Title: LISICHKA
Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the
property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox
Television Network. 
Rating: PG
Classification: S
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: Through FTF, pre-season 6
Summary: How I spent my summer vacation.
Feedback: Saved and reread at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end 
*****************************

LISICHKA (1/6)
By Jean Robinson


The room was nothing but white, white and more white.
Looking at it made me want to scream. Don't doctors
realize that people who come here have a problem and
it might be nice if their surroundings were a little
more cheerful? I mean, it's bad enough to be sick. To
be sick and sitting in a white room with white
furniture was enough to make you feel terminally ill
even if you only had a cold.

I wasn't even sick. I still wasn't really sure why I
was here. All I knew was I wanted to go home, and
these people seemed intent on preventing that. It
scared me, and I hate being scared. I hate it even
more than I hate being stuck in white rooms like this
one.

At least the paper gown they'd made me put on was
green, even if it was the same disgusting color as our
lockers at school. I was also grateful that it came
down to my knees and overlapped around my body, since
I was wearing nothing underneath it. I kept hearing
that stupid phrase running through my head, as clear
as if my mother had been standing next to me
whispering it in my ear: "Make sure you always have
clean underwear on, in case you're ever in an
accident."

I'd followed my mother's advice and I had been wearing
clean underwear, for whatever it was worth now. All of
my clothes - the clean underwear and the dirty
outerwear - were gone, neatly tucked into clear
plastic bags marked "EVIDENCE" in big black letters.
The woman in front of me had bagged them herself, and
then handed them off to someone outside the room.

Had I been in an accident? These people seemed to
think so. I wasn't sure, and that was the main reason
they kept refusing to let me leave. If I had been in
an accident, I didn't remember it. I knew that worried
them. I could see it in the expression of this woman.
She could probably see it in mine, too.

The paper gown rustled as she opened it slightly and
pressed a cold stethoscope against my back. I jumped.

"I'm sorry. Take a deep breath, please."

She was some kind of doctor, and she happened to be
the only other thing in the room with any kind of
color aside from my ugly green gown. Okay, so maybe a
dark navy pantsuit wasn't a screaming fashion
statement, but at least it gave me some contrast to
focus on. She had nice red hair, too; it was the kind
of color my mother always wanted me to have. I'm okay
with being a regular brunette, though. I've seen what
happens to the redheads at my school. Shannon
Gallagher became 'Carrots' by second grade, and I
wouldn't be surprised if that's what it says on her
diploma when she graduates. But this was a pretty
shade of red, not the explosion of violent orange
curls that doomed poor Shannon to life as a vegetable.

Because this woman was wearing an actual color,
because she had pretty red hair, and because she was a
doctor, I wanted her to like me. I needed her to like
me. I had a feeling that eventually she was going to
hurt me, since that's what doctors get paid to do, and
I wanted to put that moment off as long as possible.
If she liked me enough, maybe she wouldn't hurt me. I
wasn't counting on it, though.

So for now, I obediently took a deep breath and let it
out, and another, and another, while she moved the
cold piece of metal around my back and listened to my
lungs. After a while, she came back around the front
of me and edged neckline of the loosened gown down my
chest. But not all the way. I relaxed a fraction. If
she was willing to leave me some dignity by not
exposing me completely, then maybe she wasn't going to
hurt me after all.

She must have seen something on my face, because she
smiled slightly and echoed my thoughts almost
perfectly. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. You're
doing fine." She put the stethoscope on my chest.
"Take another deep breath and hold it."

That done, she pulled the gown back up and took out a
small penlight. "Look at the light and try not to
blink." She placed a gentle hand on my face to hold my
eyes open one at a time, while I stared at that
blinding point of light and fought to stay still. She
leaned in close to get a good look at my eyes, which
meant I got an equally good look at hers. They were
blue-gray. And intense. I had a sudden, strong
suspicion that nobody messed with this woman and got
away with it.

I waited, but she didn't say anything. Weird. Most
people do a double-take once they get a good look at
my face. It took a long time before my mother accepted
that I wasn't half blind, let alone convincing
everyone else that although I have one hazel eye and
one brown one, I can see perfectly well.

Instead she used the penlight to look in my ears and
down my throat, tested my reflexes with a small rubber
hammer, and took my temperature and my blood pressure.
Finally, she held up one finger in front of my face
and said, "Track my finger with your eyes." I slid my
eyeballs left, right, up and down as her hand moved.

She dragged up the rolling doctor's stool and sat on
it, hooking her heels into the rungs as she considered
me. I think I was a puzzle to her. I'm not sure what
she was looking for, but she obviously hadn't found
it. So it was now time for The Questions.

"Does your head hurt at all?"

I shook my head.

"Do you feel dizzy?"

I shook my head again.

"What about your stomach? Do you feel nauseated, or
sick?"

I shook my head for the third time.

"Do you know what day it is?"

I nodded.

She smiled a little again. "Can you tell me what day
it is?"

I suddenly realized that I hadn't spoken a
recognizable word in her presence, and she was
probably wondering if she was dealing with a mute, or
just an idiot. Or maybe she was just used dealing with
people who were scared silly, like me.

"It's Tuesday." My voice sounded hoarse and strange.
As I said it, I suddenly knew, before she spoke, that
my answer was wrong.

"No, honey, it's Friday. It's 11:30 at night, so it's
almost Saturday, actually."

I stared at her, really alarmed now. "Saturday?" I
whispered.

"Well, in half an hour. Can you tell me your name?"

"Clare."

"Hi, Clare. Do you remember my name?"

I shook my head. At some point I think they may have
told me who she was, but I couldn't bring it to mind
now.

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, with the FBI. I'm also
a doctor, and the police asked me to check you out
after they found you." She cocked her head to one
side. "Do you know why you're here?"

I shook my head again. It seemed safer not to say
anything else just yet. She might be wearing
comforting dark blue, but she was also a government
agent as well as a doctor. FBI? Did she really say she
was with the FBI? What the hell had happened to me?

"The police found you wandering down the highway,
without your shoes," she said, as if I'd spoken the
question out loud. "Your shirt says Roaring Brook
Camp, but there's no camp by that name in this county.
You were covered in mud, your feet were cut and your
legs were scratched because you'd been walking through
the woods in your shorts. You were suffering from
exposure. You were non-responsive when the police
asked if you needed help. Do you remember any of
this?"

I shook my head again. I didn't, not really. There
were some vague images of men in uniform, and flashing
blue, red and white lights, but not much else.

"What's the last thing you do remember? Why did you
think it was Tuesday?"

Good question. Why did I think it was Tuesday? I could
remember my full name, my home address, my mother's
first name, and the date my dog had to be put to
sleep. Where was this memory when I needed it?

She watched me struggle with it for a few minutes,
then asked an easier question. "What's the first thing
you remember after the police found you? The first
thing since you've been here?"

I glanced uneasily at the door separating us from the
rest of the offices. "Him," I said.

She followed my gaze. "Who?"

"The other one. The man who was carrying me." I
remembered that, all right. After all the times I'd
been told never to talk to strange men, never get in
their cars, and never let them take me anywhere alone,
you can imagine my shock when I discovered one was
carrying my limp, unresisting body into a building I
didn't recognize on a dark street I didn't know. The
struggle that had followed had resulted in me being
shut in this small, white room with the woman. I
remember her shouting something; it had sounded like,
"You're scaring her! Just let her go!" But I wasn't
really sure about that part, either. Just the panic
when I understood some stranger was holding me.

"That was Special Agent Mulder. He's my partner at the
FBI. We came here because of you. He won't hurt you,
either. I promise." She paused, as if expecting some
comment from me, but I didn't respond so she
continued. "How do you feel now?"

"My leg hurts."

She looked down at the bandage wrapped around my left
shin. "Some of the cuts and scrapes were infected. I
need to take some blood for some lab tests, and then
I'll give you a tetanus shot, along with some
antibiotics. All right?"

So she was going to hurt me. "Do you have to?"

She nodded. "Yes. Are you allergic to anything?"

I could see there was no way out of this. "Peanuts. I
had my first and last peanut butter and jelly sandwich
when I was four."

That made her smile. "I'll bet." She got up and peeled
off her latex gloves, washed her hands at the sink and
pulled on a fresh pair of gloves from a box on one of
the shelves lining the room. When she turned around
again she'd arranged what looked like an endless array
of vials and syringes on a small tray.

I scooted back up on the exam table until I hit the
wall. Special Agent Scully set the tray down carefully
and regarded me with a mixture of sympathy and
impatience. Okay, maybe she did see a lot of
traumatized people in her line of work, but I had a
hunch most of them were adults. She didn't look quite
old enough to have kids my age.

Since I was the victim, I decided to press my one
advantage. I was only fourteen, so acting childish was
within my right. Technically, anyway. "You lied. You
said you wouldn't hurt me."

She ignored that and reached for my left arm. "You're
old enough to understand what I meant. If I really
wanted to hurt you, believe me, you'd know it."

Score one to her. Except I'd always thought all the TV
shows where the cops threatened the suspects were just
fantasy; was she really allowed to say things like
that to me? I pulled my arm out of her grip. "Don't!"

She sighed. "Clare, if you want the whole truth about
the situation right now, after I'm done with this I
have a few even more unpleasant procedures I have to
perform on you. You have been missing for almost four
days, and you can't give us any answers as to where
you've been or what happened to you. I'm trying to
make this as easy as possible, but you have to help me
a little."

"Or what?" Now I was whining, the last resort of the
powerless. If there were worse things than being stuck
by all those needles, I didn't want to know about
them.

"Or I call in some of the police officers and Agent
Mulder to help me and we do the tests anyway. Or you
hold still for a few more minutes and I do them now
with just the two of us. Your choice, Clare. Make up
your mind and let me know."

I was right. Nobody screwed with her. She was a
professional at head games; she knew the last thing I
wanted was to see her partner or any of the cops any
time soon. I dropped my gaze, held out my arm and
mumbled, "All right," in my best teenage angst tone.

"Thank you." She fastened a piece of elastic around my
upper arm. "Do you faint at the sight of blood?"

"I haven't in the past." I didn't tell her that my
past didn't include seeing a lot of blood. 

She rubbed something cold on my inner elbow and I
sucked in my breath, waiting. "Don't watch," she
advised, so I turned my head away and closed my eyes.
"What's your last name?"

"O. . ." I started before I recognized the question
for what it was, a distraction. She shoved the needle
into my arm and I bit off the rest of the word. Ouch.
But not a lot of ouch. Certainly not as bad as I'd
been expecting.

"I didn't get that."

I'll bet you didn't, you sneak, I thought. "O'Reilly.
Clare O'Reilly."

"Nice Irish name."

"Like Scully?" I shot back, still not looking, still
keeping my eyes closed.

"Exactly. Can you make a fist for me, Clare O'Reilly?"

I curled my hand into a ball, feeling the ache where
the needle was embedded. "How much blood are you
taking, anyway?"

"Almost finished. You can let your hand relax now."

An eternity later she pulled the needle out and
pressed a bandage against the puncture. "Hold that
there," she told me. "Hold it hard." I complied,
squeezing the bandage under my tense right hand,
cradling my arm in my lap. Before I had time to feel
relieved, there was another cold swab against the back
of my left arm. I turned my head just in time to see
her jab another hypodermic into my upper arm, depress
the plunger, and yank it out. It was over before I
could complain, but I did anyway, just so she knew I
wasn't happy. "Ow!!"

She started busily writing labels on the little tubes
containing my blood. There were at least four of them,
maybe more. "That's it for the pain, Clare. It's all
downhill from here."

"I thought you said you had something worse to do
after this."

Agent Scully put the last tube in a small container
and gave me her full attention again. "I didn't say
worse, I said unpleasant. I have to do a full body
scan, and a pelvic exam."

"Over my dead body." I don't know where that jumped
out from. I'm not a very aggressive person, and I
normally don't rebel against authority figures. How I
ended up at Girl Scout camp this summer is a case in
point, since I'm not and never have been a Girl Scout
nor ever gone to camp before. What happened is that my
friend Kirsten Patelli's little sister, Katelynn,
who's nine and is a Girl Scout, wanted to go to camp,
but she didn't want to go alone. She was afraid. Mrs.
Patelli thought it would be a good idea if Kirsten
went, too, so her sister would have a familiar face
around. (Kirsten has two older sisters, twins, named
Kelly and Kayla. I like Mr. and Mrs. Patelli a lot,
but I think they must have been doing drugs when they
named their kids.)

Kirsten said, okay, I'll go, but I won't go alone
either. She wanted a friend to keep her company, too.
Mrs. Patelli called my mom, and the next thing I knew
Mom and I were sitting in the kitchen eating chocolate
chip cookies and having a chat about friendship and
sacrifices and maturity, and three months later
Katelynn, Kirsten and I were all at Girl Scout camp. I
would not have been swatting mosquitoes and paddling
canoes and drowning during swimming class this summer
if I'd been as bratty as my other friend Jessica
Martine. Jess has two closets full of clothes, a
cellular phone, her own TV and VCR, her own computer
and her own credit card, all because her parents have
seen what a screaming maniac she becomes if she
doesn't get her own way. Jess and her family are at
Club Med in Cancun this summer. Guess whose idea that
was.

But pushover or not, there was no way I was going to
sit around naked to be inspected like a side of beef
in front of a stranger, even a female stranger. If she
came any closer, Agent Scully was going to see just
how hard I could kick her across the room. I got my
growth spurt last year, and I had four inches on her.
At that moment, I would have taken on her, her stupid
partner, and as many of the cops as this hick town had
to get out of this room.

Agent Scully crossed her arms and looked at me with
less sympathy and more impatience. I noticed that the
entire time we were in the room, she had kept herself
between me and the door. And the one time she had
turned her back on me, I saw a bulge under her suit
jacket that probably wasn't caused by her blouse
bunching up. I wondered suddenly if it was some kind
of felony to threaten a federal officer, and then
decided to let my juvenile status take care of
anything I said or did from this point on. What the
hell. It worked on all those TV cop-and-lawyer
programs, even the sitcoms.

"I'd rather we didn't take it to that extreme, but I
am a forensic pathologist, which means I'm actually
more comfortable with deceased patients than live
ones," she said calmly. "Want to try me?"

After hearing that she generally spent her time
cutting up corpses, no, I definitely did not want to
call her bluff, because with her it wasn't a bluff.
Obviously a woman who packed a gun and chased down
terrorists wasn't about to be intimidated by some kid
who just happened to be taller than she was. At her
height, most of the world was taller than she was, and
it was clear she'd adjusted to that very well and
moved on.

I held on to some measure of courage and managed to
keep eye contact. "No, I don't."

My submission brought back more of the sympathy. "I
know you're frightened," she continued. "but we have
to do this to look for trace evidence of what's
happened to you. You were. . . somewhere for nearly
four days. It must have been somewhere that you were
taken care of, because you're not showing any severe
signs of malnutrition or dehydration, which would be
evident if you were just lost in the forest. And when
we find who took you, we need to know what they've
done to you in order to charge them with the crimes.
Do you understand?"

My knees started to shake. I could feel them even
though I was sitting down with my legs dangling off
the exam table. I understand, I thought, but I still
don't want you to look. I know you probably think all
teenagers sleep around and most kids who are my age
have been sexually active since they were eleven, but
you're looking at one who doesn't, who hasn't, and who
wouldn't. Not all the way, at least. I didn't know
exactly how to express that to her, though, until my
gaze fell upon the tiny gold cross she was wearing
around her neck. It was the only jewelry she had on.
"I'm Catholic," I blurted out.

She raised her eyebrows. It was an expression with a
million meanings, but on her it was as clear as if she
had spoken the words "so what?" out loud.

"I'm not. . . I don't. . ." I don't normally stammer.
But how, exactly, does one come out and say, "I'm a
virgin" in front of a strange FBI agent?

Agent Scully proceeded to scare me even more. "If
someone has sexually assaulted you," she said gently,
"you might not remember it. You may have been drugged,
or you might not. . ." she faltered briefly, "you just
might not remember it. The only way to be sure is to
examine you."

I wondered about that little stumble. She'd cut her
gaze away from me, which for some reason scared me
more than the possibility of sexual assault.

Which brought us back to the examinations, both of
them. Like the blood work, I wasn't going to get out
of this. If I stirred up too much of a fuss, the male
reinforcements were probably lined up outside the door
to pin me down. Not a good situation no matter which
way you looked at it. I don't get straight A's the way
Kirsten does, but there's nothing wrong with my logic
circuits. I think Agent Scully had figured that out
immediately. I could be stubborn, but she was going to
get her own way in the end. How pleasant or unpleasant
the ride to the end was depended on me, as she'd
indicated earlier. I gave it one final shot. "What if
I don't want to remember it?"

She stared at me. "You do want to know," she responded
softly. "Trust me on this."

The weird thing was, I did, if only because trusting
her meant I would get out of this horrible white room
that much sooner. 

"Now lie face down on the table and put your arms next
to your head."

Biting my lip, I rolled over into the awkward
position. Like most doctor's tables, this one wasn't
long enough and my feet hung over the edge. Agent
Scully came over and crouched down to my eye level.
She put a gloved hand on my arm. "I just need to see
if you've been injured," she said in that same soft
tone. "All right?"

I nodded. It wasn't really all right, but she knew
that; she just wanted to be sure I was reasonably okay
with this and wouldn't freak out halfway through the
exam. She patted my arm, stood up and pulled apart the
ties that held the paper gown wrapped around my body,
peeling away my last layer of protection.

The room was very warm, but I shivered and broke out
into goosebumps as she separated the edges of the
gown. She murmured something unintelligible but
soothing at the reaction.

It was mercifully brief. She brushed aside my hair to
see the back of my neck, ran her hands across my
shoulder blades, and traced a line down my spine.
There were a few tense seconds when she took her hands
away, and I closed my eyes, picturing her just staring
at me. Her voice brought me back to reality.

"Clare? Are you still with me?"

"Yes." The word was muffled against my arm.

"Roll over, please."

Please, please, please, don't make me do this, I
thought. It's bad enough that you have to see my bare
butt, but everything else, too?

"Clare, did you hear me?"

Yeah, I heard you. I'm just delaying the inevitable
for a few seconds longer, okay? I waited until I knew
she was about to speak up again and rolled over onto
my back to find her looking directly at me.

"I know this is difficult," she told me. "It'll be
over soon." With that she reached for the shoulders of
the gown, pulled it down off my arms and folded back
at my hips, effectively baring me to the waist and
beyond.

I closed my eyes and told God that now would be a good
time to die, if He had room up there for one utterly
embarrassed fourteen-year-old. Nothing happened to
fulfill this prayer, except that I discovered that not
watching Agent Scully look me over was somehow worse
than watching Agent Scully look me over. If I opened
my eyes, at least I'd know where she was and what she
was doing.

She was no longer making eye contact with me, for
which I was grateful. I guess she'd gone into her
professional doctor mode, and was studying me with
clinical detachment. I can stand this, I thought with
relief.

She pressed several spots on my lower abdomen. "Tell
me if this hurts."

It didn't, and she looked a bit perplexed. Was it
supposed to hurt? I wondered. Again, she looked like
she was expecting results that I wasn't giving her.
The mystery of where I had been and why clearly wasn't
going to be solved so easily.

Finally she pulled the gown back up and helped me put
my arms back in the sleeves, leaving it untied. "You
have some small bruises here and there, but nothing
significant," she told me. "You also have three
matching scars, here, here," she pointed to my upper
arms, "and at the top of your spine. Do you know how
you got them?"

"They're my alien abduction scars."


End part 1/6

==

LISICHKA (2/6)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


=That= got her attention in a hurry. Agent Scully's
head snapped up and those cool eyes suddenly blazed
fire. "=What= did you say?" She sounded as if she were
choking.

I don't know what kind of reaction I had been
expecting, but this certainly wasn't it. I backed up
again on the table; she'd taken a step toward me and
for an instant I was positive she was going to go for
her weapon. "I'm kidding! I'm joking! I had minor
surgery last year!" I babbled desperately. "I'm just
kidding!"

She didn't relax her suddenly hostile posture. "What
kind of surgery?"

I held out one arm, anxious to make her understand,
back off, and calm down. I hadn't forgotten she still
intended to do an internal exam, and I really didn't
want her poking around in tender areas while she was
this upset.

"Look." I pointed to my bare forearm with my other
hand. "I have a bunch of  skin things. Freckles,
moles, whatever." You just saw them all, I thought,
remember? "There were a few that the doctors thought
were dangerous, so they removed them. They had to send
them out for biopsies, you know, so they had to make
sure they took enough to test." Why did I have to
explain this to an MD? Didn't she get it yet? It
didn't look that way, so I continued in a rush. "I had
stitches. I don't remember how many. That's what the
scars are from. When I had the moles removed, and the
stitches. It was just a coincidence that two of them
happened to be in about the same spot on my arms.
Okay?"

It wasn't okay yet. She still looked uptight. Very
uptight. As I described the origin of the scars she
seemed even more agitated. "What did the test results
show?" she asked tensely. "Were they cancerous?"

"Not yet." I recalled the dermatologist's words, which
still haunted me. "The moles themselves weren't, but
the way it was explained to me, they were the type
that could eventually become malignant. I'm supposed
to get looked over every couple of years. I'm supposed
to wear lots of sunblock and stay out of the sun."

"Whatever possessed you to say that they were alien
abduction scars?"

I looked down at my knees. "It was a joke, that's all.
I'm not thrilled knowing I'm covered with little
things that may grow up and kill me. Most people laugh
when I say that." Actually, most people didn't ask
about the scars, but those who did had laughed. Nobody
else had jumped up looking like. . . .

Wait a minute.

I stared at her again, and there was an expression on
Agent Scully's face I didn't like. "You don't think. .
. you don't, do you?"

"I don't think what?" she asked.

"You don't really think I've been abducted by aliens,
do you?" I felt silly even saying it.

She smiled slightly and finally, finally eased off.
"No, Clare. I don't know where you've been yet, but I
don't think you've been abducted by aliens."

"You look like you do believe that." I wanted to push
her on this. If nothing else, it would delay the last
exam a bit longer.

I got ignored. Yes, Agent Scully really knew how to
take command. "Have you ever had a pelvic exam
before?"

"No."

She went back to the sink for another scrub and glove
change. I didn't know what was in the soap dispenser,
but I hoped it had some kind of moisturizer in it
along with the disinfectant. Otherwise she was going
to wreck her skin at this rate.

Next came a series of questions about my cycle, and
repeated inquiries about my non-existent sexual
activity. I tried not to blush while I answered,
knowing that the worst was yet to come.

Finally she directed me to slide down to the end of
the table, and helped me put my feet in what she
called stirrups and I called heel handcuffs. She
thought that was amusing. I wasn't so much amused as
nervous, to the point of shaking.

"Lie down and try to relax." She gently pressed me
back onto the table. "Do you want me to tell you what
I'm doing as I go, or would you rather not know?"

"I. . . I don't know."

"Well, if you want to know, ask. If you feel any
discomfort or pain, tell me. Everyone is different, so
I can't tell you if this is going to bother you or
not. You'll have to tell me. I'll also be doing a rape
kit for the police, so if you have been assaulted we
can match the evidence to the person who did it."

I hadn't cried yet, but now I could feel the tears
forming. "It already bothers me," I said hoarsely.

Agent Scully pulled a tissue out of a box on a shelf
and wiped away the two tears that had escaped and were
trailing down my temples towards my ears. "I know,
honey. I know. It's almost over." There was nothing in
her voice but compassion now. How could she go through
such radical mood shifts so fast? I suddenly wanted to
ask her that.

She waited until I had most of my composure back. "All
right, I'm going to start now. Remember, speak up if
you need to." There was a squeaking sound as she
pulled the stool down to the foot of the table, and
then she disappeared from my view behind the extra
drape she'd spread over my bent knees.

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited.

"Try to relax, Clare." The muffled command made me
realize that I'd been clenching all my muscles.
"That's better."

The intimate probing sensations were humiliating but
tolerable, which was good. Despite her instructions, I
fully intended to keep my mouth shut no matter what.

"Clare? You okay?"

"Mmm hmm." As long as I didn't have to open my mouth,
I'd be okay.

"I'm almost through. Just a few more minutes."

There was more prodding, more pressure, and then she
said, "I have to take a tissue sample. You're going to
feel this."

She'd deliberately warned me without giving me time to
agonize over it. So when the pain hit an instant
later, I screamed.

Someone banged on the door. "Scully? Are you all
right?"

Agent Scully didn't even lift her head. "We're fine,
Mulder. Everything's under control." She took her
hands away. "I'm done, Clare. It's all over." There
were some rattling noises as she rearranged the
instruments and whatever samples or cultures she'd
taken. Then she came back around and helped me get my
legs down and sit up.

And that's when I burst into tears.

I hadn't meant to, but Agent Scully seemed to have
been expecting it, or some reaction like it. She put
her arms around me and gathered me into a hug. "Shhh.
. . it's all right. It's all right."

I clutched her back, the way I used to hold my mother
after someone pushed me down on the playground when I
was little. "I want to go home," I sobbed. "I want to
go home, and I want my mother."

"I know. I know, honey. We'll take you home in a
little while."

"I want to go home now!!"

She smoothed my hair back. "I have to talk to my
partner first, and see about the lab work. Then we're
going to take you back to our motel for the rest of
the night. Tomorrow we'll take you home." She handed
me another wad of tissues. "I'll be right back. I'm
just going outside to talk to Agent Mulder." She
picked up all the sample containers and left the room.
I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and hoped when she
came back she'd bring me some clothes.

The walls in this place weren't very thick, and I
could hear bits and pieces of the conversation that
must have been taking place on the other side of the
door.

". . .overnight to Washington. . . ."

"Does she. . . ."

". . .nothing visible."

"Are you sure? There was nothing?" That was her
partner's voice, raised in what sounded like
disappointment.

". . .you, nothing. Unless the lab work. . . have no
anomalies. Get the. . . woods for a kidnapper.
Remember, there's a whole. . . kids."

"And half of them saw lights in the sky, Scully. Along
with most of the staff."

"Mulder!" Agent Scully sounded annoyed. "It's August!
The Perseid meteor showers occur in August. I'm
telling you, she. . ." she lowered her voice again and
I missed the next few words, ". . .so we look for a
kidnapper."

They moved away from the door then, still discussing
me. Agent Scully said she didn't think I'd been
abducted by aliens. Her partner was another matter.
That whole business about lights in the sky gave it
away completely. He'd seen one too many reruns of the
Twilight Zone, because he really did seem to be
leaning toward the alien abduction theory. No wonder
she had been so spooked when I had made my
not-so-funny joke about the scars.

FBI agents that believed in UFOs. Who knew.

About fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the
door. "It's just me, Clare." Agent Scully came in,
holding a small bundle of fabric. Clothes. Thank God.
They weren't going to parade me in front of the cops
in a green paper wrap. "It won't be the best fit, but
it'll do until tomorrow." She put the clothes on the
exam table beside me. "Come on outside when you're
dressed."

"Where'd you get this stuff?"

She gave a small laugh. "It's a combination of
donations from the police locker room and Agent
Mulder's suitcase. Be warned, though, you'll have to
do without a bra until you get home, and the other
underwear selections leave something to be desired.
But it's highly unlikely you would fit into anything
of mine and this town doesn't have an all-night
convenience store." She closed the door behind her.

I separated the outfit they'd scrounged for me into a
gray sweatshirt with matching gray sweatpants with the
FBI logo, a blue t-shirt advertising some store I'd
never heard of, a pair of men's briefs, white
sweatsocks, and a pair of running sneakers. The
sweatpants were about eight inches too long and I had
to knot the waistband drawstring to keep them from
falling off. I cuffed back the sweatshirt sleeves
twice and the bottom hem hung below my butt. The
sneakers were a surprisingly good fit. Taking a deep
breath, I opened the door and went out, limping a
little on my sore feet.

The police were gone, save one detective still talking
to both agents in the lobby. Agent Scully spotted me
and beckoned me over. 

"Tell them that we'll be there tomorrow afternoon,"
Agent Mulder was saying as I came closer. The
detective shook his hand, nodded to Agent Scully and
to me, and said good night.

Agent Mulder turned toward me and I backpedaled
without thinking. He stopped abruptly, shooting a
glance at his partner. She gave him a very slight head
shake. 

"How are you doing, Clare?" he asked me carefully.

"I'm fine." When I said that he smiled and glanced at
Agent Scully again, as if I'd made some sort of joke,
although I couldn't understand why it might be funny.

"Good. Come on, we'll take you back to the motel now."
He held open the door and stood back to let Agent
Scully and me through first. Someone had taught him
manners, but he still made me uncomfortable. But if
anyone had asked me for a specific reason why, I
couldn't have given one. Jessica would have taken one
look at Agent Mulder and batted her eyelashes and
fawned all over him. She would have declared he was
incredibly cute and drop-dead sexy and would have
ended up giving him her cell phone number and her
e-mail address. Jess has this thing for older men. Mom
says that one of these days Jess is going to make cow
eyes at the wrong person and then there'll be
fireworks.

As far as I was concerned, Jess could have Agent
Mulder. I wished she were here instead of me; she'd be
enjoying all this a lot more than I was.

They led me to the only car left in the parking lot, a
dark four-door sedan. I'm not good at cars. Agent
Mulder opened the back door for me, and I slid in and
buckled the seatbelt. He went around to the driver's
side and Agent Scully got in the front passenger seat.

"Where are we, anyway?" I asked. It had suddenly
occurred to me that I had no idea what state I was in,
let alone what town. I might be hours from home, or
minutes.

Agent Scully twisted around in her seat to answer me.
"We're in Holmes," she said. "Do you remember where
you live?"

"Richfield. I've never heard of Holmes."

"It's about a four hour drive from Richfield," Agent
Mulder said.

Four hours by car? I'd been found some 240 miles from
my house? How was that possible? But there was
something else going on here, something I hadn't
clicked on to yet and that they weren't telling me. I
fell silent, trying to put the pieces together.
Tuesday. Saturday. Holmes. Roaring Brook Camp. Lights
in the sky. Staff.

Roaring Brook Camp.

Of course. I hadn't gone missing from my home, I'd
gone missing from camp. Girl Scout camp, where I was
sharing a tent with Kirsten and two other girls named
Amanda and Ashley, both of whom snored like
lumberjacks. Wherever Holmes was, it wasn't near the
camp. According to Agent Scully, it wasn't even in the
same county. Odd that although I'd been thinking about
camp earlier, it hadn't even occurred to me that
that's where I'd been prior to being lost here in
Holmes.

They must have known that, and they were waiting to
see if I'd remember it before telling me anything
further. I mulled it over in my mind, trying to decide
if this was some standard FBI interrogation technique
or if it was connected to Agent Mulder's alien
abduction explanation. Were they hoping I'd suddenly
start spouting details about little green men and
flying saucers?

Agent Mulder turned into the driveway of a strip
motel, and parked in front of a door marked #16. As we
got out, he started to say, "I'd like to. . . ."

His partner cut him off. "Mulder, it's one in the
morning. It can wait." She pulled a room key from her
pocket and waved a hand at me. "Over here, Clare." She
unlocked #16, and Agent Mulder turned toward the next
door, #14.

It was your regulation cheesy motel room, designed for
sleeping and not much else. Two double beds, a small
bathroom, and a TV set bolted to a low dresser with
four drawers. A nightstand between the beds. There was
a suitcase on the dresser and but no clothes on the
hangers in the small recess that served as a closet.
Agent Scully hadn't been here long enough to unpack. A
pair of wire-frame reading glasses and an overturned
paperback book on one edge of the nightstand told me
which bed was hers; I gingerly sat on the other.

She hung up her suit jacket, exposing her holstered
weapon. I don't know guns, either, but it looked very
big to me. She must be good if she could fire
something that large. When she turned back to me, I
saw how tired she was. It didn't feel like 1 a.m. to
me; I'd only been aware of the last three hours or so.
For the first time I understood that these two people
had been awake and working for a long time, probably
for days on end.

"Can I call my mother? Does she know you found me? She
must be worried sick if I've been gone for four days."

"The police are contacting her. It's late. Go to
sleep, Clare. We'll sort everything else out in the
morning." She reached for her robe, hanging on a hook
in the little alcove.

"I thought it was Tuesday because that's when the men
come to treat the lake weeds with copper sulfate, and
we don't have swimming lessons."

She froze with her hand on the robe, then slowly
turned back to me. "So you do remember."

"I do now. It came to me in the car."

She sat facing me on her bed, looking more alert.
"What else came to you in the car?"

"That I don't know where Holmes is in relation to
camp, and that I was at camp and not at home when
whatever happened happened. And that you knew all this
and didn't tell me." There was no real reason to throw
in that last remark,  other than to let her know I was
aware of their little mind games.

"It's usually more productive to let the individual's
memories work themselves out alone, instead of
prompting them. You know this now; you don't have to
worry that it's something we told you but you can't
really recall for yourself. And Holmes is about 300
miles northwest of Roaring Brook Camp, two counties
over."

"How long have you been here?"

Agent Scully smothered a yawn. "Excuse me. We came in
response to the camp and your mother on Wednesday
night, after you'd been gone for twenty-four hours.
The Holmes police called us this morning, after hikers
reported seeing you in the area. They picked you up
around ten in the evening, and we met them at the
station and brought you to the medical center."

"Why does your partner think I've been abducted by
aliens?"

She got very still. "Why do you say that?"

"He was talking about lights in the sky, and you said
something about no anomalies."

Her mouth dropped open. "You have good ears."

I shrugged. "The walls in that place were made of
cardboard."

Agent Scully said, "I wish you'd told me this before."

I shrugged again.

"Do you have any other questions?"

"I'd like an answer to the first one. Why does your
partner think I've been abducted?"

She resumed the pose of the vague bureaucrat, like the
teachers who said, "What do you think?" when you asked
them what would be on the next test. "Agent Mulder
speculates along a great many theories on each case,
both conventional and unconventional, and follows the
evidence to a logical conclusion. The scientific
evidence in your case fits that of a very human
kidnapper, who probably employed one of the new
designer recreational drugs to subdue you and disrupt
your memory. The toxicology tests on your blood
samples will give us more information tomorrow, and
we'll proceed from there."

If that wasn't a lot of doubletalk, I didn't know what
was. I could see that was all she was prepared to
shell out on that subject, and that however well she
hid it, her partner's alleged unconventional
speculations disturbed her. I decided to disturb her a
little more. Why not. I was awake, she was exhausted,
and maybe she'd slip up and reveal something else.

"Why did you freak out when I said I had alien
abduction scars?"

She stood up quickly. I flinched back, suddenly afraid
I'd pushed her too far, and remembering too late that
she was armed. Not that I thought she'd really shoot
someone she was supposed to be protecting, but then
again, she looked very angry.

"Go to bed, Clare," she replied coldly. She headed
toward the bathroom, grabbing her robe along the way.

I had one of those moments of temporary stupidity that
I seemed more and prone to since I'd hit my teens. The
kind where you say something and the minute you stop
speaking you wish you hadn't opened your mouth in the
first place. Usually this happened when I was trying
to attract the attention of Michael Zimmer, captain of
the JV basketball team. Instead of dazzling him with
my wit and charm, I almost always confused him with my
inane blather. Now I opened my mouth and firmly
inserted my foot in it while talking to Agent Scully.
"What's the matter? You got alien abduction scars,
too?"

Agent Scully stopped dead at the threshold of the
bathroom, one hand on the doorjamb, her posture rigid.
After a minute, she turned back to face me, leaning on
the edge of the doorframe. Even at this distance in
the room's poor lighting I could see the tension in
her face. She was silent for a long time, watching me.
"Yes," she finally admitted evenly, "I have a scar. At
the top of my spine, smaller but similar to yours."
She closed her eyes. "About five years ago, I was
missing for three months. I have only very vague
impressions about where I was and what happened to me,
and my partner and I have had only limited success in
finding out the truth of the incident. I was not,
however, abducted by aliens. The people who kidnapped
me have yet to be brought to justice, but they are
just people, not aliens. All right?"

I nodded, speechless.

"Good night, Clare. Turn the light off." She
disappeared into the bathroom.

I threw back the bedspread and crawled under the
covers, feeling enormously guilty. This was much, much
worse than seeing Michael Zimmer shake his head, laugh
and walk away after I'd asked him how his cook shot
was. I'd only been lost for four days. I couldn't
imagine what it must be like to be gone for three
months and still not have any answers five years
later. I curled my knees up to my chest and hugged
them.

Agent Scully stayed in the bathroom for what seemed
like a long time, but I was still awake when she came
out. I waited until she'd gotten into her own bed,
impressed that she'd managed to walk around the room
in the dark without banging into anything. I would
have whacked my shins with every step. "Agent Scully?"

She sighed. "What, Clare?"

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

The bed squeaked as she changed positions. "It was a
long time ago. Don't worry about it."

"Thank you for taking care of me."

"You're welcome."

I wasn't the least bit tired, so I was still thinking
things over when the rhythm of her breathing shifted,
indicating that Agent Scully had fallen asleep. The
digital display on the bedside clock read 2:23 the
last time I remember looking at it; at some point
after that I must have drifted off, too.

End part 2/6

==

LISICHKA (3/6)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


I don't know what woke me up. Suddenly I was staring
at the clock, realizing that it was 4:11 and I wasn't
sure where I was. While I tried to process this, there
was a rustling noise close by.

Oh, yes. Police. The FBI. The motel. I was sharing a
room with Special Agent Dana Scully, doctor and
forensic pathologist. I glanced over at her, then at
the telephone on the nightstand between our beds. If
she hadn't wanted me to call my mother at 1 a.m., she
sure as heck wouldn't let me do it at 4. But I wanted
to talk to Mom; I suddenly need to hear her voice and
I was positive she wouldn't care what time it was. I
was her baby, her only child. Of course she wanted to
hear from me that I was all right, rather than just
talking to some stupid policeman, right?

Slowly, stealthily, I leaned forward, reaching for the
phone. I'd lifted the handset and dialed two numbers
when Agent Scully thrashed around again, muttering
something in the back of her throat.

I froze, one hand clamped around the handset, the
other poised over the keypad, hoping she'd settle back
down.

She gave another violent toss, then. . . .

"What are you doing, Clare?"

Damn. "Um. . . . "

"Put the phone down. You can call your mother at a
civilized hour."

I dropped the handset back into the cradle. "I can't
sleep and I need to talk to her." 

Agent Scully sighed. "By now the police have told her
you're safe." She paused, then said, "You heard us
through the wall. Do you remember hearing any
conversations after you left the camp? And can you
pinpoint any last memory from Tuesday?"

I thought about it. Nothing came immediately to mind.
"Can you =please= tell me when was the last time
anyone at camp saw me? I know you're not supposed to,
but it might help if I knew what time of day to
concentrate on."

"You were at dinner. What normally happens after
dinner at camp on Tuesdays?"

I chewed on my lower lip, turning it over in my head.
Dinner at camp was followed by a few songs, and then
everyone went back to their units for evening
programs. Kirsten and I were in the Maple unit with
the older kids. Katelynn was with the Pines, the
youngest kids. Normally we were all in bed by ten;
after it got dark there wasn't much anyone could do
except hang out by the campfire and get eaten alive by
the mosquitoes. But there had been something special.
. . .

The Perseid meteor showers. I sat bolt upright.

Agent Scully sat up, too. "Clare? What is it?" she
asked, alarmed.

"Star gazing. The entire camp was going star gazing in
the parking lot." The words tumbled over themselves in
my haste to get them out. "What you said before - the
meteor showers. They wanted us to see them, and it was
the first clear night in three days. Everyone brought
their sleeping bags down to the parking lot and we all
lay out to watch the showers."

Agent Scully turned on her bedside lamp. I blinked in
the sudden brightness and saw her without makeup for
the first time. She had red, rough patches of skin on
both cheeks. It looked a little like the eczema
Kirsten used to have when we were in kindergarten
together. "Then what, Clare?" she asked softly.

"I. . . I'm not sure. I mean, I don't know. I remember
seeing some of the shooting stars. I remember the kids
complaining about the rocks under their sleeping bags.
I remember Kirsten and I taking Katelynn and two of
her friends to the bathroom, but I don't think it was
later than ten when we went."

"Where were you in the parking lot? In the middle?
Near an edge?"

"By the driveway leading in. We were all sort of in
the middle; it's a big parking lot and everyone wanted
to have a good view, away from the trees."

"Were there cars in the lot?"

"Yeah. Some of the staff have their own cars. One is
the camp van. One belongs to the camp ranger."

"Who is the camp ranger?"

Her voice was very soothing; it was suddenly easier to
remember and talk to her. "Mr. Buck. He lives in a
house on the border of the property."

"Was he there?"

"Not that I saw. It was dark. Mr. Buck doesn't come to
camp activities; he just works there, fixing stuff and
building things." I snapped out of my semi-trance with
a jerk and turned to Agent Scully. "You think he might
be the one?"

"Joseph Buckland is one of our suspects."

I shook my head. "He's always around. The camp
director talks to him all the time by walkie-talkie,
asking him to do stuff. The waterfront staff, they
call him down to the lake at least once a day to get
rid of the snakes. If he was gone for any length of
time, someone would notice because they'd need him."

She'd already been told all of this by someone else,
but that didn't interest her as much as my comment on
wildlife did. "Snakes?" she asked incredulously.

"The lake has lots of them. They come into the
swimming area. The staff says they're not poisonous,
but some of them were pretty big. They'd snag them in
a fishing net and dump them in a garbage can. Mr. Buck
would take the can away and release them outside of
camp."

From the look she was giving me, Agent Scully was
clearly wondering how the camp could have attracted
any kids at all; I have to admit that what I'd
described sounded awful. Actually, it wasn't a bad
place to spend the summer, even for someone totally
uninterested in Girl Scouts or camp. The staff members
were nice, the food was okay and the water in the
showers was hot. We had movie nights in the dining
hall. And if you didn't want to sing the songs, nobody
got on your case. So I said, "At least they say they
got rid of the snapping turtles from last year."

I hadn't meant it to be funny, but it came out that
way. Agent Scully burst out laughing and lay down
again. "Go back to sleep, Clare. We have a long day
tomorrow." She snapped off the light and turned over.

Even though I'd told her I wasn't tired, I must have
fallen asleep again, because her voice woke me a few
hours later. She was talking on the phone to her
partner. ". . . see you in 45 minutes," she concluded,
hanging up. "Come on, Clare, get up."

I opened one eye and glared at her. "What time is it?"
I mumbled.

"It's time to get up. We're meeting Agent Mulder for
breakfast."

She was already up, showered, dressed and almost
through packing. I finally located the clock and saw
it was only 7:25 a.m. "Leave me alone." I burrowed
back under the covers. 

She grabbed my blankets and threw them off in one
fluid movement. "Hey!"

"Get up, Clare. We don't have time for this."

I favored her with another glare. "The last person who
did something like that to me ended up with her
underwear frozen in a giant block of ice."

Her eyebrow went up. "You make a lot of threats for
someone who is wearing =borrowed= clothing."

Score another one to her. I scrambled to my feet and
headed for the bathroom. "I'm up, I'm up already."

"Good."

The shower felt great. But it also reminded me of what
she'd done to me the day before, and of the fact that
there were more things she hadn't told me. Things I
wanted to discuss with her alone, not with her
partner. I combed my damp hair back with my fingers -
it's short enough not to need a brush if I don't care
who is seeing me - and came out again.

Agent Scully was zipping her suitcase closed. She saw
me standing in the bathroom doorway and immediately
straightened up, frowning slightly. "What's wrong?"

Wow. Talk about perceptive. She could probably pick
out liars from a mile away.

I hesitated. "You never told me. . . about the exam.
What. . . what did it show?"

Her face cleared and softened. "I'm sorry. I wasn't
trying to worry you. You're fine. They didn't hurt
you. At least not in that manner. I took a tissue
sample as a precaution, but they didn't touch you."

The relief was so overwhelming I had to lean against
the doorway for support. I hadn't thought about it
fully until now, but all the potentially horrible
consequences of a sexual assault came flooding through
my mind - unwanted pregnancy, HIV, STDs. . . I was
safe. I wasn't going to have to deal with any of that.

Agent Scully stood there looking at me with that
familiar compassion - and something else. It took a
moment, then I recognized it, only because I was so
used to seeing it on Jessica's face when she saw
someone else with something she wanted for herself,
and that happened at least once an hour.

Envy.

I'd been lucky. Agent Scully hadn't. I couldn't
imagine what they'd done to her, but her three month
trip to nowhere must have included something much more
ghastly than my few cuts and bruises.

Last night I'd opened my mouth and said something
rash. Now I kept quiet. It seemed my mother had taught
me something about tact after all.

"Sit down and let me look at your leg," she ordered,
breaking the uncomfortable silence.

I'd peeled the bandage off before getting into the
shower. The scrape still looked pretty gruesome; an
angry, red trail twisting up my leg from my ankle
almost all the way to my knee. God only knows how I'd
gotten it. Agent Scully wrapped my calf up in fresh
gauze to keep it clean. "Does it still hurt?" she
asked.

"No. Not really. Just a little sore." The soles of my
feet, which had gotten sliced up from walking
barefoot, bothered me more than the gash in my leg.

We went across the street to a small diner for
breakfast. Agent Mulder had, either through my actions
last night or through discussions with Agent Scully,
realized that he made me nervous, and he spent the
meal trying to be friendly. Their early morning phone
conversation had apparently included a briefing on
what I'd remembered, because his way of gaining my
trust was to grill me on it. They were making me so
uneasy I could hardly eat.

Strange. Normally nothing interfered with my appetite.
The last meal I remembered was dinner on Tuesday,
which had been meatloaf. Agent Scully was positive I
hadn't spent four days without food, but at this point
I should definitely be hungry, and I wasn't. And it
didn't all have to do with having two pairs of
government eyes trained on me. I really wasn't hungry,
and what little cereal I'd managed to swallow tasted
odd.

Agent Mulder broke off from his questions. "You've not
eating," he observed mildly.

I stirred the soggy cornflakes around in little
circles with my spoon, dropping my gaze to the bowl.
"I'm not hungry."

"You should be."

"Well, I'm not." It came out harsher than I'd
intended, but they were making me nervous. Maybe if I
annoyed them enough they'd take me home sooner just to
get rid of me.

Nice idea, but it didn't work. My lack of appetite
just made them all the more curious, where I'd
expected them to be angry. "Do you want something
else?" Agent Scully asked.

"No. I just want to go home." If annoying didn't work,
maybe sulky would.

"You have to eat something. We're not taking you on a
long car ride on an empty stomach."

I didn't want to tell them that my taste buds seemed
to be malfunctioning, for fear of causing another
delay in my journey home. But there didn't seem to be
any other way out of this. I dropped the spoon into
the bowl and pushed the whole thing away. "It tastes
funny," I confessed.

Both of them perked up like bird dogs on the scent; my
heart sank. "Is the milk is spoiled?" Agent Mulder
asked.

I shook my head. "No. It just doesn't taste right.
Like. . . I don't know, sawdust or something. Not cold
cereal."

Agent Mulder held out one of his triangles of buttered
toast. "Try this."

Reluctantly I took it from him and nibbled tentatively
on one end. It's hard to swallow when two people
engrossed in your every move are hovering less than
three feet away. I put the toast down. "It tastes the
same. Like there's no flavor at all."

"Scully. . ." Agent Mulder started to speak, and as
she had done last night, Agent Scully cut him off
before he got going.

"We don't have the results of the tox screen, Mulder.
It could be a temporary reaction to something she's
been given."

"You said there were no puncture marks."

"I said I didn't =see= any. After five days, they
could have faded to the point where I couldn't detect
them."

"Hey!" I interrupted. "I'm not deaf. You want to let
me in on the secret?"

Agent Mulder answered me readily enough. "Loss of the
sense of taste has been associated with alien
abductions."

If looks really could kill, he would have been
flash-fried to a crisp by the glare Agent Scully was
giving him. "And," she grated between clenched teeth,
"it is a common side effect of any number of
medications, including certain tranquilizers."

I looked from one to the other, bewildered. Yeah, I'd
thought I'd heard him correctly the night before, but
to have him come right out and =tell= me he thought
I'd been taken away by little green men was just a bit
too freaky for me. I glanced around the diner,
wondering for the first time if this whole thing
wasn't some really elaborate practical joke after all.
I mean, Amanda had been furious when I froze her
socks.

"What are you looking for?" Agent Mulder asked me.

"A hidden microphone. The crew from Candid Camera. I
don't know."

"Why?"

Why? This guy was asking me why? I glanced at Agent
Scully. Did she know her partner sounded certifiable?
From the resigned expression on her face, the answer
was yes, and that she was long used to people who had
my reaction to his "theories."

"Agent Mulder," I said carefully, "there are no such
things as aliens. Star Trek and Star Wars are just
Hollywood. Didn't they teach you that in FBI school?"

Now Agent Scully looked like she was hiding a huge
smile. "See, Mulder? Out of the mouths of babes. . ."
she broke off. I was glad I had apparently vindicated
her in some way, but Agent Mulder was relentless.

"I've spoken with any number of alien abductees who
report a diminished sense of taste following their
experiences. These are documented cases, Clare. I
realize that my questions may sound strange, but can
you tell me. . . ."

"No!" This time I was the one who cut him off. "I'm
tired of answering questions. I'm tired of listening.
I want to go home and see my mother now!!"

"Lower your voice," Agent Scully snapped. Vindication
or not, she wasn't going to take any lip from me.

"Why should I? What are you going to do, arrest me?
All last night all I heard was how you wanted to help
me. Well, I'm still waiting to be helped. Why won't
you take me home? Why can't I call Mom?" I was
horrified to realize that I was close to tears. But
what the heck was going on here?

I'd half risen in my seat; it's tough to get all the
way to your feet in a restaurant booth. Agent Mulder
reached across the table and shoved me back down.
Hard.

I recoiled involuntarily. "Don't touch me!!"

He eased up but didn't let go of my shoulder. "Clare,
stop this right now." I glanced at Agent Scully, saw
nothing helpful, and folded yet again to their
authority.

"You're hurting me." I managed. He wasn't, not really,
but it was the only way I could think of to make him
let go of me.

He finally took his hand away. "Sorry. Now for the
last time, what do you remember from Tuesday night?"

"You're not taking me home, are you?" I was going to
answer his question, but I needed to know this first.

He sensed my capitulation and decided, as his partner
had the day before, to level with me. I guess that was
his way of being comforting and supportive. "No," he
said, "not yet, anyway. We have a few more things to
clear up first."

I glanced out the window; it was a gorgeous, sunny
August day. Saturday, if I remembered correctly. "Do
we have to do this here?" The diner was empty aside
from us, but it still felt cramped. Almost as bad as
the white room from last night. I'm not normally
claustrophobic, but then I'm not normally sitting  in
confining rooms, motels or restaurants with food that
tastes like cardboard, playing Twenty Questions with
two FBI agents who now looked like they would rather
be dealing with a mad bomber than babysitting a
fourteen-year-old with a faulty memory.

Agent Mulder took a deep breath. I didn't need any
wild mental powers to tell me that he was losing
patience with me. If only he hadn't been my first
recollection from last night, things might have been
different. But I couldn't get past the scare he'd
given me before I understood what was going on. And I
couldn't tell him outright. It just sounded too
stupid.

"What's the matter with here?" he asked.

"Can we just please go outside somewhere?" I was
desperate now, fidgeting on the vinyl seat. "I swear
I'll answer anything you want. I'll do anything you
want. Outside."

Agent Scully, who had witnessed my reaction to the
tiny white room the night before, picked up on the
panic I was striving very hard to suppress. She
signaled the waitress for the check, at the same time
giving her partner some other kind of invisible sign
to let this one ride. "All right. Outside," she
agreed.

They herded me between them out into the fresh air.
The motel had an old-fashioned playground on one side,
and I made a beeline for it. They followed me without
protest. I sat on one of the swings, digging my
borrowed sneakers into the scuffed depression to start
it rocking back and forth. She sat beside me on
another swing; her legs were so much shorter than mine
it almost looked as if she could pump herself back and
forth without brushing her feet on the ground. Agent
Mulder sat opposite us on one of the rungs of the
metal jungle gym. It was the kind that nobody builds
anymore; all the new ones are made of huge wooden
beams with all smooth, rounded plastic edges and have
tons of cedar chips under them to cushion your fall.
This playground was definitely the
crack-your-skull-open variety that schools and city
councils everywhere had banned from public grounds. I
guess nobody in Holmes cared what happened to the
tourists' kids.

But I felt better. A lot better.

Agent Mulder was looking at me expectantly, as if he
wanted to say, "Well?" but didn't quite dare, for fear
of setting me off in yet another non-productive
direction. I'd gotten my way so far, but their
patience was wearing thin. It was now or never.

I told him what I'd told Agent Scully about Tuesday.
Stuff she'd probably already told him before breakfast
when they'd talked on the phone. The sleep-out under
the stars. Watching the meteors. Taking care of the
kids. And then I told him what I hadn't told her, what
I'd remembered only after she'd asked me about the
cars in the parking lot.

"I don't know everyone's car. But I heard one driving
in before I fell asleep - if I really did fall asleep.
I was wondering why someone was coming in so late, and
I was worried that they would run us over. I mean, we
were all lying there right by the driveway. I wanted
to get up and ask Patch who it was, because I didn't
think anyone had the night off. At least, I don't
remember not seeing anyone, if you know what I mean."

They were silent. I thought they might ask who Patch
was, but I guess someone had already gone over the
camp nicknames with them. Patch was Patricia Kinney,
the Maple unit leader.

"Are you sure it was a car?" Agent Mulder asked me
gently.

"I saw headlights. . . they looked like headlights. It
sounded like a car."

"Did you actually =see= a car?" he persisted.

"No. .  I just. . . I just. . ." I stuttered to a
stop. What had I seen, anyway?

"It's all right, Clare," Agent Scully said soothingly.
"What happened then?"

I looked away from both of them, towards the highway,
past the diner on the other side of the street and the
treeline behind it. And suddenly the memory was there,
the memory I was sure hadn't been there before.

Agent Scully had been wrong about one thing. I didn't
want to remember this after all.

"It was big. Bright. I had to look away from it
because it hurt my eyes. I remember feeling cold, and
that was when I knew I wasn't in my sleeping bag
anymore. There was just light everywhere. And someone
was holding me. Telling me something, or maybe asking
me something. I don't know which. I couldn't hear very
well. I wanted them to let go of me. I wanted to go
back to my sleeping bag. I tried to tell them to let
go, but I couldn't speak. There was so much light, and
I couldn't move. . . ."

Both of them looked disturbed at my story; Agent
Scully slightly more so than her partner. In fact, she
looked distinctly ill; I wondered how similar my tale
was to her own close encounter, such as it was.

"Someone else started talking. I only heard one thing
clearly. Someone said, 'Don't you know who she is?'
And then the light got too bright. The next thing I
sort of remember is the lights on the police cars." I
stopped.

The two of them were silent for a long moment. Then
Agent Mulder said very slowly, "Clare, what does your
mother do for a living?"

"She's a bookkeeper for a firm of lawyers."

"What about your father?"

I swallowed. "My mom was never married. I've never met
him. Mom doesn't talk about him. O'Reilly is her name,
not his."

Agent Scully asked, "Did she ever tell you what he
did? What his name was?"

"No. But I think. . . I think he's not from here. I
think maybe he's Russian."

Agent Mulder frowned. "Why do you think that?"

I shrugged helplessly. "It just. . . like, when I was
little, my mom used to call me 'lisichka.' She never
said why, and I never asked. It was just a word, you
know? It never occurred to me to ask what it was or
what it meant. Last year I went to see my friend
Kirsten's ballet class. They were doing a dress
rehearsal for their recital. Her teacher is Russian,
Madame Petrov. And there she was, yelling at all the
kids in one of the baby classes, calling them
'lisichka.' I'd never heard anyone else use it and Mom
had stopped calling me that years ago. So when Kirsten
introduced me to her I asked her what it meant. She
said it was just her pet name for the little kids, and
it meant 'little fox' in Russian." I stopped because
both of them jumped visibly when I said that. "What?"

"Nothing," Agent Scully said smoothly. "Go on."

I glanced from one to the other, then shrugged.
Whatever. "My mom can read a little French, but she's
not, like, fluent or anything. So how did she know
this one Russian word? So, you know, I just started
thinking that maybe she'd heard it from my father.
Like maybe it was a pet name he'd called her, too. And
maybe she never talks about him because he got
deported back to Russia or something." I shrugged
again. "I don't know. It's just something I thought."

"You're fourteen," Agent Mulder mused, half to
himself.

"Yes."

Agent Scully looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Krycek?"
she asked.

He shook his head. "No. Not directly, anyway. And our
friend with the cigarettes has been more than busy
with Samantha." He gave me that
checking-out-the-specimen glance again that I
particularly disliked. "What about the other one, the
one who took you to that train car?"

Now she also gave me the fish eye, comparing me to
someone in her memory but not mine. "No. Definitely
not," she said thoughtfully.

"What, you think my father kidnapped me?" I asked,
stunned.

"Not exactly," Agent Mulder answered. "I think perhaps
you were taken accidentally, and that your father may
be the reason you were released relatively unharmed."

"Taken by who?" I demanded.

Another significant look passed between them. These
two were seriously creepy. "The government," Agent
Mulder said finally.

"The government," I repeated dubiously.

"Yes."

"The same government they make us read about in social
studies goes around kidnapping kids out of sleeping
bags?" And I thought the alien story was lame; this
was even more ridiculous.

"Mulder, why don't you go check us out of the motel
and put our bags in the car?" Scully asked him. She
made it sound casual, but it wasn't. He disappeared in
the direction of the motel office without another
word, leaving me alone with Agent Scully. Again.

"What now?" I sighed.

"I told you last night that I was missing for three
months. It's very possible that the same people who
were responsible for taking me out of my home by force
almost did the same thing to you." She was angry, I
realized dismally. No, more than angry; she was
furious. She stood up, took two steps towards me and
grabbed the chains of my swing, bringing it to an
abrupt halt so she could stare me down. "If we are
correct, you are =incredibly= lucky that they didn't
hurt you. It may be that you are related to one of the
people involved in this whole scheme, whatever it is.
That may very well be what saved you. Yes, the
government is probably involved somehow, as well as
the military. So don't look at Agent Mulder as if he
is crazy for suggesting these things. He's seen too
much to discount anything. I've seen too much."

Translation: Been there, done that, bought the
t-shirt. Again I wondered just what they'd done to
her, and how she'd survived it.

She wasn't finished. She wanted me to know just how
high the stakes were in whatever game this turned out
to be. "Most of the people who were abducted the way
you and I were are =dead= now, Clare. That's how
fortunate you are."

I stared into those blue eyes and didn't like what I
saw. "You're not," I managed.

"They tried. They're not so stupid as to murder
everyone outright. They gave me a terminal illness and
it was through the grace of God and the courage and
loyalty of Agent Mulder and several other friends that
I survived. Barely. I was supposed to die. Now do you
understand what we're dealing with?"

My first thought when she said "terminal illness" was
of course cancer; that just tops the list. So first
I'd thrown her for a loop with the crack about alien
abduction scars, then I'd thrown her a curveball with
the fact that I myself was a potential candidate for
melanoma. Yikes. She was probably shaking every time I
opened my mouth.

Agent Mulder returned at that point. The sight of his
short partner standing rather menacingly over me
didn't seem to faze him in the slightest. He said,
"Scully?" and beckoned her a short distance away.

They pitched their voices too low for me to catch
anything but a quiet buzz, but I didn't need
superhuman hearing or ESP to be suspicious. Especially
when Agent Scully, who was facing me, brought her hand
up to her mouth too late to stifle an, "Oh, my God.
When?"

Alarmed, I got up off the swing. "What?" My voice came
out unnaturally high. "What is it?"

They came back over, their expressions too carefully
set to be anything but false. "Clare, do you have any
other relatives aside from your mother?" Agent Mulder
asked.

I didn't like the question, and I really didn't like
his elaborately casual tone, but I couldn't think of
what he might be hiding. "No. My mom was an only
child, and so were my grandparents. They died before I
was born."

"Nobody else?"

"It's always been just Mom and me."

Agent Scully joined in. "You've never met anyone from
your father's side of the family?"

"No." Now I was really frightened. "I told you, I've
never met him. I have no idea who he is, and Mom won't
talk about him. Why? What's going on?"

Agent Mulder reached toward me as if he was going to
take my arm and escort me to a dance. "Come on. We've
got to get going."

"Where? To my mom?"

"Let's go, Clare," Agent Scully prodded.

I stepped back, folded my arms and refused to move.
"I'm not getting into any car with you again unless
you tell me where we're going. I've had it up to here.
Take me home right now."

Agent Mulder stared at me as if he couldn't believe
his ears. "What did you say?" he asked.

"You heard me. I'm not moving until you tell me where
we're going, and it better be back to my mother. I
know my rights." It was time to draw the line, and
hope they didn't make me cross it, because I was
shaking inside. I'd never stood up to any adult like
this before, and I wasn't sure how long I could keep
it up. My record against these two wasn't exactly the
best.

Agent Mulder reached for my arm again and I jerked
back further, out of range. "Touch me again and I'll
make you sorry." It was easier to be obnoxious with
him. I could threaten him with child molestation. I
could maintain my anger against him with the memory of
him carrying me.

His female counterpart was another matter entirely.
She of the soft touch, the soothing tone, the sensible
explanations. "We're not taking you home," she said
quietly. "You're coming back to Washington DC with us,
to be put into protective custody."

"What?!" Of all the answers I thought they might give
me, this one hadn't even entered my mind. "What do you
mean, protective custody?!!"

"Your life may be in danger, Clare. They tried to take
you once. They don't make mistakes. They may still try
to eliminate you once they figure out you can identify
them. Especially now that they know who you are."

"Know who I am? I'm not anybody! I can't identify
anybody; I didn't even see anybody! And. . .  and what
about my mother? Is she going to DC, too? Will she
meet us there?"

Agent Scully and Agent Mulder exchanged a look.

I didn't like that look. I didn't like it at all. It
was the look my mother gave me just before she said we
had to take Noodles to the vet and have her put to
sleep so she wouldn't suffer. It was the look our
school nurse, Mrs. Price, gave my English class when
she came down to take Todd Ruckenberg out of the room
to tell him that his father had been in a car accident
on his way to work. 

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Not that. Please,
anything but that.

My knees felt weak. I knew what was coming and I
didn't want to hear it. If I didn't hear it, it
wouldn't be true. It wouldn't be real.

Agent Scully began speaking very softly. "Clare, the
police called Agent Mulder on his cell phone just a
few minutes ago, while he was checking out of the
motel. Your mother was killed last night. I'm sorry."

End part 3/6

==

LISICHKA (4/6)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


"No." I wanted to shout the word; instead, it came out
as a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Clare. It's true. You have to come with us
for your own safety."

"NO!!" Finally, the volume I'd been looking for. Both
Agent Scully and Agent Mulder jumped a little, so I
shrieked it again. "NO!! She's not dead! She's not!
You're lying!"

"Clare, we have to go. Now." Agent Scully put her hand
on my arm.

I pulled away from her, whirled around and ran. My
tears were already blinding me and I couldn't see
where I was going. It didn't matter. If I could just
get away from them and get back to camp, I could
pretend it hadn't happened. No one would know. I could
just weave more lanyards and slap at more mosquitoes
and everything would be fine.

"Clare! Come back here!"

She must have been crazy if she thought I was going to
listen to her. I'm not an athlete, but I my legs were
longer and my stamina was pretty good from all that
drowning during swimming class. However, I forgot
three crucial details in my haste to put some distance
between us. First, Agent Mulder's legs were longer
than mine. Second, I was wearing Agent Mulder's FBI
sweatsuit, and that should have clued me in to the
fact that he probably worked out, too. Third, the
soles of my feet were unbearably tender and every step
I took sent shooting pains up my legs. I outran Agent
Scully, but Agent Mulder brought me down before I
reached the parking lot. I heard the pounding
footsteps behind me and tried to dodge, but his hand
slapped across my shoulder. I lost my balance and
sprawled face down in the grass. The fall knocked all
the wind out of me and for a terrifying second I
couldn't breathe.

Then I felt hands turning me over onto my back and
found myself staring up at them, their faces shivering
out of focus as I continued to cry. My lungs wouldn't
function. I couldn't believe what was happening.

Agent Scully leaned closer. "Clare, try to calm down.
Try to relax and breathe."

Something in my chest unlocked and I sucked in enough
air to scream. "MY MOTHER ISN'T DEAD!" 

"Oh, honey. . . ." Agent Scully pulled me into a hug.
"I wish I could say that was true. But it's not. I'm
so sorry."

I don't know how long I cried on her shoulder. I don't
know how they got me on my feet and back to the car.
The next thing I knew I was sitting in the back seat,
with my forehead resting against the window, staring
out at the blurry green countryside as it rushed by at
a steady sixty miles per hour. There was a blanket
from the motel draped over me, and every now and then
I caught snatches of conversation from the front seat.

At one point Agent Scully was on her cell phone,
discussing my bloodwork with a lab technician
somewhere. Then it sounded like she was asking someone
on the other end for hickeys, but I must have misheard
that. Finally she hung up and they just talked to each
other.

"Mulder, where. . . going? The airport's. . .
direction."

"I'm. . . on a plane. Too risky. Remember Max. . . ?
If someone comes back for her, I don't. . . thirty
thousand feet. . . happens. Do you, Scully?"

"No."

"What did Frohike say?"

"Her mother. . . Leonard, Weinstein, Beckwith and
Trotter. It's. . . distant subsidiary. . . Roush."

"Why am I not surprised."

The car slowed down a little, and I could hear them
better.

"'Little fox.' Could that be a coincidence, do you
think?"

"Offhand, I'd say yes. But it's a damn strange one,
all the same." Agent Mulder sounded grim.

"If not Krycek, then who?"

"Could be anyone, Scully. All my good friends from the
camp in Tunguska, for example. The ones who made the
vaccine I gave you. For that matter, what the hell do
we know about Krycek's family, anyway? For all we know
she's his first cousin. Or maybe it's someone we
haven't come across yet, a player we know nothing
about."

"They must have recognized her by her eyes. It sounds
like her mother's had no contact at all with the
father. She probably didn't even know who she was
really working for."

"Probably."

"And you really think they'll try and take her back,
Mulder?" 

"They wouldn't have gone after her mother if they
didn't plan on trying, Scully. She's an only child
with no other relatives; the mother was the only
obstacle in the way of rectifying the error of letting
her go in the first place, let alone releasing her
with some idea of what happened to her. Think about
it. You hardly remember anything, even after two
sessions of hypnosis. . . ."

"Mulder. . ." Agent Scully sounded uncomfortable.

"She was bringing out more details with practically no
prompting than you've remembered in five years. What
do you suppose she'd come out with if someone did a
hypnotic regression on her?"

Agent Scully tried to defend herself. "She was gone
for four days, not three months. Of course she'll
remember more; it all just happened to her. They
didn't do anything to her, at least not the things
they did to me and the others from Allentown. She has
no implant scars."

Implants scars? I jerked away from the window when she
said that, feeling sudden terror race through me.
Implants? Is that what they did to her? What they
would have done to me if they hadn't let me go
instead?

It still sounded crazy, except for one thing.

Mom was dead.

Mom wasn't going to hang any more of my B+ papers on
the refrigerator, sticking them on with the cow-shaped
magnet or the one with the plumber's phone number on
it. She wasn't going to give me Campbell's Chicken
Noodle soup when I had a cold, or drive me over to
Kirsten's house on Saturdays, or pop popcorn and let
me stay up until after midnight to watch movies on
cable on the weekends. She wasn't going to drag me to
church on Sunday morning, or yell at me when I didn't
do my homework. I'd never learn how to make her
pineapple cake, because she couldn't explain what she
meant when she wrote "a handful" in her recipe book
for the ingredients.

Mom was dead, and I was alone except for two FBI
agents talking about implants.

I started to cry again. I wanted my mother so badly it
hurt.

Everything grayed out for a little while. At one point
we stopped somewhere and Agent Scully tried to get me
to eat some French fries and drink a milkshake.
McDonald's, I think. I wasn't really paying attention,
but the greasy smell of fried food was unmistakable,
even outside in the parking lot.

"No," I mumbled, pushing her offerings away.

"Clare, please, you have to eat something."

"Lemme alone." I turned away from her and lay down on
the car seat, curling up into a ball and yanking the
blanket up to my nose.

"Clare. . . ."

"Let her be." I never thought Agent Mulder would side
with me, but he did.

"Mulder, she. . . ."

"Scully, just leave her for now. You know how she
feels."

I didn't have the energy to wonder what that meant.
They got back in the car, and I cried myself to sleep
while the endless drive continued.

The next thing I knew, it was getting dark, and the
car wasn't moving any more.

The back door opened, and Agent Mulder gently shook my
leg. "Clare? Are you all right? You've been sleeping
all day. We're stopping here for the night."

I struggled partially upright and regarded him with
bleary eyes. "What?" I mumbled. My whole body felt
like lead.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. My brain felt fogged
in, and it was too much of an effort to concentrate. I
let my eyes fall shut again and collapsed back down on
the seat. Dimly, I realized Agent Mulder had gripped
my upper arms and was shaking me, nothing gentle about
it this time. I barely felt it. "Clare! Clare, can you
hear me? Scully! Scully, get over here!"

The soft clip of her running stride sounded very faint
and far away, even as it got closer. There was a
roaring in my ears that obliterated almost all other
sounds. I felt oddly detached from the whole
situation, as if it was happening to someone else and
I was merely an outside observer.

I pried my eyes open when Agent Scully touched my
face. "Clare?" She pressed her fingers against my
throat.

"Mmmm."

She pulled back out of the car. "She's in shock. Bring
her inside to the room."

No, no, =please= don't pick me up. I =hate= being
carried. . . .

Not surprisingly, Agent Mulder couldn't read my
thoughts and scooped me up out of the car. I got a
face full of trench coat and pushed weakly against his
chest with my hands. I tried to say, "Put me down,"
but it came out more like, "Puma."

"It's all right, Clare. I've got you."

I don't =want= you to have me, don't you understand
that?

It didn't matter. We weren't that far from the room,
wherever that was, and a few seconds later he did put
me down on another twin bed in another ugly motel
room. They pulled off the borrowed sneakers, propped
my feet up on some pillows and covered me up with a
blanket.

The lights were dim, but I kept my eyes closed anyway.

"Clare, look at me." Agent Scully brushed my bangs off
my forehead.

I squinted up at her.

"Drink this." She wrapped my hand around a short glass
that looked like it came from the bathroom. "You're
dehydrated and you need to eat, or you're going to get
sick."

It was easier to drink than to argue, so I did. The
water wasn't cold and it wasn't warm, and I didn't
feel any better after I swallowed it.

It was the same with the orange soda that she sent
Agent Mulder out for - actually, I think she told him
to get orange juice, but soda was all he could find -
and the same with the saltine crackers he dug out of
one of their suitcases. They had just as much flavor
as than the cereal had had that morning, but I didn't
really expect anything different.

For a while they argued back and forth about taking me
to a hospital. Agent Scully wanted to, but he kept
telling her it wasn't safe and they couldn't risk it.
Eventually the haze in my head cleared and I was able
to sit up and answer questions in a manner that made
sense, and the two of them stopped looking so worried.
Agent Scully told Agent Mulder to go to bed and he
went off to his own motel room. 

She showed me a bag of things they'd bought for me
while I'd been sleeping in the car. I guess we'd
stopped more than once. They'd gotten me a toothbrush
and toothpaste, a big blue nightshirt with Snoopy and
Woodstock on it, socks, underwear, two pairs of
shorts, three t-shirts, a pair of jeans, and a
sweatshirt. Everything was a solid color; I guess they
figured that was safer than trying to guess my taste
in clothes. For a second I wondered how Agent Scully
knew my sizes, and then remembered that a hundred
years and one day ago she'd taken my clothes away in
the first place.

Mom had been alive then. Maybe. I wasn't sure. They
hadn't told me exactly what had happened yet. Maybe
Mom never even knew they found me. Maybe she died
thinking I was still lost somewhere.

I was holding the nightshirt in my lap and looking
down at it. There were several small dark stains all
over it, making Woodstock look like he had a rash.
Didn't Agent Scully notice that before she got to the
cash register? Mom would never have bought me
something defective. She always looked for spots,
checked that the hems were sewn properly, looked to
see if the pattern of the fabric matched where it was
joined at the seams.

Agent Scully pushed a tissue into my hand and said,
"Here," and that was when I realized that the spots
weren't stains, they were water marks, because I was
crying again and my tears were dripping all over that
stupid yellow bird.

It seemed silly to go to bed because I'd been sleeping
all day, but Agent Scully insisted that I needed to
rest. So I hobbled to the bathroom to change and wash
my face and brush my teeth, and hobbled back to climb
into bed. The bottoms of my feet were killing me and
all my muscles hurt, right down to my toes. I hadn't
ached this much since the first day of camp, when they
made us tread water for half an hour during the
swimming test. I guess lying crunched up on the car
seat wasn't a very good thing to do.

She'd pulled out her laptop and was sitting at the
tiny desk, tapping away at the keys. When I came out
of the bathroom, she stopped. "How do you feel?" she
asked.

I opened my mouth to say that I was okay. What came
out instead was, "I want Mom," and I burst into tears
again.

The last time I'd cried this much was when Mom came
home from the vet without Noodles. And then she'd
hugged me and made me a strawberry ice cream shake in
the blender, and said that we could get another dog
any time I wanted.

Realizing that Mom wasn't ever going to get me a
replacement for Noodles made me cry even harder.

Agent Scully looked stricken, as if she had no idea
how to make any of this any better. That's when I was
sure she didn't have kids, because real moms know how
to make stuff better. They know how to kiss bruises or
make strawberry shakes or arrange Club Med vacations.

She was pretty good at hugging, though, and I gave her
credit for trying.

Eventually I stopped bawling and Agent Scully got me a
wet washcloth from the bathroom to wipe my face. For a
second I thought she was going to wipe it for me,
because she hesitated as if she wasn't sure whether or
not she should do that, but in the end she just handed
me the cloth and settled for helping me push my hair
out of my eyes. When I was done with that she gave me
a tissue to blow my nose, and said, "Try to get some
sleep, Clare. We'll be in DC by tomorrow night."

"What happens then?" I asked hoarsely, crumpling up
the tissue and throwing it at the wastebasket. It
bounced off the rim and fell on the carpet.

Agent Scully picked it up and dumped it in the trash.
"You'll be put into protective custody. A family will
be there to take care of you."

"What about my stuff?"

"Your stuff?"

"You know. . . " I gestured at the nightshirt and the
bag on the floor with all the new things in it. "My
stuff. All my stuff at camp. At my. . . my house. My
clothes, my books, my. . . things."

Agent Scully didn't answer me for a long minute.
Finally, she said, "I don't know, honey. We'll just
have to wait until we get there."

I bit my lip, wondering if she really didn't know or
if she just didn't want to give me any more bad news
right now. There were so many things I was suddenly
desperate to have, like my photo albums, the necklace
Mom had given me that had been her mother's, a silly
little bear statue she'd given me for my birthday when
I was six, the patchwork quilt on my bed. . . suddenly
every item in our house involved a memory I wanted to
hold on to, from the broken cuckoo clock in the
basement to the mixing bowls Mom used when she made
blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings. I wanted all of
them, and I had a terrible feeling I wasn't going to
get any of them.

I wanted to ask again, but I was too tired and too
afraid of what the real answer might be. "Protective
custody" sounded a lot like "witness protection,"
where they change your name and give you a whole new
identity.

But I didn't want a new identity. I wanted to stay
Clare O'Reilly, because if I couldn't be me any more,
then who would be left to remember Mom?

It was too much to think about, too much to worry
about. Agent Scully was right. I had to get some
sleep.

I woke up crying five times in the night. Each time
Agent Scully was there, patting my hand and getting me
a drink, handing me tissues and telling me everything
would work out, that it would all be all right.

The fifth time was different. I jerked awake with a
new worry, something I hadn't thought about before,
and a voice next to me asked, "Clare?"

Agent Mulder.

"What's wrong, Clare?"

I lay perfectly still, hoping he'd think I was asleep.
The room was dark; he couldn't tell if my eyes were
open, could he?

"It's all right. You can talk to me."

I guess he could. I curled up into a ball and pulled
the blankets up to my chin. "It's nothing," I
muttered.

"Did you have a bad dream?"

"Where's Agent Scully?" My voice quivered. Damn it, I
was sick of crying in general and of crying in front
of FBI agents in particular, but if I had to start
sobbing again, I'd rather do it in front of her. At
least I was used to it.

Agent Mulder turned on the far bedside lamp to its
lowest setting, just enough for me to see him sitting
in a chair beside my bed, fully dressed. He had his
tie on, although it was pulled down a bit. "She's in
my room, getting some sleep. It's almost five in the
morning and she's been up most of the night with you.
I told her I'd sit with you until it was time to get
something to eat."

The way he described it made me sound like a baby with
a fever. I tried to get angry and on succeeded in
getting more upset. So far I'd been swallowing down
the tears, but now they were getting out of control. I
gulped, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Clare." He leaned over, resting his arms on his
thighs, but didn't touch me. "You can talk to me, you
know. I won't bite."

I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow,
pushing my feet against the blankets. "No. You
wouldn't understand."

"You might be surprised."

I didn't answer him.

"Do you want Agent Scully?"

I don't =want= either of you. I want my mother.

"Believe me, Clare, I know how you feel. They've hurt
people I love, too."

I stopped kicking the covers. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. They've hurt my family, just
like they've hurt yours."

"What about Agent Scully?"

"Hers, too."

"But you're not an orphan," I said, the anger coming
back at last. I flipped back over so I could glare at
him. "You're not all alone."

"No, that's true, I'm not. But it doesn't make what
they've done to me or to Agent Scully any less
terrible."

"Why =are= they doing this to you, anyway? What's so
special about the two of you?"

Agent Mulder smiled a little. "Agent Scully and I are
looking for the truth."

"The truth about =what=?"

"Everything that the public should know, but that
certain people don't want them to know."

"Like aliens," I said scornfully. "Little green men
from outer space."

His smile got broader, and at the same time a little
sad. "That, among other things, yes."

"Who cares if there is life out there? What's the big
deal?"

"That's what I've been saying for years, Clare, but no
one but Agent Scully seems to listen."

I swiped the back of my hand over my face. "You're
saying they killed my mother because of aliens. I
can't. . . I can't. . . it's so =stupid=!"

Agent Mulder stopped smiling and suddenly looked very
serious. "I couldn't agree with you more. They killed
my father for the same reason. They've done horrible
things to a lot of innocent people, which is why Agent
Scully and I are trying to stop them. So nobody else
gets hurt the way you and I and she did."

I coughed. I wanted to ask him what else they'd done
to hurt Agent Scully, but I didn't think he'd tell me
and if it involved implants, I decided I really didn't
want to know after all.

So I changed the subject instead, back to what had
woken me up in the first place. After my earlier
discussion with his partner about my belongings, I had
a feeling that neither one of them would know the
answer to this question, either, or, if they did know,
they probably wouldn't tell me yet. But it was on my
mind now, and I figured if I let them know it was
bothering me, they might be able to work something out
for me.

"Is there. . . is there going to be a funeral? For
Mom?"

Although I'd had my doubts when I'd first met him, it
seemed he was just as perceptive as his partner. "You
want to know if you'll be able to say goodbye," he
said quietly.

I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat where more tears
were threatening.

"I'd like to say yes, Clare, but I can't. To be
perfectly honest, it wouldn't be safe for you to go
even if there is a funeral. They took you by accident.
Then when they realized who they had, they let you go.
Then they decided that had been a mistake, and they
killed your mother so they could take you back more
easily. It would be far too easy for them to grab you
again unless we're extremely careful. That's why we're
driving back to DC instead of flying, because we're
safer on the ground than we would be in the air. I
know you don't want to hear this now, but you need to
be prepared. Agent Scully and I are here to protect
you, and not lie to you. Unfortunately, the truth
hurts."

He pretended not to notice when I rolled over again
and pressed my hands against my face. "Would you. . ."
my voice shook so badly with surpressed tears that I
had to cough again to get the rest of the sentence
out, "would you turn off the light, please?"

"Sure." He shut the light, and I squeezed my eyes
closed, bit my lip and wept.

End part 4/6

==

LISICHKA (5/6)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


I don't know if Agent Mulder got any sleep after that.
I didn't. When the phone rang two hours later and he
answered it I was still awake, although I'd stopped
crying a while ago. I felt hollow inside, as if there
was nothing left to cry even if I wanted to.

The agents swapped rooms again to get ready to leave.
I dragged myself through a shower and into a new blue
t-shirt and blue shorts and felt physically awful and
mentally numb. Agents Mulder and Scully could have
taken me to Switzerland for all I cared now. Nothing
mattered any more.

Neither of them looked too perky, either. Agent Scully
kept yawning and Agent Mulder had dark circles under
his eyes. I guess even FBI agents need a certain
amount of sleep, and between the time they'd spent
looking for me and dealing with me once I'd been found
they weren't getting their regular recommended eight
hours worth, either.

I helped them carry their luggage to the car. From the
outside, this motel looked even sleazier than the one
in Holmes had. There weren't even any other cars in
the parking lot; if it weren't for the fact that we'd
stayed there the night before, I would have thought it
was closed. In fact, the whole area looked dead; the
highway was empty and there weren't any other stores
or businesses in sight.

Not that it mattered, of course. The two of them might
need a good hearty breakfast to get their day started,
but the very thought of food made me ill. The motel
room was so cheap that it hadn't even had a coffee
maker, and both Agent Mulder and Agent Scully looked
like they were in dire need of some caffeine.
Apparently they had certain standards for food
tolerance, and cold Pepsi from a can at 7:30 in the
morning didn't qualify as an acceptable substitute for
something freshly brewed in a pot.

Agent Mulder opened the back door of the car for me
and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in
spikes. Jessica would have gone all gooey at that, and
even Kirsten would have nudged me and whispered that
it made him look cute.

I got a funny twinge in my stomach realizing that I'd
probably never get to witness Jess flutter her
eyelashes or throw a hissy fit again. And I'd never
sit next to Kirsten in classes again, or hear her
mother introduce the family: "These are our daughters,
Kelly, Kayla, Kirsten and Katelynn," and watch Kirsten
and her sisters roll their eyes in turn.

Damn it, I will =not= cry. Not again. Not anymore. I
bit my lower lip hard to keep everything locked down
inside me.

". . . Clare?"

I snapped back to attention. Agent Scully, who was
standing behind me, had just asked me something I
hadn't heard. I turned around to find out what she
wanted when something stung me in the leg.

The sharp pain was the first thing I'd really, truly
felt since Friday night. Surprised, I looked down and
saw blood trickling through the new bandage around my
left calf. 

While I was still trying to figure out what the hell
had just happened, it I'd been stung by a bee or
bitten by a bug or what, Agent Scully lunged for me.

She grabbed my by the front of my shirt with both
hands, spun me around, and threw me face down on the
ground next to the car. It all happened so fast I
barely had time to brace myself, and I just missed
slamming my face into the macadam.

Agent Mulder was yelling. "GET DOWN!! SCULLY, GET
DOWN!!"

I tried to lift my head to see what was going on, but
before I could something heavy landed on me with
incredible force, driving the air from my lungs and
smacking my forehead, nose and mouth right into the
pavement.

Pain exploded through my head. I tried to inhale to
scream and got a mouthful of pebbles and dust instead.
Whatever was on top of me was crushing me; in a minute
I was going to black out from lack of air.

My left hand, stretched out above my head, was the
only part of my body I could move. I flapped it
wildly, pounding a fist on the ground, hoping the FBI
agents would see me and do something before I died on
the spot.

They helped, all right, but not in the way I wanted.
One of them grabbed my hand and held it down. "Stay
still, Clare," Agent Mulder hissed, his voice very
close to my ear, "you have to stay still!"

I tried to turn my head a little to get my mouth off
the ground. Bits of stone and dirt scraped across my
forehead. ". . . breathe!" I choked. More pebbles tore
my lips and rubbed into my gums when I tried to talk.
"Can't breathe!"

The awful weight on my back and head eased up a
fraction, allowing me to turn my head the rest of the
way and suck in some air, and it was then that I
realized that Agent Mulder was lying on top of me,
pinning me to the parking lot.

"Keep quiet," he commanded in a very low voice. "Don't
move a muscle, and keep quiet."

"Wha. . . ."

"Someone's shooting at us. Now shut up and stay
still."

WHAT?

I didn't say it, although I wanted to. Didn't guns
make noise? And where was Agent Scully?

The silence dragged on. My face throbbed and my ribs
hurt. It felt like hours, but it was probably only
minutes. I breathed shallowly around the gravel bits
and dust. Now that I knew he was there, I could feel
every part of Agent Mulder's body pressing intimately
against mine. If you took out the shooting and the
blood, it was the closest thing I'd had to a sexual
experience since I'd been sent into the coat closet
with Matt Kavinski for five minutes during the "Truth
or Dare" game at Jessica's last birthday party. Matt
now knew everything there was to know about what kind
of bra I wore and exactly what was hidden underneath
it.

Maybe that's why Michael Zimmer always laughed and
walked away when I tried to talk to him.

Maybe having insanely stupid thoughts about boys and
bras and birthday parties while being shot at by
people who believed in aliens was a sign of a head
injury. I reminded myself to ask Agent Scully about it
when this was all over with.

Another long minute ticked by, then Agent Mulder
lifted himself off me. I started to sit up, and he
planted a hand in the middle of my back and held me
down. "Don't. Don't get up yet. Just stay where you
are."

'Where I was' was flat on my stomach next to the car.
I was actually looking straight under the car's body,
out to the highway beyond the parking lot. Still no
traffic going by, I noted. Whatever route Agent Mulder
had decided to take back to DC, it was definitely the
roundabout one.

"Scully?" Agent Mulder sounded worried.

There was a small scuffling noise next to me, and then
a grunt. I lifted my head enough to clear the ground
and turned to look to my left, where Agent Scully was
lying on her back not two feet away.

"Scully?" Scratch worried; Agent Mulder sounded
panicked.

"Yeah. I'm fine." She didn't sound very fine. She
sounded like she was gasping. "Jesus, Mulder, how much
do you weigh?"

Apparently I wasn't the only one Agent Mulder had
thrown himself on top of. If I were Jessica, I'd
already be feeling jealous. Once again I wished I
=was= Jessica; I'd rather be green with envy over a
guy who wasn't even mine than covered in dirt and on
my stomach with a stinging, bleeding forehead and cut
lips. At least I hadn't chipped any teeth.

Agent Mulder let go of me. "You can sit up, Clare, but
stay low. Stay behind the car door."

The door he'd opened for me how many ages ago was
still open, forming a nice protective barricade, just
like it did on all those cop shows. Rental cars
probably didn't come with a bulletproof chassis as a
standard feature along with a/c and cruise control,
but then again, maybe the FBI rented their cars from a
special firm. Tanks-R-Us, perhaps. At this point, I
was willing to believe anything was possible.

But I was also sick of lying on my belly like a
lizard, so I pulled myself to my scraped, dirty knees
and leaned against the car, blinking dirt out of my
eyes.

Agent Mulder knelt on the other side of Agent Scully,
now holding her down as she tried to sit up, too.

"Clare!" Agent Scully looked around wildly. "Where's
Clare?"

I opened my mouth to speak and Agent Mulder beat me to
it.

"She's right there, Scully. She's fine."

She turned her head, saw me and started to smile. Then
the expression went dead on her face and she struggled
against Agent Mulder, looking more terrified than I'd
ever seen anyone in my life.

"She's bleeding!"

"Scully, stop. . . ."

"She's bleeding! Her nose is bleeding!"

What?

I rubbed two grimy fingers under my nose, and sure
enough, they came away red. Not surprising,
considering how hard I'd hit my face when Agent Mulder
landed on my head. The pain in my nose, which was just
now blossoming into something large and ugly enough to
notice, had been dwarfed by the sizzling pain of all
the other surface cuts. There was a slimy, coppery
taste in my mouth, making me want to spit. But geez,
it was just a nosebleed.

Agent Scully continued to babble about my condition.
"Let go of me, Mulder, she's been hit!" She'd grabbed
Agent Mulder's forearms and was trying to shove him
away from her. She got halfway up to a sitting
position before he stopped her.

"Scully!" Agent Mulder suddenly thrust her down onto
her back again and held her there. "Clare's not the
one who got shot. =You= are."

"What?" Agent Scully and I said that at exactly the
same time, in exactly the same tone. My jaw dropped.
She stopped fighting him.

"You're bleeding, Scully. Now hold still and let me
see what the damage is." He ripped her trench coat and
suit jacket away from her side and then I could see
what he was talking about; Agent Scully's white shirt
was scarlet from her armpit to her waist.

"Mulder?" She'd closed her eyes and suddenly looked
very, very pale.

"There's no entry or exit wound. They just winged you,
but it's bad. You're losing a lot of blood."

"F***." Agent Scully quietly breathed out the term
that, despite using it myself on a daily basis with my
friends, I'd always mentally thought of as The Really
Bad Word, all in capital letters. My mother had called
it that when I was seven and blurted it out in her
presence for the first time in my life. The only time
in my life, too. Mom hadn't had a bar of soap handy,
but the liquid dishwashing detergent on the sink had
worked equally well as a deterrent. I guess you could
say she'd made her feelings about that word crystal
clear.

"Clare?" Agent Mulder was looking at me. I saw he'd
pulled off his own trench coat and had pressed it
against Agent Scully's side, using both hands. "Clare,
you with me?"

I swallowed, feeling some residual grit slide down my
throat, along with a mouthful of blood. My stomach
gave a sudden lurch. "Yeah."

"Good. I need some help here. Think you can help me?"
Under other circumstances I might have taken offense
to his patronizing tone. Now it almost seemed
comforting. "What do you want me to do?" My voice came
out like a foghorn; I could feel my nose swelling up
as the pain spread across my cheeks and up over my
forehead. Even my eyeballs were throbbing.

"We need to get Agent Scully to the hospital. You,
too. I need to call the police for some back-up, and I
need you to get my cell phone out, dial it, and hold
it for me. I can't move my hands. Can you do that for
me?"

I nodded, glancing down again at Agent Scully. She was
breathing in short, heaving little wheezes, her eyes
only partially open. She looked like she might be
dying.

I didn't want her to die. I didn't want any of us to
die.

"Good girl. Come on over here, slowly."

I carefully crawled over Agent Scully, wincing as more
gravel bit into my knees and the palms of my hands.

"My cell phone is in my inside my jacket pocket. Reach
in and pull it out."

Once again I thought how much more Jess would be
enjoying this than I was. In a way, it was a good
thing that I might never get the chance to tell her my
adventures; she'd be so jealous she'd never forgive
me. First I'd been carried by a stud FBI agent, then
tackled by one, and now I was winding my arms around
his to grope him until I found his cell phone. Except
I had to do all this while bloody and dirty and
frightened; Jess would have found a way to accomplish
it while looking like something out of a fashion
magazine. I found the little phone without touching
anything vital on Agent Mulder's body and worked it
free of his jacket.

"Good. Now, dial. . . " he directed me through which
buttons to push to turn it on and summon the
authorities. "Is it ringing? Good. Hold it up to my
ear."

I pressed it against his face and looked back down at
Agent Scully, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet
through all this. She was still conscious, watching me
and breathing hard.

God, there was so much blood. It was all over Agent
Mulder's hands, all over Agent Scully's shirt, and
puddling up under her body. I was practically kneeling
in it.

So much red.

So much blood.

Blood. . . everywhere. . . .

"Mulder!"

I heard Agent Scully's voice, and she sounded very
alarmed but at the same time very far away.

"Mulder! She's falling! Grab her!"

Agent Mulder's tiny phone slipped from my numb fingers
and I slumped sideways, seeing the pavement rush up to
meet me.

Know what, Agent Scully? I do faint at the sight of
blood.

End part 5/6

==

LISICHKA (6/6)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


The agony in my face woke me up again. Someone was
touching my nose, making it throb, my skin burned, and
HEY! Who's THAT?

"It's all right, Clare. Just relax."

Agent Mulder. I could hear him, even if I couldn't see
him because some other strange guy in a uniform was
blocking my view of everything but a nametag that
read, "Dan."

"Dan" adjusted something on my face again, and I
realized I had tubes resting underneath my swollen,
aching nose, blowing air straight up my nostrils and
making my eyes tear.

"Dan" finally finished fussing over me and move away
so I could see Agent Mulder crouched down by my feet.
He looked like hell; blood and dirt smeared across his
shirt, over his cheek, even across the bridge of his
nose. He looked like he wanted to take a bath and
sleep for a week.

"Where. . . " I croaked. It hurt to talk. It hurt to
breathe. My head was pounding.

"It's just an ambulance, Clare. Don't worry. You're
going to be fine. You probably broke your nose, but
the rest is just a few more cuts and bruises. You
passed out on us, so they need to check you out at the
hospital." He sounded as tired as he looked.

Not =another= white room, I wanted to groan. Not
another white room with another doctor and. . . .

Agent Scully.

Oh, my God, where was Agent Scully?

Maybe she was dead.

Something must have showed on my face, because Agent
Mulder leaned closer and said, "What? Clare, what's
wrong?"

"Where's. . ." I swallowed hard. "Where's Agent
Scully?"

He smiled a little and the constriction in my chest
eased. If she was dead, he wouldn't be smiling. I knew
that for a fact. "They took her in another ambulance,
ahead of us. Don't worry. The doctors at the hospital
are taking care of her by now."

I got the rest of the story in little sporadic bursts
as we arrived at the hospital, as a nurse helped me
change out of my now ruined new clothes (so much for
yet another set of clean underwear) and back into a
hospital gown (pink this time, not green), as another
doctor swabbed the gravel and grit out of my forehead,
knees and palms, gave me an icepack for my mouth and
sent me for X-rays to confirm that my nose was indeed
broken, and then put some surgical tape on it and told
me to avoid sneezing or blowing my nose too hard for a
couple of weeks. He gave me a pain pill that made my
head feel fuzzy and warm and told Agent Mulder I
needed to remain in the emergency room for a few hours
to make sure I was okay.

Agent Mulder stayed with me the whole time, talking,
distracting me with the tale of what I'd missed.

A sniper, he said, using a silencer. The shots had
come from somewhere back toward the motel, and the
first one had come in too low and short and missed
entirely. It struck the parking lot and sent a
fragment of pavement flying in a ricochet, and that's
what had hit my leg and cut me. The second shot would
have hit me, except that Agent Scully threw me out of
the way, and instead it hit her. Then Agent Mulder had
dived on top of both of us.

He'd managed to tell the police what was going on
before I dropped the phone. They'd arrived with one
ambulance, seen Agent Scully and I flat out and
bloody, and had called for a second one. They took
Agent Scully away while Agent Mulder waited with me
for the other one to arrive.

"She's. . . she's all right?" I asked finally.

"A little minor surgery. The shot clipped her side.
She'll have to stay here overnight, but it's not
serious."

I closed my eyes; the pain pill was kicking into high
gear and everything around me seemed muffled in
cotton. "Mmm glad."

I dozed on and off; people kept coming in to check on
me and waking me up to answer silly questions like how
old was I and what grade was I in.

When I woke up for real, though, I was alone in the
little hospital room.

All alone.

Agent Mulder and Agent Scully hadn't left me alone for
a minute since I'd met them. The only time I'd been
out of their sight had been when I used the bathroom.
Agent Mulder had even stayed with me while the nurse
helped me change out of my bloody clothes, although
he'd turned to face the door until I was covered up
again.

Suddenly I was afraid. Someone had tried to kill me a
few hours ago, and now I was all by myself in a
strange hospital. I didn't even know what town I was
in. Hell, I had no idea what state I was in at this
point.

I yanked the blanket up to my neck and called, "Agent
Mulder?"

The door opened and he poked his head in. "What,
Clare?"

I went limp with relief. "Um. . . nothing."

He came in and closed the door, crossing the room to
sit beside the bed. "I had to make some phone calls.
You were sleeping so soundly I didn't want to disturb
you."

"Oh."

He'd also taken a few minutes to clean up and change.
He'd washed the blood off his face and hands and was
wearing a different shirt, a blue one, with a
different tie.

"Some other agents are on their way here now. They'll
take you the rest of the way to Washington."

I blinked. "You're not taking me?"

Agent Mulder shook his head. "No. I have to stay until
Agent Scully is discharged tomorrow. I'm her partner;
it's up to me to make sure she stays out of trouble."

The smile on his face and the way he said that made it
quite clear that he was the one who usually got into
trouble, and Agent Scully was the one who bailed him
out all the time.

If he spent all his time chasing aliens, I could see
where that made sense.

"Who's coming to take me to Washington?"

His smile got wider. "I talked my boss into coming to
escort you personally, with a few other people to help
him. They'll be here soon."

I swallowed. "Am I. . . am I going to have to change
my name? And hide?"

"Physically hide? No. Wherever you are, you'll go to
school, out shopping, whatever you normally do. As for
changing your name, yes, that will probably be
necessary."

I swallowed again, wincing at the ache in my face. The
pain pill must be wearing off. "Do I get to pick what
I want?"

"I don't know, Clare. Did you have something in mind?"

"Sort of. I was thinking that maybe my last name could
be Fox, because, you know, of what my mother called
me."

He laughed a little at that, and got this funny
expression on his face. "Yeah, I think Fox would be a
fine last name," he said. "What about your first one?"

"I need to ask Agent Scully something first. Can I see
her?"

"Let me check and see if they've got her in a room
yet."

He did, and they did. He even brought me more of the
new clothes from the car, so I didn't have to visit
Agent Scully in nothing but a pink hospital gown. I
put on the green t-shirt and the jeans, easing the
socks over my freshly bandaged feet and carefully
tying the laces of the new sneakers.

"Ready?" Agent Mulder asked me.

"Yeah." I let him lead me out into the waiting room
area of the hospital, where a whole group of men and
women in suits and trench coats stood around looking
uncomfortable.

I hung back. I'd only just gotten used to Agent
Mulder; this was far too many serious-looking adults
for my nerves.

Agent Mulder went up to one of them, a tall, bald man
with round glasses and a stern expression, and said
something to him in a very quiet voice. I didn't hear
what it was, but the bald man turned around and barked
an order at all the other people, and then =they= all
looked at each other and went to wait in the lobby.

"Clare, this is Assistant Director Skinner." Agent
Mulder took my arm and tugged me forward, steering me
closer to the bald man.

The bald man smiled a little, but it didn't make him
look any less stern. I tried to say hello and the word
stuck in my throat. He reminded me of my principal,
and no one had ever seen him smile in the whole
history of the school.

"Miss O'Reilly." The bald man put out his hand, and I
gingerly shook it. He sounded more friendly than he
looked. "We're going to make sure you get to
Washington safely, don't worry."

I was worried, about a whole lot more than whether or
not I ever got to Washington DC. Like if I'd ever see
my friends again, or all the things that reminded me
of Mom. Or if this was the last time anyone would call
me "Miss O'Reilly" ever again. I looked down and
blinked back the tears again, mumbling, "Okay."

"I'm just going to take Clare to see Agent Scully,
sir, and then she'll be ready to go. All right?"

"Make it quick, Mulder. There'll be hell to pay at
that OPR meeting if they find out about this. You know
you and Scully are officially still in limbo. If you
want me to sneak her in under the wire, we have to
leave soon."

"Yes, sir." Agent Mulder suddenly sounded irritated,
like he really wanted to yell at his boss but didn't
dare. "Come on, Clare."

I followed him to the elevators. "Are you and Agent
Scully in trouble?"

He stabbed at the call button. "A little, yes."

"Because of me?"

The elevator doors whooshed open and he gestured for
me to go in first. "No, not because of you. Not
directly, anyway. Agent Scully and I. . . it's a long
story, Clare. The abbreviated version is that we just
got back from a trip we weren't authorized to take,
and we've been temporarily suspended from duty until
the FBI holds a hearing about what we did while we
were away and decides if they're going to punish us or
not. When the call about you came in, we were supposed
to turn it over to other agents to handle, not go
after you ourselves."

"Where did you go?"

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Agent
Mulder gave me a tired smile and said, "We went to
Antarctica. It ended up being a very expensive trip."

Wow. "You went all the way to the South Pole? Without
permission?" That took guts. "What for?"

"Like I said, it's a long, complicated story. But
Agent Scully needed help, so I went there to give it."

The whole idea of going to Antarctica to help out a
friend sounded a lot more intriguing than aliens.
Jessica wouldn't even loan you a pen unless there was
something in it for her. Kirsten and her entire family
were incredibly generous, but even I knew there was a
big difference between letting me stay at their house
for a week while my mom was on a conference and
trekking down to the ends of the earth to help me.

The only kind of people who did things like that were
saints or people in love. Agent Mulder didn't strike
me as a saint, but now that I thought about it, I
could imagine how he could love Agent Scully. They
argued enough to be in love.

"Why didn't you send some other people after me if you
were already in trouble?"

Agent Mulder had been looking at the room numbers, and
now he stopped in front of 4136. "Because, Clare, it's
our job to try to find people who are lost the way you
were." His face got this sad, pinched look. "Even if
other people don't want us to." He checked the room
number again, then said, "Wait here for a second," and
pushed open the door and went inside.

He came back almost immediately. "It's okay. Come on
in."

Pink must have been the little girl patient color,
because Agent Scully's gown was white with tiny blue
dots on it. She lay propped up on some pillows in a
room by herself. Someone had washed the makeup off her
face, revealing those red, blotchy patches on her
cheeks again.

Agent Mulder looked tired. Agent Scully looked
exhausted. But she smiled when she saw me, and held
the hand that didn't have and tubes or wires connected
to it out to me. "Hi, sweetie." Her voice sounded
ragged, as if she was just getting over laryngitis.
"How are you doing?"

"Okay."

"How's your nose?"

"Agent Mulder broke it when he jumped on my head."

She laughed quietly. "So I heard. It'll heal, though.
You'll be fine."

"How are you?"

"I'm very lucky, Clare. I just needed a few stitches
here and there."

I glanced at Agent Mulder, who had moved to stand by
the head of her bed and was fussing with her pillow,
poofing it here and there and then smoothing out the
creases he made in the coverslip. 

Oh, yeah. He was in love, all right.

"Did Agent Mulder tell you what's going to happen
now?"

I nodded. Suddenly I felt like crying again, and I had
no idea why.

She must have seen it, because she squeezed my hand
and said firmly, "You'll be all right, Clare. It'll
all work out in the end. You'll meet new people, make
new friends, and life will go on."

I looked down, trying not to blink. If I blinked, I
would start crying, and if I did that, I'd have to
blow my nose. Breathing through my mouth helped some,
and eventually I whispered, "I just wanted to go home
and see Mom."

"I know, honey. But Assistant Director Skinner will
make sure you have a new home with people who'll love
you, too. It won't be the same, but it will be all
right. You'll be safe."

"Agent Mulder said I could change my last name to Fox.
Like what my mother used to call me."

"He did, did he?" She leaned back to stare at him, and
the two of them were suddenly smiling peculiar smiles
at each other. "Did you tell her?" she asked him.

Agent Mulder shook his head. "No."

"I think you should, Mulder."

"Scully, it's hardly relevant. . . ." Agent Mulder was
losing the argument. Even I could tell that.

"Don't be such a baby. Just tell her."

"Tell me what?" I demanded, relieved to have something
else to think about other than crying or how nasal my
broken nose made me sound. Something kind of funny,
from the expressions on their faces. Agent Scully
looked smug, and Agent Mulder looked embarrassed.

"If you won't, I will," warned Agent Scully.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeease," I begged.

"Oh, all right." Agent Mulder rolled his eyes and
stared up at the ceiling. "My first name is Fox."

For a second I stood there with my mouth hanging open.
"You're kidding."

"No. I'm Fox Mulder."

"Seriously?" I started to grin, even though it hurt my
face. My lips didn't stretch very well with all the
cuts.

"Seriously, Clare. My parents named me Fox."

"What, did they hate you or something?"

He gave a short laugh. "No. They were just unique
thinkers." He turned his arm over and looked at his
watch. "We have to go. Did you want to say anything
else to Agent Scully?"

I dropped my gaze to my sneakers. "I'm sorry you got
shot because of me."

"It's not your fault, Clare. Don't feel badly about
it."

"I. . . I wanted to thank you for helping me. Even
though I know I was sort of a pain."

She squeezed my hand again. "That's my job, sweetie.
And you're not a pain. You've been through a terrible
trauma, and things will be difficult for a while. But
they'll get better again. I promise they will."

"Clare. . . ." Agent Mulder was eyeing his watch
again.

"Just a minute." I looked up at Agent Scully. "I was
thinking. . . if I get to have a new first name. . .
that maybe I could use yours. Because. . . um. . . . "

She smiled. "That's very sweet of you, Clare; I'm
flattered. But you should choose something you like,
something that's special to you. Okay?"

I nodded, feeling relieved and guilty at the same
time. I did have something else in mind, but I hadn't
been able to think of another way to thank Agent
Scully for saving my life. I wasn't wild about
becoming Dana Fox, though, and I was glad she'd turned
me down.

She let go of my hand, reached up and touched my face.
"You'll be fine, honey. I know you will. Be good,
okay?"

I nodded, unable to get any more words out.

At that moment, the door to her room opened and the
bald man leaned in, looking tense and impatient.
"Mulder? Let's go. Now."

"Goodbye, Clare," Agent Scully said.

"Bye," I whispered.

Agent Mulder walked me to the door where Assistant
Director Skinner waited. He looked down at me over the
top of his glasses and said, "Ready to go, Miss
O'Reilly?"

I cleared my throat and met his gaze. "It's Miss Fox,"
I told him. "Anne Fox."

Assistant Director Skinner blinked in surprise. He
glanced over my head at Agent Mulder, who merely
nodded and said, "Anne is her mother's name, sir."

"But. . . Fox? Mulder, why on earth. . . ?"

"You'll have to ask her, sir." Agent Mulder smiled
down at me. "It was her decision."

Assistant Director Skinner blinked, started to say
something, then changed his mind. "All right. Miss. .
. Fox, if you'll come this way?"

I turned back to Agent Mulder for a minute. "I hope
you find the aliens."

His smile got broader. "I'm sure I will. You take
care, Anne."

"Thanks."

I waved once when I got to the end of the hallway.
Agent Mulder waved back. And then the elevator doors
closed on my view of him, and my new life began.


End

Author's notes: I started this in December 1998, and
it took me this long to figure out how to complete it.
Many thanks to the members of Scullyfic, who provided
me with suggestions and encouragement - not to mention
a few well-placed pointy sticks - and to Jill, whose
beta comments still make me laugh out loud.

Feedback generally adored and revered at
jeanrobinson@yahoo.com.