"Night Eyes" XFBandit Rating: PG Classification: MSR, SR Rating: PG Spoilers: Tempus Fugit/Max, Paper Clip, Anasanzi, Talitha Cumi/Herronvolk Feedback: Sure. drambo@sonic.net Archive: Anywhere, as long as my name and addy stay attached. Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. No money changed hands, and no characters were hurt in the creation of this fanfic. <><> Boise, Idaho The target hasn't moved in four hours. I sit in my car, tucked away in a corner of the motel parking lot, bathed in darkness. The plastic earpiece in my head is mostly quiet; all I can hear is the occasional ruffle of paper, the clicking of fingernails on a keyboard and the occasional moist sound of someone sipping coffee. I get all the dicey jobs. Everyone has a skill, a talent. The lucky ones learn early on what that skill is, and capitalize on it. I'm lucky. I found out that hunting humans is my skill, my talent. And with that skill, a gift. If I had ever sat on a psychologist's couch and told them what goes on inside my head, I know what the diagnosis would be: Functioning sociopath. The men in uniform discovered it without the benefit of medicine. On the battlegrounds of a jungle half a world away, they learned that there are those few among us who can do what is necessary without remorse, without regret, without feeling. I get all the dicey jobs. I've bugged judges, senators, doctors and lawyers, drug enforcement agents, CIA operatives, FBI agents, and once, the President's limousine. But never anyone like this. Nineteen out of twenty jobs, the bugging is the precursor to the real job. I bug the houses, the apartments, the cars, the clothes, the offices. I learn their routines. I insert myself into their lives invisibly, silently. And when the time is right, I strike. Everyone has enemies. Including my target tonight. I have had the luxury of being able to eliminate mine, one way or another. My eyes flick to the VU meters on my reel-to-reel. They're dancing as the target talks. "Mulder," she says, "would you hand me the autopsy report?" <><> I can still remember when I got the job. My office is just inside the Beltway, one of a thousand small startups created by ex-military types, defense industry workers and old intelligence agents. Private investigation firms, corporate espionage, data security, anything you want. If you have a down-and-dirty job you want done, no need to pester a congressman to allocate taxpayer dollars; just let your fingers do the walking and you'll find far more experience for hire than you could ever imagine. Sixteen years in the military for me, and then four more with... a certain agency. I found early on that the more mysterious I was, the more money I made. When people asked me questions about my qualifications, I say nothing, using my face to tell them that there were certain questions better left unanswered, that the answers could prove as dangerous to them as the jobs they want to hire me for are to me. Like this job. Be careful, I was instructed. This one was careful, wily. She'll assume she's being bugged. She'll know where to look. She's on some kind of deep undercover assignment for the Feds. The guy who hired me is a moron. He tried to make it like he was a player, in on the game, like he knew the rules, tossing around terms and phrases he'd picked up from some cheap paperback at an airport bookstore somewhere. Talking about laser parabolic microphones. Audio and video bugs secreted in drawers, closets, dropped ceilings. TV shit. Movie quackery. You've got the connections, you don't need anything as obvious as a microphone taped under a desk drawer. You call a friend who calls a friend, and a $2 billion satellite shifts its attention a few degrees twenty-two thousand miles above my head. Technology once used to spy on our enemies now spies on mine. Or yours. When you do what I do, every day is a learning experience. The customer wasn't sure what he wanted, but I was surprised to find he didn't want her whacked out. That's usually what happens, like I said. Nineteen times out of twenty. Maybe thirty-nine out of forty. Lately, it seems, a lot of people are dying early, right after I leave their company. But not this target. Not tonight, at least. "Just track her," the man had said, nodding nervously. "All I want is to know what she does, where she goes..." He trailed off, his eyes pleading with me, begging me to understand what he _really_ wanted to know. Who she was with. And what they did when they were together. I put it together in a heartbeat. And after a minute, he saw that I had, and smiled like a kid caught beating up a younger sibling. Guilty for show, only ashamed that he'd been caught, not that he'd had the impulse in the first place. A different kind of sociopath, I remember thinking. I know what I am. He doesn't yet. I told him the price and he didn't blink. Wrote me a check out a three-ring binder full of them. I ran a fast check on him, just to be sure. His legend checked out, and none of the flags I was trained to sniff out were raised; he was legit. As legit as your average politician. Two weeks, he said. Two weeks should be enough to..."get the proof" he needed. I didn't bother asking me why he felt he needed this...proof. It's none of my business, and it has no effect on the way I do my job. Or so I thought. <><> I thought I had heard it all. My team had bugged the car, the hardest part, in less than a minute. They had stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of town. He went inside to pay for the gas, and she used the time to take a short walk, stretching her legs. We pulled up in a plumbers van, two in the front, one in the back. I sat lookout. Thuong got out and started the bug. Tony Bones pumped the gas, his eyes sweeping the target zone, watching for either of them, waiting for them to come back at us at a run, pistols drawn. Nothing. In and out in seconds. The bug was perfectly placed. Thuong knew his work; he'd cut his teeth in Saigon three decades ago, bugging bedrooms that didn't officially exist, listening to Generals and their B-girls talking about air strikes and snatch missions north of the DMZ. Then, he was my enemy. Today, he's my partner. I sent the team home; with the satellite for the motel and the car bugged, I had them all but covered. Any local survail I needed to do, I'd use the laser parabolic my customer was so in love with. While they slept, I edited the tapes. Took out all the silences, left the rest. Played it when I was bored. She was like a broken record, sometimes. "Mulder, are you saying that..." "Mulder, you don't honestly believe..." "Mulder, you can't mean that..." "Mulder, there's no way you can prove..." And so on. Over and over. Hey, if I were her, I'd say the same things. The guy was a nut. As much as I could piece together, six young girls had gone missing from these parts for time periods ranging from overnight to six days. When they came back, they all were mute, deaf and blind. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong with them. Tests were performed, blood taken an analyzed, brain scans and procedures that I couldn't begin to guess at were undertaken. They were all in perfect health. Right up until the moment they died. Usually within 5 days of being returned to their parents. And the guy...Mulder...thought that little green men had come and done it. I'd chuckled when he'd corrected her. "Grey, Scully," he'd said seriously. "They're grey." My customer wanted some dirt on her. Why, I wasn't one-hundred- percent sure, but I had an idea. Only, there _was_ no dirt. At least, not the kind he was interested in. <><> Until tonight. They'd caught the culprit, and it wasn't some...what did the guy call them? Reticulans? Just your average sociopath. This one turned out to have a degree in biochemical engineering. He'd concocted some drug that he'd given the girls. It made them blind, mute and deaf. It also allowed him to do the Dark Things to the girls, the things that only adults were supposed to do to other adults. Once he did the Dark Things with them, he injected them with the compound and sent them home, content in the knowledge that they'd never be able to tell anyone what happened, never hear a police officer's question, and never be able to pick him out of a lineup. He was good. I could have used someone like him. I didn't share his taste in playmates for the Dark Things, but, still... Right idea, I thought. Wrong implementation. But the woman...my target...put it all together and she and the nutjob Mulder tracked the guy to ground. Only he didn't want to go quietly. And he had another victim with him when the target and her partner showed up. It ended badly, but to be fair, they did what had to be done. He hadn't given them any choice. There was no suspect in cuffs on this case. Just two more bodies in the morgue. One, the suspect, taken out with a single shot to the left eye. The woman, my target, had taken that shot, and the shot that had taken out the little girl. My target had no choice; the suspect had moved too quickly, ducking behind the girl at the last moment. My target's training had taken over, she'd tracked him with the sights of her pistol, firing before she realized what he'd done. Heart-shot. She never had a chance. I've killed more than my share in my time -- hell, more than YOUR share...so I know what happened to the girl. She felt a pressure, like a huge fist smashing her in the chest -- and then nothing. Lights out. I'll give my target some credit; she's handling it well. No tears. From what I can tell, she hasn't gotten the shakes yet. I'm betting that's going to happen when the nutjob goes back to his motel room for the night. She'll wait until he quiets down to another night spent in front of the TV watching the soft-core porn that passes for entertainment. I listen...they're finishing up. He tells her that he's proud of her. She makes a noise I can't interpret without seeing her face, but somehow I get as "whatever." He goes to his room. And on cue, on schedule, about twenty minutes later I hear the soft sobs in my ears. My finger twitches over the STOP button on my reel-to-reel. My client paid for this tape. He paid me to invade the target's privacy, to record every single moment of her life for two weeks. But some things you can't buy. I hear something else, and my finger retreats. It's him, the nutjob, back in the target's room. "Scully?" he asks. "Go away, Mulder." "What's wrong?" Sniff. "What do you _think_ is wrong?" Score one for her, I think. Settling noises; he's sitting on the bed, I think. Next to her. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks. "No," she replies. More movement sounds. I grab my cell and dial. "Identify," a voice demands. "Six Oscar Four Twelve Delta," I say. "Confirmed," the voice replies after a moment, most of the challenge in his words gone. "I need thermal," I say. "Pipe it down to me." "Stand by..." Nine seconds later a handheld HDTV unit in my hand comes to life. Murky at first. As the satellite's imagery package spools into operation, the picture slowly firms up to reveal two figures. One, the smaller one, the target, is lying down, facing me. The taller one, the nutjob, is beside her. I start recording. This is what I am paid to do. "Scully," I hear in my head, "we should talk about it." "Talk all you want, Mulder. I've got nothing to say." "Scully...it happens." Her voice is hard, clipped, each word a separate thought. "It. Doesn't. Happen. To. Me." His answer is quiet, almost as if he is afraid of her reaction to his next words. "It did today." She turns to him and I flinch, sure that she's going to hit him. Instead, she stops, and then nestles against him. "I had no choice," she says softly, as if trying to convince herself. Hell, she doesn't have to convince me. I have the entire episode on audio and video. I've watched it six times. She did what she had to do. We all do. Eventually. "That's right," the nutjob says. "You had no choice." "Damn you," she whispers. It takes me a moment to realize she's talking about the psychopath she killed today, not the man in the bed next to her. "Damn you to hell for making me do this." The nutjob, to his credit, remains silent. After a long pause, the target speaks again. "I'm just so sick and tired of this, Mulder. Of all of it." He says nothing, letting her talk, letting her get it out. "How many lives, Mulder? Your mother, your father, your sister. My sister. Deep Throat. Pendrell. Max. The Thinker. Who's next? Me? You? My mother? Skinner? One of the Gunmen? I'm so sick and tired of death." Odd statement for a pathologist, I think. "So why do you still do it?" the nutjob asks. You moron, I think. Fourteen consecutive days of watching the target has taught me one thing. He may not know it, and I'm almost sure she doesn't, but it's pretty much obvious to anyone that spends more than ten consecutive seconds in their company. She does it for you. She remains silent. Afraid to tell the truth. Afraid not to. They continue to talk into the night. I listen, and learn. Learn what love is, and what it is not. And somewhere around two in the morning, something happens. I can sense it. The satellite can sense it. The audio recorder can sense it. They move towards each other, tentative at first. And then hungrier. I haven't had a woman in many months. The women I do have, I pay for. It's easier that way. The thing inside me...that thing that is wrong with me, doesn't allow me to form relationships. I cannot love. I am incapable of it. And no one can love me. This lesson was perhaps the hardest to learn. Try as I might, I can't see women as people. They're objects to me. And to save them, I pay for the privilege of losing myself inside one. But... If I were able... If it were inside me...this ability the nutjob has that I lack... I would want it to be like this. I dial my cell again. "Identify," the voice repeats. I do, and then say, "Cut thermal." "Why?!" the voice asks. "This is great stuff!" "Cut it," I say again, letting a hardness I don't feel ease into my voice. The technician sighs. "Fine." "Destroy the tape," I say. "What are you talking-" he starts. "Destroy it," I say again, "or I'll destroy _you_." He knows the difference between a threat and a promise. "Done," he says after a minute. "I'll put it in the burn bag." I hang up. Starting the engine, I pull out of the motel lot and head for the airport. Along the way, I wonder what I'm going to do when I get back to DC. <><> Two days later, my client shows up. Expectation...hunger written all over his face. "Well?" he asks. I give him my report. Disappointed, he slinks away. He was sure they were sleeping together. I watch his bald head vanish through my door and wonder how many others like me he's going to pay to watch her. Not many, I decide. If I have anything to do with it. <> <> Outside her door. The target's alone. I tapped her phone and her apartment to make sure. The nutjob is at work, staying late. From the tape I have from his office, he's busy on the computer. I knock. I can feel her presence behind the door, staring at me through the peephole. "Yes?" she asks. I open my credentials case, hold it to the window. They were valid once, and only the sharpest of eyes would see that they're expired. She opens the door, the chain in place. Her right hand is hidden behind her thigh. I am more than aware that the SIG in her hand is cocked and most definitely not locked. "Special Agent Dana Scully?" I ask pleasantly. She says nothing. She's good. She knows how to wait. "I need to speak with you," I say gently. "About?" I chew on this for a moment. "I doubt you want your neighbors to hear this." I don't tell her that if she wants she can search me. I expect her to. She studies me, predator's eyes, hunter's eyes raking up and down. The door opens a moment later. "Walk in, hands in sight, your back to me," she orders. I do as she asked. Not that I couldn't have killed her four times in the six steps I take into her apartment. But that's not why I'm here. This time. She steps behind me, searches me quickly, professionally. I'm impressed; her hand doesn't shy away from my crotch. Most female law enforcement types hate doing that, imagining some male cop doing the same thing to a female suspect makes them uneasy. Not this one. In a strange way, knowing her as I do now, I'm proud. "What do you want?" she asks. I turn slowly, keeping my hands in sight. "I am here to give you some information you need. About someone you know." "Mulder?" she asks, concern worrying her features. "No," I say. Moving my hands slowly, I pluck at the lapel of my trench coat. "I have a picture to show you," I say. "May I get it?" She nods, eyes wary. I withdraw a photograph of my client, taken only hours before. "Do you recognize this man?" I ask, showing her the photograph. Her color fades. She nods. Professional that she is, she doesn't say his name. She can't be sure I'm not wired; the search wasn't that thorough. She was looking for weapons, not recording devices. I'm not wired. But the apartment bug is still recording. "The credentials I showed you are no longer valid," I say, giving her a grain of truth to gain her trust. "I work...privately now. This man hired me." Her voice is hard. "Hired you to do what?" "Watch you." "For how long?" "Two weeks." She waits for it. "Ending three days ago," I finish, making my voice as kind as I'm able. Her shoulders slump. "I'm not here to shake you down," I say, meaning it. For the first time in years. "Why are you here?" she asks. "I gave my report to your...to my client...two days ago." A small frown from her. "I did not mention any of the events that took place in Idaho." I pause, and then add. "I have no plans to." She waits, knowing there's more. I reach into my jacket slowly again, return with two reels of tape. "These are the surveillance tapes from that night. I can only give you my word that these are the only copies. They have not been transcribed. I am giving them to you." Without looking away, I toss them on the couch next to me. She watches my face, ignoring the tapes. She's good. Very good. "Why are you giving me these?" she asks. "They are yours. You can decide what, if anything, to do with them. But if you wish to...confront...my client, I would appreciate a call first so that I may take...appropriate measures." Her eyes flash. I take out a business card and gently lay it on the arm of the couch. Her eyes track my every movement. I'm not offended. I'm impressed. Whoever has given this woman her institutional paranoia has done an excellent job. I wish I could hire him. But I have no desire to listen to the rantings about Reticulans. "Either way..." I say, and then stop. I sigh. "May I speak freely?" She waves her right hand, and I see the SIG in her grip. She's not bothering to hide it anymore, but she's not pointing it at me, either. That is good. I would hate to have to kill her. "I watched you and your partner for a long time, Agent Scully. I have done a little of what you do for a great many years. I have had a great many partners. Some lived, some died. I was closer to some than others. But I have never had a....relationship...like you and your partner have. My client...wished to destroy that. For no good reason other than his own insecurity. I understand that what happened in Idaho was probably the first time...that...has happened between you and your partner. My coming here today is to facilitate my hope that it is not the last time such a thing happens for you and he." "Why?" "Because my client told me all about you, Agent Scully. I know all the details of your life. I know what you have been through. As a fellow traveler in the dark rivers of this nation's heart, I figured one of us should be..." "Happy," I finish. She nods. "Have a good day," I say, moving towards the door. She steps away, letting me pass. "Thank you," she says softly. "Miss Scully...be careful," I warn. "There are others that do what I do. He will go to others to satisfy what he already knows, already suspects but cannot prove. Your partner has three very...capable friends. Utilize their services to insulate yourself from detection and observation. This time...it was your boyfriend. Next time, it could be your superiors...or one of the...others that seek to narrow your ability to do your job." She nods again, knowing the truth, seeing it. I let myself out. For the first time since I set foot in a humid hell of a jungle half a world away thirty years ago, I feel like I've done the right thing for the right reason. I smile to myself as I get into my car because I know that feeling will pass and soon I will be able to get back to work. The only work I know. <><> FINI