Title: The Garou Files: A Nightmare at Hegal Place

Author/Pseudo: Mrs. Fish

Rating: PG (for now)

Warnings: Violence; minor spoilers for Gethsemene.

Story Summary for Archiving Purposes: Is it a nightmare or reality? Andwhat happens when they're the same? An X-Files/Werewolf: The Apocalypsecrossover.

Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment of fans.No infringement of any copyrights held by Ten Thirteen Productions, Fox,Chris Carter, White Wolf Game Studio or others is intended. This story isnot published for profit, and the author does not give permission for thisstory to be reproduced for profit. The author makes no claims on the charactersor their portrayal by the creation of this story.

Notes: This is a prequel, of sorts, to a much larger AU series I'm writingin which Mulder and Krycek are both werewolves. No knowledge of the Werewolfrole playing game is needed to understand this story.


The Garou Files: A Nightmare at Hegal Place by Mrs. Fish

O God! I could be bounded in a nut-shell, and count myself a king of infinitespace, were it not that I have bad dreams.
-- Hamlet act 2, sc. 2, 1. [263]

Washington, DC
September 1992

The darkness surrounds me like a shroud.

It's a comforting feeling; a warmth that courses through my veins as stronglyas my own life's blood. A sharp contrast to the chill night air that slipsdown the upturned collar of my trenchcoat.

Whitecaps rise and spray ahead of a strong wind that gusts down the Potomac.Flags snap like gunshots, and automobiles tremble when they're caught broadsideat the city's wider intersections.

The Mall is nearly deserted.

A few scraps of paper tumble across the short, brown grass, and a long blackcat races for the leeward shelter of a Metro station. I watch and smilebriefly as the animal vigorously attacks a candy wrapper that skitters aheadof it before sitting calmly, only its tail twitching.

It looks in my direction. I see the eyes gleaming narrow, and sense thesoft warning growl deep in its throat before fear forces it to scurry intothe sheltering shadows.

I hunch my shoulders before moving on; watch the streetlight shadow slipahead of me and swing behind. I have no clear idea where I want to go, orwhere I'll end up; for the moment, just being outside -- being able to breathefresh air -- is good enough.

The wind rises, bringing scents I ignore -- gasoline and warm metal; coolingstone and exhaust; an old woman asleep, wrapped in rags and newsprint, dying.I round a corner into a small, upscale shopping district and pause... lookingfor clues that will lead me to my prey.

It's out there; it always is.

I know it. I just can't see it... yet.


I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone thou art, andfrom thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe. -- John Milton,Paradise Lost

There were no shapes or shadows now; the night had taken them and replacedthem with long stretches of nothing but the reach of the car's headlights.They turned the tarmac gray, blending the trees along the highway into amottled, black wall.

Neither the interstate's sparse evening traffic, nor the darkened landscapehad registered except as flashes of headlights, glimpses of illuminatedsigns pointing this way to fuel, that way to food.

I'd been functioning on automatic; my concentration focused only on theneed to escape the city. A need so tangible I could almost taste it -- themetallic taste of blood.

A yawn breaks the silence, so wide and noisy that I almost laugh. My fog-shroudedbrain functions enough to realize I need to stop and rest.

I find a Ramada Inn half a mile off the highway and take a room. I set mybag down, then begin to pace from door to window, over and over. I catchmyself and quickly go outside to walk for a while; to stretch my limbs andbreathe the night air.

Despite my weariness, I'm restless... too restless to stay in a place withfour walls.

I walk slowly, inhaling the scent of earth still damp from a recent lightrain. The sounds of muffled music from the motel's bar, someone laughinggently, dresser drawers being slammed, and the deep rumbling of a truckfrom the highway drift over me; centering me to this place.

A few more steps. I keep close to the trees in case someone should lookout. But I won't be seen; I'm as much at home out here as in there.

I duck into the trees and begin to trot, then run; exhilarating in the feelof the cool night air against my flushed skin. Lungs burning and sides aching,I stop briefly to catch my breath. It's then that I realize the world hassuddenly fallen silent.

Cocking my head, I strain for a sound -- any sound -- beyond the rasp ofmy own breathing. It lasts only a few seconds, but it's long enough to remindme that my restlessness isn't entirely due to job stress or exhaustion.

Much of it is because it's been a while since I last hunted.

Since I took the form.

Since I marked my prey.

Since I tasted blood.

A slow smile parts my lips; the rumbling in my throat almost tickles.

I can see the lights from a few of the motel's windows through the trees,and wonder what they'd think if they heard something howling out here. Wouldthey come out or hide? Investigate or call for help?

It was tempting. So wonderfully, dangerously tempting that I might havedone it if a first-floor drapery hadn't parted. I saw a shadow there; someonelooking out at the night.

I sigh loudly and slowly make my way back to my room.

Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow night I'll allow myself a few hoursof freedom.

But for now there's a need to rest. Perhaps a quick call to my partner toallay her concerns over my behavior the last few days.

As I enter the room, I barely have time to take off my clothes before sleepdrags me under, and all else is forgotten in the velvet umbra which surroundsme.


Strut on the line it's discord and rhyme I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
-- Duran Duran, "Hungry Like the Wolf"

I found him tonight. Roaming the back alleys of a once proud neighborhood-- reduced now to empty, decaying buildings which housed the castaways ofsociety -- I caught the unmistakable stench of one of the Wyrm's minions.

The hunt had begun.

But he was making it too easy. He had to be leading me into a trap.

His pace never changed; he made no attempt to alter his course. It was almostas if he *wanted* me to catch him. Or so I thought at the time.

The expression on his face when I cornered him told me I was wrong.

Backed against unyielding brick and mortar, the acrid smell of his fearpermeated the air around me, almost drowning out the foul odor of decaysurrounding him. Almost, but not quite.

I drew lips back over fangs and snarled. He frantically sought a means toescape, but, thankfully for me, there was none. His panic- stricken brainoverloaded and instinct took over -- a need to flee overriding common sense.He ran... straight into my waiting jaws.

He made a brief, choking noise as I tore out his throat; the blood gurgledand bubbled, then cascaded down the front of his denim jacket. I firmlyheld his spasming body and gazed into the blackness of his terror-filledeyes as his life faded before me. When it was over, I dropped him whereI stood -- another bit of detritus added to the pile -- retrieved my clothes,made my way back to the car and headed home.


All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams. -- Elias Canetti,Die Provinz der Menschen (1973) p. 269

Alexandria, Virginia
February, 1997

I can smell him; the scent is unmistakable. I weave between parked cars,hiding in shadows. Waiting. Stalking. Hunting.

He glances back over his shoulder. Yes, he knows someone or something isfollowing and he quickens his pace just a fraction.

Too late.

I leap from behind my cover and chase him into an alley. Trapped.

His scream is cut off by clamping jaws and shredding claws. I raise my head,letting the rich warmth flow down my throat, and howl triumphantly...


It takes me a minute to realize I'm in the living room of my apartment.The gentle bubbling of the fish tank is calming and reassuring after thenightmare.

I'm trembling and drenched in sweat. Again. How many nights does this makenow?

I swing my legs off the sofa, prop elbows on knees, and bury my face inmy hands. My heart is pounding out a jackhammer tattoo in my chest. If thiskeeps up much longer, I won't have to worry about dying in the field. I'lljust keel over from a heart attack after one of these damned dreams.

Rising shakily, I manage to get to the bathroom and into the shower withoutgiving in to the panic threatening to overwhelm me.


I bury myself in work. Exhaustion is the only way to escape my terror-fillednights.

When Arlinsky contacted me about his find in the St. Elias Mountains, Ijumped like a starving dog that's been offered a bone. I realized too latethat the bone was man-made.


Deceived. By both Arlinsky and Kritschgau. Tangled in their web of lies,there's only one way out -- the Glock resting in my hand.

I need a miracle. But I'd lost my faith a long time ago... along with Samantha.

So I pick up my service revolver, place it against my head and squeeze myeyes shut.


A whisper; a caress. It gets my attention.

I gasp. Backlit from the hallway, he looks like an angel -- well, maybea dark angel. Black leather and denim and a gaze that draws me into itsdepths.

"We need to talk."

Who am I to argue with intervention, divine or otherwise?

The end.


To be continued in The Garou Files: Of Wolf and Man.

Davyerit nikto!