Theater of the Absurd II: Home By Anna Otto and Ashlea Ensro annaotto1@aol.com & morleyphile@yahoo.com Disclaimer and other information in Act I Act V: A Prayer for the Lost Child "Stacie... hey," Dr. Mark Strauss rubbed his forehead listening to his wife's teary voice on the phone. "Please get a hold of yourself. She will be all right... call the paramedics... she will be fine." Gradually, her hysteria was pushing his blood pressure higher, the concern for his only daughter driving him frantic. "Stacie, she needs you. Call 911. You will pull through, you always..." Strauss listened for a few more minutes, cooing in the receiver occasionally, trying desperately to calm her down. Another sob from his wife and he would be forced to run home *now*. "Stacie, I will be there soon. Bye." "Trouble at home?" He flinched at the sound of a soft voice behind him. "My three-year-old is ill," he explained. "Pneumonia." "That is unfortunate," the Smoking Man sympathized. "And highly unusual. I thought only neglect could lead to such serious illness." Strauss swallowed the nasty reply - forced himself to breathe. Wondered if his little girl could breathe just as easily. "Considering that I spend all my days here, you can hardly blame me for her condition." "Your presence here doesn't seem to do much good, either," the smoker's hooded eyes focused on him, and he shivered. "So far, there have been three deaths from the experiments. Perhaps, you're neglecting your work duties as well." "Sir..." he laughed bitterly. He could hardly expect anything besides accusations. "We barely started testing the vaccine on human subjects. Did you expect immediate success?" This time, the smoke was directed straight at the doctor's face. "Yes." "So far, all of them died after they had been returned to the hospital. Why don't you blame the medical personnel there?" Strauss retorted, uncaring. "I blame you because you didn't keep them here long enough. I blame you because I don't believe in coincidences." "Sir, I have to work with material that someone else made," he wiped the sweaty palms on his pants. Oh God, the only thing he wanted to do now was run home to his daughter. "If Kathy Mott had been here..." "But she is not. Here." The Smoking Man hissed. "Dr. Strauss, let me make myself very clear. If I hear of one more untimely death in the Holy Cross Medical Center - you will not have a reason to go home at all." Strauss closed his eyes. Of course, it had to come to threats. Of course. "I understand, sir." "We all want to see this work, doctor. Do your part." The Smoking Man departed, and Strauss stared bleakly into space. He barely slept for the last three days, trying to figure out why the vaccine that worked seemingly so well led to such severe complications days after the injection. Autopsies lent him no easy answers. And so far, the failures outweighed the successes. His wife was hysterical, and his daughter was ill - and he wouldn't be getting home any time soon. * * * Mulder watched as Scully typed the report methodically. He knew what it would say: the case was closed, the boy wasn't clairvoyant, he could not contribute any useful information to the investigation of a crime committed months ago. He thought the boy was surprisingly good. If he were a fake, at least he was amusing - and the flashes of the future he described were imaginative and colorful. But in all honesty, he just couldn't care less if his clairvoyance was genuine or bogus. The case held no interest for him, and he let Scully take the lead and play the skeptic. She didn't seem to enjoy the role, but she was efficient. The case was closed swiftly. Mulder fought to keep from yawning. "Mulder..." Scully's fingers paused above the keyboard. "I had a terrible dream last night." Nightmares? He glanced at her, concerned - waited for her to continue. "I was alone in the desert, and it was so hot... I felt like I was suffocating," she spoke slowly, trying to recall the details that threatened to escape. "There was a fire burning underground, and I knew that..." she swallowed painfully, forced herself to speak the words out loud. "I knew that you were dead. That you burned in these flames." "I knew I would go to hell," Mulder grinned, his smile fading immediately as she turned a shade whiter. The pain in her face made him hurt - the beginnings of a demonic headache building in his skull. "Scully... it was just a dream," he tried to sound light. "Look - I'm perfectly fine." "No," she whispered. "It was too real. I knew that you had died - and I was the one who sent you there." Mulder's hand closed over hers. "Maybe, it was a flash of memory," he tried to rationalize it. "A distorted memory - you can't trust it." Scully squeezed his fingers, took her hand away, and began typing once again. "Do you believe that our memories will come back?" He nodded, self-assured. "Yes. In time, they will. It's just your garden variety amnesia." "I want to remember," she kept her eyes fixed on the screen, her voice indifferent. "But if these are the things that are hidden in my subconscious... if I'd lived through this..." she shuddered. "Perhaps, we're better off not knowing. Not remembering." The spikes of headache were now sharp and burning. "It's not the answer, Scully," Mulder spoke gently. "Without our memories, we're..." he searched for a word. "We're damaged." Scully turned away. "The report is ready. Read it." He went over to the printer to pick up the pages, barely skimmed them before signing with a name that still didn't belong to him. If they weren't investigating the cases that could interfere with the Project, they were wasting their time on the paranormal phenomena. And while such cases were curious, they were not even remotely beneficial. Damaged or not, as Paul and Kathy, they had fulfilled lives and they did work that they believed in. Work that he still believed in. Despite the inhumane methods, despite the lies - he knew that they were working for the greater good. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe..." Scully sounded miles away. Mulder met her eyes for a brief moment, startled by the longing and fear that he read in them. "Maybe we were damaged before they performed this little experiment on us." * * * There were Christmas lights blinking on and off on the railings of the apartment across the street from the hospital. He watched them, shining against the watery gray sky, the light patter of snow falling over rapidly darkening streets. It had become a ritual every night, sitting there, a thin shadow in his wheelchair, watching the street lights come on one by one. There was very little else he could do these days. A faint crack of light split the darkness of his room. "Marsel?" He looked over. "Holmes? What are you doing here?" "I...uh..." She sat down beside him, her eyes taking in the hundreds of lights that laced across the buildings like a net of stars. "Nice view." "Yeah." He traced his hand over the window, outlining the wire meshing between the two panes of glass. "Do you think they're afraid I'll try to escape?" She laughed. "If you could escape, Marsel..." She trailed off. Was she being insensitive? He shifted his gaze towards her, opened his mouth to say something, and then reconsidered. There was something he was supposed to say, was there not? "You came here to talk to me," he said. "Skinner's called a meeting with me tomorrow. We...we're going to initiate an OPR hearing against Mulder and Scully." He groaned inwardly, irritated at having to serve as her sounding board. Her conscience. he told himself. "I...I don't remember very much," he said faintly. Uselessly. "That's...not what I wanted to talk to you about." "Go on..." She drew in a deep breath. "A man came to me. He said he could help." "Help how?" "He said he was there last night. That he could testify, and that..." Marsel nodded for Holmes to continue. "That he had information suggesting that Mulder and Scully are still involved with...that they're still killing people." He stared at her, it was as if she was about to say something else. "Do you believe him?" Holmes shook her head emphatically. "I think he's one of them. Whoever *they* are." A weak laugh. "But he seems to want to take them down as much as I do." "Is that what you want? To take them down?" She met his eyes. "Isn't that what you want?" He turned his attention back to the blinking lights. "I don't know how much that matters." He was silent for awhile. "Of course that's what I want." He could feel her eyes on him. He wished she would look away. "Holmes, if you do this..." "Yes?" "How much better does that make you...than *them*...?" It was the sort of thing he was expected to say. He had to be a good FBI agent, even now. Stick to the book. Uphold the law. Put his own bitterness aside. Even after *they* had taken everything from him. "I know..." He nodded. "So do I." She stood up. "I guess I should be going. They'll kick me out if they find me here." He bit his lip and said nothing. She hesitated, then walked towards the door. "Holmes?" "Yeah?" "Good luck." "Thank you." She closed the door quietly behind her. One of the street lamps had burnt out, but the others came on, like clockwork. * * * William had kept his gun in a box when the children were small, afraid they would stumble upon it accidentally, and it had remained there long after they had grown and moved out of the house. After he retired from the Navy he had no use for it, and it remained at the bottom of the box with all his medals, the old letters to her from overseas. //For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then we shall see face to face.// //Now I know in part; then I shall know fully...// //Even as I am fully known...// She followed the curve of his handwriting over the paper, now yellowed with age, the edges beginning to decay. And then she placed the old letters in a neat pile, breathed in the scent of their timeworn pages, the crackle of slightly wrinkled paper. It was still there. He had polished it regularly when he was alive, and in the years since his death it had barely rusted at all. She tested the trigger. It would still fire. Margaret ran her hand over the smooth, cool metal surface. She remembered the first time William had tried to teach her how to use it. She would not touch it. It was not part of her domain. She baked cakes. She did not fire pistols. Margaret closed her eyes, greeted by a flash of auburn, of crystal blue. Her daughter's face. A stranger's face. //And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.// //But the greatest of these is love.// She lifted the gun to her face. She wanted to know if it still smelled like him, carried his essence. Could somehow carry his essence over Dana, bring her back from wherever she was. Bring her back home. //She obeys no one, she accepts no correction. She does not trust in the Lord, she does not draw near to her God...// //Be joyful, O thou mother, with thy children; for I will deliver thee, saith the Lord.// She stretched her arms across the table, the gun firmly grasped in two trembling hands. "I love you, Dana...Dana...come home..." * * * "Sorry I'm late." He lit a cigarette, leaning back in his chair. The bar was noisy - a good thing. They would not be overheard. But he was unfamiliar with the setting. It was Martin's territory, not his. He gave a thin smile at the insincerity in the young man's voice. "Yes?" "Skinner has initiated a disciplinary hearing against Mulder and Scully." The Smoking Man reflected on this. Three, four years ago he would have known about it immediately. He would have known the results before the hearing even took place. He had so many other concerns, these days. His place in the organization was much more secure. But still, the sense of distance disturbed him sometimes. He was not used to allowing events to unfold as he sat back and watched. "They're on thin ice," Martin continued. He waved for the waitress to bring them a round of drinks. The older man breathed out a long stream of smoke. "Are they?" "You realize the difficulty involved." "Of course I do." He could guess well enough what Martin was thinking. They were not particularly pleasant thoughts. The waitress winked at Martin, setting down two glasses of whiskey. Martin lifted his immediately, smiling back at her. The Smoking Man only watched the silent exchange coolly. "Your friend not the talkative type?" She gave the older man a perfunctory glance. "He's shy." Martin rolled his eyes slightly as the smoker tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. The waitress shrugged and sashayed to the next table. "I think they'll come around." Martin's tone was deliberately light. Confident. Too confident. He was hiding something, obviously. "Once they see the logic from our point of view." "Are you so sure?" "Do you need them that much?" He thought about it as he took another drag on his cigarette. "They're useful." "I heard about Adamowictz." "Yes, the poor woman," He extinguished the cigarette and took a new one. "I would have liked to send the family some flowers, but apparently she had no family." Martin leaned forward. Behind them someone staggered out of the bar to be violently ill on the sidewalk outside. "You're on thin ice too, then." "What makes you think that?" "Don't worry." He glared at the condescension evident in Martin's voice. "I'll get them back." A long exhale, smoke veiling his wearied features, briefly obscuring the smug face of his companion. Could nothing he said intimidate the man? "Oh, I know you will, Martin." He tipped ash into the young man's glass. "I only worry what it might cost you." * * * The old Baltimore house, hidden under a blanket of snow and lit by the lone gaslight, appeared charmed - a vision out of fairy tales. A warm, cozy place where the hero could rest weary feet after conquering an evil adversary, where flames danced merrily in a fireplace, lighting up happy faces, warming disenchanted hearts. Scully sat down on the steps of the porch, using the trench coat to shield her ironed skirt. It was barely six in the morning, but she was carefully dressed and prepared for the administrative hearing that would take place in three hours. Today... She felt her back tense in knots. Today would be the official termination of her career in the FBI. And she was simply going through the motions, waiting for the inevitable to transpire. Calm blue eyes stared in the dusk of early morning, watering slightly. She blinked the tears away, it wouldn't do to destroy the meticulously applied make-up. So tired of being someone else, of combining disjointed dreams and memories into a cohesive whole. So far from being the hero of any fairy tale - so close to being cast in a horror novel. the words of Margaret, so sincere, so false. Her hands shook when the door opened and a woman who was still a stranger stepped out on the porch. Margaret wrapped herself tighter in a hastily thrown coat, her hair still mussed from sleep, her eyes too red, too cloudy. "What are you doing here at this hour?" she asked hoarsely. Scully stood up hastily. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I think this is where I came..." she looked around, uncertain. "To be safe." There was silence as Margaret looked downward and something inside Scully dropped. "Can I come in?" A nervous laugh followed a request. Was she not welcome here? Margaret stepped aside, allowing the passage, and Scully brushed past her, sitting down at the kitchen table. "I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. I don't even know who I am," the words tumbled out hurriedly, involuntarily. "I've done some terrible things, Mom. But..." She stopped, glancing in the lined face so like hers, searching for a connection that seemed inches away, for a way back to the times past, encountering only doubt and fear instead. She shivered, recognizing that her own mother was afraid of her. "They stole my daughter," her mother said suddenly. "Were you the one who stole my baby from me?" Scully shuddered, unwilling to believe her ears. This woman could still be her mother - this kitchen could still hold the warmth and safety that it promised. "But... I keep seeing you," she whispered with longing, the tears starting to course down her cheeks again. To hell with the make-up. "Your arms outstretched to catch me..." Margaret didn't move - none of her daughter's words could melt away the hardness around her mouth, the distance in her eyes. Scully covered her face, wondering if she would finally crumble under the weight of dual personalities, neither of which was complete. Both women winced when the cellphone trilled, and she reached into her pocket to silence it. "Scully," her voice croaked into the phone. "No, it's... it's..." eyes closed to catch a breath, to disregard the surroundings, to make a momentous choice. "Dr. Strauss, this is Kathy Mott speaking." * * * Margaret Scully watched the transformation of a lost and frightened young woman into an assured, calm stranger with the icy eyes of the machine. A cruel, vile pretender who wanted to take the place of her daughter. A chameleon changing colors to accommodate to the environment, its long striped tongue flicking out to capture innocent bugs. Swallowing them up just like it swallowed Dana two years ago. "How many people had died from the experiments already?" the stranger asked the receiver. "Four? Were there successes?" Margaret reached inside the pocket, touching the reassuringly cold metal, her pulse slowing down gradually. And the dark vortex opened up in her own mind like the hungry mouth of a lizard, obscuring the light of sun, swallowing her whole. "I will need full medical histories of all subjects, surviving and deceased; I need to know whether they had been taken before." And the monster's red lips that spoke of death and cruelty looked just like Dana's. "Dr. Strauss. Just keep him stable... I will be there soon." And the fiend's fingers fixed a stray lock of hair with a nervous, fleeting annoyance, just as Dana used to do. "This is not your fault..." a pause, a quick grin. "Maybe you will even see your daughter today." And the stranger's voice had the same low, soothing inflections that entered Dana's voice when she spoke with small children or distressed adults. Such a good job they had done. But they still couldn't convince her - couldn't make her believe that her daughter had changed into this hungry, ugly chameleon. "Dr. Strauss," clear eyes were looking directly into the nuzzle of a gun. "Gotta go." Kathy Mott put the phone away calmly, laid her hands on the table, her lips curling into a crooked smile. "Mom. This is not a good time." Margaret's grip didn't waiver. "You are not my daughter." "I've tried to be," palms turning upward as if in supplication. "If I could..." "Appearances are deceiving," Margaret whispered. "But the inner nature cannot be altered." "No," Kathy agreed. "But you must let me go. I'm expected... there is a man dying." Margaret didn't let her deceptively tranquil façade crumble as grief choked her. "Then you will be held accountable for his death. Just as you - every last one of you - should be held accountable for Dana's." "If you don't let me leave now," a firm voice brokering no arguments, "you will be the one responsible for a death that I can still prevent. If I am in time." The gun wavered. "Mrs. Scully." And when the monster admitted the truth of its nature, Margaret started and opened her hands, seeing the weapon spill out of them in a quick flash of silver. She hung her head down in anticipation because... Because they were all caught in a spider-web, and a long striped tongue was coming for them, and it was hungry, and it would swallow. And it would not let go. "I just want my daughter back." She stiffened when gentle hands embraced her, when hot breath of this stranger, of her daughter, stung her cheek as the lips left a delicate, regretful kiss. "Dana Scully loved you very much," a familiar voice whispered in her ear. "And she always will." There were hurried clicks of high-heeled shoes and the sound of a gun being unloaded. And when the chameleon ran away, Margaret Scully was surprised to see the sunlight still streaming in the windows. End of Act 5/7