Chilmark 
was now diminishing. "Take care, Sam."

She frowned, detecting a strange note in his voice. "You 
sound as if you are seeing us for the last time."

Mulder fell silent, contemplating a very uncertain, and 
probably a very unhappy future. He hoped that he would be able to see 
them again, knowing that he would miss them in ways he never imagined 
possible. In fact, he couldn't be sure the future even existed. 
Tomorrow was the beginning of Skinner's trial, and up until Scully's 
testimony, he would sit in his fifth-floor office and go on with 
business as usual, contrary to the very insistent voice of 
self-preservation. Giving Scully the file of Sheila Freeman was only a 
gesture - and she had to recognize it as such. Mulder knew perfectly 
well that there were too many other things that would bring him down 
anyway.

And after Scully's testimony, he would try to leave the 
country. He still had to decide where he wanted to go or what he 
wanted to do. The notion was comical, in some perverted, tragic way, 
and he chuckled lightly. All in all, for a man who would soon be 
wanted by the state and by the Consortium, he felt remarkably serene 
and composed. All in all, the resolution to the plan gone severely 
wrong didn't seem too awful.

"How did you do it?" his sister pointed to Tommy discreetly. 
"I had to take him to the ER, and the next day... he was fine. The 
doctors still have no idea what happened."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

She sighed, her disbelief apparent. "Fine. We will just call 
it magic."

He grinned. "You really should believe in miracles."

"They are in love with you, Fox," Sam spoke sadly. "Rob is 
hardly ever home, and even when he is, he never plays with them. I 
think... he is afraid of them. I don't know of anyone who isn't, 
frankly, except for you."

"And you."

The picture was ready, and Samantha watched with a growing 
smile as it floated toward her brother who accepted it in stride, 
accustomed to objects in this house moving seemingly of their own 
volition. "I can remember enough from before... to know that I wasn't 
born with this ability, Fox. But I'm not blind, I know that it's not 
normal, and I've learned to hide it. For the children, it's natural."

Mulder stared at the photo, hardly recognizing the relaxed, 
casually dressed man as himself, two kids bearing remarkable 
resemblance to him in his arms. Peculiarly, it was a picture of 
normalcy - happiness - that he had for no more than two days. He 
freed himself from the kids, words of good-byes falling from his 
lips unwillingly, and kissed his sister on the cheek. "You have to 
come back here, if only for them," Sam whispered in his ear. Sitting 
down in the car and turning keys in ignition, he threw her a 
mischievous smile. 

"Let's just say I'll be here if another miracle happens."

End of Part 18/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 19/20

The District Attorney measured the jury with a piercing look, 
preparing to make a statement. Skinner watched the man with interest, 
recognizing a worthy adversary. He realized that to most people in the 
room, including the DA, the case was clear-cut. The evidence seemed to 
be unquestionable. The time of the crime could not be established due 
to the lack of the body, thus any alibis and witnesses he provided 
would be pointless. The inherent desire of the crowd to see the 
government bureaucracy exposed as corrupt played against him as well.

The room was full of FBI agents, reporters, and the simply 
curious. The walls were lined with the TV cameras. Today, the 
interesting part would begin. The case seemed to drag until now - it 
took more than two days to choose a jury, and Skinner had to respect 
the tenacity of his lawyer - though it was obvious that even she 
didn't believe in his innocence.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Today, we will provide 
irrefutable evidence that will prove that this man, Walter Sergei 
Skinner, had murdered Henry Davidson in cold blood. We will also 
prove that it was premeditated..."

A nudge in the elbow distracted Skinner from the carefully 
rehearsed speech. His lawyer was showing him a small note and he read 
it quickly, disbelieving his eyes. 

"PLEASE REQUEST A RECESS. MUST SPEAK WITH YOU - NEW EVIDENCE 
COULD EXONERATE YOUR CLIENT. DANA SCULLY."

Skinner turned around, scanning the courtroom, but he failed 
to spot the small figure of his agent. With a stony expression, he 
scribbled on the notepad quickly: "Ignore this."

Clearly annoyed, she picked up the pen. "That is impossible, 
Mr. Skinner. If she says that she has evidence, I need to see it - 
before I present my case to the jury."

Skinner glared at her angrily but didn't bother replying. 

"Your jury, counsel."

"I request a thirty-minute recess, your honor," Ellen Lehmer 
didn't think long about it.

"Fifteen minutes. The court is in recess," the judge granted 
emotionlessly.

Skinner glanced at his watch as his lawyer disappeared. 
Fifteen minutes would be over quickly, and then the games would 
continue. When all was said and done, he very much wanted for all of 
this to be over - no matter what the outcome. 

* * * 

Milton stared at the TV screen, watching the navy blue suited 
lawyers file out slowly. 

Something was wrong.

The elder turned to the other around him. "Something's 
happened." He shook his head, watching a red-haired federal agent 
lean over the railing to talk to the defense attorney. "Something 
is very, very wrong." He leaned in towards the TV, trying to judge 
the facial expression of the defense attorney, and her client, Walter 
Skinner. "Where's Mulder?" he asked absently.

"Either at the office or on his way here," someone in the 
background replied.

An arm with gold cuff links peeking through the Armani suit 
offered Milton another glass of bourbon, and the elder pushed it away 
angrily. "No more drinks. No more talk. I want to hear what Miss 
Scully has to say." He paused, his mouth forming a grim line, 
suspicion rearing its ugly head. "And I want to be ready."

***

"The defense calls Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully," Lehmer 
proclaimed, and Skinner watched as a very calm Scully approached the 
witness stand and raised her right hand to swear that she would speak 
the truth, and only the truth so help her God.

"Dr. Scully, how long have you known Mr. Skinner?"

"Over four years," Scully smiled for his benefit. "He was my 
Assistant Director during that time."

"How would you describe your experience while working for 
him?"

"He was never an easy man to get along with, and we had our 
share of conflicts and disagreements during these four years, but I 
learned to respect him. I know that he is an honest man and I believe 
that he is not a killer. In fact, I have undeniable proof that the 
pictures you've all seen today are fake."

The courtroom stirred, and the judge pounded his gavel, 
trying to restore silence and order. Skinner felt a growing unease, 
a certainty that he had missed something important in his earlier 
judgement of Scully and Mulder. This new piece of the puzzle, the 
favorable testimony, did not fit into the picture. But he couldn't 
have possibly been wrong before, unless...

Skinner massaged the bridge of his nose, struggling to 
concentrate on the task at hand while flashing on the possible 
scenarios in the back of his mind, discarding them one after another. 
His logic failed him - but he reminded himself that Mulder was hardly 
a man ruled by cold reason. To understand him, one needed to stop 
thinking logically, and he tried to do just that.

Meanwhile, Lehmer, unperturbed, addressed her witness again. 
"How is that possible? Only today we listened to the testimony of 
Agent Scott from the Special Photography unit and he proved that the 
pictures were more than real."

"The pictures are, indeed, real. But the person holding the 
gun is not Walter Skinner. Using a special photographic analyzer, one 
can see that whoever it is..." Scully tried to stifle a deep sigh of 
resignation, knowing how it would sound to everyone's ears, "is not 
human."

The rumble of noise grew exponentially, and even the judge's 
continuous cries for order were ignored. He stared at the woman on the 
witness stand who seemed to grow even quieter amidst the chaos she 
created, then at the lawyer. "Counsel, I think you had better explain 
what it is you're trying to accomplish here, and present me with this 
evidence."

"With pleasure, your honor. Permission to approach the bench?"

As the two women conferred with the judge, the silence in the 
courtroom was tight as a spring. And Skinner knew that once it was 
released in motion, its power would be enough to knock out everyone 
in its way.

* * *

Milton exchanged a long look with Northam before turning back 
to watch the televised trial that was turning out to be more 
entertaining than anyone might have originally thought it would be. 

"Dr. Scully, are you suggesting that Mr. Skinner was framed 
for this murder? But by whom and with what possible purpose?"

Milton watched hatefully as Scully prepared to reply to the 
District Attorney. Bloody hell. They should have gotten rid of that 
bitch a long time ago. The trouble was, she really seemed to have nine 
lives. 

"I have a strong suspicion that the pictures in question were 
taken by a man named Erran Drake, now deceased, but who was employed 
by the certain organization that was proven to have been involved in 
other... shady businesses. Mr. Skinner, no longer useful to this 
organization as an Assistant Director of the FBI, was framed for 
murder."

Milton held onto the glass of bourbon in his hand, willing it 
not to shake, not to betray his fear. How could she possibly know 
about Erran Drake?

"You're not implying that this organization has the power to 
juggle positions within the FBI."

"That's exactly what I am implying."

The DA paused, seemingly processing this information, deciding 
that the next question could not hurt his case more - but curious to 
know the answer. "That would have to mean that both the Director of 
the FBI and the Assistant Director who replaced Skinner are involved, 
as well. Are they?"

Scully was silent, clearly unprepared for the question, 
visibly shaken.

The judge turned to look at her, expectation written in his 
features. "Dr. Scully, please answer the question."

"Yes, they are."

Milton paid them no attention, his mind already engaged in the 
strategic handling of this disaster. He was convinced that Scully 
would not be uttering such allegations had she not had some 
substantial evidence to back them up. And the only person who could 
have possibly helped her was being crushed in the process of this 
testimony.

"We have a leak," Northam announced in his wheezy voice, and 
Milton peered at him in annoyance. 

"You think?" he stood up abruptly, ignoring the stares of 
other Consortium members, some accusatory, some frightened, and 
reached for the phone. "Miller? Have you spoken with Mulder today?"

"No," the doctor sounded surprised. "Why, are you looking for 
him?"

On a sixth sense, Milton restrained the positive reply. "No, 
I was just hoping to speak to him if he was around. Nothing 
important."

"I will see him tomorrow - but I am sure you will find him if 
you call the Bureau," Miller offered helpfully.

"Goodbye then," Milton hung up. It seemed that minutes had 
passed before he was able to face the room and address them calmly. 
"Gentlemen, we have made a grave mistake. One for which I am largely 
to blame. But we must deal with the consequences calmly and rationally,
and find the guilty parties later. First order of business. Find Fox 
Mulder and bring him to the D.C. facility. He is currently in the 
Bureau Headquarters, or on his way here, and I don't care whom you 
must involve to accomplish that task. Second and just as important: 
we must empty the facility right away. This includes everything and 
everyone. We don't have much time before it may be found. Third: we 
will have to find a different place to convene in the future. You 
will be informed of when and where the next meeting will transpire. 
Fourth: I would advise everyone, no matter what happens, not to 
compound the situation by turning state's evidence."

Northam listened to the speech with visible approval, nodding 
at the end. "I hope everyone will remember that it's much easier to 
deal with the police and FBI than with your own colleagues."

After the thinly veiled threat, the conversation and liquor 
didn't flow as easily. 

"What about her?" some young man pointed to the TV, and Milton 
flashed him an impenetrable look. 

"Too visible," he sighed audibly. "Too visible."

Milton's thoughts turned back to the redhead's ex-partner, and 
he shook his head. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, wondering how such 
a catastrophe hadn't been detected sooner. He stalked out of the 
room, stilted steps eventually leading him to a vault.

Working the combination dial deftly, the door opened on its 
hinges silently. Milton grabbed the nearest .38, loading it with one 
fluid motion, a sense of urgency fueling his actions.

The D.C. facility and a traitor named Fox Mulder were waiting 
for him.

* * *

Mulder clicked off the TV and glanced at his watch. 4:35 PM, 
and Scully's testimony was obviously over. That should be sufficient. 
He closed his father's storybook, feeling frustration threaten to 
overwhelm him again. Bits and pieces of clues -- scattered dates, 
assorted numbers, and random names -- and Mulder still couldn't find 
the bigger picture that he knew his father wanted him so desperately 
to see. 

January 4th, 1970. October 22nd, 1974. December 6th, 1976. 
A sequence of letters that spelled out "Great Falls" if you counted 
every fifth letter, the same sequence spelling a confusing string of 
nucleotide bases for every three letters. Two characters of the story 
had their names in bold on one page, Cora the Giraffe and Thomas the 
Rhino -- a small detail that was still driving Mulder crazy. He 
looked at the book critically, knowing that there was still enough 
evidence to exonerate Skinner, and implicate the Consortium. Still...

With a sigh, he collected the coat and stepped out of the 
office without a backward glance. 

"Kim, did I ever thank you for putting up with me?" he put on 
his best charming expression.

His secretary looked up with surprise. "No, sir, but it's my 
job - and my pleasure."

"Could you see that this book gets to Agent Scully as early as 
possible tomorrow morning?" he held out "The Eleventh Hour," yellow 
post-its and pieces of paper sticking out of it visibly. "It's an 
important piece of evidence," he explained at her bemused expression.

"Of course, sir. Don't forget, you have a board of directors 
meeting at 10 AM," Kim reminded him.

Mulder nodded absently, thinking about another parting gift 
waiting for Scully at his apartment - her file, placed prominently on 
his computer keyboard. He would fail miserably as a Santa Claus. 
With a sigh, he began playing with a little Porsche sitting in his 
hand. "Walter Skinner is a great man to work for. Don't you miss him?"

She seemed momentarily taken aback and didn't offer a reply. 

"See you later, Kim," Mulder put on the coat, flashed her a 
quick grin. "The trial's going well, from what I can see."

Once in the elevator, he hesitated before pushing the 
button - finally choosing the parking level, trailing a finger lightly 
over the first floor button from whence a staircase would lead him 
to the basement. There was nothing and no one in the X-Files office, 
anyway.

Mulder picked out the key as he walked to his car. The door 
opened smoothly and he slid behind the wheel, taking a moment to 
search through the papers lying on the passenger seat before starting 
the engine. He struggled only briefly as the nauseating sweetness of 
chloroform pushed against his mouth and nose, closing his eyes, 
plunging his mind into heavy, overwhelming darkness.

The man in the backseat took Mulder's arm and searched for a 
vein with the ease of a professional, using a syringe to plunge 
another portion of the drug into his system. He stepped out of the 
car, surveyed the unconscious form slumped against the wheel, and 
looked around inconspicuously. It was still early by the Bureau 
standards, and there was no one else in the parking lot. Opening 
the trunk of the Lincoln Towncar standing right next to it, he 
dragged the unresponsive body inside it quickly, then closed the 
door with a heavy thud.

The nearby videocamera continued to provide a steady picture 
of rows of cars and no disturbances.

* * *

"Do you have anymore questions, counsel?" the judge turned 
to Skinner's lawyer.

"No questions, your honor."

"Are there any other witnesses?"

"No."

The judge glanced at the jury. "It is 4:40 PM, ladies and 
gentlemen. We will finish this tomorrow. Dr. Scully, counsels, step 
in my office, please. The court is adjourned."

He led them into a small room, inviting them to take seats 
in the heavy leather chairs around the table. "Counsels, I sincerely 
wish that we had all known about this beforehand. Perhaps, this trial 
need not have happened."

"You're not suggesting that you believe in this 'inhuman' 
killer theory," the DA glanced at the judge darkly.

The judge didn't reply, turning instead to face Skinner's 
lawyer. "Next time you want to turn any trial into the "Close 
Encounters of the Third Kind," please inform me. My courtroom is not 
a circus."

"Your honor, I am the one who held onto this evidence until 
now," Scully entered the conversation. "This is no one's fault but 
mine."

The judge sighed audibly. "Counsels, I will see you tomorrow. 
Let us try to wrap this trial quickly. Dr. Scully, I need to speak 
with you in private."

The DA shook his head in numb frustration and walked out of 
the office, throwing a disgusted "you win" to Ellen Lehmer on the 
way. The woman offered a smug expression in return, visibly pleased.

"Dr. Scully," the judge spoke when they were alone. "You're 
using my courtroom and this trial to bring something else to light. 
I know that this case and your testimony in favor of Walter Skinner 
are only your secondary purposes. May I ask what it is you're trying 
to accomplish - and why do you feel compelled to do it now?"

"Sir, I hope that the evidence I presented so far is relevant 
to the case. I'm sure you would have stopped me if you thought 
otherwise. I'm sorry if I stepped outside of the boundaries," Scully 
paled visibly, trying to retain the semblance of calm. She didn't 
want to antagonize this man now. Quickly, she added, "I assure you 
that at the moment, Walter Skinner's freedom is my primary goal."

The judge waved the explanation away. "From the bits and 
pieces you let slip during your testimony, I could tell that you knew 
more. I would like to see more evidence, Dr. Scully. Bring it here 
tomorrow and we will review it while the jury decides on a verdict."

Scully swallowed nervously, knowing that this was too good to 
be true. "Sir, with all due respect, I wish we could review this 
evidence right now. It is here with me, and I have already waited 
too long to come forward with it."

He sank down into his chair and sighed, eyeing the twilight 
outside. "This had better be good enough to miss my dinner," he 
growled non-threateningly. "Why did you wait, Dr. Scully?"

She bent to look through the briefcase and pull out the 
appropriate documents. "The man who submitted this evidence was 
implicating and endangering himself by doing so. He assumed that 
I would not use it before the trial."

A shower of auburn hair obscured her face, but the judge 
could swear that he heard the tears in her voice. Yet when she 
handed him the papers, her eyes were absolutely dry -- a figment of 
his imagination, maybe? "What is the name of this man?"

"Fox Mulder. He used to be my partner."

He nodded thoughtfully and opened up the first folder. "By 
the way, Dr. Scully, you shouldn't worry about tomorrow. No matter 
what the jury decides - I will dismiss this case due to the lack of 
evidence."

The tightly controlled muscles in her face suddenly relaxed, 
and she smiled gratefully. "Thank you, your honor. Just... thank 
you," she eyed him inquisitively. "May I ask... why? The green blood 
rarely makes a convincing argument," Scully laughed mirthlessly.

The judge didn't return the gesture, growing serious. 
"Personal experience, Dr. Scully," he offered cryptically. He swept 
the room with an expansive gesture before issuing a mouthed, "the 
walls can hear". 

Scully nodded numbly, unable to comprehend the judge's 
actions... until she saw the picture of Senator Matheson hung beside 
that of Janet Reno and Bill Clinton. She was once again reminded of 
how many people had lives invested in the conspiracy, of how many 
events were fixed, rigged, and automatically doomed to failure or 
success.

Walking out of the judge's chambers, with Skinner's 
exoneration all but guaranteed, with completed, damning evidence 
against the Consortium, Scully had never been so depressed. 
Reluctantly, she picked up a cellular phone and dialed a familiar 
number - knowing that Mulder should share in this triumph no matter 
what their relationship was like at the moment.

When she received no answer after several tries, Scully 
felt angry and tired. In this, as in so many other things in the 
last few weeks, she would have to be alone.

* * *

The voices floated inside a world covered by a heavy 
suffocating blanket. "Dear Lord, how much of this crap did you give 
him? He's been out for hours."

Oh yes, now he remembered the taste of chloroform in his 
mouth. How old-fashioned of them. Mulder's head seemed like a giant 
pulsing globe ready to burst from pain and pressure. How long was he 
unconscious? 

"I think he has a nasty concussion," an unfamiliar voice 
responded.

Milton grunted unhappily. "This is very inconvenient. We don't 
have much time."

Experimentally, Mulder tried to open his eyes, but the light 
that penetrated between the slits of his eyelids made his head hurt 
even more. The stifled scream came out as a small moan.

"Oh, Fox, you're coming around. Help him sit up," Milton's 
voice instructed someone. Mulder tried to raise his hands to support 
his head but realized too late that they were tied behind his back. 
Two rough hands pushed him up and against the wall, and the world 
went out of focus momentarily.

"You have a concussion," Milton informed him coldly. "I'm 
afraid your head hasn't been treated too gently since we decided to 
arrange for this meeting. So try not to make any sudden movements."

Mulder swallowed painfully, fighting a wave of nausea. 
"Water... please."

Milton seemed to think about it, then nodded to the other 
man who stepped out of the room, came back with a paper cup. "Only 
so we can have this chat," he tersely explained, as water poured 
down Mulder's throat, spilling over his chin.

"Thank you," he fell into silence, too exhausted to say 
anything else. 

"So you decided to leave us, Fox?"

"Couldn't... handle the pressure," Mulder's attempt at humor 
fell on deaf ears.

"Why, Fox?" Milton sounded genuinely curious. "After 
everything... I imagine you might not care about money or career 
or even your life. But we gave you your sister. We healed her child. 
And even though I threatened Agent Scully... well, I was the one 
who'd warned her about the danger a few years back. She is too 
visible a figure for us to really get rid of her."

"But I bet you pray for an unfortunate accident once in a 
while," Mulder croaked by the way of an answer. "I did it for all 
people who died while opposing you. I did it for all women whose 
lives you wrecked," he met Milton's steely glare. "I did it for 
myself."

Milton sat down on the chair in front of him. "Does it hurt?" 
he pointed to Mulder's head.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Milton ignored the hostile tone, speaking casually. "I had 
my suspicions, you know. I was afraid that we made a mistake by 
trusting you. But do you realize just how difficult it is to find 
good people these days?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Mulder asked sourly.

"You had everything to lose by betraying us. And I hoped that 
you'd begin to like being here," Milton continued, a touch of 
disappointment in his voice. 

Mulder laughed, a dry sound that sent him into a fit of 
coughing. A minute later, he leaned against the wall, his eyes 
closed. "I generally don't get off on power trips, Milton."

"Henry Davidson used to be like you," Milton picked up the 
cup with water, put it to Mulder's lips. "Idealistic and foolish. 
But he understood very fast what he was supposed to do to survive. 
How important our work was and how to keep it in secrecy."

Mulder winced, the physical and emotional pain slamming him 
simultaneously. "Everyone so loves to compare me with him," he cut 
each word, short and angry. "But there is a basic, and vital 
difference."

Milton smiled, knowingly and victoriously. "You don't smoke?"

"He said yes, and I said no," Mulder watched with satisfaction 
as the elder's smile faded. "If you want to know the reason behind 
my... betrayal... maybe I just didn't want to be like him."

Milton nodded in understanding. The door opened, revealing the 
figure of Miller. "James, the building is almost empty. Are you about 
done here?"

"Dr. Miller. Come in," Milton was all friendliness, pulling 
up a chair to welcome the new arrival. "I was just chatting with Fox, 
here. He was telling me why he submitted the discriminating evidence 
on us - and on himself."

Miller regarded Mulder emotionlessly. "Himself?"

"You have to... watch TV, Miller," Mulder grinned, fighting 
another wave of nausea. "Agent Scully testified against me today, 
just as I'd asked her to."

"Fox, you do realize that you cannot possibly destroy us. 
We are prepared for unexpected. At most, you helped Skinner and made 
us discard a good facility. I imagine we might lose some people - 
some valuable, some not, but you cannot win this war alone."

"And why did you fight, Fox?" Miller regarded his former 
colleague with clinical interest. "The work we are doing... it will 
help save the humanity when the inevitable happens. We are searching 
for ways to protect people against aliens."

Mulder shook his head. Again, the doctor's response was 
mechanical, sounding like it had been rehearsed, memorized to the 
point that it became automatic. "But your methods are unacceptable."

"War is war, Fox," Milton offered.

"I realized something," Mulder shifted against the wall, 
trying to arrive at a comfortable position, failing miserably. 
"Sometimes, one cannot save something as huge and encompassing as 
humanity. Sometimes, it's best to just remain human and save a few 
people that you love."

"And if everyone of us did that, wouldn't this planet be a 
'happier place?'" Milton drawled cynically, and Mulder glanced 
at him sharply. "What does it take to say no when someone offers 
you the world: stupidity or nobility?" 

Mulder's face adopted the haughty expression of someone who 
already owned the world. Milton received no answer.

The elder walked out the door for a moment, then returned with 
a satisfied, grim expression. "You are rather brave, Fox. You cannot 
possibly expect to live after this conversation - and look at you. 
You are calm as a quiet pond."

Mulder suppressed a shiver along with thoughts of an 
impending death. "It's from the concussion," he murmured softly. 
"Maybe chloroform affects those instincts of self-preservation."

Milton was clearly disinterested as he glanced at his watch. 
"You know what to do," he spoke to the man hovering in the background. 
"Goodbye, Fox."

Miller came to stand with Milton by the door, just as another 
man entered the room and handcuffed Mulder's hands to the wall. The 
first blow landed on his ribs, and he cried out in pain. He didn't 
have a chance to catch his breath as a second blow knocked him down. 
Oxygen was hot lava piercing his lungs, and the world around him was 
set on fire.

"Goodbye, Fox," he heard Miller's voice through the roar of 
dull noise in his ears. When the dizziness came and brought with it 
another wave of nausea, Mulder didn't resist it. 

The sole of someone's shoe connected with his head and the 
darkness consumed him once again.

End of Part 19/20



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 20a/20

Milton walked with Miller down to his office. The doctor was 
unusually pale, and he winced visibly at a few agonized cries that 
echoed from the room where they left Mulder.

"You don't seem very surprised at this turn of events, 
Miller," Milton sat down in the unoffered chair and smiled.

"Neither do you," Miller turned away, started putting some 
files and books into the prepared cardboard box.

"I'm not a very emotional sort of person," Milton replied out 
of context. "Really... but even I am saddened that we must get rid of 
Mulder. I came to like the boy."

Silence was his answer.

"I thought you had... grown attached to him, as well."

Miller shrugged, made his voice sound light. "He was only 
someone I worked with. No special feelings."

"I see. Let's cut this crap, Miller, and get to the chase. 
You knew that Mulder wasn't with us, didn't you? You had to have 
some suspicion that possessed you to go to the Bureau parking lot 
and check up on the bastard. And you did not inform us," Milton's 
voice was perfectly controlled, as if he was merely commenting on 
today's weather or the quality of freshly brewed tea.

"How could I possibly know that?" Miller looked surprised. 
"And besides, nothing happened at the parking lot." He tried to 
busy himself with collecting his things but his hands shook too much.

"You are a psychologist extraordinaire. And you liked Mulder. 
Maybe not from the first time you met him but you did grow to 
appreciate him."

Miller sat down heavily, jumbled thoughts and images whirling 
in his mind. Mulder... sometimes he thought of him as a son he'd lost. 
Sometimes it was just heartening to see the younger man's smile after 
hours of work that he still detested even if he'd never admitted it.

And sometimes, he identified with Fox Mulder to the point of 
tears.

It was pathetic, really. What exactly did he think would 
happen? That he and Mulder would continue working together like the 
couple of buddies that they weren't?

Seconds slithered by, and Milton stood up, pulling out a 
revolver. "You still haven't said no, you traitor," Milton held the 
revolver against Miller's head.

"I didn't say yes, either," he squeezed through gritted teeth. 
"But what do you care? Destroy everyone, as long as you don't destroy 
yourself, isn't that right, James?"

"Did Fox relate to you this joke I told him? It's one of the 
new rules for our facilities. Burn it to the ground if you know it 
will be found."

"Sounds like a good time to follow the rules, then," he 
whispered hotly.

"You believe in the rules? Do you still believe in us?" 
Milton asked, staring at Miller intently.

The doctor closed his eyes -- the answer was brutally obvious 
when the barrel of a semi-automatic was pointed at his head. "Yes, 
James. My loyalty to the Consortium is still intact." 

Milton smiled, handing Miller another pistol from his belt. 
He nodded to the video screen in Miller's office that was 
emotionlessly recording Fox Mulder's beating. 

"Prove it."

* * *

His ribs had to be cracked. Or maybe broken. Too many parts 
of his body were singing in pain, and his head alternated between 
periods of sledgehammer-worthy torture, and coherent
thought-destroying numbness.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, and Mulder was 
quickly learning to fear the sound. His eyes widened when both 
Miller and Milton approached -- the elder looking smug, the doctor 
looking increasingly uncomfortable. 

"Do it now," Milton ordered sharply. "Or you can say 'hi' to 
Thomas."

Mulder watched the exchange, hearing the name ring a bell -- 
knowing that it was important to Miller when he saw the doctor wince.

"Don't bring my son into this equation," he retorted sharply. 

"Your son," Mulder echoed dumbly, frustrated with the time it 
was taking for his thoughts to form. "Your son," he whispered again, 
his brow furrowing in concentration. He looked to Miller, his voice 
coming out softly. "Was your wife's name Cora?"

Both Consortium members regarded Mulder suspiciously, but 
Miller nodded. 

Something clicked within Mulder -- the gears in his brain 
started processing faster and the epiphany was earth shattering.

"Your son's name was Thomas?" Mulder asked again breathlessly.

Miller nodded, and Mulder's eyes widened. "Don't shoot me, 
Miller. It's Milton I would shoot."

"Why?"

"Because, they killed him." 

Miller hesitated and Milton looked shocked. "What on Earth..."

"Your son's name was Thomas. Your wife's name was Cora." 
The pieces were falling into place and Mulder could barely keep up. 
"Your son!" he shouted, paying no attention to the pain it brought to 
his lungs, "Your son was born January 4th, 1970. Your wife and the 
company she had been working for at that time, Rousch, abducted him 
when she had custody, October 22nd, 1974. And then he died December 
6th, 1976." Inside, his mind flipped through the pages of the book, 
offering numbers, dates, and words -- the solution that had eluded him 
for the longest time, only now thundering into place. "They used 
hybrid DNA. The same DNA that was found in Scully, that's still in 
Scully. The same DNA that they are trying to mold into humans." He 
closed his eyes, trying to recall the specific genetic sequence, the 
scientific term Scully had used seemingly eons ago. "C-T-G-G. A 
mutational hot spot." Mulder shook his head, words spilling out of 
his mouth. "Your son died. Christ, Miller, why do you think he got 
cancer in the first place?"

Miller's gun wavered but didn't lower, and Mulder pressed on. 
"Your son, it was the case study that my father gave me. Little 
hints. Little numbers and places and names. Great Falls, Montana... 
that's where he was, wasn't it? They killed him, Miller. And they 
guilted you into staying."

Milton shook his head. "The ramblings of a dead man," he 
scoffed. "For God's sakes, Anthony. You're the psychologist! You 
should know a mind game when you see it."

"I know way too much to be just playing mind games, Miller. 
Think about it."

"Have I ever deceived you in more than twenty years that we 
have known each other?"

"He's been deceiving you from the beginning, Miller. He's 
used your guilt to leash you to the Project. And my father helped 
him," Miller still looked mistrustful. "Look who you're talking to, 
Miller!" Mulder shouted. "I can recognize a cleverly disguised 
guilt trip when I see it!"

Milton looked to the doctor, talking nonsense words about 
loyalty, taking off the safety of the .38 behind his back. "Think 
about your work, Anthony. Our larger goals. Kill Mulder now, or I'll 
kill both of you myself."

Miller backed up a few steps, raising the gun in his hands 
slightly. Mulder watched the scene in front of him with strange 
detachment, as his field of vision often became obscured by red as 
blood dripped from his brow. He blinked, blinding himself 
momentarily. A shot echoed in the red, and Mulder jumped, grunting 
at the pain, feeling the restraints bite into his skin.

Lifeless, wide pale eyes stared up in horror and surprise, 
as a solitary body fell onto the facility floor.

***

A man clad in black finished pouring gasoline, tossing the 
empty canister aside and wiping sweat off his face. He didn't know 
why this building was being destroyed, nor did he care. He followed 
orders, he was being handsomely rewarded, and the rest never concerned
him.

"Maybe we should check that everybody's out?" someone asked 
hesitantly. "Take a last look..."

The man pondered dilemma only for a second. "If anyone is 
there, it's their own damn fault. Everyone important enough knows 
that 1:00 AM is the deadline," he glanced at his companions, seeing 
nothing but grim resolve on their faces. "It's 12:59."

The match was lit, and the man accepted it respectfully, 
imagining how a small spark dancing in the wind would create a 
powerful flame, consuming everything in its way.

"Ready, set, go," he chanted under breath and tossed the 
match at the fuel-soaked walls at precisely one hour after midnight.

* * *

"Miller," Mulder whispered, reassuring himself that the 
bullet which sliced the air seconds earlier was sent from the doctor's 
gun and that it was Milton lying in a rapidly growing pool of blood. 
"I'm sorry."

Miller dropped the gun and took a step backwards, seemingly 
mesmerized. "What are you sorry about?" he asked automatically.

"Your son. This. Everything," Mulder wasn't sure what he was 
apologizing for, but the elder's shell-shocked silence was gnawing on 
him - frightening him more than the barrel of a gun directed at his 
head. "Do you want to untie me?"

Miller flinched at the hesitant request, visibly returning to 
the reality, blinking his eyes as if he just woke up. On some level, 
he supposed that he did wake up - after having been asleep for more 
than twenty years. "Hold on, Fox. I'll have to find the keys to 
handcuffs," he moved uncertainly to Milton's body, intending to search 
his pockets.

"Check my coat," Mulder rasped. "Mine should fit."

Miller nodded, picking up the black article discarded in the 
corner. A few seconds later, the key slipped into the lock smoothly, 
the bonds were off, and Mulder exhaled as the blood circulated easier 
through his throbbing wrists. "Thank you," he managed to offer.

"Can you stand?" Miller asked him, concern entering his voice 
for the first time this evening.

"I'll try," Mulder didn't believe in his own words, certain 
that his bones and muscles would betray him. Miller was offering him 
a hand, and he gripped it tightly, grateful for the support.
"You knew that I would betray the Consortium and you didn't 
tell them," he stated quietly. "Why?"

Miller pulled him to a full height, half-supporting the 
younger man's frame with his own. "Later, later, Fox. I will explain 
everything once we're safely buckled up in my car."

"Oh shit," Mulder winced, clutching at his chest for breath, 
and Miller leaned him against the wall, trying to assess his state as 
best he could with a quick examination. Ribs were obviously broken, 
and the beating compounded the concussion, but the legs were 
relatively intact, and Miller offered a silent prayer of thanks for 
the small miracles. 

"Fox, we don't have much time," he spoke urgently, hoping that 
Mulder was still stable enough to fully understand him. "The building 
will go up in flames at any moment, and we have to get out of here."

Walking meant dizziness, nausea, and expending what little 
energy he had left, and Mulder decided that he really wasn't up to 
it. Still, just because it was easier than arguing, he nodded 
agreement with eyes closed. "Okay." 

"Come on, Fox, you have to start walking," Miller tugged his 
hand noting that there was still no sign of movement from his 
companion. "I'm really too old to carry you," he half-joked, 
half-lamented.

Mulder inhaled deeply, immediately regretting the gesture. 
Small, shallow intakes of air, he reminded himself. Using all of his 
powers of concentration, he tried to forget the aching body, the 
constricted breathing, and the pounding in his skull. And he made the 
first step.

"Wonderful," Miller smiled encouragingly. "Now, let's keep 
moving. Hold on to me, to the walls, but please, keep moving."

Mulder obeyed, Miller's sense of urgency keeping him on his 
feet contrary to all of his expectations. "It's hot here," he 
complained softly, too engrossed in the simple function of walking to 
fully understand the meaning of his own words. 

Miller didn't reply, only pushing him harder towards the 
narrow staircase. "Just three flights, Fox. Then you can rest. I'm 
right behind you."

Mulder flashed an apologetic look at the doctor's tired face 
and gripped the railing, struggling to remain standing despite a 
particularly bad spasm of pain. "Just give me a minute."

Miller shook his head stubbornly, trying not to pay attention 
to Mulder's ashen pallor and the sound of teeth grinding, knowing that 
the compassion would undo them even faster. "No. No minutes, no 
seconds. God dammit, keep walking!"

Mulder's eyes flew open at the loud voice, and he began his 
descent downstairs. They both came to a halting stop upon reaching the 
second floor, contemplating in horror the fire already leaking towards 
the steps, coming at them from the hallway. Miller ran upstairs, only 
to return in seconds. "The fire is coming from above, as well. We have 
to go down."

Mulder froze, and Miller shook him roughly. "This is really 
not as bad as it seems. We can still make it," he spoke gently, all 
the while wondering what was wrong with the young man.

"Pyrophobia," he explained. "I'm still with you, Miller," 
Mulder promised, more for his own reassurance than for the doctor's.

Miller, his worry intensifying exponentially, watched as 
Mulder took a few steps downstairs and swayed, almost falling face 
forward. "Not now, Fox," he caught him just barely. "Don't black out 
on me now. Please," Miller didn't notice when he started begging the 
younger man to wake up, aware only of the rapidly approaching fire 
and of the heavy smoke penetrating his nostrils. He briefly considered 
dragging him downstairs, then decided against it, afraid to cause more 
damage. "We'll get you home, and then you can have a normal bed to 
sleep in," there was still no sign of life from Mulder, and Miller 
continued rambling. "Think of your niece and nephew, Fox. And Agent 
Scully would be very upset if you died. I really don't want to explain 
myself to her after this."

"What are you talking about, Miller," Mulder's voice held 
exasperation and an odd twinge of affection as his eyes swam back 
into focus and he tried to stand.

Miller's face brightened, a genuine smile of relief 
illuminating his features. "Let's go, Sleeping Beauty."

Mulder walked once again, berating himself for moving too 
slowly, painfully aware that Miller would have already been safely 
out of the building were it not for him. "Why don't you get the hell 
out of here," he shouted without turning around.

"Keep walking," Miller barked at him gruffly. "We've had 
enough of your heroic measures for one day."

Mulder wondered detachedly since when did Miller begin to 
sound like a military commandant, and disturbingly like Walter 
Skinner, but it sure as hell had the desired effect on him. Just a 
few more steps - and the door, though licked by fire, was still 
reachable.

The resounding crash that came from behind him nailed him to 
the spot, and he turned around abruptly, almost falling in the 
process. The entire staircase was awash in flames, and he couldn't 
see the old doctor. The rush of adrenaline brought by panic was the 
only thing that still kept him standing. "Miller!" he screamed, 
lunging back in the flames, finally realizing that the landing from 
above must have fallen on him. "Oh God, no," he pleaded as air sizzled 
around him and he knew, with a crystal clarity of desperation, that 
it was too late to go back. That there was only one way open to him 
now, and that he would be walking out of this building alone.

Stumbling backwards, Mulder leaned against the door, paying 
little attention to the scorching temperature of the metal handle, 
his eyes closed so as not to see the funereal pyre of a... friend.

He made himself walk a considerable distance away from the 
building, the visions of his comfortable couch, Miller's concerned 
eyes, and Scully's gentle hands, everything he would never see again, 
alternating in his mind. When he reached the nearby park, and let the 
night air clear his lungs, Mulder knew that he could finally - 
mercifully - rest.

Yet, he sat for a long time, oblivious to the tears streaming 
from his eyes, watching the orange flame, hotter than sun itself, 
reach out lovingly to the navy-blue sky.

***

Scully stared at the smoldering remains through the car window 
and closed her eyes dejectedly. "We're too late," she whispered. 
"It's all gone."

Skinner glanced at her from the passenger seat, remaining 
silent. Finally free from prison's bars, thrown back into the 
conspiracy's fray, he felt an enormous sense of resignation. Did it 
matter if he was an Assistant Director, a prisoner, a spectator? 
Que sera, sera -- and the actions of everyone were inconsequential, 
weren't worth a damn as long as the penthouse on West 46th kept 
humming. 

Scully had reluctantly shown him the information she had been 
given, never offering to bring Mulder into the equation. He turned 
away from the scene unfolding in front of the windshield, his mouth 
becoming a grim line. It was easy to hate Mulder -- but Skinner 
knew how desperation could fuel a man. He could see it in Scully's 
eyes right now, and he wondered how much of Mulder's insanity was in 
her current quest for the truth. 

He could still hear the hiss of the dying fire, the smell of 
charred rubble. So reminiscent of a post-napalm, outback Vietnamese 
town -- Skinner briefly wondered if this war with the Consortium 
would also be a losing one.

"Well, well, well..." he heard Scully remark beside him.

He followed her gaze, not comprehending what exactly she was 
thinking. He watched Director Robinson's still silhouette, the red 
wash of emergency lights casting an eerie hue to his rotund figure. 

"What's wrong?"

"It's Robinson," she whispered. "He's one of them."

Skinner looked at her doubtfully. "Scully, I've worked with 
the man..."

"You don't understand," her voice shook with anger. "He was 
responsible for the death of Agent Winters. Winters went to him with 
information of Mulder's," the word came harshly through her teeth, 
"...duplicity."

Skinner shook his head. "Blevins was dirty; we took out all 
the moles in the FBI." His voice hardened, the parting shot leaving 
his mouth before he could stop it. "Well, with the exception of 
Mul..."

"You have to believe me," she whispered intensely. It was 
a peculiar role reversal - never would Scully have believed that she 
would speak with the same desperation as Mulder, meet the same 
disbelieving stare that she had so often given him in the past. She 
started for the car door, but a hand on her shoulder halted her 
progress.

"Maybe we should wait," Skinner said. "See what he does."

Scully pulled free from his grasp. "That's all I've been 
doing: sitting and watching. I've already waited too long."

He watched her receding figure momentarily before stepping 
out of the Taurus' closed comfort and approaching the smoldering 
ruins.

Scully walked briskly to Director Robinson, ignoring the 
rubble crushed under her feet, the hot waves quickly bringing a flush 
to her cheeks.

"I've been waiting for you."

Scully closed her mouth, the words she was about to say 
disappearing. "What do you mean?"

The elder made no move for a few seconds, enough time for 
Skinner to join Scully's side. "Ah, Walter. So nice of you to join 
us." The frown on Skinner's face grew more pronounced as Robinson 
walked casually through the ruins, his voice eerily calm. "I was 
happy to hear of your acquittal," he continued nonchalantly. "Nice 
to see that the American system of trial by peers is working. Of 
course," he threw him a knowing glance. "I'm sure the fact that Judge 
Gibbons is a Matheson sympathizer had nothing to do with it."

Scully eyed Robinson malevolently, trailing his footsteps 
by a few feet. He pointed towards the burned remnants of a skeleton. 
"James Milton. You can tell, because that lump of melted gold is his 
watch." The Director continued to move through the rubble, passing 
near what used to be a doorway. "Anthony Miller. Your ex-partner was 
a dangerous man to befriend."

"Director Robinson," she started, trying to ignore his 
statements.

"No," his tone turned abrupt. "You listen, Agent Scully. And 
you listen good." He pointed a finger in her direction. "I don't 
say anything until you get me full protection. Full anonymity. Not 
this Witness Protection bull shit."

Scully backed up, her eyes showing her incomprehension. "I... 
I don't understand. Are you confessing?"

Robinson looked around him, suspiciously eyeing the 
firefighters and M.E.'s circulating through the scene. "Humans are 
fallible. Working in law enforcement this is made especially clear. 
Power mongering. Dog eat dog. Trying to form a consensus on how to 
save human nature. No one is immune." He shook his head while 
gesturing towards Milton's corpse. "But he prevented it -- he kept 
the common goal in sight. And I would rather die sponging off the 
government's money than bickering with old cronies." He smiled at 
Scully and Skinner's blank expressions. "The date is set, Agent 
Scully. *They're* coming. And because of your interference, all of 
human kind will perish. Mulder would have been able to tell you all 
of this."

Something dropped in Scully's stomach, a bitter taste formed 
at the back of her throat at the Robinson's repeated usage of the 
past tense. "What are you saying? Where is he?"

"Nothing, Agent Scully," Robinson's smile grew larger - baring 
teeth. "You must overestimate my position in the Consortium to think I 
would know Mulder's whereabouts."

Scully glared at him, knowing that he was trying to antagonize 
her, wisely deciding to switch the topic. "What about the FBI? Who are 
the other moles?"

"You mean, except for Mulder?" Again, there was that smug look 
that served to remind her that he held the advantage. "No way."

"I have evidence that speaks of your duplicity," Scully stared 
at him, hoping he wouldn't call her bluff.

"Your evidence?" he mocked. "The odds and ends that Mulder 
compiled? The evidence that makes sense only to you?" Robinson shook 
his head. "You'll have enough to get past the pre-trial hearing, but 
it'll be obliterated during cross examination."

Scully adopted an expressionless mask - Robinson's refusal 
not surprising. Questioning a law enforcement officer was like pulling 
teeth. They already knew the tricks of the trade, and she was ready 
with another, familiar tactic. "We have no reason to believe anything 
you're saying."

Robinson chortled. "You mean you want a sign of faith? Fine..."

As he talked, Scully and Skinner exchanged stupefied looks. 
It was silly to imagine that the double agents had a stereotypical 
appearance, but Scully would have liked to think that she had been 
immune. That Mulder's paranoia coupled with Skinner's concern would 
prevent her from exchanging valuable case information, prevent her 
from giving evidence to those agents that Robinson was easily naming. 
Agents she had come to admire in her time at the Bureau, all corrupt.

"Agent Killarny from VCS..."

"Dr. Hardisty from forensics. I believe you co-presented a 
lecture with him, Agent Scully..."

"Agents McNally and Scott from photo lab..."

"Agents Sheppard and Rosslyn at Quantico..."

"SAC Semko in New York, who I believed graduated from the 
Academy at the same time as you, Walter..."

Scully concentrated on the ground beneath her feet, wondering 
how the FBI had managed to conduct normal investigations when 
Consortium hands had dirtied so much information. It was something 
Mulder hadn't even mentioned, and she wondered resignedly how many 
others Robinson was unaware of.

When his voice came back into focus, Robinson shook his head, 
feigning concern. "Of course, I doubt any will show up for work. 
In fact, you probably won't hear from them again."

Scully reached for the cell phone in her pocket. "We'll see 
about that." She dialed a familiar number, not sure if she was 
relieved or disappointed when Kim, rather than Mulder, answered the 
phone. "Hi, this is Agent Scully. I was wondering if you could call 
and find out the whereabouts of Agents Killarny, Hardisty, McNally, 
Sheppard, Semko, Scott, and Rosslyn."

There was a lengthy pause before Kim answered. "I can do 
that, Agent Scully, but have you heard from Agent Mulder since last 
night?"

Warning bells rang in Scully's ears as she was reminded of 
Robinson's foreboding words. "No, why?"

"He left me a... document to give you, and left. He was a 
bit... not himself when I talked to him. When I arrived this morning, 
his car was already parked beside mine. I thought that maybe he had 
come in early, but his briefcase and papers were still in the front 
seat..."

"Did you call security?" She interrupted harshly.

"I did, and apparently, the videotape in the parking lot was 
tampered with. It didn't record anything, just played in an endless 
loop."

"I see," she whispered, feeling the time slow down as she 
watched Robinson's knowing expression, as her mind presented her with 
several possible scenarios and reasons why Mulder didn't answer the 
phone yesterday. "Open his car and let me know what you find inside." 

"All right," Kim sounded uncertain and more than a little 
concerned now. "Agent Scully? He had a letter of resignation on his 
desk. I was trying to find his personal agenda," she hastily 
explained. "It wasn't completed... but it was dated for tomorrow. 
Is there anything I can do?"

"Just let me know what you find," Scully looked at Robinson 
while she disconnected the phone - realizing that he only pretended 
ignorance before. She stepped closer to her Director. "If you don't 
tell me where Mulder is right now, I will pick up the phone and invite 
one of the Consortium killers for hire to come and take you out, you 
pompous piece of shit. Now, talk!"

"I didn't want to upset you," Robinson stepped back, raising 
his hands in a mocking surrender. "But Agent Scully, it was your 
courtroom antics that led to his downfall. Considering that he was 
the one that asked you to testify, he should have been prepared. And 
so should have you."

You knew this was going to happen, her mind screamed. What 
else did you expect once you volunteered to take a witness stand? 
"What did you do to him?" she hissed maliciously.

"What penalty do we use to punish those guilty of treason, 
Agent Scully?"

She swallowed, the lump in her throat growing bigger. 
"Death."

"And tell me, Agent Scully," Robinson added with a ugly sneer, 
"why should the Consortium treat their traitors any differently?" 

"You're lying," Scully shook her head, refusing to believe 
him. "Prove it."

"I saw him brought to the D.C. facility, unconscious. He must 
have been taken in the FBI parking lot. Though I did not participate 
in the interrogation that must have ensued, judging by the people who 
went in the room - and judging by the sounds - I would say he was 
either dead or in no shape to leave the building when it went up in 
flames."

Scully listened to the indifferent recitation as black 
waves passed in front of her eyes, and she suddenly felt Skinner's 
supporting hand on the small of her back. The smell of charcoal and 
gasoline was assailing her nostrils, the sight of Milton's skeleton, 
the stench of burnt flesh and singed hair nauseating. It was an awful 
way to go, more so considering how afraid Mulder was of fire. And a 
thousand of memories of her partner could not abolish the vivid images 
that Robinson planted in her mind.

Well, she'd already said goodbye to Mulder, hadn't she?

"Agent Scully, I'm surprised that you still care," Robinson 
smirked at her horrified silence. "After all Mulder had done? Would 
you like me to tell you what he'd been a part of since he joined our 
organization? Free of charge."

"He never joined you," Scully whispered, her voice gradually 
gaining strength. "He was never one of you."

Something close to sympathy flickered over Robinson's face. 
"You would be surprised."

She bit her lip and staggered away blindly.

Skinner watched her leave, then turned to face the Director, 
speaking his first words since leaving the car. "Poor Andrew Winters," 
he shook his head. "It seems you've killed the wrong agent. But rest 
assured, Robinson," a sick smile distended Skinner's features. "We'll 
make no mistakes. Agent Mulder may be dead, but his death will cost 
the Consortium dearly."

Robinson looked bored. "Just get on the horn with the DA and 
get me my deal. I may have just confessed to being an accessory to 
murder, but anything I say, or anything that you have found from what 
I've said is inadmissible unless it accompanies my Miranda waiver," 
he held up his hands. "And it appears that I haven't signed it yet."

"Not only do you betray your own colleagues, but you have the 
balls to ask for a deal." Skinner sneered, the testosterone building 
as both men squared off. "One false accusation, Robinson, and I'll 
let everyone in your holding cell know that you're a snitch." He 
leaned in close, whispering hotly. "And you *do* know what they do 
with snitches in prison, don't you, Director Robinson?"

Shaken slightly, Robinson backed up a few steps. "Careful, 
Walter. I am still your priceless informant, and I can give you an 
address of another facility that might still be intact," Robinson's 
expression faltered as Skinner pushed him to the car, almost shoved 
him inside.

Scully's small frame was shaking, and Skinner put his hands 
on her shoulders gingerly, hoping to instill her with courage, 
knowing in advance that he would fail.

"This is what we've been working for, isn't it?" she 
whispered in anguish. "Robinson gives us names. He points us to the 
physical evidence. This is the end - the possible victory - and 
Mulder should be here to see it."

This was a happy ending without a hero to live happily ever 
after. "Scully, you mustn't give up hope. Mulder has surprised us 
before," Skinner spoke gently, loath to instill optimism, but suddenly 
unable to bear the alternative.

She glanced over at the burnt ruins, turning away swiftly, 
putting a hand across her mouth to stifle a groan. "Sir, you must 
believe that Mulder did all that he could to help you. He never 
wanted to take your place."

Skinner closed his eyes, the realization that Mulder 
literally sacrificed his life for him, among other things, unexpected 
and jarring. And he resented him for making this choice. As he 
resented him for thrusting him back into the job he didn't 
really want anymore. 

And Skinner hated Mulder for not being here to put his arms 
around a small pale woman, because his own arms didn't have the same 
power to comfort her. But as Scully looked up, silently begging 
forgiveness for Mulder's actions and for her own, he smiled, drawing 
her closer.

"I am still waiting to hear for an explanation of his own."

End of Part 20a/20

Onto the Epilogue!



Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 20b/20

Epilogue

"As I lower my sword and lay down my shield to gaze upon the 
battlefield around me, my soul aches more than my body, because I am 
alone. A conquering knight, I cannot celebrate my victory, for my 
defeat is far greater. 

"I've sharpened the knife that severed the fragile bond of 
trust between us, and it is I alone who should grieve for its loss. 
I've split my very being in two, only to achieve my goals, but to 
also become incomplete. But if you erase the cruel words from your 
mind, if you forget the images of the last few months, you will 
remember me the way I had been.

"With great humility, I surrender my weapons to you in hopes 
that you are just as strong without me as you have always been beside 
me. You are one of the few who have a heart to face up to the truth - 
and to prepare for the future. Learn from my mistakes, and if you can, 
forgive them.

"The perseverance of life is astounding, and I will live - 
because it is always harder than dying.

"This end is only the beginning.

"We have won."

Scully sat up straight in bed, her pulse racing, her senses 
on overdrive, fighting against the onslaught of reality - of 
awareness. He was here, an undeniable presence, an easy smile she 
hadn't seen in ages on the familiar face, and he spoke the words of 
assurance and apology, of hope and victory. 

Of life.

The room was empty, silent, save for a soft tapping of 
branches of trees on her window, an occasional rustle of sheets, and 
a steady rhythm of the alarm clock. Irrationally, she envied its 
stability, its impeccable equilibrium in this universe, recognizing 
her own imperfection and weakness.

Her mother had asked her gingerly why she was blaming herself 
for Mulder's death and Scully choked on the negative answer. Because 
I should have been certain that he was safe and away before I 
testified in court. Because I should have pulled him out of the snake 
pit when I realized that he'd gone too deep. Because I couldn't help 
him.

Because I should have never let him do it in the first place.

Since his death, Scully felt like she was stumbling in the 
dark without any support or hope. Nothing was right, nothing held 
any meaning. Not the newly reopened X-Files division. Not the three 
additional agents that Skinner assigned to work under her charge. 
Not the second-floor spacious office filled with frustratingly ordered 
rows of files and boxes of evidence from Great Falls, Montana facility 
that Robinson directed them to. Even the "I Want To Believe" poster 
looked eerie, awash in spring sunlight streaming in from the street.

And the only reason why she continued was her belief that she 
was doing the right thing, knowledge that there were few others 
qualified to do the work - as well as what she recognized as a 
misguided sense of vengeance for Winters and Mulder.

Scully drew her knees to her chest, shivering in the cold 
air of the bedroom, huddling under a warm comforter. Slowly, 
reluctantly, she passed a hand over her eyes, trying to dispel a 
haunting vision, reminding herself that it was best to believe in 
the worst, to surrender to the painful truth. The guilt and grief 
were simply playing tricks with her mind.

And yet, they couldn't find his body. And Mulder had been 
believed to be dead before - and she heard a similar message from 
him... and she couldn't be certain about what happened that night. 
The night when she could have still saved her partner, a man who 
sacrificed everything in the name of his ideals. No, she corrected 
herself: our ideals.

A buff colored folder, still untouched, sat idly 
on her night stand. Someday, she vowed, she would get the
courage to read it. Sometime in the future she would be willing to
look for answers in its accurate little numbers and impassionate
analyses. For now, she would look at it, touch its covers almost
reverently, and think of the dead man who still invaded her dreams.

"Do you believe in extreme possibilities, Agent Scully?" she 
heard a mocking voice echoing in the darkness, and she replied softly 
but firmly: "Yes, I do."

* * *

Lucy switched from one radio station to the next with a 
feeling of utter resignation. Country or church bells were all the 
options she would get in the middle of nowhere, on a lonely stretch 
of I-95 Highway. It figured.

When she saw a hitchhiker extending a hand, she hesitated 
only briefly before stopping, remembering all the cautionary tales. 
But she still had a long way to go, and she had to find a way to 
entertain herself. Besides, the guy was very attractive, even if 
he did look like he was run over by a train. Twice. And then patched 
up together rather haphazardly.

"Hello. Thanks for stopping," he threw a backpack in the 
trunk, and stretched his long legs as he settled down in the front 
seat.

"Thanks for the company," Lucy smiled, pulled back in the 
traffic lane. "Where are you heading?"

The guy appeared to think for a moment, confusion and 
amusement alternating in his eyes. "I'm not sure," he admitted 
finally. "You?"

"Jacksonville, Florida," Lucy shared. "You've got a ride to 
there - or anywhere along the way if you like."

The man nodded gratefully, looked around. "May I?" he pointed 
to the newspaper lying behind him.

Lucy nodded, watched as he winced while turning around - 
ground his teeth as if in pain. "Are you all right?" she asked, 
concerned.

"Never better," the man was already looking through the 
newspaper. "It just takes awhile to recover from being tortured at 
the rack and burnt at the stake," he smirked, obviously delighted 
at her expression of genuine horror. "Made you wonder."

She guffawed, embarrassed at falling for the joke, decided 
to switch the topic. "So who else resigned today?"

"Huh?" curious eyes peered from behind the newspaper.

"In the past week, several senators, two Supreme Court 
judges, the Director of the FBI, and so many other officials have 
resigned or were arrested, I started to wonder who was next," Lucy 
explained. "Have you been following the news?"

"No, I've been out of the loop for a while," the hitchhiker 
continued reading. "Secretary General. Oh, and an Assistant Director 
of the FBI was found dead, but not before resigning," there was a 
trace of humor in his voice. "Burnout and stress are hard to handle. 
Could I keep this?"

Lucy shrugged, watched as the man folded up the newspaper, 
stuffed it in his pocket. She could swear that she heard him say 
softly, "Way to go, girl," and saw a flash of sadness that disappeared 
as quickly as it came.

They rode in silence, and she studied him surreptitiously. 
Despite the ruffled appearance and tired lines around the eyes, there 
was an unidentifiable grace about the man. He looked... relaxed, calm. 
It was not the forlorn calmness of a man rolling along with a tide, 
but a self-assured poise that could only be achieved through peace 
of mind.

Lucy decided that she envied that. 

"Are you going to Florida for a vacation?" the hitchhiker 
asked after a while.

She shook her head. "No, I'm moving. Sold everything, wanted 
to start a whole new life. You too, I guess?"

The man rubbed his forehead and didn't answer. The toy alien 
that Lucy kept on the rearview mirror seemingly entranced him. "That's 
my little brother's version of a good luck charm," she explained. "It 
reminds me of him."

The huge smile that appeared on the hitchhiker's face in the 
next moment was dazzling, and Lucy was tempted to hold her breath. 
Still smiling, he turned to her and nodded.

"A whole new life."

END


Author's Note: (Anna)

Wow, I can't believe we are done. It's been six months, and 
it's been worth every single day. Well, first of all, I must mention 
my co-author who exasperated me, who argued with me, who questioned 
my ideas, who tortured me by supplying tiny little parts of a chapter 
before bringing it to the conclusion, who made this story into what 
it is, and who pushed me to write better. Maraschino, you are 
incredible, and I sincerely hope that we do it again sometime. 

Huge gratitude to our wonderful and understanding beta-reader 
and editor extraordinaire, Seda. Thank you so much for your patience, 
for putting up with our slowness and an additional burden of dealing 
with two authors. This story would never have been complete without 
you. 

Also, thank you to everyone who wrote us, asking for more, 
providing encouragement, and telling us that they enjoyed the story. 
Thank you to all wonderful authors who inspire me every day.

One lesson that I learned in the process of writing Shield & 
Sword was this: Never Become A Spy. It's really not worth it, unless 
you are in the British Intelligence and your name is James Bond :-)

Write us! Let us know what you thought. And let us know 
whether there could have been any other possible resolution to our 
plot. I'm genuinely curious if this could have come out happier than 
it did.


Author's Notes (Maraschino):

If ever given the choice to co-author with Anna or myself, 
please -- if you value your mental health -- choose the former. 
Anna, thy name is patience to the nth degree. You truly are a gifted 
writer (making me look up words in the dictionary on numerous 
occasions). Thank you, thank you for stretching my imagination, 
for bearing with my lame-o excuses when it would take me two weeks 
to write a little section, and simply for listening to me when I had 
the overwhelming urges to vent. 

Seda, thanks for your wonderful suggestions, for reminding us 
that not all readers can see into our sick, demented heads and 
understand what we didn't coherently put onto uh... paper.

For those who wrote at the end of chapter sixteen, when the 
movie was looming over us, thank you for the encouragement and for 
keeping us on our toes when the last thing we wanted to do was think 
about the (and I quote) @%*%$#! Shield and freakin' Sword.

Speaking of the movie, as Anna mentioned earlier in the story, 
we consider "Shield and Sword" our version of Season Five up to and 
including the movie. We'd love to hear how we fared in comparison to 
CC's red-colored, top-secret, hush-hush, sixty million UST-fest. 

It's been an adventure and half. Feedback, criticism, and 
flames are all welcome -- thanks for reading :)

maraschino@ibm.net; anna_otto@hotmail.com