EMXC 1st Year fanfic- October 1, 1994 thru October 1, 1995 Archived: 10/01/95 ============================================================== Subject #773 by Arkkannan@aol.com (© 6/1/95) DISCLAIMER: This original story is based upon the characters and situations created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Broadcasting Company. No infringement of copyright is intended. (This story takes place prior to the episode "One Breath".) Prologue: Tired, the man in black leaned against the locked door of his apartment, his eyes closed. Finally, he straightened and turned to look at it again. It was, at first glance, a very ugly lamp. A great pink egg suspended in a frame of free-form pewter with a bisecting curve of copper. He had it on the table next to the door. He used to have it by the window until he found out it was interfering with the satellite reception for the sports bar two doors down. It was the only feature of remote interest in the spartan Studio near Georgetown University. Every time he returned, he looked at the lamp, making sure it was still on. assured him its battery would last for fifty years. also said they would return for him when his job was done. That was ten years ago. They have not returned. He keeps the lamp lit, because said would be waiting for its signal. He keeps the lamp lit, because he believes they will return for him. He believe they will return for him. He drew a small laptop computer from the desk drawer and turned it on. He frowned over an e-mail message and left. **************** Building #119, Griffiss Air Force Base Rome NY (September 7, 1994) Time: 4:53 pm EST The dark-haired man's footsteps echoed down the long, dimly-lit corridor. He paused before one door. Fumbling in the pocket of a white lab coat, he brought out a pocket tape recorder and thumbed it on. "Day's final observations, subject number 773," he slid open the square, shuttered window in the locked door. "Subject is female, roughly five foot two inches in height, weight estimated at plus or minus one hundred pounds. Subject has received seven treatments." He frowned and squinted into the room. The single, black - caged light bulb revealed a small room. The walls were covered with a dull grey cloth that puckered around the corners and sagged with the weight of padding. There was only a dingy striped mattress against the wall facing the door. The subject was seated on the bed, wearing surgical green scrubs, arms tightly folded across her breasts. She had been staring at her bare feet, but now she glared up at the observation window. The man blinked at the expression in those red-rimmed eyes that blazed through the tangled auburn hair. "I have a name," she declared roughly. "I have a _name_." "Subject appears in good health and functioning normally." He said quickly, clicking off the recorder and closing the portal. "My name is Dana Scully!" Her shriek rang through the door. Shaking his head, the man hurried down the hallway. "Randolph," the man's voice stopped him. Randolph could just make out a figure standing in the cross hall by the elevator. He made no attempt to look closer. "Number 773 persists in maintaining identity, doesn't she?" "An - an unusual case, sir," Randolph's voice rose in pitch. "All the other subjects required only five treatments before they became amenable to reprogramming." "Do not give her any more treatments, Randolph. Attempt reprogramming anyway, if it fails this time..." he paused. "She'll just have to be terminated from the experiment." "Yes, sir." **************** Washington, D.C Lounge, Downtown Marriot (same night) 9:45 pm EST The tall man ignored the sheen of sweat trickling over his bald head as he sat and watched the crowd. It was Tropico night and the lounge was filled with garish shirts, straw hats, wet tee-shirts and Jimmy Buffett music. The waiters and waitresses wove through the crowd with trays full of gaudy colored drinks that bristled with fruit skewers and clashing umbrellas. The dj was announcing door prizes from numbers on the drink umbrellas. "Mr. Skinner?" asked a quiet, deep voice just behind his left ear. "No," the voice directed, "don't turn around." FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner sat very still as the young man slid into the chair across from him. Mid thirties, as tall and as thin as Mulder, was his first thought -- but far darker in coloring; olive skin, Arabic appearance. The hair that hung in a thick plume down the man's back was pure sable. He wore a white turtleneck under a black sports coat with black jeans. "I'm honored, Mr. Skinner." He held out a long-fingered hand and shook Skinner's with a firm grip. "And you are --?" Skinner rubbed the back of his hand. "That -- isn't necessary." The Stranger folded his hands. "I came in response to your e-mail. Just call me -- the man in black." His smile was ironic. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I've never had to do something like this before." Skinner confessed. "Then you are to be commended, Mr. Skinner." Skinner sighed. "One of my agents is missing and --" he glanced around the active lounge. "I -- can't operate within the usual channels." "I see," said the man in black. Skinner passed over a folder. "Here, this has the background you need." "Thank you, Mr. Skinner," the stranger paused, his dark brows lowering in a thoughtful frown as he glanced at the file. He looked at Skinner for a moment. "There may be a possibility that your agent is..." he hesitated. "Dead?" said Skinner grimly. He looked at his hands. "Yes. I have considered that possibility." "I will be in touch," the man in black rose from the seat. "Watch your e-mail." Skinner started to say something, but fell silent and nodded. The stranger slid away into the crowd. Shortly thereafter, a waitress appeared and placed a large, decorated margurita on Skinner's table. "Compliments of a friend," she said cheerfully. Five minutes later, Skinner won an ugly tee-shirt and a stuffed parrot. ************* Location: Unknown Time: Unknown (same night) The tall, sable haired man in black entered by the sole door and sat down in the single chair in the only circle of light within the room and passed across the square, polished wood table the file folder Skinner had given him. A square, strong dark-skinned hand reached out from the shadows and took it from him. Papers rustled briefly. "Dana Scully?" said a quiet, deep voice. "Yes." The man in black folded his arms. "I can't help you, Taroc, not in this." "Then I am sorry I wasted your time." Taroc extended one hand for the folder. The man on the other side of the table hesitated. "The Agent Krychek mentioned in this report is now with the New York City office of the FBI," he said, returning the folder. "His new name is David Paul." "Thank you," said Taroc. "The missing tram driver and the "lost" autopsy report?" "I can't do you any more favors," the man in the shadows' voice was higher in pitch, desperate. "Oh, but you can," said Taroc coldly, "considering the favors I have done for ." He turned and walked out the door. Bridgeport, Connecticut Westerly Apartments, Building 121, Apartment #6 7:56 pm (one week later) , thought the young man once known as Alex Krychek, now called David Paul, . He opened the door to his apartment and reached for the light switch. It did not click on. Instincts kicked in and he reached for his gun as he tried to back out of the darkness into the hall way. The door slammed behind him. "I'm with the FBI!" he shouted, getting his back to the wall as he strained to see the intruder. "That's what you you are, Mr. Krychek," purred an icy voice from the shadows. "We both know differently, Mr. Krychek." Krychek swallowed hard, but kept his voice calm. "My name is David Paul, you've made a mistake..." "I doubt it." Krychek whipped his gun around and fired in the direction of the voice. A sharp pang in his gun hand made him almost drop his weapon. He stared briefly at the dart embedded between his knuckles before the drug took him and he slid down the wall, unconscious. *** "Wake up, Mr. Krychek," the cool voice sounded like a satisfied cat. Krychek opened his eyes. There was a sharp pain all along his back. He was tied to a steel girder in the middle of a deserted construction site. A tall, lean Arabic-looking man, wearing black was standing in front of him, smiling. "Dana Scully, Mr. Krychek," he said. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, yes, you do, Mr. Krychek, and you tell me, Mr. Krychek. I am quite certain of that." The stranger's black eyes bored into his own as they stood almost nose to nose. "You tell me." "I you," Krychek asserted. "You're Taroc Arkkannan -- you're an assassin for hire. You've killed twelve people on three continents!" "Should I be flattered?" Taroc asked. "And I'm afraid your records are not up to date. I made my last kill ten years ago. Since then I have been -- shall we say free lancing for interested parties?" He gripped the younger man's chin and forced his head back against the beam. "You've been clumsy and very,very stupid. I've been sent to tidy up your mess. The man who was running the tram on that mountain has a family. The state police have just been sent the location of his body. Director Skinner is already looking for you because of a file he has suddenly found in his mail that contains Duane Berry's autopsy report." "Who do you work for?" Krychek asked in a shaky voice. "Unofficial channels," Taroc purred. "Now, we come to the but certainly not the least of your errors, Mr. Krychek. Dana Scully." ************** Location: Unknown Time:next day The young man swallowed nervously as he entered the office. A pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air. "Well?" said the man behind the desk. "He's disappeared, sir." "I see." "Shall I start an investigation...?" "No." "But, sir..." "Out!" snapped the smoking man. The other left. "Someone's involved," the smoking man said to himself. "Mulder's in California. It can't be Mulder. Who is it? Who is it?" *************** Mohawk gate, Griffiss Air Force Base Rome NY (September 12, 1994) 23:03 pm The guard at the Mohawk gate played his flashlight over the government plates then leaned over to check the ID of the man in the official-looking car. The uniformed driver rolled down the tinted glass window. The airman snapped a quick salute. The driver casually returned it. "Working late tonight, sir?" the guard asked pleasantly. "You know how it is," the driver shrugged. "Getting the downsizing settled." "Is it true they've sold building #119 to an outside firm?" "Can't tell you that, Airman," was the bland reply. "Yes sir, sorry sir." The guard the guard saluted again and raised the swinging arm of the gate and let the car pass by. He stepped back to lower the gate went a hand grabbed his shoulder. He started to turn, but a fierce blow to his jaw exploded into stars. He would wake up much later, tucked inside his guard tower with the gate down. *** The car continued a slow progress through the base until it reached the unexceptional brick building. The driver stopped and got out. As he returned the salutes from the two guards at the door, a second car drove past the building. He turned and watched it until it turned a corner towards the air strip. "Who the deuce is that?" he demanded. "No idea, sir." The first guard frowned. The second was checking his clip board. "Yours is the only authorized vehicle at this time, sir." "Go and find out who it is and what they're doing." The officer barked. Nervously fingering their sidearms, the guards obeyed. The officer entered the building. Inside, he found a phone and dialed a number. "Where's Randolph? I need to speak to him. I don't care he's doing! I want to speak to him !" *** The light was burning in her eyes. The canvas straps held her firmly to the examination table. She jerked at her bonds. Her lower lip was raw from biting it. Two men also wearing green scrubs with firm, competent hands in latex gloves attached the electrodes to her body. Their faces were masked. One pair of hands lingered familiarly on her abdomen. She cursed him. He moved away quickly. She remembered when his hands had lingered in her hair. She had bitten him like an animal, tasting blood through the latex glove. She breathed quickly, a thin film of sweat breaking on her upper lip and forehead as she waited. "What is your name?" asked the voice she had come to hate. "My name is Dana Scully!" she repeated fiercely. "Wrong." The voice droned tonelessly. Her body convulsed as the electric shock ran through it. "Your name is Marianne Denton. What is your name?" "My name is Dana Scully!" This time she couldn't help screaming. "Your name is Marianne Denton. What is your name?" "Dana Scully!" It was a raw howl. She screamed louder as her body arched from the shock. She was gasping for air as her heart fluttered wildly. Maybe this would be the day her heart was forced into an arrythmia by the shocks and she would die and be free of this devil... "Your name is -- what is it?" The voice sounded irritated. "Tell him to wait! Oh, all right." The light snapped off, blanketing her in blessed darkness. She tasted blood as the tears ran down her face. She never let them know she cried. "Leave the subject where she is and keep your hands off her. Next time she may do more than bite you." *** The officer was fuming as one guard returned, dragging a young man in a suit and tie. The guard appeared to be concentrating on his handcuffed prisoner and didn't look straight at the officer. "Well? Who are they?" he demanded. "He says he's FBI," said the guard, flipping up the agent's identification in such a way as to momentarily cover his face. "My partner is pursuing the other one." "Colonel, it's a lie!" shouted the prisoner. "I'm Special Agent David Paul and this man is an assassin!" The Colonel had been reaching for the badge. He froze and looked closer at the guard. It was not either of the men he had sent away. With a curse, he went for his side arm. Taroc Arkkannan shoved Krychek into the Colonel. Both men went sprawling. Taroc grabbed the Colonel as the officer shoved Krychek off him. He punched the man twice and then slammed his head against the wall. The Colonel went limp. Taroc reached down and hauled Krychek to his feet. "Very stupid, Mr. Krychek," he commented coldly. "I refuse to cooperate any further!" Krychek tried to yank himself out of Taroc's hands. The man in black tightened his grip on the renegade agent's shoulders. "I don't recall giving you any choice." Taroc retorted. "Unlike messy interference in the Duane Berry affair, am not leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake." "You won't succeed." "You had better hope I do, Mr. Krychek. Otherwise, your life will become extremely uncomfortable." He paused as he dragged his prisoner through the lobby, "although, I confess I would to see what would happen if Agent Mulder was allowed to be locked in an interrogation room with you for an hour or so." One of the elevators off the lobby chimed. Taroc shoved Krychek into the shadows and drew out his pistol. He pressed the muzzle below Krychek's left ear. "My darts cause voluntary motor paralysis, Mr. Krychek, but if they are shot directly into the carotid artery the results are ... unfortunate." A dark-haired man wearing a white lab coat left the elevator. "Well, Colonel what is it...?" his indignant voice trailed away as he saw the Colonel's sprawled body. He knelt by the man and placed finger on his neck to check for a pulse. He had just determined the Colonel was alive when he felt a metallic muzzle touch the back of his neck. "Don't turn around." "Do nothing that he says, Doctor!" a second voice cried. "Mr. Krychek, I am beginning to wish I had gagged you." The muzzle did not move from the Doctor's neck. "Stand up, please. May I have your name?" "I am Doctor Randolph, I am the head of this project. This is a sensitive area," he rose slowly, keeping both hands in sight. "and you are --?" "Doctor, this man is an assassin and a kidnapper, he --" "Mr. Krychek, ," the muzzle was quickly removed from his neck and there was a soft puffing sound. Doctor Randolph turned, to observe a tall, thin man, depositing a second man against the wall. Randolph bolted for the door. A sudden pain in his leg made him look down to see a dart in his thigh. His leg gave way under him and he sprawled on the floor, unable to move. Taroc stripped off the guard's uniform and appropriated the Doctor's white lab coat and id badge. As he suspected, there was a magnetic stripe on the back. "Now," he said. "Let's see what you are trying to hide." *** His hand was on her thigh. His smile was evil. He had turned on a radio. Slow, soft rock hummed in the background. "Get the hell away from me!" she hissed, fighting the straps. "Now, now," he crooned. "You ought to be nice to me, Marianne." "My name is Dana Scully!" "Not after the doc gets through with you." He stroked his hand in a slow circle. "You won't know your own mother." His hand moved down to her knee. She froze in place. His other hand slid under the chest restraint to touch her breast. His eyes were glittering. She moved her shoulders slightly. His breathing quickened. "Oh, baby, that's more like it." He brought both hands up. She wanted to spit. She wanted to vomit. She forced herself to lie still until he tore the chest restraint away with impatience. "God, you're hot." He kissed along the side of her neck. She contemplated his ear so close to her mouth. . His hand was down on her thigh again. He was moving, nuzzling the scrubs on his way down. He shoved the shirt up. "I have been of this..." His mouth was hot and wet and disgusting. , she thought, but she made herself smile. He pulled off the hip restraint and yanked the scrub pants down to her ankles. She made herself squirm. "Oh, yes. Oh, God, yes..." He was moaning. she thought, closing her eyes. He was taking off the ankle restraints. His body crushed down on her and he cursed as he fumbled. She cursed him mentally as well. Her right hand -- now her left hand was free. "Wait, wait," she whispered to his eagerness. He drew back. She smiled and slid off the table. Her eyes scanned the almost empty room, noting the empty instrument tray next to the examination table, the open sterilizer and the broom tucked behind the sink in the corner. The radio was next to a bottle of spray disinfectant next to the sink. Finding the beat of the music, she began to sway with it. She kicked away the scrub pants. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. She drew the shirt slowly over her head and threw it full into his face. Grabbing the instrument tray, she smashed the aluminum plate against his head. He batted her away with a yell of pain. She rolled under the table, getting it between her and him as he untangled himself from the scrub shirt. He swore at her and tried to shove the table aside. She grabbed the other end and it turned in place. "You bitch!" he snarled at her. His lip was bleeding. He threw the table aside with a bellow. She was moving to the other corner of the room, where the sink was. He pursued, trapping her against the basin. He started to swing at her head. He screamed and clawed at his face as she sprayed the open container of disinfectant into his eyes. Dodging his blind swipe, she grabbed the radio and hit him with it. The station vanished in a sputter of static. He staggered. She hit him again. She grabbed the broom from behind the sink and swung against his legs. He clutched at the basin, dropping to his knees. She hit him a third time, a fourth time. She kept on hitting him until the radio's plastic shell cracked. His grip on the sink loosened and he collapsed on the floor. She dropped the radio and put her hands over her eyes. Shivering violently, she grabbed her scrubs and scrambled into them. Dana Scully swallowed hard and scrambled from the room. She paused in the long, dark corridor. The elevator motor grated as the car descended. Eyes bright with fear, she bolted down the darkened maze. At a corner, she turned left, then right, then left once more until she was far from the areas her captors had used. The flooring was not as well cared for down this dusty corridor. One bare foot struck the track for an emergency door and sent her sprawling. She tried to rise, only to roll back with a cry of pain. She felt her foot. No bones broken, but there was a painful scrape just above her toes. She felt blood on her fingers. She scuttled to the wall and dragged herself upright. She limped forward until her groping fingers encountered a door knob. It was open. She tucked herself in behind the door and sank down along the wall, knees to her chest, teeth clenched in her lower lip and tears running from her eyes. *** "So much for a helpless damsel in distress!" remarked Taroc dryly as he surveyed the havoc. The open door had been labelled "Examination Room." A man in unzipped jeans and a sweatshirt was sprawled unconscious on the floor. Judging by the wounds on his head, he was going to be that way for quite awhile. "You are a most thorough lady," he said aloud. "I think I might like you -- if you don't kill me first." Taroc shed the lab coat. He was wearing only black. He frowned into the dimness. "Where did you go, Dana Scully?" he whispered. Taroc reached into one of his pockets and removed a contact lens case. Deftly, he removed his contacts. Now, he could see properly, his slit pupils widening in the low light. He could see small, bare footprints, retaining a slight residue of body heat in a delicate gold color. He slid his dart pistol from its holster and followed the trail. *** Dana huddled tighter into her corner as she heard the slow approach of footsteps. She clamped her own hand over her mouth at the bubble of hysteria she felt tightening in her chest. She couldn't see the rest of the room to find a weapon. She bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a whimper. Taroc bent over the door track and sniffed. He smelled blood. She was hurt. He straightened at a barely-heard sound. That's when he saw the open door. He slid over along the open side and holstered his pistol. She was inside. He could smell blood -- and fear. "Dana?" he called softly. "Dana Scully?" The voice that called her name was low, gentle. Could it be? Dared she hope that had found her? She had prayed, had wished for him to come and save her ever since this nightmare began. She rose slowly and squinted around the door. She saw a tall, thin, male silhouette. It him! "Mulder!" she shrieked and hurled herself into the arms .... of a total stranger. Taroc staggered with the impact of the small woman. She cried out again and turned into a clawing hell-cat. He was glad she was in bare feet or she might have dislocated his knee with one of the kicks she landed. "No, Dana! I'm -- damn!" Luckily she didn't have proper nails or he would have lost an eye. Rather than wrestle, Taroc dropped her with a right cross. "Sorry about that," he said, then winced as he touched the claw marks she'd left on his face. "Ow." He looked at the blood on his hand, "no, I'm not." He turned to view the room. It must have been intended for a dormitory. There were two rows of about twenty cots, each one with an olive drab blanket and a pillow at its foot. He appropriated the nearest blanket. It smelled musty and he shook a cloud of dust off it, but it was Government Issue and therefore could be expected to wear like iron. He wrapped her carefully in the blanket, taking care to cover her wounded foot and avoid a blood trail. He lifted her with a grunt, glad she wasn't heavier. Taroc froze in place, aware of almost imperceptible alarms. he thought. He started off in the opposite direction. The corridor ended in a T - intersection. Taroc shifted his burden and considered his options. He listened, concentrating all his effort in hearing the smallest particle of sound that might help him find his way. He sniffed the air, then turned in place and repeated the listening and the sniffing. He sniffed again. There was just a hint of scent in the air down the left hand corridor -- a hint of circulation. He turned. The corridor ended in another left turn -- and a door marked in peeling letters "Emergency Stairs." His nostrils flared again. Yes, there was a slight air leak around this door. Of course it was locked. Dana gave a little moan as he set her down. Taroc dropped to one knee. "Dana Scully?" he kept his voice low. "Dana?" She stiffened with a slight gasp. "No," he held her down gently. "No. I'm a friend." "Who -- ?" She sat up. "Shh," he rose, listening. At the same moment he drew out a pair of dark glasses and slipped them on. The lens cut down on his ability to see in low light, but did not interfere with his infrared vision. They would also keep his eyes from view until he could safely put in his contacts. Dana sat up. "We can't stay here." He helped her to her feet. "Can you walk?" "Yes," she asserted. "Good," he attacked the door and sprung it with a noisy click. He winced at the angry scream the unused hinges made. "Keep the blanket, and follow me." They headed up the stairs. The door at the top was also locked. This lock proved even stiffer than the first and Taroc fell to muttering in six languages before he got it open. They slipped out behind a row of garbage dumpsters. There were lights flaring and voices shouting just beyond the barrier. "Stay down," he hissed, drawing his pistol. Peering around the barrier he watched as two men in a jeep pulled along side the dumpsters. Taroc swore under his breath. "What makes you think there's anything here?" demanded one. "Because if I was getting hunted, I 'd go to ground until the alert was over." The other soldier grinned. "And whoever's stuck playing "intruder" probably will want a smoke." "Assuming he's a smoker." "Look, it's either Anderson, Davis or Hayes -- and you know that Joe and Will both smoke." The soldier pulled out his flashlight and let it play around the base of the dumpster. With a sharp cry, Dana Scully broke cover, diving behind another dumpster. "Holy Shit! There really an intruder!" yelped the second soldier. "Which way did she --?" He never finished his sentence as Taroc leaped from the top of the first dumpster. He went head first into the metal bin. His companion stayed on his feet long enough to take a swing and connect. Taroc doubled over with a cough. Dana broke cover a second time, to jump on the first soldier's back. She got her hand over the man's mouth while maintaining a choke hold. Taroc punched him twice more before he went down. He shook his hand with pain. "Come on!" Taroc helped Dana into the jeep. They headed along the airstrip. "There should be an access gate north of here." "What if it's locked?" Dana demanded. "I'll figure that out later." It locked. Taroc went out to wrestle it open. There was a brilliant white light next to the gate. As he pulled the gate aside, he heard Dana gasp. "Your face --" she pointed at the claw marks. "Your blood is -- oh, my God..." "Dana, I am a friend," Taroc said wearily as she backed away. "Director Skinner sent me to find you. He couldn't use official channels, so he sent me." He climbed back into the jeep and drove out the gate. After a moment, he stopped the jeep in a wooded area. Dana watched him a long time. "You look...human." She finally said. "I've been surgically altered," he said shortly. There was a soft, muffled sound next to him. Dana was shaking under the blanket. It was hard to tell if she was laughing or crying. "Oh, God and Mulder was the one that wanted the proof," she choked. "He's the one with the quest." "And you," said Taroc softly. "Are the only one who ." She fell silent a moment. "So what happens now?" "I don't know." Taroc rested his hands on the wheel and stared at them. He looked sidelong at the small woman seated next to him. The autumn wind was cold through the thin surgical scrubs her captors had dressed her in. She looked behind her, unable to believe that she had actually escaped from their hands. "There," said Taroc, pointing into the night sky. "That star. Where the handle of the Little Dipper joins the bowl. That is where Thanos 7 is." Dana Scully tucked her bare feet under the blanket and looked upwards. "Amazing." She turned to Taroc. "What is your planet like?" "I don't remember," he whispered. "They -- they deliberately blurred and blocked my memory. Probably so I wouldn't divulge anything about their technology." He started the stolen jeep and drove south towards the city of Rome NY. They did not speak. The motel had two stories and Scully padded after the tall alien to the upper level. The first thing he did was to go into the bathroom. "Dana, turn off the lights," he ordered. "Why?" "Because someone might be watching." His voice shook a little, "and because -- you don't want to see me just now." Dana came to the door of the bathroom. "I don't understand." He faced away from her. "Contact lenses," he said. "I have to take them off to see properly in low light or at night. My eyes are -- not like yours." You said you were surgically altered." "Some things not even science can alter." "I want to see your eyes." "No." "Taroc..." He turned. "There! Satisfied?" His left eye was orange from corner to corner. The pupil was a pointed circle in the low light -- like a cat's eye. The right one, with its dark contact made half his face look normal, Arabic, while the left was -- alien. Scully controlled her shock. "My grandmother used to grow poppies that were the color of your eyes." It was the right thing to say. He smiled tentatively. "Wash your feet," he suggested. "I'll go and get some food." He found an all-night market near a liquor store. He had acquired a taste for good bourbon during his exile. He figured he might have need of it now. He abandoned the jeep in the parking lot and walked back to the hotel. Dana was on the bed when he returned, bandaging her foot. Taroc made sandwiches and they ate in silence. Taroc took a large swallow of the bourbon. He stood guard at the window. "Get some sleep," he ordered. "What about you?" "I'll take the chair." He sat down, pistol balanced on his thigh. As Dana turned over a sharp pain gripped her stomach. "Ohhh..." "Dana?" She struggled to sit up, her face pale, "I feel sick." He felt her forehead. Frowning, he brought from a pocket in the black photographer's vest he wore a small device that looked like a pocket calculator. He gripped her hand. "Ow!" yelped Dana as a small point on the machine stabbed into her finger. Taroc squeezed a drop of blood on to a round screen and scowled at the machine as it chattered away in an alien tongue. "Pchakh!" he swore. "What is it?" "You were injected with DNA from the Rulans. It's destroying itself -- forming a metabolic poison in your system." He put the machine back into his bag. "Come on, we're leaving." "Where are we going?" "You can't be taken to a hospital around here. We're driving to Washington." He fumbled out his contact lenses. "Taroc... Am I going to die?" The orange cat eyes faced her squarely. "I don't know." The fourteen hour drive down the east coast was a blur to her. Feverish, she drifted in and out of consciousness. Once, she remembered Taroc trying to give her water. She begged to see his eyes. He removed the contacts. Tears glistened in the orange cat eyes. "Remember me kindly," he said. Everything seemed to slide into a dream state after that. It would be all lost in a misty fog until much later when she heard Taroc say those words again. "Remember me kindly" *********************** Location: Unknown Date: Three days after Dana Scully's re- appearance Time: Unknown Taroc entered the office by the only door and sat down across the desk from the shadowed figure. "You wanted me?" the alien asked. "Dana Scully has no memory of her abduction." "Ah," Taroc closed his eyes a moment, then shrugged. "And -- ?" "Agent Mulder didn't do as I expected." "Hasn't there been enough blood shed over this farce?" "You wouldn't understand..." "But I do," said Taroc coldly. "Better than . Our scientists did the same thing -- because the Rulans are a group mind without individual personality, they can be used to essentially "erase" an individual personality and then the personality can be "reprogrammed". It began innocently enough -- the mentally unstable re-stabilized, witnesses that needed to hide given identities that could not be penetrated, hardened criminals re-programmed into worthy citizens, !" He leaned forward. "Dissidents, political opponents,innocents who made an injudicious comment, vanishing in the night and coming back changed... Soon our government was a tyranny -- and it was overthrown. was sent to your planet to kill those monsters before they began again. I kill the monsters -- but you kept the data!" "It will have its uses..." the man in the shadows shifted nervously. "You can't just destroy this research!" "No, I can't," Taroc admitted, "but you can." There was a long silence. "I -- can stop it, yes." "Do so." Taroc stood up. "As for Mulder, help him or not as you choose, but as for Dana... if anything happens to her again, I will be pleased." He went to the door. "Taroc, don't make yourself my enemy." "And you," Taroc turned. "Do not make me yours. I can be a very bad enemy." He closed the door behind him. **************** Washington, D.C Lounge, Downtown Marriot (same night) 9:45 pm EST Director Skinner picked at the plate of nachos before him. The band was whining onstage in a bad imitation of Elvis. he thought sourly. . "Don't turn around," said a quiet voice behind him. A tall, lean man in black slid into the chair next to him. "You really should try the potato skins; they're much better than the nachos." Skinner handed over an envelope. "The agreed upon amount." "Thank you. I trust it was no inconvenience for you?" "No," Skinner paused. "One question. Whatever happened to Agent Krychek?" "Trust me, Mr. Skinner," Taroc smiled unpleasantly. "Agent Krychek has gotten what he deserved." **************** Building #119, Griffiss Air Force Base Rome NY Time: 4:53 pm EST The dark-haired man's footsteps echoed down the long, dimly-lit corridor. He paused before one door. Fumbling in the pocket of a white lab coat, he brought out a pocket tape recorder and thumbed it on. "Day's final observations, subject number 774," he slid open the square, shuttered window in the locked door. "Subject is male, roughly five foot ten inches in height, weight estimated at plus or minus one hundred seventy pounds. Subject has received five treatments." He frowned and squinted into the room. The single, black - caged light bulb revealed a small room. The walls were covered with a dull grey cloth that puckered around the corners and sagged with the weight of padding. There was a neat, metal frame bed in one corner. A small table was in the middle of the room and the subject was at it, writing industriously on a piece of paper. "What is your name?" asked Doctor Randolph. The young man smiled childishly. "My name is Charles Lawrence." He held up his paper. "See? I've learned to write it." "Very good, Mr. Lawrence. Very good indeed. Tomorrow, we'll let you leave the hospital for a little while." Doctor Randolph smiled. "I can now report that our final subject is a complete success." He turned off the tape recorder and placed it in his pocket. END