Prime Mover

There are some people in the world that things happen to. There are other people who make things happen. Which one do you want to be?

That's what I had to ask myself when I had some downtime recently. One of those periods of clarification and reassessment you end up with because something's happened to you and you haven't found your way out yet.

While I'm not idiot enough to think I can control everything that happens, I'm optimist enough to believe that I do have a say in my own destiny, that I can change what happens. That I can make things happen.

At least I do now. I admit I spent a few years there feeling really sorry for myself and not doing much except kissing ass and trying to curry favor. Poor, little me with my life spinning out of control and the big bad guys being mean mean mean. What a fucking loser. I sounded like Mulder.

For the past several years I had tried the Zen-like sit-around-and-wait-for-them-to-fuck-themselves-over approach while I sulked and cried in my glass of tea. It had cost me - my lifestyle, my arm, and most recently, my freedom. I decided I'd better reevaluate my methods, seeing the bastard who had me trapped had been the one I'd been brown-nosing for favor.

So I sat a while. I thought. I assessed my advantages and options, and I waited. I was halfway out the door by my own efforts when they sent the newly pressed, Marita Covarrubias version 2.0 to spring me. Bonus for my side, a get out of jail free card.

Of course it wasn't free. He needed me. To go where he couldn't, do things he couldn't. And I went along with it as usual, seeing it didn't cost me anything and might turn up the advantage I needed. Because I could tell by his pathetic disintegration that things were badly in disarray.

I played my part in making things happen to Mulder once again. Of course I was being a tool, with all the implications of that included, but this time I wasn't merely a tool. That makes a hell of a lot of difference.

Life is ten percent what you know and ninety percent your attitude about it. If you feel helpless and out of control, then you are. If you feel in control and on top of things than at least you have some hope of being the hero of your own story instead of the wacky sidekick or love object or say - villain - in someone else's. I was good and sick of being defined by whoever I was with. Time to suck it up and see what I was made of for real.

So I went to Oregon. Then I went to Skinner, the one thing in the past couple of years I really have had control over.

The look on his face was priceless. And when he saw what I had for him it was even better. Because I was on the up and up, and all I needed was backup so Mulder wouldn't dismiss me out of hand. That felt better than anything had in a long time. To be absolutely and completely - not full of shit - for once.

But that was when I started figuring a few more things out, too.

For instance, since the last time I'd seen them, Mulder and Scully had started doing the wild thing. He was being incredibly solicitous and protective, and he never acted that way with her. He also seemed really, well, centered is the best word I can find to describe it. I saw Marita take note of the situation and knew that that ramped up their danger factor by about a hundred times or so.

It also didn't take too long to find out about Scully's little fainting spell out in Oregon. Or to put two and two together, like apparently no one else had done.

It wasn't supposed to be possible, so when I got back to the Old Man's house, it only took a little minor safecracking, some backdoor passwords to check out the recent X-Files at the FBI, and a good head for code to find out what he'd done.

The cure for cancer? What the hell had she been thinking? If the Old Man had had it, he wouldn't have been in such bad shape. And you'd think waking up in bed at that cabin might have given her some kind of clue, or fear, about what had happened when she was unconscious.

But she hadn't wanted to know. Or she would have asked the questions. Especially after the news at the hospital. I knew because she'd never ordered any genetic tests. As far as she was concerned, the baby was Mulder's.

She ought to know by now that miracles don't happen; but they can be manufactured.

She's asleep now, a little frown right between her eyes. It's been rough for her, the past couple of weeks since Mulder's abduction. And it won't get easier, either. Probably not even if he comes back.

I'm really tempted to wake her up and explain. To tell her that she needs to take control. Tell her how to do it.

But I know my own limitations as well as my strengths. It's part of taking responsibility. Part of taking control. Part of what I have to do now that I've eliminated the Old Man.

The drug I slipped into her tea is working wonders. She wouldn't wake if I stood in the middle of the bedroom butt-naked and playing the tuba. She won't feel the slight prick of the needle.

Then it's just wait a little while and call the ambulance when the blood comes. If things go as planned, she won't even wake up until it's all over and we're all free.

I should have known he'd have a backup plan. It sickens me to think that this was it. It's one of the things I mean to change now that I've got control.

It's one thing to believe in something and to work toward that belief. It's one thing to know that people are going to get hurt in the process. It's another to deliberately fuck with them because it amuses you or gives you some sick, dirty thrill. What kind of notches did The Old Man put on his bedpost, do you think? One for fucking Mulder's mother. One for his sister. One for his Dad. And now for Scully, even if it was done vicariously by a surgical team.

The ultimate cuckoo in the nest, Mulder's the father of the clone of his worst enemy. Sick. Sick beyond sick. Too fucking sick for me to stand idly by and watch. Especially when it's a tragedy I can prevent.

I threw the last one down the stairs. I'll see this one's dead before it's even born. I owe it to myself. To ensure my place as the hero of my own life instead of the Igor to the maddest Frankenstein that no one ever heard of.

And by doing this for myself, I get the rest of them out from under, too. A nice added bonus for a job well done.

She doesn't look uncomfortable, but I can see it's almost time to call the hospital. More blood than you'd think.

I'll wait here until they arrive, just in case.

And when this mess is all cleaned up I have some other things to do.

But they can wait. I'll just go one step at a time and pretty soon it'll all be straightened out and I'll be firmly in control.

It's not going to happen overnight. But I'm a patient man. They say it's a virtue. It is, for anyone who wants to get a handle on things.

I'll make that call now. Have to take responsibility for her seeing she can't do it for herself at the moment. Seeing she was too afraid of what she'd find out to do what she should have done.

That's the difference between people who make things happen and people who have things happen to them. The willingness to take responsibility. The willingness to take action.

I'm not afraid of either one.