From: mrkeller829@gmail.com   
      
   =====o============================o=====   
   "Chermera" by Mary Ruth Keller Part 21  of 45   
   E-mail: mrkeller@eclipse.net, mrkeller829@gmail.com   
   PG-13   X-File: Myth-arc   Disclaimed in Part I   
   Already sent to Gossamer   
   =====o============================o=====   
      
   Chapter V –  Dance of the Dead    
      
   -----o------------------------------------o-----   
      
   Town Crier: A Proclamation! All citizens take notice that Carnivale is decreed   
   for tonight. Turn back the clocks. There will be music, dancing, happiness,   
   all at the Carnivale, by order!   
      
   The assembled Villagers begin cheering, marching, and playing music, but no   
   one appears happy. The Prisoner looks on. When the Villagers leave the square,   
   only the black cat and the Butler remain. The Prisoner sighs and returns to   
   his residence, where    
   Number Eighty-Four is dusting.   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: You didn't sleep here last night.   
      
   The Prisoner: I thought I'd save you the trouble of making up the bed. Where's   
   the fancy costume?   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: They've given me a new dress. Something special.   
      
   The Prisoner: And the cat?   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: Gone. I didn't make it.   
      
   The Prisoner: Everyone's having a good time, outside.   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: You wait until tonight.   
      
   The Prisoner: You mean we're allowed out after hours?   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: Anyone would think you are locked in, the way you talk.   
   Oh, your costume came.   
      
   The Prisoner: Eh. Don't I get a choice?   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: Other people choose. It's a game.   
      
   The Prisoner opens the box on the chair.   
      
   The Prisoner: I expected something exotic.   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: What is it? It's –   
      
   The Prisoner: (holds up suit) My own suit, specially delivered for the   
   occasion.   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: What does that mean?   
      
   The Prisoner: That I am still myself.   
      
   Number Eighty-Four: Lucky you.   
      
                             Dance of the Dead   
      
   -----o-----------------------------------o-----   
      
   Apartment 5     
   Alexandria, VA     
   Friday, June 12, 1998   
   9:08 am   
      
   After a quick shower, Dana Scully had slipped into her charcoal suit over a   
   sage shell, but not the heels. She had worn them during the reinstatement   
   hearing, where they had served a useful purpose as weapons against Fitzberwen,   
   but, no longer. They    
   would remain in her locker in the Hoover gym until she had the free time to   
   retrieve them. {Whenever that might be.} She had made peace, after the events   
   on Santorini and her recovery, with her height, so chose the comfortable black   
   flats that so amused    
   her partner, over being slightly less short. {Turnabout is fair play, G-man.}   
   She held a steaming midnight blue mug at the ready as she knocked at her   
   guestroom door. "Mulder?" She turned the handle. "We really have to -"   
      
   The sheets were bunched at the foot of the bed, one pillow on the floor, the   
   other standing vertically against the headboard, but the mattress was   
   unoccupied. {Oh, Mulder.}   
      
   "Scully?" The call came from behind her. "You up?"   
      
   She made her way into the living room. Her partner was drenched in sweat,   
   waiting where he had been the previous night, but his eyes were twinkling. One   
   cheek twitched in anticipation as she used both palms to rotate the handle   
   until it was toward him. "   
   How was it out there?"   
      
   He took the coffee. "Not too humid, not yet, anyway." Turning the mug to one   
   side, he grinned at the white outline of Elvis gyrating on the dome of a   
   canted flying saucer, the microphone cable looped around the outer ring like a   
   lasso. "Where?"   
      
   Her green-blue eyes sparkled back. "Frohike helped me design it out on   
   Santorini, and it was ready when we dropped by with the containers of your   
   Father's. It was to have been your birthday present this year from all of us,   
   but, after what we've been    
   through since we got back from the Med, you deserved to get it a few months   
   early." Her fingers brushed his elbow, then she waggled them theatrically.   
   "Shower here, or are you heading back to your place, so I should go in to   
   X-Files East?"   
      
   After draining the contents, he waved the ceramic in the direction of the   
   bathroom. "Here." He leaned into her face as he set the flat bottom on her   
   outstretched palms. "I don't think the Toyota's driver's seat is ready for all   
   this concentrated essence    
   of manliness."   
      
   She wrinkled her nose as he stepped past her. "Not exactly what I'd call it,   
   but okay. I'm headed in. I don't want Cynthia to think we've forgotten about   
   her."   
      
   A snort from the hall. "Just coffee, Doctor? I fixed you breakfast Wednesday."   
      
   Her hand on the doorknob, she turned. "The croissants are in the kitchen,   
   Jean-Luc." She chuckled to herself at the hoary tease, but the muttered   
   protest she heard from the hall told her it still packed a tweak or two.   
      
   --o-0-o--   
      
   X-Files East Offices   
   Washington Field Office   
   Washington, DC   
   Friday, June 12, 1998   
   10:19 am   
      
   Cynthia stopped typing at the sound of Scully's quick, precise steps tapping   
   down the corridor. She had assembled their travel reports into separate   
   folders, thick with receipts from the past months away. "Agent Scully, is that   
   you?" She straightened the    
   documents one last time.   
      
   The low alto rang out from down from the hallway. "Cynthia? Sorry I'm so late.   
   There was an accident on the Fourteenth Street bridge just in front of me. I   
   stopped to help until the ambulances could make it through and take over."   
      
   The pathologist's appearance in the entry had the younger woman looking up. "I   
   checked WTOP's traffic alerts, Agent Scully, so I guessed that was where you   
   were. How are you?" Her hazel eyes narrowed at the bruises on the   
   auburn-haired pathologist's face.   
      
   The diminutive Section Head waved the question away. "No permanent damage,   
   fortunately." Her green-blue gaze fell on the bulging folders. "Thanks for   
   getting those ready to go. After so many months, that was a lot to process."   
      
   "No problem, Agent Scully. Director Skinner is waiting to see you."   
      
   A ginger eyebrow arched. "Oh?"   
      
   "Yes, I need to discuss Tuesday's ceremony with you." Her bald superior was   
   behind her.   
      
   Scully turned. "Sir? Is there a problem?"   
      
   He checked Mulder's office. "Where is he? This concerns him as well."   
      
   The pathologist crossed her arms. Whatever was on their superior's mind   
   obviously had nothing to do with the commendation. "He should be in, soon."   
      
   Skinner answered with a nod. "Let me know when he is."   
      
   "When he is what?" The tall agent was standing in the hall behind them.   
   "Sixty-six was clear." He shrugged at his partner.   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)