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Part One: Fionna So bashful when I spied her, So breathless till I passed her, For whom I robbed the dingle, October 8, 1998 Fionna Wilkinson squinted at the handwriting in front of her and wondered if the student was being deliberately ambiguous in his penmanship in the hope that if she could not decipher it, she might not realize he was repeatedly mixing up Lenin with Stalin. Two years of marking exams for Professor Braun's Twentieth Century Russian history course had made Fionna aware of the lengths some students went to camouflage their lack of knowledge. At least he had not, as one of her more creative students did last term, recounted the plot of the animated film Anastasia, complete with singing animal sidekicks, in an attempt to describe the family history of the last Czar. Fortunately, it made up in humor what it lacked in accuracy. This time Fionna was in no mood to laugh. She could sense a headache lurking behind her eyes and decided she was not up to playing archeologist to these hieroglyphics. Without reading the rest, she assigned a better grade than it deserved, tossed the booklet aside, and wearily eyed the mountain of exams still to be corrected. Fionna picked one off the top of the pile and started reading it with disinterest, ignoring the tinkling of guilt at her growing apathy toward her students' difficulties or interests in learning history. As she read, she ran her thumbs over her nails, pressing the tips of her fingers, searching for the longest one. Finding a small peak on her right index finger, she placed it in her mouth and began to gnaw on the nail. She thought she had kicked the habit in high school when the desire to experiment with nail polish won over the nervous practice in a way her mother dipping her fingers in iodine never did. Now her hands resembled a manicurist's worst nightmare; hangnails, torn cuticles, uneven, jagged remains resembling a poorly declawed cat. The bitter metallic taste of blood told her she had gone too far on her current victim. To prevent the exam booklet from becoming a casualty, she reached into her backpack for a box of Band-Aids. Coffee ring stains were acceptable sings of a hard-working academic, blood was pushing it. Normally she enjoyed her responsibilities as a teaching assistant, especially when she had the opportunity to give a lecture. For forty-five minutes she journeyed back in time and hoped she succeeded in bringing a few others with her. On those days she could forget her dissertation was incomplete and pretend it was her own class. Every day that seemed to be further away and the least of her troubles involved finding sources for her thesis. Last week she gave a lecture to the World War II class on the Geneva Convention. She asked her students to consider why, in the midst of peace, were governments negotiating the rules of the next war? Was it practical to engineer a consensus on the humane treatment for prisoners of war when the very nature of war dictated the breaking all the rules? Was the point to arrange these matters in a calm environment so the war would run more smoothly, or to set standards to judge afterwards how people had behaved? She closed the lecture by stating, "History teaches us we are all responsible for tragedies if we do not put effort into preventing them. It is easy to condemn others for the evils they committed but we must blame ourselves for the wrongs we had the chance to right." After the lecture, Professor Ward had pulled her aside to say her comments were more suitable for a philosophy class and reminded her it was the historian's job to present the facts, not debate questions of morality. In response she said she thought it was more important to understand why people acted the way they did, than to merely recount what happened. History was not just dates, names and events but a chronicle of our destiny. After listening to her earnest argument, Professor Ward raised his eyes upwards, as if asking a higher power why he was burdened with another idealistic graduate student who thought she could change the world by making people understand the past. He then kindly suggested she start thinking about her own future at this university. She was not looking forward to tomorrow's meeting with her advisor where they would be discussing her frequent absences and lack of focus. It was not the first veiled threat that her funding would disappear if she did not get her act together. "Hey, phone call." Fionna looked up from the exam booklet to see her fellow teaching assistant and friend, Joan, beckoning to her from across the cluttered office shared by the department's graduate students, deserted now except for the two of them. Fionna made her way across the room and mouthed thanks as she took the receiver. "Hello." "Fee, you have to move now." As she heard the voice, Fionna's heart stopped suddenly, only to start beating again with a vengeance as the words sunk in. "What . . . ," she half asked, half stated. She knew but she did not want to acknowledge it. "Don't come back to the apartment. You have to leave right away. They know about me. They know about you." "Where are you?" "Never mind, I'll catch up with you." "But . . . " Her protest was cut off by the dial tone, signaling there was no time to debate the issue. She hung up the phone and turned to see Joan staring at her with a questioning gaze. "Ummm. I have to go. Family emergency. I have to go." She voiced the words she prepared months ago. Repeating them out loud made it seem more real. "Is it your dad?" Joan asked in a worried tone, remembering her friend's father's heart attack the year before. "Yes. He's not feeling well. My mum wants me to come home." Thankfully it was not her father, but he would fit as a convenient excuse. How easily lying came to her these days. She crossed the room and began randomly throwing items on her desk into her backpack. Fionna paused when she came to the pile of the exams. She would have taken more care with them if she had known they might be the last exams she would ever correct. This was it, she thought, my life is over as I know it. She looked over to Joan. "I don't know when I'll be back." "Don't worry, I'll take care of those," Joan said, mistaking her friend's worried tone for fear of neglecting her responsibilities. "Thanks," Fionna gulped and gave Joan a quick hug, blinking back the tears threatening to appear. She slipped her backpack over her coat and fled into the hallway. Seeing the elevator was nowhere near her floor she decided not to wait. The adrenaline pounding though in her veins propelled her down the six flights of stairs. Breathlessly, she arrived in the lobby of the Arts building, and frantically scanned the crowd of students making their way to night classes for anything out of the ordinary. Seeing nothing obviously amiss, she exited the building and ran across the campus, heading toward the nearest subway station. She resisted looking behind as she ran but took a quick glance at her surroundings as she descended into the station. Nothing. In her eyes, no one was following, but she had little experience with cloak and dagger activities. Once seated safely on the subway, she pulled her wallet from her backpack and retrieved the piece of paper tucked in behind her driver's license. She unfolded it and stared at the letters.
Fionna knew the address by heart but looked at it to confirm her memory and the reality of the situation. She slipped the paper into her coat pocket. It was the beginning of the end. Only she did not know it that was a good thing or not. *** Six hours later. Scully looked up from her files and scowled at the computer screen. After typing a dozen reports detailing the results of background checks she was finding it exceedingly difficult to think of new ways of describing essentially the same situation. This had never been a problem on the X-Files. As much as her role in the Domestic Terrorism Unit failed to capture her interest, she was determined not to fall asleep recording her latest interview account. Stifling another yawn, she decided to do one more and call it a night. She would leave the rest for Mulder to finish when he returned from his latest excuse at avoiding their current assignment. Mulder was in New York City on the pretense of attending a Behavioral Science seminar while actually conducting an informal investigation into reports of Leprechauns pickpocketing tourists in Central Park, and more importantly, she suspected, catching a Knicks game. Although she usually disapproved of these jaunts, especially those that left her with the bulk of their paperwork, she was envious of her partner's whereabouts. Why had she turned down his invitation to play hooky with him or in his words, use her luck of the Irish to track another variation of little green men? She could have done some shopping, looked up a few old friends and dragged Mulder to a Broadway musical. Why? Because one of them had to stay focused on their present situation and it certainly was not going to be Mulder at this point in the game. Once again they had lost the X-Files. What made it more frustrating was not that they were closed, but being run by Agents Spender and Fowley. "The subject responded to the inquiries about his background with a pleasant demeanor. Nothing from the interview suggested an attempt at deviant behavior. I recommend . . . " Scully's typing was interrupted by the sound of her phone. A glance at her watch informed her it could only mean Mulder or trouble, but then again it was often difficult to separate the two. She turned away from the computer and answered the phone. "Hello." "I'm looking for a Dana Scully," a brisk female voice stated with determination, indicating she was intent on tracking her recipient. "This is she," Scully responded. "This is Nurse Smythe from the University Hospital in New York calling . . . " Oh my god Mulder. "...your name and address were found on an unidentified patient brought into our emergency room . . . " "It's my partner, Special Agent Mulder," Scully interrupted, wondering what he had gotten himself into this time and how badly he had been hurt. "Oh good." The nurse sounded relieved at identifying her patient so quickly. "I am afraid she is still unconscious but the doctor believes she will be awakening soon. Do you have a number where I can reach Ms. Mulder's family?" Ms. Mulder? "Oh . . . I think there has been a mix-up. My partner is a male in his late thirties. Are you sure you have the right patient?" "I see . . . Well this is obviously not Mr. Mulder," the nurse sighed, disappointed at the recent development. "Our Jane Doe is a Caucasian female, approximately mid twenties, brown hair, blue eyes, average height and build. As far as we can tell she was a mugging victim assaulted outside the Bay Street bus station. She had no identification on her, but your name and address were found on her person." Scully puzzled over this information. She could think of no one fitting the vague description. Was it related to one of their cases? An X-file, or something more recent? "I'm sorry. I have no idea who your patient is. I'm an F.B.I. agent. Perhaps this is related to a case my partner is pursuing in New York. I'll see if he can help you i.d. her." Scully took down the relevant information and phoned Mulder. She was secretly pleased at the idea of calling him up with a mysterious request. Usually it was the other way around. She relayed the information to him and he promised to check it out immediately. The whole situation had disrupted her train of thought and she could no longer concentrate on the task at hand. She abandoned her work and exchanged her computer chair for the couch. Scully flipped on the television and hoped its mindless antics would distract her until Mulder called with an update. *** It was their last day together and Alex wanted to do something romantic before he left. Since the snow had thawed considerably in an unseasonably warm March, they had abandoned their original plans to go tobogganing and opted instead to go skating at a nearby park which had an outdoor artificial ice rink still open. Although skating was a popular sport and leisure activity in Moscow, it was the middle of the week and the rink was deserted. Upon the discovery that the building that rented skates was closed, Alex convinced the owner he needed to open early. The exchange of money was much more impressive than the flash of his foreign badge and they were successful at gaining two pairs of skates. They clasped gloved hands and wobbled around the ice but were forced to stop several times to relieve the pressure of the ill fitting skates digging into their ankles. After twenty minutes they gave up and put their boots back on "It was not exactly a scene from Anna Karenina," Alex apologized as he knelt down to tie his boot laces. "Well, I hope our life will not be as tragic. Do you have any deep dark secrets to reveal before you leave? If so, get them out in open now," Fionna joked. He gave her a weak smile. "Yes, I have a wife and six children back in the States. But don't worry I'm sure she won't mind your help around the house." The remark prompted Fionna to give him a playful push and Alex skidded backwards on the ice. He teetered precariously on the slippery surface as balance battled gravity and lost. "And to think . . . " Alex declared laying on his back, trying to catch his breath, "my mother had delusions of me being a figure skater at one time." Fionna stifled a laugh and reached down, offering her hand. "What are you snickering about? You just assaulted a federal agent." "You have no powers here." "No, but I could handcuff you and take you home with me." Alex grabbed her wrists and pulled her down so she was sitting on his lap. "I'll be home in a few months and you'll be so busy with your new assignment that time will fly by." Alex reached up to touch her hair. He was about to say something when a loud crack sounded. The ice began to break up apart and Fionna felt cold water rushing over her. What was happening? They were on artificial ice, not a lake. The ice beneath them began to give away. She grasped onto Alex's body but they were pulled apart into the icy current. Her head pounded with the roar of rushing water and pieces of ice crashing into each other. She fought to hold onto something, but everything she touched slipped out of her hands. She was pulled under the freezing water and became trapped under the remaining ice. Fionna struggled to breathe but she could find no air and then all went black. Fionna awoke from her nightmare gasping, sucking in the air around her like a drowning victim breaking the surface. Her heart was racing and waves of nausea rolled over her. She opened her eyes and they slowly adjusted to the dim lighting. Her breathing and heart rate slowed as she took in her setting. She was in a hospital, and from the sounds just outside her sight, she decided it was a normal hospital. Her mind struggled to remember what had brought her here and how she had achieved such a headache. She reached up and touched her throbbing head to discover a bandage on her forehead and an IV in her arm. Panicking, she sat up to get a look at the rest of her body clasped in a thin blue hospital gown. She moved her legs and arms, trying to figure out the extent of her injuries. Her ribs protested at the movement and she assumed that they were fractured or badly bruised. She saw an i.d. bracelet on her wrist indicating she was a Jane Doe. A wicked sense of deja-vu came over her and then she remembered. Fionna recalled the phone call from Alex, running across campus, catching a subway and eventually arriving at the bus station. The rest was a bit fuzzy but she thought a man had grabbed her. She remembers shrugging off her back pack to be free of its heavy weight and bringing her knee up to deliver a blow to the man's crotch. Before she could, he grabbed her raised leg and pulled her toward him. She lost her balance and lunged backward onto the sidewalk, slamming into the cold concrete. She felt someone tug at her arm before she passed out. She was not safe. It would be too much of a coincidence to be a random attack. She pushed the bars surrounding the side of her hospital bed down and swung her legs over the side, ignoring the pounding in her head increasing in tempo as she moved. She carefully removed the IV needle and laid it on her pillow. Where were her clothes? She stepped onto the cool tile floor to get a better look at her cubicle and spied a plastic bag in a wire basket under her bed. She winced as she cautiously bent down to retrieve it, but stood up rapidly, ignoring the pain shooting around her ribs, as she heard approaching footsteps. She clutched the bag in front of her like a shield and scanned for something to defend herself with. Before she could move, a hand reached around and pulled back the curtain revealing the rest of an ER trauma room. Fionna let out a sigh of relief when she saw it was a surprised looking nurse. '"You're awake!" she gasped happily, followed quickly with a stern look. "You should be in bed." The nurse's words had little impact as Fionna looked passed her to see tall man dressed in a dark suit blocking the doorway. "Where are you going?" he asked in a voice mixed with concern and amusement. "I have to go," Fionna mumbled. The nurse guided her back to the bed, pushed her gently into a sitting position and took the bag out of her arms. Taking her pulse with one hand and shining a light in her eyes with the other, the efficient nurse clucked in approval as she completed her quick exam while the man waited. "You just rest here and I'll tell the doctor you're awake. You have a visitor." She pointed to the figure standing behind her. "Agent Mulder from the F.B.I." Fionna's eyes had never left his. F.B.I. Mulder. Right. This could be very good or very bad, she thought. Mulder approached her and sat on an adjacent bed. They sat looking at each other in silence as if assessing each other's liability. Mulder broke the stillness first. "You must hate hospitals as much as I do," he commented gently. "I'm always eager to leave too." "Can I see your badge?" she asked abruptly. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his badge and flipped it open for her to see. Fionna peered at it, as if by looking hard she could appraise its validity. "How do I know this is who you say you are?" "Why are you so paranoid?" Mulder asked, noting how she clutched the blanket on the bed. "If you are Mulder, then that seems a bit hypocritical," she retorted. Mulder looked at her curiously as he put away his badge."You know who I am?" "You used to be in charge of the X-Files," Fionna recounted. "Impressive. I guess you caught my latest appearance on Cops." His small joke did nothing to break the tension and Fionna remained unmoved by his attempt at humor. He decided to cut to the chase. "Who are you?" "What happened to me?" Fionna redirected the question, not wanting to tell him anything more until she figured out what was going on. "You were brought to the hospital by the police with a slight concussion and three fractured ribs. It looks like you were attacked outside a bus station. A soccer team out training apparently scared your attacker away. You had no I.D. or belongings on you. However, you did have my partner's address in your pocket. I was hoping you could tell me more." "Can you take me to see Agent Scully? No doctors. No police. I need to see her and then I will tell you everything," "Are you in some sort of trouble?" "Please don't ask me anymore," she pleaded. "All right," he said cautiously. "But you have to tell me your name, or at least your alias, so I can call you something." She hesitated, debating whether or not it was worth lying before reluctantly surrendering her real name. "Fionna Wilkinson." "Fionna, nice meet you. I'll see what I can do regarding the doctors and police." Mulder stood up. "I trust you will not leave without me?" Fionna shrugged her shoulders, and hoped she was doing the right thing. *** Mulder stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He was puzzled. It was rare for an X-File to find him. Or should he say Scully? If this even was an X-File? He did not know what to make out of the young woman. She was obviously afraid but beyond the sense of urgency about her he was clueless. He tracked down Fionna's doctor and explained it was vital to a case that she be released immediately, adding she would be under the care of a physician. The doctor seemed unintimidated by his badge and informed him that he would have to wait until she assessed her patient's health. Familiar with hospital routines, Mulder did not press and waited patiently outside on a plastic chair. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his cell phone and pushed Scully's home number on the speed dial. "Scully," a familiar voice answered almost immediately. "Scully, do you know a Fionna Wilkinson?" "No. Is that the woman at the hospital?" "Yes. She knows all about us and wants to speak to you." "About what?" "She didn't say, but I am assuming it has to do with the X-Files. She seems frightened. I don't think it was a random mugging." "Why not?" Scully asked, not wanting to jump to conclusions. They were both bored with their present assignment but she did not want Mulder to get excited over the possibility of an X-File, especially if it meant handing it over to Spender and Fowley. "The police report states a man jumped out of a car and tried to grab her. They struggled in the street and the witnesses claimed it looked like he was trying to pull her into a car with him. The assault was luckily interrupted by some good Samaritans and the man fled the scene in the awaiting car with the victim's bag. No trace on the car, its driver, or the attacker," Mulder reported. "It sounds like an attempted kidnaping, not an X-File." "Whatever it is, the victim is not helping to clarify the matter. At least not until she sees you." "How are you going to proceed?" "I'm trying to get her released and hopefully drive back to D.C. tonight. Are you ready for some company?" "You'll miss your Knicks game," Scully pointed out. "I tell you Scully . . . it must be a conspiracy!" Mulder remarked jovially. "Must be," she agreed dryly. "I'll log into the FBI computer and see if we have anything on Ms. Wilkinson." "She doesn't appear to be the criminal type." "Why Mulder? Do you think she's cute?" Scully teased. "Actually, she's kind of plain, soft-spoken." "Well I'll check anyway. The quiet ones are always the last ones you'd suspect." *** She was dreaming again. Another one about Russia. They were lying together naked on the floor of Alex's apartment. Alex was propped on his side, drawing lazy circles along her torso. "I do have a bed you know," he whispered in her ear. "How established you must be," she replied sleepily, enjoying his caresses. "Yes, a bed is the epitome of success in Mother Russia," he claimed in a bad Russian accent. "Only for those preoccupied with sleep and sex." "I could do without sleep," he grinned. "Then you wouldn't be very good at the other." "Do you doubt my abilities?" he questioned with mock confusion. "No, I think you just gave me sufficient proof of them . . . but a good researcher always looks for more than one example to prove validity," she said in a low suggestive voice. She leaned over to kiss him but his presence evaporated as she was awakened by Agent Mulder gently shaking her shoulder. "Hey . . . wake up." Fionna was reluctant to leave the cradles of sleep, achieved for the first time in ages without the benefit of sleeping pills. "It's October 9 or I guess 10 now, 1998. Bill Clinton is President, Jean Chretien is Prime Minister. We are on our way to Washington," Fionna mumbled without Mulder requesting the information."I'm fine." "Good." Mulder said with relief, although he was reluctant to put too much faith in her response. If she came from the Scully School of Reassurance that could mean anything from "I'm actually ok" to "don't mind me, my head is about to explode." "Sorry to keep waking you up. Doctor's orders." "No problem. Thanks for following them. And thank you for driving me. I'm the one who is disturbing your sleep," Fionna apologized. "I'm known for my erratic sleep patterns, so this is not too unusual," Mulder claimed, checking the car's clock at seeing it was 4:20 a.m.. "Any chance for a sneak peek at what's going on?" he asked enthusiastically. Fionna shook her head and looked out the window into the darkness. Dozens of questions screamed in his head and it was taking all his restraint not to demand this girl tells him her story immediately. Instead his mind began to wander as he delved into the most bizarre possibilities. Vampire? Psychic? The Cigarette Smoking Man's housekeeper? Skinner's love child? A psychic vampire posing as the Smoking Man's housekeeper, who was really Skinner's love child? Or just someone wanting a free ride to the nation's capital? His cell phone rang, interrupting further imaginative musings. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me." "Scully, I'm about 45 minutes from Georgetown. I..." Scully interrupted, "Mulder is she still with you?" "Yes," he said glancing over at Fionna who appeared to be lost in her thoughts. "Be careful Mulder. She knows Alex Krycek." "I see. What make you draw that conclusion?" Mulder asked calmly, in an even voice, not wanting to betray his surprise to his passenger. "You were wrong. She does appear in the FBI database as a footnote in Krycek's file. In October 1994 she called the Bureau asking to speak to him. By that time he had disappeared and the operator transferred her to Skinner. Apparently the two had some sort of romance in Russia where she had been studying and he was working on his first assignment for the Bureau. Four months after Krycek returned to the States, she went missing from her Moscow apartment. Three months later she reappeared in a Toronto Hospital." Scully paused and took a deep breath before she continued. "Mulder, she disappeared a week before I did and was returned a week earlier. Skinner sent an agent up to interview her at the hospital. She claimed to have no memory of what happened to her and was shocked to learn her boyfriend had skipped town and was wanted for questioning in a murder and kidnaping." "I see," Mulder repeated. "I suggest we both keep our eyes open for rats. I'll see you soon." He hung up and turned to see Fionna looking at him. Well, that was one bizarre possibility he had not considered but he admitted it ranked up there with her being Skinner's love child. "Was your phone call about me?" Fionna inquired. "Maybe." "Then you know . . . " "Know what?" Mulder prompted cooly. "Who I am?" "Possibly," Mulder said deliberately being cryptic. Two can play at that game. "I'm on your side," she said flatly and turned to look out the window again, thumbnail poised between her teeth. "You wouldn't believe how many times I have heard that." Deep Throat, X, Marita, Kritschgau, Blevins, Kurtzveil, . . . Hell, even Alex Krycek had at times pledged his allegiance. "So I've heard . . . " *** Thirty Minutes later Alex sat parked three buildings down, anxiously watching the predawn comings and goings around Scully's building. He remembered the first time he was here he had to park this far away, not for fear of discovery, but because the street had been clogged with FBI and police vehicles. He had sat frozen in his car, hypnotized by the red and blue flashing lights, trying to think what he was going to say when he saw Mulder. Should he try and share the rage? "Mulder, I'm sorry. I'm sure we'll find the son of a bitch who took her." Should he be the concerned partner? "Mulder, come on. Let me take you home. You'll need some rest before you can think clearly." He could go for the sympathy vote with, "Hey man, I know exactly how you feel," but that would probably be just as progressive as, "Duane Barry kidnaped Scully, but I helped him out and now I'm here to make sure you don't find her." In the end he did not have to say anything. He had silently led Mulder out of the apartment under Skinner's orders to take him straight home. Under other orders not to let Mulder out of his sight, Alex headed toward headquarters, eliciting a nod of approval from his restless and determined partner. Oddly, Mulder's relentless pursuit of Scully was the only thing that consoled him during the whole disaster. He took satisfaction that someone else was feeling as helpless, despondent and broken as he did. He did not even want to think of the second time he had been to Scully's. That was probably the lowest moment of his life, and he had plenty to chose from. Alex could make out little in Scully's apartment but from what he could see, he believed she was alone. The room which had once been lit by the glow of a computer screen was now shadowed by the flickering images of a television. Occasionally Scully would come to the window and look out. It was almost as if she was expecting a late night visitor, or perhaps she just was suffering from a case of insomnia brought on by spending too much time chasing the paranormal with Mulder. He glanced at his watch. Fee should have been here by now. If she had left right away, bus, train or plane would have deposited her in Washington hours ago. He kept telling himself she had somehow gotten lost or was being extremely cautious in her traveling. He hoped he had warned her in time. For the thousandth time that day Alex regretted her involvement. He had been foolish to accept her naive offer to help. He knew what she was getting herself into and did little to stop it. All he cared about was having her in his life again, and tried to justify that she could be the Bonnie to his Clyde, the Robin to his Batman, or the Scully to his Mulder. It had been a lame excuse that she was already involved, whether she liked it or not. No matter what the outcome of their exploits were, dragging her deeper into his hell only put her in more danger, not less. Similar sentiments almost prevented him from getting to know her at all. Her rumpled but glowing appearance caught his eye as she stumbled into the archives of the Soviet War Museum one August morning, waking him from the walking coma he had been in since his stepfather revealed the realities of the future. She bestowed a sweet smile on him and for a moment he was a man again; heart racing, jaw dropping, mind swimming with the image of crushing her body against his. Then he remembered, and disconnected himself from the world again. He kept his eyes glued to the papers in front of him and wished she would go away. But every morning she returned. Her very presence distracted him and he doubted he got any work done all week. He watched her huddle around a microfilm machine for hours, hypnotized with her reading as he was with her. Every movement demanded his attention and he longingly watched as she leaned back to stretch, run her fingers through her hair or absentmindedly chew on the end of her pen. Occasionally, she gasped with delight at a discovery and scribbled furiously into a notebook. Periodically, she would gaze out the window unmoving, as if her soul had momentarily traveled to another time. Depressed at what the future held, he longed to understand how someone could find such pleasure in the past. He spent five days reminding himself why he should not ask her out before he actually did. They enjoyed eleven blissful months before the ground fell out from under him, making him curse the day Fionna Wilkinson stole his heart. Ironically, while Fee's hold on him originally damned him, it was her that saved him now. And he repaid her by drawing her into a world no one deserved to live in. Doing to her, what others had already done to him. He never should have accepted her proposal of aid, but when she offered, he was not strong enough to say good-bye again. Her willing presence in his life, returned his soul, revived his spirit, and warmed his heart. He started living rather than surviving, hoping instead of lamenting, all the while, accepting the situation as temporary. For a number of obvious reasons he did not let himself dream their arrangement would return them to where they left off. Yet he did nothing to prevent it from crawling toward that destination. He liked to think it was inevitable rather than impractical, but these thoughts did nothing to abet his growing fear that by recapturing the past he had complicated an already desperate situation. He couldn't wait any longer, and decided to risk knocking on Scully's door. He dreaded waltzing in her apartment at the crack of dawn and asking for her help. Scully had every right to be a less than gracious hostess but at least between her and Mulder she was less likely to shoot him on sight. That was just the scene he was trying to avoid, or at least postpone, until they saw what he had to offer. A car pulling into Scully's parking lot caught his attention. Maybe Fee had rented a car. His heart both leaped and twisted as he saw Fee exit the vehicle promptly followed by Mulder. What was going on? How had they met up? Alex watched them walked to Scully's building and pause before entering. Mulder appeared to be surveying the surroundings before opening the door and then both of them disappeared from his line of sight. Alex started the engine. Fee was safe. This had been their emergency plan and all that mattered was it had worked, despite whatever alterations popped up along the way. He headed toward the freeway, hoping the next part would be as successful. *** Fionna sat stiffly on the couch, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweater in hope of protecting her desperately short nails from another assault. Her interrogators sat across from her with tired unmoving gazes, waiting for her to begin. She knew they were thinking she was either a complete idiot for being infatuated with a thug in a leather jacket or somehow as guilty and deserving of their suspicion as her supposed paramour. She wished she could offer them another explanation but she could not still figure out who she was at this point. "I don't know where to start . . . " "Why don't you start with your relationship with Alex Krycek?" Scully prompted, exchanging a look with Mulder. Fionna took a deep breath, "I guess that's the beginning to all of this. We met in Russia in the summer of 1993." She had been in the archives of the Soviet War Museum reading microfilm. The letters of the Russian alphabet streaking across her screen became a blur when she accidently pushed rewind. She groaned in frustration and decided it was a sign to call it quits. It was a Friday afternoon and she had spent the passed five days searching through Red Army documents for information on their female combat troops in the Second World War. Her research had been progressing nicely but her eyes were getting tired and her back hurt from sitting hunched over peering at the tiny writing. She had literally walked off the plane and into the archives and not left for a week. She wanted to explore the city and see more of the places she had only read about. She stood and stretched and went to put her archival material away in the assigned storage locker when a voice from across the room commented, "You're leaving early today." Fionna turned to see her only other companion in the small basement room. A pair of intense eyes found hers and his gaze seemed to penetrate every cell in her body. She had been drawn to speak the man all week but he appeared engrossed in his own work and consistently avoided eye contact. She had concocted several stories for her mystery man, none that would ever be close to the truth, and in the end concluded he must be an academic like herself. "The machine has turned me cross eyed. I'm calling it a day." "Good idea," he said, standing up as well. "Could I buy you a cup of coffee? I know a good place nearby." Fionna was surprised at the stranger's sudden friendliness but agreed to the invitation and five minutes later they stood squinting at each other through the bright sunlight on the museum steps. "Alex Krycek." "Fionna Wilkinson." "You're American," he stated in perfect English, extending his hand. "Canadian," she responded switching to English as she accepted his handshake. '"My mistake. Welcome to Moscow." He released her hand and she felt a sudden sense of loss. "If a fellow North American can welcome you?" "You're American?" Fionna asked, as they descended the steps. "I can't hear an accent." "My mother was Russian and I lived here for several years as a child." "What brings you back?" Fionna asked, suddenly wanting to know everything about this man. "Work. What about you?" "I'm taking a course at the University. " "Ah, so that's why you have made your home in the archives." Alex smiled as if his own mystery had been solved. "Yes, I expect to see more of it that anywhere else." What followed was a nice if not mundane afternoon where they got to know each other over coffee and an exchange of travel stories, favorite books and tales from Russian history. This was followed by a promise to meet the following day for a tour of the city. Three weeks later she abandoned her apartment in favor of his and signed on to do her Master's degree at the University of Moscow. Fionna relished reliving the simple meeting while recounting the story for Mulder and Scully. Looking back, it was hard to believe such an innocent beginning would turn out to be a dangerous turning point in her life. "To me it seemed peculiar that after flying halfway around the world I would meet and fall in love with someone who used to live a few blocks away from my apartment back in New York. I was even more surprised to learn Alex was an FBI agent who was doing historical research with recently opened material on cold war military and KGB officials to fill in the blanks in U.S. government files." "In March, Alex's assignment came to an end and he was transferred back to the States. I still had four months left in Russia but planned to join him in Washington when I returned. After he left, we communicated by mail. He did not tell me much about his new position but he did mention he had been assigned a partner. I was delighted to learn I was accepted at G.W.U. to do my Ph.D. and Alex wrote that he had found us an apartment. It seemed everything had progressed as we planned," Fionna recalled with a touch of nostalgia. "Then I didn't see him for three years." "Can you tell us about your disappearance?" Mulder inquired and Fionna's face fell. "There is not much to tell. I was planning to leave for home in a week. The last thing I remember was packing some books and then I woke up in a hospital looking up at my mother and father. I had no idea how I got from Moscow to Toronto. I was found unconscious outside the hospital in a stolen car. My parent's received a phone call telling them where I was but they didn't know who called because I was brought in without any identification. I recovered consciousness a few days later but I had no memory of what happened to me. I had been missing for three months." "The investigation into my disappearance was quite muddled. The RCMP were working with both the Russian and New York police. It was all confusing because I was a Canadian citizen, who had an American student visa but was temporarily living in Moscow. No one could piece together anything and I was of no help." "Did you have any theories on your abduction?" Mulder asked. "Not until I discovered Alex was missing and learned of his possible involvement in another women's disappearance." Fionna looked shyly at Scully. "At first I thought something terrible happened to him but as time went by I began to consider other possibilities. I thought it was a pretty extravagant way to break up with me but since I did not hear from him me, I began to believe he was either dead or involved." "That must have been quite shocking," Scully commented. Fionna shrugged. "I was angry at not knowing what had happened but I moved on. I took a year off from school and tried to forget what happened." "Do you know what happened now?" Mulder questioned. "I still don't remember much of anything. I've had dreams. Dreams of drowning and struggling to breathe. I still do. Then I saw pictures and read reports. I now think I was part of an experiment," Fionna paused, not for dramatic effect but as if she was not entirely comfortable with the idea herself, "with alien DNA." "What does this have to do with Krycek or us?" Mulder demanded, growing impatient with her all too familiar and convenient story. "I was taken as insurance so Alex would help arrange for Agent Scully's disappearance." Mulder held Fionna's gaze. She could feel his hatred for Krycek pouring into her. Scully was unreadable as her eyes had dropped to the floor. After taking a moment to absorb the new information, Mulder exploded. "I don't believe Alex Krycek needed incentives to have her abducted. Just as he willingly participated in killing my father and Scully's sister and countless others." Mulder stood up and walked over to the fireplace. "Mulder . . . " Scully warned. "No, Scully. This girl comes here with this big romantic and tragic tale and wants us to feel sorry for him." Mulder turned to address Fionna, "He has played you for a fool just as he does everyone." "Mulder . . . " "I did not come here to make excuses for him." Fionna sat up straighter and leaned forward on the couch, her taped ribs jabbing her with every movement. "I'm not his public relations woman. I know what he has done. His actions have hurt me too but he is trying to make amends for what he has done. That is why I am here." "How can he make up for what he has done? Can he raise the dead? Can he give Scully back three months of her life? Of yours?" Mulder asked as he paced the floor. "For the last eight months he has been gathering information and evidence on the group you know as the Syndicate. He has the truth and he wants to give it to you." That was all Mulder needed to set him off again. "All I need to know about the truth I learned from Alex Krycek? Thank you, but no I think I'll pass on that one." He turned around to face Fionna again as if he just remembered something. "So where is he?" "I don't know," Fionna admitted. "I haven't seen him in four days. He called me at school yesterday and told me they were on to us." "Why did you come here?" Scully asked quickly before Mulder could interrupt with another rant against Krycek's reliability. "He said that if things were to be revealed before he was finished, I was to take both of you to Toronto." "What's in Toronto?" "An apartment filled with everything Alex has taken or copied: files, disks, videotapes, specimen. He wants you to use it to destroy the men involved." "Krycek once said that truth does not exist," Mulder pointed out. "What made him change his arrogant little mind?" "The timing is right. There's dissension within the Syndicate. Some want to deal with the rebels. The rebels want an alliance with the real governments. We have the proof that could expose them and make the right people listen," Fionna stated. "I'm sorry you just lost me. What rebels?" Scully asked. "The ones who want to prevent colonization," Mulder said as if he was remembering and thinking aloud."The ones responsible for Skyland Mountain and Ruskin Dam." He began to pace again, this time not with fury but enthusiasm. "I'm going to call Skinner, and get an APB out on Krycek. Maybe we can pick him up before they do." "No. Don't," Fionna protested. "There are still men and women within the FBI who are involved. They won't think Alex is coming to you. They are going to assume he has gone back to the Russians or another group. He said he would catch up with me." Fionna watched Mulder turn to Scully with a pleading look for guidance. Alex warned her it would be harder to convince Scully than Mulder and she expected to see a raised eyebrow and a look saying, "Well, if you believe any of this. . . ." Instead the agent was starring thoughtfully at Fionna and did not appear to be overly concerned with the direction the conversation had taken. "Scully could I speak to you in the other room?" Mulder requested. The two agents moved into the hallways leaving Fionna to ponder their decision. "Do you think this is a set-up?" Mulder asked once they were alone. Part of him was excited but the fact that everything depended on Alex Krycek's redemption made him uneasy and reluctant to hope for much. "I don't know Mulder. She hasn't told us anything you already didn't seem to know. Krycek's information and goals have always been dubious. He has come to us before offering his knowledge and where has that led us?" Scully vocalized what Mulder had been thinking. "So you think we should brush this off?" "Actually, no." This elicited a surprised looked from Mulder. "I think this warrants our attention, if not based on Krycek's supposed conscience, then on what happened to Fionna yesterday evening. Someone assaulted her and we should find out why." "Do you think she's telling the truth?" "I think she's telling us what she believes to be true. Whether her version is the truth has yet to be proven." "I warn you Scully, if we end up in a gulag, I don't want you to say I told you so," Mulder said lightly. "I don't think they have gulags in Toronto." "But what do we really know about those Canadians, eh?" *** Part Two: Gibson "THE COUNTRY WANTS A SAVIOR. THE COUNTRY IS A SUCKER FOR POWERFUL MEN WHO LOOK GOOD. WE THINK THEY'RE MORALISTS AND THEN THEY JUST USE US. THAT'S WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU AND ME," said Owen Meany. "WE'RE GOING TO BE USED." Two and a half hours later No one came to get him yesterday and he was very bored. He knew it was strange to think that being left alone could be considered boring but it was since there is nothing else to do. The room was filled with toys he had no desire to play with, books he had already read, and games he had no one to play with. At least Alex played with him. When he first appeared in the doorway with a chess board, Gibson thought it was for another test. It soon became apparent that it was more for Alex's benefit than his own. It was a challenge to play a beginner since there was nothing to draw on but his own experience and memory. It was also fun since there was no pressure to beat him. Later Alex returned with games of chance where they could be equals: Yahtzee, backgammon, cribbage, Monopoly and Risk. He once commented to Alex how the men outside were playing a real life game of Risk. Alex got a funny look on his face and responded, "I'm one of the men outside." He had countered with the remark, "Then why are you here playing games with me?" He did not reply but Gibson knew he liked not having to pretend with him. There was no point in trying to hide anything. He knew Alex liked the man with the accent, whom he called Burns, but hated the man who smoked, called Almsey. He knew Alex often daydreamed about a woman named Fee. Gibson also knew about his plan. It was never far from Alex's mind. One day in the middle of playing a Nintendo racing game on a television Alex had commandeered, Gibson heard Alex say to him inside his head, "I will get you out of this." He had replied out loud, "I know you think you will." Alex did not respond but kept his eyes on the screen and his body rigid. That was two months ago. His visits were always sporadic and had become even more so since the British man died. Now the entire facility was in an uproar over his actions and Gibson could hear words he was not suppose to use screaming in everyone's mind. His daily tests were forgotten in the midst of Alex Krycek's treachery. He only hoped that Alex had not forgotten him and was willing to live up to his promise. *** Scully's apartment Fionna stood in Scully's shower, one arm curled around her ribs, the other stretched out, palm pressed against the cool tiles. She bowed her head so the hot stream of water passed over her hair and down her back. She was too stiff to stand up straight and tilt her head backwards so she found herself comprised in this awkward but satisfying position. The water poured over her body, unfolding some of the muscles which had been clenched since Alex's phone call fourteen hours earlier. She wanted to stay in the shower forever, sequestered in this tiny cubicle, isolated from global conspiracies, alien abductions and Alex Krycek. She let herself enjoy a few more minutes before shutting the water off. They had decided to leave for Toronto on a 9:15 a.m. flight. Fionna protested Mulder paying for her ticket but he silenced her by saying going to a bank would be too dangerous. Besides what was $94 compared to what he had once paid for Krycek's ticket to Krasnoyarsk. Mulder had gone home to change and pack, and before he left, he appeared to have receded back to his earlier friendly overtones. Scully had been polite but remote as the two of them shared a pot of tea and taken turns in the shower. Fionna wrapped herself in a large fuzzy towel Scully laid out for her and sat hunched over on the adjacent bath tub squeezing the water from her tangled hair, replaying the events of the past few days. How had they been caught? She assumed something related to their trip to San Diego had tipped them off. Was the downloading detected? Had they tied her to Julie Vanstone? These questions were almost irrelevant compared to the others pressing on her mind. Where was Alex? Was he o.k.? He said he would catch up with her. Where? At Scully's? Toronto? Back in New York after everything was over? Or had he disappeared again only to pop up years later? She did not even want to think about the little boy Alex had told her about and had not been able to get out in time. She contemplated her next move as she re-taped her ribs and dressed in her jeans and sweater. While her concussion had provided the first decent sleep without sleeping pills in months, she knew she could not depend on that phenomenon to get her through the next few nights. Her pills were back in her apartment and she had no idea if she would ever see it again. She hoped Agent Scully's medical cabinet would hold a suitable replacement but was disappointed to find it held nothing stronger then Aspirin. Listening for the approaching footsteps of her hostess, Fionna knelt down to search under the sink and discovered a black leather doctor's bag. Inside there was an instrument case, antiseptic, bandages and several vials of medication. Searching through them she discovered Chlordiosepoxide, a mild sedative. She shook a couple out onto her palm, paused and then pocketed a dozen. She had little hope the following days would be pleasant. *** Two hours later Alex played over the possibilities in his head as he stalked the hotel room in circles liked a caged animal. It was a Mission Impossible scenario but he had no fancy gadgets, back up, or clever disguises, and most importantly, little time. He had a gun with three clips, knowledge of the complex's security, and the advantage of surprise, but short of dressing up in a rented Confederate uniform and pretending to be the ghost of General Lee, he had no idea how to break Gibson out. Gibson would have been the last retrieval in the final stage of his interrupted plan but he had not prepared for the boy's escape if his intentions were discovered early. Gibson was high risk and unnecessary in the larger scheme of things. Entering a heavily guarded underground facility containing people no doubt aware of his latest traitorous escapade and stealing their prize lab rat should not be a priority. However, it was not just his crazy notion to rescue Gibson but the very idea of bringing down the consortiums and their alien allies that went against everything that had kept him alive until now. In the past, he paid the price for following anything other than the instinct to survive. When he took the initiative and killed Bill Mulder instead of his son, he was marked for death. When he joined Marita in the lofty goal of clamoring for the power of the men he defied, he was betrayed. His lifestyle required that he frequently walk a fine line between life and death, and his new plans recklessly abandoned the rules that kept him alive. Why? He wanted to gain a semblance of control over his daily activities. But that could have been accomplished in a number of ways without compromising his safety as much as his present course. The easiest would have been to disappear and find a nice nest to hole up in while the world fell apart around him. However, that would not have rid him of the twin debts of remorse and guilt that gnawed a hole in his chest and threatened to consume him. Alternatively he could not passively turn himself in to Skinner. He had survived too many nightmares to contemplate assisted suicide. In his darkest hours he would not pull the trigger pointed at his head, nor would he give in to what would equal euthanasia. When his time came, he would go out kicking and screaming, although one might wonder what was left for him to fight so hard to stay alive. As a rule, he was not an optimist. His life proved that things can go from bad to worse, without ever looking back to good. But buried within the Pandora's box he lived was something similar to hope that reared its head in the most unexpected moments. Something which forced him into the position he was in now, abandoning his illusion of a safety net, acting on urges that should have remained distant memories. He suspects these feelings were always there but were normally subdued by a combination of anger and fear. They were triggered again when he saw Fionna for the first time since dropping her unconscious body off at a Toronto hospital. The instinct to survive usually overruled everything, but after seeing Fee he was confronted with a new sensation that went far beyond that. He was reminded of everything he had given up or lost along the way. He needed more than air in his lungs to be classified among the living. Albeit the timely intervention of Marita and the lost of his arm delayed and misguided that epiphany for him. *** Two years ago Alex used the master key he had liberated from the concierge to open the private underground parking garage elevator and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. He wondered if the apartment's location and security features were in consideration of her parent's fears or her own concerns about safety since her abduction. As far as he knew, graduate students did get paid much for their teaching duties so he assumed the majority of her salary was going toward the notoriously high rent. He watched the numbers ascend and exhaled a breath he had been holding in for some time. It had been just over two years since he had seen her and even longer since she had been conscious of his presence. It was not just the time that was pressing on his mind but the circumstances under which he had departed and those which compelled him to return. He had considered relaying the information by a letter or phone call but he doubted they would be as effective. Plus he acknowledged, although had not admitted to his superiors, he wanted to see her. He wanted his eyes to prove to his mind that she was real. He was ashamed to admit that memories of Fionna were fading. He had trouble remembering her face. It would come to him like a blurry apparition just as he fell asleep or immediately before he woke. He didn't know if he had made himself forget or if it was simply because so much time had passed and he did not have a photo of her. The elevators slid open on the twelfth floor. He found apartment 1243 and swiftly reversed the lock with a miniature screwdriver. This technique had been picked up at Quantico in a lecture on breaking and entering. Ironically most of his so called secret agent skills could be traced back to his Academy training. Luis Cardinal once remarked that serving an eight-month stint in a Costa Rican prison was like attending Outlaw University. If you kept your ears and eyes open, you would come out knowing things you never would have learned on your own. He insisted that anyone wanting to be a better criminal should go to prison at least once. Alex had privately surmised otherwise, it was his experience former law enforcement agents made the most educated crooks. They knew tricks from both sides of the law. He easily slipped into the dark apartment and locked the door behind him. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness. Despite his habit of skulking in the shadows, he had never grown fond of the darkness and as he made his way through the narrow hallway, he turned on the first lamp he saw. He checked his watch. He had at least forty-five minutes to wait. According to the history department, Fionna's class ended in 15 minutes and he calculated it took her half an hour to get home. Usually he was not this cautious about time but he needed the extra moments to gather his wits. He quickly brought a hand to his gun as he felt something brush his leg. Cursing his lack of control, he sighed and bent down to get a look at an affectionate black kitten rubbing against his leg. Alex reached down to touch it and chuckled at the name on the collar, 'Spooky'. It was. Fionna should have bought a dog if she was worried about the gentle welcome of intruders. The cat seemed exceptionally happy with Alex's arrival and flopped onto his back exposing his belly to be rubbed. He knew Fee's welcome would not be so warm. With one more pat Alex stood and continued to check out the small apartment. Spooky alternated between following and guiding him around the rooms. He bypassed the kitchen and entered the tiny living room /dining room. It was furnished with an old couch, an armchair facing a small t.v. and a round table with two chairs, scattered with papers, books and a lap top computer. Against two walls were built in bookcases filled to the brim with history texts, classics and recent fiction. Obviously Fionna's passion for reading had not diminished. He suddenly remembered lazy Sundays in Moscow when the two of them would curl up on his bed with their respective books, occasionally reading passages out loud that moved or amused them. They would spend the day sleeping, reading, and making love; reluctantly leaving the bedroom for fresh air or a bite to eat. There were no lazy Sundays in life anymore. He took in the framed photos sitting on the shelf absent of books. He recognized one shot from Moscow of Maude, Fee's British classmate. The rest were meaningless to him, a family gathering, a group of girls in bathing suits wearing medals, and various other pictures of people he did not recognize. He did not expect to see one of himself. He doubted the apartment contained any material evidence of their past together. Out of curiosity he clicked a miscellaneous key on the lap top and deactivated the screen saver. He was confronted with a shocking paragraph outlining an obviously unethical medical experiment. For a moment, he did not grasp the historical context and believed Fee was researching her own disappearance. The title of the file clued him to the paragraph's setting, "Vivisection among Allied and Chinese soldiers in Japanese P.O.W. Camps during WWII." He considered for a moment the meaning of Fee moving from studying the aggressors of war to its victims. Was he reading too much into everything, trying to see how much her abduction changed her? The official reason for his visit, he reminded himself, moving into the bathroom, was not to snoop around her apartment but to discern if she was already sick. He paused before opening the medical cabinet and braced himself for his discovery. He was relieved to find nothing suggesting a serious illness. He made his way to the bedroom and stood in the doorway mulling over his next move. He had already invaded her privacy but he reasoned that this was minimal compared to what had already been done to her. A chest of drawers, night table and a futon covered with a colorful quilt filled the small room. A pile of CDS and stereo rested on top of the dresser. A quick glance told him Fee still had bad taste in music, and did not own anything composed afer she was born. Her favorite music was from the 1930s and 1940s which he saw as a sign that she was taking her interest in history too far. Of course she thought he had equally bad taste, and if provoked, would lecture him about the "alternative garbage masquerading as music" that he liked. These discussions ultimately ended in heated debate over who was more talented, George Gershwin or Green Day. He pulled open the night table drawer to check for any signs of medication and was shocked to see the collection of poetry he had given her sitting on top of an assortment of items. Was this merely a sign of her love of Emily Dickinson or was it a memento to him? He picked up the slim volume and opened the cover. It was nothing special. He had bought it at a dusty secondhand English bookstore a few weeks before he left Moscow. They had laughed over the mushy inscription written by the former owner. The promises of love forever had obviously not come true if the book was sold. Perhaps the fate of the book and its previous owners should have been taken as an omen for their own doomed relationship. Never a fan of poetry himself, Alex flipped through the pages aimlessly. His heart seemed to stop beating as a picture slipped out from one of the pages. It was a picture of the two of them sitting together on the porch outside of his stepfather's dacha on the Black Sea. His arm was around her and she was leaning into him with her head tilted. A serene smile, eyes, the grey-blue of an ocean in winter, framed with wavy brown hair invited a sensory dance. He could suddenly hear the husky way her voice dropped when she laughed, how she smelled like a garden after a bath, and how it felt to run his lips over the two small dimples in the small of her back. Was this only three and a half years ago? It felt like a lifetime ago. It was another life. He stared at the photo remembering the weekend it was taken. Victor had expected him to come alone so they could discuss further what Alex had seen two months ago in Tunguska and how his position with the FBI could be helpful to the project. He had been unwillingly to leave Fionna behind and hoped her presence would somehow act as a talisman, banishing the need to act on Victor's predicted destiny. Instead he watched nervously as his stepfather charmed Fionna with amusing tales from Alex's childhood and heroic accounts of his own public service work, neglecting to mention things like the recent expansion of the Tunguska prison, the execution order he signed that morning for four employees not living up to his expectations, and how he was encouraging his stepson to commit treason. Before they left, Victor had pulled him aside and told him it was an unwise time to pursue a relationship. Had he known of the devastating consequences implied in his stepfather's warning, he would like to think he would have ended it right then, no questions asked. Instead he had shrugged it off, refusing to surrender the one thing that brought him peace, unaware his salvation would only bring both of them misery. Unable to look at the photograph any longer, he slipped it back into the book and replaced the poems in the drawer. Looking into the mirror on top of the dresser, he reluctantly compared the image from the photo to the one he saw now. It was hard to believe they were the same man. One afflicted with the knowledge concealed to billions, but still able to smile, ignorant of what responsibilities lay ahead. The other burdened with the cost that knowledge demanded. On good days he could face his reflection and catch a glimpse of the former man. The one who had only shot a gun on the Quantico firing range, walked the streets without looking over his shoulder, and believed men like his stepfather were only looking out for everyone's best interests. Most days he would try to forget such a man ever existed. Forget the past, don't think of the future, just make it through the day was a helpful mantra. On bad days he forced himself to remember. What was he doing here? Everywhere he turned, he was confronted with a memory that went down easy but would return to torture him later. He could have sent an anonymous letter. Was this really the best way to deliver his message? Was there any good way to do this? He checked his watch and saw he had been in the apartment for over an hour. Fee was obviously not coming home straight after her class. She could be anywhere, working late, at the library, out to a movie with friends, or even a date. Alex considered his options and decided to wait. He had come too far to turn back. He sat on the bed and flipped through an issue of the Canadian Historical Review he found on the night table. Fearing the dreary academic prose would put him to sleep, he put it down and retrieved the book of poetry. He moved back to the living room, ignoring the hundreds of less personal choices facing him on the bookshelves. He settled himself in the arm chair and Spooky took the opportunity to jump onto his lap. Alex absentmindedly stroked the black fur and thought with a smirk, if anyone could see him now, sitting reading poetry with a cat curled up in his lap, they would die of either laughter or shock. Well, who knew better than he that appearances could be deceiving? Forty five minutes later Alex heard her key in the door and he stood up quickly, causing Spooky to slide off his lap. He saw her first. Her hair was damp and it fell in her face as she bent down to unlace her boots. As she hung up her coat, she turned toward him oblivious to his presence. Her face was red and puffy as if she had been crying. Was she already sick? Was he too late? Embarrassed to be caught looking at it, he slipped the volume of poetry into his jacket and added thievery to his growing list of crimes against Fionna. He said softly, not much above a whisper, "Fee." Her eyes found him in the dimly light living room. She did not jump, scream or pass out, all acceptable reactions in this situation. Instead she just stared at him and he stared back. "Alex?" she asked in a small voice. Hardly anyone called him Alex anymore. On this continent it was "Krycek," usually accompanied with a sneer. He stepped toward her and she stepped back. They continued to stare, drinking in each other's appearances. He was relieved to see that she looked healthy, more like the photograph in his book, then when he last saw her, drugged to the gills and gaunt from the pneumonia. Her hair was longer and straighter as if the curls had surrendered under the new weight but little else had changed. Her eyes shone in the dark but were unreadable in expressing her current opinion of him. It was almost if they were patiently awaiting an explanation before they passed judgement. However, her posture was formal as if he was a stranger. In many ways he was, and he wondered if this was how she saw him. "How? What are you doing here?" she asked calmly, breaking the silence and his study of her. He avoided her questioned and instead asked her how she was doing. She tilted her head and looked puzzled, "Fine. How are you?" "I've been better," he admitted with a surprised choke. It was one thing to travel down memory lane, it was another to see her in front of him. If he reached out he could touch her, smell her, taste her. . . "I've . . . ," they both said at once. "You go first," Fionna insisted, biting her lip as if to keep a tidal wave of curiosity from pouring out of her mouth. "I noticed you changed research areas," he floundered, pointing to the lap top. He was unable to say what he came here for and needed to buy time. If only she would stop looking at him. "No longer interested in Russia?" Her patience evaporated and she erupted. "What? You disappear from the face of the earth and years later you break into my apartment and ask about my research? What is going on here? How did you get in? Where have you been?" He was about to attempt addressing her questions when the phone rang. "Are you going to get that?" he asked, relieved for the interruption. "No." She looked at him with wide eyes and crossed arms, waiting for her answers. Both were momentarily distracted by Fionna's voice on the answering machine followed by a male one. "Hey Fionna, it's Rob. I heard what happened at the pool today. Are you o.k.? I'm at Lennie's right now if you want to talk." "What happened at the pool today?" Alex asked uneasily, not wanting to know who Rob was and why he cared how she was. "Nothing that concerns you," Fionna said icily, her eyes narrowing. "Or maybe it does? Maybe you know why after swimming since I was a baby I cannot bear to put my face underwater?" The tanks. She was afraid of drowning. Alex raised his hand over his eyes, trying to block the image of her floating in one of the tanks. Fionna had not been subjected to the tests most female abductees were put through. Instead she had been placed in a control group testing the effects of alien DNA on terminal cancer patients where she was subjected to five week long visits in the tanks. Fionna's voiced raised and her body began trembling with growing rage as she continued her tirade."Or why I used to get calls from the FBI asking if I've seen you? Why I was kidnaped? Why I don't remember anything from July to October 1994? And why I feel all of this has to do with you?" "You were part of an experiment. That's all I can tell you. That's all you'll believe," he finally answered. "Yes, it was because of me, but believe me, I did not want it to happen." Fionna turned away from him. She sank into the wall for support and closed her eyes. Eternity appeared to pass before she spoke. "What did you do to me?" she asked in a small voice. He tried not to react to her emphasis on his role in the matter. He wanted to tell her that he never wanted to hurt her. That it nearly killed him to watch. That he had no choice. He walked toward her slumped figure and fought the urge to take her in his arms, both for fear of rejection and acknowledgment that if he did, he would not be able to let go. Instead he began with his original intention and asked, "Have you taken the chip out?" She looked at him with a combination of fear and confusion. "What?" "There is a microchip somewhere in your body. In could be above your navel, in your armpit, at the base of your neck, in your nasal cavity or the small of your back . . . ," he trailed off. She had no idea what he was talking about which meant she had not even found it, let alone removed it. Alex swallowed and continued, "Fee, you have to listen to me. No matter how much you hate me, do not under any circumstance take the chip out. You will die. Please believe me. I only just found out." "Get the hell out of here before I call the police," Fionna growled with abandon. "Unless you are here to take me again." She looked up at him defiantly. "Fee . . . I . . . " "Get out!" He nodded, retreated into the hallway and crept out of her life once again. He hoped he had not scared her into removing the chip. His biggest concern about the whole rendezvous would be that after alerting her to its presence, she would remove it out of distrust of his warnings. He could only hope that she would see the logic in his reappearance. If he wanted to harm her, he could have, so why would he lie to her about the chip? Fionna was a rational woman and she would listen to him once she worked it out for herself. Feeling restless and drained at the same time, he walked through the dark streets with no particular destination in mind. He didn't have to be in New Jersey until tomorrow night, though some might argue that New York was not the best city for him to be in. Between the people he knew from working at the United Nations to his old associates on 46th Street, it was probably the most conspicuous place he could be other than the lobby of FBI headquarters. However, the chances of being recognized in a city of six million were slim and he relished New York's anonymous gaze. He considered crashing at some cheap hotel but he didn't feel like being alone with his thoughts. Instead he selected a small bar he knew would unlikely be the destination of choice for anyone who wished to put a bullet in him. Located on the edge of Greenwich it would be full of students and the starving artist crowd. He ordered a beer and tried to forget Fee so he could think about tomorrow. He was meeting with the head of the Drowning Eagles, a right wing militia group who believed America's liberal traditions were destroying the country. They were preparing for what they called The Second American Revolution, a day when Americans reclaimed their pride and dignity by renouncing democracy. In the meantime the Eagles concentrated their efforts on blowing up popular U.S. monuments and memorials as a symbol of how America's roots needed to be destroyed. Last year they were unsuccessful in their attempt to blow the torch off the Statue of Liberty but managed to injure over a hundred tourists. Originally the Russians believed the Eagles might be funded by the American led consortium and Alex was assigned to investigate this connection. He infiltrated the group only to discover there was no truth behind the rumor. Still, he felt the Eagles could be useful to the Russians. Tomorrow they were meeting to plan their next project and Alex was going to suggest that the Eagles target the Gettysburg National Park. This site would compliment their own terrorist goals while aiding the Russians in sabotaging one of the American consortium's main base of operations. Thoughts of Gettysburg only brought him back to his meeting with Fee. He didn't think she would be thrilled to see him or be grateful for his information. He had fully prepared himself for her anger but did not expect to be shaken by the fear in her eyes. It was the same look he saw her wear when they brought her back after her escape attempt and the one she wore before being escorted to the tanks for the second time. Since then, he had experienced his own share of frightening moments but often felt more haunted by her nightmares then his own. He guessed this is how Mulder felt on a regular basis. A sixth sense told him he was being watched. He moved his eyes from his drink and scanned the crowd half hoping to see Fee. Instead they became focused on a slim blond woman sitting across the room. When his eyes met hers, she smiled and raised her glass of white wine. She stood out from the crowd of grungy youth in a slinky white silk blouse and grey skirt, the matching jacket draped casually over her lap. She looked like a woman who should be frequenting a classier establishment. He disengaged himself from her inviting gaze. He did not want company. "Hello," she said brightly, suddenly behind him. "Hello," he said dully, hoping to discourage further discourse. Another day, another place, he might not be so dismissive of her advances. "You don't remember me, do you?" He turned to look at her again. Shit. Was this a pick-up line or did she really know him? "I'm afraid not." "I think we share the same employer." Highly unlikely, Alex thought, shaking his head in response. "I believe I sat across from you at a few UN meetings. I sometimes translated for the Greek representatives." This was not good. He still could not place her but she obviously remembered him. Had she not heard of his fall from grace or was she stalling until the police came? Whatever the case, he decided it was time to make an exit. He shook his head again. "Sorry. I don't know what you're talking about," he offered, trying to sound sincere. He swallowed the rest of his beer and put on his jacket, appearing to casually get ready to leave. "I'm sorry. My mistake." She smiled apologetically. He just nodded and got up to leave. "Or maybe I know you from your more recent employment, Mr. Krycek," she called to him. O.k. that got his attention. She was definitely not looking to pick him up. He turned again to face her. "Oh really," he said half amused, half annoyed. "Perhaps we should take this conversation to a more private location." She slipped off her stool and gracefully disappeared into the back of the bar. He could bolt now or stay and hear what she had to say. If she was some sort of assassin, he was confident he could take her down first. He shrugged to himself and followed her to a secluded booth in a corner. He stopped her before she sat and patted her down, checking for a weapon. She was unarmed and he motioned her to sit. "And I thought you weren't looking for company, " she teased gently. "Should I do the same to you?" "I guarantee you'll find something," he said sliding into the seat across from her. "Who are you?" "Marita Covarrubias, I'm the assistant to the Special Representative to the Secretary General." "You've moved up from a lowly translator." "It's really a fancy name for a glorified secretary. But I bet you know what it's like to be the errand boy for the big players." "What would you know about that?" A waiter came over to the couple. Anxious to find out what this woman knew about him, Alex motioned him away but Marita asked for two vodkas. "Isn't it customary to drink first before you get down to business in Russia?" she asked coyly. "Only if you want to get your associate drunk first," he retorted. She had subtly let him know she knew many of his secrets but was not afraid of him. He was beginning to like his mystery woman. Together they waited in comfortable silence for their drinks. "To common interests," Alex toasted raising his glass. It was so much simpler to think about work than Fee. "To the future, and those who make it," Marita chimed in, clinking her glass against his as if sealing a bargain. "So, what do you want?" "The same as you," she said simply. "And that is . . . ?" "Control. Revenge. Power. I can give that to you." "Really . . . " he said. "When were you appointed master of the universe?" "I believe we're all the masters of our destiny. If we truly want to be." "Whose to say I'm not exactly where I want to be?" "Please . . . " she said. "You could be so much more." "Listen I don't know what or who you're recruiting for, but I'm not interested." "There's your problem Alex. You always assume you have to be working for someone else. Why don't you try working for yourself?" Unappealing visions of the time he spent living on the streets of Hong Kong flashed in front of him. Desperately waiting to see if there were any buyers for his information, he was hungry enough to consider turning himself in when the French buyers appeared. That solitary journey was not one he cared to repeat. Of course he was more experience now, had more contacts and more money. It need not be like it was before. As well, his renewed allegiance with the Russians was not the merry picture it once was. The revenge part was interesting, but he certainly did not lust after more responsibility than he had now. In the end, what Marita offered promised more risk then reward "Why do you care?" he asked, more curious than suspicious of her motives. "I don't, I was just making an observation. Think about it." She finished her drink and stood up to leave. "By the way, I think you should know the Americans have discovered the Tunguska project and have made arrangements to procure a sample of the vaccine's source. Good luck," she stated bluntly and then disappeared into the crowd. Her farewell message jarred him into action. His visit to Fee flew out of his mind as did anything else Marita had to say. Phone calls were made, and five days later he was handcuffed to a steering wheel, counting his bruises, waiting for Mulder to return from what would later be revealed to be Marita's apartment. It was only two weeks later, when he needed someone to help him dress and cut his food, that Marita's vague comments about destiny came back to haunt him. Adjusting to life with one arm made it crystal clear that no one considered his well being important but himself. When there was nothing left to lose, it didn't matter if he played the king or pawn. As king though, he might be able to take a few more souls to hell with him. Looking back, he was sure that Marita meant to double cross him from the beginning and did not have an attack of conscience at the last minute. He found it interesting that she never considered him worthy enough to try wooing him to the light side of the force and just seduced him with promises of revenge. Maybe she thought he was a lost cause. More likely she just didn't care. He wondered what Marita would think of him now. It is interesting that the consequences of her deception led him back to Fionna, and into the part Marita unsuccessfully tried to play herself. *** The Present - October 10, 1998 Mulder drove down highway heading toward Toronto. Scully was beside him reviewing the FBI doccier on Krycek. Fionna sat in the back seat periodically leaning forward to give Mulder directions. The short flight had been uneventful as all three tried to catch up on sleep. At the Toronto airport, located half an hour away from the city, they rented a car to take them to the downtown apartment or as Mulder dryly referred to it, Al Capone's vault. "What made you chose Toronto?" Scully asked looking up from her reading, glancing out her window at the bland highway scenery. "I have family here, so if they were watching it would not look suspicious for me to travel home every weekend. We rented an apartment in my brother's building." "What does your family think of all this?" Mulder asked. "They have no idea. They think I was setting up an office for a professor I was working for as a research assistant. It's right next to the Provincial Archives so it seemed reasonable." "You had no trouble getting stuff over the border?" Mulder questioned, mulling over the schematics. "I was never stopped, I guess I don't look very suspicious. Alex came with me when there was any . . . specimens. He had papers saying the samples were for medical school research." "How romantic," Mulder noted under his breath. "It's not like that." The comment caused Mulder and Scully to exchange surprised looks and Fionna was unsure if that revelation improved or lowered their opinion of her. If she were to define herself solely by her relationship to him, who did she appear to be, the floozy seduced by the sexy assassin or some naive do gooder playing nurse, nun and social worker to the dregs of society? "So how did you two meet up again?" Scully asked, sounding a bit bewildered at the exact nature of Krycek and Fionna's relationship. Fionna wondered how she could explain what happened next since she had not reconciled the matter herself. "Two years ago he came to me with some disturbing information regarding my abduction and then disappeared again. Nine months ago he reappeared." "With a change in heart?" Mulder ventured. "I guess you could call it that. When I saw him the second time, I think he was at the end of his rope. He was tired of living the way he was and he was presented with an opportunity to make some changes." "To become part of the resistance?" Mulder asked. "That was one part of it, but mostly I think he wanted to take control of his life and start back on the path he originally hoped for." "Ah, he's a regular Darth Vader," Mulder said sarcastically. "I don't blame you for thinking that way but there's a lot you don't know about Alex," Fionna said, her assurances falling on deaf ears. For someone who claimed not to be Alex Krycek's public relations woman she certainly acted like it. As a historian it was her goal to understand the past. She did not have to like or forgive it, but she did her best to comprehend actions and ideas in the context in which they were developed. Only then could they be judged fairly. A historian also had to be aware of change over time. Few things in life were static and every individual's life was subject to the evolutionary forces of their own behavior and beliefs as well of those around them. She understood Alex had been manipulated from a young age to become what he was and often was offered no choice but to act as others wished. He also acknowledged there were times when only he could claim responsibility for his actions. Once he knew exactly what was going on he chose to corroborate rather than fight. At times it was bad judgement or apathy, while at points he did what he genuinely thought was necessary to survive. Although he had admitted to her more than once that he had plenty of opportunities to have pulled a "Mulder". He could have been an ally from the beginning but it did not mean it was too late to make different choices now. The ramifications of those choices were now, more than ever, hanging on a thin wire and the destinies of many were intertwined with his. At times Fionna resented him for leading her toward this dependence but she did not wish him to succeed only for her benefit, though sometimes it was hard to remember this was larger than two people. Alex had warned her of the opposition Mulder and Scully would have toward anything connected to him and she could not blame them for their beliefs. Her own justifications had not developed over night and she had been equally wary of him until they met again. *** Nine months ago Fionna woke with a fuzzy feeling in her head. She felt both drunk and hung over at the same time, except she had nothing to drink the night before. She attributed it to nerves relating to the paper she was giving that afternoon at the military history conference. It was to be the first public presentation of her thesis research on World War II prisoners of war, and she hoped to make a good impression on the more experienced historians. She rushed around her tiny apartment, much to Spooky's amusement, getting ready with the feeling she was very late. Despite her watch and clocks showing she had plenty of time, she could not shake the feeling of disorientation and left early. Arriving at the hotel's conference center she encountered her friend Joan who set her to work alphabetizing name tags for the other speakers. With her mind on this tedious task she was able to clear her thoughts and concentrate. But as the opening session began, Fionna's mind drifted again. She found herself starring out the window at the rain, instead of listening to the opening remarks from one of the country's leading historians. Feeling as though she had forgotten something important, she rechecked her briefcase. Even after she confirmed that all the pages for her speech were there and in order, she could not shake the feeling something else was wrong. A round of applause jolted her out of her daze and she did her best to listen to the next speaker. The first session was followed by a coffee break and Fionna escaped into a corner to gather her thoughts. She was presenting next in one of the smaller sessions and needed to get a grip. Thinking some fresh air might help, she slipped out of the room. Standing on the hotel's front steps, watching the rain bounce off the striped canopy above her, Fionna took deep breaths and went over the opening paragraph of her paper but found she could not focus. She was reminded of one of her favorite Dickinson poems:
This sensation was also joined by a desire to run away but she forced herself to return inside and find the room where she would be presenting. A small audience had gathered to hear papers on theories relating to shell shock, battle fatigue and post traumatic stress disorder among soldiers in various 20th century wars. Fionna was presenting last out of four speakers. As she took her place at the head table, she wished she was going first so she could go home straight after her speech. At least she hoped her head would clear before her turn but instead the fogginess thickened, her ears began ringing and a tight feeling in the back of her neck suddenly appeared. The most likely explanation was the flu, but she also wondered if she was experiencing the early symptoms of a panic attack. Just yesterday she was terribly excited at the opportunity to give her paper, but given the importance of this moment to her future academic career it was possible her nerves were getting the better of her. She had a panic attack once before. After returning from her abduction she had developed a fear of water. It took her ages to enjoy a bath but she was never comfortable enough to play water polo again. When she returned to Columbia to do her Ph.D., she became the assistant coach of the water polo team she used to play on. On the day her team won the semifinals, someone unaware of her new phobia threw her into the pool to celebrate. In the eery silence underwater, she felt as if time had stopped. Not having the opportunity to hold her breath before falling in, her lungs began to burn. The instinct to breathe kicked in and she inhaled a mouthful of water. To Fionna it did not taste like chlorine at all but something vaguely organic. She struggled when she felt a hand grab her shoulder and her mind screamed as if it was trapped in a nightmare, "I'm not going back in!" Suddenly her head broke the surface and Fionna saw a lifeguard facing her and another towing her to the wall. She stopped kicking and went limp with relief. Reaching the side of the pool, Fionna grasped onto the wall and pulled her upper body onto the pool deck. She leaned there for a moment, not having the strength to go further. Her arm and leg muscles quivered as if she had just run a marathon. Strong hands pulled her completely out of the water and laid her down on the pool deck where she began to vomit the water she inhaled. In between coughs, she wondered vaguely why it was not green but clear liquid coming out of her mouth. A crowd gather around her as she lay panting on the floor, trying to catch her breath. She sat up and someone draped a towel around her shoulders. Giving herself a few more moments, she stood up despite the lifeguards' protests and insisted that she was fine. All she needed was a hot shower and she retreated into the locker room, ignoring the stares of those perturbed by her bizarre reaction. Her legs would not support her so she sat in the shower under the stream of hot water. Slowly she began to warm up and stop shivering. Strangely she felt Alex Krycek's presence surrounding her, someone whom she had not thought of in a long time. Turning around, she half expected to see him behind her. Coincidently, or not, depending how you chose to look at the matter, that was the day he paid her a visit. When she arrived home that evening, he stepped out of the shadows of her apartment to tell her about experiments and microchips. Then he left, as she asked, leaving her more confused then ever. In the days following his appearance, she considered phoning the number given to her years ago by the FBI to report any contact with Alex. In the end she opted not to, it would only drag up things she succeeded in putting out of her mind. However, the days and weeks following his visit were anything but peaceful as her thoughts were constantly preoccupied with that night. She replayed his visit over and over in her head. Why had he come to her? And why now? Did he ache for the same type of closure she had yearned for all these years? If so, his ambiguous explanation of what happened left out an important part of the equation. What had she meant to him? Had anything of their eleven months together been real? Eventually she stopped interrogating the shadows and concentrated on what Alex did tell her. Despite her dislike for doctors she arranged for a full checkup and was relived when Dr. Ragavan pronounced her in excellent health. She did not ask about any implant. She had felt her body in the places Alex described and thought she could feel something at the base of her neck, but was unsure if it was a flaw in the skin, part of her spinal cord, or a bump from the insertion of the aforementioned microchip. She had not pursued it further, not wanting to acknowledge if Alex's claims were true. Today she did not feel like she did when she was dropped in the pool. She felt as though she remembered she had left the stove on at home but amplified ten times. She had to get out of there, speech or no speech. She picked up the first page of her paper and wrote on the back, "Please excuse me-I am ill" and slid it over to the third speaker sitting beside her. She did not wait to see his reaction but gathered her briefcase and slipped out the door without acknowledging the surprised looks of the current presenter and audience. She navigated the corridors of the hotel conference area and once outside, started walking in no particular direction. After three blocks she realized she had left her raincoat and umbrella back at the hotel coat check. It was pouring rain and she was soaking wet. Her suit jacket did little to kept out the chilly February rain and her breath came out in tiny clouds. Her nylons glistened with rain drops and made squishy noises against the soles of her ruined leather heels. The rain dripped down her face and her hair which had been put in a tight chignon was threatening to come loose at any moment. Fionna kept walking, unconcerned with her drowned rat appearance. She stopped at a traffic light and found herself staring across at Central Station. She stood shivering with her arms wrapped around her as she contemplated her situation. This was where she felt she was supposed to be. She needed to take the train - but where? It was as if her mind was controlling her body and only telling her what was going to happen on a need to know basis. She was about to cross the street when she heard her name called out. To her right, a black Bentley had pulled up beside the corner and a young Asian man got out. He held the door open as if to invite her in. "Ms. Wilkinson . . . " a voice repeated from inside the vehicle. Her current journey momentarily forgotten, Fionna approached the car cautiously and looked inside. Sitting in the luxurious interior, a debonair elderly man smiled at her. The only thing marring his aristocratic exterior was a silver gun placed on one knee, his hand lying casually across it. Fionna gasped and jerked backwards only to run into the other man holding the door. "Please Ms. Wilkinson, it is in your best interest to get into the automobile. Trust me you do not want to go where you're headed," the gentleman said in crisp English accent. Considering her state of mind it was almost a relief to be gently propelled into the car under someone else's power. She entered the vehicle, took a seat beside the mysterious man and tried not to look at his weapon. "You're a hard woman to keep up with," the man stated as the car began to move again. "It is a good thing we managed to catch you when we did." He handed her a towel and indicated for the driver to turn up the heat. "Where are we going?" she asked surveying the car and noting the front and back seats were divided by a darkened window. "To a business meeting. There is someone whom I hope will be interested to see you." The buzzing in her mind had dissipated somewhat since she entered the car and she began to realize she was not acting like herself. Why had she left the conference and why had she gotten into a car with a gun toting stranger? Part of her seemed to acknowledge that she was in danger but she was confused if it was related to where she had been going or where she was headed now. She wished her head would clear. "I think I should go." "All in good time." The man questioned Fionna about her family and studies. She could tell he was trying to put her at ease but the longer they drove the more anxious Fionna got. It was difficult to tell where they were going through the heavily tinted windows but she thought they had left the downtown core and were heading out of Manhattan. Half an hour later, the car stopped and through an intercom the driver announced they were at the international shipyards and noted the Star of Russia was the third ship to the left. This announcement left her wondering if she was some how needed as a translator. "Thank you. Tran, come and keep Ms. Wilkinson company in the backseat. I'll call you if we need her." The gentleman got out of the car and gestured for the beefy driver to come with him. With the British man gone, Fionna contemplated an escape from the vehicle but her stoney-faced bodyguard was not taking his eyes off her. Although she still had an urge to flee, it was now dictated by her current predicament rather than by the mysterious longing she suffered from earlier. Her mind and body were now focused on her present situation, and she concentrated all her energy on thinking how to get away from the car. Her escape plans were disrupted by the Englishman's sudden return. He appeared to have lost all his former composure and was openly exasperated and irritated at whatever transpired during his absence from the car. Ignoring Fionna, he told Tran to take them to somewhere called The Hub as he apparently had left his driver behind at the ship. As they left the shipyards, the man reached for his car phone and aggressively dialed a number. He had somewhat regained his poise when he calmly addressed the receiver of his call."I have unexpected news. Ms. Covarrubias has the boy. Although one hopes she is bringing him to us, I have my doubts . . . He is being detained . . . I'll be there shortly." Hanging up, he looked at Fionna. "I'm afraid I will have to hold onto you a little longer. You may still be of some use to me. And believe me, my dear, it is in your best interests not to be wandering around right now with that chip in you." Fionna gasped at this mention of the chip and her hand automatically touched the spot on the back of her neck that had been aching before. It only clicked now that this all must have something to do with Alex. A vision of him standing in her apartment with a mournful look on his face flashed across her mind. Why had she not thought of this before? Why did everything always seem to come back to him? Upon arriving at another unknown destination, Fionna was escorted by Tran to a small windowless room that held a table, chair and cot along with a toilet and sink. She was shortly visited by the Englishman and another man who introduced himself as a researcher. He proceeded to ask her questions about how she felt today and did not seem surprised by her honest responses of feeling distracted as if she was under the power of someone else. She felt relatively calm answering his questions until he pulled out what looked like a small reflex hammer embedded at the end with tiny spikes. When asked to turn around, Fionna's eyes went wide and she backed away from the two men, shaking her head, her mouth open in a voiceless scream. The researcher rose to follow her but the British man stopped him by saying, "Thank you Ms. Wilkinson. We require no further information at this time." They departed and she was left to curse Alex Krycek, ponder how long she would be gone this time and what they would do to her. Once alone, the restless feeling from before returned and she paced the room nervously, unconsciously rubbing the back of her neck and chewing her fingernails. After what seemed like hours, exhaustion prompted her to lie down on the cot. When she awoke, she was pleased to discover her head was clear and she felt more like her old self. However, her old self was not used to being held prisoner and there lingered a sense of disorientation and trepidation. What had been her best clothes the day before had dried since her walk in the rain, and were now extremely wrinkled and uncomfortable. There was no mirror, but she knew she looked how she felt, completely bedraggled. Fionna did not know if it was a good or bad sign that no one came to see her. As hunger and boredom gnawed at her, she became more irritated then afraid and decided if she were ever to hold anyone prisoner she would at least provide lunch and reading material. Her crankiness was replaced with dread when she heard a key in the lock late in the afternoon. The Englishman held open the door and said in a bright voice, "It turns out we did not need you after all. Time to go home." He had apparently forgotten or salvaged the situation which annoyed him yesterday and was smiling broadly. Fionna cautiously got up but stopped short at seeing a brooding figure leaning against the hallway wall. "I believe you already know Mr. Krycek," the Englishman chuckled as if he had made a joke. "He will take you home." Fionna stared at Alex but he would not meet her eyes, instead he glared at the amused older man. "Let me know if you change your mind," he addressed Alex before turning on his heel and walking away from the couple. "Let's go," Alex said gruffly and started walking down the corridor of what appeared to be some sort of medical wing. Fionna stood where she was, unsure if following Alex was in her best interests. Not hearing her footsteps behind him, he turned back to look at her. "Do you want to stay here?" "No." "Well?" he asked with exasperation when she still did not move. "I don't want to go with you." "Listen . . . " He moved toward her and jabbed his finger out. "You're an unneeded complication right now. I don't need this. You can stay here for all I care. This was not my idea." "I'm a complication in your life?" Fionna cried. "Oh please forgive me. I wouldn't want to ruin your day." Alex turned away, ignoring her contemptuous voice and appeared to make good on his threat to leave without her. Amid mixed emotions of anger and fear, she was confused by his rejection and disinterest. She thought she was supposed to be here because of him but he appeared to care less if she went or stayed. Once more, he turned back and addressed her, "You can make this easy or hard." Motioning with his left arm, he pushed open his leather jacket subtly revealing a gun slung in its holster. Fionna stared in shock and wonder as Alex let the jacket fall back in place. "Your arm . . . ," Fionna mumbled in disbelief and he stiffened with the realization she was not staring at the weapon but at the awkward angle of his left arm. Fionna scrutinized him uneasily. This was not the Alex Krycek she thought she once knew. This was not even the man who stood in her apartment two years ago, seemingly full of guilt. Dark circles hovered around his eyes. His face held no compassion or humor or peace but anger, misery and frustration streaked across his features. His leather jacket hung like a shield around him daring anyone to give him a reason to explode. Her assessment appeared to unnerve him and he shifted impatiently. "Fee, I'm just taking you home. I promise," he said in a softer tone. Fionna decided her options were slim and accepted his offer. The Bentley was parked with the engine running outside the door of an underground parking lot. Fionna and Alex got into the back seat and an anonymous driver pulled out. "What was that facility we were in?" She was determined to find out what was going on and hoped Alex was in the mood to talk. She was not returning again without any answers. She started with a neutral question even though the one she wanted to ask most was, "Who the hell are you?" "The least you know, the less reason for them to be interested in you," he replied flatly, staring blindly out the tinted windows. "I know nothing and they're still interested in me," Fionna pointed out, wondering who "they" were. Her mind swarmed with images of black market organ dealers, terrorists and organized crime. Her friend Joan was writing her thesis on prohibition in the 1920s and often regaled her with stories of mob atrocities. "You don't really want to know," he warned. "Could you at least tell me about the chip in my neck?" He finally turned to look at her. "It acts as a cataloguing device, similar to a bar code. It's known to cause illness when removed. I don't know a lot about it." "Was it also controlling me yesterday?" "That part of it is unclear but they believe it acts as some sort of neuro- navigator." "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Fionna commented, feeling oddly detached from the reality of the situation. "That could be the slogan for the whole thing," Alex remarked bitterly and turned away from her again. Fionna quietly absorbed the new information but could not remain uninquisitive for long. There was a question pressing on her mind, one she did not know if she wanted the answer. What would hurt more, knowing he had deceived her all along or somehow changed during the course of their relationship? "Were you ever who I thought you were?" In response she received silence and the question hovered in the tense air. Was he thinking or refusing to answer? Hoping it was the former, she prompted him again. "I mean, were you involved in this, whatever this is, when I first knew you?" "You never knew me." The words were spoken quietly but their confidence slapped her across the face as if they were yelled. "Obviously," she retorted, although it hadn't been obvious up until he said it. She had half hoped he was as innocent a bystander in this whole operation as she was. . "Here we are, as promised," Alex reported twenty minutes later as the car stopped. "Gee, why would I ever doubt you?" Her hand was on the door to leave when she felt him touch her arm with hesitation. "Fee, this was never about you. It started long before I met you, long before I was even born. We never had a chance. Don't take it personally." "Maybe you could give me lessons in how to act that way, because you did a pretty good job at making it personal." "I know. I know." He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit she recognized from before. The familiarity of the simple act somehow moved her, a part of him from the past confirmed in the present. "There's a lot you wouldn't understand. A lot I'm still figuring out. It's complicated beyond explanation, beyond imagination." "Do you like who you are? Do you like what you're doing?" His dark eyes flashed briefly across her face. "What do you think?" he challenged, sounding almost insulted by the question. "I think we' ve already established I don't know you well enough to answer that, but as far as I can see, you don't appear to be savoring the moment." "You caught me on a bad day," he stated strongly through clenched teeth but added a moment later, "It would not be easy to change things." "Nothing easy is usually worthwhile." "Thank you for your words of wisdom, Mary Poppins, but I've learned one man cannot fight the future." "Who said you had to do it alone? I mean, this is obviously illegal. You could go to the police. The FBI." He snorted."That will be the day." "I could help you . . . " The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she offered. He gawked blankly at her. "You don't know what you're saying." She searched her mind for a reasonable answer. "Like I said before, I'm already involved." He shook his head aggressively. "No. I've got things under control." "Of course. Well, I guess this is it," Fionna said, getting out of the car. "Yeah," Alex mumbled and then slammed the door behind her. As she watched the car disappear into the traffic, Fionna wondered if she would see him again. How long would the consequences of their short lived love affair haunt her? She did not have long to wait for her answers. She was on the phone with her brother and almost missed the small knock on her door shortly before midnight. Although she automatically looked through the peep hole, she instinctively knew it was him. "How polite of you to knock. Did you lose your lock picking kit?" Fionna asked sharply, hoping an aura of false bravado would cover her apprehension at answering the door. He still looked like hell but something had changed in the hours that passed. His hooded eyes were haunted with a glimmer of hope. "Did you mean what you said?" he asked, almost daring her to refuse. "I...Yes," she said, trying to sound confident although unsure of the implications her answer held. And then he told her everything. It sounded like a fairytale where magic, monsters, mavericks and martyrs intermingled under the surface of the real world. Where the will of the Gods interfered with the destinies of mortals. Where there was no room for heroes and villains, only winners and losers. *** The Present - October 10, 1998 Mulder surveyed his surroundings. He didn't know where to begin. The room he stood in held a deep freezer hooked up to its own generator. A table held both a laptop and desktop computer. Papers, notebooks and files stood neatly stacked beside them. The other two rooms held nothing but boxes. Scully wandered around the apartment inspecting everything as if she were appraising a crime scene while Fionna shuffled through some papers on the table. "Here." Fionna held up a clipboard and handed it to Mulder. "This is the most up to date guide on what we have. The master bedroom is full of material about the Syndicates, plans for colonization and the aliens. The material is either photocopies of originals or downloaded on disks. The second bedroom has files on individuals, both the perpetrators and victims of the conspiracy. They're mainly biographies composed by Alex which are substantiated by the files in the first bedroom. This freezer contains all the specimens we collected, mainly blood and tissue samples from abductees." "Do you have the vaccine?" Mulder asked, flipping through the guide. Fionna shook her head. "Just after Howard Burns died, the Englishman, colonists found out about the production of a vaccine and demanded all versions of it be destroyed. They must have kept a few samples but it was impossible to get our hands on. However, Alex believes that he is a good source for research. He suspects the Russians developed their vaccine by studying his blood after he was infected with the black oil in Hong Kong. He also mentioned that both of you have been exposed to two different forms of the vaccine." Scully looked curiously at Mulder. "Tunguska . . . I think," he said, answering her unasked question. He had not burdened Scully with the nature of the experiments performed on him in the gulag. Mulder considered the time frame and wondered if his injection of Scully in Antarctica had been what announced the presence of the vaccine to the aliens. Minutes later, Mulder sat surrounded by boxes on the floor of the master bedroom. Like a kid in a candy store he did not know what to choose first and randomly started reading through the contents of the first box he picked up entitled, U.S. Department of Defense, 1944-1974. Without the proper tools to study any of the scientific evidence, Scully was in a similar position in the second room. She had ignored the boxes marked "S" not ready to confront anything, fictional or otherwise, about herself, Melissa, Emily or even Skinner. She started alphabetically and began working her way through A's. Fionna sat at the table organizing the most recent data which was left uncatalogued since her last visit. The documents held familiar stories; bits and pieces of information which had slowly been uncovered, if not supported with evidence, while working on the X-Files. However, these files gave names to faces, dates to events and locations to sites. It made the DAT tape look pathetic in comparison. Most of the data Mulder and Scully had stumbled across over the years was limited to North America but many of these files detailed examples from Europe, the Middle East, and Asia, suggesting the conspiracy reached every corner of the globe. If the story collected by Krycek was true, aliens first made contact with humans in 1943, four years before the infamous Roswell crash. Amid the final stages of World War II the Allied and Axis powers met together to discuss this contact. The visitors from outer space promised peace and freely gave technology. These gifts were reflected in a boom in knowledge surrounding computer science, aviation, communications and weaponry which were doled out to the public in little pieces over the next two decades. Humans were given the science to complete the atomic bomb, break the sound barrier, launch satellites, radically alter the nature, size and power of computers, and land a man on the moon. In the 1970s the message of friendship radically changed when the aliens revealed to have a high payment price for their Trojan horse; they wanted to colonize the planet. Understandably this was not announced to the official world governments. Instead, the aliens unofficially made contacts within various international military, industrial, financial and political bodies and began to work out the plans for colonization. These organizations were ruled by a consortium of men from eighteen powerful countries. Amid cold war superstition and alienation, the group spilt into two; one run by the United States and its capitalist allies, the other was formed with members from the Soviet Union, China and Eastern Europe. The aliens promised both of these groups shared power in colonization and gave them the date of 2013 for this endeavor. In the meantime, the aliens organized experiments among both groups to explore the compatibility of human/alien genetics. The human allies of the aliens believed they were working toward production of an alien/human hybrid, a being to unite the different species. However, the recent events in North Texas revealed the aliens' real agenda to be the grotesque manipulation of the human body for their own horrifying purposes. Once the genetic formula was perfected, humans would be infected with a virus causing not only their death, but the birth of an alien. Select groups of humans were to be kept alive as slaves and breeders to continue the process of colonization through genocide. It sounded like a nightmare dreamed up by Charles Darwin, Ridley Scott and Adolf Hitler. The colonizing aliens were as science fiction conventionally described them, small and grey. The humans rarely had contact with them as the earth's climate was intolerable to them and they could only withstand short periods of time in its atmosphere. It was believed that the grey aliens born through a human host would have the genetic codes to make habitation of earth pleasant. The humans worked side by side on this project with another subordinate race, the shape shifter with the poisonous green blood. Their ability to resemble humans made them appear less threatening and humans originally thought they were in power. Experiments using their genetic make-up were performed as a smoke screen to hide the greys' true intentions and the secret experiments with their life essence, the black oil. The consortium members were told that they would be kept alive to supervise the process of selective elimination and their families would be allowed to live. They were warned that opposition would lead to a full out war, resulting in the complete destruction of the human race. Cooperation would ensure its survival, if not its independence. Most consortium members did not aspire to betray their own people, but like the African bounty hunters capturing their brothers to be sold into slavery or Kapo guards forced to report on other Jews during the holocaust, they collaborated because it ensured their own survival. An attempt at salvation though a vaccine was secretly started in both the Western and Eastern consortiums during the mid 1980s when ideas about an alien virus were first suspected. However, in the last few years an open resistance was formed among a number of the shape shifters and human/alien hybrids to sabotage the plans for colonization but they remained weak without human support and aid. Since they feared surrendering what they believed to be their one chance to survive, the majority of syndicate members were conservative in their actions and did not attempt insurrection beyond a secret search for a vaccine. Krycek had gathered a wealth of information. Although most of it would be inadmissible in court due to the nature in which it was procured, it would be an excellent starting point for a full out federal investigation. Krycek claimed exposure would help the resistance but if nothing else, these files could rebuild what was lost in the fire. As much as Mulder wanted to believe it all, the information could not be proven on its own. His encounter with Krischgau made him cautious, and his experiences with Krycek made him suspicious. There was no way to prove the validity of the papers, pictures and disks by merely reading the material. For all Mulder knew they were elaborate forgeries; a well documented and creative hoax perpetrated by Krycek. Or if this was all true and Krycek had been discovered, how long would it take for his proof to become obsolete? But if this paper trail could lead to visual proof and the scientific evidence buried in the freezer complimented the fantastic and devastating stories Krycek documented, then they were in business. *** Seven hours later Here goes nothing. Alex stood in the middle of a dark deserted field. Only railway tracks marred the pastoral setting. The land he stood on now was at the edge of the National Park preserved by the government to commemorate the civil war battle of Gettysburg. It was a memorial to one of the bloodiest battles Americans ever fought. The fields were doted with statues representing the glorious men in grey and the chivalrous men in blue, bravery and heroism immortalized rather than ideals and politics. Brother fighting brother, or so the tour guides sprouted. In the distance Alex could see farms, one of them once belonging to a retired Dwight Eisenhower. On several of his visits here Alex pondered the reasons why the former General and President had chosen to spend his last years living in sight of the battlefields of Gettysburg. Was it a tribute to the bravery of how Americans fought under him in the Second World War or to remind himself how he arranged for the first soldiers to be sent to their deaths in Vietnam? Did Eisenhower have any inkling that the next major war his citizens and armed forces fought would not be civil or international but intergalactic? He tried to imagine the picturesque Gettysburg fields once again strewn with the corpses of soldiers and the air full of gangrene and blood. Fee once said history was usually written by the winners, often manipulated to favor the present over the past. He wondered who would be left to record the human's side of the colonization journey and what they would say of its history? The particular section of land he stood on now had not been preserved in its entirety. Roughly twenty-five meters beneath it was a seventeen thousand square foot research center. One of four permanent centers hidden across the country used for long term or high security projects, the rest being delegated to the moving labs on train cars. This one was the drop off point for abductees from the North Eastern states and it hosted all levels of the alien/human hybrid program. It was also home to certain side projects, such as the one in which Gibson currently starred. Alex walked over to a small 19th century style railway depot in which tourists often stumbled across and took pictures. Little did they know where it led. He swiped a security card and punched a code into a conspicuous twentieth century looking lock and held his breath for it to work. He was screwed if they had changed the passes. There were cameras but he knew the visuals would not be clear in the darkness. A green light flashed and the lock clicked open. They should have changed all passes immediately but nobody thought he was stupid enough to come back. Almsey would be furious at their carelessness. The outside lock was only the first security measure. Inside the depot, outside of the line of sight from any curious tourists peering through the tinted windows, was a tiny room with the first set of guards watching the passageway descending into the complex. Alex had selected this time for the cover of darkness and for the particular guards who would be on duty, Dixon and Marshall. Dixon was fond of Gibson, and in the past, helped Alex secure certain contraband items for the boy to enjoy. Marshall was new and might not recognize him. Easing his way toward the guard room, Alex rejected drawing his gun, deciding he would need to keep his good arm free. The guards would be alert and waiting to greet the visitor. He decided it was best to act as if nothing was wrong, hoping the element of surprise would benefit him once he was in. Marshall peered through a glass panel."Name, ID and area of visit," the voice sounded metallic through the intercom. "Spender, Jeffrey, 98802711, section 4." Alex doubted that the ignorant and gutless Spender had actually ever visited this location but Almsey had nevertheless assigned his son an access code. Again a green light went on and he was let into the room. There were cameras in here too but they were on a 60 second delay. He had one minute. Marshall did not give him a second glance as he went to get a biohazard suit and accessories for Jeffery Spender. Dixon stood with his mouth hanging open for a second and then lunged for an alarm instead of his weapon. Alex charged him, throwing all his weight against the slight man and slammed him face first against the wall. He quickly disarmed him before Marshall rushed into the room hearing the commotion. Tightly pinning Dixon across the wall with his prosthetic arm, Alex held Dixon's gun on Marshall. The shocked guard did not hesitate to shoot and a bullet whizzed by Alex's head. Returning fire, Alex shot at Marshall. His aim was off by the awkward position and the bullet caught the guard in the throat. The guard crashed to the floor, a biohazard suit still clutched in one of his hands. Alex moved over to the fallen man, seizing with the last efforts to breathe, and retrieved Marshall's gun, securing it in the back of his jeans. Alex listened for sounds of approaching back up but this security station was several stories above the facility and the ruckus had not been heard from below. Studying the control panels in front of him, Alex rapidly flipped switches to begin looping all the security tapes, a method he had regularly used when stealing evidence. It would not pass a deep security check but he did not plan on staying for long. He turned to Dixon, crouched in the corner where Alex left him. "Don't suspect for one moment I won't do the same to you," Alex stated sharply to the cowering guard. "I have a wife . . . " Dixon pleaded, his hands raised in surrender. Gesturing with the weapon, Alex directed Dixon to pull Marshall's body into the back bio-suit storage room. Relieving him of his keys and security passes, Alex quickly tied and gagged Dixon, locking the door behind him. Back in the main security room, he suited himself up in the fallen biohazard suit. He would not need it but it would act as useful camouflage. Alex descended into the complex. He did not relish shooting Marshall but prepared himself for further action. It would be impossible to leave without anyone questioning him about removing Gibson. He would just omit those parts if questioned by Fee. He knew the people who worked in this facility were fully aware of what they did, and like himself, guilty of the crimes committed here. Still, Alex wondered how many of them worked under the constant fear of their lives or those of their family. He did not want to be the one to play judge and executioner to this sorry bunch. Over the years, guns had become an extension to his hand, like a sixth finger. At Quantico he was constantly reminded by his instructors how the odds were against an agent, especially one assigned to the language division, ever having to pull his weapon, let alone shoot it in the line of duty. At the time he had not given it much thought, oblivious to the route his life would take. Even omitting where his career led him, he obviously was an exception to the rule. He had shot and killed a man on his first active FBI case. He spent the night he shot Augustus Cole shivering and throwing up the railways station's rusty toilet. Looking back it was his easiest kill. The one where he was convinced he was right. The one he did purely on instinct, rather than premeditation or by someone else's order. The one where the weight of the world did not depend on his actions. Alex swiftly moved around the buried building with ease, even through its busiest areas. He noted with satisfaction that it appeared to be unusually busy for the time of night and the personnel passed him with tense and hurried movements. He hoped his plan was the result of all this chaos. It meant Almsey was worried enough to be alert others to the security threat Alex posed. The hallway approaching Gibson's room was deserted. If things were proceeding with the typical schedule, Gibson would be in his room getting ready for his evening exercises. Alex flipped through the stolen security passes until he found the appropriate one and swiped it through the key pad by Gibson's door. The chart hanging outside indicated that Gibson was inside, but the room was empty. Knowing that Gibson liked to make things difficult for the doctors, Alex checked under the bed, inside the closet, and in the small bathroom but the boy was nowhere to be found. Alex slammed his fist against the wall in frustration and cursed, the profanities muffled against the plastic helmet of his biohazard suit. All he asked was for Gibson to be in his room. He could not go traipsing around the complex checking every room, nor could he wait for very long. Any moment the empty security station would be discovered. Nonetheless, he had come this far and the least he could do was check out the rest of the floor. He was about to leave when he saw the green light flashing above the door. Someone was coming. He fumbled for the zipper on his suit to get to his guns and moved into the bathroom. A tall, brood middle age man with a droopy face, dressed in a white lab coat, entered pushing a wheelchair. "Gibson. Let's not play any more games. Come out and get in the chair," a voice ordered impatiently. It was Dr. Fleece, head of the team researching Gibson's telepathy. "I think you missed him." Alex stepped out of the bathroom, holding his weapon at the doctor. Dr. Fleece could not contain his shock at the unexpected presence but his look of amazement quickly turned to fear when he realized who it was. "Krycek," Dr. Fleece spat out. "What did you do with Gibson?" "Oh you know the usual. Tortured a 12 year old boy, sliced into his brain, poked and prodded him . . . Oh no, that was you," Alex stated icily. "Gibson . . . ," the doctor called out again as if he thought Alex was hiding him in his pocket. "He's not here but I bet you could find out where he's been taken." "Taken? I just saw him twenty minutes ago. I'm the only one authorized to have him removed." Like most consortium officials, Dr. Fleece was arrogant in his assumption that anyone could pull something over on him. "Well, why don't you call Ol' Smokey and ask him?" "Almsey's in Australia. Although I dare say he's on his way back here after he heard what you pulled." Alex was stunned, Dr. Fleece really didn't know where Gibson was. However, Almsey being out of the country didn't mean that he had not arranged for Gibson's disappearance. He had hundreds of people hanging around waiting to do his dirty work. Walking toward Fleece, Alex contemplated his next move. There was probably no one in the complex deserving a bullet more than this modern day Dr. Mengele. But realistically the shot would be heard. He would deal with the doctor in a less tidy, but nevertheless effective way. "This is for Gibson, you fucking butcher." Alex pocketed his gun and delivered his first blow to the doctor's alarmed face. The exit from the Gettysburg facility was uneventful. Anyone alert to his presence were either permanently or temporarily out of commission. There was no mad dash for the stairs amid blaring alarms. No hallway shoot out. No moonlit chase across the fields. All in all, things had run relatively smooth except for the glaring fact of Gibson's absence. He got a big "E" for effort, but all for not. His car was parked half a mile away in the deserted parking lot of the Gettysburg Visitor's Center. It appeared undisturbed but out of habit he checked under the car for any signs of tampering. Opening the trunk, he tossed in the biohazard suit, Marshall and Dixon's weapons and security passes. No doubt all passes would be obsolete by tomorrow but they might be of some interest to Mulder and Scully. Closing the trunk, he caught a glimpse of movement in the rear window. Drawing his weapon, he backed up and cautiously crossed over to the back right door. Holding the gun out in front of him, he peered through the window into the back seat. Suddenly a figure popped up and a brood smile illuminated the owlish face of Gibson Praise. *** Two hours later "They'll be here in the morning," Mulder told Scully as he got off the phone with the Lone Gunmen, "with their van and an U-Haul." "I finally get to see the Gunman's Mystery Machine." "On good nights I think Frohike calls it the Love-mobile." Scully and Fionna sat on the living room floor with an empty pizza box lying between them. After sitting cross legged most of the day, Mulder lay on his back, stretching. To outsiders it might look like a casual gathering of friends but none of them could pass as carefree. "Do you want to call Skinner or should I?" Scully asked. So far, they had found nothing in the files about Skinner. The same could not be said for their present supervisor as the files incriminated A.D. Kersh along with several other agents, including Diana Fowley. "I think we should put that off until Monday. I want to wait until everything is in a secure place before we alert the cavalry," Mulder stated. "Plus I wouldn't mind confirming some of Krycek's information before we start making allegations." "Fox Mulder, acting on the side of caution? How refreshing," Scully mused. "Yeah, maybe I'm turning over a new leaf too . . . " A knock on the door startled everyone. Mulder jumped up, reached for his gun and was at the door in two strides. Scully followed, standing a few paces behind him with her weapon ready. Mulder peered through the peephole and then turned and shook his head at Scully. It was not Krycek. Mulder silently motioned for Fionna to come and take a look at the bulky man dressed in a paramedic's uniform. "It's my brother, " she whispered. Lowering the gun to his side, Mulder moved back slightly to let Fionna unlock the door. "Andrew," Fionna exclaimed warmly. Grateful to see a familiar face she hugged him tightly. "Hey. I saw your light on when I was coming in. I didn't know you'd be here today." Andrew returned the embrace and then pulled away when he saw Mulder and Scully standing behind Fionna with their guns drawn at their sides. "What's going on?" "These are Agents Scully and Mulder from the FBI." "FBI?" Andrew stared at the two agents and looked back at his sister, suddenly noticing the abrasion on her forehead. "It's ok Andrew." "You're not the guy from Russia are you?"Andrew addressed Mulder with sudden fury and looked ready to attack if the answer was affirmative. "No," Mulder said with a small laugh. Anyone who shared his opinion of Krycek was certainly welcome and he returned his weapon to its holster. Andrew looked to Fionna to confirm the information and she nodded. "But I bet this has to do with that asshole," he suggested hotly. Mulder and Scully drifted off into the living room, leaving the siblings alone in the hallway. "Did they coerce you into this?" Andrew asked. "Is this some sort of sting to catch the creep?" "Not exactly, " she said, sitting on a couple of boxes stacked in the hallway and rubbing her eyes. "It's complicated." "You look like hell." Andrew sat beside her, his voice changing from indignant to concerned. "Thanks. You always know how to cheer me up." "So, should I stick around to beat this guy up?" Andrew asked. "I think you're going to have to get in line." Fionna nodded toward the living room. 'But I don't think he's going to show." "You sound disappointed." "It's complicated." "You already said that." Fionna sighed. "Have you ever wanted to believe in something so badly that you'll do anything you can to make it true?" "Clap your hands if you believe in fairies." "What?" "Remember Peter Pan?" Andrew prompted. "To save Tinkerbell, you had to clap your hands. That was your favorite part. For weeks after mom finished reading the book you used to walk around the house randomly clapping your hands, afraid that if you stopped, fairies would cease to exist." "Then you told me that mom's talcum powder was fairy dust and if I sprinkled enough on I could fly." "Hey I didn't know you would try jumping off the garage." Fionna rested her head on her hands and tilted it sideways to look at her brother. "What would you say if I told you Never Never Land was around the corner, fairies are real and Captain Hook is a nice guy?" "Since you no longer six years old, I would assume you had reasons to say something like that," Andrew answered thoughtfully. "That, or you never recovered from that fall from the garage." "Maybe it's a bit of both." Andrew eyed the stack of boxes facing them."The Tunisian connection, Vaccines trials: Small Pox to Polio, Pentagon-box III," he read the black marker scrawled across the cardboard. "How much trouble are you in?" "Enough that it's getting harder and harder to come up with best case scenarios," she confessed. "Is he worth it?" "Who?" Fionna asked innocently. "Captain Hook." She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. "I wish it were that simple." "Kind of reminds me of your brother," Mulder said after Andrew left and Fionna was in the bathroom. "Big brothers tend to be annoyingly overprotective. From high school onwards Bill disliked any male associated with Melissa or myself." "I guess it would have been the same with me and Samantha," Mulder said with a hint of melancholy. The files Mulder read this afternoon reinforced the most recent information he had about Samantha. After her abduction the version he met was raised by the Cigarette Smoking Man, his more popular aliases being Frederick Almsey, John Harrigan or interestingly enough, Charles Spender. The files said Samantha was married with two children and worked as a legal secretary somewhere in Tennessee. "I'm sure it would have," Scully reassured him, placing her hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. *** Present Day Gibson was sprawled out on the hotel bed snoring. Alex could not believe the loud noises were coming from such a small boy. They had been forced to stop driving before they crossed the state border due to Gibson's motion sickness. Just prior to his remarkable escape he had undergone anaesthesia for a small surgical procedure and its effects had yet to wear off. Gibson needed a few hours rest before they continued, or they would have to stop every few miles for the boy to throw up. Alex still had not figured out how he had done it. All Gibson would say is that he always knew how to get out but he never had anywhere to go once he was free. Sitting in a beat up hotel chair watching Gibson sleep, Alex was reminded of his only other experience of traveling with a child. Dimitri. The image of the young Russian teenager, orifices sewn shut to prevent the release of the black oil, covered in dried blood from the injuries Alex had inflicted on him, blindly squirming to position himself over a few droplets of water, crossed his mind whenever he saw Gibson. Seeing Gibson skinny and weak, head shaved, and scalp covered in scars from the doctors' exploratory surgeries always hit in the stomach like a dead weight, and demanded Alex recall his own transgressions. At first he avoided the boy, then forced himself to face him and finally found solace in his company. His presence encouraged Alex to continue with his plans even in the aftermath of his stepfather's message, Almsey's return, and Howard Burns' death. Gibson also made him think of himself as a child. Though he lacked any of the young telepath's insight and confidence, they shared a spirit of aloofness probably drawn from having to be in places they desperately did not want to be. His own father, Gordon Hanna, had been a postal worker in the United States Army stationed overseas in West Germany when he met his mother, Patryka Arntzen. She was an accountant working for an exporting firm in Leningrad. Her job required frequent traveling and it was on a business trip to East Germany in 1968 that she encountered Gordon. He was never sure what drew them together. His father was moody and quiet while his mother was cheerful and outgoing. Even considering their backgrounds, they were like night and day. A cold war romance that everyone said would not last. They were right, but those who said it, were surprised it lasted as long as long as it did. Patryka defected, much to her family's dismay, and married her American lover. Eventually his bride's heritage forced Gordon out of the army with a general discharge and the couple relocated to United States. Alex was born a year later in Wisconsin. His father's moodiness lost its appeal when it became directed at his mother as resentment over a lost career. Although he found a new job with the Department of Transportation, it did not placate him, and he began to drink heavily. This did not improve Patryka's impression of her husband or her new country. Three weeks before her U.S. citizenship and right to work was approved, Patryka moved back to Russia with their two year old son. Alex had no memories of his early years in Wisconsin but he remembers his first day back vividly. When he was seven, his mother sent him away for a two month visit to the father he had not seen in five years. He despised on sight the sour smell of the unknown man. Although his father took time off from work to visit with his son, Gordon spent most days at the local legion, where he would sit around and drink, grimacing while the other veterans teased him about his 'commie' son. His father grunted in response and glared at the desolate boy. Eventually he allowed Alex to stay at home alone. While his father was out, Alex roamed the neighborhood. Unsure of his English, he avoided other children and just walked around. He also watched a lot of television and through that medium quickly gained command of the language. One day he decided to try out his English on a group of girls riding their bikes outside his house. He said hello and they just rode away, staring at him as if he had two heads. The neighborhood boys showed their dislike of him in more aggressive ways, yelling out slurs against his accent, mother and country whenever they saw him. One day three boys followed him on one of his solitary walks and jumped him. He was stronger than them due to his strict school athletic training back home. He quickly turned his defense to offense and they never bothered him again. While he was able to hold his own against boys his age, Alex soon learned he was no match for his father. After the first beating Alex determined it was best to remain out of sight during his father's drunken rampages. He found a spot in the backyard behind the shed and a hedge where he would go when his father was home. There he would watch the sky turn to stars and then quietly go up to bed. Every night he hoped he would wake up back in his bed in Moscow. He ignored all his previous objections that he was too old to hug and kiss his mother and ran into her awaiting arms at the Moscow airport. After his miserable trip he was never so glad to see anyone in his whole life. He was even more pleased to see his mother looked happy. The passed five years had not been kind to her. She was not welcomed back to her family and despite her education and work experience, she could not get as good a job as before. Patryka worked as a seamstress and she and Alex shared a cramped apartment with another family. "Alexander, this is Dr. Victor Krycek." Stepping out of his mother embrace, Alex was startled to see a stranger looming behind her and smiling down at him. "Hello Alex. It is a pleasure to meet you." The man knelt down to the young boy's level and extended his hand as if Alex was an equal. He then swept Alex off his feet and placed him on top of his shoulders. Alex turned to look behind at his mother and saw her beaming at them. He did not know much about Dr. Krycek, but a few minutes after meeting him, he knew he liked him better than his father. As Victor drove them back home, he kept asking Alex questions about his trip. Did he like America? What did he see there? What were the people like? Alex answered brightly wanting to please this friendly and interested man. He left out how much he hated his vacation and described his father's house, the neighborhood, his favorite television shows and the people he met. Victor kept nodding his approval at the boy's observations as he watched Alex give an animated presentation of his trip through the rearview mirror. Little did Alex know then, but he passed his first test with flying colors. Dr. Krycek was not terribly interested in a seven year's old account of some television program about a group of people stranded on a deserted island. He was interested in the young boy's potential. The potential of a Russian boy with an undisputable American birth certificate. It was almost too good to be true. He had the legitimacy that the best false papers could not replicate. Alex could grow up to be a very valuable asset to the Soviet government and other interested parties. Soon after Alex's return, Victor married Patryka and they moved to a larger apartment. Alex was pleased with the new arrangements and got along well with his stepfather. Victor was a biologist at Moscow University and his current project involved the study of the human immune system. He also worked as a vaccination advisor for the Council of Public Health. His work took him away from home for long periods of time but he always appeared happy to come home to his wife and stepson. Their peaceful lifestyle was disrupted every summer until Alex was thirteen. Despite his protests, Victor insisted Alex travel to the United States each summer to visit his real father. Even when Patryka requested Alex not go back after he returned the third time with a broken arm, Victor was adamant that Alex continue his annual trips. Openly he stated it would make Alex a stronger person, internally he must have hoped it would make his stepson more familiar with America and less inclined to care for it. Not wanting to appear weak to Victor, Alex submitted himself to these visits and learned to be silent in his complaints. This pattern continued until the spring of 1982 when Alex returned from school one day to find a dark apartment and his stepfather sitting at the kitchen table clutching a ceramic mug. A bottle of vodka stood half empty beside it. The vodka surprised Alex because his stepfather did not drink. It meant to him that Victor Krycek would never become Gordon Hanna. But in the dark unsettling atmosphere of that afternoon everything Alex depended on was shattered with Victor's words. "Today you become a man." Victor slid a second mug across the circular table and gestured for Alex to take a seat. Alex carefully sat, thrown off by his stepfather's unusual behavior and thin hollow voice. "Your mother is dead. She was hit by a car." Alex's mouth dropped and his heart contracted at that statement. Victor reached over and poured an inch of vodka into Alex's mug but made no further move to comfort his stunned stepson. "Patryka was a brave woman. She never cared what anyone thought. You are proof of that. She often acted on the whims of the heart, not the mind. You must always use your head and don't get misled by yearning for what isn't possible," Gordon lectured. "However, your reality is not my reality. I know things that would turn your world upside down." Alex did not understand this bizarre eulogy to his mother. He felt like he was in play in which he held a different script than his stepfather. Was his mother really dead? "We all have a part to play even if we don't want to," Victor continued. "It is unavoidable, inevitable, unstoppable." With that last cryptic remark Victor got up with the bottle and left Alex sitting at the table in the dark. He swirled the liquid in his mug and contemplated what his stepfather said. He thought that Victor was talking about life, death and Patryka's place in the universe. It was not far from the truth, but a thirteen year old boy in shock over his mother's death could not conceive the darker implications of a devastated man's alcohol induced rambling. Alex mistook it as evidence of his stepfather's grief, which only years later was revealed to be the guilt for the part he played in Patryka's death. Victor recovered his old sense of self in time for the funeral and acted as a dignified widower and compassionate stepfather. Alex was relieved at the reappearance as he longed to grasp onto something stable. It was not to last. As they sat on Alex's bed together after all the other mourners left the apartment, Victor shocked him again by telling him he was to move to Wisconsin permanently. "I think of you as my son. I hope I have in some small way been a father to you, but it is not right for me to take care of you now. I travel so often; it would not be fair to you. Your mother and I had discussed this. If anything happened to her, we agreed you should go back and live with Gordon. It is for the best." Alex should have asked, the best for whom? At least, Alex reflected, he was given the chance to grow up before he officially became involved with Soviet and the American led consortiums. Gibson and the other children were not offered opportunities to know another life. Instead they were ripped out of their parent's arms or born in a lab, condemned to be guinea pigs for the construction of a brave new world. He probably should consider himself lucky that he was deemed worthwhile by his stepfather or else he could have very easily become a Samantha Mulder. But in the end, who was more fortunate? Samantha's part was over in three months and she would never remember. He was destined to play his part forever and remember everything. *** Three hours later Andrew Wilkinson invited them to spend the night at his apartment, just one floor below, but Mulder and Scully deemed it too risky to leave the evidence or for Fionna to leave their sight. Instead they accepted some sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows to make their camp out more comfortable. Unable or unwilling to sleep, Mulder returned to do further reading in one of the bedrooms leaving Scully and Fionna to sleep in the living room. Scully had trouble falling asleep. Usually she tried not to think about the gravity of the conspiracy she and Mulder investigated. She knew it was not productive, whether she believed it or not, to dwell on the end of the world scenarios they continually confronted. Also, the personal tragedies they faced often overwhelmed the larger picture. But the numbers Krycek listed for the coming Armageddon could not be easily dismissed. Five billion dead. Abductees "saved" to be slaves. Children "created" to be future breeders. It was irrelevant to debate whether this involved extraterrestrial beings or humans as Scully could no longer deny something incredible was being planned. She also could no longer ignore how unnerved she felt at what the future held. Growing up, she was terrified of nuclear war and insisted her family organize themselves in case a bomb hit nearby. Her brothers teased her, saying there was no point in trying to survive a nuclear explosion. Her sister ignored it all and her mother begged her to stop thinking about such things. Her father humored her and together they set up supplies in their basement and devised a Scully family emergency plan. Every time they moved, Scully would draw up a new plan in regards to their house, neighborhood and her family's daily whereabouts. She always wanted to know where they would all be. Eventually, she stopped doing this when the threat of nuclear war faded from the daily headlines and the family began to break apart, with Bill and then Charlie joining the navy, Melissa backpacking across Europe, and herself going away to college. What would happen now? She knew Mulder and the Gunmen had some sort of emergency plan for whatever was going to happen. A while ago Mulder asked her to get a suitcase packed with only the necessities, medical supplies and cash. When he came to pick it up, he did not question her when she handed him a second bag packed for her mother. He also asked her to let him know where her brothers were stationed and how he could get in touch with them. It was almost as if he had taken over her adolescent crisis arrangements. These were the thoughts rambling around in her head as she fell asleep and she half expected a familiar nightmare about faceless men raising a torch to her mother's face or a swarm of bees attacking a schoolyard of children looking like Emily. But tonight she was blessed with a new dream that with reflection appeared to be almost a vision from the past rather than the future. Scully was in a room that reminded her of an old fashioned hospital ward. Two rows of eight beds faced each other. Everything was white, the walls, blankets, ceiling, and floor. Although there were no lights or windows, the whiteness illuminated the room. The beds were filled with sleeping women curled up in the fetal position. Scully was lying on one of the beds with her eyes closed but she was awake. She was wearing a stiff white nightgown like the rest of the women except she also wore a grey stripped bathrobe. She knew she was not suppose to be awake but she had avoided getting her nightly injection of sedatives by allowing Penny to take hers for her. The doctors did not confirm who got what as long as all sixteen vials were empty when the line came to an end. She sat up and slipped onto the cold floor and began crawling silently toward the door. She paused to checked on Penny who was breathing evenly despite the double dosage of sedatives. Scully had not wanted to risk Penny overdosing but everyone convinced her that someone had to try escaping and she was the strongest. Inside the pocket of the bathrobe she could feel a piece of metal. It was part of a bracket she had repeatedly bent to get off her bed. Its ridged edges made her a small but sharp makeshift weapon. Reaching her destination, Scully stood up against the wall and squinted at the lock. The orderlies and doctors used a card to open it, but a few days ago she saw a guard open it by punching numbers on the keypad. She had trouble remembering things or thinking clearly with all the drugs she was given, but this number stood out it because it was the same as her phone extension at work combined with the year she was born. 87551964. Scully pushed the numbers on the keypad with slow deliberate movements. The noise of the lock opening sounded like a gunshot in the still room. Scully held her breath for the sound of an approaching guard or doctor as she slowly turned the handle. Outside the room it was pitch black and from what Scully could tell, the hallway appeared to be deserted. The only light she could see was the blinking red eyes of the security cameras found at either end of the hallway. Scully knew going right would lead her to the treatment rooms but she had never gone left and she started down in that direction, slowly crawling on her hands and knees with one arm extended ahead feeling for any obstructions. She passed other closed doors similar to the one she exited. Penny told her to ignore these as they only held other women like themselves. She was to look for an exit, phone or weapon. Her movements were slow from the passed two month's abuse and she did not feel like she was making any progress. While she avoided her nightly drug cocktail, her body was sluggish from the constant stream of sedatives and tired from the tests they performed on her. Coming to the end of the hall she encountered another darkened passageway going in either direction. She randomly chose to go right and soon encountered a set of elevators and a door to a stairwell. Scully paused, undecided if she should keep straight or try changing floors. A loud ping indicating the elevator was stopping on her floor made the decision for her and she rapidly flung herself through the stairwell doorway. The stairs were dimly lit and her eyes took a moment to adjust to the new lighting. Her heart raced with anticipation as she heard a group of people exit the elevator and pass the stairwell entrance. Undisturbed, she decided going down would be the most progressive as she did not want to get trapped somewhere higher in the building. Grasping onto the railing she stood and descended. Scully estimated she had gone down six flights when she found herself at the bottom of the stairs. A door in which Scully hoped would lead to an exit was locked and marked Storage. She wondered if she was in the basement and the ground level was just above her. A creeping feeling in her stomach made her consider something else. She had never seen any windows. What if they were underground and she had just moved deeper into the building? She decided to move up and try one of the other doors. As she turned to leave, Scully heard a shaky moan come from behind her. She froze and listened to what sounded like someone trying to suppress a cough. Surveying her surroundings, Scully noticed there was a small crawlspace under the stairs. Kneeling down to get a better look, she was startled to see a shivering naked woman crouched in the corner with her knees pulled up to her chest. "Pazhalsta. Na pomash," the woman whispered in between coughs. "I don't understand you," Scully said. She did not recognize the woman from her room, nor had she seen her in any of the treatment chambers, yet there lingered a sense of familiarity. "Please. Help me," she repeated in English but further communication was cut off as the woman endured another rattling coughing fit. Scully crawled in beside the woman, her own escape plans momentarily forgotten. She removed her bathrobe and placed it around the woman's bare shoulders. As Scully waited for the coughing to stop, she assessed that the woman was running a fever and had an abundance of fluid in her lungs. She most likely had bronchitis or pneumonia. "I'm a doctor," Scully said looking into her fellow prisoner's fearful eyes and instantly recognized how what she said could be misinterpreted when the woman backed further into the crawlspace. "No, No. I don't work here. I'm an FBI agent. My name is Dana." The woman's face brightened considerably. "Oh thank God. Can you get me out of here?" "I'm going to try. Do you know where we are?" Scully asked, hoping the other woman would know more about their surroundings. "I think we are probably somewhere outside Moscow." "Moscow?" Scully gasped in amazement. The last place she thought she had been was Virginia with Duane Barry. How did she get to Moscow? "I don't know. That is where I was when they took me but I guess we could be anywhere. I'm having trouble remembering things." "Can you walk?" Scully asked, giving her hands to the woman. "Yes." The two crawled out from behind the stairs and were about to move to the next level when they heard a door slam shut, followed by a barrage of footsteps pounding on the stairs above them. Scully turned to see her companion dive for the crawlspace. As the clamor grew closer, Scully backed up against the wall and held the sharp piece of metal in front, praying silently for the noise to be approaching help. A group of men soon appeared in landing. Some were dressed in scrubs and lab coats, others in the pale grey security uniforms. One of the orderlies approached her with his arms outstretched, revealing a needle in one of his hands. "Time to go back to sleep," he said in a patronizing tone. The last thing she recalled before passing out was the sudden appearance of Mulder's new partner, Alex Krycek, as the orderlies pulled the other woman from the crawlspace. Thinking her prayers had been answered she expected to see Mulder right behind him. However, she soon realized Krycek was with the others as he ignored her plight, picked up the coughing woman and carried her away. Scully awoke from her dream covered in a thin layer of sweat. She sat up at and peered into the darkness reminding herself where she was. She could hear soft snores coming from the back of the apartment indicating Mulder had finally called it a night. Fionna was across the room curled up in her sleeping bag sleeping soundly. Scully lay back down and she tried to shake the images of her dream. She realized now the woman had been Fionna. It was only natural, Scully thought, considering recent events that she subconsciously placed Fionna in the context of her own abduction as well as Alex Krycek. She admitted it had been a vivid and extremely detailed dream, but that did not mean it was based on suppressed memories. She closed her eyes but the image of Fionna crouched in the crawl space came back to her and the words "Pazhalsta. Na pomash. Please. Help me" rang in her ears until she back fell asleep. *** Two hours later They coasted toward Buffalo at a steady speed. Gibson was practically bouncing in his seat with either excitement or nerves. Alex almost regretted letting him play with the radio as it jumped from station to station while Gibson searched for good tunes. Good tunes turned out to be a Beach Boys tribute but the boy looked happy so he held his tongue. Of course holding your tongue did not really mean anything with Gibson. Once you thought it, it was out in the open. Alex suppressed a yawn and blinked rapidly as the road swayed in front of him. Sunrise hovered in the distance signaling the end of another sleepless night. Sometimes he longed for Augustus Cole's cursed talents. There was only so much adrenaline could do. He summoned a small smile as he thought about his father lecturing to him the day he got his licence about the hazards of driving with little sleep. It was Gordon Hanna's job at the Department of Transportation to research those statistics, but Alex doubted his father ever considered the pros and cons of fleeing from an underground illegal medical facility when he calculated the odds. "We're almost at the border," Alex said as they passed another sign. "If they ask, I'm your father and we're coming back from visiting your grandmother in Rochester. There's i.d. in the backpack for you. Your name's Michael Trask and we live in Kingston, Ontario. But I think you should just pretend to be asleep." "You're going to pretend to be my father!" Gibson asked with what sounded like a substantial amount of doubt and began rummaging through the backpack lying at his feet. "What's so strange about that? You're twelve, I'm almost thirty. It's possible." "We don't look at all alike," Gibson said as he flipped open the passports for Ethan and Michael Trask and compared the two grainy passport photos. "I don't think customs are going to do a paternity test on the spot if we don't have the same eye color." "If they ask, we could just say I look like my mother." Gibson held up a third passport. "She looks more like me than you." "Right." Alex smiled to himself at the boy's logic. At times he forgot Gibson was only twelve. "In that case, you definitely get your taste in music from your mother." For convenience sake, the name on the passport he arranged for Fee was also Trask and he wondered how she would react to learning through the art of forgery she had inherited a husband and a son. Solo or together, by next week they would all be starting new lives and the passports were the first step to obscurity. "You're worried about what's going to happen next," Gibson stated in his disturbing all-knowing voice. "What are you a mind reader?" "Ha ha ha. You're nervous about seeing Agent Mulder. And you're worried about your girlfriend." "I wouldn't call her my girlfriend," Alex said, ignoring Gibson's dubious look. "We really should talk about you. What do you want to do?" "I want to stay with you." "That might not be too easy. I probably won't be hanging around for long and it certainly wouldn't be safe." "Well Mulder and Scully have already lost me twice. I don't feel safe with them," Gibson pointed out. "They'll want to study me too." "True, but you'd probably be able to see your folks again." "I barely saw my parents when I lived with them. They were always off at parties and stuff. Anyway, they're not my real parents." "I'm sure they're still worried about you. Some people don't realize what they have until it's too late to get back." "What if they knew what they had and willingly gave it up?" "You don't know that." "Then why didn't they come to get me after the chess tournament shooting? They didn't even call to see if I was o.k.? Something or someone convinced them otherwise." Not wanting to get into a debate over parental responsibility and questionable morals, Alex just shrugged. "Well, just give it some thought. You don't need to make any decisions right now." "I already told you what I wanted. I've been thinking about it for months. I want to stay with you. I don't want . . . Stop the car." "Are you sick?" Alex asked, changing lanes so he could pull over. "No. Up ahead . . . there are people thinking about you. At the border. They're waiting for us." "Who?" "The police, I think." Alex slowed considerably and looked for a way off the highway. There were no more exits before customs. "O.K. hold on." Alex pulled onto the far left lane and then turned off onto the grassy meridian separating the lanes. He backed up and waited for a break in the traffic to drive onto the other side. Ignoring the blaring horns of irrate drivers, he maneuvered his way onto the other side and was soon driving in the opposite direction. "We need to get a new car," Alex said out loud, working out the details in his head. How did they know where he was going? He could try and cross the border in Detroit or maybe go east and travel up through Quebec. Flashing red lights behind and in front of him destroyed any of those choices. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He did not think he had the dexterity to pull of a successful high speed chase, especially with Gibson in the car. "All right, we stick with our original story. Don't say anything. Let me handle it," Alex stated reassuringly as he pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. "Everything will be ok." Except nothing after that was ok. *** Part Three: Alex In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold honor. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try to live so that our death brings no pleasure to the world. Two hours later Alex hoped they would be here soon and get it over with. The walls were beginning to close in on him. Alone in enclosed spaces always brought back memories of hoarse screams, bruised fists and the taste of oil. The only thing keeping him from losing it completely was the tiny window open near the top of the wall. A cool October breeze flowed through it carrying the comforting smells of autumn and the first hints of winter. He might have been able to pull it off, if he had been given a chance to explain. He had a story all worked out about Gibson being his son and how his ex-wife must have reported him missing because he was a little late bringing him back from vacation. However, the police did not even ask him any questions, which was not a good sign. Instead they pulled him out and slammed him across the hood of the car while a female officer whisked Gibson away. Evidently Fowley and Spender had fed the police some story about him being the head of a child pornography ring and Gibson was his latest prey. He guessed it was easier than explaining his real history while taking the opportunity to make him look as despicable as possible. The fact that the car held two unregistered weapons and a battered looking child did not suggest otherwise. Alex remained silent realizing explanations of global conspiracies and aliens would only testify to his lack of sanity. The arm threw them off as they tried to cuff him, apparently that was not in the description faxed from Washington. He had tried hard not to let anyone important find out about it. It helped that he was very subtle in his movements and the prosthetic was first class. Burns knew because they spent considerable time together, but rarely did anyone else pause long enough to look at him so it had not become consortium gossip among the North Atlantic crowd. He assumed Almsey had picked up on it, but he had never mentioned it. Alex doubted this was out of any courtesy on his part. He was probably just waiting for a moment to exploit the weakness. Almsey always knew what buttons to push and when they would matter most. As they pushed him into the back seat of a police car, Alex craned his neck for a view of Gibson. The boy was leaning against another police car, clutching Alex's backpack, looking confused and shaking his head as two officers questioned him. He looked toward Alex as they shut the door. Alex said to Gibson inside his head, "Don't say anything to them. You're doing great. Try to call Mulder. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." He was not sure the extent or exact nature of Gibson's powers but he hoped he could not read the layers under what he just said because honestly he was really worried. He was scared of screwing up again and dragging Gibson and Fionna down with him. Realistically, he was carrying too much baggage. He never should have returned for Gibson and Fionna's involvement complicated things further. It was hard enough to take care of himself let alone them, and he did not need to be preoccupied guessing how they were managing. However, the plan had its share of difficulties that went beyond Fionna and Gibson. The first glitch was Almsey's return from the dead. His mocking presence was distracting and deadly. Equally wary of each other, the two adversaries watched each other with narrow eyes, each expecting a knife in the back at any moment. It grew tiresome having to wait for Almsey to make his move and tempting to pull the trigger every time he turned a corner and saw him. He suspects Almsey was behind Burns' murder and it surprised Alex that an attempt to eliminate himself took so long, especially if Burns' was killed for openly advocating resistance. They had not hid their new alliance, as it was only through Burns' influence that Alex was admitted back into the inner circles. If Almsey had been around at the time, he doubted Burns would have had the clout to win that battle. For appearances sake he acted as Burns' assistant while in reality the two were partners in deception. Burns kept up the front of a loyal supporter while Alex skulked around the country on assignments for the consortium, gathering material necessary for exposure as he went. Alex missed the pompous man, afraid to get his hands dirty, who preferred to talk about his horses or grandchildren than plot the end of the world. He had depended on the Englishman's connections to get him into places otherwise out of his reach. After Burns' death, Alex was forced to take higher risks, like his and Fionna's adventure in San Diego. Moreover, Burns was the link to the resistance and had never trusted Alex enough to relate their location or identities. As a result, he was left without any way to contact them for advice or aid. He was not even sure if they knew of his existence. Not knowing what else to do, Alex had continued to follow Burns' original plans, admittedly with a few of his own amendments. However, the absence of Burns' patronage meant he was pushed to the organization's fringes and the loss of access prevented him from getting everything he wanted. These complications interfered with the plan's timing and range but they had not affected its overall success. He still managed to collect a large quantity of useful information. As he waited for Fowley and Spender to show up, Alex asked himself if he had one more life left in him, or had his luck finally run out? He was not about to lie down and play martyr. He had his own goals and was not ready to sacrifice himself to the cause. Though at this point it did not look as if he had much choice in the matter. *** Ten minutes later An irritating buzzing penetrated her cocoon of sleep. Fionna groaned and burrowed deeper in the blankets. The noise was soon joined by a persistent patting on her face and she slowly became aware that someone was trying to wake her. Torn between returning to the comforting blackness of sleep and strangling her Prince Charming, Fionna opened her eyes to see a strange man peering over her. Panic overrode the grogginess and Fionna jerked up, clutching the sleeping bag to her chest. What happened? Where was she? The man shrugged and backed off, mumbling over his shoulder, "What is she on?" "We've been trying to wake you for almost five minutes." A concerned voice to her side explained and she turned to see Agent Scully kneeling beside her sleeping bag. "I'm a deep sleeper," Fionna lied as everything came back to her. Scully flashed her a skeptical look. "Did you know that taking sleeping pills with a recent head injury could lead to headaches, anxiety, memory loss, or even brain damage?" "So can Alex Krycek," she replied shortly and stood up on wobbly legs. Scully reached out to steady her but said nothing else as Fionna squeezed by her and a trio of strange men hovering around Mulder whom she assumed were the so called Lone Gunmen. Fionna locked herself in the bathroom. Passing the mirror she was unsurprised to see the dark circles under her sunken eyes. It was the reflection she had faced each morning over the passed few months. The only difference was the red and purple abrasion across her brow that stood out against her pale face. Ever since Alex's disclosure and her decision to work with him, Fionna's body had burned with nervous anticipation. What started as a shadow of trepidation became lingering anxiety. She supposed it was a form of shell shock, battle exhaustion from her part as both a victim and soldier in a secret war. For pockets of time she could forget what she knew and go about her day but she no longer found comfort in her regular routine. Sometimes she felt like enlightening the rest of the world by screaming at the top of her lungs the horrors she had learned, other times she desperately envied other people's ignorance. The insomnia was the worse part. The night offered no distractions. She couldn't sleep when there was so much to think about. Where was she going to be this time next year? What would the chip in her neck do next? Why had she exchanged the sanctuary of the past for the custody of the future? Strangely she did not feel this way when she was with Alex. Even when they were knee deep in their task, she felt a sense of relief she could not explain. He should have been the ultimate reminder of her past exploitation and current stress but instead his presence was comforting. Maybe it was because she knew he carried heavier burdens and was willing to face them. In other ways, his presence was equally distressing and disorientating. In the beginning she had no trouble remembering the horrible things he told her he had done. Her mind chanted "murderer, murderer" each time she saw him. These thoughts conflicted with the memories she had of him from before. The past and present images consistently fought each other for dominance, though her actions in San Diego suggested the past had finally triumphed. Fionna changed out of the t-shirt she borrowed from her brother to sleep in and back into her rumpled clothes from the day before. She could feel within the pocket of her jeans more of the pills she had stolen from Agent Scully's medicine cabinet. She wished there was some way they would allow her to sleepwalk through the next few days. Outside she was cornered by one of the Gunmen with long stringy blonde hair. He handed her a much needed cup of coffee and preceded to interrogated her about World War II prisoners of war. Apparently between now and Mulder's late night phone call, he had found and read her only published article. Fionna shook her head in wonderment at how people always chose to discuss her research at the most unusual times but she became interested when Langley told her his grandfather actually escaped from a P.O.W. camp in Singapore. "Maybe I could interview him for my thesis," Fionna suggested and then remembered. Did she still have a thesis? Would she be re-entering her real life anytime soon? "No. No. He wouldn't want to go on record. You never know who might still be watching him." "What do you mean?" Fionna asked, but Langley just widened his eyes and moved them around widely. "Who? The Japanese?" "Veterans Affairs. Pension Plan," he whispered into her ear and moved across the room. Small talk was cut short as Mulder began organizing everyone into groups of two to carry out the boxes. There would be a continuous flow of two people in the apartment, two en route, and two waiting at the U- Haul. Nothing would ever be left unguarded. Unfortunately they were on the sixth floor and the elevator was out of order but at least everyone would be able to take a breather at either end. Mulder estimated it would take them about three to four hours to get the truck filled and they could be back in Washington by that evening. The Gunmen would secure the files and make copies while Scully did the lab work and Mulder checked out some of the sites. By Monday they would be ready to go to Skinner. He had not yet worked out what to do with Fionna, or Krycek, if he ever showed up. The assembly line worked like clockwork until Frohike claimed he threw his back out and switched partners with Byers so he could be examined by Dr. Scully. She pronounced him in perfect shape and sent him back to work. The line faltered a little as Byers and Langley believed they could try hoisting the boxes out the window to save time and strength. This plan was quickly abandoned when on their first attempt they lost a box of papers on a neighbor's balcony and had to go retrieve them. "I'm glad I didn't have to bring them in all at once," Fionna commented, wiping the sweat off her forehead as she waited with Mulder for their turn to go back down. Her head was no longer sore but her bruised ribs were not impressed with the workout. "Come on, I'm sure good Ol' Alex could carry several at a time. I remember he was in pretty good shape," Mulder joked. He was in a good mood and was feeling generous enough to be nice about Krycek. Fionna did not say anything. Obviously Mulder did not know about Alex's arm. Then again he was probably right. If the man insisted he could parachute into the frozen tundra, he probably could carry a box or two up and down stairs just to prove he was still able. A phone's shrill ringing went off and echoed in the small apartment. Mulder reached for his cell phone in his back pocket while Fionna went digging under papers in living room. "Alex?" Fionna gasped as she answered the seldom used apartment phone. Mulder raced to her side and held out his hand to take the phone away from her. "Hi mom," the voice on the other end said, and for a moment Fionna thought it was a wrong number. She looked up at Mulder and shook her head. "Who is this?" "It's me mom, Michael . . . " "Michael?" "Listen mom, dad's in trouble." "Gibson is that you?" Fionna inquired and Mulder's eyes went wide. He began snapping his fingers at her to give him the receiver when his own phone rang. "Yeah mom. We're in Buffalo and the police let me call you because dad was pulled over." "Is he ok? Are you ok?" Fionna asked holding her breath. "We're both fine but the FBI are coming to pick up dad." Fionna looked over to Mulder but his was talking away on his cell phone. "Gibson, will they let me talk to Alex?" "No. They won't even let me see him . . . but I can hear him," he said whispering the last part. "He wants to know if you can send Uncle Fox or Aunt Dana down to straighten things out." "I think that's a possibility." Fionna watched Scully and Frohike enter the apartment. Mulder paused in his conversation, placed one hand over the receiver and filled Scully in. "It's Skinner. Krycek's been arrested for kidnaping Gibson Praise. Fowley and Spender are on their way to pick them up. If we can get there first, Skinner's arranged for them to be released into our custody." He nodded toward Fionna. "She's talking to Gibson." "Gibson, they're going to do their best to get to you as soon as possible. Just sit tight," Fionna declared as she listened to Mulder work things out with the A.D. "O.k." "Agent Scully wants to talk to you. Good luck.." Fionna passed the phone to Scully who began quizzing the boy on his health. Fionna backed away from the others as the hectic telephone conversations continued around her. He had gone back for Gibson. He was following things through. He had not left her. "I want to go with you," Fionna said, following the two agents to the door as they made arrangements to leave immediately. She suddenly had an overwhelming need to see Alex. "It's best that you stay out of sight for now," Scully cautioned. "We'll call you once we know what's going on." "Think you can keep the boys rolling?" Mulder asked Frohike on the way out. They were only halfway done the moving process. "No problemo. Leave it to me," Frohike promised, giving him a thumb's up sign in his fingerless gloves. "And keep an eye on her," Mulder added gesturing toward Fionna. "Can do." *** Half an hour later Under any other circumstances Mulder would not have busted his ass to save Krycek's, but Gibson was involved and the thought of Fowley and Spender getting their hands on him again made him cringe. His feelings toward Krycek remained unchanged, not only because his latest information sharing had yet to be proven worthy, but because it offered nothing to exonerate Mulder's opinions about his ex-partner. He noted that while Krycek had been exhaustive in the coverage of people and topics it was conspicuous that he had neglected to include any information on himself. Mulder had not expected a full blown confession detailing Krycek's crimes, written as a letter of apology, but he had envisioned that this little adventure would shed some light on the man's ambiguous life. So far, all he had picked up is that he had been a good boyfriend before he turned into a secret agent man. Nothing more could be pried out of Fionna's unwilling mouth although he assumed she knew him best. During their brief partnership Mulder learned next to nothing about the man. He had not asked and Krycek had not offered. He suspects if he had been interested, he would have heard an abridged version of the truth. In their later meetings, Krycek metamorphosed quicker than the Alien Bounty Hunter could shape shift from an annoying green agent to a possible ally to a ruthless assassin to an alien vessel to a terrorist snitch to a Russian double agent to an apocalyptic messenger. The only consistencies were the half truths and vague leads that slipped out of his mouth like a leaky faucet. Krycek had helped Scully be abducted. That had been confirmed. If Cardinal could be believed, he was also responsible for Melissa Scully's death and Mulder was sure he killed his father too. If these were not enough, Mulder could add other murders, espionage and sedition to the list. And he was positive that there must be other crimes he did not know about. He did not want to get to know this man. He did not want to try and understand him. He did not want to learn anything that would allow him to feel sorry for Krycek, or worst, forgive him. But the profiler in him wanted to fit the pieces together and created some symmetry out of the chaos. As far as she knew, Fionna said the information on Krycek's FBI application was true. He attended the University of Wisconsin on a rugby scholarship. With ambitions of being a diplomat, he studied political science and international relations. After graduation he moved to New York where he accepted a translator position with the United Nations. He worked two years at the UN before being recruited by the FBI for his language skills and entered the Academy like any normal recruit. His past looked clean. No wiped juvenile record. No adult record or he would not have been recruited, let alone admitted to the Academy. He passed all the psych tests with reasonable scores. To the FBI, Alex Krycek appeared to be a well adjusted individual. No inkling of what was to come. The only thing that stood out as vaguely fishy was that he lived in Russia for eleven years as a child, but the Bureau was not too concerned with him being a Russian spy. The cold war was over, his father was an army and government man, and Alex had not been back to Russia since he was thirteen. Working with the available information, Mulder tried to form a picture of Krycek's life. Who had pulled the strings to get him transferred from the Language Division to Violent Crimes? Had someone assigned him to the Augustus Cole case in hope of connecting with Mulder or was that a lucky coincidence that got the ball rolling? Mulder felt there had to be more to the story than an innocent FBI agent getting pulled into the consortium by threatening his girlfriend's life. Krycek had to have understood whom he was dealing with or else he would have gone straight to Skinner with the news of Fionna's disappearance. Mulder felt the key to those answers was Russia. Krycek was connected to Russia in his childhood, while he worked for the FBI and after he disappeared. While they were in Tunguska, he appeared to be familiar with the men working at the prison. His parents, both deceased, divorced when he was two and Krycek went by the name of his stepfather, a Czechoslovakian born professor at Moscow University. What did it all mean? Had Krycek been working for the Russians since he joined the Bureau? Was he part of the other syndicate? Was he one of those cold war children groomed to be American spies from birth? There were a lot of missing pieces, most importantly, where were his loyalties at the moment? Were they as Fionna said, bent on making amends, or were he and Scully being jerked around for another purpose altogether? They say curiosity killed the cat. What would it do for the rat? *** One hour later Alex watched a beam of sunlight slowly move across the metal table as the sun flexed its mid morning muscles. His eyes appeared focused on the light but he was not really seeing it. His mind was preoccupied with more pessimistic thoughts. The last time he saw Fee, she said to him, "I need to know how this is going to end." At the time he had been frustrated with her request; he was not a fortune teller. Now it seemed pretty obvious where things were headed. Voices of a man and woman outside the door disrupted his muted attempted at a pep talk. Mulder or Spender. Fowley or Scully. For more reasons than one he wished it to be the dynamic duo. He was not looking forward to facing Jeffrey Spender's misplaced annoyance or Fowley's cool smirk. Diana had been the one to brief him on Mulder years ago. She had acted miffed because she thought she would be offered another chance with Mulder and she pointedly told Alex he would not last. He knew she would be gloating today. Not raising his eyes to the sound of the door opening, he somehow knew without looking that Mulder was standing silently behind him. Suddenly he felt like a kid who was relieved his father had come to bail him out of jail but completely humiliated at the experience. He lifted his eyes to see Mulder walk across the room and stare out the small window. "Child pornography, Krycek? It's hard to tell if that's considered an improvement over 'Professional Thug?'" Mulder remarked, tossing a file on the table. "But then again, there are limited career opportunities for one-armed felons." "I don't know Mulder, maybe they'll remake The Fugitive again." "You won't have to work on your acting abilities. I think you've got that area covered." "I'm still waiting for my Academy Award." "I once heard our dear smoking friend had a hand in the Oscar nominations so maybe you won't have to wait much longer." Mulder paused, and then changed the conversation's direction. "So how did you lose your arm?" "No arm-no test. What did you think? I cut it off because I was bored?" "No you seem pretty busy lately," Mulder noted in a calm voice lacking its usual sarcasm. Sensing the first round of insults were over, Alex jumped in, "Did you go to Toronto?" "Yeah." "And . . ." "And I got the grand tour of the Krycek conspiracy library." "How's Fionna?" "She's fine." "And Gibson?" "Outside with Scully. He appears quite taken with you. It seems everyone I meet lately is a card- carrying member of the Alex Krycek fan club and can't wait to tell me how misunderstood you are." Mulder paced around the small room. "Really? I'll have to start hanging out with you because usually the people I run into want me dead. Hence today's setting." "Well then I guess your brainwashing powers are limited to little boys and ex-girlfriends. Were you that good in bed?" Mulder whispered into his ear. "Why Mulder? Need some advice on how to please Scully? I have to warn you some of my moves are one-handed." The expected blow came from behind him and knocked him of the chair and onto the concrete floor. His shoulder twisted painfully as his wrist dangled from the handcuff attached to the interrogation table. "What took you so long Mulder? Trying to decide if it's o.k. to pummel a cripple?" The response from Mulder was a sharp kick in the side. He gasped, trying to catch his breath as Mulder picked him up by his jacket and slammed him across the table. "Is this how it works?" Alex wheezed. "You get all your anger and hatred out and leave what's left of me for Spender and Fowley to clean up?" "You tell me Krycek. This is your big plan." "This was not part of it," he countered defensively. "Are you going to get me out of here or should I start composing my obituary?" "I'll help you," Mulder leaned down to hiss in his ear again."But if you fuck with me, I'll deliver the eulogy myself." "Fair enough." Mulder released him and pulled him back into the chair. Alex felt a wave of relief pour over him. He did not like having to depend on Mulder's shifty benevolence but he would not reject the offer on the basis of pride. From experience, he knew Mulder preferred humble Krycek to his defiant smart ass routine and he had grown to learn that dignity was expendable under certain circumstances. *** An hour later Fionna starred at the phone willing it to ring with a persistent gaze. The truck was filled and everyone was anxious to move. Langley and Byers remained outside by the U-haul while she and Frohike waited in the apartment. The slapping sound Frohike's cards made as he played solitaire vibrated off the walls of the empty apartment. Fionna barely recognized the place without its tidy piles of papers and towers of boxes. In some ways the emptiness of the apartment was satisfying as if all the horrors found in the files disappeared with their removal. She never wanted to see them again. She remembered one night being utterly overwhelmed at what she read. She was sitting on the floor cataloguing the Bui Doi files. She had avoided looking at them for a long time; she knew they would be worse than the ones like hers. They held pictures of children with blank faces devoid of any animation. The pictures were accompanied by dates and names; Jerry, March 7 1987-May 19 1990, Claire, August 10 1992-April 4 1995, Sara, January 24 1997- June 30, 1997. None of them were over five years old. They had called the project Genesis, the third component of the American run hybrid program in which the ova of abductees were used instead of cloning the DNA. Fionna referred to the project as Bui Doi, the cursed name given to half American, half Vietnamese children abandoned afer the fall of Saigon by their absent fathers and desperate mothers. Children condemned to a life of shame and hopelessness. Conceived in lust, love or anger and sentenced to a life of shame and poverty by men across an ocean blind to the tragedies they created with their political games. Now twenty years later, Fionna sat surrounded by evidence of a more heinous and consciously created tragedy. It was then when she realized how far some humans had gone in their twisted partnership with aliens and how insignificant her pain was to the mothers with unknown offspring and the children without chances. According to Alex, Gibson Praise was the only Bui Doi child to have survived passed the age of five. He was born in the earliest stages of the project and not expected to live as all the Genesis children had died of rare blood disorders, cell abnormality or organ deficiencies in early childhood. The project was abandoned and the remaining children were placed through adoption agencies into oblivious families where they were monitored periodically. To everyone's surprise Gibson flourished while those like him expired. It was believed that some feature of his new lifestyle was temporarily warding off illness and he was allowed to remain with his adoptive family. He was observed from afar by consortium scientists who studied his diet, exercise, education and health care. Theories abounded that he survived based on his environment. He was the only Bui Doi living outside North America. His family moved to the Philippines shortly after his adoption and it was believed that the tropical climate somehow affected his growth. This theory was abandoned when Gibson began to display unusual powers. By the age of eight he was known among chess circles as a child prodigy. As researchers probed deeper into his talents, they discovered his power to read minds. At first they believed his telepathy was a form of superior intellect, similar to the exceptional physique and strength found in the shape shifting aliens whose DNA was used as the main alien component in hybridization. Not wanting to draw attention to themselves, Gibson's increasing fame made it difficult to abduct him permanently but he was taken periodically for study. The project was also restarted to see if any other children like Gibson would appear. When they did not, they began to question if there was something inherent in his human mother's DNA as he received the same extraterrestrial elements as the other children. Since his birth mother had died of cancer shortly after his birth, it was impossible to study it further without Gibson's presence. Plans were made to abduct him for the purposes of full time study but parts of the consortium felt the boy's powers were too dangerous. They claimed his abduction would risk exposure and they secretly arranged for his assassination. Fionna was curious to meet the resilient boy who had continually escaped death and foiled capture but could not help thinking about the others who had not made it. She knew Scully lost a daughter through the Genesis program and was amazed at her strength and spirit. Fionna doubted she would have held up as well. The acknowledgment that it occurred crushed her enough. After viewing these files she was pushed over the cliff she had clung to since Alex first told her everything. Sleep stopped coming naturally and the panic attacks happened more frequently. The doctor who treated her in the hospital after her abduction had been concerned about post traumatic stress disorder and asked if she wanted a prescription for sleeping pills. Upon her mother's urging, she had filled the prescription for Librium but never used it. Other than her fear of being submerged in water, she felt there was no lingering psychological damage. She had been proud of how she had handled herself and moved on. The insomnia started almost immediately upon Alex's return but she had not started taking the pills until the middle of the summer, after learning about the children like Gibson. By the time Howard Burns died she had already gone through the original prescription and had it refilled by telling a campus doctor how stressed she was over writing her thesis. When she went back three weeks later, the doctor refused to renew it until she saw a counselor. She promised to make an appointment but never did, believing if she started talking to someone, everything would come pouring out. She had tolerated a physical examination but she did not think she could withstand a psychological probing. A week after the pills ran out, she only averaged one or two hours sleep each night and could barely function. Alex was away somewhere and she went to Toronto for the weekend, not to transport or work on the files, but to see her brother. She planned to tell Andrew everything and ask for his help. Though once she saw him, she didn't know how to tell him and made up some story about finding school hard when he questioned her about the circles under her eyes and her lethargic attitude. The day she was to leave, she helped Andrew run a carnival for children at the fire department where his ambulance was stationed. While cleaning up, she discovered an ambulance stocked as a traveling pharmacy, ready for a tour of isolated communities in Northern Ontario. She had cut her hand breaking the glass on the locked cabinet that stored bulk bottles of various medications where she found one containing 300 hundred tablets of Librium. Later, as Andrew picked glass out of the wound she told him she received breaking a bottle, he suggested she take the next semester off school and come home for a while. Soothed by the sound of pills rattling around in her backpack, she told him not to worry, she felt better already. "You know what they say, a watched pot never boils." Fionna drew her thoughts backs to the present and realized Frohike was commenting on how she was still staring intensely at the phone. "And why do you think that is?" "It's one of life's mysteries that has yet to be solved. It ranks up there with hearing trees fall in the forest, the sound of one hand clapping and the reason the even numbered Star Trek movies tend to be better than the odd ones." "Any other words of wisdom?" Fionna could not help smiling at the peculiar man. "Ah, but they don't come cheap," Frohike said suggestively, shuffling his deck of cards. "For more cliches a la Melvin you'll have to play poker with me." "Well, as long as we're not playing for clothing." "Has Mulder been spreading rumors about me again? Don't believe a word he says." Fionna shifted over beside Frohike and was listening to him explain the rules to a version of five card draw he claimed the Gunmen invented when the apartment door burst open. Fionna and Frohike were taken aback as Alex Krycek strode into the apartment with a frazzled expression. "Fee, we have to go right now!" "What?" Fionna jumped up, playing cards scattering across the floor. "I thought you were in Buffalo!" "It was all a diversion. Come on." He reached to grab her arm but she shrank away, disturbed by the ferocity in which he spoke and acted. "Listen pal, I don't know what you're up to, but no one's going anywhere until Mulder and Scully get back." Frohike warned as he gallantly positioned himself between Fionna and Alex. "This is none of your business," Alex said and shoved the smaller man aside like a feather. Fionna moved to Frohike, ignoring Alex's insistent tugging at her elbow. "Alex," she warned as he violently jerked her backwards. Struggling to free herself of his hold on her right arm, Fionna spun around and reached upwards with her free hand to push him away. Not letting go, he seized her other wrist and pulled her to him. She gasped when it hit her and fell slack as she confirmed her suspicions. This man had two arms. Two fully working arms. It was not Alex. The revelation of what this man must be filled her with awe and terror. Noticing her astonishment, the man's eyes narrowed in recognition of her discovery. His grip on her did not loosen as his face began to melt and his entire stature vibrated as it oscillated into another form. "Sweet mother of god." Frohike's dazed voice broke the stillness that settled over the room, prompting the now broader and taller man with nordic features to adjust his hold on Fionna and drag her toward the door. Frohike pulled himself up and limped after the pair as they disappeared into the hallway. "Come any further and I'll break her neck," the man declared without any expression in his deep voice as his hand circled Fionna's throat. Frohike placed both hands up, palms facing forward in a gesture of capitulation and retreated into the apartment. As she was half carried, half dragged down the stairs Fionna gritted her teeth in desolation. She had thought by being proactive she had relinquished the victim persona but the passed three days had proven she was still stuck in that mold. Hauling an unwilling woman down six flights of stairs did not faze the large man and he barreled into the outdoor parking lot and headed toward the U-Haul. Somehow Frohike had alerted the other Gunmen because Byers and Langley flanked either side of the truck. Transformed into an actual lone gunman, Byers held a rifle. The parking lot was without other witnesses to observe the showdown. The man paused as he surveyed the scene and made a noise that sounded like a snicker. He released his tight hold on Fionna and swung her away from his body, offering Byers a clean shot. Langley and Byers exchanged perplexed looks at the turn of events. "His blood is toxic," Fionna called out."Don't shoot." Byers lowered his weapon and Langley dashed to the driver's side of the U-Haul. After mentally weighing the value of the truck's contents over his prisoner, the man flung Fionna aside and charged after Langley. Byers followed his friend, leaving Fionna at the vehicle's rear. Realizing what was attached to one of the files, Fionna scrambled to her feet, ran to the back of the truck and opened the U-Haul's door. The door slid up revealing stacks of boxes. She maneuvered into a small space between some boxes and frantically began searching for a particular one. Whether it was luck or coincidence, she promptly found the box she was looking for and ripped it open. Just as her hand grasped the thin silver cylinder, she was thrown into darkness as the door slammed shut with a bang. Clutching the weapon she blindly fought her way around boxes to the end of the truck and tried to open the door. It was locked. She stumbled, spiraling sideways against sharp cardboard edges as the truck wrenched forward. Fionna braced herself against a wall as the vehicle picked up speed. Taking deep breaths she composed herself and slipped the weapon under her sleeve. It was not over yet. *** Twenty minutes later "So your personal crusade for redemption is a chance to save the world, cleanse your soul and get the girl." "Not necessarily in that order but you have the general idea." Small talk was impossible and the drive back to Toronto was full of sullen silences, Mulder's attempts at probing into Krycek's past and a strained discussion about the day's events. At times the tension was so deep both men secretly wished that Scully was driving with them so her stern gaze would at least lower the number of cheap shots. Alas, she had not offered her services as referee and elected to escort Gibson to Toronto in a separate vehicle. "Pretty high ambitions for someone with your track record," Mulder pointed out unnecessarily. "Is what I'm doing any different from what you try to do every day?" Alex asked. "The only difference is that you can hide behind a badge and crawl back to the basement when you fail." "My failures don't come attached with jail sentences." "Right, I forgot I was sitting next to Saint Spooky who's highly admired by his partner, peers and superiors for his by the book practices." "Look Krycek, you can argue all you want about our similarities and tell me that you've grown a conscience but it's not going to change what I think of you. Unlike your little historian, I'm not into second chances." Alex snorted. "How disappointing, I was hoping we could become best friends now." Mulder annoyed him beyond belief. Over the years his participation had been necessary to many of Alex's assignments and he learned how self absorbed, petty and stubborn the man could be. Mulder rarely weighed the consequences of his actions and ran around blindly as if he was invincible, trench coat flapping around him like the cape of some deranged super hero, marching to the beat of his personal overture. He was hypocritical in his open-mindedness, constantly running after things he hoped existed but often refusing to see what was in front of him if he didn't like it. From the beginning, even when they were partners, their meetings opened with Mulder desperately trying to prove he was the better man as if he was worried someone might say differently. He flaunted his morality at the same time he pounded Alex with his fists. Nevertheless, as frustrating and irritating as Mulder could be, Alex admired his strength and perseverance, and had always sought his respect both as a worthy ally and adversary. He knew it was a lost cause, made impossible the day he accepted two sets of orders to spy on and subsequently deceive him. So he showed his respect by not fighting back. He agreed that Mulder was the better man so he let him win their personal battles, knowing Mulder lost so many others. As for second chances, Alex did not have experience in giving them himself so he understood Mulder's point of view. He remembered arriving in Wisconsin on a sweltering summer day in 1983. Devastated over his mother's death the month before, furious at Victor for abandoning him, and terrified at the prospect of living permanently with Gordon Hanna, an uncommunicative scowl remained on his face for the twenty-hour flight causing the airline steward to comment unfavorably to other passengers about teenagers. When he saw his father waiting outside customs, the scowl seemed to swallow him whole. Alex flinched as Gordon embraced him in an unexpected awkward hug and mumbled condolences over Patryka's death. A small group of women stood off to the side and Gordon promptly introduced his son to his fiancee, Claire and her daughters, Cora and Stephanie. Alex said nothing and pretended he did not understand English when they said hello. The younger of two daughters stepped forward and shyly smiled. She looked a few years older than Alex and said in clumsy Russian that she was pleased to meet him. Alex just looked annoyed at her butchered attempt of welcoming him. In a strange way Alex was looking forward to being punished for his rudeness when he was finally alone with his father. It would be something familiar in the past weeks of change. Only instead of beating him for his insolent behavior, his father showed him to his room that night, apologized for the past, and promised never to hit him again. He was in Alcoholics Anonymous and had been sober for the past six months. He said he owed his life to Claire who saved him from destruction. After learning about Patryka's death he vowed to be a better father. He asked Alex to forgive him and hoped together they could start over. Unsure of whether he believed what he heard, Alex thought it best not to provoke his father by refusing, gave a hesitant nod and allowed Gordon to embrace him again. Inside he was fuming and vowed never to forgive his father for all the misery he caused himself and his mother. Gordon held up his end of the bargain. In return Alex remained distant, treating his father with a cool civility. If he noticed his son's coldness toward him, Gordon never complained. The chilly household was soon filled with Claire and her daughters and it was easy for Alex to avoid his father. He could not help warming up to Claire who was more kind and patient with him then he deserved. He was closest to her younger daughter Cora, perhaps because they shared similar feelings of loneliness and frustration. She also missed her old home and found it difficult settling into a new family. Alex plodded through his early years back in the States, adjusting to the cultural change, doing moderately well in school, and participating in several extracurricular activities that kept him busy and away from home. While the physical scars had faded, the emotional ones continued to haunt him and he never trusted his father not to hurt him again. At times Alex purposely tested him by getting into fights at school, not doing his chores or bringing home a bad grade but his father never touched him except in kindness. After a year of reading but not responding to Victor Krycek's letters, Alex gave in and recommenced communication with his stepfather. The tradition was reversed and he began meeting with his stepfather for annual visits. Victor could not get permission to travel to the U.S. so the two would meet in a different European country for three weeks every summer. Victor paid for these ventures which opened Alex's eyes to the world outside of Moscow and Madison. The trips fueled a desire to learn and travel, and Alex looked forward to meeting his stepfather each year. When he turned eighteen, Alex had his name officially changed to Krycek and planned to return to Moscow but Victor urged him to stay in the States and go to college. He promised Alex that after graduation he would help him find a job abroad. Disappointed, Alex resigned himself to staying in America a little longer. He accepted a rugby scholarship at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee which was far enough to return home only on school breaks. Just before graduation he was called in the middle of the night by a distraught Claire asking him to come home. Memories of his mother's death flashed in his mind as Claire gently explained that his father was dying. He had been diagnosed with prostate cancer the year before but had not wanted to tell Alex for fear of disrupting his studies. He met Claire, Cora and Stephanie at the hospital and each were granted time to sit with Gordon. Alex had not seen his father since Christmas and was shocked to see how thin and grey he had become in only a few months. Starring down at the shrunken man too weak to move or speak, it was impossible for Alex to remember the imposing and threatening father with whom he was first introduced. It only hit Alex then, that illness or not, he had not been that man for a long time. Despite his father's redeeming actions for the passed eight years Alex had not given him a second chance. He had always believed it was all an act to impress Claire, and if Gordon found an opportunity, he would pummel Alex like he used to. He had forgiven Victor almost immediately for what he saw as abandoning him but never absolved his father of past guilt. Gordon lingered for a few days and then died quietly in his sleep. Alex was sorry his father was gone and regretted not making any effort to see him in another light while he had the chance. The hate was gone and only emptiness remained. Alex doubted Mulder would ever come to similar realizations. Their background was completely different. Even if Mulder could forgive him for his own suffering at Alex's hands, it would be almost impossible for Mulder to forget what he did to Scully. As if Gibson's telepathy was contagious, Mulder voiced similar thoughts. "Part of me knows that I can't blame you for everything, no matter how much I want to. I don't think even you can claim to have started this whole mess . . . " "Thanks Mulder, you're so gracious. And here I thought you were going to blame me for global warming, world hunger and that stupid purple singing dinosaur." "I get it, you're just a sad twisted man who turned to a life of crime when his pathetic stand-up routine failed." Alex opened his mouth to reply with a sharp retort but instead decided to try another approach. "Picture how you would have felt if you thought you could make the world a better place and your father told you to forget it because the world was coming to an end." "I suggest we leave my father out of this conversation," Mulder warned. "No. What if he told you everything he knew fifteen years ago. Imagine the DAT tape was your twenty-first birthday gift," Alex suggested. "You're shocked, disgusted, and suspicious. Then he twists it all around and tells you he's a hero, not a villain, and there are men like him fighting to save our future and you can help out. Shaking your fist at the skies won't do anything; to win you have to play dirty. Suddenly everything right is wrong." "That's a pretty simplified scenario." "Why? Isn't that what war is all about? Morals are temporarily dismissed. The soldier has to kill to protect life. Pacifism is only justifiable if you willing to let your world be destroyed. I thought I was on the only possible side. But my stepfather, the Smoking Man and company, they're the enemies we can see but not the ones worth fighting." "Stepfather? Don't tell me you're related to the Smoker too." Mulder commented, not quite wrapping his head around what Krycek was telling him and picturing another Jeffrey Spender scenario. "What? No. No. God no. Victor Krycek, biologist and immune system authority, otherwise known as Dr. Lev Kruzich. He's in charge of what you saw in Tunguska . . . Bald man with glasses?" Mulder shook his head, he did not recall much of the personnel. He did however remember a strong urge to kill the man sitting beside him. "So this guy tells you to kidnap Scully and you just do it?" "Not exactly. Victor always had designs for me to be a spy. He was terribly disappointed when the cold war ended and his investment in me seemed useless. When I was recruited by the FBI, he saw a different opportunity but was not impressed that I was sent to work in Russia. He called in all his favors trying to get me transferred from the Language Division to another section, preferably one in Washington." "Uh huh, " was all Mulder said. "At this point I was still clueless about who Victor really was and what he wanted from me. After I had been working in Russia for a few months he sits me down and tells me a story he alluded to years ago." Alex remembered his stepfather's words the day his mother died, 'We all have a part to play even if we don't want to. It is unavoidable, inevitable, unstoppable.' "At first I didn't believe him, I thought he was mad until he showed me Tunguska and a whole lot more." Alex continued, "He started off easy and asked me to find out what you knew." "So treason was the easy stuff?" Mulder scoffed. "Well if you call what the syndicate was doing patriotic, then I guess you are right." "I'll give you that." "So I try to get close to you, look for cases which I think might be potential X-Files. Then you guys are shut down and I stumble across the Cole case. We team up . . . " "And the rest is history . . . " "Well not quite. Victor didn't expect me to be approached by his Western counterparts while I was on the case. He was thrilled at my new connection and told me to go for it. I played the eager snitch, thrilled with the money Spender, Almsey, Harrigan, whatever you want to call him, threw at me. I act like I'm very interested in the organization and make a few reports about you and Scully." Mulder's hands had tightened around the steering wheel as he anticipated what was coming next. "In the middle of the Duane Barry case I go in to make a report and Almsey asks if I would arrange for Scully's abduction. I balk and tell him that was never a part of our agreement. He acts like he's disappointed but confesses my disinterest is no problem and wishes me well. Then as I go to leave, he tosses a file across the table with a picture of Fionna in it and tells me she will not be permanently damaged if I cooperate. He also promises that Scully will be fine and all they want to do is scare you." Recounting this experience for Mulder flooded him with a sense of utter desperation and buried rage he felt throughout the Duane Barry case. Forced to wear a mask of utter calmness toward everyone, he was only able to reveal his true feelings to Victor. After listening to Almsey's request he had called his stepfather and begged him to do something. Initially Victor appeared sympathetic and promised to help. But in the end, all he did was ensure the Russian police would focus the investigation into Fionna's disappearance away from her American FBI boyfriend, claiming he could do nothing more without arousing Almsey's suspicion. Alex accused his stepfather of exploiting him and Fionna for his own needs, to which Victor cooly replied, "I warned you not to pursue that relationship." This comment prompted Alex to consider if his mother's death had really been an accident. "So you tell Duane Barry where to find her and try to prevent me from getting to her in time." "Are telling me you would have done differently if the tables were reversed?" "I would not have let myself get into that situation." "Stop acting so righteous. You would do anything to save Scully. That's why when Burns gave you the vaccine you didn't run back to the FBI lab and have it analyzed it in hopes of saving the world - you hit the ground running and didn't look back until Scully was safe," Alex pointed out. Not wanting to change the topic to his own debatable decisions, Mulder turned the conversation back to Alex's evil deeds. "Did you kill my father?" "Yes." Telling the truth was almost a relief after denying it to him for so long. Alex braced himself for a physical or verbal onslaught and wondered if he would be able to grab the wheel if Mulder lost complete control. Instead Mulder just sighed heavily and said nothing for a while. "Tell me about Hong Kong." "Well after killing your father instead of you," Alex paused as he let Mulder digest that bit of information, "and Cardinal screwing up with Scully's sister under my supervision, I was no longer the consortium's golden boy so they tried to eliminate me. I did what I had to do to survive." "Why didn't your Russian pals come to your rescue?" "Victor had still not got over how I lost my position with the FBI so quickly and was even more angry at the recent turn of events. Plus exposure of the DAT tape's global revelations reunited, if only for a moment, the two consortiums in a common goal. Victor claimed he could not risk bringing me back in for fear of offending their temporary allies," Alex recalled bitterly, remembering how Victor had added cheerfully that he need not worry of an assassination attempt on their end, out of respect for his late mother he had told everyone else that Alex was dead. "And the Silo?" "I was there for a week until Victor's men found me. I was out of it for a while and when I came to, I was back in St. Petersburg and suddenly the center of attention. Because of my enlightening experience with the black oil, they upgraded my status from disappointing failure to undeniably useful. Victor acted like nothing ever happened, offered me a top position in their security department, and sent me back to the States to work undercover. I think from there you can piece together what happened with the terrorists and our trip to the woods." "So how did you end up as the poster boy for the rebellion?" "To make a long story short, the chain reaction of certain events,"Alex raised his prosthetic arm up, "changed my perspective." Mulder did not need to know about being temporarily sidetracked by the blonde. "You can weave quite a tale," Mulder conceded. Krycek's story rolled around in his mind. It seemed logical based on what Mulder knew to be true. It was almost sympathetic. But then again the man was a master at false pretenses. "If I believe you . . . " Alex interrupted, "There are two ways to slide easily though life: to believe everything or to doubt everything. Both ways save us from thinking." "Nietzsche?" Mulder asked trying to place the quote. "Fowley. But knowing her, she probably stole it from somewhere." Mulder took one hand off the wheel and rubbed his forehead. The passed few days had been enlightening but exhausting. Six years of searching for the truth, navigating the lies and some of his deepest questions were answered in three days. What was left? Oh yeah, he could help Krycek save the world. His cell phone rang punctuating his last thought. "Mulder . . . For now. . ." Mulder shot Krycek a glare suggesting that all scores were not settled. "Keep trying." Mulder hung up and tossed the phone onto Krycek's lap. "Here. If it rings, answer it." Gripping the wheel with two hands, Mulder checked his review mirror and increased his speed. "What's going on?" "Scully's tried to reach the apartment for the passed fifteen minutes but no one's answering." Alex felt warm bile rise in his throat."Shit." "Well Frohike's always been funny about phones, maybe he doesn't want to take the risk in answering or they all could be waiting at the truck or..." "Or they're in trouble. Why did leave Fionna alone with those yahoos?" Alex complained. "I don't think playing dungeons and dragons counts as defense training." "Why did you drag her into this to begin with?" Alex mumbled something incoherent under his breath and then confessed, "You're right. Let's just get there as quickly as possible." "I'm working on it." *** Four hours later Alex sat with his head in his hands on a bench outside Langley's hospital room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gibson's short legs swinging back and forth on the seat next to him. Oddly, it was reassuring. Scully stood off to the side conversing with members of the local police department. Fionna and the truck were missing and the Gunmen were all suffering from a series of injuries, the most severe being Langley's dislocated shoulder. "Krycek. Do you have a picture of her?" Scully asked, turning toward him. Alex looked up with extinct eyes. "Not on me." He thought of the passport for her in his backpack. So far everyone assumed the bag belonged to Gibson and he did not want to draw Scully's attention to its ownership or contents. "Her brother probably does. He lives in the same building." Scully nodded. "We met him last night." Alex resumed his earlier position but his brooding was interrupted by Gibson. "Want some of my Coke?" "Got any rum to go with it?" Gibson shook his head. "Not on me." Alex took a swig of the offered beverage. The soft drink had gone flat and the sugary liquid slid down his throat devoid of its usual bubbles. Handing the can back to Gibson, he stood up to pace in the makeshift internment provided between the wall and Scully. He was flooded with restlessness at his own limited abilities, heightened by sluggish police protocol and pointless jurisdiction debates. Mulder appeared to be equally frustrated at the inaction. He returned from Langley's hospital room and let out a string of curses. He had given up trying to explain to a police sketch artist how fruitless it was to reproduce the features of a man who could change appearances at the blink of an eye. Progress was made when an imposing figure strode down the hospital corridor, forcing the crowd of officers to part like the Red Sea. A flash of some paperwork and a quick briefing by the Assistant Director sent the officers scuttling off and Skinner's disapproving glare swept over the remaining party, leaving only Gibson unscathed. "Agent Mulder, I didn't think this would happen again. I thought I made myself clear over a year ago how you were obligated to act if you had any further contact with this," Skinner paused to look at Alex as if considering his chose of words, ". . . man" "Sir, considering that you are no longer our direct supervisor, Agent Scully and I proceeded as we saw fit. The circumstances of the case dictated . . . " "AD Kersh has resigned. I am your temporary supervisor," Skinner acknowledged and then continued his lecture. "This was not a case, Agent Mulder. This was you jetting off to investigate something not sanctioned by the Bureau, following the instructions of a fugitive and subsequently losing your informant and any proof that a possible case ever existed." "I am not proud of how things worked out but given the fact you informed Agent Scully and I of Krycek's arrest shows you appreciate the larger picture. And this is not over yet," Mulder pointed to Alex leaning against the wall, "I think even you would agree we still have a lot to work with." "I understand perfectly what we are dealing with, but what concerns me is your reliance on this man to lead you to the truth. I am constantly amazed at your willingness to be influenced by his manipulation." Alex suppressed a groan. He knew it was only a matter of time before Skinner moved from berating Mulder to him but he was surprised that it was Scully who rushed to his defense. "Sir, Agent Mulder and I are aware of Krycek's faults but at this point he is better then nothing." "I don't like those odds, and if we had the time, I would argue he is nothing," Skinner declared sourly, scanning the former agent with barely concealed disgust. "What do you have to say for yourself?" "Nothing I could say will change the past," Alex offered indifferently to his dubious audience. "I just want to find Fionna. After that I'll be your scapegoat, punching bag, human shield . . . whatever." Gibson earnestly piped up, "He's telling the truth." Skinner squinted behind his glasses with bewilderment at the little boy whom everyone had forgotten. "How do you know that?" Gibson rolled his eyes. "Agent Mulder believes him too, only he doesn't want to say." Mulder's stunned expression was mirrored on Alex's face and the two men stared at each other in shared astonishment. Scully turned to study her partner with interest while Skinner sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mulder opened his mouth to explain Gibson's revelations when Byers poked his head out into the hallway, clutching Mulder's cell phone. "Um, there's a phone call for him." Looking between Krycek and Mulder, Byers tentatively held out the phone. Both men reached for it but Mulder grabbed the phone first and answered it before Alex could protest. "Mulder." "Agent Mulder," a slippery voice drawled. "It has been a while." Mulder mouthed "Cancerman" to Scully who subsequently flew onto her phone trying to place a trace. "You know I recently read some fascinating stories about you and your friends. If I were you, I'd be shaking in my shoes." "Considering the source of your information, I wouldn't believe everything I hear." Mulder eyed Krycek. "Oh I doubt he could be a bigger liar than you are." "I'm surprised at you Mulder, taking the side of your father's murderer. Speaking of which, I'm looking for Alex. Is he there?" "I don't usually let prisoners accept calls on my phone. Think of the phone bills." The voiced oozed with false sympathy."I understand, but I would really like to speak to him." "I'll pass on a message." "Very well. He has something I want. I'm willing to make an exchange. Even I can be reasonable." "Why don't you drop by and we can all talk about it?" Mulder suggested. "This is between Alex and I, nothing you would want to get involved in. I'll be in touch." Dead air swished in Mulder's ear, signaling the Cigarette Smoking Man had hung up. "What did he want?" Skinner asked. "He wants to trade Fionna for me," Gibson said. "He didn't specify but I think that what he had in mind." Alex chewed on the inside of his cheek as his mind tore through the possibilities. Once again Fionna's fate was in his hands. A good soldier would begrudgingly accept the lost as a noble sacrifice of war. A smart gambler would fold, knowing he could not trust the dealer. Neither of those choices were acceptable to him. "Alex?" Gibson's voice wavered, snapping Alex out of his reverie. "It's not an option. I wouldn't do that to you." "Of course it's not an option," Mulder added, glaring at Alex, "No one's even considering it." Scully broke in. "All we could get is that it was a local number. The greater Toronto area." "Do you have any idea where he could be?" Skinner asked. Alex shook his head slowly. "No. As far as I know, he's never worked out of Canada." Gibson shot Alex a questioning look but said nothing. "All right. I have a meeting with the Commissioner in fifteen minutes. The Toronto Police have kindly offered us a room to use at the station house. I suggest you two move down there." Skinner nodded toward Mulder and Alex. "What about me?" Gibson asked. Scully held out her hand for Gibson to take. "We're going to find a place for you to lie down." "I don't want any tests done." Scully smiled warmly. "No tests. Just a place to get some rest." "I want to stay with Alex," Gibson said firmly, moving to his side. "You'll be fine. Scully will take good care of you." Alex crouched down to Gibson's level. He took the backpack which lay on the floor between them and put it on Gibson's back. "Challenge her to Monopoly and see if you can keep your crown undefeated." "I'd rather go with you." "You're crazy if you'd rather hang out with me instead of a beautiful woman like Scully? Come on, Mulder's dying to be in your place." Solemn eyes blinked at Alex. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid." Define stupid, Alex hastily thought and forced a smile. "I'll do my best." The response appeared to satisfy Gibson and he wrapped his arms around Alex. "Thanks for coming back for me." Floored at the boy's sudden display of affection, Alex clumsily returned the hug. It lightened his heart and briefly distracted him from memories of a Toronto office he visited that spring with Almsey. *** Five months ago He should not have expected the day to get any better when he woke up with a gun in his face. He was in the middle of a deep sleep, enjoying the comfortable bed and peacefulness he always found when spending the night on Howard Burns' Virginia farm. He had been summoned yesterday, arrived around 10:00 p.m. and was shown to the guesthouse by an elderly man, proper and dignified enough to be Burns' twin but obviously working as his valet. He was told that Mr. Burns was out of town and would see him tomorrow afternoon. Alex expected to sleep late, eat a big country breakfast prepared by Frances, Burns' cook and if he had the time, stroll around the grounds getting some fresh air. It was not often that he had time to stop and smell the roses. Instead he was shaken awake just after midnight by Burns, holding his own gun on him. "Get up, boy." Each word was sharply enunciated and it was clear this was no practical joke. "Hey Howie, if I knew this was the price for going to bed without saying my prayers, I would have, "Alex joked uneasily as he tried to figure out what set the normally composed Burns off. Since their meeting four months ago on the Star of Russia, the two men had formed a comfortable alliance. Until that moment, Alex felt things had been progressing nicely and that he and Burns had found a certain understanding. Not amused by Alex's light tone, Burns lowered the gun until it was aimed at his target's face and repeated."Get up and get dressed." Alex sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He casually reached for his clothes as if he was not perturbed by the fact his fickle patron had gone crazy. Burns watched with slight embarrassment as Alex awkwardly put on his prosthetic. The process of getting dressed was always slow but Alex deliberately lingered longer than normal as he contemplated how to act. "Now what?" Alex asked, hoping for an explanation rather than an execution. Burns motioned with the weapon for Alex to exit the bedroom. Following a few paces behind, Burns directed Alex down the narrow staircase and out the guesthouse's back door. "Where are we going?" "The stables." "If you wanted us to go for a moon lit ride, you could have just asked." "Shut-up." A strong scent of horse assaulted the two men as they entered the stables. The smell still hung in the air despite the absence of any life in the stalls. Burns had sold his collection of Arabian stallions for a tidy profit last month, outwardly claiming he did not have enough time to spend with them. Alex had arranged the sale for Burns and knew the money had been used to finance the rebels. "So," Alex said turning to confront Burns. "What's going on? This is not your style. I'm the one who usually pulls stunts like this." "I thought you might like to return to the scene of the crime," the elderly man said through clenched teeth. Alex shrugged."It looks like you're the one about to make this a crime scene." Burns sighed heavily, looked at the gun with disgust and lowered it. He reached into the breast pocket of his impeccable navy suit and pulled out an envelope. "I received a package yesterday forwarded from London to the Washington office." He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to the confused younger man. Alex took the handwritten note and read it over silently to himself and then out loud. "For over a year you have vehemently pursued an unsuccessful investigation into discovering the murderer of Dr. Sayre. For the past few months you have been responsible for allowing the same man to live. I hope you appreciate the irony. Please tell Alex we have not forgotten about him - Dr. Lev Kruzich." Alex handed the letter back to Burns, "Look I don't know who Dr. Sayre is but whatever happened to him . . . " "Her . . . ," Burns corrected with a small choke and Alex guessed the significance. "Her, might have fallen under my jurisdiction back in Russia. If it did, I hope you don't expect me to apologize for it. I don't need to remind you of a similar situation," Alex stated. Burns raised the weapon again. "The Russians want me to kill you to save them the trouble." "Are you?" Alex dared. "Death is too frequently nearby for us to taunt mortality with our petty games. If I killed you, I might as well kill myself," Burns admitted and handed Alex's gun back to him. Grasping it, Alex exhaled slowly with concealed relief. "I did however volunteer you for an assignment that might make you wish I pulled the trigger." "What is it?" Alex asked suspiciously. "The organization has misplaced something. We need you to go to Quebec and retrieve it. There's a private charter waiting for you to leave immediately at the Carrsbrook airport. Your instructions are on board. We'll meet in a few days to discuss the implications." "Fine." "And Alex, it is very important for you to watch your behavior on this assignment. Do nothing that might shed light on our plans, no matter how tempting," Burns warned with narrow eyes. Burns' insight into holding his emotions back was almost forgotten when Alex discovered what or rather whom he was required to return to civilization. Almsey. He desperately fought for control as he confronted the fleeing man on the snowy hill. It took every ounce of willpower not to leave him bleeding in the snow. Instead he did his job as requested and escorted the bastard back to New York, hoping shortly he would get the pleasure of destroying him one way or the other. Alex experienced a brief moment of panic when Almsey requested a stop over in Toronto. He claimed he kept an office there and needed to check up on some investments. He gave an address not far from the apartment where Alex and Fionna stored the stolen information. Alex agreed to the detour, fearing any protest on his part would make his charge suspicious. The visit was brief and the uneventful as Almsey merely picked up a briefcase filled with papers and changed into a suit. However, a casual comment he made just before they landed in New York made Alex suspect he knew more then he revealed. "Did you ever see that woman again? What did you call her . . . Lee?" All his nerves stood at attention. "Fee, her name is Fionna." "Ah yes. I remember. It's a shame our responsibilities do not allow for such relationships." "You never had a problem mixing your personal life with work," Alex snapped, risking an outburst. "Well in my case it could not be avoided. But I always found your situation particularly tragic." He spoke in an almost kind tone. "You were so worried about her. Everyone in Gettysburg found it touching how you would not leave her side during the tests. It was unfortunate that things couldn't work out for you, but our line of work requires such sacrifices." Alex spent the rest of the journey visualizing the most painful ways the man in front of him could die. Upon their arrival at the designated meeting spot, Burns noticing his seeping agitation, pulled him aside and told him to get lost before he did something they both would regret. Before walking away he had stood for a few minutes listening to the group of old men airing old grievances. He could sense the panic bubbling under their calculated exteriors as they plotted the murder of their latest threat. The fact that it was a twelve year old boy revealed how frightened they were these days. The end was growing near and the struggle to stay on top was continually challenged by their own inner power plays and those who opposed their triumph, whether it was relentless FBI agents or faceless intruders. Ulcers multiplied, wrinkles deepened and liquor cabinets emptied more frequently. Could they remember a time when they were all allies? When they thought this was a good idea? When pride did not come attached with shame? His muscles burned from the early morning parachute jump and his head hurt from the day's revelations. He was hungry, cold and tired, and in no mood to find his way back to the Washington hole he called home that week. He caught a cab and gave the driver an address near Fionna's apartment. He needed to see her and in light of the day's events, decided he had very valid reasons for dropping by unexpected. As he approached her apartment, his step was lighter, his heart beat faster and his mood steadily improved. It was a euphoric transformation that swept over him each time he saw her even though they were still getting used to each other and had not completely passed the awkward stage old lovers often found themselves. In the beginning, their meetings were quick and to the point. He would drop by once a week to bring material but rarely stayed beyond a short briefing. Lately the climate between them had become more comfortable and he ended up sleeping over a few times after a late night session. During a recent trip to Toronto they both found themselves settling into old habits. He would reach out to brush a stray hair from her forehead or Fionna would rest her chin on his shoulder as she leaned over to read something he was looking at. But each time contact was made, they would break apart as if burned by the intimacy. He appreciated the level of comfort their relationship had regained, but this evolution was also distracting. It was getting easier and easier to imagine they were together for reasons that had nothing to with aliens and conspiracies Fionna looked surprised to see him when he entered the apartment and he quickly discovered why. She was not alone. Sprawled on the floor on her living room was a man dressed in a t-shirt and chinos tossing a water polo ball back and forth in his raised hands. He appeared to be reciting the names of States while Fionna sat on the couch with her mouth hanging open. A moment passed before Fionna regained her senses and stood up to greet him, her eyes asking if everything was ok. "Am I interrupting something?" Alex asked, peering into the living room to get another look at the man. "No, come in. I was just helping Rob study for the bar exam." Fionna took the back pack from Alex's hand and led him into the living room. Fionna tentatively made the introductions."Rob, this is an old friend of mine, Ethan Trask. Ethan this is Rob Adams." Rob. Blonde, buff, brainy and most importantly, on the right side of the law. Great. His headache doubled in its intensity. Rob put down the ball and rose smiling to shake Alex's hand. "Hi. Nice to meet you." "No the pleasure's all mine."Alex gave Rob a bigger smile and hoped his face did not crack at the effort. "Sorry to interrupt your little study session." "Oh we were just about to call it a night." Fionna jumped in offering a yawn as proof of her statement. "I find the legal profession fascinating. What type of lawyer are you hoping to be?" "I have a good offer from Wilson, Sanchez and Sibbald. They do a bit of everything but I'm mainly interested in criminal law," Rob recited confidently. "I'll have to keep you in mind if I ever get in trouble," Alex remarked innocently, watching Fionna roll her eyes at this exchange. "How do you know Fionna?" "Oh we go way back," Alex said vaguely but grinned suggestively. "Really, I never heard her mention you before," Rob recalled smugly, secure in his mind that Ethan Trask was no threat to him. "Ethan's visiting from Toronto. He's doing a bit of traveling and I gave him a key so he could use the apartment as a base of operations," explained Fionna, giving Alex a sharp look saying she would handle this. Rob's eyes narrowed as if he disapproved of the arrangement. Alex wished he could see his reaction if Fionna told him the truth. "Rob, I think we've covered all we can tonight." "What? Oh, I guess I'll let you guys catch up." Rob reluctantly surrendered the floor to the interloper and began gathering his things together. As Fionna walked Rob to the door, Alex sank into the couch and leaned back with his eyes closed, trying to look nonchalant as he eavesdropped on their conversation. Finding one of his favorites laps, Spooky joined him on the couch, aiding Alex in his inconspicuous appearance. Rob asked eagerly, "Do you want to get together this weekend? Take a break from the books, go for a drive or something. Maybe stay over in a bed and breakfast." "I probably have to go to Toronto on Saturday." "Maybe I could come too?" Hope dripped from Rob's voice. "It will be pretty boring." Fionna dismissed his request with a wave of her hand. "I have research to do at the archives. Plus, a ton of papers to grade." Alex mentally added items to her list: abductee blood samples to transport, alien biology to study and an international conspiracy to unravel. "Well, I'll call you next week." "Sure." Fionna agreed and accepted a quick kiss before pushing him out the door. Alex hid his victorious grin when Fionna returned to the living room. "So you're helping him study the law while aiding me in breaking it. What would Rob think about you harboring a fugitive?" "Something tells me you don't really care what Rob thinks?" Fionna collapsed in the armchair as if she was worn out by Alex's arrival. "Whatever gave you that impression?"Alex asked with mocked confusion and then continued his attack. "He seems boring." "We can't all be James Bond." "How well do you know him?" "Alex, drop it. You didn't come here to talk about my love life." Burns went nuts and waved a gun at him, his stepfather wanted him dead, Almsey's alive, and Fee has a love life. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, Alex reflected. If things were to continued along this line, he expected Mulder to come crashing through the door any minute and arrest him. He pushed the self pity aside. "Something's come up. Frederick Almsey's alive." Fionna paled considerably but asked calmly. "Does this change our plans?" "At this point I would say no. Burns and I are meeting next week to discuss the implications but I don't see how this would alter the plan too much." "So what does it mean?" "With him back on the scene things will be harder. He doesn't trust me and will be watching closely. I plan on staying out of his way but I thought we needed to talk about a back up plan." Fionna nodded, bringing her legs up to her chest and hugging them. "In the perfect world, they'll never know you were involved and Burns and I will disappear. But if something goes wrong, at any point, I want you to go to Scully. Tell her everything and show her and Mulder what we have. They'll take care of you." "What about you?" "I can take care of myself." "You mentioned before about trying to get immunity?" "Murder and treason are not easily forgiven. I doubt Skinner would be willing to play that game, and even if he was, he couldn't offer the type of protection I would need. I'd be better off on my own." "Where would you go?" "I have some ideas. There are places I can't go, I'll just work from there." "Do you think I would be safe under the FBI's protection?" He considered his answer carefully. He didn't want to scare her more than she already was but it would be unfair to be misleading. "It would depend on what they thought you knew. They work very hard at tying up loose ends." She cocked her head and smiled. "I feel so honored to be upgraded from a bargaining tool to a loose end." "Hey, maybe one day you can aspire to be a full blown problem," he suggested, following her in keeping things light. "As long as it means I could still be your Achilles heel. That never gets old." "The classics never go out of style." Alex found Fee's outer calmness eery considering the dangerous position he had placed her in. She remained her glib self, taking everything in without batting an eye, as if they were joking about simple things, not matters of life and death. She had never been an overly expressive person, preferring to keep her observations and emotions to herself, often using humor to guard her true feelings. He respected this now only because was afraid to challenge her. Part of him wanted Fee to share how she felt, if only to regain the trust they used to share, but he also realized her silence might be the only thing holding them both together. "Is there anything else I should know? Any other bombs to drop?" "Surprisingly no, considering the day I had." "Well then, I've got one of my own. What about the chip? If I were to hide, couldn't they just call me to them whenever they wanted?" "It doesn't work that way. It's not made for individual communication. If they put a call out, they would get everyone in that region. And there are 16 regions alone in North America. If they didn't know where you were, they would have to call the entire continent to find you. That seems a bit extreme, even for them." "But does it work the other way? Can they keep track of where I am?" That's not something he had considered, or wanted to consider. "I don't think so. I've never heard of it being used that way. If they can, they probably would have tried it with Scully. I'll check her files." "Well, if I have to hide, I am going to take it out," she said matter of factly. "I don't want to take the risk." He was flabbergasted at her complacency. "It's death if you do." "It's not like I have a lot of options." "Just don't do anything rash. Let me look into it more." "Fine," she agreed and they sat in silence for a few moments, caught up in their own thoughts. Finally Fionna uncurled herself from the chair and announced,"Well if there's nothing else, I'm going to bed. Are you leaving or staying over?" "Do you mind?" he asked, wondering if he sounded as needy as the departed eager legal whiz had. "No. You know where everything is." "Thanks." "No problem. Goodnight." She called over her shoulder, disappearing into her bedroom. "Night." Hearing Fionna's bedroom door close Alex rummaged through his bag to find suitable sleep wear. The perks of living out of a backpack was that you tended to have everything you owned at your fingertips. The downside was that everything you owned fit into a backpack. Since he left the FBI he had not lived in one place long enough to accumulate much of anything and the globe was dotted with the belongings Alex abandoned along the way. An entire collection of leather bound Chekhov plays he bought for an excellent price in a dank basement apartment in St. Petersburg. A pair of perfectly broken in running shoes in a Hong Kong hotel room. A discman with his favorite Smashing Pumpkins CD in a New York taxi. The most disposable items were guns which were thrown away or hidden every time he flew somewhere. He changed into a t-shirt and pair of sweat pants and tried to get comfortable on the couch. It was a difficult task since the couch had more lumps than his mother's oatmeal and his neck and shoulders still ached from the parachute jump. He contemplated his options and decided any hotel he could afford would probably offer equally enticing accommodations so he settled for the floor and a pillow. Sleep found him quickly and he dreamed that he had been sent by Fionna to pick up Rob while Almsey lurked in the background laughing. He contemplated blowing Rob's head off when he felt a feather light touch on his shoulder. He jerked awake and reached for his gun only to find Fionna crouched down beside him rocking on the balls of her feet. He stared at her ghostly appearance, hair tousled, lips slightly parted, clad in a white nightgown and wondered if he was still dreaming. "I couldn't sleep and I saw you lying there. I thought . . . I thought you were dead." "Almost. Your couch was killing me. I think I threw my back out this morning." "How?" she asked and then held up her hand to his mouth. "No wait, I probably don't want to know." "You probably wouldn't believe me," he interjected, enjoying the closeness and hoping to prolong the conversation. "I've taken a leap of faith on everything you've told me so far." "If I had told you everything before, when we first met, would you have believed me then?" "I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe. I trusted you." "Do you trust me now?" "I want to." That was good enough for him. "I'm sorry for scaring you." Fionna smiled and gently patted his chest. "Look, why don't you take the bed? It's a futon and it's probably better for your back than the couch or floor." "What? No offer of massage?" he said, receiving an exasperated look in return. "I know, I know you're just afraid that once you touch me you won't be able to stop." "Are you sure you didn't injure your head too?" Fionna remarked and then disappeared into the bathroom returning moments later with a jar. "Sit up and take off your shirt." Shock and alarm flickered across his face. "Look, I didn't mean . . . I was just kidding." "You're blushing! You were never shy about stripping in front of me before." "A lot has changed," he warned. "It's not a pretty sight." "Who said I thought you were pretty before?" "Right. I forgot you were only ever after my mind." Alex considered and then pulled the shirt over his head. Fionna knelt behind and he heard her suck in a gasp of air when she saw his back. Faded bruises, faint scars and a recent ugly rope burn scattered the landscape. To the left were the sloppy leftovers of his Tunguska operation. The right side was unmarred except for an ugly star like scar just above his waist; the people he dealt with were not above stabbing you in the back literally and figuratively. "Where does it hurt?" "Um . . . from my neck down the left side." The message was very clinical, no lingering touches or suggestive squeezes yet the moment she placed her hands on him the pain evaporated and he could barely think. He was briefly transported to another time when Fionna's touches were common place. He could not tell how long it lasted but it was over too soon for him. "Feel better?" "Yeah," was all he could croak out. "Good. Let me get my clothes for tomorrow out of the bedroom and it's all yours." The satisfying feeling of Fionna's hands persisted after she got up. Moments later he lay her bed encircled in the sheets that were touching her only minutes ago. He buried his head into the pillow, inhaling her clean scent and decided the day was not a total loss. *** Present Day Mulder was beginning to feel he was Krycek's "Get out of jail free card," strategically played when it was time to pass Go. Certain schools of psychology would suggest that he subconsciously wanted Krycek to be free and therefore continually allowed him to escape custody. In the past he defended himself by claiming Krycek's disappearing acts were caused by circumstances out of his control, be it his trigger happy partner or bad brakes. He almost preferred to believe he was an incompetent law enforcement officer and vehemently denied otherwise until the night he watched, slumped in a stupor, as his former partner handed his gun back and casually strolled out of his apartment without a backward glance. After that incident he began to realize it was not so much how Krycek vanished but how he ever came to be in Mulder's company in the first place. Skinner was right. The only thing Mulder was better at than losing Krycek, was allowing him to become his responsibility. He was forever the starving mule, pulling the cart for Krycek's dangling carrot of truth. This time was no different, except their tug of war had never been so personal. Before, Krycek played the angel of death, the apocalyptic courier, an accidental tourist in a corrupted enterprise; never pausing long enough to set the scene or explain his presence. Now Mulder observed a drained man who surrendered his mystery for one last metamorphosis. And like all the other Kryceks before, Mulder let this one go. Only this time he had the small voice of a child ringing in her ears to tell him why he did. Despite everything, he believed. Only time will tell how much he would lament his decision. The Women's College Hospital was across the street from the apartment building. Before driving to the police station, Mulder and Krycek walked over to inform Andrew Wilkinson of his sister's disappearance. Not relishing their task, both men were secretly relieved to find him out. As they exited the building, Mulder instructed one of the officers supervising a forensic team, scouring the parking lot for evidence, to find Andrew and track down Fionna's parents who they had discovered were on a biking holiday in the Maritimes. As they walked back in the direction of the hospital to pick up the car, Krycek stopped and pointed out a small square glass government building which housed the Ontario Provincial Archives. "Fionna worked there for a year, after Russia and before she went back to school in New York," he explained, staring across the road. Mulder made a non committal sound and continued to walk, only to notice Krycek was not following. He backtracked and waited as Krycek continued his monologue, oblivious or unconcerned with his audience's disinterest and growing impatience. "It's strange how a whole country can remind you of one person. Canada and Fionna became interchangeable in my mind. I took any assignment that brought me over the border. For some reason I felt close to her whether I was in Red Deer, Alberta or Sydney, Nova Scotia. Once I passed through Toronto and waited here, hoping to see her, but I didn't." Wistful Krycek was a new experience for Mulder and he was not sure how to handle him but something he said peaked his interest, "I thought you said the consortium didn't work in Canada?" Krycek peeled his eyes away from the building and focused on Mulder. "I hate to do this to you again." "Do what?" Mulder asked cautiously, preparing himself for anything. "I need to do this on my own," Krycek said simply. "You don't have a choice." "No. But you do." Mulder shook his head with annoyance. "I'm not playing your games." "Listen, all you care about is getting that truck back. You don't need it. Put your photographic memory to use. You need to move on the information you have before they destroy everything. Besides, I've got it all backed up on disks." Mulder's ears pricked up. "Where?" "The first batch is in there." Krycek pointed again to the archives. Together they jogged across the street and entered the archives. Mulder watched wordlessly as a friendly security guard greeted Krycek as Ethan Trask and handed him a small brass key without him asking. "So where's your lovely lady today?" the guard asked as they signed in. Krycek responded without looking up. "She's keeping busy." Mulder doubted the guard noticed how his voice wavered when he spoke. They moved between long tables dotted with people pouring over documents and headed toward a back wall full of metal lockers. Krycek found number 17 and gave the key to Mulder. "There is a locker registered to Ethan Trask in every Provincial Archive across Canada. Inside you'll find the two or three rolls of microfilm, copies of what you saw in the apartment. But this one, " Krycek tapped on the locker, "has something you've never seen before. Something I picked up last week, but have not had the chance to transfer over to microfilm." On front shelf of the small rectangular locker stood rows of tiny white boxes. Mulder read the labels, "Minutes from the Toronto Local Council of Women, January-December, 1914. Please tell me you're kidding?" "Fionna will tell you those make fascinating reading but they are just here to reserve the locker space. I think you'll be more interested in what's behind them." Krycek pushed them aside to reveal three disks and a lap top computer. "Have you ever heard of MultiCradle?" "Scully was there last year when we were in San Diego. Her sister-in-law's midwife practiced with them." Krycek prompted in a low voice, "That's not the only reason you were in San Diego?" Mulder's expression narrowed. Temporarily he had forgotten how and where Krycek's knowledge came from. Krycek shrugged and continued to speak as he set up the computer on an empty table. "The Genesis program you read about yesterday runs two divisions out of MultiCradle, fertility research and adoption. The files on these explain who at MultiCradle devoted their time to the management of the project. Those are still encrypted but I have a patient file you can see now." Mulder watched closely as Krycek inserted one of the disks and opened up a file called es/92. The screen was quickly filled with a picture of a newborn and a column listing the time of birth, sex, weight, and length of Emily Shannon Sims. Beside 'Mother' was a sixteen digit number which had no meaning to Mulder and he did not know if it meant Anna Fugazzi, Roberta Sims or Scully. There was no category for Father. The document continued with other data chronicling Emily's physical and mental growth intermixed with unintelligible formulas. Dispersed throughout the document were a handful of pictures showing Emily's evolution from infant to toddler. As she grew older, the expression in the photos changed from that of a rosy cherub to a grave glare, as if with age the child became more aware of her precarious situation. "I thought she might want the pictures," Krycek said quietly. "You're too late to give her what she wants," Mulder hissed as he scrolled down to the bottom of the document ending in December 1997. "I'm not too late to help Fionna." "You know where she is?" "I have some ideas." He looked up at Krycek standing over him. "Let's go." "It won't work if you're there." "What won't work?" "Mulder . . . " Krycek sighed. "Trust me. You go do what you do best. I'll do what I do best." "What's that?" Krycek gave him an ashen smile that made him look tired and old. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know." Mulder took out the disk and turned off the computer. He rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I already regret this . . . " *** Part Four: Full Circle Old friends Time it was Long ago it must be Half an hour later Gibson had spent a considerable amount of time in hospital settings. People stood around speaking in low voices, trying to convey an aura of seriousness, but like everywhere else, their thoughts conflicted with their outward behavior. The doctor confidently relaying test results to Langley was preoccupied with organizing one last game of golf before the weather grew too cold. The married orderly in the hallway wheeling a patient to surgery was thinking how much he would like to screw the pretty nurse behind the desk. The terrified patient in the room next door was putting a brave front for her two little girls while a group of family members in the waiting room claimed to be worried about a loved one's health but each silently plotted how to spend their inheritance should he pass away. Gibson was used to people's duplicitous ways. The world is a stage and everyone is an actor. Say one thing, mean another. He had yet to meet someone who was immune to lying in some form. Ironically, the places Gibson had spent the past few months were generally devoid of this behavior. Despite their intentions, the men who imprisoned him and the doctors who worked on him were more honest in their approach than the people who surrounded him now. In Gettysburg no one bothered putting on false pretenses of caring about him and everyone was focused on the job at hand. It confused him that respect, kindness, and love were often based on habit rather than genuine courtesy. It also baffled him how many people realized, accepted and encouraged this. It was often easier to live a lie on the surface, than to deal with the problems that came attached with honesty. It puzzled him that people deny the truth for something that might not even be there. If everyone lies, how do you know what to believe in? Big lies. Small lies. White lies. Tall tales. Falsehoods. Whoppers. Fabrication. Fibbing, as his mother used to call it. Lies to protect yourself. Lies to protect others. Withholding information. Disclosing misinformation. Not telling the whole story. Half truths. Exaggeration. Keeping things inside. Everyone did it. Even he was not immune to this behavior. Right now he pretended to be asleep. Why? Because everyone wanted him to be asleep. It made things easier. His power disturbed people and made them uncomfortable. Once they knew, people were unsure how to treat him. He didn't blame them. He did not want to be thought of as special, looked at in awe or fear. He savored the moments when people treated him like a regular kid. Growing up he had always been considered different. He was adopted and that made him different from his brother Malcolm who was born a Praise. In the Philippines he stood out because of his race and was treated differently because his father was an important man. Everyone, everywhere, treated him different when he was labeled a prodigy. He was the little genius whose demands were to be granted and temper forgiven. At first it was fun when people thought he was brilliant. He even believed it himself for a while. He always knew the answer before the teacher asked the question and could get straight A's without opening a book. Beating his grandfather at chess one day took his sham in a new direction. He traveled the world, beat Grand Masters and made the cover of Life Magazine. When he stopped liking the attention, he was too ashamed to admit he was a fraud. But who would believe him if he told the truth. The truth was unbelievable. "Hey mom, dad, I can read minds!" It didn't matter. Agent Mulder was at the end of a list of people who had caught on and punished him for his years of lying. His most recent deceit was a conspiracy of silence in which he didn't know if he should have kept. He had not voiced his disapproval over Alex's intention to ditch Agent Mulder and go to the Smoking Man's Toronto office. If he had divulged this information prior to their departure, he would have undermined any confidence the FBI trio had in Krycek's motives. Plus, he felt Alex knew best how to proceed in the matter, though he was not impressed with the idea that Alex intended to do everything on his own. Despite his talent for thwarting complete inhalation, Alex had a great capacity for disaster and who knew what the casualties would be when he led with his heart instead of his head. Timing was key. He had to let Alex do his own thing but arrange for him to have suitable back up should his plan fall to pieces, as they were so often apt to do. Gibson opened his eyes and surveyed the room. Langley lay in the bed across from him, pumped full of painkillers, watching his IV drip with a goofy grin. From the corner of the room, Byers and Frohike argued in heavy whispers over the dangers of having their van in police custody. Agent Scully flashed them annoyed looks as she alternated between flipping through an ancient copy of National Geographic and looking up at the muted television playing the news. Noticing that Gibson was awake, she smiled and walked over to his bed. "How are you feeling?" she asked, scrutinizing him from top to bottom. "Worried." "Everything's going to be fine." "Why do people insist on telling me that when they don't believe it themselves?" "Gibson, not even you can predict the future." "No, but I'm not stupid. Defining everything as fine means we're all alive at the end of the day, nothing more, and even that's pushing it. That's the type of world we're living in." Gibson paused and contemplated Scully. "I know what you're thinking. That I am too young to be so jaded. But if adults spent less time sheltering kids from life and more on helping them cope with its sharp edges, we would all be better off." "Don't you think parents do that because they love their children and want to protect them for as long as they can from the hardships they might face as adults?" "If that was really true, people would take responsibility for their actions and work a lot harder to clean things up instead of digging deeper trenches for the next generation." "Gibson, have you thought that the people you've had the misfortune to be surrounded by recently have colored your opinion on how the world works." "I know there are good people. People who dedicate their lives to helping others, take good care of their families and work to make the world a better place. But these people are easily outnumbered by the rest who are too busy doing what they want and think only of themselves. And then there are the real bad guys." "Most people would think Alex Krycek falls into that category." "Alex is my friend. I know all about the bad things he has done and if that's all I knew about him I would agree that he is bad man. But I am able to see things from a different perspective. If you don't have all the pieces to the puzzle, how can you tell what your looking at?" "I admit I don't know him as you do, but Gibson, he has committed several crimes, is or was part of the conspiracy that hurt you. As you said, he needs to take responsibility for his actions." "Punishment and rehabilitation come in many forms." "Well, unfortunately for Krycek that's not how our justice system works." "Agent Mulder believes him." "Mulder has never had sound judgement when dealing with Krycek. I couldn't begin to explain their relationship. It's as if . . . " Scully voice drifted off as Mulder appeared in the doorway. "Scully we need to go to San Diego," he announced in one excited breath. "San Diego? What are you talking about?" She got off Gibson's bed to meet him in the doorway. "MultiCradle." "Have we been recalled to that investigation?" "What investigation?" "The bombing." Mulder looked at her blankly, so she explained, "It was just on the news. The clinic was bombed this morning by a group of radical pro-life activists." "The bomb went off in the middle of a board meeting, killing the senior administration and an estimated seventy-five staff and patients," Byers stated. "The building was totaled," Frohike chimed in. "Mulder, what were you talking about?" "It's already started." Mulder stared at the television screen showing scenes of the devastation."They're cleaning up. Tying up loose ends. Destroying any evidence to prove what Krycek gave us is true." "Mulder," Scully asked carefully, "Where is Krycek?" His refusal to look her in the eye gave her the answer. "You let him go." "He knew where to find Fionna." "If that's true, and he's not on the next flight to Mexico, why did you let him go alone?" "He said this was going to happen if we didn't move quickly, " Mulder pointed to the action on the television screen. "We need to start gathering physical evidence." Scully scolded, "Mulder, Krycek was our best piece of physical evidence and now we have nothing." "We can still check out the offices in New York, the Gettysburg research center . . . It might not be too late to get to those," Mulder suggested and then added, "Krycek also has back up files hidden away." "There are no back up files," Gibson spoke up, drawing everyone's attention to him. "This is what the rebels wanted. They wanted the consortium to think there had been a big enough security leak so they would destroy the evidence rather than let it be discovered. Alex targeted their biggest projects, knowing their self destruction would be a major setback to colonization. The rebels needed to create havoc and buy time, not human allies. You were never supposed to act on the information, let alone see it. That was Alex's idea, his way of making amends." Frohike let out a low whistle, breaking the silence which had fallen over the room at Gibson's announcement. "Congratulations, looks like you two have been duped again." Mulder walked over to Gibson. "Do you know where he is?" "I think so." "Will you tell us?" Scully asked. "Only if I can go with you." "Gibson, you can't go with us. I know you want to help but Alex would want you to stay behind." "You're not going to leave me with these guys," Gibson stated confidently, pointing to the Lone Gunmen. "Not after what happened to Fionna. And I know you don't feel like asking your boss up to babysit me because then you would have to tell him you lost Alex." "The kid's got a point, Scully." "No, it's ridiculous. I'll stay behind with him." Gibson pushed again. "You really trust him to sort things out by himself? He's the one that let Alex go!" "Someone's been taking lessons in manipulation," Mulder commented. "I learn from the best." "Do you get the feeling that we've lost complete control of this situation?" Mulder asked Scully. "I was never under the illusion that we had control," Scully replied. *** Present Day The cab driver repeatedly tried to engage his passenger in conversation, but attempts at discussing the upcoming hockey season, the mayoral elections and the weather all fell flat. He usually respected his customer's wishes to stay silent but it was a habit of his to talk when he was nervous and the man in the back was making him jumpy. He looked jittery and desperate, and the driver was worried he had picked up an addict. Their unpredictability made them the worse type of shady passenger. Last year he was robbed and beaten by a junkie. After that he started carrying a gun in his glove compartment. He had never needed to use it but it made him feel better knowing it was there. "So you're a pretty big guy. Ever play any sports?" the driver asked cheerfully, sneaking another glance in the rearview mirror. Alex looked up with unrestrained annoyance at the driver. At one time he would have relished an anonymous conversation such as this, maybe even started one himself. He had few chances to talk about things that had no great effect on the world, sports, movies, the weather. It reminded him that people could be passionate about the small stuff in life, and for some, the biggest disappointment of the day was when their favorite team lost the playoffs. Right now he no patience for small talk or social graces. "If you don't shut up, I'm going to choke you with your seatbelt," Alex leaned forward and snapped menacingly. The driver twitched in surprise at the outburst. "Sure no problem buddy. Sorry," he said, looking with reassurance in the direction of his glove compartment. Alex leaned back in his seat, running his finger through his hair. If he had pushed Mulder further, he might have gained access to his rental car. However, Mulder's quick capitulation had not made him want to press his luck. He contemplated stealing a car but decided a cab was the best option since he was unfamiliar with the city and running out of time. Truthfully, a vehicle was his least pressing obstacle since he was unarmed. His most important possessions, his gun, cash and travel documents lay in the backpack held by Gibson. It occurred to Alex that he had been presented with the perfect opportunity to flee. That if he chose to, he could walk away now, disappear into the crowd, never to be heard of again. After all, he had completed his job for Burns and the rebels, rescued Gibson and handed Mulder the truth. That was a pretty good day's work for, as Mulder put it, someone with his track record. It had always been a lot easier to run away and start over, then go back and fix his mistakes. He thought his new plans would offer a way out of the life he led, but instead he had come full circle. History was repeating itself in the guise of Almsey's mind games and all of a sudden he was back where he was five years ago. There had been points where he thought he had control. He held the DAT tape, the vaccine, the gun pointed at Almsey, opportunities which would have granted him a better life if they had not fallen through due to circumstances outside his control and his own bad judgement. It appeared any attempt to alter his destiny brought him back to where he began. It didn't matter what side he was on, who he worked for or with, or what he did, this was his fate. And he had made it Fionna's fate too. Along the way he had been presented with chances to sever the strings that entangled her life with his, but failed to do so completely, and as a result she was doomed to be part of his destiny. More likely than fate, it was his selfish desire for Fee to be part of his life, regardless of the consequences. This became abundantly clear after his actions in San Diego. In San Diego he indulged in what he thought he would never get a chance. He would not deny that it had been in the back of his mind since he found her again, but it seemed there were so many things working against it, from the context of their reunion to their forecasted separation. Looming over everything was his belief that it would ruin everything, destroy the professionalism that was necessary to the plan's success. Only in the end did he realize that there was nothing professional about their relationship to destroy and that he was there for a less noble motive than he claimed. *** One week ago San Diego had an intoxicating smell of summer that lingered even in a rainy October evening. It was the only city Alex knew that smelled like a beach. Too many of the places he had lived reminded him of winter, cool and claustrophobic. In San Diego one could hear the roar of the ocean, feel sand melting under your feet, and taste the salty sea air even if all you could see was skyscrapers and traffic. It was a shame such a magical place sheltered an abomination like MultiCradle Alex scanned the floor plans laying open on the seat beside him and looked out the window at the building across the street. The clinic was a simple eight storey U-shaped building that opened into a courtyard. In the center was a beautiful garden and fountain giving an impression of an oasis amid steel and glass. Only the distant rumbling of thunder and hovering grey clouds suggested anything sinister lurked inside. Last year Time Magazine proclaimed MultiCradle to be the most innovative health and welfare facility in America. The private clinic was started eight years ago by three physicians who sought to create a haven, embracing a wide variety of philosophies and practices surrounding pregnancy and childbirth. It provided a network of family planning options under one roof, ranging from the services of gynaecologists, obstetricians, midwives, and social workers to fertility treatment, adoption assistance, birth control counseling, and abortion. Yet neither Time Magazine, nor the majority of its staff, knew the clinic also functioned as a source of raw material needed for genetic research in an alien-human hybrid program. While not abandoning the use of abduction, the Western consortium expanded their resources in the late 1980s to include less messy arrangements. The limitations of MultiCradle guaranteed it would never replace the traditional methods of collecting genetic material, but it provided a consistent flow of samples that depended on ignorant patients rather than unwilling abductees. Evidence of MultiCradle's deception was high on Alex's wish list. Before Burns died, he sent Alex to deliver documents to one of MultiCradle's founders, Dr. Lucille Nuhn. While he was in San Diego, he discovered Dr. Nuhn's network access codes and database passwords but did not have enough time to use them. The security was tight and his hacker contacts had been unable to access the network from the outside, forcing Alex to look for any excuse to return to MultiCradle. However, Burns' death made him reluctant to drift far the East coast where he could keep an eye on Almsey and stay close to Gibson and Fionna. He decided to return to San Diego only in the final stages of his plan. Alex finished his distant survey of the building, noting the lack of security guards at each entrance after hours. This suggested that Burns had been correct in his assessment that a powerful alarm system was in place, negating the need for many human watch dogs. Alex had hoped Burns was wrong about this so he would be able to abandon tomorrow's plans, break in and get the files tonight by himself. Unfortunately, electronics were not his strong suit and he did not want to risk an attempt at manipulating the alarm system. Tomorrow's plan had a better chance at success but a greater risk if it failed. It put Fionna in a spotlight that he never intended. While researching MultiCradle's layout and security he learned they were advertising for a secretary in their claims department. Following an interview, successful applicants would be asked to take a half hour test displaying their computer and typing skills. The interview dates coincided perfectly with Almsey's trip to Australia and Alex decided this would be his only opportunity to access the system unnoticed. Discovering his plans, Fionna convinced him she would make a better candidate for the interview. She argued that he was too high profile and could be recognized. He protested, claiming to be well versed in undercover activity. She pointed out that ninety-eight percent of corporate secretaries were women. He objected, stating her lack of experience was too risky. In the end she won by shrewdly hinting it was doubtful they would believe a one-armed man excelled at typing. So tomorrow Fee would become Julie Vanstone, a secretary from Massachusetts looking for a promising career at MultiCradle. Julie had excellent references and a winning resume describing her five years of secretarial experience at a Boston HMO and exceptional computer skills. If Julie had been a real person, she would be the perfect candidate for the position but all Alex wanted was for Fee to be offered the opportunity to take the computer test. If given the chance, Fionna would have time to discreetly download six files. Alex was convinced the downloading would not be detected. If there was any suspicion, the network would be shut down and any investigation would point MultiCradle in the direction of Dr. Nuhn, someone who had every right to access those documents. By the time that lead proved to be false, Julie Vanstone would be long gone. Earlier in the day he did a walk through of the building but did not stay long. Any male without a lab coat or toddler nipping at their heels looked out of place and he could not afford to be recognized, even with his newly grown beard and baseball cap. He checked and rechecked where they would park, where he would wait for Fee during the interview, and where all the exits were in case a quick departure was necessary. He drove back to the hotel still uneasy with the idea of tomorrow's escapade but relieved that they were nearing the end of this journey. If all went well, he would have everything he needed by the end of next week. Even if his subversive activities were not discovered by then, he was getting out. If the rebels wanted him to do another job, they would have to find him first. He would travel until he found a more remote version of San Diego, where he would forsake the shadows for some sunlight. He would use his savings, build a shack on the beach and sell tropical drinks to carefree tourists. He would learn Spanish, swim in the ocean, and get very, very drunk. How easily Fee could fit into this scenario. He imagined her barefoot in a sarong, playing at the water's edge. Too far from civilization for them to ever call her again. Close enough to never be out of his reach. He would buy a hammock made for two and spend everyday making up for lost time. Hell, he would even take Gibson along for the ride. Put some color in his face and let the rest of his childhood be full of sand castles and ice cream. This fantasy depended on too many things to become a lasting reality. The rebels would have to successfully overthrow the alien's plan for colonization. In the meantime, the Russian and American led consortiums would need to be too distracted by the rebels' threat to be concerned with hunting him down. If these things happened, he would still have to persuade Fionna to abandon her life to come with him, an option he had yet to voice but had prepared for in the form of a passport. He had not mentioned it to her, afraid to hear it was her last resort, that she would only leave with him if she was presented with no other choice. That would be an occasion marked by resentment and remorse rather than a preference to be with him. He picked up a couple of sandwiches and drinks at the deli next to the hotel and returned to his room. He set the bag of food down on the floor and listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he unlocked it. Checking the corridor to make sure it was deserted, he pulled out his gun and cautiously pushed opened the door with his shoulder. He silently slipped inside and surveyed the room. He always left the lights on so no one hiding would have the advantage of the dark. It appeared empty and undisturbed. Gun still drawn, he went through the familiar routine of checking the closet, the bathroom and under the bed. Feeling secure, he placed the gun on the dresser and brought the bag of food in from outside and relocked the door. He opened his part of the connecting door and knocked on Fee's side. There was no response. He pressed his ear against the connecting door, listening for signs that she was still awake. Hearing the television playing softly in the background, he knocked louder and called her name. The lack of response made his heart race. Without thinking further, he found the key to her room and retrieved his gun. He was disappointed not to find her sound asleep in bed. The night table light was on and the sheets were rumpled as if they had already been slept in. The television was playing a war movie he recognized as Bridge over the River Kwai. The bathroom door was closed and a crack of light shown through the side and bottom. He called her name again, but there was still no response. He walked over, gun raised straight in front and kicked the bathroom door open with his foot. A loud shriek accompanied the swinging door. Luckily his brain registered it as a sound of shock, rather than a battle cry and he clicked the safety back on before he saw Fee laying frozen in the bath with her walkman on. She was not as quick to catch on that the figure pointing a gun at her was him or if she did, she was not impressed. She scrambled backwards to the furthest corner of the tub, sending a wave of water over the side, soaking his shoes, and a bar of soap was hurled at him, colliding with his forehead. "Jesus, Fee, it's just me," he said swiftly, dropping the gun on the counter and covering his eye with his hand, trying to stop the shooting pain in his temple. "What are you doing?" she cried in complete exasperation, whipping the earphones off. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I thought, I don't know what I thought . . . ," his apology trailed off as his uncovered eye was drawn to her naked form. Her skin was rosy from the hot water and dotted with bubbles. Her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head with a clip, a few miscellaneous pieces escaping down her neck. Her raised knees blocked her chest but he could see the tops of her breasts rising and falling as she breathed. The bathroom seemed to grow very hot and he was flooded with visions of the two of them making love on the roof of his apartment in Moscow. Suddenly, he was surrounded by the oppressive humidity forcing them to sleep outside that night. The smell of the city, sweat, and sex were heavy in the air and he could feel the rough mattress under his back and the first droplets of rain on his face. He saw himself poised above her, silhouette back dropped against the city skyline and stars, eyes closed in deep concentration, one hand wrapped around her hair, the other clutching her hip. Noticing his gaping examination, she pulled down a towel from the rack above her and clutched it to her exposed chest. "Get out of here!" He swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from her enchanting display. Feeling like an idiot, he mumbled, "Sorry," again and backed out of the bathroom. He shut the door and leaned against it, waiting for his mind to stop spinning. Across from the bathroom was a full length mirror and he could see a red welt appearing over his right eye where the bar of soap hit him. He walked over and studied it closer, gently pressing the wound with his finger and noticing the small white scar below it. The arousal shooting through him dissolved into a wave of shame as he remembered how he received his smallest of scars. He was introduced to the horrors of Gettysburg after he returned from Skyland Mountain and demanded Almsey prove to him that Fee was alive or he would tell Mulder everything. Almsey was undaunted by his threats and warned Alex that confessing to Mulder would not wash his hands of the blood that lay on them. Still he arranged for Alex to see Fionna, noting that a trip to Gettysburg would be a perfect way to further orientate him to the organization's interests. The Gettysburg facility was a sterile palace compared to what he had already seen in Tunguska. Unlike the Russians, the Gettysburg doctors recreated a hospital setting within their prison. Everything shone with polish and smelled liked disinfectant, as if keeping it clean would make up for the contamination they created. The moaning and screams frequently heard in the Tunguska were absent and Alex found the whole complex disturbingly quiet. Walking through the halls, he caught glimpses of other victims, wandering around the wards like zombies, or lying motionless on beds, drooling with glazed eyes, like the cast of a horror movie set in an insane asylum. He found Fionna on a cot in an empty ward, an IV in her arm, and a tub in her right nostril. She appeared to be awake, blinking as she stared up at the ceiling, her chapped lips moving in a silent conversation. He knelt before her bed and spoke to her softly but she did not hear him. He gently stroked her matted hair but received no indication that she felt his touch. "They're all numb like that when they come out of the tanks for the first time." Almsey's nonchalant voice floated around Alex. "Sensory deprivation. It takes a while for them to snap out of it but by then they'll be too sedated to notice a difference. They only fight when you put them back in." He waited until Almsey was gone and then buried his face in the crook of her arm and wept for the first time since learning of her fate. The calm exterior he had projected through the Duane Barry case and Scully's abduction was shattered as hot tears streaked his face and his body heaved in silent sobs. His teeth sank into the soft skin around one of his thumb's lower knuckle. He bit down as hard as he could, drawing blood, as he tried to capture some of the pain caused by his partnership with Almsey and Victor. Once at Fionna's side, Alex refused to leave it. Almsey approved of his decision, remarking that his days at the FBI were numbered and it was best to leave without a fuss. He made a quick trip back to Washington to pack a few things and curtly inform Victor of the new arrangements. Back in Gettysburg, he made himself watch everything they did to Fee, transfixed by her suffering as punishment for his impotence. Each session in the tank was an opportunity for his own private flogging. She only made it back to the tanks five times out of the planned six. After the fifth time, her lungs were not properly drained and she developed an infection which rapidly turned to pneumonia. They stopped all the tests and pumped her full of antibiotics. During this time she was vaguely lucid and he stayed away. It was only when she tried to escape did he see her during the three weeks she was sick. One night he found her cowering in a stairwell beside Scully, shivering with a fever and shaking in terror. When she saw him, she burst into tears of relief and crawled over to him. She gripped him tightly and buried her face in his chest as he picked her up. Amid coughs she whispered, "Thank you," over and over again. She thought he had come to rescue her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he had whispered in return. He tried to soothe her, promising her that he would take her home soon, that it would be all right, that it was almost over. He can recall in an instant how her eyes filled with panic when she realized he was merely bringing her back to the room. She clawed at him, trying to free herself from his arms. One of her nails sliced deeply into his skin, leaving a crescent sliver scar above his eyebrow. An orderly and a doctor pulled her out of his arms and he stood back as they injected her with a sedative. Her struggle dissolved as the tranquilizer kicked in. Before she lost consciousness, she looked straight at him and asked in a small raspy voice, "Why?" He just shook his head and fought the tears threatening to spill out. He waited until she was asleep before he went looking for Almsey. "This is over. I'm taking her home," he announced, finding Almsey in his office conversing with another colleague, an older man with a British accent Alex had never seen before. "Your friend and Agent Scully caused quite a commotion tonight," Almsey commented casually as he lit up a cigarette. "It was unwise of you to let her see you," the British man stated and Alex didn't know if he meant Scully or Fionna. "We'll take care of that, we always do, "Almsey reminded his companion and informed Alex. "Miss Wilkinson will have no memory of her trip to Gettysburg, nor your part in the matter. In fact we could go back further, if you wanted, and make her unaware you ever existed." "That would be for the best," the other man agreed. "Only if you can make me forget too. Wipe the slate and let us both go." "And what would happen if we did? It is beyond our resources to give the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation amnesia so they would forget about your crimes. You're a wanted man now. Where would you go? What would you do? What type of life would you have without our protection? I wouldn't throw a loyal and valuable employee to the wolves like that. Miss Wilkinson has outstayed her usefulness, you have not." "You'll let her go?" "In a few days. You will escort her home and then return to take Agent Scully back to Washington. After that, we'll discuss your future with this organization." "Will she be o.k.?" "She'll be fine. We've revised the program she is in so there won't be any of the permanent side effects our earlier subjects had. You should be relieved she was not in the same program as Agent Scully, it's much harder on the body." "I'm sure she'll be eternally grateful for your kindness, " Alex declared with a snarl and departed. Outside in the hall he heard the British man predict with concern, "I foresee problems keeping him in line." Almsey's confident reply echoed in his ears for days, "He's ours for now." Three days later, Cardinal accompanied him and an unconscious Fionna over the border in one of the consortium's private train cars. Before they left Gettysburg, she was given a combination of hypnosis and amnesiac drugs to wipe any memory of her three month stay. In Toronto, they delivered her to the emergency room entrance of the Toronto General Hospital. Though Alex had been instructed not to inform anyone of her arrival, he could not help but place a quick anonymous call to her parents who lived two hours away in the small town of Stratford. His first thought upon leaving Fee had been relief rather than regret. Relief that he would never be forced to feel that way again. Regret would come later when he realized there would be no relief, only acknowledgment that whatever choices he made, he would be forever tied to the project. The only choice he ever had was to be a victim or a survivor, definitions which constantly evolved the longer he was involved. "What was that all about?" Fionna's voice brought him back to the present. She stood in the bathroom doorway dressed in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, wet hair wrapped in a towel. She held his gun out in front of her as if it was a poisonous snake. "You left this behind." He took it from her and placed it on the night table. "I knocked, you didn't answer. How was I supposed to know you were being serenaded by Frank Sinatra in the bath tub?" "You could have killed me." "I'm the one with the head injury." He gestured to the welt above his eye and she shot him a look that offered little sympathy. The room was filled with the aroma of apples and mint as she bent over to release her wet hair from the towel. He down sat in a chair next to the bed and tried not to watch her too intently as she flipped it back, scattering him with droplets of water. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" "Yes," she said, sitting on the bed, attacking her hair with a comb. "Do you want to go over the plans again?" "Not really." "Are you sure?" "You're the one who sounds unsure." "I'm not entirely comfortable with the whole idea." "Well, it will all be over soon," she offered almost indifferently. "One way or another." "On way or another." An awkward silence settled over the room, broken by screams of torture coming from the televison. Both turned their attention to the movie and watched an emancipated but undefeated Alec Guinness give a morale boasting speech to his fellow prisoners. Realizing they both preferred to concentrate on the problems of one-dimensional characters than their own state of affairs, they made an unspoken pact to watch the rest of the movie rather than talk about tomorrow. "Have you seen this before?" Fee asked during a commercial. "I've seen bits and pieces of it, never all the way through. It was one of my father's favorite movies, Gordon, not Victor. Victor didn't believe in movies, though he probably would have liked this one. He could consider it a learning experience, 'How to avoid sabotage in your prison camp.'" "I don't think he would appreciate the camp commander and guards being portrayed as sadists." "I don't know if that would bother him. Victor's used to having his set of morals judged as evil by those he calls 'the uninformed majority'. Spend five minutes with him, and he can rattle off 101 reasons to justify his actions. I think he gets off on believing his perception is the one true reality and no one else gets it. It like he's just waiting to tell the world, 'I told you so'." "I think a lot of normal people also believe their reality is the only true one." "Do you think truth is relative?" "I had a professor once tell me that people were relative, not the truth." He nodded, "I can see that." "I think truth is based on our needs. We all have basic needs - so there should be a basic truth. It becomes complicated when your wants get in the way. " "What one wants and what one needs can also be relative." "Needs fulfill the natural human instinct to survive - air, sleep, water, food, " she counted them off her fingers. "Everything else is a bonus." "What about sex? Procreation? The reproduction of the species should be considered a basic need." "But today that can be accomplished just as well in a test tube as a bed." "Or a floor . . . " "Or a floor," she agreed, struggling to maintain a straight face. "A roof is also good," he added innocently and she blushed furiously. "The comfort I'm willing to sacrifice for the survival of the human species is remarkable." "I think you've taken that sentiment to the extreme, far beyond floors and roofs," she observed softly. Steering the conversation away from the self pity angle, he ventured, "I wonder if they'll ever make movies about all this war." "They already did, it was called Independence Day." "I never saw it." "Hit too close to home?" "No time. The last new movie I saw Forrest Gump, dubbed in Cantonese, playing in a Hong Kong massage parlor." "Asking if you speak Cantonese would only be the one of many questions I have about that statement," Fionna commented. Alex laughed. "The movie was subtitled. And no, I was not there for a massage." "That's your business. I imagine things can get pretty lonely on the road," Fionna commented. "Oh yeah, they were, really lonely . . . in between the hundreds of women I attracted as an international man of mystery." He dodged the succession of pillows thrown at him. "Seriously Fee, I work alone and the most intimate relationship I've had with anyone in the past few years has been with the man whose father I killed." "Well that certainly puts a different spin on things." "We can't all attract straight arrow lawyers," Alex pointed out. She stuck her tongue out at him. "You should be so lucky." The movie ended with the bittersweet destruction of the prisoner built bridge, tearing the audience between cheering for the Allied victory and lamenting the lost of what had become a symbol of survival. Upon reflection, Alex decided that it was not the best film for them to have watched that night. It was a reminder how irony surrounded war; victory was never without defeat, loyalty only existed if there was deceit, and heroes were always someone else's enemy. The film's finale cast a gloom over the room and it was apparent that it had failed to distract them from thoughts about tomorrow. "It stopped raining," Alex noted, getting up to scan the view from the window. Everything was covered with a blanket of wetness that shimmered in the moonlight and city lights. Miniature tidal waves of silver water erupted as cars disturbed the puddles. On the corner, a couple stood kissing under a street light, an open umbrella laying limply at the woman's side. "Are you tired?" she asked, joining him by the window. Yes Fee, he thought, I'm very tired. I'm tired of everything, but he knew that was not what she meant. "No." "Do you feel like some fresh air?" "Sure." "I need to change, I'll meet you downstairs." Minutes later Fionna appeared in the lobby dressed in a windbreaker and shorts. It was a warm night and Alex was regretted bringing his jacket but it concealed the gun he was reluctant to leave behind and the arm he preferred to hide. They walked without talking along a boardwalk and down wooden stairs to a narrow beach. The air was cooler by the water and nipped at any exposed skin. The sensation made him feel awake and immensely better than he did in the hotel room. Fionna appeared more relaxed too. She stopped to examine shells scattered in the sand as they strolled along the beach. When they reached a small cove she took off her sneakers and socks and let her bare feet sink into the damp sand. He sat a few feet behind her, and watched her trace the sand with her toes, aware the picture she was creating was straight out of his earlier fantasies about the future. "I want to live by water one day. They say the sea has no memory." "Is there a lot you want to forget?" he asked, wondering if that was a redundant question. "Yes. But that wouldn't make it disappear, would it? You can't change the past by forgetting it. At least memory gives you power to make educated choices." "Do you regret offering to help me?" The question was out before he realized he asked it. "Ask me that again, when this is all over." She turned back to smile at him. "Historians are never good at predicting the future. Hindsight is their best tool." "That's kind of pointless. What about learning from the past so you don't make the same mistakes?" "If it were that easy we would be living in an utopian society by now." "Wants getting in the way of needs again, huh." "Something like that," she said, dropping down beside him, her feet and ankles tattooed with wet sand. "So . . . what would Rob think of you being with me in San Diego?" he asked casually, digging in the sand with a piece of driftwood. "He probably would be more concerned with our plans for tomorrow than with your company," Fionna said without hesitation. "I think you underestimate the way men think. Put breaking the law next to a getaway with your ex- boyfriend and I'll bet he'd be more pissed about the second one." "Is that what you are? My ex-boyfriend? That sounds like we broke up at the prom." "I don't think Rob will be concerned with the terminology." "I think you're overly preoccupied with Rob's feelings." He shrugged and tossed the piece of wood in the water and watched it bob a few times before sinking. "Hey I might need a lawyer one day, I don't want to anger the only one I know who's clean." "First of all, if you are really concerned with what people think, I think Rob is the least of your worries. Secondly, if you are going to fret about anyone's feelings on this journey, it should be yours or mine, not Rob's, and thirdly . . . " she paused to catch her breath, " and thirdly, there are plenty of larger barriers than Rob preventing us from picking up where we left off." He couldn't stop a big grin from spreading over his face. "Who said anything about picking up where we left off?" "No one," she insisted quickly. "All I meant was that you overestimated the importance of my relationship with Rob." "I see. Then he wouldn't mind if I did this." He cupped her cheek with his hand, let his fingers slide up into her hair. He pulled her toward him and kissed her hard. Time appeared to stop for a moment. The noise of the distant traffic and the waves colliding against the pier ceased to exist. Everything around him, the beach, the water, and the stars just disintegrated. The sensation sent him reeling as the taste, the smell, the feel of her brought him back and forward all at once. He felt like he was kissing her for the first time and as if he never stopped. "Where did that come from?" she whispered, breaking the kiss but resting her forehead against his, hands locked around his neck. "I don't know," he admitted. "But if I'd known what it would feel like, I would have done it a long time ago." "What did it feel like?" "Like nothing else mattered." He searched her flushed face for understanding, fearing any moment her eyes would cloud over with recognition of what he was, for her to pull away in disgust, fear or disappointment "Like nothing had changed." She nuzzled his cheek with her own, planting tiny kisses down his neck. "Except for the beard, of course." "Of course, " he exhaled in relief and hugged her close to him, pulling her onto his lap. He was suddenly overwhelmed with so much desire for her that he felt dizzy and for a moment could do nothing but hold her. This spell was broken by the realization he had a lot of lost time to make up for and they collided with a determination they never had before. Everything and everyone else could go to hell. The universe would have to do without him for a while. Nothing else mattered. *** Present day Wedged between some boxes, Fionna resigned herself to waiting. The truck had stopped hours ago but no one had come to check its contents or release her from the back. She had given up all hope that one of the Gunmen had been the driver and assumed the shape shifter won that round. She did not even know if her captor was unaware of her presence or if his acknowledgment of her was merely unnecessary in the current stage of his plan. Fionna momentarily released her grip on the base of the concealed spike. The cool metal had turned warm from her persistent grasp. She briefly flexed the muscles in her hand before gripping it again and repositioned her thumb directly below the small square button, ready to activate it. Although she had no experience in using such a weapon, and doubted she could overcome the strength of her burly abductor to use it successfully, she felt better holding it. If she let go for longer then a few seconds, she felt she might just fall apart. By physically focusing all her energy on the weapon, she was able to stop shaking. Fionna couldn't hear any traffic or sounds of nature and determined she was indoors. Every so often the rattling of a fan echoed outside the truck. She knew of no consortium hide outs in Toronto although Alex mentioned that Almsey had an office in one of the buildings near the harbor. She considered banging on the wall of truck and calling for help but she did not want to attract the wrong type of attention. So she remained quiet and waited. She wondered if Mulder and Scully had been able to get to Alex and Gibson? Did they realize she was missing? Were they looking for her? Would her parents have already received a phone call informing them their daughter had mysteriously disappeared again? Would there be another phone call this time, one announcing she had been found? Whatever happened she hoped her parents would know the truth and have closure. There was nothing worse than waiting and not knowing. Two sets of footsteps approaching the truck signaled her own near enlightenment. She strained to hear a muffled conversation but could not make out any words. The talking stopped and the door of the truck was released, flooding the back with light. Unsure if she should reveal all her cards at once, she tucked the weapon back into her sleeve. No action followed and she silently crouched down further, hoping to prolong her discovery. Someone cleared their throat and an unfamiliar voice commented, "What a waste." Another voice responded, this one she recognized as the one belonging to the being who had posed as Alex. "Yes sir." "What do you think Miss Wilkinson? Was this all a marvelous waste of time and energy?" Fionna held her breath as time crawled by. Clammy perspiration broke out over her body and her heart pump harder. She did not move. The body of the truck swayed as someone entered the back. Boxes were carelessly shoved aside and her cardboard fortress was demolished brick by brick. She stood up rather than be dragged again and made her way out unmolested by the shape shifter. She jumped out of the truck onto the concrete floor of an underground parking lot, deserted except for the U-Haul. In front of her stood a man surrounded by a haze of smoke. Her mind helpfully rattled off his most commonly used aliases. Frederick Almsey. John Harrigan. Charles Spender. "You can run but you can't hide." He sounded like a villain from some B movie. "It's a pity Alex was not aware of your handicap. Perhaps he would have selected a less obvious partner." Fionna thought he was referring to her lack of experience until he tapped the back of his neck. The chip in her neck suddenly felt heavy with its added burden as a tracking device. She would not be surprised to learn that it could also program your VCR, receive e-mail and calculate your tax return. Almsey regarded her thoughtfully. "You know we met long ago but I do not expect you to remember. I can easily arrange that you never remember this meeting. Wouldn't that be nice, to have your whole sorted relationship with Alex wiped from your mind forever?" "I don't believe I could ever forget you or the things you do." "Even I am not that memorable. You cannot comprehend how easy it is to turn someone who knows too much into someone who knows nothing. Why we could even make you believe you are Julie Vanstone," he offered with a wave of his hand, cigarette masquerading as a magic wand. Julie Vanstone. Her face did not betray any surprise at his revelation. She had guessed correctly what revealed their plan. "Well, that can all be decided later," he continued. "First we have to wait for Alex to make up his mind. His response time will depend on how badly he wants to make things up to you." Julie Vanstone. San Diego. Perhaps it was appropriate that they had chosen that moment to part. It appeared doubtful they would get another chance to say goodbye. *** One week ago Fionna was in a glass elevator slowly descending into the ocean. Rays of sunlight penetrated the turquoise water, illuminating iridescent clouds of fish swirling around her like tiny jewels caught in a whirlpool. She pressed her hands against the cool glass, captivated by the tranquil beauty around her. Suddenly the glass dissolved against her skin. Warm water surrounded her, wrapping her in its silky embrace. It was soothing rather than startling. When the water reached her head, she didn't take a deep breath. She somehow knew she would be able to breathe. When she inhaled, it was oxygen, not water. When she exhaled, tiny bubbles floated upwards to the surface. The salt water didn't bother her eyes either. She could clearly see everything around her. For a while she just floated there, savoring the ability to breathe, watching a piece of seaweed spiral down toward a rocky crevasse, letting the tiny fish tickle her as they swam by. In the distance a shape moved toward her. As it came closer, she saw it was a little girl, around three years old, naked with brown curls streaming out behind her, limbs propelling her along with the elegance of a mermaid. The little girl paused when she saw Fionna and did a few somersaults before continuing on her way. Fionna felt compelled to follow the girl and swam against the underwater current, letting the water's power massage her body. She had to swim hard to keep up with the girl's quick movements and soon her muscles tired. As her breathing became heavier, she received tiny amounts of water among the air. Stopping to rest, she called out to tell the girl to wait, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out but bubbles. The little girl looked back, smiled and then disappeared. Alone, Fionna noticed the water had turned from blue green to murky blackness and the temperature had dropped dramatically. She squinted in the darkness trying to find which way she came from when she heard moans coming from below. It sounded inhuman, much like she imagined a dying whale. She started swimming upward, away from the haunting noise. The sounds rose with her as she swam. Legs pumping madly, arms flailing like propellers, she didn't even realize she was at the surface until her head broke through. Silvery strands of moonlight shone across the black water. She treaded water in circles, squinting in the darkness for a sign of land. Far away she saw a small yellow beam of a lighthouse beckoning her over the inky waves. She started swimming toward it when suddenly something encircled her ankle and pulled her back under the water, dragging her down to the awful sounds. She kicked at it, but its hold was strong and refused to let go. Fionna held her legs still and reached down to free herself with both arms. Her hands recoiled in disgust as they touched something slimy and cold. A shadow of light from above revealed the object to be a small hand, grey and decomposed. Fighting back a scream, she dug her fingers into dead flesh and peeled it away from her ankle. It slipped away with little effort, and as it fell aside, she could see the hand was attached to the corpse of the little girl from before. Fionna awoke in calmness, having no memory of the nightmare. One of Librium's benefits was if she dreamed, good or bad, there were no lingering memories, just a groggy aftermath that made her feel half asleep until she had two cups of coffee. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was that Alex was gone. The second, was that the rain had started again and the room was cast in shadows. She rolled over to read the alarm clock. A note laying across the clock blocked the time. She reached over and picked it up. It was 9:17 a.m. and the note read, "Gone for coffee, love A." She flung the covers aside and leaped out of bed with an energy she did not usually posses in the morning. The interview was in an hour. There was little time to waste. Fionna retrieved her clothes from the closet and brought them into the bathroom. She twisted the tap as far as it would go on the cold side and jumped into the shower, wincing as the cold needles stung her, beating away the lingering cobwebs of sleep. She wondered why Alex didn't wake her before he left. Maybe he had tried but couldn't. She knew the Librium produced a heavy sleep that in its earliest hours made it almost impossible to come out of unwillingly. She had been reluctant to take anything last night, half hoping that sleeping curled up against Alex would cure the insomnia. Of course it hadn't, and she had stayed awake long after Alex drifted off in mid sentence around 3:00 a.m.. She had lain there, limbs entangled with his, watching him sleep peacefully, sprawled on his stomach, mouth slumped slightly open. She had reacquainted herself with his body's familiar markings, the perfectly round mole on his right shoulder, the three bumps of his spine that protruded slightly in the middle of his back, the dark lashes twitching as his eyes flickered with dreams. There new were discoveries too, the strands of grey visible in his hair, the taunt muscles that refused to relax even with sleep, the scattering of glossy scar tissue. She gave up trying to fall asleep naturally around 4:30. She knew she had to get up early so she took one pill instead of two. At this point, two would have knocked her out until at least noon. She had lost count of how many morning classes she had missed and how many water polo practices she had rescheduled for the evening since she started taking the Librium. Feeling awake, she adjusted the water to a more comfortable temperature and thought about the upcoming morning. The calmness she awoke to evaporated as her mind turned to the day's plans. Fionna felt confident she could talk her way through the interview and adequately follow the downloading directions but her looming first hand foray in Alex's world made her nerves spin frantically. Until now she could pretend that her part in the matter was one of an archivist, the recorder of historical documents, not too different from what she was trained to do. Today's excursion might have made more sense if she sought a life of adventure but she never had any desire to play Indiana Jones and travel the world raiding tombs, deciphering the truth behind ancient legends, digging for buried treasure. She was content to stay within the confines of the library, archives or dusty neighborhood attic; discovering the lives of ordinary men and women by using newspapers, oral history, photographs and government documents as her window through time. By restoring parts of the past, she merely hoped to help others understand history and never expected her research could bring about earth shattering revelations. Alex turned this safe and familiar world upside down by making her become responsible for information that could change the world, forcing her to be an active participant of history in the making, rather than a passive observer. Today, she would jump into that role head first. Of course one could argue that barrier was broken long ago, when she didn't inform the FBI of Alex's first visit, when she offered to help him, when she brought the first box of files to Toronto, when her own commitments began playing second fiddle to the ones she created with him, or last night, when she slept with a man whose daily activities involved torture, murder, and deceit of all forms. A man who willingly admitted not to be man she fell in love with. A man who stole her sleep and peace of mind. A man who ached for absolution and believed he found it with her. If she was his absolution, could he be anything but her damnation? It was a love affair based on mutual attraction but not one that held the possibility of mutual compensation. Could a few hours of passion make up for past, present and foreseeable misery? Did the acknowledgment that he cared for her make this twisted journey worthwhile or more insane? Did her affection for him redeem or condemn her collaboration? She held no solid answers for any of these questions. She got out of the shower and dried off. Abandoning her traditional student wardrobe of jeans and sweaters, she dressed in a white blouse and cranberry suit. She hoped the clothes conveyed a sense of confidence that was she did not feel. She heard Alex return as she was twisting her hair into a bun. He knocked on the bathroom door and called out, "Let me know if you're in there or I'll be forced to barge in. And I can't promise I'll leave if you're in the bath." She spat out a mouthful of bobby pins and pushed opened the door. "I'm still here." "You're dressed." He looked and sounded surprised. "If you had been here, we could have showered together," she noted, leaning over the sink to peer in the mirror, smoothing back a bump in the front of her hair. "You're dressed for the interview." "Well I didn't think I'd be allowed in naked." "You still want to do this?" She turned to look at him. "What do you mean?" "I didn't think . . . We don't have to do this. I'll think of another way." "I want to." Alex insisted,"You don't have to." "I've always known what my options are," she snapped and moved passed him. He grasped her upper arm and stopped her. "How are you feeling?" he said with an intensity and desperation that startled her. She shook off his hold. "Fine." "This is not what I want for you." "I know that." She placed both hands on his face and looked into his eyes. "I know that. I think we''ll both be o.k. if we try to remember that this goes beyond what we want or need." "You're asking the impossible," he murmured and then moved his mouth over hers, capturing her lips between his own. It was so easy for him to distract her like this and she surrendered to his possessive touch for a moment before checking her watch. "Mmm, we have to go," she reminded him, reluctantly twisting her mouth away from his. "We could reschedule . . . ," he said, softly nipping her neck and slipping his hand under her blouse. "No, we couldn't." She pulled away, straightening her clothes. "I know why we didn't do this before. We would never have got anything done." "Would that have been so bad?" He gave her a wicked smile. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I've just missed you." "I've missed you too." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Now, let's go." Alex looked at his own watch and his voice became businesslike again. "If we're going to do this, we've got thirty minutes and it takes ten to get there. We have enough time to test out the broach one more time. I'll get it." Alex went to his own room while she pawed through her suitcase for the wig she still had from last year's grad student variety show. It was an ash blonde bob and she thought it made her look like a cheap call girl. Fionna slipped it over her own hair and adjusted so it sat evenly before pinning it. She saw Alex's jaw drop in the mirror's reflection."It looks stupid, doesn't it." "No," he said, shaking his head. "You just reminded me of someone who I'd forgotten." "Who?" "Someone I worked with once. No one important. Here." Alex held a small gold pin in the shape of two leaves with a microphone and transmitter hidden underneath it. He pinned it on the lapel of her jacket. "If you feel uncomfortable at any time just leave. But if you need me, just ask for a glass of water and I'll be there in a second." "I remember. " She picked up one of the cups of coffee Alex brought back and the purse containing identification suggesting the owner was Julie Vanstone. "Ready?" Seeking her assurance one more time he replied, "If you are?" "Yes, " she stated, trying to sound like she meant it. If she could not convince Alex, she would not have a chance at MultiCradle. "All right. Go downstairs and I'll listen to you check out." Alex put the earpiece in place. "I'll get our bags." After another successful trial run with the listening device, they drove the short distance to MultiCradle and parked across the street. The rain had slowed to drizzle, allowing them a relatively dry dash to the main entrance. Alex squeezed the hand she didn't even realize he was holding and pointed to a group of chairs in the lobby, "I'll be here if you need me." Fionna nodded, surveying the scene. The lobby was bright and colorful. A mural painted with the hand prints of children covered one wall. A group of children stood measuring their hands against the prints already made while their parents waited by a set of elevators. It all seemed so warm and friendly. She released his hand and walked over to the security guard sitting in the middle of the lobby. The sounds her heels made against the marble floors sounded terribly loud and conspicuous. She cleared her throat and announced to the young man sitting at a desk. "I'm Julie Vanstone. I have an interview at 10:15. " As she spoke, the butterflies in her stomach were besieged by diving dolphins. She tightened her stomach muscles and was thankful that you were supposed to appear nervous at job interviews. "Sixth floor, room 608. " He handed her a visitor's pass and asked her to sign in without giving her a second glance. Before entering an elevator, she cast a brief glance at Alex and saw he was sitting on a leather couch by the door, pretending to read a newspaper. If Fionna had seriously wanted the job she would have been pleased with the way the interview went. She was interviewed by Mrs. Hume, a representative from Human Resources, and Mr. Frede, Senior Claims Manager. They seemed like nice people and she doubted either had any knowledge or involvement with the illicit activities. They were impressed with her false credentials and answers to their questions. At the conclusion of the half hour interview, she was relieved when they asked if she minded staying to take a computer test. Mrs. Hume directed her to a waiting room full of other applicants who greeted her with weak smiles and wary eyes. She sat liked the others did, legs crossed neatly, hands folded in her lap. The room was quiet and no one spoke, each candidate was focused on their own prospects. The only sound came from the floor below where the faint beat of music was accompanied by the shrill voice of an aerobics instructor belting out encouragement to expectant mothers in a workout class. Fionna was drawn to the framed black and white ultrasound pictures hung around the room, showing the growth of a fetus in various stages. It was disturbing that all babies in the earliest stage resembled little aliens with big heads and large black eyes. The photos made her more nauseous so she dropped her eyes to her lap and studied her badly bit nails until Mrs. Hume came to get her. She was shown to a computer terminal in the middle of a busy open office. It was blocked on three sides by a cubicle but her actions were visible to anyone who passed behind her. Fionna also noticed security cameras in the corners of the room. She felt completely exposed and was barely listening as Mrs. Hume explained the five tasks she needed to complete. Before she knew it, Mrs. Hume wished her well and disappeared into the sea of cubicles. Feeling everyone eyes were on her, Fionna studied the test and started the first task, entering a new patient and their insurance information into an existing database. She completed it without any trouble. Glancing around discreetly, she saw no one was paying any attention to her, so she reached into her purse to retrieve the disks and the small paper marked with the desired file names. Setting the timer on her watch to twenty minutes, she logged out of the network and typed in Dr. Lucille Nuhn's login and password. The cursor flashed, awaiting her next move. She closed her eyes and pressed Enter, expecting some sort of explosion or alarm. An eternity seemed to pass as she watched the computer reboot under the new user. Any moment, she anticipated a hand on her shoulder and the deep voice of a security guard telling her to come with him. The screen finally flashed to the opening menu and she found the appropriate directory and entered another password. When it passed without question, she whispered in the pin on her lapel, "I'm in," and opened the first file on the list, slipped in a disk and began copying. The computer made a low whirling noise as it saved and Fionna huddled closer to the computer, trying to block out any sound of her actions. The first two files, gp/86.txt and es/92.txt were small and downloaded in seconds. After copying the smaller ones, Fionna began saving the first of four large databases which appeared to be encrypted in an unfamiliar alphabet. . While she waited, Fionna opened Nuhn's word processing program and worked on the second task. The time flew by as Fionna filled three disks. She had one more database to copy when her watched beeped, indicating the twenty minutes were over. She quickly placed the disks in her purse, logged out and shut down the computer. Her heart was racing as she stood up, pushed in her chair, and went to find Mrs. Hume. Her movements were slow and heavy as if she was weighted down with the new information. It did not take much to summon a tear in her eye as she explained to Mrs. Hume she was unable to finish the test and did not think she would be up to the job. Mrs. Hume was sympathetic as she listened, patted Fionna's shaking hand and offered her a glass of water. Fionna quickly refused, fearing Alex would think she was alerting him with their arranged code for help. After a few more words, she escaped Mrs. Hume and navigated the labyrinth like corridors until she found the elevators. A pregnant woman with an infant in a stroller was in the elevator when Fionna entered. The child was humming happily and the mother flashed Fionna a serene smile, creating a vision MultiCradle would be proud to advertise. Fionna looked down wishing there was some way she could alert this woman about the extracurricular activities endorsed by her health care provider. Fionna exited the elevator and signed out at the security desk. Alex stood waiting at the main entrance, newspaper folded under his arm. She started toward him when she heard the guard at the desk called her back. "Miss Vanstone!" Fionna froze and shot Alex a panicked look. The guard called her name again and she slowly turned around. "Human Resources just called. They would like you to wait here." "What for?" Her voice sounded higher than usual. "They just asked me to detain you." Alex joined her at the security desk and casually asked, "What's going on?" Fionna licked her lips. "I don't know. They want me to wait." She saw Alex open his jacket so his weapon was more accessible. Oh God, please don't let it come to that, she thought desperately. The elevator opened and Mrs. Hume's smiling approach quieted her fears. "I'm glad I caught you," she said warmly. "I told Mr. Frede what happened with your test and he was disappointed because we both were so impressed with your interview. He would like you to come back and try it again tomorrow." "Really?" "Between you and me, you gave the best interview and with a bit of training we think you're the perfect person for the job. I have some books here you could consult. Will you come back tomorrow, around noon?" "Um, sure," Fionna agreed, looking between Alex and Mrs. Hume. "Great." Mrs. Hume handed her two instructional manuals and then nodded toward Alex. "Is this your husband?" Fionna cleared her throat and she managed to mumble, "Yes." "Welcome to San Diego, Mr. Vanstone." Alex smiled calmly and let Mrs. Hume pump his hand enthusiastically. "I'll see you tomorrow, Julie." "Thank you," Fionna croaked out. They fled into a humid downpour and did not speak until they were in the shelter of the car. Alex took off his wet baseball hat and ran his fingers through his closely cut hair before asking anxiously, "How did it go?" "I got all but the last one," she replied, tugging at the bobby pins caught between the wig and her real hair. The rain had made the artificial hair heavy and sticky and it was a relief to free herself from its heavy mass. She threw the ruined wig into the backseat. "There wasn't enough time." "Don't worry about." "I could go back tomorrow and get it" "We're not going to be anywhere near MultiCradle tomorrow," Alex declared firmly as he started the engine. "But . . . " "We don't need to press our luck. Besides I think you need a break." "A break?" Fionna asked. "Is that required by the spy labor laws?" "Seriously. I'm gonna finish the rest without you." "The rest in San Diego or the rest of everything?" "Look, we're almost done. It's better you get out now." Her tour of duty was over. Back to reality. Tomorrow she would create a list of study questions for her students' midterm exam, clean her apartment and make full use of the extension granted for one of her own overdue essays. No espionage. No Bui Doi. No Alex. "Is this because of last night?" He answered her question with another. "How long have you been on the Librium?" Fionna swallowed. "What?" He held the wheel steady with his prosthetic and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a pill bottle and dropped it on her lap. "I saw it on the night table this morning." "They help me sleep," she stated defensively, heat rising in her cheeks. "Jesus Fee, they aren't even prescribed." "I'm not a cold blooded killer like you. I can't do this and not feel anything. I'm sorry to disappoint you," she lashed out. He didn't flinch at her remark but stared straight ahead into the storm. The rain slashed relentlessly at the windshield only to be mercilessly flung aside by the wiper's synchronized pulse. They traveled the next few miles in stillness, as if mesmerized by the humming wipers, swishing back and forth, performing a hypnotic ballet. Alex picked up the conversation first, "I wish I had known." "What could you have done? Started a support group for the men whose father's are helping aliens take over the world and the women who get screwed because of it. Maybe I could get that FBI woman to join." "I would have left you alone." "Oh that would have been extremely helpful," she spit out sarcastically."The only thing you could've done to prevent this was never asked me out that day in the War Museum, barring that, never come back to me at all." He braked abruptly at a yellow light, causing them both to jerk forward in their seats. He turned to her with blazing eyes. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't live in some demented paradox, both regretting and rejoicing in the day I met you?" "Then why did you do it?" she asked. "You didn't really need me to help you. There was nothing I did that you couldn't have done yourself or paid someone else to do for you. I'm sure Burns would have supplied you with an assistant if you really needed one." "You're right, anyone could have done the work, moving and organizing the files. I just wanted to be with you. And for some crazy reason, I have yet to understand, you didn't tell me to fuck off. You listened to me, you believed me. You saw in me the capability to be the person I always wanted to be, the person who you thought I once was. I could not have done this without you." "I can't be your savior." She winded her purse straps around her hands. "If you see me that way, how am I any better than your stepfather or Almsey, manipulating you into acting how they want." "You are nothing like them." "Alex, you're here because you want to be. Whether we succeed or fail, you're here because you believe you're doing the right thing. For once, give yourself some credit. If this is all some sort of elaborate con job for my benefit, you certainly waited long enough to put the moves on me." "Timing is everything," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. At the airport Alex bought Fionna a ticket to New York and one to Pittsburgh for himself. She went to the bathroom and flushed the identification for Julie Vanstone down the toilet while Alex disappeared somewhere to dispose of his weapon. They met in a coffee shop outside Alex's departure gate and sat awkwardly together, sipping lukewarm coffee. They didn't say much until Alex's flight was called to board. "So what happens now?" she asked, not knowing if she meant the exact moment or the near future. "I need to know how this is going to end." He leaned back in his chair and traced a chip in the ceramic mug with his finger. "You go home, write your thesis, and marry Rob. I'll finish this mess, dump everything in Mulder's lap and then go wherever and get very, very drunk." "Alex, seriously . . . " "I am serious. If I had to do all over again I would have followed in Gordon's footsteps instead of Victor's. He had his sadistic destructive period and then was magically cured by the love of a woman and a twelve step program." "Hindsight is 20/20." "And we know who we can blame that on, the historians. If you guys got your act together, maybe we could stop repeating our mistakes." "Well maybe if there weren't secret governments within governments and a conspiracy to hide the truth, we would have an easier job." "Touche." He swallowed the last of his coffee, pulled a few bills out from his wallet, and threw them on the table. "I guess this is it. " "I guess so." "I'll call you if I find out anything more about the chip." "Will you call if you don't?" "I don't think that's a good idea." She nodded, "I guess not." "You have Dana Scully's address, right?" he said as subtle reminder that worse case scenarios still lurked despite the termination of their partnership. "It's burned on my brain," she confirmed, watery eyes focused on coffee grains stuck to the bottom of her mug. She could feel his eyes burning into her but refused to look up at him. Alex's flight was announced again. He stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head as he passed. "Good bye Fee." "Alex, wait." Her chair fell over as she stood up quickly and flung her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. His bag hit the floor as he encircled her waist. They clung to each other, fusing their bodies in an electricity of longing and regret. Swirling crowds bustled toward their destinations, oblivious to the two solemn statues frozen in their farewell. "You make this so difficult," he whispered into the curve of her neck. "I don't want to leave you again." The words, "Then don't," played on her lips but instead she just nodded, and held him tight. "I wish . . . " he started, then caught himself, there was so much that could follow those two words. "I know," she agreed. He pulled back to look at her, "Look, if all the stars align and this all works out, I am going to make things up to you. I promise." "I don't doubt it," she said, dismissing thoughts of promises built on possibilities as thin as a paper moon. "I don't doubt it." She remembers that she the one to unwind herself from him but he was the one who walked away. She didn't watch, not wanting to see if he looked back. When she eventually pulled her eyes from the tiled floor, he was gone. At least this time they said good bye, she thought. *** Present day The cab rolled to a stop and driver shut off the meter. "That'll be 18.75," he called over his shoulder before he realized his passenger was already out the door. It took only a spilt second to decide he was not letting himself be ripped off again. If this jerk was a junkie looking to score, he would be carrying enough cash to pay. He rolled down the window and yelled out, "Hey!" but the man didn't look back, too busy elbowing his way through the crowd of people waiting to board a bus. The man was already 100 yards ahead and the driver watched him dart across the street, dodging traffic, disappearing around the corner. He pulled out from the curb and gave chase. The driver radioed in to the dispatcher that he was following a deadbeat passenger, gave them his location and asked them to call the police. The driver turned and caught up with the man trotting down Hespler Street. It was mainly a residential area with expensive condos and high rise apartments that had a view of Lake Ontario. It looked like he was heading toward a cluster of newly built office buildings, down by the harbor, part of an overflow from the downtown core's crowded financial district. The driver was about to radio in his new position when the man suddenly looked behind and his piercing eyes narrowed in on the driver. He switched directions and walked briskly toward the cab. The driver lunged for the glove compartment and wrestled with the tricky latch. After a few tries, it opened with a jolt, throwing papers, maps and his gun onto the floor. He leaned down to retrieve the gun and when he sat up the man was leaning in his window. "Looks like you just solved another one of my problems," Alex said simply. He reached through the window and plucked the gun out of the stunned driver's shaking hand. It was a .38 with a worn handle and a tarnished barrel. He opened it and saw it was only half loaded, giving him three shots. "Do you have any more ammunition?" The driver shook his head and covered his face with his hands. "Please don't shoot me." It was old, grimy, and looked unreliable but it was better than nothing. He tucked it into the back of his jeans. "Thanks buddy. Send the bill to the FBI, care of Walter Skinner." Without another thought to the cowering driver, Alex continued his journey toward the buildings at the end of the street. The middle one hosted the offices of Northern Enterprises, a small investment firm financing mining expeditions in Northern Ontario and Quebec. The CEO was none other then John Harrigan, a.k.a. Frederick Almsey, a.k.a. Charles Spender, a.k.a. nicotine addicted son of a bitch. It was a Sunday and the outdoor private parking lot adjacent the building was empty except for a few cars. There was no sign of the U- Haul. Alex ran up the steps of the building two at a time, wondering if Almsey was watching and chuckling at him from one of the windows. The heavy front doors were unlocked and the lobby was deserted. Unable to remember which floor Northern Enterprises were on, he quickly scanned the directory posted by the elevators and found them in Suite 504. The elevators were turned off for the weekend so he ran up the stairs to the fifth floor. He paused to catch his breath in the fifth floor stairwell and patted the back of his jeans, checking to see if the cabbie's gun had magically transformed itself into Sig Sauer on the journey up. It had not. The door leading to suite 504 was opened and Alex approached it cautiously. The reception air was blandly decorated in rose and beige. The walls were crowded with framed geological maps and pictures of men in suits and hard hats standing around mining equipment. Although he didn't stop to look at it this time, he knew there was a photo on the wall of Almsey shaking hands with Conrad Strughold in front of the Strughold Mining Corporation in Virginia. He randomly searched the offices, trying doors but found them either empty or locked. He turned a corner and came to an office whose door was half open. Alex smelt the stale aroma of cigarette smoke wafting down a hallway before heard the familiar voice. Alex looked in and saw Almsey standing up behind a big cherry wood desk, talking on the phone, sounding quite pleased with himself. "Good. Good . . . " Almsey waved him in with an eager smile and motioned for him to sit."He's actually here right now." Alex entered the room but remained standing, eyeing the older man with blatant hatred. Almsey continued his animated conversation, nodding his head in agreement with the party on the other line. He held up one finger as if to say he wouldn't be much longer. Impatient and well aware he needed to appear in control, Alex strode over to the desk, placed his hand over the phone and disconnected it. "You don't know how long it took me to get that connection," Almsey said calmly, replacing the receiver. "Russian telecommunications are still in the ice age. Did you know a poor phone connection between Khrushchev and Kennedy nearly made the Cuban Missile Crisis a reality?" "Where is she?" Alex demanded. "Cutting right to the chase. No exchange of pleasantries." Almsey sat and lit a cigarette. "I think we've bullshitted each other long enough." "Quite." Almsey said, leaning back in his chair with a smug expression. "I'm disappointed in you Alex. I thought you would be smarter than this. It's not wise to walk into a negotiation with your heart on your sleeve." "There nothing to negotiate. Fionna's leaving with me." Almsey looked around the room. "As you can see, she's not here." Alex exhaled sharply and restrained himself from throwing himself over the desk and strangling the man. "You know where she is." "Where are Agents Mulder and Scully? I thought you were in their custody." "Scully's on her way to San Diego and Mulder's probably is half way to Gettysburg by now." "Well, they better bring a forensic team with them to sort through the rubble. Or haven't you heard? There was an unfortunate collision this afternoon in Pennsylvania. A train carrying toxic chemicals crashed into a passenger train on the outskirts of Gettysburg. The inferno is still raging through the city and park. As for San Diego, they join the rest of America is mourning the senseless bombing of MultiCradle this morning," Almsey recited, in the even but moved voice of a newscaster reporting a tragedy. This time it was Alex's turn to smile smugly. "I must have scared you real bad, old man." Almsey leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and said in a serious voice, "What scares me Alex is your new sense of self sacrifice. You've always been one to rise to the occasion, play the part the role required. Up until now you made smart choices. Choices that kept you alive, if not happy. And now you've thrown that all away, driven by hunger for the scraps of idealism and crumbs of heroism fallen from Mulder's table. Or is something less noble than that, something more primal?" "I didn't come here to be analyzed." "Oh that's right, you're here for Miss Wilkinson. Well, as I said before, she's not here but she's also not far away. If you can provide me with what I want, then we can both leave here with our wishes fulfilled." "I'm not going hand over Gibson." "Bargaining with the life of a child . . . not very heroic, is it Alex? I wouldn't want to test your freshly acquired set of morals with a request like that. Besides, you have something I need that is more important than Gibson." The only thing that betrayed Alex's surprise was a muscle spasm in his left cheek. "And that is?" "The location of Burns' hideout." "Burns is dead." "I believe the reports of his death, much like my own, are greatly exaggerated." His brow furrowed in undisguised confusion. "You had him killed." "Come now, if that were the case, I wouldn't be asking, would I? I know Burns was the mastermind behind your little plan, just as I know he is very much alive and hard at work with the rebels." "If he is, he certainly didn't tell me." Alex shrugged as if the revelation was of little interest, but his head pounded as the possibilities behind Almsey's request sank in. Was Burns really alive? If so, what had he been doing these past three months. And if Burns had not died by Almsey's hand, who had killed him and why? "Do you expect me to believe that Burns would leave you to carry out his plans without any supervision? That would require an exorbitant amount of trust on both of your parts. And trust is not given or taken lightly in our line of work." "I haven't seen him since July, four days before his remains were found in a D.C. alley." "I know you have not seen him in person. I've been watching you for some time. " "If you've been watching, why did you let me continue?" "Obviously I was hoping you would lead me, if not to Burns, then to the rest of the rebels. You were being monitored twenty four hours a day; there was little risk of exposure." "If that's true, why all the damage control now?" "Pressing business called me out of the country just before your little escapade in San Diego. Unfortunately, I was not informed of that venture and your decision to wrap things up in time to stop you." Alex thrust his jaw out. "You're bluffing. I don't think you had any idea what was going on until it was too late. And now your grasping at straws, trying to figure out how I managed to pull the rug out from under you." "Oh, no Alex, it is I who am about to pull the rug out from under you." Almsey pushed a button on his phone and said into the intercom, "Please bring the woman upstairs." He released the button and smiled winningly at Alex. "Let's see if Miss Wilkinson can shed some light on these affairs." "She knows nothing," he said quickly. "That is inconsequential. I am not interested in hearing what she has to say but rather what she will encourage you to say. I expect her presence to be as reliant as a polygraph test." He wiped out the driver's gun and pointed it at Almsey."You're not doing this to me again." "Do what? You were the one who invited her along for the ride this time, not I," Almsey stated innocently, unmoved by the weapon pointed at him. "You don't know how many times I've stared down the barrel of a gun and lived to tell about it. Mulder has pulled this tactic several time but has never been able to pull the trigger." "I'm not Mulder," he hissed. "No, you're not. I imagine Mulder would have preferred death rather than compromise himself in the ways you had to over the years." Still holding the gun on Almsey, Alex backed up to the door and peered down the hallway. Seeing nothing, he turned back to Almsey. "You know I did not choose this path willingly. I was lied to, manipulated and used." "Again, you disappoint me. I thought after everything you've seen, experienced and learned you would understand what we are up against. There is no time to coddle each other, lick our wounds, and moan about what we have sacrificed. We were given an opportunity that allowed us to preserve the human race. It's not a pretty life but it's better than the alternative." "I don't think you considered any other alternatives because you became addicted to the power you were given. You enjoy deciding who will live and who will die, who will rule and who will serve. If the rebels win, you'll go back to being a nobody. You remind me of the last Czar, convinced only he knew what was best for the country, believing the people were too foolish to make their own decisions. Democracy would be their ruin, he cried, when really he was afraid of losing the power that came attached with tyranny." "I never pegged you for a socialist, Alex, despite your upbringing." He stabbed out his cigarette in a crystal astray and immediately lit another. "However, I think you should pick your historic metaphors better. Communism destroyed Russia and the last Czar was recently canonized as a Saint. The people' s revolution was a failure, just as yours will be." "Then why are you so concerned with finding Burns?" He shrugged. "The rebels are interfering with the time line. They are an inconvenience, not a threat." Alex was about to reply when he heard a door open. He backed up and placed himself directly behind Almsey, gun aimed on the back of the man's head. A lighter patch of grey hair stood out in the center and Alex focused on that spot as he waited. Almsey remained indifferent to Alex's new position, and shuffled the papers spread out on his desk, pushing them aside into a neat pile. Fionna appeared first, shadowed by the shape shifter Alex recognized as the one Mulder referred to as the Bounty Hunter. Fionna froze in the doorway, her eyes darting wildly between Almsey and his own as she tried to appraise the situation. If it were possible, his hatred for Almsey doubled when he saw her forehead was marked with an angry purple bruise, her bottom lip was swollen and her cheeks were tear stained. As the Bounty Hunter gripped her trembling shoulder and steered her into the office, Alex could see how badly she was fighting to stay on her feet. Almsey cleared his throat. "I believe you're familiar with what men like him can do. He needs no weapon to hurt her. Unless you require a demonstration of his strength, I suggest you lay down your weapon." The sweat dripped down Alex's neck and soaked his collar as he considered his options. All he knew was if he surrendered the gun, Almsey held all the cards. Not that the gun was not doing him much good. There was only one way to bring down the Bounty Hunter and he would not be foolish enough to turn his back and offer Alex a clean kill shot. If he shot Almsey, it was possible the Bounty Hunter wouldn't kill Fionna, but use her as a hostage, though that was not a risk he wanted to take. Turning the gun on himself would not help Fionna, nor did he have the guts or inclination to pull a murder-suicide. Neither, he nor Fionna would be leaving here alive unless he thought fast. All he could do was buy time and hope Almsey slipped up before he did. Alex shifted his sweaty grip on the weapon. "I don't understand what we can accomplish here. There are a limited amount of possibilities. Either Burns is alive and I know where he is. Or Burns is alive and I don't know where he is. Or Burns is dead and laughing at you from beyond the grave. You've already decided it's the first answer, which means I'll either tell you where he is or I won't. And if I tell you, you'll have to assume there's a good chance I'm lying. I might be willing to risk it all to protect his location, or more likely, I don't trust you to let us go if I were to tell you the truth." "That's a chance you're just going to have to take." "No, that's the chance you're going to have to take. I'm already guaranteed to lose, unless E.T. here is part of my rebel army, just waiting for my signal to crush your skull. Or maybe the building is surrounded by a joint FBI/Police task force. Or maybe you've read me all wrong." He swallowed and continued, avoiding looking anywhere but the mental target he made in the center of Almsey's head. "Do you think if I really cared about Fionna, I would drag her into this? We had a good time. But now that I think about it, she's probably not worth missing an opportunity to blow your head off." Almsey spun slowly around in his chair to face Alex."Those are all very creative and entertaining scenarios but I'm willing to call your bluff." He swivelled back and opened his top desk drawer, and took over a plastic case. He opened it and removed an unfamiliar object that resembled a miniature hammer embedded around the edges with small sharp prongs. "We'll start with something simple. Remove the chip." The Bounty Hunter nodded and then grabbed Fionna by the scruff of her neck. Before Alex could protest, he slammed her head down across the desk. A strangled cry escaped her lips as her face made contact with the wood. The Bounty Hunter straddled her body and leaned over, pinning her down with his girth. One hand brushed her hair aside and the other held her head flat against the desk. He probed the back of her neck with a stubby finger. Finding something, he marked the spot with a pen and reached for the spiky instrument. Alex had watched them put it in four years ago, he was not about to watch them rip it out of her. Even if he could get his hands on another one, Scully's cure aside, he knew replacement chips did not always work. "No wait," Alex called out. "Wait" He released the gun, let it dangle from his index finger and dropped it on the desk. Almsey placed his palm over it, finger curling around the trigger. The Bounty Hunter waited until Almsey nodded and then he let Fionna go. She dragged herself off the desk, and slumped to her knees, head hanging forward. Almsey didn't say a word as Alex moved to her side. She didn't look at him when he pulled her to him, just rested her head limply on his chest. She mumbled something he didn't catch. It sounded like she said, "Can you wake me when its all over?" Comforting words or reassurances were out of the question, as they had undoubtedly only reached the intermission in Almsey's abuse. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but everything he thought to say sounded superfluous in the larger scheme of things. He wanted her to know he was sorry, that he loved her, that he was proud of her, but these sentiments seemed cheap and insignificant considering the circumstances. So he just held her and hoped she got the message. Almsey cleared his throat and Alex looked up. It was rare to see him holding a gun and it looked out of place in his hand. It was so common for Almsey to leave the actual assassination of victims to his legion of anonymous minions that Alex hoped the bastard was out of practice. He stood and pulled Fionna up with him, placing her by his left side, away from the Bounty Hunter and partially shielded from Almsey. "Good." Almsey said with satisfaction as if his opponent's chess pieces had been arranged in a way that would guarantee him nothing short of a spectacular checkmate. "Now then. As you already pointed out, the odds are stacked against you. But I've seen you get out of tricky situations before so I am not eliminating that possibility. I will give you one more chance to tell me where Burns is." "He could be having tea with the Queen of England. How the hell should I know? I thought he was dead." "Stop stalling." "I told you before, I don't know." Alex growled. He felt a tug on his jacket. "Alex, just tell him," Fionna pleaded softly. "Please. Let's just end this now." He turned around to see her looking at him with the eyes of a kitten he held in a sack, ready to drown. It was heartbreaking to hear the lack of hope in her voice as if she knew they couldn't win and did not want to prolong the agony. She gripped his hand. "If you won't, I will." "Fee, I . . . " He stopped when he felt something pass from her hand into his. He immediately recognized the object. "There's nothing to say," he said flatly, keeping his voice devoid of the renewed hope that flowed through his veins. Fionna let go of his hand and stepped forward. "He's in Egypt. Or at least that where his base of operations is. He has an apartment in Cairo under the name of Cliff Jamieson though he's rarely there. He travels a lot. The rebels have cells all over North Africa. I'm sure you already knew that." "Egypt," Almsey said thoughtfully. "Burns and I spent some time there in '87. I remember he said that standing in the shadow of the Great Pyramids at Giza humbled him, reminded him of the inevitable rise and fall of civilization." Alex didn't know what was more amazing, he thought as he slowly inched his way over to the Bounty Hunter, Fionna's cool lie or Almsey's quick acceptance of it. "I suppose he's planning a move against Strughold's holdings in Tunisia. Thank you for confirming what we already expected. It's a pity I can't let you live. "Almsey contemplated Fionna in the same manner he did when she was in Gettysburg, seeing her not as a person but a convenient way to get what he wanted. "As for you, " he turned to Alex, "I've made arrangements with the Russians for your return. Of course the reward is higher if you're alive, but I'll settle for the lower price and send you home in a body bag rather than give you the opportunity to escape." "Wise decision," he said sharply, punctuating his remark with the activation of the pick and lunged at the Bounty Hunter. Caught off guard, the Bounty Hunter was easy to move and they both toppled to the ground. Alex landed on top and raised his arm to plunge the pick into the back of the man's neck. The Bounty Hunter shook him off and sat up, capturing the first bullet fired by Almsey. It hit his back and sent him down again. Alex could feel his eyes and lungs burning even before the green fluid rose and bubbled at the wound's surface. He held his breath and crawled back over the slumped figure and raised his the pick again. As he struck, a bullet ripped through the shoulder of his good arm. He fought the impact and managed to bring the pick down but it missed the neck and sliced through Bounty Hunter's shoulder blade. He tugged at the weapon, trying to free it, when he heard the gun fire again. This time the bullet caught him in the chest, to the right of his heart. He lost his hold on the pick, slid off the Bounty Hunter's body, collapsing beside him on his back. The sucking pain in his chest was of secondary importance when he realized that the gun must be empty, there were only three bullets. Unless he had another weapon, Almsey couldn't shoot Fee too. He wanted to tell her to run, to go now, before the Bounty Hunter could recover but when he opened his mouth, he chocked on the sizzling gases erupting from Bounty Hunter's wound. He tried to cough, but the pressure on his chest was too great and instead of clearing his lungs he received a mouthful of blood. He didn't have the energy to spit it out, so it dribbled out the side of his mouth and ran down his neck. Hoping to catch a clean breath, he tried to turn over, away from the Bounty Hunter, but everything felt so heavy, as if there were several other bodies piled on top of his chest and he couldn't move. He opened his eyes and his vision exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors too painful to look at. He shut them tightly but the colors would not go away. The bright oranges, reds and pinks were like a blazing sunrise etched into his retinas. The feeling spread over his whole body until he could no longer feel anything but burning. He didn't know if this was the due to the holes in his chest and shoulder or exposure to the toxic blood or a combination of the two. He knew there were things he should be doing to right now but he couldn't think straight. It hurt too much. Where was he? Where was Almsey? Where was Fee? Where was Burns? That was the question of the day. Where was Mulder when you needed him? Had everyone gone? Were they ever here? Oh God, it hurt. Before the colors disappeared and everything went black, he wondered if dying was usually so painful or was it only for those who deserved it. *** Part Five: Epilogue "This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But, it is, perhaps the end of the beginning." - Winston Churchill. Toronto Women's Hospital In the seven hours since Alex's death, Fionna felt she had accomplished a lot, especially considering she had barely been conscious for the first three. She was kept so busy by doctors, police, concerned relatives and the trio of frazzled FBI agents that she hardly had time to think about how her life had fallen off course and how the reason for that fall had left behind a gross amount of blood, vomit and other bodily fluids on the plush mauve carpet of Almsey's office. She tried her best to give Agent Mulder a clear account of the day's events but everything grew hazy after the gunshots. When Almsey started firing she had crouched down in a ball and covered her head, bracing herself for a bullet. When none came, she cautiously opened her eyes to see Alex and the shape shifter sprawled on the ground with Almsey standing over them, a white handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth. Then the burning sensation hit her like a truck. It reminded her of the time she dove into the university pool only to discover they had added far too much chlorine and her eyes felt as if they were on fire. Today that sensation was spread over her entire body, centered around any exposed orifices. With each breath she drew, her lungs tightened, trying to barricade themselves and protect her central nervous system from the poisonous invader. Passing out from lack of oxygen was blissful relief from the stinging pain. She awoke to someone's foot tapping her side. She tried to open her eyes but they were swollen and her eyelashes were glued together with a sticky, crusty substance. She could only peek through a small slit but even with her corrupted vision she recognized the shape shifter looming over her. Satisfied she was alive, he stopped kicking her and said quietly, "It's always darkest before the dawn." Believing his words were an epitaph, she screwed her eyes shut and prayed for it to be over fast but nothing happened. When she opened her eyes again, he was across the room and she watched him drag Alex's bloody body out of the office. There was no sign of Almsey. The next thing she knew Agent Scully was at her side taking her pulse, Agent Mulder was calling the paramedics and a little boy was holding her hand and crying, telling her how sorry he was for letting Alex go alone. The ride to the hospital and subsequent treatment with ice packs and a cold bath were a blur, although she remembered her brother appearing in the trauma room and getting into a shouting match with Agent Mulder, only to be quieted down by a tall bald man she would later learn was Assistant Director Walter Skinner. By the time she was admitted upstairs to a private room, under police guard, the pain had dissolved into that of a bad sunburn and a sore throat. Her face looked worse then it felt. There was a flaky red rash around her eyes, nose and mouth. When they were left alone for a moment, her brother informed her it looked as if she had tumbled head first into a patch of poison ivy. She didn't care to confirm if his assessment was accurate. Mulder had restrained himself from questioning her until she was more comfortable. When she was settled in her room, he appeared in her doorway, accompanied by Assistant Director Skinner. Both men listened intently, rarely interrupting, as she explained to her best ability what had occurred. Skinner took notes and said nothing, though his grim expression spoke volumes of how he was struggling to arrange the events of the past five days into a presentable report to his own superiors. Since he had walked this road many times before, Mulder's disappointment and frustration over having everything slip through his fingers again was well hidden, and he actually managed to express remote regret over Alex's death. Throughout the polite interrogation, Fionna remained calm. She later decided this was due more to the numbing effect of shock than a cool head. Her anticipated breakdown occurred while speaking to her mother. After giving her frantic father a censored version of what had happened, he passed the phone to her mother. Her mother's comforting voice triggered an explosion of desperation which welled up inside. Fionna could tell her mother put aside a hundred pressing questions and just concentrated on soothing her incoherent sobbing daughter. Mrs. Wilkinson's gentle and insistent reassurances that everything would be all right calmed the hysterical grief and paranoia to a point that Fionna felt a surge of guilt over how she had worried her parents and brother. For her mother's sake she got herself under control and agreed everything would be all right, even when she knew that sentiment was far from the truth. If Almsey had meant for her to die along with Alex, surely he would not hesitate to correct that mistake. And he had meant for her survive, she doubted it was a gesture of kindness. More likely it profited him in some sick way and she did not want any part of his plans. The first thing she was going to do was remove the chip so at least he wouldn't be able to find her easily. Then she was going to take the first opportunity she had to run. She doubted Agent Mulder could provide her with an anonymous safe haven for very long. She would try to find a quiet place where she could live out the rest of her days in peace. Deep down she knew she did not have the resources or nerves to carry out these plans, but they gave her the illusion of control she needed and took her mind off the image of the shape shifter hauling Alex's limp body away. She was imagining living in a small cottage on a cliff overlooking a serene sea when Agent Scully appeared at her bedside asking if she would mind another visitor. There was someone who wanted to meet her. Gibson Praise gave her the impression of an old soul living in a young body. He carried himself with the slumped but dignified stature she had seen before in some of the veterans she interviewed for her thesis: relieved to be alive after being stalked by death, guilty and confused over why they had survived when so many others did not, haunted by the horrors they had witnessed and overwhelmed with loneliness and isolation once they realized these sensations were not easily understood by anyone who had not been at the sharp end. Twenty, thirty, forty years later, it was hard to shake that walk, and here it was appearing on a twelve year old boy wearing flannel pajamas with a faded cowboy print. Shepherded by Agent Scully, Gibson approached the bed, studying her with such seriousness that she had to choke back startled laughter at his first words. "Back home, in Jakarta, my mom had all of Ella Fitzgerald's albums. She had a few Louis Armstrong and Billie Holliday ones too. They were nice but I prefer The Beatles," Gibson announced as if they were meeting at a jazz appreciation night. Then he explained, "Alex thought your taste in music sucked but I like it." "Then I guess we're kindred spirits," Fionna said in all sincerity. "I'm Gibson." He put his small hand in hers. She shook it and kept holding it. "It's a pleasure to meet you." "I'm staying upstairs in the kid's section." He tugged at the babyish pajamas bestowed on him by Pediatrics with distaste. "But I'm not sick. They just don't know what to do with me. The nurses keep giving me Jello." "Do you like Jello?" "The strawberry is good but the lime one has hard bits in it. I could really go for a hamburger." "How about when we get out of here, I'll take you for lunch. Anywhere you want to go." Gibson smiled and nodded but didn't seem convinced it would happen. He turned around to look up at Scully silently lurking behind him. "Agent Scully said I couldn't bother you for very long." "It's ok" "I found this at the hospital library. I thought you might like it." He handed her a hardcover book missing its dust jacket. Fionna turned it over. It was a worn copy of Emily Dickinson's Selected Poems, nearly identical to the one Alex had given her long ago. "Thank you." "Well, I hope you have a good sleep." "You too." Gibson shuffled out of the room under Scully's protective arm. He paused at the door and turned to look at her one more time. She thought he was going to say something but he just held up his hand in unmoving wave and left. Fionna put the book on the night table. It was a nice gesture but she did not feel like filling her head with Dickinson's mournful prose. She had her own misery to sort out and arranging it in iambic pentameters was not going to help. As she put it down, she noticed a familiar ink stain on the book's bottom edges. This couldn't be her own copy, the one she had misplaced over two years ago? She picked it up again and opened the cover, shivering as the inscription scrawled in Russian confirmed its identity as the second hand copy Alex gave her before he left Moscow. Where did it come from? It had gone missing long before they started working together. She searched her memory. Could he have taken it that first night he came to see her? She flipped through the pages, hoping something would tell her why had he taken it and how had it been transferred from his hands to Gibson's. Fionna jumped as two pieces of paper slipped through the pages onto the blankets. One was the photograph that she used to keep tucked behind the dust jacket. It was the only picture she had kept of Alex, the one of them sitting outside on the bench of his stepfather's cottage on the Black Sea. The photo was folded in half as if Alex had preferred not to look at himself or them together. She unfolded it, tracing the rippled and worn seam dividing them with her finger. They looked so young and relaxed. She put it away. It was too hard to look at right now. She opened the other piece of paper and was disappointed not to find Alex's handwriting. Instead there was a neatly printed message addressed to her, written with a green marker on top of a word search torn out from an activity book. It read:
Fionna read the letter over again and then carefully folded it and put it and the picture back in the book. She didn't think she could offer Gibson much. She was having enough doubts about getting herself through this mess that she didn't feel she could take care of someone else. But she could not in good faith send him off on his own just to protect herself from the obligation. It was going to be difficult enough to do this on her own. Another person along for the ride couldn't make it worse. Plus Gibson's talents might come in handy and it would be nice to share the company of someone who understood where she was coming from. It was decided. She would do her best to get out of here and meet Gibson. Tomorrow they would start another stage of this crazy, sad and sometimes tender journey, joined together by someone who was no longer there to continue it with them. *** Three days later His first thought upon awakening was that he was dead. He lay immobile, frozen, shrouded in a humming stillness. Despite his paralyzed senses, pain started in his toes and rose up through his body, focusing on his chest. Before falling back into blackness he decided he was in Hell, where the dead suffer eternal agony. When he awoke again, he was in less pain and could hear music. Somewhere, very distant, he could hear strains of Mozart. He did not remember the title but the piece had been one of his mother's favorites. An odd choice, he mused, for the underworld's soundtrack. Perhaps he had been upgraded to purgatory. The return of his hearing prompted him to test out his other senses. He opened his eyes, or at least he thought they were open, but everything was so dark. He tried willing his arm and legs to move but the only muscle that responded to his efforts was his tongue. It felt heavy and swollen in his mouth but when he focused, he was able to wiggle it around. After a few attempts, he managed to open his jaw and the tongue escaped, skidding across dry chapped lips. Opening and closing his mouth brought a wave of nausea soaring through his body. He began to gag and suddenly he felt strong hands roll him onto his side and he threw up warm lumpy bile that made his sinuses burn. When he was done, someone rolled him onto his back and wiped his face with a damp cloth. Suddenly a light went on over his head, illuminating two figures standing over him. The light penetrated his eyes and went straight through his head, giving power to his headache. He blinked rapidly, torn between stopping the pain and seeing who was there. "Turn it off!" someone said sharply and then he realized he was the one who spoke. The light was turned down and his vision came into focus. "I know what you're thinking." One of the apparitions floating over him spoke. "You're not dead, although your company might suggest otherwise." "If I'm not dead, you better have a damn good reason for being alive," he sputtered as he recognized Howard Burns. "I see someone's woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Burns chided with an amused smile. "What's going on here?" Alex tried to sit up but couldn't quite manage. Burns leaned over to help him but he fell back onto the pillow rather than let the old man touch him. "Where am I?" "Don't get excited. You need to conserve your energy. You got yourself into quite a mess and we've only begun to get you out of it." "I was shot." Alex remembered with a wince. "Twice." "Yes, I know. Duncan told me all about it. He saved your life even though it meant breaking his cover." "Duncan?" . Burns nodded and the figure standing beside him stepped out of the shadows, revealing himself to be the Alien Bounty Hunter. "Duncan is indeed part of your aptly named rebel army. If you hadn't attacked him yourself, he would have been able to help you with much less effort." "I don't understand." "In full health Duncan, and those like him, can heal a fatal wound within a ten minute window. In his weakened state, combined with the complication of your wounds being infected with his own blood, you are lucky to be alive and at the mercy of our earth-bound medical technology." With a small bow of the head as a way of introduction to Alex, Duncan whispered something to Burns and departed, leaving the two men alone in what Alex could now see was a small bedroom, crowded with various pieces of medical equipment. "Are you sure you just didn't want me to be in as much pain as possible?" Alex asked, wincing as he shifted slightly. "I know you're mad at me, but I've always had your best interests at heart." Alex gave him a skeptical look worthy of Scully, and Burns reconsidered his choice of words. "Well, I'd never throw you to the lions without a good reason. Loyalty is in high demand and there are so few of us." "Almsey knows you're alive." "All the better. We have the old fool running scared. We've set them back years. The colonists will not be pleased. Our plans went so well, I even forgive you for dragging Mr. Mulder into this." Something was tingling in the back of his mind, trying to force its way through his cloudy thoughts. He stopped listening to Burns ramble on about the bombing of MultiCradle, the fire in Gettysburg, a Senate investigation into the suspicious actions of several FBI agents, and tried to focus on remembering exactly what had happened. And then it hit him like a needle in his heart. How could he have forgotten? "Oh God, Fionna. Is she here?" Burns patted his shoulder. "We'll talk more tomorrow. You need your rest." "Where is she?" "Tomorrow. Get some sleep," Burns said firmly. He reached above the bed to switch off the light and Alex's arm lashed out and grabbed his wrist with a ferocity that surprised both of them. "Tell me now," he insisted, each word enunciated with growing urgency. The pain of moving exhausted him, and he released Burns' wrist and let his arm fall back to the bed. "We don't know where she is," Burns admitted sheepishly, rubbing his wrist. . "What do you mean? Didn't you bring her here too?" "As I said before, Duncan could barely take care of you . . . " "You left her behind with Almsey?" Alex asked in disbelief. "You saved me, but left her?" "Almsey was already long gone," Burns explained. "Duncan made sure she was alive before he left with you. Mulder and Scully found her soon after. She wasn't badly off, a relatively mild reaction to the toxicity." "So she's with Mulder now," he sighed, considering the implications. "Not according to the FBI. Mr. Skinner submitted a report yesterday stating that both Ms. Wilkinson and the boy, Gibson, disappeared Monday morning from the hospital. Our sources confirm that to be true." "That's it?" "We also know her chip is no longer active," he added quietly. "That suggests . . . " He cut Burn off. "She could have taken it out herself." "Yes, she could." "They could be in hiding. Maybe Mulder helped them." "That is one possible explanation, but there is another far more likely one I think you need to face." "I don't need you to tell me the odds," he murmured harshly under his breathe. They were dead. He had killed them both. "No, but I need you in good shape, focused, both physically and mentally. We need to strike again, while they are broken and afraid." "You're going to have to find somebody else to do your dirty work. I'm through with you all." He closed his eyes, searching for their faces in his mind. They did not come to him easily and when they did they were distorted into an ugly image that made him feel like throwing up again. "You don't want them to have died in vain." "I won't let you use their memory like that." "Very well," Burns conceded and then cleared his throat. "I'll be back in the morning. Someone will be in soon to bring your medication and maybe some food if you can stomach it. I could send Ms. Covarrubias." "Marita's here?" he murmured more to himself than to Burns. He hadn't thought of her in ages. He hadn't even cared enough to find out if she had recovered from the black oil. How did she survive when so many others didn't? "See, you need not be lonely. She's feels awful about how she misjudged your potential. I'm sure she would be willing to make it up to you in the only way she knows how," he proposed, playing apocalyptic matchmaker. "That's low, Burns, even for you." "Well, you could do worse. She's been on the right side longer then you or I." "Fuck you." "Good night, Alex." "Fuck you all." "Indeed." The End All comments, the good, the bad and the ugly, are welcome at annripley@hotmail.com. Thanks for reading. |
What You Leave Behindby Ann Ripley |