Title: Conundrum
Author: Chad Skywalker
Email: Chad_Skywalker@webtv.net
Feedback: Yes, please.
Archive: Yes, just leave my name on it.
Date: June 18th, 2001
Status: WIP
Rating: PG
Series/Sequel: This story is a sequel to "Dangerous
Undercurrents".
Category: M/O
Fandom: The X-Files
Spoilers: This adventure takes place after the TV
story "Existence".
Disclaimers: All familiar characters belong to CC and
1013; any others were conceived in my warped
imagination. Azathoth and the Great Old Ones were
created by HP Lovecraft and are now the property of
Arkham House.

Dedication: To Bertina.

Summary: Eighteen years ago Fox Mulder fought the
Azathoth cult. Jamie, his first love whose body was
chosen to host the evil entity, fell prey to its
power. Now in 2001 history seems to be repeating
itself. A series of bizarre deaths reawaken Mulder's
fears. Is there a link to a thriving genetic company
with a secret agenda that may threaten the entire
world? Mulder, haunted by a lost love he refuses to
believe is dead, is slipping into despair and madness.
But are the visions which plague him really
hallucinations?

CONUNDRUM
n. riddle esp. with punning answer; hard question.
[16th century; origin unknown]

"Once you start down the dark path, forever will it
dominate your destiny."

Prologue: Breathless

***********
Oxford, England
October 1983
***********

I hold the knife in a shaking hand. My ears are
drowned out by the sound of my own racing blood. I
barely acknowledge the resounding crash, as a section
of the roof caves in. The struggles and protests of
those who dared to interrupt the ceremony are gone.

"Perfect sacrifice!" I intone, holding my hands high.
Dazed at the achievement of my life's dream, I stare
down at the inert body of the Chosen One that lies on
the chamber's floor. High above, a thick inky 
mist swirls in the whirlpool of devastation. Like a
hawk seeking out its 
prey, the life essence of Azathoth swoops down.

It envelops the blood stained body like a cloud,
seeping into the sacrificial cut. Lifting it up, the
body convulses above the ceremonial stone until the
mist clears. Lightning flashes, as a sign of the
deliverer and proclaiming the end of frustrating years
of waiting. The surviving members of the Cult of
Azathoth kneel close to the stone. I hear the roaring
of the imploding catacombs and realize the chamber
will not last much longer.

"Quickly, we must find the naga box!" I shout. A
flurry of black cowled figures begin a frantic search.
One of the brothers, Edward, remains by the
deliverer's side watching for any sign of life. A
stone crashes dangerously near Brother Jacob's feet,
but he does not flinch. Faithfulness is unquestioning.
The others sift through the growing rubble.

"Make haste!" I urge them on.

"High One, we cannot find it," Brother Andrew says.

Fury overtakes my reverent awe. As Vice-Chancellor of
the university, I have dealt with many problems, but
how dare anyone dash the hopes of a lifetime?

"What? What?!" I hear myself shriek above the crashing
of rocks.

"It must be beyond here."

I stare at the rockfall entombing the tunnel entrance.
"No, this cannot be!" I turn swiftly back to the
altar. The body of the Chosen One lays completely
still. Brother Edward has tended the cut, but not a
single breath issues from the body. I feel fear.

"Brothers, our faith is being tested," I tell them.
"We must will the Great One to life!"

The other brethren and I kneel close to the stone,
chanting the ancient tongue. We reach a crescendo,
drowning out the destruction all around us.

"My lord," Brother Edward, tears in his eyes,
indicates that the body is beginning to stir. I hear
the intake of a deep breath. Raising my hands over the
body I cry, "Praise Azathoth!"

As if in the throes of a fitful sleep, the eyes of the
Chosen One dance feverishly beneath closed lids. The
mouth mumbles silently. I hear strange words, the last
remnants of the host mind remembering its past life.
Instantly his eyes flash open, staring all around. For
the first time, I hear the Great One's voice. The
sound emerging from between his lips is deep and
sibilant.

"A heartbeat... feeling... warmth... strong...
excellent!"

The body raises itself to a sitting position. He
flexes his hands, watching each finger move. "So
strong... Oh, I like this!"

The other faithful and I bow low, listening in growing
awe as Azathoth experiences the sensations of his new
body.

"My shapeless existence is ended. Now I am he... alive
within this oh so wonderful, wonderful frame!"

A pair of intense green eyes glance sideways, staring
imperiously at the attentive Brother Edward. I hold my
breath. An ancient power emanates from those eyes,
hurling Edward telekinetically across the room. He
falls like a broken doll against the wall.

"You are indeed powerful," I say, unable to contain my
fervent glee. "Welcome to your new body."

It was then that I knew something was wrong. The Great
One's breathing became shallow, the skin becoming
deathly pale. Without the full life force contained in
the naga box, and the cult weakened, the time of the
deliverer was failing!

"I am not complete," the Great One whispers, weakly.
He looks up, and for a moment, his expression grows
soft. "What's happening to me?" He shifts his gaze 
toward me, and the powerful voice returns. "Where is
the naga box?" he demands.

Racing to his side, I gently lower him back down. "We
will find it, my lord. I promise."

It is a promise I can not fulfill. With a shattering
roar, I and the brethren feel the crushing weight of
our catacombs bear down on us. I am swept away by an
avalanche of crushing stone. I wait for the warmth and
safety of my great god, but it never comes.

~oo0oo~

A black wave overtakes those assembled in the cavern.
The body of Jamie Grayson lies in silent darkness;
tucked beneath an overhanging ledge. Trapped and
wedged within a tiny cave created by the falling roof.
This would become the entity's resting place until
strength returned. Alone in the darkness. Waiting.

~oo0oo~

Time passed and life moved on in Oxford. Seasons came
and went. Those who had died in the cave in of Oxford
Woods had been mourned long ago, and those with good
sense avoided the mysterious forest and it's strange
nightly sounds.

Far below ground, a hand slowly twitched into life.
Rocks shifted and were swept away...

~oo0oo~

***********
Oxford, England
June 2000
***********

Pitch black. Kendrick chewed on his bottom lip
nervously. How the hell had he let those guys dare him
into coming out here? He couldn't even see his own
hands in front of his face. Me and my big mouth, he
thought. Slugging down a few beers had provoked a
series of wild ghost stories. When he dismissed the
tales of the legendary haunted woods, that had given
the fraternity members all the incentive they needed.
The young pledge would have to spend a night alone in
the woods.

Kendrick sighed and watched his breath evaporate in
the cool darkness. Here he was standing in the middle
of the Oxford woods making a fool out of himself. He
just knew the frat brothers would jump out from behind
a tree at any moment to holler "Boo!" Well, they could
just laugh 
themselves silly. He didn't believe in ghosts and he
was determined to prove them wrong.

Tramping through the overgrown forest, he winced as a
patch of nettles clawed through his pants leg. He
stopped to catch his breath. Damn, why was he even
doing this? To be a member of the best fraternity on
campus, that's why, he reminded himself.

High above, the thick clouds obscuring a full moon
drifted past. Beams of moonlight illuminated the area.
Kendrick smiled, at least this wasn't so bad. Turning
to get a better look round, he gasped in surprise.
Just a few paces behind him the ground had been
churned up, exposing a gaping hole. If he'd taken a
step backwards he would've fallen through. Thanking
his lucky stars, Kendrick wiped his brow then bent to
examine the hole. It looked as if something had blown
itself up through the 
earth. Did they have giant gophers in Oxford? Rubbing
his wispy chin thoughtfully, Kendrick stood and walked
around the exposed ground. No one ever came into the
wood, so what could have caused this? It certainly
wasn't a ghost!

A summer wind whistled through the branches overhead.
Kendrick's ears pricked up. He could swear he'd heard
a faint whispering... No, it's just your imagination!
All of those crazy stories were getting to him. It was
hard to believe that there were once secret caves
beneath the woods, and that the spirits of those who
died in them haunt the woods. Give me a break!

His eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, Kendrick
cast about for somewhere to rest for the night. There,
a clump of boulders. Settling down against the cool
stones, he splayed out his legs and waited for the 
hours to pass.

Again, the wind carried a delicate whispering through
the trees. The snap of a twig! Kendrick sat up,
stilling the panic that threatened to form. Rising to
his feet, he called out, "All right you guys! I know
you're out there."

No response. Just the mournful hooting of owls.

Kendrick shook his hands frantically. "Oooo, I'm
really scared," he laughed. "Come on out!"

Fingers of bone chilling mist flowed around him. He
shivered, trying to control his instinct to run. The
rustling of a bush. He spun back around, eyes wide
with surprise at the figure who appeared.

"Hello?" he called. "Um, who are you?" Kendrick didn't
recognize the boy at all. He looked to be about his
age, although his skin was so pale that it was
practically luminous in the moonlight.

"Did Roy and Brian send you out here?" he continued.
Why wouldn't this guy answer him? "Are you from the
frat house?"

Finally, the figure smiled. It sent a chill right
through Kendrick's bones. The air filled with a
screeching, keening. He fell to his knees and covered
his ears.

"Stop it! Stop it!" he screamed, helplessly.

An irresistible, paralyzing force took hold and
Kendrick cried out one last time. The mist parted and
the owls took flight...

~oo0oo~

Inspector Trevor Winston, retired, listened with a
growing sense of fear as the local TV news reported
the death of a student found in Oxford woods. He
listened carefully, unable to believe, not wanting to
believe.

"Are the ghosts at work again? This is Corrine Lasky
for ..."

Trevor switched the set off. Beside his nightstand, he
quickly opened a bottle of pills and downed several in
one gulp. "No, it can't be happening again," he told
himself in a hushed voice.

Staring at the black cordless phone, he made a swift
decision. Opening a drawer, he took out a well thumbed
address book. Hands shaking with the effort, Trevor
found the number he needed. Dialing, he waited for
someone to answer. His eyes darted nervously to a
bedroom window. What was that? A small tree limb
brushed against the pain. Just the wind you silly old
buffer.

"Hello, who is this?" a gravelly voice answered.

"Professor Wickham, this is Trevor Winston, do you
remember me?"

"Winston... Winston... No, I'm afraid I've never heard
of you."

"Listen you crazy old fool, you know exactly who I
am!" Trevor lost every ounce of patience. "Listen to
me, something happened in those woods. I think... I
think..."

"Eh? What do you think? Well, spit it out man!"
Wickham's voice crackled down the phone line.

Trevor froze in his bed, he simply could not move.
Rivulets of sweat streamed down his face. His ears
filled with a vast rushing sound. Eyes bulging in
shock, he whispered, "No, it can't be. You're dead!"

"Dead? Dead, indeed. Contrary to popular belief I'm
still very much alive," the professor sternly said.
"Hello? Are you there?"

Inspector Trevor Winston, retired, let out a low,
despairing moan. On the other side of Oxford,
Professor Douglas Wickham's old heart filled with a
sense of fear and dread he had not known in seventeen
years.

A voice tinged with an alien presence demanded, "Where
is the naga box?"

Then, the line went dead.

Wickham dropped the telephone from his numb hand.
Casting his eyes feverishly about the rooms of his
quarters, he took a deep breath and headed inside a
curtained alcove. There, he took an ancient tome from
its podium. Holding it under an arm, he knelt beside
an old fashioned safe.

Under pressure, he could not remember the combination.
It had been so long since he locked it. What was it?
He had such little time. Think! Ah yes...
42-37-19-21... Click! The safe door swung open and
Wickham carefully extracted a mahogany box. The sides
and top of which were intricately carved in an image
of a snake eating itself.

He groaned from the rheumatism in his knees. As
swiftly as possible he hurried into the main room.
With no living relatives, there was only one person
who could take care of this dreadful business.
Outside, the sound of whispering echoed on the wind.
Time was running out!

~oo0oo~

The Great Plan. My every racing thought is filled with
this one, driving purpose. There is an imperceptible
chill hanging in the air. Morning mist has yet to
dissipate around the spires of the shining building. I
momentarily tear my eyes away from a flickering
computer monitor; staring at my own reflection in the
weather proof glass surrounding the office.

Why is it taking so long? But, I remind myself, it has
been eighteen years -- eighteen years of fruitless
searching. Would they be successful this time?
Promises from a dark stranger had filled him with
hope. So far, he had been very useful. Very useful,
indeed.

I register the heavy double doors opening, but pay
little attention to Gordon Stratton, vice president of
my company. He stands, towering over me beside my
desk. The glow of the computer screen illuminates my
face. He recognizes the image reflected off my wire
rims.

"Well?" I ask, my voice harsher and more impatient
than I intended.

"I'm sorry, sir. I beg your forgiveness." Gordon, ever
the crawler, bows low before me.

I sigh heavily, the Armani suit conforming to my every
move. "You come here empty handed. I take it the
mission was a complete failure?"

"Not completely," Gordon began. This statement catches
my attention. "Go on," I urge him.

"We investigated the leads. The deaths were all
connected with the Oxford incident."

Tell me something I don't know, you simpering fool!
"And?"

"And, we discovered the bodies."

"Bodies?" The word catches in my throat. Could all of
my plans and dreams have been for nothing?

Gordon nods, a glimmer in his eye. "All but one. The
one we were sent to find was missing."

"This is excellent news!" I detect the excitement
rising in my voice. "Our suspicions are confirmed." A
sudden thought strikes me. "But why did you come back
to San Francisco? Why are you not in Oxford looking?"

"Our agent is still there. He believes he has a lead.
It won't be much longer, I can assure you."

Gordon's tone is a little condescending. Does he need
reminding of my status? I stare him down, and he is
easily quelled.

"My lord, what of your father's bones?" he asks, after
a moment's hesitation.

I sweep a thick manila folder across my desk. "They
are of no matter. It was with the money left in my
father's will that secured our success; that built
Avatar in the appointed place. His death will not be
for nothing. I shall fulfill his dream."

Gordon's face fills with hope. "All of the tests have
been successful?"

Irritation grows. I can feel the start of an ache
behind my eyes. "Do you intend to talk me to death? I
have kept a close watch on the tests, and I do not
consider a percentage of 89 to be successful."

"Our backers have fully supported the project..."
Gordon protests.

I return with a sly, cutting grin. "And abundantly
filled your wallet?"

He bows once more. "Please forgive me. I think only of
the great plan."

"We lie on the threshold of power undreamt of! All we
have to do is grasp it!" My voice fills with a
reverence I cannot control. I focus on the here and
now. "Leave me, but report back to me as soon as our
agent has made contact."

"Yes, my lord." Gordon kneels, then turns and leaves
my penthouse office.

I pause before further musings. How much longer must I
wait? I am so close to fulfilling an aeons old dream.
Everything depends on the success of the mission. My
faith is unwavering. I, Matthew Blair; CEO of Avatar,
the world's leading genetic research facility; son of
Vice-Chancellor William Blair III. Taking my rightful,
inherited place as High Priest to the Cult of
Azathoth. Closing my eyes, I can feel the excitement
growing.

"The power to control life... and death," I whisper.

This time there will be no failure. My eyes open to
peer at an image blazing from the computer screen. It
burns itself into my cornea. The objective, the prize
I desire. The photograph overlaid hundreds of times;
of a young man with golden hair and bright, green
eyes. The Deliverer.

[Next Episode: Nightmare]