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Part One: Fionna So bashful when I spied her, So breathless till I passed her, For whom I robbed the dingle, October 8, 1998 Fionna Wilkinson squinted at the handwriting in front of her and wondered if the student was being deliberately ambiguous in his penmanship in the hope that if she could not decipher it, she might not realize he was repeatedly mixing up Lenin with Stalin. Two years of marking exams for Professor Braun's Twentieth Century Russian history course had made Fionna aware of the lengths some students went to camouflage their lack of knowledge. At least he had not, as one of her more creative students did last term, recounted the plot of the animated film Anastasia, complete with singing animal sidekicks, in an attempt to describe the family history of the last Czar. Fortunately, it made up in humor what it lacked in accuracy. This time Fionna was in no mood to laugh. She could sense a headache lurking behind her eyes and decided she was not up to playing archeologist to these hieroglyphics. Without reading the rest, she assigned a better grade than it deserved, tossed the booklet aside, and wearily eyed the mountain of exams still to be corrected. Fionna picked one off the top of the pile and started reading it with disinterest, ignoring the tinkling of guilt at her growing apathy toward her students' difficulties or interests in learning history. As she read, she ran her thumbs over her nails, pressing the tips of her fingers, searching for the longest one. Finding a small peak on her right index finger, she placed it in her mouth and began to gnaw on the nail. She thought she had kicked the habit in high school when the desire to experiment with nail polish won over the nervous practice in a way her mother dipping her fingers in iodine never did. Now her hands resembled a manicurist's worst nightmare; hangnails, torn cuticles, uneven, jagged remains resembling a poorly declawed cat. The bitter metallic taste of blood told her she had gone too far on her current victim. To prevent the exam booklet from becoming a casualty, she reached into her backpack for a box of Band-Aids. Coffee ring stains were acceptable sings of a hard-working academic, blood was pushing it. Normally she enjoyed her responsibilities as a teaching assistant, especially when she had the opportunity to give a lecture. For forty-five minutes she journeyed back in time and hoped she succeeded in bringing a few others with her. On those days she could forget her dissertation was incomplete and pretend it was her own class. Every day that seemed to be further away and the least of her troubles involved finding sources for her thesis. Last week she gave a lecture to the World War II class on the Geneva Convention. She asked her students to consider why, in the midst of peace, were governments negotiating the rules of the next war? Was it practical to engineer a consensus on the humane treatment for prisoners of war when the very nature of war dictated the breaking all the rules? Was the point to arrange these matters in a calm environment so the war would run more smoothly, or to set standards to judge afterwards how people had behaved? She closed the lecture by stating, "History teaches us we are all responsible for tragedies if we do not put effort into preventing them. It is easy to condemn others for the evils they committed but we must blame ourselves for the wrongs we had the chance to right." After the lecture, Professor Ward had pulled her aside to say her comments were more suitable for a philosophy class and reminded her it was the historian's job to present the facts, not debate questions of morality. In response she said she thought it was more important to understand why people acted the way they did, than to merely recount what happened. History was not just dates, names and events but a chronicle of our destiny. After listening to her earnest argument, Professor Ward raised his eyes upwards, as if asking a higher power why he was burdened with another idealistic graduate student who thought she could change the world by making people understand the past. He then kindly suggested she start thinking about her own future at this university. She was not looking forward to tomorrow's meeting with her advisor where they would be discussing her frequent absences and lack of focus. It was not the first veiled threat that her funding would disappear if she did not get her act together. "Hey, phone call." Fionna looked up from the exam booklet to see her fellow teaching assistant and friend, Joan, beckoning to her from across the cluttered office shared by the department's graduate students, deserted now except for the two of them. Fionna made her way across the room and mouthed thanks as she took the receiver. "Hello." "Fee, you have to move now." As she heard the voice, Fionna's heart stopped suddenly, only to start beating again with a vengeance as the words sunk in. "What . . . ," she half asked, half stated. She knew but she did not want to acknowledge it. "Don't come back to the apartment. You have to leave right away. They know about me. They know about you." "Where are you?" "Never mind, I'll catch up with you." "But . . . " Her protest was cut off by the dial tone, signaling there was no time to debate the issue. She hung up the phone and turned to see Joan staring at her with a questioning gaze. "Ummm. I have to go. Family emergency. I have to go." She voiced the words she prepared months ago. Repeating them out loud made it seem more real. "Is it your dad?" Joan asked in a worried tone, remembering her friend's father's heart attack the year before. "Yes. He's not feeling well. My mum wants me to come home." Thankfully it was not her father, but he would fit as a convenient excuse. How easily lying came to her these days. She crossed the room and began randomly throwing items on her desk into her backpack. Fionna paused when she came to the pile of the exams. She would have taken more care with them if she had known they might be the last exams she would ever correct. This was it, she thought, my life is over as I know it. She looked over to Joan. "I don't know when I'll be back." "Don't worry, I'll take care of those," Joan said, mistaking her friend's worried tone for fear of neglecting her responsibilities. "Thanks," Fionna gulped and gave Joan a quick hug, blinking back the tears threatening to appear. She slipped her backpack over her coat and fled into the hallway. Seeing the elevator was nowhere near her floor she decided not to wait. The adrenaline pounding though in her veins propelled her down the six flights of stairs. Breathlessly, she arrived in the lobby of the Arts building, and frantically scanned the crowd of students making their way to night classes for anything out of the ordinary. Seeing nothing obviously amiss, she exited the building and ran across the campus, heading toward the nearest subway station. She resisted looking behind as she ran but took a quick glance at her surroundings as she descended into the station. Nothing. In her eyes, no one was following, but she had little experience with cloak and dagger activities. Once seated safely on the subway, she pulled her wallet from her backpack and retrieved the piece of paper tucked in behind her driver's license. She unfolded it and stared at the letters.
Fionna knew the address by heart but looked at it to confirm her memory and the reality of the situation. She slipped the paper into her coat pocket. It was the beginning of the end. Only she did not know it that was a good thing or not. *** Six hours later. Scully looked up from her files and scowled at the computer screen. After typing a dozen reports detailing the results of background checks she was finding it exceedingly difficult to think of new ways of describing essentially the same situation. This had never been a problem on the X-Files. As much as her role in the Domestic Terrorism Unit failed to capture her interest, she was determined not to fall asleep recording her latest interview account. Stifling another yawn, she decided to do one more and call it a night. She would leave the rest for Mulder to finish when he returned from his latest excuse at avoiding their current assignment. Mulder was in New York City on the pretense of attending a Behavioral Science seminar while actually conducting an informal investigation into reports of Leprechauns pickpocketing tourists in Central Park, and more importantly, she suspected, catching a Knicks game. Although she usually disapproved of these jaunts, especially those that left her with the bulk of their paperwork, she was envious of her partner's whereabouts. Why had she turned down his invitation to play hooky with him or in his words, use her luck of the Irish to track another variation of little green men? She could have done some shopping, looked up a few old friends and dragged Mulder to a Broadway musical. Why? Because one of them had to stay focused on their present situation and it certainly was not going to be Mulder at this point in the game. Once again they had lost the X-Files. What made it more frustrating was not that they were closed, but being run by Agents Spender and Fowley. "The subject responded to the inquiries about his background with a pleasant demeanor. Nothing from the interview suggested an attempt at deviant behavior. I recommend . . . " Scully's typing was interrupted by the sound of her phone. A glance at her watch informed her it could only mean Mulder or trouble, but then again it was often difficult to separate the two. She turned away from the computer and answered the phone. "Hello." "I'm looking for a Dana Scully," a brisk female voice stated with determination, indicating she was intent on tracking her recipient. "This is she," Scully responded. "This is Nurse Smythe from the University Hospital in New York calling . . . " Oh my god Mulder. "...your name and address were found on an unidentified patient brought into our emergency room . . . " "It's my partner, Special Agent Mulder," Scully interrupted, wondering what he had gotten himself into this time and how badly he had been hurt. "Oh good." The nurse sounded relieved at identifying her patient so quickly. "I am afraid she is still unconscious but the doctor believes she will be awakening soon. Do you have a number where I can reach Ms. Mulder's family?" Ms. Mulder? "Oh . . . I think there has been a mix-up. My partner is a male in his late thirties. Are you sure you have the right patient?" "I see . . . Well this is obviously not Mr. Mulder," the nurse sighed, disappointed at the recent development. "Our Jane Doe is a Caucasian female, approximately mid twenties, brown hair, blue eyes, average height and build. As far as we can tell she was a mugging victim assaulted outside the Bay Street bus station. She had no identification on her, but your name and address were found on her person." Scully puzzled over this information. She could think of no one fitting the vague description. Was it related to one of their cases? An X-file, or something more recent? "I'm sorry. I have no idea who your patient is. I'm an F.B.I. agent. Perhaps this is related to a case my partner is pursuing in New York. I'll see if he can help you i.d. her." Scully took down the relevant information and phoned Mulder. She was secretly pleased at the idea of calling him up with a mysterious request. Usually it was the other way around. She relayed the information to him and he promised to check it out immediately. The whole situation had disrupted her train of thought and she could no longer concentrate on the task at hand. She abandoned her work and exchanged her computer chair for the couch. Scully flipped on the television and hoped its mindless antics would distract her until Mulder called with an update. *** It was their last day together and Alex wanted to do something romantic before he left. Since the snow had thawed considerably in an unseasonably warm March, they had abandoned their original plans to go tobogganing and opted instead to go skating at a nearby park which had an outdoor artificial ice rink still open. Although skating was a popular sport and leisure activity in Moscow, it was the middle of the week and the rink was deserted. Upon the discovery that the building that rented skates was closed, Alex convinced the owner he needed to open early. The exchange of money was much more impressive than the flash of his foreign badge and they were successful at gaining two pairs of skates. They clasped gloved hands and wobbled around the ice but were forced to stop several times to relieve the pressure of the ill fitting skates digging into their ankles. After twenty minutes they gave up and put their boots back on "It was not exactly a scene from Anna Karenina," Alex apologized as he knelt down to tie his boot laces. "Well, I hope our life will not be as tragic. Do you have any deep dark secrets to reveal before you leave? If so, get them out in open now," Fionna joked. He gave her a weak smile. "Yes, I have a wife and six children back in the States. But don't worry I'm sure she won't mind your help around the house." The remark prompted Fionna to give him a playful push and Alex skidded backwards on the ice. He teetered precariously on the slippery surface as balance battled gravity and lost. "And to think . . . " Alex declared laying on his back, trying to catch his breath, "my mother had delusions of me being a figure skater at one time." Fionna stifled a laugh and reached down, offering her hand. "What are you snickering about? You just assaulted a federal agent." "You have no powers here." "No, but I could handcuff you and take you home with me." Alex grabbed her wrists and pulled her down so she was sitting on his lap. "I'll be home in a few months and you'll be so busy with your new assignment that time will fly by." Alex reached up to touch her hair. He was about to say something when a loud crack sounded. The ice began to break up apart and Fionna felt cold water rushing over her. What was happening? They were on artificial ice, not a lake. The ice beneath them began to give away. She grasped onto Alex's body but they were pulled apart into the icy current. Her head pounded with the roar of rushing water and pieces of ice crashing into each other. She fought to hold onto something, but everything she touched slipped out of her hands. She was pulled under the freezing water and became trapped under the remaining ice. Fionna struggled to breathe but she could find no air and then all went black. Fionna awoke from her nightmare gasping, sucking in the air around her like a drowning victim breaking the surface. Her heart was racing and waves of nausea rolled over her. She opened her eyes and they slowly adjusted to the dim lighting. Her breathing and heart rate slowed as she took in her setting. She was in a hospital, and from the sounds just outside her sight, she decided it was a normal hospital. Her mind struggled to remember what had brought her here and how she had achieved such a headache. She reached up and touched her throbbing head to discover a bandage on her forehead and an IV in her arm. Panicking, she sat up to get a look at the rest of her body clasped in a thin blue hospital gown. She moved her legs and arms, trying to figure out the extent of her injuries. Her ribs protested at the movement and she assumed that they were fractured or badly bruised. She saw an i.d. bracelet on her wrist indicating she was a Jane Doe. A wicked sense of deja-vu came over her and then she remembered. Fionna recalled the phone call from Alex, running across campus, catching a subway and eventually arriving at the bus station. The rest was a bit fuzzy but she thought a man had grabbed her. She remembers shrugging off her back pack to be free of its heavy weight and bringing her knee up to deliver a blow to the man's crotch. Before she could, he grabbed her raised leg and pulled her toward him. She lost her balance and lunged backward onto the sidewalk, slamming into the cold concrete. She felt someone tug at her arm before she passed out. She was not safe. It would be too much of a coincidence to be a random attack. She pushed the bars surrounding the side of her hospital bed down and swung her legs over the side, ignoring the pounding in her head increasing in tempo as she moved. She carefully removed the IV needle and laid it on her pillow. Where were her clothes? She stepped onto the cool tile floor to get a better look at her cubicle and spied a plastic bag in a wire basket under her bed. She winced as she cautiously bent down to retrieve it, but stood up rapidly, ignoring the pain shooting around her ribs, as she heard approaching footsteps. She clutched the bag in front of her like a shield and scanned for something to defend herself with. Before she could move, a hand reached around and pulled back the curtain revealing the rest of an ER trauma room. Fionna let out a sigh of relief when she saw it was a surprised looking nurse. '"You're awake!" she gasped happily, followed quickly with a stern look. "You should be in bed." The nurse's words had little impact as Fionna looked passed her to see tall man dressed in a dark suit blocking the doorway. "Where are you going?" he asked in a voice mixed with concern and amusement. "I have to go," Fionna mumbled. The nurse guided her back to the bed, pushed her gently into a sitting position and took the bag out of her arms. Taking her pulse with one hand and shining a light in her eyes with the other, the efficient nurse clucked in approval as she completed her quick exam while the man waited. "You just rest here and I'll tell the doctor you're awake. You have a visitor." She pointed to the figure standing behind her. "Agent Mulder from the F.B.I." Fionna's eyes had never left his. F.B.I. Mulder. Right. This could be very good or very bad, she thought. Mulder approached her and sat on an adjacent bed. They sat looking at each other in silence as if assessing each other's liability. Mulder broke the stillness first. "You must hate hospitals as much as I do," he commented gently. "I'm always eager to leave too." "Can I see your badge?" she asked abruptly. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his badge and flipped it open for her to see. Fionna peered at it, as if by looking hard she could appraise its validity. "How do I know this is who you say you are?" "Why are you so paranoid?" Mulder asked, noting how she clutched the blanket on the bed. "If you are Mulder, then that seems a bit hypocritical," she retorted. Mulder looked at her curiously as he put away his badge."You know who I am?" "You used to be in charge of the X-Files," Fionna recounted. "Impressive. I guess you caught my latest appearance on Cops." His small joke did nothing to break the tension and Fionna remained unmoved by his attempt at humor. He decided to cut to the chase. "Who are you?" "What happened to me?" Fionna redirected the question, not wanting to tell him anything more until she figured out what was going on. "You were brought to the hospital by the police with a slight concussion and three fractured ribs. It looks like you were attacked outside a bus station. A soccer team out training apparently scared your attacker away. You had no I.D. or belongings on you. However, you did have my partner's address in your pocket. I was hoping you could tell me more." "Can you take me to see Agent Scully? No doctors. No police. I need to see her and then I will tell you everything," "Are you in some sort of trouble?" "Please don't ask me anymore," she pleaded. "All right," he said cautiously. "But you have to tell me your name, or at least your alias, so I can call you something." She hesitated, debating whether or not it was worth lying before reluctantly surrendering her real name. "Fionna Wilkinson." "Fionna, nice meet you. I'll see what I can do regarding the doctors and police." Mulder stood up. "I trust you will not leave without me?" Fionna shrugged her shoulders, and hoped she was doing the right thing. *** Mulder stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He was puzzled. It was rare for an X-File to find him. Or should he say Scully? If this even was an X-File? He did not know what to make out of the young woman. She was obviously afraid but beyond the sense of urgency about her he was clueless. He tracked down Fionna's doctor and explained it was vital to a case that she be released immediately, adding she would be under the care of a physician. The doctor seemed unintimidated by his badge and informed him that he would have to wait until she assessed her patient's health. Familiar with hospital routines, Mulder did not press and waited patiently outside on a plastic chair. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his cell phone and pushed Scully's home number on the speed dial. "Scully," a familiar voice answered almost immediately. "Scully, do you know a Fionna Wilkinson?" "No. Is that the woman at the hospital?" "Yes. She knows all about us and wants to speak to you." "About what?" "She didn't say, but I am assuming it has to do with the X-Files. She seems frightened. I don't think it was a random mugging." "Why not?" Scully asked, not wanting to jump to conclusions. They were both bored with their present assignment but she did not want Mulder to get excited over the possibility of an X-File, especially if it meant handing it over to Spender and Fowley. "The police report states a man jumped out of a car and tried to grab her. They struggled in the street and the witnesses claimed it looked like he was trying to pull her into a car with him. The assault was luckily interrupted by some good Samaritans and the man fled the scene in the awaiting car with the victim's bag. No trace on the car, its driver, or the attacker," Mulder reported. "It sounds like an attempted kidnaping, not an X-File." "Whatever it is, the victim is not helping to clarify the matter. At least not until she sees you." "How are you going to proceed?" "I'm trying to get her released and hopefully drive back to D.C. tonight. Are you ready for some company?" "You'll miss your Knicks game," Scully pointed out. "I tell you Scully . . . it must be a conspiracy!" Mulder remarked jovially. "Must be," she agreed dryly. "I'll log into the FBI computer and see if we have anything on Ms. Wilkinson." "She doesn't appear to be the criminal type." "Why Mulder? Do you think she's cute?" Scully teased. "Actually, she's kind of plain, soft-spoken." "Well I'll check anyway. The quiet ones are always the last ones you'd suspect." *** She was dreaming again. Another one about Russia. They were lying together naked on the floor of Alex's apartment. Alex was propped on his side, drawing lazy circles along her torso. "I do have a bed you know," he whispered in her ear. "How established you must be," she replied sleepily, enjoying his caresses. "Yes, a bed is the epitome of success in Mother Russia," he claimed in a bad Russian accent. "Only for those preoccupied with sleep and sex." "I could do without sleep," he grinned. "Then you wouldn't be very good at the other." "Do you doubt my abilities?" he questioned with mock confusion. "No, I think you just gave me sufficient proof of them . . . but a good researcher always looks for more than one example to prove validity," she said in a low suggestive voice. She leaned over to kiss him but his presence evaporated as she was awakened by Agent Mulder gently shaking her shoulder. "Hey . . . wake up." Fionna was reluctant to leave the cradles of sleep, achieved for the first time in ages without the benefit of sleeping pills. "It's October 9 or I guess 10 now, 1998. Bill Clinton is President, Jean Chretien is Prime Minister. We are on our way to Washington," Fionna mumbled without Mulder requesting the information."I'm fine." "Good." Mulder said with relief, although he was reluctant to put too much faith in her response. If she came from the Scully School of Reassurance that could mean anything from "I'm actually ok" to "don't mind me, my head is about to explode." "Sorry to keep waking you up. Doctor's orders." "No problem. Thanks for following them. And thank you for driving me. I'm the one who is disturbing your sleep," Fionna apologized. "I'm known for my erratic sleep patterns, so this is not too unusual," Mulder claimed, checking the car's clock at seeing it was 4:20 a.m.. "Any chance for a sneak peek at what's going on?" he asked enthusiastically. Fionna shook her head and looked out the window into the darkness. Dozens of questions screamed in his head and it was taking all his restraint not to demand this girl tells him her story immediately. Instead his mind began to wander as he delved into the most bizarre possibilities. Vampire? Psychic? The Cigarette Smoking Man's housekeeper? Skinner's love child? A psychic vampire posing as the Smoking Man's housekeeper, who was really Skinner's love child? Or just someone wanting a free ride to the nation's capital? His cell phone rang, interrupting further imaginative musings. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me." "Scully, I'm about 45 minutes from Georgetown. I..." Scully interrupted, "Mulder is she still with you?" "Yes," he said glancing over at Fionna who appeared to be lost in her thoughts. "Be careful Mulder. She knows Alex Krycek." "I see. What make you draw that conclusion?" Mulder asked calmly, in an even voice, not wanting to betray his surprise to his passenger. "You were wrong. She does appear in the FBI database as a footnote in Krycek's file. In October 1994 she called the Bureau asking to speak to him. By that time he had disappeared and the operator transferred her to Skinner. Apparently the two had some sort of romance in Russia where she had been studying and he was working on his first assignment for the Bureau. Four months after Krycek returned to the States, she went missing from her Moscow apartment. Three months later she reappeared in a Toronto Hospital." Scully paused and took a deep breath before she continued. "Mulder, she disappeared a week before I did and was returned a week earlier. Skinner sent an agent up to interview her at the hospital. She claimed to have no memory of what happened to her and was shocked to learn her boyfriend had skipped town and was wanted for questioning in a murder and kidnaping." "I see," Mulder repeated. "I suggest we both keep our eyes open for rats. I'll see you soon." He hung up and turned to see Fionna looking at him. Well, that was one bizarre possibility he had not considered but he admitted it ranked up there with her being Skinner's love child. "Was your phone call about me?" Fionna inquired. "Maybe." "Then you know . . . " "Know what?" Mulder prompted cooly. "Who I am?" "Possibly," Mulder said deliberately being cryptic. Two can play at that game. "I'm on your side," she said flatly and turned to look out the window again, thumbnail poised between her teeth. "You wouldn't believe how many times I have heard that." Deep Throat, X, Marita, Kritschgau, Blevins, Kurtzveil, . . . Hell, even Alex Krycek had at times pledged his allegiance. "So I've heard . . . " *** Thirty Minutes later Alex sat parked three buildings down, anxiously watching the predawn comings and goings around Scully's building. He remembered the first time he was here he had to park this far away, not for fear of discovery, but because the street had been clogged with FBI and police vehicles. He had sat frozen in his car, hypnotized by the red and blue flashing lights, trying to think what he was going to say when he saw Mulder. Should he try and share the rage? "Mulder, I'm sorry. I'm sure we'll find the son of a bitch who took her." Should he be the concerned partner? "Mulder, come on. Let me take you home. You'll need some rest before you can think clearly." He could go for the sympathy vote with, "Hey man, I know exactly how you feel," but that would probably be just as progressive as, "Duane Barry kidnaped Scully, but I helped him out and now I'm here to make sure you don't find her." In the end he did not have to say anything. He had silently led Mulder out of the apartment under Skinner's orders to take him straight home. Under other orders not to let Mulder out of his sight, Alex headed toward headquarters, eliciting a nod of approval from his restless and determined partner. Oddly, Mulder's relentless pursuit of Scully was the only thing that consoled him during the whole disaster. He took satisfaction that someone else was feeling as helpless, despondent and broken as he did. He did not even want to think of the second time he had been to Scully's. That was probably the lowest moment of his life, and he had plenty to chose from. Alex could make out little in Scully's apartment but from what he could see, he believed she was alone. The room which had once been lit by the glow of a computer screen was now shadowed by the flickering images of a television. Occasionally Scully would come to the window and look out. It was almost as if she was expecting a late night visitor, or perhaps she just was suffering from a case of insomnia brought on by spending too much time chasing the paranormal with Mulder. He glanced at his watch. Fee should have been here by now. If she had left right away, bus, train or plane would have deposited her in Washington hours ago. He kept telling himself she had somehow gotten lost or was being extremely cautious in her traveling. He hoped he had warned her in time. For the thousandth time that day Alex regretted her involvement. He had been foolish to accept her naive offer to help. He knew what she was getting herself into and did little to stop it. All he cared about was having her in his life again, and tried to justify that she could be the Bonnie to his Clyde, the Robin to his Batman, or the Scully to his Mulder. It had been a lame excuse that she was already involved, whether she liked it or not. No matter what the outcome of their exploits were, dragging her deeper into his hell only put her in more danger, not less. Similar sentiments almost prevented him from getting to know her at all. Her rumpled but glowing appearance caught his eye as she stumbled into the archives of the Soviet War Museum one August morning, waking him from the walking coma he had been in since his stepfather revealed the realities of the future. She bestowed a sweet smile on him and for a moment he was a man again; heart racing, jaw dropping, mind swimming with the image of crushing her body against his. Then he remembered, and disconnected himself from the world again. He kept his eyes glued to the papers in front of him and wished she would go away. But every morning she returned. Her very presence distracted him and he doubted he got any work done all week. He watched her huddle around a microfilm machine for hours, hypnotized with her reading as he was with her. Every movement demanded his attention and he longingly watched as she leaned back to stretch, run her fingers through her hair or absentmindedly chew on the end of her pen. Occasionally, she gasped with delight at a discovery and scribbled furiously into a notebook. Periodically, she would gaze out the window unmoving, as if her soul had momentarily traveled to another time. Depressed at what the future held, he longed to understand how someone could find such pleasure in the past. He spent five days reminding himself why he should not ask her out before he actually did. They enjoyed eleven blissful months before the ground fell out from under him, making him curse the day Fionna Wilkinson stole his heart. Ironically, while Fee's hold on him originally damned him, it was her that saved him now. And he repaid her by drawing her into a world no one deserved to live in. Doing to her, what others had already done to him. He never should have accepted her proposal of aid, but when she offered, he was not strong enough to say good-bye again. Her willing presence in his life, returned his soul, revived his spirit, and warmed his heart. He started living rather than surviving, hoping instead of lamenting, all the while, accepting the situation as temporary. For a number of obvious reasons he did not let himself dream their arrangement would return them to where they left off. Yet he did nothing to prevent it from crawling toward that destination. He liked to think it was inevitable rather than impractical, but these thoughts did nothing to abet his growing fear that by recapturing the past he had complicated an already desperate situation. He couldn't wait any longer, and decided to risk knocking on Scully's door. He dreaded waltzing in her apartment at the crack of dawn and asking for her help. Scully had every right to be a less than gracious hostess but at least between her and Mulder she was less likely to shoot him on sight. That was just the scene he was trying to avoid, or at least postpone, until they saw what he had to offer. A car pulling into Scully's parking lot caught his attention. Maybe Fee had rented a car. His heart both leaped and twisted as he saw Fee exit the vehicle promptly followed by Mulder. What was going on? How had they met up? Alex watched them walked to Scully's building and pause before entering. Mulder appeared to be surveying the surroundings before opening the door and then both of them disappeared from his line of sight. Alex started the engine. Fee was safe. This had been their emergency plan and all that mattered was it had worked, despite whatever alterations popped up along the way. He headed toward the freeway, hoping the next part would be as successful. *** Fionna sat stiffly on the couch, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweater in hope of protecting her desperately short nails from another assault. Her interrogators sat across from her with tired unmoving gazes, waiting for her to begin. She knew they were thinking she was either a complete idiot for being infatuated with a thug in a leather jacket or somehow as guilty and deserving of their suspicion as her supposed paramour. She wished she could offer them another explanation but she could not still figure out who she was at this point. "I don't know where to start . . . " "Why don't you start with your relationship with Alex Krycek?" Scully prompted, exchanging a look with Mulder. Fionna took a deep breath, "I guess that's the beginning to all of this. We met in Russia in the summer of 1993." She had been in the archives of the Soviet War Museum reading microfilm. The letters of the Russian alphabet streaking across her screen became a blur when she accidently pushed rewind. She groaned in frustration and decided it was a sign to call it quits. It was a Friday afternoon and she had spent the passed five days searching through Red Army documents for information on their female combat troops in the Second World War. Her research had been progressing nicely but her eyes were getting tired and her back hurt from sitting hunched over peering at the tiny writing. She had literally walked off the plane and into the archives and not left for a week. She wanted to explore the city and see more of the places she had only read about. She stood and stretched and went to put her archival material away in the assigned storage locker when a voice from across the room commented, "You're leaving early today." Fionna turned to see her only other companion in the small basement room. A pair of intense eyes found hers and his gaze seemed to penetrate every cell in her body. She had been drawn to speak the man all week but he appeared engrossed in his own work and consistently avoided eye contact. She had concocted several stories for her mystery man, none that would ever be close to the truth, and in the end concluded he must be an academic like herself. "The machine has turned me cross eyed. I'm calling it a day." "Good idea," he said, standing up as well. "Could I buy you a cup of coffee? I know a good place nearby." Fionna was surprised at the stranger's sudden friendliness but agreed to the invitation and five minutes later they stood squinting at each other through the bright sunlight on the museum steps. "Alex Krycek." "Fionna Wilkinson." "You're American," he stated in perfect English, extending his hand. "Canadian," she responded switching to English as she accepted his handshake. '"My mistake. Welcome to Moscow." He released her hand and she felt a sudden sense of loss. "If a fellow North American can welcome you?" "You're American?" Fionna asked, as they descended the steps. "I can't hear an accent." "My mother was Russian and I lived here for several years as a child." "What brings you back?" Fionna asked, suddenly wanting to know everything about this man. "Work. What about you?" "I'm taking a course at the University. " "Ah, so that's why you have made your home in the archives." Alex smiled as if his own mystery had been solved. "Yes, I expect to see more of it that anywhere else." What followed was a nice if not mundane afternoon where they got to know each other over coffee and an exchange of travel stories, favorite books and tales from Russian history. This was followed by a promise to meet the following day for a tour of the city. Three weeks later she abandoned her apartment in favor of his and signed on to do her Master's degree at the University of Moscow. Fionna relished reliving the simple meeting while recounting the story for Mulder and Scully. Looking back, it was hard to believe such an innocent beginning would turn out to be a dangerous turning point in her life. "To me it seemed peculiar that after flying halfway around the world I would meet and fall in love with someone who used to live a few blocks away from my apartment back in New York. I was even more surprised to learn Alex was an FBI agent who was doing historical research with recently opened material on cold war military and KGB officials to fill in the blanks in U.S. government files." "In March, Alex's assignment came to an end and he was transferred back to the States. I still had four months left in Russia but planned to join him in Washington when I returned. After he left, we communicated by mail. He did not tell me much about his new position but he did mention he had been assigned a partner. I was delighted to learn I was accepted at G.W.U. to do my Ph.D. and Alex wrote that he had found us an apartment. It seemed everything had progressed as we planned," Fionna recalled with a touch of nostalgia. "Then I didn't see him for three years." "Can you tell us about your disappearance?" Mulder inquired and Fionna's face fell. "There is not much to tell. I was planning to leave for home in a week. The last thing I remember was packing some books and then I woke up in a hospital looking up at my mother and father. I had no idea how I got from Moscow to Toronto. I was found unconscious outside the hospital in a stolen car. My parent's received a phone call telling them where I was but they didn't know who called because I was brought in without any identification. I recovered consciousness a few days later but I had no memory of what happened to me. I had been missing for three months." "The investigation into my disappearance was quite muddled. The RCMP were working with both the Russian and New York police. It was all confusing because I was a Canadian citizen, who had an American student visa but was temporarily living in Moscow. No one could piece together anything and I was of no help." "Did you have any theories on your abduction?" Mulder asked. "Not until I discovered Alex was missing and learned of his possible involvement in another women's disappearance." Fionna looked shyly at Scully. "At first I thought something terrible happened to him but as time went by I began to consider other possibilities. I thought it was a pretty extravagant way to break up with me but since I did not hear from him me, I began to believe he was either dead or involved." "That must have been quite shocking," Scully commented. Fionna shrugged. "I was angry at not knowing what had happened but I moved on. I took a year off from school and tried to forget what happened." "Do you know what happened now?" Mulder questioned. "I still don't remember much of anything. I've had dreams. Dreams of drowning and struggling to breathe. I still do. Then I saw pictures and read reports. I now think I was part of an experiment," Fionna paused, not for dramatic effect but as if she was not entirely comfortable with the idea herself, "with alien DNA." "What does this have to do with Krycek or us?" Mulder demanded, growing impatient with her all too familiar and convenient story. "I was taken as insurance so Alex would help arrange for Agent Scully's disappearance." Mulder held Fionna's gaze. She could feel his hatred for Krycek pouring into her. Scully was unreadable as her eyes had dropped to the floor. After taking a moment to absorb the new information, Mulder exploded. "I don't believe Alex Krycek needed incentives to have her abducted. Just as he willingly participated in killing my father and Scully's sister and countless others." Mulder stood up and walked over to the fireplace. "Mulder . . . " Scully warned. "No, Scully. This girl comes here with this big romantic and tragic tale and wants us to feel sorry for him." Mulder turned to address Fionna, "He has played you for a fool just as he does everyone." "Mulder . . . " "I did not come here to make excuses for him." Fionna sat up straighter and leaned forward on the couch, her taped ribs jabbing her with every movement. "I'm not his public relations woman. I know what he has done. His actions have hurt me too but he is trying to make amends for what he has done. That is why I am here." "How can he make up for what he has done? Can he raise the dead? Can he give Scully back three months of her life? Of yours?" Mulder asked as he paced the floor. "For the last eight months he has been gathering information and evidence on the group you know as the Syndicate. He has the truth and he wants to give it to you." That was all Mulder needed to set him off again. "All I need to know about the truth I learned from Alex Krycek? Thank you, but no I think I'll pass on that one." He turned around to face Fionna again as if he just remembered something. "So where is he?" "I don't know," Fionna admitted. "I haven't seen him in four days. He called me at school yesterday and told me they were on to us." "Why did you come here?" Scully asked quickly before Mulder could interrupt with another rant against Krycek's reliability. "He said that if things were to be revealed before he was finished, I was to take both of you to Toronto." "What's in Toronto?" "An apartment filled with everything Alex has taken or copied: files, disks, videotapes, specimen. He wants you to use it to destroy the men involved." "Krycek once said that truth does not exist," Mulder pointed out. "What made him change his arrogant little mind?" "The timing is right. There's dissension within the Syndicate. Some want to deal with the rebels. The rebels want an alliance with the real governments. We have the proof that could expose them and make the right people listen," Fionna stated. "I'm sorry you just lost me. What rebels?" Scully asked. "The ones who want to prevent colonization," Mulder said as if he was remembering and thinking aloud."The ones responsible for Skyland Mountain and Ruskin Dam." He began to pace again, this time not with fury but enthusiasm. "I'm going to call Skinner, and get an APB out on Krycek. Maybe we can pick him up before they do." "No. Don't," Fionna protested. "There are still men and women within the FBI who are involved. They won't think Alex is coming to you. They are going to assume he has gone back to the Russians or another group. He said he would catch up with me." Fionna watched Mulder turn to Scully with a pleading look for guidance. Alex warned her it would be harder to convince Scully than Mulder and she expected to see a raised eyebrow and a look saying, "Well, if you believe any of this. . . ." Instead the agent was starring thoughtfully at Fionna and did not appear to be overly concerned with the direction the conversation had taken. "Scully could I speak to you in the other room?" Mulder requested. The two agents moved into the hallways leaving Fionna to ponder their decision. "Do you think this is a set-up?" Mulder asked once they were alone. Part of him was excited but the fact that everything depended on Alex Krycek's redemption made him uneasy and reluctant to hope for much. "I don't know Mulder. She hasn't told us anything you already didn't seem to know. Krycek's information and goals have always been dubious. He has come to us before offering his knowledge and where has that led us?" Scully vocalized what Mulder had been thinking. "So you think we should brush this off?" "Actually, no." This elicited a surprised looked from Mulder. "I think this warrants our attention, if not based on Krycek's supposed conscience, then on what happened to Fionna yesterday evening. Someone assaulted her and we should find out why." "Do you think she's telling the truth?" "I think she's telling us what she believes to be true. Whether her version is the truth has yet to be proven." "I warn you Scully, if we end up in a gulag, I don't want you to say I told you so," Mulder said lightly. "I don't think they have gulags in Toronto." "But what do we really know about those Canadians, eh?" *** Part Two: Gibson "THE COUNTRY WANTS A SAVIOR. THE COUNTRY IS A SUCKER FOR POWERFUL MEN WHO LOOK GOOD. WE THINK THEY'RE MORALISTS AND THEN THEY JUST USE US. THAT'S WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU AND ME," said Owen Meany. "WE'RE GOING TO BE USED." Two and a half hours later No one came to get him yesterday and he was very bored. He knew it was strange to think that being left alone could be considered boring but it was since there is nothing else to do. The room was filled with toys he had no desire to play with, books he had already read, and games he had no one to play with. At least Alex played with him. When he first appeared in the doorway with a chess board, Gibson thought it was for another test. It soon became apparent that it was more for Alex's benefit than his own. It was a challenge to play a beginner since there was nothing to draw on but his own experience and memory. It was also fun since there was no pressure to beat him. Later Alex returned with games of chance where they could be equals: Yahtzee, backgammon, cribbage, Monopoly and Risk. He once commented to Alex how the men outside were playing a real life game of Risk. Alex got a funny look on his face and responded, "I'm one of the men outside." He had countered with the remark, "Then why are you here playing games with me?" He did not reply but Gibson knew he liked not having to pretend with him. There was no point in trying to hide anything. He knew Alex liked the man with the accent, whom he called Burns, but hated the man who smoked, called Almsey. He knew Alex often daydreamed about a woman named Fee. Gibson also knew about his plan. It was never far from Alex's mind. One day in the middle of playing a Nintendo racing game on a television Alex had commandeered, Gibson heard Alex say to him inside his head, "I will get you out of this." He had replied out loud, "I know you think you will." Alex did not respond but kept his eyes on the screen and his body rigid. That was two months ago. His visits were always sporadic and had become even more so since the British man died. Now the entire facility was in an uproar over his actions and Gibson could hear words he was not suppose to use screaming in everyone's mind. His daily tests were forgotten in the midst of Alex Krycek's treachery. He only hoped that Alex had not forgotten him and was willing to live up to his promise. *** Scully's apartment Fionna stood in Scully's shower, one arm curled around her ribs, the other stretched out, palm pressed against the cool tiles. She bowed her head so the hot stream of water passed over her hair and down her back. She was too stiff to stand up straight and tilt her head backwards so she found herself comprised in this awkward but satisfying position. The water poured over her body, unfolding some of the muscles which had been clenched since Alex's phone call fourteen hours earlier. She wanted to stay in the shower forever, sequestered in this tiny cubicle, isolated from global conspiracies, alien abductions and Alex Krycek. She let herself enjoy a few more minutes before shutting the water off. They had decided to leave for Toronto on a 9:15 a.m. flight. Fionna protested Mulder paying for her ticket but he silenced her by saying going to a bank would be too dangerous. Besides what was $94 compared to what he had once paid for Krycek's ticket to Krasnoyarsk. Mulder had gone home to change and pack, and before he left, he appeared to have receded back to his earlier friendly overtones. Scully had been polite but remote as the two of them shared a pot of tea and taken turns in the shower. Fionna wrapped herself in a large fuzzy towel Scully laid out for her and sat hunched over on the adjacent bath tub squeezing the water from her tangled hair, replaying the events of the past few days. How had they been caught? She assumed something related to their trip to San Diego had tipped them off. Was the downloading detected? Had they tied her to Julie Vanstone? These questions were almost irrelevant compared to the others pressing on her mind. Where was Alex? Was he o.k.? He said he would catch up with her. Where? At Scully's? Toronto? Back in New York after everything was over? Or had he disappeared again only to pop up years later? She did not even want to think about the little boy Alex had told her about and had not been able to get out in time. She contemplated her next move as she re-taped her ribs and dressed in her jeans and sweater. While her concussion had provided the first decent sleep without sleeping pills in months, she knew she could not depend on that phenomenon to get her through the next few nights. Her pills were back in her apartment and she had no idea if she would ever see it again. She hoped Agent Scully's medical cabinet would hold a suitable replacement but was disappointed to find it held nothing stronger then Aspirin. Listening for the approaching footsteps of her hostess, Fionna knelt down to search under the sink and discovered a black leather doctor's bag. Inside there was an instrument case, antiseptic, bandages and several vials of medication. Searching through them she discovered Chlordiosepoxide, a mild sedative. She shook a couple out onto her palm, paused and then pocketed a dozen. She had little hope the following days would be pleasant. *** Two hours later Alex played over the possibilities in his head as he stalked the hotel room in circles liked a caged animal. It was a Mission Impossible scenario but he had no fancy gadgets, back up, or clever disguises, and most importantly, little time. He had a gun with three clips, knowledge of the complex's security, and the advantage of surprise, but short of dressing up in a rented Confederate uniform and pretending to be the ghost of General Lee, he had no idea how to break Gibson out. Gibson would have been the last retrieval in the final stage of his interrupted plan but he had not prepared for the boy's escape if his intentions were discovered early. Gibson was high risk and unnecessary in the larger scheme of things. Entering a heavily guarded underground facility containing people no doubt aware of his latest traitorous escapade and stealing their prize lab rat should not be a priority. However, it was not just his crazy notion to rescue Gibson but the very idea of bringing down the consortiums and their alien allies that went against everything that had kept him alive until now. In the past, he paid the price for following anything other than the instinct to survive. When he took the initiative and killed Bill Mulder instead of his son, he was marked for death. When he joined Marita in the lofty goal of clamoring for the power of the men he defied, he was betrayed. His lifestyle required that he frequently walk a fine line between life and death, and his new plans recklessly abandoned the rules that kept him alive. Why? He wanted to gain a semblance of control over his daily activities. But that could have been accomplished in a number of ways without compromising his safety as much as his present course. The easiest would have been to disappear and find a nice nest to hole up in while the world fell apart around him. However, that would not have rid him of the twin debts of remorse and guilt that gnawed a hole in his chest and threatened to consume him. Alternatively he could not passively turn himself in to Skinner. He had survived too many nightmares to contemplate assisted suicide. In his darkest hours he would not pull the trigger pointed at his head, nor would he give in to what would equal euthanasia. When his time came, he would go out kicking and screaming, although one might wonder what was left for him to fight so hard to stay alive. As a rule, he was not an optimist. His life proved that things can go from bad to worse, without ever looking back to good. But buried within the Pandora's box he lived was something similar to hope that reared its head in the most unexpected moments. Something which forced him into the position he was in now, abandoning his illusion of a safety net, acting on urges that should have remained distant memories. He suspects these feelings were always there but were normally subdued by a combination of anger and fear. They were triggered again when he saw Fionna for the first time since dropping her unconscious body off at a Toronto hospital. The instinct to survive usually overruled everything, but after seeing Fee he was confronted with a new sensation that went far beyond that. He was reminded of everything he had given up or lost along the way. He needed more than air in his lungs to be classified among the living. Albeit the timely intervention of Marita and the lost of his arm delayed and misguided that epiphany for him. *** Two years ago Alex used the master key he had liberated from the concierge to open the private underground parking garage elevator and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. He wondered if the apartment's location and security features were in consideration of her parent's fears or her own concerns about safety since her abduction. As far as he knew, graduate students did get paid much for their teaching duties so he assumed the majority of her salary was going toward the notoriously high rent. He watched the numbers ascend and exhaled a breath he had been holding in for some time. It had been just over two years since he had seen her and even longer since she had been conscious of his presence. It was not just the time that was pressing on his mind but the circumstances under which he had departed and those which compelled him to return. He had considered relaying the information by a letter or phone call but he doubted they would be as effective. Plus he acknowledged, although had not admitted to his superiors, he wanted to see her. He wanted his eyes to prove to his mind that she was real. He was ashamed to admit that memories of Fionna were fading. He had trouble remembering her face. It would come to him like a blurry apparition just as he fell asleep or immediately before he woke. He didn't know if he had made himself forget or if it was simply because so much time had passed and he did not have a photo of her. The elevators slid open on the twelfth floor. He found apartment 1243 and swiftly reversed the lock with a miniature screwdriver. This technique had been picked up at Quantico in a lecture on breaking and entering. Ironically most of his so called secret agent skills could be traced back to his Academy training. Luis Cardinal once remarked that serving an eight-month stint in a Costa Rican prison was like attending Outlaw University. If you kept your ears and eyes open, you would come out knowing things you never would have learned on your own. He insisted that anyone wanting to be a better criminal should go to prison at least once. Alex had privately surmised otherwise, it was his experience former law enforcement agents made the most educated crooks. They knew tricks from both sides of the law. He easily slipped into the dark apartment and locked the door behind him. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness. Despite his habit of skulking in the shadows, he had never grown fond of the darkness and as he made his way through the narrow hallway, he turned on the first lamp he saw. He checked his watch. He had at least forty-five minutes to wait. According to the history department, Fionna's class ended in 15 minutes and he calculated it took her half an hour to get home. Usually he was not this cautious about time but he needed the extra moments to gather his wits. He quickly brought a hand to his gun as he felt something brush his leg. Cursing his lack of control, he sighed and bent down to get a look at an affectionate black kitten rubbing against his leg. Alex reached down to touch it and chuckled at the name on the collar, 'Spooky'. It was. Fionna should have bought a dog if she was worried about the gentle welcome of intruders. The cat seemed exceptionally happy with Alex's arrival and flopped onto his back exposing his belly to be rubbed. He knew Fee's welcome would not be so warm. With one more pat Alex stood and continued to check out the small apartment. Spooky alternated between following and guiding him around the rooms. He bypassed the kitchen and entered the tiny living room /dining room. It was furnished with an old couch, an armchair facing a small t.v. and a round table with two chairs, scattered with papers, books and a lap top computer. Against two walls were built in bookcases filled to the brim with history texts, classics and recent fiction. Obviously Fionna's passion for reading had not diminished. He suddenly remembered lazy Sundays in Moscow when the two of them would curl up on his bed with their respective books, occasionally reading passages out loud that moved or amused them. They would spend the day sleeping, reading, and making love; reluctantly leaving the bedroom for fresh air or a bite to eat. There were no lazy Sundays in life anymore. He took in the framed photos sitting on the shelf absent of books. He recognized one shot from Moscow of Maude, Fee's British classmate. The rest were meaningless to him, a family gathering, a group of girls in bathing suits wearing medals, and various other pictures of people he did not recognize. He did not expect to see one of himself. He doubted the apartment contained any material evidence of their past together. Out of curiosity he clicked a miscellaneous key on the lap top and deactivated the screen saver. He was confronted with a shocking paragraph outlining an obviously unethical medical experiment. For a moment, he did not grasp the historical context and believed Fee was researching her own disappearance. The title of the file clued him to the paragraph's setting, "Vivisection among Allied and Chinese soldiers in Japanese P.O.W. Camps during WWII." He considered for a moment the meaning of Fee moving from studying the aggressors of war to its victims. Was he reading too much into everything, trying to see how much her abduction changed her? The official reason for his visit, he reminded himself, moving into the bathroom, was not to snoop around her apartment but to discern if she was already sick. He paused before opening the medical cabinet and braced himself for his discovery. He was relieved to find nothing suggesting a serious illness. He made his way to the bedroom and stood in the doorway mulling over his next move. He had already invaded her privacy but he reasoned that this was minimal compared to what had already been done to her. A chest of drawers, night table and a futon covered with a colorful quilt filled the small room. A pile of CDS and stereo rested on top of the dresser. A quick glance told him Fee still had bad taste in music, and did not own anything composed afer she was born. Her favorite music was from the 1930s and 1940s which he saw as a sign that she was taking her interest in history too far. Of course she thought he had equally bad taste, and if provoked, would lecture him about the "alternative garbage masquerading as music" that he liked. These discussions ultimately ended in heated debate over who was more talented, George Gershwin or Green Day. He pulled open the night table drawer to check for any signs of medication and was shocked to see the collection of poetry he had given her sitting on top of an assortment of items. Was this merely a sign of her love of Emily Dickinson or was it a memento to him? He picked up the slim volume and opened the cover. It was nothing special. He had bought it at a dusty secondhand English bookstore a few weeks before he left Moscow. They had laughed over the mushy inscription written by the former owner. The promises of love forever had obviously not come true if the book was sold. Perhaps the fate of the book and its previous owners should have been taken as an omen for their own doomed relationship. Never a fan of poetry himself, Alex flipped through the pages aimlessly. His heart seemed to stop beating as a picture slipped out from one of the pages. It was a picture of the two of them sitting together on the porch outside of his stepfather's dacha on the Black Sea. His arm was around her and she was leaning into him with her head tilted. A serene smile, eyes, the grey-blue of an ocean in winter, framed with wavy brown hair invited a sensory dance. He could suddenly hear the husky way her voice dropped when she laughed, how she smelled like a garden after a bath, and how it felt to run his lips over the two small dimples in the small of her back. Was this only three and a half years ago? It felt like a lifetime ago. It was another life. He stared at the photo remembering the weekend it was taken. Victor had expected him to come alone so they could discuss further what Alex had seen two months ago in Tunguska and how his position with the FBI could be helpful to the project. He had been unwillingly to leave Fionna behind and hoped her presence would somehow act as a talisman, banishing the need to act on Victor's predicted destiny. Instead he watched nervously as his stepfather charmed Fionna with amusing tales from Alex's childhood and heroic accounts of his own public service work, neglecting to mention things like the recent expansion of the Tunguska prison, the execution order he signed that morning for four employees not living up to his expectations, and how he was encouraging his stepson to commit treason. Before they left, Victor had pulled him aside and told him it was an unwise time to pursue a relationship. Had he known of the devastating consequences implied in his stepfather's warning, he would like to think he would have ended it right then, no questions asked. Instead he had shrugged it off, refusing to surrender the one thing that brought him peace, unaware his salvation would only bring both of them misery. Unable to look at the photograph any longer, he slipped it back into the book and replaced the poems in the drawer. Looking into the mirror on top of the dresser, he reluctantly compared the image from the photo to the one he saw now. It was hard to believe they were the same man. One afflicted with the knowledge concealed to billions, but still able to smile, ignorant of what responsibilities lay ahead. The other burdened with the cost that knowledge demanded. On good days he could face his reflection and catch a glimpse of the former man. The one who had only shot a gun on the Quantico firing range, walked the streets without looking over his shoulder, and believed men like his stepfather were only looking out for everyone's best interests. Most days he would try to forget such a man ever existed. Forget the past, don't think of the future, just make it through the day was a helpful mantra. On bad days he forced himself to remember. What was he doing here? Everywhere he turned, he was confronted with a memory that went down easy but would return to torture him later. He could have sent an anonymous letter. Was this really the best way to deliver his message? Was there any good way to do this? He checked his watch and saw he had been in the apartment for over an hour. Fee was obviously not coming home straight after her class. She could be anywhere, working late, at the library, out to a movie with friends, or even a date. Alex considered his options and decided to wait. He had come too far to turn back. He sat on the bed and flipped through an issue of the Canadian Historical Review he found on the night table. Fearing the dreary academic prose would put him to sleep, he put it down and retrieved the book of poetry. He moved back to the living room, ignoring the hundreds of less personal choices facing him on the bookshelves. He settled himself in the arm chair and Spooky took the opportunity to jump onto his lap. Alex absentmindedly stroked the black fur and thought with a smirk, if anyone could see him now, sitting reading poetry with a cat curled up in his lap, they would die of either laughter or shock. Well, who knew better than he that appearances could be deceiving? Forty five minutes later Alex heard her key in the door and he stood up quickly, causing Spooky to slide off his lap. He saw her first. Her hair was damp and it fell in her face as she bent down to unlace her boots. As she hung up her coat, she turned toward him oblivious to his presence. Her face was red and puffy as if she had been crying. Was she already sick? Was he too late? Embarrassed to be caught looking at it, he slipped the volume of poetry into his jacket and added thievery to his growing list of crimes against Fionna. He said softly, not much above a whisper, "Fee." Her eyes found him in the dimly light living room. She did not jump, scream or pass out, all acceptable reactions in this situation. Instead she just stared at him and he stared back. "Alex?" she asked in a small voice. Hardly anyone called him Alex anymore. On this continent it was "Krycek," usually accompanied with a sneer. He stepped toward her and she stepped back. They continued to stare, drinking in each other's appearances. He was relieved to see that she looked healthy, more like the photograph in his book, then when he last saw her, drugged to the gills and gaunt from the pneumonia. Her hair was longer and straighter as if the curls had surrendered under the new weight but little else had changed. Her eyes shone in the dark but were unreadable in expressing her current opinion of him. It was almost if they were patiently awaiting an explanation before they passed judgement. However, her posture was formal as if he was a stranger. In many ways he was, and he wondered if this was how she saw him. "How? What are you doing here?" she asked calmly, breaking the silence and his study of her. He avoided her questioned and instead asked her how she was doing. She tilted her head and looked puzzled, "Fine. How are you?" "I've been better," he admitted with a surprised choke. It was one thing to travel down memory lane, it was another to see her in front of him. If he reached out he could touch her, smell her, taste her. . . "I've . . . ," they both said at once. "You go first," Fionna insisted, biting her lip as if to keep a tidal wave of curiosity from pouring out of her mouth. "I noticed you changed research areas," he floundered, pointing to the lap top. He was unable to say what he came here for and needed to buy time. If only she would stop looking at him. "No longer interested in Russia?" Her patience evaporated and she erupted. "What? You disappear from the face of the earth and years later you break into my apartment and ask about my research? What is going on here? How did you get in? Where have you been?" He was about to attempt addressing her questions when the phone rang. "Are you going to get that?" he asked, relieved for the interruption. "No." She looked at him with wide eyes and crossed arms, waiting for her answers. Both were momentarily distracted by Fionna's voice on the answering machine followed by a male one. "Hey Fionna, it's Rob. I heard what happened at the pool today. Are you o.k.? I'm at Lennie's right now if you want to talk." "What happened at the pool today?" Alex asked uneasily, not wanting to know who Rob was and why he cared how she was. "Nothing that concerns you," Fionna said icily, her eyes narrowing. "Or maybe it does? Maybe you know why after swimming since I was a baby I cannot bear to put my face underwater?" The tanks. She was afraid of drowning. Alex raised his hand over his eyes, trying to block the image of her floating in one of the tanks. Fionna had not been subjected to the tests most female abductees were put through. Instead she had been placed in a control group testing the effects of alien DNA on terminal cancer patients where she was subjected to five week long visits in the tanks. Fionna's voiced raised and her body began trembling with growing rage as she continued her tirade."Or why I used to get calls from the FBI asking if I've seen you? Why I was kidnaped? Why I don't remember anything from July to October 1994? And why I feel all of this has to do with you?" "You were part of an experiment. That's all I can tell you. That's all you'll believe," he finally answered. "Yes, it was because of me, but believe me, I did not want it to happen." Fionna turned away from him. She sank into the wall for support and closed her eyes. Eternity appeared to pass before she spoke. "What did you do to me?" she asked in a small voice. He tried not to react to her emphasis on his role in the matter. He wanted to tell her that he never wanted to hurt her. That it nearly killed him to watch. That he had no choice. He walked toward her slumped figure and fought the urge to take her in his arms, both for fear of rejection and acknowledgment that if he did, he would not be able to let go. Instead he began with his original intention and asked, "Have you taken the chip out?" She looked at him with a combination of fear and confusion. "What?" "There is a microchip somewhere in your body. In could be above your navel, in your armpit, at the base of your neck, in your nasal cavity or the small of your back . . . ," he trailed off. She had no idea what he was talking about which meant she had not even found it, let alone removed it. Alex swallowed and continued, "Fee, you have to listen to me. No matter how much you hate me, do not under any circumstance take the chip out. You will die. Please believe me. I only just found out." "Get the hell out of here before I call the police," Fionna growled with abandon. "Unless you are here to take me again." She looked up at him defiantly. "Fee . . . I . . . " "Get out!" He nodded, retreated into the hallway and crept out of her life once again. He hoped he had not scared her into removing the chip. His biggest concern about the whole rendezvous would be that after alerting her to its presence, she would remove it out of distrust of his warnings. He could only hope that she would see the logic in his reappearance. If he wanted to harm her, he could have, so why would he lie to her about the chip? Fionna was a rational woman and she would listen to him once she worked it out for herself. Feeling restless and drained at the same time, he walked through the dark streets with no particular destination in mind. He didn't have to be in New Jersey until tomorrow night, though some might argue that New York was not the best city for him to be in. Between the people he knew from working at the United Nations to his old associates on 46th Street, it was probably the most conspicuous place he could be other than the lobby of FBI headquarters. However, the chances of being recognized in a city of six million were slim and he relished New York's anonymous gaze. He considered crashing at some cheap hotel but he didn't feel like being alone with his thoughts. Instead he selected a small bar he knew would unlikely be the destination of choice for anyone who wished to put a bullet in him. Located on the edge of Greenwich it would be full of students and the starving artist crowd. He ordered a beer and tried to forget Fee so he could think about tomorrow. He was meeting with the head of the Drowning Eagles, a right wing militia group who believed America's liberal traditions were destroying the country. They were preparing for what they called The Second American Revolution, a day when Americans reclaimed their pride and dignity by renouncing democracy. In the meantime the Eagles concentrated their efforts on blowing up popular U.S. monuments and memorials as a symbol of how America's roots needed to be destroyed. Last year they were unsuccessful in their attempt to blow the torch off the Statue of Liberty but managed to injure over a hundred tourists. Originally the Russians believed the Eagles might be funded by the American led consortium and Alex was assigned to investigate this connection. He infiltrated the group only to discover there was no truth behind the rumor. Still, he felt the Eagles could be useful to the Russians. Tomorrow they were meeting to plan their next project and Alex was going to suggest that the Eagles target the Gettysburg National Park. This site would compliment their own terrorist goals while aiding the Russians in sabotaging one of the American consortium's main base of operations. Thoughts of Gettysburg only brought him back to his meeting with Fee. He didn't think she would be thrilled to see him or be grateful for his information. He had fully prepared himself for her anger but did not expect to be shaken by the fear in her eyes. It was the same look he saw her wear when they brought her back after her escape attempt and the one she wore before being escorted to the tanks for the second time. Since then, he had experienced his own share of frightening moments but often felt more haunted by her nightmares then his own. He guessed this is how Mulder felt on a regular basis. A sixth sense told him he was being watched. He moved his eyes from his drink and scanned the crowd half hoping to see Fee. Instead they became focused on a slim blond woman sitting across the room. When his eyes met hers, she smiled and raised her glass of white wine. She stood out from the crowd of grungy youth in a slinky white silk blouse and grey skirt, the matching jacket draped casually over her lap. She looked like a woman who should be frequenting a classier establishment. He disengaged himself from her inviting gaze. He did not want company. "Hello," she said brightly, suddenly behind him. "Hello," he said dully, hoping to discourage further discourse. Another day, another place, he might not be so dismissive of her advances. "You don't remember me, do you?" He turned to look at her again. Shit. Was this a pick-up line or did she really know him? "I'm afraid not." "I think we share the same employer." Highly unlikely, Alex thought, shaking his head in response. "I believe I sat across from you at a few UN meetings. I sometimes translated for the Greek representatives." This was not good. He still could not place her but she obviously remembered him. Had she not heard of his fall from grace or was she stalling until the police came? Whatever the case, he decided it was time to make an exit. He shook his head again. "Sorry. I don't know what you're talking about," he offered, trying to sound sincere. He swallowed the rest of his beer and put on his jacket, appearing to casually get ready to leave. "I'm sorry. My mistake." She smiled apologetically. He just nodded and got up to leave. "Or maybe I know you from your more recent employment, Mr. Krycek," she called to him. O.k. that got his attention. She was definitely not looking to pick him up. He turned again to face her. "Oh really," he said half amused, half annoyed. "Perhaps we should take this conversation to a more private location." She slipped off her stool and gracefully disappeared into the back of the bar. He could bolt now or stay and hear what she had to say. If she was some sort of assassin, he was confident he could take her down first. He shrugged to himself and followed her to a secluded booth in a corner. He stopped her before she sat and patted her down, checking for a weapon. She was unarmed and he motioned her to sit. "And I thought you weren't looking for company, " she teased gently. "Should I do the same to you?" "I guarantee you'll find something," he said sliding into the seat across from her. "Who are you?" "Marita Covarrubias, I'm the assistant to the Special Representative to the Secretary General." "You've moved up from a lowly translator." "It's really a fancy name for a glorified secretary. But I bet you know what it's like to be the errand boy for the big players." "What would you know about that?" A waiter came over to the couple. Anxious to find out what this woman knew about him, Alex motioned him away but Marita asked for two vodkas. "Isn't it customary to drink first before you get down to business in Russia?" she asked coyly. "Only if you want to get your associate drunk first," he retorted. She had subtly let him know she knew many of his secrets but was not afraid of him. He was beginning to like his mystery woman. Together they waited in comfortable silence for their drinks. "To common interests," Alex toasted raising his glass. It was so much simpler to think about work than Fee. "To the future, and those who make it," Marita chimed in, clinking her glass against his as if sealing a bargain. "So, what do you want?" "The same as you," she said simply. "And that is . . . ?" "Control. Revenge. Power. I can give that to you." "Really . . . " he said. "When were you appointed master of the universe?" "I believe we're all the masters of our destiny. If we truly want to be." "Whose to say I'm not exactly where I want to be?" "Please . . . " she said. "You could be so much more." "Listen I don't know what or who you're recruiting for, but I'm not interested." "There's your problem Alex. You always assume you have to be working for someone else. Why don't you try working for yourself?" Unappealing visions of the time he spent living on the streets of Hong Kong flashed in front of him. Desperately waiting to see if there were any buyers for his information, he was hungry enough to consider turning himself in when the French buyers appeared. That solitary journey was not one he cared to repeat. Of course he was more experience now, had more contacts and more money. It need not be like it was before. As well, his renewed allegiance with the Russians was not the merry picture it once was. The revenge part was interesting, but he certainly did not lust after more responsibility than he had now. In the end, what Marita offered promised more risk then reward "Why do you care?" he asked, more curious than suspicious of her motives. "I don't, I was just making an observation. Think about it." She finished her drink and stood up to leave. "By the way, I think you should know the Americans have discovered the Tunguska project and have made arrangements to procure a sample of the vaccine's source. Good luck," she stated bluntly and then disappeared into the crowd. Her farewell message jarred him into action. His visit to Fee flew out of his mind as did anything else Marita had to say. Phone calls were made, and five days later he was handcuffed to a steering wheel, counting his bruises, waiting for Mulder to return from what would later be revealed to be Marita's apartment. It was only two weeks later, when he needed someone to help him dress and cut his food, that Marita's vague comments about destiny came back to haunt him. Adjusting to life with one arm made it crystal clear that no one considered his well being important but himself. When there was nothing left to lose, it didn't matter if he played the king or pawn. As king though, he might be able to take a few more souls to hell with him. Looking back, he was sure that Marita meant to double cross him from the beginning and did not have an attack of conscience at the last minute. He found it interesting that she never considered him worthy enough to try wooing him to the light side of the force and just seduced him with promises of revenge. Maybe she thought he was a lost cause. More likely she just didn't care. He wondered what Marita would think of him now. It is interesting that the consequences of her deception led him back to Fionna, and into the part Marita unsuccessfully tried to play herself. *** The Present - October 10, 1998 Mulder drove down highway heading toward Toronto. Scully was beside him reviewing the FBI doccier on Krycek. Fionna sat in the back seat periodically leaning forward to give Mulder directions. The short flight had been uneventful as all three tried to catch up on sleep. At the Toronto airport, located half an hour away from the city, they rented a car to take them to the downtown apartment or as Mulder dryly referred to it, Al Capone's vault. "What made you chose Toronto?" Scully asked looking up from her reading, glancing out her window at the bland highway scenery. "I have family here, so if they were watching it would not look suspicious for me to travel home every weekend. We rented an apartment in my brother's building." "What does your family think of all this?" Mulder asked. "They have no idea. They think I was setting up an office for a professor I was working for as a research assistant. It's right next to the Provincial Archives so it seemed reasonable." "You had no trouble getting stuff over the border?" Mulder questioned, mulling over the schematics. "I was never stopped, I guess I don't look very suspicious. Alex came with me when there was any . . . specimens. He had papers saying the samples were for medical school research." "How romantic," Mulder noted under his breath. "It's not like that." The comment caused Mulder and Scully to exchange surprised looks and Fionna was unsure if that revelation improved or lowered their opinion of her. If she were to define herself solely by her relationship to him, who did she appear to be, the floozy seduced by the sexy assassin or some naive do gooder playing nurse, nun and social worker to the dregs of society? "So how did you two meet up again?" Scully asked, sounding a bit bewildered at the exact nature of Krycek and Fionna's relationship. Fionna wondered how she could explain what happened next since she had not reconciled the matter herself. "Two years ago he came to me with some disturbing information regarding my abduction and then disappeared again. Nine months ago he reappeared." "With a change in heart?" Mulder ventured. "I guess you could call it that. When I saw him the second time, I think he was at the end of his rope. He was tired of living the way he was and he was presented with an opportunity to make some changes." "To become part of the resistance?" Mulder asked. "That was one part of it, but mostly I think he wanted to take control of his life and start back on the path he originally hoped for." "Ah, he's a regular Darth Vader," Mulder said sarcastically. "I don't blame you for thinking that way but there's a lot you don't know about Alex," Fionna said, her assurances falling on deaf ears. For someone who claimed not to be Alex Krycek's public relations woman she certainly acted like it. As a historian it was her goal to understand the past. She did not have to like or forgive it, but she did her best to comprehend actions and ideas in the context in which they were developed. Only then could they be judged fairly. A historian also had to be aware of change over time. Few things in life were static and every individual's life was subject to the evolutionary forces of their own behavior and beliefs as well of those around them. She understood Alex had been manipulated from a young age to become what he was and often was offered no choice but to act as others wished. He also acknowledged there were times when only he could claim responsibility for his actions. Once he knew exactly what was going on he chose to corroborate rather than fight. At times it was bad judgement or apathy, while at points he did what he genuinely thought was necessary to survive. Although he had admitted to her more than once that he had plenty of opportunities to have pulled a "Mulder". He could have been an ally from the beginning but it did not mean it was too late to make different choices now. The ramifications of those choices were now, more than ever, hanging on a thin wire and the destinies of many were intertwined with his. At times Fionna resented him for leading her toward this dependence but she did not wish him to succeed only for her benefit, though sometimes it was hard to remember this was larger than two people. Alex had warned her of the opposition Mulder and Scully would have toward anything connected to him and she could not blame them for their beliefs. Her own justifications had not developed over night and she had been equally wary of him until they met again. *** Nine months ago Fionna woke with a fuzzy feeling in her head. She felt both drunk and hung over at the same time, except she had nothing to drink the night before. She attributed it to nerves relating to the paper she was giving that afternoon at the military history conference. It was to be the first public presentation of her thesis research on World War II prisoners of war, and she hoped to make a good impression on the more experienced historians. She rushed around her tiny apartment, much to Spooky's amusement, getting ready with the feeling she was very late. Despite her watch and clocks showing she had plenty of time, she could not shake the feeling of disorientation and left early. Arriving at the hotel's conference center she encountered her friend Joan who set her to work alphabetizing name tags for the other speakers. With her mind on this tedious task she was able to clear her thoughts and concentrate. But as the opening session began, Fionna's mind drifted again. She found herself starring out the window at the rain, instead of listening to the opening remarks from one of the country's leading historians. Feeling as though she had forgotten something important, she rechecked her briefcase. Even after she confirmed that all the pages for her speech were there and in order, she could not shake the feeling something else was wrong. A round of applause jolted her out of her daze and she did her best to listen to the next speaker. The first session was followed by a coffee break and Fionna escaped into a corner to gather her thoughts. She was presenting next in one of the smaller sessions and needed to get a grip. Thinking some fresh air might help, she slipped out of the room. Standing on the hotel's front steps, watching the rain bounce off the striped canopy above her, Fionna took deep breaths and went over the opening paragraph of her paper but found she could not focus. She was reminded of one of her favorite Dickinson poems:
This sensation was also joined by a desire to run away but she forced herself to return inside and find the room where she would be presenting. A small audience had gathered to hear papers on theories relating to shell shock, battle fatigue and post traumatic stress disorder among soldiers in various 20th century wars. Fionna was presenting last out of four speakers. As she took her place at the head table, she wished she was going first so she could go home straight after her speech. At least she hoped her head would clear before her turn but instead the fogginess thickened, her ears began ringing and a tight feeling in the back of her neck suddenly appeared. The most likely explanation was the flu, but she also wondered if she was experiencing the early symptoms of a panic attack. Just yesterday she was terribly excited at the opportunity to give her paper, but given the importance of this moment to her future academic career it was possible her nerves were getting the better of her. She had a panic attack once before. After returning from her abduction she had developed a fear of water. It took her ages to enjoy a bath but she was never comfortable enough to play water polo again. When she returned to Columbia to do her Ph.D., she became the assistant coach of the water polo team she used to play on. On the day her team won the semifinals, someone unaware of her new phobia threw her into the pool to celebrate. In the eery silence underwater, she felt as if time had stopped. Not having the opportunity to hold her breath before falling in, her lungs began to burn. The instinct to breathe kicked in and she inhaled a mouthful of water. To Fionna it did not taste like chlorine at all but something vaguely organic. She struggled when she felt a hand grab her shoulder and her mind screamed as if it was trapped in a nightmare, "I'm not going back in!" Suddenly her head broke the surface and Fionna saw a lifeguard facing her and another towing her to the wall. She stopped kicking and went limp with relief. Reaching the side of the pool, Fionna grasped onto the wall and pulled her upper body onto the pool deck. She leaned there for a moment, not having the strength to go further. Her arm and leg muscles quivered as if she had just run a marathon. Strong hands pulled her completely out of the water and laid her down on the pool deck where she began to vomit the water she inhaled. In between coughs, she wondered vaguely why it was not green but clear liquid coming out of her mouth. A crowd gather around her as she lay panting on the floor, trying to catch her breath. She sat up and someone draped a towel around her shoulders. Giving herself a few more moments, she stood up despite the lifeguards' protests and insisted that she was fine. All she needed was a hot shower and she retreated into the locker room, ignoring the stares of those perturbed by her bizarre reaction. Her legs would not support her so she sat in the shower under the stream of hot water. Slowly she began to warm up and stop shivering. Strangely she felt Alex Krycek's presence surrounding her, someone whom she had not thought of in a long time. Turning around, she half expected to see him behind her. Coincidently, or not, depending how you chose to look at the matter, that was the day he paid her a visit. When she arrived home that evening, he stepped out of the shadows of her apartment to tell her about experiments and microchips. Then he left, as she asked, leaving her more confused then ever. In the days following his appearance, she considered phoning the number given to her years ago by the FBI to report any contact with Alex. In the end she opted not to, it would only drag up things she succeeded in putting out of her mind. However, the days and weeks following his visit were anything but peaceful as her thoughts were constantly preoccupied with that night. She replayed his visit over and over in her head. Why had he come to her? And why now? Did he ache for the same type of closure she had yearned for all these years? If so, his ambiguous explanation of what happened left out an important part of the equation. What had she meant to him? Had anything of their eleven months together been real? Eventually she stopped interrogating the shadows and concentrated on what Alex did tell her. Despite her dislike for doctors she arranged for a full checkup and was relived when Dr. Ragavan pronounced her in excellent health. She did not ask about any implant. She had felt her body in the places Alex described and thought she could feel something at the base of her neck, but was unsure if it was a flaw in the skin, part of her spinal cord, or a bump from the insertion of the aforementioned microchip. She had not pursued it further, not wanting to acknowledge if Alex's claims were true. Today she did not feel like she did when she was dropped in the pool. She felt as though she remembered she had left the stove on at home but amplified ten times. She had to get out of there, speech or no speech. She picked up the first page of her paper and wrote on the back, "Please excuse me-I am ill" and slid it over to the third speaker sitting beside her. She did not wait to see his reaction but gathered her briefcase and slipped out the door without acknowledging the surprised looks of the current presenter and audience. She navigated the corridors of the hotel conference area and once outside, started walking in no particular direction. After three blocks she realized she had left her raincoat and umbrella back at the hotel coat check. It was pouring rain and she was soaking wet. Her suit jacket did little to kept out the chilly February rain and her breath came out in tiny clouds. Her nylons glistened with rain drops and made squishy noises against the soles of her ruined leather heels. The rain dripped down her face and her hair which had been put in a tight chignon was threatening to come loose at any moment. Fionna kept walking, unconcerned with her drowned rat appearance. She stopped at a traffic light and found herself staring across at Central Station. She stood shivering with her arms wrapped around her as she contemplated her situation. This was where she felt she was supposed to be. She needed to take the train - but where? It was as if her mind was controlling her body and only telling her what was going to happen on a need to know basis. She was about to cross the street when she heard her name called out. To her right, a black Bentley had pulled up beside the corner and a young Asian man got out. He held the door open as if to invite her in. "Ms. Wilkinson . . . " a voice repeated from inside the vehicle. Her current journey momentarily forgotten, Fionna approached the car cautiously and looked inside. Sitting in the luxurious interior, a debonair elderly man smiled at her. The only thing marring his aristocratic exterior was a silver gun placed on one knee, his hand lying casually across it. Fionna gasped and jerked backwards only to run into the other man holding the door. "Please Ms. Wilkinson, it is in your best interest to get into the automobile. Trust me you do not want to go where you're headed," the gentleman said in crisp English accent. Considering her state of mind it was almost a relief to be gently propelled into the car under someone else's power. She entered the vehicle, took a seat beside the mysterious man and tried not to look at his weapon. "You're a hard woman to keep up with," the man stated as the car began to move again. "It is a good thing we managed to catch you when we did." He handed her a towel and indicated for the driver to turn up the heat. "Where are we going?" she asked surveying the car and noting the front and back seats were divided by a darkened window. "To a business meeting. There is someone whom I hope will be interested to see you." The buzzing in her mind had dissipated somewhat since she entered the car and she began to realize she was not acting like herself. Why had she left the conference and why had she gotten into a car with a gun toting stranger? Part of her seemed to acknowledge that she was in danger but she was confused if it was related to where she had been going or where she was headed now. She wished her head would clear. "I think I should go." "All in good time." The man questioned Fionna about her family and studies. She could tell he was trying to put her at ease but the longer they drove the more anxious Fionna got. It was difficult to tell where they were going through the heavily tinted windows but she thought they had left the downtown core and were heading out of Manhattan. Half an hour later, the car stopped and through an intercom the driver announced they were at the international shipyards and noted the Star of Russia was the third ship to the left. This announcement left her wondering if she was some how needed as a translator. "Thank you. Tran, come and keep Ms. Wilkinson company in the backseat. I'll call you if we need her." The gentleman got out of the car and gestured for the beefy driver to come with him. With the British man gone, Fionna contemplated an escape from the vehicle but her stoney-faced bodyguard was not taking his eyes off her. Although she still had an urge to flee, it was now dictated by her current predicament rather than by the mysterious longing she suffered from earlier. Her mind and body were now focused on her present situation, and she concentrated all her energy on thinking how to get away from the car. Her escape plans were disrupted by the Englishman's sudden return. He appeared to have lost all his former composure and was openly exasperated and irritated at whatever transpired during his absence from the car. Ignoring Fionna, he told Tran to take them to somewhere called The Hub as he apparently had left his driver behind at the ship. As they left the shipyards, the man reached for his car phone and aggressively dialed a number. He had somewhat regained his poise when he calmly addressed the receiver of his call."I have unexpected news. Ms. Covarrubias has the boy. Although one hopes she is bringing him to us, I have my doubts . . . He is being detained . . . I'll be there shortly." Hanging up, he looked at Fionna. "I'm afraid I will have to hold onto you a little longer. You may still be of some use to me. And believe me, my dear, it is in your best interests not to be wandering around right now with that chip in you." Fionna gasped at this mention of the chip and her hand automatically touched the spot on the back of her neck that had been aching before. It only clicked now that this all must have something to do with Alex. A vision of him standing in her apartment with a mournful look on his face flashed across her mind. Why had she not thought of this before? Why did everything always seem to come back to him? Upon arriving at another unknown destination, Fionna was escorted by Tran to a small windowless room that held a table, chair and cot along with a toilet and sink. She was shortly visited by the Englishman and another man who introduced himself as a researcher. He proceeded to ask her questions about how she felt today and did not seem surprised by her honest responses of feeling distracted as if she was under the power of someone else. She felt relatively calm answering his questions until he pulled out what looked like a small reflex hammer embedded at the end with tiny spikes. When asked to turn around, Fionna's eyes went wide and she backed away from the two men, shaking her head, her mouth open in a voiceless scream. The researcher rose to follow her but the British man stopped him by saying, "Thank you Ms. Wilkinson. We require no further information at this time." They departed and she was left to curse Alex Krycek, ponder how long she would be gone this time and what they would do to her. Once alone, the restless feeling from before returned and she paced the room nervously, unconsciously rubbing the back of her neck and chewing her fingernails. After what seemed like hours, exhaustion prompted her to lie down on the cot. When she awoke, she was pleased to discover her head was clear and she felt more like her old self. However, her old self was not used to being held prisoner and there lingered a sense of disorientation and trepidation. What had been her best clothes the day before had dried since her walk in the rain, and were now extremely wrinkled and uncomfortable. There was no mirror, but she knew she looked how she felt, completely bedraggled. Fionna did not know if it was a good or bad sign that no one came to see her. As hunger and boredom gnawed at her, she became more irritated then afraid and decided if she were ever to hold anyone prisoner she would at least provide lunch and reading material. Her crankiness was replaced with dread when she heard a key in the lock late in the afternoon. The Englishman held open the door and said in a bright voice, "It turns out we did not need you after all. Time to go home." He had apparently forgotten or salvaged the situation which annoyed him yesterday and was smiling broadly. Fionna cautiously got up but stopped short at seeing a brooding figure leaning against the hallway wall. "I believe you already know Mr. Krycek," the Englishman chuckled as if he had made a joke. "He will take you home." Fionna stared at Alex but he would not meet her eyes, instead he glared at the amused older man. "Let me know if you change your mind," he addressed Alex before turning on his heel and walking away from the couple. "Let's go," Alex said gruffly and started walking down the corridor of what appeared to be some sort of medical wing. Fionna stood where she was, unsure if following Alex was in her best interests. Not hearing her footsteps behind him, he turned back to look at her. "Do you want to stay here?" "No." "Well?" he asked with exasperation when she still did not move. "I don't want to go with you." "Listen . . . " He moved toward her and jabbed his finger out. "You're an unneeded complication right now. I don't need this. You can stay here for all I care. This was not my idea." "I'm a complication in your life?" Fionna cried. "Oh please forgive me. I wouldn't want to ruin your day." Alex turned away, ignoring her contemptuous voice and appeared to make good on his threat to leave without her. Amid mixed emotions of anger and fear, she was confused by his rejection and disinterest. She thought she was supposed to be here because of him but he appeared to care less if she went or stayed. Once more, he turned back and addressed her, "You can make this easy or hard." Motioning with his left arm, he pushed open his leather jacket subtly revealing a gun slung in its holster. Fionna stared in shock and wonder as Alex let the jacket fall back in place. "Your arm . . . ," Fionna mumbled in disbelief and he stiffened with the realization she was not staring at the weapon but at the awkward angle of his left arm. Fionna scrutinized him uneasily. This was not the Alex Krycek she thought she once knew. This was not even the man who stood in her apartment two years ago, seemingly full of guilt. Dark circles hovered around his eyes. His face held no compassion or humor or peace but anger, misery and frustration streaked across his features. His leather jacket hung like a shield around him daring anyone to give him a reason to explode. Her assessment appeared to unnerve him and he shifted impatiently. "Fee, I'm just taking you home. I promise," he said in a softer tone. Fionna decided her options were slim and accepted his offer. The Bentley was parked with the engine running outside the door of an underground parking lot. Fionna and Alex got into the back seat and an anonymous driver pulled out. "What was that facility we were in?" She was determined to find out what was going on and hoped Alex was in the mood to talk. She was not returning again without any answers. She started with a neutral question even though the one she wanted to ask most was, "Who the hell are you?" "The least you know, the less reason for them to be interested in you," he replied flatly, staring blindly out the tinted windows. "I know nothing and they're still interested in me," Fionna pointed out, wondering who "they" were. Her mind swarmed with images of black market organ dealers, terrorists and organized crime. Her friend Joan was writing her thesis on prohibition in the 1920s and often regaled her with stories of mob atrocities. "You don't really want to know," he warned. "Could you at least tell me about the chip in my neck?" He finally turned to look at her. "It acts as a cataloguing device, similar to a bar code. It's known to cause illness when removed. I don't know a lot about it." "Was it also controlling me yesterday?" "That part of it is unclear but they believe it acts as some sort of neuro- navigator." "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Fionna commented, feeling oddly detached from the reality of the situation. "That could be the slogan for the whole thing," Alex remarked bitterly and turned away from her again. Fionna quietly absorbed the new information but could not remain uninquisitive for long. There was a question pressing on her mind, one she did not know if she wanted the answer. What would hurt more, knowing he had deceived her all along or somehow changed during the course of their relationship? "Were you ever who I thought you were?" In response she received silence and the question hovered in the tense air. Was he thinking or refusing to answer? Hoping it was the former, she prompted him again. "I mean, were you involved in this, whatever this is, when I first knew you?" "You never knew me." The words were spoken quietly but their confidence slapped her across the face as if they were yelled. "Obviously," she retorted, although it hadn't been obvious up until he said it. She had half hoped he was as innocent a bystander in this whole operation as she was. . "Here we are, as promised," Alex reported twenty minutes later as the car stopped. "Gee, why would I ever doubt you?" Her hand was on the door to leave when she felt him touch her arm with hesitation. "Fee, this was never about you. It started long before I met you, long before I was even born. We never had a chance. Don't take it personally." "Maybe you could give me lessons in how to act that way, because you did a pretty good job at making it personal." "I know. I know." He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit she recognized from before. The familiarity of the simple act somehow moved her, a part of him from the past confirmed in the present. "There's a lot you wouldn't understand. A lot I'm still figuring out. It's complicated beyond explanation, beyond imagination." "Do you like who you are? Do you like what you're doing?" His dark eyes flashed briefly across her face. "What do you think?" he challenged, sounding almost insulted by the question. "I think we' ve already established I don't know you well enough to answer that, but as far as I can see, you don't appear to be savoring the moment." "You caught me on a bad day," he stated strongly through clenched teeth but added a moment later, "It would not be easy to change things." "Nothing easy is usually worthwhile." "Thank you for your words of wisdom, Mary Poppins, but I've learned one man cannot fight the future." "Who said you had to do it alone? I mean, this is obviously illegal. You could go to the police. The FBI." He snorted."That will be the day." "I could help you . . . " The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she offered. He gawked blankly at her. "You don't know what you're saying." She searched her mind for a reasonable answer. "Like I said before, I'm already involved." He shook his head aggressively. "No. I've got things under control." "Of course. Well, I guess this is it," Fionna said, getting out of the car. "Yeah," Alex mumbled and then slammed the door behind her. As she watched the car disappear into the traffic, Fionna wondered if she would see him again. How long would the consequences of their short lived love affair haunt her? She did not have long to wait for her answers. She was on the phone with her brother and almost missed the small knock on her door shortly before midnight. Although she automatically looked through the peep hole, she instinctively knew it was him. "How polite of you to knock. Did you lose your lock picking kit?" Fionna asked sharply, hoping an aura of false bravado would cover her apprehension at answering the door. He still looked like hell but something had changed in the hours that passed. His hooded eyes were haunted with a glimmer of hope. "Did you mean what you said?" he asked, almost daring her to refuse. "I...Yes," she said, trying to sound confident although unsure of the implications her answer held. And then he told her everything. It sounded like a fairytale where magic, monsters, mavericks and martyrs intermingled under the surface of the real world. Where the will of the Gods interfered with the destinies of mortals. Where there was no room for heroes and villains, only winners and losers. *** The Present - October 10, 1998 Mulder surveyed his surroundings. He didn't know where to begin. The room he stood in held a deep freezer hooked up to its own generator. A table held both a laptop and desktop computer. Papers, notebooks and files stood neatly stacked beside them. The other two rooms held nothing but boxes. Scully wandered around the apartment inspecting everything as if she were appraising a crime scene while Fionna shuffled through some papers on the table. "Here." Fionna held up a clipboard and handed it to Mulder. "This is the most up to date guide on what we have. The master bedroom is full of material about the Syndicates, plans for colonization and the aliens. The material is either photocopies of originals or downloaded on disks. The second bedroom has files on individuals, both the perpetrators and victims of the conspiracy. They're mainly biographies composed by Alex which are substantiated by the files in the first bedroom. This freezer contains all the specimens we collected, mainly blood and tissue samples from abductees." "Do you have the vaccine?" Mulder asked, flipping through the guide. Fionna shook her head. "Just after Howard Burns died, the Englishman, colonists found out about the production of a vaccine and demanded all versions of it be destroyed. They must have kept a few samples but it was impossible to get our hands on. However, Alex believes that he is a good source for research. He suspects the Russians developed their vaccine by studying his blood after he was infected with the black oil in Hong Kong. He also mentioned that both of you have been exposed to two different forms of the vaccine." Scully looked curiously at Mulder. "Tunguska . . . I think," he said, answering her unasked question. He had not burdened Scully with the nature of the experiments performed on him in the gulag. Mulder considered the time frame and wondered if his injection of Scully in Antarctica had been what announced the presence of the vaccine to the aliens. Minutes later, Mulder sat surrounded by boxes on the floor of the master bedroom. Like a kid in a candy store he did not know what to choose first and randomly started reading through the contents of the first box he picked up entitled, U.S. Department of Defense, 1944-1974. Without the proper tools to study any of the scientific evidence, Scully was in a similar position in the second room. She had ignored the boxes marked "S" not ready to confront anything, fictional or otherwise, about herself, Melissa, Emily or even Skinner. She started alphabetically and began working her way through A's. Fionna sat at the table organizing the most recent data which was left uncatalogued since her last visit. The documents held familiar stories; bits and pieces of information which had slowly been uncovered, if not supported with evidence, while working on the X-Files. However, these files gave names to faces, dates to events and locations to sites. It made the DAT tape look pathetic in comparison. Most of the data Mulder and Scully had stumbled across over the years was limited to North America but many of these files detailed examples from Europe, the Middle East, and Asia, suggesting the conspiracy reached every corner of the globe. If the story collected by Krycek was true, aliens first made contact with humans in 1943, four years before the infamous Roswell crash. Amid the final stages of World War II the Allied and Axis powers met together to discuss this contact. The visitors from outer space promised peace and freely gave technology. These gifts were reflected in a boom in knowledge surrounding computer science, aviation, communications and weaponry which were doled out to the public in little pieces over the next two decades. Humans were given the science to complete the atomic bomb, break the sound barrier, launch satellites, radically alter the nature, size and power of computers, and land a man on the moon. In the 1970s the message of friendship radically changed when the aliens revealed to have a high payment price for their Trojan horse; they wanted to colonize the planet. Understandably this was not announced to the official world governments. Instead, the aliens unofficially made contacts within various international military, industrial, financial and political bodies and began to work out the plans for colonization. These organizations were ruled by a consortium of men from eighteen powerful countries. Amid cold war superstition and alienation, the group spilt into two; one run by the United States and its capitalist allies, the other was formed with members from the Soviet Union, China and Eastern Europe. The aliens promised both of these groups shared power in colonization and gave them the date of 2013 for this endeavor. In the meantime, the aliens organized experiments among both groups to explore the compatibility of human/alien genetics. The human allies of the aliens believed they were working toward production of an alien/human hybrid, a being to unite the different species. However, the recent events in North Texas revealed the aliens' real agenda to be the grotesque manipulation of the human body for their own horrifying purposes. Once the genetic formula was perfected, humans would be infected with a virus causing not only their death, but the birth of an alien. Select groups of humans were to be kept alive as slaves and breeders to continue the process of colonization through genocide. It sounded like a nightmare dreamed up by Charles Darwin, Ridley Scott and Adolf Hitler. The colonizing aliens were as science fiction conventionally described them, small and grey. The humans rarely had contact with them as the earth's climate was intolerable to them and they could only withstand short periods of time in its atmosphere. It was believed that the grey aliens born through a human host would have the genetic codes to make habitation of earth pleasant. The humans worked side by side on this project with another subordinate race, the shape shifter with the poisonous green blood. Their ability to resemble humans made them appear less threatening and humans originally thought they were in power. Experiments using their genetic make-up were performed as a smoke screen to hide the greys' true intentions and the secret experiments with their life essence, the black oil. The consortium members were told that they would be kept alive to supervise the process of selective elimination and their families would be allowed to live. They were warned that opposition would lead to a full out war, resulting in the complete destruction of the human race. Cooperation would ensure its survival, if not its independence. Most consortium members did not aspire to betray their own people, but like the African bounty hunters capturing their brothers to be sold into slavery or Kapo guards forced to report on other Jews during the holocaust, they collaborated because it ensured their own survival. An attempt at salvation though a vaccine was secretly started in both the Western and Eastern consortiums during the mid 1980s when ideas about an alien virus were first suspected. However, in the last few years an open resistance was formed among a number of the shape shifters and human/alien hybrids to sabotage the plans for colonization but they remained weak without human support and aid. Since they feared surrendering what they believed to be their one chance to survive, the majority of syndicate members were conservative in their actions and did not attempt insurrection beyond a secret search for a vaccine. Krycek had gathered a wealth of information. Although most of it would be inadmissible in court due to the nature in which it was procured, it would be an excellent starting point for a full out federal investigation. Krycek claimed exposure would help the resistance but if nothing else, these files could rebuild what was lost in the fire. As much as Mulder wanted to believe it all, the information could not be proven on its own. His encounter with Krischgau made him cautious, and his experiences with Krycek made him suspicious. There was no way to prove the validity of the papers, pictures and disks by merely reading the material. For all Mulder knew they were elaborate forgeries; a well documented and creative hoax perpetrated by Krycek. Or if this was all true and Krycek had been discovered, how long would it take for his proof to become obsolete? But if this paper trail could lead to visual proof and the scientific evidence buried in the freezer complimented the fantastic and devastating stories Krycek documented, then they were in business. *** Seven hours later Here goes nothing. Alex stood in the middle of a dark deserted field. Only railway tracks marred the pastoral setting. The land he stood on now was at the edge of the National Park preserved by the government to commemorate the civil war battle of Gettysburg. It was a memorial to one of the bloodiest battles Americans ever fought. The fields were doted with statues representing the glorious men in grey and the chivalrous men in blue, bravery and heroism immortalized rather than ideals and politics. Brother fighting brother, or so the tour guides sprouted. In the distance Alex could see farms, one of them once belonging to a retired Dwight Eisenhower. On several of his visits here Alex pondered the reasons why the former General and President had chosen to spend his last years living in sight of the battlefields of Gettysburg. Was it a tribute to the bravery of how Americans fought under him in the Second World War or to remind himself how he arranged for the first soldiers to be sent to their deaths in Vietnam? Did Eisenhower have any inkling that the next major war his citizens and armed forces fought would not be civil or international but intergalactic? He tried to imagine the picturesque Gettysburg fields once again strewn with the corpses of soldiers and the air full of gangrene and blood. Fee once said history was usually written by the winners, often manipulated to favor the present over the past. He wondered who would be left to record the human's side of the colonization journey and what they would say of its history? The particular section of land he stood on now had not been preserved in its entirety. Roughly twenty-five meters beneath it was a seventeen thousand square foot research center. One of four permanent centers hidden across the country used for long term or high security projects, the rest being delegated to the moving labs on train cars. This one was the drop off point for abductees from the North Eastern states and it hosted all levels of the alien/human hybrid program. It was also home to certain side projects, such as the one in which Gibson currently starred. Alex walked over to a small 19th century style railway depot in which tourists often stumbled across and took pictures. Little did they know where it led. He swiped a security card and punched a code into a conspicuous twentieth century looking lock and held his breath for it to work. He was screwed if they had changed the passes. There were cameras but he knew the visuals would not be clear in the darkness. A green light flashed and the lock clicked open. They should have changed all passes immediately but nobody thought he was stupid enough to come back. Almsey would be furious at their carelessness. The outside lock was only the first security measure. Inside the depot, outside of the line of sight from any curious tourists peering through the tinted windows, was a tiny |
What You Leave Behindby Ann Ripley |