=========================== By anon207921@anon.penet.fi =========================== Hello: Thanks for the +ve response to my previous untitled piece. You're great!!! I was really quite nervous about this whole idea of posting, still am. Thank you, Gerri Oliver. Since that last post, I've figured out how remailers work so I'll not have to bounce things through you anymore! ;) Another piece that I've kicked around for a while. This is a very moody, introspective piece on Scully that started off as an attempt to explain her resistance to accepting the paranormal which has not sat well with me, much more so than the "who saved who how many times" and other misc picks a-raging in a.t.x. I had the rug pulled out from under me by her soliloquy in "End Game". *Awesome* prose. Much better than anything I have ever attempted so I did a major rewrite (sulk) :> BTW, I've an introspective piece on Mulder in the works, written in parallel with this. His character is complex, darker and very much more difficult for me to get into. It'll take a while, but them're the breaks examining the yin and yang of Our Duo, female and male, light and dark, heaven and earth, Scully and Mulder. Well, I'm rambling and you're here for fanfic. My apologies. As always, feedback welcome and don't worry about being blunt. anon. :) wanna be a DDEB... waahhhhhhhh. * * * * * * * * Introspection - I FBI Building. Washington, D.C. As much as she could dislike anyone, she intensely disliked the man sitting in the shadows off to her right. His smoking made her want to gag. She knew Skinner disliked and forbade it during meetings, kept an ashtray in his office mainly as a courtesy to visitors. This man was no ordinary visitor. It was clear that he had authority over Skinner, could manipulate Skinner in ways only the two of them understood and Skinner, in his presence, was tense, guarded and harsher on both her partner and herself. Seated across from Skinner, she watched him flip through one of her reports. He had a stack before him, and she had an uneasy feeling that she was about to be brought in line. She had personally evolved since being assigned to the X-Files; in the beginning, she regularly reported to her superiors and had little difficulty providing scientific explanation in detailed field reports in contrast to those filed by her partner. That had been easy to do and she had never felt traitorous fulfilling the expectations of her assignment. Lately however, providing scientific, rational explanation had become increasingly arduous. Following a routine formed in college, she had previously enjoyed recapping every case in her personal journal. She was glad of this routine; contemplating in the privacy of her home provided method to an otherwise tumultous assignment at the Bureau. Moreover, it was an exercise of the mind, a duel, she sometimes felt, between her partner and herself. This routine had been broken, her entries of late were sporadic, and the content generally personal. Since her abduction, there had been no entries at all, her computer solely an extension to work. Her field reports had evolved as well. While no less detailed and professional, they were as if penned by a different hand altogether. There was far less rebutting her partner, and on the occassions that she had been compelled by strict scientific training to provide rational explanation, they were somehow meaningless. Good on paper, but meaningless. She had seen far too much, and experienced even more, to not give credence to her partner's beliefs, those very beliefs that had given her the strength to live. She had changed, her reports no longer strictly rebutted but actually gave weight to some of the more unusual phenomena she investigated with her partner. On occassions, she slipped, rationalizing when she shouldn't have and holding back when she knew better. Her last report on the case in New Hampshire had sounded half hearted even to her - toads falling from the sky attributed to a tornado? Well, if they fell over a dispersed area, perhaps, but those that had practically rained on the tiny piece of real estate they were standing on? And not correcting Mulder when he explained the Coreolis effect. She should have known better, even if Mulder hadn't, she was a Physics major, after all. She sat there now, with no doubt that she was about to be brought in line. Frankly, she cared little. Cancerman coughed and brought her out of her reverie. Skinner glanced sideways at him and his face tightened. "Agent Scully, you must know that I have been compelled by offices higher than my own to bring your attention to some of these reports. Specifically, the reports dealing with cases filed in the past four months." "Sir, do my reports displease you?" "Offices higher that my own, Agent Scully, require that I remind you of orders pertaining to your assignment to the X-Files. There is ... concern ... that these orders are not being met." "Sir, are *you* concerned?" She pressed. Skinner half sighed and his lips twisted in the faintest of smiles. "*I* have never been concerned with your performance." "Thank you, sir, I wanted to hear that. For the record, everything I have written in those reports is correct in detail. Nothing has been glossed over, there are no omissions, no coverups; just the truth as I perceive it. In fact, my reports are weakest when I attempt to fulfill orders. I .." "The reports written before were closer to the truth." She jumped. Cancerman had never spoken in her presence before. His voice was jaded, the delivery flat. Inexplicably, she felt rising nausea. Gripping the arms of the chair, she fought for control, lecturing herself, "Not now. Not now. Not in the middle of an interview with Skinner." "There is no question of your omitting details specific to a case." A deliberate pause. "Just explain them." He blew another smoke ring. Her mouth dry, her heart pumping, she looked to Skinner, at a loss. "Some of the phenomena I've ... *we've* experienced cannot be explained away. It would be facile to blindly, by rote, attempt to explain away aspects of the paranormal that we need to understand and haven't begun to yet. We need to seek answers for the sake of comprehending - that is what I've always attempted. Any other way would be a great disservice to science, to *truth*." "We can assign persons ... more willing to cooperate. You were happy at Quantico. Would you prefer a reassignment? We have many agents willing to work with Agent Mulder." She felt a chill added to the nausea she felt as Cancerman continued speaking. There was no doubt in her mind that she was being threatened- their way, or no way. With difficulty, she continued, "I understand. I'll try my best ... to carry out orders." Turning to Skinner, her stomach churning, "May I be excused? I don't feel well." Skinner looked at her, concerned, his mood softening. "Of course. Perhaps you'd like to take the day off?" "No, no. Just, I just need to leave." Hastily, she half ran out of the room. * * * * * * * * Skinner turned to Cancerman, his face twisted in hate. "You were out of line. I decide on assignments for every one of *my* agents." Cancerman carefully put out the cigarette and stood to face Skinner. "We've placed our people here before and will continue to." His tone never changed. He never raised his voice for attention, did not have to, power gave him attention, and he used it. The one perk of an otherwise miserable existence. He was but a highly placed messenger boy, carrying out orders from persons far above him, performing dirty work they would never taint themselves with. He hated his role and it was with great pleasure that he exacted payment from persons lower in the hierarchy. Today, he had in his hands Skinner and Agent Scully. "Get out of my office." "Vet the contents of those reports. It would be much too easy to remove ... reassign Agent Scully, but I don't want to. I like her." Skinner went cold. Frustrated, he turned away and repeated, "Get out, now." * * * * * * * * She made it to the washroom at the end of the hall, made it to one of the stalls and retched violently, scaring herself at the suddeness of the attack. Minutes later, she was still leaning against the cool tile, shaking. She'd felt fine this morning, could it be a virus? Food that she ate? Mentally, she examined herself. The sudden attack seemed to have passed and she shook her head, puzzled. Rinsing her face, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Great. She looked ill, felt wretched and Mulder was supposed to be buying lunch. Well, they'd just have to put it off. * * * * * * * * 11:21 p.m. She dreamt, a cherished, welcome, oft repeated dream. He came to her and stood a little away, unwilling to intrude. She couldn't see his face, had never seen it. It was hidden, shadowed. Really, she should feel fear, be cautious, but she was not. He seemed familiar, and she knew deep tenderness as she reached out to him. Her voice husky with emotion, she bade him come to her. Reluctantly, he came close. He never made the first move, so reverent she wanted to scream, so hesitant it maddened her. On the other hand, her heart went out to this soul - what, in his past, had made him thus? She did not understand and could only guess, but this was not the place for speculation. Here, there were no words, only desires played out, physical needs quenched. She reached for him, twining her fingers around his neck. He was tall, so tall she had to stand on tiptoe, pulling his face toward her. The first kiss was always a gentle caress. She led, unwilling to scare him; felt, that he would turn away from her if rushed; sensed, rejection in his past that made him bitter and cynical. She played with his lips, those beautifully sculpted lips, tasting, sweet, so sweet it ached. She felt him tentative first, then urgent and she gave him her tongue, played with his as they stood locked in a duel of the flesh, as her breathing became ragged, echoing his. His hands came up, beautiful hands, long, slim of finger, light of touch, and strong. He took away the knot in her neck, and moved under her shirt, down her back sending shivers up and down her spine. She trembled against him, desire smoke in her eyes, as he picked her up and laid her on the bed. His hands were urgent as they fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, straddling her, his hardness thrust against her aching loins. In turn, she undressed him, removing his tie, almost ripping off his shirt in her need. Beautiful, beautiful body, hers for now. Her hands moved and she pushed him off and straddled him. Wanting to pleasure him, pleasuring herself in the process, she explored every inch of his body with her lips and tongue, moving down, down, down his body to the soft hair in his groin. She buried her face in it, then traced the edges with her tongue watching him as he writhed, deeply aroused. He sat up suddenly, and pulled her to him. His voice was thick as he pleaded .... She sat up suddenly, flushed, breathing heavily. Angry and frustrated, she impatiently rubbed sleep out of her eyes. She curled up into a ball, hugged her pillow and cried silent tears. She had never seen his face and she didn't want to know who it was. Over and over, she repeated this to herself until she fell asleep. * * * * * * * * She dreamt, a frightening, sick, oft repeated dream. In moments of wakefulness, she could see that the dark, windowless room had no furnishing to speak of except for the bed that she lay in and fixtures in the corner for physical needs. The moments of wakeful- ness were few, she was drugged most of the time, her body so full of chemicals she was often physically ill. She was afraid, lonely; time had become but a passage immeasurable. In the beginning, she had tried to keep track, but she never knew when she fell unconscious, never knew exactly how long she stayed so. In a way, it was better that they keep her drugged, unending solitude and longing would have driven her mad otherwise. She thought of her mother whom she knew would be awfully worried and hoped that she was alright. Her mother sometimes ... knew ... things and she hoped that she knew now that she was alive. She thought of her father, beloved Ahab, longed for him and time past when they had been close. Her father had died suddenly, with too many things left unsaid between them. She had never believed in an afterlife, but now, she prayed that there was one just so she could see her father again. She loved him so much, hurt so much when he had rejected her career choice, breaking their bond. Most of all, she yearned for her ex-partner, missed the repartee, his dry wit and just being around him. Would she ever see him again? She had called him a jerk once, but had immediately detracted. Reaching out mentally, she tried to tell him what she really felt. Best friend, soulmate, confidant; words all too inadequate in describing their sublime relationship. She wondered how he was. He had a new partner who seemed to accept him for what he was, strange theories and all - she was glad for his sake and hoped that his new partner would support him as he deserved, as she had. Assigned now to a surveillance division, he called her occassionally for research help that she gladly gave. She wondered if he missed her and concluded sadly, probably not. He was obsessed with his work, sustained by his quest for truth and she wondered what was sustaining him now. They came for her; of these times, she was afraid. She never could see their faces, an overwhelmingly bright light shone into her eyes and she only saw shadowy figures in white lab coats. She was being used for purposes unknown and illicit, a veritable X-File and it was the unknown quantity that scared her. There were more drugs, implants, infusions, all of which took their toll on her body. With each moment she felt weaker, wearier. In despair, she prayed for death. Yet others came for her; and of these times, she was terrified. They didn't hurt her badly, but the things they said struck at her heart. They spoke of her partner, her assignment, threatening continuously, goading unmercifully. She couldn't see their faces; again, there was that bright light and all she saw were figures in black suits. She identified them by their voices. One, in particular, she feared, he spoke softly, but every word uttered sent chills down her spine, brought a knot to her stomach. His voice was jaded, the delivery flat. She jerked upright, a scream on her lips, heart pounding, gulping in air through heartbreaking sobs. The worst of it was that she could never remember the contents of the dreams - only the fear. FIN. = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = This story based on series characters created by Chris Carter. X-Files is shown on Fox and is copyrighted by said network, I think. By someone anyway. The point is - no copyright infringement intended. = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative From: an207921@anon.penet.fi Date: Fri, 12 May 1995 23:51:06 UTC Subject: Introspection II - anon Hi: Soy yo. A bunch of fragments on Mulder strung together. Mush Dislikers, turn back now, as this is really moody and introspective much like the first segment and has no plot whatsoever. Also, it's really out of date, none of the recent developments on the show past End Game (were there any moments of note? huh?) have been incorporated. Thanks to all who kindly wrote after Introsp 1. I appreciate your mail and encouragement very much :) makes one want to keep at it, though I really have very little time. This is a pleasurable some- time lunch break activity. I do marvel at one incredibly prolific contributor to this group ... Feedback welcome, always. I've my flame suit on in defense against recent grammar threads ";) I had to think and rethink posting this, the quality of the writing here is generally so terrific, but I've spent time on it and won't let my efforts go to waste and just hope that you enjoy it. My weeeks with Mulder have been depressing. I need to write a Melrose Place/Hills 90210/Models Inc/X-F crossover. anon ;) hi gyrfalcon! * * * * * * * * Introspection II Washington D.C. The swimmer surged toward the wall, touched, surfaced and checked his laptime. This early morning solitude was a soothing balm, a necessary ritual prior to the work routine and adherence more or less to the rigid conservatism prevalent at the FBI. Physical and mental challenge he relished, but work relations were difficult. Today would be worse. He was getting a new partner, so much for the six months he'd had the X-Files to himself. Arriving at the office, he sat down and looked through the dossier again, Agent Dana K. Scully, M.D., Pathologist. Impressive. Nonethe- less, he went through his rehearsed speech again, "... my space ... mutually convenient ... work alone ... respect your space too ... lots of time for forensics," et cetera. "Wolczak! How're you doing? ... Yeah, these cutbacks are murder. But listen. I've someone here who could really give you a hand ... M.D. Specializes in forensics. Labwork should be right up her street ... Yeah, she. Dana Scully... No. Today. I'll send her up as soon as she gets here ... OK ... No problem-o. Bye." *That* was easily taken care of. He was in the middle of viewing slides received from the Portland office and was totally unprepared for the woman who stepped quietly through the door to come to stand by his desk. He caught his breath, speech and Wolczak forgotten, and inanely said, "Oh how nice to be suddenly so highly regarded." * * * * * * * * He had never imagined a career in law enforcement. Returning from England, a good looking degree from Oxford in hand, he had been at a loss. Grad school was unappealing, he needed a more active role and toyed with the idea of joining one of the numerous institutions dedi- cated to investigating and documenting the paranormal, but knew that this was not an option. He craved acceptance and affection from one who had denied it all his adolescent life. One who had denied it since his sister had been abducted and had never had the heart to forgive, effectively condemning a brilliant, sensitive youth to loneliness for life. In his childhood prior to his sister's abduction, he had genuinely believed that he was loved and had loved in return. So wrong. What he had felt was really pride reflected off a man exhibiting a prized possession - "Look, Fox won this at the Science Fair." He must have known it all along in his heart, but his sister's abduction brought crashing realization. Yet, the boy who craved affection strove to please in the only way he knew how, hoping that time would build a bridge, hoping to reach the man that was his father. So it was when he went to Oxford on a scholarship, one of many offered, he went hoping to please his father; who hadn't even shown up at the airport to say goodbye. So it was when he joined the FBI; useless. He'd almost given up at one point. Assigned to the Violent Crimes Division, his intellect had been challenged and his work well respected, but in this risky profession where bonding was all important, he had never bothered to fit in. While his ability garnered him respect and a few friends and defenders, he didn't care for any of that and was ready to quit. It was then that he discovered the X-Files; in it, he found his idiom. * * * * * * * * The video was unappealing and he watched out of habit, in auto mode. When other boys started boasting of actual conquests, he rented these movies out of curiosity, and then to fill the needs of a shy and withdrawn but otherwise normal adolescent. The pattern throughout most of high school was much the same as now, a few physical encounters, but never any lasting attachment. The pattern was formed, he stood out, a loner, an intellectual among many less prone to mental exertion, a geek. Oxford had been the best decision of his young life. He'd gone to please his father, but it was personally a successful four years. Among others of the same mental bent, he honed his sharp wit and gift for turning a phrase and *the women*!! They had actually found him attractive and funny; he basked in this newfound lifestyle. Then there was one. Phoebe. Beautiful, brilliant, he went crazy. For many months he was in love, truly happy for the first time in his life while they went to class together, studied together. He smiled, remembering that one time on Sherlock Holme's grave. A complete about- face from Mulder, the Geek. He had been heartbroken, shattered, when he found out that Phoebe, unlike himself, could not remain satisfied with just one partner and played fast with him and others at the same time. "But you're the one I really care about, Fox, the one I spend most time with." It just wasn't enough and he withdrew again; sick at having loved, and not having had his love reciprocated; recalling all the times he had been stood up, kept waiting like an eager puppy. Stupid, stupid Fox. Click. Click. Click. Nothing, nothing on TV. Nothing in his life. He laughed, gently mocking. This was his coping mechanism, hiding behind his wit, making a joke out of every tense situation. * * * * * * * * There was no coping mechanism for this one. No joke, no turn of phrase, no euphemism helped with this one. "Mulder, help me, I need your help!" The plea had torn out his heart. The original tape that recorded her cry for help was held at the FBI as evidence but he had taken the trouble to make a copy and tortured himself listening to it again and again, futilely trying to wash away the terror, the loneliness, the pain of love lost with the pain of guilt. His reaction to her abduction had shocked him. He had been terrified, moved about in a haze as they went through her apartment checking the signs of struggle, sifted through her possessions for evidence, violated her. Her mother's arrival had clicked him into some semblance of normalcy, made him remember that Scully mattered to more persons than him alone and actually had a family who cared for her. Duane Barry, the one link to her, died. His desperation had known no bounds then. The trail went cold, no one had seen her, no one remembered a pretty redhead past the skytrain. Nothing. * * * * * * * * He loathed himself, loathed the hopelessness of it all, despised himself for being powerless. He had always been afraid of his suppressed anger at the unknown beings that had taken his sister, at his father for rejecting him, repressed anger twenty two years old. It felt *good* holding a gun to Cancerman's head. Always afraid of his propensity to do evil, of allowing long repressed emotions to surface, he struggled against slipping on the slippery path of good versus evil. It was just too difficult now, he had felt himself sliding when she had been taken, felt himself falling when he saw her on the hospital bed covered in wires and tubes, dying. Yet, he had let Cancerman off, hadn't he? This man who had taken Dana? Impossible. Why? He had felt her presence, a tiny glimmer of life, "Mulder, don't do this." "What? Dana?" "It's not yours to take, Mulder. He's just a pawn. Kill him and negate everything positive you've ever done. You're *not* going to become like him." "It's not fair. Why you?" "It's okay, Mulder. It'll be alright. Just don't do this." He eased his finger off the trigger. Even close to death, Dana had saved him once more, saved him from that irrevocable action that would have placed him amongst those he so loathed, Cancerman, Mr. X, those who took what was not theirs to take, hid what was not theirs to hide. On the edge struggling again. He was tired; sitting in the dark as usual, but instead of on his usual perch on the couch, he waited in his chair, prepared for those who had taken her, for vengeance. He caressed his false ally, the Glock. He searched for her presence but only felt cold and emptiness where she once was. So tired, just too tired to continue resisting the dark side; Deep Throat was gone, Mr. X not the ally he had hoped for, Dana ... only a matter of time. He could continue on, couldn't he? He'd handled the X-Files long before ... she was assigned to monitor him. His search for the truth had been defined long before he had ever met her. Skinner had reinstated the X-Files, retaliating to the unknown, powerful forces that controlled his every action. That should have made him happy, shouldn't it? That was what he wanted, wasn't it? To seek the truth, expose the weaknesses and conspiracies prevalent in this machine they called government? It wasn't in his heart to continue alone. She had become part of the search, integral to the X-Files. He sought for new purpose, for belief, a straw, *anything* to grasp onto. All he felt was that awful cold and emptiness where she had been. All he wanted now was to impart death and partake of it. * * * * * * * * She lived. Against all expectation, she lived. He didn't dare believe it, but it seemed that his presence had helped after yet another Scully, Melissa this time, had talked him out of his blue funk and to her sister's bedside. He looked across to where she sat and let his imagination run wild. A sudden smile or pucker of those lips was often enough to trigger his daydreaming. Smiles that lit her face up catching at his heart, making him so happy he could burst, so rare were these gems that each one was all the more precious, savoured held in freeze frame in his mind's eye. Two and a half months during her absence was enough of time to think, for what ifs, internal examination and guilt. The one emotion that had been forcibly kept at bay since she had first walked into his office had been allowed to surface and scrutinised in pain - love. What was it about her? Beautiful, brilliant, like Phoebe. Kind, gentle, unlike Phoebe. The one thing that struck him in the beginning was her inner peace; she radiated it, brilliant light bathing his dark soul and psyche. He felt peace with her near, his search for the truth no less intense but no longer a lonely quest. Scully, serene, sensuous, sensual... "Mulder? Hey, MULDER! Will you stop that!?" "Mmm? What was that again?" "You were staring. Nobody home. What's the matter?" "Nothing. Sorry. Just thinking that ... umm ... nothing. Really." "Daydreaming? Anything to do with that video?" She let her gaze shift purposely to the plastic bag that contained a tape he had planned to drop off at the all nite store. Her eyes were dancing and her lips hovered on the edge of a wicked grin. He hated it when she was like this. He felt like a high school teenager again. But wait, this was Mulder! Oxford man about town - "An *adult* video, Scully. Would you like, that I lend it to you?" * * * * * * * * "Mulder, why didn't you tell me it was her on the phone." "Because you would never have let me go through with it." Angry at himself. Angry with Scully for his inner turmoil. That Samantha had fallen into the water and Scully had survived. NO. He didn't mean that. He had stood staring down at the dark waters below in confusion... for hours, wondering that he had actually given up his *sister*, lost for twenty odd years, just reappeared, in a trade. To a known killer. And he had to explain this to his father. He stood staring out his window a long time after his father left. It had been a terrible encounter, an echo of encounters past. Had his father always treated him like that? Yes. Contemptuous, disdain- ful, unforgiving. Hard to believe that he still secretly hoped for some semblance of a relationship. Possibly a reflection of his life. Had he more to care for, more in his life, would he struggle as hard for the unattainable acceptance of his father? * * * * * * * * Just a clone, a clone. Samantha was still alive! He gained no comfort from that thought, could only think that this was the closest he had ever come to the truth about Samantha and that he had to press on. It was *not* over. He *had* to find the terminator and X had told him where to go. "You were right. We all draw our own lines, and I'm drawing one for you." Done. He felt terrible ditching her, but it had to be done. He stared at the screen and thought about Dana, about the events of the past few days. He thought back to the scene they had had in their basement office. It was the most hostile he had been to her in a long time. Since the parasite case in the Arctic, really. He felt like a heel for the things he had said, and sick at her reaction. In that one moment, she had taught him all about friendship and trust, captured the essence of their relationship, once again humbling him. He would have felt better if she had fought back, two wrongs would have made it right for him. But no. None of the lowbrow for Scully. She had simply maintained her calm, stayed focussed and smoothed it over in her own inimitible way. This was too precious a partner, a friend, to risk. She'd be angry, boy would he hear about it when he returned. If he returned. She could *not* follow him. He stared blankly at the words on the screen. He was apologising, in his own way. She would understand. He quickly powered down the computer. * * * * * * * * It was cold. He stared at the gaping hole left by the submarine to his side, the dark murky waters just visible in the glow of the northern lights and through his swollen eyelids. Samantha. No one would ever know what had happened to her now, no one would care enough to look for her. It would all end with his death. At least he knew now that she was alive. The terminator had said so. There was absolutely no reason to believe him, but in his heart, Mulder knew it to be true. Ironic, he thought, the one person it probably meant the most to wouldn't be around if she ever returned. "Mulder, hang on. I'm coming." A whisper. He weakly turned his head, searching for her. Only his imagination. He shivered as he thought of Scully. Happy thoughts, an aching heart. It would be too late by the time she found him, but he didn't mind dying. He felt vindicated, he knew with all certainty now that the truth was indeed out there, that his life's work had not been in vain. This was enough. He couldn't feel his limbs, felt drowsy. He closed his eyes, just for a minute, just as he heard a gentle whirring from far away. * * * * * * * * There was gentle pressure on his arm. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking. .... "I've found the faith to keep on looking." FIN. = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = This story based on series characters created by Chris Carter. X-Files is shown on Fox and is copyrighted by said network, I think. No copyright infringement is intended. = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = I know the ending's guillotined, a bunch of trite stuff got chopped and I can't write anymore, best left as is. anon ;) who anxiously awaits your mail, and who is overjoyed at the generally good quality of reading material on this newsgroup. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- To find out more about the anon service, send mail to help@anon.penet.fi. If you reply to this message, your message WILL be *automatically* anonymized and you are allocated an anon id. Read the help file to prevent this. Please report any problems, inappropriate use etc. to admin@anon.penet.fi.