MISSING VOICES - Part 1
by - Joyce, Meredith, MCA
July 22, 1997Authors' e-mail addresses:
Joyce: mab49@earthlink.net
Meredith: meredith40@juno.com
MCA: please send to Joyce or Meredith.DISCLAIMER: The characters of the X-files are the property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, nor are the characters being used for commercial purposes.
NOTES: Special thanks go to KL Lietz and Jill Selby for bravely agreeing to beta edit this ever-expanding story. Their suggestions and support were invaluable in helping us gain control of a piece that took on a life of its own. All of our normal authorial anxiety is tripled here --Please send feedback. Lots and lots of feedback. You can reply to any one of us, and we'll forward to the others.
SUMMARY: Skinner, Mulder and Scully attempt to take control of their lives as they conspire against the Consortium in an all-or-nothing gamble. A possible ending to the fourth season.
D-day -5
June 1, 1997
If all goes as I plan tonight, Mulder will soon be dead.
To me, it will be as if he actually were dead. The strength of my life -- the will that sometimes keeps me standing -- will be gone. After tonight, we will have no further contact with one another as our true selves, perhaps no further contact at all. If we meet again, it will be as actors in a staged scene. Strangers. We cannot risk otherwise.
I have no doubt that I will be able to persuade Skinner to accept his role in this deception. By including him, I hope that I can end his torment and repay, at least in part, the sacrifices he has made for me. He has few choices left. Mulder, on the other hand, will be difficult to sway. But there is no doubt that he must be swayed.
Mulder must be released to find the truth. Our only hope lies in his freedom to take desperate measures. As a dead man, he will be able to place the bastards in Skinner's hands, and perhaps buy Skinner's freedom from the deceitful bargain he made. I regret placing such a heavy burden on him, but desperate times call for desperate acts. I know in my heart that Mulder will eventually understand this and agree there is no other way.
Three months ago I began to chronicle a journey, intent on guiding my partner through the inexorable process of a ruthless disease on my all-too-human body. I bared my soul to him in a journal, so that he would somehow come to understand the decisions I had made about my life and inevitable death. For him, I told myself. I wrote the words for him.
Three months ago. Three lifetimes ago. Since then I have experienced life, death, joy and misery anew, each as if for the first time. How could I have possibly believed I could have eased his turmoil, convinced him that my choices were valid, confessed all that he is to me? I had cowardly resigned myself to death, and I used a journal to argue my decision. But at Penny Northern's deathbed, I realized my actions were wrong. I could not stop fighting. I could not, *would* not, let my partner sit in the chair I had sat in, grasping a woman's cold hand in the hour of her death. I decided to stop trying to explain why I had given up, and chose life instead.
Yet once again I am drawn to the allure of the crisp, blank page, the feel of the pen rasping against the sheets. I am once again attempting to convince myself that I have chosen the proper path. I didn't the first time. God help me if I have made the same mistake again. This time I will be alone to face the consequences, and there are more precious things in the balance than just my life.
It is true -- I *am* dying. The truth can no longer be stoically denied or circumvented by other issues. Soon it will be apparent to anyone who looks at me. Maybe I am being selfish in my desire to put an end to this game before I die. Time is fleeting, and I want to depart this life with a small measure of triumph.
The next few weeks will be difficult for all of us, but I have to grasp the hope that this plan will work, and that I will see Mulder again. In the meantime, I will take refuge from my impending isolation here, the only place I can speak the truth. I realize the dangers of recording these thoughts. But if this journal is discovered, our game will have already been lost by the mere fact that They knew to look for it. This time, I need to write for me.
It's nearly time to go. I pray this decision is the right one. If I send Mulder away only to have him meet his real death, my soul will die with him.
****************
6/1/97
I take pen in hand tonight to begin an official record. An accounting of our actions and motives as we enter this final stage of battle against the forces that have corrupted the Bureau and the government for too long. It is critical that these events be documented. If we survive, there must be a record, and if we fail, there needs to be a testament.
It has begun.
There is actually an inexpressible relief in being able to say that. For months I had been living in limbo -- balanced between salvation and hell, serving an indefinite term to which I had sentenced myself. But that's a lie. I was in limbo, but regardless of whether the smoker actually saved Dana Scully, I knew that I had only one final destination: hell. It was simply a matter of who I would drag down with me.
The deal had to be made, though. There was never any choice about that. From the moment Scully announced she had cancer, but that she wanted to pursue leads about her illness through the Justice department, I knew. I knew that Mulder would try to contact that smoking SOB and work a deal, and I had to circumvent that. Mulder is needed for the endgame against the shadow government, and he will not make it to that final round without Scully. So I had to step between him and the smoker, and the only way to do that was to make the deal myself.
Mulder surprised me, actually. It took him longer to ask me for contact information than I thought it would. I was grateful for that. It gave me time to make my own arrangements. It's no easy task to make an appointment with one of Satan's minions. You'd think it would be, but it's not.
I have been a faithful subject -- for the most part. I have carried out my tasks, numbed myself to the daily erosion of my honor, my integrity, my passion, and carefully maintained the secrecy of my bargain. If occasionally I try to remember who I was and what I was, excursions such as the one I took to South Carolina after the children were attacked by the bees are a useful reminder that I am nothing now.
I have been dead before. It is a sensation I remember.
And yet, Scully is still dying.
She knows about my deal with the devil. Mulder told her about it while she was in the hospital during the case in which he was investigating me for murder. He has never mentioned it to me again.
Scully and I met once, at her insistence, to talk about it, although the conversation was brief. She wanted to know why, and I was able only to tell her that it was a possibility that had to be explored, and I thought I had a better chance of succeeding in bargaining with the smoker than Mulder would.
She accepted the incomplete answer.
I saw little of her in the intervening weeks. Mulder and Scully investigated a couple of cases out of town, and, truthfully, I think she didn't really know what to say to me.
But then, unexpectedly she called me at home tonight, insisting that we needed to talk. We met at Haines Point again; this time Mulder was with her. I could tell some kind of turning point had been reached. Her words still ring in my ears.
"This can't go on. I'm....we're running out of time." I could tell that Mulder wasn't sure what she meant, either, but I think the despair I saw in his eyes was echoed in mine.
She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders, Scully has always been a warrior. But when she spoke, it was only to Mulder. Steadying him with reassurance from her eyes, she delivered the blow. "My cancer has metastasized. It has entered my bloodstream. I have less than 3 months left."
Mulder made a strangled sound of denial -- words clearly beyond his reach.
In a gesture that took me by surprise, she reached over and touched his hand, grounding him, that simple touch more intimate than I could have imagined. I'd always known that Mulder wouldn't survive long without Scully; for the first time, I realized that Scully knew it, too.
But when she spoke again, it was to both of us. "We have only one chance. I've been thinking about this, and I see only one way out. It's a risk, but I think doing nothing is a greater risk."
As I listened to her lay out her plan, I was struck by the forcefulness of her character, her keen analytical mind and her daring. For all that Mulder is considered the Bureau wild man, Scully is no slouch when it comes to taking chances.
Mulder, of course, objected to the plan immediately. It would leave her in the middle of the pack of wolves, with no one at her back. The glare I threw at him would have stopped a less desperate man in his tracks, as it was it only phased him a bit.
"With all due respect, Sir, the smoker and his people believe you to be one of theirs. There would be little you could do to help Scully openly."
He had a point, but I also thought I heard an underlying question. "If push came to shove, Agent Mulder, I know what my priorities are."
Scully had plainly had enough posturing from both of us. Giving us a look that I can only characterize as an exasperated master telling her very errant dog to "heel," she stood so that she faced both of us.
"It will work. Blevins has always believed that I'd 'return to the fold' one day. You know about the lunches he invites me to once a year, 'to check on my progress.' Anyway, Mulder, you've provided me the perfect excuse. That little excursion of yours to Rhode Island would be enough to convince anyone that you'd gone over the edge." The underlying exasperation and caring in her tone shook me to the core. When the dust from this all settled, I would have to reevaluate this relationship of theirs.
In the end, of course, we gave in to her plan. Dana Scully is not easy to say 'no' to most of the time, and this time she was simply not going to be denied. I didn't like it any more than Mulder did, but at least I will be here, able to see the game as it unfolds. Mulder will have to play his role from the shadows, away from her. It is the much harder part.
**************
D-day +1
7 June 1997, 2 a.m.
Dear Scully,
Well, it's done. We have cast ourselves into the teeth of the storm with absolutely no assurance that we won't simply disappear into the maelstrom. This is madness, as I think I have pointed out more than once. Still, I can deny you nothing. If I was willing to sell my soul for you, how much easier then is it to sell my reputation, even my 'life?'
I know you will never read these letters. Our . . . *your* terms will not allow even the most minuscule touch to bridge the abyss we have gouged between us. It's been fifty-six hours, twenty- nine minutes and hell-I-don't-know how many seconds since we last talked, last touched freely before we donned our actors' masks and spoke our lines for the benefit of our silent, invisible audience. From that moment on our privacy was an illusion we could no longer trust. They must believe we were moving inexorably towards the shattering of our bond.
God, I miss you.
Can you even begin to imagine how bereft I feel cast loose from my anchor? Even when I was dying on the ice in Alaska I felt you close to me. I warmed myself in the expectation of your anger - maybe that warmth hidden in the core of my soul was what kept me alive along enough for you to come to my rescue.
I have given you so many reasons to be angry with me. I wish I knew whether what I sense behind your anger is real or merely a forlorn dream of a lonely man. Each time I awake and catch the relief and welcome in your eyes, I feel I am closer to understanding what you feel. Sometimes nearly dying is worth the stunning warmth of your smile when I wake up and find I have survived, again.
God, I miss you.
There, I have said it again. Hell, I'll probably say it a thousand times before this play is ended. Your name was in my heart as I spoke my final lines; it will be on my lips should this mad scheme of ours go awry and they make real what we have only pretended.
Death I can accept as the price of the game we play, but the fear of failure torments me. If I fail, if I am discovered, I will bring you down with me to disgrace and ruin. My nightmares have been supplying me with a steady stream of what-if's. I may give up on sleep altogether.
Why couldn't you let me protect you? A suicide note, a bridge, a witness might make my deception more dangerous, but you would be safe; a victim of another one of Spooky's selfish jaunts. Now, because you are as relentless as the sea, you have argued yourself into the dock with Skinner and me. I would rather have run the risk and known you could stand aside from our madness, than have you at my side facing either the law's unyielding scrutiny or Cancer Man's fist around our souls.
You scare me, Dana Katherine Scully. Like an implacable wind you swept me into this insane gamble; one throw of the dice to unmask the shadows that have plagued us, you argued. My own gathering insanity, made desperate by repeated blows that challenged my memory of everything that made me what I am, was the perfect bait. Maybe I was insane. I had to be to agree to this damn idea.
So here we are: You among the living, the perfect tool at last responding to the master's call; I among the dead, discredited and scorned for a selfish coward. Unnoticed, here in the shadows, I can be the hound that drives our prey into your net. And our most unlikely ally will confound our enemies with smoke and mirrors. I never thought of Skinner as a co-conspirator before, but then hell, I never thought of you that way either.
I miss you more than you could ever believe possible. Your strength has always sustained me. Over the last four years my faith has narrowed down to an unalterable trust that you believe in me and will not let me be swallowed up by the shadows that haunt our lives. When did we lose faith in all else but each other?
Now we have cast ourselves adrift from each other with nothing more than that trust to bring us back together. So much unsaid, so very much more uncertain between us. Hearts and minds in a tangle of conflicting and confused emotions. Love there is, but whether between soul mates or lovers, I am unable to say. The words must wait until we stand together once again.
I can write about these things now, when there is little or no chance you will ever read these letters. For the first time I can allow myself to say the words, admit to my passions, confess my total confusion where you are concerned. Being dead is turning out to be a very liberating experience.
Frohike tells me you are looking thin and ravaged. I know you would just tell me 'I'm fine' and expect me to believe you, but I can't - not anymore. I worry about you. Please, Scully, let the guys know if you need anything. They're breaking their butts trying to find a cure in their own crazy, paranoid fashion. They want to help and not just because they're my friends - they're your friends now too. Remember that.
I have to close now. It will be dawn soon and I should try to sleep at few hours at least. You know me, it's almost against my nature to sleep. Maybe I'll dream and we'll be back in the basement arguing about extreme possibilities.
Bon chance partner,
M.
**************
D-day +2
June 8, 1997
I have betrayed Fox Mulder.
Outside a storm is raging, the thunder and lightning testament to the resulting chaos of a world coming to an end.
I saw Special Agent Dana Scully, MD, in the darkened room, as if from a great, blurry distance. She sat so calmly at the table, explaining his naivete, his vulnerability, his selfishness, his tragic flaw. She detailed the evidence, damning his actions with every syllable. How effectively her voice broke, how touching her tears as she described his suicide and revealed the secret of her losing battle with cancer. In a mere 30 minutes, she destroyed his life.
Believe the lie, you fucking bastards. Believe the lie.
The tears were no act. I knew the necessity of my actions today, but even I was shocked and sickened to hear those treasonous words leave my mouth. I barely made it to the basement restroom before vomiting 2cups of coffee and choking through the resulting dry heaves.
Forgive me, Mulder, if you ever discover what I said to save you. You alone know the truth.
I can only be grateful Skinner wasn't there. Somehow I know his steadfast presence would have made my testimony easier, making me feel less alone. I needed all my misery today.
Skinner has been perfect throughout this cursed scenario. Mulder understands how much faith I have had to place in Skinner, and his willingness to trust my judgment has not been lost on me. Mulder is wrong to now hold him responsible for my life, though. But I can forgive his protectiveness. I always have.
But that undivided loyalty to me was the largest hurdle to overcome in convincing Mulder of the necessity of my original plan. We nearly came to an impasse over how to convince the Consortium that Mulder's death was genuine. Although we locked horns in our usual style, I refused to back down. There is no way I would allow Mulder to pursue his investigations alone if there was a single doubt in my mind that we had not fully convinced the world of his death.
My god. He worries about *me* remaining here unprotected. It is he who is alone and vulnerable. I would have never conceived this plan just to send him away only to be systematically hunted down by those whom we work against. As it stands, I have placed him in too much danger.
Skinner, too, has accepted a high level of risk. I don't know how he procured the body; I couldn't ask. He had assured us at our clandestine meeting that he could arrange for that prop. His typical, clipped tone conveyed a simple warning -- he had learned certain things during his sentence as the smoking man's slave, things on which he would not elaborate. Ever.
The power has just sputtered and died. Candlelight alone now illuminates these pages, casting ominous shadows across the walls and my shaky hands. The loss of electricity shouldn't affect me this much at 2 a.m., but I suddenly, irrationally, fear the dark. For both of us. I wonder helplessly about where he is, what he's had to fight, who might possibly know he's alive.... I need to know; he's never been good at avoiding danger alone, and now...
God, I miss him. I've never...
Dammit, I hate this.
**************
6/8/97
The opening moves have been made. Scully has testified. Mulder has "died." And I conveniently absented myself from the hearing and the subsequent ruling on the fate of the X-Files. It was no mean feat, getting myself removed from the chain of command and responsibility of my own division, but you don't rise to the level of Assistant Director without learning a subtle bureaucratic maneuver or two.
I did manage, however, to retain supervisory authority over Agent Scully, an important victory and key part of our plan. It was a near thing, but she will remain an active agent for the time being, despite her admission of the status of her cancer to the board. I was able to call in a lot of markers and have her assigned to one of the new self-directed investigative units in my division.
She does not look well, although it is impossible to determine if it is Mulder's absence or her spreading cancer that is the primary cause. She is pale and withdrawn, diminished in a way I had never expected. It helps maintain the fiction of Mulder's demise, of course, but it worries me. If something happens to her, I know that I will wake up one night to find Mulder standing over me, and it will be the last thing I see.
God help us all if something happens to her. She is the only one as yet untainted in all this, the only who can pull us out of this darkness.
I have further corrupted myself, although this time in the service of our plan. It is a small, cold comfort to know that my purpose is honorable, although my actions are nothing but abhorrent. I have become a grave robber. Well, not precisely, but it is the principle.
Utilizing the "skills" I've acquired under the smoker's tutelage I procured a body for our masquerade. It served the purposes of convincing the shadows of the reality of Mulder's death. I am sorry that Scully had to identify the ruined carcass. Even knowing that it was not Mulder, even with her forensic training, the bloody mess of the body's face must have been a shock -- looming as it did over a body wearing Mulder's clothing. But we all have given up certain freedom and choices. We are committed to victory, knowing the cost will be substantial for each of us.
Damn that smoking son-of-a-bitch and all of his incarnations. I have sold my soul and am owed a miracle. But perhaps it is true that there is no honor among thieves. I am still being strung along.
They know our weakness -- without Scully we are lost. I can only hope that they think they are winning. That we are all just biding our time waiting for her to die.
In the meantime, the field is in play, and I have work to do.
**************
D-day + 5
11 June 1997, 1:30 a.m. New York City
Dear Scully,
Had a scare today. I was scouting a certain building in New York and nearly ran smack into Cancer Man. I spotted him about a minute before we would have collided in the lobby. Actually I smelled him before I saw him. First time I have ever been grateful that the man reeks of cigarette smoke.
He looked almost smug. I could almost swear I heard him whistling, but since I was trying to imitate a wall at the time, I could have been mistaken.
He was accompanied by a certain blond-haired bitch. I wish I knew what game she was playing. Thank God I don't trust her enough to include her in our little play. She seems to pop up in the oddest places with the strangest men.
I am scared, Scully. We are walking a tightrope above the yawning caverns of damnation, all three of us. One slip and Cancer Man will own us, body and soul. He already has a down payment on Skinner's soul and mine, though he is unaware of my intrusion in the game. Skinner treads a perilous path subverting the truth to uncover the truth. It is a task he has grown used to, but this time it is for *his* own purposes, not the Cancer Man's goals.
I really wish you were going to get this letter because I could then tell you to tell Skinner that the security in the New York Bureau office sucks. If I had been a terrorist, the body count would have been awful. Apparently no one thinks to check out the cleaning crew at night.
If I do say so myself, I wield a pretty mean mop. If this scheme collapses, but we both manage to survive, I may need the experience.
I think the FBI also needs to hire Frohike and the guys to come up with a better computer security system. It didn't take me more than half an hour to break into Bureau Chief Sanderson's account. Apparently no one ever changes the basic access code to the system. Of course the fact that his password was the name of his brand new son didn't hurt either. Maybe I'll forego a career as a janitor and go into high-tech burglary. Career options are everywhere it seems.
It didn't hurt that an Assistant Director of the Bureau was the one who gave me the access code to begin with. Skinner was right, Sanderson is so deep in Cancer Man's pocket that he couldn't find his way out with a map. Now I have the proof. In a few days, Skinner will have it as well. Frohike is being extremely vague about how they are getting the information to Skinner. I know they are not about to get anywhere close to a direct contact with him. I hope they are being careful. There are jackals out there who are waiting for a chance to pull Skinner down quite apart from the Smoking Man's agenda and they'll take anyone down who gets in their way.
Sanderson is an arrogant SOB. He keeps a list of his contacts on his hard-drive. Skinner will not be happy to learn how many of his *trusted* assistants are also getting paid by the Consortium. Rather explains how they're keeping two steps ahead of us all the time, doesn't it? My God, Scully, the damn smoking bastard practically owns whole sections of the FBI.
If we ever manage to crack open the Consortium, I think Skinner is going to be very busy eliminating the cockroaches infesting the Bureau. I'll be more than happy to help him hunt. There are more than a few butts I would just love to kick down the stairs.
While I was browsing through Sanderson's files I happened to see the official report detailing my many sins against FBI protocol and integrity. It was really quite impressive. Personally, I'd have voted to hang me, you were so damn persuasive. You led Blevins and his motley crew of hangmen on quite a merry dance, partner. Quite a devastating report on the sad life and delusions of the late, unlamented Special Agent Fox Mulder.
Did you have to be quite so convincing? I mean, it rather sounded as if you were enjoying yourself just a bit too much. Remember, most dearly cherished partner of mine, this is a play we're putting on. Don't get too enthusiastic about debunking me in public. I don't want you developing any bad habits while I'm gone.
Everything seems as it should. Apparently the Bureau firmly believes that you have come to your senses and returned to the fold. The prodigal returns to the bosom of her family amid great rejoicing. At least we now know who Blevins' hatchet-men are. Excuse me, I did note one female member of the hanging party; make that hatchet-persons. I hope we didn't go to all this trouble just to flush out the rats.
I wish this was all over - one way or the other. I would give anything to just hear you say my name in that tone that I have come to think of as belonging just to me. You know the one - you manage to mix exasperation and affection and make me feel like an errant ten-year-old. Or even to hear you snap out 'I'm fine.'
Are you? Fine, I mean. I hate this separation; this silence. I must depend on my heart to tell me that you need me. Would you tell me if you did? I greatly fear you intend to hold to this play no matter what. Do you have any idea what a hollow victory it would be if we bought the truth with your life?
I better close before I wax sentimental. It's a lovers' moon tonight and I am alone in the shadows.
M.
**************
D-day +6
June 12, 1997
Skinner has "granted" me two weeks' leave -- necessary to maintain the charade, but an interminable amount of time to be left so rudderless. Only a few days into my sentence and restlessness has overtaken me, despite my ever-growing fatigue.
When I hatched this desperate plan, I had no idea that the role I cast myself in would be such a strain. I bear a tremendous guilt for sending Mulder out unprotected and alone, and for offering Skinner no alternative. They are in the worst positions and are most vulnerable.
But this shell, this empty husk of a woman I see in the mirror is no part-time method actress adequately portraying a broken, grieving woman a mere 10 hours a day. She is vacant, her soul draining out of her a little more with each second of broken contact. She is me.
I think of him every minute of every hour.
I went to the funeral. My mother insisted on coming and seemed horrified at my attempt at refusing her company. I can only attribute her acceptance of my odd demeanor as her perception of my fathomless grief. In truth, she's not far off. I have told her in no uncertain terms that I won't talk about Mulder. She, so far, has respected my need for privacy and distance.
I couldn't say more than a few words to Mulder's mother. Long ago I gladly accepted the position of his next of kin in her stead. In fact, it helped our position in that I was able to claim the body and proceed with funeral arrangements quickly enough to avoid any serious examination of the body. Although I know she is grieving, I don't feel guilty over deceiving her in this charade. I have my own protective instincts regarding my partner -- the mothering part of my affection for him will never forgive Mrs. Mulder for the emotional pain she has inflicted on him, both knowingly and unknowingly.
I have also seen Frohike. We met for a drink at a dingy DC bar. At any other time he might have joked about our "date," but even he understands the seriousness of this situation. I reiterated the terms of their involvement, that Mulder and I will not use them to transfer information to each other. They will, on the other hand, be available to pass along vital items between Mulder and Skinner, only if absolutely necessary. I refuse to add their names to the list of the Consortium's most wanted through any association with me. After that meeting, I warned, we could no longer meet or communicate in any manner. Another tie to my former life has been cut.
Other than a clandestine meeting with a mildly perverted voluntary social outcast, I spend my days in meaningless actions prompted by my lost sense of purpose. My closets are clean. My life is organized. My estate is in order. I could serve brie and Merlot on my bathroom floor. Trivial, menial duties around which other people's lives revolve. It's apparent I'm exhibiting all the classic signs of a patient with a terminal disease finally ready to accept the inevitable. It's still no comfort, though, and I feel no sense of peace or closure. I have become so distanced from reality that I feel if I'm not protecting the world, my life has no meaning.
In exchange for the depth of life I have traded the breadth. I have exchanged normality for Mulder, for the dysfunctional world we two have created. But no matter how stunted that world, I know now I am lost without its parameters. Its passion. Its urgency. I need it. I need him.
His intensity, the intensity he brings out in me, scares me. Seduces me. Our world is narrow, but its potent depth is my destiny. It continually lures; my soul would go willingly, but my heart will continue to hesitate until... until it's time.
I now know that time may never come.
**************
D-day +7
6/13/97
A U.S. Department of Justice-wide memo on the importance of computer security, regularly changing one's passwords, and never leaving workstations logged on to secured accounts suggests to me that Mulder is at work in the shadows. It could simply be coincidence, of course -- we do get periodic reminders about these things -- but this memo had an undercurrent of panic I could almost taste. This wasn't the standard, some-kid-has-tried-to-hack-our-website annoyed tone. Someone got into some very important information. I have to think, I have to hope it was Mulder.
I have not been idle, either.
Being the smoker's lackey for the past months has taught me some useful skills. The SOB is either much better connected than even I think he is, or he is overconfident. Since Mulder's "suicide," I have had almost no assignments, and it would seem that I am only under sporadic surveillance.
Fortunately, my duties for the chain smoker have made my schedule so irregular that I don't think even my sometime watchers have a clue when I'm supposed to be anywhere.
Mulder's task is two-fold. He is to execute the initial stages of the plan to unmask the conspiracy, beginning with that son-of-a-bitch Sanderson. But once he completes the work in New York, we leave Scully's script and begin our own plan.
Mulder will concentrate every effort on finding a cure for Scully. We are certain that one exists, but equally certain that the black-lunged SOB will never give it to me. I have become a far too useful, and amusing a tool for the SOB. I will continue to play the bastard's games, but in the meantime I will focus every effort on destroying him and all that he represents.
We must bring the entire organization out into the light. It is the only way to destroy shadows...or monsters.
I began with that obvious plant Kritschgau. His Federal Employee Database record was bone fide. He had indeed served in the agencies and positions listed. It was what was *not* there that was telling. I never thought I'd live to see the day when inter-agency rivalry and suspicion would be a helpful thing, but it has been. After my recent tenure in charge of the anti-terrorism task force that "successfully" apprehended that poor SOB Teager, I had the perfect excuse to go down and ask a couple of the guys in the domestic terrorism division about the possibility of agents in other agencies, including Defense, being agitprops. It's a popular topic. The FBI hates all the other intelligence agencies just as much as they hate us.
I threw in several red herrings, seemed to pay especially close attention to a couple of their responses, and then finally tossed in Kritschgau's name. They lit up like pinball machines. Seems our boy Kritschgau has been the source of FBI speculation for some time, only he's so damn good that they've never been able to really even open a file on him. Just seems that whenever there's something big and nasty happening, he's there on the fringes somewhere.
They had some interesting surveillance photos of him, too. One in particular caught my eye. It had been taken approximately 2 years ago at some place in Rock Creek Park. It looked like it was winter, and Kritschgau and his contact were standing by the water, angrily gesturing at one another, and then in the next photo they were laughing. His contact was a haughty African-American man, whose face bore evidence of a recent fight. I tried not to wince and touch my own head. I remembered that elevator all too well. Oddly, the agents had been able to uncover absolutely no information on the man Kritschgau was talking to. It was as though he'd never existed.
I stayed long enough to toss a few more false leads into the conversation and finally left, convinced that Scully and Mulder had been right about Kritschgau. The connection to Mulder's former source was troubling, but not perhaps, unexpected. The complete inability of the domestic terrorism branch to uncover any information on him is more troubling, and a good reminder -- the game has always been deeper and more complex than even Mulder believed.
**************
D-day +10
16 June 1997 8 a.m. New York City
Hey Scully, it's me,
It is beginning to get really boring being dead, but I am starting to make some progress. You were right, partner, with me dead, their attention is turning inwards, back to their precious project.
Still, our enemies are wary, their victory has come too easily. 'Spooky' Mulder was supposed to be more resilient, a rubber ball built to take all of their abuse and bounce back for more. If I could still laugh at anything right now, I would laugh at their stunned incredulity when their blatant ploy worked. It was only meant to be a single thrust, the latest in a series of assaults calculated to cloud my memories and drive a wedge between us. Just another crack in the fragile shell of my sanity.
For some reason, incredible denseness and male chauvinist stupidity no doubt, no one seems to doubt your willingness to meet their terms. After four years of damned persistent loyalty to me in the face of all common sense, why should you suddenly agree to fulfill your original mission and debunk my work just because they offer you a chance to reclaim your place on the career ladder to the top? Apparently they believe you so lacking in honor and loyalty that you would crucify me for their thirty pieces of silver.
What really infuriates me though is that they smugly believe you would be stupid enough to believe someone like that Kritchgau, Kitchgoo, whatever. God, the man reeked of a setup. You played him well, Scully, but next time (please God don't ever let there be a next time, but you know what I mean) curb your urge to flay me alive just a bit. For a few moments in the warehouse, I almost began to believe you had converted, that the words you spoke came from your heart, not from the desperate play we were performing. Scared the shit out of me until I remembered how you held me when we committed ourselves to this charade. A deep embrace to remind ourselves of what we meant to each other, to carry us through the harsh words we must recite for our audience.
That last dig about them giving you the cancer to make me believe was perfect - a little too close to home perhaps. I didn't need you to remind me of what I have done to your life. That was putting a little too much reality into your performance. I blame myself enough already. If I thought it would buy you your life, maybe I would have blown my brains out all over my couch, who knows?
I actually did briefly entertain the thought of eating my gun, but decided I was shaking so hard that I might miss and just injure myself. I didn't want to be alive to catch your reaction to that kind of stunt. Skinner wouldn't have been happy either since he'd have been the one to clean up the mess.
From everything I have managed to gather, you are considered 'safe' again; purged of the taint of being my partner.
With Frohike's help, I have bugged the office of one of Cancer Man's lackeys, one of the contacts mentioned in Sanderson's files. Not a very important man. I wouldn't even dignify him by calling him a rat; more like a sleazy groundhog.
Based on what the bug picked up, Frohike says that our target seems to be a keeper of lists. I'm hoping to slip in one night and peruse them. Of course with my luck, they'll be ten years worth of laundry receipts and restaurant tabs, but I'm trying to be optimistic.
The guys have been working in twenty-four hour shifts hacking into every medical research facility they can find, here and abroad, trying to find some treatment that might help.
Frohike says that you are looking pale. He is quite worried about you. He seems reluctant to tell me how you are doing. I think he is afraid I'll rush back and blow this whole fucking charade to hell. I am tempted, Scully, but I promised you I would trust you to handle your end of this deal.
What did you say to them, Scully? They won't talk to me about you, except in vague general terms that cannot completely hide their worry. What is it that you don't want me to know?
This is driving me mad! Damn you . . . no forgive me. Damn me for dragging you into the morass that is my life. I should have shut you out of my life and my work on that first case, but you trusted me. Dear God, do you realize how devastating that was to my aloof cynicism?
Simple trust extended to a man you had been told was a flake, a borderline candidate for the looney bin, the antithesis of everything you believed in. Did you realize that from that moment on I was yours?
Have you ever wondered why I ditched you so many times? Well I know you have, but you have never even come close to the real answer. Over-protectiveness, even callous disregard, is excellent camouflage. To be honest, I am terrified of the power you hold over me. One word from you and I would have stayed at your side and followed the logical sane path. I never gave you the chance to ask me to stay, did I? Not until I was already hurtling away on the winds of impulse past the point of return. My quest, my insane gambles, became my shields against your incursion into my heart, even into the fortress of my soul.
If I had listened to you, followed your paths of science and logic, I believe the results would have been the same: obfuscation, misdirection and lies, but I will concede I might have spent less time in the hospital. What success we have had stems from our differences. That is why we are so dangerous to them. Intuitive logic coupled with scientific reasoning - a deadly combination they forged when they assigned you to debunk me. I have used you shamelessly to further my ... our quest, trusting that you will forgive me for the sake of what we have learned, if not for my own sake.
Now you are the one who has ditched me. Cast me out into the shadows to search for answers while you follow the trail out there in the light. God help Skinner if he fails to keep you safe. I'll kill him if it's the last thing I do, and it probably would be.
Frohike's at the door. We're going weasel hunting today. Byers hacked into one of their databases and reported that Krycek is back in town. I have a few things to discuss with that man. Frohike's along to remind me to tidy up if I forget Plan A and jump directly to Plan B- beat the shit out of him and break every bone in his body.
I'll write more tonight. Even though you aren't reading these letters, they make me feel closer to you.
I miss you. I can barely remember to breathe without you at my side.
Mulder
**************
D-day +11
June 17, 1997
Today was the day of reckoning. The prodigal daughter returns. Judas makes her entrance to the bullpen in a crisply tailored black suit. I've been consigned to hell.
There were a few awkward murmurs of sympathy, but I was beyond determining which, if any, were genuine. A few, of course, were so kind as to sympathize with my plight of being saddled with such a "disturbed" man. From the range of cloying conversations I've had today, I can piece together what distorted rumors have been feeding the insatiable gossip machine. Truly, at this point I don't mind the damage to my reputation, but it disgusts me to know Mulder could be thought of as that much of a coward. Damn self-righteous flock of sheep. For all the advanced degrees and sharply trained minds in VCS, they are so ignorant of the evil working in their midst. None of them knows what we are fighting. None of them knew Fox Mulder.
Skinner has not contacted me since our meeting at Haines Point Park except in official capacities as my supervisor. I am desperate for any sign that Mulder has made inroads, that he is still alive. Skinner has done what he can to alleviate some of the pressure of playing my part. He has assigned me to a self-directed investigation unit, a diverse team of agents, sparing me the pain of taking on a new partner. I met with them today to be briefed on their open cases. How much they know about the state of my cancer I can't tell; they offered the same vague condolences that left me wondering what they were actually sorry for -- Mulder's death? My humiliation? My illness? My part in this may be the easiest to play, but I may end up seriously injuring my mouth from all the times I'll have to bite my tongue.
I do take small satisfaction that I will once again be working, giving myself another purpose for whatever time I have left and making all this waiting a little more bearable. The team has three open serial murder cases on which my forensic expertise may shed new light. Concentrating on the cases may also help drive away the dangerous self-pity I've been fighting these past few weeks.
Those feelings were difficult to fight tonight. The MO in one of the cases sounded familiar to a file that had crossed Mulder's desk a few months ago. We had routed it back up to VCS, but the details I recalled didn't quite match any of the victims in this case. More from a longing for familiarity than a need to follow all possible leads, I made my way down to the basement after most agents had gone home, hoping to find a copy of that forwarded file. The desire to be near Mulder -- or at least in his den -- had become overwhelming during the day. But as I pulled out the silver key that has been on my chain for four years, I noticed the lock had been changed. There was no nameplate on the door. My past is being stolen from me as much as my future is.
I'm trying to hold my head high, but the weight of despair grows heavier each day.
*******************
6/17/97
Mulder's unlikely accomplices have contacted me for the first time. At least I presume it was them. I didn't see or hear anyone, but an envelope was shoved under my door sometime between 2 and 4 this morning. It contained a printout listing names and what appear to be payments. A number of the names looked startlingly familiar. A quick scan of the New York Bureau office employee database confirmed that they are all Special Agents and Special Agents in Charge at the field office. This must be information that Mulder downloaded from Sanderson's files. It took longer for it to arrive than I anticipated. I can only hope this does not indicate some deeper trouble for Mulder.
Tapping into the general Bureau database I discovered that all of the agents on Sanderson's list had served in the DC office between 5 and 7 years ago, in one of two special investigative divisions -- financial investigations or hate crimes/arson -- both areas under Blevins' direct supervision. There were no agents from either my section, or from AD Susan Jameson's division. I am cautiously optimistic that I may be able to get some assistance from Jameson when it is time to bring down these networks.
I am beginning to understand why Mulder trusts no one but Scully, but I recognize that I will sooner or later I will need help from within the Bureau. AD Jameson seems a logical choice. She has long impressed me as a woman of true integrity and professionalism. In the same way that I have instinctively distrusted Blevins, I have trusted her.
As I continued to run random scans of agents in other bureau field offices to cover my electronic footprints I found myself reflecting that sometimes it's a bitch being right. That scum Sanderson is so deeply involved in Consortium activities that they really should be paying his health insurance premiums. And the sheer number of other agents that he's managed to subvert is truly depressing. The reach of the shadow organization is deeper and broader than I had imagined. Worst of all, I can make no overt moves against them at this point. I must stand by and simply watch as they continue to suborn justice and further corrupt the integrity of the Justice Department. But at least I know who to watch now. If we survive all this I, or my successor, will be very busy.
After all, I am one of those corrupting the integrity of the bureau right now. I must remain in place long enough to ensure Scully's cure and Mulder's "resurrection" and reinstatement, but after that I think there will be questions that I will not be able to adequately answer to anyone's satisfaction.
**************
D-day + 12
18 June 1997, 1 a.m. New York City
Scully,
If there is a god for weasels, Krycek owes him big time. I missed him by half an hour - a bloody fucking half an hour!
God how I wanted to *talk* with that man. I should have killed him in Russia, but at the time all I could think of was escape. I felt your need pulling at me, demanding my return. Your need was stronger than my desire to kill Krycek, barely.
We're still not certain whether Krycek just happened to decide to leave or if someone warned him. I've been on three buses, four subways and damn near hiked across this city and haven't seen anyone on my tail. Logic says that if I am still alive and free, I am not being followed, but when has my paranoia ever listened to my logic.
At the moment I'm sitting in a filthy bus station in an area of town I normally wouldn't enter without backup and heavy artillery. I fit right in. You wouldn't recognize me - at least I hope you wouldn't. Three days worth of beard (itches like crazy - I have to resist the urge to claw the bottom of my face off), hair that is beginning to look decidedly unkempt and stringy and an old army fatigue jacket and pants. At least the shoes are mine, but I wince at the mud job I had to inflict on my new track shoes.
Frohike left early yesterday morning. Apparently someone tried to hack into the guys' computer system and came pretty damn close to getting in. Frohike looked shaken when he got off the phone. I told him to get lost. Byers and Langley need him more than I do at the moment. If I am being tailed I don't want to drag a friend down with me.
As I sit here surrounded by the ripe denizens of the lower New York subculture, I try to amuse myself envisioning Frohike and the guys surrounded by their high-tech armada preparing to repel borders.
You might laugh at them, Scully, but I'd rather have the guys on my side than most of the agents that belong to the alphabet soup we call our national security forces; yourself excluded of course.
I miss your keen mind at my side. Well, not just your mind, but I don't think I have time to list all the things that I miss about you. Considering my current state of hygiene and appearance, your mind is probably all that you'd be willing to share with me and that most likely from a distance.
Better close. Some of the inhabitants of this place are beginning to notice me. I don't want to elude Cancer Man's agents only to turn up on a slab in the New York morgue because some thugs decided they wanted my shoes. Time to start moving again.
Wish I could wish you were here, but you are far better off where you are. At least I hope you are.
Mulder
**************
D-day + 13
19/6/97
I have received a report of a possible sighting of Alex Krycek in New York City. As his former supervisor, I am automatically copied on all information that surfaces on the former agent. I cannot help but speculate that it is no coincidence that that rat has surfaced in New York at the same time that Mulder is there.
Krycek remains one of my great failures. Although I was given little choice in assigning him as Mulder's partner, I should have found some way of better controlling him or of warning Mulder about what he was. I had counted on Mulder's essential paranoia to prevent him from trusting the rat, but somehow all the normal systems failed.
And then Scully was abducted.
It is clear to me that her cancer is linked -- directly or indirectly -- to her abduction and missing time. Even before Mulder found the records in the fertility clinic, even before Kritschgau told Scully his theory about why she has cancer, I knew.
I suppose my decision to make my deal with the devil was partly driven by my own guilt in the matter. If I had been better able to control Krycek, who I am convinced was instrumental in Scully's abduction, none of this might have happened. It was, it is still my division, and I, alone, bear the responsibility.
Mulder should be departing shortly for his true mission -- finding Scully's cure. We are both clear about the necessity of deceiving her about our actions. He is clearly torn by the guilt of lying to her, however obliquely -- given that they will not speak again until the charade is over. I have fewer qualms. I have, in fact, been lying to both of them, in various ways, for years. Even before my deal with the smoker, I was not a completely free agent within the Bureau -- none of us are. As a senior manager in a highly visible agency that is continually under scrutiny by the legislative, executive and judicial branches of government, I have always been forced to make compromises.
But no more.
This deception and subversion of Scully's plan is vital to our larger objective. We must, we will find a cure for Scully, and Mulder and Scully will bring down the shadows that have darkened the halls of the Justice Department for too long. I will aid them in every way I know how.
It is time to remember who we all are. Why we joined the Bureau in the first place. I will not compromise any longer.
**************
D-day +15
21 June 1997, 1 a.m. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Perched now on the brink of betrayal, I spare a moment to wonder if you will ever forgive me for what I am about to do?
This plan, crafted for the purpose of breaking the hold our enemies have over us, was always your plan, not mine. As we used the plan the Consortium devised to discredit me as cover for our own purposes, so I am using your plan to put me beyond your reach to pursue my own goal. Did you think me so dense that I could not see into your mind? Do you think the protection you are striving so desperately to create for me will matter at all if you are dead? If you die, I will sweep down upon the men who condemned you to this lingering death and send as many of them to hell as I can before I join them there.
Sorry, partner, but I cannot stand by and watch you die.
You might be surprised to learn that Skinner is as adamant as I am that, whatever the cost, you shall not die. We make unlikely allies, he and I; double conspirators against the shadows and against your carefully crafted plan. We only had to meet once and then only briefly to pledge ourselves to your salvation. We will pay the price of your choosing, Scully; as long as you are alive to judge us.
What are you hiding from me, Scully? Frohike refuses to tell me anything other than you insisted on a strict policy of no contact. Forced him to give his word. Now how did you know Frohike's word would hold him silent, even with me? He doesn't give his word often, but when he does he is like a fucking stone wall and I can't breakthrough it to touch you, even second-hand.
The guys are there to help you, damn it! I would never have left you alone if I had believed for one moment you would sever contact with them. Did you suspect I would use them to check up on you?
Frohike looks like a man caught between a rock and a hard place. I'm not sure which he fears most, you or me. He is caught between two desperate people who have nothing left to lose, except perhaps each other. He has reluctantly agreed to help me once I made it clear I would do this with or without him. He cares for you and I used that care ruthlessly to get my way. I am my father's son, Scully - whoever the hell he is.
I will endure your anger, even the shattering of your trust, but I will not, cannot, endure your death.
I am off now to hunt for the extreme possibility that I can find a cure for you. The impossible dream that I can find the cure and make everything all right again drives me deeper into the darkness that hides the truth.
Forgive me.
Mulder
**************
D-day +20
June 26, 1997
Some say there's nothing like anger to make you feel alive. At this point, I should thank Blevins for making me feel immortal.
That self-righteous bastard actually thinks I'm an ally.
I was summoned to his inner sanctum this morning for my progress report -- a claustrophobic, unsurprisingly smoky office that was probably harboring countless eavesdropping devices. I could practically hear their communal buzz. He began the meeting with glowing praise for my recent work with the investigative team and sickening "regrets" about my medical status. I greeted both with nonchalance, firmly believing that after I expressed my cool thanks for his compliments and concern, I would be dismissed. I was not so lucky.
In a tone that sent shivers down my spine, he began speaking conspiratorially, in double-wrought phrases that confirmed my suspicions that we were not the only parties privy to this conversation.
"You and the late Agent Mulder were excellent investigators, frequently devoting your personal time to pursue unorthodox leads.... for the greater good, isn't that so?"
Unorthodox? Yes, to protect our families, innocent people, and each other from the subversion of government entities established to protect. Yes, *perhaps.*
"Wouldn't you like the chance to shed light on some of your more off-the-record cases, to explain more fully your side of the story?"
Why, I'd love to. I'd love to explain how you set up a young, innocent agent to destroy possibly the only man brave enough to confront the blatant corruption in these halls. And how when she failed to comply you found ways to punish her, and him, for her disloyalty. I'd love to be given half the chance.
"It would be a shame if the accomplishments of the X-Files were not appreciated because of the tragic events surrounding their closure. They should be respected for what they were, for what you helped them become. Don't you agree?"
Wholeheartedly. And when Mulder comes back from the dead and you and your bosses are destroyed, they will once again see that respect.
To all his questions I responded in a weak, noncommittal voice. I gave him no comment to second-guess, yet no answer to reassure. He saved his final dig for last.
"You look good, Agent Scully. You'll go far in this organization, I have no doubt."
Liar. I look like I have one foot in the grave. I couldn't leave that comment unchallenged.
"Sir, my life is coming to an end. I am attempting to be the best agent I can in the time I have left, but I'm afraid 'far' is not where I'll be going."
His answer stung like a slap in the face.
"Medical science makes breakthrough advances daily, Agent Scully. Part of the reward of working outside the basement is that you get to know the right people. Hear the right things from people who might be aware of the latest medical miracles. I wouldn't give up hope yet, Agent Scully."
I quietly thanked him for the vote of confidence and silently told him to go to hell.
****************
6/26/97
I have received word that Mulder may have located a lab with information about Agent Scully's illness as well as a source of a possible cure. He is apparently on his way to the lab, and I am, in the meantime, to begin discretely finding a biomedical lab that can take the information he uncovers to process it and synthesize the resultant substances to heal Scully. We hope.
It occurs to me that I should be detailing the ways in which I am tracking Mulder's movements and actions -- however indirectly. It was, of course, my intent that this serve as an official record of these events. But we are far from resolution. Victory is not yet certain, at this point not even probable, and I find I am reluctant to jeopardize our precious few allies. If Mulder, Scully and I fail, the game will be badly tilted in favor of the shadows, but it will not yet be lost. We have found a handful of friends and resources in unlikely places, who might be able to continue this battle without us. If we lose, and this record falls into the smoker's hands, our allies would be destroyed as surely as we will be. I cannot risk naming them now. If we win, I will come back and clarify this record.
Through one of our more unlikely contacts, I have located a lab in the western part of the US that will create any biologic or chemical compounds that Mulder can discover on his current excursion. It is a privately held research facility that has never accepted any government funding. The lab was originally founded by an eccentric movie star in the twenties who was convinced that with enough time and money, science could find a way to reverse the aging process. He ran out of time before he ran out of money -- dying of brain cancer at the age of 38. His entire estate was used to endow the lab in perpetuity to research cancer. Their independent approach is matched only by their reputation for integrity. They will suit our purposes nicely.
I am worried about Mulder. Scully's plan demanded absolutely no direct contact between the "dead" and the living. I know how badly the strain of separation is wearing on her. I can only imagine that it is twice as hard on him. I receive sporadic updates on his progress, but the messages, by necessity, are one way and as brief as possible. I have no way of reassuring him of our progress, nor of assessing his state of mind.
I remember from past cases how Mulder's focus and concentration on his perceived endpoint would block out all other considerations -- to the point of irrationality, really. But this time the stakes are so much higher. Can he bear this burden alone? He, of all people, knows the dual consequences of our failure.
We lose Scully. We lose to the shadows and the "truth" is forever obscured. From his perspective, it's difficult to say which is the more drastic outcome.
We cannot fail. We have gambled all on a single daring plan. I have the utmost faith in both of my agents, they will complete their parts of this action to the letter. I must only maintain my double life of renegade and smoker's pawn long enough to let them work.
************************
Go to Part 2
