From: laster Date: Sat, 26 Aug 2000 14:11:05 -0400 Subject: NEW: A Legacy by dlynn Source: direct TITLE: A Legacy AUTHOR: dlynn FEEDBACK: dlynn1550@my-deja.com CATEGORY: MSR, Mytharc, Angst SPOILERS: Everything through season seven is fair game, including Requiem RATING: R for language and adult situations SUMMARY: Through a series of diaries, Mulder and Scully's granddaughter discovers a legacy rich with love and sacrifice. BTW, Mulder and Scully do play a prominant role in this story. DISCLAIMER: CC's characters are his. Megan and the others are mine. My other stories can be found at http://home.mpinet.net/laster A Legacy: August 21, 2045 "Megan, what are you doing?" "Damn," I mutter. I'd hoped that I could remain hidden for just awhile longer. After all, what could Mom say that would be more engrossing than what I had just stumbled upon? I felt as though I'd accidentally unearthed the Holy Grail; I really didn't want to share my find. Knowing my mom, this would be another thing denied me 'until I was old enough to understand.' At the very least, I'd have to stand in line to have my go at it. By the time it made it through all the adults and down to me, I'd be as old and gray as Mrs. Minelli, that dithering old fool from down the street. She's so addled, half the time she goes outside without her teeth, and there was that one time, she even forgot to put on pants. Bobby Stiles had a field day with that one. "Ms. Minelli, kissed a fellie, Forgot her pants, and went to Helley." Ok...so Bobby Stiles was a major dweeb, but at least he managed to rhyme. That's more than he was able to do last year in Language Arts. I guess he just needed something to inspire him. And Mrs. Minelli sure did that. It wouldn't have been so bad...the pants thing...if she'd at least have remembered her underwear. Mrs. Minelli, in all her ninety-four year glory was not the stuff that sonnets are written about. No, Mrs. Minelli was the subject of pitifully rhymed hand clapping games. Because of the gaping hole in her mouth and her wrinkled up ol' hiney, Ms. Minelli songs were all over the playgrounds around here last summer. Every kid, bored out of her tree, composed. Of course, my friends and I were too cool to actually play those hand games ourselves. Although, I did catch Sally Parsons and Melanie Detweiller singing "Minelli's Hiney." That was probably one of the most popular clapping songs last year. I caught the big bullies, over behind McNab's Deli. But I'd never rat on Sally and Melanie. They're so mean, if they ever caught me tattling on them, they'd make a Megan Sandwich out of me. I'd be squished between Parsons-Detweiller rolls, and it wouldn't be a pretty sight. But this is a small town; there's not too much to do around here. So it doesn't take much to entertain us. You'd be surprised what we get excited about. I mean, after all, there's the scandal with Bob Travis and Jessi Mackler. That's another thing I'm not supposed to know about, their doing the deed on the top ledge of the water tower, and old man Hinkley shining his big spotlight up there, where he showcased Bob's big, pimply butt to all the bystanders a few weeks ago at the July 4th picnic. "Megan, if you are up there, I want you downstairs in five minutes. I need help with the twins," Mom yells, her voice coming loud and clear through the floor vents. Mom gave up actually climbing to the attic to get me when she discovered this old house had a perfect intercom system. She was in the attic, with Grandma Dana and me, when I was about eight-years-old. We were looking for a Halloween costume that we knew was up here, when Dad and Mr. Reed started talking. Well, unfortunately for Dad and Mr. Reed, their discussion of Mrs. Brighton's D cups was overheard through the vent system. Mom tried to tell me a D cup was just what the guys called an extra large drink from McDonald's. Who did she think she was kidding? I might have been eight, I wasn't stupid. I said, "I'm sure McDonald's always delivers ice-cold boobs with their fries. Grandma Dana smiled and said, 'Grandpa would have appreciated my sense of humor.' Apparently, I take after him, in not only appearance, but behavior. In a house full of red heads, Dad and I are the only ones with brown hair and hazel eyes like Grandpa. But Grandma said it was more than just looks. She said I'm kind of 'spooky', but she said it like it was a complement. Anyway, after letting my dad and Mr. Reed have it, Mom figured out all she had to do from then on was bend down and holler in one of the heating vents, and I could hear her from any room in the house. Even though she always knew where I was. In the attic. It was the one room in the house that my younger siblings hadn't been able to get to me yet. Tommy and Frank were close on my heels, but I could still foil them by pulling up the stairs behind me. They couldn't reach the cord and pull the staircase down. However, I knew it was only a matter of time before they figured it out. All they'd have to do was push a stool under the attic door. If nothing else, the twins, at five-years- old, were resourceful. I'd have to come up with a contingency plan pretty soon to keep my hideout safe. And Mollie, well she wasn't far behind the monsters. At three she followed me around like she was some kind of a red haired, Irish Setter puppy. With her blue eyes and mop of red curls, she was the one I really had to watch. What Mollie whined for, Mollie got. She'd bat those big, blue eyes, throw out her bottom lip, put her little hands on her hips, and pout. The grown-ups ate it up. Mollie was the little darling, and I was the big bad wolf for leaving my precious kid sister behind. Dad sometimes jokes about the basement hideout Grandma Dana and Grandpa used to have. 'He'd been told all these stories by these three great guys,' he said. Even though they weren't really uncles, he always called them that. I've seen their pictures. Uncle Hickey was sure funny looking; I think I'm kind of glad we weren't really related, at least by blood. Ten-years-old is plenty old enough to understand lots of things if the adults want me for something, like when they need help babysitting the brats or volunteering at the church preschool. Then it's always, 'Megan'll do it; she's mature for her age.' But when it comes to the good stuff, like choosing what vids I want to watch, or hanging out with my friends at the mall. Well, then it's, "What's the hurry, Megan. Trying to grow up too soon, Megan. I don't care if all your friends are doing it, Megan." Resignedly, I get up off the floor and brush off my blue jean shorts. When mom uses the heating vents, she means business. And five minutes is not ten or fifteen, but five. As I walk over to the old dresser, the one we moved into the attic from Grandma's Dana's house after she died, I carry a worn book in my hand. I'd come across it about half an hour ago, when I was going through the dresser. There was lots of stuff in the drawers, most of it pretty boring -- things like lacy pillowcases and tablecloths, a few glass bowls wrapped up in towels...stuff like that. Nothing that really interests me, although I'm sure Mom will like them. But in one drawer, the last one I opened, there were several books. Today, things aren't printed much like they used to be. Paper's too expensive, and with computers, what's the use anyway. I can get anything I want to read off the computer...all I have to do is go to the library site, and download it on to a disc. It's not like everyone doesn't have Pocket Viewers to read the DB's {disc books}. Sure, we have books; everyone does. It's just... who wants to clog up the house with bookshelves when you can store things so much easier on DB's. But these books I've found are not bestsellers or classics; they're diaries, I think. And for once, I'm not waiting for the grown-ups to give me permission. I'm keeping these to myself. I think Grandma Dana would have approved. She always said I had my Grandpa's curiosity and willingness to believe in 'extreme possibilities.' That is better than what most say about me. No matter how hard I try to stay away from it, I have a tendency to find trouble. Or it finds me. Once, I pushed a little boy out of the way of a speeding truck, and people thought it was great. Until they found out I hadn't seen the truck coming, well at least with my eyes. I just felt it was going to be there, and it was. Grandma said it was my legacy, a legacy born out of love and sacrifice. I didn't know about that. It doesn't feel like a legacy when I know that things are going to happen before they do, or I can sometimes hear thoughts, even when they haven't been spoken out loud. To me it feels like I'm just plain weird. Grabbing an old basket, I gently lay the books inside, and cover them up with a ratty blanket. I think I'll start with the one that says 'Samantha' on the inside cover. After all, my middle name's Samantha. Megan Samantha Mulder. That's pretty cool, huh? CHAPTER TWO: One of the few perks, as I see it, of being the oldest is that I get my own room. It's the best bedroom in the whole house because in the corner of my room I have a small alcove. I don't know the architectural name for it, but it's located right over the top of the staircase leading to the second floor, and its an area big enough for lots of throw pillows, blankets, and my DB shelf. Sometimes at night, I even sneak the Vid player out of the basement, and haul it to my alcove where I watch Vid's until I can't see straight. I think my mom and dad know I do it, but as long as I'm not a royal pain in the ass the next morning, they'll occasionally look the other way. I guess that's another perk of being the oldest, and being way too mature for my age. Sometimes my parents play dumb. 'Too bad my folks won't install a secure code on my door like they have on the house's outside entrances,' I think as I tug Ms. Mollie by her ear out of my room for only the hundredth time today. My stupid ol' lock always sticks, and half the time when it doesn't work, the beasts get in. I just caught Mollie, her fingers sticky with grape Popsicle juice, punching on my computer keyboard like she was in some quantum synergy band. Last week it was Frank and Tommy, exploring my underwear drawer and prancing around my room with my panties on their heads, using my bras as sling shots for their plastic bug collection. They had all my stuffed animals lined up for target practice. That's ok. I got Dumb and Stupid back. I put Vaseline in their sheets, and unscrewed the showerhead, putting red Jell-O inside. It's times like these that I truly appreciate living in an antique home where we still have showerheads. You should have heard Frank screaming when he turned the water on, 'My blood's leaking out, my blood's leaking out!' I think seeing my underwear being violated by the Insect Kings was as traumatic for me as Frank thinking he'd slashed an artery. Apparently, Mom and Dad didn't see it that way. I ended up washing all the windows of the house because of my 'immature' behavior, and Frank got a pat on the head and an admonishment, 'please don't pester your older sister so much.' Siblings! With a final 'gentle' kick to the butt, I send sticky Miss Prissy Pants out the door. By the time she's done tattling, it'll sound like I punted her fanny down the stairs like a football. I'll get in trouble, but for a moment of peace, it's worth the penance. As I stick my computer chair up under the door handle, I curse my parents' nostalgic desire to own a home that's positively a relic. Come on, who lives in a home that was built in 1925? That's over a hundred years old. I don't care if it is on a national historic registry. It's totally primitive. I retrieve the first diary from its hiding place under my mattress. I know my hiding place is not the most creative. But the Devil Duo looked there last week, so they probably won't check it out again for awhile. Besides, I've hidden the other books in different places. Even if one is found, hopefully the rest will remain safe. I scramble into my alcove, pulling the pocket door closed behind me. With trembling fingers I glide my hand over the diary. The outside cover is a faded maroon, I think...although I suppose it could be brown. Whatever it is, it sure is old. Flicking my finger against the tiny clasp, I open it. Thank goodness I don't need a key. I'd hate to have to break the clasp to get inside. It's so funny, holding a diary like this. I have special computer software, which allows me to write, talk, and integrate multi-media and pictures to create a diary. But my favorite is this really cool audio palm pad diary that I have. Grandma Dana gave it to me. She said, 'Sometimes a girl needs to talk things out and can't wait to get home to a terminal.' She was right; I like it the best because it's small and I can carry it with me, talking into it whenever I want. Thank God for the access code. Tommy gotta hold of it once, right after I had put the entry about kissing Steve Wilson. Oh...man, I'd have heard about that for weeks. I snuggle down into my cocoon of blankets and begin to read. JUNE 3, 1975 Dear Diary, Hi.. I'm Samantha. Today Cassandra gave me this diary. I like her and I wish she was around more often. She comes and goes a lot. I have a feeling she could get into trouble if her husband finds out she did it... Give me the diary I mean. But she said she didn't care. 'Every ten-year-old girl needs a diary,' she said. And I needed someone to talk to. Besides Jeffrey that is. So I've found a hiding place for it. It's behind this bookshelf in my room. And I'm really careful about only getting it out when I'm alone. I guess Jeffrey's ok for a boy but it's not like he's a real friend. Melanie Flagler and I were friends. Until she and her family moved a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Spender even let me play with her sometimes as long as someone was able to watch us. I don't know what he thought we'd do...run away or something? But they moved and now it's just Jeffrey and me again. He was actually pretty cool yesterday. They were putting in a new sidewalk right outside our house and we saw it. It was so funny! We stuck our hands in the wet cement, then wrote our names. And we didn't even get in trouble for it. Mr. Spender was gone and no one noticed it until it had dried. One of the soldiers that's always around asked Jeffrey's dad if he wanted them to take out that piece of sidewalk and re-do it. You know what? He said no. Just leave it. Mr. Spender tells me I should call him Dad. I don't have very many memories, but somehow I just know he's not my dad... At least the one I used to have. OCTOBER 7, 1976 I hate this place! I HATE IT! I'm tired of having to go to school at the house with just Jeffrey and me. I'm tired of never having anyone to play with. And I miss Mom. Yesterday I started my period. I knew all about it because we've had biology class. But still it was sooooo embarrassing to have to ask Mrs. Cravitz for help. Ok...so her name's not really Mrs. Cravitz, but she sure reminds me of that nosy neighbor from Bewitched. Cassandra's gone again. I could have asked her but she's not been around for almost six months. And the old lady, Mrs. Cravitz, that they've got taking care of us, well she's just an ol' fart. You know...most of the time I don't remember Mom very well. I think I can see her. Mostly I just remember how she said my name. Kind of hushed like when she was putting me to bed. And I remember a smell. It was like flowers, I think. MARCH...1977 I don't know the date today. I mean, I know it's March. At least I think it is...It's been a long time since I've been able to write. I've been so sick. The tests have been so terrible. They always tell me not to worry. That all I'll feel is a little discomfort. I'm sorry but I know the difference between discomfort and pain. AND THAT'S PAIN! But usually that goes away pretty quick. It's the times that I get sick afterwards, that's the worst part. Sometimes I get all achey like I have a fever or the flu. But usually, it's like now, and I feel like I have to throw up. Mrs. Cravitz isn't here anymore. I guess she wasn't so bad after all. She used to take good care of me when I got sick like this. Now there's this other lady. I don't call her anything. She hardly talks to me at all. She just passes me a clean bowl when I need it and checks my temperature and blood pressure. But she never talks...she never says my name like Mom used to. In fact she never says my name at all. SEPTEMBER 11, 1977 Sometimes I can almost hear their thoughts and I think that scares them. I think they know I can do this, and they don't like it. They want to study it, to understand it, but they don't like that I can do it. You should have seen this one soldier that was supposed to be guarding me while Mr. Spender went for more cigarettes. Anyway, I asked this soldier about his girlfriend. I asked him if Lucy knew that he was sleeping with Patricia, too. You should have seen his face. It was so freakin' cool! I loved it. His face turned all red and his hands kind of shook. I guess to him, I'm like some kind of freak show. JANUARY 10, 1978 OH MY GOD! I can't breathe, I can hardly write. This is so unbelievable. Mr. Spender had taken me to this other place for awhile for more tests. But while I was there, in this one room that I stayed in when they weren't testing, the door opened. And this girl started to come into the room. AND SHE LOOKED JUST LIKE ME. I'm so serious. She could have been my twin. But it was really weird. I'm sitting on my cot, staring at her. My mouth was probably on the floor; I was so surprised. And she didn't have any expression on her face at all. It was like she was a zombie or something from that weird movie Planet Nine from Outer Space. Anyway, before we had a chance to talk, this big guy reached into the room and pulled her out. He slammed the door behind them. I don't think she was supposed to be there. I'm sure she got in trouble. But I don't understand. I tried asking the people who brought me my meals who she was, but they all just looked scared and ignored my questions. I guess I'll never find out about her. But it's strange. You'd think I'd remember being a twin? JULY 4, 1979 Mr. Spender was kind of nice today. Not that he's ever really mean, exactly, just detached...like they all are. I get this idea that no one wants to get to close to me. After Jeffrey left with Cassandra last year, I really haven't had anyone too much to talk to. Mr. Spender brought sparklers and small firecrackers home with him today. He said we would have a real July 4th celebration. An old fashioned kind. He shot off bottle rockets out in the street and let me do the little firecrackers. This one guy...kind of stuffy, probably because he's British and always dresses soo soo well, anyway, he got upset because of the firecrackers. Mr. Fancy Pants said I shouldn't be allowed to play with them, that I might get hurt and then where would they be? Mr. Spender told him to 'lighten up.' That's so funny coming from someone who's always lit up. I can't remember a time that I haven't seen a cigarette in his mouth. I'll tell you though. It was weird. I heard the really well dressed guy say it was too bad that Jeffrey wouldn't be able to remember his Dad. Mr. Spender said, "We all have to make sacrifices for the cause." I wonder what that means...... AUGUST 11, 1979 They did more tests today, but not the horrible kind. I was awake and they made me lay still...while they shined lights in my eyes. They asked me questions, but I always lie now and tell them what they want to hear, just to make them stop. I hate them and I hate the way they treat me...like I'm an old suitcase they can just drag around and open up whenever they want to. They know I hate them, but they don't even care. SEPTEMBER 10, 1979 Sometimes I think my memories were taken by the doctors, but not all of them. I remember faces. I think I had a brother.with brown hair, who used to tease me. I hope someday he reads this and know I wish I could see his face for real. OCTOBER 23, 1970 No more. No more. No more tests. No more questions. I'm getting out of here and not turning back. Tonight. Tonight I'm going to run far, far away. I can't let them catch me. If they.If they catch me, they'll bring me back. I'll have to run for my life. For the rest of my life.... ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ I'm crying. I can't believe I'm crying. I never cry about anything, not when I'm hurt, not when I get punished, not ever. Except when Grandma Dana died. I cried then. I miss her so much. 'Damn, this is ridiculous,' I think, wiping the tears away from my face. This girl isn't even alive today and here I am crying over her like she was my best friend. I flip the pages of the book because there has to be more. That can't be all there is. I need to find out what happened to her. Did she get away? Did they find her and take her back? As I tilt the diary upside down, a picture slides out. It's an old photo, yellowed slightly, but because it's a black and white photo it's still in pretty good shape. It's a picture of a young girl and an older boy. I just know that it's Samantha, and the boy in the picture must be her brother, the one with the brown hair that she sort of remembered. Grandpa Mulder. Turning the picture over, I read the writing on the back. 'Sam and Fox, 1973' She was eight-years-old. And she looked like me. Grandma Dana once said that I looked like Great Aunt Samantha, a lot. She said that my middle name was definitely fitting. I remember that because it happened on my eighth birthday. Grandma Dana just looked across the table at me, and got this wistful look on her face as she watched me blow out my candles. I asked her if she was ok...and she just said, 'Sometimes, Megan, I just wish your Grandpa Mulder were here to see you.' Dad came around the table then, and wrapped her up in his arms, giving her this big squeeze. I didn't really have time to dwell too much on it though because Frank knocked a whole pitcher of lemonade on the floor, and things got hectic really fast. That was the last time I heard anyone talk about Samantha. But now, I have to know. I have to find out more. I need to find out more about Samantha. She said that she could sometimes 'hear them.' That means she was like me. CHAPTER THREE 'SORRY, NOBODY DOWN HERE BUT THE FBI'S MOST UNWANTED.' I descend the back staircase, cautiously tiptoeing across steps two, four and seven; they creak like Mrs. Minelli's ancient knees. Without turning on the overhead light, I slip into the kitchen. More by touch than by sight, I open the cold storage unit, rummage around inside, finally latching onto a Lipty Freeze. I'd hidden it on the top shelf, behind the mayonnaise, hoping it hadn't been snarfed up by one of the crumb bums. 'IF THERE'S AN ICED TEA IN THAT BAG, IT COULD BE LOVE.' 'MUST BE FATE, MULDER...ROOT BEER.' Unscrewing the top of the root beer flavored icy, I pause, the open bottle held poised at my lips as I listen. Muffled voices escape from behind the den's closed doors. I know Mollie and the Slime Monkeys are in bed, so it must be Mom and Dad talking. "Thomas, you're asking me to trust this profile when it means accepting that one of our own is dirty...someone intimately involved with this case," Mom says, her voice weary and frustrated. 'MULDER...I HAD THE STRENGTH OF YOUR BELIEFS.' Doing my best not to eavesdrop, even though I'm quite adept at it, I move to the other side of the kitchen, away from the den. I suck the cold, slushy confection from its plastic bottle, but realize with the first taste, it really isn't what I want. 'COLD...SO COLD.' I'm not sure what I want.... I set down the half-empty container, and stroll across the chilly tile floor to the French doors. They lead to the screened-in porch. It is late; I am supposed to be in bed, but I just can't get Grandma Dana's diaries out of my head. Unlatching the doors, I step onto the back porch where I somehow manage to avoid bumping into the old-fashioned whicker furniture. The night air is still, fragrant with the floral scent of roses, floating across the lawn from nearby trellises. Dad has dozens of rose bushes planted along a side fence. He fills vases for Mom every summer, telling us that it means he doesn't have to buy her flowers because he grows his own. During those times he forgets to tackle the aphids or water the bushes, we pretend not to notice the gift-wrapped bouquets he brings home from the local florist. After all, it's the thought that counts. 'I JUST THOUGHT IT WAS A PRETTY COOL KEY CHAIN.' Shaking my head from side to side, I try to clear the sound of my Grandmother's voice. For the last few hours I've been reading her journals. I've begun to piece together the first seven years of her life with Grandpa Mulder, where they worked together in the FBI's X-Files Division. They'd begun as unwilling partners, with Grandma Dana assigned to debunk 'Spooky Mulder's' work, and to further the agenda of shadow conspirators. But they confounded those that hoped to manipulate them, and ended up as something so much more than anyone could have ever imagined. 'YOU'VE BEEN MAKING REPORTS ON ME SINCE THE BEGINNING, SCULLY, TAKING YOUR LITTLE NOTES...' 'YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE I TRUST.' 'YOU'VE KEPT ME HONEST...YOU'VE MADE ME A WHOLE PERSON. I OWE YOU EVERYTHING...SCULLY, AND YOU OWE ME NOTHING.' 'IF I QUIT NOW, THEY WIN.' Pushing against the screen door, I head outside. Carefully stepping off the stoop, I cringe as the door slams shut behind me; the reverberation of wood bouncing against wood seems even more strident as it disturbs the night's dark tranquility. I walk farther away from the house, the lush grass tickling my bare feet. Just outside the diffuse outer rim of the kitchen light, which bleeds through the windows into the backyard, I stop. I feel the dichotomy of the hard ground and the soft blades of grass. It cushions my bottom as I sit, curling my arms around my legs, perching my chin upon my knees. In the peaceful silence of the night, way past the twilight hour of crickets and fireflies, I listen to the echoes of their voices drifting through time, bringing their past into my present. It is as though I am there with them, Special Agents Mulder and Scully, living the moments as they do. 'BECAUSE IT IS PERSONAL, MULDER. BECAUSE WITHOUT THE FBI, PERSONAL INTEREST IS ALL THAT I HAVE.' 'AGENT SCULLY IS ALREADY IN LOVE.' 'EVEN WHEN THE WORLD WAS FALLING APART. YOU WERE MY CONSTANT...MY TOUCHSTONE.' 'AND YOU ARE MINE.' 'THE WORLD DIDN'T END.' 'MULDER, ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE ALRIGHT?' 'I'M FINE...I'M FREE.' The tears that I've held back, trickle unbidden down my cheeks, marking my face like traitorous interlopers. "I don't cry," I whisper, disgustedly wiping at my runny nose with the back of my hand. But it's so difficult not to. I finally learned what happened to Samantha. If I'm to believe my Grandmother's journal, my namesake was 'rescued' from her tortured existence, but only in that she was 'walked' from one world to the next, and transformed into the purest energy of starlight. It's the stuff of fairy tales, and yet my Grandfather, and, to a certain degree, Grandma Dana, bought into it. But regardless of how I feel about the circumstances of her 'death', it was an end for him. Grandpa Mulder finally achieved some sense of finality in his search for his sister. I release my legs, and stretch out prone upon the grass. As I cross my arms beneath my head, I peer skyward. Starlight dances above me, twinkling like tiny, white Christmas tree lights. Sighing, I wonder about old souls, walk-ins, and closure. "Megs." "Dad." I feel him sit beside me, his leg brushing against mine as he assumes the same position I have. "Where's Mom?" "She's gone back to the precinct. This case has everyone up in arms, and she's putting in extra hours." I hear the same weary resignation in his voice as I heard earlier in Mom's. I turn over and look at him. "Aren't you helping out with this one, Dad? I thought you were writing the profile." "Megan, you hear way too much for your own good. You need not be concerned with what your mother and I are doing, at least as it relates to the police department," he explains, a very small attempt at admonishment, unmistakable. "Right, Dad. My mother is one of the police department's Senior Detectives, and you, Dr. Thomas Scully Mulder, Ph.D., are a clinical psychologist, who just happens to do criminal behavioral profiles for the same police department. If it would make you feel better, I can pretend I don't know anything that's going on. Let's see... how's this? Mom's just a lowly patrol officer, and you, Dad, are a celebrity shrink. Better?" I smirk, reclining again, and placing my head upon Dad's chest. "You're a royal pain in the ass, you know that, Megan?" "Yep. My life's mission is to make your life a living Hell on Earth. How am I doing?" Chuckling, Dad strokes my hair, smoothing strands away from my forehead. He does that sometimes, usually when he is worried about something. The last time he did it was two months ago, when he told me Grandma Dana had died. He and I had been sitting on the front porch swing, and he'd started petting my hair, until he tearfully choked out the startling news. "Dad, what's wrong?" I worry as I consider the ramifications of his caress. Pushing myself up on my elbows, I pull myself away, attempting to force the issue. "Are you and Mom ok?" "I'm fine, Megs. Mom's fine, too. We're just over tired, and stressed out by this case. In fact, I think it would be best if you didn't wander outside by yourself right now. We'd feel better if you and your brothers and sister stayed closer to home, and didn't go anywhere without one of us." "It's that bad, Dad?" As though he is deciding how much to divulge, he stops before he speaks. Then, as if he's made an important decision, says, "Meg, I won't lie to you. This one's bad. There's someone out there taking children, and...they're not being found alive." I snuggle up closer into him, breathing the clean scent of his after-shave. Too bad I don't feel safe. I can't explain it, but I am scared, even as I sit secure within his arm's embrace. Maybe it's the lingering effects from reading the journals, but more than likely, it's the confusion and fear emanating from my father. Either way, it's disconcerting. I gaze upward at the stars, letting my mind open, and expand. I relax, allowing myself to drift outward from the tightly controlled place I normally reside. My thoughts begin to flow into the night, into the sky, into the starlight, and I feel Dad's presence beside me -- not his physical state, the corporeal shell that encloses all that he is, but his essence. I'm still not very good at this. Sometimes, in fact most times, I'm like my dad, only empathic, able to glean no more than the strongest feelings. However, in special cases where I happen to be around someone whose emotions are near the surface, I can take it farther, reading actual thoughts. Once, when Grandma Dana and I were at the park, watching Mom's softball team play, I felt the tingly feeling coming over me. Dad had been acting silly, slinking up behind Mom, wrapping his arms around her, and whispering in her ear. He behaved as though he was going to give her batting lessons, even though she was the team's clean-up hitter. Grandma Dana softly inhaled, and her thoughts fell open like an illustrated book, only it wasn't a child's bedtime story. With such clarity I viewed the park where Grandpa Mulder had summoned her. I could see 'Fox Mantle' through her eyes, the way his baseball jersey fell loosely over snug blue jeans, and the charming manner in which his boyish bravado beckoned her to his side. I heard the crack of the horsehide against the bat as their bodies, acting in one accord, pounded pitch after pitch into the starry sky. I could even smell the night air, rich with the scent of the ball field's freshly mowed grass. Something within my eyes must have betrayed what was happening because, all of a sudden, Grandma Dana stared intently at me, and smiled. She wasn't surprised; she and I had played 'mind games' before. She didn't make a big deal about what was occurring between us, other than saying, "There are some things you are just not old enough to feel quite yet, Megan. For now, let's leave a little to the imagination." "You realize I have an extremely vivid imagination, Grandma," I wheedled. "Good, then I'm sure you'll be right on target," she chuckled, her expression enigmatic like a Cheshire Cat as she skillfully closed off my foray into her mind, locking her thoughts tightly away from me like treasures placed within a vault. Looking at her radiant face as she sat there remembering, I have a feeling that I missed some really good stuff. Oh well, it wasn't the first time. Like tiny capillaries expanding out from larger veins, the questing tendrils of my mind go forth. I usually avoid doing this. Not only do I feel like it is an invasion of privacy, but sometimes the things I see are intense, invoking feelings that can be too overwhelming. Although, I have to admit I did have fun surfing through Sally Parsons warped and pathetic little mind. She should wear a toxic dump bumper sticker across her forehead, with all the crap she thinks about. Even now I could stop, but something about Dad's cautionary advice leads me to believe that he's keeping something from me. And I don't like secrets, especially the ones where I know I'm involved. So I persevere, hoping it will work. Until, finally, I'm there...with the task force, in the war room. I view the photos, glimpsing the small bodies left behind to taunt those that seek them. I hear the parents' anguished cries, and witness the weathered faces of grizzled veterans' crumble as another victim's found too late. And I see Sally Parsons' parents as Dad comforts them, and Mom assures them that everything possible is being done to rescue their daughter. Even as he speaks, Dad fears the worst because he knows that precious time trickles through their fingers like grains of sand, bringing them ever closer to another tragedy. "Sally Parsons?" I gasp. "Megan." "I'm sorry, Dad. I know I shouldn't do that, but I had to know...He's got Sally, hasn't he?" Suddenly, I'm feeling very guilty for my earlier pissy thoughts. Dad stands, and walks toward the house, into the escaping light's thin circle as though he consciously seeks its luminescence. He rubs at his tired eyes like a small child who's been up way past his bedtime. Thomas Scully Mulder has always been a man who feels more than most. He's passionate, sensitive to the hurts and desires of others, and he's intuitive beyond the normal realm. 'That's what makes him such a good psychologist,' Mom always says. 'That's why he can be easily hurt,' Grandma Dana explained once. 'He feels the joys and pains so much more intensely than most. It's a blessing and a curse; it's his legacy.' With a voice that is barely above a whisper, and with his head bent as though he's ashamed, Dad speaks. "Megan, I know you've been missing your Grandma Dana, and I know that you've been feeling out of sorts. I also am aware that I've not been there for you as I should...I could tell you that it is work, or this case, or any other number of reasons, but we both know that's not true." "You miss her." "With every fiber that's within me, Megan, I miss her. and I haven't been ready to deal with that pain. Her death caught me completely off guard; I didn't expect it... She seemed so healthy." Raising his head, he stares at me, dirty tear tracks visible upon his face. "When you and I are both vulnerable, no matter how hard we try to guard against it, we open ourselves up to what just happened, Megan. It's so difficult, feeling not only my grief, but yours as well." "Daddy, you put the diaries in the attic, didn't you?" I ask, walking over to join him within the light's circle. "Yes." "Why? Why now?" "Grandma Dana wanted you to read them. She asked that I give them to you after she was gone. I put them in the attic," he smiles, his finger reaching beneath my chin, lifting my face to his, "because I knew that you would find them there." My bottom lip trembles, in spite of the control I so valiantly try to exert. "Why didn't you and Mom just give them to me, and why give them to me now?" Chuckling, he places his arms around me, drawing me in tightly against his chest. I feel so small within his embrace; it's not something I've felt around him in quite some time. I like it. "I guess I put them in the attic because...because I knew the thrill you'd get, feeling as though you were pulling something over on us. And I wanted to see your smile again; it's been a long time, Megan." "Lately, it's been hard to find something worth smiling about, Daddy," I mumble into his chest, mortified by my tears that are staining his shirt, yet unwilling to pull away. "I know, Honey. You've had a difficult time of it. Grandma Dana's passing devastated you. She was your ally; she understood you like no other." "Except you...." "Except me, and I've been so distant...Megan, you may only be ten-years-old, but I won't diminish who you are by pretending that you do not embody something quite extraordinary and unique. You are my child and the granddaughter of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, and as Grandma always said, 'we have a legacy rich in love and sacrifice.' It's time you understood it, and were able to embrace it. It's time you knew how very special you are, Megan." 'I WILL CONTINUE HERE AS LONG AS I CAN...AS LONG AS YOU ARE BESET BY THE HAUNTING ILLNESS, WHICH I SAW CONSUME YOUR BEAUTIFUL LMIND.' "You think these journals will help me better understand why I am the way I am? Why you and I seem so different from others?" I almost fear his response. "I know it, Megan; I've read them. Grandma Dana gave them to me years ago, to help me understand my 'gifts'. And, Megs, yours are more pronounced than mine are or ever will be. While you were only a baby, we became aware that you are a very special child. I may be empathic, but you are able to read minds, sweetheart." "Sometimes it hurts, Daddy...to be so different, to never quite fit in, to not know who I'm supposed to be," I whisper against his chest. I feel his hands reaching downward, stroking my wet cheeks, and gently raising my face to his. "You listen to me, and hear me well. You are Megan Samantha Mulder. And you are a miracle. Never forget that." '...I'M PREGNANT.' "I won't." I stifle a yawn that threatens to escape. Giving my backside a gentle swat, Dad urges me toward the house. "Time for bed, young lady. I don't care how advanced for your age you are, 3:00 AM is still a ridiculous time for you to be up wandering around." "Yes, Spooky." I have a loopy grin on my face as I use the name the police officers have given him because of his uncanny ability to get into the heads of criminals. Only now, I understand the birthright behind it, and comprehend the complement he always felt that nickname to be. Dad's voice followed me as I head to the house. "I'll be with Mom at the precinct when you get up tomorrow, Megan. Aunt Chris will be staying with you and the kids. She said she could do her work here at the house, temporarily. She'll remain until things settle down; I want someone with you at all times. And I'm more comfortable with you all staying home with Aunt Chris, then attending summer care." "Dad..." I wail. "I'll go nuts cooped up. It won't be a pretty sight. The trauma I'm likely to inflict on those around me could keep them in therapy for years to come." "That won't be a problem. They'd get my family discount." With a slump to my shoulders because he is seriously not paying any attention to me, I mumble under my breath about 'shrinks who think they're so funny.' "Megan, you =will= listen to me about this. Just stay inside; read the rest of the journals." "Sure, fine, whatever." I grumble, closing the French doors behind me. "I'll finish the journals, and stay inside. But if the Slime Monkeys and Miss Priss get on my nerves, I won't be held accountable for my actions." I may be 'advanced' for my age, but I can wreak sibling vengeance with the ferocity of any 'pain in the ass' child. A LEGACY: CHAPTER FOUR DANA SCULLY'S JOURNAL [ABRIDGED] As read by Megan Scully Mulder May 30, 2000 Truly you have formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother's womb. I give you thanks that I am fearfully, wonderfully made; wonderful are your works. My soul also you knew full well; nor was my frame unknown to you, when I was made in secret, when I was fashioned in the depths of the earth. Psalm 139: 12-15 Mom sent this verse today. She put it in a greeting card, and mailed it to me, hopeful it would make me feel less fearful for you. It is beautiful and reassuring, but is it enough to allay the fears I have of your existence? I know you are there, within me...growing. I have scientific evidence documenting that fact. The pregnancy test shows the increase in HCG hormone, menstruation has ceased, and the exam, where I've been palpated and probed and been given pre-natal vitamins, has divined the physical changes within my body. All are meant to reassure me of the reality that is you. Even as my 'science' documents these truths, I am still fearful it is all a delusion, and you are nothing more than a psychological symptom of innermost desires and lost dreams. Because who's to say what's real any more? In a world where time used to be a constant, and physical laws of nature were once irrefutable, down is now up, and up is...well up is somewhere lost in starlight. And up is where he is, your father, the other half that completes me. And until Mulder's been returned, everything remains inside out, and nothing any more is constant.... JUNE 15, 2000 A few months ago we reflected upon choices, Mulder. In our normal way of analyzing something to death, we discussed whether each path taken is by our own conscious design, or the fated consequences of indifference or missed opportunity. In both the abstract and concrete we explored the manner in which we had arrived at the precipice we had. Was it by man's machinations, God's Divine hand, or our own arrogant belief that we might control our destiny? And somewhere in the midst of our conversation, you left me on your couch, wrapped in a Navaho blanket, swaddled like a slumbering child. The only thing missing was the lullaby. So was it fate waking me that night when all things were possible, some tugging within my dream state, or the knowledge of things left unfinished and unsaid once again. Perhaps it was your careless clattering in the kitchen. The question then being was your clumsiness accidental or the unintentional manifestation of your unspoken desire to wake me. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, shoulders hunched over, your head bowed, with your chin touching your chest. As I came up behind you, slid my arms around your waist, and leaned in to rest my head against your back, I felt your knotted muscles -- tense, unsure. You exhaled. It was as if you had been holding your breath for eons, and were finally allowed the freedom to breathe once more. Gently disengaging my arms from where they circled your waist, you turned, and I beheld a sight more wondrous to me than any I've seen in our seven years together. As you tenderly cupped my face between shaking hands, and bent your head, looking deeply into my eyes, your face revealed an emotional cascade, beautiful to behold. It flowed over you like a peaceful river, meandering along until it surged downstream into the roaring thunder of a waterfall. Merging so quickly, that if I were to have blinked I would have missed it, was concern, confusion, hopeful expectation, dawning realization, awe, love, and, finally, desire so intense I thought my knees would buckle beneath me as I absorbed it all. How amazing to be held upright by a gaze so intense, yet a touch so delicate it could have safely cradled the fragile, gossamer wisps of puffy dandelions. Even as my weakened limbs rebelled against me, knocked out from under me by the passion of your gaze, I took your hand, leading you with utmost purpose and resolution into your bedroom. You fought the urge to speak, myriad questions forming at your lips in spite of yourself. Even as I knew the import of my decision, I couldn't resist a moment of irreverence, one instant to leave you speechless, before we left each other breathless. Placing a fingertip at your lips, stilling your hesitant queries before they could be uttered, I said, "Mulder, in the infamous words of my brother, Bill, 'It is time to either shit, or get off the pot.' More poetic words were never used as foreplay. JUNE 30, 2000 You've been gone a month, Mulder...a little bit over 30 days. And each day has been as the one before, one more day without you, and one more day I fight to remain hopeful. I will not give in to despair, I will not succumb to the malaise and melancholy infusing those around me, those who offer well wishes and condolences as though I was a grieving widow. I still haven't broadcast my pregnancy. Although it's only a matter of time before that will no longer be an option, and physical confirmation of our relationship will exist. To our colleagues it's the natural closing in of the rank and file as they acknowledge our seven-year partnership, an anomaly within the FBI. I feel as though I'm in the middle of a bloody traffic accident, and the onlookers are gawking, hoping to scratch some curious, morbid itch as they hover around me. For the most part the circumstances of your disappearance have been kept under wraps. There has been rumor and innuendo, but nothing substantiated, although Skinner did file a report, remaining true to his word that he would not hide what he had seen. But it was deemed so off the wall as to be the ravings of someone who'd been exposed to you for too long, and Skinner was forced to undergo a physical and psychological examination before he could return to work. The findings: Something so traumatic must have happened to you both the Assistant Director has surely repressed the horror of it. In order to help him cope, Skinner must have concocted 'this story' out of fragmented past discussions with you. They've gagged him; he's not to discuss his wild theories, unless he'd like to take a more permanent medical leave of absence. So the findings stand, unchallenged by Skinner or me. What would be the use? He and I would be denied access, taken out of the loop, and no longer able to function in our search for you. So we've behaved like good little FBI agents, and fallen in behind the company line. JULY 11, 2000 Tomorrow I will be assigned a new 'partner.' Skinner informed me today. Of course I described, in no uncertain terms, what the FBI could do with my 'new partner.' Skinner, in turn, reminded me I had no other option if I wished to keep the X-Files open. The auditor's report is still looming over our heads, and I'm sure the next fiscal budget findings may make my decisions for me. But in the meantime, I will remain as long as I am able, even if that means allowing an interloper into our office. Your disappearance is a pending case, Mulder; person or persons unknown have abducted a federal officer. And to that end, it is being investigated by very conventional and traditional methodology. Conventional and traditional will not find you. Alex Krycek and Marita Corruvibias have both gone underground. The Gunmen haven't been able to trace either of them since your disappearance. There have been rumors that Cancer Man is dead, murdered by Krycek. But a body has yet to turn up, and I won't believe that son of a bitch is truly gone until his body's been placed on my table, ready for my scalpel. Oh...God, Mulder. I miss you. I ache for you. I love you. JULY 28, 2000 It's just so difficult sometimes, Mulder...to not think crazy thoughts. I've done the DNA testing. I've had an amniocentesis and ultrasound. I've checked for chromosomal abnormalities, and counted DNA base pairs, checking for the possibility of a fifth and sixth nucleotide...and yet...I still can't help wondering. No...not about the parentage...I know genetically this child is ours, but...I still get hung up on the miracle and madness of it all. With this miracle comes the undeniable probability this child has been exposed to all manner of insanity - branched, recombinant DNA, the virus, black cancer, the vaccine, and who the hell knows what else. Any or all of it may have been incorporated into our baby's genetic design. The ramifications for this child have not escaped me. He has unique potential. In all probability he will be immune to the threat of an alien viral plague, and he will be a target from the moment he is born, from more quarters than I probably even know. Krycek has finally come sniffing around, trying to get me to agree to his 'protection.' I've refused, his warnings ringing in my ears...telling me the mistake I make. I will protect the baby, Mulder. With my last breath I will find some way. He will not be taken. And yes, Mulder, we are going to have a son. AUGUST 15,2000 Oh my God, Mulder. I felt the baby move... I was at the Gunmen's, looking through another batch of satellite photos, trying to applaud Langly's efforts when all I wanted to do was scream at the lack of clues any of us is turning up. Our son, he moved. I think I must have gasped because Langly dropped photos, scattering them all over the floor. He was all bewildered at what to do for a woman in my 'condition.' I assured him I was ok, and he went back to work, looking at me out of the corner of his eye as though he was afraid I was lying, and might faint again. Do you have any idea, Mulder, how much I hate milk? Frohike hovers over me like it's his life mission to provide my daily intake of calcium. I accused him of owning stock in T.G. Lee, and I asked him if he were renting a cow. All I got was a stern look and a lecture on the benefits of proper pre-natal nutrition. He keeps waving this book, 'What to do if You are Expecting', in the air as if it were the Bible. If he tries to cook me liver, I'll show him what he can do with his iron. While Frohike stood there, counting ounces as I strangled down another glass of homogenized, fortified, Vitamin D, the baby moved again. "You felt the baby, didn't you, Scully?" Frohike asked, his voice quiet and gentle. "Yes...it's the second time. It feels like butterflies fluttering within me," I replied, my voice more awestruck than I intended. "Frohike, I'm really going to have a baby." He just beamed. SEPTEMBER 12, 2000 My new 'partner' doesn't like the habit I have of running off without him. Today he had such a seriously frustrated look on his face as he accused me of ditching him. I couldn't help it; I laughed. It felt so good, and it felt like betrayal. Jim appears to be a good man, Mulder. But I have a difficult time trusting anyone these days. He's street smart and seasoned. He spent time in the military ... special ops. Would you believe it; he's the skeptic to my believer. Although, I assure you, I haven't forsaken my 'disbelief', it's just been augmented with a humbling knowledge of all we don't know. But there's something in his background; the guys dug it up. Apparently, Jim was married, and his wife was killed under 'bizarre' circumstances. He doesn't talk about it, but I think that makes him sympathetic to what I'm going through, and explains, in theory, his interest in the X- Files. Too bad I can't take anything on face value. October 1, 2000 Talk's been brutal, Mulder. The tide has changed since you first were taken. As much as people didn't understand you or your methods, there was a grudging admiration for your profiling abilities and our solve rate. Within the limited rubric they have, our colleagues have been busting their collective asses looking for you. Now that my pregnancy is obvious, things have started to change. People are beginning to wonder if 'Spooky Mulder' just couldn't hack commitment, and decided to take the 'proverbial' powder. The rumor mill's rampant once more where we're concerned. And you are getting the short end of a very pointy stick. OCTOBER 13, 2000 Happy Birthday, Mulder...happy birthday. OCTOBER 22, 2000 I have a plan to protect this child. I know, deep within me, they will be after him as soon as he is born. For now they are leaving me alone, perhaps they fear jeopardizing the pregnancy by taking me. I don't know. All I know is I haven't been harmed, and I don't think I will be as long as I am carrying this baby. In their eyes I'm a breeder, pregnant with the potential 'savior' of the human race. The perfect 'human-hybrid.' I've had to cut down on field activity. I had a scare last week; I started spotting. It turned out to be all right, but I was cautioned I need to slow down, get more rest...or the doctor will force me to complete restriction. If confinement is what's needed to ensure the safety of our child, so be it. But I'd rather not have to go to that extreme. So I've come out of the field, and am performing autopsies, and doing more deskwork. Jim's been re- assigned to VICAP, and the X-Files has ostensibly been closed down. There has been no other choice. NOVEMBER 14, 2000 Lying here in bed tonight as I write this, I can almost feel you with me. It's like it was that last night we spent in Belfleur, when you draped yourself over me, spooning our bodies together until the shivers abated. To think I was already pregnant then, and when your arms were around me, they cradled our son - you were there at his life's beginning, and I treasure that. The Lone Gunmen tell me there have been increased anomalous energy-field readings in the West and Southwest. They are watching these areas more closely, hoping it signals the imminent return of the abductees, the return of you. I can't get my hopes up. And as much as I long to go there, to be close in case their interpretations are correct, I am unable to travel. The doctor has put me on bed rest. My blood pressure has increased, and he is concerned about pre-eclampsia. So here I lie, feeling as though, by protecting our child, I am forsaking you. It's small consolation knowing you would have it no other way. It tears me apart. DECEMBER 1, 2000 Skinner was here today. Mom didn't want him to come. As much as I've tried to explain things to her, she feels all my troubles will abate if I just stay away from the X-Files, and anyone who has anything to do with it...including Skinner...and to a certain degree, I fear, you. I know Skinner has been compromised in the past. I have no doubt he has walked a very slippery slope, and although I know I don't agree with all of his decisions, I have to admire the man who's been in an impossible position - keeping back the devil as you and I go where angels fear to tread. So I will trust him. I must...and in that end, he's devised a plan to get the baby and me out of the hospital, and set up in a safe house...someplace, he assures me, beyond their reach. I don't know if that is possible, but, Mulder, there is no other choice. I can't do this on my own; I must trust somebody. DECEMBER 15, 2000 These are not Braxton Hicks. I have started labor, Mulder. And it's time for the hospital. Mom has gone on ahead, taking my overnight bag. I will go with Skinner and our entire entourage. You'd think I was the President, with the amount of security surrounding me, all handpicked by Skinner. Frohike and the guys are major freaked, being around this testosterone brigade. The posturing going on around here the last several days is enough to set human evolution back to the day of cave dwellers. Frohike, drawn up to his entire 5'3'' height, standing toe to toe with Skinner, is unquestionably one of the most bizarre sights I've ever seen. You would have been proud of the little troll, Mulder. He let Skinner know in uncertain terms what part of his anatomy would be forfeit if ANYTHING happens to the baby or me. Skinner, for his part, agreed. DECEMBER 20, 2000 The baby's dead, Mulder. Our son's dead.... A LEGACY: CHAPTER FIVE DANA SCULLY'S JOURNAL [ABRIDGED] As read by Megan Scully Mulder DECEMBER 20, 2000 THE BABY'S DEAD, MULDER. OUR SON...IS DEAD. 'What? The baby's dead? That can't be right,' I think, flipping to the next page, looking for something to explain Grandma Dana's bizarre comment. Folded up between the next two pages are several yellowed pieces of paper. As I slowly fan out the crumpled parchment, I notice right away that it's an old-fashioned newspaper. I've seen pictures of these dinosaurs in my history lessons. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ WASHINGTON POST ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ HOSPITAL BOMB SCARE FORCES EVACUATION Washington Post Staff Writer Saturday, December 16, 2000 At 3:00AM (EST) George Washington University Hospital (GWU) received a warning from an unidentified caller, claiming that several bombs had been placed within the building. Hospital administration informed local police and FBI, who were unable to verify the caller's information before his reported deadline. Formal emergency evacuation procedures were instigated. All GWU critical care patients were transported to either Georgetown University Hospital or Washington Hospital Center (WHC), both recently purchased by MedStar. With its 907 bed Facility WHC was equipped to handle the majority of GWU's patients. Any non urgent or elective surgery cases were sent home, and all emergency and trauma cases were diverted to other area hospitals, until which time GWU was deemed safe. FBI and local bomb squad teams thoroughly searched the building for several hours before reporting no incendiary devices were found on the premises. According to Fire Chief Ned "Stretch" Wilton, "There are lots of crazies out there. Too bad they have to get their jollies terrorizing those who already have enough burden in their lives." Assistant Director Walter Skinner, FBI, stated, "At no time was the public in danger. Emergency management teams effectively distributed the patients to area hospitals. Well before the perpetrator's deadline, the entire hospital had been evacuated." He refused additional comment with regards to the caller's ID, strenuously repeating, "No comment." According to an anonymous source, "'DC's Aryan Brotherhood' and the 'American One Militia' have both claimed responsibility for the bomb scare." There are no other leads at this time. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ WASHINGTON POST ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ FBI AGENT'S BABY KIDNAPPED Washington Post Staff Writer Saturday, December 16, 2000 At 6:00PM {EST} Thomas Scully Mulder, four- hours-old, was kidnapped from Washington Hospital Center [WHC], 110 Irving Street, NW, Washington, DC. His mother, Special Agent Dana Scully, was one of the patients transferred to WHC, following the bomb scare at Washington University Hospital earlier in the morning. The police were notified at 6:15PM of the baby's disappearance, after it was determined the infant had been removed from the Mother's room. Anonymous sources close to the case report Agent Scully, and a body guard within the room, were drugged. It is unknown how the drug was administered, but the baby was thought to be transported out of the room, presumably on the bottom of a modified hospital dinner cart which was later found in the service elevator. Special Agent Dana Scully was noticeably distraught over the disappearance of her child. She appeared on several DC News Broadcasts, tearfully requesting any information leading to the recovery of her son. A source close to the case has confirmed there may be more involved than first appears. Agent Scully's partner, and the purported father of her child, has been missing for several months. An ongoing manhunt exists for his captors, and it is believed that both Agents have been targets. It has been learned that Agent Scully had been under maximum security in George Washington University Hospital, prior to the evacuation order. An unnamed source remarked, "We had that place buttoned up tighter than Ft. Knox, and tried to do the same here." The probability is this may not be a random infant kidnapping. Local police suspect a tie in of the infant's abduction with the bomb scare at GWU and the subsequent evacuation. Members of some underground 'consortium' have been mentioned as possible suspects. The FBI is handling the matter, and they are refusing comment at this time. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ WASHINGTON POST ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ FBI AGENT'S BABY MURDERED Washington Post Staff Writer Monday, December 18, 2000 9:00PM(EST), Suitland. In response to a tip concerning the whereabouts of two-day-old kidnap victim, Thomas Scully Mulder, local law enforcement and FBI sharp shooters surrounded Manchester Square, an apartment complex closed in 1997 by the county due to building code violations. The baby had been kidnapped from his mother's room at Washington Hospital Center 48 hours previously. Sharp shooters closed in, setting their sights on the alleged kidnapper who tightly held the baby to his chest. Just before the order was given to move in, several stacks of dynamite were spotted through the broken windows of the tenement. Immediately after law enforcement was ordered to pull back, the building exploded. Damage appeared to be contained in one area of the abandoned building, not the entire structure. No law enforcement personnel were injured, but the body of an unidentified male, and the small remains of a baby were found within the rubble. Special Agent Scully, who was at the scene, collapsed, and the FBI's Assistant Director, Walter Skinner, carried her to a waiting ambulance. Family reports that Agent Scully is in seclusion, mourning the death of her son. Law enforcement have no leads at this point, other than assuming this must somehow be related to one of Agent Scully's ongoing cases. It is assumed this was retaliation in some way against the Agent, but this has yet to be substantiated by reliable source. As one local DC cop said, under condition of anonymity, "You would have thought this kid was the President's son. Not that all kids aren't important, and this is a horrible tragedy, but I don't understand what gives." There is still no word on the whereabouts of her partner, and the baby's father, Special Agent Fox Mulder. He is still reported missing, and the case is still open, pending further investigation into his disappearance. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ WASHINGTON POST ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ THOMAS SCULLY MULDER BURIED Washington Post Staff Writer Thursday, December 21, 2000 Oak Lawn Cemetery, Georgetown. The funeral was held this morning for two-day-old, Thomas Scully Mulder. The baby was killed on Monday, in a botched kidnapping attempt. It is unknown if the alleged kidnapper killed in Monday's raid worked alone or was part of a larger conspiracy. Identity verification of the corpse is still pending Thomas Scully Mulder was the son of Special Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. Agent Mulder, an expert behavioral profiler, is missing, presumed a victim of foul play. Special Agent Dana Scully has been with the FBI for almost ten years, having been recruited out of Medical School into the Bureau, where she spent her first two years teaching pathology at Quantico. For the past seven years she has been partnered with Special Agent Fox Mulder, in the X-File division. Family and a few close friends attended the private service. The baby was laid to rest next to Agent Scully's sister, Melissa Scully, murdered several years ago. Police and FBI are still investigating the kidnapping as part of a larger plot tied-in with the bomb scare at George Washington University Hospital on December 16. So far no leads have panned out. DECEMBER 21, 2000 Mulder, I shot Alex Krycek today. The rat bastard had the audacity to come to me, trying to tell me that they had nothing to do with Thomas' kidnapping and death. He said plans had been in the works to steal the child...that the 'bodyguard' in my room had been 'turned' and was going to help them remove our son from the hospital, but that somehow...someone beat them to it. I informed the lying son of a bitch that there was no way he would convince me this wasn't the 'consortium's' doing. And if he were telling the truth, what possible reason would he have for coming to me with it. Believe it or not, Mulder, he actually laughed and had the audacity to say he bore me no "ill will"...Ill will, his actual words, Mulder... He bore me no ill will, and he wanted me to know that this enemy, the one who would sacrifice...an innocent baby...was...Oh, Mulder, was an enemy unknown. He wanted me to come with him, for protection. But there's no altruism on his part. He just doesn't want something happening to the 'consortium's' pet project. As he reached for me, Mulder, I shot him...too bad it was only in the shoulder. How ironic, Mulder, you and Alex Krycek now have matching shoulder wounds. I thought that the pain I felt from missing you could not get any worse. I was wrong, the agony is now exponentially felt. I'm dying inside... DECEMBER 25, 2000 Dearest Thomas, The four hours I spent with you was a gift beyond measure. To have been your mom for nine months and two days...to have carried you close to my heart, bringing you into this world wrapped up in joy so complete I thought my heart would surely burst with the full measure of it, is a feeling of incomparability. The moment I heard your first cry, felt your tiny warm body nestled upon my belly, your mouth searching for my breast, is the moment we formed a bond that time and circumstance cannot break. Thomas, you are my son, now and forever...and there is NOTHING that will ever take that away from me. You are a child born of love and sacrifice. I named you 'Thomas' after Jesus' disciple. It seemed fitting, somehow, to name you after the one who needed more rigorous confirmation before he could believe. I thought your father would enjoy the humor of it. I can't believe how much I saw Mulder in your tiny face. So much hair on a baby's head, all thick and dark...your daddy's hair. And your hooded eyes... the old soul eyes that encountered your world for the first time. I remember wondering if they would change to the beautiful hazel of your father's eyes. Your fists were clutching at me as you nursed, and you made such tiny baby sounds. You had the softest skin and the tiniest toes, and a baby smell all talc and baby lotion...and oh God how am I going to tell Mulder that I lost his son? How am I going to survive this? This may be more than I can bear. Goodbye, sweet Thomas... ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Carrying the articles and the diary downstairs, I enter Dad's study, where I plop them on the desk in front of him. There are no other entries in the diary past this one letter addressed to Thomas. And this is the last of the diaries that I have. And no one's going to make me believe this is where the story ends. "Explain how you died on December 18, 2000, and yet you sit here, smelling like...what is that?" "Smoke." He sniffs at his shirt. "It's been a long day at the precinct, Megan." "Yeah smoke, Dad." My puzzlement sounds like an accusation. "How can you be dead, but alive?" "Megan...this is the part in the story where I need to tell you the rest. I don't want you to be alone when you read the remaining diaries. That's why I pulled the last two out of the drawer before I put the dresser in the attic." "What's the deal, Dad? It's a simple question, are you dead or not?" Chuckling, Dad stood, reaching across the desk and grabbing my pigtails. "You are such a bulldog, Megan -- so much like your Grandma and Grandpa." "Complements aren't going to get you out of this," I grumble, watching him walk toward the French doors, leading out into the Foyer. "Dad, where are you going?" "Honey, I have to get back to work. I just came home to check on you and update your Aunt Chris. I'm grabbing your Mom a clean set of clothes and heading back to the precinct." "But what about the diary, the explanation." I stutter, not believing that he would really leave me hanging like this. "It'll have to wait, Honey...until I have the time to sit down with you and go over it." Scrunching my face up into a disapproving frown, I intently eye my father. He gives me a that reproachful look he does so well. "Megan, don't you dare invade my privacy over this. I have told you I will talk to you about it, and I will. But for now, I must get going. Go help out your Aunt Chris with the kids. She needs to make a call or two, and she could use your help about now." I don't believe my eyes as I watch him walk out the door, carrying with him the rest of the story. 'I'm going to go mad waiting for this,' I think as I head into the kitchen looking for Aunt Chris and the fearsome threesome. "It's not fair," I mutter under my breath, ducking as a gooey glob of Jell-O comes sailing past my ear. "It's just not fair." ~*~*~*~*~ LATER THAT AFTERNOON "Megan, what are you doing?" "Uh oh...busted," I think, straightening up from the locked drawer in the bottom of Dad's desk. Smoothing my wrinkled T-shirt, I turn to see a stern looking Aunt Chris. "Uh...looking for some extra computer discs, Aunt Chris. I need some for a project I'm working on," I lie, my fingers hastily crossed behind my back. "I thought Dad had some, but I can't seem to find them. Maybe they're in Mom's desk." Crooking her finger at the top of Dad's desk, Aunt Chris points to a large stack of discs, sitting in plain sight. "These wouldn't happen to be what you were looking for, would they, Megan?" "Thanks, Aunt Chris. I must have missed them. So...did you finish with your calls?" "One of these days, Megan, your incorrigibility is going to get you into so much trouble," she says, affectionately ruffling my hair. Yuck, I hate when people do that. "So where's Mollie, Megan?" "Mollie?" "Your little sister, the three-year-old bane of your existence." "Um...I don't know...Isn't she with Tommy and Frank?" "No, Megan, she's not. And I thought you were watching her," Aunt Chris admonishes as she begins walking toward the kitchen. "Well she was here a second ago; she was right behind me. She must have gotten bored while I was looking for--" "-Discs?" "Uh...yeah, discs." Darn that little sister of mine; she's going to get me into all kinds of hot water over this. She'd better be found quickly, or the water's going to reach the boiling point really fast. 'Time to find the little goober,' I think. Opening my mind, I let my thoughts drift out...searching for Mollie, and thoughts of silver dragons named Snark, grape Popsicles and the puppy she so desperately wants. And there...it is...and there she is...and...OH MY GOD.... "Aunt Chris! You've got to call Mom and Dad." "Honey, we'll find her...don't worry, well maybe you should. She's probably in your room wreaking havoc," she laughs as she climbs the stairway to the second floor. "No...Aunt Chris, she's not up there. She slipped out the front door, heading to the Miller's, three doors down. They have a dog and some puppies. She's been after Dad to get her one." I let the words rush out on a single gasp of air, my sentences tumbling over each other. Stopping her ascent, Aunt Chris turns and sees my face. She's my mother's sister, and she knows my looks. "No...Megan." "Aunt Chris, he's got her. The one who's been taking the kids. He's got Mollie." A LEGACY: CHAPTER SIX Harsh-sounding sirens pierce our quiet neighborhood like sharp needles against skin. The raucous, blaring discord is coupled with tires squealing. Police cars screech to a halt in front of my house, creating a frightening, surreal spectacle. Opening the front door, I step across the threshold, onto the stoop and pause. My eyes are transfixed upon the strobe lights perched atop the vehicles, flashing crimson and royal blue like some department store blue light special. Dad exits the passenger seat of the first vehicle before the car has barely halted. His long legs carry him across the curb and up the sidewalk, where he stops halfway and stares...transfixed...at me as I stare, mesmerized by flickering strobe lights. Dad waves his hand behind him, motioning the others who are exiting cars in a flurry of impatience and determination, to remain where they are and to stop their forward movement. As though he's afraid he might frighten away some wild bird with his hurried gestures, Dad breathes deeply for a moment, collecting his runaway thoughts and calming his terrified countenance. But not before I see...not before I know the hell where his mind has been from the very second he received Aunt Chris' call about Mollie's kidnapping. "Megan?" "Daddy." I've never felt so small as I do now. For all my smart-ass ways, I'm truly frightened. "Honey, it's going to be all right. We are going to find your sister. You need not be afraid." Slowly he moves forward, avoiding the small truck Tommy or Frank left out on the walkway. The closer he gets to me, the more difficult it is for him to hide the fear that fills him up until there's no place else for it to go, but out...radiating out...seeking...pummeling against me. "Daddy, I'm so sorry," I sob. He enfolds me in his arms, my body collapsing into his. He lifts me, pulling me in so closely that his embrace almost hurts with its crushing intensity. I wrap my legs around him as he awkwardly carries me over to the porch swing. He sits, the swing gently rocking from our combined weight. He settles me more securely on his lap and holds me tight. The sobs I've held in ever since I realized Mollie had been taken are released in great, gulping waves of inconsolability. Even as Daddy strokes my hair, whispering words to calm me...I can't stop the tears or the fear from overwhelming me. His words permeate my guilt. His hands, which are determinedly shaking my shoulders, finally, register. "Megan." I feel my arms grasped. Firmly, but gently, he pulls me away from where I claw at him, shaking me. "Megan, listen to me, honey. You have to pull yourself together. I need your help. Mollie needs our help." Lifting my eyes, from where I've soaked his dress shirt with my emotional outburst, to his face, I see no reproach. There is concern, yes...frustration and alarm, but no condemnation. As I use the corner of my wrinkled T-shirt to wipe my face, smudged and streaked with snot from my runny nose and dirty tear tracks, I calm myself. I have to get things under control if I am going to help Mollie. Another car pulls up to the curb, and Mom jumps out, her hair disheveled and tossed about as she runs up the walkway to the porch swing where we sit. Throwing herself at the two of us, I find myself crushed between my parents. Mom clutches at us both as though she were afraid we'd disappear right before her eyes. "Mommy, I'm sorry," I whisper into the soft folds of her jacket, fresh tears pooling in my eyes as I feel her body tremble within my Dad's frantic embrace. "Megan, I won't have that. You are not to blame. We will find Mollie," she admonishes, her thumbs gently stroking at my wet cheeks. I watch Mom speak with Officer Larson. They have a grid map of the area which they've spread on the ground, and Mom's barking orders as though she were a Drill Sergeant rallying her troops. Before I know it, she's deployed about two dozen police officers up and down both sides of our street, where they will knock on doors and interview potential witnesses. Even as I know her teeth are tightly clenched, panic barely kept at bay, Mom's doing her job...doing what she's meant to do. I can do no less. "Daddy, I can help find Mollie." "Megan...You probably could, but that's an awful lot to ask of you. You are only ten...." "Daddy, we both know...I may be ten in chronological years, but that's where it ends. There's always been something inside me...an old soul as Grandma Dana said. I can help; I must help." Police are walking through our front yard, checking behind and beneath bushes for footprints, and examining our windowsills for fingerprints. Our neighbors are being brought to their doors, and I feel the wide-eyed speculation that is rampant up and down the block. I see Mrs. Minelli, standing beside her mailbox, speaking with a young officer, Mrs. M's face full of compassion as she catches my gaze. "Daddy, Grandpa Mulder couldn't help Aunt Samantha when she was taken. There was nothing he could do, and he spent over twenty-five years searching for his sister, and trying to live down the guilt he felt for her abduction. I can do something... Grandma Dana gave me those journals so I'd know the legacy that was mine. Although, I don't quite understand all the details, yet, there's no excuse for me not to use my inheritance." "Megan, are you sure?" "Daddy, I spend my days around here trying to not get into trouble with 'my gifts.' And let's face it, I use my special sight when I want to, for whatever selfish purpose I might enjoy. Please, let me help Mollie. Don't let this become something that haunts us because we didn't use every advantage that we have," I plead, my eyes no longer wet with tears, but clear and sure with my decision. "You know I can help, Dad. I_can_do_it!" "Deborah!" Mom turns, looking for my father. It's as though they have an entire conversation without speaking before she heads to her car. She returns, carrying a laptop. Placing the laptop on my legs, she says, "Megan, these are photos of possible suspects. I want you to look at them, sweetheart." I open the file she indicates and gasp. The first pictures are of Mom and Dad, Officer Larson and Detective Johansen. "Mom? These are all police officers." "Yes, Megan. Your dad feels that the perpetrator of this crime is someone intimately involved in the investigation. These are those people working the case. In the second file you will find additional photos, but they are not on the task force." "Megan, just look, honey." Placing my finger on the mouse, I slide the cursor across the monitor, clicking on each and every picture. I open myself up, hoping that something I see will give me that tingly feeling I know so well. As I finish the first file, Dad sighs. In one respect he's thankful no one from the task group is guilty of this heinous act, but he's also frustrated I've not seen anything to give me pause. I dive through the other files, opening each and taking my time looking at all the pictures. As I view the last page of photos, my shoulders slump. There is nothing in these photos...nothing that will help me find Mollie. "Megan, you've done your best, honey. I just thought...I thought someone on the case. There were times I could feel him so clearly, Megan...the superiority he felt knowing we were all looking outside when he was there all along." Dad paces in front of one of his rosebush trellises. Such a stark contrast it is, his defeated posture visible against the vibrant, pink buds. Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath, holding it as long as I can, before exhaling slowly through my pursed lips. I force myself to relax, keying in on the sounds around me. There is Mom, excitedly talking on her radio; Mr. Miller's dog, Nervous, howling at officers tramping through the yards; and kids whose voices carried across the grass as they speculate as to who has taken Mollie. Each sound swells and releases, mingling together in a cacophony of noise that fills my head like a bright, glaring strobe light...a yellow, flashing light that is always on...always bright...in the alley, outside McNab's Deli.... McNab's deli, the place I'd caught Melanie Detweiller and Sally Parsons playing clapping games. McNab's deli, only in business for a little over a year, its owner always considerate and thoughtful, providing food for a weary task force on a daily basis -- free of charge. Mr. McNab, deranged, but insufferably arrogant, enjoying his ability to hide in plain sight, falling back on old habits he can't control as he methodically feeds his addiction killing children. "MCNAB'S DELI! Daddy, Mr. McNab has Mollie. He's the one that's been taking the kids!" Dad stops pacing, his eyes search mine. He opens himself up to me, hoping for once that he might see what I see...that he might have the sight, not just the feelings behind it. I force myself to not lock it up inside as I normally do, but to consciously seek him, look for him in my mind. And I do seek, and he does, find...and for once I don't have to use words to explain to him what it is like. He knows. Dad knows, and he understands what I have always lived with, what, at times, scares me to death... so much so I hide behind my smart-ass comments and a cutting humor, in order to survive an inheritance I don't understand. Feeling something quite different than I normally feel, I whisper, "Dad, I believe I'm going to faint. What an utterly odd sensation." Blackness and my father's arms arrive at the same time... ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ SEVERAL DAYS LATER Mollie's been safely home for days, Mr. McNab's been transferred to the state psychiatric hospital pending evaluation, and our town has begun the slow, painful process of healing. Sally Parsons' parents continue to glare at me as though they feel I could have saved their daughter. Perhaps, I might have, if I'd tried to "see" earlier. I'll never know for sure. They'll move away from here, hauling all their personal belongings, trying to forget this town and me. I'm adjusting to the stares and questions, learning to live with unwanted notoriety and fearful glances. Dad says it'll blow over; I'm not so sure. Oh...it's not all bad; there are some who have gone out of their way to assure me I did a wonderful thing. Even Mrs. Minelli baked me cookies, at least...I think they were cookies. Tomorrow we are heading on vacation, a trip to the beach and family fun in the sun...two weeks with the dastardly duo and Miss Pintsize Carrot-top. Oh well...she hasn't been so bad, lately. Busted, again. I feel Dad's arrival as he walks up the pathway below me. He's muttering to himself about being "way to old for this shit." He climbs anyway, hating every step he takes up the water tower ladder. "Megan, you know heights scare the hell out of me," he gripes, slapping his butt down beside me on the wooden slats. "The attic wasn't good enough for you any more? Why the friggin water tower?" "Tommy and Frank finally figured out how to pull a chair beneath the attic pull chord. I'm going to have to come up with something clever. In the meantime-" "-the water tower?" "Yep, the water tower." Pulling a canvas knapsack from his shoulder, Dad lays it between us. "Grandma Dana's last two diaries are in here, Megan. It's time we talk about them." I put my hand between us, reaching for the knapsack clasp. Dad lays his hand upon mine, completely covering my fingers as he stills my movement. "You may read these later, Megan. For now I'm going to tell you the story - the story within these diaries. Open up your heart and mind and see it unfold. See how Thomas Scully Mulder died on December 18, 2000, and yet holds your hand today. And see, dearest Megan, how two people forged your legacy - rich in love and sacrifice." ~*~*~*~*~*~ NOVEMBER 1, 2000 HOOVER BUILDING "Frohike, I don't have time for this. I have a meeting with Skinner in three hours and more paper work than humanly possible. I don't have time to meet you for lunch today." Pushing a strand of hair away from my forehead, I bang my pencil against the desk, the staccato beat giving me a headache even as my hand has a mind of its own. "Scully, look I wouldn't ask to see you, except it's been several weeks. You know I told Mulder I'd look after you...so unless you want me on your doorstep tonight, with two of my nearest and dearest, I'll be seeing you for lunch." Wondering if he's heard something, thus explaining his tenacity, I ask, "Frohike, is there any news?" "No, Scully. I just want to make sure my Godson is being properly taken care of. I'll meet you at the reflecting pool. I'll bring the Moo Juice." "Frohike, no damn it-" He's cut me off, severed his connection, and even as I tell myself I don't have time for this, I know I'll meet him for lunch. Gathering my notes together, I glance at my watch...two hours...ok...time to be productive. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ REFLECTING POOL TWO HOURS LATER "Frohike, I want you to know that I am seven and a half months pregnant. Couldn't you have picked some place a little closer to Hoover?" "Walking's good for you, Agent Scully. In 'What to Do When You're Expecting' it says-" "Frohike, if you quote that book to me again, so help me God, I'll shoot you. And don't think I won't." Opening a bag, my lunch date begins to pull out various plastic containers. He has a smorgasbord of delights: tabouli, pasta salad, sliced, fresh fruit and a couple of croissants, still hot, too, if I'm not mistaken. He even has a thermos of milk, God love him. I take a fork. He hands me a napkin from the pile, pushing the paper into my hand. I stab a bite of the tabouli and promptly dribble the tiny kernels off my fork, onto my oversized stomach. "Damn." I take my napkin, swiping at the mess, while Frohike cringes beside me. Since he doesn't do my dry cleaning, I don't understand his sudden concern for my maternity skirt, until I look down at my lap and see the writing on the napkin he's given me. Casually I spread the paper on my lap and read the words, SCULLY, DON'T ASK QUESTIONS. JUST REACH INTO THE PAPER BAG AND TAKE OUT THE EAR PIECE. INSERT IT WITHOUT LETTING ANYONE SEE YOU DO IT. I ASSURE YOU, WE ARE PROBABLY NOT ALONE. "Damn, can't believe how clumsy I am today. This little extra shelf I am carrying around catches everything. Give me that bag, Frohike, I need another napkin." "You know, Scully, I've always wondered if you could perch your coffee cup up there. It seems like such a perfect fit." "Keep your mitts away from my stomach, Frohike, or the only gloves you'll need won't need finger holes." I reach into the bag, grasp hold of the ear piece, and palm it in my hand. Taking an additional napkin, I finish mopping up my mess. As I push my hair back from my face, I insert the earpiece into my ear. "Agent Scully, this is Byers. Do not nod your head; do not acknowledge you are hearing me. I believe you are probably under surveillance, do nothing to give yourself away. If you understand, take another bite of salad." I stab a bite of pasta salad, bringing it to my mouth and chewing. Even though, for the life of me, I couldn't tell you what it tasted like. My thoughts are on Byers and his cryptic messages. "Ok...Scully, you are doing well. Now listen, I am going to put someone else on to talk to you. Under no circumstances can you reveal our conversation. It is imperative that you appear to be doing nothing more than watching the reflections in the pool. If you understand, tell Frohike you would like a moment to yourself." "Frohike, this lunch is lovely, and you are right, I needed the break. But would you mind if I had a few minutes alone...to just sit and think." "Scully, I'll take a walk. You enjoy your rest. I'll be back, shortly." "Thanks, Frohike." He gives my hand a squeeze, a much more intimate gesture than usually transpires between us. I wonder what's up? "Scully." In spite of the warnings I just received, I couldn't help the audible gasp escaping my lips as I hear his voice coming through the ear piece. It can't be... can it? "Yes...Scully, it's me, Mulder." A LEGACY: CHAPTER SEVEN //Mulder?// My eyes track the surroundings, searching for him ... he has to be here ... somewhere close. "I'm here, Scully, but you can't see me. I have binoculars though ... and I can see you. Blue's always been a good color on you." I look down at my lap. I've taken off my blue scarf, and I am twisting it through my hands. I stop my anxious movements, remembering Byers' warning about prying eyes. I smooth the silk against my legs and try not to clench and unclench my nervous fingers. "You are doing fine, Scully. Don't worry. You look as though you are just enjoying a pleasant November afternoon." //This is crazy, how am I supposed to communicate with him ... why is he hiding from me?// "Scully...You are communicating with me, and I assure you ... hiding from you is the last thought on my mind. Seeing you, sitting there ... so very close and yet so impossibly far away is killing me. I need to touch you, and I have something I need to return to you." //My cross...// "Yes. I believe I promised to safely return the cross to you. I'm hoping you still want the one who wears it?" //Oh God, yes ... Mulder...You can hear my thoughts?// "Yes, Scully, I hear you." //I'd throw away the bars and the cars and the war...// "And make sweet love to you...Of course it must be the original Three Dog Night rendition. I won't stand for any crappy remake--" //MULDER!// "Scully, I need...but.....I can't....... too dangerous." Nothing...nothing but static fills my ear and terror clutches at my heart, its cold icy grip strangling the life out of me. //MULDER!// I fight an overwhelming urge to rip the receiver from my ear and violently smash it against the park bench. Damn it! What the hell is going on? "Agent Scully." "Alex Krycek." I casually smooth my hair, making sure the wayward strands cover my ear. I take my scarf and secure the silk once more around my neck, as much to still my trembling fingers as to right my wardrobe. "What happened to the watchdog, that scruffy little mongrel?" Alex tracks the grounds, his eyes warily searching through the strolling tourists as though he expects Frohike to sneak up on him. "He's right here, you rat bastard." Frohike steps from behind a tree and places his hand protectively upon my shoulder. "Get too close to Scully, and I might lift my leg and pee on you." "Ah ... Well it's good to see you've been left in such competent hands, Scully. But you do realize even Scrappy Doo and his cohorts will not be able to provide the protection you and your baby will need." "And what protection is that, Alex?" I take a bite of pasta salad, feigning interest as my mind focuses on a dark haired, hazel-eyed partner of mine. "The consortium's not dead, Agent Scully. The power base has only shifted - new players have moved up in the ranks. Apparently the desert storms of Tunisia are bad this time of year. And Washington is such a lovely vacation spot. All the brochures say so." Stuffing the salad containers back into the sacks, I hand the unfinished lunch to Frohike. "Alex, get to the point. I have work to do." "Agent Scully, your child is of paramount importance to these men. They will stop at nothing to obtain him. Don't be lulled into complacency by the fact they've left you alone, thus far. They always know where you are-" I gasp and pull back as he reaches for my neck. I know what he's intimating ... the chip ... my very own homing beacon. "Touchy, Scully?" "She just doesn't care to be pawed by murdering slime, Krycek." Frohike moves forward, his face deadly serious. "Frohike, you are so far out of your league; you are a joke, little man." "Krycek, I assure you, the last laugh will be on you." Frohike takes my arm and steers me down the sidewalk, away from Krycek. "Agent Scully, don't let this hacker fill you with the delusions he can protect either of you. There's nothing he can do. You need me, Scully." As I begin to speak, Frohike increases the pressure on my elbow, stilling me with a firm reminder. I swallow my questions ... for now. ~*~*~*~*~* I stop at the entrance to Hoover. Frohike and I haven't spoken since we left the Reflecting Pool. "Agent Scully." He hands me the lunch bag. "I expect you to finish up every bite of this, and you will drink the milk." His gaze pleads with me to understand ... there's something else in the bag. "If it will get you off my back, Mom, I'll drink the damn milk. It had better be chocolate," I mutter, my mind already considering what might be in the sack. "Chocolate for the lady. Later, Scully." Frohike steps away from me. As he reaches the curb, Langly's beat-up, old van pulls to a stop, and Frohike climbs into the passenger seat. I squelch the urge to chase them. I wonder if Mulder's in the back, protected from prying eyes. //I'm here, Scully. Drink your milk.// ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Side swiping colleagues and dodging well wishers, I finally reach the bullpen and my desk. One of the secretaries walks by and hands me a file. She sees the scrunched up paper bag on my desk. "I thought you were going for a lunch walk, Agent Scully?" "Um ... yes, I did. I met a friend. I guess I just wasn't hungry, Elizabeth. He made me bring it back to the office." Elizabeth eyes the bag, crumpled up from my nervous hand wringing. "Well, I suppose it'll taste better than it looks," she laughs as she turns away. "And I hope your friend is cute, Agent Scully." "I suppose Frohike's cute in a kind of gruffy teddy bear kind of way," I mumble as I fold down the top of the paper bag. Grabbing out the pasta salad ... again, I open the lid, stabbing my fork inside. I really do need to eat something, even though my stomach is repulsed at the idea. Inside the sack is a small milk container. Taped to the bottom is a note. As I grab an empty mug from my desk drawer, my fingernail loosens the tape that secures the note. I pour milk into the mug and take a few disgusted swallows of the warm liquid. I finish sliding the paper loose from the underside of the carton. I place the empty container in the sack, palming the note and slipping it into my jacket pocket. I force myself to finish my drink and take a few more bites of salad. Finally, I shove the whole mess into the sack and throw it into the garbage. Grabbing my purse, I head for the door. I think a trip to the ladies room is in order. ~*~*~*~*~*~* I slip into the empty stall and nervously pull the tiny scrap of paper from my jacket. SCULLY, I'LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING. PLEASE COME TO THE LGM'S ... TONIGHT. CALL THE GUYS; SAY YOU WANT TO COME BY AND SEE THE NEW SATELLITE SCANS. TELL THEM YOU CAN'T COME UNTIL LATE. MAKE SURE PEOPLE HEAR THE CONVERSATION. I WANT YOUR WATCHDOGS TO KNOW WHERE YOU ARE. I DON'T WANT THIS TO SEEM CLANDESTINE. ASK TO STAY THE NIGHT BECAUSE YOU EXPECT YOU'LL BE VERY LATE...AND YOU DON'T WANT TO DRIVE BACK TO GEORGETOWN. I'M SURE YOU WILL BE FOLLOWED. DON'T TRY TO LOSE YOUR TAIL. YOU ARE MY CONSTANT, MY TOUCHSTONE. ~~~ MULDER I trace my fingers across the handwriting. My heart recognizes his familiar scrawl. Even as I hate to do it, I crumple the piece of paper and throw it into the toilet bowl, flushing the message. I take several deep-cleansing breaths to steady my nerves. I compose my face, place the public mask I must wear securely in place and get ready to head back to work. How am I going to get through the rest of the day? ~*~*~*~*~* LONE GUNMEN'S 10:00PM I knock. With nervous fingers I smooth my maternity top as I wait for one of the guys to answer the door. Finally, I hear the tumblers click into place. The door swings open, revealing Langly who ushers me inside. "Agent Scully, I see you made the drive ok ... everything cool with 'baby on board'?" He speaks loudly. "No problems, Langly. Traffic's not so bad this time of the evening." Byers steps forward as the outer door closes and is re- locked. He runs a handheld scanner over my body, my overnight bag, and my purse. "She's clean." "Where is he?" I'm tired of this. All I want is Mulder. "I'm here, Scully." My eyes shift left, to the shadows where he stands. As I step forward, he moves into the light. And we pause ... just drinking each other in like two parched souls that have just been given refreshment. I'm so afraid he's a mirage.... My breath hitches in my throat, caught on a lump so large I can hardly swallow. The tears I've held back for so many months pool in my eyes. They do not tarry long, however, but slide down my face ... unashamedly ... streaking my make-up, reminding me, for the first time in months, that I'm still alive. Months of bone weary numbness begin to recede. Mulder stands before me, dressed in faded, blue jeans and a black T-Shirt. His hair is longer .... curling slightly around the edges where it lays against the nape of his neck. He's thinner, but not obviously emaciated. Dark circles, highlight his eyes, marring his face. He's exhausted. But his eyes draw me. Although fatigued, the hazel orbs are crystal clear and shine with a palpable hunger. It's as though he could consume me whole from where he stands ... lay me bare and vulnerable before him, absorbing my very essence into his. I follow his longing gaze as it slips from my eyes, to my mouth ... and, finally, south to my protruding abdomen. I realize I've laid my hand across the burgeoning swell, unconsciously protecting my son ... from what ... from this man? From Mulder? From my baby's father? Mulder raises his eyes and gives a soft, rueful chuckle, the fine lines of aging and laughter crinkle. "So that's how it is; Thomas won't need my protection. Lioness Scully's already on guard." //You know his name?// "I know what you call him. I like it, Scully." Realizing the attitude I'm projecting, I step forward, reaching my hands out to his. As our palms meet and clasp, his fingers twining through mine, the final numb remnants of the last several months melt away like the after affects of an unending, terrifying nightmare. "Mulder..." I launch myself into his arms, my fingers clawing at his back as I practically strangle the life out of him. I can't press myself tightly enough against him ... without climbing into his skin. "An intriguing thought, Scully, we'll have to try it ... later." He whispers these words into my ear, nuzzling my hair, breathing so deeply you'd think he'd been denied oxygen. "Close enough ... Scully. I've been denied you, and I've been denied this." He gently disentangles my arms from his neck, and steps a pace backwards. He brings his palm downward, laying it possessively upon my abdomen. Thomas chooses this moment to kick. Wonder and awe replace the shocked expression on Mulder's face. He presses gently against a tiny foot, which rewards him with another nudge. He's having playtime with our son. I_need_to_sit ... now. "Mulder, I need...." I wave my hands, doing my own special fluttery pantomime to demonstrate my desire. "Here, Agent Scully." Byers wheels a computer chair over to me. I have forgotten the Lone Gunmen are here. They've been so quiet, and my focus has been quite myopic. But now I want answers. No ... I need answers. Mulder pulls his own chair beside me, his hand reaching out to clasp mine again. I totally understand. I, too, need to touch him. "Gather around, guys, and let me tell you a tale." "If this includes a poor mountaineer named Jed, I'm sending you back," I murmur, stroking the back of his hand with my thumb. "No ... but it is the stuff of Hollywood." I watch the guys bring chairs around us. It's almost as though nothing's different. We've done this so many times in the past. Only this time Mulder's been gone for five and a half months, and I'm pregnant with a child, I'm not supposed to be able to have, who has more people bidding for him than Shaquille O'Neal. "In a nutshell ... We know the earth was visited millions of years ago by an alien race. The aliens, for whatever reason, eventually chose to leave earth. Before they left, one faction of their population, entombed a stage of its lifecycle, dormant within the polar ice caps -- the alien virus." Mulder pauses to make sure we are all still with him, then continues. "Scully, the ship you found last year in Africa had symbols engraved upon it, written in ancient Navajo. The translations of these symbols led you to believe this alien race might have been our progenitors. I know the conflict this caused for you, Scully, not only throwing your science into upheaval but your faith as well." "I'm alright, Mulder." "They weren't our anscestors. This alien race ... I'll call them 'Greys', is made up of two very diverse factions. They had a civil war. The philosophical differences between them were so extreme that for all practical purposes, the race split in two ... the weaker group, the losing group ... exiled from their world. This was the same faction that had left the alien virus behind on Earth. This losing faction, after thousands of years of wandering and exile, became stronger ....and they wanted a Home-world of their own. Perhaps they had an inkling as to what would eventually transpire, and that's why they originally left the 'virus'. I'm not sure. But these 'colonists' believe the Earth and its inhabitants are here for conquest. The colonists believe they have prior claim. The men we've come to call 'the consortium' became aware of the 'colonists' back in the 1940's. Much as those who tried to save themselves during Nazi occupation, these men believed collaboration was the only way to save their skins and those of their families when the inevitable colonization occurred. They mistakenly thought humanity would be enslaved, but their descendents might survive. We all know what came of that: tests, abductions, experiments with cloning and hybridization, and the cataloguing of millions of Americans, through their small pox vaccinations, into a mammoth genetic database. Bill Mulder was a part of that original group. However, he understood we could not trust the colonists. He and others felt we should resist and work towards developing a vaccine to prevent the viral apocalypse that was colonization's precursor. But Bill Mulder and his colleagues were not strong enough to stand against the 'consortium' and ... sacrifices were made ....my sister being one of them." "These are the aliens who took you, Mulder?" "No ... Scully, I was taken by the second faction. The 'faceless rebels' or resistance are the other half of this alien race. They were the winners of their Home-world's civil war. They morph into these faceless creatures in order to protect themselves from the black cancer ... something that turns them into that nasty creature if they are infected. Whereas the colonists 'embrace' that vicious part of their life cycle, wantingto turn humanity into breeders, the resistance has chosen, for thousands of years, to 'skip' that evolutionary step. As long as they don't infect another living host, they are able to do do this. The rebels are philosophically different than the colonists. They do not believe we should be taken over ... they are not here to enslave or kill us. They have studied us for the purpose of eventual ... first contact." "Live Long and Prosper, Dudes and Dudette." Langly separates his fingers into the characteristic Vulcan two fingered-split salute. "Gene Roddenberry may have been a prophet, Langly. The faceless rebels have been here for generations. Although they've been morphed to appear as humans. For the most part they watched over this fledgling planet. But at times they've 'become involved' in our development ... nudging us along. Their presence has been documented, although no one has made the connection." Frohike mumbles under his breath. "Easter Island, Stonehedge, the mystics of ancient Sumar-" "-the missing city of Atlantis, the great Pyramids," Byers continues. "The Anasazi," I finish. Mulder nodds. "The Anasazi ... and others. Humanity and the rebels have a rich history ... intermingling the genetics in such a way-" I interrupt, my mind already where he's trying to lead us. "There are some humans who have genetic links to this alien race ... their precognitive abilities are stronger. They are able to make great leaps of logic and certain parts of their brains, such as The God Complex, have evolved such that it might be activated by alien intervention. You might say they're a little spooky." "Scully, I've searched all my life for confirmation of the existence of alien life ... and all this time, it's been within me. A small part of me is alien by the definition that it must stem from extra-terrestrial origin. And when I was exposed to the artifact rubbings, this God Complex was activated within me." "And it nearly destroyed you," I breathe, my voice barely audible in the quiet room. "Yes, Scully, it nearly destroyed me. And it would have ... if dear old Papa Spender hadn't forced the operation. Even though altruism was not motivating his actions, the end result, in all probability, saved my life. Maybe I should send him a thank you card. I think I missed Father's Day." "Mulder, the rumor is he's dead." "And we've heard those rumors before, Scully. Just when you think it's safe to go back in the waters ...." "Coolio, Mulder. I loved that movie. Roy Scheider, Richard Dryfeuss and the biggest, meanest, eating machine this side of Frohike." Ignoring Langly, Mulder continues. "The resistance has been sending out the faceless rebels to various colonist lighthouses and staging grounds, thus the mass burnings we've had the last several years... including El Rico--" "-and Ruskin Dam." "Yes ... and I'm thankful; for once the colonists arrived in time. Otherwise you would have been sacrificed. The rebels' methods are not what I'd condone, Scully. They've been ruthless ... to the extreme. And hundreds, if not thousands of innocents have been killed. We are caught in the middle of an alien war. And those around us don't even know it's going on." "Does Krycek work for the resistance?" "Yes ... he's been a double agent, infiltrating the consortium, but his main allegiance has been to the resistance. Although, it seems at times, Krycek's loyalties are solely to himself. For some reason I can't read him, therefore, I don't trust him." Frohike, still stinging from his run in with the one armed resistance fighter, asks, "How did Krycek get involved with the resistance, Mulder?" "His legacy .... His father was Russian, part of the original consortium ... but one of the ones who split off, as did my ... Bill Mulder. Only Krycek's father provided him with more information. Bill Mulder turned to drink and self pity, and never provided me with more than cryptic messages and shadowy informants." Mulder stands and begins to pace, his steps short and choppy, his arm movements agitated as he speaks. "I believe I was originally taken, all those years ago, not Samantha. I have no memory of this, but the tests would have discovered my extra-terrestrial link. I would have been returned, so as not to ... damage me. Samantha was taken in my stead. That would explain the file we found, Scully,... the one where my name was on the file folder, but Samantha's name was added later to cover it up. " "Mulder, why were you taken now, and how did you escape?" "Scully, I was taken to re-activate this God Complex, to teach me how to control it ... to give us a tool in the fight against colonization. I was released when it was discovered you were pregnant. Our child will have a natural immunity against the virus because of our exposure to the virus and the black oil. My genetic make-up, with its predisposition for precognitive ability, and your manipulated genetic make-up make it entirely possible that our child will not only have a natural immunity, but will be able to read minds." I continue his train of thought. "And if Thomas doesn't, his children might. Certain genetic characteristics skip generations." I think of color blindness and-- Mulder reaches for my hair, pulling strands between his fingers and stroking them as though he were in possession of the finest silk. "--red hair, Scully?" "Red hair, Mulder." "Look guys ... I know you have lots of questions. And I will, to the best of my ability, answer them all. But I'm exhausted ... and Scully looks fatigued. Would you mind if we took your 'guestroom' for the night?" Mulder extends his hand to me, gently pulling me to my feet. Langly turns to Byers and whispers, "Hey, Man, do we have a guest room?" "Yeah, between your ears, Ringo. They can use my room. I'll take the couch in your room." Byers smacks Langly on the head, then gets up from his chair, heading for his bedroom. "Let me get you some clean sheets." Frohike walks in from the kitchen, a tall glass of chocolate milk in his hand. I bang my head against Mulder's arm. But if I expect my partner's help, I'm sadly deluded. "Got milk, Scully?" He turns me toward Byers' bedroom. I grab the handheld debugging device. You can never be too careful around the Lone Gunmen. I wonder if this thing checks for video as well as audio.... From: laster Date: Sat, 26 Aug 2000 14:11:05 -0400 Subject: NEW: A Legacy by dlynn Source: direct A LEGACY: CHAPTER EIGHT With Mulder nipping at my heels like a less than well- behaved puppy, I follow Byers into the bedroom. Mulder, for his part, softly barks into my ear as he passes by, letting me know that he's been encroaching upon my thoughts again. //Do I need 'NO TRESPASSING' signs, Mulder. Do we need to establish privacy and rude behavior guidelines?// I realize my tone is probably harsher than I intend, but he's seriously beginning to freak me out with his unauthorized transgressions. Throwing his hands in the air, with a cocky 'hey, I'm backing off', he retreats to the other side of the room to lick his wounds. Byers leaves the bedroom, gently squeezing my shoulder on the way out the door. I take a moment to center myself and to gather my thoughts. I formulate my logical argument... about not wanting to worry every time a stray thought pops into my head that Mulder will be there to rope and brand it. I envision my impassioned plea for privacy, common courtesy, and the right to govern that which is mine until I decide to give it away. I deliberate, and just as quickly throw away, my smart-ass retort about wanting to be able to size up a man's ass any time I choose, without fearing Mulder will bear privilege to my salacious desires. "Salacious?" His eyebrows twitch as he steals my thoughts like a pickpocket takes wallets from an unsuspecting mark. "Damn it, Mulder. That's exactly what I mean." But reasonable deliberation falls to the wayside and my words never see the light of day. I am transfixed with the sight of Mulder... his hooded, gentle eyes; his nose, just a tad off-kilter and disproportionately too large in context with his other features; and his seductive mouth, quirking upward in the tiniest, most hesitant smile. "Scully...you're...pregnant." "I've been 'quite' pregnant for seven and a half months." "I know...it's just ... you're pregnant, with child, with a bun in the oven, knocked up...." "For a man who has no difficulty expressing himself, you are remarkably redundant." I walk forward a few steps and stop. "I'm...speechless, Scully. This afternoon when I saw you for the first time, Byers had to grab me to keep me from running to your side. He physically had to restrain me and remind me of the bigger picture. All I could see, was you...sitting there, pregnant with... my child... with our baby." Mulder repeats my earlier motion and crosses the floor two steps in my direction. It's as though we are preparing to duel. //I don't want to fight.// "Me either..." "You have no idea." I pause and study the amused expression which crosses his face. "Ok, you do have an idea, but I'm going to tell you anyway. When I heard your voice coming through that earpiece, my heart began to beat again. I'd almost forgotten what it sounded like." As I speak, I shorten the distance between us once more. "Scully, for the past several months there has not been a moment, a single solitary instant in time when I haven't been thinking of you...drawing strength with the knowledge I had to make it back to you." He smiles, taking two steps and stopping just a mere breath away, waiting for me to make the last and most important move. Waiting...so fearfully, he is waiting. "You do not frighten me, Mulder." "Not even a little?" "Not even a little. Mulder, you are my partner, my lover, the father of my child. You are my best friend and the only one I trust. You've been to Hell-" "-well at least Antarctica-" "and back for me. There is no one in this world...or any other...who loves me as you do." He chuckles, but I see the fear still lurking behind his eyes as he wonders what his 'new skill' means to us. "Mulder, something will have to be done about your penchant for transgression," I whisper, reaching forward for his hand, and clasping his strong fingers, laying them against my cheek. "Trespassing is only a misdemeanor offense, Scully." His palm caresses the side of my face. His fingers weave through my hair, tangling themselves in the strands. He pulls my head forward, inhaling the fragrance of my shampoo and reacquainting himself with my scent. I murmur against Mulder's strong hands, "I'm a federal agent, which makes any offense against me within federal jurisdiction. We're not talking misdemeanor." "Scully, you talk too much." He bends his head, nuzzling my cheek, moving his lips in feather soft kisses across my face to my lips...where he pauses. "Scully, I love you." //Mulder, I love you.// We may have been apart for months, but it's as though it were only yesterday that Mulder kissed me like this. His mouth demands much, but I demand more as I race my lips across his until his mouth opens, providing entrance to my questing tongue. Tasting, exploring, yielding... we sway together, our bodies recognizing each other as a mother recognizes a child's cry...instinctively, intuitively, without question...knowing which one is her own. I slide my hands up his chest, across the snug cotton of his T-shirt, reveling in the solid feel of him beneath my hands. Somehow my arguments, contentions and quarrels have little value, and I decide to table all discussion until another moment. "Mulder...about my salacious desires." ~*~*~*~*~*~~*~ When I was growing up, following the rules came naturally. You weren't the daughter of a military man without the expectation of adherence to order and standards in your home life. Jokes from Dad about our ability to bounce a quarter on top of a well-made bed were said in good jest. But there was an underpinning truth beneath the humor. We were a ship shape family. When you add to that a Catholic upbringing and a faith journey steeped in ritual, everything about me begins to fall into place. Whereas Missy bristled at mandates, I found security within order. Perhaps that's why I pursued science as an initial career choice. Mystery, which delighted me, was present in the process, but the scientific method provided a structured rubric. Theories and results might be ambiguous or surprising, but the scientific procedure was logical and ordered. My life was the same way...once upon a very long time ago. I planned =everything= with the same precision that I laid out my parochial school uniform each evening when I was a child. Before I'd go to bed, the red plaid skirt, the crisp, white cotton blouse, with its Peter Pan collar, the navy blue knee socks, and my brown loafers were placed on top my bedroom dresser. For years the ritual was always the same; the process never changed. Except once. I'd had enough of proper uniforms, conformity, and always being the 'good daughter.' Structured was all well and good, but life's spontaneity and the magic of individuality was lacking. Besides the dress code was stupid. I was tired of looking childish and like every other cookie cutter shaped kid in my school. So in my backpack I placed socks Missy had given me for Christmas. They were vibrant red socks, with garish orange stripes at the top. But the best part was each little multi-colored toe had its very own 'glove.' As soon as I got to school, I raced to the girls' bathroom, stripped off my regulation blue knee socks and slipped on the offensive red and orange toe socks, wiggling each little digit into the correct hole. I stuffed my very proper Catholic girl shoes and hosiery into my backpack, and I exited the bathroom, sliding into the congested hallway with hardly a ripple in the steady stream of traffic. My heart furiously beat in my chest, heralding my small moment of defiance...my spark of eccentricity. First period, no one even noticed 'Dana's' new look, except Beth, one of my best friends. By the time I'd hit third period, the whispers had begun, the kids were snickering behind their books and passing notes about my flaky footwear. I think some understood my small rebellion, however, most thought I was just being weird. But then came fourth period and advanced math. I sat in the front row, directly in front of Sister Mary Katherine's desk. For the first thirty minutes of class, I managed to stay out of the good Sister's way, dutifully answering the questions she put to me. By now...I had realized it was only a matter of time before I was caught in my transgressions and sent to Father O'Flaherty's office - one step away from a dozen Hail Mary's and the confessional. I might have escaped fourth period detection, except Sister Mary Katherine decided the class should do board work. When it was my turn to move forward to the chalkboard and represent my team in a math game, my knees began to quake at the prospect. As I walked to the board, my hands were so sweaty the chalk dust stuck to my palms even as I tried wiping my shaky fingers on my pleated skirt. Each breath I took was my last, or so I thought...surprised that Sister Mary Katherine still hadn't commented on my disobedience. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my teacher had her eyes focussed on the math book laid open on her desk. As she gave the equations for us to solve, she didn't even glance up...she didn't even look to the board where Ben and I furiously scribbled our answers. I wanted to be back in my seat so badly, I raced through the problem, not really caring if the answer were correct or not. With a sigh of relief, I practically slammed my chalk on the tiny grooved ledge, and quickly slipped undetected into my desk. I'd done it. "Dana." "Yes, Sister Mary Katherine." "Would you please explain your answer to the class." "Yes, ma'am." My sweaty palms were now past the stage of gentle perspiration. I had a full-scale flood, literally pooling into the linen cuffs of my blouse. "Well, in solving for X, I-" "No, Dana. Please come to the board and show the class how you solved for X." Sister Mary Katherine looked up from her math book. I felt her eyes daring me to fall apart. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. Straightening my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I slipped out of my desk and began shuffling forward to the front of the room. By now those who'd been whispering and passing notes are quiet and still. All eyes are on Sister Mary Katherine and me. "When solving for X, you must first-" The bell, signifying time for class change, pealed loud and long. And I practically jumped out of my skin with the first piercing whistle. Looking over to Sister Mary Katherine, I waited for her to say something...anything. "Dana, you may step down. Class, don't forget to do pages 43-45 tonight. The test will be on Thursday." I slunk back to my seat, shoved my papers and math book into my bag and slung the canvas sack over my shoulder. I joined the line of kids in front of the doorway, and waited for my turn to leave. I resisted the urge to push through the crowd and squirm my way to the front of the line. "Dana, would you come here please?" Ah...I knew it. Sister Mary Katherine was a stickler for the rules. I could just see in my mind's eye, the blue detention slip, grasped tightly in my hand as I explained to Ahab how I happened to get library time for a week by traipsing around the school in toe socks. "Yes, ma'am." "Sometimes it's difficult to follow rules, especially those that seem unfair or inexplicably unjust. I'm sure you feel the school uniform regulation stifles your creativity. Am I correct?" Sister Mary Katherine held me with her gaze. It was firm, but compassionate. "Yes, ma'am. Sometimes I just feel so many things bottled up inside, and I just want to let go... especially when it seems as though I'm beating my head against a wall and there's no hope for change." "Our country's heritage is full of times of civil disobedience, Dana. From the Boston Tea Party, Rosa Parks refusing to move to the back of the bus, and college sit-ins during the Vietnam War, we are a people who confront injustice and choose our battles. We weigh the consequences against the outcome we desire. We try to choose wisely and discern whether necessity outrides expediency. "I wasn't very wise when I pulled this stunt, was I?" I suddenly saw my act of disobedience for what it truly was...a chance for me to get some attention...any attention. Being the third child out of four and the 'good one', sometimes felt as though I were invisible in my own home. I wanted someone to notice me. I didn't care about the merits of the dress code. "Let's just say, Dana, if you choose to intentionally disobey a rule or break a law, make sure you understand the motivation behind your decision. Are you fighting because of injustice, to protect another...for a religious ideal or self-preservation? Understand the consequences, Dana. Then let your conscience guide you." "Yes, ma'am. I'll go change my socks." "Dana have you tried to approach administration with your dissatisfaction? Have you tried to work within the system, before you thumb your nose...or toes at it? I couldn't help but chuckle. "No, Sister Mary Katherine. I haven't done much besides gripe. But what if they won't listen to me? What if nothing I say will sway administration? What if I truly believe there's no hope no matter how hard I try?" "Then if you feel so led, I'd say you make your decisions, but take the risk of suffering repercussion. There are always consequences for actions, Dana." "Yes, ma'am." I had almost reached the threshold before she spoke again. "And, Dana...if Father O'Flaherty and Sister Ryan don't at least listen, let me know...I have a pair of those wonderful toe socks as well. I think they'd be quite striking with my habit, don't you?" Smiling so hard it almost hurt, I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. "Yes, ma'am. They're all the rage." "Oh...and Dana. Don't forget your blue detention slip. Mom or Dad needs to sign it." Stopping in my tracks, I turn to grab the blue scrap of paper from Sister Mary Katherine. At least she only gave me three days study hall. "There are always consequences for our actions, Dana." Always consequences.... ...actions....nothing's as it seems.... always at their mercy...never able to win.... so cold...so very, very cold...." "Scully!" My eyes fly open. The answer is perfectly simple and perfectly insane...and in perfect clarity I realize I most certainly have lost my mind. "Scully?" "Hmm...Mulder." I urge my body to relax within his arms. "Scully, not only are you considering breaking more laws than I even care to count, you are proposing that you-" "-Kidnap our child before someone else has a chance to do so." "Scully, you can't be serious. We'll protect Thomas. We'll get him away." "I know you believe we will be able to do that, but I also know, Mulder, we have never won against these people. Over and over we've had our lives destroyed because we played by the rules and they did not. I'm tired of always being reactive to everything as it's happening to us. For once I choose to be pro-active. Me...Thomas' mother, Mulder." "There's more to your plan than just 'helping' Thomas disappear, Scully." His eyes plead with me to reconsider. I know he's seen the whole scenario. "You are talking about giving up your son, Scully...to not know where he is, to not know if he lives, to lose all contact with him for an indeterminate amount of time." "I know, Mulder. I'm also giving up you because you must be the one who takes him. You must protect him, Mulder. I can't...I can't be near either of you." I blindly reach out for him, grasping his hand and pulling it towards my neck. I place his cold palm against my fevered skin, reminding him once more that I am no more than a trained lab rat, running through a master's maze. "Scully...no..." "Mulder, no matter what I do, they will know where I am. There is no place I can hide. Unless." //I could do it, to know Mulder and my son would be safe, to have a few precious months with them...I could do it.// "No! You will not remove the chip. You will not trade your life for ours, Scully." He frantically clutches at my pajama top, pulling the buttons from their tiny loops. As he finishes separating the pieces of cloth, he lays me bare to his frenzied gaze. I see his eyes roam over my body, drinking in the wondrous changes...the full breasts, with darkened aureole, being prepared to suckle a son I may never know; the swollen abdomen, the nurturing place my son has developed for the last several months; and the small, stretch lines extending from my belly button to my pubic bone, signifying the way my petite body's changed to accommodate our child. Mulder knows if I do this...there is a chance they will be denied to me forever. "I can't live without you, Scully. I won't. ==I choose== not to do so." "And damn the consequences, Mulder? We CANNOT protect our son. We CANNOT keep him from these butchers who take small children, such as Gibson Praise, and turn them into lab experiments. We can't protect him from men who kidnap eight-year-old girls from their homes and...their brothers and torture them for years because the end justifies the means. We can't defend against those who would medically rape me, extract my ova and create =children= for the soul purpose of heinous experimental research." Mulder places small frantic kisses against my stomach and over my breasts, latching on to me and suckling, reminding me of what I will lose. "Damn it, Mulder. There's no other option." "They will look for him, Scully. They will know you've done this and they will look for him." He cries salty tears against my chest, and I rake my fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. He knows what I'm going to say even before the words are uttered. "No they won't, Mulder, because as far as the world is concerned, the kidnappers will have killed Thomas. We will make them think the baby's dead, and I will fill a diary full of bogus journal entries to throw anyone snooping around off track. I will make myself believe you and our son are dead. =I will make THEM believe.= This I will do for our child...and for you...and for the hope that someday, when it's safe, I will be allowed to find you." "And if it's never safe, Scully?" "Then you and Thomas will be dead to me." A LEGACY: CHAPTER NINE NOVEMBER 10, 2000 FRIDAY EVENING LONE GUNMEN'S LAIR My pen clenched between my teeth, I chew on the hard, tasteless plastic. Across the room, Mulder and Byers are huddled over hospital blue prints, checking security cameras and emergency exits. Frohike is flexing his Kungfu muscles by picking through personnel records and security and hospital rotation schedules. Langly, for his part, is arguing about the merits of various plastic explosives with some grungy, overweight bald guy, who is dressed totally in black and camouflage. There's an eerie quality about the room, even more so than usual. The lighting is diffuse, but the glow emanating from several computer monitors casts a bright white tinge into the shadows. As reflected in the monitor's glaring light, hunched over his keyboard, Frohike appears ghostlike. Mulder and Byers stand in silhouette, shadowy figures foreshadowing our foray into the world of conspiracies. Living the last ten days has been like scaling Heaven's pinnacle and descending into Hell's dark morass. Because we are intentionally perpetuating a lie, as far as Mulder's continued disappearance, I have not been able to stay with him as much as I want. To spend so much additional time with the Lone Gunmen, would make my keepers suspicious. And because of the chip, we haven't felt safe enough to meet anywhere else. So I've rationed out our moments with miserly exactitude, selfishly hoarding every instant alone we can steal. And steal we must.... Every exquisite second, from every precious hour, from every priceless day is plundered until not another crack in time has been left untouched. But this escapism must never be at the expense of our plan. Even as we are together, we must always be thinking and strategizing. Our time is too short, our objective too prized - obtaining a quality life for our son -- too valuable a consideration for us to squander seconds, let alone hours. And thus, I am dying inside, just a little bit more with each visit. My destruction is slow and torturous. A bitter reminder is time's transient quality, infusing each shared gaze and poignant, impassioned kiss, knowing shortly this will all be over, and I will be left alone ... again. Only this time the loneliness will be unparalleled, as I will lose not only Mulder, but also our son. And there's no guarantee ... no promise any one of them can speak, out of love or compassion, that will give assurance to our eventual reunion. So my days are spent at work, trying to concentrate on all the unimportant minutia of my life. I'm fearful of being around Skinner, afraid he'll see something in my face to give away my resolve. At this point we are keeping him out of the loop, not so much because we don't trust him, but because we do. We expect Skinner to do as he's said and set up his impenetrable defense to protect me. One I will circumvent, by passing the information on to the Gunmen and Mulder so they may plan their counter offensive. We've debated taking the Assistant Director into our confidence, but we've decided, after much heated debate, that Skinner's ignorance will work to our benefit. His incognizance will also protect him if this should backfire, and our scheme becomes known. Mulder and I have made our decisions, and we understand the possible consequences for these actions. We take full responsibility for what we do and know it may all blow up in our faces. We've become the master strategists. We can't derail Skinner and his team too soon, or I become vulnerable to the consortium and the colonists. And yet, we must somehow deceive them such that Mulder and the Gunmen are able to safely take our son. We've never walked a finer line or felt less qualified to do so. If we could do this alone, without the Lone Gunmen's help, we would do so. Although Langly says this 'kidnapping' will be 'da bomb', everything in his life has been moving forward for this particular instant in time. He feels he was destined for this moment. Byers and Frohike are not so 'enlightened' as far as understanding their special place in the universal scheme of things. They just want to right perceived injustices, and Frohike thinks being a conspirator is a great change of pace. He envisions selling his memoirs someday. I envision growing old, a bitter woman ... but only in moments of weakness, which thankfully I'm able to squelch down ... most of the time. "Scully?" "Hmm..." I murmur. My mind wanders away from its task. I spit out the pen, which has written nothing in the last few minutes, and rest my arms upon my unfinished project. "What are you doing?" Mulder sits next to me. Pushing his leg against mine, he jiggles my knee, trying to get my attention. As though he senses my hesitancy, his fingers reach out, pulling back strands of hair that veil my face from his gaze. "Scully." he whispers. I slowly inhale, holding my exhalation as long as possible, trying to still my trembles. I don't like him to see me this way because I know my anguish increases his guilt and weakens his resolve. But I've denied my feelings for so many years, ignoring pain, instead of charging through it and acknowledging its impact on me. With unerring determination I have denied myself as much emotional connection as I could, in order to avoid that which made the agony worse. And in doing so, I have also incised all which has given me joy. No more... This hurts...beyond measure of words or description. I feel Mulder stiffen beside me as he searches my mind and sees that which I naively think I can deny him. He's been better lately about spouting off every little thought he gleams from me. He tells me he can 'dull' the connection, refocus in such a way that my thoughts become more like a pleasant hum and less like a loudspeaker in his brain. I've appreciated his effort. I slowly unfold my arms, lifting them off the table so Mulder can see what I've been doing. He reaches around me, grasping on to a book. Turning it over in his hands, he places it right side up so he can read the title: "Thomas' Legacy" "Scully? What is this," he whispers, his voice husky with despair. "I ... um ... I wanted to do a baby book for Thomas, Mulder. I know I won't be there to fill in most of these pages. For that, I'll have to rely on you," I smile, stroking his cheek with my chilled fingers. "But the beginning of the book, I =can= fill out. There are pages with family history information, sections for me to describe how I felt about this pregnancy...my emotions, my feelings, my hopes for him...." Pushing aside Mulder's hand, I flip through the pages, showing him the sections I am talking about. "See...there's even a place for me to describe how you and I met. What I thought about you-" "-Oh God, Scully, do you really want to scar our child with horror stories of Spooky Mulder?" "Yes...I want him to know everything, Mulder. I started writing in the book awhile ago, before you returned. But I have so much more to say. Every time I've been here at the Gunmen's, after you fall asleep, I get up and write for a few hours. I know I can't take this book with me because I'm afraid someone might see it, and I need to get it finished. Who knows how much longer I'll have to get it ready." "Scully, you could write in this at home. Everyone would just assume you are preparing a baby book." "Well, I've added extra pages, Mulder. I've taken time to write things to him...for you to read to Thomas, when I can't be there. I've imagined what he'll be like at different stages. What his first words might be, how well he'll crawl, how soon he'll walk. With each milestone, I've written something for him." "Scully, this is crazy. We can't do this; I =can't= do this." I slap shut the baby book and slide it back into its box. Getting up from the table, I head for the door, grabbing my jacket and my car keys. "Stay, Scully...." Mulder murmurs, even as he knows the answer I must give. "I can't, Mulder. I stayed last night. I'm already spending too much time here as it is." I search for my purse, seeing that it's fallen beneath a table. Before I can attempt an unwieldy descent, Mulder picks up the purse and hands it to me. "I promised Mom I'd stop by and see her tonight. I'll spend the weekend there." "Agent Scully, let me drive you." Byers grabs his winter jacket from where it lies on an old leather couch. It's probably the couch Mulder sleeps upon when I'm not here...when he does sleep...in between plotting and planning every contingency, every detail. "Electronic hospital ID bracelets, damn!" Frohike, disgustedly pushes back from the table and yanks a coffee pot from the counter. Langly joins him and they begin discussion on how to get around that glitch. I know they haven't told me everything that will occur. In fact, I've asked them not to. If I'm going to pull off this charade, I must be caught by surprise as much as the rest...to hopefully lend credibility to my performance. I don't think there will be any difficulty feigning despair. We're already intimately acquainted. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ RESIDENCE OF MARGARET SCULLY LATER THAT SAME EVENING As I stand at my Mother's door, the strap of my overnight bag thrown over my shoulder, I shiver in the brisk November wind. I know the icy chill comes from more than a Washington Fall; it stems from my own mind. Fumbling for my keys, I can't help but wondering who's behind me ... watching me, reporting to superiors about me. Even as I insert my house key into the lock, the car which has pulled into the driveway across the street is suspect. I wonder if it's Skinner's man, which I'm not supposed to know about, or the consortium's. I've taken paranoia to new heights. "Dana! Honey, get in here...Why didn't you call and let me know you were on your way? I thought you weren't supposed to be here for another couple of hours?" Mom hustles me inside, shutting the door to the outside world, but by no means keeping real out real life. "I was able to finish up a little earlier than I expected, Mom. I figured you wouldn't mind." I shrug out of my tan, woolen coat, slipping it onto the coat tree in the foyer hallway. Mom clasps my fingers, rubbing them within her own warm palms, trying to infuse heat back into the frozen digits. How is she to know...there's no chance of animating something that is already suffering the icy death of despair? She can massage my hands all she wants; nothing =she= does can bring the glow she desires. "Come on, Dana. Let's go into the kitchen and get a hot cup of tea inside you. Have you eaten?" She strides ahead of me, already focussed on her task. I scoot my overnight bag out of the way with my toe and follow. The kitchen is already lit, a warm yellow glow reflecting off of wallpaper and paint. This room has the most comfortable feel, and I can already smell-" "Apple pie? Mom, you baked?" "Well, actually, Dana. I-" She reaches behind her on the counter, grabbing the evidence of her deceit - a box from Mueller's. "Thank God, Mom, I had visions of another one of your crusts." For as much as I love my mother, her piecrusts have the texture of old shoe leather. We know this because Bill actually tore up an old shoe he had in the closet and brought it to the table when he was about 16- years-old. With great aplomb, a napkin tucked under his chin, a knife the size of a meat cleaver, and play by play commentary, Bill proceeded to compare and contrast the merits of shoe leather with a piece of Mom's homemade pie. Thank goodness Mom could take a joke, and her pie was that...a running joke, because there wasn't a dry eye at the table that night. We laughed so very hard. If it weren't for Muellers, and other bakeries crisscrossing America, the Scully family would have gone deprived. As it was...the only one in the family who could make a decent crust, turned out to be Charlie. Mom insisted we all try so we'd understand how difficult it truly was. I've blocked out what Bill said about my attempts, and his...well let's just say, Dad tossed a lovely looking cherry pie into the back yard for the dog. The poor mutt wouldn't touch it. "Dana, would you care for a slice?" Mom smiled, knowing where my thoughts had taken me. Why is it that even in the midst of despair there are traitorous moments when it seems all right to smile? With a mother's intuitiveness, she'd tried something to help lighten my load, if for only a moment. If she only knew, how heavy that burden truly is...she'd have brought home more than a pie. Feeling the tears begin to swell within me, knowing I'd soon be hard pressed to keep them at bay, I decline. I need to get out of here...I need my room...I need some time to fall apart because I don't know if I have the strength to keep all this from her any longer...and it's not safe for her to know. As much as I need to tell her, to give me someone who can understand...I can't.... "Mom, would it be alright if I had my pie for breakfast. I'm feeling very tired tonight. And I think I need to go lie down. I promise; we'll have a good long talk in the morning. I've planned to stay the weekend if you wouldn't mind." As I attempt to slip past her, she reaches out and gently strokes my cheek. With wise eyes...she allows me my dignity and my solitude. Just as I reach the stairs and grab my overnight bag, the doorbell rings. "Mom, you expecting anyone?" I head to the front door and peer through the tiny glass window at the top. "It's some sort of a delivery person, I think, Mom." "Dana...what did you say?" Mom comes up behind me. "I think it's a delivery person. Were you expecting anything?" "No...Honey. I don't know what it could be." She reaches for the door handle as I place my arm upon her forearm to still her motion. "Just a minute, Mom." I reach behind me and wiggle my fingers into the outer pocket of my overnight bag and snag my weapon. Pulling it out, I release the safety and load the chamber. I motion her to open the door. "Dana, don't you think you are being a little paranoid?" "Perhaps...but I can't take any chances." I take a deep breath and hold it. Mom opens the door, revealing a man dressed in an UPS uniform. "Ma'am. I have an insured delivery for a Margaret Scully." "I'm she...Who's the delivery from?" The man cannot see me. I've hidden myself in the shadows, but I can see and hear everything he does. He takes a clipboard, and runs his fingers down a line of names. "The delivery's from a Commander William Scully, Ma'am." "Bill? Whatever in the world might he be sending me?" Mom murmurs. "I don't know, Ma'am, but it's a very large box, and I need to get it unloaded. I still have several more deliveries to make tonight." "Of course...please bring it inside." Mom opens the door the rest of the way. I quickly hide my weapon behind me, still not totally sure, however, that this is on the up and up. Something just doesn't feel right to me. Barely acknowledging my presence, the driver says, "Ma'am if you would sign right here, I'll go get the dolly and load this up." "Ok...of course." Mom reaches for the clipboard and signs her name. "Thank you, Ma'am. I'll be right back." "Mom, were you expecting anything from Bill?" I watch the driver unlatch the back double doors of his truck, pull down an incline, and begin walking backwards down the incline, pulling a very large box. "No...I can't say I was expecting something. He does have that habit, you know, of sending me things from different ports. But usually his packages have been smaller than a breadbox. I can't imagine what this might be." The man approaches the front door again. "Where would you like me to put this, Ma'am." "Oh...how about just leave it here in the foyer. I'll un- box it here." "Yes, ma'am." The driver slides the box off the dolly as I still keep my weapon firmly incased in my hand. I just can't get past this anxious feeling I have. "Ok...that outta do her...I'll leave you ladies alone, now. And, ma'am...I have a message for Agent Scully." My fingers tighten on my weapon's grip, and I warily look at the UPS man, who I know is not whom he pretends to be. "I'm Agent Scully. And I would encourage you not to make any quick moves," I say as I motion Mom to step back from the door and to move away from the box. "No, ma'am, I wouldn't think of it. George Hale wished me to inform you that the house has been exterminated. Apparently, this was done earlier today...when Mrs. Scully went to the market." "Exterminated? There have been pest control people in my home today?" Mom bristles as she moves closer to the UPS man. I'd be worried about him if it weren't for the fact, I have an idea what's in the box. "Dana, who is this George Hale, and what was he doing in my house." She turns to me as she says this, allowing the UPS man to escape. Wise man. "Mom, I think you need to find me a utility knife so I can open this container." I see the box, shifting a little as, inside, he slumps against the cardboard walls. "And Mom, there will be two of us for the weekend. I hope you have lots of pie." "Scully, get me out of this damn box!" "Fox!" Mom's eyes grow large as she recognizes Mulder's voice. But just as I think it might be too much for her, she spins on her heal and points her finger into my chest. "Dana Katherine Scully, what the hell is going on?" "Mulder's back," I gulp, suddenly very afraid of a woman who's not packing heat and is not any taller than I am. "And he's in pain sitting scrunched up in this damn box like a sardine amongst friends. Would someone please get me out of here?" Mulder gripes, throwing his shoulder hard against the cardboard. So much so, in fact, he almost tips the box over. "Dana, you can forget going up to bed, young lady. I expect answers from the both of you. Or I'll personally shove him back in that box and send him out to San Diego, personal delivery to Commander William Scully." Mom huffs as she heads into the kitchen to retrieve the utility knife. "Scully...on second thought, I think I'll stay in the box. I don't want that woman around me, wielding any sharp implements. We might want to have additional children some day." //Why is it that even in the midst of despair there are traitorous moments when it seems all right to smile?// "I don't know, Scully. But it does feel good, doesn't it." A LEGACY: CHAPTER TEN MRS. SCULLY'S KITCHEN Mom slaps down a plate in front of Mulder. On that plate is a reasonable portion of apple pie, but only because I gave Mom a dirty look as she was hacking the smallest sliver she could from the pan. With a shrug of aggravated acquiescence, Mom finally slid the knife over a bit and attempted to at least pretend to be a good hostess. To Mulder. Tea sloshes over the side of my cup, dousing the saucer beneath it as Mom repeats her slapping motion. Mulder for his part looks longingly towards the box from which he was just removed. I couldn't swear to it, but I think he still feels the sharp utility knife should be removed from my mother's vicinity. "Without a doubt, Scully, having that tool here is liable to increase our son's chances of being fatherless," he whispers, letting me know he heard my thoughts. But he doesn't speak quietly enough as Mom responds to his comment. "Actually, Mulder. At this point I'm more likely to use it on my daughter." Mom yanks open a kitchen drawer and throws the utility knife inside where it clatters against batteries, tape and scissors. The jarring reverberation of the drawer being slammed closed makes my tea slosh once more. "Mrs. Scully-" "Agent Mulder ... I-" Mom stops mid-sentence. She places the dishtowel on the refrigerator handle, unties the apron from around her waist, and folds it carefully. She places the apron on the counter and joins Mulder and me at the table. I see her eyes assessing the situation. Mulder and I have our chairs as close together as possible. Even as he eats his pie with his right hand, his left hand encloses mine ... his fingers absently stroking my knuckles. None of this escapes my mother as she takes a deep breath. Her features soften, but not her determination. "Fox ... in case I've forgotten to mention it, I am pleased you are back, safe and sound. I apologize for not making that clear. But-" "Why is it that whenever a Scully woman uses the word 'but', I feel the need to cringe," Mulder mutters around a large mouthful of pie. "Perhaps you should," Mom throws back at him, still not ready to let either one of us off the hook. "Mom, I've explained why we couldn't tell you Mulder had returned. Although, I'm quite at a loss to explain his presence here now." Turning, I give my full attention to my partner who is currently pressing his fork across his plate, picking up every tiny piecrust crumb. If he starts licking the plate, I'm putting him back in the box. "Damn good pie, Mrs. Scully." With a twinkle in her eye, Mom admonishes me to keep my mouth shut. "Thank you, Fox. It's a very old family secret." Raising his head, he looks Mom straight in the eye, capturing her attention with the intensity of his gaze. "So ... Mueller's ... Is that an offshoot of the Scully tree I've never heard about?" Mom discretely looks behind her, trying to remember if she left the box visible on the counter. "It's not there, Mrs. Scully. You put the Mueller's bakery box in the pantry trash can before you went to answer the door." "Stop it, Mulder. It's unnecessary to perform parlor tricks." I watch Mom process what Mulder has just said. "I'm deadly serious, Scully. I'm not playing around. I decided if we are going to go through with this, you cannot be left without any support, but at the same time your mother must understand who and what she's dealing with." Mom reaches across the table to grasp my hand ... the one I've just yanked from Mulder's, my aggravation with him is quite apparent. As she strokes my fingers, she stares across the table at my partner ... her intensity no less than his. "If you are referring to an underground government consortium that has been collaborating with an alien species for the last fifty years to try and prevent total world annihilation during possible colonization, I am acquainted with who we are dealing with, Fox. However, further illumination is always welcome. Dana's explained the differences between the colonists and the resistance, but frankly I still find that somewhat confusing, and I have some additional questions." Mulder gulps beside me, speechless for once in his life. He hadn't realized I'd told Mom everything while he was missing. I see the glare my mother gives him. I can just imagine what she's thinking. //You little 'shit' if you ever speak to me again with that tone of voice, Thomas will be an only child. Do I make myself clear? And I won't need a utility knife.// "Yes, Ma'am, you do," Mulder responds to Mom's unspoken question, confirming my belief. "Ok ... here's the deal," he begins, deciding further explanation will divert the negative attention he's been getting. "There's been a plan ... in the works for several years. The research and development end of it has been accomplished. And the implementation has actually begun, but it may take as much as...." Mulder stops, his eyes compassionate as he reaches out to take my hand again. Mom, who knows nothing of our agenda for Thomas, holds her tongue ... for the moment. "-Two to three years before we will see any marked results." His voice trails off to a whisper. He watches me make the connection. "Two to three years?" My brain tries to wrap around the implication. "At the very least," Mulder finishes. His face revealing his anger and anguish. "I know there's more going on in this conversation than I'm being told, but let's table that for the moment. Fox, continue with your explanation." Mom's fingers pull out a tiny cross from under the collar of her blouse. Without even being aware she's doing it, she slides the chain back and forth within her hand, the tiny cross dangling. "Actually, the research for a genetic "cure" for the virus has been in development for years, hidden within legitimate research, sponsored, in part, by our own government and various world health organizations. Now that's irony for you. Mrs. Scully do you have the issue of Time Magazine, July 31, 2000?" "At one point I did; I think I've thrown it away ... but I usually read all the articles. Why?" Mom asks, her face perplexed about where this is heading. Too bad I'm in the dark as much as she is. "Scientists have created something called 'golden rice.' It's a product of genetic engineering, calculated to provide Beta-Carotene to some of the most impoverished people of the world. As the article says, 'Snippets of DNA, borrowed from bacteria and daffodils,' have been incorporated into the rice. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say ... unknown to the general public, more than just the genes that encode the instructions for making Beta-Carotene have been incorporated into this transgenic garden." "Transgenic, Mulder?" I try and grasp what he's telling me as my mind wanders to giant jiffy pop bee hives and desert cornfields. "Another irony, Scully. Transgenic crops may be our salvation instead of our ruin ... The special crops will be crossed with local rice plants to ensure their propagation." "Ok ... I know I don't have all the information you two do, but I don't understand. What good is this?" Still amazed that she's accepting all of this as easily as she does, I try to explain. "Mom, rice is a world staple. Not only do most people's diets subsist on rice, but also most relief organizations routinely deliver rice to famine areas. If the rebels can incorporate the cure for the virus into the genetic code of the rice ... they will mass inoculate millions and millions of people." "Exactly. Mrs. Scully, hopefully, within three years, if we can stave off colonization for that long ... most of humanity will no longer be susceptible to the virus. We will no longer be viable 'breeders' and pawns in this continued civil war. We will be able to fight back. And the alien DNA remnants that already are incorporated into humanity will be activated by exposure to the genetically engineered rice. Within those who already share a genetic precursor for enhanced brain activity, these areas of their brains will be 'switched on'." "Like you, Fox?" Mom's face demonstrates her comprehension. "And like, Thomas," I whisper. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* MIDNIGHT MRS. SCULLY'S HOME "Scully?" "Hmm ... Mulder." My thoughts are very far away, and he knows it. I'm getting used to his little traverses through my head. Mulder spoons himself closer into my back, pulling me against him ... his hand possessive upon my abdomen. He's been playing with our son again, pushing gently against me ... until he's rewarded with the tiniest pressure against his hand. "He's gonna be a football player, Scully. He's got a hell of a kick." "Yeah, well at the moment, he's kicking against my bladder. Remember that, Mulder, as you continue your little punt, pass and kick game." As he nuzzles my hair, gently blowing strands out of his mouth, I hear him chuckle. But he also quits pushing on my stomach. "Scully, why Ecclesiastes?" Mulder's not been distracted long; he's gone back to snooping. I roll over within his arms, until I am lying on my back, looking up at a very dusty ceiling fan. It's been awhile since this room's been used. "There's a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven," I whisper. "Every time I hear that passage, Scully, I think of the Turtles ... you know. Turn, Turn, Turn." Mulder hums the 60's pop music classic as my mind returns to the verses. "My life, Mulder, has been made up of seasons. As I was growing up, I was the dutiful daughter. Then there was medical school, and I was the perfect student. Just after graduation I joined the FBI, and I was the ideal foil for Spooky Mulder." "Not so ideal, Scully, you refused to be led around by your nose." His humming stops as he hears the seriousness within my voice. "But it was another season, Mulder," I insist, turning towards him so that I might see his eyes. "It's another example of how life's experiences are transitory and how just as you begin to figure things out ... it all changes." "But that's what gives life it's flavor, Scully, the idea ... we can't plan for the changes. Just as we figure out summer, fall approaches...bringing with it something new ... and exciting." "Exactly ... that's what I was thinking about ... trying to find hope from, Mulder. I'm about to head into winter, the coldest ... most barren season of all. And I know that the only way I will survive the harshness of this period is to always look forward, to keep my eyes watching for spring." Mulder reaches across me with his right arm, trailing his fingers down my cheek. As they pass across my lips, I place a gentle kiss upon their tips. "Are you sure this is still what you want to do, Scully? I believe there has to be another way ... something not so drastic as for you to give up our son." "Mulder ... I'm only giving him up for a season. And you will be with him; you will keep his mother alive for him until we can be together. And ... as much as I doubt it now, I must have faith that we will someday be a family." Mulder flops to his back, throwing his arm across his eyes, covering them as he speaks. "Scully, the chance for colonization is not over. The resistance is making headway ... but there's no guarantee. Spring may never come." I lay my hand across his forearm, stroking the fine, silky hairs. Even as I shudder at the thought, I know he is correct. I know my hope is based on so many things out of my control. "I can make it two to three years, Mulder. I will make it, knowing with my doing so ... our son will live a life outside of the consortium's reach." "Earlier, Scully when you were in the bathroom-" "During one of my every 30 minute visits you mean."I interrupt, wondering how long it will be before my next nocturnal potty break. "Yeah, well ... she asked me, in essence, what my intentions were." Mulder pulls his forearms from his face and turns on his side to watch me. "Your intentions?" I'm going to kill my mother. "She wants Thomas to be legitimate, Scully." "Are you asking me to marry you, Mulder?" I choke, the words catching in my throat. //In my mind Mulder and I have been married for years. // "In my mind as well," he chuckles. "But it has been the longest celibate marriage in the course of history." "Don't I know it, Mulder. We took the concept of foreplay to frustratingly new heights." "You know we can't make it legal, Scully. There's no way to have even a civil ceremony without tipping off the wrong people." His lips begin to pepper tiny kisses across my forehead, my hair, and my face. I feel as though I'm being sprinkled with love. My mouth trails across his, sliding in tender caress, gently nibbling with soft whispers and sighs. He begs entrance on the brink of exhalation, but not because I require this supplication from him. He's asking for more than mere permission to intensify our kiss. He desires admittance into my soul ...into my mind, and into all that I am. "Scully?" //Take Mulder...but tread lightly. I've no more to give.// My lips part, granting physical access to Mulder as his mind lovingly probes my thoughts, pulling out every desire, every fantasy, every hope, and every dream. With only him do I trust my essence...everything that I am. Groaning, Mulder pulls me against him, fastens his mouth more securely over mine, his exhalations becoming my inhalations, until the air we breathe is shared. Here in the guestroom of my mother's house, I will say goodbye to Mulder. I know, deep within me as I believe does he, that this will be the last time we will make love for a very long time...if not for a life time. For as long as there are stars in the sky, I will love this man...without reservation or apology. //Mulder, you complete me.// "And you complete me, Scully." //I, Dana, take thee...Fox.// "Fox?" //Hush, Mulder. It's a wedding; I may call my husband Fox, just this once.// Mulder pauses above me, his eyes hooded and dark with passion and pain. He grasps the side of my face with both his hands, holding me still as he looks deeply into me. "I, Fox, take thee, Dana ...within this covenant, this promise...to be your husband, to love you without reserve, with every fiber that is within me...for as long as we both shall live. And I promise to protect our son with all that I am, with all that I have...and to make sure he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, the tremendous love his mom has for him." Shoving against Mulder with my hands, feeling the anxiety build within me...and the pain begin to overwhelm once more...I push him off of me, until he lays beside me on the bed. Carefully, I move myself upon him, settling myself over him...and I grasp his face between my palms. "I, Dana, take thee, Fox...within this covenant, this promise...to be your wife, to love you without reserve, with every fiber that is within me...for as long as we both shall live. And I promise not to give into despair, to have faith that we =will= be together, that we will create this legacy of love and sacrifice for our children-" "Children?" "-Shut up, Fox, I'm saying my vows." I smile. "And I promise never to call you Fox again." Mulder can't bring himself to laugh, even as I know my words amuse him. His smile is bittersweet, knowing how short our time is. "Scully, open yourself up to me. You can do it, love. We've always been connected; there's intuitiveness within you you've never embraced. In this moment, Scully, come to me." I close my eyes, trying to relax against him, even as our lovemaking increases. I feel Mulder filling me, pushing up into me as I begin to rock upon him. But as much as I love him, I am unable to do as he wishes." "Scully...open your eyes...Look at me," he guides, his hands settling against my hips, physically urging me on, even as his voice pulls me to him. I stare into Mulder's face...let my mind drift into the dark passion of his eyes, flow into the warmth and love of his gaze. I swallow my fears and my disbelief... I open myself to him...in all ways. Physically and emotionally. //I want to believe.// "You =have= to believe...in us, Scully." With the shuddering climax of our joining, my heart and my mind become one with him. All the barriers have been broken because I feel him ... not only his physical presence within my body, but his essence, all that is Mulder...fills my thoughts. //Scully, I love you.// //Mulder, I love you. I had no idea...// //Seductive isn't it, Scully?// As the tendrils of my psyche intertwine with his, flowing into one stream of consciousness, the loneliness I've felt for years...washes away, replaced by a love so complete, so encompassing I have no words to describe it. But I understand, in this moment, that =we will= survive. A Legacy: Chapter Eleven Megan and Thomas, 2045 On top of the water tower "How many years was it, Dad...before Grandma and Grandpa were reunited?" I gaze at my father who has one leg dangling over the water tower's ledge; his other is drawn up such that his arms rest upon his knee. Eyes unfocused, unguarded...Dad leans forward into the sunset, his gaze lazily drifting across the horizon. Sundown's crimson and lavender hues streak the western sky, and dusk descends upon our small town, slipping in as quietly as the hushed jeweled tones of a turning kaleidoscope. While I wait for him to speak, seconds become minutes and the silence drags like one of Mr. Bartelli's physics lectures. Finally, Dad reaches for the journals he set down on the ledge beside us. He opens the first one, which is an old fashioned three ring binder, and hands it to me. Squinting because of the fading light, I try to read the words embossed on the front cover. Acknowledging the futility of this endeavor, I slip my fingers into my backpack, pull out my flashlight, and snap the solar cell into its activation slot. With the additional light I'm able to read the title. 'THOMAS SCULLY MULDER: A LEGACY' Dad observes me as I open the binder and begin flipping through the pages. It appears to be a baby book, of sorts. In the book's beginning are entries from Grandma Dana, then the handwriting changes ... to Grandpa Mulder's. But inserted throughout are other letters. There's even one from Great Grandma Scully. "Megan, I would love to be able to tell you that both my parents were there for my birth, but it wasn't so. There was no way to be able to smuggle Grandpa Mulder into the labor room without alerting all of Grandma Dana's protectors. So with her mom in attendance as Lamaze coach, I came screaming into this world amidst more security than a first world dignitary." He takes a water bottle and sips from it, swishing the water around in his mouth before he swallows. It's as though he's rinsing a sour taste from his mouth. I scrutinize his face, wishing I had the guts to delve into his mind and save him the trouble from recounting all this. But I know my transgressions would not be welcome. This is private, and he deserves the chance to tell me in his own way ... in his own time. So I'll keep everything verbal between us. "Grandpa Mulder and the Lone Gunmen arranged for the bomb threat, didn't they? ... It was all a plan to get Grandma moved to a different hospital ... one where they controlled the playing field." "Yes...after Grandma Dana left Great Grandma Scully's, she was put on bed restriction the next day. She wasn't able to have any more contact with my father after that. It was too dangerous for him to come to her apartment. So ... He and the Lone Gunmen planned and plotted, and Grandma Dana filled her journals with the first of many bogus entries. And she learned everything she could from Assistant Director Skinner concerning his plans for protecting the two of us. She then passed all that information along to Frohike." "They are the ones who drugged the guards and Grandma Dana ... they took you from the hospital?" "Yes...I don't know all the details. I'm not sure anyone ever did besides Grandpa and his Merry Men, but suffice it to say ... there was more than just dinner being delivered in that meal cart," Dad chuckles. "There was a running joke when I was growing up ... Uncle Frohike used to call me Meals on Wheels. For the longest time I didn't have a clue what he was talking about." Not really sure I see humor in any of this, I continue with my questions. "Assistant Director Skinner never suspected anything?" Flipping to one of the pages, Dad taps at it. "Everything's in here, Megan. My legs are getting cramped sitting up here so I'm going down for awhile to walk around. I'm way too old for this tree house nonsense." He gets up, snaps together a solar battery pack and activates another lantern. "We'll talk again in a bit, Sweetheart. Just read." As Dad descends the water tower ladder, mumbling something about "not being a damn monkey", I grab my own water bottle and sit cross-legged on the ledge, laying the binder across my legs. I read.... ...and the story continues. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ December 16, 2001 Dear Thomas, Happy first birthday, little one. I am disobeying a direct order from both Fox and Dana just by writing this letter. But as your grandmother and Dana's mother ... I couldn't hold my tongue. I pray that no one will discover my weakness and use it against you or your parents. Thomas ... My newest grandson, I just wanted you to know how precious you are to me and how blessed I was to be there at your birth. You are truly a miracle child, in so many ways. I will treasure the moment I first held you ... The feeling was exquisite. I pray Dana will be reunited with you and your father someday. But as I've heard the horror stories... I am not naive enough to believe in "fairy tale" endings. Thus, I write this letter. When you are a man, I hope this will help you to understand the great sacrifice your parents made because they loved you and wanted nothing more than to ensure your safety. Thomas, your mother died inside the day you were born. As she was giving you life, she was mourning your 'death.' While most women rejoice with the arrival of their due date, your mother dreaded it, knowing that your birth would mean the beginning of your separation from each other. The tears she shed for you that day ... were such bitter sweet testament to the miracle of your birth and the impending shadow of your 'death.' I understand the reasons behind what your parents did. I'm not sure it was the only opportunity available to them, but I am not one to question their resolve. I can't begin to understand all that they've been through. I just know this Grandmother's heart broke when you were taken. Even as I know it is only a ruse, that your death is not real ... the anguish is ... especially for your mother. Thomas ... Dana Scully is a strong woman. She's been a survivor for so many years. Many have accused her of becoming emotionally distant or detached, as though it were a conscious decision on her part. When in actuality, it has been a coping mechanism, allowing her to handle the horror that has been a part of her life for many years. All those years...Thomas. I had no idea what she had been through. I didn't understand my daughter ... and I fear I was less than supportive. Thomas, Dana survived an abduction, medical rape, a sister's murder, cancer, a daughter's death, exposure to an alien virus and incarceration in an alien 'breeding tank', and other untold monsters ... but giving you and your father up was the "proverbial straw", and it broke more than your mother's back. It broke her spirit. One week after your 'death', Dana took an indefinite medical leave of absence from the bureau. She was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, something she'd probably been living with for years, but had managed to control just by virtue of her strength of will. Instead of 'glossing over' the pain and loss in her life, Dana finally began to face it. She pushed through it ... She quit minimizing her anguish and learned how to integrate the pain until, eventually, she came back to herself, but not for several difficult and agonizing months. But as I said, your mother is a strong woman ... and she has managed to find her way through a hell I can only imagine. Just remember, Thomas, no matter what happens in the end, your mother loves you ... She aches for you ... There's not a moment she doesn't think of you. And through God's providence, you =will= someday be united. With all my love, Grandma Scully ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ EXCERPTS FROM FOX MULDER'S WRITINGS December 31, 2000 10:30PM According to YOUR calendar, Scully, midnight will begin the new millennium. I guess I won't be fighting off the walking dead or getting my second annual New Year's Eve kiss. Instead, you and I are as far away from each other as we have ever been, and I'm doing laundry. Thomas decided to pee all over my shirt as I was changing his diaper. By the time I realized that thing was cocked and loaded, it was too late ... for both the shirt and me. Someone should have warned me. Thomas is a good baby, Scully ... I sound as though I'm an expert on post-natal behavior, but he does seem happy, and he's very loving. In fact, he's uncanny. He seems to sense my mood and alter his accordingly. I start teaching as soon as the new term begins. Byers got me set up at the University where his Uncle's a Dean. His Aunt Lizzy and Uncle Rupert have been hospitable ... even though I'm sure they want to ask me lots of questions. They've opened their home to us, Scully, telling anyone who asks that I'm a second cousin whose wife just died. I don't have any trouble playing the grieving widow. Without Lizzy I don't know what I'd do. She's been an encyclopedia of knowledge, helping me buy formula, diapers, and plenty of warm 'stretchy' things. She's gone nuts setting up a nursery and making sure I have a good doctor. She doesn't know that the guys had already found Thomas's doctor for me ... someone who knows our special circumstances and is prepared to monitor the baby for anything not in the normal range. Lizzy and Rupert were unable to have children ... so she enjoys spoiling Thomas. And I appreciate the help ... tremendously. I assure you they are not taking your place, but they are making sure our child is safe and healthy. Rupert says there should be no trouble with me fitting into Bowling Green State University's Psychology Department. No longer Special Agent Fox Mulder, I'm Dr. Robert Mathews, Ph.D. My credentials are impeccable. I'm a psychologist, specializing in criminal behavior. I will teach in the University's Graduate School and do consulting work from time to time with law enforcement agencies ... providing a cover for those times I need to be away. Bowling Green, Ohio is a small town. It's definitely a far cry from the hustle and bustle of DC. Except for its lack of variety in take out food, I think it will be as secure a place as any for Thomas and me to reside. Byers' informs me that the manhunt for Thomas' kidnappers has been furious. And he says that the 'bodies' we planted have stood up to the investigation's rigors. I didn't ask where the guys got the corpses we staged in the explosion, and frankly I don't want to know. This is not something I'm proud of, Scully, but black and white's become a little muddy lately and I will protect Thomas, even if it's at the expense of a few medical school corpses. I am glad to hear the guys got the 'baby's' remains out of the morgue before a DNA test could be run. I realize that disappearance will make some question the authenticity of Thomas's death. But it won't give them enough to go on, and at this point ... I don't know what else we could have done. Hopefully, the ambiguity will just muddy the water's further as all those looking for the baby try to determine "button, button, who has the button?" We miss you, Scully. I think Thomas knows something's not right. I sure as hell do.... Even as I feel your presence, a warmth that invades me when I close my eyes ... and shut out the world. It's not enough ... not by any stretch of the imagination is it enough. I love you. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ December 31, 2001 ~10:30PM Well, no matter which calendar the world is using ... the millennium celebrations have finally stopped. I've been filling in the baby book, Scully, just as I promised you. I've been recording every new tooth, his first haircut, his first shots, his first steps ... his first birthday cake. I've tried to be as meticulous as you would have been. You can critique my efforts soon ... I hope. I've even become Cecil B. DeMille with a video camera, but I doubt there will be any Oscar nominations for my directing. However, I do remember to turn the camera off more than I did at first. I have wonderful footage of the ground, my shoes ... the inside of the lens cap. Byers told me how you took a leave of absence earlier in the year. Oh hell, forget the semantics ... He informed me of your breakdown. Scully, I don't know what to say. I can't begin to imagine the pain you must be dealing with. I wanted so badly to come to you ... even as Byers sent me your message to stay away. I understand you feeling the need to deal with everything on your own ...and your fear for Thomas. I know you weren't trying to shut me out, but I hurt for you nonetheless. I could feel the blackness, Scully. I know, at this distance, I can't read your mind, but there are times I feel you with me as clearly as if you were in the next room. A few months ago, the darkness was so desperate ... that I was nauseous with fear for you. Even Thomas felt it; our son knew his mother was in pain.... You are the strongest person I know, Scully, but you are not superhuman. You must have hurt as though your soul were bleeding out. I hear Skinner's been asking a lot of questions about Thomas and the day he was born. He must be feeling heat from above as people try and figure out the truth. I knew the chance of getting away free and clear was slim, but our pursuers just don't know ... and that ambiguity still gives us an edge. If this looks as though it's going to blow up in your face, I will be back there to take the consequences with you, Scully. I will not leave you to meet the ramifications for OUR actions. Rupert and Lizzy would care for our son, and they would protect him ... I'm sure of it. As I sit here ... writing to you in what has become my New Year's Eve tradition, I rock our son to sleep. He's cutting teeth, Scully, and he's finally conked out. Seeing him, nestled in my arms, his dark hair ... sweaty from his earlier discomfort ... I know we are doing the right thing. I could not protect Samantha, but I can protect Thomas. I've received word from the resistance that the rice distribution is going according to plans, with a few exceptions. The colonists must suspect something ... because there have been a rash of thefts at various relief agencies. But so far ... more is going out than is being stopped. They've also informed me that Krycek's been sniffing around. Since his loyalties are suspect, he's not been told about me, but he still suspects. He's a smart man, Scully. He never would have survived all these years if it weren't so .... There isn't a day, Scully, when I don't think of you...when I don't ache for you...when I don't want you. Hopefully, soon.... ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* December 31, 2002 BGSU Cemetery 11:30PM Campus security just drove by. I suppose finding one of the University's Professors and his young son camped out in the cemetery is probably more than a little odd. Thankfully, my penchant for spending quiet afternoons reading amongst the tombstones proceeds me, and they didn't seem the least bit surprised to find me here. Officer Wilkins and I have tossed back a beer or two together...so other than adding to my 'weird' status, this is barely a concern. It would figure I'd end up at a University with a cemetery right in the middle of campus. For our New Year's Eve celebration this year, Thomas and I packed a picnic dinner, popcorn for a late night snack, flashlights, a sleeping bag, and of course his favorite bear. We played hide and seek among the markers until it was too dark to see. Then we read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. I know ...hardly the stuff of ghost stories, but he is only two. And reading this book kept him quiet for all of five minutes. He's definitely a Scully-Mulder. I feel closer to you, Scully, out here. I come and sit among the tombstones all the time ... after Thomas's asleep. Mr. Powell, a gentleman with a magnificent granite headstone, and I are intimately acquainted. After all, I park my butt up against him at least a couple of times a week. But there's this glade, Scully, right in the middle of the cemetery ...near ol' Mr. Powell. And even though this place is full of grand Oak trees and Sugar Maples, this small patch of grass has no tree canopy above it. I can lie here and see the stars...and hear the quiet rustles of the leaves ... and feel you... deep within my soul where you reside. Thomas's snoring away now...so much for ringing in the New Year with me. I'm surprised he made it this long. He never slows down. He's asking about you all the time now, Scully. He wants to know when he'll see his mommy, and there's no way I can explain all of this to him. So I keep writing in the journal ... providing a record for him and his future children. Do you really think they'll believe all of this? I always knew Skinner would come through for us in the end. Well, ok...not always. But I have believed for some time that he would do the right thing, regardless of his own personal consequences. Byers said Skinner went to bat for you with OPR, even going so far as to say you were being set up by people within the FBI's own organization ... as a means to discredit you. Obfuscation has been the modus operandi of those around us for years. It seems fitting to turn the tables now. I know, when this is all said and done, there will be no fanfare. No one will be handing out citations to Mr. and Mrs. Spooky, and thanking them on behalf of a grateful nation for having helped prevent human annihilation. The X-Files will slip once more into obscurity until another poor slob with a predilection for self flagellation, decides 'the truth is out there.' The rumblings are that this will be over soon, Scully. One way or another.... Thomas and I are leaving tomorrow. We haven't told Lizzy and Rupert, and I know this will tear them apart. But my sources tell me that the hounds are closing in on our location, and I can't let them find us. If Lizzy and Rupert don't know anything ... they'll more than likely be safe. I hope so. Perhaps, this time next year... you will be with us for our New Year's celebration. I can only hope... and dream. A Legacy: Chapter Twelve June 5, 2003 When all is said and done and history's been ignored or, at best, been re-written, the world will still go on ... our collective heads buried deep within the sands of time like the proverbial ostrich's. For 'ignorance is bliss' is the way of humanity ... and we don't care to have our weaknesses and our mistakes held up before us like shortcomings reflected in the Wicked Queen's Mirror. There is no 'fairest in the land' when it comes to the public's right to know or to understand. As I stand here, on the precipice of what will be my future ... secure in the knowledge that Mulder and I have done what needed to be done and that we have fought the good fight, I know my son's legacy is shrouded in obfuscation and clouded history. Ahab liked to quote military men, and I remember something he once attributed to Napoleon. "History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon." In our case ... I'm not even sure that can be said. In the future when our FBI colleagues speak of Mulder and Scully, there will be all-knowing whispers, raised eyebrows, and talk of "I knew them when...." But as the years pass and the X-Files become a more distant memory ... the tall tales will begin, and we will become a real life ghost story within Hoover's hallowed halls. Mulder and Scully's Legacy will only be spoken of in hushed tones and suppositions ... because no one knows the true story. Just as Mulder said about the "Lazarus Bowl", our contemporaries will paint us as Spooky characatures instead of the human, flawed vessels that we are. Perhaps some day our Earth's history will tell the story of aborted alien conquest and colonization; consortium's and collaboration; resistance and the uncommon lives of ordinary people forced into the most extraordinary circumstances, but not today ... and not about Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Today --all is right with the world and no one knows how very close humanity came to anihilation. frankly, I don't feel I want to tell them. Yesterday I walked into Skinner's office and hand delivered my resignation letter. I had to laugh between the tears; when we looked at each other, the moment was awkward and poignant, both of us feeling as though we should salute the other. Instead, we settled for a loving hug and kiss, and I promised to stay in touch ... although, it will probably never happen. However, I have to admit to an ocassional 'Officer and a Gentlemen' moment, envisioning Mulder and I proudly walking our son to Skinner's office. Perhaps, that still is within the realm of possibility, but as it is with moving on ... earnest promises meant in all sincerity at the time they are made, tend to be forgotten or neglected just as a matter of course. And I, for one, have no illusions as to fate's fragile nature. I do know, however, that instead of fighting this future ... it's time to embrace it. My destiny is here below me ... running and playing in the incoming tide. From where I stand atop this sand dune, hidden behind tall sea grasses and a battered, wooden hand railing ... I clearly see all that is good in the world. I watch the scene unfold before me. Mulder and Thomas haven't seen me yet ... and so I take this moment to just take it all in ... to inhale the salty sea spray, the tangy brine and all my fearful expectations. Hope begins with a 42-year-old man, with windswept hair and laughing eyes, and extends to a small, brown haired boy, with freckles and suntanned legs. Mulder is barefoot and dressed in Khaki trousers, his pant legs rolled up at the cuffs, which he barely keeps dry as he chases Thomas to the water's edge. Over his exposed chest, bronze from the sun's caress, Mulder has thrown on a floral Hawaiian shirt, which he wears open and untucked, the edges flapping in the breeze. His hair is longer, curling slightly at the edges where it lays in unruly disregard against his collar. And Mulder's laughing.... Our son, a miniature version of his father, with his toddler size, navy blue swim suit trunks and very own luau shirt, races on chubby legs, into the surf once more ... until the crashing waves send him back ... careening into his father's arms. And with Mulder's large hands clasping Thomas's small ones, he begins to spin our son around. Mulder and Thomas ... spin and spin...and spin... Until ... suddenly, they stop. Thomas, breathless with excitement, is facing the ocean, his head turned upward to his father. Mulder gently sets the child's feet upon the sand. Then, as Thomas impatiently tugs upon his father's shirt and butts his head against Mulder's legs, trying to regain his attention, Mulder's head raises and his eyes search the dunes where I hide. Shocked joy lights his features as he concentrates on Sea Oats and Pompass Grass. Within my mind warmth begins to embrace me, its tendrils encircling my thoughts and sensuously sliding into my ravaged soul as Mulder says, 'hello' in is own personal way. He knows I am here. I step from my hiding place onto the battered deck and into the sunshine. The simple sundress I wear swirls about my legs as the hot summer wind soothes my frozen spirit. I remove my sunglasses and for the first time in almost three years, ... my heart soars. Thomas calms ... he stops pulling against his father; cocking his head to the side, he intently studies Mulder's face. Finally, he turns his tiny body and grabs his daddy's hand, until Thomas faces my direction and his questioning eyes pursue mine. Purposefully, I tear my gaze away from Mulder's and seek out a child I only knew for four hours, but would recognize if he were but one of a multitude of thousands. He is his father's son. My fingers trembling, I lay them against my lips ... and stop the hiccuping sobs, which threaten to escape. I do not want to frighten Thomas with an hysterical outburst, but I have never seen such beauty in all my life ... there, standing together on the sand below me. The two men of my life -- one tall, tanned and sleek, with more contentment in his countenance than I have ever seen. The other, our 'little man', stands proudly next to his father. His brown, windblown hair curls against his collar as he adjusts his stance to mimic Mulder's. Before I can unclench my frozen limbs and give direction to my numbed body, there's a tumult of color and light streaking toward me. Mulder has scooped up Thomas, and they are racing across the sand in a blur of silicone granules, tears, and rainbow-colored shirts. Suddenly, I am home. Mulder's arms encircle me, practically squashing Thomas between us, as he spins us around in a frenzied twirl. And I am enveloped in a tangle of arms and legs and more love than I have ever known. With frantic kisses raining upon my face and in my hair, I hear Mulder's voice fighting for distinction against that of his son's. "I love you, Scully ... love you...." "Mommy!" Grabbing Mulder's hand, I place a tender kiss upon his palm, a promise of more to come. He knows my mind, and clutches my own hand where he rubs his lips against the fleshy pad of my thumb, nuzzling me and urging me forward in the same moment. I stoop down, bringing myself nose to nose with my son. "Hello, Thomas." "Daddy was right. You are pretty." Choking back the emotions that threaten to overwhelm, I reach my hand backward and clasp Mulder's for a few seconds of assuring contact. I don't want to mess this up. "Thank you, sweetie. You are quite a handsome young man." Thomas, with only the barest hesitation, lifts his gaze from mine and searches his father's face. Apparently, he finds what he needs from Mulder as he stretches out his arms and grasps tightly around my neck, squeezing with his tiny baby hands and fingers. "Mommy's home," he whispers against my hair as he tries to crawl into my lap. With the extra weight of a squirming two and a half- year-old and the enormity of Thomas's words, I fall back into the sand, drawing my baby into my lap. Clinging to my child, I finally allow release to the tears I've held inside for three years, and I am laid bare upon the crystalline sand. Crashing waves of emotion churn within me, and I fear the pain I'm feeling is also causing grief to those I love. I finally register Mulder behind me, spreading his legs V-like around my body as he pulls me tightly against his chest. Enfolded within his strong embrace, I grasp Mulder's forearms, digging my fingers deeply into his skin. I'm still afraid he'll disappear. Thomas has quit his squirming and rests quietly ... his hands pet soothingly at my hair. His head nestles against my breast. In the day's bright summer light, as swollen seas crash against the shore, and I unburden years of anguish ... I embrace Mulder, my child, and my life to come. Suddenly, a yellow glint -- a sparkle -- catches my eye. I pull Thomas's collar back and reveal a tiny golden cross. My baby's wearing my cross.... "Mulder?" I manage to choke out. "Yes, Scully." With trembling fingers, he brushes back damp wisps of hair from my sweaty brow. "It's Spring." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ LATER THAT SAME EVENING "You know he's asleep." Mulder smiles as he sits on the chair next to Thomas's bed. From there he reaches over and rubs small circles against my clavicle, his hands like magic fingers ... both soothing and sensuous. "He's a hard sleeper, Scully; he won't wake up 'til morning." "There's so much about him I don't know, Mulder. So much time that's elapsed ... Time I can never get back." "I know ... but you don't have to worry about connecting with Thomas, Scully. For the last two and a half years he's heard everything about his mommy...how smart she is, how she's beautiful, loving, and brave. I think there have been times he's almost forgotten he hasn't seen you since his birth." I stroke my son's damp hair away from his forehead, worshipping the tiny exhaled puffs of breath that fan my cheek where it lies against his on the pillow. We've just finished an enthusiastic bathtub game of sink the boat, eaten two Oreos and drunk a glass of milk, and survived a reading double header-'Chicka Chicka Boom Boom' and 'I'll Love You Forever'. Somewhere before 'Thomas the Tank Engine', he conked out ... clutching a little teddy bear dressed in a black leather Harley biker outfit. //I wonder where he got his furried friend?// "Frohike." "Figures ... please, Mulder, don't tell me what Langly's been giving him. I really feel as though I should absorb a small amount at a time." With another gentle kiss upon Thomas's ivory soap cheeks, I slide off the bed, careful as possible so as not to waken our sleeping son. There's another reunion I would like to attend this evening. "Oooh, Par-Tay, Scully! I like the sound of that." Cracking the door behind us, we leave Thomas's bedroom. As I step into the living area, I hear the crashing surf through the open sliding glass doors. The ceiling fan mounted above twirls in lazy disregard, circulating humid air throughout the room. We should probably shut the door and turn on the air-conditioning, but neither one of us seems inclined to do so. There are hours of talk ahead of us, days of discussion and ruminations, but at this moment, words are not what I need. Turning towards Mulder, I slide my hands upward, straining against him ... craving that which I've forsaken for almost three years. Even as our lips meet, the heat from our breath intermingles in such a way as to rival the summer's scorching rays. We slide into each other, our mouths sucking, sweeping, nibbling, caressing - teeth and tongues, hard and soft, passionate and tender - parched souls seeking thirsty release. As I slide down to lie supine beneath him, I revel in the dichotomies of the hard wood floor against my back, and Mulder's lean muscular body poised above me. His hands are everywhere at once, and I am finding it difficult to concentrate ... It's too strenuous to keep my bearings, and so I allow myself to drift, letting my feelings and emotions navigate my way as my hands follow heart, marking my soul-mate. Our bodies, slick with perspiration and hunger, search for each other in a timeless, soulful dance. With whispers and rustles, clothing is removed and inhibitions are unfettered, until, finally, there is nothing more between us. And as the last barrier's broached, Mulder once more binds himself to me in an act more intimate than humanly possible. //I, Fox, take thee, Dana ...within this covenant, this promise...to be your husband, to love you without reserve, with every fiber that is within me...for as long as we both shall live. And I have kept my promise, to protect our son with all that I am, with all that I have...and I have made sure he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, the tremendous love his mom has for him." // //I, Dana, take thee, Fox...within this covenant, this promise...to be your wife, to love you without reserve, with every fiber that is within me...for as long as we both shall live. And I, momentarily, gave into despair, but I re-found my faith, knowing we =would= be together, remaining confident that we will create this legacy of love and sacrifice for our children-" // Even as our bodies tremble in the after affects of our lovemaking, Mulder laughs. // Children?// Drawing him closer into my arms, I urge him to remain upon me ... even as he hesitates for fear of hurting me. //I believe in extreme possibilities, Mulder ... And I believe in us.// A Legacy: Chapter Thirteen JANUARY 11, 2034 THE SAME BEACH AS BEFORE The cold, harsh sting of salty spray buffets my face. It feels like tiny glass pinpricks upon my exposed skin. The ocean is angry today; the waves are enormous frothy fists pounding against an immovable shore. It's as though the surf rails against that which hems it in, as though the shore has any choice in the destiny it's been given, any more than the ocean has in its own. I remember a song I heard sung in Church ... from very long ago. It's told from the point of view of a piece of metal, being honed and sculpted by the blacksmith ... and as the metal is shaped and fired, it cries out, "So dream a little dream for me, in hopes that I'll remain. And cry a little cry for me, so I can bear the flames. And hurt a little hurt for me, my future is untold. But my dreams are not the issue here, for they, the hammer holds." Part way through the song the metal realizes its destiny. Instead of being sculpted into a perfect piece of art, its design is to be that of a nail ... not nearly the future it would have chosen. So the words take on new meaning, sung in the context of that knowledge as the nail pleas for prayers that it might stay the course, knowing the agony of its refinement will only be to create a sturdy, functional tool. Yet, finally, as the ballad unfolds, the nail realizes that its true destiny is not to build a building, or anything else of equal practicality, but its inevitability is to pierce the flesh of Christ as He hangs upon a cross. The nail's Legacy is much greater than any idea it ever held and the ramifications of its part in history are unfathomable. From the moment I first heard that song, over 30 years ago, I have understood how the nail felt. When I started with the FBI, I had grand ideas as to what my place in history would be. I'd excel as a woman in a predominately male field, and I'd further the advancement of women in the organization. And even separate from that, I'd be the best damn agent I could be, regardless of gender ... Special Agent Dana Scully. But with the best of plans ... Special Agent Dana Scully met Special Agent Fox Mulder, and my fate intertwined with his. And for years we endured the fire, choosing to remain midst the pain, being sculpted into something no one would have ever perceived. And our Legacy, through Thomas ... and his future children, will join with others who have been 'gifted' through the years by the activation of the God module. "Mom?" "Thomas." I acknowledge my son as he steps up behind me, a blanket in his hands, which he throws across my shoulders. Too bad it will do nothing to ward away this chill. "It's time to go." "I know ... I'm just saying goodbye." He moves over to my side, and encircles my small frame within his embrace. As he pulls me tightly into the circle of his arms, my eyes sting with unshed tears. So many times Mulder and I have stood here just like this. "Your father was so excited about your news, Thomas. He couldn't believe you and Deborah hadn't told us earlier. Although, he did say he didn't believe Deborah would go for Frohike as a first name." I wipe my eyes with the back of my gloved hand and search through my pockets for a tissue. "He suggested if you really felt the urge to honor Hickey that you try 'Melvin'... you might get farther." Thomas laughs and squeezes my shoulders gently. "Actually, Mom ... Deborah's having a girl. And we've decided to name her Megan because she needs a name all her own. But her middle name will be Samantha to remind her of the Legacy she continues." "He'd like that, Thomas." My face scrunches up, my cheeks tautly drawn with the pain I try to hold inside, until finally ... I can't keep it back any longer. With the icy spray of harsh winter spraying upon Thomas and me, sobs tear from my chest, and I turn my body inward within my son's strong arms. I say goodbye to Mulder, and I pray that 'I might bear the flames because my future is untold.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ THE WATER TOWER 2045 I hold Grandma Dana's journals within my hands, but I can no longer feel their hard, smooth surfaces. All I feel are my father's arms as he draws me up across his lap and pulls me tightly into the safe enclosure of his embrace. Just as Grandma cried for Grandpa, I cry for them both ... for all they sacrificed through the years so that I might live, that humanity might survive. "How did Grandpa die, Daddy?" "Quietly ... in his sleep. Grandma says she suddenly woke up, feeling as though something were missing ... some part of her was gone. She rolled over, knowing he was already dead. It was the night after Deborah and I had told them about you, Sweetheart. Grandpa had been so excited. It was a joyful occasion." "They never had any other children, did they?" I clutch my father around his waist, burrowing further into him. "No ... but as Grandpa always told me, not for lack of trying on their part. They were really ok about it though ... Grandma told me I was her miracle. And as far as she was concerned, that was enough. But I know ... deep down, they would have enjoyed more children." Quieting my tears, I sit up, looking at Dad's face through the diffuse lantern light. It gives it a Spooky glow.... "Grandma was always so happy, Dad. I don't remember her as anything but content with her life. Yet, from what I've read ... from what you've told me. I can't believe she didn't feel as though her heart had been removed when Grandpa died." Dad fills the backpack with the journals, snacks and water bottles. He finishes closing up the clasp before he answers. "Grandma was happy, Megan. For the last ten years she continued to devote her life to her family, helping raise you and your siblings when Mom and I couldn't get our work schedules figured out. She was in her element Megan ... among all of you...but especially you, Megan. You are so much like your grandfather; it is uncanny. And the fact you bear his gift for 'seeing' made that connection even stronger." Dad pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it to me. He gives me one of the flashlights as well. "Megan, Grandma left this for you ... to read after you'd read the journals and heard their story. I'm leaving it with you, Honey, and I'm heading home. This is for you to read, alone." With trembling fingers I accept the letter. Dad drops a warm kiss upon my forehead and descends the ladder. I know he won't be far, even as he says he's going home. He won't leave ... he'll wait beneath me in the shadows, making sure I am all right. We both know this ... and that's ok. The envelope appears old ... probably because paper's used so infrequently today. I slide my fingernail carefully under the flap and open the envelope, pulling out the stationary. Dear Megan, You have just worked your way through an amazing amount of history, Honey. You are probably overwhelmed and exhausted by the journey. But I hope that Sam's diary and my journals have provided some small beginning for you to understand the tremendous gift you have, and to see your special Legacy. You are a miracle child, born of another miracle ... your father. [Although, I'm sure Deborah would be quick to point out she had something significant to do with the process.] You are unique; you are blessed. And you will be faced with the ramifications of a changing world. Megan, as a 'seer', you are one of many, but still one of few. Humanity is only now beginning to understand the changes that are coming. And with change and growth becomes responsibility to not only the whole, but the individual as well. Ethics and morality, as is usually the case with any new development, will struggle for dialogue ... and not always civil dialogue. You will be tested and scorned by some because of fear and ignorance, and there will be those who will want to 'manage' you to their benefit. Your life may be difficult, but it will be exciting. And you have the strength to see you through whatever comes. You will be able to stay beneath the flame, Megan. You have a responsibility because of your heritage ... you can choose to hide your gift, or you can choose to find a way to use it ... be proud of it and create a better world for those around you. Remember, Megan, there are always consequences for our actions and our choices. I write this letter to you tonight because I feel him near ... your Grandpa. The feeling's been increasing the last few weeks, and it is such that I know I will be going to him soon. In a world where time used to be a constant, and physical laws of nature were once irrefutable, down is now up, and up is...well up is somewhere found in starlight. Look for me, Megan ... look for us... in the stars.... I love you, Grandma Dana Carefully, I slide the letter back into its sheath, and I lean back against the water tower. I let my eyes drift to the stars ... and I pray they found each other again. Somehow, I have no doubt. Silently, one by one in the infinite meadows of heaven, blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The End ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ CHAPTER 14: AUTHOR'S NOTES As is always the case writing any long story like this, there are people who need and who should be thanked and acknowledged. I wish to acknowledge the input of a few of my fellow WIP authors this summer. Pequod, Beduini, and Paige Caldwell have all been there for me when I came screaming because of writer's block or insecurities. Ladies, you are all a class act. My friend, Carol, continues to allow me to bounce ideas with her, and she still says she likes me ... even with my 'obsession.' I have had so many write to me, offering words of encouragement along the way. For all of you who have offered feedback, you have no idea how wonderful that has been. And Haven's spoiler board ... well, what can I say. You have all been dears. :) When I was making an attempt to figure out mythology ... and banging my head against the keyboard because I couldn't believe I'd attempted a mythology story, I turned to Deep Background and Tiny Dancer's sites. Both saved me lots of time in research, and I am very appreciative of those archivists' efforts. Thank you as well, to Paige, Kimberly, Frogdoggie, Kate, SLS, Michelle Kieffer, CindyET, and Megan for behind the scenes real life encouragement. Thanks to these lovely people ... this WIP got finished. Ok...this is the part where dlynn goes on an indefinite hiatus. I have been writing pretty fast and furiously over the several months since I started writing. I have enjoyed myself immensely; people have surprised me with their gracious generosity. And I couldn't have had a better time. I will probably continue to post the ocassional short vignette, but, at least, for awhile that's it on the long things from me. Real life's calling... and I'm going to listen. Thanks for a delightful ride! ~~~~ dlynn August 23, 2000 Author's Notes, Chapter two: The last three diary entries are from Closure. They were as read by Mulder, or written, as seen on the screen when the diary is open. Thank goodness for the VCR pause button. :) I contend that Jeffrey Spender doesn't remember any of his time with his "father." That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. :) Author's Notes, Chapter five: As far as the hospitals are concerned, I tried my best to get that accurate. I'm not sure how well I did. Thank you to the Haven Spoiler Board folks who helped me research this. According to The Washington Post article, [Suitland Trying To Shed Its Shady Side, by Tracey A. Reeves, Washington Post StaffWriter, Thursday, July 20, 2000; Page M16] Manchester Square was closed down in 1997 for housing violations. I wasn't able to determine if the building had been demolished at that time or if it were still standing. So...I may have taken some unintentional poetic license. Author's Notes, Chapter seven: I do not claim to have any idea how any of this whole Mythology Arc works. My only goal is to make this plausible. Large holes you could drive a truck through ... are not management's responsibility. Blame CC for getting me all confused. Author's Notes, Chapter eight: I appreciate Beduini and Pequod going through this chapter for me. They took time out of their own WIP schedules to help out in a pinch. :) Thanks, ladies! Author's Notes, Chapter ten: Thank you to Pequod, who allowed me to bounce ideas.... "Golden rice" is discussed in Time Magazine, July 31, 2000. The article is entitled Grains of Hope, Pages 38-46. Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 There is a time for everything, And a season for every activity under heaven: A time to be born and a time to die, A time to plant and a time to uproot, A time to kill and a time to heal, A time to tear down and a time to build, A time to weep and a time to laugh A time to mourn and a time to dance, A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, A time to embrace and a time to refrain, A time to search and a time to give up, A time to keep and a time to throw away, A time to tear and a time to mend, A time to be silent and a time to speak, A time to love and a time to hate, A time for war and a time for peace. CHAPTER 13: The Hammer Holds by Bebo Norman A shapeless piece of steel, that's all I claim to be This hammer pounds to give me form, this flame, it melts my dreams I glow with fire and fury, as I'm twisted like a vine My final shape, my final form, I'm sure I'm bound to find So dream a little dream for me in hopes that I'll remain And cry a little cry for me so I can bear the flames And hurt a little hurt for me, my future is untold But my dreams are not the issue here, for they, the hammer holds The water, it cools me gray, and the hurt subdued somehow I have my shape this sharpened point, what is my purpose now? And the question, it still remains, what am I to be? Perhaps some perfect piece of art displayed for all to see A hammer pounds again, but flames I do not feel This force that drives me helplessly through flesh and wood reveals A burn that burns much deeper, it's more than I can stand The reason for my life was to take the life of a guiltless man So dream a little dream for me in hopes that I'll remain And cry a little cry for me so I can bear the painAnd hurt a little hurt for me, my future is so bold But my dreams are not the issue here, for they, the hammer holds This task before me may seem unclear, but it, my maker holds And for those who have asked: Megan's a compilation of my nine-year-old daughter, my eleven-year-old son, and Gibson Praise...uh...the female version. :)