Title: Sfumato (11/? - Sequel to "The Marionette Rebellion") Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Rating: R Category: MSR, angst-o-riffic Archive: Yes, to Lynn at MFEO. Feedback: Feed me at supernova818@aol.com Author's Notes: Thanks to Beach for beta: you rock! I appreciate all your questions, comments, and advice. Hugs to ya, Beachy. Thanks to Snick for your enthusiasm and commentary, despite a busy schedule. The PA is needed, schweethot. Two words: Road Trip. Oh, and to Sybils - I lurve you. ---------------- Sfumato ---------- Chapter 10 --------------- As he lopes through the station, he has an odd sense that his co-workers are at a carnival, and he is the main attraction. Hairy beast-man, swallower of knives, tattooed wonder boy, seer of the unseen. His mind lightning bolts from one thought to the next, twisting and turning as it is apt to do, until he begins humming, _He Moved Through The Fair_. He is disturbed beyond measure at what his subconscious throws at him and, in this moment, he knows one thing for certain: At least half of the Penobscot County Police Department has seen the tapes of Scully's captivity. Welcome to my world, he thinks to himself, such as it is. Desks too full of clutter squat randomly throughout the large building. Chief Randy Owens waves to Mulder from across the vast space, motioning Mulder to join him in his office. Chief Owens is a distinguished man with his salt and pepper beard, broad shoulders, and sincere blue eyes. Picking up his pace, Mulder half waves to a couple of his friends, accepts the pitiful stares that are cast his way, and finally makes his way to the older man's office. Randy claps Mulder on the back, and says, "Hey, come on in." "Hey, Randy," Mulder responds. "I came by to see if you've got any new leads on Scully's kidnapping. Anything from the warehouse? Michael Browning leach anymore information from Paul Sams?" he asks. "First things first, Mulder. How is Dana?" Randy asks. "She's as good as can be expected in a situation like this. The kids are struggling, but we'll be fine," Mulder assures. Sweaty palms are shoved into the pockets of his jeans. "The FBI has been tight-lipped about the entire kidnapping, wouldn't tell the locals anything, not the least of which was how long Dana was held in that God-forsaken place," Randy comments. "Too long," Mulder hedges. "She was held there too long." "There have been rumors, you know, about a woman who was posing as Dana. Is any of that true?" Randy questions. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear," Mulder says, pacing the small office. Randy nods, unconvinced. "Yeah, okay then. We've pulled the requisite hair, fiber, and fingerprints, although, only Dana's and Paul Sams' have been identified. The other prints and hair samples have not been identified at this time. FBI ran the unidentified prints, but turned up nada. The warehouse looks like a hospital on the inside; someone paid a fortune to buy and renovate the place. I've pulled the shipping manifests for trucks that delivered equipment and supplies there, nothing odd in and of itself, except the supplies were actually being used in the warehouse. Like I said, it looks like a hospital on the inside, with a complete branch for research, although, no one knows what kind of research. Drivers of the trucks report they don't remember anything unusual, but we still have two more men we need to question. I checked with surrounding businesses and residences, but no one reported anything unusual going on there. No one really paid much attention, either. The warehouse is set off the road a bit, not much immediately in its vicinity, so they wouldn't really have known if anything was going on anyway," Randy says. "I want to go out there," Mulder states definitively. "I thought you probably would, Mulder, but you can't go out in any official capacity. Normally, I wouldn't let a family member go to a crime scene like this, but I know you'll go anyway, just know that you are not, in any way, a part of this investigation," Randy says. Mulder nods. Knowing the rules and abiding by the rules are two entirely separate matters. "Hey Mulder, there is something else I need to tell you," Randy states nervously. Mulder looks up, wary about the seriousness of Randy's tone, "Go ahead," Mulder prompts. "I don't know how to tell you this, but I want you to stay calm, okay?" "I make no promises," Mulder chuffs. "Figures," Randy says. He looks at his desk, studies a picture of he and his wife digging their toes into the sand in front of the Santa Monica pier five years ago, remembers a day last summer when Dana was off work, but Mulder wasn't quite as lucky. She'd come to the station around noon, wearing a cotton sundress, and had offered to take Mulder to lunch. Everyone had noticed her that day. She could melt the paint off a car with that glare of hers, launch the space shuttle off her eyebrow when Mulder spouted a harebrained theory, outshoot almost any man on the force, but she'd looked like an angel that day, and seemed almost as untouchable. Later, much later, after her scent had dissipated and her fellow co-workers had regained their sense of propriety, there were mumblings of 'how beautiful.' She had this way about her, a way of making people forget she was a woman. She was beautiful, no one failed to notice, but her competence had a way of intimidating some of the boys in blue. That day, though, she was all woman, and everyone saw it, including Randy Owens. She was soft, small, and precious; he scrubs his beard with his thumb, wishes he were somewhere else. He begins his recitation of the facts devoid of emotion, "We assisted the FBI in gathering evidence from the warehouse; it appears that whoever was there left in a hurry. We gathered quite a bit of evidence from the research portion of the warehouse, and the results of DNA testing came back this morning. In storage bins, on microscope slides, in glass vials, were different forms of Dana's DNA. Some of it was blood, there was a," Randy pauses, feels nauseous, and tries to collect himself. Dana is his colleague, his friend, and tears threaten to spill over onto his cheeks. Traitorous little bastards. "God, Mulder, this is very difficult," he states, clearing his throat. "Go on," Mulder says, gritting his teeth, thinking about Scully. "There were what appeared to be fingernail clippings, hair samples, urine samples, and skin grafts," Randy says. "They were studying her, but we don't know why," he finishes, bewildered. "Has she gone to the hospital, Mulder?" Randy questions. "Shit," Mulder murmurs. His arms are crossed and the muscle in his jaw is tense and his heart is breaking for his Scully. "No, no she hasn't, she won't," Mulder answers. Owens lets it go, familiar with the behavioral patterns of victims of violent crimes, knowing he can't force Dana Scully to do anything she doesn't want to do. "Dana's vials were labeled with her name, and were given top priority. There were other vials of blood, fluid, and DNA material, but we haven't been able to identify it. FBI ran all DNA through CODIS, but so far, nothing has come of it. It's human, but that is about all we know. More extensive testing is being done to determine exactly what we've got, and the results of that testing should be available in a couple of days. The FBI is working on that now, as they have more resources at their disposal, than we have at ours," Randy explains. "Why would anyone want to do something like this? This isn't your garden variety, lone serial killer preying on unsuspecting women; this was a group of people working together, preying on one specific person, so far as we know right now, anyway." "I don't know why anyone would do this," Mulder says. He is surprised by the truthfulness of his statement, despite his knowledge of what lies in the past. Mulder knows about conspiracies, betrayals, and murders, but he doesn't truly understand why any one person would commit their life to the destruction of so many. "Did you see the tapes?" Mulder asks, pushing the information Randy has just given him to a dark corner of his mind. "Tapes?" Randy asks. "Don't bullshit me, Chief, not about this," Mulder says. "I saw less than a minute of surveillance feed, and that was enough to know I didn't want to see more," Randy sighs. "Bad?" questions Mulder. "You have no idea," Randy says. Mulder nods, exits the office, and thinks to himself, 'I do have an idea. The real live version of what survived that horror show is sitting at home with a warm cup of coffee in hand, trying not to fall apart.' Randy follows him out of the office, stops him, questions still on his mind. "Hey, Mulder, what did you do for the FBI? There was some talk about chasing UFO's or something," he asks in a hushed tone. "Me? I was a nobody," Mulder replies. "What about Dana? Didn't she work for the FBI, too? What'd she do?" Randy continues, trying to make sense of it all. "She made me a somebody," Mulder says softly, reverently, and then turns around and leaves, because that is all he can do. -X- William has been avoiding her like the plague. He's been stalking around the house in all his glory, slamming doors, furrowing eyebrows, and refusing to speak to her. Scully has been relieved. She doesn't want to talk about her lost little baby. Another sibling that William and Hope will never know. What happened to her is unspeakable and what has been lost is beyond her ability to fathom. Later. She will deal with it all later. "Mom?" William asks. Scully startles, turns around, "Yes?" "What happened to the baby?" he asks. Scully looks down at her socked feet, searches, searches for something that she doesn't find. "The baby died William," she says. "Did you tell Dad yet?" he persists. "No, I haven't told him yet, William," she sighs. She looks at him, his face tense, troubled blue eyes, filled with pain. "Come over here and sit with me," she says, taking his hand, leading him to the couch. They sit companionably, hip to hip, not speaking. Scully puts her arm around William, pulls him closer to her. "I was wrong, Little Mulder, to ask you to keep a secret from your father. I won't ask you to do it again," she vows, and kisses the crown of his head. He still has the baby-boy curl in his hair from when he was two years old; she closes her eyes, breathes in what is left of the baby in him, and knows he is growing up. "I love you so much, William." "I'm sad about the baby," he says. "I am, too," Scully agrees, and they hold onto one another. William cries, for the baby, for all that has transpired over the past few days, the past year even, and Scully comforts her son. -X- He thought he was ready to see the place where his life had changed so dramatically. The warehouse had been cordoned off with yellow police tape, some of it has pulled loose from its bonds now, and flaps in the lazy wind blowing in off the Atlantic. As he was driving out I-95 towards the warehouse, there had been small businesses, the requisite fast food joints, and then, slowly, civilization seemed to taper off, and the entrance to the warehouse had appeared on his left-hand side. He would have missed the entrance had he not been looking for it; it was that unremarkable. Ironic how something so life changing can be so ordinary. He half expected there to be a black cloud hanging overhead, the earth split open, hell's fire licking its way up the sides of the building. Worn leather rubs his jaw as he shrugs his shoulders to ward off the chill. Ominous, the building stands amidst the wooded area, and calls to him. He heeds its call, and puts one foot in front of the other, as always. Upon entering, it's not at all what he envisioned. There are no dank corners with dead mice and chewed on boxes, no damp air that makes his lungs hurt, no maniac cackling over a loud speaker. Instead, the inside resembles what Chief Owens said it would: a hospital. It's blinding white, and order, and sterile, and out of place back here off the beaten path, woods on either side. The telltale signs of fingerprint dust dirty the surfaces of countertops, door handles, and office furniture. A lone, artificial Ficus tree sits off in the corner, a silent observer to all the goings on. If only trees could talk. Automatic doors grant him entrance to a long hallway, white, sterile doors on either side. He peeks in door after door: linen closet, janitorial closet, ubiquitous hospital machinery closet, lounge. This last one bothers him the most. That people could have just tortured Scully and then sat down to read the latest copy of Newsweek while munching on M&Ms and sipping Coke makes him want to scream. And so, he does, until his throat is raw, until he can't scream anymore. -X- Scully and William are still sitting on the couch when they hear the thud-thud-thud of footsteps down the stairs. Skinner materializes before them, out of breath, "I was on my cell upstairs, checking messages, and I saw a car coming down the street. Parked a few houses up, one man, armed, heading this way. I recognize him from D.C.," he says. "Where's Hope?" Scully asks William. "She's upstairs in her room, taking a nap," William answers. It flashes before him then, all of Hope's nightmares, and her tales of running. The sound of his mother and Skinner talking fades into the background, and his ears ring just as Walter Skinner's blue shirt bleeds red. Scully lunges toward the phone sitting on the counter, pulls William away from the window, calls out "Mulder," and the voice-automated phone dials his cellular number. She hears it ring, "Mulder," he answers. "Mulder!" she screams. "We need your help! They found me; someone just shot Skinner through the window," she shouts, and then there is only the sound of a dial tone. Her head is suddenly, painfully jerked backward, "Fucking bitch," a man says, a gun and phone cord in one hand, a fistful of her hair in the other. "You bastard, let me go," Scully yells, trying to kick the unseen man in the balls. His hand pulls harder at her hair, and she is sure her scalp will be bruised and bloody by the time this ordeal is over. "Mom!" she hears William scream. A gun barrel presses against the base of her skull. Immediately, she stops struggling, giving into defeat for this one moment. The sounds around her are the stuff nightmares are made of: William sobbing, her captor congratulating himself on subduing a woman less than half his size, Skinner grunting through his pain. She pretends to faint, and it works enough for her to knock the gun out of the intruder's hand. "Fuck," he says as it skitters across the floor. Scully whirls around, punches him in the face, and yells for William to go upstairs and get Hope, get out of the house. Momentary distraction leaves her at a disadvantage and consequently she is backhanded across the face. She doesn't scream, or cry out, just grits her teeth as she acquaints herself with amber hardwood. "Now stop fighting, and come with me. No one else has to get hurt," the man says, hovering over her, his breath one rapid-fire pant after the other. From her position on the floor, she looks up at the man with a split lip, the man so sure she will leave this house willingly, and formulates a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants plan. "Okay," she says, and lets him help her to her feet. The man smiles. Inwardly, so does she. "Mom?" William asks. His voice is tentative, apprehensive, and Scully realizes the hulking form in front of her is blocking the view of her son. The man turns at the sound of the voice behind him, and when he does, Scully is afforded a view of William. He is holding a gun. "Mom," he says, licking his lips, "you don't have to go with him," he chokes out, as though he's been running a great distance. Both his small hands grip the gun's handle, and it's less wobbly than she would have expected it to be. "You're just a little boy, you have no idea what you're doing, now give me the gun," the man says. William laughs nervously, "Screw you," he says, and looks a little too much like his father than Scully cares for at this moment. "William, I want you to walk around the couch, and come over here to me. I want you to bring me the gun, William," Scully commands. "He was going to take you away from us again, Mom. He was going to hurt you, he did hurt you" William says, cries, desperately. Another gunshot echoes inside the house -a house that for so long held the sounds of laughter, happiness, children growing up, of innocence, a family living a normal life- and all that once was, fades away.