Disclaimer:  The characters in this story are the property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions.  This is an amateur effort and no infringement on copyright policies was intended.  There was no money made off the thinking, writing, and or posting of this story and it remains for entertainment purposes only.

Summary:  It is 2009, three years between the agents and the looming date of the invasion.  An assassin is assigned to hunt them down and kill them and their children, Meredith and William.  Unfortunately, her ties to the past make the job rather difficult.  Mix this with mind games and secret alliances and you have the makings of a jolly good X-File.

Author's Notes:  This is the longest time I have ever spent pondering a story.  The government assassin thing struck me summer 2000, and I have been considering a proper story ever since.  Now, because I have finally worked in at least most of my loop holes, I can officially announce that The Genesis Breed is ready to be unleashed.

                             The Genesis Breed


            It is a four sided room with no windows and a door that only opens one way.  It is a prison in every sense of the word, with no bed to sleep upon and no sound.  The floor is concrete and cold, the walls made of thick stone, and an entrance of titanium provides people to walk in.  The second it shuts, however, it cannot let people out.

            The darkness surrounds her, the small and fragile body of a seven year old trapped in despair and melancholy.  She is a number, not a name; nothing but a small and innocent angel amidst the white clad devils of hell.  They dress her in white, burning three numbers in dark ink on her wrist under a bar code.

            Her ears are pounding constantly.  She yearns to hear something other than the silence swirling around her head.  She dreams of the voices in her past, the sweet and tender voices that comforted her, the laughter and the tears that came in her wake, and the smiles that she failed to give under such circumstances.

            And now she would never see them again.  Never again.

            She is curled in a position on the floor, head lowered onto her arms bent over her knees.  Her hair is gone, replaced with fuzzy bristles of strawberry blonde that used to curl around her fingers childishly.  She can remember the way the sun hit it and the way someone used to play with it, twisting it and braiding it.  Another memory wasted uselessly.  Along with the memory of eyes watching her, gleaming with inner happiness and broken with inner turmoil.  It was saddening, those eyes, making her heart break under her small chest.

            But she didn't cry.  She couldn't cry.

            "Crying is a weakness."  The teacher said as she paced at the front of the makeshift classroom, dark, sadistic lips pouring lies into the small children's ears.  They were to sit up straight and watch her without complaint, but their eyes continued to focus on the thin, flexible wooden rod in her fingers, the one that she was bending in her fists threateningly.  "Emotion is a weakness."  A boy started to sob, afraid with the tone she was gaining. 

            She slapped the rod across his knees and made him scream.

            "YOU CANNOT BE WEAK!"  She snapped in her cruel voice, slapping him again, this time across the chest.  He was thrown back to the floor, unable to breathe now, choked sobs coming from his throat with ragged coughs.

            Four children looked away.  Their heads were pushed back to face it.

            So she doesn't cry.  She doesn't emote.  She's an empty shell in the darkness, the flame of her innocence going out like a candle.

            It is the first night she will make them happy.  In her darkened cell she laments, the voices whispering things in her ears that she can understand but cannot act upon.  They tell her they know how to keep the people happy.  They know how she will continue to survive, empty or not.  There is instinct and meaning behind their words of wisdom, their whispered truths that only she can hear.  They know how she can live while other die and how she can endure anything these teachers throw at her. 

            The ideas continue in her ears and mind, clearing the mess in front of her vision.  She relaxes her tensed muscles in her legs and arms, realizing that the darkness is no longer eating her away.  It is no longer chopping away her soul with a rusty knife.  Oh no, it is different now.  She is eating at the darkness.

            The voices in her head say that this is good, and that this is what must happen for her to make them happy.  She must give them what they want?

            "What do they want?"  Her childish voice asks, along in the pitch black recesses of her mind.







            The door squeaks and she stares straight ahead, making no attempt to look into the bright light that floods in from the hallway.  The man in white and the female teacher have no smiles on their faces.  They have no emotions in their actions.  They wait for her to stand and come forward.  The stick in the woman's fingers, curving sadistically, threatens pain for punishment.  She doesn't look at it.  She concentrates on the voices now, listening to what they tell her to do.

            The boy she is to fight is larger than she.  He is stronger than she as well.  But she fails to notice these things.  He comes forward to her and punches her across the cheek, making her jaw snap.  His kicks her in the stomach without mercy and stamps on her shoulder.

            The bone is dislocated.  The pain makes her black out for seconds, but when she awakens, she sees her chance.  He has turned to face the teachers, awaiting approval.  But they do not give him it, and will not from that day forward.

            She is seven and she can kill, she knows this now, leaping onto his back and pulling her arms around his neck.  He is choking, flailing his arms at the parasite that clings to his back and tightens her grip on his throat. 

            He is dropping, and the voices are happier.  The teachers are watching with gleams in their eyes.

            She feels him go to his knees and drops off.  The gleaming eyes disappear prematurely as she walks around and hurls her foot into his groan, causing him to open his mouth, choking more.  But she is not finished.  She will never be finished until he is dead.

            Her shoulder is making her eyes burn, but she spins around and smashes her foot into his cheek, causing another crack to radiate from his face.  With her last bout of strength she stomps on his throat and holds her foot there until his body goes slack.

            And the teachers are happy.  The child has learned to kill.


            John Doggett thought as if he had lost the chances to have a child when Luke died.  He locked himself up inside, seeing his friends and family members having their own children.  He felt as is he had confirmed the saying, always a bridesmaid, never a bride.  His of course was more along the lines of always an uncle, never a father.

            That was before he had married Monica Reyes.  She was sure that he would see fifty with at least ten children. 

            They had welcomed their first and only on October 6, 2002.  Because of the complications with the birth, it was declared that Monica would bear no other children besides their daughter, Meredith Angela-Marie.

            It was worth every second, in John's opinion.  A daughter was much different than what he had experienced with Luke.  Sons and fathers are often expected to get along.  Daughters usually shied towards their mothers, something that bothered John a little more than it should have. 

            He looked through the glass and into the nursery at the baby sleeping soundly in the plastic cradle, curling up with her blankets.  He could have sworn that she was smiling as she did so, even though the doctors had all ruined his dreams and said that babies can't smile at that age.  She was paler than her mother, inheriting most of her father's looks from his light hair and blue eyes to skin tone.  But she had Monica's mouth and chin, there were no doubts there.

            It looked like the perfect setup for him.  Dana and Fox with their baby, he and Monica with theirs.  It was returning to normal, although he knew there had to be something waiting to ruin all this.  It was the way of life for them.

            Still, he couldn't help but ignore the instinct every time he picked up his daughter.

            "She really did smile at me."  He told Monica one night.  She laughed a little.

            "Sure, she did John."  She replied, looking across the room at the crib.  They laughed a little while longer before falling asleep.  Softly, the music from the mobile started to play as the small animals turned and danced above the baby's head.

            And she smiled.


            Okay, a short beginning.  I would like to have some feedback before continuing.  Thank you!