Title: The Messenger
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Rating: R
Feedback: to theconsortium6@hotmail.com. Flames will be used to 
torment Mulder.
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know.
Spoilers: everything up to "The End" We'll just pretend the movie 
didn't happen...it's better that way.
Category: SA
Keywords: None
Disclaimer: Spooky Spice, Starbuck Spice, Smokey Spice, Skinner 
Spice, Samantha Spice, the Syndicate Spices, and anyone else you 
recognize are owned by Surfer Spice. David Parish is all mine, the 
poor bastard. Milan Kundera, William Wharton, Aeschylus and St. 
Augustine belong to themselves, as do their quotes.
Summary: A killer's last words lead Mulder towards the truth about 
Samantha...but is he ready to face what she has become?
Thanks to everyone who wrote asking me to explain "The Sound of 
Her Wings". This would have never been written without you. More 
thanks to Anna for editing this.

Dedicated to the enigmatic JKV, who unwittingly inspires almost all 
of my writing, and also provided a name for Cancerman. It's meant 
in the nicest way, of course.

The Now-Obligatory Ramblings: It would figure that I would need a 
25 page story to explain a four page vignette. This is sort of a 
sequel, sort of a prequel to "The Sound of Her Wings". You 
probably don't need to read it first, but it might help. Or it might just 
confuse you more. This is the background story. It takes place some 
time after, and also some time earlier. You'll see. If it gets 
confusing,  just keep in mind that the ~~~ sections that look like this 
~~~ are flashbacks to 1974. Basically, this is the story of how the 
Samantha of "The Sound..." got to be the way she is.

***

"Anyone whose goal is "something higher" must expect some day to 
suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? Then why do we 
feel it even when the observation tower comes equipped with a 
sturdy handrail? No, vertigo is something other than the fear of 
falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and 
lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend 
ourselves." -- Milan Kundera _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_

***

PART I: STRATEGO

"Woe betide that man of power who takes the side of those who 
have no power." -- Saint Augustine


"I can tell by your face that you've died before."

The assassin brushes back his thinning grey hair in a nervous 
gesture, using the hand that isn't firmly attached to his gun. He is 
nearly invisible in the shadows, his eyes cast into black between his 
lined brow and gaunt cheeks. He jumps back nervously as Fox 
Mulder swings the flashlight around to illuminate his cadaverous 
face.

"Don't look so surprised," the assassin continues, "I can always 
tell, you know. Something about the eyes." He takes another step 
into the shade beneath a broken roofbeam. The old warehouse is 
empty other than these two - the killer and his would-be victim. 
Mulder radioed for back-up ten minutes ago but no one has come.

The man is clearly a lunatic - he has murdered twelve pregnant 
women in cold blood before holing himself up in the warehouse 
with a loaded semiautomatic. Now he is muttering to himself, his 
hands shaking as Mulder tries to talk him into dropping the gun.

But he is not just a lunatic, although the fear of death has brought 
that out in him. He is something more. Mulder knows this - knew it 
even as he walked into the killer's trap.

All twelve of the victims had implants in the backs of their necks.

The assassin shifts, his trembling hands slowly lifting the gun.

"A lot have people have died, really," he says, "Even *he* has."

"He?"

"You know. *Him*." The killer raises his fingers to his lips in an 
unmistakable gesture. Smoking a cigarette.

Him.

"You work for him?" Mulder asksd. It isn't a question. It all makes 
sense.

"They won't let me live, you know." The gun flashes silver in the 
darkness. "They never do. You're not allowed to get caught. Once 
you end up in jail, you commit suicide. It's how they protect 
themselves."

"You don't know that."

"He was different, after he came back. He wasn't afraid to 
die...before." For a brief instant, Mulder can see the killer's pale 
eyes, wild with fear. "*I'm* afraid to die."

"You're not gonna die," Mulder says, oddly compelled to reassure 
the man.

"Oh yes. They won't let me live. This is it."

And then he steps out of the darkness, into the small square of light 
streaming in from the open door. He is only a few feet away from 
Mulder, his gun still trained on the younger man's head.

"He has a message for you," the assassin says.

"The smoking man?"

The killer nods eagerly. "He said...he said to tell you to stop 
looking for her."

"What?"

Mulder's voice is drowned out in the blast that follows. And when 
the smoke clears he can ask no more questions. He kneels over the 
bloody body as the sound of sirens builds in the distance.

***

The phone is ringing and I can't be bothered to pick it up - damn 
fools they want blood from you; blood, or more, if they can get it. 
They won't leave me alone. Bastards. One of Their goddamn 
mistakes of course but who the hell takes the fall this time? Come 
on, Bill, let's go out for a smoke, I'm sick of this shit. Too many 
idiots who know too much. I need a drink, let's leave the sons-of-
bitches to their games and their lies. They'll work it out on their 
own.

And then I wake up; I remember that Bill is dead.

And I remember that I killed him.

Damn.

I am forever haunted by the people I've killed, and also by the 
people I haven't.

She leans over to blow a cloud of smoke in my face.

"Morning, sunshine."

Jesus Christ, Samantha. How long have you been here?

She smiles. "Oh, about an hour." She hands me the box of 
cigarettes - *my* cigarettes - as she takes another long, slow drag. I 
grab them from her - too abruptly, I realize. I light one and glower at 
her, but I don't look threatening enough. Not to her. She knows me 
too well.

What the hell are you doing here?

"I like watching you sleep." She curls her arms around me, lifting 
my head so I'm forced to look in her eyes. "You look so innocent, 
you know. You should see yourself."

Right. The TV is still on but the sound is turned off, the light flashes 
in irregular intervals across her face. In the dim glow she looks even 
paler. Since the shooting she hasn't left me alone. I nail the 
windows shut, lock the doors, but she always seems to find her 
way in.

Go away, Samantha.

"And where do you suggest I go?" She pauses, exhaling. A clever 
trick - it builds dramatic tension. She learnt it from me. "One of your 
men is dead."

I suppose she's expecting a response, but she won't get one. I 
barely say a word when she's around. I don't need to.

"Parish," she tells me.

Oh. That one. Did Mulder shoot him?

"He shot himself." She runs her tongue over her teeth, the smile on 
her face almost one of satisfaction. "He knew he wouldn't stand a 
chance." Another pause. Another drag - she stubs out the cigarette in 
the ashtray by the chair. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"What would you like me to say?"

I'm speaking again - force of habit, I suppose. She doesn't seem to 
notice.

"Gimmie another smoke." 

Resigned, I hand the box over to her. "Those things will kill you, 
Samantha."

Samantha Mulder smiles sadly.

"No," she says, "They won't."

***

~~~ It is memory that will destroy me, in the end.

She doesn't look like a dying child.

She's been outside, running by the lake - her sallow cheeks have 
caught the glow of the sun. She looks as alive, as healthy as any 
eight-year-old, but I know better.

She has perhaps six months at the most.

It seems bitterly unfair, but there is so much in life that is unfair - we 
are resigned to this, that she should die and I should live. I would 
trade my life for hers in an instant - but the choice is not mine to 
make.

And she is sleeping now, unaware of her fate.

No one will tell her.

Several weeks ago she felt sick. Just a cold. Bill drove her in to the 
doctor in Providence. Routine, really, children her age are always 
sick with something.

But not this.

I take her little hand in mine, stroke it, absentmindedly. She should 
have been my daughter. None of that matters now.

Bill always teases me about it - about me spending more time with 
his children than he does. He has no idea. And that doesn't matter 
either.

He was the one who told me.

Poor bastard. One child dying, and the other-

The other...~~~

***

~~~ I have no children.

I always thought I would be a good father. Apparently I am the only 
one who thinks so. But given the opportunity, I would have been. I 
would have been a good husband, too.

Bill thinks it is unhealthy, unnatural, for a man to spend so much 
time with another man's children.

Strangely enough, he has never commented on my friendship with 
Teena.

Cassandra has similar ideas - she tries to keep me away from Jeffrey 
as much as possible. She trusts me with her own body, but not with 
her son.

But I would have been a good father.

And now, as I sit at the bedside of a dying child, I feel the pain as 
much as a father would. Bill's life will go on, and Teena's, though 
it may take years. But mine ends here, with her, and I will always 
wonder if there was something I might have done.

There is nothing. The wheels of fate do not stop in their tracks for 
one child, though I wish it might be otherwise.

She sleeps, unaware of the maelstrom around her. ~~~

***

The body is that of a Caucasian male in his mid-forties. The cause of 
death is a single gunshot wound to the head. The name on the 
driver's license in his wallet is David Parish, although that is almost 
certainly not the name his parents called him.

Other than this, no records exist of the man whose life came to a 
sudden, bloody end on the floor of an abandoned warehouse.

His eyes are open, staring sightlessly up, twin pale, blue-grey orbs, 
the blue fading from them rapidly, leaving them dead and 
colourless. His skin, his hair, all grey, as if he was shaped from the 
crumbling ashes at the end of a cigarette. They have removed his 
clothes and he lies naked on the cold slab, his body gaunt, 
emaciated.

Ashes to ashes.

Mulder closes the dead man's eyes, intensely aware that this corpse 
once breathed, once spoke, once laughed. He is aware that ash was 
once fire, that this dead thing once burned with a life as intense as 
his own.

But more than this - he is aware that this man might have once 
known his sister - that yet another faint spark of hope has burnt out.

The man's last words chill him, repeating themselves over and over 
again in his head.

<Stop looking for her.>

<He says stop looking for her.>

And Mulder curses the chain-smoking son-of-a-bitch, but it doesn't 
do any good because the bastard isn't here and it would make no 
difference even if he was. His message has been sent - one man is 
dead, for the sake of four words.

<Stop looking for her.>

He turns, slowly, to leave the morgue.

David Parish's eyes pop open again, and as Mulder takes one glance 
backwards before leaving the room he sees the dead man's gaze, 
face turned upwards towards the ceiling, looking for something that 
isn't there.

Mulder closes the door behind him.

When Scully comes tomorrow to autopsy the body, she will find an 
empty slab. They will come for the body before the night is over. 
And the life of the man called David Parish will disappear, his story 
left untold, his soul dissolving like sugar in water.

***

I am safe in the room of mirrors.

The aquariums cast a green light over the laboratory, turning the 
faces of the six identical doctors a pale, sickly shade. Still, they are 
beautiful. And their eyes, in daylight hazel, here glow with an 
unearthly luminescence.

So beautiful. All of them.

Here the images are safe, only shades of a life. They will not hurt 
me.

I light up a cigarette, watching them work.

I sometimes wonder about them - what they think, what they feel. 
She assured me once that they feel nothing. That they are nothing 
like us.

I believe her. Most of the time.

The one I brought to Mulder was destroyed the day after I was shot. 
Samantha took care of that. She could never abide the attention I pay 
to them.

I didn't have a chance to say goodbye.

She trusted me, that one, she sat in the car with me, a lamb awaiting 
slaughter. She knew the moment she turned away from Fox that she 
was doomed. I stroked her hair, tried to reassure her that I would 
protect her.

She called me Father.

And the next day, she was dead.

Sometimes Samantha comes her with me and watches the ghosts as 
they work. Sometimes I try to read her face. Or theirs.

And I hope that she is right when she says they do not feel.

***

Of all the questions to ask, Mulder thinks to himself.

Now that Parish - or rather, his body - has disappeared, the records 
of his life erased, sanitized, his existence purged; now Mulder is 
able to analyze every action that took place that night, every word 
exchanged between the two of them.

<What?>

Parish had the answer, the big secret, and in the split second before 
he died Mulder had one brief chance to ask the big question. And all 
he came up with was...what.

<Stop looking for her.>

Mulder runs the words over and over in his head, looking for 
meaning, explanation. He does not doubt that Parish was telling the 
truth. Death makes all men honest.

<Stop looking.>

Parish knew the truth about Samantha.

Mulder has not told Scully, or anyone, about the conversation. The 
case is officially over. All of the pregnant women out there with 
implants in their necks will sleep safely tonight. The monster is 
dead.

Only one strand of his life lingers on.

<For her.>

Memory is bright, burning. Memory is all that preserves the sad life 
and death of a faceless assassin. Memory is all that links Mulder to 
his lost sister, for whom there is now one, definitive truth.

Whatever that truth may be.

***

~~~ "Is she suffering?"

It is a terrible question to ask, I know. Bill slouches over his drink, 
his face drawn and pale. He is my age, but in the days since 
Samantha's diagnosis he has somehow become an old man.

"No," he says finally, taking another gulp. The only time he pauses 
in drinking is when he takes a drag of his cigarette. "Not yet," he 
amends.

He finishes the glass and pours another.

"Watch it, Bill."

This is too much tragedy. They are a haunted family; *we* are a 
haunted family.

"Fuck it."

"Bill-"

He gives me a sideways glance, tipping the bottle to pour me a 
drink.

Bastard. They need him to be strong. And he's not.

Part of me is coolly evaluating the situation. Bill drinks too much. 
Teena has too many "accidents". Bill is moody, unpredictable. A 
danger to the Project. To his family.

And another part reminds me that Bill is my friend, that his son is 
doomed and his daughter is dying, his wife has betrayed him and no 
man can be expected to withstand the pressures with which we deal, 
the truths we know.

"They've suggested we start her on some sort of...experimental 
treatment. They've got all these goddamned fancy names for it, but 
it's all playing in the dark, y'know?"

I nod. I know.

"Listen, ya gotta talk to them." He's slurring his words badly. "Tell 
'em not to take Fox."

"I can't do that. It's too late."

"Both my kids, y'understand? Both."

"I know, Bill."

He slumps over - there is a dull thud as his head hits the table. I 
leave him lying there. There is nothing I can do. I go upstairs to 
where Fox is sleeping, ignorant of how important he has become to 
the equation.

I wouldn't have let it happen.

I would have protected him.

But it isn't up to me anymore. ~~~

***

We are standing over an unmarked grave, where the body of David 
Parish is buried. I didn't know him well. He was a good employee, 
before the pressure made him snap. I have seen better men than him 
die.

She insists on burying him, as she has done with all the others, at 
least the ones that we find. This field is chock-full of bodies, 
nameless, faceless men that lie beneath the soil. This is where old 
assassins seek their final hiding places.

She stands in the rain, oblivious to cold, to the wet clothes that cling 
to her thin body. She watches as I throw the final shovel of dirt over 
the slight indent in the ground. We are the only two in attendence; 
the others couldn't care less.

I couldn't care less, but I owe it to her, somehow.

He died for us - for her.

It is not out of any regret that she does this, that she comes here with 
me. It is the thirst for knowledge, for understanding. I can feel her 
eyes on me, watching, trying to comprehend what it is that I feel.

I feel nothing.

She waits for the day when this changes. She needs to measure, to 
quantify. Human emotion is foreign to her, a curiousity which she 
must examine. She waits for the day when I will feel something for 
the dead things we put in the ground. She waits to analyze the 
instant in which my heart finally splits in half.

But it won't be today.

***

"There's nothing more we can do. The case is officially closed."

Mulder nods weakly. He has the need to listen to Scully state the 
obvious - it is almost a tradition, now. It isn't over until she says it's 
over.

It's over.

"I don't know, Scully, maybe he just got up and left. Maybe the 
morgue was too cold for him."

"He was missing part of his head."

"We've seen stranger things."

"It's a dead end, Mulder."

A pause; he drums on the desk, then slams his fist down hard 
against the wood. "Damn it, he *knew* something. He knew where 
she was."

"You don't know that."

Mulder sighs. "Yeah," he says, "Yeah I do."

"Mulder, whatever you hope to learn..." She trails off. This is not 
the right time. She reaches across the desk and places her hand over 
his.

"There's nothing more we can do," she repeats.

***

~~~ "No. Absolutely not."

I shrug, lighting another cigarette, and try not to seem too surprised 
by the ferocity of his words. He folds his immaculately groomed 
hands and makes an attempt to stare me down.

"Why not?"

Control. It's all about control. I steel myself, sensing that they're all 
against me. I have to maintain control, even though they're treating 
me like some unreasonable child.

I can't allow them to know the level of my involvement.

"You know damn well why not," my colleague replies, "We have 
no idea how they might interpret this action. It could be perceived as 
a threat."

I take a long, slow drag of the cigarette, feeling the smoke curl 
around my lungs, my only comfort in this place. "They probably 
won't even notice."

"For God's sake, what makes you think we can take that sort of 
risk?"

"It might be our only chance to keep Mulder."

The rotund man at the other side of the table replies, "Why is it so 
important that we keep Mulder?"

"He's becoming a danger," I say, tipping ash onto the polished 
table. The Englishman winces. "A liability."

"Then he must be dealt with," the fat man reponds.

"No." The voice of the third speaker is soft, deep. He is staring 
straight at me. "Bill Mulder is too important to the Project. We need 
him and you know it."

I sigh - I try not to look too relieved.

"We will go ahead as planned," the fat man says.

I extinguish the cigarette on the table. "You're making a mistake." I 
stand up, slip out of the room.

Halfway down the hall, I feel a hand on my shoulder. And I hear  the voice - the sole voice 
of support among the Elders.

"I can help you," he says. ~~~

***

She is watching surveillance tapes again, her face illuminated by the 
glow of the television set. The angle of the camera is strange, tilted 
somewhat from above. It emphasizes Mulder's nose - not a 
flattering shot by any means.

Samantha looks up at me with a faint smile. It's an old tape, before 
the fire, shot in the old office in the basement. In the video Mulder 
excitedly shows something to Scully, who is less than enthused. I 
try to make out the evidence - a ritual killing, a mutilation? Samantha 
pauses the tape.

"He never cries out my name in his sleep anymore."

Oh, really?

"No, he hasn't...not for months. I know he still thinks about me. 
Just not all the time."

All in all, a good development. Better for him to forget, to put it 
behind him. It's been twenty-five years.

"You see..." She stands up - she is nearly as tall as I am, and no 
less intimidating. "See, I thought the same thing, too. I thought, it's 
good that he's getting over me. It took him long enough." She takes 
another step towards me. "But then I started wondering. I mean, 
what it would be like if I came back to him. Have you ever thought 
about it?"

Of course I have.

"I wonder how he would react. If he knew. How do you think he 
would react? How would he feel?"

I don't know.

"How could you not know? You're so similar. You know him like 
no one else does."

I don't know how I would react.

"I wonder what he'd ask about first? How've I been? Do I have a 
family? Why I took Scully, perhaps...maybe he'd ask about the 
incident in New Mexico. Why his own sister gave you orders to kill 
him. What do you think?"

Perhaps we should try it out sometime.

"Well, that would just ruin the excitement, wouldn't it? Spoil the 
fun. It's a dangerous game - it has to be."

"What game?" I ask aloud, "Chess?"

"No." Samantha grins. "Stratego."

***

"Your move, Fox."

Distracted for a moment by the TV, the boy considers his next 
move. He is only half paying attention, the grown-up faces filling 
the screen pulling his eyes away from the game board. He doesn't 
understand why anyone would want to watch this kind of show. It's 
so boring. He's waiting for "The Magician", despite his sister's 
protests.

Samantha scowls as he knocks one of her pieces off the board, 
grinning triumphantly.

"Do we *have* to watch this?" Samantha whines, glancing up at the 
TV. "Mom and Dad said I could watch the movie."

"Mom and Dad are next door, and they said *I'm* in charge."

She stands up to change the channel, and the lights blink out.

"Now look what you did."

The pieces on the gameboard begin to shake.

And Fox Mulder wakes up screaming.

Drenched in sweat, he leans over and flicks on the light. He hasn't 
had that dream in awhile. There's a noise outside the door -  
footsteps, receding down the hall despite the fact that it is three in 
the morning. It was probably the noise that triggered the dream. He 
hasn't been sleeping well.

Raising himself slightly off the couch, he sees a shadow under the 
door. He walks over to see a file slipped through the crack above the 
floor. Squinting, he makes out the name on the file-

<Stop looking for her...>

- and promptly drops it, his hands shaking.

But not before he sees the note scrawled on a sticky tab attached to 
the top of the file. A time - tomorrow night - and an address - 
beneath an overpass about an hour's drive from his apartment.

And the words, in block letters: I CAN HELP YOU, AGENT 
MULDER.

***

PART II: THE TRUTH

"In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the 
heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom 
through the awful grace of God."  -- Aeschylus


~~~ Regret is an inevitable consequence of life.

Lying in the arms of a woman who neither knows nor cares, I 
reflect upon this as I smoke a cigarette and stare up at the ceiling.

Fucking Cassandra is like fucking oblivion - for that brief moment I 
can forget everything, lose myself in her, close my eyes and erase 
everything that I am, everything that I know. There is no complexity 
involved. Even her child sleeps soundly and never questions his 
mother's nighttime visitor.

Her husband left her two years ago. I am all she has.

She does not know about Teena. She lets me leave without protest 
when the phone rings in the dead of night, never angry at me for 
giving my colleagues her number. She doesn't understand the nature 
of what I do.

She doesn't know about the choice I made tonight, before I came 
here.

Cassandra is my refuge, my escape. I do not love her. But when I 
am with her, I forget about regret.

The ringing distracts me. She leans over to pick up the phone.

"Yes he is, just a second."

I take the receiver from her. "Ronald?"

"It will happen tonight. Do you want to be there?"

There is no warning, no time to prepare. Just one last chance to say 
goodbye. To hope that the exchange will work.

I look over at Cassandra, watching me with a faintly puzzled 
expression.

"No," I reply, "That won't be necessary."

Regret is all I have. ~~~

***

I've been waiting for her to say something, but she's strangely quiet 
tonight. Her face is without emotion. I watch her as she sits curled 
on the couch, flipping through the channels. It is as though the 
television fascinates her - for a moment she seems almost human.

Only for a moment.

It is so true, Mulder's description of telepathy. The most unfair 
advantage. I have no secrets from her. And she...

"Have you ever killed anyone?" she asks, although she already 
knows the answer.

Of course I have.

"No...not like that. Not in self-defense. Not because it's your job - 
because I ask you to do it. Not like someone who puts down a rabid 
dog because it's a danger to the populace. I mean...have you ever 
killed, just...to kill?" She doesn't need to ask these questions, not 
really. She leans forward, draping her arms around me. "Have you 
ever sliced a man in two just to try and find where in his body his soul is hiding?"

I wish there was a way to silence thoughts as words can be silenced.

"I have," she whispers.

She knows of my plans. She knows that tomorrow I will give my 
life away; I will give her life away too. Her secrets are all she has. 
She knows this - but she says nothing. The threat is evident in her 
words.

Samantha smiles at me, then turns back towards the television set.

***

"This is impossible," Scully says, "Wasn't this destroyed in the 
fire?"

They are both staring at Samantha Mulder's file. "I would have 
assumed so," Mulder replies.

"It doesn't look like a copy. Where do you think it came from?"

"I don't know. It was just slipped under my door."

"Sounds like you have a new informant."

"Yeah...or it's another killer waiting to trap me." He flashes her a 
weak smile. "Scully, would you consider it an incredible leap of 
logic to assume that whoever gave me this was the one who started 
the fire?"

"Not an incredible leap, no."

"Because I find it strange that this one file would be the only one 
that survived." He shrugs, flipping through the papers. "I guess I'll 
find out tonight."

"Should you go? I mean-"

"Scully..."

She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Right," she said.

"Why don't you go by the lab and see if you can get any fingerprints 
from this."

"Where are you going?"

He glances once more at the file. "I'll find out when I get there."

***

She must know what I'm doing. As I stand there, waiting for 
Mulder, I wonder why she hasn't said anything. She must be aware 
of it.

I wonder why she has let me come so far. Why she hasn't killed me 
yet.

Perhaps it is that she wishes to be betrayed.

I glance at my watch, lighting up another cigarette. I am expecting 
her to show up at any time, to stop this from happening.

Then again, maybe she was the one who set this in motion from the 
beginning.

I can never know her motivations, what it is she hopes to 
accomplish. This is all part of her game. She has manipulated me, 
just as I have done to Mulder and all the others.

And although I am alone, I am aware of her watching me, 
somewhere, my beautiful Devil, waiting at last for me to falter, to 
fall.

I close my eyes, listening to a car slowing over the bridge, the slam 
of a door and the fall of footsteps.

***

The note and the file yield nothing - whoever gave it to Mulder took 
all the precautions. Scully is leaving the laboratory when Skinner 
almost bumps into her in the hall.

"Agent Scully?"

"Yes sir?"

"I was looking for you. I received word that you might have come 
across some new evidence relating to the fire in the office."

"Possibly, sir, but I haven't found anything."

He looks down at the file in her hands. "Is that it?" She nods. "Can 
I see?"

She hands it to him, scrutinizing the look on his face. "Is something 
wrong, sir?"

"There's something I want to show you, Agent Scully."

She follows him into his office, sitting down in the chair across 
from his desk. He reaches into one of the drawers, slowly, and 
pulls something out.

"What's that?"

Skinner slides it across the desk - a note. The printing on it reads: 
YOU'RE A DEAD MAN.

She flips it over to see that it has been written on the inside of a 
flattened box of Morleys.

"Where did you get this?"

"The shooter, the man who tried to kill Gibson Praise..." Skinner 
presses his fingers to his temples; he looks exhausted. "We found 
this among his possessions."

Scully looks back at the note attached to Samantha's file. The 
handwriting is a perfect match. "Mulder..." She stands up. "Excuse 
me, sir, I have to go."

He nods as she flees the office.

***

The sun has not yet set, but the underpass is dark, thrown into 
varying shades of black. Mulder keeps his hand on his gun as he 
slips into the shadows. He can sense the presence of the other man 
before he even smells the cigarette smoke.

In a flash his gun is out, pointed into the darkness.

"I should have known." He looks around, searching for a target.

"Agent Mulder." The voice is so familiar, so chilling in its calmness. 
He hears the click of a lighter, then the faint red glow appears amid 
the blackness. He follows it with his gun.

"What do you want?"

"Put the gun down and we'll talk."

"Not a chance, you son-of-a-bitch."

The smoking man takes a step closer towards him. "I may be 
wrong, but I believe it is against FBI protocol to draw a gun on an 
unarmed civilian."

"You're not-"

"No? Give me the clip, Agent Mulder. I'm here as a friend. This is 
your last chance to know the truth."

He doesn't move. He can hear the fall of footsteps behind him - his 
finger tightens on the trigger.

"Mulder?"

"Scully?"

Another shadow emerges - he sees the flash of her face as a car 
drives by. "What are you doing here, Scully?"

"I came to warn you, but-" Her eyes turn towards the smoking man. 
"I guess it's too late."

"We don't have much time," the smoking man says. Mulder 
remembers that he was supposed to be holding the bastard at 
gunpoint - he resumes doing so immediately.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to know the truth. I'll be dead before the night is over. 
Give me the clip and when I'm finished talking you can have it 
back."

Mulder stares, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Though it is 
visible at least, the man's face is still unreadable.

"What about Scully?" Mulder asks.

"She won't shoot me."

Mulder glances at his partner, then takes out the clip from his gun 
and hands it to her. The smoking man nods and retreats further into 
the darkness.

"You sent me that note."

"I tried to warn you." He draws in a cloud of smoke, then lets it out. 
"You didn't heed my warning. I told you to stop searching for her."

"Where is she, you-"

"That's what I've come here to tell you. Do you want to know or 
not?"

Mulder has a sudden, almost paralyzing revelation. He does not 
want to know. In that instant he realizes that he is safer in ignorance 
- that this search has been his life, and in ending the search his life 
too, will end.

But it's too late. The word yes has already slipped from his lips.

***

"First of all, I don't know where she is."

"I don't believe you."

I sigh. This isn't a good start.

"Where is she? I want to see her."

He's like a child sometimes, so demanding, so impatient. "You 
overestimate my power, Agent Mulder. I would have an easier time 
summoning the stars from the sky."

"I thought you knew what happened to her?"

"I do - as much as anyone knows. She knows where I am, and she 
knows where you are. She's known all along. She hasn't wanted to 
see you."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her nothing. She...has her reasons." I draw in another breath 
of smoke. This is getting harder by the second. "It is very much 
against her will that I am here tonight."

"So you have seen her."

"Yes...listen to me, Agent Mulder...Fox. She's not the way you 
remember her."

"What did you do to her?"

I say nothing. I can't speak. How can I describe what I did to her? 
There are no words in any human language to describe what I have 
done.

"It was supposed to be you." I say finally.

***

Mulder is impatient, fidgeting with his gun even though it is 
unloaded. "I know...I saw the file. It had my name on it, 
originally."

"You have seen enough pieces to know the situation at hand."

"Colonization." He feels Scully shift uncomfortably beside him.

"They have been here for fifty years, in varying forms. When we 
first encountered them our communication was rudimentary at best. 
They are not at all like us...not even recognizable as living things in 
their natural form. We had no idea what they wanted. It took 
decades before we were able to learn enough about them to 
understand.

"Their technology, their society, is far more advanced than ours. 
They communicate by telepathy, they're capable of healing, 
shapeshifting...abilities we can only dream about. But their mental 
processes are nothing like ours. We eventually decided it would be 
advantageous to develop a better means of understanding them - by 
sending one of us to live among them. An ambassador of sorts, but 
one who had been more or less raised by the aliens. Only by 
assimilating into their culture, their way of thinking, could we know 
our enemy well enough to defeat it.

"They agreed to our idea - whether or not they knew the motivations 
behind it, I'm still not sure. They gave us conditions as well, factors 
they believed might make assimilation easier. The chosen one had to 
be a child - young enough to adjust to their environment, but old 
enough to comprehend his role as a messenger. He had to be 
intelligent, adaptable, capable of handling certain physiological 
changes that would take place. He would take on many of their 
qualities, though he would retain his human form and memories of 
his former life."

The smoking man pauses to take another drag of his cigarette.

"And so you chose me?" Mulder asks.

"We did rigorous testing of many potential candidates. Preference 
was given to the children of my colleagues, as the chosen one would 
be among the survivors if the colonization did proceed. You scored 
the highest on the IQ tests, and you were the perfect age - old 
enough to have formed an understanding of what it means to be 
human."

"But something changed. I wasn't taken."

"No. A few months before the exchange was to proceed, the plans 
were altered."

"Why?"

The smoking man looks up as a car speeds by on the bridge above 
their heads.

"Your sister was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia. The 
doctors gave her six months to live."

"You're lying. She wasn't sick."

"Your parents never told you, or Samantha. She hadn't shown 
serious symptoms yet, and they wanted her to be normal and happy 
as long as possible. It was perhaps not the wisest decision, but they 
were in a difficult situation. They knew within the year they would 
lose both of their children.

"Samantha hadn't initially been considered because she was too 
young. She wasn't capable of handling the process, mentally, 
physically, or emotionally. My colleagues wanted to push ahead 
with the original plan - to take you because you were more suitable. 
But other circumstances at the time...chiefly your father's waning 
enthusiasm for the Project...convinced us otherwise.

"It made perfect sense, at the time. Your father would have been a 
loose cannon if he lost both of you - this way he kept the healthy 
child and lost the child who would have died regardless. The 
colonists would heal Samantha - a minor effort on their part - and 
everyone stood to gain by the arrangement.

"The only problem was Samantha herself. The process changed her 
much more than it would have changed you. As a result, she is more 
colonist than human."

"Let me get this straight," Scully says, "What you're suggesting is 
that Samantha Mulder is an alien."

The smoking man is silent for awhile. "Not exactly. She has many 
of the qualities you have already seen among the colonists - 
telepathy, healing ability - but she is not herself an alien."

"Then what is she?" Mulder asks.

"She is the most powerful woman on the planet. She is the go-
between for my organization and the colonists. She is our crucial 
link - the only potential we have to learn their weaknesses and find a 
way to overcome them before the date arrives. And," He inhaled a 
puff of smoke. "And she is completely and utterly mad."

***

It is a relief to be able to at last tell somewhat what I know.

I can feel my death approaching, a shiver of anticipation. I have 
given it away - the Great Secret, the Truth. And I will die for it. So, 
most likely, will Mulder and Scully.

But at least I can die without regret.

"I don't understand," Mulder says.

"The Project failed, at least in terms of our expectations. We don't 
know whose side Samantha is on. She runs the Consortium - she 
decides the fate of nations - but we're not certain if she's working 
for us or for the colonists. She harbours a sort of vengeance, most 
specifically towards me."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"She holds me to blame for what the colonists did to her. And to 
some degree I suppose I am responsible - it was on my suggestion 
that she was taken and not you. She keeps me alive to torture me. 
She belongs to neither side, really, she has watched both us and 
them from the outside. We had hoped she would develop an 
understanding of both humanity and the essence of the colonists, but 
in actuality she has developed neither. Our best weapon has been 
turned against us."

"So why don't you just kill her?"

I almost laugh at his ignorance. "It doesn't work that way, Agent 
Mulder. As I said, you cannot even begin to imagine what she has 
become. We need her, as dangerous as she is."

He looks overwhelmed - I can't blame him. I have been living with 
this for twenty-five years, and he has learnt it all in the space of a 
few hours. "Then why everything else? The abductions, the cover-
ups..."

"Do you think human society as we know it could function if the 
general populace knew about the Project? If they knew that the fate 
of the world rested with an insane, unstable woman who has been 
raised by aliens from the age of eight? It would all go to hell, 
everything we've worked for. We wouldn't stand a chance." I finish 
the cigarette and take out another. "As for the rest; it is under her 
control. I don't know what she wishes to accompish. We merely 
facilitate her. But..." I can't believe I'm telling him this. For so long 
I have withheld the truth, now it all spills out, I feel as though I've 
been shot and the truth is gushing out of me instead of blood. "But I 
believe it has to do with her methods for understanding us. Who we 
are, what makes us human. She doesn't remember what it's like to 
be Samantha Mulder - she is only the Messenger."

I don't think I've ever said so much in my life. I lean back against 
the wall and close my eyes. "Give him back the clip, Agent Scully. 
I've said all that I'm going to say."

She stares at me, then obeys. He reloads his gun without a word.

"Go on," I say, "Do it, Agent Mulder. It's what you want, isn't it?"

He stands there, frozen.

"Kill me," I tell him, "It doesn't matter. I'm already dead."

His hand trembling, Mulder raises the gun.

***

And he hears it.

He hears the soft footsteps approaching, so quiet that he almost 
mistakes it for rain on the bridge. He stands still and listens to the 
sound of her wings.

And there is light, though not the light he remembers from that night 
twenty-five years ago - it is the light of the sun, rising behind the 
overpass. It is from this light that she emerges, a thin silhouette, sun 
streaming in from behind her fragile form. It is enough to make him 
forget everything - his partner standing beside him, his enemy who 
stands still, waiting to die. He drops his gun with a clatter and turns 
towards her.

"Samantha," he whispers.

"Hello, Fox."

He doesn't know what to say. After everything, this time he knows 
she is real. This is her, Samantha Mulder, returned to him at last.

"I've been looking for so long..."

Samantha smiles. "I know, Fox."

"Where...what...?"

"I've been right here all this time. I never left."

"Are you...have you come back?"

"Only for awhile. Only now." She walks past him, towards the 
smoking man. "I understand it," she murmurs.

"Do you?" His voice is cold, once again controlled.

"Yes...I know. And I'll have to tell them."

"It won't make a difference."

"Perhaps not. It might be too late. But then again..." She glances up 
at the sky. "Maybe it will change their minds."

"You think you can stop them?"

She stares at him, blinks, then turns back to Mulder. "I may not be 
back this time."

"Where are you going?" His head is spinning; this feels like a dream 
but he knows he is here, with her, for what may be the last time. He 
can hear a noise in the distance, like a thousand airplane engines, a 
dull roar that builds from somewhere beyond the horizon.

"I think you know." She reaches for his hand. "Goodbye, Fox. And 
thank you."

"Samantha...wait..." His voice is lost in the rising din - she pulls 
away from him. The light that follows eclipses the sun. He can 
barely see - something smooth, silver rises above him, a nearly 
blinding flash, the faint outline of his sister raising her arms, rising 
to meet the ship.

"Samantha!"

All he can see is overwhelming whiteness as something powerful 
and unseen throws him to the ground.

And the Messenger departs into the heavens.

***

EPILOGUE: RESTORATION

"And, so what happens then?"
"Nothing, Al; just the rest of our lives."
"Is that all?"
"That's all." -- William Wharton _Birdy_


Scully is the first to scramble shakily to her feet - Mulder and I just 
lie there, sprawled on the ground in the aftermath of the blast. She 
stumbles over to her partner, taking him into her arms.

"She's gone," Mulder breathes.

Scully says nothing. There's nothing to say. We are not mind-
readers, but words seem irrelevant now.

I press my face into the grass, the early morning dew damp against 
my skin. It is a new day and Samantha has gone to stop the 
colonists.

A shadow floats over me - I look up to see Mulder and Scully 
standing there, leaning on each other.

"Are you all right?" Scully asks.

"Yeah...I'm fine." This triggers faint smiles from both of them 
although I'm not sure why. I manage to stand, swaying slightly, 
and immediately reach for a cigarette.

"I think I'd better drive," Scully is telling Mulder. He nods weakly. 
She begins to walk towards the car. Mulder makes a move to 
follow, then turns to face me.

"Are you coming?" he asks.

I consider it for a moment. It seems that my dead man walking 
status has been revoked once again.

"Yes."

The silver Taurus is parked by the side of the bridge - sunlight 
glares in my eyes as we make our way from under the viaduct. I am 
aware that countless people have died for this moment - that every 
breath we take this morning has been paid for by someone else's 
blood. Scully starts up the gas - Mulder is in the front passenger seat 
and I slip in the back. It is morning and we are still alive.

The Consortium is not going to take kindly to this new 
development.

Mulder glances back at me - perhaps reconsidering his decision to let 
me live. I wonder what stayed his hand in the end - whether it was 
respect or pity. It doesn't matter. He is already changed. The truth 
will wear at him, make him as old as I am. I was like him, once.

"I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced," I say finally. 
Someone has to break the silence. I reach forward to shake his 
hand. "Jonathan Haller."

He smiles. "Fox Mulder."

And then there's only silence and the sound of the wheels spinning 
over the highway.