"Leviathan" part 1 (1/5)

by Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk
___

SUMMARY: Many years ago, in a smoke-filled room, the men of shadows
signed away the future of mankind. The date was set; and now the
date has come. It has come...

RATING: R for some disturbing stuff

CLASSIFICATION: CRA (but please see notes below)

Very, very loose crossover with Stephen King's "The Stand". No
knowledge of that work is required or expected.

CONTENT WARNING: Secondary characters die. Spoilers for episodes up
to and including season 5.
___

CLASSIFICATION NOTES: The crossover is very, very loose. In very
broad terms, the plot is parallel, but the characters, the setting
and the events are all either my own or Chris Carter's. Only one
character from "The Stand" appears here, under a different name.

The "R" part comes from one or two scenes (in later parts) in which
Mulder and Scully behave in a rather more-than-partnerly manner,
and I've classified it thus simply to warn the most passionate of
non-shippers. This story is most definitely NOT a romance, in any
normal use of that word.

POSTING: This story is being posted serially. For posting purposes,
part 1 has been divided into 5 sections, posted simultaneously. Be
warned that the story is NOT over at the end of section 5...

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully etc belong to Chris Carter, 1013 and
Fox. One other character, although going here by a different name,
belongs to Stephen King. I use them without permission, but without
profit.

THANKS: To Andrew, for heroically providing me with a computer that
works, and Rebecca for introducing me to Stephen King - his books,
I mean.

******

In the shadows, the man smiled.

The sky was the rich blue velvet of midwinter, and the cold light
of the moon gave him enough light to view the scene before him. The
two combatants were moving sluggishly, now, weakened by a dozen
wounds. The pools of blood glistened like mercury.

It pleased him.

The watcher exhaled, in something that could have been a laugh. He
let his breath condense as steam, let it cloud across his vision,
then pass. The combatants were still there. Regardless of who died
here in the dust, neither of them would live.

A stream of blood snaked through the dirt, until it was stopped
short by his boot. He stepped back sharply, the plastered smile
cracking for the first time, and ground the toe of his boot into
the dirt. His reputation was spotless. He had no blood on his -
and he smiled again, grimly, enjoying the joke - on his hands.
There was dark enough in everyone, and he merely.... encouraged it.

"No. I didn't. It's not true. I didn't."

A cry of agony, and he was all focus again. One of the combatants
was on the ground now, his handsome face a mass of smashed tissue.
His breathing was tortured, gasping, as the other man's feet drove
into his body with rib-shattering force. His dark hair shone like a
raven's wing, slick with blood.

"Dead yet?" the watcher called out, suddenly. In the enclosed yard,
his voice was like a bullet. Neither of them turned their heads. He
didn't exist to them. They were in a world narrowed to a single
focus of hatred and pain. They were beyond human.

"Dead yet?" he repeated, then threw back his head and laughed with
the exhilaration of it. It was so easy - a word in the right place
and they were lost. He couldn't even remember how he'd done it.
There were so many ways.

"Hey." He would reach into his denim jacket, pulling out the blurry
photographs that could have been anyone. A seed of doubt was all it
took. People saw what he wanted them to see. "See this picture?
This is your wife with another man. I know who he is. I can bring
him to you." And then, smiling inwardly all the while, he would sit
through their disbelief, their anger, waiting for his time.

And it always came.

"I can help you deal with.... the situation." A low whisper, and he
would part his jacket again, showing the gun at his hip. "It makes
me weep, how the world is today. Sin needs to be punished." His
mouth would twist as the soft victim's face turned from horror to
temptation to dreadful acceptance.

They always accepted.

He chose the weak, the soft, the civilised. He chose the self-
styled "good." He chose the police officer and the crusader for
justice. He chose the quiet man who had never touched a gun before
and whose first wild attempts at murder resulted in blood-spraying
injury, and no clean death.

There was dark in everyone, and everyone was his.

"Dead yet?" he chuckled under his breath. "Ah. I think so."

One figure was motionless on the ground, limbs twisted like
discarded rags, and the other was bent forward, head in hands,
rocking, rocking. "What have I done?" A keening tortured cry,
straight out of melodrama. It sickened him. "My God, what have I
done?"

Suddenly it bored him. They were all the same in the end - all
weak.

And something was coming. Once more, as he had done for days now,
he frowned, sniffing the air. Something was coming - something big.
Not yet, he knew, and his fingers itched with impatience, but soon,
_soon_. It was coming for him, and he would be formidable.

But now....

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell started pealing.

"Peace on earth," he whispered, and at his smile the cries ceased.
"Goodwill to men."

As he stepped away through the dirt, he saw the face of the one to
come - dark hair falling on pale hand.

******

As midnight passed into Christmas morning, Fox Mulder dreamed....

Midnight tolled like a knell.

One, and Scully turned her back on him, her hands stretched away
towards warm arms that called to her, laughing. "Come, Dana," they
said, and he knew the voices as her brother's, her mother's, and
knew that the worst pain can be inflicted in the name of love.
"Leave him. Come back to us."

Her red hair faded, and she didn't look back.

Two, and Samantha was taken in a scouring agony of white light, but
her eyes were open as she left him, and there was hatred in them.
"Let me go, Fox. You failed me, and I will never forgive you for
it, Fox. Never."

The light faded, and she didn't look back.

Three, and his father fell to the floor, blood trickling from his
mouth, and eye lids shutting against him. "I chose to keep her." In
the mine, the file told the truth the man could not utter. "You
were supposed to be taken. I never wanted you."

He died, and he didn't look back.

Four, and he was in a desert, skin cracked by the sun and parched.
The sky was fire, and death came from the sky. The earth curved to
the horizon and he was alone - alone. There were a million blood-
covered bodies in his memory.

The world had moved on, and hadn't looked back. It had left him
behind, alone.

Five, and.... and....

He struggled desperately, wrenching himself towards the wakefulness
like one drowning. Gasping, his mouth broke the surface and he had
a second when he was aware of his white knuckles digging like claws
into the black leather of the couch, but then he was dragged back
under. His mind was screaming: <If I see five it will kill me, and
the ones that come after.... Oh, Scully, the ones that come
after....>

Five, and....

"You will not be alone."

Calmness like water washed over him. The voice was an oasis in the
desert, and the fear fell away.

"You will not be alone. After it happens, I will be there for you."

"Scully?" he tried experimentally, and his lips felt moist and his
skin cool. "Scully?" But it had not been a female voice. It had
been a no-voice. It had been male, and female, and in his head, and
on his skin like a touch.

Almost crying with hope and fear and.... and _awe_, he turned his
head, but there was no-one there.

From a long-dead branch, a crow eyed him.

******

"Happy Christmas, Dana."

Dana Scully paused, one hand on the door frame. Her fingers dug in
tightly, and she took a steadying breath. All night, she had felt
cold.

"Mom." She cleared her throat, then rubbed her other hand across
her face. "Happy Christmas."

For the third Christmas in a row, her smile was a mask.

******

Fox Mulder clutched his coat round his body, his hands buried deep
into his pockets. The dream was still heavy on him, and fear
touched his spine like a finger.

He had seen it in their eyes.

"Happy Christmas, Agent Mulder." The doorman had smiled, his desk
decorated with holly. <Choosing to come in to work on Christmas
Day?> He had read the true meaning behind the taut smile. <They're
right about him.>

His footsteps in the empty corridors had chilled him. Walking
forward had become like wading through water. The building had been
the empty desert, and the doorman's eyes had been crow's eyes, full
of contemptuous pity.

<Something's coming.> Creeping through his veins like ice.
<Something's....>

Blindly, feeling a dread that he couldn't begin to understand, he
had grabbed some paper and fled.

"Something I needed," he had stammered at the doorman, wondering
what he had become - wondering why another man's opinion was
suddenly so important. They had always laughed at him, before, and
still he had carried on, unchanged. "I'll see you after the
holidays."

And now, in the park, a woman with straggling white hair and with
all her possessions in two split bags, looked at him, and there was
pity in her eyes. <Alone at Christmas?> Her lips moved soundlessly.
<A loser by choice, Mulder.>

"No." He turned away sharply, facing into the wind. It chilled his
face, driving away feeling. "I have my work. My work is my life.
I...."

<Something's coming> He started, physically. Imagination had never
been so strong. His skin prickled, with something that could have
been dread, could have been exhilaration. <Something's coming, and
you can be part of it. I won't let you be alone.>

"No!" He spoke aloud this time. From behind him, the old woman gave
a strange half moan and he knew it had been louder, wilder, than he
had intended. "No." And his hands twitched, wanting to rise to his
ears and press against them, shutting out everything, and....

He would hibernate, and come out in the new year, when his mother's
silence was just a dull ache, when Samantha's.... He swallowed
hard. When.... When Scully was back, and he would _smile_, and come
close to meaning it.

"Agent Mulder?"

A man's voice, gentle. He turned round, his hand reaching for the
reassuring coldness of his gun, then relaxed. The man's eyes were
blue, and his smile radiated truth.

"I can help you, Agent Mulder. I have followed your work. I share
your ideals."

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. In the past, he had been
too quick to trust men who smiled and brought gifts of information.
Like a dog, he had begged for scraps that fell from his enemy's
table, and had been poisoned by them.

"Who are you?" he said, at last, and his hand returned to his gun,
soft, like a caress.

"You can call me...." The man smiled, spread his hands. "Richard
Fry." They both knew it was not his real name.

"Richard Fry," he repeated, consideringly, then laughed suddenly,
bitterly. His emotions were a finely balanced trigger, ready to go
either way. "Better than Deep Throat, or X, or Marita Cover-up-ias.
Do I get an address this time too?"

The man smiled. He was a large man, and imposing, with a face
tanned dark by some foreign sun. At his smile, Mulder's hands
slipped from the gun and fell limp to his side. "I find you, Agent
Mulder. I have more than the scraps they offered. I have the
future."

The wind twisted cold fingers in his hair. Mulder's smile froze,
although the image that flashed into his mind was of emptiness, and
the terrible empty baking desert of his dream. "The future," he
managed, at last. "How?"

Fry's eyes narrowed, their blue fading to cold sparking ice. "The
date is set, Agent Mulder. It's soon. It's very soon. I can find
out when, and how. I can help you stop it."

Mulder shut his eyes, unable to breathe, unable to feel. His
resistance lowered in a public place, they could fell him with a
single bullet, or take him without warning. He was naked before the
man, unarmed, and at his mercy.

"Why should I believe that?" he said at last, blinking. It seemed
strange to him that the sun hadn't moved on, that the scene was
unchanged.

The man placed a cold hand on his shoulder, leaning close - too
close. "Because it's true." The fingers caressed through his
clothes, and radiated strength. "Because you have no choice."

<No> he thought, sadly, but he raised his chin, clenched his fists
at his side. He needed some dignity in defeat. <I never had a
choice. When they call, I _have_ to follow. I can no more pass a
possible lead by than I can stop breathing.>

But, "yes," was all he said, and he wondered why Fry was smiling.
"I have a choice. I choose to listen to you, but I won't trust you.
I've killed, before, and I won't hesitate to kill you if I have
to."

"No." Fry frowned, his brow furrowing. He looked twenty years
older, and almost familiar. "Trust no-one, huh?" Then his brow
smoothed, and the ghost of Deep Throat was gone from his
countenance, and he was laughing.

Mulder stood his ground. "Trust no-one." And this time his frozen,
stupefied hand, _did_ reach for his gun, and held it.

But he followed the man's beckoning finger.

******

His skin was pale, his eyes too bright. He had changed since she
had last seen him.

<So have I>

She smiled. "Mulder." It was all she could say. She had seldom been
nervous about meeting him before.

"Scully." He let out a breath. "What's wrong? I.... I didn't expect
you back for a week."

"No." She shook her head slowly, sadly. Though it was her own
choice, she could still remember what she had lost. "I.... I came
back."

"Come in." He turned away, leading her into the apartment, but he
wasn't fast enough. She saw his cheek move, transformed by a smile.
She knew, also, that his face would be frozen and impassive next
time he allowed her to see it full on.

"Mulder." She reached for his wrist, holding it. His blood was
beating fast against her fingertips. It was.... sensuous, she
decided. Sensuous and strange.

"Why did you come back, Scully?" His voice was thick, his pulse
faster.

"I...." But she lowered her eyes. She couldn't give all of herself,
not yet. Even this much was hard. "I couldn't.... connect. They
were.... They were _normal_. Mom understands, but the others -
Bill, Charlie.... all those single male friends Tara wanted me to
meet.... I felt as if... as if they existed in a different world."

"Scully." His voice cracked even on that single word, and he
strained at her hand, trying to pull away. She had always
understood him far more than she had let him know. <It's my fault>
his dark eyes reflected. <My fault. I've ruined Scully's life.>

"Mulder." She dug her fingers in deeper to his flesh, holding him.
"Things change. _We_ change. Things happen in our lives and we
drift away from old friends - family too. We no longer have
anything in common with them. It happens. It doesn't make it a bad
thing, Mulder." He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, almost
as if stifling a sob. "I wouldn't change it, Mulder," she said,
firmly, and this time she kept her eyes on his face. "I've lost
things. I've gained things."

"What?" He was close to tears. There were dark smudges beneath his
eyes, and his cheeks looked thinner. It was just five days since
she had seen him.

She held on tighter, suddenly needing the tension to stop herself
shaking. <I need more time. Not yet> "I was lying to myself these
last two years," she said instead. "I was trying to do the family
thing at Christmas. I was pretending I was still the person I used
to be. There's nothing worse than clinging to a past that no longer
exists."

"Like...." There was betrayal in his eyes. "Like I...."

"Like you do." She raised both hands, placing them on either side
of his face. Her fingers touched his hair. "It doesn't make you
happy."

He shut his eyes. "I can't...."

"No." Gentle. So much had changed inside her since Christmas
morning. She had accepted her past, defined her future. "I wouldn't
ever make you change. _I've_ changed. I.... I've had a Samantha,
too. Part of me has been mourning the loss of.... of the things I
can't have." She ran her thumb softly over his cheek. "I don't want
that any more."

"What do you want?" It was no more than a whisper.

"I want the X-Files. I want a life." She laughed, suddenly. It was
so easy. "I've been treating them as mutually exclusive. I've
looked at Bill and his family, and hated the X-Files. I've looked
at our work, and hated Bill. I... It doesn't need to be like this."

He swallowed hard. His eyes widened at something beyond her, then
darkened with.... with fear? But, "a bird," he whispered, only.
"It's gone now," and there was a strange sadness in his eyes. "I
missed you, Scully," he said, suddenly, wildly.

She smiled, nodded, and spoke slowly. "I've been through too much
to expect a normal life with someone who hasn't. The only person
who would come close to understanding is someone who had been
through the same." She moved her thumb to his mouth, suppressing
the guilt-stricken apology she knew would come. "I know that now."

His eyes were lost.

"I came back, Mulder." She was beyond smiling now, her eyes solemn,
her hands still. "I chose the X-Files, but also - do you
understand, Mulder? - I chose you."

"I...." He ran his tongue over his lips like a parched man,
desperate. "The X-Files.... I've got a lead. A new informant. He
says...."

"No." It was sharper than she intended. "No," she said again, more
quietly. "It's three days after Christmas. I chose the X-Files, but
I chose you. I want a life, too. I want both. Can you see, Mulder?"

It was almost as if he was trembling before her. His face.... He
had not accepted, not understood. She would make him.

She smiled, her voice distant. "My family was going out to dinner
tonight. They were getting a big group together to see the
fireworks on Friday."

"Scully." His voice was hoarse. "I can't...." He swallowed. "Does
this change things?"

She was sober again, knowing the future could change in an instant.
"It needn't," she said, at last. "It could." She smiled again, but
tears were pricking her eyes, unexpected and unwanted. "It's the
date....It makes us look at the past. It makes us think of the
future. It makes us...." She rubbed her eyes. There was a sudden
headache, like an itch deep in her mind. "Different," she finished,
almost fiercely.

"Yes." His hands were clenched at his sides. "Something's coming."

******

Shadowed by a tree, the man waited.

Before him, a thousand faces smiled, a thousand mouths opened with
anticipation. And then, crowding on the edges of his awareness,
were a thousand more, and a thousand, and a million. Millions in
the darkness, waiting, waiting....

And he could come.

He laughed. Anticipated coursed through his veins like blood.

He would come, but first he would watch.

******

"The year two thousand...." He spoke as in a dream. His eyes were
on the stars, and beyond them. "You were right. It makes you
think."

Beside him, Scully laughed. "Ready to greet the alien invasion? Or
is it a comet? Or a flood?" All evening, she had teased him gently,
making him smile secret smiles in the night. Just a week ago he had
been on a precipice, staring into the darkness, alone. Today, there
had been moments when he was happy - truly happy.

"Come now, Doctor Scully." His voice was mock stern. "You know the
Millennium doesn't start for a year. And everyone knows that it's
the dead rising from their graves that will be the real problem."

"Really, Mulder?" She was sober now, and soft. Her hand stroked his
beneath the blanket. "You don't believe?"

"No." The three stars of Orion's belt were like an arrow, pointing
from the trees. The stars had always chilled him, like cold eyes in
the night. "I don't..." He swallowed hard. "It's difficult enough,
without.... without _that_."

"Difficult." Her voice was low. "Taking stock. Hoping...."

"Fearing." His nails dug into his palms.

"Hoping," she said, fiercely.

"Hoping...." He shut his eyes, unable to look at the stars. A
thousand voices, laughter, merged into one human cry on the fringes
of his awareness. "I hope that.... Samantha.... I hope that I can
accept that she's happy somewhere, with her family. I hope that
this will come to be enough for me. I hope...." His chest heaved,
and his voice rose beyond his control. "I hope I can find her
again."

And then he was trembling in the cold night, wondering why he had
told her. It was safer wrapped deep within him.

"I hope that you find...." A soft hand brushed hair from his brow,
gentle. "....Peace of mind."

"I hope that...." He couldn't finish. Two years in remission, but
it could still return. "I hope you live," he said, simply.

"I hope you realise that your mother _does_ love you. She does,
Mulder. Last summer, when you were shot...."

"I hope you don't regret this Christmas." He rubbed his eyes
roughly. She had given so much, confided so much. She was someone
different - someone not Scully. He couldn't catch up.

"I hope you live." Her voice was dark. She pressed her hand against
his side, against the healed bullet wound.

"I hope...." He laughed grimly, remembering the man he had met the
previous week, here. "I hope the date never comes. I hope they
are...."

The crowd fell silent, fading away in a receding ripple of noise.
It was as if some distant calming hand had stretched out, soothing
them.

"World peace," she exclaimed suddenly, though her laughter was
strange, almost hysterical. "World peace, travel the world, and
work with children and animals."

"Ten." The crowd spoke, their countless voices as one inhuman
voice.

He was cold with dread, though his voice carried on as if it was a
thing apart, brittle with laughter. He felt possessed, unreal.
Nine. "A lifetime of videos for Frohike." Eight. "Hair restorer for
Skinner." Stupid, stupid words. It felt like sacrilege, as if he
should surrender itself to the moment and....

<Worship it?> The voice was the crowd's, but the crowd said
"seven."

"Happiness." Scully's voice was fierce. Her hand closed around his.

"Six."

"Truth." He was close to tears. The word seemed cheap, meaningless,
but it was his grail.

"Five."

"Justice." Again that strange un-Scully, eyes wild with desperate
laughter. Four. "The American way."

"Three."

"Scully." He squeezed her hand fiercely. <Why are you...?>

"Two."

"Mulder." And her voice was calm, her face turned upwards towards
the sky with expectation. She had surrendered to the moment, to the
excitement. He let out a breath, and knew her again.

"One."

And then the lights went out.

A second's silence, and someone screamed.

******

end of section 1

******

"Leviathan" part 1 (2/5)

******

<The stars> He bit his lip against the aching beauty of it. <Oh,
the stars....> Arching above him, more bright, more terrible, than
city eyes had seen for over a century.

"Mulder." Scully nudged him gently, her voice low.

"They're looking," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I
said once that they were up there, looking, and they were curious,
but they're not. They're dispassionate. We're just specimens in a
lab to them. The light was our shield."

"Mulder." Sharper now, but still quiet. An awed silence hung over
the park like a pall. People were waiting, shifting, waiting....

He turned to her, smiling suddenly. Her face was a pale smudge in
the starlight. "Have you read Asimov's "Nightfall", Scully?" She
murmured a no, and he continued. "It's about a planet that never
knows darkness - a planet where to be in a dark room literally
drives people mad. And then...." He moistened his lips. "Then
there's an eclipse."

"Ah." Her tone was unreadable. He didn't even know if she was
listening.

"Desperate for light, they burn everything - everything. They riot.
They...." Strangely, he shivered. Above him, a dark patch moved
across the sky like a hand. A bird, perhaps. He cleared his throat,
continued. "And then, at the moment of totality, they see the
stars. For the first time, they see the stars. Never had they even
dreamt that they were not alone. It's more than they could bear."

"Why?" She grabbed his wrist, suddenly fierce. "Why are you telling
me this?"

"I...." He shrugged, and wondered. "The darkness...." He gestured
at the sky. "When do _we_ ever know darkness, really, Scully?
If...."

"Nothing's wrong." Again, that strange fierceness in her voice.
"This is for effect, before the fireworks."

He pulled the blanket tighter. "It's been minutes, Scully," he said
sadly. He wondered why he had accepted it all, understood it all,
without surprise.

The shadow that was Scully moved, as if wrapping her arms around
her body. Her voice was small and tight. "I believe that we are
alone."

He twisted a corner of the blanket between his fingers. "I used to
fear that. It was my childhood nightmare, being alone in this
world, or this world being alone in the universe. I wanted to
believe there was life, other than us, in the universe. Somehow, I
derived hope from that possibility."

"Past tense, Mulder?" Soft.

He swallowed, grateful, now, for the darkness. It was a concealing
veil. "It scares me," he said, simply. "Now I know what might be
out there, being alone doesn't seem so bad."

She was silent, but her hand sought his, and held it. Beyond their
tiny universe that was their two voices, the crowd stirred. Like a
wave on shingle came the surging sound of disquiet, and voices
questioning, shivering.

"It's not planned, Scully," he said suddenly. He scanned the
horizon through the bare fingers of the trees, and felt the first
stirrings of a fear he knew he should have felt all along. "It's
all over the city, Scully. The lights have gone out."

"Then we wait." She stood up suddenly, and he heard the old Scully
in her voice, practical and resourceful. "Not here, of course. We
go home and wait, and they'll get the power working again."

"They...." The word held him, as if there was some deep resonance
deep within in, like the truth from a dream that he had not yet
remembered. But he laughed, and forced the feeling away. "You have
such a touching faith in the authorities, Agent Scully."

"Shouldn't I?" He could hear the spark in her voice. "Not
everything is a conspiracy, _Agent_ Mulder."

He stood up. The single voice of the crowd was harsh and edgy, and
individual sounds rose above the mass - an angry shout, a sob, a
child's scream....

<The lights have gone out.> The dark hand moved across the stars at
the fringes of his vision, but when he jerked his head round, there
was nothing. In the crowd, someone laughed. <The world will never
see light again.>

"No," he cried, unintentionally aloud. With clumsy hands that
shook, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his
flashlight. He struggled to hold it, struggled to laugh. "You never
know when you'll need one. Bureau issue flashlights, ideal for
hunting mutants in warehouses, or dealing with the end of the
world."

She didn't speak. She was close to him, almost touching. He could
feel her fear, but also her strength, that she was mastering it. It
was only because he knew her so well that he could feel it at all.

He touched her hand. The light bleached her face white, but beyond
her was only darkness. A thousand voices surged, but they were
beyond the small circle of their light. "Let me lead you to your
carriage, my lady," he said, his voice light. Someone had told him
once that if you can laugh at the darkness, then there is still
hope.

They walked.

After a few steps, they held hands. He felt an eternity of darkness
at his back, and faces he could not see.

Footsteps whispered.

"Mulder." Her voice was urgent, low. Her hair was the only colour
in the stark white and black. "Look behind you, Mulder. _Look
behind you_."

He turned, slowly, slowly, dread quickening his breathing, half
expecting.... <No. Don't look. Don't turn....>

"People." He let out a shuddering breath. His hand to his brow, and
it came away moist. "Just people."

"They're following us, Mulder." Her eyes were wide, and there was
something strange in them, something beyond his understanding. Deep
horror, perhaps, but pride, too. "Look at them. Hundreds of them,
following."

Their faces were blank shadows.

He ran his hand across his face, and gave a short mirthless laugh.
"I always wanted to be the Pied Piper, Scully - did I tell you?
It's another of those childhood ambitions things I never grew out
of."

She ignored him, her face solemn. "It's the light. They'll follow
the light. They'll...." Then she passed a hand across her face. She
seemed dazed. "It's like a dream I had. I'd forgotten it. It's...."

"It's nothing." He felt stronger, now, giving reassurance. "Like
you said, it's just a power cut."

"Yes." And then she smiled, and said it again as if she believed
it. "Yes."

"We've got to leave them behind." He gestured with the flashlight,
pointing towards the FBI building. Behind him, he felt a hundred
heads follow the light.

"Yes." Strangely, she laughed. She seemed almost happy, suddenly,
and started walking faster.

"No." A hoarse voice beside him. A hand plucked at his sleeve.
Turning, he looked into the lined face of an elderly man, all deep
shadows. "Don't. The subway's _that_ way. You've got to take us
there. You're the only one with a light."

"The subway?" A woman's voice cracked. "If the power's out...."

"How will we get home? My God, how will we get home?" A hand
twisted in his coat, and held.

"There'll be buses." It was a strong voice, firm with reassurance.
It took him a second to realise that it was Scully's voice, and
that her eyes were shining. "They'll organise something. Everything
will be okay."

The hands fell away. Only one remained, clutching at his sleeve,
making his arms shake with holding the light. He blinked, saw the
hand was deep claws, digging in and drawing blood, but then it was
normal again. Just a hand. Just a....

"No." Scully again. Her voice was all control, but there was a
desperation in her eyes. "Let him go. _Let him go!_"

The crowd fell silent, but it was the silence of a reservoir about
to burst its dam. The dam held, this time....

As they walked away, he realised he was close to tears. There were
deep currents here that he didn't understand - deep currents in
Scully. <Just walk away, Scully? Is that what it will be for all of
us?>

Scully breathed out suddenly, letting her breath out as a relieved
laugh. "That was...."

"Scary," he finished, simply. He wasn't sure what had scared him
more.

"They'll be okay." Scully's voice was high, and he could hear her
desperate need to believe. "It'll be fixed before morning."

He tried to say the right words.

******

"You can't go home," he had said, and she had nodded. Once, she
would have bridled, resenting it as over-protectiveness, as
patronising. Now, though....

"No." Her nails had dug into her palms, resting on her lap. "It's a
long way home."

Order had held, barely. There had been no traffic lights, but the
drivers were all party-goers who had started the evening relaxed,
full of hope. They had witnessed a dozen accidents, and many more
near-misses. During the day, with impatient workers stressed about
deadlines, it would have been far more serious.

"No," she had said, again. "It's getting worse."

They had witnessed a dozen accidents, and nearly been involved in a
thirteenth. She had been thrown against the safety belt, her chin
slamming into her chest. She had been numb then, as if in a dream.
Only now, an hour afterwards, was she shaking.

"You can have the couch. I'll have the chair." A passing car's
headlights had showed her his smile. She had known, though, that he
was hiding something.

<And so am I> A strange sudden realisation. She'd pulled her coat
tightly around her body, and stared straight ahead.

"Scully?"

She blinked, back in the present. He had found a candle from
somewhere and had placed it on his coffee table. The flickering
light made his face unearthly, almost demonic.

"Mulder."

The tip of her nose was cold. Everything else was wrapped in
blankets, but she knew that the coldness deep inside would not be
eased even by a dozen blankets.

"What if...." His finger traced absent patterns on the arm of the
chair. "What if this is the.... beginning? The beginning of....
something - something serious...?"

"It's not." A reflex reaction. She didn't want to listen - wanted
to sink into the blanket and not hear him, and go to sleep.

But in sleep there were dreams....

"It's the electricity, Scully - the heating, the lights.... Think
about it, Scully. There'll be no money tomorrow. No traffic lights.
No subway." His eyes were intense. "Why don't our phones work,
Scully? Why is there no water?"

"The Millennium Bug." Her hands were tight clenched beneath the
blanket. "They warned that something like this might happen. People
thought it was scare-mongering, but...." She shrugged.

He frowned. "Maybe...."

"Yes." Her voice was steel. "They're working on it already."

"Mmm." He gave a low distracted noise in his throat, and shut his
eyes. She could tell from his breathing that he was far from sleep.
Thinking, she knew. <Thinking of things he won't tell me about.>

She closed her eyes. There was so much she had hoped for, so much
she had dreamed, but....

She didn't trust herself to speak of them.

Alone, she closed her eyes, and hoped that she wouldn't dream.

******

Asleep, she drifted, floated....

Down silent dark streets, moving smoothly as if on wheels. She
glanced down at her feet and saw them bare. She was walking, but
there was no feeling, and no uneven rhythm. Broken glass littered
the ground beneath her, spilled onto the street from a shattered
window.

<It's started> The voice was her own, though it came to her as from
another person.

"What?" she asked.... herself? "What's started?" For a second, she
was aware of the feel of leather beneath her cheek.

<Watch. Remember> The her that was not-her. It was her own voice,
but she did not understand.

And then there was a door, and behind it a child was crying.

She reached for the door knob, but it was like mist in her hand.
Her fingers touched it lightly, and the door faded. There was a
soft whisper that could have been its hinges.

"It opened," she said, out loud. "It wasn't shut properly, and I
touched it, so it opened."

The voice.... She refused to accept it was her own, now. The voice
laughed. She could imagine it shaking its head, fondly,
patronisingly. <How you resist, Dana. How you resist...>

"No." She half-raised her hands to her ears, then let them fall.
Instead, she raised her chin, and carried on, through the dark
rooms of a city house. Her vision was all grey and black.

There was no sound but the crying.

And then she stopped, and fell to her knees. One hand pressed to
her mouth for a moment's steadying, then reached out towards
the.... <Body?> the voice supplied. It was a man's body, slumped on
the floor, unmoving. Her hand froze above him, not touching him. If
he dissolved like mist at her touch....

She swallowed. "Is he dead?" She was aware that she as being less
than herself, having to ask.

The voice was silent for a long time. <Not yet> it said at last,
and sounded thick with tears.

She smelled the alcohol, then, and understood. Pushing herself to
her feet, she....

"I'm scared." A small girl's voice. The girl sniffed loudly,
gulped, then, "who are you?"

She turned round, breathing fast. Though there was darkness, the
two of them seemed to stand in light. She could see every details
of the girl's face, and could see that her hair was golden. Her
face glistened with tears and her stuffed lion's fur was matted and
damp.

"My name's Dana." She fell back down to one knee, staying on the
girl's level. "What's your name?"

The girl sniffed again. "I'm.... I'm scared of the dark."

She smiled, gesturing at the lion. "Who's that?"

"The dark." The girl ignored her and clutched the lion tight, her
face twisting in sobs. "The bad man. I'm scared. Will you...?"

Fist pressed to her mouth, she stood up, stepping back in horror.

******

Dawn was grey at the window.

"Wh...?" Scully rubbed a hand across her face and through her hair.

"You okay, Scully?" Across from her, Mulder was still in his chair.
His chin was resting in his hand, his eyes reflective. As she
watched, he blinked slowly, his eyelids closing over his dark eyes,
then....

She felt a sudden strange terror that they might reopen red.

"Mmm. " His lovely deep brown eyes, intense. She rubbed her eyes,
and gave a wry laugh. "Dreaming," she muttered, more to herself.

He tensed. "Do you dream?"

Doors. She slammed a door shut in her mind, and cut off the girl,
and the darkness, and the betrayal and the feeling that she was not
herself. "No," she said, firmly.

He let out a breath. In his left hand, he was twisting something,
round and back, round and back, round and back....

It was a black feather.

******

Halfway through the morning, she saw a police car, and suddenly she
laughed. It started as a smile, and welled into a full laugh - a
laugh of relief, of freedom.

"Scully?" Mulder glanced at her, then looked forward again. He was
clutching the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white. He had
been subdued all morning.

She reached out and opened the car window. The hair lashed at her
face and twisted her hair, flashing strands of red across her
vision. The sky was the most perfect blue.

"Scully?"

He was still in chains, still in the grip of the darkness of the
night. She had been liberated. She smiled at him. "The most
beautiful days are in winter."

"No smoke," he said, roughly. "No power. No industry. No
pollution." He looked so tired. "It only _looks_ beautiful."

She clenched her fists, hating him. "It's getting fixed. It's under
control."

"Maybe." He shrugged. His tone said the opposite.

"It's under control." She had to shout over the wind. "I've seen
it. We've both seen it. No sign of disorder all morning."

He had resisted at first when she had wanted to drive home alone.
"I need clean clothes," she had insisted, "and I don't need a baby-
sitter." Still, when she had arrived back outside his building,
calmly directed all the way by patrolmen taking the place of
traffic lights, there had been several days' worth of clothes in
her trunk.

She hadn't told him. She was trying to forget, herself.

She closed the window. She no longer felt like laughing.

******

<Light.> For the first time since midnight, Mulder smiled a real
smile, felt real hope. <Real...> He laughed wryly to himself. <Real
artificial light.>

"You wound us, Mulder." Langly shook his head, making tutting
noises. "You really thought we'd be caught like everybody else?"

"What sort of underground conspiracy theorists would we be if we
didn't have our own generator?" There was a smear of oil on
Frohike's face.

"What sort of underground conspiracy theorists would we be if we
didn't distrust anyone's Millennium-compatible software but our
own?" Byers didn't look up from his computer screen.

Scully was leaning against the wall, her eyes half-closed. He
glanced at her, echoing her words from the previous night. "It's
the Millennium Bug?" She didn't meet his eyes.

The three Gunmen exchanged a look. "Maybe," Byers shrugged, and
then there were four of them, sharing the same doubts, and seeing
it in each others' eyes.

Scully made an impatient noise in her throat and looked away.

Byers tapped at the screen. "Our computer's working, but there's
no-one out there. A few like us, but...." He spread his hands,
palms upwards - a gesture of failure. "No commercial ISP is
working. No academic institutions. No organisations."

A television hissed, a storm of white noise. "There's nothing out
there. No transmitters are working." Frohike lowered his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. "Last night, I couldn't even watch...."

"Video, Frohike." Mulder gave his best impression of a leer. "Works
for me."

Footsteps on the floor. Scully was pacing, arms folded, head cocked
as if listening intensely. <To what?> He swallowed, sobered
suddenly.

"And the water." Langly clutched a hank of his hair in his hand. "I
couldn't wash my hair this morning."

Frohike patted him on the shoulder. "He's ashamed to be seen by a
lady."

But the tension was palpable beneath their jokes.

Mulder took a deep breath. The click click of Scully's heels
stopped. "It's worse than it should be, isn't it, guys?"

Their silence was the only answer he needed.

******

Her steps grew slower. She was slipping behind him, and further
behind.

"Scully?" Mulder turned round. He resisted the urge to grab her by
both hands and physically drag her forward. <Please, Scully. I want
you to see this. Please....>

"What?" She didn't look at him. Her voice was sharp. "It's people,
Mulder - just people. Why did you dr.... Why did we come here?"

All the way from the Gunmen's office, he had been silent, lost in
thought. She had asked no questions either, accepting the way he
took them. This was the first time they had spoken.

"People, Scully," he said, now. He stepped up close, his voice low
and only for her. "Look at them. Really look at them."

Eyes burning, she raised her head, scanning the crowd quickly,
impatiently. "It's a crowd of people outside the White House,
Mulder." She spoke with exaggerated patience. "There's always
people outside the White House."

He would not let her escape. "_Really_ look at them." He stepped
behind her, speaking over her shoulder into her ear. He put a hand
on her cheek, keeping her head steady.

"People." There was a shake of doubt in her voice. His thumb was at
the base of her jaw, and he could feel her pulse, fast against his
skin. "Scared people."

"They want leadership. What does the White House symbolise?"

The crowd was swelling by the minute, speaking with one voice in a
rising tone of anger. An elbow jostled him in his back.

"It's barely twelve hours." She stepped forward, away from his
touch. "It's only a power cut, Mulder."

He dug his nails into his palms. <Weren't you listening back there,
Scully? Why won't you listen?> But he took a deep breath, and kept
his voice low. "It's not the lack of power, Scully. It's the lack
of leadership." He gestured at the crowd. "All they want is for
someone to come out and tell them that it's under control. They
went to be told to get their water from Muster Point B, and their
food from Muster Point A. They want to be assured that someone else
is dealing with the problem." He spread his hands. "Where's that
assurance?"

Her hands were clenched at her sides. "The police were taking
control back there. How can we know what's being done elsewhere?
How can you say no-one's getting that reassurance - how can you
know?"

"Show me," he said simply. He pulled the car keys out and held them
out to her. "Show me that they are."

She turned and walked off without a word.

******

"There."

They didn't even need to drive. Head held high, she'd walked
against the flow of the people, averting her eyes from the look on
their faces, then stopped still, and pointed.

In the middle of the road, a patrolman stood tall, his arm
stretched out to direct the traffic. A dozen people flanked him in
a tight semi-circle, their body language showing agitation.

"There, Mulder."

Still she pointed, letting the scene speak. As her arm began to
shake, four more people joined the circle.

She lowered her arm. "There's their reassurance."

"No, Scully." He shook his head sadly. He moistened his lips. "I
tried, this morning."

She turned away. Something inside her screamed at her not to
listen. She felt that her life depending on this belief. If she was
wrong....

"It was when you'd gone home," he continued, relentlessly. "I
talked to one of them, not telling him I was FBI. I pretended to be
scared. I didn't need to pretend much." He gave a self-deprecating
laugh, and she could imagine him smiling, trying to lighten the
situation. She stayed turned away, eyes always on that small group,
willing those tense stances to relax. "I asked questions about what
we should do about.... oh, about water, food.... if the army would
be distributing blankets to old ladies.... things like that."

One of the crowd reached out an angry hand and grabbed the patrol
man's hand. Voices raised above the noise of the traffic. <No....>
She shut her eyes.

"He said he didn't know." There was nothing but bleakness in his
voice, now. "To all my questions, he said he didn't know."

She whirled on him then. "Damn it, Mulder, we're FBI." She reached
for her pocket. "We should be...."

"No." His hand closed round her wrist, almost painfully. "What
could we give them?"

"Order." She glared at him. But her anger was more at herself. The
thought of taking control filled her with a deep dread. The blank-
faced procession following the flashlight.... She swallowed hard.
"This reassurance you say they need."

"By lying to them?" he said softly, and she hated the pity in his
eyes. He was looking at her as he would look at a child.

She let out a breath. Slowly, slowly, his hand released her wrist.
She kept her arm where it was, reluctant to give him the victory of
letting it fall back to her side.

"Someone will know." She raised her head defiantly.

Somewhere, a horn blared, and then another, and another....

******

"I was right, Scully. I wish I wasn't...."

They sat in the car on a random nameless street where they had
finally stopped, exhausted. The air was thick with dread,
suffocating. His hand shook as he reached out and opened the
window, just a crack.

<Not enough to let the boogie man in, Fox.> He rubbed his eyes, and
for a moment Samantha's six-year old face flashed as if living,
then faded.

Scully sighed, but said nothing. Her chin was resting in her hand.
She looked almost asleep, though he could see how every muscle in
her body was tense.

"They just need someone to tell them what to do - just someone in
the street with a bullhorn, telling them it's under control." He
shivered. The sun was lowering, and long grotesque shadows twisted
in the street. "They're children."

"They're...." And then she laughed, mirthlessly, as if recognising
the hollowness of her words. "They're Americans."

"Land of the Free?" He shook his head. "These militias who claim to
detest authority, to stand up for individual freedoms.... What do
they all have in common, Scully?"

She was silent, closed against him. He felt lonely as Christmas,
desperately trying to connect. It was worse, perhaps, knowing she
was so close physically. He felt tortured by her proximity.

"They all have a leader." His tone was flat. There were few things
worse than knowing the future and being unable to change it.
"Everyone needs a leader... Oh, maybe not when times are good, and
never a dictator, but in times of stress.... We _are_ children,
Scully. Everyone wants to know that someone bigger and stronger is
looking after things. That's why people created gods."

Absently, her hand rose to her cross and twisted it. He had
expected an objection, a statement of faith, but got nothing. She
was silent.

"It will be dark in a few hours." He touched the back of her hand
and....

<Talk to me, Scully. Believe me, please. I'm afraid. Something's
coming, and I think I know what it is, and I.... I don't want to
bear that knowledge alone. Nothing's as bad when there's two of
you, Scully - nothing.>

He blinked hard and the tears receded, unshed.

"It will...." He cleared his throat. "It will be dark in a few
hours - the second night without everything people take for
granted. What will people do, Scully?"

She wrenched her eyes to meet his. They were bleak, afraid. <She
knows too> he realised, suddenly, and this time it was harder to
fight the tears - tears for her. <She has the same fears as I have.
That's why she can't believe. She said once that she was afraid to
believe....>

"Nothing," she said. It was closer to a croak than a voice. She
coughed. "They'll wait."

"They'll riot."

"They'll wait." She dropped the cross as if it burnt her. Her
fingers were scored with red lines from twisting the chain. "You're
the one who said they want leadership."

"They won't wait." His voice was leaden. "They want it now. I said
they were like children, Scully, and what are children but adults
who haven't been touched by the veneer of civilisation? Babies
don't make sacrifices, or follow rules, or respect other people's
needs. They are purely selfish. If they want something, they take
it - or cry until someone stronger gives it to them."

"Civilisation can't be just.... forgotten in a day." Her hand was
back on the cross, gently now.

"But it will start tonight. A convenience store will be looted for
bottled water, or a flashlight. A crowd will smash the windows of a
police station, angry at how little is being done." He shrugged,
his hands spread despairingly. "It will escalate. In a few
days...."

"I can not accept that view of human nature." Her eyes were like
steel, shining.

He forced a laugh, and resorted to a lie. "I read 'Lord of the
Flies' when I was at school. It changed my outlook on life. It...
explained things I saw every day. It made me what I am today."

"I read it at school too. I thought it was implausible. That's
where we're different, Mulder."

<Your childhood showed you nothing of the bad side of life, Scully
- nothing. _That's_ where we're different.> He bit his lip, and
said nothing.

She sighed, and suddenly he wondered if the shine in her eyes was
unshed tears. "So, Mulder. let's say you're right." She folded her
arms. "Why, Mulder? I presume from your tone that you think
someone's doing this deliberately? It's too much to expect that you
haven't got a _theory_ on it." There was heavy sarcasm in her
words. "Let's hear it, Mulder."

But, instead, he reached across the car and touched her cheek with
his fingertips. "Why are we fighting on this, Scully?" he
whispered. <Why are we fighting? I need you, Scully. No-one should
be alone in what's coming.>

<You won't be alone.>

He responded physically to the memory of the dream, jerking his
head up, listening. There was longing there, and revulsion. There
was....

Scully.

"I.... I don't want what you say to be true." She looked at him
warily, sadly.

A drop of water fell onto his fingers.

******

end of section 2

******

"Leviathan" part 1 (3/5)

******

"We need to talk," he had said, simply. "All of us. We need to go
back."

But someone had arrived before them at the Lone Gunmen's office....

"Agent Mulder." Richard Fry's teeth flashed white in his tanned
face. "And this must be the lovely Agent Scully Frohike's been
telling me about."

Mulder flashed Frohike a sharp look, but said nothing. He had met
Fry a couple of times after that first meeting in the park -
meetings in which he had promised a lot but said little - and knew
that he was not a man he felt safe with. He was glad. Dangerous men
made the best informants.

"This is Richard Fry, Agent Scully." Frohike looked subdued. For
once, he shrugged apologetically rather than following up with
further innuendo. "He has certain.... information about what's
happening."

"Oh." Scully smiled wanly. One hand twisted her cross, the other
hand rested on the door frame. Cold air billowed behind her, but
she did not come in, did not shut the door.

Fry smiled charmingly. "I know who's doing this, and why. You're
just in time, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. I was about to tell there
noble crusaders the truth."

Mulder stepped forward.

"Mulder." A soft whisper, only for him to hear. "I want to go
home."

He stopped, torn. Ahead were the four men in their circle of light,
strange shadows on their face from the naked bulb. Behind, in the
gathering darkness, was Scully. He felt a creeping fear that his
choice would be pivotal - that it would extend far beyond this
moment.

"Mulder." Louder this time. Her voice was distracted. "I need some
air. I... I'll be okay." He dared to turn round, and she was
smiling, privately for him. Deeply relieved, her let out a long
breath. "Tell me what he says afterwards, okay?"

Afterwards. He smiled.

"Mulder." Fry reached out a hand towards him. "Fox." He opened his
mouth to object, then shut it. The name didn't seem wrong on Fry's
lips. It was familiar, as if he had heard it before.

Scully's heels on the stairs, receding....

"We were talking about the future, Fox - your friends and I." Fry's
soft boots made squeaking noises on the floor, like a whimper. He
paced around behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck
prickled. "I was about to.... describe it."

Fingers clutched his shoulder, abrupt as a claw. He gasped.

"Can you see it, Fox?" His shoulder was frozen and numb from where
the fingers dug into it, but he could no more have pulled away than
he could have stopped breathing. He _had_ to hear.

"No," and his breath sounded like a moan to him, weak and needy.
"No..."

"Imagine it, Fox."

<Do the others hear him say their own names?> he thought, suddenly,
then smiled, for Fry spoke again.

"Imagine it, Frohike, Byers, Langly. You need to see it. You need
to see the horror of it to know what you will be fighting. And you
must fight them."

He shut his eyes, his head swaying from side to side, seeking
pictures.

And, fuelled by Fry's voice, they came....

"There will be weeks of rioting. Thousands will die - millions -
caught in the crossfire. Children killed in a fight over a
flashlight. In the darkness, everyone will be a threat. Some people
will shoot first, and ask questions later. And they will set fires
for light...."

Red sheeted his vision - red and crackling cruel orange. Cecil
L'Ively's demonic laugh, and hot smoke in his lungs as he cowered
beneath a pile of twisted aliens.... Fire.... But worse, a million
times worse. Fire in city after city, and screaming faces consumed
in it....

The skin on the back of his hands bubbled with agony. Someone
gasped - a strange high note of pain, or concern.

"And in the rubble, people will dream...." Low and mesmerising.

<He's hypnotising me> he thought suddenly, but made no move, no
resistance. His burnt hands still by his side. <I need to see
this.>

"They'll dream of light, and a world in which they can eat cooked
food, and walk safe, and stay clean. They'll dream of order.
They'll dream of...."

A monstrous ruler, striding the earth. "Leviathan," he murmured.

Fry laughed. "And how easy it will be, Fox. A whole world facing
chaos, and a life that's nasty, brutish and short. Would they not
sacrifice some freedom to a ruler who offered them light, and
freedom from crime, and running water, and food?"

Like sheep, they fell onto their knees in the streets, hands held
up in supplication. Broken glass pierced their skin, and blood
flowed. They were kneeling in their own blood, and the blood of
civilisation.

He shut his eyes, unable to watch. "Who will be Leviathan?" he
breathed.

"You know, Fox. All of you.... You know."

He heard it like a low growl at first, then growing, swelling.
Closer, it became distinct sounds, like a hovering helicopters,
or.... or.... <horses?> He felt his face twist in laughter -
hysterical laughter. <Horses.... Famine and war and pestilence and
death.... Horses....>

"No." He felt rather than heard the whisper. "Not horses -
helicopters. They don't get the horses." And a laugh, soft enough
to be a dream.

"Helicopters," he said, aloud, and again heard soft wondering
noises from the others. <Do they see it too> he wondered, his mind
half in the small office, half in the glass-strewn street. <Or are
they watching me in my trance, crowded round, worrying? Have they
called Scully yet?>

"Let yourself see it, Fox."

And then the part of him that was still in his body blanked out,
and he was wholly there - wholly there in a street of silent
lifeless faces, gazing with adoring terror at the helicopters.
Slowly, slowly - and he held his breath with the others, and moaned
with dread and relief as they did - the doors opened and....

"Him," he sighed.

His stomach twisted with the horror of a suspicion confirmed. The
man's skin was white, his bearing regal as ever. He paused in the
dust, one long exquisite finger brushing at the arm of his suit.

"Don't stop..."

"You...." He tried to lash out a furious fist, but in this vision-
world, he was powerless. The man stood next to his associate, and
smoked. Black ash fell upon black ash.

The crowd's mouths opened in silent supplication.

He knew the third, too. Tall and solemn, it was wearing the face
that it had worn when it had thrown him to his death in Alaska, and
when it had killed his only hope for saving his mother and gaining
absolution. With a silent hiss, the weapon in its hand shot out,
ready to kill. The point dripped with red blood.

And the fourth was pale....

"No." He fell to his knees in the dirt, and the glass cut through
his flesh with a pain that was nothing compared with.... with this.
It was his nightmare. It was the pale deathly grey, and the harsh
white light, and the willowy figure that promised to look after
her, but _took_ her. <It took her...> It was the self-loathing of
Puerto Rico, of living for a thing for twenty years, and panicking
when he saw it. It was....

"You understand." In that moment, he could have worshipped Fry for
ever, for pulling him back. He was fully in the office now, just
one man talking to another. The terror of that street was gone,
leaving nothing but a lingering creeping fear like the memory of a
dream.

He nodded, unable to speak.

"They will come forward and offer an end to the anarchy, and people
will welcome them - the alien and the human alike. The people will
be bruised, and will take a while to lick their wounds, grateful
only to have survived. By the time they realise that the order has
become repression, and the repression tyranny, it will be too late.
The date will have come, and passed."

"The date?" He shook his head, like a dog shaking water from its
coat. Some of it lingered, and he was still half under the spell.
"This _will_ happen?"

And then Fry laughed - a beautiful terrible sound. "How the Hell
should I know, Fox? I'm just telling you what they plan."

"Vividly." Frohike swallowed hard. He looked deeply moved.

<You saw it too?> he wanted to say, and would have, had Fry not
been standing there, smiling. He felt relief, that he had not been
alone - that he had not been seeing visions, going crazy - but
somewhere, insanely, he felt jealousy. As if he wanted to be
chosen, to be picked out, alone....

"Yes. Vividly." Fry shrugged. "I have been told that I have a....
gift with words."

Mulder raised his hand to his shoulder, massaging where the fingers
had dug in deeply. It would bruise, tomorrow.

The three Gunmen looked at each other. "So, what do we do about
it?" Byers asked. He looked long at Frohike, at Langly, briefly at
Mulder, and not at all at Fry.

Langly cleared his throat. "What _can_ we do?"

Mulder looked at Fry, awaiting an answer.

******

The shy was deep orange, and the windows shone like fire.

Scully rubbed her eyes with her hand again and again. They itched
with tiredness, and the ache of unshed tears. Her head was
throbbing mercilessly.

She ran a finger along the cold metal of the car, lingering a while
on the handle. The part of her that believed Mulder's story craved
that safety, and the lovely control of a light that could be
switched on and off at will. But the part of her that wanted to be
free, to escape from....

<Fate>

She had no idea where the thought had come from, but she recognised
the not-Scully voice from her dreams.

The cross at her throat began to irritate her. She had pulled it,
earlier, digging the chain into her skin, and now she ran her
finger gingerly around her neck, exploring the skin. It wasn't
broken. By the time she had finished her exploration, the after-
echo of the voice was no longer troubling her, and that was _good_.

But the idea, the sentiment....

"I need some air," she had said, and it had been true, although she
had no idea how the words had come out coherently. Her mind had
been reeling, assailed by some horror she could not begin to
understand.

The man had smiled, and she had seen the grinning worm-crawling
skull of the worst autopsy she had ever done.

"I need some air," she said, aloud, and raised her chin almost
defiantly. There was still light in the sky, and she had her gun.

As she walked down the street, her footsteps were the only noise in
the world.

It was as if they were all already dead.

******

"Can they be stopped?" He clenched and unclenched his fists.

Fry shrugged. "Perhaps."

"Can _we_ stop them?" <Please, please.... Can we stop them?>

"No."

He hated the light, then. The dark, only the dark....

In the ruins of the world, he would curl in the darkness, put his
hands over his ears, and scream.

******

Pattering feet.

She had lost all awareness. She shook her head sharply, and found
that barely minutes had passed. Turning round, she could see the
car, still visible, shining like gold in the sunset.

Pattering feet, echoing....

<They're coming> She reached for the gun, but didn't draw it. The
feel of its cool metal on her fingers was enough. It always
anchored her, gave her strength. In resolve, in skill, she was the
equal of a man twice her physical strength.

Pattering feet, and blonde hair flying in the wind. Arms flailing
wildly, mouth open with silent fear, it was a little girl.

<Emily> she thought, at first, for there was something about her
struck a chord, that was familiar. For two years, she had seen
Emily in any blonde girl, the way Mulder saw Samantha in any dark
one. It took a year before she could see one and still smile.

She held her hands out, palms open, like hands calming a storm or
hushing a crowd.

"Hey..."

The girl ran straight into her, blindly, then reeled, and almost
fell backwards. Scully clutched at her, and steadied her, and, as
she did so, looked into her eyes.

<No.> It was all she could do not to cry out. <It was a dream....>

The girl heaved great shuddering breaths, broken with sobs. Her
face was red and drenched in tears. A tawny mane and two bead eyes
peeped out of her coat pocket.

<I saw her last time we came here, and, somehow, she found her way
into my dream. That must be it. That _must_ be it. Just a
coincidence.> Her own breathing slowed to the rhythm of her
reassurance. She was composed again, accepting, ready only to
soothe and comfort. "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay...." She
stroked the girl's hair, pulling her close into her body.

The girl's sobs stilled. She looked up, and her face was at peace,
her eyes half closed, like a baby being lulled to sleep, utterly
content and safe.

"Hi, Dana," she said, and smiled.

******

Soft feet on the stairs. Langly stood, mouth open, ear pressed
against the door.

They waited. Frohike twisted a pen between his fingers, round and
round.

"He's gone." Langly turned round. "We can talk."

Mulder raised his head sharply and breathed in as if to speak, then
stopped. He would assess, first. His emotions felt bruised.

"I don't trust him." Langly's face was lined. He had aged ten years
in a day.

Silence. Mulder clenched his hands into fists, and waited. He felt
that he and Fry had touched in some special way - connected. It had
not been without pain, and fear, but.... He unclenched a hand, and
rubbed his shoulder.

"How does he know?" Byers stroked his beard. His ring shone in the
light.

"It makes sense." His fingers dug deep, massaging. Through the
shirt, his skin felt cold. "It is in keeping with...." He paused.
"With other things we've discovered in the past. It fits in with
our own observations today."

Frohike nodded, but said nothing. He looked deeply troubled.

"You trust him, Mulder?" Langly leant forward sharply.

Mulder frowned, consideringly. "Yes," he said slowly, and found
that he did. "Yes, I do."

"You're so damn quick to trust, Mulder." He had never heard anger
in Langly's voice before. "You've always trusted _anyone_ who comes
to you with information. Unlike you, _we_ value our lives too much
to do that."

Byers placed a hand on Langly's arm and the two exchanged a look
that he could not catch. "But if there's any chance that he's
right, we risk our lives by _not_ trusting him."

"How?" Langly snapped. There was a tension in the room, and
disharmony. Mulder had never seen these men except as a perfect
team, finishing each other's thoughts. <As close as me and Scully>
he had thought once, and smiled internally.

But Scully had gone. <As close as....> He rubbed his hands over his
eyes, using that as an excuse to hide, to gain a few seconds alone.

"If he's right," Byers said firmly, "and we can't stop this....
this thing, then we have to work out how we can survive it."

Langly walked away. He rested his hands palm down on the wall, and
stood there, head leaning forward. When he spoke, his voice was
muffled. "If we want to survive it...."

******

"No..." The girl moaned, squirmed. "No. The bad man's coming. Dana,
it's the bad man. The bad man...."

Her mind was reeling. She was stroking the girl rhythmically,
focusing only on that need as her anchor in the storm-lashed sea.
<Comfort her. Comfort her. Comfort her> she hammered in her mind,
like a mantra. <Think about the.... the other thing later.>

"The bad man...." The girl shuddered. "Listen...."

She had created a world of just herself and the girl, shutting her
mind to all other sounds, but now....

"The bad man."

Heavy feet ahead of her, and behind her, their echo. It sounded
like soft-soled boots creeping behind them, ready to....

"No." She whirled around, hand ready to grab her gun, but there was
no-one there. In the empty street, paper blew in the wind. A dark
bird flew overhead, low, and its feathers whispered.

"Get away from her." The click of a gun was unmistakable. She
raised her hands, turned round slowly. The girl entwined her
fingers in her coat and held on tight.

"Get away from my daughter."

She ran her eyes assessingly over the man, from red face to heavy
boots. She could smell the alcohol even over several yards of
winter breeze. His gun was shaking, but his finger had already
half-pulled on the trigger.

He would be unpredictable. She wouldn't know which way to dive, and
the girl's grip would hamper her own draw. She drew a deep breath,
and stuck her chin forward.

"I'm with the FBI, Mr....?" No answer. She pointed towards her
coat, offering to pull out her ID, but he didn't give. "She was
scared. She looked lost. I was...." She shrugged, wondering how to
explain it even to herself. What _were_ they? "I was comforting
her," she said, at last.

"Look, Miss FBI. I don't trust no-one, least ways your kind. For
the last time, step away from her."

"Is this your father?" She lowered her voice, speaking to the girl.
If the man shot, he shot, but she would not hand a child over to a
stranger. In her dream, she had walked away....

The girl nodded. Slowly, oh so slowly, her hand loosened its grip.

"Do you want to go with him?" She kept her hands high, but stroked
the girl's hair with her eyes. "You don't have to, you know."

Though where, in this future world of Mulder's, she would find the
law to support her, she could not begin to imagine. She knew,
though, that she would try. She wondered if it was the girl's hair
colour that made her so sure.

"I'll go." The girl choked a sob, and stepped forward. "It's not
for long. I'll see you soon, afterwards....."

The man made an angry sound in his throat, thrusting his gun
forward.

She ignored him. "How do you know?" The words came out in spite of
herself. She didn't want to ask, though part of her needed the
answer. There were more things here than she could believe.

The girl smiled. "I just know."

After they had gone, she pressed her fist against her mouth and
stood there, still, for a very long time.

******

<She should be back now....> He was tense, now, listening always
for the sweet sound of her feet. The other man's words faded in and
out of focus - in and....

"I know a man with a bunker." Frohike gestured at the radio set and
gave a brave attempt at a smile. "Useful guy to know. We could go
there first sign of anarchy." He shrugged. He was twisting his hat
between his hands, his knuckles white. "I'd hate to die by a random
brick when I could die later as a proper resistance fighter." He
struck an affected pose. "Looks better on the resume, don't you
think?"

"It's not happened yet." Langly's voice was soft. "It might not
happen at all."

None of them believed it, now. It was just how, and when, and how
much could be saved.

Mulder felt numb inside, knowing that if he let himself feel, he
could break down utterly. The loss of the whole world he knew....
<I don't want to know> a small voice whimpered inside. <I want to
be normal, worried only about whether the lights will come on
tonight or tomorrow. How can I live, after, knowing that I knew in
advance, but could do nothing? How....>

<Scully.> His lips moved, almost saying her name aloud. It was a
worry he could deal with - a normal, human worry. <Scully> And then
he laughed aloud, knowing he was close to hysteria but unable to
stop. He really cared more about the safety of one person than he
did about the future of a million million in the world? <What does
that make me?>

<Human> he imagined her saying, stroking his hair as he wept. If
she....

"....tell them?" Langly's voice was rising again.

Mulder blinked, pulling himself back. He wanted to hide his face in
his hands, rock to and fro, and hope it would go away. <Go away,
please....> Fear would sniff for him, searching, but he would hide,
and it would pass him by and take up residence with someone else.

"What can we tell them?" There was sympathy in Byers voice. He
wondered, suddenly, if all three of them would cry, alone, when no-
one else could see. "Get out there with our ham radios and
pamphlets, and tell people not to panic? It's what I meant,
earlier. If Fry is one of Them, it's only in his interest to tell
us the truth. There is _nothing_ we can do. Telling people will
only accelerate the process. They'll panic all the more, if they
know. There's nothing we can do, Langly. Nothing."

Langly held his head high, though his voice was ravaged. "I do not
accept that."

"I do not accept that." Mulder ran the words over in his head,
mouthing them silently. "I do not accept that."

He smiled. He felt as one who has stepped from a suffocating room
into cool fresh air. He felt alive, and himself. A wild desperate
hope stirred within him, and his hand fell to his side. The last
lingering memory of Fry's touch was gone.

"I do not accept it," he said, aloud, and six eyes were wide,
staring at him. None of them smiled.

Heels on the steps, moving slowly....

"I do not accept it, Scully." He stood up blindly, and the chair
fell over with a crash. He smiled, laughed, and his vision clouded
with moisture. As she walked through the door, her face doubled,
trebled....

She smiled wanly, and her smile was unfocused, multiplied. She ran
a hand over her forehead. "I want to go, Mulder."

Behind her, the light from the window was almost completely grey.
Just the tiniest hint of orange....

******

It was about to break.

Scully glanced round anxiously, at the tightly packed cars, the
impatient faces bent over their wheels. Mulder had told her what
Fry's vision of the future was, in a dull monotone that told her
that the true horror was much greater than he admitted. She could
not believe it, but now....

"Something's going to break," she said, aloud.

Mulder nodded. His behaviour had been.... strange, alternating
between spell-bound abstraction and feverish hope. He was
abstracted, now. They had travelled three miles in the half an hour
since they had left the Gunmen, and the darkness was almost
complete.

"Let us go!" The man in the next car wound down his window and
shouted at the patrolman, adding a few choice swear words. "I've
got a wife at home...."

They were close to the front now - close enough to see the pale
pinched face of the patrolman. He was alone in a sea of traffic
from four directions, and their neighbour was not the only driver
who was shouting. The city was a chaotic cacophony of horns.

"Let me through now!" The man's engine revved up into a scream.
"Let me through, or I'm going through."

The patrolman's scared face behind his flat out-stretched hand....

"No!" Scully screamed. "No....!"

But even through her shout, she could hear the thump, and faint
"oh" of surprise from the patrolman as the air was forced from his
lungs, as he flew through the air and landed, half on the road and
half on the sidewalk.

She was out of the car in an instant.

"No..." She wanted to rock with the horror of it. Kneeling in the
dust, she reached for the dying man's hand. Even a cursory glance
told her that he had no chance, though she would breathe for him if
she needed to.

But every drop of his blood was a symbol.

"Scully?" Mulder's hand on her shoulder. She loved him then, though
she could not smile, could not spare time to speak to him. He had
come back to himself in time, and was there for her. She wondered,
sometimes, if he knew what one word could do.

"Can you hear me?" She bent down low, whispering through the sounds
of the horns. "It's okay. I'm here. You'll be taken care of.
Everything's going to be okay."

Hollow, hollow words....

She felt the warm breath of exhaust as a car pulled past her,
almost close enough to touch. Dispassionate eyes looked down on
her, and on the dying man.

"Get out the way!" an angry voice shouted. "It's nearly dark."

She wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep. <It's true. It's
all true. Oh God....>

"No." Mulder's voice. She heard the click of a car door opening,
and sounds of a scuffle. A dull thud, and she wanted - needed - to
look, but could not wrench her eyes from the man's blue lips. He
had died, and, mesmerised with horror, she had not breathed for
him.

"Mulder," she murmured.

"Now will you get out of our way?" Two voices, saying the same
thing in different words, and another thud.

She blinked hard, and turned around. One man held Mulder, arm
around his neck, while the other swung his fist back, ready to
drive it into his stomach. She knew he wouldn't have threatened
civilians with his gun, even this time. For all his threatening
words, he was childishly naive, sometimes.

"Mulder." She ran a hand across her face and it was wet and sticky.
"Let it go, Mulder."

"But...." He looked at her, and his eyes were wild, desperate. <If
I give up on this, I give up on everything> his eyes were crying at
her. <I can't do that...>

"Let it go," she said, more sharply. She just needed to cry in the
darkness - to curl up and cry. Her vision had shifted, and she saw
normal human beings now as monsters. She knew that part of her had
changed forever in an instant. She had moved beyond Mulder, gone
from denial to total comprehension.

"Scully." It was a cry of agony, though the fist had been lowered.
There was blood on his lip from an earlier blow.

"Let it go." Her voice was low, and, in the noise, he would only
see her lips move, and not hear her. The man's cold hand was
clasped in hers. <I don't want to lose you, too.>

His hands fell to his sides. He looked lost, utterly bereft. When
the man released his hold, he collapsed to the ground, kneeling in
the road as if he was boneless.

"Help me, Mulder," she whispered, pulling at the dead man's limbs.
His head lolled at the movement, and she felt a tiny insane hope
that the movement meant he was alive.

Mulder pulled himself to his hands and knees, raising his head, and
for a moment she thought he was going to howl to the darkness like
a dog - total grief. But he shook his head, and his control held.
She was grateful for it. If he collapsed, she would too.

"Mulder..."

The man who'd hit Mulder drove past, his car crawling to a halt
just ahead of them. It was every man to himself, and the
intersection was packed solid. The air was thick with crumpling
metal and swearing.

"Three yards, Scully." And Mulder was beside her, adding his arms
to hers, pulling at the dead man. "He just moved three yards."

When they reached the sidewalk they slumped, arms around each
other, the dead man on their laps between them, and wept.

******

end of section 3

******

"Leviathan" part 1 (4/5)

******

The light was pulsing. The doctor's eyes were rimmed with red.

"What?" He seemed to respond to everything on a five-second delay.
Mulder knew he was weary beyond the point of exhaustion.

"I said...." A long moment of darkness. When the lights came on
again, it was as if the very walls of the hospital sighed with
relief. "I said there's a dead man outside, in my car." He spoke in
a whisper, though some of the faces there were blank, dead. "He
needs to be taken to the morgue."

It had been a journey from a nightmare - a slow crawl through
tightly-packed traffic. He had tensed at every shout, every swerve.
On the back seat, Scully had cradled the dead man, her hand gentle
on his hair.

The doctor sighed. "When we have time."

Her face had been a mask of desolation. He had glanced in the
mirror, then again, and again.... The rectangular snapshot of
Scully, grieving. He had _needed_ it - needed to know he was not
alone.

But when she had seen his eyes in the mirror, she had wiped her
face roughly, then smiled, defiantly.

"Scully," he had mouthed, and looked away. His hands had been
shaking on the steering wheel.

He blinked, and Scully's remembered face became the doctor's, now.
The same face... Both were strained and devastated, but this man
was frail, nothing. He had none of Scully's skill at hiding it, at
keeping going.

"What's with the lights?" He spread his hands, then saw the blood
on his right cuff and held it there, staring.

"We have a generator." The man ran a hand through his hair,
rubbing, as if at a headache. "We had enough fuel for several days,
but the army came and took it." His voice was dead, but there was
a hoarseness to it, as if he had shouted his fury, earlier, and
now was spent, drained. "They said they were centralising all
supplies to ensure a fairer distribution at emergency points.
But...." He swallowed. "They haven't left us enough to last the
night...."

"You let them?" He balled his hands into fists. "You didn't fight?"

The doctor opened his hands, palms upwards. "With what? Bare hands?
You don't fight the army - not these guys." Almost fiercely, he
raked a hand through his hair and pulled it back at the temple. A
blue bruise was spreading from the hairline, and there was a faint
matting of blood. "Don't - judge - me."

"No." Mulder shut his eyes, hearing the doctor walk away, hearing
other footsteps, other breath. All dead soon, or slaves. All.... He
wanted to sag at the knees, to sway, to....

"I told you, Fox...." A soft smooth voice, like a phsycial pain in
his head. "I told you how it would be."

He clutched his head in his hands, mouth moving silently, like a
prayer: <Control, control, control....> Then, breathing out deeply,
he opened his eyes and.....

Broke.

"How do you know?" He grabbed Fry's jacket at the collar, pushing
him back into the wall. His balled the leather in his fist. "Why
are you here, now. How...?"

"I think you should let me go, Fox." It was soft as a hiss.

He tightened his grip. "Not until you tell me. Are you one of Them?
Is that how you know?" He wrapped his other hand round the
reassuring metal of his gun. His voice was a deadly whisper. "_Is_
it?"

Fry smiled slowly. His eyes were burning, and they were fire, not
blue. "You can't kill me, Fox." He needed a black and white war
movie, and a cigarette. The chilling confidence was the same.

"I can." He drew his gun. Hatred clouded his vision. "I will,
if...." He swallowed hard, fighting to keep the gun level. "Just
tell me how you know all this."

<Please> Inside he was sobbing. <I want to trust you. I _need_ to.>

"Fox." The man raised both hands and gently closed then round him,
hand and gun. Mulder made a low noise in his throat and - <fight
him, must fight him....> - made no resistence. The man's skin was
cold, so cold.

"I...."

And the strength flowed from his limbs like water. He sank to his
knees, his head slumping forward with grief, held up only by the
man's hands around his outstretched right hand. <Hand in hand> But
his eyes saw only the a small circle of white tiles, and the toes
of Fry's worn boots.

"It's hard, Fox, I know," Fry murmured, and the timbre of his ever-
changing face was soft. "It's not my doing. I know because.... I
know. I'm not on their side."

He raised his head, focusing not on the man's face but on the tight
clasped hands that enclosed his own. "How can I fight them?" Low
and intense.

"You c...."

"I do not accept that." He burned with fire. "I.... I _hate_ them."

In his mind, it was noble, declaring allegiance to a cause. In his
ears, it was tawdry, and childish. The last day had robbed him of
himself, making him into something he did not recognise.

"Yes." Fry smiled - a strange smile. "How you fight.... How you
dare to hope the hopeless.... How you will never accept the new
order, even after everyone you know has been.... assimilated....
It's the fire in you, Fox. You're a stubborn, insane fighter. It's
why I chose you."

Footsteps approached along the corridor, then stopped. A female
gasp of breath. The steps receded, echoing fast.

Mulder licked his lips. "Chose me? How?" <Why?>

The man released his hold. The gun fell to the floor and lay
between them, stark black on white.

"Can you fight them?" He pushed himself to his feet. His limbs were
tingling, numb. "Can - you - fight - them?"

"I have..." A shrug. "Ways...."

"I want...." But it ended in a groan. He wanted it so much, so
intensely, that he was unable to say it. He let his head fall into
his hands, rubbing his eyes roughly with his fingers.

<I want to fight....>

Yes. Flashes of light in the darkness from the pressure of his
fingers.

<My life has been fighting them. I want to _die_ fighting them, not
sitting back and accepting....>

Yes. Whisper-footsteps on the tiles.

<I want to fight at the side of someone - someone who....
Someone....>

He opened his eyes, and was alone.

<Alone....>

******

With the dead man, she waited. Her eyes drooped. Like the dead man,
she drifted....

She left her body.

Silently down the street on an early evening of blood and fear. Her
feet were bare. Houses slid past, and eyes looked through her - a
million million eyes that could not see her.

But one....

"I've been waiting for you." A voice - whose voice, whose? <Not the
girl's. I don't want to know.>

But the smile in the voice was joyous. She felt her own smile as if
it was a living entity, spreading over her face of its own
volition. She wanted to fight that smile.

She heard a soft exhalation, as if someone was pushing themselves
to their feet, hope overpowering physical pain. "You came," the
voice said. "It will be all right, now."

Her head turned a fraction, but she would not.... <I _will_ not
look. I will not dream this dream. I don't believe in dreams. It is
_not_ true....>

"I will not do it." She clenched her fists, tight. "I do not accept
this. I...."

Her head snapped back, and she was in the car, and there were
curved red indentations in her palms.

With the dead man, she waited....

******

"Scully." A low murmur, warning.

The coffee slapped rhythmically against the side of the mug - slap,
slap, slap. It was colder than her hands, now, although the small
camping stove had heated the water to boiling.

"Scully." Louder. "We need to talk."

Her knuckles were white. Earlier, she had poured bottled water over
her hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, long after all traces
of the blood had gone. Mulder had had to grasp her wrist firmly,
then, and it had taken all her control not to break down and cry.

She moistened her lips, but said nothing. The surface of the coffee
reflected fire.

"Scully." He was fighting as hard as she was, she could tell.
"We've got to.... What can we do? How can we stop this?"

"We can't," she said dully. She wrenched one hand from the mug and
rubbed her eyes. The mug jolted, and a drop of lukewarm liquid ran
down her leg.

"How can you say that?" A shout, a slam of his fist on the coffee
table, and the drop became a trickle, became a flood. She bit her
lip, and did not move. "How can you just accept this?"

She blinked, her voice level. "Earlier, you said I wasn't accepting
it, and you told me - you told me, Mulder. I believe you." She felt
so bleak. "You should be pleased."

His fingers dug into the arm of his chair. "I wanted you to believe
their plan. I didn't want you to believe that the plan will
succeed."

"I..." There was no coffee left, but still she circled the mug
rhythmically. "I don't know if I do believe their plan," she said,
dully. "You know I can't accept all... all parts of that - not that
this is a prelude to some sort of extraterrestrial colonisation
process."

He let out an audible breath. His hands were shaking.

"I do believe, though," and she raised her head almost defiantly.
"I do believe that, unless we get power back soon, we're looking at
anarchy. I do accept that things are breaking down faster than I
ever thought possible. I do admit that I was naive."

She shut her eyes. Oh, and what it cost to admit that....

When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her, leaning
forward in his chair. "Whatever you believe about.... about what
comes after, you know the anarchy mustn't be allowed to happen." It
was phased as a statement, but his voice, his eyes, showed a
desperate question, a desperate hope.

"Of course." There was an edge to her voice. She was angry that he
had doubted her. The patrolman had died in _her_ arms. "How could I
think _that_ was right?"

"We must fight it."

<How?> She shook her head wanly, but said nothing.

"We must fight it, Scully." His voice was intense and thrilling.
"We must fight _them_."

"How?" And then, insanely, she laughed. "Like you did back there,
picking a fight with the first looter you see and getting yourself
killed?" The laughter faded, and her chest continued to heave,
closer to sobs. But she would - not - cry. "What good will that do,
Mulder?"

He looked at her, unblinking. "We must fight." Then, "I have never
known you to be defeatist before, Scully."

She sparked at that. "I have never known you to be so...." Then she
laughed again, bitterly. "Yes, I have. You've always been
impractical, childish.... naive."

"What...."

"No, Mulder." She lowered her voice. She wanted to speak the truth,
not to hurt him unnecessarily. "I admire you, Mulder. You will
never give up, never stop fighting. You've always kept going long
after the point at which I've drawn the line, putting yourself into
situations you've known you couldn't win. You've risked you life,
for.... for what?"

"The truth." His voice was dull. There was betrayal in his eyes.

"The truth." She leant forward and touched his hand softly. "Will
knowing 'the truth' save the world? Will knowing 'the truth' put
right everything that's gone wrong in your life? Will knowing 'the
truth' make you happy?"

"I.... I thought...." He took a deep breath, and looked at her with
eyes that shone. "I derive comfort from that dream."

She looked down, at the discarded mug and the puddle of coffee at
her feet. "If you're right about what's happening to the world, we
don't need dreams."

"I do." His voice was pained, as if he had taken off all masks,
confessed all, and it was killing him. "I can not live without
hope. It's sustained me all my life - hope that I could...." He
swallowed. "That I could find her."

"Hope...." She looked at him, then wished she hadn't. The pain in
his eyes was more than he would have wanted her to see. "I need
hope, Mulder, but if we hope too much, then we will be
disappointed. If we are to do anything, we need to plan, to be
practical. We must pick our battles, Mulder."

"How?" He was on the offensive, anger covering the pain.

She frowned, searching for hope. "We can find Skinner," she said,
at last, her finger tracing absent marks on the arm of the chair.
"We can organise all the agents we can find, and the police. If
they.... If someone is deliberately sabotaging the water supplies,
and the power.... We go to the source. We.... we try to rectify the
situation."

"We fight." He smiled - a dark, dangerous smile.

She shook her head. "No. Fighting is blind. We would need a plan,
not just... not just to strike out wildly out of hatred. Fighting
every symptom of disorder would only get you killed."

"You sound like a politician, Scully. You'll let more people die
like... like earlier... You think we should turn a blind eye to all
that, while we quietly get on with our oh so practical plan."

<You'll let....> She shivered, and had to bite her lip not to cry
out. "You talk as if it's my choice," she said, at least, her voice
tight. "As if the world's my responsibility. As if what I say now
will make a difference...."

"I...." His voice was a mumble, as if more to himself than to her.
"I have to believe that it will. I... I want to believe it...."

She wanted to cry for him - for the weight that he bore. In her
mind, she held him, reassured him. <It's not up to you to save the
world, Mulder>

And she did hold him, walking to his side and placing her hand on
his head, her fingers stroking his hair. "Don't try to make a
difference in too much, Mulder," she murmured. "I... I don't want
you to get killed."

"I can't." His hands were twisting in his lap. "I can't let it
happen. Fry...." His hands clenched, tight and shaking. "I think
Fry knows how to fight them."

She snatched her hand away. "I don't like him."

Silence. A long, long silence. There was a faint, distant sound
outside, and she tried to tell herself it was not breaking glass.

Neither of them spoke again.

******

He saw the dream like a television screen, powerless to influence
it, powerless not to watch.

A scream of pain....

The image swung around, like a camera man with a hand-held camera,
searching. Pictures flashed. A burnt-out building, black and
shattered.... A pile of twisted bodies in the street.... Green
leaves in a pile of rubble....

He knew he was seeing the future.

Pain rose to agony - an inhuman shriek.

"No!" Red anger burnt inside him. He clawed at the image, feeling
the reistence like a solid wall of glass, cold and unyielding. "No.
Stop. Let me in. Let me stop it...."

A black feather fluttered lazily in the wind, spiralling through
the wreckage.

"No!" Blood ran from his torn fingernails. He clawed and clawed and
pushed and screamed, but he could not connect. He was outside,
somewhere in a void of nothingness, alone, and could only watch,
and listen.

The image moved again, and he saw the bird.

Wings flapping, it was standing in the street, proud and hurt.
Feathers mingled with its blood in the dirt. There were several
blood-stained stones at its feet, and, as he watched, another stone
flew through the air, hitting it full in the chest.

It screamed, but still it stood.

"No!"

And suddenly he was through, and he was strong and fiery red with
anger, and he knew that he would do anything - anything - to stop
another scream. The world had seen so much pain. He would die
rather than let another suffer. He would kneel down before it and
take the stones meant for it, and take its pain for himself. His
blood would flow willingly.

"No." A voice, urgent and commanding. He didn't move. "No," it
repeated, louder. "Step away from it. I _will_ kill it, and I'll
kill you if you get in the way."

He spread his arms wider, shielding the bird. It was no longer just
a bird to him. It was the world, and the people in it. It was
innocence, and it was everything _they_ wanted to destroy. It
was.... It was to die for.

"I will."

The stone came towards him, blanking out the sun, hitting him full
in the face....

<The voice. I know it. It's.... it's....>

"Scully," he murmured, as he died.

******

She was in a dead world, scared and alone. Glass cut into her feet.
Her left hand was pressed across her mouth and nose, but the stench
of the dead was everywhere.

"I'm in the future," she murmured. "This is how they want it to
be."

Then, strangely, she laughed.

"We won't let it die," she said, aloud. The wind whispered, like
the voices of a thousand people behind her, echoing her words. It
made her shiver, but it made her smile, too.

"No?"

A man stood in the middle of the ruined street, his arms folded on
his chest. The reek of him was worse than the dead, and his
eyes.... <Oh God, his eyes....>

His eyes were red.

She clenched her fists, and raised her chin defiantly. She was
screaming inside, but, "no," she said, all control. She reached to
her waist, but her gun was gone, so, never taking her eyes off the
man, she crouched down and picked up a brick. She tried it in her
hands for weight, assessingly.

It hit him full in the chest. She felt no regrets.

Another. Her vision was sheeting red. He was not a man to her, not
any more. He was evil, and the force that had destroyed the world.
He was the red-faced man who mowed down a patrolman, and the
drunken looter who killed a child with a shard of glass. He was
everything she hated. He was....

"No. Don't hurt him." Another voice. It came from nowhere that she
could see, but it swelled closer, and she could feel the hatred -
the fierce hatred of everything she was.

"No." Pain slashed at her fingers as she closed them around a fresh
stone. "Keep away. I'll kill him, and I'll kill you, too."

Whispers of echoes behind her murmured appreciatively. The wind
felt like hands touching her clothes, supporting her.

"No," the voice repeated, deadly now. A whirl of movement, and a
figure launched itself at her, a kaleidoscope of images in its dark
eyes. She saw teeth at her throat, choking her. She saw a coarse
hand on her thigh, forcing her legs apart. She saw tearing cloth,
and blood on her breast. She saw....

"No!" Arms shaking with the weight, she held the stone above her
head, and threw it at the blur of movement that was his face.

And then she was alone. The man had gone. The whispering crowd
behind her had gone. She was alone in a ruined world, her fist
pressed to her mouth, surveying the ruined face of the attacker she
had just killed.

<But it's not....> Tears ran down her cheeks.

Gently, so gently, she reached out and stroked Mulder's hair,
already soaked with blood.

******

She was still sleeping, her cheek resting on her hand.

Mulder wrapped his arms tightly around his body. The dream would
not leave him. <I don't trust her?> he thought, feeling cold
inside. <After all this, I don't trust her?>

"Sc...." He stopped himself just in time, but continued silently.
"Scully, I'm sorry. I dreamt you were one of them. I'm sorry,
Scully. I trust only you."

There were tears on her cheeks.

But she killed him. It was like a physical pain inside,
remembering. She was on the side of the enemy, and she killed him.

He had always believed in prophetic dreams.

******

His eyes were shut, but he was awake.

Scully kept her breathing carefully measured, knowing she would be
unable to face him without crying. Just a minute longer....

<I don't trust him?> she thought, and dug her nails into her palms
with the pain of it. <That I could dream.... _that_?>

They had left things unresolved, she knew, and fallen asleep with
some harsh words still not taken back. They had disagreed. They had
even fought. They had....

Silently, she rubbed her eyes, cutting off the thought. She was
ready. They had disagreed, and it had found its way into her dream.
It was only natural. It was something to forget.

"Mulder?" Her voice was hoarse, and she coughed, then tried again.
"Mulder?"

His eyes opened slowly, warily. They were rimmed with red.

"I trust only you, Mulder."

******

end of section 4

******

"Leviathan" part 1 (5/5)

******

They had spoken softly, touched alot, and the truce had held. They
hadn't spoken of the future, looking only to the few hours ahead.

"Shall we go to the FBI Headquarters?" she had asked, glanced
across the car. His face had been as grey as the sky. "Report for
duty?" Though she'd had little hope. It was Sunday, at the end of
the holidays. The place would be deserted.

He'd nodded slowly, warily. "I want to talk to the guys again,
first." His fingers had drummed at the wheel, tense. "They have....
contacts outside the city. I want to know how.... how bad it is."

She'd turned away, watching the silent world pass, and shivering at
the memory of the dream. A dead world. Empty. Just like....

"There's people," she said, now, fiercely. She hadn't intended to
speak aloud. She cleared her throat and continued, awkwardly.
"There are people at the windows, watching, Mulder. I've seen
dozens...."

A white face pressed against the glass, and a palm pressed
outwards. <Still alive> she thought fiercely, and refused to think
of the dream.

He nodded, but said nothing.

******

Blood was pounding in his head.

"Something's wrong." He reached for his gun, gesturing to Scully to
do the same. The door was hanging from its hinges, the notice
ripped and trampled in the dirt.

Gun in hand, Scully stepped forward through the door. She was all
focus, her hair the only life in the grey world where the fine rain
deadened everything. But he.... He took a deep breath. He was
screaming inside, knowing - dreading - what he would find.

<I don't want to go in. I don't want to know. I don't....>

"Mulder?" A soft cry, and he gasped with the almost physical pain
of what might be happening there in the dark. A soldier with his
arm around her neck, a gun to her head....

"Scully," he managed, hoarsely. He was in the dark in an instant,
ready to confront the attacker and die. He would atone for
distrusting her. He would....

"Mulder." Her face was grave, but she was alone. The beam from her
flashlight trembled, sending harsh white slashes through the dark
of the windowless stairwell. "Look."

In a white pool of light, there was blood.

"They...."

He left her then, running forward up the stairs, wildly. Footsteps
echoed like a frenzy of war drums, and the light danced. It was
pulsing, white and black, white and black, white and....

<This is Hell> he thought, suddenly. Sound and fury and flashing
light and running and running and knowing - knowing - that it's all
too late, that there's only death at the end of the stair.

"Mulder." A three-fold echo. It was laughter. The last syllable of
his name, repeated three times....

"Frohike!" he shouted, his gun forgotten. "Byers! Langly!"

Their office was nothing but devastation. Scully's dancing
flashlight behind him showing a smashed computer, a pile of ash, a
broken table. Booted footmarks in the doorway.

Scully sank to her knees, reaching out with one finger. "Still
damp." She rubbed her finger and thumb together. "Still damp," she
said again, her voice warning. <Mulder> it was saying. <They could
still be here. Hold on to your gun. Be careful....>

He stared in stupefied surprise at his gun, as if wondering who he
was, how it had got there. "They start early." He was so bleak
inside - lost. "They'd have been here."

Scully's hand on his back. "It's Sunday."

He whirled on her, fierce. "They'd have been here, Scully." And he
laughed, a bitter laugh that was closer to tears. "You've said it
yourself, Scully. Do they have homes to go to? Do they have a life?
Do they exist outside that office of theirs?"

"Byers had a wife," she said, softly, and he turned away, hating
her for saying it. He didn't want her to see his face.

<I have to hope. I need hope. I need....> He stepped forward, then
fell to his knees, tearing through a pile of debris. "They might
have gone." His voice high and unnatural. They spoke about going.
They might be safe."

"Mulder." She squeezed his shoulder, standing tall at his back.

"They'd have found some way to let me know." A splinter of wood
tore into his finger, and the papers he rifled through were spotted
with red. He was breathing fast, almost sobbing. "They'd have left
a note."

"In which case this could be a trap." Scully pulled at his arm. Her
voice was level - infuriatingly level.

"No...." He stood up and whirled to face her, breathing in deep
heaving panting breaths. His voice caught in his chest. "They're my
friends, Scully." <My only friends but you....>

She blinked. "And mine, too. I didn't know them as well as you did,
but I... I was fond of them." She gave a small wry laugh. "Even
Frohike."

He held her shoulders and squeezed tight, pulling her towards him.
"I can't walk away, Scully," he said, low and intense. "I have to
know."

There was such pity in his eyes that he had to look away, had to
let his hands fall and walk deeper into the room, alone.

"Mulder..." He barely heard her.

He blinked, and, safe, with his back to her, let two tears escape.
<The radio> He gestured vaguely towards it, hoping Scully would
understand, would believe that that was the only reason he had
turned away from her.

He lowered his head, coutning to three silently, then raised his
head, ready to try again. "Frohike said they were in contact with
people on ham radio. I just want to see...."

He didn't dare look at her.

And then he forgot her - forgot everything but the voice.

"....out there?" A high, scared voice from the radio. "Anybody?
Guys, where are you?" An anxious laugh. "This isn't funny. Anybody?
_Anybody_?"

Mulder couldn't breathe.

"Where is everybody?"

"Dead." Another voice but in, dull and despairing. "I saw it. They
went in over night, and this morning. Everywhere that had kept
their computers running. Everyone who could talk like us. Everyone
who knew, and could tell others. Everyone." The voice cracked.
There was a sound of swallowing - alcohol, probably. "They silenced
them. They shot them."

"They can't...." The high voice again. It was only a boy, his voice
only half broken. "Who? They can't just.... just _kill_ people."

"Didn't you listen to what everyone was saying last night?" Another
swallow, then another. He was swigging the whole bottle. "They can.
They will. They're coming for me now. If you don't want them to
come for you, go now. Destroy your radio, and go."

"I can't...."

"They're coming...."

Then something touched his hand....

With a hoarse cry, he raised his gun. <They're coming. They're
coming. They're.... Scully> Her hand closed round his and held it.

"If anyone else can hear, they're coming." A loud crash. "Armed men
just broke down the back door. They're our men - special forces.
They're...."

A loud report of gunfire, and then there was nothing.

"No..." He lurched forward, pulling at Scully's hand. His gun fell
to the floor. Blindly, he groped for the microphone, reaching with
shaking fingers for the right control.

"You can't...." he shouted, blind, scarcely thinking with fury.
"You can't do this. I know what you're doing. It won't work. I'll
fight. I'll stop you. I swear I'll stop you...."

"Mulder." Soft, crooning, as to a baby. She reached across him and
switched the radio off. "It's okay, Mulder. It's okay...."

He let his face fall forward into his hands, shaking. His legs
sagged, and he fell to his knees.

"Mulder...." She crouched behind him, arms wrapped around his body,
face pressed against his shoulders. "Mulder...."

For a long time, they were still.

******

"Mulder?" She moved her stiff limbs, whispering softly. He had been
still for.... minutes? It was as if he had passed out. "Mulder? We
should go."

His hands fell to his sides. "I brought them here." It wasn't a
question.

She stood up, though she was slow to withdraw her hands from him.
"We should go, Mulder," she said, again.

"I'm sorry." He slumped forward. "I lost control. If they were
listening, they'll be on their way by now. They'll know where we
are."

"Then go," she said, sharply. She wanted to shake him. "Why stay
here, reproaching yourself, while they're getting closer?"

"Yes." He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He looked
as if he was being torn apart. "We should go."

But his eyes were distant, not seeing her at all.

"Mulder?" He had scared her, when he has lost control and shouted
his hatred at the radio. She had known that she had ceased to exist
for him.

"Scully." He uttered her name as an exhalation, poitning with a
trembling finger. "Look."

It was a hand.

******

Scully clutched the steering wheel, her head throbbing mercilessly.
Her eyes stung with the effort of not crying. It was all happening
again, and worse, this time - much worse.

She cleared her throat. "Ready?"

In the mirror, Mulder's tear-streaked face nodded. He wanted to
travel with the body, to hold it, to keep it covered with the
blanket. She understood.

She licked her lips. "Sure?"

He was silent. His hands were lacerated from digging through the
debris, searching again and again for the other two bodies he
feared - maybe hoped - were there. Once more, she had had to hold
him physically, to wait until his flailing limbs calmed and his
desperate shouts turned to soft sobs.

"They're not here, Mulder," she had said. She had had to fight not
to cry herself.

"They spoke about going," Mulder had murmured, and touched the dead
man's hair. "Langly was the one who wanted to stay. Maybe they went
just in time, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Maybe Byers
and Frohike are okay."

"Maybe." She'd stroked his hair.

"They wanted to kill, not take prisoners."

"Yes." Her hand had paused at the back of his neck. She hadn't
liked what she was doing - offering comfort she had no reason to
believe.

"We should go," he'd murmured, in a small voice.

She'd lowered her eyes, ashamed. She'd made it seem as if it was
his decision, when she had held his flailing arms and shouted it at
him again and again, earlier.

"Sure?" she said now. She knew that any doubts would fester,
becoming nightmares about Frohike and Byers, hurt in the wreckage,
calling out for help to his receding back.

He paused. In the mirror, his face was exhausted. Then he nodded,
slowly. "Sure."

She reached for the keys.

"I never really knew him." Mulder half shut his eyes. "I didn't
know his background, or anything about his family. I knew he played
Dungeons and Dragons, and I knew what music he liked. I didn't know
where he lived, or what he did when he wasn't with the others. I
didn't even know his name."

She blinked fiercely against the tears, remembering another man
whose name she hadn't known. He had died, too. "People touch us,
Mulder. We don't have to know much about them, but they touch us.
It's not wrong to feel their death." <It's not wrong to cry,
Mulder> she added silently. He had turned his back to her, showing
his tears only by a shaking of his shoulders that she knew he
thought she couldn't see.

She turned the key. Nothing happened.

*******

She brushed her fingers in the dirt, then held them to her nose,
and sniffed.

"Drops of it, Mulder." She had to say it again before he heard.
"Someone siphoned off the gas."

He swallowed. "Them."

"Probably not. Probably an ordinary person who'd run out of gas
themselves."

She wanted to grab him and shake him and shout. <Not everything's
them, Mulder. It's not all a conspiracy. There are bad things in
the world that aren't _them_> The last hour he had burnt with a
fire of grief and hatred. If the armed men came, he would run
unarmed towards their guns, wanting only to pummel their chests
with his fists, screaming his fury.

She was close to losing him.

"We can't leave him." Mulder was still sitting in the car, one hand
on Langly's shoulder.

"We'll cover him." Oh, but her head pounded with the strain of
being strong. "We'll walk back to your house and get my car." She
tried to smile. "Or we walk the FBI and siphon off some gas from
one of their cars. You'll like that. You've tried every other way
of opposing authority."

He didn't smile. "We walk," he said simply, and looked at his gun.

******

They held hands. She felt she was leading him, unseeing and
unthinking. When she glanced up, she saw his lips moving
soundlessly.

"Mulder?" she asked, once.

He smiled, and there was a cruelty in his smile that he hadn't seen
before. "I won't give up, Scully. I won't stop fighting."

She made no reply.

"Listen," she said, much later, drawing his attention to a sound
she had first heard minutes before. She had listened, tense,
worried as much by his failure to react to the sound as she was by
the sound itself.

"People." His eyes gleamed dully. "Rioting." And he touched not his
gun but his breast pocket.

"Don't," she murmured, warningly. <Mulder, don't....>

"It's right." He was pulling at her hand, now, leading her. "I have
to try."

Then they turned a corner, and saw it.

******

Another crash as another window smashed.

"Flashlights," Mulder murmured. "Look."

"Not just flashlights." She tightened her grip on his hand.
"Bottled water. Alcohol, of course." She ran her other hand through
her hair. "They'll be alcohol-fuelled looting later."

They were watching it as if it was on a screen, standing at the
fringes and just observing. The crowd was a thousand strong, but...

<It's not real.> Scully wanted to close her eyes and escape. <This
can't happen here.>

"They can't keep order," she said instead, pointing towards the
police. They were few, and young - the ones who, the previous day,
had been on the roads.

"They're not trying." Mulder's voice was dead. "Not really. They're
as scared as the rest of them. They need water, too, and light."

"What do we do? Do we go on?"

He laughed. "Riot. Big scary riot. Can't go over it, can't go under
it, got to go through it." The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Got to?"

His face was a set mask. "Yes."

She tugged at his hand, briefly considered arguing, then followed.
<Got to. Yes. Of course yes.>

******

A man's face pressed close to hers, his mouth open in a wordless
shout. A hand reached from the crowd and pressed a flashlight into
her hand, closing her fingers around it.

"Mulder?" But the sound of the crowd carried her voice away.
"Mulder?" She tugged at his hand. "This is stupid. We're getting
out."

His hand tightened on hers. <No> it said.

"Mulder!" She jerked at his hand, and, dropping the flashlight,
grabbed him by the front of his jacket. "Come on! We're going."

He shook his head. No.

"Then I'm going. It ends here. I'm drawing the line for myself
here. I'm leaving." She stood on tiptoe, put her mouth close to his
ear, then found she had nothing she was ready to say. "Not for
ever, Mulder," she mouthed, silently, knowing he wouldn't see,
hoping perhaps that he would understand. "Please don't go on...."

"I've got to try, Scully." His eyes were so sad. <Doomed> she
thought suddenly, and shivered.

He released her hand. "I'm going," she said, but stood there
watching him, and didn't move.

"I've...." His hands raised towards her face, then fell. She saw
him clench his fists, breathe in deeply, and then there was only
his back to her - his back, walking away.

The crowd surged, and the gap between them was gone. Still she
stood.

*******

She was the still centre. The crowd milled around her, shouting,
pushing, but she was still. No-one touched her. No-one spoke to
her.

She was still.

And then she heard him.

"I'm with the FBI." It was _his_ voice, amplified by the bullhorn.
"Listen up. You have _got_ to stay calm. Stay calm."

The crowd froze in silence, held it - one, two, three - then
erupted into noise. Around her, voices rose in entwined questions:
"What's happening? Why doesn't anyone tell us what's going on? You
tell us why we should stay calm?"

"I repeat, stay calm." He had found a pedestal of some sort, and
she caught a glimpse of his dark hair, of his ID held up above him.
He was several hundred yards away. "Don't panic. You mustn't
panic."

"Oh, Mulder," she whispered. She wanted to bury her head into her
hands and weep at the dear, noble stupidity of the man. As if it
could make a difference.... As if telling a crowd not to panic
would do anything but _make_ them panic....

And she knew that he had known it himself. "I've got to try," he
had said, and his eyes had told her that he had known the likely
outcome.

"Stay calm." His voice again. "The police here will arrange for you
to be given what you need. The authorites will cover the payment."

She began to push at the crowd. He was stupid - insanely stupid -
but she wanted to be at his side, holding her ID aloft beside his.

The crowd swelled again. A harsh voice carried above the others,
shouting wildly about the authorities being to blame, about
refusing to trust.

"Stay calm." His voice was beginning to sound strained. "We can
fight this. Together, we can fight them - fight it."

An elbow jammed into her path and she beat at it, wildly, no longer
caring who she hit. She had to get to him - had to.

Somewhere, a car engine sounded.

Close to him, there was a swell of noise. Angry shouts, accusing.
"Authority," she heard, in a collective voice bitter with hatred,
and "where were you two nights ago?"

"Mulder!" she shouted, out loud, though she was too far away for
him to hear. Bodies were pressed into a wall, pushing her back. She
was close enough now to see his face and his shoulders, above the
crowd.

A hand grabbed her and she glanced away from him, shaking her arm
furiously to remove it. The voice of the crowd swelled like
thunder.

"Calm...."

A gun shot.

Her head whipped round. "Mulder," she gasped. "Mulder."

He was not there. Heads of all colours in the crowd, all at one
level. He had been head and shoulders above the rest, and he was
not there.

"Mulder." She pushed forward, mind screaming, clawing at the crowd
with no thought of who she was touching. They seemed to part before
her. She flew.

"Mulder!"

The sound of the crowd was different. The anger had gone. They were
blank-faced, muttering quietly. They seemed ashamed.

<Mulder> she screamed inside. <Mulder!> Her hand touched her gun.
<If you killed him, I'll kill you. All of you. All of you who
watched and let it happen....>

"What did you do?" She closed her hand round a random shoulder, and
dragged the person round to face her. It was a girl of eighteen,
blonde and pretty. Her face was a mask of fear. She showed no
mercy. "What did they do to him? Where is he?"

The girl's mouth opened. She spoke incoherently only - no clear
words.

Scully pushed her away in disgust.

"Mulder!" She imagined that ths crowd had fallen silent - that all
were open-mouthed, listening to her grief, and smiling at it. She
felt as if she was in the maw of a wild animal. "Mulder!" Then she
turned round a complete circle, scanning the crowd. "What have you
done to him?"

Silence. The crowd murmured and shouted, but it was silence to her.
They said no words that she wanted to hear.

And then she saw it....

An overturned box, a discarded bullhorn, and blood....

Until that point, she had not once thought to cry.

"Mulder." She sank to her knees, and reached out a hand for the
blood, gently, as if touching a relic. "Mulder...."

He had gone.

******

end of section 5

end of part 1

******

Part 2 is written, and will follow shortly, after a little more
editing. Remember, feedback is food to weary writers engaged in
the thankless task of editing. I will doubtless get part 2 out
faster if I thought people were eagerly awaiting it....

I'll probably stick the draft version part 2 on my webpage, before
posting it properly. The first few scenes are there already.

******

Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk

Deep Background (X-Files fanfic research) and my fanfic:
http://www.astolat.demon.co.uk/