From: "S-Mel-ly" Subject: SUB> Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- 7/23 Date sent: Fri, 7 Nov 1997 21:12:10 -0700 Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 7/23 Written by: Maraschino Feedback to: maraschino@ibm.net Disclaimers and red tape in Part One *** Protest follows far and wide -- they'll see how long it will take 'till you fall -- from so much denied -- Sarah McLachlan "Back Door Man" *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York "This is a serious breach in security." "Yes, most troubling indeed." "This is more than troubling. We're talking about potential exposure." "Yes, our eastern comrades don't seem to be very happy with the present... arrangements." "That rock is killing people." "Yes, it is." "How the hell can you be so complacent when it is the whole Project that is in jeopardy?" "Eye for an eye, my friend. Blood has been spilled here, so we return the favour. They've violated our land, our people -- they've killed our own..." "So..." "So by God, we kill them back." *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Vladimir had always found it strange how the memory worked. Long term memory especially. An event could happen -- innocent, innocuous, and be stored and forgotten for months... years... decades even. And then, one word could trigger the onslaught of dialogue and scenes and people that had been seen, the smells that had been smelled, the sounds that had been heard. It was the conversation he had remembered. The one at the clinic. And the one he had had with Jeremiah a mere 24 hours ago. He rushed to the conference room, surprised when he saw Jeremiah flanked by three other members of his troop, whispering. They stood up suddenly when they saw him at the doorway. "I hope I wasn't interrupting something." Jeremiah smiled. "No... no.. not at all." He mumbled something under his breath, and his companions started to file out, one bumping past Kabalevsky's shoulder as he left. The Russian sat himself across from the table, and leaned inward. "This marker you were telling me about earlier... can it be in humans as well?" Jeremiah looked amused. "I can't implant you." Kabalevsky shook his head, and looked down at the papers Jeremiah and his drones had been looking at. The morph saw where the Russian's gaze was leading to, and he flipped over the papers casually. Two pairs of eyes met, and both forced professional, diplomatic smiles. "Now, Mr. Kabalevsky... what were you going to say?" Kabalevsky paused, hearing the screaming in the back of his mind, feeling his innards protesting. He grabbed a cigar to stall, took time in lighting it to get his thoughts together. The morph was hiding something; it was obvious. Their visitors had the edge because Jeremiah had the much sought after marker. He took a casual puff, and admired the cigar momentarily. Christ, all of Russia was flapping in the wind while he and his comrades waited for Jeremiah and his... companions to do whatever it was they were doing in the abortion clinics. Both Mulder children had the marker too, he was sure of it. Perhaps this knowledge -- no, perhaps any of the Mulder children -- would start to even out the odds. Kabalevsky rose the cigar to his mouth again, meeting Jeremiah's eyes for the first time. "I just wanted to say, that if it seemed that I had qualms about you having the marker, I don't. I've thought about it, and I realize that you had no choice." Jeremiah smiled. "Yes, no choice." Both eyes met yet again, and the corners of their mouths turned upward and smiled, once again professionally and diplomatically. Both figures, despite their expensive suits, were shrouded in secrets which were hidden deceptively by fake pleasantries and gestures of kindness. The two figures separated, smiling -- the morph and the man feeling that they had bested the other. *** Holy Mary State Hospital Jakutsk, Russia Dr. Halina Wrobel was a woman of routine. She did the paper work every Tuesday and Thursday. Paychecks came every second Friday of the month. She alternated between day and night shifts once every four weeks -- working seven half days for every fourteen. Patients had their medications checked every four hours. Check in was at seven o clock precisely, check out, exactly twelve hours later. She closed the final patient folder in front of her, placing the object in the outbox along with the others. Six o clock. One more hour. She turned to survey the street in front of her behind the safety of her office blinds. Three times. Three times a delivery truck had come to the abortion clinic across the street. Three times a soldier had gone out to meet the driver, signing the clipboard then resuming his normal post just inside the main glass doors. Three times boxes and coolers had been carried into the continuously lit clinic. *Four* times yesterday. This was not routine -- not a routine government inspection at all. Government SOP -- Boris Yeltsin and his drinking buddies -- only required that all lights be functional and all floors clean -- colour coordination with the dreary Moscow winter was considered a bureaucratic bonus. She brought a hand absently towards her mouth, wondering if she was being overly paranoid. Wondered if calling the cops would perhaps settle the growing unease in her stomach. The door flew open and a young resident ran in, breathless. "Dr. Wrobel. You have to come down to emergency. We have a big problem -- a company across town..." The resident started leaving, as he quickly as he came, his voice soon fading in face of the escalating din from the hallways. Halina grabbed the lab coat, second hook from the right, and walked professionally towards the uncontrolled commotion in the curtained emergency room. The doctor instantly recoiled. The emergency was overflowing with pustular pimples. Angry, red boils which covered the faces and necks of the miserable populace inside the ER. One child was lying on the floor, still -- shirt and pants off, only a diaper on, but the rest of his body clothed in red, pus-discharging scabs. There were patients groaning in the waiting room chairs, some of the staff had brought out extra wheelchairs, while the conscious were content to share stretchers with three others. The young resident was trying to pull away from one patient who was holding his arm, begging for morphine. Men were seizing, while some of the females were gasping for air. One of the nurses came up, clutched the doctor's arm. "What do you think it is?" Halina shook her head slowly. Examining one of the sprawled unconscious lying on the tiled floor, she took her pen and gingerly poked one of the pustules, coming across a membranous sac enclosing a black, jagged tip. "Oh my God..." She brought the pen closer to her glasses, lifting her head to catch more light from the fixtures above. "These people have been stung by bees." The doctor slowly turned three hundred sixty degrees, hearing the moans, trying to ignore the pleas for help from the children, the women and the men, and the elderly. She glanced at her watch. Six forty five. New shift would be coming in soon. But like everything else this past week, this routine would be broken too. Because no one would be going home tonight. *** United States Federal Agricultural Silo Complex by Worland, Wyoming Mulder blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat up suddenly when he remembered the men in black with their syringes and semi automatics. "Mr. Mulder..." The voice was soothing. "It's okay." Mulder turned his head hastily, trying to absorb his surroundings as quickly as possible, noticing the wide circumference of metal which was surrounding them. "Yes, Mr. Mulder... A silo." "Where's Scully?" The man looked around, momentarily puzzled by the question. "Certainly not here. You'll be happy to know that we're not interested in her... this time. We're interested in you." The man laughed when he caught the glare Mulder had shot back. "Why, Mr. Mulder, I'd consider our interest in you an honour." Mulder absently rubbed his sore arm. "Where's Skinner then?" There was another confused pause. "Skinner. You know, on your side, my boss. Where is he?" "I really don't know, Mr. Mulder. Frankly, I don't really care at the moment. I'm here -- you're here -- to be shown something. Will you go quietly?" Mulder didn't answer. "Is that a yes?" Mulder looked around the silo, aware that he really had no choice. "Yes, I will go. Quietly." The Englishman smiled. "Good." The man rapped his knuckles on the door, Mulder immediately feeling the gun rifle at the small of his back. Corridors followed corridors. One silo after another. A rectangular building. A deck which overlooked a floor below. Mulder grasped the railing and looked down, exhaling at the site that was presented to him. People. Children. Men and women and babies. Commotion. Like a shopping mall. Mingling. No sense of purpose. Talking. Chiding. Arguing. Mulder swallowed, unable to take his eyes off the people standing below him. The talking stopped -- all eyes expectantly on him. The Englishman leaned over. "Tell them to do something." "Wha?..." The Englishman started to grow impatient, gesticulated wildly at the mass of people below them. "Tell them to hop on one foot." "No." The gun went exploring deeper into the small of his back. "Tell them to do it, Mr. Mulder. Do it, or suffer the consequences." Mulder looked at the man uneasily, looked back down towards the people below him. He swallowed, failing to release the lump from his throat -- feigned a sudden need to scratch his arm. "Mr. Mulder, I'm growing impatient. We'll need to get past this stage before we can proceed to the others, before you can be sent home." Home. Mulder nodded his acknowledgement absently. His attention was soon drawn to a blond woman near the front. Faded cotton dress. Mismatched sandals. Sparkling blue eyes that watched him, idolized him. He licked his lips. When the words finally passed through his lips, they came out more like a croak. "Hop... hop on one foot." Mulder would have laughed but the growing uneasiness in his stomach prevented him from doing so. The masses had started to hop, on cue from him. Faces serious, women jumping with babies in their arms, tiny children jumping, men carrying the children who couldn't. The resounding steady thud of longitudinal sound waves hitting steel walls was matched only by the throb of blood rushing past Mulder's auditory nerves. The Englishman yelled to the floor below. "Stop!" The hopping continued. "Stop!" He looked to Mulder. "Say it." Mulder shook his head -- wanting nothing more than to get out. Wanted to run away from wherever they were. Whoever they were. Didn't want to know what it meant. Didn't want to know why everyone below him was still hopping, still looking at him expectantly. The English accent was now punctuated by a more insistent point of the rifle. "Say it, Mr. Mulder. Now." "Stop." The uneasiness was growing exponentially now. The hopping ceased, blue eyes still watching. Hazel eyes still idolizing. Dark browns still watching expectantaly. Warily, he turned towards the Englishman. "What is this supposed to mean?" The man started walking down the metal catwalk, with Mulder reluctantly following. "You, Mulder, and your sister Samantha, have a job with us. This was the Mulder children's born duty. This is the gift that you were chosen to have." Mulder shook his head. "And what gift is that?" "When the bees run their course throughout the world, a new herrenvolk race -- these people -- will populate the Earth. They will need help. They will need direction. And you will provide that." Mulder looked back down at the masses below -- their eyes still intently on his. "And how do I provide that?" "You give them orders, under our command, of course. You're genetically programmed to do so." Mulder spat the words out before he could stop them. "I'm not a fucking mutant." It was his worst fear come true -- genetically altered, genetically manipulated. He and Scully had used those words so sparingly over the past four years. Tooms had been genetically altered. The Flukeman had been genetically altered. A mutant. He rolled the word around in his mind, wondering if Scully would file Fox Mulder between Eugene Victor and Flukey. The Englishman smiled again at the agent's expense. "No... no, Fox. Of course you're not. You've been feeling some nausea lately, haven't you?" Mulder looked down at the metal catwalk -- no longer willing to participate in a game that he did not have the energy to play. The man took the silence as a yes. "That was your gene being expressed. An intron -- a gene between your regular structural genes, Fox. A gene that underwent transcription and translation only in the presence of a complex protein, which of course, was delivered via your water system... at home, and at work." Mulder rubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to ignore the voice coming from... somewhere. "This is your job, Fox. This is your duty." Mulder grabbed the Englishman by his lapels, continuing when the expected gun butt to the head or ribs failed to come. Bitterness was interspersed through words which were forced through clenched teeth. "Then why don't you get Samantha to do it then... that's why you abducted her. Isn't it?" The Englishman shifted uncomfortably underneath the younger man's grip. "You're a smart boy, Fox." Mulder let go of the man's lapels, instinctually retreating three steps. "Don't say that." They were the same words his father had spoken the night his skull had played target practise to Krycek's lead pellet. A thought dawned on Mulder, brought on by the frantic search he and Scully had done some 72 hours later in an abandoned mine. "I was supposed to be taken. Why her and not me?" The man adjusted his collar, started clucking at the wrinkles in his tie, then contented himself in answering Mulder's question. "You were an experiment. Technically, you were conceived by in-vitro with some... alterations made along the way. They tried to make you perfect. And you showed with your sister that you were loving, nurturing -- a perfect candidate to lead the herrenvolk when the time came. You were brilliantly smart, but no one knew what introns did. Still don't really -- at least so the geneticists say. Your father told us about your dark moods. He said that you were prone to angry outbursts, didn't do too well in stressful situations." Mulder closed his eyes. It was the story of his life. He wasn't good enough. He wasn't fast enough. He didn't remember enough. "So you made Sam." The Englishman smiled. "So we made Sam," he agreed. Mulder nodded, felt the beginnings of panic approaching. If Sam was originally chosen, and the Consortium had to *settle* for *him*, then something had gone horribly wrong. "So... so where is she?" The man was curt, the history lesson was over. "She's dying, Fox. She's very sick. If you stay with us... we'll take you to her. If you don't... you will never see her again. You won't even get the luxury of burying her." "Don't make me make a choice." The Englishman laughed, remembering the exact same phrase spoken by the elder Mulder twenty four years previously. "I'm sorry, boy. I guess it runs in the family." He paused, a smile over his own ingeniousness growing suddenly. "I'll give you a bonus, Mr. Mulder. If you choose to serve with us, we'll let five people plus Agent Scully live. They can stay with us in a safe house until the bees finish their work. We'll pass them off as, shall we say, administrative assistants." Mulder became animated, yelling out his expletives, blindly attempting to aim his feet and fists towards the smug face in the gray suit. A hand, a pistol, a sharp pain in his cheekbone, an elbow digging into his fallen body quickly subdued him. The Englishman leaned over, his hot breath raising the hairs on Mulder's neck. "You'll be escorted back to your apartment. You can tell Agent Scully if you want. She probably won't believe you." The Englishman leaned over further and whispered into Mulder's ear. "Just remember, that we're the ones who want you. We *need* you, Fox. Can Agent Scully or the Bureau or your family, for that matter, say the same?" Repeating the events in his apartment, a syringe was produced, the clear sedative catching the bright overhead fluorescent lights above. "You have 48 hours, Fox, to make your decision." A decision. He had to make a decision. Again. Mulder caught one last glimpse of the people below him. Flashed towards the picture of Sam which was kept diligently on the bookshelf. Didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to choose anymore. Wanted nothing, a nether region, an absence of feeling. With the Englishman's imposed time limit echoing through his ears, Mulder willingly accepted the bliss of nothingness when it finally came. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC The Bureau's bull pen had always amazed Scully. Not that it was particularly spectacular looking, comprised mainly of cubicles and glass-enclosed offices. But there was always a buzz around the place -- from nine to five inclusive. Water cooler talk, basically, but Scully would have been lying to herself if she said she didn't miss what little she had briefly been a part of shortly after her residency. The dimly lit basement office and its two occupants were not conducive to a gossip-y kind of atmosphere. From fifteen feet away, she eyed Skinner's office, noting that Kim wasn't at her usual post. "Agent Scully! Agent Scully!" Scully turned somewhat hesitantly to meet the flushed face of Agent Rolston -- yet again. "Agent Rolston." Scully smiled courteously. "I was just on my way with a meeting with Assistant Director Skinner." The agent smiled sheepishly. "Those things are tough, man." He paused and looked back towards the main Bureau entrance. "Do you know where Agent Mulder is? I have... uh, something to give him." Scully nodded her head. "No, I guess that makes two of us. I haven't seen him today either. Do you want me to give him a message?" The man started backing up. "No, that's okay. It was something from Pendrell anyways. He'll probably catch up to him later." The lab tech then turned hastily on his heels and proceeded in the opposite direction. Scully stood in the middle of the bull pen momentarily trying to sort through the conversation that had just occurred, when Skinner's broad chest came into view. "Agent Scully, my office please." The two walked in silence, Skinner leading the way to what eventually would be the cafeteria. Scully reluctantly took the plastic molded chair and sat, arms crossed in front of her lap, mind going full speed behind an impassive mask. "Sir? I thought the meeting was supposed to be in your office." "Less ears here, if you know what I mean." Scully nodded her understanding and waited. "Agent Scully, are you aware of Agent Mulder's whereabouts at the moment?" Scully paused. Wasn't sure if it was yes or no that would protect her partner better. "No?" The response came out as a question, and Scully inwardly berated herself for being so obvious. "You don't know anything?" "I don't know anything." "When was the last time you talked to him?" Scully shook her head slightly, her only outward sign of her displeasure with the current line of questioning. "Pardon me, sir, but what does this have to do with the case Agent Mulder and I are working on?" "I'm sorry?" "The case. I assume this meeting was about the odd nature of the bodies we uncovered." "Of course." Scully took the ball and ran with it. "I was just wondering. Mulder never told me. Did he come to you with the case, or did you assign it to him?" Skinner looked into female agent's eyes, wondering if the question was as innocent as she was posing it to be. "Mulder came to me, said he got it from a reliable source." Scully nodded. "I see." "So, you haven't seen Mulder?" "I haven't seen him." Scully proceeded carefully. "He hasn't picked up the phone either. I think the... *case* has affected him slightly." Skinner nodded, his insides furiously boiling. Fuck. After his little rendezvous with the suits at the high rise, Skinner had put it upon himself to watch Mulder -- had even called his apartment last night, with the planned guise that there was an important protocol meeting for him and Scully first thing in the morning. He had called eleven times, with eleven rings each -- had even tried this morning before Scully had left Quantico. "That's all I was wondering, Agent Scully. It was just a small matter of protocol I had to discuss with him anyways." Scully watched her boss weave his way through the steadily increasing cafeteria crowd. Small matter of protocol, her ass. If her boss had been smart, he would have remembered that it was her, Agent Dana Scully, who had written the last three reports, expenses et al. Scully tightened the blazer around her blouse. Hypotheses were all she had currently. Vague ideas, and charges. And the only two pieces of potentially incriminating, damning evidence were two simple pieces of paper currently enclosed and protected by their makeshift silk home. *** End Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 7/23 Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 8/23 Written by: Maraschino Feedback to: maraschino@ibm.net Disclaimers and red tape in Part One *** I live with it every day Even though we walked away Our yesterday's are on a loop; A marathon of heartbreaking moments I live with it every day For every step I have to pay The only thing that they can't fake: The guilt that sprials in my wake -- Barenaked Ladies "I Live With It Every Day" *** Skyview Apartments New York, New York In the background, if one listened carefully, the tick tock of the wall clock could be heard. The drip of water from the leaky faucet provided a steady, percussion-like accompaniment. The sing song voice of Jane Pauly and Stone Philips provided the background, and the stifled sobs of the women in the bedroom provided the harmony for the elegy that was currently playing. With sombre faces, Janey and co. had announced the somber news. Late breaking footage, exclusively on the Peacock Network, just for you viewers at home flipping between Jimmy Smits and the hockey game. An outbreak they had called it. Small pox -- the dastardly disease -- was back again and wrecking havoc in the east. But don't worry, because nothing like that could ever happen in the States. The pictures of a frenzied Moscow were shown. With the camera shaking, the poor camera man later trampled, the army was out and marching, complete with riot gear, matching shields, and gas canisters. People with angry pustular boils on their face were reaching for help, only to be trampled by the mass of screaming, running, blurred beings. And in the middle of the street, unfazed by the chaos running circles around her, there was an old woman with a slight limp, with salt and pepper hair tied into a bun. The woman would have had to twist her hair, then raise her arms over her head. Then wrap the make shift rope over and over, until an adequate dome was made. The shawl was old. A grey -- once cream -- colored, knitted shawl that had often served as a crying towel, a make shift jacket, a blanket. And the dress. The woman still had the grey dress, although the hem had let out so many years ago, the top two buttons falling off some years later. Her face had been decimated by the disease which was ravaging her body. The hands were marred by arthritis, and the knuckles were painfully swollen, the tips blue from the cold Moscow wind. They clenched the little girl tightly. A little girl with brown hair and an angry red face, whose chest was heaving, whose eyes were clenched tight, and whose fingers were desperately grasping onto the knitted shawl. Milliseconds of footage, and the salad the woman had prepared fell onto the floor. In milliseconds of footage, the woman was no longer in New York, was no longer in the time of automatic transmissions and microwaves, but in Moscow with dusters and uniforms and *him*. In milliseconds of footage, the woman watched her mother pass away, still protectively embracing the stranger of a child who died just shortly before her. The past would not go away. Not ever. Not as long as there were things called dreams, and nightmares, and waking terrors. Not as long as there was a country called Russia. The sobs subsided, turning into sporadic sniffles, and the clock and the water tap resumed their steady beat. A familiar trek to the bathroom was made. A familiar bottle was opened, and the familiar shape of the sleeping aid was felt momentarily in the woman's mouth before the glass was raised and the pill was washed away. Her dreams would be silenced... at least for the night. The TV was unplugged, the anchors' faces disappearing into a black netherworld with a tiny star in the center which seconds later disappeared. Jane and Stone were silenced without so much as a whimper on their part. Russia would be silenced... at least for the night. The covers were once again thrown onto the floor, the rough smell of carpet hitting her nostrils, and the familiar hardness of the floor boards underneath a blessing. The woman sighed, satisfied. She had taken control. Silenced her dreams and Russia. And for tonight, her past could be silenced too. *** Scully looked at the toxicological reports again and sighed. Threw off her glasses and prayed she would be able to find them again in the mass of papers, old textbooks, and current medical journals which littered the coffee table and the floor surrounding it. She debated whether to call Mulder -- to inevitably get his answering machine, or to drive over to his apartment -- to inevitably meet the Mulder block slash wall slash I'm-not-letting-you-in attitude. She glanced up sharply when she heard a key being fumbled and placed in the lock. She cursed when she realized her gun was beside her suit in the bedroom. She contented herself with picking up her pen, with the nonsensical hope that it could perhaps be used as a tool to impale someone with. Scully's face changed soon as she saw the defeated figure -- dropped the pen and ran across the living room to the door. "Mulder." He tried to remove the key from the lock -- was fumbling with it until Scully put her hand over his and removed the keys herself. The hand remained over his, while the other, the one with the keys, snaked behind him to lead him to the couch. Scully looked into his eyes. Glassy. Grabbed his jacket just underneath the collar and started to pull him down. She closed her eyes momentarily when she saw the small red dot right by his shoulder. "Mulder? Mulder... do you know who I am?" He turned around to look at her, wanted to cry when he saw the worried look he had brought to her face yet again. "Scully, I have to make a choice." "Mulder, where have you been? Do you know?" The response was numb, devoid of any emotion. "Wyoming." "Wyoming?" "I have to make a choice." "Mulder, who did this to you?" "I can see Sam." Scully opened her mouth to ask another question, when Mulder's statement made her mouth pause in mid word. "Mu... what?" "They promised me Sam." Scully put a hand on his arm. "But..." "But... she's dying. And... I need to deal... again." Scully looked at him. "With what?" "With me. With my genes and my ability to lead a whole bunch of mindless hybrids as they repopulate the Earth." He laughed, laughed so hard that the tears started to stream down his cheeks. Started to laugh so hard, that he started to choke, and sob, and cry. "I mean, what kind of choice is that, Scully?" He paused to look into her eyes, saw that her eyes were currently examining the two needle punctures on his arm. "What would you do, Scully?" She lowered the sleeve carefully and started to shake her head. "Mulder, it's not..." "Please. Dana. What would you do?" Scully looked into his eyes, saw the haunted look of the not- yet-teenager who had lost his sister, the driven look that had been developed after so many years under a tyrant for a father and boss in ISU. Scully spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully as she spoke. "Well, from what you've said, you have some choices. If you accept their offer, you get to see Sam, and you are assured a position, but the whole world as we know it perishes." When her partner flinched, Scully inwardly scolded herself for using too strong of word. Mulder smiled, the corners of his mouth eventually turning down and his eyes starting to water. "They promised me, Scully. They promised me you and five others." He started to shake his head. "Choose. Pick." A whisper. "I can't. Not anymore." "If you don't accept, the hybrids will perish, and there will be no threat to the world, but you may never see Sam." Mulder started to put a hand to his chest. "It's so close, Scully. I can feel it. I can feel *her*. Don't force me to make this choice." Scully's voice grew deeper. "You have to make this choice. Yourself. You." Mulder looked back at his partner who was now standing up, pacing the room in jerky motions. "It is all about you, isn't it? It's your choice. Yours only. While I get jerked around just because I have the misfortune of being your partner. Well, damn you, Fox William Mulder, because I won't make this choice for you. I won't be a part of it." Scully stopped, walked up to her stupefied partner and pointed her index finger to his chest, spatting. "It's your choice. Your family. So you do it, William." Mulder's head snapped up, and he looked into the haunted eyes of his mother. He looked around to what Scully's apartment used to be and found himself in the summer house of Quanochontaug -- fully dressed in all its throw rugs glory. "It's your choice. Your choice only." The woman continued shrieking, shrinking, until she was a little girl with brown braids and a faded floral print nightgown. "You choose. You only..." Mulder woke up to the insistent gurgling of the fish tank beside him. He ran a hand down his forehead, along his cheek, to the back of his neck, ignoring the protests of his right arm. He looked at his answering machine. Eleven messages. Eleven messages with Scully trying not to sound worried, casually asking him to call her, and berating him for leaving his cell battery to drain. He took the picture from the bookshelf and stared at it, trying to imagine what she looked like now. Twenty three years. He ran a finger down the frame, watching the light from outside the window be reflected back from the tears that fell on the frame. The tears started streaming, the droplets started to form a steady river, and Mulder looked out the window, watching the moon, not knowing that someone else, 1900 miles away was doing the same. *** Along 46th Avenue New York, New York The cabbie's annoyed voice eventually filtered through to Scully's currently occupied mind. "Look, lady, are you going to be able to pay for this? Maybe, like, a down payment would be in order." Scully looked from the parked car to the meter. One hundred and twenty six dollars even. Apparently tailing her boss was an expensive proposition. "Look, lady. If you're waiting to see if he has an affair..." "Look, I can pay, okay?" The cabbie backed off, as Scully watched her boss emerge from his parked car and walk up the steps. She spoke to the driver in front of her, eyes still on the high rise in front of her. "What is this building?" The cabbie shrugged. "I dunno. Some sort of expensive professional firm. Some floors have restricted access they say. I don't now, seems like a club med for a bunch of rich pansies with expensive suits... present company excluded, of course." Scully nodded, having seen all she would be able to see. "Can you take me back to the airport please?" The driver balked. "But you just got here." Scully leaned further back in the cab. "Yes, but I've already found everything I need to." *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York Although slightly jetlagged, the Englishman surveyed the men surrounding him, prepared for the inevitable question and terse answer period that was about to transpire. "The girl?" "No change." "The morphs and Russians?" "They're quiet.. probably royally pissed right now... but quiet." The Englishman clasped his hands together and started rubbing them worriedly. He turned to the woman standing close to the door. "What do you think the Russians will do?" A scowl passed over her face. "How would I know what the Russians are up to? Call my mother?" The heavier set man was about to voice his displeasure when the door knocked, and the very resigned figure of the Assistant Director of the FBI was let in. "Mr. Skinner, back so soon?" "Where's Mulder?" The man paused, signalled for a drink, motioned for Skinner to sit. "Why, isn't Mulder at home? Or at work, perhaps?" "No, I checked." The Englishman's eyebrows raised. "A little protective of our underlings aren't we, Walter? I'd check harder next time. Because although he got a little... *tour* last night, he was escorted safely back home." Skinner raised his head, the only defiant gesture he could muster. "He knows about me. He knows that I work for you." The bourbon arrived, and the man took a drink. "Yes. He did mention that during our conversation. But he has always been suspicious of you, hasn't he, Walter?" When there was no answer the man continued. "You will arrange a meeting with him. I don't care where. But it has to be sometime tomorrow. Six of my armed men will accompany you. Mr. Mulder has been told he has a choice..." "And what is that choice?" "It's not really that important, because he's not really going to get that luxury. It's the illusion that counts, really." Skinner inwardly drew a breath, failing to conceal the frown that passed through the features of his face. The shit-bricked bastards -- manipulating minds which had been tinkered with far too often already. The Englishman read his mind. "Offended are we, Walter?" The man's voice lost it's teasing tone and was replaced by one more threatening, foreboding. "He will state his choice, and then I don't care if you have to persuade, bribe, coerce, or even physically force him into the van you will be driving. You will then transport him to a location which we will call into you." Skinner looked over to the woman with the warning by the door, who merely shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly. Transport? Alternately, why not describe Mulder as livestock being sent to the slaughter house -- different words, same implications. Skinner mustered a weak defense on Mulder's behalf. "I thought you gave him a choice." "We did, and this is ours." "I won't be a party to this anymore." "But you already are." "I can testify." "You're in too deep, and you'll be killed before you even reach the stand." The men surrounding him were like walls, closing in until he could feel his breath rattle in his chest, his blood start to pound in his veins. The man finished the remaining bourbon in one swallow. "Mr. Skinner, Vietnam still burns brightly in many eyes. Plus, I hear your father isn't doing too well." He stopped talking to meet the blazing, offended eyes of the man sitting across from him. "Will you do this, Mr. A. D. Skinner, or do we need to make alternate arrangements?" A harsh whisper came through Skinner's lips. "No. No alternate arrangements need to made." He closed his eyes momentarily, already begging for forgiveness from... his father? Mulder? God? "For God sakes, I'll do it. I'll bring him to you." *** Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Mulder placed the phone back down on the coffee table, hearing the leather groan underneath his weight. Scully would be worried. He had called in sick. Yeah, bad headache, running a fever. Tomorrow? Don't know, we'll see what the Tylenol does. No choice, really. Not like he would have been able to concentrate at work. The last cut out article regarding the lizard baby failed to be appealing. The Gunmen had sent him the newsletter whose distribution he had interrupted, urging him to read it, but instead it sat idly on his coffee table. Expense reports and multicolored folders somehow paled in comparison to making a choice between potentially saving the world or reuniting with a long lost sibling missing for twenty three years now. He realized how the casual observer could easily determine which direction was more *morally* right. But morals had long since been thrown out on the gameboard Mulder was playing on. The world was just... that. A mass of people -- beings -- who cut you off, delivered your pizza late, was the jerk who played the music too loud in the apartment above. Besides Scully and a few others, the human race was a faceless, nameless populace -- figures who Mulder didn't want to know, or who didn't want to know him. Sam... Sam was him. Sam was the part of him that was missing. Sam was the little girl he kept dreaming about. It was for her that he had beat up Charlie McCarthy. He had endured the belt for six years to protect her and her memory. The X-Files had been opened, a promising career in VICAP had been shunned. In essence, she defined him, she made him -- a part of his existence that he could, perhaps, finally hold, grasp in his arms, touch tangibly with fleeting fingers. Mulder methodically started rubbing his forehead with the cool tips of his fingers -- replaying the events in the metal silo. Christ, it was the story of his life; he wasn't even their first choice. Prone to outbursts... How the hell did the silver spooned SOB know? How the hell could his father have known? Half the time he was away on business, the other half was spent nursing his scotch and leather belt. So he *had* beat up Charlie McCarthy on the playground after school, but only after the pig had stolen Sam's lunch money. The belt came out shortly after Mr. Klassen's artificially polite-but-stern phone call home. Doesn't do very well in stressful situations... So he *did* go a little berserk when Sam fell off the swing in the back yard. But, god damn, he had been pushing her, heard her delighted shriek metamorphose into a terrified scream. Watched her fall, head first, her body weight eventually collapsing on top of the triangle the ground, her head, and her shoulder made. He *did* get a little violent when the paramedics tried to put her on a stretcher. Through his tears, though, they looked like cops, and for one brief, alarming second, he thought they were going to take *him* away. Mulder laughed out loud at the irony. *He* thought they would take *him* away. Like he had had a say in the matter. Like he had had a choice. Now he did. The fingers running over his head flattened so that the palm of his hand was pressed against his brow, was trying to ease the headache that was growing. He had to hand it to the old timer's club. They didn't waste punches, sent straight for the gut, knew exactly where his weak spot was. They waggled her in front of him, and *any* deal was automatically enticing. Ah, but he got to pick five people... plus Scully. But was Sam really worth the sacrifice? He had traveled to the Arctic to get answers. But did a single man's quest take precedence over the common good? He had freed a child molester for her. But he had managed to live twenty three years without her... surely he could do it again... Surely... Mulder's hand moved down over his face -- feeling the stubble that was beginning to grow. He *had* lived twenty three years without her. Twenty three years of beatings, which progressed to professional ridicule, which progressed to a basement office with no windows or heat, and the loss of any credibility. Twenty three years with a far fetched hope that she would be found. The phone ringing eventually brought Mulder out of his delirium, and he stared at the black object until the click of the answering machine coming on could be heard. "Mulder, this is Skinner. Pick up the damn phone." Mulder stared at the black receiver, hand still. "Mulder I know you're there. This is about... your deal." Mulder bit his lip, reached for the phone suddenly. "What?" Mulder could hear Skinner's surprised silence, and he waited impatiently for the man to continue. "Your forty eight hours is up. We'll meet at Lincoln's Memorial in two hours, where you will state your... choice." Mulder tried to analyze the voice as it droned. Obviously Walter had one big stick up his ass because he sure sounded nervous. It did little to appease Mulder's mind. "I understand." The phone clicked and Mulder threw the phone across the room, hitting one of the pictures, sending long spidery cracks which originated from the point of impact. So Walter wanted him to make the choice. Zero hour was nearing. Now if he only knew what choice to make. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense -- Conference Room #3 Moscow, Russia Josef Beranek rushed into the conference room, rag over his face, red, chapped cheeks peeking out from underneath the handkerchief. "What the hell is happening out there?" Kabalevsky merely shook his head, prompting the Colonel to continue. "Where the hell did the small pox come from and why the hell is it spreading so quickly?" Kabalevsky rose his hand to quiet the murmurs amongst the other members in the group. "The virus was delivered via courier to Jakutsk, where every employee in the company was infected, where every employee with a family passed it on to the immediate members of their household..." Beranek sputtered. "But the virus has been dormant..." "Yes, it has, Josef. But it's the method of delivery that's important. Apparently bees carried this particularly virulent strain." One of the members sat up straighter, his thoughts churning. "If it's bees then that means..." Kabalevsky nodded impatiently, annoyed at his colleagues and the lack of speed their thoughts progressed at. "Yes, yes. It means the Americans are responsible..." "We should strike back, with the rock in Tunguska." Kabalevsky flashed a look of annoyance at Beranek. "As I was saying, yes, the Americans are responsible for the attack. However, we can not strike back with the rock from Tunguska, as Josef has so kindly pointed out, because someone has hit the Americans already. They think it was us, who were the instigators, so they were merely retaliating." Kabalevsky paused, staring in Beranek's direction. "My, the Americans must have worked really hard to get that package into Russia unnoticed. You'd think that perhaps someone would have picked up on it." Beranek studied the table, face turning red, anger blown fully in the inside. One man started shaking his head. "If we didn't send the rock, then who did? No one has complete access to all our facilities except for us and..." The man trailed off, eyes widening upon realization. Kabalevsky nodded. "Exactly." "So what do we do in response?" Kabalevsky reached opened a folder inside, casually flipped the top papers, pulled out an eight by ten surveillance photo. "I want him. I want him here, as soon as possible. Now." The men regarded the photo, noticed the Washington FBI headquarters in the background, regarded the lanky figure and wondered why Vladimir Kabalevsky -- Consortium head hauncho for over fifteen years now, would want an American. "Who is he?" "Special Agent Fox Mulder." Josef Beranek rolled his eyes. "Isn't this the man who we saved a few months ago?" Kabalevsky smiled. "Astute assessment, Josef. I must say, I'm impressed. Yes, we did save him. And he owes us, and I know exactly what method of payment is desirable." Beranek started shaking his head, along with assorted members around the table. "Vladimir, it's a waste of resources. My contact there says he's been quiet. We shouldn't waste our time dealing with a petty..." Kabalevsky reached for the familiar cigar and lit the end, taking pleasure in watching his comrade sputter. Yet again. "Josef, this Mulder is very valuable. Much more valuable to me and Russia than you could ever be." The man leaned forward and drew his mouth closer to his ear. The room had grown eerily quiet -- the cigar could be heard burning. "So you do your job, Josef, and get me this Mulder, or I'll make sure you get some nice cleaning up duty at the Jukutsk hospital. Small pox could be very messy -- very contagious if it isn't handled carefully. Does that work for you, Colonel Beranek?" Beranek met his superior's stare with a steely gaze of his own. "It works for me, Comrade." *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Scully knocked on the door twice before letting herself in, eyes automatically adjusting to white floor, walls, microscopes, and lab coats. "Agent Scully! This is a surprise." Scully smiled sheepishly, both to Pendrell who was sporting a goofy grin, and to Rolston, whose eyes kept darting between the two. "I hate that we always have to meet like this Pendrell, but I have a favour to ask." The man turned a shade darker than his carrot hair and waved her in closer. "Sure, anything for you... and Agent Mulder, of course." Scully offered a tight lipped smile. "Agent Mulder is on sick leave apparently." Pendrell's eyes widened. His mouth formed a warped grimace, one that was a strange mix of concern, relief, and happiness. "Yeah, I hear the flu's going around right now." A cellular phone ringing had Scully reaching into her pocket, but a nervous, "It's mine" from across the room signalled the incessant ringing was coming from Rolston's pocket. He excused himself and hastily made his exit. Scully offered an amused eyebrow in Pendrell's direction. "A lab assistant with a cellular phone? What exactly do you guys do down here?" Pendrell shrugged. "I don't know. He just got that stupid phone a few days ago. Rings *all* the time. I don't know, you'd think that he's James Bond with the way he carries himself and his phone." Scully smiled, amused -- almost forgetting the documents in her hand. "Anyways," she pulled the two photocopied notes from a manila folder and offered them to Pendrell. The second note was abruptly cut off at the end, the reference to Skinner's secretary cut out by the female agent a mere fifteen minutes ago. Scully pushed a strand of hair behind her hair while gesturing to the two notes with her other hand. "Mulder and I are tracking down a possible informant, and I was just wondering if you could find someone to analyze it, tell them it's for you, not from me. See if they were written by the same person. And call me when you get the results." Pendrell nodded, head bobbing. "Sure. Anything. I'll call you soon as I hear anything." Scully paused. "Oh, I was going to see Mulder tonight, check up on how he was doing, and I can deliver whatever message you had for him." Pendrell pursed his lips, shaking his head. "I never had a message for Mulder." "You sure? Rolston said you did." "Nope. He must have had the wrong guy." Scully paused, wondered if the confusion was really that simple. She gazed back through the slitted blinds covering the window, only to make out Skinner's broad chest moving -- fast. She offered a quick smile to Pendrell and dropped the empty manila folder onto the counter. "Excuse me, Pendrell. I must apologize, but I just forgot that I had an appointment." Scully grabbed onto the doorframe in her exit out, an attempt to turn faster and follow the retreating figure of her boss. Pendrell heard the high heel click eventually fade away, only then allowing the remnants of Scully's perfume to permeate to his nostrils. *** End Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 8/23 Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 9/23 Written by: Maraschino Feedback to: maraschino@ibm.net Disclaimers and red tape in Part One *** Violence cannot build a better society. Disruption and disorder nourish repression, not justice. -- Commission on Civil Disorder *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Cafeteria Washington, DC Rolston looked around the cafeteria, cursing lunch time crowds and the monotony of black and navy suits. He eyed the table to the left -- four men. One casually reading a newspaper, the other nursing a diet cola, the other two conversing quietly. Tailored navy blue suits hid the well built bodies and non-registered semi automatic weapons at their belt. They probably even had the grim-faced badges with the giant blue letters proclaiming FBI. He weaved his way through, took the empty seat, feeling the cool gaze of four pairs of eyes on him. "Mulder's been on sick leave. His partner is suspicious." The newspaper was folded carefully in half. In half again. "So what do you suggest we do?" "Follow her. She's going to go check up on him." The one with the can looked doubtful. "Sick leave?" Rolston shifted uncomfortably. "Mulder's never sick -- well, not voluntarily. If we follow his partner, she'll lead us to him. But, I think she's leaving now, so we have to hurry." Two of the men exchanged glances, and got up suddenly -- followed quickly by the two remaining. "Let's go then." *** Agent Henderson looked up from her Tupperware container to see Agent Rolston leaving with four other agents -- four good looking agents. She sighed, wondering how the lab nerd got so popular all of a sudden. All she did was analyze hand writing... from Agent Pendrell, no less, who also had some secret, covert investigation with one of the other agents. She sighed, taking little consolation in that she was one of the few handwriting analysts. She couldn't even get a date with any of her co-workers. Well, none of the good looking ones. The Mulder disaster of couple years back still had her hesitant about approaching other men. She watched dejectedly as the tiny figure of Rolston left through the glass door with the other agents. She turned back to the cold meatloaf and her Cosmopolitan, toward the plastic molded chairs and cheap metal napkin dispensers, wishing that, just for once, she could be part of the action too. *** Lincoln Memorial Washington, DC "Hybridization allows the detection of DNA sequences similar to that of any cloned gene. These sequences can provide information about the evolutionary relationships between the gene of interest and other genes of the same organism or different organism. They can also allow the biologist to learn about the natural form of the gene, including regulatory sequences and other non coding sequences adjacent to the gene or within it..." Sara Culham closed the biology book with disgust and looked up at old Abe Lincoln. So it was January. So it was twenty degrees outside. She fully believed the cold made her think better, made her synapses fire faster -- much to the ribbing of her friends. Maybe it was the touque, or the ergonomically incorrect bench. She didn't care, as long as it helped her get her degree and away from her parents. She reached into her book bag and grabbed her sandwich, frowning when she saw that the mustard had made the corner of the bread soggy and a puckish yellow. She looked back up into Lincoln's face, wondering if the president could give her tips so that she wouldn't be assassinated in her upcoming midterm. Her gaze went down his chest, to his stomach, to his legs that were stoically planted onto the cement below. She whistled inwardly when she saw the man pacing back and forth. A little haggard -- but slim, dark, and mighty good looking. She contented herself by watching him walk -- her eyebrows furrowing when it looked like he was talking to himself, having a two sided conversation with the smoggy DC air around him. Great, why did all the good looking ones have to have all the weird quirks? *** Mulder paced the sidewalk, reminded himself that the left foot came after the right, the right foot after the left. Reminded himself to take a breath every so often to get rid of the dizziness in his head. He looked at his watch. Two more minutes according to the Indiglo Timex. He tried to convince himself that it really was not that difficult of a decision. That in the two minutes currently passing, Sam was needing him. Sam was dying. Would the guilt in allowing the whole world to perish pale in comparison in knowing that he had turned his back on his sister? Or perhaps, he wondered, whether he should have phrased it the other way around. Mulder wondered if they were lying. Debated whether they weren't. The federal agent continued to pace, one volley for every second left step, one rebuttal for every second right. Two breaths for each pro and con session. One check of the watch for every ten steps. One one eighty degree turn for every ten pavement cracks. Mulder wrapped his arms around himself, panicking briefly when the bulge at his left hip couldn't be felt. Oh yeah, he had left the gun at home. And his badge. No use in pretending everything was normal anymore. *** Sara watched the dark haired man for a couple of seconds more. Ticks, indeed. She absently wondered if even Woody Allen had as many quirks as the man pacing in front of her. She watched another man approach, and frowned. Bald... she could never go for a bald man. Obviously the dark one knew the bald guy because they were now cautiously approaching each other. The bald one was... tense. It was just in the way he was walking -- stiff, reluctant, steps dragging for that extra millisecond longer. Sara's mind ran through her endless video collection. An informant, that's who the haggard dark haired man was. And the bald man was probably some tight ass government official with his ass in a sling needing some information to save his heiny. Sara willed her ears to listen better. This was one show she didn't want to miss. *** Skinner was fully aware of the four men behind him -- somewhere unseen -- carrying semi automatics and an arsenal of drugs if need be. He saw the back of Mulder's figure first, and when the agent turned around, Skinner swore this was not the agent who had burst into his office a few days ago. Yeah fucking right. Think of it more like leading the lamb to the slaughter. Skinner wondered what the deal was this time -- wondered how severe the choice could be that the agent would leave his hair an unruly mess, the stubble a dark patch over the bottom half of the face -- it's colour only matched by the bags under the eyes. If Mulder said "Yes, I accept" what was he accepting? Something with him? Skinner almost snorted -- wondered where the high opinion of himself had come from. Scully? Skinner licked his lips. It was probable. Samantha? Skinner stole a glance at the way Mulder's fingers fidgeted, danced nervously with each other. So much more probable. He turned back towards the federal agent ten feet away and approaching, and watched his nervous breaths turn white amongst the grey of Lincoln's legs. He could almost hear the men in black, wherever they were -- supposedly watching his back -- telling him to hurry up. Every step closer to Mulder, the fine hair on Skinner's back stood up that much higher, his palms sweated that much more, his heart palpitated that much faster. Skinner swallowed -- ancient soldier's instincts telling him things were going to go very, very wrong. *** 46 miles from Ha-noi, Vietnam March 19, 1964 The heat was sweltering. The man looked ten feet ahead of him and swore he could see the ground sweating, the steam leaving from the spores of the plants and dirt. He looked ten yards away, and saw that shapes could disappear and reappear, come from seemingly nowhere, quiver, tease the viewer, and disappear to wherever it was they had come from. The only constant was the bugs. Invariable. Omni-present. Big, fat, honkin' bugs that didn't go away, no matter how much you swatted, or how much paint you put on yourself. He laid, stomach down, machine gun in hand, cradled uncomfortably in his right shoulder blade -- one finger, twitchy, nervous, a quarter of an inch away from the trigger. He felt the familiar trickle roll down his forehead, along the hairline, by his ear, and down his neck. God, it was fucking hot. He wondered if the green and black paint on his face had melted off yet. He looked further down the jungle -- just at the interface where clarity and ambiguity met. He hated the jungle -- hated the foreign noises of animals, hated the canopy of foliage and leaves which blocked out the sun, hated the broad trees which made gunshots and screams echo so that you were forced to hear, remember. He looked over at Pearson. The dumb prick was choosing now to eat. The man looked forward again -- prompted by the almost imperceptible click. It made his groin seize, his finger tense right above the trigger once again, and Pearson trade his water bottle for bullets. It was quiet again, but the man couldn't control his breathing. Couldn't open his mouth because the bugs would fly in, so he breathed noisily through his nostrils instead. Pearson gave him a threatening punch on the arm and the man nodded his understanding. He shivered as he felt the hairs on his back stand up. His heart was pounding at a furious clip, and the man had to remind himself that for every exhalation, there needed to be an inhalation. A wire moved. The men fired. And Private Walter Skinner's world went a hazy shade of orange, till it settled to a nice, comforting shade of grey. *** Lincoln Memorial Washington, DC Sara watched with fascination as the two men approached each other cautiously. She wondered when the dark haired man was going to pass the slip of paper, or cassette tape or manila folder over to the government official. She scanned the cement walkway, eyes pausing when they caught a flash of red standing peering out behind a corner. Another secret agent man. The figure shifted, and the red turned into locks of hair which blew into the figure's face, causing a trench coat-ed hand to bat the hair away annoyingly. Sara's eyebrows raised. A secret agent woman spying on secret government man. Interesting. Sara instantly wished she had her Polaroid -- because there was no way her friends were going to believe this the next time they went out drinking. *** Mulder and Skinner's meeting was highlighted with borders of red as Scully angrily tried to keep her hair at bay. Skinner had gone in a van. Rather, a van had picked him up. Indicating that there was more than one man present... somewhere. She had circled once, parked, saw Skinner walking away, saw no sign of the van again. Mulder looked... looked like shit. Looked like he hadn't slept or eaten or done much of anything for the past couple days. Scully saw Mulder's impassive gaze falter slightly when Skinner spoke to him. She clenched her hands tighter, curiosity rearing its ugly head -- prompting her to go closer, so that she could hear what was being said. Her eyebrows furrowed; she bit her lip. Mulder was becoming agitated, and Skinner was trying to calm him down. But Skinner was nervous too. It was in the way his head kept twisting ever so slightly to the right, as if to sneak a glance at something... someone. Skinner suddenly grabbed Mulder's arm and Scully instinctively grabbed for her gun. A grating noise percolated into her ears, unheard by the men under her previous scrutiny. She squinted, watching the five snow shovellers who were twenty feet away from the far side of Mulder. Snow shovelers shovelling in groups of five. Skinner desperately trying to subdue Mulder. The address Skinner had given them coinciding with Mulder's tailspin. Rolston's clinginess the past few days. Scully felt the uneasiness grow. Too many odd incidents at one time to be deemed coincidence. Only a spark was needed to turn the situation explosive. She undid the safety of her gun, held the familiar weight in her hands, awaiting the eventual detonation with bated breath. *** Sara started to grow uneasy when the five city workers armed with snow shovels *coincidentally* arrived just to the left. It was no longer fascinating. She no longer had the urge to tell her friends. She wasn't sure if she was going to come here studying ever again. Her gaze went to the secret agent woman, to the secret government man, to the informant, to the snow shovellers, then back. Her eyes did a quick once over of the five coverall-ed men. It was something about their uniforms. Something about the abnormal bulge in their stomachs, and in the way they kept darting glances towards the two men. Sara's mittened hands started rubbing together. She was afraid to breathe, in the fear her breath would be seen. She was afraid to move, in the fear of making some noise. She shrank further down the hedge, swearing she would never watch spy movies again, swearing she would never see Ol' Abe, if she could only come out of this one unscathed. *** "Don't look." Rolston heeded the Gigantaur's warning and continued shovelling, albeit sloppily. Inwardly, he huffed, even lab techs weren't forced to shovel snow. James Bond never shovelled snow. He tried to watch the two figures from the corner of his eye, but his eyes soon started to water with the effort. He had never gone out in the field. Had never faced serial murderers, or bank robbers, or terrorists. Instead, he had always taken refuge, comfort, in the monotony of his lab, the daily grind of DNA samples -- the occasional excitement coming when a new microscope was brought in, or a new analyzer was installed. Rolston swallowed. Wasn't sure whether the dry mouth was because he was nervous, or because he couldn't keep anything down today. Following the red head had been easy, no qualms. But soon as the snow shovelling had started, his breaths had come out faster, the beating of his heart had become audible and his hands had started to slide in his gloves as he shovelled. This was wrong. All wrong. Rolston took comfort only in that double oh seven always came out of escapades unscathed. He could only hope he would too. *** Sara started packing her textbook in her bag, trying to stuff, zip, and sling the sack on her back at the same time. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. That was why her heart was pumping, her stomach was threatening to expel what little of the sandwich she had eaten, and her brain was screaming at her to get the fuck out of there. The dark haired man was now shaking his head furiously, pointing his finger at the bald man and yelling with such an intensity that his chest was heaving visibly with the effort. The red head was moving closer, and Sara scanned the area again, watching the snow shovellers watch the exchange intently, noticing another group of suited men approaching from the red head's side. It was almost movie like. It was exactly like the westerns, except with Old Abe's legs as the backdrop, and expensive leather wingtips and trench coats instead of spurs and cowboy hats. The dark haired man stopped yelling and started to turn away when the bald haired man reached into his jacket. This prompted the red haired woman to come out behind her pillar with gun already raised. Sara put her hand over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming -- could hear the air coming out noisily through her partially blocked nostrils. The gun fire was deafening, apparently the two groups of men had joined the fray as well. She could hear a woman's voice yelling "FBI" and more gun fire in the background. Sara moved her hands from her mouth and covered her ears, ignoring the fact her face was now buried in snow. She occupied herself by reciting the Hail Mary a dozen times, not caring that she had turned away from the church ten years ago, not caring that she had turned away as an act of rebellion from her parents. Not caring at all. Just praying that the noise would end, that the men and one woman would disappear, and that she could go home and try to forget. Pretend to forget. *** Rolston heard the gun clatter onto the pavement, felt his body doing likewise. The sky was so... bright. It was fringed by a nice black fuzzy border that turned a shade of orange at the interface. He could feel his heart faltering, could feel the blood dripping from his lips, pooling underneath the exit wound. He saw the angry, looming figure of the bald man approaching. It was the ultimate insult. There was no recognition -- his boss didn't even know who he was. Pendrell's crush came up later, breathless -- ignoring the glare of the bald man. Both were mouthing words to him that echoed through his ears, making them indecipherable. He would have answered if he could, but the blood got in the way, producing a foamy gargle instead. He coughed, remembered vaguely a deal he had made so many years ago, in the Bureau parking lot, in the navy blue Olds. All he wanted to be was famous, accepted -- to get the girl at the end and buy her a martini, shaken, not stirred. The closest he had gotten to a woman was now, when lil' ol' Irish was checking his pulse. "Hey..." He coughed again, pitifully. "That's not the way it's supposed to happen." *** Skinner walked away from the body, rubbing a hand over his mouth. The men were gone. The snow shovellers were gone. Mulder was gone. And there was a heap of shit lying on the pavement in front of him. He studied the face, familiar... vaguely wondered who the man was working for, wondered what ideas prompted the man to do what he did, wondered why Scully was standing there, wondered where the hell Mulder was. The female agent was now doing CPR and Skinner walked towards the bloody body once again, kicking the gun away from the limp hand. The Assistant Director walked away from Agent Rolston's beaten body, disgusted -- wondering where the hell it was these people came from. *** Quonochotaug, Maine August 24, 1972 The sun is setting. It casts a red aura around the sky, an unsettling cast on the water which laps at the coastline. There are two figures sitting in the sand -- their torsos blending into the granular substance which surrounds them. Silhouettes. Children clothed in black, working in front of the fire- red paint of the sun, in front of the water which has been coloured orange. One is kneeling, feeling the gritty coarseness underneath his hands. Piling, shaping, adding twigs to make towers, moats, and castle doors. The other is sitting across from the heaped protruding mass, trying to help the figure across from her, but more often than not, causing some of the towers to fall, or digging the moat too crookedly. The taller of the two reaches over, and places the plastic vessel in the make-shift moat -- ignoring that there is no water, or that the moat is slightly too small for the plastic boat's width. The younger claps eagerly, bobbing up and down on her knees, watching the figure across from her proceed to take a leaf and place it on top of the ship's grooved deck. "Say it, Fox. Say it." The boy smiles -- the rare display of pearls hidden to the watchful eyes in the house above. He is a silhouette -- an artist's handiwork -- except to the figure across from him. Across from the figure whose eyes are bright, whose hands are wringing in anticipation. He takes the three lego men, sits them in the boat, and starts to manually move the vessel around the sandy trench. He looks up once again -- raises an eyebrow to the girl watching the hand on top of the boat expectantly. "The old moon laughed and sang a song. As they rocked in the wooden shoe. And the wind that sped them all night long, ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish that lived in the beautiful sea -- `Now cast your nets wherever you wish -- never afeared are we.'" The story teller pauses; the leaf on the boat is cast into the empty crevice. The smaller framed figure laughs. Claps her hands and starts to blow on the make-shift shoe. She is the wind, after all, and the figure beside her with the coy smile is the singing moon. The red water starts to lick at the appendages jutting just within reach of its mouth. A growing force which is coming closer to the shore -- closer to the innocents who sit underneath the burning sun. The laughing quells. A shadow is cast upon the castle, the waves of dew, and the herring fish. Black upon black. A demon amongst silhouettes. The boy is yanked cruelly by the arm, dragged towards the house that overlooks the burning sky, the orange water, and the roaring waves. "Come here, boy. I told you to be in at seven-o-clock." The silhouette and demon are rapidly disappearing, metamorphosing into human forms underneath the garish light of the patio lanterns. The young girl stands suddenly, stepping on the castle, the moat, the net, and the fishermen three. The boy is still watching her, his brown hair now highlighted, his dirty, sand encrusted hands a contrast to the pale skin. The waves are still licking her feet, running over her ankles, threatening her calves. "Fox!" The boy tries to keep up with the figure, running backwards because of the grip on his arm. His other arm is flailing wildly in a futile attempt to maintain a semblance of balance. "Sam!" The two keep calling each other, beckoning to each other, although the distance between them is rapidly increasing. Soon, he is gone, hidden behind closed doors and sounds that everyone will pretend not to hear. Will admire the patio umbrellas and the glorious texture of the peach cobbler. The girl looks back to the castle, sniffling, tears threatening. The tide has already consumed it alive. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Troy Archer wiped the sweat of his head with the back of his hand -- made sure his other hand was still supporting the frail figure in his arms. He looked down towards the book lying on the floor underneath him. He knew the poem. He had had the book memorized five months after Derlum had arrived. Memorized that it was fifteen paces from his quarters to hers -- twelve if the screaming was really bad. But he had never done a "moon" voice. There was no fox in the poem. And opening the book with its painted drawings had merely produced a double dose of Haldol for the invalid when her clenched fist met the cartilage of the nose above her. He stroked the stringy hair, mumbling his apologies when his fingers would catch occasionally in the brown mass of tangles, sweat, and deep curls. The woman began to stir again and the mantra continued, words absently spilling, rolling out of the man's mouth. Coherent only to the incoherent. Words now known by every member in the infirmary. Words now whispered to make the crying abate, to get the muscles to relax and stop the spasms. "Yes, there's a fox coming... it'll be coming soon... soon... just a little while longer... just hold on... like the book... like the moon... " Starting to shift more, legs starting to kick, arms starting to flail, the woman fought against the strong, interlocked arms that held her. The eyes were shifting, rolling underneath closed eye lids. Teeth were grinding, hands were clenching furiously at the air. The figure sat upright, eyes bolting open, one hand outstretched. The scream was deafening, bringing the medics with multicolored syringes, plunger-happy thumbs resting happily on top. "Fox!" *** Private Airplane En Route to: Moscow, Russia The two figures watched with amusement as the man on the floor continued to shift, move slowly -- as if liquid was slowing down his movements. Smiles were exchanged during the drugged dance, snickers were passed during the sing-song moans. The prone figure's eyes clenched tighter, saline staining the steel floor underneath him. The movements became more agitated -- the one arm clawing at the other, the legs kicking furiously at the air around them. A steel booted heel connected with the flailing figure's abdomen. "Shut your mouth!" It was a nether region. A place where reality and illusion and the past were intermingling. Combining. A bedroom with Apollo posters and school books and baseball bats. A monster screaming in the background -- a storm brewing outside, the thunder is particularly loud tonight. The boy knows that if he shuts his mouth the strap will be put away sooner. If he shuts his mouth maybe he can go to bed. If he shuts his mouth, maybe Sam will sneak some crackers up. If he just shuts his mouth... The figure quieted, whimpering. Curled himself into a fetal position, and clamped his lips down tight, breathing heavily through his nostrils -- the gasps marred by the hiccups which made his entire body shudder. The castle was so far away, and disappearing. Sam was going away too. A black silhouette against a brilliant Maine sunset. "Sam...." The Russian was ready. Grabbed the figure by the arm, and plunged the syringe, ignored the moan by the figure on the floor. The whimpering abated, and the two figures, for the first time on the flight, started to laugh. *** End Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 9/23 Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 10/23 Written by: Maraschino Feedback to: maraschino@ibm.net Disclaimers and red tape in Part One *** Silence is the ultimate weapon of power. -- Charles de Gaulle *** Lincoln Memorial Washington, DC Skinner watched the female's face transform slowly -- pale and shaken from the most recent shoot out, to a livid red when the object of her wrath had died with a final blood crusty sputter. "Come on, Rolston, you ass hole. Rolston, wake up... stay with me... Fuck!" Scully slammed her hands on the snow covered pavement -- turned towards her boss when she realized there was still another outlet for her anger. "What the hell just happened?" Skinner shook his head. "I think you and I both witnessed the same thing, wouldn't you say, Agent Scully?" Scully started shaking her head. Rose up form the dead body to inch her face closer to her boss' -- ignored the steady stream of garlic-smelling vapour meeting her nostrils. "We witnessed the same things, but some of us have connections. Are connected to certain circles and are privy to *certain* information." Silence descended on the two figures. Skinner stared straight ahead, focused on a point just beyond Scully's head. His counterpart focused on the eyes of the man in front of her -- attempted to analyze every facial tick, every side glance, any evidence that the man in front of her was lying. A stalemate. Again. Familiar ground. A repeat of events that had transpired only two years ago, but except for the DAT tape, the object in question was pure, unadulterated knowledge. Scully cocked her head to the side, her blue eyes boring holes into the AD's glasses. "Where is Mulder..." An afterthought: "...sir." "I don't know, Agent Scully." The female agent rubbed her chapped hands over her mouth, couldn't hold back the stinging retort when it came. "You decided to take a walk at Lincoln Park coincidentally at the same time as Mulder and five snowshovellers and four men in black." "May I remind you, so did you, Agent Scully." Skinner watched the agent's cheeks start to grow dark -- wasn't sure if it was from the stress or from the wind that had started to pick up. The next question was posed in a low, guttural growl. "So then where did your snow shovelling friends take my partner?" Confusion etched Skinner's face momentarily, to be replaced by annoyance. To be replaced by a fear that the agent was... somewhere. A weight settling in his groin told him that he had screwed up, and instinct was telling him to cover his ass and get somewhere. Far. And fast. "That wasn't us... them, Agent Scully. I came to warn Agent Mulder. I had heard through unofficial channels, as you call them, that a bounty had been put on Mulder's head. I have no idea where he is at the moment." The AD noticed the look of doubt on Scully's face. A lie was best hidden between two truths, and Mulder was the king piece on a twisted and ever-changing checkerboard. "Can you find out?" There was a bitter laugh. The fire in Scully's blue eyes had been replaced with worry, was the carbon copy of the look the female agent wore when Mulder had gone to the Arctic. "I don't know if I'm privileged to that information, Agent Scully." Scully nodded -- surveyed the park once again. Empty. No snow shovellers. No men in black. Only her, and Skinner, and the carcass in front of them. She looked towards her boss -- tried to study the eyes that refused to meet her gaze. She had respected him. She had admired his courage when he had reopened the X-Files, when he had dealt with the DAT tape and reinstated them. But the man was an enigma. Would pull Mulder's chain, would pull cases back without explanation. Would do things like... *this* -- where her boss' actions over the course of the past couple days defied any semblance of logic. The female agent pushed a lock of hair away from her face, sighing. "Can you at least tell me if the case you *assigned* to Agent Mulder was related to this, or other instances involving... unofficial channels?" Skinner shook his head -- tried to be as ambiguous as possible. "I don't know, perhaps." Skinner watched the female agent clench her jaw. But just as she trying to protect her partner, he was trying to protect someone as well. "Can you find out? Do you know why they would want him?" "Agent Scully, I don't know anything, I was just here to warn Mulder. That's all." Scully opened her mouth to add a retort, but just as soon closed it, twisting it into a tight lipped line, adding to her features newly acquired look of determination. "Fine. I have three hundred bodies from that grave. And I'll find something. I refuse to believe that there is no evidence which cannot indict these people, or you. Or lead to the whereabouts of Agent Mulder." The female agent turned on her heels, footsteps echoing through the stone pillars of Lincoln's legs. Only till the female agent was out of sight, did the Assistant Director of the FBI release a sigh. He reached for the cell phone resignedly, studying the features of the dead body in front of him. The thought that it could easily be him, propelled his fingers to dial. The thought that *they* could waggle his albatross yet again, prompted his vocal chords to work. The thought that he was in a situation that was rapidly starting to spin out of control was soon forgotten as English Accent picked up on the third ring. The cell phone soon disconnected, and Skinner was left alone once again with his thoughts, fully focused on the task at hand: getting the hell out of there, and turning Agent Rolston's murder into suicide. *** Russian Family Planning Center Moscow, Russia The lab techs were working furiously on the third green tank from the right. It was leaking. Morph one thirty one had accidentally hit it with a steel cart and now the polymer glass had a minute crack in it. "It's futile. We need a new tank." A hand reached into the tank and pulled out a membrane enclosed sac. Still pulsating, red fluid still flowing through translucent passages, the sac was thrown into the incinerator. A distinct pop could be heard mere seconds later. With a controlled efficiency, a new tank was assembled and a new fertilized cell was placed carefully in. On the other side, larger tanks were happily bubbling, one hundred and forty nine to be exact. One hundred and forty nine tanks filled with appendaged beings that bore a strong resemblance to those beings who currently walked the Earth. Jeremiah had to smile. So gullible were humans. Their bodies were so delicate, their brains so simple -- a perfect carrier for a more superior being. He looked into the holding room -- watched the four hundred some people mingle absently. Humans were also incredibly stupid. He pulled out a child, handing him a piece of metal, and both walked over to morph one thirty one. "Sir... I didn't mean to hit the tank." The technician looked at the child. Took in his pale, waxy complexion and the stout legs. "The child looks slightly sickly sir." He shifted uncomfortably when met with silence once again. "I'm sorry sir. It won't happen again." Jeremiah smiled. "It won't." A silent message was passed between child and father. The gun was raised and a hot, lead pellet went searing through the morphs neck. The boy looked back up to the taller figure, eyes expectantly waiting. The morph took the gun from the boy's hands, toed the green fluid that was now melting into the floor. Jeremiah smiled. Sickly-looking and all, the boy would do quite nicely. *** Mulder Apartment Alexandria, Virginia The case file had been strewn over the floor. The picture frame across from the couch had been shattered. The phone laid innocently below. But Scully was sitting on the couch -- for the first time really studying the girl in front of her. Her thoughts flashed back to Roche, and of what Mulder had told her had transpired in Canada, and to all the heartache, and silent tears, and body-wracking shudders, and prayed, for her partner's sake, that the little girl in the frame was worth all of it. The gun was still on the coffee table. The holster was still on the gun. Any insight to where the man in question was, was with the man in question. A knock on the door had Scully warily reaching for her hip while cautiously approaching the wooden panel. The woman outside looked confused, then scowled. "Are you a girlfriend?" Scully reached into her pocket. "Federal Agent Dana Scully." The woman squinted and leaned into the badge, studying the writing. "Yeah, well you tell your boyfriend that his rent is due. He's three days late already." Scully nodded. The woman started turning away, varicose veins showing underneath a tattered house coat. "Oh, and you also tell him, any repairs to *anything* have to be run through me." Scully's head tilted; her heart started to flutter. "What do you mean?" The woman sneered. "I mean, if he wants to fix his water filter, he has to get it okayed by me first before calling in the repair guys -- even if he pays in advance." Scully felt her stomach drop -- her innards scream, no, not again. She nodded, whispered, "I'll be sure to tell him." Soon as the woman was gone, Scully made a familiar trek to Mulder's basement -- flashlight and evidence bag in hand -- ignoring the rapidly surfacing, sick feeling of deja vu in the pit of her stomach. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Although she had always flaunted science in her partner's face -- although it was the basis of all her thought processes and opinions, Doctor Special Agent Dana Scully was fully aware that science could be one ambiguous bitch. She looked at Pendrell, trying to feign interest in the equipment that he was showing her -- the equipment that was being used to test Mulder's dialysis filter... yet again. She looked back at the evidence bag on the counter and wondered where he was this time. She doubted he was in New Mexico. The writing analysis had been a match. Surprise, surprise. But there was little Scully could do with it. She highly doubted that Skinner would be shaking in his knees if she presented the evidence to him. Pendrell finally ended his diatribe and handed Scully a half inch report. "It's the best I could do under the time restraints." Scully nodded. Flipping. Frowning. "So what is this?" Pendrell shrugged. "From first glance it looks like a bunch of polypeptide chains. The nitrogen groups, the hydrogen, the carboxyl group, and the 'R' group indicates amino acids, which logically indicates proteins which logically indicates enzymes." "But..." "But these are enzymes we've never seen before. And there's doubt to whether they're enzymes at all. Perhaps it's just nitrogenous junk." Scully sighed to vent her growing frustration. "So why would someone plant it in someone's water?" Pendrell shrugged again. "I dunno. There are no effects in terms of drug effects. There are no obvious side effects with other drugs the person might have been taking." Scully flipped though the papers and tests, eyes focusing on one particular abnormality. "What's this?" Pendrell looked over and started nodding. "That's what I was going to bring up. Nothing spectacular except for this result. It seems that the substance is basically taken up by the cell's nucleus. Every single cell. Not in the cytosol, or cytoplasm... only in the nucleus." Scully studied the report in front of her. Nucleus. The nucleus was the decision making center of every cell. DNA was carried in the nucleus. Shit, at this pace, perhaps she'd find Mulder before her fiftieth birthday. If she was lucky. She shut the folder abruptly and tucked it between her arms. Pendrell shuffled on both feet, and darted his eyes between the back room and the agent in front of him. "Agent Scully, I'm sure you heard of Rolston's suicide..." Scully nodded her head, arms closing tighter around the folder. "... I just wanted to tell you that his funeral is tomorrow. If you were thinking of coming." Scully nodded again. She didn't trust herself to speak -- considering she was the one who shot him. Or so she believed. She still wasn't sure. Pendrell started to absently pick at his lab coat pockets. "He was a really good friend. A really good guy." Scully offered a tight lipped smile -- finding she could no longer nod at the deceased lab partner's sentiments. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Mulder curled himself deeper within himself -- with his left hand reaching for a blanket that was not there. In his world of black he could hear sounds. Water dripping. Old piping. Buzzing, scurrying near him. No voices. No footsteps. He had been having a dream. A horrible dream. Something about Lincoln Memorial and Sam... and he had to choose. Why the hell was it so cold? He felt the condensation that had glued his cheek to the panel underneath him and groaned again. Shit, he was on the floor. Must have been one hell of a nightmare if he fell off the couch in the middle of it. Shit, what time was it, and would Scully be pissed? He slowly opened his eyes, preparing for the onslaught of light from the Virginia sunshine. It was still dark. And damp. The figure bolted upright -- swayed slightly at the bloodspots that were appearing before his eyes. Cement. Dark. Gray. So much like a prison not so long ago. There were voices coming -- words indecipherable because they rebounded off the cement, because they were far away, because they were... wait... wait... The figure started to panic. Russian. He was in God fucking Russia. He bolted to his feet, reaching the nearest wall in two long strides. Fingers out, blindly searching, he groped for any crevice, any crack that could assist in an escape. His hand came into contact with a small, circular opening -- a water pipe dripping parasite-infested water, made black due to the lack of light. The federal agent recoiled in horror as his senses fired simultaneously, causing the flashback to be all that more vivid. All that more real. Oh my God, the worms... Oh my God, Krycek and Trish... Oh my God, Scullywhereareyou... *** The corridor reeked of decades old dirt and decomposition. Of rats and vermin and parasites. Steady footsteps broke the contented silence of rot and decay, and the ruby ring of Colonel Josef Beranek shone like a beacon amongst the darkness that lived there. The ring was being played with -- the implement was being twirled around, rubbed, moved up and down in anticipation of the work out it would inevitably receive. With his red eye, prisoners would beg to be killed. Mistresses would beg for more. When used just right, when hit on the mouth, the blood would come spewing, and for one glorious moment, he would be looked at from below. He would look *down* at them, and for that one fleeting second he could revel in the dilated fear that showed in their eyes. That he had broken them, that they had relinquished their control to him. That he was in charge. Kabalevsky aside, Beranek took great pride that he was the most feared man in Russia. That what he lacked in brains was made up, if not more so, in brawn. He would make his mark. Permanently. He started walking towards cell forty eight. It was time to take charge once again. *** Morgue -- Autopsy Bay #6 Quantico, Virginia Scully looked at the open body in front of her. The constant air of formaldehyde was giving her a headache. The bright lamps which made the body fluid glisten, which made her tools sparkle, were starting to make spots of orange and green appear before her eyes. The scalpels and their steel friends were starting to leave blisters underneath her gloved fingers. Jane Doe was completed autopsy number one hundred and twenty two out of two hundred and four. By now, she was only a small, almost insignificant, mass of darkened bones and decomposed organ and tissue. And there had been nothing. No scars. No tattoos. No chipped teeth. No moles. Nothing. According to the dental records, Jane Doe never existed -- along with the other two hundred and three companions that she had arrived with. Scully felt the onset of desperation seeping in. Mulder was somewhere. On a lesser, but still important note, Skinner was somewhere -- Kim was at a loss as to where he went. And Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully, along with ten other bureau forensic pathologists, was in an autopsy bay fooling around with decomposed corpses. If it hadn't been so disturbing, it would have been fascinating. Lungs were enlarged, muscles would have been clearly defined. Even the children were developmentally superior. From what they could tell, each individual had been in perfect health. And with each passing organ, with each inspection of the teeth -- with each ultimately futile search for a tattoo or mole, Scully's fear that the clues to the chaos were not in the bodies, started to increase exponentially. Dr. Nguyen rushed into the room, causing Scully to jump, momentarily thinking that the body in front of her had come to life. "Dr. Scully, I think I found something." Scully studied the doctor carefully. A small piece of metal enclosed in a plastic evidence bag was being twirled nervously among the doctor's fingers. Scully slowly lowered the scalpel onto the tray, eyes wide. By God, the doctor looked scared. "What is it?" The doctor shifted uncomfortably. "I found this in the stomach of the Jane Doe I was doing. I don't know if you would know anything about or not." Scully cautiously walked towards the doctor, trying to study the elder's facial features. She took off the gloves -- hard, in an attempt to vent her frustration, getting pleasure from the resultant snap of the prophylactic. Her hand extended, reaching for the questionable object in its plastic container. Scully turned the bag over and exhaled. Didn't acknowledge that her stomach had just dropped. Didn't want to acknowledge that her mind was screaming at the implications. Scully's eyes met the doctor's, and Dr. Nguyen offered a shrug. "I highly doubt it's related to you, but I just had to make sure." Scully nodded. Could hear the roaring of her blood pass behind her ears. Dr. Nguyen had become tapestry against the cinder walls -- the object of Scully's exclusive attention was the piece of metal in front of her. She smiled absently at the doctor, wasn't sure if the lips had turned up as she had wanted, or twisted into a grimace. She took a deep breath. Counted to five. Soon adopted the Agent-Scully-unfazed-by- anything facade, realizing that perhaps she was over reacting. Perhaps it was someone else. "I'm sure it's someone else." She grasped the bag tighter, flashed some teeth. "You know, I was just going to go to the lab, I'll take this down to analysis for you." The doctor smiled. "Thanks... I appreciate it." The red head smiled back. She appreciated it too. Scully watched the doctor leave, with every footstep, clamping the pin tighter in her hand, hoping it would dissolve, disintegrate, and that everyone could magically forget. She opened her hand, opened her eyes. It was still there. The naval-issued name pin was still in her hand -- its engraved letters screaming at her, her block lettered family name spelled out patriotically. SCULLY *** End Entropy II: Past Pain, Past Recall -- Part 10/23