Rating:    PG-13
Spoilers:  Requiem (US7)
Summary:   In the years that follow Mulder's return, the events
of the meeting and raising of the children of Dana Scully and
Marita Covarrubias are retold by their protector.

Lost Boys and Golden Girls
by Martha
marthalgm@yahoo.com

Title and opening section quotes are from "Lost Boys and Golden
Girls" by Jim Steinman, copyright Neverland Music/Music
Corporation of America Inc and Lost Boys Music, and are used
without permission.

This is a follow-up to an earlier story of mine, The Wrong Kind
of Paradise.  The events of that story take place immediately
after those in the XF episode Requiem, so the universe of
Season 8 is not present here.

This story may be read as a stand-alone; I hope that I have
been able to introduce prior events into this story with
sufficient explanation.  If it interests you, the prior story
is archived at Gossamer under the name and email referenced
above.  The following is a short summary of that story:

Marita confronts Scully at the hospital to confirm the
pregnancy and would later confide that she is too is pregnant.
Although she had led Krycek to believe that he is the father,
Marita's pregnancy actually began in-vitro.  Scully would later
tell the Gunmen of her own pregnancy.  While she, Skinner, and
the Gunmen work on locating Mulder, an attempt is made to
kidnap Marita, prompting the Gunmen to hide Scully with Susanne
Modeski.  Following a lead to North Dakota, Skinner finds
Gibson Praise among a group of UFO chasers.  While there, an
abductee is returned carrying Scully's cross necklace.  Scully
will then insist upon reuniting with Gibson, who informs them
of Mulder's impending return.  While the group gathers in
Arkansas and finds Mulder, Gibson has been kidnapped by Krycek
and Marita and locked away in a Vermont hospital.

Additional note about the previous story:  I was not able to
see Requiem after the original air date and did not have a copy
available while writing the story.  I relied on others'
opinions that Scully gave Mulder her cross before he went to
Oregon the last time.  While it later turned out not to be the
case, it still makes damn good drama to believe that it did
happen.  Also, the episode has Krycek claiming to have last
seen Marita in the clinic in One Son.  I missed this point
initially.  I needed the two of them together prior to his
imprisonment in Tunisia to make this work.  Since the story was
written and archived prior to the televised repeat of Requiem,
I chose not to correct these errors and continued with those
points in the current story.

***
Lost Boys and Golden Girls
by Martha
marthalgm@yahoo.com

~We gotta be fast
We were born out of time
Born out of time and alone~

September 14, 2010
The Hiding Place

The high-pitched squeals of the game of play by two girls
racing about in the back field interrupt my thoughts.  They are
chasing some unseen object and each other in an area designed
to accommodate a number of children.  But it is always and only
the two.

I sometimes have misgivings about keeping the two together.  I
fear that one may eventually turn on the other as children are
want to do.  They may have one factor running to their
advantage though I wonder if it might ultimately be their
undoing.

I do not believe that anyone else knows for certain that they
are sisters, half-sisters actually.  *They* have always known -
as have I.  The others nod their heads when the girls refer to
each other as `sister', thinking that it is just an endearment,
one of those things that develops naturally when girls grow up
together.  And what the others may know or believe about the
parentage of the girls has never led to preference for one over
the other, and I have been grateful for that small comfort.

A breeze lifts the sweet smell of the honeysuckle that range
just beyond the edges of the field.  It takes me back to our
first days here, when the girls were so very young.  I can
remember when they were both born, the very instant of their
entrances into this world.  I was not physically present at
either birth, but I felt it, sensed it, and knew that I had to
come out of my sleep to be near both of them.

Sophia, the elder by six weeks.  As blonde as her mother,
almost white blonde during our summers here.  And she has those
pale blue eyes that match a spring sky or the Caribbean waters
in those magazine advertisements.  Clear blue eyes that become
even clearer when glistening with tears.  Sadly, there have
been many tears lately.

Eileen, the more boisterous of the two.  With her dark auburn
hair that tints towards red with the sun, she invokes her
mother's spirit when she runs across the field after the
butterflies - sometimes she trips and falls but she pushes
herself right back up to continue the dancing chase, never
taking her eyes off of the swirling mass and squealing when she
can coax one to alight on her palm.  There is a wonderment in
her eyes as she looks up at us, so trusting, so wanting to
believe everything that we have told her.  And yet, she already
knows so much of the truth.

I have been their guardian for over nine years now and can
vividly recall the moments when they were first placed into my
custody.  One was willingly handed over to me - albeit with the
requisite tears and heartbreak on the part of the mother -
because I was the only one who would have been able to keep the
child alive and hidden.  The other was pried from her mother's
dying embrace and carried away before those who had inflicted
the injury could return to finish her off.  Both girls have
thankfully not been able to recall with any detail that moment
in their lives.

Those of us who are here will never forget it.

There are many such moments that we have not forgotten, and the
girls are forever pleading for more information on their
parents.  They do not use their limited abilities with us.
They have been told that it is wrong to steal those thoughts
from the others but, if asked for a story, the others would
welcome the tapping into their consciousness for a front-row
seat to their past.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

//Tell me the story of when I was born.//

//I've told you that story several times, little one.//

//But I want to hear it again.  Please?  Please, Frohike?//

January 7, 2001
Washington State

They were into their second day of travel on the Trailways bus
in their attempt to get back to Seattle after the New Year.
What should have been only a six-hour trip turned into an
overnight adventure when the interstate was shut down due to
unusually heavy accumulation of snow.  The bus was not that
crowded, and Scully had been able to stretch out on one of the
seats - although at nine months and three-days-past-her-due-
date pregnant, she was not necessarily comfortable.

Frohike took the seat in front of her so that he could keep an
eye on her.  He had noticed that she had been complaining of
feeling restless the past few days and wondered if she was
nearing her time.  Although with those additional thirty-five
pounds that she was carrying in her midsection, he did not
wonder that she was feeling miserable.  He would have been much
happier, however, if she was toting forty-five pounds like all
those books had recommended.

They eventually reached Seattle and made their way down to the
pier to buy their tickets for the next ferry to Bainbridge
Island.  The winter schedules had cut the service to one
departure every four hours, so they occupied their time with a
bowl of soup and crackers at a nearby restaurant.  Scully had
excused herself on several occasions to make trips to the
bathroom, but Frohike found nothing unusual in that - her daily
exercise routine was built around her walks to find a ladies'
room.

Although the weather was clear, the ferry ride was choppy, and
they settled into seats near the middle of boat, away from the
windows and within easy distance of the bathroom.  He would
glance over at her from behind the newspaper every few minutes
to reassure himself that she was not yet in the throws of hard
labor.  He just wanted to be able to get her to the cabin so
that she could finally stay put and rest.  Hopefully, Mulder
and Langly - who had left them in Clackamas, Oregon two days
prior - would already be there and be prepared for their
arrival.

After the docking on the island, Frohike noticed that she was
moving a bit more slowly than usual and inquired about her
condition.  It was just a half-mile walk to the cabin, but
there was one rather steep stretch that Scully had been able to
maneuver in the past.  She shrugged him off and left him behind
to gather their possessions.  Even with the bulky backpack, he
quickly caught up to her and offered his elbow for support,
which she took.

It was still mid-afternoon but Frohike was now concerned.  They
seemed to be stopping every hundred yards or so for Scully to
catch her breath or sit for a moment.  He had made a point of
walking slowly at first to stay in step with her and, when the
main trail started to become clogged with downed branches, he
went up ahead to kick them out of the way so that Scully would
not have to tire herself even more by having to step over them.
At this rate, they might not get to the cabin until almost
sundown, and there were still preparations for their stay that
could only be accomplished with the light of day.

He called out to her when he could no longer hear her footsteps
behind him.  "Come on, Scully.  We don't have that much further
to go."  He turned and found her leaning over with one hand on
her knee and the other on her lower back.  "What's wrong?" he
asked as he awkwardly jogged his way back towards her, the
heavy backpack slowing him down.

Scully looked up at him, and he thought that he could see some
tearing in her eyes.  She was breathing heavily through her
nose, her mouth clenched tight in what looked like an effort to
not scream or cry out.  She shook her head up and down in
answer to the question that seemed to be written across his
face.

Frohike rushed to her side, allowing her to grab onto his
shoulders to stand straight up.  "Oh, no, no, no.  Don't you do
this to me now. I don't know nothing about birthing no babies."

Scully's laughter through her own pain at his predicament came
easily.  "I've seen you reading those books when you think no
one is watching."

"Reading about it is not the same thing, *Dr.* Scully."

"Believe me, I'm no expert at this.  Not even close."

Frohike looked up and down the road, sizing up the distance
already covered.  "Come on.  We just have less than a quarter
mile to go, and then we'll be at the cabin."

"I don't think I'm going to make it."

"You will make it.  Scully, you know I'd carry you if I could."
Yeah, if I were younger and stronger and bigger, he cursed to
himself, now wishing that he had not insisted upon their
keeping a low profile and traveling in twos.  He threw her left
arm over his shoulder and stretched his right arm across her
back, settling at her waist, and began walking. It took a
moment for them to synchronize their walking and for Frohike to
feel like he was not dragging her feet across the packed dirt
road.  "Just how long have you been in labor?"

"My water broke back on the ferry."

"Jesus, woman.  Couldn't you have said something then?  We
could've taken the boat back and gotten you to a hospital."

"No."  Scully's harsh reply echoed in his right ear.  "Not
after the last time."

The false-alarm episode that they had experienced on Christmas
Day in Los Angeles had squashed Langly's suggestion of `hiding
in plain sight' by using a large and busy public hospital for
the birth.  Hoping to blend in among the numerous patients and
remain unrecognized by an overworked staff blew up in their
faces when Byers overheard an emergency room technician calling
for security while Scully and Mulder were in the pre-admissions
interview.

Frohike shook off the panicked memories of that close call.  "I
could have arranged transportation."

"No.  Not without calling attention to us."  She grabbed the
strap of the backpack to keep her arm from slipping away from
him.  "Someone would remember a pregnant lady in labor."

"Well, someone's going to *find* a pregnant lady in labor if we
don't get up there soon."

Frohike looked at his watch when they came to a bend in the
road.  What felt like thirty minutes passing had only been
five.  "Tell me when you need for me to stop."

"Oh, believe me, you'll know."  Her voice was heavy with
fatigue and out of breath.  "Talk to me, Frohike."

"About what?"

"Anything.  Anything at all to keep my mind off of this baby
trying to pass through me."

Frohike racked his brain, trying to think of subjects that they
had not yet discussed over the past months.  He went with an
old stand-by.  "Have you decided on any names yet?"

"I've narrowed down the list to a few for each team.  And
you're supposed to be talking to me, remember?."

"I'm getting winded, too."

"Well, you're in luck.  We have to stop walking for a minute."
She released her hold of his shoulder and reached for his hand
to steady her while her other hand continued to rub her lower
back.  After the initial pain had subsided, she stood fully
upright again and began her deep breathing exercises that she
had begun practicing in the last month.  "Time?" she asked, as
the last stab faded.

Frohike rechecked his watch.  "Just under ten minutes since the
last one."

"Good, we could be at the cabin before the next one hits."  The
two fell back into their earlier walking routine.  "So, what
was your mother's name?"

"What?  You must be kidding?  The lady named me *Melvin*.
Shouldn't that be enough of a sign?"  He glanced over at Scully
to gage her seriousness of the question and found eyes begging
for a diversion.  "Well, if you must know, it was Temperance."
His companion's patented eyebrow arch sent him snickering.  "I
know, I know.  Think about it - Tempy Frohike.  Now that I do
think about it, maybe Melvin was pretty tame."

"What about the others?  Byers'?

"Barbara.  Lovely woman.  Impeccable style.  Makes a hell of a
martini."

"I could use one right about now."  Scully began rubbing her
belly to calm the baby's movements.  "And Langly's?"

"I believe that her name was Deborah.  You know, the biblical
version."

The moments passed as the two traded the names of their aunts
and uncles, cousins and childhood friends, commenting on the
variations of the nicknames that could be derived from them
with each advancing stride.  They made it to the cabin before
her next contraction as Scully had predicted.  Neither Mulder
nor Langly were to be found, nor a note or evidence of a
vehicle, but it was obvious that they had been there recently.

Frohike walked her over to the sofa in the front room.  "You
sit right here and rest a moment.  I'm going to fix up the bed
for you."

"No, don't," she called out after him.  "I'd hate to ruin the
only mattress in this place."

"You're not having this baby on the floor and that's final."
His voice boomed from the adjoining room.  "If it gets too bad,
we'll turn the mattress over.  Always worked in the past, and
besides, we may not be here much longer."  He poked his head in
the doorway.  "Now you yell if you need anything."

Frohike surveyed the back room.  From the looks of things,
Langly and Mulder had been there for several nights.  The ashes
in the wood-burning stove had not been dumped, and blankets and
sheets lay on the mattress in a pile while the sleeping bag
appeared to have been hurriedly bundled and thrown in a corner.
Slobs, both of them, he thought.

His first order of business was to make the room habitable for
Scully and the baby.  The stove was emptied of its ashes and a
new fire rekindled to ward off the expected freezing
temperatures of the night.  The bed, already partially stripped
thanks to Langly, was next.  Frohike had found a waterproof
tarp while looking for more sheets and had covered as much of
the mattress as possible, tucking the edges underneath before
unfolding the clean sheets over it.

He returned to the front room to retrieve the backpack.  "How
are you doing?"

Scully was finishing up the last of her breathing exercises.
"The contractions are coming along fine.  And I'm starved.  Do
we have any more crackers?"

"No, we ate the last of them when we were stuck on the bus.
Hang on a minute."  He walked over to the cabinet which served
as the pantry, looking for a specific product and blessing
Langly for the normalcy of his habits even while on the run.
He brought the box of graham crackers to her.  "Just nibble,
okay?  You really shouldn't be eating anything right now."

"It could be a long night."

"The back room is ready.  You should be more comfortable
there."  He helped her up off of the sofa and then went and dug
out her sweats from the backpack.  "And you should probably go
ahead and change."

She bundled the sweats in one arm while the other held the
crackers and headed for the other room.  "I'm going to need
some help."  After depositing the items onto the bed and still
not hearing anyone behind her, she turned back to stand in the
doorway.  Frohike was immobile with what others would term that
deer-caught-in-headlights stare, and she was so pleased with
herself to be able to finally shock him into silence.  She
decided to let him off the hook.  "With my shoes.  I can't
reach them.  Mulder usually takes care of it."

With a grunt and the shake of his head, Frohike obliged her
request for assistance.  Scully even smiled and comically
batted her eyes to entice him to replace her worn woolen socks
with a pair of thick clean athletic socks to help keep her feet
warm, but he announced that she was on her own with everything
else and left her to her privacy.

They spent the next hours timing contractions, counting with
the breathing, and cursing Mulder.  Frohike was blasting him
for not being there and leaving him to care for the mother of
his child, and Scully was spewing profanity at Mulder's
virility and wanting to bestow upon him a pile of gallstones if
only to be able to imagine the pain she was going through.  A
number of times both wondered out loud as to whether it would
do any good to go for help, but Frohike suggested that if
anyone was nearby, her screams would bring them running.
Besides which, neither wanted to take the chance of Scully
being left by herself.  The hours continued to pass with no
Mulder or Langly in sight.

Scully had now reached the point where she could no longer deny
or delay the inevitable.  She began kicking off the sheets.
"Frohike, I know that this is asking a lot from you, but this
baby is coming and coming now.  You have to help me."

He nearly fell off of the bed with the activity, aware that
Scully had removed her sweatpants hours before so that she
could keep a check on herself.  Resigned to the notion of
getting to know Scully a lot more than he had ever dreamed
possible, he half-jokingly suggested, "Can't I just give you a
mirror and you can check things out on your own?"

"No!"  She kicked the rest of the sheet towards the foot of the
bed and began to spread her legs and bend her knees.  She was
now pleading with him.  "Please, Frohike, the baby."

He cupped his hand over one of hers.  "I know, I know."  Taking
a deep breath, he set about determining the status of her
delivery.  "Well, if those books got it right, then you're
starting to crown and the fun's getting ready to start."

"Fun, huh?" she later grunted with a push forward.  "You want
to trade places?"

"Only if you let me smack Mulder good when this is all over."

As if on cue, footsteps were heard entering through the door,
and familiar voices were calling out their names.

"Oh, thank god that you're finally back," Frohike yelled.
"Come in here."

Mulder appeared in the doorway and froze.  "What the . . .?
Scully?  Frohike?  What's going on?"

"What happens thousands of times every hour the world over - a
woman is bringing a new life into this world.  Now get your ass
in here."

Mulder rushed to Scully's side, shed his coat, and then settled
in behind her to help her lean forward into her latest push.
After only getting grunts and nods from her to his questions
concerning her well-being, he turned to Frohike for help.
"Tell me."

"She's crowning.  Shouldn't be much longer."

Scully finally found her voice.  "I swear, Mulder, if you
didn't get here in time, I was naming the kid Melvin."

"Yeah," Mulder sighed, "but what if it's a boy?"

"Should I be boiling some water or what?"  Langly had finally
broken out of the shock of walking in on a near-delivery and
now facing the giggling masses on the bed.

"There's already some on tap."  Frohike gestured a nod towards
the stove.  "Put some of it in the sink and get it at least to
room temperature.  For the baby's bath.  Go on."  During
Scully's latest push, he added, "We could also use a doctor.
Preferably someone *not* giving birth at the moment."

In between his `atta girl, Scully' and `you're doing fine,
Scully', Mulder filled him in on their latest adventure.
"There's a clinic in the town.  Langly and I both went through
it - seems harmless enough, but I don't think it opens until
morning."

"Doesn't matter right now.  We'd never get there in time
anyway.  Okay, Scully, *don't* push."

"Why?"  Mulder sounded worried.

"Because the baby's head is out, and I'm supposed to clean the
nose and mouth."

One shoulder, then the other appeared.  Followed quickly by the
arms and, with one last gasp from Scully, her daughter was
born.

"Langly, bring me a clean towel from over there."  Frohike lay
the towel over the baby to protect it from the chilling air and
then picked her up and placed her on Scully's stomach while he
prepared to cut the umbilical cord.  "She's perfect, Scully."

"Yes, she is," Mulder added, still in amazement at the event.
He stroked Scully's hair and his daughter's arm.

"Mulder?"  Frohike jarred him out of his daze.  "Go on and give
her a bath, Mulder.  You know what to do.  Scully and I have a
few things to finish up with here."

Mulder gently carried his daughter over to the sink and cupped
handfuls of the warm water over her legs.  The morning sunrise
began to peak around the window curtain just next them.

Frohike looked over at the two and then turned his attention
back to the new mother.  "Hey, Scully, it's getting light out.
Everything's looking good, but we're going to take you in to
the clinic to get checked out by someone who does this for a
living, okay?"  He was able to draw a nod of agreement from
Scully.  "So, have you decided on a name, finally?"

She turned her head towards the man now bathed in the sunlight
who held her daughter.  "Yeah, it's light out," she mumbled and
paused in exhaustion with each word.  "Light.  Light.  Eileen.
Name's Eileen."

//Why are you crying, Frohike?//

//Because I was the first one to hold you.  Because your
parents were so happy that day.//

//Did they cry, too?//

//Your mother cried.  Your father, too.  Ah, hell, even Langly
was crying.//

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
~It doesn't matter where they're going
Or wherever they've been
Cause they got one thing in common it's true~

September 14, 2010
The Hiding Place
 
Sophia does not even have to ask us about her birth - she knows
that answer already.  None of those who are here now were with
her mother when she was born.  None of those who are here now
had laid eyes on the child until I brought her to them.  Over
the years, we had heard rumors of where Marita Covarrubias had
been and of her associates during the time prior to Sophia's
birth, but only I had first-hand knowledge of the events
afterwards.

It was my first clear memory after my awakening.

It is perhaps time that Sophia knew of her mother's courage.

And her foolishness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

April 16, 2001
Place: Unknown

Marita was sick with the alien virus.  No, something much
different, she came to slowly realize over the past weeks.

The baby, her daughter, was still with her.  Why, she wondered.
If she was so ill, why would They allow Sophia to be with her?
Was it a test?  A test to see if their biological experiment
was immune to whatever afflicted her now?

What she did not know until recently was that the baby screamed
incessantly when separated from her mother.  Sleeping only
minutes at a time, fitfully crying for hours on end, Sophia
would not feed and was losing weight and strength.  They were
afraid that the baby would die without contact with its mother,
and They were afraid to give the child back to her now that the
mother had been experimentally reinfected with a new strain.
In the end, They decided that if the baby was going to die
anyway, it might as well see how it held up against the new
virus.

Sophia lived.  Sophia thrived in her mother's presence.  It was
as if, one of They noted, all the strength from Marita were
slowly being transfused into the child.  As Marita grew paler
and weaker, the child gained strength and color and weight.

Marita longed to be able to pick up the child and walk around
the room with her, rocking and cooing and singing.  As it was,
she barely had the stamina to hold the child in her arms as she
sat on the bed, her back against the wall.  She hoped that They
would come soon now; it was almost feeding time.  She wondered
how much longer she would have the strength to feed the child
on her own and who would take over those duties when that day
came.

The door to the room creaked open.  There was no light in the
hallway, and darkness shrouded the intruder.  A voice called
out to her, "Marita?"

She tried to focus on the individual across the room but could
not distinguish his form in the darkness.  Her eyes had been
giving her so much trouble lately.  There was nothing wrong
with her hearing, however.  "Alex?  They told me that you
escaped weeks ago."

"Something's going on."  He moved into the room underneath the
light from the lone ceiling bulb.  "The other building looks
like it's been abandoned.  I came back to warn you."

"No, you didn't.  You knew what was going on before you got
here."  She watched the disgust of his first close glance at
her, sitting on filthy bedsheets in a robe that had not been
washed since the last time she had the ability to give herself
a bath.  He had retreated a step or two, gauging a safe
distance from whatever viral organism he judged was now eating
through her body.  "You knew everything before you got here.
The only reason you would risk coming back would be to get
Sophia.  She's the only healthy one in this wing."

"If Sophia's not ill, then she must have some built-in
immunity."

What does he know, she wondered.  "How do you know that?  How
do you know that they haven't given her some sort of antidote
that they're testing?"

"They haven't.  I've seen their records."  He took a step
towards the bed.  "You've touched, changed her, fed her.  She's
naturally immune to whatever they've done to you."

Marita used what little strength she had to pull the child
closer to her and further away from Alex.  "So you'd risk
coming into contact with me to get to her?"

"She has to have gotten it from somewhere."

His reasoning was beginning to come into her view.  "You mean,
you, don't you?  Seeing as how I, her mother, am sick, then
you, her father, should naturally be immune."

The sing-song tone in her voice set off alarms in Alex's head.
"What are you getting at?"

"You're probably already infected and don't even know it.  Do
you have trouble focusing your eyesight in regular light?  Do
your gums bleed easily?  Your lips crack at the slightest
pressure?"  Marita limply held out one hand.  "Have you noticed
that your fingernails have stopped growing and that there's
this tingling sensation every time you touch something?"  She
searched his face for confirmation of the symptoms and nodded.
"You probably have about two weeks before you'll start looking
like me."

"No, I won't."

"Because you think that you have the immunity?  Because you're
her father?"

"Yes."

"You fool," she spat out, "you're not her father."

He was momentarily stunned.  "Now wait, you said . . ."

"I lied, Alex.  Didn't read those records that closely, did
you?  God, you're so simple."  She closed her eyes and leaned
her head back against the cold wall.  "The first child, Elaine,
*was* ours.  But that baby died long before she could start to
live.  Whatever we both carried over from our initial contact
with the black virus was incompatible.  And then they found a
more suitable donor for me."

"Who?"

She smiled and opened her eyes.  She needed to see his reaction
at the news.  "Fox Mulder, of course.  You still want the
child, now?"  Bingo.

Alex had thought that he could finally distinguish between her
truths and her lies.  Now he was no longer certain of that, but
he wondered why she would keep up the lies at this stage of the
game.  "Damn you."

"Did you hear that?"  Off in the distance, perhaps from the
floor below, she thought that she heard gunfire.  "They're
coming for you, Alex.  And if you're very good and they let you
live, they may even put you in the room next to mine.  It's
empty now, has been for days.  The poor idiot who used to be
there would bang his head against the wall for hours; it was
quite distracting.  He may have been trying to kill himself
before the virus finished its job.  I think he succeeded."

The sounds which indeed were gunfire grew closer.  "You bitch.
If you knew that I was infected, then you could have said
something."

She let out a sigh of resignation and began rambling in
monotone.  "It's too late, Alex.  What was done was done months
ago - probably when those `friends' of the old man got here.  I
told you we couldn't trust them or him.  All they ever wanted
was my baby."  Again, she smiled, certain that it drive that
stake in his gut in even further.  "Mine and Mulder's.
Apparently the perfect blend."

Alex took several more steps towards the bed.  "Give her to
me."

"No.  How much time do you think you've got left?  Very little
before you're too weak to run from them, and then they'll just
take her back anyway."

"They'll want her in one piece."

His voice was as cold as she remembered it could be and she
willed the sum of her strength into a guttural growl.  "I'll
kill you before you take her from me.  One bite, one scratch
from me is all it would take if you still think I'm the only
infected one here.  Besides, if you should get out of this
place alive, and I'm betting that you won't, they have all the
components to make more just like her.  My harvested eggs,
Mulder's sperm.  They'll just implant them in others and grow a
new crop.  It's not like they haven't been practicing for this
day for the past fifty years, you know."
 
The room suddenly shook from the force of the explosion that
was demolishing the building next door.  While Alex quickly ran
over options in his head, Marita drew the baby closer to her.
"Run, Alex.  Run like hell if you don't want to die here with
me."

He swore and bolted from the room when the second explosion
rocked the building.  Marita looked down at the quiet bundle in
her arms, amazed and at the same time comforted that the baby
was sleeping throughout the chaos.  She began to hum a verse of
a lullaby from long ago in the hope that it would drown out the
sounds of destruction that were advancing.  Just to keep the
baby calm until he comes, she thought.  Someone would be coming
for the baby.

The shuffle of feet interrupted her humming.  Even though she
could clearly see her new visitor, she had thought that he
would have come in another form.  She was expecting a boy, not
the man that now stood in front of her.  Although she was sure
that she had seen this individual before, it was not until this
moment that she recognized who he was.  "How?"

"There's no time to explain.  They're moving on to the next
phase - you know what that means, don't you?  Let me take her."

"Why should I?"

"Because you know who I am.  What I am.  I have a way out of
here, and you know that I can protect her."

She looked down at her child.  "What will happen to her?"

"She'll have the chance to live, to grow up, perhaps to even
save lives in the future."  He reached out for the baby but did
not attempt to take her away from the mother now clinging
tightly.

"No experiments."  She desperately needed to make this one last
request.  "Do you hear me, no experiments."

"There'll be no need for them.  And they will never find her."

Marita kissed Sophia on her forehead and, in the only humane
act that she had left in her, allowed him to pry the baby from
her weakened arms.  She slumped back against the wall and
watched as the visitor left with her child.  As she tried to
block the sounds of destruction coming down the hallway, coming
for her, she listened intently in the opposite direction and
was calmed by the fact that Sophia was not crying.  It would be
all right, she thought;  she had kept Sophia safe long enough
for Gibson Praise to come to her baby's rescue.  She could die
now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

November 26, 2000
Same unknown place

For the fourth `morning' in a row, Gibson Praise awoke in a
darkened room.  Stiffened, hungry, cold, and blinded by the
lack of light, he began the routine of late of stumbling out of
the cot that served as his bed and feeling his way around the
room.  He was sure that he had done this several times in
recent memory, but his recent memory was the problem - he could
not recall events that might have happened more than a few days
ago.  He had no idea as to where he was or how he had gotten
here, only that the place seemed different from where he might
have been before.  He was never sure as to whether it was
daytime or night when he woke up - there were no windows in the
room and he could never find a light switch that might help
identify his location.  Several hours would pass before he
could even remember his name.

Not being able to remember his name was more troublesome than
the fact that he was naked but no less puzzling.  He had
blankets to wrap around himself, but he could never figure out
as to why he had no clothes.

The quietness of the place was also unnerving to him.  He must
not have been anywhere near an outside wall as he heard no
traffic or trains or airplanes.  During the times that he was
awake, he thought that he heard a set of footsteps far away but
it always sounded as if it were an echo - it did not even help
him to identify the location of a door.  No slits of light were
ever visible.  He began to wonder if someone had locked him up
and thrown away the key and then wondered more as to why
someone would lock him up.

The other times that he had woken up were a blur.  He
remembered being so sore as to not be able to move that first
time.  He still ached as he walked about but the pain was not
so bad today.  Still, he wondered why there did not appear to
be any other furniture or objects in the room - he never bumped
into anything.

Just as Gibson began to believe that he would spend the rest of
days naked, hungry, cold, and locked in the dark alone,
something jarred his senses.

A baby's cry.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
~And we'll never be as young as we are right now
Running away and running for home
Running for home~

September 14, 2010
The Hiding Place

My first clear and distinct memory of that time was Sophia's
crying.  At first, I panicked, believing that whoever had shut
me away had done the same to a helpless infant.  But then I
heard other sounds, soothing sounds.  Voices.  No, just one
voice.  A gentle voice quieting the baby - its mother perhaps.
I hoped so.  I prayed so.

Inexplicably, I again fell into a deep slumber shortly after
this.  At the time, I did not know why I seemed to be spending
so little time awake.  I know now, however; it was the change,
my metamorphosis, or - if you will - my evolution from the
child body to adulthood.  Although, as I have learned, to most
of the outside world this change is known as puberty and can
span several years.  Problem was that I underwent my puberty in
a matter of hours.  That's why I was so sore - I discovered
later that I had grown seven inches in height.  Certainly not
tall or even average by medical standards but certainly taller
than I had ever been or hoped to be.  It was definitely a
drawback at age fourteen to still be able to wear the clothes I
received as new when I was nine.

Which explains why I was naked.  I had outgrown my clothes in
my sleep.

And why it was dark.  Knowing of my impending change, my
captors had `cacooned' me, locked me in darkness to complete
the conversion.  Which still puzzles me today.  They knew what
would be happening to me and yet They did not take greater
precautions with my imprisonment.  Perhaps They underestimated
my development calendar.  Or perhaps They wanted to find my
limitations.

No matter.  As I awoke those times and days afterwards, I would
listen to mother and child and measure my day by their verbal
activity.

It was about a week later that the screaming started.  The
mother was calling for the child who apparently was being taken
from her.  I ached for her and for her anguish.  For its part,
the child screamed in equal measure to match the mother.  But
its screams seemed to disappear as it was removed to another
part of the building.  A short time later, the child and
mother, both still screaming, were reunited and the more gentle
crying began.

The next day, the screaming and separation routine repeated
itself though with varying measure.  Sometimes it seemed to
last for as little as an hour and at other times for several
days on end.  I do not know if it was to help me reconcile the
gut reactions that I had to this situation, but I began to
imagine comforting the mother, giving her something to hold
onto and a shoulder to cry on and a sympathetic presence to
keep her company until the baby was returned.  I would watch as
she hurriedly unfolded the blanket that wrapped the child and
examined her from head to toe for bleeding, bruises, needle
pricks, any sign of invasion.

Though she never found any indications of experimentation, she
would curse at the invisible captors for the torture of the
separations.  I think that she would have been less frantic had
she found confirmation of such - at least she would have the
certainty of knowing the reason for the child being taken away.

But I knew.  I saw.

It was not the child who was being examined during the
separations.

I took comfort at being able to drop in on Marita and Sophia,
to walk by the open door to their spacious room, to sit and
watch as they played and slept.  Every now and then, they would
acknowledge my presence, but I never sought to intrude.  I was
satisfied even with the lack of conversation.  Just seeing
something resembling normalcy during the bleakness of my days
was sufficient.

Until I realized of course that I was still naked, cold and
hungry, and had never left the room in which I was imprisoned.

At first I believed that my mind was playing tricks on me until
I learned to play tricks with my mind.  I had found the door to
my room and clothes near my size, was able to walk down the
hallway to look in on the other occupants.  I gained strength
in my spirit and body with these mental exercises, though I did
not dare to look beyond the boundaries of the hallway.  I was
never certain that I was not being observed for exactly these
activities - not at first anyway.  So I was patient in my
journeys and bid my time, gathering information for my secret
closet when I was certain that They were looking elsewhere.

I also began to dream of another child - a child that was being
born elsewhere.  I did not know at the time why this would be
important.  I too kept this memory in my secret closet lest
They too try to separate that child from its mother.

That last day of my captivity I never felt so strong and alive
and bristling with the knowledge that a major shift in events
was set to occur.  I found my clothes, opened the door, and
walked out into the hallway.  And though I had done this a
hundred times before, this particular time had a coarseness to
it.  Whether it was the difference in the air I breathed or the
buzzing of activity beyond the hallway, the new sensation
propelled me to that familiar room with the purpose of escape.
In those few moments it took to walk down the hallway, I knew
that I had to take and protect the child, the child who would
someday become like me.  In those few moments, my future and
purpose unfolded itself to me.

I bundled up Sophia, and we made our escape.  Our route had
been mapped in my mind for weeks, and all the anticipated
distractions to our pursuers came to pass.  A waiting vehicle,
packed baby supplies, food and shelter - all that had been
constructed in my mind made itself known during our getaway.

And I then knew where I was going.  That last touch from Marita
gave me the final pieces to my puzzled vision - of the identity
of the other child and of a man and woman in imminent danger
from my late captors.  And of the name of the person I had to
next contact to make my warnings known - Walter Skinner.
Whoever he might be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

May 2, 2001
near Gaithersburg, MD

Gibson drove to the location that he had been given during his
last communication from Skinner.  Spring had arrived late to
the eastern seaboard, but today was one of those days made for
rolled-down windows and sunglasses and a radio without
commercial or DJ interruptions.  He looked into the rear-view
mirror to check up on Sophia who was sucking the thumb of one
hand while the other hand banged on the carseat, seemingly to
the rhythm of the Beach Boys.

They were on their way to meet the others, the others who had
not yet seen and had just been made aware of Sophia's presence
and importance in the world.  The others who would not know him
but would remember a boy with special powers and unique MRI
scans.  The boy who had grown to his full maturity and his
special gifts that had advanced in step with that maturity.

A few weeks prior, as Gibson made his way to DC that first time
after their escape, he focused on finding the man and woman in
his vision.  As he opened the long-locked doors in his mind on
that drive, he came across them - Mulder and Scully - in the
rooms that held his childhood.  He remembers the woman - Scully
- cradling him and vowing to protect him and the man - Mulder -
calling from behind the locked door in that power plant.  He
could not fault them for not being able to stop the events that
ultimately led to his imprisonment in Vermont, but he also knew
that the other child - their child - would sooner or later fall
into the hands of those responsible for that imprisonment.

He also found Walter Skinner behind another one of those doors.
Skinner would be the easiest person to locate if Mulder and
Scully and child were in hiding like he hoped.  Gibson's first
attempts at contacting him were met with dismissal - how could
this man be that boy.  He resisted the base instinct to reach
into the far recesses of Skinner's mind, bedroom, and locked
office cabinets to validate his identity and abilities.  In the
end, it only took the retelling of the story of the return of
Scully's necklace in their presence that finally convinced
Skinner that he was telling the truth.

Gibson wondered what it would take to convince Mulder and
Scully to give up their child to him.  Beyond the safety issue
was that neither were faced with death like Marita had been,
although it was believed that neither had been reinfected
without their knowledge.  He only hoped that the others had
lain the groundwork for a quick transition so that he would be
able to finally move on before he could be found out.

As luck (good or bad) would have it, the small family had had
several close calls within the past months.  Covers were blown
with the little details not adding up, a neighbor got too
curious and thought Mulder was the latest criminal featured on
America's Most Wanted, a shooting during an attempted home
burglary with the average inept burglar being mistaken for a
member of the Consortium that resulted in far too many
questions from local law enforcement.  But they would remain
unconvinced that the child should be taken from them.

Until Alex Krycek had tracked them down.  Sick and dying with
the new virus that he was sure that he would never contract but
not about to give up, he held the family at bay for several
hours, demanding the child, before being distracted while they
escaped.  They ran straight back to DC and Skinner to be
examined in case Krycek had been contagious.  After a short
quarantine period to be monitored for the initial symptoms that
Gibson had provided, it was agreed that if Krycek had been able
to track them down with his limited resources, then the section
of the Consortium that was still conducting these experiments
and still looking for them could not be far behind.

The child was the key.  Mulder and Scully had been persuaded
that, above all, the child was the primary target.  And her
safety was to be the only consideration.

Gibson did not believe that the meeting had gone well but when
a child is being taken from its family, for however good the
reasons, there will always be a certain sadness associated with
it.  The good-byes were taking far too long; not only were two
parents parting from their child but the group of adults
themselves were splitting up.  It had been decided that Mulder
and Scully would continue underground with their work to expose
the Consortium, that the Gunmen would initially accompany
Gibson and the children to get them set up in a new situation,
and that Skinner would remain at his post in DC at the FBI as
the main contact for the two camps.  Scully had strongly argued
for her and Mulder to remain with Gibson and the children - it
had taken several days for her to become convinced that the
work they had to do may lead the Consortium right back to the
children if they remained close.  In the end, she reluctantly
and tearfully capitulated.

It had been suggested by Skinner and agreed to by all that an
open window would remain in DC for the two camps to come
together on a periodic basis to share notes and make any
further adjustments on the arrangements but that under no
circumstances would one try to contact the other outside of
that window.  It would be too dangerous for them all if signals
were crossed or intercepted.  And so it was left at that.
Mulder and Scully left first; to ease the pain of the
separation, they would leave their child behind rather than
watch as she was taken away from them.

Phone numbers were exchanged between Skinner and the Gunmen
before the rest piled into a minivan.  Gibson marveled at how
good natured the infants were being in light of all the
interchanging of people about them.  It was not until then, as
they were driving away, that it sunk in as to just how much all
of these other people were depending upon him to keep his word
- to keep the girls safe, to allow them the opportunity to grow
up, and to oversee and supervise those changes in themselves
and in their future that were inevitable.  And Gibson closed
his eyes to settle in for the drive and to rest and gather
strength for the journey ahead.

Langly, the driver, called out for suggestions for the best way
to head out to start their new lives.  Without hesitation,
Byers called out, "95 South."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

September 14, 2010
The Hiding Place

The Gunmen had made numerous suggestions of where the girls and
I were to live.  This place was the most acceptable.  Of
course, they invited themselves along - not that I minded.
After being on the run themselves for the past year, they were
ready to settle down and begin their operations again.  I need
their help with so many things, with keeping this place running
and the initial rearing of the children.

Byers would not again leave Susanne behind.  We swung through
North Carolina on our way here to pick her up, and they got
married in Dillon, South Carolina - the closest place that did
not have a waiting period to apply for a license that did not
involve entering a courthouse.  The minister did not seem to
think it odd that the witnesses to this particular wedding were
three men of varying ages and two infants.  The minister's
wife, however, eyed the young girls - one a blonde and the
other with reddish-brown hair - and remarked to no one in
particular that she could tell to whom these children belonged.
Byers blushed upon hearing this remark later on, and Susanne
only laughed.  But they took on the role of being the girls'
primary caregivers with such seriousness that we had once
discussed not discouraging the girls in this charade.  That
they became aware of their true parentage when toddlers only
soothed my apprehension of having to break the news later on.

Frohike traveled back to DC each year to keep our side of the
bargain - to meet up with Mulder and Scully on the steps of the
Lincoln Memorial on the first day of September.  He makes sure
that he is there several weeks ahead of time and hangs around
for some time afterwards, just to be sure.  But they are never
there.

After that first year, Frohike went into a deep depression upon
his return from DC to this place.  His insistence that they
would have been there if they were still alive was in conflict
with Byers' and Langly's equal insistence that perhaps it was
not safe enough for them to make an appearance just yet.  He
only came to resolve his disappointment with the belief that
neither of the former agents would deliberately abandon their
child and would eventually show themselves.  And so, each year,
he continues to make his way to the nation's capital, stopping
long enough to visit with Margaret Scully and meet with Walter
Skinner and taking all the usual precautions.  And with each
passing year, his time away gets shorter and shorter as the
hope of ever seeing his friends again dwindles.

I do know that, during those last few times out, Frohike had
invited Skinner to come back with him, but Skinner had always
declined, explaining that he needed to stay on the job and in
the area.  Just in case information would cross his desk
concerning their whereabouts.  Just in case Mulder and Scully
showed up in the city at some other time of the year.

Last year, pneumonia kept Frohike from his mission, and Langly
went in his stead at the last moment but with the same results
as before.  This year, a reoccurrence of gout sidelined him
again.  And again, Langly made the trek for him.  Which I am
happy to see as Frohike is getting older, and I believe that a
small part of his spirit dies with each unsuccessful attempt at
a rendezvous.  Another couple of years of this and I fear that
he may not make it back to us at all.

And the girls need him.  He was, of the three, the closest to
their father and they hang on his every word.  Even now as he
rests with eyes closed, feigning sleep in the shade of the
porch, he can hear their giggling approach but does not spoil
the play of their arranging just-picked wildflowers on his
balding head or being intertwined with his bootlaces.  He has
become their grandfather in abstentia and lovingly embraces
every moment of it.

The girls will need his help as well as that of the others in
short time.  Their jumpers will soon strain with budding
maturity and the metamorphosis process that I underwent ten
years ago will not be too far away in their future.  I would
hope that they could have a few more years before that time,
but I am reminded that girls mature faster than boys and have
been debating as to how soon to warn Sophia and Eileen of that
time.  Susanne advises that we do not delay in preparing them,
even if they already do have this knowledge.

Every now and then, though not as often as I used to, I stand
out there in the field and send my feelers out, to see if I can
pick up on the unique signature that both Mulder and Scully
carry within them.  I must also be careful not to make contact
with the others out there - the unfriendlies, the ones who most
assuredly have been searching for the girls over the years.
Sometimes, I get a faint ping of a signal; it is a familiar
sensation, and yet it vanishes before I can locate it and
embrace it in full.

Langly is now two days overdue from the DC trip, and Frohike is
again worried that something has gone wrong.  We know that
there has been some flooding along the Mississippi which may
have delayed his return, so we agree to wait another day before
attempting to contact Skinner for a report.

That last strong breeze brings the scent of honeysuckles from
afar, washing its sweetness over the field and through our
hair.  It reminds me of the first sensation that I had about
this place - that we were isolated enough and if we could still
smell the honeysuckles at this distance, then we should be able
to have fair warning of an unwanted approach.

A continuing blast of a car horn from the direction of the road
leading up to this place would normally be enough to make the
lot of us run to our safeplaces inside the house as we had
practiced over and over throughout the years, and yet I can not
move.  Frohike swears what is unrepeatable in polite company
and I hear the door slam behind him, probably to search for the
weapons he had hidden for just such an occasion.  I sense the
girls behind me, cautiously approaching, initially with some
fear at the unknown intruder but then with some curiosity.  I
sense that this is not a dangerous situation - I must have as I
did not automatically swoop up the girls to protect them as in
all those practice drills.  It is my distinct impression that
we are not to be met with harm here.  On the contrary, if the
scent of the honeysuckle had not been so strong and
distracting, I should have known this sooner.

As soon as I am sure of the occupants of the approaching
vehicle, the girls also pick up on it.  One is excited but
cautious and the other is apprehensive yet hopeful.  The
familiar jeep rounding the fence and heading straight toward us
provides proof that Langly has finally returned home.

But it is the two passengers that give us pause.  As I watch
them alight from the vehicle, they too examine the man and the
children before them.  Searching the features from one girl to
the other, trying to determine `which one is mine'.

Eileen takes off running before she can be cautioned, screaming
the parental titles that she has never had cause to use before.
The woman drops to her knees to draw the child fully into an
embrace while the man crouches low, softly whispering and
crying both their names.

My hand reaches out to comfort Sophia, to stroke her hair and
her shoulder.  I somehow have always felt closer to her as we
spent a number of weeks alone - just the two of us - before all
of this began in earnest.  "He will know who you are."  She
looks over at me, her pale blue eyes again filling with tears.
"He will know that he is your father."

"Yes, I know," she answers and bravely waits her turn.

end