Each segment of this series is a single vignette; though they need to be read in sequence for the story to make sense, I prefer to think of each as its own individual piece. For this reason they have all been given their own subtitle, are labeled in single parts, and are individually rated. If you're counting, there are 21 parts altogether, and I'm sending them out in groups of 7 at a time. Here comes the required information: Title: CHIAROSCURO 10: TERROR (1/1) Author: Blueswirl @aol.com Classification: V,A, MSR Rating: PG Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 4th Season, Pre-"Leonard Betts" Summary: The past cannot help but have an irrevocable effect on the present. Distribution: Please distribute to the EMXC, XF Fanfic List, ATXC and Gossamer. Feel free to post this story on any other archive or web page as long as my name remains attached. Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods., Fox Inc. and most importantly to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. I'm using them for this story without permission. So sue me. Feedback: I love it more than you could ever know. Please drop me a line -- good, bad, whatever! -- at Blueswirl@aol.com. CHIAROSCURO 10: TERROR (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Consciousness came slowly. Her eyelids felt unbelievably heavy, and try as she might she couldn't coax them to open. She was untethered, disengaged, floating without an anchor. Trapped in a space with no beginning and no end. Surreal, endless, smooth as silk and equally impenetrable. Forever and ever, amen. When her eyes finally opened, it was of their own accord. Images danced in her vision and it took awhile for them to settle into patterns. A ceiling. White, and plain. Illuminated by soft light. Shadows in the corners, made from a lamp, not an overhead bulb. The edge of something dark, off to the side. A door, the frame of a door. Shadows cast by a fan, twirling somewhere off to the side, fluttering around in an easy, lazy rhythm. She could hear it whirring, but couldn't see the spinning blades from where she lay. For a time, that was it. The light of the lamp, the noise of the fan. And nothing else. Until she heard the sound of the door. It was the lock that she heard first, the distinct sound of the bolt sliding back. And then the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. It was the footsteps that caused the first twinge of panic to surge through her body, urging her to prepare for fight or flight. Someone was coming. It was time to get ready. Dana Scully was horrified to discover that she was completely unable to do so. She was totally unable to move. Now the panic cascaded over her in earnest as she tried to force her body to respond to her mind's commands. She could feel, could feel everything. The weight of the clothes on her body. The softness of the blankets that covered the bed on which she lay. The nerves and muscles in her arms and legs, in her fingers and toes. And yet she could not move. Not an inch. The footsteps grew louder as the figure approached, casting a tall, ominous shadow on the ceiling above her head. Dana could feel her heart beat faster as she lay, helpless, waiting. And then he was there. Looking down at her. The big blond man, from the car. The man who had taken her inside the abandoned barn. She searched for his name frantically and finally found it. Virgil. Dana tried to say his name but moving her lips was next to impossible. She could do nothing but lay there and watch as he loomed over her, his flat gray eyes raking over every inch of her body. Finally, he spoke. "You're awake." She tried to nod, but the simple gesture was beyond her ability. Virgil leaned forward and slipped his arms beneath her back, guiding her gently up to a sitting position. If she could have, Dana would have pulled away from his grasp, but she was unable to do anything but wait as he propped her up against the pillows. At least now she could see more of the room in which she was being kept. It was small, four white walls enclosing a sparsely furnished space. There was a chair against one wall, and a table. A dresser that had seen better days. A shelf adorned with a few dog-eared books. Out of the corner of her eye Dana thought she spied a closet, but the angle was wrong and she couldn't be sure. A single door, on the far side. No windows, at least as far as she could see. Nothing else. Nothing else but Virgil, who sat down on the edge of the bed, still regarding her intently. "Don't be scared," he told her, but it was far too late for that. She was beyond terrified. Reaching down, Virgil grasped both of her hands, now free of the handcuffs, and brought them up to rest in her lap. Dana realized with some horror that although she could feel his touch, the sensation was curiously distant, as though it was something she remembered from a dream. "Better, isn't it?" he asked, rubbing his thumbs gently across the faint red marks on her wrists. "We won't be needing those cuffs any more." What is happening to me? Her mind screamed the words her mouth was powerless to form. What have you done? As though he could hear her silent plea, Virgil answered her. "It's a special drug," he explained. "A combination of a nerve gas and a muscle relaxant." He paused a moment, then added proudly, "I designed it myself. Just for you." With one hand, he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Don't touch me, don't touch me, she yelled in her mind, but if he heard her this time he gave no sign of it. "You have to understand how serious I am." He fixed her with an intent stare. "I can give you more whenever I like. As much as I please. Too much of it, and there will be permanent damage. But I'm hoping you won't need it for too long. That is up to you." Helpless, Dana could do nothing but listen, which seemed to be exactly what he wanted. "You need to know that I can help you, Dana," Virgil continued. The sound of her name on his lips made her stomach churn. "It's not too late for you," he explained. "It took me a long time to realize that. But you can still be saved." Saved? She wondered. Saved from what? I want to be saved. Saved from you. Virgil rose from the bed and crossed over to the table. Dana couldn't quite see what he was doing, but he returned quickly enough. In one hand he carried a shiny metal box, roughly the size and shape of a briefcase. He laid it down next to her and sat down beside it, reaching inside to remove a long hypodermic. Raising it to the level of her eyes he explained, "This contains more than enough of the drug to keep you docile for a good long time. It's your choice, you know, how much I have to use." As though he knew what she was thinking, he carefully replaced the hypodermic, then removed a small glass vial from its place in the box. "This," he explained, "is something entirely different. It's a drug for the mind, not the body. I used it on *him*." Dana knew instantly to whom he referred. "It should have erased everything," Virgil continued, a slightly confused expression on his face. "It should have freed him and made him clean. I designed it so carefully." Oh, please..... Dana silently pleaded. Please say you didn't hurt him too badly. Please say you didn't destroy him. "It didn't work." Virgil shrugged. "That's what helped me realize the truth." He leaned in towards her, close enough that she could feel his breath against her skin. "That's what proved to me he was Evil. Evil can *never* truly be destroyed by Good. Evil is too powerful. Jesus died for our sins and yet it wasn't enough to destroy Evil. If Jesus failed, how might I succeed?" He pulled away from her then, and Dana felt relief course through her body, but only for a moment. From somewhere near the side of the bed Virgil produced a glass of water. "Here," he said, holding the glass to her lips. With his other hand, he tilted her head back slightly, allowing the water to spill into her mouth. For a brief instant Dana feared she might choke, might drown on the simple liquid, but the muscles in her throat responded involuntarily, allowing the water to slip down inside. It was cool and fresh and restored a little bit of her clarity, if not her voice. "Good," Virgil crooned as he pulled the glass away. "I'm sure that feels good." He put down the glass and then leaned in towards her again. "I know this isn't much," he said apologetically. "But it's only temporary, until we get to our place. And it's not so bad here -- I've tried to fix it up, make it comfortable." Using both hands Virgil shifted her body slightly, turning her so that she could see the one wall of the room that had previously been out of her view. What she saw there caused her breath to catch in her chest as her mind screamed in horror. The wall was covered in pictures. Pictures of her. Pictures of her at home, at work. In the yard, in the car. In the kitchen, and the bedroom, and the bath. In all of them, she was alone, though it was obvious in some that parts had been altered to make it so. It was the most devastating invasion of privacy Dana could imagine, to have someone so intimately photograph the details of her life and then arrange the pictures in such a macabre display. "Do you see?" Virgil asked, rising from the bed to indicate the pattern of the collage with one long, powerful arm. "Do you see what I see? Do you see the need? The pain?" Dana only stared, equally furious and horrified. "Let me explain," he said, taking another photograph from the pocket of his shirt and holding it out. He moved back towards her, the photo in his hand. It was blurry through her eyes until he once again reached her side, and then she could see it clearly. All too clearly. It was a picture of her, and Mulder, and Ryan. Dana remembered the day as though it were yesterday; the three of them on their way home from the park. Ryan was between them, his arms raised and extended to reach the hands of his parents on either side. At the instant the photo was taken he was airborne, his sneaker-clad feet not touching the ground, held aloft by his parents as he leapt forward. His face was flushed with childish pride, as though somehow he had learned the secret of human flight. Their faces were turned towards his, looking down and smiling. A gust of wind had caught Mulder's hair, blowing strands of it across his forehead as he grinned down at the beautiful boy who totally shared his likeness. Dana felt a lump grow in her throat as she gazed at the photo that so clearly pictured the two men that made up the whole of her world. Don't cry, she told herself angrily, as she fought to be strong. She could handle this. She could handle anything. And she would pay any price to ensure their safety. Her reverie was disrupted by Virgil's monotonous drone. "You can see it here," he told her, indicating Mulder with a disdainful tap of his finger. "You can see the evil. Even here it is clear." Dana raised her eyes to his, wishing she could raise her head as well, wishing she could use her own words to counteract the hideousness of his. "I thought," Virgil continued, "that I could destroy it. But I was weak, and He was strong." Stronger than you, Dana thought. "Then I realized that it wasn't about destroying the evil. It was about saving what could still be saved. Purifying what deep inside had managed to remain pure. Good works bring about redemption. For you, and for me." Virgil produced a cigarette lighter from somewhere inside his clothing and flicked it with his free hand, creating a large, brilliant flame. He brought the edge of the photograph towards the flame, slowly, until the edge of the picture began to curl. "It was too late for him," he said, indicating Mulder with a nod of his head as the flame licked over his likeness. "And the spawn of Satan is still Satan. There is nothing to be done." The fire continued across the edge of the picture, swallowing up Ryan's countenance in it's wake. When the photo was nearly destroyed, Virgil switched off the lighter. All that remained was the fragment of the picture that contained her image. "You, however, still have a chance," he informed her. "And it's my job to see that you get it." The tears were in her eyes now, blurring her vision, blocking him out, but it wasn't enough. Summoning all of her strength, all of her courage, Dana fought to speak. "Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn......" It wasn't the protest she intended, but her weak, inarticulate moan did produce results. "Oh," Virgil said, "it's worse than I thought. You simply aren't ready, are you?" Before Dana had time to react, he dropped the photo and took her by the shoulders. Leaning her forward, he brushed aside her hair to expose the back of her neck. Helpless like a rag doll in his arms, Dana could only wait for the inevitable. She felt the hypodermic needle pierce her skin and then once again all was black. "When it is dark enough, you can see the stars." - Ralph Waldo Emerson CHIAROSCURO 11: RESURRECTION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) "911, please state the nature of your emergency --" "I need an ambulance, right away, please, please --" Short simple words, thinly veiled hysterics. "Are you injured?" "No, not me, it's my husband --" "What is the type of injury?" "I don't know, I don't --" A quick, tearful breath, clearly audible. The next words crisper, sharper, more direct. "I think it may be a drug overdose; his breathing is shallow and irregular, and his pulse is thready --" "What is your location?" A pause, filled with the faint crackle of a cellular line. A barely discernible murmuring, dark and deep. "Three miles from the main highway.... off the Fulton exit. 314 Blackburn Road....it's a house, with a barn, he's in the barn... ." The tap of fingers on a keyboard. "An ambulance is on its way." A beat, then, "How long has he been in this condition?" "I don't know, I --" "Caller, may I have your name?" Silence, broken only by a soft rustling noise. "Caller, may I have your name?" "Please, please hurry --" A click followed by the jarringly loud buzz of a dial tone. His face a blank expressionless mask, Fox Mulder slammed down the rewind button on the tape recorder, not bothering with the formality of hitting the stop key first. A whirring noise emerged from the recorder as it spooled the tape back to the beginning; without missing a beat, he hit the play key once more. "911, please state the nature of your emergency --" "I need an ambulance, right away, please, please --" The sound of the door opening interrupted his reverie and Mulder instinctively stopped the recorder, glancing up as his son stepped into the room. "Daddy!" Ryan's face lit up with a smile. "Grandma says we get to take you home now, can we play trains when we get back?" He was across the room in seconds, throwing his arms around his father's legs in a fierce embrace. "And you can have birthday cake for dinner if you want, we saved you some, it's chocolate!" Mulder looked down at his son's sparkling blue eyes and forced a smile onto his own countenance. "Sounds good, Ry, sounds good," he said, pleased that his words were smooth and even. "I just need to get the rest of my stuff together." "I want to play, Daddy," Ryan said, his smile growing even wider. "No one plays as good as you." "No," Mulder countered. "No one plays as good as you, big guy." He slipped his hands beneath his son's arms and pulled him up into a strong, solid hug. It felt so good to hold him, so real. So right. "Daddy!" Ryan erupted in a fit of frantic giggling. "You're tickling! You're tickling me!" "Oh, this is only the beginning," Mulder teased, pulling his son even closer, holding him tight with one arm as his other hand sought the tender muscles of his stomach. "Only the beginning." "Ryan, come wait outside with Grandma." Mulder raised his eyes to see Margaret Scully now standing in the doorway, Walter Skinner just beside her. "Your dad and Uncle Walter need to talk for a minute." Reluctantly, Mulder lowered the boy to the ground. Ryan's forehead creased for a fraction of a second as he glanced from his father to his grandmother and back again. After a world weary sigh that expressed inordinate impatience with the mysterious ways of grownups, complete with a dramatic roll of his shoulders, Ryan loosened his grasp of his father's arms and headed for the door. He was almost there before he stopped and turned back. "Can I have cake for dinner too, Daddy?" "Sure you can," Mulder answered, the words absently rolling off his tongue. Seemingly satisfied, Ryan grinned. "Hi, Uncle Walter," he said as he passed. Skinner acknowledged the greeting with a small smile and then shut the door. "How are you feeling?" Skinner asked as he approached. "You've barely been conscious for twenty-four hours. I can't believe they're releasing you so soon." "I'm fine," Mulder replied. It was true, surprisingly enough. Physically he felt fine, much better than he had three days earlier when he had briefly awakened to find himself in a hospital bed. Then, he had felt dizzy, and weak, and curiously faint. The IVs and later solid food had relieved most of those symptoms, and sleep had taken care of the rest. He was still covered with cuts and bruises, but they were starting to fade; even the abrasions on his back had begun to heal. Now he felt almost back to normal, though the bagginess of his clothes was silent testament to the weight he had lost. Everything was fine. Everything except the hole in his heart that threatened to swallow him entirely. Three days since he had been back. Four days since she had been gone. Mulder realized that Skinner was staring at him curiously and he forced his attention back to his former boss. "Is there any news?" "Nothing concrete." Skinner shook his head. "The lab finally got the results back on the traces of the drug found in her motel room. Allstredine. It's a powerful anesthetic, a rare compound that's illegal in this country. That's what made it so difficult to trace." Mulder nodded, slowly, unsurprised by the news. "And?" Skinner shrugged. "Still no trace of the man who rented the adjoining room. He paid in cash, as I said; went unrecognized by the clerks. Nothing left in Dana's car to give us any clue as to where they went. We've had a team of agents combing the area around the hotel as well as the area surrounding the barn where you were found, but we've come up empty. That property's been abandoned for months. He definitely wasn't keeping you there; it was just a convenient place to send the ambulance. Whoever he is, he planned all of this extremely well." "God....." Mulder heaved a frustrated sigh. At least now he felt a little less guilty about being back in D.C. When he had first regained consciousness he had wanted to go straight back to the Gulf Shores, where she had last been seen. But at least here he had the full resources of the Bureau at his command. Here he could be near his son. A little piece of her. How could you do this, he thought. How could you do this to me? He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the small gold band that had been found on the pinky finger of his left hand. Unconsciously, he began to twist it between two tense fingers. Around and around he shifted it, as though its mere rotation was enough to bring her back. How could you do this to us? The answer was as simple as his wife was complex, as clear as the blue of her eyes and the porcelain of her skin. Dana Katherine Scully had never been one to shirk from danger. She was unbelievably courageous, incredibly fearless. Mulder knew that he had fallen in love with her bravery as much as her beauty. But just this once, he wished that she had taken the coward's way out. Just this once, he wished that she had turned the other cheek and walked away. Just this once, he wished that she had abandoned him to the fate that he had brought upon himself. Just this once, he wished that she had kept herself out of harm's way. For this time, he had no idea how to save her. "The drugs are the key," Mulder muttered, almost to himself. "This guy must have some medical training, some specific pharmaceutical knowledge. We need to do a search." "Already on it," Skinner reported. "We've started with the traces we found in her room and what we found in the tests they ran on you. But it's going to take some time to narrow it down." He paused, then asked, "What about you? Have you remembered anything else?" "Nothing," Mulder admitted, a feeling of powerlessness sweeping over him. "Nothing new." Nothing except the endless, unbelievable pain. Nothing except the horrifying, smothering darkness and the occasional blinding light. A jumble of vague, half-remembered words danced on the edges of his memory but try as he might he could make no sense of them. None of it had made any sense, not from the very beginning. The assignment that had taken Mulder out into the field two months ago had seemed like nothing if not routine; the two agents with whom he had been working were at the top of their field. And yet now those two men were dead, their families left in mourning with only unanswered questions to keep them company. And he had been taken away, taken away to suffer. But in the name of what? "I'm seeing Dr. Werber tomorrow," Mulder continued. "Maybe that will give us some answers." "Are you sure you're up to that?" Skinner wondered. "Hypnotic regression -- after all of the drugs they found in your system?" "The answers are in here," replied Mulder, tapping an angry finger against his forehead. "I don't have a choice about it, whatever it takes." After a moment, Skinner nodded, and the slight motion urged Mulder's fear up another notch. Skinner's silent response told him all he needed to know. Time is running out. Oh, Dana. How could you do this? Why would you do this? Ryan needs you. I need you. Safe, and alive. Mulder reached for the overnight bag by the side of the bed and tucked the cassette recorder inside it, yanking the zipper shut. At least now he was free of the confines of the hospital. Free to do anything and everything in order to get her back. To bring her home, safe and sound. "Come on," he said to Skinner, tossing the strap of the bag over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here." "If fate throws a knife at you, there are two ways of catching it -- by the blade and by the handle." - Oriental Proverb CHIAROSCURO 12: EXPLORATION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) There wasn't anything comfortable about the chair in which he sat. It was almost as though the chair was specifically designed to keep him on edge. Then again, he figured, most people who found themselves seated in this office probably felt more than a little uncomfortable. The hard-backed chair was just a symptom of a larger problem. Walter Skinner shifted restlessly, first crossing one leg over the other and then allowing both feet to rest firmly on the floor. His former subordinate, Fox Mulder, reclined on a chaise on the opposite side of the room. If looks were any indication, Mulder was even more uncomfortable than he was, despite the plush leather of the lounge. "Are you ready?" Dr. Heitz Werber directed the question at Mulder, his countenance the epitome of serenity. "Are you comfortable?" "I'm fine," Mulder replied. "Let's just get started." "Very well." Werber nodded and began the procedure. Skinner watched with curiosity as Mulder was put under Werber's spell, the hypnotic regression taking quick effect. Though he himself put little stock in this kind of information gathering, Mulder seemed to believe in it absolutely, and for the moment that was enough for him. At this point, they were out of leads. This might be their only chance to find Dana Scully alive. In what seemed like record time, Mulder was completely hypnotized. "Now," said Werber, "I need you to tell me where you are." "I'm -- I'm in a room," Mulder murmured, his voice surprisingly low. "Where is this room?" "I don't... know," Mulder slowly responded. "It's dark -- it's always dark." "Can you move?" "No....there's a chain. Chains... I'm chained to the wall." "OK," Werber replied. "Are you alone?" "I am, right now," Mulder told him. "But it... it hurts." "What hurts?" "I hurt.... all over. I want -- I want to go home." "Can you hear anything? Any sounds?" "No...no....it's quiet now. But I can't --" A moan escaped his lips. "I can't sleep... no escape. It hurts so much.... please...." Werber was silent, though he made a notation on his pad. When he finished writing he asked, "What happens when you are not alone?" Mulder flinched, as though he had been touched, or hit. A groan escaped his lips. "Turn it off... turn it off." "Turn what off?" "The light.... it hurts my eyes." "What light?" "Please! Turn it off!" "I can't turn it off. Tell me what's happening." Mulder moaned, a sound that was filled with pain. "I don't know.... I don't know what you mean. You.... you're not making sense.... I don't understand..." Skinner tore his eyes away from the tableau before him long enough to glance at the tape recorder on the table. It appeared to be in perfect working order, the wheels spinning around and around in an endless loop. The technician monitoring the machine gave Skinner a nod, as though to reassure him, but it did little to reduce the anxiety he was feeling just listening to the session. "What don't you understand? What am I saying?" Werber asked. "Something... about justice.... about.... about me taking justice.... into my own hands. I.... I haven't done anything." "You haven't?" "NO!" Mulder yelled. "Leave me alone, dammit! Let me go!" Werber shook his head, as though his patient was capable of seeing the motion. "I can't. Not until you tell me." "Tell you -- I can't tell you....I don't....I don't even know who you are." Mulder drew in a deep agonized breath. "Please...I'm sorry. I'm sorry... I'm sorry...." "Sorry for what?" "It hurts..." Mulder groaned, and just listening to him Skinner felt a chill race up his spine. "It hurts.... it hurts so goddamn bad.... please..." "Tell me." "I CAN'T!" A yell that faded into an agonized wail. "Please....stop....please..." If Werber was affected by Mulder's pleas, he gave no sign of it. "Sorry for what?" he repeated. "For hurting you.... for.... for destroying you.... for destroying what you loved." Mulder's body jerked, violently, as though responding to a blow. "What did you destroy?" Werber's pen was poised over his pad, and Skinner leaned forward in anticipation. "I.... I don't know. You won't tell me -- why won't you tell me?" Mulder's head twisted back and forth in agony. "Tell me.... tell me what you want. I'll give you anything, anything.... I want....to pay for my sins. I...I want to make it right." "Make what right?" "What I did....I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorry...." "What did you do?" Werber demanded. "Tell me." "I don't know, I don't..... I don't...." "Tell me. Tell me what you did." Mulder's hands clenched involuntarily into fists. "I can't....I can't... " Sweat was running down his face in rivulets, his eyes squeezed shut as his head twisted fitfully from side to side. "Help me....please.....make it stop...." "Okay." Werber's voice was quieter now, soothing, reassuring. "I'm going to help you now. It's time to come back. Time to wake up. I want you to open your eyes, and come on back." Skinner drew in a deep breath and held it as Werber slowly brought Mulder out of the hypnotic trance. Relief coursed through his body when Mulder finally opened his eyes and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Silence reigned in the room until Mulder finally spoke. "Did we get anything?" Skinner tore his gaze away from Mulder's anxious face to fix his eyes on Werber. The doctor glanced down at his notes, then offered a shrug. "Tell me," Mulder demanded. "I don't know," Skinner finally responded. "Nothing definite. More questions than answers." As though unsatisfied with the vague reply, Mulder leaned forward and hit the stop button on the tape. It rewound fairly quickly and then the room was filled with the echo of the session that had just finished. They sat quietly while the tape played, listening carefully to every word, every nuance, hoping for a clue. Skinner didn't find this second hearing any more enlightening than the first. Judging from the expression on his face as he listened, the dialogue was equally confusing to Mulder. Yet his eyes lost none of their fiery determination. If anything, they blazed even brighter, so fierce was his concentration. "Well," said Mulder when it ended, "that's something, isn't it?" He reached over and ejected the tape, balancing the tiny rectangular piece of plastic on his palm for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket. "It's more than we had an hour ago." Rising to his feet, Mulder thanked Dr. Werber and then headed for the door. Skinner quickly followed suit, joining him in the hallway. "What now?" Skinner asked. Mulder shrugged, leaning against the wall, his gaze distant, as though he were seeing more than the empty corridor that stretched before them. "Now, we start again. There's got to be a reason, hidden somewhere. Whoever's behind this has some kind of agenda. I'm a part of it, and so is Dana." He drew in a deep breath. "I've just got to figure out what it is." With that, he turned on his heel and continued down the corridor. Walter Skinner could do nothing but follow. "Experience is not what happens to you; it is what you do with what happens to you." - Aldous Huxley CHIAROSCURO 13: CONTEMPLATION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) The dining room table was covered in paperwork. Manila file folders were spilled across every inch of its surface, the papers they once contained now strewn over the polished wood in haphazard piles. The answer was in there, somewhere, of that Mulder was sure. The question was where. Over the last five weeks he had gone over every file, reading each section carefully, searching for a clue. He had reviewed all of the cases he had handled as a part of the Violent Crimes Division, those that were recent as well as those from long ago. He had scoured all of the X-Files that they investigated while assigned to that department. He had even studied the cases on which Dana had worked before she was asked to be his partner. He had plowed through hundreds of files, yet found no answers, though he searched with frantic intensity. Five weeks.... From where he sat, alternately scribbling on a legal pad and searching the data on his laptop computer, Mulder could hear his son clearly. Ryan was ensconced on the couch in the living room, watching one of his Disney videos, the sound raised to an almost uncomfortable level. He sang along with the tape, his childish voice loud in the silence of the house, unembarrassed by his lack of proper pitch. The raucous noise made it hard to concentrate, but Mulder didn't mind, comforted by the fact that at least his son was safe at home. The drugs... time and time again, Mulder's thoughts turned to the drugs, all too aware that somehow they held the answers. The tests done by the FBI lab on the evidence recovered from his blood tests had revealed that he had been given a compound that had not previously been known to exist. That information, combined with the traces of Allstredine found in Dana's motel room, made it clear that whoever they were dealing with had more than a layman's knowledge of science. And yet it wasn't enough, not enough to provide a solid lead to track him down. Mulder stretched out a hand to retrieve a small folded piece of paper from one corner of the table. He had discovered it upon his return, tucked in the drawer of the bedside nightstand. According to Skinner, it was the only hard piece of evidence retrieved from the site of his disappearance. *Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged* Try as he might, he couldn't make sense of the six words. Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged. They seemed vaguely familiar, but he wasn't sure why. Perhaps, he thought, it was something from his session with Dr. Werber that made them feel familiar. He had mentioned judgment then, hadn't he? Mulder rewound the cassette tape again, playing it back at a low volume, leaning in closely to catch the words. Justice. That's what he had said during the hypnotic regression. He had apologized, for taking justice into his own hands. What did that mean? What did any of it mean? And what could it possibly have to do with Dana? It was at that moment that Mulder became aware of the silence. Of the fact that he could no longer hear his son's tuneless wails emanating from the next room. "Ryan? Ryan!" Anxiety crushed him, left him unable to breathe. In the space of a second Mulder was out of his chair, feet pumping madly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. No, he thought. Not Ryan. Not our child. "Ryan!" He was in the living room in seconds, one hand sliding to his waist in search of a gun that wasn't there. He had no need of it, however. His son was still lying on the couch, his head propped up by one small arm. The video was still playing, a section of the movie composed of dialogue rather than music. "Daddy, be quiet," he complained without turning his head. "You're yelling all through the good part." It was only with the greatest effort that Mulder forced down his panic and rage. You overreacted, he reminded himself. He's fine. Everything's fine. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he walked over to the television console and put the movie on pause. Mulder turned to regard his son, who gazed back at him with an irritated expression. "And now you stopped it! Daddy, you're not being fair." "No, Ryan," Mulder countered. "*You're* not being fair. You know that you're supposed to answer me when I call for you." "Not during the good part." "I don't care whether it's the good part or the bad part or any part," Mulder replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "If I call you, you answer me, do you hear me?" Ryan's face lost some of its irritation, the corners of his mouth turning down in a pout. "You're mean, Daddy. Mommy always lets me watch the good parts." Just the mention of Dana was enough to cut through his anger. Mulder scooted over to the couch, the video still flashing a frozen frame behind him. "I know, big guy. I know she does." He sank down on the couch and took his son gently in his arms. "And I want to let you watch them too. But I need you to answer me when I call for you, okay?" "Okay," Ryan answered reluctantly, still wearing a frown. "Do you want me to rewind the movie?" Mulder asked. "Put it back to where it was?" Ryan considered the offer for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to watch cartoons." With that declaration, he slid off the couch to sit on the floor in front of the model trains that were gathered there. "Then cartoons it is," Mulder replied, giving his son another quick squeeze before walking back over to the television. With one hand he turned off the VCR, using the remote to change the television station with the other. He found the cartoon cable channel quickly and lowered the volume a bit, hoping to slip the maneuver past the watchful eyes of his son. "But only for a half hour. Then it's bedtime for you." Ryan glanced at him, his hands on a toy locomotive, his head cocked to the side. "Okay," he finally relented, as though accepting a deal. "But you have to read to me first." "Well, of course," Mulder told him, and headed back to the dining room. He sank back down into the wooden chair with an audible sigh of relief, or perhaps frustration. He couldn't be sure. He pulled Dana's wedding ring from his pocket and clenched it in his palm, holding it tightly for a long moment as though it would somehow give him some of her strength. Then he slipped it back into its hiding place, knowing that he could never let Ryan see that he had it. Engrossed once again in his work, Mulder paid little attention to the clock, though he closely monitored the noise Ryan made as he ran his trains around their track. Listened to the purr of the electric motors, mixed with boisterous sound effects created by his son and the random chatter of mindless cartoons. The word justice whirled through his brain, but to little effect. The sound of Ryan's footsteps caused him to look up to see his son standing in the doorway. "Daddy," he asked, "do you know how to make sugar cookies? With sprinkles?" Mulder hesitated for a moment, fingers poised over the computer keyboard. "I've never made any," he confessed. "But if you want to, we can make some tomorrow. I'm sure we can figure it out." "Okay," Ryan answered, heading towards the living room. "But we don't have to make them tomorrow." He stopped just short of the hall and turned back. "Do you think Mommy will be back from her trip soon?" Mulder felt his heart constrict at his son's innocent question. It had seemed like the best thing to do, to say that Dana was merely away on business. According to Margaret Scully, it had been the excuse that Dana had given Ryan for his father's absence; it made sense, Mulder had decided, to say the same thing. A trip, by definition, had a beginning and an end. It was a better explanation for a five-year-old than the truth. Better than telling him that she might never come back. "I think so," Mulder finally responded, pushing the words past a sudden lump in his throat. "I think she will." "Good," Ryan declared. "Because Mommy knows how to make the cookies the way that Santa likes them. And the man on the TV said that Christmas is coming soon, so we have to have cookies by then." Something deep inside Mulder cracked at the words. Even though he knew it was wrong, he couldn't bear to deprive his son of hope. After all, it was the same hope that he himself clung to, day after endless day. And Christmas was still a month away. "Don't worry about that, Ryan," he said, forcing a smile. "Mommy will be back by then, and we'll have plenty of cookies for Santa." Ryan rested his small hands on his hips as he considered his father's promise. The simple statement seemed to satisfy him and he grinned. "Okay. Can we read now?" "We can," Mulder replied. "Turn off the television and put on your p.j.'s. I'll be up in just a second." Instead of doing as he was told, Ryan walked over to the table, leaning over his father's arm to peer at the computer screen. "I want to read *now*," he grumbled. Curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "What are you doing?" Mulder glanced absently at the laptop, which displayed the results of the 'find' search command he had just executed, looking for any references to the word justice. The white balloon on the monitor clearly proclaimed that there were no matches to be found. "Just looking up stuff," he answered. Ryan crossed his arms on the table and rested his head against them. "Can I watch?" Even though a quick glance at the clock assured him that it was well past his son's bedtime, Mulder acquiesced. "Just for a minute." With Ryan standing vigilant at his side, Mulder cleared the screen and then logged onto the internet, quickly accessing the FBI mainframe. He typed in a series of commands, executing yet another search, using the same keyword. The computer hummed as its modem registered and transmitted the data. Moments later, the results were on the screen. 472 matches, the information bubble announced. Using the mouse pad Mulder quickly scanned down the accompanying list, searching for anything that might be significant. It was more than halfway down the page before anything caught his eye. He positioned the cursor above the entry marked 'Conway' and double-clicked the bar at the base of the computer. "Cool," Ryan declared, as the picture on the screen shifted and dissolved into the lines of text comprising the case file. Mulder read through it quickly, suddenly infused with new energy. At the bottom of the computerized file there were six words typed in a bright blue that contrasted with the black letters above. 'Click here for related audio-visual', read the boldly printed words, underlined for emphasis. Mulder did as instructed, pressing twice on the highlighted area, a tremor racing unbidden up his spine as he waited. The screen changed yet again, the printed words fading into the background to be replaced by a rectangular box that denoted the computer's movie player program. Images surfaced, gradually resolving to form the face of a much younger, more innocent Fox Mulder, standing alongside a few colleagues before a group of gathered reporters. "*Way* cool!" Ryan exclaimed, but Mulder barely heard him. Another stroke of the keys brought the picture to life, tinny sound emanating from the computer as the recorded image began to play. "This is a terrible tragedy," said one of the men on the screen, a man that Mulder recognized as his former superior, from his first stint in the Violent Crimes division. "One that we wish could have been averted. However, the unequivocal truth of the matter is that we had no choice but to act as we did. The results were unavoidable." At first the voices of the reporters were nothing more than a cacophony of faint jumbled words, barely comprehensible through the computer speakers. One voice, however, finally rang out loud and clear. "Seven innocent people are dead," a reporter declared. "How can you defend that?" The senior agent said nothing, merely tilted his head down as though ashamed. It was the younger, more innocent Fox Mulder who stepped forward to answer the question. "We're not here to defend anything," he stated firmly. "We are here to see that justice is served. And in this case, it has been. Despite the regrettable losses we incurred." He paused a moment, then added, "Justice has been served." "Daddy! That's you," Ryan crowed, pride in his voice. "That's you!" "It was," Mulder replied, his mind spinning. "A long time ago." With one hand he reached for the cordless phone, snatching it up to quickly punch in a series of numbers. Trying to contain the exultation he suddenly felt, he tousled his son's hair with his free hand. "It's time for you to get ready for bed," he said, fighting to keep from smiling in relief. At last, he'd gotten what he'd prayed for so desperately. It was a lead, no matter how slim. "When I get off the phone, you'd better be ready to be tucked in." "All-right," Ryan moaned, slipping out of his father's embrace to head for the stairs. "But I still get a story." "I promise," said Mulder, listening to the phone ring, hoping that Skinner would be home to answer. Hoping that at last they had gotten the break they needed. "A thought may touch the edge of our life with light." - John Trowbridge Thanks for reading. Feedback *always* appreciated at Blueswirl@aol.com. = The Blueswirl Stories = Revolving Satellites Platonic Tangible Inadequate Chiaroscuro Chiaroscuro 2: Interlude Chiaroscuro 3: Covenant Chiaroscuro 4: Inversion Chiaroscuro 5: Courage Chiaroscuro 6: Devotion Chiaroscuro 7: Simplicity Chiaroscuro 8: Supplication Chiaroscuro 9: Commencement Chiaroscuro 10: Terror Chiaroscuro 11: Resurrection Chiaroscuro 12: Exploration Chiaroscuro 13: Contemplation