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A New War #27: Cages
by Lianne Burwell
December 1999
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"What is it you *want* from us?" Suzanne McCullough asked in a tired 
voice. For the last week -- or something close to that -- she'd been kept 
locked up in a small cell with nothing to distract her from her thoughts 
and worries. The few people she had seen had refused to answer her 
questions and even now she had no idea where her daughter was. Out of 
everything, that last worried her the most.

And her first sight of Harrison and the Colonel had been shocking. 
Ironhorse looked healthy enough, although the dark circles under his eyes 
spoke of a lack of sleep. Harrison, on the other hand...

The man she'd once worked with -- and had been in love with, though she'd 
never told him that -- looked like hell. His sandy-colored curls were 
plastered to his skull by sweat and grime. His eyes were sunk deep in 
their sockets and he looked gaunt. As he stood, he was swaying slightly. 
The sway probably would have been worse if Ironhorse hadn't been at his 
side, propping him up. Neither one of them looked like they'd had a bath 
since she'd last seen them. At least she'd been allowed the chance to 
shower in the small locker room just down the hall from her cell.

"Your help to save your people from mine," was the flat reply from the 
woman she only vaguely remembered from ten years earlier.

"Why?" Paul asked suspiciously. "People -- if you could be called that," 
he added bitterly, "don't change sides often. How do we know that this 
isn't a trick?"

"Because it is not. Ten years ago, I had decided that your race has 
potential. Most of my people see you as no better than animals. You kill 
each other, you watch while thousands of your own kind die of hunger 
without lifting a finger. You destroy your world. These are the acts of 
beasts.

"But while I hunted the Mothren so that they could not interfere with our 
plans, I saw enough to know that your kind has the potential to become 
civilized. If given the chance. I, and others, believe that you should be 
given that chance."

"And what do you plan on doing about it?" Paul asked. "Tell your friends 
that they should just give up, go home and leave us alone?"

The woman just stared at him until he flushed, part anger and part 
embarrassment from the look of it. "No. They would not listen if I tried 
to do so. You must stop them."

Suzanne laughed. She could hear the tinge of hysteria in her own voice, 
but was powerless to do anything about it. "And how are we supposed to do 
that? We couldn't even stop the Mothren. It was Ceto and Mana, two of 
their own, that convinced them that they were being used by their leader. 
Nothing *we* did had any real effect."

"You have the knowledge necessary," they were told. "You will know what 
to do when the time comes." She stopped, and looked around at them. 
"Where is the other?"

Suzanne went blank, but Harrison answered, the first words he'd spoken 
since their arrival. His voice sounded tired. Hoarse, like he'd been 
screaming a lot. "Norton Drake is dead." At his side, Paul winced. 
Suzanne felt a small surge of sympathy. She and Harrison had had eight 
years to adjust to Norton's death. For Paul, Norton had been alive only a 
couple weeks earlier. For him, the wounds would still be fresh.

"That is unfortunate. However, his presence is not critical."

"Unfortunate? Unfortunate!?" Without thinking, Suzanne stepped forward 
and slapped the woman. The resulting pain in her hand reminded her again 
that while this being looked like a woman, she wasn't. It was like she'd 
slapped a brick wall. Suzanne gasped hugged her throbbing hand to her 
chest. For a moment, she wondered if she'd broken something.

Unfortunate? Sweet, brilliant Norton Drake. The man who'd run all their 
computers, designed their scanners and search engines, been their best 
support. The man with an infectious laugh, always ready to help. The man 
who'd been so patient with a child dragged out of her life and forced to 
live with a fight she hadn't chosen to be part of. The man who'd never 
let the disabilities that had put him in a wheelchair slow him down, even 
in a fight. Norton Drake had become one of her dearest friends and 
sometimes lover and this... *thing* was calling his death unfortunate but 
not critical? The fury let her ignore the pain in her hand.

The being that now held their lives in her hand just stared at her, not 
bothering to react to the ineffective assault. "I will return for you 
when the time is right." Then she was gone in a flash of light, leaving 
them alone in the dust-filled room.

Suzanne slowly collapsed into a seated position on the floor, dropping 
her head to her knees, fighting the urge to cry. She wasn't sure how much 
more of this she could take. She longed for her simple life in Cascade. 
No. She wanted to go further back. She wanted to go back to the days when 
she'd just been a scientist and a mother. She wanted the days when she 
laughed at the idea of aliens and invasions. She wanted a normal world 
again.

She wasn't going to get it.

* * * * *

Jarod Martin, zoo-keeper -- for the moment, at least -- stared out over 
the small enclosure, a smile on his face as he watched the otters frolic 
in their artificial grotto. The enterprising little creatures had built a 
slide in the embankment and were sliding down it to the water where they 
did fancy twists and turns before scampering up to the top of the slide 
to go again. A few just floated in the shallows, enjoying the warm 
Indian-summer sun. He loved to watch the otters. There were few creatures 
in the world that could match them for sheer love of life and playfulness.

"Jarod?"

The unfamiliar voice caught his attention. Jarod turned and slid his 
sunglasses down his nose to look at the man standing behind him. He was 
tall and skinny -- so skinny that he looked like a strong breeze would 
blow him over. He was dressed in much-ripped blue jeans, a Harley T-shirt 
and a leather bomber jacket that was probably too warm for the day, 
though he didn't show any signs of being uncomfortable.

"Yes. Do I know you?" Jarod didn't think he knew the man, but he'd met so 
many people since leaving his old home -- prison was probably a better 
term -- that sometimes his memory played tricks on him. Right now it was 
telling him that he'd seen this man before, but had not been introduced 
to him. He was having a little trouble remembering *where* though.

"Wolfling sent me."

That jogged his memory. Jarod had met Wolfling in New Mexico, almost a 
year earlier. He'd acquired a motorcycle and had decided to take a road 
trip. No destination, no plans. Just... see some more of the country he 
had so little practical experience with. He'd run into a biker gang led 
by an oversized Canadian with red hair and the improbable name of 
Wolfling and had ended up travelling with them for a couple of weeks. It 
had never occurred to him that it wasn't safe to do so.

About two weeks later, a group of goons from the Center had caught up 
with him, but the Hunters hadn't taken kindly to the interference with 
someone they'd accepted into their family. They hadn't killed the three 
men. Just tied them up and left them in a farmer's pig pen. Jarod smiled 
at the memory of the expression on the faces of the well-dressed men as 
they rolled in the mud, trying to get to their feet.

"So what brings you my way?" he asked, leaning back against the low wall 
separating the walkway from the otter enclosure below.

"Wolfling needs a favor."

Jarod nodded. He'd told the Canadian that if he ever needed anything 
from him to just call. He owed the man, and he liked to pay his debts. 
Besides, he liked Wolfling. "Where?" he asked, brief and to the point.

"Delaware. He says that your old friends have an unwilling guest that he 
wants to get out."

That caught Jarod's attention. After they'd defended him, he'd told the 
Hunters all about the Center and how he'd been taken by them as a child, 
his later escape and his quest to find his family while staying one step 
ahead of the Center's pursuit since then. How a Hunter -- or someone they 
knew -- had ended up in the Center, he didn't know. But he supposed he 
would find out.

"Let's go then," he said, reseating his sunglasses properly on his nose.

As they headed for the exit, they passed by the big cats building. Dimly, 
Jarod could hear the sounds of screams. Obviously, the soon-to-be-former 
owner of the zoo hadn't yet figured out that he was perfectly safe in the 
plexi-glass cage he was stuck in. Of course, that cage *was* in the 
middle of the lion enclosure, and the normally pleasant cats were not 
happy. The drugs that had been put in their food to make them more 
irritable -- and as a result providing a better show for the visitors -- 
made them very dangerous, as one of the zoo's employees had found out. He 
would let the man know that his scars were not in vain before he left for 
Delaware.

* * * * *

Debi was taking a few cautious steps around her prison when the door 
opened. Her stomach had finally settled down and the weather had turned a 
little cooler, letting her sleep at night, so she was starting to feel 
human. She was eating properly again and slowly regaining her strength.

She turned, expecting yet another of the endless stream of technicians 
who showed up to take blood samples and run tests on her. She wasn't sure 
why, but she had a feeling that it was related to whatever had been done 
to her when she'd arrived at this place.

It wasn't a technician or a doctor. Her eyes widened at the sight of 
the... man? standing in the doorway and she lost her balance, landing 
hard on her rear end.

"Are you all right?" her... visitor asked in a deep growl. He was at her 
side, holding out a hand out to her. She stared at it, and him, not 
moving. And it wasn't because all he was wearing was a short loincloth.

The being in front of her was shaped roughly like a man, but most 
definitely was not. Male, maybe, but not a man. Men did not come covered 
in a thick pelt of black fur like this one. And while men did often have 
blue eyes, they did not come with slit pupils like this one.

And they definitely did *not* come with tails.

He waited -- not very patiently -- for a moment. When she didn't take his 
hand... paw... whatever... he finally reached down and yanked her to her 
feet. She cried out, feeling like her arm had been nearly pulled from its 
socket. Almost at once, she found herself clutched to a soft, broad chest 
with a hand stroking her back soothingly.

There was a faint rumble above her head, which was tucked under his chin. 
He -- whoever he was -- was very tall and very muscular. Kind of like 
what Arnold Schwarzenegger would like if crossed with a black panther. 
When she finally managed to push away from him slightly, the sound had 
turned into words.

"sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry..."

Debi blinked. "I'm all right," she said, reaching up to turn the face to 
see her. She flinched a bit at the sharp teeth that showed through the 
still moving lips. However the big tears welling up in his eyes reassured 
her that he didn't *really* mean any harm, although it didn't escape her 
attention that he could probably rip her to shred accidentally.

"All right?" he asked, sniffling like a little boy. He rubbed the back of 
his hand across what was more muzzle than face. Debi couldn't help 
smiling and the contrast between his behavior and the deep, gravely voice.

"I'm all right," she repeated. "You just caught me a little... off-guard. 
Who are you?" He cocked his head to the side, looking at her with a 
puzzled expression. "What's your name?" she asked, trying again. That 
didn't get any more of a reaction than the first question. "What do they 
call you?" she tried desperately.

That got a reaction. He stood up straight and puffed up his chest 
proudly. "Test subject nine-seven!" he announced to the world.

Debi blinked, then paled a little. Test subject? It had a disturbing ring 
to it. "I can't call you that," she protested.

The panther-man deflated. "Why not?" he asked plaintively.

"It wouldn't be right. You need a name, not a number."

His features might be inhuman, but they were very expressive. At the 
moment, they were expressing confusion. "There's a difference?"

"Of course there is!"

He frowned slightly. "What's *your* name?"

"Debi."

"oh." His face went sad. "I don't have a name."

"Well, then we'll just have to give you one," Debi told him. There was 
something about his obvious innocence that she was finding very 
endearing. In fact, it reminded her of someone else she'd known, years 
ago. An enemy who'd become a friend. Someone who'd died and deserved to 
have his memory honored. "How about Ceto?"

"Ceto?"

"Yes. Do you like it?"
He stared at her for a moment, then puffed up again, She found herself 
giggling at the sight. "My name is Ceto!" he said in a very determined 
voice.

All at once, Debi found herself swept into another tight hug. The newly-
named Ceto was snuffling her hair, making a rumbling sound that was 
suspiciously like a purr. Debi giggled again and hugged him back, 
enjoying the feel of his silky fur against her cheek.

For the first time since she'd received the note from Agent Mulder, Debi 
McCullough felt safe and protected.

* * * * *

Mulder paced back and forth in his cell, trying to work off some nervous 
energy. Several days -- he wasn't sure how many -- had passed since his 
one visit from someone who wasn't a jailer. The man hadn't come back, but 
he wasn't surprised. Not long after that, he'd heard the sounds of 
construction outside his door and he would bet it was his jailers 
installing monitoring equipment in the hallways to make sure he didn't 
get any more unauthorized visitors.

He'd amused himself for a while searching his cell for audio pickups and 
cameras; something he'd become adept at in his frequent sweeps of his 
apartment back in DC. He'd found five, of a type he'd never seen before. 
The miniaturization was impressive: Much better than anything the FBI 
ever got. And he was pretty sure that he hadn't found them all.

It hadn't done him much good, though. Not long after he'd gleefully 
flushed the no-doubt expensive devices down his toilet, he'd woken from 
one of the increasingly erotic dreams he'd been having of Alex with the 
groggy, stuff-headed feeling that said his last meal had been drugged. 
When he'd checked, all the monitoring devices were back in place. They 
hadn't even bothered trying to hide them, just putting them back in the 
exact same spots.

Message received and understood.

Since then, the files had been arriving at an even faster pace, and now 
they had a common thread. While the incidents were now more mundane - 
although just as varied as before -- and were scattered across the 
country, they all had one name in common.

Jarod.

Who this Jarod person was, he wasn't sure at first. Sometimes he was 
described as a doctor, a fire fighter, a special effects wizard, a 
racecar driver. Hell, 'tinker, tailor, soldier, spy' was as good a phrase 
as any to describe the man. And he always seemed to show up to uncover 
secret crimes and corruption after someone had been hurt. Sort of a 
real-life superhero, according to the files Mulder was given.

After more than a dozen of these files, he'd started getting older ones: 
Files that explained just who and what Jarod was. He was a Pretender. A 
man with the ability to become anything he wanted, right down to the 
skills. Mulder quickly found himself speculating on just how this was 
possible. A subconscious form of telepathy was his guess, since it seemed 
that even Jarod didn't seem to know how he did what he did. It was the 
only way to explain how the man could walk into a hospital and become a 
surgeon: He plucked the necessary knowledge from the minds of the 
surgeons around him.

He was also, according to these files, the 'property' of The Center and 
had escaped several years earlier. Mulder would guess that The Center was 
the place he was currently being held.

The last file had come with a pad of paper, a pen and typewritten 
instructions: Propose a plan for predicting the subject's moves and 
reacquiring him.

This was what had him pacing like a caged animal. On an intellectual 
level, the puzzle was fascinating. He even had a few ideas based on the 
profile he'd built of the man while reading his files. However he had no 
interest in helping his jailers capture a man he found himself liking 
more and more as he read.

But he'd promised Spender that he would 'do as he was told.' If he 
didn't, Scully was the one that would suffer for his defiance.

What to do?

He was stuck in a cage with no way out.


TO BE CONTINUED