From: Alexa James Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1998 05:58:15 GMT Subject: Still But Faustus (1/1) Title: Still But Faustus (1/1) Author: Alexa James (alexaj@earthlink.net) Rating: R for language Classification: Story Spoilers: Mild spoilers for Redux II, The End Keywords: Alternate Universe - Drama Summary: What if . . . it was all true? All of it. What then? Archive: Gossamer, yes. Anywhere else, also yes - just let me know and keep my name and e-mail address attached, please! Disclaimer: Wow! I actually own this one. No copyright infringement in here anywhere - just loads of innuendo. So, Copyright Alexa James 1998. Author's Note: I wrote this in response to the joke CC made at the premiere that all of the stories in the X-Files had actually happened to him. It got me thinking - there's no humor without a kernel of truth, right? ____________________________________________________________ STILL BUT FAUSTUS (1/1) Written by Alexa James "Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man." - Christopher Marlowe Chris Carter pulled his leather jacket tightly against the cool California night and scanned the coastline anxiously. He took a quick look at his watch, but it was too dark to see and he didn't want to risk a flashlight. He turned his head slightly, certain he heard footsteps, but it was just the loose board on the empty lifeguard station banging softly in the wind. Fifteen minutes more and then he turned to go. Something must've gone wrong. Well, that wouldn't surprise him. He was well aware of the risks inherent in the dangerous game he played. As he made his way silently back up the shoreline, his attention was diverted by a quick flash of light from the opposite end of the rocky beach. He turned back, crossing the distance between himself and the source of the light in brisk, economical strides. Ahead of him, a figure disappeared furtively under the wooden frame of the lifeguard station. Carter quickly followed. The two shadows stood uneasily in the darkness - off balance, alert to any sign of betrayal. It was always this way - a tense hesitation before information was exchanged - a reluctant transaction made of necessity rather than trust. The figure cleared his throat roughly and looked over his shoulder, light on his feet in spite of his bulk. Eager to be away. "All right, whatever it is, let's have it," Carter prompted, also impatient. A silence and then, "You went too far last week. You put our arrangement at risk." "I used the information you gave me." "You nearly exposed us." "Don't give me the information if you don't want me to use it," Carter snapped. "I expect you to use discretion. Good judgement. Your slip was most . . . unfortunate. It leads me to question the choice I've made in coming to you." "Then why are you here?" There was a pause and a faint rustling as the figure retrieved something from deep in the pockets of his oversized coat. The sharp flare of a match was quickly extinguished, replaced by the quieter glow of a cigarette. Carter coughed a little and moved downwind of the smoke, watching it curl and twist angrily in the wind. "You know why I'm here," the figure said when he'd taken a long draw on the cigarette. "No, I don't know why you're here," Carter said sharply. "But then I don't know much of anything, do I? Except the bits and pieces you see fit to provide when it suits you." "You know quite a bit more than you realize, Mr. Carter. But if you're dissatisfied, there are other deals to be made. Thanks to your excellent work, the number of people willing to entertain my point of view has . . . proliferated. They're calling you a visionary," he concluded mockingly. Carter shrugged indifferently. "I just want what I've always wanted," he said quietly. "Ah, yes. The truth." The coarse voice dripped with contempt. "And just what is it that you think I've been giving you?" "You call what you've given me the truth?" Carter asked bitterly, angry now in spite of his determination to stay calm. "All I see are half-truths, innuendos. Sometimes outright lies. Five years worth. But I've kept my end of the bargain - I've passed all of it along just as it was handed to me - spoon-fed your agenda to the whole goddamned world, not to mention taking the wrap for your paranoia. I've got kooks stopping me on the street to tell me Elvis is still alive." "You've been more than adequately compensated for your trouble." Another pull on the cigarette. " I made you, Mr. Carter. Don't forget that." "Like hell you did, you son of a bitch. Without me you'd be just another dead government hack with a bunch of secrets at the bottom of a very deep river. Come to think of it, I should have left you dead for another season. It would have been a hell of a lot more satisfying than letting you jerk my chain for another two years." The figure laughed, a dense humorless sound that chilled Carter far more than the sharp California wind. "Don't overstep your limits, Mr. Carter. I'm not one of your characters. You should know by now that reality's a little harder to control than a television show." "But not impossible." "No. Not impossible." "Just don't forget our little arrangement goes both ways," Carter reminded the figure sharply. "Yes, I suppose it does. For now." A last drag on the cigarette. Carter watched the trajectory of the orange dot as it fell like a tiny meteor to the sand before being extinguished by an unseen heel. "So what have you got for me this time?" Carter asked again, wearying of the verbal sparring. Against the glowing night sky, Carter saw the figure reach into his coat and withdraw a large envelope. He handed it to Carter, who weighed it speculatively. "More UFO pictures?" he said unenthusiastically. The figure laughed. "No, Mr. Carter. I'm quite certain you have enough of those by now." "What then?" "You've been watching the news?" "Yeah. Looking for your face in every report, you chain smoking bastard." "I can assure you - you won't find it. The camera is not as kind to me as it is to you." The figure paused and continued in a lower voice. Carter stepped closer to catch the words before the wind tore them away. "He's become too dangerous. We thought we could control him, but we were wrong." "Who?" "Starr." Carter's heart thudded dully in his throat and he struggled to keep his voice level. "So you want me to jump directly into the snake pit this time." "I want you to do what you always do, Mr. Carter, what you excel at. I want you to tell the people of this country the truth about their government." "And what is the *truth* - in this particular case?" Carter asked sarcastically. "You're holding it in your hand." The envelope in Carter's hand suddenly felt much heavier. My God, he thought. People would kill for less than this. People *have* killed for less than this. "What's in here?" Another pause, another match, another cigarette. "The usual. What you need to write your story." "Everything?" "Of course not everything" the figure said impatiently. "No one knows everything about anything. But what you need to know is there." "I have questions first," Carter said stubbornly. "Go." "Monica?" "One of ours, of course." There was a distinct note of satisfaction in the usually dispassionate voice, and an undertone of impatience. "Surely you guessed as much." Carter shrugged. "It crossed my mind." "No doubt it did." "Then the President's clean?" He held his breath, afraid of the answer. After all, he'd voted for the man. Twice. The answer came swiftly. "He made his own deal with the Devil, Mr. Carter. Just as you did. Powerful men in powerful positions. The difference is he wanted out." There was a subtle but unmistakable warning in the terse statement. "Gingrich?" Derisive laughter from the shadows. "Gingrich thought he could play outside the system. He was wrong. His brief rise to power was merely a minor miscalculation. There have been other more . . . unfortunate mistakes. Lives lost that served only to call attention to our members and rouse public sympathy with little or no benefit to our cause." Even after five years of decoding his anonymous contact's obscure references, Carter was surprised at how easily he made the connection. Christ, how in the hell had he involved himself, his future, so inextricably with these people? "The shooting at the capital," he said in a flat, sick voice. The figure shrugged. "A cardinal rule in my line of work, but all too often forgotten in the name of expedience. Never send an amateur to do a professional's job. Well, no matter. That's not a mistake he'll be making twice." "But why? Who was he after?" The figure gestured impatiently, clearly anxious to be on his way. "It's all in there. Just as I told you." "I don't understand. If you set this up - Monica, Starr - why not let it play out? Why pull back now?" Another long drag on the cigarette. "Casting doubt, undermining credibility. This is the business we're in, Mr. Carter, and it's served us - both of us - admirably, hasn't it?. But things have gotten out of hand. And it's not quite time, I think, for revolution." Carter blew out his breath with a soft whistle. "Will it really come to that?" The figure took another long pull and crushed the second cigarette out, half-smoked, in the sand. "No. No, it won't. Because you'll make sure it doesn't. You and your . . . unique . . .constituency." "And if I don't?" Carter asked defiantly. "If instead of couching this in fiction as always, I take what's in here - whatever it is - and head for the nearest cable news network?" "You won't." The certainty in the words annoyed Carter, mostly because he knew it for the truth. No, he wouldn't take this information to the press, any more than he'd taken the information about the rest of the conspiracy anywhere beyond the confines of his scripts. Because he'd come to understand, reluctantly, what his characters did not. That there wasn't room for the truth. Not yet. He had tried, of course, though admittedly not nearly as hard as his fictional counterpart. "All of these stories have actually happened to me," he'd once said in an interview. And then laughed aloud at the irony. That a man who'd made his name telling unbelievable stories was actually living the most unbelievable story of all. He looked over at the empty space where the figure had been, but there was nothing but shadows. Come to think of it, that's all there ever seemed to be anymore. Shadows. He sighed and tucked the envelope containing the future of the free world carefully into his jacket before stepping out from beneath the tower and heading for his car. As he walked, he'd already began to write in his head. "Fade in: Int., Office of the Independent Counsel, 11:21 a.m...."