DISCLAIMER: I'm using stuff Chris Carter copyrighted, but what he doesn't know can't hurt him. Most of the characters here are mine, and those that aren't mine or Carter's belong to ancient Greek mythology, which can't be copyrighted anyway. So there. I'm just using them all for my own evil purposes... and yes, there is a method to my madness. Now, without further ado... ------------------------------------------------ TITLE: "La Forza del Destino" - Act III, Chapter 8 AUTHOR: Gillian W., better known as XGillian@aol.com RATING: PG-13 CLASSIFICATION: XA SPOILERS: Just about every episode, from the pilot on FEEDBACK: Please! Do not archive without permission. SUMMARY: Written 10/96-8/97. Mulder and Scully investigate deaths connected with small colleges in Virginia and New Jersey. ------------------------------------------------ "Tonight, tonight Won't be just any night Tonight there will be no morning star Tonight, tonight I'll meet my love tonight And for us stars will stop where they are" - Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim, "Tonight" (from West Side Story) The Taurus had stalled out about a mile back, right there in the middle of the road. Scully had run as quickly as was possible in the shoes society forced upon her, until a crack in the blacktop tripped her. At that precise moment, the car exploded, sending bright flames high into the air. There went the deposit. At least Mulder had walked and left her the car, though under the current circumstances it didn't really matter. Eventually she found the street sign that read "Spencer Road." On a hunch she turned left, though the correct direction might as well have been right. She noted the time: 9:28 pm. That placed the car's explosion at around 9:15. Not that it mattered, really, but she felt a need to keep track of such details. She walked a bit more, then realized she'd left her flashlight in the car and had at least another half-mile to walk in almost total darkness. But she had a gun and knew how to use it, should the need arise. Soon, streetlights began to dot her way. She was thankful for the light they provided, weakly orange as it was. The apartment building couldn't be much farther, she figured. Guiltily she realized that she'd forgotten how Mulder had sounded on the phone. Now she remembered; he'd been panicked, breathless. As well he should have been, surrounded by what he feared the most. He had been right, after all. The fire was too much of a coincidence. God, how did he know these things? She whipped out her phone and dialed his number. No answer. She hoped he hadn't fainted, felled by dizziness. She let the phone ring a while more, then gave up. Maybe he'd turned the phone off, as he'd done in the past. She desperately hoped this was the case. Fearing the worst, she broke into a run again. By sheer providence, she came upon the apartment building a few minutes later. As she tore through the parking lot, three shots rang out. Scully dropped to the ground as she had been taught, expecting more gunfire. None came. She picked herself up slowly, gun drawn, muscles tensed. It occurred to her that perhaps she had imagined the gunshots, however real they had seemed. She prayed that if they were real, that they hadn't been intended for Mulder. Bang. This one was definitely not illusory. To the asphalt she fell again. Her heart pounded in her ribcage as it if were trying to escape. As a skilled federal agent she had no business with an anxiety borne of gunfire. Yet it was there, deep-seated, hidden in her psyche, pushed down by years of experience. The facts of this case brought her old childhood fear to the surface again. Each shot reminded her of someone she'd encountered. Jack Willis. Robert Patrick Modell. Deep Throat. Mr. X. Skinner. Agent Pendrell. Missy. Bill Mulder. God, she thought, *Mulder*. Mulder was the reason she'd come this far. Only a little bit further. She slithered along the blacktop, not caring that her suit and coat were being torn at the seams. As abruptly as it had begun, the gunfire ceased. She dashed through the double doors, up the stairs, the innumerable stairs, down the infinite hallways. I'm coming, Mulder, she thought. He couldn't hear her, but it didn't matter much anyway. She realized that her gun was still drawn, and she debated reholstering it. Eventually she opted to keep it at the ready. Her footfalls made no sound in the echoing hallways. The sound of her breath and of her heart pounding in her ears seemed to profane the silence. She felt a bit shaky yet from the events of the parking lot, and she could not help him if she was in the same psychological state as he was. I'm coming, Mulder, I'm coming. The hallway air suddenly grew stuffy and hot. She felt the need to remove her coat, but she left it on for appearance's sake. Her hand became sweaty around the gun. At first she thought the ventilation system might be down, but then she thought of Mulder and the candles. And she understood. She followed the nearly unbearable heat further down the hall until she arrived at the last apartment. Still she could not bring herself to take off her coat. All the years of medical school screamed at her to remove some of the layers she was wearing, but oddly she found herself ignoring this insistence. She gripped her gun tighter, pointed it in the air in preparation for entering the apartment. Tentatively she extended two fingers near the doorknob. Satisfied that it was not too hot to be touched, she moved to turn it. She paused suddenly. The forces of destiny awaited her on the other side of that door. But now was no time to run away. Mulder needed her, awaited her too on the other side of the door. I'm coming, Mulder, I'm coming. She opened the door, gun ready, and slipped into the apartment with cool, professional detachment. The stifling air was pregnant with the sound of a million voices whispering. The whispering and the pounding in her chest fought for control of her ears, but neither one. The din and the heat made her equally uncomfortable, and she struggled to maintain her composure. She felt herself inexplicably drawn to the back room of the apartment. Her gun led the way, two and a half feet before her. Sickening flames guarded the back room, adding their crackling to the noises already filling her head. Moira Onassis lay on the floor convulsing with dark laughter. Scully knew Mulder stood just beyond the wall of fire. I'm here, Mulder. Stay conscious. "Mulder!" she yelled over the cacophony. "It's no use, Agent Scully," Onassis said between peals of uncontrollable laughter. "He can't hear you. Save your breath." "Mulder!" "He will meet his destiny, Agent Scully, and there is nothing you can do to stop it." So much for the prophesies of Clyde Bruckman. Scully aimed her gun at Onassis and cocked it. Onassis could only laugh. "You think you can destroy all of this?" the professor asked cruelly. Scully squinted through the flames and barely made out the outline of her partner. He stood, seemingly paralyzed, in the center of the fire. In the eye of the storm. The flames mocked him, danced about him without ever touching him. It had to be torture for him. "Release him," she hissed at Onassis. "I have no control over it." "Release him," she repeated, "or I'll shoot." "I have no control over it. Their will be done." Scully checked her aim and pulled the trigger. CONTINUED PART IX.