From: Deirdre Date: Thu, 6 Aug 1998 17:48:11 -0500 (EST) Subject: New: A Reason to Try (1/1) A Reason to Try (1/1) Deirdre (deirdre@x-philes.com) Rating: PG Category: SA Spoilers: None Summary: The end and the beginning of the X-Files. Author's notes: I'm the type of person that writes ninety percent of a story then sticks it away forevermore. I posted the first section of this story in early 1997 to XFF and ATXC under a different title. I can't remember *what* title I posted it under, though. Feedback is welcome ;-) Disclaimer: The X-Files belongs to FOX television and 1013 productions. No copyright infringement intended. Written: August, 1996 Finished: July, 1998 ****** Walter Skinner walked into his office, the dark circles beneath his eyes betraying his lack of sleep. God, he was getting too old for this ... the days when the job meant anything were far past. But still he continued, day after day. It was habit, and habits are hard to break. Especially if you don't care enough to try. But yesterday ... yesterday, something had jolted him out of his daily routine, forced him to remember the days when he cared and when the job had meant more than the paycheck. When his tarnished belief in justice had last shone forth. And he'd spent last night *trying* to figure it out. It had seemed innocent enough: a simple request for a transfer by an agent down at Quantico, an agent who wanted to enter field work. Good marks at the academy, an excellent record during her years at Quantico, just another agent looking to advance her career. Until he glanced at *where* the woman wanted to transfer. Agent Mira Clendan, a sane (yes, he'd checked) woman, with an a spotless reputation, wanted a transfer to the X-files. Blinking with disbelief, he'd re-read the report, confirming that it *was not* some sort of cruel joke. Then he'd set up a meeting with Agent Clendan, determined to get to the bottom of it, and convince her of the insanity of her choice. He'd failed, on both accounts. Calmly smiling, she evaded his attempts to determine her motives, confirmed her decision to transfer into the X-files, and stated her willingness to work under whatever restrictions he choose to place upon her. She was a woman sure of her goals and apparently knowledgeable about the X-files division and the risks associated with it. But how did any young agent learn about the division closed in shame ten years before? Although the memory of the division, the memory of the agents that once convinced him that truth-seeking people still existed, hovered just on the edge of his mind, the understood but not acknowledged reason his career had dead-ended itself, he'd never even *seen* a mention of the division in the past ten years. With the office and files locked down, and the subject a taboo throughout the bureau, he couldn't understand how this respectable agent had stumbled across the former existence of the division, much less become interested in it. But most importantly - the question which had kept him awake, tossing and turning all night - how could she know about the dangers, the government intrigues, all the shit she was getting into? What happened to the other two ... his mind abruptly shied away from that memory ... he couldn't believe it, but couldn't disprove it. No one else needed to suffer that way. Hell, Fox Mulder was still on the FBI's most wanted list, eight years after anyone had last seen him. Although Walter actually doubted the man still lived. No one needed to suffer that way. So he'd made his toughest decision. He needed to keep the X-files buried and forgotten. And save the woman from the grief that those files would cause her. Now, he just had to tell her. Sitting down at his desk, he found a new file folder resting precisely in the middle of the blotter, with a note from his secretary claiming that it had come in ten minutes after he'd left yesterday. Cursing whatever impulse had forced him to leave early, just to pace around his apartment for hours on end, he opened it. A note, written in a clear and steady hand, lay on top. Dear Sir, Please read this before making your decision. I didn't know whether to give it to you or not during our earlier meeting, but the way any mention of the X-files division disturbed you during that meeting convinced me that you needed to see it. It will explain much. MC He could just close the file, declare his decision, save her and everyone from the misery the X-files carried with them. Save himself the grief of walking that line again and of seeing another brilliant agent trampled beneath the secrets of those files. He turned the page, to the scrawled cursive that covered pages torn from a notebook, and began to read. ***** My world ended at 11:53am on a cool autumn morning. How do I remember that so exactly? Well when you watch your world die before your eyes, unable to do a thing about it, you remember. Besides I'd been staring at the damn bank clock flashing on the corner for the past two hours ... stupid place to have a clock, anyhow. It was so unexpected. We didn't think anyone cared we were still meeting, two years after I'd been chased from the bureau in disgrace. But we should have known it wasn't going to be that easy or that They wouldn't be content with my mere disgrace. We'd almost touched the truth, almost exposed their lies, before everything was stolen from me. Well, almost everything ... But, I'd lived in relative obscurity for more than two years, careful to do nothing to attract the attention of my enemies, while she'd carefully pretended a disinterest in the work we'd formerly dedicated our lives to. We'd hoped it was enough. We'd prayed it was enough. Obviously, it wasn't. That morning, I'd sat waiting upon the stoop of my apartment building, staring up the tree-lined street, past the leaves just touched with the promise of fall, watching the bank on the corner, waiting. Just staring, silently hoping. She got out of the cab just like she always did, under the clock upon the corner. After exchanging a few words with the cabbie and tossing him a wry grin, she'd paid him then watched the cab drive off before beginning down the street. All our precautions, all our worries seemed so silly to me as she walked through the morning sun, through the shifting patches of light and dark patterned upon the sidewalk. It had been two months since I'd seen her last, two long months since we'd dared to meet. All I wanted to do was run down the sidewalk towards her, and be greeted by her beautiful smile. But all I did was move further back into the shadow that hid me. The street had been so empty that morning, of course; it was a residential block, mostly working parents and school-aged kids, all where they belonged that Wednesday. Only person I'd seen that morning had been the young woman that took care of the grass, hauling away the sprinklers and hoses maybe ten minutes earlier. But as she walked towards me, nothing but the slight breeze stirred, tossing her slightly curly hair upon it. No one else walked down the street and no car passed. Perfect for their plan. Just as she reached the half-way point on her walk, just at the point where I'd be visible to her sharp eyes, a car roared around the corner, wheels squealing. A hotrod ... idiotic teenager playing hooky. Or so I'd thought. But just as they past her, the car shuttered to a stop. Suspecting smart-aleck teenagers deciding to hit upon her, I'd stood up. Yeah, I knew she could handle herself, but just in case. That's when I saw it, the sunlight flashing off the metal. And she, turning her head to confront the jerks, saw it too. But far too late. The shot echoed between the turn-of-the-century facades of the small apartments, and she threw herself to the side, desperately trying to avoid the shot. But they were too near, their aim too sure ... and as I began to run, I could see the red blossoming on her chest. The car shot past me, gunning for the intersection, and something sailed out from its windows to land between my running feet, almost tripping me. A package of cigarettes, Morley's to be exact. With a curse I'd kicked it to the side, concentrating only upon the sight of her, lying motionless on the pavement. Even then, I should have realized it was hopeless, the amount of blood, splattered across the sidewalk, her t-shirt, everywhere ... But only when I lifted the body into my lap, felt the lack of a pulse, and stared at the perfectly-placed heart-shot, did I believe. And desperately searched my mind for a way to follow her. But then, running footsteps ... a shouting voice ... interrupted my thoughts. And hands landed upon the wound, as a tense voice asked if I knew CPR. Raising my eyes, I'd recognized the girl I'd seen earlier, panic contained behind a wall of calm in her green eyes. And with my partner's head in my lap, her life's blood staining the sidewalk and our hands burgundy, like the painting of a demented artist, I'd mumbled "It's too late." She'd grasped her wrist, feeling for a pulse, then stood, the blood now staining her jeans. "Damn gangbangers! I'll call ..." And I'd realized ... realized what this must mean, what they'd planned to do. And lurching to my feet after placing her auburn head back gently upon the ground, I'd whispered hoarsely "Don't. Not until I'm away." "What?" she'd gaped at me, stepping back. "They planned it, they set me up. Call the police with me here, and I'll be in jail in an hour, with enough solid evidence to get me the chair." And I'd turned toward my building, realizing that the police were probably already on their way, with my description. "I saw the whole thing. I'd testify." she'd offered, and my heart froze. I knew exactly how long she'd survive if she volunteered to testify ... about two seconds past the point when that bastard and his helpers got a hold of her name. It was my fault that she now was dead. Did I need another death on my conscious? "Don't you dare. There's more going on here ..." And with that I'd taken off, running down toward my apartment. Sure, I knew the place was a trap, but I also knew that walking around covered in blood wasn't the smartest thing to do. I couldn't afford to be sentimental ... not at that point in time ... And she'd followed me. Right back to the building, right up the stairs to my apartment. And when I'd tried to shoo her away, she'd crossed her arms and told me that she wasn't going anywhere until she got some explanation as to why anyone wanted to set up an innocent man. Grimacing at her, I'd tossed the girl some jeans and a t-shirt. The jeans had barely fit her smaller frame, but with time running out, it was the best I could do. Wrapping the bloody clothing in plastic, and stuffing it into a duffel bag, I'd dragged her out, getting out the back door and through the gate just as the whining sirens began growing too close for comfort. My heart torn in half at the idea of leaving her lying there, dead, but with another bull-headed innocent suddenly entering the damn game, I needed to convince her that forgetting what she'd seen that afternoon was in her best interest, before I put a gun to my head. There was no way anyone else was going to suffer for my mistakes, at the hands of my enemies ... We'd ended up at a greasy diner about half-way across town. She was a skillful interrogator for a girl her age, easily prying out details about Scully, about the X-Files, and the darker things I knew or suspected. Maybe I'd been holding everything in too long - maybe I somehow knew it was time for the hints of the truth to find their way beyond me and the woman lying dead on the warm summer sidewalk. When I finished my story, I stared into her eyes and found a wonderful sight. Although sympathy danced within them, belief darkened them. I cursed myself for weighing an innocent girl with truths few knew and even fewer believe. "How ... " her voice trailed off, and she stared at the traffic for a few minutes. "It makes too much sense." I shook my head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to burden you with problems no one can solve." "You underestimate me, Mr. Mulder." Steel tightened her voice and I looked up in panic, wondering if I had trusted another one of his agents. "It makes too much sense, because it clears up too many mysteries of the past. "My parents both worked for the government. And as far as I can tell, my parents both died for the government." Over the next half hour, she told me of her childhood in the Southwest, about her parents who worked on a military base she never had seen, far out in the desert. The parents who never returned from work one day, leaving her and her sister to be brought up by several foster families. "I've had different government agencies recruiting me since the day I graduated from college. I decided on medical school instead - I'm living in the building for half rent in return for doing some easy maintenance around the building. It makes sense now. People up above making sure that one of 'theirs' doesn't stray too far from the nest." My heart stopped as connections I never made became clear for me as well. The FBI recruiting me for my profiling skills even before my interest in my sister's disappearance reemerged. The ease with which I passed through the different interviews and tests. Had someone smoothed the way for me into the FBI? They certainly regretted it by now. "I graduate in six months. For the past month, I've been considering applying for the FBI because of efforts of several recruiters." My jaw dropped. Had I accidently given a puppet the information needed to break the strings? "What you've told me, these hints and pieces of evidence that you spent too many years gathering, won't go to waste. I can promise you that. For your partner, who I never saw alive, and for my parents, who I lost too long ago, I promise you that." She walked out of that diner, her black hair flowing behind her, heading to class. Although we keep in touch through PO Boxes in DC and the town's I've lived in, writing back and forth, I have never seen her again. But I remember the image of her parading out of that smoky place, ready to conquer the world. So why have I recorded this? Where do I expect it to end up? I really don't know. Mira, I know you will read this, and probably laugh at my description of you, since I plan to send it to you. Although I have tried to talk you out of your foolish course, you remain true to your promise. I give you this as an aid. This story, this connection to my history, might open a few doors if you use it wisely. I don't know who might still believe in my innocence, or help you because they still remember me, but you will quickly discover this as you enter the world of the X-Files. As people up above begin to realize you know too much ... Thank you, Mira. I want ... I need to believe in you. Watch your back, and find someone you can trust. That's all the advice I can give you. ***** Walter ran his hand across his head, feeling a suspicious moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. Placing the rumpled pieces of notebook paper upon the desk, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. After knocking gently, his secretary pulled open the door and stuck her head through the crack. "Sir, a Special Agent Clendan is here to see you." "Send her in." After quickly taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose, he masked his emotions, steeling his face into its normal expression. As he placed his glasses upon the polished wood, Agent Clendan walked through the door. "Sir." She nodded her head and took the seat he indicated. "You better understand what you're getting into than I originally expected." She dipped her head and offered him a tight smile. "Is he still alive?" The question emerged suddenly, and he tightened his jaw immediately. She bent her head forward, allowing her loose hair to hide her eyes. "That was the last letter I received. The few things I tried to send to him afterwards were returned." He sighed and some of the hope that had quickly tightened his chest faded away. "I can only do very little. I've allowed my power to slip away over the years. You did not choose wisely." "Who else could have I chosen?" He remained silent. "Will you do as I have requested?" The imaginary smell of Morleys filled his nostrils, and he attempted not to gag or sneeze. Leaning back in his chair, he watched her sitting there quietly, her steady gaze fixed upon him. "I will try." Two hours later, a smoking Morley's butt landed in his coffee cup and his no-smoking sign fell forcefully facedown on the floor. But Mira already had the office key. And the wrinkled notebook pages had a home in a file boldly labeled with a X. End. deirdre@x-philes.com