[disclaimers in part 1]
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"My health was threatened. Terror came. I used to fall into a sleep
of several days, and when up, I continued the saddest dreams."

~~Rimbaud -- A Season in Hell~~
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MARCH 5, 2000
GUNMEN HQ
8:57 PM

FROHIKE:

"Fuck! It's almost nine o'clock! She went on shift at seven, I told her I was gonna be up by then! Goddammit!"

That's Langly I'm hearing. Notice I didn't say I was listening. I'm paying about as much attention to him as I am to my Jackie Chan movie. I have no idea which one it is. Like Langly's frustrations, they all look the same. "Can you keep it down to a roar in there?" I call out to him. After spending much of the day laboring at Ms. Thomas's, I'm exhausted. The most strenuous thing I plan to engage in for the moment is coming up with a plausible excuse when Mulder calls, as to why I don't wish to spend an evening ogling the ladies that grace the stages and cages of the Candy Apple. I know I shouldn't have to make any excuses, simply say that I'm not going, but this is Mulder, and he has a way of being obnoxiously persistent. I need to prepare myself to fight off the siege that's sure to ensue.

Langly, naturally, is paying even less attention to me than I am to him, and doesn't even respond. Ordinarily, I'd offer to help the boy, but all I really want to do at the moment is pass out comfortably, preferably for about a week. I swear, I love these kids but they have worn me out. The movie ends, which means that it's time for 15 minutes of commercials and paid political announcements. I should just call Mulder and get it over with, but first, seeing as I've neglected regular work today, I should check the police scanners, see if it's all quiet on the western front.

"Fucking firewall they put up, you'd think they actually cared about patient privacy or something!" Langly snaps viciously, not even looking up when I enter the office. I don't respond. We both know full well that it has everything to do with insurance data and nothing at all to do with privacy for individuals, and neither of us is up for that discussion at the moment. Besides, he's just venting.

The scanners are fairly quiet, but it's a Sunday night. It's still pretty cold out, and criminal elements are essentially hedonists -- they prefer to work in comfort. I know this from personal experience. I'd much rather go out for some funky poaching on a warm night than one that threatens to lower sperm production due to frozen nads. Tonight, though, my choice is to do nothing. I grab for the phone. "You think you can keep it down for a few minutes? I have to call Mulder."

He doesn't respond directly, but he does reduce the overt cursing to some irritated mutterings. I dial Mulder's cell number. "Mulder." Could he say that with less expression, please? If it's possible?

"Hey dude. What're you doing?"

"Eating a double Fatburger." This is probably correct, seeing as his voice is muffled and thick. "Nothing like fine dining before a night of the finest entertainment Southeast DC has to offer."

"Yeah, well, bud, you're gonna have to amuse yourself on your own."

"What, you're bailing on me?"

"I'm tired, dude."

"What about those Viagra samples I filched from Scully and gave to you? You oughta try 'em."

"I'm keeping 'em for you," I taunt back.

"Hey, some of us can still stay up past nine o'clock!"

"I didn't think you were talking about sleep. You never get any anyway."

"Frohike, you're a heartless bastard, you know that? C'mon." He's off on some kind of whiny rant when the police scanner kicks in. There's an incident. I listen carefully -- any excuse to not have to hear Mr. It's-All-About-Me for a couple of minutes. It says there's been a multiple assault and battery in Georgetown. 'Georgetown' hits my ears like a whistle pierces a dog's. Ms. Thomas lives there. The address given isn't hers, but it's not very far from where she lives. "Frohike, are you listening?" Mulder whines at the other end of the phone.

"Shush!" I tell him, waiting to hear more information. Oh hell. Somebody got injured. Two people, in fact. I'm listening, yes, but not to Mulder.

"Look, old man," Mulder goes on, "drink some coffee, watch a couple of your favorite videos and meet me in an hour --" They're identifying the individuals being taken to GWU Medical Center. A man and a woman. I can't make out the first name of the woman, but I sure as hell hear the last name. Thomas. Caucasian, age 37. I tell myself it's a common name, maybe it's someone else...

The next victim is identified as John Fitzgerald Byers, age 36, male, caucasian... "Sorry, dude, not tonight, I have a headache. A real one. Byers is hurt. I just picked it up on the police scanner," I say to Mulder as I hang up on him. I turn to Langly. "C'mon, buddy, we have to get moving."

"But I just got in! Deb's probably been wondering --"

I pull him away from the email screen. "Then she can keep wondering. Byers is hurt, let's go."

"Byers is what?" He looks uncomprehendingly at me.

"Just get your car keys and haul that sorry blonde ass of yours!" You've heard of Maalox moments? I have a Maalox life.

GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
9:13 PM

FROHIKE:

"Six bucks to park? That's such a rip!" Langly grumbles as he maneuvers the aging VW van into the underground parking structure at GWU Medical Center.

"Why are you complaining? I paid." I actually take some comfort in this dialogue; when we're both upset, we bicker over petty things to settle our nerves. We find a space on the fourth level down. Nothing like slipping into the bowels of the earth in a bad section of DC late at night. I make the decision that we're going to use the elevators; my back is killing me from working today (and, no doubt, from overindulging myself last night).

"We'd have gotten there faster on the stairs," Langly mutters as the elevator grinds at an arthritic snail's pace up to the emergency level.

"Only if you'd carried me," I remind him.

This is Sunday night. I didn't think the emergency area would be as crowded as it is, but I remind myself that GWU treats everyone from sultans to street derelicts. It's the one place in DC where you can be a pauper and sit next to a prince, and the great equalizer is that everyone's sitting on an equally uncomfortable plastic chair. The TV is blaring an episode of WWF Smackdown. I push my way to the head of the line to ask one of the harried admitting clerks about the status of Byers and Ms. Thomas. Fortunately, I've had a lot of practice in lines at Mickey D's. Sometimes being short is an asset.

"Hold on, hold on, give me the names again." The poor admitting clerk looks as if he's breaking a sweat, even on this chilly night. "Shit, the computer's down again. I can't --"

"So, ask someone!" He stares at me as if I just grew a second head. That's the problem with kids today. They're lost without technology propping them up.

He wanders off and reappears with relative rapidity. "Um, okay, Ms. Thomas, she's in exam room 5, waiting for an orthopedic consult. Mr. Byers, though, he's being prepped for immediate surgery."

"What the hell!" Langly snaps at him. "What the hell happened to him?"

"They, um,  called an ophthalmic surgeon, must be his eye." Brilliant deduction. I'm afraid this kid better get used to being where he is. I don't think he's got the brains to advance out of his bulletproof glass enclosed cage with tons of people shouting at him. Poor fucker. We're told that Byers is in preop staging on the 4th floor. Maybe if we rush we can catch him before they haul him away.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to him?" Langly is squawking loudly, in a whining tone, but this is only a cover for how intensely worried he is.

"How the hell should I know? No one else seems to around here!" I snap back. The ceremonial bickering continues. Preop staging: the instructions say to follow the blue lines on the floor. Good. Someone thought to make the system idiot-proof. Except that it only leads to another office. "Where's John F. Byers?" I demand of the nurse behind the desk.

"I'm sorry, give me the name again?"

"John Fitzgerald Byers!" Langly shouts it so that there's no doubt.

"Sir, you don't have to yell. Just have a seat."

"We were told he's being rushed to surgery --" I jump in.

"Are you family?" she asks me.

"Yes, we are," I lie firmly. Hell, let her think what she wants.

"Just a moment please, I'll buzz you in. You'll have to check with the nurses' station to get his cubicle number." God, I love
bureaucracy.

"Man, I hope he's okay," Langly is clearly stressed, gnawing on a thumbnail and sighing hard. Luckily for us, we don't have to talk to the bureaucrats this time. Byers' name is written on the white board and he's in Cubicle 7, unless, of course, somebody fucked up, which fortunately they didn't do this time. Oh, Christ on a crutch. He's a mess.

"Excuse me," the nurse says sharply to us as she's wiring the poor boy up.

"'S okay," Byers mumbles weakly, "want them here." The three health care professionals attending to him stare at him as if he's had his brain knocked out of whack, which, in talking to one of the gentlemen there, I discover is the case. The man, a soft-spoken guy with a long braid running down his back, is a neurologist and has been sent in because our boy has suffered a concussion.

"What about his eye?" I demand, staring at the bandage covering one of them.

"Torn retina. The surgeon's here, he's just getting ready," the nurse explains. The third person is a very tall, quiet man, who says that he's the anesthesiologist and he needs to get Byers ready to go. We can stay, but only if we keep out of the way. That tends to be a challenge for us, but we'll do anything right now.

"Is Sari okay?" Byers murmurs.

"I don't know. We haven't seen her yet."

"Go check on her, please," he begs.

I turn to Langly. "Langly? Go make yourself useful."

"So you can stay here and be useless?" he says to me. He leans over to Byers and pats him on the arm. "Hey dude, good luck, see you on the flip side."

"What happened?" I ask Byers as the anesthesiologist makes his evaluation.

"We ran into Sari's ex-husband. The one... you know."

"Oh Jesus." So much for keeping the poor lady safe. Not only did she get hurt, he did too. Shit.

"Got to get... him away from her..." Byers is fading. "Take care of her."

"No problem, buddy." Of course it's a problem, but hey, for him, anything.

"All right, it's mind wipe time," the anesthesiologist announces. "We're giving you some Versed, Mr. Byers, and off to dreamland you go."

"We'll be here," I promise Byers.

"Watch over her." Those are his last words as the drugs begin to work their magic and send him off to oblivion. Lucky guy. I could stand to be there right about now.

LANGLY:

Well, if this isn't weird or what. I'm supposed to go check on Byers' current damsel in distress. Problem with his damsels in distress, they got a way of getting him banged up real bad. Pisses me off. I think she's in 5. Okay, Langly, be cool. I rap on the door. A lady's voice calls out real quiet, "Yes?"

"Um, it's Langly. Like, I'm a friend of your pal Byers?" Wow, how's that for sterling delivery?

She unlatches the door and lets me in. She's got one arm that's real swollen but she offers the hand on the other one to me. "Hi, I'm Sari Thomas. And you said your name was?"

"Langly."

"A pleasure, Mr. Langly." Not under these circumstances, but whatever. I sure wish Deb was here right now. Shit. She'd have her patched up and she could tell us what was up with Byers and we'd all feel a whole hell of a lot better...

"No misters. Makes me look around for my dad."

"Just Sari, then." She nods and goes over and sits in one of the chairs.

"You can call me Ringo if you like. Your arm, man. Looks like it's broken." Take it from someone who's made many trips to the ER. I was no virgin when I got clobbered a couple months back, just that that one hurt a lot more than usual. I mostly end up with a broken bone here and there and a few stitches. Skiing and bar fights are mostly responsible for my trips, not running into mutant psychos like Landau.

"Yes, it is. The orthopedist just saw my X-rays and she's on her way to put a cast on it." She looks real scared.

"It's not scary getting a cast on," I tell her, trying to make her not so afraid.

"No, it's not that. I've done this before. I'm worried about John. Have you seen him? How is he?"

"He's gonna be okay, I think. But he's got like a torn retina, least that's what they said upstairs. They're about to haul him off to the body shop and fix him up. Just hope it's not something that's gonna make him go blind or something." I wince. So does she.

"This is all my fault," she sighs big time. "If I hadn't insisted we go out for dinner..."

"'Scuse me, but since when's it a crime to go out and eat where you like?" If going to Burger King becomes a criminal offense, I'm gonna be the number one fugitive in America.

"Since my ex decided he owns me." She sounds real bitter.

"He did this to you? And Byers?" Oh man, I am gonna kill that bastard. He better not be anywhere near here, cause if he is, I am gonna wring his sorry ass cowardly neck. Man, I hate guys that do that shit. Deb sees lots of it where she works. Being an ER doc, she patches up lots of ladies who get beat up by dirtbag guys, and then they go back to 'em to get beat up again. I say, kill 'em all. Least when I go slapping people around, I save it for guys my own size. Sometimes bigger. That doesn't work to my advantage, but hey, it's at least kind of a fair fight.

"Unfortunately, it's not the first time." She looks real beaten down. "No matter what I do, I seem to incur his wrath, and this time, someone else got hurt too. This is all my fault." She's trying not to cry.

"Hey, hey, time out! What's this shit, it's your fault? Lemme get this straight. You and Byers were gonna go have dinner. You were walking down the street, minding your own damn business, and Mr. Ex comes out and starts giving you the business, and this is your fault? That makes no sense!" Jesus, doesn't she get it? I mean, she doesn't seem stupid, that's for sure. "Man, I got this girlfriend, she's an ER doc, she sees this stuff all the time. Makes her so damn mad when women say it's all their fault, 'cause it's not!"

"But John's hurt because of me. He... he tried to keep Barry from getting to me. Gods, Barry's twice his size. He got hit so hard." She looks so damn down. I gotta cheer her up.

"Look, Byers, he's tougher than he looks, he'll be okay." Least I hope he will be. This is so weird. Before I started talking to her, I was all bent out of shape at her for getting him into this, but then I talk to her and I see, she didn't do shit except try to live her life. There's a knock on the door. "Maybe that's your doc," I say. Nope, no luck. Just Frohike.

"How's John?" Sari asks him frantically.

"He's in surgery. They think he'll be fine. How are you?" I was thinking Fro'd be real mad at her for getting him into this too, but he hates jerks who do this shit, maybe he knows. He was over there working today.

"I'm... I'm okay."

Oh yeah, sure she is. "Y'know, it's a good thing I don't do guns, 'cause lemme tell you, I'd take him out, right now," I tell her. She just looks nervous.

Frohike gives this real evil grin. "Oh, we're going to take him out, all right. But not that way. We're going to make it much, much more painful for him." Hmm. You know, it's fun to be around Frohike when he gets like this. He gets a bug up his ass about getting even with someone, and man, that's entertainment. He puts an arm around her back and she leans her head on his chest. "You want to go ahead with this, dear? You're all right with it?" She kinda whimpers. I don't know if it's the arm or what, but she's really in pain. Give the girl some morphine already, I feel like screaming, but there's nobody here to yell at except Frohike, and not only does he not have any morphine, he never listens to me anyway. Lucky for us, the orthopod shows up to do her arm, because I'm dying to know what old Frohike's got in mind.

Real quiet, Frohike gives me the background on what we're going to do. This sounds like fun. And it probably won't involve any field trips. I hope. I think I'm done with field trips for a while. We hang out while Sari gets her arm patched. It's no fun getting a cast on, but she's cool, no screaming. They give her some Vicodins to take home. Lucky girl. Maybe she'll have some left. I'm all out. I don't need 'em like I did when I first got hurt, but Deb won't give me any more, and sometimes they come in handy. I love Vicodins.

"Do you have a place you could go tonight, maybe stay with a friend?" Frohike asks her when she's done being put back together and we're on our way to the waiting area. She's got a cool sling. It's got tropical fish all over it. I never got one that cool. I'm jealous.

She shakes her head and gets this really determined look on her face, sorta like the one Byers gets when he digs in his heels. "I'm not going anywhere right now. Not until I'm sure John's okay."

"It's going to be a wait," Frohike warns her. "They estimated it could take anywhere from two to three and a half hours to do the surgery on his eye." We all grab seats.

"I don't care. Besides, if you want to know the truth, I'm really nervous about leaving here on my own. Barry knows where my friends live, and... well..."

"We wouldn't think of letting you do that," Frohike says, rubbing her back again. She doesn't flinch. She obviously doesn't think he's a troll. "But you do need a safe place to stay."

"Hey, she could stay in Byers' room," I offer. Hey, why not? We've got a secure place, Byers has the cleanest room, and he won't be using it tonight. Unlike Frohike and me, he changes his sheets more than once a month, and he puts his dirty laundry in a basket. We just leave ours on the floor.

Frohike doesn't look too sure about that, but he agrees. "Yeah, maybe you're right, Langly. Perhaps you should take her there now. She looks as if she could use some rest."

"No. I'm not leaving until I see John and know if he's going to be all right." Stubborn chick, that's for sure. Well, probably important if she's gonna be around us for any length of time. Sounds like she might. So we wait. And we talk. She's a lobbyist, environmental type. She's into a lot of things. After a while she's kinda groggy and leans on me to rest. I let her, and put an arm around her to make it a little easier. These waiting room chairs suck, and if leaning makes her more comfortable, that's ok with me. She smells a little like sandalwood or something. It's kinda nice. She asks Fro to crack a Vicodin in half for her and takes it.

We're just hanging when a familiar face shows up. "Hey Mulder, what're you doing here?" I ask him. He's got on his FBI windbreaker. For some reason, that gives me an idea. Frohike was talking about trumping up some federal charges on Sari's ex. And we're gonna do that. But maybe Mulder could find something real to make it even more effective. Hmm, Mulder being useful. Talk about a new concept.

He glares at us. "Next time Byers gets hurt, would you mind telling me where so I don't have to call every damn hospital in the city? How's the boy doing?"

"You know as much as we do. In the meantime, join the party," Frohike motions to him to sit with us. "By the way, this is Ms. Sari Thomas. Ms. Thomas, this is Fox Mulder."

"Please, guys, just Sari. I'm really not into formal." She looks sad and exhausted, but offers her hand to Mulder.

He takes it carefully. He can see she's hurting pretty bad. "Hi, Sari," he says gently. "Just call me Mulder. Were you there when Byers got hurt?"

She nods and sniffs a little. "I'm the reason he got hurt," she says quietly.

Me and Fro, man, we're both all over that in a hot second. "Her ex did this," Frohike says.

Sari describes what went down, and this is the first time we've heard the whole story. Byers wasn't talking much when I left Frohike with him, and Mel doesn't add anything to the story, so I guess we're going to have to get Byers' version when he's out of surgery. It sounds pretty ugly. Mulder's just all quiet, probably doing his profiler thing.

"So the local PD got a good description of him, and there was at least one witness who was willing to give them a report?" Mulder's looking at her with those green eyes of his. He usually hypnotizes the chicks and they get all gooey on him, but Sari doesn't react with that  hormonally charged sigh that I've heard from other females in his presence. She still looks really bad, even though she's been resting some.

"Yes. I hope that they find the bastard soon. He threatened to kill John, and I believe he'd do it. He was only about six blocks from my apartment, and I think he was looking for my car so that he could figure out where I live. For all I know, he may be still waiting around there for me to come home."

"Now, you know we're not going to let him find you. You're staying with us tonight," Frohike says. He reaches out and runs a hand along her shoulder.

"She's staying with you guys? She's a lot braver than anybody else I know," Mulder says with a smirk. "What do you know about these boys?" he asks her.

"They're here for me, they've offered me shelter for the night, and they're very concerned about John. At the moment, that's all I really need to know," Sari says, shifting a little closer to me. She shivers a little, and I think she's getting cold, even though she has her coat around her like a blanket. But there's a tiny smile on her face that says she knows he's teasing us. She's been really cool about all this, even though I can see how hard it's being on her. She's like totally afraid, but she won't run, and she's really worried about Byers, but despite all that, she's not cracking. This chick is so cool.

I look at Frohike and Sari, then over at Mulder. "So, like, Mulder -- I've got this idea..."

end part 8