Not Everything Dies (1/1) Deirdre (deirdre@x-philes.com) *Spoilers for Season 4 premiere* Notes: I never expect Chris Carter to actually do something like this. Instead this story arose from my wicked mind combining several discussions over on FicTalk, and my interest in Mulder's new contact within the conspiracy. I've been wondering exactly how the 'chain of command' passes from Mr. X to Marita, and how the two would have known each other. Personally I don't think there's an overly organized anti-conspiracy movement within CancerMan's group, or if there is it's a very recent, somewhat disorganized movement. So here are some of my ideas on how, why Mr. X directed Mulder to her, and why she is willing to be his contact. Don't worry 'shippers ... I don't want her to be a romantic interest any more than most of you do. Summery: Marita Covarrubias considers her new duty, reflecting on how she ended up doubting and turning against the conspiracy. Season 4 premiere spoilers. Ratings: PG for language, V A Disclaimer: The X-Files belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and company. They are used without permission. ***** "Not everything dies, Mr. Mulder." My eyes tracing the children in the photo, those words echo hollowly through my mind, tormenting me. My eyes trace the identical features of the blonde-headed boys, the identical cowlicks that flop into their eyes. The brown-headed girls, hair in identical braids. Rows upon rows of identical boys and girls, so intent upon their work, oblivious to the world around them. Just drones, no minds, no freedom, no understanding ... thoughtless drones ... children ... A bitter laugh breaks from my lips and the photo sails across the dim-lit room, drifting upon the air-currents. Just a fragile piece of paper ... such a fragile vessel to convey pieces of the truth ... it could be lies, created to tease, to conceal the truth. I'm sure that over the past few days, the bureau has had its best techs searching the other copy for any clue that it isn't genuine ... Unfortunately, I know the truth. Or at least enough of the truth that I can't hide behind walls of self-deceit, can't hide my head under the blankets like little child and trust that the storm will pass. Can't believe in goodness and rainbows when I've seen all the lies and grief the world holds. Oh, the truth. That word's so subjective. Far more than the black and white some people try to divide the world into, to understand human beings. One thing I've come to realize ... humans *cannot* be understood. Blackest evil, extreme cruelty, co-existing with hope, a strange belief in the intrinsic goodness of the world ... it just doesn't make sense! How can love touch the heart of people emersed in darkness - people to whom the death of thousands means not a thing? I've seen it happen. Not just once, but time and time again. Love, the greatest weakness, the greatest strength of the human creature - a force of hope, I guess, a force that no one can escape. Watching the photo settle to the carpeted floor, I feel the tears - tears which have fallen far too often over the past few days - gather once again at the corners of my eyes. Curling more deeply into my plush armchair, pulling my warm afghan more tightly around me, I angerly brush them away, banishing such childish reactions to the dark depths of my mind where they belong. Look at me! A woman grown, a success in my field, successfully playing in the old-boys network ... what place do I have for tears? Quietly they fall. Damn it, I don't have the time or energy for this ... sorrow is just plain useless now. Anyway, that damn photo ... that damn photo, that I had known about for years. Why now, why does being confronted by the reality, so upset me? For an instant, my mind flew back to the beaten, almost broken man that I had spoken to for so short a time ... then to a caring, stern face so well-known ... and the children, those mindless, beautiful children ... taking deep breaths I realized why. No longer were these people, the truth, just abstract numbers on paper that I dealt carelessly with, ignoring my slight pangs of guilt. Knew that through that one decision - a decision supported ... suggested ... manipulated by *him* - I'd changed my life forever. That after years of suppressing my own humanity, my own ideas of right and wrong, I'd discovered the human factor. Besides, no matter how much I try to deny it, it just isn't the photo I'm crying over. ***** Oh god ... I can remember that night just over a month ago, absentmindedly watching the evening news. Nothing really interesting, just reporters clustered around the scene of a breaking story - a murdered John Doe. Then, later in the newscast, the broadcast of the plea for help in identifying the man ... the broadcast of his photo ... My heart stopped. Desperately, I'd tried to get a hold of him, praying that I'd been mistaken ... it was a horrible photograph, after all. And black gang- bangers died too often in DC - the resemblance could have been just my imagination. But after hours of endlessly ringing phones, after hours of watching every broadcast of the picture, I knew that there was no denying this truth. It was perfectly obvious what he had died doing, who had killed him ... at least to me. But he was *dead* ... I'd never expected that. Sure, I'd known the dangerous game he played, but he was always so strong, so sure. So sure ... so sure that he could survive amongst the web of intrigue that lay, another invisible layer across the secrets of the Consortum. But he wasn't stupid. Although he played the game, played his dual role with such assurity, he knew how easily he could take the fall, and took all logical precautions. Especially since he'd seen his predecessor, his best friend, die playing the same role. Some nights I'd catch him staring off into the distance, worry wrinkling the corner of his eyes, the expression of a hunted animal briefly creasing his face. And I'd try to tease him out of his mood ... tease him into forgetting his worries ... suppressing my own. Now he's gone. The mentor, the lover, who I had come to so depend upon over the past year to listen to my doubts, my worries, my hopes, is forever gone ... shot by one of those cowardly bastards I'd obeyed, trusted until he'd appeared, forcing me to question, to think. Damn it. I can't even claim the body, give him a name and decent burial, because now I must protect myself. Cut myself off from the memory of a traitor, just like any good member of the Consortum. I know that he'd understand ... he wasn't a sentimental man, but still ... ***** He wasn't a stupid man. When his friend died, luckily he was in the right place to step in, to take over. Although it wasn't a role he wanted, he saw it as his duty. And he wasn't prepared to risk that his own demise might break the chain, leave the man without a contact. I guess I was the logical choice. Not high enough to come under suspicion if secrets began to leak, not so low in the power structure that I might not believe in the insane things that his system of informants would pass onto me. Just perfect. Slightly overlooked, but intelligent, with the right knowledge and access ... I've know for a long time that was why he seduced me in the first place. He was looking for someone that he could carefully manipulate, carefully instill doubt in, someone that seemed perfectly loyal to the Consortum but could be swayed, someone his equals and superiors would easily dismiss from suspicion. I, on the other hand, was just looking for a relationship that I really didn't need to invest too much of myself in. What actually happened ... well, that's another story. We both ended up with more than we expected, exactly what we needed. I was such a cold bitch back then. Separated from memories, from emotions, I was the perfect Consortum member, slowly working my way through the ranks. Unquestioning about what went on, unfeeling ... accepting ... With one weakness I thought I'd defeated years before. A weakness he'd so easily exploited ... just with some photos, some information, much of which I'd actually already know, but thought about like in a half-dream, knowing but not really caring. I'd rarely touched, seen a piece of solid evidence beyond what I'd dealt with daily ... Christ, he could be so cruel when forcing people to confront what they'd rather not ... so sarcastic ... But when the truth hit too hard ... when the memories became too dismal .... he'd always been there. Until now. The photo, lying face-down on the pale grey rug, catches my distracted, blurry eye again. So long, barely troubled by aspects of what I dealt with every day, I'd just accepted. Brainwashed into accepting the need for the projects, the need for the secrecy and the lies. Until he'd chosen me as his successor ... and the faint, disregarded memories had become something more ... with the Project something more terrible than I'd ever been willing to face ... <"What happened to your brother?" ... harsh fingers bruising my fourteen-year-old shoulders ... "Where is he!?!?" "Leave her alone, honey, please." ... being gathered into thick arms, my father speaking over my head ... "It's not her fault." A horrified glance thrown ... sobs ringing through the house... running footsteps, slamming doors ... "Marita, darling" my father's husky voice, shocked, sad, accepting. "Let me tell you about something ..."> I'd always considered myself lucky, far luckier than one like Mulder - *my* father had returned to the Consortum, like a loyal *dog*, and had worked past his disgrace. And he'd dragged me along - like father, like daughter - one who the Consortum didn't let forget but gathered to itself. One that understood but didn't care, one that knew the secrets, knew the truth. But I, the girl I was, the girl who had flourished under that tutorage, had neither been allowed to grieve or question. How had father accepted? Hell, how had I accepted? Father had willing returned, despite realizing that we would never regain Alex, willingly worked for those that had stolen his son. Sacrificed to the greater good ... he was such a bastard. And of course I'd believed, followed the path set before me. Until I encountered the one that opened my eyes to more of the truth ... reopening wounds closed since childhood ... forcing me to see the price in human suffering that we caused ... And now I alone stand in his place. All this power, all this knowledge, his informants, now at *my* command ... *my* eyes and ears into that vast, unbelievable conspiracy that ruled our government. Supplying me with information far beyond what I'd been cleared to know ... information many will kill for. And his task ... ***** He'd told me some things about Mulder, enough to make my life easier *if* I ever needed to take over. Especially during those times when I'd grumbled because his stodgies had alerted him to Mulder's call, interrupting everything and anything. Jerkass's call once hauled him out of an opera we'd both so longed to see ... He'd tried to explain the man to me, tried to explain why he answered his call, tried to make me understand what I'd go through if I took over. Of course, I'd protested, telling him he was being too extreme, laughing at the idea that they'd ever expose him. He wasn't stupid, nor naive. Maybe I was lost in love, maybe I was too blind ... he tried to tell me of the risks. Even as he'd recently told me his suspicions, the way he felt a net closing in on him, I'd still laughed, although I'd held him tighter. Now, only I, far from the center of power, knowledge limited by circumstances, stand without him ... facing a man more intent on his search for the truth than ever. Thank God we'd kept our relationship so extremely quiet ... it had been logical, especially since such relationships between mentors and their pupils within the Consortum had been looked down upon, but now it proved life-saving. There was no reason for anyone to suspect me, the perfect up-and-coming member of the project ... Yeah, of course they'd watched me closely these past few weeks - he *had* been my assigned mentor in our group, the one designated to draw me into its unbreakable grasp. It's such a perfect system they use ... the master teaching the apprentice ... and so of course they'd watched me. You don't want the flaws of the teacher becoming the flaws of the student. I could feel the eyes on my back with every step I took, hear the whispers of the few colleagues at the office, the slight distortion of my telephone conversations ... yeah, they'd watched me closely those first few weeks after his murder. But after publicly denouncing him to several others, denouncing his betrayal, claiming he deserved the nameless death granted him, and systematically ridding myself of any connection to the man, the word had come down through my contacts. The hierarchy believed in my innocence, in my loyalty; they trusted me. In fact, according to one of my contacts, my performance over the past month had been awarded a high honor indeed. One of the top men in the Consortium, after reviewing my case with his board, had informed them that I was the coldest bitch he'd ever run into. Just what he'd expected out of a member of my family ... just what he'd expected out of me. One of the most perfect junior members of our group, a role model for the rest. The next generation ... coming up into the shadows ... coming into the power ... a cold-hearted, perfect bitch, without a conscience, without regret. I'd learned my lessons well, he'd claimed, closing the case. And so now I'm alone ... cut off from anything that meant anything to me ... cut off from him and the memory of him ... And facing my grief, my doubts, my fear, for the first time in years. How easily I could have been Mulder ... how easily he could have been me. See, I know his story, better than he does himself ... and I know that if the twelve-year-old had been brought into the project as I was, he'd sure as hell *not* be searching for the truth right now. But, remembering his grief-filled eyes, I envy him. I'd rather be burdened with a search for the truth than playing with fire - lost in confusion, stuck between two worlds. I'd rather not know what I know ... if only to be able to act upon the hatred, the sorrow, the outrage that burns in my chest while a cool smile freezes my lips. Instead I'll feed him tid-bits ... little pieces of the truth ... and hope that in his triumphs, I'll find my revenge. I've learned my lessons well, Sirs, I've learned my lessons well. Just like the man called X. End.