It was so damn hot this time of year.  Alex wiped the sweat from his forehead, and rolled his head to one side, then the other, stretching his tight neck muscles.  Large crowds were so stressful - it was hard to watch everyone, and even harder to predict the way people would react.  The bodies were like a malleable sea, but they followed no discernible patterns, grouping together so it was hard to get through them, and thinning out to leave him no cover at the most inopportune times.

He went to the lockers by the front gate and took off his leather jacket.  He deposited a quarter, and the jacket, in exchange for a cheap orange-handled key.  The last thing he needed today was heatstroke.

He watched the influx of people at the front gate from the shade of the building in front of the lockers for a while.  All these people, here to have a good time.  He could never fit in with them.  But he could look like he did, if he tried.  He glanced down at his left hand - that was the thing that would stand out the most.  He put it in his left pocket, casually, and glanced at the arm.  The arm looked more real than the hand.  Unless someone was really looking at him, they probably wouldn't notice that the texture of the skin was all wrong, and the color was just a little bit off.

The t-shirt he wore had longer sleeves so that it covered the seam where his flesh had been grafted to the abysmally inept prosthetic, and fit loosely so no one would notice the bulge of the gun at his side.

He stepped out into the crowd of people, looking around a little, as though he was expecting to see someone he knew.  That's what people who were alone in this crowd were doing - looking for someone else who was alone, so they could meet up and become a pair, or a group, or a tour.

The midway was an assault on his senses.  The light was so bright it hurt his eyes.  The music was generic, and too loud.  The rides were filled with screaming girls, laughing kids, and guys who were trying to be tough by yelling out off-color comments at the screaming girls.

The games were manned by people who yelled out at him, asking him to try his luck, telling him how much it would cost to play.  It reminded him of an open-air market in one - hell, any - of the third-world countries he'd scouted Syndicate project locations in.  He paused to wait for a group of school-kids, wearing matching shirts, to pass.  While he waited, he looked into the stall he was next to.

The barker, an over-developed girl in her mid-twenties, mistook his perusal as interest.  She walked over to him, and started telling him that if he could knock one of the bottles off the platform, he could win a cheap stuffed thing, and if he could knock all three off the platform, he could win a cheap and huge stuffed thing.  He looked at the stuffed things that lined the upper-portion of the stall.  The corners of his mouth tugged upward, "If I knock over all three bottles, can I have that?" he pointed.

She nodded, and he paid for five tries.  He knew he only needed one, but the girl looked like she'd seen too few good meals lately.

He took his prize back to the locker and stuffed it in there with his leather jacket, and made better time through the crowd this time.  He was learning this crowd's patterns of movement.

He found his way to the barn where the animals were kept.  It smelled like a warm farmyard, but it was better than the heat of the sun outside.  He strolled casually in here, looking at the cows, goats and pigs that had been judged.  The horses were more interesting, and he spent a lot more time watching them in their stalls.  There was something relaxing about their contented mannerisms, the way they slept, ate, and flicked flies away with their tails.

He checked his watch - it was getting closer to the time.

He found his way to the exhibitions building and walked through the home-crafts section.  He looked at quilts, pies, cakes, table-settings, and jars of preserves.  This seemed to be the place where people with crying babies came, and he cringed at the closeness of strangers around him.  In front of the quilts a middle-aged woman bumped into him, and he shifted on his feet with a sigh of annoyance as he pocketed the quarter she had dropped into his hand.  Amateurs were so annoying to deal with.

He looked at quilts and table-settings for a while longer, his nerves more and more worn by the proximity of so many people.  Finally, it was time.  He went outside, and bought a bottled water from a stand just outside the building.  The bottle was cool in his hand, and the water was even cooler in his mouth.  Such a simple pleasure, he remembered times when even water to drink wasn't a given.

The next building would be the worst, he knew.  The sales buildings, where people came to sell their products to the eager masses of America, who needed more crap to clutter their over-sized homes and tiny lives.  His jaw set, and he went it.

It was just as bad as he'd expected.  This was the air-conditioned building, and also the most crowded.  He walked down the long aisles, the sound in the building almost intolerable.  The sound of people talking, kids crying, laughter and haggling...it was almost unbearable.

He took a long drink of water and watched the vendors carefully.  When he spotted what he was watching for, he almost laughed.  The Air Force enlistment booth was such an obvious cover.  He stepped up to the rack of brochures and picked one up.  The enlisting agent, a man about his own age, who probably hadn't met his quota yet, struck up a conversation with him almost immediately, "Thinking of joining?"

Alex shook his head, "No.  But I wish my good-for-nothing son would do something with his life.  Maybe he could defend our country, and get out of my house."

The officer nodded, "I just finished my tour of duty.  It'll make a man of him."

Alex looked over the officer, and had to hide his laughter in a fake sneeze.  This was not someone he would trust to cover him.  He'd rather trust Mulder, who at least wouldn't turn and run.

"Excuse me.  I would settle for him being useful.  Anyway, I'll take these home with me."

"Sure.  What's your son's name?"

"Luke," Alex answered easily.

"That's a good name.  Give him my card, he can talk to me when he calls," the officer handed over his business card.

Alex tucked it into the brochure, and nodded, "Thanks."

He walked away from the booth, knowing that the quarter was at the bottom of the old wooden pamphlet-rack where it would be retrieved later that evening by someone who actually knew what it meant to protect humanity.

Alex didn't leave the building right away, although he wanted to.  He bought some home-made fudge from an almost local confectioner, finished his water, and went outside to throw away the bottle.  Dusk was settling, and the midway was busy with screaming girls, laughing kids, and guys who were trying to be tough by yelling out off-color comments at the screaming girls.  The music was generic, and too loud.  The lights were so bright they hurt his eyes.

He went to the locker and took back his leather jacket, prize, and quarter, leaving the cheap orange-handled key behind.

He found his car in the parking lot, a black Nissan.  He got in, and cranked up the air conditioner.  He was at Marita's place almost three hours later, having gone through a drive-through so he could eat a burger in the car.

She looked up from her seat on the sofa when he came in the front door, "How was work?"

"Fine," he answered, "the drop was made successfully.  And I brought you something."

"What's that?" she asked suspiciously.

He set the box of hand-made fudge on the table in front on her, along with the stuffed thing he had won.

She stared at it, and started laughing, "Just what I always needed.  A plushie alien."

Step 1. Serve
Step 2. Resist from Within