From: jstoy Date: Wed, 15 Dec 1999 07:36:58 GMT Subject: NEW: Tenebrae et Elegiae Book Two (1/4) Tenebrae et Elegiae: Book Two by Jennifer Stoy (jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu) Disclaimers et cetera in Book One "I found the secrets, I found gold I find you out before you grow old (I find you out before you grow old--) I'm reaching the very edge, you know I'm reaching the very edge-- I'm going to the other side this time I'm reaching the very edge-- You're still breathing, but you don't know why Life's a bit and sometimes you die You're still breathing-- but you just can't tell Don't hold your breath, but the pretty things are going to hell The pretty things are going to hell-- They wore it out but they wore it well-- You're still breathing but you don't know why You're still breathing but you just can't tell Don't hold your breath but the pretty things are going to hell--" David Bowie Spender: I have a gun in my hand and it's warm, warm like a lover's kiss, like blood covering your skin, like the dinner the wife is supposed to make for you in the plastic-fantastic America sold to us in our commercial mythology. This particular gun is warm because I just fired it and put a bullet into someone's heart. In fact, I fired it into one very special someone on a day when the Mall is crawling with people from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. That bullet could have been meant for anyone, they'll say, especially on a day like today. But that's bullshit. The bullet had her name on it since before I loaded it into the gun. It was a love-letter sent straight to her heart. I didn't want to do this. I was told I wanted to. Everyone who wanted her dead told me that this would be the high point of my life, better than the best sex I ever had. Maybe if I were one of those limp-dick types who've been working for the alien puppetmasters for thirty years, it would have been. Me, I don't know so much about that. I don't know so much, period. But pulling that trigger didn't feel anything like sex. It felt like a reflex, an involuntary sneeze. Tug the trigger, the gun warms up, the woman falls down, and that's it. Sex had nothing to do with it. I killed her, I think, for the thrill of betrayal and revenge. I thought I was going to be a villain. Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and all by pulling that trigger. That was exciting for me. I was looking forward to having that guilt nestled up deep in my heart, a badge of dishonor I could enjoy for the rest of my life. Instead I don't think my heart is even beating. I'm trapped inside my own head, trying to peer out at a world that's teetering on the edge of annihilation right here and right now. There's meltdown in the skies. And I don't give a god damn. Or maybe not. Maybe I do care, but I'm afraid to. I told those sons of bitches I'd do whatever they wanted months ago back in New York, back when things seemed surreal. I was glad to have a place to sleep and food to eat. I was so empty. I could do anything. I made myself hard, like my father, like my father's associates, like the woman's who's lying dead on the ground. But underneath, I think I've been screaming the whole time. See, not only is the sky is falling, but the end is coming, the fat lady is singing, and you don't have time to cash in your tickets. To top it all off, with one shot I've killed the devil and set the rest of Hell loose on us. That was a bad idea. How do you shoot the devil in the back? What if you miss? Or what if it doesn't matter if you miss or not? She's as dead as disco, laying there on the ground not more than twenty feet from me. There's got to be fifty people that saw me do it. I don't care. I killed her because I had orders. And not from those slick-ass smarmy bastards that think they ordered me to do it. God up high must have wanted me to kill her. How else could a half-rate, nobody dipshit like me do her in not once, but twice? There's something else at work here-- something I'm not fit to mess with or question. So I can't care, can't fight. I simply let it move me like the tide. Lucky me, right? Fuck and fuck again. There's something sick and desperate about completely turning yourself over to fate the way I have. I don't think it's human to believe in the inevitable. That's God's fault, too. In any world where miracles happen, people aren't going to just let themselves wait for the slaughter like cows. They'll always hope, and scheme, and plot, even when things are genuinely inevitable, because there's always a chance. I killed her. It was fate. But it was so hollow it doesn't matter. It echoes in my ears and across my mind but doesn't leave any impressions. Instead it rattles, leaving ghosts of memories, that wail and almost exist, but nothing palpable, nothing memorable. It seems just out of reach. And I am still standing here, gun in hand, trying to muster up a good reason to run away from the scene of the crime. I mean, what's the fucking point? I'm going to be found no matter what I do, so why run? Someone who finally cares-- about anything-- finds the dead woman lying there and drops to her knees in surprise. I look at this woman-- the living one-- closely. I know her. That is to say, I knew her, back when I cared about who I was, and when I dreamt I could mean something. She looks at the body sprawled on the ground, staining the dirt with blood, examining it. I keep watching her, and somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder how long this is really taking. I should be in the back of a squad car already, handcuffs chafing my wrists, mutely waiting for the inevitable. After this woman I once knew finishes touching the body of our greatest enemy, she looks up and sees me standing there, complete with smoking gun and guilty expression. Our eyes meet, and time, which has already been moving too slowly to begin with, freezes solid. There are only the two of us among hundreds of thousands. I don't know what to do. I never knew what to do. I just did it. We look at each other, and the world changes. She raises a finger to her lips and shakes her head. Don't tell, she's telling me, don't ever tell. I shake my head, confused and paralyzed. Then I nod agreement. She smiles then, a grim smile, and we've made a pact that'll outlast time. She tilts her head at me. Run, Jeffrey, she mouths at me. Run. Maybe she said it. I don't know. But she wants me to run, that I do know. I blink. Then time starts moving again, speeding up like someone suddenly hit a button on the cosmic remote control, and the universe resumes its normal movement. I'm surrounded by people who are staring at me in horror. The dead woman is still there, and she's definitely dead. I'm holding the gun. I drop the gun. She looks at me one last time with eyes as emotionless as my own. I hold my breath and count to ten. I look at the corpse. I remember who I've killed. Oh-- God. Oh. God. She-- the one who'll live-- turns away. I understand what that means. It's time to get the hell out of here for good. I run. I don't stop running. I never stop running. Scully: I hate New York City. I will never set foot in this godforsaken town again once I get revenge on Johnny, so help me God. And I will get revenge on her. I haven't gotten any as yet, but that doesn't mean it's not on my mind all the time. It's a morbid obsession of mine-- imagining just how Johnny will look when she realizes she's the one that's fucked, and how I won't feel the least bit guilty when her life comes crashing down around her ears. Still, I'm at the worst part of getting revenge-- biding my time. I don't wait well at all, and working here, I've gotten paranoid that I'm losing my resolve. I couldn't imagine giving up while I was enmeshed here, in the lab and the Project. I don't believe in many fates worse than death, but that would be one of them. I take a deep breath in the midst of my musing and I see the scar on my wrist. It makes me ashamed to see it, because I remember that night when I forced Johnny to hire me. The doctor who looked it over later that evening said I was lucky I hadn't severed a nerve. We both neglected to mention it was luckier I hadn't bled to death on the tablecloth, or that I needed to stop drinking. The cut was an accident, after all. That's the official report. The official report, like most of them, is full of shit. What was I thinking that night? I don't know if I was begging Johnny to hire me or kill me or fuck me in front of the world and those assorted bouncers, flunkies and customers. I know that she wanted to do it. It absolutely killed her to push that overwhelming desire of hers for me back, but she did. I didn't expect her to be so cold. I thought that she would be so glad to feel my body on hers that she'd be trapped, and by the time she came to her senses, it would be too late. Maybe I just hoped that. I didn't want to be here, really, but I had to get that wedge into her life, making my presence there undeniable and painful. I did whatever I could to get here, and now I have to deal with the consequences. One thing I've discovered working with Johnny Valmont is that the woman is dedicated to this. It's her life, her focus, her work, and she will repress everything for the good of the business. I should have guessed that. Johnny and Mulder shared any number of surprisingly laudable traits-- but it's a surprise all the same. It used to be that whenever Johnny and I were in the same room, sex was in the air, but now I could be any one of her efficient, cold employees who are quietly plotting out Armageddon when I pass her in the halls. That's what the work means to her. "Doctor Scully," one of the lab assistants calls from across the bay. "I think we have something new in this sample." I feel dirty and guilty being here. Mulder would have cut off a finger for five minutes in this lab. Now I spend forty to sixty hours a week here with the assistants, other scientists, and any number of people who don't remind me at all of the sneering Syndicate members we ran across working on the X-Files. These people are everyday people, with homes and families and dogs. The assistant with the "something new" is a Yankees fan, like Mulder was. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they are trying to save the world. They could be discovering yet another grotesque beauty of science. Or perhaps they're just working a job to get by. No one here rubs their hands together with glee, waiting for the end of the world to come. Nobody's an overt villain. Humanity is both the most terrible and most unexpected thing about this job. I don't know what I was expecting. Perhaps I thought the only people who could work under Johnny were the Kryceks and the Spenders and any number of the weak and evil people of this world. But the truth is deeply nuanced, as is this entire organization. I don't know if it was the same under the old men, but the Syndicate is as dedicated to saving humanity as it is to wiping out humanity. The entire place is a jigsaw puzzle with no solution, crawling with extraterrestrials and the most evil men and women I know. But the people I've been working aren't monsters. I could have been one of them, I think. Except none of these people, will ever know what it's like to be flown into the white light, I think to myself as I peer through the microscope. None of them will tense up and sometimes throw up after a nosebleed, shivering at the possible meanings. None of them will wonder if they should leave flowers at the grave of their almost-maybe-daughter. Maybe they will. But only if they don't keep pretending that their research aided and abetted in doing this. Only if they can't keep up the faade, that they're just doing a job. To maintain a lie, you have to believe it, and if I believe this lie, I'm betraying myself. It's a lesson I have to learn. Most people aren't evil. They don't want to hurt people, or believe they're hurting people. But it's so easy to believe it's not your fault because you didn't want to hurt others. You were just following orders. You're not God. You can't change things. This is the rationale that kills, not the evil ideas that the masterminds come up with. Without the silent consent of good people, evil can't get anywhere. "Doctor Scully," the young man insists. "What do you think?" "It's a new mutation," I say, looking up at him. He rolls his eyes, to indicate that of course it's a new mutation, does he look like an idiot? "What series is this from? Have you tried repeating the experiment yet? I agree this is an interesting test, but how will it hold up?" His sneer fades almost immediately, and he nods seriously. "It's from series 1015.2. I haven't tried replicating this yet-- it was just so sudden and so apparent I got excited." "Of course," I reply. "Call me back when you've got more information, because I may be your supervisor, but all I can tell you is that it's a new mutation. You're going to have to fill in the details." With that, I walk back to my own station, where one of the smirky, obnoxious messengers that fester around here waits with a priority package. "Yes?" I ask. "This is for you. Sign please." I take the message and sign without any preamble. The messenger gives me a superior look and walks off. It's always so pleasant to get a private message in this organization. People behave as if they were changing the fate of the world by delivering a memo. I open the message. It's a sheet of paper with a few lines scrawled on it. I scan it quickly. <> Apparently that couldn't have been emailed. I don't understand this woman at times. Perhaps I get to Johnny still, so that she must add a personal touch, a sign of the infection she can't purge, the mania that clings to her memory like black oil. I sit down at my station and stare at the memo. It's printed, and her lettering is narrow, straight, and remarkably legible. Johnny could letter for comic books. It's thin, brisk, without any of the sensuality I know is boiling beneath the surface. Except in the signature. That's more commanding, the J swirling back in two full curves, the M slanted and swirling. J.M. Valmont. Johnny M. Valmont. What does the M stand for? If I ever knew, I don't remember. Marilyn? Mary? Mona? Minnie? Meredith? What's the right middle name for a Johnny Valmont? "Dr. Scully," the young assistant calls. I jump. "I'm sorry. I--" "It's okay," I reply. "I was a million miles away. What is it?" "It's the sample, Dr. Scully. I replicated the test and-- well, you'd better see what happens. I think we've found a breakthrough for the new level of vaccine," he says, smiling brightly. Fantastic. Wonderful. The world could be saved, and I just keep wondering-- Molly? Millicent? Maureen? And at least one thing's for certain-- I'll have something new to tell Johnny Tuesday before I do something to let her know I am not going to roll over and be assimilated. END 1/4 Spender: I spend my third night in Palm Springs at a gay disco trying to be invisible. I hate this city. The desert's a fucking pit, but I guess it appeals to some people. Me, I can't wrap my brain around the idea that anyone likes the temperature to go up and down forty degrees in a day. Daytimes I bake here, scorched by the sun, and blinded by the sand and nudity. Then at night, just when I've settled down by the bar for my second drink, I realize I need a fucking sweater because I'm shivering. Life's a bitch, and then there's the part where I have an errand to run for my employers. I down my gimlet in one gulp and scan the bar for her-- and only her. I get temporarily distracted from my search by the music. Some asshole is on a real Village People kick tonight. This is the sixth time I've heard Macho Man blast across the speakers, and I'm surprised nobody hasn't told the asshole to knock it off. The Village People are strictly kitsch, good for a laugh. But if he wants burlesque, there are plenty of other places for it. This is a goddamn disco. If she'd just liked golf, I could be on my next job by now. Or tennis, tennis would have done the trick. It wouldn't have been hard to get her alone and then move the fuck on. But this lady-- this goddamn dame-- she's no conventional type, oh no, not her. I watched her room the whole first day in Palm Springs. She was dead to the motherfucking world from before nine, when I got there, until three in the afternoon, when room service trotted up to her bungalow with a tray of something. And it was six before the lady herself emerged, wearing a bright purple robe, movie-star sunglasses, and silver high-heeled sandals, to go take her "morning" swim. I followed her to the hotel pool, where she disrobed and revealed she enjoyed the resort's clothing-optional policy. Then, without a care in the world, she started doing laps. She's not a bad looking woman, either, even though she's a little older-- forty-five or fifty. Maybe older, I don't know. She doesn't look any older than fifty and she's still attractive. Her dark hair is kept short and stylish, and she has these shining hazel eyes. Plus, she's got an excellent California tan, and a cut body to match it. Back in her day, she must have been a sex goddess. That much is evident as she glides through the crowds of gay men who all blow kisses at her and she grins at them like a tolerant big sister, puckering up in eternal good humor, smiling and laughing. After the laps the first day, she pulled on the robe and started ordering tequila sunrises at the bar, knocking them back like there was no tomorrow. People stopped by to talk to her, and they'd be standing there for a while, listening to her animated chatter, watching the hypnotic way her cleavage shifted under that wet satin robe. Diana Fowley, who I never liked, really could have learned something from this woman. After a while, it became painfully obvious I wasn't going to finish my errand that day, so I found some hotel staff and started chatting them up, asking about the nice lady at the bar. Most of the staff doesn't speak English, but I finally found someone who was listening, handed him a twenty, and got a lot of gossip. Senora was an old friend here, from way back, always plenty of money, plenty of men, lots of alcohol. A social lady, very friendly, very pleasant. There were only good things to hear about Senora and her ways, and all of her hangouts, including this particular disco. I like her, which is a pity. I like her because she screams life, the simple sort of living where it doesn't matter a fuck if she's up at dawn or midnight, if she cruises gay discos or retirement cotillions, because this woman is in it for the experience. I don't know, some people get through life unscarred, and even when you should hate them, you don't, because they're just too alive and too buoyant to hate. Still. A job is a job. The second day, I didn't even bother staking out the placing until after two. This time, she pops out wearing a sundress that would make Marilyn Monroe envious and cheerfully greets a tall blonde surfer boy. The guy couldn't have been more than twenty-five, and they disappeared into her room for three hours. Then they go out to a crowded restaurant and hit fifty clubs before I lose track again, and start swearing. My employers said to keep a low profile, and I'm using this to stall. If I keep stalling, they're going to be furious. And if they get furious, I get dead. I swore to myself today was the day. I have more work to do after this, and I'll never get anywhere if I let myself go to pot in the decadent dry heat of Palm Springs. I want out of here, and I want out of here as soon as I can finish my job. I order another gimlet and start draining it slowly. The music changes to Donna Summer, and the disco ball starts shedding its shattered, pathetically festive light over the floor as people start getting down to the queen of disco. The occasional queen or poseur tries to slink like Donna Summer, earning sneers from the butch and leather-clad types on the floor, but I notice almost everyone's dancing, including her. She has flair. She has four or five people dancing with her, even as her eyes start sweeping the room and she catches me looking at her. She smiles, and a wicked glint sparkles in her eye. She knows I'm not gay-- and she's got good instincts, I'll give her that. I try to smile back. I try to give her the come-hither look, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what I'm going to do. I'm afraid I won't be able to do it, that deep down, I'm nothing more than a coward. But I smile again, cocking my head slightly and looking at her. Her lips curl in a practiced smile. Her? I'm interested in her? I nod slowly, thinking of the hours I've spent outside of her bungalow, letting the heat pound into my head, making sure I'm not noticed, watching the slow, sensual move of her life. Oh, yes. I am very interested in her. She laughs, and starts prowling towards me. I take another slow, hyperextended drink, tasting the lime and gin, and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The music rises and falls between us, swelling with waves of people, moving in rhythm as the unearthly voice of a disco goddess caresses us all, filling the room with love and sex and a pulse that beats. I'm breathing with the pulse, I'm thinking with the pulse, as this beautiful woman is moved towards me, riding the waves, a smile on her face. She's a goddess in purple, laughter hiding in her eyes, sex rising from her skin. And I have an errand to run that must involve her. When she reaches me, my heart is matching the last beats of the song, fading into the synthesized keyboards and monotonous underbeats of the next song. Do you believe in heaven above? Do you believe in love? the world asks me. And for a moment, as she reaches me with eyes full of life and interest, I do. Then she leans into me, her breath alcohol-soaked, with a hint of cigarette. "What's a nice straight boy like you doing in a place like this?" she murmurs into my ear. I shiver, but I can pull back now, and look her in the eyes honestly. "I was waiting for you, of course." And I'm not lying. She laughs, and I stand up, paying the bartender with a spare ten or twenty that I can toss out like popcorn at the circus. She looks at me, and sympathy and amusement cross her face. "Boy," she says, drawling it out behind richly colored lips. "I'm gonna eat you alive." We walk out of the club, which is crawling and teeming with people, so many that one face can't be remembered from the next, stained with disco-ball light, washed away with the beat and hypnosis of the music. Drowned in the experience, we're all anonymous here, and I'm counting on that as I lurch down the street with her, never quite managing to touch each other. We reach a deserted alley, just a little spot behind a restaurant that's dark now. It must be three in the morning. The air is icy, waiting for the first touch of the sun to heat it up. She looks at me quizzically as I turn. "We're not far from my room. Keep your pants on." I bite my lip. It's just an errand. I'm just carrying out an order. I don't have a choice. I'm just doing an errand. She stares at me, bemused and irritated. "Come on, let's go," she insists. "What are you waiting for?" I pull out my gun, cocking it and aiming at speeds that seem too fast for anyone human, let alone me. Before she has time to scream twice, one bullet is in her stomach, and the other's in her face, splattering that beauty across the stucco wall of the restaurant. Now it's a sort of primitive art, a bunch of colors for the police to admire tomorrow morning when I'm long gone down the highway, on the way to another errand. I look at what's left of her, slumped against the wall, no longer divine and pulsing with beat. Something turns in my stomach. "I'm sorry," I mutter. And then I walk away. Yeah, I'm sorry. Guys like me are always sorry, and always too late. Scully: How do you dress when you're trying to play scientist and seductress at the same time? This is only one question of many that I ponder as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, studying the face reflected in the glass and trying to create a balance. This face has to be more than one person at once while still remaining mine, which is not an easy task. So I examine myself, studying each fine line, each variation in color, each flaw and wondering how I can recreate myself. After work last week, I realized for the twentieth time (with the help of a few cosmopolitans at a ritzy bar) that as useful as being inside the Consortium is, it's pointless if I don't take action against Johnny. I'm not here to be an insider. I don't think I can blow open the biggest scandal in American-- world-- history. I'm not here to destroy the Consortium. That's never been my purpose. Petty or not, I'm after one person and one person alone. I look at my face critically and take out my pressed powder. I can't have a shiny nose. That would be unprofessional. And I need to tone down the eye shadow. While it's very attractive, it looks too flirty. Subtlety is a key word in the game I'm playing. I pull away from the mirror and evaluate my face. It's much better. I hope that it'll be good enough for Johnny, because everything that I'm doing today is for her benefit. At least in the short run, though in the long run, it's all for me. Build her up, then knock her down, that's how this game is played. I mince and twist a little in the mirror. That's exactly how I'm going to do it. I'm going to create a dreamworld for her, and then-- poof. I finish my examination and sit down in front of the mirror again, noticing the strangeness of my face. It's my face, with my features and my eyes, but they're strange. I don't quite recognize them. They carry this strange, alien energy that seeps out from under my skin, something that can't be concealed. Revenge is having a definite, physical effect on me. The woman in the mirror looks cold. She could almost be chiseled out of steel and polished into human form. Yet this is me in the mirror, but I don't know me. I don't know me at all. I can see her moving forward, doing things that I can't be capable of doing. Can I really be the woman in the mirror? Can I walk into an office full of scientists, businessmen, and God knows who or what else and put on a performance of lies? If I do this, will I be the same person? Or will the Dana Scully I think I am be drowned under the waves of corruption, revenge, and anger? More importantly, can I, in any incarnation I can dream up, really seduce Johnny? I don't want to do it. The idea of touching her, kissing her, making love to her makes my skin crawl. The hand that she used to kill Mulder will be on my body. It won't hold back out of decency. The lips that whispered to me that she killed him because she had to will slide down my neck. They'll caress my spine. I can't bear to think of what those lips will do. The thought of her-- and me-- and us-- nauseates me. I can't force myself to play it out. I see her surrounding me, engulfing me, and then-- nothing. A script without pictures follows, leading to nothing except degradation. Unable to look in the mirror any more, I stare at my hands, twisting and turning in my lap. They refuse to play along with the mirror. They move frenetically, writhing back and forth with all the nerves and doubt I refuse to acknowledge. They look like claws, desperately trying to move away from the smooth image they're attached to. They won't do. I've got to stop worrying. I just need to take a deep breath, move my hands apart, and remember who I am and what I'm doing. "Stand up," I whisper to the image in the mirror. She stares at me blankly, like a statue. "Dana, stand up." She doesn't move. We look at each other and my hands twist together again, tearing at themselves. No matter what I do, I cannot compel the woman in the mirror to move. She can't do this for me. I have to move myself, the real me, because that's the only person I can be. I take a slow, ragged breath, and look down at my watch. Ten minutes. I have only ten minutes before I'm supposed to be sitting down in the gorgeous wood-paneled office that belongs to Johnny, telling a shitload of people about the latest micro-advancements in extraterrestrial germ warfare prevention while simultaneously giving off come-hither signals to the boss. Lateness is not tolerated, either. I have to move now, performer or not, steel or flesh. I have to get up. I have to go now. I press my lips together in a final fit of nerves, smashing them together grotesquely, and then I get up. I smooth the creases on my suit, and do one last, quick survey of myself in the mirror. It's all right. I'm looking good. I can do this. The halls are buzzing with people as I walk down them, but I don't hear them. They don't seem to be real. I don't think about them, or what I'm doing as I walk. I just walk through the crowd of ghosts, holding my briefcase. I'm trying to find a script to follow, and a principle to hold on to. I need to be the woman in the mirror, the steel woman, because she doesn't get afraid. Her fingers aren't icy cold with the dread of confrontation. I open the door. The woman in the mirror walks in and closes it behind her. She looks at the woman sitting at a nice cherry desk, filing papers, and I realize that I can be her. If I push myself out of my head, I can be her. I can be anything I need to be for this cause, if I just don't inhabit my own head. "Good morning, Doctor Scully," the secretary says crisply. I nod to her. "Here for the meeting?" "Yes," I say simply. "Is it in there?" "Yes. Go right in, everyone's waiting for you and Ms. Valmont," the secretary says, going back to the phone, the fax, and the computer, doing her part to keep the world running. I walk into the room. Eyes flicker up and slide back down. Nobody here cares who I am. I'm another body who mutters excuse me and I'm sorry as I take a place at the round conference table, waiting for the arrival of the queen. Like automatons they wait, looking over reports for the fortieth time, tapping their feet, checking their watches. They seem to have one mind asking one question: Where's Johnny? If I weren't so nervous, that might even be funny. But in the artificial chill of an air-conditioned boardroom, the idea that I could be someone who could outdo Johnny Valmont seems ridiculous. Next to her, we're minor-leaguers. What can I do against her? Slit my wrist again? Make ridiculous phone calls threatening to kill myself? I'm powerless next to her. I look up for a moment, catching a glimpse of the woman in the mirror. Why not, she asks me, if that's what you need to do. If I need to do something, why should I hold back? It's the ends that matter in this game. I look down at the table. I can do this, and the brief exhilaration of knowing that I can makes me smile momentarily with relief. Then I look at my watch. It's five past ten already. Where is Johnny? She's anal about being on time to meetings. I've heard horror stories about people who've shown up late to these things. Someone once said that she'd leave sex mid-orgasm before she'd be late. The door flies open, and everyone's eyes are fixed on her, striding through the door with the wide and wild look I've only seen once or twice across her face. Everyone's jaw drops. Apparently they've never seen Johnny out of control, either. "Get out!" she screams without looking at anyone. "All of you, just get the fuck out of here now!" There's a moment of stunned shock as people try to make sense of things. She stares at us incredulously. "I said GET OUT!" she shouts. "What the fuck part of that don't you understand? Are you fucking stupid? Get out! Get out! Get out NOW!" The people here aren't really that stupid. They move. They start rushing out as fast as they can. I push my chair back slowly as Johnny's eyes meet mine. They narrow into slits. "Not you," she says in murderous tones. I stand up slowly, watching her carefully. The rest of the people get out, leaving us alone in the echoing emptiness of her boardroom. "What do you want?" I ask. She reaches into her Armani jacket, and in one smooth motion, has a nine-millimeter pointed directly at me, as her feline eyes focus with the intensity of laser beams. I stare back at her, trying to be unafraid. "I want you to tell me why you did it in the nine seconds you have before I empty this fucking gun into you," she growls. I gape at her. Then she fires. Johnny: I miss, of course. I mean to miss. But Scully drops to the floor, hands over head and then she jumps up like a jack-in-the-box and this time the warm barrel of my gun is pressed hard against her temple. I'm pushing her back, back, back against the wall, pressing myself up against her so she can't get away from me. "Johnny!" she yells. "Johnny, dammit-- Johnny!" "Why did you do it?" I say, trying hard not to cry. I must not break here, not if it kills me. "ANSWER ME!" "What did I do?" she asks. "I don't fucking know what I'm answering for, Johnny!" That's rich. That's richer than Bill fucking Gates. I jab the gun into her temple again, pushing my body against hers harder. She feels like steel beneath me, and I can feel myself trembling, quaking at the knees. I lock my knees tight. I can't break down, not in front of her, not ever in front of this bitch. "Johnny!" she snaps. "You know," I hiss at her. "You fucking know what you did. Don't play innocent with me. I just wanna know how you did it, and why." "I don't know what the fuck you are talking about," she growls back at me. "If you're going to kill me, do it, and stop pretending that you have a reason. But if there's a reason, you could at least deign to share with me." "My mother," I tell her. "And my sister." "What?" she says, looking big-eyed and dumb. Maybe if this were the Scully I knew before I gave her a job, I'd buy the stupid act. But somewhere along the line, Scully learned how to lie, and this is full of shit. I should just cap this bitch, go home, and make funeral arrangements. But I can't just do it. I want to know why my mother's dead and why Scully couldn't just go after me instead of pulling this shit. "It's bullshit," I hiss at her. "You killed them, or you had someone do it for you. I don't care so much which, but you did it, and before I turn you into a colorful stain on my wall, I want to know why you couldn't just take your grudge out against me." Her eyes widen. "I didn't," she whispers, now taking this innocent, horrified little tone in her voice. Give me a break. She's pulling out all the stops in her little game, and I'm not at all impressed. "I could have-- maybe if I'd thought of it-- but I didn't." "Note my failure to believe you," I say dryly. "Why don't you just give up the fucking act, Scully? I can make this very brief-- one shot, bam, you're dead-- or I can make it take a long time. This room is soundproof-- and even if it weren't, who the fuck's going to stop me? So just tell me." "Johnny, for the love of God, I didn't fucking kill your mother and your sister!" she shouts. "I'm really sorry that someone blew them away, but don't you think that's the breaks? That's what you told me when you killed Mulder, isn't it? These things happen." Bitch. Fucking bitch. I cock the gun, and she stares at me with eyes narrow and face steely. She's not trembling at all. I can barely keep my arm from wobbling and whacking her in the temple over and over. But that's what she told me, isn't it? What the hell is there left for Scully to fear? Not death, that's for sure. "Yeah, these things happen, and you don't give a god-damn," I tell her. "Give me one reason why I should believe your vengeful, lying bitch ass." She gives me a look of sheer, unadulterated hatred. "Because if I wanted to get to you, I sure as hell wouldn't fuck around with your goddamned family. I hate you. Just you, Johnny. I want to make you hurt, but everyone else might as well not exist. Why else do you think I'm sitting here, playing goddamn employee of the month? It sure as hell isn't because I've changed my mind. I am going to take you down-- don't you ever doubt that. But when I do it, you are going to know it's me, and you aren't going to have to wonder why." I slump back. Fuck her. Ohhhhh, fuck her. I move the gun away from her temple, absolutely beaten down. But then a small spark of latent, untapped fury wells up from the shock that's overwhelmed me and I backhand her right across the face. Scully falls down on the floor, and she's flown five feet from the spot she was before. I stand there, breathing hard, not sure whether to cry or laugh. The sound of my breathing expands to fill the room, and I can't move. My mom is dead, my sister is dead, and she doesn't care. Nobody cares except for me, and I didn't think I did. I thought I was the baddest motherfucking bitch in the world, that I was too cool to give a damn. Now someone's laughing at me, because Mom is dead and Faith is dead, and it's my fault. And I do care. I care, and for an additional twist of the knife in my stomach, the woman I thought I was is staring at me, holding her face in her hand without tears. "I should kill you anyway," I mutter, looking down at the floor. "Probably." "You're probably lying to me right now." "It's possible. I do hate you, after all." She's not making it any easier. I am, after all, ready to go nuclear at any moment now, and this ice princess routine is pushing every button I have, and wearing on my one good nerve. I don't want to kill Scully. I really don't. I'll regret it later. I don't like the people I love being dead. The people I love being-- Fuck. Danielle. Oh, fuckity fuck fuck. "You swear to God you didn't do it?" I ask, my breath coming more quickly now. I have to get out of here now. I have to get home now. "You didn't do it?" "I said I fucking didn't," she says, cradling her face. "Are you going to shoot me or what?" "Get out of here," I say, shaking my head. "Just get out of here. I have to go now." "Johnny?" she asks. "Just go, alright?" I yell. "Later. I'll deal with you-- I have to go." I rub my face distractedly, and walk out of the boardroom, past my secretary, out of the office, onto the elevator, pushing the button over and over, trying to get things to move faster as my thoughts start racing. Whatever dickless piece of shit did this-- and for some reason, I don't believe it's Scully any more-- they wouldn't kill a baby. Would they? No, God, please, I think to myself as the elevator moves at a glacial pace. The doors finally open, and I burst out of them, ready to run the entire distance to my apartment if I have to. I'm pumped so full of adrenaline I feel like I'm flying. I'm shoving anyone in my way out of it. The world is reduced to my heartbeat and the focus of my central vision. I have to get home now. I'm through the doors of the lobby, and onto the street, shoving my way through like a madwoman. People are screaming at me, but I can't make out a word that they're saying. I don't give a damn what they're saying. Someone grabs my arm. I shake it off. They grab me again, refusing to let go, and my head swivels. I'm going to give some asshole a piece of my mind the size of Texas. God damn it, don't people ever realize that something is going on, that I'm not just being insane for my own pleasure? "Johnny!" someone yells at me. "Fuck off!" I scream back. "Johnny, what the hell is going on?" the someone insists, not letting go of me. I finally recognize him. It's Skinner. What the hell is he doing here? Then I remember that, oh, shit, he's Danielle's father. Oh, shit shit shit. "We need to go now," I tell him. He stares at me. "Come on! Now! Do you want your kid dead? NOW!" He doesn't fight me, and then we're in a cab, racing for my apartment, and all I can think is God, please. Please just let me be in time. END 2/4 Skinner: I don't know for a minute if the woman next to me is Johnny or not. She looks like her, she talks like her, but she's not acting like her in the slightest. I can't get two coherent words out of her. All she's doing is screaming at our cab driver, cursing any tiny slow-down, and twitching like a madwoman. I'm agitated, too. I wonder if Johnny was serious about my kid dead, and what the hell she means by that anyway. My God, I can't believe I ever slept with this woman. I must have been drugged. "Johnny--" "Where are we? Are we-- oh, fuck-- keep going, hurry up!" Johnny yells at the cab driver. "What?" I'm fairly sure she meant me, so I try to talk. "What the hell is going on?" "Good question," she says, bouncing distractedly. "Very good question. When I have the slightest fucking clue, I'll share." "What about Danielle?" I insist. "Why are you here?" she asks suddenly. "I forgot to ask." "Danielle?" "I asked you first-- well, no I didn't, but-- why are you here?" she asks. I sigh. "I was trying to look in on Scully. I was worried about her. I hadn't heard from her since--" since she had informed me of her intention to get revenge on you, I think but don't say. Her eyes cross and she leans up near the driver again. "Can't you make this fucking thing move any faster? I'll pay the motherfucking ticket. If you get me home soon, I'll fucking pay for your entire fucking family to come up from Mexico or Bangladesh or whatever country they're from, just hurry!" she yells, proving once again how very sensitive the mother of my child is. Then she turns on me. "Were you worried that Scully had taken a big fucking Glock to her skull? Or just mine?" "Would you mind telling me why the hell we're rushing over to Danielle before I lose my mind first?" I ask acidly. She raises her eyebrows, and laughs mirthlessly for a moment. "Someone-- perhaps your dear dear Scully-- blew away my mother in the last couple of days, and my sister. It follows that they'd--" I stare at her. "Johnny!" "No fucking shit," she replies. "Fuck, I can't sit in here anymore. Pull us the fuck over, we'll run, we'll-- I said pull the fuck over, don't you speak English?" The guy pulls over. Johnny throws a couple of twenties at him, and she hits the pavement at sixty, running down the street like The Flash, and I follow behind her as best as I can. My heart is pounding in my chest and I don't know how I'm involved in this mess again, but I am up to my neck in the world of shadow governments, conspiracies, and betrayal. But to hell with that. I have a personal stake here. So I pound down the mean city sidewalks with the devil in a grey suit, and she's trying to fly, twisting and turning down about ten blocks before we reach her fancy city brownstone. She grabs her purse and starts looking for keys. I hear her crying, and I feel a weird sort of pity for her. I can't see the tears, but I can hear the strange, keening moan that sounds so completely human I'm unnerved. This is Johnny Valmont, but the tears choking from her throat as she pulls out a set of keys and tremblingly finds the one that fits the lock are terrible and heart wrenching. I actually pity her as she brushes back a stray lock of hair, trying to shove the right key into the lock and save the day in the nick of time. A cab squeals to a halt behind us as Johnny finally finds the key, shivering and shuddering. She jams it into the lock fitfully. "Hey!" someone cries, jumping out and slamming the car door. I turn around. It's Scully. "What's going on?" "Keep that fucking bitch away from me," Johnny snaps, turning the lock and running up the stairs. Her voice echoes from the hallway, peculiarly fragile. "Danielle? I'm home! Danielle? Bethany? Someone please be here!" I turn to look at Scully and I step back in fear. In the eyes of a woman I've always respected-- and sometimes believed I loved-- is something monstrous, something so completely free of decency and sanity that my skin starts to crawl. I have to look away from her face, so I look at her clothes instead. She's wearing a pantsuit that reminds me of Kate Hepburn and old movies, and the same jacket she wore the last time I saw her, but instead of despair, I feel madness, and absolute determination. "What?" she asks. "I have to get in there. Danielle--" and I run, taking the stairs three at a time, getting away from whatever it is in Scully that's turned her into this horrific shell. "DANIELLE!" Johnny screams. "Where are you? Danielle--" The minute I reach the living room, I understand Johnny's hysteria. There's blood on the wall here, but no bodies, nothing except for blood and the smell of gunpowder. Johnny stands in the center of the room, staring around the room futilely, screaming at the top of her lungs. I catch a good glimpse of her face, which is streaked in tears as she wipes them away, with more and more strength. Her face is getting streaked with red welts. I walk up behind her and take her hands, pulling them back. "Come on, Johnny. We have to keep looking," I tell her. "You can't get hysterical." She stares at me with those green eyes bleary with tears. "Walter," she says distractedly, using my first name for the first time I can remember. Then her face drains of color. "Oh, God. What if she's dead? What if they're all dead? I should have-- I should have--" "Come on," I insist. She nods at me, and we walk around the room, looking for bodies, looking for anything definitive. I notice the blood trail finally, hard to see against the dark carpeting. We follow it and say nothing. There's nothing to say. We don't have a relationship. We have Danielle, and we each have our own reasons to want to save her. One of the doors is ajar, and Johnny shoves it open, pulling away from me. "Danielle? Bethany? Dan--" Her voice resolves itself into a high-pitched scream. I rush in, and something catches in my throat. There's a dead woman on the ground. You know simply by looking at the peculiar angle she's laying in, or perhaps that's from my experience as a law enforcement agent. There is a lot more blood in here. The first shot must have only glanced her in the living room, and the fatal shot was fired in here. I look around. The splatter on the wall seems to substantiate that theory. "God," Johnny whispers. "God." She bends down and looks at Beth, and I can see her hands trembling slightly. I can tell she wants to touch her, but she doesn't. Johnny knows enough about law enforcement to know you don't touch a murder victim. She stands up again. "Beth, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry--" Trembling, she stands up. "Danielle?" "Johnny--" I say. Because there is no way the baby is alive. There's no way. She shakes her head fitfully and starts looking through the room, under the crib, in the playpen, calling for Danielle over and over. I turn my head away from her, just in time to see Scully stand in the doorway, watching with me. Her eyes widen as Johnny flings the closet door open, clawing through the clothes, making strange, trapped noises in her throat. And then I hear the sound, clear as day. Someone else is crying, and for a minute, I think I'm losing my mind. But then I realize that it's the crying of a small child, and I wonder how on earth that Danielle is alive and in the closet. "Johnny?" "I'm a little busy," she says, wiggling around in the back recesses of a closet that is definitely a little big for a baby's room. I notice that there's another bullet hole in the door. How on earth did someone get off at least three shots in a New York apartment without the police being here already? I'm mystified. Scully is looking at me, and I shrug as Johnny finally emerges with a howling, sobbing little girl who has a lot of blood on her and tears rolling down her grubby little face. "Johnny," I repeat. "How on earth-- how did--?" "I don't know," she whispers, holding the baby. Danielle looks older than I remember her. She probably even crawls, and it hurts me to think I don't know how old my own daughter is. "I guess that when whoever did this came in, Danielle was asleep in here already, and that Beth ran in here, hid her in the closet and then-- I don't care." She looks down at her shoes. "Shit. We have to call NYPD. I hate them," she growls. "Come on, Danny, we have to call the police. And you know what I think of them." Danielle sticks her tongue out and wails again. "Yes, that's exactly it." The three of us are about to walk out of the room in a strange, almost domestic peace, despite the blood and the bullets and the longstanding feud, when I realize that Scully-- the unwanted fourth-- is still standing in the doorway, blocking the way out, and Johnny's grip has tightened on Danielle. An explosion is about to occur. "Scully," I say. She looks at me, and then slowly moves out of Johnny's way. Johnny nods, but her free hand curls into a fist, as we all walk down the hall to the living room, silent. "Call the police, Scully," Johnny tells her acidly as I sit down on the couch, stunned. "If you want, you can even mention that you're a trespasser and murder suspect." Danielle wails again, louder. Johnny shushes her and looks at Scully with sheer hatred in her eyes. Scully stares back at her with an icy emptiness, picks up her cell phone, and begins to punch in the numbers. Spender: I'm not going to crack. I'm not going to crack. I'm running like hell for mission headquarters because I have to report about my successes, but I'm not cracking up under the strain. There's no way, because I'm not really working for them, not in my heart anyway. I'm just a guy doing a job. That girl was innocent. She wasn't even fucking related to the Valmont family. I got there and she was singing with the stereo, waiting for her lunch to be ready. She was singing badly, at the top of her lungs, and she really didn't care. "I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends," she sang, twirling around, "They're in my head--" When she looked at me, she already knew what I was. Or if she didn't know who I was, she knew why I was there. Maybe I gave it away with the way I moved. Maybe it's plain as the nose on my face that I'm a murderer, and not even a murderer. I'm an assassin, without any desire of my own. I'm a pair of hands, a mask for someone else. She ran, and I fired after her, hitting her right in the thigh, and she crumpled, crawling along to the nursery. I didn't want to follow her, but orders are orders. I had to follow her, but I was slow, too slow really. When I walked into the room covered with Disney and Teletubbies, I was sick. But I had my gun, and when I turned and saw her standing in the window, looking down, I fired again. This time I hit her low in the back. She turned and looked at me slowly, her face white with pain, and streaked with blood and sweat. I don't know how she held herself up, but her eyes were wild with pain and desperation. "You're too late, anyway. I threw her out the window," she whispered at me. I didn't believe it for a second. I pushed her out of the way, and looked down. I didn't see anything, nothing that could be a baby on the sidewalk. No one would do that anyway. When I turned back, I caught her looking at the closet out of the corners of her eyes. It was fairly obvious where the baby was. "That's really not such a good hiding place," I remember telling her. She stared at me, oozing and sniffling. I fired into the door, right where a child could be hidden. "See? Now there's no more baby." That's when she started to cry, and I lost my shit for a minute. "Don't cry! God dammit, you know what kind of woman you're working for? Do you know? You're lucky you didn't have something worse happen. Stop crying, do you hear me? Stop crying!" She started to cry harder, and the sound of her sniveling and gulping was too much for me. I lifted my gun, aimed it at her skull, and then shut her up for good. That realization-- that I killed a woman for crying too loud-- makes me stop for a minute. I almost throw up. But I have to go back to headquarters and report. When I see one of those smug nobody motherfuckers in a black sedan a little while later, I'm almost glad. "Have you finished your mission, Agent Spender?" "I'm not at liberty to discuss that," I say calmly. And so we drive all the way back to the building, silent as we exit the car, silent as we ride the elevator, silent as we enter the office and the same group of men and extraterrestrial wait for my report. "Mr. Spender," an older man says as I enter. "Have you succeeded in your assignment?" "I have," I reply. "Excellent work, Mr. Spender," the same man says. "Why don't you sit down?" I sit down. I look at the assortment of tyrants and assholes I've gotten myself involved with, and I try not to shudder. I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, and by trying to get free of a bad situation, I'm stuck in a worse one. They all look at me with eager, inviting glances, and I feel sick. "We're impressed with your work, Mr. Spender," one of the other men says. "We think you're ready to learn more about our ultimate goal." "I thought that was taking care of Johnny," I say. "I-- I didn't just kill those people for some sort of loyalty test?" "No, of course not," someone else assures me. "Your participation was necessary in causing Valmont to be distracted. She's not going to be able to handle our plan now because of her emotional distress. But Johnny was not the ultimate goal. Our goal is the same as ever-- colonization." My heart stops, but only for a second. Colonization? I've been helping colonization? How could I be so stupid? "I see," I say flatly. "You, of course, for your assistance, will be spared." "Of course." "You see, your organizations have been built, basically, upon a hypocrisy," the same "man" continues. "Your leaders have sworn that they were searching for a way for colonization to be painless, but in fact, they were stalling, trying to find a way to save your petty species-- or failing that, themselves. We allowed this hybridization because we found it interesting. But now is the time to end the lies and the stalling. Colonization will happen soon." My heart stops again. I force my tongue to move. "When?" "Within the month," is the reply. My hands start to tremble, but I hide them under the table. "How?" I whisper, forcing myself to stay calm. "That was the question, wasn't it? Originally, your organization was supposed to distribute the virus, start the process. But when your Ms. Johnny Valmont took control, this became impossible. We had to find a different way-- and it was so simple, thanks to your mother." "My-- my mother?" "Her ranting that we were prophets come to save humanity gave us an idea," I'm told. My stomach twists. "We've noted your species holds an especial connection to the God reborn-- such figures as Jesus, King Arthur, et cetera. What better way to convince humanity than to stage a resurrection?" Oh God. Oh, God, if there is a God. "Who?" "The Prophet of the Citadel of the Last Days," he replies glibly. "A man who's seen the fiery pit of hell, but was retrieved from the impotent wrath of God by us. A man who's been dead, but is now alive, exalted because he always believed--" I know who it is. "Fox Mulder was murdered four months ago," I say. "Maybe, maybe not," he says. "See for yourself." One of the others pushes a button on a remote, and suddenly a screen rolls down, and I see Mulder. He's standing in front of a surprisingly large flock, and he's preaching. "The Truth is all around us! It's ineffable yet tangible, a sign of the mystery of the Ultimate, which is above us, though we reside in its bosom-- and if we but surrender to it, we shall be made transcendent--" Fuck me. He's not bad, whether he's clone or the genuine article. His sort of heartwarming mumbo-jumbo is easily digested in a world where people want to believe in anything that makes them feel good. Whoever came up with this plan was pretty good. Johnny is going to be furious when she finds out. If she finds out. I imagine she's not supposed to. "I see," I say dully. "It's simplicity itself," he-- this alien creature who looks like a human being-- tells me. "The Citadel is going to hold a revival meeting on the Washington Mall in three weeks. We intend to release the virus there. It will spread like wildfire among the converted." "But quarantine--" "It's going to move too fast. FEMA will be in there, and then you know the rest of the story." I do. Oh, Lord God, I do. And it's not "and they all lived happily ever after," either. This is the fiery pit of hell and the four horsemen riding through the sulfur and brimstone. "Mr. Spender," I hear. "Mr. Spender?" "I'm sorry, what?" I ask, keeping myself in check just barely. I'm not gonna crack. I'm not. "Now that you're a part of the plan, we have another mission for you." "Oh," I say dully. "Yes?" They start outlining the plan. Halfway through, I close my eyes, and try not to scream. But I say yes when they ask me, because I have no choice. I can't do anything, so I don't. I just keeping seeing the dead girl singing, dancing around the living room as she declares: "Sunday morning is every day for all I care-- and I'm not scared-- light my candles in a daze 'cause I found God--" I found God, all right. He's the biggest bitch of them all. Johnny: I'm numb, but not the comforting sort of numb where you can't feel anything and you're safe from the world. I'm the sort of numb that comes after being bombarded with too much and too many, a dull ache that's inescapable and banal and yet still painful. The police ask questions upon questions. They rope off the nursery, take samples of blood, look for footprints. The flashbulb of the crime photographer's camera pops a thousand times, taking in every angle. NYPD has us sitting in the stairwell while they investigate, and all I want to do is go lay down in my bed and go to sleep to get away from all the stupid people. "Do you have any idea who might have done this, Miss Valmont?" Detective Logan asks for the fifth or sixth time. "I dunno," I say dully, looking into space. "Lots of people, maybe. I'm not too popular at work, you could say." "You're the boss, Miss Valmont. How many of your employees do you consider capable of murder?" "I don't know. I run a big company. Who knows these days who's capable of murder?" I say. The words are all running into sand. "Nobody threatened me in advance. Nobody said they were gonna do this. I found about my mother this morning, my sister a little while later. I ran right home. I don't know. Maybe it's the American government." "Are you a conspiracy theorist, Miss Valmont?" "No, detective, I am not," I reply. My voice sounds soft, weak, blurred into the numbness. "I just don't get along well with the government." "You have two members of the FBI-- or former members-- sitting here with you. You worked for the FBI. You don't get along with the government?" "What's that mean, really? I have a criminal record, and I killed a man in self-defense nearly two years ago, and I'm a shady character and how I ended up like this is confusing you," I say icily. "I don't know anything that can help you, detective. I knew not to touch the body, I knew not to do anything except wait outside for you. Please, can you stop asking questions? I have funeral arrangements. I have my daughter to think about. She's only eight months old, you know, and she's in a lot of danger right now. And she's hungry." The detective wants to say something, but Skinner stops him. "Not tonight, Mike. She's in shock. I'll have her call you tomorrow." Like hell I will. The only reason I called the police was because Bethany was an innocent kid who didn't deserved to be quietly disposed of by a bunch of Consortium ghouls. Her parents deserve to hear something, know something about what happened to her. I don't think it would be right to disappear her. Someone would miss her. Hell, I miss her. I try to move, but I'm frozen. "We're not going to be done with your apartment until at least tomorrow, Miss Valmont," Logan says. "I'll take you and your daughter to a hotel." "Fuck that," I murmur. "I can't watch a kid right now. Walter, do you think you might be able to? I don't want her in any more danger. I think you can handle whatever dickless fuckface did this. Would you?" "Yeah," he says. "How long should I--?" "Til I call? Probably tomorrow. I dunno. I'll call you," I say vaguely, still trapped in this slow-moving nightmare. It's almost as if Danielle were dead. I can't muster up any energy to worry about her. Skinner can take care of her. She's his daughter, too. "All right," he says. "Detective Logan?" "Give me a number to reach you at. We're going to have more questions," he tells Skinner. I'm so tired. I want to lay down and sleep, and they're going to make me go to a hotel where the air-conditioner is on at full blast. I should go to the Waldorf-Astoria. I can always get a place there. And there will be a mini-bar. "Miss Valmont, I can reserve your room?" "That won't be necessary," Scully pipes in. "I'll take care of her." "Like hell," I say, rousing a little energy. "You can fuck off, because I can call my goddamn cab to a hotel, dammit. I don't need you anywhere near me." "Waldorf-Astoria, right?" Scully says. "You can't expect anyone is going to let you walk out of here alone, can you? You're in no shape to be alone." "I don't want your company, Scully. I need to lay down and get some sleep. I don't feel well," I say, trying very hard not to let the police know I still might suspect her. If she did this, I want her available, not sitting in county. If she did this, nobody's killing her except me. "And that is why I'm coming with you to the hotel." I don't fucking understand her. She has to guess I'm ready to strangle her, but she keeps pushing the point. But nobody else understands that, except for Skinner, and he has a responsibility to Danielle. He even looks pained as he leaves the two of us alone, glaring at each other. The detective is of course oblivious. Finally, Scully stands up, and gives me a look that tells me I'm coming with her. I sullenly follow, thinking of the ways I could kill her and make it look like an accident. We don't speak in the cab. We don't speak during the ten minutes it takes for me to get a luxurious suite in the hotel. Finally, in the elevator, she looks at me. "Can I ask you something?" "Fuck off and die." "Who do you think did it? Really?" "Fuck off, Scully." She walks in front of me, pushing me to the wall of the car. "Do you think I did it? Still?" "I don't know," I say. "Maybe. In any case, I don't want you around me anymore." She puts one hand on my shoulder. Her fingernails are Chanel Vamp, but it's a short manicure. "Then I should go, shouldn't I? I should let you go find your room and your mini-bar and do what a decent human being would do, shouldn't I?" "You're not going to, are you?" I ask, pushing her away. "Did you? What have you done with people in pain?" she asks. The elevator doors slide open, and I push past her, trying to evade her somehow. But I know she's not going to leave me alone. I fumble with the magnetic card, sliding it in the wrong way, and she's got me. "You didn't answer my question." "No, I didn't," I say. "But have we ever claimed I was decent?" Her hand is cold against my neck. I shiver, reverse the card, and get the door open. We don't move. I try to shake her hand off my neck, but it stays there, dead weight. I turn my head and look at her. "Is that your excuse?" she asks, refusing to let me go. "Scully--" "Can I come in?" she asks. "What the hell," I reply dully, opening the door. The room is overwrought, but all I can see is the bed. I kick my heels off, and start rubbing my neck, walking towards it. I don't care what she's up to. I don't care if she sits there and leers at me all know. I am tired. I am going to lie down. "What do you think you're doing?" she asks me as I wander halfway across the room. "Going to bed," I reply. "My mom is dead, Scully. I had the scare of my life with Danielle. You can stay, I don't give a damn." I stumble over to the bedcovers, pulling them back slowly. She walks over to the curtains and throws them open, revealing the New York skyline. I slip under the covers, unimpressed. "You give a damn," she says, taking off her jacket. "You're just so proud about not giving a damn you have to pretend it doesn't matter. You're no different than anyone else when you're hurting, Johnny." "And what are you going to do? Make me feel worse?" I ask. She steps out of her shoes and walks to the side of the bed. "I love how you try to weasel out of everything, Johnny," she whispers, bending down right next to my ear. "You think just because you've had a bad day, I'm not going to make it worse?" "I'm supposed to be afraid, right?" I ask. She grazes my earlobe briefly with her lips, and laughs a little. It's a strange sensation. I shiver, and pull back, looking into her eyes. The first little bit of fear seeps into my stomach. A smile crosses her lips and she looks down on me hungrily. "Not-- just-- yet." END 3/4 Scully: I feel dizzy and feverish for a minute, but it passes. I stand up, looking down at her curled into the fetal position on the bed. I remember suddenly the first time I saw her after she had "died" and how horrified I was but at the same time how I was glad that we were going to finish our affairs. It's over a year later-- and it feels like ten-- and we're still engaged in our own special world. Maybe I'll never be free of her, not until we're both dead. I think I understand now how Mulder felt about Krycek, how overwhelming the fascination can be. When I think of Johnny, passion tints every overtone. It makes every breath alive with some meaning. It's a paralyzing fascination. Even now, when I could probably kill her without resistance, I can't seem to act decisively. I can't get away from her. I do walk away, though-- to the mini-bar. I take out a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels. "Want one?" I ask casually. "No," she replies. I shrug, pull out a few more bottles, and walk back to the bed. I open the first one, and slug back the whiskey in one stinging, painful gulp. "What are you doing?" "Drinking," I reply curtly. "Thinking. The usual. Did you really love your mother, Johnny?" I ask, picking up one of the tequila bottles. "Fuck you." "I really want to know," I say. I start unbuttoning my blouse. The material is sticky, confining, and I can't stand it. I leave it on, though, showing off the skin underneath, a striptease of sorts. "Did you love her? Is that why you feel so bad?" "Maybe I loved her, I don't know. I didn't mean for her to get killed," Johnny says dully. I slug back the tequila, then remind myself I can't get drunk or compassionate. Now is not the time. "I loved my sister. Poor kid. Didn't deserve half the shit she got. And I really liked Bethany. None of them should have died." It's too hot. I take off my shirt, drop it in a crumpled pile at my feet. The windows are wide open. I would like to fuck against the window, maybe. It's an intriguing thought. "It's your fault, you know." "No shit it's my fault," she growls. I laugh, and kick off my shoes. Then I get on the bed, perching below her. "Even if I did it?" I ask, pulling at her nylons. She kicks at me, and I take her foot in my hand and start rubbing it in slow, methodic circles, refusing to let go as my hand drifts upward. "It's still your fault even if I did it." "Fuck you." "Pretty soon," I reply. "You told me, didn't you, that we can't resist each other. Remember what you told me? I'm going to watch you battle a thousand demons and lose. You know it's going to happen. Inevitably. You're going to let me take off your nylons, then you're going to loosen that blouse, and then it'll be the same as it ever was. If you just give in, it'll happen sooner. Maybe it won't hurt so bad to know that you'd fuck me even if I had done it. And you would, wouldn't you?" She moans. I'm thrilled. The sound is weak, miserable, but nonetheless aroused. I slide my hands further up her leg, to the warming inside of her thigh. God have mercy on the miserable remnants of my soul. I decide to lay my head on the top of her leg, and I kiss her right where my lips fall, a slow, warming kiss as my hand strokes the hidden skin. "Talk to me, Johnny," I say, digging my nails into her thigh. "Go to hell," she says, her voice sore and rough. "At least say yes or no. I don't want you to think you're not a part of this game," I say, rubbing against her leg mercilessly, like a cat in heat. She whimpers. "Yes or no?" There's silence for a moment. "Yes," she whispers. I hear myself laugh, a strange, hungry cackle, as I move back, taking off my bra and throwing it off to the side. I feel so hot. It's like I'm not myself anymore. My clothes are too heavy, too hot on my skin. I have to get rid of them before I can go after her. I rub my cheeks. They're burning, but my hands are so cold. My skin is cold. I fumble with the zipper on my skirt, but soon it's gone, waiting on the floor along with my nylons. Her nylons are easier. I tear them to shreds with my teeth and my fingers, until her curvy legs are revealed through the dark material. And still she's curled up, inaccessible. That won't do, not at all. "Come on, Johnny, be a little helpful," I say. "At least get on your back." She moans again, but turns over just enough that my hands can reach all the way up under her skirt and remove both nylons and underwear with one rough tug. God, I'm hot, but my fingers feel like ice. They rub into her skin, and she's burning me, she's so hot. Underneath my fingers she's writhing, moving the way I feel, delirious. I push the grey material of her suit upwards, revealing more and more skin that I start to devour, rubbing up against her slowly, achingly, pressing my breasts against her, an infinitesimal burn towards what I told her was inevitable. Her breath changes with every move I make, catching and gasping as I push her legs further apart, forcing that grey skirt up further and further. My fingers move up further, to where she's getting warmer and wetter. It's driving me crazy, making me sore with desire. The idea that I have this power over my old tormenter makes my pulse speed up, makes my hips sway and thrust with need. I can make her do whatever I want, and it fascinates me, this absolute power. I move a finger into her, where she is slick and hot. My head is resting on her hip. She keeps shifting her hips in anticipation. "Don't move," I tell her. I pull my hands away and spread her legs wide, wider, tearing that grey skirt of hers, as I shift up and tear open her shirt. "You want it, don't you? Stay still. Don't move your hips. Stay still." I move in between her thighs, rocking my own hips against her hard. I want to slam my fingers between my own legs. Better yet, I want her fingers in me, hot and wet as I slide against them. The idea of that is almost enough to put me over the edge. But not yet. I lower my head to her breast and start sucking at it through the material of her bra, nipping roughly. I feel her staying as still as she can, even though I'm slamming into her hips with mine, the outsides of my thighs rubbing against her inner thighs, which have to be aching by now. She stays still, breathing faster as I pull at the skin between her breasts, biting at her, trying to break the skin. "Please," I think I hear her say. She shudders for a second, breath sobbing against her ribcage. My hands slip up to her bra, pull it down, and I wrap my mouth around the other breast, tugging at it with my teeth as I slam into her hips again, meaner, cruder. She's burning up under me. I don't know if I can hold out much longer as I bite down again on her breast, too hard this time, way too hard. Johnny screams, and the iron sting of blood hits my tongue. I let go, licking my way down the bared parts of her stomach, forgetting that I've drawn blood now. The taste of her is on my tongue, and I'm lost as I slide aside just a little and move my fingers to her wet pussy, teasing against it, occasionally brushing against her clit, my mouth waiting at the hollow of her hip. The feeling of my breath against the skirt must be killing her. But she still doesn't squirm. I keep rubbing against her, breathing heavily, teasing her. I don't know why I want to move so slowly, but I do. My God, I'm dizzy. I feel as if I might explode. The ache between my legs is killing me. I want to feel her mouth there, hot as blood, and the desire is painful and maddening as I finally slip three fingers inside her and start pumping them in and out in frenzied rhythm, driven by the beat of my pulse. She still doesn't move her hips. I can't stand it, not in this delirious fervor. How does she do it? I dig the fingernails of my free hand into my thigh. I hate her. I really hate her. The breath catches in her throat with a small, squeaking whine. I'd forgotten about that. She's close, or she wouldn't be holding her breath now, trembling slightly around her ribcage. I gaze up at her from my place at her hip, watching her breasts rise and fall as I continue that slow, pounding pace with my fingers. Finally I pull my finger across her clit hard, and I hear that sickly, ragged gasp that signals she's there, and she is, convulsing around my fingers, whispering something I can't understand. It might be please, it might be yes, it might be my God. But in the end, it's incoherent. I pull away from her, still so dizzy, as she rolls onto her side, curling back into the fetal position as if that's going to save her. I crawl behind her, throwing an arm over her and pulling her back towards me, kissing her shoulder, sucking at it hard before I continue my assault up her collarbone and neckline, nipping at her skin the entire way. "Not satisfied yet?" she asks, looking over at me with a face that looks streaked with tears, even with that flush of orgasm still in her face. "I forgot, you're not going to stop until I'm a quivering mass at your feet." I climb on top of her again, looking down and feeling that same thrill of power and arousal. It's like a drug, and for a minute I think I understand what it might be like to be Johnny Valmont. That gives me the chills, but I remember I'm not really in this for a personal power trip. Not the same sort as she was, anyway. I bend down and kiss her, pulling her tongue into my mouth, feeling the swell of her body under me. "Darling, we've only just begun," I whisper. "And whenever it ends, Mulder still won't be back," she replies. "You can be whatever twisted version of yourself or me you need to be, you can ride me with a leather crop, tell me how I got my mother killed, make my life a living hell, but what the hell do you get out of it? If that's what we've only just begun, I have a few pointers." She looks at me calmly, and I stop, disgusted with myself. I stare at her silently, feeling sullen resentment build up in my stomach, burning it like acid. The same as ever, world without end, amen. I'm just the apprentice of whatever great master of truth or evil I choose to trail along. How could I ever dare to challenge them? I close my eyes, and then open them again. I dare because I have nothing else. I lean down over her, pressing my body against hers, cheek to cheek, pinning her wrists to the bed. "But Johnny," I whisper, pinning her hips against the mattress and rubbing my cheek against hers. "I want you with me in hell. I want you to share every moment with me. Together, because isn't that what you really want? If I told you what I needed now was your mouth on every part of my body, that I wanted you to hurt me, you'd do it. Because no matter how hard you try, I get under your skin. And that's what I get out of it." I run my teeth against her jawline. She gasps when I find a spot just beneath her ear to circle with my tongue. She starts twisting against my hands on her wrists, electrified. "Are you ready to listen to me now? Or are you still going to show me how you don't need me?" I ask. "How much you don't want me--" She breathes noisily for a minute. "Let me go, damn it," she hisses. "I'll show you hell." I release her wrists. And I'm on my back suddenly, staring up at a bloodshot pair of green eyes that shine with desire. She swoops down on me and bites my lips, breaking the skin. I taste my blood, and suddenly I don't think anymore. I let go of any remaining grip of control I have and spiral into darkness, knowing who will be beside me when I wake up. And I just don't care. Johnny: The light is strange, pale, and old when I open my eyes this morning. It goes with this unreal setting, a room drenched with sex and rage, a rage so full of pain and madness that it drains the sunlight of any energy. Maybe it's just cloudy today. I don't know. My God, I ache. I feel ten years older, drained, sucked dry, beaten into submission. The little succubus is sleeping like the dead next to me, covered in just a sheet. There are a set of deep scratches in her back. I don't remember giving them to her. I don't want to remember it. I stare at them for a moment-- they're bright and colorful against that pale skin, not much darker than the ivory sheets. Then I shiver a little, and quietly slip out of bed, in dire need of a cup of coffee. I could also use a shower, but I don't want to see my face in a mirror, not until I can get a lot of concealer and foundation onto it, anyway. Last night was-- Last night. Fuck. I've had a lot of rough sex in my time but nothing like that. After I bit her, when the taste of her blood got into my mouth and the burn of her rage into my blood, the night gets fuzzy. It's mostly indistinct, with a few glaring, horrible images sifting out of the static. I notice a lot of scratches, bites, and other assorted gifts all over my arms and legs, and all I can think is fuck. This is simply impossible to wrap my mind around at all. I do need to shower. The smell of the coffee might wake Scully up, and I'm not ready to handle her. I need to get clean of her, wash that bitch right out of my hair. I won't, though, no matter how I try. She's under my skin, an infection they can't cure. But a shower is a good idea. I need to clean up. I need to get out of this room. She's awake when I come back swathed in a big, luxurious bathrobe. I'm stealing this bathrobe. It's one of those things I feel entitled to. She's stretched out on the bed, covered by the sheet, looking at me with eyes that say so much in a language I don't understand. I don't know what to say either. There aren't words for what happened last night. But this silence is killing me. I have to break it. "Do you want to take a shower?" I ask awkwardly, taking the inane route out. "I need to call NYPD, to see if I can get back into the apartment. Then I think I should probably call Skinner--" She looks at me. Doesn't speak, and tells me exactly what she thinks of showers, NYPD, Skinner, and my pleasantries. I shut up and flop down in the nearest chair. She tilts her head and looks at me, sending a shiver of fear down my spine. Finally, after a long moment, she starts to speak aloud. "They called," she says quietly. "For a minute they thought I was you. You need to call the private line to Julian. I don't know what that means. Do you?" I do, and I don't bother to answer her when I hurry over to the phone. My luck has gone to shit lately. Private line to Julian means that something is very, very wrong, DEFCON 2, yellow alert, maybe red alert. But Scully can't know that. So I yawn and rub my eye, as if it were nothing. I can't seem to fool her, though. She sits up, watching me as I pick up the phone. It's like being stalked by a cat. There's so much silence before the fatal attack comes-- "Hello?" the person on the other end of the line asks. "This is Joanne, I'm looking for Julian," I say, giving the informal password. "That's Joanne, J-O-A-N-N-E." "Thank God," the person says. "We'd been informed you had been moved to the Waldorf, but you didn't answer the phone--" "I was in the shower," I say. "I was led to believe Julian had a message for me." There's an uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line. I start to get nervous. Bad news in my business tends to mean the Apocalypse is upon us. For all I know, outside my window is the smoking ruin of New York. It would explain the strange light. "The news isn't good. And right now, no one can be assured of a secure line. The rats are in the walls this time," the guy says evasively. "If you get my meaning." "Well, fuck, even rats understand metaphors," I reply. "Spit it out, and anyone who's listening, I know you're listening, so fuck off!" Scully looks at me and smiles. I flip her off. "All right, then," he says. "We have organized internal corruption, sir, that extends to the highest levels. They've turned on us, sir. Operations have begun to begin--" "When I said spit it out, I meant in English," I say testily. "The motherfuckers-- and there's a list when you come in today, Johnny-- they brought back Fox Mulder, or some motherfucking evil clone, the guy didn't know which-- they've got him preaching alien love, moving like a wildfire through all sorts of abductees and other suggestible sorts. He's holding a rally on the Washington Mall in three weeks, I'd say about forty thousand strong at the least, probably closer to eighty thousand. They're going to infect his followers with a slow moving version of Purity, and when they disperse--" "Oh, God the fuck dammit!" I shriek. "Dammit! Shit! Dammit!" "There's more." "Of course there's more. Let me guess," I say, reeling. "These are the masterminds that pulled all the assassination shit." "You got it. That was supposed to have you completely distracted while they used our resources to set this up. Then by the time you figured it out, it would be too late. Now-- it's dicey, but we've got the jump on them now." No fucking duh. I turn my head and notice Scully is sitting there, wide-eyed, and I don't care. I am furious. It's all well and good to attack me personally. Actually, it's not, but compared with fucking the world like this, it's Sunday breakfast with the preacher. Forty thousand infected drones could drop North America in no time. I've run a thousand mock-ups. We lose the country in six weeks with a scenario like this. Within three months, the survivors are living in igloos and human civilization is a myth. Sweet God in his heaven. "You bet," I snarl into the phone. "How'd you find this out?" "Apparently, someone who's still loyal to us has been in on this a while. He knew these people hated you, but last night, someone who was closer to the inner circle tipped him off about the greater plan," the guy tells me. "These guys haven't been particularly circumspect, either. They're all over the news, though they've made Mulder stay out of the spotlight. But sooner or later, they were going to blow their cover. At least we have that, sir. How long can you keep a secret when you insist on going to the media?" I put my hand on my forehead. Scully shrugs and turns on the TV. She immediately tunes it to CNN and ignores my hissy fit. "Fuck, I hate people." "Duly noted," he replies. "We'll get all the information together. When do you think you'll be in today?" "I'm not sure. I haven't gotten back into my apartment yet. Early this afternoon at the-- oh, fuck." Scully's jaw is practically in her lap, and after two seconds, I understand why. They're doing a report on the Citadel of the Last Days and their inane fucking rally. Of course the prophet refuses to speak, but someone's got him on tape. Five seconds, nothing conclusive, except that he's clearly Mulder. It really does come in threes, doesn't it? "Yes?" "I have to call you back," I say. "Get shit together." "Of course, sir." "Don't call me sir," I reply, hanging up. Scully looks at me. Her hands are trembling. But her face is composed. I don't know what makes me more nervous. "Did you know?" she asks, desperately, nerve-wrackingly silent. "Not until I got that phone call." "They're your people, aren't they?" "They decided I didn't have enough balls," I reply. "That's Mulder." "No, it's not." Her jaw sets stubbornly. "That's Mulder." "Not anymore," I reply. "Johnny, that's Mulder," she says, eyes narrowed to pinpoints. "Don't you dare tell me it's not him. Don't you dare." This is not last night. The spell is broken, the coach is a pumpkin, and that glass slipper belongs to a lonely, psychotic woman who got involved in a world that was too much to her. I glare her down. "What I'm telling you, Scully," I say in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, "Is that the man on the screen is not him. He's a clone, or he's some sort of hybrid or-- fuck if I know. Maybe it is him. But he's working for the wrong goddamn side." "The fact that you can even say that--" "What?" I ask. "I'm just telling the truth. It may be selfish of me-- just a little-- but I think I'm on the right side here when I want to stop Mulder from starting the Apocalypse. Maybe I'm just being crazy, I don't know." She looks away from me, and clutches her knees to her chest. Her lips are pressed together, and she looks like she would cry, but only if she were alone. "You don't know so much," she says finally. "One of these days, you're going to be wrong when it matters, and I am going to laugh." "Fine," I say. "But only when I'm wrong. And right now, I'm right. You know I'm right, don't you?" Her head turns, and she looks at me wearily. It occurs to me that if we both survive, I should figure out a way to give Scully a very long vacation. Maybe I should consider taking one myself. She stares at me, eyes bright and stinging. "I--" she murmurs. Her eyes flutter shut. "I believe you." Thank God, I think to myself. To her, I merely say: "Good. Now why don't you take a deep breath and a long shower, because until we catch this guy and take him down, we're not stopping." And I don't know if I believe it, but she unfolds from her frightened position, letting the sheet drop away from her body as she stands up, cool and straight and unafraid. Before she walks away from me, she turns and looks over the s-curve of her spine right at me. "God help you if you're lying to me," she whispers. Then she strides into the bathroom and slams the door. END BOOK TWO