Date sent: Fri, 27 Jun 1997 00:03:09 -0600 From: czero Title: "Where Angels Tread" Author: Bryan Allen Rated: R Classification: X Spoilers: Season Four Keywords: Summery: Scully and Mulder stalk an apocalyptic serial killer who can kill with a touch. Post-"Demons." A Quick Thought from the Author: The best bits of fan fiction are by people who recognize that this universe does not belong to us. Someone else created it, someone else made the rules; going outside those rules is disastrous: It ruptures the fabric of credibility the best stories have. I don't attempt to find ways around those rules, no matter that they are unwritten. My first goal, even over that of a good tale, is believability. Would these characters do this? Would their creator allow them to? I am no god in a universe of someone else's fashioning. I only play here, and pray I do not break the toys. Disclaimer: Don'tcha just hate these by now? If you don't know the X-files, Mulder, Scully, Skinner, the LG, CSM and anyone else even slightly recognizable from the show belong to Chris Carter, Fox, and 1013, well, perhaps you should get cable in your cave, do you think? Author's Note: This story contains some graphic material involving murders and rape (I think, I'm not sure about the legality on what is being portrayed here, but the morality is pretty bloody clear). I don't think it's anything you wouldn't see on the show, but I do describe everything rather, well, graphically. As my main career interest at this point is joining the VCS, I've tried to make the `villain' as fleshed out as possible, to see if I have any hope whatsoever of tracking real killers. I'm not sure if this should be classified as a horror, but I'm hoping I can make it at least a little scary. Also, please understand that I don't write for shock value. I don't want to just gross you out for the sake of having you go "eww." If you do, it's because I want to make sure you understand the killer is going "nova" or about to "explode." It's a real problem in serial killers, and, as always, believability on at least one level is my main concern. Anyway, there's some UST, though non-shippers and shippers alike should be safe; `fear not the dragons, but the pen' sort of thing. Any comments, criticisms or flames are welcome, as long as it's a bit more intellectual than "It sucked." Tell me why it sucked so the next one doesn't. My email is `harbringer13@juno.com' Drop me a line, we xphiles have to stick together. "where angels tread" by bryan allen (harbringer13@juno.com) "some say they don't believe in heaven go and tell it to the man who lives in hell" -oasis, "some might say" Hellfire Club Chicago, Illinois 12:02 a.m. The hunger comes in low, pulsing beats; slow heaving waves slamming into the shores of his brain. The pounding speeds him up, the world outside his eyes slowing to a stand still. He feels the music more than hears it; he cannot understand the words. He cuts through the club's crowd on a pre-determined path, moving with a sure long stride. His dark eyes wince slightly in the heavy smoke of the place. It is a time of upheaval, he tells himself, when boundaries are tested and the evil finds cracks in the walls. He knows it is coming, can feel the lifeline ending so soon; everything has sped up, is moving so fast towards the end he must work quickly. His work is necessary, so that the majority will be spared, if only for a bit longer. The Chosen sacrifice themselves so the rest may live. He knows this. Tells himself over and over, but the hunger rising in his mind makes him feel ashamed. But he rides the shame, like the froth at the fore of a tsunami. The smoke is heavier at the bar, but the light surrounding the Chosen makes him smile. She returns his smile, and in it he sees all her sins; in her eyes he sees her soul, a tattered thing that only blood can heal. Poor thing, he thinks. But this is why he is here, why he does this. He will cleanse her, offer her, and his work will continue. Smiling wider, he sits next to her, ordering something he's never heard of before. "Hey," he says. "Hi," she replies. Tonight, he notices, she is blond. "Come here a lot?" "Not really," he yells back. "Too loud." She looks him over, a feral look in her eyes. To him, it looks like willingness. The Chosen know their duty, and feel honored by it. His heart warms, and for a moment eclipses the hunger. "Wanna get out of here?" "Sure." She feels so ashamed she cannot stand it. He pities her, and is glad he found her tonight. Outside, the pounding music shut off behind the heavy doors of the club, he looks at her in the new light. Neon and streetlights give make her pale, her eyes are bloodshot, but the clinging skirt and blouse show her near- perfect body. The hunger overwhelms him, driving into his forebrain, shattering all thoughts. "I've got a car," he offers, nodding towards a parking lot behind the club. She nods, following him. He finds the darkest corner, behind a big truck. Acting like he is reaching for his keys, he looks behind him, seeing where she is. Suddenly, he spins around, his hand lashing out. His other grabs her arm, holding her. As she draws breath to scream, to curse him, to thank him, he thinks, his other hand touches the middle of her chest. A slight contact, fingertips brushing her blouse. But it is enough, it always is. The air is suddenly charged, his hair stands on end. She gasps and falls, crumpling as he lowers her to the ground. She is dead, her chest unmoving, her heart exploded; but his work is only begun. He quickly pulls a scalpel from his jacket pocket, slicing her shirt and skirt open. The hunger is swelling in his mind, like bubbles in his brain. Breathing heavily, he slashes with the blade and begins his work. The blood gushes over his hands, staining his clothes, spilling out onto the pavement. His eyes reflect her features in death. He slashes heavily again, completing the sign. Finally, taking in deep, gasping, shaking breaths, he puts the scalpel down. Shivering, he gives into the hunger, and the angel reaches for his belt buckle. Apt. 42, Residence of Fox Mulder Washington, DC 2:41 a.m. The TV illuminates the room with a shifting patter of black and white static. It reflects off glass and the dark eyes off the rooms single occupant. Fox Mulder, laying on his worn leather couch, staring into the depths of the static. On nights where he knows he has no hope of sleep, where the nightmares are too close, or the ideas pounding in his mind are too loud, he sits and stares, thinking. He allows his mind to wander as he hovers in that place of near-sleep, attempting to organize his memory in the way only REM sleep can truly manage. During the long quiet hours of his empty life, Agent Mulder wonders. To most people, the truth is an ephemeral thing, a fleeting instance where the brain makes a connection, and then terminates it. Synapses somehow finding each other, sparking the brain to realize something half-perceived. To Mulder, Truth is a physical reality. A record, a bit of metal, a corpse, all contain truth, a reason for the continuance of his crusade. A reason to continue the journey. A reason beyond the guilt. But tonight, the dull flickering of the television his only light, he wonders what his partner is doing, if she is thinking of him. The TV, pixels sliding and exploding, running hyperactive in the darkness. His eyes reflect it: snow crash. Mulder holds no illusions, he is on a downward spiral, an emotional bullet train about to collide with a wall. He closes his eyes to the silent noise. He holds no illusions. The only thing pushing him forward is the memory of his sister, gone twenty years now, a sense of vengeance, the ever-present guilt. The only thing holding him up is the quiet strength of his partner. The strength of a partner whom he feels he has killed. Her cancer, his fault. The strength of a partner who refuses to blame him. Her quiet strength, all he has. Especially now, when half-understood, half-real memories of that man, a cigarette in his hand or lips, in his house, and Mulder is watching him. And Samantha is calling out him. And a sense of something, something better left unidentified as the smoking man argues with his mother and father, or leans towards his mother, as if in a kiss. Mulder opens his eyes, stares into the two dimensional depths, and tries not to think. FBI Headquarters Washington, DC 9:15 a.m. His desk, cluttered with papers and folders, momentos and a single framed picture. The room is dark and a welcome sense of claustrophobia hits her as she closes the door behind her. Agent Dana Scully, her dark trench coat pulled tightly around her, watches her partner as he looks up at her. She smiles slightly, her lips barely curving. He returns it, grateful perhaps for the brief warmth and comfort. "Hey, Mulder." "Hi, Scully. How are you?" He puts his pen down, closing the folder on whatever he's working on. His desk lamp is the only light on. "I'm okay. You?" He wades through all the hidden connotations that can mean. Finally, not entirely truthfully, he answers, "Better." She nods, auburn hair falling to cover her face as she removes her coat and sits down across from him. Everything that has happened recently, his `treatments' at the hands of Dr. Goldstein, his half-remembered visions of his father and the cigarette-smoking man; she knew he had to be hurting. She just wasn't sure what she could do about it. Scully was generally very level-headed, very logical. It was why she had been assigned to the X-files in the first place, to find a plausible explanation for Mulder's wild theories, or to debunk them entirely. Her background in pure science made her an unlikely partner for `Spooky' Mulder, but they worked surprisingly well together. But, lately, she'd felt the winds changing, tension where there should be none. They didn't talk at all anymore. Even more so now, work was all either of them had. "Getting any sleep?" she asked, not able to really think of anything else. "About as much as usual." He shrugged, obviously tired. What little he did remember of Goldstein's treatments, they kept him awake, so he didn't sleep at all, or they woke him up in a cold sweat, the small red dot of the smoking man's cigarette glaring in his eyes. He'd had to unplug his digital alarm clock; the red glow was getting to him. "You?" "Enough." There was an awkward pause. Finally, giving in to the old excuse, she asked, "What's that?" He handed her the file. "You've heard of the Chicago `Tazer' killer?" "Yeah, he uses tazers or cattle-prods to induce a heart-attack in his victims." She opened the file, reviewing the facts she'd seen on the news. "What's this got to do with us?" "Skinner gave it to me this morning. We finally received the autopsy report on victim number one yesterday, and apparently, no one thinks a tazer or even a cow prod could explode the victim's heart." "Explode?" "Yeah. As in `boom.' The ME said it was like someone had put a firecracker in the left ventricle or something doctor-ish like that." "'Doctor-ish?'" "Sure. Us mere mortals can't understand high-flown MD speech like that." He rubbed his eyes. Lack of sleep was dulling his normally `sharp wit.' He sighed. "If the electrical charge was high enough, it's feasible the heart could have `overloaded' and exploded. What were the exterior signs on the chest?" "Few. A very slight burn mark that followed a path from the middle of the chest straight to the heart. A high- voltage zap would have created a larger burn mark, I gather." "It would have." She put the folder down. "I admit this is extremely odd, but it can still be easily explained. Not only that, the murderer seems to rape his victims before killing them-" "After," Mulder corrected. She frowned at that, then went on. "So as soon as there's a blood or semen match, the locals should get a break and get him. Why call the Bureau into it?" He handed her another folder. "Because Mr. Tazer bagged his fourth last night. He just made serial." Her frown deepening, she took the file from him and began reading. Flight 243 Over Illinois 6:43 p.m. Scully looked out the window, watching the clouds below. Great, she thought to herself. Rainy season in Chicago. Just the way she wanted to spend the week. Next to her, Mulder was reading the latest issue from the Lone Gunmen, engrossed in some report on the new Area 51 in Utah or Colorado or somewhere equally innocent-sounding. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, looking for signs of the stress she knew must be ripping into him. Scully knew he believed his memories from the hypnotic/hallucinogenic drug treatments, that he thought the Cancerman was his father, or had at least been romantically involved with his mother. What is this, she wondered unhappily, a soap opera? Mulder pretended to read the article. In reality, his mind was racing, hoping that somehow tracking this killer would get his mind off his own demons. He would have to, he knew, try to think like the killer, try to get inside his head. Perhaps, he thought, living with someone else's demons would exorcise his own. He saw Scully looking over at him, like she was worried. Good cause there, he thought. I'd be worried about me, too. After a moment, he quietly added, If I cared as much as she does. Chicago, Illinois 12:05 a.m. The angel walks slowly among the men. The street is relatively empty, as the threat of rain is keeping most sane people indoors. The cold wind screaming through the streets added an extra incentive, but the angel cared not for these things. Out here, somewhere, was one of the Chosen he had to help. It was his duty, snow, rain, hail. Or, he thought, looking at the neon-lit street, hellfire. After a moment of looking around the dark street, he sees the tell-tale glow of the Chosen. Suddenly smiling, he fingers the blade in his pocket and crosses the street. Motel 6 Chicago, Illinois 1:34 a.m. It comes on swiftly, bubbling up from his spine into his forebrain, invading the light sleep he has somehow managed. Fox is sitting across from Samantha, the game between them. They are arguing, about TV, and suddenly the lights go out, replaced by pure helllight, shining in through the windows and the cracks in the doors. Flash, to his sister, floating out the window, calling his name. And he can't move, frozen to the spot, fear holding him in place, the gun on the floor in front of him. The same as always, he can't save her, he'll never save her; the spindly figure in the doorway, backlit by light that is too bright, will always have her, he'll never get her back, never find her, will always be alone- Mulder wakes up, sweat shining on his skin. Gasping raggedly, he throws the sheets away and turns to sit on the bed. He looks up at the door separating his and Scully's rooms, glad he hadn't woke her up. The dream again hits him full-force, forcing tears from his eyes again. After a moment, from the back of his mind, he thinks, At least it wasn't Dana they took, this time. Chicago, Illinois 9:15 a.m. "Sorry we're late," Scully apologized to the local FBI agent, in charge of the case, David Jace. He was a tall man, with light hair and dark blue eyes. He looked like he belonged in California on a beach somewhere, not in the middle of a rain-drenched street in Chicago. "It's okay. I just got off the phone with Johnson, from the VICAP office. He's got fourteen piled up right now, so he doesn't mind us taking it off his hands for a while," Jace said. "Sounds good. My partner's parking the car. He'll be here in a minute." "Mulder?" She looked up, eyes guarded. "Is that a problem?" Jace shook his head. "Regardless of what you've heard, Agent Scully, not everyone in the Bureau thinks your partner needs to be institutionalized." "That's good to know," Mulder said dryly, walking up behind them. He nodded at Jace. "I'm Mulder." Jace offered his hand, but Mulder ignored it. Jace shrugged and gestured towards the alley across the street. "That's where we found number two. It's when he started boffing his victim. Begging your pardon, of course, Agent Scully," Jace said. "I'm old enough for rated `R' movies, thank you, Jace." Mulder led the way across the street, guiding his partner, hand on the small of her back, around several pot holes that contained pools of dirty water. Jace briefly wondered if the rumors were true, that they were involved. He decided it wasn't any of his business and followed them. The alley would be dark even when the sun was directly overhead. It was, Mulder thought, looking around, the perfect area for quietly killing someone with a sudden attack that wouldn't allow them to cry out. Of course, if you could kill someone with a touch, the place wouldn't matter too much. Unless you wanted something more. And with the second victim, the killer apparently did. A feeling of power? Mulder wondered, kneeling next to the area where the woman had been found. A release? His brain began working, opening up the possibilities. Scully stayed back, watching her partner carefully. Already his eyes were dulling, falling into whatever abyss the killer swam in. She cursed them sometimes, vehemently cursed these madmen who made her partner think like them. Follow them down their dark roads. She kept her mask in place, mindful of Jace standing next to her, watching Mulder with interest. "The marks, on the victims chests," Mulder called. "We didn't get any pictures. Have they been identified?" Jace nodded, not that Mulder noticed. "Yes. The roman numerals for 2000." The lanky agent nodded, dark features completely shadowed. "He's purifying them." "What?" Jace asked, surprised. "For the Rapture. He's sacrificing them, so the majority can enjoy the rapture at the end of the thousand years." "Been catching up on your Bible studies, Mulder?" Scully asked. "Apocalypse nuts," he muttered, "positive the world's coming to an end, and it has to be cleansed in blood, or everyone will be lost." After a moment, he added, "This seems pretty cut and dried. Except most of the other killers were very chaste, clean. They wanted privacy for the ceremony. And they wanted to make sure to get their message across. This one, it's like he's . . ." Mulder frowned, looking around. "It's like he's mimicking the other murders with similar MOs. Or he can't wait for something. . ." Mulder trailed off, lost in thought. Scully didn't push him. She turned to Jace, "I'll want to examine the bodies. Have the autopsies been performed?" The other agent shook his head. "We were waiting for you." She nodded. Great, another day spent cutting up someone's daughter. She sighed, then turned to watch her partner as he duck-footed around the alley, looking at all the angles. "Mulder?" He looked up at her, frowning. "Yeah? Yeah. Let's go. He's choosing the sites randomly." Mulder led them out of the alley and back to their car. Jace followed, then said he'd meet them at the coroner's office. "So what do you think?" Scully asked, as he started their rental up. "He's nuts." He flashed her a quick grin. "So are you, but to my knowledge you don't go around slicing people up." Instantly she regretted the crack; she'd meant it in jest, trying to work up a banter, like they use to do. But it hit too close to home, too close to the recent events where everyone seemed to think Mulder had killed two people in cold blood. After a moment, biting his lip, he forced another grin at her. "Yeah, well, watch yourself. You never know when I might really lose it and take a spork to you." She laughed, glad he hadn't disappeared into his hole. City Coroner's Office Chicago, Illinois 10:30 a.m. Scully peered into victim four's, one Jamie Dull, chest cavity. She'd cut the ribs away after taking careful notes and pictures of the slight burn and cauterization mark caused by whatever had been used to destroy her heart. The entrance burn itself had been negligible, but once the electricity had hit her heart, it seemed to jump several hundred thousand volts, completely destroying it. She looked at the remains of the heart with interest. Her partner leaned against the wall, watching with a slight frown. He'd witnessed enough brutal killings and crime scenes in his time at the FBI in general, and the VCS in particular, that the blood and gore didn't particularly bother him. He couldn't really place his nervousness when it came to autopsies. Each one was different, he knew; and this one wasn't so bad. The girl's face was untouched, only her chest had been slashed. Scully had dispassionately begun her work, cataloguing each interesting tidbit, then cutting her uncaring patient open. "Mulder, come here and look at this." "Do I have to? We haven't eaten yet." But he stood up and obediently walked over, peering into the open chest cavity, looking where she was pointing with the bloody scalpel. "What?" "Look at the heart." "Where?" "Exactly." "Scully, if you've hidden it in your pocket, I'm going to be very upset. "No, look. You can still see the remains here, just above the artery-" "Looks burned." "I noticed that too. Like it had been working so hard it just finally exploded." "I was thinking about that, and I doubt a tazer could have done this much damage." He stepped back, leaning against the counter. "The way I understand it, stun guns and tazers are all DC current, right? They aren't designed to stop someone's heart, just interrupt their nervous systems and voluntary muscles." "That's right. Cattle prods are AC, and could have theoretically done this damage; it would have to have been modified to give off such a narrow charge. But there would have been more evidence on the epidermal. Burning would have been evinced much more than what I saw on any of these victims." Frowning, she looked back into the chest. Mulder's frown mimicked his partner's. He looked at her, standing in her bloody doctor scrubs, fiery hair pulled back with a clasp. Plastic glasses covering her eyes. One hand holding the side of the autopsy table, the other holding the scalpel on the edge of the hole she had cut. She was obviously deep in thought. He looked at the body again, and thought, Damn weird place to notice how she looks, Mulder. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. "Are you almost done here?" "Yeah." She put the blade down and pulled her gloves off. "Let me get cleaned up. We can review the case over brunch or something, okay?" "Sure." He retreated from the autopsy bay, his mind racing in two directions, still not certain which one was correct. Denny's Restaurant Chicago, Illinois 11:32 a.m. "When you said `classy' I should have guessed what you meant," Scully said dryly, putting her menu down. "You said no fast food. It was this or Olive Garden and I didn't think you wanted to wait while I drove around trying to find one." He looked up at her, wondering if she really was angry at him. They both had hair triggers these last few weeks; even so, if would be completely unlike Scully to have a choice of restaurants set her off. Something else was giving her the tired look in her eyes. "I relent in the face of hunger," she mumbled. She'd heard him wake up last night, his racking sobs and heavy gasps easily heard through the thin walls of their motel. She'd heard him stumble to the window, and she hadn't been able to get back to sleep. The double autopsies this morning hadn't helped any, and the fact that two more were waiting didn't make her feel much better, either. "What should I get, the Big Slam or kid's meal number three? It comes with a toy." "Always go for the free plastic toy, Scully. It'll keep you amused in the car." "Good to know you think I'm so easily placated," she said with a small smile. He grinned at her, the case banished from his mind as he realized he'd somehow managed to cheer her up, if only a little. "Never, Scully. I realize you are a woman of deep complexities entwined in a veil of mystery so thick I could never find your true self. So, you gonna go for the toy?" She smiled again, the small, real smile that seemed reserved solely for him, and then only rarely. "Sure, Mulder. You borrow it on the plane trip home." "Great, now you think I'm the easy one." He chuckled softly, looking up when the waitress came over. He noticed she looked a lot like the victims, medium height and build, short hair, pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. He frowned and mumbled out his order, cursing himself for allowing the dark cloud to fall over him so easily. Sighing, he looked out the windows at the dark gray sky, ready to burst with dirty rain. He wondered what the killer was doing. Chicago, Illinois 1:43 p.m. Jace was standing at the edge of the circus, frowning at reporters and onlookers trying to get tomorrow's story or just a peek of a dead body. He looked up as his two fellow agents made their way over, flashing their IDs at the blue- suits on crowd control. He waved at them tiredly. "Ten year-old girl found her. We haven't got an ID on the body yet. We're pretty sure it's the same guy." Mulder nodded and followed Jace into the alley. Scully trailed slightly behind her partner, willing to let him take the lead. The body was sprawled in the manner of the other four victims, arms straight out, legs spread. Her mind went into `doctor-mode,' immediately detached from the brutal death that had taken place here. Mulder stood behind the line of forensic specialists, looking at the body. "Two thousand," he muttered. He noticed the girl's legs were sliced up, as was her neck. "He's escalating." "You're sure?" Jace asked, hands shoved deeply in his heavy trench coat pockets. Wind screamed in the alley, whipping everyone's hair around, Mulder nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure. I'm not sure where he's headed, and I doubt he is either. But we need to get there before he does." Scully pulled her coat tightly around her, seeing the cuts looked the same as the other victims. Done with a scalpel or other thin blade. The heart, though, that's what bothers me, she thought. "The burn marks look the same, Mulder. If her heart's been destroyed as well, there should have been a bigger mark." Just like the others. "Theories?" "Not now," he whispered to her, eyes frowning at Jace, who was staring at the body. "I've got something here," someone yelled, one of the forensics team. His compatriots crowded around him, taking pictures and noting details. "What is it?" One of the PD detectives demanded. "Looks like home-made paper. There's some word on it, looks like it was written in blood." "Ugh," muttered another forensics expert. "What's it say?" Mulder asked. "Ah, I can't make it out. Bring that light over here, Jerkins." A few moments later, the man stood, looking over at the agent. "It says `Gabriel.'" "Were these found at any of the other crime scenes?" Mulder asked. "Not unless someone didn't' tell me," Jace replied, a deep frown on his face. Mulder nodded, apparently not too surprised. "Call us if you find anything more," he said to Jace. "What do you think it means?" Jace called after him. "Trouble," Mulder replied. "Where are we going?" Scully asked, following Mulder out of the alley and past the crowd. "Back to the motel. I need your laptop." "For what?" "I need some information." Motel 6 Chicago, Illinois 3:52 p.m. Mulder closed the computer down, unplugging it from the wall. "Scully, did you recognize the name on the paper?" "Gabriel? If you take it in the biblical sense, Gabriel was the supposed angel of vengeance." Mulder smiled. Considering how she usually ripped into his theories, it was funny how their minds worked the same sometimes. "That's what I thought too. But I wanted to double-check." He leaned back against Scully's headboard and looked out the window. It had begun raining again, and the windows were running with it. "I think he doesn't really believe in what he's doing. It's more like he thinks it needs to be done, so he's doing it." Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he looked over at his partner. "Does that make any sense?" "About as much as a madman running around cutting women up." She shrugged, sitting back in the chair. "So you think his mother's making him do it?" Mulder grinned. "He obviously has some serious personal problems in the sexual area." "I'd say his personal problems don't stop there." Nodding agreement, he looked back at her. "The way I'm seeing this, he believes he should believe in this, but he really doesn't. It's an excuse, to expunge the hunger and the a chance for the thrill of the hunt. When he raped the second girl, after zapping her heart, he found his hunger. I doubt it's leaving him alone." "I meant to ask you about that. How do you think he's blasting their hearts?" "You won't like it." "I usually don't. But I still listen." He smiled at her and nodded. When he began to speak the smile faded, however. "I think he can somehow control the electrical field surrounding his victim. Or he can control his own enough to kill them. Anyway, he uses the bodies' bio-electric field." Her eyebrow arched in the classic `Say again, Mulder, I don't think the rest of the clowns heard you' look. "How'd you get that?" He smiled sheepishly. "X-men. You know, that cartoon. There's this guy who can control magnetic fields. I was watching it this morning, and if just kind of hit me." "Good scientific method, Mulder. Children's cartoons." "I didn't say it was likely," he growled, becoming defensive. Sure, it sounded silly, but- "Tai Chi masters are supposed to be able to control their bodies' electric fields to a degree to where they don't even have to touch you to kill you. Why couldn't someone have the innate ability to control their own bio-electrical field? In fact, the ability to do so could without the disciplines used by the Tai Chi masters may cause mental problems due to fluctuations in the brain most people wouldn't experience. Most, well- rounded people who don't go sticking knives into people and then have sex with them once they've blown their hearts up, I mean." Her gaze darkened, but she continued. "I still think there's a plausible explanation to this. More plausible than Magneto the Mutant Man-" "Scully, you watch cartoons?" She gave him a dirty look. "We know the method of the murder: enough juice to make the heart overload and explode. We just need to figure out the delivery. A modified cattle prod still seems a good bet." He shrugged. "If you say so. Me, I'm wearing rubber shoes until we get back to DC." She rolled her eyes at him and looked out the window. Outside Chicago, Illinois 3:30 p.m. The angel smiles at his handiwork. One wall of his small room is covered with news articles about the Chosen. There is no real mention of him, their savior, except to say he has murdered them. But he doesn't let that bother him. Information has been controlled by the devil for a long time, and he is sure most people can recognize his act for what it is. He is bothered, however, by this last Chosen. His mind was so fevered with the hunger, he had cut indiscriminately at first, nearly destroying his canvas. He has begged forgiveness for his act of sin, but the lack of an answer worries him. Always, always, he could hear his mother's voice telling him it was okay, that all that really mattered was the work. She has watched over him, he knows. She has kept him from the demon army even from her resting place in god's country. The angel smiles at the lone picture of his mother. After a moment, he sighs and stands up. Time to pray. He leaves his small room - a converted storage closet - and enters the big room. The room of worship. The church has long been abandoned, a testament to the growing evil in the world, he thinks, but he has attempted to keep it in what repair he can. The angel lights the candles, and kneels before the altar. Cleansing himself so that he might cleanse others. Soon. Preparing to open the old wound on his arm, holding the long knife used by the righteous man twenty years ago, memory wells up, cutting into his brain. He screams, falling backward, down the few stairs leading up to the altar. The knife falls, caked blood scattering as it hits the floor. The angel cries, holding his head, screaming in pain. A flash, tinged with blood. A woman's scream, as a man slashes at her, screaming how her evil must be stopped. How she is a whoring slut, and her get are demons. The cross in the background, backlit by small lightbulbs, is incongruous in the scene, except it is happening in a church. This church. The flash of light on the knife, the spurt of blood as the blade drinks. The boy screams, echoing his mother's last, even as it dies in a gurgle. Crying, as the righteous man backslaps the boy, grabbing his mother's body, carrying it up to the altar. "Sacrilege," the righteous man mutters, dragging the corpse onto the stone table. "All of it." Still crying, the angel wonders how, for so many years, he had thought the righteous man a simple murderer, a madman with a knife. And he wonders, when exactly had it hit him, that the righteous man was right. Blinking, curled into a ball, he fumbles a bottle from his pocket. His pills, his only concession to the pain of being an angel. Chicago, Illinois 8:41 a.m. The circus again; the crowd is smaller this time. More reserved. They stand outside a church. Agent Jace stands outside the chapel doors, looking out over the cold Sunday morning. He leaned against the wall, taking a ragged breath. Closing his eyes, he doesn't see the two agents cut their way through the crowd of uniforms. "Jace?" Mulder asks, frowning at the tired agent. The other blinks his eyes open. "Yeah. Deacon found her; before service, thank god. It's pretty bad." The agent looked Mulder in the eye. "You were right, Mulder. He's going up." The dark-eyed agent nodded, looking at his fair- skinned partner. "Are you sure it's the same guy?" Scully asked, hands deep in her pockets. Jace laughed without a hint of humor. "Yeah. We're sure." He nodded at the doors. "Inside, take a left. You can't miss it. Just follow the blood." Looking at each other, the partners entered the church. Escalation isn't the word for it, Scully thought to herself, looking at the crime scene. And Jace was right, you can't miss it. Scully was a doctor, a veteran of numerous autopsies, but sometimes even she was amazed at how much blood the human body could hold. Her partner seemed to be taking it all in stride. "Seen worse in Violent Crimes?" She asked him quietly. "Sort of." He looked over the area, noting the position of everything. His memory was a gift and a curse. At least, he thought darkly, he didn't have nightmares about scenes like this. He was too busy dreaming of aliens. The chapel was covered in blood, the cushions on the pews soaked in it. But the main attraction was the victim. Hanging on the cross, her chin on her chest, the woman was dressed in the robes of a priest, which were covered in her own blood. Looking at her, Scully wondered exactly what kind of the wound the killer had inflicted. "I take it our boy's not too hot on chick pastors?" Scully said. "You know these homicidal maniacs, Agent Scully," Jace said behind them, walking in through the doors, "they're all a bunch of chauvinistic pigs. Can't stand women coming into their own, kind of thing." Mulder raised his eyebrows at his partner. Hadn't that been his line? "You guys find anything?" There were several FBI forensic experts combing the crime scene, their faces even more a mask than Scully and Mulder's. "Just this." Jace handed them a plastic bag, the contents of which were half obscured by blood. Scully took it, immediately saw it was the same type of home-made paper as they had found before. Frowning, she moved it around in the bag, trying to see the words. When she did, she raised an eyebrow, looked up at her partner. "`False prophet.'" "Guess he's one of those new masculinists out there, eh Scully?" Mulder said, beating Jace to it. "Let's go get a closer look at the body." "Go ahead," Jace said. "I've already seen it." From the tone of his voice, Scully could tell he never wanted to see anything like it again. She braced herself. They made a careful trail through the blood, finally coming to the front pew. And there they stopped. What Scully had taken to be ropes holding the victim up to the cross were her own entrails, the vicious material looped disgustingly around the arms of the woman and cross. She swallowed back the bile, turning away, feeling horribly sick. The forensics team looked up, worried she was about to ruin their crime scene. Even Mulder looked ill, eyes narrowed in pain. Taking a deep breath, Scully turned back, her mask firmly back in place. "You okay?" Mulder asked, stepping closer to her, so their shoulders touched. "Yeah. Not much okay, but I don't I'll go vomiting all over the crime scene." "Don't worry about it. First time I saw something like this, I was over a toilet for an hour." His eyes looked distant. "You . . . get used to it." "Not too used to it, I hope, Mulder." "No, Scully. You can't allow yourself to get that acclimated. If you do, you risk . . . everything." He looked away. "I don't think you need to do the autopsy on this one." Trying to save her a little pain, all he could do. "No, I don't think so either," Scully said quietly. "I can see everything just fine from here." Chicago Police Department Chicago, Illinois 3:31 p.m. Mulder sighed, putting the folder down. He'd spent the entire day searching through the records of any murders in churches in the last thirty years. The BSU at Quantico had sent him their profile of his killer, and it coincided to his own, giving him some small amount of hope at finding this guy before he killed too many more. "Homicide investigations," Mulder muttered, "a catch phrase for damage control." "What?" Scully asked, looking up from her laptop, light filling the bottom half of her glasses like a sliver of moonlight. "Nothing." He leaned over, handing her the folder. "I think I've found it." Scully took it, taking her glasses off. "1975? According to your profile, wouldn't that make the killer just a kid?" "Between nine and thirteen. The kid in the case was eleven." "Right in the middle." She read on. One Jamie Kowczi, thirty-four, killed in her church on the outskirts of town, by one Henry Renniger, twenty-six, while her son, Dean Kowczi, watched from a pew, where he had been tied. "You think he's reliving the experience?" "Or something more insidious. If you read Renniger's statements, you'll see he believed killing Kowczi was ordained by god. He said god told him to do it." Scully finished the report. "It definitely fits." For a moment, she considered asking him what he'd meant by `more insidious' but decided against it. It was possible he didn't know what he meant himself. Sometimes his brain didn't tell him what it was thinking. "Think they'll have a current address?" "Let's go ask after the follow-up reports." "I remember this," Jon Dean, a grizzled desk sergeant with thirty years on the force, said. "I was a beat cop when we found the body." He handed them several folders. "I remember the kid got shuffled around a couple state-institutions for a couple years. It was in the papers for a while." "Thanks," Mulder said, nodding to the helpful officer. He led his partner away. "So what do you want to bet our boy just got out, Scully?" "No sucker bets, Mulder. They don't pay me enough." She looked in one of the folders as they entered the elevator. "According to this, Kowczi's last institution was the Renatus Institution for the Mentally Insane." "Well, let's go talk to a shrink, Scully." "Yes, let's. You're long past due." Renatus Institution Outside Chicago, Illinois 6:02 p.m. The institution turned out to be a large modern building with a huge garden surrounded by a ten-foot tall iron fence. A small piece of Xanadu fenced in, Mulder thought, watching as drooling patients were carted about by dutiful attendants. "Hang on, Scully. I think we took a wrong turn." "What?" "This is one of those secret government research facilities." Willing to play along, she looked up at him as they walked towards the main office. "And what exactly would they be researching here, Mulder?" Mulder grinned at her as a particularly pretty nurse walked by them. "The effects of bliss on government drones." "Maybe you should send in an application, Mulder. When that nurse walked by, you suddenly seemed to have the apparently requisite amount of drool." She smiled as he pantomimed wiping his lip. The main office was a large room decorated primarily pastels. "Trying to keep the patients here, I guess," Mulder muttered, frowning at the color scheme, something horrible enough to keep anyone crazy. A duty nurse, a large man with seemingly a single eyebrow looked up and smiled cheerfully at them. "Can I help you?" "I'm Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully. We're with the FBI." They showed him their IDs. "We're here concerning a Doctor Martin. We understand Dean Kowczi was one of his patients," Scully continued for her partner. "Yes, until just a few months ago. We keep records, and I'm sure Dr. Martin remembers Kowczi." He gestured them to follow him. "How's that?" The nurse grinned at him, his burly body setting a brisk pace through the bright halls. "Dean was an . . . interesting case." And he would say no more on the subject. Dr. Martin looked the part of a psychologist. At least, a psychologist working for the state. He was a man in his forties, with thinning, prematurely gray hair, and a harried expression. An unlit pipe dangled from his lips when they entered, but he quickly put it away, looking embarrassed. "Sometimes it helps me think," he mumbled, smiling nervously at Scully. Mulder couldn't help thinking a patient had somehow tied the real Dr. Martin up somewhere and taken his place. Hadn't he seen a movie with Dan Ackroyd about something like that? "Dr. Martin, we're agents with the FBI. I'm Fox Mulder, and this is Dana Scully." "We'd like to ask you a few questions." Martin blinked, looking back and forth at them. Whether from their apparent ability to finish each other's sentences or from being visited by the mighty FBI, Scully couldn't tell. "Certainly. What can I help you with?" "Dean Kowczi. We understand he was a patient of yours." The surprised look on Martin's face vanished. "Gone off has he? I expected this. Told them," he muttered. "Told them what?" "That he was incurable." Martin sighed. "When he first got here, he'd already been screwed over by the other institutions. I did my best, but he was convinced the murder of his mother had been justified, and that god had indeed told the murderer to do it." Scully started at that. "You're serious?" "I wish I wasn't. What's he done?" "He's continuing the crusade started by Renniger," Mulder told him. Scully frowned at him, but he ignored her. Continuing investigation or no, they needed information Martin had. "Is there anything about his psychosis you can tell us about?" "Well, he displayed delusions very similar to Renniger. But I have to tell you, Agent Mulder. I don't think he ever really heard any voices except perhaps from his mother. He had reported hearing her voice from the day she was killed, but he only began saying God was talking to him when he hit his third institution. That was about the time Renniger was put on death row. He watched the trial fanatically, I was told." "You know him better than we do, what are the chances of his returning to the site of the original crime scene?" Martin considered, pulling the pipe out of his desk drawer. "He probably feels closer to his mother and Renniger there. I'm certain he went there after his release." Martin frowned unhappily. "The board overturned me on that one. He was a loon, but he was a model patient." The psychologist sighed. "I rather doubt he's still there. The memories of his mother's murder would be too painful, even if he did think it was necessary." Mulder nodded. "Thank you very much, Dr. Martin. You've been a great help." "My pleasure. I'm only sorry he was able to fool my colleagues enough to get released." The agents nodded and let themselves out, leaving a thoughtful Dr. Martin absently chewing on his pipe. Outside, Scully turned to Mulder, who was watching several patients stare distractedly at another who was yelling incoherently at a cloud. "What did that accomplish, Mulder? We drove all the way out here just to have someone tell us we should check out the place of the killer's mother's murder? We were going to do that anyway." "He confirmed my profile," Mulder replied. "And confirmed what I'd originally thought." "Something `more insidious?'" She asked. "Yeah. Somewhere along the way, Kowczi became convinced his mother was one of the `chosen,' one of the sacrifices apocalypse killers refer to." "So you think he'll still be there?" "It's possible. But I doubt it, like Martin said. Still, we'll have to be careful." "I'll call Jace then, tell him to meet us at the hotel." "Why not just drive out there now?" "Jace is the agent in charge and besides, I need something to eat, Mulder. And so do you. You haven't eaten anything since yesterday." Mulder smiled at her affectionately, holding her door open for her. "What would I do without you, Scully?" "Waste away into nothing." He closed the door and walked around the car. When he'd sat down, she continued. "Your body, anyway. Your sanity has long since atrophied." Chicago, Illinois 7:45 p.m. It was pure happenstance. A chance encounter that forever changed the angel's outlook on the Chosen. Walking down a line of hotels in Chicago's tourist district, he saw the light. Was almost blinded by it. Squinting his eyes, wanting to cover them but refusing to be that conspicuous, he looked into the light. And there, standing next to a tall man in a dark suit, was the true Chosen. The Chosen, where all the others had simply been chosen. The penultimate sacrifice for the good of the world. The hunger was so loud in his mind as he looked at the thin red-head he couldn't hear the traffic between them. The roaring of a passing semi was nothing to the two- hundred thousand decibel scream of the hunger. He quickly found a bench and sat down, watching the two people, standing in an aura of light only he could see, as they stood waiting for someone. Him? It was entirely likely the woman knew he was coming. With the light this strong, surely the Chosen knew her time was soon. But who was the man? A messenger? An escort, to make sure the Chosen came to no harm before she could be handed to the angel? Or a test. Yes, a test. But for this Chosen, the angel would do much. When another man joined her, the angel became worried. When they walked to a car, and the first man held the door for her, he became panicked. Where was she going? How would he find her? The hunger nearly drove him to brave the busy traffic and take her now. But the realization this would be his last sacrifice stayed him. His mother had been the perfect Chosen, and his predecessor's last. This was his. His last Chosen, the perfect one. He felt no fear that he would soon be dead. And he knew, beyond even a sliver of a doubt, that she would find him. Holy Mother Church Outside Chicago, Illinois 8:34 p.m. Save for the lone church, there was nothing around for miles. Whatever small neighborhood used to live here, it had died out over the intervening years. The place looked suitably dead, Scully thought. The church itself was obviously abandoned. Shutters hung off their hinges. The steeple, an obvious lightning rod, was rusted through. The main building was flanked by several offices and smaller buildings. Mulder preceded Scully and Jace as they probed the building carefully, watching for any ambush. If Martin's belief that Kowczi wasn't here was affecting Mulder, it didn't show. He had his gun out, held tightly in his hand as he looked around corners before nodding it was safe to his partner. She held back a small smile at his behavior. Was he just playing big strong man because Jace was here? Or was he seriously concerned about her? He knew she could do her job, and he knew she was dependable. The thought she was somehow vulnerable probably hadn't even entered her mind. Perhaps, then, he just wanted to show- Nothing, Dana, she thought unhappily. Give it up. Finally, she decided that for once, "Spooky" Mulder was going by the book. He was treating the area as possibly hostile and was playing the part of scout. She followed his example and pulled her weapon. After a moment, Jace followed suit. "Let's check out the chapel." Mulder nodded agreement. The doors were unlocked, and they let themselves in. Surprisingly, though perhaps not to Mulder, the inside of the church wasn't remotely damaged. It had obviously been repaired, though how recently they couldn't tell. "He did come back," Scully said, nodding at the altar. It was flaked with dried blood. "Has he been bringing other victims here?" Jace asked, looking at the pews suspiciously. Mulder shook his head, then nodded to one side. "Too dangerous." He moved quietly to the other side of the chapel, and they swiftly checked the rows for anyone hiding there. "Clear," Jace said, frowning. "This room anyway," Mulder replied, walking over to inspect the altar. Scully followed him, crouching to look at a knife next to the altar. "This is whatever caused that blood," she said. "The reports said they never found the actual murder weapon," Mulder said, frowning at the wicked- looking knife. "Hey," Jace called from a small corridor off to the side, gesturing towards an open door. "Look at this." Mulder swiftly walked over, while Scully continued looking the altar over. Some of the blood looked extremely old, perhaps a year, though that was only a guess. Some looked newer, but she had no idea how new. Frowning, she looked up, seeing both the other agents had disappeared. Annoyed, she was about to call for Mulder when a man stepped out of the shadows behind the cross at the back of the small stage. Scully raised her gun, opening her mouth to yell for Mulder. Her throat froze up, and she couldn't breathe. A buzzing in her head, making it impossible to think clearly; her mouth worked like a fish stuck out of water, dying slowly. She stumbled, her gun arm falling, the gun slipping from her hands and hitting the blood soaked carpet. The man smiled, his eyes wide and happy. Walking carefully over to her, he took her arm and pulled her along. In the back of her mind, away from the buzzing like electrical wires, Scully wondered why she couldn't fight him. Mulder looked over the news articles while Jace checked out the desk. Technically they didn't have a warrant, but Mulder rather doubted Kowczi was paying to stay here and, anyway, legality wasn't much on his mind. "Something of a neat freak," Mulder said, noticing how each article was positioned exactly an inch away from another. "You could say that," Jace agreed, rifling through the desk drawers. Mulder started, looking around as if surprised. He had expected Scully to answer him. He quickly left the room, leaving a startled Jace trailing after him. "Scully?" He called when he saw she wasn't in the chapel. "Scully!" "Door's open!" Jace yelled, already running for it, Mulder in close pursuit. They both stopped just outside the doors, looking around, guns at the ready. Their car was still there, and other than that the area was deserted. "One of the other buildings," Mulder muttered, and started off. "Go around the other way!" Jace nodded, and raced off. The angel smiled, offering his hand to the flame- haired woman before him. She was crouched in a corner of the one covered halls leading to the restrooms. Not such an auspicious place for a sacrifice of her level, but he was hurried. The proximity of her fellows was pushing him. She had suffered great pains, he could see. She backed against the wall, looking confused. She kept opening and closing her mouth, forming a single word over and over, obviously wondering why it wasn't coming out. It looked like `fuller' to him, perhaps one of her friend's names? "Take my hand. We will send you, and cleanse you, and then I will consummate your passing." It had just come to him then, that perhaps that's what the hunger was. A need for finality. A celebration of the Chosen's sacrifice. His smiled widened at the idea, and the guilt lifted from his shoulders. The buzzing in Scully's head grew. What was he doing to her? His droning voice reached her, and she reached out, slowly, tentatively. The hair on her arm stood on end. Jace was running headlong down the sidewalk. He was certain he'd heard voices. His foot caught on something as he rounded the corner to the hall, and his gun went flying, slamming into the wall and sliding down the concrete floor. Looking up, he saw Scully, reaching out to a man that looked a lot like the pictures of Kowczi. "Mulder!" Jace yelled, shoving himself up. "Over here! Now!" Mulder yelled something back, that sounded like, "Don't let him touch her!" Kowczi had his own hand out, and Scully's was about to touch it. Remembering how each of the victims had died of electrical shock, Jace yelled, "Dana, no!" And ran for Kowczi, who looked up, startled. Scully blinked, pulling her hand back. Something collided with Kowczi, sending him both tumbling. There was a bright flash, like a huge electrostatic release. The air was immediately charged. Scully slid down the wall, only vaguely sensing Jace's gun, where it had slid to a stop next to her. Her hand found it and automatically picked it up. God, the buzzing was so loud. The angel stood, frowning at the devil's agent at his feet. "You'll have to do better," he muttered, "to stop God's work." He took a step backward, towards Scully, smiling even through the stench of burnt flesh. His hand began glowing with a phosphorescent glow. Truly, he thought, amazed, this is the Chosen, to elicit such a miracle from his humble power. Mulder rounded the corner as Kowczi was about to touch Scully's forehead. She'll live, the angel thought with a smile, if only for a little while. "Stop!" Mulder screamed, rage and terror ripping the word from his throat. Kowczi spun, and Mulder raised his gun- The double explosion seemed to surprise them both. Twin flowers erupted from Kowczi's chest, twin bursts of blood spilling his life out. He fell, two nine-millimeter-sized holes in his chest. The buzzing in Scully's head stopped, the air cleared of the static charge. She blinked, standing, sliding up against the wall, Jace's gun still extended. She saw Jace, sprawled, burnt to a crisp with third degree burns all over his body. Saw Kowczi, exit wounds in his chest obvious as he lay on his back, staring accusingly at the roof, and beyond to the dark sky. She closed her eyes, forcing the tears back. She still didn't move or say anything when Mulder slowly walked over and cradled her in his arms. Highway Outside Chicago, Illinois 11:13 p.m. She leaned her head against the window, watching the barren land scroll by. The moon gave everything a nightmarish, dead color. The ambulance and police had come and gone, taking their statements and frowning at their IDs. And now, driving back to Chicago, ready to go home. "Mulder?" He looked over at her, startled. She hadn't talked to him all night. He had no idea what she was thinking. He wished to God he could do something to help her. But he felt that touching her now, trying to comfort her, would only make it worse, make it seem like pity. "Yeah, Scully?" "First Missy, then Pendrell. Now Jace. Why do people keep dying for me?" She said it quietly, whispering to the moon. He swallowed. He would kill himself, he realized, to take this away from her, to take from her this pain. "Because, because there's something in you. Something in you worth saving. Something that needs to keep living." "But, Mulder," she sobbed, breaking down, tears suddenly streaming down her face, "I'm already dying." He pulled over, under the cold moon, and held her, glad she clasped to him, holding onto him like he was the only thing real right now. Closing his eyes, resting his head on hers, where it was nestled on his shoulder. Under the cold moon, and the dead stars, Mulder held his partner and begged whoever might be listening to his thoughts to take all the hurts of the world from her. But for the thousandth time he'd begged this boon, the stars were not listening. finis. *Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you weren't offended, though perhaps only good can come of it if you were. At any rate, I've no idea if there will be any more of these from me. A lot depends on the response I get (hint hint) from you readers. Actually, it's very likely I'll write more. Exercising demons is one of the mainstays of writing, getting out your dark side, putting it into the light where it can be seen and dealt with. Or simply attempting a challenge. Both are true of this story. The face of Kowczi, his insanity and the possibility of the truth in his crimes is a face any man can wear. Believability and possibility aren't as separate as you would think; each rely on a set of circumstances to become truth. The possibility of the rapture was foretold two thousand years ago by a carpenter, and he has been believed since. And the end of the world was foretold by a seer a thousand years ago. And now? The thousand years is over. -BA*