Date: Mon, 18 May 1998 00:15:17 -0700 From: "Polly R." Subject: NEW: End Game 1/2 (post The End vig.) Archiving: Yes to Gossamer, all other archivists, please just let me know it's going. That's the nicest form of feedback. **DO NOT POST TO ATXC NEWSGROUP, I WILL** Date: May 1998 Title: End Game 1/2 Author: Polly R. (setmedic@pacbell.net) Spoilers: All up to and including The End. Rating: G Category: V Keywords: Angst Summary: Post episode vignette, Mulder's POV. Author's notes: Waiting for June 19 and season 6 (which CC told me face-to-face Saturday was really happening.) Oh, in light of the recent debate, I have NO objection to publicly posted feedback. Sometimes it's good for the ego, you know? Disclaimer: All characters you recognize are the sole property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Twentieth Century Fox Television etc. None whatsoever belong to me. No money was made from the creation or distribution of this story. *** Do not post to ATXC *** I will do so... thanks. ------------ It's the loss of control that frightens me most, I think. Standing here, in the midst of the burned-out hell that was my, *our*, office, I see now that we don't even have the illusion of control any more. That's what all of this is about, you know. Control. Power. Who has it, who doesn't. Right now it's painfully obvious that we are solidly on the "who doesn't" side, Scully and me. I am numb. I can barely feel Scully's hands on my arms. It's all coming apart. First Skinner and his questions about my future, then Diana. My surprise at seeing her again, then trying to decipher her not-so-veiled references to wanting to rejoin forces, or whatever it was she was hinting at yesterday. Then she was shot. Scully and I were talking, really *talking* when Skinner called. I was trying to tell her about Diana, I was tired of that hanging over our heads. Or my head. We were talking about the possibility of our being reassigned, of the X-Files closing, of everything and nothing. Mostly, we were talking in circles around the real issue, or issues. Diana... Scully... me. Scully is still gripping my arms and I slowly become aware of the strength of her grip. Slowly, God, so slowly, I bring my hands up, and settle grip her shoulders. This is an awkward movement for me, not the smooth movement of a friend or lover, but the desperate grasp of a drowning, dying man. Oh. My. God. What have they done? Whathavetheydone?? WHATHAVETHEYDONE! Why? Were we too close? To what? They'd taken the boy, they'd shot Diana, what? Oh, Diana, they've taken you out. Why her? If it'd happened just a few minutes earlier it would have been Scully. No, can't think about that. Not now, not ever. I look over Scully's still head at the poster that has graced our office wall for over five years. The smoke and fire have given it an eerie cast, almost the outline of an alien head. How ironic. Those damned red and blue lights flashing in the window are not helping me to get a real grasp of what we're seeing. Everything is flickering, out of control. Did we ever really have control? If we did, it's obvious we don't now. I feel Scully sigh in my arms, her grip loosening slightly. Pulling away I look into her eyes, searching for my anchor in this stormy sea. For the first time, ever, she looks as lost and frightened as I feel. Dimly, I hear voices approaching in the hallway, the intruding sounds of those who will direct us, tell us what to do next. That's OK, you don't have to remind me, we're not in charge here. We never were. We have no control. End. Title: End Game 2/2 ------------ BURNED-OUT BASEMENT OFFICE FBI BUILDING TONIGHT I can't believe this. This can't be happening. Oh, God, the look on his face. The utter shock and disbelief. What else will they do to him? Yes, to him. This room, this little corner of the world, was his and his alone. The things they do, and have done, to me are not inconsequential, don't get me wrong, but this... this, was done to *him*. Hurt me, *don't* hurt my friends, and they have hurt my very best friend. I move forward and grip his arms, laying my head against his chest. I can hear his heart beating, feel his shallow breathing, but other than that I have no real indication that he's alive. Maybe he isn't alive anymore. I wonder if this will finally be what destroys him. They've tried everything else, why not this? Looking past his arm I see the devastation of what was once our office. Yes, our office, even if he created this space himself. He opened it up to me, for our work, for our quest for the truth. Make no mistake, this was always *his* space, his place to be, but it was also *our* office. I'm not sure even I understand the distinction. It's an intangible, I guess. This is it then, they've done it. Taken from us even the meager shreds of evidence and scientific fact we'd managed to scrounge and save as proof of our arguments, and destroyed it. All of it. It's all part of the game to them. Move, countermove. Check and mate. It ends here then, I guess. This is their last, clear indication that the stakes are high, that they are not to be trifled with. You'd think we'd have gotten it when I was taken, or Missy was shot, or when they played the 'cancer card', first causing it then providing the cure. We thought we were at least on semi-equal footing now. What a joke. They are in control, always have been, always will be. Well, there are ways around that. Like when my brothers made up rules I didn't like, I have options, and so does Mulder. God, Mulder. Listening to his dead, flat voice tell me about Diana and their past working relationship was difficult, but at least we were talking again. Sitting there, in his darkened living room, we'd begun to explore other topics, plans, options, when Skinner's call interrupted. Finally, a reaction from Mulder. I feel his arms come up slowly, his fingers clutching my shoulders tightly. His grip is desperate, and I wince slightly at the strength of it. I'll have bruises there tomorrow, but none greater than those that darken our souls tonight. They think they've destroyed us with this, I know it. Maybe they have. If they can do this, in the basement of the FBI building, what else will they do? Where can we go? Why go anywhere? They'll always be there. I feel Mulder pulling back slightly and I look up into his eyes, seeking the steady strength of his hazel eyes. Instead of the solid, firm resolve I've come to trust in and rely on over the years I see only the sad gaze of a small boy who has once again lost something he held so dear. They've done this to us, taken our resolve, our purpose from us. They are in control here, not us. That was never so evident before tonight. Mulder looks as lost as I feel, as we stand there holding onto each other. This is not the embrace of lovers, but the fragile attempts of two people trying to cling to the only solid truth they know. Each other. End. Feedback is always acknowledged and saved. :-)