Diametrically Opposed by mountainphile ************ Chapter 9 ************ Hocking, Ohio Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum March 15, 2001 6:10 AM The grim-faced man began his rounds of the facility before dawn. Above the treetops a few stars hung, tiny twinkling lights, like summer bugs suspended in flight. Reminders of what the coming night would portend, he quickened his step accordingly. His breath fanned the air with plumes of white as he marched from one building to the next in the cold near-darkness. Recruited from one of the toughest prison systems in the country, it had been over a decade since he'd seen petty guard duty. Now that he assigned it to others below him, it still remained his prerogative to snatch control back for security reasons and peace of mind. This morning was such a time. Anton Krieg was a tall man short on mercy. He'd been ripe for picking by the individuals who were known as the Consortium, or in some circles, the Syndicate. His reputation had spoken volumes to those seeking out operatives with his brand of ruthless methodology. Under their covert and extreme tutelage he'd been schooled, indoctrinated, tested, and sometimes tortured. Few but the strongest, the most gifted, could survive such training, and only by cunning, endurance, and the luck of the draw. In order to rise through the ranks Krieg had to play the game, learn the hierarchy. Determine through willing reassignment which of the top members would fold, which would succeed, and he aligned himself accordingly. Strughold, for being a cutthroat leader, going straight for the jugular. The brooding bulldog of an Elder. CGB Spender, the impervious smoker, for his complexity and cold omniscience. The stiff old Brit, whom he thought to be a weak sister, had surprised him with brilliant subterfuge and style, by his willingness to doom an entire operation at the cost of his own life. '98 was a definitive year for Krieg. He'd worked several agendas concurrently, juggled more masters than he cared to during the Antarctica operation. "You must take away what he holds most valuable, that with which he can't live without," Strughold had finally ordered, referring to the redheaded skirt, partner of that pain-in-the-ass FBI agent called Mulder. Fox Mulder, the fly in everyone's ointment, tolerated and deemed untouchable. Son of that washout, Bill Mulder, weakest link of all. Spender took the German's recommendation and placed Krieg in charge of the Hegal Place kidnapping. By wiring the agent's apartment in advance, they intercepted the emergency call and nabbed the woman. Easy pickings. He'd even dared to buck authority by blowing that stupid fuck Mulder away and got to inspect the little cupcake at close range before her delivery to Spender's transport. Except, when Fox Mulder survived his so-called martyrdom everything in Antarctica collapsed anyway. With a need for insurance and bargaining power, Krieg managed to confiscate the remaining bone fragment samples in Dallas before he disappeared. Eluding multiple assassins, he holed up until the right offer came in the form of a covert summons from the First Elder. For a specific purpose, of course. Those bastards never trusted one another, still couldn't. The smart ones, like the crusty Brit, had a strategy already in place, a secret agenda planned before El Rico blew up in their faces. Only those with foresight outlived the attack and conflagration in that doomed hanger. After all, the Plan was unalterable, not foolproof. Survivors had to anticipate any deviation like the mutating virus, or any attack from without, and stay primed for it. Spender and his ilk remained in a special class, guarded and impermeable, duping everyone at the fringe. Men like them endured. As the saying goes, shit floats. ************ Super 8 Motel Hocking, Ohio 6:15 AM This is the way life should be, Mulder thought in sleepy-eyed contentment. Waking with the chickens, a naked Scully tucked up against him. She breathed evenly, still out like a light. No doubt exhausted from travel, a long day, and only she knew what else. As he'd done innumerable times for the past year, he played the voyeur, seizing this opportunity to watch her at length. Relaxed in sleep, she displayed a guilelessness that was as rare for her as a Bigfoot sighting. Fragility that was atypical during her waking, working hours when everything about her seemed brusque, practical, and business-at-hand. Yet unlike other mornings, he decided now was the time to view her through a different lens, in a way that transcended mere sight and appearance. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Mulder focused on her motionless outline, clenching his jaw with the effort until his molars met and scraped enamel. No aura, haze, or colors misted over her. Nothing close to ethereal or supernatural surfaced from Scully's body that could make him question either her allegiance to this case -- or to him. No, while he cradled her from behind, his lover slept on, yielded and trusting. She was the nucleus, the constant in his too-often dysfunctional and lonely universe. And what he observed of her without benefit of a squint made him smile. Locks of rumpled hair more rust than red in the half-light, lips a soft unconscious pout. Long lashes veiled her cheeks like a girl's. Above the sheet, the ivory slimness of her shoulder sloped to meet her neck and throat. Its pulse throbbed near his face, a tantalizing velvety flutter. Farther down he felt the smooth flare of bone and muscle molding into his loins, her feminine ass and hip exerting delectable pressure on his swollen dick. Heat radiating from both their bodies bonded them together, her skin cleaving damply to his. Eat your heart out, World, he thought. As her life partner of choice he was the lone, lucky recipient of Scully's passion, loyalty, heart, and most personal attentions. One privileged guy. Blessed beyond belief. Enthralled, he craned for a closer look. Her breasts lay compressed as she slept halfway on her side, creating a depth of cleavage possible only in such a position. Lifting the sheet aside to discern their contours, he fought the temptation to reach down and run a fingertip over her silky aureole, to tease the tender pink nipple at its center. From experience he knew it would plump and perk under his touch with a mind of its own while the rest of Scully slumbered on oblivious. Yes, like the biblical pronouncements following each new day of creation week, it was good. In fact, it was A-Number-One, mind-blowing good. Small wonder he awoke rock-hard most mornings with a head full of cotton, ravenous for more of her. The power her body exuded over him was a potent narcotic, the warm, pungent tang of sex and spent arousal that emanated from beneath the sheet an opiate clouding his brain. It dawned on him that over the last year she'd been spoiling him rotten, beyond retrieval. A few Scully-less nights alone in his bed left him feeling bleak to the point of restlessness. His present hunger, he admitted, encompassed more than mere sexual need. There were things he wanted to know in a bad way, secrets he needed to learn in order to watch his partner's back throughout this investigation. Scully's unexpected, sporadic impulses to work apart and play the maverick brought back red-flag flashbacks that made him sweat. Too many risks and consequences accompanied these episodes. Her ill-conceived road trip across Pennsylvania with Cancer Man. Philadelphia, when she... hell, he wanted to eradicate the Philly incident altogether. Padgett's manuscript, an exercise in erotica with "a priori" overtones. That time she remained in DC reconnecting with a past life he knew nothing about. Most recently, the wicked injuries she'd sustained apart from him in Missouri, at the hand of Alice Marshall. Risks, all. Red flags sent up by Scully set him on edge. Though she might also have a personal agenda sneaking below the surface in this investigation, like he did. Some private issue. The least they could do was to talk things over -- clear the air and establish an understanding. Beside him, she whimpered from the shallows of REM sleep. A tug of protective want seized Mulder, raw longing that spilled over to the supine woman he knew with such intimacy. Ending his covert scrutiny, he bent, closed his eyes to the inevitable, and pressed his mouth against her neck. "Hmmm?" Scully shifted in a slow stretch to face him, her heated flesh peeling from his, an arm settling over his ribs. Warm breath at his throat followed by a lazy half-hearted brush of her lips. Thighs loose, her bush tickled his erection with languid familiarity as her eyelashes flickered against his chin. He gathered her to him. "You awake?" "Thanks to you." "Are you sure? I need to ask you something." She slurred, snuggled in closer. "You wanna know if it was good, Mulder?" Her hip slid against his. "Well, it was pretty wonderful, as usual. Can we go back to sleep now?" "In a bit. We need to talk first," he pressed, brushing the tangled hair away from her forehead. It was useless trying to communicate the urgency he felt without alarming Scully to some degree. Even half-asleep she could be sharp as a tack and his patience was already wearing thin. "I want to know a few things." In the circle of his arms he felt her back and arm muscles tense, then thaw as she absorbed the request and made her decision concerning it. "I told you all I could. There's nothing more to tell." "Better rethink that. There's too much I know you're *not* telling me." "How so?" "Try this: the ground's frozen solid outside, but you came in here late last night with mud smeared on your ass. Mud, Scully. I want to know where you've been. I need to know you'll be safe this time around." She smirked. "Mulder, don't forget that I'm the one who's had to go undercover here." He lobbed back. "It wasn't my plan to steal your thunder or force you underground." Stupid, asinine thing to say, he berated himself, when her cooperation and trust were crucial if he was to learn anything substantive. She faltered as though offended by his inference, but recovered in the blink of an eye. Fully awake at last, she touched his cheek, her clear, intense gaze seeking his. "I know that, and please listen to me. Consider it fortunate that I found an unexpected contact despite being cut out of most of the action. That's to our advantage. You and I are simply starting at opposite ends in this investigation and working toward one another until we meet somewhere in the middle." "How opposite are we talking?" "Does it matter? Trust me... when I feel it's appropriate or absolutely necessary, I won't fail to bring you in. Or to ask for your help." The determination her words conveyed froze his jaw, hindering his snide comeback. "That's me," he sniped after a few moments, "your Johnny-on-the-spot partner." "Stop it. We both know there's a conspiracy of some kind going on in the upper university echelons. Trust me, Mulder. I realize there are risks and I'm prepared for that contingency. To be honest, I'm more concerned about your safety than mine right now." Groaning, he sensed payback. "Not that again..." Scully pulled herself to a sitting position, her nipples a pair of dusky eyes staring at him accusingly. "Yes, that again. Willow What's-her-name. Don't let your guard down for a minute, Mulder. Promise me." "You said she checked out." He felt her huff and pull away. Watched the globes of her perfect rear recede toward the bathroom, undulating with each defiant stride, veiled in pale shadow. The toilet flushed, followed by sink noises. A minute later she was back, still naked but with hair brushed from her temples into a neat, long oval framing her face, skimming her bare shoulders. Eyes blue and unreadable. Guard back in place. Scully armor of old he recognized and understood. "She did check out," she affirmed shortly, jerking the sheet back over her legs and picking up the thread of discussion, "but admit it, Mulder: her methods are flaky and there's no rational way to test their veracity." "Scully," he argued, "She has a gift." "Of what? Manipulation? The dramatic? Can she realistically stand in an empty dorm room, close her eyes, and divine what's happened to Amanda Carmichael?" A classic argument with merit, but he had little tolerance for it. He sat up to face her, tamping down his rising annoyance at her intentional deflection and stubbornness. At least *something* was still on the rise, since his dick hung limp as chicken skin now. "You know it's not as simplistic as all that." "It never has been. Apparently it never will be." She lifted her shapely brows and gave one maddening tilt of her head, daring him to debate the issue. "I'd feel better if I felt we were playing on the same team." "We always wear the same uniform. This time we're just playing different parts of the field for a little while. Those happen to be the rules of this particular game." "Scully, it's too soon after Aubrey; there's too much risk involved." "For whom? Mulder, we had a version of this conversation several years ago and I had a hard time swallowing it back then. And like it or not, we've just traded opposing points- of-view." "'What's good for the goose', eh? When was this?" "You, in Warwick, Rhode Island, your bloodstream laced with the drug ketamine, your brain racked by seizures. Is this sounding at all familiar? Little holes drilled into your skull by a quack psychologist and your weapon aimed at my head in Quonochontaug. Remember?" Scully's voice had softened to a whisper when he dragged slow fingers over his eyes to squelch the shameful memory of a personal quest gone awry. Waking up disoriented in a blood- soaked shirt. Slapped behind bars while his partner used every resource at hand to protect and vindicate him. The dangerous rabbit trail he'd followed against all reason. The uncharted fog he'd bushwhacked through to discover what was truth and what was fiction concerning Samantha's long-ago disappearance. The risk he assumed at her expense. Scully, ultimately endangered and at wit's-end, had defended him, steadfast to the end. He felt her hand slip around the back of his neck as she pulled him toward her. Only inches from his, her beautiful face creased with regret, compassion, concern... and no sign at all of capitulation. "I know you feel strong negativity about it, Mulder, like I did then," she murmured. "But this time -- it's my risk to take." ************ Only four, she knew, would venture into the tunnel proper after sunset, a change from the previous evening's lineup: Tusk, with Scully by his side, Cricket, and Mole. According to their timetable, tonight was only the beginning of serious business. Mason and Needlenose planned to guard the perimeter near the parked cars, which would be tucked within the deep undulations of the field's topography. Footer, nursing his wound, was to stay behind at the house manning walkie-talkie communications, just as before. She'd been impressed by the size of the renovated tunnel and the distance they could venture before Tusk halted progress and called it a night. Exploring the unknown was exhilarating; it made her heart quicken. Throughout her brief sojourn into darkness, lit only by the bright yellow streams from their flashlights, the walls shone earthen and mysterious, the air organic and yeasty. They'd stood below frost line, Scully soon discovered. It was a midwestern March, harsh and reluctant. By day sunshine teased the earth with warmth, but by night the surface refroze and frosted over. Underground, however, humidity and moisture had thawed the rough-textured tunnel beyond expectation. Like the others, she'd been careful to circumnavigate the muddier spots in her path. Several times she wiped away soft clumps of dirt, brown daubs and spatters from the sleeves of her leather coat that fell from above. Afterward, in the cold air outside, Tusk gave her the once-over and a damp rag for cleaning off any remaining vestiges from her clothing and boots that might divulge her whereabouts. He also gave her orders to come prepared with appropriate tunneling attire. One thing he neglected to do, however, was to check the seat of her jeans. At any other time she'd consider that a damn good thing, except for questions the errant smear had later provoked from Mulder in her motel room. She'd explain everything to him in due time. Sooner, if she required his help, despite Tusk's mandate. But she was impressed by the smooth way Tusk, a self-appointed general, prepared his ragged little army for their mission. All had assignments according to their strengths and expertise, knew their drill, and carried out their orders. For her part, Scully was to report to the Union Street shop early in the day. There, at Tusk's insistence, she'd receive additional briefing and familiarize herself with Mole's maps of the tunnel system. None of which she could share with Mulder, of course. Not yet. Preparing for the day, she was sure he had his own agenda that included the wily psychic and a hazy world of paranormal guesstimates. He revealed nothing to her besides his usual dogged persuasiveness during their morning shower together and when he tugged yesterday's clothes back on afterward, hair wet and unruly as a boy's. "Mulder... hold still," she said, seizing her brush. He stood before her in his stocking feet, dress shirt a wrinkled mess, fly half-zipped while she reached up to tame his damp locks into some semblance of order. He grinned, leaned down to capture her mouth in a gentle kiss of thanks. "Do I pass muster now?" "Only on a college campus. I imagine with exam week finished all the students are pretty much gone. You'll get that quiet you needed." She watched his long fingers form an effortless, loose knot in his tie and heard the dissenting grunt as he stepped one foot at a time into his shoes. "Doesn't matter," he replied, throwing her a pointed look. "I don't plan on spending much down time there anyway." ************ When it came to complimentary breakfast, Glenn was a man of his word. Mug in hand, Scully appeared at the check-in office while most of the other guests still slept. She decided to forego the small thick inner tubes of glazed, iced, plain, and chocolate that lay boxed on the counter. What Mulder didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Instead she sipped from a cup of rank drip coffee she'd made for them earlier in her room. "I get 'em over at Spudnuts," Glenn said with obvious pride. "Not your garden variety donut, no sirree. Potato flour's the secret. Keeps 'em nice and moist." He hefted the box like a weightlifter. "I tell ya, these babies have substance." Well expressed, she thought with wry amusement, coming from a man whose forebear laid brick for a living. "Thank you, but I'll pass." "Not much of a breakfast eater, huh?" "I've had all the breakfast I need," she said, browsing for a morning paper. The sudden screech and backfire made them jump and turn as one toward the window facing the parking lot. Scully recognized the silver Sentra. Only minutes before, Mulder had complained to her about the rental car's performance and considered exchanging it for another. The back wheels spat gravel and the engine popped and roared as she watched the car jerk its way into early morning traffic on Richland Avenue. Mulder, blazing his way into another new morning. Even worse, loudly announcing his presence and departure to the motel at large. She took a deep breath and looked the other away, disowning the spectacle. "Looks like your other keycard that stayed over," Glenn said, squinting from the window and giving a low whistle. "Guess he don't need any more breakfast, either." The implication, if Scully caught the right drift, was boorish on his part and embarrassingly unprofessional on hers. Yet she hadn't revealed anything specific except her name and credit card while checking in yesterday. Exasperated, she grabbed for the half-filled carafe and topped off her cup, blowing hard at the hot liquid. Warmth stung her cheeks. "Since there's no fresh fruit available, I'll settle for just coffee right now," she said succinctly, deflecting the imagined impropriety. "Ho, knew I forgot something." Glenn fished behind the counter, resurrecting a basket containing an assortment of apples, oranges, and bananas. "Here you go, breakfast of champions. That better?" "Not by much." She snagged an apple and headed for the door. "Hey, hold on there a minute! Please, um -- Dana?" Rolling her eyes, Scully spun on her heel at the threshold. "Now what?" He blinked at her like an apologetic big brother, but one harboring new respect. Again the tousled grayish hair and rueful demeanor brought to mind Agent Al Sloan. Another individual of recent acquaintance cursed with shyness, a big heart, and a similar strain of foot-in-mouth disease. "I, uh, thought you'd want to know about the university's big art exhibit. Well, today's the last day it's open, at the museum up on the Knoll. Main building. Hours are ten to four, costs five bucks a head." Her mouth tight, she stared at him without reaction and processed the information. "I just thought you'd like to, uh, know that. Night manager said your friend showed him a badge -- um, FBI, I think -- and I just figured... you know, in case you two needed to check it out for any special reason," he ended lamely. "I might." "I can keep quiet about it and all, I promise. And I'm, uh, sorry about that before --" He jerked his head toward the parking lot, abashed. "Hell, it's none of my business." Correct the first time. She felt another rush of heat to her cheeks. "Are we done here?" His big, curved shoulders moved in a slow shrug and he tamped down the lid covering the box of donuts. "Shoot. Guess I've messed things up enough for now. Same-old, same-old." He looked beseeching. "Hey, is it still all right for me to call you 'Dana'?" "Don't push it," she snapped, letting the door clang shut. ************ Hocking, Ohio Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum 7:10 AM The complex lay like a gray, sleeping giant turned to stone. As Anton Krieg again threaded the walkways that connected one antiquated building to the next and looped the whole, his gaze took in as much detail as the faint light and security lamps allowed. He appreciated the economy the design afforded, not the beauty of the architecture. Beauty, rather, was found in a well- executed mission, drawing first blood from an enemy, a clean getaway, or a woman at his mercy. Though the First Elder had sizzled away with the majority of the Syndicate, his legacy didn't end there, like it did for so many others. His foresight included a contingency plan. So Krieg followed the strict, clandestine orders he'd been given to protect an heir who stood outside harm's way, waiting in the wings. Ensuring that another generation of the Consortium family survived to face the delineated future. They called his current boss the Big Man. Groomed for years in secret and a much younger replica of his father the Elder, he'd inherited the same cold cunning and distrust for the Smoker. The patriarch had already set the machinery in motion, utilizing a defunct century-old mental health facility in rural Ohio, with the local university as cover. A mirror of what he did years before at the leprosy colony in Perkey, West Virginia, where Doctor Zama labored for the Plan. The trick was to pull the university's strings in such a way that only a select few, under threat of death and with monetary payoff, knew enough of the real score. Intimidation would keep the others in check. Or, if that failed, Krieg would. He admitted this location was a sweet setup. There was fodder to be found in former patients, homeless bums and rednecks, runaways... and the occasional college student for variety's sake. It was dangerous, dicey work, coordinating an operation between Syndicate operatives and their alien contacts. Numerous pick-ups and deliveries at the lab had to be timed well in advance, to carefully coincide with astrological calendars and superstitious phenomena: smoke screens for the sky-watchers, curious locals, and paranormal whack-jobs that sometimes threatened security. And due to the handful of nitwits supplied by other operatives, things had gotten careless around the little town of Hocking of late. It compounded Krieg's job just when he needed things tight and by the numbers. He halted at the edge of the facility, looked east toward the pink and yellow fingers of dawn streaking the sky. The distant river misted, adding its languid haze to the cooler morning air. With the end of an academic quarter, the university and town slept in, undisturbed, enjoying a brief respite from the teeming and energetic student body. Still, the timing was fucked. He agreed with his boss that it had been too soon, too foolhardy a risk to take another student. And thanks to the clueless new Dean of Students, now Fox Mulder in the flesh was sniffing like a hound around the vicinity of Hocking. Krieg grunted and turned away. He was experienced at handling unwanted curs and had already acted accordingly. By throwing out a meaty bone, you kept a dog ignorant and occupied. ************ The end of Chapter 9 Continued in Chapter 10