The Cycle of Axer Carrick
                    Part I -- When The Veil Is Lifted
                           The Revised Version

                by Henry Wyckoff (wyckoff@Boris.infomagic.com)
                          Written December 1995

A crossover fanfic between Highlander, Forever Knight, and the
X-Files.  Other minor crossovers include Kung Fu: The Legend
Continues, Sharpe's Rifles, and a poem by Rudyard Kipling.

Also, I have incorporated a lot of my original ideas and
interpretations.

                                 Abstract

The Cycle of Axer Carrick is a story about a character of my own
creation, Axer Carrick, who is a Highlander-style immortal.  He
surfaces from obscurity in a Toronto bar, and the events that
force him to surface will shake the foundations of the world.

Part I:   When the Veil is Lifted
Part II:  The Duplicity
Part III: Frostmelt
Part IV:  Reading the Endtrails
Part V:   Riding the Wave
Part VI:  Cats Eyes




               Chapter 1

"Give me another double shot of Glenmorangie on the rocks!"
slurred the scruffy man, smiling at the bartender as he held out
another twenty.  "Add an imperial pint of Guinness to it while
you're at it."

The bartender shook his head sadly as he reached for the scotch. 
The guy was a perfect regular.  He was quiet, polite, made no
trouble, and came here to drink.  However, he wasn't what you
would call a good drinker -- he was a hell of a drinker.  In the
space of two hours, he had consumed seven double shots of
straight Glenmorangie, two imperial pints of Guinness, and a
pitcher of Guinness.  That was a hell of a lot to drink, and
mildly-slurred speech was the only thing he had to show for his
trouble.  He could even walk in a straight line to the bathroom. 

The bartender handed over the shot and pint, "I've served you
drinks for the last few weeks, but I never got your name." 

The man looked a bit shocked.  "I think you're right," he held 
out his hand, "Axer Carrick, at your service." 

"I'm John," the bartender shook his hand.  It wasn't shaky at all
-- firm as a vice grip, but not painful.  "You also didn't tell
me what you do."

"I'm in between jobs right now, but I used to be a
master-of-all-trades at Hanford."

"I don't know what you mean."  His right eyebrow raised a
fraction.

Axer chuckled to himself, "It's an old joke.  When I was going to
the university, one of my teachers told me, 'You know the saying,
"Master-of-all-trades and expert-of-none?"'  I told him I did,
and he finished by telling me, 'If you want to be employed in
this world, you have to turn it around and be a
master-of-all-trades and an expert-of-one.'  It's stayed with me
all my life.

"But to answer your question, I was a mathematician, chemist,
physicist, writer, and general lunatic.  I worked on a lot of the
fundamentals that nobody else wanted to touch, because they
wanted to explore the cutting edge of science."  He chuckled,
"I've seen so many of those men collapse in tears because they
never paid attention to the fundamentals."

"Hmm," was all the bartender could say.  How could you have a
conversation with one of these kinds of scientists?  He did his
best, anyway, and asked what Hanford was to begin with.  John was
mildly surprised that Axer could speak English instead of
Gobbledegook, and found his stories to be mildly entertaining.

          *              *              *

A motorcycle pulled up to Tam O'Shanty's Bar and Grill and
parked.  It had a single rider, a young man with a weather-beaten
face that was revealed when he removed his helmet.  He peeked
inside the window and saw that the bar was going pretty slow. 
That was good.  He didn't like crowded places.  

          *              *              *

John nearly forgot about the other customers as Axer told him
about the buried stainless steel tanks leaking tritium and carbon
tet into the soil and groundwater.  Axer, however, had enough
peripheral vision to see the disturbance just about to take
place.

Some guy was arguing with his girlfriend, who looked like a
street walker.   He was bitching about her seeing other men --
hah! -- with the way she looked, Axer thought it would be a
requirement.  He was about to continue with his tale when he saw
the guy hit his girlfriend.  She was hit so hard that she didn't
even scream.  She flopped on the floor like a sack of potatoes,
but wasn't quite knocked out yet. 

Before the guy could do anything else, he felt a hard hand on his
shoulder.  "I think you'd better leave," said the drunk in a very
slurred voice. 

"And I think you should mind your own business!"  He held a
boxer's stance -- all jumpy and ready to fight.  His fists were
clenched and his face full of a sober kind of hate.

"Or what?"  The drunk stood relaxed as if he were discussing the
weather.  His lopsided smile made him look as if he were holding
back a joke.

The guy threw a punch at Axer, and though he never seemed to
move, it didn't land on him.  He tried again and again, but each
time, he seemed to miss. It must have gone on like this for a few
more moments before the bouncer arrived and gave the belligerent
man the Vulcan death grip and showed him his pretty baseball bat.

The bouncer must have been a Sicilian named Bruno.  He wasn't too
tall or buff, but had a look about him that screamed: THIS MAN
WILL STOMP YOU INTO CORNMEAL MUSH WITHOUT BLINKING -- or at least
that's what Axer thought.  The belligerent man suddenly became
much less so. 

"What seems to be the trouble here?" asked Bruno.

"Look, I was just having an argument with my girlfriend and this
guy tried to tell me how to run my life."

"Sir?" interrupted Axer, "this man was attempting to punch his
girlfriend's head into grape juice.  I delayed him until help
could come.  As you could most likely see, his arguments had
nothing to do with talking."

Bruno nodded, "I saw it," and looked at the man, "You have to
leave.  Now."  The belligerent man was about to say something,
but changed his mind and left in a huff.  He looked at Axer, "You
were good.  Did you serve?"

"In my time.  Why?  Are you hiring?"

"I might.  Come by tomorrow and we'll talk."

               *              *              *

Axer left the bar, weaving a little bit.  It was a good thing
that he didn't drive, or he'd be in trouble.  He reached into his
trenchcoat pocket and pulled out a box of Shermans cigaretellos.
Just as he lit one, he was hit from behind and hit the ground
very hard. 

He turned over and saw the same belligerent guy with an iron pipe
in his hand.  "You're going to die now.  You should have left
well enough alone." 

Axer stood up with some difficulty.  He was so drunk that he
didn't even know where he'd been hit.  "No.  Somehow I don't
think so."  He stood back a step and spread his arms a little
bit.  "You want to try?  Take your shot." Just like in the bar,
he didn't show any fear or excitement.

The belligerent man took a swing, but if he expected Axer to be
on the defensive, he was wrong. Just as the pipe hit full
velocity, Axer moved in close to the man, simultaneously elbowing
him in the chin and moving the attacking arm further in the
direction it was already going.  The end result was that the bar
flew off into some dark corner and the man hit the wall. 

"Care for a fair fight?" asked Axer as the man instantly
recovered.  Axer reassessed the situation and wondered if this
were some kind of setup.  For all the man's mistakes, he had the
marks of a pro -- at least a budding one. 

The man threw a punch at him, but was met by a solid open-hand
thrust to the throat that nearly crushed his throat and slammed
his body into the wall once more.  He slowly slid down the wall,
his body both limp and tense.

The fight was over, and Axer suddenly felt the world spin.  He
collapsed to the ground and started vomiting.  It was the scotch
taking him down the low road.  He stood up after a moment, and
instantly felt as if his muscles were shredded and he had
swallowed a beaker of acid.  He had been able to fight a moment
ago, but now he was less able to fight.  If this was a setup, it
was a subtle one, he realized, and he expected the next stage of
the trap to start now.  And it did.  He felt a very weak "buzz"
approach from one of the fire escapes of the alley.  He looked up
and saw someone dressed like an FBI agent with a handgun in his
left hand and a sword in his right.

He jumped down from the fire escape -- maybe some twenty feet up
-- and landed on his feet. The gun instantly aimed at Axer, and
he was smart enough not to try anything funny. 

"You've done very well, whoever you are," said the man in a
conversational tone.  "The first two didn't even make it out of
the bar.  Before I dispatch you, I want to know your name."

"Axer Carrick.  You have manners at least for a recent immortal. 
May I have your name?"

"Patrick Morgan."  For some reason, it didn't seem to ring true. 
There was a fraction of a second of hesitation.  Perhaps it was
his new alias, and he wasn't used to using it.  Aliases took a
while to fit snugly.  

Morgan fired the pistol, and it hit his heart right in the
center.  Another shot followed it.  Axer immediately hit the
ground, but he wasn't quite dead.  In the movies, people die
almost instantly; in real-life, death usually takes a few
minutes.  This was why Axer was able to reach into his coat and
throw a square shuriken at him.

Shuriken can be sharpened, but it is best to leave them blunt and
rusty.  Even non-immortals can pull out objects that stick in
them and throw them back at the thrower -- blunt shuriken do
their damage and fly off to some dark corner.  It certainly did
its damage on Morgan -- it hit him in the left eye and splattered
it on his face.  The shuriken then disappeared, clanking once.  

He screamed in agony, but to his credit didn't faint from the
pain.  All he did was drop his sword and gun and fall to his
knees, covering his left eye with both of his hands. 

There was the sound of sirens, and colored lights lit up the
alleyway.  Morgan grabbed his weapons and said in guttural tones,
"I'll come back for you later!"  He ran off, leaving Axer to die.

His body had become limp and his eyes stared at the sky, becoming
more and more blind by the moment though his eyelids were open. 
Sleep came, and a blackness without dreams.

          *              *              *

It was a slow night for both Dr. Natalie Lambert and Detective
Nick Knight.  They had finished their respective cases early, and
were enjoying a little bit of relaxation.  Nat drank some coffee
while Nick played with a rubix cube that had not yet been solved.

"Where's Schanke?" asked Nat, stretching out her legs as she
leaned back in the swivel chair.

"He's out at Greasy Tony's," he shuddered.  "I can understand how
anyone can like meat, but a place that *advertises* greasy meat
is just too much."

Nat shuddered as well.  She often saw the effects of fatty diets
on even young men and women, thinking that they were luckier to be
killed by some murder or accident, rather than from the effects
of their diet.

"Is something on your mind, Nick?" Nat asked suddenly.  "You seem
preoccupied."  More than usual, she didn't say aloud.

"It's a case I heard about from Chinatown.  There were some
beheadings that took place a little while ago.  I've just been
puzzling over it."

"That case?  What's so puzzling about it?  We know what they died
from."

Nick chuckled, "It's just that Interpol, the FBI, and the CIA
were involved on this one, and they tried to keep it quiet.  It's
solved, but I was just speculating on what it could have been. 
What would make an international agency so quiet about something
that should have been posted all over the papers?"

"Perhaps they were vampires?"

Nick shook his head. "Decapitation will kill us, but there won't
be much left to identify.  No, I think there was some reason that
has more to do with some Byzantine political game."

"Amazing..." Nat muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"You're the only one I know who can play with more than one
puzzle at a time.  A rubix cube and a bizarre case."

Nick threw a q-tip at her.

Just as Nat laughed and tried to dodge it, the morgue doors
opened, and a body bag on a cart was pushed in.  "Dr. Lambert,"
said the cart pusher, a young Hispanic man with a faint moustache
and a thick Mexican accent, "I was told to give you this by the
officer."  He handed her a manila folder.

"Thank you, Diego," she said, taking the folder.  It was simply a
statement that this was a murder case and that it would be
greatly appreciated it if a series of questions could be answered
by means of an autopsy.  She looked at Nick.  "It looks like my
day begins.  A murder victim.  You might want to stay -- it might
be your case." 

He shrugged.  "Let's see him."

It was a long-haired and bearded man, but he was no bum.  He was
a well-built and well-developed man with a look of
distinguishment about him.  He wore a well-used trenchcoat, baggy
cotton pants, wrestling shoes, and a home-made plaid shirt in the
pattern of an authentic Scottish plaid.  It even looked somewhat 
familiar to Nick.  Perhaps it was a Lowland plaid.

"Who is this man?" asked Nick.

"The file says that he's Axer Carrick.  He's in between jobs and
a regular at Tam O'Shanty's Bar and Grill.  He had left after a
night of heavy drinking when he was attacked by some nameless
man.  Apparently he had stopped a woman from being beaten. 
Nobody saw the men who attacked him, but the police believe that
the man in the bar must have been involved."

"What kind of jobs does he do?"

"It says that he was a highly-respected scientist at Hanford,
Washington."  She shook her head, "I don't know if I believe
that.  He doesn't look like a scientist."

Nick laughed, "You should have met Einstein, or even Newton. 
They both had their moments!"

He was shot twice in the heart, and had lost almost out of his
blood through both the entrance and exit holes.  "It looks pretty
straight forward," said Nat.  "The questions are mostly along the
lines of: was he dead before or after he got shot, how old is he,
what is his blood alcohol content, and so on.  Let's see what the
blood looks like -- whatever is left of it." 

She drew some blood and injected a mL into a specialized
instrument.  A few minutes later, a number came out, and Nat
shook her head.

"Amazing," said Nat.  "It says here that he has enough alcohol in
his blood to kill *ten* men."

Nick looked closely at the man.  "He doesn't look like a drinker. 
He looks too healthy.  Maybe he was there for the food, and
people thought he was drinking.  It's pretty easy to make that
mistake."

Nat looked at him, "If he's not a drinker, that's a hell of a way
to die.  He must have been forced to swallow a whole bottle of
liquor."

Nick leaned in closely, "I smell vomit and alcohol.  He must have
been feeling the effects when he was killed."

"I guess I'll have to take a look at his liver and arteries to
make sure he isn't a 'hell of a drinker.'" She made some notes in
a logbook and said some stuff on a cassette tape along the lines
of: date, time, case-number, background.  

She grabbed for a scalpel and was about to slice when the man's
eyes snapped open and his hand grabbed her own.  One quick twist,
and her wrist was broken.  With a scream of pain, she clutched her
hand, dropping the scalpel.  He still held onto the hand, and
continued the motion, torquing up the arm.  A single shove sent
her into a cart.  He slid off the table and leaned against it,
gasping for air.

Both Nat and Nick looked at him in shock -- but not in disbelief. 
"I think you should add in your logbook that a team of masked men
broke in here and disrupted the autopsy, taking my body," said
Axer in a near whisper.  "It will look much more convincing than
'body comes back to life,' don't you think?"

"What are you?" asked Nat.

Axer laughed, "Nothing that concerns you.  I'd be concerned about
covering my own hide."

He ran out of the morgue, but Nick tried to stop him.  Axer
swirled around, grabbing the hand that tried to stop him and
breaking it by leverage and the momentum of his own spinning.  

Nick slammed into the ground and popped his hand back into place. 
His eyes seemed to glow with some kind of hate as he stood up.

"Hey, what the hell's going on there?" demanded a voice down the
hall.  It was Schanke.

Damn it! swore Nick to himself.  Now he would have to act as a
mortal or else risk exposing himself.  "Don't let him escape!"
called Nick as a kick slammed into his neck and send him sailing
into the door.  The swinging door slammed open, and Nick kept on
sliding on the smooth tile floor.  

Schanke pulled out his gun and yelled, "Police!  Put your hands
in the air and face the wall!"  Axer ran towards Schanke, who
repeated his command.  "Stop or I'll fire!"

Axer kept on running, and when Schanke fired, Axer had dropped
into a forward roll.  The bullet, which was aimed at chest
height, slammed into Nick, who had just gotten up.  He hit the
ground again, cursing to himself.  Schanke hadn't noticed,
because a rising Axer grappled the gun out of his hand while
simultaneously kneeing him in the groin... *hard*.  Wordlessly,
with his mouth hanging wide open, he dropped to his knees.  It
was then that he noticed the two bullet wounds through the chest
and the copious amounts of blood on it.  Axer kept the gun and
ran off. 

A few moments later, a wiped gun was dropped in the hallway,
and bullets scattered around it.

Nat helped Nick up.  "I'll help Schanke.  Go after Axer!"

Nick didn't need to be told even once.  Now that Schanke was
down, he flew down the hallway like a bat out of hell, but he
lost the trail.  He stopped a ways down the hall and stood still,
trying to sense Axer, but felt nothing out of the ordinary. 
There was no unusual heartbeat, no running sounds -- nothing. 
"Damn it!"  He decided he should go outside and hover above the
building, and try to see if he can catch anyone running out.

Chapter 2
              
Scully entered Mulder's office.  It resembled the dorm room of a
grad student in some kind of esoteric physics or mathematics.  It
was filled with files of all kinds from floor to ceiling.  Mulder
was preoccupied with a pile of papers and photographs.

"I'm here, Mulder," said Scully, standing at the front of the
desk.  "What's so urgent?"

He looked up as if he were startled.  "Have a seat.  I have
something to show you."  He handed some photographs to her.  They
were police photos of a man with his heart blown out.  A few more
were taken of the man's face, and a few were taken while he was
still in place at the scene of the crime, made from various
angles.

"I don't get it," she said.  "A man gets shot twice in the heart
and dies.  What's the point?"

He laughed.  "The point is, he's not dead.  He was killed outside
of a bar by some unknown assailants in Toronto last night.  The
EMT who assessed him found most of his blood -- several liters at
least -- on the asphalt and two shots through the heart.  He had
been killed only moments before the EMT crew arrived.  They
scanned him for life signs and found none: no brain, heart, or
other activity.  He was dead as a doornail.

"Here's where it gets interesting.  When the coroner and a
detective observed the body, the body sprang back to life, and in
the process of escaping broke the coroner's wrist, threw the
detective around like a rag doll, and severely injured the
detective's partner who had just happened on the scene.  When the
detective tried to follow the man, he lost the scent."

"How did the detective get injured?"

"Ah... I gather he was kneed so hard in the groin that he had to
be taken to the emergency room."

Scully shook her head in despair, "Where do you get these cases? 
There must be some rational explanation for this.  Maybe he was
injured, but controlled his heart rate and breathing so he only
appeared to be dead."

"There is a rational explanation, but you refuse to believe it. 
The EMT would be willing to swear in court that the man was dead. 
He has the instrument printouts to show it, and the paperwork is
there proving that everyone was looking at a dead man and the
investigation that started that night was to discover the details
that a corpse would reveal.  Somehow, this man died and came back
to life on his own.  Think about it -- if he was controlling his
own breathing, then why is it his brain waves were flatlining
too? I think we should investigate this case." 

"We have too many irons in the fire as it is!  Besides, we can't
just barge into Toronto and take over a case which we have no
right to be involved in!  Skinner will roast both of us over the
fire -- and he'll be glad to do it." 

"I've got his permission."

"What?!  Why didn't he tell me when I talked with him down the
hall?"

"Well... I didn't exactly get permission for that.  All he knows
is that we're going on a vacation together to Canada so we can
recharge after several years of an exhausting work schedule."  He
actually said this with a straight face. 

Things were definitely getting worse and worse for Scully, but she
played along.  "And how are we going to get permission to join
the investigation?"

"I happen to have a few friends in Toronto.  We won't have any
authority to make arrests, but they'll take us on as volunteer
advisors." 

She just stared at him.  "Who are these friends of yours?"

"Let's say she's the ... ah... 'wife' of the Police Commissioner. 
She owes me a favor.  The others are some well-placed
bureaucrats." 
                
Scully's eyebrows raised a fraction.

"Please don't ask."  He actually managed to look embarrassed. 
"Anyway, I arranged things, so we need to catch the flight I
booked.  It leaves in half an hour."

Scully's face sank into her hands.  "Scratch my dinner plans
tonight." 

"That's O.K., I've made dinner plans as well."

               *              *              *

Nick exhaled heavily.  He had no luck in finding Axer after a
night and a day.  It was now 18 hours since Axer had escaped, and
the APB produced nothing, but then that shouldn't be surprising. 
Schanke had recovered after spending the day in the emergency
room.  He still walked funny and had a pale face, but he was
functional.

"Any luck, partner?" asked Schanke, sipping on some coffee.

"No!" snapped Nick.  "Nothing!  It's like he's vanished from the
face of the earth!"

"Did you try the Raven?"  The Raven was a place that Nick often
went for information, but usually concerning vampiric activities. 
Schanke didn't know how apropos his statement was -- Nick's
eyebrows rose as he saw something that he hadn't thought of
before.

"You know, that's a great idea!  I didn't think of it this
time..."  There wasn't any time now, but later tonight, he would
stop by and ask Janette if she knew anything about Axer Carrick.

"I forgot to tell you, Nick.  I just got word that two FBI agents
are going to join our investigation as advisors, and they should
be showing up tonight."

"When?" 

"Should be any time tonight.  Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. I hear
that Mulder has one of the best track record for solving unsolved
mysteries and going after the unusual cases."

That rang alarm bells rather loudly in Nick's head.  Why two very
good FBI agents would take immediate interest in this case, take
the next plane to Toronto, and act only as advisors didn't sound
good -- it raised too many questions.

Since he would have to be at the station to brief the agents
anyway, Nick decided that he would do some constructive snooping
in the meantime.  

"Why don't you get something ready for them to eat?  They'll
probably be exhausted." 

"That's a good idea -- I'll run by Greasy Tony's.  I'll be right
back."

When Schanke was out the door, Nick cut the screen saver on his
computer and accessed the World Wide Web.  "O.K. Agent Mulder,"
he said to himself, "let's see what kind of track record you
have..."

               *              *              *

As Mulder and Scully sat in the back of the car taking them from
the airport to the police station, Mulder was deep in thought. 
During the flight, he had passed along all the information that
he had on the case.  

Naturally, Scully had a rational response for everything: Axer
Carrick was a master of deception, probably used the bulimia
trick to make the appearance of drinking more than he actually
was, and so on.  She didn't buy a bit of Mulder's theory.

Mulder was glad that he didn't tell her everything.  First was
the packet handed to him by Deep Throat.  They had met in a
beatnik cafe under cover of the thick cigar smoke and the loud
music.  Mulder was given a rather thick packet that was full of
pictures, memos, and reports.

The packet focused completely on the Toronto area, and was full
of police reports which were in the public domain -- put
together, they painted a rather interesting pattern.

There were several key figures who showed up throughout most of
them all: Police Detective Nick Knight, who by coincidence would
be working with him and Scully on this case; Dr. Natalie Lambert,
the coroner who worked on the blood draining cases; Alan Powys,
an Interpol agent who had recently wrapped up a case in Toronto
involving beheadings, but was well known for being involved with
unusual cases throughout the world -- most involving beheadings.  

Others were mentioned, but Mulder didn't think they were
important at the moment -- he memorized their names, regardless, 
in case he needed to check them out later. 

They arrived at the police station and so Mulder had to leave his
deep thoughts and reenter the real world.  They immediately
entered the building and were escorted to the homicide
department, where the two detectives on the case were seated.  

One was a heavy-set, dark-haired man eating a rather large
hamburger and reading some papers.  The other was a
well-developed blond man working at a computer, which almost
instantly showed a screen saver when Mulder gazed at the screen.

Mulder introduced himself, "Detectives?  I am Federal Agent
Mulder, and this is my partner, Agent Scully.  I hope you got
word about us."

Nick and Schanke stood and shook their hands.  Nick looked at
Mulder and saw a disturbing blend of zeal, focus, and exhaustion.

"I take it you are fully familiar about the case?" asked Nick. 

"Yes," said Mulder.  "I also filled in Scully on the way up." 
That's pretty significant, thought Nick.  She must have been
dragged along, judging by her enthusiasm, or lack of it.  "At
this point, I need to ask both of you one question: are you
convinced that Axer Carrick was clinically dead when he was
brought into the morgue?"

Nick and Schanke looked at one another, then Nick answered.  "I
don't know.  He certainly appeared dead -- but that can be faked. 
Yoga masters can slow their breathing and heartbeat so that they
can appear to be dead.  He could have done the same thing with
his breathing and pulse.  The shot to the heart is pretty hard to
fake -- it looked real to me, but then again, he's out running
around, so I guess he must be good at that too.  The guy IS a
scientist after all..." 

Scully shot Mulder a look of triumph.  "That certainly seems to
be the most reasonable explanation.  The questions remain: why
would he fake his own death and then cause such a stir, and then
is he truly such a danger that he warrants arrest?"

Nick shook his head.  "Those are some good questions.  Maybe we
can ask him when we find him."

"Let's get to work then," said Schanke.  Everyone agreed, but the
look on Mulder's face said that he had some more questions for
Detective Knight.

               *              *              *

It was dark in the basement.  There was no sound; no movement. 
The moonlight which slipped through the crack illuminated the
sleeping body of Patrick Morgan.  His face was especially
visible, and it showed a nearly-healed face.  The left eye was
swollen, but whole.  His eyes snapped open, and he slowly rose
with murder in his eyes.  

"Good morning," said a voice from the shadows.

Morgan jumped up, his vision looking quite blurry.  "Who are
you?"

"I must say that you showed quite a display of health this last
day.  You must show me how you do it."  The voice was American
and the tone that of someone asking for the recipe of 'that
scrumptious stew.'

"You didn't answer my question."  He drew a sword.

The man lit a cigarette, and momentarily his face was
illuminated.  It was a middle-aged, wrinkled man.  "There's no
need for names.  You notice that I'm not asking for yours as
well?  You must be wondering why I'm here.  

"I have a little business proposition for you.  I don't really
care who you kill in your free time, but I thought I'd let you on
to the  presence of a personal threat -- actually two personal
threats."

"Go on."

               *              *              *

The detectives and agents sat at the conference table.  It was
almost funny, but it seemed that Mulder and Nick were an ideal
pair, as were Schanke and Scully. 

Mulder and Nick seemed to think that there was something
mysterious about Axer, while Schanke and Scully were of the
opinion that the guy was just plain weird -- end of story.  Now
that discussion was set aside, they were concentrating on a
search plan.

"My studies of Axer's past behavior show that he's a highly
nonlinear thinker," said Mulder.  "I think that if we try to
analyze his moves in a logical, deductive fashion, we'll get
nowhere."

"What do you suggest we do then?" asked an irritated Schanke.

"He's going to go where he feels comfortable, regardless.  He
hasn't been sighted at Tam O'Shanty's, but I think that he'll go
to a  similar bar in the same kind of neighborhood. It's been
demonstrated that he's a heavy drinker, so he's going to be where
the drink is.

"He also has a love of books, so he might also be in a rare
bookstore, or perhaps the university library.  He might not see
it so, but it might be one of the best places for him to go -- he
likes books, and nobody would ever think of finding him there."

The others mulled over it.  "We don't have any other leads," said
Nick.  "So we might as well  try your plan.  Who knows... we
might get lucky."

"Why don't we split up into teams?" suggested Scully.  "Since
we're both unfamiliar with Toronto, why won't I go with Schanke? 
Mulder can go with Nick."

Everyone agreed and got to work.

          *              *              *

Nick entered the Raven.  It was the same as always.  The mortals
flirted with the vampires, and the vampires danced with the
mortals in more than one way.  Janette saw Nick and approached
him with a wine glass full of blood. 
 
"Ah... Nicola," she purred.  "What brings you here?" 

"I have a story for you."

"Really?" she smiled, not quite sincerely.

He shook his head, "We really need to talk.  This is serious."

Mulder then approached, and Janette seemed to be startled and
annoyed.  Nick looked a bit embarrassed, "Janette?  This is my
pro tem partner, Agent Mulder from the FBI."

Her eyes narrowed, "I see."  His expression was puzzling to her
-- it was full of focus and life, but no discernible emotion. 
She shivered with a feeling of eeriness.

"If you don't mind, I'll be looking around."

"Be my guest," she smiled, waving her arms grandly.  Mulder
nodded and entered the crowd.

"That," said Nick, his head nodding in Mulder's direction, "is
part of the problem."

She nodded, her expression serious as well.  He was always moody,
but he was really concerned about something.  "Come with me." 

               *              *              *

Nick explained about everything that had happened the night
before.  Janette was at first skeptical as Dana, but became ever
more doubtful.

"I think we've found some new kind immortal," said Nick.  He was
even drinking a bottle of human blood without even knowing it, he
was that rattled.  "If it was a vampire, I would have known.    I
saw a dead body come back to life in the blink of an eye, and I
sensed nothing from him." 

That worried Janette.  She wasn't sure if she believed it, but if
it were true... "I think we should tell LaCroix.  It you're
right, then there is a potential threat out there.  Does Axer
know about us?"

"No.  I don't think so.  But then he could have learned about us
in the past.  I don't think we should tell LaCroix just yet, but
I need you to keep your ears open." He gave her a copy of the
files on Axer Carrick.  "This is all the information we have
about him.  ...By the way, you might want to step carefully
around Mulder.  There's something about him that feels wrong."

               *              *              *

Axer sat in the Raven, downing scotch like water.  He wanted to
get drunk, but he had a long way to go.

He looked handsome in a rugged sort of way, but whenever any of
the women approached him, he would give them a polite but firm
stare that made them uncomfortable -- mortal and vampire alike. 
Axer was generally left alone that night, but the women still
glanced in his direction.

Only the bartender dared to approach him -- it was his job -- and
even then only when necessary.  Axer must have had a near fifth
of scotch so far, and he showed no signs of stopping.

"I think you've had enough, friend," said the bartender, putting
a hand on the man's shoulder.

Axer's face was stone cold sober as he said in a level voice, "I
haven't even begun to drink."

The bartender tilted his head like a confused dog.  "How many
fingers am I holding?"

"Five.  You're also 35 years old, have a certificate of
bartending, have predominately Danish ancestry, and you clipped
one of your right toenails too closely ... five days ago.  That's
why you're wiggling your toes now and then, and why you're
walking with a limp."

The bartender nearly jumped in shock.  "I take it you're
preparing for some psychic's convention." 

"No.  I just make observations.  Look, if I can prove I'm sober
enough, will you pour me some more rounds?" 

A moment of hesitation.  "O.K., but if you're drunk, you're out
of here."

               *              *              *

Nick and Janette exited the back room.  Nick would have to coast
all the bars tonight, and that didn't make him happy at all.  He
was about to say goodbye to Janette when he noticed something
rather unusual: a long-haired, bearded man played guitar at the
bar, but was using an electric guitar that belonged to the band. 
The band members were sitting around this guy, drinking red wine
with their jaws dropped open in awe.  

Nick's jaw dropped open too.  That was Axer.

He was about to bust the party, but Janette stopped him. 
"Watch!" she hissed. 

"Why?  He's the man I'm after!"

"I know!"  She put a firm grip on Nick's  shoulder that
effectively prevented him from going after Axer without making a
scene.  So, he stayed put.

It was a tune unlike any he had ever heard before -- perhaps a
blending of the sad Scottish sounds with the lively, scalar
sprinting of the Andalusian music -- both sad and happy, if such
a paradox could ever be created.  Although the sounds came out of
the amplifiers, altered by the sound effect boxes that most rock
musicians use, the effect was incredible.  There was a modern
influence here as well as an old world influence -- soft allegros
changed into harsh prestos, rippling arpeggios to machine gun
scales and tremolos.

His technical skill was incredible as his refined emotive power,
and it took Nick back to a time in England where he had the
chance to hear the music of a traveling bard in the Court... 
//No!  It couldn't be, could it?//  That man could certainly walk
in the light, that was for certain.

Janette was just as affected as the rest of patrons were.  Most
of the crowd here were "into" alternative music, but everyone had
stopped what they were doing so that they could listen.

It must have been about ten minutes later when the last sounds
died out.  Applause roared throughout the Raven, but when it
died, there was a deafening murmur.  It was a collective
question: "What happened to the guy?"  Axer had somehow vanished
from the center of a crowd.

"He's gone now," ranted Nick, "and all because you're a music
lover!"

The bartender approached Janette, shaking his head.  "You missed
it.  That guy with the guitar?  He just downed a fifth of scotch
on his own in twenty minutes, then ran off with two fifths, and
left me a hundred!" 

"That man," asked Janette.  "Did he eat anything?"

"Yeah!  He must have inhaled about four suicide burgers!"

"Suicide burgers?" asked Nick.

"That's our 2 pound hamburger -- it's so thick you have to break
your jaw just to get your teeth around it."

Janette and Nick stared at each other.  Eight pounds of meat and
a fifth of scotch -- this was certainly no vampire.

"Nicola," said Janette in French.  "I know that man.  His name
might truly be Axer Carrick, but I knew him by a different name. 
I didn't believe you when you told me your story, and now I think
you won't believe mine."

Nobody noticed that Mulder had also recognized Axer, and had
enough of an eye to see him leave by simply behaving like one of
the crowd.  The man even exited through the front door!  Mulder
followed him discreetly.

"I've got to learn some of those tricks..." he  muttered.


Chapter 3
            
Janette held Nick's hand tightly enough to crush a diamond -- not
out of any need for closeness, but rather to keep Nick from
running off.

"Let me go!" demanded Nick.  "He's getting away."

"He's not the one you should be chasing!"

"Who should I be chasing then?"

"I don't know.  Only Axer can tell you that."

"This is just great!" he fumed.  "I'm a step away from catching
him, and I can't get him because he has to tell me something
first!"

"Maybe if you would grow up and open your eyes, you would learn
something!" Janette's eyes blazed.  "You want to be a mortal so
much that you're oblivious to everything around you!"

"What is it that I'm missing then?  Please enlighten me!"  The
last remark was dripping with sarcasm.

               *              *              *

Mulder followed Axer for about a block.  He was weaving in the
sidewalk slightly, but all in all held himself together pretty
well for someone who had just drained enough scotch in 20 minutes
to topple most people.

Axer seemed to be wandering aimlessly.  Every once and a while,
he would take a swig of scotch, and keep going.  It seemed almost
humorous, the game that Mulder played.  Mulder would sneak up
closer and closer, then duck behind something when Axer got
suspicious and turned around.

It must have stayed this way for a few more minutes until Axer
seemed to vanish when he turned a corner.  Mulder looked around
for a few moments, scratching his head.  There was no trace of
him.  It was like he up and flew away...

What comes up, must come down.  A heavy form landed on top of
Mulder, slamming him to the ground.  A firm hand locked his right
arm behind his back, and a long, sharp knife found itself at his
throat.  Judging by the strong smell of liquor on the man's
breath, Mulder figured it had to be Axer.

"Who sent you?" asked Axer, his voice very slurred.

"I sent myself."

"Then who are you?"

"Federal Agent Mulder."

"FBI?  What the hell do you want with me?"

"The FBI doesn't even know about you, but you've left quite a
mystery around yourself.  I came to satisfy my curiosity."  

"About what?"

"How you came back from the dead.  The evidence is a matter of
public record, but nobody seems to have an official interest in
it."

"So you actually believe it, eh?"  He paused for a few moments. 
"What do you know about me?"

"Not much, except that you've left a very enigmatic paper trail
behind you.  Why would you give up such a promising career in
environmental science, even with the budget cuts, and turn into
an alcoholic in some Toronto slum?  And then how is it that you
came back from the dead?  Have you come across some means to
revive yourself?  Or was there an accident at Hanford you might
care to tell me about?"

"You certainly have an active imagination.  Have you ever
considered writing fiction?"

Mulder chuckled.  "I could write a whole lot of facts about you
and sell it as fiction if I wanted to."

Axer shook his head.  "What am I going to do with you?..."  He
paused a moment.  "I think that's been decided for us.  We have
company.  I suggest you stay in the shadows if you know what's
good for you."

"And if I don't?"

"Be my guest if you want to be stupid.  If you expose yourself,
I'm going to watch you die for your own stupidity -- understood?"

A man wearing a bandana over the lower part of his face emerged
from the shadows.  His eyes were full of rage and in his hand was
a plain sword. 

"Axer Carrick," said Morgan deliberately.  "You've got a lot to
answer for."

"You tried to kill me when I was drunk and I fought back.  What's
wrong with that?  Besides, YOU killed ME."

Morgan spat.  "And you put out my eye."

"What's wrong with that?  It's healed, isn't it?"

"Do you have any idea what it feels like?  Perhaps I'll do that
to you before I take your head!"

Mulder couldn't believe what he was hearing.  Were they both
delusional, acting for his benefit, or telling the truth?  If it
was the truth, the implications were astounding: there were
immortals -- plural, now -- walking the earth, and not just one.

"You're certainly welcome to try, but if you go after me now, I
won't let it slide."

Mulder was tempted to pull out his gun and stop the fight, but he
was curious as to how this would turn out.  He also hoped that he
could learn more about the secrets surrounding Axer.  He soon
regretted leaving his gun in the holster, because a rough hand
gripped him over the mouth, and before he could react, a sweet
smell flooded his senses.  Next came a dreamless sleep. 

               *              *              *

Nick tensed.  "Something 's wrong, Janette!"  His eyes clouded
over as he listened more closely.  "It's Mulder -- that idiot!"

Janette sensed it too.  "This way!" she snapped, heading for the
back door.

They hit the cold air and immediately flew down the back
alleyways.  They didn't consciously know where Mulder was, but
they had an instinctive feeling what direction it was, and they
followed that instinct.  It was about half a block away, in a
garbage-filled alleyway.

Axer was slumped against the wall, his stomach sliced open.  He
was trying to stand in vain, his hand holding his innards in. 
Mulder was nowhere to be found.

"What happened?" demanded Nick, the signs of his vampirism gone. 
"What did you do to Mulder?"

Axer looked up wearily, "Open your damned eyes, man!  Do you
think I'm in a position to do anything to anyone?  Some guys
wearing ski-masks grabbed him while I was distracted.  I think it
was all a ploy to get him -- if they wanted me, I'd have been
grabbed too or killed on the spot."

"Which way did they go?"

"How the hell would *I* know?  I got gutted when they were making
their getaway!"  He stood up, and let go of his stomach.  The
bleeding had stopped, and the wound had closed.

Nick's and Janette's eyes opened widely.  "I think you have
something to explain to us, Bard Lanscot," said Janette,
deliberately using the name by which she knew him so long ago,
"such as how it is that we crossed paths in 1435 and we cross
paths again in 1993."

Axer smiled ruefully, "I could ask the same of you -- if it *is*
true.  I don't deny meeting you, but my memory is better spent
remembering my Fourier transforms than names and faces from
centuries ago.  Hell, I don't even remember my real name!"

"What are you?" asked Nick.

"Someone who wants to be left alone."

"It's not like you're encouraging anyone to do that."

"I could have done much worse to keep you off my trail -- think
on that."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, but enough of this useless talk.  It appears as if fate has
put us on the same side -- we need to find the folks who took
Mulder and flush out an apparent third party."

"Third party?"

"There's more to this game than either one of us dared to guess." 
He laughed bitterly, "And to think that you've spent all this
energy trying to find me, when all I did was keep my liver from
being extracted!  You should have been searching after the other
two players of this game -- I assume you *did* hear about the
attackers who started this in the first place?  Did you try
hunting for them?"  He didn't wait for a response, but Nick
looked pretty shocked while Janette shook her head.  "I thought
so.  Are there any other members of your team?"

"Yes."

"Then gather them -- we need to develop a plan."

               *              *              *

Schanke and Scully entered the Chinese restaurant, and were
ushered into the back room.  Axer had given the owner enough
money to ensure privacy -- or at least, that's what Nick
reasoned, since Axer spoke to the man in a dialect of Chinese
that Nick didn't know.

Axer, in the meantime, had gobbled up a big load of chicken-fried
rice and guzzled tons of oolong tea.  On the way to the
restaurant, Nick and Janette had explained that they were
vampires, which was why Axer didn't insist that they eat.

Axer had managed to say as little as possible about himself,
telling only the truth -- but not the whole truth.  He explained
that he was a Brythonic Celt who had been killed in battle over
2500 years ago in what is now Wales.  

He woke up in the battlefield and was revered by his tribe, who
thought that he was some faerie inhabiting a slain hero.  He was
made a king for seven years, and was then killed over a field in
order to renew the circle of life.

Not wishing to go through that again, he left his homeland and
became a citizen of the world.  He didn't know why he was
immortal or what his destiny was -- but he most certainly wasn't
a vampire, he emphasized to Nick and Janette.

Axer deliberately left out the other facts of immortals: the way
to kill them, the Quickening, and the Gathering.  He was just as
convinced that there was a great deal that they weren't telling
him about themselves. 

Scully and Schanke sat down at the table, and did a double take
when they saw Axer.  Schanke jumped up and pulled out his
revolver.  "What the hell --?!"

"Put that back, detective," said Axer, unconcerned at the gun
waving in his face.  "I'm on your side."

"Do as he says," said Nick.  "There's a lot about this case that
we don't know."  Schanke reholstered his gun and sat down slowly,
glaring at Axer.

Scully noticed Mulder's absence.  "Where's Mulder?"

"Ah... that's part of what we need to tell you.  He's been
kidnaped."  He might as well have said that some water spilled on
the floor -- his tone was so bland.

"What?!"  The blood drained from Scully's face.

"We don't know yet who grabbed him," said Axer, "but I'm tracking
down someone who might.  I'll get the call when he gets found."

"I think there's something you're not telling us," said Schanke.

Axer sighed, nodding.  "There *is* something that I haven't told
you -- and I guess I owe you as much to tell you, and we have the
time -- we can't do anything until I get the call.  In the
meanwhile, eat up.  You can't get food like this anywhere else."

Chapter 4
            
Mulder woke up tied to a chair.  He wasn't in pain, but he was a
bit thirsty.  As his mind became more functional, he realized
that he was blindfolded.

"I see you're awake now," said a raspy voice from in front of
him.  The smell of cheap cigarette smoke flooded his nostrils. 
"Are you comfortable?"

"It's not too bad.  I can't really complain." 

There was a slight pause, "You've gotten yourself into quite a
pit, Mulder.  You know that, don't you?"

Mulder knew what this man was, at least, even if he didn't know
the man personally: he was either a member or a representative of
the power that tried to keep the truth hidden.  "Does it matter
now?"

"I don't know.  You're a good man," he said this in a harsh way,
"and the ideal boy scout.  You believe so strongly in truth that
you wouldn't recognize it if it tried to kill you...  Do you know
how annoying you can be?"

"And you are?..."

"No," chuckled the voice.  "We'll have no names here."

"What do you want with me?"

"I want to you give me information -- very specific information. 
What do you know about an individual named Axer Carrick?"

"Only what's a matter of public record: he was a prominent
environmental scientist who left Hanford when the budget cuts
came -- I presume he lost his funding -- and seemed to have
vanished from the face of the earth.  He surfaced in Toronto as a
notorious drunk."

"But that's not quite why you came here, is it?  I find it very
puzzling that you would drop all your irons in the fire and run
up to Toronto like the devil was chasing you." 

"That's also a matter of public record.  Try reading the police
reports."

"And what did the police reports say?"

"Why don't you learn to read and find out for yourself?"  Sudden
pain flooded through his face, but he remained silent.

"Now, understand me Mulder.  I don't have the patience for smart
alecs and liars.  You'd better be talking like an open book or
else you'll get something a *lot* stronger than this.  Now, you
were about to say something?..."

               *              *              *

Axer sipped some green tea and considered what he was about to
say very carefully.  "As I mentioned earlier, I'm convinced that
there is a third player involved.  Who he is and why he's
involved is still beyond me, but I'm convinced of it. 

"I certainly know who the second player is: Patrick Morgan.  The
guy might be an ex-Fed, judging by the man's tactics and
connections.  I figure he has to be at least a budding pro --
he's got the right instincts, but if he was a full pro, I'd have
been really dead or left alone and taken care of in a more subtle
manner that the police would never hear about. 

"I know that you want to rescue Mulder -- I do too, and I feel
guilty about not being able to keep him out of trouble, but I
think it's more important to risk sacrificing Mulder to flush out
the third man."  Axer was going to continue, but Scully
interrupted him.

"What are you saying?!" she demanded.

"Would you like me to repeat myself?"

"NO!  I want you to explain yourself!"

"If we go into wherever he is with both our guns-a-blazin', we
might rescue Mulder and nail Morgan, but we won't be able to get
the third player, because he'll be smart enough to leave when the
going's good."  

"What do you suggest?" asked Nick.

"First, I get the information from my informant as to where the
hired thug is -- the one who was with Morgan when he shot me.

"Second, I and I *alone* sneak into the place and do some recon. 
If the third party is there, and I know it, I'll collect as much
information as I can and bring it back.  If Mulder is in danger,
I'll intervene and get him out, but even so, I'll have a better
chance of getting out with information than if our intention is
just to get Mulder back."

They all stared at him.  "This is stupid!" fumed Schanke.  "What
the hell do you think you are, Superman?"

"What I am," said Axer softly, "is a man who is capable of doing
exactly as I claim. That's all you need to know."

"You're crazy!" swore Scully.

"You're convinced of that?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

She sputtered, trying to come up with some kind of sentence,
finally ending up with, "Because it's unreasonable!"

Axer's face took on a distant look to it, as if he were reading
from a book in his memory.  "Einstein's theories of relativity
appeared unreasonable when compared with Newton's view of an
absolute world.  The great astronomers were branded as heretics
and crazies by the Church and their lackeys within the
Universities.  Darwin was called unreasonable and crazy by the
religious when he presented his 'Origin of the Species,' and yet
his still unproven theory has revolutionized the biological
sciences and given you a job. 

"Now, these unreasonable lunatics are considered foundations of
reason in your book.  How can you make your statements when logic
and empirical evidence prove them to be utterly false?  Now, take
a few moments and think about your next response -- if you return
an emotional statement, then my point is proven."

Nick smiled to himself -- trust a scientist and resident of the
Scientific Revolution to come up with a quick response to the
words "unreasonable" and "crazy".

"This isn't making any sense!" complained Schanke.

Axer sighed in resignation.  "Then it seems I'll make this very
simple.  You *have* to trust me enough to get out of this mess,
and you never will at this point -- but I'm doing it only because
Mulder isn't here. 

"My secret will remain safe because you, Scully, are so blinded
by your reason that you won't see what's right in front of you. 
You, Schanke, will probably forget because you won't understand
it.  Nick doesn't care one way or the other, and neither does
Janette."

He pulled out a very ornate dirk.  "Scully, prove that this knife
is real and very, very sharp."

"Where are you going with this?" she asked suspiciously.

"Just do it."  He flipped the knife in his hand and handed it to
her with the grip towards her.

She took it and tested it.  "It's razor sharp, and the blade is
steel.  It's real."  She handed it back to him. 

"Now, I know you're not prepared for this, but please try not to
over-react."  He stood up and walked away from the table, where
all could see him.  "Now, OBSERVE!"

Axer quickly thrust the dirk into his heart, twisted it so that
blood gushed out, and did the same in his stomach.  He also slit
his throat from ear to ear, then made deep slashes down each arm
from shoulder to wrist, cutting the cloth over his arms.  Then he
slashed his left wrist all the way around. 

He separated the meat of the hand and arm at his wrist so that
they could see bone.  His left fingers flopped limply, as did the
whole arm when it was let go.

Everyone was so shocked that they did nothing -- it was all
coming so fast.  "*Watch*!" commanded Axer, his weak voice full
of intensity.  The expression on his face was one of utter,
unspeakable agony.  

Scully tried to stand up, but Nick stopped her with a strength
that she didn't know was possible for a man his size.

The bleeding stopped almost immediately, and the skin closed up
after about a minute.  "I think any one of you can taste this and
attest that is real blood," continued Axer.  "I don't care what
you think or what you call it, but it *is* what it is.  If you
still think I'm some sort of crazy irrational, then that's your
choice.  But I've said all that I can say." 

Nick and Janette knew about Axer's secret (or part of it,
anyway), but even so, they couldn't help being as shocked as
Schanke and Scully.  It's one thing to know about a different
kind of immortal, but another thing to see such graphic proof
first-hand. 

"What are you?" asked Scully weakly.  She had tested the knife
and saw the wounds firsthand, as well as the healing, so she knew
that there was no doubt that this was real.  It was a
mind-numbing blow.

Schanke nodded after a moment.  It was all making sense now.  It
explained a great deal. 

"Why would you want to know?" demanded Axer wearily.  "How will
it help you?  Knowledge is not always helpful.  Sometimes it's
better to remain ignorant.  Come up with some theory that suits
your own sense of reality -- and just accept that *somehow*, I
will follow through with my plan. 

"Keep in mind that the only reason I let you into my little
secret is because you'll ruin everything if you insist on being
blind skeptics -- but that's precisely what I want you to remain,
in every respect, when this is over."  That was said with a great
intensity. His voice was becoming much stronger now. 

"When you make your reports, all you will say is that Axer
Carrick was such an alcoholic that he was immune to pain, and
fell into such alcohol comas that he only seemed to be dead.  His
inexplicable miracles and actions are just that -- inexplicable,
but requiring simple, physical, and *reasonable* explanations."

Axer flexed his left hand, and Scully jumped back in shock -- her
face drained, perhaps in sympathy for Axer's loss of blood.  Nick
and Janette both sat back in thought, but with different thoughts
in their own minds.   

Janette was surprised at how much Axer had changed from the Bard
Lanscot that she knew so long ago -- did people change so much? 
Had the immortal had become hardened to life and a severe cynic?  

LaCroix, who was perhaps five centuries younger than Axer, had
warned that immortality and a soul in conflict didn't mix -- was
this the factor that had changed Axer into an alcoholic?  Was
this what Nick had to face in his own time?

Nick thought along different lines.  He knew nothing about the
man's past, but much about his present.  He seemed to sense an
opening of some inner door.  Axer was letting loose age-old
secrets that he desperately wanted to tell --
perhaps he might tell some more. 

"Why is it that Morgan wants to kill you?"

"He doesn't want to kill me -- he wants to murder me.  Big
difference there.  Why would any man want to murder another?" 
Axer was quite proud of his evasions.  

//Presenting papers at scientific conferences does some good
after all,// he noted to himself. 

A ringing came from Axer's coat pocket.  It was a cellular phone. 
"Hello?..."  He spoke in Welsh for the next few moments.  Nick's
eyes widened a slight bit, but he remained silent.  "That's it. 
I have my informant." 

"Where is he?"

"I don't know where Mulder is.  I've been told where the bruiser
is, though, and I'm going to extract some information from him. 
I would be terribly grateful if you all stayed out of this.  You
might spoil it." 

"You should at least let one of us wire you," objected Scully.

"Look, I'm not a cop, and I have no concerns about police
procedure.  A wire will only get in the way and cause me
unnecessary risk.  Having a partner nearby might be just as bad
for me because he might see one of you and get spooked -- and I
don't need any help if he tries to nail me."

There was not much any of them could say.  Nick said nothing,
because he didn't want to explain to them how it is he knew
fluent 13th Century Welsh so well that he understood every nuance
that even a trained linguist might have missed.  After all, not
every linguist keeps a diary in that same language, or
occasionally reads poetry from that age.

He knew where they were going, all right, and he aimed to be
there to observe and remember; perhaps assist if it came to that. 
Nick looked at his watch and saw that it was 5:00 AM.  "Damn!" he
swore to himself.  He would have to get home fast.  Just then, a
plan came to his mind...

Axer left in a hurry, and everyone looked at one another.  Nick
broke the silence, "I think we should do as he says -- who knows
what'll happen if we interfere?"

"I think we should follow," Scully shook her head.  "I just can't
believe any of this."

"Why?" asked Nick bluntly.  "You saw the proof in front of your
very eyes, and you can't believe a bit of it because it goes
against your beliefs, and you call yourself a scientist?"

Janette smiled slightly.  All you had to do was replace some of
the nouns, and it matched the same conversation she had with Nick
earlier that evening.

Scully shot Nick a dark look.  "You're taking this all very
well!"

"I just happen to know when to believe in my senses and throw my
reason out the window."

Scully stormed out.  "I'll be in my hotel room!" she called as
she was almost out of earshot.

"I'd better get some rest as well," said Schanke.  His response
to unexpected stress was to sleep, drink some beer, or eat
doughnuts.  "Need a ride, Nick?"

"No thanks, Schanke.  I brought my own car, and I need to take
Janette home."

Schanke left too, until it was just Janette and Nick.

"I can take myself home, Nicola," said Janette.  "Did you
understood the man's tongue?"

"Yes.  It was the selfsame Welsh I learned just before I left for
the Holy Lands."  He laughed, "I remember how I took such an
effort to learn Welsh because I wanted to work *with* them,
rather than rape them as the Crown wished.  I guess I was the
first to be politically correct!"

"You were always so," frowned Janette.  "How will you follow
him?"

"I don't need to follow him -- I'll get there ahead of him and
wait inside.  Then I'll take the sewers back."

Chapter 5
            
Nick waited inside the abandoned factory.  It must have been
empty for years.  Nick thought it interesting that these sites
served vampires as well as immortals. 

He remembered the one-sided conversation that he heard when Axer
had talked to his informant on the phone.  Axer had said that he
would do two things: first, go to this factory and retrieve an
item; second, to meet Dyson, the bruiser who had attacked Axer,
where he was holed up.

Naturally, he had told Janette only half of the story, but the
part he left out wouldn't be important to her anyway.

Nick waited high up in the framework of the ceiling, blended in
the shadows.  His vampire-enhanced hearing allowed him to hear
every sound that Axer would make -- but Axer would not be able to
do likewise, because he was a good five stories above the floor.

Axer walked to the center of the empty room and sank to his
knees.  "You know," he said aloud to nobody in particular, in
that archaic Welsh once more, "I thought I would be able to leave
you behind.  I thought that I could leave the game and become
mortal again."  

Nick felt stunned.  If anyone seemed in harmony with his
immortality, it would be Axer Carrick, and next to him, LaCroix.  
Axer continued his monologue, nearly praying to the center of the
room, "I remember the promise that I made to you, that I would
chain you forever in darkness, and that you would never ride into
battle with me.  The Fates have decreed otherwise, and so I must
embrace Fate and slay once more.  I hope that She decides she
likes my performance, so that the dice may not roll against us.  

"I had accused Scully of being a blind Newtonian, but I now know
that I had been one in spirit.  It is easy to be a non-Newtonian
in philosophy, but it is hard to be that in action and in one's
whole being.  

"For the sake of Fate and the Balance I release you once more. 
The Wave rises and falls, and thus the dice decree.  I free you
-- become one with me, as I shall become one with you.  Together,
let us feel the great heart beat and replenish the Great Mother
with the blood that we shall spill this great day."

Nick sat in shock as he heard Axer speak.  It almost sounded like
an apology.  But to whom was he speaking?  

Axer ripped open some boards on the floor and brought out a great
wooden chest that showed great age.  A giant lock held it shut,
and Axer unlocked it with a great, silver key.   

Inside the box was something wrapped in silk and muslin.  Axer
unwrapped it, and a sword was revealed.  It was drawn, and Nick
gasped in awe.  It was a grand sword -- artful, delicate,
intricate, and strong as the roots of the earth.  With his
enhanced vision, he saw elaborate weave patterns on the leather
scabbard and grip that resembled the patterns on some of the
gravestones still standing in the Isles -- like the Celtic
crosses with the elaborate patterns chiseled into them. 

Nick had seen no sword designed like it.  The grip was longer
than the length of a forearm -- enough to comfortably place four
of Axer's hands side by side, and the blade was of a metal that
Nick couldn't recognize.  The blade was leaf-shaped, a full edge
on the front and a quarter edge on the back.  A blood grove ran
down the center of the blade.  

Nick patiently waited as Axer prayed -- for that is what Nick
reasoned Axer was doing.  Axer prayed for the success of his
mission, the safety of Mulder, his enemies, and the Great Mother
who would take back the life that she had granted. 

Nick could see how much turmoil this man was going through at
having to kill Patrick Morgan, the possibility of having to kill
every single man in the place where Mulder was being held, and
the possibility that Mulder would be severely tortured or dead
because of Axer's inability to see through the trap and save
Mulder before it was too late.  

He felt troubled by what he had heard these last few hours.  Many
Christian crusaders, including himself, had believed that murder
was against the Laws of God, and yet they broke it every day in
His Name.  They had all prayed for their enemies, and slaughtered
them on the battlefield and in their homes.  

For that all Nick was respecting the man more and more, and
feeling like a kindred spirit, he couldn't help but ask himself
if Axer was acting like the hypocrite that he himself once was,
or if there was something else that he was missing.  

He *wanted* to respect the man, but the thought that Axer was
about to justify the slaughter -- which Axer had loathed -- in
the name of the Great Mother, was too much.  Or could it be that
this was the only way that Axer kept his sanity when killing was
required?  

//But why,// he asked himself, //did he bury his sword here?  Why
did he go without it when his very life was in danger so many
times?  He expressed the fact that he can die for good, though he
wouldn't tell me how.//

Too many questions to ask, but at least he had time to ponder
them...  Although it certainly felt like only an hour, the day
had ended and the sun set.  Nick breathed a sigh of relief -- he
would be able to follow Axer directly now. 

Axer rose from his prayers and apologies to the Great Mother
concerning the soon-to-die, and when Nick looked directly into
them -- even from a great distance -- Axer was a transformed man. 
Gone were the drunk's eyes and the alcoholic.  Instead, a great
and powerful man stood there.  

          *              *              *

Mulder still sat bound and blindfolded on the chair.  Nothing had
happened to him yet other than lengthy questioning and threats of
chemical torture.  The only questioner was the man with the raspy
voice who happened to smoke a lot of cheap cigarettes.   

The smoker had whispered and yelled, threatened and soothed, but
to Mulder's credit, he had presented information that was a
matter of public record, but nothing more.  He said nothing of
his speculations, unofficial investigations, or the tips given to
him.  

"Mulder," whispered the raspy voice in his ear, "you have been
given more time than most *ever* get.  Your time has long since
run out, so I won't be gentle with you any more.  I think it's
time for the next phase of our questioning." 

Rough hands untied him and dragged him to another room.  The next
thing Mulder knew was that he was chained face-first to a cold
wall, and his shirt was being ripped from his back with a sharp
knife.  

"I strongly believe that torturing methods should be based on
statements the tortured make in life.  You've complained often in
the States about being screwed by the Powers-That-Be.  Well... I
think something like that is fitting.  Do you prefer Phillips
head or flathead?  No preference?  Then flathead it is."  A
slight pause.  "I'm really going to enjoy this."  

The sound of a power drill being revved up was magnified by the
small room. Mulder's soul-wrenching screams echoed for at least a
mile in all directions.  

               *              *              *

Scully and Schanke paced back and forth at the police station. 
They both knew that Axer would take a while, but Nick should have
shown up by now.  Once Schanke explained to Scully that Nick
couldn't go out in the sun, she relaxed a little, but when he
added that he always showed up to work on time, Scully became
more worried.  

"Where could they be?" she cried to nobody in particular.  Most
of the heads in the room turned her way, but she ignored them.  

Schanke had a sinking feeling what had happened.  "I think Nick
followed after Axer."

"After what he told us?"

"Yep.  Trust Nick to be the cowboy... again."

Scully shook her head, "He's just like Mulder -- always going off
and doing crazy things.  Now that you mentioned it, it just
occurred to me that they're very similar.  ...Axer is the same
too once you think about it." 

"Axer?  You've got to be kidding!"

"I'm not," she smiled.  "They all entertain crazy ideas, and
except for Mulder, do crazy things to back up their ideas." 

"What do you mean, except for Mulder?  He has the best track
record that I know of for backing up his ideas with crazy
things!"

"Is he stronger than he looks?  When Nick kept me sitting down, I
thought he was going to crush my shoulder!"  

Schanke nodded, "He *is* strong.  I always figured it was the
adrenalin rush." 

Scully nodded.  "That can explain a lot of it."  Yes, that
explained everything.  After a slight pause, "Do you *really*
believe what Axer said last night?" 

Schanke paused himself.  "Axer was right.  I don't understand
what happened, and I don't care.  All I know is that he has some
unusual skills, and that he's on our side.  When it's all over, 
he's going to bring us some of the *real* bad guys and then live
his life in peace somewhere else.  What else can a cop ask for?" 

Scully laughed, "I think I agree with you, but Mulder wouldn't. 
He'd want to strap Axer to an operating table and see how he
tics."  Her expression changed to one of shock, "And he's risking
his life to save Mulder's.  I sure hope Mulder appreciates the
irony here!"

               *              *              *

Dyson stood against the wall, smoking a cheap cigarette and
holding a bottle of Bud in his hand.  Business was pretty slow
after that incident with the drunk -- his boss told him to lay
low after a while.    

He reflected on the events.  He'd nailed a whole lot of people in
his life, but never one like that drunk.  Dyson *saw* the guy
down five double shots of some pretty strong scotch as well as a
full pitcher of Guinness, and the guy still punched a hole in his
throat with his bare hand.  

Other memories came back.  He'd hit the guy smack in the middle
of the head with a pipe filled with lead -- and all the guy did
was grunt and fall down.  Most people should have died then and
there.  Instead, he got back up and gave him the beating of his
life.  

Pretty strange...  He took a deep swig of beer, and when he
lowered his head, he found a sword at his throat.  He dropped his
beer and cigarette with a startled cry.  

"Hello, Dyson," smiled the drunk -- only this guy was stone-cold
sober, and looked like he never tasted a drop of drink in his
life.  "SHHH!!  No need to wake the neighborhood!" 

Dyson tried to reach for his gun, but the blade dug into his
neck, cutting the skin, "My blade is VERY sharp!" whispered the
drunk.  THE DEAD MAN!  Dyson realized.  He started to shake.
"You're dead... You're dead!!  Your heart got blown out!  I saw
it with my own eyes!" 

"Yes, yes... An old story.  How about telling me a new one, like
the location of Patrick Morgan?"

Dyson was a coward through and through.  He may have been a
professional killer, but he wasn't a professional fighter -- he
didn't have enough guts to face the music when the man who uses
the sword must die by it. 

Axer smiled, "Before you die, I would give you my name.  I am
Axer Carrick.  Do you know how I got that name?" 

Dyson shook his head nervously. 

"I'll tell you then.  Axer means simply enough: one who uses an
axe.  Think really hard, Dyson -- who uses an axe, in a
professional kind of way?" 

"Lumberjack?"

Axer laughed pretty hard at that one.  "Nice try, but they use
double-man saws and power tools.  No, a professional axer is an
executioner.  Consider yourself an honored man: you forced my
entry back into the Game, and my role is the executioner that I
have been for many centuries past, but relinquished in my belief
that mortals were worth forgiving.  

"Do you believe in some power greater than yourself?  God? 
Satan?"

Dyson looked shocked, as if he realized that his only mistake
might have been trying to kill a vengeful lunatic, but said,
"Yes.  Yes!!"

"So do I.  I call her the Great Mother.  She is the one who gave
birth to us all, and takes life back when it is time.  It is the
time, and I am Her Instrument.  Your decaying body will feed Her
creations, and you will ensure the coming of the next cycle."  

Nick, who sat in the distance, also listened closely.  His face
blanched once he heard the last statement.  //Axer an
executioner?  It all makes sense now!//

Dyson's death was swift and relatively painless, and Axer took no
joy in it, as a professional executioner does not take any joy. 
Axer said a prayer over the headless, heartless, and gutless
body, praying that the Great Mother would show at least some
mercy towards such a clueless idiot. 
Chapter 6
            
Nick remembered the body of Dyson.  He found it hard to use the
word, 'murdered' -- perhaps a more accurate word would be
'sacrificed.'  He just couldn't believe the 180 degree turn that
Axer had made.  One moment, he was a beaten-down alcoholic
philosopher, and now he was some demon-driven, violent
executioner with a belief in the Great Mother.  All because he
retrieved a sword that was locked up for an indefinite period of
time. 

He had been to Wales many times since and during the 13th
Century, and he had heard no mention of a Great Mother.  Could
Axer had picked it up somewhere else?

It was like being put in a popcorn popper.  Every time Nick
developed a picture of Axer's personality, it changed.  Already
in the last two days, he had made radical changes from moment to
moment.  Utterly chaotic...

This recent turn of events really worried Nick.  Was the man
cracking up or simply preparing himself for a long night?  The
fact that Dyson was brutally sacrificed rang again and again in
his mind. 

"Do I have to kill him?" he asked himself.  He didn't want to,
but the necessity screamed itself at him. 

Axer was now at Radio Shack, buying what appeared to be a walkman
and batteries.  Ten minutes before, he had bought some music
cassettes.  Totally confused as to Axer's odd behavior, but
unwilling to break his cover, he waited and observed...

               *              *              *

Scully and Schanke entered the Raven.  It had not quite become
full and rowdy, so they were able to spot Janette and reach her
without too much hassle. 

"Ah... Schanke, and Scully," said Janette with her best 'hostess'
face.  "What brings you to such a place?" 

"We just couldn't stay away," laughed Schanke.  "Look.  Did Nick
talk to you since last night?"

"No..." she hesitated.  "Why do you ask?"

"He hasn't shown up at the station and he's not answering his
phone.  He hasn't told you where he was going, by any chance, has
he?"

"He has told me only part of his plan -- I knew he was hiding
something -- but I also knew that they were details that wouldn't
matter to me."

"What did he tell you?"

"He understood what Axer had said on the phone, but he didn't
tell you -- why?  Because that is the way of Nicola.  He went
ahead of Axer to a place where the informant was supposed to be. 
He would take the sewers back."

Scully whistled -- judging from Nick's inability to handle
sunlight, he had taken a big risk.  "Where is this place?" 

               *              *              *

Mulder's screams had become hoarse breathing.  All sensation had
become a maelstrom so chaotic that he didn't even know where the
pain was coming from.  

"Your stubbornness does not help you, Mulder," whispered the
smoker.  "All you have to do is submit and the pain will end."  

"I... won't... betray," Mulder managed to say -- just barely. 
His head was spinning and pounding.  "Then I think it's time for
another screw." 

Ten screws had been screwed into Mulder's back with the power
drill.  They penetrated deep, but also prevented blood from
flowing out -- blood clots formed at the edges, a few dried blood
drips remained from when the blood did flow. 

The power drill revved again, but Mulder was too exhausted to
scream this time. 

               *              *              *

"Oh my god..." whispered Scully, covering her mouth and
shuddering. 

Scully and Schanke stood a few feet from Dyson's decaying form. 
The blood had already begun to separate into its different
components, and dogs were fighting over the remains.  His face
was still intact, but then a bird swooped down and began to peck
at one of the eyes.

Scully averted her eyes, and Schanke felt as if he would vomit. 
He shooed the bird away, but two more came in its place.

"Did Axer do this?"

"You bet he did," said Schanke.  "I really thought Axer would
just ask him a few questions and turn him in.  I never figured
he'd do this...  So what now?"

"We try to find Axer.  He mentioned sacrificing Mulder so he
could find the third party.  I just want to make sure that Mulder
doesn't get killed."

"You know, I really trusted Axer.  I was even beginning to like
him."

"I never did."

"How to we find him?"

Scully grimaced, "Some people with the phone company owe me a few
favors.  We'll try to track him down with his cellular phone, and
if that doesn't work, we'll question his informant." 

"You better be able to speak that language of his."

"That was for our sake, you can bet on it."

               *              *              *

Axer was at the edge of the abandoned warehouse, scoping out the
place.  He had Catherine Wheel playing on the walkman while he
walked around the place one time so that he could create a mental
model of the layout.

When he had worked at Hanford, he had gone on a lot of long
walks, and one thing that he observed was that whenever the
walkman was on, it would play static whenever he walked near
electric lines of any kind: power or communication.

This was the low-budget way of finding the wires for the
surveillance sensors. 

               *              *              *

Nick hovered a few hundred feet up, watching Axer.  Axer had
circled the place once, paused for a moment, and then headed to 
the side.  He seemed to be very good being unseen and unheard
while covering a lot of ground. 

Running at something faster than a full sprint, he reached a
solid-looking piece of wall -- and this startled Nick -- ran *up*
the wall for a good ten feet.  He grabbed the bottom of the
window and pulled himself up while he still had some momentum. 

Holding himself up with his left hand, he pried the window open
with his right.  He slid through and vanished from sight. 

Now that Axer was in, Nick decided it was time to enter himself,
but by a different route.  He landed on the roof.

"What the hell?" said a startled guard.  

//Oops!// thought Nick, as he saw a man seated in the shadows
where the vents punched through the roof.

"Stand right there!" commanded the guard, aiming a rifle at him.

Nick didn't have any time for this.  He moved forward so fast he
was a blur and grabbed the rifle away, baring his fangs at the
man reflexively.

A moment later, two more men ran over, seeming to come from 
nowhere.  They didn't say anything, but they did fire their guns. 
About ten bullets slammed through Nick, throwing him to the
ground.  His "vampire" appearance had faded.

A flashlight lit and illuminated his face.  "That was a close
call."

"How the hell did he get up here?"

"I have no idea -- he just appeared out of nowhere!"

"Well, he's dead now.  Check his i.d."

Hands checked his coat, but found nothing.  "He's clean.  I can't
even find a gun."

They looked around to find any other intruders, and all looked in
the wrong direction.  Nick sprung into action, dispatching one at
a time, silently and efficiently.  They probably didn't even know
what hit them.

"You're good," said a man from behind him.  "Very good."

Nick turned around sharply.  An arrogant man faced him with a
sword.  "I am Patrick Morgan.  I would have your name before I
dispatch you."

"Nicholas de Brabant."  He grabbed a rifle standing next to him
and shot Patrick in the shoulder.

Patrick was hit in the right spot -- he flew back a bit, and when
he landed, lost his footing.  He'd forgotten that the edge of the
roof was a foot behind him, so when he tried to land, his feet
couldn't find anything.

To his credit, he didn't scream when he fell.  A few seconds
later, Nick heard a loud thump.  //Oh well...//

               *              *              *

Axer silently walked down the hall, moving as softly and silently
as a ghost.  There seemed to be few guards in this part of the
place, and he had been able to slip past them with great ease. 
Most had been so focused on being attentive that they had wore
themselves out and were nearly half-asleep. 

He climbed some stairs and reached a door which said, "Jonathan
K. Brughel," in dusty letters.  It was locked.  Axer never had
the skills to pick locks --  he never needed to. 

Instead, he laid his hands above and below the door handle.

He breathed in and out slowly, his muscles completely relaxed,
but another part of his body tensing like a spring.  Each
exhalation and inhalation tightened it up tighter and tighter
until he paused... and cut the string.  Though his hands must
have moved a fraction of an inch, the door quietly flew open from
the burst of power.

Inside sat a startled man with a cigarette hanging from his
mouth.  The mouth hung open, and the cigarette dropped.

A recognition so strong hit Axer like a Mac truck slamming into
his nervous system at a hundred.  Axer knew this man quite well,
though he never caught the name.

"So YOU'RE the third party," whispered Axer to himself.  "It all
makes sense now." 

"Axer Carrick," smiled the man.  "We meet again."

"You sadistic bastard!  I'll have your head!"

"Come and take it."  He produced a gun.  "You know, Mulder had a
lot of interesting things to say about you.  I screwed him full
of flatheads.  I don't think he'll be a pretty sight to see if
you ever do lay eyes on him."

Axer's soul turned ice cold.  Shivers went through his skin like
electric shocks, and his stomach threatened to throw up
everything he had eaten.  A terrible guilt hammered at his very
soul, as he realized he was too late. 

Axer usually had some witty statement, but this time, he was
dreadfully silent.  A growl rose up from his lungs, sounding
every bit like that of a wolf. 

He leaped across the desk, tackling the smoker out of his chair,
but not before a few rounds slammed through Axer's chest and
abdomen.

Both men lay on the ground. The smoker got up, aiming the gun at
Axer's brain.  "You're crazier than they said you were."  

               *              *              *

Nick ripped open the aluminum sheets of the roof, making his own
door.  Below was a giant room full of assorted boxes.  The floor
must have been a good five stories down. 

He slid through and covered the opening up after him.  Sitting on

the ceiling framework, Nick scanned the place, trying to find any
sign of Axer or Mulder.

There were no signs, he concluded, until he heard the sound of a
power tool.  In another part of the place, he heard a gun shot.

Figuring that the gunshot must have had something to do with
Axer, Nick went after the sound of the power tool.

               *              *              *

The pain stopped.  Perhaps it was a moment or an hour before the
chains were released.   Mulder was flying in some kind of haze,
but it soon left him.

Two clear eyes were boring into his, demanding his undivided
attention, which he gave without question.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes..."

"Who am I?"

"Detective Knight."  He was?  It was hard to tell...

"Can you walk?"

"No."

Pain flooded through his body again as the eyes lost their power. 
Nick looked a little surprised at this, but for only a moment.

He had seen tortured bodies, but this one really topped it.  The
screws were coated with dried blood, which meant that taking them
out would let loose a whole lot of blood.  Carrying him out of
the building with the screws still in there was out of the
question -- any of the wrong movements would make a bad situation
worse. 

               *              *              *

Axer staggered through the hallway, his wounds mostly closed, but
not quite.  His face had a blank and focused expression as his 
eyes searched back and forth like radars.

He turned the corner and found Nick crouched over the still form
of Mulder.  Nick looked up at him and blanched.

When Axer saw what had been done to Mulder, he blanched in turn. 
"Is he?..." 

"Dead?  No.  We're just in time."

"We'll have to take the screws out.  You know that.  I need you
to help me.  I pull, you cover."

Nick nodded.

Mulder immediately fainted.

               *              *              *

Scully and Schanke headed the fleet of police cars that
surrounded the place.  There were no signs of armed battles, so
that was good.  Nick and Axer must still be trying to find a way
in, they figured. 

The police swarmed in with riot gear, shooting and clubbing men
with ski masks right and left.  The front door was cleared, and
the force swarmed in.

Yells of "Police!" and "Drop your weapons!" flooded the air,
followed by replies that just aren't mentioned in polite company.

The two detectives waited in the safety of the car.  This wasn't
out of any cowardice, mind you, but rather because they were
generals in this battle and needed to be in a place where they
could act as effective executors.

It sounded like a full scale war in there, with gun shots,
screaming, and tear gas canisters exploding.

"Do you think he's still alive?" asked Scully.

"I don't know."

"He is, but he's in pretty bad shape," said Nick, his head just
outside the window. 

The two detectives jumped.  "Nick!" yelped a startled Schanke. 
"You mean you were IN there?"

Nick smiled, "In AND out of there."  His smile faded.  "Axer also
got his answers.  He was the first to arrive, but even then, it
was too late."

Scully jumped out of the car and ran over to Mulder, who was
still unconscious from the pain and loss of blood.  Her face
turned as white as linen when she saw the type and extent of the
damages. "Where's Axer?" she demanded.

"Why?"

"We saw Dyson."

Nick nodded.  "So did I.  It's not what you think."

"What do you mean?" asked Schanke.

Nick decided that sometimes, a blatant lie was better than the
ugly truth.  "Axer snuck up to him and tried to use a surprise
tactic on him, and it backfired.  The guy was so high on some
drug or another that he freaked, and Axer had no choice but to
kill him."

"I have a hard time believing that," protested Scully.  "His
intestines were splattered all over the ground, his heart was
ripped out of his chest, and his head was cut off!" 

Nick shook his head.  "All I saw was the beheading.  Something
else must have done the rest."

Axer appeared from the brush, "Hell and damnation!  They're BOTH
gone.  Are you SURE you knocked him off the roof?" 

Nick nodded.

"Well, he woke up and ran off.  I think we should do the same."   

Scully was about to protest before she remembered Mulder.  Then
she nodded.  Axer laid a hand on her shoulder -- a hand that she
almost ripped off.  His expression was sincere when he said, "I'm
really sorry about this.  I did the best I could."
 
She had no response for him.  Instead, she helped load Mulder
into the back seat of the car.

Nick was about to say something to Schanke when he noticed that
Axer had vanished.  A moment he was here, and the next he was
gone.  Even with his enhanced senses, he detected nothing. 

"Where did he go?" asked Nick.

"Axer?" asked Schanke.  "He was here a second ago!"

Scully shone her flashlight out over the area and saw
nothing.  "Forget him.  Let's get Mulder out of here."

"I'll stay here to handle this end," offered Schanke.  "There's
going to be a lot of questions."

"I'll help you out, Scully," offered Nick.

The battle in the warehouse had died down, and Schanke approached
it.  Nick and Scully drove away in the police car with the sirens
flaring.

Nick couldn't help but ask himself why Axer ran away.  "That's
exactly what he did," thought Nick as he drove through the
streets so fast that the needle went off the mark.  "He ran
*away* from us.  Why did he do that?"

The hospital was still a long ways off.Chapter 7
            
Mulder woke up in the hospital, feeling weak and dehydrated, but
also very relaxed, as if he had woken up after a long sleep.  His
whole back hurt, but it was more of an irritation than a sharp
pain.  Scully sat by his bed, and the two detectives sat at the
side. 

"How are you feeling?" Scully's voice was soft and still shaken
from last night's close call.
 
"Pretty good."  He didn't mention the terrible itching on his
back, but he didn't want to spoil her mood.  "I see the cavalry
arrived in the Nick of time."  

Nick shook his head sadly at the bad pun, but smiled. 

Mulder looked around and gained his bearings.  "How long have I
been out?"

"We brought you here last night.  The doctors patched you up not
too much long after." 

"Axer?"

Scully's face fell, but perhaps had some relief in there as well. 
"He vanished.  Nobody knows where he is." 

"What aren't you telling me?"

She looked at Nick, and then back at Mulder, "Nothing.  Nothing
at all." 

The Valium that had killed the pain enough for him to speak and
be conscious without feeling a great deal of excruciating pain
has other side effects, which kicked in about now.  Mulder's eyes
closed. 

"What will you do now?" asked Nick.

"Wait until the doctors release Mulder, then fly back home." 
Scully snorted.  "And to think that this was supposed to be a
vacation!  I wish mine started about now!" 

Mulder seemed to say something, but whatever it was, nobody could
understand. 

               *              *              *

Axer was at the Raven.  Though the place was crowded nearly wall
to wall with people, a space around Axer was devoid of people as
he sat at the bar.  

His eyes were bloodshot as he stared ahead, oblivious to anyone
as a bottle of scotch sat before him untouched.  He just couldn't
drink it.  His stomach churned on nothing, eating away at itself. 

It must have been Scully, he reasoned.   

For all of his 2500 years of life, the great many lives that he
had taken, the quickenings he had absorbed, and all that he had
done, he was still a human being, and a vulnerable one at that.  

It was the look of hate in her face as she loaded Mulder in the
car.  The hate stung him in a way that nothing else could.  He
could stand death, wounds, plague, and any manner of adversity,
but he didn't want anyone to hate him on a personal level. 
That's why he had left.  His guilt for Mulder's condition -- the
pain he felt at the hate directed towards him.

For a day and a night, as he replenished his vows to the Great
Mother and became one with the sword, Axer had felt his old self
come back to the surface, but that old self died once more.  He
recalled that there was a long time ago where he didn't need the
drink, but he had long since forgot it.  

Axer speculated that this must have been the reason why he began
in the first place -- he could only escape through the numbness
that alcohol provides, and the great pain that comes after.    

"I think you have learned a very valuable lesson," Axer said
aloud to himself.  "From this day forward, you will feel nothing. 
Whether the world becomes a heaven or a hell, no matter what 
happens, you won't care a bit."

               *              *              *

LaCroix stood a few dozen yards away, noticing Axer for the first
time and scratching his head.  Recognition came: it was indeed
the man who he and Janette had met so long ago.   

At the time, the man had been Bard Lanscot.  LaCroix couldn't
sense anything unusual about Bard at the time, so he thought it
was a sheer coincidence that he also looked exactly like a man he
had met during his conquest in the lands of the mad Celts. 

But now that he saw the selfsame man, he knew that this was no
look-alike.  This was the man who made it possible for him to
become what he is now, in a very indirect way.  Whenever LaCroix
felt very philosophical, he would think about how a significant a
single event could be, and how the mere act of a man crossing the
street could vastly affect the future. 

               *              *              *

The General looked up from the tower that overlooked the forest
for a ways.  The forest blocked a great deal of the visibility -- 
but it was better than nothing.  At the moment, nobody cared
about what lay outside the walls, because the only ones left for
miles around were smoking corpses and weeping women who would
bear a generation of children who would in no way resemble their
lawful husbands.  

The battle had not only been a victory, but one for the poets to
sing to patricians for centuries to come.  The mad Celts had
launched a great, unlawful rebellion and had learned what happens
when Roma Aeternalis is opposed.  

First the disorganized cloud of warriors were cut down by the
organized ranks of battle-hardened soldiers.  A few of Rome's men
died that day, but they were few compared to the many thousands
of Celts who died.  When every single warrior had died on the
battlefield, the villages were raided by the soldiers who were
told to kill every child, man, and elder they could find.     

If they found women of the proper age, those women would bear the
next generation of Romans.  If the women were pregnant, they
would learn the penalty of bearing anther generation of mad
Celts.  The punishment of that crime was so dreadful that even
the General shuddered at the thought of it, but he understood
that crimes must be punished. 

That was over now.  A few of the soldiers had brought back a few
prizes who were passed around along with the wine.  The screams
still echoed, and the morning was dying. 

The General heard a sound in the distance and saw a lone Celt
approaching from the forest.  He was bloodied and wounded, and
held a standard, the likes of which he had never seen.  It was a
purple standard with a gray balance.  The left scale held the sun
and the right scale held the night. 

He approached the gates, and called out in a heavily accented,
but an almost Patrician form of Latin.  "I would speak with the
leader of this band." 

"I am the General," he called back.  "What do you want, Celt?" 

"I am the sole survivor of the massacre.  Your celebration is
premature -- the war still rages, and I remain on the
battlefield.  Pick up your swords, or leave them.  It does not
matter for me, Executioner of the Great Mother!"

The General laughed.  His men were quite drunk, but this man must
be even drunker -- or mad.  "I feel merciful today, which is a
rare enough moment in itself.  Leave this place, or we will
riddle you with countless spears and arrows." 

"What is the matter?  Do you, the so-called conquerors of the
world, cower at the challenge of a single warrior?  Where is your
courage?"

The General laughed loudly.  "If you have such a need for death,
then who am I to deny it?"  He shouted a command to the men: "We
have one more Celt who has challenged us!  Run him through!" 

Out of five hundred men, three hundred were sober enough or had
enough alcohol intolerance to grab their gladii and pilia, their
tower shields and their helmets.  The gates opened, and the lone
Celt stood ready. 

He slammed the standard into the ground and produced a Gaulish
leaf-tip sword that dwarfed the gladius by a length, but was not
as long as the German sword. 

"Death to the Romani!" he roared as he charged towards the
soldiers, fleet as a Greek runner.  Like the wind, he flew into
the ranks, his sword reaping a bloody harvest. 

The General looked in shock and awe as a clearing appeared in the
middle of the block of his men, and it grew bigger and bigger. 
It was like the Celt were a force of nature, skilled beyond
belief, and powerful as the roots of the mountains.  

The General leaped down the stairs, drawing his own gladius.  By
now, half the men were cut down, and the other half were backing
off in fear and total disarray. 

"You come at last, leader of men," taunted the Celt.  This was an
insult to the image of an ideal Roman general, who always led the
way, as Julius Caesar did when he invaded the shores of
Britannia. 

The General was the best swordsman that his generation could
produce, his fame spread from Hispania to Syria and Dacia.  He
saluted and faced this mad Celt, and the world seemed to slow
around him.  

The fight seemed like a dream.  The motions seemed more like a
dance than a battle of forces.  The Celt actually smiled as they
parried, slashed, and hacked.  

How long did they fight?  Perhaps even the Fates didn't know. 
Perhaps the Celt controlled the flow of time as he controlled the
dance of swords.   

The Celt used a series of moves so fast and powerful that the
General lost all sense of space and perception.  Pain flooded him
all over his body, and the world began spinning.  

When it stopped, he found himself at the bottom of the trench, a
wicked cut from shoulder to wrist on his right arm.  The blood
had long-since clotted, so a great deal of time must have passed. 

With great agony, but with a stoicism that was still an integral
part of the Roman, he climbed out of the trench and sank to his
knees.  Every single man was decapitated and his head stuck on a
spear.  The bodies were gutted and had their hearts removed.  

Ravens and other scavengers feasted on the remains of the bodies,
and picked the brains and eyes of the heads.  Not a soul was left
alive.  The smell of the dead was overpowering, and he covered
his mouth with his other arm.  The fortress had burned to the
ground, and only an outline of ashes remained.  He must have been
out a long time -- long enough for the troops from the next fort
to ride over and investigate. 

He had been sent back to his home near Mount Vesuvius to heal --
but he clothed his one and only defeat with the banner of victory
--  and a few days later, the mountain began to boil.  He became
a vampire only because of the one act of a mad Celt. 

               *              *              *

This selfsame man saved him and Janette from a band of mortals
who had rightly accused them of being vampires.  The evidence,
however, was fabricated.  They must have been good guessers. 

The mortals had cornered them with crosses and brands, but Bard
had arrived on a battle stallion, his sword held aloft.  He
slaughtered a few of the mortals, frightening the rest of them
off. 

"Are you injured?" asked the man in poor Italian.  His accent
could either be French, Breton, or Portuguese, but still sounded
off. 

"We are not," answered LaCroix in English.  "Why did you save us,
if I may satisfy my curiosity."  It wasn't just curiosity.  The
man looked naggingly familiar, and he was trying to stall him
long enough for the memory to return. 

The man spat in the direction the mortals fled in, "Those fools
tried to burn innocent people.  Vampires!  Wizards!  They're as
evil as the Devil, and burn innocents in the name of the God of
Love.  I helped you because there is no way you could be what
they claim you are."  

LaCroix' eyes widened for the first time in centuries.  Here was
a man of reason in a world of superstition.  He could have been
like any number of the philosophers he remembered from the Roman
Empire.  

"Might we have your name?" asked Janette. 

"Bard Lanscot, at your service." He tipped his hat to them.  "Do
you need a ride to  the next city?" 

"That is most gracious of you," Janette smiled winningly. 
Perhaps she hoped to drink the man's blood before the hour was
gone. 

Only, she never got around to doing it.  Bard performed at the
Court, playing the lute in a manner which had stunned everyone,
including Janette and LaCroix.  

LaCroix spent the next day remembering a battle that took place
many lifetimes ago. 

               *              *              *

Axer sensed a movement next to him, and saw a man with short hair
sit.  His memory had always been very bad because there were so
many things that had happened in his life, and so many demands on
his memory in an age of ever increasing information. 

This face came back to him through the corridors of time. 
"General Lucius."  Axer didn't feel the telltale "buzz", so he
figured the guy must have been a vampire.  

"So it *is* you."

"Believe me, I'm just as surprised to see you."

"I believe you," smiled Lucius.  Whatever traces of LaCroix that
were there became much more recessive as the old Lucius emerged
on the surface.  For the first time in centuries, he seemed
genuinely glad to see anyone. 

Axer noticed that his stomach stopped churning.  The bottle of
scotch became a table ornament that one ignores at first glance. 
"You know," he chuckled, "I can remember trying to kill you and
cursing your name in my sleep for many centuries... but I'll have
to say I'm glad to see you."  

LaCroix nodded.  "Enemies make better friends than friends." 

"And friends make more effective enemies than enemies," finished
Axer.  They were silent for a moment.  "I have an urge for a
cigar and a glass of tea... Care to come with me to the roof?" 

LaCroix nodded.  "It's a good night for tales..."

                                 Chapter 8

The cheap motel room was full of smoke.  The smoker had a pack of
Marlboros on the table, next to a few empty bottles of Budweiser. 
Patrick Morgan sat across from the small table, a bottle of Bud
in his hand. 

"Don't take it so hard, Morgan," said the other man.  "You win
some -- you lose some.  I'd say we won a Pyrrhic victory."  

"Why do you say that?"

"Look at the players we flushed out from the woodwork.  Axer
Carrick, Agents Mulder and Scully, the Toronto Detectives Nick
and Schanke, the police coroner Nat, Janette -- owner of the
Raven, and a mysterious man by the name of LaCroix.  We even
flushed out the infamous Alan Powys.  

"What's more, we learned who are the important players and who
are just along for the ride.  No... I have not won the battle,
and the costs are high, but we will win the war.  Besides, the
only ones who saw us don't matter -- Axer already knows me from
the past, and the detective who met you believes you are dead." 

"I don't know," Morgan shook his head.  "There was something
about him that didn't seem human." 

The smoker looked levelly at him. 

"Look!  I don't know why I am the way I am, but I know I'm human! 
Any doctor can attest to that!" 

"Any doctor can also attest to the fact that you have qualities
that are nonhuman even if all of your organs are human.  But that
is beside the point.  I believe that you will still be a valuable
employee.  All you need to do is go to the FBI training academy." 

"FBI?  Are you nuts?  Besides, what the hell can they teach me?" 

The smoker startled Morgan by silently, smoothly, and instantly
killing him.  The last words he heard before the blackness came
was, "How to avoid that, for starters.  But you need a new
identity, which my organization can certainly provide.  How
about... Krycek." 

It wasn't a question.

               *              *              *

Nick, Schanke, and Nat sat in an empty conference room.  Nat and
Schanke drank coffee while Nick drank some red medicinal
beverage.  They were swapping notes about what happened the last
few days, most of it overlapping.  There were some questions,
however, about some points which didn't.   
"How did you and Scully manage to find us?" asked Nick.  

"When we found Dyson, Scully got mad enough to call in some
favors from her friends in the phone company.  They traced the
call from the information she gave them and found out who the
informant was.  It was an Interpol Agent named Alan Powys." 

"Powys!" snapped Nick.  "That's the key!" 

"I don't get it, partner." 

Nick explained about the case in Chinatown concerning the recent
beheadings, and the joined efforts of the FBI, CIA, Interpol, and
the Toronto police to nail the killer, an individual named Jin
Ming.  He was a shady individual with no official records of any
kind, but a reputation that had circled the globe many, many
times.  Unfortunately, the man had been beheaded himself while he
waited in the cell.  Alan Powys, along with a detective named
Caine, had helped crack the case. 

"It baffled me why those three agencies would band together to
stop a beheader, and I think I'm one step closer to the puzzle." 

Schanke looked down, "I don't think so.  The man was a perfect 
gentleman -- almost like an Englishman, though he swore he was
Welsh -- and gave us everything we needed to know.  But he warned
us that we were stepping into a can of worms, and that he was
going to vanish pretty quickly because he didn't want anyone
else's death on his conscience. 

"'I know what Nick Knight is,' he told me. 'I've been with him
since the beginning, watching on the sidelines, like I do with a
great many people -- but the times have gone when I could aid or
hinder so blatantly and freely.  I fear that should he find me,
all my plans will fall into uncertainty, and the man who says
this is an agent of chaos.' 

"You know, that guy was a wackball for all of his helpful
tidbits," he snorted.  "You'd better forget him."  

Nick rolled that around in his head.  The man claimed to have
watched him since the beginning, from the sidelines...  He knows
13th Century Welsh...  He watched a great many people in a
similar manner...  He is an agent of chaos, fearing that all will
become chaos should he make what he  considered to be
unwise actions...   
 
"Too many of the right hints, but not enough connections!"  he
thought aloud. 

"I think I'm losing you there," said Schanke.  

"You'll catch up," muttered Nick.  "If I'm right, we're dealing
with the mystery of all time." 

Schanke wasn't sure he liked the way Nick said that.

Nat, who had more of an insight into Nick, as well as a lot more
of the facts than Schanke did, began to see other connections,
but she said nothing.  There was a time for silence, and this was
certainly it. 

               *              *              *

Mulder had recovered a great deal.  Though his back would be sore
for the next few weeks, he was generally o.k.  Scully hadn't
spoken to him at all on the way back from Toronto, which was not
good.  He figured that he had asked her for one favor too many.  

They were now back at work, putting on false masks and saying how
great the underground "city" at Toronto was.  Even Skinner was
convinced by the lie, and told them that they had a hell of a
caseload to deal with. 

As Scully was forced to work with Mulder, her visible anger --
which she hid well in public -- began to die down.  He began to
realize that it wasn't anger at him, but anger at his torture and
near death, anger at her lack of knowledge about those
responsible, and anger at Axer Carrick. 

"Why are you so angry at the man?" he asked her when they were
going over some slides.  "What has he done to you?"  

"It's what he did to YOU!" she almost yelled.  "Did you know that
he was going to sacrifice you so he could go after the third
party?"  

"That's a perfectly sound strategy," he responded.  "If I were in
his shoes, I would want to go for information about  the third
party.  Did he find out anything?" 

"No.  He said that the third man and Patrick Morgan got away,
then vanished after I loaded you in the car." 

"What do you mean, vanished?" his eyes narrowed.  

"He was standing next to me one moment, telling me about how
sorry he was and that he tried his best, and when I turned
around, he was NOWHERE in sight!"  She noticed the look on his
face.  "And no!  I didn't see any flying saucers take him away!" 


That wasn't exactly what Mulder had in mind.  "How did you
respond to him?" 

That stopped her cold.  "What?"  

"What did you say to him when he tried to say he was sorry?"

"I didn't say anything -- how could I when the man is a murderer,
and was willing let you die?" 

"I thought we settled it: I approved of his strategy and Dyson
tried to kill him -- can you tell me that you deserve damnation
from the living because you've killed a few people in
self-defense?" 

"I don't care what Nick said -- Axer murdered the man in cold
blood and did all of the work on Dyson.  The evidence is too
strong!" 

Mulder sighed.  "How did you find the body?" 

Scully calmed down as she related the story of waiting at the
police station for Nick, then growing impatient and going to the
Raven.  The rest was history. 

Mulder thought to himself for a moment, and thought it good that
he hadn't told her about a few more details.   

First, that Alan Powys -- Axer's informant -- was an omen for
strange times to come. 

Second, that Axer had visited him in the hospital when Scully had
been asleep.  He still remembered the episode like it had just
happened. 

               *              *              *

"How are you, Mulder?" asked the voice hovering in his dreams. 

"It's me, Axer.  I just wanted to make sure that you're all
right.  No!  Don't get up!  You'll only make your wounds reopen,
and we don't want that, do we?" 

"Scully wants your head.  What did you do?" 

"I know she's mad at me, but I think you need to deal with her on
that one yourself.  I have too many problems to deal with Scully
or her kind.  God knows I've bled enough for her as it is."  

"She's not that bad, once you get to know her." 

Axer's face hardened.  "The only thing I know is misery.  I don't
trust you, but I like you -- and ironically enough, it's vice
versa for Scully.  Maybe that's why you make such a good team."

Mulder didn't comment on that.  "What will you do now?" 

"I don't know.  I strongly believe in chaos -- the less you plan,
the better things are."  He handed Mulder a business card.  "We
will meet again, even though I'm not planning on it." 

               *              *              *

Mulder looked at the business card once more.  It was pretty
enigmatic, saying:  

     Axer Carrick, Ph.D.
     Environmental Physics
     Residence: The Past, Present, and Future

A hand-written note said, "I guess we'll have no choice but to
catch one another.  In the mean time, may the dice roll well. --
Axer." 

He put the card back and concentrated on the current case at
hand. 

               *              *              *

Axer had been hitchhiking the last few days, ad was now at  the
Ontario border, heading up into a far colder climate.   His time
with Lucius and his visitation at Mulder's hospital room had
raised his spirits a little bit, but not enough.  Axer was
leaving the city and returning to a much simpler place with not a
lot of people.  

There was one particular spot where he knew happiness.  It was a
barren patch of tundra that was still unnamed, which was the way
that Axer liked it.  Perhaps some of his chests were still intact
and undisturbed...  

He was now on the lonely highway, with nothing but snow-covered
grasses in all directions.  The occasional farmhouse was the only
thing that broke up the monotony of the landscape.  

Suddenly, two cars zoomed into view.  One was a lone girl driving
a convertible, and the one following her was a crowd of rowdy
punks carrying guns and sticks.  

It seemed almost surreal.  Just as Axer was watching, the punks
drove her off the road, grabbed her out of her car, and beat her
to death.

Axer didn't know why he just stood there, watching the senseless
violence.  It was almost the quality of a Monty Python skit --
not the violence, but rather the sheer absurdity of the senseless
act. 

Almost immediately after the punks killed her, they got back in
their car and drove away, oblivious to the presence of Axer. 
Perhaps it was because he simply didn't care -- death was a part
of life, and sometimes these things happen.  

Just as he started to walk again, he felt a sudden impulse of the
"buzz".  Axer turned around and ran over to where the girl lay in
the ditch, her broken fingers starting to snap back into place
and the bruises fading.  

She was a young girl, but then anyone under the age of five
hundred was young to a man such as Axer.  In absolute years, she
could have been twenty or so -- for good reason, he was bad at
ages and other such trivia. 

She opened her eyes and screamed, trying to fend off blows that
were no longer there.  Axer sat there watching her with curiosity
as she began to get her bearings. 

"Wha-- huh?" she asked herself, totally confused as to what had
just transpired.  Then she looked at Axer, aware of the feelings
he gave her.  "What happened?" 

"Some punks just killed you.  I happened on the scene and
understood the significance of what happened afterward.  I know
you won't believe me, but let me state from the beginning that I
will prove everything I say with indisputable facts." 

She nodded.

"But first, let me introduce myself.  We can't be going around
calling each other 'man' and 'woman', can we?"  Her humor was
returning, as she snickered a little at that.  "I'm Axer Carrick,
once of Wales but now resident of the world.  Who are you?"  

"Coleen."

"Well, Coleen, to begin with, you're immortal..."

He was right -- she needed a hell of a lot of proof, but for now,
she was beginning to accept it. 

The car was functional, so he helped her get the car back on the
road.  "Where to now?" asked Coleen.

"I think you should vanish from your official existence.  Trust
me when I say that official identities are a burden.  I have a
home in some nameless patch of tundra -- and I think it's the 
perfect spot for you to train for the game of your life." 

That didn't go down too well, but Axer knew how to be a
persistent nag.  She'd see the wisdom of his ways... 

As they sped along the road, heading for colder country, Axer
suddenly smiled.  Though he had never been a parent, he thought
he now felt what it was like.  He had met Coleen only a half-hour
ago, and now she was like his own daughter -- albeit a scared and
confused daughter.  

As if a veil was lifted from his eyes, he understood the meaning
of the lesson he had been banging his head against for most of
his life.  His past, present, and future were meaningless
compared to the significance of life itself.  It was the simple
things such as raising the next generation of immortals that
would bring him peace.  

The frosty wind greeted him as an old friend, and he leaned his
head back, falling into the first deep sleep he had experienced
in years.  


This is the conclusion of When the Veil is Lifted --
Part I of the Cycle of Axer Carrick.