Date: Mon, 8 Jun 1998 18:24:39 -0500 Subject: "A Show of Strength" (1/4) by Meredith From: meredith40@juno.com (Meredith S) Already sent to Gossamer. OK to archive elsewhere, just keep my name, e-mail, and introduction intact. Please do not distribute to other mailing lists without my permission. Thanks. Title: A Show of Strength Author: Meredith Classification: S, A, MSR Rating: R for language Spoilers: Through 5th Season mythology. Abstract references to "The Red and The Black." Summary: Post-colonization story, alternate universe. Perception, loyalty, and identity are called into question as survivors face new and more threatening challenges. Disclaimer: Some characters used in this story belong to 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. No copyright infringement is intended. Debts: As always, to MC Akimoto -- for her incredible editing and writing skills, and for pointing me in just the right direction while somehow convincing me I did it myself. :-) And to everyone who has reminded me that it's been a long time. Your prompting keeps me writing. Feedback: Is darn wonderful. Please send what you can spare to meredith40@juno.com. ___________________________________________ A show of strength is all you want; You can never set it down Guts and passion, those things you can't Even set down All those things, you think might count You can never set them down Don't ever set them down Never set them down -- Ian McCollough ******* I've been alive for only 3 months, and in that time I've broken 7 mirrors. By my calculations, that equals 49 years of bad luck. Just enough to last me until my statistically predicted death. This perverted existence couldn't get any worse. What a cruel fate to hate the way you look. To despise the mudded, rusty hair, the brittle-cool gaze, the ivory skin -- you're not beautiful when you're just an imitation of the almighty Her. A pale carbon-copy. A flawed mirror image. When it gets too bad, I take a swing at myself. If I'd never seen Her, seen the pictures, the video surveillance, the metric tons of paper documents, recorded phone calls, the life and times of Her, the She that haunts my psyche....hell, I might not be this bitter. I might think I was someone unique. I might believe I was real. But who's to say. I'm their first successful creation. What I do with this so-called "life" can only be described as a success compared to the 1000 now-dead or never-alive versions of Her and a dozen other different Hers lying buried in a sinkhole somewhere in Mississippi. Code Nineteens. The unsuccessful experiments. The failures. The mutations. I somehow lived. To what purpose? I don't have a clue. So far, only to fuck with his mind. To plague his hormones, drive him insane. Maybe to weasel out one scrap of useful information that might be clinging to whatever's left of his brain. Although I can't imagine that he knows anything They don't already. He's just a scrawny dog currently owned by an abusive master. And I'm the trainer. ******* I wonder what it would have been like to have grown up. To be a child -- playing, crying, laughing, learning, loving. To be created stupid and slowly get smarter. So very slowly. I think it would be hell. Wasting 21 painstaking years, at the minimum, just to get to the starting point. It must be agony for them. I have an idea. I have Her memories through September 1994. But they're a reference, like a book. Or a film. Maybe more like a CD-ROM. I can flip through 1977 and discover She thought the Bee Gees were cool. That She was more jealous of Her sister than She ever let on. That She was gifted at math and no one seemed to notice. But I don't know what it was like to *be* 13. And frankly, I don't give a rat's ass. I guess I should be grateful in some twisted way. She was brilliant. So I'm brilliant. I've got a PhD and an incredibly analytical mind because She had one. I can out-think half the drones wandering this facility because She could. Yet it feels like I'm borrowing. Claiming ownership of what I never earned. That is, if there's really an "I" buried somewhere in this body. She was also kind, generous, compassionate, and fiercely loyal. I could be too if I wanted, but I don't. There's no point. I'm not even remotely nice to him, and every instinct I have screams for me to love him. One problem: they aren't my instincts. And I don't know what love is. They can all go fuck themselves. Fuck them all. ******* "Get the FUCK out of here." He delivers the line the same way every time. Slightly slurred with drugs, with a deep, hateful undertone that spits venom at me. He won't meet my gaze or even look at me. He sits slumped forward on the cot in the 8 by 8 cell, forearms on his thighs, and stares bleakly at the grey linoleum floor. Linoleum. An odd product. Linseed oil, wood pulp, jute backing. A very environmentally friendly flooring, made completely of nontoxic, renewable natural resources. God, Her knowledge can be so damn irritating. "This can't go on forever, you know," I use the Soothing Voice, the one that made him cry two visits ago. I saw him wipe the tear away quickly that time, hoping I wouldn't notice. He should have known better. "You'll have to talk to me at some point. I'm here to help you." It's a lie. I don't know why I'm here. They haven't told me a thing about what to do, what to talk about. Just to visit him every other day for half an hour. Then leave. Never stay longer, never leave early. As usual, he ignores me. I'm pissed off, but I don't know why. I try a different tactic. "Do you remember the Friday night we accidentally got locked in the basement? We'd only been working together about 3 months. Had to call security to come and unlock the stairwell door. They came in about 20 minutes, but we stayed talking in the hall for at least an hour. I told you about my family, why I jumped at the chance to be a regular agent." I drone on for 26 more minutes precisely. He covers his ears with his palms and begins to rock squeezed shut. ******** My first meeting with Them was only a month ago. These were different men than the ones that grew me in the luminescent green tanks; these men were old. Haggard. They looked at me appreciatively -- not as a woman, but as a creation. A good one, at that. I've never been looked at as a woman. "Do you know who this man is?" The room was dark, the projector beaming a picture on the concrete wall. Him. An older version of him than I know. He's everywhere in Her memories. A thorn, a gift. A curse, a savior. "Yes." "Good. He's here, at this facility. His capture has come at a high price, but it was ordered from the uppermost level." I remained silent. "You will receive instructions." The curt nod accompanying the order was my cue to leave. But I turned my head, finally curious. "What do you need from him?" "That is to be determined." But I don't think it ever was. ******* "Get the FUCK out of here." "You're quite repetitive, you know?" This place has taken a toll on him. He should be heavier, less sallow. His eyes should be free of the sedated haze. He should be flashing that wicked wit, damning my treacherous presence with cruel one-liners. Maybe he should be breaking down, agreeing to become lost in the comforting delusion that I am Her. Begging me to help him, to ease his pain. He should at least be speaking. I do not communicate with him today. My will is not my own. I am weak; Her complex feelings for this man render me silent. Today neither of us speaks. ******* I can tell that we are housed in an old prison, perhaps a hundred years old now. How apropos. Housing a prison in one of their prisons. The big crab moves out of the shell, the small crab moves in. Only They are now the big crabs. I refuse to be a part of Them. I will never say We. I don't know who the hell would claim me, anyway. I know the whole world, cities in nearly every state, some foreign lands. I know homes, apartments, dormitories, motel rooms. Yet I've never been out of this prison. I don't even know where the hell in the world I am. Isn't that sickeningly ironic? There are clues. We are surrounded by high desert. Scrub, low-rising badlands, dry heat and indefinite horizon. I guess this is perhaps Eastern Oregon or Washington, although it could be part of Russia. When winter comes, I'll be able to make a more educated conjecture. My room is one of the old prison offices, I assume. It has no lock on the door. I come and go as I please, use the library, walk the yard, tinker in the labs when I succumb to the odd, leftover compulsion. I stay away from the cell blocks except during my appointments. The Captives are there. Half of them are drugged to keep them under control; the other half have already lost their minds. They sit hunched in misery or pace their small confines in thoughtless repetition. Some lie in primal fetal positions like the self-same stillborn Michelangelo stone figures; caught somewhere between life and death, bound by an artist's fickle inspiration. I've never been to Italy. Never casually walked an art museum. Never touched cool carved marble. But She knew those figures well. I know these Captives well. When They were here in full force these men and a few women were dangerous. They were taken prisoner. Many were executed immediately -- it was quicker than infecting them with smallpox. Bullets to the back of the head, bodies buried in more shallow mass graves. They love to dig holes, bury their refuse. The ones who might be useful were kept alive, barely. Some probably tortured, by the looks of them. But when They began the last retreat a year ago these captives were held in limbo, their fates undecided. Now and again a new one would arrive, a vestige from an old command placed by god knows who and how long ago. The name was finally, triumphantly, crossed off some list, I imagine, waiting for Their return to become useful. That's how he came here. I only know all this because I'm nosy. I was still a strand of DNA being spun inside a test tube at the time. Something in me knows She wasn't nosy, that this characteristic is somehow all mine. She was moved by scientific curiosity, a politely inquiring nature. My need to know is motivated by a darker self-interest. Which self, I have yet to determine. ******** He has only looked directly at me that first time. I cried. She has a stranglehold on my emotions, that bitch. The only person I've known that was precious to Her -- how could I not want to touch him, take him into my arms and comfort him? I'd never met the man before and it was all I could do not to burst out in hideous, treacherous sobs. But he knew immediately, and turned away. Defining me with that simple action as the imposter I am. Dead. He knew. And so do I. ******* "You know how to perform an autopsy," one of the haggard old men says. "We need to know how he died." The body is of a man -- a boy -- 5 feet 11 inches tall, approximately 20 years of age. The extremities are flaccid. The pupils are unequal, right side 2.5 mm, left side 3.5 mm. There is no icterus. The mouth is edentulous. Unusual scarring mars his torso and upper thighs. There is no rigor. He is the prisoner from cell #12. The one that moans softly for "Sheila" during my appointments with him. The one that whimpers and cries like a boy. He is a boy. He was a boy. The group of three who should rightly be plea-bargaining at the edge of their own graves stare expectantly at me, waiting for me to agree, to ask them to step aside so I can suit up, to pick up the scalpel and begin. Yet I do none of that. "Grief." I leave curtly, my snarl hanging like a dare in the bright room. They don't follow me. They don't reprimand me. I am not punished for my insubordination. I know then that I am untouchable. For the moment. ******* I try a new approach today. Every day is a new approach, but so far all in the same vein. Comfort. Empathy. Memory. A mental pat on the shoulder, a devious "there, there" caress to the psyche. All delivered from across the room. I never touch, I never even approach. Even though he is drugged, I am afraid of what he might do if I got too close. A caged and cowed mongrel, beaten -- yet still unpredictable. They would laugh if I told Them he was still dangerous. But I have the benefit of special insight. And They are only men, after all. But I feel reckless today. "You could be such a prick." He sits completely still, granite-faced, eyes locked on the urinal. "Selfish, self-absorbed, arrogant and foolish. Trusting at all the wrong times and with all the wrong people. Blind to the truth, even when it stared you in the face. Stubborn and reckless -- not even caring if your nonsensical, persistent quests endangered others. Naive. So incredibly naive." The words pour out of me before I have a chance to sort them out. I feel cleansed, relieved of a burden I didn't know I carried. Avenging a ghost, I am suddenly lightened. Almost imperceptively, he nods. Three minuscule bobs of stubbled chin; as if agreeing with something the toilet told him. He then lies back on the cot, his faced turned to the wall. Contact. ******* (End Part 1. Continued in Part 2.) meredith40@juno.com "A Show of Strength" (Part 2/4) Disclaimer and introductory information in Part 1. Author's notes at the end. E-mail me (meredith40@juno.com) for missing parts. Thanks! ____________________________________________ Will you listen? Will you mention my name to all -- Will you mention my name to me? -- Ian McCollough ******* Often, I wonder. If, in time, my face will lose its soft roundness. If I will gain weight, and then lose it. If I will cut my hair shorter. If I will get the urge to dye it a darker shade -- that is, if I could find any Lady Clairol in a prison. If I will search this grey facility for something else to wear than modified fatigues. If I will develop cancer. If I will even care. I can see one path of my future any time I wish. The documents are all there. All the information, the tracking, until They lost contact during the Invasion. I bet They forgot when the satellites were destroyed that They would also lose track of their chip-bearing guinea pigs. A small, regrettable sacrifice for the greater war, I assume. They have had to count on double-agents for information after that. Treacherous spies. Vermin. So I know scattered chunks and discordant pieces of Her life After. Life after the abduction. Enough to show me how the original version of my genetic makeup handled circumstance and fate of the last fistful of years. Enough -- but not nearly anything useful. Because I am not Her. I have begun to repeat this to myself constantly, one day hoping it will be true. She was always such a fucking optimist. She grew, toughened, adapted. Even blossomed. I am frozen in time -- a stunted, wind-flagged shrub. If She were here, I know what She would do. But that's a paradox, a scientific improbability. There is no sense in contemplating the impossible. What if humans had wings? What if animals could speak? Nonsense. Besides, the real question is: Now that I'm here, what will I do? ******* "There has been an important development that concerns us all. You are here because it affects your duties; there must be no mention of this topic outside this room. Understood?" A few dozen of us are in the confines of the old prison library. Some faces I've seen before, most I have not. We agree like lobotomized cattle, nodding our heads at the octogenarian standing on a small podium. I am struck by a vague memory of a geriatric patient, drooling into his oatmeal, from Her residency days. They do look remarkably alike, except for the fact this one can still speak. Their usual mood is apathetic. Their usual method is disorganization. They are caretakers here, gravediggers. Waiting. Occupying. Owning and ordering until the leaders return. Pretending They remember what the original plans were, what the goal of invading this planet really was. Pretending that They are still a unified front, stalled only momentarily. Everything is in limbo now. "There was a raid not far from here." He is not specific. In this world, distance is relative. I have learned that there are other facilities like this, spread throughout the former United States. Probably throughout the civilized world, but that's merely an educated guess. I am held apart from the sordid details; I pick up what I can and haphazardly create some semblance of truth. Like he used to, I think sardonically. Like She. "Guardians were killed. Prisoners freed. Order destroyed on a large scale, including important scientific research." I have no loyalties, but my genes are ecstatic. "Reports are beginning to arrive. Security here will be significantly tightened, and you are forbidden to leave the buildings. Your cooperation is vital. Information will be disseminated as it is received." This I know to be a lie. He is shaken, visibly disturbed by the events he is reporting. They are unaccustomed to this, it is painfully obvious. There is something deeper, darker here. I am suddenly overwhelmed by a need to know, as ancient to my being as eye color and disposition. A predetermined curiosity that cannot be bred out; I feel it awaken from a long, dead sleep. They've done it before -- I shouldn't be surprised to see Them do it again. They are fools to underestimate Her. ******* "Get the FU..." "Shut up for once, and let me talk." I am prepared for a comeback regarding the irony of that comment, but none is forthcoming. I don't think it's the sedative keeping him from barking a wisecrack -- it's the lack of interest. "She wasn't perfect either, you know. I can admit that. She could be distant and cold, protective of Her innocence. She was often harsh and judgmental, rigid and unyielding in Her beliefs -- and lack of beliefs. Demanding. Impossible to please. Stubborn and bull-headed as you. She shut you out, caused you pain. Refused to let you within the confines of Her emotions. I know that... I know..." My voice chokes, my eyes dampen. It is self-acknowledgment, the hated admission of faults and weakness. It would have hurt Her to speak of this; it hurts me as well. "I know these things." He looks directly at me. The small, distorted world that I live in suddenly tilts on its axis, kicked from its orbit by his simple action, my frank confession. "She." He whispers reverently, the sound softly escaping through open lips. His soul is writhing behind his eyes. I realize then that I have divided in front of him. I to She. She to I. I have never referred to Her in the third person in front of him before. I have admitted our separateness. It's that easy. And yet it's not. It will never be that simple. ******* My memory is not eidetic, but it's pretty damn good. In 4 months I have memorized the entire facility, from abandoned guard tower to the bowels of the boilers. I know every nook and cranny because it's one of the few things I have to occupy my curiosity. Because of Her doggedness, I now know how to escape. I think about escape in the middle of the night. I take out the fantasy and savor it in the darkness, as secretly and obsessively as an erotic dream. At times it's just as good. But a fantasy it will remain. I could leave. Find those rebel forces and join them in the fight against Colonization. Take up a cause that isn't fully mine, that I only know scraps and bits about. Follow my gut reaction and knowledge of what *should* be right -- and *make* it right. But that would be Her. The fucking Hero. And I am not Her. I am not Her. I am not Her. I AM NOT HER. I keep repeating it. Ever the fucking optimist. ******* It's unbelievable. It's so damn unbelievable that when I ferreted out the news I broke down in paroxysms of laughter -- the shrieking, cackling laughter of the insane that strains abdominal muscles and squeezes humorless tears out of the corner of your eyes. So fucking unbelievable it had to be true. Reports from the raid have filtered here, along with video surveillance footage of the event that is undeniable. The face that is undeniable. So that's what They were so worried about. God knows why. If They had Her along with him They still wouldn't know what to do with the pair. So why bother? Why not let Her roam the mostly devastated planet and quit wasting energy on problems They can't fix? An old command. From the highest level. Botched in execution, but not in an unredeemable fashion. Now revealed a full year later to be one serious fuck-up. I've seen Her face. She is most definitely not me. It was so damn funny I almost didn't hear the toll of my death knell over my own laughter. ******* He sits on the cot leaning his head back against the concrete. I look at him without motive, without an ulterior plan. I open myself to memory as I never have before. It floods my senses and I embrace it. No longer a text to be learned, a story to be hated, despised, avoided. Merely a life to understand, to put behind me while I still can. He is beautiful to Her. He doesn't speak when I enter the cell, just looks at me blankly, not even wondering what emotional card trick I have up my sleeve. He doesn't know that today will be my last visit, or that I come unarmed. "You need to start your next life," I say, perhaps to both of us. "Why." "Because She's alive." Silence. Then, "Dana Scully is dead. Killed in the accident. I saw her body." His voice breaks on Her last name, though his expression remains almost neutral. "I don't know how, but I'm telling you the truth. Do you want to hear another?" "No."A weakening quaver. "I only have one more. When I give it to you, you will have everything of Her and I will be free." Some connection between us is forged when our gazes meet. Does he understand? I have to believe. I want to believe. He swallows, and his eyes blur behind a thin film of his soul. "She loved you. Even then." I hear the words as if they were spoken by a ghost. Reverent. Irrevocable. His face contorts in twist of agony and regret, which he buries immediately behind shaking hands. "Don't... don't....not now....." I lose it. For one last moment I lose everything, every distinction between two minds and two hearts and two paths and run to him. I reach out and touch his hand, run my fingers through his close-cropped hair. He leans into me, and for a moment I know he would have embraced me if I were still Her. Except now I am me. "DON'T. TOUCH. ME." His eyes glare furiously through the tears, his flat palm extends out in warning. I find that my face is wet with my own silent crying, and I comply, stepping back toward the wall. "You can leave here. I'll show you how. I don't know where to tell you to go from there, and I can't give you anything else. Do you understand?" He is mute again, anger giving way to confusion. "I need for you to leave. I need to find myself. I need to leave Her behind... DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" My voice gets louder than I want, more desperate. He nods, and I realize I've quit shaking. "You may never find Her. But you've faced that before, haven't you?" I feel the corners of my mouth curl up shyly, both of us awash in reminiscence. He almost smiles. ******* The old laundry door is open, video camera above the jamb conveniently on the fritz. The night is cold, but stunning. Black and serene. He is standing next to me, shivering in the wind. I have nothing to give him in comfort, but he expects nothing either. I can't even point him in a direction. He turns briefly. "Will you be...?" "No. I doubt for long." There is no regret in my voice. "But who really knows?" He nods, a twinge of sympathy in the movement. "I need something from you before you go," The favor is pure impulse -- a feeling I am just beginning to explore. "What?" "A name." He thinks for a moment, then understands. He places one large palm on my jawline and neck, and I remember the sensation from years past. It is the last memory of Hers I will keep. "Audrey," he says with conviction. "It means strength." Before I can say thank you, he has disappeared into the night, taking Her with him. And I am finally alone. ******* (End part 2. Continued in Part 3.) meredith40@juno.com "A Show of Strength" (Part 3/4) Disclaimer and introductory information in Part 1. Author's notes at the end. E-mail me (meredith40@juno.com) for missing parts. Thanks! ______________________________________________________ It's not rebellion; it's not suffering; It's just the way it is. -- Ian McCullough ******* I dream my death every night. The events never change, the ending never differs. We are almost there. So very close to escape and something solid, something *real* to fight for. A new life. And then it happens. The Apache helicopters appear from nowhere, as do the black sedans. , I think incongruously. Yes. They still drive them. They still wear black suits and dark sunglasses, even in the summer heat of this high desert. The enemy's dress code is a universal constant. At least this particular enemy. I think if we can outrun them in the battered Jeep everything will be all right, everything will be fine, we still have 3 Glocks and a half-dozen rifles, plenty of ammunition, if we have to we can fight back, we just have to GET THERE.... But they ram us from the side, and no matter how hard Mulder pulls left -- and he pulls so hard, so very hard -- we careen down the right side of the embankment, a 100-foot steep path cut instantly through rubble, sand, and scrub bushes by a ton of half-rusted metal on wheels. The last thing I see is Mulder somehow above me as the car plunges sideways, his hand reaching out frantically below him, toward me. But I realize, with the clarity of the last moments of breathing, that the seat belt is not going to save me. And then my life ends, and all is forever black. ********* "Dr. Scully? Dr. Scully? Are you awake?" Bradley's hand shakes my shoulder gently, and I am instantly alert. I blink quickly in response to his ridiculous question, cursing the fact that once again I have fallen asleep on a clinic cot, the dictionary definition of "uncomfortable." "What is it, Brad?" "Hitchcock says to tell you that a group of ex-Air Force are due in tonight. Should be about 30 of them. They'll be here for a few days working on reconnaissance, and...." "Don't tell me. Few -- if any -- of them have been vaxed." "That's right." Bradley blushes and looks away. It's nowhere near his fault, nor mine. But we both feel the sting of setback and mild defeat when not so long ago we felt assured of success. I sigh heavily and stand, twisting my waist slightly to pop some lower vertebrae. I'd just about kill for a good chiropractor here, but I'm probably the closest thing to one within 200 miles. Physician, manipulate thyself. I smile silently at my own bad joke, confusing Bradley even further. "It's OK. I can have enough prepared by tonight. Go ahead and tell Hitchcock to start sending them down after they've been cleaned up." The young lab assistant leaves to run the news up to Command Central, and I'm alone again in the clinic. There's work to do. Thank God there's always work to do. Dammit, the vaccination was supposed to be a success. No, I remind myself, it *is* a success. Five months ago, a mere 6 months after I arrived here, we achieved the unthinkable -- a vaccine against the new smallpox strain. It was good -- better than good. Perfect. 100% effective. In one small way, we survivors had conquered something, we had achieved a measure of quantifiable success in this war. But so far it has been a hollow victory. Distributing the vaccine has been fraught with difficulties, caused by any number of seemingly insurmountable roadblocks: our disintegrating communications systems, ongoing skirmishes, raids, sheer distance, and the ever-present danger of treachery. It is so hard to know who your enemies are anymore. Every day we hear of more groups that should have been vaxed that haven't been. That haven't even heard there is a vaccination available. The situation is beyond frustrating at times, but I can't give up. I won't. When the others give me shit about my attitude, I merely glare at them silently, daring them to ask the questions they are so curious to know the answers to. "Why are you so stubborn, Dr. Scully?" "What was your life like before, Dr. Scully?" So far, no one has had the courage to ask. ******* There are good days, and there are bad days. Today is a terrible day. He's everywhere tonight. Hovering over my shoulder as I treated the injured Humvee driver, standing at my side in the bathroom while I splashed cold water on my face, following me out onto the largely dismantled playground in the dead of night. We are based at an old elementary school, and he wants to play. I can feel his hands on me on days like this. On my shoulder, on my waist. Tugging at my fingers, urging me onward. Telling me to take a break, to swing for a while, to stay out here with him for a while. And I do. The rubber seat is still intact, at least enough to hold my weight. I start slowly, back and forth, gradually building speed, forcing the rusty chain to grind and groan louder and louder with each pass under the bar. Soon I am no longer earth-bound, and all I can see are alternating views of indigo, star-studded sky and grey, trampled-down ground. Sky, ground. Sky, ground. My feet propel me forward whether I like it or not -- an instinct honed from childhood, another time, another world. He stands on the ground, laughing. Telling me my legs are too short to get very high, but amazed that somehow I do anyway. I want to smile with him, to laugh for just a few minutes. But all that come are slow, burning tears. Because days that I see him like this, feel him so close to me, are days that I know he must be dead. ******* His voice is scratchy on the line, but it sounds like heaven. The military bark is an old friend reminding me of better days, better times. There was a time I would have laughed had you told me I would someday look back on those dangerous years as good, precious. But I do. Every second of every hour I am alive. "Agent Scully. It looks like we'll be meeting up again next week -- I'm escorting a team into your area, and Hitch just agreed to put us up for a while in the gymnasium." I smile. In this society there is no military, no FBI, no CIA, no NSA. There are only formers. Former Marine. Former agent. Former spy. We fall back on our personal strengths and weaknesses, occasionally on academic degrees, to define our roles. What we have earned, who we essentially are. We are stripped of all rank and appointed title, and our old IDs serve only as souvenirs. Yet he never stops calling me Agent. I return the honor. "Yes, sir. You'll be glad to know I'm personally supervising the removal of all the overly-fragrant athletic equipment that wasn't salvaged last year." He catches my teasing tone and his deep chuckle reverberates through the static on the line. Now leaders arise, proving or destroying themselves in a primitive process. The cream rises to the top -- sometimes. My former superior in the old life has risen to become the man he was always destined to be: honest, courageous, trustworthy. A born leader and tactical expert. He broke free from the constraints the former world imposed on him, the barriers and webs of deceit and lies that at times bound and gagged him, preventing him from achieving his true potential. I am proud to have once served under him, proud that since the dark days of the invasion he has become a mentor, friend, and trusted comrade in arms. And beyond those times to ones darker as well. Our conversation, which had been lighthearted, turns suddenly personal. "Scully.... Are you doing well? Has there been any... ?" I cut him short, unwilling to travel down that path. He knows me well enough not to be offended. "No. I'm fine." Any more, and I will be awash in grief. The mere connection of Skinner's voice and thoughts of my partner is dangerous. I am incapable of wading in the shallow waters of memory, dwelling on him in any way that's casual, inconsequential. My misery is tightly bound, held back by a fragile dam. When it begs for release, I relinquish, letting it wash over me in rolling waves, drowning my soul, drenching my heart with its incomprehensible magnitude. My survival depends on this control. I have no choice in the matter; this is who I am. ********* "So -- How much longer, do you think?" The sun is glaring, the relentless heat pummeling the earth seemingly out of pure spite. The reflection off his sunglasses is blinding, and I motion with my finger for him to keep his eyes on the road. "About another mile, I would say. The turnoff is supposed to be fairly well-marked." The windows are fully rolled down, and the desert sand has infiltrated everything in the vehicle -- our hair, our pores, probably our lungs. But we are going somewhere, for the first time since it began, and the joy is palpable. "Say it again, Scully." Mulder's voice is loud, flirtatious, straining over the engine and the roar of the wind. "What?" Shouting back, I play innocent. "What you promised me when we get there." "I already told you." "I want to hear it again," he whines, mock-petulant. This is our game -- we've been playing it for days now. The playfulness between us is a slowly growing tide, spreading, becoming more apparent in the space we've shared for so long. Pulling us ever-willingly under. I smile enigmatically. He loves every second. Suddenly, a shadow crosses the sun. Then another. And another. Apaches. Sedans. Panic, disbelief. A blow from the side. An embankment. Turning, falling, twisting, reaching. Cold, frigid fear. The blackness of eternity. ******* My dreams have become a mockery of circumstance, both self-editing and expanding as need be. A quick nap? Let's use the short version. A rare, full night of sleep? Extended play, with every emotion and nuance highlighted in morbid detail. Whether or not I have truly survived my death is debatable. ******* (End part 3. Continued in Part 4.) meredith40@juno.com "A Show of Strength" (Part 4/4) Disclaimer and introductory information in Part 1. Author's notes at the end. E-mail me (meredith40@juno.com) for missing parts. Thanks! ______________________________________________________ Am I the half of half and half, Or am I the half that's whole? Got to be one with all my heart, It's my worthy earthly goal. -- Ian McCollough ******* I hate this climate. I despise the heat, the arid landscape, the lung-burning emptiness of distances. I miss the coolness of grass, the shade of oaks and maples, the clarity of water and fragrance of pines, the roar of the ocean. I miss gentle rain. I miss the density of life. By closest estimate, which is wildly inaccurate at best, the North American population has dropped by 75%. Three hundred million dead. We've lost most contact with other countries, but the devastation elsewhere is likely comparable. Washington D.C. is gone. Mulder and I stayed with the Bureau until the last days. The remnants of society dwindled slowly -- traffic lessening, noise decreasing, life disintegrating -- until there was almost nothing left. It was only with increasing geographical distance that we realized we had experienced the decline and fall of western civilization firsthand. I miss pollution. I miss the Beltway. I miss Annapolis. I miss elevators and Starbucks and Donna Karan suits. I miss the trivialities of adulthood. It was Skinner who rescued us, found the wall that we needed to back up against. A research facility and tactical outpost in Eastern Oregon was being assembled, and they needed us. I could help work on a cure for smallpox-C, Mulder could focus on information dissemination, training, communication. Because of our work and his dogged determination, he could claim to be the one human who knew the most about our enemies. Not that it did much good in the constant battle to avoid the disease and stay alive amid the destruction of the earth. I miss the dead. I miss my nephews, my brothers. I miss my mother. I still miss my father and Melissa, but silently rejoice that their spirits were freed from this suffering. I miss the binds that tie us to our blood, the links to past generations. Everything changed during the Retreat. In our small minds and large egos, we thought we were the only ones the colonists were interested in. The only fertile green planet in the universe worth the half-century cloaked invasion, the cost, the trouble. It's fitting, of course, considering we never could even admit there was life elsewhere in the galaxy -- especially not life that might be intent on our destruction. For far too long, we believed the lie. Tricked by our own, duped into submission. And we paid the ultimate price for our gullibility. It was almost inconceivable that we could be abandoned for a better conquest. Another stubborn world, too far away for us to comprehend, was putting up more of a fight that we were capable of, causing them to regroup, to pull forces from our rich planet in favor of defending their claim to a richer one. Beaten down, close to their goal of extermination, we were released like penitent schoolchildren who had learned their lesson. Almost. We knew they would return, because they refused to leave entirely. The pullback saved our two lives. Allowed our escape from the urban decay, allowed us to unite with others and begin the long process of fighting back. But the pullback also caused my death, his disappearance. Because they're still here, waiting. I miss him. No. I long for him. I long for him with an undefinable need. I long for the texture of his palm, the smell of his sweat. I long for his ferocity, his passion, his protectiveness. I long for his crooked gaze, his overlapping front tooth. I long for his shadow, his presence, his weight. I long for what was, what is, what could be. I ache. I desire. I despair. But I fight. I persevere. I cling, scratch, and crawl. I defy, I withstand. I resist. ******* Four days after my rebirth -- nearly a year ago now -- I met my savior in a dilapidated kindergarten-sized bathroom. "I'm a healer, not a plastic surgeon." The small, cracked vanity mirror reflected an image of a sunburned woman with a complexion naturally averse to the exposure it had withstood. Me. A Jeremiah Smith, the only name I knew to call him, had caught me fingering a scar above my right eyebrow. The jagged line stood out in white relief, an old souvenir from a previous life. I began to shake my head in denial, to show that he misunderstood my action. But his bemused smile told me he was merely joking. A joke. How could anyone still joke? "You did this? You...?" My voice was still raspy, and I stopped at the burning pain. "Yes." "I don't remember." "You were dead." "They haven't told me much, just that..." I swallowed again, grief silencing me instead of pain. "We were watching you, waiting for your arrival. Scouts saw the ambush but were unequipped to help. Your companion was taken, but you were left behind." I nodded mutely for him to continue. I had to know everything. "When they radioed back, it was obvious why you were left. You had been killed during the accident; your neck was clearly broken." "You brought me back to life." My tone was flat. Unemotional. He nodded. "I got there in time. That rarely happens." "Why... why are you helping us? Why did you save me?" "Because it's right. Many of us have helped you for decades. We don't usually call attention to ourselves." I sat rather ungraciously on the lid of a tiny toilet, my mind whirling, trying to comprehend yet another in a string of incomprehensible events. Trying to come to grips with the situation I had found myself in. Utterly alone. Part of me wanted to thank him, to express gratitude for my miraculous state. But the remainder ached with fresh, gaping loss and stubbornly refused. I wonder if that healer were here today, after all that's happened since the accident, if I could finally look him in the eyes and utter the grateful words. I truly don't know. ******* I had a photograph of Mulder once. Tucked in a small bag that carried the bare essentials of living on the run. It was a terrible picture. Blurry; his mouth half-open, a wise-crack of some kind about to be foisted off on the photographer. I don't know who took the shot; I don't even remember how it came into my possession. Personal objects are a luxury, and it was one of the few I let myself keep. But it was lost before I arrived here, blown away in the confusion, during the cross-country trip, or when the car tumbled down the steep hill. I have a good memory, but it's not photographic. I'm losing the details my eyes once knew. My hands still remember, my heart remembers. But for how long, I do not know. I needed to see his face again last night. Desperately. I was prepared for it to be gaunt. Unaware. Tortured. I was prepared for horrific nightmares, for the bile and anger to rise in my throat at whatever cruel condition I would find him in. I was steeled for the worst. Or so I thought. The worst was not seeing him at all. We saved 47 prisoners. We destroyed 3 labs, one of them a cloning facility. We killed a half-dozen guards. I've come far enough to allow myself the notches on my holster. Death is a necessary byproduct of war. The prisoners were old and young, male and female, in all stages of disorientation. They were housed in one wing of the facility, in crowded chambers, some tied to beds. We got them out as quickly as possible. We didn't leave anyone behind. I know that because I made sure, even though we were already razor-close to being caught. And it was a foolish mistake. My error came in the form of a closed door. I am a scientist. I seek answers to the unknown. All doors must be opened, all paths explored. More prisoners might have been behind that door, for god's sake. Or more labs... or worse. He might have been behind that door. What was behind the door was inconsequential. What was above it wasn't: a working security camera that panned in my direction. I jeopardized the operation. No one has said so -- not Hitchcock, not Skinner. They barely admit to the breach in our covert action. But I know in my heart I went too far. To be thought dead by the enemy is an invaluable tool. To now be known as alive could ruin future operations. It could have ramifications that I dare not think of. Why do I do this? Why do I fight? Why do I lose myself in the battle, the cure for the disease, the delusion that our world will ever recover? Do I do it for myself? Do I do it for mankind, for others? Do I do it for him? Because of him? Is he even alive? I want to know, god dammit. I want to fucking know. ******* I can feel the UV rays penetrate my arm, adding another layer of dead skin to my already reddened dermis. My farmer's burn is getting to the professional level, I think to myself. But I'm getting a little uneven -- the right elbow is significantly more crimson than the left. If Mulder would let me drive more often, I could even out the scorching a little. "Water?" I proffer the bottle to my gloriously tanned partner, a golden-brown dream. Bastard, I think happily. "Nah, doin' OK." He looks over at me, blinding me again with the mirror shades. The grin shimmers. "Jesus, Scully. You look like a crustacean." "Thanks for the compliment," I snort. "I do it for you, you know." "Ah, Scully -- you know what I like. Short, beet-red women with attitude." "I thought you liked me because I'm practically the last woman on the planet." "Scully, you've always been the only woman on the planet for me." He's joking, yet I know he's serious. I adore it. We are within a mile, and I am about to announce the fact. But he beats me to it. "So -- how much longer, do you think?" ******* A little longer Mulder. Just a little longer. Let me dream a little longer, let me dream just long enough to change our destiny, to end this nightmare differently. Please keep waiting, Mulder. ******** In about a week an evac unit will arrive to take the recovering prisoners to a makeshift hospital where they can get better treatment. We do the best we can at our tiny clinic, but some individuals' needs are beyond our capabilities. The long-term pharmaceutical-induced vegetation, the mental and physical agonies of their internment are sometimes more that we can handle. I've only lost 4 this time, which feels like a brilliant victory. The night is strangely peaceful. The windows in the patient room are open and a cool breeze blows a few stray papers off the desk and onto the floor. The end of summer is near, and I am grateful for the hint of relief promised in the wind. I leave the papers where they fall. Thirty-four patients are recovering in cots stacked here and there in the school, everywhere we can cram them -- along hallways, in classrooms, in the cafeteria. Nine remain here with me and my small staff, their conditions more fragile than the rest. Currently, I am the only body awake in the room. Tonight, mysteriously, everything makes sense. I am here to serve. Here to heal whomever I can heal. I am here to fulfill my duty to the human race, my promise to myself, my pledge taken so long ago to protect and serve. Just because the FBI or AMA no longer exist doesn't mean that I can ignore the oaths I took. Or that I want to. I once believed that God had a purpose for me. I've lost track of that purpose before, several times. I've lost track of God before. Perhaps I'm living out that purpose, or perhaps I haven't even found it yet -- although that seems difficult to believe. He is close to me tonight. I feel his admiration for our work, his pride. He has patiently waited for me to find my bearings again, to feel a small victory. He shares in my relief that 11 women and 32 men will live, will hopefully recover. I take comfort in that. I take comfort in him. If he is truly dead, his soul is helping me learn to live. ******** The black speck appears on the horizon silently. Only a moment ago I was perched alone on the top of the monkey bars, letting the 20 mile-per-hour wind blast alertness into my sleepy brain. The sky is overcast -- without the sun's distortion shimmers, I can see that it's an old Wrangler. It bumps along quickly, with purpose, toward the school. It is one of our vehicles; no one else would approach in the middle of the day at that speed. I hop down, curious to know what strange event has broken the day's normal quiet. Two men? I squint harder. Two men in the front seat and a bundle in the back. The scouts, most likely. They must have found something interesting to be returning before dusk. I climb back up to my roost and gaze off in the distance again, wondering if it will rain this evening, or if the wind is barren. A few minutes later, Hitchcock comes outside and walks slowly over to me, the wind forcing him to choose his steps deliberately. He peers up through the bars; I look down. His grey hair is too long, I think -- the gale is forcing it away from his head in a crazed manner that reminds me of Einstein. "Dana, I think you need to come inside." ******* I try to run, but I can't. My knees are wobbling so bad I can barely place one foot in front of the other. I can barely string one thought together, except the urgent need to get to the maintenance shed. Down the hall. Take a left. Another hall. Down a flight of stairs. Take a right. Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Ten. The swinging doors ahead of me. Push. Hitchcock is right next to me, keeping pace, his voice a gnat in my ear. "They radioed in. He was in bad shape when they found him...." I stop listening. I don't care what they said. It doesn't matter. Nothing will matter until I see his face. Nothing will ever matter again. But I'm wrong. I don't even have to see him before I know. It's him. He's alive. The voices are cacophony, a mass of swirling birds around my head as I kneel down to him on the ground, grasping his wind-burned face in my hands, pulling up his eyelid to check pupil response, taking his pulse, checking for broken bones. I have many hands; they work quickly, without me telling them what to do. I hear my disembodied voice join the melee as I scream for a stretcher. The yelling continues, a human relay echoing back to the farthest reaches of the compound. And then, suddenly, all is quiet. I hear nothing but the faint, slightly unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat. I hear soft, shallow breaths as they pass through his chapped lips. I hear his subconscious awareness shift. I hear his eyes flutter open. Time stretches to infinity as I watch him blink slowly, clearing the exhaustion-induced hallucinations from his mind. Focusing on the object in the path of his gaze. Focusing on me. I see his pupils constrict, reflecting my minuscule outline in their black depths. I hear the neurons fire in his occipital lobe, connecting the image he sees with a word. One word. One precious word. "Scully." He is bathed in pure joy. "We made it, Mulder. We finally made it." The tears flow down my face unchecked. Their cool wetness baptizes my hands, his blistered cheeks. We are reborn. _____________________________ The End. Comments cherished at meredith40@juno.com. Pretty please? My story archive, courtesy the wonderful XPFRS: ________________________________________________ http://www.geocities.com/area51/zone/2095/meredith.html ________________________________________________ Author's notes: Opening quotes are taken from two albums by Echo & the Bunnymen -- 1980's "Porcupine" and 1981's "Heaven Up Here." These seminal, post-punk, surrealistic recordings define "angst" musically. Thanks for the inspiration as always, Ian. Special thanks go to everyone who's given me support throughout the last year, especially recently, when time and the Muse both played a mean game of hide and seek. You all hopefully know who you are; please also know my gratitude is enormous. Finally, a self-serving comment: I'm a realist thwarted by an idealistic nature. The skeptic who wants to believe. In what, you ask? That love is the ultimate truth.