Gibson Praise is small for twelve. He has poor eyesight and a juiced up God module, the jaded fatigue of those burdened with a gift. This listless little boy, a sublime specimen at the fringe of human understanding. This child without a childhood.
Scully wants to take a Stryker to his brainpan, harvest a slice of that magnificent temporal lobe. She wants to take him to get soft serve at the beach, let him throw pebbles at the seagulls. She wants to murder anyone who would attempt to harm him.
And just to complicate things further, Mulder’s magnanimous warmth with this boy, with any child, really, sets her bones to singing that artless old song.
Are you two the parents?