Rating: PG

Summary: The fashion police are out...you won't believe who it is.

Spoilers: No, not really. Small, oblique ones for "Unusual Suspects."
 

Mekacceh
 

"How wonderful! This lucky day has set
You free for all time, since you bring such news.
Yet I'm not free myself of one nightmare:
Are all my near and dear ones still alive?"

Alcmene in "the Heracleidae", Lines 788-791. Translation by Ralph Gladstone. Copyright 1955 and used without permission.
 

April 16, 2000

"What sort of stuff weren't you supposed to see? Or shouldn't I ask?

"Yeah, you probably should, since it bit you on the butt. We found matches in the databases. And it's got further encryption tied to DOD. And the Fibbies."

"Fuck."

"Juliet's working on the stuff on-line with Byers right now."

"Byers should get some sleep."

"Byers came within a hair of biting the big one. I think he'd like a little revenge."

"I never think of him as the vengeful type."

"Don't kid yourself. Under that rational exterior beats the heart of a madman." Langly grinned. "Byers, he's patient. He'll wait and work it out. Then he'll get even. He doesn't make a lot of noise, but he's got ways of evening the score. And he will. Plus Juliet's still pissed about the whole thing. She almost lost her man, she's not happy about this."

"And you?"

"I'm too tired to be pissed right now. I'm gonna go to sleep for a while. Coming?"

"Yeah, for a little while. But I'm really tired, babe."

"I said I was gonna sleep, didn't I?"

"Sometimes I just can't take you too literally." I winked at him.
 

I later found Frohike at the coffee pot; I'd fallen asleep for several more hours and had just emerged from the shower.

"I understand we have a project," he smiled at me. "You do look lovely, my dear."

"Frohike, I just got out of the shower and I look like a drowned rat."

"Ah, but such a pretty drowned rat."

"Michael made the hack."

"So I heard." Frohike tried to keep his voice nonchalant, but he was beaming. You could tell even from a side view.

"He's a smart boy. A little hard to get along with sometimes, but ultimately, he is a love."

"Sort of takes after the old man, doesn't he?" Frohike winked naughtily.

"That he does." We both laughed. "Don't tell me he's still working."

"He's running on adrenaline and caffeine right now, but I'm about to put a stop to that."

"While you're at, cut the power to Byers's system. He's been awake all night."

"I see your boy decided to do something sensible, which, by the way, still floors me."

"Yeah, he's still out for the count. But probably not for long."

"Kids." Frohike shook his head and headed out the back door.
 

April 24, 2000

"Thought you said your kung fu was the best," Michael was chiding his father impatiently as he sat by Frohike's workstation.

"It is. Watch and learn, dear boy."

"He lies." Langly heard the conversation and yelled back. "We all know whose kung fu is best, and it ain't his."

"You mean, he who burns down buildings?" Frohike scoffed.

"Fuck, one time, and I'm never gonna hear the end of it, am I?"

"What's this? Do tell all," Michael's voice was eager and more than a little malicious.

"Well, back in the late 80s-"

"Back when your dad still had some hair," Langly threw in for good measure.

"-Langly and I had, shall we say, competing businesses for transceivers for getting free cable television-"

"No competition there," Langly snickered.

"All right, quiet in the peanut gallery already. As I was saying, Langly here developed a product that had unique incendiary qualities."

"Least it worked," he muttered sulkily. "More than I can say for his."

"So you burned down a house?" Michael was licking his lips.

"I did not! One room, only the kitchen, and it was an apartment, not a house!" Langly was utterly indignant. I had to turn away my face because I was snickering. It's not nice to get a laugh at your fiance's expense, but...

"If you could even call the roach trap you lived in an apartment."

"Well, it was a step up from the St. James." Referring to the flophouse where they'd met one another.

"If you consider more roaches a step up, then I guess it was." Frohike was willing to concede that much. "I have to say you have a much nicer residence now, Langly, although your housekeeping habits still leave something to be desired."

"Oh, God, do I have to hear about this? I get enough shit about that from Ally here."

"Well, just be prepared to spend the rest of your life hearing about it, Blonde Boy," Frohike warned. "You've got three weeks until T minus 0. And next Saturday is tux fitting."

"WHAT?!" Both Langly and Michael were aghast. For once they could agree on something.

"I said, fittings next Saturday."

"Do I have to?" Michael issued a whine that could rival Langly's.

"I don't know how else you're going to get fitted, unless you come up with a clone in the next six days," Frohike said tersely.

"What's wrong with what I have on?" Langly outwhined Michael.

"You've gotta be kidding, Blonde Boy," Frohike rolled his eyes at the majorly clueless soul across the room. "You're going to show up at your wedding in a Dead Kennedys T-shirt-and ripped under the arm, at that-"

"Ally hasn't had time to fix it!"

"And Levis that were old when I met you?"

"They're just getting comfy!"

"You're going. And you're not going to complain."

"Can't I just like tell 'em how tall I am?" Langly really wanted out of this one. I had to hide from him; I was laughing too hard.

"No, you cannot, and I'm not listening to another word about it." Frohike turned resolutely to his computer. Then he passed a look and a warning to his son. "From ANY of you." Michael sulked, muttered a few obscenities, and went back to watching the master at work.

Byers had been quiet during all this; I think he was trying to stifle his laughter, since his face was bright red and his eyes were bright blue and mirthful.

"Frohike, no ruffles," he pleaded. "I have no desire to duplicate my look from my senior prom."

"Pictures, we want pictures," Michael wanted the dirt on everyone today.

"Not a chance." I was certain that there would be no way we'd be seeing Byers in a late 70s tux anytime soon-unless, of course, we appropriately bribed Kat...

"What color?" Michael pressed undeterred.

Byers looked supremely annoyed. "It was light blue. Dark blue velvet trim. Satisfied.?"

"Not till I see the photos."

"Not in your lifetime," Byers assured him.

"Bet you had a bad haircut, too." Michael didn't know when to quit.

"Michael, you're taking extreme liberties when you talk about bad hair," Byers was a patient man, but Michael had a way of stretching his to its absolute limit. Remember Michael, I shot him a subliminal message, the guy still is a redhead.

"Yes, you're getting rid of the dye job," Frohike announced.

"No fucking way!" Michael was now incensed. "I spent 10 bucks for this hair dye."

"Miranda turning you on to quality stuff?" I asked nonchalantly.

"Hey, it's great stuff! It's called Fudge and it's-"

"Going," Frohike finished for him. "You will have some semblance of your natural color by the day before the wedding, and you will get it decently cut."

"What, by the same guy that does you? I don't think so!"

"I don't care who does it, but you're getting it done." Frohike had his don't-argue-with-me paternal tone that he often used with Byers and Langly when they got a bit out of hand. Needless to say, he got more practice with Langly. "And you, Blonde Boy?"

"Oh, no," Langly placed his hands up in a gesture of defense. "The hair stays."

"He's not cutting it, Frohike," I announced firmly.

"He could get rid of the split ends," Byers offered.

"That should lop off a good four inches," Frohike huffed. "Besides, what are you going to do when your hairline moves back a couple inches farther?"

"It is NOT moving back!" Langly protested vehemently.

"Is too," Frohike retorted.

I'd noticed, but I was not about to say anything...the hair was Langly's main-in fact, only-real vanity.

"He has beautiful hair." I did defend him on that score. I loved his hair.

"Get the ends trimmed," Frohike muttered.

"And Ally? What's she gotta do?" Michael was heavily into whining at this point; it was escalating to a most uncomfortable timbre.

"The bride is beautiful just as she is," Frohike smiled slightly as he rose from his desk. "If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with the DJ in half an hour. Is Miranda indoors, Allison?"

"She is, but whether or not she's awake, that I can't vouch for."

"It's past noon!" Frohike frowned.

"And it's Sunday," I reminded him. "She sleeps in. Just bang on the door like we always do. She'll only swear at you for five or ten minutes if she's still sleeping."

"Speaking of past noon, must be time to drink," Michael decided.

"Michael, no need to start so early in the day." Frohike pointed at his son and shot him a stern look. Michael stuck out his tongue at his father, and Frohike glared back.

"And no need for such disrespect." He stalked out.

"And no need for such disrespect," Michael imitated his father when he was out of earshot. Then he began to laugh. "This is rich. My dad, lecturing me on drinking too early in the day!"

"Not to mention turning into the fashion police," Langly marveled.

"I'd like to know where that came from!" Michael shook his head.

"Could use it to our advantage, though," Langly's evil brain had begun its machinations. "Like we agree to get fitted, if he loses the sheepskin vest."

"And the hideous hats," Michael added.

"Don't forget the fingerless gloves," added Byers. "Even Michael Jackson doesn't do that anymore."

"Michael Jackson never did fingerless, you dweeb," Michael retorted. "He did one glove!"

Byers stared at him irritably, then returned to his screen. A short time later, he popped his head up.

"Langly."

"Yeah?"

"What're we going to do about Renegade? He's not going to be in town to get fitted."

"Neither is Jason," I reminded him.

"Jason could do it from San Francisco," Byers offered. Of course he'd know that. "Have you spoken to him, Ally? How's he doing?"

"He's okay. Still pretty tired, but better." Thank God.

"So what do we do about Renegade? From what I gather, he lives nowhere near civilization."

"Renegade won't wear a tux. No fucking way," Langly assured us.

"Papa Frohike will have a hissy fit," I warned.

"And Renegade's twice his size and he'll throw him across the room," Langly added.

"I don't care if you guys come naked. Or wear shorts. Just no red Speedos," I stated.

"Ah, you've heard that story," Byers remarked.

"Little hard not to, since every admin ass there apparently still talks about it." It was one of the first Bureau legends I'd become acquainted with-and apparently it took place years ago. And still had the secretaries agog.

"What about this?" demanded Michael sulkily, feeling that he was being kept out of the loop.

"It's a Mulder thing," Langly shrugged as if that made it inconsequential.

"Okay, stop right there. That's definitely a photo I'd pay not to see." He held his hands up in a truce gesture. "Hey, what's this?" He held up a large book, which I immediately recognized as Langly's sketchbook. Langly just about lunged out of his chair.

"Keep your fucking paws off that!" Langly shouted at him.

"What's the matter, you got X-rateds in there?" Michael asked coyly.

"Michael, put it down," I said sternly, but he'd already flipped it open.

"Listen, you little fuckrag, put the fucking book down NOW!" Langly was positively livid, and I was afraid he was going to strangle Michael.

"Jesus, what're you so uptight about, dude? These are good." Michael's voice held a grudging, but genuine, admiration in it. Langly was apparently surprised enough that he held off on making certain that Michael didn't make it to age 25. "I mean, like, these are really good, man."

"You didn't know Langly was artistic, did you?" Byers asked. Byers was the lucky recipient of one of Langly's finest charcoal sketches-of Susanne. I wondered how he was going to deal with that, what with Juliet moving into the area in two weeks.

"You like do these from photos or you just remember stuff?" Michael made a sincere inquiry.

Two flaming spots of color appeared on Langly's face. "I just...sorta remember stuff. Just like I see it in my head."

"How come you don't show off any of this stuff?" Michael was curious.

"'Cause it's private!"

"Hey, this is a great one of Al'son," Michael admired.

"Okay, you've seen enough now," Langly snatched it away from him. "And you're underage."

"Ah, so I was right," Michael grinned.

"You really don't wanna live long and prosper, do you?" Langly safely tucked the sketchbook under his workstation. I suspected it would be coming in the house-soon.
 

"What the fuck are we doing? This is not going to work!" Michael was becoming more and more impatient, and was losing concentration and pacing around the office.

"It's gonna work. Just be cool," Langly admonished.

"I have some instructions from Juliet. Get on-line with her," Byers ordered the two of them.
 

"So how'd the meeting with the DJ go?" I asked Miranda as I prepared dinner.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "God, I think Frohike fell down in the sixties and can't get up! I mean, I don't mind oldies, but you should've seen his face when I told the DJ that Langly'd die if we didn't get Billy Idol's "White Wedding." Thought he was gonna have another heart attack."

"Don't even joke about that," I shuddered.

"At least we're gonna have swing dancing."

"No, you're having swing music. Keep in mind that most of us don't know how to swing dance."

"Well, I do."

"Well, you can show the other 500 and so people there how."

"Gotta be someone who knows how in a crowd that size. Y'know what Frohike's problem is?"

"Aside from the obvious ones?"

"He's such a hopeless romantic. I mean, God!"

"He had objections to playing the Clash at the wedding?"

"And the Cure, and the Sex Pistols, and the Violent Femmes, and Desmond Dekker, and anything that wasn't pure MUSH!" She shook her dark head in disbelief. "I mean, Frohike!"

"He's just a sentimental old fool," I thought to myself.

And thank God for small favors.
 

"Dinner's ready," I announced to the four men inhabiting the TMB offices.

"Not now," Langly said in a short, sharp tone.

"We are there," Michael breathed.

"What is it?" No matter how busy they were, this gang usually would drop anything to eat.

"Capture," Frohike said softly.

"Oh, my God," Byers's face, already pale, had turned sheet-white.

"What's going on?" I demanded.

"We've got the data," Langly said quietly.

"The virus data?"

"Yeah. We've got it. We're downloading part of it, Juliet's doing some of the other stuff. We're trying to get this stuff into our database as fast as we can, and the fewer return trips we have to make, the happier we'll all be."

"What's it say?" I felt both curiosity and trepidation.

Nobody spoke. I leaned into the screen-thank God for active matrix, you can read from a side view, and glimpsed at what was scrolling in front of us.

"Did it say what it was?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to know the answer.

"Yeah, it did. Once we get it into our system, we can read it more thoroughly."

"Dana's going to want to read it," I reminded them.

"And she will," Frohike assured me without looking up.

"I think we're done," Byers announced after a few silent minutes. "We'll eat, then print it out for Scully and Mulder, and read it again ourselves. In detail."

"So'd you find out what it was?"

Byers looked at me, and I saw in those lovely blue eyes, a cold, angry fire I was not usually acquainted with.

"It seems we were part of a little experiment." There was a hard sarcasm in the tone that made me believe it was anything but.

END OF PART 78