From: Antony Ferrucci Date: Sat, 20 Mar 1999 15:13:43 -0800 (PST) Subject: "Magic is Alive..." VI -- "INTREP" - 1/1 TITLE - "Magic is Alive..." Story 6 - "INTREP" AUTHOR - Antony F Ferrucci < draggi@eskimo.com > RATING - G CLASSIFICATION - S KEYWORDS - Warning SUMMARY - Skinner receives a Viet Nam-style Intelligence Report. The contents of the "IntRep" make Skinner furious, but the hand-written note at the bottom chills him to the bone. He passes it on to Cancerman, who is vaguely unsettled by it ... for =very= good cause. = = = = = = = = MariEllen looked up to see a very nervous agent approaching her. "May I help you?" "Uh, yes, ma'm, is Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner in? I have a message to deliver to him." "I can see that he gets it..." "Oh, *NO*, ma'm!" the agent snapped at her. Then, looking down and blushing at his outburst, he amended, "Uhm, it's something I need to deliver into his hands myself. You know - one of `those' messages..." He tried to smile at her to make light of what he had, but suspected it came across as more of a grimace. MariEllen took pity on the young man and gave him a light, friendly smile. She picked up the handset, punched `intercom', waited for a moment and then said, "If you have a moment, sir, there's an agent with something urgent for you. Shall I send him in? - - Very well. Thank you, sir." Turning to the nervous agent, she smiled, winked and said, "Count to twenty slowly and then go right in." she thought with some amusement - - it had only taken her 32 pages to spot what was going on, but he was still trying to figure it all out - what was going on, who did what to whom and why ... and he was half-way through the book! Maybe she had just read so many of them she could now spot an author's ploy quite easily, certainly easier than a novice reader. With that settled, she went back to her work with a slight smile. A moment later, the young agent stepped up to Skinner's door, braced himself, and knocked with three precise and firm raps of his knuckles. He hadn't felt this nervous since Boot Camp, which was `a few' years behind him. There was a moment's hesitation as Skinner recognised the sound, did a quick mental adjustment and barked, "Come!" The agent entered Skinner's office, stepped in front of his desk, stood ramrod straight, handed the manila folder to him, and said, "Agent Lytton, Communications Section, *SIR*!" It was all he could to keep from saluting! He didn't understand it - it embarrassed the hell out of him - but he rushed on so he could get it over with. "This message just came in for you and I thought you might need to see it at once, sir." Walter S. Skinner, former Marine (("There's no such thing as an *EX*- Marine, you got that?!! Once a Marine, =always= a Marine ... if you maggots ever make it that far!" echoed through his memory)), almost returned the salute he hadn't gotten. Instead, he opened the manila folder and looked at the single sheet of paper within. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - URGENT --- EYES ONLY --- URGENT TO: Walter S. Skinner, Asst Dir, FBI Hqtrs, Washington, DC FROM: * * * SUBJECT: IntRep S A L U T E SIZE Three adult Caucasian males ACTIVITY Attempted abduction of FBI Special Agent Dana Scully, MD, by above three individuals. Agent Scully was knocked out with chloroform, secured, blindfolded. The above three individuals attempted to take Agent Scully to an undetermined location in Baltimore, but were delayed by traffic and then a flat-tire. Agent Scully was then rescued from the abduction attempt by citizens in the area. The above three individuals, who had no identification of any sort on their persons, were left to be dealt with by local authorities. LOCATION Washington, DC and Baltimore, MD areas UNIT Unknown ... at this time TIME Approx. 2:30-2:45 PM, local EQUIPMENT Delivery-type van, white-ish, with stolen plates Side-arms of 9mm variety Bottle of chloroform, various rags Roll of duct tape Three partially emptied cans of "Wasp & Hornet Killer" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - As Skinner read his way through the "Intelligence Report," he could feel his color and temper rising to dangerous levels. He didn't notice the agent still standing in front of him begin to sweat. He was a silly millisecond away from detonation ... when he got to the hand-written note at the very bottom: "The Dancer stirs and almost wakes -- Who *dares* disturb His dreaming?" At that moment, both his color and anger fled him like songbirds before a hunting Merlin. Skinner -knew- it wasn't the gentle `Shiva-Nataraja' {<-Shiva, Lord of the Dance->} who was being refered to, and, remembering something he -might- have seen in his delirium after The Ambush, he broke into an icy sweat..... Skinner got up from his desk, noticed Agent Lytton, and said "I suggest you forget you ever saw this... but thank you for bringing it to my attention right away." Then, before Lytton could open his mouth to say anything, Skinner was gone. Skinner blew past MariEllen without even saying "I'll be right back" and headed for the Executive Floor. He went straight to a small, unmarked, out-of-the-way office. Without knocking or waiting for any kind of permission, he barged right in. He unceremoniously threw the manila folder on The Smoker's desk so it slid right up to him. "Whoever did this just cashed in their life insurance... and there isn't a damn thing you can do to save their ::stupid:: ::asses::!" The Smoker sat there looking back at Skinner with utter distain. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Skinner... but even if I did, what makes you think a threat from -you- would bother me in the least?" "It's not -me- you need to worry about, Fool, but something that makes -you- look like ::Mr: :Rogers::!" Skinner shook his head sadly, turned and walked out, not bothering to hear what the Smoker had to say further. Surprised by this reaction, the Smoker watched Skinner walk out and frowned. <<"Some*THING*"? Now what's -that- supposed to mean? And -Skinner- is sad for =me=?! Hmmm...>> The Smoker sat there and for the first time in a very, -very- long time was unsettled. He even forgot to take a drag on his ever-present Morley for several moments. He opened the unmarked folder, read the piece of paper within and recognized the incident. He even had the grace to blush, for just a brief moment -- that had, indeed, been one spectacular screw-up from start to finish. Then he came to the hand-written note at the bottom. It -was- rather mysterious... and somehow very disturbing, although he couldn't quite put his finger on `why'. It seemed to tickle a faint memory, but it was too faint, too long ago, and was quickly lost as his mind took off on other trails. The Smoker didn't like mysteries he didn't know the answers to, so he made inquiries. Far too many hours later (he was used to getting information he wanted =right= =away=), he knew the FAX had been sent from a hole-in-the-wall business, one of those mailbox/office-away-from-home places, in a mall between Ft. Lewis and Tacoma, the city south of Seattle, Washington. He knew it had been sent during the lunch hour and the counter attendant couldn't even remember if it had been a man or a woman. In short, he knew almost as much now as when he started. This -definitely- annoyed the Smoker, but he had sense enough =not= to let the young agent who brought him the report know this. Only -he- was supposed to be able to know what was happening anywhere in the country at a moments notice. Only -he- was supposed to be able to move in and out of the shadows, to threaten or take or steal a life any time he wanted. Only -he- was supposed to be able to do what the sender of this... this... :so:-:called: ::report:: had just done. Yes, this =definitely= annoyed the Smoker! But he could not admit, =certainly= not to -himself-, that it also caused a spark of fear to kindle within him, a feeling he hadn't had to deal with in years, decades even. Slowly, it began to disturb his sleep. Weeks from now it would cause him to wake up in the wee hours of a night in a cold sweat ... and not remember why. And in the dark hours of the night, with sour, fear-stinking sweat dripping off him, he would hear the quiet, insistent sound of a drum, beating to a tempo he couldn't identify ... but reaching in to grab his heart and freeze it with the icy fingers of terror. Evenually he would convince himself it was only the sound of his heartbeat in his ears and he would return to his increasingly uneasy sleep. End of Story 6 -- "IntRep"