From: "Olivia Williams" Date: Tue, 15 Sep 1998 19:04:18 -0700 Subject: Story for Submission Summary: An act of courage involves a young prostitute in Agents Mulder and Scully's pursuit of a kidnap victim---a baby born with wings. Classification: X,S,A Strong M/S relationship. Rating: NC-17 for adult content and language. Contains sensitive subject matter. * (This story contains mention of child rape, abortion, prostitution, and physical violence. References to religion are also mentioned.) Spoilers: Vague ones for The Calusari and Small Potatoes. Disclaimer: Characters belong to Cc, 1013, FOX, and used without permission, as if. Permission granted to post/archive anywhere one sees fit; just keep my name attached. September 7, 1998. Notes: I read somewhere that Vince wanted to pen an episode dealing with babies born with wings. We ended up with babies with tails in Small Potatoes. The idea intrigued me and this is what came of it. Comments: oliviawill@aol.com Can we ask the question? Can we answer it? What are we? What are we really? Sinners, Saints, or Angels By Olivia Williams Seattle, WA 1112 Parker Street, Apt. C September 10, 1999 5:22 a.m. My name is Angel. Actually, it's Angelica Renee Beauclair. At least, that's what it was originally. Officially, I'm Angela Rae Brooks. From Manhattan, in theory. In reality, I'm from Brooklyn. Once upon a time, anyway. Seattle's my home now. Thank God. I'm a professional. Yes, that's what I mean. I don't like words like 'whore' or 'hooker', and I hate the term 'working girl'. I'm a realist. I'm a member of the oldest profession. I'm a prostitute. I'll be fourteen in a eleven days. I feel like I'm forty. The things I've seen, the things I've done---sometimes I'm amazed that I'm still alive. Occasionally, I see myself and wonder if I'm real. When did I become this person? More importantly, how did I become this person? Still, a birthday's a birthday. And presents are always nice. I've lived in Seattle for a while now. Nearly five years. God, time flies, doesn't it? My apartment has a great view of the city. It's pretty nice even if I say so myself. I've got nice things---furniture, stereo, a wide-screen TV, Pentium II pc, a great wardrobe, and enough books to fill a library---I read everything. I even have a red Mustang, although I'm two years away from driving legally---which doesn't stop me. I'm doing o.k. Thanks to Joey. Prince Charming, he's not. Joey Preston is my 'broker', my pimp. But, giving credit where it's due, Joey's always treated me well. Joey's a nice guy---if he likes you. I'm lucky. He actually cares about me. I was nine when we met. Most runaways think of places like New York or L.A. when they buy that first bus ticket. Me? I was leaving New York, and L.A. never really appealed to me. For some reason, I picked Seattle. Fate? I don't know. Maybe. Anyway, when I stepped off the bus, there was Joey. Joey's a small guy, but he has this energy and a certain presence that makes him seem larger. If you have to make the most of bad situation, hope you get someone like Joey. Granted, I was only nine at the time. What did I know? I knew that wherever I was better than where I'd been. Of that, I was sure. Ever have days when you wake up and just know that something's going to happen? I'm having one of those moments now. Today's going to be different, I can feel it. Just you wait. ** Seattle, WA Crystal Suites Room 805 September 10, 1999 10:37 p.m. It's been a long day and I'm really tired. My 'Dad's attorney' is in the bathroom. I stretch silently in the king-size bed. Occasionally, when I'm 'on a call', I have to explain my underage presence to various and sundry hotel personnel. Never use the term 'Uncle'. It's a dead give-away. Be creative. Mom's therapist. Daddy's golf partner. The family priest. Yes, you'd be surprised. Or maybe you wouldn't. Even though I consider myself a practical kind of girl, I hate the word 'John'. 'Client' works for me. 'Customer', in a pinch. It seems less crude. To me, anyway. My clients come---don't laugh---from all walks of life. Married, single, young, old, fat, thin, cute, and ugly. They do have one thing in common, though. Money. Lots of money. Joey's prices are steep. But, we---Joey's 'girls'---are clean, healthy, and not into blackmail. Which is pretty unusual in this business. We're about as safe as it gets for middle-age men who have a taste for really young girls. It's weird. The whole "Lolita" thing. I've been with guys that cry while they fuck me. They know they aren't supposed to want sex with someone my age, yet they do. And they'll pay good money for it. Which is good for Joey, and for me---I guess. But I don't think it does much for them. In the long run, I mean. Sometimes, I wonder if they ever think about me when they get back to their lives, and wives, and young daughters. What do they see when they look in a mirror? There are also guys who don't even see the weirdness. Some fuck me and grumble about having to do things Joey's way---meaning hush-hush. They think it's perfectly normal for a 52 year old business man to screw a 13 year old. Weird, huh? Even I know my life isn't exactly the picture of normalcy. A person my age shouldn't have to do this for a living. No one should have to, unless they want to. Do they really believe that I find this fun? I'm practical. I do this for the money. Then there are the wackos. I should be more pc, but... There are old guys who could never get into relationships with adult women---lots of control issues with these guys. They want to dominate---simply by virtue and power of their age. "Do this, little girl." "Again, little girl." These guys are stroking their wounded male egos by fucking me. Some guys defy classification. Wackos come in all shapes and ages. Some old, like I said, but some are young. Well, older than me, but still relatively young---25 to 30 years young. These are the nice wackos. Usually geeky and always socially immature, these guys never grew up. The only thing that makes them wacko is that they don't even notice that they aren't 13 like me. We don't get too many violent wackos. Joey doesn't allow it. I've got a panic button---kind of like a medic alert, only help comes quicker. I press a button on my chain, and I'm 'rescued' in about five minutes. Granted, you can get dead in less time than that, but... No plan is perfect, but Joey does try. I thought I'd met every type of client there was---til now. 'Dad's attorney'---who declined to give me a name---breaks my list of stereotypes. He's unique, actually. I've been doing this for years, and I have moments where I'm not faking it as much as I should be. This guy's different. No one has ever focussed on me before. Ever. Maybe it's just the amount of attention that he gives me, or maybe I'm unusually sensitive right now, but I like the way he treats me. I've never had a real lover---you know what I mean. A boyfriend. Whatever. Joey says I'm too young to date---believe it or not---and I agree. In my line of work, who needs the complication? And while some brokers sample their clients, Joey isn't one of them. Joey's got a serious thing with someone. And even if he didn't, he wouldn't do one of us. He thinks fucking kids is kind of sick. He is practical, though, like me. I'm alone, I'm not old enough to work officially---which, by the way, wouldn't pay for way the live now, and I'm not going into foster care. So where does that leave me? Right here. Runaways have usually exhausted all other avenues, trust me. I like having my own place, my own things. Joey treats me decently. I may not like what I do for a living, but I like what it pays. Alot of people work at jobs they hate simply for the money, don't they? At least I'm honest. At least Joey's a good guy to work for---I'm better fed, better clothed, and my stepfather's 2000 miles away from me. From here, the view is quite a few shades from rosy, but still---it's better than the one I left. A hell of alot better. The door to the bathroom opens and I sit up, suddenly unsure of myself. This guy throws me off-kilter. I ask if I should leave and he asks if I'll be free tomorrow night. I tell him yes, but that he still needs to call Joey. He nods once and I get dressed and leave. That weird feeling is back. Something is definitely going to happen. I can feel it. Maybe tomorrow. ** Seattle, WA Crystal Suites Room 805 September 11, 1999 8:55 p.m. Two nights in a row. This client is...considerate. I'm beginning to hope this guy becomes a regular. We have those you know. Some clients have been seeing me for years. God, I feel old. But, in the midst of work, my weird feeling came back. Something is definitely hinky. Maybe it's just me. I've got an early class tomorrow---Joey 'makes' me go to school, not a bad thing---just not what you'd expected from someone in his line of work. I do a lot of independent study, but I still have some classes that I have to attend in order to get that diploma. My client seems shocked when I mention homework while asking whether he wants me to stay longer. Weird, huh? He says no, we're done for the evening. But, he does ask if I'm free again tomorrow. I smile and say yes, but again I remind him to call Joey. Dressing quickly, I watch as he sits in a chair by the window. I wonder again, just who this man is, but he seems so very ordinary. Grey silk suit, nice shoes, laptop, and briefcase are all I see. Normal business man. But there's something about him that shrieks 'unusual'. 35 year old, white male. Average height, weight, and medium brown hair color. His eyes are dark and brooding. He's a quiet guy. He seems normal to me, but then again... Well, you know my story. He just seems so harmless, I guess. I wish he give me a name. I tell him good-night and he tells me to drive carefully. See? Why does him being nice feel so...weird? I wish I knew. ** Seattle, WA Vista High School September 12, 1999 7:35 a.m. I walk the halls clutching a fortifying mocha cap. I love coffee. The smell, the taste, and more importantly, the comfort that the warmth gives me. My one true vice. I smile to myself. Guess it was fate that led me to Seattle, huh? There's a Starbucks inside our school cafeteria. The teachers love it as much as I. Although, some students might argue that giving faculty caffeine in such large quantities makes life difficult. I'm sure the teachers think the same about giving caffeine to the students. I smile again, taking a large sip. Whatever. I'm wandering the halls in search of acquaintances---I'm a bit too much of a loner to really have friends---while keeping one eye on the clocks strategically placed at every intersection. My class starts at 8:15, but I like getting to school early---I wake up gradually that way, and in psychological way, I feel more like I belong if I'm the first one there. Weird, huh? Bingo. I spy a trio of real 16 year olds sitting on a cluster of benches in the open area in front of the auditorium. In the span of one minute, the conversation skitters between boys, movies, computer problems, and onto current news. I plop down next to Kerrie---the fairest blonde I've ever met---and mutter a "Hey." They nod or hey me back. I listen. Believe it or not, at school I'm a bit 'shy'. Well, not really shy, just insecure about belonging in their world of moms and dads and siblings and movies and malls. Not to mention boyfriends. I'm just grateful to feel included in this group. Julia is tall, slender, and very dark. She's smart and she's beautiful. She's planning to go into politics. Did I mention that she's a feminist? She'll get my vote. Julia's the leader of this small tribe. I can't remember just when I met her, but I'm always awed that someone I respect so very much sees something worthwhile in me. Kerrie, a tiny blue-eyed blonde, is as feisty as hell. And she packs mean right hook. Don't judge this book by it's cover or she'll knock you on your ass. Kerrie's not lacking in the smarts either---she's planning on joining the Navy after college. She hopes to be a commissioned officer with a degree in nuclear physics. Elaine is a bit different. Like me, she's a mix of heritages. Her hair is curly where mine is straight, black while mine is a pale brown. She keeps it long; I like mine to barely touch my shoulders. Elaine is not fat, but she's slightly overweight. We're both of average height. Elaine's uniqueness is in her personality---she's a soothing person. Her voice is lyrical, and her speech patterns intricate. I could listen to her speak all day. Elaine's a writer---poetry, original stories, journalistic pieces for the school paper. She loves words and she creates masterpieces every day. Strength, logic, and passion are what these three represent to me. I have no idea how I fit into the picture. Experience maybe? I'd offer the word wisdom, but that sounds like I know everything. All I know is that there is so much I don't know. I listen to their banter and sip my coffee. I love mornings like this. A word filters through my early morning mist-filled brain---angel. No, not my name. Something about angels. A baby born with wings. Yes, I'd heard the story---about 6 months ago, a couple in the Midwest gave birth to a beautiful baby girl---who just happened to have wings. At the time, I had simply dismissed it as bull. Media fodder. Journalistic garbage---like the story a few years ago about babies being born with tails. Come on. Do you take me for a fool? Now I listen more intently. Elaine says that the baby's been kidnapped, that she was the target of a 'witch-hunt' by some religious zealots. It sounds better coming from Elaine. Julia is fearful that the baby will be killed and Kerrie wonders if the parents had something to do with it. Elaine replies that the FBI seems to be taking the case pretty seriously---that the family had been getting threats since her birth. I'd been 'busy' the last few nights and felt out of the loop. I'm usually better at current events---I have a CNN addiction. I ask when the baby was taken and Elaine tells me that Zoe---the baby---was abducted from her bedroom four nights ago---and that the parents were frantic. Too many thoughts go through my head upon hearing that and I just nod. It doesn't matter what I think---that even if by some strange phenomena, Zoe did have real wings maybe her parents should have kept their mouths shut. In order to prevent exactly what happened. To protect her from the wackos of the world. Idiots. My opinion isn't important. It doesn't matter whether she really has wings and is some divine messenger sent to save our souls. Nor does it matter if she's merely a genetic aberration. And it doesn't matter if she's simply the victim of a lie. She's still a baby. It only matters that the cops find Zoe. Alive. I glance at the nearest hall clock and grimace. I'd rather sit here and enjoy the company, but---history calls. I bid my associates goodbye and scurry off to class. ** Seattle, WA Crystal Suites Room 805 September 12, 1999 8:15 p.m. Strange things are happening. My client---my new regular---isn't having a very good day. I got here around 7:45---on-the-hour arrivals look too much like what they are---and he seemed fine. I was doing my thing---getting him 'in the right frame of mind'---when the phone rings. I wasn't happy about it either. I wanted a short night of it. He curses and rolls off of me, snatching the phone. He doesn't give a name to the caller, but queries "Yes?" impatiently. It goes downhill from there. His eyes widen in shock, then narrow in anger. I pull the sheet up over my body and stare at the muted TV, pretending not to listen. More words, lots of harsh whispers. I hear him say "5 minutes" rather viciously, and then the phone slams down. He's breathing rather heavily. I give him a minute and then politely ask if wants me to leave. He looks at me strangely and pulls the sheet from my hands. He stares and I feel a small tingling of fear. "No." He says it as he exhales. He wants me---badly. He tells me to stay---that he'll be right back. "15 minutes, max." His voice is firm. I nod and reach for the remote. I almost miss his glance toward the closed door to my left. These rooms are suites. Some have rooms that function as offices for the normal business traveler. And they have doors to separate living space with working space. I'd never really thought much about his closed-off work area. Til now. That glance bothers me, but I'm distracted by too many things. My body's 'in gear' for one thing---and the news is on for another. And I'm getting rather hungry---I'd fallen asleep on my couch late in the afternoon and had only woken when Joey called. No time for dinner. My client leaves and I unmute the TV. Pileup on the freeway, arson investigation near the marina, drug bust gone bad---the list drones on in 30 second flashes. A small sound penetrates the daily tally. And again I hear it. I stand up and hit the mute button. There it is again---a faint cry. I debate all of 2 seconds and walk to the closed door. Opening it, I stand in the doorway in utter shock. No way, I think. This isn't real. It can't be. But it is. A beautiful 6 month old baby is tottering against a white crib rail. Blonde curls, gray eyes, and an incredible smile. I almost miss the wings on first glance. Holy shit. I move closer without conscious thought. She stares at me, making tiny cooing noises. I'm captivated. My hand moves and I touch her cheek---she's warm and smooth. My hand moves to her back. Her wings are pure white---and incredibly soft. They drape over her shoulders as if meant to be there and then taper off near her tiny ankles. I trace one wing with my right hand. She smiles at me. I feel a shiver of something run through me. My foot touches something and I look down at a nearly full bottle. So that's the problem. I pick it up and hand it over to my hallucination. She grabs the bottle with one hand and plops down with a total disregard for her lovely wings. She looks at me and blinks sleepily. Then she stretches out on one side, letting her wings mold themselves against her back. She's clad only in a diaper, but she makes no movement toward the pink blanket that lies beside her. Instead, I watch with amazement as the baby's wings unfurl and cover her body like a cocoon. She sighs contently and begins to drink from her bottle. I stare for a minute longer, then retrace my steps. I pull the door closed and climb back into bed. My thoughts are chaotic as I click the remote. Sound fills the room once more, and I shiver. If I bolt now, he will know I've seen her. If he knows that, he will likely kill her. I close my eyes and mutter what some might consider a prayer. She needs help. She needs me to find help. I can do this, I mutter to myself. I open my eyes and pick up my trusty remote. Cartoons. It's expected of someone my age. I reach up and turn off the bedside lamp. It's easier to lie to someone when you're in the dark. Minutes later, he returns. Thanks to his distracted mood, he never notices my mental distance. He fucks me quickly and when he's done, he asks if I'm free tomorrow. Yes, I say, but still call Joey. He reminds me to be careful as I leave. Oh, yes. I will be, I think. You have no idea how careful I'll be. ** Seattle, WA 1112 Parker Street, Apt. C September 12, 1999 10:22 p.m. On my way home, I stopped and bought a paper. All the activity on the kidnapping was still currently focussed in Iowa where the parents lived. They hadn't had any leads on the perpetrator and were giving pleas for information. My hand shakes as I picked up the phone. This is likely to change my way of life. They will find out who I am and what I do and try to place me in foster care. But I still didn't waver. There isn't time for creative thinking. She could die if I wait for inspiration. I have to act now. A young dispatcher-type answers my call. I tell her clearly and distinctly that I've seen the baby, that she's alive, that I know where she is---and that I need help to get her out. The woman doesn't laugh at me---which I think is amazing. Not even when I tell her my name. She asks me to hold please, and I listen to nothing for nearly 2 minutes. A different voice comes on the line---male. He asks me to describe what I've seen and I do. In detail. Well, I leave out my role in as professional in my little tale, but I give him the information I believe pertinent. I hear him conferring with someone else and then he asks me if I'd be willing to meet with him in about 3 hours. "We have the next flight out", he promises. I look around my lovely apartment and sigh. My life will soon crumble. What the hell. I give him my address and tell him to knock loudly since I'll probably be asleep. He laughs and thanks me. I hang up before I realize I didn't get his name. Too tired to eat and too wired to sleep, I shower and dress in sweats. I'm not dressing to impress cops. Not even federal ones. Studying was out of the question, TV isn't much better. I put on some soft music and go online. You can loose yourself for hours in cyberspace. The loud knock startles me. I peep through the eyehole and see shiny badge. Opening the door, I blink. Cops aren't normally this good looking. The guy's a 12 on anyone's scale. And the woman beside him makes me feel dowdy. Just my luck---I get the Ken and Barbie of the FBI. Intimidated much? He introduces himself, "Special Agent Fox Mulder." I hide a smile. No kidding. The woman catches my grin and matches it. "Special Agent Dana Scully", she says. I shake her hand, liking her immediately. I give them my name---the official fake---just on the off chance that they don't go digging into my background and I get to keep my life---such as it is. Agent Mulder gives me a gentle smile and offers, "Angelica's a nice name." So much for chance. I smile ruefully and shrug. "I'm sure you know the story, but I still go by Angel." He nods, then asks if I live here alone. "Yes", I answer quietly. "Joey pays for everything, but he lives elsewhere." He nods again, then glances at his partner. She's not quite with the program yet. He stares at her intently and she looks at me and then back at him. I can almost hear her disbelief. Softly, Agent Scully asks me my age. "I'll be 14 in about a week", I reply truthfully, my voice weary. She nods once. "How long have you lived here?" I hear the underlying question and tell her five years. She seems shocked. Agent Mulder hands her a sheet a paper and she reads it quickly, closing her eyes. I see a New York seal on the legal document and wonder if it's my stepdad's rap sheet. He got around back then. He even made the news a few times for some of his more colorful escapades---those usually involving rape and battery---his area of expertise. Whatever it has on there, it pales in comparison to the truth. I was 7 when he raped me the first time. It took me two days after my first---and only---abortion to get the guts to get on that bus to Seattle. I was 9 and I had barely a hundred bucks in my pocket. Fate? Maybe. Joey would get a kick out of my little theory, I bet. I'll have to tell him that someday. The agents look at one another and then me. I try not to flinch. Quietly, I point out what to me seems obvious---my current lifestyle is way better than the one I left. Thank you very much. They blink in tandem. I smile and remind them of the baby. They shift gears and ask the right questions. He knows damn well what I was doing in that hotel room, she's into denial. I like her anyway. We skirt the issue. I tell them again about seeing, and touching, the baby. "Her name is Zoe", says Agent Scully. "Yes, so I'd heard. And she has wings", I reply. Agent Mulder's eyes light up and he breathes "Really?". I see Agent Scully turning to dispute this, but I touch her arm. She looks at me. "I didn't believe it either. Not at all. Like that monkey baby thing." I say these things and she gives her partner a smug look that I don't understand. Agent Mulder gives me a sad puppy face and I'm smitten. "But her wings are real", I placate him. He graces me with a beautiful smile and I feel blessed. I tell them that I touched the baby. That I touched her wings. "How could she possibly have wings", I ask, directing my question to Agent Scully, my fellow skeptic. She tells us she doesn't know. "Mutations like this are unheard of in humans." But she touches a gold cross she wears around her neck and I know she thinks maybe it is possible. Maybe she even hopes it's possible. Agent Scully looks at her partner and he gazes back with such emotion that even I'm overwhelmed. These two are like no other cops I've ever met. They begin discussing possible plans in some bizarre shorthand that only they know. I listen. And I watch in amazement as these two federal agents seemingly warp reality and leave my presence. They are sitting merely feet from me, but they seem light-years distant---in a place only they can go. At first, I'm merely intrigued. Then I'm envious. I want what they have. I sigh. They return to me suddenly---and apologetically. I smile again and brush it off. I remind them that they need me to do this---to get Zoe back. They don't like it much. I can see the emotions warring inside them. Risk a child to save a child? How ethical is that? Well, this child says she's willing. And that's what counts. Not age. Years are just markers, labels, benchmarks. Life experiences are what make us 'grow up', attain some semblance of wisdom, and accept responsibility. I feel adult enough to do this. And I alone am responsible for the safety that baby. Why? Because I can, that's why. I touched her, and she me in some indescribable way. I can do this. I tell them all that---in a better way, of course. They nod reluctantly. I tell them that I'm to meet my 'friend' at 7:45 in his room. In order to check on Zoe, someone needs to get him out of the room. Agent Mulder asks what kind of car my 'friend' drives and I tell him it's a black Beemer. He looks at his partner. She meets his eyes and then looks at me. "O.k.", she says. "You make sure the baby is there, let us know, and we'll take it from there. It should work." Agent Scully pauses and looks to her partner for reassurance. "We separate him from the room and the baby"---I can tell she wants to add me in there, but she doesn't---"and take him down at his car once we know the baby's safe." "It sounds so easy", I put in. The woman agent grins at me. "They always sound that way." She stresses the word 'sound' and gives Agent Mulder a mock glare. He wisely says nothing. Agent Mulder broaches the real subject---my involvement. "Minimize your risk." He stares at me and I listen attentively. "Don't do anything foolish"---I glance at Agent Scully and see her biting her tongue---just what I thought. He has a certain glint in his eyes that screams 'adrenaline junkie'. I'm betting Agent Scully's the original writer of the spiel I'm getting. I tune back in, smirking. I get their cell phone numbers on the backs of their cards---I'm to call from the room on my cell the minute my client leaves. Then they tell me of their plan to be in the hotel. "That's not a really good idea." My voice sounds unusual, even to me. I'm not normally this confident. I have no wish to hurt anyone's feelings, but I gently point out to Agent Mulder that surely someone has mentioned that he literally screams 'FBI posterboy'. Agent Scully laughs. "I do not", Agent Mulder vehemently denies. "Actually, you do, Mulder", Agent Scully teases gently. God, help me, the man blushes. He is too adorable for words. That weird feeling sweeps over me again. Something monumental is going to happen. I can feel it. It's been building for days. I yawn widely and my federal guests take the hint. They tell me that someone will be watching me until this is over, so shouldn't freak when I notice I'm being tailed. I'd expected as much. They tell me they will see me tomorrow night---meaning when Zoe is safe---because they want to minimize contact with me. Being seen talking to feds would not do me any good right now. I nod in agreement and tell them goodnight. ** Seattle, WA 1112 Parker Street, Apt. C September 13, 1999 2:50 p.m. I slept in this morning, not rising until nearly 9:00. I blew off a class and went to run errands. I didn't look for any tails, so I didn't see any. I just hope they don't arrest me for underage driving. I get back to my apartment later in the afternoon after picking up dry-cleaning, paying bills, getting minimal groceries, and filling up the tank in my Mustang. I'm tired, but jittery. Too much coffee. Oh, well. I listen to my messages and log in to check my email. One from Joey. Shit. My client wants me early tonight. Wonderful. I dig in my bag for one of the FBI cards and grab my phone. The knock at the door startles me. I put the phone down and tuck both cards in my jeans pocket. Looking through the peephole, I nearly stop breathing. Holy fucking shit. Guess who? I'm alternately afraid to open the door, and scared not to---Zoe is part of this equation---it isn't all about me. I open the door. My client stares back. "What are you doing here", I ask nicely. He doesn't really answer, but asks if I want to go on a drive. "Now?" I'm thinking I'm in big trouble. Really big trouble. He nods. He stands in the hall outside my apartment. I never do business in my home---and I don't want him to set foot inside, but I need to get my bag---the one with the cell phone inside it. I hold up a finger and tell him I'll just get my purse. He puts one hand in his pocket and nods again. I turn and walk to the kitchen table, snatching up the blue suede tightly. I start to turn around, but he's behind me. I feel a sudden needle-like pain in my hip, and then I feel nothing at all. ** Seattle, WA Location unknown September 13, 1999 8:37 p.m. There's a cottony feel in my mouth and I feel disoriented when I awaken. I hear voices and I am afraid to open my eyes. Men are talking, but I can't make out the words and I feel as if I'm covered in liquid lead---my body doesn't respond to my efforts to move. A loud clang rattles my teeth and I manage to open my eyes. Barely. Oh, God. I can't even scream. Shit. My brain is spazzing out of control and I feel a shock of fear like a live current running through me. A less than pristine Agent Scully lies before me. Her face is covered in blood and I can't tell if she's unconscious or dead. A stray thought manages to intrude my muddled thinking as I struggle to my knees and make my way to her. Where is Agent Mulder? My hand touches warm skin and I exhale loudly. She's still alive. I almost laugh at my relief when I realize that she is as much a prisoner as I. My heart beats loudly as I scan the room we are in. It's barely five feet by five feet. An old closet? Possibly. Dim light comes from a bulb in the ceiling. Everything seems to be made of wood including the door. I stare at the door, listening intently. Obviously, my client has friends. I wonder where Zoe is and she is mentioned with my client's next breath. "The infant is a sign." My client's voice is reverent. "Yes. We feel as you do. In the wrong hands, she could cause much destruction." A strange voice, carefully modulated, seems to placate my client. "Angel is not part of this." His tone is firm, his words spoken with finality. I hear a delicate cough and I know that the stranger is about to lie. "She is your business." I strain to hear more words, but they are silent for nearly a minute. "The agents?" My client seems hesitant for the first time since I met him. Another delicate cough. And another lie. "We---those of us who support your perspective on the infant's significance---would like to request a....favor." "A favor?" My client sounds amused. "Yes. We---our "church" if you will---has met Agent Mulder before. We...know him. He and his partner have become...tiresome." "And?" "And if it would not be too much of a bother..." My client snorts rather loudly. "Since I am a killer of children, why wouldn't I take the time to dispatch a couple of federal agents?" "May I remind you that our "church" has supported you---and your endeavors---financially over the last seven years. I would think that this small request not be a problem." "I never said it was. My work often involves unexpected details that need to be ironed out. I do wonder though, why a sect such as yours cannot do its own work?" "We can only...suggest. It is not our way to directly participate." "I see. When will you have him here?" I'm suddenly shocked to realize that he means to capture Agent Mulder as well. "In a few hours. He is frantic right now, over the loss of his partner. She has a history of disappearances." I sense a sick humor in the stranger's voice and shudder. Something about his voice makes my skin crawl. "You are toying with him." "Yes, isn't it grand?" A gleeful sound emerges from the stranger. My client disdains to answer. Instead, he asks his own question. "Will you or the others wish to witness the events?" "Sadly, we cannot be present. It is not allowed." This was said as if under great forbearance. "You know when and where I must perform the infant's rite? I will leave the agents there as well. Angel and I will leave the country before the sun rises." An amused laugh comes from the stranger. "You plan to keep the whore?" "Angel is mine." My client's voice has an edge of anger in it that I've never heard from anyone. Wonderful. I'm someone's obsession and he's psychotic. Why doesn't it surprise me? I hear nothing for nearly a minute, and then a final comment. "Yes. I suppose it does no harm in the grand scheme of things." A door slams and silence descends. I can't help but shiver. The stranger lies. My leaving the country with or without my client is not an option. It most definitely is not in the grand design. I move closer to the unconscious FBI agent and wish I remembered how to pray. ** Seattle, WA Location unknown September 13, 1999 9:22 p.m. Jolted awake by a low moan, I nearly scream. I close my eyes briefly, in an effort to get my heartbeat back to normal. Agent Scully tries to move and winces softly. "Shhh. Don't move, Agent Scully." "Mulder." The whispered name is not a question, nor a statement, but manages to convey a wealth of need. All that the wounded agent wants or desires at this very moment, is evident in the cadence of that single word. I hate to disappoint her. "No. It's Angel. Please don't move, Agent Scully." In the dim light, I can see horrific bruises on her pale face. Checking for other injuries, I note that her jacket is missing as well as her gun---the holster she wears is conspicuously empty. Agent Scully's cream colored blouse is torn and bloody, and if I'm not mistaken, her left arm is broken. Arms aren't supposed to bend that way. Her black pants hide any sign of further damage. I suddenly wonder how they took her. Obviously, she wasn't drugged like I was. It was pretty clear she put up a fight. She groans once more and I move closer to her. "Agent Scully?" I'm not sure why I want her conscious, but I do. She obliges and opens her eyes. Eyes that are strangely alert. Pain can do that, I believe. "Angel?" "Yes, it's me. Are you...what happened?" I'm afraid to touch her, for fear of hurting her. Agent Scully tries to shake her head, then abandons it as a bad idea. "Parking garages aren't very safe these days." Her attempt at humor falls flat. She looks at me and sighs. "They...surprised me. I should have been paying attention and I wasn't. It was my fault." I stare at her, amazed. She's all of 5'2'' and barely weighs what I do. "Two men completely intent on taking you, and you think you should have stopped them?" "Three. There were three. But I'm an FBI agent. I'm supposed to prevent things like this, not become part of the situation." Three guys beat the crap out of her and she feels guilty? I shake my head. "Where's Agent Mulder?" The agent looks at me so strangely that I'm nearly sorry I asked. Her expression doesn't change but for a moment I'm almost positive she's scanning for his presence---as if that were possible. She closes her eyes briefly and then opens them. "Where's Zoe?" I'd almost forgotten the baby. I hide my chagrin by ducking my head. "I don't know. But they did mention her." "They?" Agent Scully is feeling better, I see. I bet she's fearsome when she's a hundred percent. I gently wipe a smear of blood from her cheek and fill her in. ** Seattle, WA Location unknown September 13, 1999 10:09 p.m. Agent Scully and I had covered every inch of our closet-cell. Not only had we exhausted every possible means of escape, we had exhausted ourselves. Neither of us had eaten since breakfast and that had been over twelve hours ago. Add to that, my encounter with an unknown sedative and Agent Scully's injuries, and you have two rather ineffective escapees. I sigh loudly as I sit against the wooden wall. Agent Scully carefully lowers herself to the floor by the door. I know she plans on doing something the minute anyone shows, but I can't help but think it won't work. She's got to be in shock with the pain from her arm, and I'm pretty sure she has a concussion---her eyes aren't tracking very well. She's pretty pale from the amount of blood she's lost as well. I think one of her abductors hit her in the head with something other than his fist. Like a pipe maybe. Son of a bitch. May he rot in hell. Men that hit women remind me of my stepfather. Wonder why? I'm beginning to sound bitter. I feel strangely numb, as if I'm simply accepting my fate. Strange, I always thought of myself as a fighter. I wish I knew where Zoe was. It bothers me that I haven't heard a baby's cry since I've been here. A slightly sweet smell intrudes on my thoughts and I look at the door. "Do you think they're back?" I ask Agent Scully and notice with quiet alarm that she's trying to stand. "Gas." She whispers and falls forward, unconscious once more. "Shit." I manage the one word before the floor rises to greet me. ** Seattle, WA Location unknown September 14, 1999 12:31 a.m. Bells are ringing softly when I awaken. Bells? Yes, bells. Inside my head, I laugh. I wonder if I'm dead and if I'm in heaven. Strangely, the gas has left no ill effects on me. I feel fine. A glance to my left assures me that Agent Scully is still breathing. As I sit up, I look around the room realizing that we are no longer in the same room. And that we've got company. Agent Mulder seems to have joined us. Wonderful. I stand and make my way to our new roommate and hope he's in better shape than us. No such luck. Agent Mulder's beautiful face has been pummeled recently. I don't see any broken bones, nor bloody wounds, but something tells me that he's hurt just as badly as his partner. "Agent Mulder?" I lean closer and place a hand on his forehead. His skin feels clammy. One arm tightens across his stomach and I realize he's wheezing. I'm startled when his free hand touches mine. "Scully?" I hear so many things in his voice. I wonder what these two have seen and done together to have formed such a bond. Ordinary cops, they aren't. Nor ordinary lovers either. I'm envious. I'm actually jealous of these two wounded federal agents who are likely to die trying to solve a kidnapping case. I shake my head and mentally slap myself. "Agent Mulder?" I try again. "It's Angel. Agent Scully is hurt." Cruelty is not in my nature, I empathize too much with others. Getting Agent Mulder's attention this way seems so incredibly cold, but it works. "Scully?" He opens his eyes and stares at me. I feel naked at what I see in his eyes. I blink first. "She's got a broken arm and a nasty head-wound, I think." Agent Mulder follows my gaze as I look at his partner. I watch as he takes in his partner's condition and then as he attempts to stand. I hesitate briefly, then stand and offer him my hand. I'm not shocked when he takes it. I'm nearly an inch taller than his partner and I feel certain that he has no qualms about male/female equality. You don't get partnered with someone you don't trust with your life. His ego obviously doesn't feel the need to shirk help from a girl. Even though I expected as much, I'm still impressed. Damned good-looking and enlightened. Wow. What a powerful combination. The object of my musings moves slowly toward his partner. I watch as he bends carefully and kneels beside her. I begin to suspect that his ribs are broken. I wonder if he should be mobile. Probably not. I wonder if he would listen to me. Probably not. "Scully?" His voice gives me shivers. His hand touches the only spot on her face clear of blood, and I feel as if I'm intruding on something wonderfully intimate. "Scully." Agent Mulder pitches his voice in a way that demands attention. He blinks once and then glances my way. Unsure, I do nothing. Agent Mulder refocuses his attention on his partner. He pulls off his tie without thought and makes a sling for Agent Scully's arm. He tries again. "Scully." His persistence is rewarded by a slight moan from the woman on the floor. When her eyes open and she speaks his name, I feel as if I've never known what it is to live. These two are everything to each other. How is it possible to have so much love in one's life? I watch the man and woman before me and I feel a sharp pain of realization. No one has ever cared for me in such a way. No one ever will. My bitterness is cut short by the entrance of my wayward client. He carries Zoe with one hand, and in the other hand, a gun. ** Seattle, WA Location unknown September 14, 1999 1:11 a.m. As far as strange tableaux go, this one has to take the prize. We are in a church, for Gods' sake. Somehow, in some weird-ass way, it makes sense. My erstwhile client seems hell-bent on sending Zoe back to where she came from---or at least that's what I can make of his mutterings. It seems my average-looking client is a rather zealous religious fanatic. What I'm not sure of, is whether he's rooting for God, or for the devil. At the moment, it hardly matters. He's simply intent on killing a 6 month old baby. Because she has wings. He places Zoe on a silk covered altar and motions me away. I hesitate and he points the gun directly at Agent Scully's head. I move. He pushes the wounded agent up the three steps to the altar and then moves back, admiring his handiwork. I shiver. Lighted candles adorn nearly every surface. An ancient text lies open on the pulpit and my client moves toward it. I spare a glance at the unconscious Agent Mulder nearly 30 feet away. My client injected him with something and then handcuffed him to a rail against the far wall. He seems strangely still. I hope he's still alive. Hope dies hard, even in no-win situations. I'm rewarded by movement from Agent Mulder. He lives. For now. Zoe has been quiet since our reunion and I begin to think she's been drugged as well. Her feathers are drooping and she's listless. Agent Scully, broken arm notwithstanding, has had her hands cuffed in front of her. The bastard enjoyed hurting her, I think. I wonder what my client has in store for me. Words begin to echo within the dusty chamber and I realize that this church hasn't seen members in decades. So much for holy ground. Still, I briefly close my eyes and ...wish really hard. My client picks up his tattered book and walks around Zoe and then around Agent Scully. He leans over her and touches the cross around her neck. For her part, Agent Scully barely responds to his actions, she is so focussed on Zoe. More words fall from my client's lips as he leaves the altar and moves back down to me, but I begin to feel strangely removed from everything. Something is going to happen, I think. And then it does. My client concludes his version of a sermon and raises his gun. His target is Zoe. I smell mold and blood and baby. I hear leaves moving against the windows. I taste fear. I see Agent Scully moving toward the altar. She's on an intercept course. With her hands cuffed, it's all she can do. She's closer to Zoe. I'm closer to the guy with the gun. I take three steps and feel the impact of the bullet. Strangely, as I fall, I hear the gun echo twice within the old church. I land softly against the wooden floor and I look toward my client. His face is frozen in a look of disbelief and I wonder if his horror is that he's hurt me. Then I see the crimson stain begin to spread on his chest and my eyes move to Agent Mulder. The semi-conscious agent is sprawled against the wall that holds him captive. His right leg is bent toward his body and I can see an ankle holster. His hand seems anything but steady as he aims his backup weapon, but he fires again, regardless. My client falls to the floor. With half his head missing, even I can tell he's dead. I smile at Agent Mulder and turn to see Zoe. I'm shocked at what I find. Zoe's fine, but Agent Scully's right upper leg sports a bullet wound. She seems strangely oblivious. She's holding Zoe tightly and tears are falling along with feathers from Zoe's wings. Her beautiful wings are molting. Favoring her leg and carrying Zoe, Agent Scully makes her way toward me. "Angel?" Her eyes are so very blue, even with tears. I try to smile, but I can't. I close my eyes instead. "Such beautiful wings", I murmur softly. I feel laughter bubbling up within me and I follow it home. ** Seattle, WA Saint Francis Catholic Church September 17, 1999 3:49 p.m. A fog settles around me and I feel as if I'm walking on water. Only I'm not moving. I'm not sure where I am or when, and I see things like a picture out of focus. I blink and I know where I am. My funeral. Friends from school---Julia, Kerrie, and Elaine. Several teachers. Joey, bless his twisted heart. He cares---cared---more than my parents ever did. My mother's absence is not a surprise. I am surprised to see Zoe's parents, though. Amazed, even. Zoe is not present. I don't wonder why. I hear words spoken solemnly, but I can't seem to feel them. Time passes and I see people leave. I watch as two federal agents dressed in black make their way to the front of the church. Agent Mulder has Agent Scully's hand in a tight grip and she's still limping slightly. Mindful of the cast on her arm, Agent Mulder helps her up the few steps to my casket. I never thought it wasn't worth it. I just never took the time to weigh the cost. It didn't matter to me. I was there and I was in a position to help. I acted. It's that simple. But watching Agent Mulder as he looks at his partner, I feel like I accomplished something wonderful. Moving slowly, Agent Scully pulls a white feather from her suit pocket and hands it to Agent Mulder. It's one of Zoe's beautiful feathers. I'm touched. Agent Mulder looks at the feather in his hand and then at the woman beside him. She nods once and smiles through tears that fall for me. He places the white feather on my cheek and utters five words that touch my soul. "Thank you, Angelica Renee Beauclair." No one has ever said my given name with such absolute reverence. My heart shatters. Do you know that angels can cry? fin