Season Six:
Episode 8

A conference room
Winnipeg, Manitoba
6:27 pm

The room was almost dark. The only light entered through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. It is moonlight radiating from a moon that is two days from full. The muted illumination reveals that there are four men in the room. They are sitting at a sleek, black lacquered Italian wood table. Three men are sitting on one side and one on the other. All have cocktails. The man sitting alone has an ash tray in front of him.

"It could be worse, I suppose" one of the men stated. "But I have difficulty imagining how."

"Adjustments can be made," another said with confidence. "Don't you agree?"

The question was posed to the smoker. He nodded affirmatively, as he lit a cigarette.

"Perhaps the situation will resolve itself," the third man in the trio stated. "Our historical reluctance to interfere has a sound basis. Intervention is risk."

"The risk of acting must be weighed against the potential cost of waiting." We recognize the voice of Cigarette Smoking Man replying.

"But can we move effectively at this time?" the confident man asked.

"All of the pieces can be put in place. After it begins, we must rely to a certain extent on improvisation. Something that those involved have demonstrated a talent for."

The three men accepted Cigarette Smoking Man's analysis and considered their options. They knew the importance of this decision. None of them had ever shied away from responsibility. They were not going to start now.

"Let it begin," the confident man ordered.

Cigarette Smoking Man looked at the other two men. Both nodded their assent. "So it begins."

Dana Scully had not cried like this since her father died. She couldn't remember crying like this in front of anyone since childhood. If she wasn't so emotionally exhausted, she would have been embarrassed. At one level, she was troubled by the way she had responded to Alex Krycek's support. At another, she was grateful for the offer.

Krycek was contemplating his future and what he could recall of his past, as he whispered reassuring phrases to the woman in his arms. He wasn't even aware that he was speaking in Russian. His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of dinner.

"Hi, Alex. Hi, Agent Scully," Gibson Praise stated as he wheeled the food and beverage cart into the room. Dana Scully sat up abruptly, blushing a little. She hadn't realized that she and Krycek had been lounging comfortably on the couch.

"Hey, Gibson," Alex replied as he sat up a bit slower, smiling in Scully's direction. "Thinking about delivery as a career?"

"I was bored, Alex," Gibson replied in a tone that fully supported the veracity of his statement.

Krycek took the bottle of wine from the cart. "After the day we've had, I'm opting for alcohol, regardless of the warning labels on my medication. Chances of operating heavy machinery this evening seem pretty low. How about you, Dana?"

Scully found herself responding to the coaxing tone before she actually focused on the question. "Pay attention, Scully," she chastised herself.

"Are you ok, Agent Scully?"

Scully turned toward Gibson and smiled. "Don't you know, Gibson? Or have you gotten out of the mind reading business?"

Gibson noticed Krycek's questioning look at Scully. "No, Agent Scully, I guess I've just decided that it isn't always a good idea to tell people what they're thinking."

Gibson and Scully smiled at each other, both enjoying Krycek's confusion. "Mind reading? C'mon."

"I can tell what people are thinking," Gibson informed Alex. "Everyone except you. I could before, but not now. Don't know why." Before Gibson continued, his statement became mischievous. "Do you want to know what Agent Scully thinks of you?"

Krycek laughed and was about to say yes, when he noticed the look on Scully's face. What he saw was embarrassment mixed with something that might have been fear. What he saw made him sure that Scully believed that Gibson could do what he claimed. Accepting her assessment, he said, "Some things are better left unknown, Gibson.." Krycek was rewarded with a sincere and genuine smile from Scully and returned it as he continued, "I'm curious about what the powers that be are thinking though. Know anything about that?"

"Don't worry, Agent Scully," Gibson began with a grin. "I won't get in trouble for answering. I'm useful." The boy made his voice as deep as possible, which wasn't very, in intoning his last statement, making Scully grin back. "They think I'm lying about not being able to read you anymore, Alex. I'm not, but it makes them mad that they can't check."

"What do they want?" Scully asked in an effort to elicit some more general comments.

"They want to know a bunch of stuff. What happened to Alex. What he knows. Why they fixed his arm. Who he is working for. A bunch of stuff."

"What about Agent Scully?" Krycek asked, unconsciously adopting Gibson's form of address.

"Nah. They know a bunch of stuff about Agent Scully already. They think she's smart enough to have some of the same questions they do and pretty enough to get you to talk to her. They think they're pretty cool for figuring that out, but it was the other guy's idea. The smokestack."

"Have you eaten?" Scully asked the boy, not solely to change the subject she told herself.

Gibson nodded negatively, and looked shyly at Krycek. "Alex ... the Bruins are on."

Alex Krycek wondered how long it had been since he had seen a hockey game. "Put it on," Alex instructed Gibson. "Unless ..."

Alex and Gibson turned toward Scully. She wasn't a big hockey fan, but she could see that a one person-one vote process would not resolve the matter in her favor. She also noticed Gibson grazing off of Alex's plate. In the face of a united front and in support of the boy getting some nutrition, Scully gestured magnanimously at the television.

"Cool," was Gibson's reply.

Fox Mulder had made it back to the OSU campus at about 8:30 pm. His messages indicated that Fowley and Spender had gone to dinner at 7:00 pm. Rationalizing that they were probably nearly done, Mulder went to his room, changed into a black t-shirt and blue jeans and located his flashlight. "It is likely to be dark in a sub-sub-basement," he reasoned.

It was only a short walk from the on campus hotel to the Edgar B. Hartlan Microbiology Building. The evening was pleasantly cool and crisp. Mulder encountered only a few students, and failed to notice a group of co-eds noticing him. He didn't even register their comments, purposefully spoken loud enough for him to hear, regarding the way his jeans fit.

At the entrance to the building, Mulder took a deep breath. He wasn't sure why, but he was apprehensive. As the Special Agent entered the building, he paused briefly, trying to recall the location of the elevator. His memory served him well. In only moments, he located it and pressed the down button. Less than a minute later, the door opened. Unfortunately, the elevator was not empty. Marjorie, Robert Collingsworth's secretary, was on her way home from work. As she passed him, she nodded absently. Mulder nodded back, but otherwise avoided her gaze, as he entered the elevator.

As he pressed the B3 button, Mulder let out the breath he had not been aware that he was holding. Mulder was uncomfortable with the possibility that his evening excursion might be reported to Dr. Collingsworth. The elevator door closed slowly and the unit began its descent. Dr. Broadford's recollection that Marita Covarrubias explored the bowels of the building had intrigued Mulder. Marita didn't seem the sub-sub basement-venturing type.

The elevator stopped, but the door didn't open. Mulder pressed the door open button. The door opened slowly, but smoothly. Fox Mulder was about to exit the elevator when he noticed the lighted floor. It was B2. Mulder frowned and pressed the B3 button. The door closed, but the elevator didn't move. Repeated depressions of the B3 button did not alter the outcome.

Finally, Mulder hit the door open button again, and he stepped out of the elevator. "There must be some stairs somewhere," he muttered.

Marita Covarrubias was serving dinner, a pleasant yet simple pasta in tomato sauce, to the First Elder. He enjoyed her presence ... and her subservience. However, he noted that the young woman was not focused on her task. She had been told more than once that he liked the level of red wine in his glass never to rise above where the glass first achieved its maximum radius, since much of the pleasure of the beverage was olfactory. She had filled it well beyond that point. He picked up the glass, held it where she could see it and shook his head slowly. Her look of puzzlement became one of annoyance rather than dismay and contrition. That demanded action. Before she could react, the First Elder slapped her. Hard.

"Perhaps you should tell me where your mind has wandered Marita."

She knew her face would bruise, but that it would be nothing that a little makeup couldn't hide. Her real concern as she rubbed her cheek was how to respond. Ever since Dimitri blurted out Katarina's message, she knew that this moment would come. Marita was under no illusions as to the amount of privacy she enjoyed. For the umpteenth time since she had manipulated Krycek to gain access to the boy infected with the black oil virus, Marita cursed her situation. It had gone from bad to worse. She sensed that she was on the verge of experiencing whatever was downhill from worse. "I didn't speak more plainly, because I didn't want to ... upset you."

"Now why would I become upset my dear?" With effort, Marita resisted the temptation to try and remove that mild statement from his face with her fingernails. The First Elder seemed to enjoy baiting her, and she seemed unable to resist rising to it.

"For broaching a particular subject, knowing your views with regard to the individual in question." The First Elder merely waited in silence. "Katarina contacted me."

The look of distaste crossing the First Elder's face at the mention of Katarina didn't surprise Marita. "No possible benefit can come from contact with that woman. None whatsoever. Remember that, Marita."

"With regard to me, you're right of course," Marita agreed quickly. "However, some benefit could inure to you and your colleagues."

The First Elder gave the young woman his complete attention. Marita could be quite clever. He was also aware of the impact of his attentiveness upon her confidence and, in turn, the impact of increased confidence on her behavior. A confident Marita tended to disclose more than she realized.

Covarrubias noticed his increased interest level and barely suppressed a triumphant smile. With little fear of recrimination, she poured herself a glass of wine, sat down next to the man (quite close actually) and prepared to explain herself.

Gibson Praise was sound asleep. The boy was curled up on an easy chair to the left of the couch. The hockey game was still on, but the television sound was turned off. Alex Krycek had gone to get some blankets. Dana Scully sipped her wine and thought about what she had observed.

Krycek and Gibson had watched hockey. Krycek had explained various aspects of the game to Gibson, who had apparently had very limited experience with hockey before being "kidnapped" by the Consortium. For long stretches of time, the man and boy seemed to forget she was there. In those unguarded moments, Krycek seemed ... paternal. Scully was surprised that she didn't immediately classify that notion as absurd.

When Krycek returned, Scully rose and took one of the blankets from him. "I can't watch you tuck him in. It'll ruin your tough guy image."

Alex chuckled, but relinquished the blanket. "It really is more of a bed side manner sort of thing, isn't it?"

Dana placed the blanket over the sleeping boy and returned to the couch. Krycek looked up from the silent hockey game as Scully cleared her throat. "I'm sorry about before," she began. "I'm usually more together than that. I guess ..." He waited as she searched unsuccessfully for the right words. "There's something about you that ... encourages me to talk."

Krycek paused for a long moment before responding. Scully wasn't sure whether he was deciding whether to answer or what the answer should be. "When your survival depends on the amount and quality of your information, you learn to listen...very carefully. You also have to interpret and filter what you hear, and fit it into the right context. Sometimes that takes some creativity." A brief laugh convinced Scully that he was thinking of a particular instance, but before she could ask about it, he continued. "That obviously requires people to talk to you. So you encourage that. Sometimes unconsciously, it seems. Sorry, if it's a problem."

"No, but I can imagine it gets dull for you. Listening to a lot of drivel. Like earlier this evening."

"You've been through a lot, Dana. From what you tell me and what I remember, we have that in common. Maybe that's why I like you." With that, Krycek reached for the last of the wine and added some to both of their glasses. Dana's first.

Scully wasn't sure what to say. She was also reasonably sure that Krycek knew that. In fact, she suspected that, at least in part, he said what he did to challenge her to respond. At some very basic level, Scully liked challenges ... answering as well as issuing them. Sometimes the best answer to a challenge is to issue another. "A toast," she suggested, raising her wine glass. Alex raised his and waited. "To old enemies." They touched their glasses together and drank, staring into each others eyes.

"Old enemies," Krycek repeated softly. "Meaning?"

Scully simply smiled enigmatically, as she leaned against him with her head on his shoulder. Dana Katharine Scully didn't want to think. Fatigue was a convenient excuse to close her eyes and relax. Alex Krycek smiled slightly as he sipped his wine in silence.

Mulder was frustrated. He had found two stairwells. They both went up only. "There has to be another one," he reasoned. "But where the hell is it?" he asked himself aloud. His mood was not improved by the dim lighting and somewhat eerie silence that permeated the B2 level.

Doggedly, Mulder began to repeat what he had considered to be a systematic search of the H-shaped corridor (with the elevator located along the shorter corridor connecting the two longer ones). He tried every door along the left hand corridor. Most were locked. The ones that weren't included a storage room with cleaning supplies and equipment, a unisex bathroom, one of the stairwells and an empty room that would've, in his opinion, made a very dismal office. And he had no small experience with dismal offices.

As he prepared to repeat the process in the right hand corridor, Mulder heard the elevator activate. Curiously, he retraced his steps. When he arrived at the elevator, he noticed that the lighted display above it indicated that it was going up. It stopped on the sixth floor and began to descend. It stopped on the third floor and lobby level. Mulder was about to continue his exploration and curse a hunch that didn't pan out, when he noticed that the elevator began a further descent. He held his breath, ready to dart around a corner or brazen out a chance meeting with a student. The elevator descended and stopped on B3.

Mulder's first instinct was to depress the down button to call the elevator. He suppressed it, and finished his exploration of the right hand corridor without incident or satisfaction of his curiosity. Congratulating himself on his thoroughness, he returned to the elevator and depressed the down button. The elevator rose to B2 and the door opened. Seconds before the door opened, Mulder considered the possibility that whoever had gone to B3 was inside. Mulder reached for his gun as the door opened, realizing that he began his move too late. The elevator was empty.

With a sigh of relief, Mulder entered. The door closed immediately when he pressed the B3 button, but the elevator remained motionless. Mulder examined that control panel for a device controlling access to the B3 level. He did not see anything that fit the bill. Residual adrenaline, an active imagination or intuition reminded Mulder that whoever had descended to B3 was still there and could call the elevator at any moment. Thinking that reinforcements might not be a bad idea, Mulder pressed the L button. The elevator ascended to the lobby level and he exited the building.

Agents Fowley and Spender had returned from dinner to their hotel. An inquiry at the front desk revealed that Mulder had returned, checked his messages, changed and went out.

"Great," thought Spender, as he and Diana Fowley entered the elevator. She had that inviting smile on her face again. Jeff ignored it. All he had to do was make it to the fourth floor.

"Where do you think Fox went?" Diana Fowley asked to get some reaction from Spender. She smiled as she noted his momentary confusion. "People do tend to forget Mulder's first name," she thought.

"The nearest McDonald's." Spender's eyes were fixed on the floor numbers. When they reached four and the door opened, he took a step toward the door. Fowley was suddenly between him and freedom.

"Come up to five, Jeff," she suggested innocently. "We need to plan our next move. With Fox full of hunches, we need to maintain our perspective."

He businesslike tone made him hesitate long enough for the door to begin to slide shut. Spender had a momentary urge to reach past her and keep the doors from closing, but he felt that doing so would somehow concede a victory to her. He was too competitive for that. When the door opened at the 5th floor, Spender followed Diana to and into room 512. "Something from the mini-bar? I'm buying."

Spender smiled and nodded. The concept of the FBI paying for agents' alcohol was almost as hard to accept as Fox Mulder staying at a hotel with mini-bars in the rooms. Spender suspected that Fowley had made the arrangements. Diana handed him a glass with what looked to be scotch in it. "It's a blend. Sorry. No single malts available. I'll make it up to you when we get back to DC."

Spender was startled by her last statement, and the whisper in which she delivered it. Diana smiled at him, crossed the room slowly, bent over to adjust the pillows against the head board and sat on the bed, leaning back against those pillows. He watched her entire performance with interest.

"Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Jeff. Who knows when our esteemed colleague will deign to grace us with his presence."

Spender looked for a place to sit. There was an uncomfortable looking chair, but it was situated on the side of the bed opposite the one where Diana was lounging. It seemed impolite to force her to give up her comfortable spot. The only other, and equally unappealing, option was the desk chair. That left the bed. He glanced at Diana, and noticed that she was watching him closely with a knowing smile. She had followed his unspoken analysis of his situation. Now her look became overtly challenging. Spender couldn't resist.

Mulder was charged up. He was on to something. He could sense it. He was smiling, as he stepped out of the elevator on the 5th floor of the hotel. Diana would go back with him to the Edgar B. Hartlan Microbiology Building. Of that, he was certain. Maybe they'd bring Spender as well. Then again, maybe not.

As he approached room 512, Mulder pulled the key from his pocket. Diana had given him a key to her room after they had checked in and dropped Spender off on the 4th floor. The invitation had been blatant. Mulder had simply smiled and proceeded to his own room.

Pleasant thoughts of past encounters were running through Fox Mulder's head as he reached his destination. "Should I make an entrance?" he asked himself. A moment of consideration produced a better alternative. Stealth. Mulder inserted the key and opened the door, moving silently into the room.

Three steps in, Mulder stopped. His smile transformed into an "Oh" of surprise and shock. Diana Fowley and Jeffrey Spender were getting to know each other better. Quite a bit better. And they both seemed to be enjoying the experience. Mulder retreated. There would be no back up for his investigative efforts this evening.

Dana Scully woke with a start. She experienced the momentary disorientation associated with not knowing where she was. That disorientation was exacerbated by the realization that she was not alone, and that her companion appeared to be dreaming. The light of the television, now showing the Alfred Hitchcock movie "Psycho," revealed enough of the scene for the FBI agent to reorient herself. She and Krycek must've fallen asleep on the couch. She wasn't quite sure if Gibson was still on the easy chair.

Her attention was drawn back to Alex Krycek. The struggling nature of his movements and the frightened tone of the muttered words indicated a nightmare. A nightmare that seemed to be getting worse. Dana moved slowly, shifting her position, so that she could avoid his restless movements while still remaining close to him. "Alex," she whispered as she shook his left shoulder forcefully. His movements stilled briefly, but then resumed with more urgency. "Alex, wake up. It's ok. You're dreaming."

Krycek sat up quickly. He was breathing hard and sweating. After a few seconds, he started to shake. The man was so inwardly focused that he was unaware of Scully's proximity. When she put her hand on his shoulder, Alex spun around and just managed to stop the fist aimed at her face before it made contact. Heart beating rapidly, Scully looked at her companion with concern. "Are you all right?"

Krycek nodded. He didn't quite trust himself to talk yet. The dream was still too close. The dream that maybe wasn't a dream, but the processing of a traumatic memory. An impossible memory. Completely and utterly impossible.

Scully watched Alex's effort to regain control. His breathing was slowing, but the shaking had not lessened. Scully turned on a lamp located on an end table to a low level, and scanned the room. On the floor in front of the couch was a blanket. One that she assumed had been covering them, until Alex had fought it off. She picked it up and wrapped it and her arms around him. He mumbled something that might have been "Thanks". Dana simply held on.

In a few moments, the shaking stopped. Alex extricated himself from the blanket, but allowed Scully to continue to hold him. He looked wound up tight enough to snap. Scully didn't want to ask him what had generated this reaction. Then she realized she didn't have to. Alex Krycek was staring at his left arm. He made a fist and opened his hand. He flexed his bicep and then extended his arm to its fullest length. Shaking his head in negation, he leaned back and shut his eyes.

FBI Headquarters Washington D.C.
8:03 am

Assistant Director Walter Skinner was sitting in an empty conference room. Sitting and waiting. He had been summoned here by ... whom? His secretary had simply told him that he was scheduled to attend a meeting in this conference room. When he had asked who had called the meeting and for an agenda, she had looked at him as though he had grown a second head. "Some things are not for us mere pawns to know, Sir," she had said with a smirk.

In any event, the mystery meeting was to have commenced three minutes ago. Skinner was having some uncomfortable thoughts about his "status" in chess terms, when the conference room door opened and two men in their sixties entered. Skinner didn't know either of them. "You're late," he commented.

"Regrettable, but unavoidable, Mr. Skinner. Our apologies." The man who had spoken was the taller of the two. "For the purposes of this discussion, you may call me David. My colleague is Russell. We will not take up much of your time."

"What do you want?"

"We don't want anything, Mr. Skinner. We merely want to thank you personally for reopening the Xfiles in the face of opposition from some of your peers. Russell and I feel strongly that there is a need for such an investigative unit."

Skinner had had no expectations regarding this meeting. He had developed no preconceived notions upon seeing David and Russell. Despite his mind being quite open, David's statements surprised him. "I appreciate your concern David. May I ask why you gentlemen feel as you do?"

"We are concerned about certain future events, Mr. Skinner. The persons who assumed responsibility for managing those events are, in our estimation, no longer capable of doing so. Investigations of the type that your Mulder and Scully conduct will make this point abundantly clear ... and alternative arrangements will be made."

The Assistant Director had no idea what David was talking about, but knew that stating or showing that would serve no purpose. Forging ahead was the only true option. "Who will make the alternative arrangements?"

"Russell and I are in contact with capable individuals. An operation is already underway."

The nature, tone and content of this conversation struck Skinner as surreal. "What if these "managers" resist the alternative arrangements?"

Russell spoke for the first and only time. "Resistance will accomplish nothing, Mr. Skinner."