From: jstoy Date: Wed, 15 Dec 1999 07:45:42 GMT Subject: NEW: Tenebrae et Elegiae Book Three (1/4) Tenebrae et Elegiae: Book Three by Jennifer Stoy (jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu) Disclaimers and Information listed before Book One. "The means are right for taking, (fade to grey) Trying to be ruthless in the face of beauty-- In this matrix, it's plain to see-- It's either you or me. Bruise-- pristine-- serene-- We were born to lose. Cast a line with a velvet glove Reading like an open book, in the hands of love-- In this matrix, it's plain to see-- It's either you or me. Bruise-- pristine-- serene-- We were born to lose..." Placebo, "Bruise Pristine" Scully: I've only had one dream since Mulder died. It doesn't feel like a dream at all. Sometimes I think that all the evil in the world has seeped into my subconscious and unfurled itself against the background of my dreams, lurking, waiting to sneak out into the daylight hours and do some serious damage. Maybe it already has. There's a voice speaking to me in my dreams with a monotone like a heavy bass drum, a man's voice. He tells me a lot of things, but I only understand one of them. Maybe it's my conscience trying to tell me something. I'm not sure what it means at all. "You have a choice, Agent Scully," he tells me over and over. I don't know what to say to that. What choice do I have? What choices have I made that have made this life and this moment inevitable? This is the moment: I'm striding through a crowd of religious lunatics in my favorite black trenchcoat. I've spent valuable minutes doing reconnaissance, trying to find the best way to move through them. I am on a mission. Not of mercy, but of a brutal, survivalist agenda. I am going to save the world. Mulder loved this trenchcoat. He never said so aloud, but I could just tell the way I could always tell things about Mulder. Maybe that's what took us so long. We knew everything about each other but we couldn't say any of it. I wish it hadn't taken so long, but I think that if we had gotten together any earlier, I would have lost him that much earlier. I think that maybe we were doomed from the minute he told me he was the FBI's most unwanted. I don't believe in fate, though. Somehow, the choices we made created this moment, and this choice. I have a choice, but I don't know what I'm going to do with it. Moment: I keep walking, following the plan, following my route. The world's a blur, like a dream, full of sound and light and fury that signifies nothing and everything. The lunatics are waiting from the word from on high to transform them but they don't know what they're in for. I do. I do. I even see dead people. For example, I see a dead man on stage. They did him up nice for me. He's as deadly as ever. There were times I wondered if Mulder was something I dreamed up, my perfect man. I'm still wondering. His hair is still dark, his eyes are still trying to talk to me, and he still stands like a damsel in distress, something I can save. I want to rescue him, kiss him out of this nightmare. But first someone has to do the same thing for me. If anyone sees me in this sea of people, they obviously believe I'm not dangerous. They think I'm still living in a dream where I could just love him, follow the truth, and hide from the realities. But they may still think Johnny's not waiting to put the kibosh on their entire party. I don't have any certainties. In other words, no one knows anything, least of all me. I have a choice. I am walking up to the stage, full of possibilities, pregnant with decision. This is the end of the world and I get to decide where we go from here. My mind is spinning and when I don't hear my dreams, I hear myself, like a broken record, quoting the Bible like I belong out here with the lunatics: I came not to bring peace, but a sword-- This is the moment: I see him wearing a giant black turtleneck covering up the fact his throat was shot out. If I pulled the shirt away, would there be a hole? Would I look at him resurrected and watch it all crumple like a facade? That's what happens in my dream, the dream I swear I'm living out right now. No, I remember this. The hole or the scar is there for their purposes. He was dead, now he lives, and not even my touch could bring him back to me this time, living or dead. He'll have to kiss lead-- a last gift from me to Mulder. Because my Mulder, the Mulder I am so sure is dead and gone, wouldn't want the world he's being used to create. Please, God-- let that be true. I can't do this if that's not true. In the dream I have the world is dripping with symbols as thick as blood. Lights appear in all the right places. Music plays, music I can't hear because the sound is all screwed up. The children's voices are singing and then they scream in horror and agony. My unconscious knows all the protocols of metaphor and symbolism. But I try to get past my nightmares because I'm not dreaming, unless life is one big dream-- and now is not the time for speculative philosophy. I have plenty of desires, but only one dream. Just one. I want Mulder back. I want him to wake me from the dreams and the desires and the half-lit half-life I live and tell me we'll make it out all right. I want to kill Johnny, because I know that Mulder is dead. I want-- I wanted-- to feel her blood leak onto my hands, and I wanted to taste that blood and laugh. I want only impossible things, nothing simple, nothing like peace or happiness or something even remotely attainable, like avenging violence. So now I'm here, unable to have either desire, cursed to live out my dream where I'm trapped between reality and madness, walking towards the stage where he's waiting for me and doesn't even know it. I love him. Maybe that's how I can stand it. I love him and I will do this for the memories I have of him, my lover, my partner, and my friend. I walk onto the stage, easy to do in the chaos that teems around it, before it, around me, in me. No one's looking for me. No one wants to see me, or believe that I could do this. I've been underestimated again-- and that was exactly what I was counting on, what the world is counting on. He turns his head. His eyes widen, but I'm not sure if that's recognition or fear. I have a choice. God, let it turn out all right, please God, let this be the right choice, don't let me do the wrong thing this time, let it be right, please God, give me a sign, give me a feeling, I'll do anything-- My hand fumbles in my jacket. This is my moment. This is my choice filling the moments between one heartbeat and the next. Can I really do what I think I should? Is this the right choice? The world is spinning with sound and light and the overwhelming rhythm of my breathing, and the staccato drumming of my heart as I consider, in split seconds, my choice-- and make it. I have only one dream. Just one. It's there when I close my eyes, one that's still there when I open them. Oh. God. I think it's coming true. Johnny: I didn't think it was possible, but you can have coherent two phone conversations at once while maintaining three other conversations online. However, I think that it requires a crisis as deadly as a possible nuclear war, or in fact more deadly than a nuclear war, no sleep in over thirty-six hours, and fifteen cups of cheap, strong coffee during the last six of them. The Mulder issue has become the most important thing in the world, although the person on the street doesn't know that. For the species to have any chance of survival, they can't know. There have been a few news blurbs about the rally/gathering of the Citadel of the Stupid Motherfuckers who Believe in Benevolent Aliens, but if anything, CNN holds them in even more contempt than I do. Of course, that's because CNN believes there are no such things as extraterrestrials and not for a truly substantial reason, like these dumb bastards are going to end the world. But I take what I can in circumstances like these. Anyhow, ever since I got that phone call, it has been catnaps, coffee, and conferences up the ass for me and for Scully. That was somewhat surprising to me. Despite her impressive threats that first morning, she's taken an active role in preventing the Apocalypse. I guess that's what happens when a girl is raised to have social conscience, or an overwhelming sense of duty or whatever the hell makes you give a damn about others when other people would give up. Oh, God. Sleep deprivation is making me babble when I need to present a calm, leadership-type aura. I sigh and start shuffling through the mountains of information about the conspiracy against me and my organization. Scully is over on the other side of the room, wearing her cute, geeky glasses, very seriously typing out something while chewing on the end of a pen in her dark purple satin pajamas. The end of the world makes for strange bedfellows. Scully and I have been so busy that she's taken up residence in my house. How this happened, you couldn't explain to me with an illustrated textbook. But there's nothing sexual about it-- there's no time for that. We're too busy and I momentarily wonder if that's why it took a ridiculously long time for Mulder and Scully to get in bed. I didn't think they were that busy, but you never know. And-- but speculation really doesn't benefit the situation where I have two weeks to do some serious damage control or the Citadel of the Last Days of Disco (fucknuts, every last one of them) boogies their way through the country with alien virus. I'm repeating myself and I've even started noticing that I sound like a broken motherfucking record. This is one of the more disappointing things about Armageddon. Nothing is really different about this crisis except for the shorter deadlines and bigger headaches surrounding it-- and the outcome if we fail. It's all a damned cliche, down to the fact that I can't find anything in the chaos, not even the preliminary list of who's dirty in this instance, even though I have looked at that list at least six times in the last hour. I rub my forehead. If the end of the world is completely familiar, should I be afraid? Or is the fact it feels so natural something to worry about? I need to take a nap. But not before I get my hands on this file-- "Scully!" I shriek. "Do you have the reports about our Benedict Arnold buddies? The ones that identify them, I mean? I mean-- fuck. You know what I mean." "I only have the same reports you've gone over six times already," Scully replies calmly. "You're getting a new batch in tomorrow morning, remember?" "Tomorrow morning? Do these people understand the meaning of the words no fucking time?" I snap at her. "You understand that we can't move the deadline back on this one, right? No force on earth gets to prevent this one." "And no force on earth can change the fact that once you stay up for seventy hours straight, you're legally insane," Scully replies calmly. "Have you considered switching to no-caff and getting some sleep? It's two in the morning, Johnny. Nothing's going to happen until at least eight. Get some sleep or you're not going to be able to marshal the forces of darkness and stop the rebels." I give her a sidelong glance. "Are you making fun of me?" "It's the end of the world. If you can't joke about that, what can you joke about?" she asks with a straight face, sitting down next to me. Fair enough. "I do think you should get some sleep. Sleep deprivation makes you sloppy, and you've told me repeatedly in the last week that we can't be sloppy in this operation." I sigh. Scully is making a lot of common sense. Even with the coffee, I'm exhausted. I want to crawl under my covers, go to sleep, wake up, and find out this is a big joke. Better yet, I want to wake up and find out I've been in a coma for a month, a year, and none of this happened at all. At this point, I would be relieved to wake up dead. Well, maybe not that relieved. But anything's better than staying awake anymore. "Johnny?" she asks. "I'm going," I reply. "Hold down the fort?" "Ever since you made me your default second in command, I've been doing that anyway," she replies lightly. I yawn and stand up, padding down the hall in bare feet. Then, just before I reach the bedroom door, a strange cold feeling works its way into my stomach. This entire end of the world business is awfully pat. It's not right that it should be like this, and for Scully, Scully who not only hates me, but finds the work I do absolutely detestable every way, for her to be my second in command all of the sudden-- Something is rotten in the apartment of Johnny Valmont. I walk back to where Scully's sitting and working. Without warning, I put my hands around her throat. "What the hell are you doing?" "Thinking," I say acidly. "Even delirious, I still have a mind up here. Isn't it awfully convenient that all of the sudden, you, Dr. "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too," Scully, are so eager to assist me in my work? You know-- we still haven't found the guy who tipped our informant off, either. Did you have a little free time to talk to him while I was on my way home last week in a panic?" She tries to tilt her head up and look at me. "Johnny, you're paranoid," she says, pulling away from my grip on her neck. "I don't like working for you and I do still cherish the idea of taking revenge on you. But these are extraordinary circumstances." "They don't feel that way," I insist, keeping a grip on her shoulders now, if not her neck. "I feel like this is any other crisis I've faced. There's a large vague conspiracy, a plan for aliens to take over the world, and I don't know who to trust in the midst of catastrophe. A Hollywood screenwriter could pump out something better than this during a two-martini lunch." Scully pulls away from me and turns around to look me in the eye with a disbelieving expression. "You think I somehow dreamed this up? That I pulled together all of these resources to scare you?" she asks. She shakes her head dismissively. "Johnny, you're full of shit." There's nothing to say to that, unless I sink to the level of childish comebacks and dead-end circumlocution. Either I believe her or I don't. After thirty-six hours of being awake and a week of knowing that this is no hoax, I can't blame her for being somewhat annoyed at me, though it doesn't reduce the threat of her being involved in the conspiracy. "You're not in on this?" I ask inanely. "If I were, do you think I'd tell you?" Scully replies. "Go to bed. You're incoherent and overcaffeinated. Hit the showers, take a hike, pick a catchphrase and turn it into a few hours of sleep." "Nag, nag," I say wearily. "Can you really blame me for seeing conspirators over my shoulder?" "Maybe not," she says, softening just enough to be beautiful. "But this operation doesn't have time for your personal paranoia any more than it has time for my grudge against you or my fear that the man up there is Mulder." "Fair enough," I whisper, sorry I brought it up. I'd forgotten that we also hadn't had time for three funerals. Oh, God, this world is so fucked up. "Tomorrow, then." "Go to bed already," she replies, turning her back on me. After a moment of looking at the back of her head, I blink, shake my head, and turn to go to bed. I still feel the anxiety in the pit of my stomach, but I don't know what to do about that. I'll simply have to work with it as I desperately race against time to stop the forces of darkness from destroying life as we know it-- There's something so disturbing about knowing your life is a cosmic joke. Maybe that's the benefit of living a simple life-- instead of feeling tied to forces beyond your control, you can just exist without so much subtext. It would be nice. I don't know. I think such strange things when I'm tired and they all seem to make a twisted sort of sense. "For the love of all that's fucking holy, Johnny!" Scully yells from the living room. "Open the bedroom door and Go. To. BED!" Oops. I open the door, and when I see my bed, comfortingly messy and inviting, I wonder why I gave a damn about philosophy. Every answer I'm looking for is found in the depths of my pillows and the soft crispness of the bed linen. The ones I can stomach, at least. I close the door behind me, and soon, I'm safely asleep, free from questions and trouble for a little while. Scully: I could use a little sleep but I could use this blessed, glorious moment of Johnny-less silence more. My life has been in tailspin this week. To be fair, so has Johnny's, but she's had a hell of a lot more practice and training for this sort of thing. Not to mention the fact she brought this upon herself by wanting to be in charge of the Consortium. I happened to be in the right hotel room at the right moment and now I'm part and parcel of Them, the Bad Guys, who are now all of the sudden the guardians of mankind. I know that's nonsense, but at this point, we don't have anyone else who could do the job. I marvel at the level of self-deception I've maintained about myself. If someone had asked me two weeks ago if I would have done this, I would have laughed in his face. I was the bitch on wheels, with no earthly desire except the utter destruction of Johnny Valmont. If that same person had asked eight days ago, I would have said the same thing. What a joke that turned out to be. Among many other things I've discovered I cannot escape, I cannot escape who I am. And it happens that I have a deep sense of responsibility for the world, even when I say I don't care. My parents, my friends, my life have instilled a sense of duty that catches me at the most awkward moments. More than that, I know this is the right thing to do. Mulder would have-- I don't live my life by Mulder's moral compass. That's for damn sure. But in this affair, I find myself rationalizing everything through his philosophy. This is his world, the ultimate flowering of all of his prophecies and fears and paranoia, the nightmare he could always envision in the back of his mind. He understood it and I denied it for so long that it feels wrong to believe in conspiracies and extraterrestrials. I should have never been the one who did any of this helping Johnny, infiltrating the Syndicate, discovering all these secrets business. In some way, I feel like I'm living out a life that rightfully belonged to Mulder. But he's dead, or he's worse than dead, and I am not. And I wonder as I wander through my disorganized thoughts why they chose him in particular to come back. There is nothing so famous or spectacular about Mulder that he makes a better prophet than any other abductee. If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't allow myself a moment of doubt until this was over, however it turned out. I would throw myself into the work. I could be Johnny's second in command and it wouldn't faze me one bit. For as long as this situation exists, I can pretend that I wouldn't spit on Johnny if she were on fire. But this uncertainty, this worry that I'm doing the wrong thing, that I'm being duped again is distracting me. I can't put my whole heart into something I'm not sure about. My old habit of second-guessing everything out of spite is also distracting me. I'm forcing myself to do what I know is the right thing, while the pit of my stomach growls angrily in protest. I've seen the evidence, I've weighed the evidence, and I've made the proper scientific judgement. My stomach doesn't care. I saw Mulder and betraying him, even if he is a zombie drone working for the wrong people, makes me sick. How can I give up the person who's meant the most to me for the person I hate more than anything? I click on the television while shuffling meaninglessly through papers. The situation is very simple, which is probably why Johnny doesn't like it. Mulder's group with the absurd name is holding a rally on the Mall in fifteen days. During this rally, Mulder is going to publicly link his name to his role as Prophet of the Aliens or whatever he does. While his flock is marveling at his "resurrection" story, non-human sentient agents (Johnny's term for the shape-shifting aliens) will move through the crowd, infecting them with the alien retrovirus. According to the current projections, within two weeks, sixty percent of the American population will be infected at a mortality rate of over ninety-five percent. By this point, the rebellious Syndicate forces will be in charge of the government, making sure the other forty percent of Americans (as well as all those other pesky countries) get sick. After that, as one of Johnny's lieutenants said, "Sayonara, folks, the fat lady sang and now she's hatching a lovely pair of lizardy twins from her corpse." It's a simple plan, really. It may still succeed because of the central issue involved here-- the alien virus and the weakness of our vaccine. We don't have a cure. The vaccine is not at an acceptable level of effectiveness. It's touch and go if we have to try to survive a viral epidemic, though we have every medical person in the country forcing vaccinations on people. However, nipping this in the bud is similarly uncertain. It's mostly contingent on us rounding up the non-human sentient agents before they can let a plague loose, make sure there's no plan B, and killing Mulder in the process. But where they can be simple, we have to be complicated. And where on this side I have Johnny and a group of sinister thugs and the intellectual knowledge I'm right, I still don't feel right. I feel like my father would look down on me for choosing to help someone like Johnny over Mulder. I rest my head on my hand, and stare down at my feet. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing? A picture falls out of the mess. It's of a man, an average middle-aged man, after his viscera have been ripped apart by a newborn non-human being. His face is empty, staring up at nothingness. Maybe this is a message from God. I pick up the picture and put it back into the mess. I look up at the television, which is still tuned to CNN-- we haven't changed the channel since last week sometime. The unfortunate guy who covers the graveyard shift is talking about the stock market. Or maybe it's international news. I don't pay him any attention until I hear the phrase millennial fear, and then my attention is back to one hundred percent. "Recent reports have come in that the so-called Prophet of the Citadel of the Last Days, a millennial cult with a belief in extraterrestrials, is an ex-government agent," he says. "Government agencies will not confirm this report, and no comment is forthcoming." I look at the screen, as the same blurry, dark footage of Mulder plays onscreen for the hundredth time. He's not doing anything special. He's passing a file to a member of his cult. But I stare at him, trying to discern any clue about what's going on behind his eyes, which look the same as ever. How on earth did this happen? How did Mulder and I end up on different sides? How-- but before I can think too much about the matter, the "office" phone rings, and I dive for it, scattering paperwork like snowflakes. Johnny doesn't need to wake up. I don't think I could handle her right now, either. "Hello?" I ask into the receiver breathlessly. "Dr. Scully?" someone asks. "I didn't expect you to answer." "Johnny is taking a short break," I reply laconically. "I needed to speak with you anyway," the someone replies. "This is a friend." "I need friends like I need a hole in the head," I reply. There's a pause on the other end of the line. "One of the head doctors in your lab is working for us. He's got a lead on a dramatically more effective version of the vaccine, and he's been suppressing evidence of a possible cure." "And I'm supposed to believe you because you call up and tell me so?" I ask. "Believe what you want, but you have access to the labs in a way Johnny wouldn't," he says. "Look, I've got to go. The guy's name is Nicholas Roegis. His work is going to help you out more than anyone else's." "What-- I--" Click. From my position on the floor, I realized I changed the channel in my dash for the phone. Instead of news of Mulder, I'm seeing a badly garbled view of someone's bare breast. I fumble around for the remote and turn off the television. I should probably wake Johnny up, but I really don't want to. I pick up the phone instead and dial the lab I used to work at. Someone answers groggily. "Hello?" I recognize the voice as one of the lab assistants I knew very well. I decide that I can trust him. "This is Dana Scully." There's a quick respectful pause. "Yes, ma'am?" he says more crisply. "I need to come down to the labs. Could we make sure no one knows about that until I'm there?" I ask. "Of course," he replies. "Thank you. I should be there shortly," I reply and hang up. I think about waking Johnny up. I decide against it as I get my coat and slip it on. She may not like this, but we're waging a war here. It's not about egos or power trips. Johnny needs to get some sleep and I need to follow up on a tip. It makes perfect sense I go to the labs anyway. As I tiptoe outside and hail a cab, I get a momentary shudder when I realize I'm not just taking orders, I'm taking initiative in this game. If the man that the news channels call the Prophet is my Fox Mulder-- well, it didn't even take thirty pieces of silver for me to turn on him. But I'm not betraying Mulder, because that man is not Mulder and even if he is-- he's trying to do something deplorable. The pain back in the pit of my stomach, I get into a cab and drive away, trying to stop the doubts and disbelief in my head. Now is not the time to break down. I have to stop worrying about what I can't change and be a scientist. I need to be objective. I need to follow a logical plan. Yeah. Sure. I stare out the window of the cab. If only it were that easy. END 1/4 Johnny: According to my watch, it is 0747 Eastern Standard Time. I had asked that my entire emergency staff be in my office at 0745 this morning and shockingly, four people are late. I tap my watch. Scully looks at me and rolls her eyes. "Maybe the elevator was slow," she says. "They should have anticipated that," I reply. "I would have." "You're a pain in the ass," she snaps. "You're a bigger pain in the ass," I reply. She snorts derisively, and everyone else looks uncomfortable. Obviously, they don't want to hear their bosses banter. Finally, the two slowpokes drag their asses into the office, looking white as sheets. Scully gives me a look and I refrain from chewing them out. Instead I launch into my presentation. "Let's begin, shall we?" I ask crisply. "The Citadel of the Last Days plans to march on Washington Mall and hold their rally in seven days, five hours, and--" I check my watch-- "Eleven minutes." The latecomers look down. Scully rolls her eyes and sneers at me. "Now, since our anonymous mole on the inside tipped Dr. Scully off to the defection of Dr. Roegis, we have discovered that our most effective vaccine against the viral pathogen has a success rate of about seventy to eighty percent. While this only improves upon our previous vaccine by ten percent, the difference is this vaccine seems--" I stutter. There are days I wish I were a scientist, not a lawyer. Scully takes up the slack. "This vaccine seems optimized to be improved upon. My people in the labs are confident they can make an eighty-five percent effective vaccine by the day of the rally. We currently have operatives spreading the vaccine by any means possible. Two days before the rally we intend to add it to public water supplies in as large a radius as possible." I smile at her and she gives me a smug, coy look. Ever since Scully decided she didn't need me ordering her about to "fight the future," she's been playing a little game of oneupsmanship with me. It's extremely sexy and if we had time, I'd one-up her. But with about two dozen of the most important people on earth staring at me, it's better not to go there. "Have you identified the insider?" my old friend Nico asks. Nico is an Aleutian-Russian guy. He's been an assassin since he was ten. We met while I was vacationing with English Jake in Istanbul. He taught me how to break someone's leg with my bare hands and how to curse in Russian, Aleut, Turkish, and Arabic. We're fond of each other. But he's a skeptical son of a bitch who's sure I'm fucking this operation up somehow. "Not as of yet. He most certainly does not want to be found," I say. "Are you sure he's not leading you on a wild goose chase?" Nico insists. "Johanna--" "Nico," I say calmly. "Of course we've considered that possibility. We're prepared for it. But all of the conspirators we've been able to interrogate have confirmed his account of events." This isn't enough for Nico. He wants everything nailed to the floor, pinpointed. It's a drag. Then again, that's why I wanted him at this meeting. Not even Dana Scully at her pigheaded ice queen bitch whore worst could be more nitpicky than Nico. "Speaking of able to interrogate," he continues. "Why the fuck aren't you just lining these motherfuckers up against a wall and--" he makes the universal suggestion of a gun with his hand and mimes blowing them away one by one: bam bam bam bam bam. "And for fuck's sake, Johanna, didn't you already kill Fox Mulder? Doesn't the shit-faced cockmaster know how to stay dead?" Scully digs her nails into the lacquered tabletop, breathing noisily. "Watch your filthy fucking mouth, Nico," I reply. "There's a reason I'm not choosing the simple and direct route. Chaos is not beneficial to us in this matter. Besides, to attack the non-humans and their allies would be viewed negatively by certain forces." "Those cocksucking--" "Nico," I say, very dispassionate. "We haven't yet severed connections with those parties you're about to slander. I don't want to have to do it, not until it's absolutely necessary. Why do you think we're sneaking around, Nico? I want this party to go off with a bang, not a whimper." He looks at me silently, turning and twisting the idea in his mind. Scully, unaware of this, launches into her next lecture about things I'm sure the science people appreciate. It all goes right over my head except for the conclusion: vaccine good, cure shaky. Apparently viral sentience can mutate really fucking fast and that makes it hard to kill. Nico is staring at me, considering my plan. Finally, after Scully has convinced everyone around that yes, it is necessary that we ride our scientists hard and put 'em away wet, he looks at her and then at me. He smiles and winks at me. "Mister Nico," Scully says. "What do you think?" "I think Johanna has great taste, as always," he says casually. "I also think that the plan is unnatural, dangerous, and if I could think of a better way, I would. But Johanna is smarter than most of us. This is an excellent plan under the circumstances. You two work very well together." She blushes, or perhaps she flushes. I can't read if the expression on her face is embarrassment or anger. "Nico," I say lightly. "It's the truth," he replies. "As much as I'd like to pump a few hundred rounds into those motherfucking pigs who betrayed their own species, your way is much better. That way we'll kill 'em all, lose a few of our own, and God can sort out the rest. But Johanna?" "Yes?" "Cut Fox Mulder's head off this time, stuff garlic in his mouth, stake him through the heart, whatever you need to do. But keep him dead." I sneer at him, discreetly flipping him off. He looks at me quizzically. Fair enough. I've told Nico on several occasions I wanted to use Mulder's balls to play pool. It doesn't make sense for me to suddenly defend him. I discreetly indicate Scully and grimace while she's not looking. His eyes widen and he makes a gesture I assume is asking if they fucked. I nod quickly. He grimaces. "I have a small suggestion," someone says. I look over. It's Rahib, our Tunisian representative. "If you intend to kill Fox Mulder, you should find someone close to the man in his former life. I think our mutual enemy will be looking for our people. Sir, I had heard it rumored you seduced his former partner. I suggest that perhaps you use your influence with him and have him do the job. They would not be expecting--" Scully breaks her water glass. Everyone stares. "Okay," I say, trying to sound as cool and calm as I possibly can. "Ten minute break, people. I'll take care of it." They vacate the room. Scully hisses at me when I try to get near her. "You have glass in your hand." "If you think I'll kill him, you're out of your fucking mind." "Did I suggest it?" I ask. "Scully, you don't think I'm a complete fucking moron, do you?" She looks down at her hand, grimacing. "No. But you're thinking about it." Again, fair enough. Rahib, asshole misogynist slimeball though he may be, has a very good point. They're going to be expecting one of my slick boys to cap Mulder. They'll probably have three or four of my subverted assassins to prevent that. But if someone they didn't expect, like Scully-- Forget it. I sit down next to her and start picking the three large shards of glass out of her hand. Alex did this on average of once a month. There was always goddamn blood in our garbage. The neighbors probably thought we got off on it. In fact, I find blood sports to be rather juvenile. Violence is definitely sexy, but there are much more subtle ways to inflict violence on a person than breaking the skin. "Johnny?" "They'd never think you'd do it," I say softly. "You're a big smudge Mulder fucked. Nobody would think of it." "You fucking bitch," she growls, pulling her hand away roughly. "If you thought I would, you'd order me to do it, wouldn't you?" "I'm done ordering you around. You're a free agent in this game," I say. "You choose what you want to do. After all, I have more than one assassin. Anything you do for me or with me from this point on is all your own free will." She glowers at me, eyes gleaming with tears. Then she looks down at the huge shard of glass in her palm and pulls it out, leaving the bloody fragment on the conference table. She stares at me, her gaze burning my skin with its intensity. "How does it feel to be soulless?" she finally whispers. "Something like the last time we had sex," I reply, getting up from the table and walking over to the window. "It could be worse. Is that what you're really asking me, though?" "Are you asking me if I'll kill him?" Scully asks. "I already asked you," I say, looking out the window. I check my watch. "Seven days, four hours, and forty-one minutes." "Johnny, you can't ask me to do this." "I could. I did. You can say no. I won't mind if you say no." "You fucking bitch!" she shouts at me. "You-- you--" "Make a decision," I say. "You have a choice, Dana. Yes or no?" She walks up to me, looking darkly into my eyes. Her lips are trembling and her entire frame is shaking with rage and fear and horror. With one smooth gesture, she slaps me across the face. "I hate you," Dana whispers. "Yes or no?" She opens her mouth to answer. I wait. Spender: It's all breaking down. She-- Dana Scully or Johnny Valmont or an unholy amalgamation of them both-- is doing this to me. She's coming over me, making me nervous when I can't be nervous. I can't have any weaknesses for tomorrow, but she's making me weak. On second thought, that could just be the music. I growl at the tape player. I found it in the stereo I stole and unfortunately for me, none of the radio stations come in. Instead I have this mournful, sad sack tape clearly made by a true adolescent. No matter how many times I play it over and over, it doesn't get any better, either. "Alcoholic kind of mood, lose my clothes, lose the lube--" a whiny androgynous voice sings, right on cue. I wish I could turn the damn thing off, but my temporary neighbors are very noisily going at it. Personally, I don't like thinking of two huge men having sex. Call me crazy, but it does nothing for me. "So narcotic, out of sight-- what a gas, what a beautiful ass--" I'd rather think of Johnny and Scully, together, separate-- I don't care. Any heterosexual man with a pulse would be interested in either of them and the idea of the two of them is enough to drive me crazy tonight. It could, after all, be the last night of my life. Why not fantasize a little? "Spinning me around, she's coming over me--" the whiny voice continues. I could see that. I can almost feel Johnny's lips on my earlobe. "Cuz nobody loves you, it's true," she whispers, wrapping her legs around me from behind. "Not like we do--" I can't allow myself to be distracted. Beautiful or not, desirable or not, these two are nothing except forbidden fruit, pipe dreams, fantasies to jerk off to. This is all only a dream, a half-realized desire, a hallucination. Nothing is real except for tomorrow and what I have to do then. The rest of it is an illusion. Scully is smiling at me. She shouldn't be smiling at me. She shouldn't be here. She's not wearing any clothing. My God, she is a real redhead, too. She runs her tongue over her bruised, rosy lips and smiles again. "Take a ride, take a shot now," she tells me. I think I'm hallucinating. She sounds like the woman singing on the tape, a torch singer draped all in black, like Johnny is now, slinking up next to her in a black beaded dress, eyes glowing and lips vibrant with wine-red lipstick. I go over to the briefcase with my gun. I have to stop hallucinating and get back to reality. I flip the locks open as Johnny presses her lips against Scully's mouth, forcing it open with her tongue. They kiss as I lift the lid of the case, obscuring their actions from view. I pick up the gun and close the briefcase. Fox Mulder is standing there, trying to talk to me. I can't hear him, though, and I slowly realize there's a gaping hole where his larynx should be. Johnny pulls away from Scully long enough to chuckle obscenely. "Cuz nobody loves me, it's true," Scully tells her. Or maybe she's telling Mulder, I don't know. "Not like you do--" I blink in horror. When Johnny killed Mulder, she not only took his life, she took his voice. Men without voiceboxes don't rat you out. Dead men tell no tales. After a moment of morbid, leering triumph, Johnny returns to Scully, who has been watching us listlessly. "I didn't know!" I tell Mulder, who is still trying to tell me something. "I didn't have a choice. Not in any of it. I didn't want this to happen. I just have to do it." Scully moans from across the room. I try to look past Mulder, but then I see Alex Krycek who's in the way, bleeding on the floor from a wound in his groin, eyes empty and blank. He doesn't try to speak. He sneers at me slowly and then looks away at Johnny. I understand it then. He loved her. In that look they share, I know just how very much they loved each other. I can't understand why, but his gaze when he looks at her is adoring, practically idolatrous. Johnny is again distracted from Scully. She looks at Alex and blows him a kiss, a salute of sorts. He reciprocates the gesture and I'm breathless, staring at this unreal tableau. "Cara mia," she says ironically. "Mi amore," he replies in a voice that is cobweb and shadow. Scully isn't singing, but she's moaning and it's driving me out of my mind. Though considering no one is in the room except for me, I'm not sure I'm not already delirious. Johnny turns back to her and I remember what's real. The gun in my hand is real. The music is real. I am near enough to being real. They don't exist. I sit down in a rickety chair, take out a cloth, and begin to oil the motherfucker. It doesn't need it, but I can't stand to keep looking up and seeing ghosts. I try to get them out of my head, but Scully keeps ruining it by moaning. I finally get tired of rubbing the gun and look for the bullets for the thing. Six chambers, six bullets. I look at them and imagine the sound as they burst out of the gun into someone's body. That's real. I have to live in the real world because tomorrow's the big day. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life and the last day of the rest of everyone else's life. Scully's moaning reaches a sobbing pitch and I put the gun down on the splintering, dusty table that's served as a desk for me. I push past Mulder and Krycek, who seem content to watch, but I still can't get to Johnny and Scully because standing before me, as solid as anything I could imagine (or perhaps I'm giving him psychological weight) is my father. "It's all breaking down, Jeffrey," he says. "You're not real! You're dead!" I say, pushed to the point of childish hysterics. "Why are you here? Why are any of you here?" "It's all breaking down, Jeffrey," he repeats. "Get away from me," I say. "You were my father and you didn't give a damn how far I fell. Once I failed you, you could have cared less whether I lived or died. I wasn't Mulder and I wasn't Johnny and I wasn't good enough." Someone laughs. I think it's Krycek. I push away from my father, past all three men who lost to Johnny and found themselves dead because of it, to where Scully is pinned against the wall, swallowed up in Johnny's embrace. "Listen!" I call to them. They ignore me. "Knock it off." They still don't listen. Johnny's head is buried in Scully's shoulder and they could care less what sort of show they're presenting to the world. The world belongs to the two of them anyway and it's not enough. They have to have each other along with it. "Hey, Johnny!" I cry, trying to get her attention. I deserve her attention, dammit. She's a figment of my imagination. "You know it was me, right? I'm the one who saved your ass this time. I called the guy. I called Scully. I tipped you off. If it weren't for me--" She's not listening to me. Damn her. She should listen to me. I've done so much for her. Instead, she's ignoring me as she keeps doing whatever she's doing to Scully. I realize I'm holding the gun. That disturbs me. My grip on reality has never been this sketchy before. I haven't had much to drink and there's no other reason for me to be seeing all these ghosts and illusions. I'm cracking up underneath the strain. "Johnny!" I scream at her. "Are you listening to me?" "Johnny!" Scully cries in counterpoint. Her head is tilted back, her mouth swollen with desire, eyes rolled back. Of course Johnny's not listening to me. She's not the real Johnny. She is me. I wouldn't listen if I had Dana Scully up against a wall, either. I put the gun up against my left temple. "Go away," I whisper, closing my eyes tight. "Just go away. I don't want you here." The gun is very cold. If I were a man and not a mouse, I would pull the trigger and end the nightmares. If I weren't afraid of living, I wouldn't be afraid to die tonight. The metal against my skin feels so good. If only I could have an accident. Something-- someone-- brushes against my lips. "Oh, Jeffrey," a woman whispers to me. "But you do want me here." I keep the gun pressed against my head. "You're not here." "I have a story," she whispers, wrapping her arms around me. "Old story, no twist, good point. Two monks belong to an order where they don't touch women and all that good stuff. There's a woman by a river. She's lame, but she needs to cross the river. One of the monks carries her over the river. The monks keep going on their walk. Other monk is raging at the first brother. How could you do it, he says. You broke our rules. You touched a woman. First monk looks at the guy. Brother, he says, I left that woman back at the river. Why are you still carrying her?" I told myself the story, I think to myself. When I open my eyes, her arms won't be around my neck. Her breasts won't be pressed up against me. Her pelvis won't be thrusting against mine. I just need to leave her back at the river and open my eyes. One-- two-- three-- open. No one's there. I sigh, a long, shuddery sound. No one's there, not Mulder, not Krycek, not Scully, not my father, and not Johnny. "Good boy," I hear the same voice tell me. I spin around, looking for her. But she's not there. Of course. I made them all up, to distract me from the reality of tomorrow and the reality of today and the whining wheeze of the tape player as the song bursts into frenetic signification: "You come across impure-- I didn't mean it-- you're goddamn immature-- I didn't mean it-- you act so insecure-- I didn't mean it-- you hate me now, I'm sure-- I didn't mean it--" END 2/4 Scully: 0630, Eastern Standard Time. It's dark, very dark, pre-dawn on this day of days. Johnny, with her usual militant precision, has her alarm clock sitting on the nightstand, beeping the signal. Time to get up. No more sleep. The alarm clock has murdered sleep. The sheets are rough, cheap fiber. When the lights are on, they're a dingy off-white with the faintest smell of bleach and sex. The sliver of light that seeps in from the curtains is abrasive, the color of bad neon. A faint hum of traffic sweeps by. "You awake?" she asks, no hint of sleep in her voice. Knowing her, she's been awake for an hour. "Yeah." "Dark, isn't it?" "Happens in the late fall. I still get surprised," I say in a flat voice, a meaningless voice. "Had a dream last night," she replies in the same flat tone. "I dreamed about Alex, actually. I miss him." "Maybe you shouldn't have killed him." "Maybe. In the dream, he was so beautiful. He told me that he loved me, then he kissed me, then he killed me," she whispers and her voice tingles with awe. "It was a beautiful kiss. Did you dream?" "I only have one dream." "Hmm," she murmurs. "World without end, amen. I get the shower first." "Johnny," I say before her hand can slither out and flick on the light. "We have a little time." "Time for what?" My laughter sounds almost pretty in the darkness. "Time," I repeat. "Time enough for you and time enough for me." 0752 Eastern Standard Time. Whoever said Johnny would stop sex mid-orgasm before she'd be late lied. We gather in a conference room in a nondescript hotel. It's not at all glamorous. It doesn't need to be. The business travelers ignore us, the tourists gawk momentarily and pass on, and once the doors to our conference room are shut, two or three unobtrusive men make sure no one is listening to our talks. The world is a spectacle today. Everyone looks so somber and ridiculous as they drink coffee and whisper together. Their faces are blank, nondescript. I wonder what they're thinking. Then I notice everyone is staring at me when they think I'm not looking. I don't know why, but I just know it's for a reason I won't like. Either they realize I made Johnny late or they know what my role in today's circus is going to be. Either way, I don't need them to stare at me. "All right, people," Johnny snaps, unamused by the spectacle. "I know I'm late. You know I'm late. That means we don't have any time to talk about me being late. Let's get down to business, because we have five hours, seven minutes, twenty-eight seconds to go." 1029 Eastern Standard Time. We're in one of the side conference rooms, having a frivolous discussion in world-saving terms, but I find it to be an important one personally. Besides, it's less stressful than the constant reports from our agents already in the field. "This is a ridiculous idea, Johnny," I growl at her. "Of course it's ridiculous!" she replies. "That's why it's going to work. Would you believe it if you were told a woman in black leather was stomping across the Mall like Tina Turner in Mad Max?" "No, because it's crazy! There are going to be news crews! Expecting it or not, I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb. Why can't I just wear this?" I ask, gesturing at my own nondescript jeans-and-blouse outfit. "Trust me, there's going to be enough going on that they won't notice," Johnny replies. "We've got this party rigged pretty goddamn fucking hearty." "I won't do it." "Humor me, Scully," she says. "Who's the expert?" "It's insane." "Who was it who did a stint as a professional assassin again?" "You are such a bitch," I say, relenting. "You're a lunatic. But I suppose I'll give in to the voice of experience." Johnny grins, lips pulled back in an imitation leer. "I always did want to see you all in leather," she drawls. Then she checks her watch and her leer turns into a pleased little grin. "That took less time than I thought it would." "You had that on your private schedule?" I ask. "That's so--" "Anal," she says. "I know, I know. Now go put the damn thing on." I take the catsuit. "If I can't move in this, I'm wearing jeans." She smirks at me. "Trust me. It moves." I don't reply as I stalk off to another side conference room. I can't believe how I'm letting her run this show. You'd think the end of the world was her own personal debut. I suppose in a way, it is her professional debut, the end of the world as managed by Johnny Valmont. Still, I should have a little personal integrity. 1118 Eastern Standard Time. We're in a corner of the main room again, and the leather catsuit doesn't feel right. And if people were staring before-- "Do you have the logistics memorized?" Johnny asks, making absolutely no sense as she paces back and forth in front of me. "Do you remember the locations on the map? Do you--" I lift my hand to stop her pacing and chattering. "Do you want me to run over what I'm going to do again?" I ask wryly. "Seeing as we're in a holding pattern right now. I guess we didn't need to get up at six thirty after all, did we?" "It never hurts to be prepared," she replies, tapping her foot. Sometimes I wish Johnny smoked. The entire mechanism of smoking might slow her down while she's agitated. Instead, she paces and fidgets and breathes very loudly. "Shit, I wish I'd brought a book." "Dante's Inferno?" I ask. She snorts. "Go over the thing again, Scully," she says sardonically. I sigh and start reciting the plan all over again, from the moment we're sitting in a black sedan at 1215 to the projected successful end, where I re-enter said black sedan and take a trip to clean up at 1309. It seems frightening that less than an hour before I put this entire thing into action, I'm bored enough to watch television and make small talk. When I stop speaking, Johnny nods. "Okay," she says. "I think we've got it down. Want something to eat before we go?" 1213 Eastern Standard Time. I'm sitting in a black sedan, with some poor son of a bitch sitting behind the wheel and Johnny sitting next to me in the backseat. She's put her game face on and she looks blank, lost in her own world where Krycek still kisses her good morning and she just has to pull a few strings for the world to turn on its axis. "What time is it?" I ask. "We have a minute," she says, her face soft with emotion. "Well, shit. I guess here we go." "Don't get sentimental on me," I reply. "Remember, I still hate you and I'm not doing this for you." "Good for you," she says, flipping open her briefcase and handing me a gun. "I killed my first man with this. It's good luck." "Are you going to recite poetry for the occasion?" I ask, trying not to feel sympathy for Johnny. God damn her, she's good at chiseling a small space for herself. "I could," she says as I take the gun from her. "I have a few lines of Swinburne that fit the occasion." I open the car door and prepare to get out. "Spit it out so I can do this, Johnny," I tell her. "All right," she says, her face taking on a sullen, irritated cast. "Think about this as you go bounding out to save the world in a blaze of homicidal glory. We are not sure of sorrow, and joy was never sure; today will die tomorrow; time stoops to no man's lure; and love, grown faint and fretful, with lips but half regretful sighs, and with eyes forgetful weeps that no love endure." I look at her with an expression I hope is full of bravado. "See you at 1309, Johnny," I tell her, slipping the gun into my waist holster and pulling the trenchcoat around me tight. "Hope you don't get dead." "Ditto," she tells me as I get out of the car, slam the door, and walk away. Then I forget her. This may be her production, but this is my choice. After I do this, I can walk away from this business forever. With Mulder dead and Johnny neutralized, I won't have any more fathers waiting to tell me what to do. As I become part of the mob that quickly surrounds me, I realize that maybe I got revenge on Johnny after all. Whether I say another word to her or not, she'll be waiting for me forever. I don't know if that comforts me, but I try not to think about it as I look down at my watch. 1217 Eastern Standard Time. Let's get this party started. Johnny: I don't know when I wake up. Early, I suppose. I have a nervous tic that wakes me an hour before I have to be awake sometimes. This time, I hope it's less. I wouldn't mind falling back to sleep. I was having a good dream. Alex was there. He was dancing with me in my bedroom. It was strange. We didn't dance while he was alive. But whenever I dream of him-- boom. Dancing. Scully rustles a little in her sleep, pulling away from me. I don't know why she decided to muscle under my covers. She seemed just fine with her bed when I fell asleep. But now she's burrowed under the blankets on the side of the bed I wasn't using. Alex kissed me, in my dream. His lips were warm, sliding over me like honey, slow and sweet. I loved him. I did. I wrapped my arms around him and we danced, tied up in each other. I didn't even flinch when he jabbed the .45 into my side and pulled the trigger because in my dream, that was the right way to go. I stare up at the black ceiling. I can't see anything. I can hear everything-- the traffic, the sound of Scully's breathing, the ticking of my watch on the bedside table. I can't sleep now. So I just think of different ephemeral things, waiting for the alarm to go off. When it does, I hear her move, just a little. "You awake?" I ask. "Yeah," she whispers, running her fingers up my arm. I shiver. "Dark, isn't it?" "It happens," she murmurs, kissing my earlobe. "It's that time of year. Sometimes I'm surprised, too." "I had a dream," I tell her, trying to stay calm despite her onslaught. "About Alex. I'd forgotten I missed him." "Maybe you shouldn't have killed him," she says, moving closer and closer to me. I ignore her little comment. "It was so beautiful. We were dancing. He told me he loved me. He kissed me. And then he killed me," I tell her as greedy little hands pull the sheet away from my body. "Did you dream last night?" "I only have one dream," she tells me, climbing atop me. "World without end, amen," I reply, sliding my hand down her waist. I understand, of course. If today is the last day-- we look for what little comforts we can steal wherever we can. I understand her too well and it's killing me. "I get the shower first." "Johnny," she whispers, bending down to kiss me. "We have so little time." "Time for what?" I tease, feeling warm even though I know how empty this gesture is. She laughs at me. It's a brutal, cold laugh, revealing how well she understands this. "Time," she whispers. "Time enough for you. And time enough for Me." I pull her close to me again, silencing her with a kiss. We strip to skin fast enough and before I can stop to think about my timetable, we're wrapped around each other, trying to keep time from moving forward. We're late to the meeting. Everyone pretends not to be surprised, but I feel their eyes on me like spotlights. It's unnerving to be under so much scrutiny at this point in the game. I glance at my watch. Late or not, it's time to begin. "All right, people, I know I'm late. You know I'm late. That means we don't have any time to talk about me being late. Let's get down to business," I tell everyone. At that moment, I feel relaxed. I may be a little off-schedule, but so far the entire world is following my plan. It seems like a good omen, and I smile a little. We may get out of this alive after all. The morning progresses according to plan and I feel strangely euphoric as it slips. I don't even really have to think as I listen to report after report fitting the frameworks I projected. I make orders I decided on days ago, sip insipidly good Starbucks lattes, and scream like a maniac once in a while because it's expected. But underneath that facade, that image of me I'm starting to despise, I'm thinking ahead. I think I'm tired of this. More accurately-- what's left? This is the greatest triumph I can imagine in my career. I saved the world. Everything else will be an anti-climax, a slower battle I don't think I'm suited for. I live life in a rush. The challenge, the crisis, the motherfucking huge mess no one else could look at without having a nervous breakdown-- it energizes me. It lifts me off the ground. "Johanna," someone calls, breaking my reverie. I look up. It's Nico. "I'm here." "Good," he says emphatically. "You can't leave us yet." "What am I going to do, Nico?" I ask him, smiling slightly. "You're going to win, Johanna," he says. "Then life will go back to normal." I make a face. "Sounds like a dream come true," I tell him. "What?" he says. "You're not having any difficulties-- not now?" "I'm fine," I say. "I'm just-- Nico, what's left after this? I don't have the patience for this anymore." He laughs. "You're such a child," he tells me. "You live and die for the rush and leave the mess for someone else to clean up. Are you afraid you're finally going to have to grow up?" "Fuck off, Nico." He laughs again. "A regular Peter Pan," he teases. "Don't worry. Once you get older, it won't bother you so much. Of course, you look like the sort of leader who cries when there are no new worlds to conquer." "How the hell did you get so smart, killing people for a living?" "Time does it to all of us, Johnny Pan," he replies. "Go. Do something useful. You're making us all nervous, sitting there and staring into space. Go throw that gorgeous redheaded madwoman against a wall and fuck her brains out, anything." I make a small, ashamed grimace. "It's that obvious?" "I know you," he says. "You should have never gotten within ten feet of her. Therefore, you adore her." I stick my tongue out at him. "You're going to pay for that, Nico." "Go on, do something," he says. I do what he says. I remember I have that leather outfit I want to stick on Scully. She's going to be difficult about it. But it turns out that Scully takes less finessing than usual. In fact, her only objections are eminently practical ones. I get her past that and it seems like no time at all before we're sitting together, two minutes until the time scheduled for her to take off and find "Mulder" so she can blow his motherfucking head off. She's antsy about it. I can tell she has her doubts and she hopes getting out of this morning's peculiar inertia can overcome them. "What time is it?" she demands. I check my watch. "We have a minute," I tell her. Then I look at her and smile ruefully. "Well, shit. Here we go." "Don't get sentimental on me," she snarls. "I still hate you. I'm not doing this for you." "Good for you," I tell her. I open the suitcase where I have my gun. I offer it to her. "Here. The first time I killed someone, it was with this. It's good luck." "How delightful," Scully replies. "Are you now going to recite poetry to commemorate the event?" "I could," I say. She takes the gun from me. "Would you like to hear it?" She opens the car door and looks back at me angrily. "Spit it out," she growls. "Think about this as you go bounding out to save the world in a blaze of homicidal glory," I say, remembering a few lines from a poem English Jake taught me when I was just a kid. Maybe it was my mother. I don't remember. "We are not sure of sorrow-- and joy was never sure. Today will die tomorrow-- time stoops to no man's lure. And love, grown faint and fretful, with lips but half regretful sighs, and with eyes forgetful weeps that no love endures." "See you at the rendezvous," she says, eyes blank. "Hope you don't get dead." "Ditto," I call as she walks away. I take a deep breath. It's my turn to get into the game. Scully-- actually everyone-- thinks I'm just staying here, waiting like a good little godfather. Hardly. As much as I'm crazy about the girl, I'm aware she's going to try and kill the real love of her life. What I'm doing is a fail-safe, just in case she can't. I let myself get carried away in a torrent of alien-worshipper frat boys who are hollering about the Prophet like he fronts a surf-punk-boy-band. I stay quiet, try to be loose, try not to think of what could go wrong. My cell vibrates. I pick up, breathless. "Johnny, where the fuck are you?" "With the people, Nico," I say, drawling. "I'm heading for the stage." "You're what?" "Is everything else in order?" "It's going according to plan. What the fuck do you think you're doing? Get back to the car!" he screams. "Nope, sorry," I say. "Keep up the good work." I hang up on him. I wait, aware that the crowd is getting worked up to a fever pitch, that Mulder is about to make his grand appearance soon-- oh, so very soon. I think about the gun hidden in my ankle holster. I think about this being over and escaping somewhere-- South America, East Asia, Canada-- to get free of this world I don't trust anymore. I turn my head because something is moving wrong out of the corner of my eye. I wonder for a moment what's going on and then, I know. I can't believe it. Jeffrey motherfucking Spender is walking my way. The rat bastard has a gun. He has a gun right here right now when Mulder is making his triumphant way on stage (I can tell from the cheers of the crowd) and he's got it aimed at me. Fuck aimed. He's fired. Fuck fired. I am about to die. Again. END 3/4 Mulder: I was called to serve the truth from the first moment I started breathing again. I won't say it's been easy. I lost the life I knew and everyone I loved, but it was fate. I was always meant to be a prophet. It just took their help for me to realize it. It's always been my fate to be the one who shares the truth with the world. That's why they couldn't kill me the first time. Of course I asked why the minute I thought of it. It never made sense to me before. Why not just kill me? What could I have done to them dead? But knowing I was meant to be their prophet changes everything. It puts my life into perspective. Things (a useful sort of word to describe them) are happening today. I know that they don't think I know that. Today is important for more than one reason to me and to them. I suppose that enlightenment is supposed to make you a trusting idiot somehow, but I've never felt sharper or more sensitive to little things. I know that the people around me are not exactly to be trusted, but that's not a problem. They don't know what they're doing, but I'm a servant of the truth and it'll all work out right in the end. "Do you remember what you're supposed to do?" one of my new coworkers asks. His name is Harold. He used to work for *her* until he realized that she was-- her. He's all right, even though I don't like the way he looks at me, like I was a big kid or a farm animal. The bullet went through my throat, not my brain. "Yeah," I tell him. "Do you think *she's* gonna be here?" "Who, Johnny Valmont?" I close my eyes. I've told everyone over and over that I don't want to hear that name ever again. Most of the time, they remember. But whenever someone fucks up, they know it. Harold makes a small, weak little noise in his throat. "Sorry, Mulder," he says. "I forgot you don't like to hear the name." "Not a problem," I say. "Don't ever do it again." "Sorry," Harold says. "Oh. And I think she might put in an appearance, the fucking bitch. Fucking nagging bitch, she's gonna get the surprise of her life today." "Go away," I tell him. The fucking nagging bitch. It's a wonderful way to put it. She killed me, and not content with that, she killed Scully. They told me how. Scully went to her apartment in New York and Johnny attacked her, stabbed her to death in a fit of frustrated pique. I think of that and it makes me sick. If I didn't have the truth, it would be enough to make my life not worth the bother. Some days, it's still not worth the trouble, but then I realize I have the truth and that's a responsibility I can't get rid of. "Mulder, you're ready for this, aren't you?" It's the Old Man. The Old Man is another part of the organization, bland, unmemorable, but when he says something, I get chills down my spine. It reminds me of something that's on the tip of my tongue but never quite there. He reminds me of someone from old times, bad times. I don't know why, but I know that if we weren't both part of the truth, I wouldn't trust him at all. "Of course I'm ready," I say, looking at him curiously. "Harold just mentioned her and I-- didn't react well." "It's understandable. But you need to remember, Fox," he says. "You have to remember you're working for the cause of the greater good." I know that. I don't understand why everyone thinks I'm an idiot. Maybe they remember how stubborn I was before I died. I'll admit I was an egotistical, obstinate son of a bitch, but I was on to something. It just took some enlightenment to get me all the way to the truth. "I understand," I say. A thought occurs to me while I'm pacing back and forth, waiting for the clock to strike one. If I could be brought back-- and I know that I was dead, embraced by the white light, on my way to heaven or hell or limbo-- why not Scully? She deserved to come back at least as much as I did, if not more. "Could you have brought Scully back?" I ask the Old Man. He looks at me and shakes his head. "She wasn't ready for this truth. She wasn't a prophet," he says, sweating a little. I know I shouldn't trust him. I don't trust him. I trust the power that brought me back, because it's the power of the truth that did this, that transformed me. He's unimportant. "You need to forget her." "I'll never forget her," I reply. "If I'm anything, it's because of her." I hear someone say in a stage whisper, very mockingly, "You complete me." I look back in the direction of the whisper. "She had me at hello," I reply sarcastically. We all laugh. I look at my watch. 12:48. Shit. This is taking forever. I don't understand why we're on such a precision time schedule. I'm here. The crowd is here. I should be out there preaching to the faithful. It's who I am. It's what I do. The truth doesn't follow a schedule. "I should go out there," I say, looking at the Old Man and Harold. "Do you hear them? I have a duty to them. They're truthseekers, just like all of us." "Stay here, Mulder. Don't get overzealous. They're here to see you. They can wait," Harold says. "You'd think this was the goddamn Second Coming or something." I don't know why, but his tone of voice makes me nervous. In fact, this entire business makes me extremely nervous. I didn't want to be here today. I was content moving slowly, finding the people willing to come to me and to the truth. But they told me it was my duty. I am a witness of the truth, they said. They don't act like it. When I look around, I get this sickening feeling that they don't understand that something happened to me. I was changed the day I died. I'm a living witness of the everlasting truths that are out there-- and they stand there, eyes as blank and flat as a television screen. "Maybe it is," I tell Harold, coming back from my thoughts. "You never know." "Don't get a Jesus complex, Mulder," Harold snaps. "It's not attractive. Look, you've got five minutes. Take a breather, man; get ready to do your thing. You know what you're going to say?" I shrug, just to annoy him. "Maybe." "Mulder!?" "Yes, of course I know." "Good," he says. "Just five more minutes. God, this has been long overdue." I almost ask him what he means. But I realize I don't want to know. I don't need to know. I'm the witness. I'm the prophet. Even if I'm surrounded by Judases and doubting Thomases, I know what I'm doing is the right thing to do. I wish Scully were here. If I had her, I would feel stronger. But even without her, I know it's right. I know I'm making her proud. The Mall is crawling with people. I sneak a look before I walk back to where everyone's waiting. I didn't realize so many people were listening. I didn't realize so many people were looking. It gives me hope. I am doing something that's helping the world find the truth. For some reason, that calms me down. I only wanted to be a good man. That's all I've ever wanted. I wanted to be worthy of being loved, of being great. Have I finally reached that point? By giving up all the things I thought made me happy, have I become the man I always wanted to be? Scully, if you're out there, anywhere, have I done it right? I want-- I always wanted-- to conduct each day of my life in the best possible way. I always thought the search for the truth was the right way. Was it? Even if it wasn't, I don't feel remorse. I was born this way and I must have this. And I had you, for however briefly. Scully, none of us gets out of this life alive. I check my watch. It's time for me to go. I turn, and walk towards the stage. The murmur of the crowd becomes hysterics. I feel like I could be made of light. I understand it all now. This was how it was supposed to be. I am accepting this. The crowd is mine. I belong to the truth, as we all do. I stare out over the crowd, awed at how people ripple and move like the water. It's dazzling. I can't look at them too long. I turn my head, expecting to see Harold and the Old Man or any of that crowd. They're not there. Instead there's a woman standing there, staring at me. She's wearing black leather underneath a coat. I remember the coat from somewhere. But who is she? I don't recognize her face. I think I should. But I don't, not at all. She pulls out a gun. I turn my head back towards the crowd, looking at them shimmer and fade. My ears are ringing. The entire world is ringing. God, Scully. It's beautiful. It's all so beautiful... Skinner: How nice of Johnny to let me take care of the clean up, I think as I survey the results of her blowout on the Mall. I see telltale signs of her involvement in this riot everywhere, but she's nowhere to be found. That truly annoys me, because she really deserves to be dragged in for questioning concerning this mess. It could have been worse, but not by much, I think as I wade through the police squads and teary rioters. I go over the list of events in my head. The FBI was already on edge about this Citadel of the Last Days gathering when it went awry. A man who looked exactly like Fox Mulder walked onstage at exactly one o'clock today. Thirty seconds later, a woman in a trenchcoat and a black leather catsuit aimed a semi-automatic at his skull, fired, and splattered his brains all over the stage. Nobody can identify her. The crowd went insane, absolutely fucking nuts. The woman got away, just disappeared into the absolute chaos. I have my suspicions about who she was, but I'm keeping them to myself. We've found at least one hundred and fifty dead so far, not counting Mulder. The worst so far is a nine-year-old boy who was probably not even a part of the Citadel rally. He was trampled into oblivion by the crowd and the emergency crews are having a hard time just scraping him out of the dirt. What's worse is that we haven't even found all of the bodies yet. Every emergency and crime agency in DC is going to be here for a week finding bodies, fingers, blood, et cetera. The news crews are on us like flies on a corpse and every fifteen minutes, some jackass is sticking a mike in my face, asking what I think of this tragedy. What do I think of this tragedy? I think it's lucky these clowns didn't bring down some real extraterrestrial intervention. My working theory is that Johnny was actually trying to do something generous for the species. I suspect these guys were going to start Armageddon in the midst of alien love and peace. If that's true, I don't particularly want to throw Johnny in jail to rot. Also, it explains why I haven't heard anything from the ever-so-charming mother of my child in three weeks. That, if anything, is making me antsy. After nearly a year of being summarily told to fuck off concerning Danielle, for Johnny to abandon her with me isn't right. Still, I can't imagine Johnny leaving the country without her. I need to call Johnny. I need to figure out what the fuck she was doing, setting off this riot on the Mall. I assume she didn't do it for shits and giggles. That's not her style. I know killing Mulder was important, but why in public? Why would she do this just to kill Mulder? And what makes me even more nervous is that I saw Fox Mulder's body. I saw him dead as a doornail. The fact that he was walking around to get his head blown off is suspicious enough. The suspicion that he was walking around with... certain people... makes it worse. There is a greater purpose at work here, a rhyme that makes reason. I can see it in today's actions. Johnny and Scully do not believe in senseless violence. That makes looking at the carnage a little more comforting, but at the same time I'm puzzled about why. Their motivation and their plot elude me. I don't like that at all. Before I can think anymore about the odd, unholy pairing of Johnny Valmont and Scully in this matter, I turn and notice one of the new agents half-waving at me to get my attention. I clear my throat quickly. I've got to pull together. At this point, we're still trying to figure out just how many bodies we have. The whys and whats and whos will come together later. The new guy chugs up to me, nodding seriously. "AD Skinner," he says seriously. I realize I've forgotten his name. "Yes, Agent--" I say, pausing. "Caulfield," he says, giving me a sharp nod. Agent Caulfield, FBI. The guy looks about twenty-five, very serious, very clean-cut-- too clean for this sort of work. "You were asking me if I could find anyone to identify this woman?" "Yes," I say, examining his photograph of Johnny. She looks so angry in the picture. I don't know why, but she doesn't photograph well, either. It's strange but true. "Did you find anything?" "I met a few people who said they saw her talking to our lady assassin by a black sedan before the entire explosion. Of course, they couldn't give me a damn detail about her except she had red hair and was a real 'motherfucking badass' type. I think they were referring to the leather. They couldn't give me any worthwhile description," Caulfield says. "She was most likely here." "That's good to hear," I say. So Johnny was here, probably watching and sneering from a black sedan. Scully is probably out of the country by now. They're probably both out of the country by now. Shit. "Sir, who is she?" Caulfield asks. He looks very serious and I suddenly realize that I shouldn't be here. I have a personal conflict with this case. But I'm here now. I'll just have to do my best. "I'm not at liberty to--" and then I stop. A white limousine has stopped right near the crime tape and Dana Scully is standing there, defiant, in an outfit that is carefully different from the woman in the black catsuit. She's looking at me quietly, waiting for me. "Sir?" I am getting too old for this. I'm getting cynical, too. But I still run dutifully over to the agent, thinking. The idea that Johnny-- and Scully-- pulled this off and then ran like frightened children sits wrong with me. It doesn't sound like them. I don't know. All that I know is that I'm stuck in the middle of this case, the law on the left, my personal life on the right. "Sir, do you see that redheaded woman over there?" he asks insistently. "Could that be our assassin?" "No," I say quickly. "She's former FBI. The car must belong to her employer. Excuse me, I need to go speak to her." I walk over, slowly but steady, when I notice that Johnny is sitting in the limousine, slumped oddly. I suppose she's tired. I'm tired after an entire day of the runaround. "Scully, what the hell is going on here? What-- what the hell did you two do? Why?" "Look, Skinner," she says in a voice that's dripping with control and exhaustion. "I think you're making a dangerous assumption. It's been a long day." "A hundred and fifty people are dead, and Mulder--" "Mulder's been dead for six months," she tells me coldly. "Whatever you think is wrong, Skinner." "So why don't you explain it to me?" "Not today," she says. "I-- we're going to celebrate. And she's not really well. I think the excitement got to her." "That's not acceptable, Scully." "It'll have to be, sir. Unless you're going to arrest me for something right now," she says, putting her hands on her hips. I stare at her. "Scully--" "Well?" she asks. I realize I have no power over her whatsoever. She's going to walk away clean. Maybe she is clean, but I doubt it. Justice is not being served today. "Be available for questioning," I tell her. "Yeah," she says, getting back into the car and shutting the door. Then she's gone for good. I watch the car drive away into the sunset, my mouth open. Johnny will be fine, I'm sure, as she trundles away triumphantly after saving the world and getting the girl she was never supposed to get. Scully shouldn't be with her, but she is. And they're going out to celebrate. I don't understand it. I don't understand anything. Danielle is waiting at home. I should go, let people who are younger and less ambivalent than me take care of this. I need to sit down and think about things. Yeah. I should go home. I don't know what else to do. "Sir?" Caulfield asked. "Are you all right?" "I'm not feeling well," I say. It's not a lie, just an exaggeration. "I think that I'm going to pack it in, put some new people on the job here. Why don't you go see if you can get more information about the woman in the photograph and our assassin?" "Yes, sir," he says. Thank God some people in this world still have a sense of duty. He leaves me alone and as I walk towards the makeshift FBI command post in the slowly fading afternoon, I realize the world feels older than it ever has before. I don't know why I came here at all. Or maybe that's just me. I wonder what it is I should do, but really-- I don't understand anything anymore. And that's all there is to say. Scully: The limousine moves away so slowly. I shouldn't have been so pushy with the driver, but I realized fairly soon after I reached the black sedan and Johnny wasn't there that the police would be looking for this car. I've picked up a habit of being inventive in crisis and that includes what I'm doing with Johnny right now. It all makes sense now, in a strange, twisted way I never would have thought of at the beginning. I meant to destroy Johnny and I did. Strangely enough, that doesn't do anything for me now. Instead of feeling pleased, I don't feel anything. Maybe it's because she's dead. That's probably it. My God, she's dead. Spender put a bullet through her. And I waved him off and plopped the body into the limousine. We've been sitting here for so long, because I didn't know what to do. I still don't know what to do, but I can't have the cops poking their noses in here. Damn, it was close. The entire thing was too close for comfort and it was all her motherfucking fault. I look at her, slumped against the side of the car. Poor Johnny. If only she'd had a little trust in me. I check to see if the limo driver's panel is up. It is. I turn back to the body of my lover and pat it on the cheek. "I have some things to tell you, Johnny," I say lightly. "Are you listening?" She doesn't answer. Corpses rarely do. "You brought me here. It was all your fault. You drove me to this point in time where I could choose with no obligation to anyone what I wanted to do next," I tell her. I pause for a moment. "Thank you." I turn my head and look out the window. This is so strange. I still don't know where we're going, either. I gave up my apartment in Georgetown months ago. Mulder's place has long since been rented out. I twist my hands together. I don't have anywhere to go in Washington anymore. "You were right, you know," I say calmly. "You were right in your way about so many things. Of course, you were also wrong, but for now, you were right. It wasn't him, Johnny. He didn't recognize me. Whoever he was or believed he was, that wasn't Mulder." I suddenly realize if I stopped the car, got out, and walked away, no one would follow me. I can do whatever I want now. Mulder is dead. Even his ghost doesn't haunt me anymore. Johnny is dead and she's too generous somehow to haunt me. As for anyone else, their interest in me is pale compared to Johnny and Mulder. I'm free. I am absolutely at leisure to be anyone, to do anything, and I suddenly realize it scares me to death. What am I going to do? Johnny slumps further down. The blood is starting to settle in her body. I shouldn't have moved the body, but I did. She wouldn't have wanted to be one of the dead rioters. She wouldn't have wanted to be dead. Johnny wanted to live forever. My hands stop moving. A terrible, cruel idea has sneaked into my brain and I don't know if I'm strong enough to stop it. "Have you ever considered retiring, Johnny?" I ask her. "Guiding a successor into your role in the consortium?" The silence is deafening. But I can't get the idea out of my head. Like I told Johnny, the truth is my life, as much as it ever was hers or Mulder's. This is my life. This is my quest. And finally, I could be the one making order. I could change the world. "I have an idea, Johnny," I tell her. She stays quiet. "You're going to retire. I've heard you talk about it before. This burnt you out. It's a pity. You weren't even thirty yet." The window is still up. I don't really have to talk to Johnny at all. But I choose to. In some morbid way, I want to get her blessing. She never reached thirty. God, I think suddenly, feeling sick and sad. All of that living and she was still so young. "It'll be just like the Mafia," I tell her. "You're still going to rule the world. I'll just be a puppet, someone you maneuver around with invisible strings, implementing your policies, doing the dirty work day-to-day and you'll just stay in seclusion." The idea makes so much perverse sense. I'm nobody, literally nobody, to these people. But Johnny, especially after the success of today, is the stuff of legend. I look down at the body and giggle hysterically. My God, I'm going to do this. I'm really going to do this. "It's going to be amazing," I marvel to her. "Your name is going to make it into the history books and I'll be a smudge, the way it was with Mulder, the way it's always been. And it'll be a myth, every last bit of it." There are only three people on earth who realize she's dead. Me, the driver, and Jeff Spender. Spender's not a problem-- he'll run until the end of the world. I'm not worried about him. The driver is less trustworthy. He's just a rental. But he has to know I'm riding around DC with a corpse I need to get rid of. Shit. But I can't let the little things hold me back. Either this guy will follow my instructions or I'll leave two bodies in this limo in a second. He doesn't have to be a question mark if I don't want him to be, because I have made a choice and nothing's going to pull me away from this course. "I'm sorry I'm going to have to make you the worst person in history, Johnny," I apologize to her as we turn another corner. "But that's my real revenge on you. Everything else didn't work, somehow or another. But when I'm exposing the truth and changing everything, it's your name that's going to get dirty. You can appreciate that, can't you?" Her head slumps further away from me. The silence of the dead speaks more than the words of living. I can't get away from her silence the way I could from her words. But I know, somehow, that she would approve. Yes, what I'm doing is macabre and disgusting but I'm not doing it for me. There's something larger that's going on, something that doesn't appreciate subtlety and compassion. I'm doing what I have to do. "It's going to be some interesting times ahead. You and I make a good team," I say, twisting my mouth into a grin. "Maybe the best team. And I'm sorry about your mother." And I'm sorry, I think but don't say, about you. We drive down another long street and I realize I am sorry, I really am. But there's not enough time for sympathy. I think about that, time and sympathy and death and tomorrow as the sun sets on this world, the last time on the world I used to know. Something new is coming, for me, for everyone. I can almost hear it in the growl of the engine. I look at Johnny's body, watching its stillness as it lies against the side of the car, the stiffness sneaking through her body as light slips away from us. I watch her. In her strange, unearthly silence, it suddenly all makes sense. And I hear her, almost, whispering the words to me as I prepare for the rest of my life, alone in a new world: "From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, we thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be--" The sun sets. I realize that nothing is certain. I could wake up tomorrow and the world could be over. This is still what we do, because it's the thing I've chosen to do. We keep driving. We don't stop. We just follow the road and be damned to everything else. I still belong to myself until morning. And then-- I refuse to think about it. I still belong to myself until morning. THE END AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey. So this is me, finishing this universe. I didn't exactly mean for it to go four novellas long. It wasn't even supposed to go two long. But Johnny-- well, the girl doesn't like to die. Besides, she's had a strong grip on my imagination, being crazed and interesting and all. I suppose before I bore you any further, I should add in the credits for the story. Songs used quite without permission: David Bowie, "Scary Monsters (and Supercreeps)" and "The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell"; Placebo, "Bruise Pristine", "Nancy Boy" and "Slackerbitch"; Real Life, "Send Me An Angel"; Nirvana, "Lithium"; Portishead, "Sour Times"; Nina Simone's "Love Me or Leave Me" and a few other lines from songs like "Stuck in the Middle With You" and "Living On The Edge." I can't even remember half the movies I referenced, but I do recall Jerry Maguire, The Matrix, The Thomas Crowne Affair, The Addams Family, The Man Who Fell To Earth, South Park: Bigger Longer and Uncut, 12 Monkeys, Pulp Fiction, and Blue Velvet. There were two minor crossover cameos with Law and Order and my alt-u non-canon Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover. As for literature, I know that Swinburne, Emily Dickinson, Raymond Chandler, and Maria Irene Fornes all got a mention. Now, on to people. The illustrious and divine Laura Sorenson gets ultimate praise, not only for doing such a fine job beta reading for me, but for allowing me to borrow from her brilliant, wonderful Mercy Universe and for writing Dynamic Tension, which was the spark that got Tenebrae off the ground. Laura, dear, you rock. Reade and Rachel, my other beta readers. Darlings. I appreciate most gratefully the fine work and support you've given me. Shannon, Charissa, all the girls in the chatroom-- thank you. I would like to thank the people who nagged for Scully revenge throughout the series. In particular, I recall Dasha begging back last year. Here you go, folks. Revenge-y enough for you? Lastly, if you're still reading my Academy-worthy speech here, thank you for reading. Now send me feedback. You know the address and it ain't CBS.