From: msnsc21@yahoo.com   
      
   Reimagined: IWTB   
   By ML   
      
   -x-   
      
   Chapter Fifteen - Don't Give Up   
      
   Scully sat in her office, head in her hands.  She'd been so certain   
   the day before, but today...the interview with Father Joe had been   
   very upsetting, not just because of the way Mulder had left, but that   
   the ex-priest now seemed a confirmed fraud.   
      
   If he was a fraud, what business did she have taking his words to   
   her as something to act upon?  And why was she letting the words he   
   spoke to her just now unsettle her so?   
      
   No, she told herself sternly.  You had very good reasons for making   
   the decision to operate.  Maybe you had a tiny doubt, but it had   
   nothing to do with the rightness of the decision.  You don't believe   
   in signs and portents.   
      
   Sighing, she gathered up the folders with all her research, stacking   
   them to one side so that she could transcribe her notes.  She could   
   have gotten her administrative assistant to do them, but she   
   preferred doing them herself, just as she'd done in the FBI.   
      
   Some discarded articles lay under the pile of folders.  She picked   
   them up, checking that there was nothing important in them before   
   throwing them into the recycle bin.   
      
   A word caught her eye in the first paragraph: "transplant."  Almost   
   in spite of herself, she skimmed the article.   
      
   She'd printed this one by accident in her haste a few days before,   
   discovering that it had little to do with her research.  But now, the   
   subject of the article held her attention for a different reason.   
      
   She vaguely remembered reading about these experiments, many years   
   before; had probably even seen some newsreel footage in some long-   
   forgotten basic biology class.   
      
   Russian scientists, doing early transplant research in the middle of   
   the last century, using dogs as test subjects.  She looked closely at   
   the picture accompanying the article.  Even in a poor-quality black   
   and white reproduction, it was clear, and clearly unspeakable: a   
   second head grafted onto a dog's body.   
      
   Dogs.  Transplants.  Acepromazine in the human limbs found...   
      
   What Scully was thinking was unspeakable.  Why?  What awful   
   experiments were going on, and what had she gotten Mulder into?   
      
   Without even thinking twice, she dialed his cell phone number.   
      
   "It's Fox Mulder.  I must be busy.  Leave me a message."   
      
   "Mulder, it's me," she started, almost incoherent with fear and   
   horror.  "You've got to call me back.  I've found something --   
   whoever it is, they're experimenting, with dogs and humans -- I don't   
   know why or where, but please call me as soon as you get this."   
   Just in case she had a bad connection, she went out into the hallway   
   outside her office, where the reception was better.  Her phone showed   
   a clear signal, but it didn't ring.   
      
   She couldn't wait.  What if he was already in danger?  Knowing   
   Mulder, he wouldn't wait for backup.  If he could even get backup...   
      
   *She* was his backup.  No one else.  There was no one else, not for   
   him, not for her.   
      
   Unwilling to wait a moment more, she went back to her office and   
   found Agent Drummy's card, dialing the number as she grabbed her coat   
   and purse.   
      
   "FBI, SAC Fossa," a female answered the call.   
      
   "I'm trying to reach Agent Drummy," Scully said, and waited   
   impatiently for him to come to the phone.   
      
   "Agent Drummy," she finally heard, after an interminable several   
   seconds.   
      
   "Agent Drummy, I need your help.  Mulder may be in trouble --"   
      
   "Is this Dr. Scully?" he interrupted.   
      
   "Yes, it's Dr. Scully," she said impatiently.  "Look, I don't have   
   time --"   
      
   "What seems to be the problem, Dr. Scully?"   
      
   "I think Mulder has found something, but he's on his own.  Do you --"   
      
   "Where is Mulder?" Agent Drummy interrupted again.   
      
   "If I knew, would I be calling you?" she asked in frustration.   
      
   "Hold on a moment," he said, and he muffled the phone.  She could   
   hear some exchange going on in the background but couldn't tell what   
   was being said.   
      
   Agent Drummy came back on the line.  "Dr. Scully, I'm going to   
   suggest you call the police."   
      
   "WHAT?" she yelled into the phone, startling the few people in the   
   corridor.   
      
   "This is not an FBI matter," Drummy said flatly.   
      
   "But he's working on your case!  You called him in!"   
      
   "It wasn't my call," Drummy said.  "That was Agent Whitney's."   
      
   "I understand that, and I know that she died chasing the suspect   
   that Mulder is pursuing now.  I need your help!"   
      
   There was a pause.  "I'm sorry," he said in the same flat tone.  "I   
   can't help you."   
      
   Unbelievable, she thought.  "Then connect me with someone in the FBI   
   with balls who *can*!"   
      
   Her phone went dead.  She thought her connection had degraded, but   
   no, it was just as good as it had been a moment before.   
      
   In the situation room at the FBI, Agent Drummy looked at SAC Fossa,   
   who nodded approvingly as she left the room.   
      
   Agent Mosley Drummy watched her go.  Dr. Scully was right; someone   
   should be out there helping Fox Mulder with whatever it was he'd   
   found.  Drummy didn't agree with his methods, but it didn't mean he'd   
   leave a man out on his own.   
      
   But it wasn't his call.  He watched SAC Fossa's retreating form,   
   wondering what the hell was going on.   
      
   At the hospital, Scully dialed another FBI number.  "I'd like to   
   speak to Assistant Director Walter Skinner, on an urgent matter."   
      
   "Who's calling for him, please?" asked the operator.   
      
   "Former Agent Dana Scully."   
      
   x-x-x   
      
   Rural Virginia   
      
   The snow that had started falling before dusk was getting heavier,   
   covering the tracks in the road where Mulder's car had been pushed.   
      
   Down the slope, falling snow and ice had almost covered the car   
   already.  But if anyone had been watching from the road above, they   
   would have seen some shifting of the pile forming over the passenger   
   side of the car.  The shifting turned into a hole, and out of it   
   reached a gloved hand.  The hand became two, and the hole enlarged to   
   reveal the dazed and bloodied head of Fox Mulder.  Little by little   
   he made the hole big enough so that he could pull himself out of the   
   car through the broken window.  He'd been cut by flying glass, and   
   was slightly concussed, but it was nothing he hadn't experienced   
   before.  He knew he had to keep moving -- not just for his own   
   safety, but to find Dacyshyn's latest -- and, he hoped, last --   
   victim.   
      
   He looked up the steep slope and looked for a place to start the   
   climb back up to the road.   
      
   x-x-x   
      
   Cheryl Cunningham knew that there was something afoot.  Her prison   
   had been moved to the edge of the lighted room, and she could see her   
   surroundings more clearly than before.  It didn't inspire hope or   
   confidence in her to see the operating room set up, and to understand   
   what her fate was likely to be.   
      
   The dogs set up another chorus of frenzied barking, heralding the   
   arrival of Mean Man.  Sure enough, he came through the far door.  He   
   handed a bag to Hat Man, who handed it to White Legs.   
      
   Hat Man and Grey Pants approached Cheryl's box.  She braced herself,   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)