======================= The Project Must Go Forward ================================= It grew dark as he lay there at the bottom of the stairs, tangled in the wreck of his wheelchair, neck broken, his life ebbing ever weaker, ever further away. Even now, his body craved nicotine, but he could not move. He could not rise. He could barely breathe through the hole in his throat. He opened his eyes, his body wracked with pain, and watched the sunbeams on the rug move slowly away, darkness filling the room. He didn't know how long he lay like this, waiting for death. He lamented it all. His personal failures, the deaths of the few whom he could call friend, above all the failure of the Project. It was all for nothing, now. Nothing mattered anymore. Not even... He heard a faint sound, like a rush of air, then a footstep. Someone was here, in the house. Who? Had Krycek returned, to finish him off? To make sure? As he pondered, even beginning to think about God, something moved in front of his eyes. A face. Who? A man's, but... Not Krycek. Not Mulder. Who... "Well," said a voice, and he felt himself lifted from the floor. "It would seem we have come to a bad end, old friend. Or nearly so." The newcomer hauled him to his feet, feet that no longer answered to his will, and looked into his eyes. "Who...?" he croaked, barely able to speak. He tried focusing on the face, but his brain was tired. Better to just die, now. "I don't know...you." "Ah, but you do," said the other, and as he spoke, his eyes changed. They began to shimmer, then to glow red. "We've known each other, you and I. For a long, long time." "Uhh..hh.." gasped the dying man, but the eyes were gone. He felt a terrible pain in his throat, something sinking like needles into his necrotizing flesh. He tried to scream, but could not draw even the breath for that. Slowly, sickeningly, he felt what little life was left to him being drawn out, stolen, sucked away. His mind reeled, as the sensations went from vile, to rapturous. And visions. Visions strange and grotesque surged through his dying brain, mingled with those of his own life. Mulder. Kennedy. King. The Project. The Aliens. Ray, Samantha, Cassandra,Oswald,ColquittScullyKrycekFBIAliensCigarettesNicholsBloodThePr ojectDiviaPompeiiHooverToronto theraventheguidejanettenicholasnightcrawlthedoorontokingennedykaraloodcul lyallpoxpackofmorleysssssssss blooooooooooooooooooooooddd.. He awoke, at once sensitive to a difference. Though it was dark, the shadows were not dim to his eyes. He felt a hand on his, and was lifted to his feet. His feet! He could stand. He raised his hands to his face. It felt whole. Restored. The hole in his throat was gone, too. He could breathe! He filled his lungs with air, deeply drawing it in. The pain in them was almost gone. "I...what has..." "Steady on, " said the voice, and he looked at the speaker. He was tall, about 6' 4", and had blondish, receding hair. His face was like a marble statue, and his eyes... "What has happened to me?" He looked down. "I'm well. I was dying." He focused on his benefactor, and recognition dawned in his eyes.. "You've come back. Kept your promise." He felt a hunger begin to stir. A hunger, and a thirst. The sound of a heartbeat began to thrum, roaring in his ears. "I'm thirsty." "But of course," said LaCroix, and took him to another room. There, insensate in a chair, was a man. Without thinking, instinctively knowing, he felt his fangs drop, and was on the mortal in a blur. He sank his teeth into him, and felt the man's life-force explode into his newly transformed body. He felt the thoughts, he felt the succulence... He felt the power! After the mortal fell dead, another was as quickly produced, and as quickly drained. Then, a bottle was put into his hand, and he drank on. He drained five bottles, till at last his hunger was calmed, and he came back to his senses. He stared a few moments at his savior, and felt his mind clear and his memories begin to return. "You...came back," said the now Cancer-Free Man. "You kept your word, LaCroix." "Of course. I told you I would come. LaCroix always keeps his word, Charles. But now it is time to go." LaCroix picked up the dead male, and positioned him near the overturned wheelchair. Then, taking a lighter from his pocket, he found a newspaper, rolled it up, and lit it. "No point in leaving needless traces." He tossed the firebrand onto a chair next to a curtain, and watched it begin to burn. "Come." "Tell me, LaCroix. One thing. Why? Why did you do it?" "I told you, Charles. I gave my word. And..." He took his newest child out of the burning house, and grasped his hand. "And?" "And," said LaCroix, with the hint of a knowing smile as fire burst through a window, "you are important to the equation. You have said it yourself, often enough. The Project must go forward." And with that, Master and fledgling took to the sky.