The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Download Other stories by Pellinor From: Pellinor Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1998 07:55:58 +0100 Subject: The Unconquered Flame (1/2) by Pellinor "The Unconquered Flame" part 1 of 2 by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) ___ CLASSIFICATION: XARH. (A whole alphabet of classification. Angst: Yes. Romance: Slight MSR. Humour: Probably. Satire: Yes, but what of? Just don't expect to roll on the floor laughing in part one, or weep with anguish in part two.) SUMMARY: The truth is found where you least expect it. The true enemy could be just like you, or me... RATING: PG. Some small mild violence. SPOILERS: Movie. Not a "flickfic", but still addresses a few post- movie character issues, before moving onto other things. DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox own these people. I derive no profit from their use. ARCHIVE: Freely. Already posted to ATXC yesterday, though. ****** It glistened like cold steel, the blood. Impassive eyes in the shadows watched the growing pool; watched the vain imploring desperation of the dying woman's hand. Pale, delicate fingers dripping in red. The watcher smiled. "Writing? Still?" The woman was hanging to life by a single thread. She dipped in her own blood, moved, and made her mark. A long stroke down, thick and almost black. A diagonal stroke, thinning to nothing. Agonies of painful loud breathing before the fingers were red again, then a quick stroke away, and back. Writing. An "M." The watcher blinked. The blood-dimmed knife was ready for a second blow, should the woman's hold on life prove too strong. The pale hand flickered with quick, sweeping strokes. The letters became sense - half a word, but unmistakable. The watcher's smile faded and quick anger surged. "You're calling to _him_? Why? You think he can save you? Avenge you?" Tortured eyes hardened into defiance. The word was completed, and the woman could do no more. She was dying, she was dying, and powerless as her murderer stepped forward, hand outstretched as if to smear the word into oblivion. "Why call to him?" The killer's fingers closed round the white lifeless wrist. "_This_ truth would destroy him." The woman died. It was nothing. "Destroy him?" The killer's mouth curled. The hand withdrew. "Yes. Ah, yes." A dead woman, stretched on the floor, her fingers authoring blood. "Mulder," it read. "Mulder." Her murderer gave a low chuckle, stepping back with footsteps loud on the bare floor. "Destroy him, and who will watch him fall, every - step - of the - way?" The laugh was all the answer. ****** She watched the curve of his back beneath his jacket. She watched his arm reaching out, and the intensity of his curled reflective fingers. She watched the almost silver highlights in his hair, and the deep shadow the overhead light cast on the back of his neck. She watched him breathe. She swallowed. "Mulder?" Nothing. He uncurled his fingers, turned his palm upwards as if to study it. She cleared her throat. "Mulder?" She felt like an outsider, a voyeur. Events that should have brought them closer together were making them strangers. She was losing him. He brought his hand into the light, and there was blood marring his fingertips. "Mulder?" She took a step forward. "Do you know her?" She could have counted to ten, long slow seconds, before he answered. He turned his head, but stopped short of looking at her. "No," he murmured softly. His eyes were dark with regret. "I don't know. She called for me, and I don't know." She sighed, pressing one hand against her forehead, hiding the quick surge of familiar anger. His guilt was so predictable, so self-indulgent. It was as if he alone could save the world, and every single being on it. Every tragedy was his own fault; every danger was his to solve. He had always been prone to this behaviour, but, since coming back from Antarctica, it had been terrible. She had managed to claw her way up the icy chasm back to normality, but he was still there, still at the bottom. She wondered what filled his dreams, now. She saw him now, crouching, eyes wide like a dog, waiting. Wearily, she obliged, throwing him his bone, his verbal pat on the head. It was what he expected. "It's not your fault, Mulder. You've done all you could." It was their old ritual. She patted his head; he bit her hand. She threw him his lifeline, and he kicked it aside. "Why did she write my name, Scully? She trusted me to find the truth. I feel nothing, here. Nothing." She couldn't say it - not yet. The pain in his eyes were real, whatever anger she might feel about its source. She took a deep breath, wrapping her arms tightly round her body. "It doesn't matter, Mulder," she said, softly. "There are still... still answers out there for us to find. There's more to solving a case than... than magical insights." He closed his eyes. "She called for me." Still closed, as if he preferred to see the gargoyle demons of the darkness than to see her face, to see reality. she thought, suddenly. She sighed. She knew some of the anger was seeping into her voice. "It might not be you, Mulder. She just wrote 'Mulder.' It might not be you." "Not me?" He gave a strange, wry laugh. Even when she knew his moods so well, he could always surprise her. "What are the odds?" She conceded the battle, but would not lose the war. "Then it might be someone who knows _of_ you, but not someone you know. You've spoken at conferences. You've written articles. You've appeared on the Jerry Springer show, for God's sake." His mouth twisted in a smile. "I know, Scully." Then he was serious again, intense. "I know what you're thinking, Scully, but it's not like that. Whoever she was, this woman..." He closed his eyes again, as if steadying himself, then opened them again. "She was dying, in pain. You saw her injuries, Scully. Yet she spent her last minutes struggling - struggling in agony - to write my name. Why did she do that? Because she trusted me to solve this. It is my duty." She felt so weary of it all. They skirted round the issues. It was never the right time. It was... His eyes were on her, expectantly, needing her blessing, her hands laid in benediction. "I know," she said, slowly. "To do all we can. If we can't, then..." She shrugged. "Some cases can't be solved. There's no blame." He pushed himself to his feet, and there was a sudden fire of defiance in his eyes. "It's not just for her that I need to solve it. You know that, Scully." "I know that." She touched the back of his hand - just a gentle touch - then pulled away, feeling her cheeks redden. Before, they had touched without a thought, offering and receiving comfort. But everything had changed. Their near-kiss hung between them, never once talked about, poisoning everything. she resolved, suddenly. "I feel they're watching us, waiting for us to fail." He spoke loudly, as if, even here, _they_ were listening. Although absolved of any involvement in the Dallas bombing, they both felt they - Mulder, in particular - were still on probation, their every move scrutinised by an administration longing for them to make a mistake. The X-Files were open in theory, but on paper only. They had not been allowed near any cases. "Then we won't fail." It was aimed, not at silent listeners, but at her own doubts, and Mulder's guilt. She took a deep breath, forcing herself back onto the case. "What have we got?" She flipped back through her notes. Mulder, of course, had taken none. "Sarah Harrison, aged 25, unmarried, no children. Neighbours seldom saw her, never spoke to her. Apparently spent whole weekends in her apartment, never going out. Killed by an intruder who stabbed her in the chest, puncturing her left lung, killing her within minutes. No sign of robbery." She swallowed. "And, for some reason, she called for you." Mulder was walking round the room, running a gloved hand across the contents of the bookcases. "Paranormal books." His voice was the same monotone as hers, reciting bald facts. "UFOs, psychic phenomena... Nothing advanced. A book on martial arts - was she learning how to defend herself? A.." And something changed in his voice. Her head snapped up, hearing the vibration of suppressed emotion. No listener would even have heard it, but she knew him well, now. "A guide to Martha's Vineyard..." Then a noise set her heart racing, making her hand seek her gun. She was closed round it, half drawing it, before she saw the identity of the intruder. "A cat," Mulder said, impassive, though she could tell that he was enjoying her alarm. "One black and white cat, name of..." He crouched down, reaching for the metal disc on the cat's collar. "Name of... of... Samantha." He swallowed audibly. The cat bit him. She said nothing. There was nothing she _could_ say, no comfort she could give that would not trivialise his emotion, and render it laughable. No. "Computer." On the surface, he recovered quickly, but she knew he was still reeling from the reminder. He was speaking like an automaton now, the hurt man hidden deep within. "What was she doing all those days alone in this house?" He reached out and switched the machine on. She stepped forward, close enough beside him to hear his breathing. "Hard drive's been formatted," she murmured, staring at the screen. He slammed a fist on the cheap desk, setting it shaking. A piece of paper floated to the floor. Silently, Scully bent to pick it up. "What did she have on them?" His fist was white, curled tightly. Blood welled from his wrist, where the cat had bitten him. "This... It was to silence her, Scully. She knew something - something they didn't want known. They killed her to silence her, and wiped the evidence." He was sifting violently through the desk drawers. "No floppies, Scully. Nothing. They silenced her. They must not be allowed silence her." She swallowed. She held the paper in tense, shaking fingers. "Not just her, Mulder. There are more." ***** She watched the lock of hair that fell over his brow. She watched the intensity of his eyes as he leant forward to speak to the man sitting in front of him. She watched his forearms, strong and muscular, revealed beneath his casually rolled back white sleeves. She watched him breathe. He was talking. Beverley Murphy reached out a quick hand and turned the volume up, cursing him for mumbling, his lips turned away from the microphone. Camera angles and acoustics were never good in the Lone Gunmen's office. With their typical paranoia, they had searched for and found all the best surveillance devices. "...anything on any of these names?" he was asking, handing over a piece of paper to the small man she believed was called Frohicky... or Frohicke. She was never sure of how to spell it. Not that it mattered now - not until she came to write down what she had seen. _They_ dealt mercilessly with such mistakes. "We'll do what we can," the one with a beard said. Then he cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "Have you got my suit back yet, Mulder?" She sighed, bored already. The cameras would continue to monitor; _she_ didn't need to watch every second of it. She would be told if there was anything worthy of attention. Instead, she turned to her second VCR, inserted a tape, pressed play, and settled down into her chair with a contended sigh. It was a stroke of genius, installing that surveillance camera in the hallway. The death throes of the man Mulder called X was one thing, but this... this was sublime. "You saved me," his lips were saying. "You made me a whole person." His lips. Ah, his lips... She bit her own lips, suppressing a sob. Silent tears welled in her eyes. His lips, moving towards Scully's. His hands on her face. She half-closed her eyes and imagined the feel of his soft, cool hands on her skin, touching, stroking, loving. She smiled, falling into the fantasy. His lips, and the promise in his eyes. He was perfect for her; she was made for him. If only he could see it. If only he _knew_. She sank into the metaphor, enveloping herself with it. His lips would taste as sweet as honey; his hair would shine like a freshly opened jar, before it went granular; his eyes would... What else was honey that eyes also were? Honey was sweet, shiny, and was made by... On the screen, the bee stung. She pressed her hand against her mouth, realising. Ah, but perhaps it wasn't an inappropriate metaphor, not really. It was bold, daring, challenging. She would work on it in her mind, and craft it. He would melt. She clung to it. As Scully collapsed on screen, oblivious to the silent watching eye of the camera, Beverley Murphy heard the sound of incoming email. The fantasy faded. She paused the tape, then, on reflection, pressed stop. On the other screen, Mulder was still talking to the Lone Gunmen, but his hair was not as good as it had been in the hallway. She opened the email, and scanned the contents - only the first few lines. It was enough. She knew all she needed to know, and her stomach twisted in horror. "Oh, no, not again," she murmured. Eyes never moving from the screen, she reached for the knife in her drawer, closing her fingers lovingly around the handle. It was her defence. For there were things that needed defending - things more important than life. ****** "There's more than one." Scully started at his voice. Her mind had been drifting, planning what to say, how to talk about it. It terrified her. Expressing feelings, showing weakness and hurt... She would stand unwavering, gun steady, as a madman attacked her partner, but this... _this_... "Mmm?" she said vaguely, recognising his need for a response. "More than one killer." Outside, the sky had darkened to a deep velvet blue. Without an office of their own, working only from desks in a large shared room, they had decided by mutual silent consent to work from her apartment. No-one watching them there, noting their every move, their every look. "I've called up the files on the other murders." He gestured at the piece of paper she had found, with the print-out of four newspaper articles about four different deaths. "Finger prints were found at two of them, but they're different. There's no common method of killing, no common profile of the victims - all ages, three women, one man. There's no reason at all to link them all." "Except that Sarah Harrison had a record of them," she said, flatly. He nodded. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but was silent. "What is it, Mulder?" she asked, wearily. She recognised the signs. In his mind, he had already added two and two and made five. "Those reports... Those words she'd written on them?" She blinked, but said nothing, refusing to let him take short cuts. He would have to fight for his explanation, word for word. He sighed. "Next to the report of Amy Clarke's death, she'd written 'Starlight.' She'd written 'Gandalf' next to Richard Vaughan's name, and 'Tiger Eyes' and 'Roswell Rose' on the other two. What do these sound like to you, Scully? Code-names." "Code-names," she echoed, dully. Yes... "It's a group. A cult, perhaps, but I believe it was _created_, Scully." His eyes were fire. "We've seen things like this before. Those soldiers who couldn't sleep... Brought together, welded together by unnatural means for some sinister purpose, then discarded. What process did they test on these people, Scully?" But he was looking inwards, not speaking to her at all. "Hiding in her apartment... She knew they were coming for her. Did she spend her last months desperately recording the truth on her computer, before sending her last mute appeal?" "These murders don't look like an... an elimination," she said, softly. She had read the autopsies, and the they were amateur, clumsy even. "Any why leave the bodies?" "Misdirection." He was certain of this. "Make it look like random, unconnected killings, so no-one puts them together - no-one looks any further." "Then why did they wipe away your name?" Cold fear grasped her by the throat, squeezing. "They had time to wipe the computer, Mulder. _Why didn't they wipe away your name_?" It hung heavily in the air between them. It was only afterwards that she realised that she had never once questioned the rest of what he was saying. Once, long ago, she would have laughed. His eyes pleaded with her to let it go. "I've asked the guys to run a check on those code-names." "No." She surprised herself with her vehemence. "We can't go on like this, Mulder." It was time. God, it was time. She could lose him. He blinked, his face a picture of innocence, but she could see the creeping fear far beneath. "Since we came back from the Antarctic... God, Mulder - you've carried the world on your shoulders. We're further apart than we ever were. You... Why, Mulder? Why are you... why are you as you are?" "You want to know?" It was a harsh bark, cruel. "Really?" She could find no words. She had expected to have to prise it out from him, word by word. She had expected it to take hours, and to lead nowhere. She had expected... What had she expected? She swallowed hard. "Yes." She folded her hands in her lap, hiding the white shaking fingers from him. "Yes, Mulder. I really want to know. We're partners." "An enemy died for me. He told me the whole world's at stake. He told me I held in my hands the only chance of saving the world. Every day that ends.... What have I done, Scully? Days come, and go, and what have I done? I don't know how to save the world. I..." Silent tears were welling in his eyes, but, strangely, he was laughing. "Even if I got the X-Files back... Even if I found.... Samantha. How could I feel joy at that, Scully? It would be the day I _only_ found Samantha - another day I didn't save the world." She was lost - totally lost. She wanted to laugh; she wanted to scream. She wanted to hold him. "You wanted to leave, Scully." He changed tack, grief etching deep lines in his face. It was if it all he had said so far was only preliminary, and _this_ was the heart of it. It was as if, to him, one person was more important than the world. "You were going to go without even seeing me. Why did you stay? I told you to go. Why did you stay? Because I came to Antarctica to rescue you and you feel it's your duty." "No." The denial snapped out of her as if it was anger. He reacted as if she had slapped him. She moved across to him, crouching at his feet. "No," she said, quieter but still firm. _This_ as least was a guilt she could assuage. "Not that, Mulder. Never that." "I..." She knew him now. She could argue words forever, and still he would not - could not - believe. She needed more than words. "Mulder." She put her finger on his lips, then slid it gently away. Then she pulled his head down towards her, hands cupped on his cheeks, pulling his soft unresponsive lips to hers. It was sexless; it was chaste; but it was a promise fulfilled. "I did that of my own free will, Mulder," she murmured. She felt the moisture of his tears on her cheeks. "But..." "Own free will, Mulder." She smiled. "My choice." He closed his eyes. "The X-Files..." "Then we'll get them back." She closed her fingers round his hand, holding him. "Or we'll do what we can without them. Or we'll quit the FBI and pursue them ourselves." She smiled. "There's always a way, Mulder." "The Project..." She sighed. "One man alone can't stop what..." She thought carefully. "What you believe they are doing to the world. It was wrong of that man to make to believe you could - to put that responsibility on you." She tightened her grip on his hand. "And, even if you could.... It's not one man alone, Mulder. We're together on this. Together." He exhaled, long and shaky. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He was preparing to speak, and she knew it would be pivotal. Chewing her lip, she waited. "Do you have an answer for everything, woman?" He gave a shaky smile. "Yes." She nodded. They both knew it was a lie, but they knew the truth it represented. He shook his head slowly, the smile fading. His eyes clouded. "It's not..." "I know it's not over, Mulder." She gave a sad smile. One conversation couldn't heal a lifetime. "But it's a start, isn't it?" He said nothing, but she let herself read acceptance in his eyes. Maybe... In silence, his hand moved to her cheek. She stiffened. "Free will?" he murmured. His voice was shaking; his hand was shaking. "Yes." It was no more than a breath. "I've never been kissed before." It came out in a rush, so soft it was barely audible. "I've had kisses of passion, and kisses of power. I've never had..." She had never been as aware of the silence as she was then. It seemed to envelope her, beating around her like feathered wings. "Healing," the wisp of his breath said. "Union." She swallowed. Her throat was aching with unshed tears. She forced a laugh, unable to bear it any other way. "Maybe, if you wait, you'll get lucky with the other types, too." His eyes were solemn. "Mulder?" His eyes flickered. There was some emotion there that she could not read. It was almost... fear? "If it is a trap, Scully... I have to look, you know." She let out a breath, fighting the sudden stab of hurt. She knew what he was. He was driven - a man obsessed with his work. If she loved him, it was for what he was. He would always leave her mid- kiss if a lead came up in a case. It _was_ him, and she should expect nothing else. So she just smiled sadly, and said, "I know." "We've been so close, so often. In the end, it always slips away - they steal it. It makes it so hard to keep hoping, Scully. I have to. I _have to._" She had seen the same look in his eyes, in the darkness of a motel room on their first case. He had suffered so much, but the intensity was still there, still burning. "It's part of me." "I know." And only then did tears escape her eyes. Loving him was to live with losing him, every single day. Every single day. ***** "You're late." The voice was pure menace. "You kept us waiting." "I'm sorry." The dying man's voice was an agonised choke. His ribs had been shattered with the first few blows of the bat; his vocal chords bruised by a glancing deflection of a later one. "I did what I could. It's too much work. I've had..." A gasp. "Problems. I tried." "You're late. We depend on you, and you let us down." Eyes burning with fury. White fingers dug into the man's neck, squeezing. "I tried." He struggled past the hands, pleading for his life even as his life departed. "I've never... failed in the... past. I've... I've always been... on time. I've never... received... payment. The group's... never thanked me... when all goes... well." And he died. The killer stood up, rubbing her hands together as if brushing away the taint of contact with the dead man. "Late," she smiled. "Late now, anyway." She laughed, reaching into her pocket for a well-worn notebook and pen. She wrote a few words, then laughed again. "Good pun," she murmured. "I'll use that." In a corner of the room, a spider, unseen, completed its web, licked its lips, and waited. ****** "Nothing on those names." Byers spoke without preamble. "We tried all our..." He gave a discreet cough. "Contacts." "Nothing at all?" Mulder sighed. Things were beginning to go well with Scully. He had been almost certain of a breakthrough on the case as well. "Well..." Frohike looked up from his screen. "I found your victim - your Sarah Harrison. A _very_ heavy Internet user, according to her phone records. We found her ISP, and they say she used to have a website." Something in his voice made Mulder start. "Used to?" He leant forward. "Yes," Langley chipped in. Mulder had always thought these guys were wasted in their office, and should be on screen. It was the perfect comic act - light-relief, maybe, in a serious thriller. They shared a conversation, but never did more than one of them speak at once. It was almost as if they were scripted. "Someone had their site closed down." Byers. "Maybe sent a virus through email that erased the hard drive, too." Frohike. "Anonymous tip-off. Someone said it was obscene." Langley. "The ISP says they kept no records of who it was, and claim they didn't even look at the site." "Just closed it down when someone asked them to." One of them. Mulder had closed his eyes. The three blurred into one, sometimes, anyway. "I don't believe it," he said, firmly. "No ISP would just close down a site on an anonymous complaint, without warning, and without looking at it." He felt the quickening inside him that came when he was closing in. "They're not telling the truths. They're afraid. They were... persuaded." The three men nodded, in perfect unison, but in their own slightly differing styles. Frohike's glasses wobbled; a lock of Langley's hair fell over his face. "It was them," Mulder declared. He slammed a fist onto a convenient table top, setting coffee cups rattling. "Them." "Of course." Byers' eyes shone above his well-kept beard. "Someone _really_ didn't like what she was trying to tell the world." "Disliked it enough to kill," Frohike finished. It was not a question. "I..." And then Mulder was interrupted by the sound of his phone. He pulled it from his pocket. "Scully?" He spoke into the silence. "What is it?" "Not Scully, Agent Mulder." He clutched the phone tightly. He heard menace in that voice, and all he could think of was that Scully was not with him - that Scully was out there. "Who is this?" "I have something you want, Agent Mulder." ****** end of part one ****** "The Unconquered Flame" part 2 of 2 by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) ___ Summaries and such like in part one. ****** "What do you have?" Mulder grabbed the woman by the shoulders, eyes burning. He had obeyed her in every word, coming alone, unarmed, to the deserted warehouse she named. He had had so many phone calls, so many clandestine meetings, so little real information from any of them... God, he was so weary of this. "Why did you call me?" "I have the truth..." Her eyes shone. "The truth... and a warning. Which do you want first." "The truth," he echoed, then realised with a start that he had answered her question. It was absurd. "What game are you playing here?" "No game." Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with red and shadowed grey. She looked at home in the darkness of the warehouse, as if sunlight would pain her. She shrugged, gave a crooked laugh. "Maybe it was a game, at first." "Are you one of them?" he asked, sharply. "One of the group that's dying? Are you like Gandalf and Starlight, and Roswell Rose? _Are you one of them?_" She seemed to be battling tears. Her throat worked convulsively. "Yes." He took deep breaths, forcing his anger away, forcing himself to be gentle with her. "Am I right about you? How did they bring you together? What skills did you have? What did they do to you?" He gave a mirthless laugh. "And it _was_ Them, of course." It was not a question. "In a way," she answered, slowly. "Ironic that you should say so, but, in a way, _they_ brought us together. We all... know of them, anyway. We are intimately concerned with their doings... and yours." "Why are they killing you?" He grabbed her arm. "Are you scared, is that it? I'll take care of you. I'll protect you. I'll make sure they don't hurt you." She gave a harsh laugh. "Didn't you say exactly the same to your sister, before they dragged her into the lab... Oh." She clapped her hand to her mouth. "That didn't happen, not really. I'm sorry. They seem so real, sometimes, that I get confused." He felt as if he was drowning, his legs pulled towards the bottom by some strong sea monster. "What do you know about my sister?" he choked. He remembered the cat, too. "Nothing." She seemed genuinely upset. "I'm sorry. It wasn't your sister - not really. It's just..." She pressed her hand against her mouth, muffling her words. "Just something I read somewhere," it sounded like. "I..." He gasped for breath, heart loud an his ears. It was a struggle, but he had to return to the case, had to forget - God, had to forget... "Why are they killing you?" he asked, voice mechanical. "They're not." Bitter hate flashed in her eyes. "We're killing each other. We were invincible - we could do anything - and now we're killing each other. There's nothing left." "Why are you killing each other?" He felt the dark warehouse push down on him, menacing and watchful. Nothing was safe. Friends became enemies. "They've controlled your minds so you kill each other and no-one suspects them? LSD in the water? Television signals?" She threw back her head and laughed. It was a terrible sound. "Ah, there's an idea," she said, when she could speak again. "I love it." Then she sighed deeply, painfully. "No, Mulder. It's not a conspiracy. It's just.... I don't know what it is. We were once great, but we're killing each other. Soon, there'll be no-one left. Everything... It will all be gone." "Great?" he echoed. "What did you do?" His mind raced, full of images. He saw psychic killers. He saw remote viewing specialists, and hybrids, and healers. "We... " She smiled, lost in nostalgia. "We _created_. We were makers. We made strong men cry. We made lonely men smile. We made organisations fall, then built them up, only to make them fall again. We hurt; we healed. We said the words, and, in our world, it was done." Tears were falling unchecked, now. "Tell me." He felt excitement like a surging wave. There was joy unparalleled in her remembering. He wanted to share in it - to _be_ it. "Please tell me." Excitement snapped off like a light switch. "No." She cried it, screamed it. "Don't - push - any - further." Every word clearly enunciated. "It will destroy you, Mulder. Please. Hear me. Know only that it is between _us._ We are killing each other; don't let us kill you. Step away." "I can't do that." Low and intense. "You seem to know me. Know this." She sighed, face a mask of pain and regret. "I shouldn't have come. I wanted to give you enough to satisfy you; enough to stop you looking further. I wanted to save you. God, I hate whoever it was that let your name stand. That silly Sarah, writing it... The person who killed her left it deliberately, you know. I could kill them." "Why did they leave it?" He thought he knew the answer. "To lure you in. To trap you. To destroy you." Her eyes were cold steel. "Some of our group love watching you suffer. Believe me, you have not suffered a fraction of what some of them have planned for you, in their minds." A cold shudder crept along his spine. He was chilled beyond questioning. "They'll kill me, of course." Her voice was surprisingly matter of fact. "Telling you this... I'm dead. I felt it was right. I felt it was... it was my duty." Mulder swallowed hard. "I'll..." "No." She laughed ruefully. "You can't. I know you. You _will_ carry on looking, and it _will_ destroy you. I will have died in vain." She looked around, gesturing with her arms. "The warehouse is fitting, isn't it? I chose it carefully. Mysterious angst- ridden woman who warns the hero away from danger and pays for it with her life... I liked that role." She sighed. "But you won't step away, will you?" She reached into her coat for a pen and paper. "Maybe I should change it and become the mysterious informant who gives some information, when the author is stuck for a more creative way of giving said information." Mulder frowned. She was clearly insane, but he didn't doubt her veracity. He never did. "Look... What's your name?" "Mary," she said, darkly, then gave a small giggle. "Mary Sue." And then a shot rang out and killed her. Mulder crouched down, running his fingers across her face, feeling her blood seep into his knees. he thought. From her dead fingers, fluttered a piece of paper - a piece of paper with one word written on it: "Spiderweb." ****** "I can't believe you killed them." Beverley Murphy held the knife in one hand, and the throat of her victim in the other. She hissed through gritted teeth. "You killed them. It's evil. It's sinful. It's gratuitous. It's absurd." "I..." The victim struggled for breath. "I had the best of intentions. It was _right_, within the context. I couldn't have done it any other way." "You killed them. It is _never_ right." Beverley, gently, as if writing, moving the tip of the knife over the other woman's chest. A tracery of red was left in its wake, but it was not ink. "You just aimed to shock." "I didn't. I gave the correct warnings." The other woman was panicking now, lashing around on the floor with eyes wide with horror and pain. "You are wrong. Killing is never right. Everyone should be happy. It's how it should be. It's how it _is_." The woman's white blouse was almost half red, now. "That's only your opinion." The words sounded weak, strained. "You have a right to that opinion, but it's only opinion - in my opinion." "Can't you see?" Beverley hissed the words out, her face pushed close to the other woman's face, spittle flying into her eyes. "Killing them is wrong. It draws the wrong attention to us. It puts us all at risk." "And what you're doing doesn't?" The woman could hardly speak, now. Her eyes were lolling, her hands limp by her side. "Why is _this_ right?" And, in an instant, everything had changed. The victim became the victor, her hands closing round a pen, lunging up and plunging it into her attacker's throat. With a limp bubble, Beverley Murphy died. "I've always wanted to do that," the woman said, pulling herself painfully from beneath the body of her would be murderer. A variety of literary and movie references vied with each other in her head, before she resorted for the trite, and muttered something about 'mightier than the sword.' She stabbed Beverley again, head tilted on one side, watching the blood flow. "Interesting," she murmured. "I never knew it went quite like that. Or..." Again. "Or sounded quite like that." Then she gingerly touched the wound on her chest. "And I have a whole new reservoir of experience to draw upon, too." She smiled, and turned to her computer. ****** "Spiderweb." Byers' voice was solemn, like a tolling bell. He didn't speak; he intoned. "What?" Mulder was impatient, speaking into the phone. It was getting late, and he had an evening planned with Scully. Though much had been discussed, much still remained. Unspoken promises were still to be fulfilled. "Spiderweb." Frohike, this time, as if the three of them shared a phone, faces pressed up against each other, taking turns to speak. "We didn't find it at first. They've protected themselves against search engines - hidden themselves away. They're afraid that, drawing attention to themselves, they'll be closed down." "What is it?" His interest was piqued. When he shut his eyes, he could still see the woman who had died to tell him this. "A domain name." "A website." "More. Much more." "What?" he all but shouted. "Tell me." Silence. Silence. Total, utter, silence. "Guys?" Fear stirred inside him. "Guys? What...?" "You should come over." Byers sounded as if he would rather be anywhere but here, now, telling this news. "It's... God, Mulder. It's terrible." ****** Mulder's face was white - sheer, chalk white. She herself felt like retching, screaming, shooting.... killing. "They..." He sounded like a dying man. "They... watch..." She counted to ten, seeking control. "Perhaps they're as much victims as we are, Mulder. After all, _they_ have been manipulated, teased... tempted." She didn't believe it, but it was too much. She couldn't live with hating a thousand faceless people. There was one to blame most of all, and he could be brought to justice. Maybe. "How did...?" There was blood trickling from his palm, blood behind his nails. "How could...?" She sighed. It was all there, in terrible permanence - words etched in black on a computer screen. She would stay calm, stay calm, stay.... She would stay calm, recite the facts, and.... and.... Their lives were surveilled. Cameras and microphones at all points, never leaving them alone. Enemies watching them at every step - watching... them... Deep breath. Someone in the Consortium was taking the tapes, editing them to remove the "boring" parts, quoting their words out of context... Someone in the Consortium, calling himself Chris Carter, was circulating the tapes on the Internet, subscription only. A cry of anguish. In a secret sub-culture that the world knew nothing of, they, Mulder and Scully, were stars, and their sufferings were cult viewing. And then there was the group within the group - a group that found their lives so compelling that they wrote what they called "fan fiction" about it. A group that lived through voyeurism, prying into their minds, writing "post-episode vignettes", putting thoughts into their heads. <"I wonder what I'll buy for tomorrow's dinner." _That's_ what I was thinking as we stood at Modell's hospital bed. Pizza, I think it was. Ham and mushroom.> It was a group that knew no boundaries. It was a group that looked on Mulder, and saw, not the sensitive, hopeful, tormented man that she knew, but an experimental subject - like a spider in the eyes of a boy, wanting to see how hard he could pull at its legs before they fell off. It was a group that looked at them in a case conferences, and wondered what they would look like with no clothes on. It was a group that looked at Mulder and _Skinner_ in a case conference, and wondered what they would look like with no clothes on. She bit her lip. She had liked some of those ones... It was a group that was killing itself. "I found their newsgroup: alt.tv.x-files.creative," Byers said, tentatively, cutting into her thoughts. "Most of them have been kept off Deja News, but some of the... er... discussions are still there." It had hit them hard, too. Byers had gone all teary at the stories that talked of his wife; Frohike was still speechless, rocking in a corner and muttering "Skinner"; Langley looked as if he was sulking. "No stories about me," he had been heard to say, before lapsing into silence. "What?" She glanced at Mulder, but he was rocking, in a counterpoint to Frohike's. He had found a site with the words "Mulder" and "Anonymous" somewhere in the title, and it had hit him hard. "Those code-names you found...." Byers looked at the others, but they didn't join in. He was on his own. He wiped a tear from his eyes. "They're all here, as authors. Roswell Rose..." He opened up an article, then closed it quickly, coughing discreetly. "She wrote a story which she mislabelled as 'slash', but it was... ahem... something else. People didn't like it. She was flamed, then she was killed." "The others?" "Several of the others..." He wiped a hand over his brow. "Several wrote stories in which y... in which the main characters died, in ways that were considered gratuitous. It sparked a huge flame war. All the participants are now dead." She swallowed.
She felt sick. "Sarah Harrison?" How could her voice stay so level? "She had a website devoted to the Cult of Colton, and wrote NC-17 stories about him. Someone took exception to it, and reported her site for obscenity. It was closed down. She didn't know who did it, but accused a few people anyway. Accusations flew." He looked at the floor, pained. "They're all dead." "Spiderweb," she murmured, after a pause. "Evil. Inescapable. Sucks people in and enmeshes them in a sticky mass of fear and hatred..." "It's their archive," he said, helpfully. "Was, anyway. It appears..." He cleared his throat. "The archivist was late in updating, and it appears someone's killed him for it." "Why?" she burst out. She slammed her fist on the desk. Mulder looked up, blinking like a mole emerging from he darkness and not liking what he could see. "Why?" "Because of me." Mulder sobbed, face twisted in pain. "It's all my fault." It was the only thing that could get her past her anger. She was at his side, all concern. "Why?" Her voice was only for him. "What did you read there?" "I read..." He swallowed. "Mulder-angst, they call it. I... I never thought of feeling guilty about Melissa, but they're right... They all have me feeling guilty about Melissa, and Deep Throat, and X, and your dog, and... and... things I can't even remember. They're right. Even they can see it, and I didn't. I'm sorry, Scully. It's all my fault." She took a deep steadying breath, but it didn't steady her at all. She took another, and another, then gave up. "Mulder," she said, unsteadily. "Don't believe them. They're sick." "They're dead." Tears ran down his face. "If it wasn't for me existing, they wouldn't have been writing, and if they hadn't been writing, they wouldn't have been fighting, and if they hadn't been fighting, they wouldn't have been killing, and..." "Stop." She pressed a hand against his mouth, then remembered the things she had read in the "NC-17 MSR" section, and snatched her hand away. "No, Mulder. I will not have you feeling guilty for it. Anger - that's what we should be feeling. Anger. Loss of control. I prize control above all things - that's what they seem to think anyway." Strange. She had never noticed that before, but they were right in some things. Not about the shampoo, though. She was allergic to strawberries. She shook her head abruptly. "I prize control, yet they are taking over my life, and writing voyeuristic adventures about me. It's not our fault, Mulder." He was silent, lost in a morass of guilt. She slapped him. "Mulder," she said, sharply. "Mulder. Come back to me now." Nothing. "Mulder. Damn it, Mulder." She shook him. Nothing. An appreciative whistle from Frohike. He had uncurled, stopped rocking, and was now reading.... She slapped his hand. "Put that away, Frohike. There is not a chance in Hell of us doing that." ***** "Where can we go?" They had left the Gunmen, heading into.... where? They were alone, clinging to each other in the rain, feeling like Adam and Eve pushed out of Paradise, surrounded by evil on all sides. There were eyes in their apartment; there were eyes in the office; there were eyes in their cars; there were eyes... "Everywhere." And everything went black. ***** Scully woke to a headache. she thought, blearily, though the pain. She was delirious. She was confused. She shook her head abruptly to clear it, but the pain almost sent her back into unconsciousness again. "Wh...?" she began, then licked her dry cracked lips. "Where?" "Here." A woman's voice. She opened her eyes, wincing against the pain, and saw a face looking down on her. It was an ordinary looking face. It was.... "You're a writer?" she asked, with distaste. The woman smiled, nodded. "I write - yes. I never get much feedback. Someone told me once that my stories lack realism. I wrote a story once when Mulder was shot three times in the heart, but got better and took you to the FBI ball the next afternoon." She sighed. "Someone flamed me and said I hadn't done my research." "No. It's in the evening," she murmured. She had gone with Jack once, but Mulder never seemed to be keen. "So I want to do some research," the woman said, brightly. "I reckoned that, if I _really_ tortured Mulder, I could make sure that what I was writing was realistic." "Mulder!" Fear grabbed her by the throat. Ignoring the pain, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, pulling against the ropes that held her wrists and ankles, desperately scanning the small room. There was blood everywhere, daubed on the walls, on the floor. Daubed, too, on Mulder's limp body... "Mulder," she gasped, again. "Let me get to him. Untie me, damn you. _Let me get to him._" The woman sighed. All the light seemed to go from her face. "So I tortured him," she said, sadly. "It's not nearly as much fun when it's real, you know?" A red hand wiped at her watering eyes. "I think I'll have to face the fact that I'm a peaceful person at heart. I don't even step on flies, in reality, you know. Maybe I write Muldertorture because it's a.... I don't know.... A safe way of expressing emotions that I would never want to express in real life." Scully was barely listening. She was in an agony of torment, pulling at her bonds, struggling to see a movement - any movement - in a broken body of her partner. "Of course, I feel guilty now." The woman sounded almost accusing. "I know all about guilt." She reached behind her and pulled out Mulder's gun. "I wrote a 25 part epic all about Mulder and guilt. He wrestled with it for 600k, but, in the end, decided that the only solution to guilt on this scale is suicide." She pulled the trigger. "Of course..." The words were choked, bubbling with blood. "My feedback said that the characterisation was flawed and that he would..." Gasp. "Never... have... chosen.... suicide." Then silence. ****** "Oh, God!" The new voice was sweet, kind... and horrified. "I can't believe she did that." "Help." Scully raised her throbbing head, murmuring limply. Long minutes had dragged by, and still Mulder had not once moved. Blood from the dead woman was seeping into her clothes. "Please, help me." "God," the newcomer said again. It was another woman, but younger this time, and blonde. She pressed her hand to her mouth in horror. "Is it in character for me to untie her?" This last was addressed to another person, standing in the doorway. "You know how I once wrote a story when Scully needed a little help to fight off twenty monsters, and was flamed by the Scullyists saying I was treating her as a weak woman?" "No. Untie her, Jo," the other woman said. "Let her go to him. Let her hold him as he dies, and declare undying love for him. Let her promise that they will be together soon, as stars in the heaven. Let the guardian angel, Melissa, smile fondly, knowing her job is well done." Hands fumbled at the knots. Her wrists were weeping blood, from pulling, pulling at them, trying to get to him. "Oh, Mulder." She was by his side in a moment, feeling his pulse, oh so weak. "Mulder." Her hands were all over him, offering comfort, silently whispering words of strength. "Scul-ly," he managed, weakly, then coughed. Blood bubbled from his mouth. "Scully, I lo..." "Don't say it." The young woman, Jo, clapped her hand over his mouth. "Don't say it, or the shippers have won. Ambiguity - that's what we need. If you never _quite_ say it, then the shippers are happy, believing that you meant it really, and hoping every week that now, at last, is the time you'll really say it. At the same time, the non-shippers are happy, since you didn't say it, and they can imagine that you were never going to say it. 'I lo... lost my favourite video,' they can imagine you were going to say." "I lost my favourite video?" The other woman laughed derisively. "It was obvious he was going to say that he loves her. _Obvious._" "Ah, but think about it." Jo smiled slyly. "You're a shipper, right? What sort of stories do you most like to write? First time sex stories, right?" She gave a triumphant nod. "If they _really_ have sex for the first time, where are you then? It is real. It becomes canon. You can't ignore it. How can you imagine future first time sex, when they've already had a real first time sex?" The other woman looked thoughtful. "Maybe you're right." She held up her hand. "Just maybe." She frowned, thinking hard. "What about those stories when Pendrell's still alive, or Melissa... What about those stories when Krycek has two arms, or Fox was abducted instead of Samantha, or the X-Files were set in the 40s...? We are asking what if? We're not bound by canon." "But fanfic based on canon is more valid that fanfic that ignores it." Jo was warming up to her argument, eyes shining. "Anyone can write a flight of fantasy. Writing something plausible and believable, taking what we have been given, is more worthy of appreciation." "I think you're wrong there..." "I think you're both wrong." The two woman stopped, mouths hanging open. Where Mulder had been was a trail of blood, leading to the door. Panting, sweaty, as if she had dragged a large body to safety, stood Scully, gun raised, silhouetted against the doorway. Jo swallowed. "You can't kill us. We're the only two left." "Don't worry." The other woman spoke in a stage whisper. "She won't kill us. Remember Apocrypha. Even when she had the man who killed her sister at her mercy, she didn't kill him. It would be out of character for her to kill us." Jo frowned. "It all depends on whether Mulder's dead or not. If Mulder's dead, she would have nothing to lose. She could well hate us, associating us with that crazy Muldertorturer who killed us. Remember in Beyond the Sea, when she said she would personally kill Boggs if Mulder died. That was first season, as well, before their partnership deepened." "Love," the other woman corrected firmly. "You said partnership. Before their _love_ deepened." "Whatever." Jo shrugged. "I'm neither a shipper nor a non-shipper. I can see both sides. I just aim for reality, and I think she could well kill us." She swallowed. "Did you ever bother researching hostage negotiation techniques? I never did. I just wrote the emotions. I never bothered with research." "She won't kill us," the other woman repeated, voice growing exasperated. "It's out of character. If I read a story in which Scully, in a situation like this, killed us, I'd flame the author." Jo laughed, mirthlessly. "It all depends on whether Mulder's dead... You know, if I read a story in which he died, like this, without any warning, I'd flame the author, too." "Or, worse still, if the story just ended, and we didn't know if he was dead or not..." "Or if Scully killed us or not...?" "God, we'd flame them into oblivion." Two gunshots ended their laughter. ***** END ***** NOTES: Well, I nearly didn't post this story on this list, since it arose out of flames wars on the newsgroup that readers on this list may be happily unaware of. Then, when I posted it to the newsgroup, I got feedback from people who said that they'd never read any of the flame wars, but still found the story funny, so, here goes.. Or here went. BIG DISCLAIMER: No fanfic writers were harmed in the making of this story. I mean it. _These characters are fictional._ Any resemblance to real people is unintentional. Once again, I mean it. Yes, I know I make reference to real flame wars on ATXC in recent weeks, but that's as far as it goes. Don't look to find any specific fanfic writer in any of the characters and situations here. Please. But we all know who Mary Sue always is, don't we? Someone mentioned a few weeks ago that everyone's written a "Mary Sue", and it struck me that I'd never done so, so I thought she ought to make an appearance, and suffer her traditional noble death. ****** Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk http://www.astolat.demon.co.uk/ (Deep Background) http://www.carbonek.demon.co.uk/ (My fanfic) "If there's a point, Mulder, please feel free to come to it." The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Download Other stories by Pellinor /Please let us know if the site is not working properly. Set story display preferences . Do not archive stories elsewhere without permission from the author(s). See the Gossamer policies for more information. /