Quonochotaug, Maine August 24, 1972 The sun is setting. It casts a red aura around the sky, an unsettling cast on the water which laps at the coastline. There are two figures sitting in the sand -- their torsos blending into the granular substance which surrounds them. Silhouettes. Children clothed in black, working in front of the fire- red paint of the sun, in front of the water which has been coloured orange. One is kneeling, feeling the gritty coarseness underneath his hands. Piling, shaping, adding twigs to make towers, moats, and castle doors. The other is sitting across from the heaped protruding mass, trying to help the figure across from her, but more often than not, causing some of the towers to fall, or digging the moat too crookedly. The taller of the two reaches over, and places the plastic vessel in the make-shift moat -- ignoring that there is no water, or that the moat is slightly too small for the plastic boat's width. The younger claps eagerly, bobbing up and down on her knees, watching the figure across from her proceed to take a leaf and place it on top of the ship's grooved deck. "Say it, Fox. Say it." The boy smiles -- the rare display of pearls hidden to the watchful eyes in the house above. He is a silhouette -- an artist's handiwork -- except to the figure across from him. Across from the figure whose eyes are bright, whose hands are wringing in anticipation. He takes the three lego men, sits them in the boat, and starts to manually move the vessel around the sandy trench. He looks up once again -- raises an eyebrow to the girl watching the hand on top of the boat expectantly. "The old moon laughed and sang a song. As they rocked in the wooden shoe. And the wind that sped them all night long, ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish that lived in the beautiful sea -- `Now cast your nets wherever you wish -- never afeared are we.'" The story teller pauses; the leaf on the boat is cast into the empty crevice. The smaller framed figure laughs. Claps her hands and starts to blow on the make-shift shoe. She is the wind, after all, and the figure beside her with the coy smile is the singing moon. The red water starts to lick at the appendages jutting just within reach of its mouth. A growing force which is coming closer to the shore -- closer to the innocents who sit underneath the burning sun. The laughing quells. A shadow is cast upon the castle, the waves of dew, and the herring fish. Black upon black. A demon amongst silhouettes. The boy is yanked cruelly by the arm, dragged towards the house that overlooks the burning sky, the orange water, and the roaring waves. "Come here, boy. I told you to be in at seven-o-clock." The silhouette and demon are rapidly disappearing, metamorphosing into human forms underneath the garish light of the patio lanterns. The young girl stands suddenly, stepping on the castle, the moat, the net, and the fishermen three. The boy is still watching her, his brown hair now highlighted, his dirty, sand encrusted hands a contrast to the pale skin. The waves are still licking her feet, running over her ankles, threatening her calves. "Fox!" The boy tries to keep up with the figure, running backwards because of the grip on his arm. His other arm is flailing wildly in a futile attempt to maintain a semblance of balance. "Sam!" The two keep calling each other, beckoning to each other, although the distance between them is rapidly increasing. Soon, he is gone, hidden behind closed doors and sounds that everyone will pretend not to hear. Will admire the patio umbrellas and the glorious texture of the peach cobbler. The girl looks back to the castle, sniffling, tears threatening. The tide has already consumed it alive. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Troy Archer wiped the sweat of his head with the back of his hand -- made sure his other hand was still supporting the frail figure in his arms. He looked down towards the book lying on the floor underneath him. He knew the poem. He had had the book memorized five months after Derlum had arrived. Memorized that it was fifteen paces from his quarters to hers -- twelve if the screaming was really bad. But he had never done a "moon" voice. There was no fox in the poem. And opening the book with its painted drawings had merely produced a double dose of Haldol for the invalid when her clenched fist met the cartilage of the nose above her. He stroked the stringy hair, mumbling his apologies when his fingers would catch occasionally in the brown mass of tangles, sweat, and deep curls. The woman began to stir again and the mantra continued, words absently spilling, rolling out of the man's mouth. Coherent only to the incoherent. Words now known by every member in the infirmary. Words now whispered to make the crying abate, to get the muscles to relax and stop the spasms. "Yes, there's a fox coming... it'll be coming soon... soon... just a little while longer... just hold on... like the book... like the moon... " Starting to shift more, legs starting to kick, arms starting to flail, the woman fought against the strong, interlocked arms that held her. The eyes were shifting, rolling underneath closed eye lids. Teeth were grinding, hands were clenching furiously at the air. The figure sat upright, eyes bolting open, one hand outstretched. The scream was deafening, bringing the medics with multicolored syringes, plunger-happy thumbs resting happily on top. "Fox!" *** Private Airplane En Route to: Moscow, Russia The two figures watched with amusement as the man on the floor continued to shift, move slowly -- as if liquid was slowing down his movements. Smiles were exchanged during the drugged dance, snickers were passed during the sing-song moans. The prone figure's eyes clenched tighter, saline staining the steel floor underneath him. The movements became more agitated -- the one arm clawing at the other, the legs kicking furiously at the air around them. A steel booted heel connected with the flailing figure's abdomen. "Shut your mouth!" It was a nether region. A place where reality and illusion and the past were intermingling. Combining. A bedroom with Apollo posters and school books and baseball bats. A monster screaming in the background -- a storm brewing outside, the thunder is particularly loud tonight. The boy knows that if he shuts his mouth the strap will be put away sooner. If he shuts his mouth maybe he can go to bed. If he shuts his mouth, maybe Sam will sneak some crackers up. If he just shuts his mouth... The figure quieted, whimpering. Curled himself into a fetal position, and clamped his lips down tight, breathing heavily through his nostrils -- the gasps marred by the hiccups which made his entire body shudder. The castle was so far away, and disappearing. Sam was going away too. A black silhouette against a brilliant Maine sunset. "Sam...." The Russian was ready. Grabbed the figure by the arm, and plunged the syringe, ignored the moan by the figure on the floor. The whimpering abated, and the two figures, for the first time on the flight, started to laugh. *** Lincoln Memorial Washington, DC Skinner watched the female's face transform slowly -- pale and shaken from the most recent shoot out, to a livid red when the object of her wrath had died with a final blood crusty sputter. "Come on, Rolston, you ass hole. Rolston, wake up... stay with me... Fuck!" Scully slammed her hands on the snow covered pavement -- turned towards her boss when she realized there was still another outlet for her anger. "What the hell just happened?" Skinner shook his head. "I think you and I both witnessed the same thing, wouldn't you say, Agent Scully?" Scully started shaking her head. Rose up form the dead body to inch her face closer to her boss' -- ignored the steady stream of garlic-smelling vapour meeting her nostrils. "We witnessed the same things, but some of us have connections. Are connected to certain circles and are privy to *certain* information." Silence descended on the two figures. Skinner stared straight ahead, focused on a point just beyond Scully's head. His counterpart focused on the eyes of the man in front of her -- attempted to analyze every facial tick, every side glance, any evidence that the man in front of her was lying. A stalemate. Again. Familiar ground. A repeat of events that had transpired only two years ago, but except for the DAT tape, the object in question was pure, unadulterated knowledge. Scully cocked her head to the side, her blue eyes boring holes into the AD's glasses. "Where is Mulder..." An afterthought: "...sir." "I don't know, Agent Scully." The female agent rubbed her chapped hands over her mouth, couldn't hold back the stinging retort when it came. "You decided to take a walk at Lincoln Park coincidentally at the same time as Mulder and five snowshovellers and four men in black." "May I remind you, so did you, Agent Scully." Skinner watched the agent's cheeks start to grow dark -- wasn't sure if it was from the stress or from the wind that had started to pick up. The next question was posed in a low, guttural growl. "So then where did your snow shovelling friends take my partner?" Confusion etched Skinner's face momentarily, to be replaced by annoyance. To be replaced by a fear that the agent was... somewhere. A weight settling in his groin told him that he had screwed up, and instinct was telling him to cover his ass and get somewhere. Far. And fast. "That wasn't us... them, Agent Scully. I came to warn Agent Mulder. I had heard through unofficial channels, as you call them, that a bounty had been put on Mulder's head. I have no idea where he is at the moment." The AD noticed the look of doubt on Scully's face. A lie was best hidden between two truths, and Mulder was the king piece on a twisted and ever-changing checkerboard. "Can you find out?" There was a bitter laugh. The fire in Scully's blue eyes had been replaced with worry, was the carbon copy of the look the female agent wore when Mulder had gone to the Arctic. "I don't know if I'm privileged to that information, Agent Scully." Scully nodded -- surveyed the park once again. Empty. No snow shovellers. No men in black. Only her, and Skinner, and the carcass in front of them. She looked towards her boss -- tried to study the eyes that refused to meet her gaze. She had respected him. She had admired his courage when he had reopened the X-Files, when he had dealt with the DAT tape and reinstated them. But the man was an enigma. Would pull Mulder's chain, would pull cases back without explanation. Would do things like... *this* -- where her boss' actions over the course of the past couple days defied any semblance of logic. The female agent pushed a lock of hair away from her face, sighing. "Can you at least tell me if the case you *assigned* to Agent Mulder was related to this, or other instances involving... unofficial channels?" Skinner shook his head -- tried to be as ambiguous as possible. "I don't know, perhaps." Skinner watched the female agent clench her jaw. But just as she trying to protect her partner, he was trying to protect someone as well. "Can you find out? Do you know why they would want him?" "Agent Scully, I don't know anything, I was just here to warn Mulder. That's all." Scully opened her mouth to add a retort, but just as soon closed it, twisting it into a tight lipped line, adding to her features newly acquired look of determination. "Fine. I have three hundred bodies from that grave. And I'll find something. I refuse to believe that there is no evidence which cannot indict these people, or you. Or lead to the whereabouts of Agent Mulder." The female agent turned on her heels, footsteps echoing through the stone pillars of Lincoln's legs. Only till the female agent was out of sight, did the Assistant Director of the FBI release a sigh. He reached for the cell phone resignedly, studying the features of the dead body in front of him. The thought that it could easily be him, propelled his fingers to dial. The thought that *they* could waggle his albatross yet again, prompted his vocal chords to work. The thought that he was in a situation that was rapidly starting to spin out of control was soon forgotten as English Accent picked up on the third ring. The cell phone soon disconnected, and Skinner was left alone once again with his thoughts, fully focused on the task at hand: getting the hell out of there, and turning Agent Rolston's murder into suicide. *** Russian Family Planning Center Moscow, Russia The lab techs were working furiously on the third green tank from the right. It was leaking. Morph one thirty one had accidentally hit it with a steel cart and now the polymer glass had a minute crack in it. "It's futile. We need a new tank." A hand reached into the tank and pulled out a membrane enclosed sac. Still pulsating, red fluid still flowing through translucent passages, the sac was thrown into the incinerator. A distinct pop could be heard mere seconds later. With a controlled efficiency, a new tank was assembled and a new fertilized cell was placed carefully in. On the other side, larger tanks were happily bubbling, one hundred and forty nine to be exact. One hundred and forty nine tanks filled with appendaged beings that bore a strong resemblance to those beings who currently walked the Earth. Jeremiah had to smile. So gullible were humans. Their bodies were so delicate, their brains so simple -- a perfect carrier for a more superior being. He looked into the holding room -- watched the four hundred some people mingle absently. Humans were also incredibly stupid. He pulled out a child, handing him a piece of metal, and both walked over to morph one thirty one. "Sir... I didn't mean to hit the tank." The technician looked at the child. Took in his pale, waxy complexion and the stout legs. "The child looks slightly sickly sir." He shifted uncomfortably when met with silence once again. "I'm sorry sir. It won't happen again." Jeremiah smiled. "It won't." A silent message was passed between child and father. The gun was raised and a hot, lead pellet went searing through the morphs neck. The boy looked back up to the taller figure, eyes expectantly waiting. The morph took the gun from the boy's hands, toed the green fluid that was now melting into the floor. Jeremiah smiled. Sickly-looking and all, the boy would do quite nicely. *** Mulder Apartment Alexandria, Virginia The case file had been strewn over the floor. The picture frame across from the couch had been shattered. The phone laid innocently below. But Scully was sitting on the couch -- for the first time really studying the girl in front of her. Her thoughts flashed back to Roche, and of what Mulder had told her had transpired in Canada, and to all the heartache, and silent tears, and body-wracking shudders, and prayed, for her partner's sake, that the little girl in the frame was worth all of it. The gun was still on the coffee table. The holster was still on the gun. Any insight to where the man in question was, was with the man in question. A knock on the door had Scully warily reaching for her hip while cautiously approaching the wooden panel. The woman outside looked confused, then scowled. "Are you a girlfriend?" Scully reached into her pocket. "Federal Agent Dana Scully." The woman squinted and leaned into the badge, studying the writing. "Yeah, well you tell your boyfriend that his rent is due. He's three days late already." Scully nodded. The woman started turning away, varicose veins showing underneath a tattered house coat. "Oh, and you also tell him, any repairs to *anything* have to be run through me." Scully's head tilted; her heart started to flutter. "What do you mean?" The woman sneered. "I mean, if he wants to fix his water filter, he has to get it okayed by me first before calling in the repair guys -- even if he pays in advance." Scully felt her stomach drop -- her innards scream, no, not again. She nodded, whispered, "I'll be sure to tell him." Soon as the woman was gone, Scully made a familiar trek to Mulder's basement -- flashlight and evidence bag in hand -- ignoring the rapidly surfacing, sick feeling of deja vu in the pit of her stomach. *** Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC Although she had always flaunted science in her partner's face -- although it was the basis of all her thought processes and opinions, Doctor Special Agent Dana Scully was fully aware that science could be one ambiguous bitch. She looked at Pendrell, trying to feign interest in the equipment that he was showing her -- the equipment that was being used to test Mulder's dialysis filter... yet again. She looked back at the evidence bag on the counter and wondered where he was this time. She doubted he was in New Mexico. The writing analysis had been a match. Surprise, surprise. But there was little Scully could do with it. She highly doubted that Skinner would be shaking in his knees if she presented the evidence to him. Pendrell finally ended his diatribe and handed Scully a half inch report. "It's the best I could do under the time restraints." Scully nodded. Flipping. Frowning. "So what is this?" Pendrell shrugged. "From first glance it looks like a bunch of polypeptide chains. The nitrogen groups, the hydrogen, the carboxyl group, and the 'R' group indicates amino acids, which logically indicates proteins which logically indicates enzymes." "But..." "But these are enzymes we've never seen before. And there's doubt to whether they're enzymes at all. Perhaps it's just nitrogenous junk." Scully sighed to vent her growing frustration. "So why would someone plant it in someone's water?" Pendrell shrugged again. "I dunno. There are no effects in terms of drug effects. There are no obvious side effects with other drugs the person might have been taking." Scully flipped though the papers and tests, eyes focusing on one particular abnormality. "What's this?" Pendrell looked over and started nodding. "That's what I was going to bring up. Nothing spectacular except for this result. It seems that the substance is basically taken up by the cell's nucleus. Every single cell. Not in the cytosol, or cytoplasm... only in the nucleus." Scully studied the report in front of her. Nucleus. The nucleus was the decision making center of every cell. DNA was carried in the nucleus. Shit, at this pace, perhaps she'd find Mulder before her fiftieth birthday. If she was lucky. She shut the folder abruptly and tucked it between her arms. Pendrell shuffled on both feet, and darted his eyes between the back room and the agent in front of him. "Agent Scully, I'm sure you heard of Rolston's suicide..." Scully nodded her head, arms closing tighter around the folder. "... I just wanted to tell you that his funeral is tomorrow. If you were thinking of coming." Scully nodded again. She didn't trust herself to speak -- considering she was the one who shot him. Or so she believed. She still wasn't sure. Pendrell started to absently pick at his lab coat pockets. "He was a really good friend. A really good guy." Scully offered a tight lipped smile -- finding she could no longer nod at the deceased lab partner's sentiments. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Mulder curled himself deeper within himself -- with his left hand reaching for a blanket that was not there. In his world of black he could hear sounds. Water dripping. Old piping. Buzzing, scurrying near him. No voices. No footsteps. He had been having a dream. A horrible dream. Something about Lincoln Memorial and Sam... and he had to choose. Why the hell was it so cold? He felt the condensation that had glued his cheek to the panel underneath him and groaned again. Shit, he was on the floor. Must have been one hell of a nightmare if he fell off the couch in the middle of it. Shit, what time was it, and would Scully be pissed? He slowly opened his eyes, preparing for the onslaught of light from the Virginia sunshine. It was still dark. And damp. The figure bolted upright -- swayed slightly at the bloodspots that were appearing before his eyes. Cement. Dark. Gray. So much like a prison not so long ago. There were voices coming -- words indecipherable because they rebounded off the cement, because they were far away, because they were... wait... wait... The figure started to panic. Russian. He was in God fucking Russia. He bolted to his feet, reaching the nearest wall in two long strides. Fingers out, blindly searching, he groped for any crevice, any crack that could assist in an escape. His hand came into contact with a small, circular opening -- a water pipe dripping parasite-infested water, made black due to the lack of light. The federal agent recoiled in horror as his senses fired simultaneously, causing the flashback to be all that more vivid. All that more real. Oh my God, the worms... Oh my God, Krycek and Trish... Oh my God, Scullywhereareyou... *** The corridor reeked of decades old dirt and decomposition. Of rats and vermin and parasites. Steady footsteps broke the contented silence of rot and decay, and the ruby ring of Colonel Josef Beranek shone like a beacon amongst the darkness that lived there. The ring was being played with -- the implement was being twirled around, rubbed, moved up and down in anticipation of the work out it would inevitably receive. With his red eye, prisoners would beg to be killed. Mistresses would beg for more. When used just right, when hit on the mouth, the blood would come spewing, and for one glorious moment, he would be looked at from below. He would look *down* at them, and for that one fleeting second he could revel in the dilated fear that showed in their eyes. That he had broken them, that they had relinquished their control to him. That he was in charge. Kabalevsky aside, Beranek took great pride that he was the most feared man in Russia. That what he lacked in brains was made up, if not more so, in brawn. He would make his mark. Permanently. He started walking towards cell forty eight. It was time to take charge once again. *** Morgue -- Autopsy Bay #6 Quantico, Virginia Scully looked at the open body in front of her. The constant air of formaldehyde was giving her a headache. The bright lamps which made the body fluid glisten, which made her tools sparkle, were starting to make spots of orange and green appear before her eyes. The scalpels and their steel friends were starting to leave blisters underneath her gloved fingers. Jane Doe was completed autopsy number one hundred and twenty two out of two hundred and four. By now, she was only a small, almost insignificant, mass of darkened bones and decomposed organ and tissue. And there had been nothing. No scars. No tattoos. No chipped teeth. No moles. Nothing. According to the dental records, Jane Doe never existed -- along with the other two hundred and three companions that she had arrived with. Scully felt the onset of desperation seeping in. Mulder was somewhere. On a lesser, but still important note, Skinner was somewhere -- Kim was at a loss as to where he went. And Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully, along with ten other bureau forensic pathologists, was in an autopsy bay fooling around with decomposed corpses. If it hadn't been so disturbing, it would have been fascinating. Lungs were enlarged, muscles would have been clearly defined. Even the children were developmentally superior. From what they could tell, each individual had been in perfect health. And with each passing organ, with each inspection of the teeth -- with each ultimately futile search for a tattoo or mole, Scully's fear that the clues to the chaos were not in the bodies, started to increase exponentially. Dr. Nguyen rushed into the room, causing Scully to jump, momentarily thinking that the body in front of her had come to life. "Dr. Scully, I think I found something." Scully studied the doctor carefully. A small piece of metal enclosed in a plastic evidence bag was being twirled nervously among the doctor's fingers. Scully slowly lowered the scalpel onto the tray, eyes wide. By God, the doctor looked scared. "What is it?" The doctor shifted uncomfortably. "I found this in the stomach of the Jane Doe I was doing. I don't know if you would know anything about or not." Scully cautiously walked towards the doctor, trying to study the elder's facial features. She took off the gloves -- hard, in an attempt to vent her frustration, getting pleasure from the resultant snap of the prophylactic. Her hand extended, reaching for the questionable object in its plastic container. Scully turned the bag over and exhaled. Didn't acknowledge that her stomach had just dropped. Didn't want to acknowledge that her mind was screaming at the implications. Scully's eyes met the doctor's, and Dr. Nguyen offered a shrug. "I highly doubt it's related to you, but I just had to make sure." Scully nodded. Could hear the roaring of her blood pass behind her ears. Dr. Nguyen had become tapestry against the cinder walls -- the object of Scully's exclusive attention was the piece of metal in front of her. She smiled absently at the doctor, wasn't sure if the lips had turned up as she had wanted, or twisted into a grimace. She took a deep breath. Counted to five. Soon adopted the Agent-Scully-unfazed-by- anything facade, realizing that perhaps she was over reacting. Perhaps it was someone else. "I'm sure it's someone else." She grasped the bag tighter, flashed some teeth. "You know, I was just going to go to the lab, I'll take this down to analysis for you." The doctor smiled. "Thanks... I appreciate it." The red head smiled back. She appreciated it too. Scully watched the doctor leave, with every footstep, clamping the pin tighter in her hand, hoping it would dissolve, disintegrate, and that everyone could magically forget. She opened her hand, opened her eyes. It was still there. The naval-issued name pin was still in her hand -- its engraved letters screaming at her, her block lettered family name spelled out patriotically. SCULLY *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia When the anxiety attack subsided, Mulder fell onto his knees. Looked up to the stone walls. Let his hands fall and touch the cold cement floor. He remembered now. Remembered seeing Scully come out from behind the pillar with her gun drawn, her red hair flaming, before faceless hands grabbed at his arms, his chest, his legs -- pushed a cloth into his face that made his eyes threaten to burst with panic, fingers try and scratch the arms which were suffocating him. He remembered trying to kick at Rolston who was shooting erratically at Scully, watched Skinner duck and try and get out of the cross fire while reaching into his jacket to pull out his own piece of metal. In his struggles he had turned his head, seeing the girl with the knapsack and the touque running away, brown hair flowing out from underneath. Watched her run as the world turned black, his cerebrum superimposing Sam's face onto the figure. Could once again see the distance between the two was rapidly increasing. Once again missed the opportunity to touch her face with fleeting fingers. Once again missed the opportunity to call her, to beckon her. Instead, it had all been ripped away. Once again. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York The colour of the bourbon in the Englishman's glass reminded Skinner of the blood that was spilled in the park a little less than five hours ago. The cigar smoke pushed him to remember the wisps of carbon residue that flew from his gun in the fuck up that was supposed to be a retrieval. The tall, lanky silhouette standing in front of the window resembled, much to Skinner's discomfort, a certain federal agent -- the goods which were the Consortium's version of the Tickle Me Elmo doll. If you build it, they will come. Indeed. The conversation, or rather, the coercion was one sided, brief. The members of the Consortium had learned long ago that torture -- the beatings, the whips, the implements, even the threat of death -- paled in comparison to grabbing something close to the heart, in reaching for something dear to the soul, and clamping. Squeezing. Like the final nails being hammered into a coffin, the squeezing began. Impossible demands were made possible only after a little duress. And if Walter couldn't go to Russia. With Marita C--whatever. In charge. And get back Mulder. Alive. And find the morphs. And kill them. And the merchandise. Then Assistant Director Walter Skinner would have to accept the consequences -- accept that an agent under his charge had been bargained away for personal gain. Then Private Walter Skinner, survivor of a hellish existence they called Vietnam, would have to watch as his secrets were shared to the TV media, to the radio, to the mothers and sisters and daughters of those men who had died a gruesome death. Then Walter Robert Skinner, impressionable kid, who liked to do nothing but play baseball and be like pop, would have to watch as the whole world heard about Daddy's dirty little secrets. The pressure came from all directions. Not only from the men around him, but from the hardwood floors, from the dim lamps, from the pale, smoke tinged walls which seemed to be enclosing him, boxing him in. Squeezing him. With a nod, Skinner could do nothing but agree. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Mulder tensed. Felt his heartbeat start to quicken, his chest start to tighten. Unknowingly, his fingers bent inwards, balling his hands into fists, nails leaving angry red marks on the palms. The footsteps had stopped in front of the door, followed by a familiar jangle of keys and the click of a lock being unfastened. The door opened and the figure inside rose, ready to face the faceless demon that stood in front of him. "Mr. Mulder... we've been expecting you." The subject under interrogation kept his mouth closed, his hands held tightly at his sides. Watching. Waiting. Colonel Josef Beranek smiled, revelling in the lithe figure of the man in front of him. In the arms which were twitching slightly underneath the strain of trying to keep hands and fingers tightly balled up into fist. In the eyes which glittered in the darkness of the cell. The mirrors of the soul which were showcasing a medley of emotions: fight versus flight, brazen courage versus gut wrenching fear. A leather wingtip crossed the threshold -- a step that echoed off the walls, that sent shivers of pleasure, of anticipation, down his spine. "Mr. Mulder, it seems your talents are desired by some of the members of our staff." The man started to rub his hands together, twisting the ring on his fourth finger. The red eye glittered in the dark, caught the eye of the man whose hands were now moving towards the front of his body. The Russian stepped in all the way, the red eye alive and looking for a target, looking for some vengeance in the face of the embarrassment he had received in front of his colleagues. "You owe us, American. You owe *me*. And I'm here to make sure you pay every cent." The red eye lashed out. And attacked. *** Margaret Scully's House Baltimore, Maryland The priest smiled at the red haired woman in front of him, held her hand within his like he had done so many times, so many years ago, and started to pat it. "Dana, it's so nice to see you again -- nice to see you healthy. The church prayed for you. Surely it's one of God's miracles you're back with us." Scully's mouth hid behind her wine glass -- covering the tight line whose surroundings were slowly turning white. She swallowed. Took a breath. Smiled slightly and murmured her thanks, ignoring the glances from her mother on the other side of the table. Ignored the paternal gaze of the black collar in front of her. She fingered the cross at her neck, felt the sharp corners of the four arms dig into her chest. With a sigh, she finally let her hand drop to her side, on top of her pants pocket, only to feel the sharp corners of the name pin -- only to once again wish the piece of metal alloy away. She dragged her eyes from the plate below her and looked across at her brother, studying his uniform, the lapels, the badges. The name pin. Her mind and heart raged another silent battle -- her heart diligently grasping onto the belief that there were plenty of Scullys in the United States. A good number of them could realistically be good, strapping men who were in the navy. Logically, a fair percentage of those could be petty officers. There. That was it exactly. But the way her mind screamed its objections, the way it pointed out the holes in the logic her heart had dictated, made Scully want to vomit the same roast beef her brother was studiously carving. She hoped Mulder would forgive her. Forgive her for changing into the V-necked pullover she loved, and driving over to mother's with trembling hands and burning pocket. Forgive her for drinking wine and pretending to laugh while trying not to cry at the irony. Her answers did not lie within Cancerman and his Morley, nor in past UFO cases with abducted MUFON members. Sadly, the answer was sitting in front of her, giving her questioning looks when he noticed her staring. He broke off the stare, eyes concentrating once more on the roast below him. "So, Dana, how's Mulder?" Scully looked wide-eyed at Bill, surprised by how off-guard the question had caught her, instantly wondering why Bill Scully would ask that question, what his motives could be, was his question as innocent as he phrased it to be... Then the panic passed, and she smiled. Then her fork started to clatter against the plate, and her hands were hastily shoved into her lap. A forced, reassuring smile was displayed for the sake of all the worried eyes at the table. "Fine... just fine." She glanced back at Bill, whose smile in return to his sister's looked genuine. Scully took another deep breath, wasn't sure if her mom had turned the thermostat up, or if it was the wine which was causing the heat in her cheeks. She laid the first bait, plunged not with both feet, but with one foot gingerly testing the waters -- still wasn't sure if she wanted to know if there were monsters lurking underneath the prim navy uniform. "Ah... actually, there was a really interesting case. A mass grave was dug up by Reisterstown. Mulder was the one who... found it. You may have heard it in the news." She looked back at her brother who was seemingly fascinated by the story. The knife was still hovering a half inch over the top of the roast. His mouth was slightly open; blue eyes pierced blue. "You guy's have any leads?" Scully started to open her mouth, but she was quickly interrupted by the eldest Scully. "This is not the place, nor the time, for such conversation." Mumbled apologies came out of the mouths of both children. Scully's hand snaked to her pocket, and she fingered the pin once again. Felt the engraved lines and curves of her name, even though she had long since committed it to memory. She looked back in the direction of her mother, who had started conversation with Father McQue. Scully noticed the worry lines, the grey hair, the eyes which had lost some of their brilliance. The way a good joke would cause the corners of her mouth to rise, but fail to enter the eyes. That in those mirrors of the soul was the feeling of emptiness, of something lost -- that at every family gathering there was the reminder that there would be two less plates set up, less presents to give, less gifts and hugs to receive. All consequences of an illness called cancer, an abduction that still remained unresolved, the death of a young woman, and the heart break and the soul searching which followed. She looked at her mother once again. Watched her hands gesticulate as she told Father McQue what happened when Charlie ratted on Bill, told mom about sneaking off her cigarettes and selling them to his buddies. How the sixteen year old had stormed around the house, saying he would never forgive Charlie for what he did. How mom stoically weathered the storm -- said that she could forgive Bill if he could forgive Charlie. Scully fingered the pin once again, wondering if, when it was all over, mom and Bill would be able to forgive her too. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Oh God, did he hurt. Did every bone, every spot of flesh, and every muscle scream in protest to each subtle change in position. That every heart beat was a pulse of fire, a rise and fall, a throb, that travelled amongst the intricate network of criss crossing veins and arteries within him. That all outside sounds had been obliterated, only to focus on the pulse that beat within his breast, the rhythmic yearning for something that had gone missing so long ago. Something that the Russian bastard with the ruby studded ring could not comprehend. That his silence was not primarily an act of defiance -- not a direct refusal of the order red eyes had issued him. But an act of waiting. Of a temporary, warped submission that allowed him to retreat, and to dream, and to relish in memories past. A parched tongue explored the chapped, broken lips around it -- Mulder's mind blindly calculating how badly it had been damaged. He could feel the blood starting to paste his lips together, could feel how the bottom was so swollen that it crawled up and over the top, right side of the lip. The Russian's threats and coercions, the steel toed boots and the ring-embellished punches had soon given way to pants and gasps, and Mulder felt a small victory in not giving in. Found some familiarity in the Russian's frustration, in his lip that bled freely because his teeth had bit into it. Just because his mind had clamped onto the last remnants of memory. Deja Vu. A chance to reminisce of times past and not-so-beautiful. The cell door opened, and Mulder reflexively drew a hand up to protect his eyes from the light, instantly groaning, feeling ten muscles protest simultaneously. The silhouetted figure glowered over his charge with a height difference of over half a foot, with a width that was twice as wide. "Yes or no?" Mulder's eyes met the glistening almond shape of his captor, and he pushed down the instinctual reflex to cower and hide. Like his dad and the swiss cheese memory during that certain night in Massachusetts, Mulder could not give the Russian what he wanted. Would not. "I said no." Beranek smiled, snapping at the air behind him. "We'll see if you're so defiant after your little trip down memory lane. I hear it's more pleasurable the second time around." Mulder's eyes darted side to side, pupils dilating in response to the sympathetic nervous system kicking in, in response to the two goons who had just entered the cell, hands fidgeting, looking for something to grab onto. The federal agent was roughly knocked down onto his stomach. Big, beefy hands that were sweating, that allowed his wrists to slide slightly, pinned his arms behind his back. A syringe bore down in clear sight, the same suspicious orange liquid that was used only a half a year ago in a little Russian town called Tunguska. Adding yet another hole to the fabric of memory that Fox Mulder chose to wrap himself in. Adding yet another moment of fear drenched sweat, of panic filled screams, and of desperate visions of the angel in the nightgown. *** Margaret Scully's house Baltimore, Maryland Two solitary figures stood in the hallway of Margaret's Scully's home -- half a foot separating the two bodies, the sound of air being inhaled and exhaled rebounding off the walls, overlapping the quiet din emanating from the living room. Bill Scully stared at his sister, a look of half amusement, half worry marking his classic Irish features. "Dana... what are you doing?" The red head pulled out an object out of her pocket, saw the light reflect off the name pin, and held it up high to her brother's eye level. "Is this your pin? Bill Scully took in hand and studied it. Twisted it this way and that, before a smile came across his face. "I don't know. Maybe. Could be. I guess it depends where you found it. There's a lot of Scullys in the navy." Scully nodded. Her mind told her to stop, to end it there. That what Billy said was logical, and that he didn't know, and that was it. She took the pin again and caressed it -- thinking of Mulder, thinking maybe... maybe this was it. This was *the* clue. But then the sound of Charlie laughing momentarily startled her, and the sad face of her mother swam into view, with eyes that spoke of yet another heart ache, of the monumental task of having to try and pick up the pieces yet again. Bill's brotherly, paternal gaze rested on her once again. "You sure?" Bill's eye's narrowed. "I'm sure." Scully's conscience was whispering, niggling. Telling her to stop before someone got hurt. "I don't believe you." The elder Scully started shifting uncomfortably. "What do you want me to say, Dana? You give me a navy pin and ask me if it's mine? How the hell am I supposed to know?" Scully started nodding, the fissures in her mind screaming at her to stop pushing for Christ sakes. Just stop. Now. "Bill, I found this pin in the mass grave at Reisterstown -- the case you seemed pretty damned interested about five minutes ago. I want to find out why a woman was so compelled to swallow a navy pin. Why there were two hundred bodies in a ditch, all dying of hydrogen cya..." Scully trailed off, leaning against the wall. She closed her eyes, ran a hand over her closed lids after seeing her brother blanch, after watching his hands start to shake. "It was found in her stomach?" Scully winced at the whisper -- tried to silence the two conflicting voices in her head. Tried to ignore Starbuck asking Special Agent Scully if the answer had been worth the look of despair on her brother's face. The look reserved for the condemned and guilty. "It was embedded in her stomach, yes." He put a hand to his face. "They died of hydrogen cyanide." The hands started to move around his face, covering his eyes. His head shook as if to shake away the last gossamers of memory. "Bill... please. I need to know." Scully found her words soon tangling themselves within her emotions which were churning madly. Her impassive facade crumbled as her next words tumbled out of her mouth. "I need to find out where Mulder is..." She turned away, putting a hand against her mouth, inwardly berating herself for letting her tongue slip. Mulder was a sticking point in her family, a festering wound. Her mom admired him, accepted his occasional bouts of insensitivity and extreme paranoia. But she was clearly in the minority. Scully had prepared herself not to bring Mulder into the equation, to not give Bill the opportunity to think her personal feelings were overshadowing her professional judgement. Her brother looked at her sister; his uniform had turned a puke colour of green underneath the lack of lights in the hallway. He remained unaffected by his younger sister's spontaneous plea -- his head shaking resolutely. "I can't, Dana. Nothing... nothing happened." He chanced a glance towards the pin once more. "It's not mine... not mine." He marched into the living room, where Scully quickly followed. She raised her finger to point, opened her mouth to scream, but suddenly stopped when she ran into the questioning glances of Father McQue and her mother. She felt the blood travel to her face, the roar begin to pound in her ears. She saw Bill standing in the middle of the living room, the object of everyone's confused glare -- a man grasping onto his life saver in the middle of shark infested waters. Bill felt a small hand touch his shoulder, and he jerked away, startled. Thinking. Remembering. He looked down into his sister's eyes, how they glistened and shone -- whether from the lighting, or from the tears that were threatening he did not know. Searching fingers tenderly touched the name pin that he wore on his chest, moved down to lay flat over his heart. "Bill," the fingers whispered. "I need to know. Please." He looked around him -- smiled a reassuring smile to his mother, regarded Father McQue with a look of half disdain, half indifference, then hastily grabbed his sister underneath her arm and roughly shoved her outside. Both figures crossed their arms, hugged their shoulders in an effort to keep the cold at bay, to prevent the wind from seeping into their bones, from disturbing the secrets that lay there. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that. We were just supposed to deliver them, and that was all." Like a runaway train, Bill's voice started to pick up. The words that came from his mouth accelerated as the torrent of guilt and anger and powerlessness threatened to overcome him. "But something happened. And Roberts... he couldn't come back out. And Dana, I reached for him... I *tried*... I think... I think I could have reached farther, if only..." Bill shook his head, unable to put into words what he had done, what he had witnessed. "... But he couldn't reach me, because there were too many..." He gesticulated wildly, trying to find a word for the mass of people down below who could dismember each other. "... Just too many. And so we had no choice but to drop the canister in." Her brother's face suddenly hardened, turned into a sneer that glistened underneath his tears. "They were supposed to hide all the evidence. I told them about the pin. And they said they would fix it. It wasn't supposed to happen like that." Bill started to nod his head, speaking now to reassure himself rather than the person in front of him. "It wasn't, Dana. I'm not... I didn't kill those people. I... I had no choice. You have to believe me." "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Bill looked up, startled. His sister's voice was impassive, devoid of any emotion -- as if she was a federal agent and he was a suspect. As if this interrogation had been rehearsed many times all ready. As if betrayal and guilt were no surprise to the girl whose pigtails he used to pull. "Because they threatened us... you. We had to keep our mouths shut. I had no choice. I had to. I mean, what good would the truth do to those in the grave?" Bill paused a beat to catch his breath, lowered his voice. "What good is the truth to you, Dana? What good was the truth to Missy?" Scully reflexively looked away. It was unfair. A low blow. A parting shot. Making comparisons, trying to look like the bigger man -- that perhaps ignorance was an adequate price to pay. That bleating voices could be rendered silent if everyone turned a blind eye, a deaf ear. "I'm trying to find my partner, Bill. Is that too much truth to ask for?" Bill Scully shook his head. "How much is he worth, Dana? How far are you willing to go?" Scully started to remove the keys from her pockets, started to walk down the walkway without jacket towards the car. Her voice wavered along with the cold winter wind; her determined steps only served to accentuate the edge that had crept into her voice. "As far as I humanly can." *** "A few days ago, KQLY news was the first on scene in the late breaking story, which has seemingly caught all of Maryland's attention, about a possible outbreak of a new, deadly disease which leaves its host incapacitated. It has now been discovered that all infected had been on board a flight from Russia to New York. KQLY has also learned that the cause of the outbreak was not viral, as originally feared, but a severe case of food poisoning. The management at Fly USA airlines has been ordered by the government to hand over all airplanes momentarily for a routine inspection of their kitchen facilities. "Over seas, an epidemic is also occurring -- not with a new virus, but with an old one. Small pox has hit Russia. It appears patient zero started in Jukutsk, and the contagion has quickly spread. It is not known how patient zero contacted the disease from a virus which has been supposedly dormant for over twenty years. There have been no reported cases in the States as of yet, and our hearts go out to the families of the victims in Russia." *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Frohike felt guilty. Extremely so. The possibilities of what could have happened to his friend were running an endless loop through his head. Of watching him groan, and rock, and blindly grope for pill bottle after pill bottle. It was his fault. He should have called the woman in front of him. The woman who was Mulder's partner. The woman who was currently standing in front of them with a dialysis filter, some folders, and a very rumpled suit -- coffee stain included. "This stays within this room." Frohike nodded. "Of course." The red head drew a breath, a look of distrust and of caution momentarily flashing in her eyes. Diamond Cutters saw this, accepted it. Knew how difficult it was for this federal agent to come to them, to stand amongst the surveillance photos, the technical equipment, and the conspiracy containing cabinets. Frohike accepted that she was desperate, that the Lone Gunmen were a last ditch effort, a grasp at straws. "This is what I know. Someone's been poisoning Mulder's water, but the only substance is a bunch of amino acids, no specific function that we can tell. A mass grave was brought to our attention. Two hundred bodies, all killed by hydrogen cyanide, all with physiological abnormalities." "Alien?" Frohike interceded. The female federal agent bristled. "Not determined." She turned back towards the other two. "Mulder's missing. He went to Lincoln Memorial, where there were two groups waiting. I don't know who they were. But, his original intentions were to meet with our boss, who was present as well." Frohike frowned, the corners of his mouth eventually turning into worry. Guilty looks were exchanged between the three Gunmen -- their self-imposed silence was costing Mulder much more than they had originally thought. That policy was a stupid bitch of a thing when it meant watching a man suffer horribly from the parasites in his head. When it meant standing impotent by the phone, with broken scrambler in hand, while watching the man in the box groan, moan, rock and grunt. And that by running yet another story on LSDM and fruit flies, by scrapping the story which showed the Assistant Director of the FBI for what he really was, they had inadvertently, maybe, perhaps caused the disappearance of the same man with the headaches. Frohike ran a hand over his face -- could feel how clammy his hand was in comparison to his flushed face. "So your boss instigated Mulder's kidnapping?" Scully shifted. The more questions the men asked, the more questions she didn't know the answers to, the more she felt like an impotent spectator. "He maintains he was trying to protect him. That..." "Hey, guys, they're talking about it again." Frohike, Langly and Scully turned towards Byers and the TV. The anchor's voice caught Scully's attention -- she whirled around, half expecting to see Rolston's face, only to see the concerned facade of Jeremy Collins as the still in the background showed a frantic hospital scene. Scully medical mindset was horrified by the pustular pimples found on the Russians, and she watched carefully as the reporter took a tour of the New York hospital where most of the food poisoned passengers of Fly USA had been taken to. The female federal agent then turned, suspiciously watching Byers fool around with the TV, with the remote, with the VCR, with the videocassette. Watched Langly take a sudden interest in the stain that was on his Metallica T-shirt, scratching at it with his too-short fingernails, diligently searching for a tool that could perform the task. Watched Frohike's eyes cast downward, as he played with his frayed gloves and adjusted the diamond cutters on his head. She watched, as the three men, through their ticks and secret glances at each other, conveyed a message that sent her internal alarms tripping, her eyes to dart nervously between the three. "What?" Frohike stole a glance towards Byers, back to Langly. "What the hell is it?" Frohike stalled, knew what the other Gunmen had been thinking as soon as the words "Russia", "US", and "unknown" came into play. Byers and Langly offered silent nods of approval, and Frohike approached the female agent carefully. "The Lone Gunmen, Agent Scully, is an organization where secrecy is of utmost importance. And to make sure that our subscribers are honest, that we are not being wired, followed, traced, or bugged, we randomly bug one of our subscribers every second month. Frohike paused, watched as the woman in front of him processed what he said, watched her eyes instantly come ablaze when she realized what he was leading to. The words came out faster, with more emotion than was intended. "We didn't want to do it, Agent Scully. We knew Mulder could be trusted, but it was policy." Frohike shot a threatening look over to Byers, remembering how the two had fought before the apparatus had been grudgingly assembled. "Apparently Mulder was ill... from Russia?" Frohike waited expectantly until the female nodded. Langly interceded, black rimmed glasses a startling contrast to the blonde hair, the pale face which rarely saw the sun. "The Russians have supposedly had that Black Cancer -- what it looks like Mulder was infected with -- since 1908. It's the source of much jealously from other countries -- including this one." Frohike nodded, continuing. "He was offered a cure from the Russians, but this was during the time you were ill. The Consortium, as you call it, offered him a cure for your cancer. And he accepted the terms of the agreement. He gave them some..." Scully shook her head, holding a hand out, a silent gesture to tell Frohike to stop -- that she could carry on from here. "So he dealt the disks that we retrieved, and Krycek and the Cigarette Man tried to kill each other." Frohike thought of the sharp shooter, then pushed the thought aside. It was only the outcome and the motives that were important now. He nodded, watched as the female agent tried to process the new information with what she already knew. Scully smiled -- bitterness accenting the corners of her mouth -- threatening to turn the upraised lips into a sneer. She turned her head to look at the floor. "It's funny that you guys would know *all* of that before Mulder would even tell me." She turned to face the three men in front of her. "How could you do that? How could you bug a man who trusts you? How could you sit there and watch as he suffered? You could have called me... you could have trusted *me*." Frohike's voice deflated, remembering the broken scrambler, the way his fingers had caressed the number pad. "I was going to, but then you walked in." Langly interceded, stepped in between Frohike and the woman who was glaring at him. "What's important now, is that the war is still raging. The Russians are retaliating with that rock that landed in 1908, while the good ol' You Es of Ay is charging back with their bees. Mulder is somewhere in between, as is your boss, most likely." Scully was still shaking her head. "I can't believe you didn't call. I can't believe you watched... bugged him." Byers cleared his throat. The words came out concisely, an attempt to bring the federal agent back to the here and now, to the problems at hand. "But at least we know. We know what happened. We have motive, Agent Scully. We have another piece of the puzzle, no matter how unethical, or how unmoral, or how un-friend-like it was of us -- it's still another clue which can lead us to Mulder. And right now, that's the most important to all four of us. That in retrospect, when we find Mulder it will all be worth it." Scully numbly nodded, refusing to meet the glances of the three men before her. Could only offer a half-hearted response in return -- a simple reiteration that lacked conviction and confidence. "It'll all be worth it." *** 64 miles from Nam-dinh, Vietnam July 4, 1964 Independence Day. Today was Independence Day. And mom and James were probably in the backyard, firing up the barbecue and enjoying apple pie and fire works. Even 12000 miles away, the fire works were still going on. A line of green, holding black pieces of metal, containing lead pellets, were firing at their straw targets. Their fire works came in the form of popping embers and artillery fire. When he was twelve, mom didn't even let him play with fire crackers. The man let go of the gun, grabbed the green bulb, bit off the metal pin, and threw the offending object, making like Babe Ruth ending a double play. The five straw huts plus one cow were reduced to, at most, five inch square pieces. "Cease fire!" The steady popping was reduced to sporadic bursts, then stopped entirely, encompassing platoon fourteen in silence. There were no more screams, no more cries for help -- only the contented crackle of a fire enjoying a hearty meal. The radio was on in all its screaming static, disjointed glory. The soldiers separated -- looked for the bunker, passed the mutilated livestock, looked for the Viet cong, passed the dismembered women, looked for the hidden weapons storage, passed the bloody children, and realized that there was nothing more to be found. Lister swore with the radio to his ear, started waving to the men. "Wrong village! We hit the wrong fucking village -- we're five miles too fucking far north!" The men blinked -- blinked at each other, in the glaring sun, in the ever-present bugs, and the stifling silence. They blinked and turned away, heading back for the jungle and the eventual comfort of the helicopter that would be waiting. They blinked at the passage of time, at the loss of over two hundred lives in one half hour, ten grenades, and two thousand bullets later. They blinked as they trudged through the underbrush, back to the 'copter, back to civilization where there would be girls and beer tonight. Especially tonight... ...as it was Independence Day. *** Private Charter En Route to: Moscow, Russia Walter Skinner shifted uncomfortably against the steel rise underneath him. He didn't want to be here. He had sworn he would never do this again. The soldiers beside him, the impassive mask that their faces wore, the uniforms that they were wearing, the guns that each person carried, were too reminiscent of a time long ago, a time he would sooner like to forget. He rubbed a hand over his face. Through instinct, by memory, the man passed his hand through hair that was no longer there. For one moment, Skinner stared at his palm and five fingers, the sweat that laid there -- before abruptly clasping his hands and resting his chin on the make-shift steeple. Marita C--whatever was watching him. Studying him, perhaps. He shook his head slightly in disbelief. The woman was his superior officer. He had to listen to *her*. The thin woman, with blond hair, who barely spoke, who looked like the black suit she was wearing was going to engulf her -- was in charge of six men. It was a suicide mission. Just like all the ones they had managed to pull off so many years ago. Over in the country which reeked of lemon grass and bat piss beer. Because there was no fucking way they were going to be able to find Mulder. And bring him back alive. And find the merchandise. And destroy it. No fucking way at all. Skinner sat back, feeling little comfort in the hum of the airplane's propellers. His fingers caressed the gun, innocently, trying to get its bearings, attempting to make the heavy weight of the black metal familiar. Shivers ran down his spine at the familiar shape, at the familiar curve of the trigger underneath his index finger. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught one of the soldiers staring at him. Skinner returned the glare, shooting daggers. It was one skill he had retained since 'Nam, and the young man with the impassive face, with the stoic facade that reminded Skinner of himself so many years ago, finally looked away. A woman's voice cut through his dry mouth, the cold sweat that rolled off in beads down his back. "We're here." Skinner looked down to meet the bleak lights of Moscow's twilight. To see the endless expanse of white across the horizon, bringing to memory Napoleon and the Nazis and the endless slew of men who had died going across this barren frontier The depressing grey atmosphere, the whispers of the dead and the dying, all caressed the six men and one woman who left the plane, beckoning them, pleading with them to join them. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Mulder felt the last vestiges of control slipping away. His heart was beating furiously, loudly within his ears, only to be overshadowed by his breathing, which was coming out laboured, bordering on panting. His eyes were wide, his fingers were desperately moving, scratching, clawing at anything, searching for something tangible. Grasping for any material that would help him escape from the chicken wire which was embracing him. Anything to escape the repeat of the hellish existence he had endured for three months after Tunguska. A face came into view from above. A sneer that was matched only by the hands that pushed the chicken wire right by his chest -- causing the metal ends to bite into bruised flesh, to cause the figure inside to writhe where there was no room. "Mr. Mulder. One more time. Will you join us, or will you not?" Mulder swallowed, felt his hands clench into a fist reflexively. There was an impatient sigh. A foot tapping. A harshly spoken expletive. There was heavier pressure set upon the chicken wire which caused the captor to gasp, his keeper to smile maliciously. "Yes or no?" Mulder's eyes looked to the left. To the right. Tried to look at the man who was standing by his head. Tried to see if there was anyone by his feet. Tried to see if there was any hope, any chance of escape beyond the criss cross of metal across his face and body. He stared above him. Studied the two pipes whose openings were circular and wide. Were encrusted with the red of rust, with the black of rock. Whose openings seemed to grow larger the more he stared at them. Whose openings seemed to be laughing, humming as centuries old metal was shifting against each other. Singing like Sam used to do at the beach. Laughing like Scully sometimes did when they were away from work. Mulder blinked and the openings seemed to metamorphose. Turn into a sneer. The pipes groaned. Screamed. They teased him. Taunted him. Like at school so many years ago. Weak. Worthless. Would have to watch, remember, re-live what it was like to watch someone slip, float, slide away. "I... I..." Mulder struggled with the words, his fingers clenching once again. The table and the chicken wire rattled as Mulder attempted to thrash around. He heard the surprised shout of the Colonel, and if only the wire could give a little... If only one of the links could please break... There was harsh exhale, the briefest of sobs, from the captor when the thrashing stopped, when the wire maintained its embrace, when the links further embedded themselves into cut arms, when each panting gasp caused his already screaming ribs to protest louder. The Russian leaned over, the anxious spittle escaping from the corner of his mouth. The Colonel smiled, snorted, as the liquid fell on the federal agent's bruised cheek bone. "What do you say, American?" Mulder closed his eyes. Asked Scully and Sam to wait a bit longer. He was running a bit late. He started to shake his head when the wire pushed further into his nose. "I... I said no." The Russian shrugged, flashing a smile before he snapped towards the air behind him. "Sweet dreams, Agent Mulder." Mulder looked up to see the pipe, heard the groan of metal against rusted metal. Watched the brown viscous liquid and Newton's gravitational force work in tandem to bring Tunguska closer to his face, closer to any opening of flesh where the worms could crawl and breed and move around. He saw the syrup falling, and closed his eyes. Felt himself moving, floating, falling. There was a jolt, knocking the breath out of him, then a flash of white. He felt so dizzy, like he was falling, and it hurt so much... The American's world, once again, submitted itself to black. *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Scully looked at the words flashing accusingly in front of her on the computer monitor. Private Walter Skinner had had numerous tours in Vietnam. Had so many casualties, accidents, and mishaps, had his records buried in so much subterfuge, red tape, and bureaucratic crap that even Langly was impressed with the federal government for the bang on job they had done in attempting the Vietnam War cover up. "You're saying Mulder knew all of this?" Frohike nodded, cautious. If the uncomfortable silences that had spotted the past half hour were any indication, Frohike was certain that Scully's impression of the Lone Gunmen had not improved. "We told him this day before yesterday, which is the day before he disappeared, from what you've said." Scully nodded in agreement, silent. Byers spoke softly, quietly, as if his voice would shatter the precious information on the computer screen in front of them. "You think that the two are related?" "Indirectly... I do. I refuse to believe my boss directly purported Mulder's abduction." Scully crossed her arms in front of her chest, and the Gunmen passed knowing looks between each other. Concrete words such as "refuse" or "always" or "never" should have been banned from the English vocabulary long ago. The female federal agent's eyes travelled to stare at the wall, a place for her eyes to settle, to allow her brain to think without any outside stimuli. Her boss' past was the perfect tool to keep Skinner under the Consortium's nose. The Kensington crew, according to her brother, God dammit, were responsible for transporting the bodies. Skinner knew about the bodies and told Mulder because... And Russia and the U.S. were waging a war of some kind because... And Mulder was... Scully angrily balled her fists together. She needed a fucking mind map to keep all the facts straight for Christ sakes. She absently wondered if Bill had told her everything, or just enough to make her happy, to get her out his hair, while he turned into the opposite direction and ran. She turned suddenly to Byers. "If I gave you a ship name, could you trace it's origin?" Byers looked at her quizzically, not understanding the question. "I mean, there's a ship called the S. S. Kensington. Would you be able to hack, or through your contacts find out where it's been throughout its history?" Byers nodded, cautiously. "Yes, but ships last for quite a few years, and there's a lot of travelling done in one year. You'll have to narrow it down to a year, or by crew." Scully bit the inside of her lip. She did not want to disclose her brother's involvement. She was hoping she would never have to. Especially to the three men in front of her. To find out one of her family members was a part of the conspiracy that they explicitly tried to exploit, Scully feared that perhaps, in their warped cosmology, the Gunmen would view it as treason. Treachery. "It would have been around 1988." Langly prodded her with a look. "Do you have a member of the crew?" Scully looked down, studying her shoes. "Bill Scully, Jr... petty officer." She sighed, her tone coming out resigned -- her last words barely audible. "I guess... I guess he would have been second class at that time." Scully heard the sharp intake of breath from one of the three, then heard the clack of fingers hitting plastic keys, then the whine of the modem starting. "'Kay, got it, Agent Scully." Scully turned around and bent over the computer desk. "Jesus Christ," she whispered. There were at least fifty stops in the year alone. Her brother had been a busy man. Langley pointed towards the bottom of the screen. "Their last stop was at USNA Annapolis." Scully closed her eyes momentarily, her next words coming out as a forced whisper. "That's right near Reisterstown." Frohike shifted side to side on both feet, nervous. Wondering, always wondering if they had broken new ground. "So now what?" Scully stopped. Stared. Indeed, now what? Other than fully proving that her brother had done the dastardly deed that he said he had done, it got them no closer to locating Mulder. Should she be looking for silos? Medical facilities? Would Langly even be able to hack such information? Christ, was Mulder even in the country? The phone rang, startling all four figures in the dimly lit room, lit only by the harsh light of the computer monitor and a desk lamp on Frohike's work bench. Langly grabbed for the scrambler, while Byers turned on the recorder. Frohike let out a nervous chuckle. "Agent Scully, I think that my colleagues are unaware that it's your cell phone that is currently ringing." Scully looked around, almost embarrassed, before reaching into her pocket to grip the familiar black rectangular prism. It was the last person she would have expected to call. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia The older of the two let loose a litany of Russian swear words before taking a deep breath and glaring at the more stout man in front of him. "What the hell are you doing, Josef? I told you to get the American to agree by reasonable means, not to beat the man up till his whole body was blue. Or to stick the Tunguskan worms in his head!" The Colonel was watching the floor, pacing, side stepping away from the worms which were swimming on the concrete floor. They wiggled, writhed, made sucking noises as they looked for a host -- now that the original one had been abruptly pushed away. Beranek looked back towards the federal agent, who was lying in a heap of chicken wire underneath the fallen steel table which had been pushed by the old fag himself until it had tilted, spilling it contents, and rendering the federal agent unconscious. "I was hoping that the threat of an unpleasant experience would force his hand, Vladimir. And I was close. He came close to breaking. I just... I just need a little more time." Beranek looked up met the cold glare of his superior -- realized that his last statement was more for his own reassurance, than anyone else's. Realized that his boss had recognized it as well. "You incompetent moron. Stupid." The insults continued to be spat out, and Beranek refused to flinch, unwilling to give his superior the satisfaction. He focused his attention on turning the ring around his fourth finger with his thumb, on ignoring the expletives that were still being hurled in his direction. Kabalevsky looked to the fallen form of the American, and his mouth turned into a frown. He turned back to Beranek. The older man leaned over to whisper in his ear, his warm, moist, hatred-reeking breath meeting the fleshy rim of the Colonel's vestibular orifice. "All you had to do, was hold something special against him, and let him squeal like a stuck pig." The eldest suddenly turned on his heels, waving to the two soldiers standing in the doorway. "I want him cleaned up and in his cell, and conscious by the time I come back." He paused, his index finger pointing threateningly in Beranek's direction. "Josef, I guarantee you, your next screw up, will be your last." Beranek nodded. Only when Kabalevsky, and the two soldiers with their American captor in tow had left, did he allow himself the luxury of putting his hands over his eyes, of sliding down the wall of the cell in relief. In dread. In fear that the unburdened images of his body floating face down in the Laptev River were a premonition of things to come. *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Scully held the phone closer to her ear, an attempt to shield herself from the prying eyes and ears of the three men around her. She huddled her arms against her chest, withdrawing into herself, into the dynamic that used to be called her family. "Bill, what's wrong?" She heard the familiar whir of car tires against pavement and knew he was driving. Heard the silence punctuated by the whooshes of cars speeding by -- that despite the windshield wipers who shrieked and the car heater that roared, Scully could still hear her brother swallow a saliva's worth of agony and repression. "I don't... if... will help, but we picked up the bodies in Texas, there's a medical facility there. I don't know what they do, but we did plenty of... deliveries for them." Scully smiled sadly -- her heart fluttering in the new found knowledge, only to be punctuated by pangs of heaviness when she remembered who the faceless informant was. That the hope she could shield her family from anymore heartache, from a Missy from ever happening again, had been once again torn to shreds. "Thank you." Scully whispered into the receiver, her voice threatening to be overcome by the background static behind her. "Thank you, Billy." "Just find him, Dana. Find him and get the bastards." She heard her brother sniff, felt her heart stop when she heard the horn bellow and the tires screech. Seemingly hours later -- after the passage of one second -- she looked up to the ceiling and mouthed her thanks when the familiar whoosh and whir and the decades worth of swallowing came across the other line. "Just end it, Dana. Please. For God sakes, end it once and for all." *** August 12, 1972 Chilimark, Massachusettes The beating has been really bad this time and the boy is lying in the darkness. Lying on his stomach for fear of awakening the monsters and ogres who have been clawing at his back for the past hour. He rubs his cheek against the cool cotton sheets, partly to wipe dry the tears that have been falling steadily, but also for the smell. For the smell of sweat and grass, and a reminder that tomorrow everything will be good again. And that tomorrow he can play baseball. And tomorrow perhaps, perhaps he can be... A slit in the darkness. A spark of light, which goes through the translucent material of the nightgown, illuminating it -- an angel in the company of darkness and ogres and monsters that are so very much real. That do not lurk in the closet or under the bed or in the dark shadow just over *there*. The illuminated figure checks right. Checks left. Carefully steps in with feather-light feet, carrying an offering in her hands. Crackers. An apple. She pads in and sits cross legged beside the bed, putting the food right underneath, knowing that it hurts a little too much right now to eat. She puts her hands on top of his, and their eyes meet, a message is passed, and the corners of their mouths turn up marginally. The angel lays her hand on top of her brother's hand, feeling comfort in the smooth skin that lies there, knowing that she is closer to his ear, and can whisper so that the monsters lurking nearby won't hear. "All night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam -- then down from the skies came the wooden shoe bringing the fisherman home; 'twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as if it could not be, and some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed of sailing that beautiful sea -- but I shall name you the fisherman three..." She pauses, smiling. "I memorized the third verse, Fox. Didn't I?" The boy offers a minute nod in return, can feel the individual strands of the angel's hair caress his cheek, can smell the shampoo of her hair start to percolate into his nostrils. Both lapse into silence, eyes still open, wary. The light of the moon filters through the heavy drapes, illuminating the figures on the bed. Silent. Darkness. Safe. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Troy Archer watched in surprise as the woman shifted her weight, started to put more of her body onto the bed. Held onto his hand, then laid her head on it. He watched, transfixed, as the woman shifted more, until she was still. He waited for the end. Waited for the cries and screams and half-hearted kicks and punches directed his way, but received only rhythmic breathing, eyes that rolled in companion to the REM-induced dreams, a drum that beat steadily when he laid his fingers upon her neck. Waited for the end of pale eye lids which hid the hazel jewels underneath, now-waxen flesh which was pulled tightly over a slightly too-big nose, full lips that were once rosy, that once laughed -- but were now pale and mute. Silent. Peacefully so. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Their orders were to bring the American to the conference room, but Alexi Gusarov forced himself to pause momentarily, was forced to study the still form of the federal agent sprawled on the cement floor in front of him. What was left of the material once called a shirt had been ripped and torn -- decorated with the grime of centuries old dust and decay, with the blood of jagged, recently inflicted cuts. It was evident that the unconscious man below him had been an unwilling sparring partner with the ruby of the Colonel's ring, with the chicken wire that was downstairs. The soldier attempted to roll the figure over, lost his balance when his hands slipped on the lubricant of blood and pus and other bodily fluids -- wiped his hands on his uniform, tried to ignore the angry red marks that marred the pale skin below him. It was the expression on the figure's face that finally caught his attention. That made him wonder where exactly the American was that made his breathing rhythmic, his jaw slack, his eyes roll underneath their lids in accompaniment to the dream that was currenly playing. It made the Russian stop and stare for the few seconds he had before they roughly called for him from the door. With his one arm outstretched, with his back cut up and his face black and blue, the Russian could swear there was a smile playing along the lips of the unconscious federal agent. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia 58/120. 36.6 degrees Celsius. 68 beats per minute. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A mess of red, swirling hair given a greenish tint by the nutrient medium it is swimming in. Porcelain skin which glows, even through the glare of the glass rectangular prism that encloses it. Piercing blue eyes that stare absently when the fleshy lids are open -- sparked only by mild electrical stimuli passing through viscous media. A small, slight body that when removed from it's glass enclosed home -- when she is washed, dried, and wrapped in old shawls and hemless dresses -- will stare absently at those like her, those around her who are all watching. Waiting. Expectant for their master to speak. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Kabalevsky studied the bound man in front of him. Noticed the similarities in face shape and body structure to the elder Mulder. The Russian had to inwardly smile -- the evil look the captor was now flashing him -- eyes that mirrored disdain, weariness, and a hint of fear -- was most definitely a genetic phenotype successfully passed on from Bill Mulder onto son. "Agent Mulder, how are you feeling?" "Fine." Mulder was about to open his mouth open to say more, but the one word was still rebounding painfully off the insides of his skull. The elder of the two paced around, clucking to himself, adjusting his belt, reaching into his pocket to grab a cigar and admire it. "Mr. Mulder, exactly who are the Lone Gunmen?" Mulder stared at the figure, unable to formulate a reply, unable to determine how the man would know about three men whom the Consortium overseas had no knowledge about. "I... I don't know what you're talking about." The man psh-awed, lighting his cigar with dramatic flair. "Oh come, now, Agent Mulder. I know for certain that your partner Agent Scully is visiting with them still. Most likely trying to find out your whereabouts. She's very pretty." Mulder ground his teeth together, hoping the Russian believed partnerships were merely professional -- that Dana Katherine Scully was a mere blip in the wide, expansive, diverse state of being that Fox William Mulder called a life. The mere thought made him want to laugh, and he quickly sobered, attempted to add conviction to the words which passed through his lips with difficulty. "My partner doesn't mean anything to me." The Russian was clearly amused by Mulder's statement. "So that's why you refused Krycek's offer and bargained with your life?" "I don't know what your talking about." Any banter in the Russian's tone of voice disappeared. "Don't lay that American bull shit upon me Agent Mulder. Trust me, I am much more resilient and efficient than my Comrade Beranek. I know very well about your partner, about you." Mulder remained silent, head upraised, trying to profile the man in front of him. Felt the pangs of a Russian Bill Patterson in front of him -- ruthless, brilliant, and with big enough balls on the slightly rotund figure to make everyone else in his way hide and run for cover. "The reason why my Comrade was so ineffectual at getting you to do our bidding, is because you're quite used to beatings... yes? Poor Josef. He takes such a liking to that ring, likes to use it." The Russian chuckled softly while Mulder continued to stare blankly. "You certainly did frustrate him enough." The man paused, looked at the federal agent again with eyes that stated they already knew the answer long before the question was even posed. "Dad took the belt to you quite often, eh?" Kabalvksy paused to exhale the cigar smoke away, still revelling in the Russian's ability to spy. In their capacity to make micro phones and micro recorders. In their efficiency in making metallic implants that could later be affixed to every American twenty dollar bill. "I know how important your partner is, Agent Mulder. I know how much you depend on... what is it? Fro-kee, Lang-lee, and Bee-ers." Mulder closed his eyes, sensing what was coming. "If you value their life, you will agree to work with us." Something in Mulder clicked, snapped, prompting his voice to come out as a barely audible, guttural growl which quickly escalated into full scale yelling. "I want to see my sister, and if you know so much about me and my father, then you undoubtedly know where my sister is. And if you want me to lead your hybrids then I recommend you stop threatening my partnerandstartfuckingtalking..." The end came out in a torrent of words and the federal agent was left momentarily breathless. For a moment, none of the figures moved, no one spoke -- a tense silence marked only by wet gasps for air playing in tandem with patient exhalations of smoke. Suddenly the Russian lashed out -- undid the bindings that held Mulder, and dragged the federal agent out of the room. Heard the agent moan with the onslaught of feeling that was rushing into his arms and legs. Felt the weakened captor trying to kick, punch, bite back in vain. Kabalevsky gripped the squirming collar tighter, pulling the younger man through hallways, corners, ramps, and dark passageways with a strength that defied his age. Eventually, the hapless federal agent was thrown into a cell that was small, and dark, and silent. Mulder could hear the footsteps receding, could hear the old man's voice steadily growing softer. "You think about what we could do to her. The imagination is a lovely thing, Mr. Mulder... and I'll be the first to admit that I have an active one." The words echoed off the walls which the captor could not see. Felt the cold floor already seeping through his trousers... underneath... somewhere. The darkness had enclosed him completely. Wholly. There would be no shadows of bugs that would inevitably be coming. Nothing to see on the cell walls. No stimuli, nothing to count when his fingers would inevitably clench, when his mind threatened to think itself out of control. Not even the comfort of the moon and the stars like in the Hilton of a cell he had been staying in previously. Just... nothing. A choked sob escaped his lips, echoing off the nether region of the walls. The noises rebounded, were superimposed upon each other's echo, only for the cycle to begin once again. Mulder attempted to cover his ears, blindly laid his body onto the floor. Eventually, when the lonliness threatened to overcome him, he uncovered his ears, allowing the howling demons to keep him company throughout the starless night. *** West 46th Avenue New York, New York The Englishman watched with slight amusement as one of his colleagues paced around the room. "Donald, please sit. Have a drink and have faith. He'll call soon." The mustached figure shook his head, fingers shifting the cell phone from one hand to another. "The evacuation should have been completed by now. There's only two hundred and fifty personnel in Worland. By God, the morph has enough muscle to physically throw them out if he had to." The man continued pacing. "Something's gone wrong. We need that place empty with the exception of Mulder and the hybrids when the last phase of the Project begins." The man stopped in front of a table and started to drum his fingers on the surface. "There should have been a call by now." The ringing of the cell phone startled all members. The mustached man thumbed the on button listening intently before passing the phone to the Englishman in front of him. "We have a problem." The Englishman's jaw tightened. "What do you mean?" The voice of the Bounty Hunter filtered through the static. "Some lab tech with the name of... Troy Archer, insists that he will not leave if Mu... if Derlum doesn't come as well." The fingers of the Englishman tightened into themselves, noticed immediately by the surrounding Consortium members. "Then kill the bastard." The Bounty Hunter shifted slightly -- kept the gun trained on the man who was alternately glaring at the morph, and grasping the woman in his arms tighter. "I'm afraid we have a complication. He has an idea of... how important her disease is to us. He's using her as a shield right now." The Englishman threw his fist onto the table, causing the bourbon to spill blood on the hard wood floor below. He pursed his lips, proceeded to rub a wrinkled hand over his jaw. "Fine. Keep him there and watch him. We can deal with him later." "Fine." The connection went dead and the mustached man threw a glance at the Englishman's direction. In response, another bourbon was poured -- the glass once again being twirled between weathered fingers. The slight tremor in the hand went unnoticed by the other members, hidden by a sudden need to raise the lip of the glass to his suddenly parched mouth. "I told you to have faith, Donald. The Project has now officially begun." He rose the bourbon glass to the gentlemen in front of him, and flashed a rare, tight lipped smile. "Congratulations, gentlemen." *** The Lone Gunmen Headquarters Location Unknown Scully nursed the styrofoam cup in her hands, inhaling the smell of coffee, savouring the warmth underneath the chill that had settled upon the basement offices of the Lone Gunmen. The three men looked at her expectantly. "Agent Scully, what do you want to do?" The female looked back at the computer monitor, trying to study the logistics of the medical research facility by Worland. It was a risk to say the least. At best, Mulder would be there. At worst, Mulder wouldn't be there, nothing would be found, time would be lost, and maybe... maybe... her partner would be... Scully attempted to wash her dread down with the remainder of her bitter coffee, but the cramp in her stomach still remained. "How good are you guys in breaking into government facilities?" Scully watched two mouths stretch into an anticipatory grin, while one pulled into a grimace. "What's wrong, Byers? Bond not your style?" The bearded man shook his head. His experience in the Lombard Institute had been quite enough, thank you. He preferred the disguised comfort of hacking from miles away from a nameless computer terminal to dressing in black and dodging security guards and pistols. Scully watched Langly and Frohike start to gather the laptops, bags, wires, copper clamps, and ear pieces with an efficiency she would not have believed possible. She watched Byers finally relent and grab his grey trenchcoat. The federal agent watched them, observed them -- suddenly felt like an outsider, a mere Windows 3.1 to the Lone Gunmen's Bill Gates. The fear that perhaps they would pack up and leave without her in their haste, was very much real. That maybe they were under the impression she was a mere accessory, Mulder's right hand G-woman, a hindrance to the men who dissected computer systems with the same dedication she dissected bodies. "... Agent Scully... you ready?" Scully looked around, startled. Noticed that the three men were changed, that bags were slung over their shoulders, and that Frohike was jangling a pair of keys around his fingers. She swallowed. Was she ready for Worland indeed? Were her legs threatening to turn to jello in protest to the possibility Worland was a blind goose chase, a trap, and effective time waster while Mulder... while they could... Scully swallowed again, regarding the men in front of her. "What if he's not there?" Frohike heard the distinct impatient shift of his two counterparts while trying to smile a reassurance, that even he did not possess. This was not the Agent Doctor Dana Scully he lusted after. Not the woman who could make him feel natty and dirty in his fingerless gloves and years-old felt hats. Instead, both of them were merely human -- vulnerable and scared and fearing for the life of a common friend. "If he's not there, then we'll find him somewhere else. Alive." He paused, thoughts back to one late night, one pair of high heeled pumps. "You always do." Two pairs of eyes slowly met, and Scully nodded her acceptance. Grabbing the remaining duffel bag, the four left the building quietly, in the company of darkness, of doubts, and of hope. *** Blue Dime Motel Moscow, Russia The desk clerk watched with amusement as the husband and wife fought, as the garble of a language he did not understand was flecked with obvious disdain and impatience. Skinner crossed his arms over his chest when Marita angrily turned away, swearing. He watched the UN representative easily converse with the man at the desk, retrieve two keys and signal for him to follow her. The man at the desk said something, staring at Skinner, and Marita laughed, causing the AD's blood to boil, his fingers to tighten around the bags that they had brought in. Their footsteps echoed off the wooden walls of the empty stairwell. Considering the convoluted path one had to take to reach the motel, Skinner wouldn't have been surprised if the other neighbouring suites were vacant. He heard the distinct snerk of Marita unlocking the door, and he warily watched her test the mattress, remove her shoes with a contented sigh, and proceed to massage the balls of her feet. Skinner felt his innards seethe, barely heard the words pass through his clenched teeth due to the roar behind his ears. "... What the fuck are we waiting for?" The blonde woman on the bed kept massaging, used the other hand to signal the man in front of her to lay the bags in front of the dresser. "We wait for it to get dark. We wait to get rested, so that the jet lag has a chance to pass. So that we can eat." Marita watched the man in front of her continue to glare. Saw the sheen of sweat on his balding head, the way his knuckles were turning white with the strain of holding the bags so tightly. Marita met his glare, pitched words which she knew would shake him, which would assert exactly who was in charge, which would once again subtly reiterate what it was that was at stake. "Do you have a problem with that... soldier?" Skinner flinched, suddenly pointing an index finger in her direction, face warped by a sneer that attempted to cover the once naive, fresh face of a fatigue-clad eighteen year old who marched himself to an earth-bound hell. "Don't say that. Don't you dare." The man dropped the suitcases to the ground, snapped up the remaining key, and headed for the room next door. It was the exact response Marita was hoping to garner. *** 65 miles from Ha-noi, Vietnam May 17, 1964 The machine gun was a dull weight in his hands, the persistent jabs from the pointed bullets that hung over his shoulder were nonexistant. The sweltering heat, the faces of the soldiers beside him, whose faces would waver and wiggle due to the humidity, the bugs that flew and landed and stung and bit were no longer a nuisance, no longer noticeable. The hats on top of their heads were like miniature versions of the roofs that covered the straw huts. The dirt and grime on their clothing was matched only by the darkness of their feet, by the tan that they wore, by the dirt that clogged each toe and was baked and hardened for posterity by the sun. Hair that was black, that was darker than the machine guns that they wore, than the grease that they put on their face, stared uncomprehendingly at him. Eyes that were slitted almonds, that were shaded by the minature roofs that they wore, were enigmatic. Innocent. The shade was unexpected, the hot breath was a shock, the glare of his lieutenant shook him out of his reverie. "Do you have a problem with your orders, Private?" The sun came out in full force, the bugs resumed their biting, and the the houses swam in and out of view. The Private could manage no more than a croak. "Sir... no sir." "Then take your shot, soldier." The gun became tangible, the bullets started to pierce through the skimpy green fatigues which reeked of sweat and sun and dirt and grass. "Sir..." The man swallowed. Raised the gun. And fired. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming As the smell of sewage, grime, and wet rodent met her nasal passages, Scully inwardly wished she had brought some Vicks rub for her nose. The smell that was currently causing her stomach to lurch was exponentially worse than the smell that had come from the corpse in Oregon. "Agent Scully, a pathologist like you shouldn't be having this much trouble with the smell." Scully offered a weak smile to Frohike, once again feeling her stomach threaten to expel the coffee at the feel of cold, bat-piss smelling sewage around her nylon-clad feet. She heard Langly grunting ahead, could hear it rebounding off the walls in time with the swish swash of sewage being disturbed by their steps. "God, lets hope a sniper doesn't come this time like in Lombar..." He quickly trailed off, prompted by a sharp glare from Byers. Scully suddenly stopped in her tracks, immediately intrigued, immediately suspicious. In classic Mulder fashion, her partner had taken time to lambast the "bastard Scanlon" and mention in passing an "unfortunate incident" with vague references to a security breach, before the doors were barred, and any other forth coming information was buried underneath subterfuge and glad-you're-back smiles. She aimed the flashlight at the back of a blonde head, ignoring the silence that was punctuated only by water dripping from the ceiling overhead. "What happened?" The three men exchanged glances, nervously adjusting the packs on their shoulders before muttering replies. "Nothing." "Really. We all came out of it unscathed." "Mulder was really glad when he found out you were okay." Scully huffed, teeth grinding with the knowledge that the speech was all too familiar. She adjusted the bag on shoulder jerkily and continued walking in time with the three figures in front of her. The Gunmen were even worse than Mulder. *** The seduction was done in a shroud of smoke, underneath the guised shelter provided by the Moscow fog. Young, old lips against an old, young body. A teenager with experienced hands -- with hot, lead fingers tracing patterns through a fabric called flesh. The need for escape coupled with the insatiable need to be needed. A deal where the price was emotionless mouth against mouth, an absence of feeling when flesh met flesh. A need to feel human, and to feel real, and to escape from the smoke, and the fog, and the ever-present shadows. The sense of dread she lived in. The dread of sense he lived in. Her fingers crawled up his chest, a damaged mouth against mouth sealing the deal. Where eye contact was taboo, where there was always the threat of seeing too much, where it was better to do it now and ask questions later. Where age doesn't matter. "Take me." He takes her to a place where priority is not placed to the males, where one has to grant sexual favours to a domineering man. Away from a demon who haunts her dreams, who storms in like the cold Moscow wind. Whose presence can be felt by every bone, by every nerve -- whose very thought makes her shiver and shudder so that her bones shake and rattle even underneath the cover of her mother's embrace. She takes him to a place of not knowing, where ignorance is bliss, where denial and knowledge go hand in hand, arm in arm. Where she smells of the enemy and whispers the much sought-after secrets of the Iron Curtain. Of being a man with manly features, of feeling old youth touch his chest, of feeling the escape from a life that technically does not exist. Where she will escape with him to his country. Escape the memories here -- her mother, her younger brother who is just starting to read, the demon that lurks just within *there*. She will escape the secrets that she is bound to keep... only to find everything waiting for her, stalking her, laughing at her, when she finally arrives... "....Wake up!" The whisper was hurried, and the woman woke up to meet the enigmatic eyes of Walter Skinner, who removed his arm hastily once she looked at it accusingly. "You were groaning. I thought maybe... the other men..." The man trailed off, shaking his head, rubbing a hand over hastily awakened optic nerves. Marita nodded, subconsciously looking to the bathroom. Rather, where her bathroom usually *would* be. Where her sleeping aids would be. Of course. Dreaming. A constant companion. Why expect a respite, when the man who had haunted her dreams was most likely sleeping next to a voluptuous bosom less than fifty clicks away. Why expect any grace from her past which refused to leave, to die, to be buried despite all the colour treatments, the make up, the government job, the expensive suits. "Did I wake you?" Skinner nodded his head no. "It seems I suffer the same affliction you do." Marita nodded her understanding -- the two lapsing into an uncomfortable silence, marked only by her less-than-rhythmic breathing. "How did you get here?" Marita's eyes grew suspicious, her eyes squinting minutely. "What are you talking about?" The reply was whispered hotly, through clenched teeth. "Oh, come on. A suicide mission like this, the men we work with -- the question is pretty much self explanatory." Marita stared at the Assistant Director, eyes eventually trailing towards the window where fog and snow were once again obliterating Moscow. "I wanted out of a situation badly and someone in the group helped me get out." Marita nodded her head in affirmation, setting her jaw for a facade of determination and pride. Emotions which had long since disappeared. "I had the skills, I had knowledge that could be bargained for. I lived in an environment where the secrets of Russia were circulating regularly." The woman paused, swallowed, her arms unknowingly crossing over her chest. "It's easy when you're the opposite sex in a club full of men. They think with their balls and you can get your way." Marita smiled bitterly at the memories. "And I thought that I had gotten mine." The female fell silent and Skinner nodded slowly. "What about you?" Skinner shook his head in disbelief. "I would think that they would have told you by now." Marita only shook her head. "I know you encountered a lot of bad shit just outside Ha-noi... but I don't see how they could use that against you. Shit happened to a lot of men out there." Skinner snorted. "Shit happens... yeah, I guess I should have learned that by now." He fell silent, thinking, wondering, reliving past sanctimonious glory. Of watching his father's eyes when they awarded him the medal of honour, finding that father and son could no longer look at each other without their eyes starting to burn, without having to flinch away. Remembered his father's letter, warning him that there were corrupt people hiding amongst the lemongrass, that he had to keep the Skinner name clean -- that your name was the only thing that was left of you after you were gone. Skinner shook his head partly to clear the reverie, partly to clear the onset of drowsiness that was approaching. "Vietnam was an eye- opening experience," he attested. "I learned a lot." Like Marita previous seconds ago, the Assistant Director smiled bitterly. "A lot that I'd probably be better without knowing." Marita nodded. It was a silent game where words and silent, inconsequential gestures played. Where a male and a female stood on a board, once thinking they were players, now reduced merely to pawns. Alike. But also strikingly different. Haunted by their past, but bound together by the common shadows that plagued them so. The man left through the connecting door, bare feet padding against the naked carpet, the threads long since worn with age and use. There would be no more nightmare filled sleep for any of them tonight. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Jeremiah Smith looked down. Past the girders than ran across the ceiling, past the bland cement walls, past the assorted piles of boxes upon shelves -- down until his eyes caught the expectant orbs of the beings below him. They were beautiful. Black ones, yellow ones, white ones, red ones. He felt his blood course through his veins, felt the adrenaline of expectancy start to kick in. The Russians would need to be killed of course. Then the Tunguskan rock would need to be thrown and used to infect everyone else. And then the world would be theirs. His. He looked back down, and admired the lean legs, the muscular arms, the stringy hair, the jewels that lay in each eye, the orifices and the appendages, the folds of skin, the curvature of flesh over muscle over bone. The morph calmly walked down the stairs, meeting the blank-eyed stare of the brown-haired woman in front of him. Two fingers explored her cheek, travelled down her neck, passed fleetingly over the voluptuous chest, down the stomach -- contact ending when weathered hands revelled in the muscle that held the femur together. The morph regarded the entire room, the eyes which held steadfastly onto his own, the glorious combination of flesh, bone, and muscle that stood expectantly in front of him. So beautiful. His children. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Byers followed the red beacon in front of him reluctantly, watching for any sign of cops or cars or security or any other potential catalyst for a coronary melt down like the one he almost had after Lombard. The woman in front of him wore a grim mask of determination, anger, frustration, and weariness. Her mouth would quiver with each room that was searched, only to come up empty handed. Then a shriek, a cry -- a woman's shrill, demented voice -- cut through the still air, prompting Scully to reach for her holster, Byers to flatten his body against the wall, and Langly and Frohike to grow deathly quiet on the other end of the earpieces. The cry was desperately calling her brother's name. It sent her brother's partner and her brother's friend running blindly towards the sound of the scream with heads darting, ears straining, only to come face to face with a bewildered looking man and a pale, sweaty woman who was struggling animately in his arms. The man put one hand in the air, eyes dilated and frightened, alternating glances between the prone woman with the hair that sheltered her face, back to the daggers of eyes that were being unleashed by the federal agent. "Who are you?" The man stammered, clearly distressed. "I'm... T-Troy Archer." "What do you do here?" "I'm a... a geneticist here." Scully turned towards the woman. "And who is she?" "Amanda... Amanda Derlum. She's a geneticist as well. But she's come down with something. I've... I've been taking care of her." Scully proceeded carefully, reholstering the gun while trying to profile the man in front of her, the woman laying in front of him. "That woman... Amanda... just screamed something. What did she say?" Troy licked his lips, regarding the red head and her companion warily. "She said 'fox'. She's been saying the animal ever since she got sick." Scully nodded, felt her throat start to tighten, her knuckles start to turn white with the force she was clenching her fists with. She knelt down carefully, unable to see the face still covered by strings of sweaty hair. Her first attempts came out as a croak, but her voice soon worked its way to an audible level. "...am. Sam." The tortured seconds came to an abrupt halt as Scully's stomach turned, as a hand rose to cover the mouth that was open and aghast. As the woman in front of her answered her call. Scully carefully kneeled onto the tiled floor, slowly raised her hands towards the figure's face and lifted the mask of hair away. Scully could do nothing but gasp. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Amongst the darkness, the ever-present black, Mulder waved his hand in front of his eyes -- seeing nothing, feeling only a slight breeze. The silence was almost palpable, almost as tangible as the cement floor he was lying on. Almost as tangible as the growing organism called need that was pushing along his rib cage, causing his muscles to tighten, making his every breath catch. Mulder rolled over, laid on his back so that his eyes could stare straight above him, search for the outer fringes of the dark and find the woman with red hair and the little girl with brown braids who laid just beyond there. A truth in all its replete glory -- undarkened by the layers of lies upon shadows upon secrets. Unadulterated by the accumulation of the past thirty seven years: of crying and praying, of dealing and just holding on, of deceptions and the demons that lay within. The true light at the end of the tunnel. Another sharp pang caused Mulder's body to shudder, causing the captor to miss the thin line of illumination creeping towards the far wall. The light was suddenly blinding; it hurt his eyes. It reminded him of Arecibo and of Chilimark and of the lithe figure who floated away from him through the window. His sharp yell had caused his lips to drink red once again, and in between his squinted lids, Mulder could no longer see the trailing nightgown, nor the tiny figure of an eight year old girl. Instead, his eyes darkened immediately when they focused onto the slightly rotund silhouette of Vladimir Kabalevsky "Mr. Mulder," the voice was apologetic. "I have been gravely mistaken in my methods toward you. I should have shown a bit more... charity. Perhaps a gift from Mother Russia in honour of your quest." Mulder eyed the man warily, his muscles protesting from their disuse, the lengthy confinement having left a scratchy growth on his chin, allowing his blood to cake copper brown on his chest. "I know that in your quest for your sister, you have encountered many more... shall we say, obstacles. Many more questions. I know that your inquiries into your sister and your father -- your past -- continue to be unanswered by your American colleagues." Kabalevsky paused, saw that despite the federal agent's impassive face, Mulder's eyes followed his pacings intently. "A sign of faith, Mr. Mulder. Some information for free -- a small demonstration of what I can offer you. What the Americans will never give you, despite their deals and their promises." Mulder nodded slowly, waiting for the Russian to proceed. "Your father was a good man, Mr. Mulder. And Bill Mulder *was* your father, no matter how many hints or how many allegations there are to the contrary. What your father couldn't live with, Mr. Mulder, was not that he couldn't stand your mother's affair with the man who smoked cigarettes. Not that he had been strong armed into choosing a child. What your father couldn't live with, was the knowledge that he knowingly allowed your DNA to be tampered with, your sister's DNA to be tampered with, for the further advancement of what they call The Project." Mulder swallowed, innards turning in company with his mind, which was attempting to process the validity of the Russian's last speech. His next words came out with eyes blazing -- betraying the forced calmness in the agent's voice. The same words which were uttered to John Lee Roche held a pent-up emotion which easily surpassed the prison encounter in terms of intensity. "If that's true, tell me where my sister is." The Russian shook his head, vaguely remembering his assignments in Chilimark -- watching a little boy and his sister grow -- until he was hastily called back when the unknown vessel crashed in Svobodnyl. He turned back towards the federal agent, extending his right hand. "A sign of faith. I have given mine. And if you give us yours, if you agree to help us, I will tell you." Kabalevsky watched the man in front of him alternately stare at the hand, then regard the face of his captor. Mulder started to open his mouth when another silhouette stepped in. Mulder's arms went protectively around his chest, his body withdrew, as even in the dark, the ring still shone. Kabalevsky looked at Beranek with obvious annoyance, immediately withdrawing the hand that he had offered the federal agent, reaching for a cigar instead. "Jeremiah says he wants to see us." Mulder's eyes widened, synapses firing with the memory of an Alberta farm and of a man who had six brothers who looked exactly like him. "Jeremiah Smith?" Kabalevsky hid the look of surprise better than his Comrade with the ring. He casually turned to Mulder. "You know him?" Mulder started laughing, felt pleasure in burning ribs -- laughing manically until the guffaws rebounded off the cement wall and superimposed on each other, making the whole cell shake. "I highly doubt that Jeremiah would be without a marker." The slight shift of Beranek's eyes confirmed Mulder's statement. Mulder started to nod his head -- some of the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into the place with a resounding thud. "Which leads me to assume you want to use me for the hybrids you have inevitably made." The two Russians remained silent, while Mulder started laughing once again -- relishing momentarily that for once, he knew more than the uniformed men in front of him. "So, you go behind their back, and get me to take over the hybrids. So, were you planning to kill Jeremiah and his crew?" Mulder voice had obtained a grating edge to it, no longer laughing, deadly serious in its intensity. "Were you planning to shoot them? Nice clean shot to the head by ex-KGB soldiers? Well it won't fucking work, you stupid sons of bitches, because I've tried it and all you do is put a nice green scar on them." Mulder snorted, shaking his head. His next words were accented with sobriety, defeat. "I can't help you even if I agree. No matter what, we're all dead in the end." Mulder sat back, felt his lip bleeding again, feeling a small amount of satisfaction in the disturbed look the Russians were now carrying. The two Russians whispered to each other, and suddenly rough hands grabbed Mulder by his soiled collar of how many days old and dragged him across the cold tile, his muscles no longer willing to listen to his commands to move in walking fashion. Kabalevsky drew his lip into a tight line, walking resolutely towards the conference rooms. Beranek grunted as he dragged the American across the floor, could hear his Russian colleague checking his pistol. Checking it again. Kabalevksy's voice echoed ominously through the empty corridors. "If I die... then I'll make sure we'll all die together." *** Skinner looked at the polymer material the woman had shoved into his hands and looked at her questioningly. "It's a gas mask... and keep it on at all times." The woman snapped the bands across her head -- her voice now coming out muffled, almost nasal. She looked at the five men surrounding her and reiterated the point. "At all times, soldiers. We don't know what toxins or bio hazards are floating around in there." Skinner nodded, and waited for the commands. After all, it was familiar ground... all too familiar ground that was making his innards grind. "We shoot to kill, no questions asked. Jones and Mercer, you set the explosives, the rest of us will set off on foot and look for any stray ones." Skinner waited. Waited some more -- was eventually prompted to ask when the blond woman started distributing ammo. "Wait. What about Mulder?" Marita loaded her gun, speaking at the same time. "Mulder is second priority, the Russians are a bigger threat." Skinner shook his head. "My first job as Assistant Director is to have a certain responsibility for my agents. Agent Mulder is here, and most likely not under his free will." Marita slammed the metal barrel down onto the sodden ground, glaring at the insubordinate. "You have orders... soldier. And I'm giving them to you." Skinner tightened his jaw. The phrase reeked of 'Nam, of trying not to piss his pants, of trying not to duck behind the foliage and covering his eyes and ears till it was all over. Trying not to think. Trying not to remember. He had a responsibility to protect his name. To protect his agent. To protect his father whose wasted mind and body were rotting with every passing day. To protect so many things. He mouthed a silent go to hell to his sanctimonious medal of honour, an F-you to lemongrass reeking memories that were threatening. He leaned in close to the blonde woman who stared back with blue covered eyes. So close that their masks bumped and jarred against each other. "And I have my orders." He took the gun and loaded it in one fluid motion, fuelled by the knowledge of having done this task so many times before, prompted by a newly developed sense of purpose. Leaving the five men and one woman behind, Walter Skinner turned on his heels with only one objective in mind. *** United States Medical Facility by Worland, Wyoming Scully brushed the last remnants of hair from the woman's face, feeling a tear track down her cheek as evidence to how wrong the situation had become. Through all the John Lee Roches, the drones, and the clones, there had always been one steadfast constant. Through all the nightmares her partner had shared with her, through all the potential tests, and all the maybe grave stones, and all the possibilities of happy hugs and relieved kisses, there had always been one detail that never changed. The reunion had always involved Mulder. Scully admired the hair whose colour was only matched by her brother's, the full bottom lip, the hazel eyes which were now non responsive. She wasn't supposed to find her. She wasn't supposed to be the one doing this. It was not Dana Scully, partner of Amanda Derlum's aka Samantha Mulder's brother who should be watching this woman struggle for breath, for coherence. She pleaded with whatever God there was to please, let her live, to please find Mulder and bring him home safe, and to bring him here so things could be happy and good. If only for one minute. But if their convoluted past was any indication, things would never be happy and good Scully reached into her pocket, pulled out a photocopied replica of her partner's badge. Pushing a lock of hair away from her face, Scully handed the picture to the male geneticist in front of her. "Have you seen this man here?" Troy shook his head, still wondering what it was about Derlum which made the red head threaten tears everytime she looked at her. "No, the place was evacuated. They told us Derlum had contacted a contagious disease and that everyone had to leave, par quarantine procedures." Byers signalled with his right hand while holding the ear piece closer to his head with the other. "Langly wants to know if you want him to go looking around for Mulder." Scully started shaking her head no when Langly's staticy voice once again made it's way through Scully's ear piece. "Trust me, Agent... the place is... much deserted. I think... best... go now." Scully looked to the roof for help and rubbed a hand over her forehead as she felt Byers', Langly's and Frohike's silence in waiting for her to respond. "Fine." She leaned back against the wall, then bolted back upright. "Just... just be careful Langly." The federal agent could practically imagine the beady eyes squinting as he chuckled behind the black plastic frames. Scully turned back to Troy, pausing momentarily to regain her previous train of thought. "You were mentioning quarantine procedures." Troy shook his head, remembering how the men had guns instead of containment suits. "But they weren't quarantine procedures. They were totally wrong. Instead of looking at the gun, everyone should have seen that they wanted Derlum for something." Scully raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "You got this all from improper quarantine procedures?" Troy shook his head, looking down at the woman who was still lying in his arms after so many days. "Derlum... Derlum is different. She came here with all her bridges burned, no family -- but brilliantly smart." Troy smiled in recollection. "It was almost spooky. She had really bad nightmares though. Really bad. And then there were always the check ups." Scully ran a hand over her eyes. It was almost too much for her brain to analyze and process. "What check ups?" "They said physicals, but Derlum had about three times as many as the rest of the personnel. All the time. There was something going on." Troy looked down, ashamed. "I should have done something. The only thing I could do when they came was to stay with her." He remembered the way time slowed when he propped Derlum up, saying that they would have to shoot her too if they were going to kill him. Remembered hearing his lungs and his heart stop during the millisecond when the gun was cocked and pointed at her head. He ran a hand over his eyes, then moved it up to run short fingers through his limp blonde hair. "How did you know that the name Sam would break through to her?" Scully smiled sadly. "A guess. My partner, has been looking for his sister. For a long time. And his name is Fox. And her name is Sam." Troy nodded an understanding that he did not possess. Scully looked around the infirmary for the first time, remembering the centrifuges and electron scanning microscopes that were equal, or even superior, to the ones in Quantico. "What do you do here? This place isn't even on a regular road map." The man smiled sheepishly, shifting slightly, causing the figure in his lap to moan once more for a brother whose partner was hoping to God was alive. "It's cutting edge genetics. And in order to bypass all the government hindrances, the FDA and such, the facility is top secret." Scully nodded, the geneticist's explanation too reminiscent of Mengele and Ishimaro. "So, what were you and Sam... Amanda... working on?" Troy's eyes brightened minutely at the opportunity to talk about nucleotides and restriction enzymes. "What the big project right now is getting introns from other species and placing them in the intron spaces of other species, and controlling their translation via chemicals or electrical signals or radiation, or a number of other catalysts." Scully nodded, her head suddenly stopping in mid-air, her mouth coming agape with the memory of a dialysis filter and Pendrell's written analysis. "Would some of these chemical catalysts include amino acids?" Troy smiled. "Yes, actually." Scully grimaced, tilted her head partly in frustration, partly in despair that her and her partner had been duped. Yet again. "God damn." Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, an anger directed to those who were most likely still smoking and drinking in their high rise in New York. "They messed around with his god damned DNA in his god damned water." Scully's nostrils flared; her blue eyes bore holes into the floor that she was staring at. "Fuck it." Byers watched the federal agent in front of him release a litany of swear words that betrayed the cross on her neck, that proved Mulder's rendez vous' with VCS had worn off on her too. He heard the harsh, hurried whispering of Frohike through his ear piece, noticing that Scully had taking hers off in annoyance with the constant static. He pressed the headphones closer to her head, eyes widening, finally comprehending the panicked warning his colleague was currently issuing. Byers tried calling out for the red head woman but was immediately stopped by a sharp nod of the head by the figure glowering at him. Holding his hands up in surrender, Byers was fully aware of the barrel of the semi automatic pointed at his head -- the Bounty Hunter's intense glare enough to ensure the Gunman's silence. *** Russian Department of Security and Defense Moscow, Russia Jeremiah looked at the semi automatic and held it in his hands. Experimenting. Testing the weight in his hands. Examining the bullets, fingering the pointed tips, the copper-coloured barrels. The fragility of humans was apparent -- flesh and muscle could so easily tear as a searing lead pellet traced its path. Unlike the blood of morphs, the red solvent of humans was not expendable, was not merely a clotting agent. Instead, blood was their medium of life, was the solvent in which homeostasis was maintained -- was precious, as its total sum either sustained life. Or destroyed it. The crate of fifty was empty -- one gun for each morph. The clips were distributed solemnly, with faces grim. Intentions deadly. *** Mulder was flanked by the two Russians who dragged, pulled, coerced him along the endless corridors, up never-ending ramps and down bottomless stairs. Other comrades were waiting for them, weapons in hand, semi automatics and automatics in tow. A breathless teenager came through the doors, sweat rolling down his forehead, wrinkled uniform a stark contrast to the pressed and creased uniforms of his older comrades. "Jeremiah's coming. They're armed." Kabalevsky nodded, signalled for the barely-pubescent Russian to stand guard at the door just over *there*. Mulder watched the Russians tighten their grips on their handles, heard the multitude of clicks that indicated the guns were so very much cocked -- and that the Russians were so very much serious. Mulder sagged. Apparently, his speech hadn't affected them in the least. He pictured the carnage, imagined the burning pins that would meet his nostrils and go into his lungs. That would make his eyes water and burn, like scouring pads over the corneas themselves. Could picture Sam and Scully side by side over his corpse. A dead man hoping for forgiveness. *** Skinner watched the procession of artillery file past him from the shelter of a doorway twenty feet ahead. More unnerving than the guns that they held, than the numerous clips that were secured firmly at the waist, was the silence. The steel eyes of the unearthly beings were ominous in their focused intensity. Twenty seven pairs of perfect shoes, on perfectly structured feet, travelled in perfect harmony -- foreboding, rather than beautiful, in the silence that plagued the rubber soles as they hit the tiled floor. Skinner swallowed, watching Marita and the five other soldiers approach from the opposite side. When the door opened, when the bodies floated by, in the millisecond of time when his view was clear, Skinner felt his breath catch. His eyes widened as he saw Mulder supported by two Russians -- sighing in relief, as his subordinate agent was still very much alive. But Mulder's profile was marred by blood, and his strength was visibly ebbing as his legs were sagging with the effort needed to remain upright. Skinner held the gun tighter. His responsibility only. He nodded at Marita who nodded back. Cautiously, they made their way to the door. *** Colonel Josef Beranek had taught Marita Corruvibias many things. In between the cleaning and dusting he had taught her many of the secrets of the Iron Curtain. In between the school work and the hop scotch, he had taught her strategy, often using old World War II maps and Hitler's Nazis as a guide. In between the pleading and the begging, he had taught her how to hold a gun. How to attack from a door. How to have your gun raised, cocked, and pointed as soon as you stepped away from the shelter of cover. And how to aim it at the first body you see. And Marita Corruvibias, with her brown hair that was so often hidden by peroxide, with blue contacts that hid her European browns, with a scarred lip that was caused by a demented man with a ruby ring so long ago, stepped out of her shelter, pointed her cocked gun at the first figure in view. And gasped. *** The figures in Jeremiah's view grew steadily as he walked closer to their ridiculous uniforms and their inefficient fire power. He could feel his and his cohorts' impatience start to wane with ever step that was taken -- that they were anxious to get the killing over with and go back to the hybrids waiting downstairs. He saw the familiar figure of Kabalevsky, the rotund stomach of the incompetent Beranek and saw... saw some dishevelled man being supported by both. His senses awakened by the close proximity, and the brown haired, beaten man sensed it as well. A rumbling in the breast. A tingle in the stomach. Genetic marker against genetic marker. The other man raised his head, and the morph and the man stared at each other. Silent. Jeremiah looked to Kabalevsky. Looked to Beranek and smiled, clearly amused. "And what is this?" Kabalevsky's face grew into an ugly sneer. "You've lied to us, you've used our facilities. We *trusted* you." Kabalevsky shifted, raising Mulder's body higher. "And now that we have what you have, I think it's time we terminated the deal." A line of men came up from behind Kabalevsky, weapons drawn. Mulder closed his eyes, was thinking that maybe if he held his breath and closed his eyes than maybe... maybe... Jeremiah's face was indifferent. "And you think your guns and your... " he waved his hand dismissively at Mulder. "Your marker, will be able to stop us?" A line of morphs came up from behind Jeremiah, guns trained on the men who held identical guns beaded on them. Stalemate. *** The confrontation underway in the center of the conference room went unnoticed by the man who held a gun against the blonde woman's head. Went unnoticed by the woman who held the gun aimed at the head of the brown-haired soldier. Her eyes worked in tandem with her brain, overlapping memories with what she could see. She saw his brown orbs, the ones which would cross and make faces at her, the unruly hair that could be controlled only by oil, the nose which was bent at a slight angle because the ice-containing snowball hit him in the face that one winter. A primer that she would read to him before he went to school. A lip that carried the same scar that she wore. A good bye that she never had a chance to say. An abrupt end to the hell that she had lived in, only for it to be waiting when she arrived. Anton. The brother who only existed in her dreams. The two figures pointed barrels at each other's head -- her eyes wide, his eyes slitted with suspicion and fear. They stood spell bound, guns starting to lower, Marita's eyes the only thing visible behind the black of the mask -- its glare hiding the water that was staring to gather. Suddenly the Russian drew back hastily, almost tripping over his feet, mumbling that they were all going to die anyways, and made his way to the other side, eyes still focused on the woman in front of him. Marita could do nothing but follow. *** Skinner watched the exchange, memorized, words not able to describe what he had seen transpire between the uniformed Russian and the black dressed Marita. His glance moved towards where the Russian was going, the stand off between the two men in the center, towards Mulder who was desperately holding onto the more rotund figure standing slightly towards the back. He looked over at Jones and Mercer, catching their eyes. They showed him their smoke bombs, eyes seeking approval. Skinner reached to his belt and pulled out the small canister, feeling the steel. Feeling it settle comfortably into the palm of his hand. So much like a grenade. So much like the objects he threw so long ago. Soeasytopullthepin... *** Marita followed the retreating figure hastily, suddenly stopping when Anton stepped into the open. She willed her ears to hear better -- her view was obstructed by the stack of boxes she was hiding behind. Silently praying behind. She recognized Kabalevsky, heard the familiar cadence in his tenor voicek, and watched her brother take his place beside the eldest gentleman. A scream escaped her lips as the gunshot was fired, as smoke erupted, as the green fluid bubbled and boiled, and as Humpty Dumpty and all the kings' men toppled and fell. Marita ignored the screams which were quickly threatening to engulf the room, ignored the morphs who were standing smug despite the Russians who were still getting sporadic, unaimed gun shots in. She stared at the still figure, watched him being consumed amongst all the smoke and the fumes and the flying bodies. Feeling little security in the polymer material which surrounded her mouth and nose, Marita stepped resolutely towards the middle. There would be no more running away. Not anymore. *** Skinner fired at anything, anyone, at any shadow that moved or wavered. He ignored the screams -- the agonizing, gut wrenching screams which made his groin tighten and half expect the forest green choppers to arrive and spray napalm. His eyes scanned the smoke-filled area, trying to look beyond the greenish-grey haze. Looking for *him*. He passed the green decaying bodies, the bodies of aliens that were quickly healing, oozing green blood that bubbled and boiled. Toiled and troubled. Skinner stepped out into the open, allowing himself to do a full three sixty in time with the bullets that he was firing. His responsibility was nowhere to be found. *** A slow exhale, trying not to breathe. Keep breathing out, don't breathe in. The man started to feel his last reserves of oxygen quickly depleting, his diaphragm starting to hurt with the pressure he was putting on it, with the stress of still trying to force air out of his mouth. Have to breathe. The air around him was nothing but smoke, putrid by colour, littered with the silhouettes of downed bodies and downed weapons. Have to get out. But his muscles wouldn't obey -- only screaming in protest, or offering a dull ache in consolation for their unwillingness. His arms were the only appendages working, and the laborious task of trying to drag his whole body somewhere -- to the door, to the air -- was rapidly depleting whatever reserves of oxygen, whatever little energy, that he had had originally. Have to breathe. And when the colours started to appear, when his eyes felt like they were about to burst, Mulder shook his head valiantly, trying to spell off the burning of his lungs for just... a... few... seconds... more... Unable to stop the orange and green spots which were rapidly turning to black, Mulder inhaled. *** Skinner tore off the mask, put it to the agent's face as Mulder's lungs shook with the unexpected presence of oxygen. Already staring to feel the fringes of oxygen deprevation, Skinner hefted the fallen agent over shoulder, feeling the slack figure give away easily in his arms. Without a second glance, Walter Skinner ran for his life. *** Marita looked down at downed figure in front of her. He was gasping, groaning, trying to staunch the outpouring of blood with one hand while the other reached for his pistol. The blonde woman removed the slickly-coated piece of metal from the slack hand, laying her other hand on top of the wound that used to be his chest. She looked up, feeling the tears starting to collect at the bottom of her visor. The smoke was still swirling around her -- a green Moscow fog accompanying the ever present, putrid grey. She looked back down, and the young man's eyes were still marked by confusion. He had been too young when she had left, just learning how to read, just learning how to do so many things. The eyes started to roll in their sockets; the body shuddered one last time before it grew still. No return. She took a gloved hand and closed his eyes. No regrets. She heard her words echo hollowly off the gas mask, heard it grow indecipherable amongst the din, smoke, and gunfire, so that only the deaf ears of the dead man below could hear the words she had yearned to say for so long. "Good bye." *** Skinner started for the doorway, felt the hip bones of the federal agent starting to protrude through the black woolen top into his shoulder blades. Mulder groaned absently, and incoherently muttered his annoyances with being roughly jostled. The AD looked back towards where he had just exited, instantly looking for any visible cues that Marita had been injured when he could see her hunched, defeated figure in the middle of the room. In the safety of the clean air, he took off Mulder's mask, all the while stealing glances over his shoulder to carefully study the UN informant. The woman was sitting passively, uninjured from the AD's vantage point, and he passed her stillness off as shell shock. By God, he had seen enough of it twenty five years ago, that the disorder was all too familiar. He set Mulder down against the wall, watched the agent plant his hands on the floor in attempt to gain some semblance of stability. "You stay here, Mulder." The agent merely nodded, eyes starting to close, when Skinner roughly shook his shoulder. "You have to stay awake, Mulder. You hear me? Stay awake." He added an after thought. "Scully will be waiting." The agent nodded again, watching through glassy eyes as his boss made his way back into the hell hole. As the barrel chest disappeared amongst the smoke and the smog, Mulder felt his eyelids start to grow heavy, felt them start to close underneath the weight of lead that his eyelashes seemed to be consisted of. As the blackness surrounded him, Mulder could only offer a silent apology to his partner. *** Marita spotted the familiar form and stopped. Felt her blood start to curdle, her flee reflex jolt into full force -- instantly wanted to grasp the covers and close her eyes. Dream of mamma and making the bed with the roses of red. He was still trying to move; she saw the blackened orbs around his eyes, saw the god damned ruby ring that was still around his finger. Her grunt left white clouds of condensation on her visor as she hastily grabbed the fallen man's collar and pulled him, dragged him to the clean air outside the room. She bumped into the tall form of the Assistant Director and her eyes immediately turned down guiltily. "Let's get out here. I have Mulder." Marita shook her head, still staring at the man laying at her feet. "I have to stay." Her voice grew louder to re-emphasize the point. "Go ahead, I'll stay here." Skinner looked incredulously at the female, watching her chest heave in time with his own from the exertion of having to walk through smoke, toxic alien fumes, and gun fire with a body in tow. "What the hell are talking about? The place is going to blow soon." Skinner waved his hand towards the conference room, shaking his head. "I found Cassels dead inside, but everyone else is wating for us at the rendez vous point." Skinner paused. "They're expecting *you*." Marita shook her head again, saw that Beranek's eyes had opened and were staring at her. "No. I have to stay here. There's no use in me going back." Skinner continued to stare dumbly. "Look, Skinner. You have a chance to redeem yourself." She pointed at federal agent behind him. "And I've lost that chance. And I can't go back." The man in front of her continued to stand still. "Go! What the hell are you waiting for?" The woman paused, her eyes brightening, then dulling -- dilating, then constricting -- as a bitter smile played on her lips. "That's an order, soldier. Go, get the hell out of here." Skinner continued to watch her with eyes wide as he backed up to get to Mulder. He hefted the agent over his shoulder once again, and walked back towards the woman, towards the door behind her. When he passed her, he turned around -- enigmatic eyes still watching his progress. Skinner stepped through the door, past the threshold, past a point where he could no longer see the woman who had accompanied him on this mission that had started, it seemed, so very long ago. Once again, Skinner ran. *** Beranek opened his eyes to feel his lungs aching, with the needles further burying themselves within his alveoli. His limbs were screaming at the mere thought of moving them, alternately cramping, then burning, then spasming. He opened his eyes to meet blond hair and blue eyes. She looked like his angel dressed in black, had the same figure of a girl he had known years ago. He felt his hand start to be enclosed by her soft fingers, felt the other hand start to stroke his knuckles and the ring that lay there. Her voice came out clear and rich, full of the honey barritone that he had missed. "Do you remember me?" The Colonel stared at the face, felt the first synapses fire in the excavation of a memory that had been long since forgotten. He took in the soft, cream-colored skin, the brown eyelashes which covered the wide, round eyes, the hair that had brown roots and was straight and thin -- perfect for tying red ribbons in. A lip that still bore a faint scar. "Marina." The woman smiled, gently twisted the ring off his finger, looked at her watch, and finally met the eyes of the man in front of her. Before the facility exploded, before the squeals of flesh burning and the screams of beings dying. Before the pop of embers turning into charcoal and the whir of barrels flying. Before the hushed tones of five men in black who would trudge away to the four by four waiting in the distance. Before the morphs, in their quest for global domination, could make it to the basement and order the hybrids. Before the timer hit zero and sent the electric impulse to the explosives that were planted. Before all of Moscow shook and just as quickly settled onto her bearings, the woman looked into the man's eyes. The past mirrored only by the future they would encounter together. She waited with her eyes closed. And when the light finally engulfed her, the woman smiled. *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Langly pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, pressed his head, torso, and legs against the wall, wary of the electronic eye mounted on the ceiling on the far side. According to his hyper sensitive ears, every step, every worn Converse rubber sole hitting tiled floor, sounded like a brick hitting pavement. Amplified one thousand times over. His clothing, the paint which was used for the Metallica logo, was shifting too loudly against the cotton -- playing its own rendition of nails against chalk board. Everytime Frohike spoke over the ear piece, it was as if the eldest Gunmen was amplifying his voice over the facility's loud speakers. The Gunman ran a hand over his face, causing his glasses to slide back down once again -- contemplating between the steel steps to the right, and the beckoning corridor to the left. It was a choice he had been faced with numerous times in the past hour. Corridor vs. stairs. Lab room vs. conference room. Room with green door vs. room with blue door. And each decision, each hopeful glance through each door, had been rewarded with an unused pipette, or an empty table surrounded by equally empty chairs, or dusty lab equipment which further established the lack of human activity leading up to the Gunmen's arrival. "Where the hell are you, Mulder?" Langly suddenly sagged against the wall, as if the recently whispered words had expended all energy. He would never have believed that the Gunmen would have been willing to break into a government facility for two federal agents. Would never have suspected that the safety of two federal employees would override the Gunmen's fear of exposure. That when Mulder had come to then, desperate, they had willingly gone to Lombard, despite the echoing gunshots and the near misses. But that when the Thinker was killed, or when hackers emerged from cyber oblivion, only to quickly disappear again, nary a second glance was passed. Langly shook his head, cleared all hindsight and resolutely headed for the corridor. His eyebrows wrinkled at the sight of the heavy metal bolt against the outside of the farthest door. His heart began to echo within his ears as his feet moved alongside the wall, pace quickening as the door neared. The porthole was small, dusty, and the Gunman gingerly wiped the grey particles there -- it only to be replaced by red. The figure inside had the Gunmen reaching for the lock instantly, his fingers unable to move fast enough, knuckles intertwining with metal. "Scully?" The door opened quickly, the metal screaming along its hinges. Oblivious to the noise, the Gunman headed for the head that was turned away. The head which was wrapped with brilliant red string, cut short, crimped straight. "Scully?" The woman turned and Langly stumbled over his retreating feet, eyes catching the blue eyes, the porcelain skin... the ragged sweater which hung over a hole-y skirt. The Gunman shakily extended a hand and gingerly placed it upon the woman's arm, feeling the warmth permeate through the cloth into the flesh of his shocky hands. "Scul..." He trailed off, eyes catching the faces of beings who milled aimlessly. Stared aimlessly. The jeans that were slightly too big. The sandals whose straps were torn. Thousands upon thousands of people who refused to speak. Who refused to acknowledge the newest presence in the room. He turned back towards the red head, his eyes roaming over the face studiously, tracking the beauty mark above the upper lip, the widow's peak. Langly's arms retreated harshly -- crossed themselves protectively over their owner's chest. "Are you... are you prisoners?" Langly's eyes blinked as the his nervous voice echoed through the cinder walls. When there was no response, no acknowledgement, the Gunman waved his hands towards the open door. "You can go... you can leave." Amongst the echoes, the beings looked at him in passing, looked at the door in passing, looked at each other in passing -- fully oblivious to the blonde man in front of them, whose nervous panting coincided only with the far-from-rhythmic beating of his heart. The Gunman jumped when Scully's angry voice jolted through his ear piece, followed by Frohike's urgent, panicked whisper. "Problems... shit hole... get back now." The blonde pivoted, headed for the door, when his feet suddenly did a one eighty. His hand extended -- harshly pulled the woman towards the door. Her feet moved steadily, her eyes remained impassive, her back arched slightly as if it had been content in its previous position. The upraised tile came as a surprise, and Langly tripped, fought for balance, heard rubber squeal against tile, and let go of the slight hand to brace himself for the inevitable fall. His hands groped blindingly, slapping, grasping desperately onto a steel railing. The woman stopped, all hand contact lost, ratty sweater threatening to engulf her. Langly resumed running. Yelling. "Come on!" He shot wild, fearful eyes to the red hair, running backwards, legs burning as his words ran together in a rushed torrent. "Come on, lady! Come on!" Langly turned the corner, losing sight of the woman, the corridor and the previously padlocked door. Although the door was wide open, the woman and the other four thousand and thirty nine morphs did not follow. *** Private Charter En Route: Worland, Wyoming "Casualties?" Skinner held the phone closer to his ear, plugged the other orifice with his index finger when the words of the Englishman threatened obscurity as the plane's engines roared to life. "Marita and Cassels are dead." He stole a glance towards the slack face of the man in front of him. "Mulder was beat up pretty bad." There was a worried pause before the Englishman spoke again. "But he's conscious." Skinner's affirmative response garnered a relieved exhalation through the ear piece. The Assistant Director watched absently as the pilot checked the gauges, hands dancing over a multitude of buttons and switches. Felt his temper increasing as the soldiers surrounding him pretended not to stare, while casually laying their pistols on their laps. Conveniently aimed at him. He felt his innards seethe as the all-too-familiar and all-too-old charade of diplomacy continued. "Where are we going?" "It's not important." Skinner's jaw tightened. "I have a right to know." "I don't think so." Skinner's growling threat was quickly contained by the soldier to the left, by the man in black's nonchalant index which rested visibly on the trigger. The Englishman's voice sang sotto over the staticy line. "Your father, Mr. Skinner." Skinner felt his blood start to course, saw his vision threaten red when the phone was slammed down, the end button jabbed cruelly by his thumb. He made an effort to breathe steadily through his nostrils, the resultant noise prompting him to check the shallow breathing of the agent in front of him. When satisfied, his fingers drummed across his lap, through the hair he once had, picked at the dirt on his pants. Suddenly his left hand clenched, and his right hand reached for the phone he had thrown on the steel floor only minutes ago. His first attempt garnered an answering machine. His second attempt garnered a bland out of service message. His third attempt garnered an artificially friendly, bureaucratic-induced greeting. "Kim, this is Walter. Did Agent Scully report to work today?" The woman on the other line was silent, her hands clicking over plastic keys. "No, sir. Would you like me to call her house?" Skinner shook his head. "No, that's okay. I already tried." "Oh, Mr. Skinner, the..." The plane jolted, causing the overhead lights to flicker and the men to grunt and grope wildly for some semblance of support. His secretary's words, however, hit him harder than the steel ceiling across his naked head. So hard that it caused a multitude of scenes to flash beyond his eyes. So hard that the blood and the carnage and the medals and the blank stares made it hurt to breathe, made his fingers numb, made his stomach threaten to expunge all contents. Skinner didn't even remember hanging up the phone. *** 46th West Avenue New York, New York "We have a problem." The Well-Manicured Man gripped the phone tighter, pressed his lips so that they drew into a straight white line -- an attempt to keep the expletives at bay, to maintain a calm facade. "What." The Bounty Hunter paused, hearing the barely checked temper in the terse word. "Agent Scully and a companion are here." The Englishman closed his eyes and exhaled his annoyances noisily. He would not allow himself to begin pondering how Irish-Red had found Worland. He would not even begin to contemplate what the federal agent could have found. And there were so many things to be found in Worland. For the first time in years, he felt his heart begin to beat faster, a sweat starting to break out -- provide an effective lubricant between his hand and the cell. An emotion, that for so long, had been absent, despite the numerous cigarettes, morphs, and alien parasites that he had encountered. A feeling that had been eluding him since the IRA bombings in London decades ago. His head shook resolutely. The Feds could not -- *would* not -- be the ones to instill the groin shrinking, palm sweating fear that he had run away from for over two decades now. The fear that the Project would not succeed. The fear that he would not be a commandant in the cataclysmic events which would lead into the new millenium. The Englishman's head shook again. The federal agents simply had *no* right. The Bounty Hunter cleared his throat before proceeding, his monotonous voice made even deeper due to the tedium of standing with gun aimed, phone poised. "Do you want me to kill them?" The Well-Manicured Man's lips pursed, were about to open and say God yes, kill the bloody buggers. But his prior conversation with a certain Assistant Director warranted a change in direction. "No... no." The Englishman poured another bourbon and swirled the red liquid within its crystal enclosure. "We can use them as incentive." He heard a non-commital grunt from the morph before the line went dead. Donald, his mustache being the first to emerge from the smoke and shadows, approached the man with the bourbon suspiciously. "You look nervous." The Englishman looked at his hands, shocked to see them shaking. A solitary bead of sweat crawled down the back of his neck, staining the collar of his pristine shirt. He took a reassuring sip from the goblet before shaking his head. "I'm fine." Eleven pairs of eyes continued to stare at him, and the bourbon was hastily set on the table, it's owner jerkily rising. New York was too bloody far from Worland. Crappy phone connections decorated with static wouldn't be good enough this time. Not with the Project this close to completion. "Get the plane." The Consortium members remained standing, causing the Englishman to snap, to resort to the professionalism and no-holds-barred persona that -- excluding the past ten minutes -- had defined him. The hands were now still; the face was flushed, but dry. "For God sakes, I'll go." A jacket was pulled over slender shoulders, and his voice rose and fell in the time it took to manueover the buttons, straighten the collar. "Mulder will come, gentlemen. By tonight, Agent Scully will be a mere memory." *** United States Medical Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Scully stared at the Bounty Hunter, let her blue eyes look up and bore holes into his forehead despite the headache that was rapidly threatening. Occaisionally, her eyes would drift down, would study the spot of flesh between the closely cropped hair and the edge of the starched collar. Guided only by Mulder's voice, the strange mix of brotherly affection slash paternal concern slash partner-induced attachment, "base of the neck" was the only phrase circulating endlessly through the fissures of her brain. His voice, wavering despite her best efforts to center on the echoing sound, was her assurance that he was somewhere -- was New Mexico all over again when he visited her amongst the stars and the sleep, and uttered his reassurances. That he was alive. That perhaps Skinner was with him, and that this hellish stasis of Troy continually stroking Sam's hair and Byers nervously fidgeting would end soon. She studied the Bounty Hunter once again -- studied the fingers which were drumming along the rifle's handle. Watched almost entranced as long, lean fingers danced on black metal, as the white moons of perfect fingernails moved in time with slender knuckles and agile fingers. Almost as if they were magical. So much like a man who worked for the social security administration so long ago. Scully opened her mouth to speak, then just as quickly closed it again -- wondering if the question was worth asking. She contemplated whether the silence of an unasked question was preferable to the sting of an unwanted answer. "Could you cure Mulder?" A look of amusement flashed through the morph's face. "Why would I do that?" Scully's mouth twitched before it opened slowly, the federal agent grasping for a response -- unable to find an answer amongst all the FBI manuals and medical texts that she had encountered. Finding only a response which had been thrown off the gameboard so long ago -- a strategy that was as hopeful as it was naive. "Because it's right." The Agent nodded her head in affirmation; her cross caught the fluorescent lights above. "Because it's the right thing to do." The Bounty Hunter laughed -- a strained sound that was more coughing than guffawing. "There is no right or wrong, Agent Scully. Only alive and dead. And I have my orders." The morph shifted, causing Byers to flinch when the pistol was momentraily pointing in his direction, causing a nervous gasp to escape from Troy. Scully ignored the outside stimuli and kept pressing. "And what orders are those?" "To ensure that the Project goes till completion." Scully shook her head. "Then why do they need Agent Mulder?" The Bounty Hunter smiled -- predator playing with prey, some fun before the kill. "Because his gift will be able to save mankind." Scully shook her head. "Surely you don't believe that." The Bounty Hunter smiled once again. "Appearance is everything." "Then what's in it for you?" "Survival." Scully shook her head, eyebrows furrowing. "But Mulder can't save you." "But he will, and if you want to be," the morph's face shortened, red hair growing from the previously short brown, and Scully found her own face starting to crumble when she stared into the sad eyes of Missy's. "Then you should willingly allow him to do his duty." Scully looked down at the floor, her voice halting and muffled as it was spoken into the collar of her sweater. "And... what duty is that?" Missy's sweet, slightly condescending voice had Scully's nails digging into her palms. "To control the hybrids." The brief answer almost caused Scully to look up reflexively, but instead, she wrenched her neck back down, continued to stare at the floor, allowing her eyes to collect saline. "But how?" Scully heard skin shifting once again, and she glanced up, only to harshly stare at the floor again -- alarmingly tempted to look up and see the blue eyes of her father. If not for one last time. His voice boomed off the cinder block, and Scully put a hand over her ear -- it was all too reminiscent of a jail cell and a prisoner named Luther Lee Boggs. "A remnant of the Bill Mulder legacy." Scully shook her head, unable to grasp the concepts the morph was hurling at her. "I don't understand." The morph said nothing, but to hasilty grab her chin and force her to look at the sea weathered face, the bald head that she used to kiss, the blue eyes that she had inherited. Her eyes looked to the left, concentrated on the bead of sweat on Sam's forehead. "Please... stop." Flesh shifted again, and the morph stood before her. "I told you, appearance is everything." The morph waved a hand in his captors' direction. "Humans are vile, corrupt -- as ill tempered as they are short. A society where people hide behind primitve technology, where resources are wasted, ravaged by mongerous beings. Where people kill each other, underneath the facade of moral and ethical ambitions." The morphs snorted, shaking his head. "Your partner will be the leader after this current population is destroyed. He will lead a more genteel society, one which is vastly superior to this wasteland in terms of intelligence and efficiency." He paused before proceeding once again. "Appearance is everything. The will to live is all encompassing -- even if it means defecting from your own species to work for an incompetent race such as yours." Scully shook her head. "You joined them... us just to ensure your survival... just because you thought we... they would be done first?" Scully paused, eyes squinting minutely. "A gamble," she amended seconds later. The morph said nothing but to shift the pistol from one hand to another. Scully sagged, letting her head fall back against the wall. Her eyes and ears were protesting with the information overload. Her synapses were firing wildly as they attempted to process the logic and plausibility of this most recent story, in what was becoming a sordid mess of so many. Scully's eyes were once again drawn to the hands; Mulder's voice started to fade inside her head. "Couldn't you cure him?... Please?" The morph shook his head. He pointed towards the prone figure laying on the cot. "Don't you think I would have cured her?" Scully nodded dejectedly, wiped her nose and stopped -- suddenly recalling all too vivid memories of kleenex after kleenex. Of red cotton in the garbage. Of soaking silk in the sink. She looked up to the morph, craned her neck to meet his enigmatic eyes, felt her body shudder with the memories of chemo and pain, of cheers and spotless X-Rays couriered to medical journals. "Did you cure me?" She flinched when the morph leaned in close. Her breathing came in nervous pants in response to the warmth emanating from the figure above her. "You're bleeding." Two words that two months ago, would have had her running for the bathroom, reaching for the concealed kleenexes in her pocket. Guided by instinct, Scully fingered her nose finding nothing but the dissolved salt of sweat and tears. Her eyes narrowed, and the morph offered a passing glance downward. "You're bleeding." Scully caught the message as her cheeks reddened, as her legs crossed. She stole a glance at Byers, at Troy, at Sam -- contemplated the pistol held between perfect hands and shifted again to get the morph's attention. She consciously raised her chin, attempting to maintain eye contact without flinching -- trying to save the most of whatever dignity that she still had. "Can I use the washroom?" The morph nodded, pointing to a room just to his left. She stood up, felt the blood start to rush to her head, and looked back over her shoulder towards the Bounty Hunter. His shoulders had sagged; his posture had relaxed. Scully inwardly berated herself. Under the guise of offering her a trip to the washroom, he had saved himself from needling questions, from desperate pleas. The morph's generosity was not one out of care or concern -- he had merely wanted the nosy Fed out of his short cropped hair. Scully turned a three sixty in the tiled room, eyes closing in defeat upon completion. There were no windows, no mirrors. A toilet that flushed automatically, a sink with automatic dispensers. No sharp objects. No blunt instruments. Scully had thought perhaps, perhaps the morph had given her an out. Had offered her a chance to escape. Scully looked at the smooth tile, the cinder block walls -- all other materials bolted, chained and double fastened. No chance at all. The morph was right. Appearances were everything. *** Private Charter En Route to: Worland, Wyoming Skinner felt his tailbone starting to scream as the plane continued to jolt and rock, as if turbulence had wanted to accompany them on this eerily silent trip. Skinner scrutinized the facial features of the man in front of him, watched a shadow pass through his face each time the plane jumped, jolted, and dropped. Lacerations of various sizes had painted his arms and chest red -- had even drawn a dark brown cloud on his trousers. A black and blue fabric had been cruelly pulled taut over a slender bone frame. The eyes rolled; his mouth mumbled and muttered -- offered defenses to the ghosts whose pasts refused to be reconciled. The Assistant Director maintained a close watch -- a soldier's vigil that had been done so many times before. Watching without hovering. Emotions that were buried deep within, an impassive facade to hide the fear and the deep-seeded twitches that came with not knowing, waiting, and hoping. His hands clasped together on top of his legs, which in turn attempted to anchor themselves to the unforgiving steel of the plane. A plane such as this, where the cage rocked in time to the ragged beating of the heart, where the storm outside was matched only by the one waging within. Where beneath it all, was a broken and beaten man -- whose wounds, at times, would not survive the storm, and the cage, and the facades, and would not be able to make the entire trip home. The beaten man shifted. Groaned. "Mulder... Agent Mulder." The agent's head turned towards the source of sound, but his eyes did not open. "Mulder, wake up." Skinner watched the eyes flutter, and then squint at the harshness of the overhead lights. The agent groaned, curling into a tighter ball, knees and arms drawing together to protect a throbbing mid section. His words were muffled by the clothing that was blocking his mouth. "Where are we?" "A plane." One leg gingerly bent out at the knee, soon followed by the other. "What about the facility in Russia?" Skinner sobered, shaking his head, ignoring the stares of the men around him. "It was blown up, par orders." The agent nodded, groaning as he did so. Skinner watched the federal agent attempt to sit up, watched his arms shake with the effort to support his body weight, heard the laborious breathing as Mulder finally leaned his back aginst the steel wall and straightened his legs. Mulder looked around. Weary. Wary. Eyes focusing on the soldiers, on the semi automatics that they held, on the pilot who was conversing quietly with the mouth piece of his headphones. "Where are we going, sir?" Skinner stopped momentarily at the name -- looked to Mulder who hadn't noticed the title of respect. Probably due more to reflex and protocol meetings, than to admiration, Skinner could see the rapidly growing glare of suspicion in the agent's eyes. Mulder's hands had started clenching, started to wring amongst themselves as his glances towards the window grew more frequent. "Where are we going?" Skinner swallowed, finally relented. "I don't know." He shook his head. "They won't tell me." Silence accompanied them as turbulence once again took over. Skinner looked over at the green face of the federal agent, watched him grimace when he swallowed bile. The hazel eyes dilated, and his voice came out soft, with an understanding that only Bill Mulder's son could possess. "You shouldn't let them hold what your father did against you." Skinner tilted his head. "How did you know?" Mulder offered a slight shake of the head. "Sources," was all the agent would offer. The corners of Skinner's mouth upturned. "Neither should you." Mulder pursed his lips, offering a minute shrug towards Skinner's direction. "You weren't at fault for what happened over there." It was Skinner's turn to shrug his shoulders. No, the orders to shoot hadn't come from him. The orders to watch villages burn as napalm engrained itself within his nostrils hadn't come from him. But the bullets and the grenades and the gas additive had been thrown by *his* hand. And it was *his* silence, *his* ignorance that allowed his father to pull a William Calley. That it was *his* fear of not being believed, of dishonourable discharge, that allowed My Lai and the screams and the almond slitted eyes which voiced fear and betrayal to happen again and again. That it was *him*, who accepted the medal, upon his father's recommendation, when a career in the FBI looked oh-so promising. Skinner studied the grooves in the steel floor, his right index finger twitching on an imaginary trigger. "My father taught me long ago, when my brother and I were young, that your name was the most important thing to you. He drilled it into us -- he would have mock salutes and all tha..." Skinner trailed off, not finishing. The Assistant Director shook his head, attempting to shake off the last vestiges of memory. "Alzheimer's is a horrible disease. So is Parkinson's. They make you forget... they make you vulnerable and defenseless to the enemies out there. And sometimes we need to protect the defenseless, protect their name, because they can't do it themselves." Mulder sighed wearily, his eyes closing. Too many stories, and he was too tired to offer comments on this latest one. Skinner craned his neck when the eyes closed, momentarily panicking that his agent had lost consciouness again. But the dilated hazels opened just as quickly as they had closed, and Mulder blinked, eyes drifting towards the window, fingers tracing a path towards the top, connecting the stars that lay just beyond the glass. "I just want to see her." Skinner nodded, thinking he understood. "I know, and I'm sure Scully wants to see you." A sharp bark of laughter escaped from Mulder's lips. "Yeah, I want to see Scully too." Skinner drew back, feeling foolish. He was more than embarrassed that the man in front of him, fifteen years his junior, could profile and understand him with ease. But that the agent who had earned the nickname Spooky long before Skinner had gravitated to Assistant Director, still remained an enigma. That the name Samantha Mulder would be familiar to even him. A name that caused even Walter Skinner's groin to tighten, his stomach threaten to do flip flops at the implications. Skinner followed Mulder's gaze to the window, seeing nothing but the faceless moon and faint stars. "We'll find her, Mulder." Skinner's voice caught as the plane lurched again, as his stomach protested. "Soon... I can feel it." *** United States Federal Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming Scully felt each distinct fibre of the made-for-institution- type toilet paper as she awkwardly made her way back from the bathroom. However, considering how dire the situation had become -- judging by the endless throat clearing by Byers, the stillness of the woman in front of her -- the make shift maxi pad had been quickly reduced to a minor interference. She reached for an imaginary holster when the sound of rubber soles against tiled floor steadily grew louder. The morph straightened, positioned himself behind the door, waiting, pistol in hand. Words floated into the room, were carressed delicately by an English accent. "It's just me... put the gun down." Scully's eyes widened as the elderly gentleman stepped in. Byers drew his back further against the wall, wary of the bulge of a pistol hidden by the woolen jacket. The Gunman flinched when Scully's voice echoed off the cinder walls. "Where's Mulder?" The Englishman picked the lint off his overcoat, checked his cell phone, checked his pistol with melodramatic nonchalance. "He's coming. Should be landing soon." Scully exhaled. She allowed her heart to rejoice and sing at the confirmation her partner was indeed alive. And that his sister was right here, waiting. She looked back at the panting, sweating girl beside her and sobered. Her heart did not sing, rather it trembled within its bony cage. A quest so old, and so dark -- where so many people had been sacrificed. For *this*. For the knowledge that your body had been manipulated, that your sister's body had been manipulated, that... Scully closed her eyes at the thought of the rebuilding process that would have to go on after this. That is, if there was anything left to rebuild. Who would have known that when the puzzle pieces had been finally assembled, that the picture would be as bleek and dark and black, moreso than anyone could have imagined. A nightmarish existance that really proved that ignorance could have been bliss. That the horrors of VCS, and of mutilated bodies in the morgue, perhaps would have been adequate price to pay for ignorant peace. And that perhaps the mutants and the monsters, the Tooms and the Pushers, the shadows and the omniscient beings with long, magical fingers -- perhaps, *perhaps* the price excated for that truth had been too much. And much too late. Scully felt the dead weight start to settle in her stomach. Started to feel the seconds ticking. Nevous anticipation of the Armegeddon that was about to follow. So soon. *** Private Charter En Route to: Worland, Wyoming "We have really shitty weather, I don't know if we can land." Skinner could see the dark threatening clouds over head, could feel the plane rattle with the wind, rain, and snow that were pelting it, and swallowed. The pilot took a deep breath; his hands started to turn white with the force he was gripping the steering console. Skinner looked back at his agent who was grasping, almost swinging from one of the hand holds -- a desperate, make shift anchor amongst the waves of turbulence. In truth, Mulder looked miserable. He walked towards the back once more, hands out to the sides in an effort to maintain some semblance of balance, and laid a reassuring hand on Mulder's shoulder. "We're almost there. I can see the lights of the facility from the cock pit." Mulder nodded; a vigil of silence he had taken for the past few hours. He looked out the window once again, and noticed that the stars had disappeared. He looked towards his left, to the men in black, whose guns were rattling against the steel seats, whose cannisters and bulbs were shaking and causing his throat to tighten. He turned his head to the right, towards his boss, and Mulder finally noticed the way Skinner had positioned himself between the men in black and the agent who worked downstairs. Mulder's throat convulsed and he turned back towards the window once again. He took a deep breath, and allowed the acknowledgement of how same slash different they were. The security lights beckoned him, and Mulder's flee reflex kicked into full gear. He fidgeted. Squrimed. Couldn't sit still during the descent. One of the men in black finally took notice, reached for the pistol, and Mulder eventually leaned back to appease him. He felt helpless, like being led -- as if the red lights on top of the facility were his entrance into eternal damnation, a hell on Earth with his father as the gatekeeper. He looked at the man in front of him once more with dark and haunted eyes, with fear-dilated irises that reflected the fluorescense of the lights above. The agent swallowed, shook his head in jerky motions. "Please... sir. Don't..." the agent trailed off, unable to finish. "I can't do this..." The plane dipped and the pilot counted off the decreasing altitude. "40 000" Mulder looked at his boss forlornly, still pleading, fear drenched orbs reminiscent of almond slitted eyes amongst the lemongrass. "30 000" The soldiers were braced against the wall, hands occupied by holding the hand holds. "20 000" Four semi automatic pistols. Loaded. Not manned. *Right* there. "10 000" Two pilots occupied by the switches and the levers and the knobs. "5 000" Skinner dove as turbulence took over. *** United States Federal Research Facility by Worland, Wyoming It was red. So red. Her hair color was red. The button on the phone was red. The Englishman's view was obliterated by red as he listened to the calm, smug voice of the Assistant Director on the line. "Mr. Skinner, this course of action is highly unadvisable." He heard a distinct growl, an awakening of a monster that had been hidden behind paper tape, threats, and deals. "Listen, you son of a bitch, this plane is not landing until I get myselft a deal. You got that?" "What kind of deal?" "Mulder sees his sister. Now. Before he does anything for you." The Englsihman smiled. It was too easy. "She's right here." There was no hesitation as the voice sneered. "Bull shit. Your lies don't work anymore." The voice raised, the desperation still hidden. "She is." "Fuck you. Until you give me proof, we stay in the air. Any bull shit, and your pilot gets a nice hole in head. Now I know you're not concerned about my life, or the pilot's, but you've made it painfully obvious that Mulder's does." "Your father, Mr Skinn..." The monster was completely unleashed. His voice carried over the static, roared over the receiver -- so much so that Scully could hear the betrayed voice of her Assistant Director from across the room. "My father is dead! Dead! And you said you could help him if I helped you. You said that you could cure...." The voice paused -- when it started again, the personal vendetta had been replaced with professional diplomacy. "A man is dead, and any deal we had before has been officially terminated." The line clicked and the Englishman was left to stand stunned. Scared. *** The two figures huddled closer together, listening to the jaggedly incomplete conversation from the earpiece. The situation had turned explosive. Dangerously so. Frohike held the earpiece between his two fingers, scared that any twinge would break what little reception that they had managed to receive. Langly's hurried breaths left condensation marks on Forhike's lenses, as the blonde haired man leaned in close, head tilted, green eyes wide behind black rimmed glasses. Frohike ran a free, gloved hand over his eyes. Worland was supposed to be the same as Lombard. They were supposed to be out by now. Instead, he was still sitting in bat-piss sewage, while the only person who had a gun had been captured and the man who was supposed to go for help should anything happen was with her. Both Langly and Frohike shared worried glances when they heard Byers' nervous clear of the throat turn into a momentary bout of chest heaving coughs. Langly's fingers curled into fists and back out, the same repetive motion that was causing his palms to turn white. The Gunman looked over to the micro cassette recorder, the one which had been brought to Lombard and had been transcribed and added to their filing cabinets. The one which could be used for a future story, or the catalyst for the unleashing of a conspiracy... and saw that it had been turned off. Rather, the cassette had never been turned on. The tape was still at the beginning position. Langly looked questioningly at his colleague who merely sat up slightly straighter in response. Langly nodded, the conspiracy and the paper were second priority. Second priority to the man and woman who were their... friends. He wondered when exactly the transition had happened. *** The Englishman looked at Scully and smiled, still aware of the many wild cards he had sitting in front of him. "Agent Scully, I don't even want to know how you found out about this place. However, I do know that you most likely would like to see your partner. So... please. I'll call your boss, and you can ask him to bring the plane down." Scully shook her head. "No." The man's eyebrows raised. "And why not?" "Because I refuse to hand him over to you. I will not let him be coerced into a deal again. I will make the choice for him." The Englishman smiled. Pulled out another card. "Even if I threatened the life of his sister?" The woman bristled. Blinked. "It's a risk I'm willing to take. Mulder would agree with me." Scully's gaze had faltered and the Englishman smiled. "Now, Agent Scully, we both know that is far from the truth." "I told you that I will not allow Mulder to be forced into a deal that he must accept." The Englishman held one last card. Relished it. Showed his hand slowly. "Agent Scully, you said at you mother's house that you would go as far as you humanly could to find Mulder, didn't you?" Scully swallowed, not wanting to know where the mass of wires and chips were stashed, not wanting to begin to contemplating how many there were. "I did." "So that means that you'd give up your life." The answer rolled off easily her tongue, "Yes. I would." The Englishman threw something in her direction and Scully reacted volatilely, thinking it was a grenade, a bomb -- a garish red package that made a sickening sloshing sound as her hands cushioned its fall. The red vial came as a shock. As did the label on the bottom. "What is this?" The Englishman blinked -- the bluntness of the reply was decorated with a smile. "Your ova." Scully shook her head dumbly. "It's a lie." The Englishman shrugged. "Okay, if that's what makes you fell better." Scully's head continued shaking in denial, and the federal agent was forced to think back to what the morph had told her just few hours previously, to think about the wadded toilet paper that was bunching up. Her voice came out haltingly, strained. The argument lacked lustre, as if the federal agent seemed unsure of herself, seemed as if she was trying to convince herself of the very same words that were passing through her lips as she spoke. "I have my period. I get it every month. I..." Her voice trailed off, her head still shaking in denial, thinking back to all the gynacologist appointments, the cramps that appeared after the abduction, the feverish, ache-y kind of symptoms that made marking the calendar no longer necessary. The Englishman handed her the phone. "You call Skinner, tell him that Mulder's sister is here, get them to land the plane, and we can... rectify the situation." The Bounty Hunter stared at the Well-Manicured Man as his fingers, his hands, drew themselves tighter around the pistol. Scully closed her eyes, looked up to the sky, praying to a God that she was sure as hell didn't exist anymore. She gritted her teeth, when she could feel the hot tears threaten, the cross start to burn, start to be an albatross across her neck. Felt her stomach start to grind and cramp with the memory of a discussion not so long ago on a little park bench in a blissfully simple town called Home. She took the phone from the Englishman's open hand. Set it on the floor. Resolute blue eyes which were crying unseen. "No." *** Langly stood by the wall, hand poised over the red device, ear piece contentedly crackling at its new frequency -- a last minute modification just in case there were eager ears at Byers' end. He heard Frohike grunting... somewhere... close. "You okay, Frohike?" "Got it." "You ready?" "Yeah... you?" "Uh huh..." There was a pause -- the colliding air molecules casuing static in the ear pieces. Both men calming themselves, hoping to God that it would work. Both spoke at the same time -- terse words hiding the emotions of past articles and arguments, of wiring and hacking. "Be careful." Langly smiled, a private show of teeth that made his mouth hurt. Both gunmen counted in whispered tones. "Three." "Two." "*One*" The whole place exploded into a show of red light. *** "What the hell?" Sculy covered her ears from the alarms that were sounding, the red wash lights that were making her think something was happening, or was about to happen. Red... like so many explosions... maybe... Unlike the morphine induced slumbers of a couple months ago, unlike the flash of mortality she had had when Duane Barry came, Scully did not think about the cross on her neck. Was not able to whisper a Hail Mary or offer an "Oh God". She watched the Well Manicured Man ease himself out of the room. She couldn't hear anything because of the alarms. But she could see how putrid Byers' face looked. And Scully's heart twisted when she watched Troy desperately trying to cover Sam's ears, who was, in turn, shifting bonelessly. She would not hear the gun shot that would reverberate through the red wash of lights. *** Langly planted his feet in the tile, ignored the red lights that were flashing around him, did not flinch at the blaring horns blasting. His hands tightened into a ball when an older figure came out from the door. He would not allow himself the luxury of panic when Frohike was so close. There a flash, an arm, strips of wire. Langly rushed into the fray, helping Frohike pull the wire tighter around the old man's neck. A gun was hovering in and out of his view, desperate, wrinkled fingers were looking for the trigger, searching for flesh to damage. Muted groans were ignored in the quest to pull the wire tighter, to avoid the flailing hands and legs, to try and get the gun that was right *there*. A sudden elbow to the ribs and Langly heard a mass of flesh hitting floor. The Gunman looked up to see the flashing eyes of the Consortium's commandant, saw the way his head drew back for a head butt, felt his feet anchor themselves at the worst time. Unable to move. Except when the spray of blood hit his face. *** Scully put a hand over her mouth when the body of the Well- Manicured Man fell in. Three wires were twisted cruelly around his neck, but the lethal blow had come in the form of an accelerated lead pellet which had removed the entire left side of his face. Byers turned green while Troy looked away. Scully found the Bounty Hunter leaving for the door, saw that his attention was not on her, and she followed, eyes looking. Searching. She saw the figure of the Bounty Hunter approach a man with torn gloves and bent glasses, watched him cock the gun towards the blond haired man whose glasses were tinted red, whose fingers were cut with the force he he had been gripping the wire with. Watched Frohike raise the gun once again. Towards the green blooded chest of the Bounty Hunter. Towards a being who had left a federal agent dead, and another critically ill when his viral-laden blood came into contact with the agent's respiratory passages. Her screams were muted, not by the alarms, but by the blood rushing in her ears. There was a flash of light as a gun exploded. *** The wall cracked above her. The shot, fired wide, had hit the wall, squealed into the plaster and disappeared into a vertical black hole along the wall. Chipped tile rained down on her shoulder, decorated the arm that was holding the gun that had been forgotten on the floor in the Bounty Hunter's haste. She felt the neck of the Bounty Hunter yield slightly underneath the force of the metal barrel that was held against it. Frohike and Langly stood in front of them -- Frohike holding the gun limply within his fingers, Langly standing stock still with the blood still wet on his face. The Bounty Hunter raised his hands in surrender, dropping the pistol onto the floor. Scully's voice shook with the shock of watching a headless man fall three feet away. With concern for two friends who had still not spoken or moved. She absently looked towards the door, towards the opposite hallway, wondering. Always wondering when her partner would show up and the madness would end. "I will kill you if I have to." The morph started to shake his head. "Base of the neck. I know." Scully took her eyes momentarily off her captor. "Frohike? Langly? You guys alright?" Frohike nodded numbly while Langly absently mumbled his desire to clean up. Scully nodded. "Frohike, why don't you put the gun down." Scully watched the Gunman go on automatic pilot, saw how shocky the skin of both men had become. "Why don't you and Langly go inside and see Byers... he's there and there's a bathroom where you can get cleaned up." The Gunmen nodded once more, before the laborious task of shuffling their feet began. Scully turned towards the Bounty Hunter, jabbing the pistol into his neck once more, all compassion lost. "I want you to tell me the number of the phone that's on the plane Mulder is on. Becuase if you don't, I will shoot you. And no matter how good of a gambler you were in choosing the States, or that all your camrades are dead, my shot will kill you... I guarantee that I will not miss." The Hunter swallowed. Reached for the phone that was still lying on the floor. And dialled. *** Private Charter En Route: Worland, Wyoming Skinner watched his federal agent worriedly from the cockpit. Keeping the butt of his pistol against the pilot's neck, the AD was tempted to wince at how Mulder's hands trembled underneath the weight of holding the semi automatic to the soldiers. The phone ringing snapped Mulder and Skinner out of their thoughts. Mulder reached for the phone, supported the lead pellet encasing on his knees. "Mulder." There was a deafening silence. "Mulder?" "Scully?" Skinner raised his eyebrows. When the pilot starting to turn his head, the gun butt was pushed further into his neck. "Just steer the plane." "Mulder." This time the name had been spoken with relief, as if the need to hear his voice had dispelled any worries. Mulder closed his eyes, and savoured the voice that was beautiful and familiar and here and now. "Your sister is here, Mulder." He heard her smile. Her anticipation of his arrival was matched only by his own. "She's here." Mulder looked at the soldiers staring at him and sobered. "Scully are you being forced to say this?" Scully shook her head, felt the reassuring weight of the gun in her hands. "No." She smiled again, looking to Byers who was smiling as well. "The Gunmen... they're here too." Her voice sobered, still able to hear the water running, and the panic filled voices of Frohike and Langly. "Frohike and Langly killed the Englishman." Mulder mouth went agape, his head exploding at the reaction. His heart began the flutter, the quest starting to near it's end point. He nodded towards Skinner. His next words were the sweetest. "I'll see you soon, Scully." *** The Bounty Hunter looked at the federal agent wearily. "You can put down the gun, Agent Scully." The agent shook her head. "I'm not going to kill you. I have no reason to." The Bounty Hunter added a second thought. "You can trust me." At the phrase Scully laughed. She trusted no one. Not the cross that was around her neck. Not her brother. Not the green car that would be behind her. Not the man who would hold the door for her. Not the helpful lab assistant who just wanted to say hi. Not anymore. She had lived a life, four years ago, that was blissfully ignorant. That dealt with facts and figures, and numbers and chemicals. That the thought of a morph that oozed green blood would be standing in front of her asking for her trust, would have had her laughing. That the thought of the paranoiac Fox Mulder, who was a pain in the ass, would become as dear to her as life itself, would have made her think that it was time for a straight jacket, valium inclusive. That the thought of three conspricay freaks, whose dressing habits were as electic as the individuals themselves, would become her partners in crime, people who she trusted, people who would willingingly lay down their life, their exposure for her, would have made her head spin. But nothing was the same. Scully looked at Bounty Hunter -- her eyes tired, her eyes older, her eyes more experienced. She lowered her gun. Uncocked. *** Private Charter En Route to: Worland, Wyoming "Do you have problems with landing the plane?" The pilot shook his head, its range of movement sill limited by the metal pressed against it. "If you haven't noticed, this is really shitty weather we're in. I'm trying okay? I'm trying." The plane jolted, the wind picking it up, and alternatingly pushing it down, casuing the soldiers to groan, causing Mulder to scramble to keep the gun pointed in front of him. Suddenly wheels hit grass and human cargo went flying. Skinner took the gun away, admiring the red mark he had left on the back of the neck. "Thank you." The hatch was opened and Skinner stepped away. Ripped out the plane's radio. Ripped out the phone. Called for Mulder who stepped warily away from the floor, land legs still evading him. Skinner reached for the semi-automatic, the plane already travelling down the runway, towards wherever it had come. "I'll take the gun now... you don't need the extra weight." The federal agent held it closer to his chest. "I'd like to keep it if you don't mind." Skinner regarded the agent carefully, but Mulder was already making his way towards the lighted door. They were here. *** Skinner half dragged, half supported Mulder as they made their way to the entrance, eventually spotting one lock of Byers' red hair from behind the corner of a wall. Byers let out a short nervous bark of relieved laughter. "Oh man, Mulder... you look like something the cat dragged in." Mulder smiled his 'thanks, it's good to see you too', and he and Skinner slowly followed the trench coat-ed figure. Mulder's thoughts spun wildly with the prospect of seeing Sam. The prospect was all-too-familiar, and Mulder felt his doubts flare, only to feel a brief respite of relief at the knowledge Scully was fine and unharmed. Skinner raised an eyebrow as his steps echoed off the walls, as every passing room was empty, deserted, and dirty. Skinner watched the wall cameras warily, knowing that the men who smoked their cigars and drank their bourbon and built enormous, highly secured, technologically advanced facilities, could be watching. "Where is everyone?" Byers flashed a look at Skinner, startled. "It doesn't look like anyone's here. I think they evacuated it. Langly and Frohike are cleaning up, there's Scully, and this big armed government guy, and your sister with someone I presume is her friend. Troy, I think." Byers stopped at the door marked infirmary and paused. "This is it." He looked at Mulder, flashing a anticipatory smile. His mind flashed to Lombard and LSDM, to hackers and centerfolds, to arguing and watching Mulder grapple with his demons. And now, Byers found he couldn't really describe the emotion he was feeling, didn't know why it seemed the collar of his shirt was so tight all of a sudden. Didn't know why water was starting to form at the corner of his eye. Byers smiled reassuringly. "She's here, Mulder." Mulder nodded, grim. He let go of Skinner's shoulder, and crossed the threshold himself. ***