VERLASSEN
by TexxasRose
(a.k.a. Laura Castellano)
January 1999
Revised, March 2001

laurita_castellano@yahoo.com



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.


*****

DECEMBER 4

"Have you come to kill me, or to let me go?" Mulder asked as 
the smoking man approached his chair. His voice held only 
mild curiosity, as if either outcome was equally acceptable 
to him.

"Neither, actually. To tell the truth, Agent Mulder, I have 
good news and bad news for you."

Mulder laughed shortly. "And when have you ever told the 
truth?"

The older man smiled, a chilling expression on his hardened 
face. "I'm telling it now. The good news is that Agent 
Scully is downstairs."

Mulder's grip tightened on the arms of the chair and his 
face drained of color. "Why have you brought her here?" he 
hissed. "What have you done to her?  You have me--leave her 
alone!"

"Relax, Agent Mulder. She's unharmed. I brought her here so 
you could see that for yourself, and to prove to her the 
same about you. She'll be allowed up for a visit in a little 
while, but first--the bad news."

Mulder settled back into the chair cautiously, uncertain 
whether to believe the reassurance that Scully was safe.  He 
found himself tensing as he prepared himself for whatever 
bomb this man was about to drop in his lap.  Somehow, he 
sensed the smoking man's idea of "bad news" would be almost 
unbearable.

The elderly man glanced around casually, then seated himself 
in the chair that Amelia used when she visited. "I suppose 
Miss Steinmetz has told you why you're here?"

Mulder nodded, unwilling to have any sort of conversation 
with this man--not now, while his defenses were so 
unreliable.

"Has she given you any expectation of how long you'll be her 
guest?"

"She said you'll let me out of here when I'm no longer a 
threat," Mulder replied shortly.  "Which doesn't give me 
much hope, since you and I both know I will *always* be a 
threat to you and your conspiracies."

His visitor looked slightly taken aback for the shortest of 
moments, then crossed one leg over the other with...could it 
really be forced nonchalance?  He smiled again, a cold smile 
that chilled Mulder's blood.

"You always were an intelligent young man," he commented 
lightly. "It's one of the things I've admired about you. 
That, and your willingness to do whatever it takes, accept 
any risk, to get what you want."

Mulder crossed his arms and waited, giving no response.

"Unfortunately," the smoker continued, "progress on 
perfecting the vaccine has been slower than we had hoped." 
He paused a moment to let that sink in.

"How much slower?" Mulder ventured at last.

A shrug.

"We had planned on success within a couple of months. Now we 
find it could take years."

Years. Mulder felt his chest compress at the word, and 
suddenly breathing became a terrible chore. Closing his eyes 
tightly, he concentrated on his respirations until he felt 
he had them under control, then looked over at his nemesis.

"You're planning to keep me here forever," he stated 
quietly, hoping his "other" would not choose this moment to 
emerge; begging this man for his freedom would be more 
demeaning than he could endure.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Mulder. Forever is a very long time. 
On the other hand, I don't think you should make any 
long-term plans just yet."

He lit another of his infernal cigarettes, avoiding Mulder's 
eyes while he fumbled with the package and the match. After 
dropping the used matchstick on the windowsill, he finally 
turned back to the agent.

"Why?" Mulder rasped, hands clenched tightly in his lap. 
"Why bother? Why not just kill me?"

Smoke into the atmosphere. "I can't."

"Then let me do it!"

No answer.

"Why?" This time a whisper, barely discernable.

"I have my reasons," the older man replied, standing, his 
air casual. "Personal ones."

"It isn't enough that you killed my father, that you had 
them abduct my sister, that my mother has suffered so much 
because of you.  You won't be happy until my entire family 
is destroyed, will you?  What is this sick need you have to 
tear us apart?"  Mulder's voice had grown stronger with each 
word, until he almost felt like himself, but the effort cost 
him; he was breathing heavily by the time he finished.

Ignoring the agent's outburst, the smoker dropped his 
cigarette into Mulder's half-empty water glass.

As as long as you're safely tucked away here, I can be 
certain you won't endanger the project.  And it would be a 
shame for Agent Scully to meet with some misfortune, should 
you decide to become less...cooperative."

Mulder was out of his chair in a flash, his arm against the 
other man's throat, shoving his enemy against the wall.

"You leave her alone, you bastard!" he raged, feeling the 
surge of adrenalin overcome his weakness.  "This is between 
you and me.  It doesn't concern her."

The man shook Mulder off, seeming unfazed by the attack, but 
Mulder could see faint beads of sweat on his wrinkled 
forehead.

"It can continue not to concern her, Agent Mulder.  All you 
have to do is behave yourself."

Mulder tried desperately to hide the faint trace of hope the 
words gave him.

"Can you promise me that?" he demanded harshly. "If I agree 
to be a model prisoner, can you promise me that she'll be 
safe?"

The smoker made a noise of amusement. "Oh, I wouldn't expect 
you to be a model prisoner, Mr. Mulder. I doubt you're 
capable."

"But she'll be safe?"

Eyes met eyes.

"Of course."

"And I'll be left alone? No using me as one of your lab 
rats?"

A slight nod of assent.

Mulder's eyes held his for a long moment, and then the 
younger man nodded slightly and turned away. He didn't know 
whether he could trust the promise he'd been given, but he 
really had no choice. If his incarceration would guarantee 
Scully's safety he would willingly stay here forever, even 
though it would be the worst kind of damnation.

"I'll send Agent Scully up," the visitor remarked mildly, 
and left the room, locking the door securely behind him.

*****