TITLE: LUNAR EFFECT
AUTHOR: Blackwood
URL: http:/members.tripod.com/black.wood/index.html
E-MAIL: entreamis@yahoo.com
CATEGORY: Story, MSR, RST, Angst
RATING: Varied (PG13,R,NC17)
SPOILERS: Trust No 1. Nothing else major.
ARCHIVE: Yes.  With permission, name and headers intact.
SUMMARY: Rendezvous reattempted.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Happy Halloween fellow philes!  Like the 
Nickelback song says, "It's been awhile," but it sure is nice to see
you again.  Gratitude to Audrey Roget, Forte and mountainphile for
encouragement and great beta.  My holiday treat is an angsty tale. 
My trick is that it will be posted in four consecutive, daily
segments.  Suspend belief and enjoy the ride!


LUNAR EFFECT
by Blackwood

Doggett drives.  Reyes checks the mirrors for telltale signs of 
anyone who might be following.  You sit in the back of the car 
and stare out the tinted window.  Winter's early dusk descends as 
back road becomes Main Street.  Heavy industry gives way to 
commercial venues.  The ubiquitous white church slips by, along 
with grocery stores, coffee shops and varied houses, exterior 
lights flickering on against the dark. Periodic street signs 
provide prophetic warning: Danger... Yield... Stop... Stop... 
STOP.

You wish that you could.

Stopping at a traffic light in the middle of town, you spot a 
couple walking together. They see only one another as they move 
towards an alley, ignorant of your gaze.  Two become one in the 
shadows against the brick wall.  You remember the way it felt the 
last time *he* held you like that.  The synapses of memory are 
only newly formed.  You worry you'll forget.

It's the second time in as many weeks you've failed to connect 
with Mulder.  The first attempt was shocking: the murder at the 
depot, the revelation that you are under surveillance and, of 
course, the death of the Super Soldier -- smashed against the 
quarry wall.

Tonight you waited at a different depot in a different town, 
coordinates changed.  Doggett and Reyes again accompanied you, 
taking every precaution to protect you.  Again, you wore the 
scarf he sent at Christmas, remembering his scrawled note: "Saw 
this and thought of your eyes."  You imagined the way he must 
have caressed it, sliding the material through elegant hands, 
calling to mind the touch of those hands on you.

The train stopped and you scanned the platform for a familiar 
figure, but when it pulled away you were still alone.  An hour 
later you realized he wasn't coming.  "He must know something you 
don't," Reyes suggested, taking your arm and leading you to the 
parking lot where Doggett waited behind the wheel of the car.

"You okay?" he asks as you pulled open the rear door and climbed 
in.

"I'm fine," you respond knowing it a lie, uncaring whether he 
believes you or not.  

Approaching from the flatlands, the luminous bauble of the lit 
Capitol building glows in the far distance.  D.C. has its share 
of grime and crime, but the Federal District is beautiful -- the 
monuments, the intrinsic power and prestige, the deep symbolism 
and classic architecture.  You're a patriot at heart, but the 
meaning you sought in your work has somehow found its expression 
in another place.  Odd that it would be motherhood that gives you 
the purpose you'd hoped to find in medicine, or the F.B.I. for 
that matter.

Single parenthood is challenging, even with Mom's help.  You now 
understand what she endured, raising her brood while Ahab was at 
sea.  How she must have missed him.  You remember the photos she 
showed you when you were little so you'd recognize Daddy when you 
saw him again.  It concerns you that the mementos of your life 
with Mulder reflect only casework.  Cold comfort comes from the 
knowledge that you restored his parental rights and that Will's 
birth certificate reads Scully-Mulder.

Reyes turns in her seat and looks directly at you.  The harsh 
glare of headlamps accentuates her dark eyes and the sheen of her 
hair.  "Dana," she begins, voice soft with empathy.

"Really, I'm fine," you reiterate, curtailing further inquiry.

She nods and looks at her partner.  His eyes remain on the road, 
but you note the subtle nod and cheek twitch.  They've already 
begun to develop a code.  You and Doggett never dID.  You made 
certain of that, convincing yourself that Mulder's return was 
imminent.  When you left field work, it no longer mattered.  

Up ahead, traffic slows.  It's a given during weekday rush hours, 
but on a weekend?  Choppers thump the night air.  "Something's 
up," Doggett announces, switching the radio off.  A snake of cars 
bends around a curve.  Reyes pulls out her cell phone.

It's going to be a long night.

*~*~*

If ever you needed a guardian angel, it's now.  Scully once told 
you she believed in angels, that everyone is given one at birth 
to watch over your life and help you "cross over" when you die.  
You don't remember seeing anything like that during your 
interment, but you lack memories of that time.  Does that mean 
you dIDn't qualify for Heaven?  Or is that the meaning of Hell?  
Shit. Only you could end up being the subject of the biggest X-
file of all and not recall any of it.

You boarded the train at Tyson's Corner after a tedious bus trip 
through New York and Pennsylvania.  Your communiques with the 
Gunmen were limited to pre-designated checkpoints.  Even so, you 
doubled back in Binghamton, certain you were being followed, and 
now you're late with no way to advise Scully -- again.  An 
express train rushes by on the opposite track sending tremors 
through you.  All at once, you're captured in lucid nightmare...

....shallow puffs of breath keeping terror at bay. A hard, cold 
device restrains you and you hear the muffled screams of other 
abductees.  The air is thick with the smell of fear and some odor 
you don't recognize.  Your captors approach.  You don't want to 
see them, even disguised in a remembered image plucked from your 
mind.  When they reveal their true form, you're repulsed by the 
bulbous cranium and vacuous eyes... 

....They probe your body with cool, spongy digits that make your 
skin crawl.  Their mouths never move, but you "hear" their 
vivisection plans with mounting horror.  You're shaking as the 
device pivots and you stare into a blinding overhead light 
source.  They plunder your mind, examining thoughts like tangible 
objects.  Pleasurable or painful; it makes no difference.  They 
record every nuance of reaction...

....a game of catch with Samantha on a beach.  You feel the sun on 
your face, share childish laughter.  Then, suddenly, her 
frightened voice calls your name, imploring your help.  Fear... 
Tears...

....the scent of burning tobacco and the tang of lager as 
impassioned voices argue foreign policy at a pub.  Faces from 
callow youth rise before you.  Phoebe is there, laughing...

....the taste of blood is in your mouth as an iron fist connects 
with your jaw.  You're mugged, thrown onto a trash heap.  Diana's 
hands are soothing...  It hurts...

....the heat of arousal and the feel of Scully's limbs wrapped 
around you, mouths merged, tongues probing.  You have no control 
over the orgasm that spasms your body or the probes that convert 
your pleasure to equal pain...    

....Their intrusions are unwanted, unwelcome, unstoppable. They 
rape your psyche and your body again and again.  They bisect your 
chest, exposing your battered heart.  You're not a praying man 
but now you pray for death, for release...

....How long have you been here?  Where, in fact, is here?  A 
strange whirring vibrates the room and you are wracked by sound 
waves that render you conscious and unconscious at will.  In the 
midst of your torture, you hear a voice, the only one you 
recognize. It's a beacon, a lifeline to sanity.  But it is far 
away and fading fast.  You call her name, torn from your lips.  
Your reward is a wash of heat and pain that robs all breath, all 
thought -- until a single mantra pulses its electro-chemical 
message to anyone, anyone who can hear...

....Find me...Find me...Find me...

"--all right, sir?"

You start and look up into the eyes of the train porter.  You 
must have been out for a while because this isn't the same one as 
before.  He's leaning over the back of the seat ahead of you, a 
wary expression on his pale, drawn face.  No, you're not drunk, 
you think to yourself, running a hand over your mouth as your 
pounding heart slows.  "I'm good," you declare. 

He nods.  "Your ticket?"  You reach into the pocket of your 
leather jacket.  Handing over your stub, you take a deep breath, 
still recovering from the involuntary flashback.

The porter notes your destination and furrows his brows.  "'Fraid 
your trip's gonna be a bit longer."

"How's that?"

"Conductor says there's a problem at Grangeville."

You check your watch then stand, grabbing your backpack from the 
seat beside you.  "Where can I get off?" you demand, taking him 
by surprise.

"We're heading to New Delphia.  Should be about twenty minutes."

"That's more than I can spare." You stride down the aisle.  One 
way or another, you're getting off this train.

*~*~*

Choppers drone above, searchlights burning off the night.  A 
dozen vehicles wind around a curve in the road, blocking your 
sightline to the problem, whatever it is.  A State trooper 
approaches the car.  Doggett lowers the window with one hand 
while reaching for his badge with the other.  "What's goin' on, 
Officer?" he asks, flashing his badge.

"Chemical spill at one of the trucking facilities," the elder man 
says, hand resting on an unsnapped gun holster.

Reyes leans towards the open window and flashes the man a winning 
smile. "We need to get to the Beltway."

"Where you headed?"

"Baltimore. Is there another way through?" She plays it sweet 
while Doggett watches the mirrors.

Rubbing a hand through a stiff white crew cut, the cop shakes his 
head.  "'Fraid this two-lane is it.  Might be a while."

Doggett grunts his displeasure.  "Thought I left the L.I.E. back 
in New York."

"You from 'round there?"

"Born and raised."

The officer dips down, peering into the back seat where you sit 
without a sound. "You all Fibbies?"

"Yeah." 

The man is cheery enough, but there's something in his attitude 
that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Call it instinct.  
Call it intuition.  Whatever it is, you don't like it.  Looking 
through the rear window, you spy two dark sedans slowing behind 
the Taurus. "We've got company," you murmur just loud enough for 
the car's occupants to hear.

"Lemme talk to them," Doggett offers, unbuckling his seat belt 
and opening the door.  The trooper is forced back, but he stays 
nearby.

"Be careful," Reyes warns.

"Yeah," he says without inflection before leaving.  He pushes the 
door closed with a thud and leads the cop away from the car.  
Reyes is on her phone.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Getting us help," she replies.  You both peer through the 
windows to where Doggett stands speaking with the cop and two men 
in dark coats.  Their voices are low and you strain to hear their 
exchange above Reyes's call.  "Brad?  It's me."

You wonder how it is that she and Follmer know one another so 
well.  She absorbs the sarcasm you're certain Follmer is dishing.  
You?  You're ready to scream in frustration.  "They say it's a 
chemical spill," she goes on.  "I don't buy it."  Her words echo 
your own sentiment.  "Find out what you can, okay?"

You watch Doggett.  His tone is earnest and the spooks are 
listening.  You're not surprised.  He's adept at leading others.  
It's a characteristic you've come to depend on.  He gestures 
towards the road block and the dark men shake their heads.  Then 
they look over at your car.  When Doggett turns back, you see 
them look at one another.  He slips back into the car, tugging his
coat out of the way before pulling the door closed.  "They're
sticking to their story."  He keeps his gaze forward.

"You think it's true?" Reyes asks.

"I dunno."

"I called Follmer."

Doggett's head turns so that you're watching his profile.  
"What'd he have to offer?"

"He's checking into it."

"I'm sure he is."  The edge of sarcasm takes you by surprise.

"Something's wrong, John," she adds.  "I feel it."

A single helicopter scouts overhead, its high-beam focusing on 
one car, then another.  "I agree," you say with conviction.  The 
car is bathed in light.  You lean forward. "Doggett," you begin.

"I'm on it," he asserts, cutting a sharp left out of lane.  The 
trooper jumps aside to avoid being hit and yells for backup.  
Doggett juices the engine and you carve a swath through the 
center median.  You hear the slam of car doors and the squeal of 
tires in pursuit.  Your body is jostled without mercy. 

"Jesus, John!" Reyes cries above the crunch of wheels on gravel, 
her hand gripping the strap above the door as metal and rubber 
shudder off the shoulder and back onto pavement.

"Get us out of here!" you shout.

"That's what I'm trying to do!" Doggett exclaims as he guns the 
motor and you flee.

~*~*~

The landscape is shifting from rural fields to suburban sprawl.  Time
to move.  The porter follows you to the end of the car, insisting you
stay put.  Several passengers look up to hear what the commotion is
about, wondering if their safety or comfort is in jeopardy.

"Listen," you say, opening your jacket so he can see your gun.  You
show him the phony Private Investigator ID the Gunmen provided.  "I
need off this train now."  His eyes widen, but he stops arguing and
grabs a transmitter.  The train slows down as he speaks with the
conductor about a *possible* stop.  "Don't worry about it," you
interrupt, then yank open the sliding door.  A blast of cold air
whips around you as you step onto the iron coupling between the cars.
 The porter yells, "Hey!" as you toss your pack out and follow soon
after.

Tumbling into gravel, you roll down the embankment and into tall
grass.  You're up and running before anyone can follow.  You stick to
back roads, hitching rides and searching for place markers.  The
light is fading, your body is sore from the jump and it's getting
colder by the minute.

You know you're in Virginia, but you need better bearings. Your last
hitch has dropped you off in farm country without much cover except
for a filling station and an adjacent auto graveyard surrounded by
chain link fence about a hundred feet down the road. It's better than
nothing, so you head for it.

You slip through a ragged opening in the fence, hoping to find an
unlocked vehicle where you can rest for a bit.  The discarded
vehicles are dusted with grime and gloom.  You try a few handles, but
they're all locked or rusted shut.  Snaking through uneven aisles,
you decide to forego a break and look for an exit.  When you finally
see it, the double gate is closed.  Beyond lies asphalt, a low-slung
concrete structure and a single gas pump.  Dingy yellow light spills
onto crumbling concrete from the inside of the office and an
incandescent flood light above the pump.

You decide to risk making a transaction or a call.  There might even
be coffee.  That's when you hear a soft snarl at your back.  You draw
your weapon slowly, the growl increasing by increments.  Turning your
head just enough, you see it waiting at the end of the row -- tense,
dark body hunched forward, sleek head low with glinty eyes and bared
teeth.  Doberman.  Hostile E.B.E.'s have nothing over this beast when
trained to kill on command.

It's difficult to aim in the darkness, so you press your back against
the wheel of the vehicle you're squatting beside and slowly lift the
barrel of your gun.  The dog takes two steps forward and you cock the
trigger.

All at once, there's a crash and rattle of trash cans.  The dog's
head lifts towards the noise.  Someone shouts "Rambo!" in a deep bass
and the beast hares off.  You stand and creep forward to the end of
the row.  There you see the dog in a stand-off with two raccoons.  A
tall, broad figure is standing inside the now-open gate, yelling,
"Git 'em!"

You step into sight with your gun drawn, held low in front.  "Excuse
me," you shout.  The man looks your way, as does the dog, who
immediately takes several steps towards you.

"Who's there?" he calls.

"I'm an investigator and I need to get through this yard.  Can you
get your animal under control, please?"  A sharp, two-note whistle
pierces the air and the raccoons disappear into darkness.  The dog
trots half-way towards its owner, then turns back to you.  "I've got
I.D., but I need you to grab that dog," you say in your most
authoritative FBI voice.

A short leash is clipped to the dog's collar.  "Thank you," you say,
holstering your weapon.  Keeping your distance, you move into clear
sight.  In better light, you notice that the guy is younger than
you'd thought, neat cane rows accentuating a dark-skinned, clean
shaven baby face, despite your guess that he's in his early twenties.
 His girth is an illusion created by the dark green puffy down jacket
and baggy black jeans he wears.  A gold earring in the shape of a
cross adorns his left ear.

"You legit or just a peddler waitin' on a score?" he asks, cocking
his head at you and raising an eyebrow.

"I'm on a case."  You start to reach inside your jacket.  Rambo
growls.

"Settle, girl."  The dog sneezes, then sits.  A quick glance confirms
*her* gender.  You hand over your ID and wait while the dark side
counterparts of the Michelin Man and Dog size you up. "Who you
after?" he finally asks.

You holster your weapon, but keep the safety off and the snap undone.
 "I can't discuss the details," you say, pocketing the returned
slipcase.  You look over at the lit office.  "Any coffee?"

"Nothin' you wanna drink," he replies before giving you a smile.  The
gesture transforms his features and all at once, you relax.  You
scratch behind one ear, then point at the dog.  "Rambo?"

The kid shakes his head. "My Pops thought it was funny at the time."

"There's nothing funny about that dog."

"Yeah, she's a bitch," he proclaims with pride.  "You got one?"  You
drop your chin and arch your brows.  "A dog."

"Me?  No.  I'm away from home-- a lot."

"Where you headed?"

"Where are we?"

"Outskirts of Onacock."

"Interesting name."

He snickers.  "It is that.  Look, I'm closin' up.  You need a ride to
Main?

"I appreciate it but, no."

"It's a troop into town, no doubt."

You blow the air out of your lungs in a slow push past pursed lips. 
He does know the area.

"Look..." you begin, hand gesturing towards him in question.

"Jaquan, but my boys call me Jaz."

"Jaz, I gotta go."

"You may act like a cuffer, but you're not in pursuit."

"How do *you* know"

"I seen TV."  He sounds slighted, voice rising in pitch.

You assess your options.  "You always offer rides to strangers?"

"I can handle myself.  Besides, Rambo's comin' too."

"Great," you reply with little enthusiasm.  

Jaz locks the gate and the office, Rambo trotting alongside. All
three of you load into a detailed, black vintage Mustang parked
behind the building.  Rambo jumps through the front seats into the
back, then turns and presses her front paws into the center console. 
She's panting with excitement, her head uncomfortably close to yours.

You wish you felt as happy.

~*~*~

Doggett loses your pursuers.  You may not have trusted the man at
first, but he's proven a reliable partner and agent.  Monica Reyes,
on the other hand, is still a puzzle.  Her concern for people is
genuine and you like her easy-going approach.  Her embrace of extreme
possibilities reminds you of someone else whose ideas lurk on the
fringe, but she's more of a team player than Mulder ever was.

Mulder.  Time and again your thoughts turn to the man you thought
you'd see tonight. It doesn't take much to evoke the feel of his arms
holding you, his mouth warm on yours.  You close your eyes,
remembering his voice, his face, the weight of his body pressing you
into the pillows.  The last time you saw him, you were a new mom. 
The paternity test established Mulder as Will's father as biological
fact, but it wasn't until you saw him cradle his son that you fully
understood the transformational power of love.

His scattered emails are lifelines in a sea of worry.  The last one
arranged a third and final attempt at rendezvous but still, you are
alone.  It's quiet in the sedan except for the sports announcer
calling the U. Maryland vs. Chapel Hill b-ball game on the radio.  Go
Terps.  The highway is left behind and you don't question Doggett's
direction.
   
Fatigue takes its toll and thoughts wander.  Despite your best
efforts, you're beginning to understand that your life, and that of
your child, will never be normal or secure.  It's a burden that
troubles you more and more.  You close your eyes thinking of how
things *might* be...

....Outside, the trees are crayon red, orange and gold.  Inside,
coffee brews.  As you put out the cereal bowls, you hear them
pounding down the stairs -- father and son.  They burst into the
kitchen, Will in the lead wearing the ever-present fire fighter's
helmet you're certain will graft onto his skull soon.  Trouble is,
Mulder is wearing one, too.

"Hats off at meals, please," you proclaim.

"Awww, Mom."

"Yeah," Mulder chimes in.  "No fair."

"We need our hats so's the people know we're rescuers."

You remove Will's helmet and set it beside his bowl.  "You can rescue
them after school.  Eat your breakfast."  He begins his breakfast and
you lean over to kiss the top of his head.  As you do, a hand
caresses your bottom.  You go to move it, but it evades capture,
sliding to your waist and drawing you in.  You pivot and stare at the
second "firefighter."

"Kiss me," he says.

"Mulder," you warn.

"Kiss me," he insists.

"Lose the hat," you bargain.  He does so and you lean in.  He catches
your lips with his own, then murmurs, "I do a great fireman's carry."

"Tonight," you whisper back.

"Count on it," he promises in a tone you know well.  You'll be
thinking about it all day now.  Oh yeah.  You glance towards Will who
remains oblivious to his parents, aware only that life is good.  You
hear your name being called.  Once, then again...

You downshift into reality and open your eyes all at once,
disoriented.  Reyes is turned towards you, a small smile on her face.

"What is it?" you ask in a tired voice.

"We thought we'd stop to get a bite."

"Where are we?"

Doggett jests, "Somewhere, Virginia."  You're slowly cruising beside
a pleasant village green.  Like so many other small towns, you're
certain you can predict in advance the type and location of varied
structures.  There's the church with its cemetery, the post office
and the Laundromat.  Law enforcement will have a niche somewhere with
the firehouse a likely neighbor.  There's a gas station on one corner
and a pharmacy on the other.  Anything else is a bonus.  Here, it's a
pizzeria situated mid-block on the far side of the large green.

"Is Italian okay?" Reyes asks with undue cheeriness.

"Again?" Doggett pouts.

"I thought you liked pizza," she retorts, disappointed.

"Pizza, yes -- in New York where they know how to *make* pizza."

"John," she chides.

"It's true.  Ask me what else I miss."

"I know, I know -- bagels."

"Yes, bagels.  Hot, fresh bagels made on the premises."  He grows
animated.  "Crispy on the outside, doughy on the inside, smothered in
cream cheese and lox."  He notices you both staring at him.  He
shrugs, adding, "Now that's a sandwich."

"Maybe some other time," she warns.  "Right now, it's Virginia pizza
or nothing."

The restaurant looms on your right.  "Italian it is.  I'll just grab
one of these spots--"

"It might be better to keep the car out of sight," you intervene.

"She's right."

"O-kaay," he cedes to being overruled. He deposits you at the curb. 
"I'll meet you inside. Order me some ziti, if they have."

"Got it," you say and he drives off.

The meal passes with Reyes and Doggett chatting about anything but
the evening's events.  Your entree looks appetizing, but tastes flat
in your mouth.  You barely eat half before pushing the rest away.  An
hour later you're back outside waiting for Doggett to bring around
the car.  Across the road, the park's antique lamps throw scattered
light onto meandering walkways, empty park benches and a large white
gazebo at the center.

"It's pretty here," Reyes comments, surveying the scene.

"Yes," you agree.

"Sometimes I wonder what life would be like living in a place like
this."

"Instead of the city?"

"I mean normal."  You look at her and she meets your eyes.  "Whatever
normal means."  She shrugs with a smile.  Her phone rings and she
picks up.  "Agent Reyes."  A minute passes and she ends the call with
nothing more than "Thank you" before hanging up.

She looks away and back at you.  "That was A.D. Follmer.  He says the
chem spill was real -- that intelligence was there because the
property sits adjacent to a government facility that houses some
classified materials."  You give her a non-committal look.  "I know. 
It sounds fishy, but I can't think of a reason not to believe him." 
Your look remains constant.  She sighs and pockets the phone.  "Mind
if I smoke?  I know.  It's bad for me, but I could use one right
now."

"I'm not your mother," you reply.

"Thanks, Dana."  She heads across the street and lights up.

A black sports car drives by, slowing in front of the pizzeria before
continuing on.  A minute later, it re-appears and suddenly pulls to
the curb in front of you, and on the wrong side of the road. 
Instinct makes you unbutton your coat so your weapon is available. 
Reyes's back is to you and you spy Doggett in the Taurus coming down
the block; but before you can signal to either agent, the vehicle's
window is rolling down.

You're ready for anything.

~*~*~

You once told Scully about your fear of fires.  You don't think she
realizes that it was merely the top of the list.  You hate to admit
it, but man's best friend is no friend of yours.  Rambo senses your
unease, stuffing a cold, wet nose into your ear.  Not wanting your
actions misinterpreted, you sit motionless, tolerating her snuffles.

Jaz presses a button on the lit console and a melancholy riff fills
the car, volume high.  A brief pause and then a heavy bass rhythm
rattles the chassis, thumping through you as a raspy voice sneers a
choice expletive and a hip hop song begins.

Back road meets paved highway and the car moves onto it.  
Thankfully, Rambo loses interest in you and pulls back, lying down on
the rear bench with a sigh.  You breathe easier.

Your driver is swaying with the music, lips mouthing lyrics in
identical, precise cadence.  The rage pouring through the song is
palpable.  The circumstances described are different from your own
yet, somehow, their truth resonates and you feel camaraderie with the
young man beside you.  Still, as the song draws to a close, you ask,
"Mind if we lower the volume a bit?" 

Jaz obliges.  "Sorry," he says.  "Didn't mean to offend."

"I just thought we might talk."

"Word.  What's on your mind?"

You're tempted to actually tell him your tale of woe, but refrain. 
"The usual.  Basketball, food, work."

"You shoot the rock?"

"Played Guard in high school."

"Fly.  I cover Center.  Who do you favor?"

"Gotta go with the Knicks."

"You from New York?"

"No, but Sprewell's impressive."

"Say what?"

"All right.  Who do *you* like?"

"No doubt, Shaq's the man."

"How far you think he'll take the Lakers?"

"All the way, brother.  All the way."

You chuff at his surety.  "So, how old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Goin' to school?"

"Community college.  Coach says I can get some transfer money.  Been
scouted but, so far, no offers."

"Grades good?"

"Have to be.  My Pops would kill me."

"Sic Rambo on you, would he?"

"F'sure."  He smiles again and lays a massive hand on the dog's head
and fondles her ears.  Rambo's tail thwacks the upholstery.  

The two-lane road you're traveling twists through empty pastureland. 
Jaz was right about town being a distance.  It's been ten minutes
without any sign of life.

"How much longer?" you query.

"Nearly there," he responds.  As if on cue, you round a bend and
light streams from the covered porch of a house set on the side of
the road.  Another house appears, then another, interspersed with
other buildings, each adding color and glow.  A carved wooden sign
welcomes you to Onacock, Virginia.  

"And I thought my name was bad," you mutter.

"Dawg, you need a handle."  

"You mean a nickname?"

"Yeah.  Somethin' your friends make up about you."

"Like...Spooky?"

"Yeah, like that.  Spooky.  Cool."

"Cool is not a word associated with me, Jaz, but you make it sound
that way.  Thanks."

"No problem."

"By the way, you can drop me off anywhere."

"Whadaya mean?"

"I just need to find a library or an internet hookup."

He shakes his head.  "Library's closed now.  There's a café 'cross
town.  They might have internet.  I dunno.  Never been."

"I'll find it.  Pull over."

"Sheeit.  I've gotten you this far.  I'll get you there."

You relent, but remain uneasy.  Jaz turns the radio back on with the
volume low.  You're in the heart of town by the look of things.  It's
a quaint place with a nautical flavor, sitting as it does on the
shoreline.  You think Scully would like it here.   

"So what's it like being a Truth Hunter?" Jaz asks, interrupting your
reverie.

"Truth Hunter?"  You look at him, unfamiliar with the term, but
liking it nonetheless.

"Yeah.  Somebody that checks up on your hunny to see if they're
cheatin' on you."

"Ah.  Actually..."  You scratch your chin.  "It's ...uhhh...
interesting work, seeing if the...honey...has left the hive, so to
speak."

He chuckles to himself at that.  "So, you followin' somebody?"

"Sort of.  Truth is, I was supposed to meet my partner, but our plans
changed."

The car is moving past the town square, a traditional gazebo at the
center.  The park is empty except for a vagrant and two women
crossing the green.  Their backs are to you, but there's something
familiar about them.

Jaz goes on, "I thought you Private Eyes worked alone."

"Sometimes."  You stare through the windows.  One woman is tall and
lean.  The other is petite and you swear her hair is red.

"He on the case, too?"

"She -- is on the case, yeah.  Jaz?  Swing around the corner, would
you?  I need to check something."

"Your partner's a woman?"  The boy turns left at the corner and left
again.

"Yes."  

Jaz chortles to himself.  "You take me for a fool?"

"Excuse me?"  Your attention shifts back to the boy.

"She pretty?"  

His directness annoys, then amuses you.  "Yeah," you reply.

"My girlfriend is fit, mmm-hmmm."

"Fit?"

"You know, beautiful."

The car revisits the square and, this time, your mouth drops at the
sight of Scully entering a café with Monica Reyes.  Your body stirs
at the sight of her.  "Turn here and pull over."

"Café is still a couple blocks away."

"I said here."  Your voice is low but firm, and the boy follows
instructions.  "Listen," you say, unbuckling your seat belt.  "My
partner is here. I saw her."  Your hand is on the door latch.

"You mean that fine lookin' redhead?"

"Yeah."

"I'm way ahead of you, bro."

Your brow crinkles.  "You are?"

"You need a quiet spot.  Am I right?"

"Right," you drawl wondering at his peripheral vision.

"Well, I'm the one's gonna make that happen."

"You are?" you repeat, mildly confused.

"See, not only am I the best Center Ruskan Community College has seen
in twelve years, but I am also one heck of a player."  He smiles that
perfect smile again and you realize the definition of his last word
possesses two meanings.  A slow smile crosses your lips.

"Jaz," you say.  "I owe you."

~*~*~

The Mustang's open window reveals a young man in the front seat with
a large dog in the rear. "'Scuse, me," the boy calls and you take a
few steps towards the car.  "Your name Lula Mae?" 

"What did you say?" you ask, eyes widening upon hearing the alias you
and Mulder agreed upon when your rendezvous was first arranged.

"I said, are you Lula Mae?"

Your heart beats faster.  "Yes."

"That bein' the case, my boy says to tell you 'Varjak waits.'"
You draw in a breath.  Varjak is an alias, too...for Mulder.

You look down the sidewalk and spot John Doggett approaching.
"My friends are with me.  Let me tell them what's going on."

"No time."

"Who are you?" you demand, frustrated but hopeful.  

"You want the 411, you come wit' me."  His attitude smacks of
 adolescence, but nothing more.

Doggett pulls the car to the curb a short distance away and waits. 
You look over to where Reyes stands, watching the exchange.  Throwing
her a pointed look, you say, "I'll be in touch." Then you get into
the passenger side of the Pony.  The double cams rumble as you pull
away and the window beside you rolls up, cutting off escape.  Not
that you want one -- not until you know about Mulder.

You glance into the backseat.  The dog's ears prick forward, liquid
brown eyes wide.  Through the rear windshield, you see Reyes and
Doggett standing in the middle of the road growing smaller by the
second, then disappearing as the car turns the corner.  You've been
in spots like this before.  Staying calm is key.

It isn't long before the car rolls to a halt at a four-way
intersection with a single flashing stoplight.  The boy cruises
through, then turns into the parking lot of a tractor dealership. 
It's after hours and there's no sign of life except for a stray cat
meandering across the asphalt.  He keeps the engine running, but
turns to face you.

"Check it. This guy comes through my Pop's junkyard tonight.  Turns
out he's a detective or some such.  Says he's lookin' for someone, so
I offer a ride.  We get here and that's when he sees you. Says he got
to talk wit' you."
  
"What's his name?"

"Told me not to say.  Just tell you that thing about Varjak.  What's
poppin' wit' that?"

"Better you don't know.  Where is he?"

"At a friend's.  You hookin' up on the sly?"  His eyes narrow, taking
you by surprise with his cavalier innuendo. Seeing your stony
reaction, he assures, "S'alright to be sneakative.  I get it."  When
you show him your badge, he sombers.  "You really FBI?"

"Yes, and I suggest you take me to my partner.  Now."  Your last word
is more ominous than intend and the dog softly barks.

"Down," the boy commands and the dog resumes her prone position with
an audible sigh.  The boy shakes his head at you.  "Is your partner
FBI, too?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Damn."

You're trying to stay calm in spite of the mounting evidence that
Mulder is not only waiting somewhere nearby, but has involved this
boy in things.  "Just take me to where he is," you say with
deliberate care.

"Let's do it," he replies.  Shifting the car back into Drive, you're
on the move again.  A few minutes later, you're back in town, turning
off Main Street onto a quiet, residential street.

The improbability of what's happening overtakes you, gripping you
with sudden anxiety.  Is this a trap?  Is Mulder the bait?  Or you? 
Your mind is spinning as the car pulls to the side of the road.  The
boy takes out a cell phone and punches in a number.

You're parked beside a wooded area, the only house visible being the
one across the road, set back at the end of a long driveway.  A
yellow bug light flicks on, illuminating cement steps that cascade to
a narrow slate pathway that curves its way to the street, and an
impossibly slim girl emerges.  She walks down the path and crosses
the road to the driver's side.  The boy lowers the window and she
bends to see inside.

"What's up, baby," she coos to your driver, multiple dark braids
skimming her shoulders.  "You Lula Mae?" she directs at you.

"Yes," you reply, anticipation filling you with a sense of urgency. 
You can't help but look at the house, straining to see movement.

"Well, go on," a voice prompts beside you.  You face the boy who
brought you here.

"I don't even know your name," you say.

"Better you don't know, right?"  A smile plays around his mouth.

"Right," you answer, tugging at the door handle.  You wait while the
girl gets in.  The radio is playing a soulful ballad.  She waves to
you as they drive off, their music fading, until the only thing you
hear is the beat of your heart.  A cold breeze ruffles your hair. 
You tuck it back into place and square your shoulders, all at once
unmindful of the chill that surrounds you.

You walk towards the house.

~*~*~

The kitchen you're sitting in is small, but cozy.  Across from you
sits Khari, Jaz's current flame.  She's a pretty girl in her late
teens with a café au lait complexion, dark hair and striking green
eyes.  A dozen baby barrettes in neon colors adorn the dark braids
that fall below her shoulders. Khari also loves to talk and ever
since Jaz left you in her care, she's done nothing but, and without
breathing.  Or so it seems.

"I don't usually entertain strangers," she goes on.  "But Jaz is down
with it, so it's cool.  We've been together for almost a year, but
I'm not ready to settle.  I have plans."

"Really?"

She leans forward, resting her chin in her hands, her elbows propped
on the table before her.  "I'm a freshman at Ruskan so I have to take
all these lame courses.  You know.  But next year, I can start my
training in Early Child Care.  I'm gonna be doin' internships and all
kinds of practical stuff like that.  Once I get my degree, though,
I'm going to leave this place and move to Richmond."

"Why Richmond?

"Everybody knows that the big companies pay the best and that's where
they are.  I'm gonna take some business classes, too, so I can start
a chain of day care centers for workin' moms and their kids.  That's
so important.  My Mom raised me by herself.  I know how hard it is to
be a single parent."

"What about Jaz?"

She lets her hands fall flat on the table, arms extended.  "Oh, we'll
see.  He says we're getting engaged just as soon as he finds a job,
but I think a woman has to stand on her own two feet anyway.  Oprah
says so."

"Oprah," you say with a nod.  When her cellphone rings, you're glad
for a reprieve.

"What up?" she chirps to her caller.  She gestures to you with her
free hand, index finger pointing up.  "It's Jaz," she whispers to
you, then says into the phone, "Bye, baby," before disconnecting. 
"Make yourself comfy," she says, rising from the table.  "I have to
finish my toilette."  Then she leaves.

Comfy is not how you're feeling so, after waiting a minute, you
follow her into a hallway that runs parallel to the front of the
house.  Off the tiny corridor are two closed doors to your right and
another straight ahead.  To your left is a doorway that leads to a
small parlor.  You enter and note an equally small dining room to the
right of that through a wide, rounded arch.

At the front of the dining room are two large windows overlooking the
front yard.  You wait there, shielded by the draperies, waiting for
the Pony to reappear.  You like the fact that the house is set back
from the road and somewhat removed from the rest of the neighborhood.

When Jaz's car pulls up beside the woods across the road, your focus
sharpens.  There are no street lights, but the moon has risen,
casting patchy illumination through the thick, bare branches. 
Meanwhile, you hear Khari moving through the house, her high heels
clacking against the wooden floors.  When she reaches the parlor, she
calls, "Hey. You in here?"

"Right here," you say, reluctant to leave your post, but doing so.

The sweet girl who chewed your ear off earlier has transformed
herself into a glamorous young woman.  Boot cut blue jeans are topped
off by a pink baby tee replete with the title "Bling Queen" spelled
out across the chest in rhinestones.  Barrettes have been replaced
with three inch gold hoop earrings.  Heavy gold bracelets jingle on
both wrists bearing tribute to her self-proclaimed royalty.  Jaz
clearly wasn't the only player in this relationship.

"There some wine in the fridge," she says in an off-handed way. "Not
much to eat though."

"Khari?"

"Yeah?"

"You look nice."

She smiles saying, "Thank you," as if she knows it.  Rummaging
through an oversized gold shoulder bag, she pulls out a lighter. 
"You like candles?"  She ignites the wicks of three pillar candles of
varying heights arranged on the table.  "Jaz always thinks we're
gonna set the house on fire.  He's whack."  She looks back up at you
in question.

"The candles are fine," you reply, amused but aware that she's trying
to be helpful.  You wonder if you should return the favor and warn
her about the tendencies of young men.  You settle for, "Thanks."

"We'll be back at midnight," she says.  "Then it's me and Jaz time. 
You get my meaning?"  So much for your paternal concern.

"I got it covered," you respond, hands in your pockets, feeling both
way too old *and* like an adolescent waiting for Mom and Dad to leave
so the party can begin.

"Uh-huh," she intones, then chuckles.  She leaves, pulling closed the
inside entry door.  Then you hear the heavier, outer door seal shut.

You return to the window, nerves stretched taut.  Jaz could be
overconfident.  Scully could be stubborn.  She also might not be
alone.  That *was* Reyes in the park, after all.  The window rolls
down and you see Jaz and Khari talking.  A woman alights from the
vehicle, trading places with the girl, and your worries fade as
Scully faces the house. By herself.

The car pulls away and she stands motionless. Your mind strains to
accept the synchronicity of it all.  A gust of wind blows her hair
across her face.  It's longer than you remember and as she tucks it
back into place, you smile.

~*~*~

You enter the living room and turn off the torchiere beside the sofa
leaving the room lit only by candlelight.  You wish you could do more
to make things romantic for her.  You haven't seen her since the day
you left her and William to fend for themselves. 

The outer door creaks open and shut.  You say nothing, stepping back
until you're standing under the arch, waiting.  Your pulse and your
breath quickens while your hands and groin tingle in anticipation. 
Scully pushes open the inner door and steps into the parlor with
caution.

"Mulder?" she calls, her voice sweet and worried.  You see her before
she sees you. She is the angel of your dreams and the demon of your
isolation.  As beautiful as ever.  No, more so.  

She turns and closes the door and then turns back.  "Mulder?  Are you
here?"  You step forward and she faces you with a start.  "Jesus! 
When are you going to learn--"

Her chastisement is stopped by your mouth covering hers.  She is limp
in your arms, soft with surprise.  Then her arms tighten about you
and she leans into your embrace.  One kiss becomes two, your tongue
parting her lips, begging entry.  She responds without reservation,
her hands pressing into your back.  The roaring in your ears is
matched only by the pounding of your heart as you hold her against
you.  

You leave a trail of kisses across her face.  You hear her sigh your
name as you whisper, "I've missed you." She leans her face against
your chest and you bury your face in her hair.  After a minute of
reveling in her presence, you pull away.  "Why don't you stay
awhile?" you murmur into her ear, all the while unbuttoning her coat.
 You push the heavy garment from her shoulders, allowing it to drop
to the floor behind her.

"Mulder--"

"Shhh," you reprimand, placing a finger to her lips.  "I think we're
alone now."  She goes quiet under your attention.  Her outfit is
simple: black skirt, black suede boots with the usual killer heels
and a blue silk blouse. Her blue woolen scarf is still wrapped around
her neck, but you'd place bets that a small gold cross lies beneath.
On anyone else, the outfit would be tame.  On Scully, in the eyes of
the man who loves and wants her, it's intoxicating.

"I got the color right, didn't I?" you ask with exaggerated concern
as you unwind the wrap at her neck, pausing to brush your fingers
against her throat, your thumb at her collarbone.  She nods, a small
smile playing about the lips you want to kiss again.  You grasp the
now-loose ends of the scarf from beneath, the backs of your hands
against her blouse, trailing downwards until they rest against the
soft upper curve of her breasts, sending a new wave of heat coursing
through you.

"It's perfect," she replies, her voice controlled despite the pulse
you observe at her throat and the trembling you feel under your
touch.  "Thank you," she says then adds, "Wish I could say the same
about this sweater."  She lays her hands against your chest and
slides them upwards.  "Scratchy."

"Sorry," you reply with a brief moue and tilt of the head. You take a
small step back.  "Now you--" 

It's arousing as hell to know that what was once off-limits is now
yours for the taking.  The asking?  Is it taking or asking?
She interrupts your inner debate with a smile and a gleam in her eye.
 "How much time do we have?" she asks.

"Never enough," you reply in truth, before you pull her to you once
more. And so, in the end, you neither take nor ask.  You simply
comply, your lips hovering above hers just to savor the moment.  Then
her hand is around your neck, bringing lips down to hers.  Her mouth
is warm and pliant.  Her tongue slides against yours and you groan,
your body's response rising against her.  She is caviar and champagne
for a man who's been living on bread and water.  And she has the same
effect.  You're hungry, dizzy and craving more.

"Love me," she sighs when your lips finally part.

You press her against the door while you unbutton her blouse.  Her
bra is black and lacy with a plunging front.  Much better than the
innocent stuff she used to wear.  Much.  You cup her left breast,
passing your thumb to and fro against her nipple erect beneath the
lingerie.  She closes her eyes and hums her approval.  You watch your
hand slip beneath to caress her flesh, the pebbling of the aureole
increasing as you stroke her, her breath growing shorter.

She pulls you towards her with her hands at your hips and, with eyes
closed, unbuckles your belt and undoes your jeans.  Love the
dexterity.  You remove your hand and reach down to free your turgid
cock, inhaling sharply as she grabs you.

Thank God for the "fuck me" boots.  She's now tall enough for you
reach her sex without stooping.  You shift your weight to your left
side so your right hand can reach under her skirt, tugging it up as
your fingers slide between her legs and into her special garden of
delights, moist with arousal.  You expect panties, but a thong?  Go
Scully.  You laugh softly and her eyes open.  She regards you with a
dreamy look.  "I told you I'll always keep you guessing," she murmurs
with a smile.

"That you do," you growl, easily pushing aside the thin line of
fabric and sliding your hand over her, one finger teasing her open. 
She moans, then responds by pulling on your cock.  A wave of
sensation flows directly from there up your spine and into your
extremities.  As you push forward into her grip, you simultaneously
slip a finger inside her. She shudders, but keeps her hold on you
light but steady, letting friction do the work.  Good girl.  You pull
back and a guttural groan escapes the back of your throat. 
Meanwhile, your thumb finds her clit and you begin slow circles
there.

You could easily spend some time right here, bringing her to climax
before intercourse.  You've satisfied her both ways and prefer...
well... both.  It's all good.  The scent of sex play and melting wax
fills the air.  Just beside you, hugging the wall, dance the shadows
of your bodies in motion.  A part of you observes it like some
surreal, sensual puppet show.  That's when you hear those two little
words that ratchet things juusst a bit more.  Scully says, "Do me."  

You pull back and she protests the retreat of your hands on her.  You
almost regret it because her hand leaves you as well.  Still, better
things await.  Bending at the knees, you support her weight on your
arms and lift.  She is light and agile and she wraps her legs around
your waist, her hands gripping your shoulders as you push her back
against the door.

She leverages herself between it and you.  You support her with your
left arm in order to grab your cock with your right, guiding the tip
into her.  Once you're sure you can manage it, you thrust upward. 
She nearly takes you all the way in, but not quite.  A partial pull
out and you thrust again.  Sweet Jesus.  You're nearly done before
you begin and you want this to last forever, even if it can't.  You
try without success to think about anything but what you're actually
doing.  Or feeling.  Or what Scully is doing, which is rotating her
hips front to back with every lunge.

Each time you pull out, her back lifts a bit from the door and each
time you thrust, it hits with a little thud.  It's sort of your own
little rhythm track, especially as she adds that little 'oh!" sound
at the end.  The ache in legs tells you you're not twenty-five
anymore, but life on the run has kept you in pretty good shape.  Your
cock has become the Grand Central Station of sensory overload,
pushing you further and quicker towards orgasm than you'd like, but
not quick enough.

A few minutes brings you close to finishing, but you sense from the
frustrated sounds she's making that Scully's not getting what she
needs.  "Touch yourself," you encourage.  She says nothing, but her
right hand leaves your shoulder to slide between your bodies.  You
feel the movement of her hand on herself, fingers flat and closed as
she worries her clit.  You widen the angle between you so she has
spac.  Her frustration transforms to pleasure as momentum increases. 
The visual you're getting is enthralling and you slow things down,
staving off the rising swell inside you.  

The room is filled with a symphony of sighs, moans and soft
encouragement.  Scully pulls you close with her free arm, her
forehead to yours.  Her hand is now pressed tightly between you both
and she rides it while grinding against you.  All at once, her back
arches and you brace your right hand on the door.  She cries out in a
series of short moans and you feel her orgasm spasm around you.

A hazy miasma blocks all but the feel of you sheathed inside her like
a glove.  Grabbing her left hip, you hold it as steady as you can
while you slam into her again and again.  It isn't long before you're
over the edge, in that place called Ecstasy, exhaling from the back
of your throat in one long, sustained wave.  Wves of pleasure pulsate
through you, followed by the deep core push of your seed, leaving you
weak at the knees.

Somehow, you manage to stay upright as she collapses around you, her
body still twitching from the firestorm you've generated.  "I love
you," she breathes against your ear, then slowly slides off your
flaccid cock until her feet touch the ground.  You pull away, too,
leaning sideways against the door to close your jeans and catch your
breath.  You're exhausted, content to watch Scully smooth down her
skirt and button her blouse.  She walks to where her coat and scarf
still lay puddled on the floor.  Picking them up, she tosses them on
the sofa.

"Did I do much damage?" you ask through slitted eyes, pride tingeing
your voice.

She gives you a pointed look.  "I'll send you the dry cleaning bill."
 Then she disappears into the bathroom.  Your watch reads 11:25 p.m. 
You've already spent too much time here, but you wouldn't have traded
it for anything in the world.  You buckle your belt and cross the
room, flopping onto the sofa. 

You doze, your eyes re-opening when you feel Scully settle beside
you.  You open your eyes to find her watching you, eyes filled with
love and concern.  You know you need to go, but stall for just a bit
longer.  "Pretty amazing, isn't it?" you say.  "Us finding one
another."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"And it won't be the last.  Jaz and Khari will give you a lift back
to town."

"Is that their names?"

"Didn't they tell you?"

"Mulder, for all I knew tonight, I could have been taken hostage and
sold into a harem for a sheikh's sexual pleasure."

"Weren't you?"  She smiles.  "I know you came with Agent Reyes."

"And Doggett."

"You're kidding."

"Mulder--"

"What did I say?"

"It's *how* you say it."  

"I just don't think the guy likes me."

"Like that's ever mattered."  

"You know me -- Mr. Congeniality."

"Well, they’ve both been good friends to me.  To us."

"I stand mollified."

"Not corrected?"

"Never."

The playful give-and-take reminds you of better days and for a few
brief moments the years roll back between you.  Then the moment is
gone and you see a shadow cross her face.

"You know we're being watched -- Will and I. All the time.  Probably
even now."

"Yeah. The Gunmen sent me an email about your run-in with the Super
Soldier.  Whoever is behind them, they've probably been watching us
for a long time.  I don't know if they're connected to the black oil
conspiracy, but I'm working on it."  You grow heated in the same way
you always do when you know she's actively listening.  "Scully, the
vaccine is almost ready for mass inoculation of the public.  I
believe these Super Soldiers may be appearing to prevent that from
happening.  What happened to you that night tells us there's a way to
fight them."

"I'm tired of fighting, Mulder.  I just want to live -- you, me and
our son.  I want to live freely, safely; and I just don't know if
that's possible anymore."

Her mention of William stops you cold.  You have no argument against
the overwhelming imperative of a mother's love.  "How is he?" you
ask, hesitant, not wanting to upset her.

"William is beautiful."  And then she is leaning into you, her breath
uneven.  You can do nothing but hold her, forever if need be, until
the tears you know are falling abate.  You understand your role in
their creation, but you suffer, too.  So.

You embrace for uncounted minutes: supporting one another, comforting
one another, loving one another.  When she finally lifts her face,
her blue eyes are clear, her countenance serene.  "I have something
for you," she says.

She reaches for her coat and pulls her badge from the inside pocket. 
Your brows furrow as she opens the leather case and reaches behind
her sleeved photo ID.  Between her thumb and index fingers is
another, smaller picture.  She hands it to you and your brows lift in
wonder, your mouth partially ajar.  It's Will, wearing a jaunty cap
and a precious smile. For a man never at a loss for words, you find
yourself speechless, but smiling.

"I just wish you could see him in person," she says, wistful.

"Soon," you promise and she nods acceptance.  Then you stand and she
follows.

"When will I see you again?"

"I dunno, but keep those cards and letters coming.  I do manage to
check a computer now and then."

"Don't worry about us.  Just take care of yourself."  God, you love
this woman.

You go to the dining room and don your jacket.  Scully approaches and
places her scarf around your neck.  "Baby, it's cold out there," you
say.

"You need it more than I do."  You kiss her forehead and move past
her into the kitchen, heading for the back door.  Just before you
open it, you hear your name once more.  You turn and she is at the
entry, unable to resist one last look.  "I'll always love you," you
tell her, then leave.
  
Outside, you double wrap the scarf so it covers your mouth.  You
inhale, and the soft wool warms your breath and releases her scent. 
Tucking your hands in your pockets, you look up.  The moon is full in
the sky, surrounded by a glimmering halo.  Scully would say it's
simply ice particles in the upper atmosphere refracting the moon's
reflected light.

*You* remember an Indian Guide story your father once told you that
hailed the Halo Moon as a good omen to the great Mohegan tribes,
abetting and aiding the hunter in his pursuits, shedding light on the
terrain during the night so he would not falter.  Well.  Sometimes
you are the hunter and, sometimes, the hunted.  After all, you are
the Fox.

Tapayu.


END