xfc: "Diametrically Opposed" (17 of ?) by mountainphile
mountainphile
by mountainphile
MSR, X-File, WIP
NC-17 in some chapters
Scully insights, new angles, and Mulder hatches a plan.
Full headers, notes and disclaimer in Chapter 1, or go to
http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile/diametric.html
mounta...@yahoo.com
Kudos to Diana Battis and Audrey Roget for incomparable tag-
team beta
************
Chapter 17
************
The Knoll complex, Hocking, Ohio
March 16, 2001
11:30 AM
Anton Krieg relished his strolls through the subterranean test
chambers, because they were cool, efficient places where he
could soak in the solitude and indulge his baser, voyeuristic
appetite.
De-humidified air swirled beneath the low ceilings, laced with
smells of mold, chemical, and fear. The metallic clink-clank
of instruments and soft hum of machinery provided ambient
music. Doctor-scientists conferred in whispers while they
went about their work, reminding Krieg of diners in an upscale
restaurant: men with heads bent over their plates in what
appeared to be gustatory self-absorption, white cloth draped
between them and the object of their focus.
Unexpectedly, commotion came from one of the small rooms on
the perimeter; high keening gurgles and muffled sobs that
disrupted the tranquility of his surroundings.
He stopped, pointed at the open door. "You'd better sedate
that one."
"If you please," interjected a scientist who sidled forward
after motioning to a colleague. His eyes above the white
surgical mask blinked in alarm. "Right now it's necessary to
catalogue the effects of certain cleansing agents as they
enter the body intravenously. A new technique we're trying.
We've been flushing out the system to rid it of toxins in
preparation for the virus."
Krieg stared, noting the fruitless agitation of the female
subject against the straps that bound her to the padded table.
It was the college student they'd recently acquired.
"You've had several days for that already."
"Understood, Mr. Krieg. But we don't want to repeat past
mistakes with a deadline closing in on us. Heavy sedation
would be unwise until the subject is fully prepared and the
new viral agent introduced."
"When will that be?"
"Within the next twelve hours, I should think. But we'll
attend to the disturbance right away."
"How?"
"I've called in our 'whisperer' to calm this one down."
While Krieg watched in fascination, a lean figure with dark,
nearly shoulder-length hair and wire-rimmed glasses took his
place beside the patient. Dressed in white scrubs he spoke
over her in a curious, incoherent, and mesmerizing drone.
Obviously he'd fared better than most, having been spared
syringes with long tubes that snaked behind them, the shiny
knives, stinging liquids, and indignities that were the fate
of most test subjects.
"Hei, little one... Puhutteko suomea? Hmmm? Okey-dokey... "
A soothing baritone in a largely unfamiliar tongue reached
their ears.
"Why wasn't I made aware of this?" Krieg demanded.
"We discovered it quite by accident," explained the white mask
with haste. "You can see he's still highly intelligent
despite the bilateral cingulotomy performed on him some time
ago. Listen to how he uses his voice. The low tones and
gibberish are quite effective in conjunction with the milder
sedative the patient received several days ago."
"What language?"
"One of the Scandinavian dialects, we think, mixed with
nonsense and English... though it serves no purpose other than
to calm and distract the subject. Whatever works to keep them
docile without additional narcotic."
"What's he saying?"
A shrug. "The important thing is what he's accomplishing for
us."
Krieg closed in to better observe the eerie exchange.
"Quiet, now, nuori tytto... sinula on kauniit siniset
silmat... "
She was a very young woman with the pale tuft of a true
blonde. Her smallish breasts heaved beneath the leather
straps that wound around wrists and ankles, over chest and
hips. Bleating piteously, silvery drool crept from one corner
of her mouth. Krieg wondered if she could see far enough past
the lengths of plastic tubing and her own terror to know that
she lay naked as a sacrificial lamb.
He had watched her after capture, too wide-eyed and frozen to
fight back like newcomers usually did. Her breath fluttered
like a frightened, unbelieving bird when they'd stripped away
her clothing and disinfected her before strapping her down and
shoving the plastic feeding tube up one nostril and down her
gullet. Paralyzed, even when her legs were pried apart for
the Foley catheter tube, which drained yellow into a bag at
the table's side.
But the scalpel cuts and stinging IV designed to prep and
flush out her body were an altogether different story. As the
fluids varied in composition and potency, so would the pain
increase. The subject hiccupped and hyperventilated while
Krieg smiled, drinking in her panic like an aperitif.
"Rest. Rest, little one," whispered the prisoner beside her.
"Mita kuuluu, pikkusisar? Hmmm? Mista sina tulet?"
The girl lolled her head toward her comforter; she tried to
garble something back, but ended up coughing on her own saliva
in the process.
"Ei, no, no... "
Gentle swipes of a washcloth to her mouth and chin, like one
would do for a sick child. Krieg frowned. He found this
bedside indulgence outlandish and irritating.
"Don't let it choke itself to death," he snapped as he stepped
away. "Be sure to call me before you administer the virus. I
want to observe its effect before the merchandise is handed
over."
"Of course, Mr. Krieg."
"And keep an eye on your 'whisperer' there; I don't think I'd
trust him."
************
Toskala home base
11:30 AM
Bent forward at the waist over Tusk's bedspread, Scully
relinquished her backside and some degree of modesty to his
gentle attentions. She tried to dull her chagrin by imagining
Mulder's reaction were he to stumble in upon the scene.
Phillip Padgett's half-empty apartment came to mind, her
partner frozen in the bedroom doorway with an expression that
rivaled his legendary panic face. Poised for action, gun
drawn, every sense on red alert. He'd been over-the-top in
his defense of her then, since nothing close to *a priori* had
ever warranted rescue.
Which begged the question: if Mulder's protective instincts
had been extreme before they became lovers, how would he
respond now? Incensed by the spectacle of another man
ruminating over her bare ass, she felt sure Mulder would dive
in first and ask questions later, throwing himself between
what he perceived to be her compromised position and harm's
way.
And how would Tusk answer such interference?
Rather than providing distraction, the daydream only sharpened
her misgivings. She hastily shifted her thoughts to less
volatile ground, toward the fresh dressing and the fingertips
applying it over her skin.
First and foremost, no sign of infection had developed
overnight, for which she was grateful. The injury remained
tender, but meds would control pain as long as she didn't
overstress the site and end up tearing out stitches.
Which was a likely prospect.
Also, despite her suggestive pose, Tusk had done nothing
untoward in his examination of her wound. Appreciative
insinuations aside, it went a long way in solidifying her
trust in this man. After last night's altercation, she
realized their relational boundaries could remain sacrosanct -
- provided she sent him no blatant "signal" to the contrary.
Which posed a slight problem as to what would be construed as
a come-on in this atmosphere of casual affection and physical
familiarity.
Finished, Tusk's hands cradled her sides to steady her while
she regained her feet. She quickly tugged her panties and
fleece bottoms from thigh to waist height, eluding his
mischievous scrutiny by keeping her back to him. Once off the
examining table she could become fair game.
"Thank you," she said, clearing her throat.
"Always my pleasure. Meant with the utmost respect, of
course."
"Of course."
He grinned at the hint of sarcasm. "I'll see about stronger
meds in a little while. Right now we have other business: I
want to show you and the rest of the group what Mason copped
last night from your friend at the Super 8."
"Something more substantial than Spudnuts, I hope."
His brows quirked in perplexity under his shiny crown. "No,
but I guarantee it's just as sweet. Let's go."
The close-knit clan into which she'd been adopted had already
assembled itself around the low table in the livingroom.
Nearly everyone nursed a fresh cup of coffee and the air was
thick with strong, heady fumes of French Roast and
expectation. With Tusk's aid Scully eased her right hip
against a couch pillow and accepted a steaming mug from
Cricket after she'd settled in. It must be her fate, she
decided, to be perpetually sandwiched between the two
Toskalas, patchouli and mousse on one side, rampant
testosterone on the other.
Leaning back with care she took a sip and pondered the members
in the group. She found herself focusing on details to which
she had steadily become inured: namely, the proliferation of
decoration, metallic or otherwise, within this circle of
unlikely new friends.
Mason was standing, arms and neck entwined with foliage that
sprouted from the sleeves and neck his tee-shirt. He'd
sacrificed or altered some of his more obtrusive jewelry for
the sake of the mission. Gone were the eyebrow and nostril
rings, Scully noticed, while the long gleaming septum bar had
been replaced with a shorter version of the same. Mole,
Needlenose, and Footer all sported random piercings and
tattoos. A furtive glance toward her left revealed Cricket's
lip ring and an exquisite blue teardrop that accented the bony
curve of her jaw.
An even more furtive glance to the right brought her nearly
eye-to-eye with the silver studs in Tusk's earlobe and the
intricate artwork on a forearm that pressed against her
sleeve. Though she'd given no indication of it the previous
night, she'd been well aware of the color blazing over his
naked chest, shoulders and biceps, each design intended to
accentuate his unique and impressive musculature.
Natural canvas indeed, she thought, taking another sip to
dilute her musings.
"Listen up, everybody," said Mason, "because I have some
really cool shit here. It came to us because of Dana,
compliments of the manager down at the Super 8."
With reverence he leaned over the table and spread out the
edges of what appeared to be a very old map. Four pairs of
hands shot out to secure the corners. Yellowed with age,
brittle and curling, it drew his audience like needle and
thread, closer and tighter into a pucker around the table.
"Old schematics?" asked Mole, the eager beaver.
"You got it," Mason confirmed. "And at least seventy-five
years ancient, if you can handle that. This blueprint shows
the original infrastructure of the mental health center before
that fire in the '20s damaged a big chunk of it. It goes way
beyond your boilerplate utility and access tunnels that were
restored in the reconstruction. This dinosaur shows what's
been there since the 1860s. Mind-blowing, man!"
Their exhalations, blinking eyes, and grins of joy reminded
Scully of kids opening a windfall present on Christmas
morning. Craning her neck hard to see, Scully felt Tusk's
hand shift to her lower back, gently scooting her closer to
the table.
"Sweet enough for you?" he whispered.
She detected a complicated network of blue lines that showed
little correspondence to the other maps she'd studied at
Tusk's insistence. Obviously they indicated lower, deeper
levels and subbasements that had been forgotten over time.
Tunnels and dungeons that, damaged in the fire, were sealed up
-- or were kept hidden for uses other than mere storage or
utility access.
"Holy shit, this is stuff we never knew existed!" This from
Footer. Murmurs of awe and discovery continued to waft over
the low table.
"Take a good hard look, people," she heard Tusk coach,
"because this is essential AMEX for the mission. Only, you
get to store it up here." He tapped his temple with a finger.
"Looks like we got homework," said Needlenose, giving Cricket
a nudge.
"Shuttup, you tool," she sniped back.
Mole knelt beside the table in his need to get a better view.
"You said it came from the dude who runs the Super 8? The guy
who's a friend of Dana's?"
She pinned Mason with a sharp look. "Don't tell me you
actually divulged our plans to him?"
"No way." He shook his head with vigor. "But this guy Glenn
is a lot smarter than he looks or acts, believe me, and I feel
deep-down we can trust him as a friend. I looked in his eyes
and heard his story. He knows when to keep his mouth shut and
came to some accurate conclusions about what went down and why
after the hit on your room last night. Now he's hell-bent on
helping you out any way he can." He grinned shyly at Scully.
"He's pretty sweet on you, Dana."
"No kidding?" Tusk looked over, interested. The rest of the
group shared a collective chuckle.
"While we were waiting for things to settle down, he told me
about what his grandfather saw and heard back in the olden
days. He worked construction up at the Knoll in the '20s and
these blueprints were ones he salvaged and hid all this time."
"A bricklayer," Scully said.
"Yeah, turns out he was the foreman. Glenn's grandpa actually
took him inside once, when he was a kid. And after being
raised right around that location, he still can't get the
night screams out of his head or shake the stories he's been
told about what really went on inside that place. Anyway, he
told me to hold on a minute, went out to his apartment, and
came back with this..."
He reached out and put a loving hand on the surface of the
paper.
"But that doesn't leave us a lot of time for integrating
completely new schematics," noted Scully. "It might be better
to wait another day. Postpone until tomorrow."
Tusk's jaw squared. "No waiting. We go tonight, because
those ships may show up at any time before the vernal equinox,
their target date. We strike now, when they don't expect
us... and because the longer we wait, the more time they have
to find out you're still among the living."
"The sooner the better," agreed Mason, and more nods of
solidarity bobbed from around the table.
"All right, then." Speaking in a firm voice, Tusk exuded
confidence, pumping up his troops. "It's new, it's different,
but we can assimilate it and use it to our advantage. Lives
are depending on us -- and we want to take care of our own
asses at the same time."
"Fuckin'-A," agreed Mole.
"The layout here allows for more cover, depending on what's
accessible and how well it's guarded. More points of access
and retreat, one of them near that left branch we passed last
night, right outside the complex. Our best bet is to get as
low as we can and look for entry to the upper levels. Looks
like there's one surfacing here, near the bone orchard, and
here--" He pointed his finger across the brittle paper "--
out in the woods, where the original infirmary was supposedly
built."
Scully remembered the electrified fence and the nameless
structures that sat decaying in the gray forest beyond it. "I
saw something yesterday morning which could confirm that
theory. The original labs, operating room, and morgue were
probably located in that last area you described. Away from
the main complex, as was often the case in older
institutions."
"Good thinking."
"Okay, everybody," said Mason. "You heard the boss. Get on
it and get those gray cells cracking again. Memorize. In a
few hours we'll discuss our strategy."
Movement rippled around the table as the group settled in to
the business of studying.
Handing off her mug to Cricket, Scully rose stiffly to her
feet. "I need to move around for a bit and try to work out
some of the kinks from yesterday... " She twisted slightly
from the waist, hand to her ribcage. Still sound after that
dive into the shed, thank God. If only that broken glass --
"You okay?"
"I'll be fine," Scully assured her. She noted how Cricket's
eyes, large with misgiving, tracked her every move. "Really."
She touched the girl's wrist and smiled. "Don't worry about
me."
But it came as no surprise to her when Tusk left the others
and accompanied her to the window at the far end of the room.
He stood close when they stopped to look out at the gray,
overcast sky, hands half-tucked into his jeans pockets.
He turned, his dark eyes bored down into hers. "What's eating
at you?"
"Well, considering our present situation, take your pick."
"Is it the medication? Because I'm taking Mason into town
with me soon to hunt you up some relief for tonight. And we
won't be shopping at Walgreen's, by the way. I have my own
contacts."
"I gathered that much," she said, remembering stories of his
previous illegal dealings on behalf of the escapees. "Don't
even get into it, because I don't feel up to slapping cuffs on
you right now."
Tusk didn't respond to the comment, though it made him smile.
"What else is going on?"
She glanced around with uneasiness. "Look, I feel like I'm
somehow acting under a false pretense here."
"Tell me."
"This so-called gift? I'll admit to you that Glenn was a lot
friendlier toward me than I ever was to him. Actually, he
reminds me of someone I know at the Bureau who looks and
behaves similarly... and who also made it clear in his own
bumbling way that he's an admirer."
"So what? They know you're taken. You really can't blame a
guy for wanting to get as close to you as he can, even if it's
through friendship."
"Present company included?"
She could have bitten her own tongue, but the reckless words
were out. Tusk inched closer until she felt the heat
radiating from his body and his breath on her forehead.
"Until I get that signal," he murmured. "But I'm not holding
my breath."
"Wise of you."
"I assume you count me as a friend. Maybe even someone
special... who you can trust?"
"I would say so," she said with clearness and honesty, amazed
at the evolution a few turbulent days had made, "without a
doubt."
"And the feeling's mutual. None of this would've happened if
you hadn't opened yourself up to another world, to other
possibilities." Tusk rested a hand on her shoulder, cupping it
with warmth. "You know why? There's a bustle in your
hedgerow, Dana."
The slow, seductive way he murmured those last words warmed
her cheeks. Yet some of his phrasing, so like Mulder's,
seized her attention and sucked her in. "I think," she
clarified, "that you're reading far too much into this
incident with Glenn."
"In the grand scheme of things nothing's ever irrelevant.
Especially when it involves relationship and gives us an edge
at the same time. You see what's come from your stay at the
Super 8?"
"Yes," she said dryly, "a woman's accidental murder, to be
precise."
"No, serendipity. You made a friend with connections and some
brains; we all got a lucky break by learning he's someone we
can trust, who hates the same people we do. It just proves
how valuable *you* are to us. More options are at our
disposal... and it gives us a better chance to sneak into that
place, take care of business, and get the hell out of there
with our skins intact."
"What about contacting Mulder?"
"You mean my competition?" Tusk gave a stiff smile. "Just
kidding. I've already made up my mind to include him -- but
not until I feel the time's right for it."
************
Chancey, Ohio
2:00 PM
Willow hadn't given up the ghost without a fight, Mulder
discovered after extricating himself from underneath the bed
and staggering to the kitchen. She'd been taken down by two
shots, one that tore through the side of the neck and another
that went straight through her black-magic heart.
But a man's body sprawled alongside Willow's on the cheap
linoleum floor. His face wore a look of eternal consternation
beneath the neat hole in his forehead and his hair shone slick
in the dull light. Or what was left of it after her bullet
had aerated the back of his skull.
Mulder's service weapon was missing. He found Willow's
fingers clutching its handle as though, even in death, she
intended to keep some part of him forcibly within her power.
However gifted she was, she still hadn't time to work her
chosen brand of magic on the intruders in the kitchen. Which
made Mulder wonder -- were certain spells like brews intended
for aging or slow steeping before they achieved full potency
and effectiveness? Or was he just a sucker for intelligent
women with a paranormal bent, who gave his hypotheses
credibility and had insight into his troubled past?
Remembering their last interaction, he wanted to retch.
What looked like raspberry syrup pooled beneath the bodies,
tacky from exposure to air. Stepping carefully to avoid blood
spatter and brains, he reached for a dishtowel hanging from
the oven door handle to wipe down his weapon after prying it
from Willow's fingers. The chamber showed three bullets were
discharged. How many "pops" had he heard from beneath the
bed? Apparently several either missed their target or had
been carried away as unwelcome trophies.
A crime scene and ballistics check might solve that mystery.
But on this case? Not even a consideration.
Lurching from the kitchen on gummy-legs, he did a sweep of the
house before heading outside. The sun hung high in the sky,
masked by a fresh bank of clouds. In the root cellar nearby
he found the real Willow Wind Nightingale, who'd probably gone
missing shortly after the LIFE organization called her with
their ill-fated request.
She looked like a grandmotherly farmwoman, crumpled in a
petrified heap among her sacks, bushel baskets, and canning
jars. Her neck gaped open, a dark red watermelon slice grin.
Shaking his head, he climbed out, found his cell, and checked
for messages. Nothing from Scully, using their liaison's
phone. In frustration he punched in Hostetler's number.
"Agent Mulder! Where the hell have you been?" The Dean
sounded rattled after treading water alone for hours.
"I caught a few winks here in little old Chancey, believe it
or not. And not by choice, I might add."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning Willow Nightingale threw me for a loop again. Or
whatever her real name is; I found the genuine article in a
basement with her throat slit. Oh, and while I was sleeping
it off, someone joined the party and put our impostor out of
her misery."
"Whoa! You're telling me she's dead too? This is -- this is
getting way out of hand. How soon can you get back?"
"No faster than my POS rental. How's your secretary doing?"
"Val's holding her own, still unconscious. Look, I'd feel a
lot better if you got here on the double. I've been called in
for another meeting, whatever that means, at Provost
Mellingham's office and it worries me. There's something
about him I don't trust."
"Bright boy."
"Don't rub it in, Agent Mulder."
"Did you find out where Cricket lives off-campus?"
"Uh, there's no physical address listed anywhere in her files.
Just a post office box number in Hocking. But I did locate
another Toskala in the phone book. Must be some relation."
"You think?" Mulder was in no mood for coddling. "Give me
the address."
"Fourteen West Union Street, not too far from the Starbucks.
It's a tattoo place called Art Apocalypse and a Risto Toskala
is the proprietor. May not be open now, though, over break
and because it's Sunday. A lot of these local specialty shops
cater mostly to student business and shut down when they're
gone."
"I'll check it out. This might be my golden opportunity to
get that Elvis tattoo on my left ass cheek I've always
wanted."
"Give me a break."
Mulder sneered as he walked back towards his car. "You think
I'm kidding, don't you?"
Silence on Hostetler's end of the line; apparently he wasn't
about to push that one. But Mulder was brooding about the
illustrated and bearded young man who had passed him a cell
phone at the fire and put him in touch with Scully. Mason,
she'd said his name was, someone she insisted they could
trust...
He had no choice but to take her word for it, since their
liaison hadn't been forthcoming since last night's call.
How did she become entangled with this person in the first
place? It was that lead she'd kept secret from him while he
hobnobbed with Willow at Wilson Hall, the memories of which
put a bad taste in his mouth. How he'd downplayed Scully's
concerns and followed the psychic decoy like a sheep, nibbling
the scraps and shreds of truth she dropped for him. Luring
him...
It was his lack of awareness and selfish personal agenda which
drove Scully into such diametric opposition, sending her
deeper undercover, and ultimately making her a target. Was
the student called Cricket, with her face jewelry and Goth
image, somehow involved? And if so, to what purpose?
"Hey, Hostetler... you remember the tattooed guy who talked to
you last night? What are the chances he works at this 'Art
Apocalypse'?"
"Agent, every other student on campus has tattoos or body
piercings."
"But this guy's a human billboard, a fucking picture book,"
replied Mulder, breaking into a jog. "He could be first
cousin to 'The Conundrum'."
"Who is that?"
"Someone who's all about puzzles. Try googling him when you
get a chance."
Jamming the phone back into his pocket and picking up speed,
Mulder reached his car and began tossing off the dried brush
and leaves he'd used for cover.
Little pieces of another puzzle, of Amanda's disappearance --
and now Scully's attempted murder -- were coming to light,
becoming more accessible, like mismatched bone chips working
their way to the surface. On his own now, if he sifted in the
right places maybe he'd discover how they all fit together.
The question was, would the bigger picture help him to find
Amanda Carmichael?
Even more importantly, would it eventually lead him to Scully?
************
The Knoll Complex
2:00 PM
The Big Man stood facing the window, the glass of scotch in
his meaty hand reflecting thin rays of light that poked like
amber fingers through the clouds. He gently swirled the
contents, stirring his thoughts into words.
"Tell me what happened."
"A team was sent out several hours ago to eliminate someone
Mr. Krieg felt was no longer in a position of trust,"
whispered a voice behind him. "They carried out the sentence,
but sustained a casualty; only one man reported back, sir."
"Who was the target?"
"It was the woman posing as the local psychic."
A grunt of discontent, a sideward glance in the speaker's
direction. "She's dead, then, along with another of our
people?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Krieg had not informed me of this intention. Or its
result, as of yet. That concerns me."
Again the low voice spoke. "He says you needn't be troubled
with such matters. The same with the strike on Dean
Hostetler's secretary, as well as the FBI agent's death -- "
"Then his instincts are short-sighted. I want to be alerted
privately to any further developments, or any independent
decisions on his part."
"Understood, sir."
The Big Man exhaled and pivoted slowly, resting grave,
ruthless eyes on his informant. "Especially if Mr. Krieg
endeavors to keep them confidential."
************
End of Chapter 17
Continued in Chapter 18
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