Cold Fire in Indigo Blue by Orion 08/12/1996 Attention, attention all, here is the disclaimer. Yeah! Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to the Great One, Chris Carter, (We are not worthy!), 1013 Productions and Fox Entertainment. Used without permission but with great joy, done for love but no money, so please don't sue! All other characters mine, please don't use without permission. Thanks to ScoopAz (still not back on AOL, alas) for editing and encouragement, and to Shawna for ideas. Comments, flames, praise and adulation to be e-mailed to: 73520.3343@compuserve.com. (Yes, it's ScoopAz's address, bless her.) ********************************************************* What constitutes a mutation? We all know of genetic errors, of faulty transmissions, yet those visible to us usually create non-viable specimens, A true mutation reproduces itself. Perhaps the real question should be, what constitutes a beneficial mutation? And who gets to decide? The air in the classroom was stifling. The air-conditioners had been shut off a month ago, on the purely hypothetical theory that October was supposed to be cool. So far, it had been only stormy. A new line of thunderheads was threatening the horizon, hooding the land, the light was flat, yellow under that dark covering and the air tasted already of metal. "Awareness," I insisted, trying to recapture my students' attention. "Interest. Desire. Action." The AIDA principle, basic building block of marketing. They seemed to listen, a few industrious ones even took notes. Most sat, tense and silent, listening to the wind. When the storm finally broke, with a peal that rattled the old big windows, it brought with it only little relief. The noise of it almost covered the sound of the bell, but they were too attuned to it. They got up in a fine ensemble; I called them again. "Remember the warnings. Do not go out alone. Not tonight. Remain always in pairs or more. " There was no point in adding anything. They already knew. The image of Colin McHealy's recently uncovered body, coming so closely after that of Beth Ngomba's, had seared us all. There was a killer out there, and he respected no rules. The teacher's room was all abuzz when I came in, filled with people who normally would have fled home the second their class was over. "It's the FBI!" Jennifer hissed at me, her wild frizzy blond hair now completely out of control with the humidity. I looked around at the small, smoke-filled room. No strangers here. Jen saw me searching. "In the principal's office," she specified. "They want to talk to us." The FBI! I hadn't expected action so soon. The door opened once, creating a current that muddied the straight lines from the cigarettes' smoke. A cop, big and burly, his dark face harmonizing with the fake walnut paneling behind him. He glanced at the small notebook in his hand. "Mr. Gentry and Mr. Manischewitz." He stumbled a bit on the last name. Manny, used to the strange pronunciations his name was subjected to, merely nodded his aristocratic gray head. Alan Gentry, portly and slow, looked worried. Having identified them, the policeman continued. "Mrs. Frazier?" Jennifer smiled at him. I felt as if I were back in school, waiting for my name coming up on the 'report to the principal' list. Sure enough. "Ms. Arden? If you could all stay a while. The rest of you," the cop looked around, "are free to leave." It was discreetly phrased, but an order nonetheless. Reluctantly, the teachers filed out. No less reluctantly, we four stayed. I knew they wanted to speak to us because we'd all had both Colin and Beth in our classes. Nevertheless, I was nervous. Depending on your inclination, the letters FBI conjured up either visions of Eliot Ness, tall and handsome and incorruptible, or the flabby harsh looking specimens we seemed to get on TV these days. Those two did not correspond to either at first. To start with, one of them was a woman. I suppose there is no reason why, if women can now be in the military, they can't be in the FBI. At that, one expects those women to be big and tall and loud. She was none of those things. She was short, slender, poised. Her flame-colored hair formed a soft arc around her shoulders and her huge blue eyes stood out in startling relief against the paleness of her skin. By contrast, he was tall, his hair dark, his eyes hooded. He held himself with an elegance, a composure that made everyone else in the room look like gross caricatures of themselves. They should have looked absurd, standing next to each other. It annoyed me that they didn't, that they were both beautiful, glossy, intimidating, that somehow they fit together. The questions started, his voice deep and lazy and smooth, hers harder, incisive. Warm velvet and cool silk. I let the other three teachers answer whenever possible. There was not much to say, really. Good students, relatively good-looking, neither very popular nor unpopular. Just students like there were millions. With their deaths, their memories had acquired a patina that hallowed all they had done; their lack of accomplishment became the wisdom of moderation, their little popularity was now the hallmark of individuality. Our inability to help must have been frustrating for the two agents, but they did not let it show. To the end, they remained courteous, the continuous probing well hidden behind civility. But when they left, I saw his shoulders drop slightly. I had been so intent on him that it was only when he turned back that I realized she was not with him. I looked around to find her cold blue gaze steady on me. The storm had cleared by the time I had returned home. The streets smelled good of washed tarmac, wet grass, loam. The skies uncovered and the stars themselves seemed cleansed, purified as they shone millennia-old light upon us. I re-read the press articles as I microwaved my dinner. The two victims could not have been more dissimilar. He, blond, brown-eyed, studying economics, not a party-goer but had apparently liked the alcohol content in his blood to remain above a certain level. Beth had been in her thirties, a hard worker; she'd supplemented her meager grant with a waitressing job. In the photo of her, she held two children. Both of different fathers. Their big eyes seemed sad, as if foreshadowing the tragedy that was to strike all too soon. Only in the manner of their deaths did the two have something in common. The reports stated that they must have known and trusted their attacker. They had been killed where they were, in both cases a lonely stretch of road. The bodies had not been moved afterwards. Very little was said about the manner of death; but the articles, in consolation, offered that neither had been sexually molested. Squeezed in at the very end of the latest report, a hasty paragraph linking other deaths to the same killer. The last hypothesis offered by "a nameless source at the FBI". I inclined towards him, she did not seem the kind to say anything until it was proven to her satisfaction. Later that night, when I was finally ready for bed, I dreamt of eyes; Beth's, full of hope and weariness. Colin's, bleary and red-rimmed. The FBI man's, hooded and secretive and full of sorrow. In my dream, I realized I did not know their names. I must find out. As if on cue, I saw her turn to me, that searchlight gaze searing into the reaches of my mind and I dreamt that this time I hadn't smiled and left, bowing my head, but remained pinned under the blue lasers, caught in a trap of my own devising. ******************************************************** The morning jog was refreshing, early before the humidity settled in and smothered us all. A healthy breakfast - mens sana in corpore sano - and off to work. "You're not going to believe this," Jenny announced, her hair ruthlessly pinned back. "There's been another murder! Right under the noses of the FBI!!" "Who?" "Paul Villas. He's in your econ. class, I think." That last comment would have, on any other campus, aroused the direst suspicions in the most trusting of maidens. But in our small college, it would be hard to find a student that was not in someone's class. It was therefore with an easy conscience that I listened to the rest of conversation, which now centered no longer on the murders but on their consequences. Was the campus going to be closed? Since all the victims had come from the college... "No," Manny said in that deliberate way of his. "Don't forget there were others, not here. On the contrary, now that they now where the murderer likes to strike, I'm sure they will leave this open and set a trap." "You may have just warned the murderer," said a tall thin teacher from the back of the room, more for the pleasure of watching Manny squirm then because she believed it. "I should imagine the murderer - what an awkward word, really," Manny groused, "has already thought of that. It's time for class." The loss of the power to secrete allantoin was the equivalent of adding a permanent burst of energy for the whole human race, thus probably responsible for our progression from dumb animal to successful species. Yet, if asked, would we have chosen such an obscure, strange change? No, undoubtedly our choice would have been for faster reflexes, stronger muscles, a wider range of senses. All of which other animals have. So, again, what constitutes a beneficial mutation? How does one decide? I went to the police station after class, hoping to get word of the FBI's progress. And their names, too, this time. The woman was not available but the man saw me, got up from behind his desk. I had the impression he was grateful for any interruption in his tedious task. "Fox Mulder," he said when I asked. "And my partner is Dana Scully. She's doing the autopsy. " "Will you find anything?" "We have leads," he hedged, giving away nothing. Under the fluorescent lamps, he looked pale, washed out. His dark hair was ruffled and he moved with a deliberateness that spoke of exhaustion. "It must be tiring," I said finally, his weariness too obvious to pass without comment. When he didn't answer, I pressed. "Did you get any rest?" "No," he answered quietly. "There's a killer to catch." He paused, added: "We were going to come talk to you anyway. Perhaps..." he searched for a quiet place. "Not here, Mr. Mulder." He looked up at that. Wrong form of address? I fell back on TV lore. "Agent Mulder?" He smiled and I went on, reassured. "How about lunch? With your partner." We settled on time and place. I left for my last morning class. I let them order first, see their price range, their tastes. Mulder had steak. Scully ordered fish, surrounded by a healthy dose of vegetables. Our talk weaved in and out of topics, creating a warm light tapestry of thoughts. I learnt of their different affinities for TV programming, and they learnt of my dislike of it. Then we switched to literature in general. I was surprised to find him so well read, less to find in her an excellent grounding in the American classics and little else. We refused dessert, despite the waitress's shrill insistence on the charms of oreo ice-cream pancakes. "Stephanie," Mulder said now, the tone of his voice announcing the change. I looked up from my coffee cup, saw him pull in on himself, saw her deliberately not move, an artificial stillness, a neutrality that masked in both of them an intense concentration. "What can you tell us about Paul?" I opened my mouth, but the usual eulogies and platitudes stayed obstinately out of reach. I remembered dark curled hair, olive skin, hard brown eyes. "Not much," I said finally. "A normal student. Not bright, or confident, or athletic. He ran around with what passes for a gang around here. How did he die?" If they were shocked by my frankness, they hid it well. "Did he have any problems with his classmates? How was he in class?" I glanced at Scully, but she was letting him talk. She wasn't even looking at me but around at the real plastic decor of the restaurant. "Not very popular. In class? A normal student. Not overtly disruptive. Or silent." "In fact, they all died of terminal mediocrity," Mulder snapped, his frustration coming through. "How did he die?" I asked again, addressing my question specifically to the doctor. In the instant that it took for her to bring her gaze back from whatever horizon it surveyed and on my face, she had made her decision. "I can't tell," she admitted with no shame or anger. She was looking through me now, seeing not a restaurant but a silent room, a metal table. "Heart failure is the official diagnosis," Mulder added. "Then how do you know it's murder?" "Three bodies on the same stretch of road within a month of each other, all coincidentally showing no cause of death? All from the same college? Even a believer in extreme possibilities finds this a stretch." "The papers talked of others." "All in the area," Mulder confirmed, though Scully glanced swiftly at him, visibly if silently disputing his conclusion. The waitress broke the mood, materializing out of that waitress limbo they all disappear in to refill our coffee cup. The midday rush was over now and we were among the last ones left. Our once cheerful place mats had been reduced to stained tatters . The restaurant manager was pulling down blinds against the insistent glare of the sun, making a swift rhythmic rattle that underscored the silence. She was still there, asking Mulder if everything was okay, was he absolutely sure he wanted no dessert? "Thank you, Eileen," Mulder said kindly enough, after a tired glance at her name-tag. "Not for now." "Maybe," she started, but I cleared my throat loudly enough to catch her attention. She turned and left in some confusion - turned back when she felt my gaze on her. I caught and held her eyes for a long time, releasing her only when I was sure she'd gotten the message. "Ms Frazier says," Mulder started, waited until I was focused fully on him before continuing. "Says that you have a knack for getting the students to confide in you." Again, he waited for my reaction. The man had an infinite store of patience. The patience of a hunter, all movement and desire stilled, his whole being concentrated on the prey. At that, he scared me less than she did, for hers was the glacial patience of the scientist. He, like all hunters, would identify with his prey, perhaps admire its cunning or courage, even regret, in some measure, its death. She would see everything in terms of tests, variables to be measured. She was comfortable in an environment most of us hated, where the human body lay cold, where she plucked out, inch by inch, all the secrets it contained, knowing even what we, still alive, could not know. Did she see us then as merely preliminary stages before acquiring reality only on that metal table? I took the time to glance at her and saw her expression had softened. They both were strong enough to be gentle. I would not look further yet. "Well," I answered modestly, having scrambled to remember what he'd asked. "It's true that most of my students do like me." And so they should. I put a lot of time and effort in my relationship with them. "Did Colin or Beth or Paul ever talk to you? About anything that bothered them?" He wasn't moving now, his face shadowed in the gloom, his long-fingered hands still on the Formica table-top. "They all did," I answered evasively. The truth is, I was getting scared. I had not imagined anyone so relentless. Though so far he had limited himself to only a few questions, I could sense in him a determination that nothing would undermine. "I really can't remember that well. They all did," I repeated as an excuse. "They were killed," Scully joined in, her voice dry. "That would probably make them stand out." Great. Now they were both on my case. She was even stronger than he, anchored by facts, whereas he was buoyed by the currents of his faith. Again the uncomfortable feeling that I could deal easily enough with him, but not with her. "Yes," I admitted, hanging my head. It would not do for them to see the anger in my eyes. Only when I had myself under control did I look up, to find them looking impassively, waiting. "Colin was gay." They knew that already. Try again. "It bothered him, though no-one else really cared." Mulder moved then, so swiftly I could not tell how. "Beth, well, her home life wasn't too good. I think her latest beat her. And Paul was juvenile enough to succumb to peer pressure - in college! - and was involved in a few petty thefts. That's about it." "You didn't like them much." Mulder commented, his tone carefully neutral. "They wasted their lives," I replied, retrospectively angry at them all over again. "Wasted their gifts." "Gifts?" She asked and for an instant, they weren't looking at me but at each other, too much in that glance for me to read then they were both concentrating on me again. "We all have gifts," I hedged madly. "Yours, Agent Mulder, are intuitiveness and intelligence. And yours, Agent Scully," I used the formal titles deliberately, trying to get some distance, however illusory, between them and I. "Are an analytical mind and strength." "And yours?" She asked, very softly, sure of the response she would get. ******************************************************** Later. I spent the night grading the marketing exams. I wondered anew at how appallingly easy it was to manipulate the human mind. Paint something a bright shade of lemony yellow and it will be noticed first. Put something at eye-level and it will outsell all its better-priced, better-valued competitors. Put something in a cup marked "X" and the other product will be preferred 3 to 1. So I thought instead of the two agents. I thought of what I could have told her, what I should have told her. "To find and test those gifts," I'd answered finally, as she'd known I would. Then they'd both gotten up, together, moving in the same flowing motion. It looked almost choreographed, the same gesture in their individual styles, but it came from their closeness. As formidable as they were individually, together they formed this gestalt that would overwhelm anything in their path, but only if they chose to do so. I knew they never had... I'd followed them outside, watched them walk away in step, their black coats billowing behind them. Her hair was like the flame of a sable candle; he was unlit, dark, waiting for the spark. I grinned at myself, at the direction my thoughts were taking. Light his fire indeed. I squelched my way back to the college, walking through the fragrant yellow and red leaves covering the ground, enjoying the crisp bite of the air, just this side of cold. I switched the radio on, waited for the weather report. Clear tonight, storms moving in early afternoon tomorrow, perhaps even snow? But the wind coming from the open window brought with it no hint of moisture, only the promise of bitter cold. It has been said that nature goes for quantity, not quality. Yet in that same mad rush for successful procreation lay the seeds of a new race as genes multiply and change and mutate, until out of one species five new ones arise, and out of those five twenty more. But out of those only one will be true and hold. Evolution occurs in jumps. Some see it as random coincidence; others see in this the fine Italian hand of the creator, subtly slowly changing his creation until some final goal we cannot imagine. Only, for the first time, part of creation has become aware of itself, aware of the changes occurring within, of the alterations that have transformed it from a dimly perceived furred brute to the complex, conscious creatures of today. And that is thought to be good. But what of the next step? Because of our evolutionary past, we all imagine it will again involve the brain, an increase perhaps in our capacity to reason, or perceive. But we are scared of it as well, the old atavistic terror of the unknown, unchanged since that same furred being peered at the stars and hid within its lair. Then there are those, more numerous every passing minute, unaware of the seeds they carry within them, coiled within their DNA, waiting only for the right test to blossom or wither. I saw them from the classroom window, hunched against the cold wind that brought with it the scent of smoke. I saw her glance up, as if aware of my presence there. Perhaps she was. He followed her movement. Another swift look at each other and they were gone. The students were hard to hold. The recent tragedies had left their mark on even those who had not known the victims as more than names or vague presences. It was the unknowable that scared them. Who would be next? The old sensible rules were useless; it was all very well to be partnered with someone, but what if that someone turned out to be the killer? I wanted to reassure them, couldn't. Yet I could almost guarantee that they would all be safe as long as the FBI was here. I sat a long time in the empty classroom. "They want to see you, Stephanie," Jen announced as soon as I walked in the teachers' room. "He's so... intense!" She added in a thrilled whisper. "Yes," I agreed fervently. "Do you think?" Jen asked, not needing to finish the question. "I don't know. I should think she keeps a pretty tight leash on him." Jen's face fell dramatically and I had to add: "No, I don't think they're together. You may have a chance." "You're the one they want to talk to," she pouted. "Put in a word for me, will you?" "I'll try." I took my time going to the principal's office where the two agents had taken temporary residence. Relief so strong it almost buckled my knees. He was the only one there. Even the glare he turned on me couldn't dissipate the sudden ease. "You haven't been quite candid with us." His voice was even, controlled. "Why do you say that?" I temporized. For answer, he pulled out a stack of thin green sheets. Copies of disciplinary action forms. I knew without looking whose names would be on there. "Beth Ngomba," he read. "Caught three times for cheating, several others for disrupting class with parlor tricks. Claimed she didn't cheat, she just knew what the answer was. Got it from the teacher's head." Without looking down, he put down the papers he was holding, picked up the next pile. "Colin McHealy. Disruptive influence. Impromptu juggling. Magic tricks. It doesn't say here, but I'm betting he didn't use his hands to juggle, did he?" He waited, hazel eyes concentrated on mine, but knew I wasn't going to answer. When he spoke next, he kept his gaze right where it was. "Paul Villas. Same thing, right? " "Right," I whispered, the response forced out of me by his intensity. "You are the only teacher they had who didn't file one of these. I don't think it was because they behaved. I think it was because you knew they weren't tricks. You knew they were real talents." "Yes," I said, the word pronounced by his will, not mine. I wrenched myself from under his stare, snapping my head away. He didn't try to force contact again, but now his expression changed, softened. "Ms Arden. Stephanie. That's what the killer is targeting. That ability that no-one else believes in. But I believe. And so do you." God, that velvet voice. What wouldn't I do? "You must help." "What do you want me to do?" I asked, still not trusting myself to look at him. "Give me the names of the others with those... abilities. We'll find a way to protect them. And use them." "Not here. I'll meet you at the restaurant. In an hour." Just my luck, I thought as I walked away. Of all the FBI agents in America, I had to have the one and only that had a fervent belief in the paranormal. Scully was in the library, talking to Manny. I could not hear the words but the reserved dignified English teacher was speaking with an animation I had never yet seen in him. She smiled at something he'd said; it transformed her whole face and I felt my own mouth respond to that contagious cheer. She became aware of my presence about then and I had to fight down my smile before I could talk. "Agent Scully, may I have a word with you?" "Now?" "Now," I insisted, sending a mute ocular apology to Manny. ********************************************************* As we walked toward my office, she called her partner. He must have told her of our later appointment for she stood warily at the doorstep. "We were going to meet you later. What's going on?" "I needed to talk to you privately," I replied, flexing my mental muscles. This was going to be a challenge. One more step, Agent Scully. Just one more and life will change, for you and I. I turned away from her, not wanting her to see what was in my eyes, turned as if I did not care whether she entered or not. Come on! "I wasn't sure Agent Mulder would understand what I have to say." I said, softly, pitching my words so that she would have to lean in to hear. She came in now, and I let out the breath I'd been holding. She even closed the door for me, a way of letting me know she would respect the privacy such an interview required. I waved her to the chair in front of my desk, sat in my own. "I now know your partner is, um," what had he said, in the restaurant? Oh, yes, " a believer in extreme possibilities. I take it you are not?" "I believe in the rationality of science," she answered cautiously, her tone giving away what her face hid. "The unexplainable is only what we do not yet have the tools to understand. But what does this have to do with anything?" "The deaths were an accident," I told her then, and locked in on her. Her eyes widened but I had her now; her strength was no match for mine. "They were weaker than I thought. Had they used what pitiful gifts were given to them... Did I not tell you I tested those gifts?" "Yes. Yes, you did," she said, something between surprise and anger in her voice. Her face remained perfectly controlled, not even an arch of those so expressive eyebrows. She leaned forward in her chair; her control, her courage surprised me. I would have expected at least an instant's hesitation! Index finger across the chin, eyes holding only mild interest, she looked as if she were attending a lecture. "I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific. What do you mean by gifts?" The clock indicated 7:11 pm. A bit less than 50 minutes before we had to meet Mulder in the restaurant. I know she was as conscious of the passage of time as I was. "It's a melodramatic term, isn't it? Sounds like something a new-ager would use. The human race is poised on the brink of an evolutionary leap, comparable to the one that brought us from Homo Habilus to the current Homo Sapiens sapiens." I too came forward, feeling myself slip, from long habit, in lecture mode. "There are more and more of us, Agent Scully. Differing talents, greater or lesser abilities, but still we form a homogeneous group. We are feared." I wanted to look around, prove my point, did not dare take my eyes off hers. She was strong enough that for the first time in my life, I was not sure I could control the situation. "We must be strong, fearless, hidden. There can be no weak links amongst us. That is why there are people like me. People who test." The appearance of control had now become as important as the subject matter we were discussing. I knew the tension in her; I mirrored it. But there was no sign of it when she, quite naturally, asked: "I don't understand. What do you mean by tests?" I frowned. "An evaluation of the subjects' capacity for mental activity." "Mental activity?" Her right eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch; she let me see the disbelief in her eyes. "ESP, telekinesis... I shouldn't have to explain to you, of all people. The test is a challenge." "Does anyone survive those tests?" She asked, and now there was only anger in her. "Some do," I answered, glad to have been able to surprise her. I took advantage of it. "As I am sure you will." "Me? No. I don't..." she pulled back, finally, her hands suddenly clenched, then stood. She wasn't trying to escape, but standing while I sat gave her a measure of control. I removed it by getting up myself. I am not that tall, but a five inch difference gave me all I needed. I put my fists on the desk, coming in towards her, seeking quite deliberately to intimidate her. "Yes, you do," I insisted, pushing her. She tensed, wide eyes fixed upon me. "You know it. Do you not look always straight at the murderer in the beginning of a case? I know; you looked at me." I paused, watched her face pale at the realization, her eyes bleached sapphires set in white marble. "Do you not have impossible intuitions?" I saw her flinch at every question. "Do you not know, always, deep down, how your partner is? Did you not know, beyond doubt, that he was alive when everyone believed him dead? Didn't you know, Scully?" I had lowered my voice to a whisper, forcing an impossible choice on her. Would she come closer to hear me or back away from my intensity? Emotions chased each other on her face, so rapidly I could not follow. Then, faster than I could have ever thought possible, she regained control. She seemed to blaze with an inner fire as she stepped forward again, her whole body set in granite determination. It surprised me; unwilling to lose control, I attacked. Evolution of the mind. Direct contact, mind to mind, thought to thought. I reached out to her, a rope of white light snaking swiftly through defenses made of dark energy; through mazes made of twisting walls of formless bricks; down deeper sinking through levels of coruscating tiles shifting at the speed of thought, deeper yet and still until I reached the core of her, her very self and she was waiting for me. A column of blue light, thick, massive, rearing to the dark vault that was the limit of the universe. And I, white and bigger still, invading the space between us until... contact. None of the others had ever been so big, so strong. Beth and Colin had seemed mere striplings, faded lights easily crushed under my glow. Paul had fought longer, his brilliance more durable, but even he had been no match. So I had expanded until their gleam had been snuffed out, their very selves dissipating under my implacable radiance. A sudden darkness; a blue spreading stain upon my whiteness. She was fighting me! Never had that happened! I concentrated, bringing back the far reaches of my light until the brilliance increased, used the brightness against her, watched with satisfaction the column dim, that intolerable blue glow diminish. Victory in my grasp and I moved closer still, feeling only pity now. She should have been one of the good ones, those that survived. The sudden doubt at the ease of my conquest came a thought too late; the blue flared, an overwhelming actinic flash that blinded me then I was surrounded by the azure energy and losing. I could not lose! But she was relentless, merciless and my light was dying... The noise shocked us both; I slammed back in my own body, felt it curl to the floor, heard sound undulating in sickening variations of speed and pitch, recognized the meaning only much later. "Scully! Are you okay?" "I don't know," and I heard the wonder in her voice. "Why are you here?" "We found prints on Paul's body. Her prints. Manny told me you'd gone off with her." A long period of silence, of strange sensations. Consciousness faded in and out, always tinged with a biting sense of irony, that I owed him my life. Reality returned with white walls, an unyielding mattress, a harsh voice. They transferred me from the hospital to the prison a few days later, let me have pen and paper. The lawyer said this document was tantamount to a confession. It did not matter; I could manipulate him easily enough. The courtroom was intimidating at first, all those people concentrating on me. I learnt to ignore them eventually, focusing my efforts on the judge, the jury. Homo Sapiens! Throughout the trial, the droning voices of the expert witnesses, the dry dusty rasp of the judge, the impassioned pleas of the lawyers, constant throughout it all, the two agents. He sat next to her always, at times leaning down to speak to her, his dark head obscuring hers, his orange/red aura wrapped tentatively, protectively around her green. Then he would look at me, the hatred in him almost tangible. But she never looked. Even when she had to testify, she never looked at me. I could feel the jury escaping my control as they saw her sitting there, small and vulnerable under the harsh light of the courtroom. Her high cheekbones made shadows on her face. They had no idea of her true strength. But again I caught them, swayed them. More irony, that my best weapon was her disbelief. The verdict, finally. I had to have it repeated. Not guilty. The courtroom emptied slowly. I let them all leave, thinking of how to reorganize my life, knowing they would be watching. Maybe I should learn Portuguese and flee to Brazil... Nowhere in the world would be far enough. I walked out and there they were, talking in low, fervent tones. They turned at the same time, that wondrous graceful synchronicity that even their obvious discord could not mar. I wondered if, when separated, their bodies still moved to that same silent beat. He looked fabulous in his black coat, a dark link 'twixt earth and sky. Even in stillness, his intensity was overwhelming. He was so present, so real, that when he moved away, the world lost some of its significance. He walked two steps, slow measured footfalls, turned to her as a compass needle turns to the north. But she, finally, lifted her eyes to mine. Under that incandescent glare, I bowed my head and walked away. end.