Title: The Emissary II: Grail Authors: Darkstryder >upyours1013@rock.com< and RocketMan >lebontrager@harding.edu< Category: S, A, MSR, alternate universe Summary: They thought they could escape. They were wrong. Captured by their enemies and given new identities, Mulder and Scully are haunted by images of each other. Now, worlds apart, they must put their faith in their new "masters." Perhaps the Aliens haven't completely destroyed the humanity in mankind, and perhaps They aren't that different from us after all. Disclaimer: Don't sue! We're starving artists! All herein belong to Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions unless created by our own twisted minds. Also, one small line in a later chapter was borrowed from Megan Reilly's stunning piece of literature, "Anamorphosis." Kudos to Mo for editing. Alita: Uh-lee-tah Nicodemus: Nik-oh-dee-mus ++++++++++ the emissary II: grail darkstryder rocketman ++++++++++ Ah, the joy of seeing a young and confident race flexing its muscles. It's the same feeling one gets upon seeing an infant, first learning to walk, taking those initial confident and rapid strides across a room, and the expression of satisfaction on his little face just before he slams full-tilt into a wall. londo mollari from the novelization of "in the beginning" +++++ [ ALITA ] The settlement is pristine. That's my new word today. Pristine. And it is. If I had to pick someplace on Earth to live, this would probably be it. I've heard it has the best success rate and the most friendly, docile human slaves. And the house staff is superb. Superb. That was yesterday's word. I love learning these new Earth English words. The language rolls right off my voice and into being, as if I could speak into creation a whole new world simply with this language. My people think in images and ideas, speak with images and ideas and never, never needed language. It's primitive, but wonderfully different. At this settlement, I'm not supposed to really be learning Language. I'm supposed to be utilizing the implants to talk with the slaves, and I'm not supposed to even see the others. The Non-Humans. Well, I can see perfectly well that they are Humans, that's just what everyone calls them, thinks of them as. Non-Humans. No implants, no wonderful place in the history of their world that allowed them the glory and honor of being a part of my people's plans. So they work. And they do an excellent job. Pristine. It's enchanting, the word pristine. It makes me curl inside. My slave is teaching me these words, this language. I don't know why she's risking it -- we could both get in trouble, but she would be killed for it. I shiver. Maybe she wants to be killed. I've named her Grace -- after the actress Grace Kelley. We got to see some of the on-screen entertainment that this culture offered, and my favorites were always the old ones. Grace is pretty, too. She looks exactly the same to me, but, of course, all the human females look the same to me. Thin limbs, soft skin that has little hair everywhere on it, and hair on the top, over the skull, as if crowning them for the great achievement of just living. Hers is like stars. Hot and red and full of fire. Not the cold fire of engines and fuel, but the energy of high temperatures and molten lava. She smiles when I say her name. Smile I learned the very first day. She taught me to smile too. I have to lift up the sides of my mouth in an odd way, but she laughed when I did it finally and smiled back. I like her. I want to keep her. +++++ Grace pulls the covers of my bed down, these Earth beds that we have to sleep in to keep up pretenses. They're strange. Way too hard. I wonder how they can sleep in things like this. It will crush me and turn me to mush if I have to do it for very long. Hopefully, I'll be transferred back to Home soon. I want to take Grace with me. She smiles at me, and I give her my concentration as I smile back. I tell her how I've used pristine today. She rolls her eyes when I say the settlement is pristine. I feel bad now. We had a class on the effect of body language in humans, and to have eyes rolled at you means the human doesn't respect your opinion. I think this to her and she shakes her head. She wants to speak it. "This place isn't pristine. Pristine is untouched, beautiful because of innocence. No one here is innocent. And the settlement isn't untouched." She's angry. She wants her own life back. She wants to know what happened to her before, in the other time, when she had a job and a family and things to do besides look after me. She's crying. "Okay," I say, fumbling for the speech I thought I had down pretty good. "No. It's not. You don't even allow me to speak or see things. I can't live." "No. No. Live. You live." She shakes her head, pushes away my hands as I try to reach for her. "I don't live. I'm dying here." I pull back. Death? Is she unclean? When did this happen? I gave her all the vitamins I was supposed to. I fed her and bathed her and played with her. Why is she unclean now? She takes my hand, watched me flinch at touching the unclean. "Not unclean. Inside. I'm gone inside. The things that made me who I am, the reasons why I'm stubborn like this, or proud, or curious, or needing -- the *why*, the *me* -- those things are all gone." I shake her away from me. I don't want to know this. I don't need to know this. She pulls off the bed, goes to her pallet on the floor with a sigh. Sigh: unhappiness with present events. I didn't need a sigh to tell me that. +++++ I wake with panic. Bad, Bad, Bad. It takes me a moment to realize it is not mine, it's hers. Her panic. This is the only downfall to being linked. Her nightmares. Every night she has them. Usually I can blank them out even in my sleep. Tonight's must be really bad. Each Implanted Human is linked to one of my people, the Aliens, as they call us, and this keeps the number of escapes down to nothing. We know when they think of escape and so they never are able. Her dreams are intense, overwhelming. Every night it's the same one, but tonight it's a bit different. She sees eyes. Human eyes with darkness reaching down in them, darkness to the very core, but not a bad darkness, a familiar, reassuring black. She sees eyes everywhere. And now, tonight, a feel. Skin on skin, lips to lips, the hot rush of contact. Those eyes staring straight into her with love. Love. That's what it is. That's the familiarness that chokes her every night, that grabs her heart and squeezes until she's crying in her sleep. I never knew the word till now. She says it in her dream again. "I love you." It's a warm feeling, a good feeling. She relaxes back into sleep as the eyes say it back. Love. That's why she feels gone inside. She had something called love before. I wonder what happened. +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] Tall and thin body, dark gold eyes and moon-white skin, coffee-brown hair, slightly crooked nose and full lips; dressed loosely in a pair of tan pants and gray tunic. "I'll take him," I say, pointing. The Slave Trader follows my gaze and frowns. "That one?" he asks. "Why, he's never even had an owner before. They caught him running in the caves only a few weeks ago." I shrug, not taking my eyes off of my new prize. "So I'll train him. He's tall, he seems strong. Not too old, not too young. He's also attractive, which will be good for when we entertain guests. Plus," I add, lowing my voice, "my sister might decide to use him as her concubine." My new slave's brow furrows as these words reach his ears. I ignore him. "Ah," the Slave Trader replies, winking. "Then, by all means, he's yours." A rope is passed into my hands, the leash of my new pet. I tug on it gently, and he slowly moves forward, eyes staring straight ahead and fists clenched at his sides. Stubborn creature. He will be easy to break. A touch on my shoulder stops me from leaving with him. "Sir," the Slave Trader says, "this was found on him when he was captured." Something cold and small is passed into my hands. As we leave, I glance down at what was given to me. A necklace with a gold cross. +++++ "Do you have a name?" I ask. He nods, surprising me. Most Humans do not remember their names, both Imps and Non-Imps. "Mulder." His voice is rough and deep, hollow, without emotion as he looks placidly at me. I roll the word on my tongue. "Mulder. Well, that's certainly a . . . an interesting name." Strange, if nothing else. "I'm Nicodemus Blackwood, your new master." One corner of Mulder's mouth turns downwards, a dark look passing over his face. "Master," he echoes. "Yes," I say slowly, raising an eyebrow at his response. "Surely you did not think that the Aliens would allow a Non-Imp to run amok on his own, did you? One of the reasons we Imps were created was so that we could control you." My voice is proud; I can't help it. We *are* gifted people, helping rule this world. He's staring at me, eyes a bronze-green in the light and narrowed as if watching something scrolling past some inner computer screen: thought, memory, surmise. "I see," he answers softly. Mulder is silent, a small upright line between his brows as he processes this new information. I sit patiently, looking out the windows of the vehicle, listening for the calls of birds that aren't there and seeing the ice green and lavender ground beneath us. "I had something with me," Mulder says after some time, "something I was wearing. It was -- " I fish the necklace out of my pocket and show it to him. "This?" At once his eyes brighten and he reaches for it. I think about teaching him control and making him ask, but decide not to at the pitifully hopeful expression on his face. He takes the cross in his hands and then puts it around his neck. It rests at the hollow of his throat, against that ashen skin and shines brightly. I look up into Mulder's eyes and see that they are the exact same color. I think I should know the significance of that small cross, but I can't remember why. +++++ [ ALITA ] I can see that Grace is not well anymore. Something has happened and she sits beside me without her dignity. I want to know what has happened, I want to understand why Grace has lost her pride, why suddenly nothing matters. Her dreams continue with the eyes, with the single touch of love that cascades beauty to her very soul. She wakes upset, yet content. Ways of pleasure in her I cannot see or understand with the primitive Language, or even the superior mind talk. She calls it mind talk. Even though we do not talk, we say no words, and we do not use a conscious area of our minds. I want to probe into her until I can see why she has become so . . . sad. That is the feeling. Sad. Why sad now? When she sleeps, when she succumbs to nothing again, I will go into her, find the places of her that harbor her secret things, dredge them out and make her live them in dreams. I must understand this. It's not only my duty as part of my People, but my right. She's my Grace, and she's slipping away. +++++ She worked all afternoon, worked hard and fast, perhaps showing me that she was not up to trouble, able to use her Implant in a minor way to sense my discontent. She sleeps now, her back to the floor, her face pressed tightly to the pallet. I creep from the concrete called a bed, crawl to her side, place my hand to her back. I stroke her softly, and in some remote part of her, she calls my name. Alita. Alita. She's asking me not to do this. She begging me to leave her some of herself. But I can't. I must keep her with me, keep her for myself. She shudders in her sleep as I slink into her mind, slip between her thoughts and tumble through her dreams. She sees the eyes. They are dark like the earth before planting. Dark on white, shockingly bright, yet deeply hidden. She is surrounded in the eyes. But . . . but now. Now there is a face and a body and a look to match the eyes. One from the past that should have been taken from her, and one from now. One from here. Grace's love is here. In stiff, hard form, with those same eyes that hold softness and terror at the same time, directed right to her and she knows there is something, but cannot find why it is important. She dreams of love and thinks she sees it here. And in a way, I know she's right. He is here. The eyes match. The souls match. I need to find him, find where they came in contact, however brief, find out how a woman of the house had managed to meet a slave of the fields. I need to keep Grace away from thoughts that are dangerous, away from him. Grace is mine. Not his. Not the eyes. +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] Mulder is a good slave. He may not be strong or weak-willed, but he works with a fiery passion I have never seen before. I don't think he spoke to me much after I returned his cross. Not that I mind. Silence is peaceful. There's a look in his eyes, cold and bitter like the vacuum of space, and they tell me that, although he may be stubborn, there's nothing stopping him from doing whatever I want. I watch him now as he plows the fields with his hands, reaching into the soil to dig up the vegetables we eat. The Aliens' food does not grow here, at least not in this area. The food we plant is ours. They get Theirs from off-world transports or from the caravans that pass from one settlement to the next. The sun is burning above us, so bright that it's white against the cobalt blue of the sky, and sweat pours off of Mulder's body. He has a dark and troubled look on his face that I can see even from here; he must be working hard so that he can keep his mind off of what has been troubling him. What can be troubling him? There is nothing to be troubled about. He wakes up, he gets dressed, he comes outside, he works, he eats, he works, he eats, he goes in and sleeps. "He's going to hurt himself," Kathleen says, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. "He's too weak to work out there." I touch her arm as she moves by, giving her a reassuring smile. She gives me a blank look. "You should have gotten someone stronger," she says, and then continues walking. Sighing, I move back towards the window. There's a flash of something coming from his neck: the gold chain. It glitters in the sunlight. It meant something, once . . . +++++ My sister, when I introduced her to Mulder, was pleased. Apparently she's not anymore. "Nic, you wouldn't believe it. He actually said no. No. No to *me*. Why the hell would he do that?" Meg's pacing the room, hands reaching up and tearing at her winter-sun pale hair, painted lips set in a pout. I sigh, wanting nothing more to escape to my study. I think I have a stash of liquor hidden beneath my desk. Liquor? I shake my head, surprised and disgusted with myself. "Maybe he didn't find you attractive," I suggest. The look Meg gives me could curdle milk. "Or," I add hastily, "maybe there was something in his life Before." Meg stops moving and stares at me. "Before? Before what?" Her mouth curves downwards in a frown. I can't believe that she doesn't know what I'm talking about. "Before -- " I wave my hand around the room " -- *this*." She blinks, not understanding. "I didn't think there was anything before this," she murmurs, looking away from me. Mouth dry, I run memories through my mind like bolts of colored ribbon, searching for some flaw or imperfection. There's something back there, something missing, a dark place . . . "No," I say, voice sounding like a recording in my own ears, "maybe you're right." +++++ When I approach Mulder, he's eating from a can of something that looks dry and molded. I join him under the brush, wincing at how hot and rough the ground is. Normally the only part of me touching it are my feet, and they're in shoes. He looks at me and I get a glance at white teeth before he turns back to his meal. After what seems to be his last bite, the can is set down and he finally speaks. "And what brings you down today, *Master*?" There's a hard edge to his voice that makes me wince. "Time to flog the peasants?" Sometimes we do whip people if they aren't doing what we ask, to train and discipline them. They don't know any better; it's the only way to make them learn. The thought has never made me feel guilty before. I smooth my fingers through the grass, feeling the sharp blades try to break my skin. My wedding ring feels heavy on my finger. "My sister says that you refused to sleep with her," I say without looking up. Even though I'm not looking at him, I feel him stiffen beside me. "I wasn't aware that it was one of my chores," he replies coldly. I find the courage to raise my head, only to see a cool, calm mask settle over his features, and his attention focused on something else in the distance. "It's not," I reply, the calm in my voice sounding false even to me. "It's just that she expected it. Most of the handsome slaves are hers. She's, uh, not used to not getting what she wants." I laugh dryly, without humor, remembering her tantrums and screams over time. Mulder licks his lips and sets the can down, finally turning towards me. I feel his eyes on my face, studying, searching, and I fidget uncomfortably, like a child whose parents are trying to decide whether he is lying or not. There's a long silence. "You two don't look alike at all," he says, breaking the stillness, eyes never leaving my face. "She's light and you're dark, she's tall and you're short." I shrug, not quite understanding where this is going. "So?" He blinks, looking like he's coming out a daydream. "Sorry, I was just thinking out loud." I glance back into the field, where several slaves are already digging again. "Shouldn't you get back to work?" A corner of his mouth turns upward in a small grin. "I have a few more minutes," he answers, leaning back against the bushes. I open my mouth to tell him that he doesn't have a choice when something red flashes out of the corner of my eye. As I turn, I hear Mulder's sharp intake of breath. There's a woman walking along the walkway with one of Them: a slim, fragile-looking nymph with burnt-copper hair, an elegant aquiline nose, and empty pale eyes. Her gaze flickers across the field before finding where Mulder and I sit. For a moment I think she's staring at me before realizing that it's Mulder she's looking at, and he at her. Mulder's face is frozen, eyes huge brown pools, as if in shock; his mouth moves to silently whisper a word that I cannot read. Her expression matches his as she's paused in mid-step. The Alien she's with -- obviously her master -- turns at us, and gives the scene a cold calculated look, watching silently. I shiver. We're in trouble now, I can feel it in my bones. It grabs the woman's arm and roughly pulls her away, dragging her down the path. She gives one last fleeting look at Mulder before disappearing. I glance at Mulder again. He's sitting still, one hand wrapped around the necklace as he stares at a darkness beyond memory and space. Now why would he know a house slave? "Who was that?" I demand, confusion quickly turning into annoyance. There's a brief silence. "I -- " He seems to choke on his words for a moment. "I don't know." From the tortured expression on his face, I was certain he knew who that woman was. I remain quiet, not quite sure what to say. "But I think I did," Mulder whispers distantly, "once." +++++ [ ALITA ] I wanted to do good. I wanted to make sure she was mine and she would always be mine. So I asked about her. My Grace has a different name. An old name. A name that is more beautiful to say and that rolls from the voice just as other words have. I will not tell her the old name. The settlement has five Non-Implant farms just at our borders who pay us two thirds of their produce so that we protect them from the roving bands of Humans that have joined together. I heard today that another band, one that calls themselves Ikki, in our image language, meaning Resistance, is coming straight for us. The five farms around us are worried greatly because they say things like traitors to the cause and revenge in whispered words that burn down whole settlements. Grace can sense this from me and when we made a tour of the five farms, searching for defense positions and good places to make our stand, she was distant and would not communicate directly with me. While we were out, she saw him. The eyes were there. Right there staring back at her with such ferocity and such . . . intense need, that she stopped right in the path and would not move. I had to drag her away. Now, she curls up at my feet and will not move. She tells me that something within her is sick and will not be healed, and I wonder again what her old name's life was. I move away from her and walk outside, to the Center, where only our kind are allowed to go. I can feel her despondency in me, curdling like too bitter green things. The Keeper of the Center makes contact with me, issuing polite images of common things, like home and family and friends. I give her the same images back, then make my way to the standing computers with the human Implant records. I am surprised when I have to use security clearance to check her file and even more surprised that she even *has* a file. Most do not. Most are told nothing and live as nothing. That is the way of things. I read the symbols, know her story. She is that old name. Dana. Dana. An old name that went the old way. She went to the caves with a man they respected once, a man they sought after only because they had once respected him. Which is strange. Respect for a Human. I know what she thinks she remembers, what my people in the place told her. She was given memories of a terrible battle between her people and another band of humans. A big battle where her people raided the other, burnt their village and destroyed their homes. For this, her people were allowed to be Implanted, to be superior to the others. But this cannot be true. It's a lie. We told her lies. I can't seem to breathe right. This isn't true. She's not a villager. . . her people were powerful, they were a nation on this very continent we inhabit. I know this myself from the lessons they trained with us. She was lied to. She was told that her people were bloodthirsty, that she killed others, that others wanted her dead. The eyes she sees are the truth. They are the man's eyes, the man she ran to the caves with. The man who tried to save their lives. A man named for an animal, but with the heart of a warrior. And we have killed them both. My people have killed them both. +++++ The Center is quiet. There are more people gone than here, and I know this is the best time. The Keeper is busy arranging things, putting some files through the data base, and he will not notice if I am in some things I shouldn't be. The files are easy to track, placed in a secure section of the computer's memory that I can access because I helped create this memory. It's the reason I was sent here, taken from my home. I read about her. About her old name and her old life. Dana Scully. Brothers killed by Noktu fighters when she refused to be sent in for reprogramming. Mother killed when she refused to come in after escaping the destruction of Washington D.C. Partner in the FBI with one Fox Mulder, alliance created more harm than good and the termination of such endeavor yielded no fruit. I sink to the floor, grasping the edges of the desk as I fall. We have killed them all. We did not calmly, peacefully take control from their willing hands. We bombed them, we destroyed them; we shoved them to their knees and told them they asked for it. I will not be a part of this. I will not be a part of this. +++++ stay tuned for part 2 same bat time same bat channel feedback is not optional. resist or serve. upyours1013@rock.com lebontrager@harding.edu want some great fanfic? DS: http://members.tripod.com/~Darkstryder/index-2.html RM: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/5007/ ++++++++++ The Emissary II: Grail Chapter 2 By Darkstryder and RocketMan upyours1013@rock.com _and_ lebontrager@harding.edu Info in Chapter 1. ++++++++++ the emissary II: grail darkstryder rocketman ++++++++++ I think you think you're someone else You've got to learn to save yourself Before you find there's nothing left But bitterness And hollowness And afterglow And afterglow garbage "afterglow" +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] I meet Mulder at the bushes again as he eats. He looks up and his dark eyes meet mine. "So," he says sharply, "what brings you here today?" Relieved that he didn't make a cruel remark about me here to hurt someone, I plop down on the ground beside him. "Nothing, really," I admit. One of Mulder's eyebrows raise ever-so-slightly, but he remains silent. He's taken off his shirt and thrown it over the fence in the distance because of the burning heat, and the air smells of rust and sweat; the soil is dry and hard beneath me, but at least the tall hedge protects us from most of the sun's rays. In the distance I can see other slaves sitting, eating, and chatting; most of them are shirtless, a few using leaves to either dry themselves off or to use as a fan. I look at Mulder again. His face is expressionless, eyes glazed over in a dream, body suddenly relaxed. Leaning back, I close my eyes, feeling the wind in my hair and the heat on my face. It's oddly comforting, unlike the cold, hard confines of the manor. Mulder says something, shaking my out of my reverie. "Huh?" Impatience creeps into his voice. "I said, do you ever feel that you had a life before the Aliens took over?" My body grows cold at his comment, like invisible needless are rising out from under my skin. The dark place in the back of my mind, a place that I'm not suppose to go to . . . "What?" I ask stupidly. "Well, do you?" I rub my hands together, trying to warm them. "Do you?" "A little," Mulder replies, cocking his head to one side. "What do you remember?" I whisper. A frown mars his face as his collects his thoughts. His dark brows are pinched down over the bridge of his nose as his eyes flutter shut. "There was this place, beneath the surface of a planet, and I was with this woman." His voice is slow, dreamy. "She was so beautiful. It was like a maze down there, dark and cold, and we weren't even sure where we were going or if we were going to survive. There was this group of people we had escaped from . . . a man? . . . I think." My soul has grown as cold and sterile as the world around me. No one should remember this much. It isn't Humanly possible. Mulder continues, not noticing my discomfort: "I can't remember it clearly, and what I do are from my dreams. We were so far, and we almost escaped, but then your 'Masters' caught us." Running, trying to hide, the sky is falling, the sky is falling -- Pain. Blinding, earth-shattering pain. Fireworks explode behind my eyes and I squeeze them shut, trying to keep my hands from clawing at my skull to make it end. My hands are trembling, and I grasp them tightly in my lap. I don't know why his words are making me feel this way, why he even remembers this. Blood fills my mouth and I realize that I've bitten my tongue. Control. Control. I slowly open my eyes, squinting to make the tears go away. The pain fades into a dulling ache, and a sob of relief escapes my throat. Mulder doesn't see this as he stares straight ahead with wild eyes. I manage to choke out a response: "Did you . . . " I search my memory for the word, but I can't find it. "Uh, what's it called, stronger than affection?" He blinks, as if seeing me for the first time. "Love? Yeah, I loved her. I still do," he adds softly. Love. I try to burn it into my mind. Love. "Was she that woman yesterday?" I ask. His eyes narrow into glittering ebony slits, the whimsical face suddenly gone. "Maybe. All I wanted to know is if I'm alone in this. Why should I tell you anything?" Shock hits me like a kick in the stomach. I feel anger bubbling up inside of me. Red rage replaces the ice in my veins. This time when I clench my hands it's to keep from striking him. "Because," I snap, "I want to know what the hell happened to me, to us. Because my memories have been stolen, too. All of ours have, apparently. Is that what you want to hear?" Mulder doesn't reply. Disgusted, I get to my feet and start to walk away. I stop for one quick glance before crossing the fields. Mulder's hunched into a ball, shoulders shaking with sobs, hands clenched tightly around the cross. The thought of helping him crosses my mind briefly, but I ignore it and leave. +++++ [ ALITA ] She asked me again today, asked why everyone was nervous, jittery. I said nothing to her. I still can't look at her, still can't see her eyes, the eyes a Human being that we destroyed. I thought of her as a pet. I thought of her as an intelligent animal, one that would love me and dote on my every command, would be happy to have one of my kind as her master. She is happy, in some closed off, far away ways. In the most simple, soul providing ways, she is not. I think this was why I let her cajole me into walking the perimeter again today. I should be at home, in the big house with the others, preparing for this Resistance to come, waiting and watching for their moves, listening with my mind for the sounds of their thoughts. Like listening for the beat of horses by pressing your ear to the ground, as they did in those Western movies we were showed. Showed to explain to us their need to be controlled, their willingness to submit because of such horrible things like death and guns and taking over other people's land. And didn't we do just that. I think that is why I walk with her now, looking the other way, trying to keep my head out of hers. I hear her gasp, feel the sudden rush of feeling she has as she stops. I turn and there he is again. This is why she wanted to walk the perimeter, just the chance to see his face, to regard those eyes. I probably knew this, I think I did know the true reason, but I turned away from them, pretended everything was okay again. This Fox Mulder man is sitting very still, his face deadly serious as he talks to the other man. I remember this face . . . it is one of the owners of the five farms we protect. He is talking to a slave? Why? They keep reminding my people every chance they get that they do not consort with the slaves, that they are above the slaves. So why the heavy conversation? Why the look of almost dejection in this owner's face? Next to me, Grace pulls herself up, glances once to me, and I hear her whirling thoughts. I feel the sudden urge she has; in my mind, I see her knocking me over, running to him, just to see him, just to touch him, and I know. . . I know with certainty that the guards that watch would kill her in the instant she touched me. I grab her arm, steel my eyes and stare into her, sending strong negative impulses to her implant. She cringes, her eyes betrayed as I use this form of punishment, something I have never done to her, something I told her, promised her, I'd never use. I pull her along with me, my mind sending out flashing warnings to her to simply remain crumbled. We make it without incident to the rooms and I push her to the pallet on the floor, seething myself for what she would have done, for what I am about to do, for all things that have happened. "I can get him," I say. I speak Language and she stares up at me, her face at once afraid, hopeful, reeling from my one broken promise and wondering if I will break it again. "I get him . . . I get him for you," I say nodding and pointing back the direction she came from. She suddenly shakes her head, tears trembling in them. I frown. "He has a chance to get away," she whispers, then looks to me as if she's said some horrible thing. I feel my chest sting. "Get away?" "He's not connected. He can run. Get away without someone always reading his thoughts." She glares at me. I shake my head. "You know he do this thing? He get away for sure?" She twists in the floor, wondering if maybe she shouldn't have said anything. But my urgency falls into her, and despite whatever silence she thinks will save him, she tells me. "Not for sure. But he will try. Try until he makes it." I sink to the bed, the awful hard bed that reminds me of all the strangeness of this planet we are on, all the strangeness that my people are forced to do, not even knowing of the death the Leaders brought about. "One try. He dies." Grace raises quickly to her feet, her indignation making her face twist in fury. She rushes me, pummeling her fists into my hard plate, smacking my mouth as hard as she can because she knows that is the vulnerable spot. I grab her tiny fists; she knows I could crush her fingers into powder. "Please, Alita. Alita, you have to let him out." My name in Language still makes me feel weak. "It's not me. There are guards up high. You . . . I'm not supposed to let you know, in case you slip past me and actually do try to escape. But there are guards watching. Today, if you had done what you wanted, they would have killed you before you could even touch me." She jerks away from, and I let her hands go. I feel it change. I feel the subtle shifting in her mind and then her body. She has died again. Died in her hope and there is nothing for her. She knows it is hopeless, knows that anything either of them tried would bring death. Even knowing this, I wonder at the spirit in her that refuses death. I think it is for him. This human we destroyed. . .I need to build it back. I need to make it right for all the wrong that has happened. All the people we destroyed. I take her face in my hands, stroke the tears that creep from her dead eyes. I close my eyes, feel the rattle in me as I make this one last decision, the decision of my life. "I can help . . . " +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] Kathleen glances at me as I walk in to her making a list of thing for the slaves to cook for dinner. She sends me a look of disdain. "You're spending too much time with that slave," she announces, as cold as always. "So does Meg," I snap, having the perverse satisfaction of seeing her blanch. "Meg," she murmurs, probably thinking I can't hear her, "is a slut." Against my will, the corners of my lips twitch into a smile. "What's his name, that dark one?" "Mulder," I tell her, wanting her to go away. "I thought you knew." Kathleen waves her hand. "Am I suppose to remember all the names of those things? As long as they do the work, I'm happy." I consider her first comment. "Why are you mad that I spend too much time with Mulder?" "Oh," she says, "I just hope you're not running out in the dirt. The slaves just cleaned the floors but two days ago, and I want them to sparkle." Sparkle. Yes. Of course. We mustn't have dirty floors, now must we? There's this hollow pit in my stomach that's been following me since my talk with Mulder this afternoon, a cold feeling that won't go away. "Kathleen," I start. She doesn't look up. "Kathleen, do you . . . do you love me?" She raises her head and blinks at me slowly. "What kind of a question is that?" she asks. A pain slices through my chest, leaving an emptiness in its wake. I would weep, had our masters not forbidden tears. "Just wondering," I tell her. ++++++++++ stay tuned for part 3 same bat time same bat channel feedback is not optional resist or serve upyours1013@rock.com lebontrager@harding.edu DS: http://members.tripod.com/~Darkstryder/index-2.html RM: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/5007/ ++++++++++ The Emissary II: Grail Chapter 3 By Darkstryder and RocketMan upyours1013@rock.com _and_ lebontrager@harding.edu Info in Chapter 1. ++++++++++ the emissary II: grail darkstryder rocketman ++++++++++ Got a sky that looks like heaven Got an earth that looks like shit And it's getting hard to tell where what i am ends And what they're making me begins the eels "climbing to the moon" +++++ [ ALITA ] I can see very clearly now. What I must do. What I have to do to make it right again. I have helped to destroy the very spirit of a people I claim to love, I claim to admire and respect. This is not respect. Tying them to us, ripping apart their minds in order to tear apart their lives is not admiration. I see what must be done. I see I have to start somewhere. Grace. Whatever her real name is, she will always be Grace to me. I have to start with Grace. +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] My own master, Vyria, is gone for the next six months, taking an extended vacation away from "the vermin." In other words, Humans. I feel the loss of him through the implant: it's like phantom pain, almost a pulsing, as if something is missing. Imagine my surprise when I was told that an one of Them wanted to see me. Kathleen is pleased. "Perhaps They want to give you a promotion. Maybe take a job at the main settlement, away from all these farming slaves." "Perhaps," I murmur, not believing it, moving past her to get to the door. "Don't do anything stupid," I hear her call as I leave. An unfamiliar sensation of panic clutches my chest. I pass Mulder by the main gate. He gives me an odd look. "Don't you look purty." "I'm being called in by one of Them," I reply cooly, a brief flash of anger going through me. "Apparently They wish to speak with me." A thoughtful frown crosses his face. "Maybe They're angry at you for spending so much time with me." I stop. Why didn't I think of that before? Yes, that one had seen me, the Alien with the red-head. They might think I'm part of that Resistance against Them. Resistance means death. I bite down on my tongue, trying to calm the sudden butterflies in my stomach. "Then if I die," I tell Mulder, voice tight with a mixture of anger and fear, "it will be *your* fault." He smiles. I shudder. +++++ [ ALITA ] Nicodemus Blackwood looks just like his record picture. Longish hair. Skinny, gruesome scar slashing down his cheek. A testament to the horrible things my people did to break his mind. I take a deep breath and move forward, glad for once of my status, of the natural respect they must have for me. As a student of the Ways of Humans, an Alien named Alita going out to a human's plot does not cause any waves. It is what I am supposed to do, really. He looks scared. He has come to some of the same conclusions I have. I can sense this in him, even without the implant. He sees the awful position of his people, knows there was more than this once. "Nic . . . " I say hesitatingly, unsure of the Language I must employ to say the rest of his name. "Nicah . . . " I can't say the rest. But my effort is noticed and he rests back on his haunches, like an animal reassured, yet not entirely confident of the situation. "Nicah, I have to . . . help them." He shakes his head, pretends he doesn't know what I'm saying. He thinks this is a trap. "Grace. Grace. She loves . . ." Why won't the words come closer to me, won't let my tongue work into them? She loves him, loves him. I have to make him understand this. "She loves him as he loves her, huh?" he says, finally resigned to this. "Yes. Yes. Yes. You see? You know?" I grasp his hand and he flinches, his hard eyes seeing something from another time. Maybe my people, breaking his human spirit. I have to get him past this first, past this fear of being found, being broken again. "Sorry . . . Nicah . . . Sorry." His eyes soften and the overwhelming need for understanding wells in them. "I hate you," he whispers, but his eyes and his body are defeated. This is it. This is what we have done. I can't wait for him to understand anymore. I have to know. "Help her. Help him. Please?" My asking, my question of it is scary to him. This is not something he is used to, knows how to deal with. "How? Why? We could . . . we . . . dead. They'd kill us." His Language is stilted too. I don't know why. They're allowed to speak it, right? "Speak. . .you're allowed?" He frowns. "Only when . . . it's important." I copy his frown, a look I learned early from Grace. "Only . . . I know some. Some." He seems pleased to be able to say even this. What else did we do to them? "Help them?" I ask again, grabbing his cheek in my excitement, forgetting that he is not of me, and would not understand my gesture. Shriveling into himself, he shakes, eyes growing hard again, body rigid. "Kill us. Kill. No." I watch him writhe inside, his once-upon-a-time self bitterly warring against this shrunkeness of his now-self. "Please," I beg, clutching him again, almost falling myself to let him know that it all comes down to him. All comes down to him. "You idiot! They'll kill us!" he hisses but then clamps his hands over his mouth like an animal found caught in a trap. So he can talk. Talk well. His Language is good. I am overjoyed. There is some hope. They keep themselves alive, they rebuild their culture, whisper their words among each other. They are not supposed to have much Language but some remember and pass this along. There is hope. I know what we must do. "Help them. They love much more than us. Know much more than us," I say and stare straight into him, knowing how my dark eyes and large sockets affect the Humans with their squinty orbs and tiny visions. He shivers and gags on something in him, something strangling him to get out. His old self. The self that keeps his Language, keeps his humanity in some dark place where no one can take it from him again. He offers his old self once more. Offers it up to me. And once again, lets himself be broken. Broken for the sake of another human, broken for the hope of something so intangible, yet so powerful as love. +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] She wants me to help them. Help the people that I've been taught to look down upon, the slaves that weren't worthy of the implants the Aliens bestowed upon us. I leave shaken to the bones, ignoring the snide looks the overly-muscular guards give me. How can I help them? Anything I do will leave me dead. I grasp that thought in my mind, turning it over as if examining all sides of a crystal to make sure it's worthy of purchase. Dead, death, the eternal slumber, never to waken again . . . . . . never to see the slaves work themselves to death in the fields, never to have this hole in my mind, never to have an empty marriage with Kathleen, never to be miserable until They decide I'm too old to be any use to Them anymore . . . Maybe I'll understand what that cross means, after death. Dammit. "This," I say out loud, "is why I decided to stick with farming." "Master?" I turn to see a dark-haired slave girl giving me a curious look. I shake my head, pressing my lips in a tight line. Slave girl. Yes, we're all slaves here. I reach out and touch her arm. She sucks in a sharp breath, edging slowly away from me, afraid that I will hurt her. I remember suddenly that her name is Elizabeth. I don't know why that is important. "Tell me, do you enjoy working here?" I ask. Her eyes widen, mouth falling open in surprise. A cold snake of fear corkscrews down my backbone. I shouldn't have asked. If she were to tell . . . "I - I guess so," she stammers. "I mean, it's all I know. I've done this my whole life." My whole life. If Mulder is right, if *I'm* right, we were free, once upon a time. For all I know, I was not always Nicodemus Blackwood. Kathleen was not always my wife. Meg was not always my sister. My parents did not die when their hunting party was attacked by marauders. They did something to us . . . I should have realized this. I should have known long ago when I discovered that my memories were missing. If Mulder could escape, if both he and that woman could get away, they could form a resistance somewhere. Yes. Maybe we can be free. A bright white light flashes behind my eyes. Futile, a voice whispers in my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut. The back of my neck throbs painfully, feeding off of my rebellious thoughts. Go away. Go away. Go away. It's not real. You're even here. I'm. Not. Doing. Anything. Wrong. The pain fades slowly. I open my eyes again to find Elizabeth watching me, eyes huge and face pale. "Master," she whispers, grabbing my arm, "are you okay?" I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. "Master?" "Go," I manage to croak. She scurries off silently. Resistance. Yes. A new feeling fills me. This could be what They call Hope, but I could be wrong. +++++ [ ALITA ] I see her very differently now. She has dark hair, but when the sun glints in from the windows, it is reddish, shading almost toward a color I read in a human book: auburn. She has blue eyes. I never realized that the color of the eye was important, and I thought her eyes were not that great, since blue is a recessive trait. But there it is. Reddish hair, blue eyes, hair more red in the picture they have of her, where she has just been taken into captivity by us. Us. We have ripped apart her life, taken love from her as callously as we ripped away a world from an unknowing race. And treated them like slaves, and worse, like pets. An earth dog garners more respect. I feel I will be sick. I keep a copy of her picture with me, digging into my satchel to remind me, to always remind me. I have hurt her. Just as she once had love, just as she once had freedom and choice and places to go and things to do, so I once had innocence. So I once could rest easy with my conscience. My nights are filled with the image of the eyes, the love-eyes of the man's that stare back at her with a certain crushed hope and agony. Agony for such a life. The horror of it is not the separation. The horror is the forced amnesia. Our cruel punishment for their open defiance is the wiping away of any knowledge that they were ever loved with such enormity, such devoted, undying need. Punishment. In my study of humans, with my own gathered thoughts on the nature and anatomy of the human race, I helped exact that punishment. I must do more than live with this knowledge. I must atone for it. +++++ Nicah brings the man over, digging a painful prod into his side to keep his head down, as is customary. Since we are too much out in the open, I do not object to the treatment, and my soul burns with the spectacle. I take them over to the inside, to the Main House where I have made Grace wait. Nicah is nervous; he will not step inside, and he will not let the man come in either. I glance around quickly, sensing the indignation rising from my people as they watch his open defiance. Catching his head with an open palm, I slap him into the side of the door. Nicah stares at me and lowers his eyes, then grudgingly pushes the man in front of him to go on. The man shuffles forward, eyes darting around, absorbing the old wood, the shine of polish, the smell of Aliens residing in something that is not theirs. Aliens. Unwelcome visitors that are feared. I nod for him to keep walking and he does so, but with a growing unacceptance, as if he has heard of such things and that it can only turn out in death. For him. I wish I could say to him to relax, to fear not, because I am with him. I will not let him be hurt in this house, in the homestead we took over. Not today. I have too many guilts to assuage for now. The doors to the parlor are shut tight, the click of feet across the fireplace tiles can be heard if he would put his ear close. I can feel Grace's listlessness, sense her broken spirit. She waits inside the parlor for me, thinking I am to punish her again. Punish her for her thoughts. For the designs of escape that had come to her in the dreams of love-eyes. I push the man forward and make Nicah let him go. The man frowns, his eyebrows raising as I motion toward the doors. Hesitantly he takes the knobs, twists them in a sudden fury and yanks open the door. He stands there, staring. Grace says nothing, thinks nothing, makes no effort. He reaches out, pitifully pale hands shaking. I watch Grace's face as he creeps inside, note every flicker that reveals the same emotions raging through her head and body. She licks her lips. Sees the image of the love-eyes crying in agony for her. He's inching toward her now, breathing heavy and labored, as if he has been running to catch her. She watches him, and he waits. Waits for the signal from her to say it is all right, that he is welcome back after the long, unknown past. He comes to a stop merely breaths from her, hands held up, ready to cup her face in a gentle, tender stroke. She opens her mouth, breathes in the scent of his sweat and hard life, then closes her eyes. Her head dips forward and her body slumps into him. She collapses into his arms, into the relief of his presence, and I feel her mind stop. Simply stop. She is at rest; her thoughts no longer wander the loneliness for him, her mind no longer replays haunting images of a once in a lifetime man. He takes her battered soul into his and melds her body with his own. Ignoring everything and forgetting everyone, he touches her lips with a finger. In eagerness, she surges forward and catches his mouth with a hungry fire lighting her eyes. I turn, pressing my hands to my head as her thoughts overwhelm the simple chip designed to pick up the random thoughts of a broken woman. I crumple, feeling Nicah's hands as he carries me to the doors, trying vainly to break away from Grace's thoughts, her tsunami emotions. I close my eyes, drift in a sea of warmth that is her fire and his coming together again, meeting as energy and strength in pure form. I glance up to Nicah, see the envy, the wistfulness on his face. "That is why," I whisper, each word hard to form in Language. "That is why we must help them." He glances back to them, to their fierce embrace. "Help them," he repeats and lowers himself next to me. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. "Yes, that is why." ++++++++++ stay tuned for part 4 same bat time same bat channel feedback is not optional resist or serve upyours1013@rock.com lebontrager@harding.edu missing parts? want some great fanfic? DS: http://members.tripod.com/~Darkstryder/index-2.html RM: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/5007/ ++++++++++ The Emissary II: Grail Chapter 4 By Darkstryder and RocketMan upyours1013@rock.com _and_ lebontrager@harding.edu Info in Chapter 1. ++++++++++ the emissary II: grail darkstryder rocketman ++++++++++ "Humanity will survive, you know." "How are you so sure? Lack of belief in *everyone's* mortality?" "Instinct. I do not . . . I cannot . . . believe that everything that Humanity has accomplished, that everything we've aspired to, will simply come to an end. To be obliterated by a superior race, just because they can. There has to be more to them, and more to us, than that. I've studied other races, you know. Charted their progress. For every single one, their development has been far, far slower than ours. It's as if we're rushing, or even being rushed. As if we're intended for some great purpose that's coming upon us sooner than we think." "You're saying we have a destiny." "Yes. A destiny. A destiny that has to involve more than being the victims of genocide. I feel it. I feel it in my soul." jeffrey sinclair and john sheridan from the novelization of "in the beginning" +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] They've gone off on their own now, Mulder and the woman, leaving the Alien and me alone. The woman, the red-head, she interests me. The thought of anyone taming Mulder, and why this Alien would bother to save her, is certainly fascinating. The thought of Mulder caring for her -- no, *loving* her -- is astonishing. The Alien female is beside me, dozing from the blast of emotions that hit her through the implant. It's happened to me before, when Vyria was angry that a stash of food was stolen by marauders and wanted to hurt us all for it. I want to wake her, to speak with her. I've never actually *talked* to one of Them before. The thought is both thrilling and frightening. Gently, I poke her arm with my finger, involuntarily recoiling at the cool touch of her skin. She stirs. "Yesss?" My throat it suddenly dry and I swallow thickly. "What is her name, the woman?" I ask. "Gr -- " She seems to shake herself, eyes snapping open and a low, frightening hissing noise escapes her throat. "Dana Scully." I try not to shudder as her voice slices through me. We've always been afraid of our masters, it's just the way things are. One cannot do away with a lifetime of teaching in only a few hours. Lifetime. No. It still feels like They were always here. "There's this place," I whisper, leaning closer to the Alien, "a path, that leads to the caves. It's not too far from my settlement. They can make it, but we must get them there safely." I have faint memories of playing there as a child, wanting to run through the caverns until my parents told me that there were monsters deep inside, ones that ate small children . . . She blinks at me, mouth curving upwards in a crude attempt of a smile. "We can do it." +++++ "Why?" A hand grabs my arm, spinning me around quickly, and I find myself looking straight into the smoke-colored eyes of Mulder. "Wha -- ?" "Why are you doing this? You owe me nothing, there's nothing to be gained from this." He doesn't really look angry. More like suspicious. Paranoid. Frightened. When I don't answer, Mulder's shoulders fall, mouth set in a thin line. "If you're going to kill us," he says, "then just do it already. Don't torture us with these visits." Ah, yes, Mulder's soul is a bleeding pulp of betrayal. "No," I reply, shaking my head. "No, that's not what I'm going to do." He inclines his head to one side and narrows his eyes, standing so close that I can feel his breath against my face. "Then *why*?" Why, why, why, why . . . "Mulder, did you . . ." My mind gropes for the right words to say, to make him understand. "Did you ever hate someone or something enough that you would do *anything* to stop it, to put it down?" One side of his mouth curls up in a bitter grin. "Probably." I wave my hand in a well-there-you-go gesture and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I get it." "We'll leave soon," I tell him, moving away. His presence is suffocating. Mulder's head snaps up. "Leaving?" he echos. "Yes." I meet his eyes. "The Alien and I are going to help you and Dana Scully escape." +++++ [ ALITA ] I can feel her joy creeping over the edges of her sleep, drifting and spiraling into my own rest, causing images and memories of another life to imprint on my conscious. She turns, face presses to the floor for a brief moment, then her body relaxes again. I can see her dreams; this implant makes me an invader into her subconsciousness. She sees his eyes staring at her, sees my people swarm around them, sees horrible deaths go off behind her lids like flashbulbs. She remembers bullets riddling into a mother, hears the sounds a baby makes when it suffocates, recalls the death cry of a tortured man. All these horrors come back to her tonight, but it is not a nightmare, she does not wish it to go away. This was her life, her memories, and she prays for them with a feverence more remarkable by the absence of any God to hear these pleas. At the last, there he is again. Arms circling tight about her, eyes closing, lips so softly whispering along her hairline. She falls back into a deeper sleep, where dreams fall away and impressions sink into yesterday's romances. I turn my face to the wall and lay there, sleepless. +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] I tell the Alien of my plan. She studies me with interest. For some reason, this does not bother me. "We can cross the third settlement, down here. It's about four, five miles, and if we disguise ourselves as slave traders the only problem we should have is someone asking to buy Mulder or Dana Scully. There are caves down there, and I've been told that they lead deep into the ground." She looks at me, blinking slowly. "There is resistance someplace. Maybe there?" Resistance. "Yes, maybe." I tell her, nodding. A flat smile crosses her face. "When leave?" +++++ [ ALITA ] His plan . . . Nicah has a plan that could save them and all I can think is this: We're going to die. They were his words originally, but mine now. Doesn't he see this? Can't he understand that there is no way anymore? There is no way. My people have reached a paranoia equal to a jealous lover, and they constantly watch, constantly moniter. I am prepared to die for this, die for the sins of my people. We have to let them go, simply because it is becoming harder to sneak away to let them see each other. I can sense what they do each time they are together; I feel within me the stirrings of another life, another love. I wonder for a moment . . . maybe my people wiped my own past clean, maybe I am not who I think I am. If they could do it to the humans, why not me? Have I really studied humans all my life . . . have I never had that urge to let another take me like he takes my Grace? I think I have, I think they have taken it from me, I think that this is messing my mind up so much that anything seems possible and everything impossible. There's no way we can make it. I sit with Nicah in the shade, resting against a tree, the name of which I am sure someone knew at some point in their history, but which we have wiped from them. As if knowing the name of a tree will inspire a great bloody revolt in them. I pause, shift my weight further from the rough bark. Maybe knowing such a small thing actually will inspire a great . . . a bloody . . . revolt. Nicah slips another look over at me, his eyebrows wrinkling a bit, his hands always, always shaking. His fingers never stop twitching, his hands wobble when he talks to me. He must be filled with a great amount of hate. To sit next to me, to say nothing as I endanger our lives . . . this is a great price to pay for such a small thing. After all, what harm could there be in letting these two go? I am doing it for love, but I think Nicah knows something else. I think he wants the man to lead the Resistance, to join up with fellow humans and wipe us from the planet. I'm not so sure I want that. What we have done is wrong, but we do not deserve to die for it. The humans too, did such things. Slaves made of people, hurting them, ripping apart their families. The humans did this and all they had to do was apologize and everything seemed to be working out okay, before we arrived. At least, that's what I was told. How do I even know that was true? Maybe they never ever got along and it was just as bloody and they acted worse than us and they deserve to be dominated, they deserve to be taken over. I feel Nicah shrug next to me, his shoulders tight with being hunched over, his eyes squinting. "Have you decided?" he says suddenly. His plan . . . I want to shudder. Just as the humans do to show their fear, their disgust, their knowledge that it can only get worse from here on out. I take his shaky hand and still it with my own hard grasp. He has a moment of panic before he realizes that I will not do anything. "I decided. We'll go." He nods as they come around the last bend in the field, Grace's eyes are shining, her hair shifting with the wind. "Tomorrow," Nicah says and stands, walking away from me very quickly. I just sit there, waiting, feeling as if something has tightened my breathing, choked off my blood. Grace leans over and he wraps her into his embrace, a fierce, sort of 'I'm-not-letting-you-go' sort of hug. I sigh and stand, feeling my head brush the tips of the tree branches. Grace is more reluctant than ever to come to me, her eyes cloud over and she stiffens, her pride wounded as I beckon her. With every meeting, she remembers more of her old self, recalls more of her real true personality. She becomes more cold to me, more stand off. I sigh and start down the path that leads back to the house. As I step through the dirt, I feel the shadow of the great tree cast over me, shading even me, an alien in it's world. I wonder forlornly what kind of tree it is. I think I will call it Courage. ++++++++++ stay tuned for part 5 same bat time same bat channel feedback is not optional resist or serve upyours1013@rock.com lebontrager@harding.edu missing parts? want some great fanfic? DS: http://members.tripod.com/~Darkstryder/index-2.html RM: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/5007/ ++++++++++ The Emissary II: Grail Chapter 5 By Darkstryder and RocketMan upyours1013@rock.com _and_ lebontrager@harding.edu Info in Chapter 1. ++++++++++ the emissary II: grail darkstryder rocketman ++++++++++ Oh, look at my face My name is might have been My name is never was My name's forgotten hole "celebrity skin" +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] There's this strange look on Mulder's face as the caravan begins to move. "We're being pulled by *farm animals,* " he whispers loudly to Scully, but I can't tell whether he's amused or irritated. "Wow," I say dryly, "nothing gets by you." He gives me annoyed glance and then looks at the Alien, who's busy adjusting the folds of her robe. "Shouldn't we have something, uh, electric? Automatic?" She sends him a razor-sharp look that makes me shiver and glad that I'm not on the receiving end of it. "Not Humans," she tells him. Mulder blinks and then looks hesitantly back at me, as if for reassurance. "Not Humans?" he echos. I nod. "Not Humans." Scully touches his arm and he grows silent, thoughtful. I roll my eyes. Silly man, Humans aren't allowed to drive vehicles. +++++ The road is longer than we thought and soon the air chills and night falls. I look over my shoulder and Scully and Mulder, only to find that they are both asleep. So. Just the Alien and me. How can you have small talk with someone who isn't even your own species? "Um, do you have a name?" I ask softly, grimacing at how utterly pathetic I sound. She turns, bobbing her head to and fro in a bad imitation of a nod. "In your speak, Alita." Alita. Her name is so . . . *Human*, that I feel my stomach turn. Rage pumps through my veins. They steal our world and destroy our memories, and now use our names. They had to take everything, didn't they. "In *your* speak," she repeats, staring deep into my eyes, and I shiver. She knows I hate them. The thought comes to me like a hammer blow hitting over my heart. She knows, and she understands. It fills me with an odd sense of relief, of gladness. Her hand touches my arm lightly, like the touch of a ghost, and I force myself not to recoil. "Nicah, do you think we die?" It takes me a moment to figure out that she means *us,* not the Aliens. I raise my eyes and meet hers without flinching. "Yes, I do." She doesn't look away, only falls silent. But if she understands the hatred of having one's world destroyed, she doesn't voice it. "We are unclean," Alita says after some time. It's my turn to nod. "Yeah." There's another silence. I hear the faint trilling of birds rising in the distance as the first light of dawn hit us. +++++ [ ALITA ] I know he's furious, somewhere within him is a escalating madness that is desperate to rage. Rage. I was stupid to think he'd want to join me in this, bitterly naive to think he'd want to help *me* and not just himself. He's doing this so that he can quench the building anger, relieve the conflicting feelings that are rising further and further into his soul, creeping into the places where our mindwash and his own hatred meet. I think he wants very badly to kill us all. Me especially. +++++ This road, I feel it gently tugging me further. Someone's calling out to me, pulling me into the road's deepening ruts. The animals snort and shy from the path, but Nicah's gentle hand brings them back, guides them to the road. The animals are afraid of the aliens, afraid of my people because they are not of them. As they should be. There is a guard up ahead, a contingency of about thirty, waiting, waiting. Waiting for us. They know I am here. +++++ Positioned respectfully, Nicah glowers from his seat, stuffed between the two animals' harnesses, riding the reins very carefully so that the creatures won't buck or slip and cause him to fall under foot. I am at the front seat, alone, perched, acting more regally than I feel, wishing that this was not like this. The man and Grace are cowering in the back, the chains now binding them a strict reminder of all that they are, all that they can still be if this goes wrong. Nicah, I think, will get angry, will say something when he should be silent and cause us all to die. He has a fear of death, but a greater fear of finding out who he is. I sense the thirty beings, up ahead, my people waiting, sending hesitant gestures before them, telling me to slow the wagon, wait for a soldier to come to meet us. The wagon groans to a stop and Nicah looks back at me. I do not look at him. It is wrong for him to make eye contact. The soldier comes, his eyes slitted, tiny nostrils flared in order to correctly assess the situation. I do not look at him either. I am beneath his station. I want to plead, but I merely let his wandering mind slip like water through mine, over every facet of thought that currently occupies my world. I try not to think too much, just random things that are harmless and do not overly attempt to hide more elusive ideas. He cocks his head and hisses, but his images are in my head, his voice not a sound, but a particular feeling that rides through his thoughts. He pays no attention to the slaves in the back, no attention to the man riding the harnesses, simply forces his mind to mine, again, and again, and again. This is wrong, this is mental rape. But he has the right to do so if he thinks I am hiding something. He thinks I'm hiding something. He'll know, he'll figure it out, he'll punch through my mind until I am caught off guard and let him through to the deepest parts. He knows . . . he knows I've gone bad, knows I'm unclean. I think I might have shuddered. He blinks, as he has just realized how hard he was ramming into my mind, then bows awkwardly and pats the animals. We can go. We can go. I want to explode in a frenzy of wonderful thoughts, but I can't. Not while every soldier out there has his mind ready to enter mine as soon as I let my guard down. I let Nicah take the animals control and we go forward, past the impromptu checkpoint, through the thoughts lapping like the ocean around us. We're clear. We're going to make it. As long as Nicah doesn't try anything. He's so angry . . . . . . we might *not* make it. We might not. In the back, I hear the man whispering to Grace, feel the warmth radiating from her, the way her fear is melting from her at his words. I keep a straight face, thinking nothing. We just *have* to make it. +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] Great skies. We made it. We made it. I wait. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Thirty . . . A sob escapes my throat. I gasp for air like a fish out of water, trying to breathe again. From behind me comes a cry of joy, and I turn to see Scully wrap her arms around Mulder's shoulders as he sits in silent shock. Alita reaches out blindly for me. I grasp her hand. "Made it," she whispers faintly. I throw my head back, and everything rises within me in a single whoop of triumph and joy. We made it. +++++ The cave stretches out in front of us like the mouth of a monster, with teeth and darkness and death. I shiver, even though I am not the one going into it. Mulder and Scully are staring at the caverns and I know they are both thinking one thing: freedom. They are wearing backpacks filled with food and water, enough to last them two or three weeks. I hope they survive that long. They need to find some more people, team up, and either form a resistance or join one. They need to free our race from these overlords. This opening is hidden between two mountains, and the sunlight peaks through in a cold glory of light, and it bleaches Scully's doll-like features to haggard shadows and Mulder's skin to a pallorous white. I want to go with them. Despite the fear and the worry, I want to be free of all this. But I can't. This implant marks me, keeps me bound to these colonies, like the chains that the slaves wear to keep them in from escaping. They lied to us. We are not higher than our servants. But they can escape, while we cannot. I hold back a sigh. I just can't win. Scully moves forward first, grasping my hand. "Thank you, Nicodemus," she says softly. I'm sorry, I want to say to them, without knowing why. Instead, I manage to make my lips form a smile, and squeeze her hand. "Come with us," Mulder says after some length. "You can escape -- " A bitter taste burns the back of my throat and tears sting my eyes. "No," I reply sharply, cutting him off. "I'm an Imp. My master is on vacation. When he returns, he'll know I'm gone and send guards after me. This'll be the first place he'll look, because it's the most logical place to run to." Mulder puts his hands on his hips, glaring like a spoiled child who has just had his toys taken away. Cold fire sparks in his green glance. I wave my hands at him. "Go, you fool. We can't be gone too long." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Scully move forward, wrapping her arms around Alita. The gesture makes my skin crawl. Go, go, go, my mind shouts. Before it's too late. Scully moves back to his side, touching his shoulder gently. Mulder sighs, running his hands through his hair. "Fine," he says dully. "Good luck, Nic." I let out a breath of relief. They both fade into the darkness. +++++ [ ALITA ] The caves. Caves. Such a strong, impressive, threatening word. Some of my people have controlled their fear, their natural proclivity for open skies and empty space to delve deep into these last Human outposts. I could never, never do that. The yawning mouths of these beasts, the chasm of rock and density that waits for gravity to pull just a fraction harder, waits for some unsuspecting breathing being to walk right into its trap before closing down, down, down . . . scares me beyond belief. I shudder and feel the sick choke of fear clawing at me. The man and Grace look thrilled, look positively radiant in the grim glow of earth and mineral and limestone. My first instinct is to pull Grace back to me, to jerk her small, frail flesh and brittle bones body back into my own, keep her safe. But this is not Grace. He calls her Scully. I have to remember that. They beg for Nicad to come, but behind that is a fear that he will come, that his rage and anger will boil over into mindlessness, and there is no place for that in the Caves. I can sense the Resistance members drifting to the top, coming closer to us. If I weren't doing this, I'd be notifying the guards we just passed, telling them I sensed renegade human emotion. They would have to be more careful. Grace comes up to me, eyes bright with tears, her head shaking reluctantly, mouth frowning. I can't really tell anymore what she thinks. I can sense some things, gather them from the edges like cotton candy, but we took the Implant out, picked it from her neck and sliced it from the thin skin of her hip so that no one could follow them. So I don't know her anymore. She has become a stranger. Her lips touch my cheek, her arms circling me tightly. I wince. Human skin is so . . . abrasive, so very grating. But it's Grace. Grace. My Grace. "Come with us," she whispers. I shake my head and put my own hissing mouth to her ear, close and quiet. "Don't come back," I say softly, hoping she knows, hoping this will let her release this place into the snow drifts of memory. Pulling back suddenly, she looks at me, hurt tinging her eyes and mind. I say nothing, offer her nothing. I hurt. But there can be nothing for her here. And everything for her in the Caves. She turns, her body slipping sideways into space, into the fading immense black of the mouth, fire hair dulled by dark. She is gone. They are gone. It is only me, and Nicah. And Nicad's great great anger. +++++ There is still so much darkness, so much anger frothing around inside this small space of wagon and beast and human and alien. Nicah is silent, reflective maybe, or perhaps simply afraid, perhaps simply disgusted. I can no longer sense my Grace, no longer feel her touch of sweetness along my mind like candy at the lips. The hills offer us mild protection from the sharp wind blowing through. I think about Grace, about her life before and how hard she must have fought for life, for the right to continue on. She has changed since Before, has become somewhat more innocent, I think. On the file of her, there was a picture, a brief candid of a face in turmoil, in the rarest glimpse of life altering forever pain. It was a picture intended to show my people that the Humans are better off with us to make them simple, better off with us letting them forget what they can no longer have. I think it is a cruelty instead. She knows there was more to her than the meager impressions floating in her vast mind, understands that at one point, she was an intelligent, vibrant woman. And she knows that now, she is nothing more than a woman, nothing more than that. All I can hope, is that the man will offer her more of herself than she could have ever found alone. Together, maybe they can rebuild their own humanity. Rebuild a lost, dying race. ++++++++++ stay tuned for part 6 same bat time same bat channel feedback is not optional resist or serve upyours1013@rock.com lebontrager@harding.edu missing parts? want some great fanfic? DS: http://members.tripod.com/~Darkstryder/index-2.html RM: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/5007/ ++++++++++ The Emissary II: Grail Chapter 6 By Darkstryder and RocketMan upyours1013@rock.com _and_ lebontrager@harding.edu Info in Chapter 1. ++++++++++ the emissary II: grail darkstryder rocketman ++++++++++ "I want to know that there was some point to it all. Some greater purpose, some meaning to existence, rather than that we simply came this far so we could all go to hell in one great flaming ruin. That's what I want." john sheridan from the novelization of "in the beginning" +++++ [ NICODEMUS ] As I move to get out of the caravan, Alita grabs my arm roughly. Panic floods me. Oh no it's a trap and they've been captured and she's going to take me away and torture me and drain my mind of information . . . Her mouth moves by my ear, hot breath flowing over my now-cold skin. "We are unclean," she hisses. I open my mouth, startled. This is not what I expected. She pushed me away and I drop to my knees. I manage to stutter, "But -- but we just saved the entire Human race." I watch her reptilian eyes, suddenly dark, as the wagon begins to move steadily down the road. The last light of day slips behind the hills. This can't be happening. I'm not suppose to be alone, tossed away as if nothing more than an afterthought by someone I was just beginning to trust. I'm not suppose to be sitting here in the road, still burning with rage and hatred and fear. "Unclean," I whisper, tasting the bitter word on my tongue. +++++ I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my reflection. Short hair. Black eyes. Golden skin. Jagged scar across one cheek. "Hello," I say softly to the man on the other side. What was this man's life like? Did he dream, laugh, cry? Did he love, did he have someone to love him back? Was his name even Nicodemus Blackwood, or something simpler, like John Smith? I slip to the floor, gagging. My heart is a slow battering ram against the inside of my ribs. I'm nothing. Nothing. My hands find their way to the back of neck and I run the pads of my fingers over the small scar. Beneath my skin lies a device used to destroy any hope of freedom that I may have. Parasites. All of Them. My heart is black and my body is blue, beaten by what has happened to my people. I raise myself from the floor, staring to look at the man in the looking glass. Unclean. Something slices through the back of my neck, something that isn't pain and isn't cold, but familiar in a strange, frightening way. One of Them is close, close enough to feel the fear that radiates through my implant. Anger surges through me, fed by fears, my shame at feeling fear, and the rage that has driven me this far. Rage, rage. I thought it would be gone by now. Freedom will not be won during my lifetime. It was foolish to think that before. We will always be dominated by these beings. When They stole our pasts, They took our future with Them. I'm forever destined to being one of Their mindless, faceless drones, carrying out Their dirtywork. I won't do it. I can't do it. Not anymore, now that I know. Our people are examples to the rest of the galaxy: don't try to escape and don't ever, *ever* fight back, or this will be the result. And nothing can help you once this happens. The man in the mirror grimaces. I lean against the sink, trying to steady myself. My hands slide against the porceline -- I tear my hand back, finger stinging. The blood flows from the wound smoothly down my hand, like sweet wine pouring from the mouth of a bottle. My eyes find the razor that I cut myself on resting against the ledge. The copper handle catches the sunlight, glittering like like a piece of golden jewelry. It is this moment that I stop believing. +++++ [ ALITA ] I left him standing there, a pale dirty figure in the road, his left hand raised as if he were going to wave good-bye. Nicah turned at the last moment, and now I am alone with this disease. Unclean, unclean. The words whisper through me in their language, their tongue that has to slide along the teeth and make noises like an animal so they can communicate. The idea floats through my entire being like heat from the flames of the sun, warming the core of my existence with the wretchedness of my act. I have dishonored my race, corrupted the mind core, diseased the entire living breathing People. It was wrong. It was so very wrong. I can feel them coming even now. Wondering where I have gone off to, asking themselves what underhandedness I've committed. I can't let myself live for this. I can't let my actions destroy my people, but I can't let them find Grace either. She has to live, to find a way to be the spirit that I can sense inside her. She has so much there, so much intelligence and love just simmering beneath the facade we placed over her. I can't let them take me alive. Or they'll take her too. My People have done too much taking. I will give in return. The road is stretched taut with waiting, harsh and cutting into the rich roll of land and earth. The sky is asleep today, grey clouds comprising its face, soft white its eyelashes, the whisper of wind its breath. I find the place, the outcrop of limestone rock, worn with rain and wind and hands of man. It cowers on the side of the road like a runaway slave, dark and shifting in the shadows of the sleepy day. I take the bond knife, used to cut the humans free of their ropes, and walk without deviance to this rock. Slipping into its darker recesses, I feel the scrape of sharp stone, the harsh nails of my own soul digging into me. I must do this last thing. I must get it right. I lie in the dirt, arms outstretched to embrace the sky, mouth open to say the words of the people I will give my life to. My breath quickens, I feel a flash of fear at the pain of it, at the very idea that I will *be no more* in just a short span of seconds. My hands quiver, the taste of earth and rock heavy in my breathing, the feel of stone and dirt and scraggly grass and tree root against my back. "Grace," I whisper, one last delight of words rolling, spinning, tumbling from these awkward lips. The blade, it comes, slips above my eyes, held high, held dangerous, held by my own hand. Unclean, unclean. Plunge . . . I scream. The blade, between the soft spot of my eyes, my full vision, the green hiss of my blood hitting the oxygen air, the writhing as I feel it, feel it, oh . . . gods, I feel it. I feel it. Feel nothing. ++++++++++ the end for now ++++++++++ feedback is not optional resist or serve upyours1013@rock.com lebontrager@harding.edu missing parts? want some great fanfic? DS: http://members.tripod.com/~Darkstryder/index-2.html RM: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/5007/ ++++++++++