From: dbutter@telerama.lm.com (Daniel Butter) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: The Immortal Files 4 (1/11) Date: 23 Jun 1996 13:02:49 -0400 This is the fourth story in "The Immortal Files" series. The series is a crossover between X-Files, Highlander, and Star Trek: The Next Generation. This specific story (and most of them) is only an XF/HL cross. A note to all HL fans... the second plot in this story bears an uncanny resemblance to the fourth season finale, "Judgement Day." This story was actually begun in December and finished in January and February, long before "Judgement Day" ever aired. My great and wonderful editor, Amy Knoke, sent me a note to include at the end of this story. So, read that before you flame me. ;-) This is dedicated to Junebug and Amy who always read these things in their rough form, which, I assure you, is unimaginably worse. Without their help, this would be even worse than it already is. Thanks, you two!!! ;-) WARNING WARNING WARNING -- NON-RELATIONSHIPPERS BEWARE!!! M&S LOVE EACH OTHER!!! (in this as well as on TV) :-) Therefore... not for all you nasty non-relationshippers.. ;-) The story "Scully Is... a Highlander" by Paul Wartenberg is now required reading for this series. (Even though he spelled "Kurgan" and "MacLeod" incorrectly... ;-) ) It can be found at the Gossamer archive. *Very* funny, IMNSHO. :-) This series eventually should weave together into an almost contiguous story. Therefore, you *really* should go back and read the first three if you haven't already. (They are available at the Gossamer archive). I *do*, however, include a bunch of flashbacks that just about retell the events of TIF 2 and some of TIF 3. (This is just so I can post a really long story and pretend I actually can write nonrepetitively). I'd rate this PG-13 to R for violence and strong language (though PG-13 is probably more realistic). As always, these characters are not mine. Mulder and Scully and the X-Files characters are owned by Chris Carter. Gregory Widen and Rysher Entertainment own the Highlander characters. Anyone you don't recognize belongs to me. Every other x - dimensional character (where 0 < x < 1) is... Copyright 1996 by Daniel Butter. Part One of Eleven ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Immortal Files 4: Convictions by Daniel Butter (dbutter@telerama.lm.com) "You should not be taking part in this tragedy." -Darius "I was raised a warrior. I choose battles I believe to be just." -Duncan MacLeod "Oh I'm sure. You're quite loyal to your convictions and compatriots. But I wonder what these men think about that. About convictions and compatriotism now." -Darius "He cares about nothing or no one. He is completely evil. If he wins the Prize, mortal men will suffer an eternity of darkness and slavery beneath his boot." -Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez (regarding the Kurgan) evil -- adjective 1. morally bad; wrong; sinful; wicked 2. causing harm or injury conviction -- noun 1. act of proving or declaring guilt 2. firm belief Rocky Mountains Near Butte, Montana April 15, 2009 6:45 A.M. MDT The early morning light broke over the peaks of the high mountains to the east. Without fail he continued his trek up toward the peaks of the Continental Divide. The boy had passed over them, possibly as little as a day before. He would continue to follow his prey. Forever, perhaps, or at least until the sun went nova or he met someone who could take his head. Neither was a very likely occurrence. Ignoring the thirst for both water and food in his stomach, he pushed on. If he did not stop for food, neither could the boy. Neither did he give heed to the pain in his limbs. That, too, could not be allowed to hinder his journey. The boy owed him a head. By mid-day he had reached the high peaks where the Continental Divide began. Staring down at the land below him, he smiled as gusts of wind billowed his black trench coat out behind him. The black served to keep in some of the heat in the cold, high mountains. However, he did not realize this, nor did he care. All he was concerned about was the boy. And he could feel him. Far off, barely in range of his perception. Normally, he would never have been able to sense him. But the lack of life and, thus, of Quickening around him made the one source far off that much brighter and just barely visible. Smiling, he opened his mouth, feeling the gusts of wind course through his lungs. He removed the sword from his coat and lifted it high over his head. Looking down at the snow-covered land he laughed deeply. Focusing the energy, he shouted out over the mountain ranges, his voice carrying unnaturally to the ears of the only substantial living thing in miles. "Run, boy! You cannot escape me! I will have your head!" Interstate 90 East East of Butte, Montana 1:10 P.M. MDT "- still on the lookout for the suspect. Unconfirmed reports reveal that the victim may have been part of a military black operations division. Authorities in Austin are calling the murder a professional hit. The FBI, led by Director Skinner, is conducting a nation-wide drag-" He took his hand off the knob as the soft twangs of country music began to fill the cabin of the lumbering truck. He gripped the wheel with both hands as he sung low and off-key with the song. His singing slowed to a halt when he saw a figure on the side of the road flagging him down. The truck came to a choking halt, the sound of expanding gas hissing from the rear. The driver brushed the Fritos packages and styrofoam coffee cups into the small area behind the two seats and brushed the ashes off the discolored upholstery. He slid over to the passenger seat and opened the door. A boy was standing outside, his face dusted with grime and his clothes shabby and dirty. The blond-haired kid looked about ten years old. "Awful far from home, son." The boy nodded sullenly. "I'm trying to get to Glendive." "That so." The unshaven driver asked, cracking his gum. "I'm trying to get to my mom. She lives there." The boy smiled hopefully. "Running from your dad?" asked the sympathetic driver. The kid nodded sadly. "Well... I'm heading thataway. Hop in." The kid thanked the driver and climbed into the truck. The black clad figure's hard-soled boots clicked along the concrete of the road as he walked along at a steady pace. The boy had gained ground on him. He could no longer feel him, but he knew he was still out there. The boy would not, *could* not, escape him. He would have his revenge. And soon. Rosie's Diner Glendive, Montana 7:57 P.M. MDT It was late in the evening when the lights of Glendive finally appeared on the horizon. As they finally rode into the city, the boy nodded to the driver. "Here's fine. Thanks." The man nodded. "Take care, son." The boy smiled and nodded. "I will." He climbed out of the truck and landed firmly on the ground. The driver tipped his head in farewell. The boy waved as the truck drove off, his youthful smile slowly deteriorating into an evil scowl. "Asshole," Kenny muttered under his breath. He looked back to the cement of the interstate in the distance. *He* was still out there, and he would be coming. And Kenny would sure as hell not be there when he arrived. The truck stop was lit by a few neon signs that hummed pulsatingly above the boy's head -- the only other audible sound besides the crickets chirping continuously all around him. Kenny glanced up at the lights and the filthy building they were situated on with barely-disguised contempt. The place was thoroughly sickening. From what he could see through the dusty, opaque windows, the locals matched the locale. He sighed and pushed the door open, ignoring the blistered white paint that chipped off into his hands. Plastering a sickeningly sweet and naive smile onto his face, he stepped into the dump, letting the door shut behind him. The inside of the diner was an improvement, though not by much. The tiled floor was coated with dirt and the once-white walls and ceilings were now chipped and discolored. The squeaking of the unoiled door hunges announced his arrival to the other patrons of the diner. Tired and unshaven faces glanced up from steaming cups of coffee in surprise at the sight of a ten-year-old boy walking into their company. Kenny glanced around innocently, thinking the whole time what a horrid place he'd landed himself into this time. He turned his eyes to the counter and slowly approached. He gripped a stool, ignoring the way the worn out leather chaffed his hands, and pulled himself up. The countertop, at least, looked somewhat clean. The only dirt was slender patches where arms and elbows had obviously pressed against. A middle-aged woman, grey speckling her raven hair, looked down at him as he pulled himself onto the stool. "Kinda late. Won't your momma be worried?" Kenny lowered his eyes to stare at a particularly gruesome piece of mold. "She died when I was little." The woman's eyes softened as she leaned against the counter. "What about your daddy?" He smiled and looked up at her, conveying boyish hopefulness. "I'm trying to get to his house. He lives in Rapid City. South Dakota," he added like a proud little child. "How'd you get out here?" Kenny frowned and lowered his eyes sadly. "My uncle's been takin' care of me." He leaned forward. "I had to run away," he added conspiratorially. The woman's eyes grew wide. "I see." Kenny could read her like an open book. Visions of CYS and foster care ran through his mind, just as they did hers. "My uncle's pretty important so they'd just send me back to him if you called the government," he said. The woman smiled. "Well, let's see what we can do." "Thanks, Jeff!" she called up to the kind driver as she kept herself wrappe din the warm shawl. He nodded down to her. "'Welcome, Rosie. But just remember -- you owe me a coffee on the house." He grinned and she laughed in reply. "Sure. Thanks again!" He waved to her as he put the truck into gear. He looked at the child next to him. "I'm Jeff. What's your name, son?" The boy smiled up at him. "Kenny. I'm named after my dad." "So you're Kenny Junior?" asked the driver with a grin. Kenny laughed and nodded. "Yeah." He turned to look out the right window. The smile on his face melted into a grimace as he cursed the driver under his breath. "What was that?" asked Jeff, still smiling. Kenny turned back to his left, smile firmly in place. "What? Oh, nothing." He yawned. "I'm gonna take a nap." "Go ahead," said Jeff. "I've had my fill of caffeine so I'll be driving all night." Kenny laughed and thanked the driver yet again for the ride. "Don't mention it," Jeff replied. Kenny closed his eyes but sleep was long in coming. April 16, 2009 1:03 A.M. MDT It was after midnight when the door squeaked again. The patrons, a few still present from when the boy had come in, looked up at a darkly clothed figure standing in the doorway. Rosie had her back to the door as she stretched the muscles in her lower back. She turned around and stopped in her tracks. He was dressed completely in black. Black boots, black jeans, black shirt, and black trench coat. was all that Rosie could think. Ignoring the stares of the patrons, the figure approached the counter, to the very place where Kenny had sat, though he couldn't have known that, could he? Rosie stared openly at him. His hair was raven black, the color hers had been in her youth. So were his eyebrows and the faintest hint of a beard. But his youthful face was ghostly pale, a startling contrast to his clothes. However, his eyes were what locked her gaze. His irises were an incredibly dark brown, almost the same color as the pupils. His gaze was incredibly powerful. She felt like he was peering into her soul when he looked at her. When he spoke, his voice had a deep, breathy, and rumbling quality that did not match his teenage features. "I'm looking for a boy," he said simply. She almost told him to take a look in the mirror. The figure in front of her couldn't be any older than twenty. If she were pressed, she would have guessed 16 or 17. However, he lacked the innocence of someone that age. His piercing, almost malicious, stare was enough to unnerve her. "Then you've come to the wrong place." She tried to say it nonchalantly but her voice cracked. Even had it not been for the self-betrayal he heard in her voice, he would have known she was lying. He smiled. She almost died when the corners of his mouth tipped into an almost feral smile. "Oh, I don't think so." He reached into his coat and, for just a moment, she saw the glint of metal that could have been a knife. But, instead, he produced a picture and dropped it on the table. She made no move to pick it up -- she didn't want to touch anything he had touched. She did, however, look down at it. It was a photograph. Black-and-white and bent around the edges with age. In the picture was the same young boy from earlier that night. The picture looked for all the world like a surveillance photo. The boy was dressed in old-fashioned clothing and was standing on a street corner. From the style of the cars, the era looked to be 1940s. Though, if that were the case, how could it have been Kenny? "I haven't seen him." "Take a closer look," the man said again with his unnerving voice. She made no move to look down but continued staring at him. "I haven't seen him," she repeated. He stared at her and then reached down to pick up the picture with a black-gloved left hand. She hadn't noticed before but, as he reached down, the sleeve of his trench coat pulled back and she saw that the glove ran up well past his wrist. She glanced quickly at his right hand and sat that the pasty white skin was bare. As he placed the photo back into his coat, she caught a glimpse of some sort of seal on the back of the photo. The photo back under his coat, the man leaned toward her over the counter. She suddenly found herself wishing for a wall between them as his eyes locked with hers. "His name is Kenny. He would have been going east. Are you sure you haven't seen him?" His gaze told her that he knew that she had seen him. And that he knew that she knew that he knew. Two men appeared to the dark man's left and right. The one on the right spoke first. "This guy giving you any trouble, Rosie?" She found that she couldn't break her gaze from the dark man's. "No," she replied. "He was just leaving." "Come on, buddy," said the second man as he placed a strong hand on the dark man's shoulder. With quickness Rosie had never seen before, the second man was doubled over and falling to the ground, gripping his stomach where a well-placed punch had rendered him unable to breath. The first man grabbed the dark man and was immediately flung across the room and into the wall. Several more men stood up, ready to join into the fray. "Stop!" yelled Rosie. She stared at the dark man. "Get out." He looked at her and shook his head. "You don't understand what you're dealing with," he stated matter-of-factly before turning and leaving the diner like a dark mist. Glancing around the dusty parking lot, he saw only trucks. Not his preferred means of transportation. He turned away from the diner and began to trek across the dusty gravel. A light abruptly blinded him as he watched a black Ford Taurus pull into the rest stop. The dark man continued walking as he watched the driver step out. He looked to be in his mid- to late- 30's. However, he had a startling amount of grey hair along his temples and in a strip running over the top of his head in a parody of a mohawk. The grey-haired man lifted his keys and held a small piece of black plastic that hung from them. Touching one of the colored buttons, the Taurus chirped in acknowledgment. The driver spared a glance at the dark man before proceeding into the diner for a cup of coffee. The dark man walked several hundred feet down the road before doubling back. The patrons of the diner would no longer be watching him. He stopped at the black car that had just pulled in. Glancing back to the diner he saw that no one was looking toward him. The car had an alarm system, obviously. This would be difficult. Checking once again that no one was watching him, he closed his eyes and firmly placed his feet on the ground. He inhaled deeply and let the air out through his nostrils slowly. He removed the glove from his left hand, sparing only a glimpse down at his wrist in an abnormal bit of melancholy. He extended all his fingers and held his arms out laterally, parallel to the ground. He chanted slowly under his breath, feeling the power begin to churn. He looked for a convenient source, almost giving into temptation to tap on the life energy he could feel within the diner. But it was wrong to tap on a sentient life form, even if it would only weaken them temporarily. Some rules he still followed. Instead, he reached out and found many pitifully small sources. He wouldn't need much energy. Just a little. Gathering what he needed, he held it in check. He sensed the inside of the car and found what he was looking for. He aimed the power and released it toward its destination. Immediately after it accomplished its goal, he swung the energy around and tripped a switch inside the door frame. Silence reigned. He smiled. Two birds with one stone. The alarm was deactivated and the door was unlocked. He reached down and pulled it open. Glancing back at the diner he saw that no one had noticed him yet. He climbed into the car. he thought as he pulled the bottom housing from the steering wheel column and proceeded to hotwire the car. It was exhausting to harness the power too often. The car coughed to life and he pulled it out of the rest stop and down the road. "Hey, buddy, isn't that your car?" The tired, grey-haired men glanced up at the woman whose name tag informed him was Rosie. "Huh?" She pointed over his shoulder and he turned to see the car pull from the parking lot. "Shit!" He slid jumped off the stool and ran out of the diner to watch the red taillights of his car disappear in the distance. He cursed silently, shaking his head in astonishment. What the world was coming to. Standing out in the chilly, night air, he rubbed his arms, wondering at the eerie feeling he was getting from his surroundings. Something was missing, and it wasn't his car. Trying to shake off the effects, he walked back into the diner. He smiled to Rosie. "Got a phone?" he asked her with a sad grin. She nodded and led him into the back room. She pointed to an ancient rotary phone hanging on the wall. "Sorry about your car," she said, truly sympathetic. He smiled in response and thanked her. She nodded and left the room. The man turned back to the phone, cursing under his breath. These things always seemed to happen to him. He picked up the phone with his right hand and dialed the Seattle number with his left. The incessant clicking of what must have been the oldest machine on the face of the Earth made him want to bang his head against the wall in exasperation. He glanced at his tattooed left wrist as the phone finally began to ring. "This is Joe's. Joe Dawson speaking," a tired voice answered. "Dawson, it's me," began Robert Wise. Outside the diner, the silence persisted. Every cricket within a 1500 foot radius was dead. Seven-Eleven Chicago, Illinois 6:37 A.M. CDT Judy rubbed her tired eyes as her shift neared completion. Eleven to seven was a hell of a shift. At least she got to see the sunrise, she thought, though the novelty had worn off weeks ago. The electronic bell over the door resounded painfully in her ears. It was followed almost immediately by the familiar sound of an argument. "-on! You can't possibly think that alien autopsy is valid!" "Listen to me, I'm trying to explain this!" "You've been trying to justify that theory since they first aired it God only knows how long ago!" "*Exactly*! They *want* people to think its fake." "*HA*! So you admit it's fake!" "No! I think they doctored up an actual tape so that-" Their voices died down as they moved down the aisle away from Judy, the man pushing a squeaking buggy. She watched them and smiled. Of course, there was always this. The only highlight of her day. It must have been the hopeless romantic in her acting up again but those two belonged together. She was just waiting for the day when he would come in to buy a pack of condoms, or she a birth control test. She watched them through tired but amused eyes as they moved through the store. Well, actually, she watched the top of his head over the aisle, though she knew the petite, red-haired woman wasn't far behind. They finished as efficiently as ever, arguing over some bit of minutia as they always did. National Enquirer, shows on Fox, that sort of thing. Sometimes it was so sickeningly sweet she wanted to throw up. The other 99% of the time they made her grin from ear to ear like an idiot. "Hey, Judy," they said at the same time as they walked up. She nodded tiredly, the bright smile on her face more from their presence than from any sense of duty to the customer. "Hi, Vic, Dana." Vic handed her the items from their communal buggy as she rang them up. "Hey, Judy, did it come in yet?" Vic asked. She looked at him questioningly before remembering. "Oh yeah, here." She reached behind the counter and pulled out the copy of "The Lone Gunman" that she'd kept squirreled away for him. Vic thanked her as Dana paid for their groceries. With a grin and a wave, they were gone as quickly as they had come. Mulder closed the trunk of the Chevy securely. He walked around to the driver's door and climbed in. Grunting, he reached down, pulled the lever, and shoved the seat back as far as it could go. "Remind me to let you drive *both* ways next time," he said. Scully shook her head, a smile on her face. "You're just angry that I won the argument." "Am not," he repeated, feeling childish. "Are so," she shot back, feeling equally childish. "Am not." "Are so." "Am not." "Are so." "Are so." "Are so," she replied, grinning. "You didn't think I'd actually fall for that, did you?" He shook his head. "You never cease to amaze me, Scully." "Oh, after about a hundred years or so, you'll get used to me, I'm sure," she told him, a smile playing across her face. He glanced over at her, wondering what she meant by that last statement. "Till death do us part, huh, Scully?" She whipped her head around to look at him, genuinely startled. "That's not what I meant and you know it." "I don't know, Scully," he said, shaking his head. "Sure sounded like it to m- OW!" He rubbed his injured shoulder, staring darkly at her. "Gee, Scully, I didn't know you were into s&m." Her jaw dropped open. No way to make a comeback there. He grinned and licked the tip of his finger. He drew a one in the air. "Mulder -- fifty. Scully -- zero." They rode in companionable silence. Mulder brought the Chevy to a halt in front of the tall red-brick building, scraping the tires against the curb as he always somehow managed to do. He popped the trunk as he and Scully stepped out and walked around to the rear of the car. He lifted two of the bags while she got the other two. Scully walked up the stone steps of the apartment building to the porch and dropped the bags to the ground as she fumbled with the lock. Mulder slammed the trunk hatch down and followed her path up the steps, one bag per arm. As he reached the top, she finally managed to get the door unlocked. She pushed it open and walked in with her load of groceries, Mulder following suit. He closed the door behind him with his left foot, sparing only a glance down at the small pile of mail that had arrived. He followed her through the apartment and into the kitchen. He placed the bags down on the counter as she began to stock the refrigerator, pantry, and cupboards. Mulder walked back to the door and picked up the mail pile. "Anything good?" came her voice from the kitchen. Mulder walked in, sorting the mail in his hands. "Bill. Bill. Bill." Those he placed on the counter. "Yours." He handed her the envelope with the formal letterhead of the hospital. "Mine." He flicked the letter from the Lone Gunmen onto the counter. It was probably his check. "Ours." He stared down at the writing on the front of the letter, raising an eyebrow. Scully walked to his side and glanced down at it. "Open it." "Are you sure, Scully?" She looked up at him, curios. "Might be a letter bomb," he told her, straight-faced. She punched his arm lightly and yanked the letter from his hand. "Hey!" came his startled protest as she walked away from him while tearing it open. "It's from Connor," Scully announced. "What's it say?" he asked as he caught up to her in the dining room. He plucked it from her hands as she finished reading it and read it himself. Dear Vic and Dana, I'm heading off to Scotland for awhile. I'm not sure how long I'll be there; I just have to sort some things out right now. The antique store will be temporarily closed so I didn't want you to be startled if you came by. Hope to see you soon. Frederick Reinfeld Mulder smiled and folded the letter in half. He lifted his head from the letter to stare into Scully's luminous blue eyes. His own asked the silent question. She sighed, shaking her head and breaking the contact. "I don't know. Maybe it's what he needs to do." Mulder nodded, the melancholy moment permeating into his soul. MacLeod was still recovering from Rachel's death a few months before. He hoped that the older Immortal would be ok. "So, what's for breakfast?" Scully asked, trying to change the subject to something more comfortable. "Well, there's some leftover Chinese in there," he replied, grinning. At the look she threw him, he became serious. "I was going to make some eggs and bacon. That ok with you?" She sighed, shaking her head. "Really, Mulder. I swear -- if you ever die someday, the autopsy will find your body full of cholesterol. It'll be congealed all around your organs-" "*Scully*! I'm going to eat soon!" She laughed. "Fine, make me some too." He nodded and proceeded into the kitchen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- End Part 1/11 =========================================================================== From: dbutter@telerama.lm.com (Daniel Butter) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: The Immortal Files 4 (2/11) Date: 23 Jun 1996 13:04:06 -0400 Here is Part Two of "The Immortal Files 4: Convictions." Info & Disclaimer in Part One. Part Two of Eleven ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Seattle-Tacoma International Airport Seattle, Washington 5:03 A.M. PDT Wise stepped out of the airport, rubbing his empty hands against his pants. He'd left his suitcase back in the car. God knew where it was right now. He coughed into his right fist at the stench of carbon monoxide that obscured any scent of salty air washing in from the sea. He'd called as soon as he'd gotten in so it presumably wouldn't take long. Indeed, he waited only a minute before a dark car with tinted windows pulled up before him. The rear right door clicked as it was unlocked. He reached down and pulled the handle and slid in fluidly. "Let's go," said the voice next to him. Wise smiled at the man. "How are you, sir?" He wasn't sure if they needed to remain formal while the driver was there, so he just played it safe. After all, high-rankers didn't usually hang out with their underlings. Joe Dawson nodded, silently communicating that they should watch themselves before the driver. If the others knew of his friendship with Wise, they might decline his request to act as counsel. "I'm doing well, Mr. Wise. And you?" "Fine." Wise watched in silence as the scenery rolled by outside the tinted windows of the car. He glanced over at Dawson as the other man absentmindedly rubbed his leg, his cane in the other hand. It never ceased to amaze him how the most horrible things seemed to happen to the best people. 15 Mercer Avenue Seattle, Washington 5:34 A.M. PDT The car finally stopped in front of a tall office building. The driver exited the vehicle and opened the door for Dawson. Wise took the signal and opened his door. He slammed it and stepped out onto the sidewalk. They'd traveled deep into downtown Seattle. The building, looming like a dark shadow above him, looked relatively new. Wise thought with a grin. Dawson joined him as the driver got back into the car. "Where's he going?" asked Wise. Dawson glanced back at the car as it pulled away. "This is for high- rankers only." Wise grinned. "So who am I?" His voice devoid of any emotion except sympathy, Dawson replied, "The accused." Apartment of Victor Robbins and Dana Coury Outside Chicago, Illinois 7:35 A.M. CDT As the dishwasher hummed its monotonous cycle in the background, Mulder yanked the newspaper and the April issue of "The Lone Gunman" from the grocery bag. Handing the paper to Scully, he followed her into the living room. She took her usual place on the couch and he his in the chair next to the radiator. Sipping from the cup of coffee he'd brought in with him, he skimmed the table of contents. He smiled and flipped to page 28. The Alien Cover-up: From Roswell to Today by Victor Robbins Since the famous 1947 crash in Roswell, New Mexico, our government, like the governments of all the major powers, has been in nearly constant contact with an alien civilization light years away. With the advent of nuclear technology, the leaders of this global "shadow government" Mulder finished the magazine and handed it to Scully, taking the finished first section from her grasp. She glanced down at the magazine and then back up at Mulder. He stared back at her. "What?" She averted her gaze back to the paper. "Nothing." He sighed. "You still think it's a bad idea." Her head jerked up to lock gazes with him. "Mulder, if anyone found out-" "Scully, nobody's going to know. The Lone Gunmen don't even know for God's sake! If *they* don't know who I am, then it's virtually impossible anyone else does either." "Yeah," she said, shaking her head in resignation. "You keep saying that. I'm just not too sure." "Paranoid, Scully?" he asked, smirking at her. She looked at him doubtfully, then abruptly threw the magazine at him, a smile breaking across her face. The magazine smacked Mulder in the forehead causing him to yelp a word Scully's mother would have washed his mouth out with soap for. He rubbed his sore forehead and stared at the smiling Scully. He smiled back and threw the first section of the newspaper at her. She giggled and retaliated with the rest. 15 Mercer Avenue Seattle, Washington 5:40 A.M. PDT Wise fidgeted in his seat as the tribunal watched him from their seats behind the long, polished wooden table. There were ten of them including Dawson, who was the only one who showing any sympathy. They must have assembled as soon as Dawson had gotten him the plane ticket. He felt deep down that most of them, if not all, were at least sympathetic, if not out- right allies. The serious and accusing stares were only for show... he hoped. One of them in the middle rapped a gavel against a small wooden square. He opened his mouth to speak. "... in order to review the actions of the Watcher Robert Wise during the month of October, 2008." Wise glanced over at Dawson, whose sympathetic look had been suplanted by one of guilt. Dawson hadn't told him what was up, just that he needed to speak with him, in person, ASAP. Now it looked like it hadn't been Dawson's decision for the perpetual silence in the car ride. "Mr. Wise, do you deny that you acted against standard policy regarding contact with Immortals and the necessary secrecy of our organization?" Wise swallowed and shook his head. "No, but I believe I was justified in my actions." The same man, the only one on the entire tribunal who apparently wasn't mute, continued. "The justification of your infractions is very important to us, Mr. Wise." whined a childlike voice in Wise's mind. He could guess what was next. "That is why we shall review each infraction thoroughly." Apartment of Victor Robbins and Dana Coury Outside Chicago, Illinois 7:42 A.M. CDT "Stop it!" he shouted out through uncontrollable giggles. Scully ignored his pleading tone as she continued to tickle him mercilessly. He writhed on the floor, completely powerless to fight against her onslaught. "This is for knocking the coffee onto the rug!" she said through her own spasms of laughter. Mulder thought back between spasms to how he'd managed to knock his coffee over during their newspaper fight. He was pretty sure it was the sports section or maybe the comics. Seizing the remaining shreds of his will power, he grabbed one of her arms and rolled away from her. She screeched in surprise as she fell onto him. He grabbed her and rolled over on top of her, bracing her legs down with his and holding her arms out to the sides with his hands. He grinned triumphantly, his face mere inches from hers. The grin promptly faded when his eyes locked with hers. Scully thought as she stared up at Mulder, the grins fading from both of their faces. She was aware of nothing except him. She could practically hear his pulse pounding in her ears. She could *feel* it. He wanted to kiss her. More than anything else in the world. More than breathing, he wanted to touch her lips with his. He'd sell his soul for just one bite of the apple. Even the most fleeting of contact would be worth it. she thought, unable to decide if that was a good thing or not. He lowered his head ever so slightly. He was going to. He'd found the courage that had eluded him for over fifteen years. she thought, realizing what she wanted. And the phone rang. Mulder avoided her gaze as he got up from atop her and walked into the kitchen, fighting the urge to run as fast as he could away from there. What the *hell* had he been thinking?! He exhaled suddenly as he rounded the corner and left her line of sight. He wiped at his forehead with his arm as he picked up the phone with his other hand. He cleared his hoarse voice. "Hello?" "Hey, Vic, it's Bill." Mulder sighed in relief. "Yeah, Bill, what do you need?" "My son broke his arm. I'm at the hospital. Could you take over my morning lesson?" Mulder grinned at the voice. "Yeah, sure." "Thanks, Vic." "That's fine, you're welcome, Bill. Tell your son hi for me. Bye." Mulder hung the phone up and turned, finding himself standing face to face, or perhaps chin to forehead, with Scully. "What is it?" she asked, her own voice sounding a little throaty. "Bill's son's in the hospital." "Is he ok?" Scully asked, suddenly worried. Mulder nodded. "Broken arm. He needs me to take his morning class at the university." He grinned at Scully. "Looks like you miss yet another chance to lose to me," he said, referring to their morning ritual of sword sparring. Scully smiled as they fell back into their comfortable banter. This territory was much more comfortable. "Oh sure, Mulder. Just keep telling yourself that and you might just win someday." For a second, they both were thinking of the same thing, but not what the exchange had originally been intended to mean. Breaking the tension, Scully glanced at the clock. "Well, I have to get going soon anyway." "Do you want the car?" She shook her head. "No, just drop me off. I'll get a taxi if I need one." Mulder nodded and walked over to the closet. He handed her her coat as he slipped into his. "Well, let's go." She nodded and followed him out, both of them forgetting about the mess left in the living room. 15 Mercer Avenue Seattle, Washington 5:45 A.M. PDT Dawson spoke up suddenly. "With the nature of these offenses, would it not be better to give Mr. Wise a day or two to prepare a defense?" He crossed his fingers, hoping for the best. The leader of the tribunal glanced at the other members, who all nodded their assent. He cleared his throat and turned to stare at Wise. "You will be given one day to review your infractions. We will reconvene tomorrow." He pounded the gavel again and the rest of the tribunal stood to leave. Wise found himself standing alone with the seated Dawson. He turned to stare at him, not bothering to shade the fury in his eyes. The older Watcher saw the look in his young friend's eyes and winced. Dawson shook his head. "I know what you're think-" "No, you don't," said Wise icily as he gestured with his hand. "I thought we were friends, Dawson. What the hell is this?" Running a hand through his grey hair, Dawson replied, "You broke the regs and you have to be held accountable." "Oh!" replied Wise, feigning realization as he spread his arms out and walked around the room. "I see!" He inclined his head toward the ceiling. "I am a sinner, Lord! Forgive me!" Dawson gripped his cane in frustration as he watched Wise move around the room. Wise stopped and turned to Dawson. "Of course, I forgot. Here he is. The perfect messenger of the Lord himself! The great man who hath never sinned! The angel Dawson!" He laid his hands flat on the table as he leaned forward to stare into Dawson's eyes. "For *he* surely has never done such a dastardly deed as to help out a friend." Dawson stood slowly, using his cane to keep his balance. "You know that's not true." "Of *course* I do, Joe! So what the hell is all *this*?!" he yelled as he pointed around the empty room. "The goddamned Inquisition! You could've at least *warned* me before we got here!" "I was ordered not to," Dawson replied simply. Wise laughed hollowly as he sat down in the chair. "So now what, huh?" Dawson walked over to stand in front of Wise, his cane clicking the whole way. "Now you shut the hell up and listen to me. You should have had the sense to not include everything in your quarterly report. But you didn't." Wise stared at Dawson incredulously. "You telling me I should've *lied*?" Dawson nodded. "Yeah. Because just about everyone here deep down inside agrees with what you did. But the official line is *no interference* and we have to follow it... officially. But what's important now is that we've got two days to prepare a defense. Let's use them." Interstate 94 East East of Bismarck, North Dakota 8:00 A.M. CDT The black car kicked up clouds of dust as it shot through the speed trap. Lt. Chapman washed down the rest of the jelly donut with the few remaining lukewarm drops of wretched coffee as he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and pulled out onto the highway in pursuit. Nobody did 90 in his county. The high-pitched whine of a police siren alerted him before he could see the car through the dust his "borrowed" vehicle was kicking up. But after a few seconds, the light from the red and blue rotating lamps cut through the haze. Ignoring the unspoken command to pull over, he pressed down on the pedal harder. thought Chapman as he took the police car to 100. He grabbed the radio and flipped it on. "This is unit 21. I'm in pursuit of a black car, heading east on 94. Can't make out the model or the license just yet." "Acknowledged, unit 21. There are no other units in the vicinity. Can you handle this one solo?" "Sure, roger that." Another thought occurred to him. "And Susie?" "Yeah, Jim?" "You still able to baby-sit my daughter tonight?" A laugh echoed through the speaker. "Sure, Jim." "Thanks, Susie. Unit 21 out." He shoved the handset back into its holster on the side of the radio unit. The police car was faster than it looked. He glanced at the speedometer and saw that he was up to 120. The vehicle wouldn't go any faster. And the cop was closing quickly. thought Chapman as he broke 130. With a grin of delight, he watched the other car gradually slow as both cars pulled over to the side of the road. "This is Unit 21 again, Dispatch. The car's a black late-model Ford Taurus. License number is 101-3CCX." "Acknowledged, Unit 21. Be careful, Jim." "As always, Susie," he replied as he turned off the radio. He checked the load on his gun as he stepped from the car. He flicked off the safety as he aimed it at the head he could see through the glass. "Get out of the car now! Slowly!" He toyed with the idea of starting the car up and stamping down on the gas, but a gunshot wound to the head would be a hell of an inconvenience. Kenny was still out there. Every moment he wasted, the boy got farther and farther away. Sighing, the dark man unlocked the door to the car and stepped out. "Slowly!" came the officer's voice again. Chapman watched the man step from the car. Immediately, he was startled by the obvious monochromatic theme in regards to clothing as well as the car. What startled him the most was the ghostly pale skin. "Put your hands on the roof of the car. Now!" The man slowly complied, allowing the approaching Chapman a glance at the gloved left hand. Now that he was close, Chapman could see that his opponent was only a teenager. A boy between 17 and 20 by the looks of him. Chapman kept the gun pointed at the back of the boy's head as he approached him. Placing the muzzle of the gun to the boy's back he pulled his handcuffs from his belt and reached for the man's left hand first. The dark man jerked around, knocking the cop's gun hand off with his left arm. A gunshot rang out but the bullet cut through the glass of the left rear passenger window. The dark man jumped and twirled in mid-air, slamming a leg into the cop's chest. Chapman grunted in pain and fell back onto the cold blacktop as the boy advanced on him. He yanked the gun back up to train it on the advancing figure. "Stop right there." The boy ignored him and continued to advance. Chapman fired. The dark man gasped at the sudden pain of lead cutting through his insides, falling backward against the side of the black car, using it for support. Chapman carefully stood, keeping the gun trained on the boy as he approached him. he thought as he closed the distance. the dark man pleaded as the beginnings of pain flickered through his chest. He was usually able to control the healing process, to prevent it until a fight was over. Apparently the bullets had caused too much local damage to be put off. A pain surged through his chest as he lurched around, arching his back against the side of the black car. He screamed at the top of his lungs but couldn't hear it through the red haze of pain. Chapman watched open-mouthed as the boy writhed in agony against the car. He saw a glint of metal within the coat before his attention was riveted by the bloody holes in the black shirt. They seemed to be giving off an unearthly red hue. He jumped back as tiny red sparks surged over them as they stopped bleeding. The dark man felt the pain begin to ebb away and moved into action. He kicked out at the gun hand of the officer again and was rewarded when the gun went flying. He used his other leg to sweep the cop's legs out from under him. He jumped to his feet as the cop rolled over to get up. A quick, well-placed kick to the face ended the fight. Birch Memorial Hospital Chicago, Illinois 8:12 A.M. CDT Mulder brought the car to a halt in the parking lot in front of the main building. Scully smiled at him. "See you, Mulder." She paused, as if trying to find the courage to say something, before she turned her head abruptly and got out. He watched her go in, noticing that she threw a glance back to the car as she walked into the hospital. Sighing, he pulled the car away from the hospital and back onto the road. Scully walked into her office and smiled at the receptionist. "Morning, Debbie." Debbie glanced up from the magazine she'd been reading. "Morning, Dr. Coury." Scully walked into her office, closing the door behind her. She slid off her trench coat, not noticing the extra weight that had become familiar over the years. The office was of medium size, though luck had provided her a large picture window behind her desk. Sitting down at the desk she switched on her computer and quickly scrolled through her daily appointments. A glance at the clock stopped her. She touched the intercom by the phone. "Yes, Dr. Coury?" "When Mrs. Walker gets here for her 10:30, just send her in." "Yes, Dr. Coury." University of Chicago Chicago, Illinois 9:25 A.M. CDT The student body in the lecture hall silenced abruptly as Mulder walked into the room. Mulder looked at the massed group as he continued to walk across the floor, his clicking shoes the only sound in the room. He dropped the books down at the desk and faced the group. "Dr. Eisenberg couldn't make it today," he said by way of explanation. One of the students raised his hand. Mulder nodded to him. The student cleared his throat as he felt all the eyes in the room on him including those of Dr. Robbins. "So what are we doing today, Dr. Robbins?" He hoped the question was neutral enough. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as Mulder's mouth curved into a smile. Reaching into his bag he produced a bundle of papers. "Might you be referring to your Freudian analysis tests?" A collective groan erupted from the body as Mulder passed the tests out. He checked his watch against the clock. "You have fifty minutes. Start now." He clicked the timer into motion as he sat down to a second pile of tests. He and Bill had always had a little competition running regarding whose class was farther ahead. Mulder's class had already taken the Freud test. Now he had to correct them. he thought with a sigh as he picked up his red pen. 10:17 A.M. CDT Mulder collected the last of the tests and placed them in a manila folder for Bill. He picked up his briefcase and walked out of the room and down the hall through the milling students moving between classes. "Dr. Robbins?" came a voice over the loud bustle. "Dr. Robbins!" he voice repeated, straining to be heard. Mulder turned around and saw a student making his way through the crowd. Rick Peters. Good student. Worked hard. Outgoing. All around good kid. "Yeah, Rick, what is it?" he asked with a smile though he already had a suspicion. Rick grinned. "You have our tests checked yet?" Mulder's smile transformed into an evil grin. "Yes." "So..." "So what?" "What did I get?" "You'll find out at 2:20 just like everyone else." Rick sighed theatrically before rejoining the mob moving through the halls. Mulder continued on his way. He turned right and walked through the open door to the section of teacher offices. Finding the door marked "Psychology", he pushed it open and walked inside. Bill Eisenberg was what Scully would -- and did -- call a pack rat. Though Mulder's half of the office tended to be disorganized and just a little messy, Bill's tended towards "federal disaster area" status. Sometimes Mulder wondered if the guy even had a desk somewhere under the mountain of white paper, paper cups, taco wrappers, CD's, and computer disks. Scully, of course, always made remarks about Mulder's organizational abilities when they had worked on the X-Files and now Mulder knew how she had felt all those years ago. Stepping over a particularly misplaced, empty pizza box, Mulder made his way to the back half of the room and his desk. All things considered, Bill was a genius when it came to psychology. He could read people like a book, often spooking Spooky Mulder himself. Spookier Eisenberg, the psychologist. Bill had always had that little edge that would have ticked Mulder off in his younger and more egotistical days. He switched on the computer and proceeded to alphabetize the tests by last name as it booted. Quickly jumping into the grade spreadsheet, he typed in the grades on the tests. It was a nice bell curve, slightly pushed up with the majority of grades in the B range. That task done, he yanked out his lesson planner from his briefcase and began to review the material for his next class. Interstate 94 East East of Alexandria, Minnesota 10:24 A.M. CDT He glanced out the window of the truck as it lumbered along. *He* was still out there. The "dark man" as Kenny had come to think of him. Kenny glanced over his shoulder at the driver, whose eyes were heavy without sleep. A scintilla of gratitude sprung up within him; it was quickly smashed. The Immortal turned his head back to stair out the window. He'd first run into the dark man in Los Angeles a few weeks before, after he'd beheaded Satsburg. He'd been in a relatively bad section of LA when he felt it -- this 'buzz' he would never forget. It should have told him to pass up on the guy. That *this* one was different. Someway. Somehow. But he'd ignored his nearly 830 year old instincts and had been about to begin the whole "lost boy, help me" routine when something had flickered in the eyes of the pale Immortal dressed in black. It was recognition, shortly replaced by fury. When he'd seen the glint of steel, he fled. He couldn't remember ever running into the man before. He wouldn't have forgotten either; the guy was too damn spooky. This guy, however, obviously knew *him*. Kenny had gotten on Interstate 15 North and kept going. By the time he'd stopped running he was in Montana, a distance probably more than 1000 miles. It was only then that he felt even remotely safe. And things had gotten back to something approaching normal. He'd been scoping out a new target when he'd felt that 'buzz' again, the one that he would never forget. So alien to anything he'd ever felt before. And there was that same pale man. Coming toward him, sword drawn. So, again, he'd run. This time he'd avoided the main roads and winded an untrackable path through the Rockies. But the guy had stayed with him, tracking him all the way, getting closer all the way. When he'd heard the unnaturally echoing voice of the dark figure on the edge of the mountain, he'd known he couldn't keep going like he had been. He had to get far away fast. No doubling around or any of the tricks he'd learned in his many centuries of living would suffice. The only way he'd be able to lose the guy would be to get the hell out of his range. After all, everything had to have a range. Didn't it? His plan wa simple: to get as far east as possible. Maybe he could even pick up some cash along the way and hop a flight across the Atlantic. Now, in a truck, lumbering along a highway 20 miles past the middle of nowhere, he began to wonder if that plan would be able to save him. Couldn't there be some other option? Some other avenue he could try? Kenny gave himself a good mental shake. Plans were for later. Now was a time to run. Birch Memorial Hospital Chicago, Illinois 10:39 A.M. CDT On the screen, the multi-colored Picasso-like blob moved slightly, a little arm waving as if it knew there were people watching. Tim grinned like a fool as he held his wife's hand. Carie smiled up at him as she rubbed the side of her large belly. "She's beautiful." Tim nodded absentmindedly as he watched his unborn daughter move around slowly in his wife's womb. He glanced up at Dr. Coury and did a double-take. She was watching the screen as well and looked on the verge of tears. "Dr. Coury?" he asked, a little startled. Scully jerked out of her fantasy about a little dark-haired, hazel- eyed baby of her own and smiled at Carie and Tim. "She'll be coming in about a month or so. I'd like you back in for a routine checkup in two weeks. How's the first of May?" Tim nodded absentmindedly. "That'll be fine." The look he'd thought he'd seen had disappeared, as if she'd swept it back behind a well-used door and locked it shut. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- End Part 2/11 =========================================================================== From: dbutter@telerama.lm.com (Daniel Butter) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: The Immortal Files 4 (3/11) Date: 23 Jun 1996 13:05:17 -0400 Here is Part Three of "The Immortal Files 4: Convictions." Info & Disclaimer in Part One. Part Three of Eleven ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Interstate 94 East East of Bismarck, North Dakota 10:43 A.M. EDT "Jim..." The voice invaded his peaceful mist of nothingness, compelling him to leave it all behind for harsh reality. "Jim, wake up... come on, buddy..." He didn't want to. All he wanted was to dream. A nice happy dream with a nice warm fuzzy soft bed to sleep in... "Jim!" A hard slap to the face knocked him abruptly back into reality. "Huh?" he muttered as he sat up. He glanced around, disoriented. Then he remembered. The boy. The goddamned Karate Kid had kicked the living shit out of him. Carl was standing above him, trying to help him up. Grunting, Chapman let his friend bring him to his feet. He glanced around, surprised at the change in locale. From the looks of it he and his car had been driven at least a half mile off the road and out of sight. A quick look to his watch told him how long he'd been out. Almost three hours. "Jeez, some kick..." he muttered under his breath, absentmindedly rubbing his bruised jaw. He was lucky it wasn't broken. Carl nodded. "Jesus, Jim, you had us all worried! Susan thought you'd run off and gotten yourself shot. Again," he finished with a grin. Chapman laughed as he touched the scar over his right shoulder. "No, no gun. Just one hell of a kick." He grimaced at the memory and leaned on Carl as he regained his lost equilibrium. "Come on. Let's get you a cup of coffee." Chapman shook his head emphatically. "Need to catch that bastard, Carl." "Man, you've been out for almost three *hours*. He's long gone. And if the guy had any sense, he'd ditch the car. We can't do anything now." A look from Jim's eyes made Carl reconsider that thought. "OK, fine. I'll put out a state-wide APB. I'll even call down to Aberdeen and Pierre if you want." Jim continued to stare at him. "You want me to put out a goddamned nationwide APB on some kid who took a car for a joyride?" Chapman shook his head, running his right hand over his bruised jaw. "He sure as hell wasn't no kid, Carl." Rest Stop 31 Interstate 94 East West of Eau Claire, Wisconsin 1:23 P.M. CDT Kenny thanked yet another driver as he walked away from the truck, watching it pull away in a disgusting belch of smoke. The mist reached out with its near-invisible fingers, surrounding him, embracing him, choking him.... Kenny jumped back in shock, raising a shaking hand to rub his heavy eyes. Sighing, he rubbed the side of his face, wondering about how dirty he must have looked. And he was tired. So damned tired. He hadn't slept in almost 36 hours. Despite his true age, his accursed body remained that of a ten-year-old boy. And the body needed sleep. Eight hours a day to stay healthy, he'd once heard. In his younger, more daring days he would have scoffed at such a notion. But now he knew that sleep brought alertness. With this Immortal pursuing him, he would have to be as alert and as lucky as possible to survive. But he knew he couldn't get the sleep he needed. He didn't know how far ahead he was of the dark man. Sleep would only bring death that much closer to him. And despite the fact that he'd lived eight times longer than any normal person would dream of, he had no wish to die just yet. So far his plan had consisted of getting as far the hell away as he could. Kenny frowned in sudden realization. He was running scared, like a goddamned rabbit. The Immortal had freaked the hell out of him and now he wasn't thinking clearly. *That* was what the dark man wanted. He *wanted* Kenny to keep running. And *he* would keep closing in on him. There had to be some other solution than just putting distance between them. He had to figure out what. For the first time in centuries, Kenny began to pray. Sal's Deli Chicago, Illinois 1:25 P.M. CDT Mulder hopped into the seat on the other side of the table from Scully. She glanced up at him, an amused grin on her face. "You're late." He sighed. "Sorry. Had to review next year's freshman lesson plan with Bill." He looked down and saw that Scully had already ordered for him. Liverwurst and a tall glass of iced tea. A message? Or was it just that she knew what he liked? Possibly both? "How's his son doing?" Scully asked as she picked at her salad. "Fine. It turned out to be just a fracture. He'll have to be in a cast a few weeks but that's it." Scully sighed in relief. Little Johnny Eisenberg had became a surrogate nephew to her. During some periods of deep guilt, she would blame herself for replacing her brothers' children with Johnny. Sometimes she wished the communication was more two-way so she could find out about her family from her mother, instead of just the usual "everyone's fine" she got from Wise. A grin played across her face as she remembered how the boy called the two of them "Aunt Dana" and "Unca Vickie." Living her life with Mulder definitely had some privileges, she thought with a grin as she remembered his face when Johnny had called him that the first time. Her mind abruptly turned to the "incident". That was how she'd come to think of them. They were all "incidents". Times when the two of them were caught off guard. She knew she was in love with her partner but <*Partner*. You keep thinking of her as your partner? You two left the Bureau over six years ago.> Another small part of Mulder's brain piped up, Mulder focused on his plate as he chewed the sandwich thoughtfully. But with the "incident" that morning it was becoming harder and harder to hide his feelings. He'd always been able to deny he had them. Now all he could hope to do was to shield them from her, though it was very much like trying to shield a spotlight with clear plastic wrap. Sometimes he wondered if he had them to. Could *he* be in love with *her*? She was pretty sure he was. Did he know that she was in love with him? Maybe, maybe not. But it wasn't that easy. Their lives were just as complicated as before, maybe more so -- now they were Immortal. And as the rule went, there can be only one. He wanted to laugh at the thought. It was so sickening. Some damned Game. Its result was genocide, pure and simple -- the entire destruction of the Immortal race. Sometimes he wondered where the hell it had come from. Had some asshole just woken up one day and made it all up for the hell of it? And what if everyone was killed and only one was left and there was no prize? That would be one hell of a kick in the butt. MacLeod claimed that when the Gathering came, everyone would be drawn to a far away land to fight. The urge would be irresistible and unstoppable. Was there also an urge to fight as well? Would he someday be forced to kill the man she loved? She hoped to God not. She'd rather die than be forced to do that for some mythical Prize that might or might not exist. But this fight, this Game, was one of the reasons she couldn't allow their relationship to advance. chimed up a small voice in side of her. But the fact that both of their lives were in constant danger, something that had not been alien to either of them, made her wary of this increasing attachment she felt between herself and Fox Mulder. After all, what would he do if she were killed? He'd already faced that nightmare and didn't want to ever do so again. But if it happened, could he live with it if they had become lovers, if they had consummated their devotion and dedication to each other? shouted the small voice angrily. //"Brenda once told me that just a year of love is better than being alone forever." A sad laugh. "She was right. The love is well worth the pain."\\ MacLeod had told him in no uncertain terms to go for it, to hell with the consequences. But his problem seemed so much simpler compared to what MacLeod had faced. To MacLeod, there was a choice between no pain and no love, or pain and love. It was a true dilemma. To Mulder, the choice was between pain and no love, or pain and love. piped up the voice. But it was more difficult than that. What he and Scully had was great. It was just one step below what he really wanted. But it was much more complicated than that. She didn't know if she could succeed in pushing their relationship forward. If she failed, it might destroy their more-than-friendship-but-less-than-romantic relationship. She wasn't sure she could make that choice. For now, they would proceed as normal. Someday it would change. Someday they would take the next step. But not today. Scully cleared her throat as she swallowed the last of her salad. She glanced over at Mulder as he quickly averted his gaze. He'd been staring at her. Again. She could feel a blush creeping over her face. She turned her gaze back down to the table and watched his sandwich. Liverwurst. And she'd gotten him an iced tea. She wanted to smack her head for her utter stupidity. But for some reason she didn't want to think about right then, it didn't bother her very much. In fact, she felt a little hopeful that he *would* think it was a message and act- She quashed the thought. Mulder sipped the last of his iced tea and glanced back over at Scully. "Thanks, Scully." He stood with his tray as did she. They both proceeded to the garbage can to dump the remnants of their food. Sal watched Vic and Dana leave together. God, those two had to be the two most stubborn people he knew. Why couldn't they just admit it and get married? the fifty-year-old thought with a sigh. *His* generation, at least, had their heads screwed on straight. Wisconsin South of Interstate 94 East Southeast of St. Paul, Minnesota 1:40 P.M. CDT E. It was at the goddamned E. How the hell could he have forgotten to fill up the gas? whispered a small voice in his mind. Ignoring it, he continued walking west along the road. The car was a mile or two east of him. He'd taken to back roads to try to shave some time off his route, but he'd failed to check the fuel gauge. And here he was, hiking miles back toward civilization while the boy continued putting miles between them. He could barely feel the boy anymore. As the boy got closer and closer to civilization, it became harder and harder for him to sense him. He knew Kenny was running scared -- that, after all, had been his goal. People couldn't think clearly when scared out of their minds. So the boy probably hadn't had time to figure out that his pursuer could sense him or that there was an easy way to make it near impossible. A city or even a town had enough people to mask a specific Immortal. But by his own idiotic mistake, the boy had gained precious time on him. Soon the boy would reach a city and figure out he could hide there. And he would lose Kenny *again*. He should have let Sundiron kill the little shit instead of following that "revenge is hollow" routine. No matter. *He* would get vengeance for all of Kenny's victims. For a second, just a second, he let himself go and the picture-perfect image of a dark- haired woman with a kind smile appeared before him. his mind whispered. He felt emotion deep inside him, something he'd worked so hard to quell for it always brought pain. Even then that expecation was fulfilled as jagged pain seared through his chest and tears began to form. The dark man forced his eyes shut. <*No*... not now... no time to think of that now.> He opened them again and felt his heart stop. He could see it perfectly... there before him... just like he remembered... the last time he ever saw it //"It is time to leave." "I know." "What is it?" "This... all of this... I just can't-" "Listen to me, g'tat. It's not your fault." "Not my fault? How could it *not* be my fault? It has to be someone's. I'm the most to blame of anyone else." "What about Figratin?" "It's not his fault and you know it. This... I can't stand to look at it anymore." "What about-?" "I sent him on to Uruk... We'll probably head to the Sinai." "What's keeping you from leaving?" "I just wanted to... to see it one last time before I left. There's nothing left, is there?" "Nothing of worth." "Then destroy it, bytu. Now." "I understand... I will do as you ask. Come, let us move to higher ground."\\ By his hand had Castra been destroyed, both times indirectly, yet he still bore the blame. called the insolent voice inside of his head. University of Chicago Chicago Illinois 2:20 P.M. CDT The bell announced the beginning of class as the stragglers hurried to find seats. Mulder glanced up at his class and held out the stack of papers. "These went *very* well. The class median was an 86%." A collective sigh met his ears and he smiled. "Be grateful. Freud is officially done." He quickly handed the papers back. "Now we're on to Jung. Read the first section tonight and be prepared for a quiz tomorrow." A pause. "That's it." He grinned. "Class dismissed." For a second the startled looks of his students reminded him of Robert Wise's look when he'd given him the day off after delivering the "Welcome to the Paranormal Division and good luck with your sanity" speech six years before. Wise had been so knocked off balance by the encounter. Mulder's mind turned to the dinner that he and Scully had shared for her birthday. A thought occurred to him. BP Gas Station On the outskirts of St. Paul, Minnesota 2:30 P.M. CDT he thought as he stepped onto the blacktop of the gas station lot. He glanced around, grateful that no other cars were present. Fluidly, he slipped a hand into his trench coat and pulled out the wad of cash he kept in the inner pocket. Two gloved fingers wrapped around a twenty and slipped it from the roll. His bare right hand replaced the roll and stepped across the blacktop toward the convenience store. Steven watched as a pale kid dressed in black walked up in front of the counter. The click of the boots reminded him strangely of an old Antonio Banderas movie his father used to watch all the time. Everything about the kid whispered "bad ass" but the kid smiled, which put Steven's mind at ease. "I ran out of gas a few miles down the road," he said, smiling. "I was wondering if I could buy a container and some gasoline." Steven nodded. "Sure." He reached behind the counter and handed the canister to the kid and took the twenty offered by the gloved hand. "A gallon enough?" The dark man nodded as the heavyset grey-haired man typed at the gas control computer. Perhaps he should have gone with this "kiss ass good little child" routine back at the diner with that woman. What was her name? He searched his memory before picking out the image of the nametag. No, that was Kenny's game. He'd only resort to that sort of routine when it was absolutely necessary. he thought bitterly. The man behind the counter handed his change back to him and nodded. "Pump 6. Have a nice day now." He forced a smile onto his face. "You, too," he said before he left the store. The nozzle of pump 6 was grimed with filth; the dark man grasped it with his gloved hand. It slid easily into the canister. Pulling the lever, he watched the liquid fill the canister. It looked so familiar... if it were red... //"Sir?" "You heard me." "But the-" "My men are starving. I shall not feed any more damned Hebrews with food taken from their mouths. Kill them." "Sir, the women and children-" "Kill. Them. All." "Yes, sir."\\ So much blood... rivers of red along the ground... blood from all those poor innocents... Sometimes during the night he would see their faces... staring back at him accusingly with all the rest whose deaths he had precipitated... He closed his eyes tightly. That had been so long ago and he had changed in more ways than one. Slowly, he opened his eyes again, seeing only the gasoline in the canister. Wisconsin South of Interstate 94 East Southeast of St. Paul, Minnesota 2:50 P.M. CDT The car was still several miles down the road when he heard the screech of tires on the pavement behind him. He'd sensed them coming and had read their emotions easily enough. They were out for a fight. Turning around he saw that he was facing three of them. They climbed out of their car and approached him, walking confidently. "Long way away from home, kid?" the first asked as he produced a switchblade from his pocket. The other two followed suit. Other than the knives, he'd seen that the third guy had a gun tucked into the front of his pants. "Got any money on you?" asked the first one. He turned around, placing the canister down on the pavement as he walked toward them, smirking. "Sure. So?" "So hand it over," said the second as he gestured with the knife. He sighed. Today wasn't the day to hurt a couple of kids. "Get the hell out of here before you get hurt," he told them coldly. "Oh yeah? Who's gonna hurt us? You?" the first asked belligerently. The temptation to take him up on that offer was especially powerful. However, there wasn't time for that sort of thing. The dark man had a prey to stalk. Turning, he began to walk away from them. But walking away produced the exact opposite reaction from the one he'd hoped for. "Hey! Don't walk away when I'm talking to you!" roared the first. He gestured to his two cronies who each rushed forth. He felt them grab his arms and jerk him around to face the first one. Without missing a beat, the first one rammed his knife up to its hilt into his stomach. The other two let him go as he fell to the ground, grunting at the pain surging through his gut. "Get the cash," hissed the first one. The second complied, easily finding the wad of cash inside the coat, missing the other items completely, and handed the money to the first. The three began to walk away. The dark man cursed as he yanked the knife from his stomach. The weapon had done little damage and the pain of repairing the wound was gone by the time he stood. "Forgetting something?" he asked. The other three stopped walking abruptly and turned around, finding themselves facing a standing opponent. he thought with a grim laugh. He held out the knife and dropped it onto the concrete. "Have to try harder than that, assholes." The three exchanged looks. The third tossed his knife to the first as he pulled another from his pocket. Then all three advanced toward their opponent. He could have probably drained energy from all three of them enough to knock them unconscious before he was forced to stop from sheer exhaustion. But that wouldn't be so much fun. "He's mine," said the first as he brandished the knife. He lunged forward. The dark man sidestepped easily and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to drop his knife. "Pansy," the dark man whispered under his breath, feeling his own blood begin to flow. He pushed him back toward the other two. Outraged, the first yelled gestured to the other two and all three rushed forward. As he fought them absentmindedly, the dark man reached out with his mind and touched theirs. What he had first suspected was confirmed. They were scum. The world could do much better without them. He grabbed the arm of the second as he made another lunge and slammed the knife up into its owner's stomach. He repeated the action with the third person. Muffled shrieks came from them as they fell to the ground, bleeding onto the pavement. The first slammed his knife into the small of the dark man's back. "That was for Mikey and Joey, you bastard," he whispered under his breath. He yanked the knife from the dark man's back and placed it at the front of his neck. He would slit the bastard's throat. The pain removed from his back, the dark man reached into his coat and grabbed the handle of his sword. He felt the knife touch his throat. Reacting instinctively, he slammed the sword up from under his trench coat. The knife at his throat faltered and fell from the holder's grasp. Yanking the sword from the man's stomach, the dark man turned around to face him. "You should have left while you had the chance." He swung laterally, decapitating his opponent swiftly. He wiped the blood from his sword and glanced down at the three dead men lying on the pavement. He pried the wad of cash from the dead man's fingers and slipped it back into his coat. A hint of remorse made its way into his soul. he thought forcefully. But he had been like this once before. Once, long ago, for such a long time... so full of hatred at the world and at the poor few he somehow found reason to blame... he had almost crossed over, almost had looked too long into the abyss, almost had become what he fought. And he had been saved by a caring soul, the man who would always be the closest thing he would ever have to a father. And ultimately those efforts of his oldest friend had failed. He had been destroyed by the evil that he'd fought. There would be no chance for redemption. The dark man turned and walked back to the gas can. Picking it up, he continued to walk down the road. Apartment of Victor Robbins and Dana Coury Outside Chicago, Illinois 4:40 P.M. CDT Mulder finished scrubbing the murky brown coffee stain from the rug and carried the bucket and rag into the kitchen. The contents of the bucket he dumped down the drain and the bucket and rag he placed back under the sink. He stood and stretched his back. Smiling, he turned to the large brown grocery bag of items he'd bought only recently. He pulled out the first box, the one on top. Spaghetti noodles. Grinning, he continued removing the contents of the bag. Ragu Old World Style. Some oregano. Garlic. A package of ground meat. And a nice huge loaf of garlic bread. Checking his watch, he saw that he was running late. Time to hurry. He would give her a nice surprise. She deserved it. 7:23 P.M. CDT Mulder'd been grinning like a fool the whole ride home from the hospital. She couldn't put a finger on just what the "I know something you don't know" look meant. He just about leapt from the car and hopped up the stairs like a kid. she thought with a smile as she followed him. She looked at him warily as he stood by the door, waiting for her to unlock it. a suspicious voice inside her asked. Visions of painted walls, pets, and romantic candelit dinners filled her mind and worried her. Well... the first two worried her. The third... The door unlocked and opened, the first smell that assaulted her was of spice. Sage, oregano, and garlic filled the apartment, permeating everything. Memories of coming home from school to find her mother with a pot of spaghetti on the stove pushed her into the apartment and straight to the kitchen. She glanced at the stove and then back at Mulder, raising an eyebrow. "I wanted to surprise you," he told her, suddenly feeling like he was asking the cutest girl in school to the prom. She glanced back at the stove and then back to him for a second time. He followed to where she'd been looking. Well, yeah, it was spaghetti sauce. It was *supposed* to spatter. "Hey, I'll clean it up!" he told her with a grin. She glanced doubtfully back at the red splotches on the surface of the previously immaculately clean, white stove. "You better," she told him with mock seriousness. Grinning, he pointed into the living room. "Go. Tarzan make food now." She shook her head and left the kitchen to Mulder. 7:40 P.M. CDT "OK, Scully, dinner's ready," he called as he struck a match. "Be right in," she called from the bedroom as she changed out of her work clothes. Mulder touched the match to the two candles and then blew it out. "Well, Mulder, it better be good or I'll never let you anywhere near the sto-" She came to an abrupt halt in the hallway, almost gaping. The dining room was darkened with the lights off and only the flickering candlelight to see by. Two plates were set across from each other on the closest of the two opposite sides, near the end of the table. The burning candles were placed between the two plates of food. A small basket placed off to the side contained sliced bread. An open bottle of champagne was on the table. To Scully's credit, she didn't immediately think that Mulder was coming on to her. In fact, she didn't think at all. Her mind was numb with shock and disbelief, with only a whispering sound cursing in the deepest recesses, beyond which an even softer voice was shouting with joy. "Scully?" He was looking at her expectantly, and a little worriedly. "Uh..." Why did her mouth suddenly feel full of cotton balls? She swallowed compulsively. "It looks nice." Mulder pulled her chair out for her as she sat down. He walked around to sit across from her. Taking the cold bottle, he poured the sparkling liquid into the two glasses. "Bon appetit," he said with a smile. She nodded, slowly awaking from her faze. Clearing her throat, she took a sip of champagne and then began on her spaghetti. Thank God there were two plates. If they had had to share a plate, she probably would have died. Nobody had ever done something like this for her. At least not without expecting her to put out in return. If there ever was a time when she loved this man more than any other time, it was right then. Could this unusual behavior be an outgrowth of the "incident" that morning? Mulder thought as he tasted the spaghetti. He looked across the table at Scully, who was staring at him with a strange look in her eyes. She was making him *really* uncomfortable. "How's the sauce? Too spicy?" he asked her. Her thoughts turned to the "incident" that morning. She tried the sauce and smiled. It *was* good. "No, it's great. I love it," she told him. He smiled. "Thanks. I didn't know if I put too much oregano in it." He turned back to his plate and continued to eat. She was looking at him strangely again. For a brief moment, he thought he should break the tension by rolling a meatball over to her plate with his nose. he thought wryly before discounting the thought. Scully thought. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- End Part 3/11 ===========================================================================