From: SpookyFoxz@aol.com
Date: Sat, 27 Mar 1999 19:13:07 EST
Subject: "Private Musings" story

Title: "Private Musings" (1/1)
Author: Spooky Zac
E-mail: SpookyFoxz@aol.com
Rating: G
Classification: Story, maybe a little Angst
Spoilers: Duane Barry, Ascension, Anasazi, Musings of a 
Cigarette-Smoking Man, Patient X, The Red and the Black, 
The End, One Son (all very vague)

Disclaimer: The X-Files, Mulder, Scully, and all other 
characters mentioned or referred to here belong to 
Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen, Fox Networks, et cetera.  I'm
not making any money off this (but I did find a quarter in the
couch when I was taking a break from writing it).

Summary: A character attempts to justify his actions 
to another character...and possibly to himself.

This is my first and probably only fanfic, but I suppose that 
depends on the response I get.  Feedback is, of course, welcome, 
but I really don't need to deal with any flames.  I'm busy 
enough.
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

SUNDAY, 12:11 AM

     The man opened his eyes, the black and white moving people in 
front of him eventually registering as images on his television 
screen. He had been asleep, dreaming, or merely dosing, half awake, 
in the chair...he did not recall which, and that fact mildly 
troubled him.  He gazed at the television a moment more without 
really seeing it before standing from his chair, stiffly, and 
walking over to his desk, the softly glowing lamp there in stark 
contrast to the darkness which somehow threatened to seep in through 
the closed windows and suffocate him.  He stopped.  Fitting a piece 
of paper into the typewriter before him, he sat and stared at it 
blankly, unmoving.  Finally, he withdrew both a cigarette and a 
lighter from his pocket.  A thin wisp of smoke soon curled 
languidly upwards, towards the ceiling of the room, as the 
distinctive sound of typewriter keys being pushed soon drowned out 
the drone of the television.
     "Nothingness.  Darkness.  Space, to impose such a restrictive 
definition upon that which defies simple explanation, somehow an 
integral player in the dramas of both life and death, and yet its 
clandestine association remains inconceivable even to those who 
would gaze at its vast reaches with a mind to interpret their 
mysteries.  For those who seek an absolute answer, there shall be 
one of two inevitable results:  justification, truths discovered 
that purge a man of all his doubts and worries about how he has 
spent his life, a renewed sense of determination; disillusion, 
truths discovered that shatter our belief systems, force us to 
question our purpose and move inexorably towards the conclusion 
that we have devoted our lives to a lie.
     At times, it seems that the only way in which we ever know 
ourselves is in retrospect, reexamining our actions and our 
desires from the viewpoint of having already experienced their 
sensations, critiquing the transitory memories of the past as if 
appraising old photographs, their edges withered and their 
meaning fading.
     Sacrifice.
     In any era when a man would become great, he must, unwavering, 
make the decisions for the greater good, in pursuance of the long 
time goals, despite the liabilities and responsibilites--the 
sacrifices--these decisions force upon him, along with the pain and 
regret which will inevitably follow.  These things, however, these 
feelings--these emotions--are simple comforts, luxuries, to be 
precise, which we offer ourselves in a vain attempt to justify our 
actions, to convince ourselves that the circumstances in which we 
acted forced our hands.  For us, for our country, there could be no 
other way.  And yet, in all the years I have lived, have acted--have 
been strong, decisive, always with an eye on the larger goal, 
controlling the board piece by intimate piece, this night--this 
night, as I exist in solitude, surrounded by nothingness, darkness, 
space--within and without--this is not the only night during which 
long hours have been spent pondering the actions I have taken in 
this quest--this quest which I alone could undertake.  And yet I, 
who--if not the most responsible for the way in which the game has 
progressed, than am without doubt among those the most 
responsible--I alone survive to recount the game, to record the key 
moves and strategies for those to whom it might make a difference; 
and perhaps, by doing so, my own absolution might be attained, in 
the eyes of others, for in my own, I have taken the only possible 
course.
     I had misgivings about recording this--both the history as well 
as my own machinations and interpretations--but will delay no 
longer.  And yet I type rather than write, unable even in the most 
intimate document I conceive to reveal that singular aspect of 
myself which serves to distinguish me; to set me apart even further 
from the relative familiarity of communication which is now becoming 
technologically obsolete, to conceal my soul even while making known 
its part in the drama which has unfolded.
     You undoubtedly think me a perversion, a twisted 
misrepresentation of all that you believe to be good and upright in 
the society which you yourself shun even as you worked--work--to 
uncover the truth behind its continued existence.  You yourself are 
a perversion, though perhaps you do not see things from this 
perspective, nor does your partner.  However, her perspective is 
most certainly an unreliability, for she does not see--nor would she 
believe even if she did--the entire picture.  You, on the other 
hand, are somewhat of an enigma.  You have seen things--more than 
anyone else who has not directly participated has ever seen--have 
glimpsed the crisis which has forced upon us the actions we have 
taken--and yet have not succumbed.  You have remained true, pursued 
your own self-interest--though perhaps I am mistaken, as your 
pursuance of the X-Files is directly attributable to your sister--, 
continued your own crusade rather than allowing yourself to become 
a part of someone else's.  In this respect has your partner failed, 
for in her utter devotion to you she loses the objectivity which is 
required for survival.  Perhaps I am mistaken here, as well, as she 
has survived those things which many like her have not.  Though she 
has you to thank, in part, for her continued existence.  
Regardless, it is to you and you alone which I write--to explain 
myself, my actions, why I had to orchestrate the things that I have 
orchestrated.
     I have delayed.  I sit here, taking a moment to look over what 
I have written--typed--thus far.  It is not my wish to continue, and 
several times I have put off this act.  Tonight shall be different.  
I reach into my pocket and withdraw a pack of Morley's and my 
lighter.  This lighter has not left my side in at least twenty 
years.  Perhaps you've seen it, but you have not appreciated it as I 
have.  It was a gift, both a gift and a warning, which I purchased 
and wrapped for myself one Christmas years ago.  "Trust no one" 
reads the inscription on its body, a reminder--every time I light a 
cigarette--of the sacrifices I have made in order to reach this 
point.  I am addicted.  To the cigarettes, yes, but that is a 
combination of weakness in body and strength of mind.  It would be a 
simple matter to purchase a patch and dispense with this habit--this 
ritualistic action--that serves only to bring my closer to my own 
demise.  However, I will not allow it--will not allow myself that 
luxury.  There are things I have done that, even in my darkest 
moments, I regret, but I alone hold the status to punish myself for 
them.  They shall not be made know even to you, and even if you have 
knowledge of the events themselves, my hand in them surely remains 
undetected.  I would attempt to convince myself of this as a luxury, 
but in my heart I know that you know.  I am no longer as secret as I 
once was, and yet you will never know more of me than various 
aliases or a few scattered obituaries save for that which I make 
known to you myself.
     I have delayed.  Several cigarettes have been lit and discarded 
in the time between the completion of the last paragraph and the 
beginning of this one.  It is difficult to find the words, the 
adequate connotations to express what I feel I must share with you.  
Years ago, I uncovered things in a manner not unlike your pursuance 
of your sister.  I, however, was fueled neither by deep beliefs nor 
the desire to justify them.  It brings a nostalgic and grim smile to 
my face, remembering how accidental it all was.  None of us were 
ready, no one was, to discover the things which altered our course, 
forced us to make a decision that would alter this nation's--this 
world's course.  Under the cover of myriad government agencies in all 
the major powers, the group acquired more and more power, no longer 
requiring the approval of the heads of countries or divisons in order 
to conduct activities.  We controlled the governments and yet they 
became oblivious to our existence.  We became the governments' 
shadow, the silent advisors who would attempt to win a quiet war.  
Eventually, we recognized the futility of resistance and the logical 
course of action became clear.  We would submit and cooperate in 
order to prolong our own existences, with the purpose of devoting our 
considerable resources towards a solution to our problem, the world's 
problem that few would ever know.  We were unaware of a faction 
developing in the enemy community, rebels who would fight against the 
self-proclaimed destiny of the remainder of their group and 
eventually, though no one would have guessed it at the time, gain the 
upper hand.  Meanwhile, we saw the necessity of developing a solution 
at any cost, and took the appropriate measures, forging plausible 
denial for all activities that could in any way be linked to our 
agenda, and from there to us, and from us to the enemy.  As you 
became painfully aware of, a solution was indeed developed and 
utilized, but not perfected.  And now it seems this solution is 
irrelevant--our work but meandering stall tactics for the rebels to 
turn the tide of battle against their own kind.
     Of these things, you have become more or less aware.  You and I, 
we are perhaps the only two who grasp the meaning of what has 
transpired.  It is a perverted irony that things would come full 
circle in this manner, but perhaps unavoidable.  You have proven 
yourself resourceful, managing to return even when our utmost efforts 
were devoted towards your destruction.  I even orchestrated your 
removal from the X-Files unit and the destruction of your years of 
work, hoping to break your spirit.  Did I succeed?  You will have to 
tell me, for those agonizing months, did you doubt your purpose, as 
I now doubt my own?  You had your partner, though, and therin was 
the mistake.  Your devotion to the X-Files is matched only by your 
devotion to her, and hers to you.  Is she the reason, then, that 
you had not ceased your efforts?  I have no such person in my life, 
having made the decision to place my work above all else.  It 
earned me solitude then, and I have naught to show for it now except 
solitude;  those who could have come the closest to being called 
family are now either ashes or exist only in phantom memories.
     I have strayed.  My original intention was to explain to you 
the reasons for the actions which had taken place.  My son was a 
failure, in all respects.  He betrayed me and he betrayed our 
cause.  I took him and molded him, gave him a career, gave him a 
future, gave him the things he would never have earned on his 
own--and I was betrayed.  "Trust no one."  I would never have 
imagined I would have to punish my own son, the son of a woman I 
never even loved, for pushing away his chance at greatness.  Even 
Alex, my tool, my scalpel instead of a sword, who also had turned 
against me, came to recognize the necessity of our actions once he 
was made aware of the larger game, and yet my own offspring became a 
threat to me.  In actuality, Jeffrey was more of a disappointment 
than a threat.  I was correct in rebuking him:  he did, indeed, pale 
to you, in all respects.  Weakness is not an affordable commodity.  
Perhaps this seems harsh to you, but what are a few lives when 
compared to the possible destruction of this planet's population?  
Pawns must be sacrificed in order to obtain a more favorable 
position in the game, and the higher pieces may need to be 
sacrificed in order to assure victory.  However, we predicted the 
outcome, and the best way to predict the future is to create it.
     All that has been done has been toward the larger goal of 
securing a future for us, the few who would work for it, and the 
ones we loved--or the ones we tried to love.  But knowing the 
sacrifices that were made, would you have been able to join us?  
Did you waver, did you doubt, did you consider journeying to our 
meeting place for salvation?  In the end, it is fortunate that you 
did not, but was it refusal to associate with me--what you 
perceive as my principles--that prevented your punctual arrival?
     You accuse me.  Whenever we meet, you accuse me.  Do you know of 
any specific, self-perceived crime with which you charge me, or is it 
simply an excuse to keep yourself from becoming what you believe I 
have become?  You can not judge me;  you know little of the 
whole--you have seen but pieces, even in grasping at the fibers of 
the tapestry.  The scientists, the brilliant war criminals granted 
amnesty--despite the admissible and yet opiniated atrocity of their 
previous actions, the only way in which to guarantee an effective 
solution to our dilemma was to test it.  The only way in which to 
keep the truth of our activities secret from the enemy was to keep 
knowledge to ourselves with a tenacity surpassing that of any 
determined to uncover the truth.  Our work would have been 
meaningless if it was revealed before completion.  I had secretly 
hoped to make you a part of it.  You had--have--immense potential, 
potential that should have been utilized.  Perhaps it still could.  
Although not the original intention, the abduction of your partner 
furthered this purpose.  Her cancer furthered this purpose.  Would 
you deny that she is the only one for whom you would consider making 
what you perceive to be an unforgivable sacrifice?  Out of respect 
for your father, for his memory--our of respect for your mother--I 
wished to give you a more active role in our plans--I wished to make 
you, to regain for you the respect and reputation you had lost with 
your continued devotion to the X-Files.  I wished to save you.  No 
act is entirely selfless.  You will no doubt see it as an attempt to 
ease my conscience about the unfortunate death of your father, but 
you are blind to the truth--to my truth.  Your emotions prevent you 
from seeing things clearly.
     Aeschylus wrote, 'Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget 
falls drop by drop upon the heart, until in our lonely despair 
against God's will comes wisdom, through the awful grace of God.'  I 
endeavored to bring to you, with this writing, an understanding:  an 
understanding that the events which transpired could not have 
transpired in any other way.  However, as I have said, no act is 
entirely selfless.  I may have need of you in the future, for a 
larger purpose that you may not yet begin to comprehend.  It would 
be fortuitous, your knowledge of these things, these things which 
have shaped my life and required me to shape the future of our 
planet, but I can reveal them to you with the promise of your 
allegiance--your loyalty--to me when I ask it of you at a later 
time.  However, once you become aware of the situation which would 
result in my need of you--or rather, for your presense could easily 
be replaced by another who is loyal to me, my desire for your 
assistance--I hope you will reexamine the facts with eyes not 
hindered by emotion and make the correct choice, the only choice, 
as I did so many years ago.
     I have said the things which I believed to be necessary in 
order to make you understand the necessity of what you have 
witnessed.  Your consideration of my offer is of the utmost 
importance.  However, the time for petty games has passed.  The 
larger scheme of things has taken a prevalent place in the agenda 
to which my life has been devoted for the last fifty years.  Fate, 
monstrous and empty, which dictates the continued action of great 
men for a great purpose; free will, virtuous and glorious, allows 
us to make our own determinations as to whether or not we can rise 
to the challenge of becoming great.  The choice is yours, though I 
would do all in my power to coerce you into making what I believe 
to be the right one.  You would perceive your resistance to make 
you stronger than I, who did not resist, but the choice was not 
mine to make.  There was no other way, no fork in the path, so to 
speak.  No other option save to commit myself wholely to the 
purpose of securing salvation.  There were and are no other roads I 
can travel.  I am resigned to the fate, monstrous and empty and 
alone, which is and may have always been my destiny.  Perhaps, in 
the end, you will discover that it is yours, as well."
     With a sound--that might have been a sigh--that conveyed both 
satisfaction and dread, the man stood and removed the paper from the 
typewriter, placing it facedown on the small stack of filled pages 
also facedown, next to the machine.  He folded them, carefully, in 
once-strong hands that were now betrayed by a tremor, ever so 
slight as to be barely noticable, and placed the pages in an 
envelope.  He held the package for a moment, then withdrew his 
lighter once again.  His slightly calloused thumb slowly pushed open 
the old metal top and pushed again to produce the flame, which 
wavered slightly before steadying into a bright orange glow before 
him.  He contemplated the fire, its glow flickering in his eyes.  He 
shifted his gaze to the envelope, and moved the lighter closer to 
it.  The flame seemed to strain towards the paper, hungrily, before 
he suddenly threw the lighter across the room.  He watched it impact 
with the wall and fall onto the faded carpet, a dull gleam still 
present in his eye, before he turned away and moved towards his 
trench coat, slung over the back of his chair.  As he bent to 
retrieve it, he noticed a small, practically insignificant spot of 
moisture distorting its dull gray color.  As he focused on this with 
something almost--but not quite--akin to wonder, the first spot was 
joined by a second, and a third, before he squeezed his eyes shut 
against the sudden wetness there, swung his coat over his shoulders, 
and walked hurredly towards the door.

FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, 10:23 PM

     Fox Mulder tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes once again, 
with little success.  He became aware of a sound, repeating somewhere 
near him.  He turned his head suddenly, brown-green eyes registering 
confusion for a moment.  The woman he saw, her face only two feet 
from his own, was saying his name.
     "Mulder,"  Scully repeated again, holding back an exasperated 
sigh.
     Mulder closed his eyes briefly and shook his head to clear it.
     "Sorry," he mumbled, again rubbing at his heavy lids.  A recent 
memory clicked.  "You were saying something...?"
     Scully did not repress the sigh this time.  "Mulder, it's 
almost ten-thirty.  How much longer are we going to stay here?"  
They had been in their office since early in the morning, Mulder 
trying to restore his corner of the room, and Scully hers, all while 
Mulder tried to recover the shredded casefiles that Spender had left 
in a box for him before his unexplained and unexpected death.  Every 
so often, he had succeeded, and proceeded to show the file to Scully, 
a little more than halfheartedly.  For nearly thirteen straight 
hours, they had been typing, talking, arguing, shooting theories back 
and forth, and doing it all over again.  It had been a long day. 
     Mulder's eyes flicked to the clock, which suddenly--though 
briefly--became twins.  "Hey, Scully, since when did we have two 
clocks in here?"
     Scully's gaze shifted to the clock, to Mulder, to the clock, and 
back again.  She shut down her laptop and stood.  "C'mon, Mulder.  
I'll take you home.  Unless you want to try and avoid twice as much 
late-night traffic as usual."  She graced him with a wry 
almost-smile.  Mulder, nodding acquiescence, managed a weak grin and 
tried to think of a one-liner he could come back with, but nothing 
sprang to mind.  He wearily began to get up.  Scully opened their 
door and stopped short, bending over.  Mulder frowned curiously.
     "What is it, Scully?  Floor dirty again?  I've been meaning to 
complain to the maids...I knew we should've gone with Roto-Rooter."
     Ignoring the remark, Scully straigtened and turned to him, 
handing him the envelope she had retrieved from just outside their 
door.  "Who delivers mail at ten-thirty at night?"
     Mulder sat back down, tearing open the envelope.  "Maybe no 
one.  The way we've been going, this could've been there all day 
and we'd never have known it."  He turned the envelope over.  "It's 
not postmarked.  No stamp.  No return address."  He withdrew the 
contents of the envelope and unfolded them.  As his eyes moved back 
and forth over the letter, he emerged from the fatigue-induced 
stupor.
     Scully noticed the change and hesitated by the door, uncertainty 
rippling through her.  "Mulder?  What is it?"  He looked up, his eyes 
meeting hers for a second, then furtively moving back to the paper in 
front of him.  Scully's concern deepened when she saw the smoldering 
anger in his gaze.  She watched, fascinated in spite of herself, as 
the anger slowly changed into something else as his eyes moved over 
the letter.  "Mulder?"
     He looked up again, and the anger was still there, hard, but 
behind it was something else.  Sadness?  Doubt?  Before she could 
ask him, again, what the letter was about, he spoke.
     "Go on, Scully, go home.  I'm gonna stay here for a while and 
finish some things.  I'll be okay."
     Scully still lingered, unconvinced, but not prying.  "Are you 
sure?  What is it?"  He nodded in response to her first question, but 
did not answer her second, and no trace of a smile appeared this 
time.  "All right.  See you tomorrow, Mulder."  With a final, 
concerned glance at him, she left, shutting the door quietly behind 
her.
     Mulder, alone in the office, sat unmoving, seeing the papers in 
front of him but not seeing them; the intense gaze with which he had 
begun to read them was focused on something that, had Scully still 
been in the office, she would not have seen.  He did not stir from 
that spot once he continued reading, and the light in the basement 
office did not go out that night.