by TexxasRose
(a.k.a. Laura Castellano)

laurita_castellano@yahoo.com
http://www.8op.com/laurita
 
 

January 1999
Revised, March 2001

Classification: S, A, MSR, MT

Disclaimer: If I owned Fox Mulder I'd keep him much too busy
to solve cases. If I owned Dana Scully she'd be my shopping
buddy. If I owned Kersh I'd use him for target practice.
They all belong to Chris Carter, and 1013, and Fox
Broadcasting, and all those other lucky entities.

Spoilers: for Fight the Future

Timeline: This is set directly after 'Fight the Future' and
the first few episodes of Season 6.  Ignore the dates <g>.
The time diverges from the show after that.

Rating: R for language and one mild sex scene

Archive: No archive to Ephemeral or Gossamer, I'll submit.
All others, sure, especially if you have the older version
archived.
 

Summary: The knowledge Mulder receives from an informant is
more dangerous than ever before. How much will he sacrifice
to guarantee Scully's safety?

**********

Part 1

**********

AUGUST 29

Ringing.

The sound invaded his deathlike sleep and Mulder ground his
face further into the back of his couch, ignoring it. He'd
been awake until after 3:00 a.m., and his eyes felt heavy,
determinedly seeking the rest he still needed.

Incessant ringing.

With an unintelligible curse, Mulder rolled over and fumbled
for the phone on the coffee table beside the couch,
protesting eyes still firmly shut. After knocking over his
empty water glass and scattering a pile of magazines that
had been neatly stacked, his groping fingers found the
telephone.

"This better be good," he mumbled into it, still unable to
pry his eyelids up more than a fraction of an inch.

"Agent Mulder, someone has left a gift on your doorstep."
The voice was deep, male, and completely unfamiliar.

His reluctant lids shot wide open at the odd statement,
registering the time on his desk clock. 3:45. He winced.
Damn. Forty-five minutes of decent slumber shot to hell by a
crank phone call.

"What?" he asked, still confused from being jerked awake so
suddenly.

"Open your front door, Agent Mulder." The click on the line
told Mulder that his strange caller had disconnected, and he
held the phone away from his head stupidly for a moment. He
didn't recognize the voice, and if it had been one of his
usual informants--they had ways of identifying themselves.
This man was a mystery.

Mulder shifted his gaze to the door curiously, wondering if
this was some kind of trap. He didn't think he had pissed
off any of the bad guys lately, but you never knew. Nothing
had come of his trip to Antarctica to rescue Scully except
losing the X-files, and he had expected much worse. He'd
walked around on tenterhooks for weeks, waiting for the
other foot to fall before finally deciding they weren't
going to kick him out of the Bureau or have him killed for
his rebellion.  As for himself, he really didn't care--at
least most days--but Scully had refused to leave him when
he'd urged her.  She'd insisted her place was at his side,
fighting them, fighting for the truth, and the warm feeling
that had swelled in him when she took his hand as they
walked away was not quickly forgotten.

Once he awakened enough to realize he'd just been given a
warning, of sorts, Mulder grabbed his weapon and crept
carefully across the room, keeping watch for anything that
looked or sounded suspicious. His first thought was of a
bomb planted outside his apartment, but then, he was leery
of bombs these days.  Besides, the only way to discover if
that was the case was to open the door, so if he was blown
to kingdom come...Reaching the door, he hesitated a moment,
listened and heard no sound, then quickly flung the door
open.  He jumped aside at the same moment in order to be out
of the way should someone decide to attack or shoot at him.

The hall was empty, and deathly quiet, as any proper
apartment building should be this early on a Saturday
morning. He looked both ways and satisfied himself that
there was nobody nearby. It was impossible to miss the large
brown envelope on the floor that he'd obviously been meant
to find, and he cautiously nudged it with his foot. Finally
he bent down and picked it up, glancing around again and
retreating back inside, locking the door behind him.

Taking the envelope back to his couch, Mulder wondered again
if it was some type of bomb. Turning it over, he saw that
there were no markings on the outside at all.  He carefully
fingered the package, and was surprised to note the shape
and feel that could only be a spiral-bound notebook. Not the
sort of thing he'd expect to find left outside his door so
surreptitiously, but it clearly was a notebook; he could
make out the metal of the binding through the envelope. At
last, hoping it wasn't rigged in any way, Mulder grasped a
corner of the sealed flap and pulled it quickly open. If he
was about to die, he might as well get it over with.

No explosion rocked his living room, and he released a long
breath. Turning the envelope upside down, he reached inside
and extracted the book. It was accompanied by a smaller
piece of paper that fluttered out almost as an afterthought.

Going quite still, Mulder stared at the words written in a
bold, black scrawl on the paper that had landed face-up on
his coffee table. 'Research Journal - Dr. Jon Steinmetz'.

Steinmetz' name was vaguely familiar to Mulder, and
straining into the depths of his memory, down into the
reaches where he kept the unimportant trivia that he never
thought he'd access but hadn't quite forgotten, Mulder came
up with details: Dr. Jon Steinmetz, noted virologist, killed
recently in an automobile accident. And now somebody was
giving Mulder his research journal? The obvious questions of
"who" and "why" aside, Steinmetz' "accident" suddenly seemed
a little questionable.

He opened the journal and was confronted with pages and
pages of writing--and to his dismay it appeared to be in
German. Mulder sighed. It wasn't the first time something
like this had happened to him. He wished for the fiftieth
time that he was fluent in another language besides English,
but the small bit of French he had taken in high school and
college hadn't really stuck with him.  Besides, so far he'd
yet to discover a secret journal written in French.  Navajo
and (chinese?) seemed to be the thing, and now German.
Privately Mulder thought the entire world ought to speak
English anyway. It seemed to work okay on 'Star Trek.'

Wide awake now, Mulder went to his bookshelf, searching
until he finally extracted a small German/English
dictionary--he didn't even remember where he'd come by such
a thing, but who was he to question providence this early in
the morning? Grabbing up a pen and a pad of paper from his
desk, he settled back on his couch and began to do his best
to translate.

Three hours later he put down the pen, yawned hugely, and
stared in amazement at what he had written. Translating
German to English was difficult when the only assistance you
had was a dictionary, but he was beginning to get the gist
of what was written in this research journal, and if it was
what he thought it was--

Scully. He gave a quick glance at the clock again. Almost
seven. Maybe she was awake by now. She'd studied German in
college, she would probably be able to confirm his clumsy
attempts at translation. Also, he'd need her medical
expertise on this one, because if this was what it appeared
to be, it was another Holy Grail.

He wondered uncomfortably what type of trouble would follow
in its wake.  After the events of the summer, Mulder didn't
feel up to another boxcar adventure.

*****

"Mulder, where did you get this?"

Worried eyes stared piercingly up at him, and Mulder could
tell from her expression that the journal was, indeed,
exactly what he had suspected--research notes covering the
development of the vaccine against the alien virus. A
vaccine that was not supposed to exist, against a virus
which would be patently denied by everyone involved. A
vaccine he had held in his hand and administered to Scully
not so long ago.

Again, Mulder had to wonder who had left him this gift--the
man who'd given him the means to save Scully from the alien
ship had died in a fiery explosion, but it seemed there wase
always another person waiting in line to help him, when the
last one had been eliminated.

"Someone left it outside my door early this morning. Someone
who wanted me to have it."

Even as he answered her, his mind was racing through the
possibilities as he decided the best way to use this
information. Hard evidence. Finally, hard evidence that he
could present, evidence that wouldn't disappear in the next
few hours. It was in his hands and it was staying there.
When he confronted them with this--they would no longer be
able to deny. Nervously he wondered how much time he had
before someone discovered the notebook was in his
possession.  As soon as that happened, they would be in
grave danger, and he didn't want to put Scully there. For a
moment, he almost regretted showing it to her, but then
decided philosophically that she would have been in danger
anyway; anyone coming after him would naturally assume he
had shared the information with his partner.

"What are you planning to do with it?" Her practical
question brought him back to reality, and he bowed to her
superior knowledge.

"Do you think it's authentic, Scully?" He knew in his gut
that it was, but he needed her confirmation. Of course it
was authentic. Why else would someone go to so much trouble
to make sure that it fell anonymously into his hands?

"Well, my German is rusty and I'm not a virologist, but yes,
I think there's a good chance it's genuine." He could see
the fear in her face as she examined the journal--fear for
him, fear for his safety. She wasn't thinking of herself at
all; she didn't realize that if there was danger she could
share in it equally.

"Scully, this is it!" he replied in a voice quiet with awe.
"The proof we've been looking for, the proof that keeps
getting yanked away from us, this is it!"

"Mulder, this doesn't prove anything," she protested, and he
grabbed her shoulders, angry, forcing her to meet his eyes
at last.

"How can you say that?" he demanded. "This *is* proof,
Scully! This is the vaccine that I gave you in Antarctica,
the vaccine that saved your life. We know it exists, and we
know it works. This will confirm the testimony we gave that
they wanted to ignore. They can't just continue to disregard
it when we show them this. They'll finally have to
acknowledge it."

"What makes you think they'll accept this as authentic, even
if it is?" she questioned bluntly. "What's to keep them from
denying it--dismissing it as the science fiction that it
will appear to be to the general public?"

He shook his head impatiently. "Dr. Steinmetz was was well
respected in his field, I'm sure his peers--"

"Mulder, Dr. Steinmetz is dead. He can't confirm his own
work. He died two months ago."

"Yeah, I know," he agreed. "Killed in a "tragic automobile
accident." Where have we seen that before? Doesn't that seem
a little suspicious to you?"

She sighed.

"They killed him, Scully," he hissed at her, seeing her face
begin to register the familiar denial. "You know they're
capable."

Scully put her hands on her hips, and Mulder realized he
might have pushed her too far.  She wasn't ready to
acknowledge what had happened in Antarctica--he could
respect that, but her constant questioning of his own
memories stung.

"But why, Mulder? Why would they kill one of their own, one
so obviously valuable?"  Her firm voice demanded an
answer--no compromise.

He thought for a moment. "Maybe Steinmetz decided to talk.
Maybe the idea of a Nobel prize was too enticing to resist
and they suspected he was going to reveal their secret."

"Mulder--"

"Scully, this is real," he told her impatiently. "You can't
ignore it, and you can't deny it, and you can't explain it
away. Sooner or later you're going to have to admit what you
saw, and admit what happened to you."

"I didn't see anything," she reminded him, her eyes flashing
anger, "and as for what happened to me--I don't remember a
thing after being stung by that bee until I woke up on the
ice with you passing out in my arms."

He stared, amazed at her capacity for denial--she eventually
dropped her gaze but refused to back down.  There was a
slight flush on her face, and it struck him, suddenly, that
neither of them had dared discuss what had almost happened
*before* the bee stung her.  He wondered if that was the
cause of her embarrassment.

Before Mulder could make up his mind whether or not to
pursue the topic, she brought the conversation back to the
journal.

"What will you do, assuming this is what you think it is?"
she asked again.

He paced around his living room restlessly, realizing he had
no answer to her question.

"I'm not quite sure," he admitted. "I'll think about it for
a day or so. So far nobody knows I have this except you.
We'll have to keep quiet about it until we can safely bring
it out into the open."

"And how can you be certain your apartment isn't bugged
again?" she asked in a whisper, glancing around uneasily.

"I can't be positive, of course, but I did have the guys
check it recently.  It was clean."

"You don't know who this person was who left it for you?
What if it was a trap, some kind of setup?  You could be in
danger just from having this thing in your possession," she
pointed out.

He nodded soberly. "That's why we have to be quiet about it.
You should go on home, spend your weekend the way you always
do, and I'll meet up with you at work on Monday. Hopefully
by then I'll have formulated some kind of plan."

She didn't want to leave him alone, he could tell, but all
at once it seemed vital that Scully be removed from the
situation.  "Go on," he urged.  "Visit your mom or
something."

"Well, I was planning..." she demurred.

"Do it.  We should try to appear normal."

"So what will you do?" she countered.

Mulder grinned.  "Hibernate here in my apartment, of course.
For me, that's normal."

*****

Mulder was running on adrenalin for the rest of the morning
and early afternoon, working hard at his translations, and
although he didn't understand everything he wrote on the
legal pad, he was fairly certain that someone with a medical
background would be able to make sense of it easily. For a
brief moment, he considered calling Scully and asking her to
go over some of it with him, but quickly decided against
that.  He'd been right to send her away, he thought.  This
was his problem, and he didn't want to endanger her any more
than was necessary.

When he finally stopped working late in the afternoon,
Mulder was overwhelmed. From what he was able to make out,
not only did the journal document the development of the
vaccine serum, it also gave case-by-case synopses of the
effects of the experimental vaccine on human
subjects...unwilling human subjects. He felt nauseous,
thinking of the failures, when he remembered the shape
Scully had been in before it was administered to her.  Was
that vaccine a different formulation from the one described
in the journal, or had they simply been incredibly lucky?

He might never know.

Yawning hugely, Mulder lay back on his couch and stretched
his sore muscles.  He closed his eyes, intending only to
take a short catnap, and within minutes was in a deep sleep.

-----

So soundly was he sleeping, Mulder never heard a sound as
the intruder entered his apartment.  The man's footsteps as
they crossed to where the agent lay on the couch were muted,
but firm, and had Mulder not been so tired he might have
heard them; he was not normally a heavy sleeper.  As it was,
his first clue that something was amiss was the stinging
sensation in his upper arm.

He struggled reflexively, but a huge hand came down on his
mouth, serving the dual purpose of stifling his cry and
holding his head immobile.

Mulder watched from eyes that were already beginning to
glaze over as the man holding him withdrew the syringe from
his arm, tossed it aside, and grabbed for his captive's
flailing hands.  He felt both of his wrists squeezed
together in one of the attacker's hands, while the man
leaned over his chest, pinning him to the couch so
thoroughly he could barely breathe.  Or was that the effects
of the unknown drug with which he'd been injected?

Eventually Mulder's efforts to wriggle free from the giant
grew weaker, as his limbs stopped obeying, and as his vision
began to blur he found himself wondering whether their plan
was murder or kidnapping.  His last thought before slipping
into unconsciousness was to hope it was the former; he
didn't want to find out what they might do to him otherwise.

*****

AUGUST 31

Scully arrived at work on Monday morning to find Mulder
hadn't made it in yet, which annoyed her to no end. Granted,
he didn't have the same dedication to this assignment that
he'd had to the X-files, but all the same she expected him
to be on time. She hadn't heard from him since early
Saturday, and she was anxious to hear what he had decided
about the journal. Phone calls to him had been ignored, and
she'd pictured him hunched over the notebook, working
feverishly to translate, barely even registering the ringing
of the phone or even the passage of time.  On Sunday
afternoon she'd intended to drop in and check on him, but
her mother hadn't wanted her to leave after church, and
Scully found herself whiling the rest of the day away over a
lazy lunch and a movie.  When she'd finally made it home, it
was almost ten o'clock, and after trying Mulder once more
and receiving no answer, she had swallowed her exasperation
and gone to bed.

Now, rolling her eyes in irritation with her wayward
partner, Scully put her purse down on her desk and reached
for her coffee mug with one hand and the ringing phone with
the other. This had better be Mulder with a good
explanation, was her first thought. Whatever her second
might have been was lost in a stab of anger when she caught
sight of the white envelope tucked beneath her mug.  It had
to be from him.

She held the envelope for a moment, fighting down her
growing feelings of rage. She didn't need to read his note
to know what this meant. Mulder had run off to pursue his
investigation into the mysterious journal without her, no
doubt leaving her behind in order to 'protect' her--and to
cover his ass with Kersh, whose secretary was at this moment
yammering in her ear that the Assistant Director wanted to
see her in his office. Immediately. Scully refrained from
slamming the phone down after assuring Kersh's assistant
that she would be there pronto.  She cursed beneath her
breath, then felt a smite of guilt.  She had hoped Mulder
would overcome his need to try and keep her from the thick
of the danger as their partnership progressed, but it had
only grown stronger.  She supposed it was her own fault, in
a way, for agreeing to leave him on his own this weekend.
She sighed.  Now all she had to do was locate him before
trouble found him first.

Ignoring the summons to Kersh's office for a moment,  Scully
gave vent to her frustration with Mulder by ripping at the
flap of the envelope and quickly extracting the paper
inside. Spreading it on her desk, she began to read, her
mouth dropping open as she digested each word. When she had
finished, she dropped weakly into her chair and read it
again.

It was cryptic and to the point, just like Mulder. "Scully,"
it read, "Please don't do anything foolish when you get this
note. I have quit my job and am leaving town. I'll be in
touch with you sometime in the future, although I'm not sure
when. The package I got this weekend was much bigger than I
expected. I am following up on it the best way I know how,
but for now you should just go about your life. I know this
is sudden, but please don't try to find me. I need you to
trust me. Mulder."

Her brow furrowed in concentration, Scully stuffed the
letter into her pocket and started for her command
performance with Kersh.  There was no way this could be
authentic, but before she could begin her search for her
wayward partner, she'd have to get her boss off her back.

When she was admitted to her supervisor's office she was met
with the stern frown that he seemed to reserve exclusively
for her or Mulder. She stood before his desk, unyielding,
and waited silently for him to speak. He minced no words.

"Agent Scully, would you be so good as to explain to me the
meaning of this?" he questioned harshly, shoving a paper
across his desk at her.

She swallowed, meeting his eyes, and then reached for the
paper. Kersh's letter from Mulder was even briefer and more
to the point than hers had been. It was a simple letter of
resignation, effective immediately, signed by her partner.
According to these documents, he had apparently quit his job
with no notice and taken off.  Except she didn't believe it
for a minute.

Scully carefully examined the signature. It looked genuine,
but she was beginning to grow suspicious. If their enemies
had discovered that Mulder had Dr. Steinmetz' research
journal, surely they would want to take any means necessary
to cover it up. The idea that Mulder would quit without
notice, with no immediate prospects of further employment,
was much less plausible than the idea that he had met with
some misfortune. The man had bills to pay just like everyone
else. He needed a steady paycheck. Mulder might be impulsive
and foolish at times, but he certainly wasn't stupid.

"I take it this is a surprise to you as well," Kersh
commented, studying her face as she read the letter.

"Sir," she began carefully, wondering how far she could
trust Kersh--she didn't like the guy, and it was obvious he
had it in for Mulder, but surely he wasn't totally
dishonest. "If you don't mind, I would like to have this
letter analyzed. I have reason to suspect it might be a
forgery."

Kersh's expression clearly indicated what he thought of that
idea. "A forgery, Agent Scully?"

Scully inwardly winced at the derision in his voice,
realizing she had probably just received the answer to her
question as to how far he could be trusted. She deliberately
neglected to mention to Kersh that she had received her own
letter from Mulder, and waited for him to go on.

"What reason would you have to believe it's a fake?"

"I--can't explain yet, Sir," she began, but he didn't let
her finish.

"That's the trouble with you and Agent Mulder," Kersh
informed her in a highly disgusted tone. "You want to run
off and do your own thing, but you never feel the need to
explain. No, Agent Scully, this letter is no forgery. I
can't imagine why you would even think so. Agent Mulder has
been disobedient and irresponsible ever since he was
assigned to me, and the meaning of this letter is very
clear. There's no need to have it analyzed."

She tried again.  "Sir, if you would just let me--"

"That will be all, Agent Scully," Kersh snapped, clearly
dismissing her.

Scully stared at him for a moment, her face taking on that
pinched look it got whenever she was being chewed out by one
of her superiors--an event that seemed to occur more and
more often the longer she stuck with Mulder. Finally she
turned on her heel and left his office, taking great care
not to slam the door behind her. It required enormous
self-control.

She stopped briefly by Mulder's desk, then headed for the
elevator. She wanted to talk to Sharon Henderson in
handwriting analysis, and then she wanted to talk to the
Gunmen.

*****

Mulder's first sensation upon regaining consciousness was of
a pounding in his head which, thankfully, began to subside
rather quickly once he'd opened his eyes. Squinting
carefully at first, then opening them fully, he began to
take in his surroundings.

If he'd been kidnapped, it was the oddest kidnapping he'd
ever heard of.

He was lying on a huge, soft bed in a luxurious bedroom,
worthy of any five-star hotel. It was sparsely furnished,
but the furniture was obviously expensive and quite opulent,
and the room was enormous. Carefully, Mulder raised himself
to a sitting position, mindful of his headache, and pushed
himself back against the massive wooden headboard. He slowly
allowed his gaze to drift around the room, his eyes
automatically drawn to the large windows. Warm sunlight
poured in through the steel bars that covered them. He felt
a sick feeling begin in his core at the sight.

In one corner a door stood ajar, and Mulder rose cautiously
from the bed, feeling his bare feet sink into the thick
carpet as he made his way on wobbling legs over to peer
through it. He was certain it wasn't an escape route, since
he was barred in at the windows, but he had to investigate
nonetheless.

Passing through the doorway, Mulder found himself in a
sitting room, smaller than the bedroom but no less
impressive. A sofa, coffee table and two chairs flanked the
room, with an entertainment center along one wall equipped
with a large television set. These were the room's only
furnishings. Another doorway led to a bathroom which
contained a shower stall as well as a bathtub big enough to
accommodate at least three people. He was fairly sure the
faucets were plated with real gold. Rather than being
carpeted like the other two rooms, the floor here was a rich
blue marble, covered in strategic places with thick rugs of
a lighter blue.

The bars on all the windows didn't seem all that out of
place when paired with the heavy steel door in the sitting
room which apparently led to the outside world, and Mulder
stared at that door for several moments before trying it.
Naturally, it was locked. He wondered, somewhere in the back
of his mind, how much it had cost to outfit this luxurious
prison, and who the hell considered him worth the expense.

Crossing to one of the two windows in the room, he stared
outside. He was high up--about third floor height, he
guessed--and not far away was a beautiful beach. He gazed at
the waves lapping against the shore for a moment before
resuming his exploration of his prison.

Wandering back into the bedroom, he noticed for the first
time a bookshelf and crossed to look at the books stacked
there. With a jolt he realized that most of them belonged to
him, apparently taken from his apartment.  Mulder wrinkled
his brow--this abduction was growing more odd by the moment.
 It was clear that whomever had taken him wanted him to be
comfortable.

He glanced down at himself, realizing for the first time
that he was wearing nothing but boxers and a pair of gray
sweat pants--not what he'd been wearing when the giant of a
man had slipped him the Mickey. A horrible suspicion struck
him, and he rushing quickly to the bedroom closet, Mulder
yanked the door open. The breath left his body when he saw
his clothes hung there, neatly lined up along the rod.

Mulder felt his blood go cold.  With an effort he drew in a
lungful of air and closed his eyes for a moment. It was
obvious that his abductor planned on keeping him for awhile.
That could bode good or ill.  He supposed he should be
grateful that they hadn't just perfunctorily killed him, but
then he still didn't know who had kidnapped him, although
the "why" was obvious; it didn't take a genius to realize it
had something to do with Dr. Steinmetz' journal.

All things considered, he might be better off dead.

Shaking off that thought, Mulder began exploring the rooms
thoroughly, checking out every nook and cranny and
ascertaining without a doubt that there was no means of
escape immediately available to him. Finally he settled
down, pulling a chair over to one of the windows, and
waited. Sooner or later, someone was sure to show up.  He
doubted they'd stashed him here to starve.

*****

Sharon Henderson rose with a smile when Scully entered her
office. "Dana!" she exclaimed happily. "What brings you up
here? I haven't seen you around in a long time."

Scully smiled tiredly. "Hi, Sharon. Actually, I'm here to
ask a personal favor." She handed over the suspicious
letter, as well as the page of handwritten notes she'd
grabbed from Mulder's desk on her way up. "Do you think you
could compare these two samples for me?"

Sharon took the pages and raised an eyebrow at the letter.
"Mulder's left the Bureau?" she asked, astonished.

"Yes, well--don't believe everything you read, Sharon,"
Scully said grimly.

"You think this letter is a fake," Sharon stated softly, and
Scully nodded.

"But why?  And who?"

"I have no idea. I showed up this morning to find that
letter waiting for me, and no sign of Mulder. Assistant
Director Kersh showed me a letter of resignation, also
supposedly written by Mulder. I just think it's a
little...suspicious.

Sharon snorted. "Yeah, I'll say!"

"I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible, if you don't
mind. I don't want to draw any unnecessary attention to the
situation just yet."

Sharon took another look at both samples and slid them into
a desk drawer. "I've got a pretty heavy workload today, but
I can get to these late this afternoon. I'll have a lot more
privacy then."

Scully smiled at her. "Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"Not a problem, Dana. You know I've always had a thing for
Mulder. If he's disappeared, I want to make sure he gets
found." The words were said jokingly, but Scully knew that
Sharon really did have a soft touch for her partner.  She
was always ready to drop everything to help him whenever he
asked.  Sharon could be depended upon to be discreet.

Scully nodded and left the office, fighting back her fear.
It wasn't time for that just yet.

*****

He had been awake for about two hours, according to the
clock on the wall--a genuine Black Forest cuckoo clock, if
he wasn't mistaken--when he heard footsteps approaching and
the sound of a key inserted in the lock.

Mulder rose quickly, positioning himself just inside the
door, prepared to attack as soon as it opened. Nervously, he
wondered what he was about to be confronted with--if it was
the man who had grabbed him in his apartment, he probably
had no chance at all, but he had to try.  Giving up was
simply not in his nature.

He blinked in astonishment when the door opened to reveal a
small, beautiful blond woman, then felt his hope fade when
he saw the two men behind her.  They were both easily as big
as the man who had kidnapped him, if not bigger, and Mulder
wondered for a moment if all these men were brothers...or
clones.

The men stood back, allowing the woman to enter the room
alone, but both kept a watchful eye on Mulder, ready to
pounce on him should he threaten their mistress in any way.

"I'm glad to see you're awake," she greeted in a musical
voice, but her sunny smile seemed out of place here.

"Shall we dispense with the niceties?" he suggested coldly.
"How about just telling me what you want with me? Why am I
here?"

She regarded him thoughtfully, then pulled the other chair
over in front of the window to face his. "Sit down, Fox, and
I'll tell you everything," she invited pleasantly.

He waited a moment, as if to argue, but when she gestured
again at his vacated chair, sank back to his seat.  He
couldn't help casting a suspicious glance at the men who had
entered the room and now flanked the door.

"Don't worry about George and Albert. They're only here to
ensure that you don't hurt me. As long as you behave, they
have no intention of causing you harm."

Mulder relaxed marginally, wondering why he believed her,
and she continued.

"I'm Amelia. Amelia Steinmetz." He tried to keep his
expression bland, but she'd clearly seen the recognition
cross his face. "Jon Steinmetz was my uncle," she told him.
"I'm sure you're familiar with the name."

"Not really.  I try not to keep up with current events if I
can help it."

Her eyes bored into his.  "Please, Fox.  Let's not toy with
one another. You were briefly in possession of his research
journal, I believe."

Mulder smiled grimly. "And where do you suppose it is now?"
he questioned.

Her smile was dazzling.  "It's been completely destroyed."

He shrugged.  "Then why bring me here? Without it, how could
I be a threat to anyone?"

Amelia crossed one leg over the other and answered
smoothly--it was clear she'd anticipated his question.  "You
could do quite a lot of damage if you chose to," she
informed him. "The proof might be out of your hands, but the
information contained in that journal, in the hands of the
wrong people...you might have wreaked unimaginable havoc."

"How?" He leaned forward in his chair, through playing games
now, willing her to listen to him, to listen to reason. "Who
would have believed me?"

"Those who weren't in agreement with the development of the
vaccine in the first place," she retorted. "You see Fox,
Uncle Jon's vaccine wasn't one hundred percent effective.
You probably gathered that from your reading."

He said nothing, and in a moment she went on.

"It appeared to have only about a sixty percent success
rate. Those of us..." she stopped for a moment, swallowed
hard, and with a look of determination on her lovely face,
forged ahead. "Those of us who want to save this planet are
working to perfect the serum, but if we were to be
stopped...well, you understand why we couldn't take the
chance."

A thought occurred to Mulder then, a frightening one. "What
about Agent Scully?" he demanded, trying not to sound
breathless, hoping his calm exterior belied the wicked
pouding of his heart.

She smiled at him reassuringly. "Agent Scully is, at
present, quite safe."

He tried not to make his relief obvious. "For how long?" he
asked sarcastically.  "What's stopping you from grabbing her
too?  For that matter, how can I believe you?"

"Fox, Agent Scully is more reasonable than you. Less
impulsive. She's not as likely to go off half-cocked. We
feel that with the proper incentive, she can be persuaded to
keep things quiet. You were the one we were worried about."

"And what would be the proper incentive?" he asked, afraid
he already knew the answer, but determined to hear it from
her.

She arched a delicate eyebrow.  "Why, you, of course," she
told him, sounding surprised that he needed to ask. "Surely
she'll cooperate in order to assure your continued safety."

He snorted at that. "Safety?"

"We're not planning to hurt you, Fox," she told him gently.
"Not unless we have to."

"Then what are you planning to do with me?"

She shrugged. "Keep you here. Keep you safe. Keep the world
safe, if we can."

"Keep me here? For how long?" Mulder was beginning to find
breathing difficult, and he didn't want her to see that.
Surely they didn't intend to keep him prisoner in these
three rooms indefinitely.

"For as long as necessary," she replied firmly. "As long as
we feel you are a threat."

Mulder felt himself blanche, but maintained his stony
expression.

"I'll always be a threat to the lies you people spread.  I'm
sure you know that."

She didn't answer.

Swiping a hand over his face to remove the sweat that was
beginning to break out, he asked shakily, "Why keep me alive
at all, then?"  He swallowed hard and forced his voice to
steadiness. "Why not just kill me and be done with it?"

She shook her head regretfully, and he felt a chill at the
callousness of her next words. "It would have been the
wisest thing to do, I agree, and perhaps in the long run the
kindest. The order came to me from my superiors. Someone
wants you alive, Fox, whatever his reasons, and it's my job
to keep you that way. When I found out they needed a place
to hide you I volunteered. This is probably the best place
on earth to stash someone. It's completely private, and so
small that few people even know of its existence. Nobody
will ever think to look for you here, I'm afraid, so don't
torment yourself by dreaming of rescue."

"Where is 'here'?" he asked curiously, ignoring her
admonition, because of course Scully would find him.  Didn't
she always?

"Verlassen," she replied. "It's a tiny private island that
was willed to me by my uncle. I was his only living
relative, and I inherited everything. He was quite wealthy,
as you might suspect."

"Verlassen..." he said softly.

"Loosely translated, it means 'deserted,' or 'abandoned.'
And it is, other than you, me and my employees." She jerked
her head toward the two men at the door. "There are ten of
them, all quite loyal to me. They aren't a threat to you
unless you become one to me."

Mulder glanced at the men again and then back at Amelia.

"I don't suppose promising to keep your secret would get me
released?" he asked, only half-joking.  Hey, he reasoned, it
was worth a try, even if it did guarantee to be futile.

Amelia shook her head in amusement. "Oh, Fox, you know you
couldn't do it," she said, almost giggling, and somehow her
amusement seemed vile, given the situation.  Mulder wondered
if she was really as cold-blooded as she seemed.

"You can promise your silence, and you might even intend to
keep your promise, but we both know in the end your passion
for your work would get the better of you...and that would
be disastrous. For everyone."

Amelia rose from her chair and extended her hand to him. He
ignored it. After a moment, she shrugged again and withdrew
it, a small smile playing about her lips. She'd expected
defiance. The smoking man had told her the type of behavior
she could look for in Agent Mulder, and she had to admit to
herself that she found the prospect of getting to know him
better...intriguing. "I'm afraid you'll just have to resign
yourself to being our guest here for a few weeks."

She turned to go. "I'll have some lunch sent up to you."

He raised one shoulder indifferently, turning his gaze to
stare out the window. "Don't bother."

"I have to bother. I have to keep you healthy."

Mulder made a noncommittal sound and continued his staring
until she left, then dropped his head to his hands in
despair. Weeks! Weeks of being locked away. He'd either die
of boredom or end up killing himself out of sheer depression
and despair. He couldn't even stand to be in his apartment
with the door shut for too many hours at a time. It was one
of the reasons he enjoyed running--the freedom, the
outdoors, the fresh air. Sighing heavily, he stood and began
to make his way around the perimeter of the apartment again,
carefully examining everything in it.  There had to be a way
out.  Nothing was inescapable.  Was it?

One thing was certain, despair would gain him nothing.  It
was a waste of time.

*****

"Agent Scully?"

The voice came from the shadows of the parking garage, and
Scully swung around, her hand already reaching for her
weapon.

"Don't be afraid," the well-dressed, elderly man told her.
"I have information for you about your partner."

"Where is he?" Scully demanded, her right hand still
hovering near her gun.

"I can assure you he is unharmed." The man reached out his
hand to her. "Take a walk with me and I'll explain
everything."  She hesitated, glancing around the empty
garage. "Please."

At last, she cautiously nodded to the man, and followed him
out of the garage. When they had reached a nearby park,
Scully stopped and turned to him, unwilling to walk any
further from her car.

"Tell me what you know about Agent Mulder.  Now."

The elderly man turned to her.  "As I said, he is unharmed.
He is in a place where he will be kept...safe."

"Safe? Safe from whom?" she questioned angrily. "The only
ones who ever put Mulder in danger are your people!"

"Not true, Agent Scully, I assure you that is not true.
Agent Mulder manages to place himself squarely in the face
of danger, quite without our assistance, at times."

She shrugged. "Where is Mulder?"

"The research journal that Agent Mulder received this
weekend put his life in great jeopardy. He was abducted by
our people, true, and would have been killed were it not for
the intervention of one man. A mutual friend who has an
affinity for cigarette smoke."

Scully felt her stomach churn at his words. The smoking man
was responsible for preventing Mulder's murder? Why?

"He's no friend of mine, or of Mulder's," she replied
coldly, but he ignored her comment and pressed on.

"The development of the vaccine that saved your life a few
months ago was chronicled in the journal Mulder obtained.
Unfortunately, the vaccine has not yet been perfected, and
there are those among us who would destroy our chances to do
so if they could. Those with...different goals than our
own."

"What goals?" Scully inquired hotly.  "I don't give a damn
about your goals.  I want my partner back."

"The goal of saving the people of this planet," the man
replied firmly. "Nothing more, nothing less. Our methods in
the past may have seemed heartless, even evil, but I assure
you, Agent Scully, our objective is a noble one.
Unfortunately, some of the people involved are not as noble
as the project in which they are engaged. People have been
hurt. You have been hurt. Mistakes have been made. But we
cannot afford to take the risk that Agent Mulder might
jeopardize the entire future of Earth in his passionate
search for what he terms the 'truth.' Therefore, we have
simply--removed him from circulation, so to speak."

Scully digested this speech, then opened her mouth to
protest. He held up his hand and, inexplicably, she found
herself waiting.

"He will be unharmed as long as you cooperate with us, and I
promise you, Agent Scully, that sometime in the future he
will be returned to you. If you cooperate. If you do not, I
can also promise you that Agent Mulder will suffer the
consequences."

"Cooperate how?" she asked carefully. "What is it you want
of me?"

"To do and say nothing," he replied promptly. "Drop your
investigation into the research journal. Stop searching for
Mulder. Go about your work and your life as though Mulder's
resignation from the Bureau was real. *No one*," he
emphasized, "can know the things you saw in that journal."

"How do you know I haven't already made them known?"

He smiled.  "Agent Scully, let us not toy with one another.
Had you done so, our people would most certainly have been
made aware.  You should be thankful we were able to retrieve
the journal, and Agent Mulder, before any real damage was
done.  Your partner might not have fared so well in other
circumstances."

She shook her head a little, curious and confused. "If what
we know is such a danger to your project, why let us live?
Why not just kill us both?"

Her companion sighed, an indulgent smile on his face. "Our
mutual friend argued against it. And because of the nature
of the compromise he made with us, we were willing to go
along with his request. Besides, killing you both would
attract undue attention. We do not condone the unnecessary
taking of life, Agent Scully, not even when the person is as
much trouble to us as Agent Mulder has been and will, no
doubt, continue to be. It's almost a game between us,
although I'm certain your partner would disagree. However
this, young lady," he said firmly, turning to place his
hands gently on her shoulders, "is not a game. The very
future of our world is at stake."

"So, I'm supposed to just keep my mouth shut, stop searching
for Mulder, and trust you to return him to me at some time
in the future--whenever you see fit." Scully's anger was
beginning to flare again. Did this man truly think she was
an idiot?

"That is the situation in a nutshell," he agreed.

Scully shook her head. "Sorry. No deal. And this
conversation is over." She turned on her heel and strode
away into the darkness.

"Agent Scully," he called after her. "Bear in mind that
Mulder is currently at our mercy. He has not been hurt--but
he can be."

Scully ignored him and continued her trek back to her car.
She was fuming inside. Did they honestly think they could
buy her silence with threats? That she really believed
Mulder was unharmed? She shivered. If the smoking man was
involved, Scully knew there was a good chance Mulder was
dead already.

*****

Scully entered her apartment wearily, kicking off her shoes
and tossing her jacket to the couch.  After changing into
comfortable sweats, she walked back through the living room
and noticed the blinking red light that summoned her to
check her phone messages.  Desperately hoping for word from
Mulder, she pushed the button eagerly to retrieve her
messages.  The first two were unimportant nothings and the
last was from Agent Henderson.

"Dana, this is Sharon Henderson." The voice sounded hushed
and hurried. "I found some things...I think you'd better
come to my office in the morning. You were right about the
letter you received being a forgery, but when I checked it
for prints..." She paused for a moment, and her voice grew
even more quiet. "Dana, the only fingerprints I found
belonged to Assistant Director Kersh."  Scully's eyebrows
raised in surprise. "I'll be here early, come on up when you
get here," Sharon concluded, then there was only a click,
and silence.

Scully's eyes narrowed and she felt her knees weaken. Kersh!
If Kersh's prints were on the letter left on her desk, it
would mean he had known about it all along--had possibly
even been the one to deliver it.  And yet, he hadn't
mentioned it at all. Was it possible that he was the forger?
If that were the case, he must know where Mulder was, or at
least have some information about his sudden disappearance,
but he'd spoken to her this morning as if her partner's
"resignation" was a total surprise to him. Why was Kersh
covering up Mulder's disappearance, and how deeply was he
involved?

*****

SEPTEMBER 1

Scully got to work late the next morning, thanks to a
monster traffic tie-up, and as soon as she'd dropped her
purse at her desk she headed for the elevator, waiting
impatiently, anxious to talk with Sharon about her findings.
As soon as she reached the seventh floor she pushed her way
hurriedly out of the elevator and turned toward Sharon's
office. The sight that greeted her stopped her short. People
were milling about, and the entire floor too closely
resembled a crime scene for Scully's liking.

"Excuse me," she called, flagging down a security guard.
"Could you tell me what's happening here?"

The security guard checked Scully's badge to make sure she
was on the up-and-up, and then jerked his head toward
Sharon's office. "An agent was found dead in her office this
morning. Heart attack." He went back to his task, dismissing
the minor interruption.

Scully began to get a cold feeling in her stomach as she
approached Sharon's office. The activity grew more hurried
the nearer she drew, until she was forced to stand back
against the wall to make way for the gurney being wheeled
out.

"Wait," Scully commanded one of the paramedics, and he
glanced up, stopping instinctively at her tone. Scully
lifted the sheet covering the face of the body, and let out
a sigh when Sharon's lifeless eyes stared back at her. She
dropped the sheet and nodded to the paramedic, who continued
on his way.

Scully made her way back to her desk and picked up the
phone, dialing the offices of the Lone Gunmen. She didn't
know where else to turn.

"Lone Gunmen."

"Frohike, I need a favor."

"Ah, the lovely Agent Scully. I am at your service, ma'am.
Will that be whipped cream or--"

"I don't have time, Frohike," Scully interrupted, grimacing
at the little man's attempt at humor. "I need you to do
something."

"What's up?" he asked, taking on a tone of seriousness
quickly enough that she forgave him his indiscretion.

Leaning into the phone, covering the mouthpiece with her
hand to gain as much privacy as possible, she quickly
explained the situation to him, adding, "I need you guys to
try and track down any trace of Mulder you can find in the
last forty-eight hours. I'll be here all day if you uncover
anything."

"Will do. And Dana? Don't worry about Mulder. I'm sure he's
fine."

She hung up, unconvinced, and steeled herself to face A.D.
Kersh.

*****

"Agent Scully?" Kersh inquired, nodding toward a chair
before his desk.  "My assistant said you requested to see
me."

Scully remained standing.  "Yes, Sir.  I wanted to ask you
something."

He waited, his features fixed in their usual stern
expression.

"I wondered," she continued, her eyes locking with his and
never wavering, "what you may have had to do with this." She
lay the letter on his desk.

Kersh glanced briefly down at the paper, then back up at
her.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Agent Henderson, before she was killed last night, phoned
to tell me she'd discovered your prints on this paper.  Not
Mulder's, Sir.  Yours."

"It was my understanding that Agent Henderson had died of a
heart attack."

"A heart attack can be faked easily, with the right drug."

"Agent Scully, are you accusing me of something?"  His voice
was cold, and she realized it would be better to back off a
bit.

"No, Sir, of course not.  I was simply curious as to why a
letter, which purported to be from Mulder, held your prints
and not his."

"I have no explanation for that, other than to speculate
that Agent Henderson probably made a mistake.  Now, if
you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to get done, what
with one of my agents resigning unexpectedly."

"Sir--"

"That will be all, Agent Scully."

Neglecting to acknowledge his curt dismissal, she turned on
her heel and left.  She had more questions than answers now,
but she also felt a certainty that Kersh was involved in
Mulder's kidnapping.

That belief made her want to strangle him.

*****

"What do you want?" Scully demanded harshly, gasping for
breath after being startled out of ten years life. The man
who had visited her the night before was again waiting in
the shadows of the parking garage, stepping out suddenly
into the dim light like one of Mulder's apparitions.

He shook his head sympathetically. "You should have listened
to me, Agent Scully," he said sadly. "She didn't need to
die."

Scully's eyes widened. "You killed her!"

"No."

"Then you had one of your people do it!" Scully insisted
angrily. "I thought you told me you didn't condone needless
killing."

"Her death was, regrettably, deemed necessary."

"Why? And how is Assistant Director Kersh involved?" she
demanded.

The elderly man smiled. "Kersh is nothing but a messenger."
His hand made a dismissive motion. "He is, perhaps, a bit of
a weasel, but he isn't a threat to you, or to Agent Mulder.
The only threat to Mulder's well-being now is you." He
leaned closer to her, lowering his voice intently. "Drop
your investigation, Agent Scully. Now. Before Mulder has to
suffer for your stubbornness." Moments later he disappeared
back into the shadows and was gone.

*****

SEPTEMBER 3

Mulder jerked around in surprise and warily surveyed the two
guards who had just burst into his rooms. He had turned one
of the chairs by the window around so that it was facing
outward, and spent a good part of each day there, gazing out
at the freedom that he craved. He'd only been imprisoned
here a few days, and even though he still watched for any
opportunity to escape, he could already feel himself losing
control. Mulder knew he wouldn't stay sane locked up here
for the indefinite period of time that Amelia had mentioned.

The guards--one Mulder knew was called 'Jacob' and the other
he privately thought of as 'Olaf' because of his size and
Scandanavian appearance--approached him quickly and
wordlessly and before he even realized he needed to run, had
grabbed him by the arms and hauled him up out of the chair.

"Hey!" he protested, but the men ignored him.  'Olaf'
grabbed Mulder around his chest from behind and held him
firmly in an iron grasp while Jacob caught Mulder's kicking
legs and tucked them easily under one arm. With his free
hand he removed Mulder's shoes and socks. Mulder was taken
aback by this action but didn't grow terribly alarmed until
Jacob put his bare feet on the floor and reached for the
wasteband of his sweats.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he yelled, again trying
unsuccessfully to kick at Jacob, while visions of sexual
assault ran through his mind in a terrifying stream. The
large man lifted his legs again, stripping the pants off him
in one fluid motion, leaving him clad in only his boxers and
t-shirt.

"Sorry guys, I don't even kiss on the first date," Mulder
quipped, fighting his rising panic as he continued to
struggle against them.

Still ignoring him, Jacob grabbed his bare legs and held
them firmly while his other attacker pulled Mulder's shirt
over his head, and within seconds the agent was practically
naked.

He expected to be thrown to the floor and raped, but instead
he was placed firmly back on his feet and each guard took an
arm, guiding him, protesting loudly, out the door. They
dragged him down the hall and into a room very similar to
the one he had just left, with one important exception. This
room came equipped with a video camera, set up to capture
the action revolving around the single, straight-backed
chair in the center of the room.

*****

SEPTEMBER 4

Scully parked in front of her building and sat in her car
for a few minutes before going inside. She'd had an
exhausting week. So far there had been no trace of Mulder,
and Kersh had kept her so busy with what she considered
insignificant, yet highly detailed assignments that she'd
had little opportunity to investigate further on her own.
She'd relied on Frohike and the gang to dig up information,
and so far they had been unsuccessful. She had found the
time to phone Mulder's apartment manager and question him;
he had no information whatsoever. Mulder hadn't broken his
lease, hadn't moved his things out, hadn't turned in his
key, and had already paid his rent for the month of
September. As far as the manager was concerned, Mulder was
still one of his tenants until the rent became past due or
he was notified otherwise. She'd gone over there once to
check things out and feed the fish, but her search hadn't
turned up anything useful. As far as Scully could tell,
Mulder had simply vanished.

She trudged into her apartment, stopping to grab her mail on
the way, and carefully examined the small, padded brown
envelope that she had received. She wasn't expecting a
package, and she didn't recognize the handwriting on the
front. Naturally, there was no return address.

From the size and shape of it she guessed it was a
videotape, and she turned it over to take another look at
the handwriting. That's when she noticed that there was no
postmark. The package had been hand-delivered.

Curiously, and with a mounting sense of dread, Scully opened
the envelope. A grey box fell onto her lap and she picked it
up, shaking the videotape out into her hand. Examining the
tape and the packaging again, she discovered no other
indication of where it might have originated. After what had
happened to Sharon, Scully was afraid to take it to the
fingerprint lab, and besides, she'd handled it enough
already to effectively destroy any prints they might have
lifted. For that matter, what if they did find prints, and
what if they belonged to Kersh? What could she do about it?
Scully didn't want the death of another agent on her hands.
She'd been told to drop her investigation, and...

"Oh God," she breathed aloud.  "Mulder."

Her mysterious informant had told her Mulder would pay the
price if she didn't stop searching for him. Had they
followed through on their threat? Was this...? Scully closed
her eyes and swallowed hard, afraid to see what was
contained on the tape and yet knowing she had to watch it.
Finally, after taking several deep breaths to bolster her
courage, she rose and determinedly popped the tape into her
VCR. Steeling herself for whatever she was about to see,
Scully sat down on the couch, remote in hand, and leaned
forward in concentration.

The tape started off with static, as homemade videos are
wont to do, but soon the picture cleared and Scully could
see a straight-backed, wooden chair sitting alone in the
middle of a room. She heard the sound of scuffling off
camera, then Mulder, naked except for a pair of dark-colored
boxers, appeared. He was dragged toward the chair by two men
who must have been professional wrestlers at some point in
their careers, if size and strength were any indication.
They dwarfed her partner, both in height and weight, and he
looked as helpless as a child struggling and protesting
against them. They slammed him roughly down into the chair
and Scully winced when she saw that one of the men had
produced several lengths of rope.

"Will you just tell me why you're doing this?" Mulder
demanded from the tape, and Scully clenched her fist around
the remote control. He was trying hard to maintain a brave
front, but she, who knew him so well, could hear the note of
fear creeping into his voice. "Just tell me what you want!"

Not bothering to answer, one of the men grabbed Mulder's
arms and pulled them behind him, tying his wrists together,
while the other bound each of his ankles to a chair leg. A
piece of rope was then tied around his waist, fastening him
firmly to the chair, and as a final restraint, another rope
was looped around his neck and secured to the rope that held
his hands. In this position he was barely able to move. Too
much struggling would cause him to choke.

The wrestlers then moved out of camera range, and seconds
later, a woman approached Mulder. Scully could clearly see
the look of confusion on Mulder's face at her appearance,
but didn't detect any real fear of the woman. She was
convinced that her contact had been truthful when he said
Mulder hadn't been hurt. If Mulder had been tortured by
these people on previous occasions, it would have shown in
his demeanor.

"Do you know what this is, Fox?" The woman's clear voice
came through the videotape.  She produced a curling wand,
the type found in most of the bathrooms or bedrooms in
America, and held it up for him to view.

Mulder gazed at the device and gave a smile that was half
sneer.

"Gee, and I didn't even make an appointment," he remarked
sarcastically.

Scully bit her lip at Mulder's characteristic humor under
pressure. It was obvious what was about to happen and, while
she didn't want to see Mulder being hurt, she found herself
unable to tear her gaze away from the images on the screen.

Mulder apparently had realized it as well, because he grew
serious, asking, "Why are you doing this, Amelia?"

The woman he called Amelia shook her head sadly. "I don't
want to, Fox. It's your partner. She was warned to drop her
investigation into your whereabouts and she has refused to
do so. We're hoping this little performance will give her an
incentive to obey us."

Scully paled, closing her eyes against a rush of guilt and
horror, but quickly opened them again when she heard
Mulder's voice take on the faintest tinge of desperation.

"Wait," he insisted. "Wait a minute! You don't have to do
this. If you just tell her you're going to hurt me, she'll
back off."

Again Amelia shook her head. "We did tell her. We warned her
that you would suffer for her inquisitiveness, but
apparently she chose not to believe us. Now we're going to
prove to her that we do not bluff."

She approached him without further comment, and Mulder
winced, biting his lip firmly to keep back a cry of pain,
clenching his eyes shut and turning his face away as the hot
metal rod found the tender skin of his thigh. Amelia held it
there for five of the longest seconds of Scully's life, then
pulled back. Scully found herself panting with anger and
horror as she watched Mulder's torment.

Next Amelia pressed the curling wand to Mulder's bare chest,
and this time he was unable to suppress a groan of pain. He
tried to jerk away from her but couldn't escape the searing
metal. She held it to his flesh a little longer than before,
and Scully was able to see the tears making their way down
her partner's face, matching the ones staining her own
cheeks.

"Stop. Amelia, stop!" he panted as she approached his
unprotected belly with the rod, but she ignored him and held
the hot metal to his skin longer than ever. Mulder squirmed
wildly, again to no avail. He was trying to hold back
screams of pain, but Scully could see the sweat pouring from
his brow mixing with the tears he could not control. The
agonized whimpers he was unable to suppress tore through
her, and she was afraid he would bite clean through his
bottom lip.

Scully squeezed her eyes tightly shut to block out the
sight, but she was unable to escape the sound of Mulder's
pleading voice. She could almost feel the agony he was
enduring. She'd burned herself a few times with her own hot
curling wand, and she knew how painful it was when it
touched her skin for a fraction of a second. Mulder was
receiving much longer exposure, and Scully found herself
growing nauseous as the torture continued.

"No..." he begged as Amelia slowly brought the rod toward
him again. "Don't..." She touched it to his cheek for a few
seconds, and then withdrew, leaving a welt on Mulder's face
that Scully could clearly see, even on the low-quality
videotape.

Scully's tears were flowing freely now, and she felt her
fury mounting. As Amelia brought the metal instrument again
toward Mulder's body she jumped to her feet and threw the
remote control at the television with all the force of her
rage. She wanted to be able to reach into the television set
and throttle the life out of the woman who was torturing
Mulder. The remote shattered, sending small pieces of black
plastic flying. "Stop it!" she screamed to the woman on the
videotape. "Stop hurting him!"

As if hearing Scully's screams from thousands of miles away,
Amelia drew back and set the tool of Mulder's torment down
off camera. She gestured to someone off to her right and one
of the men who had bound Mulder to the chair approached with
a cup of water which he held to their prisoner's lips.
Mulder drank weakly from the cup as Amelia turned toward the
camera.

"Agent Scully," she said softly. "I don't like having to
hurt Fox, and I don't want to do it again, but I assure you
that if it's considered necessary I will. Only you can
guarantee that he doesn't suffer more pain. You will drop
your investigation immediately, or I promise you, your
partner will receive much worse than this."

Scully could see the man behind Amelia beginning to untie
Mulder, who now sat weak and limp in the chair, just before
the video ended.

She swiped her hands across her face, angrily wiping away
her tears, and jumped to her feet, beginning to pace back
and forth through the room.

She simply had to come up with a way to rescue Mulder.

*****

SEPTEMBER 3

Mulder made no fuss as Jacob and his companion pulled him to
his feet. He tried to walk, but the two of them ended up
practically dragging him back to his room with Amelia
following. Mulder's skin throbbed everywhere that the hot
metal had touched him, and he found himself amazed that such
a short session with such a simple object could cause him so
much pain, and drain him of so much energy. Jacob and
Company hauled Mulder into his bedroom and lay him easily on
the bed, but he hissed in pain when the blanket they draped
over him touched his burned skin.

"Wait," Amelia commanded, pulling back the blanket, and then
she was rubbing something cool and soothing onto him and
miraculously the pain was beginning to fade. Mulder tried to
stifle his sigh of relief.  He simply lay there, feeling
much like a worn-out dishrag, as she tended him.

"It'll be all right, Fox," she told him gently as she
smoothed his hair away from his sweating brow. "I doubt
we'll have to do this again."

Mulder stared at her in what could have been hurt silence
for a moment, then closed his eyes wearily. There didn't
seem to be anything to say.

*****

SEPTEMBER 23

Sometimes Mulder thought he would die of sheer boredom. He
had read every book provided at least once, and had
discovered to his disgust that even when you had 128
channels to choose from, there was rarely anything decent on
television. He couldn't endure what passed for comedy, and
daytime TV, as a rule, was mind-numbingly stupid.

Most of his days were spent sitting at the window, staring
out across the water and daydreaming. Sometimes he would
fall asleep in the chair and when he did, his dreams were
usually of Scully--her soft voice, her gentle touch on his
arm, her passionate debates with him--all the things he had
grown to love about her. He missed her more than he had ever
thought possible, and soon began to crave her companionship
even more than his own freedom. Mulder knew what was
happening to him; he recognized the signs of serious
depression, but didn't have the energy to try and pull
himself out of it. It was so much easier to sit and dream.

He had all but forgotten what it was like to be able to come
and go as he pleased, or to have work to occupy his time,
but he had not forgotten what it was like to talk with
Scully, laugh with her, or feel her soft hands on him.

Other than the one videotaped torture session, he had been
well-treated, and he supposed Scully had gotten their
message and backed off. He didn't know whether to be
relieved that he wasn't being hurt, or upset that she was
apparently no longer searching for him. It saddened him to
think she might be growing used to life without him, even
though in his moments of higher thought, he knew she would
never abandon him.

His was, he thought despondently, probably the most
luxurious prison in the world. The food was excellent, when
he could bring himself to eat it, but Mulder had always lost
his appetite in times of stress, and nothing was more
stressful to him than imprisonment. Most of the gourmet
cuisine went untouched on his tray, but they were still
served to him faithfully, three times daily.

Amelia visited him for a few minutes every day.  At first he
had rebuffed her attempts at conversation, but before long
his loneliness and boredom had led him to respond. He had
questioned her endlessly about why he was being kept here
and when, if ever, he would be released, but her answers had
been vague and wholly unsatisfactory. Mulder was beginning
to get a very sick feeling that the "few weeks" Amelia had
originally spoken of would be extended indefinitely.
Eventually he had given up on his attempts to get
information from her, and their conversations had
degenerated into discussions about the weather and other,
equally trite topics.

At times he found himself almost overwhelmed with the
impulse to throw himself to his knees in front of her and
beg for his freedom, but the knowledge that he would simply
be humiliating himself to no avail kept the last vestiges of
his pride intact. He remained standing, or sitting, as the
case may be, but never, he vowed to himself, would he kneel.

His biggest concerns were for Scully, and in his worst
moments be hecame convinced she had been killed, and that he
had been lied to about her safety.  He was constantly
plagued by nightmares of her demise.

Other overnight terrors had him, trapped in this prison,
while all those on the outside succumbed to disease, or
attack, or any number of other ravages.  He saw himself
slowly starving to death, unable to escape, forgotten by
all.  The loose translation of the island's name became more
realistic and appropriate for him every day.

Amelia had finally confessed to him that it was the smoker
who wanted him kept alive, and Mulder could only guess that
the man felt this slow descent into death by boredom was the
most exquisite torture that could be inflicted on him.

He felt impotent rage, and his fingers would actually curl
with the desire to wrap themselves around the man's neck and
choke the life out of him.

Thoughts like these nearly drove him mad, while thoughts of
Scully kept him sane.  The two were at constant war in his
mind, a war he realized, with more than a little fear, he
was slowly losing.

*****

SEPTEMBER 29

"I don't know if there's anything you can do," Scully
finished, "but if you could somehow manage it..."

Skinner regarded the woman carefully; since Mulder's
disappearance, she had been under constant scrutiny from
everyone.  Most expected her to crack, but other than a
slight deepening of the lines around her eyes and mouth,
barely noticeable yet, there was no outward sign of her
distress.

Not to the casual observer, anyway.  Skinner had been
through enough with her and Mulder to recognize the
excessive stiffening of her posture, the lack of peace in
the aura that enveloped her.

"I can ask them to transfer you to my command, Agent Scully,
but I feel certain the request will be denied."

"Sir, they put us under Kersh in order to keep us off the
X-Files.  I'm not asking to be transferred back there."  She
grimaced.  "I wouldn't want to work with the current team,
anyway.  All I'm asking is that I report to you, rather than
Assistant Director Kersh."

She'd told him, quietly, off the record, of her suspicions
regarding Kersh, but Skinner's own subtle investigations had
yielded no results.  They had truly covered their tracks
this time.

"If not to your command, perhaps a temporary transfer to
Quantico could be arranged," she continued.  "All I know is
that I can't continue working for Kersh."

Skinner shook his head slowly, but didn't want to deny her
request outright.

"I'll see what I can do."

It was all he could offer her.

*****

OCTOBER 1

"I have a surprise for you, Fox."

Amerlia's voice trickled into his consciousness and invaded
the daydream in which he was immersed at the moment. He was
sitting in his usual chair, the untouched lunch tray beside
him, when she entered the room. He barely registered her
presence until she pulled up the other chair and sat next to
him; he had learned the hard way what would happen if he
attempted to rush the door.

Mulder glanced over at her, disinterested, then resumed his
wide-eyed gaze out his window. He was leaning forward today,
his hands clasping the steel bars as if he hoped for the
strength to separate them. Somewhere out there, he kept
reminding himself, was life.

She touched his shoulder with a gentle hand that went
unnoticed.

"Fox?"

He turned his head slightly toward her, an impatient look on
his face, willing her to disappear so he could get back to
his thoughts, but she refused to cooperate.

"Would you like to go outside for a bit?"

At first he didn't seem to understand, gazing
incomprehensibly at her, then shifting his eyes again toward
the outdoors. He glanced quickly back at her face, as if
trying to determine whether or not she was cruelly teasing
him, and finally decided that perhaps she wasn't.

"Outside?" he asked hesitantly, his voice cracking from lack
of exercise. He still absolutely refused to begin talking to
himself, and he hadn't said a word to her in days.

She nodded, smiling. "Under guard, of course, but I thought
perhaps you might like a swim in the ocean."

Outside.  An opportunity for...what?  Escape?  Perhaps not,
but just to feel the wind on his face and smell the fresh
air...

The smile that broke out on his face almost made Amelia want
to cry. She'd been afraid to let him leave his rooms for
weeks, terrified he'd do something that would cause her more
trouble than she could handle, but he was so subdued now
that she felt confident it was safe to let him have a little
outside time. Maybe it would help restore his spirits.
Certainly it appeared as though he would be here much longer
than they had originally intended, and she was concerned
about the depression into which he had so effortlessly
slipped.

There was a noise at the door, and they both looked up as
George, Martin and Kenneth entered the room. Mulder seemed a
little frightened at their sudden appearance as a group--the
last time more than one of them had come to him he'd been
stripped, dragged away and tortured--but Amelia reassured
him calmly.

"I can't let you go out alone, Fox. They'll be with you,
just to keep an eye on you."

Finally he nodded, accepting her restriction as inevitable,
knowing he would receive no taste of freedom without it, and
she left him with the men.

"Let's go," the one that Mulder knew as Kenneth said in a
low, rumbly voice, and rising quickly, Mulder followed
Kenneth, George and Martin bringing up the rear. He looked
around curiously as he was led down a long, wide hallway
toward a staircase. He had never seen any part of the house
outside his apartment other than the room they had taken him
to for his film debut. The mansion appeared enormous.

"Don't get any ideas," George warned from behind him, and
Mulder shook his head silently. He wasn't stupid enough to
try and make a break for it with these three guarding him.
Any one of them looked as though he could snap Mulder's neck
with minimal effort.

Besides, he reminded himself, they were on an island. Even
if he did manage to elude them, where could he go? They
would be bound to find him eventually, and then Mulder was
sure there would be hell to pay. Instead, he walked quietly
down the stairs, meekly following their directions, and a
few minutes later found himself standing on soft, warm sand
and staring out over the endless ocean.

Mulder took deep, greedy breaths of the fresh air and tilted
his face upward to feel the sun full on it. It was all he
could do to hold back the tears of joy he felt at finally
just being out. He had truly begun to believe that he would
never leave those three rooms again as long as he lived.

His natural impulse was to make a break for freedom, and he
curbed it with effort.  Maybe, if he behaved the way they
wanted, they would eventually relax their guard.  Maybe
there was a way off this island, but he'd never find it by
trying to run right now.

Quickly, Mulder glanced around, hoping for some glimpse of a
boat, but nothing was visible but empty beach.

"You can swim if you want," Martin encouraged him.

Martin seemed to be the friendliest of all the men who
tended him, and Mulder glanced hesitantly over at him when
he spoke. Seeing Martin pulling his shirt over his head,
Mulder slowly removed his own shoes, t-shirt and sweatpants.
When he was stripped down to only his black boxers, he took
a small step toward the water, then another and another, and
soon he found himself running, barely able to keep his
balance in the sand, until the waves splashed up his legs
wetting him from the waist down. He stopped, standing in the
surf, and looked around for the guards. George and Kenneth
had remained on shore, but Martin was right behind him.

"C'mon, Fox," the big man urged, making his way toward
deeper water. "You're not going to get any exercise just
standing there.  Enjoy it while you can."

Mulder watched Martin as he lowered himself into the water
and began to swim, and then eagerly followed. Soon the two
men were diving and splashing, and Martin was surprised at
how easily Mulder took to his newfound freedom. He had
half-expected their captive to be too beaten down
emotionally from his imprisonment to participate, but was
happy to see that wasn't the case. However, it wasn't long
before Mulder's lack of food and exercise caught up with him
and Martin could tell that the other man's strength was
giving out.

"Let's go, Fox. Back inside with you now," he commanded,
grabbing Mulder's shoulder to steady him when he almost lost
his balance and fell under the water. The prisoner's face
was pale and his bones were more prominent than was healthy.
He was breathing heavily, his exhaustion easily apparent.
Nonetheless, Mulder protested.

"Not yet. Not just yet," he murmured weakly, turning back to
the open water. He began slowly swimming out toward the
horizon again, and Martin sighed impatiently.

"Fox, you're tired. We need to get you back to your room so
you can rest."

Mulder ignored him and continued swimming.  He knew it was
futile, stupid, but all at once he was powerless to stop
himself in what had to be a pointless attempt at escaping
them.  He swam as quickly as he was able, in order to put as
much distance between himself and his guards as possible.
The attention of the two men onshore had been drawn by
Martin's unsuccessful efforts to rein Mulder in, and Martin
was quickly becoming irritated at his charge's refusal to
obey.

"Mulder, come here. Now."

Mulder heard the commanding voice from behind him and, as if
from outside himself, knew what he was about to do.  He'd
dreamed of it, had wondered what it would be like, but had
never truly considered it until this very moment.  The
choice was clear: captivity or death.  It was now or never.

Not even stopping to question himself, afraid to delve too
deeply into his motives, Mulder threw himself into the water
face-first and deliberately inhaled.

He felt as if he must be dreaming; how many days had he
spent staring at this blue water and imagining losing
himself in it, sinking downward, downward, until the breath
and the life and the pain left his body and he was finally
at peace? At last, he'd summoned up the balls to do
something about it.

Martin, guessing Mulder's intention roughly one second
before it became action, lunged for the smaller man, grabbed
him by his hair and hauled him up out of the water just as
he began to draw it into his body. Angrily he threw Mulder
over his shoulder like a rag doll and strode back toward
shore. Mulder coughed and sputtered, only now realizing the
enormity of what he'd done.

Hell to pay.

"No," he whispered, his throat stinging from the salt water.
"Don't. Just let me go..."

Martin's only response was to grip Mulder more tightly until
they reached the shore, then to slide him easily to the
sand. Mulder was still coughing, clearing the last of the
water from his throat and nose. He raised himself to his
hands and knees, retching saltwater from his stomach onto
the sand. When he finally had himself under control, and
after his breathing had returned to normal, Martin and
Kenneth reached down simultaneously and hauled Mulder up by
his arms. Standing trapped between them, he was confronted
by George. Mulder felt perfect fear shoot through him at the
look on George's face. He was in big trouble.

Hell to pay.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" George demanded. "Did you
really believe we'd let you drown?"  He leaned closer, his
face less than two inches from Mulder's.  "We can't afford
to let you die."

When Mulder didn't answer he received a severe shake from
the men holding him.

"Answer!" George roared.  "What were you thinking?"

"I--d-don't know--" Mulder stammered, beginning to feel
terror rising up from his toes and engulfing his entire
body. He was trembling, unsure if it was from fright, shock
or cold.

"You don't know why you tried to drown yourself?" Martin
retorted angrily.

Mulder shook his head slowly. "I wasn't thinking at all," he
ground out.  "That should be pretty obvious."

"Amelia's going to give us hell," grumbled Kenneth, and
Mulder's head whipped around quickly.

"She doesn't need to know," he said desperately.
Please--please don't tell Amelia." He despised himself for
the begging tone he had taken on but was unable to control
it creeping into his voice.  "Look, it was just a stupid
mistake on my part.  It won't happen again."

"Your damned right it won't," George declared.

Shaking his head angrily, Martin began half-dragging Mulder
back toward the house, with Kenneth still supporting his
other side. George picked up Mulder's clothing from the
beach and followed. Soon Mulder was deposited back in his
room, dropped unceremoniously on the bed, and left alone. He
had begun shaking in earnest now, and finally decided it was
from cold as much as terror. He rose and, grabbing a clean
pair of boxers from the dresser, headed for the bathtub for
a warm soak to restore his body heat. He tried not to dwell
on the punishment that was sure to come.

*****

OCTOBER 2

Scully stood in line at the grocery store and regarded her
meager purchases sadly. Since deciding to maintain Mulder's
apartment in the firm belief that he would return to it one
day, her financial resources had been stretched to the
limit. She simply wasn't equipped to pay double rent each
month, and even though she had only made one payment, she
was feeling the strain.  On the other hand, she was
determined not to give up on Mulder.

She had also paid his utility and VISA bills, and was now
discouraged at her checking account balance.  If Mulder
didn't return soon, she would have to dip into her savings
account in order to survive.  With a set to her jaw, Scully
decided she would do that, if necessary.  She would do
whatever she had to do. This was one small way that she
could continue to feel Mulder's presence in her life, one
thing she could do that felt like *something* in the face of
her helplessness.  She'd gotten nowhere in her
investigations, and after seeing how Mulder had suffered for
it, she had stopped searching.  She couldn't risk having him
hurt again.  So, in a pathetic attempt to convince herself
she was taking some sort of action, she had taken over his
finances.

Besides, she couldn't bear the thought of someone else
living in his apartment.

She'd been dropping by his place several times a week to
check up on things and feed his fish, and part of her always
half expected to find him there, sleeping on his couch. She
always felt a tiny rush of disappointment every time it
didn't happen, even though she tried to prepare herself for
the inevitable. It was simply one more dagger in her heart.

Scully frequently cried herself to sleep under the safe
cover of darkness, remembering the videotape of Mulder's
torment, for which she still blamed herself.  She had
recurring nightmares of him caught in a constant cycle of
pain and torture. Once or twice she'd even indulged herself
in a few tears on his couch, inhaling the scent of him that
clung to the leather even now, and remembering times they
had spent together. Sometimes she thought she could almost
hear his voice, and she was made uneasy by his continued
impression on the apartment--it was as if he was still
there, yet unreachable.

She couldn't count the number of times she had called his
answering machine for the sole purpose of listening to his
familiar voice, and she remembered Mulder telling her once
that when she had been missing, he would do the same. It
frightened her to realize how much she needed him.

She received periodic reports from the man who had first
approached her to insist she drop her investigation, and he
continued to assure her that Mulder was safe and in good
health, but Scully knew Mulder. She was familiar with his
ability to lose his appetite and forego sleep in times of
stress, and she knew captivity had to be taking its toll on
him. Mulder couldn't live in a prison, of that she was
certain.

Just today, she had decided to bring his fish home with her.
They must be lonely, she reasoned with a fair amount of
amusement. As far as she knew there hadn't been a break-in
or any unauthorized surveillance equipment installed since
Mulder's disappearance. Besides, she craved this part of
him, this testament to his life, and wanted it near her.
Gathering up her purchases, she started off toward Mulder's
apartment and her soon-to-be foster pets.

*****

To Mulder's immense relief, Amelia was inclined to forgive
his act of rebellion, although he was sternly lectured about
repeating such an idiotic stunt.  At first he had been
terrified that she would never let him out of his rooms
again, but after her severe scolding, Amelia had patted his
cheek gently and said, "I understand why you did it, Fox,
but you mustn't despair. You won't be here forever." The
look on his features conveyed his disbelief. "I know how
depressed you've been, and I'll forgive you this once. You
won't want to try anything like that again, though," she had
warned him, and he had suppressed a shiver at her tone,
nodding acquiescence.

When she left, he pounded the chair's arm in frustration.
Why had he done such a stupid thing?  He couldn't even begin
to answer that question.  All he knew was that he had acted
without thought, without a plan, and it had been a severe
setback--both in their trust of him, and in any possible
future escape attempts.  Amelia was treating him like a
child, and the men were furious with him for causing them
trouble.

It would undoubtedly be a long while before another chance
presented itself.

He wondered how much longer before Scully arrived to get him
out of this hellhole.

It was close to a week before Mulder was taken out again,
and when Martin offered to let him swim, he and George had
stuck so closely by their prisoner's side that Mulder
wouldn't have been able to get his face in the water had he
tried.

After that, since he was a model of good behavior on his
trips outdoors, he was allowed them once a day, after lunch,
on the condition that he eat at least a portion of his meal.
Mulder swallowed his objections to the condescending
treatment and gave them what they wanted, if only to be able
to escape from the room for a short time.  Those moments in
the sun had come to mean everything to him.

Eventually the guards backed off a little and decided that
Mulder could once again be trusted, at least to a point. He
hadn't shown any inclination toward suicide since his first
ill-fated attempt, and they finally concluded that his fear
of losing the small amount of freedom he'd been granted was
threat enough to make him toe the line.

*****

OCTOBER 26

Mulder had taken to walking the island after his swim,
trying to build up some of the strength that he had lost
during his weeks of captivity. He knew exercise was an
important part of maintaining emotional health, even though
in his situation, it might be a bandaid on a punctured
artery.  It wouldn't hurt him, and it gave him time to
think.

So far his thinking had availed him nothing.

The terrain of the island was unsuitable for jogging, so he
exerted himself by walking and climbing rocks and trees.  He
had spotted the boathouse easily, once he'd made his way
around the curve of the island, but with his two keepers
nearby, there was never a chance to make a break. His hope
was that in time, they'd trust him enough to let him out
alone on the island, or perhaps with only one guard. He
thought he could take one of them, given the opportunity and
his desperation.  It would be worth a try, at least. And
even though he had no idea where this island was located,
map-wise, Mulder knew he would rather die at sea in a break
for freedom than to continue to waste away here.

Once they had made up their minds he wasn't going to try to
hurt himself again, his guards kept a discreet distance of
about twenty yards; they knew they could easily outrun
Mulder if necessary, should he be stupid enough to try and
make a break for it. Most of them found it amusing to watch
him climb the large trees on the island like a young boy,
and thus were being singularly inattentive the day he
deliberately hurled himself fourteen feet to the ground in
the hope of breaking his neck.

He knew it was a bad idea from the beginning, but like a
moth drawn unwaveringly to a flame, Mulder was unable to
deter himself from his course.  He had been taken over by
what he jokingly thought of as his "other" personality--the
one that had no fight left...the one that was ready to die
in order to escape.  He managed to keep that personality
under control most of the time, but just as when he'd
attempted to drown himself, this time it took over and he
was helpless.

Mulder had climbed the tree, knowing he would jump, hearing
the tiny voice inside himself that ordered him to hang tough
be overpowered by the louder, more determined one that
insisted this must end.  He made a conscious effort to turn
his mind off completely, climging to the highest branch that
would bear his weight.  Mulder shifted position a time or
two, making certain no lower branches would be able to break
his fall.  He stood up, carefully balanced himself, then let
go with his hands and pitched forward.

The two guards were watching Mulder indifferently, paying
much more attention to their conversation than to their
prisoner's actions, when the sight of the man falling fast
toward the ground shook them out of their apathy. Racing to
the still form that lay crumpled on the dirt beneath the
tree, they turned him over fearfully, noting with dismay the
blood oozing from a large gash on his forehead.

"Is he dead?" George asked, afraid of what the answer might
be.

"Not yet," Kenneth told him. "But I don't know what
condition he'll be in after Amelia gets finished with him.
This may be the last straw for her. It's a lucky break the
ground's soft here."

Disregarding the possibility that Mulder may have a spinal
injury and should not be moved, they grabbed him by his
shoulders and ankles and hauled him back to the house.

"Now what?" demanded Amelia as they carried the unconscious
Fox through the front door.

"He threw himself out of a tree," explained Kenneth as they
hoisted Mulder up the stairs. "We never even saw it coming."

Amelia sighed. "I'll be up in a minute," she told them, and
made a detour toward the telephone. She was going to have to
call for a doctor this time, it could no longer be avoided.
She prayed that she would be able to get him to and from
Verlassen without the smoking man finding out, and that Fox
would make a full recovery. She swallowed hard at the
prospect of having to report her failure to keep her charge
safe from himself and his desperate impulses.

The smoking man would listen to no excuses if Fox should
die.  That had been made very clear to her.

*****

When Dr. Tenger finally arrived, Amelia led him upstairs and
relieved George, who had been assigned to keep watch over
their troublesome captive. "He hasn't moved except to change
position a time or two," George reported as he left the
room, and Amelia nodded.

"Amelia--" he began, turning back when he reached the
bedroom door, but Amelia dismissed him with a wave of her
hand.

"Don't worry, George, I don't blame you or Kenneth for this.
We all know how--impulsive Fox can be."

He gave a quick nod and disappeared.

"This young man is severely undernourished," Doctor Tenger
said sternly to Amelia and she sighed.

"I know. Getting him to eat is almost impossible, I'm
afraid," she told him regretfully.

"He shouldn't have been allowed to sleep like this. If he'd
sustained a severe head trauma, he could have slipped into a
coma and died."

Amelia shuddered inwardly at his words and resolved to hire
someone with medical training as soon as possible. With all
the mistakes they had made, they were lucky they hadn't
killed Fox themselves.

Dr. Tenger began a detailed physical examination of Mulder's
body, probing, prodding and trying his best to determine,
without benefit of x-rays, whether or not Mulder had broken
any bones. Dark bruises had appeared in several places on
his body, and when the doctor reached Mulder's left wrist
and saw how swollen it was he shook his head. Grimly
grasping the hand and twisting it every which way, he
finally decided that it was broken--not a bad break, but one
that would require immobilization to heal.

Mulder responded to the pain of having his injured wrist
manipulated by moaning and trying to jerk away from the
hands that were torturing him.

"Wake up, son," the doctor said in a kind voice, gently
patting Mulder's face until he opened pain-filled eyes,
blinking against the bright light. "You are a very lucky
young man."

Mulder tried to raise his head and winced at the flash of
agony, immediately settling back on the pillows. He squinted
his eyes open a little, saw Amelia's forbidding expression
and gave another slight moan. "Oh yeah...Lucky's...my middle
name..." he whispered.

"You could have died, either from your fall or from the
handling you received afterwards. It's amazing you're alive
at all."

Mulder ignored this observation, concentrating on mentally
checking out the rest of his body. The pain in his wrist was
bad, but his chest hurt the worst, surprisingly enough,
since the doctor seemed more worried about his head. In
Mulder's opinion, all of his injuries paled in comparison to
Amelia's probable reaction to his latest effort toward
declining her further hospitality.  It was very likely he'd
completely managed to destroy any future opportunity for
escape.

"Well," Dr. Tenger announced at last, "he has a couple of
ribs that are probably cracked, the wrist is broken, and he
doesn't appear to have a concussion, although I want him
watched closely throughout the night. Keep him awake as much
as you can for the next few hours."

He bound Mulder's chest to support the ribs, and elevated
his sore wrist, ordering ice packs to bring the swelling
down, then wrapped it tightly with elastic bandages and
fashioned a sling for his arm. "I'm leaving some pain
medication for him, but don't start him on it until
tomorrow," he told Amelia.  Seeing Mulder's involuntary
wince, he told his patiently in a sober voice, "I'm sorry,
Son, but I can't take the chance of sedating you just yet.
You can take some aspirin for the pain, but nothing
stronger."

Amelia thanked the doctor as he left, then turned back to
Mulder, settling herself in the chair she had claimed.

"You had to try, didn't you?" she asked wearily, and he
shrugged his good shoulder in answer.

"And now you're wondering what the consequences will be,
aren't you?"

"I doubt you'll believe me, Amelia," Mulder replied in a
voice roughened with pain and emotion, "but I didn't plan to
do it.  I just...wasn't myself at the time."

She sighed.  "I do believe you, Fox, but it doesn't change a
thing.  I'll have to give the situation some careful thought
before I make a decision."

He could tell she was angry with him, too angry to put him
out of his misery by telling him what actions she was
considering.  He wasn't surprised when she ignored his
pitiful, inquisitive look and left the room without another
word.

Closing his eyes, Mulder tried to ignore the throbbing in
his wrist, his chest, his head--Amelia returned a few
minutes later with a glass of water and four aspirin, which
she fed to him one at a time, allowing him to swallow them
down.

"I hope this helps," she told him with more sympathy than
she'd displayed moments earlier.  "I'm sorry you did such a
stupid thing, and I'm sorry you're now having to suffer for
it."

He nodded, closing his eyes again, and she almost didn't
hear his whispered, "Me, too."

*****

NOVEMBER 3

"You told me he'd be returned," Scully accused, leaning over
the bridge and gazing at the rushing water below. "It's been
months.  I know Mulder, and I know he can't live like this.
You've got to bring him home, or he'll die."

"I told you he would be returned when he was no longer a
threat to the project," her contact insisted.
"Unfortunately, progress has been slower than we expected."
The elderly man's voice was kind, but firm in its
determination to protect this project with his life, or
Mulder's if need be.

Scully rubbed her aching head with her hands and turned to
her informant, the fight suddenly gone from her. "How's he
doing?" she asked softly. "I mean really, how's he holding
up?"

He made a noncommittal gesture. "He's holding his own. He
actually tried to kill himself a couple of times, but was
completely unsuccessful. He's watched much more closely
now," he added at her sharp look.

Scully shuddered at the thought of Mulder being desperate
enough to take his own life.  She might expect him to waste
away and die from sheer depression, but if he was actively
attempting to kill himself, things were much worse than
she'd feared.

"I want him back," she told the man.  "There simply has to
be another way to protect your project."

The man put his hand on her shoulder, and she unwillingly
took comfort from his touch; he was a tie to Mulder, her
only connection these days.

"Hold on, Agent Scully. Just keep quiet, as you have been
doing, and Mulder will be fine."

*****

DECEMBER 3

"Fox."

He ignored her, continuing to stare out the window at the
freedom that he had once known. His thoughts barely
registered the fact that she was there, so immersed was he
in a daydream of himself and Scully walking along the sunlit
beach below. Scully was turning her beautiful face to him,
reaching up to whisper something in his ear, when the
unwelcome interruption insisted he to return to dull, grim
reality. Forcing it away, he reached again for the illusion.
 His "other" personality had almost completely taken him
over now, and while he understood that, and recognized the
danger, he found it was far too much trouble to care.  He
simply didn't have the energy.

Amelia came around to stand between him and the window, and
only then did he acknowledge her presence. He gave her a
look of mild irritation, craning his neck to see around her,
wishing she would leave him to his dreams.

"George tells me you haven't eaten today."

Mulder shrugged, abandoning the ocean view and switching his
attention to the blue sky he could see framing Amelia's
head.

"Or yesterday."

"Not hungry."

"Fox, you must eat. You'll lose all your strength." She
leaned down toward him, concerned, and again blocked his
view.

This got a reaction. He looked directly at her for the first
time since she had entered the room. "Why do I need
strength?" he demanded. "I don't exactly have a strenuous
lifestyle here."

She sighed. "You know that you would have more freedom if
you would stop trying to injure yourself," she pointed out.
"I don't want to keep you locked up in here, but if you were
successful in one of your suicide attempts, I would have to
answer for it--to him. Surely you can see my desire to avoid
that situation. When they allowed me to bring you here, it
was with the understanding that you would be kept safe.  If
I don't keep my end of the bargain..."

He made a noise of derision and dropped his eyes to his lap.
"Why?" he asked in a voice that was more of a moan.
Disgusted with himself, he fought to bring his emotions
under control, and when he spoke again it was in a much
steadier, colder tone. "Why do I have to be kept alive like
this? Why can't you just let me do it? Who would even care?"

Amelia caressed his face tenderly, and Mulder leaned back,
trying to evade her touch.

"I've told you why," she reminded him. "And I have no wish
to endanger myself."

In spite of his determination, his "other" self broke
through once again, and the pleading need for freedom shone
in his eyes. "I just want to go home," he told her softly,
dropping his gaze from hers and plucking weakly at his pant
leg. "I want Scully. I want Chinese take-out. I want to
work. I want to have a life again. Or to die now..." he
added in a voice that was almost inaudible.

She pulled him to her for a hug, and he allowed it because
he craved any kind of human comfort now, even if it came
from his captor. When she released him she wiped a stray
tear from his cheek--the only one he had allowed to escape.
"I'll see what I can do to make it more bearable," she
promised, and rose to leave him.

"Amelia?"

She paused and turned questioningly back to him.

"I used to have a...a picture of Scully in my wallet," he
said hesitantly. "When they took me it was in my pocket. Do
you think...maybe...if I could just look at it for a few
minutes..." He stopped, hating the raw pleading in his voice
but knowing that he would do anything, anything at all just
to get a brief glimpse of Scully. "Just a look? What could
it hurt?"

"I don't know if we still have it," she told him. "Your
identification was destroyed. I'm not sure what became of
the rest of the things you had on you."

She was saddened to see the way his face fell. She had known
it wouldn't be easy for a man like Fox to adapt to
captivity, but had hoped it wouldn't be quite this hard on
him. He was like a caged animal and she feared now that he
would never learn to adjust to his new environment. The
changes she'd see in him--one minute defiant and sarcastic
and the next pleading and desperate--worried her. Part of
her thought briefly that killing him might be the more
merciful solution, but the consequences of that would be
horrible to face. She had no intention of sacrificing
herself, not even for Fox.

*****

After determining that Mulder's wallet and all its contents
had indeed been destroyed as soon as he'd arrived, Amelia
picked up the phone again and dialed the man she feared most
in the world. Surely he would be able to provide her with a
photograph of Agent Scully.

*****

When he heard her request, the smoking man sighed inwardly.
He had hoped to avoid a face-to-face confrontation with
Mulder, but it seemed as though it would be necessary now to
keep the young agent from simply willing himself to die.

After Amelia had repeated Mulder's hopeless words to him, he
took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke
thoughtfully out his nose. "I'll be there in the morning,"
he told her. "And I'll bring some things to lift his spirits
a little."

*****

Scully almost didn't open the door when she saw who was
outside, but he'd had ample opportunity to do her harm in
the last few months and hadn't taken it, she reasoned, so
surely he wouldn't hurt her now. Still, only the possibility
that he had information about Mulder made her let him into
her apartment. She kept her weapon handy.

"Agent Scully," he said in greeting, and she stepped back,
waiting silently for him to go on. "I have a proposition for
you."

"Will it get Mulder released?"

"I'm afraid not."

"No deal," she informed him coldly.

He gave her a grim smile. "Don't you want to hear me out?"
he asked idly, as if her answer made no difference to him
either way.

She stood silently and waited, unable to imagine that he had
anything to say she would want to hear.

"I'm offering you a chance to see for yourself that Agent
Mulder is alive and unharmed."

"Yeah, I saw how unharmed he was when your people were
torturing him!" she snapped.

"That was a direct result of your actions, Agent Scully, one
that you were warned about in advance," he told her mildly.
"He hasn't been hurt since that incident."

Scully considered his words. So far every promise they had
made to her concerning Mulder's treatment had been kept--as
far as she knew. If he was truly willing to take her to
Mulder, she could see for herself. She hesitated for a
moment, uncertainly wondering if this was just another
trick, or a trap she would be walking into.

"You'll be taken to him, allowed to see him briefly to
assure yourself that he's alive and well, and then returned
here safely. You have my word on that, Agent Scully."

"How much is your word worth?" she asked sarcastically.

He reached into his pocket and extracted a package of
cigarettes, expertly shaking one into his hand. "How much is
your peace of mind worth?" he returned. "Or Mulder's? Are
you aware that he's managed to convince himself that you're
probably dead? That he thinks he's been lied to about your
safety? I'm offering you a chance to let him know the
truth."

"Why?" she demanded. "What does Mulder's peace of mind
matter to you?" When he made no answer, she gave voice to
her suspicions. "He's dying, isn't he?"

"Agent Scully, Mulder will be kept alive, in spite of his
best efforts. He isn't happy, but he is far from dying. I do
believe a visit from you would lift his spirits, however.
Give him a reason to continue, so to speak."

Scully closed her eyes, trying to mask her defeat at his
mention of Mulder's torment. If she was walking into a trap,
so be it--she had to trust this man, just this once, at
least in this. "All right," she told him. "When do we go?"

"Immediately."

She followed him to a car parked in front of her building,
and after a moment's hesitation climbed in as he held the
door for her. They rode in silence for half an hour, finally
arriving at what appeared to be a large pasture, empty but
for the helicopter sitting in the middle of the open expanse
of grass. Their driver left the road and bumped over the
terrain until he pulled up to within about thirty feet of
the helicopter. The pilot was already aboard, firing up his
machine.

Ignoring the smoking man's offer of assistance, Scully
clambered into the helicopter and took a seat. After he had
settled himself beside her, he reached into his coat pocket
and withdrew a black strip of cloth.

"I do regret this, Agent Scully, but you cannot be allowed
to see where we're going."

Scully looked at the blindfold for a moment, then nodded her
head resignedly and turned to allow him to fasten it on her.
In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself wryly.
Once he had the fabric firmly tied around her head, she
settled back in her seat. Moments later she felt the sharp
prick of a needle in her arm.

"Hey!" she protested angrily.

"It's a long ride. It will be better for you if you sleep
through it. When you wake up, you'll be allowed to see Agent
Mulder."

Scully leaned back against the seat again, uncertain now.
She had about fifteen minutes to worry whether or not she
was making a terrible mistake before the drug claimed her
and she slipped into unconsciousness.