From: sonny <sonny@webspin.org>
Date: Mon, 27 Sep 99 16:12:26 +1000
Subject: xfc: NEW Mind Games 3; The Meta 1 of 4
Source: xfc

From: sonny <sonny@webspin.org>

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 3:The Meta 1 of 4
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated PG  
*********************

CHAPTER 1

Central Hotel, Seattle
4:20 a.m.
 

*You will have time, Fox Mulder, plenty of time...*

He saw the green Pegasus fly down. On the back, a man
sat...no, not a man, a...he couldn't be sure until it
landed. The Pegasus was huge, half again as big as the
largest of draft horses, but built like a race horse. It
shimmered pale green in the afternoon light.

The man on its back was blue, a beautiful royal blue in
varying shades. His face, for it was most definitely a man,
was a lighter shade than his arms. The softer skin
underneath his forearm was even lighter and it struck
Mulder that this made complete sense if the blue was
natural, in the same way that the underside of his own
forearm was lighter colored. 

The creature's hair was a magnificent black mane that grew
down its back, like a lion. The tip of the curling tail was
also covered in a thick teardrop thatch of black hair. The
creature's hair shone thick and soft and silky, almost blue
black, in the light. And its eyes, God, its irises were
split vertically, catlike instead of round, in the deep
green-colored corneas. But in every other way it appeared
human, right down to the bearded face.

It...he descended from the Pegasus and Mulder looked up.
Jesus, he must have stood over eight feet tall.

*You will have time, Fox Mulder, when I come for you, time
to learn that this madness will not take you. Time to learn
the truth about the face of God, and the face of evil. You
are very close tonight, too close and thus I come to
protect you. It knows It cannot vanquish you but It would
seek to damage your spirit sufficiently to turn your gun on
yourself. This I cannot allow, for we need you to fight the
lesser fight. Trust her, Fox Mulder, for she believes you,
truly. Her heart sings pure notes unsullied by that which
you wear and have now discarded. 

Live. Sleep, now...I will come for you soon, very soon.*


*********************************


Day 11 - Tuesday
Central Hotel ,Seattle
4:20 a.m.

>From the journal of Crystal Palmer


Until a few days ago I hadn't realized how much I've been
a bitch on wheels this last year. Dad took me out for
dinner the other night, to celebrate. I know he's happy not
just for me, but because he secretly likes telling his
friends his daughter is a doctor, an engineer. He's really
on top of the world. I suppose I am too, it's just taken me
a while to look out and recognize it. Anyway, he took me by
the hand and welcomed me back. I asked him what he meant
and he replied he hadn't seen his daughter in almost five
years. Not since Paul was killed, not since I came back to
live with him. Now, these last few days, he began to see me
again.

I remember years ago when I hurt my back, I had to go to a
chiropractor. It took a few weeks, but not only did he fix
the problem, he fixed other chronic problems that I'd been
unaware of. What it boils down to was I apparently had a
slight, peripheral headache and stiff back and pinched neck
nerves that I'd learned to live with. But when he adjusted
me, suddenly I realized I'd been living with a constant
dull pain, a burden that colored my perception and attitude
to life. When that pain was removed, the whole world seemed
a different place. Colors were brighter, smells more
intense, I walked and cycled with freer movements.
Everything was just...better. And it hit me. That's what
it's been like since Paul died, a constant weight across my
shoulders. First the pain and grief, then the worries
because he had indebted both of us to pay off his medical
schooling. So I lost the house and car and had to come home
and start again. Seven years wasted. Then my Masters and
Ph.D.

Now, the burden has been lifted and the whole world
suddenly looks better. I now have the time, the emotional
ability to look around me and observe. And this horror,
this living nightmare of FBI agents and child killers
is...well no less horrible in itself, but I find I don't
hate them anymore. I understand them because I no longer
see them through my own emotional burdens.

Something happened this morning. Something big and
nightmarish. It started off about 3 a.m. when Agent West
came
flying downstairs and asked me how to get on to the roof. I
could see in her face an urgency that forbade any
hesitation on my behalf, so I led them outside and there
was Skinner, Scully and some of the others, mostly the team
leaders, I think. Them being awake at 3 a.m. was not odd --
these guys work all hours. 

To be honest I felt a slight thrill at seeing Skinner.
He's been down quite a bit since he arrived. I learned from
Dad the other night that the FBI had run a background check 
on the entire family before the feds took over the hotel. It
narked the hell out of me that they would invade our
privacy so much. But when I thought about it, it made
sense. Especially because I spend so much time helping them
with their computer systems. The press keep hounding us for
inside information and I know there's a leak. But I'm
pretty sure it's not one of us. Dad has a pretty mean code
of conduct when it comes to that sort of thing and he's
instilled it in all of us. 

Anyway, the last few nights I learned that Skinner must
have checked up on me pretty thoroughly, mainly because of
these leaks. I was pissed and told him they could look
after their own damned systems with their less than
competent technicians, after all, no one was paying me. He
backed off, telling me the leaks were of a type that had
clearly come from sources other than our family. He said it
was against FBI policy for me to have helped in the way I
had without those checks. Thinking about it, that's fair
enough because I now know as much as anyone about the case,
and about FBI systems and procedures. He said he was very
grateful for what our family, particularly me, had done to
assist them, and that he had no hesitation whatsoever
trusting us. 

I guess I still looked pretty pissed, so in a roundabout
way he started flattering me. Not flattering so much
as...well he just let me know that he knew what I'd been
through and he thought it was neat how I'd put it all aside
and not only got on with it, but excelled. Truthfully, I'd
never thought of it like that before and when he mentioned
Paul's death, some perversity in me wanted him to know the
truth. He didn't react like most people do. He just smiled
and said I'd be surprised how many marriages broke up that
way.

Honestly, when you tell a guy you're a widow, they're
sympathetic. When you tell them it's because your husband
was drunk driving with the person he'd left you for, they
usually say you're better off without him. Or maybe that it
saved you the trouble of a divorce. But then when you
confess he'd left you for another man, their eyes glaze and
they foot shuffle and they just about fall over themselves
trying to escape. So I do it fast, now, to clear the air.
Yep, that's me, the woman who's husband left her for a guy.
The sucker who gave up college to put him through medical
school then lost everything to a finance company after he
was
killed because the s.o.b. hadn't kept up the insurance
payments. And the bitch was, if the divorce had come
through, our finances would have been separated and I
wouldn't have been liable for his student loan debt. 

Yep, saved me the trouble of a divorce. Right.

Anyway, the next night Skinner came down again and oddly
enough, started talking about himself. I thought it was odd
only because he didn't seem the type. He walks around like
some powerful, unassailable force. I know it's because of
the way everyone treats him. "Assistant Director" and all,
complete with capitals. Yet even without that, he carries
himself do erect, so...impregnable. An air of authority is
too much of a clich. It's more, much more. But there he
was, drinking coffee and just...talking to me. 

He was married once, widowed now. Apparently he was a
signature away from divorce when his wife was in a car
accident. The *accident* implicated him for murder, but
Mulder and Scully discovered the truth and no, the murderer
was never found.

That made an impact on me. 

Here he was, an FBI assistant director and his wife's
murderer had never been found. But what made it so sad, or
maybe not, depends on your perspective, was that he had
managed a reconciliation with her while she was in
hospital. He had, after all those years, managed to open up
to her when he'd kept it bottled for years. The ugliness
and horror that surrounded him he wanted kept from her. But
by closing that off, he had also closed off himself. And
then he found a way to break through...she died.

Hell. I thought I had a bad run. 

I was glad to see him again last night, but not glad about
the circumstances. I went to the kitchen and started to
heat the chili and coffee, then I put the garbage out and
saw them. They were standing back from the edge of the
building and looking up. I knew something was up, of
course. I mean West and Skinner wanted to get to the roof
in a real hurry and it had something to do with Mulder, but
I wanted to keep out of the way. I'm not stupid, if some
bad shit was going down I had no desire to play target to a
stray bullet. It always amazes me when people crowd around
active crime scenes. TV is a whole lot safer. I mean I was
in an ideal position to know.

But this wasn't like that. You could almost feel the fear
from those watching. Not fear for themselves, but for one
of their own, for there on the corner of the building next
door, was a man, curled over himself and sitting right on
the edge.

It knocks the wind out of you when you see a jumper. Not
that I've ever seen one before, but oooh boy, it claws at
your guts. Then I saw someone else on top of our roof
walking towards him. I could hear her talking, just
snatches of conversation. And I could hear him answering
back. Suddenly he jumped back and started moving around in
a circle. Everyone, myself included, moved right back into
the car park so we could see better and that's when I heard
them clearly. I mean I'd already guessed, but now I knew.
It was Spooky up there and the one on our roof was his
partner, Scully. 

God, a jumper was bad enough -- but someone you knew... 
Okay, I didn't know him well but these two had touched me
and
seeing them like that...oh, hell, it really bothered me.
Then
it hit me. This guy was not suicidal. And I said it out
loud. They all looked at me like I was nuts, except for
West, I think she'd figured it out too. I said, hell, if he
wanted to kill himself, why not use his gun? And why bother
with a lousy four story building when the snow was so thick?

Before anyone had a chance to comment, someone tackled him
from behind, but Mulder broke free and ran to the edge and
I though that's it folks, he's going over. Then I heard her
shout.

"No, Mulder you're not ugly...you're...beautiful! Don't you
see that, don't you know that? I see you, Mulder, I see your
dignity and loyalty and your pure spirit and your passion
for what is right, for justice in the true sense of the
word. You are the most beautiful man I've ever known, not
just your body, but your soul. Throw away the glove, Mulder,
throw it away!"

I didn't understand the last part, but it didn't matter.
If love 
could save a man, then those words would have saved him a 
dozen times over. I wondered what on Earth had brought this 
all on. The agents next to me sucked in their breaths and I 
could see one or two of them nodding, agreeing with what 
she was trying to do. But then he came out with something, 
in a voice not really his own.

"I have to jump. If I jump, they can't get me. Don't you
see that, Scully? I can just float down into the soft white
snow and let it clean me. I'm almost there, I can feel
it...so cold, Scully, so very cold..."

Then she screamed again "Mulder, no! Mulder, don't go...damn
it, Mulder I *need* you! I NEED YOU!" 

Let me tell you, it was like she'd torn that from her very
soul, as if verbalizing it had cost her something she'd
been incapable of giving. But it worked, because he fell
back and whoever tackled him before did it again and this
time, he stayed down.

All the agents around me cut and ran then. I went back
into the kitchen, having near frozen to death for going out
without my coat. Then I recalled Mulder was dressed only in
a tee shirt. I shook my head and stirred the chili, put out
bowls and cups and chunks of the bread I'd just baked, and
waited. 

Not for long, as it turned out. Five minutes later the
first of them came in. Then West and finally, about ten
minutes later, Skinner. His coat was covered in cobwebs and
dirty snow. I'd already learned from the others that it had
been him who'd tackled Mulder. But by mutual consent none
of them spoke further until Skinner arrived.

He shrugged off his coat and I handed him a cup of coffee.
He looked at me a second, totally expressionless. But I
could see the thank you there, hiding behind the pain. I
went to leave them, then. The coffee pot and chili were on
the table, they could help themselves. But he called me
back.

"Dr. Palmer, I'd appreciate you staying. You have
become as much a part of this team as anyone and an
explanation is both warranted and necessary."

The others looked at me like they'd been hit over the head
with a baseball bat. Then I realized. Just because some FBI
clerk had run a background check on me from D.C., didn't
mean any of them knew the first thing about me. They just
took me for granted. I'd been categorized as the owner's
daughter, a waitress who knew something about computers.
Now, they saw me in a completely different light, even if
Skinner calling me "Doctor" was technically premature.

Skinner picked it up and brushed it aside quickly,
although I think he also used it as a demonstration in not
taking anyone for granted.

"Dr. Palmer is an engineer and just happens to be the
owner's daughter."

Jaws dropped all round and they looked universally
chagrined. However, Skinner's next words recaptured their
attention.

"No doubt you realize by now that was not a suicide
attempt by Agent Mulder."

Then he went on to describe how profilers sometimes went
so deep into the psyches of killers, and sometimes victims,
they could hare out and lose it. 

"This was not a breakdown or a psychotic episode in the 
normal sense, but a window into a world I personally never 
want to see," Skinner told them. "A window into madness. 
Mulder, as we all know, has become increasingly difficult
to communicate with. He has hardly slept or eaten in days 
-- and exposing himself to the cold literally threw him 
into an almost trance-like state where he literally 
*became* the victim. But it gets worse. Mulder actually 
became a real-time link."

In other words, we'd just seen what was happening to a
boy, somewhere in Seattle. As we sat there and sipped
coffee and ate chili, a boy was being raped, killed,
dismembered.

I put my coffee cup down and swallowed hard.

You could see by the looks on their faces that if they
hadn't seen it for themselves, they wouldn't have believed
it. 

As it turned out, the reason they had been roused by
Skinner a few hours earlier was because new information had
come to light. The source was Mulder, the results of an
earlier mirroring. That Mulder had entered a similar state
only a short time later was unexpected, but eminently
fruitful, despite that it meant two children had died, were
dying, that night.

They talked about it for at least twenty minutes when
someone finally asked how Mulder was, and if he would be
okay.

"Scully's with him. He snaps out if it pretty fast, but as
you might understand, its a pretty rough ordeal to go
through. I'm going back up there in a minute."

West asked, "Is it likely to happen again sir?"

Skinner nodded. "Yes, unless we use what we have learned 
and catch these bastards -- soon. And with what Mulder's
given us, we should make headway, now, fast."

Grahams, I think it was, asked, "So he's some sort
of...psychic?"

Skinner screwed up his face. "I don't know if that's the
correct term. Mulder's profiling skills are an
extraordinary combination of eidetic memory, frightening 
intelligence and an ability to fit unrelated pieces 
together in such a way that it appears almost psychic. 
But this...this thing that happens to him is way, way 
beyond that. Whatever you want to call it, by its very 
nature it is...outside medical understanding. And it's 
been kept under very tight wraps." 

His eyes bored every man and woman in that room, including
me and he added, "And it will be kept that way." And not a
person there didn't fully understand if one word of the
events of the night leaked out, we'd all end up very
unhappy people. Big time.

Not, of course, as if anyone would believe it. Spooky.
Very spooky.

I have to give West extra points, because she said, "With
all due respect sir, everyone's witnessed him sitting out 
in the snow half-dressed, or walking in circles around that
evidence table for hours on end...not to mention the
howling nightmares when he does finally sleep."

"Eccentricities are one thing. Apparently, and I repeat
apparently, psychotic episodes that are in fact mirroring,
are not an eccentricity. Do I make myself clear?" 

I wondered why the FBI was so...insistent about keeping it
under wraps. I mean local police use psychics all the time,
so why not the FBI? But then, I suppose using a psychic was
one thing. This, however, was something waaaay beyond
peeking into the minds of killers. A few weeks ago I would
have put it down to another one of the FBI's dirty little
secrets, like their cross-dressing founder. But now...
having met Mulder and seen what happened on the roof,
I had a feeling there was more behind it than Skinner was 
telling. But I also felt a greater degree of trust had been 
placed in me than I had any right to deserve. 

I would never abuse that trust and, I guess, I found
myself respecting these people, where before I thought I
hated them. And I began to see them more as humans. And one
of them at least, was an extraordinarily gifted human. Just
as fragile, just as emotive and just as...well, human as the
rest of us. But they chose to stand between people like me
and the evil that lurked in society. Oh, there were
breaches, all the time. But these brave souls undertook
what was generally a thankless task to shore up the walls
between good and evil. Sound trite? Sure, and I was just as
sure there were some equally evil bastards among them.
But that night, at least, I saw the lengths one man was
prepared to go in order to protect the rest of us, and I
have to tell you, it humbled me. The least, the very least
I could do was respect that. And I saw in their faces the
compassion they had for one of their own who would go so
very much further. 

**********************
End Chapter 1 The Meta
 
Title: MIND GAMES: Book 3:The Meta 2 of 4
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated R  
*********************

CHAPTER 2

Central Hotel, Seattle
4:50 a.m.


A.D. Skinner opened the legal notepad, the one Mulder used
to take his notes earlier in the evening. There were pages
and pages of rough script in a familiar hand, in columns
and notations. Then on the last three pages were tightly
written script. This, Skinner recognized as the rough
outline Mulder used before typing a formalized profile.
This was the thing Mulder wanted him to use.

This was his insight into the mind of a serial killer.

Skinner had never seen one before, but he knew that was
how profilers worked. They used dozens, hundreds of
interviews in prison cells, used thousands of reports 
from previous and current profilers, used whatever 
they could in their vast knowledge of abnormal psychology, 
to build a picture. Serial killers, Skinner knew, were 
not always mad. In fact, the vast majority fully 
comprehended the difference between good and evil, but 
freely chose to follow their own perverted needs into a 
world that began with manipulation and domination. Fed 
by increasing needs for the more perverted, blood and 
eventually death were requirements to fulfill their 
sexual appetites.

This was the world Fox Mulder descended into. Sanity had no
place in that world.

As he read, Skinner realized even these notes were a highly
sanitized version combining the formalized education of
Mulder with the thought processes of the killer.

He took a quick glance across at the bed before settling
in to read, his own pad and pen ready to grab any specifics
he might use before Mulder woke and wrote a complete formal
profile. As he began to read, a shiver traveled down his
spine. It was in the first person. How easy would it be
for Mulder to slip from profiling to mirroring -- and lose
himself inside the mind of the killer while his body was
under its control? How had he managed to keep the two
aspects separated?

Skinner shook his head. With sudden clarity he realized
Fox Mulder had to be the most sane human being he knew.
Only absolute sanity would protect him.

He began to read.

"My mom used to play with me when I started hollering.
She'd do it a lot and I musta liked it because I'd stop
crying. But her boyfriends knew better what to do, so I
liked that a lot more. 

"After a while she just used to give me to them and they
weren't boyfriends, they were other men who never took her
out or nothing.

"Most of them were rough. Too rough and it hurt, but some
of them were okay.

"Then once when I came back really bad, she let me go with
them only if she could watch. She didn't want me too badly
hurt or else I was no good.

"I saw her then, she liked it a lot and she smiled at me
and loved me and it was okay.

"As I got older, she used to do it to herself in front of
us. The john would get off big time and pay her a lot more
money. I wanted to have a big dick like them so I could do
it, too, but I dunno, something was wrong with me and it
never got big.

"The johns didn't mind that, they didn't care about my
dick, just theirs. In fact, Mom always said it was better
this way 'cause I looked like a little kid. I was small
for my
age anyway.

"Then she never came home one night. 

"There was nothing to eat in the house after a coupla days,
so I spent some time with my mother's friends. They looked
after me, fed me and made sure the johns weren't too bad.

"There were a lot of other kids working, mostly older than
me, but a few younger. Some of them worked with their
mothers too.

"I got real friendly with one. Jimmy, he was. He was a black
kid, 'bout fifteen I guess and I really liked him because
he was so soft. All the johns are rough. Their skin is hard
and rough and calloused, but Jimmy had skin like a baby. He
said it was 'cause he was black. Maybe. Most of the johns I
had were white or maybe Mexican. 

"We lived close to the border.

"Jimmy asked me if I'd ever given it and I told him no,
nobody ever did nothing but give it to me. So he let me do
him. He said it was easy 'cause I was so small and he
liked it that way. I never hurt him. But I wanted to. 
I wanted him to know how good the pain could be.

"Some of the older kids started doing me too and they liked
to hurt. I liked it too, except when they teased me about
my small dick. Sometimes I used to hurt them back and it
made me feel even better.

"After a while, some of the women who had little kids asked
me to do them for their first time. They loved their kids,
really and they didn't want them hurt too much, or maybe
they just wanted them not to scream for a john and figured
I was a good start. Who knows? But it was stupid. The pain
was good, I wanted them to know how much the pain was good.
They needed to like it because the johns were going to hurt
them and they better get used it that, so I'd hurt them. I
made sure they squealed.

"Anyway I got to give it to a lot of them and I liked it, I
liked it a whole lot. Better than having to take it all the
time.

"I never got a job, not a real job. Can't read or write
nothing 'cept to sign my name. Never went to school. Then I
met Sarah. She was the first woman, not girl, I mean, who
actually let me give it to her without laughing that I was
too small. She taught me how to use my tongue instead. 

"She lived in with all of us for a while, but she started
coming home with cuts and stuff sometimes. I asked her what
it was about and she finally told me one day. Some of the
johns like cutting up on women. 

"We all knew that. There was always a risk of getting some
weirdo who cut you, maybe ended up killing you. Mostly they
did it to the Mexicans, they were always coming across the
border and never complained to the cops. If they
disappeared, nobody ever reported it.

"I guess I've known a lot of people who that must have
happened to.

"I guess that's what happened to Mom.

"I couldn't figure why Sarah did it.

"She said it made her a lot of money. She said she did it
for movies and stuff and when she'd saved enough, she could
get out of the game and do something else.

"Do what else? What else was there to do?

"She said she'd look after me because I never hurt her. She
said maybe she'd get me taught to read or something and
then I could do those something elses. 

"She likes it when I watch her. She says the johns don't do
nothing for her, so she's gotta do it herself. One time, she
saw me with one of the younger boys and she got off on it,
watching us.

"It was good, real good. I like her to watch, like Mom did.
I want her to be happy, like Mom was.

"Sarah disappeared for about four days then. When she came
back she was cut up real bad and she was glazed and sick.
She said she was fine and the cuts would heal, but I could
tell she was upset. Turns out another girl she was with got
cut too bad and died making a snuff flick.

"Shit.

"Snuff flicks. I told her it was stupid risking that shit,
but she said she was okay because she was white and blonde
and they'd never risk losing her.

"And they paid.

"A lot.

"One of the little shits bit me the other day, when I was
giving it to her. I slapped her round a bit. Her mother got
mad at me and tried to stick me. Instead, I stuck her. 

"Sarah came in and said she'd fix it with the guy she was
working with. They had to get rid of bodies a lot. 

"I wasn't scared or anything, and Sarah liked it. I could
tell she liked it a lot. I think these blood games are what
gets her off now, so I cut her a bit and we had some fun.
Yeah, I liked it too, it tastes good, feels good.

"The guy came and we dumped the kid's mother. He said he
could use the kid on a flick and Sarah talked him into
letting me come and watch.

"I had to look after the kid and she bit and scratched me a
lot. The guy, Steve, told me not to knock her around too
much because of the film. I worried a bit about it being a
snuff film but in the end I wanted to kill the little cunt
myself. I never knock them around first because of the
films. They gotta look pure, virgin, clean. I just wait
until I do it, then the blood, that's good

"I watched them make the flick and Steve said I would be
good for some stuff because I was so small. I thought that
would be all wrong because, you know, they like big, really
big dicks on that. But he said I was a novelty piece.

"But I never got to make any films because then some heavy
stuff went down. The cops got involved and everything went
bad.

"Steve got Sarah and me outta there with another boy. He had
money stashed away so we all moved to another city. He said
he wanted to make more movies because there were clients
out there who paid big money for serious shit.

"Plenty of street kids in L.A. Plenty to work with. He
stuck to Mexicans for the hard stuff. He never let me do
the kids because I was too small. I didn't like that, but
it didn't matter because Sarah used to let me do them
afterwards. I got used to it that way. They never moved
when they were dead and the blood looked good and tasted
good.

"She gets herself off on all the blood when they get hurt.
So does Steve. The boy he brought with him got killed when
Steve accidentally cut him too deep. I hated that little
shit, he used to get all the good stuff. I was glad to see
him die. I liked it, a lot. I wish it had've been me that
did it.

"I told Steve that.

"He said I could do the next one, so I did and Sarah really
dug it. 

"Steve picked up another boy for himself a while back. He
didn't get in my way and now I'm grown up and as big as
Steve, neither does he. Sarah runs things now and she said
they had a real rich client who wanted a special snuff one
made. They had to cut up the kid afterwards. I mean really
cut him up, in pieces. Jesus, I saw a chain saw used on a
girl,
once. That was cool so I figured this would be better. But I
didn't want to do it on them live, so I made sure I cut
them deep first. Steve always stuck them in the chest and
after a while, I did the same.

"I had some trouble with it at first, but the money was
something else. Then something weird happened. The client
wanted to meet us. He wanted in on it. So we moved to
Seattle.

******************************************

Day 11 - Tuesday

Central Hotel, Seattle

5:45 a.m. 


Skinner held his hand to the phone's mouthpiece and
glanced around at the now empty room -- old coffee cups and
take-out boxes were scattered between laptops and files,
notepads and graphic photos. 

"Agent Colton..." Skinner speared the first person that
walked by the open door. 

"Sir?"

"Colton, I'm stuck on hold here." Skinner ran his hand
across his bald head then pulled his glasses off and
pinched his nose between two fingers. He had not yet slept
and he could foresee no time over the next few hours when
that might happen. God, what Mulder had given them...He'd
sat in horror reading he first profile notes, but it gave
them so much to go on, it was phenomenal. They were already
running through the databases. Teams had been out on the
streets since before dawn, rounding up the homeless...the
street kids. With Mulder's latest profiles they should be
able to pinpoint a Sarah and possibly all of them within
hours. And the links back to San Diego and the snuff flicks
were already paying off.

For the carrion-eating press to have dropped this bomb shell
in their laps was shit he did not need.

"Can you get me a folder on the side table near my bed?
It's in a courier bag."

A surge of resentment flowed through Colton. He'd only
been in town a few days and had hit the deck running. It
hadn't helped that he'd immediately been assigned to a team
chasing down crap dead end leads that fucking Spooky
decided on. He'd only had about five hours sleep and he was
hanging out for a coffee. He was no fetch and carry boy for
the A.D., but he plastered a suitable helpful look on his
face and held out his hand for the key card. 

As Colton stepped from the elevator on the fourth floor he
realized he did not know which room the A.D. had been
assigned. He looked at Skinner's key card. Shit, no number,
but then he saw it was a master key. Which room? No
problem, there were only ten rooms on each level. All he
needed was a quick glance in each one, shouldn't take more
than a few minutes.

The first two scored zero. The third revealed someone
sprawled out in bed, dead to the world. Colton was glad he
hadn't knocked. Anyone who could catch a few hours sleep
should be left in peace until the next load of crap fell on
them.

On the fourth try he eased himself into the room and
glanced around the corner to see...

Well, fuck me... 

Anger and resentment conspired with perverse delight at
the vision before him. He crept out and quietly tried the
next door, his face twisting into a bitter smirk, wondering
how he could capitalize on his little find. A courier bag
lay on the unmade bed. Colton double checked the address on
the bag to make sure it was Skinner's. It was not beyond
the realm of possibility that someone else had a similar
courier bag on their bed, although the room looked like it
had been partially converted to an office, as he would
expect of Skinner. But Colton would never make a mistake
again. Not after the first, career-damaging one 6 1/2 years 
previously.

Skinner nodded his thanks absently to Colton as he
continued to speak in the phone. 

Colton grabbed a cup of coffee and returned to his own
room for his notes. A surge of unexpected anger welled in
his gut as he recalled the haunted looks and darkened eyes
of the men gathered around the coffee urn. Men who had
worked through the night, who had kissed their loved ones
goodbye weeks, in some cases months, before, to dedicate
their lives to solving this case. 

Colton was still incredulous that Spookyfucking Mulder
had been assigned as the profiler and that his word was
gospel. Colton heard about Forenzzi's little revelation the
previous Sunday morning and it hadn't surprised him. In
fact it delighted him. And Colton couldn't help a shit-
eating grin from spreading across his face when he'd heard
about Forenzzi knocking out a few of pretty boy's teeth.
Mulder was definitely a creep in every sense of the word.
Jesus it was just such a pity he'd screwed up Dana as well.

Although Tom Colton knew the Tooms fiasco was his own
fault, he harbored a deep resentment of Mulder, and to a
lesser extent, Tooms' erstwhile victim, Dana Scully. He'd
followed their roller coaster career with the satisfaction
of one who knows his own career had stagnated. Having them
pull the strings on this case pissed him beyond words.
Eliminating possibilities was a necessary task, but a
particularly odious one when it was Spooky yanking the
leash. Colton gritted his teeth. And now this! Dedicated
men and women were pulling all nighters while Spooky...crap.

Colton grabbed his notes and returned to the restaurant.
He'd grab a second coffee and croissant before heading to
the meeting. He was far too crafty to let resentment
interfere with performance, but he had no intention of
cutting Spooky any slack, either. One crack, one chink and
Colton would pounce. Old Spooky and that little bitch
wouldn't be removed from the case, but they'd be censured
and he'd make damned certain everyone knew why.

Six a.m. came and went while his team of five working to
investigate porn connections in California waited patiently
for their team leader to appear. They'd been called out of
bed to get what was supposedly ground-breaking new
evidence. Two of his team rested their heads on arms folded
across the table. Agent Wilcox glanced at the wall clock as
it reached six ten. "I heard Mulder'd called a meeting for
team leaders at 5 a.m. Maybe Joe's still in it."

"Maybe Mulder was late...wouldn't be the first time
someone's had to drag him to a meeting." Weston said it
without resentment, knowing the profiler's obsessiveness
made him lose track of time. "Maybe the poor bastard finally
managed to get some sleep."

Agent Cummins looked up from her lap top and asked, "Has
anyone checked Joe's room?"

Wilcox replied "Yeah, he's not there, not in the
restaurant either. What about Spooky? He wasn't in the
evidence room and he normally crashes there."

"Jesus, I've never seen him out of it except when Scully
convinces him he's too ripe to stand any longer." Cummins
replied. "Maybe he finally went to bed in his room."

Colton resented the sympathy these agents were displaying.
Christ, if they only knew.

"What about Smith and West?" Agent Bligh raised his head
from his folded arms.

"Nope, they took off just as I was getting caffeined.
Never said a word."

"Well what about Scully, how about we try her? She'll know
where he is." Cummins added.

Wilcox caught Colton's sour, slightly smug look. He gave
the agent a querying look. Colton dissembled for a moment
then sighed, pretending reluctance.

"Colton, what is it?" Wilcox demanded.

Colton scrunched up his nose and rolled his eyes around,
trying to appear as uncomfortable as possible. He finally
raised his hand in defeat at Wilcox's exasperation and
explained how Skinner had sent him to fetch a courier bag
from his room. He added the problem with the key card,
deliberately building anticipation to the point where all
five team members were now awake and listening. 

When Colton trailed off, Wilcox groaned. "Get on with it, 
did you find Mulder?"

Colton muttered, "Well I don't know whether he was asleep
or not but yeah, he was in bed -- with Agent Scully." It
took every ounce of his will power not to grin in delight 
at the stunned looks on the agent's faces. 

Victory was fleeting. 

"Agent Colton."

Colton, whose back had been to the door, failed to see the
A.D.'s silent approach. He snapped his head around. Never
in his life would he have believed the sound of his own
name could curdle his guts. 

Skinner's voice almost shook with controlled fury as his
eyes pierced the younger man's heart. The other agents in
the room immediately sat up, recognizing the wrath of God
about to descend and wished very much to avoid the fallout.

Skinner ground his teeth together for a few moments. The
temptation to put a fist through Colton's face was so
evident, Wilcox and Bligh stood, wondering if they would
need to restrain the A.D. 

Skinner finally got himself under control before spitting
out "I am...appalled you have put some misguided personal
gratification ahead of this case by attempting to undermine
Agent Scully and Mulder's professionalism. You deliberately
misrepresented their current situation to the other agents
in this room. You have no idea, no *fucking idea* what's
gone down the last few hours," Skinner shouted in a low
voice, his eyes blazing.

"You will catch the next flight back to D.C. Disciplinary
action will be taken at the recommendation of the director
himself. And if I hear one word, one vague hint of this
incident outside of this room I will personally tear your
fucking balls out and ram them up your ass! And I am being
literal, *not* metaphorical!"

Colton visibly paled. He suddenly felt an overpowering
need to find a men's room, but Skinner's form filled the
door frame. The A.D.'s eyes danced across each of the four
remaining agents in the room, boring into their souls. 

"Do I make myself clear?"

There was no delay in the nods of assent and "Yes, sir's." 

"Agent Fuller has been delayed. Your team assignments have
been changed to accommodate new evidence. Pair up agents
and get cracking." 

He handed them each sheets of paper and went to leave the
room, but checked himself. As much as Skinner loathed the
necessity of further explanation, regardless of what he had
just said, Colton's words left a slimy residue of doubt. On
top of the newspaper insinuations, this was just too much.

"You are aware of Agent Mulder's eccentricities. This is
normal for him. The ability to slip into the mind of a
killer has an incalculable impact on a man."

Skinner thought back to the night before. After getting
Mulder downstairs, the younger man seemed to recover his
wits long enough to begin dictating everything he could
recall. He faded in and out, desperately trying to convince
Skinner to keep him awake long enough to work up another
profile. Finally, Scully convinced him they had plenty,
more than plenty to go on. It would take hours to get
things moving on what they had and meanwhile, Mulder needed
to get warm and sleep if he was to be in any way effective. 

Mulder told Skinner to look at his notes, it wasn't a
profile, as such, just his way of getting the background in
place, but there was enough in there for Skinner to use. 

Mulder had an almost death grip on Scully's hand as he
begged them to listen to him. Eventually, Scully's
exhaustion overwhelmed her and she curled up beside him on
his bed. Skinner left them long enough to debrief the
witnesses to the rooftop incident, then he returned to the
room and stayed with them, silently supporting them,
reading the terrifying contents of Mulder's pad, while the
agents dropped off into apparent sleep. He gently placed a
large comforter over them, checking the room's heat was
sufficiently high. When he had left them a half hour
before, he noticed that Scully had rolled onto her back and
held her partner gently in her arms. Mulder had unfolded
from his fetal curl, safe in his partner's arms. Skinner
silently thanked a merciful God for giving them each other.

"It is a talent," Skinner added, "none of you want. Trust
me on this. I'm not about to explain or justify the
connection he has with Agent Scully. I'm not sure I
understand it myself. But she is his partner, not his
lover." Somehow Skinner managed to give the word partner an
inflection of reverence while lover came out with a sneer.

"It is through Agent Mulder's unique...processing
abilities, after a...difficult night that we have this new
information. I stayed with them until a few minutes ago.
Scully is a calming influence and if it helps him get a few
hours peace I wouldn't care if they fucked like bunnies.
But that is not the case.

"Now, get the hell out of my sight." Skinner spat the final
words from his mouth at Colton, then swiveled around and
left the room.

No one was prepared to meet Colton's eye as the man almost
visibly crumpled. To give him his due, he tried to leave
with a parting shot. "Methinks Skinner doth protest too
much."

Cummins, totally unsympathetic to the agent and resentful
that his tactless revelation had enmeshed them in an
unnecessary tasteless tirade from an A.D., commented,
"Better pack you wool skivvies, Colton, I believe it's cold
enough to freeze whatever balls the director leaves you
with, up in Dead Horse, Alaska."

Colton exited the room to the sound of sniggers. 

"Fucking asshole," Cummins added. She'd found herself
attracted to the saturnine Mulder with his boyish good
looks. But she was also no fool. Mulder was a basket case
in the making. Still, Cummins wouldn't have waited ten
seconds to jump into the sack with him, even if it was only
to offer the poor bastard some relief from the apparently
insurmountable tension this case was generating. Frankly,
she was almost disappointed to hear Scully was not intimate
with him. She glanced up at Wilcox for a moment. There were
eight female agents on this case and Cummins would bet good
money that each and every one of them had already spent an
hour or two wrapped in the mindless release of sex. 

"I wonder what inspires a man to commit professional
suicide like that?" The remaining agent, Ford, asked no one
in particular.

"Wilcox did ask him," Bligh added.

"Yeah, but he coulda said Mulder was asleep and left it at
that," Wilcox answered. He shuffled his papers together to
leave the room. "Colton had the hots for Scully,"

"Who doesn't?" Bligh quipped. "And look where that got
Forenzzi."

"'Bout six years back," Wilcox continued, "Colton fucked up
big time by calling off a stakeout Mulder ordered. Scully
was nearly killed as a result. Mulder only just got to her
in time. Colton's career kinda stagnated after that. Stupid
son of a bitch. Anyone assigned to this case when Spooky
finally takes down the killers will garner a lot of kudos.
Colton could have been part of that." 

"So you think Mulder's got what it takes to solve this
thing, despite all the rumors about him?" Bligh asked.

"Well, let's face it, for all the shit leads and dead ends
we've been following, this case was dead in the water until
now."

"I'm goin' to grab some breakfast while I look over this."
Cummins gestured to papers Skinner had handed them. "Anyone
care to join me?"

"Yeah," Wilcox nodded. He glanced at Cummins and saw the
fatigue and pain in her eyes. Maybe sometime in the next
few days they'd get an hour or two break. He nodded in
recognition of her needs. His were the same. And he, too,
felt a monetary pang of sadness that fucked-up Spooky
probably couldn't find release in that simple, human way.
No doubt Forenzzi was right about one thing, the poor
bastard probably couldn't get it up if his life depended on
it.

**********************
End Chapter 2 The Meta

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 3:The Meta 3 of 4
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated R  
*********************

CHAPTER 3

Day 11 - Tuesday
Central Hotel, Seattle
6 a.m.

The poor bastard meanwhile had a woody that stuck up like
the proverbial flagpole.

Shit, he thought as he glanced down at himself.

He tried to move his legs in such a way that it would be
less noticeable if Scully woke. As much as his overactive
mind demanded he get up and write the profile already
compiled in his head, he was overcome by the absolute need
to stay wrapped in his partner's arms. 

Five minutes. He could have that much, he thought. Five
minutes of fantasy.

He nuzzled her soft copper hair, smelling shampoo and eau
de Scully in a heady fragrance for which he would cheerfully
have paid a thousand dollars an ounce. But here it was,
for free. He allowed his eyes to explore the soft curve of
her cheek and delicate nose, then those sinfully rich lips
that he had come so close, God help him, so very close to
claiming so many times. His eyes followed the shape of her
shoulders, down to her breasts, rising gently now in sleep.
There really was nothing quite so exquisite as watching
Scully sleep, curled up around him, all mussed and soft
and...well...Scully. She was so small, he often saw her as
elfin and yet she carried an aura so large it seemed he
spent most of his life looking up to her. God, he loved her.
Loved her so much that if anything happened to her he knew
he would not last a month. Shit, he'd hardly lasted when
she'd been taken five years before. And he had not then
realized how much he had come to care for her. 

He knew, above all else that if he began to make love to
her now, she would not resist. She would roll sleepily into
his arms and hold his head to her breast. He would hold
each perfect orb in his hands and fold his face into them.
And they would be perfect, no matter what their size or
shape. 

Of course, he knew what they looked like, he'd seen them by
accident at different times, then full measure in the
Antarctic, and they had redefined perfection for him. If
they had been bigger or smaller, if her nipples had been
larger or less full, it would not have mattered. Whatever
Scully was, that was what defined his perfection.

He knew his time was almost up. His eyes moved to her
rounded hips. Hard to see under the cover of the blanket,
but the shape was there, reminding him how they swung just
so with those three-inch heels. God, he loved it in the
summer when she wore them.

He closed his eyes and sighed slowly as the nightmarish
reality tried to impinge into his fantasy world. 

What in hell was she doing in bed with him? As if she
didn't do enough, he took even this measure of privacy from
her. His mind replayed the events of the previous evening,
washing away the intimacy of the soft morning. He felt his
hand clenched softly in hers, possessively. 

But who possessed whom?

This was not right. Despite the dream telling him he had
not lost her, that he could trust that she truly understood,
this was not the way it should be. This was not for now. 
For now, he had to get moving because God help them
all, another boy had died last night.

The images flooded his soul and he cried out in anguish,
abruptly sitting up. 

As the blankets pulled from her body, Scully woke. She was
disoriented at first, wondering why she was uncovered in
the cold of the room. Then she felt the bed move and was
shocked to see Mulder stand, then walk into the bathroom.

And she remembered.

Oh hell, she'd fallen asleep. And Skinner had been there
with them.

She hastily brushed that aside. It wasn't the first time
she'd cradled a wounded Mulder in her arms at night. That
it was his psyche rather than his body in need of comfort
and warmth was not the issue.

Scully pulled the rest of the covers from herself. Her
black jeans were speckled with white fluff from the
blankets and he toes felt cold, despite the thick socks.
Who had pulled her shoes off? Skinner?

But exhausted, she mentally shrugged. Too bad. 

The temptation to roll over and go back to sleep was
almost overwhelming, but she needed to make sure her
partner was okay. The bathroom door was open and she could
hear the shower running. The sound lulled her and she
dropped off.

Waking with a start, with no sense of elapsed time, Scully
shot up and out of bed with a thudding heart. The shower
was still running! She ran into the bathroom and nearly
collapsed with relief at the sight of him. First the damned
man won't shower for two, three days at a time. Now he
can't get enough. 

Mulder turned his tired eyes to see his partner staring at
him. He felt no embarrassment. Not that he ever really had
in front of Scully, he was more amused at her blush than
anything. He'd lost the worst of his morning erection...not
that he'd had anything left to hide. And the strange, half-
remembered dream had restored his equilibrium.

"Hey, partner, wanna join me?"

"Jesus, Mulder, you scared me!" 

"Listen, Scully, if you're gonna make a habit of coming in
the shower with me, can you scrub my back instead of just
standing there and ogling?" 

Scully about-faced, grasping for some semblance of
dignity. She wasn't sure if it was hers, or his.

But a part of her filed away the sight of his naked body.
Too nice, too damned nice with those sleek runner's thighs,
tight little ass and smooth back muscles of a swimmer. Not
to mention the goods that hung rather snugly...shut up
Dana. She walked out of the bathroom asking, "How are you,
Mulder?"

He turned the water off and reached for a towel. Tying it
around his waist he walked out of the bathroom and went to
rummage through the bag of clean laundry. 

"I'm fine, Scully." He turned to glance over his shoulder
at her skeptical face "No, really, just damned hungry. And
I need to get those profiles written."

"Mulder...if you eat, are you going to keep any of it down?"

He pulled a pair of gray shorts from the pile. He was
about to drop his towel and put them on, but decided he had
to start redefining the lines between them again. He
grabbed an undershirt and took the clothes back with him to
the bathroom as he spoke.

"Yeah, I should be all right, now."

"I mean it, Mulder. Your system is severely depleted. Would
you let me give you a vitamin shot?"

Her voice was so hesitant he walked out of the bathroom
pulling the shirt over his head and replied "Scully...look,
all right. Shit, I hate needles, can't you give me a few
pills or something?"

She almost wilted in relief. "If you want to get your
profiles done, a shot will work faster."

He studied her a few moments. "Scully, I'm sorry I've been
such an asshole, but I warned you before we started this,
no drugs."

"Mulder, vitamins are not drugs."

"No, but this only happens to me when I'm physically run
down. It's like I told you, like the old Indian fakirs,
sleep and food deprivation, intense cold...leaves the mind
open to...whatever."

She asked in a small voice. "How...how did it happen the
first time?"

He opened the closet doors and pulled out a shirt. As he
buttoned it he said, "Look, Scully, as much as I'd love to
stay and chat, I really have to get moving on this. Where's
Skinner? Did he take my notes?"

Scully pulled her lower lip into her mouth. There was so
much she wanted...hell *needed* to know. But he was right.
It had to wait for now.

"Yeah, how about I get cleaned up and meet you down in the
restaurant? He's probably there or in one of the meeting
rooms." She glanced at her watch. "By now, he'll have
everyone out on the roads, chasing down leads."

He pulled on his pants. "I have to get out there, too.
There's a barn...I'll recognize it when I see it. Damn,
where're my shoes?"

Scully motioned towards the door. A brown paper bag
contained three pairs of dry, clean and polished shoes. 

"Ah, the lovely Dulcie!" He grinned mischievously at his
partner and sat on the edge of the bed to put a pair on.

Scully smiled and tousled his hair as she walked to the
adjoining door. She was just about to close it when he
called, "Hey Scully?"

Scully looked back over her shoulder.

"Thanks...that's about four thousand and eighty seven I
owe you."

She smiled softly and replied "Oh, I dunno, Mulder, I think
that Antarctic thing has kinda put you in the credit books
for a few years, yet."

He grinned back at her and she started to close the door,
then added, "But that doesn't mean you get out of dinners
over the contents of *those* drawers!"

His face dropped so artfully she couldn't help a grin tug
at her lips.

"Mulder, I've seen basset hounds look less woeful... Oh all
right. I'll just make it one dinner."

His face looked even more woebegone as he realized he'd
been maneuvered into a completely no-win situation.

Scully used her own bathroom to get cleaned up, then
prepared the vitamin shot. Returning to give it to him, she
found him shaved and groomed and looking like something
straight from an FBI call up poster. Except that his suits
were more expensive. How in hell did he do it?

But his eyes were still a little sunken and gray-rimmed.
She was determined he'd take the shot.

"Okay, Mulder drop them,"

"Ah Scully, you trying to come on to me?" He waggled his
eyebrows and grinned.

She waved the needle around. "Careful Mulder, I'm armed."

He lowered his trousers and winced as she jabbed his hip.

"I'll see you downstairs in half an hour, Mulder."

He mumbled, "'kay." And left without glancing back, his
mind already on the profiles that needed to be written. But
under it all was the oddly compelling memory, of all the
weird things, of a shimmering green Pegasus.



*********************************************************


CHAPTER 4

Day 11 - Tuesday
Central Hotel, Seattle
7:08 a.m.
 

Mulder heard Skinner's voice coming from Room 1. He
walked past the main door and glanced inside. Damn. Press
conference. Not that many, but quantity did not matter so
much as distribution. Mulder quietly cursed, wasn't it due
at 9 a.m.? He needed to discuss with Skinner exactly what
information they would release and what should be kept in
house. 

Then he listened to Skinner's voice, "...what it means to
walk in the shoes, to know both victim and subject and how
each interacts with the other. This is achieved by hours in
prisons, sitting across the table from the killers,
listening to their stories. And only by empathizing with
them will they willingly reveal their thought processes.
John Douglas, one of the FBI's first profilers, has gone
into a prison cell and managed to get a killer of six young
girls to open up by saying, and I quote, "That's six good
pieces of ass you've taken away from the rest of us."

Skinner looked up at the men and women in front of him.
Some looked shocked, others frowned in disbelief.

Mulder walked along the hall to the rear exit of the room
and stood in the doorway. He recognized Douglas' quote and
wondered what in hell Skinner was doing. Why would he pick
now, of all times, to give the press a lesson in profiling
techniques?

"That, ladies and gentleman," Skinner continued "Is a
direct quote from John Douglas' published novel *Journey
into Darkness*. And that is exactly what a profiler must
do, journey into the minds of the animals that perpetrate
these heinous crimes on society, in order to understand
what motivates them. And by doing so, they can predict
behavior patterns that in turn may lead to the capture of
these madmen. It's not pretty, it's ugly -- as ugly as the 
crimes the animals commit. But it is necessary. 

"When a profiler immerses himself into the crime, to
establish this mental rapport with the murderer, he may
approach the situation by pantomime and by speaking in the
first person, thereby giving the appearance to those
unfamiliar with the technique, that he is in fact..."

One of the younger agents standing near Mulder recognized
him and silently handed him a folded newspaper. He opened
it and felt his stomach turn into knots as the headline
grabbed him:

"FBI PROTECTING CHILD MOLESTER AMONG ITS RANKS? 

Using the maxim of it takes a thief to catch one, the FBI
has been accused of harboring a suspected pedophile to 
out-think the Line Killer."


Mulder's fingers clenched the paper and he glanced at the
publisher. It was just a rag, a low ranked piece of tabloid
garbage. He then glanced quickly through the byline,
catching only the relevant phrases.

"Yesterday, an inside source with the FBI revealed that an
unnamed agent...questionable ethics...hypocrisy...legal
system which turns a blind eye...calling for the
resignation of...man's name to be released...FBI's stance
on homosexuality amongst its ranks...

Mulder clamped his jaw tightly and backed out of the room.

Fuck.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to consider the
implications. Who the hell..? Forenzzi? Could the stupid
prick hate him *that* much? He opened his eyes and glanced
back into the press conference. He could hear Skinner's
voice painting a very clear and concise picture of FBI
profiling techniques. Skinner's delivery was flat,
professional and effective in undermining the ridiculous
headline.

Long time crime reporters and more mainstream papers were
familiar with profiling techniques and would automatically
scoff at the tabloid headline. But the average Joe public
would presume that where there was smoke...

Shit. 

He stopped his mind from flying off into tangents and
decided to dismiss it out of hand. Skinner would take care
of it. He needed food and a quiet place to write his
updated profiles. But then he heard a question from someone
close to Skinner. He could barely make out the words.

"...true that a FBI agent was the source? That being the
case, surely he would have a clear understanding of the
differences between a profiler and an actual pedophile?"

"It is correct that the information came from an FBI agent
formerly working on this case. You appreciate that this is
a high stress, often dangerous job and this particular
agent is suffering from the effects of that stress. He is
currently undergoing psychiatric evaluation..." 

He had thought long and hard about Forenzzi's attitude
towards him. It did not simply extend from the death of
Steve Wallenberg. It went back further, he was sure, to the
case in Michigan. Over the prior months he had desperately
sought to control the killer during mirroring. Having
failed every time, when it hit him hard and fast in
Michigan, he lost sight of his body and its surroundings in
an attempt to get into the killer's body. He had failed,
yet again, to save the victim. When it was over, Patterson
was there and his hotel door broken in. He had not thought
to ask, but it was obvious now that Forenzzi had seen
something. And fucking Patterson had not bothered to
mention it.

Mulder shook his head and walked away. Forenzzi had just
bought himself the wrath of God. He was sorry for Forenzzi,
sorry Patterson had likely never debriefed him. Or perhaps
he had. Mulder sighed. Yeah, perhaps he had and like any
sane man, Forenzzi couldn't accept it.

He walked away, wishing he could get the image of a green
Pegasus out of his mind, it was distracting the hell out of
him.

************************************

End Chapter 4 The Meta

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 3:The Meta 4 of 4
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated PG  
*********************

CHAPTER 5

Day 11 - Tuesday 

2:30 p.m. PST 
Lat: 16 deg. 2 min. S. Long: 121 deg. 9 min. E. 

6:30 a.m. local time 

Mulder looked up in to the eyes of the Meta. He felt
calmer that he should have. And it bothered him. Although
perhaps now, at long last, he might get some answers...or
maybe he had never come out of it last night and had
finally, completely gone away with the fairies.

Nik was gratified, *You have accepted this situation well,
Human.*

"I don't exactly accept it, but I'm willing to...listen.
You're communicating by some sort of telepathy?"

*Yes.*

"So you can read minds as well as project thoughts?"

*Yes.*

Mulder nodded. *All right...Let me get this clear. I'm
driving along and a green mythical creature swoops down out
of the sky, *pulls* me out of the car somehow and tells me
someone needs to talk to me. I black out for a moment, or
everything goes black, not sure which, then I'm on the back
of a...a Pegasus and we're coming in for landing, sans
pilot, on this beach. Then you appear. I knew to expect you
because of a dream last night. How am I doing so far?*

The Meta inclined his head.

Mulder nodded a few times as he absorbed the information.
Okay, so he was dreaming. Either that or he was lost in
some psychosis-driven waking nightmare. Had Scully
overridden Skinner and drugged him? Had he simply lost it
himself, gone too deep into the mind of a killer to ever
come out again? But no...his memories since the mirroring
were too cohesive. The events around him, the warmth of the
sun, feel of sand beneath his shoes too real to be delusions. 
Yet was not the strength of delusions a testimony to insanity? 

*Am I insane?*

The blue creature let out an amazingly deep laugh. *You are
without doubt *the* most sane man on the planet! As much as
I hate to use one of your cliches -- you've simply
been...abducted by an...alien. Come with me.*

Mulder frowned, but curiosity drove him to follow the alien
along the sandy beach to a thatch of coconut trees. Spread
out on a wooden table under the shade, was an extraordinary
array of cooked foods and a pot of rich-smelling coffee.
Mulder felt surprisingly hungry. Despite what he'd told
Scully, for the first time in days he honestly thought he
could eat without upchucking soon after. 

Mulder sat at the table, then glanced at the alien that
called itself a Meta. Okay, what next? Quantico didn't run
courses in alien protocol. 

The Meta replied *I have eaten.*

Mulder looked down at the table, his stomach rumbling.
What the hell, if I am crazy, he thought, the food in this
asylum is one hell of a lot better than most institutions.
Scully, yeah, that was it, she'd found him a real nice
nuthouse. He's have to thank her when he came out of it. If
he came out of it.

And if by some chance this *was* real, he could do with a
decent meal.

Fifteen minutes later he finished and stood to join the
Meta standing down near the water's edge. Something, some
movement prompted him to look back at the table. It had
vanished.

"Portable dishwasher, huh?"

*You were brought to this place because I felt it would be
easier on your psyche to speak in such surroundings. Your
friends are naturally concerned but you will be returned in
a few hours, healthier than when you departed.*

Mulder blinked and glanced at his hands. He breathed
deeply and suddenly realized he felt no pain. There were no
scrapes nor bruises across his knuckles from the night
before. He touched his face, no tenderness in his jaw and
the temporary crowns had vanished and his original teeth
were back in place. 

"What did you do?" 

*Fox Mulder, you are neither insane, dreaming nor
delusional, however the pain and physical degradation you
use as tools to artificially elevate yourself to an enhanced 
receptive state weaken you. This makes you vulnerable 
both to delusions and to the machinations of that which you 
seek. That is why I came last night, for such a state is 
dangerous to you physical existence. I want you well and 
healthy and sure of your sanity for that which I wish to show 
you.*

Mulder's thoughts warred, but he could do nothing for now,
except go along with it. *All right...so why is it that
we've never seen your type before?*

*Because I can do this,* the eight foot tall, royal blue
humanoid with cat like eyes and a mane of hair that would
have made a lion proud, lost its tail and quickly morphed
into a good-looking human male. He was roughly the same
height, but slightly bigger build than Mulder.

*Bounty hunter?*

*No, this was my previous form.*

Mulder blinked. *Previous form... Shit, do you mean...?*

*Here, might as well get comfortable. You'll be here most of
the day and it's going to get pretty warm. Don't worry
about sunburn, I've adjusted your melanin to deal with it.
By the way, my name is Nik.* 

He held out a pair of swimming trunks in one hand and
proffered his other hand in a human gesture of greeting.

*Nice to meet you...I think.* 

Mulder shook the Meta's hand then quickly stripped and
changed. Shit, if this was a dream...

*It's not.*

Mulder glanced at the Meta. *Okay, so why am I here?*

The Meta retained his human form as they walked along the
beach. *Let's back up a little ways so I can explain..in
fact lets back up all the way back to before.*

Mulder waited in the silence, wondering if he had missed
something. *Before what?*

Nik scrunched up his face. *Before. Remember your origins
of the universe theory? It's pretty much correct...you
know, the once upon a time there wasn't?*

Mulder looked at the Meta. Shit, physics was Scully's
field, not his. 

*Okay,* Nik replied *Before time there wasn't.*

*Wasn't what?*

*Time. Before the beginning there was no time, space or
matter. There was no matter because there was no time for
matter to exist within. There was no time because no matter
existed for time to be measured in relation to. There was
no space for space is the place between matter and as there
was no matter, there could be no space. Ergo, before the
universe, there wasn't.*

*You mean before time and space there was nothing.*

*No. 'Nothing' implies the existence of 'something' and
there was no something. It's like good and evil. They are
measurements and you must have something to measure before
you can quantify it. Everything only exists, or doesn't
exist, in relationship to something else.*

*Okay, an imponderable moment before, then there was an
after, your basic origin of the universe theory, I get
it...I guess.* 

*Let's move out of high school. In fact lets move away
from standard quantum mechanics. After the universe was, it
formed into six standard dimensions. You understand the
first four, three spacial, the fourth being time. The fifth
leads into another set dealing with they way you and I are
communicating. It is also the place where your mind goes
when you mirror.*

Mulder's head jerked around *That's quantifiable? It's a
*real* place.*

*Of course? What did you think, that you imagined it? But
put that aside for the moment, we can return to it later.
For now I want you to picture a journey leaving this
universe through the sixth dimension. As you travel, the
path divides into six. These paths lead to six other
universes. Consider this universe the baseline one, so this
plus the other six now total seven. We, however, name the
other universes one to six. From this perspective if you
stick to the far left path, the sixth one, it leads from
here to the sixth universe. You follow so far?*

Mulder nodded.

*When you arrive at this sixth universe, do not break
through the superficies. Stay in the sixth dimension and
you will see that from this sixth universe the path again
divides into six. This dividing path applies to every one
of the first six universes so that you end up with a total
of forty three. However, lets just stick on our path. Once
again, take the sixth path on the left and it will lead you
to the final, forty third universe. Now pick up the
construct in your mind and examine it. You have taken a
circular path around the universes to arrive back where you
began -- but it is the opposite side. The wrong side. The
path to this 43rd universe is described mathematically as
the sixth path to the sixth universe then the sixth path
from there...*

*You're kidding?* Mulder mentally interrupted * 666....?*

The Meta paused, not surprised this man immediately
grasped the implications *Exactly.*

Mulder felt a frissom of fear arc up his spine and he
stopped walking to stare out at the placid ocean. 

Oh, fuck.

The Meta gave the human a few minutes to grasp the
staggering philosophical implications. 

*Well done, Fox Mulder, it took me an hour to grasp it when
I first heard, but then I'd never had to fight metaphysical
evil before. You have.*

*What in hell are you?* Mulder looked at the Meta with
haunted eyes. 

*Some billions of years ago a species evolved in this
universe to become what we call Masters. They do not rule
the galaxies, but they are benevolent. In the 43rd universe
an equally powerful species, the Others, also evolved...*

Oh my god, oh my God, oh fucking hell... Mulder sat, bent
his head forward and put his hands in his head.

*Yes, you understand now.*

Mulder took a deep breath and looked out over the tranquil
ocean.

*What about the gray aliens, the black oil, where does it
all fit in?*

*Listen, and I will tell you a tale. The Masters evolved
and reached out from their home planet to explore the
stars. In time, they learned to traverse the galaxy and
eventually, to reach other galaxies beyond. To explore
these galaxies they leaned to breach the interneces of the
dimensions. And so it came about that the 43rd universe was
discovered. It was Pandora's box, accessed by a way that
some human folk law now describe as the number of the Beast
- 666. Once opened, the nature of the creatures that
existed therein entrapped those Masters who fell within.
And they were many. 

*We do not know if those Masters still exist, for their
species is all but immortal. However, soon it came to pass
that a force humans call evil became to be unleashed upon
this universe. The Masters knew its source and came to
refer to these dark minions as the Others. You recognize
the parallels in Genesis.*

Mulder swallowed hard and nodded needlessly.

Nik continued. *The Masters, realizing the Life Force of
our universe must be nurtured against the destruction of
the Others, set about creating sentinels to protect the
growing Life Forces of each planet. 

*Understand, Agent Mulder, there are not one or two or
even a dozen aliens in this universe, but millions of
different species. And yet, for all we differ, we are all
the same!*

Mulder shook his head unable to fully absorb the
implications of what this creature told him.

*Listen to me!* Nik clasped Mulder's arm gently to get his
attention. The soul weary agent looked up with hooded eyes. 

*All the universes were created from a single set of raw
materials. You, the rock you sit on...the ants that crawl
beneath, the whales in that ocean, the sea itself and yes!
The sun above are all made from the same molecules that
were Created in the beginning. Your body is made from the
stuff of stars, Fox Mulder! The molecules that once roamed
this sun fell to earth and made you, and all that exists
around you! And when your body dies, when your molecules
turn to dust they will be reborn again, as a flower or a
plant, to be eaten by one that gives birth to yet another
and another. Nothing ever truly dies, Fox Mulder.

*And consider, the stars themselves were born from a
single great mass, so all creatures in the universes are
really one, part of one great Life Force. But as there must
be a beginning, so to must there be an ending.*

Mulder lifted his eyes to the horizon *And how will this
all end? Is it really all for nothing?*

Nik sighed. *That depends on who wins. The battle will rage
a billion years or more, but eventually...* he chuckled and
shook his head *A human author perhaps described it best,
"What a caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master
calls a butterfly". The Others? They wish differently, to
pull back into the blackness of oblivion. They call it
purity...

*The aliens who visit this planet are many. Some are
benevolent collectors who wish to preserve a record of that
which is fast being lost. Others merely observer while a
few, including those you know as the gray aliens, are
acquisitive and wish to activate long dead genes in your
biology to generate their own kind.*

*Can you help us?* Mulder asked. *Is that why you're here?*

Nik pursed his lips and crossed his arms in an all too
human gesture. He looked up with sadness in his eyes *No, I
cannot help you fight these creatures in the way you wish.
It is a domestic dispute over a backwater planet. My role
is to fight that which surpasses mere greed and is evil
incarnate. My fight is with the Others.*

Mulder shot up from the ground and yelled, "Then why the
hell are you telling me all this? If you can't help, what's
the point? And if we don't have the tools to fight a...a
domestic dispute, how in hell can we fight these Others?"

Nik looked sadly at Mulder *You cannot fight the Others,
that is not within your power. But you do have the tools to
fight the gray ones. Even now the tools are being
fashioned, a vaccine...*

"Is being tested on the innocent, in a cruel and
farcical..."

*YES.*

The force of the thought slammed into Mulder's mind and he
grasped his head with his hands.

After a few moments, the Meta continued, *Yes. The reasons
for your fight, for this domestic dispute over
acquisitiveness is because the Others have long since
established a powerful foothold amongst the gray ones. It
is not complete, for many grays are benevolent, but it is
nevertheless powerful.*

*Then fighting them will...*

*Achieve only a temporary respite! You do not yet
understand, they are but vessels that can be discarded.*

*Then make me understand! Show me!*

Nik motioned for Mulder to sit again *Calm yourself now,
for I will take you on a journey to the edge of the Abyss
and you will see that which you have glimpsed before, in
the minds of those you hunt, but this time you will know
its truth.*

Mulder looked into the eyes of the Meta and felt himself
fall. At first he took it to be the mind of the Meta and it
shocked him. It was enormous, it would consume him! Trying
desperately to skirt the edges, Mulder felt himself
propelled beyond.

*Do not be afraid. They have seen your face before and
know you. But this time you remain under my protection and
thus, hidden from the Others. But look here into the mind
of one which you seek...*

Mulder almost recoiled in revulsion at the insidious black
growth that enmeshed itself with the personality
of...someone, a face he could not see...He followed the
path of this wrongness in the same way as he allowed his
body to mirror a killer. Past the mind of the person and
into the ether beyond it streamed out, joined by tens of
thousands of others like it and coalesced. Mulder rushed to
follow it to the source then froze in horror. 

Not possible!

Oh, God, it was not possible to witness such a seething mass
of raw evil and survive! Every tale he'd ever heard about
those who looked upon such horror turning to stone, or
salt, came back to plague him. Yet even at that moment he
realized he was not seeing it raw, but reflected in the
mind of the Meta...Medusa in the mirror...

He felt himself being jerked back and awoke,
uncontrollably emptying his bowels, bladder and stomach on
the beach as his mind gagged, suffocating at the grotesque
filth within. If it were possible he would ripped his brain
from his skull and scrubbed it in the cleansing oceanic
waters.

*I'm sorry,* Nik bent beside the prone man and brushed
Mulder's hair from his head, trying to ease the pain, *It
will pass in a few minutes. Do not fear that it touched
you, your mind is incorruptible, but now you see the face
of the Others. And now you know. They are not manifest in
solid form, but, like the Masters, have evolved into
thought forms and concepts. We feel the Masters in our
minds and know them to be real. Humans feel them as
something vague and you give name to that vague concept and
call it God, Jehovah, when in fact you really should give
those names to the all encompassing Life Force. And the
Others you give names like Satan and Beezlebub. They are
thought forms too, evil made manifest in the physical
beings of the universe.

*Yes, now you know. Evil is real and you have looked upon
its face.*

Nik lifted the man in his arms and bathed him clean in the
warm oceanic waters. Mulder was hardly aware, in far too
much pain to be ashamed of his body's involuntary loss of
control. The Meta knew this would be the result.

Finally, Mulder slept. For fifteen long hours he slept
peacefully, dreaming only normal dreams, of forgotten
moments, dreams of no consequence that brought with them no
pain or pleasure, just therapy.

********************************************

Day 11 - Tuesday

Central Hotel, Seattle

2:30 p.m.

 

"When, when did he leave?" Scully's eyes pierced Skinner.

"I don't know. He gave me the profiles and walked out. I
had no idea he'd left the hotel."

Scully's face turned away. Damn the man!

"Agent Scully, are you concerned he might..."

Scully shook her head to cut him off. "No, I really don't
think so."

"Then where...?"

"He said something about a barn that he'd recognize..."

Skinner stared at Scully. Surely Mulder wouldn't be so
stupid as to go...Come to think of it, he would.

Damn the man!

 

***********************************

Day 12 - Wednesday

5 a.m. PST

Lat: 16 beg 2 min S. Long: 121 beg 9 min E 

8:30 p.m. local time

 

When Mulder awoke the sun had long set, but the night air
was warm and the stars blazed. He sat up and found himself
dressed in his clean and dry suit. He bore no sign of his
physical collapse following the...whatever in hell it was
that the Meta had shown him.

*You are awake. Good. Come and eat. It's about time you
kept something down long enough to do you some
good. I've repaired your body, but there's still nothing
like a good solid meal in your stomach.*

Mulder's thoughts were a jumbled mixture. He remembered
what he had seen and grasped the implications, but the
thought no longer made him nauseous. He looked at the Meta
in chagrin, regretting the creature had been obliged to
clean him up.

*Apologies are unnecessary, lesser men have lost their
sanity.*

Once again Mulder found himself at a table filled with hot
spicy foods. This time the Meta joined him and Mulder
delighted at the ability to hold a conversation with his
mouth full.

*The people...I'm more than ever sure there's at least
four, the ones I'm seeking, their minds are...infected with
this...essence of the Others?*

*Many on this planet are enmeshed with the essence of what
you call evil. Some have the ability to ward it off, some
can be infected and fight free of its strictures. But many,
far too many, have had their life forces enmeshed with the
Others. Once that happens, only physical death might
release them.*

Mulder suddenly stopped chewing and narrowed his eyes.

*Where is my sister, Samantha?*

Nik looked up. *I don't know.*

*But you could find out, you could...*

*No.*

"What do you mean! You could..." He started to stand,
trying to emphasize his point but the Meta held up his hand.

*Even were I to desert my post, I cannot interfere. This
is a domestic dispute. It would draw attention to our
presence, upsetting the whole, precipitating that which you
fear the most.*

*Colonization?*

*Or worse. Colonization you could survive. Outright
dominion by the Others, you could not. Fight the fights you
can win. You have no tools to fight the Others, that is our
role. Your mind set is such that you would die before
succumbing to that evil.

*But what about the profiling and this damned ability to
go deeper, to mirror?*

Nik looked at Mulder and pursed his lips. *For a human,
your mind is extraordinary. You *chose* to push the limits
until inactive parts of your brain were temporarily...enabled. 
This is what you call mirroring.*

Mulder frowned and pulled his head back. Staring at the
Meta in disbelief he was so taken back, he verbalized his
thoughts. "I didn't *choose* to do this! Shit if I had any
control it would *never* have happened! Why do you think I
stopped in the first place?"

*Your wife, Patterson...*

"You *know about that?" Mulder's eyes narrowed.

Nik sighed *Yeah...it is very close to the surface of your
mind.* He shook his head in sympathy *But it does not take
from the fact that you pushed yourself so hard as a
profiler, you broke through into parts of your mind that
lie dormant in most humans. In fact they are still mostly
dormant even in you, that's why you have such little
control. *It* drives *you*.*

*I always feared that one day...I'd never get back, that
it would take control, completely.*

*Although your body channels humans you seek, they are
unaware of your existence. The Others that meld in their
minds feel the conduit you form in the fifth dimension. But
they cannot reach through because your mind repels them
like water from a duck's back. That is why you could not enter
Mostow. It was not his mind you sought to do battle with,
but a pure form of the Others, a demon, perhaps you might
call it. There is a risk to your body, of course, it may be
killed by the actions of the killer, but I promise you your
soul will remain untouched.*

That's comforting, thought Mulder I end up as a lost soul.
The more things change...

The Meta chuckled at Mulder's wry thoughts. *Never fear
death of a mere body.*

Mulder shook his head impatiently. *Where's this getting us?*

*You desire to control the killer's actions, yes?*

*I've tried, Christ I've tried!*

*Mm, it *is* possible, in theory. You have seen another
who could take on the victims' persona so well as to protect
the victim by default.*

*Lucy Householder,* Mulder thought sadly. Jesus, that had
torn him apart. Knowing she was akin to him, knowing she
had similar...abilities. Knowing she could take that
final step, to give up control completely and thus save the
victim at the expense of her own life. 

He buried his face in his hands, remembering her
sacrifice. A sacrifice he could not bring himself to
achieve. Scully had never understood. None of them could,
but he knew, God help him he knew...

*Lucy,* Nik touched Mulder's arm in sympathy, *was too
damaged. The essence of the Others could not touch her and
in the end it was better for her to leave. There is
another...*

*Gibson Praise?*

*He is still immature, but his potential is...enormous.
But he is not your concern, for the moment.*

Mulder pondered that. *The Consortium, do they have him?*

*Those who remain do not have him. He is too strong, too
powerful, whereas in you, the talent is wild. For all their
evils, they kept you alive in order that you might one day
be useful. You cannot yet control this talent, but your
ability to break into and travel the fifth dimension is a
tool that may yet save this planet from the gray ones. 

*Consider Lucy. Her ability was *awakened* by the agony and
horror she suffered, but her pain and immaturity broke her.
You, however, were crafted with greater finesse. *You* are a
weapon, Fox Mulder, one your father knew he could never
give away and so, he chose Samantha and allowed you to be
forged by the agony of your loss and guilt.*

Oh, Christ. He pushed the food away, stood and walked down
to face the ocean. He looked up at the stars. His father
knew. Christ, it all fell into place now. He was a weapon, a
weapon to fight the future, meticulously crafted by his
life, his pain, his driving desire to push the limits of
everything, even his own mind. It wasn't just the vaccine.

*Yes, *now* you understand. There are many weapons in
humanity's arsenal. You are one. But not until you learn to
control this power and even then...there are parts to it
even I do not understand, perhaps to be revealed in time.*

*But I've tried! I've tried to exert control, I...*

*You cannot exert control until you give up your link to
your own body.*

*I tried that once, in Michigan, but I failed to let go
completely. I was...afraid that if I let go, I might not
get back.*

*Returning is easier than reaching the killers. Your body
knows you and the link is unbreakable -- except by death. But
your mind cannot inhabit two bodies at the one time. You
*are* powerful enough to subsume the killer's mind. And the
blackness of the Others can be encompassed by you and
contained for a short period.* 

*Will that put others around my own body at risk?*

*Mm, possibly, but your body is only a puppet. The killer
pulls the strings so if you can prevent his actions, your
body will mirror this. You need exert control only long
enough to call the authorities and protect the victim. Your
own body, meanwhile, still dances to your marionette
strings. While you, inhabiting the killer, do no harm, your
body does no harm.

*And these...Others? You're sure they can't get through
to...me?*

*Even if you were to never mirror again, the blackness is
always there, always waiting at the edge of the Abyss for
those who dare look in. But you will remain forever free,
no matter what you choose to do, for your soul is pure.
Your partner is the same, incorruptible. Like Lucy, you
would both die before succumbing. Take comfort in that and
return to your work in the knowledge that you do not fight
alone.*

*Who are you, what are you?*

*A metamorphosed human.*

*I don't understand.*

*Many Metas are thousands, tens of thousands of years
old, however we are not immortal. We fall prey to the
Others, as occasionally do the Masters, as the Others and
their minions fall prey to us. But the Others grow bolder
and we are as yet too few. My name was Nicholas Page. I was
once a Navy Seal. My fight against that which is evil has
only moved to a different level.

*We fight the Others, you must fight those the Others have
corrupted, those who have become their minions and their
slaves. Whether it be gray aliens or serial killers, each
is a victim of a greater plague. And each small battle that
you win, each life saved may seem like dust in the wind to
what I have shown you. Yet each and every one of those is a
chink in the defense against the Others. Never see your
life or your work as futile, it is far more important than
you ever imagined. Do what you can Fox William Mulder.
Never give up, for your people depend on you.*

Mulder's eyes narrowed as his vision seemed to fall in at
the edges, becoming paler and paler.

*Why did you tell me this?*

*You were close to succumbing to despair last night.
Although it is true that in the past you have been nearer 
to taking your own life, you were yet too young, the
weapon not yet fully forged. Now you have...matured. 
It is time for you to learn the truths you seek. And we 
needed to give you strength, to give  you hope. You are 
needed here on Earth, for now. You must prevail. And as 
you have looked into the face of evil, so now I beckon 
you to lift up your eyes and touch the face of
the Masters...* 

The words faded in Mulder's mind and he was filled with a
sense of peace and wellbeing never before known to him. He
felt his spirit sour and for a fleeting moment *knew* the
benevolent power of the Masters. But as surely as he could
not look long into the Abyss, he could not long dwell in
what he recognized was a form of religious ecstasy. Was
this then what the prophets and wise men of the ages had
seen but never understood? Before his vision blurred into
whiteness, the Meta faded into soft light surrounded by
wings.

Mulder chuckled to himself and reached his hand out to the
fading Meta. "Well, I'll be damned...an angel."

His hand touched something soft and he blinked a few times
to clear his vision. The whiteness became the glare of the
sun.

Scully rolled her eyes as he caressed her cheek, "Jesus
Mulder, where the *fuck* have you been!"

****************************
End Chapter 5 The Meta