Heads Up
Introduction

The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) is the principal investigative
arm of the United States Department of Justice (DOJ).  Title 28, United
States Code (USC), Section 533, which authorizes the Attorney General to
"appoint officials to detect .  .  .  crimes against the United States"
and other federal statutes gives the FBI the authority and
responsibility to investigate specific crimes.  At present, the FBI has
investigative jurisdiction over more than 200 categories of violations
of federal law.

The Bureau also is authorized to investigate matters where no
prosecution is contemplated.  For example, under the authority of
several Executive Orders, the FBI conducts background security checks
concerning nominees to sensitive government positions.  As well, the FBI
has been directed or authorized by Presidential statements or directives
to obtain information about activities which jeopardize the security of
the Nation.  The FBI is also authorized to provide cooperative services
to other law enforcement agencies, such as fingerprint identification,
laboratory examinations, police training, Uniform Crime Reports, and the
National Crime Information Center.

The FBI is a field-oriented organization in which 9 divisions and 3
offices at FBI Headquarters (FBIHQ) in Washington, D.C., provide program
direction and support services to 56 field offices, approximately 400
satellite offices known as resident agencies, 4 specialized field
installations, and to 22 foreign liaison posts.  The foreign liaison
offices, each of which is headed by a Legal Attache or Legal Liaison
Officer, work abroad with American and local authorities on criminal
matters within FBI jurisdiction.

The agency now known as the FBI was founded in 1908 when Attorney
General Charles J.  Bonaparte appointed an unnamed force of Special
Agents to be the investigative service of the U.S.  Department of
Justice.  The Special Agent force was named the Bureau of Investigation
in 1909, by order of Attorney General George W.  Wickersham.  Following
a series of changes in name, the FBI officially received its present
title in 1935.

The FBI concentrates its investigative resources in seven major
programs: counterterrorism, drugs/organized crime, foreign
counterintelligence, violent crimes, white-collar crime, applicant
matters, and civil rights.  Each of these programs is further subdivided
into departments responsible for more specific areas such as
enforcement, field investigations, investigative support, and training.
The FBI's total annual funding for all operations, salaries, and
expenses is approximately $2.2 billion, and employs approximately 10,000
Special Agents and 13,750 other employees who perform professional,
administrative, technical, clerical, craft, trade, or maintenance
support activities.  About 7,250 employees are assigned to FBI
Headquarters in the J.  Edger Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.

One small department of the FBI's Violent Crimes Investigations division
has the distinction of being the only investigative department at FBI HQ
which is housed in the basement.  It shares the floor with Building
Maintenance, Office Supply, and Print/Copying Services, and Receiving.
The complete department occupies a single room constructed by
partitioning off a section of former Office Supply storage space.

Total staffing for this smallest of all FBI departments is two Special
Agents.  The department budget includes no clerical support; research
assistance is "borrowed" from the Violent Crimes Statistics department.
Both Agents are occasionally placed on loan to other departments.
Accordingly, the department budget is the lowest in Bureau.  Despite
this, its closure rate per man-hour of investigation remains the highest
in the Bureau, earning it a high degree of autonomy.  The department's
success is directly attributable to the dedication and talent of it's
staff.

The department head, Agent Fox ("Spooky") Mulder, is a specialist in
criminal psychology.  Prior to assignment to the department, Agent
Mulder gained an excellent reputation within Violent Crimes as a tracker
of serial killers, and is credited with some of the most accurate
psychological profiles ever produced by the bureau.  Agent Mulder's
leaps of investigative intuition are legend within the Bureau.

Agent Mulder is assisted by Agent Dana Scully, an M.D.  with
specialization in forensic pathology.  Originally assigned to the
department to document it's anticipated failures and mismanagement,
Agent Scully has instead become an instrumental part of every
investigation.

At its founding, this department inherited a tremendous backlog of
unsolved cases whose circumstances fall outside the perceived boundaries
of convention criminal investigation.  The department objective: The
Truth; it's motto: Trust No One; it's guiding principle: The Truth Is
Out There.

This department is simply called "The X-Files."


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Prologue
Date: 8 May 1996 14:31:05 GMT


Heads Up
Prologue

A Section of I-90 
West Side of Buffalo 
New York State 
2:18 a.m.

The old wino known as Clyde tottered down the dimly lit alley, talking
softly to no one in particular.  It had been a rainy afternoon and
evening, and although it was no longer raining, the streets and
sidewalks were still dark with dampness, and water stood in the gutters
along the side street where the alley ended.  Lighting was somewhat
better, momentarily, as the muttering derelict exited the alley and
crossed the street into the grassy field beyond.  But as the
illumination from the few working street lights faded away behind him,
he entered the inky shadows under an elevated section of I-90.  The
constant roar of the cars passing overhead was oddly soothing in his
inebriated state, and he had the notion of sleeping somewhere under the
highway.  He knew the pavement overhead would offer some protection from
any additional rain.

When the near-total darkness under the road shielded him from any
jealous eyes, Clyde took out his bottle for a nightcap.  He began
casting about in the darkness looking for a familiar spot, for he had
sheltered in this general area many times.  As he searched, an unusual
sound drifted to him over the routine rumble and rush of the late night
traffic overhead.  Metal clashed on metal, somewhat like the sound made
by children climbing over the chain link fence that discouraged
pedestrian access to the freeway.  But this sound was pitched slightly
higher, and seemed almost rhythmic; it rose and fell in intensity like
ocean waves.

In his state of general diminished capacity, fueled by the bottle of
cheap wine from which he took long, repeated pulls to warm himself,
Clyde's curiosity made him do a foolish thing.  Generally, the stupid
and foolish are quickly weeded out by a life on the streets.  The bitter
cold of Buffalo winters claimed the shortsighted who did not plan their
shelter well in advance.  Teenage gangs, who molested the street people
for entertainment and the few coins they might have in their pockets,
often injured the unwary who crossed the invisible bounds of gang
territories.  Clyde had been on the streets a long time, and knew the
potential cost of excess curiosity.

Nevertheless, he allowed the strange sounds to draw him toward a large
paved area inside the curve of the freeway.  The area was usually only
used by early morning car-pools, which left their extra vehicles
marooned there.  The makeshift parking lot was outside the shadow of the
overpass supports, but was lighted only by natural light.  After the
showers that had passed through, the sky was clear and the moon was
almost in full phase.  Clyde felt sure he could see what was going on,
without leaving the protection of the surrounding darkness.

Just before Clyde reached the point where he expected to be able to see
out into the light, the clash of metal on metal stopped; so Clyde
stopped, too.  After a moment of nothing but highway sounds, a new and
even stranger sound came to him clearly from the direction of the lot.
A crackling and sparking sound began, and grew in intensity.  Instead of
the pale moon and starlight, flashes of a brilliant, harsh light began
reflecting off the tops of nearby road supports and the metal girders
supporting the road over Clyde's head.  In an alcoholic daze, blurry
eyes looked up at the light show for a long minute, as Clyde's curiosity
was slowly overridden by his street-sense for survival.

Whatever was happening, it was beyond Clyde's experience, and he wanted
no part of it.  Adrenaline flowed freely as panic did its job.  Ancient
legs grew stronger, a straining heart pumped its best, and Clyde
retreated from the strange phenomenon much more quickly than he had
approached.  As he retraced his former path out of the grassy area and
across the street, he looked back over his shoulder.  Behind him, the
strange light continued to flash for another few seconds, and then
disappeared.

Clyde stopped at the mouth of the alley, and clung to the corner masonry
for balance.  As he looked back into the freeway shadows, seeing only
the reassuring darkness again, he began to calm.  His first rational
thought since beginning his flight from danger was about how to relate
this tale to his buddies down at the mission.


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter One
Date: 8 May 1996 14:32:05 GMT


Heads Up
Chapter One 
Shall We Dance?

FBI Headquarters J.  Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C.  10:28 a.m.

Even counting all the support staff, with its traditional cast of
secretaries, clerks, and assistants, the FBI is predominantly male.  If
you considered only the Special Agents, testosterone rules about 90% of
all active agents.  For Special Agents assigned to Violent Crimes, the
percentage approaches 99%.  This is a vast improvement over the early
days of the Bureau, when Agents were 100% tall, white, Anglo-Saxon
males.

This long-time propensity for male staff probably explains why there are
no Lady's Rooms in the Hoover Building except on the third and fifth
floors.  And since few male staff wore heels, it might also explain why
the stairs from the first floor down to the basement had those stupid
"sandpaper" traction strips that always caught at Agent Dana Scully's
heels and threatened to toss her headfirst down the stairwell.

Or, she thought as she descended the last three steps, maybe the problem
was her concentration.  She usually took the stairs for exercise, but,
God knows, descending down to the X-Files "dungeon" this way always
invoked a lot of memories and introspection.  But today, it was a
slightly different distraction on Scully's mind.

That memo from the Deputy Director kept drawing her thoughts.  Should
she mention it to Mulder?  Silently she sighed.  Even if he had, for a
change, bothered to read a departmental memo, he would never bother to
think about this one.  It was, once again, going to be up to her.

				  *****
X-Files Office Basement of J.
Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C.  10:45 a.m.

".  .  .  dance, Mulder?"

The half-heard sound of Dana's voice brought Fox Mulder's eyes up from
the case file he'd been reading and over to the face of his partner,
Dana Scully.  Thinking hard, he tried to remember what she'd said while
his attention was buried in the grisly details of autopsy reports and
crime scene photos.  Something about dancing?

As long as he was looking, he took a moment to consider his partner in
some detail, just as he had a hundred times before.  For perhaps the
hundredth time, he asked himself "When Did She Change?" On that first
day, when she walked into the room and had been introduced as his new
partner, she had been plain.  Bookish.  Cold.  Stuffy and arrogant.
Mulder's personal taste in women ran to tall, warm, busty, brunettes.
Except when it came to Scully; she was different.  She was beautiful,
now.  How and when had that happened?  Was it the shorter hair?

He took in the shining red (auburn!) hair, highlighted by the side glow
of the reading light on her desk.  He considered the contrast of her
eyebrows against the smooth, pale (creamy!) skin of her forehead, the
healthy glow of her cheeks, the determined set of her chin, the
impatient gesture of her hands tapping the end of her pen against the
desktop .  .  .  Impatient?  Ooops!

"I'm sorry Scully, what did you say?" Mulder smiled in the way of
apology.

Not for the first time, he wondered if she'd be so much fun to look at
if he didn't know her so well.  At some point, somehow, that person that
he hadn't originally liked had somehow become his partner, and his best
friend.  Across the narrow space that separated their desks, he risked a
look into those bright, intensely blue eyes.  Eyes that seemed to
clearly see whatever he most wanted to hide.  Well, almost everything.
He still had a few secrets that he kept from F.B.I.  Agent Dana Scully.
He hoped.

Dana creased her forehead in mild annoyance at Fox's hesitation.  For
someone with an eidetic memory, his attention seemed to be wavering a
lot lately.  All the more reason to pursue this; he needs a break, and I
need a break, she thought.  This is one of the things I do for him;
bringing him back to earth from all that angst he likes to wallow in.

And now Dana saw that Fox was giving her that dreamy half-smile that
other females seemed to find so intriguing.  Seeing other women's
reaction to Fox had convinced her, at first, that his seemingly
meaningful glances were a quirky kind of flirting.  But having seen it
so many times over the years they'd worked together, with no follow-up
on his part, she'd finally learned a Mulder Secret.  It was all an act.
She ignored his look and sighed in exasperation over his verbal
response.

"Mulder!  Pay attention!  I just read you this stupid memo from the
Deputy Director's office.  They're having, of all things, a formal
dinner dance to welcome the new Director.  Agents at your level,
department heads and above, are expected to attend, as well as "senior
department staff..." She glanced up, over the top of her reading
glasses.  "That's me, I assume." she said with a rueful grimace.  "And
it's Black tie.  You do have a black tie, don't you?"

Dana reversed the memo in her hand and extended it toward Fox.  By her
manner, she made it clear that she was expecting him to take it, read
it, and that she'd be waiting until he finished, to give a test.

Reluctantly, Fox Mulder lowered his feet from the top of the short file
cabinet (where they'd been very comfortable, thank you!), closed the
file he'd been holding in his lap, and rose from his chair.  He crossed
the sparse ten feet that separated him from his partner's desk, and
perched on the corner (there was always so much Room on Scully's
desk!).  He took the proffered memo, on official F.B.I.  letterhead, and
read it through.  He assumed a puzzled attitude and looked over at
Dana.

"So what's the problem, Scully?  No shoes to wear?"

From his new location he could see behind Dana's desk to a familiar
picture.  To work comfortably at the standard-issue FBI desk despite her
short stature, she had adjusted the desk chair to its highest setting.
As a result, her feet barely touched the floor, and were bare.  (And
were lovely!)

Dana was notorious for her 2 1/2" or better high-heel shoes.  In
Mulder's opinion, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the way this
affected the appearance of his partner's legs, but he chuckled at
memories of Scully running down alleys, over plowed earth, and
complaining of ruined shoes.  Dana also had even less luck finding
comfortable shoes than more conservative women, and looked for every
opportunity to remove them.

Dana tucked her feet beneath her chair self-consciously.  She'd never
had much restrain about her shoes; probably because she agonized about
her height.  Mulder had even gone so far as buy a sturdy pair of hiking
shoes in her size and keep them in his trunk.  Dana retaliated by
keeping a supply of health food in her purse, for times when Mulder
couldn't find a vending machine for his frequent junk food fixes.

"My problem, Mulder, is that I need an escort for this.  I am NOT going
stag to an event sure to be overrun with type-A personality macho wolves
packing sidearms!  And since I know YOU have even less of a life than
ME, my question was: Can - You - Dance?" She said the last words slowly,
as if to make it easier for Fox to understand.

"Dance?" he echoed.  "You mean the usual hug - and - sway stuff?  Sure!
I have all the basic social graces; it's required study at Oxford."
Inwardly, he cringed.  Mentioning his English education sounded
arrogant, even to his own ears.

Dropping the memo onto Dana's desk, Fox sauntered back to his own
territory and resumed his slouched position behind the desk.  His feet
went back on the file cabinet, but instead of reclaiming the file he had
been reading, he did a one-hand search through the mountains of paper on
his desk.  Shortly he came up with a large bag of unshelled sunflower
seeds.  Content again, he relaxed into the chair, popped some seeds into
his mouth, and considered Scully's commentary on his private life.  What
was she getting at?

"Didn't you read this?" she said, picking up and waving the memo in the
air.  "There's going to be a live "Big Band", and that means Real
Dancing.  Foxtrot.  Waltz.  Rhumba.  So: Can - You - Dance?" she
repeated for the third time.

Fox gave the question two more seconds of thought, and then grinned.
This was TOO good.  "Agent Scully!  Are you asking me out Socially?  To
a Formal Party?  To a Dance?" The grin, and the tone of delight and
amusement, increased with each taunt.  Suddenly, Agent Fox Mulder was
having A Very Good Time.

It was hard to tell under the florescent lighting, but Mulder thought he
could see the beginnings of a blush creep up the sculptured neck of the
woman (his best friend!  Partner!) across the room.  Oddly, he felt an
answering warmth of his own, centered somewhat lower.  Why was he so
pleased by her reaction?  This was just office banter with his partner,
right?

Dana turned up the annoyance factor in her voice about two notches, more
to get Mulder's attention than out of real aggravation.  She knew he
lived for embarrassing her at every opportunity.  Damn!  Why couldn't he
for once be serious about something other than his work?  She adopted
her most logical and collected "Lecturing Physician" speech mode, and
gave Mulder a choice of excuses to accept.

"Yes.  I am.  It only makes sense.  We have to go, anyway.  Skinner will
make our lives miserable if we don't.  The X-Files Division could use
all the favor we can curry from the Powers That Be; we need to practice
our Ass Kissing skills.  Besides, it's been ages since we did anything
together that wasn't Deadly Serious!  This is a chance to do some of
that Partner Bonding they tell us about during our psychological
reviews.  C'mon, Mulder!  Together we might even have fun at this
thing!"

This last didn't come out quite as Dana had planned, but Fox seemed to
perk up at those final words, and fixed his partner with another quirky
look.  His grin finally went to maximum width, an event Dana had seen
only on the rarest occasions.  But no sooner had Fox's expression
cheered Dana, than it changed.  He suddenly looked positively Hangdog
Sorrowful.  Dana never ceased to be amazed at Mulder's ability to
sabotage his own good moods.

"Mulder?  What's wrong?  If you've already got plans, just tell...."

"No, Scully" he interrupted, "that's not it.  I'd love to go to this
dance with you." I would?  " But, no, I can't Really Dance.  For what
you've got planned, you should probably find someone who can keep up
with you.  I don't want to let you down....  you deserve to have fun.
Besides, I'm not sure you realize what it would mean around here to be
seen socially interacting with Fox "Spooky" Mulder.  The office gossips
would have a field day!"

Dana Scully's eyes began to gleam.  There was an opportunity here too
good to pass by.  Visions of revenge for all the embarrassing situations
Mulder had placed her in over the years flashed through her thoughts.
And an opportunity to spend even more time with her partner than she'd
first thought.  Besides, this was something she thought about doing on
her own, anyway.  It was time to do something in the Get A Life
category.

And all the time she'd be spending in Mulder's arms?  The uncomfortable
thought warmed her, scared her, and made her shy away from too much self
examination.  No, this was strictly a professional self-interest kind of
thing; and for Mulder's own good; and for revenge!

"Mulder, you've NEVER let me down.  And the office ALREADY talks about
us.  They refer to the X-Files as The Twilight Zone of the FBI, and our
case reports as scripts by Rod Serling.  Half the support staff think
we're sleeping together, and most of the Special Agents think we're so
far off the deep end that we do it in a coffin!" Dana felt a faint tug
of something at the mind-picture she'd just painted.  But her words had
the intended effect; Mulder was smiling again.

"I'm no great dancer, either, Mulder.  But our lack of expertise is
easily solved!  What would we do if we needed a special skill for a
case?"

For Mulder the room temperature seemed to suddenly drop several degrees,
and he fought the urge to shiver.  He had heard this tone of voice from
Scully before; She Had A Plan.  And Mulder NEVER liked Scully's plans;
they tended to push the limits of the Mulder Embarrassment Quotient.  So
why did he always end up going along with them?  He tried to guess what
she had in mind, but...

"Contract out the work?" he offered hopefully, but not optimistically.

"No!  We'd study up!"

Panic overtook Fox as Scully's intentions slowly penetrated his thick
skull.  The walls started closing in like an old Hitchcock movie.  She
couldn't mean...  She didn't expect....  Ahwww Nooooo......

"We can take a few dance lessons together!  This'll be fun!" Dana's face
fairly shone with cheerfulness, optimism, and (above all) sheer
innocence.  "We've got six weeks to prepare, and it that amount of time,
we'll be ready to serve as the life of the party!" The notion of Mulder
as Life of the Part was so funny, Dana was hard pressed to keep a
straight face.

Not for the first time since opening the X-Files, Special Agent Fox
Mulder felt blind, unreasoning, stark terror .  .  .

The sudden strident ringing of the phone on his desk was like the
cavalry trumpet in an old western, as the hero was suddenly saved by the
appearance of reinforcements.  Mulder grabbed the phone like a drowning
man grabs for a life preserver, and for the first time in memory reacted
to his boss's voice like a call from a long lost friend.

"Yes, sir .  .  .  Right .  .  .  OK, we're on our way up." He returned
the handset to its cradle, all thought of dancing pushed to the back
recesses of his mind.  "Scully, Skinner wants to see us.  He's got a hot
case for us."

Dana Scully pushed back from her desk and fished her shoes out from
underneath.  As a result, she was almost a dozen steps behind Mulder as
he charged for the door.  Unhurried, she followed, knowing Mulder would
hold the elevator for her, if not the door.  Here we go, she thought,
and half smiled, even as faint chill chased up her spine.  And so the
adventure begins, again!


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter Two
Date: 8 May 1996 14:32:56 GMT


Heads Up
Chapter Two

The FBI is headed by a Director appointed by the President of the United
States and confirmed by the U.S.  Senate for a 10-year term.  The
Director of the FBI is assisted by a Deputy Director, also appointed by
the President and confirmed by the Senate.  Each major division of the
FBI is headed by an Assistant Director.  The Director, Deputy Director,
and Assistant Directors keep offices at FBI Headquarters (HQ).

Although FBI HQ is in the Hoover Building, Washington, D.C., the FBI is
a field-oriented organization.  FBI personnel are distributed across the
country, and work through almost 60 FBI Field Offices located in most
major cities.  Field offices are usually headed by a Special Agent in
Charge (SAC), with the exception of very large offices (like Washington,
D.C.  and New York City) which are managed by an Assistant Director in
Charge (ADIC).

All FBI field agents bear the title Special Agent (SA).  Differences in
seniority, job responsibilities, specialities, and pay scales are not
reflected in job titles.

				  *****

Office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner
FBI HQ
11:09 a.m.

When they arrived at AD Skinner's office, Kimberly, Skinner's secretary,
motioned them toward the door separating the public and private parts of
the office suite.  "Go on in; he's waiting for you."

Mulder flashed Kimberly his most heart-stopping smile (at least, that's how
Dana would describe it) and paused at her desk.  In the James Bond
tradition, Mulder never missed an opportunity to flirt with
secretaries.  The higher up their bosses, the more attention the support
staff got from Fox.  At first, Dana had found this to be one of Mulder's
most aggravating habits; it had looked at first like condescension or
chauvinism.  Later, when she saw Mulder carry on the male- to- male
version of this performance (which involved a contest to tell the
biggest lie about recent sexual exploits), she recognized it for what it
really was.  Mulder recognized the value of friends in "low places", but
was most comfortable with shallow, distant, work relationships.  With
the exception of his partner and a few others, Mulder's friends were
those people he saw most rarely and with whom he had the least
interaction.  And with that kind of person, Mulder put on his most
intense "show", since he had the least time in which to perform.

"Have you reconsidered your policy about not dating other men while
you're married to Ted?  You're forcing me into a monastic existence,
Kimberly; other women just don't compare after .  .  .  " he let the
sentence trail off, and punctuated with a sly, suggestive look.

"After you've had ME, Mulder?  But you've never HAD me, Mulder .  .  .
except in your dreams!" Kimberly was smiling the "aren't you cute" smile
that Dana saw on the faces of all Mulder's "willing victims".

"In my dreams, Kimberly!  In my dreams!" Mulder gave her one last 100-watt
smile, and turned to Skinner's door.  Scully followed in mild disgust,
but was mostly resigned to Mulder's behavior.

No harm, no foul, I guess, thought Dana.  His victims always seem to
enjoy themselves.  And so far, there had been no sexual harassment
charges.  If he treated me like that, I'd .  .  .  I'd .  .  .  probably
enjoy it, too.  Sigh.  I just wish he would refrain from hitting on
other women in front of me.

Mulder opened the inner door, and executing an about-face in attitudes,
moved slightly aside to allow Scully to enter first.  If he'd given the
simple courtesy any thought, he'd have probably cited two reasons for
his gesture.  First, he'd been raised almost solely by his mother, and
courtesy to women was something that had always been part of his basic
makeup.  Secondly, the first head through the door often drew the first
fire; and since Skinner's attention was (so far) non-lethal, he felt it
only proper to allow Scully to draw her share.  No chauvinist, he!

Scully also gave it little thought as she stepped past Mulder to lead
the way into the room.  If asked, she could probably have cited both
Mulder's motivations for the courtesy, but she'd long since accepted
Fox's gentlemanly ways toward her as part of the package.  Being brought
up in an Iris Catholic household with two very rough and tumble brothers
had taught her to accept courtesy when it was offered; besides, Skinner
"liked her best", and a pleasant smile from her before he laid eyes on
Mulder seemed to set a better tone for most of their meetings.

Walter Skinner was a large man, in a large office, behind a very large
desk.  He was an ex-Marine, and acted it; his stony looks had withered
many a cocky agent over the years.  He even purposely positioned his
desk in front of the window, so that light in the eyes of his visitors
made his expressions even harder to read.  Few people "messed" with AD
Skinner.

As they entered, they saw they were not alone with the Assistant
Director.  Another man, in the classic FBI uniform of dark suit, dark
tie, and black wing-tips was seated in front of Skinner's desk.  Dana
hesitated to see if Mulder recognized the man, who was unfamiliar to
her.  Mulder had an eidetic memory, and made it a practice to know the
face of every major player in the bureau, as well as many top law
enforcement agents.  If their picture made the papers, or one of the FBI
crime alert newsletters, Mulder would remember.  Since people are
usually impressed by being recognized, Dana had developed the practice
of giving Mulder the first shot, and then acting matter- of- fact.
Usually, this let the good first impression extend to her, as well.

Sure enough, Mulder nodded in recognition at the visitor.  "Special
Agent in Charge Charles Devon, isn't it?  Buffalo Field Office?" he
asked, fully knowing he was correct.  As Mulder spoke, Devon rose from
his chair and shook hands first with Scully, and then Mulder.

"Pleased to meet you both.  I've heard only good reports about your work
in serial killer investigations; that's why I'm here.  I need help."

Devon earned immediate points on Mulder's scorecard by cutting directly
to the reason for this meeting.  On the other hand, Mulder couldn't help
but wonder if the SAC's compliment had been worded to avoid comment on
the X-File team's more unconventional investigations.  In any case, Fox
gave the man a B+ for first impressions, and settled into a chair as
Devon resumed his seat.

Scully moved a third visitor's chair slightly so that it was exactly
side-by-side with Mulder's, and to his left.  Appropriate "partner
position", I guess, Dana thought.  The chairs of the two SAs, plus the
SAC's chair, now formed a "V" shape with Skinner's desk at the point.
Everyone could see everyone else's face with only a slight turn of the
head (except Fox and Dana, who rarely needed to look at one another to
read minds, anyway).  For a moment, all four individuals regarded one
another in silence.  As usual, Mulder broke the silence first.

"So, you think you have a serial killer?" asked Mulder, looking at SAC
Devon.  "Why is that a Bureau issue this time?  And why me and Scully?"
Mulder directed these last questions toward AD Skinner.

"Yes," said Devon, "We have a serial killer in Buffalo; six victims over
a two month period in highly similar circumstances.  It's a Bureau issue
because the locals started screaming for support as soon as they ran
some basic background inquiries through us.  All this has happened
rather early in their investigation, for a change".

This last bit of rueful commentary referred to the usual extreme
reluctance on the part of local agencies to get "the Feds" involved.
Conflict between the FBI and local law enforcement is legendary when
high-profile cases like serial murders and rapists are involved.  From
the FBI's point of view, this was always due to local politics.  Locals,
of course, claim Federal Agents like to take over and throw their weight
around.  Everyone in the room knew that both points of view contained
some truth and some fiction, and mostly depended on the particular
personalities involved.

"So what makes this an X-File?" Mulder asked Skinner a second time, "Or
are you just loaning us out to Violent Crimes again?" Mulder knew he had
some kind of talent for getting into the minds of serial criminals, but
he resisted getting involved in "mundane" cases.  He knew there were
other, just as talented, agents available in Violent Crimes
Investigation.  Of course, Scully had something of a reputation herself
as an outstanding forensics pathologist; maybe they were really after
her?  Either way, Mulder guarded his time jealously; the X-Files backlog
already went back further than he would ever have time to investigate,
working only with Scully.  Staffing problems in Violent Crimes were not
his concern.

"Oh, never fear Mulder." growled Skinner, aware of Mulder's train of
thought, "This is an X-File, all right.  Devon, describe for agents
Mulder and Scully the circumstances surrounding the death of your
victims."

Skinner smiled grimly, and watched Mulder and Scully's faces for their
reaction.  Mulder was relentless when on one of his crusades; the trick
was in making the Bureau's needs coincide with Mulder's passions.  This
case, he was fairly sure, would grab Mulder's attention.  Scully, of
course, would follow Mulder anywhere, and keep him in line.  Theirs was
a strange and wonderful partnership that served the Bureau well.

Devon clear his throat nervously and shifted his position in his chair.
He looked down for a moment at the standard-issue FBI file folder in his
hands, and then leaned toward Mulder to pass over the reports filed by
his own investigators.  The folder was thick.

"As I said, there have been six murders.  It seems, Agents Mulder and
Scully, that each victim was killed by decapitation.  At the site of
each murder there is evidence of multiple nearby lightning strikes,
despite clear weather.  And three of the victims were tortured, and seem
to have been living under a false identity."

SAC Devon seemed apologetic at delivering such a hodge-podge of bizarre
facts.  He, too, was looking intently at Mulder and Scully to gauge
their initial reaction.  He was desperate for someone to make sense of
this case; pressure from the Buffalo politicos was intense.

Mulder accepted the file without comment, and spent a few moments
seemingly thumbing through the reports inside.  Scully and Skinner knew
he was in fact reading the reports in their entirety.  Still in silence,
Mulder handed the pathology reports to his partner, and Scully glanced
through the first one to note details of the decapitation.  A close read
for Scully would have to wait until she could read them at her own more
leisurely pace.  This went on for a couple of minutes, as Scully waited
patiently (asking Devon a few inconsequential questions to give Mulder
the time he needed), Skinner glowered, and Devon fidgeted.  Finally,
Mulder looked up and closed the folder.

"Interesting.  Scully and I would like to look over one of the murder
sites as soon as possible.  Scully will probably want to do her own
slice- and- dice routine, too.  We're not working under any time
constraints in our other cases right now, and we have no court
appearances coming up for two weeks.  I think we should fly to Buffalo
this afternoon." He glanced at Scully and got a nod of confirmation; all
was well on her front.  "Sir?" Mulder looked to Skinner for final
approval.

Skinner was not surprised by his agents' reaction; he had played this
scene too many times, with facts much more bizarre than these seemed to
be.  SAC Devon was at first startled, and then relieved; he had
anticipated resistance to getting the aid he needed.

"Go." said Skinner, and he waved almost absently at the door.

With a final handshake for Devon and a nod to Skinner, Mulder and Scully
vacated the office and started their descent to the basement.  As they
went, discussion began for plans and schedules to get themselves to
Buffalo as soon as possible, with Mulder devising excuses to load Scully
with most of the paperwork

Behind them, SAC Devon looked to Skinner with a mixture of pride in the
bureau and mild disbelief.  Something in the Agents attitude had
inspired confidence, unlike many similar meetings in the past.

"I would have expected more resistance.  They must be very dedicated
professionals to accept such an odd case with so little skepticism."

Skinner just laughed.  Buffalo must be a quiet town.  Mulder and Scully
would fix that!

				   *****

X-Files Office
11:45 a.m.

"So, Mulder?" Dana has been studying Mulder's face as they returned to
their basement lair.  She could tell that this case had stirred her
partner's interest, but so far he hadn't made any comment.

"Do you really think Skinner buys this "lightning" business, Mulder?  It
sounds way too bizarre for him to lend it any credibility.  This has got
to some coincidence, or a deliberate act to destroy evidence or divert
the investigators."

"Well, something interesting's going on here, Scully.  At the very
least, we have a serial killer on the loose.  And the beheading business
rings a bell with me, somehow.  I think I'm calling The Lone Gunmen
right away.  I'm curious whether Buffalo and beheadings strike any chord
with them.  Could you call Washington National and get us a flight out?"

"Sure, Mulder.  First class, as usual?" She grinned.

As he reached for the phone, Mulder chuckled.  "Not unless Skinner
slipped you some extra pocket money when I wasn't looking.  The last
time tourist was full and I took a First Class ticket, I ended up paying
the difference myself." Their boss's close eye on field expenses was
legendary.

"OK, bargain basement it is, then.  How long will it take you to pack?"

"I just need to stop by my apartment and drop a vacation feeder in the
aquarium." Now, what was Frohike's number, again?

Dana glanced up as her computer was dialing America Online to check
flights and seat availability.  "Now that you mention it, how are the
new fish?"

Mulder made a half-annoyed, half-embarrassed face.  It seemed like he
always had new fish, 'cause they were always dying.  Mostly, they died
from neglect.  But for some reason, he always bought more, and if he
didn't, then Dana bought them for him.

"Larry, Mo, and Curly are just fine, thanks."

"I thought they were named Kirk, Picard, and Janeway?"

"Yeah, well, the captains didn't survive our last case, I'm afraid.
They've been beamed up to that big shuttle bay in the sky.  I thought
this time, I'd go with a comedy team instead of drama."

Mulder call went through, and so did Scully's.  As Dana made their
reservations, she tuned out Mulder's conversation with whoever answered
the phone at The Lone Gunmen.  Mulder often touched bases with the
magazine staff on their odder cases; they were the only people Dana knew
who were more paranoid and more in tune with obscure facts than her
partner.  If it just weren't for that damn Frohike character always
hitting on her!

Mulder finished his conversation, and turned to his partner, who was
also finishing up.  "Are we set?"

"Our flight leaves at 3:05 from Gate 16.  What did the Gunmen have to
say?"

"They said there's been a lot of beheading over the last few years,
worldwide.  They promised to check it out, and get back to me.  Oh, and
Frohike said to ask if you liked "this month's selection".  What was
that about?"

Frohike must have given him some hint, but not told him the whole story,
because Dana could tell Mulder was genuinely curious.  She tried to
suppress the blush that she knew must be obvious.  Damn her pale skin,
anyway!

"That little pervert bought me a year's subscription to the Panty of the
Month Club, Mulder.  I've been wondering how to retaliate: maybe an NRA
membership?"

Mulder couldn't help it, he laughed.  He laughed so hard that he looked
in danger of falling off his chair.  Panty of the Month Club?  He
envisioned Dana carrying the packages upstairs at arms length, and
dumping them directly into the trash, unopened.  This was just too hard
to resist following up on!

"So, Scully!  When is the fashion show?"

"When Hell Freezes Over, Mulder!  And if you tell Mom, or my brothers,
about this, I swear to God I'll shoot you dead on the spot!"

Frohike was already in trouble with Scully's brothers for his lingerie
Christmas present last year.  News of this would probably send Bill, the
Maryland cop, on a manhunt.  Mulder could hardly wait.  Mulder got
control of himself, and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes with a
tissue.

"Scully, when they fall for you, they certainly fall hard!"

Suddenly, a thought occurred and his mood swung radically over to a
"very solemn" setting.  "Scully?"

Dana responded in her blackest, most dangerous tone.  "Yes, Mulder?"

"Dance lessons?"

"Dance lessons, Mulder."

With a grin, her spirits were restored.



===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter Three
Date: 8 May 1996 14:33:54 GMT


Chapter Three
Head Scratching

Gate Sixteen National Airport Washington, D.C.  2:50 p.m.

At least I've learned one thing working with Mulder, Dana mused.  I can
leave town in two hours, and live for a week out of two bags.  Mulder
managed with only one bag, but then Mulder didn't mind his appearance
much, beyond what the bureau required.  He was certainly no clothes
horse.  Who could tell, for instance, if those garish ties of his were
stained or wrinkled, anyway?  Dana, on the other hand, needed a clean
blouse and pressed slacks in the morning like most people needed a cup
of coffee.  Oh well, she sighed, he'd make some remark about her packing
before the trip was over, she was sure.

Looking around the airport waiting room, she wondered how many times
they had played out this same scene.  When Mulder was working a case,
and especially when he was starting a NEW case, he worked every minute.
Across the carpeted isle, he sat facing her with the file he'd marked
"Heads Up".  The flip reference to the decapitations they were
investigating was a typical Mulderism.  It was one of the many ways he
distanced himself from the horrors that they faced so often.

Watching him pour through the reports from the Buffalo Field Office, she
smiled.  She had always found it amusing that he could memorize files
with a single reading, but that his working style was to read them over
and over during every spare minute.  She wondered if all geniuses were
also quirky.

"So, what do you think, Scully?" said Mulder, tossing out the first ball
as usual.  When he asked Dana's opinion, she knew that meant he'd
already formed his own, and was ready to argue.  It was how they worked;
for them, conflict tended to uncover The Truth.

"There's not much to think, Mulder.  Six victims: Tim Avery, 42; David
Donnelly, 31; Arthur Willis, 38; Kevin Taylor, 28; Costas Menendez, 50;
Arnold D'Angelo, 30.  Avery, Willis, and Menendes appear to have been
tortured, and then beheaded.  Donnelly, Taylor, and D'Angelo also
suffered miscellaneous injuries prior to decapitation, but to a much
lesser extent.  The murderer uses a large, bladed instrument; I would
guess a sword."

"You said "torture", Scully.  What did he do?"

"Well, from bruising around the throat it looks like he may have choked
them into unconsciousness several times.  Also, he inserted the blade
into various non-vital areas and twisted the blade from side to side.
It was very bloody, and it went on for a very long time- one or two
hours was the examiner's guess."

"Definitely not a nice man, Scully."

"Or woman, Mulder.  It could have been a woman."

"Statistics are against you, Scully.  Besides, you said "he", too."

"Yeah, I guess I did."

Dana referred again to some notes she'd made in the autopsy margins.
"The pathologist in Buffalo thinks the heads were separated from the
rest of the body in a single stroke.  That requires a very sharp edge, a
very fast stroke, a very strong arm, or some combination of the three."

"I would think that swordsmanship is a lost art Scully; doesn't it
strike you as odd that our murderer chose such a unique weapon?  Doesn't
that give us a major clue to work from?" Mulder knew that Scully's
forensic pathology background included a wide range of knowledge about
anything that choked, stabbed, cut or fired projectiles.

Scully sighed.  "Not really, Mulder.  There are fencing courses being
taught on every college campus, as we speak; I took a few myself, on a
lark, once.  There are cadets drilling every day with blunt swords at
every military academy.  Japanese "katana" swords are in use in
practically every martial arts school.  Swords aren't all that rare,
when you really think about it; they're just not common as murder
weapons, that's all." Scully paused and removed her glasses so she could
do her best thoughtful look.  "But why use something so big if you want
to do your killing up close and personal?  A knife or garrotte would do
just fine, and be a heck of a lot less conspicuous to carry around.  Not
to mention neater."

Mulder nodded as if the same thoughts had occurred to him.  In the back
of his mind, an image of Scully in fencing gear was forming.  His Scully
with a sword in her hand?  Every time he started thinking he knew this
woman, something else came along to shake his image of her.

"Anything unusual about the placement of the fatal injuries?  How
consistent is our swordsman in his approach?"

"Not very, Mulder.  The only consistency I see is the single-stroke
kill.  Other than that, our perpetrator isn't exactly a surgeon.  He
just hacks off the heads as best he can.  I see in the reports that the
cuts were at varying angles, and severed the neck vertebrae in various
places; I don't think he's particular."

"What do we know about the weapon?"

"Not much.  Very sharp, straight, and at least an eight-inch blade to
slice completely through the neck.  There were enough microscopic traces
of metal left in the wounds to do a metallurgical match, if we recover a
possible weapon.  Otherwise, nothing distinctive."

"Did you notice the report about the victims' coats?"

"Coats, Mulder?  What about their coats?" Although Mulder had read all
the files several times, Scully had only skimmed much of the material,
other than the autopsy reports and photos.

"Two of the victims, Taylor and D'Angelo, were wearing trench coats with
a special pocket sewn into the inside lining.  The investigators didn't
speculate, but I've guessing they've been designed for concealing a
sword."

"You think the victims had swords, Mulder?  I don't remember reading
anything about swords being recovered from any of the bodies or
dwellings of the victims."

"Maybe the killer took the victims' swords as trophies?  Maybe this is
some kind of fencing society rivalry?  Or dueling martial arts schools,
like in The Karate Kid?"

"That's your theory, Mulder?  I'm disappointed!  No aliens, no
government agency suppressing information, no mutants?  Maybe we should
go home and leave the locals to figure it out?"

Mulder smiled that enigmatic smile that meant he wasn't ready to let go,
yet.  "I just think the victims and the killer are all related somehow,
and that's going to be the key to this one.  Whatever the relationship
is, I think we'll discover it has something to do with swords, combat
therewith, and ritual decapitation.  I think it's time to call up our
research department and get them started searching the literature with
at least that much." In this case, they both knew Mulder meant their
friends The Lone Gunmen; Violent Crimes Research was already busy doing
their own analysis of the Buffalo reports.

"You haven't mentioned the most interesting part to me, Mulder.  Why do
three of the victims seem to have false histories?  The reports list
subtle inconsistencies in the records of Donnelly, Taylor, and D'Angelo
that make them look like carefully manufactured cover stories." Dana
raised only her right eyebrow, a trick Mulder wanted to learn.  "Maybe
Avery, Willis, and Menendez have false IDs, too, just better ones?
Could these people be part of the Federal Witness Protection Program?
That would let us tie this all into some kind of government conspiracy."

"Or maybe they're all ex-Mafia, hiding from the Law?  Or visiting Alien
Spies?" Mulder delivered the suggestion in a strictly dead-pan tone,
hoping to get Scully to raise her eyebrow again.

No such luck.  "Maybe, Mulder.  Or maybe they're all illegal immigrants
fleeing from Castro or the Columbian Drug Cartel." Now it was Scully's
turn to change the subject.  "What about the "lightning"?  Surely you
got some psycho-kinetic explanation for that?" One of their previous
cases had involved an individual who could, apparently, call down
lightning strikes at will.

"The reports don't actually use the word "lightning".  One near-witness
reports seeing "flashes of light" reflected from the underside of the
elevated highway overhanging the apparent murder site.  The
investigators report "carbonization traces consistent with electrical
discharges" on nearby metal objects.  Also, it seems every light bulb
and electrical device, some car radios and public address equipment,
showed damage "consistent with a power surge".  But there are no reports
of fused soil, no damage to nearby tree tops, no burn marks on the
victims.  Something obviously happened, but I don't think it was
lightning strikes.  Sorry, Scully.  I can't think of any wild theory
that covers all the bases.  Yet." He gave her the famous Mulder smile.

Dana furrowed her forehead in thought; something was nagging at the edge
of her mind.  "Mulder.  Did they report "lightning" in every case?"

Mulder consulted the files floating around in his head.  "No.  Only at
the sites of the Donnelly, Taylor, and D'Angelo murders."

The furrow got even deeper.  Donnelly, Taylor, and D'Angelo.  We keep
talking about Donnelly, Taylor, and D'Angelo.  Donnelly, Taylor, and
D'Angelo!

"Mulder, we have a pattern of some sort.  Avery, Willis, and Menendes,
call 'em "Group A", appear to have been tortured; Donnelly, Taylor, and
D'Angelo, Group "B", were not.  Group A, no lightning; Group B,
lightning.  Group A, no hidden pockets; Group B, hidden pockets
(Donnelly may have a coat we haven't found).  Group A, apparently solid
histories; Group B shaky false histories!"

Mulder seemed to pick up on Dana's enthusiasm.  "And the order of the
killings, Scully!  Avery, Donnelly, Willis, Taylor, Menendez, D'Angelo;
strictly alternating between Group A and Group B!  So we not only have
two distinct groups of victims, but the groups are interrelated in
pairs, somehow.  Also, Group A bodies were found in their homes or
places of business, while Group B were always outside in secluded
areas."

"And Group A is older than group B!" offered Dana.  "Could that be
significant?" Suddenly, the rest of that nagging thought broke through.
"And tattoos!"

"Tattoos, Scully?  You think we're ready for that step?  Can I pick the
spot for yours?" Mulder gave her a mock leer.

"Not for us, Mulder!  For them!  Everyone in Group A had a tattoo on the
inside of their left wrist!" Dana started digging almost frantically
through the autopsy photos.

Mulder frowned.  "Dana, there's nothing about tattoos mentioned in the
reports.  How could the autopsy have missed that?"

"They didn't miss them.  They weren't there." She finally found the
third photograph she wanted, and compared them side by side while trying
to keep the pictures out of plain view by the civilians in the nearby
seats.  Their conversation was already drawing some curious ears and
eyes.

"Oh.  They're not there.  Of course.  How interesting .  .  ."

"No!  Look, Mulder.  The inside of the left wrist on Avery, Willis, and
Menendes is mutilated is the same way.  I'm betting that was done to
disguise a distinguishing mark of some kind.  And on three different
men, I'm betting it had to be a tattoo!"

"Amazing, Scully.  That would never have occurred to me." How could
anyone with eyes like that, also be so damn smart?  It didn't seem fair
to other women.

Overhead, the PA system began to blare.  "WE ARE NOW READY TO BEGIN
BOARDING U.S.  AIR FLIGHT 1866 NON-STOP FOR BUFFALO NEW YORK .  .  .  "

"What say we give it a rest till we get there?  It's likely to be a late
night, and I could use the flight time to catch up on my sleep."

Mulder was a chronic insomniac, except when it came to planes.  Scully
hated flying, and would usually spend most of the flight trying to avoid
looking out the windows; Mulder would sleep through takeoff, the hour
and fifteen minute flight, and the landing, if Scully let him.

If Fox was asleep, then maybe he won't notice me holding his arm during
takeoff and landing, thought Scully.


"You can hold my hand during takeoff, if you want." Mulder gave Scully
his best innocent look.

So much for that guilty secret.  "Thanks, Mulder, but I'll be fine.  I
still need to read some of these reports in detail.  I'll wake you in
Buffalo."

"Sounds like a song lyric, doesn't it?" Mulder started humming some
meandering melody as they stumbled down the boarding ramp to the plane.
"I'lllll wake yooooou in Buff - a - loooo!"

"Sleep, Mulder!"

		    *****

US Air Baggage Claim Carousel
Greater Buffalo International Airport
4:28 p.m.

Mulder hefted one of Scully's packs off the carousel.  "Geez, Scully!
What did you do, anyway?  Pack everything you own in here?  No wonder it
takes you so long!"

"Shut up, Mulder."

"And why did I wake up with nail marks on my arm?"

"Shut up, Mulder.  And I'm driving."

"Yes, Scully."

They picked up the bureau car, a Chevy Cavalier with the requisite
police radio, hidden lights and siren, and a lock-box in the trunk for
evidence and firearms storage.  As Dana negotiated the meandering
airport exit roads, Mulder pondered the directions he'd been given to
the Buffalo Field Office, and a map of Buffalo obtained from the glove
box.

"Turn right onto Genessee after we clear the parking area, Scully." .
.  "Take that upcoming exit for the Kensington Expressway; we want to go
West." .  .  "Take the Goodell Street exit .  .  .  RIGHT HERE, SCULLY!"
.  .  "Left on Pearl.  Move left, Scully!" .  .  "Right on West Mohawk.
Ummm, that was Mohawk back there, I think.  Turn around, Scully." .  .
"Where's Niagara Street?"

"Are we lost, Mulder?"

"NO, WE ARE NOT LOST!  There it is!  Turn left on Niagara, and Voila!
We're here!" .  .  "Mulder?"

"Yes, Scully?"

"Next time, you drive, I'll navigate, O.K.?"

"O.K., Scully." Mulder almost pouted.  They'd made it, hadn't they?
 What was her problem, anyway?

		    *****

A Section of I-90
West Side of Buffalo
New York State
7:38 p.m.

Mulder slowly surveyed the view around the crumbling slab of pavement
for a final time.  There'd been nothing interesting here that hadn't
shown up in the reports.  None of the nearest buildings had windows
facing the right direction, and might have been too far away to see
much, anyway.  The police canvas had turned up Clyde the Wino, who told
an interesting but largely useless tale.

He glanced over at the two cars that been left parked overnight; it had
been one of the owners that discovered the body, after finding their car
a shambles.  The headlights had exploded, the batteries was cracked, the
radios showed carbonization traces and would never play again.
Something weird had happened here, but Mulder was still clueless as to
just what.  Had some new electrical weapon been used?

He turned slightly and considered the location of the victim's car.  It
had been parked back at the nearby street, far enough away that it was
unharmed by whatever had happened here.  Advance planning on the part of
the victim, or coincidence?  Maybe just caution about approaching the
site, like Clyde?

Mulder has hoped for tire tracks of the killer's vehicle, but this area
was obviously used regularly for overnight parking, and specific tracks
were impossible to pick out.  It dawned on him that if the killer had
parked a car here, it might have suffered the same fate as the others.
Unless it was protected somehow.  Or parked further away, like the
victim's car.  Or unless the killer rode here with the victim.  Or
walked.  Or took the bus.  Sigh.  Wasn't it Mr.  Spock who said,
"Speculation without facts is futile."?  It's true: Everything I Really
Need To Know, I Learned From Star Trek.  Anyway, better check bus
schedules, taxis, and repair shops.  And maybe the killer had parked
illegally nearby and gotten a ticket.

What was D'Angelo doing in this desolate location anyway?  The victim's
home and business were miles away.  It felt like the victim had come
here to meet someone, probably the killer.  If Clyde could be believed,
the victim and killer had fought with swords, presumable ending when the
victim lost his head.  Then there was an electrical event that destroyed
the cars, after the murder.

Oh, well.  I can see the older sites tomorrow; maybe some of the pieces
will start to tie together.  I hope Scully is having better luck at the
morgue.

		    *****

City Morgue
Buffalo, New York
7:48 p.m.

"I didn't learn much, Mulder.  Most of the work's already been done for
me, so at first I just spot-checked some of the gross details against
the written reports.  Then I had the bright idea to take a stab at
reconstructing what I thought would be a tattoo.  Then I took a look at
D'Angelo and Menendez in a little more detail."

  Mulder watched as his partner heaved a tired sigh, and started
stripping off her latex gloves.  The body of Costas Menendez lay nude on
the examination table in front of them.  Scully's green protective
jumpsuit showed traces of fluids and substances that Fox didn't care to
inquire about.  Years of this work had eliminated all outward traces of
squeamishness, but he had to admire Scully's seemingly total detachment
from the circumstances of her work.  Unbidden, the thought came to
Mulder that this was the same attitude he'd seen exhibited by young
mothers changing dirty diapers.  Mulder grinned at the image of Scully
changing diapers.  Geez, she'd kill me for that one, he thought.

"What's funny, Mulder?"

"Nothing Scully, my mind was just wandering.  So, did you put together a
tattoo?"

Scully frowned at Mulder's evasion, then decided to let it go.  Still,
she'd noticed him grinning at her a lot lately.  She wondered what was
up?

"No, I couldn't put together a tattoo, but I did find enough
pigment-containing tissue to confirm that there was a tattoo.  All the
pigment I found was the same shade of blue, so the tattoo might have
been mono-colored indigo blue."

"That'll be a big help, Scully, if we manage to identify a potential
next victim.  That's good work." In Mulder's opinion, she was the best
forensic pathologist he'd ever encountered; 'course, he was probably
prejudiced.

There he goes with that grin again!  "Thanks, Mulder."

"Anything else?" he asked, as they left the examining room, and Scully
shed her overalls, mask, and hood in the cleanup area just outside the
doors.  Why is watching this part so much fun?  It's like that Coke
commercial, where the guy watches some cute girl strip off her clothes
and toss them in the washer.

If he doesn't stop grinning, I'm gonna shoot him!  What am I thinking,
he's too damn handsome to shoot.  "Maybe, Mulder.  Something is nagging
at me, but I want to think it over before I shoot off my mouth with a
weird theory .  .  .  God, I'm hungry.  When are you going to feed me?"

Mulder was still wondering what the logical and cynical Dr.  Dana Scully
would call a "weird theory", when he got the second shock hearing that
he was responsible for the care, or at least feeding, of said Dana
Scully.  OK, he could live with that!

"Right now!  Burgers, barbecue, or pizza?" He figured that by offering
choices from all three major food groups, he must have all bases
covered.

"Mulder, we're gonna have to open an X-File to see how you manage to
survive on a one hundred percent cholesterol diet!  Just take me
anywhere I can get a great big garden salad, O.K.?"

Take her?  "Your wish is my command, Madam Doctor."

		    *****

Ponderosa Steak House
10:23 p.m.

Scully's mood improved a little as she worked her way through a huge
green salad, but she didn't seem to want to talk, so Mulder left her to
her thoughts.  One of the best things about their relationship, he
thought, is that they were just as comfortable with each other in total
silence as not; they each seemed to know when to give the other space.
Mulder demolished a steak, baked potato, corn on the cob and was eyeing
the deserts before he finally broke the silence.

"So, ready for dessert, yet?" The salad bar included chocolate pudding,
which he knew was a particular favorite of Scully's.

Scully never looked up from her salad, which was almost gone but seemed
to be holding her eyes riveted to the bottom of the bowl.  Finally she
looked up when Mulder delivered a heaping bowl of chocolate pudding to
her side of the table.  "Thanks, Mulder."

"So.  What's this weird theory, anyway?  Ready to talk about it?"

Dana sighed.  "Mulder, there's something odd about our Group B victims.
Something that doesn't come through in the standard autopsy reports."

"And that is?" By this time, they were both spooning chocolate pudding
into their mouths almost absent- mindedly.

"Physically, they're perfect."

"Perfect?" Mulder started digesting that fact along with another spoon
full of pudding.  "You mean they're the ideal Scully Fantasy Date?  All
three of them?  Wow, Scully!"

"No, none of them are my type, Mulder." You're my type Mulder, and
you're far from perfect!  "I mean they show no traces of having ever
been injured, they have no scars, no calcification in their joints, no
hair loss, no acne, no hangnails, for Pete's sake!"

"They have no hangnails?" Scully was getting weird.

"And they have no appendix; I don't mean they've had them taken out, I
mean there's no sign they ever had an appendix!" Scully held out a hand
toward Mulder, as if begging to be believed.

"Is that unusual?"

"It's not unheard of to be born without an appendix, Mulder, but all
three of them?  It's too strange to be a coincidence.  I think our Group
B victims are .  .  .  clones, or .  .  .  aliens, or .  .  .  something
other than normal human beings." The volume of Dana's voice lowered
throughout her last sentence, until Mulder could barely hear "human
being."

"Way To Go, Scully!" Mulder was beaming from ear to ear.

Scully was miserable.  She felt like she was turning into another Fox
Mulder.

		    *****


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter Four
Date: 8 May 1996 14:34:31 GMT


Chapter Four
Two Heads Are Better Than One

Days Inn Motel
Buffalo, New York
10:55 p.m.

Dana and Fox made their usual sleeping arrangements; adjoining single
rooms at the cheapest convenient place.  As they carried in their
baggage, each of them immediately unlocked and opened their side of the
double doors connecting their rooms.  Each knew, without mentioning it,
that the doors might be closed at any time for privacy, but would never
be locked.  In the course of a hundred nights spent in a hundred small
hotels, a protocol had worked itself out.  Spending so much time living
in close quarters required certain accommodations and concessions
between them.  Like college roommates, they had discovered ways for each
of them to have space and privacy where none really existed.

Mulder's unpacking was simple; he unpacked his spare suit coat and hung
it, and the one he'd been wearing, in the closet.  Then he loosened his
tie, unbuttoned his collar, and fell backwards onto the bed.  Their
informal protocol required that he wait for Scully to finish unpacking
before they spoke.  Moving into a new place was a transition, and each
needed a few minutes to collect thoughts, settle in, and let go of the
day.  With his eyes closed, Mulder listened to the familiar sounds of
his partner rummaging about in the next room.  Mulder smiled at the
soothing, almost domestic, sounds.  Scully always moved in; Mulder lived
directly out of his suitcase because it was easier.

Dana, on the other hand, unpacked every item from her bags and placed
each in either the closet, a drawer, or on the bathroom counter.
Everything was arranged in basically the same way as in her apartment
back in Maryland.  Dana Scully was not a morning person, and she
couldn't cope with searching through a disheveled bag while half
asleep.  It was much easier to stay organized and consistent; it took
less thought.  As she put the last items away, she considered her next
move.  Straight to bed, probably.

She knew Mulder would not enter uninvited, so she went ahead and skinned
out of slacks, knee-highs, blouse, camisole, bra, and panties.
Discarded items went neatly into a bottom drawer reserved for laundry.
With her favorite pajamas in hand, she suddenly changed her mind.  No
way was she going to put on clean pajamas while still feeling dirty from
the long day.  A long hot shower might ease the knots of tension in her
back and let her sleep better.  The bathroom, she realized, was on the
other side of the connecting door to Mulder's room, as was her terry
robe.  To tired to get dressed just to cross the room, she went for the
easy way out.  "Mulder, don't look!" she called.  Getting no response,
she waited a beat and then crossed through the line of sight from the
door, anyway.  She went into the bathroom without a second thought.

At the sound of Scully's voice, Mulder instinctively pulled his head up
from the bed and looked toward the door.  As Scully's words soaked into
his tired brain, he chivalrously looked away, almost in time.  He was
just slow enough to glimpse in his peripheral vision a flash of red hair
and a lot of pale skin crossing in front of the doorway.  Despite
himself, Mulder smiled as he settled back into the soft bed.  His mother
had always said that if you lived next door to someone long enough, you
eventually learned all their secrets, including what they looked like
naked.  He wondered if this had been his one opportunity.  He hoped
not.  In a few moments he could smell the strawberry shampoo that Scully
used, the scent of which always lingered on her hair.  For the moment,
life was good, and Special Agent Mulder slept.

When Dana emerged from the bathroom, wearing a pair of light green men's
pajamas, she glanced through the connecting door into Mulder's room.
Fox was asleep; he was making the soft slumbering noise he always made,
more like a sigh than a snore.  She smiled.  All the terrible things
they'd been through, together and apart, made it difficult for either of
them to sleep.  Fox, she knew, was a classic insomniac when alone.  When
they traveled like this, he slept, but would be the first one up in the
morning regardless of alarm clocks or schedules.

Softly, she padded over to the side of his still form, knowing he would
awake but pretend not to; it was a game they played.  Fox was a very
light sleeper, a fact that had saved his, and her, life on more than one
occasion.  Early on, Dana had agonized whenever she woke him from his
fitful catnaps.  Mulder had started pretending to sleep through her
interruptions; Scully had reconciled with herself that Mulder really
didn't mind.  Leaning over the bed, her face inches from his, she
whispered "Mulder?".

"Hummmm?  Scully?  What?" He had awoke when the water shut off, but
pretended to remain asleep when Dana entered.  He knew she worried about
his sleeping, which strangely was never as much of a problem when he
traveled with Scully.  She'd probably be pissed if she knew he was
playing possum.  He squinted his eyes and opened them to slits.

"Wake me in the morning for breakfast, OK?  I discovered they've got a
great cafeteria at the Field Office; we should eat there to save time.
And Mulder?  Take your clothes off."

"Scully, am I dreaming, or did you just ask me to take my clothes off?"
Despite the humor in his voice, and the smile that crept onto his lips,
he tried to let a little hopefulness inflect his tone, too.

"Trust me, you're dreaming Mulder.  I'm going to bed; you should do the
same.  Good night."

"Good night, Scully." For an instant, he thought she was going to kiss
him because she had leaned so close, but she just straightened and
headed back for her room.  Mulder figured that nothing ventured would
mean nothing gained, so he called out.

"Scully, what about my good night kiss?"

Lord!  she thought.  Could he really read my mind that well?  No,
probably not.  He's just being Mulder.  Scully paused at the doorway.

"Sorry, Mulder.  Not in my job description!  Good night!" She breezed
on, as casually as possible, back into her own room.  She slid beneath
the covers, and turned off the last light on the nightstand.

Mulder wondered who he could see about job descriptions, and then
realized that he was the X-Files Department Head.  Maybe he'd have to
take care of this himself?  'suppose Skinner would sign off on a clause
that said "Junior team partners must kiss senior partners good night."?
Nahh.

"Scully?  Sleep well." At that moment, a thought occurred to him.
"Scully?  Are you really gonna make me take dancing lessons?" He tried
to work a little touch of whining into his voice, to mask the hint of
fright and anticipation that he really felt.

Make him take lessons?  Make him take lessons?  Since when did anybody
make Mulder do anything against his will?  What was he trying to tell
her?  That he really wanted to do this, but wanted her to take all the
blame if it became a disaster?  Dana let out a long breath, and decided
that if this was the role Mulder offered her, she'd play it this time.
Maybe things would go better if she just played along with his stupid
male games this time.

"Yes, Mulder!  And you'll like it.  You'll be an even bigger hit with
the ladies." Dana delivered this last suggestion with a voice dripping
in scorn, recalling to mind all Mulder's disgusting exploits with the
women they'd encountered in the course of their partnership: Dr.  Bambi,
for instance, and Lt.  White.  Mulder hit on every woman they
encountered.  Except Me!

"OK, Scully.  Whatever you say." Mulder hoped that Scully couldn't read
him on this one.  It had occurred to him sometime today that dancing
with Scully would mean touching Scully, a lot.  And smelling that wonder
strawberry shampoo.  He'd pretty much decided that maybe dance lessons
with Dana weren't such a bad idea, after all.

		    *****

The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) was formed
by the FBI in 1985 at its Quantico, Virginia, facility.  It is a law
enforcement-oriented resource center that consolidates research,
training, investigative, and operational support functions to provide
assistance to law enforcement agencies confronted with unusual,
high-risk, vicious, or repetitive crimes.

The Center's research activities include the study of serial and violent
crimes, such as homicide, rape, child abduction, arson, threats, and
computer crime, as well as hijacking, crisis management, and areas of
interest relating to hostage negotiation, special weapons and tactics
team operations.  Investigative support is also offered through the
Violent Criminal Apprehension Program to alert law enforcement agencies
which may be seeking the same offender for crimes in their
jurisdictions.

		    *****

Two days later Cafeteria of the FBI Field Office One FBI Plaza Buffalo,
New York 6:23 a.m.

Mulder had filled a plate with bacon, sausage, fried potatoes, and
scrambled eggs smothered in cheese sauce.  He was in heaven at Scully's
discovering an all - you - can - eat breakfast in the Field Office
cafeteria.  Coming here had already become a morning ritual for them
both.  Scully's slightly different taste was content here, too.  She
found bagels, cereal, and a variety of fruits including melon.  Both of
they were drinking gallons of coffee after their particularly short
night.

Given the security of their location, surrounded by other Special Agents
and Support Staff, they had removed their jackets and were obviously
"packing".  Mulder kept his weapon in a shoulder holster under his left
arm; Scully carried her Sig Saur in a belt holster at the middle of her
back.  How Dana managed to sit with her holster in that position was a
mystery to Fox, but because of her small size Dana found it difficult to
keep a side holster from looking obvious.  On her frame, the bulge was
just too large to hide, even by special tailoring.

They had spent the previous two days going over all the murder locations
together.  The Group A sites were bloody and horrific.  The Group B
sites reinforced Mulder's initial impressions: secluded locations,
victim's vehicle parked some distance away, signs of electrical
disturbance.  They found little new, except some chop marks on tree
trunks and a park bench that might have been from the killer's weapon.
Also, this first murder had been in a grassy area inside the Buffalo
zoo.  Marks in the soft ground made it obvious that a fight had gone on
for some minutes before the beheading.

There were many times during a case when the pair went for hours without
speaking to one another.  An outward observer might think they had
argued, or didn't care for each other's company.  In fact, each was a
basically a quiet, introverted person, content with their own company
and content with one another.  Often they'd seen that each looking at
the same evidence would see slightly different things, and holding on to
their impressions until out of the field seemed to work best for them.

Also, the silence was more of their personal protocol; it was a way to
give room without being apart.  So this morning, Mulder and Scully ate
together in silence, like a couple might hold hands in silence.  It was
like a small liberty they took with one another that excluded others,
let them feel close, and gave each one space to think and relax.  Many
times, words weren't necessary between them, anyway; a look, a gesture,
and they could communicate volumes.  But whenever one of them felt ready
to talk, then it was time.

This morning, Scully had news for Mulder, but it could wait until they'd
finished their breakfast.  Knowing him, he'd want to rush right out of
the room when he heard her discovery, and this melon was just too good
to waste.  Or maybe her news would fizzle, since there was no obvious
way to follow up with the information.  But meanwhile a little
harassment couldn't hurt .  .  .

For several minutes, Dana hassled Fox about the poor performance of his
favorite sports teams.  Invariably, Fox picked underdogs to root for,
and usually got exactly what one would expect.  The race doesn't always
go to the swiftest, nor the battle to the strongest, but that's the way
to bet.  Eventually, the sports talk ran thin, so Dana switched to Fox's
favorite subject.

"Mulder, I don't remember ever working a case where you took this long
to either come up with some radical X-File theory, or dismiss the case
as banal.  And yet, you seem to be as cheerful as I've ever seen you, at
work.  Is there something you're holding out on me?  Are you spending
time with some local "babe", or do you think you've already solved this
case?" If Mulder had found some woman to chase, Dana couldn't imagine
when he'd found the time.  They'd been together almost constantly for
the last three days.  Still, all of his recent smiling and whistling was
hard to ignore from a guy usually wallowing in gloom and doom.

Mulder recognized an assault when he heard one.  Fortunately, he was
ready with a counter-punch.

"Well, you might say I'm spending time with a "babe", Scully, but it's
all in the line of duty." His familiar smirk appeared.  "But the reason
I'm so cheerful is that you've already laid out an X-File theory, and
I'm quite content to go with it.  Again, Scully, Way To Go!"

Is he talking about me?!  Does he think of me as a "babe", and is that
good or bad?  Damn, Mulder, you make me nuts!  Since it looked like they
were both nearly finished with breakfast, Scully decided it was time to
divert the talk back to work at hand.

"How about if you lay it all out in order for me, Mulder?  I'm new at
this hair-brained theory business; I think I keep losing some of the
threads." Scully knew Mulder missed the overhead projector back in D.C.,
where he liked to sort out his thoughts by flashing slides on the wall
while he thought out loud.

"OK, sure, Scully.  We have Group A victims.  Our killer tracks these
people down, often at home, and tortures them for information on finding
or contacting Group B victims.  Then he kills them by chopping off their
heads.  The Group A victims all belong to some secret society that
identifies their members by a blue tattoo on the inside of the left
wrist.  The killer hacks up the tattoos to confuse the authorities,
that's us, so we can't identify the mark and make the connection among
the Group A victims."

Mulder munched a final piece of bacon for a moment, before continuing.
"After each Group A murder, it takes our killer between a few hours and
a day to track down the Group B victim that was just given up.  The
killer and the Group B victim meet in some secluded location and fight
it out with swords.  The victim loses, gets beheaded, and there's an
electrical storm.  The electrical storm sounds like a consequence of the
killing which both killer and victim expected: they kept their
transportation far enough away to avoid damage.  The Scully Theory .  .
." Mulder paused to give Scully his best thousand-watt smile, "explains
this effect nicely.  The victims are really aliens, who just naturally
cast off lightning bolts when they die."

The Scully Theory earned Mulder a scowl, the likes of which Mulder had
never seen before.  He was momentarily shocked that his diminutive
partner was capable of looking so positively deadly.  Oh well, he was
sure she'd forgive him, eventually.  Besides, it was her idea.  He
pressed on.

"The boys and girls back home at NCAVC have been working overtime on
several aspects of this case.  I got a phone call this morning, and a
very long e-mail message.  Our group A victims have well-documented
histories in every case; no doubt about identities.  But the queer thing
about Group A is that all the victims seem to have a common source of
supplemental income: they are part-time paid "researchers" for a very
private, very high-brow organization called International Assets." This
last was new information for Scully.

"International Assets seems to be almost a fraternal organization of
historians, genealogists, antiquarians and the like.  Most of the
members are only part-time, membership is by invitation only, you can
guess the usual egghead drill.  They authenticate paintings, sculptures,
maps and other antiques and artifacts.  Museums and private collectors
hire them a lot to establish the worth of rare collectibles, probably
explaining the name.  The organization has a web page with a charter
statement about contributing to the knowledge of mankind by preserving
the knowledge of the past.  And that's all the bureau researchers came
up with.  Frohike, who sends his love by the way, dug up some additional
information."

Dana made a face at the mention of Frohike.  His obvious and obnoxious
advances were a pain to put up with, but the guy wasn't all bad.  He had
been a good friend many times in the past, and was always a boon at
obtaining information as long as you didn't question his methods.

"Apparently, a few of their members publish regularly in several
respected history and antique journals; some of those papers are
available on-line and Frohike says they leak a lot of odd details.  A
lot of their people seem to move around frequently and unexpectedly.
Frohike says International Assets always foots the moving and travel
bills.  He also says International Assets is rumored to have a
magnificent antique collection of their own, including the largest
private collection of swords in the world.  "

"Lastly, Frohike toured the International Assets web page and recommends
it for bedtime reading only.  Also, he mentions that the page is headed
with an interesting logo.  Care to take a guess?"

"I would guess that it's blue?  Like the tattoos?" asked Scully, with
one raised eyebrow.

"Bingo.  A blue bird.  So via their web page I sent e-mail to the
address of their U.S.  Coordinator, one Joe Dawson.  Perhaps Mr.  Dawson
will be able to tell us why three members of his fraternity have been
bumped off in such rapid succession, and why anyone would try to obscure
the tattoos on their arms.  Or even why they sport tattoos in the first
place.  And maybe he can explain who the Group B victims are.  Anyway,
that just about recaps what we know to date."

"Well, I have some news to contribute.  Want to hear what Quantico
thought about the tissue samples, Mulder?" This will make him happy, I'm
sure now, thought Dana.

"Sure!  What planet are our Group B victims from, Scully?"

The dignified Dr.  Dana Scully extended her tongue in a most childish
way in the general direction of her partner.  She reflected that one of
her brothers had often done the same to her, except he had neglected to
swallow his food, first.  This is the kind of thing I'm reduced to,
working with Mulder, she thought.

"They mentioned nothing about an extra-terrestrial origin for any of the
samples, but they did make a lot of interesting findings about the
overall body chemistry of Group B.  You remember about free-radicals,
right Mulder?" It was a rhetorical question.  On a previous case, he and
Dana had been afflicted with a disease that raised the free-radical
level in his bodies, and caused rapid premature aging.  "Well, the
current literature still considers the free-radical factor a prime
suspect in the whole process of aging.  We can fairly accurately guess
the age of an individual from the level of free-radicals in his
tissues.  Want to guess the average age of our Group B victims,
calculated by that method?"

There was a nasty gleam in Scully's eyes.  The answer had to be
startling, so Go For It, thought Mulder.

"Two hundred fifty years?"

A smile broke out on Scully face.  He was gonna love this!  "Nope.  Too
high.  Want another guess?"

"One twenty five." He was starting to feel like that old show with Bob
Parker and Dian Parkinson, The Price Is Right.

"Nope.  Still too high.  Give up?"

"I give, Scully.  How old?"

"Five years, Mulder.  Free-radical-wise, they were all around five years
old." Despite herself, Dana couldn't help but feel pleased with
validation that those bodies in the morgue were very, very, strange.
"Until now, Mulder, the experts thought free-radical aging was accurate
to within two percent.  There will be some very unhappy scientists in
the next few days when the eggheads at Quantico share these samples,
from apparently adult bodies, with their academic buddies."

Mulder put down his fork, and clapped his hands almost soundlessly.
There was not a hint of insincerity in his manner as he inclined his
head toward his partner, as if bowing.

"Congratulations, Dr.  Scully.  The medical community rallies 'round
your clone - or - alien theory.  Bravo!" Cripes!  Not only does she come
out with this wacko theory, but she does me one better by finding
scientific evidence.  Well, I always knew she was brilliant.

Scully lowered her own head in acceptance of Mulder's praise, secretly
enjoying it even more than she let show.  Mulder's admiration was rarely
given, but always given freely when due.  I thought I was past needing
the approval of others, but this feels really good, she thought.  Like
pleasing my Dad, or Mom.

"So Scully, what do you think?  Clones or Aliens?"

She'd known this question would come, and she'd dreaded it.  She'd
explained the circumstances to Dr.  Cummings back at Quantico; he'd been
unwilling to make a guess.  And now she was going to go out on a limb
for the second time in the same case.  But what the heck.  When you've
eliminated the impossible .  .  .

"Mulder, I don't think they were five year old clones.  Maturing a clone
to adulthood in that length of time would be unlikely, not to mention
all the high speed reeducation that would be required to let them pass
as adults.  And I don't think they were aliens; there was nothing
noticeably wrong with their DNA or tissue samples.  I think .  .  ."

"Yeah, Scully?" Mulder smelled Another Good One Coming.

".  .  .  I think they weren't aging Mulder; that would make some kind
of bizarre sense considering the extreme state of good health I saw in
each cadaver.  I think their false histories might have been constructed
to hide the fact that they were very, very, old."

Mulder whistled very softly, in amazement and excitement.  "We should
request a computer search through the fingerprint back-files, Scully .
.  ." he paused as Scully removed a small print-out from her purse and
slid it across the table.  "What's this?"

"Way ahead of 'ya, Mulder.  They found one hit in the "dead files" from
one of our victims." She waited as he read the fingerprint search
results.

Mulder's eyes widened.  "You score two for two, Scully.  Soon you're not
going to need me any more for the weird stuff.  This says Group B victim
Kevin Taylor was previously known as Ken Tailer, and enlisted in the
U.S.  Army in 1945 at the tender age of 25.  That would make him now
seventy years old, if he hadn't died at an Army field hospital in 1948
from a gunshot wound." He looked up at his partner with a new
intensity.  "We've gotta talk to this Dawson guy."

Mulder rose from his chair and looked longingly back at the breakfast
layout.  "You suppose they'd care if I get another O.J.  to go?"

		    *****


Chapter Five
Three Heads Are Even Better

Joe's Place
(a blues club)
Chicago, IL
6:30 a.m.

Joe Dawson sat alone in the office behind the club, hunched over a
desktop computer, staring at an e-mail message on the screen.  His head
hurt, probably due to the tension and stress that had become his
constant companions these days.  The implications of the Buffalo murders
had not escaped him; the media was having a field day because of the
beheading aspect.  It didn't help matters that he knew all the victims;
half of them, Mulder and Scully's "Group A", he knew personally; they
were his people.  He felt the weight of the years, and all those deaths,
on his shoulders.

He also knew this FBI agent, Mulder, at least by reputation.  Having
more than a passing professional interest in the metaphysical himself,
Joe had heard this name before.  This was the guy that Joe's people in
the bureau called "Spooky Mulder".  This was the guy who had a rep for
developing the most incredible explanations for events and circumstances
that other, more conventional, law enforcement people would dismiss out
of hand.  And he had a reputation for closing such cases.  This guy
might be very dangerous to Joe, his people, and their work.  He was
dangerous because he might believe.

Not for the first time, Joe considered the wisdom of the tattoos that he
and most of his organization's people wore on the inside of their left
wrists.  The symbol was ancient, as ancient as their organization
itself.  It reminded the wearer of their cause, of the history and
importance of their work, of the danger they faced every day.  But it
had also probably helped lead this Fox Mulder to his electronic
doorstep, since the agent had mentioned tattoos on the bodies.

Maybe it had been a bad idea to bring International Assets out into the
open; he had been part of that decision.  It was seen as a way to
explain the connection between his people, and to manage the
expenditures needed to keep all the fronts covered.  Government
agencies, especially the tax collectors like the IRS, were just getting
too damn smart, or thorough, to be fooled by untraceable sources of
cash.  Several times they had people entangled with the Drug Enforcement
Agency, the FBI, or the IRS.  All because of the need to support their
people who were forced to pack up and move on short notice.  Hiring such
people as "researchers", and filing all the requisite mountains of
governmental paperwork, had seemed the smartest course at the time.

Of course, this FBI agent was really only his secondary problem.  The
primary problem was that someone seemed to have at least a partial list
of Joe's people.  Someone, somewhere, had gotten careless, again.  Their
purpose was only to watch and record, but now another Immortal had
become aware of the Watchers.  The Watchers were being killed, and being
used to locate their assigned Immortals.  The result was the same as if
the Watchers were taking an active hand in these Immortal's deaths.
This could not be allowed to continue.

Joe paced his office for a while, and then went into the club area
proper.  The room was deserted except for the sights and scents left
over from yesterday night's crowd.  Joe still hadn't been to bed after
last night's, really this morning's, closing.  He hadn't cleaned up, a
task he reserved for himself as penance for being "the boss".  There was
litter on the floor, spilled wine and beer on the table tops,
overflowing ash trays.  The trivialities of life, of the life that he'd
come to think of as his "cover" life, overwhelmed him for a moment.  So
much to do, so little time.  Life, for him, was short and crowded.  But
for three of his people, and probably more to come, life had been cut
even shorter than the pathetically short allotment allowed to mortals.
Doing something about their killer was his responsibility.

In better times, he would have called his Immortal friend MacLeod.  But
at the moment, the two of them were not on very good terms.  Duncan
MacLeod was having a period of personal crisis again, like the records
said he always did when facing the loss of a loved one.  The guy just
hadn't been truly happy since Tessa died.  Ah, beautiful, sweet Tessa.
Another mortal life cut needlessly shorter.  Even Amanda and Richie, the
two people who loved him most, were having trouble dealing with
MacLeod.

Joe pushed open the large front doors of the club, and looked up through
the crowded skyline to try and catch a glimpse of sunrise.  Another day,
more lives in his hands, perhaps more deaths on his hands.  The only
possible resolution was that an Immortal had to be found and killed.
Joe wasn't naive enough to think that anything less would do.  Immortals
were not a reasonable or even-tempered lot; that came naturally, he
guessed, as the result of living with the daily threat of violent death
for centuries.  And with seeing all your loved ones wither with age and
die, again and again.

Watchers lived with the Immortals' violence, too, but vicariously.
Direct participation in death and violence wasn't in Joe's nature, even
when he had been a soldier.  He'd had his own share of personal
tragedies over the years, and Death was always a tragedy, no matter how
long, or short, the life.  Joe sighed.

Dawson needed an ally who could track this ambitious and bloodthirsty
Immortal, and who could be convinced, or tricked, or bribed, or coerced
into killing him.  He let the club doors swing shut, and held his face
in his hands for a moment.  What to do?

For sure, he'd call Adam Peerson.  This was almost as much an Immortal
problem as a Watcher problem, and Methos had a foot in both worlds.  And
he'd invite Fox Mulder for a visit, at least to gauge the extent of his
problem on that front.

With another sigh, he straightened and limped back through the club to
his PC.  This FBI agent was sure to be tenacious, sure to ask dangerous
questions, and had resources behind him that Joe couldn't hope to
match.  Would he be friend or foe?

Maybe Fox Mulder would be the Ally he needed.

		    *****

FBI Field Office
One FBI Plaza
Buffalo, New York
7:15 a.m.

Scully and Mulder were sharing a spare office temporarily assigned to
them by the Buffalo Field Office.  Scully was using the laptop PC she
always carried in the field, while Mulder had borrowed the machine left
by the previous occupant.  The office only contained one desk, but they
were making due by sitting opposite and offset from one another, across
the desktop.  By unspoken consent, they preferred the cramped
arrangements to being out of eyesight and easy speaking distance.  As
usual, Mulder had found excuse after excuse to leave the daily reports
to Scully; rank, after all, having some privilege.  By this point in
their relationship, Scully had actually come to prefer writing all the
reports herself, anyway.  It saved time over having to tone down the
references to Mulder's unconventional theories and investigative
techniques.  Not that Scully hid her partners' explanations, it was just
that she had learned to present them in a way that made them more likely
to be read and considered, instead of Mulder's somewhat blunter
"sledgehammer" style.

Before directing the resources of the FBI, and Frohike, into tracing Joe
Dawson, Mulder had decided to check his e-mail on the off chance that
Dawson had sent a reply.  Surprisingly, he found a message from Dawson
waiting for him, in reply to his early morning message.

     to: fwmulder@fbihq.gov from: joe_dawson1@chicago-freenet.org

     yes, i believe i have information that can help you in your
     investigation.  it is imperative that we meet in person, since very
     confidential information is involved.  despite your reputation for
     open mindedness, i suspect my info will tax your willingness to
     believe.  i'm guessing that your travel budget is bigger than mine,
     so i suggest we meet at my club asap.  see .sig for address.
     please hurry, time is of the essence.  don't worry about leaving
     buffalo.  next victims will not be in buffalo, but do not know who
     or where is next.  my own people are investigating, too.  may have
     more info by the time you get here.

Dawson's signature file, a standard closing which e-mail users prepare
once and then append to every outgoing message, contained the address
for Joe's Place in Chicago.

"My people are investigating?" he echoed under his breath.

"What?" At the sound of her partners voice, Dana looked up from her
screen and searched her partner's face.  Reading the expression she
found there, she inquired "Find something interesting, Mulder?"

Mulder swung the monitor around so Scully could read the message for
herself.  He waited silently for a few seconds until her eyes stopped
flicking across the screen and returned to his.

"He saved me the trouble of tracking down his address, for which I'm
grateful.  But how could he know the next murder will not be in Buffalo,
and not know where the next site will be, Scully?  It sounds to me like
he's confessing to a major involvement in these crimes, and yet wants to
help."

"Maybe he just realizes that his people are targets, and maybe all his
people in Buffalo are dead, now?  Maybe he has other people in other
cities, but has no way to guess where the killer will move to next.
Maybe he is deeply involved, even responsible, for these deaths and
wants to sidetrack us to Chicago because we're getting too close here in
Buffalo.  Remember, Mulder, "Trust No One".  We have no reason to take
anything this person says at face value."

"Cynicism, Scully?  You don't believe this Dawson character is just a
concerned citizen, anxious to help the authorities in any way possible?"

"No, and neither do you.  If I thought we were making any headway at
identifying the killer from what leads we have, I'd say we should split
up at this point and you go to Chicago while I run things here.  But
since we're not, then priority two ought to be forestalling any further
murders, and Dawson seems like the best lead on that front." And
besides, you are not running off without me!

"My thoughts exactly, Scully.  Which means we have no reason to hang
around here, and no reason not to follow where Dawson leads us.  Let's
head for Chicago." Mulder glanced at his watch.  "There's a flight in
about two hours, if I can get us seats."

Quickly, Mulder checked with the airline through CompuServe, while
Scully tapped out messages that notified the local FBI people of their
departure, and informed Skinner of their new destination.  Finishing
with the administrivia, she collected their belongings.  Scully scooped
most of Mulder's desktop clutter straight into his carry-bag, just as he
would have done.  In fact, as she tried to zipper his bag shut, Mulder
flipped a spare notebook into the bag from across the room, startling
her.  Fox apologized with a smile, then rolled the top down on his bag
of sunflower seeds and slipped them into the side pocket of his jacket.
Scully dropped Mulder's bag by the door, and neatly transferred her few
desktop items into her own carry-bag.  Voila, the office was packed.

Reservations finally made and confirmed, Mulder sent another e-mail to
Dawson:

     to: joe_dawson1@chicago-freenet.org from: fwmulder@fbihq.gov

     on my way.  bringing my partner, dr dana scully.  she'll be the
     cute, smart one.  should arrive at club approx noon.  don't doubt
     our ability to believe a good story, we have some of our own.
     anxious to hear yours.

Slipping on her own jacket, Scully circled the desk and peeked over
Mulder's shoulder in time to see his last message.  Mulder was
temporarily distracted by the scent of strawberries and his partner's
profile so close to his own.

""Cute, Smart One", Mulder?  Is that how you usually describe me to
people?" She turned her head and gave Mulder a challenging look at close
range.

Mulder attempted to raise only one eyebrow, failed miserably, and
settled for one - and - a - half.  "No, it's not; I usually use the word
"hot", but I don't know Dawson that well.  How do you tell people to
recognize me, Scully?"

Cute?  Hot?  Smart?  Me?  "I tell people to look for a tall, handsome,
angst-ridden guy with a terrible tie." She motioned toward his current
tie with her chin.

Handsome?  Tie?  Me?  Mulder looked down at his neon blue tie with
little orange flying saucers, as if bewildered.  This was his favorite.
In fact .  .  .

"But Scully, you gave me this tie!" Handsome!

"I know.  It was supposed to be a joke, but it's still a big improvement
over most of your collection." Hot!

		    *****

In Front of Joe's Place
Chicago, IL
12:18 a.m.

"Looks closed, Scully."

It was hard to tell, really.  In typical club style, the front windows
and the glass in the doors had been painted over black from the inside.
There were no posted hours, no "OPEN" or "CLOSED" signs, and the "Joe's
Place" sign over the door was not lit.

Scully tried one side of the club's big double doors, and shrugged.
"It's open, Mulder."

As Scully pulled the door open slightly, Mulder pressed his back against
the other door and peered in cautiously.  He considered pulling his gun
and entering high - and - low with Scully, police style.

"The lights are on inside, Scully.  Looks like somebody was expecting
us."

As Scully pulled the door open further, Mulder closed his eyes and
entered first, sliding around the right edge of the door to press his
back against the inside.  There was no pause for curtesy this time; he
didn't mind Scully drawing Skinner's fire, but real bullets (or a
sword!) was something else entirely.  With the extra seconds to adjust
to lower light, his vision cleared quickly as he opened his eyes.

A little miffed at Mulder jumping in front of her again, Scully
reflected that she should maybe cut a little slack for someone who
described her as "smart" and "hot"; besides, he was the senior agent and
officially got to make calls like this.  Recognizing his tactics, Scully
followed Mulder's lead by hanging back a moment before entering in a
similar manner, only moving to the left side.  Feeling a little more
cynical than Mulder, she had drawn her own weapon, but was keeping it
low and inconspicuously hidden in the folds of her trench coat.

Instead of swords or bullets, a voice greeted them.

"We're back here, folks.  You must be Mulder and Scully.  Welcome to
Joe's Place.  Can I get you something to drink?" The voice came from the
gloom at the back of the large room.

As Mulder's eyes adjusted to the low lighting, he could see two figures
raising to their feet on the other side of a table at the far end of the
room.  Their hands appeared to be empty, and they were the only two
people immediately visible.  Mulder started forward, not taking his eyes
off the men, but staying alert for movement in his peripheral vision.
Scully moved forward two paces behind Mulder and to his left; most of
her attention was focused to the left and right.  As she crossed the
room she casually moved her right hand, holding the automatic, under her
coat where she replaced it in the holster at the small of her back.

The man on the left had spoken, and looked to be the older of the pair,
maybe 50, Caucasian, about 5'10" tall, and 175 lbs.  He sported a full,
short trimmed beard, light brown with a touch of red and gray, like his
hair.  In raising, he favored his right leg.  Mulder saw a cane propped
against the man's chair, and guessed at a long-term injury.  The older
man moved his hands out to the side and low, palms forward, in the
familiar gesture of a host bidding a guest to enter.  Mulder assumed
this was Joe Dawson.

The man on the right was younger, probably in his early thirties.  He
was taller, maybe 6' even, and thinner, around 160 lbs.  His hair was a
light brown, and his features were thin and somehow exotic.  Mulder
couldn't place his ethnic background, except to say Caucasian.

The man on the left spoke again.  "We're having coffee; there's ice tea,
soda, or something stronger if it's not too early?"

So we're playing it friendly and casual; O.K.  "Some ice tea would hit
the spot for me; what about you, Scully?"

"Nothing for me, thanks.  I'm fine." Scully did an obvious once-over of
the room as she neared the figures ahead, and remarked "Kind of quiet,
isn't it?"

The older man answered.  "We're usually closed at this time of day; the
crowd starts drifting in around eight o'clock."

The pair of Agents reached the table area almost simultaneously, and
stopped a few feet short.  The two men rounded the table to meet them.
The older man spoke first.

"Hi, I'm Joe Dawson; most people just call me "Joe"." Dawson, who had
used the cane even for that short distance, shifted the cane to his left
hand, extended his right hand to Scully and looked expectant.

"Hello.  I'm Special Agent Dana Scully.  This is my partner, Special
Agent Fox Mulder."

Then Dawson turned to Mulder and extended his right hand again.  Mulder
tried to see the inside of Dawson's left hand as he moved, but the gloom
and angle prevented him from seeing if the man sported a tattoo.  Dawson
nodded at Mulder as they shook hands.

"Agent Mulder.  You described your partner well, I see." Dana wondered
if men truly thought they were being complimentary by talking about
women in the third person.  It was an annoying habit she could just
barely tolerate from Mulder.

Mulder decided to let his hair down; after all, the man had offered him
ice tea and thought Scully was cute; he couldn't be all bad.

"Joe.  Pleased to meet you.  Just call me "Mulder"."

"It's good to meet you in person; I'm still struggling to get
comfortable with the new technology.  E-mail is fast and convenient, but
it seems terribly impersonal." Dawson retrieved his hand, and switched
hands with the cane.  "I'll get your tea."

As Dawson limped away to the bar, the thinner man extended his hand to
Scully.  Scully matched him, but instead of shaking her hand the tall
figure bowed slightly and raised her hand to his lips.  Never taking his
eyes off Scully's face, he kissed the back of her hand briefly, before
releasing it.  The action was so natural and matter - of - fact on his
part, that Dana had no time to react until the deed was done.

"Charmed to meet you, Agent Scully.  My name is Adam Peerson, and I must
disagree with my friend Joe.  Your partner's description does not do you
full justice; you're quite lovely."

Slightly flustered, having never had her hand kissed by a stranger
before, especially as foreplay to so smooth a compliment, Dana seemed
uncertain about what to do with her released hand.  After a slight
hesitation, she tucked it into her right pocket, matching the left, and
gave Mulder a double - raised - eyebrow look.

Adam turned to Mulder and offered his hand for a more conventional
greeting, and a warm smile.  His grip on Mulder's hand was firm but not
overly so; there was no attempt to crush bones.

"Agent Mulder.  Pleased to meet you, sir.  You are a very lucky man to
have such a pleasant working companion."

"I count my blessings ever day, Mr.  Peerson.  Are you a good friend of
Joe's?  We had expected a private talk."

Dawson had said nothing about a fourth person at their meeting.  Mulder
wondered how this new name fit into the picture.  It was an enigmatic
sounding name, too, like the man's features.  And Mulder wasn't sure he
liked anyone kissing his partner's hand.  And his compliments were much
too obvious to appeal to Scully.

"Please call me Adam.  And yes, Joe and I have known one another for
many years; I know why you're here.  Won't you two sit down?  Can I take
your coats?"

Adam gestured toward the extra chairs at the table.  When Dana stepped
closer, Adam pulled out a chair for her.

Scully refused the man's offer to take her coat.  "No, thanks.  The
trench coat is part of the standard FBI uniform; I don't feel quite
dressed without it." Dana did not want to part with even symbolic armor,
until she felt more at ease in these surroundings.  She took the offered
seat, and let Peerson tuck in her chair.

As Peerson took a seat, Mulder took a seat across from him and studied
the man quickly.  Adam put both elbows on the table, and wove his
fingers together as support for his chin.  There was a blue tattoo
inside the left wrist, Mulder noted.  A blue bird in a circle of stars.
And it seems this Adam had eyes for Scully, he's studying her while I'm
studying him .  .  .

Scully noticed Adam' gaze, too, and returned it boldness for boldness.
"I see you have a tattoo inside your wrist; isn't that the logo for
International Assets?  Are you a member?"

Adam smiled mischievously, and positioned his left arm so that the
partners could clearly see the tattoo.  "Yes to both questions, Agent
Scully.  The International Assets symbol is quite old, as is the
practice of tattooing itself; many of us accept this mark as part of our
"initiation" into the company, a sign of our sacred trust to protect and
preserve our history.  You probably think it's a barbaric practice, but
I guess you could say I'm a founding member of IA, and a member of the
Board of Directors.  I thought it only fitting to adopt what's become
something of a tradition.  And too, when I was a young man, tattoos were
quite common in my part of the world."

At that moment, Dawson returned from behind the bar with a tall glass of
iced tea for Mulder, and, after offering again to fix something for
Scully, reclaimed his seat.  He was mildly troubled by Methos'
small-talk.  Knowingly or not, the Immortal was dropping clues left and
right to his own origins, and Dawson hadn't yet decided how much to tell
these Federal Agents.  Joe had the usual distrust of The Government, and
government agents, that most men of the baby-boomer era had developed.
Joe decided to try and slow the meeting down while he formed an opinion
of these "Feds".

"I hope your flight from Buffalo was uneventful, folks .  .  ."

Mulder and Scully allowed the conversation to drift into the usual
meaningless social pleasantries as they collected their own thoughts.
Neither agent had expected to be greeted like guests, nor had they
expected to see anyone but Dawson.  Letting Mulder hold up their end of
the chit-chat, Dana surveyed the room trying to get some insight into
the character of their host.

The club was obviously a place for watching entertainment, more than it
was a bar.  There was a small corner stage equipped with a piano and
sound system.  Most of the interior was decorated in New Orleans style;
Mardi Gras masks decorated one wall, photographs of famous blues artists
covered another, old license plates and business cards were arrayed on a
third.  The floor, tables, and bar were well-worn but clean; the
glassware behind and hanging over the bar was sparkling.  It seemed to
be the kind of place that Dana would probably like to visit on a day
off.  If I ever had a day off, she thought.

Her eyes flicked over a trench coat hanging from the polished oak coat
rack that stretched the length of the back wall.  Her eyes came back to
it; something had nudged her subconscious.  From the proximity to their
table, the coat probably belonged to Peerson, she decided.  Dawson would
have a back office someplace, and would keep his personal items out of
the public area.  Something about the way it was hanging .  .  .  oh!

Mulder could see that Scully was trying to show him something without
drawing attention.  Her eyes kept flicking to the back of the room
whenever he looked her way.  As he chatted about the work of the X-Files
department, he followed the direction of her eyes, and studied the
trench coat.  After a moment, he noticed what Dana had seen.  Damn, he
thought; those gorgeous eyes are sharp, too.  He caught his partner's
eye again and gave her the "O.K., go for it!" shrug.  It was her find,
after all.  She seemed to be the one with all the intuition about this
investigation, and was doing a fine job so far.

At the next break in the conversation, in a perfectly conversational
tone of voice, Scully looked to the man calling himself Adam Peerson and
asked "So, Adam!  Beheaded anyone with that sword, lately?"

For a long moment there was no sound in the room, as both Dawson and
Adam looked at Scully as if she'd sprouted wings.  When no one else
broke the silence, Scully decided to throw in a gentle threat while she
had their attention.  "I certainly hope you have a permit for that sword
you have in your coat; you do need a permit in Illinois to carry a
concealed weapon, don't you?" She gave Adam her best "cop look".

The men's silence continued another few long seconds, as Adam turned to
look toward his coat and study the way it hang.  As he turned back,
there was a look of delight on his face, and he began to chuckle.

"Agent Scully, you amaze me!  Suddenly I feel like Dr.  Watson to your
Sherlock Holmes.  Agent Mulder, is your partner really that observant
and intuitive, or does she just read minds?"

"Personally, I think she reads minds.  Which worries me to no end, since
she's almost always armed.  It worries me almost as much as I worry
about your answer to her question."

Mildly annoyed that Mulder had made light of her question, after
indicating that she should take a shot with her observation, Scully
decided to play "Bad Cop".  Sitting here comparing the weather in D.C.
versus Buffalo versus Chicago wasn't going to get them anywhere.  She
turned up her glare at Peerson.

"I want an answer to my question, sir.  We have three dead victims that
used to have that tattoo", and she gestured toward Peerson's arm, "and
three others that were all carrying swords and are somehow linked to the
first three.  Now I see the two of you sitting here with tattoos, and a
concealed sword is hanging nearby.  I have half a mind to place you both
under arrest right now, and take that sword into the lab for analysis."

The look Scully gave Dawson and Adam would have scared the hell out of
Mulder, if she'd been looking at him.  How such a small package could
look so intimidating was a mystery to Fox, but it usually worked.
Nobody played Bad Cop like his partner!

"Easy, Scully!" said Mulder, as he started his Good Cop role.  "We came
here at Joe's invitation, to hear what he has to say.  It seems to me
they're just feeling us out."

Peerson was impossible to read, but Scully could tell that Dawson was
scared when she mentioned Adam's sword.  She decided that an over - the
- top attack at Peerson would probably get the biggest reaction from
Dawson.

"Six people are dead, Mulder, and here we sit talking about the
weather!  From what I can see, our killer is probably sitting right
there!" and she jabbed in Peerson's direction with the forefinger of her
left hand.  "How old are you, anyway, Adam?  From your manners and
speech, I'd say considerably older than you appear.  I want to get to
the bottom of this, right now, and I think taking you in for questioning
is the best way to do that!"

Scully rose from her seat with her automatic in her right hand again,
pointed between Peerson's eyes.  Mulder had never seen her even begin to
reach for her gun; it just appeared in her hand as if by magic.  He got
a queazy sensation.  Drawing on a civilian was a little extreme, even
for an act.

"Or maybe," Scully growled deep in her throat, "we should do an
experiment to see if lightning strikes me down!"

Geez!  A death threat!  But Score One Slam Dunk, Scully!  thought
Mulder, as he watched Joe Dawson's reaction.  Dawson was turning pale
and squirming like a man who'd drunk way too much beer and couldn't get
away to the restroom.  Peerson, on the other hand, was just grinning at
Scully and completely ignoring the gun pointed at his head.

Mulder put on his best look of outrage and came to his feet, too.
"Agent Scully, control yourself!  You are completely out of line!  Put
away that weapon and apologize immediately!"

Scully looked at Mulder with an expression of pure rage; her face was
flushed, her jaw was set, and her eyes had turned icy blue.  Her aim
never wavered from the point just above the bridge of Peerson's nose.

"I'm completely in control, Mulder!  You're the one letting these people
snow you with their "gracious host" routine!  They know something
important, and I plan to find out what!"

Now was the time for the Ranking Officer finish.  "Agent Scully!  Put
down that weapon and go outside!  Now!  I'm the senior agent here, and
I'll handle this my way!  Go!" He pointed toward the club door with his
right hand, and slammed his left fist down onto the table, for
emphasis.

Dana looked at Peerson, then Mulder, then Peerson again, as if
undecided.  Suddenly she whipped her automatic out of sight, and pivoted
on her heel.  She stomped away noisily on her high heels, making a
tremendous show of anger in every motion, complete with slamming out the
club door so violently that Mulder wonder if Skinner would pay for the
property damages.

Mulder had turned back to Dawson and Adam to apologize for his partner's
behavior, a de rigueur part of the Good Cop / Bad Cop routine, when he
saw Peerson's face.  Dawson's face was white as a sheet, but Adam
Peerson .  .  .  was laughing.

"Oh, my!" Adam put a hand on his chest, as if he couldn't get enough air
to laugh any harder.  "Excellent performance, Agent Mulder!  My
compliments to both you and your partner; that was the best rendition of
Good Cop / Bad Cop that I've ever seen, and let me tell you that in my
time, I have seen more than a few!"

Blown.  No doubt about it, our performance is blown.

"Gee, thanks.  I think." Mulder could tell that the strange man's
reaction was genuine.  He was totally unshaken and supremely self
confident.  Mulder had to admit a grudging respect for anyone who could
stand up to Scully's wrath, even simulated wrath, and remain unshaken.
Not to mention ignoring a gun pointed at your face.

Adam got control of himself, and turned to Dawson, who still looked
stunned.  "Joe, I like these two!  We were all ready to feed them some
story about ritual feuds between extremist religious cults, but I think
they've already figured out way more than we'd thought!  For safety's
sake, I think we're going to have to tell them everything, and just
trust them.  After all .  .  ." Adam had to take a moment to get some
wind before he could continue.  ".  .  .  if you can't trust the F.B.I.,
then .  .  .  then .  .  ." he stopped laughing suddenly, and looked
straight at Mulder.

"Then who can you trust?!" Mulder and Adam spoke in unison.  Then they
both started laughing, as if at some grand joke that only they
understood.

Dawson watched the two of them uncomfortably for a few seconds, then
decided to lightened up.  After all, Adam had four thousand, nine
hundred and fifty years more experience judging character than he had.
It was obvious the Immortal had made up his mind; the Watchers might as
well follow suit.  Dawson smiled, then started laughing, too.

"Agent Mulder, call your partner back in and let's have some lunch."
suggested Dawson.

		    *****


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter Six
Date: 8 May 1996 12:11:30 GMT


Chapter Six
And Methos Makes Four

In front of Joe's Place
Chicago, IL
12:48 p.m.

"Let's go back in, Scully."

Mulder had found Scully waiting patiently outside, positioned with
her back to the front wall of the club and with an eye on the door. 
She looked none to happy.

"They didn't fall for it?" she asked, with a fatalistic edge to her
voice.

"Nope.  What was your first clue?"

"Peerson's total detachment, I guess, or maybe his belly-laughing. 
But I thought Dawson might cave, anyway."

"No such luck, Peerson is too quick.  But, it looks like our
Thespian skills, charming personalities, and your good looks have
made some kind of impression.  We're invited for a serious pow-wow. 
They've both gone back in the kitchen to make lunch for us. 
Chicken salad, I think."

Mulder sighed and shook his head woefully.  This was certainly not
a normal case, not even by X-File standards.  Since when did the
witnesses make lunch for the interrogators?  He put his own back
against the wall, next to Scully, and leaned heavily as if
exhausted.  He squinted up through the mid-afternoon glare to
consider the Chicago skyline.

"I think they're talking it over back there; trying to decide 
exactly how much to let us in on.  Those guys have a lot of
secrets, and they're not sure they want to share." he said. 
"Scully, I think we've hit information pay dirt here; these people
know what's going on, and they seem to want to stop it just as
badly as we do."

"How do you know that, Mulder?  I've had a strange feeling about
this case all along, and the feeling's getting stronger.  This
could all be a setup to divert us from the truth."

"I have a gut reaction too, Scully.  I think they need us, and I
know we need whatever information they have.  I just hope we can
afford whatever price they're going to ask; I don't think they're
going to help us unconditionally.  But, for the time being at
least, they seem willing to play it buddy-buddy, so I think we
should play along.  Besides, I think Adam has the hots for you, and
I bet he'd tell you just about anything you wanted to hear."

"Well; they don't seem like Bad Guys, I guess."  She paused.  "And
Adam is kind of cute."

"What?!" grinned Mulder, "What did you say, Scully?"

"I said Adam's kind of cute." repeated Scully, then, in a sudden
change of mood, "Let's go in, I'm starved."

"Scully, I'm hurt!  You take that back! . . . "
                                  *****

Joe's Place
1:35 p.m.

Lunch had been cajun potato soup and grilled chicken salad. 
Scully, Dawson, and Adam were content with the cuisine; Mulder was
promising himself pizza, later.  Apparently a consensus had been
reached in the kitchen, because Dawson looked terribly nervous, but
was mostly letting Adam do all the talking.  Mulder was still going
with his policy of letting Dana steer their side of the
conversation; her intuition seemed to be outdoing his own on this
case.  The four of them started out with more chit-chat, but
sensing the anxiety of the two agents, Adam quickly started getting
down to business when he finished his meal.  He pushed the lunch
dishes away and cleared a space before himself on the table.

Methos considered the two federal agents solemnly until he had
their full attention.  He spoke slowly and gravely; it was clear
that he felt he was taking an enormous risk out of dire necessity. 

"I must ask that the two of you keep our secrets; it will be clear
in a few minutes what secrets I mean.  In return for a promise to
do so, our organization will cooperate fully and actively with you
to stop this bloodthirsty murderer.  I am going to reveal facts and
events to you that may tax your conscience, and place Joe and
myself in risk of arrest and confinement in a mental hospital.  On
the other hand, if we do not cooperate, dozens of additional people
may die.  Can the two of you stretch your professional ethics
enough to cooperate with us, if we cooperate with you?"

Mulder and Scully had already taxed their professional ethics many
times, and already knew secrets that required a great deal of
pragmatism to keep confidential.  In pursuit of Justice and The
Truth, sometimes laws had to be bent and lies had to be told.  The
thin line between the behavior of the Good Guys and that of the Bad
Guys was an edge they walked during every case.  Even though they
had already agreed to cooperate before Mulder returned with Scully,
Mulder looked again to Dana for the final word.  Dana took the
initiative and accepted Mulder's unspoken faith that she would do
the right thing.

"Yes, we'll agree to keep your secrets, or to stop and walk away if
you ask too much of us." said Dana.  "But in return, we want
answers to all our questions.  We must have the final say about
what we need to know.  Tracking a murderer is our profession, we
are the experts, and we must be the ones to decide what's important
to know, and what's not."

With a final glance at Dawson, Adam nodded.  He ran his hands
through his hair nervously as he collected his thoughts.  Where to
begin?

"From time to time, Dana, a person is born with traits radically
different from those of their parents, right?  That's simple
genetics?"

Where is this headed?, Dana wondered.  She answered slowly and
thoughtfully.  

"Yes, we call that individual a genetic mutation.  Most mutations
are harmless and mostly go unnoticed or ignored.  Most of the truly
radical mutations are nonviable; missing body parts or organs are
the most common."

"Yes, well, apparently mutants are sometimes born with significant
advantages, too.  At least, mutation is the only scientific
explanation we have for my kind; there are some of us who think we
are descended from extraterrestrials, or gain our uniqueness from
metaphysical origins.  Myself, I prefer to think we're just a
normal part of nature; perfectly normal individuals in some more
cosmic view of nature."

Now Mulder and Scully were both having trouble choking down the
last of their lunch.  Mulder had heard "mutation", 
"extraterrestrial", and "metaphysical" spoken in the same breath;
he was beside himself.  Scully had heard the same thing, and
although she had a sinking sensation of having already bought into
this line of B.S., she didn't intend to go under without a fight.

"So Donnelly, Taylor, and D'Angelo were all "your kind" Adam? 
You're like them, medically perfect?"

"A little more than just medically perfect, Dr. Scully.  We're . .
." Adam looked very reluctant and at a loss for words.

After a significant pause and nothing but an expectant look from
Scully, Mulder decided to contribute a nudge. "You're what, Adam?"

Adam said it quickly, as if to get it out before changing his mind.
"We're Immortal."

Mulder looked to Scully in hopes of a quick telepathic chat, but
Scully's eyes never left Adam's face.  Adam's words insulted every
scientific tenant on which Dana had carefully constructed her life
and career.  She simply could not swallow this on blind faith.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need some heavy convincing to buy this
part of your story, Adam.  Just what do you mean, "immortal"?  You
mean you live longer than most people?" she asked.

"Yes, we live longer; a lot longer, some of us.  I anticipated your
desire for incontrovertible evidence, Doctor, and I thought this
might be enough."

With his right hand, Adam picked up a paring knife that he'd
carried in from the kitchen with their lunch.  He laid his left
hand, palm up, on a cloth towel that he'd also brought from the
kitchen.  "God, I hate this." he said.  Just as Dana realized what
he intended to do, Adam slashed deeply across the palm of his hand
with the knife.  A subdued grunt of pain escaped his lips.

"Don't!" 

Dana was on her feet instantly, and reaching for the knife as if to
ward off a second stroke.  Seeing the blood well up in Adam's hand
threw the doctor into overdrive.  Grabbing a cloth napkin from the
table with her right hand, she rounded the table and grabbed Adam's
hand with her left and tried to staunch the crimson flow from
Adam's palm.  Adam  caught Dana's right hand with his own, before
she could obscure the wound.  Adam spoke through gritted teeth.

"Don't, Dana.  Just watch."

For a moment, nothing happened except for the warm gush of blood
pouring out of Adam's palm, flowing over Dana's supporting left
hand, and finally dripping into and being caught by the towel on
the table top.  Over the course of about ten seconds, mesmerized,
Dana watched as the flow of blood diminished, then stopped
altogether.  The blood which had pooled in the open gash seemed to
be reabsorbed, and then arcs of energy, like electricity, played
over the splayed edges of the cut.  The edges of the severed muscle
and skin began to visibly pull together, beginning at the ends of
the cut.  Before her eyes, like time-lapse photography, Scully saw
the wound close to an angry red scar.  After another few seconds,
the scar shrank into the skin with a faint sound like static,
leaving the previously injured area with only a sunburned look. 
Adam released Dana's right hand at that point, and she began almost
absently to wipe away the remaining blood from Adam's palm and
fingers.  Before she was finished, the final redness faded way,
leaving his hand as whole as before.  When Adam flexed his fingers,
proving the slashed tendons had re-knitted, Dana released his hand,
and stood looking at the blood on her own.

"Well," she said after a moment of contemplation and a deep
cleansing breathe, "that was special."  As a medical doctor, Dana
felt shaken to her core.  What she had just seen was absolutely,
totally, completely impossible, and yet it had happened, literally,
right in front of her eyes, right in her own hands.

Mulder had risen to his feet, too, when Adam raised the knife, and
now stood behind Adam, looking on quietly.  Scully finally raised
her eyes to her partner's and did her imitation of Mr. Spock with
her eyebrow.  Mulder understood her message.  This had been no
trick; her expert eyes were sure of what they'd seen.  Mulder
nodded his understanding, and looked back to Adam.

"Do all wounds heal that quickly?" 

Mulder admired the calm in his own voice, which belied the emotion
surging through him.  This was hard, undeniable confirmation of his
longstanding faith in extreme possibilities.  No debate; no
question; both he and his partner had witnessed a "miracle".

"No.  The time varies depending on the site of the injury, the
severity and number of injuries, and the individual immortal. 
Fortunately, I happen to heal a little more quickly than most. 
Non-traumatic injury, like diseases and tooth decay, simply never
happen at all."

"Like hangnails?" said Mulder, trying to break Dana out her silent
trance.

"Like aging." said Scully, with a hint of wonder showing through
her facade of silent detachment.  She shifted her eyes back to
Adam.  "You don't age, do you?"

"No," admitted Adam, "we don't; at least, not noticeably."

Mulder thought back to Dana's observations about Adam's mannerisms,
and his own inability to place the man's ethnic origins.  A
question needed asking, and Dana would probably be too polite.

"How old are you, Adam?" asked Mulder.

"Well, I'm not sure.  I am the oldest Immortal we know of, and I
don't exactly remember my early life.  I only know that my memories
go back about five thousand years."  Adam looked apologetic, or
perhaps embarrassed, about his answer.

Now it was Mulder's turn to look stunned.  He paled, and went back
to his seat, where he sank heavily into his chair.  He watched
silently as Adam and Dana went into the kitchen to wash the
remaining blood from their hands.  He looked at Dawson, who was in
turn watching Mulder's face intently.

"I suppose you believe all this?" Mulder asked.  "You believe that 
man is older than the pyramids?  Three thousand years older than
Jesus Christ?"

"Yes.  Adam was one of the architects of the first pyramids, and he
claims to have met a man that might have been Jesus Christ.  I know
it's difficult, that it's utterly fantastic, but everything Adam's
told you is true.  Adam's an Immortal.  I'm not, obviously."  Joe
Dawson gestured at his prosthetic leg.  "I'm just a simple mortal
like yourself, caught up in incredible events with incredible
characters playing unbelievable roles."  Dawson attempted to read
Mulder's eyes.  "Do you believe what we're telling you, Agent
Mulder?  If you can get past this first part, the rest of our story
is easy.  If you can't, then nothing is going to make sense.  This
is all about them, the Immortals."

"Well," said Mulder, "I Want To Believe."
                                  *****

Joe's Place
2:45 p.m.

Fox Mulder's adrenaline levels were so high, he couldn't quite sort 
out whether he was more excited, shocked, pleased, or frightened. 
For the last hour he had listened to a story more incredible than
he had ever imagined.  Flying saucers, alien abduction, government
conspiracies, telepathy and psychokinesis he could accept.  Those
were ideas he had grappled with for years and come to think of as 
a real part of his universe.  Immortality, in the true, physical
sense, was not a concept he was prepared to accept easily; not to
mention the side issues.  He felt a need to keep verbalizing the
facts he was given, as if repetition would make everything easier
to swallow.

"OK.  So.  Immortals just appear, and no one knows how or why. 
They are unaware of their "difference" until they are first killed. 
They come back to life, and after that they heal quickly, never get
sick again, and never get any older.  They live among us mortals
trying not to be noticed, except a few show up as myths and
legends.  They can only be killed by decapitation, and when they
die in the presence of another Immortal, there's a massive
electrical disturbance wherein a "Quickening" occurs, and the
nearest Immortal gains the dead Immortal's knowledge and strength."

"Immortals are guided by a code of unknown origin, handed down from
teacher to student across all the ages of their existence.  This
code says that eventually there will be only one Immortal left, who
will inherit great power and rule the world; forbids Immortals from
killing one another except in one - on - one combat, and forbids
combat on Holy Ground.  Just like us lowly mortals, Immortals come
in two flavors: Good and Evil."  

"Good Immortals do not seek out other Immortals to kill; they only
defend themselves and their loved ones when they have to.  Good
Immortals honor the code, vis-a-vis single combat and Holy Ground. 
They want only to survive, and don't care about the part of the
legend that says the last Immortal will rule the world."

"Evil Immortals, on the other hand, actively seek to become that
last standing Immortal.  They seek out Immortals weaker than
themselves and kill them in any way possible, irrespective of the
code in some cases.  The more Immortals they kill, the stronger
they grow and the more Immortals they can then overpower."

Mulder tore his eyes away from Adam Peerson and looked at Joe
Dawson.

"And there's a secret society of mortals who are aware of all this. 
They have watched and recorded the activities of the Immortals for
centuries, and continue to do so today.  They try to keep tabs on
all the Immortals in existence, but never interfere in their little
duels to the death.  These people call themselves The Watchers, and
International Assets is just the most recent cover organization to
hide the existence of the Watchers.  In general, Immortals are
unaware of the Watchers, but there are a few exceptions.  Adam,
here, whose real name is Methos, by the way, is an exception, since
he is an Immortal.  In fact, I would guess Methos started The
Watchers as a means of self protection."

Methos averted his eyes at this last remark, which told Mulder that
his guess was close, if not dead on the mark.  Dawson looked at
Methos quizzically, but Mulder suspected Joe would never get a
completely straight answer.  It was obvious that Dawson was
uncomfortable with Methos, or Adam, being part of the Watchers, and
that these two had a lot of unsettled issues between them.

"Further, I suspect the Watchers get involved more than you've
admitted, Joe.  It looks to me like the Watchers would be sorely
tempted to step in any time an Evil Immortal starts upsetting the
apple cart.  Again, this looks like a service to Immortals built in
by the Watchers' founders."

Methos, again, said nothing and looked no one in the eye.  Dawson
looked like a man whose faith had been shaken, but was not
interrupting.  He, too, had noticed Methos' silence, and taken it
for assent. 

"And now, some Evil Immortal has gotten hold of at least some of
the Watcher's records.  We suspect he has the entire
Immortal/Watcher membership database, since a copy of the database
fell out of the Watcher's hands only a few years ago, and a backup
copy was never recovered.  Whoever has those records is tracking
down the Watchers one by one, torturing them for the latest info on
the location of their assigned Immortals, and then killing the
Immortal, too.  We don't know who is doing this, but we know for
sure that it's an Immortal."

Adam Peerson, or Methos, raised his eyes at this and regarded each
of the agents in turn.  He directed his question to Mulder.

"How do we know it's an Immortal?  Joe and I are just assuming that
only an Immortal would have a motive for this.  It could also be a
Hunter.  Hunters are a renegade group of former Watchers who think
the only good Immortal is a dead Immortal.  We've had more than one
run-in with them in the past."

Mulder shook his head.  "The Hunters might be involved, but an
Immortal has been the murderer in every case.  We talked to an
almost-witness who saw the electrical display you call "a
Quickening", and there was evidence at every Immortal's murder site
of similar disturbances."  Mulder smiled apologetically at Dawson
and Peerson.  "We kept that information suppressed, even internally
at the Bureau, as best we could.  Most of the local investigators
either didn't notice, anyway, or didn't connect what they saw with
the murder."

No matter how much Methos' five thousand year old instincts told
him that he could trust Mulder and Scully, secrecy is a hard habit
to break.  Dawson and Methos had their own version of a telepathic
conference by trying to read each other's face, and seemed to reach
a consensus.  Mulder had just shared a secret in return for
their's; there was no reason to hold anything back; they had
committed to go for broke.  Dawson spoke for them.

"And there have been fourteen deaths, Mulder, not just the six you
know about in Buffalo.  The first two were in Argentina three
months ago; then four in southern Texas, then two in Oklahoma, then
the six in Buffalo.  As you said, most local authorities don't know
what to make of murder by decapitation, and tried to blame it on
cults, motorcycle gangs, or drug dealers; they just forced the
facts to fit into whatever mold they were most comfortable with."

Mulder took the news of eight more deaths in stride; additional
data points were always helpful in serial crimes, and one had to
remain detached about the past victims and focus on preventing
additional deaths.  Scully, too, seemed to be back to her usual
logical and methodical self.  She was taking notes on her laptop
computer as she spoke.

"We'll needs names and dates, gentlemen, so we can have our bureau
researchers look into any connections between the earlier murders
and the Buffalo crimes.  Our first order of business hasn't
changed; we need to identify the person or persons committing these
murders, and then locate him."

"We've been working on that, Dana." said Methos, "We've had the
Watchers checking in with all our people in the field.  We're
trying to figure out who we've lost contact with; we think that
whatever Immortal has recently dropped out of sight is probably the
man we want.  Unfortunately, we have a lot of people to contact,
and we don't always know the location of every Immortal, every day,
anyway.  They tend to move around periodically, go on extended
trips, and even switch identities every few years.  When any of
that happens, we lose track of them for a while.  But by and large,
we know where almost every Immortal was in the last few weeks, so
we think we're narrowing it down every day.  Chances are good that
the person we want is an experienced immortal, since he's winning
all his confrontations.  I assume that you've seen no evidence that
the Immortals were killed in some other way than beheading?"

"That's correct, but how about if you give me the names, anyway. 
Better safe than sorry.  Danny, our colleague back at the Academy,
can sometimes make amazing leaps of intuition when given enough
data to work with."

Methos listed the eight additional names with the exact dates of
their deaths.  Scully added the information to her field report
notes.

"I assume four of these names are cover identities?" asked Scully. 

With a nod, Methos produced a floppy disk from his shirt pocket. 
He stared at the small black rectangle of plastic for a moment,
before extending it to Scully.

"Here is the real background information on all seven Immortals,
but I must ask that this information stay with you and Mulder. 
It's unlikely anyone could actually verify these records and
uncover the Immortal masquerade, but we'd prefer to take no
chances."

Scully nodded, accepted the disk, and inserted it into her laptop. 
In a couple of minutes, she was scrolling through a massive text
file of background on the seven victims.  Mulder had pulled his
chair close to hers and was looking over her shoulder.  He whistled
softly.

"Bizarre.  To see the history of a single individual go back three
centuries or more." He took a deep breath.  "This is going to take
some getting used to."
                                  *****

Joe's Place
11:15 p.m.

The four newfound conspirators had talked incessantly all evening. 
When Joe needed to open the club at 6 p.m., Methos, Mulder, and
Scully had moved into the cramped quarters of Joe's office. 
Questions were asked and answered on both sides.  Mulder and Scully
had become fully familiar with the details of immortality and the
Watchers; Methos listened as the agents called into play the
resources of the F.B.I. to locate the Immortals of which the
Watchers had lost track.   He listened to them sift through the
details of airline passenger lists and train schedules in an effort
to connect the locations of the various murders.  

Somewhere in the middle of their work, they had eaten again.  This
time Mulder was mollified, since the standard evening fair at Joe's
place was barbecue ribs with all the trimmings.  The scent of
simmering barbecue had even lured Scully to skip her usual health-
conscious fare and dig into red meat and a baked potato.  They all
ended up having seconds.

Finally, as evening became night, and then threatened to become
morning again, the flood of new ideas ebbed.  The bag of standard
investigative tricks was emptied.  Mutual glances around the office
made them all realize that they'd done all they could, for today at
least.  It was time to take a break, and let the researchers and
other field agents, both F.B.I. and Watchers, do their jobs and
file their reports.  They were all on their last legs, but to save
the male egos, Dana cried "uncle" first.

"Well, I'm sure all you macho men will want to stay up all night
drinking beer, chasing women, and listening to blues, but I'm a
daylight person myself, and I need some sleep.  Are you coming with
me Mulder, or can you make your own arrangements to get home?"

It sounded like Scully was trying to get rid him, but since field
trips with Scully were about the only time Mulder could get a good
night's sleep, he had no real interest in "partying with the boys",
despite the party atmosphere of the club; out front, the music and
nose gave no hint of ever calming down again.  He reflected that
Scully words were probably just an offer of acceptance if he wanted
to stay out, not a prompt to do so.  Besides, he and Scully did
their best thinking over breakfast.

"Scully, I'm with you.  Gentleman, I'm turning in also.  We've all
traded phone numbers, so we can stay in contact, but until
something turns up, I don't see any reason to continue this here at
the club tomorrow.  Let's all take a break while other people do
our leg work, agreed?"

There was no dissent, and with an exchange of handshakes the agents
departed for the local Motel Eight.  FBI accommodations were always
First Class.
                                  *****

Motel Eight
Rooms 3 & 4
Chicago, IL
12:05 a.m.

"Mulder?"

>From the sound of Dana's voice drifting in from the adjoining room,
Mulder could tell she was on the verge of dropping off to sleep. 
His own eyes were getting pretty heavy too, come to think of it.

"Yes, Scully?"

"Can we really take tomorrow off?  There's really nothing more to
do until someone calls?"

Mulder considered.  He had been planned to go over all their facts
a few times tomorrow, but he could basically do that in his head if
need be.  Scully sounded more than just physically tired.

"Absolutely.  Going to sleep in, then?"

"I think so.  I feel like I could sleep a week."

After a few minutes, another thought nagged Mulder back to
consciousness.

"Scully?  Are you still awake?"

"Yes, Mulder.  What is it?"

"Are we really doing the right thing?  Believing these people,
trusting them, chasing an Immortal sword-swinging murderer?  You
seem to be going along with all this way too easy; you're still
gonna rein me in at some point, right?"

"Mulder, I feel so nuts about this case that maybe you'll have to
reign me in.  Half the time I want to run screaming back to
Washington and to my nice cozy apartment; the other half of the
time I want to knock Adam down and have sex with him on the spot."

Mulder was suddenly wide awake.  He asked the next question in as
neutral a tone of voice as he could manage.

"You're kidding, right, Scully?"

"Gotcha, Mulder!" The laughter in her voice was obvious.

Sigh.  "Goodnight, Scully."

"Goodnight, Mulder."
                                  *****


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter Seven
Date: 13 May 1996 11:31:20 GMT


Characters, settings, and background herein are the intellectual
property of Chris Carter, The Fox Network, Ten Thirteen Productions and
others.  They are used here without permission and without intent of
infringement.  Permission is granted to copy this document for
non-comercial entertainment purposes only.

Comments and suggestions via e-mail are always welcome.  All posted
items are part of works in progress and are subject to further revision,
so please let me know about clear mistakes, confusion, etc.

I hope you enjoy this!

			      Chapter Seven
			Did I Step On Your Toes?

Motel Eight
Rooms Three & Four
Chicago, IL
7:15 a.m.

Mulder had slept incredibly late, for Mulder.  As he sat up in bed and
rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he listened for his partner in the next
room.  Gingerly, he padded to the connecting door in bare feet, tee
shirt, and boxers.  He eased the door open another few inches to check
on Scully.  Muldere saw an unruly mass of red hair peaking out from
under the covers, and heard the soft, regular, breathing of her sleep.
He considered the picture a minute longer than he needed to, but he
doubted if Scully would care.  He knew she sneaked into his room
whenever he talked in his sleep, just to make sure he was OK.  In this
case, Scully was definitely OK, but Mulder liked the sight and sound, so
he lingered anyway.  Eventually, he quietly pulled the door into a fully
closed position and considered how to start the day.  How about a run?

In about five minutes, Mulder had changed to sweat pants and shirt (it
was a cool morning) and laced his feet into a new pair of Nikes.  He had
ruined his old pair on their last case, chasing a teenaged mugger across
an abandoned lot where his shoes had gotten covered with a noxious
mixture of motor oil, garbage, and decaying vegetable matter.  His
initial reaction was to try cleaning them, since they had a certain
sentimental value, but Scully had made him throw them away.

He wrote Scully a note, "Running", and left it on the nightstand where
she'd know to look for it.  He exited the room quietly, locked the door
behind him, and checked the weather.  It was clear, cool, and breezy.
Checking his watch, he decided that about an hour's run would be enough
to get his blood pumping, and set off.

				  *****

Motel Eight
Room 3
8:22 a.m.

When Mulder returned from his run, Scully was in the shower next door.
She had apparently awoke in a good mood, too, because Mulder could
faintly hear her singing.  He couldn't make out the words, but he knew
from experience it would be a Sea Chantey of some sort, one of many
taught to her by her father.  Scully's father had been a career Navy
man, a Captain, who she called "Ahab", after the captain character in
the Moby Dick novel.  Not for the first time, Mulder envied Scully's
family life; his own had been such a disaster.  The Scullys seemed so
close and supportive, completely unlike his own father and mother.

Skinning out of his damp sweats, Mulder started his own shower.  He
grinned to himself at the thought that taking a shower with Scully was
one of his favorite pastimes, he just wished she'd consent to share the
same bathroom; after all, he always offered.

				  *****

Motel Eight
Room 4
8:22 a.m.

Scully heard Mulder coming in from his run, just as she started her
shower.  She reflected that she'd have to thank him for his note.  He
was actually getting rather considerate lately about keeping her
informed of his whereabouts.  Of course, maybe one of the Riot Acts
she'd read him over the last couple of years, delivered every time he
ran off on some crazy mission alone, had something to do with that.  At
least she could hope.  Of course it seemed like there were fewer crazy
missions these days.  Either she was having a good influence on him, or
she was being corrupted by him into seeing less craziness in his
crusades.

As she turned on the water, she smiled at the thought that Mulder would
be disappointed at her timing.  He was certain to take his own shower
after running, and whenever he did that he made it a point to invite her
to share with him.  Her thoughts skipped past how she might respond if
she thought the invitation was serious, but the memory of his childish
leer, whenever he flirted with her, lifted her spirits.  As she washed
her hair, she began singing a Sea Chantey of her father's.  Faintly, she
was aware of the shower coming on in Mulder's room; in a sense, she
reflected, they were taking a shower together.

"Scully!  Are you there?" Her partner's voice could just barely be heard
through the thin motel walls and the double hiss of showers.

"Yes, Mulder!  What is it?" she shouted back.

"Wouldn't it be more politically correct if we contributed to the Water
Conservation effort, and "pooled our resources", so to speak?  You know,
Shower With A Friend?  Partners That Spray Together, Stay Together?  You
Wash My Back, And I'll Wash Yours?"

Dana laughed; he hadn't missed his chance, after all.  She tried to
think about it, but the idea was too scary; those were dark, uncharted,
unexplored waters 'way too near the precipice.  Like on the old maps:
Here There Be Monsters.

"Thanks, anyway, Mulder, but I'm sure it would turn out less efficient
in the long run!" she shouted back.

"OK.  Whatever, Scully." came the faint reply.

			    *****

8:49 a.m.

 "Mulder, are you decent?"

"Nope.  Come on in, Scully."

Dana opened the connecting door and walked into Fox's room in her terry
robe, still rubbing her hair with a towel.  Mulder could smell the
strawberry shampoo, made more potent by the high humidity from the
stream escaping both bathrooms.  Fox was already dressed in a sweatshirt
and jeans, and was sitting on the bed reading a magazine that he put
away as Scully entered the room.

"Latest issue of Celebrity Skin, Mulder?"

Fox colored slightly.  He wasn't sure if he was more embarrassed by
being "caught", or the fact that she automatically knew what he was
reading.

"No, a scientific journal," he lied, ""Paranormal Psychology Today".
Very interesting."

One good thing about Mulder was that he lied to her only when he knew
there was no chance she'd believe it; it was the Mulder version of
honesty.  Dana walked over to Fox's bedside table, opened the drawer,
and retrieved the magazine.  She flipped it open to the centerfold and
turned the magazine sideways for a better view.

"Well, I can see why this would encourage your belief in anti-gravity,
Mulder, or maybe you think she uses telekinesis?  She's definitely your
kind of woman, but isn't she married to a Rock Star now?  And isn't she
pregnant?  She's probably not interested in psychologists these days."
She gave Fox her best scornful look, and waited for the comeback.

"Actually, Scully, I don't know who you're talking about.  I just read
it for the articles.  You know.  Interviews.  Recipes.  Really!"

"Uh, Huh.  Well, anyway, how did you sleep?  Were you up early?" She
returned Fox's magazine to the drawer and forgot it.  Sort of.

"Actually, I slept until about seven o'clock, Scully.  I must have
needed some beauty sleep."

"Mulder, can I ask you something personal?" She looked concerned.

"Sure, Scully.  I keep no secrets from you, there's just stuff I don't
admit out loud for fear of retaliation."

"Seriously, Mulder.  I've noticed something about you that puzzles me,
and I want to understand it.  Is that OK?"

"Shucks, Scully.  I was serious.  Anything you want to know, ask."

"OK.  Well, I was wondering about your sleeping habits.  When we're
working in D.C.  you never seem to sleep, and when you do, its only cat
naps.  But when we travel together, you usually sleep like a baby.  You
sleep in airport waiting rooms, airplane seats, and straight backed
chairs.  You still wake up at the slightest sound, but you seem to sleep
a lot.  How come, Mulder?  Which picture is the real you: insomniac or
closet Rip Van Winkle?"

Fox grinned, and considered his answer.  He knew that a lie would never
get past Dana, and he had agreed to let her ask.  Oh, well.

"Both pictures are the real me, Scully.  In D.C., and most other places,
I exhibit the typical insomniac's symptoms: I can't stop thinking, I
can't shut out the problems of the day, I can't relax enough to let the
sleep come.  And you know that when I do sleep, sometimes I have
nightmares."

Mulder seemed to reflect a moment.  Clearly, this was a question he'd
wondered about himself.

"On the road, I don't have that problem as much.  Instead of two or
three hours sleep, I manage to get in six or eight.  I guess that's why
I take us on so many of these field trips.  It's how I catch up on my
sleep."

Fox smiled to make his words a joke, and hoped he'd said enough to get
past Dana's curiosity.  Unfortunately, though, it wasn't going to work.

"So what's the difference, Mulder?  Why can you sleep on stakeouts and
in Motel Eights, but not at home?  I've always been curious about why we
work late nights in D.C., but seem to make the most progress over
breakfast when we're on the road.  Is it just the change in scenery, or
what?"

Fox sighed.  She was determined to drag this out of him, and he
suspected she knew the real answer, anyway.  One of these days, after
they were through with the X-Files, they were going to have a long
talk.

"The difference, Scully, is that in D.C.  I eat alone, I watch T.V.
alone, and I sleep alone.  On a stakeout or on the road, there's someone
else nearby.  I think the little sounds and motions of another human
being, someone I can trust, put me at ease; sometimes just knowing
someone's nearby is enough.  I guess that when I'm alone, my
subconscious knows there's nobody to protect me from the bogeyman, so it
won't let me sleep.  Maybe it's a holdover from childhood; Samantha and
I shared a room for a long time, and even after she moved out, I could
always hear her next door."

Dana understood that Fox's frequently lame attempts at humor was his
protection against taking himself too seriously.  She also knew exactly
how many people Fox trusted, and exactly what his words really meant.
His explanation said a lot.

She flashed back to the last time Fox had crashed on her sofa and spent
the night.  Dana had been having the shakes over the Donnie Pfaster
case; Fox had told her to leave the bedroom door ajar.  She had thought
that was supposed to be for her own sense of security, now she knew it
had made Fox feel more secure, too.

And they always left the door between their rooms ajar, whenever
possible, when they traveled together.  And all those times she'd awoke
to find Mulder asleep in a chair near her bed; even that now made
sense.  They had something else in common; she remembered all the times
she'd been comforted, when awaking in the night, by hearing her
partner's soft breathing nearby.  She thought of all the times they'd
automatically found excuses to sleep in the same room instead of let so
much as a thin motel wall separate them.

But if she openly admitted how much she understood, they'd be off into
that uncharted territory they had silently agreed not to enter.  Better
to introduce some humor of her own than to explore Fox's admissions too
closely.

"That's terrible, Mulder.  You should get a dog for your apartment.
Pomeranians are pretty nice companions."

Fox grimaced, then smiled, then smirked.  "Pomeranians aren't "dogs",
Scully.  Boxers, Collies, Labradors are dogs; Pomeranians are rodents.
And remember the fish?  I can't even keep fish alive, so how could I
care for a dog?  What I need is a roommate interested in genetic
mutations, alien abductions, and paranormal phenomenon.  Any ideas?"

Dana caught Fox's not - so - subtle meaning, but had an answer ready.

"How about Frohike, Mulder?  I'm sure the two of you would have some
really interesting evenings together.  It might even grow into something
permanent!"

Fox laughed, and Dana smirked.  She was getting to like the power she
had over Fox Mulder.

"I'll be ready for breakfast in about twenty minutes, Mulder.  What's
our game plan?  Are we staying here, or going back to D.C., Buffalo, or
what?"

"I think it might be better to stay here a couple of days, until we see
what develops from the Watchers' information.  I think a break would be
good for us; we deserve some "down time".  Maybe we should see what the
tourists do in Chicago?  What do you think?"

"Well, I've got a couple of ideas; I'll need to make some calls.  How
about if you find us a place for breakfast from that restaurant guide on
the nightstand, while I get dressed.  I'm hungry!"

"Your wish is my command, Scully!"

				  *****

The HomeTown Buffet
9:45 a.m.

With his unerring knack for locating breakfast buffets, Mulder had again
found a winner.  The restaurant had cafeteria-style seating and the
biggest assortment of breakfast foods that either agent could remember
seeing.  Mulder had piled his plate high with bacon, sausage, ham, hash
brown potatoes, scrambled eggs with cheese, and biscuits.  Scully had
found bagels, cream cheese, fruit, yogurt, and hot oatmeal.  Drinks were
serve-yourself, so the agents had helped themselves to orange juice,
milk (skim, for Scully), and coffee.  And best yet, the quality seemed
to match the quantities; everything was fresh, hot (or cold), and
delicious.

"Scully, can you cook?"

"You know I can cook, Mulder.  I've fixed breakfast, and even dinner,
for you at my place."

"I don't mean all that healthy stuff you insist on eating.  I mean real
cooking, like this." He indicated the partially depleted pile of food on
his plate.  "If I ever met a woman who could cook like this, I'd have to
seriously consider marriage."

"Mulder, you're getting too easy in your twilight years.  I could manage
all this stuff, but that kind of eating is going to earn you an early
grave.  I can hear your arteries hardening from way over on this side of
the table!  You're no kid anymore, you know; you're gonna have to start
watching your diet."

"Doctor Scully; considering the line of work which I pursue, do you
honestly think I'm going to die of cholesterol poisoning?  It's far more
likely that a mutant will rip my face off, or an extraterrestrial virus
will wither me into a prune.  And if that's the way I'm fated to go, I
plan to go happy.  And happiness is a big breakfast, exciting work, and
excellent company."

"So, by your own definition, you're an outstanding example of "a happy
man", Mulder?  You sure had me fooled."

"Scully, in between attacks of stark fear and overwhelming depression,
I'm the happiest guy I know.  I get to eat on the FBI's nickel, travel
the world chasing ghost stories, and I have you.  For company.  As my
partner, I mean.  What else could a man want?"

"That blond bimbo from Celebrity Skin, maybe?"

"Nah, Scully.  That's just a case of admiring the scenery along the
highway of life, but you're the one riding along beside me.  That woman
in the magazine couldn't hold a candle to you; I wouldn't even stop to
give her a lift."

Mulder's usual leer that accompanied compliments to Scully was missing;
he seemed completely sincere.  Despite herself, Dana could feel a blush
slowly creeping up her neck.  One of the many problems with light skin
was the difficulty in hiding her embarrassment.

"Eat, Mulder.  The hot air from your side of the table is drying out my
oatmeal."

				  *****

Fred Astaire Dance Studio
Chicago, IL
11:30 a.m.

Fox Mulder paused on the sidewalk outside the studio and looked up at
the Fred & Ginger logo over the door.  He felt underdressed without his
automatic under his arm.  After consulting with Scully, they had locked
their weapons in the special lock-box in the trunk of the bureau car.  A
pang of anxiety seized him, and without thinking he opened his mouth and
starting trying to talk himself out of this situation.

"Scully, are you sure this is a good idea?  Shouldn't we take all our
lessons in the same place?"

"That's why I picked a Fred Astaire studio, Mulder.  This is a franchise
chain that has a standardized curriculum; they told me that at any
studio the same steps would have the same names, and be taught the same
way.  So we can work in a lesson wherever we find a Fred Astaire's,
whenever we find the time." Dana gave Fox her sternest glare.  "You're
not trying to back out on me, are you?"

Fox backpedaled quickly.  "No, no!  I agreed to this.  I guess I'm just
wondering how Skinner will react if he finds out how we're spending the
bureau's time, that's all."

"When I talked to Skinner, he actually suggested we stay over a couple
of days, Mulder.  It costs the bureau more to fly us around than it does
to cover our motel bills for a couple of extra nights.  Besides, if
you're that conscientious about it, we can always doc ourselves for a
couple of personal hours."

Fox considered the idea of penalizing himself for spending personal time
with Scully, and suddenly saw the humor in it.  After all the extra
hours and personal tragedy the bureau had cost them over the years, they
could damn well foot the bill for a few authorized hours of R&R!

"You're right, Scully.  We're not cheating anybody." He held up his
right hand as if taking a pledge.  "I promise!  No more agonizing, we're
here to have fun.  So let's do this."

With an exaggerated flourish, he opened the door, bowed slightly, and
indicated that Dana should go first.  "After you, m'lady!"

Mulder expected someone akin to a used-care salesman to swoop down on
them as soon as they entered, but instead, the people inside reacted
very casually.  The small lobby area opened onto a dance floor about
fifty feet square, where two couples were apparently already taking
lessons.  As each couple danced, an instructor tagged along beside,
quietly giving directions and encouragement.  Instead of high pressure,
it all looked very laid back.

The man at the lobby desk was on the phone, and from the sound of it,
was setting up an appointment for someone named "Ruth".  He looked up at
their entrance, smiled, and gestured with his free hand for them to
approach the desk.  As Fox and Dana strolled over, one of the gentlemen
taking a lesson looked over from the dance floor, smiled, and gave a
small wave.  Dana waved back; Fox just smiled.

The receptionist finished his call and turned his attention to the two
agents.  Dana stepped up to the desk, as Fox moved toward the dance
floor for a better view.  As Dana talked, Fox listened with half an ear,
and watched the couples on the floor.

"Hello!  Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes, I called earlier.  I'm Dana Scully, and this is Fox Mulder.  We're
here to .  .  ."

Fox noticed some people gathered around some tables at the side of the
dance floor.  They were probably waiting for lessons or chatting after
finishing their lessons.  There were five people in two groups seated at
tables, while two men stood talking by the coffee machine.  Ages seemed
to range from about twenty-five to sixty-five.  Fox tried to pick out
the instructors.  Probably that guy scribbling in a notebook as he
talked with a couple at his table, but the male & female pair at the
second table might be a couple, or an instructor and student; he
couldn't tell, there was no notebook in sight.  One of the standing men
held a matching notebook, Fox thought probably he was an instructor; the
other man gave no clues.

Dana explained their situation to the receptionist, who then nodded and
produced a folder labeled "Scully/Mulder".  Apparently, dropping in for
only one of two lessons was commonplace, because it drew no questions or
comments.  The receptionist, it turned out, was the franchise owner.

"I'll have an instructor come out in a moment." he said.  "Make
yourselves comfortable, meanwhile.  The coat room is through there," he
gestured to a door to the right side of the front desk, "as are the
washrooms.  Help yourself to coffee or a soda, on the house.  If you'll
excuse me, I'll be right back with your instructor." The owner
disappeared into the back.

As they hung up their trench coats, Fox remarked "It sure seems like a
friendly place, Scully."

"Well, the core of their business is personal relations, Mulder, so you
can always expect a comfortable atmosphere at a dance studio.  This all
reminds me a great deal of the place I went to in Maryland."

"Are you a ringer, Scully?  You've had lessons before?"

"A few, Mulder.  If you come from a large Irish Catholic family, you go
to a lot of wedding receptions and big birthday parties.  Dancing, a
little, is a survival skill in the Scully family.  But don't worry, I'm
no Ginger Rogers or anything."

Fox wondered if he'd just experienced the emotion called "performance
anxiety", but he shrugged it off quickly.  He was here with Dana, so how
bad could it be?  Besides, he had a surprise for her, hopefully.

Dana studied Fox's face anxiously.  Should she have kept the news of her
prior experience to herself?  Fox had seemed to tense up for a moment,
but now looked like his usual self again.  She desperately wanted this
to go well; the two of them deserved some fun, dammit!

"Hi folks, I'm Michelle!  I'll be your instructor; you must be Dana and
Fox?"

"Mulder.  Everybody just calls me Mulder, please."

Fox responded automatically, as he turned around to put a face with the
cheerful voice.  It was a very pretty face; pretty, tall, brunette, and
slender described their instructor quite well.  This experience was
looking up, minute by minute!

Dana saw Fox's reaction to their instructor, and breathed a silent sigh
of relief.  She could stop worrying about Fox, now.  He had already
decided that he was having a good time.  She was so relieved, in fact,
that she didn't bother to have her usual stab of aggravation (jealousy,
Dana?) at Fox's too obvious reaction to an attractive woman.  After all,
just this morning he had turned down that bimbo beach bunny, in the
magazine, in favor of Dana Scully.  She supposed she could tolerate some
male preening, if it meant Fox was having a good time.

"OK, "Mulder" it is!  And may I call you "Dana"?" she said, looked at
Dana.  Getting a nod, she got down to business.  "Fine, then.  Mulder,
Dana: Davis filled me in on your situation, so I guess we can dispense
with the studio tour?" At their dual nods, Michelle continued.  "Then
why don't we sit down and begin a plan for what you want to accomplish?
Let's find a table out here."

The agents followed Michelle to a table and settled into seats, Dana
automatically choosing a seat to Fox's left.  Michelle opened their
folder, took pen in hand, and prepared to take notes.

"So, what are your goals?  What do you want to accomplish, as far as
dancing goes?"

Dana glanced at Mulder, then spoke first.

"We have a social event coming up in about six weeks, a dance.  We'll be
going together, and we'd like to join in and have fun instead of feeling
like wallflowers.  We've decided to go for broke and study up for it.
Mulder and I work together and rarely get a chance to socialize, so this
is something of a lark for us.  Is that about right, Mulder?"

"Pretty much.  We want to look good together, and I want to make all the
guys at the office jealous over my partner." Fox was smiling because he
knew Michelle would use her own connotation for "partner".  Dana raised
both eyebrows, but said nothing.

"Has either of you had any dancing experience before?"

"I took a few lessons when I was a teenager," confessed Dana, "but I get
so few chances to dance these days that I've probably forgotten whatever
I once knew."

"And I learned a little Waltz and Foxtrot at college, just enough to get
through the social formalities.  Like Dana, I haven't had any practice
for years, though." Fox dropped his bombshell without a glance at Dana,
who was now giving him an exasperated look for having made her squirm
over her own background.

"Well, then, let's start out with seeing what the two of you remember.
There's a Fox Trot playing right now, let's start with that and see what
you remember."

The trio moved out onto the floor together, and Michelle motioned them
together.

"Get into dance position and let's see how it looks." she directed.

Fox felt a moment of panic, and took a deep breath.  This was Scully,
his partner, his best friend.  This was just a social exercise, he told
himself, like shaking hands or giving her a hug when she was upset.  No
need to get tense, she was used to dancing, this was no big deal for
her, so it should be no big deal for him.  Calm.  Relaxed.  Cool.  Think
it over and remember how this goes.  It's only been ten years since you
learned this stuff.  No problem, he assured himself.  But this is Dana!

Dana was fighting to keep her breathing normal.  This was it, Fox is
going to put his arms around me!  Stupid!  she thought, he's just going
through with this because he wants to show up those bozos at the bureau
that call him "Spooky" behind his back.  He just thinks of me as a
friend, this is no big deal for him, so it's got to be no big deal for
me.  But God, it's Fox!

They turned to face each other.  Fox, of course, could remember every
word of his Oxford dance instructor's directions for assuming a dance
position.  He offered his open arms, and Dana stepped into him as if she
did it every day.  Fox's right hand found its position on her left
shoulder blade, elbow raised to be level with his hand.  Dana draped her
left arm over his right and gently grasped his arm in the notch of his
biceps.  Fox's left hand caught Dana's right and positioned it slightly
extended to his left, level with Dana's face, and midway between their
bodies.  He looked over Dana's right shoulder, slightly upward, and
froze in position.

For her part, Dana just stepped close to Fox, raised her arms to
shoulder height, and waited.  As Fox positioned his arms, she fit her
own to him and shifted even closer until they were lightly touching,
with her body slightly offset to her left from his.  Considering the
difference in their heights, it felt like a remarkably good fit.  Of
course, she couldn't look over his right shoulder as she was supposed to
do, so she just looked into his right chest, instead, and froze.

"Very nice!" said Michelle.  She stepped closer to the pair and made
some small adjustments in their stance to help with the difference in
height, and then stepped back with a pleased look.  "It looks to me like
you both remember more than you claimed!  We call the way partners fit
together their "frame", and you two have a very nice, firm frame.  Feel
good to you?  Great!  So .  .  .  Let's see your Fox Trot!"

Fox played his old instructor's words back about the Fox Trot "Basic
step" for a moment, and silently counted "Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick; Left
forward, Right forward, Left side, Right together." in time to the
music.  At the next correct beat, he stepped forward with his left
foot.  Miraculously, it seemed, Dana moved at the same time, and they
were dancing!

Dana muttered quietly into Fox's shoulder, "Mulder, you've been holding
out on me!", as they glided effortlessly down the floor.  Fox's arms
were so steady that she'd had no trouble feeling his motion or
direction; she'd managed to follow without a bauble!

As they progressed down the side of the floor, Mulder gently guided
their path around the other couples.  When the end of the room
approached he had a moment of anxiety until he remembered the "Left
Turn".  As they reached the edge of the floor, he stepped "Left forward,
right together, right back, left back & turn left, right together" as he
mentally repeated the words.  Again, by continuing miracle, they had
made a neat 90-degree left turn, and were progressing down the second
edge of the floor.  Piece of cake!

Michelle watched her newest couple negotiate the turn and continue down
the floor, as she trailed along to the inside.  She grinned.  It was
always neat to watch two people discover they could dance together, and
these two were obviously pleased with themselves.  The woman was flushed
with the accomplishment, and the man was grinning like he'd just "got
lucky".  Maybe he had; she was dying to know what was up with these
two.  They didn't act like lovers; they'd been very formal and almost
stiff until they'd started to dance.  They wore no wedding rings, but
they acted like they'd been together forever.  Michelle bet herself that
there was an interesting story about these two.  She wondered if she'd
have time to dig it out of them.

"OK, guys, enough!  "

They stopped, but reluctantly, and stepped apart as they turned to
Michelle.

"So!" said Michelle, "That seemed to go well.  Are you sure you haven't
danced together before?" She watched the pair make eye contact, as if
conferring, and then look back at her and shake their heads.  They both
looked flustered.  "Well, you seem to have a lot of trust in each other,
and that's a big step toward looking good on the floor.  And you both
remembered the Basic and Left Ad-lib Turn.  What other Fox Trot steps do
you know."

Since Dana and Fox had learned what they knew of dancing from very
different sources, they had no common language to describe what they
knew.  Dana had taken lessons as a child, but had mostly learned by
dancing with her father, and had no names for any of the steps he had
taught her.  Fox had taken a couple of group classes at Oxford, a
required course for all graduating gentlemen, and English names for Fox
trot steps diverged from the American radically after getting past Basic
and Left Turn.  In about fifteen minutes, with Michelle's coaching and
each of her students pantomiming steps, they figured out that Fox and
Dana also had the Box step and Underarm Turn in common.  Dana knew some
additional steps, but Fox had exhausted his repertoire.

"Fine," decided Michelle, "You've got enough to dance the Fox Trot.  If
we add the Closed Turning Basic, which just combines elements from what
you already know, you'll have all the tools you need to look good and
wow 'em at that dance.  Now, what steps do you know in Waltz?"

After more pantomime and discussion, it turned out Fox knew just about
as much Waltz as Fox Trot.  "Sorry, Scully." He looked truly
apologetic.

"Don't be sorry, Mulder!  You've already impressed me; I thought you
only knew how to "hug and sway", isn't that what you told me?" She gave
him a suspicious look, arms folded across her chest and forehead
furrowed.  Why had he tried to give the impression he didn't know
anything about dancing?

"I didn't actually say that, Scully; I said I couldn't "Really Dance".
We've already hit my limits in .  .  ." he glanced at his watch,
"Twenty-five minutes.  That's it, Scully.  That's all they gave us at
Oxford before they sent us out into the cold, hard, world.  A dancer,
I'm not." But I can see the profession has its compensations, he
thought, remembering the feeling of Dana Scully in his arms.  He'd held
her before, of course, but only when she was sick, or dying, or freezing
cold.  This was altogether different!

Before Michelle could leap in to boaster his ego, Dana took the plunge.
She had expected to end up dragging Fox through this, kicking and
screaming.  As usual, he had surprised her by exceeding her
expectations.

"Stop apologizing, Mulder.  You have the best lead I've ever felt.  I
think that was the easiest and most comfortable Fox Trot I've ever
done.  And I bet you're just as good at Waltz; let's give it a try!"

"OK, Scully.  It's your toes."

Michelle heard her cue and smiled; the day has brightened considerably
in the last half hour.  Usually, a new couple meant hand-holding and a
lot of dreary stumbling and fumbling, but now and then a couple walked
in that was fun to teach right from the start; this was gonna be one of
those.  "Sounds like a winning idea to me!  I'll switch the music to
Waltz.  And Fox, I mean, Mulder, you're doing great!  This is gonna be
so much fun!  You two are natural partners!"

Fox muttered low enough that only Dana could hear him.  "I could have
told her that!"

				  *****

Fred Astaire's
12:30 p.m.

Waltz was not quite as simple as Fox Trot, but it went reasonably well.
Michelle had to show Mulder the "rise and fall" action that made Waltz
look so distinctive.  Mulder then discovered that balancing on one's
toes didn't come naturally; it would require some practice.

But in their first hour, the Dancing Duo (a "Mulderism" that sprang up
around the forty-five minute mark) had established exactly where they
stood.  Waltz and Fox Trot were in fine shape for basic dancing, thanks
to their previous experience.  They only needed to learn a couple of
additional steps, according to Michelle, to have a complete Fox Trot
social repertoire.  And with his eidetic memory, Fox only needed to be
told a step's name, and shown it slowly, and he could parrot back every
direction that Michelle gave.  But Fox was quickly reminded that knowing
where one should step, and stepping exactly there, were two entirely
different things:

"Aaagggg!"

"Sorry, Scully!"

"I'm fine, Mulder.  I wasn't using the top of my foot, anyway." .  .  .

"Damn!"

"Sorry, Mulder!"

"'s OK, Scully.  I don't think the ankle's broken, it's just had its ego
bruised."

Despite a few false steps, an aching toe and a battered ankle, the
partners had fun.  There was no desperation, no danger, no conspiracy.
No one was going to drop in unexpectedly and draw asinine conclusions
about their relationship, no reports needed to be filed.  No one was
depending on their presence somewhere else.  There was only music,
activity, laughter, and the two of them working together as usual,
except with a nosey chaperon.

"Are you two, ah, married?"

That got one grimace and one leer.  "Nope."

"Dating?"

That earned one blush and one grin.  "Nope."

"You just work together?"

Two small smiles.  "Yep."

"So, what do you do?"

Two big smiles and a silent consult.  "We're FBI agents."

"Oh." Fine!  Don't tell me, then!

 Eventually all good things end, and their hour of private instruction
ended much too quickly for either of them.  Flushed and charged with
adrenaline, they reluctantly left the floor to sit and review the lesson
with Michelle.

"So, what did you think of your first lesson?  Did you feel it was time
well spent, and did you have fun?"

Michelle didn't need to read the questions off the New Student
Enrollment form, she knew them by heart.  But this was one case where
she was pretty sure she knew how the hour had been received.  These two
had come in stiff and reserved; they were finishing relaxed and
enthusiastic.

There was laughter in Fox's voice.  "Michelle, I don't remember ever
having this much fun with two women before, at least not at the same
time.  Ummmpphh!" Fox's exclamation was from Dana's elbow striking his
ribs; not hard enough to injure, but firm enough to get his attention.

"Play nice, Mulder!" but she was obviously pleased, too.  She'd seen a
whole new side of her partner in the last hour, one that she'd never
suspected.  Fox was a natural dancer and, with a little work, would
probably end up much better than herself.  Of course, if she worked at
it too .  .  .  Dana's line of thought was interrupted by yet another
shock.

"Well, " said Fox, holding his sore ribs as if they were broken, "When
can we come back tomorrow?  Maybe about the same time?  And could we try
the Tango?  I've always wanted to dance like Aaaanuld!" He hoped his
Schwartzenegger imitation was recognizable.

				 *****


			      Chapter Eight
			       Soliloquies

Dana

"When I walked into Mulder's office that first time, I already liked
him.  Have you ever had an experience where you were instantly
comfortable and at ease with someone?  Have you ever recognized someone
as a friend on first sight?  That's how it was for me.  Oh, he made me
prove myself to him, but somehow, I knew how it was going to be, right
from the start."

"I already knew something about Fox "Spooky" Mulder from talk at the
academy.  The work he did so impressed the instructors that many of them
used Mulder's old papers as handouts; a couple of the psych instructors
used them as course outlines.  He was always referred to as brilliant.
Mulder's psychological profile work is studied by every agent going into
that field; his research paper on scouring information from the Internet
was a topic of conversation in practically every egghead-filled computer
science study group.  He made quite an impression passing through the
academy, and he's often asked back to lecture; he rarely goes.  But they
remember him, especially the women."

"I'd never heard that he slept with a lot of women, but he certainly
made an impression on quite a few.  His reputation among bureau women
was that "Spooky" Mulder was a great date, a fun time, and a lousy
relationship.  I suspect the problem was that he didn't disguise his
intellect, and he got terribly bored with any woman that couldn't keep
up with his train of thought.  And Mulder's trains of thought can be
very hard to follow.  In fact, sometimes you have to knock Mulder's
train of thought right off the track, just to find out where it's
going."

"I'd been told he was tall, dark, and rather handsome.  Other than that,
I didn't know just what to expect.  From all the stories about his
interest in the paranormal, and UFOs, and every other creepy,
half-baked, subject you could name, I expected someone who looked more
like a mad scientist.  And I expected that he'd be deadly serious, with
absolutely no sense of humor.  So I was excited by the assignment
because I was going to be working with a legend of the bureau, but I was
dreading the personal side of the assignment because I expected it to be
dreadfully trying."

"Of course, my reception at FBI HQ that day should have clued me in that
the assignment was not going to go as I expected.  I was basically told
that I was there to evaluate Mulder and debunk his work.  The indirect
way I was told those things angered me, even though I tried to hide that
fact.  After all, I had only been an agent for two years and I wasn't
comfortable with the notion of rocking the boat, yet.  But when I walked
up to Mulder's office door, I was prepared to make myself his ally; sort
of a rooting for the underdog kind of thing."

"Anyhow, I was determined to help him, but dreading having to put up
with a Mr.  Wizard, no personality, mad genius partner.  So I pounded on
his door, and he answered "There's nobody here but the F.B.I.'s Most
Unwanted." I laughed, and I think I was hooked on Fox Mulder from that
moment on, before I even opened the door.  Despite being the darkest,
most angst- ridden, self-critical soul I've ever encountered, he is also
the funniest, the kindest, the most self- sacrificing and caring soul I
ever expect to know."

"When I met him, the first item of business I wanted to get out of the
way was the crap I'd been handed about evaluating his work.  But I
didn't get the chance; he already knew.  He immediately told me that he
assumed I'd been sent to spy on him.  Several times in our first few
cases, as he learned to trust me, he'd make remarks like "Be sure to get
this into your report." It was like he wanted to convince me, so that I
could convince him, that his work was valid, and that his extreme
theories were legitimate.  And it worked.  He was often right, and even
when he wasn't, his pursuit of the truth solved cases and aided people
that would have been ignored by your typical agent."

"I have never experienced the level of trust with another person that I
have come to share with Mulder.  I know all about the bonding that
occurs between people placed under extreme stress.  I know the kind of
bond that forms between law enforcement partners, when another person
becomes, on a daily basis, the only thing between yourself and a violent
death.  I've seen the kind of telepathy that occurs between fanatics
sharing a common cause.  All of those things, and more, occurred between
Mulder and me.  I've lost count of the times we've each saved the
other's life, nursed each other back to health, or cried on one
another's shoulder.  We've risked our lives, careers, possessions and
professions uncountable times, without hesitation.  I know of no one I'd
rather have at my back with a gun, be stranded with on a dessert island,
have cook breakfast for me, or tell my fears to.  I know of no one I'd
rather do those things for."

"By the end of our first case together, I think I had already made a
total commitment both to Mulder and to the X-Files.  I became a doctor
to help people, but I saw there were a lot of doctors and that the help
they give is limited and tainted by fees, insurance companies, and
professional detachment.  It didn't seem to be enough for me.  I came to
the FBI to help people in a more direct and obvious way, I wanted to
"right wrongs" and "serve justice." I stayed with the X-Files because we
were the last hope, the final safety net, for people and situations that
even the FBI had decided to pass by.  And I stay with Mulder because he
shares that sense of importance and that lofty belief that Truth and
Justice are too important to ignore just because someone's worried about
closure rates, political correctness, or professional advancement.  The
work we've done in the X-Files has been the most rewarding and
fulfilling moments of my life."

"The X-Files have also been the cause, directly or indirectly, of a lot
of tragedy, fear, and loss.  I've been physically and mentally tortured,
kidnaped, experimented on, infected with deadly diseases, nearly frozen,
half drowned, shot, stabbed, and slashed.  I've been in danger of
electrocution, beheading, strangulation, exsanguination, poisoning, and
becoming alligator food.  My sister, Melissa, was killed by an assassin
who mistook her for me.  I've had to break off relationships that
couldn't stand the rigors of my profession, alienate friends and family,
and do things that I thought were necessary but morally wrong.  I've had
friends and strangers die in my arms.  And I lost a dog to the alligator
that missed me."

"But I've also seen wonders.  Although the scientist in me rejects most
of Mulder's explanations for what I've seen, I've had the privilege of
seeing them, anyway.  I have seen technology that may have been
extraterrestrial, creatures that it seems impossible for nature to have
formed, clones, telepathy, telekineses, ghosts, aliens, and flying
saucers.  Or maybe it's more correct to say that I've seen imitations of
the above that were so close the difference doesn't matter.  I've saved
lives both from death and ruination.  I've brought evil men, and women,
to Justice.  I've seen the Truth win out, and I've seen it lose.  I've
had the opportunity to live a life so full of wonder and accomplishment,
that I've come to think of life away from the X-Files as "mundane"."

"I'm often asked how Mulder and I manage to work together.  Our
supervisors and fellow agents see us argue, fight, scream and each go
our own way out of frustration.  And yet they envy and admire the work
we do, the results we achieve, the rapport and understanding we have.  I
can't say I understand our relationship myself, but I know it works.
Somehow we have something special that lets us achieve more through
conflict than others achieve with only cooperation.  But the funny thing
is, it never feels like simple conflict.  It feels like each of us doing
the part we do best, without apology, and knowing that whatever happens
we'll still be there at the conclusion, sharing our success or failure."

"Our relationship feels closer than colleagues, partners, friends,
lovers, or spouses.  It combines the best and the worst of all those
other kinds of relationships.  My only regret is that it also,
necessarily, omits many of the joys, rewards, and compensations that
those other relationships contain.  A house in the suburbs, white picket
fences, children in the yard, fame, fortune, Disney World and ocean
cruises may never be part of either of our lives.  But on the whole, I
think what we have is good, sustaining, and enduring."

"The X-Files, Mulder, my own principles and goals: they all seem to be
parts of a whole.  I wouldn't give anything up.  I won't give anything
up.  It's what I want.  Life is too fragile, and too short, to settle
for anything less."

"At least, for most of us."

				  *****

Fox

"I'm trained as a psychologist, and psychologists are constantly
analyzing themselves, but I was doing it long before I could spell the
word.  After all the analysis, I'm really a pretty simple guy.  The
X-Files, and the principles of my work, and my partner, Dana Scully, are
my life.  I'm a guilt-ridden neurotic who would be totally useless to
anyone, especially myself, if I didn't have an obsession that focuses my
attention outside myself.  The X-Files are my obsession, and it keeps me
sane."

"I was blessed, or cursed, by genetics with a rare combination of
gifts.  I have a high I.Q.  and an eidetic memory.  The memory thing is
what people tend to notice, and so I try to hide it.  It's not exactly a
textbook "photographic memory" because I don't take pictures and just
store them away.  I don't read entire pages at a glance, although I can
read very fast thanks to a speed reading course I took in high school.
I read and hear and process information the same way everyone else does,
I can just remember anything I ever knew.  I remember written words,
conversations, smells, everything.  Sometimes it's very helpful, and
that's a blessing.  But sometimes it's a curse, because I've seen and
heard and experienced things I'd just as soon forget, but I can't."

"As a child, I was pretty normal, if there is such a thing, up to the
time of my sister's abduction.  I read comic books, dreamed of being a
super-hero or a policeman, learned to tolerate girls, and both loved and
hated my sister.  When Samantha was taken, my normal life changed.  My
family fell apart, I became estranged from my father, my home life
became miserable, and after that I never thought of myself as a happy
child."

"At some point in high school, I became fascinated with the way certain
kinds of people seemed to be completely unhampered by the mental
controls that all the rest of us seem to have.  I wondered how people
could be born without the sense of remorse, the regard for others, the
sense of kinship with other people that most of us have to some degree.
I started to read detective stories and murder mysteries, I was
fascinated by serial killers, mass murderers and the like.  I was very
worrisome to my parents, until I told them I wanted to study
psychology."

"By the time I was ready for college, my parents were no longer living
together.  Fortunately, my father was rather well off, financially,
supposedly because of a generous government bonus for his governmental
service after WWII.  Later I found out that he'd been a part of secret
government projects in eugenics.  In any case, at the time I didn't
care, and I got to spend my college years at Oxford, away from my
family.  At Oxford, in the heart of Europe's ancient history and
traditions of the metaphysical, I became interested in paranormal
activity almost as a hobby."

"I was recruited into the FBI Academy in 1986; my paranormal interests
quickly earned me the nickname of "Spooky".  For a while, I was a little
oversensitive about that nickname, but now I just shoot people who use
it.  I believe the practice will die out naturally, soon."

"I joined the Psychological Profiles Department of the Violent Crimes
Section in 1988.  Something, maybe all those Nick Carter, Mike Bolan,
and The Shadow novels, had given me a knack for getting inside the head
of violent criminals, deducing their background and predicting their
future behavior.  I wrote a monograph called "On Serial Killers and the
Occult" that gained me considerable notoriety.  My successes got me a
lot of attention for a while, but the extra head-shrinking sessions
required for working in that area also got me hypno-regressed.  And
under hypnosis, I remembered by sister Samantha's abduction; an
abduction that I still believe was carried out by aliens, or with
captured alien technology."

"In late 1990 I stumbled across the X-Files.  They were basically a set
of ownerless files down in the basement of the Hoover Building; mostly
unsolved files delegated to the dungeon of long- term storage because
the investigators didn't, or rather couldn't, admit to believing the
reported facts of the case.  I read the file and recognized descriptions
of mutants, werewolves, vampires, flying saucers .  .  .  and alien
abductions, like Sam's.  I was hooked, and by 1991 I had finagled my way
into being assigned to check out some of the cases "in light of modern
scientific theory and knowledge".  In fact, I wanted a license to
investigate my sister's abduction."

"I spent a miserable year with the X-Files, fighting for a budget, going
through partners on a regular basis who could not consider the facts
reported in those cases as possible, much less probable.  I solved a few
old cases and turned over some stones that caused some political
upheaval.  I managed to gain a couple of supporters in Congress, and by
1992 I was sure that I was getting to the truth about our government's
knowledge and involvement with extraterrestrials.  My work made some
powerful people nervous, and they sent Scully to stop me."

"It was the worst mistake they could have made.  We fought, we argued,
we yelled.  We each saw something in the other that made us trust, and
depend, and support.  Dana never tried to stop me, she tried to make me
succeed."

"Instead of ruining the X-Files Department, its enemies had created
their own worst nightmare.  We became partners, a team, dedicated to
finding the Truth that we are both convinced lays hidden in the
X-Files.  Our closure rate soared; we uncovered government plots and
illegal experiments; we tracked down war criminals and failed genetic
experiments; we even encountered true cases of paranormal human
abilities.  We returned kidnap victims, and we caught serial killers.
And even when we failed in what we set out to do, we always succeeded in
some other way.  We helped people, we stemmed corruption, we saved
lives.  Our work was its own reward."

"And Dana Scully became more to me than just a partner.  As a
psychologist, I know about all the ways that people find to bond with
one another for security, but Scully and I surpassed all that.  I would
lay down my life to protect her, and I have; she has done the same for
me, only much more frequently.  The shadow powers within our government
have tried many times to separate us, but I no longer think they can do
that.  Even if they killed us both, I think we'd find a way to meet up
in heaven, or wherever, and solve our own X-File.  We're inseparable,
and that's that."

"And eventually, we will find The Truth.  It's Out There.  We Believe
It."

"And if we live long enough, we may even get lives of our own."

				  *****


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter Nine
Date: 17 May 1996 13:35:06 GMT


Characters, settings, and background herein are the intellectual
property of Chris Carter, The Fox Network, Ten Thirteen Productions and
others.  They are used here without permission and without intent of
infringement.  Permission is granted to copy this document for
non-comercial entertainment purposes only.

Comments and suggestions via e-mail are always welcome.  All posted
items are part of works in progress and are subject to further revision,
so please let me know about clear mistakes, confusion, etc.

I hope you enjoy this!

Chapter Nine
First Contact

Motel Eight
Parking Lot
2:30 p.m.

"So why'd you fib about the lessons at Oxford, Mulder?  You let me think
you were a complete novice at this dancing stuff!"

"Well, first of all, all I did was not volunteer any extra information;
I did not "fib".  Second, I had no idea if the lessons were going to be
of any use.  I mean, I remember them, of course, but they were pretty
limited, and we were rushed through pretty quickly.  Third, I am a
novice; I haven't danced formally since I left school."

Mulder turned into the motel parking lot and headed for their rooms near
the office.  Suddenly he swung away and drove half the motel's length
past their doors.  He stopped the car and backed into a spot on the far
side of the lot so that the car faced the motel and was ready to drive
away quickly.  Scully had come to attention and was staring toward their
rooms.

"Mulder .  .  ."

"Yeah, I noticed, Scully.  My door is standing open, and the rooms had
already been cleaned this morning when we got back from breakfast.
We've had a visitor with bad manners; he left the door open.  You take
the left and I'll circle around."

Scully nodded, and drew her Smith & Wesson 1056 automatic.  Holding the
gun low and inconspicuous at her side, she slid out of the car and
walked casually straight across the parking lot.  Reaching the sidewalk
in front of the front motel room doors, she turned right and headed
toward their rooms very slowly.

Mulder, meanwhile, followed Scully to the sidewalk, then turned left and
broke into a trot.  He circled the building, cutting through a central
open area containing ice and vending machines.  As he rounded the last
corner, back to the front of the motel, he saw Dana waiting on the other
side of their room doors, back to the wall and eyes on Mulder's door.

Mulder inched forward with his own 1056 in hand, and Scully matched him
step for step.  As he came to his own door, he paused.  Catching
Scully's eye, he silently mouthed one, two, three!  and swung into the
doorway standing erect.  Scully mirrored his movements, only crouching
low to Mulder's left.  For a few moments, both agents cast about the
room with their gun sights, but saw nothing, nothing but a mess, that
is.  Clothes and toiletry items lay scattered about the room as if swept
there by a wind storm.

Mulder motioned toward the bathroom, and Scully moved in that
direction.  Peeking around Mulder's bathroom turned up no intruder,
either.  She nodded, in turn, to the connecting door to her room.  With
Scully covering, Mulder edged forward and swung through the door into
the other room.  Nothing.  Scully followed, and once again, checked the
bathroom.

"Clear, Scully?"

"Clear, Mulder.  Looks like we've got a maid that cleans house like
you."

Scully's room, too, was a shambles.  Clothing, papers, and toiletries
lay scattered over every flat surface.  She picked up her suitcase from
the middle of the floor and inspected it sourly; it was slashed inside
and out as if the searcher had expected it to contain secret pockets or
something.  Scully looked over at the writing table in the corner, and
moaned.

"Damn, Mulder.  There goes another laptop.  I'm gonna have to find an
unbreakable one.  At least this time I had just transferred copies of
all my files back to D.C.; Skinner can still get his reports on time, if
I can find a loaner machine somewhere."

Whoever had searched their rooms had slammed the laptop computer against
the wall, smashing the screen and knocking a corner chunk out of the
case.  Mysterious "computer guts" were hanging out; it was definitely a
goner.

Mulder shook his head silently.  Leave it to Scully to have her
priorities straight: first the computer, and second the paperwork.  The
woman needed a life.

"Well, Thank God the Paperwork Will Be On Time, Scully.  Skinner can
forgive us anything except late paper work."

Mulder's voice dripped scorn for the misplaced priorities of bureau
administrators.  Then something sticking out from under the edge of the
bed caught Mulder's eye.  He reached out with the barrel of his
automatic and "hooked" what could only be one of Scully's bras on the
forward gunsight.  He brought the item up to eye level, the pale wisp of
cloth dangling from the barrel, and pretended to inspect it closely.  It
was pale green satin.  Mulder had an unsettling feeling as he imagined
how his partner looked in pale green satin underwear.  He'd always
figured Scully for the plain white cotton type, unless .  .  .

"Hmm.  Something from Frohike, Scully?"

Mulder started searching the floor for the other half of what had to be
a matched set.  Scully rolled her eyes and wondered if she could find
the matching panties before Mulder did.  Having her partner critique her
taste in underwear was freaking her out.  God, she thought, what will he
do if he finds the black lace set?

Mulder's head snapped up and turned toward the door as the sound of
squealing tires echoed in from the parking lot.  Scully, who was closer,
launched herself out the door with Mulder on her heels.  As they blinked
in the sudden glare, two pairs of eyes simultaneously locked onto a
light blue 80's vintage Chevy sedan.  The car squalled onto the street
from the parking lot, rear end listing heavily before the driver
regained control.  The driver gunned the engine again, and threw the
aging vehicle into a sharp left turn at the intersection, cutting off
several cars in the intersection.

Scully looked back at Mulder and found him already sprinting for their
car.  Scully was still wearing her higher - than - usual best heels from
the dance studio, and realized the futility of trying to keep up with
Mulder, anyway.  Instead, she ran to the opposite side of the parking
lot driveway, so she would be on the passenger side of the car as Mulder
drove past.

"Mulder, you had damn well better stop and pick me up, or I'm going to
do some head chopping of my own!" she muttered to herself.  She
skittered to a stop at what she thought would be the best pick-up
position.

Another scream of tortured tires preannounced Mulder's arrival.  Three
seconds later he slid to a stop in front of Scully while simultaneously
stretching across the seats and yanking open the passenger door.
Momentum slammed the passenger door forward, Scully leapt, almost
gracefully, into the front passenger seat, and Mulder's takeoff slammed
the door closed after her.  An observer might have thought he was
witnessing a practiced routine, instead of the wild improvisation that
it actually was.

Scully righted herself in the passenger seat and fought to fasten her
seat belt and shoulder harness as Mulder slued the protesting Taurus
around the left turn in pursuit of the fleeing car.  Finally getting
strapped in, and noting that Mulder had already fastened his own seat
belts, Dana grabbed the car's cellular phone and dialed 911.  She saw
Mulder reach under the dash and flip the switches that activated the
bureau car's siren and the flashing grill lights.  A voice answered on
the cell phone.

"This is Technician Maria Constalos, Chicago Police Department.  What is
the nature of your emergency?"

"This is FBI Special Agent Dana Scully, badge number 2317-616.  I am in
high speed pursuit of a suspect wanted for questioning in a homicide
investigation.  The suspect is headed, uh, .  .  ." Dana frantically
cast around for street signs and a direction.  She noted the position of
the sun and made a best guess, ".  .  .  west bound on Gradner Street
from Tuxon.  The suspect's vehicle is a light blue Chevy sedan,
mid-eighties probably.  We are requesting immediate backup.  Consider
the suspect armed and dangerous.  Two federal agents are pursuing in a
dark blue unmarked Ford Taurus with lights and siren.  Please advise!"

"One moment, Agent Scully.  I am transferring you to our Dispatch Desk."
The female voice sounded cool and efficient.  Dana knew she was now
running her badge number through the FBI Law Enforcement Officer
Identification system, even as she could hear a faint voice calling for
police units in their vicinity.  Even if Dana had been a crank, the
local police would have wanted to intercept her and have a chat.  A
second voice came on the line.

"Agent Scully, this is the Chicago P.D.  Dispatch Desk.  Be advised that
two backup units are in route, and should intercept you, E.T.A.  three
minutes.  Please re-advise current location?"

"Still westbound on Gradner, just passing .  .  .  " Scully managed to
catch a street name from the front of an auto repair shop, "Styler
Avenue.  Suspect is approximately two blocks ahead.  Ooops!  Suspect has
just turned right, north, and I don't know the street yet!"

"Understood, Agent Scully." In the background, the dispatcher passed on
the course change to the intercepting patrol units.  "Please identify
your partner and give me a description of yourselves." It wouldn't do
for the local officers to be shooting FBI agents by mistake.

"My partner is Special Agent Fox Mulder, badge number JTT047101111.
Mulder is male, Caucasian, six feet tall, 170 lbs., brown hair, green
eyes, wearing a light blue sweatshirt and blue jeans.  I am female,
Caucasian, five feet three inches tall, red hair, wearing a dark blue
sweater and skirt."

Taking a chance on distracting his driving, Dana backhanded Mulder on
the shoulder.  He was chuckling at the omission of her weight in the
descriptions.  Truth be known, her weight fluctuated so much that she
honestly didn't know what to report this week.  How he could take time
to think about such trivia in the middle of a chase was a mystery to
her, like a lot of Mulder's quirks.

As Mulder swung into the right-hand turn their suspect had negotiated
seconds before, he called out "Bakker St., Scully!".  Scully relayed the
landmark to the dispatcher, as well as the following left turn that
resumed their westward course.  They had closed the gap on their quarry
to less than a city block.

"Those defensive driving courses are paying off now, Scully!  A dozen
blocks and I haven't even scratched The Bureau's car, yet!  Skinner may
arrange a commendation for protecting Bureau property!"

Dana knew Mulder loved any chance to drive like this, whipping with
impunity through traffic lights, tires screaming and siren blasting.
Admittedly, the cops - and - robbers she'd played as a kid with her
brothers always included the car chase as the most important part of the
case; her adrenaline was off the gauge by now, too.  Mulder, though, got
a special charge from manhandling a car through city streets; it was
probably a male thing.  They probably learned it from all those James
Bond movies.  I guess that casts me as the sexy female sidekick, she
thought, hanging on for dear life, despite the seatbelts, as Mulder
threw the car through another abrupt swerve to miss a civilian vehicle.

Suddenly, the car ahead of them flashed brake lights, skidded to the
right, and jumped the curb.  As they approached the same spot, they saw
a small stretch of open grass, and a children's playground beyond.
Their suspect was taking a shortcut through a school yard!  There were
over a hundred children in sight, lining up to board a row of busses
parked behind the school to their left.  They watched in horror as the
speeding sedan approached the children, and as Mulder jumped the curb in
pursuit.

Mulder swung the Taurus to the right and floor-boarded the powerful
little V6 engine.  A hidden dip in the playground caused them to bottom
out, and then bounce almost completely free of the ground.  The reckless
maneuver enabled them to pull even with the speeding Chevy, however, and
Mulder swung left attempting to force the maniac inside to veer left,
too.  They caught a glimpse of a male figure with short dark hair behind
the wheel.

At the last instant, just as the agents were bracing themselves for a
massive tragedy, the blue sedan swerved left and regained the street
through the Entrance Only lane of the school parking lot.  Mulder
recovered too strongly, fearing to get too near the children himself,
and clipped off several white painted wooden posts surrounding the
school's flagpole.

"So much for Skinner's Careful Agent of the Month Award!" muttered
Mulder, as he slid their car through the parking lot and onto the
street.  Their quarry had gained almost a city block on them, again.
Dana updated Dispatch on their latest course changes, although, frankly,
Dana had lost all sense of direction somewhere in the middle of the
school yard.

Fortunately, they were almost immediately joined by a patrol car that
swung in behind them from the left, then a second unit that pulled out
in front of them from the right.  The second car was almost on their
suspect's bumper, and stuck tightly as the fleeing Chevy abruptly swung
north (?) again.

"Agent Scully?  We now have two units that report joining you in
pursuit.  Any special instructions if the suspect is stopped?"

"Affirmative, Dispatch.  We confirm that your units have joined us.
Officers should use extreme caution in attempting to apprehend.  The
suspect may be trained in martial arts, and may be armed with a sword as
well as firearms.  You might want to have someone call the office at
Haywood Elementary School and make sure everything is O.K.  We just
scared the dickens out of a bunch of school kids and their teachers.
And could you send a unit to the Motel Eight just south of Gradner on
Tuxon?  Rooms Three and Four need to be secured; we believe the suspect
had just completed ransacking our rooms when this pursuit began."

"Affirmative, Agent Scully.  Should I call the local FBI office?"

"Affirmative, Dispatch.  Use my badge number and request a special
forensics team to go over those rooms.  Will there be any problem
coordinating with your own investigation team?"

There was the sound of a soft chuckle from the dispatcher.  "No, I doubt
that our guys will fight over checking out a ransacked room.  I don't
suppose there are any D.B.'s laying around in there?"

No, thank god, there were no Dead Bodies, yet.  They had both been out
having a good time when their visitor arrived, or the story might have
been very different.  Of course, they might have caught him and ended
this case on the spot, too.

"Sorry Dispatch, no D.B.'s back at the farm.  However, my partner is
driving and we haven't brought the car to a complete stop, yet, so
there's still time."

The dispatcher chuckled again.  "I heard that, Agent Scully.  "

"I heard that too, Scully; looks like you get your wish, we're
stopping!" Mulder stood on the anti-lock brakes as he spoke.

Ahead, the blue Chevy had turned into an alley, was skewed sideways to
block the pursuing cars, and had been abandoned.  The Chicago police
cruiser behind it was empty, too.  Mulder pulled up behind Chicago's
finest, and reached under the dash to kill the siren.  The sudden
relative silence was deafening.

"Agent Scully," came the voice from the cellular again, "Be advised we
have two uniformed officers in foot pursuit of your suspect down an
alley between King and Evans.  Do you copy?"

"Confirmed, Dispatch.  We are on the scene with the second backup unit."

Behind the Taurus, the other Chicago patrol unit slid to a stop and two
more uniformed officers rushed past them on foot with only a confirming
glance at the two agents.  There was no sight of their suspect, or the
first two officers, down the alley.  Mulder reached out and touched
Scully's arm as she was about to open her car door and follow the
uniforms.

"I'm sure these guys know the area better than us, but let's circle the
block, anyway.  Maybe we'll get lucky?" suggested Mulder.

He started to back up as soon as Scully nodded assent.  Dana passed on
their plan to the Chicago dispatcher, who continued to hold the line
open for them.  Getting an acknowledgment, they circled left around the
block, and had turned their second corner when they heard the
dispatcher's voice again.

"Agent Scully, be advised we have a report of an officer down; EMS has
been dispatched."

"Chicago Dispatch?  I am a medical doctor and can assist.  Can you give
me a location on your .  .  .  Never mind, Dispatch.  We are on the
scene of the injured officer."

Ahead and to their left, between two large trash dumpsters, stood the
two uniformed police officers from the second car.  A third officer was
on his knees beside the fourth, who was laying flat on his back.  The
front of the downed officer's uniform shirt was wet and red.  Mulder
pulled close and stopped as Scully jumped out and circled to the injured
officer.

The kneeling officer was trying to stop his partner's bleeding by
applying pressure to his friend's back and abdomen.  Scully knelt and
checked the injured officer's pulse and pupils; he was in shock from the
blood loss, which was considerable.  She looked up into the eyes of the
kneeling partner and saw a familiar look, one she remembered seeing on
Mulder's face more than once: quiet desperation, concern, grief, and
self-doubt.

"Don't worry, I'm a doctor.  You're doing fine with the pressure, the
bleeding is almost checked.  You got to him in time.  I think he'll
live, depending on the internal injuries.  From the location, it doesn't
look like the bullet should have hit anything too vital.  An EMS unit is
on the way.  Hang on!  He'll be fine."

The dark eyes staring back at her seemed to lighten a little; slowly the
officer nodded his head in acceptance of Scully's reassurance.  In the
distance, they could already hear the siren of the approaching Emergency
Medical Service unit.  The sad face turned down to his partner once
more, then back up to Scully.  His voice was ragged, and he spoke in a
barely audible, hoarse whisper.  A bruise was forming across his left
cheek and jaw, and his nose was bleeding; it looked broken.

"It's not a bullet wound.  The sonuvabitch stabbed my partner with a
sword!  A f***ing sword!.  It looked about six feet long; it went clear
through him.  Vicious things, blades.  Somehow I'd rather catch a bullet
than be cut with a blade, ya know?  Vicious things, blades .  .  ."

				  *****

417 King Avenue
Rear alley
Chicago, IL
4:18 p.m.

The good news was that the EMS team had concurred with Scully's
evaluation of the injured officer, Mike O'Donal, and so did the
preliminary report from the ER; he'd make it, but possibly on only one
kidney.

The bad news was that now they had some very pissed off Chicago cops
"Looking For Justice (tm)", and their only suspect was gone without a
trace.  To add insult to injury, the only description they had was "big
guy, dark hair, big sword".  It seems the downed officer's partner, Jim
Halloran, had only seen the suspect from behind for an instant before
being backhanded with the hilt of the sword.  A lot of soul searching
was going on, and a lot of glares passed back and forth.  It troubled
them that not a single shot had been fired, while two officers had been
taken down by a man with a sword.

The consensus among Chicago's finest was that the female Fed was O.K.
She had helped Halloran take care of O'Donal until the EMS people came.
But that wussy-looking Fed, Mulder, had started this whole mess, and was
somehow responsible for them not knowing who to blame for O'Donal's
injury.

One officer had gone so far as to get nose - to - nose with Mulder and
demand a better explanation than "the guy ransacked our room".  Mulder
had calmly explained that assaulting an FBI agent was a Federal beef.
Further, that they were investigating a series of murders so their guy
might be facing a life sentence.  Finally, he reminded the female
officer that, after all, he was only a man and that the redhead was
really in charge.

Scully calmed a lot of frayed nerves by announcing that she had already
called in an FBI Criminal Forensics Team to go over the car and their
motel rooms.  FBI forensics experts were the best; the suspect's car
would tell them a lot about who had injured their comrade.  She assured
the waiting officers that they'd soon know their suspect's hair color,
DNA signature, fingerprints, and the name of the last woman he'd slept
with.  This last comment, delivered with an absolutely professional tone
and deadpan expression, had even drawn a chuckle or two.

Mulder had already pulled on latex gloves, and was tentatively poking
around in the blue Chevy.  There was an Illinois registration over the
driver's visor, and he called in the name, Edward Manning, license
number, and Vehicle Identification Number.  No way would their guy have
driven his own car, he and Scully just never got that lucky; it was
probably stolen.  Still, it might lead to something, so it couldn't be
ignored.  Mulder discovered that the vehicle's trunk was locked, and
that the car keys were missing.  Seeing the problem, one of the original
backup officers in their chase had offered Mulder a Chicago Lock Pick,
known in other parts of the world as a crowbar.  Mulder knocked out the
trunk lock easily, looked inside, and immediately looked for his
partner.

"Scully?  Can you spare a minute?  There's something here you should
see."

Scully approached the car, and headed toward the back.

"What is it Mulder?" Then she rounded the back and looked into the
trunk.  Oh.

"My first guess is that this is Ed Manning, Scully, and that our
friendly neighborhood innkeeper will know him."

Mulder gestured to the Watcher tattoo which was visible on the exposed
inner left wrist of the body.  It was another one of Joe's people.

"Well, that, plus the sword, firmly ties this incident into our case,
Mulder.  This was no simple motel burglary gone bad; this was our
killer, and he was looking for us, specifically.  We should take a
Polaroid of this man to Dawson, and get his reaction to what's happened
this afternoon."

"Good idea, Scully.  We've probably got another couple of hours red tape
here before we can walk way, then there's gonna be police reports to
file both at this scene and back at the motel.  We should also let
Skinner know the good news; we're on the right track here.  I'll grab a
camera and take this guy's portrait now, then cruise over to Dawson's .
.  ."

"NO WAY, Mulder!" interrupted Scully, "No way are you going to leave me
doing paperwork for the next four hours while you dash off for more
barbecue!" The guilty look on her partner's face told Dana she'd scored
a hit about the barbecue, but she also knew how much he hated field
reports.  "I'll make a deal with you; you handle local cops at both
crime scenes.  I'll take my notes with me to Dawson's place, write up
our preliminary field reports, and send them to D.C.  via modem.  Then
you won't have to talk to Skinner on a voice line.  While I'm there, I
can find out what Dawson knows about this guy in the trunk.  You take
notes so I can finish the final reports, later.  Deal?"

"O.K., Scully.  Deal.  You take the Taurus, and I'll grab a ride with
one of these nice officers."

"If it were I, Mulder, I wouldn't ask the blond that was speaking to you
earlier.  If you do, it may be a very long ride."

Apparently, he thought, my concerns about socialization with Scully
affecting our work relationship were unfounded.  One thing had been
nagging him, though.

"Scully, will you listen to some paranoia with an open mind?"

Scully looked at her partner with big, round, innocent eyes.  "Whatever
do you mean, Mulder?  Of course I'll listen to whatever you have to
say!" Scully braced herself for more of the Mulder over-protective, big
brother, senior partner B.S.

"Scully, we're looking for an Immortal with access to Watcher records,
someone who knows who we are and where we are staying.  Someone so
practiced with a sword that he uses it against police armed with
automatics.  Do we know of anyone who might fit that description?"

Dana raised both eye brows as she saw where Mulder was leading her.

"Methos.  It could have been him in the car, I suppose; we never got a
good look at the driver, either.  And maybe a tall slender guy in a
trench coat, with a big sword in hand, would have looked like a "big
guy" to the uniforms."

"Or he could have an accomplice.  Remember, Trust Only Me, Scully."

"Always, Mulder."

				  *****

Joe's Place
7:15 p.m.

Joe Dawson looked worried.  The murdered man was a Watcher, all right,
but was currently serving as Administrative Assistant to Dawson,
himself, at the local International Assets office.  Suddenly, murder was
even more up close and personal.

"It's too much of a coincidence, Dana, to have our killer showing up
here in Chicago, and searching your rooms.  I can only guess that he was
watching my place, saw our meeting, and followed you two to see what was
up."

Dana hadn't though of that scenario, but it seemed plausible.

"Why would he be watching you?"

"Maybe because I'm the Eastern US coordinator for the Watchers?  Maybe
he sees me as a threat because he knows I'll try to stop him.  Maybe I'm
next on his list, Dana."

"Do you watch a particular Immortal yourself?"

"Yes, I do.  I watch one of the few Immortals who are aware of the
Watchers.  We get along because I leave him alone, and he lets me know
what's going on with him, and where he's going when he moves.  At least,
most of the time he does.  Yes, I should call Duncan and give him a
"Heads Up", excuse the pun.  You said your burglar was big and dark?
Then that leaves only two likely prospects out of the half dozen we
still can't account for; let me show you some pictures back in my
office."

Dana picked up her coffee and followed Dawson back to his office.
Dawson turned on his computer and opened a wall safe, shielding the
combination with his body.  He pulled a CD out of the safe, and popped
it in.  In a few moments, he called up a picture for Dana to look at.

"This is Charlie "Frog" Sauvaugh: six feet two inches, 220 lbs., and
about 450 years old.  He's originally from the French Pyrenees area.  He
disappeared about two weeks before the first killings." Joe displayed on
the screen a cruel, uneven face with a sharp nose and thin mouth.

"Can you print this, so I can show Mulder, too?"

"Sure.  There.  And this is Bradley Thomas: six feet four inches and 240
lbs., all solid muscle.  He's been a mercenary of one kind or another
for over 250 years.  He's a "very bad dude", this guy.  And my personal
favorite as our serial killer.  He dropped out of sight over six months
ago." He printed the second image without being asked.

When the printer finished its whirring, Dana studied the two faces side
by side.  Not very pleasant individuals, judging by their looks and the
brief history synopsis that Joe had also printed for each man.  Now,
which one were they dealing with, or was it both, or neither?  Should
she put out an APB on them both, just on the Watchers' rather shaky
suppositions?

"Joe, have you seen Methos since our chat yesterday?"

"No, but that's normal.  Nobody sees Methos very much, he's lived as
long as he has by being a very cautious guy.  I'm sure he'd appreciate
it if you wouldn't use "Methos" in public; everyone knows him as Adam.
He's not one to seek a fight, although legend has it that he's very good
with a sword.  I believe Mac, Duncan MacLeod, beat him in a match once,
though.  Adam spends a lot of time on Holy Ground, like International
Asserts' offices, which are in an old church."

"MacLeod beat Methos, I mean "Adam", but didn't take his head?  I
thought that was part of the rules?"

"No rule says that two Immortals have to fight, or that the winner is
required to take the loser's head even if they do.  Duncan and Adam are
friends.  The duel was supposedly over how to kill a third Immortal that
was threatening them both.  " Joe shrugged.  "Any time you think you
understand an Immortal, things will change and you'll be confused
again.  Even if they live as long as Adam, they're just like us in that
respect.  People change, and Immortals change constantly.  "

"Joe, one more favor.  Can I use your computer and modem for a while?  I
need to check our e-mail and turn in some reports.  My laptop got
trashed back in our rooms.  No toll charges, the FBI has an 800 number."

"Sure.  Make yourself at home.  I'll call Mac and Adam from out there.
I'll be behind the bar, if you need me."

Dana smiled to herself as Dawson returned his CD to the safe on his way
out.  Dawson must know the X-Files motto.

				  *****

Joe's Place
9:25 p.m.

It was dark as Dana left the club.  The street lights fought back
bravely against the darkness, and mostly succeeded, except in the
corners, cracks, and crevices of the urban landscape that was Chicago.
Dana's mind was busily sifting through all the fantastic circumstances
of this case as she turned down the side street toward the parking area
behind Joe's Place.  The door key to the agency car was gripped firmly
in her right hand, the key to her decimated motel room dangled and
clattered softly against the key ring.  She hoped that Mulder had
cleaned up their belongings, gotten them new rooms, and finished his
notes for their final field reports by now.  Realistically, she knew
Mulder would have found some excuse to not have started the paperwork at
all; she'd probably have to go down to the local precinct tomorrow and
fill out a crime report herself.  Without an official report, the bureau
would not pay for replacing their slashed bags, or any other items
damaged by the crude search of their rooms.

Despite her preoccupation, Dana's eye's and ears remained alert to the
possible dangers of night in the urban jungle.  Her eyes alternately
surveyed each side of the street, probed the shadows around and between
the cars, and even flicked briefly to the nearby rooftops in search of a
possible assailant.  For once, her cautious alertness was more than a
reflexive exercise.  As she took her first step around the corner and
into the parking lot, she sensed another presence.

Someone was standing in the shadow cast by a parked van, off to Dana's
left and about thirty feet away.  He was dressed all in dark clothes,
and had dark hair.  He blended almost perfectly into the shadows, but
his face gave him away as it accidently caught some stray sliver of
light.  Her shifting gaze had caught a flash of pale skin within the
inky shadows beside the van.

A darker shadow - within - the - shadow was only noticeable when she
shifted her eyes and looked directly at the van.  As she looked, the
darker shadow stepped out of the lighter shadow and into the aisle
between the cars.  A brighter glint of light on shiny metal announced
the blade of the sword as it moved from the darkness of the man's long
coat into the harsh artificial glare of the street lighting.  He
advanced, holding both hands slightly away from his body, the right hand
carrying the long blade.  The officer was right, it did look six feet
long!

Dana considered the remaining distance to her car, and realized she'd
never make it in time.  The words of Academy trainers whispered in her
ears as she prepared to fight for her life.  First, she emptied her
hands.  The keys dropped into her coat pocket, safe for later if she
lived long enough to need them.  The purse fell to the ground as she let
the strap slip off her shoulder and released her grip.  Her right hand,
empty of keys now, slipped under her coat and returned with the 9mm
Smith & Wesson automatic.  Its grip felt reassuring in her hand; she
spent hours each month making sure the weapon was always familiar.  Her
left hand came up to steady the right, and her knees flexed for better
balance and to reduce her own target area.  She took a long, deep,
breath and felt the initial surge of adrenaline through her body make
her senses heighten and her stomach tighten.  The potential panic
receded and left an icy, icy calm.  She used the commanding tone of
voice that Mulder said reminded him of his Oxford headmaster.

"Stop!  Federal Agent!  Drop your weapon and don't move!"

Unhesitating, the dark figure cleared the end of the van and started
toward her with an unhurried step.  The sword was clearly visible now,
held down and out to the figure's right.  In a moment, his face became
visible as he neared a light pole set near the middle of the lot.
Dana's analytical mind automatically made notes for a later report:
Caucasian, short dark hair, 30ish, six feet four inches, 200 lbs., no
facial hair, broad shoulders and thick arms like a weight lifter, square
jaw and low forehead.  It was Bradley Thomas.  His quiet voice carried
easily to her through the still night air, clear and without a trace of
accent.

"I think you've been looking for me.  Well, here I am!  What do you plan
on doing with me, bitch?"

The looming figure's voice was deep and soft, reminding Dana of a priest
from her childhood.  The tone was gentle and seductive, like a
high-class pimp, incongruous with the threat of his words and the
glistening sword in his hand.  Dana felt like she was standing in the
eye of a storm as she stood braced, never taking her eyes off the
advancing figure.

For an instant, but only an instant, she wished Mulder were there to
lend some of his overprotection.  Then the thought passed, and Dana
squared her shoulders, and replied to the shadowy figure's threat.  She
tried to put as much "sweetness and light" into her voice as possible.
If he thought he could rattle her, maybe she could rattle back.  She
raised her aim; at this distance, and with a stationary target, she knew
she could empty the clip into either of his eyes.  She wondered how long
it took an Immortal to regrow a new brain.

"At the moment, Bradley Thomas, I'm placing you under arrest.  If you
resist, I'm planning to put a 9mm slug into your forehead, you bastard!
Then I plan to take your sword and chop off your ugly head!  And I'm
planning to get started as soon as you take your next step!"

The advancing form stopped at the mention of his name, and seemed to
appraise her stance and the steadiness of the automatic pointed at his
face.  His hands dropped to hang at his sides, and he seemed to relax.
Dana heard the sound of a long breath, released slowly; she took a
cleansing breath herself, but otherwise remained frozen in place.

"It appears I've underestimated you, Agent Scully.  Dawson is helping
you directly, obviously, and that's not like him at all.  It seems you
know way too much about me already.  Not that it's going to help you
any.  I'm afraid I can't let you continue to live, knowing what you
know."

With his final words still in the air, Thomas dropped to his left with
seemingly inhuman speed.  Dana tracked his motion and fired, trying only
for a torso hit with a moving body as her target.  As if in slow motion,
she watched the bullet tug at the man's coat lapel, and then slam him
backwards into the glass of the car behind him.  As her mind registered
the hit, she had already fired twice more, shooting in groups of three
as she'd been coached by her father and the bureau.  The remaining shots
shattered glass in the hapless car's windows, as her target dropped from
sight.

Dana immediately circled to the left, keeping as much distance as
possible between herself and the point where the Immortal had left her
line of sight.  In a moment she was positioned to see between the cars
where she expected to find a body, but the ground was empty.  Vaguely,
she could make out what were surely blood stains on the side of the car
where her would-be assailant had slid down the passenger door, and more
stains were visible on the pavement.  In the light from the sodium-vapor
lighting, the blood looked black, not red, as it trailed away toward the
front of the cars.

Dana crouched and backed across the aisle and between two cars herself,
peering around a car's back bumper to survey as far down the opposite
row of cars as she could.  She wanted to leave no chance that the
suspect might circle behind her, and wanted cover in case the sword was
not his only weapon.

For long seconds, nothing moved.  The only sound Dana could hear was her
own breathing, which had grown rapid and shallow from the action.  She
focused on her breathing and it slowed and quieted.  Still nothing
moved, but now Dana could hear the background sounds of Chicago all
around her.  Car engines revved, truck brakes squealed, horns blared.
Dana shifted her weight to ease the tension that the crouched position
caused in her legs.

Suddenly a figure ran from behind a car in the opposite row to the cover
of a telephone pole set in the middle of the broad aisle, paused, then
continued across the aisle.  Dana swung out around the rear bumper of
her cover and fired three times again; this time she could not tell for
certain if she'd scored a hit.  She returned to cover and retreated to
the front of the car, and then rose for a look over the hood.  She
reflected on the efficacy of firing long-range at someone who might be
able to heal as quickly as Methos.  Her suspect had probably already
fully recovered from her first hit, and was now back in the game with
his full facilities.

She pondered her ammo supply; there were only two rounds left in her
clip.  Since fire fights had never been a big part of her bureau career
up to this point, she carried her spare clip in her purse, which was
lying on the ground in the middle of the aisle.  There was a box of ammo
in the lock box inside her trunk.  Neither item was going to do her any
good if she couldn't retrieve them.  She was loathe to step out of cover
into the aisle to retrieve the purse, and the car was two aisles further
away.  If her adversary had a gun, she'd be a sitting duck if she tried
to cross the open aisle and snag the purse on the way.  Still, the purse
was closer than the car and she couldn't play cat and mouse very long
with only two more shots available.

She began edging back toward the rear of the car, popping up
occasionally to check for movement; she saw nothing.  She braced herself
to dash into the open for her purse, and began to rise, when motion on
her right caught the corner of her eye.  She dropped back down and
peered cautiously around the rear bumper of the car to her right this
time, trying to quickly locate the source of the shadow that now fell
down the center of the aisle.  Another man had entered the parking lot
from the direction Dana had come.  This figure held a katana sword in a
two-handed grip, hands raised level with and in front of his right
shoulder.  He was surveying the parking lot with a intent manner, as if
he could hear prey but not pin down its exact position.  Dana silently
withdrew several steps to prevent this new threat from noticing her own
position.

The new player in their deadly hide - and - seek game slowly approached
Dana's discarded purse.  Reaching it, he stopped and quickly glanced
down for a moment.  Just as quickly, he resumed his silent survey of the
surrounding rows of cars.  Suddenly a voice rang out; it was strong,
challenging, and revealed a thinly suppressed Scottish accent.

"I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod!  Step out into the open and
face me, whoever you are!"

Dana could see the newcomer from her new position, if she leaned forward
slightly and looked down the narrow alley between the cars that
concealed her.  He stood poised over her purse, as if protecting it, and
looking warily around himself in all directions.  He was about the same
height as the first man, about six feet four inches, but more slender.
He looked like a runner or swimmer, not a weight lifter.  He had long
brown hair tied back in a pony tail, and a strong jawline.

Dana recognized a martial arts stance as he shuffled through a complete
turn, but could not recognize the discipline.  He moved like a cat,
always poised to spring, never off balance, never seeming quite still,
even when not apparently moving.  Dana realized this was Dawson's
Immortal, his friend and Watcher subject, and wondered how many years
had gone into the practiced movements.  She also wondered if he was a
friend or foe in the current circumstance.

Suddenly, the man called Duncan MacLeod seemed to drop his guard.  The
sword swung down to a relaxed position at his side, and his eyes dropped
again to Dana's purse.  He squatted over the purse and picked it up.
Flipping open the fold-over top, he rummaged for a moment and came out
with Dana's FBI badge and I.D.  holder.  He opened the I.D.  and studied
it for a moment, then he rose and looked around.

"Agent Scully?  Are you out here?  My name is Duncan MacLeod, and I'm a
friend of Joe Dawson and Adam Peerson.  I won't hurt you, you can come
out now.  Whoever was here before is gone; I can tell.  You're safe."

Scully decided that caution was the better part of valor in this case,
and didn't move.  This was definitely not the man that she'd fired at,
but he wasn't necessarily a friend, either.  And the first Immortal
wasn't necessarily gone just because this one said so.  Scully took
another of what seemed to be way too many deep breaths in the last few
minutes, and reconsidered her tactics.  Caution, yes, but this Immortal
was standing out in the open about fifteen feet away.

Dana came suddenly to her feet with her automatic steadied on Duncan
MacLeod.  As he turned to face her squarely, Dana got a good look at his
face.  She hoped she wouldn't have to shoot this one!

"Federal Agent!  Drop your weapon and raise your hands!  NOW!"

As Dana braced to fire, the man before her did the unexpected.  He
smiled.  He smiled a broad, warm, friendly smile that Dana knew
instantly would charm most women out of their pants in a heartbeat.
Dana responded, too.

"I SAID DROP THE SWORD!  NOW!"

Smiling even bigger, Duncan MacLeod slowly crouched and laid his sword
gently on the pavement at his feet.  Then he slowly rose, and raised his
hands over his head; Dana's purse still hung from his left hand.  His
voice, when he spoke, reflected the amusement on his face.

"I give up!  Don't shoot!  I'm a good guy!  Just ask Joe!"

Dana risked a quick look to her right at the sound of voices and running
footsteps.  It seemed the shots had finally drawn a crowd, from inside
the club, headed by Methos, of the brave, stupid, and curious.  At the
back of the small cavalry came Joe Dawson, slowed by his prosthesis.
Methos made a beeline for a point midway between Scully and MacLeod.
Stopping to face Dana, he raised his hands as if to ward off her fire.

"It's O.K., Agent Scully!  He's a friend!  Don't shoot!"

Dana relaxed fractionally, lowered her automatic and activated the
safety.  Suddenly she was very, very tired and wanted a stiff drink.
Shoot-outs were not her favorite way to spend an evening.

"Are you sure, too, that the other guy is gone?" she asked Methos,
glancing around the now- crowded parking lot.

Methos glanced at Duncan, who nodded his head fractionally.  Methos took
this to mean that Duncan had sensed an Immortal before.  He listened for
a moment to MacLeod's "buzz", and heard no other.  He turned back to
Dana Scully.

"Yes, I'm sure.  If he were nearby, we'd know."

"Explain that later, would you?" said Scully, as she finally relaxed the
tension from her stance and let her arms drop to her sides.  A ransacked
room, a high-speed chase, a potential cop- killing, an armed
confrontation with an evil "Zorro", and a rescue by a samurai had taken
their toll.

Dana walked over to Thomas' position when she had fired her second trio
of rounds.  From the parallel traces of blood on the pavement, she
guessed that two of those rounds had found the mark.  Dana reflected
that any normal person would have stayed down after her first hit in the
chest.  The sound of footsteps broke into her refection.

She looked up to see Duncan MacLeod examining the site of her first
three rounds; he kept his hands in his pockets, touching nothing, just
crouching and studying the ground intently.  He rose and approached her,
repeating his examination with the blood stains and shattered auto glass
at Dana's feet.  Finally he rose and gave her a respectful look.

"You seem to have kicked butt here, Agent Scully.  Nice shooting."

"Dana.  Call me Dana.  Anybody that saves my butt gets to call me Dana."

"Well." the Immortal gave a bashful grin and looked away as he delivered
the obligatory pickup line, "I'd say it's the best thing I've saved all
day, except .  .  ." and he looked her in the eyes at assure her of his
sincerity, "I don't think you needed me.  He was already running, or
probably, limping away when I got here."

The rest of the crowd arrived as Scully returned her S&W to its holster
at her back.  Some people approached MacLeod, obviously recognizing him,
some approached Scully out of curiosity, and the majority hung back at a
respectful distance.  Scully noted that somehow MacLeod's sword had
disappeared from the pavement at his feet and was nowhere in sight.  She
had never seen him pick it up.  Oh, well.  One thing at a time.  Dawson
had arrived.

"Agent Scully, Dana, are you all right?  What happened?"

Scully looked at Dawson, heaved a big sigh, and stepped in his
direction.

"Did you call the police?  Yes?  Good.  Joe, as soon as I explain things
to the cops, I'll be in need of a stiff drink.  If you can get my purse
back from the big guy over there," she motioned toward MacLeod with her
head, "Then you've got a new customer; if we call Mulder, it'll be two
new customers."

Duncan stepped closer, unslung Scully's purse from around his neck and
one arm, and returned the handbag.  She slipped the bag's strap over her
own shoulder and gave Duncan MacLeod an appraising look.  He was a
gentleman, he had flirted first, he was certainly easy to look at, and
he was Immortal.  The heroic tendencies she could overlook after long
practice.

"And you can buy my first drink, MacLeod, while you answer a few
questions."

MacLeod looked bemused, but nodded.  Dana turned back to Dawson waved
tiredly at the mob threatening to contaminate the crime scene.  He
understood, and the club owner started herding the crowd back inside the
club.  In the distance, Dana could hear approaching sirens; she waited
at the edge of the lot with Duncan.  Behind them, Dana heard an
unfamiliar voice suddenly give up a wail.

"Hey!  Hey!  Look at my car!  Look what somebody did to my car!"

It had been a tough day for everybody, buddy.

				  *****


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Heads Up: Chapter Ten
Date: 21 May 1996 12:46:59 GMT


Characters, settings, and background herein are the intellectual
property of Chris Carter, The Fox Network, Ten Thirteen Productions and
others.  They are used here without permission and without intent of
infringement.  Permission is granted to copy this document for
non-comercial entertainment purposes only.

Comments and suggestions via e-mail are always welcome.  All posted
items are part of works in progress and are subject to further revision,
so please let me know about clear mistakes, confusion, etc.

I hope you enjoy this!

			       Chapter Ten
"I Kicked Some Butt, Mulder!"

Joe's Place
Just Inside The Door
11:15 p.m.

Mulder had walked through the front door of Joe's Place to find a party
going on, and the focus of the party was his logical, demure,
straight-laced, no-nonsense, enigmatic partner, Dr.  Dana Scully.  He
relaxed with a deep sigh; the phone call had been unclear, and he'd half
expected a problem brewing at Joe's Place.  Apparently, whatever had
prompted Dana's call to meet her here was well in hand.  Instead of
approaching the group at the back table immediately, he moved to one
side of the door and reconnoitered first.  Mulder felt a sharp pang at
seeing her like this, in a mood and a setting he'd never have associated
with the Dana Scully he thought he knew so well.

O.K., Fox thought, I'll admit it; I'm jealous.  I've never seen her look
like she was having such a good time, at least not like this.  The sheer
wattage of her smile was lighting an entire corner of Joe's Place, and
keeping a considerable circle of gentlemen entranced.  I've seen
strippers, he thought, who could never hope to command such rapt
attention from a male audience.  He slowly surveyed Dana's circle of
admirers, gathered around the large table where he and Dana had first
learned about Watchers and Immortals.  Dana was in the middle of the
long side of the table, with her back to the wall, facing the club's
front door.

To Dana's right was Joe Dawson.  Joe was tipped back against the wall in
a straight-backed chair, holding aloft a mug of beer and grinning from
ear to ear.  He listened to Dana's every word, and watched every
expression on her face, while periodically sipping from the frosty mug.
In front of him was a plate stained with barbecue sauce and stacked
impressively high with gnawed animal bones.  His facial expression
reminded Mulder of a father he'd once seen at a ballpark, watching his
son slam a homer over the center-field fence.  Joe was cheerleading the
rest of the group, playing host to the hilt, and acting very proud of
Scully.

To Joe's right, at the corner of the table, was Methos.  "Adam Peerson",
Mulder reminded himself, was holding in his right hand an enormous
ceramic beer stein, painted in a profusion of earth tones.  Every half
minute or so he flipped the pewter top of the stein open, took a long
draw from the contents, and then snapped the top closed with a flip of
the wrist.  He was leaning forward over the table, supporting his chin
with his left hand, and staring raptly at Scully.  On the table in front
of him, forgotten now, was a large salad bowl.  Some traces of dressing
suggested that the bowl had once, indeed, held salad; now the bowl held
another stack of pork rib bones.  Methos had the intent look of a
student, hanging on every word of an admired teacher during a lecture.
Mulder wondered if Scully had really been kidding about wanting to jump
the man's bones.

An unknown young man sat beside Methos, separating the Immortal from a
lovely and very young brunette in a very red and very short slip dress.
The male youngster had reddish-brown curly hair, and kept his right arm
around his date while his left hand stuffed his face with popcorn.  The
young pair had been into the ribs, too, evidenced by a bone-yard built
on a napkin roughly midway between their plates.  Like the other, they
seemed to be hanging on Scully's every word, but were sharing attention
with each another, too.  Ahh, young love, thought Mulder.

Beside the brunette, and taking up most of the table's front side, was
the man Mulder recognized as Joe's chef, Ronnie.  Ronnie was an enormous
black man, at least six and a half feet tall, who would easily weigh in
at 300 lbs., even if he hadn't been wearing the biggest white chief's
hat that Mulder had ever seen.  Ronnie had apparently appointed himself
waiter for the evening, since he was keeping all the mugs full of beer,
especially Scully's, from a pitcher sitting at his right hand.  In the
center of the table was a platter stacked with uneaten ribs, probably
also being restocked by the big cook.  After tasting Ronnie's ribs, he
and Mulder were friends for life.

At the end of the table to Dana's left was a lovely, tall, very slender
and athletic-looking woman with close-cropped jet-black hair.  If
anything, her matching black dress was even tighter and shorter than the
teenaged brunette's; her black high heels easily outdid the kid's red
ones by at least 2 inches.  Mulder guessed her age at around
twenty-eight, assuming she wasn't another Immortal.  This woman was the
only guest at the table not looking at Scully; she was intent on the
final figure at the table, who was sitting at Scully's left hand.
Mulder guessed she was not pleased with the seating arrangements, since
she seemed to be straining across the corner of the table.

The object of the raven-haired woman's attention was another stranger to
Mulder.  He was tall, well built, and had long brown hair tied into a
pony tail.  Mulder grudgingly admitted to himself that Ponytail was the
kind of guy that most women would find handsome.  As Fox watched the guy
interact with the two women on either side of him, he began to grin.
The symptoms were recognizable: the guy was here with the black-haired
woman, but very, very much wanted to take Scully home tonight, and the
black-haired woman knew it!  Now the really interesting question was,
what did Scully know and want?

Finally, he looked at his partner.  She was telling a story of some
kind, complete with elaborate hand and arm gestures and sound effects.
Every time she paused, or made some odd sound, or performed a sweeping
gesture, everybody laughed.  She was standing by her chair, with one
knee on the seat of the chair, half standing and half kneeling in her
seat.  Dana held a glass beer mug in her left hand, slapping it down on
the table to gesture, and grabbing it back up to gulp a drink.  His
friend didn't look drunk, just desperately happy, but if she'd been
drinking like that for any length of time, she'd soon be under the
table.  He'd never known his partner to drink more than a glass of wine
with dinner, before.

Suddenly feeling overdressed for the party he was about to join, Mulder
loosened his tie, slid it off, and tucked it in his pocket.  The gray
suit coat had to stay on, to cover his automatic in the holster under
his arm.  He loosened his collar and prepared to cross the room and put
names with all these new faces.  Scully took that moment to notice his
presence from across the room, and point in his direction.  Then she
shouted loud enough to reach all four corners of the bar, even over the
racket of the band.

"COOL IT, EVERYBODY!  IT'S THE FBI!

Real smooth, Dana!  Thanks for the great introduction, he thought as,
just like in a bad movie, the noise level dropped to what passed for
dead quiet in a nightclub.  Even the band stopped to gawk, having
noticed the sudden attention to the front door.  Mulder looked around
the room as every eye turned his direction.  Temporarily nonplus, he
thought quickly for a way out.  Deciding the best defense was a quick
offense, he slipped his Bureau ID out of his pocket and put on his best
Law Enforcement Voice of Command (re: Joe Friday) as he flashed his
badge around the room.

"All right, everybody, listen up!  This is the F.B.I.!  I want everybody
back to having a good time before I count to three, or I start
shooting!  One!  .  .  .  Two!  .  .  ."

Mulder's "Three!" was drowned out by the laughter and hubbub as the
patrons starting discussing theories about what they'd just seen.  In
seconds, the crowd had consensually decided it was all a joke, anyway,
and had gone back to their previous conversations.  The band leader
picked up at the last convenient bar, and the music resumed.

Doing his best to look casual, Mulder strolled over to the party as if
nothing had happened.  Only a few of the guests even gave him a glance
as he crossed the room.

				  *****

Joe's Place
The Owner's Table
11:20 p.m.

As Mulder approached the table, Dana circled to meet him, arms reaching
out.  Startled, Mulder stopped short and suppressed an urge to flee.

"Mulder!  I'm so glad you were finally able to join us!  I was afraid
you were going to miss the party, and I knew you were pining away for
more of Ronnie's barbecue!" With that, she reached up and grabbed Fox's
lapels and pulled.  When he automatically bent forward to relieve the
strain, Dana planted a resounding kiss on his right cheek, then looked
him in the eye, grinned, and dared him to protest.

At least, that's how it seemed to Mulder, who reeled in shock and tried
desperately to hide his reaction in front of all those strangers.
Quickly he invoked his eidetic memory and played the previous action
back, frame by frame.  Yep, sure enough, he had just been kissed hello
by Dana Scully.  Dana Katherine Scully.  Dr.  Dana Katherine Scully.
His Scully.  Dana.

"Smooth recovery back there, Mr.  G-Man!  Bet'cha got an 'A' in Crowd
Control 101."

"Scully, my guess is that you're having a good time?"

"What was your first clue, Sherlock?  YES, I'M HAVING A GOOD TIME!
Ain't it great?  C'mon, Mulder, lighten up and meet all my new friends!"

Dana towed Fox to the edge of the table between Ronnie and the
black-haired women, and swept her arm over the group's head.

"Here they are, Mulder!  Over there is Joe, whom you've already met.
Tonight, Joe dialed 9-1-1 when he heard the shots."

Mulder waved to Joe, who waved back, as Mulder stared hard at his
partner.

"What, Scully!?  Shots?!"

"And that's Adam; you know him, too.  He stopped me from shooting Mac!"

A nod, returned, for Adam Peerson.

"Shooting?  Mac?"

"And that's Ritchie, Mac's Friend, and Katrina, Ritchie's Friend.  They
didn't get here until the police were almost done, so they missed all
the excitement!"

Nods for both the youngsters, with grins in return.

"Police?" he asked.

"And this is Ronnie, who's been feeding us very, very, well.  Ronnie
quieted down the guys who got upset about their cars getting all shot
up.  If he hadn't, in my mood, I might have shot them, too."

Mulder put his hand on Ronnie's shoulder, and got a "thumbs up" in
response.

"Scully, stop!  What's all this about shooting .  .  .  ?"

"And this is Amanda, Mac's Very Close Personal Friend." Scully winked at
Mulder, with her back turned to block the woman from seeing the
gesture.  "Amanda offered to teach me to use a sword so I can fight it
out properly next time, but Mac says she's too rough a teacher and that
he's gonna teach me himself."

Fox sighed.  One more try?

"Fight it out?  With swords?"

"And this," Scully said as she moved around to put her hands on the
shoulders of Ponytail, "is Duncan MacLeod, Of The Clan MacLeod." This
last bit of introduction was in a passable Scottish accent.  "Duncan
came to my rescue, and is my witness!  I kicked some butt, Mulder!  Do
you hear me?  I kicked some butt!  If you don't believe me, just ask
Duncan .  .  ."

"She's right, Agent Mulder." offered Duncan "Ponytail" MacLeod, nodding
and grinning.  "She definitely kicked some butt!"

As if to reinforce the dizziness and loss of facial color that Mulder
was experiencing, Dana walked back around to him and repeated her
previous assault by grabbing Mulder's lapels and kissing him again.
This time, squarely on the mouth, and less rushed.  When she released
him, apparently enough damage done, Dana circled the table once more and
plopped into her seat.  Mulder stood motionless, truly stunned.  He
barely noticed when Ronnie reached out a long arm, snagged a chair from
the next table, and placed it between himself and Amanda.  Ronnie tugged
at his sleeve, and gestured at the chair.

Mulder shook off the minor religious experience that was threatening his
personal world view, and sat down.  Again, he replayed the last scene
with Dana to be sure he wasn't confusing the facts.  Yep, he had been
kissed twice by Dana Scully within the last five minutes.  If the third
kiss (and he found himself desperately hoping there would be a third
kiss) improved over the second as much as the second had improved over
the first, then this might be the last night on Earth for Fox Mulder,
but he was going to die a happy man!

With the exception of MacLeod and Amanda, the party resumed as if never
interrupted.  Dana was relating one of their old cases, the one where
the punch-line would be that Mulder had killed a serial-killer
alligator.  Mulder winched in anticipation of the "poor Quigquag" part
of the story, which was coming up next.

MacLeod and Amanda were looking at Mulder, expectantly.  Not a hard pair
to read, thought Mulder.  Amanda looks pleased as hell; Duncan looks a
little jealous.  Well, suffer, Duncan MacLeod!  Anyway, these two looked
like the soberest people at the table, excepting himself; maybe they
could explain the madness?

"Excuse me, but would one of you please fill me in?  I feel a little
left out!  Who got shot, and whose butt did Scully kick?  And how does a
guy get some ribs and a beer around here?"

				 *****

Joe's Place
The Owner's Table
2:35 a.m.

All in all, it had been a fine party from Fox's perspective.  He had
consumed enough free ribs, cole slaw, and home fries to fill his grease
quota for the week and make up for the lunch and dinner he'd never had
time for yesterday.  Given Scully's condition, he'd changed his mind
about the beer and stuck to ice tea; somebody had to drive them back to
the room.  But despite being the only completely sober person at the
table, he'd had one of those rare moods where he was able to relax and
enjoy the company of other people.

Usually, Mulder wasn't much of a socializer.  Even back at Oxford he's
always been more content working all night on some research assignment
than going out carousing with his mates.  But this was a situation where
his taste for the unusual and bizarre was more than sated just by the
company he was keeping.  He'd begun to understand that there were people
around the table who had seen more grief and despair in their long
lifetimes than he was ever likely to accumulate in his own.  They had
also seen more miracles, been forced to accept more mysteries, and had
lived in more constant danger than he.  In short, he felt as if he and
Scully were among the more normal, mundane, and perhaps, sane, souls at
the gathering.  It was a new, and comforting, sensation.

At first, he'd tried to worry about Dana's drinking, but it seemed he
had been underestimating her own good sense.  Yes, she was nicely
"plastered", for sure, but she had slowed her drinking after the initial
frenzy, and was just maintaining a nice level of uninhibited good
humor.  She'd probably pay for tonight Big Time, but, god knows, she
deserved some unwinding after the evening's events.  A cold chill ran
down Mulder's spine as he thought of the danger his partner had been
through, and he wanted to blame himself, but for once he'd managed to
let it go.  All things considered, he knew his partner was the stronger
half of their team in most ways.  The number of times she'd successfully
protected him far outnumbered the times he'd even tried to protect her.

It was also obvious to Fox that Dana had made real friends here in
Chicago, friends that respected her and would be trying to help and
protect her.  Even the youngster, Ritchie, was acting chivalrous around
his partner, to the annoyance of his date, Katrina.  Mulder's eternal
paranoia was working overtime to keep him from accepting all these
people at face value and thinking of them as friends, as it was apparent
Dana had done.  Of course, a sober Dr.  Scully might be less trusting in
the morning; time would tell.  Anyway, his best instincts about people
had never compared well to Dana's; he seriously doubted if there were
any Bad Guys at the table.

Duncan had cautioned him that Ronnie and Katrina didn't know anything
about Immortals and watchers; they only knew that someone was killing
off friends of Joe, Adam, and Duncan.  This limited the topics of open
conversation.  Even so, Duncan found opportunities to explain some more
details of the Immortals, as Fox tried to pump him for information.  He
learned about the "buzz" that alerts one Immortal to the presence of
another, for instance, and its limitations.  After talking to Duncan for
an hour, he suddenly realized he was making the same mistake he had made
with Adam Peerson.  Duncan's experience with people was so far beyond
his own that Mulder finally accepted that Duncan was telling only what
Duncan wanted to tell; cop and psychologist tricks were wasted on a man
with 400 years of practice at being evasive.

He also learned the full story of the events in the parking lot, first
from Dana and then from Duncan's point of view.  Then he heard the tail
again, expanded and elaborated upon by Joe.  Then he heard Ritchie's
version, and then Ronnie's.  In each version, Dana's performance, and
her opponent, grew in stature.  It was a microcosmic example of the
problem with eye witnesses; no two people ever saw, or heard, or
experienced the same event in the same way.  It was almost funny in this
case, since no one by Dana had actually seen anything first hand.

He'd been concerned that they were wasting valuable time with this
celebration, but, true to form, his partner had dotted all the i's and
crossed all the t's long before he showed up.  Pictures of their
suspects were in the hands of the Chicago Police and the Bureau; a
city-wide manhunt was already in progress.  A call to Skinner had, once
again, confirmed his prior orders that they sit tight in Chicago and
monitor the situation while the local people did their jobs.  Skinner
had even seemed pleased with the new status of the case.  Tonight's
frivolity was officially on their own "down time".

Amanda had been fun.  When she said that she and Duncan had been
together "for a very long time, off and on", plus the fact that Duncan
let her listen to his recitation of Immortal trivia, he assumed this was
another Immortal.  But he still wondered, and he made a mental note to
explicitly ask Dawson about the dark lady.  He had come to expect
subtlety from these Immortals, given Duncan and Methos' examples, and
this lady was anything but subtle.  At one point she had turned her
considerable charms on him, full-blast, and he had tried to hold his
own, to no avail.  Twice she embarrassed him with explicit questions
about his sex life; a neat trick, given Mulder's general lack of such a
thing.

During Amanda's more outrageous advances, Mulder had kept a close eye on
Duncan, but no resentment ever surfaced on the Scotsman's face.
Instead, he seemed to use Fox's diversion as an opportunity to spend
more time whispering with Dana.  Once he had decided to relax about
MacLeod, Amanda's flirting was a rather pleasant change, and he found
himself agreeing to go to dinner with her, time permitting, before he
left Chicago.

And, of course, he had gotten kissed by Scully, twice.  If he'd ever
guessed that a shootout, barbecue, and beer could have this kind of
effect on his partner, he'd have arranged the combination long ago.  Not
that I've got any romantic notions about Scully, he told himself.  It
was just fun because tonight's behavior was a new side of Scully, and
her open affection had been an expression of their mutual trust and
confidence with one another.

Yeah, right, thought Mulder.  She was just drunk; it was probably stupid
to read any more into it than that.  If Scully wanted any more out of
their relationship, she'd say so.  She was always straight with him, and
that was why their partnership worked.

Regardless of how he interpreted it, the more he learned about his
partner, and the more they shared, the more Fox felt committed to never
letting anyone or anything separate them again.  He'd had a taste of
what it would be like to loose her for only a few months, and that was
more than enough.  As things stood, Scully shared every important part
of his life; anything romantic or sexual between them would mean the
Bureau would separate them.  Seperation meant that a big part of that
sharing would end,and he wouldn't risk that, and neither would Scully.

"All good things must come to an end." announced Mulder, to a party that
had grown much quieter and calmer in the last hour.  Katrina was openly
asleep on Ritchie's shoulder, and the young Immortal was yawning.  It
appeared that even Immortals, Watchers, and FBI agents eventually needed
sleep, from the looks of the droopy and blinking bloodshot eyes around
the table.  Only Dawson seemed to still be alert, probably because he
was used to these hours; he was working, after all.  "I think I should
take our guest of honor home, and get her into bed."

Dana blinked several times, as if to clear her vision, and took a deep
breath while coming to her feet, a little unsteadily.  She stretched her
arms over her head, and gave an enormous yawn as she seemed to consider
her partner's words.  At the last second, Mulder realized how it had
sounded, and he prepared for the famous Scully Wrath.  As usual tonight,
she surprised him.

"Promises, promises, Mulder.  But you're right, I'm tired and tomorrow
will be another day for mutants, and flying saucers, and Bad Guys with
Big Swords.  I'd better get my beauty sleep before I turn into a
pumpkin." Dana took a lock of her hair, and pulled it around in front of
her eyes for examination.  "I think I've already started to change.  Oh,
well.  Joe, thanks for a lovely party!"

"It was well deserved, Agent Scully.  Good night, and good hunting!"
wished Joe.

"And goodnight to you, Mac.  Thanks for being my hero tonight."

So saying, Dana leaned forward and kissed MacLeod.  From Mulder's angle,
it looked like MacLeod got the Third Kiss that Fox had been waiting for,
and fearing.  Fox breathed a small sigh of relief, until he saw the
smirk on MacLeod's face when Dana finished; his earlier flash of
jealously at the handsome Immortal resurfaced with force.  The only
consolation was that Mulder could see that Amanda had bristled too;
MacLeod would probably pay for that smirk later!

Mulder stood as Scully rounded the table in his direction.  He made his
own goodbyes, less personal than Dana's, but hopefully seen to be just
as sincere.  As Scully took his arm, also a rare event, she made her
last comment for the evening.

"Let's Ride, partner!"

				  *****

Motel Eight
Room Twelve
2:56 a.m.

Scully had gone to sleep in the car as soon as Mulder started the
engine.  Mulder had left the radio off for a change, to figure his best
course of action when they got back to the room.  He'd sort of counted
on Scully being awake so he could explain things, but now it was all
left in his hands.  The problem was, their previous rooms were now crime
scenes and had been sealed by the Chicago and Bureau forensics teams.
The motel only had one room to substitute, and Mulder had been in too
much of a hurry to argue; he had taken the single room.

Thankfully, the room had two double beds, so he wasn't going to have to
sleep in a chair, but he would have felt a lot better if Scully had been
awake to O.K.  his plan.  The way she was snoring now, he didn't figure
he'd have any luck waking her, even if he tried.  Well, he'd just have
to do the best he could, and hope she didn't chew him out too badly in
the morning.  He pulled into the space assigned to their room, and shut
off the engine.

"Scully?" he said softly, as he gently shook his partner's shoulder,
"Scully?" Getting no response, he made one last try: a little louder and
a little rougher.  "SCULLY?"

No luck.  Sigh.  O.K., at least she's not much trouble to carry.

Mulder reached across and unlocked Scully's door, then got out and
unlocked his own.  He opened the motel room door and wedged a rolled
Motel Directory under the corner to hold it open.  Then he went back to
the car and collected his partner.

It wasn't the first time he'd carried Scully, but he was always struck
by how small she felt in his arms.  Leaving the car door for later, he
carried Scully inside and placed her on the bed by the bathroom.  After
closing and locking the car door and the room door, he considered his
next move.  He knew from experience that if their situations were
reversed, Scully would have stripped him to his shorts without a second
thought; she was a doctor and had absolutely no compunctions when other
people's modesty conflicted with expediency.  But when the shoe was on
the other foot, Dana was a very modest person.

"Well, I'm not leaving her to wake up with that suit ruined; she'd bitch
about that, too.  Bite the bullet, Mulder, and do what needs to be
done."

Gently, he pulled his partner's shoes off, noticing that, thankfully,
she was not wearing any hose.  Probably ruined them in the parking lot
and ditched the remains, he guessed.  Well, fine: one less thing to
agonize about.  Lifting her gently upright, he slipped off her coat and
jacket, and untucked her blouse.  At that point, Mulder noticed that
Scully was wearing a full slip under her suit.

"Saved!" he muttered.

Quickly, and almost managing to keep his eyes shut, Mulder skinned
Scully out of her blouse and skirt.  The slip looked plenty comfortable
to him, so he shifted her on the bed so he could get her coat out from
under her, and covered her with a sheet.  He stepped back to admire his
handiwork.

People always look so innocent and defenseless when they're sleeping, he
thought.  He often looked in on Scully as she slept, so it was a
familiar sight, but one he never tired of.  When Scully slept, all the
lines of worry on her forehead disappeared and the determined set of her
jaw relaxed.  The always inquisitive and expressive eyes were closed,
letting the world go by without supervision by Dana Katherine Scully.

Mulder wished her sweet dreams, shucked down to the skin, and then
pulled on a pair of silk boxers and tucked himself into the other bed.
By reflex, he checked that his gun and cell phone were within easy
reach, then turned off the lights and drifted off to sleep.  He could
hear Scully's soft snores clearly from the next bed, and knew he'd have
a pleasant sleep.

				  *****

Motel Eight
Room Twelve
2:13 p.m.

When Scully began to stir, Mulder put down his magazine and sunflower
seeds, and quietly let himself out the door.

				  *****

Motel Eight
Room Twelve
2:20 p.m.

Dana Scully opened her eyes to the subdued light of a motel room, with
an uninspiring view of beige wallpaper about three feet in front of her
eyes.  She lay motionless, collecting her thoughts and piecing together
where she was, and how she'd gotten there.  Understanding slowly came,
together with a terrible taste in her mouth and a faint ache somewhere
back of her eyes.  She could smell cigarette smoke and beer on her hair,
and she felt damp and sticky all over.  The thought of a shower seemed
like heaven.

She rolled from her side onto her back, and sat up slowly.  The pain in
her head increased, but was manageable.  She looked around at her
surroundings, and for a moment nothing seemed familiar.  Then she saw
Mulder's suit coat hanging over the back of a chair.  Apparently, they
were sharing a room, not an unusual occurrence given their usual lack of
travel planning.  She saw the clothes she'd been wearing last night
neatly hung beside her trench coat on a clothes rack by the door.  Her
clothes!?

In a mild panic, Dana lifted the covers and peered beneath.  She was in
her slip, still in bra and panties.  She relaxed, and grinned.  Mulder,
ever modest, had left her a little dignity, bless him!  She fell back
against the pillows and replayed last night's events in her mind.  She
had kicked their suspect's butt in armed combat in a parking lot,
handled the local police, and been thrown a party.  Parts of the party
seemed a little blurry, but she clearly remembered the characters, the
stories, and kissing Duncan MacLeod.

She jerked upright in the bed: she had also kissed Mulder!  More than
once, if her hangover influenced memory wasn't playing tricks.  The
first time had been just a peck, but the second!  Oh, sweet lord!  Why
did she have to drink so much?

Dana ran her hand through her hair as she recalled the taste of Mulder
on her lips, and the feel of his "five o'clock shadow" against her
face.  He had smelled so good, too; she always liked the smell of Mulder
when he leaned in close, to invade her space and make a point.  How had
he reacted?  She tried to remember, and couldn't.

He probably didn't even notice, she decided ruefully.  He'd always
flirted with her, but he'd never seemed serious.  She knew he trusted
and respected her in a way he did no one else, but he'd never tried to
kiss her or touch her in anything other than a friendly, companionable
way.

Dana closed her eyes and relaxed.  She was worrying about Mulder, after
all.  Crazy, mad, Spooky Mulder who lived for his work and little else.
Her best friend and partner.  If she had upset him, he'd just tell her,
and they'd work it out.  They always did.

Noting the time, she was appalled.  She'd slept away the day, and at
first she felt a rush of anxiety and pressure, then she relented again.
Their suspect had been identified, cops and federal agents were combing
the city and watching the airports, bus stations, trains, and car rental
agencies.  There was, as usual in police work, nothing to do but wait
while others did their jobs.  Dana threw off the covers and headed for
the shower, thinking about breakfast and wondering where Mulder had gone
off to; there had been no note waiting for her.

				  *****

Motel Eight
Room Twelve
2:45 p.m.

Shower complete, modestly wrapped in a thick terry robe and with her
hair wrapped in a towel, Dana opened the bathroom door and was greeted
by the scent of coffee and cinnamon.  Laid out on the room's only table
was breakfast for two, with Mulder standing guard like an English
waiter.

"Breakfast is served, madame." said Mulder, in a perfect Oxford accent.

"My!  To what do I owe this treatment, Mulder?  Did I do more than I
remember last night?"

Might as well get it out in the open, she figured.  If he was going to
tease her, it was best to get in the first blow.

"I though madame might not feel up to traveling this morning, given her,
shall we say "excesses" of last night.  And I thought you deserved some
special treatment after your performance against Bradley Thomas.  This
is what I came up with."

Dana though he looked uneasy and a little embarrassed.  Well, I'll be
damn, she thought.  He's actually being sincere!  This must be Mulder's
version of what Dawson did last night; a victory breakfast!

"Mulder, it's wonderful.  I was starved before my shower, and now I'm
absolutely ravenous!  Please," she gestured at the table, "Won't you
join me?"

Mulder relaxed and smiled.  You just never quite knew how Scully has
going to take a compliment, he thought, but it looks like I lucked out
this time.

"After you, madame!"

Mulder pulled out a chair, and, playing along, Dana bowed slightly
before sitting.  Fox tucked in her chair and then took his own seat,
grinning despite himself.  Pulling out a chair usually meant Scully
would take a seat on the opposite side of the table.

Dana looked over at Mulder's usual breakfast fare of fried everything,
and back to his selection for her.  Hot cinnamon oatmeal, a bagel with
cream cheese, several pieces of melon, orange juice, and coffee.

"How did you manage to order me a whole meal without grease, Mulder?
Isn't that against your union rules or something?"

"It was easy, Scully.  I just ordered anything on the breakfast menu
that said "diet", "fat free", or "low cholesterol"; you know, everything
I'd never touch.  I figured, that way, you'd be bound to like it!"

Dana grinned back.  The cinnamon oatmeal was her favorite, the bagel was
onion like she always ordered, the melon was a favorite whenever she
could get it.  He had known exactly what to order, because he noticed
and he cared.  She wasn't going to try to make him admit it, however.

They ate in companionable silence, speaking only to cooperate over the
salt, pepper, and carafe of coffee.  Mulder opened the shades over the
front window slightly, and the afternoon sunlight cheerfully painted
stripes across their table as they shared breakfast.

.  .  .

"Scully?"

"Yes, Mulder?"

"That really was good work in the parking lot last night.  In fact,
you've done an exceptional job on this whole case.  I'm really glad
you've been with me on this one."

"Thanks, Mulder.  I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

				  *****


Chapter Eleven
Double Date

Fred Astaire Dance Studio
Parking Lot
6:43 p.m.

Mulder and Scully walked out feeling smug.  Given the successful
developments in their case, combined with the lingering excitement of
last night's party and the serenity of their peaceful breakfast
together, they had arrived for their lesson in an uncharacteristically
fine mood.  Now they were leaving their lesson feeling on top of the
world.  They paused beside their car, and for a moment stood silently
enjoying the cool breeze that was briefly clearing away the urban
Chicago scents.

Mulder, especially, was feeling a little giddy after getting his wish to
learn some Tango.  After having Dana pressed close to him for most of an
hour, he needed the cool evening air on his face.  Tango, he'd
discovered, was just as much fun as it had looked in "True Lies"; that
Schwartzenegger guy really had the right idea!  Thank goodness Scully
hadn't noticed exactly how much he'd been enjoying himself!

"Mulder, this is going very well.  I think you must be a natural
dancer."

"Don't tell my Mom, Scully; she thinks I'm an FBI agent.  Besides,
you're no slouch, yourself.  On the dance floor, at least, Frohike is
right about you: hot, very hot."

"So that explains why you were so "glad to see me" during the Tango
lesson?"

Fox blushed the deepest red that Dana had ever seen on his face.  It
seemed he was also at a loss for words, since he opened the car door and
got in quickly, without a comeback remark.  Dana stood for a moment,
amazed at her own boldness, and feeling her own color rise.  I cannot
believe I said that, she thought; now what do I do?

Dana swung into the car on her side and tried to catch her partner's
eye.  Mulder had folded his arms across the steering wheel, and buried
his face in his arms.  He looked absolutely mortified.

"Mulder?  Mulder, I'm sorry.  That was an incredibly tacky thing to say,
and I'm deeply sorry.  Lately things between us have been so relaxed
that for a second I forgot to even be polite.  Can you forgive me?  I
had to put up with two teasing brothers as a kid, and sometimes the most
terrible and childish remarks just slip out!"

Dana placed her hand on her partner's shoulder, and gently urged him to
look up.  Beneath her hand, she could feel her partner shaking, as if
crying silently.  My god, had she upset him that badly?

"Mulder!?  Please, Mulder, talk to me?  I didn't mean to hurt your
feelings .  .  ."

As she spoke her partner slumped away from her, sagging against the
driver's door as if unconscious or too weak to sit upright.  Dana heard
an odd strangling sound, as if Mulder were trying unsuccessfully to
breathe past an obstruction in his throat.  Dana grasped Fox by both
shoulders, now, and tried to force him upright and to turn in her
direction.

"MULDER!  WHAT'S WRONG?  MULDER?"

Slowly it dawned on her what the strange noises might mean, as her
partner continued refusing to respond in any way, even by looking in her
direction.  Suddenly her suspicion snapped into certainty, and she
shoved him roughly away in mock disgust.

"Why are you .  .  .  l-laughing, you i-idiot?" Despite herself, Dana
was suddenly laughing, too, as she realized her partner was alive, and
well, and choking on his own laughter.

"Oh!  Ohhhh!" Mulder finally caught enough breath that he could make
some coherent sounds, and he finally looked in his partner's direction
as he wiped away tears of laughter with the back of his hands.  "Scully,
you never cease to amaze me.  What did you say once?  "You just keep
unfolding like a flower", wasn't it?  Well, my precious partner, you
apparently have some hidden layers to your own personality!  Does your
mother know you talk like that?" Despite himself, Mulder started another
seizure of uncontrolled laughter.

With laughter came the complete release of the tension she'd been
feeling over embarrassing her partner, but now Dana needed her own few
seconds to regain control of herself.  Finally, wiping away her own
tears with a tissue from her bag, she managed to look her partner in the
eyes again.  He called me "precious", she thought.

"Mulder, life with you is like an unending rollercoaster ride.  It's
always either a slow uphill grind or a screaming downhill rush; there's
never a level ride for more than a couple of seconds."

Mulder looked completely somber again, as he watched his partner dry her
eyes and turn the rearview mirror around so she could inspect her
makeup.  Not for the first time, he wondered where his life would have
gone without Dana Scully, and where it might go if she were ever taken
from him again.  He didn't think he really wanted to know.

"But it's a hell of a ride, isn't it, Scully?" he asked softly.

Searching for, and finding, his eyes with her own, Dana allowed herself
to read from Fox's look and voice all the emotions she usually struggled
to ignore.  She wondered if she ought to tell him that she'd been
completely sober when she kissed him last night, both times.  She
wondered if she ought to tell him her reaction when she'd noticed his
excitement on the dance floor.  Dana wondered if there was anything she
could tell him that he didn't already know, and she decided the answer
was "probably not".  She suspected, perhaps for the first time, that the
big secret of their relationship was no secret to either of them,
despite the lengths they usually traveled to hide it from each other and
themselves.  But how was she to say all that, without saying it?

 "You bet'cha, partner!" she answered, just as softly.

				  *****

Motel Eight
Room Twelve
7:35 p.m.

Mulder had been watching Scully's frenzy of activity ever since they
returned to the room.  At first he'd been absorbed in making notes for
their field reports, trying to truthfully report their progress and the
events of the investigation without mentioning Immortals or Watchers;
this case was stretching Mulder's inventiveness.  But eventually he ran
out of paperwork to futz with, and Scully was still scurrying about the
room.  It seemed she'd spent a lot of extra time in the bathroom, and
now she was working on her makeup.  Mulder couldn't remember the last
time he'd seen Scully spend more than five minutes on makeup.  Something
was afoot, and his partner was giving him the silent treatment, to
boot.  Enough is enough!

"What's up, Scully?"

"What do you mean, Mulder?"

"Why all the primping?  Hot date tonight?"

"As a matter of fact, I am going out to dinner.  But I'm not really
doing much extra, Mulder, just taking care of the basics.  Duncan said
to dress casually."

"You're going to dinner with Duncan, Scully?" Mulder got a funny
sensation in the pit of his stomach; probably a reaction from last
night's rib-fest.

Dana stopped her preparations and turned to look at her partner
squarely.  Surely that's not really jealousy I'm seeing on his face?  Is
he really that insecure?

"Mulder, he's a nice guy and I haven't been on a date in ages.  It's
just for fun, and I have no intentions of making it anything more than
dinner.  Besides, I'm fascinated by the whole notion of conversation
with a man over four hundred years old.  What kind of philosophies does
a person develop with that kind of perspective on life?  Besides, I'm
hungry, he asked, and nobody else did; a girl's got to eat!  Do you have
a problem with this?"

Mulder never felt he was on totally firm ground when talking to women;
the "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" idea seemed to have a lot
of merit, based on his experience.  Still, he knew many questions, when
asked by a woman, are supposed to be rhetorical.  This was one of those,
he figured.

"No!  No problem, Scully; it's your business.  Sorry to intrude.  I'll
just "zone out" in front of The Sci-Fi Channel anyway; there's no reason
you shouldn't go out and have some fun discussing philosophy.  Besides,
he does seem to be a nice guy."

"Well, thanks, Mulder.  I'm glad you approve.  He's picking me up at
8:30; now, can I finish getting ready?"

"Sure, sure.  Never mind me."

Mulder grabbed his field report notes again, and pretended to be
suddenly engrossed.  Dana went back to her preparations.  Then, as if on
cue, Mulder's cellphone chirruped.

"Mulder."

"Hello Agent, Mulder.  Are you working, or do you have time to chat?"

"Actually, I was just thinking about you, Amanda," Mulder lied.  "What's
up?"

"I was wondering if Duncan's rendezvous with your partner tonight meant
that you were free this evening?"

"Sure, I guess so.  What did you have in mind?"

"There's a carnival in town; they have a great high-wire act that I've
been wanting to check out.  How does greasy midway food, noise and
confusion sound?"

"Like my kind of place.  Should I pick you up?"

"Well, since we're being so civilized about this, I thought I might just
ride over with Mac, when he goes to pick up Dana, provided you have a
car?"

"No problem; I think Dana will let me use the car tonight.  I'll be
looking forward to it."

"Ciao, then, Mulder."

Mulder put the cell phone away and looked up to find his partner had
paused in her preparations and was looking at him curiously.  Mulder
scratched his head and smiled sheepishly.

"Gee, Scully.  It seems I have a date tonight, too.  Amanda is going to
ride over with MacLeod and we're going to check out some kind of circus
act.  All very civilized, considering that I'm pretty sure those two are
living together, and not platonically, either."

"Well, your cohabitation theory is fact, Mulder.  Dawson told me that
Amanda travels around a lot, but that she always lives with MacLeod when
she comes to town, and stays until she gets restless again.  Dawson also
told me that Amanda is much older than Duncan, and I didn't know you
were into older women, excuse the pun.  All in all, it sounds like an
interesting evening, Mulder.  A circus act, huh?  "

"Funny, Scully.  Really funny."

Dana went back to her preparations silently, and Mulder began his.  For
ageless minutes that seemed like hours, neither spoke, and a tension
began to build in the room.  Finally Dana, who was watching her
reflection in the mirror as she braided her hair, broke the silence.

"Are we O.K., Mulder?  This "going out" thing tonight, I mean.  Are we
consorting with suspects?  Does it bother you in any way?" Please, for
once, Mulder, tell me what you're feeling!

It doesn't bother me professionally, Dana, but it bothers me that
MacLeod can do things with you that I can't!

"No, I think we're O.K., Scully.  If anything bothers me right now, it's
all the things we've agreed to lie about and buy into with this case.
All these compromises are pushing the limits of my conscience.  I keep
telling myself we're doing the right thing, but .  .  ."

"I know, Mulder.  You realize that all our Immortal and Watcher friends
intend to kill Thomas, don't you?  In their minds, it's the only way to
end this thing.  Sending an Immortal to prison, or letting the state try
to execute him, would expose the whole game.  I'm not sure how I feel
about that, exactly; I mean, I believe in the death penalty, and if
anyone deserves it, it's Thomas.  He's killed fifteen people on this
rampage of his, and tried to kill me.  It's hard not to feel he deserves
to die.  And I guess that, for an Immortal, life imprisonment would
constitute "cruel and unusual punishment" of the worst sort."

"I might have had some reservations, Scully, until he came after you."
Seeing Dana's eyebrows shoot up in the mirror, he hastened to explain.
"Until we got involved in this case, he had killed only Immortals and
Watchers.  The torture business bugged me, but all these people are
living lives full of violence and death practically every day.  Even our
friends Methos, MacLeod, and Amanda have killed other Immortals, maybe
dozens over the years.  These are not innocent bystanders, Scully, these
are people who literally live and die by the sword!"

"When Thomas stabbed that cop, I got angry and I was ready to change my
sentiments.  But in a big stretch of the imagination, you could look at
that act as self-preservation, and Thomas didn't kill either officer
when he could have.  The dead Watcher in the trunk was just more of this
bizarre "In the End, There Can Be Only One" B.S.  which, by the way, I'm
not sure I buy."

"But Scully, coming after you was an act of pure, premeditated,
attempted murder.  He intended to hack you into two pieces just to shut
you up and clear the way to Dawson.  It just struck too close to home,
and I started hating him.  Right now, I think I could hack off his head
myself."

Dana heard the unspoken words behind Mulder's explanation, and knew that
he was trying to protect her again.  His overprotective nature toward
her, which had saved her life more times that she wanted to admit, was
suppressing his conscience.  She wondered how to explain that her own
protective instincts were working overtime, too.  Mulder was being
uncharacteristically forthcoming; he deserved the same in return.

"I think I can take Thomas' head, if it comes to that, Mulder.  I think
I can turn my back while MacLeod does it, if that's what it takes.  You
know that's why Dawson called MacLeod, don't you?  Dawson thinks MacLeod
is unbeatable, but knows Mac won't go out and hunt Thomas down without a
damn good reason.  He figures that seeing all of us putting ourselves in
danger will motivate Mac to take Thomas' head when the opportunity
arises."

"At this point, Dawson thinks Thomas' attack on you is sufficient
motivation for MacLeod, and I think he's right.  Duncan MacLeod's
upbringing was that of a Sixteenth Century Scottish warrior, and his
first instinct right now is to protect you.  It ticks me off, but I know
how he feels, and I'm not going to turn down his help protecting you,
Dawson, me, or anyone else.  Mac is welcome to Thomas' head, if he can
beat me to it."

Dana dropped her eyes to the floor as she pondered Mulder's words.  The
idea was not flattering; it sounded boorish, chauvinist, and archaic.
Then she thought about Bradley Thomas' face as he stalked her in the
dark with that sword, and she couldn't help wishing for all the
protection she could get.

"It bothers me, Mulder.  I shouldn't feel the need for protection.  I'm
a trained FBI agent, proficient with firearms and hand - to - hand
self-defense, but like you say, I'm not going to turn down any help,
from any of you.  But don't forget that Thomas will probably be just as
anxious to kill you as me; he just happened across me, first."

Dana paused, and wondered if she should ask the question that had leaped
into her mind.  Would Mulder answer truthfully, and could she accept his
opinion?

"Mulder, do you think MacLeod asked me to dinner tonight just so he
could protect me?"

Mulder chuckled.  The realization that a person as beautiful, capable,
and self-confident as Dana Scully could also have these attacks of
insecurity was endearing.  It also gave him a warm and fuzzy feeling
that she had enough trust and confidence in her partner to voice her
uncertainty and seek reassurance this way.

"I think MacLeod asked you out to get into your pants, Scully.  This
protection stuff is just an extra, added, bonus."

Mulder nimbly ducked the hairbrush that flew at his head, still
laughing.  In a moment, Scully was laughing, too.

"Just don't let me catch you bringing *this* date back to the room,
Mulder!  I've shot you before, and I can do it again!"

				  *****

Hi Tso's Japanese Steak House
Lakewood Square Center
Chicago, IL
10:50 p.m.

"That was a wonderful meal, Duncan, thank you.  I'd never really tried
Japanese food before, but this was excellent.  How long did you live in
Japan?"

"Well, I've lived in Japan on two separate occasions.  The first time
was for only a few months, because Outsiders were killed on sight in
those days.  The second time was shortly after World War II, and I
stayed almost ten years, long enough to learn the language and study the
current state of martial arts."

He speaks so casually of his long life, Dana thought.  "What's it like,
Duncan?  Being Immortal, I mean?"

The handsome face smiled, but it looked like a forced smile, as he
considered where to begin.  How does one, anyone, explain their life to
another?  And how does one summarize four hundred years of experience
for an ephemeral?

"It's not the wonderful thing that Ponce d'Leon dreamed of, I can tell
you that.  I've had the opportunity to see and do many wondrous and
beautiful things, but at a price.  Always at a price."

"And what is that price, Duncan?"

"Lost Love.  Ruined happiness.  The many terrible things I've seen,
lived through, and done.  Seeing war, hunger and poverty rise up, again
and again, to dash my dreams and the hopes of mankind.  Watching most of
the people I've come to love grow old and die, always leaving me
behind.  Knowing I'll never have children of my own.  Feeling cynicism,
and pessimism, and hopelessness creep in and try to fill my life.
Everything you might see as a benefit of long life also has its
down-side and its price.  Often I wonder if it's really worth it, and
whether I'd have chosen it, if I'd been given a choice."

"You can't have children, Duncan?"

"No.  I've adopted children many times, and raised a few strays like
Ritchie, but Immortals cannot have children, even before we die the
first time.  All we can do is practice!"

Dana avoided Duncan's eyes, and the sad memories she knew would be
reflected there, and instead, looked out the window and across the
street.  There was a carnival, or a circus, set up in a park over
there.  Childhood memories of Merry - Go - Rounds and elephants flooded
her thoughts.

"Duncan, could we go over there?"

				  *****

Kiley Brothers Traveling Carnival
Lakewood Square Park
Chicago, IL
10:45 p.m.

Mulder was having an excellent time strolling down the carnival midway.
He and Amanda had already seen the acrobats and animal acts, and were
now headed to see the high-wire performers.  Apparently someone in the
troupe was an old friend of Amanda's.  Mulder wondered how old, but
didn't ask.

He had already eaten a Giant Pepperoni Roll, an Elephant Ear, and had
two Frosty Lemon Splashes.  He was currently working on his second Giant
Sirloin Sandwich, and between bites of deep-fried ambrosia, Amanda was
feeding him Spicy Curly Fries with her fingers.  Amanda?  Now here was a
fun date!

The lady immortal seemed more like sixteen than several hundred (she was
still being evasive about her exact age), in the best possible ways.
She wanted to see everything, do everything, and was definitely enjoying
everything.  Mulder hadn't seen a smile leave her face since she had,
very demurely, allowed him to purchase their tickets at the entrance.
In all that time, she hadn't whined, complained, or criticized anyone or
anything.  She was just intent on having a good time, and including
Mulder in on her private carnival fun-fest.  He had watched in awe as
she consumed mass quantities of Giant Cotton Candy, Cheese On A Stick,
Italian Sausage On A Stick, and Waffle Cakes.  The woman was a lady
after his own heart, gastronomically speaking, anyway.

He wouldn't have traded the effervescent Amanda for his more reserved
Scully in a million years, still, it was fun to appreciate the
differences.  Where Scully was reserved pastels and earth tones, Amanda
was boldly Back & White.  Where Scully was calming and serene, Amanda
was exciting and challenging to the senses.  Where Scully was quietly
mysterious and sensual, Amanda was boldly and wildly sexual.  Scully
would have handed him the bag of Spicy Curly Fries and left him to
juggle his food alone.  Amanda made an almost erotic game out of feeding
him the bits of fried potato one by one, and taking every opportunity to
touch his lips and face.  And, my!  She was certainly a pleasure to look
at!

In deference to the cool evening, Amanda was covered from head to toe.
Despite that, she gave Mulder the impression of being even more skimpily
dressed that she had been at Scully's victory party.  She wore a clingy
jet-black jumpsuit with pleated pants tucked into mid-calf black leather
boots.  Her top had a high neckline with a slouched hood that Amanda
kept pulled up over her short black hair.  The fit, both top and bottom,
made Mulder wonder if parts had been painted on.  The outfit emphasized
her height, which was only a fraction less than Mulder's, and her slim
lines.  Mulder thought she could have passed for a carnival performer:
an acrobat or a high-wire walker, and he told her so.  She laughed, of
course.

"Well, Mulder, I am a circus performer from time to time, and I do have
a high-wire act, but I assure you I wear much less than this when I
perform.  Over the years I've done acrobatic acts, trapeze,
sword-swallowing, and even a contortionist act." She paused and looked
meaningfully at Mulder.  "I'm very flexible, you know."

Mulder laughed, almost choking on Giant Sirloin, and prompting Amanda to
pound him on the back as she laughed with him.  As far as Mulder was
concerned, her claim to be a contortionist was not as interesting as her
mention of sword-swallowing: what an appealing talent in a woman.  And
maybe, he thought, that explains where she's hiding her sword tonight.

"You could be a little more flexible, you know, and let me call you Fox
.  .  .  "

They were surrounded by the numbing drone of a hundred voices speaking
simultaneously, and the roar of midway rides and shrieking children.
Combined with the sizzle of cooking food, the hiss of soft drink
dispensers, and the nearby traffic, the racket made it hard to even talk
at times.  Even so, there is a sound unmistakable to Fox Mulder: the
triple bark of a Smith and Wesson 1056 automatic, firing a standard
3-shot salvo.  Given the location and situation, and a sixth sense born
of fatalism, pessimism, and a dash of sheer bad luck, it could only mean
Scully was nearby, and in trouble.

With his first step in the direction of the sound, the remains of the
Giant Sirloin and the Frosty Lemon Splash were tossed toward a trash
barrel.  On his second step, the twin sister of Scully's 1056 was in
Mulder's right hand.  On his third and forth steps, he was reaching for
his runner's stride.  With his fifth step, Agent Fox Mulder was at full
tilt, and scanning the crowd ahead of him as he searched for his
partner.  Somewhere ahead of him and to the right, he could hear the
first screams starting at the sight of his drawn weapon, so he started
fishing for his badge.  He hastily hung the badge and ID from the breast
pocket of his leather jacket.

"Mulder?!"

Amanda puzzled as her companion took off, since she hadn't heard a
thing.  But this guy was supposed to be a trained FBI agent, and
probably didn't pull his gun for kicks, so, she reasoned, I guess I
should follow.  The remaining Spicy Curly Fries followed the arc of
Mulder's trash toward the barrel, and Amanda launched after Mulder
through the shrieking crowds.  He was easy to follow, since a running
man with a gun tended to leave a wake.

				  *****

Kiley Brothers Traveling Carnival
Near the Snow Cone vender
11:02 p.m.

As Scully tried to bite into the Giant Snow Kone that Duncan had just
handed her, a hand came seemingly out of nowhere.  It grabbed her free
arm and jerked her into the space between the snow cone vendor and a
nearby Crystal Ice truck.  As she fought to recover her balance, despite
the powerful drag on her arm, she saw a slender man in biker clothes
with a switchblade in his free hand.

Dana did what any self-respecting martial artist might do.  She threw
the Giant Snow Kone into her assailant's face, and kicked upward between
his legs.

At the sound of a scuffle, Duncan had swung around to see Dana disappear
into the space beside the truck, and he had reacted by taking the first
two steps in her direction.  At that same moment, the "buzz" of another
Immortal hit him.  He immediately pivoted in place to check his back and
sides before continuing into the narrow space after Dana.  He collided
with Dana, who was exiting that same space at high speed, and tugging a
weapon from under the back of her jeans jacket.  Over her head, he could
see a figure in leather, bent double in the cramped space as if about to
be sick; he laughed as it dawned what had happened.

Dana wondered what MacLeod was chuckling about as she recovered her
balance against his chest and looked back at her assailant.  As the
biker started to recover, she raised her weapon, but MacLeod stepped
past her, blocking her field of fire.  As the assailant tried to pull a
gun from his jacket pocket, MacLeod stepped into him.  Duncan twisted
the gun arm to the side with a decided "crunch - snap" sound effect, and
then hit the man in the face with the back of his right hand.  The
would-be attacker dropped to the ground like a dropped sack of
potatoes.  MacLeod watched the crumpled form for a second, probably to
be sure he wasn't getting up, and then looked back at her anxiously.

"Dana, I can sense another Immortal nearby.  Let's get back to the car."

Dana knew that MacLeod had locked his sword in the trunk of the car when
they arrived at the restaurant.  She understood that if MacLeod was
sensing Thomas, he wanted to be armed.  She nodded acceptance of the
plan.

"Give me a minute to call in backup; I don't want a pitched battle in
the middle of this crowd, and I don't want him sneaking out."

Dana also retrieved their attacker's switchblade and .38 revolver and
stashed them in her jacket pockets for evidence, and in case the thug
came around.  She flashed her badge at a passing security officer (who
says there's never a cop around when you want one) and asked him to
supervise the scene.  Using her cellular phone and her FBI ID she
contacted Lt.  MacDaniels, their contact at the Chicago P.D., keeping
the security guard within earshot.

"Lieutenant, our serial killer is somewhere inside the carnival grounds
at, uh, ("Where are we, officer?" "Lakewood Park.") Lakewood Park.  I
believe he's here for another try at Agent Mulder and myself, so he's
going to hang around.  I'd like you to set up a perimeter around the
park, and start evacuating the civilians ASAP.  This time, he's brought
armed help.  I have one suspect down at .  .  .  ("Aisle six, row
thirteen, ma'am.") Aisle six, row thirteen under supervision of an
Officer Canardo."

After an unusually short Q&A with Lt.  MacDaniels, Dana was assured of
the requested backup and was free to focus on their next moves: back to
the car to arm MacLeod, and call in Mulder.  As they hurried across the
carnival toward the parking lot near the midway, Dana tried to dial her
partner with her left hand, even as she dragged out her Smith & Wesson
automatic with her right.

MacLeod, meanwhile, was casting about for any sight of the Immortal he
could still faintly sense.  Since MacLeod's "buzz" from the other
Immortal was holding steady, he figured they were being stalked.  Their
unseen pursuer must have been pacing them, probably by following a
parallel course down a nearby aisle of vendor stands.  Try as he might,
Duncan could catch no sight of anyone shadowing their path, either to
the sides or behind.  Unexpectedly, he bumped into Dana again as the
agent skidded suddenly to a stop and assumed a firing stance.

"STOP!  FEDERAL AGENT!"

Ahead and slightly to their left, a leather jacketed figure stepped out
from behind a stack of fountain syrup canisters behind a food stand, and
raised a weapon.  Dropping her cell phone, Dana braced and fired three
times, catching the man square in the chest with all three rounds.
Grabbing her cell phone, Dana started running, without hesitation, for
the parking lot.

Dana gasped at Duncan while running flat out, with MacLeod loping along
side, his longer legs pacing Dana without effort.

"It has to be Thomas!  And he's brought.  Help this time!  Can you tell
if the man.  I just shot was.  An immortal?"

"That was no Immortal, but there's still one nearby that I can't sight."

The running pair broke clear of the vending area and entering a wooded
lot that separated the carnival area from the parking lot.  Before
they'd taken a dozen more steps, another figure ran out of the vending
area about two rows to their left.  The silhouette against the carnival
lights was familiar to Dana.

"It's him!" she snapped, as she skidded to a stop again, and turned to
face the big Immortal who was about seventy-five feet away.  Too far for
a sure hit, and too many civilians for any kind of miss, she thought.  I
hope he intends to fight it out hand - to - hand again.  From this
distance she could see no gun, but then, she could see no sword, and she
knew there had to be one.  In her peripheral vision, she saw more
figures run clear of the vending stands, and she risked a quick look in
their direction.  She saw another familiar silhouette.

"MULDER!  OVER HERE!" she called, surprise mixing with relief.

Unfortunately, when Dana looked back, Bradley Thomas had disappeared.
She lowered her weapon and began scanning the area as her partner and
Amanda ran up.  Scully immediately started catching Mulder up on the
last few minutes' events as she watched for any reappearance of Thomas.
In the distance, they could hear the sirens of Chicago P.D.  backup
units on their way.  Dana got out her battered cell phone and contacted
the Chicago FBI Field Office, and requested additional backup from
there.

Meanwhile, MacLeod had continued to his car, which was parked less than
a hundred feet away in the lot, and retrieved two swords from the
trunk.  He trotted back toward them, also scanning across the wooded
area for any sign of Bradley Thomas.

As Dana got off the phone, Mulder asked his standard question.

"Scully, are you sure you're O.K.?"

Dana gave her standard response.

"I'm fine, Mulder."

The partners were together again.

MacLeod stopped beside Amanda and handed her a sword.

"Not your usual blade, Amanda, but you look naked without one."

"You sweet-talker, MacLeod!  And thank you, mine is in Mulder's car on
the other side of the park."

The Immortals were armed.

"O.K., then; let's find this guy and kick some butt," suggested Mulder.

The Hunt was on.

				  *****

Kiley Brothers Traveling Carnival
Near the Carousel
2:05 a.m.

The park normally closed at midnight, anyway, so the police had little
trouble clearing the park.  Several patrol cars were parked around the
park entrances, but the Lieutenant in charge was convinced their suspect
was long gone, and had already pulled most of his men off to better
assignments.  Duncan and Amanda knew better, however.  Their quarry had
gone to ground somewhere in the park; they had each sensed his presence
several times as the park was being cleared.  Fortunately, Mulder had
persuaded the assigned FBI units to stay in position, encircling the
park to prevent Bradley Thomas from leaving.

With the park clear of civilians, including park staff and employees,
the four comrades at arms were slowly quartering the park in loose
formation.  Whenever Amanda or Duncan sensed their prey, they closed
ranks.  Amanda watched left, Duncan right, Dana on point, and Mulder
watched their rear.

They had been traversing the park for almost an hour when two shots rang
out, breaking the eerie semi-silence of the park.  Fatigue forgotten,
four figures dived for the shadows of an amusement ride.

"Those came from the top of the Haunted House," said Mulder.  "I saw the
flash.  That's some large caliber gun he's got there, probably a .44
calibre.  And he's got an almost unassailable position.  We're going to
need a Special Tactics team to get him down.  If that's not really
Thomas up there, the real bad guy is gonna sneak away while we waste
time here for the next two hours!"

Amanda peeked around the side of a supporting leg for the Tilt - A -
Whirl and considered the possible approaches.  Not very hard, really.
Amanda slipped the rope belt out of her jumpsuit, and used it to rig a
sling so she could carry her sword across her back, leaving her hands
free.

"Listen, Mulder.  If you can give me some covering fire to draw his
attention, I can climb the Parachute ride next door, cross that support
cable, drop onto the roof behind him, and take him out."

Mulder looked up at the ride and support cable, then back at his
dark-haired date with frank disbelief.  Acrobat or no acrobat, he
couldn't conceive of anyone willingly doing what Amanda had just
proposed.  Just as he realized that falling probably didn't hold the
same fear for an Immortal as for FBI agents, he felt MacLeod's hand on
his shoulder and turned to face the other Immortal.

"She can do it, Mulder, trust us.  That rooftop is a walk in the park
compared to other places I've seen Amanda tackle.  This is her element;
let her have a shot."

When in Rome, Mulder shrugged.  It appeared she was taking off with or
without his approval, anyway.

"O.K., Amanda.  Need anything special from us?"

"Just a kiss for luck, Mulder, and enough fire to keep his attention
forward of the building."

Amanda gave Mulder a quick buzz on the lips, too quick for him to
consider dodging, even if he'd wanted.  Scully rolled her eyes and
looked away.  Amanda's dark form merged with the shadows to their right,
the glitter of the sword slung across her back the only clue to her
passage.  In a moment, they saw her reach a position near the Parachute
ride, and wave.

"OK, Scully.  Covering fire.  I start."

Alternating, the two agents slowly and methodically took turns popping
up and firing at their overhead sniper, taking care not to fall into any
detectable pattern.  In response, they drew several return rounds that
plowed the ground near their position, or ricocheted from the
surrounding machinery.  Between shots, they watched Amanda climb the
Parachute central support tower, and then walk almost casually across a
steel cable mooring the tall ride to a tree behind the Haunted House.
As she reached her nearest approach to the Haunted House roof, she
stopped, calmly unslung her sword, and holding the sword out to her
side, simply stepped off.  Mulder caught his breath as he watched her
fall about twenty feet, and out of sight.

"It's O.K., folks.  Amanda knows what she's doing." Duncan didn't seem
worried, and that reassured the partners.

Sure enough, about two minutes after Amanda had last disappeared, they
heard a shout, a scream, and a heavy thud.  Checking around the edge of
his cover, Mulder saw a body laying in the dust in front of the Haunted
House.  Amanda stood at the edge of the roof, looking down.

"It isn't Thomas; it's another goon," she called from the rooftop.
"This one didn't want to come peacefully, so I hit him.  The fall was an
accident, I swear!  Is he dead?"

Scully approached carefully, keeping the crumpled form covered with her
automatic, and touched the man's neck for a moment.  She relaxed her
stance, and then looked up toward Amanda.

"His neck is broken.  He's dead."

"Too bad," offered Amanda from the rooftop, but without much sympathy in
her voice.  "Hey, Mac!  Catch!"

So saying, Amanda jumped from the roof toward MacLeod, scaring Mulder
and Scully a second time.  MacLeod reached up to help break Amanda's
fall as she thumped to the ground in front of him, flexing her legs and
sinking almost to the ground to absorb the shock.  She straightened, and
the four looked each other over in silence for a moment.  They had
survived a battle together.

"I wonder how many guys Thomas hired?" Dana asked, looking around the
group.  Only shrugs answered her question.

Mulder dug a couple of sunflower seeds out of his leather jacket's
pocket, as he looked around and considered their next move.

"He must have hired these guys as cannon fodder and just turned them
loose on us to whittle down the numbers.  He's sure to want Duncan and
Amanda for himself, but he probably figured Dana and I could be taken
out by the hired help.  He probably never figured on tackling all four
of us together."

"Thomas is still here, Mulder," offered Duncan.  "I know this kind of
man, and he wouldn't run just because of the police.  Amanda and I have
both sensed someone, and it has to be him.  Anything else would be just
too much coincidence."

Looking around their small group, Mulder saw no reluctance to continue.
Saying nothing else, they turned away from the cooling body to resume
their search.

				  *****

2:47 a.m.

.  .  .

"MacLeod?"

"Yeah, Mulder?

"How do you do that thing with the sword?"

"What thing do you mean?"

"Well, like when you caught Amanda after her jump.  You had both hands
free.  A few seconds later, you had your sword back in your hands."

"So?"

"When I was talking to the police to get the perimeter set up, both you
and Amanda were showing no weapons; Amanda, especially, has no place to
hide a sword.  And Scully told me that in the parking lot the other
night, your sword was laying on the ground one second, and then it was
missing the next.  How do you do it?  How do you lug a thing that size
around, and have it disappear from sight whenever it's convenient, and
have it reappear whenever you need it?"

"It's an Immortal thing; you wouldn't understand."

"I'm a bright guy; try me."

"You know how a magician works?  Always getting his audience to look at
the hand he wants, and getting them to overlook what the other hand is
doing?"

"Yeah?"

"It's like that."


"You're right; I don't understand."

.  .  .

				  *****

2:57 a.m.

Fatigue was starting to get to all of them.  Dana could read the strain
on her partner's face, as well as Amanda and MacLeod.  If was probably
already dangerous to be stalking a killer in their condition, but if the
Immortals were not present to sense Thomas, he might get past FBI or
Chicago P.D.  replacements.  This needed to be resolved soon.

Just then, Amanda and MacLeod stopped in concert and assumed a listening
posture; Mulder and Scully paused to watch.  Amanda swung to their left
and pointed.  Duncan's eyes tracked in the direction of her outstretched
finger, and nodded.  Amanda turned to Mulder and gestured toward The
Terror Train.

"We think he's over there, Mulder, near the roller coaster.  For
certain, he's within about 100 feet, but sometimes we can't reliably
sense direction.  I suggest we split up, and you and I circle around
back.  Then I'll know for sure."

Mulder nodded, and motioned for Amanda to lead.  He had already
rationalized that she was far more experienced at this business than he;
it made sense to follow her lead.  He briefly touched Dana's shoulder as
he passed, and then he followed Amanda into the shadows.

MacLeod watched Scully watching her partner, and decided to settle a
private bet.

"Mulder cares for you a great deal, Dana.  Is it really purely
platonic?"

Surprising herself, Dana decided to answer.  He was, after all, her date
for the evening.

"We don't sleep together, Duncan, if that's what you mean.  We're
partners, and the work we do gets in the way of any kind of normal
life.  Maybe that'll change one day, but for now, being partners is hard
enough."

Dana paused to consider the truth of her own words.  They would have to
do; it was the best explanation she had to offer.  She shook off the
threatening melancholy with a toss of her head.

"Meanwhile," she changed the subject, "what say we get a little closer
to that coaster, so we can back them up quicker if there's trouble?"

				  *****

Behind the Roller Coaster
3:05 a.m.

Amanda and Mulder reached the back of the roller coaster area by dashing
from one area of cover to the next, alternating and passing one another
on each turn.  At each stop, they probed the surrounding shadows with
eyes, ears, and Amanda's strengthening "buzz".  Amanda was now sure they
had placed their quarry between themselves and Scully/MacLeod.  As they
drew nearer and nearer to an equipment trailer parked under the rear of
the coaster supports, Amanda grew more certain that Thomas lay hidden
under, behind, or atop the aluminum structure.  Silently, because they
were too close to their prey for speaking aloud, Amanda motioned for
Mulder to circle right, as she circled left.

Mulder advanced to the right side of the trailer, and slipped down
behind the rear wheels of a flatbed trailer used to carry some of the
portable coaster's components.  The trailer that was the focus of their
attention was less than a dozen feet away, and light from the coaster
decorations faintly illuminated the area under the trailer on Mulder's
side.  No sign of Thomas.  Then, a glint of light to his right set off
alarm bells in his head.

Mulder threw himself backwards wildly, and by so doing, saved himself
from decapitation.  Mulder had time to realize that Thomas had been
hiding in the shadows of a set of utility poles behind the trailer.  In
his approach to his current position, Mulder had passed within three
feet of the hidden Immortal, who had then stalked him from behind.
Thomas' enormously long sword cut through the space previously occupied
by Mulder's neck, still passing so close to Mulder's face that he felt
the breeze of the passing blade.

As he fell backwards, Mulder brought up his automatic and fired twice in
the general direction of Thomas' head, more for distraction than in
hopes of a hit.  In a lucky break for Mulder, Thomas had started
pivoting when Mulder threw himself out of harm's way, and now Thomas
pivoted directly into Mulder's slightly shaky line of fire.  One of the
9mm slugs tore into the Immortal's right shoulder, checking his motion.
As Mulder slammed into the ground and tried to steady his aim, the big
figure paused and roared in pain and anger.

Mulder fired twice more, still unsure of his aim, but again trying to
distract, and hoping for a repeat of his previous luck.  His second
salvo went high and to the right.  As he finally settled onto his back
and steadied his aim, his huge attacker shook off the shock of the first
hit, and leaped to the left in a diving roll.  Mulder was forced to roll
to his left and sit up to regain sight of his intended target.  As he
did so, pain bit into his back from a discarded and smashed bottle under
his left shoulder; Mulder felt a "pop" as a shard of glass punched
through his jacket and cut into the flesh between his shoulder blades.

Trying to focus through the stab of pain, Mulder fought to swing his gun
hand around to bear on Thomas, as the Immortal regained his feet and
advanced.  As Mulder was about to fire a third time, he checked
himself.

Amanda launched herself onto and over the hood of a truck parked
directly behind Bradley Thomas.  As her adversary started for the prone
FBI agent, she landed with both feet on the back of the attacker, just
at the base of the man's thick neck.  As she landed, she also punched
out with her feet, increasing the impact of the blow by an order of
magnitude.  Thomas lost his grip on his sword, which flew to Amanda's
right, lost his footing and fell forward toward Mulder.

Amanda tucked and rolled in midair, landing on her feet.  Mulder rolled
violently to his right, feeling the glass shard tear out of his back and
jacket, but he avoided being under Thomas as the big form crashed to the
ground like a felled tree.  Mulder completed a second roll, just for
good measure, and pushed himself up to a sitting position to survey the
situation.

Mulder saw Amanda standing on the far side of Thomas, sword held at the
ready and attention focused on the fallen form.  Dana and MacLeod came
running up from the right of the supply trailer, and were rounding the
transport trailer toward Mulder.  Thomas was trying to push himself up
from his prone position, obviously heavily stunned by Amanda's kick and
his unbroken fall.

The gang's all here, he thought.

				  *****

3:11 a.m.

When she heard the shots from Mulder's weapon, Dana had broken into a
run.  Duncan swept past her as if she were strolling, and went over the
top of the long flatbed trailer that separated them from Amanda, Mulder,
and Thomas.  As Scully rounded the rear of the trailer, she almost
stepped on Thomas's huge sword, and stopped to grab it up.  The weight
of the blade was almost too much for Dana to manage in one hand, but she
held on grimly and continued toward her partner.

As she reached Mulder's side, she watched Amanda and Duncan bracket the
fallen Immortal between them as Thomas struggled to his hands and
knees.  Their friends looked undecided about how to proceed, and were
shifting their gaze back and forth between each other and Thomas'
struggling form.  Meanwhile, Bradley Thomas steadied himself on his
hands and knees, facing away from the other Immortals and toward Dana
and her partner.  His face came up to look at them, and it twisted into
a mask of rage and frustration.

"You!" he bellowed, and he shifted his weight onto his left arm, and
used his right to reach under his jacket.

Seeing Thomas' movement, Duncan and Amanda advanced.  Mulder brought up
his gun to sight on Thomas' face and waited for the hidden weapon to
appear.  Dana activated the safety on her weapon, a sound clearly
audible to Mulder from only a foot away.  It was an incongruous action
that drew his eyes, despite the danger, to his partner, who stood over
him in a defensive stance.

As Mulder watched, Dana slipped her automatic into her jacket pocket,
and hefted Thomas's sword to a vertical position with both hands.  Her
stance reminded Mulder of watching her play in the bureau's annual
intramural softball game.  As Thomas withdrew his hand from concealment,
exposing the metallic glint of a handgun, Dana stepped forward and swung
downwards, putting so much of her weight into the stroke that the
follow-through drug her to her knees.

In Mulder's eidetic memory, the scene was frozen in that single instant
of time.

				  *****


===========================================================================

From: aad25@cas.org (A. Allen Driskill)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW Heads Up: Chapter 12 (THE END!)
Date: 28 May 1996 11:57:18 GMT


Characters, settings, and background herein are the intellectual
property of Chris Carter, The Fox Network, Ten Thirteen Productions and
others.  They are used here without permission and without intent of
infringement.  Permission is granted to copy this document for
non-comercial entertainment purposes only.

Comments and suggestions via e-mail are always welcome.  If you like my
work, please let me know so I'll be encouraged to continue.  Debate and
discussion about anything that happens in my stories is free of charge!

All posted items are part of works in progress and are subject to further
revision, so please let me know about mistakes, confusion, typos, etc.

I hope you enjoy this!

P.S. - I'm happy to ship missing parts via e-mail; just ask!

			     Chapter Twelve
			    The Party's Over

Final Field Report
Case No. XJ13567
Special Agent Fox Mulder
Special Agent Dana Scully
Summary

This case began with a series of six murders in Buffalo, New York (ref:
Buffalo, N.Y.  P.D.  case numbers 96-128-4414, 96-129-1315, et.  al.,
attached).  The murders were recognized as related, and considered
unusual, by the local investigators for two reasons: the victims were
killed by decapitation, and there was evidence of major electrical
discharge at each murder scene.  Believing that the case involved a
serial killer using some unusual weaponry, the Buffalo FBI Field Office
was contacted for support by the Buffalo P.D..  The judgment was made by
Buffalo SAC Devon that local FBI staff lacked the requisite areas of
expertise for handling the case, and requested assistance from FBI HQ.

Due to the unusual circumstances of the case, and due to the expertise
of X-Files Department Head Fox Mulder in the investigation of serial
killings, the case was assigned to the X-Files Department by Assistant
Director Walter Skinner.  Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were
the assigned investigators.

Investigation at the Buffalo crime scenes confirmed the preliminary
findings, including, in one case, the interview of a near-witness (see
Buffalo Field Interview 66-17-2, attached) to a sword fight between the
victim and the supposed murder, and to an electrical discharge
phenomenon at the time of death.  Specifically, the witness heard the
clash of metal on metal and drew the inference of a sword fight
unprompted, and also saw the reflection of flashing light and heard
electrical-like sounds.

Special Note: despite circumstantial evidence of these electrical
discharges, no evidence was ever found confirming or explaining such
events or their relationship to the case.  The apparent electrical
damage to automobiles near the murder scenes provided the nearest
equivalent to physical evidence, but alternate explanations were offered
by the initial investigators (see Buffalo, N.Y.  original Field Reports,
96-128-4414-01/03, et.  al., attached ).  All areas in which the
purported "lightning" occurred were outside, in large open areas subject
to contamination by weather and vandalism.  One murder scene was located
directly under high-tension power lines, which required extensive repair
shortly thereafter and may have, in fact, been the source of some kind
of electrical activity.  Despite initial reports to the contrary, even
circumstantial evidence of electrical discharge was missing at four of
the six scenes.  The Buffalo "witness" to an electrical disturbance was
a homeless, alcoholic, street person, judged by the investigating agents
to be an unreliable witness, at best.  In the opinion of the X-File
investigators, the reports and evidence of electrical disturbances are
unrelated and/or inconsequential in this case.

Autopsies of the Buffalo victims (see Forensics Report 44-5667,
attached) uncovered chemical anomalies in three of the bodies.  These
anomalies are still being researched by Forensics Research (project id
tj-1667-3990) but are of no apparent relevance to the case.  Of direct
relevance were similar mutilations on the left inner wrist of three
victims, and traces of blue ink consistent with that used in tattooing.
The suspected presence of tattoos, tied with research into the victim's
histories, provided a tie to International Assets, Inc., a
pseudo-fraternal organization of historians and antique art collectors.
Many members of this organization sport a bluebird-in-a-circle tattoo on
the inside of their left wrists.  The identification, collection, and
auctioning of historical weaponry, especially swords (see Supplemental
Research Report, 46-46- 66, attached), are major parts of this
organization's activities.

Working closely with the management of International Assets, Inc.  (see
organization summary in Chicago Field Interview 67-18-05) relationships
where established between International Assets and every victim; every
victim was a current or previous employee, subcontractor, or consultant
of the organization.  Further, ties were established to additional
deaths, under identical circumstances, that occurred in: Puerto Kalnada,
Argentina ( two victims, case file at-1556, attached); Delnar, Texas (
four victims, case file the-5663, attached); and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
(two victims, case file QBY-771775, attached).  Reviews of current and
past members and employees of International Assets were begun,
attempting to link all victims, and the use of swords.

While in Chicago to interview and work with the North American
management of International Assets (see Chicago Field Interview
67-18-02, et.  al, "Joseph Dawson", attached), Special Agents Mulder and
Scully participated in a high-speed pursuit of a suspect leaving the
scene of an illegal search of the Agents' temporary accommodations (see
Chicago Crime Report 1346-78-1847, attached).  The suspect eluded the
Chicago and FBI personnel, and a fifteenth murder victim was discovered,
fitting all previously identified victim profile parameters.

Shortly thereafter, Agent Scully was attacked, by a perpetrator wielding
a sword, in a Chicago parking lot (see Chicago Crime Report
1346-78-3500, attached); shots were fired and minor damage occurred to
several automobiles (see Victim of Crime report 47-14-4402, attached).
After investigation by Chicago P.D., Agent Scully was released without
charges.  Agent Scully was then able to positively identify the
attacker, from the International Assets, Inc.  employee records, as one
"Bradley Thomas".  Thomas was found to have a long history of
involvement with mercenary organizations, and to be an expert fencer, as
well as having jumped bail on an assault charge in Washington State (see
Fugitive Report FR-13167-149638, attached).  Photographs of Thomas were
distributed to Chicago P.D.  and FBI personnel, Federal and Illinois
warrants were obtained for Thomas's arrest, and APB was issued
statewide.

It is believed, but not substantiated, that Bradley Thomas had access to
International Assets, Inc.  employee records, and was acting out
resentment against the organization.  This hostility was based on a
decision by the International Assets Board of Directors to discontinue
contracts with Thomas due to rumors of violent and illegal activities on
Thomas' part (see I.A.  Board of Directors Minutes, item #11,
attached).  Said contracts were for the location and recovery of certain
historical artifacts.  It is further believed that Thomas was stalking
International Assets North American Director Joe Dawson and observed
Dawson's interaction with Agents Mulder and Scully, leading to the
search of their rooms, the attack on Agent Scully in the parking lot at
Dawson's place of business, and a final attack on both agents in a
Chicago amusement park (see Chicago Crime Report 1348-44-3591,
attached).

The amusement park attack also involved three additional perpetrators
hired by Thomas for the occasion.  Aided by two civilians with advanced
fencing and martial arts training (casual acquaintances of Agents Mulder
and Scully, present by happenstance at a public social activity), three
of the attackers (including Thomas) were killed, and the fourth injured,
during a confrontation involving small arms and hand-to-hand combat
among all eight parties.  During the confrontation, several uninvolved
civilians received minor injuries and there was extensive property
damage to an amusement park ride (see Federal Victim of Crime report
47-14-5677, attached) due to the shorting of electrical supply lines
severed by fire from Bradley Thomas' handgun.  Agents Mulder, Scully,
and the two civilians were released without charges after investigation
by Chicago P.D.  and FBI Internal Affairs authorities.

Legal action in the fifteen individual murder cases is still pending;
all are expected to be closed by the respective local authorities.  No
other charges have been filed against any participants in this case, and
none are anticipated.

Civil claims against the Bureau for property damage in Chicago are being
settled by the Legal Department under the status of "Prudent and
Justified, No Agent Action Anticipated".  No civilian personal injury
claims have been filed, but the Legal Department advises that no grounds
exist for any extraordinary legal actions against Agents Mulder and
Scully, or the Bureau.

It is the recommendation of the investigating agents that this case be
closed and its status modified to "Resolved, Perpetrator Deceased".  No
extraordinary circumstances exist which warrant any further
investigation by the X-Files Department.

		    (signed)
			      Special Agent Fox Mulder
			      Special Agent Dana Scully

			    *****

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
7:45 p.m.

Left to its own devices and sensibilities, the FBI would probably never
stage a formal social event of any kind; the law-enforcement mentality
is very work-oriented, conservative, and tends toward parties at the
corner Irish bar.  Unfortunately, the FBI is rarely left alone by the
political forces that, ultimately, shape and direct its activities.

Especially vulnerable to the pomp and circumstance that is American
politics, FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.  is often the site of
lavish dinners where the true fare of the evening is not the food, but
rather, internal and foreign policy of the U.S.  Government.  Consider:
one of the FBI's responsibilities is the training of political
appointees to positions of influence within the Department of Justice.
It is also responsible for providing training to law-enforcement
personnel, both field personnel and administrative staff, at every level
of local, state, and federal government; training foreign police
operatives; investigating the backgrounds of candidates and appointees
for political offices; combating the import and sales of illegal drugs;
and combating internal and external threats of terrorism.  It is small
wonder that the Special Agents of the FBI, lowly cops at heart, often
find themselves thrown into the presence of political infighting under
the pretense of "having a good time".

Such was the case on this cool spring evening, as Agents Dana Scully and
Fox Mulder found themselves attending a formal dinner and dancing
reception for their new boss, Kevin Spencer, newly appointed and
confirmed Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  A huge
multi-purpose room, usually partitioned into a number of smaller
meeting, training, and storage rooms, had been opened up into a passable
imitation of a grand banquet hall.  An 18-piece band was still setting
up at one end of the room, while a crowd milled about over the dance
floor that had been installed especially for the occasion.  Politicking,
career-advancement, networking and smoozing of all kinds were in full
swing.

It seemed FBI personnel had never heard the phrase "fashionably late",
since it appeared that everybody was already present, fifteen minutes
early.  A few people had already taken seats at the tables that
surrounded the dance floor on three sides, but most were on their feet
and whispering about office gossip, recent cases, and who had shown up
with whom.  When agents Mulder and Scully had shown up, there was a
small stir; when it became apparent they were together, the stir picked
up considerable steam.

The FBI rumor mill had been working overtime concerning the X-Files
staff for years.  Both agents were admired professionally, and the
department's closure rate was the best in the bureau.  But both agents
had developed a mystique over the years as "Mr and Mrs.  Spooky of the
X-Files department", the "Twilight Zone of the FBI", the agents that
"Trust No One".  The office betting pool had odds on them sleeping
together secretly, and had established an unofficial "bounty" for proof
in the affirmative.

Agent Mulder was aware of the gossip, but ignored the talk except when
he was in a mood to fan the flames.  Once he'd tried to convince Scully
to pose for pictures with him, so they could collect and split the
"sleeping together" pool; Dana had demurred.  But tonight he was too
involved to care about the gossip; for the first time in his career, he
was looking forward to a social event with his co-workers.  He looked
out over the sea of black tuxedos and reflected that the view, as far as
the men were concerned, looked little different than a normal work day.
Just replace standard dark ties with back bow ties, and the standard
dark jackets with goofy monkey-suits, and voila!  But the women, oh my!
There was absolutely nothing stuffy about the female staff of the FBI,
nor the wives and female companions that the upper ranks were permitted
to invite.  Since the event had not been made a family affair for
everyone, Mulder wondered if he was going to have to fight for Scully's
time on the dance floor.  She was also, he noted, the most beautiful
woman in the room.

He turned and looked again, just to be sure.  Yep, no doubt about it.
His partner was wearing a pale green satin dress (a match for the
underwear he'd seen in her room?  Suppose she was wearing the whole
matched set?  Nope; no room for a bra under that dress!).  The gown's
color stood in perfect contrast with her pale skin and auburn hair.  The
neckline exposed as much cleavage as it could, without looking tawdry;
Dana had good taste.  And the back!  The back was cut so low that Mulder
couldn't stop looking, and was imagining where his hands would be while
they danced.  With her spectacular auburn hair in a French Braid, her
lovely throat and neck were exposed to full view, and made Mulder think
of porcelain and alabaster.  Whoa, Mulder!  Down boy!  Still, dammit,
she was beautiful, and for once, he was determined to make sure she knew
it, and knew he knew it.  No pulling punches tonight; no jokes.

Fox moved a step closer to his partner, to be sure they were not
overheard.

"Scully, did I remark on your dress when I picked you up?"

"Well, actually, Mulder, I think you might have mumbled something like
"nice"; but from the stunned look on your face I just assumed you liked
it a lot.  Was I wrong?"

"Scully, sometimes I'm a buffoon, but tonight I have an excuse.  Earlier
I was completely tongue-tied in your presence.  I have now recovered
sufficiently to say that you are undoubtedly and indisputably the most
beautiful woman in the room, bar none.  And I consider myself the
luckiest man here tonight, just to be your escort."

Dana stood silently and considered her partner's words, and searched his
face for a hint of his hidden meaning.  Seeing nothing except sincerity
caused a warm and exciting glow to suffused her entire body.  She looked
into Fox's hazel eyes and saw a reflection of what must surely be
showing in her own.  She felt a twinge of regret for all the pain and
sorrow that had come to their lives over the years, but felt no regret
for standing beside this man and sharing his quest.  Life always takes
you to where you are now, she reflected, and right now I'm exactly where
I want to be, with exactly who I want to be with, and doing exactly what
I want to be doing.  At this moment, I'd do anything he asked, go
anywhere he wanted to go, and stay forever.  I wonder if he knows that?

My god, those eyes, thought Fox.  She always seems to look right into my
soul and see exactly what's hidden there.  Well, tonight there's nothing
there I wouldn't want to share, anyway, so go ahead and look, Dana!  I
hope you can see that tonight I'd do anything in the world for you!

Dana smiled a secret smile, faced her partner and leaned so close that
her cheek brushed the lapel of his tuxedo.  Fox leaned forward so that
his head was over her shoulder, trapping her against his chest with an
arm around her waist.  Guessing that she was about to whisper, he
lowered his head to bring his ear an inch from her mouth.  For a second
they stood so, feeling and appreciating each other's warmth, sharing
their scents and their breath, then Dana whispered.

"Thank you, Mulder, that was a very sweet thing to say.  And, since
you're probably wondering, yes, I'm wearing the other half of the
lingerie from Frohike, that set you found in my Chicago motel room.  If
you ever tell him, I'll hurt you badly!"

Fox Mulder's eye grew big and round at his partner's words.  He felt a
smile growing, and felt his entire body reacting, both to his partner's
proximity, and to the sultry tone of her words.  When he tried to
straighten, she pulled him back; Dana wasn't done.

"And you should also know that I was completely sober when you arrived
at my Victory Party at Joe's.  And I want you to know that I feel like
the luckiest woman here tonight, just to have you, the most handsome man
in the room, as my escort."

The way they were standing, with her head tucked into the space between
Mulder's jaw and shoulder, Dana knew she was partially hidden from the
view of curious eyes, so she took a chance.  Gently, and without a fuss,
she touched her lips to Fox's neck, just below his ear.  She felt an
answering shudder from her big partner, and smiled.

At Dana's words, Mulder had caught his breath and held it, trying
desperately to stop time long enough to savor the moment.  Then Dana
kissed him gently below the ear, and his breath came out in a startled
rush.  He finally straightened slowly and reluctantly, seeking his
partner's eyes.  When he caught them, they were full of laughter and .
.  .  other mysterious things that could wait to be explored another
day.

"Excuse me?  Am I interrupting?"

The gruff voice of Walter Skinner sliced into their private universe and
drew them both back to reality.  Scully stepped away from her partner a
pace, and found her voice first.

"Hello, sir!  You're not interrupting; we were just whispering about the
latest office gossip.  The scuttlebutt says that you have a date
tonight!  Anyone we know?"

Their usually gruff superior looked extremely uncomfortable at Scully's
question, and she wondered if she'd committed a faux pas.  Maybe his
date didn't show up tonight, and he's embarrassed?

"Well, yes, I think you do know her.  That's why I cam over to talk; she
said she hadn't told you about coming tonight, because she wanted it to
be a surprise.  I thought that sounded like a bad idea, but you know
your mother when she gets an idea in her head .  .  .  "

Skinner saw Agent Scully's jaw drop open, her face loose all color, and
watched her step back into her partner as if for support in standing.
Oh, my, god!  he thought.  Margaret's never told her anything about us!
He checked Mulder's face, and saw only amusement.

"M-My mother?  My mother is your date?" stammered Dana.

"Yes, dear!  Walter was kind enough to bring me tonight so I could see
the two of you dance!  Wasn't that nice of him?" Dana's mother walked up
from the general direction of the coat room, and took Skinner's arm in a
familiar fashion.

"M-mother?"

Margaret Scully also noted the way her daughter was leaning against Fox
for support.  For the dozenth time, she wondered who these two thought
they were fooling.  Certainly not herself, or Walter!  But she realized
that right now the shock of seeing her mother out on a date must be
causing her daughter a great deal of distress.

"Dana, sweetheart, close your mouth; it's unbecoming.  You look upset;
is something wrong?"

Dana felt Mulder's hand come up and close over her shoulder.  She
realized at that moment that she was leaning heavily against Mulder for
support, and tried to restore her balance, both physical and mental.
Her mother?  Dating Skinner?  She listened, as if from a great distance,
as Mulder beat her to the punch with some coherent words.

"Mrs.  Scully, I'm delighted to see you here tonight; it's been too long
since Christmas.  How are you?" and he kissed the elder Scully woman on
the cheek.

"Very well, thank you, Fox!  And I must say, you are the handsomest of
all my sons in a tuxedo.  And such a nice tie!  You look very elegant;
almost as elegant as Dana."

Mulder grinned at mention of his bow tie; it was black behind a subtle
silver paisley pattern.  It matched his cummerbund and cufflinks, and
was far too subtle for his own tastes, but he was on his best behavior
tonight.

"Exactly what I was telling Dana just a moment ago, Mrs.  Scully.  I
believe A.D.  Skinner and I have the most beautiful companions in the
room tonight.  Right, Sir?"

Walter looked over his two most dedicated agents for a second longer
before responding.  Who do those two think they're fooling, anyway?
Certainly not Margaret or me, and not most of their fellow agents; I've
heard them call Dana "Mrs.  Spooky" a number of times.  Maybe just
themselves, and not doing a very good job of that tonight, it appears!
Well, they've chosen a difficult path to follow!

"Yes, Agent Mulder, I believe you're right.  Shall we find a table
together, or have the two of you already reserved seats?" Better give
them an out, if they want to be on their own, he thought.

Seating protocol tonight, for everyone except the VIPS, was to pick up
their personalized seating card at the door, and place the name-card at
their choice of seat.  Mulder still had Dana and his cards in the pocket
of his tuxedo, pending choice of seating by Scully.  A glance at Scully
now told him that, yes, she would like to sit with her mother if he
thought he could tolerate Skinner and be nice.  He wasn't sure how he
got all that from a single glance, but there it was, none the less.
O.K.  He was just thinking about how he'd do anything for his partner,
right?  Well, Skinner didn't look too sure of this arrangement, either,
so maybe the first politic thing to do is return the offer of a way
out?

"Sir, we've decided we'd like a table near the dance floor, since we
intend to be dancing a lot tonight.  But if that's too close to the
band, you know, the noise, then we'll understand .  .  ."

"Nonsense, Agent Mulder, next to the floor is fine.  We plan to be
dancing, too.  Let's pick out some prime seats before they disappear."

Dana and Fox exchanged looks again.  Skinner dancing?

The burly Assistant Director plowed a path through the crowd toward the
dance floor, and began to circle the dancing area looking for available
tables.  He quickly located a table right at the edge of the floor, and
staked a claim by seating Margaret Scully in the best seat.  Mulder
followed suit by seating Dana, and placing their name cards on the table
in front of them.  Mulder sat by his partner, but Skinner retained his
feet.

"You two already have drinks, I see.  Would you like something from the
bar, Margaret?"

After taking Margaret's order, AD Skinner disappeared into the crowd.
Dana turned to her mother and grinned broadly.  Mulder, who had been
expecting a row, relaxed as his partner showed she had regained her
usual composure.  Apparently her previous shock had been just, well,
surprise.

"Mother!  Walter Skinner?  I knew you two had met a few times at the
hospital, but I had no idea you were seeing each other socially?  How
did this happen?"

Margaret Scully displayed the genetic source of Dana's blushing ability
as she quickly turned a rosy pink.  Obviously, she had not completely
come to terms with the arrangements either.

"Well, we talked on the telephone a few times while you were missing,
Dana, and a few more times while you were missing in New Mexico, Fox.
Then one day, he said "Margaret, I'm tired of only seeing you when
there's a tragedy brewing; let's go out", and so we did.  No big
mystery.  He seems like a very good-hearted man, Dana, and we've had a
lot of fun together.  And he's a good Catholic.  So.  I think your
father would have liked Walter, Dana."

And that, apparently, was that.  Dana nodded and patted her mother's
hand.  Fox wondered at his partner's calm, even as he was seeing the
source of her strength and self confidence.

			    *****

8:45 p.m.

The band had begun playing shortly after Skinner returned to the table,
and after what Mulder thought was an amazingly brief welcome by the
Dance Committee, and an even more amazingly brief speech from their new
boss.  Maybe the guy wouldn't be so bad after all, not that the Director
came in contact with the FBI's Most Unwanted all that often, anyway.

The first dance was a Fox Trot, and Dana floated into his arms with
practiced ease.  As they glided around the floor, Dana decided to take
the opportunity for some private conversation.

"Let's get back to that interesting conversation we were having earlier,
Mulder.  Exactly what do you find so pleasing about my appearance
tonight?" Is this really me, fishing for compliments, she thought?  Why
does nothing seem to embarrass me tonight?

"You want a list, Scully?  Isn't it enough to know I find the whole
package irresistible?" Is this really me saying this stuff?

"No, I want to know exactly, Mulder.  I want to know exactly what wear,
or not wear, to get whatever reaction out of you that I want.  I
wouldn't want to distract you at work, for instance, by accident." But
maybe on purpose?

How could you distract me more than you already do, Scully?  "Waaay too
analytical, Scully.  I don't think my hormones work so precisely as all
that.  Let's just say that I could wax poetical all evening about the
way you look tonight, O.K.?"

"Have I ever worn anything else that you thought was especially
attractive?"

Mulder thought hard, but not very long.  His special memory carried a
lot of special pictures of Dana Scully, but one easily stood out.

"I think the most attractive thing I've ever seen you wear was that
baseball jersey you borrowed the last time you slept over at my
apartment."

Dana looked, and was, surprised.  She knew for certain that she had
looked terrible that evening: no makeup, little sleep, hair tied up in a
pony tail, and bare feet.  And yet she could hear the sincerity in
Mulder's voice.  She pulled her head back out of position long enough to
catch her partner's eye.  This man had it bad; maybe as bad as she.

"Thank you, Mulder."

"Thank you, Scully."

The evening was a pleasant success.  The two agents set many of the
office tongues wagging, and they drew compliments on their dancing from
several quarters.  Dana had offers to dance every dance, but she stayed
very selective.  She accepted offers from Mulder, Skinner, Danny (their
Ace in the Hole over in Research), and a few friendly agents with whom
she'd worked.  She decisively turned down any of the goons from Violent
Crimes who she'd ever heard use the names "Spooky Mulder", "Mrs Spooky",
or "The Ice Queen".  Popularity, to coin a phrase, is the best revenge.

Mulder was even busier.  He danced with Dana often enough to keep it
clear who she'd come with, Margaret Scully, and his few female support
staff friends that had gotten invited.  But the highlight of the evening
was dancing with the wives and dates of most of the Violent Crimes
Agents.  For whatever reason (perhaps they were in on the joke?), most
of Mulder's worst detractors ended up suffering through their
significant other being in Fox Mulder's arms for a few minutes.  Mulder
encouraged all the ladies to have their men take dance lessons.

But without a doubt, Fox and Dana were the stars of the evening.  They
even drew the attention of the new Director, and Dana danced a waltz
with Director Spencer.

At one point late in the evening, Dana lost track of Mulder, only to
finally see him returning to their table from the direction of the
band.  Before she could inquire what he'd done, it became self evident.
The band was playing a Tango for the first time that evening, and the
dance floor was emptying.

Mulder extended his elbow to Scully, and bowed slightly.

"Dane, madame?"

"Mulder, almost nobody knows the Tango, we'd be out there by ourselves!"

"Scully, we're almost always Out There By Ourselves.  Why should this be
any different?"

Dana sighed, rolled her eyes, stood and accepted Mulder's arm.  Mulder
escorted her to the corner of the dance floor, and then lead her in a
sweeping turn into dance position.  Mulder looked down into his partners
upturned face, pulled her close, and assumed a haughty look.

"I feel like dancing like Aaaaahnuld!"

Dana rolled her eyes and smiled.  Here we go again, she thought.

And smiled.

			    *****




-- 
A. Allen Driskill      |Chemical Abstracts Service|CAS:         aad25
5193 Taylor Lane Avenue|P.O. Box 3012             |internet:    adriskill@cas.org
Hilliard, OH  43026    |Columbus, OH 43210-0012   |
(614) 876-0885         |(614) 447-3600 x2876      |
"My opinions are my own, not those of Chemical Abstracts."