| POINTS FOR ORIGINALITY by Wayward | |
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TITLE: Points for Originality (1/1) AUTHOR: Wayward EMAIL ADDRESS: wayward@fluffy.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, Xemplary; all others please ask SPOILER WARNING: through Season 6, including "Biogenesis" RATING: PG-13 for a naughty word CONTENT WARNING: - CLASSIFICATION: S, A SUMMARY: Post-episode story for Biogenesis. Companion story/sequel for "In My Right Mind" AUTHOR NOTES: The author thanks beta readers Plausible Deniability, Anna Otto, and CazQ for not suggesting that Hot Buttered Rum coffee should be a controlled substance. DISCLAIMER: "Dear Diary, I miss B.C. There, I said it. Not that L.A. isn't great, it's just so...pretentious. Back in B.C. the gaffers slapped a stock off-pink filter on the lights for my close shots -- here in L.A. it's an all-day job getting the director to decide between "Faded Milky Aurora Rose" and "Early Alpine Berry Blush." Even lunch is a big production here. The caterers are huge fans of the show, so their menus all have an X-Files theme. 'Dana Scully Mondays' means that lovely salads are the order of the day. 'Fox Mulder Tuesdays' feature a smorgasbord of burgers, fries, pizza, and Chinese takeout. On 'CSM Wednesdays' we dine on smoked turkey and ribs. Frankly, I haven't had the courage to show up at the lunch tent on 'Alien Autopsy Thursdays.' --Gillian"'Familiarity breeds contempt.' That's how the saying goes, but quite honestly I had contempt for 'Dr. Ghoul' from the moment I laid eyes on him. Absence of the bastard would make my heart grow fonder, that much is certain. But I have a job to do, and I *will* do it, because I am a professional. And because I am a professional, I will not shoot the greedy little SOB between his beady little eyes. I can't say whether my resolve will hold out for another twenty-four hours, however. My eyes are gritty and hot like spent charcoal briquettes, and I've been perched on the edge of the desk watching Fox's monitor for so long that half my rear has fallen asleep and my toes have gone numb. My lethargy, inability to concentrate, and severely creased linen skirt are all symptomatic of sleep deprivation. If the situation had been more controllable in the initial twenty-four hours, I might have been able to get some rest. But first AD Skinner showed up, and then Agent Scully hightailed it here upon Skinner's notification. If Fox hadn't still been considered violent I would have had to ask for immediate 'support' from Spender to ensure our continued ownership of Fox Mulder, fledgling telepath. Still, after Scully and then Skinner had left the hospital, I'd hoped Spender would send in additional manpower. Spender did send someone. He gave orders that Fox was to be examined for similarities to the Praise profile, dispatching one of the team that had analyzed Gibson's abilities. He sent the sadist of the lot. Dr. Macarthy "Ghoul" Tagooli was one of four scientists who operated on Gibson Praise in an attempt to map the location and extent of the God Module in Gibson's brain. Tagooli was, however, the only one of the four who viscerally *enjoyed* those explorations...particularly the ones performed under minimal anesthetics, or no anesthetics at all, when Tagooli argued that the anesthetic effect would mask the true location of Gibson's telepathic receptors and neural pathways. The rest of the medical team held him in awe, presumably for his precise surgical techniques and his demonstrated brilliance in neurophysiological research. I hold him in contempt for his eagerness to disfigure and maim and for his devising of unnecessarily excruciating test procedures for young Gibson. Make no mistake: Gibson Praise might well have to be sacrificed for the sake of the Consortium's plans, and I would cause him pain, perform torture, even end his life myself if it were necessary. Tagooli would do it because he likes it, because he enjoys pain. I once heard a medical assistant whisper "Dr. Judas Iscariot" when Tagooli arrived to inflict another round of useless tests on Gibson. Tagooli's price is higher, much higher, than thirty pieces of silver. Dr. Ghoul is a medical mercenary, obedient not to a cause but to his own supremely carnal lust for money. Not only does Tagooli take almost sexual pleasure in the wielding of his scalpel and his excisions of bits of brain, he is also constantly watching, listening. Any sliver of conversation that might seem slightly counter to the Consortium's views, any hasty or ill-chosen words, he reports to the authorities. He takes a perverted pride in being an informer, an overachiever who practically drools with delight at the opportunity to discredit a colleague. The medical assistant was later removed by Consortium agents, reassigned, said Tagooli with a toothy grin, to the vaccine research efforts. I had no doubt that the poor unfortunate assistant had become a test subject. Tagooli's wardrobe grew to include five more hand-tailored Italian suits and a new tuxedo. Those who aren't awed by Tagooli live in fear of him, in fear of being reported for even the smallest infraction or misinterpreted action. Greed and fear are excellent motivators, and as long as his medical excesses please the Consortium, Tagooli will continue to live in the style to which he has become accustomed. I will continue to despise him...and I fear what he might do. That fear is why I've stayed here, without sleep and beyond all reason, to protect Fox Mulder from premature harm. I am not so cruel as Agent Scully believes. Fox's days of freedom are over -- he will serve our purpose as our avenue to understanding telepathy -- but there is no call for needless and wanton cruelty in the quest for that understanding. Spender wants him once the violent period has passed, once we can move him to our facilities without garnering public or Rebel notice. The hospital staff administered enough tranquilizing drugs to knock out a man twice Fox's weight, but Fox is still raging and wandering his padded cell. Tagooli wants to order something just this side of lethal, to drop Fox long enough to strap him to a gurney and wheel him out a side door. Tagooli would recklessly risk Fox's life...if I let him. I won't. Dr. Ghoul breezed in an hour ago, and imperiously dismissed the specialist on duty. He ordered me out too, without even looking at me, before angrily turning and recognizing me. The thunderous rage at perceived disobedience turned into a smarmy smile of deceit and familiarity. "Ah, Diana. How nice." Such innocent words, but they evoked the sensation of Tagooli's hands groping my body. The man is an obscenity. "Dr. Tagooli, I will thank you to address me as 'Agent Fowley.' I take it that our mutual friend ordered you to evaluate this patient?" My nod at Fox's muted monitor sent Tagooli's attention in that direction. His lazy smile slowly altered to a feral grin of anticipation. He was positively salivating as he pawed through Fox's chart, then began to scribble a drug order on the top pages. It was dead quiet in the monitoring suite, save for the tinny echoes in the air conditioning ducts and the abrasion of paper by pen. "You haven't examined him yet." Tagooli transformed the incipient snarl into a condescending lecture. "There is no need. Any complications from this drug can be dealt with at the laboratory." He moved toward the door, but I was faster. "Dr. Tagooli, I assure you that our mutual friend was quite explicit. The patient is not to leave this facility until his violent tendencies have abated. To have Fox Mulder disappear now would raise too many questions at a time when the group's attention and energy are needed elsewhere. If time had been of the essence, Fox Mulder would have been taken directly to your laboratory. I prefer to bow to the wisdom of our mutual friend." Tagooli shrank back from my touch as if it burned, then tried to push past me. "Any risk of the drug is more than outweighed by the convenience and benefit of performing exploratory surgery on the patient as soon as possible." He tapped on the chart he still held, the name of the drug of choice scrawled ornately across the surface. His face paled when I reached inside my jacket and withdrew my cell phone. "Then I suggest you call our mutual friend. Tell him you want to administer a powerful narcotic to a patient you have not even examined. Tell him that the hospital specialists ordered Mulder repeatedly dosed with barbiturates and MAO inhibitors and that the sedatives had no effect on Mulder's behavior or brain activity. Then tell our mutual friend that you disagree with his orders. Just press 13 on the speed dial and you'll be connected immediately." His jaw quivered with rage, and his eyes did not move from the cell phone I held out to him. Tagooli knew that if he called and verified the orders, only to ignore them, he could find himself serving as the next recruit of the vaccine test program. His thoughts were clearly written on his face: better to play a waiting game, better to be able to say later that he wasn't aware of the orders. The safer alternative was to school his jealous desire to begin a dissection of Fox Mulder's brain, and wait for Fox's violent period to pass...or for me to leave, so he could proceed with his own plans, unhindered. He did not, however, voice those thoughts. With an air of concession, Tagooli crossed out the drug order and set the chart aside. He negligently discarded his suit jacket for a starched white coat and pointedly nodded at me as he left to examine Fox. I turned up the volume on Fox's monitor and then sat once again in my accustomed place, watching my former partner pace like a caged animal. It was oppressive in the office now, but removing my jacket did nothing to relieve the atmosphere or my mood. After a few minutes Fox stopped and backed away to the far wall, impaled by Tagooli's shadow spilling through the doorway. Two orderlies rushed in and forcibly restrained Fox through the simple expedient of pinning his arms and legs against the padded surface. Tagooli followed his own shadow into the room and went through the motions of a cursory examination, solely for the benefit of the camera's videotape record. Fox thrashed and whimpered through it all. Finished, Dr. Ghoul tipped his head and addressed me by way of the camera, his voice tinny and abrupt through the speaker. "Although his pupils are still dilated, it would appear the sedatives are clearing from his system. I'll order blood tests to be sure, but I anticipate that the new drug course can be administered in approximately four hours." Four hours is all you have left, Fox, I thought sadly. In four hours you become Tagooli's newest plaything. As Dr. Ghoul switched off his penlight and clipped it onto his shirt pocket, Fox's babbling slowed and then stopped altogether. He stared at Tagooli's face, his eyes deep, hard pools of pain. Fox's lips parted, and his head tipped slightly as if he were listening to something-- The silence was split by a frenzied animal keening mixed with a flat-line metallic distortion of the monitor speakers. A continuous scream came from Fox's throat, but the sound was bereft of humanity. The knife edge of his wailing left my soul in shreds. Tagooli bolted from the room and the orderlies used Fox as a tackling dummy before hurriedly backing out of the cell. Fox continued to scream, a terrified repetition of "no" ripped from his already hoarse throat. I closed my eyes, desperate to pretend that the agonized wailing was that of an injured animal and not someone I'd known intimately. If I didn't look at the monitor I wouldn't have to see my former colleague coming slowly undone, neuron by neuron, as he viewed the Hell that awaited him courtesy of Dr. Ghoul. With my own eyes I had seen it confirmed: Fox Mulder was now a telepath. Strangely, I didn't feel the elation that I had when Gibson's telepathic ability was verified. That was probably a weakness on my part. At least Fox had had a reasonably long life and a few happy memories. I even hoped that Spender was wrong, that Fox Mulder and Dana Scully did indeed have a physical relationship that they'd managed to hide from everyone else. It would be a mental refuge of sorts, where Fox could live and relive those moments of joy and contentment...until the day Tagooli sliced away that bit of hoarded happiness in Fox's brain. Closing my eyes wasn't enough any more. The sound alone wrought its own picture with stunning clarity. I kept my face averted as I crossed to the monitor wall, and as my fingertips touched the volume control knob, the keening stopped. I sighed away the breath and the fear I hadn't known I was holding. "Diana." It was my name, but framed in a dry whisper like ripping fabric or rusted iron. For one infinite second the fear rushed back and I could not breathe. I had not considered the possibility that the alien symbols would have any effect on me. I had not considered the possibility that I might become telepathic. That I might become fodder for Dr. Ghoul. "Diana." His lips moved -- I caught the tiny flutter on the monitor. Fox had spoken my name aloud and I'd heard it through the speakers. Relief brought back my ability to breathe. I'd never turned the sound down at all...it was merely coincidence that Fox had come out of his violent episode at that moment. Perhaps it was weakness again on my part, or maybe it was the realization of what lay ahead for Fox Mulder; whatever it was, this unnamed provocation, it spurred me to a sudden decision. I pushed the stop button on the VCR deck, and the red recording light winked out. The cassette tape fit easily into my purse, hidden beneath my wallet and a travel-worn pack of tissues. Without the tape recording, without a working monitor and speakers...Fox would still have his four hours. It was not four additional hours of freedom for Fox Mulder. My actions were intended to deprive Tagooli of four hours filled with gleeful scientific abandon. Wait your turn, Dr. Ghoul. Allow Fox a last few hours of peace. "Diana, listen to me." His somber stare drew me closer. Fox Mulder simply never knew when to quit. I needed him to shut up, to just shut the fuck up and sit down so that I could switch off the display and then disable the monitor bank. But it was like a door opening, a door swinging wide to admit a lucid and sane Fox Mulder. Or it could have been the door closing on the frenetic Mulder, chauffeured to insanity by the myriad voices in his mind. My hand was poised within inches of the power switch but the compulsion to listen to what he had to say was too strong. "I can hear them, Diana. I can hear them. I didn't understand before, I didn't realize what it all meant. But I can tell what they're planning, Diana. "I know you're there, Diana. You've got to help me. Tell him...tell him I'm willing to deal, Diana. I can give him everything he wants -- names, places, plans. I just want out, Diana. I don't want to be the next Gibson Praise. "Diana, please. I'm willing to do what he wants, Diana. Tell him!" The hysteria in his voice wrapped itself around my neck and tightened its coils. "Diana, I trusted you! Tell him that I'll give him everything I can hear about them. I'll do it -- get me close enough to their facilities and I'll be able to tell him every thought they ever had. Tell him, Diana! Tell him I'll do it! "Diana, I'll work with you both, I swear it!" He was screaming, terror driving each word. "Tell him, Diana! Tell Krycek I'll do it!" I'd been wrong: the door hadn't opened for a sane Fox Mulder. The man I had known had finally snapped under the strain of the pursuit of the truth, both paranormal and extraterrestrial. The pathetic creature sobbing in the corner was too far gone, completely lost in jumbled memories and fantasies. "Diana." --- Slowly she turned, wary of my charm and obviously annoyed at my continued familiarity. There was something else, too; suspicion flickered in her eyes. Most of my colleagues took pains to hide their ill feelings toward me. The few who did not experienced pain of quite a different type now. All in the interest of science, of course. "Ah, the patient appears to be more tractable. How fortuitous for my research." She hesitated, blocking my way as I approached the bank of monitors. The disdain expressed by her raised eyebrow could not be mistaken or forgiven. However, first things first, and definitely business before pleasure. I brushed by and left her behind me, as she moved to lean against the desk and fret over her injured sensibilities. "An amazing change in such a short period of time. Quite remarkable. When did he come out of the violent phase?" I held out my hand expectantly, but the witch didn't take the hint. I snapped my fingers impatiently as if dealing with dull-witted wait staff. She eventually divined my meaning, locating Fox's chart and placing it into my hand. "Only a minute ago." Oh, Diana, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. "Really? Such a pity I wasn't here. Did he...say anything?" "Not of significance." Her voice was distant, her tone even and aloof. I was tempted to look at her face, to see the fear she kept out of her voice. It would have provided me no end of satisfaction to have seen the haughty Agent Fowley humbled. "But he did say something," I persisted. "Gibberish, nonsense. I don't remember what he said." "Mmmm, yes." I made a little show of peering at the patient, then scribbling another note on the chart. "Actually, it didn't sound like nonsense to me. It sounded like a prearranged deal, a plea for help...help that he expected from you and your associate...Alex Krycek." I waited for her protestation of innocence. She was in league with Krycek, and they had gone so far as to offer a deal to the new telepath. Where there was one deal, there could surely be another. What would the Consortium pay for information about dear Diana's loyalties? I turned to ask what my silence was worth to the renegade Krycek and his Rebel friends. I turned to find that Diana Fowley was gone. The corridor was deserted, the double doors at either end closed and still. She could be several floors up or down in any direction by now. In her haste, she had left her jacket behind. Not surprisingly, the patient's videotape record had departed with Agent Fowley. No matter. I'd heard every word and I intended to profit from each one. Eavesdropping through the services of a telepath was hardly a novel idea -- it had been a tired plot device when it was employed in sci-fi tales in the '50s. No, the real reward from the Consortium would come when I disclosed that Diana Fowley was as faithless as she was condescending. It was common knowledge that Diana had risen in the organization as compensation for "services rendered," but not even Spender himself could protect her if she was playing both sides of the field. The question remained: why? Diana Fowley was not overly stupid. Betraying the Consortium was anything but a frivolous undertaking; it was a venture that only the most foolhardy -- or shrewd -- person would attempt. What was Diana Fowley's price? What did she hope to gain from the intrigue and double-dealing? I took my questions to the one person who would know. The corner was dark, as if he'd swallowed the available light into himself. He blinked his eyes, but did not respond to my voice or my questions. For the better part of ten minutes I stood next to the closed door, ready to call for Tweedledum or Tweedledee should I require immediate rescue. The burly orderlies were visibly relieved that I had not asked them in for a repeat performance. Such sensitive souls -- obviously used to more humane and gentle protocols. The patient had been sufficiently unnerved during our last encounter that I decided to minimize the medical trappings as a way to put him at ease. I'd shed my white coat and donned my suit jacket again. And, as insurance for my own comfort and safety, I'd disconnected the video and audio feed cables to the camera within the cell. I didn't intend to make the same mistake that Diana made. "Mr. Mulder?" My voice echoed slightly in the confined space. Blink, blink. "Mr. Mulder, I know about the...arrangement that you had with Diana Fowley and Alex Krycek." Blink, blink. I took two steps closer, then another, then crouched down to be closer to his eye level. "Mr. Mulder, I want to know what Diana Fowley stood to gain from working with the Rebels. What did Alex Krycek offer her?" Blink, blink. Ten minutes of the same questions, posed anew in random order. Ten minutes of the same blinking silence as the monolithic response. The refrain of an old rock ballad sang itself repeatedly in my mind. I thought it highly unlikely that NASA's finest in conjunction with the Hubble Telescope could locate this patient's sanity, he was clearly so far gone. I shook my head and retraced my steps to the door. "Wrong car." His voice was gravel skittering in the corner darkness. "What?" The patient stirred slightly, his head tilted down and his eyes clenched tight as if battling a mental monster. "Wrong car." He sucked in his breath and expelled it with rapid-fire words. "Leather seats. Italian racing tires. Precision--" he raised his hand to shield his head from an imaginary assault "--but it wasn't what you wanted." Trust a telepath to answer your question and insult you at the same time. This morning had been spent at the Porsche dealership. I'd lusted after a "Formula Red" Zanardi edition of the Acura NSX -- but then, who wouldn't? That highly sought after performance vehicle was one of a limited run of 50 made for North American sales. But I could not afford the NSX. The Porsche 911 at half the price was a poor but affordable substitute-- --or consolation prize. Mulder was right...it wasn't what I had wanted. I understood his meaning -- Diana was working with Krycek and the Rebels because in return she could get whatever it was *she* wanted. Within the Consortium hierarchy she was a foot soldier to the cause...as I was. But to the Rebels she was a valuable agent, a golden source of information. She was a resource to be wooed and kept happy. Where there was one deal, there could surely be another. I left Mulder there in the cell, softly repeating "Ground Control to Major Tom" in a singsong voice. Obviously he'd heard the tune in my thoughts but had failed to take offense at the implications. There was a certain amount of security for me in Mulder's tenuous hold on sanity -- it would be difficult for a non-professional to make sense of his ramblings. Still...just to be safe, I reconnected the camera video feed only. No need to have his words recorded for posterity. Discretion is, after all, the better part of valor. She'd left it behind in her haste to escape, tucked away in her jacket's pocket. I hefted Diana's cell phone in my hand. The irony was too delicious -- she'd given me the means to report her treachery directly to Spender. The speed dial elicited an almost immediate response. "This is Tagooli. There have been unforeseen developments." "Proceed." "The patient became lucid for a short period of time, during which he alluded to an arrangement that he had been offered by Alex Krycek and Agent Fowley. Part of the arrangement was to have the patient use his abilities to gather information about our group's activities and plans. Proximity to target sites and personnel was mentioned as facilitating the patient's abilities, with Agent Fowley acting as the patient's liaison with Krycek's group. When I attempted to question Agent Fowley about the arrangement, she fled, taking with her the surveillance tape of the patient." There was an acrid, smoky pause, then, "Can the patient be transferred at this time? Is he still violent?" "High levels of sedatives were prescribed for the patient before my arrival. It would be advisable to wait until those drugs clear from the patient's system. The patient continues to behave in an aberrant fashion." I thought I had finessed that rather well. "We will contact you." That was it, end of audience. No expression of gratitude, no promises of support, nothing. I contemplated the cell phone for several minutes before fishing the engraved business card from my pocket and dialing the number inscribed on it. "I wish to speak with Cullen Jackson...Cullen, this is Macarthy Tagooli. I've taken some time to think it over, and yes, I want one of the Formula Reds. I'll be by the dealership tomorrow at 10 to sign the contract." His question made me smile, a toothy grin breaking over my face. "No thanks, Cullen, just the order and the contract -- I'm arranging private financing." --- //Spill it, Mulder.// Even in my head, my Scully avatar can tap her tiny foot and sound as righteously annoyed as her real-life counterpart. "I'm sorry, Scully. Did you say something?" //Very funny, G-Man. What is it you find so amusing?// "Well, Uncle Fester sticking a lightbulb in his mouth gets a chuckle out of me." //OK, Mulder, I'm convinced. You're certifiable.// "Gee, Dr. Scully, does that come with an upgrade in accommodations? I can't get ESPN or the Spice Channel." //Not surprising, Mulder. There's no TV in here.// "That's OK. The check I wrote for the TV rental was imaginary too." //Mulder, if I didn't know better I'd say you were gloating. Out with it -- what kind of mischief have you been up to?// "Gloating? Oooh, good word, Scully. It's not mischief, more like matchmaking. I couldn't bear to think of poor Diana pining away for me--" //You couldn't?// "No, after she gave me the best years of her life--" //Stop, stop, it hurts when I laugh that hard!// "--such devotion and trustworthiness should be rewarded, don't you think?" //Oh, absolutely, Mulder.// Her laughter was like a cascade of light, and I huddled into the corner to keep the camera from seeing the goofy grin on my face. Aside from my creative mischief, my mental Scully is what's keeping me going right now, as I wait for her real self to return from the Ivory Coast. If I'm right, the continued discovery of artifact fragments at that site means that Scully might find alien wreckage, perhaps even a crashed alien ship. The only thing I can do to help her at this point is to mess with the Consortium's mind, so to speak. "After Krycek tipped Diana off to come get me in the stairwell, I figured sending Diana his way was the least I could do for him. That Tagooli creep was a bonus." //You're wasted on the FBI, Mulder. You could have had a brilliant career as a sideshow fortune teller.// "Eeny-meeny chili-beany...Think of it, one really big marble instead of all the itty-bitty ones the shrinks say I've lost." //On second thought, I keep getting this mental picture of Bullwinkle in a turban peering into a crystal ball.// "Are you calling me a moose, squirrel? There wasn't actually anything to that, Scully. The guy had taken a test drive this morning -- I could smell the 'new car' scent along with the strong odor of leather. He'd even kicked the tires." //Excuse me?// "Expensive Italian racing tires always have a coating of dark purple chalk dust applied around the tire walls. Some strange export tradition, as I recall. Tagooli had purple chalk on the toe of his shoe. All together, I'd say he was at a dealership test-driving sports cars." //And where did you find that little nugget of idiosyncratic wisdom about the purple chalk?// "Read it in an in-flight magazine last year. It was either that or watch 'Jungle 2 Jungle' for the third time." //I give up, Mulder. How did you know it wasn't the car he'd wanted?// "Because nobody *ever* gets exactly the car they wanted. There's always some compromise you have to make -- color, trim, superfluous option packages. All I did was run a few observations and guesses up the flagpole. Tagooli saluted. Or at least he was saluting when he wasn't singing Bowie's 'Space Oddity' to himself. I bet he does lousy lip-synch." //And now?// "Tagooli's weakness is his obvious greed. He strikes me as highly manipulative, and if he thinks he's got evidence of Diana double-dealing the Consortium, he'll try to parlay what that's worth into something even more valuable. In the meantime he won't recommend moving me to the Consortium's facilities -- he'll want to use me as a bargaining chip. " Her theatrical sigh was nonetheless appreciative and loving. //Oh, Mulder. I can't take you anywhere.// "Now they can't either, Scully. And that, my love, was the whole point of the exercise." -END- (1/1) | |
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