_The Look-Alike Series_ Daria fan fiction by Canadibrit Season 3, episode 11: "X Marks the Maverick" prose adaptation by Austin Loomis "Watchin' _X-Files_ with no lights on We're _dans la maison_ I hope the Smoking Man's in this one" -- Barenaked Ladies, "One Week" ACT 1: THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE "Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's comin' to get me Just say you never met me I'm runnin' underground with the moles" -- Harvey Danger, "Flagpole Sitta" Daria Morgendorffer and Jane Lane were asleep on sleeping bags on the floor of Chez Cullen's living room. Nearby, empty pizza boxes and soda cans littered the coffee table. Lynn Cullen, lady of the manor, and her long-time friend Andrew Philip McIntyre were curled up on opposite ends of the sofa. Lynn was asleep, head resting against her arm of the sofa; A.P. was watching the TV -- and the _X-Files_ marathon he, Erudite Emerald and Art-Smart Scarlet had (among other things) come here for -- with a sleepy, glassy-eyed apathy. On the screen was the final scene of the episode "Duane Barry." "What the hell is this thing, Mulder?" Dana Scully wondered. "It's almost as if...it's almost as if somebody was using it to catalogue him." Then she gasped, then there was the sound of breaking glass and she screamed "Mulder!" Purple Peril sat up a little, eyes still closed, made a bleary, worried-sounding noise and raised her arm in a defensive gesture. A.P. looked over at her, concern fighting through sleepiness. "Just the TV," he assured her. "Oh," Lynn replied, sounding immensely groggy. After a pause for digestion, "What time's it?" "Two-thirty-six a.m." "Mein Gott," Lynn groaned, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes. "Where're we at now?" "Scully got snatched." "Oh." She set her glasses down on the new coffee table. "Wake me when we get to `3.'" A.P. was puzzled. "Season 3? But that won't be up until..." "No," Lynn replied, settling onto the sofa arm again; "there's an episode called `3.'" His incomprehension must have shown; she sat up a little. "With the Father, the Son and the Unholy Spirit?" Still nothing. She looked over her shoulder at him. "The one with the vampires?" "Oh." A big yawn. "'Kay." Lynn looked at him with fond rue, then sat up, grabbed her glasses and put them on. "Never mind..." A.P. blinked and went back to watching the TV... * * * A.P. stirred a little, blinked, then raised his head from where he'd leaned it back when he (evidently) fell asleep. It was obviously a few hours later than the last thing he could remember; sunlight was starting to peek through the curtains. He looked at the TV and saw an image of Scully's tombstone -- that meant this was "One Breath," which in turn meant he'd missed the episode he was supposed to wake Lynn up for by a long ways. He looked down -- the Peril had fallen asleep again, this time with her head resting on his leg. He was surprised, and a little nervous, but not really what you'd call displeased. He raised a hand, almost nerved to stroke her hair, then remembered her defensive awakening earlier and thought better of it. Looking at her, he remembered their earlier conversation, about the mysteries they'd hoped to grill her on, and some of the things she'd said. _This is none of your affair, and believe me, you don't want it to be!_ _I'm not in love with him! I barely *like* him. I sure as *hell* don't *trust* him. And anyway, what do you care?_ _We all have our secrets, don't we? I'd prefer it if you let me keep mine._ He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, then blinked sleepily and looked back at the TV. Fox Mulder was standing at a nurse's desk now, throwing papers. "I want to see her admission forms. Who did this to her? I want to see what tests have been done!" A.P. looked down at Lynn with concern, tenderness and a bleary sort of anger. He was nearly asleep again. "Listen, if you're hiding anything, I swear, I will do anything, whatever it takes, I'll find out what they did to her!" "The truth is out there," A.P. muttered vaguely in Lynn's general direction. "Huh. And I'd beat it out of you if I could." He yawned and settled back... * * * "Asleep on the job *again,* McIntyre?" Andrew Fox McIntyre started awake and, for a moment, didn't know where he was. Then memory filled in; he was in the X-Files office, *his* office, at FBI headquarters, sprawled in a desk chair in a posture that suggested he'd fallen asleep in it. His partner was leaning in the doorway, looking at him with sardonic amusement. "Well, can't unearth the truth on low sleep rations, Cullen." He considered their situations, then expressed his concern. "You sure you should be back so soon?" "McIntyre," agent Lynn Cullen replied, mildly annoyed, "we discussed this. Don't coddle me." "I'm not. I just..." He sighed. "Well, have it your own way. You always do, anyway." Cullen gave him a slight smile and walked into the office. She stepped over to McIntyre's desk and looked through a file. She flipped through the documentation -- a photograph of Max Tyler, the ex-agent who'd kidnapped Scully in the hope that the aliens would take *her* this time, paper-clipped to a coroner's report; a picture of (ex?) agent Tom Sloane clipped to a missing-person's report; various hospital records and police reports. "To think -- the first new X-File after the shut- down and it's me." A sardonic chuckle. "Wish I remembered more. You'd finally get your wish -- full-fledged convert." "Yeah, well," he muttered ruefully, "I *thought* I had one." Cullen raised an eyebrow, and he nearly spat the name. "Sloane." "Forget him, McIntyre." "But he...he was the one who got you *into* that mess! He told them where you and that Tyler were! Then he poisoned Tyler to keep him quiet! If not for him--" "I know. I do *read* the files, you know." She let that hang there a moment. "Follow Campbell's advice. Let it go. It's over now, anyway." McIntyre looked at her, then sighed. "There's not a lot to do around here. Clean-up; paperwork; all the bureaucratic crap that--" "...That makes us government employees." They shared a small laugh at that. "C'mon; let's ditch the paperwork. It'll keep till later. Drinks to celebrate the re-opened X-Files." Cullen seemed hesitant. "I'm buying." "It's not that. Tonight's bad. I...have a date." McIntyre was stunned. "But...you just got out of the hospital! Who *with,* that Daly guy?" "That...is none of your affair, McIntyre." A mischievous, nearly evil smirk. "Now, if you're ditching, so am I." And she walked out again without a backward glance. McIntyre was worried -- this wasn't like her. After a moment, he got up and followed her out. * * * He wandered into the anonymous watering hole with a nice simulation of purposelessness, sauntered over to the bar and muttered something to the barmaid. She nodded and walked off, and he "casually" surveyed the patrons. At a corner table, nearly shrouded in shadows, he noticed a man and a woman; he could barely see them, but the woman looked like Cullen. He took the drink offered him by the barmaid without even really looking, handed over a bill, and kept watching them, squinting in the smoky air. Realizing he had to get closer, he waved away the change the barmaid was offering him and moved away from the bar with studied casualness. "But...that was a fifty..." the barmaid boggled. "Keep it," McIntyre called over his shoulder. "No one tips barmaids and I think it's a damn shame." With her still staring at him, he moved away from the bar and closer to the table. Sure enough, it was Cullen there, but she didn't exactly look like she was on a date -- more like she was having a business discussion. And then he got a look at the face of the man she was meeting *with*. "Sloane?" His voice came out in a confused whisper. And so it was. Cullen was deep in serious conversation with that sleazebag Thomas Sloane, who had his hair slicked back as usual. McIntyre staggered backward as from a physical blow, handed his drink to a passing patron -- who looked at him like he was insane, but McIntyre didn't even notice -- and left the bar as quickly as he could while still being remotely quiet. He walked quickly down the dark street, trying to outrun his thoughts. He passed an alley, and arms shot out and grabbed him, dragging him into it. "Hey!" He struggled, grappling for his gun... and saw the goateed, deceptively sleepy-eyed figure he knew as "Mr. X," pointing a gun in his face. He relaxed in X's grip, but his face was stony. "You remember this high-capacity compact Sig Sabre .40 caliber weapon, right?" X rasped. "I used it to stress a point once before. I am doing so again." Presumably, he was stressing the same point as last time -- his insistence that McIntyre lay off his search for Cullen's abductors. McIntyre, however, couldn't quite contain himself. "What's wrong with her? What's she doing with *him?*" "Why do you persist in pursuing things that will lead them to the connection I've made with you? I told you before; there's nothing you can do to bring her back." "What are you talking about? She's not dead!" X chuckled. "And stop laughing at me! I don't see how I'm being a schoolboy this time! She's sitting in a bar with the man who gave Tyler and Cullen's whereabouts to..." X kept chuckling, and McIntyre shoved at him, heedless of the gun. "Stop *laughing* at me, dammit!" X did stop laughing then. His face went hard as he tightened his grip on McIntyre and pressed the Sig Sabre into the captive's temple. "This is too close to me. Back off." He let go and stepped back. "But I'll give you this much, Mister McIntyre." He paused, then in very deliberate tones said, "Watch your back with her." And he dashed off without another word, leaving McIntyre to stare after him, stunned. ACT 2: GOVERNMENT DENIES KNOWLEDGE "Paranoia strikes deep Into your life it will creep" -- Buffalo Springfield, "For What It's Worth" Later, in their office, elsewhere in the nation's capital, the Lone Gunwomen -- Morgendorffer in her neat brown suit, Lane in her scruffy T-shirt and ripped jeans, and Thorne in her black slacks and grubby white shirt -- were watching McIntyre attentively; he looked miserable and confused. "So you have no more information than this?" Morgendorffer asked. "Look, the guy was pointing a gun at my head," McIntyre snapped. "When people do that, you don't try forcing them to play Twenty Questions." "You think Cullen..." Thorne started to say, then discreetly trailed off. "I don't know *what* to think. They wanted me partnered with her so she could poke holes in my work, make it look worthless. But after everything she's seen and done...No," he resolutely insisted. "She's not a traitor. I don't think she's acting of her own free will." "Mind control?" Lane suggested. "Got anything on that?" "We might," Thorne replied. "We never *did* establish what that branched DNA was for. Give us some time." "Wait a minute," Morgendorffer interjected. "It might be wise not to jump to conclusions here. That branched DNA was inactive -- it was waste." "That could be what they *want* us to think," Lane replied, as paranoid as ever. "If it *had* a purpose, we would have found it by now." McIntyre was confused. "*You* think she's a double agent, Morgendorffer?" "I'm not saying that. I'm just pointing out that jumping to conclusions is a dangerous thing." "Anyway," Thorne pointed out, "she *can't* be a double agent, McIntyre. From what I can tell, you and that Sloane guy were drawing paychecks from the same person." "I know what I mean and so do you." McIntyre fell silent a moment to think. "He said something about `bringing her back.' Maybe this is what he meant." "And has this Mr. X given you any reason to trust him?" wondered Morgendorffer. "I mean *really* trust him." He thought about that for a moment, probably looking as lost and frustrated as he felt, and then it hit him. "Yes. I threw it away, but yes." They all watched him carefully, but he didn't elaborate. He wasn't going to. Morgendorffer raised an eyebrow. "All right, then. We'll do some research and see what we can come up with." She let that hang a moment. "But don't expect miracles, McIntyre." He didn't answer, just stood up and left. * * * In his office, Assistant Director Nicholas Campbell was sitting at his desk, tidily dressed as usual in the same standard understated standard FBI suit-and-tie combo as the man across from him. "McIntyre..." "Look," the other replied, "I'm FBI. I'm after information. That's my *job,* dammit." He let that stand between them for a heartbeat before continuing. "Now you know more than I do -- always have. I'm asking for this." Silence. A sigh. "All I know are rumors -- all I hear is code. They give me just enough to know that what I give you is just bait." "They." "You know who `they' are, McIntyre." "Cancer Man?" A nearly imperceptible nod. "And Cullen?" "There's been...some aberrant behavior," Campbell carefully noted. "Occasional tardiness. Reports perhaps not as carefully made as they could be. But McIntyre, she just got out of the hospital. People are making allowances." He waited a moment. "Maybe you should too." "So you're saying turn a blind eye? The same way everyone does to *everything* around here?" "McIntyre..." "*No.*" The negation seemed to echo a moment. "This is going too far." "I've told you before about turning this into a crusade." "It would have been a crusade if she'd died. *This*...this is a rescue mission." Campbell regarded him carefully as he stood up and walked out. * * * Later, McIntyre was asleep on the sofa in his apartment when something went *thump* against a door and jolted him awake. He scrubbed his hair and looked at his window -- he'd put a masking tape "X" on it, on the off chance. He opened the door, stepped out and picked up the newspaper, unfolding it. Something dropped out of the folds and landed at his feet. He picked it up and looked at it; it was just a CD, to all appearances. He frowned at it. * * * He took it to the Lone Gunwomen. Now, they were all three sitting in front of a computer monitor. He stood behind them, scowling. "Show it again." Morgendorffer moved the mouse and clicked. On the screen, a window showed Webcam footage -- a dark street, quite late. Cullen exited a bar, followed by Sloane. She handed over a set of keys. He opened the passenger door for her. She got in; he shut the door behind her and moved to the driver's side, getting behind the wheel and starting the car. Jerky cut to another dark street. A nondescript black car was parked there. Cullen's car pulled up in front of it, about 300 yards away. The doors opened, and Cullen and Sloane stepped out. Cullen looked at the other car, seeming somewhat reluctant. Sloane took her by the arm. She frowned at him, but allowed herself to be led toward the other car. The passenger door opened, and cigarette smoke nearly billowed out of the open door. As Cullen was all but thrown inside, McIntyre caught a glimpse of the individual he'd labelled "the Cigarette-Smoking Man," or less-formally "Cancer Man." (All he had was a last name -- Smith, or maybe Smythe -- and the first initial J.) Cancer Man nodded at Sloane, who closed the door behind Cullen and got into the front passenger seat. The car drove away. The footage ended. "There," McIntyre snapped. "Now does *that* look like someone who's acting of their own free will?" He fumed inwardly a moment. "Dammit, what did they *do* to her?" Morgendorffer sighed. "Well, we went through all the channels we know; as far as her hospital records show, no one did anything to her that would explain this." "But who knows what the hospital records *aren't* showing?" Lane wondered enigmatically. "Look," he snarled, "can we *forget* about the damn hospital? They told us there was no hope for Cullen and look how that turned out! They know squat!" "And that's different from what we know how, exactly?" He scowled at Thorne for that. "Did you find *anything* else?" Lane sighed. "Yes, we did. See that file over there?" He looked at a small folder and nodded. "Well, that's what we came up with that *couldn't* apply. The rest..." "One and a half zip disks," Morgendorffer chimed in. "Changes to the brain chemistry induced by drugs; straightforward hypnosis; electrochemical implants..." "We even went through some of the wackier theories, like pod people and body swapping. Just to keep you happy." "It could be anything. Or," Thorne shrugged, "it could be nothing." She nerved herself to propose the next theory. "Ever considered she's being threatened into this?" McIntyre was shocked. "Come again?" "Well, think about it. People seem to want you stopped, but if they'd wanted you dead, you'd be worm food by now." "Or something more fiendish and insidious," Lane suggested. "I figure something...inventive would have been done to dispose of your remains. Like Hoffa, only more high-tech." Morgendorffer rolled her eyes at her partner's usual hairy-eyed rantings. "I think the point being made here is that if they can't mess with *you,* they can mess with *her.* She was hired to do a job -- and that job was to keep you from doing yours. She isn't doing her job. Maybe this is their way of making sure she does." "After all," Thorne pointed out, "*she* doesn't know that they don't want you dead." McIntyre thought about that. "Run that past me one more time. Plain English preferred." Morgendorffer drew him a picture. "She thinks that they're going to do bad things to you unless she discredits your work." "She blows the X-files to hell," Lane added, "or you die." "That plain enough English for you?" asked Thorne. McIntyre blinked. "Uh...yeah." * * * In the X-Files office, Cullen was rifling through a filing cabinet drawer. She didn't stop when McIntyre came slamming through the door and said, "I want to talk to you." She didn't even look up. "So talk." That left him slightly derailed. "Um...uh...what are you looking for?" She kept rifling. "Just doing some housekeeping." He decided it was best to blurt it out. "I saw you in the bar with Sloane last night." She instantly froze. "I don't appreciate being followed, McIntyre." "Well, *I* don't appreciate being lied to. That was no date. And where'd you go afterwards?" "Home. Alone, not that it's any of your business." He grabbed her coat and held it to his face. "It reeks of cigarettes. You don't smoke." "I was in a bar," she reminded him coldly. "It wasn't that smoky. Stop feeding me crap." She turned to face him. "Why don't we start with what you know and where you got the information that you're so quick to turn against me." He was really stuck now. "Um..." "I'm waiting." A sigh. "We're all worried, Cullen. Campbell wants me to back off -- make like nothing's wrong except you've been...sick. I asked... a contact...for some information." He held up the CD. "Cancer Man?" Cullen just glared at him. There was a long silence. "You're quick to judge what you don't understand." "Then tell me what to think! You're sitting in bars with the man that betrayed you and nearly got you killed! You're getting into cars with the man who probably gave the order!" A horrible inspiration struck him. "He said...he said he liked you. That he liked you and that was why he returned you to me." He was nearly yelling now. "What did that *mean,* Cullen?" She was also nearly yelling. "How the hell should I know? I was somewhat indisposed at the time!" He grabbed her by the shoulders; no more "nearly" about it, he was actually yelling. "What are you doing for him?" "It's none of your affair!" she yelled back. There was silence as they stared at each other, trying to calm down. For a moment, he wasn't sure if they *were* going to calm down, or go back to yelling, or kiss -- all three possibilities seemed likely. "Cullen...no matter what you do or don't do for them, they're not going to kill me." "I know that." His amazement must have shown on his face, for she explained, "They kill you, they make you a martyr. They couldn't deal with a martyr. Your cause, if you want to call it that, is getting enough support as it is." She mulled it over. "Is that why you're so paranoid about this? Because you think it's your fault?" "Well, tell me what I should believe." While he was waiting for her to do so, something she'd said sank in. "And it's your cause too...isn't it?" Cullen just looked at him. Then she shut the filing cabinet, grabbed her coat from McIntyre's hands and walked out. He stared after her, scared and unhappy. * * * Later, in Campbell's office, McIntyre was sitting in a chair across from the A.D., his face contemptuously smug. Maybe he was projecting, but Campbell almost seemed to be hiding a smug smirk of his own as he asked, "What this time, McIntyre?" In response, he threw the CD onto the desk between them. "The Cancer Man has her. It's either blackmail or mind control, I don't know which yet. But she's not associating with him because she wants to, that much I know." Now the smug smirk genuinely started to show. "Hope that's eased your mind a little, at least." McIntyre was surprised as all hell. "*You* got me this? But... but I..." "I wouldn't squawk too loudly about this into the wrong ears, McIntyre. It wouldn't do either of our careers any good." "But..." He sighed. "Never mind." He considered this new development, then asked, Do you *still* think I should let it go?" "Strictly on the record," Campbell replied, "I stand by my opinion. Off the record..." A meaningful pause. "...you know what my opinion is." McIntyre considered this, nodded and got up to go. He stopped for a moment on the way out, then turned around. "What do you know about...?" "If you ask questions, sometimes you get answers. And sometimes the answers are dangerous." McIntyre got the message and left without another word. He returned to the X-Files office...and found Mr. X sitting at his desk. "You're still snooping around," the mystery-man rasped. He let that sink in, then added, "And you're getting too close." "*Shut up!*" McIntyre snarled, pulling his gun. "I take it you have every intention of destroying your best source of inside information on some petty little bid for revenge?" "I said *shut up!* And you can screw your inside information because some things are more important! Now if you know something, tell me or I promise you, I don't care what they do to me if you die." "At this point, McIntyre, I know about as much as you do." "Bull*crap!*" "Believe what you want. You will anyway." "*Why?*" "She's good at what she does. That's all I can tell you. They *like* people who are good at what they do." "Why the hell'd they hire Sloane, if that's so true?" Mr. X did that coughing laugh of his. "Because he's too stupid to be seen as a threat." He seemed to consider something. "Or maybe he's not as dumb as you need him to be." McIntyre fumed over this a moment, then cocked the gun. In tones hard enough to break off your teeth, he said, "Get out of my office." X, still chuckling, made his departure. ACT 3: TRUST NO ONE "Every whisper, every waking hour, I'm Choosin' my confessions, tryin' to keep an eye on you Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool Oh no, I've said too much, I set it up" -- R.E.M., "Losing My Religion" Waiting in an alley outside the bar, McIntyre heard the approach of a car's motor. He heard a car door open, then shut. He saw Cullen walk into view, stop at the door, hesitate, then sigh and go in. A moment later, he poked his head out of the alley and looked furtively around. Then he stepped out casually and followed her in. He stood at the bar, nursing a beer. His stance was casual, but his eyes were fixed -- not on the middle distance, but on the couple in the corner. Cullen seemed to be arguing about something. Sloane was calm but slightly cruel-looking as he replied. Eventually, she tried to stand up, but Sloane reached for her wrist and grabbed hold tightly. He said something McIntyre couldn't quite hear, but the vehemence in his tone was written on his face, and she sat down again with a slightly beaten expression. Sloane smirked. McIntyre scowled. Some time later, the barmaid cast annoyed eyes at McIntyre, who was still nursing the same beer. Someone jostled him, knocking his arm and spilling beer all over the place, which seemed to annoy the barmaid more. He turned to the jostler. "Hey, watch it!" The man -- was that really agent Moreno? -- gave him a smug grin, then left. McIntyre scowled suspiciously and turned back to the table where Cullen and Sloane had been sitting...only to find it empty. He slammed a fist on the bar -- "Dammit!" -- and raced out. He arrived just in time to see Cullen's car drive off, Sloane at the wheel. Cursing under his breath, McIntyre gave a whistle. Conveniently enough, a taxi pulled up, and he piled into the front passenger seat. "Follow...ah, hell, never mind. FBI; I need to commandeer this vehicle." He pushed the driver's side door open and shoved the short, squat hack out onto the pavement. The door shut. The cabbie got to his feet as the taxi was thrown into gear, but was left to shake his fist and scream after McIntyre as the taxi peeled rubber down the road after the other car. * * * The black car was parked at the far end of the dark road again. Cullen's car pulled up about 300 yards away from it, as before. The driver's- side door opened and Sloane stepped out. He went around to the passenger side and opened the door, gesturing at Cullen to get out. She scowled at him, but complied. The taxi pulled up nearby with a screech of brakes and McIntyre stepped out, gun and badge in hand. "*Freeze! Federal agent!*" "No, *you* freeze," Sloane sardonically replied, pulling a gun of his own. "You have no authority. You just vanished!" "Did they revoke my badge number? I don't think so." McIntyre scowled at him, then turned to Cullen. "Come on. We're getting out of here." The sound of a gun cocking and aiming reached his ears, and he turned his head. The driver's side door of the nondescript black car was open, and an equally nondescript man was standing behind the open door, his gun trained on McIntyre. Then the back door opened and, in the same smoke-billow as before, Cancer Man stepped out. "By all means, go to him," he said in his faintly accented voice. "But consider there are consequences." McIntyre watched as Cullen looked at him, then at Smythe and the man with the gun, then at Sloane. Then she looked back at McIntyre. Her eyes were sad as she said, "I'm sorry." And, careful not to go anywhere near him, she stepped toward the nondescript black car, of her own accord this time. Smythe ushered her in, got in after her and shut the door. The driver kept his gun on McIntyre, his eyes narrow. Sloane, however, smirked. "Stay out of this." He, too, headed toward the car, and got into the front passenger seat. The driver gave McIntyre one last narrow look, then got into the car, which reversed, then did a U-turn and drove away. McIntyre watched for as long as he could stand to, then went up to Cullen's car and kicked it as hard as he could... * * * A.P.'s head snapped up; he blinked to find himself back in Chez Cullen's living room, then scrubbed at his hair -- it was its usual Einstein-esque tangle, not neatly groomed like Mulder's. Speaking of whom: "Looks like somebody wanted to put this operation permanently out of commission." A.P. looked at the TV. The screen was showing a scene from "Firewalker" -- Mulder looking around the laboratory when Ludwig comes out of nowhere with the mountaineering pick and tries to embed it in Mulder's head. The noise from that woke the Peril up all over again; she made the same defensive gesture and worried noise as last time. Without thinking, A.P. put a hand on her head and stroked her hair. "Just the TV again. Go back to sleep." "Hmmkay..." she replied, not even really awake. She settled down again with a small sigh. A.P. looked at her. He was completely awake now, and confused enough to *know* he was confused. * * * Daria and Jane were sitting on one side of the usual booth at Pizza King, looking at A.P., who looked a bit sheepish. "It makes more sense than you think it does," Erudite Emerald assured him. "Jerome Smythe *is* involved." "Yeah, I suppose," A.P. muttered. "After all, he *did* just about tell you it was his fault." "Not his fault, exactly. It was more like he gave me the impression that he was somehow involved." "There's a difference?" "The statement that it was `his fault' means that he was directly responsible -- that it was something he did or ordered done. And I don't think he'd do that to his own daughter. The statement `somehow involved' is more like...more like he could have prevented it, had he known the consequences of an action or inaction of his, but didn't." A.P. mulled this over. "Oh." He thought some more, then decided to change tracks. "But Sir Naps-a-lot as Mr. X?" "He spends a lot of time with her," Art-Smart Scarlet pointed out vis-a-vis her brother. "You know, in Mystik Spiral rehearsals. Who better to warn you of aberrant behavior than someone who spends all that time with her?" "Yeah," he grudgingly allowed as, "I guess. But still..." More food for thought, then a different tack again. "Poppa Bear as Skinner?" "Same deal," Daria replied. "He's in the band," Jane added. "He sees differences in Lynn that we might not." Something occurred to her. "And he was the first member of the band to actually express any worries in real terms." This next was A.P.'s last chance, but he wasn't holding out much hope. "That Rust guy?" "None of us trust him," Daria pointed out. "Who better to cast as the low-man on the villainous totem pole?" A sigh. "Fine. I think I'd rather be losing it than think that any of that made any sense, but fine." "Why?" Jane asked. "I mean, it sounded vivid and kinda cool..." She noticed his Look. "...in a mind-twisty sort of way." "She shut me out. She just looked at me, said she was sorry and walked away without looking back. I mean, what does that say?" "It was just a dream, A.P. Don't read too much into it. It's just your worries making pictures, that's all." Another sigh. "Maybe you're right. But sometimes dreams mean something. So what does *this* one mean?" "Well," Daria reflected, kind of distantly, "to me it sounds a bit like wish fulfilment. As Mulder, you had the courage to ask the questions you can't make yourself ask in real life." She thought on it. "And it *also* means that you're as confused as we are and your subconscious is trying to make it all make sense." "That or you overdid the cayenne peppers again," Jane smirked wryly. "I think I preferred the weird monsters," A.P. muttered. "*Them* you could explain away." He thought of something. "I guess the files were a..." He drummed his fingers on the table, struggling with the words. "...not the ones that use like and as, but the other ones." "Metaphor," Daria replied, sharing her elder sister's expertise with language. "That's the one!" He nerved himself, then asked the *real* big question. "This...this couldn't be my fault, could it?" "Don't see how," Jane replied. But Daria could. "Unless you count the fact that keeping you -- and us -- out of whatever she's up to is probably keeping us safer than we care to think about." This was greeted by the same dead silence Daria remembered from when Aunt Amy revealed that, even as a child, Helen Barksdale had been a tightly wound pain in the ass. The silence was broken by a reprise of the exchange that had broken that one as well. "New topic?" "Name it." Still more silence. A.P. went thoughtful, putting the pieces together. Finally, he just shook his head. "Next time I say I want to eat two of those damn pizzas...for the love of Mike, don't *let* me! It's more trouble than it's worth!" Daria and Jane smirked at him in a told-you-so sort of way. ADAPTOR'S NOTES I have watched exactly one episode of _The X-Files_ in my entire alleged life -- the Halloween one with Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca as the smart-ass ghosts who fsck with Mulder and Scully's heads. In spite of this, the concepts are so pervasive in our pop culture (including the "ReBoot" episode where Gillian Anderson guested as the voice of "CGI agent Data Nully") that I could, I feel, do a reasonably good job of catching the mood. Bouquets, brickbats and 16-ton weights should be directed to email (aoomis at ocean-otr-usm-edu, zedd at io-com, AOL screen name AGLoomis). I keep meaning to get on IRC one of these first days; from what Jan's told me, though, I'd probably be overwhelmed by the fanboying. Obligatory legal blap: Daria Morgendorffer was created (as were the rest of the Lawndale characters) by Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis Lynn, and she and her neighbors are copyright 1993, 1997, 2000 MTV Networks, a Viacom company. (As Michelle Klein-Haess has pointed out, work-for-hire sucks the yolks from ostrich eggs.) Monty Python quotes and characters are copright 1970, 2000 Python (Monty) Pictures Ltd. They are here used, without the permission of their creators or owners, in the not-for-profit context of fan-fiction. The characters of Lynn Cullen and A.P. McIntyre are copyright 1999, 2000 Janet "Canadibrit" Neilson, as is this storyline, which was adapted by Austin Loomis (to whom the prose format version is copyright 2000) with permission. All other characters, locations and incidents (of which I don't think there are any, actually) are either imaginary or used fictitiously. Any coincidence of names is regretted, and any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or wandering the night in ghostly torment is either purely satirical or not my fault. As a "substantially transformative" derivative work, this story is protected by the Supreme Court's decision in re Campbell v. Acuff Rose Music. It may be freely redistributed as long as this copyright notice is maintained intact, but may not be in any way redistributed for profit without the permission of the legal owners of all concepts involved. The present author hereby gives permission for any and all keepers of Daria fanfic pages to archive this work (as if I could stop them). Any publication of this story for profit without the express written permission of Austin Loomis, Janet Neilson and MTV Networks (like any of that'll happen, especially the last) is strictly prohibited, and violators, if I ever decide to track them down, will be strung up by the thumbs, beaten about the head and shoulders with a free-range carrot, and then handed over to corporate lawyers who will do terrible things to them. On purpose. Austin, and good day. Al D T0 W- Q Fw^Fr O+ Ow+OH+Of m c- MV+ F:111,208,313 BB+ FCT -DT+ q fJ^fj^fD