From: Jonathan Montgomery Date: Thu, 22 Jul 1999 13:38:10 -0300 (ADT) Subject: xfc Guardian Source: xfc Disclaimer: I don't own X-files or it's characters. Comments: Please do comment (even if you don't like the story). Dana Scully sat in the gloomy darkness of her apartment's living room. Silent strands of moonlight poured in from the balcony, diluted by the artificial flicker of her television set; that black box she always considered a decoration more than anything else, even though she paid for the cable like it was some kind of custom. She rolled her eyes and took a slow sip of wine, smoothing her silky white nightgown over her legs. The shadows of the night made her apartment feel so large--quiet and empty. She grabbed the remote control, searched the vague buttons and turned the television off. The apartment was still. The phone rang. Scully turned and watched it. The little red light flickered on the receiver, and it rang at her--it yipped like Quickwags, the dog whose company she missed. She put her wine down beside the phone and pressed her hand over the receiver. Let it be a male voice, a familiar voice that wanted to speak to her. A voice that wanted to touch her and tell her these silent nights would end. She picked it up, announcing, "Scully." "Scully, it's me. Are you awake?" "Mulder, it's--" Scully looked at the clock. "It's one o'clock in the morning. No, I'm not awake." "Can you take a cold shower and get down here? We've got a new case." "Where are you?" "Six sixty-six at the corner of forth and main. It's right in front of your apartment. You can walk down." "I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Scully put down the receiver, turned for her bedroom, and stopped. She circled back toward the balcony and watched the moonlight there. A tingling sensation crept up her side, but she dismissed it as the wine. He's out there now, watching. Who is out there? An irrational fear waved over her, and she stepped onto the balcony to prove herself wrong. Her bare feet touched the night-chilled concrete and the wind breathed ice-cold air right through her gown. She braced the railing and searched the sparse traffic, the orange-lit sidewalks and the night-cloaked homes when a flash of light snatched her attention, bright and silver like lightning. There he was, standing on a two-story home, looking up at her. Watching her. His strange trench coat billowed in the wind and he brought something to his face. Another flash of light--he was taking a picture. Of her? She waved down to him, lost and half-drunk in the cool night air, and he waved back like they were old friends. While she could not place a name or face or purpose to this man, she knew him on some unearthly level. She felt a cosmic recognition of him, or was it the wine? She breathed in, shivered, and he continued to take her picture. Her mind slipped from her disbelief, her analytical prodding of this bizarre situation, and returned to an undeniable, unworldly knowledge. He was her adversary, an avatar of the other side. He was a general of the enemy army, come to size-up his opponent before the final war began. Scully shook her head, stepped back and dismissed this delirious notion as a side-affect of the calm, tranquil state the wine provided. She slipped back into her apartment and marched to her bedroom. Mulder needed her. * * * Scully frowned at rag-clad men snoring on public benches and protected her stare from Hell's Angels bikers on the prowl. She tightened her grip on the sides of her coat and jogged over the indistinct sidewalk scattered with the remains of beer bottles, silently cursing herself for not driving the three-block walk. She never realized just how different her neighborhood was when the sun went down. Someone stepped onto the sidewalk behind her; there was a shuffle of pebbles, but all she could hear after was the metallic clap of her high-heeled feet. She chanced a look back and saw a trench coat and something wrapped around his neck. Her hand touched the handle of her gun automatically. She bit her lower lip and walked faster--she was jogging, and the noise of her high-heels was shattering the still night, drawing the attention of every hidden monster. Scully snapped her head around, hair whipping the sides of her mouth. He was still there, his gaze averted to the floor, unaware of her growing fear. The street was empty now except for the two of them. She prayed for a car: a headlight, the roar of a horn, the hum of an engine. But there was nothing, so she focused on her breath, breathing in and out. But now she fought hyperventilation--that and her own heart, beating in her ears and warming them. Warming her face, making her sweat, encouraging her to panic and break into a bold sprint. But she didn't. She turned again and there was nothing. There was no man between those blue-black buildings. The punks were gone. It was a residential street, two-story homes with buzzing security systems, and off-white curtains touched by strands of moonlight. Scully continued, ignoring the street signs and following her intuition. She found the crime scene only another block down. Street lamps and police issue flash lights brought her some comfort as she approached Mulder beyond the yellow tape. He was reading a police report, or perhaps a witness statement; he held a large flashlight over a white paper. "I came as soon as I could." She realized her breathing was still erratic. Mulder turned from the paper and annoyed her with the flashlight, insinuating every exasperated breath she took. "Are you all right, Scully?" Scully swallowed and averted her gaze. "I'm tired, Mulder. Now would you tell me what happened here?" She noticed the blood-stained front lawn. Mulder blinked and turned away. "Right. The lawn belongs to a Mrs. Woodworth, who witnessed the crime from her bedroom window. According to her statement," he checked the paper, "two men were fighting with knives right here. They wounded each other, and one got away." "It doesn't sound like much of an X-File." Mulder grinned. She'd asked for it. "Mrs. Woodworth said she saw the first man stab the second man three times in the chest with a carving knife. He didn't even fall down--instead, he returned the attack, stabbing the second man once, and he fell." Mulder referred to the central mess of blood on the otherwise orderly lawn. "The witness is certain the knife went all the way in?" Mulder reviewed the witness report and relayed, "Sure as if I see it in sunlight." The flash of a camera caught Scully off guard. She looked up the street and there he was, holding the camera in his bloody clothing. "Mulder!" "I see him!" An older woman burst forth from the crowd of police officers, pointing. Mrs. Woodworth, Scully presumed. "I see him there, officers!" And the man was running, trench coat billowing, disappearing into the night's shadows. Scully ordered the police unit to send a car to block off the end of forth street and followed Mulder in the pursuit. The man ran in the middle of the street, and the street lights highlighted his maroon-splotched clothing. The knife flashed in his hand as his arms whipped up and down like he was on a fitness machine. Mulder was close, but the man was fast. Too fast. She considered firing her weapon. There was no other way to catch him. The man rounded a corner and by the time Mulder and Scully came around the bend they were staring at the headlights of a squad car, siren blaring. The street was empty. There was no disturbance on the carefully trimmed lawns and their well-placed furniture. Golden light filled the windows of homes where mothers and fathers stared questions at the gathering of law enforcers. The chase was over. Scully cursed. * * * The following evening Scully was walking the city streets outside her apartment, reviewing her thoughts. She stopped at a pedestrian crossing. The man she saw the night before, he was on Mrs. Woodworth's roof. She couldn't believe she didn't realize it before. Mulder had found a DNA match from the blood of the man who escaped them. Vander Isaac, a photographer from Northern Ireland. There was a federal warrant out for his arrest for fifteen murders across the United States. Scully remembered the strange tingle in her side when Mulder showed her Isaac's picture. The short, dark hair and those brooding green eyes--watching her, assessing her. She didn't tell Mulder she had seen him on that roof. It made no sense. How could this man access the roof while a crew of police officers crowded the front lawn? How could this man, this dark and frighteningly familiar man be there to take her picture at the very moment she appeared on her balcony? Scully crossed the street and joined the crowds on the other side. Maybe it was her imagination; it was late, she was drinking; she was tired, and she was longing. She tightened her lips and walked faster. It was more than Isaac's appearance that night which frightened her, it was the way she felt and the way she acted. Aside from a sense of familiarity, she felt a faint attraction to him, as if he was the other side of the same coin. A man in red blocked her path, tiny horns and fangs, yellowish eyes and pure black claws, a limp tail swinging between his legs. With a forward gesture he offered her coupons. She looked at the storefront: "DAIMIAN'S HOUSE OF DEVILTRY, all your needs for satanic practice." Scully watched this man, awe-struck by a barely tangible realization. He turned away to solicit some other customer, but she could not move. She glared at the night-cloaked sidewalk, mouth half-open, and broke away, marching down the sidewalk. Was he a demon? She shook her head. Something she was meant to fight? No! It wouldn't be the first time--she recalled a man with the ability to burn things with his hands, who found his end at a recycling plant. She returned to her apartment, back to sanctuary, away from the world's problems. She stepped out of the elevator, watching carefully, and strolled the empty hall. She searched her purse for the keys and stopped before the door--which was ajar--she stared at it a few moments. There was no sign of forced entry. Did she lock it when she left this morning? Of course she did. There was no sound other than the bee-like hum of the luminescent lights above. She drew her gun and touched the door. It opened slowly to reveal her violated sanctuary. Furniture toppled, drawers pulled out and dumped. She took one hand from her gun and flicked the light switch. Squinting, she moved further, shifted left for the kitchen--empty and orderly, turned right for the bedroom--pillows and blankets stripped from the bed. Damn it. Scully moved in, watching and ready for movement, prepared to pull the trigger. The room was full of the dark-blue light of evening. The blinds must have been opened. She had left them closed. She passed the doorway, flicked the switch, turned right. Left. Nothing. There was a note on the bare white bed. She ran to the other of it. Nothing there. She whipped the closet door open, stood back and aimed. Nothing. Scully breathed in, satisfied, and sat down. She snatched the rogue yellow paper. DANA SCULLY I SEE YOUR AURA. I SEE IT WHEN I LOOK AT YOU. IT EVEN SHOWS UP IN MY PICTURES. IT IS UNIQUE. NOT LIKE THE OTHERS. I WANT TO TOUCH YOU, TO SEE YOU, KNOW YOU, TEST YOU. AND IF YOU ARE THE ONE, THE GUARDIAN, I WILL DESTROY YOU. * * * Scully was getting out of her seat. "I'm going out for lunch, Mulder. Can I get you some coffee first?" "No, thanks." He leaned forward, his gaze locked on the computer screen. Scully stood and found the coffee machine, snatched a plastic cup. She watched the coffee as she poured and secretly listened in on two agents behind her. "He's flat nuts," one was saying. They were talking about a homeless man on the street who was shouting predictions of doom. "So he says 'I am only trying to tell you. Only trying to warn you. You can fight it--the demons, if only you can open your hearts.' And I say my heart's open, now get down from the bus. Not quite like that, though. The guy was ready to crack. I pulled the usual 'it's okay, I believe you, I want to help.'" "Did he come down?" There was a pause. "What'd he say next?" "The usual. God can save you. God is with you. Then he went on about the guardian and the son of God, something like that. Cops got him down after. I got to admit, DC's got the best nutballs--" "Shit," Scully whispered. Carefully she set the pot and cup down and brought her scolded fingers to her lips. Behind her was the screech of swivel chairs--the two agents were watching her. She turned as well, smiled to them almost apologetically, and started walking. She left the coffee, the agents and their ignorance, the office and it's self-opinionated harmony behind. Passing into the next hall she felt a tingling sensation creep up her side. She stopped, watching. There were trench coats everywhere. It was the perfect cover. She continued her walk, gazing from side to side, and the ticklish sensation seemed to guide her. A man stood at the end of the hall, facing the opposite direction. Dark, well-cut hair and, she guessed, smooth and brooding green eyes. Her hand was on her gun, concealed in her coat, and she advanced. Suits marched by, smiling and unaware of Scully's distress. "Sir!" she called. The man stood still, and he did not seem to notice her. She placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him around. Brown eyes and a cocked black eyebrow. It wasn't him. She apologized. "I thought you were someone else." And as she continued down the hall she changed her mind about lunch. She was not hungry--her appetite was gone. It was replaced by a growing anticipation. Her ribs writhed, warning her, screaming 'He is here. He is here.' Scully backed into the wall. Suits marched by, barely noticing her agitation. Those agents were right; DC did have the best nutballs, and she was one of them. She should find a bench and sit down. She should breath slowly. These symptoms could be brought on by work-related stress. Maybe it was a late hangover from last night. She couldn't think of anything to explain what was happening to her, but that didn't stop her from trying. Her cell phone rang, making her jump. Quickly she searched for the phone, wripped it from her pocket and flicked it open. "Scully." "Scully, it's me. I'm in the security office. Vander Isaac is in the building." Scully's eyes opened wide. "We've got him on camera, and he's headed in your direction. Can you see him?" Scully kept the phone to her ear as she searched the crowd, whirling from right to left. She was right--he's here, somewhere, coming for her. How did he get past security? "Scully he's out of camera range. He should be right in front of you." There were secretaries and gray-suited men with sharp spectacles, a tour group full of yipping children. Scully whirled and found herself staring at the same people again. "I--" Her side was in pain, so full of certainty it might as well have spouted a mouth to shout 'Dana, he's right there. Why can't you see him?" "Scully?" Scully turned again, eyes wide and searching. "Scully, security is moving in on your position. Is he there?" A hot hand took her by the shoulder and guided her into the start of another hall. She dropped the cell phone and it clicked across the marble floor. In the dim light of the hallway Scully was cornered by his alluring green eyes. She had a grip on the handle of her gun. She held it tight. She was going to push, shout, and draw her gun. 'Vander Isaac,' she'd say, 'Place your hands against the wall.' Out of the corner of her vision she saw a grin on his face, but her gaze was held in place by those murky green eyes. Whatever else was happening, wherever she was, it all drowned away--vanquished by his imprisoning stare. Her eyelids became heavy and settled half-way. In this drowsy state she could have slid to the ground, but his firm grip held her up. He leaned close and his gaze did not waver. "There is such beauty here," he said, his warm breath massaging her neck. "Such conviction in those eyes. But you must suffer the test. We will converge at Saint Mary's church. There we will gather truth." "Agent Scully?" Scully was sliding down into a seated position. Her vision was blurred. She blinked and shook her head. "What?" Drowsily she pushed herself to her feet. There were seven men standing in front of her. Mulder stepped forward, and offered Scully her phone. "All exits are blocked off, and search teams are scouting the building. They'll find him." "I'm not so sure of that." * * * Scully had told Mulder she'd skip lunch and stay at the office, but it was a lie. She knew he was worried for her safety, and would bottle her up until the situation was resolved. Instead of returning to her desk she had left the building and wandered the street until she came upon St. Mary's Church. She opened the oak doors and passed under the grand stone archway. The stained glass lit the inside in a colorful glow. Except for her own footsteps that rang against the cool floor as she strolled the main aisle, gazing up in wonder, the church was silent. There was no one here; no priest, no contemplators, no one. Scully approached the cross, and watched a tiny red sliver trickle from the top and journey down the hardwood base. More drops followed. She watched in shock as the cross bled. Blood streamed down the wood and poured onto the carpet. She stepped back awkwardly. But it was on her shoes, the path of red progressing past her. She turned back to the entrance. The doors were swung open, letting outdoor light through. She switched back. The cross was clean. There was no sign of blood. She felt the pain in her side. "Welcome." She spun back, and there he was. He was standing right in front of her now, smiling. There was a knife in his hand. Scully went for her gun, almost cursing the amount of time it took to get it out. "Stay where you are!" she shouted. "Put your hands up!" "Won't you hear what I have to say?" "Shut up!" She searched her other pocket with her spare hand. Damn it, where are the handcuffs? Why is her side hurting so much? Still smiling it raised it's hands, green eyes glinting. "I can answer all of your questions," it assured. No handcuffs. Maybe the phone--she could call for backup. "But I only want to talk to you." She looked back up. It was moving forward. "Don't come any closer," she warned sternly. "But I only want to know." It's eyes were on her, those deceitful green eyes that snared her. "I must know if you are the guardian, you see." Scully was fighting, but she was frozen in place. Her finger was still on the trigger as it progressed forward. It reached out with a careful hand, and slid it's smooth pale fingers over her gun. "We are warriors, you and I." It's voice was as sweet as honey. "We have been recruited by different sides to fight in the next holy war, a war that will begin when the Dark Prince returns to the mortal world. I have been searching for so long." Longingly it gazed at Scully. It moved it's hand over hers, lowering the gun, pulling her forward. In a fluid motion it pushed the knife into her stomach. Scully lost her breath as it jammed the knife all the way in. She was in it's arms. She was on the floor, her hand covered in the warmth of her own blood. She choked, gazing up to the heavenly lights, staring at the welcoming arms of eternity. She turned her head, shifted her attention to the world below, and her wound shrank. Deeply she breathed, three solid breathes and she reached for her gun. It lingered over her body, green eyes watching, it's knife glinting in the faint light of the church. "The aura is true," it hissed. "You are the guardian." It lurched forward, but Scully pulled the trigger. She fired once, rising to a crouched position. Two, three shots and it fell back into the first row of seats. Scully stood, ignored the blood on her blouse, and steadied her aim. It was still on the long hardwood seat, blood oozing from it's wounds. Then it twitched, it's eyes opened, and it stood. "Stay where you are!" Scully shouted. It rolled off and scampered toward the right aisle. Scully fired, and her bullet drew sparks from the stone wall. It moved swift as the wind, almost a blur, headed for the side exit. She fired again, inching forward, and missed. It barreled through the wooden door. * * * Scully wasn't in the hospital for more than half of an hour before Mulder showed up. She watched him come around the hospital bed and noticed the sharp creases in his forehead. "Mulder." She smiled faintly. He sat down in the chair beside her. "The doctor said the knife was deflected by a rib. A centimeter higher and it would have penetrated your heart. He said you're recovering quickly." Scully considered what had happened in the church, and concluded that it wasn't just a flesh wound--originally. But that didn't matter right now. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken off like that, and I--I shouldn't have lied to you--" Mulder shook his head. "It's all right. What matters is that you're still with us, Dana." Again Scully smiled. In Mulder's concerned face she found the understanding that accepted little green men and government conspiracies. He knew, while he wouldn't admit it, that she was the center of something extraordinary. * * * That night Scully stepped onto the balcony, bare feet chilled by the cold concrete floor. She braced the railing and gazed over the orange-lit streets and the dark two-story homes. Watching. Waiting.