From: Dragan Antulov Date: Tue, 14 Sep 1999 10:45:49 +0200 Subject: NEW: We'll Always Have Berlin (1/2) by Dragan Antulov TITLE: We'll Always Have Berlin AUTHOR: Dragan Antulov E-MAIL: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr CATEGORY: TA KEYWORDS: Pre-XF RATING: R (language, disturbing images, adult themes and situations) SPOILERS: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man; Tunguska/Terma SUMMARY: Berlin 1950. In a city divided by Cold War, young CSM has a small errand to do for his new boss, William Mulder. ARCHIVE: yes to Gossamer; to others with previous notification DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on characters created by Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions. The characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Special thanks to Haphazard Method for the beta-editing and many useful suggestions. INTRODUCTION: For many months, I was thinking about writing the XF story set in Berlin. This was the result. Author's notes are available at the end. WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE BERLIN X-Files Fan Fiction Story by Dragan Antulov West Berlin, U.S. Sector November 1950 When I entered William Mulder's office for the very first time, I knew what was I going to find. He was exactly the type of man I had imagined him to be. Relaxed, easy going and quite handsome. Now I knew why all those typists, secretaries and other female members of personnel slashed their wrists because of him. And why all those subjects of the fairy kingdom known as British Intelligence wanted to be the liaison officers to the American Mission. His physical appearance, as well as youthful arrogance, was completely unscathed by the hardships of Depression and wartime years, suffered by most members of our generation. Which shouldn't surprise anyone who knew his parents, their wealth and political clout. William Mulder was one of those people born with a silver spoon in his mouth, destined to have a Harvard diploma the minute he uttered his first word and a commanding rank the second he entered this organization. Of course, the opportunity to become Mrs. William Mulder with all the benefits and privileges of such a position was additional reason for many women to cast their nets towards such delectable prey. I didn't blame them, at least not those who were forced to live in this impoverished, bombed out, divided and besieged city without hope. Nor did I blame Mulder for exploiting such opportunities. Toward his subordinates, at least those of his own sex, he radiated the same aura of youthful carelessness, only without the same intense seductiveness. I hated it, as much as I hated men like him - young, rich and privileged brats who were handed their commanding positions on a silver platter and tried to earn the respect of their less fortunate subordinates by pretending, always unsuccessfully, to be "ordinary people". When I entered his office, I saluted and reported to duty, trying to sound as official and emotionless as possible. "Don't bother with formalities. I already know a lot about you." As I had expected, he tried to break the ice. "This is your first assignment in Berlin, isn't it?" "No, sir. As you can see in my file, I was stationed here before." Mulder smiled. "Yes. How could I forget? That stunt you pulled during Pottsdam Conference was legendary. Taking a sample of Stalin's stool, completely undetected..." I remained emotionless. He was sloppy with my file. If he had paid attention, he would see that I, like many others, had underestimated Stalin's paranoia. My plan to collect verifiable data about rumored deterioration of Soviet leader's health had been doomed from the start. The old man had at his disposal a unit of men whose job it was to fill the toilet bowls with their own feces in order to deceive the enemy. And it wasn't such a hard task; being a member of Stalin's inner circle was one of the more efficient cures for constipation. "It was nothing, sir. Anybody could have done it." A little modesty wouldn't hurt, I thought. "But not everyone. You have quite an impressive record. Berlin, Vienna, Trieste, Stockholm, Helsinki, Thessaloniki, Istanbul, New Mexico, Asuncion... Paraguay? You must have liked the change, being stationed in such exotic and fascinating places." Yes, it was exotic and fascinating, if you don't count having to use a machete every time you have to go to bathroom or have to pray not to be eaten by piranhas any time you step into river. I really wanted to say that, but instead I telegraphed my routine answer. "It was job like any other, sir." "But, your jobs are never like any other. Very few people could do those things right, like you do. You show such a good combination of discipline and self-initiative in extreme situations. Very valuable characteristic these days." As he spoke, Mulder was clearly trying hard to make this meeting informal, rising from his chair and casually picking up a bag of sunflower seeds. I already knew what I faced. Some nasty, and in all likelihood, extremely dangerous task on the other side of the Curtain. And the way this green bureaucrat was trying to cheer me up caused quite the opposite effect. I didn't know what I had to do yet, but I already hated the job. "You see, I'm relatively new in Berlin." Mulder began pacing, and made a point of stopping for a long contemplative look through the window, an empty pose I knew was supposed to impress me. "Only been here a couple of months. I'm still learning the ropes. So, I would like the opportunity to get to know all my personnel. See their styles of work and the way the things get done down here. One of the ways to do it is to assign a series of small, routine tasks." Wonderful. Just wonderful. I winced, remembering the way such experiments usually ended in real life. Young, fresh, rich, college-educated superiors with their ambitious grand schemes, always ending with disasters, with their subordinates getting hurt in the process. "I chose a rather simple one for you." He opened the bottle of cognac. "One I think you can finish blindfolded." A vision swam in my head at his words, me, facing bloodstained wall, blindfolded, with someone pointing a Tokarev pistol at the back of my head. William Mulder really knew how to cheer up his subordinates. Not seeing or ignoring my suddenly pale face, Mulder opened his drawer and gave me a note. "Memorize the addresses on this note. This afternoon, at 2 P.M., you are to drive to the first one and pick up a young woman. You'll easily recognize her - she will be wearing a white coat, purple hat and have this morning's edition of Tageszeitung in her left hand. You are to drive her to the second address listed. You will escort her to the entrance and wait outside. When she comes out, you are to drive her back to the previous address. Do you have any questions?" "No." I lied, of course. The second address was in Pankow, in a neighborhood full of houses and apartments belonging to the highest ranking officials of the German Democratic Republic. The other side of the Curtain. A simple, routine task. Routine only for inexperienced and arrogant brats like Mulder. Thousands of things could go wrong on such "routine" jobs, but someone obviously failed to mention that to my new boss. Mulder poured himself a cognac. He failed to offer me a glass. Like he had read my mind, he explained his bad manners. "I would like to make a toast to the success of your mission. I always do, for luck, and it has never failed before. But I don't think it would be a good idea for you to drink now. Instead, I'll save a bottle of champagne for you afterwards. What do you think?" I just nodded. "I have some additional, brief, but important instructions for you. You are not allowed to speak to this girl. Not a word. Do you understand? And she is not allowed to speak to you either. If anyone asks any questions, invent some convenient story. Like... She is your cousin who is recovering from the shellshock she received during the bombing of Dresden... Or something like that. The details are your concern. I know that you are good at this kind of thing." Mulder's words finally had some connection with reality. * I drove the Volkswagen towards my destination, using the several hours to develop my false identity to the last detail. Usually, it was the least of my concerns during such missions. He was right about that, at least. I was always good at those details. I developed the talent for inventing identities long time ago, in that dreadful orphanage. Pretending to be someone else, I could escape, at least in my own imagination, the daily routine abuse that always awaited that little Commie bastard. And, after a while, that talent came handy when I finally decided to leave that dreary place and find sanctuary in the nearest recruitment office. At the time, draft authorities were hungry for new cannon fodder and didn't bother to check whether the volunteer presented the real name or not, or whether he was underage or not. The Army was hard, in some ways even harder than the orphanage, but at least the hardships had a purpose, and for the first time, I had real friends. All of them lost a few months later, when my platoon stood in the way of a Panzer batallion counter-attacking the Allied bridgehead at Anzio. In just a few short minutes, all of them were gone, some having run, some having been caught by Tigers and 88s. I was the only one left, shellshocked beyond measure. I wandered among the dead bodies of my friends, unable to speak, unable to think, slowly stripping off my clothes to cover them, finally dropping my dog tags beside Andrew, or what was left of him. I wandered aimlessly until finally I found myself crouched in a ball, shivering in the sun, for I don't know how long. It was voices that shattered my fugue, and looking up, I realized the Germans would soon discover that there was one survivor. I scrambled for cover, for clothes, grabbing the closest ones I could find. My lieutenant. Without even thinking, I slipped his dog tags over my head, afraid to be found out in that no-man's-land with no identity. By the time I considered the repercussions of that simple, frightened act, it was too late. I ended up in a POW camp populated almost exclusively by British and other Commonwealth forces. As I had imagined, officers were privileged among the prisoners, and my new identity bought my entry into that select group. I should have said something, but I didn't. Sometimes silence is the best way to stay out of trouble. Sometimes. But I also grew to enjoy my new rank. For the first time, I was respected by other people. Not only by other enlisted men but by the rest of the officers, too. After some initial suspicion, they accepted my charade and even allowed me to join their little exclusive "Prison Committee." They discovered I had a talent for subterfuge (had they but known!) and I helped plan our great escape, complete with civilian clothes, forged documents, money and designated routes towards the Swiss border. I never had a chance to find out whether our plan was foolproof, as Prison Committee had claimed, or suicide, as I had suspected. It was prevented by the squadron of RAF bombers that mistook our camp for a nearby armaments factory. In the chaos and confusion of that night that claimed dozens of lives, I made my way through the wire and disappeared in the woods. For the next few weeks, I travelled using isolated country roads, avoiding patrols and sleeping under the open sky at night, sometimes pretending to be deaf and dumb when I encountered civilians. My luck served me well. I reached the Swiss border and headed for France, avoiding Swiss authorities who might feel compelled to imprison me again. By the time I reached the French border, the Allies had broken out of the Normandy beach-head and chased the Germans from most of France. As soon as I could, I contacted the American military in Pontarlier. Being a good soldier, I gave them a detailed and truthful account of my ordeal as a prisoner. Of course, they didn't believe me. A decomposed body, my body supposedly, had been found in one of the bayous near Baton Rouge. I had been listed as KIA at Anzio, and the Red Cross had informed US authorities of the Lieutenant's death in the camp. Instead of a hero's welcome, I was facing a court martial, perhaps even the firing squad under the charge of being German spy. But soon I was visited by some of the officers belonging to Army Intelligence and some new, mysterious organization called OSS. Instead of throwing me into the stockade, they sent me to a secret camp in England, where I went through a crash course in intelligence - martial arts, forging signatures, radiotelegraphy, vanishing ink and stuff like that. After a few weeks, I was parachuted into Switzerland to meet a new contact. At the drop site I was met by half a dozen SS soldiers and soon I found myself in the basement of a Gestapo headquarters. After a day or two, they began interrogating me about my mission and contact, using their fists and belts to make their point. Soon enough, I knew I would tell them everything, whether I wanted to or not. So instead, I made up information for them, a wrong name and a whole detailed story involving the wrong contact and the wrong mission. Pointless, maybe, but I hoped it would buy me some time while they checked it out. My tormentors left the torture chamber after a while. To my surprise my supervisor from OSS was the next person to walk through the door. The whole mission had been nothing more than a test, conducted in French chateau near the Swiss border, with OSS personnel in German uniforms. They had wanted to know whether I was genuine or not, then how I would I fare in extreme situations. It turned out that I passed the test with flying colors. And, furthermore, being able to invent new, yet convincing identities, and having none of my own, I became a very valuable asset to my service. That became obvious during my first real field mission, conducted in Switzerland. By officially being nobody, I was able to do things that someone with an official background could not. This time I met real SS officers, this time in civilian clothes and on much friendlier terms than I had imagined only a few months before. They gave me bags full of secret documents and some packages. What all those documents and packages contained I didn't know, at least not at the time. But that was the first time I heard the phrase "plausible deniability" - the phrase that would become the motto of my career. Unfortunately, even after so many years, some of my superiors still had to learn the proper meaning of that phrase. I was reminded of that the when I finally reached my destination, and saw Mulder's woman. She looked just as Mulder had described her - young, white hat, purple hat and the Tageszeitung newspaper in her left hand. But Mulder failed to mention something else. She wasn't just young, she was attractive and heavily made-up to flaunt that attractiveness, hardly a way to avoid attention of men who weren't interested only in her looks. I became even more aware of her attractiveness close-up, when she sat in the passenger seat. As Mulder had warned me, she didn't say a word. Instead, she told the entire story with the frightened look on her face. Young, very young and beautiful. Most probably travelling on the other side of Curtain for the first time. I would have bet that she hadn't even been properly trained for this sort of job. Even such an utterly inexperienced intelligence officer like Mulder should have known this. And probably that didn't bother him. Clearly, the only quality Mulder wanted in this agent was her physical beauty. And the real purpose of this mission wasn't simple training - it was one big display of Mulder's wealth and charm. But directed to whom? His subordinates? British and French colleagues? Or even his Soviet counterpart? In all likelihood, it was the latter. Mulder had probably used to play such games with his Ivy League friends. But this time, his play and his bravado had something more valuable at stake than someone's reputation. Having one frightened and nervous agent on the job was bad enough, so I decided not to think about possibilities and instead to concentrate on the drive. We crossed to East Berlin using the checkpoint in French sector. It was as porous and dangerous as any other checkpoint at the time. The forged papers and our identities served their purpose splendidly - Soviet soldiers and East German policemen seemed to buy my cover of a small-time antiquities trader, based on the identity of real life black marketeer, who used to earn his living doing small favors for both sides. They also seemed not to pay much attention to my "niece", although I noticed some revealing body language in some of the younger Soviet soldiers. The first part of the job was done. We passed into East Berlin. But that was never the problem. The real trick was to come back in one piece. Continued in Part 2 From dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr Wed Sep 15 16:39:11 1999 Date: Tue, 14 Sep 1999 10:48:09 +0200 From: Dragan Antulov Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: We'll Always Have Berlin (2/2) by Dragan Antulov Disclaimers and other information in Part 1 * We travelled through the streets of East Berlin. On the surface, the place looked almost the same as West, but the atmosphere was different. Unlike the western half, East Berlin retained its status of nation's capital. Although the new state was just a pale shadow of past empires, they had done everything in their power to maintain the illusion of grandeur. Of course, it was a rather hard thing to do, considering their Soviet sponsors spared no effort to turn the entire city into rubble just five years ago. Nonetheless, the ugly scars of war were slowly disappearing, although somewhat slower than in the Western half under the Marshall Plan. However, despite their best efforts, East Berlin authorities couldn't take care of everything. My car hit a rather nasty bump on the road. "Damn," my passenger whispered. I pretended not to hear, but I now understood more of my mission. I wouldn't have survived this long without an eye and ear for small details. Like traces of a Texan accent. Looking quickly at her to confirm my suspicions, I noted her facial features, and even the way she moved her hands. Familiar, now that I was looking for it. General Fitzgibbons. Even the shadowy world I inhabited at the time had its dark, secret legends and memorable personalities. And he was one of them, in large part because of his immense power within the inner circle of the Project, making his presence among us out in the field remarkable. Someone so powerful that he dared to bring his own family with him to Berlin, unlike all the other, more cautious members of the top brass, concerned for their safety, and so vulnerable to any trigger-happy idiot who decided to take the Cold War too seriously. Fitzgibbons evaded that danger but bringing his family to Berlin proved to be a mistake. The real danger had been closer than encircling Soviet armored divisions. His daughter, fifteen or seventeen years old, had somehow crossed paths with young William Mulder. I had heard rumors that she had been seeing someone and that there was trouble. But I didn't know who. And I certainly didn't know that the trouble was going to end up mine, that I was going to have to deal with the consequences. Without letting Old Fitz know. My guess was that we were headed to a doctor's office, a discreet, helpful office used to these... consequences. I wondered how Mulder had heard of a doctor who would perform the illegal service. Blackmail, no doubt. Maybe he had learned something about the families of the top members of East German Party that they didn't want known. At least he wasn't stupid enough to use a doctor in the western part of the city; they were almost all monitored or controlled by the Project. I knew I had been set up, not for the first time, but then again, I had never risked so much for something that wasn't work related, and for a woman. Which was rather ironic considering that I haven't had much time for the opposite sex myself. Of course, some time ago, I had my share of big, crazy, endless love affairs. But it had happened here, in Berlin, in the wrong place and wrong time. In a city where everything was for sale. Only here would the love of your life betray you just for a big box of chocolate. Literally. After that I didn't care any more. At the time, I used to satisfy my sexual needs with the services of certain Fraulein, discreet, moderately attractive but very professional in her work. She had learned her trade from the masters, spending war years in the famous Salon Kitty. She had been recommended to me by Schellenberg, the very man who had used to supervise the operation. I shared her bed with couple of my colleagues, but I never felt any jealousy; a visit to her apartment was as prosaic and routine as visit to a barber shop. And now I had to risk my neck because a spoiled rich kid couldn't keep his hands to himself, or at least keep things uncomplicated by hiring a professional. But, then again, I had to give some credit to William Mulder. Perhaps he didn't employ his brain when he was getting into trouble, but his way out of it was quite ingenious. The plan was daring, but in a way, failsafe. If things went as planned, everything would be O.K. If things didn't go as planned, I was the most convenient patsy. Being nobody had advantages, but that also meant that I wouldn't be sorely missed by anyone. I could already see my corpse, floating down the Spree River. Depressing thoughts didn't prevent me from doing my job. I parked the car in front of the designated address. Just as I had thought, it was a doctor's office. The girl went in, while I waited in the street, ready to run at the first sight of trouble. Of course, trouble found me first. I was always careful but I never saw him coming. He came almost out of thin air, nattily dressed in a grey coat and fedora, followed by three huge men in dark jackets. Before I could react, he took the passenger seat in Volkswagen. "You won't mind if I keep you company while you wait, pal?" He spoke German, but he emphasised the last word, pal, as if to let me know he knew of my American background. "Not at all, drug." I emphasised the last word, too. His German was good, but I still heard traces of a Russian accent. "You are one lucky bastard, pal." Russian switched to English. "Lucky to be sitting with me instead with our Stasi friends. If they knew you were here, you would be buried by now. Your bosses could invoke diplomatic immunity. Others might prove useful for prisoner exchanges. But you... No identity. No family. No friends. Nobody missed by nobody..." I weighed all my options. Escape was out of the question. Perhaps I could incapacitate their leader, but the goons would get me without a doubt. The Russian was holding all the cards. There had to be an offer or something lurking behind his theatrics. They would probably try to turn me. "True. So what is this all about? Why are we sitting in this car? Why all the chit-chat?" "Something like that. Don't worry. It has nothing to do with your precious Project." Bluffing or not, Russian was not bad. I wasn't surprised he knew about the Project; the brass had suspected a major leak a long time ago. In any case, I didn't react, not wanting to leave any reason for the Russian to feel superior in this conversation. "The reason why we are talking is motivated by my civic duty. I feel obligated to warn you about the declining levels of health care in this part of town." Son of a bitch. This mission was blown. I had visions of Fitzgibbons and Mulder booted out of Project, and myself rotting at the bottom of Spree. "You see, pal, Doctor Brenck has developed a certain nasty habit through the years, common to members of his profession. A nasty habit of self-prescribing. And we know how vulnerable people with such bad habits become. Vulnerable and indiscreet..." "And why are you telling me this, drug? I am getting the impression that maybe you think there is something I could do about it." "Actually, I do." He couldn't be serious. Berlin was a city where anything could have happen, but even my overactive imagination couldn't figure out what could be done here to salvage this. "I would like you to accept my friendship. And if you ask why, the answer is rather simple. When you have friends in the right places, friends willing to give you a hand, no matter what, anything is possible. And both of us know that people like us - who must work their way from the bottom - need any help they can find. Any help." I studied his face for a moment. The Russian was young, perhaps even younger than me, yet he looked adult and experienced. Perhaps too experienced, like me. I began to fill in his missing backstory in my head. Probably orphaned by the war and forced to join Red Army and Partisans to survive, like countless millions in his devastated homeland. It didn't matter, though I knew somehow that I had more in common with him than I ever would with Mulder. And his words made sense. "Any help? At any place? At any time?" I offered him a hand. "Any help. At any place and any time." He shook mine. He got out of the car. One of his goons passed him a bag. He offered it to me. "In normal circumstances, we would finish this deal with some vodka. But, instead, I decided to give you some fruit. I suppose your lady companion wouldn't mind an apple." I took it, and the Russian and his men disappeared. Without the bag of fruit, this whole conversation could have easily been a hallucination. But soon my senses returned to normal. I knew what to do. Simply wait in the car for young Miss Fitzgibbons to return from her operation and later pay her doctor a little visit. * A few hours later, while I was waiting in front of Mulder's office, I heard a woman's giggling inside. Mulder had already heard about the success of his little stunt and he didn't waste time beginning the celebration. I knocked on the door and entered, passing a female staffer on her way out. Mulder was sitting by the window, relaxed, eating his sunflower seeds and finishing a glass of cognac, obviously in a good mood. Who could blame him, given the great weight that had fallen off his shoulders. I formally saluted again. "I told you before. Save formalities for the official report." He didn't look insulted with my cold demeanor. "Although I would also prefer your reports to be less formal. You write well." "Thank you, sir." Mulder opened one of his drawers and drew out a bottle of champagne. "It's yours, just as I told you. Are you ready to open it?" "No. I never drink on duty. Besides, I don't think this is appropriate, considering the latest events." Mulder looked baffled. "What do you refer to?" "I suppose that you haven't read the preliminary report. In that case, it is my sad duty to inform you that Doctor Brenck died this afternoon." "How?" Mulder looked wary, but not shocked. Perhaps he had an idea about the doctor's end. "It seems that the tasks given to him by our organization, together with the constant threat of arrest and execution, took too heavy a toll on Doctor Brenck's mental health. He developed a morphine habit over the last few years. Soon after our visit, he was found dead by the East German police. The cause of death is undetermined, but it looks like a morphine overdose." "How sad. He will be missed." Mulder didn't seem too depressed. I got the impression he knew how the good Doctor met his end. His next words confirmed my suspicion. "But you, my friend, you demonstrated admirable initiative, and keen insight for the difficult situation. You deserve more. A proper recognition. Something better than a meager bottle of champagne." This sounded promising. A better paycheck, perhaps even a promotion. I hoped to get something out of this from him. "In a couple of days, a meeting will be held in Gstaad. Top officers from various public and private organizations will attend. Those who have been excluded have a name for us, the `Consortium'. I assume you have heard about it." "Of course." I heard about it, but I knew very little. Only that they represented the most powerful men on this planet, and that was it. "Your presence there would be much appreciated." This really looked promising, almost surreal. William Mulder was inviting me to his club, the most exclusive club in the world. "I am deeply honored, sir." "Actually, someone with your talents is needed there. You have a talent for security operations, and some of the members have special... shall we say? Requirements? You would be the perfect man to deal with those requirements. Not by yourself, of course, but recruiting the help you need, choosing your own men, building our capacity." Fine. Mulder had planted my feet back on Earth. After all this, I was destined to perform yet more humiliating errands. But it didn't matter. I survived the latest test and earned their trust. And I was determined to make my way to the top. I didn't doubt it would be slow and hard, but that was the path chosen for me. "Excellent, sir." "Don't call me sir. Call me Bill." Perhaps it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. But my new friend had gotten himself and me into trouble because of a woman. Both of us survived, but I wasn't sure whether each of us would be so lucky next time. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Some historical notes regarding position of Germany and Berlin during Cold War: After WW2, Germany was divided into four occupation zones (US, British, French, Soviet). Its capital, Berlin, situated in the middle of Soviet zone, was also divided into four zones. In 1949, following the escalation of Cold War, Germany, which was supposed to unite under joint government, actually partitioned into two opposing countries - capitalist and democratic Western Germany with the temporary capital in Bonn and Soviet-dominated German Democratic Republic with the capital in East Berlin. Although being parts of two countries, and two opposing ideological blocs, two parts of Berlin had some ties until 1961, when East German government built the Berlin Wall. The story takes place in November 1950, before the foundation of Berlin Wall. "Salon Kitty" referred in this story is the name of the elite Berlin brothel, founded by RSHA, Nazi secret service, in 1939. The personnel consisted of specially trained female agents and all the rooms in the brothel were wired. Patrons, members of Berlin diplomatic corps and Nazi elite, provided RSHA chief Reynhardt Heydrich with many valuable intelligence information. Salon Kitty was the subject of the novel by Peter Norden and 1976 Italian film by Tinto Brass. "Schellenberg" mentioned in the story is Walter Schellenberg (1906-1952), real-life person that often appears in fictional accounts dealing with the last days of the Third Reich. Schellenberg was one of the officials of Nazi intelligence, who quickly rose to the top, working on the many covert projects like Salon Kitty and, later, development of new technologies. After the war and after serving short prison sentence for war crimes, he wrote personal memoirs. Those who read the book, would find plenty of stories and anecdotes about covert operations, assassinations, intrigues, betrayal, double agents and secret weapons and technologies - many details that make it very familiar to the XF mytharc, and even some striking similarities to CSM's biography (literary ambitions being one of them). Visit my XF Fan Fiction page at http://www.purger.com/drax/draxsfan.htm -- Dragan Antulov a.k.a. Drax Fido: 2:381/100 E-mail: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr E-mail: dragan.antulov@altbbs.fido.hr E-mail: drax@purger.com