By Xenith
xenitha@yahoo.com

Website: http://xenith.freeservers.com

Rating: R for violence, could get worse

Classification: Story and angstfest

Keywords:Muldertorture, M/Sc/Skinner friendship

Disclaimer: The XFiles and all the characters belong
to Chris Carter. This story is written in homage to a
fine series, intended to keep the flame alive until CC
gets us the next XF movie!

Spoilers: None, but takes place assuming seasons 8 and
9 never happened.

Archive: Sure! But e-mail me first.

Feedback: Oh yes! Lots of it!! Lots and Lots!!!

Summary: Mulder is missing and only Scully can find
him and help to save his body and his mind.

Posting Note: I generally write my stories as WIPs
(works in process) because it keeps me focused. I'll
plan on posting weekly, next chapter on Friday, but
reserve the right to post early if I get inspired. And
this is my promise: I ALWAYS finish my WIPs. ALWAYS.
So don't be afraid to read me. :)

April 6, 2002
10:00 a.m.
Washington D.C.

"I can't believe there's still nothing!" Agent Scully
sat down stiffly in the chair A.D. Skinner offered
her. "It's been twenty six days and there's been no
sign of Mulder, or any of them!"

Skinner removed his glasses and rubbed at tired eyes.
"Agent, you already know how thorough the
investigation has been. Hell, you've been the lead
agent since Mulder's disappearance. I wish I had some
news for you, but I don't. He was last seen on the
second day of a seven day UFO convention at the L.A.
Radisson, as were the other six people missing. Not
one of the missing conventioneers has turned up, alive
or dead." He grimaced. "You'd almost believe the
tabloids and assume they've been.."

"Taken by aliens? That isn't what happened, and you
know it." She got up and began to pace. "He isn't
dead, I know it."

"You don't want him to be dead, Dana, there's a
difference. You may have to accept the inevitable."
Skinner looked up at his agent and softened his voice.
"You've known for a long time that something like this
was likely to happen to him, eventually."

"At least you aren't assuming Mulder had some kind of
psychotic break and disappeared on his own. You should
hear the L.A. detectives discuss this case; the
missing wacko's they call it. They don't see missing
people, just a bunch of fruitcakes who've wandered off
somewhere following little green men." She stopped,
and then continued. "The Los Angeles Field Office
unofficially sees this as just another one of Spooky
Mulder's antics."

"Scully, I know that if Mulder's missing, there's a
good reason for it. He didn't indicate to you that he
planned to follow up any cases, did he? Do some
investigating on his own?" Skinner leaned forward.
"He's been known to ditch you before."

She glared at Skinner, then controlled herself. "No.
This is real. Mulder was invited to speak at the
convention and so he went, just as he has gone to at
least a half dozen other conventions. He had no other
plans that I'm aware of. Have you heard anything from
your...um...informal channels?"

Skinner shook his head, "No, I haven't heard anything.
I'm sorry." He mulled over possible contacts he might
have missed, he'd even left word for the Smoker, but
nothing had materialized.

Scully broke into Skinner's reverie, "Are you sure? Is
there anyone you haven't spoken with?" She hesitated,
"You know who I mean."

Skinner gave her a compassionate look and shook his
head. "I haven't so much as smelled the man; I'm
sorry."

Scully looked down at the carpet, struggling to hold
back tears. "Then let me go back to Los Angeles. I'd
like to review what little evidence there is and talk
to the organizers again. I...don't think the
investigation will get very far if I'm not there."

"The L.A. Field Office has already covered that,"
Skinner pointed to a pile of files stacked on his
desk. "You know what the answers are."

"Obviously not all of them," she returned."We found no
commonalities among the missing. They are from
different parts of the country, both genders, all ages
and didn't even attend the same sessions. There has to
be some reason these people were taken and nobody
else!" She began to pace again. "Mulder's clothes were
left in his room with no signs of struggle. He was
last seen March 11 and the hotel didn't notice he was
gone until the convention had ended, March 18."

"And we had no idea he was in trouble until he didn't
report to work on Wednesday, March 20," Skinner added.
"He'd already been gone ten days by then. I gather it
isn't unusual for him to go that long without calling
you?"

Scully started with a guilty expression. "He knows how
I feel about these conventions, so when he gets
invited to speak at one we generally don't discuss it.
I didn't think it was unusual for him to be out of
touch for that period of time, but I should have
checked on him."

Skinner sighed, "He's a grown man, Agent Scully. He
shouldn't need you to tie his shoelaces for him! But
I'll okay the travel voucher. Get going, and bring him
back."

Scully gave him the first smile he'd seen out of her
today and slipped out of the office. Skinner watched
her go and drummed his fingers on the desk, then
picked up one of the files. Tacked inside was a flyer
headed "UFO Convention! Los Angeles Ramada Inn!!
Featured Speaker, FBI Agent Fox Mulder will speak on
"Alien Abduction and the World Conspiracy".
 

Scully walked into the office and sat behind his desk,
caressing it a little. Mulder so rarely took any
vacation time that she had been surprised when she
found him filling out a vacation request.

"What's this? Vacation request? Are you feeling sick
or something?" she'd teased.

Mulder grinned, "This is a special all-expenses-paid
vacation, thank you very much. I am flying to sunny
Los Angeles to attend a UFO convention, where I will
give a paper on alien abduction. You wanna come
along?"

Scully had smiled back, "Are you kidding? They're
coming to hear a speaker, not a debate. No, I'll take
it easy while you're gone and maybe clean out this
office a little. The dust mites have dust mites."

"Well, your loss," Mulder tossed back. "My plane
leaves tomorrow morning and I've written down the
hotel name and phone number in case you need it." He
smiled and softened,"But as always, if you need me I'm
on the other end of the cell phone."

"Oh, I think things will be pretty quiet here. Enjoy
yourself and send me a postcard," she'd replied.
 
 

"He never even sent the postcard," Scully muttered to
herself and dabbed at one eye. Damned contact lenses.
The office door opened suddenly and she looked up,
startled.

"I'm sorry, Agent," Skinner said uncomfortably. "You
left the files in my office. You'll need them." He put
the stack down on one of the office chairs. "Are you
sure you'll be all right?"

She nodded and he gently closed the door. She got up,
grabbed the top file and returned to the desk with it
and began to read it. Again.
 

10:30 p.m.

"Coming!" Scully got off the couch and was heading for
the door when the doorbell rang again. She looked
through the peephole and sighed, then unlocked the
door. "Hello, guys. Come on in. Have a seat."

The Lone Gunmen strode into her apartment and settled
onto the couch. Frohike cleared his throat, "Ms.
Scully, we know it's late but we thought we'd stop by
and see if there is any more help we can give you."

"Yes, you've already offered. I appreciate the
computer searches you've done and I'm just sorry they
haven't turned up anything more than we already have."
She sat in the armchair across from the couch,
suddenly conscious of her pajamas and bathrobe.

"There may be something more we can do for you," Byers
said, then reached into his coat pocket. "Here's a
local contact who went to the convention. He may have
some more information for you."

Scully took the paper and scanned it. The name didn't
look familiar; probably one of their crackpot friends.
Still, any port in a storm. She could hardly do worse.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I'll contact him."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like us to come with you?"
asked Byers.

"No, I'll be fine. It's kind of you to offer but I
have an entire field office at my disposal," she
replied.

"That's what we're afraid of," Frohike said. "You
don't know who took him. It might have been one of
your own. Have you considered that?"

"I'm considering everything and nothing at this
point," Scully said. "The day after his presentation,
Mulder was simply gone. His bags were left behind, no
clothing missing beyond what he wore that day, his
credit cards and cell phone haven't been used. There
are no fingerprints, blood stains, no signs of
struggle in his room." She crossed her arms over her
chest. "And there are no signs of his weapon, so I
assume he had it on him."

"It's almost as though he went willingly," Langly
offered. "But where? And I can see why someone would
want Mulder, but why six other people?"

"If he did go willingly, I'll kill him myself when I
find him," Scully said firmly.
 

April 6, 2002
J. Edgar Hoover Bldg.
10:30 p.m.

Skinner heard a faint noise and looked up from his
desk to see who his visitor was. His nose told him
before his eyes did, that faint reek of cigarette
smoke that preceded this man was his introduction.

"Mr. Skinner, such a pleasure to see you again," the
smoker's eyes crinkled in a sardonic smile. He reached
into his pocket for a pack of Morleys and struck a
match on the corner of Skinner's desk, carefully
lighting his cigarette. "You wanted to see me?"

"You know why I want to see you," Skinner grated.
"What have you done with him? Where is he?"

The smoker's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Who? I'm
not sure I take your meaning."

"Mulder, you bastard. He's been missing three weeks
now. He and six other people disappeared from a UFO
convention in Los Angeles and haven't been heard from
since. It's as if they'd all disappeared off the
planet." Skinner leaned back in his chair and glared
up at the smoker, who had lost his smile and looked
startled.

"Agent Mulder is missing? How...interesting," the
smoker was silent, thinking. "Very interesting indeed.
Well, I don't have any idea where he might be at the
moment, but then, when was I ever Mulder's keeper?"
With a frown the smoker removed the cigarette from his
lips. "I'm sorry that I can't help you with your
little problem. Give Agent Scully my regrets." The
smoker nodded to Skinner and slipped out the door
without any further word.

Skinner sat looking at the closed door while the cloud
of cigarette smoke settled and reflected that he'd
never seen worry on that bastard's face before. He
wasn't sure that was a good sign. If the smoker didn't
have Mulder, who did?
 
 

Somewhere
Sometime, Evening?

He stared at the wall and listened to the Voice in his
head. It was very soothing now. It wasn't shouting any
more and he was glad of that. He hated it when the
Voice shouted, because he couldn't shut it out of his
head. The Voice only shouted when he disobeyed, he
reminded himself. The others all obeyed; the ones who
were left, that is.

*Get up now and pick up the comb*

He obediently stood up and walked away from the cot
where he'd been sitting and shuffled forward slowly.
His ankles hurt, couldn't remember why. The black
plastic comb lay on the sink in front of the mirror
and he picked it up and dimly noticed that the bandage
on his wrist was stained red again. Oh yes, he'd tried
to hurt himself. But that wasn't allowed. The Voice
didn't like that.

*Comb your hair* The Voice was loud in his head but
not shouting this time. Good. He began to comb his
hair, smoothing the dark tangles back with his other
hand. His hair was getting long, time to get it
cu...cu

He doubled over in pain, the Voice shouting at him.
*Listen to me! Don't remember before! There is only
here! Now!*

On his hands and knees, he scrabbled around blindly
looking for the comb and was grateful when he found
it. He held onto the comb tightly and waited while the
pain gradually eased away. He slowly climbed to his
feet and positioned himself in front of the mirror
again, combing his hair slowly and persistently.

He kept his eyes focused on what he was doing;
shouldn't think about anything but performing his task
perfectly. He ignored the bruises on his face from the
Others and the bandages on both wrists. The pain was
harder to shut out but it was necessary in order to
complete his task. If he didn't complete his task,
he'd be punished.

*Wait at the door. You will be summoned.*

He put the comb down and walked to the door, standing
patiently. His door was very strong and always locked.
When he'd first come here he'd tried to get it open.
How he'd tried, he didn't remember. But he shouldn't
think of things like that. The Voice might hear and
punish him. The door clicked open and two of Them
stood on the other side, gesturing him forward. The
prisoner followed the Others and began to feel fear
when he realized where they were going.

They were taking him to the Room, where the Voice
lived, where pain lived. He knew somehow that he lost
a little bit more of himself every time he entered
that room. He looked around the blank hallway for some
kind of escape and spotted a small door. He dove to
the left, frantically trying to pull the door open. It
was locked, so he turned and ran back the way he'd
come. He could hear feet pounding after him and
sprinted faster. Must escape. Must run! Get away!

Panting, he found another door at the end of the hall,
with a window and grabbed at the knob. It was locked
too. He pulled and pushed, then beat against the door,
then the window with both fists until one fist went
through the glass. Sobbing with pain he tried to push
his hand through the broken glass but was pulled
backward by strong hands.

"Nooooo! Let...me...go! Please..." he wailed as the
two picked up his struggling body and forcibly dragged
him back down the hallway to the Room where the Voice
waited for him. He kept fighting, so frantic that he
didn't realize that the Voice was commanding him and
he wasn't listening. He clawed and bit and kicked but
it did no good. One opened the steel door while the
other pulled him inside. The door slammed behind them,
leaving only a bloody trail on the floor and the sound
of screams through the sturdy door.

__________________________________________________

The Invisible War, Part 2

April 7, 2002
American Airlines Flight 265
10:30 p.m.

Dana Scully edged around in her seat. The flight was half empty and
she could easily have stretched out across the three seats to take a
nap, but she just couldn't. Anyway, she mused, the files were sitting
on the seats. Her work was spread around her. She sighed. She'd been
in flight for four hours and she had no better ideas than when she
had started.

She picked up the top file and read off the list of those taken.
Jenny Sherrill, age 26, a cocktail waitress from Montana, single, no
kids. Bill Carson, age 38, a computer salesman from Dubuque, married
with one child. Crystal FeatherFree, tarot reader and clairvoyant,
single, three children, age 40. Maria Seretti, age 30, attorney from
San Francisco, divorced, no children. Jeffrey Nguyen, age 19,
unmarried student at UC Santa Barbara, Chuck Haynes, age 50, computer
programmer, married with three children and four grandchildren from
Seattle Washington. And Mulder. Ages ranged from 19 to 50, all were
white except for Haynes who was black and Nguyen who was Asian.

"It's as if they were trying to draw a representative sample," she
muttered to herself. If she excluded Mulder, the group would be a
50/50 split male to female. Maybe Mulder wasn't an intended victim?
She sighed. Or maybe he was and another person was grabbed by
accident. Or maybe the kidnappers wanted just these seven people. She
rubbed her eyes, then checked her watch. About three more hours to
landing. Maybe she should sleep if she could. She closed her eyes and
leaned back in her seat.

------------
 

April 7, 2002
American Airlines Flight 265
11:30 p.m.(PST)

She could see him, tied down to a table surrounded by strange men.
They were hurting him! He's screaming, he can't scream but he's
screaming...!

Scully sat bolt upright with a gasp to find herself in her seat on
the plane. The flight attendant was passing by and gave her a
sympathetic look. "Not everybody is a good flyer. Would you like me
to get you a cocktail or some coffee?"

Scully shook her head dumbly, looking wild-eyed around the plane.
She'd seen Mulder, they were experimenting on him, like they'd done
to her. She rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. Okay. She was
already worried about Mulder and that, combined with old memories of
her own abduction, created the nightmare. Yes. That made sense. That
was logical. That must be it. She looked out the black window and
wondered why she felt such an urgent certainty that Mulder was in
terrible danger.

April 8, 2002
2:30 a.m. (EST)

"I'm so glad to hear from you," the Smoker lifted the cigarette to
his lips. "Conrad, it has been too long. I understand that some of
your people have a project or two going in California?" He shifted to
knock some ash off the cigarette.

"Yes, we do have several projects in process at this time. Why do you
ask?" Strughold's voice was thin on the line but the smoker thought
he heard irritation.

"Why, you know that we had agreed that I would be responsible for
North America. I'm just surprised that you hadn't notified me before.
I understand that you acquired some new test subjects in Los
Angeles?" The Smoker sat straighter in the chair. This was the crux;
there had been dissention for months about the extent of the Smoker's
authority. Now he'd find out.

"We did, in the usual fashion. Why do you care?"

"I...ah...was wondering whether you knew that you had inadvertently
caught Fox Mulder in your net? We have some use for him here, if
you'd like to release him to me." If he could get Strughold to give
Mulder to him, he'd have his chance at last to eliminate the problem
that Mulder had become by winning him to the Project. Tell his FBI
friends that he'd died, even give them a body if they wanted. It
would all work so well. But he had to get Mulder before they damaged
him irreparably.

"Yes, we know that. We always check the identities of those
we...er...recruit into our cause. But this Mulder has been such a
thorn in the side, this is surely the best way to dispose of it. No,
he's already started Phase 2 and is preparing for Phase 3. He's a
promising candidate; I don't think we should stop his progress at
this point." Strughold paused. "Unless there is some other reason you
want him?"

The Smoker sweated quietly. The fact that Mulder was his son was not
widely known. Purposely, he'd hidden or broken his family connections
to avoid manipulation by others. He had no logical reason to
interrupt a promising program without raising red flags
elsewhere. "No, no that's fine. You're right, this is a good way to
handle the problem he represents. Thank you." He gingerly hung up the
phone and took a drag on the cigarette, pondering. Yes, this could
work. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Yeah...What?" Skinner's voice was rough with sleep. He fumbled with
the lamp and turned it on, then reached for his glasses.

"Assistant Director Skinner, I wanted to get back to you on your
request," the Smoker said in a silky voice.

"What?" Skinner sat up straight, suddenly awake. "You have
information? Where is he?"

"Not so fast. I can tell you where he is and even get you in, but I
require a small service in return." The Smoker began to smile.

Skinner was silent a moment, remembering a deal he'd made with the
bastard for Scully's cancer cure. The Smoker had never paid up, but
kept upping the ante, wanting more every time. But if he turned him
down, was he dooming Mulder? He took a deep breath. "No deals. I
tried that once."

"Oh no, the deal isn't for you. It's for Agent Scully. I'm afraid you
don't have the professional qualifications."

"No. If there's anything you need done, I'll do it. Not her." Skinner
felt his body quivering with rage. That bastard wasn't going to come
within a mile of Agent Scully or he'd know the reason why.

"Then you've sentenced Agent Mulder to a long and agonizing death,"
The Smoker took one last puff and stubbed out the cigarette.

-----------------

...She was beautiful. He looked up at her and saw the trees framing
her hair, her blue eyes softly looking into his. He was hurt but she
would stay awake and protect him from the monsters. "If it starts
raining sleeping bags you might get lucky..." she was saying to him.
He grinned, knowing that she'd liked his joke and settled back to
rest. Safe.....
 

The prisoner shifted groggily on his cot, then opened his eyes. It
was just a dream, but he'd thought he was there. Really there. Not
here. He was back in his room and nothing had changed. The bare white
light of the hanging bulb still shone and there was no window. No way
of telling whether it was day or night.

He put his right hand under him to lever himself upright and startled
at the sudden sharp pain. Gasping, he sat up and looked at the hand.
It was bandaged past the wrist, the gauze stained with blood. How had
he done that? Or had they done it? He couldn't remember.

Or maybe...yes, he'd tried to run when they were taking him to the
Room for another treatment. He listened to the silence in his mind;
he was alone for once. No voices yelling at him, making him do
things, punishing him for disobedience. The woman in the dream had
known his name, known him. She'd seemed so real, and he'd known her
name too. He sighed. He knew better than to try and remember his life
before he came here. Whenever he did the pain was intense and
immediate.  He didn't think he had a name anymore. They never
addressed or talked to him and he couldn't remember what it had been
before. But if he could see that woman again, just once, he knew she'd
tell him who he was.

That last treatment was worse than usual, not that any of them were a
walk in the park. That's right. They'd fixed his hand, picked all the
glass out of it and cleaned it without ever once looking at him. No
anesthetic either. Not that he could have fought back. They usually
hit you with some kind of paralysis as soon as you were in the door
before they strapped you down.

Well, he supposed they didn't intend to kill him just yet or they
wouldn't have bothered to bandage his hand. Too bad. He didn't like
his other options. They'd removed everything sharp or breakable from
his room long ago. They knew he'd either turn it on them or on
himself, anything to escape.

He heard a scraping sound and got up off the bed. The door to his
room opened and three men entered. So he rated an extra goon today;
he should feel flattered. One man lifted a small box, cell phone? The
prisoner braced himself to run then felt a buzzing sensation in his
head and found himself crumpled on the floor unable to move.

He struggled to move, move anything while the three hoisted him up
and carried him down the hallway toward the Room. He remembered other
sessions in the room, God, don't let them take me there....

The door banged open and the three carried him into the Room and laid
him on the table. The man in the labcoat said nothing but took shears
and cut his clothes off him. Hey, they weren't much, just surgical
scrubs looking pajamas, but at least they kept you warm. While the
prisoner could feel his flesh begin goose-pimpling, Labcoat strapped
down his wrists and ankles, then nodded to one of the goons.

Goon number one brought over an electric razor and Labcoat approached
the prisoner and began to run the razor over his head. The prisoner
felt his scalp get colder and colder and realized that Labcoat had
shaved the hair off his head til he was bald. Then he smelled a
chemical odor, faintly familiar, Betadine? and felt something being
applied to his skull.

But he didn't begin to panic until he saw the tray of surgical
instruments that Labcoat brought over to the table.  They were shiny,
very clean and very sharp. And on the tray was a small saw. Labcoat
donned rubber gloves and mask, then waited while two more labcoated
assistants joined him.

The light was dazzling in the prisoner's eyes when he felt the first
slow cut to his scalp as a line of fire drawing across his head. He
heard a scrunching noise and realized that they were cutting all the
way to the bone. He tried to scream but was denied even that. He felt
terror welling up inside him and he began breathing fast. His eyes
teared up and he could feel the wetness running down his face. Or was
that blood? All he could see was the light in his eyes and couldn't
movecouldn'tmovecouldn'tmovecouldn'tmove....

They loosened the skin and peeled his scalp forward off his skull and
then he heard the drill and knew what they were doing. They're
messing with my brain! Goddamn it, stop! He tried to move but
couldn't couldn't couldn't DO anything ohmigod... He smelled a smoky
odor and felt tiny chips hit his face, closing his eyes against them
and trying hard not to vomit.

The noise stopped and he couldn't feel what they were doing. He knew
that there are no pain sensors in the brain, so that must mean they
were doing something there. Or maybe not. Maybe they all went home
and didn't tell him. He felt a tugging deep inside his head and knew
he'd guessed wrong. Stop. God..somebody stop them.... The Others
didn't talk, just worked quietly on him for what felt like a long
time. He closed his eyes and wished for unconsciousness, wondering
what he'd be when they finished. Lobotomy? Wrong part of the brain...
Should he feel grateful?...God let me die on the table...

Suddenly he was in the office at the Hoover Building and Scully had a
file open on the desk. "It just isn't possible, Mulder! There's no
scientific basis for the existence of..." The memory went away, but
he was just there, living it! He was there! He'd seen her, smelled
her perfume... He closed his eyes in despair, then realized that he
knew who the woman was. She was in the dream. She was...Scully?
Strange name for a woman's first name. But she knew him. He
was...Mulder...

He tried to remember, something he'd been punished for by the Voice.
But maybe the Voice couldn't talk to him while they had his brain
open like this. Remember. I am Mulder. She is Scully. Where...the UFO
conference. I was at the conference when...I don't remember. Then I
was here. Where is here?

The Others hadn't been talking much but a comment caught his
attention. "Now we'll check positioning of the implant by activating
various sensors."

Warmth and sensation. Deep wonderful pleasure. He was floating on a
lake of orgasmic, eternal pleasure.....He was vaguely aware that he
was smiling.

"He seems to be responding, we'll try the next."

PAIN! He felt a burning sensation running up his leg to his crotch
and into his gut, where it settled and devoured his body. He couldn't
see, feel, taste, smell anything but the eternal agony of it...

"Good. Now let's try something else."

The pain stopped, leaving him panting and sweating. Then he felt his
left foot twitch. Movement returning? He tried to move his leg but it
wouldn't budge and he couldn't control the foot. They controlled it.
The big toe lifted, lifted, then bent backward at an impossible
angle. The next toe followed and the next until all five toes were
bent at an agonizing angle. Then his right arm raised and he felt his
own hand grab at his nose and pull hard, then heard the others
laughing.

"One more test." Mulder waited for pain but it didn't materialize,
then felt a warm wetness trickling down his legs and realized it was
urine.

"As you see, the implants are working well. We'll be refining and
expanding their sensitivity and will continue the conditioning in
preparation for phase 3. We'll close now, but notice how I can
control his subjective feelings of pain to give him an anesthetic
effect."

He felt a tugging at his head and realized that they were sewing him
up again but he felt no pain. Not even when they pulled his scalp
back and stitched it closed. He felt the bandage being wrapped around
his head, then the straps were released and he was put on a gurney.
He was grateful that somebody had thought to put a blanket over him.

Only two goons this time, they must not think he was much of a danger
now. They trundled him to his room and plunked him onto his cot. The
blanket slipped off to the floor but nobody noticed. He was cold and
getting colder but still couldn't move. The goons left and the door
closed behind them.

He closed his eyes and shivered, feeling the headache starting to
build behind them. Oh yeah, he'd just had brain surgery hadn't he?
They must have triggered some memory cells when they were testing the
implants. Implants. What did they do to me? What have I become? he
wondered.
 
 
 

________________________________________________________________________
 

The Invisible War, Part 3
 

April 8, 2002
Los Angeles Field Office
8:30 a.m. (PST)

"What do you mean nothing's happened since
I left? It's been a week! Hasn't forensics
turned up anything?" Scully glared at the
smug face of the agent assigned to the
case.

"There's nothing to turn up, Agent Scully.
We've been over the scene, talked to
witnesses; there's no evidence and nobody
saw anything. There are no leads." Jim
Peterson was in his middle thirties and
growing a paunch. Scully doubted he'd seen
much beyond the bottom of a doughnut box
since she'd been gone.

"Besides," Peterson went on. "This
investigation should have been left with
L.A.P.D. Everybody knows that Spooky
Mulder disappears periodically, you know
that better than anybody else! Why should
we call out the cavalry and take valuable
manpower off real cases for a screwup like
that?" He paused and smirked. "Oh, excuse
me, he's your partner isn't he?"

She kept her face emotionless and
squelched the impulse to flatten him. She
needed him and the resources he
represented if she was going to find
Mulder and the other abductees. "Mulder
isn't the only missing person in this
case. There are six other non-FBI
'screwups' who deserve our attention."

"All right, let's talk about the other
people. Half of 'em are diagnosed
schizophrenics, likely to go off at any
time. The rest? Who knows! But I figure if
they're going to a UFO convention, they're
more than ready for the little green men
to take 'em happily. They're a bunch of
nuts who probably wandered away and forgot
to call home."

"So that means it's okay to kidnap people
identified as 'nuts' or 'wacko's' huh?
It's open season because we don't give a
damn what happens to people like that? We
have a job to do, Agent Peterson, whether
or not we agree with their beliefs. Are
you an FBI agent or should I ask L.A.P.D.
for a real investigator?" She stared at
him in silence until his face fell.

"Okay, I was out of line. But seriously,
Agent Scully, we don't have anything more
to go on." The agent raised his hands and
dropped them.

Scully thoughtfully pulled a Byers' piece
of paper from her pocket, "I think I know
one more lead we can follow."
 

10:00 a.m.
Venice, California

"This looks like the place," Peterson said
doubtfully as Scully double-checked her
note.

"Yes, this is it. I called; Dennis West is
expecting us," Scully got out of the car
and Peterson followed more slowly. The
apartment house had seen better days,
probably in the 1930's, Scully surmised.
The two story pink building sat directly
on a narrow street fronting the ocean
district, a block or two off the Santa
Monica pier. With no front yard to speak
of, the traffic noise must be pretty bad,
she thought as she opened the door to the
lobby. "Up here," she said and led
Peterson up a flight of narrow chipped
stairs to the second floor.

Apartment 35 was at the end of the hallway
at the rear of the building. Scully
knocked and waited patiently while the
occupant studied her and Peterson through
the peephole. "Let's see your ID's," said
a suspicious male voice.

First Scully, then Peterson showed held
their badges up to the peephole before
they heard the resident start to unlock
the door. Scully thought she heard at
least three deadbolts released before the
door swung open.

Dennis, for she assumed it was he, stood
six feet tall at about 100 pounds with
long stringy graying hair wearing black
jeans and a ratty white t-shirt. But the
most striking thing about Dennis was the
aluminum foil hat he wore.

"Hello, I'm..." she started but he
interrupted.

"Dana Scully. Yeah, the guys faxed me your
picture so I could be sure it was you.
Um....could I see your ID's again anyway?"
He eyed them anxiously.

Trying hard not to laugh she handed him
her badge and Peterson followed suit.
After long study he handed them back and
ushered them inside. He slammed the door
quickly and locked it behind him, throwing
three deadbolts, a slide and a chainlock.

"Can't be too careful," Dennis said
apologetically. "Especially these days."

"Yes, that's what we wanted to discuss
with you," Scully said. "This is Jim
Peterson, my partner on this case. We
understand you were one of the attendees
at the conference."

"Here, why don't you sit down," Dennis
scooped up a pile of magazines and books
and gestured to the now half cleared
couch. Scully and Peterson sat down
gingerly and West took a seat opposite in
a chair hastily cleaned of books and loose
papers.

"Yes, I went to the whole event," Dennis
began. "I even went to the talk your
partner gave. He was really good; even
talked about some of your cases."

Scully nodded and opened the folder she'd
brought with her. "Here's the list of
those who disappeared. Do you know any of
them?"

He nodded and handed the list back. "I
know three of them from an abductee's list
we belong to. I knew that Maria and Jeff
got taken, but Crystal....Shit, that's
just awful. She was hoping they'd leave
her alone."

"Who? Hoping who would leave her alone?"

"The government, that's who. The ones who
are working with the aliens. They been
taking her regularly since she was a
teenager and doing tests on her. Lately,
she said, they've been trying to harass
her and control her mind. It's been a lot
worse." He shifted in his seat
uncomfortably.

Scully felt equally uncomfortable, she
could sense Peterson's 'I told you so'
smirk. "Worse? How?"

Dennis met her eyes with his own troubled
brown ones. "They've started something
new. They're able to read minds and beam
thoughts into them, and they can even
control your body sometimes. It's the
beams. No, really. They're really doing
it. Look here," he took off his hat. "See
those tiny holes? Look." He handed it to
her.

Scully took the aluminum hat and held it
up to the light. Sure enough she could see
tiny holes burned through the metal. She
handed it to Peterson who took a look then
did a double-take when he saw the holes.
Shaken, he handed it back and Dennis who
put it back on.

"Is that why you're wearing that hat? To
protect you from burns?" Scully asked.

"No! It's their beams! They use the beams
to read your thoughts and worse, to put
thoughts into your mind. They're using
electromagnetic radiation, EMR, to read
your mind and put their own voices and
thoughts into you." He rummaged through
the magazines on the table and came up
with an article headed "EMR Mind Control:
The Truth". "Here, read this." He handed
it to Scully who glanced at it then gave
it to Peterson.

"I know that defense applications have
been studied for some time now," Scully
said slowly. "But I'd always understood
that it was purely theoretical."

"Theoretical, my ass! They've been testing
it on humans for the past 20 years,
including me. But usually when they take
you, you get returned home pretty fast.
They don't keep you this long."

"What do they do to you? Were you ever
taken?" Scully tried to keep her voice
steady as she recalled her own past.

"I'm pretty sure I have been. I've lost
time and found weird bruises and stuff
after, but I don't remember anything. And
I know they're watching me; they trigger
me at random times. Sometimes I get these
jabs, stings all over my body, other times
I can read people's thoughts or I see
things, sort of waking visions. And I
can't wear a watch with a battery." He
held up his arm for the agents to see the
analog wind-up Timex he wore. "The
batteries die as fast as I change them."
He shifted nervously in his seat.

Scully asked, "Did you see anything
unusual at the convention? When is the
last time you saw any of the abductees?"

West thought for a moment then said, "I
think your partner and Crystal were the
last people I saw. They were talking
together after his speech, then suddenly
Crystal just got up and started walking
toward the door with Agent Mulder. I
wondered where they were going at the
time. I thought they were going up to
Crystal's room for, you know..." He
leered, then caught sight of Scully's
expression and cleared his throat. "I
think they must've left the building.
Actually," he said slowly. "Now that I
think about it, there was something weird
in the way Crystal looked. She had no
expression on her face at all; she was
kind of wooden looking. Same for your
partner." He looked worried. "Crystal did
tell me once that she thought they were
controlling her body's motions. Every now
and then she'd wake up somewhere not
knowing how she got there."

Scully noted absently that Peterson was
reading the UFO article with great
interest. "Is there anything else that you
can add that you think might be helpful?"

"No, except to warn you to be careful.
These people play rough." He stood up and
led them towards the door. Peterson
started to hand him the magazine article
but West waved it away. "Go ahead, keep
it. You two need all the help you can
get."

The drive back to the office was quiet.
Peterson concentrated on the road, while
Scully looked out the window absently.
Finally Peterson couldn't stand it any
more. "You really believe this, don't
you?"

"Believe what? That innocent people are
abducted and experimented on? Yes, I have
to believe it." she said.

"Why? It's a load of hogwash, everyone
knows it." he replied challengingly.

"I believe it because it happened to me,"
she answered quietly. "I have objective
proof that while I was gone various tests
were performed on me, and I have some
lasting effects as a result. I don't
remember much, but I almost died."

Peterson glanced at her, flabbergasted.
"But you seem so..."

"Normal? Thank you, I think I am normal.
But if I felt as harassed and tortured as
Dennis West, I'd probably wear a foil hat
if I thought it would help me. Some days
the only thing that kept me sane was
Mulder." She sighed and glanced out the
window again.

They heard a loud chirp and both agents
reflexively checked their cell phones.
Scully's was silent but Peterson held his
up with a grin and took the call. He
listened intently, then said "You what?
Where? We're on our way!" He put the phone
down and grinned. "We have a break! One of
the kidnap victims showed up at the
Greyhound Depo, passed out. She's at the
County Hospital now."

April 8, 2002
Somewhere

Mulder woke, as cold as he'd been when he
finally fell asleep. Why don't they heat
these places? he thought to himself. His
head was still pounding and he thought
he'd kill for a couple aspirin. He pried
his gummy eyes open to find the room
unchanged, light still on...no, wait.
There was a change. Someone had left a set
of pajamas on the floor inside the door,
neatly stacked. Great. And he could move
again.

He creakily sat up on the cot and rubbed
his hands against his arms. God, he was
cold. He got up and made his way to the
door but stopped when he drew level with
the mirror that hung over the sink. He
moved closer and saw his head, covered
with bandages. It wasn't a nightmare,
then.

He felt around until he found the end of
the bandages and began to unroll it,
slowly and then faster, until he'd pulled
all of it off. Then he just stared. He
gingerly touched one of the stitched
incisions that circled the top of his
head. What had they done? He didn't feel
very different. Okay, memory test, my name
is...is...is... I knew yesterday. For a
while, I *knew*, he thought with rising
panic. I knew my name and I knew I had a
friend...someone...I don't recall....DAMN!
He threw the bandages to the floor and
resisted the impulse to stomp on them.

He braced himself against the sink and
thought hard. For a while yesterday, he'd
had himself back. How had that happened?
He didn't know. But then they'd taken him
to the treatment room and done...this...to
him and he could still remember. Then he
went to sleep and all memory was gone. The
surgery? Maybe. What else had he lost
while sleeping?

He stumbled over to the pajamas and slowly
put them on. He supposed he should clothe
himself and try to stay alive, but why
that was he had no idea.  He went back to
his cot, glancing at his reflection when
he passed the mirror.

He picked up the blanket and wrapped
himself in it, then huddled on the cot,
trying to think.

He was still thinking when the Voice came
back. *You are nothing* it said. He sat up
straight. One thing he did remember was
that he'd had a little peace yesterday
when that damned thing was silent. *You
are nothing without the Program*

"Shut the Hell up!" the Prisoner growled
at it.

*You are no one. You have no one except
within the Program. I give you purpose*

"What purpose can there be but to destroy
me?" he muttered to it.

*I am not here to destroy you, but to help
you* The Voice took on a pleasant, gentle
tone. *You are sick and I'm here to heal
you. You're alone and I'm your friend*

"I'm not alone! I have friends!" the
Prisoner shouted, clapping his hands over
his ears. "Get out of my head!"

*Your friends have forgotten you. They
never believed you anyway; you were always
an embarassment to them. Listen to me and
find your purpose in life. Listen. Listen.
LISTEN. LISTEN!*

The Voice became overpowering until the
Prisoner was huddled in the cot under the
blanket, futilely trying to stop his ears
against the voice in his mind.

They came for him later. The Voice hadn't
stopped beating against his mind,
reminding him that he must listen and
always obey. At first he'd fought it, then
just tried to remain silent endure. He was
almost grateful for the distraction.

"Two goons again, huh?" he said when the
motioned for him to get up. "I should give
you guys names since we're together so
much. I know, you're Moe and you must be
Curly. So where's Larry?" The goons
remained silent and expressionless. They
just grabbed him by the arms and pulled
him from the cot.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," the prisoner
muttered as they shoved him into the
hallway. He could guess where they were
going and, for what seemed like the
hundredth time, scanned the area for
escape routes. As usual nothing presented
itself. Better to conserve his strenth
then, he decided.

The guards shoved him inside the Treatment
room and shut the door behind him. That
was odd, usually they took him in here and
strapped him down. Hey, there was nobody
in here. He was alone. Well, there was
probably somebody watching behind the big
two-way mirror that lined the wall, still,
he could explre and maybe find a weapon or
two.

Before he had gotten two steps into the
room the Voice shouted, *Stop!* Irritated,
the prisoner held a single digit up to
heaven, said "Fuck you!" and walked
forward. He was stopped in his tracks by
an excruciating pain that ran up his legs
to his spine and enveloped his body. He
crumpled to the floor with it and when it
left a moment later he lay panting there.

*When I command, you will OBEY. Now get
up*

Shaken, the prisoner got to his knees and
climbed to his feet. *Go over to the box
in the corner*

Warily the prisoner obeyed. There was a
large cardboard box with a rustling sound
inside. The Voice commanded him to open it
and look inside, so he did. Three baby
kittens huddled in the box, looking up at
him trustfully. He didn't like where this
was going.

*Pick up the black one* Hesitantly, he did
so and cradled it against his chest. He
was strangely comforted by it's soft purr.

*Now kill it*

The Prisoner almost dropped the kitten in
his outrage. "No! Hell, no! I won't!
No..." The pain began again, only it was
worse this time but the Prisoner gritted
his teeth and decided to endure. Just when
he thought he'd pass out from it, the pain
stopped. He began to hope that he could
beat this, then noticed that he was
standing. His hand began reaching down to
the kitten, now on the floor.

Wait, he thought, I'm not doing this. I
can't be doing this but my hands are
moving! His hands picked the kitten up and
cuddled it close to his chest again. Then,
with one hand bracing against it's body
and the other at it's head, he neatly
snapped its neck. At that instant he was
flooded with pleasure, a glowing, fiery
joy like he'd never known before.

Dimly he heard the Voice in his mind say
*You will always obey. Then you will be
rewarded, now let's try this again*
 

Noon
Los Angeles County Hospital

Scully and Peterson were shown into
Crystal FeatherFree's room by a bored
looking nurse. She sat up in bed, looking
calm and collected.

"Hello, you must be the FBI agents," she
said pleasantly. "I'm pleased to meet
you."

"Yes, I'm Dana Scully and this is my
partner, Jim Peterson. We'd like to ask
you some questions if you feel up to it."

"Sure. I'm only here for observation
because I passed out. What can I tell
you?"

"Well, first the most obvious. What
happened? Where were you?" Scully took a
chair next to the bed, as did Peterson.

"I was abducted is what happened. I don't
know where they took me but I've been
there before."

"Excuse me for saying so, but you seem
remarkably calm for somebody who's been
kidnapped," Scully felt vaguely betrayed
by this woman who took abduction so
lightly.

"Well, it happens to me pretty often. I'm
really cheesed off, if you want to know
the truth. They usually get it over with
and let me go in a few hours. This time
they kept me three fricken weeks! All my
usual clients must be wondering where I
was and what happened to me!" The woman
crossed her arms across her chest and
frowned.

"This is a...um...regular occurrence?" Out
of the corner of her eye Scully could see
a grin starting to spread over Peterson's
face.

"Yeah. They've been experimenting on my
since I was 17," Crystal said. "Hey, don't
get me wrong, I hate it and it's a bitch
on my schedule. But I can't stop them and
nobody believes me when I report it to the
police. And I don't want to spend another
week in a psych ward."

"Um...okay. Well, have you seen this man?"
Scully handed her a photo of Mulder.

Crystal's said. "Yes, I know him, Agent
Mulder. He spoke at the convention.
Actually, I'd just been to Agent Mulder's
talk, a very good one, when the next thing
I know I'm walking out the door to a car
that's waiting for me. And I was talking
to Mulder at the time; so he got hit too,
by whatever it was they used. It's as if
they took over my body for a minute or
two. I had no control at all." She took a
deep breath. "When we got into the car
everything went black and I woke up
there."

"Where is 'there'?" Scully asked.

"I'm sorry, I don't know where," Crystal
said. "It looked like a psych ward or
hospital from the inside. There were
locked doors everywhere. At first Mulder
and I were kept in a big ward with others
who were taken. Some abductees were from
the convention and others I didn't
recognize." She looked troubled. "But
Mulder fought against everything, no
matter how they tried to subdue him.
Finally they moved him to the special
group."

Crystal gave Scully a long look. "He's
important to you, isn't he? I'm so very
sorry."

"What do you mean? Is he dead?" Scully
stumbled over the last word.

"No, but it would be better for him if he
were. I overheard some of the guards
talking about what they were doing to the
special ones. It was different that what
they did to us."

"Different? Different how?" Scully leaned
forward.

"The guards said something about implants
and that the specials won't own their own
souls when the treatments are done. I
don't know what that means but it scares
me. I don't think they plan to let him
go."

April 8, 2002
4:00 p.m.
Hoover Building

Skinner looked at the clock again and
reminded himself that California was three
hours ahead of him. Scully would call when
she had news. He looked at the papers on
his desk and drummed his fingers again,
then rubbed his tired face with both
hands.

Last night he had tossed and turned in a
bed suddenly grown lumpy and
uncomfortable. He couldn't commit Scully
to a deal with that cheating bastard, and
the Smoker wouldn't let Skinner take
Scully's place. Part of him was relieved
that the Smoker had turned him down.
Another part was ashamed.

How many times had Mulder ever let him
down? Never. And now Mulder needed his
help and what did he have to give? Nothing
but frustration. He knew that if Scully
were told about this deal she'd go for it
in a minute. Therefore, he wouldn't tell
her. That much he knew Mulder would
approve.

But the waiting was hard. What if nothing
turned up? He looked at the clock again
and picked up the phone to call Scully.
The call to her cell was picked up
quickly.

"Agent Scully, how are you doing?" Skinner
asked crisply. He heard Scully say, "Just
a moment," and another voice reminding her
that cell phones weren't allowed inside
the hospital. "Sir," Scully said. "I'll
have to call you from outside. Just a
moment."

A few minutes later she called back. "I'm
in the parking lot with Agent Peterson,
sir. You probably want to know the case's
status."

She means she hasn't found him yet,
thought Skinner. "Yes, Agent. Any
progress?"

"Very little, I'm sorry to say. One of the
abductees was found at a local Greyhound
station and claims she was returned. Sir,
she's seen Mulder." A pause. "She says
he's a special prisoner, he's being given
special testing and she doesn't think
they're going to let him go."

"I see," Skinner said, keeping his voice
calm. "Any leads on where he is?"

"No sir. Nothing. I...I don't know where
to go from here." Scully paused, then he
heard her talking to Peterson. "What? She
what? How?"

"Agent? What is it?"

"Sir, the witness we spoke to, the
abductee...she just went into convulsions
and died. Just now. I have to go," Scully
hung up the phone.

Skinner was silent a moment, his hand
clenched into a fist, then opened it
again. He picked up the phone and dialed a
number.

"Agent Skinner, how pleasant to hear from
you again. And how are Agents Mulder and
Scully?" The Smoker's voice always had
that smug edge to it.

"You know how they are. Look, I'll agree
to your deal. I'll do anything you want,
just tell me where Mulder is," Skinner
tried to keep his voice level and
reasonable.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Skinner," the
Smoker replied. "As I told you before, my
deal is for Agent Scully and not for you.
Circumstances haven't changed. Are you
authorized to deal on her behalf?"

"No, I haven't told her," Skinner replied.

"Well then you'd better tell her. Or
should I telephone?" That bastard was
enjoying this...

"No! I'll call her. I'll get back to you."
Skinner slammed the phone down, wishing it
were the Smoker's face. He lifted the
phone again and called Scully's line. She
answered it absently.

"Agent Scully, can you talk?"

"Yes sir, for the moment. Sir, it looks
like the witness died of cerebral
hemhhorage. The nurses found a small patch
of hair shaved off the top of her head.
She's had some kind of brain surgery
recently. I think it killed her, but I
won't be sure until the autopsy."

Skinner took a deep breath. "Agent Scully,
you may not have time for the autopsy.
I've been offered information about Agent
Mulder's whereabouts and the necessary ID
to get into the facility where he's being
held."

"Sir, that's wonderful! When can we
start?"

"The deal is with the Smoking man and he
doesn't want to deal with me, but with
you. He has a project he needs help with."
Skinner paused, then continued. "I offered
to do it myself but he refuses to consider
that. He says that only you are qualified.
I didn't want to tell you about this."

"How long has the offer been on the
table?" Scully asked tensely.

"Since last night. I didn't want to tell
you unless it was the only option. I'm
sorry."

"Sir, it's become necessary. She said that
Mulder was a special case. If she has only
one implant and it killed her, what are
they doing to him? We have to get to him
before it's too late. What number do I
call?"
 

~~~

The Secret War, part 4
 

Scully called the number Skinner gave her with
trepidation. She had no faith that the Smoker wouldn't
have some double-cross in mind for her, but if she
could rescue Mulder it would be worth it. She'd deal
with double-crosses later. The line answered with a
familiar voice.

"Yes, I've been told that you have some information I
need," she began.

"Agent Scully, how good to hear from you. I trust
you're keeping well?" said the oily voice on the other
side.

She kept her temper with difficulty. "Skinner tells me
you have a deal for me. What is it you want in
exchange for Mulder?"

"Why nothing you aren't qualified to give. I simply
want the benefit of your expertise. That's all."

"And what would that be?" she asked suspiciously.

"An autopsy.  I value your skill in your particular
profession and need an unbiased opinion."

What was he getting at? Where was the catch? "Who or
what am I supposed to autopsy?" She looked around
uncomfortably, suddenly sure she was under
surveillance.

The Smoker chuckled. "A participant in one of our
projects died recently. There is dispute regarding
exactly what killed him, and the medical personnel
involved are, shall we say, biased? Therefore a
neutral third opinion is called for. You support no
particular side in the issue and have a reputation for
scrupulous honesty. Therefore I am willing to trade my
information for your services."

"I see. And where is this autopsy to take place? When
I get your information I'll need to act on it
immediately." She waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Unfortunately, you'll be needed in D.C. Assistant
Director Skinner will have to act on the information
on your behalf."

"If Mulder's still in California, then Skinner will
lose a day flying out here! God knows what might
happen to Mulder in the interim!"

She could almost hear the Smoker shrug. "Nevertheless,
this is the best I can do. Are you interested?"

She sighed. There had never been a choice, really.
"Yes, I'll do it. Tell me what to do."

"It's very simple, fly back to Washington and a car
will pick you up at the airport. Tell Mr. Skinner to
make his travel arrangements. My representative will
meet him with the necessary papers at Dulles."

"All right," she said, and hung up the phone in
resignation. After a moment to compose herself, she
called Skinner.

April 8
7:40 p.m.
Dulles Airport

Skinner checked his watch and looked around. He'd
already checked in and gotten his boarding pass, so
where was the Smoker's contact? He still didn't like
this deal and had told Scully so, but he knew it was
wasted effort for them both to complain about it. It
had always been obvious that they were going to take
the deal.

"Penny for your thoughts," said a familiar voice.

Skinner looked up to see Krycek smiling at him with
irony. He wondered vaguely how Krycek had gotten past
airport security to the boarding area without a plane
ticket. "So he's using you as his errand boy again?
What's wrong, Krycek, can't you ever get a promotion?"
Skinner frowned at the other man. Krycek's grin simply
got broader. He held out a large manila envelope and
Skinner took it.

"What is this?" Skinner asked, opening the envelope
and peering inside.

"Credentials and security codes for the facility.
You're scheduled to be part of a tour tomorrow at 6
p.m. The video-monitoring system will be overridden
from 6 to 10 p.m. and the security codes are due to be
changed at midnight, so you'd better do what you came
for before then. The rest is up to you. Good luck."
With that, Krycek melted into the crowd.

Skinner looked up and found him gone, then shrugged
and went back to the packet. He had to hand it to the
Smoker, he was thorough. He had an ID badge, with
photograph, identifying him as Walter Smith, a
geneticist from New York. Mulder was being held at the
Fletcher Mental Health Institute, near Bakersfield
California. A nice remote area to keep your guinea
pigs, Skinner thought.

There was also a set of blueprints of the building's
interior, showing exterior doors and the security
system. And a brief note, unsigned: "Although you
might be tempted to carry your weapon and wear a
recording device, I'd advise against it. You will
enter the building through a metal detector and
frisked on entrance." He really wants us to do this,
Skinner realized. He briefly wondered what the Smoker
got out of this, then decided to shelve the thought
for later consideration. The important thing now was
to get Mulder out.

He opened his cell phone and called Scully."I have
it," he said. "It looks legitimate."

"Good," she answered. "I'm about to get on the plane.
I suppose this is a 'go' then. Do you have the medical
supplies?"

"Yes, I do," Skinner replied, troubled. "I had medic's
training in the Marines, but that was basic first aid.
I'm not sure I can handle anything more complicated."

"You just have to keep him stable until you can get
him to UCLA. I called an old friend there, a
neurosurgeon, Dr. Evelyn Lewiston. She's expecting
him."

"All right," Skinner sighed. "Good luck. I'll phone
when I have him and leave a message as necessary. You
do the same when you're done; I'll have my cell off
until we're out." He stopped, then added. "If I don't
hear from you in 48 hours, I'll assume you're a
captive and take appropriate steps. And Scully..."

"Yes sir?"

"Be careful. You know he can't be trusted."

Skinner looked up when his flight was called. He
gathered his belongings together, taking care to fold
the envelope into his jacket pocket. It wouldn't do to
lose this. He had a long flight ahead and a lot of
planning to do.

April 8
Somewhere
Somewhen

The prisoner staggered back to his room between the
two guards, who supported him on both sides. He held
his hands out away from his body, looking only at the
barely cleaned blood that reddened them. The guards
opened the door to the room, shoved him in, then
locked it behind him. He was left standing alone in
the center of the room.

The things he'd done during the past hours were
unspeakable. Trembling, he stumbled to the sink and
began to wash his hands. He scrubbed until the scabs
on his right hand broke and bled, his own blood
merging with the other blood in the water. Finally, he
shut the water off and rubbed his hands dry on the
pajamas. Then he looked down and saw the blood stains
there. He quickly stripped them off, bundled them into
a ball and threw them into the corner of the room.
Then he moved toward the toilet in the corner and lost
what little food he'd eaten that day.

He made his way to the cot and wrapped the blanket
around him, huddling down as deeply as he could. He
forced himself to take deep breaths and reminded
himself that he hadn't done those things. The Others
were making his body do them, trying to train him to
enjoy killing and pain.

He'd killed today; small animals at first, always with
bare hands, always with that pleasurable rush at the
moment of the kill. It didn't come from me, he
reminded himself. It wasn't me. It was them.

After the small animals they'd moved to higher
animals, dogs and later monkeys and chimps. They had
been restrained but conscious, victims of the
inexorable command from the Voice. He'd killed
everything he'd been directed to.

The chimp had been the worst. Strapped down like a man
on the table where the prisoner himself usually lay.
And it watched him with human eyes as he disembowelled
it alive. The prisoner held out a shaking hand and saw
the blood still embedded under his nails and closed
his eyes against it, swallowing hard.

The best resistance he'd been able to manage was to
hide inside himself and let the body do what it did.
He'd tried to cocoon himself inside black darkness but
it didn't work. That terrible rush of pleasure, the
wash of evil joy always found him and brought him out,
gasping.

He had begun to fear that soon he'd begin to crave it
if it went on much longer. The pleasure came from
Them; it had to be. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't sure
who he was, but he knew that. But who he be in a week
he didn't know. There'd been a pattern to the training
today, working from lower life forms to the almost
human. What would it be tomorrow?

He hugged his arms to himself and began to rock back
and forth. Tomorrow would inevitably come. And what
then? What then? Who had he been to deserve this? Had
he been an evil man? He didn't think so, or he'd be
enjoying this killing. He got up and approached the
mirror, examining his face in it. The stitches looked
angry and raised against his skin, like something on a
Frankenstein monster. He touched one carefully, then
brought his hand down.

The Voice had been less in evidence lately than when
he'd first come here. Back then it had never been
silent except when he could sleep. Since this surgery
it seemed to stop after his sessions in the treatment
room. Maybe they thought they had him under enough
control that it wasn't necessary. In any case, for the
time being he was as alone as he'd ever be.

Whenever he tried to remember his past he was washed
with pain; even thinking about it now gave him
twinges. Why? Why so important that he forget who he
was? It might make it easier for them to control his
mind, turn him into a killer with the treatments and
the surgery. "It's easier to write on a blank slate,"
he murmured to himself softly. But he'd remembered his
name just yesterday before they'd blanked it out
again, so it was possible to beat this conditioning.

What did he know about himself? He mentally began
counting off. He was educated, he thought. He seemed
to know facts and words that were out of the ordinary.
He'd understood about pain sensors in the brain,
understood medical terms used by those who'd operated
on him. Was he a doctor then? He didn't think so.
Maybe he worked for or with a doctor? He wasn't kept
with the other prisoners any more. Why was he
different? Was it because he'd fought so hard or some
other reason?

In any case, he had to get out of here and fast,
before he became something even he didn't recognize.
He eyed the pajamas wadded up in the corner, then at
the blanket.

He returned to the cot and wrapped the blanket around
his right hand. He mentally gave his bruised and
scabby fingers an apology just before he drove his
fist into the mirror. It shattered and spewed glass
across the floor. He gathered the shards together into
a pile and picked out the biggest and sharpest ones.
These he set aside and began to plan for tomorrow.
 

April 9
Somewhere
Early morning

The prisoner heard the guards in the hallway. He'd
already dressed himself in his pajamas and had wrapped
his left hand and arm in the blanket. He held shards
in both hands, half hidden in his loose trousers. The
door opened and the prisoner got up, moving to stand
between the guards. At the last moment he faked a trip
and fell into the first guard, jabbing the shard of
mirror in deep. Then he turned abruptly away and
slashed at the second guard who was bending down.
Guard number two went down bleeding, and the prisoner
ran.

He got to the door and began pounding at the newly
repaired window with his wrapped hand. An alarm
sounded as it began to fracture. This was taking too
long. He wrapped both hands into the blanket and
pounded some more. So slow...so slow! Soon others
would arrive and he'd be overwhelmed. He had to get
out. Now!

Finally the safety glass shattered. He cleared as much
as he could and put the blanket over the frame, then
shinnied through. He stood outside the building in the
early morning sun and studied his surroundings, then
began to make his way to the fence. He could feel
himself tripping and stumbling over the dirt. Funny,
he'd been clumsy ever since they'd done whatever
they'd done to his brain... No matter, run harder and
get the Hell OUT of here...

He could see a brick wall ahead. If he could get over
that, he might be safe. The Others must have found the
guards and the door by now but he hoped he could at
get to a hiding place if not safety before they closed
in. That was his last thought before his body froze.
His legs stopped moving and his forward momentum
pitched him forward into the dust.

He lay there unable to move, hearing but not seeing
footsteps approaching him. Hands grabbed him and
hauled him upright. He found himself facing Labcoat
who held the black remote control and wore a serious
look.

"You are not allowed to leave without permission. You
know that. You are also to harm only targets which we
give you. You know that too." The hand moved on the
remote and the world exploded in fire. The pain began,
then increased and continued increasing until the
prisoner was writhing. He heard Labcoat hit another
button and it redoubled again. Screaming, the prisoner
squirmed and fought against it until a convulsion took
him. Labcoat watched the convulsions impassively and
was joined by a second man.

"You might damage him," said the second man. "You know
what Strughold ordered."

"I know. But I've been entrusted with his conditioning
and he will learn if it kills him. I think I'll
accelerate the training. I don't want any more
slip-ups." Labcoat hit another button and the
convulsion stopped, leaving the prisoner unconscious
in the dust, blood running down his chin from where
he'd bitten his tongue. As the two men walked away,
the guards picked up the prisoner and carried him back
into the building.

April 9, 2002
Noon

The prisoner woke up in a room very like the one he'd
left. This one didn't have a mirror but not even the
tiniest sliver of glass lay on the floor. A tray with
a sandwich lay inside the door but he ignored it. He
couldn't stomach food anymore.

He got up and was standing unsteadily when they came
for him.
 

April 9, 2002
5:00 a.m. EST
Dulles Airport
Washington D.C.

It had been a long flight and Scully hadn't slept
well. Still, she was glad to be doing something to
find Mulder even if she had grave doubts about the
Smoker. She looked around the airport terminal for the
messenger he was supposed to send.

"Agent Scully," a familiar voice came from behind her.
She turned and blanched.

"Krycek," she said flatly.

"I'm your driver today. Isn't it odd how the roles
change?" Krycek smiled and gestured toward the exit,
leaving her to carry her own bag.

Reluctantly she followed him. She had to admit that
the choice of Krycek to meet her was inspired, in a
warped sort of way. There could be little doubt who
had sent him, giving him authenticity that no ID could
provide. The limo waited outside in a no parking zone.

"Aren't you afraid of tickets?" she asked as she swung
her bag into the trunk.

"I laugh at tickets, there are other things in life so
much more terrible." Krycek slid into the drivers'
seat without looking to see if Scully followed. She
eyed the empty back seat and decided to sit up front
next to Krycek.

"My, isn't this cozy," was Krycek's only comment. He
took the limo out of the airport and onto the highway.

"Where are we going?" She looked out the window
hunting for landmarks.

"That is a secret," said Krycek. "You'll have to wear
a blindfold. It's in the glove compartment."

She gave him a sideways look but fished it out of the
glove compartment. It looked more like a pair of
swimming goggles painted over than anything else. She
slid it on and found it blocked the light completely.
"Is this really necessary?" she asked in a pained
voice.

"If you want your partner back, it is." Krycek said
shortly.

"What do you know about Mulder?" she asked, suddenly
certain that Krycek knew everything that the Smoker
did.

"I know that you'd better get him out of there or
you'll never see him again. As it is, there may not be
much of him left even if Skinner does rescue him."
Krycek was silent after that, refusing to answer any
questions or converse at all.

The drive was long and Scully found that she had been
sleeping for some time before Krycek stopped the car.
"We're here," he said. "You can take off the blindfold
now."

Scully blinked at the anonymous looking office
building in front of her. It could have been any
building in any town in America. It stood on a large
landscaped park, but that wasn't unusual either.
Krycek led her into the lobby and she accepted an ID
badge from an armed guard, then followed Krycek down
an elevator to the basement. Well, she considered,
whoever runs the shop the morgue is always in the
basement.

"This is where you'll work," Krycek opened a door with
a card-key and showed her into a changing room.
"You'll find scrubs in the locker, a shower through
that door. The morgue is fully equipped and there's a
tape recorder as well. Just perform your usual autopsy
and report your findings. If you need special tests
run, there's an intercom on the wall inside. Someone
will come if needed."

"How do I get back when I'm finished?" she asked.

"There's another intercom by the door in here. I'll be
on the other end. Just let me know when you're done."
Krycek gave her an ironic smile, "Have fun."

After he had gone through the door she tried it and it
was locked as she'd guessed it would be. Oh well, time
to get working then.

April 9
5 p.m.
Somewhere off Highway 99, Near Bakersfield

Skinner eyed the countryside. It was ugly. Dry, flat
desert. Good place to put a test facility. His map
said he should turn left at the next cross-street,
Road 437, ah there it was. If the previous road had
been lonely and desert, Road 437 was even more so.
Clearly, the only people who came out here were those
who didn't have a choice. Even the soil looked dead,
gray and dusty, more like a lunar landscape than
anything else. He could see the ruts left from the
last vain attempt to farm here. But the land itself
was dead and the only green thing he saw was a weed
here and there.

He saw the sign and the brick wall first, "Fletcher
Institute for Mental Health". Yeah, the place looked
like a mental hospital, very secure. He drove up to
the front gate and gave the guard his ID badge.

"Go to parking lot C, sir. That's the visitor parking.
The reception area's just off there, you can't miss
it," said the guard, returning the badge.

Skinner nodded and drove in, carefully noting the
area. Floodlights in the parking lot but the lot
didn't extend beyond the building. From the placement
of the building's exterior lights he'd guess that
there would be some shadows at night. Well, he had to
hope for the best.

He parked the car and donned the jacket that went with
his suit. He hoped a business suit was enough to
identify him as a geneticist. He also hoped he didn't
look like he was wearing a sign that said 'cop'. He
walked into the door marked "Reception".

He checked in with the receptionist, another security
guard, who gave him a clip-on badge and instructed him
to wear it and the other ID at all times or, he
commented smoothly, "We may not want to let you
leave."

A small crowd of people were sitting quietly in the
small waiting area. He noticed that they didn't talk
to each other. They didn't even make eye contact with
anyone else. He supposed that that made sense, given
the clandestine nature of these activities.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Clinic," an oily
voice greeted them from the door. A middle-aged man in
a white labcoat gave them a general smile. "I am
Doctor Philip Gordon and I am so glad that you've
decided to visit and review our work. We are
justifiably proud of what we've accomplished here.
Please come this way. And a word of caution, please
don't lose your badges and do stay with the group. Our
facility's hallways can be confusing to a visitor."

Skinner followed the group, looking intently into
hallways and at any people they passed. It was a vain
hope to think he might see Mulder but he would still
keep looking.

They were led into a conference room having two rows
of chairs facing a curtained wall with a podium to one
side. Gordon waited for them all to be seated, then
took his place behind the podium.

"I would like to thank you all for your interest in
what we are trying to accomplish here. I think I can
show you that we are making significant progress in
the field of electromagnetic mind control and
weaponry." He pressed a switch on the podium and the
curtains opened to a window. Skinner could see through
the glass what looked like an operating room with
shiny cupboards and a strange looking chair. Almost
like a dentist chair, he thought, until he saw the
shackles on the arms and feet.

"What you are seeing is one of our Treatment Rooms,
used for conditioning our subjects. What the subject
sees is a long mirrored wall, a two-way mirror of
course."

The door to the room opened and two guards brought in
a woman. Skinner blinked in recognition a moment, then
relaxed. The woman was petite with shoulder length red
hair and a fair complexion. She bore a striking
resemblance to Dana Scully but definitely wasn't her.
He gave a sigh of relief; he hadn't felt comfortable
about sending her off into the Smoker's clutches and
had almost expected to find her here ahead of him.

The guards left the room and shut the door behind
them. She immediately went to the door and tried
vainly to open it.

"As you already know, we are able to do a great deal
with electromagnetic weapons, or EMR weapons as I
shall call them. It's been said that with this class
of weapon, world war three could be started and won
before anybody noticed; a sort of invisible war. With
our short-range weapons we can temporarily control the
bodily movements of a subject," he pulled out a small
remote control and pressed a button. The woman walked
mechanically over to the chair, sat down and strapped
her legs in.

"We can transmit voice messages or visions directly to
the brain." He held the remote and punched another
series of buttons and said into the remote "You are a
useless drain on program resources."  She looked up
and around her for the sounds, a frightened look on
her face.

"We can also project sharp electric jabs," the woman
jerked, "or intense itching." The woman began to
frantically scratch her neck, then stopped when Gordon
punched another set of buttons.

"The problem has always been that these are short
range weapons and the experimenter must be no more
than 20 feet from the subject, which could naturally
be quite dangerous for the experimenter." Gordon
paused to let the group chuckle die down.

"This subject has no implants whatsoever and can be
used as a control. We have had limited success with
single cranial implants in other subjects. Basically
we've been able to extend the distance somewhat but
not as far as we'd like. Also, the effect of the
weapon is limited to what I just demonstrated for you.
The subject still retains the ability to fight off the
effects of the weapon and any conditioned responses we
plant and many do."

Gordon turned back to face his audience. "You will be
gratified to know that we have developed a new
technique that allows us to successfully condition a
subject permanently, by breaking down the original
personality and implanting our command structure in
his brain. The subject is given multiple implants
which reinforce the commands until conditioning is
complete. However, our physical control continues over
him for life and the subject knows that. Therefore he
is obedient and loyal at all times, knowing that we
hold his every breath in the palm of our hands.
Observe please," he punched the button on the podium
and the door opened, bringing in a man. He looked away
from the window but Skinner could see that he was tall
and very thin; his pajamas sagged on him. He was bald
with a network of scars crossing his skull and looked
vaguely battered to Skinner's eyes, as though he'd
been beaten recently.

As before, the guards left him in the room and locked
the door behind them. The man stood unsteadily,
looking over his shoulder to make sure the guards were
gone, then tried the door as she had. The intercom
caught a very faint "Shit!" from the man when he found
it locked. He turned back and looked at the woman in
the chair, blinking in puzzlement, then glanced at the
mirror.

Skinner saw his face and stilled. Mulder had lost at
least twenty pounds since he'd seen him last.  His
eyes were sunken in his cheeks and looked haunted.
Skinner could see a tracery of old bruises healing on
his arms and recent cuts and scabs on his wrists and
right hand. Skinner gripped the arms of his chair
tightly and fought not to let any of this show on his
face.

"This subject is beginning Phase Three of our new
protocol. He was recently fitted with a series of five
cranial implants which allow us to control all aspects
of his existence. We can transmit commands or pictures
remotely," Gordon hit a switch on a second remote and
Mulder cringed away from the window, backing toward
the far wall of the room. "I projected a raging fire
at him," said Gordon calmly. "One of the first things
we determine for each subject is a list of those
things he fears most."

"As with the control subject, we can transmit pain but
are not limited to mere jabs and zaps," Mulder doubled
over, his face a rictus of agony. "and pleasure as
well." Mulder straightened up and his fact took on  an
expression of euphoria.

"This ability allows us to use operant conditioning
techniques to reward approved behaviors and punish
those not allowed in a way which does not negatively
affect the subject's physical health."

Yeah, but what about his spirit? Skinner thought to
himself, anxiously watching Mulder pick himself up and
stumble over to the woman in the chair. He'd never
seen the man look that bad, not even when he was
profiling. Mulder began silently to undo the straps
that bound the woman into the chair, then backed away
from her and faced the mirror impassively. He slowly
raised his left arm and hand with middle finger
outstretched and held it there in a kind of salute.
Skinner suppressed a grin and thought, "Good for you,
Mulder!"

Gordon frowned. "As I indicated, this subject has just
begun the more thorough conditioning process. However,
he and others like him are still fully under our
control; more so than we were able to do with other
subjects before. For example, I can slow his
breathing."

Mulder began to gasp for air, then grabbed at his
throat and fell to his knees, his face turning blue.
The woman ran over to him and pushed on his chest,
trying to force the air in.  Just before
unconsciousness, Gordon used his remote and Mulder
began to breathe again. He took long deep breaths and
scowled at the window. The woman helped him stand up
again. Mulder raised his hand with finger outstretched
again, even higher.

Stop antagonizing him, dammit! Skinner found himself
telling Mulder silently. He's going to kill you before
I can rescue you!

"I can even stop his heart," Mulder clutched his chest
and began gasping again, then fell to the floor,
silent. The woman knelt next to him, hunting for a
pulse. Skinner only just stopped himself from jumping
to his feet, hoping frantically that Gordon was just
making a point. He was.

"And I can restart it again." Mulder began to breathe
and the pallor left his face. Mulder stayed down and
didn't try to return to his feet, gulping in air with
his eyes closed.

"The challenge has always been to force a subject to
break early training in ethics and morals, especially
prejudices against violence. We've found that a
program of desensitization is effective in overcoming
this. By forcing the subject to experience and perform
acts of violence we render it more acceptable in his
worldview."

Gordon put the remote next to his lips and said,
"Strangle the woman to death."

Gordon continued cheerfully on. "This subject, oddly
enough, was a Federal Agent and has strong ethical
beliefs. To overcome this we have erased all  memory
of his past and, given the implants, he must obey all
commands given him. If he doesn't choose to obey he is
punished with pain and his body obeys nevertheless. He
is also rewarded with pleasure upon completion of any
orders, a higher degree of pleasure the more difficult
the task. He will eventually realize that he has no
chance to resist and give it up as futile. Then our
conditioning will have taken hold."

Mulder had turned mechanically and began to walk
toward the woman. She looked first at the two way
mirror and then at Mulder and backed away from him.
Mulder followed more swiftly and cornered her against
the metal cabinets. His eyes looked deeply into her
terrified ones.

Skinner shifted his horrified attention between
Gordon's chatter and Mulder's actions, not knowing
where to look or what to do. He had to do something...

He held her down with his left hand and stroked her
face with his right. Then the right came softly down
her cheek to her chin and below. The fingers slowly
clenched around her throat.  He kept eye contact with
her as her face turned purple, then blue as she gasped
for air and fought him. He moved both hands into a
grip around her throat and squeezed harder.

Skinner glanced at Gordon and the other attendees and
could see several avidly licking their lips. He felt
nausea building in the pit of his stomach and
regretted the service weapon he'd left in the car. He
had to do something.... He eyed the distance to
Gordon, then looked at the other attendees and came to
a realization.

He could do nothing.

Mulder held the woman's throat, looking deeply into
her eyes until she stopped breathing and grew still.
Skinner could see that although Mulder's face was
impassive, tears were running from his eyes and he was
breathing hard. He's fighting it, thought Skinner. But
he's lost.

Gordon hit another button on his remote and Mulder
dropped the woman. She slipped to the floor into a
limp huddle.

"And of course we must reward a task well performed,"
Gordon used the remote again and Mulder was washed
with ecstasy, his face a mix of horror and joy. Gordon
hit and Mulder backed away from the dead woman to find
the corner of the room farthest from her and all but
pressed himself into the wall.

Gordon pressed activated the remote control on the
drapes and Skinner's last glimpse of his agent before
they closed was Mulder running over to the woman,
trying to perform CPR on her dead body.

"Well," said Gordon brightly. "Shall we go in to
dinner? My chef tells me he's prepared something
special for our special guests."

~~~
 

April 9
7:30 p.m.
Fletcher Mental Health Institute

Skinner picked at his filet mignon and
listened to the babble of conversation
around him. The wine, like the food, was
excellent but he had to remind himself not
to drink too deeply. Much as he longed to
get stinking drunk after what he'd just
seen, that would have to wait until he'd
gotten Mulder out of this hellhole.

"Dr. Smith, you aren't eating! Surely the
food is to your taste?" Dr. Gordon stood
next to Skinner's table, still beaming
that idiotic smile. Skinner forced a
grimace to his face and tried to convey
congeniality.

"Oh no, the food is delicious. I'm just a
bit tired. It was a long trip, you know."
Skinner paused and waited for Gordon to go
away, but clearly the man was waiting for
some kind of comment. "That was quite a
presentation," Skinner said neutrally.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. The male is one
of our more challenging subjects."

"Really? Why? Have you worked with him?"
And if you have, you might find yourself
at the wrong end of my fist, Skinner
thought to himself as he delicately dabbed
at his mouth with the napkin.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I was made
primary researcher on his case because
he's been a challenge. He's almost beat
our conditioning several times; not that
he's ever had a real chance to succeed."
Dr. Gordon pulled out a chair, ready for a
long confab.

Skinner perked up. "Oh? How so? He seemed
very much under control today."

"Oh, he was. But the memory conditioning
for him seems rather weak. One of our
primary techniques is to remove the
subject's memories, to ease implantation
of our conditioned responses. This one
already recovered some memory on his own
once. We had to reapply amnesia protocols
to blank him out again. We suspect it may
have something to do with a particular
talent he had, an eidetic memory. That may
make him more resistant to training."
Gordon reached for the wine bottle and
poured himself a glass of burgundy.

"That's interesting," Skinner commented.
"It sounds like he's been trouble from the
start."

"Don't I know it. The guards nicknamed him
Houdini because he seems be a natural
escape artist; he's almost gotten out
twice. We catch him each time and punish
him thoroughly, of course."

"Of course," Skinner said blandly, his
fingers tightening imperceptibly on his
wine goblet. "More wine? Here, I'll pour.
Well, I hope you house him in some other
building, he seems dangerous. I wouldn't
want to suddenly find his hands around my
throat, like that woman today."

"No, he's kept in section A. That's on the
other end of the building. And we can
control his actions at any time," Gordon
smiled and patted the control box in his
pocket.

"A two mile radius, right?" Skinner asked
intently.

"Yes, and he isn't likely to be any more
distant, is he? Well, I had better mingle.
It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Smith."

"I'll never forget this meeting, or you
Doctor." Skinner replied, shaking the
man's hand as he got up. He surreptitously
scrubbed that hand against his pants leg,
watching Gordon wander over to another
table and sit down. The man was soon in
animated conversation with another guest.
Good. Time to act.

Skinner put his napkin down and got up
casually, heading for the door. He opened
it silently and slipped out. He remembered
where section A was from Krycek's map and
began walking down a corridor, then
turned. He stopped at an intersection to
take his bearings, looked right and then
left and walked into a guard. A very tall
guard. With gun.

"Uh, hello," Skinner said with a disarming
grin.

"You're in a restricted area," the guard
said in a monotone.

"Really? I am sorry. I was looking for the
men's room. I'm one of Dr. Gordon's
guests," Skinner pointed to his ID badge
and grimly hoped that a men's room was
nearby. It was.

"It's over here," said the guard and led
him to a door on the left. "I'll wait and
escort you back when you're finished. The
corridors can be confusing."

"Thank you," Skinner said with a bright
smile and closed the men's room door. When
he exited the room, scrubbing his hands
with paper towel, the guard was waiting
and duly escorted Skinner back to the
dining room where Gordon was gathering the
guests to leave.

Skinner found himself in the middle of the
crowd being led to the exit. He'd had no
chance to reconnoitre the building, but
then he hadn't expected to be able to do
much. It was inevitable that security
would be eyeing visitors closely for any
breaches.

Under the watchful eye of the guards,
Skinner got into his car and drove out of
the parking lot and through the guard
gate. He drove just far enough down the
road to find a place to hide the car; a
small grove of oak trees did the trick.
Then he sat and waited for dark.

April 9
Fletcher Mental Health Institute
7:00 p.m.
Treatment Room 2

The prisoner kept frantically trying to
revive the woman until the guards pulled
him off her.

"No! Let me alone! I have to help
her...God damn it, let me alone!" The
prisoner swung at a guard and missed. The
two burly goons dove in and seized him by
the arms dragging him away from the woman.
A third goon checked her pulse and
casually threw her over his shoulder to
remove her as well.

The prisoner lost sight of them in the
hallway as she was taken to what the
prisoner assumed was the morgue. He fell
limp and let the goons drag him to his
room and push him in. As usual, no words
were exchanged. Of course, he considered,
these people don't converse with useful
objects like chairs, tables, hammers.
That's all I am; a thing, a useful thing.

He wobbled over to the bed and sat down.
Funny, he'd been really clumsy lately; he
thought his left foot might be dragging a
bit. Since the operation, in fact. Still,
it didn't matter much since he wasn't
going anywhere soon.

He leaned against the plaster wall and
closed his eyes. His head was pounding.
He'd been having a lot of headaches lately
too, but he didn't think the goons would
get him aspirin even if he asked nicely.
He didn't want to think about what had
happened in that room today but he
couldn't escape it. He'd killed a human
being. No, he'd killed a woman with his
bare hands; with these hands. He held them
up, then let them drop. He stopped
himself. Wait, they'd killed the woman and
he was just the tool they used. He had to
believe that.If he stopped believing it
he'd go crazy.

"I killed her," he whispered and bent
over, clutching his head. She had looked
familiar somehow, like somebody he'd once
known. A woman with red hair and blue
eyes, petite. Had he killed a friend
today? Damn it, he wanted to know who he
was! His head pounded harder.

*You did very well today.*

"No...not now! You never come after the
Treatment Room!" The prisoner opened his
eyes and looked around wildly.

*I visit you when I want to. You are
coming along very nicely. Did you like the
way her throat felt between your fingers?
Soft...and warm...and yielding?*

"Stop it!!! please...please...I'm not a
killer...You killed her and used me as
your tool," the prisoner cried.

*You do the work and feel the euphoria
when it's successfully completed.*

"You make me feel that. I know it isn't
me!" The prisoner glared at the blank
walls.

*This time we didn't do anything. You got
the rush all...by...yourself!*

"Liar! You're lying to me. It wasn't me!
It wasn't!" I am not a killer. I am not. I
am not.

*Wasn't it? Haven't you wanted to kill
lately? You almost killed that guard this
morning and you would have slit his throat
given the opportunity. Today you simply
had the opportunity.*

"You moved my body, I didn't. I didn't
kill her." The prisoner was standing now,
glaring up at the video camera in the
corner of the room.

*You're a killer and it's time you
accepted that. Besides, how do you know
who you were before you came here? You
don't, so I'll tell you. You are a serial
killer and we pulled you off death row.
You killed because you enjoyed it. You
still do and you'll admit it if you look
deep inside yourself. You belong here with
us.
Killer...killer...killer...killer...killer
...*

"No!!!...No...no...no...." The prisoner
fell to his knees, his hands over his ears
to block out the Voice.
 

8:30 p.m.

Skinner looked at his watch and decided it
was time to move out. It wasn't as dark as
he wanted it but he didn't know how long
it would take to find Mulder and the video
cameras would only be out until 10:00 p.m.
He didn't have much time.

He went to the trunk and found the clothes
he'd brought. Stripping off the suit and
tie, he changed into black jeans,
sneakers, a turtleneck and black stocking
cap. It wouldn't do, he thought with a
grim smile, to have any reflection off the
top of his head. He strapped on the small
fanny pack he'd prepared.

He started the car and drove back to the
facility, parking the car on the other
side of the brick wall under some
overhanging trees. He scanned the map for
the last time with a small flashlight.
Okay, he was as close to Mulder's building
as he could get. Time to move.

He clipped a rope to the car's front
bumper and threw it over the wall. He
scaled the wall easily and dropped to the
other side, ducking behind some shrubs.
The building had exterior lighting but not
nearly as efficient as he'd seen at more
elaborate security facilities. This was
more like what you'd see outside an office
building. They were obviously relying on
the remoteness of the location to
discourage intrusion.

Skinner carefully made his way across the
dirt to the side of the building and the
exterior door he'd noted. It was in shadow
and should be accessable. When he got to
the door he had his doubts. The safety
glass had been broken recently and the
window on the door boarded open. Hope it
still opens, he thought as he punched in a
security code on the keypad. He sighed
with relief when the doorlock clicked. He
carefully opened it and squeezed inside,
shutting it quietly behind him.

The hallway was featureless with a series
of doors lining it. No markings, but this
should be section A as Gordon had
described it. No way to see who or what
was inside without opening each one and he
wanted to avoid that....wait. Here's one
of the locals. I think he can help.

A door had opened and one of the guards
came out. Skinner moved silently behind
him, and grabbed the man holding a knife
to his throat and the other hand over his
mouth. The guard froze and Skinner dragged
him down hall to a darkened corner. "Don't
yell or I'll kill you. Do you understand?"
Skinner hissed.

The guard nodded. Skinner took his hand
off his mouth but let the knifeblade sit
against the man's throat. "Take me to Fox
Mulder's cell."

The guard shook his head. "We don't ever
know their names," he whispered.

"You've nicknamed him Houdini because of
his escape attempts," Skinner whispered
back. "Where is he?"

The guard snorted. "Him? You can have him
and welcome. This way," he began to move
away but Skinner held the knife against
him.

"No, tell me where he is," Skinner said.

"And have you kill me now? No thanks."

"Nothing would give me more pleasure after
what I saw today. If you don't tell me, I
*will* kill you where you stand and find
another way to get to him," Skinner
gritted his teeth and pressed the knife in
deeply enough for a trickle of blood to
come.

"Okay, okay! Take it away!" Skinner eased
off and the guard caught his breath. "Go
down this hall, turn right. First door on
your left."

Skinner pulled a hypo from his pocket and
uncapped it. "Thank you," he said and
jabbed it into the man's shoulder. When
the guard collapsed, Skinner dragged him
back to the door, tied and gagged him,
then shoved him outside under a bush. He
reentered the building and followed the
guard's instructions, down this hall, turn
right.

The first door on the left looked like any
other door. He listened. No sound. Did the
guard lie to him? He pulled a lockpick set
from his fannypack and quickly got the
lock open. Still hearing nothing, he
opened the door a crack and poked his head
in.

The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was
bright, shining on bare white walls, a
gray linoleum floor, sink, toilet and a
single cot. One person there in a black
jumpsuit huddled under a blanket facing
the wall, asleep or unconscious.

"Mulder," Skinner hissed. "Mulder! Wake
up!" He looked up and located the video
camera in the corner of the ceiling. He
propped the door open a crack with a
square of cardboard and went inside.

He knelt next to the bed and gently shook
the man's shoulder, then jumped back when
the sleeper erupted from the cot and,
giving Skinner a panicky look, backed into
the far corner of the room.

"Mulder?" Skinner said gently. "Mulder,
it's me, Skinner. I'm here to get you
out."

"Who's Mulder?" asked the man quietly. He
stared at Skinner intently. "You don't
look like one of them."

"I'm not. I'm your friend. We have to move
fast; we don't have much time," Skinner
backed toward the door and opened it.
"Come on. Can you walk?"

Mulder looked up at the video monitor,
"I'll make it."

He and Skinner went back up the hallway to
the doorway Skinner had entered at and
stopped. "Wait," whispered Mulder
urgently. "The door's alarmed. I should
know," he added ruefuly.

Skinner grinned. "But I have the key." He
punched in the security code and heard the
click as before. "Come on."

Mulder grinned back and followed Skinner
out the door. It had gotten darker,
Skinner was glad to note. He motioned for
Mulder to follow him, then noticed that
Mulder was barefoot. He pointed to his
feet questioningly. "Shoes?" he mouthed.

Mulder shook his head, then made shooing
motions with his hands. "Let's go!" he
mouthed. Skinner nodded and moved out.

He could hear Mulder behind him, stumbling
occasionally. Granted, he was barefoot and
was hardly in a condition for field sports
after a month of this place, but he didn't
seem to be walking well. He stopped and
waited for Mulder to catch up and saw that
the man's left foot was dragging. Just
then, Mulder's left leg gave way and he
fell. Skinner scurried forward and helped
him up.

"Gotta keep going," Mulder whispered
urgently. "Get out of here!"

Skinner slipped an arm under Mulder's
shoulders and supported him the last ten
yards to the wall. Skinner stopped and
knelt at the base of the wall, near the
rope. "Step on my shoulders and climb
over. Use the rope to steady you, then
drop to the other side as quietly as you
can."

Mulder nodded and climbed onto Skinner's
shoulders, then up the wall. Skinner rose
and boosted him over, then heard him drop.
Good. Skinner gave a last look around,
then climbed the wall himself, retrieving
the rope on the other side. Mulder was
already in the car, so he threw the coil
into the back seat and slid into the
driver's seat. He closed the door and
moved the car out.

No pursuit. Good. A nice clean extraction.
Mulder watched him, then looked at him
with a serious expression.

"You need to tie me up or cuff me or
something. I'm dangerous to you." Mulder
stopped at Skinner's shocked look. "They
can make me kill you. I already killed
someone else today," he said quietly, his
eyes haunted.

"You really want this?" he asked. He had
considered the danger but decided to
chance it given all the trauma Mulder had
already been through.

"I don't want to kill anybody else,"
Mulder said, his voice breaking off.

Skinner swallowed hard. "There are two
pairs of cuffs in the glove box." He
pulled over and carefully cuffed Mulder's
hands behind his back as well as his
ankles. Then he hit the tripometer on the
dashboard and got the car under way again.
"Their devices have a 2 mile limit. We'll
know when we get there."

Mulder nodded and soon had cuffed his
ankles and his wrists. Glancing at him
from the corner of his eye, Skinner noted
the bruises and cuts on Mulder's ankles
and wrists. He quickly focused back on the
road.

They were silent for a while, then Mulder
spoke. "Excuse me, but is Mulder my first
name? Do I know you...uh...Skinner?"

Skinner smiled. "No, your full name is Fox
William Mulder but you don't like your
first name. I'm Walter Skinner, your
boss."

"Oh. Do you rescue all your employees like
this?"

"Only the ones who owe me money," Skinner
answered.
 

April 9, 2002
Undisclosed location

Scully stared thoughtfully at the body
before her. All she'd been asked was the
cause of death but absent tox screens and
other pending tests she thought she knew.
The man had had multiple implants in his
brain. She'd heard about abductees who
claimed single brain implants but these
were different from anything she'd heard
of. The ones she'd removed were made from
an unknown substance which, under the
microscope, seemed composed of a mix of
organic and non-organic materials. It was
almost as though they'd been grown. And,
more unusual, the implants had sprouted
tendrils, almost like roots that had
invaded virtually all the victim's brain
tissue.

Judging by the healing of the cranial
scars, the man had had surgery about a
month ago. He'd had multiple aneurysms
near the implant sites. Two of them had
burst and killed him. If they hadn't
either the other three aneurysms would
have or he'd have died of one of the mini-
strokes.  As far as she could tell from
the CT scan, he'd had at least seven.

He would certainly have had warning. He
probably had had headaches, dizziness,
weakness on one side of the body and
stroke-like symptoms before it killed him.
She wondered why the Smoker had wanted her
opinion about this obvious victim of one
of the Consortium's programs.

Obediently, she dictated her report and
filled out the necessary forms left for
her. She was still wondering as she
showered and dressed. She punched the
intercom and wondered briefly whether they
would really let her go, but to her
surprise Krycek appeared at the door
promptly and escorted her back to the car.
 
 

April 9, 2002
6 p.m.

Five hours later, to her astonishment, she
found herself deposited in front of the
Hoover building.

She quickly went into the building and the
basement office and sat down at the desk,
dialing the number for the Los Angeles
Coroner's Office. "Yes, this is Agent Dana
Scully. I'm calling to find out whether
the autopsy report is in for Crystal
FeatherFree...Yes, I'll hold."

She drummed her fingers and hoped that
Crystal had simply died of an aneurysm or
something explainable but had a feeling it
wasn't going to be that easy. "Hello, yes,
I'm Agent Dana Scully..."

"Hello Agent Scully, I'm Dr. Paul Harland,
the night-shift coroner. I'm glad you
called. I wanted to discuss the report
with you."

Scully blinked. It was unusual to get more
than a bored clerk. "Anything you can tell
me would be helpful. Could you fax me a
copy of the report?"

"Of course. I did want to ask you, Agent
Scully, do you know anything about Ms.
FeatherFree's background?"

"Not a lot. She was a fortune-teller in
Santa Cruz. Why?"

Harland cleared his throat, "Well, I found
a foreign object embedded in her brain.
It's not anything I've ever seen before
but it looks like a small piece of
electronic equipment. Strange, though, I
can't identify the substance."

Scully frowned, "She also claimed to be a
long-term abductee and non-consensual test
subject.What you've found is commonly
known as an implant."

"Well, that implant is what killed her,"
Harland replied harshly. "It looks like
she's had it for several years and it's
been progressively weakening the blood
vessels in the area of the implant. She'd
had a number of mini-strokes over the
years but the aneurysm is what finally
killed her when it burst."

"I see," Scully tried to catch her breath.
"Did the implant you found have tendrils
extruding from it?"

"Yes, it does. That's the strangest thing.
They're almost like roots that have buried
themselves in the tissue of her frontal
lobe. I was only able to remove my sample
by removing brain tissue.Is there anything
else I can tell you?

"I'm looking forward to your report. You
have my fax number? Good. Thank you." She
put the phone down gently into its cradle
and stared at it. Well, now she knew. The
only thing left was to see whether Mulder
had any implants and if so, how many.

April 9
Road 437
1  mile

"Uh...Skinner? Do you have something I can
use for a blindfold?"

"I have a tie in the back seat. Why?"
Skinner noted Mulder's
fearful expression.

"I'm not sure whether they can see through
my eyes. They certainly read my thoughts
when I was there. I don't want them
following after us."

Skinner was silent, then snagged the tie
from the floor behind Mulder's seat. "I
don't feel comfortable with this. You're
trussed up more thoroughly than even they
had you back at that facility. And I don't
like stopping again until we're safely out
of the area."

"Please. I don't want to hurt or kill
anyone and I don't want to go back there.
If this prevents them from finding me, I
don't care how silly it looks." Mulder's
voice cracked  with emotion.

"It's your choice," Skinner said calmly,
and pulled the car over again. He tied the
tie across Mulder's eyes firmly and
restarted the car again. There was
silence, then Skinner heard Mulder
breathing hard. "Mulder, what's wrong?"

Mulder had turned pale and stiffened in
his seat. "No. No, I won't, you lying
bastards. And this time you can't make
me!"

"They found you?" Skinner asked, flooring
the gas pedal.

"The Voice has. It talks to me in my mind
and reads my thoughts. Yes, I'm talking
about YOU, you bastard!" Mulder bent over
hard, his face a mask of agony.

"Are you okay? Should I stop?" Skinner
kept one eye on the narrow road and the
other on Mulder. His body began jerking,
trying to work its way loose from the
cuffs and seatbelt. Skinner gunned the car
even faster. He hung a sharp turn when the
road ended and the freeway frontage road
began.

Mulder didn't answer. He was  sweating
profusely and his breathing came ragged.
Skinner didn't like the sound of that but
the car was already going too fast for
conditions.

He checked the tripometer. They'd gone a
mile and a quarter; not far enough. Mulder
was struggling in the seat and muttering
to the Voice about what it could do with
itself.

"What's it doing to you?" Skinner asked
tensely.

"It's...punishing me...for disobeying.
Huh...I can't obey you rat-bastard! How do
you like that? I'm tied down and I can't
see!" Mulder gave a triumphant shout then
grew quiet, listening.

"What's it saying now?" Skinner kept an
eye on the tripometer. A mile and a three
quarters.

"The Voice says that if I don't come back
to them, they'll kill me. They'll turn off
my heart."

"We've got half a mile to go. Keep it
talking." Skinner pushed the gas pedal
hard, hoping the Taurus could handle it.

"Whatever you do, don't stop. Just keep
go..."Mulder began gasping for breath and
his face turned dead white.

"Mulder? Oh shit!" Mulder had stopped
breathing. That's right, they could stop
his heart too. "Hang on, Mulder. Just 3/4
of a mile. Hang in there. Don't die on me.
Scully would never forgive me. Just don't
die, dammit..."

Mulder grew still and slumped in his
seatbelt. Skinner prayed and drove.

Two point one miles, finally. He slewed
the car into the first wide spot and
killed the engine, then sprinted around to
the passenger side. He unbuckled Mulder
and pulled him out of the seat onto the
gravel and looked for a pulse. Nothing.
Shit shit shit....

Skinner began CPR.
 

~~~

end Ch5