Subj: Scene VI

VI

6:00 A.M., Hegel Place, Alexandria, Virginia

The red-haired agent lay on her back on black leather, her jaw slack,
breathing silently, dreaming privately--consciousness retracted like a
snail into it's depths. Inversion muffled the sound of footfalls and the
snick when the door latched.
The room was quiet again as a tiny pointer swept round and round to
converge with another at a selected digit. An alarm pulsed, popping Scully
up straight, slapping hair from her eyes and scrabbling to grab the gun off
the floor--to hold it out ready, two-handed.
The ice-pick sound was coming from her wrist, from her goddamned watch.
Scully blew out a breath and reholstered her weapon while feet slipped into
shoes. Her speeding pulse slowed as she stared out the window into the
dark, but the adrenaline was fading, too, and her eyelids felt heavier,
heavy....
Coffee.
Rubber legs and her right turn into the kitchen teetered. Slapped the wall
trying to find the goddamned light switch and almost screamed when
something gurgled.
It was the coffeemaker on the countertop starting to brew. What the fuck
fuck fuck? and Scully spun, gun out again, sighting shadows. "Mulder?" she
called from the kitchen doorway, slowly turning a controlled one-eighty.
"Mulder, you here?"
She searched each room, each closet, weapon ready. But there was no one to
challenge. No tall, spare, familiar man to embrace, to rage at and pound
on. Scully put away her weapon and pulled her hair back into a Pebbles
Flintstone ponytail. Yanked and whispered "Shit," then let the hair fall
over her eyes in an orange splash.
She was pissed and confused and could be lying in repose on Mulder's couch
with a sleeper's peace as her final mask, but she wasn't, so surely there
had been a larger purpose than to wake her up to the smell of Folger's. The
whole damned place was fragrant with it.
The Siren scent pulled her back to the kitchen, to the cabinet for a cup.
Black and no sugar; her hands wrapped around the hot mug as she returned to
the living room, where roaving eyes caught locked an unfamiliar square of
white. An index card on the desk by the computer keyboard, just a few feet
from where she'd slept. Skin crawling, Scully studied the letters typed
across it: a World Wide Web address--http://www.topsnbottoms.hellfire.com.
She made herself move slowly and calmly. Walked to the bathroom to peel off
and the contact lenses she shouldn't have slept in. Snapped the case shut.
Slid round glasses onto the bridge of her nose. Calm, calm steps again and
as she sat down at the desk by the window, she saw the sky was beginning to
blush. The automatic metaphor drew up Scully's hopes as she dialed into
Mulder's provider. She knew his password. He always told her when it
changed. Pale, unpainted lips started to quirk as she typed
"trustscullyenuf." But the spreading smile froze when the Web site loaded.
Heat sparked deep and low as her eyes accepted nipples and curves that
strained under studded leather. It took heartbeats until she could leave
the images for text: "Hellfire Mating Service of San Francisco pairs
unfulfilled sadists with lonely masochists, or vice versa. You can request
Hellfire to match any number of attributes in a prospective Master or slave
by filling out whichever on-line questionnaire is right for you.
"1. Slave searching for Master
"2. Master searching for slave"
Scully clicked on the second and read it through--questions about punishing
and binding and being worshipped. She squeezed her thighs together, sat
forward in the desk chair. Azure blue gaze slipped to Mulder's reading
material beside her on the desktop.
The paper she pulled from her pocket was warm. The case numbers trembled.
It took five fucking tries to get into the FBI database then clicking and
humming and humming and humming and, finally, up came the first
file--information rolling down the screen, rolling in reverse down the
reflective lenses of her glasses.
Scully sipped coffee, read with chin in hand as the sky grew pinker, then
blued. Traffic was louder on Patrick Street. Little black-and-steel tit
mouse inches away on the window sill, tweeting and preening. The door of
another apartment banged shut, letting fly an early bird headed for the
office.
"10/05/87. Interview by Special Agent Scott Gill with victim number four,
known as Brandy. The victim's real identity unknown. Running check with
NCIC, NCMEC, others. Results to come.
Interviewer: How long have you been Mr. DiAgosti's slave?
Brandy: Since I was thirteen, sir.
I: Where were you before that?
B: In a master's house, sir.
I: A master?....You don't need to call me 'sir,' Brandy.
B: Okay.
I: What is a master?
B: A master teaches you how to act for your owners.
I: How long were you with the master?
B: As long as I can remember, sir.
I: So you came here when you were thirteen. Did you come alone? I
mean, did he buy just you? I heard you talking earlier to Agent Santillo
about your friend who was sold off just before we got here and how sad that
made you. I thought I heard you say she came to the estate with you."
B: You mean Sam? Yes, she and I came here together."
-Lisby
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"I've got twelve disciples and a Buddah smile
The Garden of Allah--Viking Valhalla
A miracle once in awhile..." --Rush, "Totem"
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