THE DAMASCUS FILES FILE THREE 2 OF ?

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DISCLAIMERS: They all belong to Chris Carter
and Fox. I want nothing. Don't sue.

RATING: This chapter is PG-13. The only
problem here might be the language. The
series would still carry an R

SUMMARY: Chapter 2 - Scully's story
continues. Scully is forced to attend a get
together where she finds familiar faces
meeting with powerful strangers in this
initial post-colonization conference. The
soirée proves interesting and informative for
everyone as secrets are revealed, lies
uncovered, traitors exposed and punished,
lost friends found, and before the party ends
there is, of course -- the unmasking.

FILE THREE - The end draws near, and each
person must choose which part he wishes to
play in this the final act. Each person
decides his own destiny, but no one's fate is
his alone.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: More mojo might be needed.
I'm already behind and we're only on Chapter 2.

Both Skinner and Scully are sleeping right
now, so I can speak freely. They returned
safely, early this morning. I'm thankful.
Their safety is what counts most. But their
mission can't quite be counted a complete
success. The settlement pharmacy was a
cracker box, easily broken into. It was
guarded by only one disinterested human. The
reason for this is what brought Scully home
almost in tears, and created the worried
frown that puckered Skinner's high forehead.
The shelves were almost bare. My larcenous
companions returned all but empty handed.

All they got for their trouble was less than
a month's supply of Tegretol. Holding Scully,
trying to will her to rest, I attempted to
reassure her, but the anti-seizure medication
is the one I need the most. This is the
truth. I have to confess, I DO fear the
certainty that soon, after this small supply
runs out, I'll have to face a future plagued
by Grand Mal seizures (pause).

Scully does have a back-up plan, however. My
partner, the former skeptic, is now placing
all her hopes for my mental health on the
homeopathic remedies she procured from
Cheyenne's leading black-market shaman, Diane
Perry, formerly of the Dancing Elephant
Apothecary. Not only is this herbalist's
witches' brew warming my belly as I speak,
but my head is aromatically doused with a
mixture that Scully was led to believe is
chiefly frankincense. The erstwhile religious
connotations aside, I do know the spice has
been shown to have soothing effects, which is
why it has historically anointed far more
illustrious brows than mine.

So, once again, my partner and I are left to
cling to four words. That simple phrase that
once greeted us each morning we spent
together and was the last image to catch my
eye when I shut the door at night. I never
asked, the last time I was there, if the wall
was still papered with my little office
homily. Maybe I'll make it back one day. If
that city still exists. If that building
still stands. If that credo adorned piece of
pop culture still hangs; yellowing now,
tattering at the edges with age. I suppose
I'd just have to find a way to update it,
though. Or maybe Scully should do the chore,
since she's the reason for this revision of
the classic credo. A quick cross through the
I, making the change to declare -- WE want to
believe.

It is all coming down to life being nothing
more than a matter of holding on to the faith
that we will survive living through it.

The soft, muffled hitch of the door clashed
with the low, rhythmic hiss of the
respirator. Making my way to Gibson's bedside
I watched this oddly out dated looking
machine force life into the frail, pale body
of this child become prophet. I stared mutely
at the thin face, searching for the boy I
remembered. I found little for my efforts.
The ravages of this near death existence had
whittled away at the softly rounded, healthy
essence of youth I recalled. I could still
picture, by simply shutting my eyes, that
glowing, vitally alive boyishness that his
limbo imprisoned existence had stolen.

Even stunted and twisted by this forever
sleep, his body had stretched and lengthened.
Gibson would have been tall, Mulder, maybe
taller than you. That his condition left him
little more than a skeleton, covered by dry,
pallid skin, couldn't hide the heft and
breadth of his bone structure. Had things
gone differently, the fates been more kind,
Praise might have adorned a uniform on one of
your favorite teams. What I wouldn't give to
be able to sit and watch you watch him play.

The light touch of cold, smooth finger tips
on my arm brought me back from my bittersweet
wanderings. I once more found myself pinned
by the frigid heat of those piercing, bluer
than sapphire eyes.

"No matter what Spender claimed, we meant to
bring you here for your safety. For HIS
safety." He nodded to a screen behind me, and
I silently took in the foot of another bed.
The dark, hulking shapes, muted by the thin,
white partition, hinted that they had
prepared for Mulder's arrival, assuming that
his condition was similar to Gibson's
vegetative state.

My sleeping prophet affirmed my assumption
that the alien leader's altruistic claims
were genuine. As far as they went. If closer
scrutiny for deeper motives were not pursued.
"I'm going to question Alex now. The
question, "what is truth?" is usually the
only query he gives an honest reply to, and
that answer has never been the same twice,
the entire time I've known him. Can you
persuade our young friend to aid me in
discovering what actually happened out in
Colorado. I think this truth might be one we
both need to find."

I nodded at Gibson's mental agreement to
help, my stomach tightening with anticipation
of what promised to be a painful report. That
you survived the initial firestorm had been
confirmed by my psychic friend, but the
details of your condition and what had
happened to many of our beloved friends was
yet to be revealed. My instinct was informing
me, though, the tragedy that unfolded
yesterday had touched every corner of my
life.

Alex Krycek limped into the room. This was a
Krycek I'd never witnessed before. No
blustering facade of anger, no toe-nail
clicking, dart and dodge sidestep prance.
That I was viewing the very same frightened
shock in those usually gleaming eyes, that I
knew could be read in my own, stunned me.

His first words were neither a whine nor an
excuse. They were murmured in a low, weary
tone that made me believe him even before my
oracle truth-sayer confirmed that his tale
was gospel.

"I went to get Mulder, her and my family.
You'd promised me their safety. That was the
deal. That's what you promised. I fell for it
and everything fell apart. It's that simple.
That's what happened. The people who went
with me weren't mine. They were his men,
following his orders.

Mulder was standing out front when we got
there. I'd no more than gotten out of the
truck before they started up a full fledged
assault. The first round they fired hit
Mulder in the head."

My twin gasps were in rapid fire tandem,
almost a hiccup. Krycek didn't notice that
the first came after his thoughtless betrayal
of your somewhat less than comatose state.
The leader did, showing no surprise at this
newly uncovered knowledge. A slight
flickering glint in those gemlike eyes was
all that betrayed that he'd heard. My second
exclamation came with Alex's news of Mulder
being shot.

A slight grin danced across the young former
agent's lips with my response, "It wasn't
bad. Just a crease. I don't think he even
really blacked out all the way. Bullets just
bounce off old Super-Mulder's skull, right? I
went over and subdued him. I could already
tell that everything was getting way out of
control. I didn't want him killed by
accident. I didn't have a clue how bad it was
going to get.

I'd just gotten Mulder down, flat in the
dirt, when I heard the shot's. They'd already
pulled my Dad outside. I'd seen them dragging
him. I looked up at the loud black-cat
sounding pops and wound up watching while
they killed my father. He danced. Actually
did a kind of a Mr. Bojangle’s
kick-slide-step, his arms jerking like he was
conducting his own funeral march. He didn't
hit the ground 'til they stopped shooting.

I don't think Dad even knew he was dead ‘til
he fell. I could see his eyes. They reminded
me of when Anna died. He walked around
forever with that exact same look, Scully. It
was wonder. It was sad wonder. That shit this
foul could actually happen. Then, when the
ringing silence grew loud, he collapsed, his
eye's closed and that's when I finally heard
Kami. She was screaming. A piercing, spine
shattering wail. She'd seen it all, too.

I was so shook up I almost fell over when
Mulder gave this huge, grunting shove. He
didn't really even make it all the way up
before they blasted him down. The bullet tore
straight through him and I actually felt it
whiz by my own belly. I thought I'd been hit,
but I guess it was just the way his side just
exploded. I sorta stumbled backwards not
knowing who'd been hit, if his blood was
mine.

Kami shouted his name and lurched at us,
flying. Then she was hit, God, I don't know
how many times. I'd stopped hearing by then.
All I saw was the blood. She stopped
mid-flight and flopped right on top of
Mulder. She died, her eyes were two moons of
surprise. I don't think dying before she was
old enough to legally drink had been part of
my little sister's plans."

Krycek’s monotone narrative of horror halted
instantly, no preamble. I read surprise in
his now glittering eyes. And pain and anger
and fear and resentment. A virtual
smorgasbord of emotions swirled in the liquid
depths of his grief.

"Why would I have done this to my family? I
gotta ask you, Tipton. Why would you think I
would have gone there and done this? I know
what you think of me, both of you. But I...I
wouldn't have...not this. I could have
screwed him over without batting an eye. God,
I stole from him, betrayed him, lied to him,
disappointed him...but...not this."

I felt my throat tighten. I shut my eyes. I
hadn't ever wanted to see this side of the
man. It made it real. But we can't always get
what we want. Ha, Mulder, you're rubbing off.
I'm quoting classic rock songs. Except do I
feel compelled to list my source? Rolling
Stones - Jagger/Richards. And to complete the
quote, "But if you try sometime, you just
might find you get what you need. "

That is true, because when I chanced a quick
glance up at Alexi, his eyes still glittered
but not with tears. They glistened with an
angry belligerence. He'd won his battle for
control. He was right. Never let them see you
hurt. I gave a silent cheer.

"I got them to start the fire at the front.
In my old room upstairs. They'd hauled
everyone down to Dad's basement. Ha," His
laugh was bitter. "Not the house’s basement,
Dad's basement. It was always Dad's basement.
Fitting though, wasn't it? It was his grave,
too. His funeral pyre." The words came
quicker, his anger at the unwanted emotions
fueling the explosive, guttural discharge of
heated rage.

"I saw Mulder was still breathing. I knew I
couldn't do much for him. But I tried. It's
just that, I didn't trust the others and I
sure as hell wasn't going to die for Fox
Mulder. Maybe, I would have had guts enough
to fight for Kami. Or to lay it on the line
for Dad. I don't know. It's just everything
was happening too fast. It was over too
quickly. But, too late lasts forever, ya
know? Fuck, I hope you know, I don't know.

I made sure Mulder found the stairs. Told him
it was the only way out. The kid claims he
made it. So I guess he did. I don't even know
why I stuck around and helped Mulder in the
first place. Maybe it was my same old
self-serving shit. Maybe it was to protect my
ass. I did tell him to make sure, if he ever
met up with you, to tell you I'd helped.
Maybe.

But, you know? I think a lot of it was
because you lousy mother-fuckers just flat
piss me off. Who asked you to join our party.
You're like that crasher, you come uninvited
and don't leave even when you've worn out
your welcome. God you make me so sick. You
wanna be like us so much, you'd even fuck
with your genes, but you haven't got a clue
who we even are.

You stupid, brain dead, sorry excuses for a
first contact from the final frontier, you
can't even figure out what it is you want
from us. Except to take over our planet.
Well, I think this world's about as fucked up
as any place your ever gonna find, but you
know, you deserve it. I'll tell you what, if
there is a God, I know he's gotta be as
pissed off as I am over what you've done. And
I'd sure hate to be you when his payback
comes."

The handsome, placid faced visitor digested
Krycek's venom mutely, his bland mask of
inscrutability not slipping for a moment
until suddenly, but with mind numbing
slowness, a smile crept out to melt the
facade. "I think that'll be all, Alex," the
morphed Paul Newman’s sunny grin made his
face glow, but those twin sapphire beacons
froze the warmth before it could escape.

A veil passed over Alex Krycek's face; he
turned on his next heartbeat and quietly left
us.

"I do believe he told the truth for once,"
the leader murmured, sotto voce, a faint
English accent surfacing to color his words.
"Perhaps the boy could give us an update,
though, on how your partner fares. You
think?"

I numbly turned to receive Gibson's answer,
but oddly, this time, I sensed the boy's will
rise up to cloak his reply.

"He says he's hurt, but still alive.
Someone's helping him. But...but..." My
answers were lying there in the fog that
thickened and swelled as I probed. I had to
know, I had to see what had happened to you.
I leaned over the still lifeless form, curled
in twisted rigor on the foam mattress and
began to beg, "Gibson you have to let me see
the truth. I have to know, please. Let me see
him."

The desperate shield of protection fell and
he allowed me to see your suffering. I
recognized who it was who had aided you, but
fortunately, I had enough wits to hide this
knowledge. Gibson let me sense Skinner, and I
was flooded by an overwhelming hopelessness
that shredded my heart. Remember, Mulder, he
only stayed to bury you.

The leader read my grief, and in his courtly
manner allowed me a carefully watched
solitude. I never told him what I'd learned,
but 50 years of study had taught him well how
to interpret the many, varied faces of human
emotions.

"Well," the word dragged out, becoming almost
southern when it drawled on. A question
skittered across my weary brain. Having
watched the leader’s somewhat theatrical
personality, I couldn't help wondering
whether he had chosen an actor's face because
he'd already possessed a thespian’s style or
if his smooth, always playing to his public
manner had been cultivated to match his
chiseled, movie star profile.

The fact that he might have chosen another
familiar face which could have covered both
his dramatic flair AND his politician like,
manipulative ways struck me as funny, and I
softly chuckled. A bit of comic relief always
clears both the air and brain cells.

Realization slapped me hard across the face.
Suddenly I knew that all my host had ever
offered, every expression, gesture, each
gracious, mannerly utterance that had been
formed by those full, almost sensual lip was
no more real than this form he'd crafted to
hide behind. That he'd morphed himself into
an illusion of a man, that pleased the eye
and pleasantly lulled the senses, did not
make him a real man. He was a revised
children's story come to life. I'd unmasked
the alien in humans’ clothing.

I stared at the alien, trying to fathom the
supposed kinship I shared with this entity,
searching for some slight vestige of
familiarity. If any two human beings, from
any two separate countries, were given a
quick surface exam by another life form not
familiar with our own, no matter how
different their respective cultures, beliefs,
languages or superficial appearances might
be, both would be instantly cataloged as
belonging to the same "kind" with the notice
of one certain familiar marker.

Finally I knew what I needed to see. What
would allow me to know, that our genetic
family tree aside, whether or not, this
visitor was my brother. If this creature
who'd assumed a human name, Tipton, according
to Krycek, and a human's form, had a human's
heart.

"Let me see you smile," I whispered softly,
making him strain, to lean forward in order
to hear my request.

Butch Cassidy instantly appeared before me,
flashing that honest, eye crinkling grin
which announced that nobody with a smile like
that could be a 'bad guy'. I didn't buy his
performance.

"No, let me see your real face. I want to see
E.T.'s smile." I flashed my own pearly
whites, showing him how simple that one small
expression was to make. My mother's oft
repeated homily played over and over in my
head while I waited for the leader to grant
my request. "A frown takes three times more
muscles to make as a smile, Dana Katherine."
The alien never removed his mask.

Long, silent minutes slowly slipped by before
he oke, using his best stiffly British tones.
"You're free to go, Ms Scully. I suggest you
search for your family now. Your Mother is
near, or so I've been told. Colorado is far
away and a long journey alone would be
dangerous during these tumultuous times. I'm
afraid, even if you reached your destination
safely, unhappiness would be all you would
find. Still, it is your choice. Good luck,
whatever you decide and God speed."

I stared into that face, willing the mask to
slip and reveal the truth, but all I saw was
the same calm, handsome lie. A faint, dry
rattle came from the breathing corpse's chest
and a shrill, beeping alarm brought the
leader’s aid. Within seconds the warning
ceased and the alien moved from his patient,
strolling to the exit. He opened the tall,
heavy door and stood in the portal, patiently
waiting for me to say my good-byes.

I leaded over to kiss the cool smooth
forehead of the endlessly sleeping boy then
glanced up to see the leader still stood at
his place in the doorway, the picture of
calm, polite patience. I gnawed at my lip as
I studied my host, dwelling on the fact that
beneath the pleasant, gentlemanly facade was
a thief. Not ten feet from me was the being
who had stolen mankind's future; a sadistic
monster who tortured the innocent, a
remorseless murderer who planned his day
around the genocide extermination of an
entire planet’s population.

This was the leader of a species who had
chosen to recreate themselves into a life
form that could watch, for four long years,
the suffering of a boy who once had a smile
that rivaled the sun, and never dream of
offering him peace.

The alien never expected me to do what I did.
How could he? Until I'd actually initiated
that spur of the moment act of violence, I
hadn't known I was going respond to my
rapidly building rage in that manner myself.

The fact that I was standing next to the
loud, wheezing respirator/torture device made
destructive vandalism possible. I simply
turned, then gathering every bit of strength
I could muster shoved against the heavy box,
making it tip over. It landed hard on its
side, the cacophony of metal crashing against
tile-covered cement made me jump. I'd been
surprised

I'd been able to accomplish the task. Popping
glass rained upwards from the explosion like
destruction of the machines’ inner workings,
bouncing across the linoleum with tiny tinkle
clicks. The instrument board gave one last
sizzling discordant cry as its electrical
circuits fried, then died.

The patient that had been held prisoner for
so long, simply ceased to function. I believe
his death came when all the various wires,
tubes and connectors from the respirator and
every other device and medical aid ripped
free from where they'd been fastened. At long
last, the youth was unfettered. Every other
supplemental aid had been attached to poles
and hooks which had toppled along with the
respirator.

No blood flowed from his many and varied life
substaining wounds. Gibson Praise died
instantly; breaking the tethers had been the
key to his final release. He passed on,
without a sound, not even a sigh.

Mulder, I pray, but I've yet to hear an
answer. It's always the same - A cry, not for
his forgiveness for my sin or even a plea to
understand my motives. All I ask is he grant
the child, at long last, the peace he
deserved.

I walked out of that suite, took the elevator
down to my freedom, and began my long
journey. It has been almost a year since that
day. I lived with my choice, but one question
still haunts me. Tipton, the leader, was the
picture of contentment when he let me pass.
So, whose will did I ultimately serve, when I
murdered Gibson Praise? Will I ever truly
know, Mulder? So I pray.

We've settled into a cabin in Wagner's Big
Thompson canyon. The fact that this huge,
hardly roughing it, retreat is so far from
any of the front range cities made it our
first choice in preferred "hideouts", but we
had no idea how deserted this area had
become. The little mountain resort village of
Estes Park is a ghost town. In the almost two
weeks since we settled in, we've not seen
another human being. Apparently everyone
cleared out last August, as ordered, and any
stragglers either didn't survive, or gave up
their places during the long hard winter.

The area is now, on this warm, sunny late
spring day, the picture of the preverbal
"promised land". It has beautiful scenery,
plenty of fresh water, and an abundance of
food and other supplies for my companions and
I to salvage from the surrounding abandoned
cabins and the businesses in town. We feel
safe here. I think it's one of the few places
left that could afford us that comfort.

Scully's using the Estes Park Branch Library
to educate herself in homeopathic medicine.
Also, Estes Park was once a haven for seekers
of "New Age Knowledge" and back to nature
health advocates, so there's no lack of
reading material. Main Street boasts no less
than a dozen shops which stock what she
needs, so the naturalistic treatment of my
mental problems has not suffered with our
move.

Seriously, it does seem to be working and
with fewer side effects than the so called
real drugs I'd taken those for four years
since my original injury. I feel, and I never
thought this word would be associated with
me, normal. The Tegretol made me a little
dull, four years ago, but I think I've long
since overcome that. How I am feeling right
now is how I used to feel. Complete with a
touch of insomnia. But I don't care. It's
wonderful.

I love it here. I hope this is where we can
stay. Let the world go on without us. We'll
watch out for us. Skinner and Scully don't
actually believe I mean this, when I tell
them how I feel. They both are going to make
a little recon trip down to Fort Collins. To
try one more time to get the medication for
my seizures. That's the one remedy Scully
doesn't trust to her witches brews.

They've promised to be careful. And if the
run turns out to be as unsuccessful as the
Cheyenne one, they're going to make one last
ditch effort and try Denver. So, I'm actually
going to be left on my own for a couple of
weeks. Surprisingly, they trust me. My
health, both mental and physical has been so
superb as of late that, will wonders never
cease, they both believe I can take care of
myself for two whole weeks. Imagine.

They're due to leave day after tomorrow.
Scully still refuses to discuss what happened
after the fall. I tell her we need to talk.
That she needs to share her troubles with me.
She tells me she can't right now. She says
we'll talk later. When I've heard the whole
story. That I still need to hear the next
tape. But she wants me to wait until she and
Skinner leave to start listening to it. And
we'll talk when they get back -- later.