Subject: NEW: Moving Pictures (01/01) by Dragan Antulov
Date: Sat, 13 Mar 1999 22:00:31 +0100
From: "Dragan Antulov" 
Organization: HiNet
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

TITLE: Moving Pictures
AUTHOR: Dragan Antulov
E-MAIL: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr
CATEGORY: VRA
KEYWORDS: Pre-XF; Post-colonization
RATING: R (language, disturbing images, adult themes and
situations)
SPOILERS: Patient X/The Red and the Black
SUMMARY: Nothing really... Just bits and pieces.
ARCHIVE: yes to Gossamer; to others with previous
notification
DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on characters
created by Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten Thirteen
Productions. The characters named are the property of those
entities and are used without permission. No copyright
infringement is intended.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Special thanks to Suzanne Bickerstaffe for
her beta-editing and to Hong Te for few but precious
suggestions.

INTRODUCTION: This is less a fan fiction story,
and more a tribute to the grand artist whose work I admire
very much, and who recently passed away. Author's notes are
available at the end.

MOVING PICTURES
X-Files Fan Fiction Story by Dragan Antulov

KGB Deep Infiltration Training Center
Tobolsk, Western Siberia, Soviet Union
1975

"No! No! No! Please, don't!"

The green-eyed boy was sitting, tied to the chair,
surrounded by a forty-something woman and a middle-aged
man, both without expressions on their faces.

"You know that is for your own good."

"But I can't take it any more!"

His green eyes were wide open, with mechanical contraptions
that held his eyelids and prevented any blinking. The old
man was occasionally dropping some liquid into the boy's
eyes.

"You must. You agreed to it. You volunteered, remember?"

"But I couldn't know that it would be like this."

"Exactly. You couldn't know. And you couldn't know what
lurks ahead. This way you'll be safer."

"But it hurts! Inside! I'm losing my mind!"

"Naturally. You must lose your mind. You must lose your
soul. You must lose yourself if you want to blend with your
enemy."

The boy's gaze was fixed towards the screen. The screen that
projected images of Siberian forests, the steppes of the Don
Valley, vodka, the Russian alphabet, icons, posters from the
Great Patriotic War, Sputnik, Lajka, Yuri Gagarin, Mayday
parades in Moscow, the collected works of Marx, Engels and
Lenin. Images that were endlessly repeating on the
screen.

"But I... Now I hate all those things... Now I... I'm not
who I am..."

"Exactly. That's what everyone there would think. That you
can't be our mole. This way you can go anywhere you want.
The Pentagon, CIA, FBI. Whenever they put you on a lie
detector, you will pass. Whenever they give you a truth
drug, you'll pass."

Then the images changed. There were pictures of women, in
all shapes and sizes, ages, clothed, in lingerie, nude, with
their legs spread, from the front, from behind, smiling,
crying, frowning, standing, sitting, kneeling or performing
all kinds of activities that only the most imaginative and
perverted mind could fathom.

"No! No! Not the women! Not the women!"

The lady doctor grinned devilishly.

"Yes, I know it's cruel. But, remember, experience has
taught us that the most efficient agents are those who seek
their amusement in... let's say... different directions.
Over time you will learn to appreciate it, Alex."

*

Rockcliffe
Ottawa, Canada
Summer 1979

The taxi dropped off the tall man in his forties somewhere
in the Ottawa residential suburbs. He was in front of a
nice, white, two story mansion, surrounded by a wall
separating it from similar luxurious houses and lines of
trees.

He pressed the button on the front gate. But before he could
use the speakerphone, a slightly plumpish blonde in her
early or mid forties appeared at the front door of the
house.

"Oh, you must be..."

"Yes, we talked this morning. I came here to see it myself."

She waved him in, ash flaking off from her cigarette to
flutter onto the marble landing. He entered the house and
she led him to the stairs.

"Mr. Cukrov said that you are about to stay here a few
weeks, or perhaps the whole summer."

"Actually, yes. I need some peaceful, quiet place to work
on my new project. I indeed intend to finish it in few
weeks, but in case I get stuck, can I stay for more?"

Woman showed him his room. It was a nice room, bright and
airy, with expensive cherrywood furniture and some rather
interesting paintings.

"Yes. And you'll really enjoy the stay here. If you want
peace and quiet, this place beats anything else in Ottawa.
And you'll enjoy our neighbors. They are all well-
cultivated, nice people."

"Well, this place looks lovely indeed."

Woman opened the window. "You have an excellent view of the
front lawn. Care to have a look?"

The tall man approached the window and looked outside. He
pretended to look at the lawn. Actually, he surveyed the street.
There was a black limousine parked, with a uniformed driver
on stand-by, smoking cigarettes. Probably one of plenty in this
neighborhood.

"Splendid, indeed."

Woman showed him the bathroom. "Look at this bathroom. State
of the art plumbing and all the appliances. Even in these
matters we keep the cultivated spirit of the Old Continent."

The tall man just smiled.

As they left the room and went into the hall, the woman
spotted a bra carelessly thrown on a chair. "Excuse me," she
said, wincing, as she put the bra in the drawer. At the same
time she put the cigarette stub in the ashtray.

"Oh, how rude of me! I haven't offered you..."

"Don't worry. I don't smoke."

She giggled. "I know it's bad for my health - cancer, heart
and all of that. But each of us should possess a little
vice, don't you agree?"

The tall man smiled. "Naturally."

"But it's not my only vice. My other bad habit is art. I
like to collect paintings. I had so many of them that I
could open a gallery around here. Would you care to see some
of the paintings in my bedroom?"

"Well... Yes."

She led him to her bedroom. There he saw those paintings -
even an untrained layman's eye could recognize cheap and
worthless imitations of Van Gogh and Monet.

"My God, they are beautiful!"

Then he spotted an urn on a cupboard.

"Oh, that's my late husband. He passed away three years ago.
He had insisted on being cremated, so he could be always
with me..." Her voice became slightly melancholic.

"Oh, I'm sorry if..."

"No, I got used to being a widow. If you can ever get used
to being a widow..." She approached him. "You know what's
really the hardest? I miss him, but I still have the urn and
all those memories.... The hardest thing is being alone.
It's a good neighborhood and I don't have to worry about the
money. But, as you see, it's hard for every woman to be
alone.... She always needs some man to be beside her...
Especially these days... All those muggers, burglars, drug
addicts and terrorists..."

"All right. I think I've seen enough. I really appreciate
your taking the time to show me around." The tall man edged his
way out of the woman's bedroom.

"The cleaning lady comes here three times a week. You won't
have to worry about clean sheets or shirts. We still can't
afford a full-time butler, or chauffeur, but..."

The tall man was trying to reach the door as fast as he
could, repeating "Gentleman should walk, but never run" to
himself.

"I'll let you know when I make up my mind."

"Oh, it would really be a crime if you leave before seeing
my garden. My flowers are the envy of the entire
neighborhood."

This time, cursing the genes that gave him the role of
eternal gentleman, the tall man followed her to the back garden.
And then he saw something beautiful, the most enchanting sight
in his life. But it wasn't the flowers.

There was a blanket sprawled on the grass, and on the
blanket lay a blonde girl, clad in a white bikini. Her age was
somewhere between eleven or thirteen. It didn't matter to
the man - all he knew that she possessed that mesmerizing
combination of early adolescence that gives the best of both
worlds - the innocence of a child, and the seductive
sexuality of a mature woman. She was sunbathing and the
cream on her fair skin made her glitter, radiating pure
light and heavenly majesty, like an angel.

"Marita, would you turn that thing down!"

But the magic wasn't gone. She rose and turned off the
portable radio, playing some rock song the tall man hadn't
manage to hear at all. She turned towards him and removed
her reflecting glasses. The tall man looked straight into
a pair of blue, heavenly eyes, an incarnation of godlike
beauty.

"I see that you really enjoy my flowers," Marita's mother
brought him to reality. "By the way, I forgot to mention
that breakfast is included too. Everybody say that I make
excellent cherry pies. And the tea is as good as the
ones you have in England... And, if you need it, I can take
care of your hands. I couldn't help noticing how well
manicured they are."

The tall man smiled devilishly. "Oh, you won't have to
bother, Mrs. Covarrubias. But I'm really looking forward to
your cherry pies. They must be as divine and seductive as
anything else around here."

Mrs. Covarrubias reacted with a smile of triumph.

*

Berkeley, California
Summer 1982

The sound of Duran Duran was filling the interior of
Chevrolet Nova. Dana Scully was drumming with her fingers at
the steering wheel, as nervous as her friend Michelle in
passenger's seat. They didn't like the prospect of being
stood up by Marvin and Phil, their sorry excuses for dates.
If they don't show up here in next few minutes, Dana said to
herself, she and Michelle would go that hot club in Frisco
all by themselves.

Finally, someone approached their car. But it wasn't Marvin
or Phil. Dana quickly recognized the man, as well as his
condition. Which wasn't very hard, considering that he
slowly dragged himself on the pavement and held half-empty
bottle of whiskey in one hand.

"Hi, Dana, hi Michelle... Can you tell me... Is she with
you... I mean..."

"No, she's not with us. Now leave us!" Dana was more angry
than scared. She knew that the two of them could take care of
him, if things turned nasty.

"Well, if you meet her... Tell her that she's a fucking
bitch... She ruined my life... I can't sleep nights... But,
maybe, if you tell her... Maybe we could... You know..."

"You know what," Scully didn't want to spend this evening
arguing, but this was one occasion when her Irish temper took
control of her. "Next time you get yourself a girlfriend,
try not to throw her out on the street without any clothes
on."

"But... You see... She had to learn the lesson... I mean...
She had thought that I wouldn't know... I saw everything...
Frank and her... I saw their lips moving when they were in
the class alone... Besides, if she wanted to pick her
clothes... She got back through window anyway..."

Scully prepared to step out of the car, open the trunk and
pick up the baseball bat that Bill Jr. had given her for such
occasions. But, to her great relief, the drunkard began to
move away from their car, talking to an imaginary audience.

"That fucking bitch... I can't live without her... I'm
dying... My mind is going..." Then his throat began to
produce sounds that could pass for song in less than sober
audiences.

"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
I'm half crazy all for the love of you.
It won't be a stylish marriage,
I can't afford a carriage.
But you'll look sweet
upon the seat
of a bicycle built for two..."

What a pathetic loser, Scully thought as the man stumbled
back in the darkness. Unfortunately, there were too many of
them in this world. And to make it even worse, in the beginning
they all looked handsome, smart, sexy, charismatic. In that
particular moment, Scully decided never to let herself go
through the same ordeal her roommate Daisy had been through.
No, she would never fall for any man, no matter how
attractive he was, if there was the slightest chance of him not
passing her high scientific criteria. It might take months,
years, perhaps decades, or perhaps her whole lifetime, she
might die a childless old spinster, but no man would
capture her heart unless he was absolutely perfect.

Her musings were interrupted with quiet sobs. She turned
towards Michelle. Her friend's makeup was ruined with tears.

"Oh, no, don't tell me," Scully said, as she took
handkerchief and began to wipe tears from Michelle's face.
"Don't tell me that you..."

"I simply can't help it. I know that Hal is a creep, and
that he doesn't deserve her, and that it's not him but
whiskey talking... But any time I hear him singing that
song... It gets me... I can't feel but sorry for the guy..."

*

Zone 16A, Sector B18
Region West 6
Territory formerly known as United States of America
12th Year of the War

A tall, grayhaired man dressed in a long black trenchcoat was
walking through the wasteland, accompanied by a soldier in
a khaki uniform and full combat gear. They were careful not to
step on the bodies - the hundreds and thousands of
them, in all shapes and all forms of mutilation -
disemboweled, dismembered - but most of them charred into
unrecognizable shapes. In many cases, the observer couldn't
tell the difference between the hybrid, normal human, Grey
or some equipment.

They were smelling like rot and decay, but the strongest
smell was the smell of burning flesh. The tall man was using
the last resources of his willpower not to express his
disgust openly. Through the years, he had seen many vile and
awful things, carnage more deadly and horrible than this
one, but he had never really gotten used to it. It was the
same as all those burned bodies in the abandoned boxcar ages
ago.

"It was bad?" He asked the soldier, trying to clear his mind
with more practical matters.

"Yes, sir. They put up a good fight. We had higher
casualties than expected."

"Where are they?"

"In the canyon. Between four and five thousand. We didn't
have enough time to count. First we had to take care of our
wounded and to secure the most immediate perimeter."

They finally approached the canyon. The tall man finally saw
them. Thousands. Old, young, babies, long hair, short hair,
bold, blondes, brunettes, redheads. The old either lying,
sitting, or standing on the slopes, surrounded by soldiers
ready to spray them with a hail of bullets at the first sign
of trouble.

"General Crespo wanted to conduct the usual procedure with
plams. But someone told us that you were in the vicinity.
Perhaps with you, some alternative might be devised. We hear
that you have some personal interest in this."

"You heard right. It is good that you invited me. Perhaps,
if by any chance, she..."

"It must be hard not knowing. All photographs and records
burned or shredded, everyone who knew her dead or senile, and
your own memory manipulated... If only we could know how she
really looks..."

"Yes. But this is the only way, I guess. You may begin."

Soldier signaled to one of his comrades, equipped with
megaphone.

"All right, people," the soldier with megaphone began to
speak. "Most of you probably know who this man in the black
trenchcoat is. And most of you probably know what he is
looking for. And most of you know that if anyone can
guarantee that we would keep our word, it is him. So, this
is the deal. The one of you who shows us the body of
Samantha T. Mulder, alive or dead, is to be rewarded with
freedom. The rest of you would have to settle with spared
life. We are generous, but only under those conditions. Now,
does anybody of you know where Samantha is?"

There was a silence for a while. Then, one woman, with dark
hair and green eyes, stood up and yelled. "I am Samantha!"

Then there was a silence. The sign of hope could be seen on
tall man's face.

But after a few seconds another woman rose. This one had
short blonde hair. "No, I am Samantha!"

Next second short redhead rose. "I am Samantha!"

Then, with the grimace of spite on her face, little girl
with braided black haired also rose. "I am Samantha!"

She was followed by a chorus of few more voices that cried
those same words. Soon the whole valley echoed with
thousands of women chanting "I am Samantha!"

Only one woman was silent. She looked towards thousands of
her sisters, and tears began to flow down her face.
Samantha T. Mulder then gazed up, towards the man in the black
trenchcoat.

Her brother Fox wasn't crying, but the look in his tired,
hazel eyes, and his wrinkled old face was telling enough. He
had failed in his life-long crusade.

His sad thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound
of the VTOL transport hovering over them. Mulder looked up and
saw the portable ladders and face of the old general in the open
door of the machine.

"Need a lift?"

He just nodded and climbed on the ladder. He got into the
machine and shared its crowded space with the General and
half a dozen officers. The General signalled the pilot in
the cockpit and in a couple of seconds the VTOL was ten
thousand feet above the ground.

Mulder looked through the window towards dark, cloudy
eastern horizon. Suddenly, huge bursts of orange light
appeared on the ground.

"Zone 14 C. It's always hot down there," the General explained.

"It looks like dawn... The dawn of Man."

"I've beg your pardon?"

"Ah, nothing, forget it..."

The General, seeing that he would have to spend the flight with
a depressed Fox Mulder, turned towards cockpit and patted
one of the pilots on the back.

"Barry, would you turn on the radio? We would appreciate
some music."

"Yes, sir." The pilot switched the radio and loudspeakers
on. The next second, Fox Mulder was still looking at the
explosions in distance, while the voice of Vera Lynn began
to fill the interior of the craft.

"We'll meet again,
Don't know where, don't know when,
But we'll meet again,
On sunny day."

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

The only regret I have about writing this story is the fact
that I haven't got at hand the tapes of "The Killing",
"Paths of Glory", "Barry Lyndon", "The Shining" and "Full
Metal Jacket". I hope that some kind soul would find a way
to pay tribute to those magnificent films through fanfic.

Rest in peace, Stanley.

--
Dragan Antulov a.k.a. Drax
Fido: 2:381/100
E-mail: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr
E-mail: dragan.antulov@altbbs.fido.hr
E-mail: drax@purger.com

Visit my other XF fanfic at http://www.purger.com/drax/draxsfan.htm

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