Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: Those of you who know my work and read these little author’s notes I’m so fond of know, aside from being absolutely in love with Jarod (mmm…fine male specimen) and the Pretender I’m a true blue x-phile to the core. I decided that, based on this, I might as well cross them over and see what happened, but remember kiddies, this is not an easy thing. Characterization if tough on the Pretender, but damn near impossible on the X-Files unless you’re really…really good (so I’ve found). So be patient, and if I totally botch this and mess with these beautiful characters to too high a degree beyond the comprehension of the meticulous mind, please feel free to rip on me all you like. I’ll deserve it. The Lynns feature prominently, as ever, so don’t mind them, I had loads of fun with this one. Thanx ever so much for your attention. On with the show.


Summary: At the whim of the Centre, the very earth will tremble and seize. At the whim of the Centre, the precious blood is spilled, and the game becomes real.

Little Earthquakes

Go go go go now
Out of the nest it’s time
Go go go now
Circus girl without a safety net
Here here now don’t cry
You raised your hand for the assignment
Tuck those ribbons under your helmet
Be a good soldier

- -Tori Amos: Mother





Precious Blood
Part 1: Little Earthquakes
Matrea Nara




Miss Parker stood in the middle of the living room of Jarod’s latest lair, hands on her hips, her face a scornful ice mask that glared disapprovingly at anyone who chanced to approach her. Another failure. He was gone again.

But this time something was different. Before today every lair they had found of Jarod’s had been immaculate, cleaned out, with only the items he wanted them to find left behind. This one though…it was so lived in. It was personal, distinctly Jarod. Looking around Miss Parker could almost believe he was still living here, or, if not, he had only recently left and left in a hurry. He wasn’t expecting them, she realized with a start. For once they had taken the pretender completely by surprise. She felt a slow, smug smile creep onto her face and quickly suppressed it. She was a Parker. She was a machine. She was not proud. Shouldn’t…shouldn’t be proud.

“Miss Parker! In here.” It was Sam, with a note of urgency in his gruff voice that demanded immediate response. She covered the distance to the bedroom with long, purposeful strides, ignoring the way the sweepers scattered from her path.

“What is it Sam?” she demanded. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The room had been trashed. Even the queen-sized bed had been upended, though who or what would have had the strength to do something like that she had no idea. The sheets were bloodied, as was the floor in places, and there was a smear of blood on the whitewashed drywall by the door in the shape of a hand. The only window in the room had been smashed in, and there were bullet holes on the inside near it, as if someone had been shooting at someone coming through. There were also bullet holes in the walls on this side of the room. Whoever Jarod (she could only assume) had been shooting at had obviously shot back, and given better than he got by the looks of it. The room was in a shambles, and who ever had been in here when whatever had happened had happened was likely in no better condition. Standing here, Miss Parker knew for certain that Jarod had not meant to leave this lair like this for them to find. He would never purposefully put Sydney through this. He older man had come up behind Parker when Sam called, but left shortly thereafter. It was difficult for him, the bullet holes and the blood.

All the typical trappings of Jarod lay strewn about, but here there was something more. Sam picked up and handed to her a picture frame that had formerly resided on the dresser, now smashed, the picture blood-stained like so much else in this place. It was a photo of Miss Parker, dressed in a black pants suit and long black leather jacket, hair windblown and sunglasses perched on her nose. She had obviously not been aware that the picture was being taken at the time, which was probably why it was such a good one of her. She had been taken unawares, and in this there was nothing false about her.

There were other photographs on the floor, of Jarod’s parents and of Kyle, but whoever had knocked them down and smashed them had not done so as a random act of violence. Several frames were empty. There had been something here no one was supposed to find.

“Someone else was living here with him,” a new sweeper, called Glennon, reported.

He pointed out another bedroom across the apartment from this one. Not just one other person, but three had lived there. A bunk bed stood against one wall, with a hammock strung between it and the corner. There had been photos in this room too, but they had all been taken. Whoever had been here had made a stand against the invaders just as Jarod had, but had fared no better. In the bookshelf, alongside countless works of fantasy and science fiction by such authors as Kate Elliot, George R.R. Martin, A.A Attanasio, Anne McCaffrey, and Dean Koontz, was a collection of half-a-dozen home movies. Parker commandeered these, took one last look about the place and left with a look of disgust on her face.

“Get some cleaners up here,” she said. Sam nodded briskly and moved to obey, but before he was out the door of the apartment she called to him.

“Yes Miss Parker?”

“Sam, what size bullet holes do those look like to you?” He paused, studying said holes thoughtfully.

“9 millimeter I’d say. The ones on this side anyway. Jarod was shooting at the window, and those rounds were from a forty-five easy.” 9 millimeter…Centre issue. She thanked him and sent him on his way to call the cleaners. Sydney met her outside, looking troubled and confused.

“Someone attacked him Parker,” he said at once. “Someone attacked Jarod and quite possibly wounded him.”

“Or killed him. Listen Syd I shouldn’t say anything but the gun that made those holes in the wall was…”

“Excuse me!” Miss Parker and Sydney turned as one to face the person hailing them, and found themselves face to face with the FBI.

The pair approaching them from across the street could not have been more different in appearance if they tried. He was tall and lanky, with medium brown hair, a proud nose, and brooding, knowing eyes. She was short and hourglass with hair like fire, fine features, and an expression of cool calculation on her face. They might have been at opposite ends of the spectrum, but like different colors of a rainbow they blended together, portraying a sense of oneness, each one feeding off and balancing out the other. They were a pair you stopped and took notice of, though a person might pass either one individually on the street and never look twice.

It was the woman who spoke; her companion merely studied them, noting every word and action to the point where he was making even Miss Parker uncomfortable. “I’m Agent Scully, this is Agent Mulder, we’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Can I ask what your business is here?” She flipped out her badge, precise and professional with her protocols. He did so only when she did, almost as if it was an afterthought.

“Can ask what business you have asking?”

“Touche,” he said, smiling lazily. There was something unsettling about this man, something familiar.

“We’re conducting an investigation here,” Scully explaining evenly, calmly. “You’ve just walked in the middle of it and we’re a little curious to know why.”

“An investigation of our own.” Miss Parker kept her response curt, aware that they were weighing her every word and movement carefully.

“In the apartment of a federal officer?”

“Jarod was working for the FBI?” Sydney asked. The woman’s mouth worked for a moment or two, but no sound came out. She faltered, surprised to hear Jarod mentioned, looking to her partner. Agent Mulder’s expression had not wavered.

“Is, working for the FBI actually,” he deadpanned. The woman was now watching Parker’s cleaners, men in black suits with black ties loading boxes of materials into black town cars. The fingers of her gun hand curled, but she did nothing. “As of yesterday at least.”

With a start Miss Parker realized what about that man was so familiar. He had pretender eyes. They were softer than Jarod’s, quieter, but there was an intelligence behind them she had only seen one other place before. As he watched her she got the unsettling feeling that he understood, that he saw and comprehended everything about her, that he knew. What he knew she couldn’t have said if asked, but it was something. A brilliant man stood before her now, a man with pretender eyes. She must be wary of him as she was wary of Jarod. But she could by no means trust him like she trusted the other, this she knew. She and Jarod knew how to play off each other just as these two FBI agents did, though she was assured her and Jarod’s dance was infinitely more deadly.

“But you haven’t seen him since yesterday?” Sydney asked in light of his companion’s silence. Had he seen it too she wondered?

“No,” the red-haired woman replied. “Have you?

Parker snorted derisively. “We haven’t seen Jarod in three months.”

“But you’ve spoken with him.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t reply.

“What are those men taking out of Jarod’s apartment?” What that a defensive note in Scully’s voice?

“How can you be so sure it’s Jarod’s apartment?”

“Oh I think we established that a while ago,” Mulder said, smiling wanly, turning to face the cleaners. A moment’s awkward silence hung between them before it became apparent that Miss Parker had no intention of answering the question. Jaw set, Mulder nodded and turned, his partner at his heels. Parker watched them go, baffled, befuddled, and curious beyond measure.

“What the hell was that all about?” Miss Parker asked her companion.

“It would appear Jarod has been working with the FBI.”

“You do know how to state the obvious don’t you Syd.”

“And they expected to find him here this afternoon.”

“Yeah but the way they looked at us…it seemed like…”

“They knew who we were?” She nodded, still staring blindly at the place where the agents’ car had been. “It’s entirely possible. As far as we can tell Jarod had been settled here for some time. He could have been trying to make a home, settle down. I see no reason why he would not share some of his past with whoever he has befriended here.”

Miss Parker didn’t say anything about her observations of Agent Mulder, that he had pretender eyes. If Sydney hadn’t noticed it was probably all in her head. But Miss Parker knew Jarod’s eyes like no one else, knew the intensity and the brilliance that lived behind them. She knew as well that if she and this man ended up at opposite ends of the proverbial gun he would prove to be a formidable opponent.

****

Parker was used to being strong. She knew how to hide her emotions, and she did so now with no undue skill. Fear, uncertainty, anxiety, anger warred for dominance within her, but outside she was ice, professional and coldly indifferent as she watched Jarod’s personal effects being sifted through at the Centre’s D.C. office. The Triumvirate had determined that it was not likely Jarod had left the city, based on the condition of his lair, and had ordered Parker’s team to settle in for as long a stay as was necessary to gather some more conclusive evidence regarding his whereabouts.

Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it. Something didn’t add up. Jarod was hurt, possibly dead, and several items had been stolen from his home, besides him, whoever he was living with, and the photos. First of all, the DSAs were nowhere to be found, and judging by the amount of blood at the scene it was doubtful * Jarod* had taken it anywhere. The landlady, a Mrs. Gracie Chamberlain, said that several more personal items were gone as well. Jarod kept a photo album, she said. A camera she had given him for Christmas, a box of files he was always sifting though in his free time, a laptop, a strongbox he kept under his bed…all missing. But Jarod hadn’t taken them. All his clothes were here, though it looked as if he had been packing.

She was worried about him. She didn’t want to admit it, let anyone see it, but as time wore on a niggling fear came alive in her belly. Her legs felt weak and her hands trembled. When she tried to speak her throat caught. If he was dead…if she lost him too…

Parker purged that thought from her mind the very instant it came to her. She was a Parker. She was a machine. Jarod was property.

But she didn’t believe it anymore. He had deftly infiltrated her heart now and there was no pulling back. She remembered Dover, the way they had come together, their naturally affinity for each other. She remembered the day they thought Bartlett was going to kill Jarod, and the fear not so different that this. She remembered the bunny, the first kiss, the book Jarod wrote for her, the candy he sent her, the day he saved her father’s life. She remembered all he pieces of her past he had opened up for her, the blindfold he had pulled away from her eyes, the person she was before and the person she was now with thanks to him. She remembered the chains that had bound her heart, that he by himself and later through Thomas had broken. No, she could no longer think of Jarod as property, and she could no longer be a machine. He had made her something more, and he was all she had left. He had been the one constant in her life from the time she was a girl, and she trusted him where she trusted no one else. If he had been killed, whether it was the Centre or whatever pretend he was working on, the killer would pay dearly for his life.

Miss Parker was dimly aware of her cell phone ringing. Shaking her head to clear it, ignoring the hitch of her heart at the sound, she flipped it open and answered tersely.

“You’re late.”

“Jarod.” She was unable to keep the relief from her voice. Indicating that Broots was to follow her (Sydney was out with Sam securing hotel rooms for the team), she moved away from the crew of sweepers and cleaners sifting through Jarod’s possessions and went to the far corner of the room. “Where are you?”

“Nice try Parker.” She could hear it now, the pain in his voice, the wheezing in his breathing.

“What happened this morning?” she demanded. She didn’t mean for her voice to be so soft, so concerned. Broots was looking at her strangely, but she was past the point of caring.

“A long story.” He paused, catching his breath. Just these few words had taken a grievous toll on him. “Parker I need a favor.” Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped. Jarod wanted a favor from her? Now here was an interesting development. “You owe me,” he added. Never before had he tried to use all the many things he had done for her to his advantage. This must be some favor he needed. She knew she should be angry, accuse him of doing all he had done for himself, but she wasn’t. She did owe him after all.

“What?” She shouldn’t be so willing. She should interrogate him; engage him in taunting banter like always. But she didn’t think he had the strength, and for some reason she cared about that.

“I was working with some FBI agents here…”

“Mulder and Scully. I met them this morning.”

“Did they see the apartment?” He sounded incredulous. The tone didn’t fit him.

“No. The cleaners had been in there already.” She really did have to cooperate so much with him. She should just demand that he turn himself in and have done with it. He had helped her of his own choice. She had not asked him. She owed him nothing. “You have a message for them?” She could almost see him nod, heard him fight for a good breath.

“Tell them…tell them I went to Maggie’s and to get there as fast as they can.”

“That’s it?” She was disappointed. She had hoped for some explanation.

“That’s it on this line.” That was a lie. He was have scrambled the call if he was worried about the line being secure. He didn’t want her to know.

“I’ll tell them Jarod.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated. “And Miss Parker? Watch your back.” He hung up.

“What the hell is going on?” She asked no one. Broots just shook his head, looking as spooked as she felt. “Broots can you hack into the FBI system? I need a phone number.”

***

Oh these little earthquakes.
Here we go again.

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: Those of you who know my work and read these little author’s notes I’m so fond of know, aside from being absolutely in love with Jarod (mmm…fine male specimen) and the Pretender I’m a true blue x-phile to the core. I decided that, based on this, I might as well cross them over and see what happened, but remember kiddies, this is not an easy thing. Characterization if tough on the Pretender, but damn near impossible on the X-Files unless you’re really…really good (so I’ve found). So be patient, and if I totally botch this and mess with these beautiful characters to too high a degree beyond the comprehension of the meticulous mind, please feel free to rip on me all you like. I’ll deserve it. The Lynns feature prominently, as ever, so don’t mind them, I had loads of fun with this one. Thanx ever so much for your attention. On with the show.




Precious Blood
Part II: Unruhe
Matrea Nara


Jarod liked Maggie Scully’s couch. It was one of those huge, plush, cushy couches you could just burrow down and disappear in, all soft and pastel with embroidered throw pillows. Of course, in his current condition he wasn’t likely to be burrowing in anything, even the velvety cushions sent pin pricks of pain through his body wherever the made contact, but he was sure that any other day this couch would be the epitome of comfort.

Fevered and filmed with a cold sweat, he couldn’t stop trembling. Everything hurt. The dimmest light stung his eyes, the gentles sound pounded in his brain, the most feather-light touch seared his flesh. Every time he closed his eyes he heard them screaming, saw the bullets ripping into their young bodies. Whenever sleep claimed him he was plagued by nightmarish imaged of sweepers bursting through his window, shooting, going after the children. He woke up screaming every time and when he sat bolt upright he tore open his wounds again and bled afresh. He hoped Parker carried his message to Mulder and Scully. He needed a doctor, badly, and he could not trust the hospitals after this morning. He couldn’t trust anyone, not really. But maybe he could trust the agents…and he hoped he could trust Parker.

When he had received the e-mail from Angelo he had just been finishing up a late night doing paper work at the office. The news that the Tower had deployed a sweeper team to his apartment with shoot to kill orders for him and seek and retrieve orders for the kids had not only caught him off guard, it had driven the breath from his lungs with the force of a blow. He had rushed from the office as fast as he could, pressed the limits of the law all the way home, and burst into his apartment shouting for the kids to get packed while he did the same. After than everything had happened so quickly he had trouble remembering specifics. The shots that shattered his bedroom window he recalled clearly enough, and the kids calling his name. He remembered the instant the bullet had plowed into his chest, and the one that tore a furrow in his right thigh. And he remembered scrambling back to their room, seeing the trigger-happy sweeper misfiring and shooting the oldest boy. The blast had knocked Luke back, thrown him into the wall. Someone had cracked him over the head with the butt of a pistol just then, and he would live in torment the rest of his life knowing that the last sight he had seen of the boy was to watch him dying. No matter. The rest of his life would doubtless prove very short indeed.

Maggie did what she could for him, but she was no doctor. She kept him hydrated, fed him when she thought he could keep it down, and did her best to see that he was comfortable. He wasn’t comfortable, but on any other day he would have been, and he thanked her for that.

The sun was setting when the arrived. Mulder’s urgent pounding on the front door would have surely knocked it from its hinges if Maggie hadn’t answered as promptly as she had. Scully, brisk and efficient as ever, was at his side in an instant, pulling back the blanket Maggie had tucked around him and unbuttoning his shirt. She commended her mother on the sufficiency of the bandages, then told Jarod he was a damned fool for not going to a hospital.

“They wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for the hospital,” he said, and could tell she knew it was true. Mulder sat on the coffee table, just watching, waiting his turn.

“Where are the kids Jarod?” she inquired. The bullet was still in his chest and she would have to dig it out, but her maternal instincts had taken precedent and she would have that answer from him first. Tears sprang to his tortured brown eyes.

“I don’t…I don’t know. I saw them shoot Luca and then someone hit me…I didn’t see where they took them.” Mulder shifted.

“There were people clearing out your place when we got there.”

“Cleaners,” he said.

“Sharp looking woman, older man, squirrelly little guy looking like he was about to bolt every time she looked at him…”

“Miss Parker…Sydney…Broots.”

“Did they do this?” Jarod shook his head. Scully had gone to scrub her hands and arms below the elbow, and to retrieve some items she would need to remove the bullet.

“She told us where you were.”

“I asked her to.”

“So she’s someone we can trust?”

“Someone I can trust…in the right circumstances.” All this talking was taking a toll on him. He found himself anxious for Scully to get back and cut him open so he wouldn’t have to answer anymore of Mulder’s pointed questions. “She makes decisions according to the situation.”

“So she’ll hold a gun to your head but does what she has to do to keep you from getting killed.”

“That’s the general idea. It’s more…complicated.” Mulder nodded again, a rare, perfect comprehension on his face. His own relationships were complicated enough. He understood where Jarod was coming from.

“Ok Jarod,” Scully said, her tone coolly professional, “let’s get this slug out of you ok?” He nodded. “Mulder hold him down.”

****

When Jarod regained consciousness hours later he could hear them talking. He tried to stay still, wanting to hear what they were saying, but they must have been paying close attention to him because as soon as his breathing patterns changed they fell silent. He heard them drawing closer to him, the soft sounds of their feet on the carpet like thunder to him.

“Jarod? How are you feeling?” The tone of professional detachment in her voice did not quite hide her underlying concern.

“Is that a rhetorical question Agent Scully?” he quipped. She didn’t laugh. “I feel like I just got shot in the chest.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Mulder’s dry humor somehow made him feel better, but not much. He was still badly hurt and he still didn’t know where the kids were…and Parker was still hunting him, which only managed to make things worse. If she knew what was going on she would dig into this thing so deep there would be no uprooting her, and he didn’t want her to know just yet.

“We’ve got every contact in the city looking for the kids,” Mulder told him. “No word yet.”

“Contacts? The Lone Gunmen.” While Jarod was unfailingly amused by the three he would never trust them with three lives to dear to him.

“Don’t dismiss them so quickly. Besides the three of them the Lone Gunmen has readers in places you wouldn’t think possible. All they have to do is make some calls and we have people from the Defense Department to city garbage men searching.” Scully’s opinion of the LGM had never been overly high either, and her defense of them reassured Jarod.

“The Centre has friends too.”

“People like that don’t have friends, they have associates. Associates can usually be bought for the right price.”

“And what’s the right price? You don’t have anything to give them.”

“No, but we can dig up some things that will be incentive enough. What these people fear the most is exposure, and our guys excel at digging up high priced dirt.” Jarod just nodded. They didn’t understand. The Centre didn’t just have associates everywhere it was everywhere. No one every got out of the Centre. If it was a choice between betraying the Triumvirate and keeping an extramarital affair out of the papers he knew what the decision would be.

“If one of them got out,” Mulder was asking, “or was left for dead like you were, is there anyplace safe they know to go, where they know you’ll look for them?”

“Luke was down, and Arin would never leave him. They didn’t get out.”

“And Ryker?”

Jarod thought. He had spoken to them about her on occasion, and they had been fascinated. They had asked him questions and have him tell them stories into the wee hours of the morning. They wanted to know everything about her, like they wanted to know everything about him when first they met. Yes, he could see how Ryker might trust her with his life, even if they had never before met. If the boy had broken free he could have gone to her, it was definitely possible.

“Miss Parker. If he went anywhere, he would go to Miss Parker.”

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: Those of you who know my work and read these little author’s notes I’m so fond of know, aside from being absolutely in love with Jarod (mmm…fine male specimen) and the Pretender I’m a true blue x-phile to the core. I decided that, based on this, I might as well cross them over and see what happened, but remember kiddies, this is not an easy thing. Characterization if tough on the Pretender, but damn near impossible on the X-Files unless you’re really…really good (so I’ve found). So be patient, and if I totally botch this and mess with these beautiful characters to too high a degree beyond the comprehension of the meticulous mind, please feel free to rip on me all you like. I’ll deserve it. The Lynns feature prominently, as ever, so don’t mind them, I had loads of fun with this one. Thanx ever so much for your attention. On with the show.



Precious Blood
Part III: What Gods Forsake
Matrea Nara


These precious things,
Let them bleed
Let them wash away.
These precious things,
Let them break
Let them wash away
Break their hold over me
--- Tori Amos: Precious Things



She raised her eyes to behold her captor, long black tresses falling to frame her fine-featured face. She was disconcertingly like him in that moment. So much so that Lyle was forced to look away.

“Why good morning Uncle,” she greeted him, her tone somehow managing to be sweet and savage all at once. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me. You know I can’t bear rejection.”

Even bound and beaten, her clothing torn and bloodied, she was an impressive sight. They whole lot of them could be a pain in the ass, but no one ever accused them of being anything other than sharp and good-looking. She had their manner as well as their looks, and Lyle hated himself for being as nervous as he was at the prospect of confronting it thrice over. He didn’t have to though, he reminded himself. The youngest one got loose. She could have too, he knew, but she would not leave her twin. If only he could be so sure of the loyalties of his.

“It’s supposed to skip a generation,” he remarked lightly. He was, of course, referring to the fact that two sets of twins had been born in two successive generations, an unlikely anomaly. She knew what he meant. She knew a hell of a lot more than she let on. Her father’s legacy.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh I’m not disappointed. You saved us a lot of work.”

“I saved you nothing Uncle. You would not have been the one to do the work anyway.” She glared at him with dark green eyes, pinning him under her stare until he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of her and leave her to the Renewal Wing’s staff. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t let her beat him on her first day.

“I suppose it would be asking too much for you to cooperate.”

“You know both my parents better than I do and you still ask that question?”

“Children are not always the reflections of their parents. Besides, how am I supposed to know which one you’ll be most like? Your parents are total opposites.”

“Not so much as you might think.” Her grin was disconcerting, smug and humorless and wicked. “Have a care Uncle. They’ve set you up for one hell of a fall.”

“And you care?”

“Not at all. But you know how it is. Blood’s blood.”

Lyle approached her, placing one hand on either armrest of the chair she was tied to, leaning so close their noses almost, but not quite, touched. She never flinched, and the things he saw swimming behind those eyes were enough to make his breath catch for a minute.

“Yes,” he said, digging his fingers into the wound a bullet had left on her upper arm. “Blood is blood. And by the time I’m through you’ll have seen so much of it you’ll dream about it, sweat it, cry it. And they we’ll see who much their child you are.” Arin bared her teeth, made a snapping motion that brought her teeth together win a click. There was pain in her eyes now though. Good.

Lyle rose and turned, leaving the Renewal cell and this child of his sister and the pretender that got away. Yes, pain was definitely a start.

><

Ryker had never met his mother. Until just a short time ago he had not even known he had one, or a father for that matter. He was in no great rush to meet her in his current state of mind and body, but he was in no position to be proud. The way Jarod…Dad, the way Dad had described her he was more than a little intimidated by the prospect, but he must be strong. Luca and Arin would be strong, he reminded himself. And Luca and Arin would be defiant and proud as well. All he was was hurt and alone and afraid, but he must push all that aside now and do what he came to do. He must save his family.

He didn’t even know if they were still alive. All he could remember before the adrenaline rush had wiped his conscious memory clean was his father getting shot and bludgeoned by huge, men build like mountains in dark suits, then Luca getting shot, and Arin telling him to get the hell out of there. He knew she wasn’t leaving, and wanted to tell her he would stay with her and their father and brother. He had learned long ago, though, that one did not question his sister when he had that tone in her voice, that it was dangerous even to stand too close during times like those. So he had run, and heard them chasing them, and everything after that was a blur before he found himself in an alley three of four miles from his home, alone and bleeding. They must have popped off a few shots at him when it became apparent they wouldn’t catch him. It was just a flesh wound though, and he knew how to deal with those. Sometimes Centre training did come in handy. Not often, but occasionally.

Now it was dark, and he was stricken by an impossible anxiety. His family might all be dead, he was hurt with nowhere to go, and dammit he was only a thirteen-year-old kid. Ryker was not one for delusions. He knew full well he was not “only” anything, that what he was far surpassed anything his peers could hope to imagine. But he also knew he was naïve, and far from the level of the rest of his family. Dad had said he was a sub-power pretender, like his mother, and that he was lucky to be so because being a high-power pretender brought nothing but grief. Ryker knew better. He knew his father and his siblings would not have given up their gift if they had an option. Still, he understood why they did not wish it on him. He had grown up seeing the way his brother and sister were exploited, ten times as badly as he was, and though he knew his father loved his work he was constantly on edge, always looking over his shoulder.

Ok, now he was just stalling. Somewhere inside that hotel across the street was his mother, and the man who might as well be his grandfather (Dad had said Sydney had been the only father he knew growing up). Ryker envied him that, and knew Arin and Luke did as well. They had had no such father figure until their real father found them at last. Time to go. Time to get this show on the road.

Wiry, lithe Ryker with the auburn hair and hazel eyes stayed low as he darted across the street, gritting his teeth as pain shocked through his wounded leg. He knew Dad had been shot in the leg as well. What was the point, he wondered. His father had already been shot in the chest when he took the leg would, and Ryker had been so charged up he hadn’t even felt it until he stopped. Besides, the Centre men had proven themselves lousy shots when it came to moving targets.

It wasn’t difficult to scramble up the fire escape at the side of the building, but it would have been easier without the bum leg. Ryker loved to climb. Arin had affectionately nicknamed him the Monkey Boy, and Dad was sure he was going to fall and break his neck one of these days. Still, his talent had proven useful on more than one occasion, and he was proud to at least be able to do one thing better (not much better but better), that his high-power siblings.

He felt a bit depraved scurrying around peeping through strangers’ windows, but when he at last found the one he was looking for the ends easily justified the means. There she was, the mother he had never met, but heard enough about to know on sight. Arin must have a lot of their mother in her, he decided. There was the same aura of control, dominance and strength about this one as there was with his sister. Besides, Dad had shown them a lot of pictures of her, and of their grandmother Catherine, who looked just like her.
Yes, that was his mother. But she wasn’t alone. He had to wait until she was alone. Dad had always told them they could trust he in a pinch, and Sydney too and maybe even Broots. However Ryker and his siblings were as much Centre raised as their father was, and worse, they were Centre bred as well. He was hard pressed to trust even this far, and the sweepers in the room elicited a flight reflex he was hard pressed to suppress. He would wait.
The heavens wept.

><

Miss Parker was having enough trouble keeping her thoughts in order without all these questions and suggests buffeting her from all sides. She knew it was her job, that the sweepers needed to be assigned their tasks for the next day so the hunt of Jarod would progress smoothly and the Tower would stay off her back. She knew this, but didn’t give a damn. She was tired and worried and confused out of her mind and wanted them all to shut the hell up and find something more productive to do with their time, as far from her as was possible without sending them all the way back to Blue Cove.

When at last the team retired to their room and was left with only Sydney and Broots for company, she allowed herself to relax her Ice Queen demeanor for a moment. Jarod was alive, or at least was as of that afternoon. He was somewhere with those FBI agents now, and probably hurt pretty badly. Where was this irrational desire to go to him coming from? It wasn’t necessarily a desire to go catch him… It wasn’t that at all. She wanted to go to him, to make sure he was ok, to help him if she could, to find out who had hurt him and kick their fucking asses. Yes, that was what she wanted to do. It shouldn’t be what she wanted, but it was, and there was no point denying it.

“He didn’t tell you where he was?” Sydney asked, for the hundredth time.
He had been unduly outraged when he learned of Jarod’s call. Why hadn’t Parker called him immediately? Why hadn’t she demanded Jarod’s location? And so on. How could she explain to Sydney about her relationship with Jarod, about their unspoken agreement in their dealings with each other? There were times when you asked questions, times to taunt and tease and dance, and times when you stopped playing the game and did as you were told. The incident at the Dover Town Bank had been one of those times, when they stopped playing the roles of the enemies and united in a common cause, surrendered to the natural affinity that made them an indomitable team. When Jarod told her to keep her gun holstered so they wouldn’t all get killed; when he rose to her defense when she nearly made the mistake anyway, putting himself at risk to protect her; when Fenigore was shot and Jarod took the lead, giving the orders while she followed them without questions, saving the old man’s life; when she had a chance to get out with the rest of the hostages, but instead came back for him, were all such instances of mutual cooperation and trust.

There had been other times as well. Whenever Jarod gave her a lead into her past, or information on a Centre activity she had been purposefully excluded from, she never doubted him…never. He had told Her to dig up her mother’s grave once and she had put her trust in him completely. After Tommy’s death he had come to her in honesty and heartfelt empathy to help her find the truth, done so again one year later, and she had treated him like shit but never dismissed him or accused him. They dropped their façade when one of them was hurt, or had been hurt, or after they had just gone through hell together and were, as ever, left with nothing but a phone in the end. She remembered when she was shot, and he could have gotten away, but he had stayed behind in the hopes of helping her. Yes, she and Jarod had drawn the lines long ago and knew where the boundaries where. When Jarod called her and told her to do something after she had just seen his home a bloody shambles and heard the pain in his voice, she did not demand his location or refuse the favor. When Jarod needed her like he had needed her this afternoon, after all they had been through, all he had done for her, all she was because of him, she shoved her pretenses aside like so many wedding veils and did it, without question. Lives could depend on it, and probably did because he only brought her into his problems as a last resort (though he was always throwing himself into hers). If there was one thing she had learned from her years with Jarod it was that he didn’t joke about things of such import, and that while Sydney might be one of his reasons for keeping a tie on the Centre, she was still the little girl who gave him his first kiss, still his best friend as he was hers despite everything. There were some things he couldn’t go to his mentor with; it had been that way since they were children.

“No Syd,” she said. “He just said to tell the FBI he was at Maggie’s.” She paused, feeling a need to appease Sydney’s wrath and knowing she shouldn’t give a damn what he thought. “I did ask him Syd, but I didn’t ask twice and I didn’t beg. He was having a hard enough time as it was and he had more to say without arguing with me.”

“He wouldn’t have told anyway,” Broots added in her defense. She should have glared at him, growled some smart ass quip, but she was too grateful for the softening of Syd’s stern visage to spare her usual gibe.

“No, he wouldn’t. Did you ask what happened this morning?”

“Again, yes. He just said it was a long story, and I could have told you that.”

“Did he sound hurt?” Sydney hadn’t asked that before, and she hadn’t planned on worrying him with it, but now that he had there was no way around it and she wasn’t about to lie after all she and the old man had been through together.

“Yes,” she said.

“Bad?”

“Very.” Syd’s face fell, but he was grateful for the honesty as well.

The uncomfortable silence seemed to stretch on for a lifetime. When at last it was sundered, it was not by any one of them seated tensely about the room. The sound came from the window, a hesitant, shaky knocking that made Parker’s heart hitch and Broots jump three feet from his chair. Probably hoping it was Jarod, Sydney had crossed half the distance to the window by the time Parker had her gun drawn.

What he pulled after opening the window was not Jarod, but a half-conscious teen-age boy who closely resembled a drowned rat. Miss Parker opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Was about to demand for the second time that day what the hell was going on, when a second, much stronger, more insistent knock sounded from the hotel room’s door.

“Open the door Miss Parker,” a familiar male voice called. “FBI.”

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Summary: It has long been known that there is little of which they are not capable, for both good and ill, among the peoples high and low. Yet even knowing this so well as she does, the depths to which they have stooped in the name of their twisted agendas and ideas has seldom shocked, amazed, and frightened her as it did when that boy climbed in through her window one suitably dark and stormy night...



Precious Blood
Part IV: Mother, Behold Your Son
Matrea Nara


Agent Mulder had known Jarod for only a few weeks, yet in that short time he had learned enough about the man to harbor a profound respect for him, and to trust his word explicitly, without reservation. So what Jarod had told Mulder they would find Ryker with her, if they were to find him at all, Mulder had not questioned the likelihood of it, whether or not a boy of thirteen years would seek safety among people who had brought him up like a lab rat, to go to a woman he had only ever heard about in the presence of those he knew well and hated bitterly. Mulder had simply nodded and gone, leaving his friend in his partner’s capable hands.

The hotel where the Centre crew was staying was an older building, but did not lack in style for its age. It presented a dignified appearance rather than a run down, the weight of the years in no way diminishing its appeal. After obtaining Miss Parker’s room number from a desk clerk more thoroughly cowed by Mulder’s confident, no nonsense demeanor than the badge the agent flashed at him, he strode purposefully to the elevator and punched the button for the fifth floor, lost in thought.

The day Jarod, known to him then as Special Agent Jarod Wolfe, had joined their division they had viewed him with suspicion, distancing him as much as possible from themselves and the true nature of their work. The first time they had accepted another agent into their trust, that man being Alex Krycek after the X-Files were terminated the first time and Mulder and Scully were split up, he had betrayed them so thoroughly it would still be some time before either Mulder or Scully could put much faith in anyone outside their inner circle.

Jarod had accepted their reservations and stiff professional courtesy will light-hearted quips and a professional courtesy all his own. Mulder’s first evidence of the true depth and brilliance of Jarod’s mind had come when Mulder had proposed his first working theory on a case they were working on, a case toward which Jarod displayed an unusual level of personal interest. Instead of shooting it down outright or failing to comprehend it, Jarod had debated with Mulder for nearly a half hour, presenting logical arguments and proving to be as much a plethora of otherwise useless information as Mulder himself was. He missed no single detail, weighed ever fact and opinion, and displayed a photographic memory akin to Mulder’s own. Not only that, but he managed to impress Scully more than most people ever did with his vast knowledge of science and his flawless comprehension of the medical records of the case.

Mulder remembered when they had first brought the new agent to the scene of the crime, smiling to himself as he recalled the nature of his second intimation that Jarod Wolfe was not at all what he seemed or claimed. Jarod’s method of examining the scene was unique to say the very least. It had been as though the other two agents weren’t even there. He moved around the alley, lay his hand on the wall and closed his eyes, cocked his head to one side as if listening to something no one else could hear, turned, walked to the place where the victim had been found and knelt, though he had scene no crime scene photos before hand and had no way of knowing where the dead girl had been. He had laid his hand on the ground there as well, closed his eyes, and started shaking. Scully had asked him if he was alright but he ignored her. Finally, when at last he rose, there was such a look of brooding rage on his face it was as if he had been in the mind of the killer.

Throughout the entire investigation Jarod’s methods had been unusual. Every time Mulder or Scully were on the verge of a major breakthrough he would negate the merest possibility with such an air of certainty it was as if he had already been over all their possible explanations in his mind, found them wanting, and moved on long before his companions even considered them. When another victim was found Jarod had almost taken it personally. He had insisted on being present for the autopsy and even picked up on a few things Scully had missed. His profile for the killer was on a par with Mulder’s, if not better. As the days passed his patience stalled, and all the while Mulder got the impression that Jarod was taking ever action of the killer as a personal attack, so total was his determination and single mindedness. After the killed had been caught, found beaten, naked, and hogtied in the alley where the first girl had died (and staring at Jarod with wide-eyed fear all the while), Jarod had disappeared. Mulder and Scully had caught up with him just as he and his three kids were about to skip town.

Jarod, both amused and impressed by the agents’ perceptiveness and persistence, commended Mulder, describing him as “sub-power” and telling him he should be more guarded with his brilliance. He had said he admired the way Mulder and Scully worked, their open-mindedness and attention to detail was a rare find and their ability to solve such difficult, improbable cases were a tribute them. “Almost as good as me,” he had said, “and that says something.” Apparently he was impressed enough by them to take him in to his confidence as he had taken a choice few others, and that day he had sat them down and told them the long, twisted story of his life and the Centre.

For the agents, who had had enough experience with sinister conspiracies to last two lifetimes, the atrocities of the Centre did not come as as much of a shock as it might have for most people. Still, they were struck dumb by it. For Scully, the truth of Jarod’ children hit especially close to home. Her empathy was welcomed and reciprocated by Jarod, while the pain in her eyes when she heard tell of it ripped through Mulder’s heart. Mulder and Scully had found as close to a kindred spirit in Jarod as they were likely to kind, and the reverse seemed to be true as well.

Now, riding up this elevator on his way to search for Jarod’s son, his heart bled for his friend. If it was true what Jarod had told us this afternoon after telling him where he might find Ryker, then not only were the kids in danger but Jarod was as well. The Centre sounded to him disturbingly like the people he lived and worked in fear of, and if the two, Centre and Syndicate, were in any way similar a “shoot to kill” order was a deathly serious thing.

He walked up to the hotel room door with his heart on his sleeve, all his hopes and wishes lying beyond that door. If Ryker was not there, if Mulder had to drive back to Maggie Scully’s and tell Jarod all three of his children were now in the hands of the people they feared and hated the most…he didn’t even want to contemplate it. He knocked.

“Open the door Miss Parker,” he called. “FBI.”

><

Parker and her companions moved fast, Sydney and Broots carrying the boy into the bathroom and closing the door at their backs while Miss Parker herself went to answer the summons at the door. She knew who it was, and steeled herself outside and in for the confrontation likely to follow. It had been clear to her from the start that this Agent Mulder knew more then he was letting on, and if he had decided to challenge them in regards to Jarod deflecting him would be no easy task.

She opened the door.

He stood in the doorway, face nearly impossible to read with the merest hint of desperation in his eyes. He was tense, carrying himself like a man preparing for the sky to fall at any moment.

“Can I help you Agent Mulder?” she deadpanned. He was looking over her shoulder, into the room beyond. What was he hoping to find, she wondered? The window was open. He smiled, drowned in quickly.

“I hope so Miss Parker,” said he, in a tone of professional detachment characteristic of doctors and government officials. Well, characteristic of most of them. Jarod had been both, and never quite managed it. “Have you seen this boy?”

The picture Mulder held out to her was the face she had seen moments before being pulled through her window. The boy was about thirteen or fourteen, with chin length auburn hair, lightly sun-browned skin, hazel eyes and fine features. He dressed in dark colors, wore a black leather jacket and a devilishly charming grin as he leaned with his shoulder propped against a tree, his arms folded across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. There was a look about him, a depth in his eyes reminiscent of Jarod, but more of this man before her. His were softer, less calculating, but unlike Agent Mulder’s this boys’ eyes were scarred with the torture of a pretender’s life.

“Who is he?” she asked. Anger or annoyance flashed briefly in Mulder’s eyes as she answered a question with a question, but he surrendered the picture when she reached for it and replied politely enough.

“His name is Ryker.”

“No last name?”

“Just Ryker.” Like Jarod was just Jarod. Interesting. “Have you seen him?” Something in the desperate note he carried in his voice set bells and whistles blaring in her mind. This boy was important. He had pretender eyes too and this man had, presumably, just come from Jarod. So was Mulder asking after the boy because he wanted to know or because Jarod had sent him?
“Come in Agent Mulder.”

As soon as the boy Ryker had laid eyes on Mulder he had run to the older man’s embrace, weeping and babbling incoherently words the agents seemed to understand perfectly. Ryker was now either asleep or unconscious under Mulder’s arm, mumbling restlessly in his fevered dreams.

Mulder had tried to leave as soon as he had the boy, but Parker refused to let him. She would know all he knew to tell her about this boy and why he was so important to Jarod. She had determined that it was in fact Jarod who had sent after the boy. While Ryker had been relieved to see Mulder he had been most reassured when Mulder told him that Jarod was fine and would survive the wounds he had suffered in the fighting. Parker was more relieved that she wanted to admit on that account as well, but hid her feelings beneath a patented icy mask. She asked about the boy, what he meant to Jarod, why they were attacked, and why the boy had come, of all places he might have gone, here to her hotel room. Halfway through Mulder’s explanation she was sorry she had.

Ryker, Mulder said, and the two other children who had been living with Jarod were his genetic children, created with his seed and the ova of a sub-power pretender, planted in the womb of a surrogate mother. Jarod had discovered them three months ago, at had at that time dropped off the Centre radar, which was why no one at the Centre had *seen * Jarod since then. He had continued to call them, for reasons that didn’t need to be delved into, but had carefully avoided any action that would bring the kids to their attention. Of course the Centre had known that Jarod had stolen his children, and the Tower had issued a “shoot to kill” order the very day Jarod had broken in and pulled the kids out. Parker, Sydney, and their closest team members like Sam, Broots, and any staff they had frequent contact with, were carefully insulated from knowledge of that order. Now Jarod had been shot, nearly killed, and the twins taken back to the Centre for reeducation.

As to why Ryker had come here of all the other places he could have gone…firstly there weren’t a hell of a lot of places he could have gone in the first place. Second, he had often heard his father speak of Miss Parker and Sydney, and had been told that in the event of an emergency they were to be trusted. When Miss Parker asked why she got an response that would have knocked her off her feet had she not been sitting down.

“Because,” Fox Mulder said, “the sub-power pretender they used to create the children was you, and a kid instinctively trusts his mother.”

“Jarod knew?” she demanded. “Jarod knew about this and didn’t tell me?”

“The Centre has been hunting him, trying to kill him now for three months because he found out about them. He didn’t want that for you.”

“So why are you telling me now?”

“Because, Miss Parker, your son and daughter are currently residents of the Centre’s renewal wing, and as deep as Jarod’ feelings for you run he does have his priorities.”

“Shit,” said Miss Parker.

“Yeah.”

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Summary: The child of Parker he could have dealt with easily. The child of Jarod as well. But these children were the product of both, and it had long been known that Jarod and Miss Parker together were an indomitable pair. Why then, Lyle wondered, had the Centre not considered this before creating these damned kids in the first place?



Precious Blood
Part V: The Good Soldier
Matrea Nara



The Good Soldier

Go go go go now
Out of the nest it’s time
Go go go now
Circus girl without a safety net
Here here now don’t cry
You raised your hand for the assignment
Tuck those ribbons under your helmet
Be a good soldier
--Tori Amos: Mother


He was asleep when she got there, fevered and coated with a slick sweat that jerked at her heart. She crouched down beside him, watching him, remembering the little boy, then the teenager, then the witty, adorably naïve man recently escaped with his fathomless heart and a voice that made her smile to herself even when it had purposefully woken her during her deepest sleep cycle.

Her face revealed none of her feeling with she placed a hand on his chest wound and pressed down, not very hard, but not gently either. Behind her Agent Scully stirred and was about to protest, but Mulder stayed her and the room settled again to stillness, just the two of them. Jarod jerked into wakefulness, sitting up sharply and crying out in pain. More gently this time, Parker pushed him back down, stroking her fingers soothingly through his dark, damp hair until he calmed. She could have been less rude about waking him, but she needed to balance her affection for him and her duty as best she could, and she knew no other way to do it. She had a job here, but at the moment she was with him for strictly personal reasons.

She had done this before, when she had caught Jarod to learn the truth about the Forest House. Even then she had appeased her sense of duty, the duty that said Jarod was her enemy, not her friend, by pressing the knife to his jugular before cutting the ropes that bound him. How symbolic that had been, she thought. I had the gun, and I just let him walk away. Why? Because he said he trusted me? Because I gave him my word? Or because I’m as terrified of seeing him back in that place as he is? She remembered the day her mother died, just before the shot, she had been watching Jarod doing the orbiter simulation. She had fear his fear, as she did now.

His was breathing normally now, though he did wheeze a little. He looked at her, brought his hand up shakily to take hold of hers, still resting on his chest.

“Cute,” he whispered. “Not funny, but cute.” She smiled at him, and it was genuine, her mother’s smile. “Ryker?” The question was directed at the agents looking on, pitched louder than his labored words to her, but not much. She could have answered. She knew where the boy was. Jarod knew that, she guessed, and was probably dodging asking her purposefully, to avoid personalizing it. She didn’t know why, because it couldn’t get any more personal, but that was probably what he was doing. Doesn’t want to talk about this with an audience, she decided.

“He’s upstairs sleeping,” Mulder replied.

“Exhausted with a fever and a minor flesh wound,” added Scully the doctor. “He has contusions on his arms and a black eye. Other than that no worse for wear. He’s a tough kid.” Jarod laughed, though the act seemed painful for him.

“It’s in the blood,” he told them. He was watching Parker when he said it, searching, but she refused to meet his eyes.

Taking that as his cue, Mulder said, “We’ll leave you two alone for a little while.” Placing a hand lightly on the small of his partner’s back he ushered her out of the room, with Maggie trailing, presumably off to check on Ryker as they proceeded up the stairs to the second floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me Jarod?” She hated herself for the hurt in her voice. She had never known Jarod to hide anything so significant from her.

“Give me a break Parker. Look at me.” She did, and had to look away, not because she couldn’t bear the sight of him but because she would not let him see her cry. “I found them and now I’m ‘shoot to kill.’ And believe me, if they wanted to you’d be much easier to reach than I was.”

“Dammit Jarod I had a right to know! As much as you did.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I wasn’t the only one who decided not to tell you. They’re great kids Parker, but not entirely selfless. They wanted you dead even less than I did.” She noticed then that he still held her hand, and that the pressure on the wound had caused it to start bleeding again. She tried to pull away, but his grip was surprisingly firm. “They were just like me, growing up wondering about their family. When they finally knew who we were they were unwilling to let us risk ourselves for them. It’s the same reason I’m staying away from my father and sister, and it’s why Ethan left, why your mother faked her death in the elevator.” He squeezed her hand briefly, struggled to regain his breath as the effort to speak had left him winded. “Ours is a damned life Parker, we’ve known that since we were young. There was no reason to drag anyone else into it.”

“But I was already in it Jarod. I’ve been as cursed as you are for just as long. Shit, I was born into it!”

“So was I Parker. Not in the same way you were, but my fate was sealed when I was conceived, just as the twins’ and Ryker’s were.” She looked at him, saw the truth there as it had always been. Shifting from her crouched position on the floor, she settled on the edge of the couch beside him. A stiff breeze would topple her so precarious was her balance, but she wanted to be near him. She shouldn’t want to be. She should be calling the team and getting them down here to haul him and the boy back to the Centre but she couldn’t, and scorned herself for being weak like Catherine was. But had Catherine been weak? Or had Catherine been the strongest of the strong?

“The twins…”

“Arin and Luke. They’re sixteen.”

“Lyle has them doesn’t he?” Jarod nodded. “What will he do to them?”

“Try to reeducate them and place them back in the pretender program. Twins are invaluable at the Centre as it is but pretender twins…high-power pretender twins…”

“The whole time they were there and we never knew.”

“The Centre is a big place Miss Parker.”

“So is hell.” Jarod grinned, but too briefly to offer her any measure of solace.

“You said he would try to reeducate them. Will he succeed?”

“He tried to reeducate me too, remember?” Yes, she remembered. It had been torture for Sydney and not much better for her, knowing all that was happening to him was happening because he could have escaped, but had chosen to stay with her instead. “They’ll be strong for each other. He won’t break them.”

“But he’ll try.”

“They are his niece and nephew. Where he hated me for resisting he’ll admire them for it. He’ll be proud, and he’ll handle them differently.” He paused.

“Besides, Reins was project head. He won’t let them be permanently damaged.”

“Like he didn’t let you be permanently damaged when he stopped your heart or got you hooked on narcotics right?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I wasn’t his, I was Sydney’s. Adults are always careless with other people’s money, kids break other kids’ toys and don’t care, and Centre doctors fuck up other doctors’ pretenders and never bat an eyelash. That’s the game Miss Parker.”

“I’m sick of the game. They’ve gone to far this time.”

“They did it sixteen years ago.” And tacked on to the end of that sentence was the unspoken accusation that resonated in her heart like a reckoning. They did it sixteen years ago…when she was still the most ruthless cleaner on the payroll, when Jarod was still living in a bleak, lifeless space and slaving daily on SIMs that resulted in numberless atrocities. Their children had been playthings of Reins when Jarod busted out of the Centre, when Parker made the deal to trade her freedom for his and set out to hunt him down like a dog. It would not be fair to hate the Centre now for something they had done all that time ago, because all that time ago, when it was being done, when their children were suffering just as Jarod had all his life, molded into the machine Parker had become, they had gone on oblivious. They had not been there. They had dug so deeply into their own pasts, uncovered enough secrets and lies to help them with their quests, but had never lifted a finger to save those three young lives. The fact that they had known nothing of the existence of the children did in no way sufficiently atone for the fact they had left them to the Centre and to Reins. Besides that, when by all rights she should have joined forced with Jarod long ago, and perhaps take some focus off the flight and hunt and put it back on the Centre’s underhanded dealings where it belonged, Parker had chased Jarod with a persistence born of a duty, a loyalty to a family, she no longer even truly believed in.

“But you got to them Jarod. They’re hardly in their thirties and they’re not caught up in the lied like I was before you got to me.” Sensing the conversation had taken a decidedly personal note she wished to avoid, she attempted, vainly, to change the subject to something less directly focused on her. “Are you going to be ok?” He looked like hell, and just this short conversation had left him winded and a ghostly shade of pasty white.

“Yes.” He averted his eyes when he said it, and the fear stirred in her belly yet again. But she did not challenge him. She had told him similar lies before. “Are you going to turn me in?”

“No.” He looked sharply at her. That was not at all the answer he had expected. Parker had always been the good soldier unless she had something to gain, or if she owed him. There was neither in this case, so why would she leave him here. She let him wonder. Lowering her face closer to his, so their nosed almost touched, and applying more pressure on his wound until he grunted and his breath caught, she spoke in a low, determined voice she could see by his eyes he knew well. “I’m going back to the Centre, and I’m pulling my…our kids out of the renewal wing, and I’m making Reins pay for this.”

He couldn’t speak; he was hurting to badly. But she knew what he was thinking. Over twenty years together, that was one of the after effects.

“I know he couldn’t have done it by himself. But one step at a time.”

She didn’t know why she did what she did next. It was something she hadn’t done in twenty years, yet it seemed to right, so totally natural to bend down those last few inches and press her lips tenderly to his. The kiss was soft, full of promise and a deep familiarity that she had known with no other man, not even Thomas. She and Jarod had been through things together most people would not even believe, knew each other better than most long-married couples, and felt the bonds of their shared childhood through to their souls’ cores. So when she kissed him, it did not feel to her life a first kiss, or ever a second, but as though she had kissed him every day since that first kiss all those years ago. Though she seldom admitted it, (not never, but seldom), there were few people as dear to her heart as Jarod was. No one actually, since Thomas and her mother were both dead. He felt it too. She could see it in his eyes and the wisp of a smile on his lips when she pulled away.

“I’ll see you,” she said. He nodded, still speechless, a welcome change. She wanted to see her son before she went back to that place. She wanted to see the light again before she plunged head on back into the darkness. That had always been Jarod before, and Thomas and her mother. But now there was another light, and she felt safe somehow, though she knew she was not.

She was no longer the good soldier, she realized with amazement. She had not been for some time, but now she was something more, something greater. She was a soldier again, but for a different cause, a rebel with a cause, a one-woman rabble in arms.

><

Lyle watched the girl pace, saw her fists clench and relax, noticed that her roving green eyes marked him at intervals, but otherwise purposefully avoided resting on him. He had recently moved her to a transparent cell of bulletproof glass, so she could see her brother in the cell next to her. Luke had been badly wounded, was in a coma, breathing with the assistance of a machine, with a defibrillator close at hand and an EKG beeping out a steady rhythm.

When Arin had seen him like that for the first time Lyle had been sure he’d finally broken her. She had come close to tears, staggered back until her back in the wall and slid to the floor to stare vacantly at the shell of her beloved twin. Yes, he had thought he had broken her then, and gone in to savor the fruits of his victory. His arm was now in a sling and the entire right side of his face was bruised and discolored. It had occurred to him then that perhaps it had been a mistake to let her see what the Centre was doing to her family, but he could hardly send anyone in to transfer her back to her old cell. She would kill them, her knew, if they tried to move her away from her brother.

So he watched her, and wondered to himself if Jarod and the other boy were still alive. It didn’t matter really. The twins were the most valuable prize. Still, the Tower, and even the Triumvirate, had made it clear that Jarod was to be eliminated. Outside the Centre he was a risk to their assets, and he made them nervous for obvious reason. If the other boy could be retrieved without being destroyed that would be an added bonus, and he had been promised that he would be made project head in that event. Reins didn’t know yet, and Lyle had no intention of telling him.

He hoped he could be there when they put a bullet in Jarod’s brain. He hoped his sister could be there to. She could deny it all she wanted, but he knew she had retained some of her childish affection for the pretender. He wanted her to be there, and he wanted her to be the one to do it. That would break her, make her much more complacent to the Centre’s demands. Thomas’s death had had that effect for a time, but Jarod had been there that same day, and every day thereafter, to keep her clearheaded and keep despair from conquering her. He had that effect on her, Lyle had noticed. When she was ready to collapse he would call her or send her something and she would be back again the next day, ready and more than willing to make Lyle’s life hell. If she worked as well with him as she did with Jarod, the latter would have been caught long ago and the former might even be nice to have around from time to time.

Arin had stopped pacing. She now stared at him, face impossible to read and eyes blazing. He tried to stare her down but it was he who looked away first. She snorted scornfully before resuming her pacing. If Lyle could not earn her respect he would get nowhere with her. The child of Parker he could have dealt with easily. The child of Jarod as well. But these children were the product of both, and it had long been known that Jarod and Miss Parker together were an indomitable pair. Why, he wondered, had the Centre not considered this before creating these damned kids in the first place?

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.



Precious Blood
Part VI: Mors, We Bow To Thee
Matrea Nara




Mulder watched his partner tend the boy with a heavy heart. He knew what she was thinking. She was remembering Emily, who had been created without her mother’s knowledge just as this boy had, and the fate that had befallen her. When Scully heard what had happened with the kids at Jarod’s apartment he had seen how strongly she was affected by it, had tried not to hover as he knew he was in the habit of doing what he was concerned for her.

Scully stayed beside Ryker until he fell back asleep, then joined Mulder by the window to stare out at the moonlit yard. Maggie and Jarod were asleep as well, and Miss Parker had left some time ago to collect her things in the city and go back to Blue Cove after Arin and Luke. Mulder and Scully stood close, touching at the shoulder, taking comfort from the nearness of the other. She hadn’t let him close when she was going through the ordeal with Emily, had distanced herself from the solace he might have offered, not wanting to be comforted. Now though, both of them were caught up in something they were unused to, not the familiar, deadly ground that was their dealings with the Syndicate. They were trying to figure it out, as they had been trying to figure it out since they had first met Jarod, and both found themselves longing for the X-Files, and the defined enmity of the Syndicate and the bounty hunter and Krycek and colonization and the rest. They knew that. They could deal with what they knew. This was a whole new game, though similar in some respects, and they were not prepared for the tying emotional burden they had to endure. Close contact, the dear and comfortable, was the sole island of familiarity in the chaos that had found them, on top of the chaos that knew so well.

“You ok?” he asked her. She was leaning on him, using him for support when she could have just as easily put her weight on the window frame to her other side. He draped one across her shoulders and she immediately stopped holding herself up, so he had to hold her with both arms just to keep her from falling. “Scully listen to me. What they did to those kids is bad but you know we’ve seen worse. You have to be strong, you have to think clearly or we might not be able to save them.” He paused. “You were strong for Emily.”

“Emily died Mulder.”

“But she didn’t die alone, or afraid.”

“Luke and Arin have a chance of dying both.”

“No,” said Mulder darkly, “but Lyle does.”

Three hours later, the sky fell.

><

Arin paced. She had been doing nothing but pacing for hours now, keeping an eye on her brother and on Lyle, marking every staff man or woman that came in or out. She felt Luke in her mind, a distorted static full of pain and confusion, lost in a sea of blackness. It got so bad she wanted to break down and weep, but she refused. Either Lyle or Willy was always watching her, and she would show no weakness in the face of either man.

From time to time her thoughts would drift to her father and younger brother, and the mother she had never known but would surely know about her by now. She wondered if they were coming for her, or even if they were still alive. She knew she could find out if she wanted to. It would not be hard for her to get out of here now that her father had told her how, now that she had already busted loose once before. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t leave her brother like this. Luke was half of her, and if he stayed here he would die. Not in body, they were never let that happen, but his soul would perish and so too would hers. After tasting freedom that vibrancy she knew so well in him would not survive long caged.
So Arin paced, and let the hatred and rage swell in her…

…and marked every man that came in, or went out.

Arin had been Centre born and bred, and due to the fact that she was not only a pretender, but a twin as well, she had been subjected to some of the most difficult SIMs imaginable. She and Luke had been through pain beyond measure since they were old enough to begin training, including electroshock to stimulate certain sections of their brain and pain endurance, meant to test whether one would experience the shocks suffered upon the other. She had built up her pain threshold to admirable high levels, so she could sit quietly through one such a session and never flinch, never cry out.

But all that meant nothing when it hit her. She felt as though her skull had been sundered, every bone in her body smashed at once, her heart ruptured, a thousand knives ripped into her body. Tears of blood streamed from her eyes, rivers from her mouth and nose. She cried out, more an animal’s howl that a young girl’s scream, and dropped to her knees clutching her head. A dozen wounds opened up simultaneously on her body, with no apparent cause, the air was driven from her lungs, and she crumpled to the floor whimpering and convulsing with her eyes rolled back in their sockets as the medics rushed to her side.

In his bed mere yards away Luke’s back arched in pain, wounds mirroring his sister’s appeared, his mouth and nose bled, and the EKG beat out a rapid staccato as he felt in all its savagery all the pain visited upon Arin.

Lyle watched in fascination. Maybe he wouldn’t have to break them after all. It would appear someone else had done it for him.

><

Miss Parker had given no explanation when she returned to the hotel the next afternoon and told the team to pack up for the return trip to Blue Cove. Sydney and Broots had covered for her well in her absence, and no one asked where she had been. No doubt there was at least one sweeper on her team reporting to each of the various power players at the Centre, telling her father, Reins, and Lyle exactly where she was or wasn’t, warning them of her imminent return. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter whether or not they knew she was coming, they would be no more prepared for her when she arrived.

She was half packed when the overwhelming desire to hear Jarod’s voice seized her. It was a peculiar thing, and caught her totally unawares. She was so shocked by it that when it blindsided her at about four o’clock that afternoon she stopped dead, midway through cramming an article of clothing into her duffle bag, to analyze it. Her conscience, she decided. He had been in bad shape when she had seen him last, and she was feeling guilty about hurting him further. That was not why, but it was an acceptable rationalization for the time being.

Mulder had given her Maggie Scully’s phone number, as well as his, Scully’s, and Jarod’s cell phone numbers. Refusing to allow herself to call Jarod’s number first, telling herself he was probably out cold anyway, she called Maggie’s number. The answering machine picked up, and Parker didn’t bother to leave a message. That was strange. Why weren’t they answering? They probably didn’t trust her not to give them away, and had moved as soon as she left.

So she dialed Mulder’s phone, let it ring a dozen times before hanging up. Scully’s number next, no reply. What the hell was going on here? It wasn’t like they were out of range or anything, wasn’t as if their phones were turned off…they just weren’t answering. There was no way of rationalizing what she was feeling just then. It was that old fear, the same fear she experienced in Dover when their captor grabbed Jarod, took him away for defending her, when he had put himself in front of the gun so many times trying to protect the others, when she had been rushing the other hostages out and noticed he wasn’t with them. It was the fear that had plagued her when Bartlett was on the loose and threatened Jarod, when Jarod and Major Charles were trying to escape Donaterase and she saw Jarod stumble, shot, after the explosion when she didn’t know if he’d lived or died, yesterday in his apartment, and a dozen other times before. Realizing she was shaking, she dialed Jarod’s cell.

No one answered.

><

Parker kicked in Maggie Scully’s door with her gun held out before her, swept left, swept right, and stepped through the threshold. It had taken her hours to get here, but remarkable there were no police, no one but her anywhere near this place at all. Considering that this was a residential, suburban area it was a wonder no one had called the police to report shots fired.

The gory chaos that greeted her knocked her back a step before she regained her composure. Furniture overturned, wall mirrors and artwork smashed, bloodstains on the carpet and splattered on the walls, a bloody handprint on the wall directly in front of her…someone trying to escape, being dragged back…the place looked like a massacre had occurred here, a merciless, bloody massacre. How could anyone have survived when this much blood had been spilled?

Parker pulled her cell phone out of her coat pocket and dialed Mulder’s number again. It was ringing, but nowhere in the house. She tried Scully…the same. Jarod next…and she could hear it, coming from upstairs. Jarod’s phone was still here, but was Jarod? Still holding her weapon out front, glancing occasionally back over her shoulder, she advanced up the stairs.

The fight had apparently started downstairs, then moved up. There was evidence that there had been two groups of shooters, one firing down the stairs, the others firing up. The defenders had been forced to retreat though, evidently into the spare bedroom where Ryker had been taken when she had first come here. All the other doors had been broken down, the rooms wrecked, but the only blood she saw up here was at the head of the stairs and in that one room. The window here had been smashed, the apparent escape route, if in fact anyone had escaped. If the amount of blood in the hall out here could be taken as evidence, the defenders had taken down at least two of their attackers before they had fled, or succumbed, but any bodies had been cleared away. There was a clear spot on the floor in here where another had fallen, close to the door, so probably an attacker forcing his way in. There was more blood near the window, on the window frame, and behind the bed, which had been tipped over for the defenders to hide behind and shoot over, but there was not as much here elsewhere. The defenders had clearly won this fight at great cost to the attackers, but how many of the defenders had lived to tell about it.

Jarod had been in no condition to fight, or move for that matter, finding it too great an exertion even to talk for long periods of time. And he had been downstairs, where the battled had initially begun. That handprint on the wall downstairs stuck in her mind. She dialed Jarod’s number again, listened for the sounds of the ringing…

The closet. He was, or his phone was, in the closet to her right.

She opened the door…

“Oh shit. Oh God no.”

Jarod was there all right, beaten and broken. The wounds in his chest and leg bled anew, his face was barely recognizable, swollen and discolored and bloody. He bled from his mouth and nose, from his temple, from his chest his leg and his abdomen. Limp and propped up in a corner, his head lolled to one side and his breathing was so shallow she would not have though he was breathing at all if not for the soft wheezing of the air moving in and out through damaged lungs. He held an empty forty-five in one hand, his still-ringing cell phone in the other.

“Dammit Jarod,” she whispered. Tucking her gun in her waistband, leaving the safety off, she moved swiftly to his side, pulling him into her arms and rocking him gently as unwanted tears flooded her eyes. “Dammit.”

The floorboards groaned.

Parker drew her gun, holding it out in front of her as the found of footfalls advancing on her position drew nearer. In her arms Jarod trembled. She could feel his blood soaking her clothes, warm and damp against her skin.

“Who’s there?” she demanded. “Come any closer I’ll blow your head off.”

“That would be a bad idea Miss Parker,” called a familiar voice. “You’re not going to carry him out of here by yourself.” Fox Mulder, his gun drawn but down and to the side, stepped into her line of sight. She dropped her own weapon.

“Why the hell weren’t you answering your phone?”

“Up until a few minutes ago for the same reason he’s not answering his.” One side of the agent’s face was badly bruised, as though someone had cracked him with the butt of a pistol. “I was caught in the backyard covering their escape.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean who? Scully and Maggie and the boy.”

“No,” she said, exasperated. “Who caught you?”

“Stupid question.” She nodded, understanding.

“Why was he left behind?”

“Look at him Miss Parker. Remember how he was when you saw him this afternoon. Was he in any condition to jump out a second story window? He stayed to cover us, just like I stayed back to cover in the yard. Ryker was pissed, but that’s the way it had to be.”

“I thought he was shoot to kill,” she said softly, stroking her fingers through Jarod’s damp hair and fighting a new wave of grief and rage that threatened to overtake her. “Why do they do this to him?”

“I have a theory.” She looked up sharply, seeing for the first time the quiet sadness in Mulder’s gentle pretender eyes. “But not now. We have to get him out of here before they come back to finish the job.”

They were half way down the stairs before Parker thought to ask her next question. “Mulder?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t anyone call the police?”

“They did.” Her confusion must have been evident, for he continued. “The police never came Miss Parker, because the police have a chain of command just like everyone else, and it looks like my people and your people are on the same side these days.” His people? Who the hell...

“Shit,” said she.

“Yeah.”

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Author’s note: We hold these truths to be self-evident: Michael is a male god, Ryan is so, so gorgeous it’s painful (no I’m not a cradle robber. I’m a healthy sixteen-year-old girl thanx ever so much), and Jarod is damn fine for forty-two (which is not only my lucky number and Fox Mulder’s apartment number but the answer to THE question of life, the universe, and everything). That said, I must admit that not only am I mildly hormonal this evening, but I am the cruelest, most beastly bitch of a writer living. I am so enjoying my angst these days I’m sure there must be some dangerous physiological issues at work here. As it happens I am stalling, not at all looking forward to bleeding poor J-dog yet again, but I suppose I must. Oh, and for those of you kiddies who are in anyway concerned about how I came up with the number 42, here’s the math. Jarod was stolen in 1963. According to Mr. Reins he was four when he built the empire state building, which we know he did around thirty six hours after coming to the Centre. Four from 63 is 59. 2001, minus 1959, equals 42 and bing bang boom, Jarod is the answer to the overall question of life, the universe, and everything. Oh yeah, I so rule. Then again, when J first laid eyes on J2 he said the clone was him twenty years younger, and Broots later stated J2 was 14, which is only thirty four give or take plus three years its been since Donaterase…oh hell, I don’t care. On with the insanity.



Precious Blood
Part VII: Parade of the Slave Children
Matrea Nara



It hurt to move. When he opened his eyes the light slashed down on them with a savage, merciless intensity, so he had to slam them shut again and groan in pain. He felt her lay her hand on his arm, though she didn’t say anything, and he drew his strength from her. He knew he could not stay this way for long. He had to heal, had to be strong or the sky would fall and who would remain to brace it?

He used to tell the children they could be anything they wanted to be. Most parents did he knew, but when he said it he meant it, in the most literal sense. Even Ryker, who was only sub-power like his mother, was possessor of an uncommonly brilliant mind, though he had a maternally inherited quick temper. Arin and Luke were unparalleled, intellects so keen, minds so agile he sometimes wondered if they rivaled his own. They would have to, because the Centre was willing to kill him to get to them. He wondered where they were now, if they blamed him, if he would ever see them again. He wondered if he would die here, if it mattered whether or not he did.

But most of all he wondered why he was still alive. Why hadn’t they shot him in the head and been done with it? That was twice now they had bloodied him, shot him, beaten and tortured him. The agony coursing through him cut to every cell in his body. His blood boiled in his veins, his heart shuttered with every beat, a herd of elephants battled in his brain. Death then would have been a blessing, a heavenly release. Death then would have convinced him of the heretofore-unsubstantiated existence of God.

What was worse, he knew that every pain in him was visited ten fold on the twins, who had a psychic link to each other (and somehow to him) that would have delighted Sydney to no end. He wished he could be there with them, wished he could purge the emphatic pain from them, knew he could not. It hurt so badly! He tasted the blood in his mouth, saw it swimming behind his eyelids, felt it in every part of him. All the world was blood. He would die in it, die with the smell of it in his nostrils, the feel of it on his skin. Damn death! He would not die in blood. He would not let them die tasting his.

><

It hurt to move.

Curled up in the corner of her transparent cell she shivered and whimpered and wept, coated with a cold sweat and fevered. She thought of her brothers, of her father, of the mother she had never met. She thought of the Centre and of Lyle and all the other men she would kill when she got out of this place, and how sweet it would be. She thought of Lucian, barely alive across the room from her, his pulse weak, his breathing shallow, his soul hovering between the lands of the living and the dead.

It wasn’t enough. She needed something to fire her blood, purge the pain from her in favor of some indomitable emotion. Love failed, rage failed, fear was never an option…so what was left to her?

Desperation? No. That was what they wanted, she knew. That was why they were trying to kill her father, that and because they no longer had need of him when they had within their grasp three prime pretenders, who to add icing to the proverbial cake were younger and would therefore last quite a bit longer besides. Not desperation. Annoyance? Regret? Hate? Oh yeah, hate might do it. But the Centre had taught her to hate, and after her father had found her she had refused to succumb to the emotion they had so deeply ingrained in her and her brothers. Then her father had told her of Uncle Kyle and how they’d done the same to him and to Arin’s own mother, to a lesser extent…and that sonofabitch, Uncle Lyle, who seriously needed to eat shit and die…

It hurt to think.

Arin curled tighter around her center, feeling her brother’s hazy presence in her mind, longing for Daddy and the safety he would bring.

><

It hurt to see him like this.

Sitting at his side, she struggled to recall any time in their extensive past together she had seen him so helpless. There was that plane crash incident…but she hadn’t really been there to see him them. Angelo had snuck her through the air vents a few times to watch Jarod’s SIMs, and there had been times then when she had though he was so vulnerable she had almost cried for him. She knew now he hadn’t been, not really, but the memories stayed with her all the same.

She remembered how lost he had seemed when she held her gun on him over Thomas’s grave, but that had not been like this. Then, it had been an emotional vulnerability, an utter desolation. In retrospect she knew it was an agony brought about by his grief for his first, and because Miss Parker held a gun on him, was so violent and accusatory towards him. She found it impossible to believe he had actually feared for his life, because he himself had removed the firing pin from her pistol, but what had pained him so grievously was the mere fact that she was angry enough with him she had pulled the gun on him in the first, that she had irrationally blamed him, and that she was suffering as much as she had been. Miss Parker, like so many others, tended to lash out at those closest to her in the times of her greatest sorrow, but he could not know that. At least she had aimed away from him before she pulled the trigger.

But not even the pain she had seen in him then, the hopeless, feeble helplessness that came from emotionally heartache for one (she thought) he loved, could compare to the way he was now. Battered, broken, near death, his pulse was weak and his breathing shallow. He shivered incessantly, filmed by a cold sweat and fevered, mumbled from time to time in his restless coma-like sleep. She touched him, kept in constant contact with him, let him know she was there. She hoped he knew, hoped he drew some measure of strength from her nearness, as she had always drawn strength from him. Even that day in the cemetery, she had felt his loss when he had gone.

She began to speak to him, in hushed tones, of the children they had been and all they had become. She whispered close to his ear, taking in the scent of him as she told him the well-known stories that chronicled their lives together. Starting from the day Sydney had first introduced them, as part of SIM of course, and moving upward, she reminisced to herself as well as to him. The day her mother died, Angelo and Faith, the bunnies, the hurricane, the strip search in Vegas, Dover, Bartlet, the day he’d saved her father’s life, the cabin on the lake where Jarod, Angelo, and Parker had saved a child at such great cost, Fenigore and the Red Files, Kyle and Major Charles, her mother and the secrets Jarod had helped her find, Tommy…she spoke of all these and more with her hand resting on his chest, feeling it rise and fall.

“You can’t leave me Jarod,” she murmured, fighting the tears in her head and the break in her voice. “Not like this. We’re not finished yet. The story’s not over yet.” And it wasn’t. They still had so much left to do.

><

Mulder and Scully sat together, watching them, listening. Though neither would say it they were reminded much of each other, of so much undone and unspoken, of the fear that came with the threat that perhaps it never would be. For the two of them, so close and so comforted by that closeness, seeing two others who had long been denied that most basic solace at risk of losing it all before they even truly attained it was heartbreaking.

Scully knew it was worse for Mulder than it was for her. He was such a compassionate soul, with the most limitless capacity to love she had ever encountered, with the exception of maybe, maybe, Jarod. His instinctual drive to protect, to save the world was not so different from Jarod’s. He wanted to help these two, to make the pains of their world go away like he had wanted to do for Scully so many times. But he couldn’t, and he knew it, and it ate him up inside. She stayed close to him, shoulders touching, letting him know she was close. Her heart broke for him, and for the boy, for Arin and Luke and their hapless parents.

Mulder would not back away from this, would not turn his back on these people and she could never ask him to. She would stay with him. Even when he had demanded she leave him to his own, for her own good or because he hated the restrictions her rationalizations placed on him, she kept to his side ninety nine point nine percent of the time. At this point she did not feel comfortable anywhere else, trusted no one else, but at the same time did not trust him to his own devises. He was a strong man, a brilliant, emotional, capable man, with one of the deepest, most open minds she had ever encountered, but when his passions got the better of him he could do some very rash and dangerous things. What he was planning now, what she could see him contemplating as he watched them, was one of those things. She wasn’t go to stop him, but she wouldn’t leave him either, so all that was left was to grab tight and hand on for the ride.
He shifted beside her, looking down at her, and their eyes met. A thousand words passed between them without a single utterance. Each knew what Mulder intended, knew how Scully would react, knew she would not stop him despite her protestations, so there was no point saying any of it. Scully loved those eyes, was a captive of them, knew them better than anyone else, the depths and tones of them. She could see a world behind her partner’s eyes. One day they would be the death of her.

><

Maggie Scully watched them all with a mother’s sorrow in her heart. Jarod, Miss Parker, Fox, Dana, and the boy Ryker, were all examples of a deep emotion she knew she would never understand. They were all slaves in their own right, had been all their lives, knew nothing but the slavery that bound them, each to the other.

Jarod had been a slave in the literal sense, exploited, sheltered from the world and the life he might have had. That slavery had forever branded him, marked his every word, thought, and action. No matter what he said she knew he would always be held by that place, bound in an irreparable way. He would never be truly free, could not bring himself to disappear, knew it and hated them for it. His captivity had forged of his soul a pure, mighty essence, a force for contention, a thing of beauty, but it was not his own. He devoted his life to others instead of to himself, even after being freed from that prison, and no matter what happened within the next few days she knew he would continue to do so.

Miss Parker appeared to Maggie to be a slave to some of the same demons Jarod was, a woman who had seen much in her life and lacked a sufficient emotional outlet, who could never liver her life free of her commitment to others. She had bottled up so much of herself within, though Jarod seemed to bring at least some of it out of her. From what Maggie had heard from Dana and based upon her own observations, Miss Parker, too, had been literally enslaved. She was bonded to that place, to a sense of duty and family honorable in its intentions, but not in its truth. She hunted Jarod, a man she obviously had deep feelings for. She let the Centre get away with unspeakable atrocities, blows directed at her and those she loved, and never raised a hand in counteroffensive. She loved, but would not allow herself to succumb to it for fear of the pain it would cause. Her fear was as sure a chain as one of steel, as was her duty, and the ingrained commitment to the place that had been her cage, and only refuge in many respects, her entire life. It was her escape from herself, from all she wasn’t, from all she would never be allowed to be, and it was her forced retreat from all the weaknesses that lent humanity to her troubled soul.

Fox was slave to his dreams, his ideas, his passions, he love. He was a slave of her daughter in more ways that even Dana seemed to know, a slave to his work and his enemies and to little green men. He was a slave to his need to make the wrong right, to find the truth, punish the guilty. Where once she had seen him as a little boy buried in little boy fantasies, she knew now that he saw the world in a light few people ever did, had been a part of something vast and dangerous since the time of his father. He was a pawn, a player in some vast game she did not pretend to understand. He would go to the end of the earth for his truth, for his quest, for his partner. He was a slave to all of these, but it was for the most part a self-imposed bondage. She knew that if he chose to he could walk away from it all, leave the game to play out without him. But is own sense of duty would never allow it, and neither would Dana. They both knew too much to step out now without consequences. What the great secret was she knew not, but feared it as she feared this dark man she had come to see as a son of sorts.

Dana, her own daughter, was more a slave to Fox William Mulder than she knew. She would do anything for him, would die for him, but would not allow herself to love him. She was a slave to her science, to her logic, to the quest. She was a slave to God and her family (though not so much now), and over time she had become slave to the same fevered passions Mulder had. As the years had gone by she had seen them grow more together, taking on traits of each other, developing a trust and love she sometimes envied. Dana would never leave him, never turn away, would hotly debate him but in the end, deny him nothing. Dana was a slave to Fox Mulder and, through him, to everything he was bound to…but she didn’t appear to mind.

And poor Ryker. Ryker and his siblings had shared their father’s fate, chained by their parentage, by their gifts, by their passions just like their parents were. Everything Jarod had had to contend with in his life and many of the things Parker had were a part of them. They, like their parents, had seen hell spit up its worst and lived to tell it, to thrive on the strength adversity had bred in them.

All of these, she knew, would walk through hell for each other and not even hesitate at the gate. It was a collection of fire-hardened wills she would not want to cross, a parade of slave children, to draw the eye and still the heart. Her heart bled for them, adding her sorrow to that which they would spill before this thing was done. She, so much less than they with her normal upbringing, her normal life, would lend to them the only support she had to offer. She would give them a mother’s love, and pray it would be enough to see them through what lay ahead.

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: Hey hey kiddies. I have been informed that this story line, with Jarod and Parker being parents and not knowing about it, has been somewhat overdone. I hold nothing against the person who told me, seeing as how they did so in a polite and tactful way, however I must warn you, that was a big mistake. You see, telling me this is unoriginal, you have now given me license to seriously f**k with your little minds, and let me tell you, there’s nothing I love more. ;-)




Precious Blood
Part VIII: Memorium
Matrea Nara


Jarod’s Lair
Detroit
Two Months ago

“Dammit Arri put some muscle into it!”

“Go to hell,” I growled, my teeth clenched. I’d been holding the hot water tank up off the cinder blocks for ten minutes while Jarod took his own sweet time repairing it, and I was coming dangerously close to dropping the thing of his head. So what if I was slipping a little. I’m a sixteen-year-old kid for Christ’s sake. Ok, so I’m a genetically engineered super human sixteen-year-old kid, but who wants to get technical right? “You want to do this yourself?” He glared at me. Yeah, I thought, go ahead, get pissed. Sigh patiently and get all superior on me, but don’t be surprised when I drop this bad boy.

“Five more minutes.” Right. Like he didn’t say that five minutes ago. I rolled my eyes, knowing it was immature of me and caring not a whit.

“I’m timing you. Five minutes and I’m gone if you’re done or not.” A strand of my shoulder length raven hair tickled my nose, and I blew it away with a huff. Because Jarod wasn’t looking at me and I needed something to glare at, I shot the look of a thousand deaths at my reflection in the nearby wall mirror.

“Done. Let it down.” As tempting as it was to just drop the sucker, I lowered it slowly back onto the blocks. The last thing I wanted was to break it again and waste another fifteen minutes of my day.

Moving over to the sink I scrubbed the rust from my hands, raking dripping fingers through my hair and smiling crookedly at Jarod in the mirror. “Only in America,” I said, my voice mock-annoyed.

“Only in America what?” he asked, returning my smile.

“Only in America to you have a hot water heater in your house.” He confusion was considerable help lightening my mood. “You don’t have to heat hot water J.”

“That’s cute,” he laughed. “You think that one up all by yourself.”

“Hell no. Do I look that clever? Gallagher told me.”

“Gallagher?”

“Right. He’s this crazy who gets off smashing watermelons with a mallet. Cleaver guy though. Like there’s a permanent press setting…on your iron. You drive in a parkway and park in a driveway. Cargo goes by ship, shipments go by truck, you have a pair of panties but only one bra.” I love it when he laughs. He hasn’t done much laughing since I met him, and I admit the fault lies at least partially with me.

I hadn’t known Jarod very long when I figured it out. He was a funny guy, and passably good at hiding his talents from the outside world. But to one who’d played the game longer than him, younger or no, it was painfully obvious he was hiding something from the start. I discovered the truth of what that secret was the day I stumbled across my Latin teacher (like I needed a teacher to learn Latin anyway) talking Swahili on the phone in the teacher’s lounge. I mean honestly! Swahili! I never did find out who he was talking to that day, but the man spoke Latin flawlessly and then there was that whole Swahili thing…and I caught him on a couple other fronts to prove my theory. He’s a brilliant man you know, if a little naïve. Meeting me upset him, and I won’t pretend not to know why, though I could. That’s the name of the game isn’t it? Pretending?

No, I knew why Jarod was so upset when he was assured that we are kin of a sorts. He knew what I meant when I told him what I had managed to scrape together of my own past. I discovered later that the manner in which I was bred and raised was similar to Jarod’s brother Ethan’s. That the Centre had done that infuriated him, and I am happy to say I succeeded in surprising him with my little revelation. I guess he thought he knew all there was to know about other pretenders. Our kind tends to think that way I’ve discovered. I haven’t found it prudent to tell the poor bugger I’m not an only child. He’ll figure it out sooner or later I’m sure.

“Hey,” said he. He had moved to the sink to wash off his hands and bumped me none too gently out of the way. “You want to go to Maine?”

Maine? Well that fit the bill for the surprise of the day. Sure, I had told him I was sick to death of Detroit, my six month stay there being the longest period of habitation in any one place for quite some time, but I didn’t expect him to pop a move on me

“What’s in Maine?” Stupid question. I’d done my homework. I knew what was in Maine, but knew as well he would never admit to his motives if they were what I thought they were and I wanted to hear his invariably weak explanation.

“Lobster,” he said.

“Uh huh,” I sighed, uninterested. I glanced at my watch. It was getting to be time for dinner. “Hungry?” A man with a slower mind would have assumed I was still talking about Maine, but Jarod knew better. He had gotten to know after a while that I changed topics abruptly and without warning. He saw that I had heard all I needed to hear about Maine, come to my own conclusions, and wasn’t ready to answer him yet. He knew as well that my inquiry about food had nothing to do with his earlier lobster comment, and treated me to a lopsided grin to which I had become accustomed during my time with him.

“Seafood?”

“Nah. Tai.”

“You hate Tai.”

“Yeah well I hate lobster too.”

And so it happened that Jarod and I ended up in Maine three days later, at the home of Ben Miller, and I finally found the courage somewhere inside me to treat Jarod to yet another surprise. We were sitting on the end of the dock with our feet dangling in the water drinking lemonade. His thoughts were wondering, and I knew where they dwelt. My mind could not have been more focused. I had received word from Luca earlier that day and discovered that circumstances had changed so that I could no longer keep Jarod in the dark.

“Hey J?” Jarod was staring at his feet in the water, a million miles away from Ben Miller’s inn on the Lake Catherine. “Jarod.”

“Hmm?” He raised his eyes, looking at me with the vague expression that I had seen set on his face so many times when I didn’t really have his full attention.

“There’s something I put off telling you.” He was coming back to me now, distantly interested. I took a deep breath, exhaling with my words in a rush. “I have two brothers. Luke and Ryker. They weren’t raised with me but I found them, I can’t tell you how you probably wouldn’t believe me and it was part of the experiment anyway so I guess you’ll figure it out after I tell you. Luke’s my twin and Ryker’s three years younger than we are. They bred him to test the bond between us after they saw how Luca and me were connected, even though we were fraternal and they never saw a bond with any twin sets other than identical twins before. I would have told you but it was dangerous and I didn’t think it was important until…” I paused, looking up to see him looking at me with a gaping stare, disbelief scrawled all over his face. It took him a minute to process the fact that I’d stopped speaking, waiting for his reaction.

“Until what?” he all but whispered. I should have told him slower. He had been so upset knowing another young pretender had been caught in the grip of the Centre, if should have known he would react badly knowing the full extend of the experiments preformed on my brothers and myself. And, worst of all, I’d barely gotten started.

“Until my twin brother Luke called me from Minneapolis yesterday and told me…” No. Wrong approach. “We were curious about how the Centre got us. After you told me your story I sent Luke hunting for some key to our past, to try and find out where we came from. You see, it turns out all the Centre’s pretenders are from the same bloodline, all related somehow. The pretender gene is very specific. Only two families, that the Centre knew about anyway, have it. One family is commonly high power, the other more sub power. The Tower bred the strongest examples they had of both families to get my brothers and me, using the donors’ sperm and eggs and a surrogate mother.” I didn’t think it was possible for the human eye to go any wider than Jarod’s had been, but he proved me wrong.

“And I’m the father.”

It’s true what they say. The man’s a genius.

><

Lone Gunman Headquarters
Washington D.C
Present Day

It was almost a month since Miss Parker found Jarod near death in the home of Maggie Scully, and his condition was much improved thanks to the constant care and attentions of Dana Scully and the boy, Ryker. As soon as they had arrived at the Lone Gunman, where they planned to stay while they licked their wounds, the boy had requested several medical volumes detailing treatment methods for Jarod’s type of injury. He had studied the medical manuals in depth and watched Scully’s precise movements with an attentive eye. Ryker had become an invaluable help to the FBI doctor, and if not for his eager assistance Jarod might not have made such a rapid recovery.

Parker’s concern for Jarod prevented her from spending much time getting to know her son, and when she allowed herself time to think about the fact she was a little ashamed of herself for not making more of an effort. Ryker, though, did not seem upset by her neglect. His mind was constantly on Jarod, or on his siblings shut away at the Centre. Mulder and the three publishers of the Lone Gunman spent a majority of their time at the computers, communicating with their contacts and developing a plan to free the twins, to be implemented upon Jarod’s recovery. Parker could not worry about them too much, having never actually met them, and was as ashamed as she every got about her undeniable disregard for their well-being.

As apprehensive as she was for Jarod, she seldom spoke to him after he regained consciousness. From time to time he caught her eye, and she could see he wanted to speak with her, knew there were many things they needed to work out between them, but aside from the occasional, casual comment she could not bring herself to respond to his silent pleas. As the days oozed past he gained strength, and now could walk about the LGM headquarters for fifteen minutes to half an hour before tiring. He was becoming more and more frustrated with their lack of progress concerning the plan for the twins’ liberation from the Centre, and even more frustrated with the grueling pace of his recovery.

The day inevitably came when Jarod, stubborn as he was, refused to wait any longer whether he was healed or no. Ryker appeared to approve, though he didn’t say anything on the matter and regardless of the fact that he was the only one. On the morning exactly one month after the attack at the Scully residence such a dispute arose among them that the LGM went for a walk, actually leaving the five of them alone with their documents and equipment.

“One month!” Jarod roared. “One month they’ve been back there! I can’t stand the thought of even one day!” He and Ryker stood to one side of the imaginary skirmish line, Mulder and Scully on the other, with Parker seated somewhere in the middle watching the show.

“And we’ll get them out, but you’re not ready to go in there. You’ll be caught.” Scully’s voice was infuriatingly even, and Parker could see Jarod’s blood rising.

“I don’t think you understand.” His tone had dropped, low and deadly. “Do you know what kind of experiments they do on them there? Do you know why they were created!?” Scully said nothing. Mulder shook his head. “Tell them,” he barked, and Ryker actually jumped. When he spoke though, his voice was as dangerous and brooding as his fathers.

“When we’re not doing SIMs, they test our bond. When I was there they would attach electrodes too our bodies and shock us to see if the others reacted when one was shocked. Arin and Luke reacted to each other more than to me, I heard, and when I was being shocked the tests almost killed them.”

“And do you know why,” Jarod cut in, “they haven’t killed me yet? They could have.”

“They almost did,” Mulder deadpanned.

“Yes, but they didn’t. And why? Because even though I’m shoot to kill they can get one more test out of me. The first time I was shot the twins didn’t react. So they tried again, worse this time. To see if they reacted to the father like they reacted to the brother. If Parker was still there they would do the same to her.”

“As long as they’re at the Centre it’s open season on the three of us,” Ryker said, resuming his end of the conversation. “To test the twins they’ll do any number of things to us. You too especially.” He nodded at Jarod and Parker. “They don’t have any data on you yet.”

“They have data on Jarod,” Parker muttered. She couldn’t remember ever being so disturbed…except maybe when she had opened her mother’s grave and found it empty. The feeling here was not so different than that, kin to when Fenigore told her Major Charles killed her mother…information to drive the breath from her lungs.

“Yeah, which means you’re next.” Jarod elbowed the boy in the ribs to silence him, but received only a glare for reply and no respect for his obvious desire for silence on the part of his son. “We have to get them out to save them, and to save ourselves.”

“And if Jarod dies trying?” Mulder asked, breaking his silence. Silence reined for a time, as all present considered the possibilities.

“Then,” Jarod said softly, “I die trying. That’s my family in there.”

“You won’t die Jarod,” Parker rebuked him. “That’s my family too…and I have an idea.”

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: Let’s play.


Precious Blood
Part IX: The Hunter Kings Begins
Matrea Nara



The Centre: Arin’s Space

I was never afraid. I came close once or twice, that much I admit and proudly, because my reason for fear was mine alone. After I had healed from my ordeal I felt, deep down to my center, that the horror that had caused it was still affecting the one who brought that pain on me. It was one of two people, and the Centre has never told me which. I didn’t ask. My concerns were closer then.

Luke recovered slowly, having to his own injuries and the wounds suffered upon whoever had struck us down that fateful day. He did recover though, completely. We were allowed a week’s rest after the infirmary discharged him before the tests began again in earnest.

A year it’s been now, and low and behold I like and thrive. This place is the devil’s own, but I’ve made short work of the few sweepers fool enough to go against Lyle’s advice and try anything with me. One had the misfortune of making once such attempt within Luca’s reach, and I believe their still cleaning pieces of him off the ceiling. That was a damned bloody mess if ever there was one.

The pain in my chest and stomach, the ache in my leg, dulled and gradually disappeared entirely. I was still getting stomachaches, comparably mild, up until a month ago, when they stopped all together. Since then we’ve been getting stronger, feeling a hope not entirely our own taking root and swelling in our hearts. It’s Ryker of course, and our parents. The strong emotions of all three combined make for one hell of a high. Luke says it’s even worse on him; my relief every time I see him hits him like a divine wind he says, and fades only after several hours of me reassuring myself my twin still lives, had regained his health.

Today my uncle is with me, and Luca as well. My brother sits with his back to the wall, knees bent and arms draped across them, one hand clutching the opposite wrist. His eyes never leave our uncle, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. We can easily overpower him between us, as we tried once, but we learned the hard way that he knows that as well and there’s a veritable army of sweepers lurking outside that door. I lounge on my cot, giving the impression as one totally at ease, though my heart is racing as it always does when Uncle Lyle is within ten feet of me. I may not like it, but I’m related to him and his effect on me is there, though less potent than some.

I wonder what he wants but do not ask. There is no reason to give him the slightest suspicious that his presence in my cell unnerves me in the least. He already knows, of that I can be certain.

“Are they still alive?” he asks. The man can get to the point sure enough, there’s no faulting him that.

“Whoever can you mean uncle?” I croon sweetly. Luke grins lopsidedly at Lyle, who raises an amused eyebrow at him. We’ve come to an unspoken agreement, the three of is; this is the dance, and so far we’re all perfectly in step.

“You know who I mean.”

“I’m afraid not.” Go on, say it. Say their names, I dare you. “Not as sharp as I used to be I guess.” In the year I have been hear I’ve never once hear him call them by their names, like they’re not people, not deserving of the honor. He doesn’t call us by our names either, and perhaps it’s just as well. He’s not deserving of that honor.
It soon becomes apparent that, while he may humor me on other occasions, he will not be manipulated here. Well enough. It’s all the same to me. “Alas good sister,” Luke chirps with a smirk. “Could Uncle Bobby mean our poor estranged parents?”

“Oh aye, and baby brother as well I suspect.” Lyle had darkened a peculiar shade of red while Luke was speaking, either because my twin had purposefully referred to him as “Bobby”, a name we were never supposed to use, or because it was apparent we had gone out of our way to avoid saying the names of the three persons he was concerned with. I love that we can goad him like this. He has no such advantage over us.

“But why would he be asking us that?” As he speaks, Luke keeps a wary eye on Lyle, aware that we were pushing and not wanting to be caught off guard by a sudden burst of rage. “We’ve not seen Pop or the squirt in a year.”

“And mother never.”

“Just so.”

“So?” Luke raises a brow at Lyle, mimicking his earlier expression. “Only desperation could bring you here.” Of course he must be desperate. It has, after all, been a year. Lyle was standing ramrod straight now, though neither Luke nor I have moved, and all traces of playful amusement are gone from his face. This is a dance, but Uncle Lyle hates being led. Too bad. I hate being locked up too, for all the good that gets me.

“Are they still alive?”

“And if they are? What good does telling you get us? What good does not telling you get us?” I glance at my brother, communicating in a language of expression none but we two will ever understand. Tread carefully Luca. We go too far. He meets my eyes, holds them. “Yes,” says he, not looking away. “They still live.”

“Where?” Was that hope in his voice now? What pressures had been laid upon him that he so suddenly wanted them back so badly, far more so than he had before?

“Even we can’t tell you that,” I tell him honestly. “If it was Luke out there I might be able to tell you, as he could if it were me, but our bonds are not so strong with the others.” I hesitate, but briefly. “What do they have on you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” So now it’s his turn to be evasive. There’s no reason why he cant’ pull a one eighty and leave us now that he has the answers he came for, yet he remains. Luke speculated to me once that maybe our uncle enjoys our company more than he lets on, views us as kindred spirits, and maybe he’s right.

“You never cared about them so much before,” I venture. “You always said we were worth ten of him, that his life was no longer of any value. You said they were hunting him and if they found him they’d kill him, but never anything more than that. You never seemed to care. So what do they have on you now that you suddenly care again?”

“Assuming I ever cared before.”

“Oh you did Uncle.” My link to him is weak, but still there. He cannot hide such things from me. “Fear for that pinky again do you?”

“With good reason. The eye of the storm is moving past us, and I don’t want to get hit when the winds come up again.” With that, what he seems to consider explanation enough for the likes of us, he turns on his heel and marches out of the cells, his sweepers folding in around him as the door is closed. I meet Luke’s eyes again.

So, Uncle Bobby and the Centre think the relative calm of the past year is over, that they are about to be struck and hard. I wonder to myself what could have transpired to give them that idea. Has the family come out of hiding at last? When they’re back in the game life around here promises to get a lot more interesting. I can’t help wondering though, if after having so long to prepare both sides might clash in a battle that will destroy them both. The Centre holds most of the cards I know, and I’m afraid there’s very little help Luke and I have left to offer them.

***

Somewhere in Delaware: Jarod’s Jeep

They’d been driving for hours without pause, and the strain of the trip was telling on all of them. Traveling in two cars, Jarod’s Jeep and a Chevy Suburban rented by Mulder six days ago in Arlington, they made their way steadily northward with their purpose pulling them even as they slept. Parker, out like a light in the passenger seat, muttered in her seat and thrashed, settling only at his touch.

Over the past year Jarod and Miss Parker had remained carefully plutonic, establishing the boundaries early and guarding them well. They’re natural affinity for each other could not be so easily suppressed though, and their uncertain allegiance solidified into unwavering loyalty and friendship. There was no longer any question for Jarod that he loved her, but he put those feelings aside as best he could for the common good.

The common good, to which he had committed himself thoroughly every second of every day (nearly) since his escape, was becoming a vast inconvenience.

Jarod glanced in the rearview, ensuring that the Suburban still tailed them and that Ryker slept soundly. The boy had done a lot of growing up this past year, physically as well as emotionally and mentally. There was no new idea he was not open to, no concept he could not grasp with effort, no emotion he did not feel potently and display vividly. Ryker, on top of that, was built like a brick wall, solid muscle, sure and steady. With a smile, he recalled a conversation he and Parker had had recently regarding the physical development of their son.

“He’s growing up strong,” Jarod had said. He had thrown out the statement offhand over dinner, unable to bear the silence and searching for a conversation piece.

“He works out a lot lately,” she noted, her voice as sullen as he had ever heard it. “Like a soldier in training.” And it was true, but not so different from Jarod, who was still trying to get back to full strength.

“He’s got a body like I did at his age, and his workouts aren’t even mandatory or regimented.” He had meant, of course, the strict exercise routines he had been required to do when he was young. When he wasn’t occupied with SIMs he was in the gym or in the pool or at the track, keeping his strength up so he would continue to be able to complete the simulations. Working out had been his favorite part of his day, though he never played games or anything of that nature.

She had laughed then. “Don’t worry Jarod. The kid may be tough but you were ripped and he hasn’t passed you yet.”

It had taken some careful explanation by the more worldly Agent Mulder to explain to him what the word “ripped” referred to in that context before he had gotten the joke, realized he had been complimented.

Ryker sprawled out in the back, his long legs flung over the back of the seat, arms folded across his torso as she slept soundly in his jersey and mesh shorts. How innocent he looked, how much like so many other boys his age Jarod had seen, how blissfully unaware of the world. Ryker had not slept a full night in a year, but when he slept the burdens of his parentage and his troubled life lifted from him and he was just a boy again, not a pretender…just a kid, just his son.

And Parker’s. More Parker’s than his he had discovered.

Jarod’s cell phone trilled at him, and he answered at the first ring.

“We’re an hour or two from Blue Cove present speed if you stay on this road,” Mulder told him. “We’re taking the next exit and cutting around the shot way to get set up.”

They had arranged this, though Parker had protested vehemently when it was decided Ryker would stay with them. If the Centre was on alter and looking for them it would do no good for both teams to get caught together. Jarod and Parker, being most familiar with Blue Cover and the Centre, had been assigned the scouting, while Mulder, Scully, and the LGM went to the safe house to wait for them. The three hackers were itching to see if they could break into the Centre mainframe without Jarod’s help…for a change.

“We know what to do. See you there by six or not at all.” He hung up. It was one now. “Let the games begin.”

As the Suburban turned off on the next exit, Jarod hit the gas and wished them well.