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Circle- Part II

by D.L. Witherspoon

Chapter Nine

"We will start with sight," Blair declared when the group trooped onto the roof. He handed Mulder a pair of binoculars. "Find something you think Jim can't see."

Mulder stood on the edge of the roof and looked around. "There's some graffiti on the wall two buildings over," he said.

"Too easy," Blair protested. "Try harder."

The agent shrugged. "The license plate of the car parked in front of the yard with the pink flamingo."

Blair nodded. That had to be Mrs. Ruffalo's house which was a couple blocks away. He supposed it would have to do; after all, the binoculars were only so powerful.

Jim focused his sight. "Washington State; Charles David Peter, 401," he recited easily.

Mulder looked over at Scully and nodded. She glanced down at the notebook and realized Jim hadn't even had to push to see that short of a distance. "This is incredible. In here, you indicate his hearing is the strongest of all his senses?"

"So far. If you compare this data to earlier results, you will note as his control strengthens, all boundaries are pushed outward. Now, if you would please whisper something in my ear, we can conclude the hearing portion of today's entertainment."

"I'm sorry if--"

"Whisper it," he demanded.

She leaned close to his ear. "I'm sorry if we offended you. It is the nature of my job to be skeptical of such claims. The reason I was paired with Mulder to work on the X-files was because my scientific background was supposed to balance his fanciful findings. I've been doing it so long, that I automatically denounce, then explore."

"That sounds like an apology, Chief," Jim yelled from the other end of the roof. "I accept it. How about you?"

"I see you already have him wrapped around your little finger," he said softly, grinning at the woman beside him.

"He's auditioning to be my best bud. Automatic forgiveness is probably part of that."

"Oh, it's a major qualification. Isn't that right, Jim?" Blair smiled at his approaching friend.

"It's gotten me through some serious foot-in-mouth action," Jim agreed.

"Hey, Ellison?" Mulder called, still on the edge of the roof with the binoculars. "Your neighbors just ordered in a pizza. What kind?"

Jim took a deep breath and analyzed the smells in the area. "Green peppers, onions, and pepperoni. The sauce is tangy, yet slightly salty. That has to be a Mama Rossini pizza."

Mulder shook his head. "I knew this man was an X-file, Scully. Even you can't deny it now."

"We're not finished yet," Blair said. "We still have to prove taste to you."

Jim groaned and Scully decided to let him off the hook. "We have proof of four enhanced senses. I am willing to concede that--"

"I am not," Blair said firmly. "Until he proves all five, he is just somebody with heightened senses. When you have proof of all five, you will know he is a Sentinel. Jim, you and Simon stay here. Mulder, Scully, you're with me."

Simon watched them disappear down the stairs, the two agents meekly following the anthropologist. "Does he get these Napoleonic tendencies often?"

"He's alive, isn't he?"

Taking that to mean Jim would have murdered him by now if he gave into these urgings on a regular basis, Simon concluded this must be an isolated event. "Do you know the trigger?"

"Doubting me."

"Remind me never to do that."

"Done."

*****

Blair took out three tall glasses and filled them with bottled water. He set the first one aside and handed the second one to Scully. "Add one granule of salt to this." He placed the second in front of Mulder. "Add two granules to this one." While they completed their assigned tasks, he took out six juice glasses, and when the agents were done, he split the contents of each glass into two smaller ones. Then he called Simon and Jim in by merely saying Jim's name at normal volume.

He gave them each a juice glass. "Taste."

Simon did so quickly, Jim a little more hesitantly. He hated taste tests. But this was.... "Our usual water." Simon nodded. They were handed two more glasses.

Simon frowned. "The same stuff."

Jim shook his head. "Higher salt content." Blair smiled, and gave them the final two glasses.

Simon shrugged. "I still don't taste a difference."

Jim eyed the glass cautiously. "How much salt does this contain, Sandburg?" he asked, hoping his Guide hadn't gone overboard in his zealousness.

"Taste it and tell me."

Jim barely wet his tongue. "It has twice as much as the other."

"Hot damn!" Mulder exclaimed. "He is a Sentinel! Be sure to add that to your daily journal, Scully."

"I'd prefer she didn't," Simon said softly, reminding them of his earlier warning.

Mulder cleared his throat. "Of course, Captain. So, who knows you're a Sentinel?" He figured it was a safe question, and would help keep him out of trouble later. Captain Banks appeared to be a law and order kind of guy. But the agent personally knew that when it came to protecting a friend, sometimes law and order took a backseat to loyalty.

"The five of us in this room, an Australian inspector who is on loan to the Cascade P.D., a criminal named Alex Barnes--who is currently locked up in a facility for the criminally insane, a rogue CIA agent named Lee Brackett, and the Chopec Tribe of Peru."

Scully was diligently taking notes. The CIA agent sounded like a good possibility.... "And your family?"

"No. My father knows that I have certain abilities, but he doesn't know what they make me."

"Your brother?" Mulder asked. "The two of you grew up together." Samantha may have been a brat, but surely he would have noticed if she was hypersensitive.

"He might have suspicions, but by the time he was old enough to ask questions, I had managed to suppress what I could do."

"When did you regain the senses?" Mulder inquired.

"They kicked in after the crash in Peru." His Army helicopter had been shot down by a drug cartel. The seven men with him, his men since he was their captain, all died. By the time he buried them, and nearly died from his own injuries, he hadn't had the strength to suppress a cough, much less five senses. "I'm not even sure I remember using them when I was in the jungle. The Chopec just accepted them as part of who I was, and my own agile mind concluded that my senses were sharper due to the lack of noise and air pollution. There were no planes, cars, or factories to drown out background sounds, or trigger smog and ozone alerts."

"What happened after you were rescued?"

"I suppressed them again, until I was isolated during an extended stakeout. Suddenly, they came back and nearly drove me insane. Everything the jungle didn't have, Cascade did. Automobiles, sirens, televisions, jets.... The sounds alone were overwhelming. Add to that, camera flashes, stoplights, fluorescent lighting, hundreds of restaurants, thousands of dumpsters.... I took my ex-wife out to dinner, and I accused the restaurant of trying to poison me," he said with a bitter laugh. "I'm surprised she didn't haul me off to a psych ward after that. But she, and the captain, graciously allowed me to see a doctor on my own."

"The doctor's diagnosis?"

"Stress, Dana. He couldn't find anything physically wrong, so he labeled my problems as stress-related. If it hadn't been for a certain inquisitive and forward anthropologist, I would either be dead or in a rubber room by now."

"Where do you fit into this equation, Sandburg?" Mulder asked curiously.

"He's my Guide," Jim answered.

"Burton wasn't very clear on exactly what that term meant. Can you clarify your position?" Scully looked up from her notes to ask.

"I help Jim focus. He's like a supercomputer. At any given time, he's processing a myriad of data, multi-tasking, if we keep to the metaphor. Take now, for instance. He is currently analyzing the light from each window, each electric light, and the light which is reflected, refracted, or absorbed by the items around us. He is not only smelling the scents in the ambient air, but also those which cling to the upholstery, the rugs, and us. His mind knows our shampoo, deodorants, toothpaste, body oils...." He stopped, seeing the faint looks of horror. "If you think that's scary, try living with him. Better yet, try living as him. Because not only is he dealing with these outside distractions, but he also senses the dust in the air falling on his skin, the individual threads of the clothing he's wearing. An insect bite merely annoys us; with his sensitivity, one bite would feel like a million. That's why he had to learn how to filter out the everyday sensations before he permanently fried his brain."

"So, you modified his behavior, retrained his mind?" Scully asked skeptically. It would take a team of psychiatrists to do that.

"I didn't; Jim did. I merely provided him with suggestions, talked him through a few tests, did what I was supposed to do--guide him. You saw it for yourselves yesterday. When he wanted to recall the memories of what happened to him on Monday, I had to guide him into the right state of relaxation to remember. You see, his senses never shut down. He can ignore what he needs to, but his mind processes the data, regardless of whether he's conscious of it or not, and stores it away."

"You said his senses never shut down, but Burton alluded to 'spells of inattentiveness' in Sentinels," Mulder pointed out.

Blair nodded. "I call them zone outs. It happens when Jim concentrates too hard on one particular sense. He gets caught up in the sensation and loses his connection to what's happening around him."

"That sounds dangerous."

"Very dangerous in a cop," Simon agreed with a shudder.

"But Jim has it under control now," Blair said quickly. "He rarely zones anymore."

"But doesn't that lack of concentration hamper you when you're on a case?"

Jim shrugged at his cousin's question. "If I have to go deep, I just make sure Blair is with me. He sort of simplified what he does for me, making it sound as if anyone could be my Guide. But the truth of it is that Blair and I are connected on some weird level. His voice, his touch, hell, just his mere presence, anchors me. He can keep me from zoning, and pull me out of one if it happens accidentally."

"That's why he's your partner," Mulder stated.

"Yes."

"He is the only one who can pull you back from one of these zones?" Scully asked.

"It depends on how deep I go. I have pulled myself out of brief ones, and so has Simon."

"It's not easy," the captain muttered. "Especially when you run into the ones where he forgets to breathe."

"These fugue states on file in your medical records? Zone outs?"

"Yes, the big ones. They're usually caused by the introduction of something new in Jim's treasury of recognized sensations. For instance, he took one whiff of an opiate ball and, wham, the guy was out. The good thing about it, however, is that with a few lessons, he can train his mind to handle what we regular humans can't. Opiates in that form will no longer affect him," Blair explained.

"This is incredible," Mulder murmured. "And no one else in the department knows?"

Simon shrugged. "I'm sure they suspect something, but Burton's work isn't exactly casual reading, so they have no idea of what Jim is doing or how. In fact, we were stunned when both of you indicated knowledge of it."

Mulder laughed. "Archaic texts are the foundation of the X-files. You'd be amazed at the number of obscure references I have explored."

"These two amaze me enough, thank you very much. That's about all I can handle," Simon admitted wearily.

"The occurrence in Wyoming? Was it Sentinel-related?" Mulder asked.

"Yes and no. In my dream, I was told that I had to stop what was happening because I was the Sentinel. But it wasn't those senses I used to make contact with the other dimension."

"The local medicine man called you the guardian. He apparently knew who you were," Mulder pointed out.

"Shamans walk on a higher plane than most," Blair said. "It's possible that he was aware of Jim's abilities."

"I hate to cut this Q and A short, but I have a meeting at four o'clock," Simon interrupted. "If we're going to meet with Mr. Ellison, I suggest we leave now. And no comments from you, Detective," he added gruffly.

"Not a word, Captain. I know when I'm licked."

"Since when?"

"As Blair said, sir, Smashing Pumpkins used to be something you did on Halloween. In other words, things change. People change."

Blair elbowed his partner as they headed for the door. "As if you got the Smashing Pumpkins reference," he muttered.

"What? You don't like their music?" Jim asked innocently, secretly smiling when Blair's jaw dropped. "Hmm. You must be getting old, Chief. Better check your head for gray hairs."

"At least I have hair to check," he said grumpily.

Jim just laughed and winked at Dana, who winked back.

Chapter Ten

"Scully?"

"Yes, Mulder," she replied obediently, her eyes never straying from Captain Bank's sedan, which they were following to the Ellison house. She insisted that she drive, because if they lost the captain in traffic, Jim had drawn a map, and Mulder--Oxford grad that he may be--couldn't read a map worth a damn.

"My cousin is a Sentinel."

"I was present for the conversation, Mulder."

He glanced over at her. "You don't find it ironic that after all the weird occurrences, odd events, and strange people we have investigated, that the one thing I had deemed improbable was not only probable, but existed in my very own bloodline?"

"Yes, I think it's ironic from your point of view. But I also think it's a hell of a burden from Jim's point of view. Sometimes the world gets to me, Mulder, and I just have normal senses. Sometimes I reach the point that if I hear one more telephone ring, one more car horn honk, one more beeper going off, then I'm going to go off. If I had the ability to hear those things happening in a one mile radius around me, I would totally lose it. You would, too."

"Maybe. But he has Sandburg."

"One man to protect him from constant sensory bombardment. I have no doubt that Blair is the reason why he has adjusted as well as he has, but doesn't that make both of them vulnerable?"

"What do you mean?"

"Someone is after Jim, Mulder, and we have a good idea who that is, don't we? Those letters were in the possession of one of the most ruthless men we know. He has no conscience, no morals, no loyalties except to himself. If this is the man after Jim, and he knows or realizes how much your cousin depends on Blair, then both men are in a hell of a lot of trouble. And we both know there isn't much we can do to save either of them."

Mulder focused on the car ahead of them. Time and time again, he and his partner had gone up against Cancer Man, and the few times they had triumphed had been because he had let them "win". Allowing their victories had furthered his own agenda in some horrible way, without tipping his hand to the people who thought they held his loyalty.... "The only thing we can do, Scully, is arm them with knowledge and hope they have better luck than we've had."

She nodded, but kept her mouth closed. There was nothing left to say.

*****

Jim smiled and leaned down to embrace the diminutive Asian woman who opened the door. "Hey, Sally. It's good to see you. How have you been?" he asked fondly.

She returned the gesture and patted his back. "I'm fine, Jimmy. It's good to see you, too." She stepped aside to allow everyone inside. "He's waiting for you in the library."

"Thanks." Jim led the group through the house to where William Ellison stood waiting in a room that had changed very little over the years. "Dad," he said stiffly, holding out his hand.

"Jimmy." He awkwardly shook his son's hand. "I've been reading about your situation."

Scully frowned. His son had been accused of murder, suspended from his job, and was hospitalized due to an apparent attempt at suicide, and all he could say was that he had been reading about the situation? She glanced at Captain Banks to get his reaction. His face revealed he was as appalled as she was.

Jim seemed unfazed by it all. "Dad, you should remember my partner, Blair Sandburg, and Captain Banks." William nodded. "These are federal agents Dana Scully, and Fox Mulder." He smiled grimly when he heard his father's heartbeat change rhythm at the mention of the final name.

"Federal agents? Are you in more serious trouble than the papers allowed me to believe, Jimmy?"

"Maybe my cousin just came to visit me, Dad."

William recovered so quickly that if Jim hadn't had his senses, he would have never known how upset his father truly was. "So, you've found each other. That's good. I can see your father in you, Fox. He was a good man. I was sorry when I heard about his death."

"Who told you?"

"Teena called, of course. She knew Bill and I had been close before.... Your mother knew I would want to know."

"Did she tell you what happened to him? That he was killed because of the secrets you two shared?"

"I don't understand--"

Mulder took the letters out of his pocket and handed them to the older man, who unfolded the top one, then gestured for everyone to have a seat. "Billy. Only he and Grandfather got away with calling me that. Three Williams in one household...." the elder Ellison murmured wistfully. "Back in the days these were written, it was safer to write than use the phone. Everyone had party lines and wire-tapping laws weren't in existence.... How much do you know, Fox?"

"I know about the Project, the deal between the Colonists and the Consortium."

William's hand shook as his fingers trailed across the pages he held. "The Consortium.... I felt so honored to be one of the chosen. The power that group wielded was an aphrodisiac to most of the members--probably why we pledged body and soul to them."

"Not to mention family," Mulder said dryly.

"Yes, but it was for their own good. These beings were going to colonize the planet with or without us." He stopped, looking around in horror when he realized how much he had revealed.

"We know, Dad," Jim explained. "We all know. About the aliens and their plans. About the Consortium and the plans they made."

"Then why are you here?"

"That's the question we need the answer to, Dad. Why am I here? Why didn't I spend my life in some alien research facility, being transformed from human to hybrid? You and your cousin both backed out of the deal. But while Stephen and I were left alone, Fox's sister, Samantha, was taken--against her will, and her father's. Why wasn't I?" Jim demanded to know.

"You...you know why I thought it best not to turn you over to them."

"Because of what I could do." His father shot him a look. "They know that, too. But don't worry, we plan to keep it within the family. Anyway, why didn't you switch and hand Stephen over?"

"I couldn't be sure if Stephen wasn't...afflicted like you were. It was only accidental that I knew about you. Your mother covered for you well. I didn't know why at the time...."

"Why was Mom covering for me? What did she have to do with all of this!" Jim felt just the lightest of touches and realized Blair had come to sit next to him, perching on the arm of the chair. He started to automatically scold him for abusing the furniture, then figured he didn't care. "Dad, was Mom a Sentinel like me?"

"A what?"

"A Sentinel," Jim calmly explained. "That's what I am, that's what a person with five heightened senses is called."

"A Sentinel...." William murmured. "No, Jimmy, your mother wasn't a Sentinel. In fact, she was probably the least sensitive person on the planet."

"Don't start, Dad. I've heard all of that. What I need to know is why she was protecting me."

William sighed. "I met Grace through the Project. She was the daughter of one of the other members. In the early days, the group held 'family' picnics and socials, ways of getting together without arousing suspicion. Everyone declared we were perfect for each other, so we got married. I was so full of myself back in those days.... I had a beautiful wife, then one son, followed by another. I didn't notice how she watched you, Jimmy, how you were tested, how your check-ups were more often and lasted longer than Stephen's...."

"Just spit it out, Dad!" Jim yelled impatiently.

"She let them use you as some kind of guinea pig! They experimented on you, turned you into some kind of freak, and by the time I learned about it, it was too late to help you, Jimmy. I'm sorry, son. She--"

"Stop!" Jim ground out. He took a deep breath, nodding as Blair frantically whispered to him. The hands which had become tight fists as his father talked, relaxed fractionally. "That still doesn't answer the question of why I wasn't taken. It seems to me that if I was already part of the experiment...."

"But not part of that experiment. Externally, the Consortium appeared as this solid group. Internally, however, there were serious divisions. Although all reluctantly agreed to the deal with the Colonists, most did so with the idea of buying time--time to figure out a way to defeat them. Some thought technology--weapons development and the like--was the best way to attack the problem. Others started working on ways of getting around the Colonists' plan of infecting humans with some kind of virus or something to cleanse the planet of us. A faction started working on a vaccine. Another bloc, the one Grace was involved in, thought that a vaccine was a great idea, but might be too long in coming. So, they focused on saving future generations by creating resistant offspring."

"A different kind of hybrid," Scully said softly.

"Hybrid, mutant, whatever," William replied sharply. "She played Frankenstein with my son--" He stopped as Jim abruptly stood and left the room. A second later, Blair and Simon followed. The older man looked at his two remaining visitors. "I didn't mean to.... It was a shock to find out what she had done."

"How did you find out?" Mulder asked, angry on behalf of his newfound cousin, but determined to get the answers he sought.

"I had decided that Jim was to be the one we sent away. He was a strong boy, sturdy, more practical than his brother. I was confident that he would adapt to being without his parents. Grace said no. When I pushed the issue, she finally had to tell me what was going on...that if we gave Jim to the Colonists, they would know we had no intention of submitting to them." William sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I was furious and I kicked her out of the house. I had no wife, one son who was a monster, and another that I was going to have to give away."

"But you didn't give him away."

"No. A man came to the house. He told me that if I could keep Jimmy's talents a secret, then he could work it out where I didn't have to give up either of the boys. I don't know what he did, but the day came and went when we were supposed to give over a family member...and no one came for my boys. Since he had kept his part of the bargain, I kept mine. I eventually convinced Jimmy to forget all that unnatural stuff he could do, and he became a normal kid. I--I didn't know he was doing it again, until that killer came after me last year."

"This man with whom you made the deal. Do you know who it was?" Mulder asked, with a sinking feeling.

"I never knew his name, but I had seen him at most of the Consortium functions. He was a tall, thin man. Oh, yeah. He always had a cigarette in his hand."

Although Mulder had been expecting it, the confirmation that his nemesis was not only responsible for the destruction of his family, but that of his extended family as well, was a bit hard to swallow all at once. He looked at Scully, and nodded. She stood and smiled politely at William. "Thank you for taking time to answer our questions, Mr. Ellison. If you think of anything else we should know, we would appreciate it if you would contact us." She handed him a card. "If it would be all right with you, we may need to contact you again as well."

"That's fine. I really don't know any more than I've told you. But I have a question for you."

"Yes?"

"Does this have anything to do with the trouble Jimmy's in now, killing that young man?"

"We're not at liberty to say anything about that, sir."

William appealed to Mulder. "Fox, your father and I, well, we were as close as brothers at one time. Although that relationship changed and we grew apart, we were always family.... Whatever help you could give my Jimmy, I would appreciate it."

"I'll do my best, sir," Mulder replied gravely.

William nodded, and escorted them to the hallway, startled to see his son leaning against the wall, his friends flanking him on each side. "I thought you had left, Jimmy."

Jim shrugged. "I gave up running, Dad. It doesn't help, because the problems just follow. Something you should think about, sir. You have what you need?" he asked the agents.

"Enough," Scully replied.

"Good. Then we're out of here. Take care, Dad."

"Jimmy--"

"Don't," Jim warned, his jaw quivering as he suppressed his anger. "Just don't. Not today. Maybe not ever. I'll let you know."

"I love you, Jimmy," William got in stubbornly.

"Even if I've reverted back to the monster I once was?" he said, his mouth quirking bitterly. He eyed the interior of the house, committing it to memory since he doubted he would ever see it again. "I love you, too, Dad. I'm just having trouble liking you." He gathered his friends with a tilt of his head and walked out.

Chapter Eleven

Just as Simon started down the walk beside Jim, his cell phone rang. With a muttered curse, he whipped out the object and clicked it on. "Banks!" he yelled, wishing he could grip William Ellison as tightly as he was gripping the phone. Preferably somewhere in the neck region. "I'm on my way," he said a few seconds later. He looked at his friends. "Brown and Rafe brought in a suspect.... The mall robberies you were working."

Jim nodded. "You need to be there for the interrogation. Guess we'll have to bum a ride home. Going our way, cuz?"

Mulder shrugged. "I'm just a passenger. Have to ask the driver."

Scully smiled. "Sure, Jim. I can take you and Blair home. We'll make Mulder ride in the trunk."

"Just as long as you remember to make air holes this time," her partner quipped.

"Well, if you're going to get picky...." Scully turned to the captain. "We'll make sure they get home, sir."

Simon gave a nod of thanks. "You good, Jim?"

"I'm maintaining, Simon. The old man's still alive, isn't he?"

"You couldn't kill him, Jim." Me, on the other hand....

"Yeah, but there was a time I could actually think about it. Now, I can't even summon up the energy to do that. Guess I'm mellowing, huh? Or maybe I'm starting to realize where he's been coming from all these years, why he--"

"Jim, if you're about to justify that man's behavior, I'm going to deck you right here, right now," Simon warned.

"And while you're on the ground, I'm going to get in some licks, too," Blair promised. "So, if you don't want to give the neighbors a free show, I think you should just get in the car, Jim."

"I'll stop by later," the captain said, pausing at his car. "And, Jim, from what we learned, maybe you should turn those senses up a bit for a while. I don't like that story your father told about some sinister character with a cigarette."

"We'll be careful, Simon. But that was nearly thirty years ago. He's probably died of lung cancer by now," Jim pointed out with cheerful morbidness.

"We wish," Mulder muttered.

Jim shot him a curious glance, but kept his focus on Simon. "Go to work, sir. We'll be fine. After all, we're in the care of federal agents."

Simon harumphed. "If you're trying to make me feel better, you're failing, Jim. See you back at the loft."

They watched him drive away, a cigar appearing in his mouth before the car rolled two feet.

"Mulder, you drive. Jim, you sit up front," Scully ordered briskly as they approached the rental car.

"My legs thank you," Jim said graciously.

Scully smiled, refraining from saying she thought he could use a little kindness. His father's attitude had bothered her. Sure, her father had been strict--what the Navy had taught him about discipline, he had passed along to his children--but he had never been deliberately cruel. And despite the fact that she had disappointed him by going into the FBI instead of becoming a practicing physician, she had always known he'd loved her. That his ghost had appeared to her to reassure her of that fact immediately after his death, well...even if it had been a dream, it had confirmed what she already knew. She wasn't sure what to make of William Ellison's parting words.

"So, this smoking character Dad mentioned? I sensed you recognized the description," Jim commented as they piled into the car.

Mulder snorted. "Oh, we recognize him. C.G.B. Spender is an amoral, sadistic, murdering son of a bitch, and if he protected you, it was for his own selfish motives."

"He isn't part of the Consortium?"

Another snort. "From their point of view, he was their number one henchman. From his point of view, they were 'his' people, and he manipulated and played them with ease. When he became a liability, they tried to have him killed, but he slipped away, and went into exile. As he'd known they would, the Consortium eventually realized how much they needed him. Then he was welcomed back with open arms, and more power than ever."

"You mentioned he was a murderer. You couldn't find any evidence to link him to these murders?" Jim asked.

"No. And believe me, we tried...considering two of his victims were my father and Scully's sister."

"Damn," Blair whispered.

"Not that he was the trigger man," Mulder continued. "No, he had his boy, Alex Krycek, do his dirty work. That's another bastard you need to be on the look out for. I'll get some pictures for you."

"Mulder," Blair began, "when you were speaking of this cigarette guy's relationship to the Consortium, you used the past tense. Why? Has he branched out on his own?"

"The Consortium, at least a major part of it, is dead," Scully informed them. "They were murdered as they waited for the Colonists to collect them for hybridization."

Blair gasped. "They've reached that stage?"

"They had," Scully corrected. "Our scientists had created the perfect hybrid. Her name was Cassandra Spender."

"Any relation to the smoking Spender?" Jim asked.

"His wife. For twenty-five years he allowed, no, he oversaw her conversion to a human/alien hybrid. The experiments were painful, brutal, and her body was abused to the point that she was confined to a wheelchair. At first, she believed the aliens were sent to help injured people like herself. After her last abduction, however--"

"Abduction?" Blair asked, paling at the thought. "Are we talking about the tabloid articles I laugh at as I wait for my groceries to be totaled?" He shivered uncomfortably. Had he unknowingly laughed at people who had been tortured? Shit.

Jim sympathized with his partner, but was also aware that the panic he'd sensed in Scully the first time the word 'abduction' was used, had returned. "Breathe, Dana," he instructed gently. "We don't have to discuss this."

"The important part of the discussion," Mulder said quickly, "is that Cassandra Spender and the technique used to create her, were destroyed by the Rebels."

"Who the hell are the Rebels?" Jim bellowed in confusion.

"Aliens who oppose colonization."

"Alien aliens or Colonist aliens who aren't really colonists?" Blair inquired, eager to sort the players in this "intergalactic" drama.

"We're not sure," Mulder said with a shrug.

Jim had wondered where his breaking point was, and wasn't too surprised to find he'd reached it. "You know, Slick, I'm getting pretty damned tired of this 'we're not sure' shit. There was a Consortium, but you're 'not sure' if it's still in existence. There are Colonists, greys, shape-shifters, clones, and now Rebels, but you're 'not sure' if they are the same aliens or different ones. Just what the fuck are you sure of?"

"I'm pretty fucking sure the world as we know it will come to an end if these aliens aren't stopped. And I'm pretty fucking sure that somehow you are key to ending this shit one way or another," Mulder snarled back.

"Well, hell, why didn't you just say so, Cousin Mulder?" Jim drawled sarcastically. "You can stop all this worrying. Keeping the world from ending is my forte, isn't that right, Chief? Just as long as it doesn't involve me holding on to my gun. Damn thing gets slippery at times. But saving the world? I can do that. After all, I'm a Sentinel, right? Sight, hearing, taste, touch, smell...everything every good world-saving hero needs. Did you remember to get my spare cape from the cleaners, Sandburg? The other one is getting kind of rank."

"Hear that, Scully? We can go home now. Super Jim is on the job," Mulder said acridly. "Just think of all the pain we could have been spared if we had just known who to call. No lost family members, no lost jobs, no lost you--"

"What does that mean?" Jim demanded to know. "You lost your partner?"

"She was taken, just like Samantha--" Mulder realized what he was revealing and stopped, his eyes going to the rearview mirror to seek Scully's.

"Go on, Mulder," she said quietly. "You're the one who said that we need to arm them with the truth. Well, the truth of the matter is that I was abducted and for three months, I was poked, prodded, and...."

"You don't have to say anything else, Scully," her partner urged.

She gave a half shrug. "Full disclosure time, Mulder. There was a device which extracted my ova so that they could be used for experimental purposes as well. As a result, I can't have children."

"Where the hell were you while this was going on?" Jim asked Mulder angrily.

"Doing everything in my power to get her back," Mulder spat out in reply. Then he just sighed. "Admittedly, that boiled down to the equivalence of beating my head against a stone wall."

"You found her," Jim said, realizing he had no right to be angry. Not when he'd let his own partner be killed by another Sentinel. "Obviously the pounding caused a crack somewhere."

"I didn't find her. She was 'returned to me' because, according to him--the unofficial spokesman for the tobacco industry--he liked me. I did nothing."

"You gave me the strength of your belief, Mulder," Scully said gently. "That was what brought me back, not just my body."

Jim cleared his throat noisily. "When we were in Wyoming, you understood when the child's death shook me. Did it have something to do with what was done to you?" Jim asked, remembering seeing something painful in her eyes.

"A few months before we met, I discovered a three-year-old child that I thought belonged to my late sister. Instead, she belonged to me...one of my eggs. Her name was Emily, and she died due to a tumor which leaked a green secretion."

Jim closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry about your daughter. And I'm sorry for acting like an ass. You have both sacrificed a lot for this cause...and I'm just sitting here, bitching and feeling sorry for myself. Whatever I can do to help you find answers, to help you end this threat, just let me know."

"That goes for me as well...as soon as I go get his cape from the cleaners, that is. I knew there was something I kept forgetting to do," Blair added, planting his tongue firmly in his cheek.

"A good sidekick is so hard to find," Jim said, shaking his head in amused disgust.

"Hey, Scully?" Blair asked with a conspiratorial grin. "Do you know why we're called sidekicks?"

"Tell me," she said, glad for the mood lightener. She had noticed they were good at this; injecting humor before the discussion got too bleak. Sort of reminded her of Mulder's wisecracks...which she often felt herself waiting on.

"Because that's where we stand to give them that swift kick in the butt when they need it."

"So, why don't we stand behind them? The target would be much bigger that way," Scully observed, like a good straight man.

"Where would be the skill in that? We have to have something more to do, my fellow 'faithful companion,' than pick up dropped guns, take out the bad guys they don't seem to notice, and apologize for the mess they leave in their wake."

She stared at him. "Are you sure you've never worked with Mulder?"

"Nah. But they're family. Probably in the blood."

Scully nodded in concurrence.

"I think, Cousin Jim, that we have been insulted," came the comment from the front seat.

"I think, Cousin Mulder, that I don't have to be a Sentinel to figure that one out."

The rental car pulled up at the back of the loft in case a reporter or two hadn't gotten bored yet. "You guys want to come up?" Blair asked as he slid out of the car.

"We have some leads we want to check out," Scully said as she moved from the back seat to the front.

"That's cool. Drop by if you want to do dinner. Probably take-out this time."

"Oh, you mean Mulder's version of home cooking," Scully teased.

"Listen to the Julia Child of TV dinners," Mulder smirked. "First, you remove the plastic wrap. Then you insert the container in the microwave very carefully," he said in a shaky falsetto voice.

"Picture this, Mulder. Washington, D.C. Skinner's office. Him raking you over the coals. You in desperate need of backup." She gave him an evil grin.

"I'm sure if Scully had the time, she would be an excellent cook," he amended quickly.

Blair patted her hand. "I'll give you a few foolproof five-minute recipes before you leave. Jim and I have quick-cooking down to an art form since we never know when Simon is going to call, sending us out on an assignment."

"That's something we don't have to worry about at the moment, Chief," Jim remarked sardonically.

"No, your worries are much worse," Mulder said. "In the spirit of this full disclosure pact we've made, I think you should know that the letters were given to me by a fellow agent posthumously. His name was Jeffrey Spender."

"Another relative of you-know-who?" Blair asked hollowly.

"His son. He found the letters in his father's things and somehow arranged for them to be delivered to me."

"Posthumous? How did he die?"

"He was found shot to death in his office at the Bureau."

"So you have the shooter." The FBI building had to be one of the most heavily-secured facilities in the country.

"No," Mulder said, speaking volumes with that single word.

"His own son?" Blair questioned with a dry throat.

"He is extremely dangerous. The words, 'Stop, police!' have no meaning for him. Don't waste your breath."

"Why is this man still alive?" Jim asked, staring directly into his cousin's hazel eyes.

"Because I think he would be more dangerous dead."

Understanding flared between the two men.

"We'll be careful," Jim vowed. He shut the car door as Scully settled into the passenger seat. "You two do the same."

"We will."

Chapter Twelve

"You okay?" Mulder asked softly as they headed back to their hotel.

"Yes. I was just thinking about what William Ellison told us. It's hard to believe scientists were engaging in genetic engineering that many years ago. It's even harder to believe that they could have succeeded so well. Their technique, their equipment, had to be quite crude."

"Perhaps not. Remember, the aliens probably supplied them with the technology in order to hasten their own hybridization plan. Even so, their success with Ellison.... I believe it was a fluke. If it hadn't been, then there should be several more of him out there and so far, he's the only Sentinel we've stumbled upon."

"According to Blair's research, he's had contact with dozens of people having one or two heightened senses, but only two who have had all five. Perhaps the others are 'failed' experiments."

"Two with five? Who is the other one?"

"That woman they mentioned when they listed who knew Jim was a Sentinel."

"The one in the nuthouse?"

"I'm sure the Association of Psychology and Psychiatry would take you to task for using such terminology, but for expediency's sake, yes, Mulder, the one in the nuthouse."

"Hmm. Think you can get a look at her records?"

"It is a correctional facility. My badge number should allow me access." So, she knew how she was going to spend her afternoon. "What about you? What are you planning to do?"

"Pass on what we've learned to Frohike, Byers and Langley. See if they have anything on early genetic experiments in their databanks." The three men, known as the Lone Gunmen, were experts on government conspiracies, cover-ups and corruption. It was their life's work.

"Why? Isn't Jim proof that the experiments occurred?"

"We're missing something here, Scully. Ellison is a Sentinel. We know that. Cancer Man knows that. The knowledge explains why he protected the family. But it doesn't explain why Ellison has been left alone until now. Why have there been no additional tests done on him? Why hasn't he been taken to a facility to complete his hybridization? Why hasn't he been taken to have his DNA extracted and examined? Okay, he wasn't part of the experiments that the Colonists knew about, but we know the Consortium has its own labs, its own people. Why isn't my cousin locked away somewhere and strapped to a table? Cancer Man is protecting him from more than the Colonists, Scully. I need to know why."

"Then what?" she asked.

"As my cousin fondly pointed out, I'm not fucking sure of anything, Scully. All I can do is keep on digging and hope the pit doesn't get too deep."

*****

After returning a call to a fellow grad student, Blair found Jim on the balcony. He knew the Sentinel often went out there to look over his city, commune with his tribe. Although he had tested all of Jim's senses, the anthropologist often wondered just how much Jim saw and heard when he stood there, so focused, so alert.... "How's the tribe?" he asked as he joined his partner.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Which is good, considering their Sentinel is incapable of helping them."

"They merely took away your gun, Jim. It's never been your best weapon, anyway."

"They also took away my badge. I have no authority."

"Your authority has nothing to do with a badge. It is part of who you are," Blair protested.

"No. Not who I am, but what I was created to be." He looked at his partner in horror. "God, Blair, what does this mean for your dissertation? You certainly can't put into your paper that my DNA was manipulated by alien technology. Hell, am I even an anthropology project anymore? I'm not some prehistoric throwback, but a product of a lab."

Blair shook his head. "Man, with all the shit that has been thrown your way this week, all you can worry about is my dissertation?"

"It matters, doesn't it?"

"Your survival matters, Jim. We have way more important things to discuss than my diss, man. Your mind was tampered with. You nearly died twice--first because of the overdose, then the mix-up at the hospital, which I'm starting to believe was no mix-up at all. Has someone started investigating that E.R. doctor?"

"Simon has Rafe doing a discreet background check."

"Discreet? Why?" Rafe was a good detective, but even the best would be hampered by that term.

"Because it's not really a case, Chief. As far as everyone is concerned, it was a simple medical mishap. They happen; that's why doctors have malpractice insurance."

"This wasn't malpractice, Jim. I'm convinced someone tried to murder you, and if I hadn't been there to--"

"But you were there, Chief. You were there, in their way, at every turn. Who knows what else I would have done if you hadn't arrived right after I killed Johnson. For all we know, I could have been programmed to go on some wild shooting rampage. But there's no way their programming could ever undo the power of yours."

"Mine? You make it sound as if I've brainwashed you or something, man," Blair said, laughing, but concerned at the same time.

"Whatever, Chief."

"No, no, Jim. You can't say stuff like that, then wave it away. Are you accusing me of something?"

"It's not an accusation. It's just a statement of the way things are. I listen to you. My mind listens to you. You say, 'filter this or that out,' I filter it out. You say, 'dial it down,' I dial it down. If I zone, you call me back. You've conditioned me to respond to your voice. It's nothing to get upset over."

Shit. Jim was right. For three years, he had been steadily programming the Sentinel. He punished Jim when he disobeyed him, praised him when he did as told. His technique had been classic, simple but effective. You have a problem with your senses? Come to me, Jim. I'll make everything better. I'm the only one who can make things better. I can make the pain go away.... God, had that conditioning made Jim even more susceptible to the mind control device? "I have brainwashed you," he said hollowly.

"For my own good."

How many people caught up in cults used that statement as a mantra? "I think I'm going to be sick."

Jim sighed. Sometimes Blair was so naive. "Listen, Chief, whatever you've done, whatever you think you've done, it was with my full consent. That's more than I can say about the other things that have been done to me."

It was at times like this that he was most aware of the differences between them. It wasn't about generational gaps, educational pursuits, or body types. It was about life experiences...and sociological expectations. "The idea that the government, or some faction thereof, has the ability to control someone's mind doesn't shock you in the least, does it?"

"It has always been a desired goal of those in power."

"Tell me what does shock you about all this, Jim? That extraterrestrials actually exist? That these aliens are planning to colonize the planet? That you were part of secret experiments to thwart this colonization? That your mother allowed--hell, volunteered you for--these experiments?" Blair questioned. "Or does none of this shock you? This is all okey-dokey from your point of view?"

Jim closed his eyes and took stock of himself. "None of it is okay, Chief. But I can't say it's a shock. I've known I wasn't normal for a long time. That my abilities come from medical manipulation is just as plausible as your genetic explanation. That my mother allowed this to be done to me? I never knew her well enough to have an opinion on her one way or the other. That there are indeed E.T.s? I've seen enough to believe almost anything. That they want to colonize the planet? I kinda like the earth, Chief. I can see why they would like it, too."

Blair laughed. "You are such a piece of work, man. Nothing fazes you, does it? I don't think I've ever been as wrong as I was when I first met you. Here you were, what I suspected was the answer to my dreams, and I remember thinking it was going to be a bitch to get you to believe me. You were so ultra-right wing, so stiff, so close-minded. I told myself you accepted my story because you were scared, because you were desperate. Hell, even you allowing me to move in here was, in my opinion, your way of maintaining control over the situation. But it was none of those things, was it? I, who have haunted a thousand libraries--picked up books no one has read for years, and blown off dust two inches thick--I judged a book by its cover. I took in your buzz cut and badge, and missed everything else."

"You missed nothing, Chief. I am a hard ass, anal-minded, control freak. Don't let distance color your memories."

"The man you are describing would have either cracked up, or closed himself off completely by now. He would not be living with a long-haired roommate and having rational discussions about aliens."

"You changed him."

Blair shook his head. "He never would have let me close enough to change him."

Jim shrugged. "Even Frankenstein's monster saw the beauty in the flower, Chief. Maybe all monsters can."

"Jim, remember when you came to my office for that first meeting and you jacked me up against the wall?" Blair asked softly.

Jim nodded, his face flushed with embarrassment. He had been so out of control that day.

"Call yourself a monster again and it'll be you pressed up against the wall. Do you understand?"

"My father--"

"Your father is an asshole. I honestly thought it would be better for you to get to know him, to work out the unresolved anger you have toward him. But I was wrong. He doesn't deserve you."

"But look where he's coming from, Chief. My mom had me experimented on without his knowledge. No wonder he distanced himself from me."

"You're forgetting the fact that he had planned to give you away before he even found out about that," Blair said flatly, before he thought through his statement. The pain that flared briefly in his partner's eyes made him curse himself. "Of course, from the Consortium's point of view, it was an honor to be chosen," he said quickly, trying to make up for his blunder.

"Yeah, I guess I was Dad's prize horse," Jim said dryly. "How did he put it? I was a strong, sturdy, practical boy...."

"Jim?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"I would never choose to give you up."

Jim clasped his shoulder gratefully. "I know, but," he cocked his head to one side, listening to the street below, "you're going to have to...for a little while, anyway."

"What are you talking about, Jim?" Blair asked anxiously.

Jim just gave him a sad smile. "Let's go answer the door."

"Who's there?"

"Detectives Wallace and Milligan."

Blair paled. The two homicide detectives working the Johnson case. "Why are they here?"

"You know why, Chief."

"No."

Jim patted his shoulder. "Call Simon. Tell him what's happening. He has the number of the union representative who sat in on my last questioning session."

"Is this what's going on, Jim? Are you being taken in for questioning again?" Blair asked hopefully.

Jim shook his head and opened the door. The two men took a step back from where they were preparing to knock. "Hey, guys. Come on in," Jim invited.

"Uh, Ellison...we're sorry about this," Milligan mumbled.

"It's okay. Let's just get it over with."

Wallace nodded. "Jim Ellison, you are under arrest for the murder of Jerome Johnson. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one...."

Blair blanked out the rest as he numbly reached for the phone. Just as Simon answered, Blair saw Jim extend his wrists. "No," he cried. "You don't need the cuffs. He's not resisting."

Jim shook his head. "It's okay, Chief. Everything has to be by the book. It's okay. Be careful, all right? If you feel at all spooked, go to Simon, or to Mulder and Scully. This is the worst part about all this--leaving you alone."

"Don't worry about me, Jim. I've learned a thing or two about watching my back," he said reassuringly.

"Then I'll worry about Simon, then. If you don't answer him, he's going to have a stroke. Let's get this show on the road, detectives."

"Sandburg, what's going on! If you don't--"

Blair put the phone up to his ear as the door closed. "Simon, they've just arrested Jim. We need your help."

Chapter Thirteen

Scully recognized the knock, but looked out the peephole, anyway. "Come on in, Mulder," she said, and went back to her paper-strewn bed. "I received the information on the other Sentinel, Alex Barnes." She organized a set of pages, and handed them to him.

He flipped through them as he plopped onto the bed and adjusted the pillows.

"Make yourself comfortable, why don't you?" she murmured dryly.

"Add a little more perkiness and a string of pearls, and maybe I'll nominate you for the June Cleaver Good Hostess Award," he offered as he kicked off his shoes and crossed his feet.

"It's truly sad how cable has corrupted impressionable minds."

"I'm a Nick at Nite man, Scully, and proud of it." He frowned as he scanned. "This says Ellison and Sandburg were the ones to bring her down. What happened to that full disclosure clause we had going with them?"

"Blair let me have his notes, so I doubt if they were trying to keep anything from us. I think it's a subject they're uncomfortable discussing aloud."

"Why?"

"Read."

He did. "This Barnes woman is aggressive in sort of a Xena-type way, huh?" he observed as he flipped to the next page.

"Mulder, if you're expecting me to question you about your knowledge of Xena: Warrior Woman, you are sadly mistaken. Whatever exotic, erotic, and definitely perverted fantasies you and your friends have concocted about Xena, Gabrielle, molded breastplates, and weird metallic skirts are safe from my prying mind."

"Princess," he muttered sullenly. He had been looking forward to sharing with her. "It's Xena: Warrior Princess," he corrected, focusing on the paper in front of him. Then suddenly he looked up and grinned. "Hey, Scully? How do you know so much about those metallic skirts?"

She grabbed another file, the one on Grace Ellison. "Shut up and read."

With a chuckle, he perused further. "She tried to drown Sandburg?"

"She did drown him. He was revived at the scene."

"Traumatic, but no more so than what we've divulged," he argued, still miffed by the omission.

"And if we had thought to bring our files, at least the ones which survived the fire, would we have told our experiences, or let them read about them for themselves?"

He shrugged, hating when she was right. "You sidekicks are certainly a plucky lot, aren't you?" he observed, deftly changing topics. "Sandburg's barely 'undrowned' before he joins Ellison and Banks in Mexico on the trail of Barnes. Wait a minute. Where's the rest of the report? There are no details here, Scully. This just says she was apprehended and the nerve gas she'd stolen--nerve gas? What a gal!--had been safely confiscated. But how did they get her? This was Sentinel versus Sentinel. Did Ellison have an advantage because of his Guide? Why was Barnes catatonic when the local officials arrived? Why is she still barely functional?"

"That's all the official information there is. We'll have to ask the rest personally." She scribbled down the questions. "There was something I was planning to ask Jim, anyway."

"Isn't it too soon to ask him to wear your pin? He might think you too forward," he commented gravely.

She counted to ten, then ignored him. "I'd like to get a tissue sample, try for a DNA comparison between him and Barnes."

"It really bothers you, doesn't it, that they were able to affect their DNA thirty odd years ago?"

"Yes. Even with the technology available now, creating a specialized individual such as a Sentinel should be decades away. Look how long it took them to perfect Cassandra Spender. Something's just not right, Mulder."

His hazel eyes grew determined. "We came to Cascade for answers, Scully. I don't plan on leaving until we get them."

Scully nodded, wondering if she should go ahead and have her mail forwarded.

*****

"You know they made it a rule that an officer can't be processed at his own precinct," Milligan said apologetically as they pulled up in front of the Western District station.

"I read the memo," Jim said. The procedure was part of the new anti-corruption laws the city had implemented. Processing an officer in his/her own precinct could lead to a) deferential treatment by friends and colleagues or b) vengeful treatment by the above mentioned, depending on the nature of the crime committed.

"Um, right. I guess you did, Detective," the young man mumbled in embarrassment.

"He's got a bad case of hero worship," Wallace whispered to Jim as his partner approached the front desk. "He just got transferred to Homicide, and now his dream is to make it to the Major Crime Unit."

"Looks like they might have an opening soon," Jim joked grimly.

Wallace stared at him in consternation. He'd heard that among all the prima donnas in Major Crime, Ellison was the queen. But he had seen no evidence of that during the previous interrogations, and even now, at a time when a hissy fit wouldn't be out of order, Ellison was accepting his situation with grace. He shook his head. Rumors weren't worth the breath spent spreading them. "For what it's worth, Ellison, we were strong-armed into making an arrest. Our boss dumped on us because his boss dumped on him, and so on, and so on...." Brown eyes twinkled. "So, you been sleeping with the mayor and piss her off, or what?"

"Told her that her husband had better legs than she did," Jim deadpanned.

Wallace howled with laughter. "Maybe I should try to get transferred to Major Crime myself. You guys are a hoot. Come on, let's get you to Booking."

Jim reached out with his cuffed hands to tug on Wallace's sleeve. "Hey, Wallace, do me a favor?" he asked softly.

The detective looked around nervously. "If I can."

"Don't let them make this too easy."

Wallace narrowed his eyes. "Are you withholding evidence?"

Jim gave a bitter chuckle. "I wish I had evidence to withhold. Just be careful about what you discount as irrelevant.... And just be careful in general, okay? I'm not sure if the powers involved recognize or respect police authority."

Wallace paled and led his prisoner to an alcove off the main hall. Everyone knew Ellison had been some kind of commando in the military. If some of that shit was following him.... "I have a daughter graduating from college in May. Is there a chance I won't be at her graduation?"

Jim looked at him, his blue eyes filled with knowledge, old and sad. "If someone else wants this case, let them have it."

"You think--"

"I don't know."

"Shit. Milligan isn't going to want to let it go.... I don't think I want to let it go," he admitted reluctantly. He'd gone into police work to help people, but that enthusiasm had faded away after his ninth or tenth child homicide case. For the past fifteen years, he had reported to work and solved cases because that was what he was paid to do. The cases had become as automatic as his bi-weekly fucks with his wife...basically doing what came naturally without any extra bells and whistles. There had been a prick of anticipation when this murder was dropped onto his desk, but he had attributed that to his new, young, gung-ho partner. But, no, it was more than that, wasn't it? It had something to do with a cop being accused...and knowing in his gut that the man was innocent. When was the last time he'd cared about innocence or guilt? Just as long as it looked good in the reports....

Jim read the look in Wallace's eyes, and shook his head. "Nah, man. This isn't the case to rekindle your fires on. I'm sure some serial killer will come to town--knowing Cascade, that will be sooner rather than later--and then you can catch the fever again," he urged.

The detective sighed, knowing it was too late to turn back. He signaled for his partner. "Milligan, let's go. We have cases to solve." He glanced at Jim speculatively. "This is the way you feel every time you go out on a case, isn't it?"

"Pretty much."

Wallace nodded toward his partner. "The kid may make the Major Crime Unit after all."

Jim thought about the pair of Homicide detectives as he waited to be booked. Was that the way he and Blair appeared to outsiders? The senior partner gruff and resigned, the junior partner anxious and eager? Maybe. Maybe not. There were the subtle differences that Wallace had noticed. Like Jim still believing in the good of what he was doing. He couldn't picture coming to work without that belief. He wouldn't go to work without it. Hell, if that point ever came, he would simply quit, and find some other way to protect the tribe....

Was that what everything in his life came down to? Protecting the tribe? That was Blair's theory, but that was when he thought Jim had been born a Sentinel, not created in some la-bor-a-tory...cackling scientist and lightning included.... Geesh, Ellison. Get a grip. You told the kid it didn't matter how you came to be. But it does, doesn't it? A recessive gene turning on is one thing; somebody fooling around with your DNA, the essence of what you are, is another.... God, Mom. It would help to know what you were thinking. Were you honestly trying to save my life, or did you just conveniently have a baby that you let them borrow? When did the experimenting start? When I was born? In utero? In vitro? No! I wasn't a test tube baby...was I? No wonder Dad didn't want anything to do with me.

He leaned his head back against the wall and tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere. That was the problem with boredom--it led to wild, unfettered bouts of thinking, which generally wasn't a good thing, in his opinion. An idle mind was even worse than idle hands.... He sent his senses out and discovered that his fellow prisoners, three of them seated in the row of bolted down chairs he occupied, were just as bored as he was. Maybe that was the reason criminals were inclined to talk after they had been booked...not because they were scared, or that the booking made the experience "real" to them (the psychologists' favorite explanation), but simply because they were bored out of their minds, and talking to anyone was a relief. He'd have to remember this the next time he had an interrogation. He'd just threaten to send the perp back down to booking and--wham!--instant confession.

Jim smiled, picturing Blair's face when he passed along that little insight. Blair. He was certainly missing his partner at the moment. Right about now, the anthropologist would be in the middle of his third story about some tongue-twister of a tribe, which lived in some back corner of some tongue-twister of a country.... Jim had been casually cataloging the stories during stakeouts, and had yet to find any repeats. It was truly amazing. But that was true of everything about Blair--

"I said on your feet!" A hand reached out and roughly pulled him upright. "You aren't in your ivory tower now, Detective!" the officer said, loud enough that the other prisoners looked suspiciously at Jim. "Down here you're just another maggot we have to process. You got that?"

Jim fought not to pull away from the harsh grip bruising his arm as he was led into the next room. He wasn't going to be pushed into anything physical. He had expected that someone was going to challenge him, challenge a Major Crime detective. Some officers, especially those at the other precincts who had no direct contact with the men and women of Major Crime, considered the unit to be a bunch of elitist snobs because they got to pick and choose their own assignments (well, at least Simon got to choose). That the "chosen" cases were usually horrific in nature didn't appease the disgruntled few, so he was quite familiar with the attitudes, rumors, and innuendoes. But since all he wanted to do was get through the booking, and into an isolated cell (he was a cop, which everyone now knew) where he could just turn everything down until his friends got him out on bail or whatever, he swallowed his anger at the rough handling.

A miniature white board was shoved into his cuffed hands, and he obediently displayed his booking number as he faced right, then left. He was ordered to face the camera, and prepared himself for the flash. But his eyes couldn't adjust quickly enough as the bulb exploded, sending out a sharp flare of intense light.

Jim Ellison's world went white.

He reacted automatically, one hand flying up to cover his eyes, the other reaching out to steady himself in his new world. But his hands were cuffed together and the conflicting signals, plus the panic of not being able to see, caused him to stumble forward drunkenly. People started yelling and he tried to tell them he couldn't see, but his senses danced out of control, his hearing coming and going erratically. He couldn't tell if he was talking, or if anyone was listening.

Something contacted painfully against his wrist, and oddly enough, the pain gave him back his focus. Before he could explain the situation coherently, he was hit behind his knees. He crashed to the floor, his cuffed wrists unable to break the fall. He fell on his side, then was slammed onto his back. Still blinded, he sensed a blow coming and tried to roll away from it, but he was held steady. Gasping as the strike landed, he felt something in his chest give way.

His self-defenses kicked in and he fought back, despite the wrist restraints. But it was a battle he was destined to lose. The blows continued to fall until he was in too much pain to do anything more than put his arms out to protect his head. Even that much was lost to him as an object pressed against his throat. He struggled against the pressure weakly, but he knew the fight was over.

Jim Ellison's white world...went black.

Chapter Fourteen

"What do you mean you can't find any record? According to the arresting officers, my client was brought to this precinct to be booked and processed," Robert Cagney said firmly. "You have five minutes to produce that paperwork and him, or I won't be responsible for what happens next!"

"You threatening me, Counselor?" the desk sergeant sneered.

Cagney sighed. He had hoped that what sounded like a problem over the phone would be cleared up easily in person. However, being an ever practical man, he had brought back up just in case. He glanced over at the group by the door, and shook his head. Who was he kidding? He hadn't invited them along; they had told him they were coming. "With me is a police captain, two federal officers, and my client's partner. They don't have much patience left."

"Partner?" the sergeant said disgustedly. If the lawyer had meant the chick in the tailored suit, he would have said girlfriend or wife. That meant....

"Partner," Cagney said. "Detectives have them," he reminded the uniformed idiot.

"Detective?" The man paled. He hadn't been on duty when the missing man had been brought in. He didn't know this was about a fellow cop.... Shit. Where the hell was that blotter?

"Are we still having a problem?" Blair asked as he impatiently crossed the room.

"The officer can't find the paperwork on Detective Ellison," Cagney reported.

"Then just find Detective Ellison. You can solve your paperwork problems later," Blair said crisply.

"You have no right--" the sergeant began distractedly as he looked around for the forms. Suddenly, he found himself nose-to-nose with a man who had chestnut curls and fierce blue eyes.

"Detective Ellison has the right to see his attorney, his captain, the federal agents who are working his case, and me, his partner and legal next of kin. He also has the right to due process, which appears to be sorely lacking in this pitiful excuse of a police department. So, forget talking about that which you have no knowledge of, and produce the whereabouts of Jim Ellison!" Blair tugged on the handful of shirt clutched in his fist, just to let the sergeant know he meant business.

"I couldn't have said it better myself, Mr. Sandburg," a voice said, and he and Cagney turned to see Judge Mary Lessane standing behind them.

Cagney was impressed. When he had subtly suggested that Sandburg and Banks might want to call in a few favors, just in case, he hadn't known they had this much influence. Judge "Insane" Lessane was a legend in Cascade. A stickler for procedure and protocol, she was the cause of many a nightmare for the cops and prosecutors throughout the district.

"I...I'll call down to Booking and see what the problem is," the sergeant stammered nervously.

"I already know what the problem is," the judge said coolly. She looked at Blair fondly as the sergeant made his call. "As soon as this imbecile finds the detective, we'll start working on getting him out of here. I see just cause for rescinding this arrest."

"Thank you, Judge Lessane," Blair said gratefully. "I truly hated calling you at this hour, but...."

She patted his shoulder. "Think nothing of it. Your partner is an exemplary detective. He has never come into my courtroom less than one-hundred percent prepared, regardless of the acrobatics of certain defense attorneys. If we had more policemen like him, the judicial system would be greatly served."

"Uh, ma'am," the desk sergeant interrupted anxiously. "There was an incident during Booking procedures and uh, the prisoner had to be subdued...."

"Subdued? What the hell does that mean?" Blair demanded.

"What kind of incident?" the judge asked.

"Apparently the officers thought he was trying to go for a weapon and--"

"Preposterous!"Judge Lessane shouted.

"Bullshit!" Blair yelled at the same time.

"What's going on, Sandburg!" Simon bellowed, hearing the panic and anger in the observer's voice.

"They're claiming Jim went for an officer's gun!"

Simon glared at the sergeant through his glasses. "Where is my man?"

The sergeant visibly quaked. "Lock-up."

"He's with the general population?" Simon asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

"Ye...yes, sir. The paperwork was lost in the mayhem and--"

"Shit," Cagney muttered and started down the corridor, which was familiar to anyone who worked for the defense. The others were close on his heels. The desk sergeant, desperate to keep his job, called ahead, so that they weren't stopped.

Blair pushed past the attorney and scanned the large cell. Thankfully, it had been a slow night at the precinct. Only five prisoners lounged in the cell. No Jim. He turned to question the accompanying officer, but saw a dark lump out of the corner of his eye. He looked closer, and recognized a certain pair of white socks. But the man himself, huddled against the bars on the left side of the cell, had a shirt or something tossed over him. "Jim?" he whispered. The figure shifted. That was all the confirmation he needed. "Open the cell," he demanded.

"I--" the officer began.

"Do it!" Lessane and Simon ordered together.

Blair fell to his knees before the figure and reached for the shirt. "He said the light was hurting his eyes, man," one of the other prisoners told him. "I had a pet bird once and we used to cover his cage, so I thought...."

Blair nodded. "You did all right, man," he called, then focused completely on Jim. "Jim, it's Blair. Can you hear me?" he asked softly.

"Chief?" The sounds were sibilant, as if he was straining to say them.

"Yeah, it's me, man. You got a problem with your eyes?"

"Flashbulb...exploded...."

Blair cursed. "I need you to dial it way down, so I can check them. Can you do that?" The figure nodded. Carefully, Blair removed the shirt, tossing it toward the prisoner who had spoken. Jim sat before him, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

"Can I help, Blair?" Scully asked, squatting down next to him.

"A flashbulb exploded." He looked at the slim figure. "He's very 'sensitive' to light," he reminded her.

She nodded. "Jim, can you open your eyes?"

"Way down, partner," Blair coached.

Jim batted his eyes several times, then managed to keep them open for a few seconds.

"What do you see?" Scully asked.

"Whiteness. Some dark shadows," Jim rasped. His eyes closed. "Hurts."

"We'll make them feel better soon," Scully promised. His hoarseness bothered her. "Jim, can you raise your head for a minute?"

Blair gasped at the bruised throat Jim displayed. His eyes grazed the cell accusingly.

"Don't look at us," the outspoken prisoner said. "They dumped him in here in that condition."

"Exigent circumstances being what they are," Judge Lessane said, startling them with her closeness, "I hereby release this prisoner. Get him to a hospital."

She stepped back as Simon joined them. "He's still in cuffs," the big man said in disbelief, reaching for his own keys.

"I'm a Major Crime detective," Jim whispered bitterly. "That makes me a dangerous criminal." He winced as the handcuffs were carefully removed. He suspected that his wrist, as well as a rib, had been broken.

"Oh, they haven't seen dangerous," Simon warned. "Where else are you hurt, Jim? Is it okay to move you?"

"Just be gentle with me," Jim quipped, feeling better now that the cavalry had arrived.

"It's apparent someone wasn't," the captain said fiercely.

"Don't worry about that, Captain Banks," Judge Lessane said, her admiration for the detective growing as he was helped to his feet without so much as a grunt passing his lips, although she could tell he was in considerable pain. "Lady Justice carries a huge sword, and I guarantee you that heads will roll tonight."

"Thank you, ma'am," Jim croaked in her direction.

"Concentrate on getting well, Detective. That's an order."

Despite the pain, Jim had to smile. He truly liked the judge. Others considered her to be a pain in the ass, but he admired her dedication to order and control. Blair said they were both cut from the same cloth, and that was the reason the judge always treated him like a son. Of course, after what he'd learned earlier in the day, he wished she had been his mother.

"I'm going to stay here and help Judge Lessane," Cagney informed them. "She may want heads, but I want asses."

"They have enough of them around here," Blair observed angrily. He, too, wanted a piece of the officers who had done this to Jim, but his first duty was to his Sentinel. "Jim, I want you to take my arm. It'll be easier to lead you that way."

Jim reached out until his hand settled firmly on his partner. Blair was right; everything was easier now.

*****

"This is unacceptable." He took a bored drag of his cigarette, then tapped the ashes to the floor.

"You wanted him arrested."

"But I specifically said he was not to be injured."

"There were complications." The explanation was accompanied by a shrug. He knew it was probably a mistake to be so cocky in this man's presence, but he had already been paid. Their deal was concluded.

"In your business, there shouldn't be any complications. In my opinion, I have not received the services I paid for."

Laughter. "Well, if you're looking for a refund, you came to the wrong place. I have done everything I was ordered to do. Just because I failed to meet every one of your specifications--"

"Meeting specifications is intrinsic in this business. I'm surprised you have lasted this long without that knowledge. That will now change."

"You threatening me, man? I have contacts, you know."

"So do I. In fact, I have one here now. Mr. Krycek?"

A shadow detached itself from the ones clinging to the walls. It stuck out its hand. "Hi. My name is Alex Krycek."

There was something boyishly charming about the man...until the light hit his eyes, and was instantly absorbed by their dark depths.

One man dropped a cigarette butt, and walked away. Another smiled as if he had received a new toy. The third shivered, and realized the first man had been right; specifications really should have been met.

Chapter Fifteen

William Ellison poured himself another scotch, and made a mental note to replenish his alcohol supply as soon as the stores opened the next day. He had been quietly drinking since his son and his friends, including the long-lost cousin, had left. It had been a shock to see Bill's son standing in his home. He and his cousin had parted on less than congenial terms. No. That wasn't true. They had parted because it was necessary. It was the only way for both men to protect their own.

That was what their grandfather had taught them during the long summers when he demanded his grandsons be brought to him. The old man had gone to great lengths to make sure they understood the principle of looking out for Number One, pitting them against each other in order to strengthen their sense of self-worth. He'd even made them compete for his fortune. That was why the Ellison branch of the family had gotten the bulk of the Endicott estate, while the Mulder branch had received just enough that they couldn't bring suit. It had truly worked out for the best; he had been a far better business man than Bill.

He'd tried to use the technique on his own sons...but it hadn't worked the way it should have. Stephen played the game willingly enough, but Jimmy had a distinct distaste for it--which was probably why the older boy hadn't gone into business. How ironic. Business had been too cutthroat for Jimmy, so he'd joined the Army--only to be sucked into some of their darkest dealings. William smiled. Must have taught him something after all.... Still, it had been a bitter pill to swallow, that his son had eschewed all the advantages he had given him and run away to the Army. Even harder to take was the fifteen years of silence between them. He still believed all of his eldest son's peculiarities stemmed from what his mother did to him, and although Grace was long dead, he still couldn't forgive her for her actions.

"What do you mean we can't give Jimmy to the Group? He's the one best suited for that kind of life," he argued.

Grace crossed her arms stubbornly. "Jimmy can't go."

"Why? Because you've spoiled the child rotten? That's the best reason to send him away. You have those apron strings tied so tight--"

"If we give Jimmy to the aliens, we'll tip our hand."

William sighed. Not following his wife's thought processes was nothing unusual. Instead of studying something practical in college, she had double majored in biology and chemistry. That would have been fine for a man, but what could a woman do with all that knowledge--except confuse her husband? "Grace, honey, you're not making any sense."

"Jimmy is a special child, Bill. The researchers at the lab--"

"The lab?" He frowned. What did the lab have to do with Jimmy? Some in the Consortium were so desperate to find a way around the Project, they weren't adverse to working with women, and Grace had begged him to let her put in a few hours a week at a special laboratory where they were doing what...? Deciphering genetic code, then rewriting it? Something like that.... No! They hadn't-- She hadn't--

"What have you done to my son?" he asked angrily.

"Your son?" she questioned bitterly. Once again she wondered why she had married this man, and took some comfort in realizing she hadn't had much choice. Her father had threatened to cut her off, limiting her access to Consortium research. In the real world, degrees in biology and chemistry were useless to a woman, unless she became a doctor--a female doctor, that is. The Consortium allowed her to actually be a scientist. "You don't even see the child enough to notice he's different, yet suddenly, he's your son?"

He reached out and clamped his hand around her arm. "Different? What have you done to him, Grace? What kind of freak have you turned your own child into? Does he howl at the moon...glow in the dark?"

"No glowing, but he can see in the dark," she said excitedly. "And hear a whisper across a crowded room. He can smell my movements through a maze, and feel the difference between seventy degrees and seventy-point-two degrees with just a brush of his fingertips. He's been pretty stubborn with the taste tests, but we're reasonably sure all his senses are heightened. With additional testing--"

"Stop!" William shouted. "There will be no more testing."

"Don't you see, Bill," she continued, ignoring his outburst, her eyes bright with anticipation. "By using Jimmy, we can--"

"Get out," he said softly, releasing her arm and stepping back.

"What?"

"Get out," he ordered louder. "My lawyer will be in contact about the divorce, and visitation arrangements for the boys."

Grace shook her head. "You can't do this, Bill."

"Watch me."

"Kicking your wife and children out.... How's that going to play with your business buddies?" she sneered. "Just think of the gossip, your loss of status."

"My sons and I can handle it. We are Ellisons. You are not. And you are the only one that will be leaving."

Something ached in her stomach. Bill Ellison meant nothing to her, but her boys.... "You can't do this," she said again. "You wouldn't dare."

"I'll dare to do even worse, Grace. If you oppose me on this, I will expose the whole goddamned resistance to the Colonists!"

"Bill!"

"I'm serious, Grace. You took something precious, a child, and perverted him. Just tell me you didn't do anything to the baby. Stevie's normal, isn't he? You didn't ruin both of them, did you?" he asked belatedly, steeling himself to hear she had altered both children.

"Stevie has tested normal. You don't understand. Jim is not perverted, or ruined. He's enhanced nat--"

"He isn't what he's supposed to be!"

"He's exactly what he's supposed to be, and more!"

He walked to the door and held it open. "Go. Let me know where to send your things."

After that, he had started paying attention to his eldest child, and had seen, with his own eyes, what they had done to the boy. Jimmy not only had the senses that Grace had mentioned, but he also had a preternatural awareness that went beyond the physical. When the boy looked at him, it was as if he could see straight through to the heart of him. Lies, deceptions, natural defenses...all gone, all useless in the presence of his child. It was eerie, creepy, sick, and potentially dangerous. He began corresponding with his cousin, trying to find a way out of the mess Grace had "created." Being on the East Coast, Bill was closer to the heart of the Consortium, closer to the power players. Then the man he'd seen at the Consortium functions had appeared, and by agreeing to do what he wanted to do anyway--forget, and force Jim to forget, the quirks his mother's "coven" had endowed him with--he could keep both his children, his sons, with him. Without an ounce of regret, he had followed the man's orders, and severed his contact with William Mulder, and the Consortium.

"You should watch the eleven o'clock news."

The voice of his housekeeper startled him. Briefly, he wondered what Jimmy would say if he found out she was part of this, too. The day after he'd made the deal, Sally had appeared at the door with a letter that smelled suspiciously of cigarette smoke. The letter said she was the new housekeeper and told him how much to pay her. She had quietly taken care of the children, never interfering with the way he raised them, but adding a woman's touch when she thought it necessary. The boys liked and respected her. He was free to do whatever he wanted to do, despite being a single father. It had been a satisfactory arrangement all around.

He had expected her to disappear after Jimmy left, and his surprise had doubled when she hung around even after Stevie moved out. She never left, and in the tradition of their relationship, he never asked. Every morning, she made him coffee. Every evening, dinner was on the table. The only deviation in their routine had come the night he had awakened to find her standing over his bed. After he had nervously turned on the nightstand lamp, he'd seen wet tracks on her face. But that had been the only evidence of her emotions as she informed him of Jimmy's helicopter crash, and his MIA/presumed dead status. How she had known before he'd been officially informed.... She had also been the one to tell him of Jim's rescue, as well, an announcement which had accompanied his morning coffee.

"What's happened?" he asked as he reached for the remote control which lay upon a thick scrapbook on the coffee table. His hand brushed against the album deliberately. Inside was his son's life--as he knew it, anyway. Pictures and articles cut out of magazines and newspapers.... For the longest time, it had been the only way to involve himself in Jim's life. Then a recent murder had been linked to an old murder--with Jim as the connection--and it had forced his son to speak to him. Although they hadn't become instant friends, a bit of the father/son bond had resurfaced, and he'd had hopes of something stronger building...until today's developments.

"This late-breaking news just in," the anchorman was saying. "Detective James Ellison, who was arrested earlier this evening for the murder of Jerome Johnson, has been rushed from his cell to Cascade General Hospital. According to our sources, the detective is suffering from injuries due to an altercation while being booked." The reporter blinked as new information came up on the teleprompter. "We have also heard that his arrest will be rescinded due to what Judge Mary Lessane refers to as 'gross rights violations.' Stay tuned for further updates."

William clicked the television off, and turned to Sally. "How is he?"

"He will recover. Tonight, he is being held for observation."

"What happened? The criminals decide to pick on him because he's a cop?" It was bad enough Jim had enlisted in the Army, but when he finally came to his senses and resigned his commission, he'd become a cop. Where was the profit in that?

Sally shook her head. "It was the cops who decided to pick on him," she replied quietly, leaving the room as silently as she'd entered.

He slumped back against the sofa, clutching the scrapbook in one hand, and the glass of scotch in the other. Both were small comfort when all he wanted to do was hold his son.

"Damn you, Grace," he muttered as he drained the glass. "I hope your soul is rotting in hell."

*****

"Does the Cascade Police Department have a history of excessive force?" Mulder asked Captain Banks as they sat beside each other in the waiting room. Scully had flashed her credentials and disappeared into the nether regions of the emergency room, dragging Blair along with her to make sure the Sentinel was cared for properly.

"Not really," Simon answered, thinking the question through. "There have been a few hotheads over the years, but a reputation for strong discipline in such matters, has acted as a deterrent within the department. I'm hoping this incident is a case of one officer overreacting, and the others covering for him. Not that the department won't lose the same number of officers, but it would be a relief to know my detectives aren't the targets of their colleagues." That was the most disturbing part of all of it; once he got past the reality of Jim's injuries, he was left with the bitter knowledge that those who carried the same badge as he did, were the ones responsible for inflicting those injuries.

"Could the violence have been aimed at Jim specifically?"

"Possibly. The man is good at stepping on toes. But from what little Jim told me, he believes it was a direct attack against Major Crime. There's always been some jealousy of the unit since its creation. We have the biggest operating budget, even bigger than S.W.A.T.'s. We also have first choice of the best detectives, and we receive a lot of media attention. Quite frankly, the other squads can have the latter," he said acerbically.

"When I asked if the violence could have been directed specifically, I was pondering the possibility that this could have been another attempt on Jim's life," Mulder clarified carefully.

Simon looked at him in horror. That concept spoke of corruption inside the department; cops being bought and paid for. The idea made him sick. Before he could get his dry throat to utter a reply, they heard the tapping of Agent Scully's heels against the tiled E.R. floor.

"We're transferring him to a regular room," she said, reading the questions in their faces. "His injuries include a badly bruised larynx and trachea, a fractured wrist, and a fractured rib. Normally, he would probably be released tonight, but we're treating him with steroids to reduce the swelling in his throat, and I want to monitor his reactions to the medication. Blair says his reactions can be highly unpredictable."

"Blair is still with Jim?" Simon asked, then wondered why he had bothered to waste his breath. Of course that was where Blair was.

"He is currently guiding Jim into 'turning down his pain dial'? He advised against using painkillers, saying they would inhibit Jim's natural ability to heal."

Simon nodded. "Jim's a quick healer on his own. In a day or two, you'll be hard-pressed to tell that anything was wrong with him."

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances, then she focused on the captain. "Jim asked me to give you a message, sir. He said, and I quote, 'Tell Simon to take Sandburg home with him. And tell him that I've found handcuffs work particularly well.' I hope you understand that, sir."

Simon smiled. "I do. Sometimes Sandburg has to be restrained for his own good."

Mulder chuckled. "I would probably argue with that if I hadn't seen him at the police station. He was impressive in his handling of the desk sergeant."

"He has the makings of a very fine cop," Simon said proudly.

"I had thought he was the non-violent type."

Simon shrugged. "Sandburg has very few buttons, and they're all labeled Jim Ellison."

"He protects as fiercely as the Sentinel," Scully observed.

Simon shook his head. "He's worse. At least I can predict how Jim is going to react in a given situation. Blair's reactions are always a total mystery."

"He wouldn't have physically harmed the sergeant, would he?" Mulder inquired.

Again Simon lifted his shoulders. "I have no idea. But I think he was just borrowing a page from the 'Ellison Book of Intimidation'. Sometimes they can mimic each other so well.... I'll let him get Jim settled into his new room, then I'll haul his butt home and hogtie him to the bed."

Mulder laughed. "Sounds like this is routine for you, sir."

Chapter Sixteen

Most seeing people, upon awakening blind, would panic. The Sentinel merely sent out his other powerful senses in order to know whether panic was necessary. It wasn't, because his senses instantly latched onto the familiar presence of his Guide.

"Shouldn't you be home with Simon?" He raised a hand to trace the bandages over his eyes.

Blair grinned. "Good morning to you, too, Jim. And don't mess with the wrappings."

It was morning. "What time is it?"

"6:07."

Jim grunted, then winced. He'd forgotten the condition of his throat. "So, shouldn't you be home with Simon?" he repeated.

"We made a deal. He wouldn't have to use the handcuffs, and I'd get to come back here in time to be with you when you awakened. Considering that you are a creature of habit to the extreme, I knew you would wake up between 6:00 and 6:15. As usual, your timing was perfect."

"I'll take that as a compliment, although I'm pretty sure it was a dig at my anal retentiveness," Jim said dryly, knowing his partner quite well. "When can I go home?" He fingered the splint supporting his left wrist. No cast? Further exploration revealed abrasions from the handcuffs. Oh. Couldn't put on a cast and risk infection.

"Don't," Blair ordered gently.

"Don't what?"

"Don't use your fingers to catalog your injuries. Your skin is one big sensory map. Use it to determine what's wrong with you."

Jim would have rolled his eyes if he could have. "Only you, Chief, would take advantage of this to run tests on me."

"When opportunity knocks...." Blair said, not the least bit repentant. "Concentrate, Jim. Tell me your injuries." He knew this might seem callous, but learning how to automatically 'sense' his injuries could help Jim in the future, possibly cut down on wasted time in the E.R.

"If I get lost, I'm going to blame you," Jim warned. Often, inner focusing led to a zone out.

"You're not going to get lost, Jim. Listen to my heartbeat as you concentrate on your body. What do you feel?"

"A broken rib? Untaped."

"Good. Go on," Blair urged.

"Fractured left wrist. Uh, both wrists have abrasions due to the cuffs. They are wrapped in gauze and taped. A splint is around the broken one. My throat is...bruised...and colorful?"

Blair cocked his head his surprise. "How do you know that, man?"

"Spotty heat patterns. It wasn't a hand which did this to me. It was...a long object? Hard. Oh, a nightstick?" Blair nodded excitedly, and Jim laughed. "Good thing I can hear your curls shake, Chief."

His partner smiled sheepishly, then jumped on the new fact the Sentinel had just let slip. "You can hear my hair, man? That's so cool."

"If you say so, Sandburg."

"How about your eyes?" Even he didn't know the answer to this one. Jim had said his vision had gone all white, so he had assumed the light had shocked his retinas. When Scully had asked him what the best course of action was, he'd told her to have Jim's eyes bathed in a cooling solution, then bandaged.

"Better than last night. Less pain."

"Do you think you'll be able to see when the bandages are removed?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Jim snarled.

"Because they're your eyes!" Blair took a deep breath before continuing. "It hit me that we've been focusing on your hearing and sight too much, man. Yes, those are the primary senses, but you have a lot more to work with! We've only scratched the surface of your potential, Jim."

"Does it really make any difference now, Chief? I mean, I'm not what we thought I was. Hell, why should we bother with tests at all?"

"Because these skills help you survive. You are a Sentinel, Jim. It doesn't matter how you came to be one. That changes nothing about you. Do you understand?"

"No, not really. Fine. I am an artificially-created Sentinel. But for what purpose? How is this supposed to save the tribe from aliens? Wouldn't a death ray be more appropriate?"

"Maybe you're supposed to fight them like you fight all the other evils you've gone up against."

"That's back to the death ray reference, Sancho Panza."

"No. Your best weapon has always been you, Jim. Your quick mind, your agile body, your strong sense of justice...."

"Pretty words, but I doubt if any of that will be useful against whatever the Colonists' dish out," Jim sighed.

"That's what we need to know--what the Colonists' plans are. What is this process Mulder and Scully mentioned? How will they colonize? Your dad intimated that it will be some kind of biological weapon, perhaps a virus or toxin engineered to attack humans specifically."

"A smart weapon, leaving buildings and other biological entities intact? Modern warfare in one easy lesson. But that still doesn't explain my role."

"Maybe you're resistant to the weapon."

Jim's fist balled up against the blanket. "Great. I live, and the rest of the world dies... except for those who are part-alien? Not a future to be contemplating, Chief."

"Cut me some slack, man. I'm operating on pure speculation and only one cup of coffee."

"Oh, the horror," Jim teased. "Why don't you go down to the cafeteria? It opened at six and their coffee is better than the machine's--especially on this floor."

Blair shook his head. "It's scary how well we know this hospital, Jim. Which coffee machines are better, what time the cafeteria opens, which elevator is less likely to stop on every floor--"

"Three," Jim said with a grin. "I've been scared ever since I realized I knew the housekeeping staff by name, Chief...and they knew ours."

Blair stood, and Jim could hear his spine pop into position as his friend stretched. "Maybe Gretchen's on duty. She makes a pretty good omelet. Should go well with my coffee."

"Don't tease a man who's on a liquid diet for a while," Jim threatened lightly. Actually, the thought of food didn't appeal to him one way or the other.

Blair frowned. Just what his Sentinel needed--to lose more weight. His Sentinel... always. Maybe a bunch of scientists and tinkerers had manipulated Jim's genes, but he, Blair Sandburg--Anthropology grad student, had created the Sentinel. He had named Jim, taught him, tested him, gave him the confidence he needed to do the extraordinary things he could do. The Sentinel was his, and damn anyone who dared to say otherwise! "Listen to me, Jim. This is us. All the shit we've been through, everything we have shared, everything that we have become.... They can't change that. How you came to be can't change that. Do you understand what I'm saying, man?"

Jim nodded. "I warned you in the beginning, Chief, that I was going to cling to you in order to save myself. Since it's been proven I'm not a suicidal person, I'm still hanging on. Sometimes only by the tips of my fingers...." The revelations from William, the knowledge that his mind had been controlled by others, the assault by his fellow officers.... Yesterday had been a hell of a day.

Blair reached out to touch him, hesitating when he couldn't find a spot that wasn't bandaged or bruised. Finally, he settled for a finger along the jawbone. Funny how it had been avoided, considering how prominent it must have been. "Don't worry about slipping, Jim. I have a good grip. When you can't hang on, I will."

"And if you slip?"

"We've yet to run across anything that can bring us both down, and if we do, well, we'll just slip together."

Jim laughed. "Who or what could take both of us?"

"Exactly why we haven't been challenged to that point yet," Blair agreed. "Wonder if the man with the cigarette has figured that out yet?"

"If he hasn't, I think he will, Chief. Now, go get your coffee. Bring a cup back with you. Maybe I can get high off the fumes until the doctor clears me for caffeine consumption."

"You don't have to tell me twice. Back in a sec."

"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

"You sure about that?"

"Positive, Chief."

*****

"Good morning, Scully!" Mulder said cheerfully as he joined her in the hotel's café.

His enthusiastic greeting surprised her. "The Bureau is not going to pay an outrageous pay-per-view charge," she reminded him, in case his ebullience was movie-inspired.

"Oh, this is from more than celluloid gratification, Scully." He tossed a file onto the table. "I think I have one of the answers to our questions."

She looked at the name on the file: PRAISE, GIBSON. The boy was a twelve-year-old psychic whom they were supposed to protect. "Supposed to" were the operative words because they hadn't. He had been stolen right from under her nose at a hospital. Of course, that was after the Consortium had stolen him from Diana Fowley, grievously--but non-fatally--wounding her in the process. Gibson had reappeared in the back of their car one night, his head bleeding and scarred from the numerous explorations the Consortium had taken inside his cranium. The wounds had become infected, and she had insisted on taking him to the hospital. There, she had managed to run a few tests before "losing" him. Afterwards, she'd found that the tests revealed the boy's special talents had come from a genetic remnant. Everyone had it and in most, it was inactive junk DNA. In Gibson, it was active.

"You think Jim's DNA remnant has been turned on, like in Gibson?"

Mulder nodded. "Think about it. Instead of being able to read minds, Jim's senses are heightened. I think it was an accident, that the scientists messing with his DNA did something that caused this material to activate."

"But Gibson was pursued, and basically dissected alive. This still doesn't explain why Jim has been left alone."

"One problem at a time, Scully. Have you talked to him about the DNA testing yet? You could have gotten a sample last night."

"The man had almost been beaten to death, Mulder. I didn't think it was the time, nor the place to request samples."

"Sorry. Forgot he was a sensitive subject to you."

Her blue eyes flashed dangerously. "Mulder, think back to what Gibson's head looked like when he escaped from them and found us. Is that what you want for your cousin? Do you want me to treat him like they treated that little boy? As a lab rat instead of a human being?"

Mulder had the grace to look sheepish. "No, that's not what I want. But I think it's in Ellison's best interest if we discover what's going on as soon as possible."

"I agree, and I will try to get the appropriate samples before he leaves the hospital. But that will give us another problem, Mulder. Where do we send the samples to be analyzed? Who can we trust? We know the Bureau labs have been compromised before."

"Can you run the analysis yourself?"

"With the appropriate equipment."

"I'll see what I can arrange. How is he this morning, by the way?"

"The nurse who checked him was quite surprised at how much better he'd gotten overnight. Blair was correct about him being a quick healer."

"Cassandra Spender healed immediately."

"I know, Mulder."

"Nothing green leaked out of him last night, did it?"

She shook her head. "Everything appeared perfectly normal."

"Just like Gibson."

Her eyes closed in remembrance of the little boy. She'd probably never know what happened to him. Would that be Jim one day? Just one more disappearance into the dark unknown? Frightened and hurting? Or even worse, he could be abducted as she had been. With his sensitivities so high, the simplest experiment would be torture. And the most invasive...would kill him, or drive him insane.

She shivered, and fingered the gold cross that she wore around her neck, sending a silent prayer to whoever was listening to protect Jim Ellison.